Light And Fluffy (Darren Baker) The Cast Hillary Clinton, the would-be First Lady of the United States Bill Clinton, her husband and would-be President of the United States Chelsea Clinton, their daughter Tipper Gore, wife of slow-talking, would-be vice-president Al Gore Al Gore Bob Woodard, journalist and political gossip The scene is the kitchen in the Gore household. The table is covered with apples, flour, bowls, and a cookbook. Hillary is wearing an apron and kneading the doll while Tipper stands next to her reading a squeeze- me novel. Suddenly Hillary bursts out crying. Hillary: No, I just can't do it! I can't, I can't, I can't! Tipper: Hillary, what's the matter? Did you cut yourself? Hillary: Cut myself? Cut myself? I'm gonna cut my throat if I have to go through with making this apple pie! Tipper: Why? What's the problem? Hillary: What's the problem? The problem is I'm a professional lawyer, not a homemaker. My job is rolling in dough, not rolling the damn stuff! (She picks up a wad of the dough and slams it on the table.) Tipper: Quiet, Hillary. This place is swarming with the press. If they hear you talking like that, they'll think this whole thing is a sham. Hillary: But it is a sham and everyone knows it. Didn't you see all those reporters outside snickering when I put on this moronic apron before the cameras? Tipper: Oh, you know that's just the media's way of having a good time. Heckfire, Hillary, even you were nothing but smiles and giggles during the press conference. Hillary: First of all, Tipper, I don't giggle. And all that smiling and laughing was just part of the show. Give me the show- the people, the cameras, the endless run of stupid questions- and I'm in my environment. But here, in this cold, dark kitchen, with this icky stuff all over my new nail job?! Oh, what I'd do for a snort of my briefcase right now! Tipper: What do you mean my kitchen is cold and dark? Al and I picked out this design ourselves. It's called Autumn Sunrise. Hillary: Yeah, well it looks like the only thing that's gonna get me through this autumn morning is a Tequila Sunrise. Where does Al keep his stash? Tipper: Al doesn't have a stash! Hillary: You mean to tell me you two are from Tennessee and you don't have any whiskey around here? No Jack Daniel? Tipper: Nope. Hillary: No Jim Beam? Wild Turkey? Tipper: Nope. Hillary: (In a whisper) No White Lightening? Tipper: Of course not! What do you take us for, bootleggers? Hillary: My God, you and Al really are Apple Pie America, aren't you? Tipper: Of course. What, you think my campaign to clean up the foul language in our nation's music was just for show. Hillary: Then why the hell aren't you making this thing instead of me? Tipper: I've already made my share of pies during this campaign. Apple, blueberry, peach pie, you name it. Besides, it's yours everyone is waiting for outside. Hillary: I don't care! This whole setup has turned into some kind of absurd version of Shakespeare, only instead of, "A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!", Bill is telling me, "A pie! A pie! The presidency for a pie!" Tipper: Why, Hillary, I didn't know you read Shakespeare. Do you read Harlequin, too? Hillary: No, I don't, but I guess I'd better start so folks will think I'm qualified to be the President's wife, huh? Tipper: Sure, I can even lend you a few. Hillary: Oh, Tipper, will you go make yourself useful with some pornographic lyrics or something? Tipper: Well, there's no need to get testy about it. Remember, this is my kitchen. Hillary: Fine, then get ready to chalk up another pie, because I'm out of here! (She starts to leave and runs into Al Gore at the door) Al: Whoa, Hillary, where're you off to? I got the baking powder Bill asked me to pick up for you. Hillary: Good, give it to Tipper. She's stuck with the pie now. Al: Why, what's wrong? Is she making fun of your homemaking skills again? Tipper: Al! I never did any such thing! (She gives him a dirty look behind Hillary's back) Hillary: The whole country can make fun of my homemaking skills for all I care. If they'd ever seen Bill lumbering his way around the house with a vacuum cleaner, they'd make fun of him, too. Al: I can promise you, Hillary, nobody outside is making fun of you In fact, all the reporters are lobbying Bill right now to be the first one to taste your pie when it's done. And you should see him, Hillary. He's really in top form this morning. Hillary: That's