New Downtown Now: An Anthology Of New Theater From Downtown New York

NEW DOWNTOWN NOW This page intentionally left blank NEW DOWNTOWN NOW AN ANTHOLOGY OF NEW THEATER FROM DOWNTOWN NEW...

Author: Mac Wellman | Young Jean Lee

20 downloads 751 Views 2MB Size Report

This content was uploaded by our users and we assume good faith they have the permission to share this book. If you own the copyright to this book and it is wrongfully on our website, we offer a simple DMCA procedure to remove your content from our site. Start by pressing the button below!

Report copyright / DMCA form

DOWNLOAD PDF

NEW DOWNTOWN NOW

This page intentionally left blank

NEW DOWNTOWN NOW

AN ANTHOLOGY OF NEW THEATER FROM DOWNTOWN NEW YORK

Mac Wellman and Young Jean Lee, Editors Introduction by Jef frey M. Jones

University of Minnesota Press Minneapolis • London

Every effort was made to obtain permission to reproduce the illustrations in this book. If any proper acknowledgment has not been made, we encourage copyright holders to notify us. Lines of poetry in The Appeal are excerpted from “Canto XVI” by Ezra Pound, from The Cantos of Ezra Pound. Copyright 1934, 1937, 1940, 1948, 1956, 1959, 1962, 1963, 1966, and 1968 by Ezra Pound. Reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corporation. Copyright 2006 by the Regents of the University of Minnesota All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher. No performance or dramatic reading of any script or part thereof may be given without the written permission of the playwright or his or her representative. Inquiries may be addressed to the individual playwright in care of the University of Minnesota Press, 111 Third Avenue South, Suite 290, Minneapolis, MN 55401. Published by the University of Minnesota Press 111 Third Avenue South, Suite 290, Minneapolis, MN 55401-2520 http://www.upress.umn.edu Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data New downtown now : an anthology of new theater from downtown New York / Mac Wellman and Young Jean Lee, editors ; introduction by Jeffrey M. Jones. p. cm. isbn-13: 978-0-8166-4730-9 (alk. paper) isbn-10: 0-8166-4730-5 (alk. paper) isbn-13: 978-0-8166-4731-6 (pbk. : alk. paper) isbn-10: 0-8166-4731-3 (pbk. : alk. paper) 1. American drama—21st century. 2. American drama—20th century. 3. Experimental drama—New York (State)—New York. I. Wellman, Mac. II. Lee, Young Jean. PS634.2.N49 2006 812'.608—dc22 2006007345 Book design by Lisa Diercks The text is set in Celeste. Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper The University of Minnesota is an equal-opportunity educator and employer. 12 11 10 09 08 07 06

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

CONTENTS

Preface

vii

MAC WELLMAN AND YOUNG JEAN LEE

Introduction: How to Read a Curious Play JEFFREY M. JONES

Interim

1

BARBARA CASSIDY

Tragedy: a tragedy

49

WILL ENO

Nine Come

73

ELANA GREENFIELD

Sachiko

105

MADELYN KENT

Enoshima Island MADELYN KENT

125

ix

The Appeal

155

YOUNG JEAN LEE

The Vomit Talk of Ghosts

187

KEVIN OAKES

Ajax (por nobody)

245

ALICE TUAN

Apparition: An Uneasy Play of the Underknown ANNE WASHBURN

Demon Baby

355

ERIN COURTNEY

Contributors

399

313

PREFACE

I

Yes, theater is a game, and yes, that game is rigged, and yes, everyone knows it. The three (unacknowledged) rules of the American theater of our time: aim low, shit ﬂoats, and the squeaking wheel gets the grease. All this everyone knows, yet none knows well to shun the heaven that leads us to this hell. However. American theater always manages (how I do not know) to reinvent itself at the very deepest bottom of the worst of all possible times. Thus, lately in downtown New York the best of our new theater practitioners have begun to imagine a set of goals and procedures, to imagine a best of all possible worlds in which perception requires no other justiﬁcation than that to which its beauty entitles it. In this dramatic universe, acuity of perception and theatrical high jinks are their own reward; and so it is with the very new plays one is beginning to encounter in New York these days. Like I say, how this is I do not know, cannot fathom. But it may well be that just as the conventional realisms of the second half of the twentieth century seem to have run their course and devolved into meretricious self-parody (Miller, Mamet, the Wilsons, and their imitators), a new and altogether remarkable kind—indeed, all kinds of theater writing have begun to appear in these States. I am talking about plays that are based on a meticulous craft of clearly realist origins but that do not rest with conventional and tired realist homilies, and that do not attempt to reassure that what is taken for granted (by the previous realists) is all there is. These are plays in which recognizable American types speak our language as though it were as foreign to them as it is to most of those who live far from these shores. Here is the theatrical practice of a group of young writers whose art is almost that of the paranormal, nay, the normal paranormal. I would make the argument that there is more new, truly original work in this vein, what I am tempted to call the theater of the normal parareal and hypernormal, than ever before in our history. Furthermore, they all are (in the editors’ view) accomplishments of the highest order. One must perforce call these works experimental, although they refer back, in most cases, no more to the native American experimental theaters (from Stein to Foreman) than they do to the tradition of the familiar and mainstream. These are made-up worlds, but made up out of the junk of the real. Many of these plays betray the American delight in the tinkerer’s habit and the outsider’s delight in the beauty of the random arrangement, the accidental, and the discarded. But what makes them so powerful is their obsession with truth of perception and precision of expression—no otherworldly symbolists here! Hence the wonderful humor to be found in so many of these plays: ironic twists of familiar moralism and cynicism that segue into a new continent of strange new joys, lilts, terrors, and absurdities. Welcome to the dizzying world of new downtown theater now! —M. W.

vii

Pr e f a c e

II

About four years ago, I decided to drop out of my English Ph.D. program and move to New York to become a playwright. I had no theater experience and no idea what was going on in contemporary theater, so I started by going to the bookstore and looking at recently published plays. I was shocked by what I read. Most of the new plays that were being produced on and off Broadway read like pretentious, boring television scripts. Having studied Shakespeare and the modernists in school, I was used to a level of linguistic playfulness and innovation that I wasn’t ﬁnding anywhere in the smug, pseudointellectual drama that was winning awards in mainstream theater. I read through script after script until, ﬁnally, I found playwrights such as Jeffrey Jones and Mac Wellman who were doing interesting, original work. Not long afterward, I enrolled in Mac’s playwriting program at Brooklyn College and moved to New York. In the city, I found a theater community that I hadn’t known existed—a community where theater tickets didn’t cost much more than movie tickets and people were doing challenging new work that could be realized only in a live theatrical context. This type of theater was frequently called “downtown” or “experimental,” although a lot of it happened in Brooklyn and nobody seemed to know what “experimental” meant. For the next year, I went to see shows, knocked on doors, interned, worked backstage, and asked questions until I had learned enough to start making shows of my own. The more I learned, the clearer it became that the most interesting, most theatrical work was being done “downtown.” This anthology is not meant to be a cross section of all the different kinds of new downtown theater, much of which does not rely on a single playwright and employs collaged texts that couldn’t really be called “plays” in the traditional sense. Moreover, the playwrights in this anthology do not represent a single school or style of experimental playwriting. What we do share, I think, is a sense of play: we are all playing with theatrical conventions, structure, and language in ways that excite us, without consideration of the demands of mainstream commercial theater or of the imperatives of some outdated notion of the avant-garde. We are doing what we want to do, which results in something completely different for each of us. I am very excited about the publication of this anthology and proud to be included in it. This is exactly the kind of book I was looking for on all those early trips to the bookstore, and I hope that at least some of the people who read it will be motivated to seek out interesting new theater and see it for themselves. —Y. J. L.

viii

Pr e f a c e

INTRODUCTION How to Read a Curious Play Jeffrey M. Jones

CURIOUS: inquisitive; skillfully, elaborately, or beautifully wrought; peculiar.

Boredom If we expect reading to be simple and straightforward, it’s because we’ve been told so since grade school, where it was likened to a kind of listening. But reading a play involves not only “listening” to the various voices of the characters but trying to “watch” an imagined performance. In theater, it turns out, reading is more like watching—and in the case of Curious Plays, which set out to challenge theatrical conventions, reading and watching can prove equally challenging. After all, watching any play is hard work. One not only has to pay attention, but ﬁgure out what’s going on—in real time—without the ability to put the play down or look away when one chooses. Hence boredom comes easily in the theater—boredom being the name we give to the feeling that watching has become work (boredom surely because we’re acutely aware of not wanting to pay attention, although it’s when we really can’t ﬁgure out what’s going on—as when reading or watching a Curious Play—that we’re likeliest to feel bored). And it is precisely to minimize this risk of boredom—of our being overwhelmed by the difﬁculty of watching a play—that theater has become uniquely convention-bound and resistant to innovation. It is convention-bound because it relies on familiar and well-understood forms, structures, and dramaturgical principles in order to make it as easy as possible to ﬁgure out what’s going on, pay attention, and not feel bored. Conventional theater, in other words, makes reading plays as easy as possible by making all plays more or less the same. Whereas the Curious Play aspires to be something new—hence necessarily different.

Modeling Perhaps the most basic way to read a play (or, more strictly, the performance of a play) is as a model of how things happen in the world (or, more strictly, of our experience of the world). All the dramatic machinery of the play, in such a reading, serves but to open a window on a representation of “the world,” where things happen more or less as they do in our “real” world. So strong is our representational bias that we hold fast to such a reading even when the world of the play cannot possibly be mistaken for reality—as when the language turns overtly poetical, or the events are clearly metaphorical. Indeed, when the language and events

ix

Int r o du c t i o n

of a play lose all resemblance to our experience of the world, we simply say the play happens in a “dream world,” as if dreams ever happened in a “world,” or were anything but thought. This representational bias also leads us to pretend that the model itself—the dramaturgical machinery—is transparent; that we are truly watching a reality, whereas in fact we are only ever watching thought performed. But if the conventions of theater collectively represent a model—if theater is only ever thought performed—then one way to read a Curious Play, which seeks to extend those conventions, is as an elaboration or manipulation or transformation of that standard model via the labile properties of thought.

The Rogue Agent For example, one can tweak the model by introducing an element that “does not belong,” thus establishing a tension between it and the model that eventually warps and changes the “reality.” Thus in Erin Courtney’s Demon Baby the incongruity of the gnome-baby depends entirely on the meticulous accuracy of the surrounding characters and situations. Unlike the incongruities of Absurdist theater, Courtney’s baby is never a symbol, nor does the framework of the play ﬁnally expand to accommodate it: though several plausible explanations for the baby are advanced—the baby as symptom of psychic distress, baby as succubus, baby as articulation of unspoken desire—the play eventually supports none of them. The baby can’t be imaginary when other characters hear it, and the succubus theory is undermined by its bafﬂing aimlessness. If the baby “takes over” people, it’s to no apparent end—they’re not even harmed (even its role in Cat’s fall is circumstantial at best). And if it prompts them to speak their minds, they only say what they might have said unbidden. Mostly it seems the baby just toys with people, evincing no more motive than a sociopath’s depraved indifference. The baby just is; it makes sense ﬁnally as a vector of the dramaturgy: a random agent, a malicious bull set in a china shop of brittle, jaded adults. It is as if the baby is made possible—or summoned up, to use the traditional term—by a world in which husbands and wives leave each other with indifference, people seduce each other halfheartedly, and guests tumble off the roof.

Displacement To redeﬁne drama is, necessarily, to reexamine what can be considered “dramatic.” So it is that in all these plays traditional action is consistently displaced. Rather than happening onstage before our eyes, action is recollected, or anticipated, or narrated, or in some other way absent: happening in the dark (Apparition), or possibly not at all (Tragedy). Even in plays in which events do take place in the real world (Nine Come, Interim), they’re often inconsequential, tangential—they don’t add up to much—while in Vomit Talk and Ajax the onstage action literally cannot be shown for what it is: we must take the characters’ word for what is really going on. Two plays go even further and replace “reality” by modeling performance itself. In Will Eno’s Tragedy the play models a second model—the TV newscast—in which stories (speech) stand in a predeﬁned and arbitrary relationship to the events they describe. Eno

x

Je f f r e y M. Jo n es

then removes the underlying event (the play actually manages to have it both ways: it’s the end of the world, yet nothing’s happening) so as to draw all attention to the models themselves. The events of this play do not happen in the world, only in the model; the world remains the same—it’s the model that breaks down. As the eventual form of the deteriorating newscast becomes the shape of the play itself, any ostensible reality the newscast exists to frame becomes more and more attenuated. Not for nothing are there no people in this world; all the “other people” have gone, leaving only vacuous newscasters and bogus introspection. This is, in the end, a play entirely about time, about duration, and the speciﬁcally dramatic exercise of extending expectation across time. Madelyn Kent’s Shufu Theatre plays likewise purport to show scenes from “real life,” yet continually undercut dramatic reality by drawing attention to aspects of performance. Absurd revelations and coincidences merely conﬁrm that we’re watching scenes in a play. Even more, the halting speech and wayward intentionality of the characters give these plays a weird insubstantiality. They feel like a ﬂoating world, a reenactment of real life (which of course they are, being transcripts of improvisations in Kent’s English classes for Japanese wives). They even manage to subvert the most powerful phenomenon of live theater: the presumption of intentionality automatically ascribed to the character by the presence of the living actor.

Blurring The strategy of Alice Tuan’s Ajax might be called Indeterminate Speciﬁcity. As with Manet’s dead matadors, the foreground—in this case, what’s going on—is drawn in sharp focus with enormous speciﬁcity and detail, while the background—the context, the world in which such things go on—is deliberately blurred or truncated. We know there is a white-tiled room with hoses; we know what people do there with Ajax and wienettes; we’re told there are bushes outside and a couple of liquor stores (though surely it’s signiﬁcant that the neighborhood is obscured in fog). But beyond that, the world of the play peters out (pun intended), its boundaries with any plausible real world reduced to dopey puns (“Dick Odyssey”) and bogus mythology (as if the treacherous, incestuous Greek myths themselves represented any reality). Unlike the sex games of Genet, there is no mythologizing here either. The classical allusions all point nowhere; they are pure ﬁligree, patterns introduced to provide a kind of border to the action itself. In this world, a Double Penelope is some kind of sexual gymnastic (which, in poor Nancy’s case, split her wide open).

Bad Behavior Of course, Tuan’s play challenges conventional theater even more directly by its transgressiveness. Yet it simply won’t do to say the play is unstageable; rather, the contexts in which it might be enacted—e.g., in a sex club or as a porn ﬁlm—are places a conventional audience wouldn’t want to go and are hence theatrically “inappropriate.” (Just reimagine Ajax as a porn ﬁlm; you’ll see how clearly it ﬂouts those conventions: too much talk, no money shot, that

xi

Int r o du c t i o n

manual castration and self-impalement. This is a death trip, not a sex trip. The fact that those could even be confused speaks volumes about our culture.) Conventional theater is normative in every way. It deploys codiﬁed forms to show things as they ought to be (or, possibly, to propose how they’ve gone wrong). Hence conventional theater remains a moral exercise in ways that ﬁction and poetry abandoned long ago. The Curious Play, however, rarely advocates behavior (Courtney’s game of “Good People Versus Bad People”) but instead presents various kinds of “bad” behavior for public scrutiny. If we don’t want to pay attention to bad behavior, it’s not because we can’t ﬁgure out what’s going on. Yet conventional theater dismisses troubling content with the same charge leveled against unfamiliar forms: the play is unclear; the author must be inept or irresponsible. Kevin Oakes cites two sources for The Vomit Talk of Ghosts: his “desire to write a late Shakespearian romance; a huge sprawling play with magical happenings, travel between distant lands, lost lovers reunited, near resurrections, a happy marriage at the end, and maybe a bear”; and the experience of his father’s death, when an adverse reaction to morphine rendered him aphasic. But recognizing these elements does little to elucidate the play’s technique, which involves mapping these reality-sets (for example, romance/deathbed) against each other. Oakes uses points of correspondence—pattern, really—to overlay the situation of a teenage girl waiting for her date against the very different situation of teenage girl in communion with the dead—both of which, in turn, are mapped against various medical/pathological explorations of the body. None of these reads as the “framing” situation because Oakes is trying to create a more ungrounded reality, consisting solely of events as presented in his play. No situation, no reality is allowed to become dominant precisely because that would vitiate the experience of strangeness, which is one of the play’s true subjects. Yet the play’s disturbing power comes, surely, not from any unclarity but, rather, from the explicit, harrowing detail with which Oakes limns that queasy mix of lust, dread, and childish bravado we assume to face the strangeness at the core of all experience: AMBER: I know you’re dead and all, but don’t you wanna soil me a few times anyway, for old times’ sake? I don’t mind, really. I can put my mouth on you. I just have to dredge you in salt beforehand so I don’t taste your corruption. You’re spoiled meat, ya know.

There is nothing obscure about a passage like that. Its difﬁculty lies in its unpleasantness— its ickiness—and the relish with which Oakes explores it.

Framing The peculiar illusion of theatrical reality depends entirely on establishing a boundary between those activities that constitute the dramatic event and all other activities perceptible to an audience. Though conventional theater enforced this boundary with architecture

xii

Je f f r e y M. Jo n es

(proscenium) and lighting (not so much onstage as by darkening the house), the frame is ultimately conceptual: every dramatic narrative establishes its own frame. Various twentiethcentury plays tried and failed (with tedious results) to violate this dramatic frame, but now playwrights (raised on channel surﬁng and Windows-based software?) have begun building dramatic structures that open frames within frames, creating multithreaded narratives— each narrative running in its own frame or window, with the action (and often characters) moving between concurrent narratives and frames. In Barbara Cassidy’s Interim the “background” characters of Tam and Kin are established relative to the main action in a stage direction: “It’s like they’re in two different worlds.” Yet as the play goes on, their occupation updates with the locale, so they remain in the background—ﬁrst as telephone workers, then as restaurant waitstaff, then as party guests. Joya herself at one point literally steps between restaurant and apartment; at other times Jim places candles around the perimeter of the stage (stage here being metonym for action) while speaking in direct address, thus stepping quite literally “out of the frame” of the main story. On one level, of course, Interim can still be read as a realistic play, with the narrative manipulations echoing Joya’s sense of displacement—her attempt to “unjumble” her past and the “weird thing going on in her head.” Formally, though, it is an elegant exercise in working at the edges of narrative frame—as when the (overheard!) conversation between an angry black woman and her lover suddenly recontextualizes itself as two people just “doing voices.” Elana Greenﬁeld’s Nine Come, too, has stretches of more or less real-world dialogue, but she handles narrative in a more overtly literary sense, introducing not only characters from nineteenth-century Russian texts but the novelistic trope of journey itself—whether through exotic lands or memory. Greenﬁeld very quickly establishes multiple story threads (for instance, the story of the train ride opens within the story of Paul and the Soldier in scene 2, followed in scene 3 by Paul and the Storyteller opening their stories, as well as stories from Raskolnikov, Anna and Trigorin, and so on). Yet once again, no story is ever allowed to become dominant, and as the distance between these various narrative threads increases, the overall effect is to make any and all of the realities of the play more dreamlike, reinforcing the mystical insight (expressed by the Storyteller as well as in the play’s epigraph) that experience itself is somehow profoundly insubstantial—that only stories are left in its wake.

Character The operations performed on dramatic models of experience are equally applicable to the more familiar dramatic models of character. Conventional drama, for example, scales up character—that’s what we mean when we say someone is “being dramatic.” So when an audience member is confronted, in Young Jean Lee’s The Appeal, with a Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Byron who squabble in an intentionally dumbed-down language, it may not be apparent that they’ve been scaled down precisely to make their thoughts and intentions more recognizable. Lee’s language may verge on the moronic, but the situations and feelings of her

xiii

Int r o du c t i o n

characters are rendered with accuracy, complexity, and detail. In fact, their recurrent dilemma is trying without success to understand their “true feelings.” Lee eschews the arch locutions of the conventional history play for a contemporary idiom that evokes the vocabulary and syntax of our own inner monologues. Surely that’s what makes an awkward phrase like “psychopath asshole loser undesirable person” so familiar. It’s the language we reserve for our own internalized self-humiliations, the private voice we use to chide and debase ourselves, seemingly childish because only a child would be so transparent—and ludicrous. Indeed, one point of her play is that to be human is to be ludicrous. More than that, Lee uses a debased contemporary idiom to situate her characters in a state of indeterminacy relative to their historical namesakes. Though we reject Lee’s Wordsworth as “inaccurate,” we cannot entirely make the set of associations we “know” as “Wordsworth” disappear (at one point, in a tour de force, she even has her “anti-Wordsworth” introduce himself as the historical Wordsworth). Thus her Wordsworth is, and at the same time is not, the real “Wordsworth.” We are now clearly at some remove from the conventional idea of character as “identity” or “individuality,” both of which imply a singularity. Yet the idea that we are not merely a duality or a host of opposites but a wave function representing all possible points between the extremes of our natures is surely how we experience our own character—the tension between an awkward sentient being and the ﬁeld of ideas that being entertains about itself.

Pattern Plays, then, are read by following some manifest organizing principle. Without one, even the shortest theatrical event becomes oddly apparitional and ﬂeeting (as Richard Foreman demonstrates to great effect). Since the model of conventional theater was speciﬁcally designed to sustain narrative expectations (the gun in the ﬁrst act, for example), conventional theater has clung to narrative far longer than ﬁction or even ﬁlm. In fact, the search for a robust, extensible non-narrative organizing principle was solved only recently by adapting the concept of pattern (primarily from the visual arts, though it’s basic to music as well). Anne Washburn’s Apparition can certainly be read as a succession of scenes dealing with various apprehensions of the eldritch, but it makes more sense as a set of variations on the themes of knocking, whispering, darkness and doors, murder and ghosts, coming into a room, going into the forest, foreboding and dread. It is by recognizing the recurrence of these elements, more than by any “narrative arc,” that one navigates her play. Macbeth, too, is cited throughout, and the allied techniques of quotation, parody, and appropriation—all of which import a set of known references to articulate a larger work—are further instances of pattern used as structure. The meaning of this play—and even more, its skill and beauty—lies in the deployment of pattern. Pattern establishes an equivalence of form and content: the more the structure of a piece depends on correspondences and differences between repeating elements, the less the “meaning” of a piece itself depends on the nature of those elements—what would other-

xiv

Je f f r e y M. Jo n es

wise be “content.” This single property of pattern makes possible the idea of a tightly structured, bounded piece that, being at the same time independent of its content, resists complete deﬁnition and is therefore open. At this point, the piece, or play, no longer exists to illustrate (a point of view, a time and place) but becomes experience itself—autonomous, ineffable. At this point, too, it ﬁnally becomes necessary to choose between reading and watching—between trying to ﬁgure out what’s going on and simply paying attention, out of curiosity.

xv

Int r o du c t i o n

This page intentionally left blank

INTERIM Barbara Cassidy

INTERIM premiered in February 2003 at Playwrights’ Horizons in New York City. Direction by Hayley Finn. Original cast:

WOMAN

Lena Armstrong

JOYA

Laura Esterman

JIM ALMA

Sarah Kapner

KIN

Lea DeLaria

TAM

Julie Lund

OTHER GIRLS TISH LU MAN

1

Frank Wood

Anne Winkles Jane Armstrong Marissa Redanty Charles Tuthill

Lights up on a white room. There is a pair of shoes (black pumps) center stage. Silence. And then we hear the click-clack of a woman walking in heels outside, down the street. She is far away getting closer, her closest point is marked in the text, and then she gets farther and farther away. WOMAN:

Loudest.

No soy una broma. No, no soy una broma. Debo ser tratada con respeto. Voy a ser tratada con respeto. No me mires, mandril. No me mires, jodido mandril. Crees conocerme. No sabes nada. Solamente sabes de tu vida importante. Y tu propio importante idioma. Te ríes de mí. Crees que no sé eso. Pero estoy bastante por delante de tí. Estoy pendiente de todos ustedes. Mírame la cara. Mírame la cara. La vida es una desilusión. Por lo menos yo sé eso. La vida es una desilusión. La ventana es roja. La vida es una desilusión. La ventana es roja. La vida es una desilusión. La ventana es roja. La vida es una desilusión. La ventana es roja. Mírame la cara. Mírame la cara. La ventana es roja. Y tú ni siquiera lo sabes.

Lights down. Two red stools. JIM (forty-ﬁve years old) and JOYA (forty-nine) sit on stools looking out the window. There is a bundle of wires coming into the room upstage left. Two female telephone workers, KIN (thirty) and TAM (twenty), are installing a line. There are tools lying around the ﬂoor. There is a shopping bag next to JIM. JIM and JOYA don’t really notice KIN and TAM, and vice versa. It’s like they are in two different worlds. They only deal with each other when noted.

2

Ba r b a r a Ca ssi d y

JOYA: Breathing is slowed down by morphine. Opiates slow down your breathing, your heart

rate. So does Valium, alcohol. That’s how Janis died. JIM: Uh-huh. JOYA: It just doesn’t mix. JIM: Who would think . . . JOYA: I’m kind of stressed out right now, but I won’t take any Valium. I took a piece of that

other shit. JIM: Gotcha. (He lights a cigarette and thinks about it.) How many do you have? JOYA: Valium? I don’t know, why? JIM: In case I wanted one. I might want one sometime. JOYA: Why would you want one? JIM: I’m wired. (He watches out window, not moving.) JOYA (looks): I’ll think about it. JIM: I see. JOYA: They’re in my underwear drawer. (referring to window) She hasn’t come out yet. JIM: Yeah. How many milligrams are they? JOYA: One. They’re only one milligram. JIM: One? JOYA: They were Sniper’s. JIM: Oh. Poor Sniper. (Pause.) Do you just keep reﬁlling the prescription? JOYA: Yeah, well, until they want the next blood test. JIM: Right. JOYA: I think she has the hots for that one. JIM: Really?

3

Int er i m

Pause. JOYA: I have no idea what time it is. JIM: It’s four o’clock. JOYA: Shouldn’t Alma be home from school? JIM: She has practice. JOYA: She enjoys that playing, doesn’t she? I’m glad she does that. JIM: You ought to pay a bit more attention to her. You need to shake it up a bit, mate. JOYA: Rightio. JIM: You know she’s very good. Do you know that? She’s the fucking shortstop. They put the

best player at shortstop. JOYA: Yeah, I know I should get out there more. I will. I’ll go to the next game. When is the

next game? JIM: Saturday. JOYA: I’m there. You couldn’t keep me away. JIM: Don’t tell her you’re going unless you are really going to. JOYA: It’s time for the “deadbeat Dad” speech (only this time it’s the Mom). And you know

he’s going to disappoint the kid, all the time he says he’ll be there. And then you get the shot of the kid all dressed up and ready to go, waiting on the corner, head down. And then the angelic Mom comes along (only this time it’s the Dad), comes along, puts her arm around the kid, and then they walk back to the house. And you’re crying. You know you shouldn’t be, but you can’t help yourself. JIM: The mom makes everything better. JOYA: She should.

Pause. TAM exits upstage right. JOYA: I can’t remember things. I have a problem remembering things. JIM: What kinds of things?

4

Ba r b a r a Ca ssi d y

JOYA: Old things. I have trouble remembering old things. Long-term memory loss. Like when

Johnny-boy Alamonti asked me to go with him, were we at the Dome or in his parents’ backyard? I have two conﬂicting memories. JIM: So you have too much memory, not too little. JOYA: Maybe that’s not a good example. Kathleen says we nearly got arrested once for doing

coke in her car. A cop pulled up. I have no recollection of this. At all. JIM: You do a lot of drugs, Joya. Your brain is a little weathered. JOYA: That’s not it. JIM: It’s not. JOYA: No, it’s not. It’s a strange phenomenon. I’m not sure what it is, but it has to do with re-

ality. JIM: No, please, no. JOYA: And rationalizations. JIM: Yes. JOYA: A self is a rationalization. JIM: Not that again. Why are you so stuck on that? JOYA: I want you to see it. You need to see it.

KIN puts tone box on two wires. Yells to TAM. KIN: Tone’s on.

Pause. TAM (off): Take it off. KIN (takes it off): It’s off. TAM: Okay. JIM: I see that you are stuck in a very strange world. JOYA: So are you.

5

Int e r i m

JIM: Yours is stranger. JOYA: Maybe. Do you know who you really are? What you are? What constitutes what you

really are? JIM: You need a hobby. JOYA: I don’t need a hobby. JIM: Or better yet, you need to take an interest in your daughter’s life. That’s the thing. That’s

the only thing. JOYA walks off as if trying to walk on a straight line, one foot in front of the other. JIM starts removing candles from the shopping bag and placing them around the perimeter of the stage. JIM (addressing audience): I used to think that at some time in my existence, I would do

something that was important. (Pause.) Or maybe it was I thought I’d do something that other people would think was important. (Pause.) That might be more like it. (Pause.) I now realize that I’m not going to do either. My daughter, Alma, is now the only thing I care about. It’s true. She’s eight years old. (calling out downstage) Alma. Alma. Could you come out here, please? An eight-year-old girl appears. She is wearing a ﬂowered dress. ALMA: What, Daddy? JIM (diverted): Why are you wearing that? ALMA: This? It’s my favorite dress. JIM: Alma, we’ve had this conversation before. ALMA: But you said on special occasions. JIM: Is this a special occasion? ALMA (unsure): I thought so. JIM: What is it? ALMA (whispers): The party.

ALMA runs off the stage. JIM lights the candles.

6

Ba r b a r a Ca ssi d y

JIM: (to Alma) I wasn’t ﬁnished. (to audience) She’s a funny kid, loves dresses. Always wants

to wear dresses. I, well, I’m not so crazy about that. I might be wrong, but I don’t think it’s the wisest idea to allow this whole dress-up thing . . . to ﬂourish. I don’t think it’s exactly good for Alma’s conﬁdence to put so much weight on her clothing. Besides the fact that dresses are more constricting and girls should not be so constricted. I come from the school that thinks an active aggressive person should be ready, so to speak. I want Alma to be ready. ALMA sticks her head back in. ALMA: You want me to be a boy. JIM: I do not want you to be a boy. That is a ridiculous thing to say. I don’t know where you

got that idea. Did your mother tell you that? ALMA: No. JIM: I once knew a little girl who wanted to dress up like a princess every day because she

thought people would like her more if she did. And this is, I believe, a microcosm of what happens to women in our culture in the long run. They spend their lives sneaking peeks at Vogue to see what they should be wearing and looking like . . . so that people will like them more and ﬁnd them more attractive. ALMA reenters with a small ball. ALMA: Sometimes I wish you would just lighten up. JIM: Oh, you do? ALMA: Yeah. Do you want to play box ball? JIM: I’m sorry, baby, I can’t right now. Maybe later. I have to ﬁnish what I’m doing here. ALMA (bouncing ball): What are you doing? JIM: What does it look like I’m doing? ALMA: I mean why. Why are you doing that? JIM: Don’t . . . well . . . ALMA: Oh brother, the Alzheimer’s really taking hold. JIM: Don’t be such a smart-ass. Anyway, I called you out here before because I was saying

how you were the only thing I cared about. That’s where I was.

7

Int er i m

ALMA: And that you were never going to do anything important. JIM: Right. ALMA: So I guess that means I’m not so important. JIM: No no, I didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean that at all. I meant things perceived to be im-

portant by other people, baby. You are the only important thing to me. The only thing worth living for. ALMA (still bouncing ball): Oh. JIM: What’s with the glum face? ALMA: That’s my face. I can’t help how it looks. JIM: You my girl? ALMA: Yes, Daddy. JIM: Are you sure? ALMA: Yes, Daddy. JIM: Are you really truly sure? ALMA: Yes, Daddy. JIM: Okay, then run along and play. ALMA: Okay.

She skips away, bouncing the ball. JIM: You see, I realized this after she was born, that a life just devoted to oneself was noth-

ing, was absolutely meaningless. That one needed to give to another person in order to be fulﬁlled . . . blah blah blah. Oh God, what am I beginning to sound like? One of those New Age guys, right? Fuck. I’m not . . . I’m just a regular guy. She is my life; that’s all you need to know, okay? Okay. I would gladly with pleasure give my two feet for her, my two legs, anything, and I would smile for the privilege. (Indicating candles.) Looks pretty good, right? Almost religious. Oooh. Or spooky? Which is it? Both, I guess. Is that possible? Of course it is. (Pause.) Alma’s very smart you know, straight-A student, all her teachers rave about her. She doesn’t like when I tell people, though. Gets embarrassed. I hope she doesn’t get

8

Ba r b a r a Ca ssi d y

bored. I think she may be bored. I should have played box ball with her. Why didn’t I? That was stupid. JIM exits. The lights are lowered. A dozen eight-year-old girls enter (including ALMA). They all have on dresses. They pick up one candle each, take a place, and recite the times tables, maybe in unison, maybe not. All except ALMA and another leave with the candles. Lights come up a bit. KIN and TAM leave their tools and set up a table and chairs for the restaurant center stage. JOYA comes back in; she is not stoned. She is ﬁnishing dressing to go out. Her hair is pinned up and she wears simple black trousers, white shirt. She puts lipstick on. The stools are moved upstage for bar. The girls set the table. ALMA and friend put candles on the table and ALMA whispers something to the other girl that makes her laugh. TISH and LU (around JOYA’s age) enter upstage right and upstage left. TISH has big hair and wears tight jeans with heels. LU wears a dress. They ﬂirt with KIN and TAM, who now work in the restaurant. The ﬂirtations become more overt as JOYA’s speech progresses, but they never touch KIN or TAM. JOYA (downstage center, addresses audience): She can remember everything; it is quite amaz-

ing. She remembers being in the crib. She told me a story last week that took place when she was less than a year old. She had this little music box that had a bear on it and a carousel with a rocking horse and some other animals, and she would point to it asking me to wind it up. She would stand up in her crib and ask me to put it on saying, “Bear, bear.” And I would put it on and she would want to touch it. And sometimes I would let her touch it, but usually I didn’t, I didn’t want her to break it. I would say, “Listen. Enjoy it.” But this one time I actually put the music box in the crib with her, and she was thrilled, absolutely thrilled. She couldn’t believe that I actually let her hold it. She squealed with delight. And I never told her this story. I had forgotten about it, but she told me about it yesterday. I don’t exactly feel like going out tonight. These friends are . . . well, you know, old ones. Old friends who I haven’t seen in many years, and well, maybe we don’t have so much in common anymore. KIN: You might have more in common than you think. JOYA (smiles, a little irritated): Right, well . . . we’ll see . . .

A Chinese restaurant in Canarsie. JOYA sits. LU and TISH join her. The restaurant is of a strip-mall, Chinese variety—inauthentic, overpriced, and bad food. KIN is the waiter. TAM is the bartender. The girls run around the table a few times and then off. JOYA: I’m not sure if it was him. TISH: Why do you want to know? JOYA: I just want to remember who I went there with. LU: I don’t remember. I know I went there with Tommy.

9

Int er i m

TISH: I was never there. JOYA: But I wasn’t with you and Tommy. LU: No. JOYA: Right . . . I’m certain I was there. It’s just so weird to know that and not know who you

were with. So I’m thinking maybe it was Raymond. It’s quite possible it was Raymond. TISH: It could have been any number of people. JOYA: Raymond makes the most sense. TISH: But do you ever see him? JOYA: No, I don’t. If I were in touch with him, I wouldn’t have to ask you if it were him, right? LU: Where would she see him, Tish? TISH: I don’t know. I just thought maybe she did, that’s all. I heard he’s working as a fore-

man for the phone company. JOYA: Really? TISH: Yeah, he works tons of hours, you know. They make a lot of money, those guys. LU: Oh yeah, that’s great. TISH: Why not? LU: It’s nowhere. He’s a loser. Joya is so lucky that he is not her husband. She’d be livin’ on

Long Island makin’ jello, for Christ sake. She’s a fuckin’ painter. She don’t need that kinda man. TISH: Got a wife and two kids, too. JOYA: How do you know so much about him? TISH: My friend Estelle is friends with his wife. JOYA: Oh. TISH: You never would have been paintin’ if you were with him, right?

10

Ba r b a r a Ca ssi d y

JOYA: I don’t know. That’s so hard to say. TISH: You sellin’? You sellin’ any? JOYA: No. I haven’t sold any. TISH: You know I have to tell you—you paint some weird shit. LU: I like your paintings, Joya. JOYA: Well, you haven’t seen any in a while. TISH: Like that one with the dick and the cockroaches. JOYA: You remember that? TISH: I had fuckin’ nightmares about that. JOYA: Wow. That’s a really old one. I’m not even sure what I did with that. TISH: I think you gave it to Raymond. JOYA: I did? TISH: I think Sandy was pretty upset when she saw it. JOYA: That’s her name, Sandy? LU: You’re not . . . JOYA: Oh no, it’s just weird. I haven’t spoken about him. TISH: Lu’s right, he’s a loser. LU: How is Alma? JOYA: Alma is great. Really great. In love with her Daddy. Dances. Plays baseball. You should

see her. Such a beautiful girl. Does well in school. I couldn’t ask for more. I’m really lucky. LU: I’d love to meet her. TISH (sarcastic): Yes. Sounds like a wonder child.

Waiter comes over with drinks.

11

Int e r i m

JOYA (serious): She is. She really is. KIN: Are you ready to order?

Lights down on restaurant, up on stage left, ALMA and JIM. JIM is writing on a pad. ALMA carries an astronomy textbook. JIM: Kathy. Maria, Jeff. Michael. Paula. Andrea. Tish, Lu. Who else? ALMA: Rob. JIM: Right. ALMA: Mercedes. JIM: Mercedes. ALMA: Aunt Sophie.

JIM looks at ALMA. I like Aunt Sophie. JIM: I don’t. ALMA: Does Mommy? JIM: No. Who else? ALMA: Rosemary and Max. JIM: Who’s Rosemary and Max? ALMA: School. JIM: Oh. Yvette. ALMA: If the Earth were hit with a meteor, do you think it would be better to be inside or

out? JIM: Wouldn’t matter. ALMA: I think it would be better out. JIM: Maybe.

12

Ba r b a r a Ca ssi d y

ALMA: What about music? JIM: If a meteor hit? ALMA: Don’t be stupid. JIM: We’ll get a band. I’m just not sure what type, though. What kind of band should we get? ALMA: A band? JIM: Yeah. Your Mom deserves a band. What about salsa? A salsa band.

Pause. ALMA: Dad, do you really think Mommy wants a party? JIM: Yeah, sure. Why not? ALMA: I don’t think she likes parties. JIM: She doesn’t like parties where she doesn’t know anyone. Here she’ll know everyone.

She’ll love it. She’ll be the center of attention. ALMA: I asked her what she wanted to do, and she said she wanted to go out to dinner, us

three. JIM: “Just stay with her best friends,” right? ALMA: Yeah. JIM: She says that kind of shit all the time. Believe me—she would love a little attention. ALMA: Aunt Sophie says a surprise party is like a violent act committed against the person

who it’s for. JIM: Aunt Sophie is a blithering idiot. What the hell is she telling you that for? ALMA: She doesn’t think we should do it. JIM: When I want her opinion, I’ll ask her. ALMA: What did she do? JIM: What do you mean what did she do?

13

Int e r i m

ALMA: Why do you hate her? JIM: I don’t hate her; I just don’t like her. She’s always sticking her nose in somewhere. ALMA: Do you think she’s pretty? JIM: Why are you asking me that? ALMA: Just wondering. JIM: She’s not that pretty. ALMA: When I was little, sometimes I used to pretend she was my mother.

Pause. JIM: Don’t worry about it, baby. Everyone pretends something sometime. There’s nothing

wrong with it. Just don’t tell your mother. JOYA enters stage left area. JOYA: Don’t tell me what? JIM: What? JOYA: You said, “Just don’t tell your mother,” didn’t you? JIM: You must be hearing things, Joya. JOYA: I don’t think so. ALMA: I’m going to do my homework. JOYA: Don’t you go anywhere just yet, my love. ALMA: I have to do my homework. JOYA: It can wait a few minutes. ALMA: Daddy. JIM: Stop it, Joya. JOYA: I just want to talk with you guys, that’s all. Can’t you give your old mother ﬁve minutes?

14

Ba r b a r a Ca ssi d y

JIM: All right, if you must know, we’re talking about your birthday, okay? Now don’t try and

ruin everything. ALMA dances very naturally and unaware of any presence around the perimeter of the stage. JOYA: Whatever you are planning, please stop. I really do not want any sort of birthday thing. JIM: It’s your ﬁftieth birthday; it should be special. JOYA: I don’t want anything, really. We could go to dinner the three of us, and that would be

the best. Nothing more than that. JIM (speaks lower): The kid might like to do something more. Did you ever think that? JOYA: No. I don’t think that she wants that. JIM: I love her so much. JOYA: I really don’t want any attention about my birthday. I hate all that kind of thing. It’s

for fools, all that silliness. JIM: You would have a good time. You only have big birthdays once every, well, ten years. I

guess once every ten years. JIM looks at wires, noticing them for ﬁrst time, but reacting just as if they were maybe a pen he didn’t know where he got (a mild curiosity). JOYA: I am dreading it. JIM: You know I love you. ALMA: I am dreading it. JIM: You’re silly. You’re so silly. What do you want? What do you want for a gift? ALMA: I got you. JOYA: I got you. JIM: Is that a joke? Is that supposed to be a joke? JOYA: Yes, love. A very small, meaningless one. JIM: I’m trying to do something nice here.

15

Int er i m

JOYA: Oh right. (louder) I don’t want a party.

Lights down on stage left and up on restaurant. JOYA, TISH, and LU are sitting at table. TISH: Where can I smoke? LU: At the bar. TISH: I can wait a little. You still smoke, Joya? JOYA: No, I quit. LU: You quit with Alma, right? JOYA: Right. With Alma. Nine years ago? Oh God. LU: Nine years ago, and Mikey will be ten. JOYA: Oh God, I didn’t even ask you. How is he? LU: Mikey’s ﬁne. He’s in fourth grade. Plays baseball. Loves it. And video games, omigod. I

ﬁght with him all the time. JOYA: And he’s nine? LU: Nine. Nine years old. JOYA: God, to be nine years old. Looks like you? TISH: I wouldn’t want to be nine. LU (pulling out her wallet): I think so. Here, look. JOYA: Oh he’s gorgeous, Lu. Look at that smile. He’s gonna break some hearts. LU: I know. He’s a ladies’ man already. He ﬂirts with his teacher. JOYA: No . . . TISH: He ﬂirts with me, too. JOYA: Oh boy. LU: You stay away from my son. You’re a corrupter.

16

Ba r b a r a Ca ssi d y

TISH: I am not. LU (putting on deep voice): “Stay away from the boy.” Remember that?

TISH laughs. TISH: Oh shit! That was so sick! JOYA: What? LU: You don’t remember? JOYA: No, what? TISH: C’mon, I don’t believe you. JOYA: I don’t remember. TISH: You’re lying—there’s no way you could forget that story. JOYA: Maybe I wasn’t there. LU and TISH: You were there! JOYA: Oh, I guess I was there. I must be losing my mind. TISH: East 98th Street block party. We were a little drunk and dancing. LU: And surrounded little Bobby Ryan and were dancing sexy around him. Ring a bell? JOYA: It’s coming back. TISH: And Bobby’s mother comes out screaming at us, “Stay away from my boy, you fuckin’

whores!” LU: Now you remember? JOYA: Oh yeah. LU: And you say, “Who you callin’ a fuckin’ whore?” JOYA: Didn’t I take a swing at her? TISH and LU: Yes!

17

Int er i m

TISH: She said she was callin’ the police. And we ran off and hid in Jack’s Pub. JOYA: Yeah. Oh yeah, it’s all coming back now. TISH: Now. How in the world could you not remember that? JOYA: You see, this is a perfect example. A story that stands out in both your memories isn’t

even in mine. LU: Well, you remember now. JOYA: Yeah, but you had to tell me the story, and then I have some fragment of memory, but

it’s not there really, and then I start to wonder what is there. What else am I leaving out and what have I added? How have I shaped this, and then you take it further and say, who am I really? They stare at her. Pause. TISH: It’s more like you remember what you want to. JOYA: Something like that.

Pause. TISH: So, how come we never met Jim? JOYA: I don’t know. I guess ’cause I haven’t seen you guys in ten years. LU: Wow, it’s been that long? TISH (mumbling): Yeah, well, she never even met Mikey . . . JOYA: What? TISH: Nothin’.

Pause. Where’s this fuckin’ food already? I’m gonna go have a cigarette. She goes to bar, bringing her wine. She ﬂirts with TAM at bar. LU (eating crunchy noodles): I can’t stop eating these. JOYA: What’s with her?

18

Ba r b a r a Ca ssi d y

LU: I don’t know. JOYA: It’s like she suddenly got mad at me. LU: She gets a little weird when she drinks wine. JOYA: Oh . . . I miss seeing you, Lu. LU: I miss you too, Joy. JOYA: I don’t have that many friends. Do you? LU: Not really. Not real ones. What happened with us? JOYA: Things just . . . I don’t really know. People just get involved in their own lives and . . . LU: Yeah, I know. I think Tish is holding some resentment. Like you left us or whatever. JOYA: I can’t deal with all of this. LU: Don’t worry about her. She got some issues. She never really met the one. JOYA: The one. LU: How are things with Jim? JOYA: Great, well . . . good. How’s Harry? LU: It’s okay. JOYA: Uh-huh. LU: Well, it’s been a little difﬁcult for the last couple of years. But, what should I do? I’m too

old to start over. JOYA: I’m losing my hair. The doctor says the stress I have is causing my hair to fall out. You

ever hear of such a thing? I’m losing my mind and my hair! (laughs) LU: Omigod! JOYA: At least you will have hair in your old age. LU: That don’t sound too healthy, Joy. JOYA: Well, it’s not, I’m not. Life sucks, but what are we gonna do?

19

Int er i m

LU: But you have Alma. JOYA: Yes, I have Alma. I’m glad for that. LU: Do you believe in God? JOYA: Oh Jesus, no. Do you? LU: Kind of. Something. Something. JOYA: There is no something for me, there’s only the brain. And if your brain fails you, you

are nothing . . . The waiter brings over food. JIM enters stage left, looks out window. Lights up on apartment. JOYA (putting a pencil behind her ear, to JIM): You want some coffee? JIM: No.

JOYA enters the stage left space. Lights down on restaurant. JOYA: You sure? JIM: Yeah. JOYA: I don’t think I would want to live without coffee. JIM: You’re an addict, as sure as any junkie. JOYA: And maybe that, too. JIM: What? JOYA: Nothing baby.

JOYA takes pencil from behind ear and strokes herself between her legs with it. JIM: You my girl? JOYA: Yes, baby. (putting on her baby voice; this is ﬂirtatious) Hey, I’ve been thinking about

doing something different lately. Different than painting. JIM: Oh yeah? JOYA: Yeah.

20

Ba r b a r a Ca ssi d y

JIM: What? JOYA: Well . . . I’m not sure . . . maybe try something besides painting, maybe study some-

thing. JIM: Oh really, now? And what would my wittle girl like to study? JOYA: Your wittle baby girl doesn’t know yet. She hasn’t ﬁgured it all out. I don’t know, not

exactly . . . JIM: Well, try and ﬁgure it out and get back to me. JOYA: Yes, Big Daddy, I will get back to you. When I know a little more about my plans. I’m

getting aroused. When I think about my future, I get horny. JIM: Why when you think about your future? JOYA (taking off her blouse): Don’t worry yourself about that. Just know that I am. JIM: Oh my. You’re still looking good, baby. As good as ever. JOYA: I am, I am, I am. JIM: You are? JOYA: Who said that? JIM: Said what? JOYA: I am, I am, I am. JIM: Descartes? I think therefore I am. JOYA: That’s not what I said. No, it was a writer, a novelist . . . JIM: Oh, I probably don’t know. JOYA: I mean it was a character that said it, a woman. JIM: Oh.

ALMA comes out bouncing ball. They do not see her at ﬁrst. They make out. ALMA: I was born September 16, 1995. Seven pounds, three ounces. Twenty inches long. Cute.

Very cute. At least that’s what they told me. It’s hard to tell in the pictures. There are

21

Int er i m

a lot of pictures. They probably say they’re all cute. My father was so happy the day I was born that he opened a bottle of champagne right in the delivery room. He poured champagne for all the nurses on the ﬂoor. He’s very big, my father. He also has a great memory. He can remember the dates that things happened, stupid things, like he’d say, “Hey Alma, do you know I bought that record on December 7, 1972?” He’ll say something like that, and I’m like, I don’t really care when you bought that record, and God, you are so ancient. Then he laughs. The brain is a magniﬁcent organ. My mother thinks that the brain is God. (She bounces the ball.) A my name is Allah and my husband’s name is Al. We come from Arabia and we sell apricots. B my name is Buddha and my husband’s name is Bo. We come from Bangladesh and we sell buns. C my name is Christ and I come from, hum, California. And we . . . I mean they sell condoms. JOYA: You’re a funny kid. Where did you get such a sense of humor? JIM: But what about D? ALMA: D is easy. E is the problem. JOYA: D my name is Dalai Lama and my husband’s name is David. We come from Denmark

and we sell diaries. JIM: Alma’s better at it. JOYA: Yes she is. My sweet pea. Now give me a kiss before you go out.

ALMA kisses JOYA and goes out. JIM: Why did you do that? JOYA: What? JIM: You told Alma to go out. She came in and you told her to go back out. JOYA: Oh, she was going to, what are you talking about? . . . I thought we were going to have

sex. JIM: Don’t ever tell her to leave. You think she doesn’t feel that, or is it that you never even

think of her, only of yourself and your pathetic needs? JOYA walks away toward restaurant table, lights come up stage right. JOYA: Pathetic needs, okay. I’ll just go back here. It’s an easier part to play. JIM: Don’t go, Joya.

22

Ba r b a r a Ca ssi d y

JOYA sits down with TISH and LU. It’s just really bad to do that to children. You should know that. They should never be made to feel that they’re in the way. TISH: Even if they are? LU: Stay out of it, Tish. You don’t know anything about kids. TISH: Oh right, you have to have one come out your pussy in order to know anything. I

forgot. JOYA: What about a mother, should she feel she’s in the way? LU: You’re so vulgar. JIM: There is something wrong if she does. JOYA: We know that. We’re all aware of that. LU: We are? JIM: You need too much. You need for yourself too much. JOYA: Yes, I’m terrible. I’m a terrible person. TISH: Yes, I’m vulgar. I’m vulgar because I tell the truth. The truth is a vulgar thing.

Lights down low. The dozen girls come out singing “Pop goes the Weasel” while walking in a circle around the perimeter of stage. Sometimes they skip, sometimes they jump up on ”pop.” Meanwhile the restaurant is dismantled. Stools brought front, KIN and TAM back to work. After a bit, TAM comes up front. TAM: The man named Kin is in control of the job. Kin is the man to see if you have any prob-

lems—i.e., your phone doesn’t work. He will work hard and ﬁx the problem. He knows all about shorts and grounds and tone and splices. He deﬁnitely knows all about splicing wires. I learned everything I need to know from him. I now know how to splice. I can say that with conﬁdence. Conﬁdence is important because if you believe you can do something, you’ll be able to do it somewhat or convince people that you can do it somewhat, even if you don’t know how to do it at all. Conversely, if you don’t have any conﬁdence even if you know a thing or two, nobody will believe a thing you say. Lack of conﬁdence equals loser. That’s what Kin says, and I believe him. I think I was a loser until I met him. Now people think I’m a good splicer. It’s amazing. I owe everything to Kin. However, it was different before I learned.

23

Int er i m

ALMA comes out with a Vogue magazine, hides it somewhere onstage. Of course it is not really hidden because there is next to nothing onstage. She exits, runs into JOYA coming out. JOYA kisses her on the lips. ALMA leaves; JOYA drinks a glass of wine and lights a cigarette, sits on a stool and looks out the window. Sometimes she stands and places the glass on the stool and whispers “Nothing bad” as she tries to get the placement right. It is an obsessivecompulsive pattern; however, it should barely be audible and the movements should not be done “big” in any way. Also, other things she says during this scene should be said very low to herself. The actor should not be concerned if the audience hears this; in fact it’s probably best if they don’t. KIN and TAM are now pulling some cable into the space and begin to set up a splice. KIN: Pay attention. TAM: I am paying attention. KIN: Everything is in the setup. If your setup is good, ninety-ten your splice will be good. And

if your setup is sloppy, no doubt your splice is a fucking mess. Take the time to do things right, and it will save you a lot of trouble later on. TAM: Makes sense. KIN: Where. Deciding where is key. It is not a random act. TAM: Of course not. KIN: Exactly where. Figure it out. Access, mobility, slack. Once you’ve decided where, you

start bringing things into position. You put up your bracket. Measure before you drill. Tie your cable like so. KIN decides where. This seems right. Do you agree? JOYA: I’m terribly hurt. TAM: Sure. KIN: Why? TAM: It just seems right. KIN: Enough slack on both sides, accessibility (she accentuates each syllable), and we’re able

to move around here. (She moves around.) TAM: Right.

24

Ba r b a r a Ca ssi d y

KIN puts up bracket. KIN: What are your colors? TAM: Orange-red. KIN: Are you sure? JOYA: Never, never sure. Nothing bad. TAM: Yes, I’m sure. KIN: Do you want me to double-check just to make sure? Or not? TAM: Go ahead if you want to. I know it’s right, though. KIN: If you know it’s right, I won’t then. TAM: No, go ahead. I don’t want to hear your mouth if I made a mistake. KIN: Wise choice. TAM: Whatever. KIN: Big ole girls blow slow. When running backwards you vomit. Big ole girls blow slow.

When running backwards you vomit. TAM: Big ole girls blow slow. When running backwards you vomit.

KIN takes out the print and ﬁgures out the count. TAM stands where KIN was and looks at bracket, lights a cigarette. TAM: I’m cold. KIN: It’s cold here.

JOYA takes off her sweater. She lights a cigarette. JOYA: Just like back in the day. I’m fucked. I’m fucked. TAM: Should have brought that sweatshirt. KIN: Yeah, well . . . color-code your wires. TAM: Right.

25

Int er i m

KIN: Okay, orange-red. You pass. TAM: Thanks. JOYA: Thank you for your time. KIN (speaking): I am the egg man, I am the egg man, I am the walrus, Cucoocachoo cucoo-

coocachoo. TAM: Ray comin’ today? KIN: Don’t know. TAM: He said he was. KIN: Yeah, well, you shouldn’t concern yourself with those kinds of things. You should con-

cern yourself with learning to be a good splicer. TAM: Thanks for all your wisdoms. JOYA: Maybe all the connections just weren’t made. Maybe that’s it. KIN: You are ever so welcome. Don’t worry so much about Ray. He’s just acting. Keep that in

mind. But even if he wasn’t, even if he was mad, you really shouldn’t worry about a foreman coming to your job. The only people who worry about that are the ones who are gooﬁng off. You will never be gooﬁng off when working with me. Unless all our work is done, in which case it’s not gooﬁng off. TAM: Gotcha, egg man. KIN: Cute, lovely.

