MITCH Dont tell him those things hell believe it Mitch starts out STANLEY

Mitch dont tell him those things hell believe it

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MITCH:Don't tell him those things; he'll believe it.[Mitch starts out.]STANLEY [restraining Mitch]:Hey, Mitch-come back here.[Blanche, at the sound of voices, retires in the bedroom. She picks up Stanley's photo from dressing table, looks at it, puts it down. When Stanley enters the apartment, she darts and hides behind the screen at the head of bed.]STEVE [to Stanley and Mitch]:Hey, are we playin' poker tomorrow?STANLEY:Sure--at Mitch's.MITCH [hearing this, returns quickly to the stair rail]:No--not at my place. My mother's still sick!STANLEY:Okay, at my place....[Mitch starts out again] But you bring the beer![Mitch pretends not to hear,--calls out "Goodnight all," and goes out, singing.]Eunice's voice is heard, above:Break it up down there! I made the spaghetti dish and ate it myself.STEVE [going upstairs]:I told you and phoned you we was playing.[To the men] Jax beer!EUNICE:You never phoned me once.
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STEVE:I told you at breakfast--and phoned you at lunch....EUNICE:Well, never mind about that. You just get yourself home here once in a while.STEVE:You want it in the papers?[More laughter and shouts of parting come from the men. Stanley throws the screen door of the kitchen open and comes in. He is of medium height, about five feet eight or nine, and strongly, compactly built. Animal joy in his being is implicit in all his movements and attitudes. Since earliest manhood the center of his life has been pleasure with women, the giving and taking of it, not with weak indulgence, dependency, but with the power and pride of a richly feathered male bird among hens. Branching out from this complete and satisfying center are all the auxiliary channels of his life, such as his heartiness with men, his appreciation of rough humor, his love of good drink and food and games, his car, his radio, everything that is his, that bears his emblem ofthe gaudy seed-bearer. He sizes women up at a glance, with sexual classifications, crude images flashing into his mind and determining the way he smiles at them.]BLANCHE [drawing involuntarily back from his stare]:You must be Stanley. I'm Blanche.STANLEY:Stella's sister? BLANCHE:Yes. STANLEY:H'lo. Where's the little woman? BLANCHE:In the bathroom. STANLEY:Oh. Didn't know you were coming in town.
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BLANCHE:I--uh--STANLEY:Where you from, Blanche? BLANCHE:Why, I--live in Laurel.[He has crossed to the closet and removed the whiskey bottle.] STANLEY:In Laurel, huh? Oh, yeah. Yeah, in Laurel, that's right. Not in my territory. Liquor goes fast in hotweather.[He holds the bottle to the light to observe its depletion.] Have a shot?BLANCHE:No, I--rarely touch it. STANLEY:Some people rarely touch it, but it touches them often.BLANCHE [faintly]:Ha-ha.STANLEY:My clothes 're stickin' to me. Do you mind if I make myself comfortable?[He starts to remove his shirt.]BLANCHE:Please, please do.
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