just like Bill. He's always in top form when food's on the agenda. Al: Honey, why don't you break out that new cutlery for Hillary to use. Where are our kids? They could be peeling them apples right now. Hillary: It's no use, Al. I've had it up to here with this whole charade. I can do education reform, mergers and acquisitions, even cattle futures on the stock market; but not apple pie! Once and for all, I'm a rainmaker, not a homemaker! Tipper: But, Hillary, you can't throw in the towel now. The election is just around the corner. We've almost got it in the bag. Hillary: Got what in the bag? Four years of making apple pie just so the whole world will think this First Lady is a good little wifey who washes her husband's back every night. No way, Josi! Al: You know it won't be like that. You can ask Tipper here. The only reason why she still washes my back, since I came to the Senate and all, is because my reach ain't what it used to be. (He imitates a struggle as he reaches around to touch one of his shoulder blades) Tipper: War wound, you understand. (Tipper and Al laugh, Hillary frowns) Hillary: Is that supposed to be another crack about my husband dodging the draft during Vietnam? Al: Of course, it ain't, Hillary. Remember, we're all on the same team here. We're just trying to cheer you up so the pie will be ready before the press thinks something ain't gelling. Tipper: That's all it is, Hillary. And I for one can tell you that election to national office doesn't change a husband's expectations of his wife's duties in the least, does it, Al? Al: Of course not, honey. So is anybody gonna get around to peeling them apples and kneading the dough? Hillary: Oh no? Bill has started calling me sweetpea now just so the voters will think I'm his good little wifey. I swear, if he calls me that one more time I'll... (She rolls up a wad of the dough and pulverizes it with her fist. Chelsea comes into the kitchen.) Al: Good, keep doing that, Hillary, and we'll have the thing in the oven in no time. Chelsea: Mom, is the apple pie done? Dad is rambling on trying to keep everyone amused and there's some stiff-looking reporter snooping around the side of the house. Hillary: Tell them all to get lost. The pie will be done when it's done, and that just may be never. Al: For God's sake, Hillary, don't talk like that. Tipper, how about giving her a hand real quick? Tipper: Sure, I'll help her. (She puts the book down, starts kneading the dough and adds sarcastically) That is, if I can see in this cold, dark kitchen. Chelsea: (Quietly scooping up a handful of flour) I'll help, too, Mom. Look! (As Hillary turns to look, Chelsea blows the flour in her face and laughs) Hillary: Why, you little brat! (She starts chasing her daughter around the table. Bill comes into the kitchen and Chelsea runs behind his back for protection.) Bill: Whoa, what's going on here? Chelsea: Dad, help! Mom's gone off the deep end. Bill: Why, what happened? Hillary, what...what's that white stuff all over your face, honey? Hillary: It's my make-up for the great Fresh Apple Pie Press Conference. Now excuse me while I go look for my rubber gloves. (She storms out) Bill: Say, what the hell's going on around here! Chelsea: All I was doing was having a little fun, Dad, and she just snapped. Tipper: Yeah, Bill, she's been testy all morning. Bill: What about? Chelsea, go bring your mother back in here, will you, please. Chelsea: Ah, come on, Dad, she'll kill me. Bill: Well, this time don't horse around when she's in a bad mood. Now, let's move it. Chelsea: Oh, all right. Why do children always have to do the dirty work, anyway? (She exits) Al: Speaking of which, honey, where are our kids? Bill: Al, didn't I ask you to make sure things ran smoothly in here? How in the hell can I put the vice-president in charge of the environment if he can't even oversee one apple pie? Al: Damn, Bill, I ran out and got the baking powder just like you asked. Look, I even paid extra money for one that came in environmentally-safe packaging. Bill: That's great, Al, but we still ain't got no apple pie. Al: Is it my fault your wife decided to have a crisis in confidence today of all days? Bill: Dammit, Al, what's gonna happen when the whole country has a crisis in confidence? Al: Come on, Bill, we're men. What's the problems of a one little country compared to a pissed-off woman? Tipper: (Giving him a box on the ear with one of her flour-covered hands) Watch