Some salsa music in background. JOYA sways and then starts dancing. TAM: Do you hear that? KIN: What? TAM: That music.

They listen. We should bring a radio. I meant to. I like my own music. KIN: What kind of music?

26

Ba r b a r a Ca ssi d y

TAM: I like a lot of different stuff. Hip-hop, reggae, rock. KIN: A diverse dude. TAM: Yeah. KIN: I only listen to classic rock when I’m working. That or nothing. I can’t stand that other

shit. TAM: Great. KIN: Now once you are set up and color-coded, and you’re ready to go, you have to—how

should I say this?—feel yourself in the wires. I know this sounds a little weird. TAM: Feel myself in the wires? KIN: Yeah. TAM: Alrighty. KIN: You need to get into them. TAM: Get into my wires? KIN: Yeah, feel them. Really feel them. Be one with them. TAM: You all right? KIN: Be one with the orange-red. Be one with the orange-red. And they’ll work for you. TAM: I heard you were a bit of a ﬂake, man, but I now see that it’s no joke. KIN: Be one with the orange-red. Set her up. Join the wires in a union. A joining of their

copper selves. A good splicer is motivated by the idea of doing a good splice, motivated by the goodness of the act itself, not for anyone seeing it or for getting any credit for it. Pause. Here we go. TAM (to audience): Now this is some weird shit Kin is laying on me. I really thought he’s way

out there and I guess he is, a bit, but I have to say his approach works. I do know for myself. Hey Kin, my wires keep breaking.

27

Int e r i m

KIN: You’re doing it too slow. You’re too tentative. Do it with conviction and authority. Like

that. JOYA: I am ruining that. I am ruining that. Nothing bad. TAM: Oh. KIN: So go ahead now. TAM: One and two and fuck me do.

Pause. KIN: You know we’re really in between jobs right now, that’s why Ray gives us this shit to

do. TAM: What do you mean shit? KIN: It’s not important. It’s on the bottom of his list. Copper. You need to learn ﬁber. You

need to go to school for ﬁber. The real deal. TAM: I better learn this ﬁrst. KIN: Yeah, well, it shouldn’t take you that long. TAM: Really? KIN: Repetition. Repetition breeds excellence. TAM: You mean fosters excellence. KIN: I mean breeds. That’s what I said, isn’t it? TAM: A’ight, my bad. KIN: Your bad. TAM: Hey, was Ray a good splicer? KIN: Not really. TAM: How come? KIN: Didn’t have the discipline to do an orderly splice. My splices are the neatest you’re

gonna ﬁnd in the garage. When you open one a mine, you know it’s mine ’cause it

28

Ba r b a r a Ca ssi d y

look so ﬁne. But you need a certain amount of discipline in order to do that. Can’t just jump right in and start cutting wires. Ray was impatient. TAM: Uh-huh. KIN: Don’t get me wrong—he wasn’t bad, but he wasn’t all that. He’s just acting ’cause Novell

is his friend. But then again, I’m a tough judge of a splicer. I’m a real tough judge. TAM: He should be here. KIN: Wake up. He ain’t comin’. He’s down at Tino’s. He just says he might be out to keep

people on their toes. And to look like he’s doing something to the higher-ups. TAM: I guess you would know. KIN: Yes, I would. TAM: All right. JOYA: I maybe it was. KIN: Okay.

JOYA undresses a little more. TAM: What time you take lunch? KIN: Twelve o’clock. Always twelve o’clock. TAM: Even if you have an appointment or something? KIN: Lunch is at twelve. Twelve to one. Do what you want with it. TAM: Were you in the army or something? KIN: No, why? TAM: No reason.

Pause. JOYA (this can be heard): I would like to fuck somebody. TAM: I’ll make a bet with you that Ray comes out.

29

Int er i m

KIN: How much? TAM: Twenty. KIN: Twenty. You want to bet twenty that Ray will be out here today when I speciﬁcally told

you there is no way he’s coming. TAM: I have a feeling he is. KIN: You want to throw away your money—ﬁne. TAM: We’ll see who’s throwing what away. KIN: Okay, you’re on, my man. TAM: A’ight.

Lights down. KIN and TAM gone. JOYA looking out the window with wine. JIM enters and joins her. She is as stoned as she was before. JIM: Did you see her today? JOYA: No, not yet. JIM: Not yet. We’re so certain. JOYA: Oh, yes. JIM: Do you ever wonder why she interests you so much? JOYA: Not really. JIM: Not really. JOYA: Why do you repeat everything I say? Stop doing that. It’s very annoying. JIM: Right. JOYA: Don’t start, all right? Just don’t start. I’m having a peaceful evening. JIM: That’s nice, that’s real nice. JOYA: It is. It’s very nice. Don’t ruin it. JIM: Does my mere presence ruin it?

30

Ba r b a r a Ca ssi d y

JOYA: Not if you don’t start. JIM: All right, I won’t start. JOYA: Thank you. JIM: You’re welcome. (Pause.) So are you just going to stand here. JOYA: I’m watching. I’m not just standing, I’m watching. I like watching. JIM: Some people go to the cinema. JOYA: The movies. JIM: Same thing. JOYA: I don’t like the movies. JIM (sarcastic): I didn’t know that. JOYA: Don’t. JIM: Where’s my A? JOYA: In her room, playing. JIM: Why don’t we take her someplace this weekend, like the zoo. Why don’t we take her to

the zoo? JOYA: Sure, why not. JIM: You could be a little more enthusiastic. JOYA (with mock enthusiasm): Sure, why not. JIM: Why do I bother . . . JOYA: Oh, that was bothering. Oh, now I got it. JIM: I’m going to play with Alma.

JIM exits. JOYA (going back to her glass movements): Nothing bad. Nothing bad. Nothing bad.

31

Int e r i m

JIM (off): Alma? Alma?

JIM enters. She’s not in her room. JOYA: She’s not? JIM: What the hell is the matter with you, you old fucking whore? Where is Alma? JOYA: I thought she was in her room. JIM: When was the last time you saw her? JOYA: Relax, she’s out front. I forgot she went out front.

JIM races out. JIM (off): Hey, baby. I couldn’t ﬁnd you.

JOYA pulls out a phone, starts to dial, stops. JIM comes back in. JIM: She’s with Astrid. They’re playing jacks. JOYA: Jacks? I didn’t think anyone played jacks anymore. JIM: Well, she is. We should tell her to play in your view. This way you’ll know where she is. JOYA: Listen, I was thinking of calling Raymond. JIM: Ray, that guy you went out with? JOYA: Yeah, I need to know if he was the one. JIM: You need to know if he was the one. What the fuck is the matter with you? You’re ob-

sessed with nonsense. JOYA: It’s my obsession. JIM: You know, maybe there is nothing to know, there is just like this weird thing going on

in your head. JOYA: Yes, Jim, there is a weird thing going on in my head. Isn’t that obvious? I am trying to

unjumble it.

32

Ba r b a r a Ca ssi d y

JIM: This is what it is. It’s like some burned-out chick having a thought process, a thought

process that in no way bears any resemblance to reality. JOYA: I am trying. I am trying to piece it together. JIM: And you think it would help you to know who you were with. How would that help

you? JOYA: It might come back then. JIM: Nothing, nothing is going to come back, Joya. JOYA: How do you know that? JIM: I just do. JOYA: If I could . . . JIM: Forget it, you can’t. JOYA: I might understand the situation better. JIM: What situation? JOYA: This whole thing around us. JIM: Okay okay, so let’s play it out. I tell you that I know for certain that it was Ray you were

with, and you can now remember everything. Now what does that do for you? JOYA: It brings the picture back. JIM: Okay, so you got your picture back, then what? What do you do? How do you feel? Are

you happy then? Do you feel fulﬁlled? JOYA: Oh don’t give me that bullshit. No one is happy. JIM: I am fulﬁlled. JOYA: Okay. You happy, too? JIM: When I’m with Alma. JOYA: Alma is not you. She is her own person.

33

Int e r i m

JIM blows on JOYA as if blowing out a candle. She lies down on the ﬂoor. ALMA and ﬁve girls come out. ALMA squats on ﬂoor, holds JOYA’s head. The girls squat around JOYA’s body, one at feet, two on each side. The girls on sides put two ﬁngers from each hand under JOYA. ALMA: She looks pale. GIRL 1: She looks pale. GIRL 2: She looks pale. GIRL 3: She looks pale. GIRL 4: She looks pale. GIRL 5: She looks pale. ALMA: She is pale. GIRL 1: She is pale. GIRL 2: She is pale. GIRL 3: She is pale. GIRL 4: She is pale. GIRL 5: She is pale. ALMA: She looks sick. GIRL 1: She looks sick. GIRL 2: She looks sick. GIRL 3: She looks sick. GIRL 4: She looks sick. GIRL 5: She looks sick. ALMA: She is sick. GIRL 1: She is sick. GIRL 2: She is sick.

34

Ba r b a r a Ca ssi d y

GIRL 3: She is sick. GIRL 4: She is sick. GIRL 5: She is sick. ALMA: She looks dead. GIRL 1: She looks dead. GIRL 2: She looks dead. GIRL 3: She looks dead. GIRL 4: She looks dead. GIRL 5: She looks dead. ALMA: She is dead. GIRL 1: She is dead. GIRL 2: She is dead. GIRL 3: She is dead. GIRL 4: She is dead. GIRL 5: She is dead. ALMA: Lift.

The GIRLS levitate JOYA. The body is weightless, and they lead her offstage. Pause. ALMA (off): Oh, okay. (yells out) She’s not really dead!

JIM comes on. JIM: Good. Very good. I’m very glad to hear that. I cannot tell you how glad I am to hear that.

She’s into this thing. I don’t really think it’s so good for her, but what am I going to do? They look for some mystery, these little girls, some magic, but well, I don’t buy it. ALMA (coming on): Then how do you think it works if there is no magic? JIM: I think six girls could lift a woman. Don’t you?

35

Int e r i m

ALMA: You didn’t see it. You never watch.

ALMA exits. JIM ﬁnds Vogue. Sets it on ﬁre and exits. Lights come down. KIM and TAM come on. They bring a terminal box with them, which is where all lines terminate. Silence. And then we hear the click-clack of a woman walking in heels outside, down the street. She is far away getting closer, her closest point is marked in the text, and then she gets farther and farther away. WOMAN:

Loudest.

No soy una broma. No, no soy una broma. Debo ser tratada con respeto. Voy a ser tratada con respeto. No me mires, mandril. No me mires, jodido mandril. Crees conocerme. No sabes nada. Solamente sabes de tu vida importante. Y tu propio importante idioma. Te ríes de mí. Crees que no sé eso. Pero estoy bastante por delante de tí. Estoy pendiente de todos ustedes. Mírame la cara. Mírame la cara. La vida es una desilusión. Por lo menos yo sé eso. La vida es una desilusión. La ventana es roja. La vida es una desilusión. La ventana es roja. La vida es una desilusión. La ventana es roja. La vida es una desilusión. La ventana es roja. Mírame la cara. Mírame la cara. La ventana es roja. Y tú ni siquiera lo sabes.

KIN and TAM put out the ﬁre during the woman’s words. KIN: You think he’s coming today? TAM: Yeah, I do.

36

Ba r b a r a Ca ssi d y

KIN: Wanna go again? TAM: Sure, why not. KIN: Twenty again? TAM: Okay.

They work on their splices in silence for a bit. Then KIN hooks up his combo, which is a phone with clips at the end to hook into a line, onto a binding post. We hear JOYA’s voice talking to a man. KIN and TAM have no reaction to this. They work. JOYA: So it’s like I keep thinking, who was it? Why can’t I remember who I was with? It’s

not normal. I mean I was there. I know I was there. MAN: When was it? JOYA: I’m not sure. Ten years ago. Or more. MAN: It wasn’t me. I was never there. JOYA: There’s even a whole story about what happened there.

Pause. MAN: Well, are you going to tell it? JOYA: No, I don’t think so. MAN: What happened? JOYA: No, it’s not so interesting. I don’t think I want to recount. MAN: C’mon, what happened? Jesus, you go through all of this.

Pause. JOYA: After our dinner, after our dinner the man I was with, I thought it was you, was feel-

ing a little ill, if you will, in the stomach. He needed to use a restroom. The men’s room was within my view, it was straight ahead slightly to the right. Straight ahead was the view. Anywho, off my date goes to use the loo while I enjoy an after-dinner smoke. You could smoke then. MAN: I know.

37

Int er i m

JOYA: Nothing like a good smoke after a good meal, is there? MAN: What did you have? JOYA: For dinner? I don’t remember. MAN: But you remember it was good. JOYA: Yes. I remember it was good. Now the restrooms were about forty feet away, I would

say, approximately forty feet. MAN: Okay. JOYA: And apparently . . . well, according to my date, he went in the men’s room having to

“go” pretty desperately. MAN: I am ﬁnding it very difﬁcult to believe you can’t remember who it was. JOYA: Well, I can’t. I’m not making that up. That’s the gist of my problem. MAN: It’s just very odd. JOYA: I know it’s fucking odd. Why do you think I’m so upset? MAN: Okay. Take it easy. It’s also odd that you remember the meal was good. That’s also odd. JOYA: May I continue? MAN: Go ahead. JOYA: Thank you. The man had to “go” pretty badly and apparently when he was done doing

what he had to do, he ﬂushed the toilet and it, well, it overﬂowed. And even though this restaurant was very chichi, the restroom was very small. The toilet overﬂowed rather rapidly all over his shoes and the ﬂoor, and it seemed to him that maybe a pipe had burst, the water was overﬂowing more than seemed logical for one ﬂush. And then it seeped out under the door like a tumultuous river, under the door into the restaurant area. The shit-ﬁlled water from my unknown friend was oozing out into the chichiest restaurant in town. MAN: One would think they would have had better plumbing. JOYA: One would think. MAN: So what happened then?

38

Ba r b a r a Ca ssi d y

JOYA: He was mortiﬁed. Wouldn’t come out. Stayed in there longer than he should of be-

cause of his embarrassment. He should have come out right away. Before people realized. MAN: Do you mean the shit came out onto the ﬂoor where and when people were eating? JOYA: Yes, it did. That’s exactly what I mean. MAN: What did you do? JOYA: What did I do? I sat there and waited for him. And watched the water come in. The

foul, stenched water. It was all over my shoes. And when he ﬁnally came we ran out. We ran out without paying the check. Everyone was looking at him. Everyone was looking at us. MAN: Needless to say, I am not this guy.

Pause. Is that the only reason you called me, to ﬁnd out if I was the one? JOYA: Pretty much.

Pause. MAN: How’ve you been otherwise? JOYA: Oh, I don’t know. On the verge of something. I didn’t think it was you really. I’m just

doing some deducing. MAN: You still painting? JOYA: Yeah, kind of. How about you? MAN: When I get the time. I’m working a nine-to-ﬁve now. JOYA: That’s too bad. MAN: It’s not that bad. JOYA: Oh, good then.

TAM accidentally knocks the clips off while working. She hooks them up on another binding post.

39

Int e r i m

MAN’S VOICE: Say you? WOMAN’S VOICE: Why you fuckin’ wit my discourse? Yo you be messin’ with the wrong

person, Daddy. A’ight? Know who you talkin’ to. That’s what I’m sayin’ to you, know what I’m sayin’. You a country nigga up here in da big city now, and you gotta tell your silly country ass that you do not want to play yourself for one minute and think that you can go with me. You cannot go with me, nigga. I got that covered. MAN’S VOICE: I didn’t mean to fuck with your discourse. WOMAN’S VOICE: See now you bein’ funny and shit. You bein’ funny and shit, and I should

fuck your ass up just for the pleasure of doin’ it. MAN’S VOICE: I’m sorry, Mommy. WOMAN’S VOICE: You are sorry. You one sorry mothafucka.

Pause. You ugly too. An’ you dress like shit. MAN’S VOICE: You think? WOMAN’S VOICE: I should put a cap in your ass. That’d shut your faggot country ass up. MAN’S VOICE: No, don’t do that. WOMAN’S VOICE: You don’t tell me, nigga. I tell you a’ight. I am so sick of your backtalk. I’m

gonna fuck you up for free. Mommy gonna give you a good whoopin’ . . . MAN’S VOICE: Wow, you do that pretty well. WOMAN’S VOICE: You think? MAN’S VOICE: Yeah, you could get a job doing that. WOMAN’S VOICE: You mean like playing a character. MAN’S VOICE: Yeah, that’s exactly what I mean. WOMAN’S VOICE: That would be cool. But there’s probably more involved than just doing a

voice. MAN’S VOICE: Of course there is. But how hard could it be?

40

Ba r b a r a Ca ssi d y

WOMAN’S VOICE: I don’t know. MAN’S VOICE: You really should look into it.

KIN pulls out boom box and puts it on. “Blinded by the Light” plays. She pulls down cords from binding post. Throughout the song they dismantle all remnants of their work. Partygoers arrive on the stage slowly and dance and drink and talk. KIN and TAM put on sports jackets and/or ties and join the party once they are done removing their stuff. TISH and LU are on the scene. ALMA has her dress on. JIM has a Happy Birthday hat on. ALMA looks out window. ALMA: Here she comes! JIM: All right, quiet everyone.

KIN turns off music. LU: You think she knows? JIM: I don’t think so. Shhh, keep it down. Alma, come over here. ALMA: Daddy, the lights!

JIM turns out the lights. TISH: Why, hello there. JIM: Shhh.

Everyone is quiet. JOYA can be heard walking up the steps. ALMA (whispering): That’s her.

We hear a lot of shhhs and then we hear keys and a door opening. JOYA enters the room. EVERYONE: Surprise!

JOYA steps back. She doesn’t say anything for a moment. Actors can improvise some greetings. JOYA: Omigod! Oh wow! Wow. You guys. Omigod! Alma! Where’s my girl? You little trick-

ster. I’m gonna get you! Jim, you crazy fool. I told you, didn’t I? Didn’t I tell you. Tish, you were in on this. Lu, hey. Oh Lord, I can’t catch my breath, I can’t catch my breath. Oh wow, this is shocking, isn’t it? Mercedes, you sneak you!

41

Int e r i m

TISH: Were you surprised? JOYA: Do I look surprised? ALMA: You look beautiful.

Salsa music. JOYA: Thank you, baby. Thank you.

JOYA kisses ALMA. JIM: Are you happy? JOYA: Oh yeah. I’m happy as a lamb. Make me a drink, baby. JIM: You want to dance? JOYA: Yes, in a minute. Drinks ﬁrst. I want to say hello to everyone. LU: You look great, Joy! And Alma is gorgeous! JOYA: Thank you! TISH: They didn’t invite Ray, right? JOYA: I sincerely doubt that. TISH: I heard different. JOYA: From who? TISH: I don’t know. I overheard someone. JOYA: It must be another Ray. He would never . . . TISH: Okay.

JIM brings over drink. JOYA: Hello, thank you.

People dance. Lights lower. A beat. The girls run around the stage a few times and off. Left onstage are JIM, TISH, LU, ALMA, and a couple of others. TISH and JIM are ﬁnishing dancing. JOYA is gone.

42

Ba r b a r a Ca ssi d y

JIM: It’s good to meet you, Tish. Joya has told me so much about you. TISH: She has? JIM: Well, yes. High school, that kind of thing. TISH: Did she tell you I stole her boyfriend in twelfth grade? JIM: No, I don’t think she did. TISH: It’s not really true. She thinks I did though. JIM: Oh. TISH: Your daughter is great. JIM: Thank you. Hey, have you seen Joya? I haven’t seen her in a bit of time. TISH: No, last I saw her she was talking to Alma.

JIM gets shopping bag with candles and puts them around perimeter of stage. The guests wander off. JIM (addressing audience): I used to think that at sometime in my existence, I would do

something that was important. (Pause.) Or maybe it was I thought I’d do something that other people would think was important. (Pause.) That might be more like it. (Pause.) I now realize that I’m not going to do either. My daughter, Alma, is now the only thing I care about. It’s true. She’s eight years old. (calling out downstage) Alma. Alma. Could you come out here, please? An eight-year-old girl appears. She is wearing a ﬂowered dress. ALMA: What, Daddy? JIM (diverted): Why are you wearing that? ALMA: This? It’s my favorite dress. JIM: Alma, we’ve had this conversation before. ALMA: But you said on special occasions. JIM: Is this a special occasion? ALMA (unsure): I thought so.

43

Int e r i m

JIM: What is it? ALMA (whispers): The party.

ALMA runs off the stage. JIM lights the candles. Salsa music comes on. JIM and ALMA dance. They eventually dance offstage. KIN and TAM come on, sit on the ﬂoor, maybe drinking and smoking. Music stops. KIN: It was a good party. TAM: Yeah, it wasn’t bad. The music was pretty good. KIN: I danced a lot. TAM: Me, too. KIN: She looked good. I mean she looked good for ﬁfty. TAM: Yeah, she did. KIN: Her daughter’s beautiful. TAM: Yeah, her husband seems nice, too. KIN: Odd mix of people, though. TAM: A little. KIN: I don’t think she knew. Do you think she knew? TAM: I’m not sure. It could be she knew. KIN: Why do you think she knew? TAM: She had kind of a knowing smile? Did you notice that? KIN: I saw she smiled, but I didn’t think of it as knowing. TAM: Yeah, it was. KIN: Maybe. TAM: Did you hear that she sold her ﬁrst painting today? KIN: No, really?

44

Ba r b a r a Ca ssi d y

TAM: Yeah, well that’s what I heard. KIN: Funny, on her birthday. TAM: Her ﬁftieth birthday. KIN: Fifty years old. TAM: She looked pretty good. KIN: You think they felt sorry for her? TAM: Who? KIN: Whoever bought the painting. TAM: I don’t know. Would you buy a painting because you felt sorry for the painter? KIN: Maybe. TAM: Oh. I wouldn’t. KIN: Well, yeah, you’re a different type. TAM: I guess some people would. They might feel sad that here she was ﬁfty years old and

never sold one painting. KIN: They might. How much they pay? TAM: I heard two hundred, but I don’t know for sure. KIN: Pretty good. TAM: I once got paid two hundred for modeling a pair of boots. KIN: What kind? TAM: Cowboy. Red cowboy boots. With ﬁshnet stockings. KIN: I never modeled anything. It must be a fun job. TAM: It’s painful. Well, I guess it’s fun for supermodels, but it hurt to model those boots. I

had to hold my legs up like this. KIN: I never thought about that.

45

Int er i m

TAM: Yeah, well . . .

Pause. KIN: Do you realize that people pretty much just eat the same seven meals over and over?

Pretty much every week they just redo the same menu, maybe in a different order. I read that somewhere. TAM: Really, wow, that’s interesting. KIN: Makes you want to add a few new dishes to your lineup, doesn’t it? TAM: Yeah. Change all those burgers to some salmon almondine or something. KIN: Yeah, I feel so boring when I think about it. TAM: We are boring. KIN: Yeah, I mean, what do we do? It’s not like we lead some glamorous life or something,

right? TAM: I would like to have a glamorous life. Jet-setting and all that. KIN: Who wouldn’t? TAM: I’m not sure maybe some people wouldn’t. If you had to choose between living a great

short life or an average long one, which would you choose? Pause. KIN: Average long one.

Lights down. KIN and TAM sit there. JIM comes out and starts collecting candles. He watches woman walk down the block. Silence. And then we hear the click-clack of a woman walking in heels outside, down the street. She is far away getting closer, her closest point is marked in the text, and then she gets farther and farther away. WOMAN:

46

No soy una broma. No, no soy una broma. Debo ser tratada con respeto. Voy a ser tratada con respeto. No me mires, mandril. No me mires, jodido mandril. Crees conocerme.

Ba r b a r a Ca ssi d y

Loudest.

No sabes nada. Solamente sabes de tu vida importante. Y tu propio importante idioma. Te ríes de mí. Crees que no sé eso. Pero estoy bastante por delante de tí. Estoy pendiente de todos ustedes. Mírame la cara. Mírame la cara. La vida es una desilusión. Por lo menos yo sé eso. La vida es una desilusión. La ventana es roja. La vida es una desilusión. La ventana es roja. La vida es una desilusión. La ventana es roja. La vida es una desilusión. La ventana es roja. Mírame la cara. Mírame la cara. La ventana es roja. Y tú ni siquiera lo sabes.

A beat. JIM: Buenas noches, mi amor.

Blackout. The end.

47

Int e r i m

This page intentionally left blank

TRAGEDY: a tragedy Will Eno

TRAGEDY: a tragedy premiered in April 2001 at the Gate Theatre in London. Direction by Paul Miller. Set by Simon Daw. Lights by Sarah Gilmartin. Costumes by Emmet J. de Monterey. Original cast:

JOHN IN THE FIELD FRANK IN THE STUDIO

Vincent Marzello

CONSTANCE AT THE HOME

Joanne McQuinn

MICHAEL, LEGAL ADVISER

Roderick Smith

THE WITNESS

49

Tim Flavin

George Innes

Tim Flavin as John in the Field in Tragedy: a tragedy by Will Eno. Directed by Paul Miller. Gate Theatre, April 2001. Photograph by Pau Ros.

50

Wi l l E n o

Characters JOHN IN THE FIELD FRANK IN THE STUDIO CONSTANCE AT THE HOME MICHAEL, LEGAL ADVISER THE WITNESS

Setting The setting is a live television broadcast. Each character is at the place described in his name, except Michael, who is at various locations and will enter and exit the stage. THE WITNESS will periodically appear with JOHN IN THE FIELD. FRANK IN THE STUDIO sits upstage center. Each speaks as if toward a camera. CONSTANCE, where noted, turns to address a second camera.

Wardrobe FRANK IN THE STUDIO might wear a blue suit, white shirt, and red tie. JOHN IN THE FIELD, more casual clothes, a windbreaker, a sport shirt. CONSTANCE AT THE HOME, a skirt-and-jacket suit. MICHAEL, LEGAL ADVISER, a white shirt and a tie, and perhaps at times a London Fog–style raincoat. THE WITNESS is dressed plainly. All, save THE WITNESS, wear small earphones.

Additional No tes When in doubt on any point with respect to staging, it may be helpful to refer to a news telecast. Which is not to say that this play is meant primarily as a comment on the news media. It is not. The play may begin with a spotlight coming up on Frank, who begins to speak, and then lights coming up on the other characters, when they make their initial utterance. It is night.

51

Tr a g e d y : a t r a g e d y

FRANK IN THE STUDIO: It was quite a day in America today. The sound of trafﬁc and industry,

school bells ringing, life, family life, political life, all the outward signs of a nation’s inward vitality, glowing. All lit from above and shined down upon by our long-familiar sun. This is no longer the case. The sun, we understand, has set. Settling through the trees, over a body of water, a few low, wispy clouds alit in its ﬁnal excellent light, and it is gone. For more, we go to John, in the ﬁeld. JOHN IN THE FIELD: It’s the worst world in the world here tonight, Frank. People are all over,

everywhere. Or, people were. Some, hopelessly involved with the grief here at the scene. Still others, passersby to the suffering, slowly passing by, looking, feeling, hoping, and believing that they might learn something from these dark times, that they might ﬁnd some clue about living, hidden in the dusk of the faces of those who have seen so much so fast, and such sadness. FRANK IN THE STUDIO: The sense of tragedy must be almost palpable there. JOHN IN THE FIELD: I’m sorry? (He checks his earphone.) FRANK IN THE STUDIO: Is the sense of tragedy palpable? JOHN IN THE FIELD: Absolutely, Frank. You can feel it. One man came by a moment ago, and

then, I felt, could not go on. We did all we could to keep him and his hope up until, after a time, his sister arrived, who had seen him wandering on her television, in the background behind me, in her living room at home. When she came and saw him here, she said, “There you are.” He smiled. So that was one touching moment in an evening that has been largely bereft of the nice touches normally associated with the soft nights of this season. CONSTANCE AT THE HOME: I’m here at the home— what? Oh. JOHN IN THE FIELD: Another thing I should say is, just, what an incredible job the animals have

been doing out here tonight. You can perhaps see in my background the dogs going back and forth. They have been barking at the dark and generally doing those things they can usually be counted on to do, and these include licking hands, yawning, circling before lying down, and making their tags and collars jingle. This, of course, all as the hours grow more and more late out here, and we, it seems, learn less and less. Frank? FRANK IN THE STUDIO: Thanks, John. We’ll be tossing and turning with you, staying right here

on top of things, trying to get to the bottom of all this, to ﬁnd some lesson learned in what has been, so far, a startling, unsettling night. Constance? Can you hear me? Constance? Are you there? Is anyone— ? Well, while we’re waiting, perhaps it might make some sense for us—

52

Wi l l E n o

CONSTANCE AT THE HOME: (Interrupting.) Yes, Frank. I’m here at the home of a family we be-

lieve may have fallen victim somehow to the event of night, down here, tonight. The scene is quiet. The lights at this simple one-story home are all off. A sprinkler, on a timer, waters the lawn in long, even sprinklings of water. The scene is dark. In the darkness, a ﬂoodlight, activated by a motion detector, will periodically ﬂood the lawn and drive with light. What is felt most here is the mystery. The unspectacular mystery. What remains for us to feel—after having knelt down to feel the worn-out welcome mat, looked up at the humble shape of a simple house—is, again, the mystery. The feeling that there are deep, deep things in the world. Structures, vacancy, people, departures—and all of the strange sounding names of things, to name only a few. (She turns a quarter-turn.) We just a moment ago learned that it was only so long ago that the residents of this modest off-white home gathered on the perfect lawn here, to throw horseshoes and eat food. Also, later that same day, they made a human pyramid. Which, still a little later, in laughter, collapsed. Frank? FRANK IN THE STUDIO: Thank you, Constance. John? MICHAEL, LEGAL ADVISER: It’s Michael here, Frank, from the steps of the Capitol building. I’ve

just gotten word that we don’t know anything more, yet. We are waiting for a disclosure of some sort from someone with, we hope, a clearer understanding of the night, and of the question of liability. We await the comfort of some ofﬁcial language, a smoothly delivered speech from a suntanned man with an easy style and a stunning gold watch. Whereupon we might be better able to judge whether any of this was justiﬁed, and moreover, whether any of this—should it ever end—will ever happen again. And, at the risk of restating the obvious— JOHN IN THE FIELD: (Interrupting.) I’m sorry, Michael, John here. Frank, I’m standing next to a

man here who happened to be standing right near or somewhere around the horizon as night fell tonight at nightfall. (He turns to question THE WITNESS, using a microphone, pausing slightly between each question.) Sir, I’m sure you’re thinking of home or family or somewhere else or anything, but just let me ask you, did you see any sign to foreshadow the coming dark, anything to indicate that tonight might be unlike any other in the long and star-spangled history of night? Some omen? The famous branch against the window or some infamous wild animal howl? Did anything at all strike you, were you struck by anything striking, anything . . . (He searches for another word and does not ﬁnd it.) striking, as you made your tired way home from work today, as the world turned from the sun, and night was starting to fall— or, descend? A piercing scream, a change in the air, a sameness in the air? Did you sense any signs like that? THE WITNESS: No. (He pauses, and John begins to move microphone away from him and then

moves it again toward him.) None. JOHN IN THE FIELD: Frank?

53

Tr a g e d y : a t r a g e d y

FRANK IN THE STUDIO: Well, certainly, one look almost says it all. Thanks, John. Constance,

having just heard from the Witness, can you, from the text of his remarks, and in concert with what you see there, create a relation that might help to make this make more sense to us? CONSTANCE AT THE HOME: (Pause.) I’m sorry? FRANK IN THE STUDIO: A relation. CONSTANCE AT THE HOME: A relation. (Pause.) FRANK IN THE STUDIO: Yes. A relation. Some relativity. Between the— MICHAEL, LEGAL ADVISER: (Interrupting.) I’m sorry, Constance, Frank. Michael here. I’ve just re-

ceived a word from the Ofﬁce of the Governor, and though it helps us gain no greater insight into the night, it is, I believe, meant to ease the uneasy nerves of the people of this state. It reads, “Dear Electorate: A shadow has crept across the soil of our good state. Day is gone. It does not, now and perhaps ever, seem to be coming back. But I beg you, stay calm. No matter how harsh or Cimmerian the injury or insult to your person is or may become. Courage, people. Thank you, the Governor.” A word of consolation, some sentences of hope, a paragraph of words, on this, our—so far—deepest, widest night. As we move further past dinner and bedtime, and the darkness that has fallen stays down. “Cimmerian,” I’m told, refers to a people who were said to live in perpetual night. (Slight pause.) This being a myth, of course. A—you know— metaphor. Frank? FRANK IN THE STUDIO: Thank you, Michael. (Michael exits.) Michael is the station’s legal ad-

viser. He works closely with the local— . I understand Constance is standing nearby. Can you hear— (There is static, interference. Constance is speaking, though without sound. The interference ends and we hear her clearly.) INTERFERENCE: (Static. Voice of an advertisement.) —never paint your house again. How?

Why? It’s easy. Because, with what we know today, why should— (The interference ends and we hear Constance clearly.) CONSTANCE AT THE HOME: —feeling of the feeling that you have been left behind. In the night,

we hear a voice, a father sitting down to eat, saying grace, or standing at a door, hat in hand, ice in veins, saying, Good-bye. We hear children playing, slowly, unsure whether what can’t be seen in the dark will be there again in the morning. A little girl, a favorite dress. Behind me, a nice house, but no one home. One wonders where everyone went, what they thought, as they did. Had they some idea, any inkling, that when cold and pain would— INTERFERENCE: (Static, as above. A voice, perhaps a taxi dispatcher.) —Elm Street, to the air-

port. The airport. (Interference ends, we hear John clearly.)

54

Wi l l E n o

JOHN IN THE FIELD: —but once was all smiles and sunshine, dear and wild. And now? Well,

the people here have died down, as all people ﬁnally do. But perhaps you can see in my background the dogs and animal life. Can what they are doing be called “enduring,” when they would not call it that, when they don’t even know it’s what they’re doing? I don’t know. I know that I learned to talk, talking to a dog. A shepherd-collie mix. She was put to sleep, lain on a stainless steel table, while all around her a family wept, without understanding. It was a night very like tonight, except for the obvious difference. But very much the same. Heartworm, the diagnosis. The prognosis, nothing. So we’re asking that if you have any rawhide bones or chewy things, please send them to the station, attention to me, and they will be distributed in an equitable and fair— INTERFERENCE: (Static, a few seconds of a slow, soft, love song, in Spanish. The interference ends

and we hear Michael clearly.) MICHAEL, LEGAL ADVISER: (He enters.) —whether that is relevant. I can say that all parties con-

cerned—and this includes almost everyone—should take great heart in the kind manner in which most of us, however little informed, have acted. I am reminded of a favorite uncle. He gave me a dictionary, which I mistook as the long, sad, confusing story of everything. But he taught me many things about many things. For example, we speak to keep the wolf of loneliness at bay. Or for example, while crashing your car, always steer into the direction of the skid. But now theory must be put into practice, and the stacks of books are pushed aside, as we careen heart-ﬁrst and bookless into the blackening night. My uncle was— well, avuncular is hardly the wrong word. From the Esplanade, which is empty, this is Michael. Frank. (Pause. Frank is not paying attention, having removed his earphone, and is putting eyedrops in his eye.) As well, we should be grateful that the weather has been so fair, having hindered us not at all, as we seek to make things clear. Frank? (Pause. Frank, not paying attention, is putting sugar in his coffee.) What remains to be seen in this complete darkness is how it will change us. We will suffer consequence. Whenever something happens, so does something else. Frank. (Pause. Frank has dropped his pencil and is looking under his desk for it.) Moreover, and let me add to the above, the sky always has stars in it. It just has to be nighttime for us to see them. I was once in a car crash. I forgot to do everything everyone always told me to do. I couldn’t even get into an accident right. (Pause.) Frank? (Frank is staring off.) Is he . . . we should . . . Hello. Frank? FRANK IN THE STUDIO: (Frank’s attention returns as he replaces his earphone.) Thank you. For

that. Wonderful. Yes, I’m sure you’re exactly right. We certainly await an answer. Meanwhile, we have a recording that may enlighten the darkness we now inhabit. Let’s have a listen. (The tape plays. Possibly the sound of a light wind blowing, a watery sound, an old waltz, nothing loud or discernible. All listen intently. Frank is looking offstage, up. The tape plays for a minute or so.) So there you heard it. There it was. Experts in these areas will be staring at each other—leaning over, their eyebrows raised as they exchange tiny smiles, unknowing glances—listening over and over to see if they might hear a sound that had not been hitherto heard, so that they may then

55

Tr a g e d y : a t r a g e d y

attach some meaning to the—this thus far—nameless experience we now experience. An investigation is under way, so that we might put an end and a name to what we in our simplicity designate as Night. Any thoughts, John? JOHN IN THE FIELD: So few, really, Frank. (He pauses.) I think the recording speaks for itself.

(He pauses.) In fact, I don’t know, I’m sure it does. FRANK IN THE STUDIO: Michael? MICHAEL, LEGAL ADVISER: Legally, it’s all allowable, all admissible. Humanly, though, humanly,

I wonder. Maybe what we heard was the sound of the world kind of “creaking” on its axis. Which I’m told—though there’s no evidence to support it—it does. Or maybe it was the leftover hum of some ancient, long-dead languages. Or just static. Nothing. FRANK IN THE STUDIO: Interesting. MICHAEL, LEGAL ADVISER: Were you ever in a crowd of people, and you suddenly had the feel-

ing that somebody was about to get hit, hard? That something slow and violent was about to violently and slowly happen? Or, that feeling, if it’s ﬂu season, and you suddenly realize you’re about to get sick, but you’re not sick yet. FRANK IN THE STUDIO: Michael, I’m going to throw it over to John. John, is our witness still

there? Can we get a response from him? JOHN IN THE FIELD: (THE WITNESS looks puzzled. John holds the microphone up to him. THE

WITNESS does not speak.) No, Frank. No, we can’t. FRANK IN THE STUDIO: And Constance? Constance, are you— CONSTANCE AT THE HOME: Yes, Frank, I’m here. (She has grass stains on her front.) I think the

recording was, in parts, quite beautiful. After listening, we—the crew out here and I—we fell down and pounded on the sprinklered earth here. We did this, perhaps, in hopes that it might know our sorrow, that the earthly world of worldly things might feel our suffering, and know our wonderful physical mystical bodies, which rot. Listening left us also with the knowledge that, once you stop to look, everyone has the most beautiful eyes. Behind me here, the people not here, they are somewhere else, they are out. One hopes that they are somewhere together, talking, touching each other’s forearms lightly. It’s growing late, with the lateness informing everything, except ourselves. While, somehow, the night seems to be getting smarter. And when you listen, the quiet is not technically that quiet. (Pause.) See? Frank. FRANK IN THE STUDIO: Thank you, Constance. That quiet—you’re right—was not that quiet.

I’m told Michael is standing by with another word, perhaps another word or two of healing from the Ofﬁce of the Governor. Michael?

56

Wi l l E n o

CONSTANCE AT THE HOME: I’m sorry, Frank. Just one more thing. We—the crew and I—we just

a moment ago saw a bicycle-built-for-two come, going by. The two ﬁgures pedaling, one wearing a hat, but neither responding to our calls. We shined a light at them, but they kept going. A tandem bicycle at night, in night. There was a bell on it, possibly shiny, and certainly unrung. Thanks, Frank. Frank, also, a light rain started. Go ahead, Michael. FRANK IN THE STUDIO: Thank you, Constance. I’m sorry, Michael. But we’re going now to our

national afﬁliate for an update as to how this situation affects the country as a whole. Following this reﬂection on the nation-at-large, we will return to our continuing and hopefully, soon-to-be-over, smaller local coverage. Everyone immediately relaxes. CONSTANCE may attend to her makeup. JOHN practices his golf swing. FRANK stands and stretches, yawns. MICHAEL spends the whole time straightening his tie. This lasts for about a minute. When FRANK begins again, everyone begins to regain his or her professional stance, although one by one, and not all at once.) FRANK IN THE STUDIO: (Abruptly.) We’re back. Thanks for staying with us. Word has it there is

some word from Constance out at the home, there, the house with all its lights out. Constance? Go ahead. What can you tell us? (Frank again removes his earphone, to clean it.) CONSTANCE AT THE HOME: (She is speaking to an unseen crew member, not expecting to be on

camera.) Oh my God, I know. But I really wouldn’t know. Who knows. My ﬁrst romance was in day camp, so I guess I’m partial to that general time. Most of my memories happened in the sun. But then again, my father came home in the evenings. My life story is not really that rare. We hear music better at night, did you know that? Because of from when we used to have to listen for the sound of some animal coming out of the dark to kill us by our little ﬁres. So music sounds better when it’s dark. Because we’re listening for our murderer to rustle somewhere in the leaves or notes. A shaggy animal with a thirst for blood, a hunger for muscle and bone. I don’t know. (She removes some lint from her jacket. A pause. She listens. She sings very quietly. The ﬁrst song, “Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony/The Ode to Joy.” The second, an old drinking song.) Freude, schoner Gotterfunken / Tochter aus Elysium / Wir betreten feuertrunken / Himmlische dein tum-te-dum. (A pause. Frank replaces his earphone.) Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of beer, you take one down— FRANK IN THE STUDIO: (Interrupting.) —I’m sorry, Constance? CONSTANCE AT THE HOME: I’m sorry, Frank. MICHAEL, LEGAL ADVISER: It’s somehow my fault, Frank. Michael here, Frank, on the steps of

Grange Hall, with, perhaps, a message of healing—as you said—from the Governor, I’m not sure. It reads, “Comrades, please don’t despair overmuch, though the rays of

57

Tr a g e d y : a t r a g e d y

light are underfew. I, by the way, I write all my own speeches. By hand. Anyway, maybe it will only get harder and darker, who’s to say? Most likely, no one. We are individuals in this. But we are a species, too, and I believe it is time that we started to act like one—on instinct, in concert, together, as one: a community, a mob, unruly, united, vicious, wild-eyed, together, suspicious, bloodthirsty, cruciﬁed, amalgamated, doomed. And if our sun is dead, then so be it, and in darkness we shall reign and prosper, until we freeze to death. Drive-in theaters will thrive, as people picnic in the dark and eat breakfast by candlelight. Picture it. And so maybe this is the deal, this picture, that the sun will just stay down, leaving everything left in the chaos and obscurity that it was all the time originally in. Quit asking why it’s so dark, and start remembering how great it was that it ever got light. Believe you me, if we stay stuck in this fucking darkness, you won’t see me crying. So I say, Let the looting begin. If you’re so afraid, why don’t you panic? This is the night of your lives. If I had imposed a curfew before, I would lift it now, and let everybody run wild. Run wild across the world, lovely people, naked and wild, of ﬂesh torn and spirit rash. Every night is the dark night of the soul, but only one can be the darkest, and last. Maybe we should bring back holding hands. Or maybe a bonﬁre is in order. In the meantime, watch where you’re walking. Keep in touch. Be sweet to yourselves. I’m a ghost. Yours, the Governor.” He writes all his own speeches, Frank. All of them, all true, I believe. All written from real life. From his real life. From ours. And by hand, I believe. Frank. FRANK IN THE STUDIO: Okay, thanks, Michael. Some words, some moving words—even some

swear words—from the Governor, clearly shaken by the disaster of night visited upon his ﬁefdom. Clearly feeling the strain, the pain, the agony of everything, while trying to put his state aright, in some kinder, less harsh light. A man at the brink of everything. Not unlike a lot like all of us. From the beginning, the ﬁrst thing the ﬁrst people were afraid of was the dark. Let us not forget that life used to consist of being born, being scared, sleeping on the ground, getting a stick to protect yourself, shaking through the night, catching a cold, and then dying. We have not come so far that we still don’t fear the dark. So the Governor is quite right in his noble efforts to embolden us, to buck us up. His message: be courageous, tend the ﬁre, picnic amidst the confusion. Constance, what are some other things people could do? CONSTANCE AT THE HOME: (Pause.) Aren’t they probably already doing them? JOHN IN THE FIELD: People should do the usual things, Frank. (He shufﬂes through his papers,

reading.) And these include licking hands, yawning, circling before lying down, and making— (He realizes he is reading the wrong page.) No, sorry. MICHAEL, LEGAL ADVISER: People might consider, as the Governor mentioned, holding hands.

Or panicking and rioting. Our earliest ancestors sat in circles and stared into the black sky. Occasionally, someone banged a stick against a tree. Not that it did them any good. FRANK IN THE STUDIO: Thank you, Michael. Constance, you seem to be—

58

Wi l l E n o

CONSTANCE AT THE HOME: (Interrupting.) As for any sign of looting, sanctioned there by the

Governor, no, as yet, nothing here, so far. There is no sign of anything else, either. (A pause.) A light rain has stopped. It’s quiet still. But still not silent. One hears secret signs of a world amidst the general nothing. One feels the muzzled beating of an ancient heart in the otherwise heartless-sounding banter of the earth. Nothing, nothing, Frank. But we did spot a horse. I did. A gray horse. But I guess every horse is black at night. He wanted water, I felt. I tried to hit him with a rock. I don’t know why or what I was doing. Maybe it was my . . . due to some ancient long dead . . . certainly the horsie never . . . I don’t know. I hit him in the eye, it sounded like. He ran away. Galloped, I guess you’d say, if you feel one word over another makes any difference. Oh, one more thought— (She stops.) FRANK IN THE STUDIO: (Pause.) Constance? CONSTANCE AT THE HOME: (She turns to address her second camera, but does not say anything.) FRANK IN THE STUDIO: Constance! CONSTANCE AT THE HOME: (Patiently.) I heard you the ﬁrst time, Frank. FRANK IN THE STUDIO: Well, then shouldn’t you have— MICHAEL, LEGAL ADVISER: (Interrupting.) Perhaps she should have, Frank. Frank, it’s Michael

here, Frank. It is my feeling, Frank, based on an analysis of the Governor’s letters, that things are getting serious, and if they were serious before, then they are more so now, and if they were more so before, then, now, Jesus, Frank, it might be safe to say that they are awful. Hopeless, more or less. Más o menos, en español, for those people tonight who are listening in Spanish. Frank? (Exits.) FRANK IN THE STUDIO: (Irked.) Okay, Michael. Thank you for that opinion. (A pause.) Many of

our listeners are, perhaps, yes, Spanish, tonight. Every night, I suppose. So, buenas noches, to them. (A brief pause.) Why don’t we go now to good old John, who is aﬁeld. He covered the race for Governor all last year and may have therefore heard more fully the message we all just only partly heard. John? Okay, John. Go ahead, John. JOHN IN THE FIELD: (He is holding some papers. He looks at them, and then looks away. He

speaks slowly.) In the interim, I, somewhat out of— . Somewhat out of, I don’t know what— character? The Governor’s right, Frank. Everyone’s right, whatever everyone means— stuck with saying, as everyone is, only the words they already know. Such as the words, “I’m dizzy.” Or the words, “I keep looking for something to look at.” Or such as, “If I closed my eyes, I know I would get sick.” Such as, “I’m alone in this body, and it isn’t on my side.” Such as, “I want my mother here more than everything.” Such as, “But if she were to come, I would ask her to leave.” Such as, Frank? Or, I, I, I, me. (Pause.) I think I have heartworm. It’s always night, but, sometimes, it’s day. That makes sense, doesn’t it? Maybe you can see in my background . . . my shadow. Some-

59

Tr a g e d y : a t r a g e d y

where in the dark are spoons and knives, mirrors, braces, everything—all the glittery things of a well-lit civilization. Such as the love of a young mother and father, when they were young and loving. A dog at a door. A good, good dog with a lovable sorryass name. And riding bikes around. Courtship, oceans, parades. All this. All the things that need light, out there in the dark. Everywhere you look, you see your life, no longer there. And if it’s dark, well, then, then what? Frank? FRANK IN THE STUDIO: (A pause.) Okay, John. Yes, well— . Certainly— . (Quietly.) That was John

in the ﬁeld. John, out there, somewhere— reckoning. Trying like all of us to ﬁnd some way of deﬁning the evening we currently ﬁnd ourselves in now. Or, I suppose I mean “night,” and not “evening.” And “are lost in,” and not “ﬁnd ourselves in.” It is difﬁcult to ﬁnd the right— . We thank you for— . Let’s go now— . (He looks at the ﬂoor. Pause.) CONSTANCE AT THE HOME: Frank? (Pause.) Frank. FRANK IN THE STUDIO: (He looks up.) Constance? CONSTANCE AT THE HOME: Yes, Frank. I’m sorry about the singing. I hope John is okay. He will

be. I hope. That’s the name of a person who’s okay: “John.” But, Frank, how are you? “Frank” is the name of a person who is what? Do you need air or anything? Water? Anything, you know, elemental? Because we’ve, at least, we’ve all been standing around outside somewhere, and at least the dark we’re in is real. You’ve had to stay at that desk all this time, sitting with yourself in the artiﬁcial light, the glare, all the reﬂections of reﬂections. It must be hard. FRANK IN THE STUDIO: (JOHN IN THE FIELD appears sick.) I’m ﬁne. Not so hard. But thank you,

though, for thinking of me. Maybe I should take a little walk, breathe some noncirculated air. Now that I start to think, I think I might be overworked. Or sick with something. And John’s last report didn’t do much to lighten or lift my spirit. The air is very— . (Pause.) The light is . . . it’s a problem. CONSTANCE AT THE HOME: Oh, Frank. Here I am, about to say the wrong thing to say. Maybe

it’s not the time or the place, but when is it ever, and where? I don’t know. But, sometimes, when you sign off and say good night, it sounds so sad. Whatever words you say, the sound of your voice says, “Good night. Farewell. Be well. We’re all going to die, violently. Please be nice, and, please, I don’t want to have to hear any more news until I have to.” I look at the lines of ink going into the pocket of your shirt. Your eyes look tired. You wash your shirt from that day, at night, in the clean, bright kitchen. This is long after all the news is over, and your back hurts. Then you try sitting different ways, in different chairs. I don’t know if you’re the crying kind. Then you have a glass of milk. Frank?

60

Wi l l E n o

FRANK IN THE STUDIO: (He is moved.) Thank you, Constance. It’s nice to be imagined. Doing

anything, even if it’s only laundry. Which, incidentally, I send out. But thank you. (He looks at his notes.) We go to Michael. Michael? MICHAEL, LEGAL ADVISER: (Enters.) Frank, I’m here at the First Congregational Church, Frank,

where no one has gathered. First this, brieﬂy, from the Governor (he reads): “I am toying with the idea of declaring a state of emergency, although at this late date in my life, I think that would be pretty redundant. Let me do say, though, hello to Lucy Banﬁeld. Hi, Lucy.” (Stops reading.) Secondly, Frank, I always pictured you coming home late to your house, home to something you loved more than anything. Maybe music or scratchy records of famous speeches. You sit and listen until almost when the paper is delivered. There are photographs lining the staircase you don’t climb. You look at your books. Then, humanly, you have a glass of milk. Thirdly, Frank, we have, statistically speaking, every reason to expect night to end. But, in another way of speaking, we don’t. Either way, statistically speaking, thanks a lot for waving me over to sit with you at lunch, when I ﬁrst got to the station. That was really nice. Thanks, Frank. Also, again, it’s dark out tonight. It’s hard seeing. ¿Comprende, Frank? FRANK IN THE STUDIO: (Michael exits.) Thank you, Michael. And you’re welcome (regaining

composure). A night, increasingly, and ultimately, of gratitude, as we all stare straightly into the face of that thing which has been staring out at us, all this time. There’s a certain— JOHN IN THE FIELD: (Interrupting. Anxious.) Frank! I’m sorry! (Apologetic.) I’m sorry, Frank. FRANK IN THE STUDIO: Yes, John? What is it? JOHN IN THE FIELD: Nothing, Frank. FRANK IN THE STUDIO: It seemed like something. JOHN IN THE FIELD: I know, it did, didn’t it? I don’t know. Go ahead. FRANK IN THE STUDIO: There’s certainly a very deﬁnite— JOHN IN THE FIELD: Frank! I’m sorry, again. It’s this, again. It’s physical. This is this, Frank.

Which is what? John, here. I feel sick and weak, and sick. It’s my heart. (He whispers.) My fucking cunt heart. (Regular voice.) I hear it. I forget to breathe while I listen, and there’s nothing to look at to stop me from listening. Systole, diastole, systole. The same old story. I can’t breathe. Or I feel like I can’t. John, here. There’s some owl or something out there. Some sound that sounds like that recording. But there’s no star, there’s no manger, no blazing charioteer. I don’t mean to get religious, but what am I supposed to do? I feel faint. My legs are shaky. Am I faint? Frank? (He is hyperventilating.) It’s dark out. Did I say, “John, here?” Perhaps you can see— . Or, you know,

61

Tr a g e d y : a t r a g e d y

can what we are doing be called— . When she saw him here, she said, “There you are.” What do I say, Frank? Faint? Religious? Shaky? FRANK IN THE STUDIO: (He doesn’t know how to help.) It’s okay, John. John, it’s all right. Just—

it’s okay, John. CONSTANCE AT THE HOME: Frank, if I could? FRANK IN THE STUDIO: Please, Constance. Of course you can. Yes, you go ahead. CONSTANCE AT THE HOME: Thank you, Frank. Breathing is the ﬁrst thing, John. John, just be

yourself, which is John, and breathe. Belly rises, belly falls. Think of other people breathing, picture breathing faces. (Pause.) Moments ago, John, a car came by. We saw it coming, and then heard the radio in it go past, and then it drove off, a breathing family inside, over the curvature of the earth. There was a dog with his head out the window, loving life. I know you like dogs. I don’t know if I’m helping. Darkness is always coming, from somewhere, for somebody. The wee hours ever approach, and everyone’s afraid, and they run, or go to sleep, and this is our life, and the race is on. No one yelled, “Ready, Set, Go.” Or, “Lights, Places, Action!” No one yelled anything. To think of the world, and us trying to hold on. No wonder you’re dizzy. It’s dark inside of us; I mean that as no metaphor. Have yourself looked at by someone. Then look back at them. Don’t forget the breathing. Try to envision anything good, John. Frank? FRANK IN THE STUDIO: Thank you, Const— JOHN IN THE FIELD: (Interrupting.) Thanks, Constance. MICHAEL, LEGAL ADVISER: (He enters, following quickly on John’s line above.) That was nice, Con-

stance. You know, John, sometimes if I’m not feeling well, I lie down. And if that doesn’t work, I try to stand up, or sit. JOHN IN THE FIELD: Thanks, Michael. I’ll try that. It’s a lot of good ideas. FRANK IN THE STUDIO: And also, John, you know, when tough times come, I’ll occasionally—

apparently—have a glass of milk. MICHAEL, LEGAL ADVISER: Right. Excuse me, everyone. A communiqué, from here at the Reser-

voir. I’ve just been informed that the Governor has run away. Here follows the last message he left, before adjourning a meeting in the statehouse and climbing out a window and sliding down a drainpipe. “Good People. It’s likely going to be all right. You might be going to be ﬁne. Thank you for your conﬁdence, which I will now betray. You deserved more and much better. I looked into myself. I did some soul searching but didn’t ﬁnd anything. If it makes you feel better, I was going to die anyway. Bye now, the erstwhile governor, your former governor, The Governor.” At

62

Wi l l E n o

the bottom, a thumbprint. Half a drawing of an elephant. He’s gone. He was . . . (pause) helpful, I thought. To me. Back to you. (He exits.) FRANK IN THE STUDIO: History seems to be—I don’t know—everything seems to be making

history tonight. Dark times call for dark people. This is history, indeed, in fact. We are there, here. And I should think we should feel blessed to be witness to all this. Speaking of the same, how’s our witness out there, John? JOHN IN THE FIELD: Here he is here, Frank. (John holds his microphone up to the WITNESS, who

looks at it, and then at John.) THE WITNESS: I have heart— . (Pause. He clears his throat.) I have heart trouble in my family,

too. I don’t eat any salt. JOHN IN THE FIELD: Right. Yes. (Pause.) Go light on the salt. Frank? FRANK IN THE STUDIO: Thanks, John. We might remind everyone to— CONSTANCE AT THE HOME: I’m sorry, Frank. But this just in, which may shed a little you-know-

what on matters. We’ve discovered a note out here at the house I’m at, or, standing out in front of. Held down by a few pebbles, out back here on the deck, small, white, written in a writing now running with the weight and dew of the night. Whether it is in a woman’s hand or a man’s hand, we cannot tell, but it is recognizably human handwriting. It reads: “Hey, you—How are things? I waited and then I left. Let’s try and talk this week. Come over and let’s listen to music. I hope I see you soon. Isn’t the sky strange? I have to run. Guess who I ran into today? Call me. Sincerely, Me.” Plainspoken, and to the point, written in a loopy American calligraphy, lying here amidst the grass slowly growing in the night. Something illuminating should be said. FRANK IN THE STUDIO: (Pause.) Constance, any ideas as to who might have written it, and what

it might have meant? CONSTANCE AT THE HOME: (Pause.) I’m sorry, Frank— I wasn’t listening. FRANK IN THE STUDIO: Don’t you have an earphone on? CONSTANCE AT THE HOME: I do. But I was listening to something else. FRANK IN THE STUDIO: I thought it was quiet where you were. CONSTANCE AT THE HOME: It is. But I was thinking. FRANK IN THE STUDIO: (Pause.) About what?

