DIANE: (in an elegant ball gown, stands on a red
carpet) We’re in New York, which we of Los Angeles love, accepting awards from critics, which we love even more so. My client, a rising young movie star who suffers from a slight recurring case of homosexuality, informs me that as his date – are you possibly seated for this? As his date to this award ceremony, he would like to bring his mother. So that no one will know that he’s gay. So I throw a flame retardant blanket on this potential brush fire, and volunteer myself as his date. I’m Lesbian, he’s a fag, we’re in show business, we’re a perfect couple. So we walk down the carpet, the flash of cameras. And I see his delight and warmth grow and flourish. The unmistakable moment when the outcast is allowed indoors. And all it takes is a little deception.
Later, during one of the inevitable moments of introspection that inevitably happen during awards ceremonies, as I wonder just how much of my life has been spent sitting in these same ole gold bamboo chairs, I realize that my evening’s date is leaving our table and strolling towards the dais. He has won. His acceptance speech is inspired. Yes, there is the slight stumble when he forgets to thank the screenwriter who is credited and has just accepted the award not ten minutes prior and, oops, does thank the writer he brought on to the project. But – who cares, it involves screenwriters. And at the end. The part where the name of a deceased parent, a recent world horror or a terribly popular co-star is evoked – he calls to me, choked with emotion, and extends an open palm. “To Diane,” my client states, significant tears finding their lazy way down his derma-braised face, “the woman who taught me . . . how to love. And how . . . to dream.” And then. The silence. The vacuum of doubt. The utter disbelief that pansy actually went there. But a roomful of show business professionals quickly recovers. Remembering that there are cameras everywhere, surely one of which will be broadcasting this moment because there are movie stars involved, the room obligingly produces a smattering of polite applause. And then, the realization that indeed, a dream must be kept alive, so – Peter Pan to little fairy Tinkerbell’s defense – the room bursts, no explodes into applauding and cheering. And he walks down, presents his award to me, holds me in his masculine arms and kisses me full on the lips. And here’s the part that is so luscious. I’m actually touched. I really like him, and he likes me and he’s said that to everyone. And that kind of means something. Later when I’m in my hotel and watching one of the inevitable rebroadcasts of the event, my only wish is that when he announced our love, I didn’t have such a look on my face of fucking shock.
-- Douglas Carter Beane, The Little Dog Laughed