your language, Al! How do you expect me to clean up modern music when my own husband goes around talking like that. Al: I'm sorry, honey, but did you have to go and get flour all in my hair? (Chelsea comes back in) Chelsea: Okay, Dad, she's on her way. But be careful, she's still madder than a hornet. She just about bit my head off when I told her what we learned in school yesterday. Bill: Ahh, hell, this has gone on long enough. Al, how about peeling them apples; Tipper, keep working the dough; Chelsea, get hot on that whipped cream topping. I'm not gonna see my campaign for the presidency go down the drain just because... (Hillary comes in)... Hillary, darling, you're... say, how come you still have that white stuff all over your face? Hillary: Because I was just in the powder room, whaddaya think? (Al, Tipper, and Chelsea all chuckle) Bill: Look, people, I don't know what's going on here, but all of you had better get your acts together before we go marching out there with the pie in an hour. Hillary: (Going up to Tipper and taking over kneading the dough) Watch out there, Tipper. William Jefferson Clinton has just given us a direct order. Bill: (Going up to Hillary and stroking her hair) Oh, I'm sorry, honey. I don't wanna be cross with you or anyone else for that matter, but things are starting to get tense now that we're in the stretch. You understand, don't you, sweetpea? Hillary: Sweetpea, am I? Well, sweet your tooth on this! (She picks up a wad of the dough and slams it into his face. Tipper and Al freeze, Chelsea bursts out laughing) Now, what do you think about that, Mr. President? Bill: (Running his tongue over his lips and tasting the dough) Well, it ain't bad, but it sure ain't like the one mom used to make, either. Hillary: Then marry her next time! Bill: Oh, for crying out loud, Hillary, all I'm asking you to do is make one lousy apple pie for all those goofy reporters outside. (Al cuts himself with the apple peeler and lets out a shriek) Al: Ow! My finger! Tipper: Al, what happened? Al: Ahh, I cut myself with this new apple peeler. Chelsea: Man, look at all that blood! Tipper: (Wrapping a dish towel around his finger) Here, honey, hold this around your finger until the bleeding stops. Al: Dammit! First flour in my hair, and now a manicure shot to hell. How come it's so dark in here, anyway? Where the hell's all the sunrise! Hillary: Well, look at it this way, Al. You can pass it off as another war wound. Bill: Jesus Christ, it's been one crisis after another around here and the damn pie ain't even in the oven yet. I swear I'll fire the sonofabitch who cooked up this scheme! Chelsea, forget about the cream and dice up them apples. Tipper... (There's a quick knock at the door. Bob Woodward comes in.)... who the hell are you? Bob: Excuse me, folks, I'm Bob Woodward, the reporter with The Washington Post, and I was wondering.... Chelsea: Hey, that's the one who was snooping around outside. How did you get past the guard at the door? Bob: I managed to squeeze in through a window along the side of the house. By the way, Mrs. Gore, see all this dust on my suit? Your windows could really use a cleaning. Tipper: What, you think just because you're a reporter you can sneak into my house, waltz into my kitchen, and then have the nerve to call me a bad housekeeper? Bob: Yes, I do. I told you, I'm Bob Woodward with The Washington Post. And the first question I'd like to ask is... (snickering)... is the pie going in the oven or on your faces? (Bill quickly takes out a handkerchief and wipes his face. He then hands it to Hillary, but she merely tosses it aside.) Hillary: No, it's going up your ass, you moron! Get the hell out of here! (Chelsea laughs, Bill squirms, Tipper goes wide-eyed and puts both flour-covered hands up to her face, and Al unwraps the towel to look at his finger) Bill: Hillary, be quiet. This is Bob Woodward from The Washington Post. He carries a lot of weight around in this town, you know. Hillary: Maybe too much weight, if he can barely manage to squeeze in through a window. (She and Chelsea chuckle) Bob: Enough to make sure that everyone in the country will know by tomorrow that Mrs. Clinton here uses foul language in front of her daughter, and, I might add, in the presence of Mrs. Gore. Tipper: Whoa, don't drag me into this sordid affair. It wasn't my idea to stage this cakewalk in my house. Bill: All right, all right, everyone just calm down for a