63

Tr a g e d y : a t r a g e d y

CONSTANCE AT THE HOME: Nothing. I don’t know. Myself, and that horse. Everything. My girl-

hood. What I did with boys. About coming home when there was no one home. And how a certain life kept coming at me, which was mine. And how now I have to live it, as me. Because why? Because of some little thing that I saw when I was little? A glint on some car keys, or a pattern on a sunny rug, to which I mistakenly attached some mistaken little meaning? So now my life lives itself out, in revisions of revisions of something that was blurry to begin with? I wish that note were for me. I quote, “Let’s talk this week. Come over, for music.” Or whatever it said. That was the greatest thing I’ve ever read. And, I feel, the most— . (She pauses, stops.) FRANK IN THE STUDIO: (Pause.) The writing was, yes, it was wonderfully readable writing. It

would make anyone feel good to have been written that. Thank you, Constance. Meanwhile, I’m sorry, we return again now to national coverage for another word on the larger story of the story of our nation in night. (There is a difference from the earlier break. There is little activity. MICHAEL enters. Generally, everyone stares ahead for about a minute.) FRANK IN THE STUDIO: Apparently, there’s trouble with a transmitter somewhere. We’ll have

something for you soon. Michael, do you suppose— MICHAEL, LEGAL ADVISER: (He interrupts.) This is Michael at the White House, saying, Está

Miguel a la Casa Blanca, here with a few more bloodless, fruitless legalisms to offer. No ofﬁcial word, but we will keep waiting. Born to wait, wonder, and die, were we. By the way, is it dark enough for you? Can you see me okay? Darling? And what’s that word that means crepuscular? Or is it just crepuscular? I think of meals in the evening with a woman in my history. (in a poetical style) My love, my life! Let us convene in a dry and golden wheat ﬁeld, where I, on bended knee, will then proclaim that (reportorial style) this is Michael, on bended knee, in a dry and golden wheat ﬁeld. Frank? FRANK IN THE STUDIO: Michael, who are you talking to? MICHAEL, LEGAL ADVISER: Not to be difﬁcult, but I think you mean, to whom may I say I am

speaking. And I don’t know, Frank. And the Shadow doesn’t know. And I don’t know. Legally. But we are dealing with a reality here, or soon to be here, and any response is a worthy response, even if it’s ultimately worthless. Go to the very ends of language. Aye. But, no. I don’t have it in me. Theoretically, into this exact world, I should have never been born. CONSTANCE AT THE HOME: (The following exchanges move very quickly.) Michael! FRANK IN THE STUDIO: Jesus. MICHAEL, LEGAL ADVISER: I wonder who Lucy Banﬁeld is?

64

Wi l l E n o

JOHN IN THE FIELD: John? Wait a minute, not so fast, John is my name. FRANK IN THE STUDIO: John. Everyone. CONSTANCE AT THE HOME: It may be untimely of me to say, but, recently, I heard a hot-air bal-

loon going by. Floating, overhead, in the dark. That is a curious reaction to things, to go ballooning. Everyone? MICHAEL, LEGAL ADVISER: In many ways, I’m ﬂoating overhead, going by, in the dark. In many

other ways, everything I’ve ever said was untimely of me to say. FRANK IN THE STUDIO: People, please. JOHN IN THE FIELD: Frank, it’s night. Also, I think I may be having a stroke. Or something very

personal like that. Back to you, Frank. Or should I say, Back to you, Frank. FRANK IN THE STUDIO: It is indeed. And we— MICHAEL, LEGAL ADVISER: The Governor, he gone. They ain’t no moon no more. Ne’er nearer,

my god, to nothing. Zilch and absolute zero. Nothing shining anymore from on high to down upon our dull and raggedy procession. JOHN IN THE FIELD: This is John, crapping out. CONSTANCE AT THE HOME: Hello. Has the word dusk been used, yet? FRANK IN THE STUDIO: Yes, in fact, since you ask, Constance. I think, once. CONSTANCE AT THE HOME: I thought, once. I just saw, I alone, I just saw a person, whirling in

the wind. I thought. Once. But it was only a person’s clothing, hanging on a clothesline, whirling in the wind. A common mistake, yes? Or I’m very mistaken. Anyone? FRANK IN THE STUDIO: Maybe it might be best for us to try to hear a little more on the politi-

cal situation. Michael? MICHAEL, LEGAL ADVISER: There’s no political situation anymore. And I think we’ve heard

enough name-calling for tonight. If I may be frank. These things having been proved to be empty of reliable meaning. JOHN IN THE FIELD: I was such a baby when I was born. We had an important dog when I was

little. I named it something, some name, and that’s what it answered to, its whole life, until it went deaf, or didn’t answer anymore, and then died, or started shivering and then died. But that’s what happens.

65

Tr a g e d y : a t r a g e d y

CONSTANCE AT THE HOME: I don’t mind mine. But it isn’t the most popular name in the world,

Constance. Frank was very popular at one time. Frank? FRANK IN THE STUDIO: Yes, thank you. Frank is a fairly popular name. But I’ll try again, any

word from the lieutenant governor? Is a swearing-in on the horizon? MICHAEL, LEGAL ADVISER: (In mock exasperation.) Frank, Frank, Frank, Frank. Frank? (He exits.) FRANK IN THE STUDIO: Okay, Michael, very good. John, please, who would take over for the Gov-

ernor, here? JOHN IN THE FIELD: Who knows, Frank. Not me. Not any animals, either. For the animals are

gone, having scampered off, as all animals ﬁnally do. Leaving here, quiet. I wish I had something real to tell you. I don’t know. Now this. (Pause. In a slightly different voice.) Can’t anyone in this family talk? I am not your maid! I am a sixty-eight-year-old woman. I was quite a looker in my day, but now I stare out a window. My son’s name is John. He works for the news. He was born with a murmur. He gets his eyes from his father and me. He reads to our dog. (A pause.) Would you listen to me? I’m starting to sound like my mother. What am I starting to look like? FRANK IN THE STUDIO: Sit down, John. Slow down, John. CONSTANCE AT THE HOME: Speaking of ancestry, my father, now dead, is quite a talker. Always

a story, some quote. But he’s neither here nor there. But nothing is coming riding by. But the note is lost or blown away. Likewise, the balloonists. The sprinklers, off, as strangely as they came on. There is a seashell from some sea lying in this yard. It does not look serious. I, on the other hand, I feel I do. Frank, would you say that you’d say that I was a beautiful and serious woman? FRANK IN THE STUDIO: (Pause.) Constance. I— CONSTANCE AT THE HOME: (Interrupting.) I thought so. MICHAEL, LEGAL ADVISER: (He enters.) Sorry to interrupt. The barrister, here, here on the sur-

face of Earth. They should have never let me use the alphabet. This is a difﬁcult case. But, the defense rests. But, there is no defense. The court, which is a joke, is adjourned. I’ve weighed both sides very carefully. I don’t care about either one. The factﬁnding is over, none having been found. And everyone ﬁles out saying, “No comment.” Files out, not even saying, “No comment.” (Pause.) FRANK IN THE STUDIO: Michael? Michael! John, please tell us— JOHN IN THE FIELD: (His face is bloodied.) The news is no more newsworthy from here, Frank.

The apple doesn’t fall very far, Frank. I’m sure there’s more to that expression than that. Do you have any birthmarks, Frank? I once knew someone. Going to the beach

66

Wi l l E n o

is fun. We stopped seeing each other. I hope she’s dead. She had light blonde hair and light blue eyes. She was American, which is a beautiful word. We met at an animal rescue league. Do you disregard this as nonsense? To rephrase that, I hope she is alive. (In his monitor, Frank sees John’s bloody face. He interrupts him.) FRANK IN THE STUDIO: John, my God. Are you all right? What happened? JOHN IN THE FIELD: (Touching his hand to his face and then looking at his hand, he realizes his

nose is bleeding.) My nose is bleeding. FRANK IN THE STUDIO: Can you get a handkerchief or anything to stop the blood? JOHN IN THE FIELD: (Amiably.) “Stop the bleeding”—is that your advice? (Brief pause. Awk-

wardly.) I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was saying before. (Brief pause. Conﬁdently.) Oh, right— I remember. I hope she is alive. She is forever in my heart, which is broken, and was, at birth. Some background: she was, of course, an earthling. I, for instance, went to school. Does anyone else miss anyone? Is there a sister from somewhere, coming? I am wandering through life on a television in someone’s living room. Perhaps you can’t see, just over my shoulder, anything. And I’m bleeding. And I’m saying, “I’m bleeding.” I am sick and signing off. Off into the— what would be a beautiful word? (He tilts his head back to stop the bleeding, looking straight up.) CONSTANCE AT THE HOME: I hit a horse with a rock. It’s bleeding somewhere, too, looking up,

an animal. Nothing else. Except, there is a ceramic rabbit on the lawn out back. A pretty, ceramic rabbit, with one ear broken off. Nothing else. Except, there is a ceramic deer, three legs and a crack in its head. The ﬂoodlight that goes on when it senses any motion hasn’t gone on for the longest time. All this ceramic wildlife, and me, the most ceramic of all, here amidst— FRANK IN THE STUDIO: (Interrupting.) In our continuing effort to keep you informed, we now

go to the Emergency Broadcasting Network. The years of testing are over, the phrase “an actual emergency” now a reality. And, we go, now. (A problem. There is no sound, nothing.) Obviously, more technical trouble. We hope to have that for you, as soon as possible. (A pause.) Constance, are you there? We will get you that message as soon as we can. Constance, I’m sorry I interrupted you. I know you can hear me. I hear you breathing. (A pause. Constance is frozen. John’s head is tilted upward. Michael looks down.) Anybody? John. People, everybody, please. (A long pause.) If someone like me can keep going, then someone like anyone can. It is nighttime, so we pray for morning. Should morning come, we pray for afternoon, and then, by then, for night. This is the natural ritual. People! Somebody answer! Would somebody come out of nowhere and interrupt?! Is there a responsive person anywhere? Could someone tell me, in whatever words, in even Spanish, some story of local human interest? Some global event or a little story about the renaming of a street, or something funny someone did in school today, so that the world and this broadcast do not fall further apart.

67

Tr a g e d y : a t r a g e d y

Now!? Could one of you please report a little lie for me to live by? Could somebody help? Does not one of you realize what it means for me to ask that!? To talk like this? CONSTANCE AT THE HOME: (Pause.) I don’t know, Frank. FRANK IN THE STUDIO: Michael? MICHAEL, LEGAL ADVISER: Sí, Señor. (Pause.) I don’t know, either. JOHN IN THE FIELD: I know. FRANK IN THE STUDIO: Yes? John? JOHN IN THE FIELD: I don’t know, Frank. FRANK IN THE STUDIO: Well. How unknowing of everyone. “In the lawn-mowing tones of

speeches unspoke, in a light wholly absent, by a river by a willow, there did the dark horses of the thrashing— .” Forget it. I don’t have the time or breath to misquote old poetry I memorized wrong in the ﬁrst place. (A pause.) Jesus. (He checks pulse.) My heart is going— . John, please, anyone, I think I might be having— . John, tell me now, what did you do to ease your heart, before? JOHN IN THE FIELD: I was lying, before. FRANK IN THE STUDIO: You weren’t having trouble? JOHN IN THE FIELD: No, I was. I really was. I was lying, just then. FRANK IN THE STUDIO: (Deep breaths. Takes some pills. He recovers, somewhat. The next line,

sharply.) Well, thank you, son, for your honesty. Constance, be daughterly with me. Maybe you could describe your environment, out there. Even, whatever season we are in. You don’t have to make sentences. You could give us a list. A nice list to relax us. Are there daffodils? Or snowbanks? Are there geese, ﬂying in any direction? CONSTANCE AT THE HOME: (A pause.) There is some— FRANK IN THE STUDIO: Yes? CONSTANCE AT THE HOME: I’m not ﬁnished. FRANK IN THE STUDIO: Of course, I’m sorry. Go ahead. CONSTANCE AT THE HOME: — fog.

68

Wi l l E n o

FRANK IN THE STUDIO: A blinding fog, is it? What would you say our visibility is? Our visibil-

ity must be practically zero. CONSTANCE AT THE HOME: Enough. No more, Frank. Please don’t speak to me like that anymore.

That’s all. Except, my father liked horses. Except, I saw one. I’m a terrible person. But, who isn’t? No wonder everyone is never home. No wonder it’s just the remains, by the time I always get there. (She turns to her second camera.) I deserve nothing, and I thank you all for giving me it. FRANK IN THE STUDIO: Constance, I don’t think that’s true. You— CONSTANCE AT THE HOME: Spare me your thoughts on what you do not think is true. MICHAEL, LEGAL ADVISER: Michael here, Frank. FRANK IN THE STUDIO: Yes? MICHAEL, LEGAL ADVISER: (A pause. He says and does nothing.) JOHN IN THE FIELD: When I was six, this was fairly impressive: A, B, C, D, E, F, G— ah, but I’m

sure you know how all that turns out. This concludes myself. You? FRANK IN THE STUDIO: Okay, John, let us— JOHN IN THE FIELD: No. Let us not. This is fake. Mum is the word. Let us be mum, for so are

the gods. Hi, Mum. I quit. Go to someone else. Roll some video of a family at the beach. Or a limp ﬂag in the historical sun. Cut away from me. Go to black. I am. FRANK IN THE STUDIO: (Pause.) John, what about all your stately animals? And the news on

that lone man who was walking around, with the sister who came in from home? Don’t we have a duty? At least, a curiosity? I know we are all very tired. (JOHN tilts his head back.) MICHAEL, LEGAL ADVISER: Michael, from here on the missteps of my life, Frank. Legally, every-

body is going to be dead. Legally, everybody leaves you. Let us sit in circles on the ground in the dew and swap stories of dead governors and useless legal experts. I shouldn’t say anything more. I don’t think I read the dictionary closely enough. I don’t think I did anything closely enough. This was Michael. CONSTANCE AT THE HOME: As for here, there isn’t anyone here. The point is ﬁnally driven home,

at this empty house, at this empty woman. The grass will yellow, then blacken. The house will rot, the driveway crumble, the sprinklers freeze. The human pyramid will collapse, still a little later, in laughter. Girls will die, Frank. (Pause.) I think I have something stuck in my eye. And something else stuck in my throat. And my life is stuck in my body, which they will stick in the earth. Everywhere I look are signs of

69

Tr a g e d y : a t r a g e d y

people having left. Was I born to stand outside, talking about inside? Is there a Frank out there who understands? I give up. I can’t keep up with all the leaving people. With the fucking thinking and speaking. I’m sorry. Frank, I’m sorry for swearing. It won’t happen again. Nothing will. I’m sorry. FRANK IN THE STUDIO: Constance? John? (A long, long pause. Clearly no one else is going to

speak.) God. When I was younger— . Years back, when I used to— . People have sometimes asked— or, to do— . (A pause.) To do this job was always my dream. To be trusted and turned to and believed in. For years of weekdays, I grew, and felt myself growing, to become all of those things above. But I am not one. I didn’t anchor anything. I get older, every weeknight, without change. The ﬂashlight is dead and we are left darkling— as we used to say in my youth, which is also gone, with no remains. THE WITNESS: (A long pause. He steps into John’s position, looking at and around the “camera.”)

Is all this still on? Hi, Frank? I’m that witness that John out here interviewed earlier. I’ve been standing here listening (he motions toward “camera”) through the thing on the thing here. Listen, I think you’re great at what you do. You seem really nice. Constance, if you can hear this, I love you, I watch you all the time. And John out here is the best. I remember once he covered some storm in a raincoat, live. And Michael, on the steps of all over, talking about the legality of things. Everyone is great. Everyone should keep going. Maybe people are listening. Frank works so hard. Come on. FRANK IN THE STUDIO: (A pause.) It seems there is no word. THE WITNESS: I guess not. I can say what I saw, tonight. I’m not seasoned, or eloquent, like

John and them. But I was standing around. It was practically twilight. This is my custom. A plane went ﬂying by, a plane did, and made a trail across the sky. I stared. Like this. (He stares.) A dog barked at something. Someone was teaching a baby how to walk on the sidewalk. Lights started coming on, with people coming home. And all this stuff, this whole neighborhood of stuff, I saw. I heard a band practicing, keeping starting over with the same song. I don’t ever remember feeling exactly like I felt. There were some birds in a tree, ﬁnishing up singing. Someone came walking by with a garbage bag. I smelled the ocean, which we live nowhere anywhere near. I thought about an ocean. Bugs banged against the outdoor lights. It felt suddenly really sad, I felt, but also not sad, looking at the street in that light. Then, I heard someone calling somebody’s name for them to come in and eat. And then, night fell, like usual. But differently, sort of. (Pause.) That’s all, from what I saw. It would be like that, at the start of the end of the world, I guess, wouldn’t it. This is all. I thought it was pretty. But what do I know? Except all that. FRANK IN THE STUDIO: Thank you. Thanks. The night has produced an eloquent man. THE WITNESS: Well, I don’t know. I heard words around the house, you know? Who knows.

70

Wi l l E n o

FRANK IN THE STUDIO: Yes. (Pause. He is nodding off.) I’m listening, I’m sorry. I’m very tired.

I’m not well. I . . . (He whispers.) Jesus, Jesus. Ironic, my awakening in life would happen at night, with me having grown so tired, so sleepy, and sick of it all. THE WITNESS: I know. (He doesn’t understand the irony.) The irony. FRANK IN THE STUDIO: (A pause. Frank looks in his monitor.) I used to have that shirt. THE WITNESS: (Looking at his shirt.) This? Really? (Pause.) Frank, once I saw the Governor in

person. He was ﬁlling his car up with gas. He was wearing shorts and sunglasses. (Frank doesn’t respond. He is clearly exhausted.) True. (A pause.) How about— well, no, that’s no good. (A pause.) If I ever asked for a story at night, either my mother or father always told me this one. Let’s see. Once there was a world and it had, you know, everything in the world in it. Rocks, trees, oceans, animals, people, houses, governments. All of it. It was great, everyone thought and felt. Then everyone started to imagine it getting ruined and run down. And that started happening in reality. People started hurting and killing everyone. But then this boy or girl was born that everyone loved due to their beauty. And the child said to everyone, “I would be scared, too.” So everyone was scared together. (FRANK puts his head down.) And all their worries turned into a sort of comfort. And their doubts about things turned into a kind of faith, sort of. And new people were born during this. And new words were invented to talk about people with. Newness, like, reigned over the world in the story. Then a bright white horse showed up. I don’t know why or what happened with it or any of the rest of it, because I always fell asleep. (FRANK appears asleep.) At the end, though, I bet my mother or father whispered, “Sweet dreams.” (A brief pause.) I can almost see them, leaning over and pulling the sheet up and whispering something simple like that over me in my dark room. “Good night, sweet dreams,” someone is whispering over me, because they loved me and it is nighttime and they wanted to try to say something. (Softly.) Frank? (A pause.) “Good night, sweet dreams,” they whisper, and then walk backwards out the door, and close it. (Light fades.)

71

Tr a g e d y : a t r a g e d y

This page intentionally left blank

NINE COME Elana Greenfield

NINE COME premiered at the Steinberg Festival of New Plays at Trinity Repertory Company in Providence, Rhode Island. Direction by Ivan Talijan´cic. Set and costumes by Gordana Svilar. Lights by Brian Haynsworth. Sound by Laura Grace Brown. Original cast:

ANNA

Jill Samuels

PAUL

Harry J. Barandes

STORYTELLER SOLDIER WOMAN WITH A THIRD EYE RASKOLNIKOV ANNA KARENINA

Todd Thomas Peters Eric Dean Scott Bridget O’Malley Bill D’Agostino Jill Samuels

TRIGORIN

Bill D’Agostino

ASSISTANT SUSHI CHEF

John Holdridge

GIRL BOY

Kate Richman Thomas Lazinski

SUSHI CHEF

Julie Hawkins

YEL WHYLOW

Michael Thyer

REEK HAVOC

Joshua Allen

The quotations used within the body of this play are, respectively, from: Krishnamurti, The Bible (two quotations), “Jerusalem Is a Cradle” by Yehuda Amichai, and The Book of Questions by Edmond Jabès.

73

There is a lamp on my table. And the house is in the book. —Edmond Jabès, The Book of Questions I saw a sunset in Queretaro that seemed to reﬂect the color of a rose in Bengal. —Jorge Luis Borges, The Aleph For Sarah

Characters (in order of appearance) ANNA PAUL STORYTELLER SOLDIER RASKOLNIKOV (or someone who looks a lot like him) ANNA KARENINA TRIGORIN GIRL (aged seven) BOY (aged seven) WOMAN WITH A THIRD EYE YEL WHYLOW REEK HAVOC SUSHI CHEF ASSISTANT SUSHI CHEF

RASKOLNIKOV and ASSISTANT SUSHI CHEF can be played by the same actor. All scene numbers and titles are spoken as voice-overs by PAUL. All quotes are spoken as voice-overs by the STORYTELLER.

74

Ela n a Gr e e n f i e l d

Production No te The feel of any production of this play should include a sense, however faint—and perhaps the fainter the better—that all we are seeing on stage is contained in the book Anna opens in Scene I: we are seeing what can be deciphered of it as its pages turn to dust.

I. The Book The alone can never cease to be. Silence. ANNA is onstage. She opens a huge book. The book’s pages are old. The dust of a few of its words rises into the air. As it rises, violin music plays faintly. As if the movement of the disintegrating page is creating the music. She turns a page. She looks up. Music out.

II. The Interrogation ANNA is onstage as she was in Scene I. Lights slowly up on the STORYTELLER in a different part of the stage. They do not occupy the same space and time. Near the STORYTELLER is an old and ornate writing desk. During the following the beginning of the interrogation is heard softly in voice-over. The voices are those of PAUL and the SOLDIER. The tape may run for as long as it takes for the following to occur. For a time both ANNA and the STORYTELLER are onstage in equal light. They are still. Lights slowly dim on ANNA until she is gone. Lights brighten on the STORYTELLER’s part of the stage. After a while, in the shadows behind the STORYTELLER, PAUL, and the SOLDIER become visible. The interrogation begins. PAUL: This is odd.

75

Ni n e Co m e

SOLDIER: How. PAUL: Odd. Just odd. SOLDIER: How.

Silence. PAUL/STORYTELLER: Can’t you see.

Pause. SOLDIER: Extraño. De qué modo extraño. PAUL: Against the candlestick. Where the light is shining. SOLDIER: There is no light. PAUL/STORYTELLER: Number, number, weight, divisions. SOLDIER: There is no light. PAUL: I’m sorry.

Pause. PAUL: I can’t speak this morning, I’m sorry.

Silence. SOLDIER: Who sent you.

Pause. SOLDIER: By whom were you sent.

Pause. SOLDIER: Can you deﬁne your terms in any way. PAUL: No. No, I’ve never had much luck with all that. SOLDIER: Luck. Luck has nothing to do with it.

Silence.

76

Ela n a Gr e e n f i e l d

Nine Come by Elana Greenﬁeld. The Trinity Repertory Company Production, Providence, Rhode Island. Directed by Ivan Talijancic. Photograph by Ivan Talijan´cic.

SOLDIER: Can you tell me which train you were brought in on. PAUL/STORYTELLER: No. All I can tell you is that there was a little hole in the roof through

which I could see the moon. SOLDIER: What is your profession. PAUL/STORYTELLER: It binds.

Silence. SOLDIER: What were you doing on the Road to Damascus. PAUL: It binds.

Silence. SOLDIER: And you say you saw the writing on the plaster of the palace wall. PAUL: Yes. And I saw the hand that wrote it.

77

Ni n e Co m e

Blackout. Footsteps and a door slams. Sound of a breath, very close: soft inhale, exhale. The SOLDIER stumbles toward an electric coffee pot. He holds some old papers in his hands. He hits the wall and swears in Spanish or Serbo-Croatian. Papers fall out of his hand. The papers disintegrate as they fall. The SOLDIER pours coffee into an old cup. Takes a sip. Spits it out in shock. Puts the coffee cup down. Pulls the coffee pot out of the wall and smashes it on the ﬂoor. It burns.

III. The Voyager Returns Cast scorn on the informer, reject his report. PAUL is straightening his clothes after the interrogation. He is dressed in a once-elegant overcoat and hat. The STORYTELLER, wearing a white fedora, sits near the ornate desk. PAUL approaches him and takes the other chair. He takes off his coat. He picks up a pad and pen and starts writing. Pause. STORYTELLER: Take this down. PAUL: (writing) I already am. STORYTELLER: I haven’t started yet. PAUL: Yes, you have. STORYTELLER: Many years ago when I was a younger man . . . PAUL: Not like that. It doesn’t start like that. It’s already started. Can’t you see it.

Silence. They look. They look intently out in the direction of the audience toward some point in the distance.

78

Ela n a Gr e e n f i e l d

PAUL: Earlier today at Emilio’s, having coffee with one hand tied behind my back, I was think-

ing about this. (He strikes a most peculiar pose.) Do you know what the caption would read? (He strikes the pose again.) STORYTELLER: No. PAUL: “Regret the future.” The Russian journalist, the one who plays golf so astutely during

revolutions, was at Emilio’s. I struck the pose. He shouted the caption . . . across Emilio’s. “Regret the future.” He strikes the pose again with the precision of a ﬂamenco dancer. STORYTELLER: (starts again) Many years ago when I was a younger man, I journeyed for some

... PAUL: Why not have dinner instead. A good dinner. We shall run into our mother’s arms.

Las Marismas down on the corner serves a good steak, or Nijinsky’s on the Boulevard Tolstoy. We could go there. Cafés on either side. St. Petersburg rising in the mist. Perfect, impossibly delineated architecture of a lover’s heart. Or we could go visit that painter Reems, who’s painting his own breathing. He’s always eager to share his work. Sound of a breath: exhale, inhale. STORYTELLER: (starts again) Many years ago when I was a younger man, I journeyed for some

nineteen months in the general direction: east. When I returned, I stepped lightly and easily into my usual life, and considered myself, although nineteen months older, completely unchanged. I had heard many tales during my travels and at the time I listened to them all with the detached interest of a tourist, never suspecting they were my own. RASKOLNIKOV enters. He is in a great rush. RASKOLNIKOV: Listen, I have a plan. I mean a question. There are two old ladies who live in

my apartment who have turned themselves into cats. Most annoying. The whole country is falling apart. Have you noticed? Well, never mind. Now, you know my apartment. Corner of Varick and King. (Both men nod.) You know how noisy it is. (Both men nod.) You know how it is truly two apartments identical, one a mirror image of the other, with the two little kitchens both useless ﬁt into the corridor so absolutely no one but a cat can possibly reach the sink. And the diagonal bathrooms. (Both men nod.) And you know how one half of the apartment is ﬁlled with the old ladies’ junk who live there as two old cats. Two old cats whom I feed. Which is part of my agreement with the two old ladies. Can this agreement be held up in the courts? An agreement made with two parties who have transformed themselves into cats. Or is the apartment mine? To consult you as a lawyer on this very point. I’d like to know.

79

Ni n e Co m e

PAUL: You have no time for this digression. Give him his answer quick and hope he leaves. STORYTELLER: The legal system makes no allowances for transformation. You will have to ask

them to transform themselves back to old ladies in order to be able to take them to court and obtain the lease on the apartment. RASKOLNIKOV: Thank you. I will take care of everything as soon as I return. I am going to Bel-

grade to ﬁx my teeth. It is worth the price of the journey. That’s how cheap the dentists are. And yet the whole city has appalling teeth . . . He leaves in a great rush, slamming the door behind him. STORYTELLER: (continues his story) Spring, of the year nineteen hundred and blah blah (he

clears his throat). Many years after returning from my journey, I collapse utterly on the Rue Saint Jacques. Unable to sleep, I had gotten up for an early morning walk. Dawn, the Boulevard, six-ﬁfty-ﬁve a.m. Madame S. has been cooking since before daybreak. The early morning sky turns a peculiar shade of lavender. A voice reaches me out of the gutter, “Eh, monsieur, c’est pas mal comme boulot.” I have no answer for this beggar. He therefore assumes he is right. Madame S. gently folds the heavy cream into her Potage du Balzac. The sound of gunﬁre carried on the wind from Spain, and all around me lovers’ murmurs ﬂoating over the white dawn streets. Madame S.’s soup, I notice, is exactly the same color as the morning sky. PAUL: Or we could go to the sea. Mark the places where the waves catch the moonlight. So

we can go back. Anytime. The inanities fade a little into a wave of gorgeous sound. Do you realize the words we could speak to each other if we tried— ANNA KARENINA enters: she is dressed in velvet and fur. ANNA KARENINA: Herr Avocate. There is a little matter of a train and my life. Consulting you

would be a great favor. It would ease my mind. Vronsky, it turns out, is totally lacking in imagination. Most annoying. And I am quite bored. Things as they are are of very little interest to me. I walk on highly polished glass. Which was not my intention. I am stuck in the house and have no one to speak with. Not from my heart. How can I live a true life under these circumstances? The country, by the way, is falling apart. Most annoying. Have you noticed? Well, never mind. Can you spare a dime? The STORYTELLER hands her a dime. She exits in a great rush, slamming the door behind her. Sound of a page being turned. Elsewhere the SOLDIER is sitting on his haunches. Trashed coffee pot and remnant of ﬁre still remain. He reads by torchlight. A ﬁgure lies asleep beside him, the woman with the third eye.

80

Ela n a Gr e e n f i e l d

Sound of a page being turned. STORYTELLER (continues his story): A roar begins in my ears—that of an approaching locomo-

tive ﬁlled with deserters delirious at the new names they have just been given for their journey. I do not speak Spanish or Portuguese. I am for all intents and purposes mad. My legs buckle; rather, a force propels me to my knees. The roar grows louder, the impending arrival of a certain kind of knowledge against which the doctors write long and useless prescriptions. I am overcome with a longing the depth of which cannot be fathomed. In an instant it destroys the structure of my physical frame. Language moves away from me at great speed and is sucked back into its original source. TRIGORIN enters. TRIGORIN: Listen.

PAUL and the STORYTELLER listen. Pause. TRIGORIN: I have an idea. (Pause.) Your book will never be published. I hate to tell you. By

the way, I’ve won an award. My book is coming out in London. My book is coming out in New York. I’ve had a wonderful time. I’ve had breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and dinner, lunch, and breakfast. And a ﬂing. You look depressed. I ate in all the best restaurants. I will list them by name, and I will tell you what I had to eat and which night it was I ate it and how it affected my digestion. And I met Tom and Andy. Wined and dined in all the gourmet restaurants of the uhhhhh Holy Land. Where I read my work along with Zunzi and Milosh. Well-respected poets. And the place was full. I had no idea so many people knew me there. Perhaps they came to hear Milosh . . . Well, never mind. The curator invited me to lunch and the Vice Chancellor invited me to dinner, at the Cinemateque overlooking the Western Wall. Pause. Who are Tom and Andy? Pause. (As he is walking away) How often have I called your name. My former life rises up from the wheat in the evening light. My heart . . . Construct myself again. Exhausting. Quotations rise from the grass like photographs. Overexposed. Who will write them down. Not me. I’m eating. When will we run into our mother’s arms again. By the way, the country’s falling apart. Have you noticed? Well, never mind. You talk of nothing but highways anyway. Find the person you love and ﬁx them with your third eye. That way they’ll never leave you. My advice to you. Thank you.

81

Ni n e Co m e

He leaves in a great rush, crossing with the ASSISTANT SUSHI CHEF, who enters in a great hurry. He holds a huge dagger inlaid with amethysts. ASSISTANT SUSHI CHEF: I am writing a novel. It’s called the Dead Souls of Dead Fish.

Blackout. Lights up. The STORYTELLER lies in an ornate bed wearing his white fedora. STORYTELLER: I am, of course, put to bed. Where I am overcome with a longing to gaze end-

lessly into another’s eyes. My wife, my children, my friends, for the most part, cease to invite me out of my room . . . I understand them. (Pause.) It is an imposition. Time consuming. Slow . . . anarchy. (Pause.) I, too, when an acquaintance, or friend, for whatever reason would hold my gaze even for an instant too long would turn away politely. In that polite instant I tore them limb from limb, destroyed their homes, for that inconvenience, that unpardonable diabolical imposition. Let the devils and the angels pass. (Beat.) After a time only a small child, the niece of a servant in my home, would enter my room. My food was sent in with her. She would sit at the end of my bed. And did not mind my gaze. Returned it seriously. I would awake after a short nap to ﬁnd her humming softly to herself. Later dancing. A small girl sits at the end of the bed humming. She is very comfortable. At the sound of a voice offstage she kisses the man on the cheek, picks up the food tray, and disappears into the light. STORYTELLER: In those moments there was a profound peace in the room. I called her Anna.

After someone else I had once met. You see Anna spelled backwards is still Anna. This pleased me at the time . . . comforted me. A great deal. Anna. Anna. Blackout. The STORYTELLER lights a candle, which is on a table next to the bed. STORYTELLER: Cairo, 1939. Six months into my journey, on descent into that city. Our pro-

peller plane was damaged upon landing. The air company, now defunct—there will be no records—put us up for the night at the Alexandria Hotel in the center of town. It is there that I met Anna. She sat quietly in the corner of the huge, high-ceilinged lobby. I was struck, bone tired, and the word inconvenient droned in my mind. Something was inconvenient. The names of the streets, the temperature of the sky. I sat beside her. She wore a thin, white blouse, the cuffs of which where held together by cufﬂinks—on one was the head of a tiger, on the other a setting eastern sun. On her scarf, which was pale gold, the letters of an alphabet unknown to me ran like a river. It told many stories. It told the story of the soldier and the queen.

82

Ela n a Gr e e n f i e l d

IV. The Soldier and the Queen ANNA wears a long cloak. A young BOY appears out of its folds. Sound of a train approaching from a great distance. Somewhere else REEK and YEL are sitting at the sushi bar a few seats apart. ANNA: Once there was a soldier who loved his queen very much. BOY: Very much? ANNA: Yes, very much. He asked her to command him to do anything and he would do it. BOY: Command me to do anything and I will do it. ANNA: No matter what the task or the hardship, he would fulﬁll her heart’s desire. BOY: Anything, and I will do it. ANNA: So she asked him to ﬁnd a way to make peace in her country, which was always at

war. He set out on his best horse to ﬁnd the answer. After many months wandering, his money and his materials for barter dwindled. He rode half starved . . . BOY: He could no longer hear the sound of his horse’s hooves as they hit the ground. ANNA: It seemed to him . . . BOY: . . . that he was no longer galloping through air. ANNA: His limbs moved as if through a thick rain. He thought of nothing. He was still in the

midst of great speed, and his heart lurched in his chest. He was overcome with a longing, the depth of which could not be fathomed. And in degrees that can only be measured by the moonlight in an ancient stairwell, his longing transformed into anticipation. He saw . . . ANNA/BOY: . . . a three-legged dog running as if on four. ANNA: He heard the footsteps of a young girl in a courtyard in Alicante. ANNA/BOY: His hands, where they touched the reins, were ﬁlled with a sensation of light.

Beyond the Cyprus and Eucalyptus trees . . . Melts into the STORYTELLER echoing ANNA.

83

Ni n e Co m e

STORYTELLER/ANNA: . . . he saw a clearing. In the clearing he saw a stone. It was very white

and very bright. Slowly he approached. The wind moved through the very tops of the trees. And as a cloud passed overhead, the moonlight shone in a certain way, and he saw there was a meaning etched in the stone. Words emanating from stone writing themselves in air. Words that would bring peace to his country. He took the stone back to the queen. And this stone was laid outside the city walls. And in that country peace reigned forever. BOY: What did it say? ANNA: That was never told. But it is the stones under the moonlight that one must read. Peace

is there. The BOY disappears back into the folds of her cloak. STORYTELLER: It is that river which I had meant to follow. It is that river which I cannot ﬁnd. ANNA: “Cast scorn on the informer,” STORYTELLER: she said. ANNA: “Reject his report.”

The train has arrived. Silence. The STORYTELLER lights a cigarette. The SOLDIER continues to read. Beat/he looks up. Beat/the STORYTELLER gets out of bed and paces weakly. Beat/the SOLDIER lights a cigarette. Beat/the ﬁgure near the SOLDIER stirs, then half rises. She retreats in fear. The SOLDIER begins to pace. Blackout.

84

Ela n a Gr e e n f i e l d

V. In Transit Heed thy pact, heed not the accuser. Two young men sit at a sushi bar a few seats apart, REEK HAVOC and YEL WHYLOW. They look really young, but apparently are not. YEL (to the SUSHI CHEF, who is a woman): The avocados are very sweet. Have you tasted

them? The SUSHI CHEF nods noncommittally. SUSHI CHEF: Yes. Sometimes. Sweet. REEK: Where is your place of business? YEL (without looking at him): Corner of Varick and King. (to SUSHI CHEF) What do you usu-

ally have for dinner? SUSHI CHEF: A bagel and cream cheese. YEL: What, you bored with it already. Or is it just too expensive for you. SUSHI CHEF: All the time. Too much. YEL: You know the term busman’s holiday. (really clearly) It means if you drive a bus for a

living, the last thing you want to do on your vacation is be on a bus. The SUSHI CHEF nods smiling; the ASSISTANT SUSHI CHEF gets it and bursts into loud laughter. REEK: The place with the big windows? YEL (not looking at him): Yeah. REEK: Yeah, I pass it every day on my way to the post ofﬁce. Great location. I live two blocks

down. I pass it on the way to the post ofﬁce. That’s your place. YEL (not looking at him): The people who work in that post ofﬁce—some of them are good

and some of them are crap. REEK: I am a vagabond. I know the bartender at your place.

Silence.

85

Ni n e Co m e

SUSHI CHEF: So, what is the good news. YEL: Good news? SUSHI CHEF: Any good news for you. YEL: Well, this Thursday I’ll be one year older. SUSHI CHEF: Birthday. Congratulations! Happy Birthday. YEL: Thank you. REEK: Yeah, I go to the post ofﬁce. I gotta go to the post ofﬁce. On the way to the post ofﬁce.

That’s your place. YEL: Yeah. REEK: Great location.

Pause. REEK: She does the Rites of Spring all by herself. (He motions vaguely.) My wife. YEL (looking straight ahead at the ﬁsh): I saw that. REEK: Martha Graham’s ﬁrst company. YEL: At BAM last year. Festival of mud. REEK: They were in Hong Kong. YEL: Hong Kong is ridiculously expensive. REEK: She called me from Manila this morning. It was so close, you know, she thought she

should go. YEL: Yeah. REEK: We have a good friend that’s like from Manila. He was in Hong Kong for a few days. YEL: Like a simple vegetable dish at a restaurant’ll cost you forty or ﬁfty dollars. REEK: Yeah, but he’s just there for a couple of days. YEL: Even the dullest hotel is a hundred, a hundred and ﬁfty a night.

86

Ela n a Gr e e n f i e l d

REEK: Well, he’s staying, like in a hut, for eight dollars a night. (Pause.) But he was just talk-

ing about how greasy the food was in Hong Kong. YEL (to SUSHI CHEF): You ever read the Travels of Marco Polo?

SUSHI CHEF nods. YEL: That book really depressed me. REEK: He’s a friend of mine. So, she’s going to stay with him in Manila like for two weeks,

and they’re going to this island. They just pick fruit off the trees to live. (Pause.) Barefoot. (Pause.) Fuck adultery. It’s a dead end. YEL takes a quick look at him. YEL: I have too much responsibility to do that kind of thing. I went away for eight days once,

and I wasn’t happy with what I saw when I got back. REEK: You know Peter Cloak? YEL: Yeah. REEK: I bartended at the Odeon for two and half years. YEL: When? REEK: When Peter Cloak was there. YEL: That was ﬁfteen years ago. REEK: Twelve. YEL: He’s at Tavern on the Green now . . . REEK: . . . Step down. YEL: You can’t do good food in a fucking (incomprehensible as he eats). He’s doing consult-

ing now. REEK: The Blond took him into the forest. He’s tending at the Jet Lodge tonight.

87

Ni n e Co m e

Nine Come by Elana Greenﬁeld. The Trinity Repertory Company Production, Providence, Rhode Island. Directed by Ivan Talijancic. Photograph by Ivan Talijan´cic.

YEL: The people who go there are way into themselves. Starving to meet. REEK: Wall Street wannabes. YEL: Eye box. Not like even Wall Street. He just lives in Connecticut. Crap City in knocking

boots. REEK laughs spacily. YEL takes a longer look at him. YEL: Newports is open. REEK: Match uptown is doing really well. YEL: But the one downtown sucks.

88

Ela n a Gr e e n f i e l d

REEK: Great location. (Pause.) I worked four nights a week and made ﬁfteen hundred dollars

on top of my salary. You know Billy Gillroy? Used to work at the Odeon. YEL: I stopped in there for a tuna ﬁsh sandwich the other day. Tasted like cat food. Over-

cooked. I used to love that place. REEK: You know Billy Gillroy? YEL: Yeah. REEK: The place on Jane and 11th. YEL: Las Marismas. REEK: Oh! No! No! Excuse me. I apologize. Park Avenue and 19th. It’s the guy from Florent

with the guy from Big Maestro’s. (Pause.) I got confused. YEL: Yeah. (Pause.) Pen’s in its place now. REEK: She was so sweet. YEL: She married very well. REEK: She was so sweet. YEL: She’s a smart businesswoman, I hear. (Pause.) You know what used to be on Jane and

11th. REEK nods. YEL: No, you don’t. How long you been in New York. REEK: Twelve years. YEL: Before you moved to New York. Do you know what used to be on Jane and 11th. REEK: No. YEL: The No Name Bar. Been there for a hundred years. One day they tripled the rent. Gone.

The No Name’d been there for a hundred years. REEK: Billy Gillroy worked at Matches and Big Maestro’s. We tended together at Nine Come

for a while. YEL: Who did.

89

Ni n e Co m e

REEK: Billy Gillroy. YEL: Nine Come was hopping. REEK: Yeah. He’s a friend of mine. I did a world premiere at the Players’ last Monday. And

my wife came. There was like this big birthday party. So I brought my wife and my mom . . . like ﬁve years and there’s Billy Gillroy . . . YEL: What do you do?

Silence. What do you do? REEK: I’m an actor.

Silence. Bolo’s. YEL: Bolo’s. REEK: Bolo’s, with Billy Gillroy. Sanchero’s . . . YEL: That was one of the stupidest places. The people there were way into themselves. In-

tensely eye box. Akimbo lads. REEK: Pad wretches. YEL: Wretched.

Silence. REEK: Bistro Burgers? YEL: I can take them or leave them.

Silence. REEK: I ran the marathon. It was so cool. Nine a.m. at 16th and 10th. Started down the West

Side and up the East Side. YEL: Yeah? Cool.

90

Ela n a Gr e e n f i e l d

REEK: But then I had this dream that I’d eaten all this uncooked chicken skin. Force-fed. All

this chicken skin. Uncooked. Like for centuries. It was terrible. I could taste it. It was killing me. I was gonna explode. I was dying. I could feel it. I was dying in my dream. (He runs his hand over his jaws in an odd gesture.) Indigestible. Fucking indigestible. (REEK retches.) And then I ran into this guy at a train station, there was steam rising from the tracks, and I said, Obrad, fuck you. Where are you going. What are you doing here. Where are the women. Where have the women gone. Where. Are our women. Why are you here. Where are we going. How long is the ride. How big are the seats. Where are the cars lining up for gas these days. How will we walk. Walk when we get there. You walk toward the bus stop. You walk toward the train station. You walk toward the statue that is near the hotel. You walk toward the trees, toward the outdoor bookshops. Toward the streets where spices are sold. Toward the streets where fabrics are made. I have lost sight of you. The SUSHI CHEF is cutting a cube of something translucent and white. YEL stares mesmerized. REEK stares. Silence. YEL (to SUSHI CHEF): One of these days I’m gonna have to try your hot food. REEK: “Destroyed,” she said.

Blackout.

VI. The Soldier and the Woman SOLDIER: You are wrong.

Silence. Completely wrong. Silence. There is no reality in what you see. None. Silence. They have done nothing. No one has done anything. Pause.

91

Ni n e Co m e

What is a couple of months compared to ten years. Silence. What is nine months. Silence. Nothing. Pause. Nothing has happened. Pause. WOMAN: I would like to see my son now.

Pause. I would like to see my son. SOLDIER: You have no son. WOMAN: I have a son. I would like to see him now. SOLDIER: You are mistaken—you have no son. WOMAN: I thought . . . I’m sorry. I thought I had a son.

Pause. SOLDIER: You have no son.

Silence. WOMAN: Nothing. SOLDIER: Nothing has happened.

Blackout.

92

Ela n a Gr e e n f i e l d

VII. Expulsion The dust is my conscious, the stone my subconscious, and all my memories are closed courtyards at summer’s high noon. Lights up. YEL’s apartment. Time freezes. The place has been ransacked. Things are scorched at the edges. YEL sits on an ofﬁce chair with wheels. He is slightly bruised. REEK stands nearby; he has just entered. The following is YEL’s memory. A woman appears. She puts a few thing into a suitcase and then closes it. The men follow her with their eyes: YEL, worried; REEK, deadpan. The woman stands in front of YEL. He painfully reaches into his pockets, extracts some keys, and throws them to her. She catches them. She walks toward the door. At the door she turns around for an instant and looks at them. Something is odd. She has a third eye. She closes her two regular eyes. The third eye remains open. She leaves. Pause. YEL (to himself): Nothing has happened.

Light changes. Time unfreezes. REEK turns to YEL. REEK: Breathing? YEL: Not so good. I’m gonna call it off. REEK: You can’t call it off.

YEL manages to open a bottle of pills. He pops one. REEK: What are those.

Pause. YEL throws the bottle to REEK. REEK looks at it. REEK (looking at the writing on the bottle): What is this, Aramaic?

93

Ni n e Co m e

YEL: I don’t know . . . REEK: This isn’t English. I just want to tell you that this is not in English. What, is your doctor

from ancient Babylonia? YEL: Got them at the airport . . . REEK: Well, what are they for. YEL: . . . at the advanced Medicine for Pain Section. REEK: Pain. What kind of PAIN. YEL: Pain, I don’t know. Just pain. The advanced Medicine for Pain Section. That’s what I had,

so that’s where I went. REEK: Right.

Beat. YEL: I’m going to call it off. REEK: You can’t call it off. YEL: Darius won’t come. REEK: Then bring Nils alone. YEL: No. REEK: Then ask the Greek. YEL: Let’s not start this longitudinal talk again. If you don’t know the man’s name, don’t tell

me what country he comes from. (Beat.) I think he’s Trojan— REEK: Marco. YEL: He’s Italian. Jesus Christ. I’m calling it off. REEK: No, not Marco. I didn’t mean Marco. (Pause.) Falco, that’s who I mean. YEL: Falco? Marcus Didius Falco? REEK: Yes.

94

Ela n a Gr e e n f i e l d

YEL: No. REEK: Yeah. YEL: He’s Roman. He’s a character in a detective novel.

Beat. REEK: Yeah.

Beat. YEL: He’s copyrighted.

Silence. Something shifts. REEK: When did it start. YEL: That’s hard to say.

Beat. REEK: Year. YEL: Fourteen-ninety-two. A sunny day. The narrow streets are full of blue shadows. The top

of every single building glows in the sun. White stone in rose light. The women on the lower balconies, the shadow of iron lattice on their skin, gesture through the ﬂat, pure light. The shadowless square—white dust moving through it—silent, and full of mercy dozing. REEK: Where did you go. YEL: I went to Bienvenisti and had a coffee. I walked by the underground stream where the

Book was encased and did as my father had told me to do. From there I passed into the alley, which led into Cavalleria Way, which led into Torquemendada Street, which led to the stone steps and the Passage del Rio. We walked down the passageway—we each had a candle, the shapes of the light on the wall resembled a hand, a kite, a letter. It was hard to breathe. Soon the candles were all put out. We used our hands, the footsteps of those in front of us. We listened for the sound of water, the smell of rotting wood. We set sail in a small boat. The river met the sea. There I lost perspective. I couldn’t tell what was a small boat ﬂoating in an immense ocean and what was a close-up of a human tooth. Expulsion. Pause.

95

Ni n e Co m e

REEK: Doctor. YEL: Couldn’t ﬁnd anything. An eight-month head cold. REEK: You’ve had it for eight months. YEL: I’m going to call it off. REEK: You can’t call it off. Doctor. YEL: Couldn’t ﬁnd anything. Seasonal allergies, maybe. REEK: What season lasts for eight months. YEL: Weather’s changing all over the world. Doctor says. I’m going to call it off. REEK: You can’t, Jacques won’t like it. YEL: Jacques isn’t here. Jacques is in Grenada, reading prose. REEK (slightly interested): Yeah. YEL: Yeah. He said there were too many obstacles on 46th Street. REEK: I haven’t been on 46th Street for ten years. YEL: It’s bad, according to Jacques, the reception is terrible, and the quality of life is appar-

ently appalling. REEK: What do Tom and Andy say.

Pause. YEL: Who are Tom and Andy? (Pause.) They’re busy. One of the recording engineers is having

visions. She was . . . ahhhh . . . she was ahhhh . . . gonna leave. She had a company car, you know. They got worried. They got . . . worried. They took the car away. She had a friend who produced Movies-of-the-Week based on true stories. She got bored. She got . . . bored. She developed a third eye. Stabbed the phone with a Persian dagger. Handle inlaid with amethysts. A light lavender stone. Suggestions of reﬂections of sky. The handle made of dusk. Requires immense strength to hold. Andy asked for the cellular, you know, and she handed it to him skewered on this Persian dagger. She said, “There is a lamp on my table. And the house is in the book.” She said that her people had been left to perish in the desert alongside a dried-out well and that she forgave no one. She said those who insisted on psychological realism as the only framework for human existence would have inexplicable car crashes all through

96

Ela n a Gr e e n f i e l d

their lives. Black ice. Brown eyes. A touch like the receding tide. Adriatic noises. Can’t remember the topic. REEK: Optic inﬂuences on Digital Sound. Great topic. Don’t call it off.

Pause. YEL: I want to talk about her breasts. REEK: I don’t think you should. YEL: Why. REEK: I just don’t think you (pause) should.

Phone rings. YEL: That’ll be Tom and Andy. (He looks around for a moment. To REEK) PHONE!

REEK starts looking around for the phone. He ﬁnds it, a cellular phone speared to the end of a huge Persian dagger, its handle inlaid with amethysts. He presses the answer button and positions the dagger so the phone is near YEL’s ear. YEL: (into phone) Tomand . . .

White letters start writing themselves diagonally in the air above the stage. Aramaic letters. YEL stares at the palms of his hands. YEL: It mesmerizes. It binds. I want to tell you how . . . I want to talk about her breasts, I

want to explain about her mouth, I want . . . ANNA and the BOY appear. They walk through the white letters as if walking through moonlight. ANNA: On the day I had to leave, the square was full of Cypress blue. My city with your two

streets and the two-stone staircase that connects them. The bell above the door of the shop of the man who painted lamp shades, the child with the aquamarine eyes who lived on the Via Dolorosa and begged for his father who was drunk in the big sector, the singing and the whiteness of the place at dusk and at dawn, mesmerized by what used to be Jordan, as if lit by another country’s sun. The SOLDIER enters. SOLDIER: This is a watched sector.

97

Ni n e Co m e

ANNA: I know. SOLDIER: What do you want. ANNA: There is a man inside that I wish to see. SOLDIER: There are many men inside and they are all praying. You should be praying. ANNA: I am praying.

Out of the phone comes manic Eastern music that slowly transforms into violin music as heard in the ﬁrst scene. YEL and REEK sit. Sound of a desert wind. Blackout.

VIII. The House of Exhaustion There is a lamp on my table. And the house is in the book. PAUL: The visitors have arrived. STORYTELLER: Of course I resent being a woman. Not that there is anything inherently wrong

with that state. But the hype is enough to kill you. Yes. Yes. No. On all counts women gone wrong. Men mere shadows growing scarce across the earth. Your eyes no longer speak, thus the mouth in your face is redundant. Enraged at your skin. In contempt of your heart. No, do not put your lips there! Now barren as your dictators have promised, you are ﬁnally safe. No, do not put your lips there! Miriam the prophetess you have turned away. Well . . . prophets can also get bored. PAUL: They’re on the stairs. STORYTELLER: They’ll never make it up. There is a hole in the roof through which you can see

the moonlight. The beggar will sell them bread and spices. He will send them to the hotel across the street. Mesmerized by what used to be Jordan. The American Colony Hotel. They will forget why they came. (in a whisper) Keep talking. Please. My lecture on the . . . Methodology of Informality has been . . . interrupted. ”It seems we are goin’ down.” Hospital basements are complicated places. It’s hard to ﬁnd the person who planned them. It’s hard to distinguish your bride from the generators, she’s so demure. Like the hills of Nazareth at night, she’s around. PAUL: They’re already here. Do you want to continue? STORYTELLER: I am continuing.

