ANGELINA ACT I — INTRO

[ACT I — INTRO] [LET ME DISAPPOINT YOU] [ABSOLUTE BLACKNESS.] [A lighter.] [Inhale.] [One woman, very close.] Don't look behind you. I'm talking to you. Yes. You. [Small laugh.] You paid for a seat. He pays for a room. Don't flatter yourself. The difference isn't as big as you think. [Amp hum.] Before you decide what I am... let me disappoint you properly. [FOUR-NOTE GUITAR RIFF.] There. That's better. Now you can stare with a soundtrack. [Slow drums.] You want to know what men pay for? Sex? [She laughs.] Oh, sweetheart. Sex is cheap. Bodies are everywhere. Loneliness... that's expensive. They pay for the lie. That tiny beautiful lie when I look into their eyes and make them believe... for one minute... they are the only man in the fucking world. [RIFF.] That's the expensive part. [Hammond enters.] They come smelling of expensive cologne, cheap courage, and somebody else's marriage. Then comes my favorite line. [Mocking imitation.] “I'm not like the others.” Of course you're not, darling. None of you are. That's why I keep confusing you. [DRUM HIT.] They call me a whore. I don't mind. It's a short word. Men like short words. LOVE. [Hit.] GOD. [Hit.] MINE. [Heavy hit.] Especially... MINE. [RIFF grows.] You don't hate women like me. You hate the morning. Somewhere between your wedding ring and my red dress... you saw yourself clearly. And God... you looked disappointed. [Low ritual choir, distant.] ANGEL... [She freezes.] Don't. [CHOIR] ANGEL... I said... don't call me that. There's an angel inside my name. Poor bitch. She's been trying to get out for years. [Dirty bass.] I taught her better. I taught her lipstick. Cigarettes. Locked doors. Cash first. I taught her how to smile without promising anything. How to let a hand touch her waist... and keep her soul three fucking rooms away. [Beat.] Romantic? No. Efficient. [CELLO joins riff.] You want romance? Go home. Wake your wife. Tell her where you've been. [Pause.] No? That's what I thought. [DRUMS become heavier.] And spare me the sad little face. Your wife doesn't understand you. Your boss is an asshole. Your childhood was difficult. Your heart is complicated. Everybody has a tragedy. Some of us just don't use it as a fucking coupon. [HUGE RIFF.] [CHOIR, distant and ritual.] BODY. MONEY. HUNGER. SIN. [WOMAN] Ah. Here come the saints. [CHOIR] BODY. MONEY. HUNGER. SIN. Saints love balconies. Good view. Clean hands. [PIPE ORGAN begins beneath the band.] Look at me. No. Higher. My eyes. There. Uncomfortable, isn't it? A body is easier when it doesn't look back. [CHOIR] SIN! [WOMAN] Maybe. [CHOIR] WHORE! Maybe. [CHOIR] ANGEL! [WOMAN] Fuck you. [ORCHESTRA STRIKE.] Don't make me holy because you feel guilty for wanting me. And don't make me filthy because I wanted something too. Maybe money. Maybe power. Maybe the door. Maybe just one night where nobody asks me to be good. [Music pulls back.] Do you know what disgusts me? It isn't the hands. It isn't the money. It isn't even the men who say “I love you” while checking the time. It's the pity. That soft, perfumed, respectable pity. “Oh, poor girl.” [Cold laugh.] Fuck your pity. Pity is just judgment wearing clean gloves. [DRUMS DOUBLE-TIME.] I don't need saving! [CHOIR] SAVE HER! I don't need forgiveness! [CHOIR] FORGIVE HER! I DON'T NEED YOUR FUCKING HEAVEN! [COLOSSAL ROCK + ORCHESTRA.] Keep it! Keep the white gates. Keep the saints. I'll take the basement. Down here... everybody admits why they came. [FEROCIOUS GUITAR BREAK.] [WOMAN, over the band.] You want the truth? Fine. Sometimes I like it. [Music stumbles.] Oh. That bothered you. You needed me damaged, didn't you? You needed a wound big enough to make everything simple. Poor woman. Bad men. Sad story. Fuck simple. Sometimes I hated them. Sometimes I wanted them. Sometimes I wanted the money. Sometimes I wanted to be touched. Sometimes I felt nothing. Sometimes... I felt too fucking much. [CHOIR begins accelerating.] ANGEL! SINNER! BODY! SAINT! [WOMAN] Pick one! Go on! That's what you came for! Put me in a word so you can go home and sleep! [CHOIR] ANGEL! SINNER! WHORE! SAINT! [WOMAN, savage belt.] I AM NOT YOUR FUCKING WORD! [GRAN CASSA. FUNERAL BELLS. GUITARS.] I am the woman you looked at, paid, judged, wanted. And maybe... the woman you feared might want something back. [Everything abruptly stops.] [Breathing.] There. Now we're getting somewhere. [She lights another cigarette.] You still want to know what I am? [Long pause.] Good. So do I. [One clock tick.] 3:17. [She whispers.] Shit. [BLACKOUT.]