ABSTRACT
MARGA (MARGITA) tells the following story on a stage that is bare except for a park bench.
MARGITA My mother complained whenever she made a deal with me so I wouldn’t know that she got the better end. Like on the night of my seventh birthday. We were living on 169th Street in Manhattan. You could call that Harlem. We called it Washington Heights. We had the only house in the neighborhood. It was squiched in by three big apartment buildings. And some of our neighbors would occasionally throw beer bottles and bags of trash into our yard. But my parents acted like we lived on a country estate and they would throw these high-class patio parties for their friends in Spanish show business and never invite those neighbors.