98

Ela n a Gr e e n f i e l d

Lights come up dimly on the SOLDIER, who begins to apply camouﬂage paint to his skin. STORYTELLER: What breast? No. No. What breast. How are you. How dare you inquire. Your

house is like a Brueghel painting I do not want to be in . . . that’s how I am. (Pause.) What breast? No. No. What breast. If you put your lips there I will scream. PAUL: And you will laugh as you remember laughing only in a dream. And you will read the

writing on the plaster of the palace wall. And you will see— REEK HAVOC, YEL WHYLOW, and the SOLDIER enter. YEL: We want to know about this crumbling. This collapsing.

Pause. REEK: I am a man. I want you to know I feel things on my skin. I come and go. YEL: There’s a vampire somewhere masquerading as an Argentinean. Watch it! REEK: You can recognize him by the movies he watches. Watch it. YEL: Tell us where are the women. Where have the women gone. Where. Are our women. REEK: Yel! YEL: No. PAUL: Yel! STORYTELLER: If you put your lips there, I will scream. PAUL: Where are your genitals. What is your plan? YEL: What . . . are you asking . . . PAUL/SOLDIER: I had a vision on the road to Damascus. REEK/SOLDIER: There was a shop that sold breads and spices. There was a shop that sold zip-

pers and spools of thread. PAUL: Same road you took. And then I ran into this guy at a train station. There was steam

rising from the tracks. REEK: And I said, Obrad, fuck you. Where are you going. What are you doing here.

99

Ni n e Co m e

YEL: Where have the women gone. Where. Are our women. REEK: Why are you here. Where are we going. How long is the ride. How big are the seats.

How will we walk. Walk when we get there. YEL: You never made it to Damascus. Two cats arrived instead, in the dead of night, both an-

swering to your name. REEK (jazzy): Two cats named Paul. YEL: We want to know about this silence. REEK: This suicide. YEL: This chaos. REEK: This upsurge. YEL: This vengeance. REEK: Is this a country or a clinic? YEL: This crumbling. This . . . REEK: This . . . YEL: This . . . REEK: . . . YEL: This longing. REEK: These visions. YEL: This heartbreak between my ﬁngers. REEK/SOLDIER: This book I found in a dream. YEL: This blood in my peripheral vision. REEK: This heartbreak in my palms. YEL: This language in the streets. REEK: These comments.

100

Ela n a Gr e e n f i e l d

PAUL: What comments? REEK: About the highways. YEL: Wrap him up. REEK: You speak of nothing but highways, anyway. PAUL/SOLDIER: Wrap him up and put him in his mother’s arms. STORYTELLER: Wrap me up and put me in my mother’s arms. REEK: The pirate in the photograph. SOLDIER/PAUL (low): That was no pirate. YEL: The jasmine trees. SOLDIER/PAUL (low): That was a human tooth. REEK: The foreign consulates. SOLDIER/PAUL (low): Overexposed. YEL: Where are the women. Where have the women gone. STORYTELLER: It is you who have gone. The women are everywhere. It is you who have dis-

appeared. YEL begins to apply camouﬂage paint. REEK: You walk toward the bus stop, you walk toward the train station. You walk toward the

statue that is near the hotel. You walk toward the trees, toward the outdoor bookshops. Toward the streets where spices are sold. Toward the streets where fabrics are made. I have lost sight of you. STORYTELLER: And you will see the writing on the plaster of the palace wall. STORYTELLER: And you will see the hand that wrote it.

REEK begins to apply camouﬂage paint. STORYTELLER: This is odd. SOLDIER: How.

101

Ni n e Co m e

Pause. STORYTELLER: Usually there is a beggar on the stairs . . . selling spices and bread. SOLDIER: You are not answering the question.

Pause. SOLDIER: Extraño. De qué modo extraño. STORYTELLER: There against the candlestick. Where the light is shining. SOLDIER: There is no light. STORYTELLER/PAUL: Number, number, weight, divisions. SOLDIER: There is no light. STORYTELLER: I am sorry.

Pause. STORYTELLER: I’m sorry. I can’t speak this morning. SOLDIER: Can you deﬁne your terms in any way. PAUL: No. No, I’ve never had much luck with all that. YEL (who is now completely covered in camouﬂage paint): Luck. SOLDIER: Luck has nothing to do with it.

Silence. REEK (who is now completely covered in camouﬂage paint): Can you tell me which train you

were brought in on. STORYTELLER/PAUL: All I can tell you is that there was a little hole in the roof through which

I could see the moon. SOLDIER: What is your profession. STORYTELLER/PAUL: It binds. SOLDIER: What were you doing on the road to Damascus.

102

Ela n a Gr e e n f i e l d

STORYTELLER: It binds. YEL/SOLDIER: And you say you saw the writing on the plaster of the palace wall. STORYTELLER: Yes. And I saw the hand that wrote it.

Silence. There is some kind of staring contest going on. REEK, YEL, and the SOLDIER having completed the interrogation watch the STORYTELLER as if he were a roulette wheel turning. STORYTELLER: Have you ever watched an orphan tune a violin?

All onstage remain where they are. The scene around them transforms into . . .

IX. Come The Alexandria Hotel, Cairo, 1939. The hotel lobby is sumptuous and huge. Potted palm trees. The trickle of water from a fountain. The STORYTELLER sits in the high-ceilinged lobby. STORYTELLER: Something is inconvenient. I don’t know what it is. The names of the streets,

the temperature of the sky. I sit beside her. She wears a thin, white blouse, the cuffs of which are held together by cufﬂinks—on one is the head of a tiger, on the other a setting eastern sun. On her scarf, which is pale gold, the letters of an alphabet unknown to me run like a river. We are waiting. In a state of inconvenient grace. I call her Anna. You see, Anna spelled backwards is still Anna. After this only the stories will remain. That is why I will tell them. No matter how broken. The words remain. ANNA/BOY (voice on tape): When you arrive, you will be seen by a beggar and an angel, and

everything will be easy. And everything will be very slow. And tenderness will pour out of the thin trees. And tenderness will pour out of the concrete, out of the smoke rising over the wide boulevards. ANNA: Even if they never let me go back. STORYTELLER: I shall read the words made visible. ANNA: White light thrown off ancient stone. STORYTELLER: Words made visible in light and air. ANNA: And you will see the hand that wrote it.

103

Ni n e Co m e

The BOY walks up to a small stage. He tunes the violin. Then plays a concert in the lobby of the Alexandria Hotel for the pleasure of the guests. He plays for quite some time. Until he is no longer playing for the guests at the Alexandria Hotel. The war rages. He is alone, playing as the pages of the book disintegrate. Anna closes the book. The dust from a few of its pages rises into the air. The music continues. Lights down leaving only ANNA’s and the BOY’s faces visible. Blackout.

104

Ela n a Gr e e n f i e l d

SACHIKO Madelyn Kent

SACHIKO was created by Madelyn Kent, Michiko Kusaki, and Yukiko Sakata. It was workshopped in November 2002 at the Flea Theater in New York City. It was written with the collaboration of Shufu Theatre. Direction, set, and costumes by the author. Music by Kenta Nagai. Original cast:

105

TAXI DRIVER

Mark Boyett

SACHIKO

Janan Raouf

One o’clock in the morning. Asakusa, Tokyo. A girl, SACHIKO, seventeen, walks on the side of a dark road. She is aware that a man in a car is following her. The ﬂood of headlights several feet behind her. The MAN gets out of the car, closes the door. He doesn’t approach her. The girl stops.

SACHIKO:

So. What doing here?

TAXI DRIVER:

Nothing. But it’s midnight. I think a Young woman walking Alone is Dangerous.

SACHIKO:

No, no. It’s not dangerous. My home is Five minutes’ walk. I’m just taking walk.

TAXI DRIVER:

This is, this my way. If you—

SACHIKO:

No, no, no thank you. It’s very kind. I want to walk.

TAXI DRIVER:

No. You must not Paying Money.

SACHIKO:

I have no money so— . It’s very kind but thank you. No thank you.

106

Ma d e l y n Ke nt

TAXI DRIVER:

No but I think you’re so Sickness.

SACHIKO:

No I’m ﬁne.

TAXI DRIVER:

But your face.

SACHIKO:

No I said I’m ﬁne.

TAXI DRIVER:

Oh.

SACHIKO:

Thank you—bye.

She walks. TAXI DRIVER:

Hey.

She stops. SACHIKO:

What’s wrong With you?

TAXI DRIVER:

I’m worried about you.

SACHIKO:

There’s no need. You should go home. Maybe your wife Waiting.

TAXI DRIVER:

My wife is not Waiting for Me. You think I’m a Strange man.

SACHIKO:

Yes.

TAXI DRIVER:

Please believe me I’m just Carry you to Your home.

SACHIKO:

I said my house ﬁve minutes’ walk. I’m ﬁne.

107

Sa c h i ko

TAXI DRIVER:

I think you run away. I feel You run away from something.

SACHIKO:

Why do you think so?

TAXI DRIVER:

Because you see Back a few times. You kept Turning back several Times. I watch you.

SACHIKO:

I did? It’s just I wanted To see.

She walks. He stands by the taxi, watching her. SACHIKO stops. SACHIKO:

What’s the matter, the matter with you? I said I’m just Fine. I think you’re strange.

TAXI DRIVER:

You’re right. But please Believe me I’m not strange man. I just help you.

SACHIKO:

No thank you.

TAXI DRIVER:

It will be rain. You look Up Sky The cloud is coming.

SACHIKO:

Yes. It must be. I’m ﬁne.

108

Ma d e l y n Ke nt

TAXI DRIVER:

Today is so Cold. I’m worried About If you catch A cold it’s—

SACHIKO:

It is sweet of you. What are you Doing in midnight?

TAXI DRIVER:

I’m just taxi driver. But I found you When my customer Getting off before.

SACHIKO:

So you should Go back your home.

TAXI DRIVER:

That’s right.

SACHIKO:

Why are you so concerned about me?

TAXI DRIVER:

I want to help you. Help.

She turns left and crosses the street. TAXI DRIVER:

Wait. This way go to Hanayashki.

SACHIKO:

My house is near here.

TAXI DRIVER:

Really? But it’s funny. There is no houses near Hanayashki.

SACHIKO:

Why do you know around here? I say My house is near here. I’m living here seventeen years.

TAXI DRIVER:

But I know well Than you

109

Sa c h i ko

Because I Working Hanayashki before. SACHIKO:

Really? You work for Hanayashki?

TAXI DRIVER:

Yes, I work for Hanayashki when I was Twenty.

SACHIKO:

Really?

TAXI DRIVER:

Yes. Do you like it?

SACHIKO:

Yes. This place is special to me.

TAXI DRIVER:

Really? Me too.

SACHIKO:

How?

Pause. TAXI DRIVER:

Do you know about the secret of Hanayashki?

SACHIKO:

I heard that once before.

TAXI DRIVER:

Really, so—

SACHIKO:

My parents and I Were talking about the Secret of Hanayashki But we didn’t Know.

TAXI DRIVER:

So will we go there from now?

He points back to the taxi. SACHIKO:

From now?

TAXI DRIVER:

Yes.

110

Ma d e l y n Ke nt

SACHIKO:

But it’s awful late.

TAXI DRIVER:

I know. But I have a key. I It can enter Hanayashki. I copy Before.

SACHIKO:

Can we enter Hanayashki Now?

TAXI DRIVER:

Yes. Of course. Yes.

SACHIKO:

Now?

TAXI DRIVER:

Yes.

SACHIKO:

Really?

TAXI DRIVER:

Anyway. Will you seat My car. Let’s go there.

SACHIKO:

Yes.

She walks to the car. He opens the door for her. She enters. SACHIKO:

Thank you.

TAXI DRIVER:

You’re welcome.

He gets into car and drives. TAXI DRIVER:

So what’s your name?

SACHIKO:

My name is Sachiko.

TAXI DRIVER:

Sachiko. That’s beautiful name.

111

Sa c h i ko

SACHIKO:

Thank you. But I don’t Like it.

TAXI DRIVER:

Really? Why?

SACHIKO:

I think it’s Not My name. It doesn’t ﬁt me.

TAXI DRIVER:

So. How old are you?

SACHIKO:

Only seventeen. How ’bout you?

TAXI DRIVER:

I’m forty-ﬁve. I’m forty-ﬁve.

SACHIKO:

Why did you quit To work To work Hanayashki?

TAXI DRIVER:

Because I am just Part-timer worker. I want a real job Because my wife hope for It. She wanted Stable life so I Therefore I become taxi driver.

SACHIKO:

Do you like Your job more than before?

TAXI DRIVER:

No. I loved the job when I Worked at Hanayashki. So How many times go there?

SACHIKO:

I can’t Count.

112

Ma d e l y n Ke nt

TAXI DRIVER:

Oh. You go there Many times.

SACHIKO:

Yes. It was the part of my life.

TAXI DRIVER:

Oh, really. Do you like What is most What did you like most attraction in Hanayashki?

SACHIKO:

Ohh . . . It’s hard to say. But merry-go-round.

TAXI DRIVER:

Oh merry-go-round. I love that too.

SACHIKO:

Did you?

TAXI DRIVER:

It was beautiful. It’s beautiful.

SACHIKO:

So you liked to work in Hanayashki. I still don’t know why you quit your job. I think taxi driver is Boring.

TAXI DRIVER:

You’re right. But I need money to get Married.

SACHIKO:

Your wife?

TAXI DRIVER:

Yes.

SACHIKO:

Where is she?

TAXI DRIVER:

My wife— Ummm . . . I don’t want to talk about her now. So Do you know Do you want to know the secret of Hanayashki?

113

Sa c h i ko

SACHIKO:

Yes.

TAXI DRIVER:

But it’s very special. Today is I feel So good. I want something for you.

SACHIKO:

That’s great.

TAXI DRIVER:

I’m— I’ll tell you.

Silence. SACHIKO:

Do you know— Are you the only man To know The secret?

TAXI DRIVER:

Yes. I am.

SACHIKO:

Does your wife know The secret?

TAXI DRIVER:

She—

SACHIKO:

Did you talk about the secret to her?

TAXI DRIVER:

Yes. She knows about it. It She knows about it. But maybe she Forget it now. So— You said you love merry-go-round.

SACHIKO:

I’ve never seen it worked. I heard it was working Long time ago But now nobody can ﬁx the merry-go-round.

TAXI DRIVER:

But the truth is Still moving.

114

Ma d e l y n Ke nt

SACHIKO:

Can you Move it?

TAXI DRIVER:

Yes. I can move it.

SACHIKO:

Can you move it Now?

TAXI DRIVER:

Yes I can move it Now because it’s Very old machine. If If someone want to move it It needs a key. Some key. But it was stolen.

SACHIKO:

And no one has The key.

TAXI DRIVER:

No one but I have the key because I Stole it.

SACHIKO:

You stole the key?

TAXI DRIVER:

I have the key now.

SACHIKO:

You were the person Who steal the key. I don’t Believe that. What made you do that?

TAXI DRIVER:

Because I propose my wife at Hanayashki because I wanted She said to me you— If you want to marry me you give me special proposal.

SACHIKO:

Did she want the key?

TAXI DRIVER:

No she want the key. But she I want Surprise to her.

115

Sa c h i ko

SACHIKO:

How could you do that Such a selﬁsh thing. I don’t believe that.

TAXI DRIVER:

Yes.

SACHIKO:

It It was It was not yours.

TAXI DRIVER:

Yeah.

SACHIKO:

It was Mine too.

TAXI DRIVER:

I know Everyone loved Merry-go-round But I wanted Love her. I wanted marry her. I can’t see another things.

SACHIKO:

I always wanted to see it work. And my mother and father also Wanted to.

TAXI DRIVER:

Yeah. We are We would so selﬁsh. But—

SACHIKO:

I think you were so selﬁsh.

TAXI DRIVER:

I know. But I know Now I can feel your Feeling but when we In those days I can’t thinking so.

Silence. TAXI DRIVER:

116

I know why You So angry but it’s Our pleasure.

Ma d e l y n Ke nt

We sometimes Moved the merry-go-round At midnight. She I want to see her smiling. Maybe she has something Wrong with her Heart. But I want change Her heart. I can. SACHIKO:

And Did you Marry her?

TAXI DRIVER:

Yes. Finally we got Married and We got married about In—

He writes with his ﬁnger on his palm, ﬁguring it out. Twenty years before. SACHIKO:

But is she still Your wife?

TAXI DRIVER:

Yes. She only person I love.

SACHIKO:

Why did she Leave you?

TAXI DRIVER:

Leave me? No didn’t leave me now.

SACHIKO:

That’s strange. You said Your wife is not waiting. I thought you said your wife is not Waiting anymore.

117

Sa c h i ko

TAXI DRIVER:

Yes Actually She is Staying home But her heart Maybe her heart Left somewhere.

SACHIKO:

Does your wife love you?

Pause. He starts to hum the lullaby. SACHIKO:

What’s that song? It’s lullaby When I heard When I was child.

TAXI DRIVER:

Yes This is popular song.

Silence. SACHIKO:

Oh Look— That’s Hanayashki.

He pulls the car in and stops. TAXI DRIVER:

Yes.

SACHIKO:

It’s so different when I see in the light.

TAXI DRIVER:

Yes.

SACHIKO:

Do you think Can we— Can I enter can we enter now?

TAXI DRIVER:

Yes. Just a Moment. Yes

118

Ma d e l y n Ke nt

I have the key. We get off car. He gets out of taxi. TAXI DRIVER:

So Let’s go.

SACHIKO stays in taxi. He speaks to her through her closed window. TAXI DRIVER:

So Would you go to merry-go-round with me?

She doesn’t move. TAXI DRIVER:

I show you. Also I’m the only Who makes it move. I’m the only Man who still can move merry-go-round.

SACHIKO doesn’t move. TAXI DRIVER:

So what’s your favorite horse?

Pause. So what’s your favorite horse? Pause. SACHIKO gets out of the car. TAXI DRIVER:

So I show you the merry-go-round.

He tries to lead her toward the amusement park, but SACHIKO doesn’t move. SACHIKO:

I thought it would never be work.

She walks away. TAXI DRIVER:

119

Wait. It’s not the way.

Sa c h i ko

Wait This is The way to merry-go Merry-go-round. SACHIKO disappears. The TAXI DRIVER walks to the merry-go-round. He puts the key in and the merry-go-round starts to turn. Music. Colored lights circle him. He sits on a bench on the merry-go-round. Long pause. SACHIKO walks onto the merry-go-round and sits on a bench across from him. They both sway slightly with the merry-go-round. Long pause. SACHIKO:

What did you Do Last night?

Pause. TAXI DRIVER:

Nothing.

SACHIKO:

What did you do Last night?

TAXI DRIVER:

I hurt Someone?

SACHIKO:

You hurt someone? Who?

TAXI DRIVER:

Maybe. It’s my. Wife.

SACHIKO:

You hurt your wife?

TAXI DRIVER:

Yes I hurted her Feelings.

120

Ma d e l y n Ke nt

Long pause. SACHIKO:

Where is she?

TAXI DRIVER:

I’m not sure But she stay at home.

SACHIKO:

How did you Hurt her?

TAXI DRIVER:

I got her Treasure.

SACHIKO:

Treasure?

TAXI DRIVER:

Yes. I mmmm . . . got her Important things. Maybe.

SACHIKO:

You got her important things. What is her Important things?

TAXI DRIVER:

It’s her lover.

SACHIKO:

Sorry?

TAXI DRIVER:

Her lover. Lover.

SACHIKO:

Her lover.

TAXI DRIVER:

It’s Not Me It’s another Man she is loving.

SACHIKO:

And you got him From her.

TAXI DRIVER:

Yes I got him from her.

SACHIKO:

For good?

121

Sa c h i ko

TAXI DRIVER:

Yes. For good.

Pause. SACHIKO:

Are you dizzy?

TAXI DRIVER:

Yes I am a little dizzy. It is like a Dream Isn’t it?

Pause. SACHIKO:

Yes. This is my Favorite horse. I wanted to Ride her.

TAXI DRIVER:

Oh. Really. These are my Favorite Horses.

SACHIKO:

Really?

TAXI DRIVER:

It’s like a Family. Do you think so?

SACHIKO:

Yeah. Yes, I do.

TAXI DRIVER:

I called that pony My daughter’s name.

SACHIKO:

What is her name?

TAXI DRIVER:

She is Hanako.

SACHIKO:

Hanako. That’s beautiful.

TAXI DRIVER:

Yeah.

122

Ma d e l y n Ke nt

SACHIKO:

So your daughter look like ﬂowers?

TAXI DRIVER:

Yes. She like Sunﬂower. She always Used to smile Like sunﬂowers. So why do you like That horse?

SACHIKO:

Just take a look. Her face. Isn’t she pretty? She has beautiful ﬂowers In her head.

TAXI DRIVER:

Yes.

SACHIKO:

She is the best.

TAXI DRIVER:

You— so—

SACHIKO:

Hmmm?

TAXI DRIVER:

You look so happy and glad.

SACHIKO:

Me?

TAXI DRIVER:

I’m glad to make you happy.

SACHIKO:

I am.

TAXI DRIVER:

So it will be sunlight— The sun will soon rise.

SACHIKO:

Really?

TAXI DRIVER:

So are you dizzy too?

SACHIKO:

Yes. I guess I am too.

Lights down.

123

Sa c h i ko

This page intentionally left blank

ENOSHIMA ISL AND Madelyn Kent

ENOSHIMA ISLAND was created by Madelyn Kent, Michiko Kusaki, Yukiko Sakata, and Yuko Takamori. It was written with the collaboration of Shufu Theatre. It premiered in October 2001 at WAX in New York City. Direction and set by the author. Music by Kenta Nagai. Lights by Alison Brummer. Original cast:

BARBER

Mark Boyett

WOMAN

Mariana Newhard

MAN THE DRUNKEN MAN

125

Todd Peters Eric Dean Scott

Enoshima Island by Madelyn Kent. The Barber (Yuko Takamori) cuts the Man (Yukiko Sakata). Original improvisation, 2001. Photograph by Anders Goldfarb.

126

Ma d e l y n Ke nt

Scene 1 A barbershop. Two chairs facing the audience. Toward the front door, a small counter with a cash register. A man, forty-ﬁve, walks into a barbershop. The sound of a bell as the door opens and closes. The barber, sixty-ﬁve, stands, cleaning up. BARBER:

Hi.

MAN:

Hi.

BARBER:

How are you?

MAN:

I’m okay. I want a shave and a haircut.

BARBER:

Sure, have a seat.

He hands the barber a container of food. MAN:

This is usual ikameshi.

BARBER:

Thank you—

MAN:

Yes—

BARBER:

I love it—

MAN:

I know.

Pause. BARBER:

Please sit down. Do you have more time today?

MAN:

No. I’m busy. So hurry.

BARBER:

How many times you have today?

MAN:

Just one hour.

127

E n osh i ma Is la nd

BARBER:

Okay. Do you want to trim?

MAN:

Yes. I want a trim and shave.

BARBER:

Yes. Sure. At ﬁrst I trim your hair.

He puts towel around him. Pause. BARBER:

How did you do for a few weeks?

MAN:

Nothing. Nothing. I’m always busy. I’m just working. Hardworking.

BARBER:

You feel so good?

MAN:

I’m a little tired but I feel good.

BARBER:

I’m worried your condition.

MAN:

It’s okay.

Pause. How about your condition? BARBER:

I have I pay my way But it But I I’m too old But I’m okay.

The barber cuts the man’s hair. MAN:

So you should take care your health Take care.

BARBER:

This Enoshima is so clean island, and I can I can live I can live comfortable.

128

Ma d e l y n Ke nt

MAN:

Oh.

BARBER:

In this island. I don’t I have any pain.

MAN:

Oh.

BARBER:

Now.

Pause. The barber cuts. MAN:

So—your shop is always not busy.

BARBER:

In summertime a lot of visitors.

MAN:

Only summer. Are you okay?

BARBER:

Yes, sure. Many customers come here In weekend.

MAN:

Yeah.

BARBER:

But weekday Weekday doesn’t come.

MAN:

I’m worried about you. Your shop continues?

BARBER:

I’m just one. I have little money And then I can eat.

MAN:

Yeah.

BARBER:

And I can live. It’s comfortable for me.

Long pause. The barber cuts. Yes, you love free time. I remember When I

MAN:

129

E n osh i ma Is la nd

When I was child You always— BARBER:

Yes. Certainly. I like free time When you were child But now I work As I Enoshima is not Many people living I cannot work so hardly.

MAN:

Yes.

BARBER:

When your child you helped me.

MAN:

Yes.

BARBER:

With your mother.

MAN:

Yes.

BARBER:

You were clever child.

They laugh. MAN:

No-no. But So. You You Ow!

BARBER:

What happened? What happened?

MAN:

You injure My neck.

BARBER:

I’m so sorry . . . I—

MAN:

Show me it.

BARBER:

The scissor is good but I talk to you and I got distracted. I’m So sorry.

130

Ma d e l y n Ke nt

MAN:

It’s okay but if you— Do you want Do you need a Little bit of money to buy New scissor or something I can prepare a little bit of Money for you.

BARBER:

Yes, but I clean I clean the scissor and this Chair for dust I don’t need your help.

MAN:

But I think this old barbershop should change.

A long silence as the barber ﬁnishes trimming the man’s hair. BARBER:

I ﬁnished doing your hair.

He holds a mirror behind the man’s head. The man looks straight ahead, into the mirror. BARBER:

How ’bout this?

MAN:

It’s great.

BARBER:

Next I will start your shaving. Here’s a towel.

He puts a hot towel on the man’s face. The man winces. MAN:

It’s very hot.

BARBER:

Yes.

MAN:

But I think it’s Very hot towel for Younger people. Old people prefer hot towel.

131

E n osh i ma Is la nd

BARBER:

If you take This towel In your eyes you more relaxed.

Putting the towel over the man’s eyes. Beat. MAN:

Ah, that’s good.

BARBER:

Now I will start The shaving.

The barber takes off the towel and applies shaving cream. Long pause. The man looks at the chair next to him. MAN:

Is that still move?

BARBER:

It move— ?

MAN:

Moving?

BARBER:

Yes. Why?

MAN:

Because it was— I remember It was so old and so you clean it?

BARBER:

Yes, but I clean the chair every day. But this chair your mother used.

MAN:

Yeah. But do you know Popular barbershop in Tokyo doesn’t.

BARBER:

But my guests like it.

MAN:

Maybe your customers like it.

BARBER:

Yes, they think it’s comfortable.

132

Ma d e l y n Ke nt

MAN:

I think you should change, reform.

BARBER:

But I reform this shop My guests doesn’t come This shop.

MAN:

But if you change this These for good Some younger people will come. I recommend You change this chair You change more gorgeous chair.

BARBER:

But now Enoshima is not Younger people. Most people are almost older.

MAN:

I know.

BARBER:

We cannot change our life.

MAN:

Yes. But— there are nothing To visit for sightseeing In this area.

BARBER:

But in summer many visitors come this island.

MAN:

Yes, but it’s only summer— I always think if Enoshima Is more attractive island Many people return here Will return here Come here and spend a lot Of money.

BARBER:

Yes. Finished.

The man feels his cheeks. MAN:

Here is a little bit.

BARBER:

Okay, I—

The barber puts a little shaving cream on and shaves the spot.

133

E n osh i ma Is la nd

MAN:

So you still like Saburo Kitajima?

BARBER:

Sure, I like him. I like to hear him sing Enka. It is my only hobby. Do you like to hear Enka music?

MAN:

No. I was just asking—

The barber goes to CD player. BARBER:

Yes— but it’s nice music.

It plays. Now relax time. He resumes shaving, but more interested in the music. Enka is so good. Don’t you think so? MAN:

But don’t you think it’s a little loud? Can you turn down the volume? Turn down it.

BARBER:

No, cannot change the volume.

MAN:

But—

BARBER:

I think you feel so happy.

Pause. Do you want to sing? MAN:

No no no—

BARBER:

Okay, I sing for you.

The barber goes to the CD player, leaving the man with shaving cream on his cheek. The barber faces the man, his back to the audience. His feet wide apart in performer’s stance, holding an imaginary microphone. Please!

MAN:

134

Ma d e l y n Ke nt

The barber starts to sing. Stop it!

MAN:

He throws the towel at the barber. The barber stops singing. I can’t stand you sing anymore. I’m sorry.

MAN:

The barber picks up the towel and carefully folds the towel throughout. Do you think I like Enka music? BARBER:

Sure. It’s Japanese.

MAN:

It is your misunderstanding. This century Don’t like Japanese.

BARBER:

But almost Japanese People like.

MAN:

No, it’s only your age Only your Old people Just old people.

BARBER:

You don’t hear Enka music when you were little?

MAN:

I always hear Heard Enka music But it It makes me Dark Dark feeling.

BARBER:

But you will know the good of Enka As you become more age.

MAN:

No. I said it’s your misunderstanding I hate Enka music When I was little

135

E n osh i ma Is la nd

Hearing Enka music And you singing. The barber gets the ikameshi, sits on the old chair, and starts to eat. But it was It was When I heard your Song I feel so Bad. I felt so bad. You were always selﬁsh You didn’t Another people Like me. I hate Enka That Enka. Also. I hate this old chair. I can’t Believe why you use that doorbell. It’s very old dated things. And that poster Is from when I was child. So that, This scissor is so old. The man picks up the scissor. I can’t believe it still move. Maybe it’s a little bit Don’t work Doesn’t work. Still holding the scissor, he faces mirror. I remember that mirror it was when I was ten Ten. It’s now it’s not It’s not clear. He doesn’t move. Holds the scissor. The barber sits and eats ikameshi.

136

Ma d e l y n Ke nt

It. It Here are nothing to change Change Including you. So you I you also. Pause. He holds scissor. The barber eats. So do you hear My talk? Stop eat And look at me. Dad Can you hear So— Stop it! Silence. BARBER:

Where did you get the ikameshi?

MAN:

At station.

BARBER:

What station you get it— ?

MAN:

You don’t—

BARBER:

It’s a good taste—

The man holds scissor. And you I remember you always You eat Always eat On that old chair When mother cooked Ikameshi Cooked Mother cooked

MAN:

137

E n osh i ma Is la nd

Mother And you didn’t You didn’t awake Your wife getting sick And that smell Is— I could stand Exhausted, the man sits. The barber ﬁnally ﬁnishes eating. You couldn’t care you wife. I remember you. Long pause. The two do not look at each other. You Always didn’t hear My talking When I was child. Pause. The barber goes to register. The ding of the register startles the man, and he automatically stands. BARBER (at register): That. It’s one thousand

For your trim and shaving. MAN:

You want to You want to Charge for me To me.

BARBER:

Yes. You are my Customer. And if I don’t get from you I can’t eat.

Beat.

138

Ma d e l y n Ke nt

Okay. I understand.

MAN:

He walks to the register, empties his pocket on the counter. Maybe it’s enough For you. He turns to leave. BARBER:

Oh. Here your change.

MAN:

Oh. No thanks.

The man exits. The sound of the door chimes. Lights down.

Scene 2 Lights up. The pier, 10:15 at night. Bench. The sound of water. The man sits on the bench. He has been sitting there for hours, disheveled by the wind. He stares out at the sea. A woman, thirty-ﬁve, walks onstage. She is well dressed, a fur coat. She sits on the other side of the bench. She smokes. Long pause. MAN:

Excuse me.

WOMAN:

Yes.

MAN:

Can you give me a cigarette?

139

E n osh i ma Is la nd

WOMAN:

Oh, sure.

She hands him the pack; he takes one. WOMAN:

Do you need lighter?

She gives him the lighter. Thank you very much.

MAN:

Pause. WOMAN:

Are you waiting for the last ferry?

MAN:

Yes. It’s 10:30.

WOMAN:

10:30. Right.

Long pause. WOMAN:

Is ferry really Punctual? Always punctual?

MAN:

Ah . . . (He nods.)

WOMAN:

Are you living here?

MAN:

No, but I lived here before.

WOMAN:

Oh it is ﬁrst time to come To here So I don’t know Around here. You live before?

MAN:

Yes. I live Here when I was Teenager.

WOMAN:

So, is your family still living on this island?

MAN:

Yes. My father.

140

Ma d e l y n Ke nt

WOMAN:

Good.

MAN:

Do you think— how ’bout this island?

WOMAN:

I love this island.

MAN:

But it’s nothing.

WOMAN:

I love it because it’s nothing.

MAN:

You look gorgeous. There are no shops.

WOMAN:

I don’t want these things all the time. Sometimes I need to be To be like this place Don’t you think so?

MAN:

Yes, I remember the island is Always quiet and beautiful.

WOMAN:

I wish I— Never mind.

She laughs. Long pause. She looks at him. MAN:

Do you Do you Do you eat some Fresh ﬁshes?

WOMAN:

Fish.

MAN:

Fish. It’s famous.

WOMAN:

Yes. I love it.

MAN:

I— Used to ﬁshing with my family when I was child.

141

E n osh i ma Is la nd

WOMAN:

Oh— did you get?

MAN:

Yeah.

WOMAN:

What did you get?

MAN:

We got big (thinking) Cod Codﬁsh— codﬁsh And we After . . . After ﬁshing We eat It was so nice and Delicious.

WOMAN:

Sounds good You had great time When you were child. I envy you.

Long pause. Do you still love this island? MAN:

Ummm . . . I Yes, but I have Not mmm . . . bad memory also I have bad memories of this island I mmm . . .

WOMAN:

But we always Always have Good and bad memories I Can understand.

MAN:

Why do you visit This island?

WOMAN:

To ﬁnd new house.

142

Ma d e l y n Ke nt

MAN:

New house. Oh . . .

WOMAN:

Yes. My family is Moving next month.

MAN:

Do you have children?

WOMAN:

Yes. Two kid, kids.

MAN:

I think it’s good for children To live this island because There is fresh air and stay a lot Of nature.

WOMAN:

I think I think I think too. It is too late for me To live such a beautiful Island. I mean It’s not for me but It’s good For my Kids My husband Chose to live Here except Big city.

MAN:

Your husband is good father.

WOMAN:

Do you think so?

MAN:

I have two children. But I can’t move from Tokyo. They don’t want to move.

WOMAN:

How old are they?

MAN:

My daughter is twenty Twenty And son is eighteen.

143

E n osh i ma Is la nd

WOMAN:

So they have their own life I think. You You can choose your life.

MAN:

To live here Or something? But I want to I think the family Should live Together.

WOMAN:

Are you Are you Do you really think it is good thing It is right thing?

MAN:

I believed it. But now I Don’t know What is the right way It is so hard.

WOMAN:

Neither do I. I don’t know. What makes you so So So Sad or . . . I think something Some thing trapped. Something in your mind.

Pause. So you have to To go Back to Tokyo as Soon as possible. Maybe your wife Is waiting. I don’t think So. My wife doesn’t Waiting for me.

MAN:

144

Ma d e l y n Ke nt

Pause. WOMAN:

It is Careless to talk like that. To talk about it. Do you really Think so?

He thinks. Ummm . . .

MAN:

Pause. WOMAN:

How long have you been here?

MAN:

I’ve been here I went To here This afternoon.

WOMAN:

Maybe you are busy businessman But you have took Too much time To this For here. There’s nothing.

MAN:

Yeah. But my father My old father Live in this island.

WOMAN:

You came to see him?

MAN:

It’s my duty.

WOMAN:

Oh.

Pause. But may it You will You will get You will get your home at midnight.

145

E n osh i ma Is la nd

MAN:

Yeah. They I think they All my family Already Sleepy And not waiting for me. Because I always Work Work at Late.

WOMAN:

You work late?

MAN:

Yes.

WOMAN:

For family or for yourself?

MAN:

It’s a hard question, but I It’s Ummm . . . I have Make a lot of money To For my family.

WOMAN:

You are a good husband? What do you do?

MAN:

I’m I’m a Government ofﬁcial I’m working in industry trade Ministry of Industrial Trade.

WOMAN:

Oh. It sounds difﬁcult. What are you Trading?

MAN:

I trade I mostly trade Trade wines from All over the world.

146

Ma d e l y n Ke nt

WOMAN:

All over the world.

She ﬁxes her hair. Pause. Do you like it? MAN:

Yes. I I I— I— I’m proud of my job.

WOMAN:

I bet you would.

MAN:

I have a dream I want to go a lot of countries to A lot of country Ummm . . . By boat. It’s my pleasure There are a lot of ﬁshing boats Around here And It’s I don’t— I I believe if I I I will I grew up I can do anything.

WOMAN:

You can do it And you really have it now.

Silence. Sound of ferry horn. WOMAN:

It’s time to go.

He looks at watch. 10:30. Yeah.

MAN:

147

E n osh i ma Is la nd

WOMAN:

We better going.

MAN:

Do—

WOMAN:

We can’t miss it It’s last ferry.

MAN:

I know But I can’t.

WOMAN:

You can’t?

MAN:

Please don’t leave me alone.

WOMAN:

But maybe you better Going soon. I’m going. See you later.

She leaves. Wait. Can you Can we talk? Can we talk?

MAN:

She stops. Talking on this bench. WOMAN:

We will miss the ferry.

The ferry blows again. MAN:

Do you really Go on the ferry?

WOMAN:

We have to get going.

MAN:

But I— I— I can’t— I don’t want to go.

148

Ma d e l y n Ke nt

WOMAN:

You want You want You still want to see The ocean?

MAN:

Yeah.

Beat. WOMAN:

Okay. See you Later.

She leaves. The man sits on bench, ﬁxes his eyes on the water. Lights down.

Scene 3 Lights up. Midnight. Moonlight. The woman stands by the dock. The man is walking and sees her. MAN:

Hey. It’s you?

WOMAN:

Hi. Hello again.

MAN:

Why do So you Don’t you get on the boat?

WOMAN:

I missed it.

MAN:

I can’t believe it. It was last ferry.

149

E n osh i ma Is la nd

Pause. WOMAN:

So what am I going To do?

MAN:

Next ferry is seven o’clock In the morning.

WOMAN:

Yeah, I know In the morning. Are you going To take the ferry in The morning?

MAN:

Yes, maybe I will But I can’t decide That now.

WOMAN:

So we We have plenty Plenty of time.

MAN:

What do you Will you Do until then Next ferry?

WOMAN:

Do you know Where is Nice place To spend Spend time? Maybe you You know You know this island More than me.

MAN:

If you need You should Sleep And I know some Place that is Near here.

150

Ma d e l y n Ke nt

WOMAN:

How Can we Get there? By walk Or Should we take a taxi?

MAN:

It’s almost midnight it’s difﬁcult To get A taxi.

WOMAN:

It’s not like Tokyo.

MAN:

If you want To go You have to take A walk Around twenty minutes.

WOMAN:

Do you Do you wanna walk with me?

MAN:

Yes, if you Want.

The man takes the woman’s arm, and they walk. WOMAN:

Which way?

MAN:

That way Is more close.

WOMAN:

You know A shortcut?

MAN:

Yeah there was That was My territory But it’s a little bit of a slope.

WOMAN:

Oh— I don’t care.

They stop for a moment. Did you play here?

151

E n osh i ma Is la nd

MAN:

Yeah. I used to play With my friend We play Tag With my friend.

WOMAN:

Oh. Around here?

MAN:

Yeah. Did you like tag?

WOMAN:

Yeah. I like that.

The distant sound of a man’s voice singing. MAN:

Can you Do you hear?

WOMAN:

Yes. Someone Is singing.

An old man appears. He stumbles, drunk and singing. The man and woman laugh at the drunken man. MAN:

He is singing Enka. “Kyodai-Bune,” Fisher’s Boat for a Brother.

WOMAN:

He’s singing “Kyodai-Bune”? How do you Know that?

MAN:

It’s my father’s favorite Song. It’s noisy.

The drunken man continues to sing. Two brothers Struggling to make a living. It’s trivial.

MAN:

152

Ma d e l y n Ke nt

WOMAN:

It smells awful. (To drunken man) Hey old man Watch out! You almost Slipped into the Ocean.

MAN:

(To drunken man) You should Go back home!

WOMAN:

(To drunken man) Hey you will die Watch out!

The drunken man approaches, singing. They step back, but he moves closer. The man pushes him away. The drunken man stumbles slightly. The woman laughs. WOMAN:

Hey watch out You will die.

The man pushes him again, harder. Hey watch out Old man. The man pushes the drunken man onto the ground. He kicks him several times in the stomach, laughing with the woman. Lights down.

153

E n osh i ma Is la nd

This page intentionally left blank

THE APPEAL Young Jean Lee

THE APPEAL premiered in April 2004 at Soho Rep in New York City. Direction by the author. Music by Matmos. Set and lights by Eric Dyer. Costumes by Tara Webb. Original cast:

WORDSWORTH COLERIDGE DOROTHY BYRON

For Linda Kuwatani

155

Pete Simpson Michael Portnoy Maggie Hoffman James Stanley

Byron is left out. From left to right: Byron (James Stanley), Wordsworth (Pete Simpson), Dorothy (Maggie Hoffman), and Coleridge (Michael Portnoy). Soho Rep, April 2004. Photograph copyright Tara N. Webb.

The electronic musicians Matmos composed original songs for The Appeal, which are referred to in the stage directions. To purchase this CD, contact Matmos at [email protected].

Characters WORDSWORTH DOROTHY COLERIDGE BYRON

156

Yo u ng Je a n L e e

ACT I Time: 1800. Place: Dorothy and William Wordsworth’s cottage in Grasmere. Every scene of Act I (including the ﬁshing, gardening, an hiking scenes) takes place in the same room, which contains only a desk and chair. On the desk is a sheet of paper, a feather, two books, and an unlit candle in a holder.

Scene 1 Lights down. Matmos’s “Jig (Drunk)” starts. Lights fade up slowly on WORDSWORTH writing at his desk. Music fades out. WORDSWORTH stops writing. WORDSWORTH: Ah, my poem is ﬁnished.

Scene 2 WORDSWORTH and COLERIDGE are ﬁshing. WORDSWORTH: What is a poet? COLERIDGE: You and me are poets, Wordsworth, because we write poetry. WORDSWORTH: That’s a simple answer, Coleridge. COLERIDGE: What’s the more sophisticated one. WORDSWORTH: Well, I think a poet is someone who has more sensitivities than other people. COLERIDGE: What sensitivities. WORDSWORTH: Let me tell you what I mean. For example, a base, ordinary man will look at a

frog and just think “frog.” With a poet, it’s completely different. Do you know why? Because he is pleased and satisﬁed to contemplate the spirit of life which ﬂows through himself, so that when he views the frog he sees his own inherent glories reﬂected in that animal. And then it gets even more sophisticated. Because say for example there is no frog. Then the poet can look at a frog in his imagination and see his glories reﬂected therein. Pause.

157

The Appeal

COLERIDGE: Why does he have to look at a frog? WORDSWORTH: He doesn’t. COLERIDGE: Why can’t he look at a chair? WORDSWORTH: He can. COLERIDGE: Well, if he can look at a chair, then why does he have to pretend he’s looking at

a frog? Why doesn’t he just look at whatever happens to be around him and see his glories reﬂected therein? It makes no sense. WORDSWORTH: You didn’t let me get to the even more sophisticated part. COLERIDGE: How can I let you go on to the more sophisticated part when the ﬁrst level of it

makes no sense? You can’t just layer one sophisticated thing on top of the other after another because you feel like it. WORDSWORTH: I can’t help it that you’re too stupid to understand my concepts, Coleridge. If

I made them less confusing, then it wouldn’t be the same ideas. COLERIDGE: Okay, so what’s the second level of sophistication? WORDSWORTH: When we last left off, the poet was looking at the frog in his imagination and

seeing his glories reﬂected therein. An ordinary, base man also has the capability to look at a frog in his imagination, but he can’t feel any passion about it, because he isn’t looking at a real frog, whereas the poet can have a passion about the imaginary frog that is almost as good as the passion he would feel about the real frog. This makes him good at expressing what he thinks and feels. Pause. COLERIDGE: I don’t want to talk about this anymore. WORDSWORTH: Okay. COLERIDGE: I want to talk about something I’m interested in, which is what’s the difference

between fancy and the imagination. WORDSWORTH: Okay. COLERIDGE: Average people like you think that fancy and imagination are synonyms for the

same thing, or that they represent the high and low ends of one concept. But no. They are two distinct things. I can’t think of anything that is less like the Greek word Phantasia than the Latin word Imaginatio, but in society there is a secret shared impulse

158

Yo u ng Je a n L e e

to make things better, and so that impulse has been trying to make the two words fancy and imagination be more different. A bunch of dialects supplied them to the more homogenous languages like Greek and German, and also the same things happened in mixed languages like ours for the same reason, but also because of accidents of translation from original works of different countries. WORDSWORTH: I can’t understand anything you’re saying. COLERIDGE: Okay, dummy. All I’m saying is that fancy and imagination started out being the

same thing, but that society, which is always moving toward the better, has been stretching them apart to make them different over the years. WORDSWORTH: Why do you say it in a confusing way? COLERIDGE: It’s not confusing—you’re just stupid. WORDSWORTH: You’re stupid! You couldn’t understand anything I was saying. COLERIDGE: You couldn’t understand anything I was saying.

Scene 3 DOROTHY is gardening and writing in her journal. WORDSWORTH enters. DOROTHY: Hi Wordsworth. WORDSWORTH: Hi Dorothy, my sister. DOROTHY: Will you hoe the beets. WORDSWORTH: Okay.

WORDSWORTH hoes beets. COLERIDGE enters, whistling. Aah, the birds of the ﬁeld, toil not nor labor do they spin. DOROTHY: Hi Coleridge. COLERIDGE: Hi Dorothy, hi Wordsworth.

159

The Appeal

WORDSWORTH: Hi Coleridge. I don’t know what, but I think that nature is making me have a

nature inside that writes poetry. Uhh . . . oh, I remember. So I take one look at these refreshing beets and the good ones start pouring out of me in measured strain, and it made me like a holy priest, blessed for the day. And then, uhh . . . everyone will remember it because I wrote it down. And then, uhh . . . oh yeah that thing inside me again, but I don’t remember what it did. Uhhh . . . oh yeah that’s right my voice was saying stuff and then there was an inside voice that was better and it echoed the outside, inferior voice and I liked how it sounds. Listen to my theory. There is an outside one and an inside one, and they match. It makes sense. COLERIDGE: What are you talking about. WORDSWORTH: Okay, dummy. If I look at these beets, they look refreshing, right? COLERIDGE: So? WORDSWORTH: So, the beets are the outside thing, and my genius to write poems is the inside

thing, and then it’s like a call-and-response, where the beets look refreshing and then my genius comes out and writes a poem. Pause. COLERIDGE: Do you want to hear my new poem. DOROTHY: Oh, yes. COLERIDGE: Once upon a time I went to a wedding. I was normal, but the crazy man jumps

to me and goes, “Bla bla bla” until I threatened to staff him one. The crazy one said (gruff voice), “I want to tell you” (normal voice), and I said, “Tell me some fun ones,” but he hypnotized me and I fell down. So the old man said (gruff voice), “The ship goed away all happy, and then the sun goed up and then the sun goed down and then the sun goed up and then the sun goed down.” (Normal voice.) At this point I beat my chest because I heard the bassoon and remembered about the fun ones, but what can I do? And then the crazy guy says (gruff voice), “What happens is that it rains and goes crazy, and then the ’nother ones and ’nother ones come all ice and cracking noises, and then there is a bird. We call the bird by its name, ‘Hi, Chico’ and then gived it worms from the cookie-biscuits, so then the ice makes a big crack from the thunderstorm, and we goed through it.” (Normal voice.) Then I said, “Why are you going so crazy?” and he said (gruff voice), “I shooted it that bird with my crossbow.” Then—

160

Yo u ng Je a n L e e

WORDSWORTH: So then the ancient mariner said (gruff voice), “Yar! Ahoy! I wanted to take a

break from my poetry, so I goes to a green place and sits and looks around, and there is the sun going this way and that way. So then I think, Should I choose this way or that way to go? And then I look into my mind’s eye, and there is a cottage that my fancy paints pictureful.” COLERIDGE: You ruined my poem, Wordsworth. WORDSWORTH: So. COLERIDGE: I don’t like it.

Pause. DOROTHY: I have a story. It’s about what I did yesterday and the day before yesterday. The day

before yesterday the weather was this way and that way, and then the rain didn’t let me go for a walk. The next day the weather was warm and mild, so I walked to Pokey’s house with an armload of books and gathered some soft plants along the way. Then I wished I had a botany book so that I could list all the different ones I saw. I saw a red ﬂower and a blue ﬂower and a green ﬂower. And then I went round by the stepping stones, and the weather was this way and that way. WORDSWORTH: That’s not a story it’s a description.

Scene 4 Matmos’s “Emmy (Full)” starts. WORDSWORTH, COLERIDGE, and DOROTHY hike around the stage with walking sticks, jumping over an imaginary stream, looking out into the horizon, crawling under the desk, etc. WORDSWORTH and COLERIDGE are completely absorbed in each other. WORDSWORTH helps COLERIDGE jump over a “stream” and they high-ﬁve each other, while Dorothy struggles over alone.

Scene 5 WORDSWORTH, COLERIDGE, and DOROTHY are having tea. COLERIDGE: When it is three people speaking, it is hard because it doesn’t just go back and

forth.

161

The Appeal

DOROTHY: We can’t even differentiate from between us, except for Wordsworth is obsessed

with nature and has an abnormal name. COLERIDGE: But the real question is: why are we having tea? WORDSWORTH: I haven’t spoken for a while. DOROTHY: Go on. WORDSWORTH: Shut up! I’m going to try to muster a long speech, here. Okay. Okay. So the tea

could be symbolic. Long pause. DOROTHY: It’s not a long speech if you just stop. WORDSWORTH: It would be a long speech if you would quit interrupting me. COLERIDGE: Yeah! WORDSWORTH: Okay, so here’s the thing. I’m too mortiﬁed by all of this to even continue. I

don’t even know if I can make a long speech, because my motivation is so stupid. COLERIDGE: Isn’t that a form of laziness, to say that everything you do is so stupid? It’s like

covering your bases so that you can never be accused of being deluded, but it’s lazy thinking because you never have to separate the wheat from the chaff. Pause. DOROTHY: I can’t believe how slowly it all goes. COLERIDGE: Shouldn’t there be a story? WORDSWORTH: What, you mean like one that you make up? COLERIDGE: Yeah, I guess so. A made-up story. WORDSWORTH: I can’t, because my heart is broken. DOROTHY: Why is your heart broken? COLERIDGE: That’s a dead end. It looks as though I’m going to have to step in. Here’s what

we’ll do. First, we’ll remark upon the tea, each with our own distinct personality. Since I am already starting to be practical and businesslike, I will begin, and even attempt to incorporate a story, which is the hardest thing of all. (Pause.) The water is rising,

162

Yo u ng Je a n L e e

but we are safe in this garden. Let’s build a raft so that when the water is at a more safer level, then we can row out and attempt to save our lives. DOROTHY: How nice to have a leader to follow! COLERIDGE: Shut up! You’re ruining it! DOROTHY: Oh, sorry. (Pause.) But I’m too scared to go out on the water. COLERIDGE: There is nothing to fear but fear itself. DOROTHY: Now you’re ruining it! WORDSWORTH: Why can’t anything ever just work out? You start trying to do something well

and then it just fucks up. DOROTHY: We could remark upon the physical properties of the sandwiches. COLERIDGE: The question that haunts me is what’s going to happen next. Because there’s

always something that you have to do to ﬁx things. WORDSWORTH: Not always. COLERIDGE: What are you talking about, Wordsworth? Do you even know which words are

coming out of your mouth? WORDSWORTH: This is straightforward and not oblique. What could be more shameful? COLERIDGE: Shame! This is shameful! DOROTHY: Oh, shame, shame. COLERIDGE: Good! We’re building up a kind of chorus of intertwining words. It’s very, very

good, and I like it. WORDSWORTH: It’s taking too long! I want to shut out the light! DOROTHY: It’s almost here! COLERIDGE: We still have a little ways to go. WORDSWORTH: Should we make any of the traditional gestures? COLERIDGE: (To Dorothy.) Hey, Honora!

163

The Appeal

DOROTHY: What? COLERIDGE: Your name just changed. DOROTHY: It did? To what? COLERIDGE: To Honus. (pronounced “hoe-nuss”)

Scene 6 WORDSWORTH, COLERIDGE, and DOROTHY are having tea. Matmos’s “Jig (Rock)” starts. COLERIDGE puts opium in their tea and they drink it. They start hallucinating and DOROTHY and COLERIDGE stagger to different corners of the room. WORDSWORTH takes off his shirt and lies on his back on top of the desk, knocking things on the ﬂoor. He sticks his hand down his pants. They masturbate furiously. DOROTHY spanks herself with her diary. Lights out.

Scene 7 In the darkness. WORDSWORTH: (Reciting.)

And before hell mouth; dry plain and two mountains; On the one mountain, a running form, and another In the turn of the hill; in hard steel The road like a slow screw’s thread, The angle almost imperceptible, so that the circuit seemed hardly to rise; And the running form, naked, Blake, Shouting, whirling his arms, the swift limbs,

164

Yo u ng Je a n L e e

Howling against the evil, his eyes rolling, Whirling like ﬂaming cart-wheels, and his head held backward to gaze on the evil As he ran from it, to be hid by the steel mountain, And when he showed again from the north side; his eyes blazing toward hell mouth, His neck forward, and like him Peire Cardinal. And in the west mountain, Il Fiorentino, Seeing hell in his mirror, and lo Sordels Looking on it in his shield; And augustine, gazing toward the invisible.1

Scene 8 Lights up. The room is in disarray. DOROTHY and WORDSWORTH are badly hungover. DOROTHY: You’re a total and complete fucking moron. WORDSWORTH: What? DOROTHY: What. WORDSWORTH: You just said that I was a total and complete fucking moron. DOROTHY: Oh. I was talking to myself. WORDSWORTH: Oh. (Pause.) Why don’t we have any fucking medicine? DOROTHY: I wish someone would come and just take me away from here. WORDSWORTH: Where is the medicine, Dorothy. DOROTHY: The frogs.