minute. Now look, Bob, you know as well as I do that you're not supposed to be in Mrs. Gore's kitchen right now. Bob: I go wherever the story is, Governor, be it somebody's kitchen or deathbed. Bill: Really? I'm a firm believer in deathbed conversions myself. Maybe I could use you in my administration; provided there will be an administration, if you know what I mean. Bob: What did you have in mind, Governor? Bill: Well, I'm sure my foreign policy team will be in the market for someone to probe the soft-spots of unreconstructed dictators around the world. And it can be all yours, Bob, if you go back outside right now and report that all's well in Mrs. Gore's kitchen. Bob: But, Governor, my colleagues in the press corps are counting on me getting the scoop. I'm the dean of this crowd, you know. Hillary: You want a scoop? Then try this! (She scoops up some flour to dump on Bob, but Bill catches her in mid-stroke and turns it into a presentation of the flour) Bill: Nice, sifty flour Hillary's using here, Bob. Only the best for homemade apple pie. So what do you say? Do we have a deal? Bob: I don't know, Governor. Perhaps if you sweetened the offer to include first dibbs on tasting the pie when it's done... Bill: I think we can manage that, can't we, Hillary? Hillary: Sure. I'll even slice it for him. Tipper, where's the meat cleaver? Bob: Okay, Governor, it's a deal. But don't try to pull a fast one on me. I'll have plenty of time to write a book about the pie and the politics of tradition if I don't get to log a lot of air miles around the world next year. Bill: Of course, Bob, of course. Tipper, would you kindly show Mr. Woodward here outside so he can go wait with the other journalists. Tipper: Gladly, Bill. I know just the window in need of cleaning, too. (She grabs Bob by the arm) Bob: Hey, lady, watch it! You're getting flour all over my sleeve. (He and Tipper leave) Al: It looks like the bleeding finally stopped. (Chelsea leans over to take a look at his finger) Chelsea: Ooh, pretty gory there, Mr. Gorey (She starts laughing) Hillary: Thanks a lot there, Slick Willie. First you want me to make this stupid pie, and then you have the nerve to offer that trespassing hack a high-level portfolio. You'll be lucky if I don't shove the thing down his throat. Chelsea: Yeah, Mom, do it! With whipped cream on top and all. Bill: Does that mean you'll finish the pie then? Hillary: I'm not so sure yet. Tell me, what do I get? Bill: What do you mean, "What do I get?" What do you want? Hillary: I want you to make me your Attorney General if and when we get to the White House. Bill: Now, honey, we've been over this before. Folks ain't gonna like it if I make my wife in charge of Justice. Hillary: And why not? Your hero Jack Kennedy gave his brother the job and I'm a damn better lawyer than Bobby Kennedy ever was. Bill: Of course, and that's why I was thinking you're better suited to be my chief counsel instead. Hillary: A husband's wife is always his chief counsel so long as they share the same bed together, or have you already forgotten everything we learned in law school? Bill: Exactly, Hillary. Jack was able to name Bobby to the post simply because they weren't sharing the same bed together. Chelsea: No, they were just sharing the same girls together, that's all. (She laughs) Bill: Now, Chelsea, I told you I wasn't going to stand for that kind of talk about President Kennedy. Go help Mr. Gore get that pie filling ready. Chelsea: Oh, man, I knew I was gonna get stuck in the kitchen if I came here today! Where are all the Gore children, I'd like to know. Al: So would I. (Tipper comes back in) Say, honey, where are our kids? Bill: Is that goofy reporter back outside with the rest of them, Tipper? Tipper: Yeah, he's out there all right, and he's bragging up a storm about how he's got first dibbs on the pie. Bill: Hell, this is turning into a circus. So how about it, honey? Will you close this deal or not? Hillary: Will you make me your Attorney General? Bill: How about health care reform instead? Hillary: Nothing doing, Bill. If you want the pie, then give me Justice. Bill: (After a forced paused) All right, this is what we'll do: Since America is a democracy, we'll put it to a vote. Al, what do say to my naming Hillary Attorney General? Al: It won't fly, Bill. As much as I respect Hillary's abilities as a lawyer, she's still, after all, a WOB, and we've already promised the Justice position to a