1. Ezra Pound, “Canto XVI,” The Cantos of Ezra Pound (New York: New Directions, 1973), 68.

165

The Appeal

WORDSWORTH: Dorothy. DOROTHY: The frogs! WORDSWORTH: My head. DOROTHY: Five pigs. WORDSWORTH: I thought there was medicine. DOROTHY: Two ﬁsh. One dog. WORDSWORTH: Be quiet, Dorothy. DOROTHY: There’s a rat somewhere and the animals keep coming. WORDSWORTH: It makes my head hurt. DOROTHY: The animals keep coming at me. WORDSWORTH: (Groaning.) Ooh. DOROTHY: Five bears go into a house. The ﬁrst bear says, “Where’s my mom?” and the second

bear says, “Fuck you, you don’t need any mom,” and the other one says, “This is all meaningless. I want some meaning.” WORDSWORTH: That’s really awful, Dorothy. DOROTHY: There is no monkey. WORDSWORTH: Shut up shut up. DOROTHY: How many buffalo do you have? Why are there so many animals? I don’t know

where the elephants are! WORDSWORTH groans. Pause. Here’s the thing. Can you forget the past and the future and concentrate on the present, which feels like a blinding white light. The blinding white light tries to wipe everything out but it can’t. It just keeps you awake in the early morning hours while you have a headache and are trying not to remember things. But your mind keeps strategizing and you can’t fall back asleep.

166

Yo u ng Je a n L e e

WORDSWORTH: What does that have to do with Coleridge. DOROTHY: I’m getting to that. When you have a headache, you can’t block out the past and

the future in a blinding white light, because once you get inside the blinding white light, what you have is present physical sensation, and if you’re unhealthy or sick or a drunk like me, then you have this weird feeling that is bad. And so all that work blocking out the past and the future goes to nothing, because the most presentest of present moments feels like complete and total shit. And it doesn’t matter because the memories of past humiliations always creep in anyway. WORDSWORTH: There’s a clog somewhere. DOROTHY: No there isn’t. WORDSWORTH: Before I knew what to do, but now there’s a clog. DOROTHY: What clog. WORDSWORTH: I want access to the good stuff, but I don’t know if I’m getting it or not. I feel

like I might not be getting access to the good stuff, but I have no way of knowing. What I want to know is how does one get access to the good stuff. DOROTHY: It’s very simple, dummy. If you try to think of something off the top of your head

that comes from deep within your psyche, what you get is animals. Chickens and monkeys and cows and stuff. It’s true. Why are animals coming out? Who knows. Pause. WORDSWORTH: Maybe it’s just you. DOROTHY: Huh? WORDSWORTH: Maybe it’s just you that has animals in your psyche. DOROTHY: No, it’s everyone.

Long pause. I hate you! WORDSWORTH: You hate me? DOROTHY: No, I was saying it to myself.

167

The Appeal

Scene 9 WORDSWORTH puts the room in order. He sits down at his desk and writes. WORDSWORTH: (Putting down his pen.) Ah, my poem is ﬁnished. (To audience.) Hi, my name

is William Wordsworth. You might have heard of me. I’m one of the poets known as English Romantic. Other Romantic poets include Blake, Coleridge, Byron, Shelley, and Keats. We all existed in the nineteenth century. I’ll tell you a little more about us later, but right now I’m going to tell the story of my life. (Pause.) Oh, but I have a problem. Not the sky, nor the birds, nor the bush, nor the breeze can erase this problem that I have, and who knows if it will be ﬁxed or not. That is the question. Will the problem be ﬁxed, or will the problem not be ﬁxed? Here is the problem. Coleridge and I are in a ﬁght. Stay tuned for further details. DOROTHY enters. DOROTHY: Hi Wordsworth. WORDSWORTH: Hi Dorothy my sister. DOROTHY: Wordsworth, are you and Coleridge still in a ﬁght? WORDSWORTH: Yes, Dorothy. DOROTHY: Will the problem be ﬁxed, or will it not be ﬁxed? WORDSWORTH: I don’t know, my sister. DOROTHY: Well, Coleridge is outside right now, so why don’t we bring him inside and then

you two can make up? WORDSWORTH: Okay.

DOROTHY exits. (To audience.) Let me tell you some more about the English Romantic poets. Blake was the ﬁrst one, and some people say that he doesn’t count because he was something else, but I think he counts because I don’t know. Here is what Blake was like. COLERIDGE enters as BLAKE with furious expression on his face, whirling his arms like windmills. One time, Blake and I met each other.

168

Yo u ng Je a n L e e

WORDSWORTH goes over to BLAKE. Hi, Blake. BLAKE ignores him, whirls arms, etc. What’s the matter with you? BLAKE ignores him, whirls arms, etc. You’re too crazy for me. I don’t care about your poetry. WORDSWORTH pushes BLAKE offstage. DOROTHY enters with COLERIDGE. DOROTHY: Here’s Coleridge. WORDSWORTH: Hi, Coleridge. COLERIDGE: I’m mad at you, Wordsworth. WORDSWORTH: Why? COLERIDGE: I’m not going to say. WORDSWORTH: Can’t we make up now? COLERIDGE: No. WORDSWORTH: Let’s make up, Coleridge. COLERIDGE: No I won’t. DOROTHY: I have some things I have to do in the other room.

DOROTHY exits. WORDSWORTH: Coleridge, are we not fellow brothers? COLERIDGE: We’re not brothers. WORDSWORTH: Oh, Coleridge, does not our brothership go far deeper than mere ﬂesh and

bone?

169

The Appeal

COLERIDGE: How? WORDSWORTH: We are poet-brothers, my dear Coleridge, and this bond can never be dis-

placed, because it is a brothership of my spirit. COLERIDGE: So what. WORDSWORTH: Oh, Coleridge, how can you be so blind. Do you not know what it means to be

a true poet? COLERIDGE: Of course I know. WORDSWORTH: Sometimes I wonder if you do. COLERIDGE: That’s an insult!

COLERIDGE knocks everything off the desk and exits. WORDSWORTH: (To audience.) Oh no. I was trying to make things better with Coleridge, but I

only made them worse. DOROTHY enters. DOROTHY: What happened. WORDSWORTH: I was trying to make things better with Coleridge, but I only made them

worse. DOROTHY: Maybe it will help if I talk to him. WORDSWORTH: The suspense is too much for me, Dorothy. Will the problem be ﬁxed, or will

it not be ﬁxed? Will we ever be able to ﬁnd out why Coleridge is mad? DOROTHY: Don’t worry, Wordsworth. I’ll go talk to him.

DOROTHY exits. WORDSWORTH: Oops, I almost forgot to tell you about Byron. He was considered as a rock mu-

sician in our time. Once I met him at a big party in London. COLERIDGE enters as BYRON, holding a glass of champagne. Hi Byron. BYRON: Who are you?

170

Yo u ng Je a n L e e

Teatime at the Wordsworths’. From left to right: Dorothy (Maggie Hoffman), Coleridge (Michael Portnoy), and Wordsworth (Pete Simpson). Soho Rep, April 2004. Photograph copyright Tara N. Webb.

WORDSWORTH: I’m Wordsworth. BYRON: I know you. You’re the one who wrote those namby-pamby poems.

Pause. What are you staring at, you stinking tax collector? WORDSWORTH: I can’t help being a tax collector. I have to support my family. BYRON: You must be pretty shocked to meet someone who tells things like it is. I have an-

other shocking one, too. You’ve never heard any news like this before. The Prime Minister, Spencer Perceval, has just been assassinated in the House of Commons. WORDSWORTH is very shocked. BYRON exits. WORDSWORTH: That’s when I knew that I was really in the toast of things.

171

The Appeal

Scene 10 COLERIDGE and DOROTHY are standing together. WORDSWORTH enters with COLERIDGE’s suitcases, throws them on the ﬂoor, and sits behind his desk. COLERIDGE picks up his bags. DOROTHY: Goodbye, Coleridge. COLERIDGE: Goodbye, Dorothy. (COLERIDGE bangs WORDSWORTH’s chair with his suitcase

as he passes it.) Goodbye, Wordsworth. WORDSWORTH: Bye-bye, fuckface!

COLERIDGE exits. DOROTHY goes over to WORDSWORTH. DOROTHY: Are you all right? WORDSWORTH: Yes. DOROTHY: Do you want to go for a walk? WORDSWORTH: No. (Pause.) I wasn’t an asshole, was I? (Pause.) Was I an asshole?

Pause. DOROTHY: No . . . WORDSWORTH: I was trying to be really nice to him. DOROTHY: I know. You were trying to be really nice. WORDSWORTH: But I feel bad.

Pause. DOROTHY: Listen. The title of the song we’re listening to is “Allegra Dolce Amore Conquista.”

Mozart scratched all these songs on a stone wall when he was in a mental institution, and from the outside, from this cold, clinical, pristine place of distance, where it’s just this cold image in your mind, it seems beautiful. But in reality, the way it felt, I don’t

172

Yo u ng Je a n L e e

know, maybe it was beautiful then as well. Maybe the people who look so beautiful from the outside, like they’re propelled by this force of nature, this weird animalistic mindless energy, maybe that feels like nothing. Maybe it feels like air, like time passing without knowing it, like empty time, like empty time with . . . that is full—that is empty of your mind and ego and full of experience, of moment-to-moment experience of the physical, of the— things come in, images and events and people and whatever, and they just go in and there is no ﬁlter, there is no self-consciousness. (Pause.) Your life will be ﬁlled with laughter and beauty, and it will be at the expense of whatever idiots and victims may fall on your path. Lights out. Matmos’s “In a Ring” plays during transition to act II.

ACT II Time: A month later. Place: Byron’s castle in the Higher Alps, and its environs, represented by a room containing only a red velvet sofa with two books at its feet.

Scene 1 WORDSWORTH, DOROTHY, and BYRON are eating dessert. BYRON is much more formally dressed than WORDSWORTH and DOROTHY and wears a ridiculously high, stiff collar. BYRON: I can’t go crazy with the storage and the cheapness—it has to be attractive. Does it

have to be natural wood to look good, or can it be birch? The natural wood shelves are cheapest, but the natural wood furniture is more expensive. Don’t they have to match? I could get birch furniture and match it with birch shelves—maybe that would be cheaper because shelves are cheaper than furniture. But then again, maybe I need a lot of shelves. For the desk I can use the big desk, the little sofa table, or the unﬁnished wood table. For the dining table I can use the little sofa table, the unﬁnished wood table, or the glazed wood table. The sofa table may be too small and too low, and the big desk may be too ugly. If I got the natural tables, then they would be pretty big, but then they could match with natural wood shelves. But wouldn’t fake birch look better with the metal stuff I’m getting for sure?

173

The Appeal

WORDSWORTH stands up abruptly. WORDSWORTH: (Shouting.) You only want to talk about furniture! BYRON: So. DOROTHY: Oh, Byron, you invited Wordsworth and me here to your castle in the Alps.

Scene 2 BYRON and WORDSWORTH are sitting together. BYRON looks uncomfortable. WORDSWORTH: I have this idea in my head of a person who is like a membrane ﬁlled with

stuff, and the membrane is all self-contained and okay, and the person doesn’t humiliate themselves. But with me it’s the opposite. I can’t seem to control my mouth or body or anything, and something that I’m doing is always slightly wrong. I don’t know how to deﬁne it. BYRON: Oh. WORDSWORTH: I constantly make these ejaculations of noise. BYRON: Ah. WORDSWORTH: It’s when you remember a humiliation and then say something like “I hate

you” or repeat fragments of a conversation in your head. It’s an instinctive response, and I’ve started to do it even in public. BYRON: Oh? WORDSWORTH: Everything sucks! BYRON: Ah . . . WORDSWORTH: Everything! BYRON: Oh.

BYRON starts looking at a book.

174

Yo u ng Je a n L e e

WORDSWORTH: Because I’m horribly, terribly sick. Do you know how you can have some kind

of emotional problem and everything seems awful? But then you get a physical problem and you remember how good it is when you don’t have a physical problem and how easy everything should be as long as you don’t have a physical problem. BYRON: (Looking at the book.) Ah. WORDSWORTH: Why can’t you feel your own luck? When people are beggars and sleeping on

church lawns, why can’t you appreciate what you have and stop feeling so sorry for yourself and so horrible, like life is a nightmare? I wonder if other people ever get that feeling—that life is a nightmare and it won’t end. That something is weird and wrong and immoral and sinister, and that concrete things don’t exist. Pause. BYRON: I think that Shakespeare was in my house.

Scene 3 Matmos’s “Jig (Full)” starts. DOROTHY enters on one side of the stage and BYRON leaps onstage from the other side. BYRON does a fancy jig all around the room while DOROTHY watches. BYRON starts dancing with DOROTHY, abandons her in a frenzy of solo dance, and then awkwardly grabs her in an amorous embrace.

Scene 4 DOROTHY and BYRON are drinking. DOROTHY is looking adoringly at BYRON, while BYRON looks detached. DOROTHY: I don’t know how to feel anymore. That was not a true statement. That just popped

out of my subconscious. BYRON: Have you been enjoying your stay here, Dorothy?

175

The Appeal

DOROTHY: Oh, Byron, this morning I went into a room that had ﬂayed fox and badger pelts

all spread out hanging in glass cases and nobody was in the room, and it was horrible. (Pause.) Oh, Byron, will you recite one of your poems to me? BYRON: Uh, sure. (Pause.)

Ching Chong Chinaman Chinkety-Ching Wing wong wang wung Bing Bang Bing Ching Chong Chinaman Chinkety-Chang Bing bong bang bung Wing Wong Wang DOROTHY: Oh. BYRON: What’s wrong, Dorothy. DOROTHY: It’s just this fear, this horrible fear, of having something lovely and dreamed of and

hoped for snatched away from me because of this veil of illusion striped over my eyes. BYRON: What?

Scene 5 WORDSWORTH, DOROTHY, and BYRON are having tea. WORDSWORTH cries out in anguish. BYRON tries to caress DOROTHY’s arm but she slaps his hand away. DOROTHY is wearing a big fur muff, and throughout the scene she squirms her hands around in the muff and sucks her teeth loudly. BYRON is weirded out by them. WORDSWORTH: I wish I could capture the essence of this messiness. Clean is when you get up

in the morning and do things that you need to do and comport yourself in a natural and blameless manner. I feel that the rest of the world operates this way, although I know that many people have problems with motivation. But the natural and blameless manner seems rampant among anyone whom I admire.

176

Yo u ng Je a n L e e

BYRON: The distinction is not clear to me between the blameless manner and the blameful one. WORDSWORTH: It’s bad. It’s very, very bad. Then there is the saddest thing of all, which is

the horrible sadness from knowing that I will not be hanging out with Coleridge tonight and getting all of the wonderful things that came to me last month when he was visiting. BYRON: There is no reason why you shouldn’t feel better. WORDSWORTH: Yes, I am sick. Yes, I cannot speak. But I am lucky, lucky, lucky, and everyone

knows and hates me for it. (Pause.) I feel like a boil, a blot on the face of the earth. This is the way that rich people feel sometimes, and they are the lowest of the low. (Offended.) BYRON: Maybe you are talking to the wrong person. I no longer have any kind of good sense

for things. WORDSWORTH: I’m sick.

When you’re sick, you remember how much better it was to be well, but when you’re well, you’re so crippled by mental anguish that you feel sick, even though it’s not the same thing at all. The horror is when people get sick and stay that way all the time, or when you discover ﬁve small, round, bald spots on your head and nobody can explain why. But here’s an interesting question: is the mental anguish that comes from cosmetic aberration the equivalent of the physical pain that comes from being really sick? There are always shades upon shades, and I’m sick of it. BYRON: That’s nothing. WORDSWORTH: What is? BYRON: Your problems. My problem is much bigger. WORDSWORTH: What is it? BYRON: I have an anxiety. WORDSWORTH: What anxiety.

Pause. BYRON: I’m afraid of what it would be like if I had microscopes for eyes.

177

The Appeal

WORDSWORTH: That will never happen. BYRON: Don’t you see why it would be such a terror to have microscopes for eyes? WORDSWORTH: I guess so, but it will never happen. BYRON: The fact that one can even think it—it creates a horrifying sense of possibility.

Scene 6 DOROTHY is lying with her head in BYRON’s lap. They are both drunk and continue to drink throughout the scene. BYRON: This is my secret place that I go to when I need to be alone. A cottage among the

Bernese Alps. DOROTHY: Ooh.

Pause. BYRON: Have you ever had a cold, drunk alcohol on top of that cold, and then woken up the

next morning? DOROTHY: I’m not much of a drinker. BYRON: It gives you a weird feeling. DOROTHY: That’s why I don’t drink. BYRON: It doesn’t let you access things. DOROTHY: Try. BYRON: Okay, faces blowing up in the moonlight. Chickens crowing to kingdom come please

mother won’t you give me some camphor, bicarbonate of soda, whatever, I can’t seem to stop myself. Angels hovering in the midair with their middies drawn tight about their supple waists and this is bullshit bullshit bullshit and I can’t seem to stop myself I can’t seem to stop when will this end? What is this bullshit these explosions these implosions of sound where you remember past humiliations and explode. Past humiliations including engaging in physical things with someone and then putting your foot on their chair in a proprietary way and then having them avoid you and ignore you and not respond to any of your attempts to solicit a response.

178

Yo u ng Je a n L e e

DOROTHY: Oh, Byron. BYRON: This is what I want I want cleanliness and purity and everything to be in order and

for my personality to stay within certain outlines certain parameters certain outlines a shape of what a person is supposed to be is supposed to be without humiliating themselves or sending out tentacles of dirtiness into the world where things become contaminated by their desire, their weakness, their selﬁshness, their greed, all of the things that make them despicable and make them want to shout out their own inadequacies into the stillness of the expensive loaned-out castle with the swanky neighbors who have their secrets their threatening secrets that may not be very good secrets at all but rather something that makes you feel dull. DOROTHY: Oh, Byron, you sound like Wordsworth.

Scene 7 COLERIDGE: Nobody understands the torture and the misery. Why is this happening to me?

Why has it never been this bad before? I want to kill myself now more than ever. The misery and the torture, the torture and the misery. Why is this happening to me? Okay, let me think of a catalog of my miseries. There are too many, they are all pressing against the inside of my head like a poison cloud of horror. How many things are hurting me, pressing me? How many things are going to kill me? Now I want to kill myself because . . . Because I’m thinking I’m thinking because I don’t know my mind is a blank because because because because because this language sounds horrible and good speaking requires thought, some kind of gelling or maturation process in the head that makes it ﬁlter through the intelligence instead of . . . Why do I want to kill myself? I want to kill myself because I feel that I had ﬁnally, for the ﬁrst time in my life, pumped my ego up close to the point where I had always dreamed of pumping it, like a kind of pinnacle of ego-pumpedness that reaches/touches close to my soul in a way that it never had before because I was doing things that were far away from my intents and degrees. Let me list all the ways. Let me list all the wonderful, precious moments. There were all of the moments in which Dorothy expressed her attraction to me and ﬂirted with me. There was the moment when Wordsworth hit my leg and then told me to sue him. There was the moment when Dorothy and Wordsworth invited me to come to Grasmere. There was the moment when Wordsworth smiled at me in the garden as

179

The Appeal

if he were really glad to see me and liked me, and all of the subsequent smiles that looked like that, like the second day I was there, the day after I ﬂirted with Dorothy in the hills, or some other day like Thursday after I’d ﬂirted with her the week before, I think. That is the painful thing.

Scene 8 WORDSWORTH and DOROTHY are drinking and laughing. BYRON sits apart from them, looking left out and miserable. WORDSWORTH: (To Dorothy.) What about the allies? DOROTHY: Oh, ha ha! WORDSWORTH: Are they allies or enemies?

DOROTHY and WORDSWORTH laugh. COLERIDGE enters, drinking. DOROTHY: Le bel esprit comme on sait fut de tout temps l’ennemi le plus perﬁde du génie.

DOROTHY and COLERIDGE clink glasses. WORDSWORTH: Oh, Dorothy! Which reminds me, I found this in the gutter today. (He takes a

folded scrap of paper out of his pocket and reads.) “The following letter hath laid before me many great and manifest evils in the world of letters which I had overlooked; but they open to me a very busy scene, and it will require no small care and application to amend errors which are become so universal.” (Pause.) I just ﬁnd it so interesting, this idea of letters. COLERIDGE: Yeah, letters. DOROTHY: Letters are interesting. WORDSWORTH: “World of letters.” Does that sound weird to you? Or am I just being retarded? COLERIDGE: I don’t think you’re being retarded. I think it’s a strange wording. DOROTHY: “World of letters.” Yeah, I guess that’s kind of weird.

180

Yo u ng Je a n L e e

WORDSWORTH: Also “a very busy scene.” I kind of like that. It reminds me of that poem—do

you remember the one?—in which all of the people are running around. DOROTHY: No, I don’t remember. COLERIDGE: Yeah, me neither. WORDSWORTH: Oh well. I guess I’ll stop boring you now.

Everyone except BYRON laughs. COLERIDGE: Hey, I wonder if there’s any after-dinner sherry.

Pause while everyone looks at BYRON, who refuses to look at anyone. DOROTHY: Hey, Byron, Coleridge just asked if there’s sherry.

BYRON abruptly gets up and leaves the room. WORDSWORTH: Hum. DOROTHY: I guess there’s no sherry. COLERIDGE: That’s okay. I’m starting to get drunk anyway.

Everyone laughs. Which reminds me, has anyone read anything good lately? DOROTHY: Wordsworth and I have been rereading Virgil’s Eclogues. WORDSWORTH: Those Eclogues really piss me off. DOROTHY: Oh, Wordsworth. WORDSWORTH: The only reason Corydon wins in Eclogue 7 is that someone has to win for the

purposes of dramatic smoothery. What kind of bullshit is that. COLERIDGE: No, he’s right. Because of that dead heat in Eclogue 3, Corydon has to win in

Eclogue 7. DOROTHY: The thing that makes labor stuff valuable is how much . . . uh . . . how much you

value that other stuff, which is something about necessity. Let’s talk about that.

181

The Appeal

Pause. WORDSWORTH: Or, to put it another way, “Wordsworth is right.”

Everyone laughs.

Scene 9 BYRON: Oh boy. The pain is so bad I don’t even know if I can speak.

So you get this feeling that the cycle of the past is going to repeat itself over and over, and you can never believe that it is happening again. All I want to do is go into the other room and reach out and be reached by a human being. But I can’t. And all the while my mind is calculating, calculating, to use this for material, and already the burden is lifting. Is this . . . I can’t say such a stupid thing. This is what happened . . . there are too many things that happened. What am I feeling right now? I am panicking because I am afraid that Wordsworth thinks that I am a psychopath asshole loser undesirable person and that everyone is talking about me behind my back and that I am going to be told that my presence is no longer desired. I am afraid that Wordsworth is talking to everyone behind my back saying that I am too unstable. I want to talk to him so badly and be reassured, but if I go back into the dining room then he will avoid me and I will not say a word but he will see that I am there and it will enhance this idea that I am a stalker. But if that’s what he’s already thinking then why not go on? What more damage could I do? Perhaps this will be the thing that drives me over the edge in his mind as someone who is crazy, and right now he has a lesser idea of my craziness. There is this panic, this incredibly intense panic that you’ve lost everything. That you’ve lost everything through your complete inability to understand what you must do. It’s my house, so maybe I can go back in there. Are they talking about poetry right now? What the fuck is going on? Did they ﬁnd the sherry? Will it be weird if I go back in there? I just want to go back in there. I just want to go back in there.

182

Yo u ng Je a n L e e

Scene 10 WORDSWORTH, DOROTHY, and COLERIDGE are still drinking. COLERIDGE: There are still things that we need, like another process that pushes things down

after things become hard, and in the case of the ﬁrst pushdown, which is the second case, that the pushing happens one time and then another time. WORDSWORTH: Oh no, Dorothy, look what we’ve started!

Everyone laughs. BYRON enters very suddenly and just stands there. Everyone ignores him. DOROTHY: The plant brain is capable only of an idée ﬁxe, which is why I’m more interested

in plant feelings. COLERIDGE: Are you calling me a vegetable, Dorothy?

COLERIDGE tickles DOROTHY, who she squeals and tickles him back. DOROTHY: (Pulling away.) Oh, oh! I almost forgot! I have a surprise!

DOROTHY exits. Pause. WORDSWORTH: Hello there, Byron. BYRON: Hello. WORDSWORTH: Would you like some sherry? BYRON: All right.

BYRON pours sherry. COLERIDGE: Don’t drink it all! I plan on having a second glass.

BYRON stops pouring. COLERIDGE takes the bottle and ﬁlls his own glass to the brim.

183

The Appeal

WORDSWORTH: Why don’t you have a seat? BYRON: All right.

He sits. COLERIDGE: Cigar? BYRON: All right.

COLERIDGE opens a cigar box and hands Byron a cigar, taking out two more for Wordsworth and himself. He lights all three. WORDSWORTH: (Smoking contentedly.) Aah . . . Coleridge, do you remember that 1881 La Flor

de La Isabela Robusto we shared on the boat in Spain? COLERIDGE: As I recall, it was a bit dry on the ﬁnish. WORDSWORTH: No, that was the Corona. The Robusto had bite. COLERIDGE: Oh, that’s right. It had some bite. WORDSWORTH: It was like the future of England, Coleridge, which is so glorious and will only

become more so. (Pause.) So, Byron, Dorothy tells me that you’re writing a poem that makes fun of everything and everyone. BYRON: I— I suppose so. WORDSWORTH: Well, you seem like a fairly satirical type of person. I’m not being too . . . per-

sonal, am I? BYRON: (Nervously pufﬁng on his cigar.) Come to think of it, I think I’ve had the 1881 La Flor

de La Isabela before. (Pause.) (He clears his throat.) Wordsworth, I heard you’re working on a new poem as well. WORDSWORTH: Why, yes, I am. COLERIDGE: (Getting up.) Do you mind if I get the port from the other room? BYRON: Oh, sure.

COLERIDGE exits. Pause.

184

Yo u ng Je a n L e e

I . . . I think your poems are so wonderful, Wordsworth. WORDSWORTH: What? You do? BYRON: I’ve read every one of them. WORDSWORTH: You have? How? BYRON: I just did. WORDSWORTH: Well. I had no idea. BYRON: I like “Yarrow Revisited” and “Most Sweet It Is with Unuplifted Eyes.” WORDSWORTH: You’ve read those? BYRON: My favorite part of “Yarrow Revisited” is when it goes “Brisk Youth appeared, the

Morn of youth.” WORDSWORTH: Well! How about that? BYRON: Do you know, Wordsworth, the critics say that in twenty years I will be the least hon-

ored and the most ignored and deplored out of all of us. Pause. WORDSWORTH: Do you know what your problem is, Byron? You need to be more conﬁdent in

yourself. You’ve got a wisecrack answer for everything. I admire that. BYRON: You do? WORDSWORTH: I sure do. BYRON: Wow.

Pause. WORDSWORTH: It’s too bad you’re not as good at writing poetry as me and Coleridge.

DOROTHY and COLERIDGE enter laughing. DOROTHY is holding a pie and COLERIDGE is holding a bottle of port. DOROTHY: Look! I made a pie!

185

The Appeal

COLERIDGE: I found the port!

The lights go out. WORDSWORTH, COLERIDGE, and DOROTHY: Ooh! COLERIDGE: I saw some more candles in the gallery. DOROTHY: I’ll come with you, Coleridge. WORDSWORTH: Ooh, what fun!

WORDSWORTH, COLERIDGE, and DOROTHY exit. BYRON: Here’s a candle. (Byron lights a candle. His high, stiff collar casts an enormous shadow

on the wall.) There is something about procrastinating. About having a deadline and not doing anything until the deadline is almost past and then having the deadline pass. It is a nightmarish, horrible feeling. There is this part of it where you think that if you had only started the moment the project began, how much easier and more lovely and wonderful everything would have been. Then there is this horrible, nightmarish sensation that comes when you realize how much you have to do and how all of the time you had to do it in has been squandered by you yet again, even though you knew at the time that these things happen and that this is a horrible sensation, yet you went ahead and did it anyway and weren’t fully conscious and aware of what you were doing. There’s the feeling that you don’t have enough time to do it and are going to be late. I can’t get at the meat of it, at the heart of what makes it feel so terrible. There is also the fact that you don’t actually want to do the task at hand and perhaps the most horrible fear is that you’re not capable, that it’s too hard, although it seems unlikely because you have done that kind of thing before. If you’re unmotivated, the task that you’re unmotivated to do becomes a horror. (Long pause.) I will always remember these times. BYRON blows the candle out. The end.

186

Yo u ng Je a n L e e

THE VOMIT TALK OF GHOSTS Kevin Oakes

THE VOMIT TALK OF GHOSTS was developed in the Soho Rep Writer/Director Lab in New York City and premiered in July 2003 at the Cutting Ball Theater in San Francisco. Direction by Rob Melrose. Set by Michael Locher. Costumes by Raquel Barreto. Lights by Rob Melrose. Sound by Cliff Caruthers. Original cast:

AMBER

Elizabeth Bullard

CHLOE

Jessa Santens

THE DEADMAN ELLIE TOM SERGEANT WATAMBO

187

Garth Petal Paige Rogers Richard Bolster Lasse Christiansen

Characters AMBER: Her age ranges between thirteen and ﬁfteen throughout the course of the play.

Should be played by a slightly older actress. Strong and smart. Sensual. CHLOE: Amber’s best friend. Should also read as an adolescent and a young adult. THE DEADMAN: Amber’s lover. Midthirties to forty. Attractive. Sensitive. Despite his name,

there is nothing monstrous, ghoulish, or zombie-esque about him. ELLIE: Amber’s mom. Early forties. Elegant. Sophisticated. Loves her daughter. TOM: Amber’s dad. Mid- to late forties. Means well, enthusiastic. A little ineffectual. SERGEANT WATAMBO: Thirty. Mysterious. Charming. Enters as a brown bear.

Despite the fact that the setting changes, the action of this play is continuous except for the act break. I’ve indicated in the script where the scene shifts occur, but there shouldn’t be a break between scenes. Time works differently in this play than in accepted reality.

Act I Upstairs. Darkness. A candle. A girl in a nightdress. Two girls: AMBER then CHLOE. Throughout this scene the girls are preparing and conducting an elaborate ritual to bring THE DEADMAN into the bedroom from another world. They are thirteen to ﬁfteen years old. AMBER: The fucking was good, his hand up all my cunts, but he wouldn’t stop with killing

me, he wouldn’t take his hand out of me. I was stuck on his wrist like a puppet. He made me do little ﬁnger dances and bad magic tricks. Finger language of the dead, he called it. The vomit talk of ghosts. CHLOE: What kinda magic tricks?

188

Kev i n Oa kes

AMBER: Like putting other people’s heads onto different bodies, making a drinking of pre-

cious ﬂuids, and destroying human English. I don’t even know if I’m really here, he made it so I couldn’t tell anymore. He has the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen. You can’t see any of his features directly. CHLOE: That sounds like heaven! I wish I knew somebody dead! AMBER: He wouldn’t stop with my death, he had to take it further, turn me into some kind

of a door, his hand crammed into me up to his ﬁst. Turning me this way and that. Making me wave bye-bye to the earth. Or Death. Or something. He kept saying, “The dead are a door you have to go through. Open it!” AMBER imitates his deep “ghost” voice. The girls giggle. OOOOHHH—PEN IIIIIIIIIT!!!!!!! He gave me such a hungry cunt for babies, my belly hurt just to look at him. CHLOE: That’s so romantic! So now you’re this dead guy’s mouth, his magic death land radio? AMBER: You have to have sex with them to make it work, but it’s totally worth it, ’cause it’s

self-abuse. I can tell you that much, even if I have been sworn to secrecy. You want the bear, the monkey, or the one-eared dog? CHLOE: The bear!

AMBER is brieﬂy reluctant, then relents. AMBER: Here, take him. I ate all the fur off when I was little. I don’t need him anymore. He’s

naked. CHLOE: And you’re all grown up.

HEY! Don’t put ’em in the same jail cell. He’ll pull the arms right off her for sure! AMBER: It’s okay. The girl doll and the bear are friends. He won’t pull her arm off or any-

thing, if she doesn’t cut his tail off ﬁrst. So you’re safe. CHLOE: For now, at least. He ripped the head right off Red Monkey.

So what was it like? When he came back? Did he come back from the dead . . . AMBER: I saw him and my cunt hurt. And he laughed to see it hurt and so I wanted him so

bad. He licked my body in the language of god. Using all his harsh obscenities. AMBER starts to laugh/cry. CHLOE: What’s the matter?

189

T h e Vo m i t Ta l k o f G h os t s

Conjuring the Deadman in act I of The Vomit Talk of Ghosts by Kevin Oakes. Left to right: Elizabeth Bullard as Amber, Jessa Santens as Chloe, and Garth Petal as The Deadman. Directed by Rob Melrose. The Cutting Ball Theater, San Francisco, 2003. Photograph by Rob Melrose.

AMBER: I’m just embarrassed ’cuz I got caught acting like a human being again.

The least of god’s creatures. CHLOE: Here. You can have your bear back. We’re all just puppets for the dead. AMBER: The dead are very hungry. They want to eat us whole. CHLOE: I wish they wanted to eat my hole!

This makes AMBER laugh. I’m ridiculous. I’ll go to the grave with my stinking virginity. I just know it! AMBER: That’s what I did. I went to the grave with my virginity and offered it up to the dead-

men. They were all over it. They swooped down on me like dogs on bad meat.

190

Kev i n Oa kes

CHLOE: How does it work? When they come in? AMBER: He enters my body through that doll . . . and it feels real good. I can feel him all the

way up to the back of my throat. So don’t go telling me there’s no such thing as ghosts, ’cuz I feel one in this room right now! CHLOE: God between us and all harm. Jesus shield us. AMBER: He enters the world through my dolls. They’re his door. CHLOE: You’re calling out to him; you’re making him come. AMBER: I have to. He’s rather insistent. CHLOE: Am-ber! AMBER: If I don’t call out to him, he’ll appear at the door like a corpse. I’d rather see him

come as a ghost than a corpse. Very loud boom boom boom noise like ampliﬁed knocking on the bedroom door. CHLOE: THERE’S SOMETHING IN THE DOORWAY! AMBER: So he’s appearing to you, too, huh? I thought I was the only one who could see him. CHLOE: You are. You’re the only one who can see him. Why do you want me to see him? AMBER: Because he’s the bad math teacher. He’ll teach you his bad math. CHLOE: I don’t think I want to learn his bad math. Does it hurt? AMBER: Bad math is easy, bad math is fun. It can’t hurt you.

You can hurt other people using his bad math. CHLOE: Other people? Not myself? AMBER: Uh huh. CHLOE: Okay, let’s hear his idea of bad math. AMBER: Listen up—it’s a special kind of language. It turns it inside out—the unspeakable!

You can make him explode using his bad math. CHLOE: Hey! This is fun!

191

T h e Vo m i t Ta l k o f G h os t s

AMBER: Say his special secret name using formula bad math and you can make him disap-

pear. Or you can make him make you disappear! CHLOE: Him, or me? I thought he was going to explode. I don’t think I want to disappear into

someone else’s body. Will I still have my own thoughts? Can I still think my own thoughts in this special kind of language? AMBER: It can lead you to it. It can lend itself to that. It can lend you to somebody else like

a book. CHLOE: What someone? AMBER: Oh, somebody special. Someone you’ve been thinking about. It’s a book with his

name on it. It’s written in a special kind of language—bad math. His name’s in the book written in his special kind of bad math language against God. Whoops! I just let that slip out. I let it slip out on purpose to scare you into thinking this is something you don’t want to do. Do you think this is something you might like to do? CHLOE: I think I might like doing his math with you, but I also think I might have to stop

right now! Try offering me money; that usually helps. Again, very loud boom boom boom noise like ampliﬁed knocking. AMBER: He’s coming! Adjust your clothes. CHLOE: They’re too tight. AMBER: They’re supposed to be too tight. Adjust them so they’re even tighter.

Again, BOOM BOOM BOOM! It’s okay. Pretend I don’t notice. Pull at your dress uncomfortably. CHLOE (in agony): It’s tooo ti—ight! There’s somebody at the entrance I can’t see! AMBER: He’s using the entrance inside the door. CHLOE: HE’S HERE!

OHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!! CHLOE has an orgasm. This is sooooo gooooood! I like math, I think. I like all the names in math. All the bad characters. They’re so unrepentantly sinister. From the left-hand side of the equation.

192

Kev i n Oa kes

THE DEADMAN arrives from another world, perhaps hanging from a noose. There is nothing monstrous, ghoulish, or zombie-esque about him. He is as real as a dead lover would appear in a dream. THE DEADMAN: I’m doing a shirt opera about the cruciﬁed shirt. You put it on and turn a daz-

zling white. It’s the kind of bleach I use to kill everybody. The kind of language I use. Kills language itself, and everyone else in it. When I do the opera where I wear the cruciﬁed shirt, I put it on for all of you to die and I kill myself from being in it. And we all get up to the laundry deadmen. Sixteen men on a deadman’s chest. Sixteen men. I kill myself, but everyone else dies. I just remembered how to do it. I don’t know how long it will last, this time. I can’t bear to look at the pictures. THE DEADMAN slumps to the ground and softens as if asleep. CHLOE: That doll is so real looking, Amber. What’s it made of? AMBER: I dunno . . . leather? CHLOE: Is it human leather? AMBER: C’mon. He’s sleeping. Let’s cut all his ﬁngers off. CHLOE: Why? AMBER: I don’t know. It might stop something bad from happening. CHLOE: Like what?

His face is so beautiful. Like someone I’ve been waiting for all my life. And he’s just so fucking huge, I can’t believe it. It’s uncanny! AMBER: He has nice things to say about you, too, Chloe. CHLOE: He says the funniest things!

Where’d ya get it, Amber? Who gave it to you? AMBER: Let’s cut his ﬁngers off, Chloe. Right now. C’mon, go get some scissors. CHLOE: Why? AMBER: You can stop something bad from happening in the real world—like, say, the dead

from rising up and coming back to visit—by doing something about it in the makepretend world.

193

T h e Vo m i t Ta l k o f G h os t s

CHLOE: Who told you that? AMBER: My dad. CHLOE: And he actually believes it?

What exactly are they doing down in that factory of his anyway? AMBER: Shhhhhhhh!

Does it matter? I told you never to ask about that, Chloe. Somebody could hear you. CHLOE: All right. AMBER: It’s not like it’s interesting or anything.

It’s just stuff grown-ups like making people do to them. Like sex. CHLOE: Okay, Amber. AMBER: Now, there’s something witches do, and awful bad librarians, called an imitative fal-

lacy. It’s so much bad math, that’s what my dad says. CHLOE: Yeah . . . ? AMBER: You think you’re doing something in just the make-pretend world, but it can also be

helpful to people in reality . . . CHLOE: And cutting this doll? Who would that be helping? In reality? AMBER: All right, you guessed it—that would be me, all right? CHLOE: What a surprise. It always gets to be you. I never get anything good. AMBER: Look, Chloe, don’t be an asshole. Just get me some scissors so we can cut the ﬁngers

off this doll. They feel all rubbery, and I don’t like that. It makes them feel like they’re too real, and I want that to stop. CHLOE: Amber, I think you’re having a hard time determining what we’re playing at and

what’s here in reality. Look at me, Amber, look at me! I’m right here. I’m here in reality. AMBER: Just get me the scissors, Chloe. We have an operation to perform. CHLOE: Wouldn’t it be better if you just gave in to it? All the bad feelings?

Found out whoever it was and just gave them back whatever they wanted?

194

Kev i n Oa kes

AMBER: I’m not listening, Chloe.

CHLOE ﬁnds the scissors and starts to work on the ﬁngers. CHLOE: It’s really hard.

AMBER gives her a look. AMBER: Keep cutting. CHLOE: Okay. Here’s something I’ve been thinking a lot about lately.

Is magic thinking good, or is your magic thinking bad? AMBER: Stop whining and cut. CHLOE: Okay, here’s another important question:

Do you believe in ghosts? ’Cuz I believe in ghosts. AMBER: No, Chloe, I don’t. CHLOE: That’s funny. I woulda thought you’d say yes.

I think I’ve hit bone. AMBER: Don’t be silly. Dolls don’t have bones. It’s just really hard plastic is all. CHLOE: Do dolls have veins? ’Cuz I think I see some. And blood. It’s really, really waxy, but

it’s blood, Amber, for sure. I can tell. It’s starting to seep out. He’s bleeding, Amber! He’s bleeding real blood!! AMBER: Then you’re in luck. ’Cuz ghosts don’t have veins, do they?

The DEADMAN screams really, really loudly. THE DEADMAN: AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!! CHLOE: SHIT. SHIT. Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit!! AMBER: Okay. That was scary. CHLOE: Yeah. Is it a doll again? AMBER: Really very scary. But also highly unprofessional. Where do you think you’re going? CHLOE: Amber, I’ve had enough. I’m going home.

195

T h e Vo m i t Ta l k o f G h os t s

AMBER: I said it was unprofessional. You’re not listening. It won’t happen again. Now that

we’ve had our little panic attack, we can both get back to work, all right! CHLOE: Amber don’t you see this is scary stuff we’re doing? Big, scary, adult stuff. We’ve got

to stop fooling with this now, we’ve just got to. Don’t you see? AMBER: We can’t now, Chloe. We’re halfway.

We can’t leave a job just halfway done, now can we? CHLOE: But it’s too advanced for me!! It’s way too advanced. I haven’t even done algebra yet! AMBER: Listen, Chloe, I need him to stop teaching me the ﬁnger language of the dead. For

that—we have to remove all his ﬁngers. Now, this ﬁnger removal might involve some sawing, or cutting, or both sawing and cutting. Is that straightforward enough for you? Jesus, this whole exercise would be a lot easier if you just learned to pay attention in class and did your homework for once like Mister Simmons asked you. CHLOE: All right, Amber. I get the picture. AMBER: Are we clear on this? CHLOE: Yeah. Now, is it a doll again yet or what?? AMBER: I dunno. Let’s hope so.

The very last thing I need right now is to see my entrails all scattered around on the ﬂoor. CHLOE: Why don’t we ask it a question? Just to make sure. Before we start hacking it to death

again? AMBER: I should never have set up shop. I need a guard dog—what happened to my dog?

Jeez, you break down one little gate between heaven and hell and suddenly all the dead from all human time are showing up, pounding down your door. Again, very loud boom boom boom noise like ampliﬁed knocking. The bedroom door swings open, and ELLIE appears. ELLIE: Amber, what are you doing out of bed? You’re grounded! You’re supposed to stay in

bed all day. It’s generally understood to be some sort of a punishment. AMBER: Right, Mom. CHLOE: Hi, Mrs. Morrow.

196

Kev i n Oa kes

ELLIE: Hi, Chloe. She’s not receiving yet is she? Amber, are you receiving? It’s not three o’clock

yet. You said he usually comes at three. AMBER: If he’s going to come at all. ELLIE: That’s not the proper attitude to take, Miss, that’s not an attitude I taught you at all!

Of course he’s coming!! Be positive!!! Men are only going to ignore you if you let them. The body is another sort of door. Open it! Open it! AMBER: Okay. ELLIE: You have to go through the deadman.

Think about it. What passes through your body? Shit, juices, what? The dead are a door you have to go through. What else can return from the dead besides dead people? AMBER: I guess . . . ELLIE: You aren’t here again are you, Chloe? You’re always underfoot. AMBER: Mom!!! ELLIE: Does your own family have so little use for you?

Amber needs her rest. She needs to be let alone. Left to her own devices. AMBER: Mom? I dreamt I saw a little boy. ELLIE: Where? AMBER: At the window. Who is he, mom? ELLIE: He isn’t anyone! Stay away from that window and keep it locked up tight.

I didn’t think you were allowed to have any visitors. You told me you needed a clear lightbulb and a hardwood ﬂoor to do your work. AMBER: I just told you that so you’d give us some privacy.

Mom? Have you seen that doll? The one with the face that’s been wiped off? ELLIE: No. Maybe somebody stole it. Who do you suppose that might be? AMBER: There’s this boy. Sometimes in my sleep he stares at me from the foot of my bed.

He has the face of an angry, angry doll. ELLIE: That window’s locked up tight, Amber, be reasonable.

No one could get in here, how could they? We’re three ﬂights up.

197

T h e Vo m i t Ta l k o f G h os t s

TOM appears suddenly from a secret entrance, such as a trap underneath the stairs, or a door cut into the bookcase. TOM: Hey, FlannelBottom, feeling any better? What time’s the big broadcast? AMBER: Hi, daddy . . . ELLIE: Tom, right now might not be the best time . . . TOM: I know I know. Maybe later I could stick my head in the door and absorb some of the

excess graces when he appears? AMBER: Jesus, Dad. It’s not like getting a suntan, ya know. It’s not a day at the beach. ELLIE: You’re upsetting her, Tom. She can’t be upset. She’s got a show to do!

How can she be a perfect vessel if she’s upset? TOM: I know, but . . . ELLIE: And get out of here with that lit cigarette—you know she’s allergic. TOM: I’m putting it out.

TOM swallows cigarette. Hey, I realize you’re not exactly thrilled to see me, but look who I brought along as a special guest! AMBER: Tippy! CHLOE: Tippy!!! You’re okay.

Everybody sees and reacts to a dog that remains invisible to the audience. TOM: He came in last night. Apparently when we were all asleep. Just like in the movies.

“Tippy, come home! Someone’s trapped underground.” ELLIE: Thank god. I didn’t close my eyes all night. Now we can get started. Get her a chair.

No, not that one, get her into the apparition chair, it’s almost three. She has to be situated perfectly if we want to see this happen. TOM: What the hell’s wrong with that dog? Is he grinning?

He’s making inappropriate gestures at me with his tongue. You haven’t been giving him peanut butter, have you? It gets stuck on the roof of his mouth and makes it look like he’s trying to talk.

198

Kev i n Oa kes

AMBER: No. And I scraped his tongue with a spoon as soon as he got up. TOM: He’s baring his teeth at me. When was the last time this dog went to a dentist, Ellie?

Jesus! His breath smells like shit. CHLOE: Maybe he ate an animal or something while he was on the road? Something that

didn’t agree with him. ELLIE: No one’s checked to see if he hasn’t got a living baby in his stomach, have they?

Amber, palpate his belly, see if you can’t ﬁnd a human head. AMBER: I keep thinking he’s gonna kiss me with those thin black lips. TOM: You want to bite the hand that feeds you, don’t you, boy? You want it so bad you can

taste it. Who says humans are descended from apes? CHLOE: Maybe he’s trying to tell us something? Maybe he came all the way back ’cuz he has

a message for us. ELLIE: Dogs can’t talk. Who’d believe ’em?

They’re all liars anyway, every one of their shaggy, shit-eating tribe. TOM: Look at him taunting me. He’s laughing at me. ELLIE: Don’t be silly. Dogs can’t laugh. The canine soul is much too sympathetic for mockery. CHLOE: Maybe it’s gas? TOM: I know when I’m being laughed at.

I won’t be laughed at in my own home by the family house pet. It’s humiliating. He can feel that fear ping go off in some primitive part of my stomach wall. He thinks I’m a cat-based life form. He thinks I’m Dick Whittington’s cat. What he doesn’t understand is I’m human and capable of murder. Dog, I’ll crush your skull with stones. I have a stone roughly the size of your skull in the backseat of my car. I can arrange to have it in my hands at any minute. ELLIE: Tom, stop fooling with that dog, it’s almost time and I need him to take notes. You

know when that boy comes through the door Amber’s next to useless. TOM: You’re not gonna let that dog write down the Deadman’s words, are you? He’ll get drool

and spit all over everything. He’s shedding. He’ll get everything wrong!

199

T h e Vo m i t Ta l k o f G h os t s

ELLIE: Don’t give me any trouble—he’s an innocent. And he’s very sensitive, so watch what

you say. All dogs and deadmen have the souls of great poets. TOM: I’ll never understand what makes you think that dog can write. The pen’s always slip-

ping out of his hands. ELLIE: They wouldn’t if you’d keep his toenails clipped. He’s a dog. He can’t be doing these

things for himself. It’s important we do this right: the messages are getting more and more urgent. This is the ﬁrst time he’s used exclamation points and underlined the most important parts. TOM: Let’s hope he doesn’t do that thing where his ass itches, and he drags it all over the

carpet. ELLIE: He wants us to know we’re his remnants. It’s tragic, really. He doesn’t have that many

of us left. Okay, focus! We need to get the reception grille set up around her. I don’t want to see anything I’m not prepared to see. You know how shy these dead people are. When you pull them back through the membrane of death, they’re as wet and sticky as newborn killers, only not quite so daring. TOM: I think you mean kittens. ELLIE: Hey, Amber, did you hear that? Your father thinks the Deadman’s gonna give him a

cat! TOM and ELLIE set a screen up around AMBER. TOM: We should put in a permanent receiver screen. ELLIE: This one’s been in my family for years. I don’t see what’s wrong with it. TOM: Did you snake the drain in it?

It’s all choked up with otherworldly goo and fat black monster hairs. Honey, where’s that doll we gave you for the operation? The really big one? AMBER: It’s missing. Someone ﬂew in my room and took him, I think. TOM: I think you just hid it under the bed ’cuz it scares you. ’Cuz it’s a creepy old doll. But

it’s supposed to scare you. It doesn’t have a face. AMBER: Not one that I can remember, anyhow.

200

Kev i n Oa kes

TOM: Here, take it back to bed with you. You’re a big girl now. You’ve got to grow up and stop

being afraid of the dark. ELLIE: Push her chair over more toward the window. The light’s better there.

I want to see our baby bathed in sweet sacred light. Very nice. Christmas card perfect. All right, Amber, you can sit down now. AMBER: Look at me. I feel like such a girl. Right in the middle of everything. Look at how in

the way I am. I wish you’d all stop staring at me. You’re making me feel like I forgot to wear any clothes. ELLIE: Listen to Miss Self-Conscious! Can’t bear to be looked at. This isn’t a fashion show.

He doesn’t care what you’re wearing. You’re just the vessel. AMBER: Actually, he prefers it if I don’t wear anything at all. ELLIE: See! There you are! So stop worrying so much about how you look.

Amber, will you be asking him if he’s opening up the big doors between the living and the dead? After all, it is a jubilee year. AMBER: Ask him yourself. I’m just the mouth. ELLIE: He promised he’d tell me my saint’s name, and what room I’d be staying in on the

other side. AMBER: So ask him. I don’t care. I don’t even see him. ELLIE: You see him in passing, you know you do. You’ve told me that much and precious little

else. I have several questions printed out on little index cards so I can remember to ask. I can never keep my head when he’s here. You know me—I’m so in thrall. I don’t want to miss a word. And you, you’re so out of it. It’s like sexual narcolepsy when you two are in communion. You just pass right out, staring all googly eyes at him. Your father and I tiptoe out of the room. It’s hysterical. We laugh and laugh. Sometimes you talk a kind of disembodied poetics. It’s a mumbling like when you’re asleep and talking to a wall. Of course, I can’t remember a thing—I’m spellbound. Whoooooo!! It would blow your mind. My head gets all hazy, and Tippy’s banging away at the keyboard. I hope you don’t mind But I brought little Tippy to type it all up for me, So we don’t forget a sound.

201

T h e Vo m i t Ta l k o f G h os t s

He’s back there in the recording booth. Tom, can you bind a pencil into Tippy’s hands now? I can’t wait to be face to face with my little king! AMBER: Mom, I don’t wanna disappoint you. But I don’t know if I can do this in front of

everybody. ELLIE: Of course you can.

Push your underpants over to one side, and let him go in through the leg hole. No one’s going to see anything they haven’t seen a hundred times before. AMBER: I don’t know. I’ve gotten awfully tall in the past six months.

Mom. Can you run some water or something? I can’t relax. ELLIE: You can get past all this. You’ve got to. It’s easy.

Cover all the mirrors. Wear the Deadman’s clothes. Don’t wash. Sleep with his dead arms wrapped around you, like you did when you were a little girl. Shut out the living. The living love to lie. Don’t listen to them. Shut them out!!! Listen to the dry raspy scraps of the recently dead. TOM: Well, this is fun, isn’t it? The whole family brought together by modern technology.

I feel like a kid again. Listening to war reports on the radio. AMBER: Yeah, it’s like being a scientist alive in a time when torture-magic works. TOM: It was all a hoax of course. The war years. Ventriloquists on the radio—what were we

thinking? ELLIE: What are the two of you whispering about? You’re like two little girls conspiring

against me. Whisper whisper whisper. Twin girls. CHLOE: But we are girls, Mrs. Morrow. We’re both girls. AMBER: You didn’t forget we were girls for a second, did you, Mom? CHLOE: Aren’t we supposed to be girls? ELLIE: Of course you are, that’s what I said. Why are you correcting me if I’m right?

I paid for that expensive education of yours. Every cent. TOM: Can you keep it down to a dull roar? There’s a war on the radio, and I’m trying to tell

if it’s real or not. ELLIE: I want you to know what you two are perpetrating against me is a felony.

Remember that. I’m not young anymore. Look at my gray head. Count the hairs.

202

Kev i n Oa kes

TOM: Stop ﬁghting. I want you kids to sit still and be hit by wave after wave of his uncom-

promising love. ELLIE: Okay, honey, listen to Mommy.

Do you have the beeswax to drip on his back? AMBER: Uh huh. ELLIE: And some kind of mental lightbulb so you can see his face this time? AMBER: I have the aperture dialed as high as it goes. ELLIE: Okay. Very good. Then you sit there and work your magic, and we’ll get out of your

hair. You look beautiful, honey. Stand back, Chloe, you’re in the way. Somebody’s famous boyfriend might see you. AMBER contacts THE DEADMAN. AMBER: Ahem.

Monday has become Tuesday, stop. I threw up three times today I am not bright, stop. Request telephone call, stop. Don’t ever think I don’t remember. Know. TOM: Do you hear that?

There’s a sound coming out of her. A high-pitched whine you’d think only dogs could hear. AMBER: Are the lights dimming, or am I going blind?

That does happen, right? People do go blind? TOM: Is she supposed to heat up like that? She’s glowing.

And something’s shooting out of the cathode ray tubes that were her eyes, look! ELLIE: Don’t raise your hand to her, Tom. You’ll shatter her conﬁdence.

She could explode all over us. Do you have any idea what an implosion is? We’ll collapse in on ourselves like a dark star. AMBER remains relaxed. Her eyes are open. CHLOE: She’s still alive inside there, right? Way down deep? You can sort of see her too, huh,

waving back at us?

203

T h e Vo m i t Ta l k o f G h os t s

ELLIE: Shhhhhh. She’s gone from us now. Out like a light. I can feel her passing. TOM: I feel cold all over. You’re giving me the shivers. All this talk of death is making my

blood run cold. ELLIE: The angel of silence just blew through the room. Still looking for his shadow, I guess. CHLOE: Maybe you’re getting a fever? ELLIE: Can you feel that trembling? Underneath everything we say?

Something smells like shit and sounds like fat, buzzing ﬂies. Something’s coming, something good! I can see the blessed ones. They travel through the air in giant soap bubbles like Japanese girls and Mister Clean. Everybody has their special talent and that’s my peculiar ofﬁce: I see them glimmering all over the room, in all the unoccupied spaces, like electric light. There’s my father. Still in his cum-soaked tux from our wedding—hi Daddy! And the monk they rebuilt entirely out of marzipan: Saint Just Because It’s Christmas! Saint Murder, Saint Alabaster, Saint Jews, and Saint Genet. A little cherub who’s mostly gnashing teeth and a candy ass, no that’s Peter Pan, and in the corner on his lonely throne, that perfect martyr, sad little Saint Pinocchio. TOM: For god’s sake, Ellie, we don’t have to listen to the Litany of Saints right now, do we?

I don’t think I can bear it. CHLOE: The, uh, something machine started blipping again, and I’m imagining I can see her

breasts heave. Maybe I saw her ﬁnger twitch, too. I don’t know. ELLIE: I’m cold, Tom. There’s a presence in this room, I can feel it. Whoooooo! It’s giving me

chills. CHLOE: You’ve gotta come look, she’s breathing again, I know she’s breathing. ELLIE: I can feel him, he’s so close I can almost taste him. Look at her hand—it’s moving.

Tom, look, her hand’s moving. He’s here. He’s here! She’s doing her automatic writing! She’s doing automatic writing!! AMBER appears to THE DEADMAN in a room that suggests a bedroom in a psychiatric hospital or treatment center. He has his back to her and appears not to hear her for a few moments. ELLIE, TOM, and CHLOE don’t see or hear them, but continue on in their own world. AMBER: Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for you.

You’re a very bad deadman, Mister Ghost, to leave a little cute girl like me waiting. And I am a cute little girl. Can’t you smell me? Can’t you smell me from here?

204

Kev i n Oa kes

I’m standing by this open window. I know you can ﬂoat through it, the drapes are blowing. I can make you appear with my mind, my love for you is so strong. I can see the future. I’ve been specially trained. I have advanced degrees in all your bad math. I want to go away with you, Mister Ghost, I want to be swept away. What kinds of objects does death offer life? AMBER kisses THE DEADMAN. THE DEADMAN: Wow. That’s some greeting! AMBER: I’m just excited to see you. My body got confused and made it sexual.

I was dreaming about you and my ﬁngers were dripping down into the dream. I’m wet with it. THE DEADMAN: Why are you bothering me? I was forgetting you. The water was just the right

temperature. AMBER: You’re freezing.

Let me get you out of those things—they’re soaking wet. THE DEADMAN: They were bathing me—wiping me down. I liked it. AMBER: You’re dripping wet, you can’t wear clothes if you’re wet. THE DEADMAN: Don’t touch. You’re not allowed to wear them. You know that. AMBER: Stop ﬁdgeting, you’re hardly dead yet. Just sit still and be comforted a minute.

AMBER holds him in her arms for a few moments. There. You like that, right? Human contact, remember? THE DEADMAN: Where am I? I gotta go back. What are you doing to me? They’re closing all

my holes with special cotton, so I don’t start dripping down into other people’s dreams. I have to be there for that. AMBER: Relax. Breathe. Don’t hold your breath—you’re dead. THE DEADMAN: If I’m not back in my body before they ﬁnish plugging me up, I’ll be trapped

outside forever. And it gets cold out here. I haven’t been looking in any mirrors yet, have I? AMBER: Only me!

205

T h e Vo m i t Ta l k o f G h os t s

THE DEADMAN: Okay. Well, keep that goddamn dog away from me at any rate. AMBER: Don’t you want to kiss me? THE DEADMAN: I can’t. I’d like to go back now. I don’t wanna get stuck outside with all the

ﬂies. AMBER: Guess what? I have a surprise waiting for you under my bed! THE DEADMAN: I’d like to make it back in time for that bath. I like the way it tickles when they

push the cotton in. AMBER: Can’t you stay for even a minute? I miss you. THE DEADMAN: Leave me alone.

Can’t you hear that? They’re calling me. Let go. You’re holding me in place with your mind. AMBER: Don’t listen to the dead. They’re all liars anyway. Everything they say is shit: old dead

corpses of words. Listen to me—I’m alive! Look at me! I’m so buoyant I practically ﬂoat! C’mon, Mister Deadman, lay down on top of me. I bet you feel like a severed arm— all tingly. I wanna feel the dead weight of you. I wanna feel the weight of your ghost limbs pressing down on my body. There and not there at exactly the same time. Don’t you love me? Don’t you love me, Mr. Deadman, after all this time? Didn’t you miss me even the eensiest-teensiest bit? THE DEADMAN: Little girls like you are a mystery to me. The delicate way your ﬁngers curl.

The way you move, the way you inhabit your bodies, what’s going on in your heads. Mysterious. The way your hands are so small and your ﬁngers curve so gracefully when you make a ﬁst. The way your ﬁngernails are painted. I don’t understand it. Like a detective show on TV. AMBER: That’s disheartening. You come all the way back from the dead, and sexy little girls

are still a mystery to you? I thought the afterworld would be more enlightening than that. THE DEADMAN: Stop screaming at me in your head. I can hear it, ya know. AMBER: Sorry. THE DEADMAN: There’s something screaming at me underneath everything you say. Like a

teakettle going off. If you keep blasting those thoughts at me—you’re gonna burn the ass right off that kettle.

206

Kev i n Oa kes

AMBER: Why don’t you try cutting yourself to relieve some of the pressure? THE DEADMAN: Ya think? AMBER: There’s steam building up in your blood. You gotta let it out or you’ll go nuts. Here—

take my knife. THE DEADMAN: Thanks. AMBER: Taking off an entire ﬁnger usually works for me. There. That ought to release a lot

of the toxins. THE DEADMAN: Yeah, that’s good, that helps. AMBER: Remember where you are now? THE DEADMAN: Right here with you, I think. AMBER: Right. Back here with me.

So what’s it like? Being dead? THE DEADMAN: There’s something really sexy about it. Like being at someone else’s party, and

they haven’t come home yet. You could close the door to the bedroom and hide yourself in that big mound of coats. And something, someone else, is hiding beneath the bed. You’re rolling around in all these coats, and someone is reaching up to touch you, to stroke your leg. AMBER: Wow. I wish I was dead. I don’t like being human. There’s something really creepy

about it. I mean like sex and eating food and shitting. Being aware of it. Things sneaking into you and plopping out. It makes me dizzy. I’m really aware of my skin right now—I can feel it freckling. You’re watching my breasts move, right? THE DEADMAN: Yeah. AMBER: Okay, I’ll let you suck on them, but you have to do that thing that makes me stop

thinking about myself. THE DEADMAN: Just hit you really sharply on the head? AMBER: With something heavy this time, okay, and don’t telegraph the moment just before,

it makes it feel like a hundred years. I know you’re dead and all, but don’t you wanna soil me a few times anyway, for old times’ sake? I don’t mind, really. I can put my mouth on you. I just have to dredge you in salt beforehand so I don’t taste your corruption. You’re spoiled meat, ya know.

207

T h e Vo m i t Ta l k o f G h os t s

THE DEADMAN: They don’t feed me enough in here to even think about sex. Smuggle me in

something good next time, and then maybe we’ll talk. AMBER: I wish you wouldn’t be so nice to my mother. THE DEADMAN: I have to. She’s one of my acolytes, remember? AMBER: Touch me. THE DEADMAN: No. AMBER: No one’s here. No one can see. THE DEADMAN: Didn’t I touch you the last time? AMBER: No. THE DEADMAN: Then I’ll probably do it next time, all right? AMBER: C’mon. Just help me out a little. Play with my cunt like it’s some deadman’s hands.

Dogﬁnger my dead puppet cunt. THE DEADMAN: Stop. AMBER: Look at me—I’m an open book!

I wanna feel you write on me in your several demon hands. You didn’t start paring your ﬁngernails, I hope? THE DEADMAN: You never answered even one of the letters I sent you. Out of thousands. I

hated you for that. AMBER: I couldn’t. I was getting three or four a day in odd places all over the house. I had to

pretend you were a slightly crazed relation no one quite remembered but me. THE DEADMAN: You read them. You sent them back initialed so I’d know you’d seen them.

They came back reeking of you. It drove me crazy. AMBER: It was meant to.

What was the point? You were way older and living with someone else. You didn’t want me. You wanted any fourteen-year-old girl with perfect ankles to pray for you. You just had a bad case of the hots. THE DEADMAN: I remember not being able to breathe if I didn’t hear your voice every hour. If

I couldn’t watch your face move when you spoke. If I couldn’t hear the stupid thing you would’ve said to your little friends if only you’d have thought of it in time. I

208

Kev i n Oa kes

wanted to take you into my body through every pore I had. I wanted to rub you on my ﬂesh like a ﬁlm. Something about your skin made me want to kiss the back of your neck. Was that lust? I’ve forgotten. AMBER: So whaddaya want me to do about it now?

Do you want me to mourn you right here in the middle of my parents’ house? Naked in moonlight from the bedroom window? THE DEADMAN: That won’t be necessary, thanks. AMBER: The dead are so moody. Come over here and sit still.

What are you thinking, now? What? I’m sitting with the prince of black sighs, and I’m not even permitted to ask him a question. THE DEADMAN: I’m thinking about lost loves. Care to join me? AMBER: Oh, no, I’ve done that. I’m all set with that now, thanks. THE DEADMAN: And you aren’t moved at all? AMBER: There’s quite an easy explanation for that. I have no soul. I bartered it all away one

day for my adult good looks and my ability to understand dogs when they talk. THE DEADMAN: You’re soulless. AMBER: Yeah, and you’re dead, I know. You see we’re perfectly matched.

C’mere, Mister Ghost. I wanna show you what I’ve been saving for you underneath my dress. THE DEADMAN: What are you doing? Put that down. You’re not supposed to bring me back to

life, are you? AMBER: Stop being coy. You know why we’re here. THE DEADMAN: No one’s given me clear-cut instructions about anything. I haven’t seen the

manager once since I checked in. AMBER: I’m the automated typist—your little two-way radio.

You know you wanna sniff my girl parts. You can’t help it. It’s the dog in you.

209

T h e Vo m i t Ta l k o f G h os t s

THE DEADMAN: I can’t do this.

Smell my hands— My ﬁngers smell of something I can’t identify. AMBER: That’s the death magic on them. THE DEADMAN: It smells like sour milk and babies’ throw up. AMBER: C’mon, old man. Crack my spine like a book. Puppet my cunt into prophecy. It’s a

jubilee year. The remnants want their Christmas card. They need something to remember you by. THE DEADMAN: Shhhhh! Your parents could still be awake. AMBER: Well, then you’ll just kill them, won’t you? Like those policemen in the park. THE DEADMAN: I was hungry. And they surprised me. They came up so quiet I didn’t notice

them ’til they were almost on top of us. AMBER: It’s all right. I forgave you, didn’t I? So there’s nothing to worry about, is there? THE DEADMAN: I guess not. AMBER: Good. ’Cuz you’re so beautiful to look at my belly hurts. You’ve been gone so long—

do you know how many Christmas gifts I’ve missed? You owe me. Go on, baby, slip me the Santa ﬁnger. Make me god’s little maryboy with the hot itchy cunt. THE DEADMAN: Oh, this is a senseless act—really—what’s the point? I can’t reproduce—I’m

under a court order. They have some crazy idea I might like eating my own young. AMBER: I wish you wouldn’t talk like that. THE DEADMAN: That’s nice, coming from you. AMBER: Hey—I’m the ventriloquist’s girl in a doll position.

Put your hand in my hole and I’ll say what you want. THE DEADMAN: Besides, we’re different species now. We’d likely produce some dead-living

hybrid. A rat-headed man or a clockwork monkey drenched in blood. Or some other feeble child’s toy. AMBER: Stop it. Stop thinking. I don’t want you thinking anything you think about.

I want you thinking about me.

210

Kev i n Oa kes

THE DEADMAN: I don’t want to think about you here. I want to think about you underground. AMBER: I don’t like the sound of that. I think I’d feel claustrophobic. THE DEADMAN: You don’t get it, do you? I’m dead. I get to say what things are and you don’t.

I can punish you as long as I like. AMBER: Okay. You’re playing games with me. Good. I’m playing better games.

Why don’t we play that game where you’re dead and you really stay dead? Where you don’t move or talk or anything? THE DEADMAN: How about the one where you betray me and we blame it on your cutting dis-

order and youthful amnesia? AMBER: You gotta understand. There was too much information needed to actually keep your

body from moving between one world and the next. Questions like insurance rates and long-speed geometry. I couldn’t hold it all in my head at once. I’m only one little girl. What did you expect me to do? THE DEADMAN: I expected you not to fail me. Not to forget. Not to fuck all your little friends

before I was cold. AMBER: I was remembering! Then I had to do something else. Go to school. Answer the

phone. Put my toys under the bed. You’ve seen my bedroom, it’s a mess. THE DEADMAN: My fault. I never should have picked you. I should have chosen somebody

faithful. AMBER: I couldn’t remember what you told us to do if we started forgetting!

In case our cover story was blown. THE DEADMAN: You always were a bad student. AMBER: Where are you going? THE DEADMAN: Back to my bath. It should be nice and cold by now. AMBER: But they’re waiting. I can’t go out there alone. I gotta tell them something. THE DEADMAN: Tell them the chastisements are coming.

Tell them your sweet little puss is the new Jerusalem. Tell them my voice came in loud and clear, but my face was out of focus. Tell them anything you want. Isn’t that what you usually do?

211

T h e Vo m i t Ta l k o f G h os t s

AMBER: I don’t understand why you’re being this way. So bloodless. THE DEADMAN: I don’t have any blood left in me, do I? You drained it all out of me when you

were a kid. Now go home, please, I’m tired. Can’t you just go and let me have a moment’s peace? AMBER: Yeah, all right. THE DEADMAN: What? AMBER: I thought I could bring you back. THE DEADMAN: With a kiss? AMBER: Something like that, yeah. THE DEADMAN: Only I’m not asleep, am I? AMBER: No, sadly not. Not asleep. THE DEADMAN: Are you coming to see me have my bath? AMBER: I might. THE DEADMAN: Don’t wait too long . . .

You won’t get angry and stop coming to visit, will you? I know it’s not pleasant. I behave badly. But it’s worse when no one comes. You won’t forget I’m here, right? Promise you won’t forget me, not even when I’m a hundred. AMBER: I promise. THE DEADMAN: Swear it. AMBER: Calm down, all right? I swear it. I swear. THE DEADMAN: Okay. Turn off that light if you’re leaving.

The nurses leave it in my eyes all night, and I can’t sleep right. AMBER moves toward the bed for one ﬁnal kiss, but THE DEADMAN rolls over and faces the wall. AMBER stands helplessly for a few moments, then snaps off the light and closes the door for the last time. We hear the door reverberate.

212

Kev i n Oa kes

Act II Upstairs. In the bedroom, TOM, ELLIE, and CHLOE wait for AMBER to emerge from her visitation. A clock strikes three. ELLIE: Oh, this waiting is interminable! I can’t stand it.

Chloe, go see what they’re doing. Hurry up. I’ll pay you ﬁve bucks a pop for each excruciating detail. TOM: Ellie, there’s a car outside.

Can I rely on you to impersonate vaguely normal human behavior? ELLIE: Life’s short, Tom. I wouldn’t waste a precious minute of it dreaming.

What’s the scoop, Chloe? CHLOE: They’re just lying there naked. And they have those fake childhood heads on. ELLIE: Oh, how sweet! They’re shy! AMBER: Hello? Is anybody there? ELLIE: She’s coming out of it. CHLOE: I hear breathing. ELLIE: Quick turn all the clocks back ﬁve minutes. I don’t want anyone to think we were lis-

tening in. AMBER: Mom, are you out there? Can you hand me a towel or something?

Please, I’m freezing. ELLIE: What’s the matter? AMBER: Somebody’s nibbled all the fur off me. I’m dead naked in here.

AMBER comes out wearing some, perhaps all, of THE DEADMAN’s wet clothes. Her heart has broken; she is streaked in blood. ELLIE: Amber, are you all right? You look ﬂushed. What’s happened to your clothes?

I’ve called you three times already.

213

T h e Vo m i t Ta l k o f G h os t s

AMBER: Sorry, Mom, I couldn’t hear you.

I had the bad math playing full volume in my head. ELLIE: Where did all this blood come from? Have you been showering in it?

What have you been doing? You look all pink and sticky. AMBER: I cut all my ﬁngers off to remind me I had a family.

I cut off each ﬁnger in honor of a living person: Mummy, Daddy, Chloe, Peter Pan, and Tippy. ELLIE: Oh, Amber, what am I going to do with you? I just had that carpet shampooed in there,

too. Where’s your friend? AMBER: Nosing his way back to whatever shit hole he crawled out of. ELLIE: Well, I hope he knows he’s always welcome here.

And the two of you don’t have to hide in bed all day, and slink down the back stairs. He can actually come out and talk to the grown-ups if he likes. We won’t bite. AMBER: Uh huh. TOM: Honey, there’s a blue van parked in front of the house with some people in it just sit-

ting and reading the paper. You wouldn’t know anything about that would you? AMBER: No, Daddy. TOM: Okay, well tell them they don’t have to sit in their car all day spying on us. They can

come in and get something to eat. We like to meet all our daughter’s friends. AMBER: All right. CHLOE: You look awful, Amber. What did he do to you? AMBER: He rubbed his absence all over me. And my heart burst just to see him.

Like I could feel losing him all over again. Heavy in my chest and stuff, ya know? CHLOE: What was it like? The place? AMBER: Horrible. They tie him to his bed at night.

He’s forced to take baths in his clothes. CHLOE: The important thing is he isn’t in any more pain. AMBER: I guess . . .

214

Kev i n Oa kes

ELLIE: So tell me, what were you two doing up there so long alone together?

Hmmmmmmm? I’m dying of curiosity! AMBER: Nothing, Mom. Just talking. ELLIE: Just talking, huh? I heard an awful lot of moaning for just talking. AMBER: They tie him to the bed. He doesn’t like it. He got very upset, and they had to give

him a sedative. ELLIE: As long as one of you was fully dressed at all times.

You know the house rules. AMBER: Yeah, yeah. ELLIE: And what were you discussing so intently? Anything in particular? AMBER: I don’t remember. ELLIE: You always say that! I don’t believe you! I had hopes you were planning an important

announcement. My ears were burning. AMBER: No. I was just asking him questions. ELLIE: Questions! About what? Did he answer you?

Look at me, Amber, this is serious. Anything he says has legal ramiﬁcations, you know that, right? It becomes a matter of doctrine, it’s sacrosanct. So wipe that smug little look off your face and tell me what you were talking about, this instant! AMBER: I was asking him about babies, if you wanna know the truth.

About where they come from. If he wanted to stick some inside me. If he wanted to cum when he did it. About how many times he wanted to cum. I have such a hungry cunt for babies it’s hurting me. TOM: Amber!! ELLIE: If you ever had any other thought than a cock in your cunt and a kid in your belly,

you wouldn’t be in such big trouble now. I blame myself. You weren’t trained well enough. AMBER: I was perfectly trained last night. He taught me to heel. He rubbed my nose in it. He

disciplined me. When he wagged his dirty ﬁnger, I rolled over and licked the sheets.

215

T h e Vo m i t Ta l k o f G h os t s

ELLIE: Why is it, all of a sudden, I think you might be more interesting with your pants

pulled down? TOM: You’ve gotta be careful, honey. Nobody knows what the dead really want. Nobody

thinks to ask them why they’re here. The thought that they’re dead drives it clear out of our heads. AMBER: I know what he wants, and it’s under my dress. TOM: I hope so, honey. AMBER: I laid it out on the bed last night especially for him,

like you’d set a table for the dead, piled high with dead meats, only he was dead instead of me. He was all over it. He swooped down on me like a condemned man. He went down like a ton of bricks. TOM: If you say so. AMBER: Don’t worry, Daddy, I’ll be careful.

I know how to get a man to like me without making a baby. ELLIE: I’m afraid of her, Tom, I am, I really am.

She told me today she has twelve women in black somewhere praying for my death. They pull stones out of a jug to predict the day I die. It’s just a matter of time before they ﬁnd the correct stone! AMBER: Chloe, can someone bring me my dinner now? I’m hungry. ELLIE: This morning she was in the shower three hours straight. I had to pull her out kick-

ing and screaming. By the time I got to her, she was blue, the water was like ice. We’re gonna have to pry the hinges off the bathroom door. She keeps threatening to move her mattress in and take all her meals there. TOM: Can’t we have one civilized meal in peace? ELLIE: We’ve got to ﬁnd out who she’s been talking to!

I don’t think it’s who we think it is. I think it’s someone else, you know who I mean, with a voice like new chalk and the ﬁlthy unpared nails . . . My god, Tom, what kind of parents are we? We don’t even know who her friends are! TOM: Take it easy, Ellie, she isn’t a lapdog. You don’t hafta keep tabs on who she’s breeding

with.

216

Kev i n Oa kes

ELLIE: I don’t understand why I should be under attack just because I want our daughter to

experience some beauty in her life. Sex and death, sex and death, does everything have to be skulls and vaginas every minute of the day? The ﬁlth of the streets paraded in front of us as a higher form of consciousness? I’m a mother. You wouldn’t understand. Can’t I dream of something pink and sticky for my only girl? A saint with a marzipan bum and a jellied pizzle made of sweets? TOM: Could you lower your voice to a more human pitch?

I saw a light go on in that van. I think they may have a recording booth out there. AMBER: I don’t see why you’re so upset. Lotsa girls my age have practice sex with small dogs.

You see pictures of it in magazines all the time. Where do you think puppies come from? ELLIE: I hate to burst your bubble,

but that’s not a National Geographic you’ve been posing for, young lady. TOM: Can’t we all just try to be pleasant?

I work hard for you people all day, and when I come home to the hearth, I don’t relish a second job as line judge at a bear baiting. AMBER: That reminds me, Mom, I do remember something.

He wanted me to tell you the chastisements were coming. Yeah . . . He said to say he doesn’t have all the patience in the world, and the time for forgiveness is almost up. That’s it, I think. ELLIE: Thank you, Amber.

I want to thank you for personally delivering that particular message to me, however late and reluctantly you’ve discharged your duty. And now you’re all done, why don’t you go straight upstairs and slash your wrists in some quiet little corner. TOM: Ellie!! ELLIE: Or how about another bath? I can see a whole square inch of innocent ﬂesh that has

yet to be scrubbed to a bloody pulp. TOM: What your mother is trying to say is we’re worried about you, Amber. We’re concerned

about the amount of time you’re spending in the bathroom. We think there might be more constructive areas of your psyche to concentrate on than personal hygiene. ELLIE: No, what your mother means to say is when we let our daughter run loose for the

night, we don’t expect to see her hauled back home the next morning in a police van!

217

T h e Vo m i t Ta l k o f G h os t s

TOM: Won’t you let us help you, Amber? Please, pretty please?

Why won’t you tell us what he did to you? ELLIE: Leave her alone Tom, she’s had a hard enough time already, and you’re putting her on

the spot. She might be embarrassed discussing such messy intimate details in front of a man who’s also her own father. TOM: Right. ELLIE: What do you say, honey? AMBER: I’m hungry. ELLIE: We should tell them to bring us something.

Has anybody thought about what they’d like for dinner? CHLOE: Haven’t we eaten? TOM: We just ate. AMBER: We already had dinner, Mom. Did you forget? TOM: She’s drunk. Keep your heads down. I see someone getting out of that car and heading

up the drive. ELLIE: That’s funny. I can’t remember if I’m hungry or not. When will I be hungry again?

ELLIE looks lost for a moment. Nervous. After a beat. AMBER: So who missed me? What did I miss? Anything good happen while I was gone? TOM: Well, that dog of yours turned out to be Satan. His sulfurous breath should have tipped

us off. That and the fact he wrote better than any of us. AMBER: You can’t compare his work to yours, Daddy, ’cuz he’s a dog of course. His work’s

much easier to understand on a primal level. TOM: Yeah, he’s a primitive all right. He pissed and shit all over everything the minute you

left the house. AMBER: Well, I’m home now, I’ll take him for a walk right away. And I’ll discipline him, too,

you’ll see. Where is he? Has anybody seen him? CHLOE: Not in a few days.

218

Kev i n Oa kes

AMBER: Did he run off? ELLIE: No. AMBER: I don’t get it. Is he in hiding? TOM: We had him put down. AMBER: What? ELLIE: Well, you weren’t here to clean up after him were you, Amber? You just left, without

a word to anyone. Without you here he just died, simple as that. AMBER: Oh god . . . ELLIE: This is what happens when you abdicate your responsibilities.

There’s a lesson to be learned in all of this. I hope it’s not lost on you. AMBER: He’s really gone? Really? How did it happen? TOM: We took him to that pond you loved, ﬁlled his belly with stones, and watched him sink

to the bottom. CHLOE: You could see all the way down to the sand. ELLIE: It was tasteful, honey, you would have approved. Chloe had a few choice words. AMBER: I’m sure she did.

Why didn’t you call me? TOM: We couldn’t get a hold of you. AMBER: You didn’t even try, did you? TOM: Well, we didn’t know where to look. ELLIE: We had to do it, baby,

we didn’t have any choice once we ﬁgured out he was Satan. You know: Lord of the ﬂies, Father of lies, Son of the morning light? That dog was Lucifer. His two eyes were red brimming coals. AMBER: He wasn’t the devil. He was a Yorkshire terrier!

219

T h e Vo m i t Ta l k o f G h os t s

ELLIE: The devil can assume a doggy shape. You think he can’t? They were born of the same

mother. They’re his little cousins, his gabble rachets. They help him in his wild hunt to chase down souls. AMBER: I stay out overnight one time and you kill my dog? TOM: We thought you were having sex. AMBER: Oh. TOM: What have you got there? In your hand? It’s got blood all over it. AMBER: I made sure the Deadman gave me a gift. You have to wrestle him for it. ELLIE: You’re not pregnant again, are you, Amber? I don’t want to hear it. That’s not the kind

of divine revelation I’ve been praying for. AMBER: No, I got this handsome white shirt from the shirt opera.

Did you see it last night? It was magniﬁcent. TOM: I missed it. There musta been something good on TV. AMBER: A mystery? TOM: Yeah, a cop show. Bang bang. Open up, we’re the murder police!

A bear head, mounted on the wall or a bear skin rug on the ﬂoor, suddenly roars to life, and breaks into the room, bellowing, on all fours. It’s important that THE BEAR approximate the look, sound, and movement of a real rather than a toy bear. ELLIE: We better get her out of all that blood. It could attract some kind of vicious man-eating

animal. TOM: Let her alone, Ellie, she’s fourteen. If we clean up for her now, we’ll be picking up after

her the rest of her life. ELLIE: I know you’re right, but she’s got company. Let me just wipe up some of that blood

and get her dressed. Do you remember where you left your clothes, honey? Are your ﬁngers sticky? You smell like sex. TOM: I know you want to help, I do, too, but she’s got to start doing these things for herself,

or she’ll never learn. She’ll be dependent on us for everything. Don’t you want her to have a life like a normal girl? ELLIE: It’s just they grow up so fast, and then you’re old and useless.

220

Kev i n Oa kes

TOM: You’ll destroy her conﬁdence. You don’t want that, do you? ELLIE: No. TOM: Then ﬁnd your keys and your glasses. It’s almost three o’clock. ELLIE: Oh, my god, you’re right. Amber, we’re going out. AMBER: Isn’t anybody going to mention there’s a real live bear in here? ELLIE: We’ll just be down the street at Mrs. Little’s with the Kings.

Three doors past the statue of the nearsighted Christ. AMBER: You’re not gonna leave me here all alone, are you? ELLIE: You’re not alone, Chloe’s here. AMBER: She’s no help against a wild bear.

He could eat me alive. He could tear the arms right out of my sockets. ELLIE: I cried because I had no shoes, ’til I met a man with stumps for feet.

Look, if you really don’t want to attract his attention, stop waving that bloody shirt in his face. Bears just love the color red. TOM: He looks a little blind in one eye. Stay over to his left and you should be all right. ELLIE: We won’t be gone long in any case.

It’s ﬁrst Thursday. Divine mercies. AMBER: Please don’t leave. Take me with you. ELLIE: Stop making a such a fuss, Amber. You’re a big girl now.

You’ve got to learn to clean up your own mess. Why don’t you ask your friends if they’d like a big piece of cake? AMBER: I’m not really very hungry. Can I be excused? ELLIE: No, you may not.

You march your little fanny back here before you draw another breath. Have you forgotten you’ve got guests? What’s gotten into you, Amber? You used to be so friendly, so outgoing. Now you’re always hiding in a corner like some dark little nun. Where’s my girl?

221

T h e Vo m i t Ta l k o f G h os t s

Show some teeth, ﬂip your hair back, stand up straight. Be social! Do all the tricks you mastered when you were only eight or nine. (To THE BEAR): You’ll have to excuse our daughter. There’s a shower in here somewhere that runs pure blood, but at the moment we can’t remember exactly where it is. I’ve found my glasses, Tom. TOM: Good. Then let’s get out of their hair. ELLIE: Now don’t get in any trouble, I’m relying on you girls!

I’d like to see the house still standing when we get back. All right? I’m leaving a number on the counter in case of emergency. ELLIE opens the door. ELLIE: Do you feel that, Tom? Finally.

A nice, cool breeze! And they’re gone. THE BEAR growls murderously. CHLOE: Okay Amber,

Now whadda we do? AMBER: I dunno.

The last time I got left at a zoo, it was outside the cage. CHLOE: This isn’t the bear you tormented as a child, is it? AMBER: He looks vaguely familiar. Does he have a tail? CHLOE: I thought you told me this bear liked little girls? AMBER: I might have exaggerated the exact nature of our relationship. CHLOE: I don’t like that noise he’s making, he looks hungry.

Amber, I’m afraid of this bear. AMBER: Into the little girl’s bedroom crept Christ the king. CHLOE: Let’s cut him, Amber, from windpipe to peehole.

We can tell him his future when he spills his guts. Read his intestines.

222

Kev i n Oa kes

AMBER: Oh, that’s your answer to everything, isn’t it, Chloe?

Cut cut cut. Your ﬁnal solution. CHLOE: C’mon! Let’s crack him open and get at all his smells! AMBER: We made a bargain, Chloe.

We promised we’d stop doing this after the last time. It isn’t hygienic. CHLOE: Oh, you’re no fun anymore!

THE BEAR growls. Whaddya think he’s trying to say? AMBER: I dunno, Chloe, I don’t speak bear. CHLOE: He doesn’t sound too good, does he? AMBER: No. CHLOE: I think he’s in pain, Amber.

Maybe he wants us to operate. AMBER: Yeah, I’m sure it’s his dying wish. CHLOE: There’s something sad about his eyes. A mournful glow.

They’re blue shot with ﬂecks of gold. AMBER: Bears don’t have blue eyes, Chloe. CHLOE: This one does.

He looks awfully swollen. Maybe he’s got someone locked up inside him? A lost hunter, or a handsome young captain of the guard? I’m crazy for a man in uniform. AMBER: Or perhaps just a small pile of rocks, huh? CHLOE: What if he’s swallowed your Deadman, did you ever think of that?

Then we’d hafta operate, wouldn’t we? Palpate his belly, see if you can’t ﬁnd a human head. AMBER: I’ll do no such thing. I’m not going anywhere near him.

223

T h e Vo m i t Ta l k o f G h os t s

CHLOE: He’s in pain, Amber. One of god’s creatures in pain.

We can’t just leave him like that. It isn’t human. AMBER: Better him than me. CHLOE: I don’t even know you anymore.

All right, ﬁne then, I’ll go. I was thinking of registering premed anyway. Do we have a ﬂashlight? Shine a light in his eyes so he doesn’t see me coming. Somebody told me one time bears are hypnotized by light. THE BEAR screams. AMBER: Apparently they lied. CHLOE: Oh my god, Amber, he’s got someone inside all right.

Or something. Can bears get pregnant? Something’s squirming around in there. I can feel it. Quick, gimme your hand. AMBER: Maybe he ate a bad ﬁsh? CHLOE: It’s too big for a ﬁsh.

Okay, slowly slowly, don’t make any sudden moves. No one’s gonna hurt you. We’re just gonna pet your belly, give you a nice little rub. There! That feels good, right? Okay, right there. Can you feel it? You felt it right? Jesus leapt in his womb. Into the brown bear’s belly, Jesus leapt. AMBER: Calm down, Chloe.

If you get him all excited, he could eat us, remember? CHLOE: He must have something big to tell us. I think he turned a somersault.

Well, say something, Amber. We’re on the verge of the miraculous. Say something. AMBER: Okay, don’t get all hysterical, I’ll cut him, all right?

But this is absolutely the last time, understand? I’m not doing this anymore.

224

Kev i n Oa kes

I’ve got scars up and down my body, and I’m running out of skin. CHLOE: Whatever you say. AMBER: All right. Get me the scissors.

AMBER surveys the situation. I never studied medicine, where do you suppose we start? CHLOE: In the middle—I guess? AMBER: Okay, hand me that hatchet.

I’m not going in unarmed. I saw what he did to Red Monkey. A tense moment as AMBER slowly advances on THE BEAR, ax in hand. As she swings her ax for the death blow, THE BEAR’s headpiece comes off, revealing a human head beneath: a police ofﬁcer named SERGEANT WATAMBO. As his bear head rolls away, AMBER’s room slowly transforms into the Land of the Dead, a graveyard overrun with brambles and thorns. WATAMBO: Wow. It’s a prelapsarian paradise in here.

Some kinda fallen world. All the furniture feels alive, like it’s growing out of the walls. CHLOE: Oh my god, you’ve beheaded him. AMBER: Keep your distance, Bear!

I may be the Deadman’s mouth, but I use my own teeth and tongue. WATAMBO: So I noticed.

You almost took my head off with that tongue of yours. Thanks for letting me outta that cupboard. I’ve been wandering around in there for weeks. AMBER: Well, you can crawl right back the way you came.

You can’t come in here. It’s the little girls’ room. WATAMBO: So what? I like little girls. AMBER: It’s not a room for people who like girls, it’s a room for people who are girls.

225

T h e Vo m i t Ta l k o f G h os t s

Beheading Sergeant Watambo in act II of The Vomit Talk of Ghosts by Kevin Oakes. Left to right: Lasse Christiansen as Bear/Watambo, Jessa Santens as Chloe, and Elizabeth Bullard as Amber. Directed by Rob Melrose. The Cutting Ball Theater, San Francisco, 2003. Photograph by Rob Melrose.

WATAMBO: Oh. Well, so what I’m no girl. What are you afraid of? AMBER: You might see something you’re not supposed to see. WATAMBO: Is it the future? AMBER: I hope not. CHLOE: We’re getting ready to take our nightly baths.

If you watch us change, you could get torn to pieces by conﬂicting desires. WATAMBO: That’s exciting.

I’ve never been to a little girls’ hunting and bathing party before. What do I do?

226

Kev i n Oa kes

AMBER: You gotta get out fast, it isn’t decent.

And stop staring at me, I forgot to wear any clothes. CHLOE starts pulling off her clothes. CHLOE: Yeah, close the door, Mister Bear, we’re both naked in here. AMBER: No you’re not, Chloe, you’re fully dressed. CHLOE: Well, I could be in a second if you gave me half a chance. Stop rushing me, Amber.

You always want everything good for yourself, like being mauled by wild bears. Help me get my pants off, they’re sticking to my skin. AMBER: Keep your clothes on, Chloe, my mom’s just down the street.

She could walk back in at any minute. CHLOE: So what’s she gonna see? We’re both girls, remember. I can be naked if I want. WATAMBO: Oh, leave her alone—she wants to tell my fortune,

and I only ever believe a naked witch. CHLOE: Right! AMBER: What do you want? WATAMBO: Can you feel that cold air?

Like someone opened up a tomb and all the ghosts exhaled. Gives me the willies. CHLOE: Hey, Mister, are you naked under that bear suit?

What have you got under all that hair? Here’s a prediction: You’re not leaving this room without a certain part of you shaved! AMBER: Don’t be rude, Chloe.

I’m sure the handsome young sergeant didn’t come all this way to discuss his depilatory problems with you. WATAMBO: No. I have a message from your parents. They’re worried sick.

They want you back. AMBER: Oh they do, do they?

That’s too bad. Why didn’t they come themselves?

227

T h e Vo m i t Ta l k o f G h os t s

WATAMBO: We only had one bear suit between us, and I drew short straw.

Besides, I’ve had more experience with this sort of thing. I’m the professional. CHLOE: You were very convincing! WATAMBO: Thanks.

It’s the only way to break into the Land of the Dead. I don’t know why bears scare the dead—they just do. I’ve tried other animals, but they just don’t work, I always get stopped at the border. I think it’s hibernation: the fact we lie down dead for six months and claw our way outta the earth again around Easter. Scares the shit out of ’em. When they see us coming, they run and hide from shame, as if by staying dead they’ve spat in the face of the risen Christ. AMBER: Uh oh. CHLOE: Wow . . . ! WATAMBO: So pack up all your books and get ready to go.

I’ll talk to the manager, and we can be on our way. AMBER: I’m not going anywhere with you.

My deadman ran to ground near here. I’ve got to ﬁnd him. WATAMBO: What do you mean you’re not coming?

Do you have any idea how hard it is breaking into this place? I can hardly breathe in this suit, and the dead are all over, thicker than ﬂies. Not to mention the entrance is incredibly small, and I have a large manly frame. I got stuck halfway in for three weeks. AMBER: I’m not coming.

I lost my deadman somewhere round here. I won’t go back without him. WATAMBO: Listen.

Your parents want you back. They miss you. They sent me here to ﬁnd you, to snatch you up. They love you very much, they’ve hired me,

228

Kev i n Oa kes

They’re paying me a lot to break you out. I got a big black car waiting downstairs. It’s as shiny as a hearse and the engine’s running. AMBER: Okay, okay . . .

Chloe, can you go down and organize all the adults and animals into a holiday parade? I’ll just be a sec. I think everyone would appreciate doing something special today, don’t you? It’s all been so miserable. You can come back up as soon as you’re done. All right? CHLOE: I guess so. Where do we keep all the crowns and junk? AMBER: In the back hall closet with the Christmas swords and masks. CHLOE: Uh huh. May I take your head? WATAMBO: No, I think I better hang on to it, thanks. CHLOE: All right. Miss me.

He better be here when I get back, Amber. Without a scratch on him. AMBER: Yeah.

I hate the holidays. My boyfriend was a holiday suicide. Did they tell you that? I walked in and found him hanging from a dead heavy beam. I think he used the twine and gift wrap from all the packages. I miss his big stupid body. He used to take up so much space. WATAMBO: Holiday suicides go straight to hell

for ruining everyone else’s good time. AMBER: So what do you want?

You’re not gonna try and deprogram me again, are you? WATAMBO: No, I just brought a letter from your parents.

I think your mom wrote something special to you on the front. AMBER: I can’t make it out. What’s it say? WATAMBO: I dunno.

The letters look kinda backwards.

229

T h e Vo m i t Ta l k o f G h os t s

Messages get all scrambled between this world and the next. It’s like reading in a mirror. (Sound: birdcall.) What the hell was that? AMBER: It’s the peacocks.

Those vain and gaudy birds accompany death and scream at his approach. I hate them. You can hear ’em all night. WATAMBO: Between the screaming and the hunters crashing through the woods,

it’s a wonder anyone gets any rest in here at all. AMBER: In most cases sleep isn’t necessarily allowed. WATAMBO: Oh. AMBER: Listen, Detective,

my baptism was accidental. A slip of the wrist and I fell in the drink. You’re under no obligation, I don’t think it took. Go home and tell my parents you did the best you could. WATAMBO: I can’t just leave you. Look at my lapel.

I’m a guild member in the Rose and Cross League. AMBER: I won’t tell a soul. No one has to know.

You can bring them back the heart of a deer. WATAMBO: Your parents love you, Amber. They only want what’s best.

You’re the one bright spot in their rapidly dimming future. Their eyes are failing, honey, it’s a moral blindness, like glaucoma. Christ, you’re all they’ve got left. How can you be so cruel? AMBER: Okay okay, calm down, all right?

I don’t need my head chewed off by some wild bear. WATAMBO: I told you. I’m not a bear. I’m a detective second grade, disguised as a bear. AMBER: Yeah, so you say. How can I be sure? WATAMBO: Stick your ﬁnger in my mouth and wiggle it around. AMBER: Like this?

230

Kev i n Oa kes

WATAMBO: Don’t be shy, jam it in there as far as it goes.

There. Now, does that feel like a bear to you? AMBER: Your teeth do feel disappointingly small and dull. WATAMBO: Okay, then. AMBER: Do you ever dream you’re losing your teeth?

Your mouth is fulla blood. My mom says it means you talk too much. WATAMBO: Come home, Amber, come now it’s time. AMBER: I can’t go. I made a promise.

He’s holding me in place with his mind. Can’t you hear him? Under the ﬂoorboards, inside the earth. He wants something from me but he won’t tell me what. He doesn’t like me talking to you. WATAMBO: He doesn’t even know you’re here.

He’s crawled off to be alone and lick himself. Some godforsaken hole. I wouldn’t get too close, they’re dangerous this way. They’ll chew off their own arm to get at what they want. AMBER: But I gotta see him, I have his glasses in a paper bag.

If he ﬁnds his sight’s improved, he can mail them back to me. And I brought his hard shoes and an old loaf of bread, in case there’s a dance or he has to do some walking. WATAMBO: What makes you think he wants you here?

What makes you think he wants anything from you at all? The dead despise the living—it’s only natural. Your breathing offends them; your movement, your apprehension— it’s a slap in the face. The dead are only human, after all. You want them saints in a cave, but they’re only shit puffed up with air like us. AMBER: He’s used to me. I’m his Mouth. WATAMBO: You presume to speak for the dead with a hot young tongue down your throat

and hard white teeth? You’re an abomination. Their songs were written for cracked lungs and throats choked with dirt.

231

T h e Vo m i t Ta l k o f G h os t s

AMBER: He wants me!

He told me to wait right here. He said he wouldn’t leave without me!! WATAMBO: He doesn’t know his own name!

The memory of your touch drained away in the bath. He’s a different person now, in a new exciting city. It’s over now, leave him be. AMBER: I need to feel his eyes on me. I need to see his face again. WATAMBO: You’re hurting him, you know that, right?

The living burden the dead. Every time you think of him, he falls out of some fond dream back into all this brown squish. AMBER: Love is a desperate appetite, Sergeant.

It doesn’t care who it punishes. WATAMBO: Do you hear that? AMBER: What? WATAMBO: That high-pitched whine. Like a dog makes after he’s killed his master. AMBER: I don’t hear anything. WATAMBO: You will in a minute.

I have an inhuman sensitivity to sound. Gather up your things—it’s time to go. AMBER: It’s just the screams from the inﬁrmary. It’s almost bath time there, I think. WATAMBO: It’s the alarm.

Someone’s made it over the wall and past the membrane of death. Where’s my head? I should never have taken it off. If they catch me without it, they’ll tear us to pieces. We’ll be eaten alive. AMBER: Stop whining. The dead have to eat something. They’re human too, ya know. WATAMBO: Don’t just stand there. Help me ﬁnd my head. AMBER: I don’t know who you expect to fool in that suit.

232

Kev i n Oa kes

WATAMBO: I fooled you pretty good, didn’t I? AMBER: Yeah, but I’m young and naive and full of hope.

Most of the dead I know aren’t. (Sound: dogs barking.) WATAMBO: You’re not exactly dressed for travel, are you?

Where are your shoes? C’mon. They’ll be beating the bushes for us. Snaking between the trees with electric sticks. AMBER: You better go without me.

He said he’d meet me here. If I wander off now, he’ll never ﬁnd me. WATAMBO: He won’t know you.

We lobotomize our dead and prop their remains in a front-facing window to amuse the street. He isn’t your love anymore. He’s a vicious disease. AMBER: I don’t care how he is. I just want him back. WATAMBO: Don’t be stupid.

You can’t ﬁght the dead. There’s a lot more of them, and they have an inﬁnite night to do whatever they like. Their victory is certain, because no matter who we are now, eventually we’ll be one of them. C’mon now, we’re losing the light. AMBER: Oh, I’ll be all right.

I’ve been living with death for some time now. I know the trick of it. It’s a fairy-tale romance. WATAMBO: Do you think he remembers you let them tie him to the bed? AMBER: I couldn’t help it!

He kept pulling out his feeding tubes and biting the staff. I begged them to let him up, but they wouldn’t listen. WATAMBO: You stopped writing. You said you wouldn’t, but you did. AMBER: His letters were unintelligible!

Long lines of scribbles I couldn’t understand. In some deadman’s hand he never taught me to read.

233

T h e Vo m i t Ta l k o f G h os t s

WATAMBO: You quit coming.

You couldn’t run far enough fast enough. You were the love of his life, and you walked away. AMBER: I was busy living!

I had friends—is it my fault he didn’t? I thought about him all the time, I took him with me everywhere I went, I spoke to him in dreams. I made him happy for a while before I left. That’s gotta count for something, doesn’t it? WATAMBO: You didn’t say good-bye. AMBER: I couldn’t.

It was too painful. My kisses burnt his skin. A door opens and CHLOE returns. She’s dressed in chic mourning attire: a little black dress, with black gloves maybe, and perhaps a hat. AMBER: Hi, Chloe.

Who are you supposed to be? CHLOE: I just felt like getting dressed. AMBER: How’s your masquerade? CHLOE: Chaos.

The kids have lost their heads and are rubbing themselves into any available crotch. The adults have slit the throat of what they’re hoping was a pig. Everywhere mouths are whispering, sucking, licking; people have shed their clothes like skin. Someone’s found a corpse under a big mound of coats and laid him center stage in a thick glass case. There isn’t even a semblance of a line anymore, let alone a parade. People are stepping on the furniture, the carpet’s smeared with shit, and a pink iced cake has been mashed into the wall. Everyone seems to have forgotten the solemnity of the occasion. WATAMBO: It must be some kind of fertility rite. CHLOE: Well, it’s festive, I promise you that! I feel like I’ve been dancing for days.

But I saved something in my stocking for you, Mister Detective.

234

Kev i n Oa kes

WATAMBO: Is it something to eat? My legs feel like rubber. How long have I been standing

here? I don’t think I’ve eaten in weeks. CHLOE: I’m sorry, Sergeant—we can’t keep food in our rooms. AMBER: It attracts animals. CHLOE: It’s against the rules. WATAMBO: But I’ve got diabetes. I’m hypoglycemic.

I could slip into a coma and never recover. AMBER: If you’ve made plans, Sergeant, don’t let us keep you. CHLOE: Don’t listen to her, Detective!

Lie down with me and lay your head in my lap. Now open your mouth, and close your eyes, and I’ll give you something to make you wise. WATAMBO: Is it a surprise that’ll hurt? CHLOE: Only if you nip.

CHLOE takes out a breast. AMBER: You aren’t gonna try and suckle him?

You can’t feed him, Chloe, you don’t have any milk. You gotta have a baby, or at least the hope of one, to get any use outta those things at all. CHLOE: One of my breasts weeps constantly for all humanity,

because I’m a very compassionate person! If you were my true friend and ever listened to a word I said, you’d know that about me, Amber! AMBER: Sorry, Chloe, I lost all reason.

I completely forgot you were a virgin saint. CHLOE: Besides, we don’t have a choice.

His teeth are too soft for anything solid. They’ve been worn down to nothing from all that growling. AMBER: I’m gonna be sick.

235

T h e Vo m i t Ta l k o f G h os t s

CHLOE: Then don’t look.

What’s wrong with you? A mother’s love is the most beautiful in the world, and this is a matter of life and death. Now get your mouth around this, Detective, and don’t gimme any lip. WATAMBO: Thanks, miss. You’re very resourceful. CHLOE: Shhhhhh. Lie back now and try not to talk.

I’ll have you up to your old tricks in no time. Pause. CHLOE nurses WATAMBO. AMBER: When I was a girl, I used to get scared

‘cuz life was so short and death was forever and ever and ever. I’m not so scared anymore. CHLOE: A little less teeth, Sergeant.

I like a little teeth but only just a little. Yeah, that’s good. Mmmmmmmmmm. Come to mommy. AMBER: Chloe?

Do you remember in school when someone stopped coming, those dolls they’d set up at the missing kid’s desk? With the hair and old clothes and stuff jammed in the pockets? One year half my class were Pinocchios. CHLOE: Quiet, Amber, I just got him down.

What’s the matter with you? AMBER: I can’t shake this feeling.

It seeps into me like a drink from a high distant table, freeing me of every obligation but to let go and drown. CHLOE: You need to sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning. WATAMBO: That’s enough love—I can’t breathe. CHLOE: Keep sucking.

I’m full of the milk of human kindness, and it’s really hurting my tits.

236

Kev i n Oa kes

AMBER: I had to get away from him, you know that, right?

It was a nightmare. Everything he touched turned to ash. Uncomfortable moment. CHLOE and WATAMBO don’t respond. A beat. WATAMBO: Well.

I gotta get back to my cage at the zoo. I’m hosting a mystery dance for paralytics at three, and I can’t be late. I’m performing CPR and sleight of hand. AMBER: Here’s your head, what’s your hurry?

Come kiss your sergeant, Chloe, he’s leaving. CHLOE: That’s the thing, Amber, I promised I’d go, too. AMBER: You’re leaving me? CHLOE: Yeah.

They’ve got a dead horse in a thick glass case who shudders to life every seventy-ﬁve years. I’d like to see that. AMBER: Oh. CHLOE: Don’t be angry.

I’ve never been pursued so ardently by a bear before. It’s incredible. He’s so male I can hardly walk. AMBER: He’s a policeman in a rug, Chloe. CHLOE: You make it sound so small and sordid—but it isn’t, not when you’re inside.

It’s a magic carpet. He makes me feel special. And I like being special. AMBER: Couldn’t you just take him somewhere private and show him your animal parade? CHLOE: No, I promised we’d make a day of it. After the card tricks and the dancing,

the sergeant plans to astound me with an amazing request. AMBER: You can’t mean marriage? Are you out of your mind?

You’ve only known him ten minutes, and you’ve spent half the time carving up a party guest dressed as a pig.

237

T h e Vo m i t Ta l k o f G h os t s

CHLOE: It doesn’t matter.

I’ve felt a real connection with him ever since we took off his head. He’s different from any boy I’ve ever known. AMBER: Yeah, he’s dressed as a bear. CHLOE: I want to live in his cave and have his cubs and break all his chairs and love his bed

the best. AMBER: You do know he isn’t really a bear, don’t you, Chloe? CHLOE: I don’t care, Amber, I just want to be happy.

He’s so sweet and gentle and shy, it’s like being a bride of Christ if Jesus was a crime-solving sexual adventurer. AMBER: You can’t get married. I won’t let you. CHLOE: It’ll be a small thing.

A Tom Thumb wedding and a kidnap honeymoon. We don’t need an elaborate show to prove our love. AMBER: Do bears even have weddings?

I thought they just mated indiscriminately and wandered into the woods to die. CHLOE: We’ll live in his habitat at the zoo, until we ﬁnd a place of our own.

It’s climate controlled. And those thick Plexiglas walls let in a lot of light. AMBER: I hope you have something planned for your two shows a day. CHLOE: We’ll think of something.

The sergeant has a wide and varied background in the performing arts. WATAMBO: I used to do a show called experiments in death.

People got killed in all kinds of ways. I’d do the killings and solve the crimes, too. We didn’t have the money to pay anybody else. CHLOE: I know you don’t approve, but could you bless our engagement anyway?

In years to come it’d be nice to know you weren’t still mad at me or anything. AMBER: Sure, Chloe.

AMBER thinks for a moment.

238

Kev i n Oa kes

I give you my blessing, and my blessing is this: No more magic. CHLOE: No more magic.

AMBER and CHLOE kiss. Remember when the world and everything in it felt new? And you were having every experience for the very ﬁrst time? AMBER: No, I musta been absent that day.

You’ll have to let me look at your notes. WATAMBO: It’s getting late, Chloe, we gotta go.

I’m teaching a workshop in ballroom for a little extra cash. The quickstep, the two-step, the foxtrot, the box-step: just the basics. AMBER: Wait. You can’t leave yet!

Stay up with me awhile and help keep watch. You can do that much, can’t you? CHLOE: I dunno, Amber. I hate to see people in pain. AMBER: I promise to suffer as small as I can. WATAMBO: You’ll be ﬁne.

I had all the ghost spaces ﬁlled: under chairs, inside the walls, all the dresser drawers. He won’t be back. Everything’s snugged up tight. AMBER: Oh, he’s coming.

He knows I love him. He’s not through punishing me for that. CHLOE: You can’t ask me to stay, Amber, it isn’t fair.

You had love. It’s my turn now. AMBER: Is that what I had?

Just stay and watch me fall into a light, troubled sleep, then off to gypsyland you go with your fair-haired detective. WATAMBO: Maybe he doesn’t exist, did you ever think of that? AMBER: Or maybe he’s hiding beneath the bed, listening to us breathe.

I wish I could sleep.

239

T h e Vo m i t Ta l k o f G h os t s

If I could sleep, I might see his face again. Or maybe I’d be able to forget it entirely. CHLOE: Would you like a glass of milk with a powder in it? AMBER: It’s kinda funny. He was so worried I’d forget him.

And now I can’t think of anything else. WATAMBO: You’ve gotta stop thinking—that’s the ticket!

Relax and clear your mind of everything you ever knew. AMBER: I don’t think I can.

He puts these thoughts in my head, and I can’t get ’em out. WATAMBO: Thoughts? What thoughts? AMBER: He wants me dead like him.

So he won’t have to wait all alone in the dark. CHLOE: No, Amber, he doesn’t, he really doesn’t!

You’re just having a bad day, that’s all. AMBER: They’re all bad.

Sometimes I think I can almost endure it, and later I hear myself screaming with grief. WATAMBO: Don’t be so dramatic.

You’re sorry now, that’s all that counts. Put on some lipstick and get out in the world. When he hears your voice, he’ll melt. AMBER: No.

I meant to hurt him. I did it on purpose. There’s no forgiveness for that. CHLOE: Is she gonna be okay? WATAMBO: Oh, sure.

Nobody ever died of a broken heart. Not ofﬁcially, at any rate. AMBER: You look tired, Sergeant.

Why don’t you put your head in Chloe’s lap and I’ll sing you a lullaby?

240

Kev i n Oa kes

WATAMBO: Could you tell me a story instead? None of the damned know any stories. AMBER: I don’t think I know any stories you’d like.

I keep telling the same one over and over until I can’t hear it anymore. Until it sounds like a scribble. WATAMBO: Can you tell one about me? I like stories about me best. AMBER: How ’bout a ghost story? A scary story’s best for bed. CHLOE: Yeah! AMBER: Listen.

This is a deathtime story. I want to tell you a deathtime story. Listen to me. WATAMBO: I don’t think I can hear this right before I fall asleep. CHLOE: Shhhhhh!

CHLOE puts the bear head back on WATAMBO. He moves his head slightly and freezes in place. He remains frozen for the rest of the play. AMBER: I can feel my veins. You’re not supposed to feel your veins, are you? CHLOE: I don’t think so. I can’t feel mine. AMBER: How do I look? CHLOE: Lemme see. Pull your hair back.