FOB. Tipper: Al, what are you talking about? What's all this WOB and FOB stuff? Al: I mean the job of Attorney General is supposed to go to a Friend of Bill, not to a Wife of Bill. Hillary: I'll have you know, Senator, that I'm not a Wife of Bill. I'm the Wife of Bill. Am I right, Bill? Bill: Of course, you are, honey. So I take it then, Al, that you're voting no. Al: I'm sorry, Hillary, but I must. Bill: How about you, Tipper? Tipper: Well, I don't know the first thing about all these political deals going on, but I think Chelsea here needs a parent to make fresh tuna fish sandwiches for her when she gets home from school, and frankly, Hillary, I don't see how you're gonna manage that and the FBI at the same time. I'm sorry, but I'll have to vote no as well. Please forgive me, Hillary. Hillary: Let's just wait to see how things turn out before we start talking about forgiveness, shall we? Chelsea, darling, what do you say? Do you like tuna fish that much? Chelsea: Yeah, I do, but I'm still voting yes. I think it'll be cool having my dad as the president and my mom as the top cop in the same country. It'll make me one up on that phony John Kennedy, Jr. He had only his dad and uncle there. Hillary: Well, Bill, that makes it two-to-two including my vote, meaning we're right back to square one. So what's your decision, Mr. President? Or would you rather wait for a recount? Bill: Wait? How the hell can we wait? In one hour we're on, and unless you're standing in front of that pack of media hounds with a light and fluffy apple pie in your hands, we may as well kiss this election goodbye. Hillary: Then fork over the Justice Department. Chelsea: You'd better do it, Dad. Remember what Shakespeare said: "Heaven hath no wrath like a woman scorned." We read that in school yesterday. Bill: All right, I tell you what: Here's a deal all of you are gonna like: Hillary, you know as well as anyone that nominating you to a cabinet post won't have a chance in the world to get by in the Senate. Hillary: Certainly not with friends like Al here. Al: Ahh, now that ain't fair, Hillary. I was just reminding you all what the Party line is, that's all. Bill: But what I can do is let you choose my Attorney General; a woman if you like, even a friend, just so long as she's a friend of mine as well. Tipper: So the WOB can pick a FOH as long as she's a FOB, too. Am I getting the hang of it, Al? Al: With flying colors, honey. Now, can you give me a hand with laying the top crust here. Bill: And that's on top of my original offer to make you my health care czar. So, what do you say? Hillary: Well... Tipper: Do it, Hillary. If the pie isn't in the oven within one minute, it'll never get baked and cooled in time to meet the press. Hillary: Okay, but under one condition: You have to throw my maiden name into the bargain. Bill: My God, Hillary, the whole purpose of the pie was to convince folks that my wife can hold her own as a homemaker. Now what in the hell kind of chaince do we have of it working with you going around as Ms. Rodham instead of Mrs. Clinton? Tipper: Thirty seconds and counting. Al, set the timer, will you. Hillary: Look, you're the one who's always going on and on about the need for chainge. (She mocks his Arkansas accent) So here's your chaince. Bill: Al, do you think there'll be any problems with the Party on this one? Al: I doubt it, Bill. We're still supposed to be liberals, remember? Bill: Yeah, but liberals of conservative persuasion, so we'll have to soften it a bit. Tipper: Twenty seconds. Hillary: How soft? Bill: Okay, make it Mrs. Rodham-Clinton and put off using it until after the election. Hillary: What, you expect me to sign that long name? What is health care reform if nothing more than a mountain of paperwork? Bill: That's as good as it's gonna get, Hillary. Is it a deal? Tipper: Ten more seconds. Do it, Hillary. Chelsea: Yeah, do it, Mom. I'm getting hungry standing around here all morning. Mrs. Gore, you got any tuna fish? Tipper: Well, actually, Chelsea, I wasn't able to get to my shopping this week because... Hillary: All right, it's a deal. (They shake hands) But no tricks, Bill. (Picking up the pie) Remember, this is gonna be one First Lady who ain't light and fluffy. (She puts it into the oven) Al: Neither, I'm afraid, will the pie be. (Holding up the box of baking powder) We forgot to add the baking powder! (The cast lets off a mix of howls and laughter as the curtain closes)