Perfect. Every bit as pretty as a young bride of death. How’s your stomach? Do you need something to get sick in? AMBER: I don’t think I can live without him. CHLOE: Keep breathing. That’s the most important part.

Every time you breathe a grown-up dies. Can you still feel your veins? AMBER: I can’t feel anything. CHLOE: I can see your lips move. Vaguely. Like you’re trying to form words.

241

T h e Vo m i t Ta l k o f G h os t s

AMBER: What does it look like I’m trying to say? CHLOE: You stopped doing it.

It wasn’t any language I ever heard. AMBER: Chloe? CHLOE: Yeah? AMBER: Did you ever see something you knew would destroy you,

and burn to possess it with your whole heart and soul? CHLOE: Of course not, Amber.

I only want things I know can make me happy. AMBER: Smart girl. CHLOE: There’s someone at the window. AMBER: There isn’t. CHLOE: I see a face. AMBER: You don’t. Ignore him and he’ll go away. CHLOE: He’s coming, Amber, I know he’s coming!

I hear the squish squish squish of his blood-soaked shoes. AMBER: I’m tired, Chloe.

And I think, because I’m very very tired, it’s time to close our eyes, and ﬁnd a small place in the dark to wait for the light. A beat. From this point on, AMBER and CHLOE start to move into two different worlds. CHLOE: He really is here, isn’t he, Amber? Even if we can’t always see him?

He’s still alive somewhere inside us, way down deep? AMBER: Christ, Chloe, I hope not.

Come to bed. CHLOE: I’m not tired. AMBER: Come anyway, I’m freezing.

242

Kev i n Oa kes

CHLOE: Jesus, your legs are like ice. AMBER: There’s sand in my veins.

Chloe? CHLOE: What? AMBER: Can you hear me? CHLOE: No. AMBER: Listen.

Are you listening? Listen to me breathe. CHLOE: Stop it, Amber, you’re scaring me. AMBER: It’s just an old dog in the street. CHLOE: What do you want?

Do you want me to ﬁnd your doll? Are you thirsty? Do you want a glass of water? AMBER: Don’t yell at me. It’s nighttime. People go to bed at night. CHLOE: It’s 3 a.m.

Is the light in your eyes? If I got a book down from the bookshelf, could you point to the words you mean? AMBER: I don’t need anything . . .

You’re dead to me. CHLOE: Don’t stare like that—you’ll hurt yourself.

What did your mom tell you about the sandman? If he looks in your eyes you’ll go blind. Shut ’em tight. CHLOE closes AMBER’s eyes. Good girl. Lie back now and try not to talk. Don’t move, don’t think,

243

T h e Vo m i t Ta l k o f G h os t s

just don’t. It’ll all seem different in the morning, I promise you that, as different as night and day, believe you me. That’s right. Hold yourself as rigid as possible. Pretend your whole body is covered in wax. Amber? AMBER: What? CHLOE: Are you asleep yet? AMBER: No. CHLOE: But your eyes are closed.

Right? What does it look like? AMBER: Behind my eyes? CHLOE: Yeah.

What does it look like behind your eyes? AMBER: It looks like this.

Lights increase in intensity to a blinding level and then cut to black.

244

Kev i n Oa kes

AJAX (por nobody) Alice Tuan

AJAX (por nobody) premiered in April 2001 at the Flea Theater in New York City. It was read at the Mark Taper Forum Writer’s Workshop retreat in May 1999, at the Actor’s Studio West Writer’s Unit in October 1999, and at the New Works Now festival at New York’s Public Theater in April 2000. It was ﬁrst produced in April 2001 by the Flea Theater and traveled to Melbourne, Australia, for the Fringe Fest in September 2001. In 2005 it played at Salvage Vanguard in Austin, Texas. Ajax (por nobody) is archived in the Billy Rose collection of the New York Public Library for the Performing Arts at Lincoln Center.

245

Ajax (por nobody) by Alice Tuan. Clockwise from left: Kristin Stewart Chase, Siobhan Towey, and Joanie Ellen.

246

A l i c e Tua n

Characters ANNETTE JESSE ALMA ALEXANDER

Setting a white-tiled room a drain, hoses workable water gun squirters a long, tiled block

247

A j a x ( p or n ob o d y )

Private Act In darkness, a cat screams. ALMA sits on the long, tiled block with an apple corer in hand, preparing to eat a pomegranate. ANNETTE enters with a plastic bag of frilly hors d’oeuvre picks. ALMA: You look dashing ANNETTE: Oh don’t say that ALMA: It’s true ANNETTE: Please ALMA: You’ve spent all this time dolling up ANNETTE: I haven’t really ALMA: You have ANNETTE: Not really ALMA: Ever since I got here ANNETTE: Not ALMA: Hours before I got here

Pause. ANNETTE: Have you seen Aja? ALMA: How does one get the eye line so sharp ANNETTE: I can’t ﬁnd Aja ALMA: without ANNETTE: AY-JAH! ALMA: the lip line bleeding

248

A l i c e Tua n

ANNETTE: C’mere Aja ALMA: the powder so even ANNETTE: C’mon Aja

ALMA grabs ANNETTE. ALMA: the colors

ANNETTE escapes. ANNETTE: It’s nothing ALMA: Are you wearing a bra under that tight tight T-shirt? ANNETTE: Does it show? ALMA: Are you? ANNETTE: Aja! C’mere kitty ALMA: How it perks ANNETTE: Where is she? ALMA: I don’t recall you being so ﬁrm ANNETTE: Yes and no ALMA: Yes and no? ANNETTE: It’s the, um frame, um, but not the face ALMA: Let me see ANNETTE: Alma ALMA: Annette

Pause. ANNETTE: Alma ALMA: Annette

249

A j a x ( p or n ob o d y )

ANNETTE: Aren’t you worried? ALMA: No ANNETTE: I haven’t seen her all afternoon ALMA: Let me see underneath ANNETTE: Later. You will

ALMA breaks the pomegranate open. ALMA: You want some of this. ANNETTE: Later

ALMA takes a juicy bite, slowly spits the seeds into her hand. ALMA: You go to these lengths ANNETTE: It’s not a length

Pause. ALMA: Is it for me? ANNETTE: We’re having men over ALMA: Is it for them?

ANNETTE (stands): We’re all getting together, right? Together. It’s social ALMA: Don’t be ashamed if it’s for the men ANNETTE: You wanna put out some hors d’oeuvres? ALMA: Hors d’oeuvres we have? ANNETTE: It’s being social. You have little snacks while you have little talk ALMA: Small talk ANNETTE: Little talk ALMA: It’s called small talk

250

A l i c e Tua n

ANNETTE: I was making a connection between snacking and talking ALMA: It’s known as small talk ANNETTE: Who cares what’s known? ALMA: as in fair skies, as in top grosser ANNETTE: Maybe I shouldn’t have called. AJA! ALMA: as in, you know, what happened ANNETTE: Where are you? ALMA: on an episode of ANNETTE: I know that. I know that. I was stretching it. Changing its shape. Little talk

Pause. ALMA: You don’t look so dashing anymore ANNETTE: As I had meant in the ﬁrst place ALMA: LITTLE TALK . . . little talk . . . is confusing. It sounds like . . . it sounds like . . . it mis-

represents . . . awkward it is . . . like you have little to talk about ’cuz there’s something huge . . . looming in the air . . . huger than the moment . . . it . . . not being able to . . . not much talk . . . it wouldn’t be much talk. It wouldn’t be much talk. It would be little talk. And I don’t think that is what you mean, Annette ANNETTE: Alma. How can you make something so small, so big? ALMA: I’m not happy about this ANNETTE: What ALMA: This This This situation ANNETTE: Because

Pause. Well I can understand. It’s awkward. Silence.

251

A j a x ( p or n ob o d y )

ANNETTE: Have you visited Nancy?

Pause. ALMA: What’s there to visit? ANNETTE: I mean I thought you had been . . . had been visiting . . . her ALMA: Well I had, until, until it got to be too much ANNETTE: What got to be too much? ALMA: It got to be, actually, funny . . . it got to be too . . . little, what me and Nancy were talk-

ing about. Pause. ALMA: I’d drive out all those miles to Palmdale ANNETTE: She’s in Palmdale ALMA: You know that, Annette ANNETTE: But she went back? ALMA: She lives there ANNETTE: But she’d go back? ALMA: It’s her home ANNETTE: But she’d go back? ALMA: She’s in Palmdale ANNETTE: Is she walking? I mean, can she walk? I mean, will she ever be able to walk?

Pause. ALMA: Go see for yourself ANNETTE: Is it that bad? ALMA: Go see for yourself

252

A l i c e Tua n

ANNETTE: I don’t know if I can ALMA: There’s a rip from her belly button down to her

oh Annette.

When she tried to Double Penelope, it split her right open ANNETTE: She just wasn’t ﬁt enough ALMA: It’s hard to hold her guts in when she stands. There’s a constant ooze, sometimes white,

sometimes yellow, but constant. She’s not afraid of the ooze. Says, “It’s not all that different from the soups I used to puke up. Saves my throat. Teeth are rotting less. Fongernails are cleaner.” Remember how she always said fongernails? ANNETTE: No ALMA: Remember how she always used to bring her own plastic bags? In case there wasn’t a

toilet around ANNETTE: I only remember the rubber sheet ALMA: Always the optimist, that Nancy ANNETTE: Where was she from again? ALMA: But she still gets around. Relentless. She likes to get around. And there are those who

like her getting around. Her wound. They. Her main form of transportation is her butt. Gets around by, I saw her sliding around on her butt. Can always tell where she’s been. All the dust sucked up by her, you know, butt. Never has to mop. Otherwise Pause. Otherwise Pause. It’s hard to talk to her without the wound constantly oozing.

It gets to be

ANNETTE: Stop. We need to put out the hors d’oeuvres. Here. You can put these on this tray ALMA: This tray is extremely shiny. It’s more of a ANNETTE: It is. But we can make it work as a tray ALMA: Is this your old coke mirror? ANNETTE: I have many mirrors

253

A j a x ( p or n ob o d y )

ALMA: You want me to ANNETTE: It’s clean. I just cleaned it ALMA: And you want me to put the hors d’oeuvres here? ANNETTE: It works as a tray, doesn’t it? ALMA: An extremely shiny tray ANNETTE: And kind of make them into a shape. I mean, an arrangement. You know, so it’ll

mean something. A square or something ALMA: You want a square ANNETTE: Not necessarily, really, it’s up to you, the shape. And make sure . . . oh where are

they? She gets her plastic bag. ANNETTE: Make sure you stick these in them ALMA: We can use our ﬁngers ANNETTE: But these have little frillies on the end. They have color. They’re festive ALMA: Then just four ANNETTE: Why four? ALMA: There’re four of us, aren’t there? ANNETTE: Well ALMA: You expecting more? ANNETTE: I don’t know, maybe ALMA: One for each person ANNETTE: But I have a whole bag of them. And it’s social to have more ALMA: We can reuse

254

A l i c e Tua n

ANNETTE: But then we can’t have constant choice! What if, what if I want a red one ﬁrst, and

then a yellow one and then, after that, to make it different, I want a green one? If we only have one, then we can only choose the one, and then, and then we have to stick to that one all night! And I don’t want to stick to one. I want to be able to have as many as I want, as many times as I want, over and over again, if you don’t mind ALMA: Fine. They’re all in ANNETTE: It is my social, after all ALMA: Arrange them the way you want ANNETTE: No

Pause. I want you to choose the shape ALMA: Let me see underneath, then ANNETTE: Please Alma?

Pause. Please? ALMA: Fine ANNETTE: I want to see how you work with the colors ALMA: Fine ANNETTE: if you separate the colors ALMA: Fine ANNETTE: or if you mix them up or both or none ALMA: Do we have some crackers with the wieners? ANNETTE: Wienettes ALMA: Crackers with the wienettes ANNETTE: Crackers are fattening

255

A j a x ( p or n ob o d y )

ALMA: Saltines ANNETTE: Saltines are not classy ALMA: So it’s just the wieners ANNETTE: Wienettes

Pause. ALMA: Bring the little wieners on ANNETTE: Oh thank you Alma. Thank you

She gets the wienettes. ALMA: We doing head shots, too? ANNETTE (off): I’m not ALMA: Annette! I thought I thought we were

Annette, I thought ANNETTE: Yeah, I’ve been wanting to ask you about that, Alma ALMA: The head shot? We used to ANNETTE: Why do you think so much? You’re always fucking thinking . . . I thought this, I

thought that, I was thinking how, I wonder if. Don’t you ever get sick of thinking? ALMA: I have a brain. I think ANNETTE: It wasn’t always like that. Remember, you used to, like, when you, me, and Nancy

were all hanging out together, when we would all just do each other . . . to get ready to socialize: do our hair. Do our eyes. Do our lips. Do our thighs. Do our skin, do our backs, do our pits. Do our face to get ready and do our elbows to smooth the skin and do our toes and do our lips. I loved the way you’d do our lips and that curve between our ﬁngers, do that crease under our butts. Do each other. Do us all Now we can barely get toothpicks into our hors d’oeuvres onto a tray without a mathematical discussion about it. You really don’t get me in the mood to be social. I mean, look at me now ALMA: You look dashing ANNETTE: Well I don’t feel dashing

256

A l i c e Tua n

Pause. Maybe we do need to do the head shots Two men appear in shadow. They are outside. ANNETTE: Do you want me to do your eyes . . . in the kitchen . . . like we used to with Nancy?

Before those guys came and did? Lights dim until a window is projected onto the tiles. It is the outside looking in. One man, ALEXANDER, hides in a bush. The other, JESSE, talks to the bush. JESSE: Alex. Hey Alex, buddy. You OK, man? You still there, buddy? It’s not a problem. It’s

not a problem. I hear they’re real nice, it’s not a problem The bushes start whacking. Whoa Alex, buddy. Save yourself there. You don’t want to spend it before you befriend it, bro. Can you even see anything? C’mon, let’s go in and do it live. You been renting too much. I can smell it off our screen. Can’t fool ol’ Jesse, buddy. I see the squirt pump next to the tube. ’Cept you forgot to clean it once. Got crusted over. I thought my eyes were outta focus, but it was only when I looked at the tube. Then the cat steps on the remote and there it is, plain as day, your spooj frozen like stalactites on the screen. Only so many times you can freeze it on Jenna and pretend you’re giving her a pearl necklace, you know what I mean, buddy? And the lip prints, had to wipe those off, too. You a funny one, man. You can get off eating out a piece of glass. I mean, where’s the taste? C’mon, man. This’ll be good for you. Live is good, man. It’s a challenge. It’s 3-D. Whaddaya say, bro? Give it a go. Don’t work out we’ll go to a club, something. That’s 3-D, too. ’Cept you can’t touch. But at least there’s a smell. Don’t get no smell off the tube. You ’bout ready? Sounds like it. Alex, buddy. Alex, man. Bro . . . A cat screams. The bush releases. Stillness. ALEXANDER crawls out of the bush. JESSE: They gettin’ ready for us? ALEXANDER: Let’s go get a drink ﬁrst

257

A j a x ( p or n ob o d y )

JESSE: We can take them out with us. Get them happy. And shiny ALEXANDER: Let’s go get a drink ﬁrst JESSE: We’re here already ALEXANDER: Let’s go get a drink ﬁrst JESSE: Something happen in the bush you wanna ALEXANDER: Jesse. Let’s go get a drink ﬁrst JESSE: No offense, Alex buddy ALEXANDER: Alexander. It’s Alexander JESSE: I kinda want to get goin’ with the girls, you know what I mean? I mean

Pause. ALEXANDER: When we’re with them

He ﬁngers his belly button. When we’re with them Pause. When we’re with them JESSE: Let’s go ALEXANDER: You’ll remember JESSE: Remember . . . yeah, what we talked about ALEXANDER: You’ll remember JESSE: Get to the point, buddy ALEXANDER: You don’t remember JESSE: You’re talking about . . . wait, we solved that ALEXANDER: the most important thing to remember when we’re with them

258

A l i c e Tua n

JESSE: You’re talking about the ass-mouth thing, right? ALEXANDER: when we’re with them JESSE: OK! I won’t look at you when we’re doing the ass-mouth thing, OK? ALEXANDER: Remember to call me Alexander. I want to be called Alexander because JESSE: It’s gonna take some gettin’ used to ALEXANDER: because JESSE: You got it. Alexander ALEXANDER: because it makes me think I’m great

Pause. JESSE: That’s lame ALEXANDER: It’s lame to think you’re great? JESSE: Just be great. Like you have been. I can’t wait to see the looks on their faces when they

see your ALEXANDER: I was named after him. JESSE: Let’s just go in and get laid

Crash, a gallon of Jim Beam. ANNETTE: Shit. There was no need for that. Alma. Oh. Who’s there?

The window projecting stops. Lights up bright, the tiles are bloodied with pomegranate smear. JESSE and ALEXANDER are a part of the tiles. JESSE: Oh hi there ALEXANDER: We heard a crash ANNETTE: Watch out for the glass JESSE: Are you bleeding? ANNETTE: We weren’t expecting you so soon

259

A j a x ( p or n ob o d y )

ALEXANDER: Where’s your friend? ANNETTE: Which one of you is Jesse? JESSE: That would be me ANNETTE: Jesse. Hi. Annette JESSE: Wow, Annette. Nancy didn’t tell me ALEXANDER: Someone just been murdered here? ANNETTE: Oh that. It’s pomegranate. JESSE: Maybe it’s month juice. ANNETTE (ﬂirty): Maybe. JESSE: I’ve acquired quite a taste for month juice ANNETTE: A carnivore. (to ALEXANDER) You are ALEXANDER: Alexander ANNETTE: The baby brother of my good friend Nancy. ALEXANDER: You’re hot ANNETTE: So Jesse and . . . Alex, do you think ALEXANDER: Alexander ANNETTE: Well we’ve made a mess of the pomegranates, um. We just need a few minutes to

hose down the place. Uh . . . be dolls and run to the store and replace this gallon of Beam. Would you? We should be clean by the time you get back ALEXANDER: We were gonna go get a drink ﬁrst JESSE: Actually, we weren’t expecting you to provide snacks and libatives ANNETTE: Actually, we weren’t, but I was in a festive mood tonight ALEXANDER: You wanna go get a drink ﬁrst? ANNETTE: Actually, I’d like to stay in

260

A l i c e Tua n

ALEXANDER: Actually, it’d be easier to go out. Don’t you think? Leave the mess behind? ANNETTE: Actually, no. You see, Alma is shy JESSE: Shy? ANNETTE: Shy about the outside. She’s actually more comfortable staying in. (to off) Aren’t

you, Alma? No response. ALEXANDER: Let’s go JESSE: Will she come out later? ALEXANDER: Let’s go, Jesse. JESSE: We sure would like the pleasure . . . of meeting her ANNETTE: She’s just doubly shy about being seen with pomegranate smeared all over her. (to

off) Aren’t you, Alma? JESSE: Then Alexander and I will mosey on down to the store ANNETTE: You might wanna try the House of Spirits a little further down. I think their gallon

of Beam is particularly fresh ALEXANDER: What does that mean?

Pause. JESSE: House of Spirits it is.

Projected outside. The men walk. ALMA enters and retrieves one of the gun squirters. ANNETTE, too, readies herself with a hose. ALMA slowly puts the squirter up to ANNETTE’s temple and administers a head shot. The gals then rinse the tiles and each other off, having lots of splashy fun. JESSE: We shoulda taken the car ALEXANDER: I like walking JESSE: I could drive your car

261

A j a x ( p or n ob o d y )

ALEXANDER: No one drives my car JESSE: Car’s faster ALEXANDER: It’s too fast JESSE: We take the car, we can ﬁt a drink in ALEXANDER: Won’t give ’em enough time to get ready JESSE: You feel that? Was that water? Is it raining? ALEXANDER: We’re waterproof JESSE: But I like being dry. Wet makes me fret, unless ALEXANDER: Get soaked. Get there. Have to take your clothes off sooner JESSE: You’re right. I don’t mind the rain

Pause. ALEXANDER: Which one you like? JESSE: I only met Annette ALEXANDER: She’s hot JESSE: The other one could be a Sparklettes bottle and the night’d still be worth it ALEXANDER: I don’t do bottles JESSE: Only tubes, right? ALEXANDER: Shut the fuck up about all that already, all right? I like my sister. Is that a prob-

lem for you? JESSE: Buddy, buddy ALEXANDER: It’s Alexander JESSE: Your sister is a ﬁne lady ALEXANDER: She’s more than that

262

A l i c e Tua n

JESSE: I’ll say ALEXANDER: Don’t you ever fuck with her. She’s mine JESSE: And when she told me ALEXANDER: What did she tell you? JESSE: You needed ALEXANDER: What JESSE: She said you needed to get out ALEXANDER: I do get out. What are you letting her tell things about me JESSE: Your sister loves you ALEXANDER: Yeah. I know JESSE: You seem to be the most important person in her life ALEXANDER: Yeah. I know JESSE: I mean that one time she picked me up ALEXANDER: We tended sheep together. That sort of love

Pause. JESSE: You were

shepherds?

ALEXANDER: Back home. Pops hid us in a meadow. Had us raising sheep for his work JESSE: But she said your family was in movies ALEXANDER: Yeah. There was a need for sheep. We’d take ’em into the ﬁeld she and me JESSE: Did I see that one? ALEXANDER: The wool against her skin, she’d ride. Gid’em up, she’d rub herself all over. Hours

we’d spend laying with the sheep, naked to the world like we were in Eden or something. The light’d stare down from the cloud, we could see God watching us. Part of his babe woods. We were happy as lambs, ’cept we didn’t have the wool. Nothing to grab on to. Didn’t matter. We’d keep warm with our herd.

263

A j a x ( p or n ob o d y )

My sis had a favorite. Called him Z. She’d stare in his eyes for hours, like she was having communion or something. She’d lay in his fur cozed up like she was one of his. She’d get under him, tickle his belly. Meh. Meh. She’d fall asleep and Z’d go lay next to her, put his little sheep face gently atop her hand. She’d wake up. They’d roll, one atop the other, frolicking down the pasture. She loved him so much she’d kiss him, like you know how kids kiss their teddy’s, you know? JESSE: Yeah. Uh, yeah ALEXANDER: That one would lick her all over, she’d giggle and giggle, try to catch its tongue

in her mouth. Meh. She’d start poking at his wool, he’d lick even harder. Z’d even go down to her sacred spot and when and when his wand’d get lit, I’d have to break them apart. She’d go mad tryin’ to get back with Z. At night Z’d meh and meh, you know that sound, meh meh meh meh, like he was calling for her. And from her bed she’d meh back to him. Meh meh, all night long. I’d try to calm Z, meh meh, I’d try to shut her up, meh meh, but Z knew she was in the house, meh meh, wanted her to come out. It’d drive Pops mad, knowing this star creature was meh-ing for his girl. And so, and so, one day it stopped. Pause. Pops had taken his sword to Z. Pause. Z’s smell through the house, the folds of his ﬂesh tucked with garlic. My sis never came down to dinner from that day on. She never forgave him. And she refused ever to wear clothes again. We wouldn’t let her leave the house ’cuz of it. She ran away, became a part of another family’s business. So I’d have to do all the sheep myself. JESSE: I think we’re lost

ALEXANDER (sad): I’m glad I found her JESSE: Did we take a wrong turn? ALEXANDER: I know where we are JESSE: Just to let you know ALEXANDER: There’s a place to score around the corner JESSE: I, uh ALEXANDER: up on the hill

264

A l i c e Tua n

JESSE: Your sister Jenna is probably the uh . . . actually she is the only woman I know that

I, uh, haven’t slept with Pause. ALEXANDER: Really, Jesse?

Pause. JESSE: Really

Pause. ALEXANDER: You mean that?

Pause. JESSE: I mean that, Alexander.

ALEXANDER hugs him. ALEXANDER: Thanks man, thanks JESSE: We don’t know this neighborhood ALEXANDER: Fuck what anyone says JESSE: Look, I’ll pay rent. Soon

ALEXANDER squeezes tighter. ALEXANDER: You like this? JESSE: Let’s

save it

for

ALEXANDER: Tighter? JESSE: Yeahhhh sh sh sure ALEXANDER: Ain’t that a rush?

JESSE’s red. ALEXANDER: You can take a lot. I like that in a man. You’ll be good for war

265

A j a x ( p or n ob o d y )

ALEXANDER releases. JESSE: Shit. (gasp) You win. All right, man? You win ALEXANDER: I can score you something, take you past that JESSE: Great ALEXANDER: You in the mood for dust? JESSE: I’m sticking to the Beam. Dust . . .

Pause. ALEXANDER: What? JESSE: Dust ALEXANDER: What?

Pause. JESSE: It softens me, man ALEXANDER: Fine strappin’ man as yourself? JESSE: It does ALEXANDER: You have a mouth JESSE: My nose, man ALEXANDER: Just a little lace JESSE: What about the two-in-one? ALEXANDER: It’ll play JESSE: Does it get you harder? ALEXANDER: Pops taught me everything I know JESSE: You’re lucky to have a ALEXANDER: Pops is a god. Good erect genetics

266

A l i c e Tua n

JESSE: I can’t wait to suck on Annette’s tits, man. You saw her peaks ALEXANDER: We’ll check out Roger for a sec

Fog. Hiss. JESSE: They’re gonna get cold

More fog. More hiss. ALEXANDER: You gotta make ’em wait. You gotta make ’em wait. ’Sides, everything’s reheat-

able Fog. JESSE: What’s up with the fog rollin’ in? ALEXANDER: Roger’s cool, Jesse. He’s deep in the business. JESSE: It’s thick ALEXANDER: You wanna cut a record, right? JESSE: Not tonight ALEXANDER: You gotta connect before you want something, right?

Pause. JESSE: You’ll take it to go? ALEXANDER: It’ll relax the girls. One of ’em’ll have to JESSE: What about the Beam? ALEXANDER: He’s got a new one I guarantee you haven’t seen:

Mary Had a Little Lamb. Pause. I haven’t even seen it Pause. JESSE: A peek, then

267

A j a x ( p or n ob o d y )

They turn the corner. Projection dims. Sound of water clearing a drain. Steam. Hiss. ALMA and ANNETTE sit on a long block. They’re wrapped in towels. Steely Dan plays: “Up on the hill people never stare They just don’t care Chinese music under banyan tree Here at the dude ranch above the sea Aja When all my dime-dancin’ is through I run to you” ANNETTE (slow and lilting): So how long are you gonna wait? ALMA: I don’t know ANNETTE: So why don’t you have a little while you’re waiting? ALMA: It’s not that easy

Pause. ANNETTE: What was his name again?

Pause. ALMA: Why? ANNETTE: I see it everywhere but I can never remember

Pause. ALMA: Roger ANNETTE: Not his real name ALMA: His name is Roger ANNETTE: Oh I remember

268

A l i c e Tua n

ALMA: Don’t ANNETTE: Dick Odyssey! What? It’s a classic name. Is he even alive?

Pause. ALMA: My “husband” will come back ANNETTE (progressively more squeally): You guys are married? That is so rad! You married

Dick Odyssey. He’s yours forever and ever and ever. His cock is yours forever and ever and ever. And I thought he was just another fantasy fuck you just obsess on and ﬁll that man slot in your head with, but he actually, I mean, music, ﬂowers, a ring? What did you wear? What did you wear? ALMA: Nothing. Up on a hill. At sunrise ANNETTE: You are the coolest, Alma. That changes my whole view of you, that you can do all

the stuff you do and still be married. That is so open. That is so free. That is hope. How come you never told me? I mean, I thought you were waiting for nothing, I mean, not nothing, I mean, I’d wait for a cock like that, no prob, yeah, I see your point. I see your point. (beat) Did you put all the toothpicks in all the wienettes? Let me check. She exits. ALMA lays down, a corpse on a sepulchere. ANNETTE (off): God I’m all red. Have we had enough steam?

Pause. Hah Alma? Pause. Alma? OK I’m turning it off ’cuz I’m too red. Hissing stops. Steam slowly clears. ANNETTE: Jesse won’t like that. The red. Is it OK if I go with Jesse? I have this thing for dark

eyes, because . . . well I have dark eyes and . . . the other guy, what was his name? Alan, I think it’s Alan, right, he’s got these really piercing blue eyes and, well to tell you the truth, I can’t . . . I have a problem with guys with blue eyes because . . . did I tell you this story? Alma? Did I? Yoohoo, are you there? I mean the other guy, Alan, is really cute, I mean almost too cute, I mean, well I think, I mean you have blue eyes and he has blue eyes and, maybe you guys see eye to eye, I mean, I didn’t mean it like that, I think you can have a lot of fun with him . . . it’s just that when I was in high

269

A j a x ( p or n ob o d y )

school, I had this mad crush on this guy with blue eyes and . . . I mean it was a mad crush, I’d have violated my people to be with him, I mean, I’d have peeled off my skin and sewn it into lampshades myself if he wanted, I mean, it was really awful how mad I was for him and . . . he told me he couldn’t be with me because I could never give him a blue-eyed child because dark eyes always take over light eyes since the light eye gene was always recessive and wouldn’t show up . . . I mean, he said it nicely and all, but . . . So I kind of have this problem with blue-eyed people, I mean, it kind of, it kind of crushes me . . . especially ’cuz we could have changed the colors, I mean, they do have those colored lenses . . . but I didn’t think to say that. So if they’re blueeyed and we’re having fun, they have to keep their eyes shut ALMA: My eyes are shut

Pause. ALMA ﬂips onto her stomach. ANNETTE (still off): AHHHH GOD! I hate ants I hate ants I hate ants! Look at them they’re so

desperate and they all swarm for, like, some stupid small crumb of stale nothing. They’re so, I mean, they’re just all over it like that one morsel was the greatest thing that ever happened in their lives . . . god! ALMA: It’s called food ANNETTE (off): I hate ants I hate ants I hate ants. I’m burying them in Ajax. Here, crawl

through this, motherfuckers. Crawl! Crawl! (sweetly) A little sprinklette of water . . . and now you’ll all turn blue Sound of water. ANNETTE: I’m so happy to wash them down the sink and turn on the disposal.

KKKKRKKRKKRKKRRRR. It gives me great satisfaction to know KKKKKRRRRK chopped up in the disposal. KKKKKRKKKKKRKKK. That’s why when KKKKRKK on I just laugh and laugh and KKKRRRK and laugh. HA HA HA HA HA HA HA KKKKKRRRR. Clean and crushed. HA HA HA. Clean and crushed. HA HA HA HA KRKRRKK HA KRRRRK HA HA KRRRRK HA. Gone. Back to normal Sound of chopping. JESSE enters with a bottle of Jim Beam. He immediately and delicately mounts ALMA from behind. JESSE (whispering close in her ear): Hi. I’m Jesse

Pause. ALMA: Is this how you always enter?

270

A l i c e Tua n

JESSE: I could smell you from the street ALMA: What took you so long? JESSE: I was watching you from the window ALMA: Oh yeah? JESSE: Your laying here like ALMA: A slab? JESSE: No baby, like you were waiting for me. Mm. Mm. Were you?

Pause. ALMA: You running for president? JESSE: As a matter of fact I am. In about twelve ALMA: Months? JESSE: Minutes, baby, minutes ALMA: Jesse for Prez JESSE: You wanna be my First Lady? ALMA: Platform? JESSE: My goal as president is to make every woman in this country buoyant and horny ALMA: And the fellas? JESSE: Keep the women happy and the rest will follow ALMA: Jesse for Prez JESSE: I wanna know you ALMA: Jesse for Prez JESSE: I wanna hear you ALMA: Jesse for Prez

271

A j a x ( p or n ob o d y )

Pause (mm mm). JESSE: I want to drink you

He opens her towel, licking a line down her spine. His tongue follows her buttock crack down to the inside. He eats. ALMA slowly grabs the bottle, up once, then down again, uncaps it and drinks. ANNETTE enters with a tray. ANNETTE: I cut some lines of . . . who’s there?

JESSE looks up. ANNETTE: Jesse?

ALMA sits up. He’s familiar to her, but his face seems to have shifted. JESSE: Annette. (to ALMA) Penelope. ALMA: Jesse? ANNETTE: Penelope? JESSE: You . . . tasted familiar ALMA: Palmolive ANNETTE (sexy): Hey Jesse JESSE: Hi Annette ANNETTE: I see you’ve met JESSE: I thought she was you ANNETTE: That’s Alma ALMA: Have we? JESSE: You’re the Double Penelope ALMA: Oh, you’re mistaken JESSE: In the ﬂicks, you’re Double Penelope with Dick Odyssey and Archie Heels

272

A l i c e Tua n

ANNETTE: No that’s Alma ALMA: Actually, Annette JESSE: No, that’s Penelope ANNETTE: Penelope?

Pause. ALMA: It’s a stage name ANNETTE: You never showed me that one JESSE: I’ve always wanted to meet you ALMA: Please, know me as Alma now ANNETTE (to JESSE): I’m glad you’re helping . . . Penelope . . . enjoy herself. She’d become quite

the waiting, weaving wife there JESSE: I saw how you took in both at once. The choreography of that was astounding! No one

can Double Penelope like you. ANNETTE: Speaking of which, can I get you a glass for your Beam? JESSE: Unless you want me to spill it into your ample peaks and drink it from there, my ﬁne

alpine maiden ANNETTE: Ho ho! What a jolly idea. Here, Penelope. Why don’t you take the lines while Jesse

and I ponder the selection of cups and glasses in the kitchen ANNETTE hands the mirror to ALMA. JESSE gets the bottle of Beam and heads to the kitchen with ANNETTE. ANNETTE: We have festive snacks, too JESSE: Besides you? ALMA: Jesse for Prez.

ALMA looks in mirror. ANNETTE and JESSE are off making sounds. (Off:)

273

A j a x ( p or n ob o d y )

ANNETTE: Oh yeah JESSE: MMMMMM ANNETTE: Oh yeah JESSE: MMMMMM ANNETTE: Oh yeah JESSE: MMMMMM ANNETTE: Oh yeah JESSE: MMMMMM

(Continue eighteen more times, slowing to just JESSE’s nibbling mouth sounds.) ALMA continues to stare into the mirror. ALMA: Oh no

You ain’t coming back You send me your men, but you ain’t coming back, are you Dick Odyssey? But will you come back as Roger? Oh yes Oh yes Waiting means . . . it means . . . oh yes I can’t do with another what I would do with you Oh yeah But why do I wait again? Until my innards are blue? Oh yeah . . . wait, why? Oh yeah . . . wait, why? Oh yeah . . . wait . . . why? ALEXANDER slowly appears. He walks in a trance toward ALMA. He holds a mounted prism, a foot tall, slim with a sharp point. It is an American Music Award. (Off:) JESSE: Oh yeah ANNETTE: MMMMMM JESSE: Oh yeah

274

A l i c e Tua n

ANNETTE: MMMMMM JESSE: Oh yeah ANNETTE: MMMM JESSE: Oh yeah ANNETTE: MMM

(Continue eighteen times, quickening to just ANNETTE’s staccato humming sounds then sighing, then silence.) ALEXANDER stands as a statue. ALMA looks out. ALMA: Oh. Oh yes

For the outside, for the public Oh yes You promise to put him (only him) In you Oh yes I have this cap This goddamn cap of promise that says I won’t let anyone else in This cap is seared into my brain I’ve tried to peel it off me, many a times Now it’s off, peeled off . . . sometimes red, sometimes green. The . . . wound has stopped oozing, especially now I know you ain’t ever, ever coming back, so the waiting . . . nah, it ain’t waiting anymore. It’s back to living . . . the part where you’re around the corner, until I turn . . . the part where you’re up on the hill, until I climb . . . the part where you’re cooking in the kitchen, until I come in for seconds . . . the part where you’re naked in bed, until I pull back the sheets I used to think I was ignored But now I think: extra privacy She snorts up a line and gets an odd, puzzled, tweaked look on her face. She snorts up another, ALEXANDER breaks from his trance. She feels him. Turns. ALMA: You want some Ajax? It turns you blue inside

Pause.

275

A j a x ( p or n ob o d y )

ALEXANDER: Massah done ya

Wanted me to present this To you, o precious, Double Penelope He falls to a knee and presents the American Music Award to ALMA. ALEXANDER: A prism of light

Sharp as a warrior sword Thick at its base Designates America’s Best, glory hallelujah To you yeah, o precious, Double Penelope ALMA: I welcome you (

)

ALEXANDER: Alexander ALMA: Alexander the Great . . . ALEXANDER: That’s it (he lifts his shirt) ALMA: . . . Abdominal. I spread gratitude and welcome you in

She takes it and invites him to sit beside her. He does. (Off:) JESSE: Make it grow, baby, make it grow. Yeah that’s it that’s it. You got some bills? I get big,

I inﬂate when I see bills. Go get ’em. Go get ’em to coax me, man. Coax it, c’mon coax it a little ANNETTE appears, fully lubed, rummages around, takes all the bills out of her wallet, goes offstage. That’s it spread ’em out, yeah, spread ’em out wide, that’s it. What are those ones? Get me something bigger. Go get me something bigger ANNETTE appears again. ANNETTE: Alma, can I borrow a coupla dollars? ALMA: I don’t think I have any big enough.

ALEXANDER takes out a big wad of bills, gives it to ANNETTE.

276

A l i c e Tua n

ANNETTE: Wow. Thanks. Wow ALEXANDER: You can make the ﬁves look like ﬁfties. If you spread ’em right ANNETTE: It’ll only be a minute ALEXANDER: He always falls for that

ANNETTE goes back off. ALEXANDER follows her with his eye. Watches the action offstage. ALMA offers ALEXANDER the mirror. He continues to watch off. ALMA stares back into the mirror. (Off:) JESSE: That’s my girl. That’s more like it. You got twenties goin’, the X-X, you got L-notes, too?

I love L-notes, man, yeah that’s it, spread ’em out, whew that’s a lot, spread ’em out tight, look at those, yeah, wow those C’s, you can make ’em look like M-notes man, yeah, M-notes ah ah ah MMMMMMMM, put ’em on ya, put ’em in ya, that’s right in ya, yeah, you can get them all in, yeah, you’re a regular bank, Annette, S in ya, L in ya, C in ya, M yeah, M, M, M, AUGH! ANNETTE (off): Ew. It stings JESSE(off): Don’t move. Let me look at ya. Yeah

ALMA snorts some more. ALEXANDER looks at her. ANNETTE(off): It’s stinging ALMA: Don’t look at me JESSE(off): Spread, let me see it all in you ALMA: Don’t ANNETTE(off): It JESSE(off): Don’t move. Spread. Don’t move. Spread. I’m gonna lick it all off ya, then I’ll pull

’em out ALMA jerks her head back. ALMA: I’m bleeding. I’m bleeding. My nose. I’m bleeding ALEXANDER: Hold tight

277

A j a x ( p or n ob o d y )

ALEXANDER gets a hose and gun squirter. Puts it up to ALMA’s nose. ALMA: Wait. No. Don’t ALEXANDER: We gotta clean that shit outta ya, you ready? ALMA: No really. It’ll ALEXANDER: I’ll do it gentle. I’ve done it before ANNETTE(off): Oh. Oh. Oh ALMA: Let me ALEXANDER: I’ll make it rain then. It’ll mist and sprinkle upon you

He does. ANNETTE(off): Oh. Oh. Oh ALEXANDER: Is that better? ALMA: I think it’s all draining down ALEXANDER: Does it feel blue? ALMA: Huh, yeah. Real blue . . . scrubbing all the dirt away. Gone. Clean. Gone

Pause. ALEXANDER: Are you next to God? ANNETTE(off): Oh. Oh. Oh ALMA: My favorite is just after the rain stops

He stops. When the sidewalks are still drying and the sun is out and the light refracts the air into those blurry colors . . . an arch that’ll take you from an anonymous there to a civil here She’s posed for a kiss. ANNETTE: Oh

278

A l i c e Tua n

He hoses down the American Music Award. ALMA leaps up. ALMA: Oh. Shit. What are you doing? ALEXANDER: Making a rainbow ALMA: Give us some warning ALEXANDER (generalissimo): Flash ﬂood! The rage is upon us! Run. Run! RUN

He chases her around with the water. ALEXANDER: The tidal wave is coming from the east! Run

ALMA runs to the other hose and squirts back. ALMA: Stop stop ha ha ha ha stop ALEXANDER: Don’t worry, troops, we’re all waterproof. The enemies would never expect us to

survive the ﬂoods ALMA: And where are the enemies now? ANNETTE(off): Oh ALEXANDER: In their tents, counting their funds ANNETTE(off): Oh ALMA: Perhaps we’ll sneak up on them with a thunderstorm ANNETTE(off): Oh ALEXANDER: I didn’t make you my right hand for nothing. Slowly now

They sneak up toward the offstage . . . ALEXANDER: Ready . . . and ALMA: FIRE

They ﬂush the offstage lovers onto the stage. A circus of good water fun. Crashing into walls, a couple of tiles jiggle loose. More madness, a couple of the tiles fall off. A pissed JESSE tackles ALEXANDER to the ground. ALMA pins ANNETTE to the wall and kisses her deeply.

279

A j a x ( p or n ob o d y )

ANNETTE: Stop! This isn’t funny. ALMA: Isn’t it time for the underneath, Annette?

Continues kissing her. ANNETTE: I’m Jesse’s! ALEXANDER: I can barely feel that! Tighter! ANNETTE: I’m Jesse’s ALMA: Are you already? ANNETTE: I am! ALEXANDER: Tighter! That’s . . . more . . . like it ALMA: But I’m yours, Annette . . . ANNETTE: AJA! ALEXANDER: In . . . ALMA: Anything you want ANNETTE: AJA! ALEXANDER: In . . . dy ALMA: Here I am ANNETTE: AJA! ALEXANDER: In . . . dia ANNETTE: Stop it, Alma! ALEXANDER: In . . . di . . . an . . . APOLIS!

ALEXANDER breaks free of JESSE, ANNETTE pushes ALMA off. JESSE swigs from the bottle of Beam. ANNETTE, ALMA, ALEXANDER (together): Give me some of that

280

A l i c e Tua n

ANNETTE: Me ﬁrst

He hands the bottle to ALEXANDER. ANNETTE: Me JESSE: Haven’t you had enough, baby doll? ANNETTE: I’m young. I can take a lot JESSE: Oh, can you?

He winks at ALEXANDER. ALEXANDER (to ALMA): Ladies ﬁrst

ALMA takes it. ALMA: Anything you want, Annette ANNETTE: I’m Jesse’s

She swigs from the gallon jug, it spills down her. ALMA: You make it look so good JESSE: She can bottleneck it way down deep ALEXANDER: I saw

She hands the jug to ALMA. ANNETTE: Oh, the wienettes!

JESSE sees the American Music Award. JESSE: You took it, man ALEXANDER: It was owed me ANNETTE (off): Where’d you put ’em, Al-ma?

ALMA’s swigging. JESSE: For what?

281

A j a x ( p or n ob o d y )

ANNETTE(off): Al-ma ALEXANDER: It’s mine ANNETTE(off): Al-ma ALEXANDER: They gave it to the wrong guy ANNETTE(off): Al— oh here it is. Shit! That’s not a shape. Alma, that’s not a shape

ALMA hands bottle to ALEXANDER; he swigs. ALMA (about the award): That looks mighty sharp, boys JESSE: How can you just take it off Roger’s shelf like that? ALEXANDER: It’s owed me ALMA: Can perforate some walls JESSE: It’s someone else’s American Music Award ALMA: You hold on tight to that, Alexander the Great. Don’t let it get inside anywhere it

shouldn’t ALEXANDER: I deserve it. I wrote the best song JESSE: You weren’t even nominated ALEXANDER: It was the best song of the year ALMA: Let’s hear it

ALEXANDER hears it in his head. ANNETTE enters with the wienettes. They are piled high one atop the other, held together with toothpicks, a big ol’ phallus on the tray. She is unable to stand still. ALMA: Well? JESSE (hears it): Oh yeah, yeah yeah yeah ANNETTE: Voi— (hiccup) voi— (hiccup) là!

ALEXANDER and JESSE nod to the same groove for eight beats

282

A l i c e Tua n

ALEXANDER: You gotta eh eh eh come into my head and listen

Eh eh eh eh eh eh eh. ANNETTE: I hope you— (hiccup) you— (hiccup) you don’t mind, Al — (hiccup) ma ALMA: It’s eh eh eh your eh eh eh social, eh eh eh eh JESSE: You’re hearing it, man ALMA: Eh eh eh eh ANNETTE: I sudly got spired to make (hiccup) . . . whud uh yuh guys doing ALMA, JESSE, ALEXANDER: Eh eh eh eh eh eh eh ANNETTE: (hiccup)

(hiccup) (hiccup)

ALMA, JESSE, and ALEXANDER are all on the same groove. Eh eh eh eh eh eh eh. ANNETTE becomes more frantic being left out. ANNETTE: Or derv any— (hiccup)? Wud you care for a (hiccup) . . . wud you? An or— (hiccup)

derv? (whine) What are you guys DOING? Yer not (hiccup) soshul! You guys ern’t being soshul. I in-vite ded (hiccup) JESSE: You wanna play a game Annette? ANNETTE: Yeah (hiccup) yeah! Yeah (hiccup) yeah JESSE: Let’s play gym ALEXANDER: Jim Beam JESSE: As in workout ALEXANDER: We got a coupla tiles loose ANNETTE (slurry): Will you tighten all my muscles, Jesse? JESSE (to ALEXANDER): I need your help on this, man ALEXANDER: Tile’s loose ANNETTE: Will you, Jesse?

283

A j a x ( p or n ob o d y )

ALEXANDER: But not quite loose enough ANNETTE: Will you Jesse, will you?

ALMA engages ALEXANDER, straddling his lap. JESSE: Alexander ANNETTE: Are you guys ALMA: This quite feels like the diamond lane ANNETTE: I wanna play gym JESSE: Hold on, baby doll ALMA: We carpooling tonight? ALEXANDER: I’ll be designated driver ANNETTE: When are we gonna start playing gym? JESSE: We gotta set up our equipment ALEXANDER (pointing the Beam at her): We can play this Jim in you ANNETTE: No, Jesse’s gym JESSE: C’mere, baby doll. You so pretty doused up like this

JESSE sits ANNETTE on the long block, her back to the audience. He spreads her legs apart. ALEXANDER: You like the road? ALMA: Feels smooth ANNETTE: Hee hee hee ALEXANDER: You like shifting gears ALMA: Especially to overdrive ANNETTE: Hee hee hee JESSE: We’ll start with the hips

284

A l i c e Tua n

ALEXANDER: I made a connection today ANNETTE: What am I doing? ALEXANDER: All this time I’m driving . . . driving . . . driving . . .

ALEXANDER French-kisses ALMA. JESSE: Hip abduction ANNETTE: You gonna (hiccup) abduct by hips JESSE (sticks a ﬁnger out): Weight ANNETTE: For what? (hiccup) JESSE: Twenty pounds, forty, eighty ANNETTE: What is it now? ALEXANDER: Driving west on the 10 JESSE: Twenty

She grabs his ﬁnger, puts it lower. JESSE: Baby doll can take a lot. So. I push your knees together ALEXANDER: Driving on the 10 (kiss) ANNETTE: But I wanna show you something ALEXANDER: Get off at the Arlington exit JESSE: Show me what? ALEXANDER: Next thing you know, Arlington becomes Wilton, just like that (kiss) ALMA: Just like that? JESSE: That’s right. You try to push ’em out ALEXANDER: Streets change up just like that like that ANNETTE (she’s spread): Like this?

285

A j a x ( p or n ob o d y )

ALMA: Just like that, Rossmore into Vine JESSE: That’s it. You feel that? ALEXANDER: It makes the city seem . . . JESSE: Feel the hip burn ALEXANDER: Tighter ANNETTE: Yeah

ANNETTE and JESSE continue to work out. ALMA: Whaddaya say you and me go out to the diamond lane and shoot some carpool? ALEXANDER (to ALMA): What does that mean? ALMA: Get on, say, the 10 East, drive and drive and drive see how far you can get ALEXANDER: What, like Vegas ALMA: With me blowin’ ya ALEXANDER: Let’s go!

ALMA gets off ALEXANDER’s lap. ALMA: CARPOOL! ANNETTE: Wait, where you going? We already started playing gym

JESSE pins ANNETTE’s legs apart. ALMA: I thought you were Jesse’s ANNETTE: You never go out ALMA (to ALEXANDER): You drove, right? ANNETTE: Alma no! ALEXANDER: Only I drive my car ALMA: You’re Jesse’s. I’m free. See ya. Let’s go, Alex

286

A l i c e Tua n

Pause. ALEXANDER: It’s Alexander JESSE: I’m ready for an hors d’oeuvre ANNETTE (squeally): Really? ALEXANDER (to ALMA): Double Penelope. Your face when you stuff two in you. It looks like

you love it and hate it at the same time. Dick Odyssey from back. Archie Heels from top. Come, come sit in front of me. Tell me what that face felt like ANNETTE: I still can’t believe you never told me about marrying Dick Odyssey, Alma ALMA: It was just a ﬂick, Annette

ANNETTE happily takes a wienette from the top of the stack, puts it in her mouth, passes it to him. ALMA: I thought we were carpooling ALEXANDER: Need three to carpool. Otherwise it’s just driving ALMA: Jesse, wanna come carpool with us? ANNETTE: Excuse me, Alma, but we’re busy ALMA: Carpool later, Jesse for Prez? JESSE: Like we used to Penelope? ALEXANDER: I wanna show you my abdominal. Count for me

JESSE puts the frilly in his mouth, slides the wienette off. ANNETTE: Wait, you got it backward

ALMA goes to a hose, wraps it around her until she’s bound. JESSE: How many of these can you hold?

JESSE inserts the wienette in ANNETTE. ALMA kneels in front of ALEXANDER. ALMA: Single Penelope, at your service

287

A j a x ( p or n ob o d y )

ANNETTE: I can’t even feel that JESSE: Another one, baby doll?

ANNETTE gets another wienette, JESSE slides it off the pick, inserts. ANNETTE giggles. ALMA: I’ve walked, strapped across this continent to come see your abdominals JESSE: Three

ALEXANDER takes the American Music Award, holds it to his chest with arms crossed, and bows down and back up. ALMA counts ALEXANDER’s reps. JESSE continues counting ANNETTE’s. ALMA: One

Pause. JESSE: Four

Pause. ALMA: Two

Pause. JESSE: Five

Pause. ALMA: Three

Pause. ANNETTE: When’re you gonna snack ALMA: Four JESSE: Seven ALMA: A man with a good bow JESSE: Eight. That’s about capacity

288

A l i c e Tua n

JESSE eats wienettes outta ANNETTE. ALMA: Six

Pause. Seven Pause. Eight Pause. One ANNETTE: Uh huh ALMA: Two ANNETTE: Uh huh ALMA: Three ANNETTE: Uh huh ALMA: Four ANNETTE: Uh huh

ALEXANDER stops. ANNETTE: Uh huh

Pause. Uh huh Pause. ANNETTE: Uh huh

ALEXANDER puts down the award and pulls out a gun. He aims it at the wienettes. ALMA breaks free of the hose.

289

A j a x ( p or n ob o d y )

ALEXANDER: Would you shut up about it already? ALMA: Hold on there

ALEXANDER cocks the gun. ANNETTE turns her head. ANNETTE: Al-ma! JESSE: Don’t worry

Pause. ALMA: Give it to me JESSE: He won’t, I know him

Pause. JESSE: I know him ANNETTE: Al-ma! Al-ma!

All together: ALEXANDER: Are you gonna stop? ALMA: Give me the gun ANNETTE: Al-ma Al-ma Al-ma Al-ma . . .

Together: ALMA: C’mon, c’mon, c’mon JESSE: There aren’t any bullets

Together: ALEXANDER: Are you gonna stop? JESSE: It’s OK, it’s fun ANNETTE: Al-ma Al-ma Al-ma

All together: ALEXANDER: Stop it! Stop it! ALMA: Give it to me now JESSE: There aren’t any bullets

290

A l i c e Tua n

Pause. ANNETTE: Really, Jesse?

ALEXANDER ﬁres. The wienettes go ﬂying. ANNETTE: AGH AGH AGH AGH

ALMA grabs the gun, points it at ALEXANDER. ANNETTE: AGH AGH AGH AGH ALMA: Get out of here

ALMA pushes them out, they don’t budge. JESSE: There aren’t any more bullets ANNETTE: AGH

AGH

AGH

ALMA: Get the hell out of here JESSE: Annette, Annette, Annette ANNETTE: AGH AGH ALEXANDER: I miscalculated ANNETTE: AGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH

ALEXANDER goes to ANNETTE, gets down on his knee. ALMA kicks him. ALMA: Get away from her ALEXANDER: I apologize, Annette ALMA: Get away from her! ALEXANDER: I miscalculated

JESSE joins ALEXANDER at ANNETTE’s feet, takes her hand, she snaps free of it. ANNETTE: AGH AGH AGH AGH ALMA: Get away! Or I’ll shoot

291

A j a x ( p or n ob o d y )

JESSE embraces ANNETTE. ALMA: Click JESSE: Can you ever forgive us, Annette? ALMA: Click

Click

ANNETTE: AGH AGH AGH AGH JESSE: Annette Annette Annette. Alex and I, we . . . we play for fun, you know? Sometimes

it’s ALMA: The party’s over. Let’s go ANNETTE: NO! ALMA: OUT OF HERE! JESSE (to ANNETTE): I wanna make love to you, as many times as you want, over and over

again. I wanna . . . ALMA: Annette, they won’t play fair. They’ll rip you open like Nancy. You don’t wanna ooze

like that you . . . ANNETTE: Wait. Continue ALEXANDER: I thought I had emptied, but somewhere the gods, they loaded a bullet intended

for me JESSE: No, I was the one who should have taken the bullet. I should be spread out all over

the place here, like your beautiful snacks JESSE eats a wienette. ALMA grabs ANNETTE. JESSE: MMMMMM. They’re WON - derful ALMA: They’re careless, Annette JESSE: WON - derful ALMA: You don’t want to play with the careless JESSE: You have to try one, Alex

292

A l i c e Tua n

ALMA: Annette ALEXANDER: I don’t eat meat JESSE: Alexander ALMA: Annette, wake ALEXANDER: I’m sensitive to meat

He stares into his American Music Award. ALMA: Annette ANNETTE: Stop it, Alma. You were saying . . . JESSE: But not as good as the ones from inside you, Sweet Annette

Pause. Did you? ANNETTE: Well, I ALMA: Oh, Annette ANNETTE: I arranged them ALEXANDER: They absolutely deﬁed gravity ANNETTE: Toothpicks. More than four

ALMA gets the Beam, swigs. JESSE: Can we stay, then, Annette? ALMA: You fucking fucks, get out of here! ANNETTE: Alma, stop pointing that JESSE: If we’re on good behavior? ALMA: IO! IO MOI MOI! JESSE: Let’s get back to the social

293

A j a x ( p or n ob o d y )

ANNETTE: Well ALMA: IO MOI MOI! IO MOI MOI! AIAIAIAIAS JESSE: You’re so beautiful. (beat) I want to have you again. If I could be so honored to return

to your sweet, sacred spot ALMA puts the gun barrel to her third eye: click. ANNETTE (swooning): Oh Jesse

ALMA cocks, puts it to her temple: click. ANNETTE: I love you

ALMA cocks, puts it in her mouth: Click, cock, click. ANNETTE: Alma! Don’t! ALMA (with gun in mouth): There’re no bullets, right? ANNETTE: You’re ruining my social

ALEXANDER grabs the gun from ALMA. ALMA grabs it right back and eludes him. ANNETTE: Give it back to him, Alma ALEXANDER: You’re hot, Annette ALMA: I’m getting the hang of this ANNETTE: Thank you, Alan ALEXANDER: You double, right? ALMA: At ﬁrst it seems a little heavy and awkward but then, once you get your balance . . .

and feel the metal against skin, you wanna put it in . . . ALEXANDER (to ALMA): She double like you double? ALMA: . . . something ANNETTE: Give it back to him, Alma

294

A l i c e Tua n

ALEXANDER: You’re the most gorgeous, exquisite, ravishing creature I’ve ever seen, Annette ANNETTE: Thank you! (to ALMA) Give it back to him, Alma ALMA: Just like that? ANNETTE: Jesse, tell her JESSE: Tell her what? ANNETTE: Tell her to give it

Pause. JESSE: Give it ALMA: Where? JESSE: In the kitchen ALMA: Yours or mine?

ALMA puts the gun at her crotch, swaggers with JESSE. They go toward offstage. ANNETTE: Jesse! Jesse, where are you going? JESSE: I have business in the kitchen ANNETTE: Jesse, no! ALEXANDER: Stay with me, Annette ANNETTE: But . . . she always . . . does this . . . to me. Where’s thuh Beam? ALEXANDER: What? ANNETTE: Where’s thuh . . . thuh . . .

She swigs, offers him, he shakes no, she swigs again. ALEXANDER: What?

ANNETTE peaks over her shoulder. Swigs again. ALEXANDER: What?

295

A j a x ( p or n ob o d y )

ANNETTE: What— (hiccup) what? ALEXANDER: What does she always do to you?

Offstage, ALMA sodomizes JESSE with the gun. (Off:) ALMA: Click

Pause. Click Pause. Click JESSE: Oh ANNETTE: I can-can’t even (hiccup) even watch ALEXANDER: What does she always do to you? ANNETTE: (hiccup hiccup hiccup) (together) JESSE: Oh. Oh. Oh ANNETTE: Can we chain the suhjeck? ALMA: Click

Click ANNETTE: Say sum tin so I (hiccup) won’tuh here ALEXANDER: Stop looking at them. (Shows her the American Music Award.) Look at this. Isn’t

it full of beautiful colors? JESSE: Oh ALEXANDER: What do you see? ANNETTE: Um . . . green, red . . . um (hiccup) green . . . green, um, yellow . . . green ALEXANDER: So that when you turn it

296

A l i c e Tua n

ANNETTE: Whoa, nah so fass ALEXANDER: the light hits it different and the colors change

She tries to regain balance, drools. ANNETTE: Am I am I seh see to you? ALEXANDER: You’re hot, like my sister ANNETTE: Rea-lee? ALEXANDER: I always say what I mean. My Pops taught me that ANNETTE: Your Dad? ALEXANDER: Yeah. My Pops. Inherited a lot from my Pops ANNETTE: Who izzee? ALEXANDER: His name is Dick. Dick Odyssey ANNETTE: Wait . . . I’m sssssseh seeee to you, right? ALEXANDER: You look like my sister when she . . . when she was young ANNETTE: I mean, I mean, more than . . . her

She woozily looks into his eyes, a moment of horror, then passes out into his lap. ALEXANDER watches the offstage action. ALEXANDER: Annette?

Pause. Annette? Pause. Annette? He strokes her hair. He shuts his eyes. Lions sleep twenty-two hours a day. What?

297

A j a x ( p or n ob o d y )

He pulls her up by the hair, puts his ear to her sleeping mouth. How’s that? you ask He puts her head down, continuing to stroke. Well, they have no predators He listens to her. What do they do with the ninety waking minutes? Excellent question. Well, Annette, they chase something down to eat, eat, have a little lion business, stretch, look at the clouds, call the mate and the little ones to eat, stretch some more, then back to sleep. Yes, that. That is king, Jenna. That is king. That much sleep. To sleep that much, for no fear of predators. Like god. But not god. To be god. You know how much god sleeps? He looks at her, strokes her. To be god is to sleep twenty-four hours a day. How’s that? you ask. God lives in the underneath. Blood pumps in circles. Doesn’t have to arrive anywhere. Never stops. Exists understanding everything all at once. We are parts of God’s inner life. Bits of God’s hallucination. God dreams us. What’s that? Pulls her by the hair, listens to her. If we are God’s inner life, what is God’s outer life? Pause. Puts her head back down, strokes her. Don’t know. God Pause. Got Pause. God Pause. Never lives outside his inner life. We, we humans, we’re all about the outside. That’s why we’re not gods. This is our human handicap. Good question. You say, but to sleep all the time is to be dead. No, it isn’t. How so? When you’re asleep for twenty-four

298

A l i c e Tua n

hours, you’re still breathing. When you’re dead, there’s no chance for waking at all. You sleep twenty-four, you still may be disturbed out of it. That’s what life is . . . being disturbed out of the inside Linger. He slides his hand down into her crotch. One ﬁnger, two ﬁnger. Two for two. Yeah Jenna. Right. You got it. Right BOOM! (Off:) ALMA: Oh Nancy! JESSE: Oh Nancy! ALMA: Oh Nancy! JESSE: Oh Nancy! ALMA: Oh Nancy! JESSE: Oh Nancy! ALMA: Oh Nancy! JESSE: Oh Nancy! ALEXANDER: Jesse! ALMA: Oh Nancy ALEXANDER: Jesse! JESSE: Oh Nancy ALEXANDER: Jesse! She’s ready

Pause. For the two. For the two of us Pause.

299

A j a x ( p or n ob o d y )

Jesse. JESSE wanders in. ALEXANDER: You want up or down JESSE: Buddy. I need a pause

Pause. ALEXANDER: She’s ready JESSE: She’s asleep ALEXANDER: She’s Godding

Pause. JESSE: This all’s left of the Beam? ALEXANDER: C’mon, Jesse JESSE: Penelope’s intense, man. She ’bout sucked everything outta me ALEXANDER: You’re waterproof. Up or down? JESSE: Why don’t you start? ALEXANDER (about the American Music Award): Think this’ll ﬁt with me in her down? JESSE: No

ALEXANDER gets under her, tries to insert himself. ANNETTE is like a rag doll. ALEXANDER: Get on top, Jesse, we’re almost there

JESSE does. ALMA intrudes on this sandwich, throws them off. Lays ANNETTE gently on the long block. ALMA: She’s not ready to Nancy

Pause. ALEXANDER: Are you?

300

A l i c e Tua n

Pause. ALMA: Not the two-hole.

Pause. I can head-tail ALEXANDER: You play bridge? ALMA: Yeah. I play bridge ALEXANDER: You ready to play bridge

Pause. ALMA: To bring man together in one entity. You’d meet somewhere right . . . here (points right

between her bosom) . . . the two of you, right here . . . head to head . . . head touching head . . . think you’ll both reach? They both start fondling her. The brotherhood of man . . . ﬁlling in all gaps, leave nothing empty . . . oh there, an empty continent . . . ﬁll it, yes, right there . . . ﬁll it, with your know-how . . . your numerals . . . your roads, I feel roads being paved . . . palaces being entered . . . courts being visited . . . heads being praised . . . one’s in . . . I guess the other waits for my silence, as I bid the sleeping maiden adieu and bend, bend for the brotherhood . . . that they may meet, and love, in one She slowly bends, kisses a passed-out ANNETTE on the cheek. Pause. Do as you like with me. But don’t touch her, anymore They go down behind the long block where ANNETTE sleeps, the men kneeling facing each other, ALMA not seen, only heard. They pump. ALEXANDER stares at JESSE. JESSE averts his eyes, concentrates on ALMA. ALEXANDER never breaks stare. ALMA: Uhn

Pause.

301

A j a x ( p or n ob o d y )

Uhn Pause. Uhn Uhn Uhn JESSE: We promised ALEXANDER: A promise is sheep’s wool shed before shorn JESSE: Don’t look at me, man ALMA: Uhn ALEXANDER: She’s good ALMA: Uhn JESSE: You’re softening me ALEXANDER: Me? Or she? JESSE: I think I need some coaxing

They both pull out. Switch. JESSE at her mouth. ALEXANDER pumps away. ALMA (to ALEXANDER): You (boing boing boing) are just like your father. Remind me JESSE: I’m lumbering ALMA: Seen all the world already? (He inserts.) Uhn. Uhn JESSE: Stop it! ALMA (mouth full): Whah? JESSE: Not you ALEXANDER: What are you afraid of, Jesse?

302

A l i c e Tua n

JESSE: This is not the time

JESSE starts fondling ANNETTE’s breasts. She rustles. ALEXANDER: You’re doing the same things on the streets. You like being watched. You told me JESSE: I ain’t gonna do Golden Fleece with you on ﬁlm ALEXANDER: Roger’s gonna be miffed JESSE: The other stuff’s for bucks. (to ALMA) Don’t stop, doll, you’re doing great. I wanna pay

the rent ALEXANDER: This pays huge JESSE: I mean legitimately. I’m not crossing the line with you anymore. Stop fucking look-

ing at me ALEXANDER: It’s just fucking JESSE: It’s not, anymore. You’re ruling me ALEXANDER: I never hurt you JESSE: You would if I crossed the line again ALEXANDER (about ANNETTE): You’d rather wait for the dead than live with the live JESSE: I do best to women

ANNETTE opens her eyes. ALEXANDER: C’mere JESSE: No ALMA: Uhn ALEXANDER: C’mere JESSE: No ALMA: Uhn

ANNETTE realizes what’s going on, plays it cool.

303

A j a x ( p or n ob o d y )

ALEXANDER: C’mere JESSE: No ALMA: Uhn ANNETTE (really small and high): Here kitty kitty ALEXANDER: C’mere JESSE: No ALMA: Uhn ANNETTE: AY-JAH ALEXANDER: C’mere JESSE: No ALMA: Uhn ANNETTE: Here kitty kitty

As she sits up, the projection of the outside runs. ANNETTE paces back and forth, calling her cat. She then watches through the window at the action. A high-pitched meh meh meh meh (mix of sheep and cat) as the three seem a porn ﬂick. ALMA (high-pitched): meh meh meh meh meh meh meh meh . . . (throughout next slow-mo

sequence) ANNETTE: A-JA ALMA: meh meh meh meh ANNETTE: Where are you, kitty? ALMA: meh meh meh meh ANNETTE: Where’s your cute little face? ALMA: meh meh meh meh ANNETTE: Where’s my little pussy?

304

A l i c e Tua n

ALMA: meh meh meh meh

In slow-mo, ALEXANDER grabs for JESSE, kisses him square on the mouth. JESSE breaks it up, smacks ALEXANDER with his ﬁst. ALEXANDER starts to beat off, as JESSE grabs ALEXANDER’s hand to stop. ALEXANDER holds JESSE tightly, bends him over to fellate the American Music Award. Once. Twice. Thrice. JESSE grabs ALEXANDER’s balls: an excruciating and silent scream. A Beam of light hails down as JESSE twists off one of ALEXANDER’s balls. JESSE stares at what seems to be a bloodied pomegranate in his hand. ALEXANDER grabs his crotch to stop the spewing, in stunned, torturous pain. ALEXANDER stumbles out, leaving a sinuous trail of blood. ALMA’s been smoking a cigarette the whole time. Projection stops. Back to normal. ANNETTE sprinkles Ajax on ALEXANDER’s trail of blood. ALMA removes the gun squirter from the hose and with her thumbs sprinkles a light rain on all. ANNETTE reads the canister. ANNETTE: “Wet surface.

Sprinkle Ajax freely. Rub lightly to make a paste with sponge or pad. Clean and rinse. Use Ajax to clean all around the house, on items like pots and pans, porcelain, bathroom ﬁxtures, ceramic tiles, and even tough outdoor items like barbecue grills and garbage cans! Guaranteed clean. Great value. You must be completely satisﬁed with the performance of Ajax or you’ll receive your money back.” ALEXANDER (a distant off): Ahhhhhhhhhh ANNETTE: “Note: use caution and test a small area ﬁrst on delicate surfaces such as ﬁberglass,

formica, imitation marble, plastics, and enameled appliances. Use plenty of water, rub gently, and rinse well. Not recommended for use on silver, fabrics, or painted surfaces. Store in cool, dry place. Do not use empty container. Discard in trash.” ALEXANDER (Closer): Ahhhhhhhhhhh

305

A j a x ( p or n ob o d y )

ANNETTE: “Caution: eye irritant. In case of eye contact, ﬂush with water. To avoid harmful

fumes, do not mix with ammonia or other household cleaning products. Keep Out of Reach of Children.” ALEXANDER: Ahhh Ahhh Ahhh Ahhh ANNETTE: “Ingredients: cleaning agents (calcium carbonate, sodium carbonate, anionic surfac-

tants), bleach, quality control agents, fragrance, color. Environmental Facts: Ajax cleanser formula contains no phosphates. Canister made of 100% recycled paperboard (80% post-consumer). Top and bottom lids made from 50% post-consumer recycled aluminum. Made in USA.” ANNETTE looks up. Alexander, you came back. Dirty red. ALEXANDER quivers. Dragging in the bush behind him. ALMA drops the hose. The water gurgles loudly into the drain. The bush is left behind. ALEXANDER: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH AH AH AH AH AHHHHHHHHHHH…

ALEXANDER paints with his blood on the tiles, screaming. All run from him like sheep and huddle together in the corner. ALEXANDER places the American Music Award on the long block. It shimmers red. He staggers, holding his crotch blood in. ALEXANDER: meh meh

meh meh meh meh

meh meh meh

weep leap sleep

He falls and impales himself on the American Music Award. MMMMMMMM (inaudible) My mo— ju— He ends, mouth open with a taxidermed stare. JESSE: Where’s the phone? Hah? Where’s the phone? WHERE’S THE PHONE? ALMA: We don’t have a phone

306

A l i c e Tua n

JESSE: What? (points to the off) What’s in there? ALMA: My room JESSE: How can you not? ALMA: We can JESSE: How can you not? ALMA: We can JESSE: How can you not? ALMA: We can JESSE: I gotta go ALMA: Go JESSE: Go call ALMA: Go call JESSE: Go call for help ALMA: We’ll be waiting

JESSE runs away. A ﬂash of the projection. Gurgle. Another ﬂash. Gurgle. Flash. Gurgle. Gurgle throughout. ALMA rises.

307

A j a x ( p or n ob o d y )

ANNETTE: No, don’t go ALMA: I’m turning ANNETTE: Hold me ALMA: Annette, I’m going to turn the water off. You wanna come? ANNETTE: Don’t go ALMA: Look at it, Annette ANNETTE: No ALMA: Look at it ANNETTE: No ALMA: Look at your social ANNETTE: No

Pause. ALMA: You wanna help me clean up? ANNETTE: No. Just hold me

She pulls the hose over, rinses the room from where she holds ANNETTE. ALMA: Look, Annette. It all washes away. Look ANNETTE: I don’t want to look until it’s all gone ALMA: It’s a beautiful color. Look ANNETTE: No more color. No more color ALMA: Just all white? ANNETTE: All white and all clean ALMA: Let’s go take a look ANNETTE: No

308

A l i c e Tua n

Pause. ALMA: Annette ANNETTE: I have an itch ALMA: There’s a man lying on your block

Pause. ANNETTE: I have an itch

Pause. ALMA: Where? ANNETTE: Inside ALMA: Where inside? ANNETTE: Way inside ALMA: How way? ANNETTE: Way way

Pause. ANNETTE: Scratch it ALMA: I don’t know if my ﬁngers will reach

Pause. Will my ﬁngers reach? Pause. ANNETTE: Yeah

Pause. ALMA: Do I go through up or do I go through down? ANNETTE: Go through down

309

A j a x ( p or n ob o d y )

ALMA: You ready? ANNETTE: Mmm

ALMA reaches into ANNETTE. ALMA: There? ANNETTE: Higher

Pause. ALMA: Move down ANNETTE: Higher ALMA: I need both ﬁngers

She reaches in. ANNETTE: Oh ALMA: Sorry ANNETTE: Oh

ALMA pulls out a wienette. ALMA: Look, Annette. A small snack ANNETTE: It still itches ALMA: Let’s go in for more

ALMA reaches in again. ANNETTE: ow ALMA: Almost got it ANNETTE: ow

ALMA pulls out a small wad. ALMA: It’s a . . . a twenty. Does it still itch?

310

A l i c e Tua n

ANNETTE: No ALMA: Did it feel good?

Pause. Hah, Annette? Did it? Pause. I’ll turn the water off ANNETTE won’t let go of ALMA. ANNETTE: Alma ALMA: Annette

Pause. ANNETTE: Alma ALMA: Annette

Pause. ANNETTE: Is he cute?

Pause. ALMA: Real cute

Pause. ANNETTE: Should we go check him out? ALMA: Head shot

ALMA puts the hose to ANNETTE’s temple. ANNETTE keeps her eyes shut. ANNETTE: Is he looking our way? ALMA: He can’t stop staring

What sounds like a siren turns into a cat’s scream: wwwwwww OW

311

A j a x ( p or n ob o d y )

ANNETTE: I hate it when men stare

wwwwww OW wwwwwww OW wwwwwwww OW ALMA puts the hose down. ALMA: I think he likes you, Annette

wwwwww OW ANNETTE: He does?

Pause. ALMA: Looks it ANNETTE: Really?

Pause. ALMA: Do you want him, Annette?

Pause. Do you want him? ANNETTE turns her head and stares back. Gurgle. Gurgle. Gurgle. Gurgle. Gurgle. Gurgle. Gurgle. Darkness. End of private act.

312

A l i c e Tua n

APPARITION: An Uneasy Play of the Underknown Anne Washburn

APPARITION was developed in the Soho Rep Writer/Director Lab in New York City and workshopped at Soho Rep in January 2003 and premiered in November 2003 at Chashama in New York City. Direction by Linsay Firman. Set by Erik Flatmo. Costumes by Sarah Beers. Masks by Manju Shandler. Lights by Matt Frey. Sound by Shane Rettig. Original cast:

313

A

Steve Rattazzi

B

David Brooks

C

T. Ryder Smith

D

Scott Blumenthal

E

Heidi Schreck

B (David Brooks) is having a consciousness problem in Apparition. November 2003. Photograph by T. Ryder Smith.

Characters A B C D E

314

A n n e Wa sh b u r n

C:

(something watches and it waits for you there something is trembling atop the stair something believes it is a mighty scare) The Dark Morton

A:

We were really concerned that the forest was full of weevils.

D:

Don’t go! She warned, Don’t go into the weevil forest!

B:

The forest skittered about us, it chittered and clicked.

A:

Six steps forward, a shudder, ﬁve back. Someone shines a ﬂashlight into a dark area and then wishes they hadn’t. Five steps forward, four back. One of the party utters an involuntary shriek. Then wishes she hadn’t but it’s too late. Four steps forward, three back, two forward, one back. Four steps altogether into the weevil forest and the operation is at a standstill. They all look back, back to the sunlit glade. They straighten their helmets. They press on.

B:

Someone stops outside a lit-up house, looks at an illuminated window, consults his pocket watch, and moves on.

C:

Aping the manners of an earlier society.

A:

Outside in the darkness she gives her fair head a shake. In the summer this place smells of Jasmine but it is late February and the vine is bare and it is too cold and smells only of rain and the sharp odor of the remnants of snow.

B:

Did you put it behind you?

E:

I don’t know what you’ve been telling people.

B:

I’ve only been telling them only what I want to tell them.

E:

It was only a little moment. Only a bit of mischief. And then it turned so violently. I don’t understand it. Such a small moment, such a drastic outcome.

A:

That was a locked-up fairy story.

D:

I don’t want you to go all numb or anything.

Beat. A:

Whispering voices on the phone.

315

A p pa r i t i o n

B:

Why did you come here that night I always wonder why. I suppose it was only bad luck.

A:

Whispering voices on the phone.

E:

You gradually become aware of a luminous presence. The Dark Morton.

A:

Mother, Mother, come quickly, Lamont has seen the Dark Morton down by the cowshed, Mother Mother come quickly, for his hair has turned white with fear and he stutters down by the cowshed, for he has seen the Dark Morton there.

C:

I explained it to him carefully. Five years. This thing’s probably radioactive as hell.

A beat. D:

Please don’t put that where you won’t ever be able to ﬁnd it again.

B:

Six steps forward, a shudder, ﬁve back.

Lights up on A, then out. E:

I want to put it all behind me, and take careful stock of the situation as it now stands.

D:

In the darkness there is an oppressive pressing situation.

C:

Rattling around out there in space.

A beat. A:

Don’t go!

C:

They say look at the lilies, look at the roses. Do they do anything? Do they not just be? Are they not just? But I think that’s specious; actually they’re very busy. They are in a full-on, freaked-out effort to allure bees, or maybe other pollinating insects as well, and spread their genetic heritage out in the world for the glory of the bush. They are deeply involved in the effort to be perfect and to inﬂuence the ecosystem as much as possible. Their color, their stillness, that trick they have of catching beads of dew for the sun to refract off of in the morning, all of this is power mongering. They look peaceful because we can’t understand them and they don’t even notice us. Probably when space aliens look at us they think that we’re very sweet. Nothing is innocent.

A:

Was it paranoia? The icy air swooshed against my face. I looked into the darkness, then I slammed the window down.

E:

Oh no. Thank you. I hate mushrooms.

316

A n n e Wa sh b u r n

D:

Why?

E:

They appear out of nowhere and they eat the dead.

C:

Swoosh! And he landed with a thump.

A:

The icy air swooshed against my face. I looked into the darkness, then I slammed the window down. I looked up across the room. I thought I had seen. In the mirror. No. I turned on the light. Light ﬂooded the room. Light, just, all over the room. Light everywhere, shining into every corner. Good. Great. Light here, light there, I’m covered. I’m happy. I’m cool. I put down my drink. Onto the table. The side table. With the high gloss varnish natural—I don’t know. The one that looks old, but good. I had to put it down, my hands were still shaking. The drink was sweating. Across past the couch, in the china cabinet, the secret coaster stash. Back, my hands are steadier, but the drink is gone. I am here, the coaster is here, the drink is vanished. Has it tumbled? I look down, kneel onto the shaggy carpeting onto the what, onto the dead creature that was that is the rug that is, has it . . . ? I am looking for a spreading, for all of my whisky pooling seeping and soaking, plus a rolling emptied glass. No. Not under the table the loveseat nor, peering, in any probable corner or portion of the ﬂoor. Vanished. I had obviously there was a mental skip I was shaking I skipped location. Did I have a drink? Yes, I could still, my hand was still cool, damp, the sweating drink I had I was by the window I had strolled over I had—and then I had lifted the window up—why would a person lift a window up after seeing after thinking they were seeing what I was thinking I was—and then I had slammed it down again only because the cold, only because the cold did I slam the window down we see reﬂections in the glass we are and then I had then I had put the drink down on the table but then must I had picked it up again to the over to the couch the china I had left it most likely in the china cabinet substituting for a coaster no. Not there. I had . . . I cannot emphasize how very alone and the only person at all in this room I am there are no drink tricksters here no college buddies or second cousins or maniacal ﬁveyear-old physical comedians no it is only myself and the nondrink. I alone and a nondrink. How much does a vanished whisky and soda what a strong presence a missing spirit exert in a room for an absent cocktail and I ﬁnd that I must only yes I just only it is funny I am casual just a sort of traipse but I ﬁnd that I leave that room and the mischievous yes how hilarious how very little do I care liquid to its only yes only to its own devices yes just an audience of one, itself only, for I am now exited and gone.

E:

Luraditur, sola ﬁscator Morianimus protibit alawium

A:

Luminous Interlude

317

A p pa r i t i o n

E:

Norium Poritat Cladorium nam lorium, ib pladita

B:

What does that mean

E:

It isn’t real Latin, I made it up. It helps me to concentrate. After me Modario pori lamenti

B:

Modario pori lamenti

E:

Vidanum et nolisimae, in est belimi todum

B:

Vidanum et nolisimae, in est belimi todum

E:

Per Fama est, quandum curie celestator, doriatibus nam est Toridae

B:

(Botches it.) Per Fama est, quandum curie . . .

E:

Try it again. Per Fama est, quandum curie celestator, doriatibus nam est Toridae

B:

Per Fama est, quandum curie celestator, doriatibus nam est Toridae

E:

Good.

E and B: Ro turinam, buriat sumus

Moharia pur turinam in cheladitor, sur imitur, pro haditor, et dorhurinam Praeheps unitae, purontaginae, delect crustia, sicum raditae A and B and C and D and E:

Sungsoriae Mystoriae Emphoriae Galhandigaticum

318

A n n e Wa sh b u r n

Music. E:

Where there is Latin, there also there is candles.

Light change: candles, or, candle-esque lighting. A and B and C and D and E:

Lorimysticor A:

I HAVE A STRANGE INFIRMITY WHICH IS NOTHING TO THOSE THAT KNOW ME.

B:

“When I burn’d in desire to question them further, they made themselves air, into which they vanished.”

A:

This is the part near the beginning of the play, third scene, where he sees them out by the side of the road. Throwing things in cauldrons.

C and D: Nubble Tubble

Oily Rubble Dire Turn and Toasty Mubble A:

They look odd. The air is damp. The sky is gray—night is coming.

C:

Shouldn’t he have had the sense to turn around, turn back?

D:

No one ever has the sense to turn back.

B:

It is after the battle. The King gestures toward him. His boots are still clotted with blood, his butt still damp with horse sweat. This is his best moment. Everyone in the room thinks he is a man worthy of all men.

E:

Or if he hadn’t sent the letter home ahead of him. His wife reads it as she walks along the battlement, her dress swishing about her. She is delicate, beautiful, her hair in braids, her nose upturned like a child’s.

B:

He and his friend lean in toward each other a moment, against the walls of the corridor, the air about them in sparks, they have seen sights, sleight of hand, they turn and saunter off in opposite directions.

A:

Who will discharge blood, who will discharge kings

C:

Specters with scepters—but this is ahead of the story.

319

A p pa r i t i o n

B:

He enters and she confuses him immediately with words.

E:

Every word she says is low, and cool, and lovely.

A:

Trumpets, courtesy, ceremony, good food, wine. Maybe ﬁddlers. Armor shifting about, big studded armbands, hearty laughter. Stories from the ﬁghting still fresh on their breath: I didn’t see that part, you should have seen it, you should have seen that sight: you would have been amazed. He lifted up, and then he, and he swung, and then a horse, from nowhere—

E:

She stands at the doorway to the bedroom. Inside it is pitch black. Inside is the king. She is at her highest pitch, she is listening. She thinks she can hear breathing. The low, slow, regular breath of sleep, a sigh in a dream, a snort, half a snore, then again, slow, long. And in the darkness, another breath, a ragged pant.

A:

There is a tremendous knocking. Some funny business with the porter taking forever to open the door. More tremendous, hollow knocking. The men sweep in, the castle awakens and trickles downstairs. The host enters, yawning, scratching at his chest under his pj’s. The men come imploding backward out of the bedroom, their hands their boots are wet with blood, their beards, which they clutched in their astonishment, are wet with blood; it is like they are scrambling from hell’s mouth and they wail; the host sinks to the ﬂoor in his grief;

D:

a wave of blood, released when the door opened, washes against his knees.

A:

She enters, says what’s the matter, they say we cannot say to you. This horror would ﬁll a woman’s skull until it cracked open.

C:

Then is the scene where the man comes in and he says he’s gone, your husband is gone, and she—this is a different she—and it’s a different he—these are side characters—she says he’s gone, he’s left, he said nothing, he just took off!?! and the man says—well it’s political and there’s been murders—the man says no, really, your husband is a brave and noble man, and she says well, against all appearances. Look at me, and my son here, left all alone here. And the man says I must be going and she turns to her son and says well, your daddy’s dead so what do you think about that? And he says no, no my daddy’s not dead, and she says really, no, what are you going to do for a father, and he says but what will you do for a husband, and she says husbands are thick on the ground, and he says awww, mom, he isn’t dead, and they go back and forth like this for a while; it’s cute, maybe too cute, and then a messenger comes crashing in and caroms about the room and says ﬂy, go away from here, run and ﬂee, and then he exits and she says why, why must I ﬂee, what have I done wrong, and then it’s like she slaps herself on the forehead sarcastically, she says well but of course, what world did I think I was living in: “What have I done to deserve this!?!”: listen to me! What audience did I think I was playing to? And then the murderers enter.

320

A n n e Wa sh b u r n

Beat. A:

There are two hallucinations, earlier. One is a dagger which crackles in space, rotates, bleeds, vanishes.

D:

One is an unexpected guest.

B:

You turn to take your place at the table the place is gone. A man in your stool. That isn’t you muttering is it?

D:

“Heaven knows what she has known.”

A:

He is rambling at ghosts, and she walks and calls out in her sleep: they aren’t fooling anyone.

C:

He ﬁnds them again on the moor. He shouldn’t have gone back to them.

B:

He’s protected by a riddle. The riddle unravels. He keeps ﬁghting.

C:

Innocents. To think they could do evil.

D:

Afterward, where the wood had been, was a lot of stumps.

In an attic in the dark. The moonlight streams through a window but doesn’t illuminate them. E:

Wake up. Wake up wake up wake up.

B:

What? No. I’m awake. What?

E:

Were you dreaming about me? Because that would be very disconcerting.

B:

What?

E:

I don’t know why you don’t have any furniture.

B:

Did you knock? Were you knocking? No. I was dreaming, I was dreaming about knocking.

E:

I wasn’t knocking.

B:

But I must have been dreaming, because you were knocking.

E:

I didn’t knock.

321

A p pa r i t i o n

B:

Is the door open? Downstairs?

E:

No, I appeared.

B:

Where are you

E:

I’m in the dark.

B:

I know that. You’re lucky I didn’t kill you.

E:

You were a pussycat.

B:

I’ve got a knife under my pillow. I’ve trained myself. If I’m startled, if I’m startled awake—you should have had your throat cut.

E:

You were a sweetheart.

B:

Fuck.

E:

You woke up like a kid.

B:

Is it? Fuck—I cut myself—it’s still here (thumb to lip). I’m bleeding. It’s still here. I locked the back door, I locked the front door, I locked the door to the basement. Christ, did you break the glass?

E:

I snapped my ﬁngers in one location, and appeared here.

B:

How did you get in?

E:

You must have been dreaming about me.

B:

I really, really want to know how you got in.

E:

There’s always a way in. But I was frightened. Rattling around through all that space, you weren’t anywhere, cobwebs; moonlight. I had to wonder how ghosts feel, if it isn’t as scary to haunt as to be haunted. Then I heard you snoring, and found the stairs. Why are you sleeping in the attic?

B:

Come here.

Pause. E:

There?

B:

Here. Come here.

322

A n n e Wa sh b u r n

E:

No. No you can’t . . . quite . . . touch me.

B:

No?

Pause. Give me your hand, so you’re not just a voice in the dark. E:

You can’t take the hand of a ghost.

B:

Oh. Ghost.

E:

Yes, I died today, horribly, no, tonight, you killed me. With your knife. I startled you and you lunged up, half asleep, and jammed it through my throat.

B:

See. Yes. I told you. That’s why you don’t want to startle me.

E:

My body is on the ﬂoor behind you. My neck is gashed open. A wedge of my blood is spreading, gaining momentum, pooling behind you while you hallucinate me in front of you. In a moment your toes will be drenched.

B:

Hallucination? Or ghost.

E:

Oh, um. I’m not sure. It depends on how weak-minded you are.

B:

Mmn. Aren’t you cold? Come under here with me. Come and get warm. Little ghostie.

E:

Mmn, you’re foolish. I might be more than a ghostie, I might be a succubus.

Abrupt shift in the conversational temperature. B:

Oh, you’re no demon.

A beat. E:

I might be.

B:

Oh, no you’re not.

A beat. E:

You’re very certain.

323

A p pa r i t i o n

B:

If you were a demon, you’d raise my hackles. And I’d feel a terrible sense of oppression. And I would feel the presence of another presence in the room, because demons are always more than their human containers, so there’s . . . excess . . . that always travels with them.

Beat. E:

Oh, you’ve seen a demon.

B:

Not face to face.

E:

Not face to face.

B:

I’ve spoken brieﬂy with one on the phone.

E:

Yes?

B:

Yes.

E:

Yes, you’ve spoken with demons on the phone?

B:

With one demon.

E:

Oh.

Little beat. Who initiated the call B:

I was called. I was eating, and the phone rang.

E:

How inconvenient. You were eating, the phone rang, and it was a demon. How did you know it was a demon

B:

Because I had heard the voice before.

E:

When had you heard the voice before

B:

In the dark. In the corner of my room. Over by the dresser.

E:

So. Wait. I can’t decide if I want to hear about the demon on the phone or the demon by the dresser. Okay. No. First demon ﬁrst. The dresser demon.

324

A n n e Wa sh b u r n

B:

I was asleep, and I woke up. And I knew that there was something wrong in the room, I knew, after a moment I knew that there was someone in the room, at ﬁrst I thought there must be a burglar. I didn’t move. I lay in bed very quietly, breathing evenly, waiting for him to move, to move to attack me or to move for the door or . . . to take something. Even though there was nothing to take. I was listening for a step, or a noise. And he wasn’t moving. So then I—and this whole time I’m so careful to breathe slowly, and deeply, as though I’m sleeping—

E:

Did you do that thing—that thing where you kind of move your lips together for a moment and you make those little sounds, like you’re going to wake up but then you don’t, that thing (she demonstrates half smacking her lips together) and then, I usually mutter a little and roll myself over—

B:

No.

E:

Otherwise it always seems to me. Regular sleep is so varied. But you hate to be a ham about it.

B:

No, I was just breathing.

E:

I’m listening.

Bit of a beat. I’m listening. B:

I was breathing. And listening. And I couldn’t hear anything. But I knew that he was there, that there was someone there so then, it occurred to me, to listen for his breathing. And I lay there. And I listened. And I could feel my ears becoming exquisitely sensitive. I could hear my body on the sheet. I could hear everything in the room. I thought maybe he’s breathing with me, at the same time as me, because he knows I’m listening. I could almost hear me sweating. And I didn’t hear anything. Not the slightest shifting. And I realized that I must have had a dream, and woken up from it wrong, I must have been wrong about when I was awake and when I was still dreaming and that I was alone in the room and I was just about to move my elbow, which had developed a terrible kink, when it spoke.

A pause. E:

What did it say

B:

Nothing important. Little things. It was the way it said them.

E:

What do you mean, nothing important?

325

A p pa r i t i o n

B:

Really, it was trivial, it was like, small talk, like things you overhear on the bus.

E:

So it wasn’t talking to you

B:

It was talking to me, but it wasn’t important.

E:

But what did it say?

B:

I honestly don’t remember.

E:

How could you possibly not remember

B:

No, I’m lying on my bed, and I’ve given up on the whole breathing thing, or I’m breathing very fast, I don’t remember, and I’ve shat myself, and pissed myself, I’m that scared, and at the same time that I’m hearing this, and listening to this I’m also thinking, I’m lying in my own shit, for this?

Beat. Come here. I want to hold you. (Transition: D, in witch mask, enters from extreme upstage and crosses down onto the stage and exits through the upstage right door.) A:

Anyhow, you’re trundling along and then . . .

B:

suddenly out from the mist

E:

it all seems hopeless.

C:

From out of the darkness of the forest looms suddenly the Weevil Tender.

A:

(And there was a horrid shriek.)

C:

There is a rustling in the scratchy branches and then horribly from out of the middle of those prickly foliages pops the Weevil Tender!

E:

(And the screams echo and echo throughout the primeval forest and then the sun sets)

A:

with a terrible plop and a sizzle. Into the cold ocean.

All hear a sound off right.

326

A n n e Wa sh b u r n

I wanted to go looking for a new apartment but I found my way horribly barred by bad real estate prices and prickly landlords. I walked into the one and I said well this is just like the set to a snuff movie (tho I have never seen a snuff movie!). C:

The Weevil Tender clacked and clicked / horribly. Just like his glossy charges.

E:

(overlapping) disintegrated fervors integrated fevers smoldering levers unwavering shoulders

A:

Birds. And their dollopy poop. There’s all types of sizes, birds.

B:

Mystic mystic boulders.

D:

I have a smoldering trick I do where I’m in the middle of people and then I just begin to sizzle. Later I poof.

E:

Oh. Are you gone then?

D:

No, I’m somewhere else.

A:

There were these whispering—there was this whispering. There was whispering in the other room. When I came into the room it was empty.

B:

I heard a knock I said who’s there? I heard a knock. I thought I heard a shifting, or, voices. On the stair. I said who’s there? Who is it? I said is anyone there? I thought, I should go to the door and open it. I should walk up to the door and throw it open. I said yes, I’m here. Who’s there? Is anyone there? (To him/herself.) Open it. Just open it.

A:

I thought I heard—

B:

Open it. I turned my face to the wall and threw the covers over my head.

327

A p pa r i t i o n

E:

I came into the room and someone had just left. I rang the bell and the servant entered. She had a very plain face and a severe black dress and a starched white apron. Clearly it was the nineteenth century or something. She said—I said—before she could say anything I said, who has been in this room? Just now. Who has been here? She looked at me strangely, she said Miss, no one has been in this room. But I heard, I said—she ran a ﬁnger along the table and she lifted it toward me, dust tumbled from her ﬁnger, her ﬁnger left a channel in the dust on the table, dust swirled through the air around us, like snow, she said Miss, no one has been in this room. No one has been in this room for a hundred years.

C:

People don’t know much about that particle, but they fear it all the same.

Pause. B:

In the morning the sun streamed in through the window. I went to the door and found that it had been unlocked the whole night.

A:

Open it. Just open it.

D:

“Come in!”

E:

I said please. Let’s not yield to the excitement of the moment.

C:

Yes. I’m in complete disguise.

D:

That was funny, wasn’t it. That moment of terror back there. THE PLAY THAT ISN’T NAMED WHICH MUST NOT BE NAMED

C:

They’ve been up all night searching out ingredients, many of which are loath to be searched out, and rapid, or sting-y. One has a cut on her thumb. Two men loom out from the mist.

A:

After they have said their piece, the women twist and slither into nothingness.

C:

The men fan their hands through the area of vanishment, stomp around on the moor in their excitement, and astonishment. Should they give each other high ﬁves? The moon rises. Oh it is very large.

A:

It was a terrible battle: full of hacking and hewing and the unexpected.

D:

Enter messengers from the king.

328

A n n e Wa sh b u r n

B:

He says to her when other men think of me, at this moment, it is in a golden italics. When I turn toward them their eyes light up and when I open my mouth there is a kind of hush falls over the room. I look well in my boots and it is a pleasure to raise up my glass and make a toast to the grace and health of those around me. He says I’d rather just, just relish this a while.

E:

She was six she ﬁrst played queen in a well of light in the woods. Her older cousin holds the crown above her which is brambles twined with red berries which are rubies. “Hold it higher,” she hisses, “before you lower it.” Her cousin is older is eight should by rights be queen but is not so beautiful as young coz nor so ferocious. Aloft she holds it, where it catches in the shaft of the sun and the berries gleam. Her younger brother, ﬁve, supplies a kind of music he makes with his mouth and cupped hands and says is the bagpipes. He is expecting to eat the crown when the game is done.

C:

That night there is an incredible storm. The like of which has not been seen even when whoever it was was a boy. Chimneys sway creak and topple and thunder against the roof as they crumble. At the ﬁrst dim crack of day the men saddle their horses in the yard among chunks of brick mortar stone, whole torn branches, and wet leaves plastered everywhere.

B:

He almost can’t go back in to complete the task.

E:

She says what are you afraid of? The dead are nothing but pictures of life. They aren’t real. She holds up her hand, which is wet from taking hold of his. This

C:

she ﬂicks her ﬁngers, spattering minute drops across his face

E:

is only liquid. Water washes it off then our hands will be as clean as our brains and we need only hold our faces: so only look this way this way as though you are clean

A:

There is a tremendous knocking.

C:

He’s crowned offstage.

A:

Baleful signs: the sun never does rise again and the horses?

329

A p pa r i t i o n

D:

“Tis said they eat each other.”

E:

She rubs her hand against her robe. She rubs it again. She catches up a handful of the fabric and she scrubs it against her palm, rubs in beneath her ﬁngers holds it up for inspection, no, she is sobbing, it is exhausting and even if she could, somehow, sandpaper? How will she clean from under her nails? Her nails are stained, she will have to dig in, with a knife, with a knife, and with sandpaper, it can be done, she can tear her nails away, she won’t mind the pain, she is very brave, she hiccups in relief, catches sight of her bare feet, stops breathing, or is that only the shadow, lowers the candle, no, no, no no no, it isn’t only shadow, her face dissolves into tears, she crumples down to the ﬂoor, barely holding on to the candle, no. No. No.

B:

He says to the doctor, can’t you cure her? The doctor shrugs.

D:

Innocents. To think they could do evil.

A:

SPECULATIONS

A:

Leaving behind the issue of your—

D:

because it was in the, um.

C:

There isn’t okay there isn’t that much you can say about it.

Beat. C:

There were these dildos, I mean dingoes, out there in the dark.

A:

I hear they can lunge at you and eat you.

C:

I hear the dark land is a kingdom for the dildos, I mean dingoes.

A:

What was the other thing you heard her say? After the ﬁrst thing?

B:

Yes. Thunderous. Thank you. Penetrating quiet.

D:

What wasn’t there before was smooshed.

A:

I’m going to go now and pee and wash and when I come back I expect—

E:

I reached out to turn on the light and something took hold of my hand.

Beat. E:

An awe-full silence. Awe. Full. Awe. Awe. a-w-e.

330

A n n e Wa sh b u r n

Beat. A:

That might be the full moon or it might be a man with a full moon sign. Okay I might have hired my brother-in-law who is always hard up for cash.

C:

Make peace with your death, your living, your—hello.

D:

“Hello lovelies. Don’t be apprehensive. Gather around.”

E:

Wriggle tickle. deep laureate of certain something sensible low lover of low love of low loaded by love loaned from love talented loaned eaten moaned combined com bone. Plead. My. Case.

B:

I left the heat on but everybody left so all night long the house was toasting toasting toasting . . . for nobody!

C:

If it were Wonderworld. Which it is not.

A:

Lung and only the lonely. Luminous Interlude

ALL:

Lor corritorium, Wa wickratibat Torritam borrit borrid du bu polit

Beat. Dum hurgud urxis, urcurik ah . . . um hubbub. Nor horrid. Kurgurick. Spum baghadick, ar skundick, eh, hum bah um gumbit Horit-ibat-iboom. Gorba torida torboom Flor haderat, plaid somberbat—shat ﬂorid umberhat supple morehorrid jampacked with Delores tremendor polyoffulous horrogoria sleek euphoria

331

A p pa r i t i o n

E:

I said I’m not afraid. I meant it too. It was speculative. It was like it was true.

Beat. B:

Here’s what I think, I think

E:

Shhh.

B:

I think it doesn’t—okay, I’m going to try to phrase this—

E:

Shhh.

A:

Shhh.

A beat. B:

(Whispering.) What?

A beat. E:

Listen. What is that? Listen. Nonluminous Interlude

D:

In the dark, something is reticulating.

Two demons. D is feral. The moon is very bright. C:

I took the bus here. Have you ever been on a bus? Probably not. They’re very complicated. They’re easy to get into, once they are there, but you have to know where they will appear. I have a bus schedule, obtained with great difﬁculty; there is a map, which shows everywhere the bus goes and most importantly, it shows the space you must stand on, to stop it. There are diagrams. There are also series of lists, which tell when the bus comes, and this information must be very exactingly coordinated with a watch (he taps a pocket), and a calendar (he taps another pocket), and also, it is my contention, with some third piece of instrumentation, or an as-yet-undiscovered reference material because there is a variable between my calculations and the actual manifestation of the bus, which I have not been able to identify, I very very rarely take the bus, it’s tremendous. Neighborhoods are very interesting places. It’s exciting to walk right up driveways, right up driveways and into backyards. I’ve been walking right up driveways and into backyards. I could sort of smell where you were, but I couldn’t exactly smell where you were. And all the little fences make it harder. Wouldn’t you like to eat something? I have something very good in the paper bag.

332

A n n e Wa sh b u r n

D:

Ate.

C:

Oh. You look like you ate. What did you eat?

D:

Dog.

C:

Oh. Okay.

D:

Or cat. Smallish. I ate something smallish.

C:

Like a dog or a cat.

D:

It was this big (indicates bread loaf–sized). And it wiggled.

C:

So you don’t want what I have in the paper bag?

D:

What’s in the paper bag?

C:

Well I don’t know. Isn’t that funny? I didn’t pack it. They packed it for me and said, this is really good. I’ll give it to you, if you’re still hungry. There you go.

D:

This isn’t for hungry. This is dessert.

D sniffs cautiously and speculatively. C:

That isn’t its skin. That’s just paper. The taste is inside. You should reach in and pull it out if you want to smell it.

D begins to . . . (Immediately.) But don’t shake it! They said, don’t shake it, you’ll wreck it. D sniffs again. If you don’t want it, or if you’re only going to ruin it, then you can give it back to me. D clutches it to him, protectively. Okay. You can hold on to it instead. I don’t mind. How long have you been here? D:

Tonight.

333

A p pa r i t i o n

C:

And where were you before that? You were just in that backyard? The one with the stand-up swimming pool?

D:

No.

C:

The one next to it.

D:

Uh huh.

C:

Oh. Okay. How come you want to be where there’s all these houses?

D:

I like all the little dogs and the cats. I like a lot of little animals better than one or two big ones.

C:

Oh. Huh. I guess they’re . . . juicier?

D:

Because of the tiny bones. I like to crunch all the tiny bones. All at once. That’s what I like.

C:

Oh yes. I like that too! Crunch crunch crunch. I was saying that and they said, oh, you’ll like what’s in the bag.

D sniffs it suspiciously. Where do you go in the daylight? D:

I go where there is a pile of leaves. I go under it.

C:

Oh. A big pile of leaves. Like that pile there.

D:

Yes. First I pull the big thick branches out. Then I go under.

C:

Oh. Okay. Do you know that when they make a big pile of leaves, like that, they let it sit there for a day, or sometimes for a few days, but then what they generally do is they pick it all up, all of it, and they throw it into a metal can or else they burn it. So. They do this in the daytime, they move those big piles of leaves. They would move it right off you.

D:

Oh.

C:

So actually, it’s very very lucky, very unusual, that you went in that pile of leaves and then . . . it was left there, over you. But that’s so interesting but I guess you didn’t know that.

334

A n n e Wa sh b u r n

D:

Uh uh. Or I go under the house part, where it’s dark.

C:

In the basement? You go into the basement?

D:

No, I go into the under.

C:

Into the, um, the . . . crawl space. Under the house.

D:

Yes. Or into the basement.

C:

Is the basement door unlocked?

D:

Or I bash the glass.

C:

You break the glass out.

D:

Yes, if I have a big rock. Sometimes there is a little dog in the basement also.

C:

Ah. Okay. You sleep in the leaves, or, you bash into the basement and you eat the little dog. Okay. What if it was a little—what if, when you go into the basement, there’s a . . . a basket there, and there, inside the basket, there’s a little . . . do you know what a baby is?

D:

(Negative.) Uh uh.

A beat. (Afﬁrmative.) Uh huh. C:

Okay. Good. So if you went into the basement, you go into the basement and in the basement, in a basket or in a container, some kind of a container there is a baby there, would you eat that also?

D:

Um . . .

C:

If you bashed open the basement, with a big old rock, or, maybe a valuable lawn ornament, whatever, and inside the basement there’s a baby girl, hmmm, would you eat it?

D:

Um . . .

C:

I could see how you might eat it by mistake.

335

A p pa r i t i o n

D:

I might! It might be very dark in there! Also, it might be dressed in fur, like a little dog. It might look like a little dog dressed in a sweater, lying on its side. Also they make the same noises, they make the same noises they go (imitates whining). I might eat it if it was dark. Little bones.

C:

Oh. (Beat.) Okay. (Beat.) Open the bag.

D:

Not hungry.

C:

I am. Open it.

D:

Um. But what if there was, what if there was, another baby. What if there was another baby, in a place that I could show you. Crunch. It could be very— you could be very happy to have it in your mouth. Oh, I think you would enjoy.

C:

Come on. Open the bag.

D:

Yes, or I could, there I could oh look! Here I am in the forest! Here I am in the middle of the forest and look! There is no peoples anywhere! And there is . . . um . . . trees and well I swoop down and I eat big animals sometimes and I reach out and I grab at night the something smaller sometimes . . . but like an owl! Like I have a mouth full of big owl. Feathers. Pfew. But a lot of crunching. Or many tiny owls all at once. That could happen too. Yes, I have optimism. Here I am, la di la, all happy in the big forest in the dark! See how easy? Whee. Okay. Okay here I go. You can come with if you want but okay let’s go. Let us go to the big dark forest in the dark and in the middle of the big ol’ tree. Yes hurrah. Yes.

C:

Open it. Just open it.

D:

(Whimpering) Ur ur ur arrrr.

C:

That’s right. It’s all right. Open it. Now!

D cries out in rage and frustration. Blackout. A:

I had opened up the door to my new apartment and now it was nighttime. Before in the day when I had clinched the deal the light had streamed through the two windows. To begin with the switch is not to the right of the door as you enter and swipe your arm down along the wall nor is it to the left. So I am banging along the wall until I ﬁnd it across the room. Which was the ﬁrst sign that my apartment is enigmatic. So there I am I have my suitcase and the ﬁrst boxes with me that one dim bulb above me and tonight I will sleep on the ﬂoor in the bedroom on blankets. This is

336

A n n e Wa sh b u r n

ﬁne. I plug in my phone because as discussed with the phone company after I had signed my lease and before I had gone away on a trip of some weeks I would like to have the outside world when I enter my apartment for the ﬁrst time, weary, and with the dust and muck of strange places still caught up in the interstices of my rubber sneaker soles. So this is nice I plug in my phone and dial and I lean my body up against my own weary suitcase and it rings once, twice, three times and I am expecting a machine and disappointed and the line clicks over and I hear the receiver and I wait for a hello. “Hello,” I say, “hello.” Only a long pause and then—”Hello?” I say, I say, “Hi, it’s me”—a very low, a whispering, this is very odd and I prick up my ears and continuous jittery whispering. I see my friend, on the other end of the phone in a dark bedroom and a maniac prowling through the house so very silently passing back and forth past the half-open door only a shadow cutting through the hall light and my friend crouched behind the bed watching and clutching the alarm clock as though it had a blade edge unknowing is he known should he explode into the open and chance it or should he slide under the bed fully but in nasty expectation of a moment when the clomping maniac boots stop pace past pace past and then stop right just by his head he could reach out he could touch them if anyone would ever want would want to touch maniac boots and the coverlet that had concealed him raises slowly up and there is a terrible pause right by his face maniac boots and maniac pants legs and then almost acrobatic the maniac face rotates upside-down into view ﬂashing a horrible maniac grin. “Are you— ” I said and the whispering continues on it is urgent and it is very low so low I can’t make it out but it isn’t—although it is saying, and saying urgently it isn’t, it doesn’t seem to be saying to me. It continues on ﬂuid and rapid like a hard-running river. I think for a moment it is the maniac himself, crouched gibbering over the half-dismembered body of my friend but then I just then I just then I just hang up. I think you know, I bet that was a misdial, or a cross wire. I look at the number again very ﬁrmly and I dial very carefully and the phone rings and rings and rings and on the eighth ring I hang up because my friend’s machine is off, obviously. I look around the apartment wan in the one dim light and I feel prickly and think well maybe I should go out again, sit in a lit-up take-out Chinese place somewhere or a swanky bar absorb some atmosphere ﬁrst I make another call. This friend also, I have been away six weeks, have machines gone out of fad in that brief time? I made one more call the fourth ring picks it up and says nothing. “Hello,” I say, “hello.” Again the whispering, as if we had not left off before, whispering without pause man or woman I cannot say whispering. “Hello,” I say this time. “Hello, who are you? Who are you can you hear me, hello?” And it’s this time it’s louder it’s louder and I could almost but I can’t quite make it out I hang up. Well I will have to have the phone ﬁxed. And now I had thought I might unpack I have no dresser yet but have hangers I could hang things up in the closet on the rail thoughtfully provided but now I think no, I think no, I will—out somewhere. I stand. How inconvenient is the light switch on the wall opposite the door. How extremely it is perverse. And I ponder for a moment thoughtfully electricity early in our century and whoever’s cousin thought it was simpler to tear open the walls only on one side of the building or the like I’ll never know and so now I can I can either I can turn off the light and I can stride toward the door in the dark. Which I don’t some-

337

A p pa r i t i o n

how I don’t relish doing or it is so simple I can leave the light on. But I never like to think of a lightbulb burning burning burning in an empty room. To me it is not only wasteful but somehow eerie. I should be: and I picture ﬁrmly before me the bright restaurant full of artful light schemes and fresh ﬂowers everywhere, wafting, and I turn off the light and I am two steps toward the door and I think I should change. Something. Because I am now in a city in the ﬁrst world my shoes for one and also my shirt which is sticky what was I thinking but I had been so eager also I should wash my face if I can ﬁnd my towel. Two steps back and I ﬂick on the switch but the light will not. No. Up down up down the light is off and the dark is still on. Well. Damn. I can, I can by feel in the dark? If I touch the zipper of my suitcase. There is a tremendous pounding, on the door. Pound pound pound, pause pause, pound pound pound. Who is it that doesn’t tap ﬁrst and then knock and then move to pounding, who is it that starts straight out on pounding. Pound pound pound pause pound pound pound pound pound pound POUND. Christ, will the door not give way? There are underneath the door I can see two where the hall light cuts out two they might be boots well someone is standing there. I am not breathing. I cannot move. POUND POUND POUND POUND POUND. Then it is stop. And whoever it is is there. And I am waiting for the I am waiting for the until the lack until the stillness is more terrible than the pounding. And then there is a there is a light touch on my shoulder and I, I don’t know why I don’t I don’t shriek, and shriek and shriek and shriek but I and I—I suppose I’m petriﬁed—I look to my shoulder and where there is a white ﬂake of plaster and I look up toward the ceiling and there is a in the ceiling a part of a crack opened up by the pounding and I am now I am trembling but I look back from my shoulder/the ceiling and again toward the door and there is something the light from under the door that pale wash of slab of gleam of light has shifted somehow and I realize after a moment I realize it is I cannot see the two the two interruptions of the light the light under the door the boots or they might just be shoes I am only thinking boots I am thinking the boots are gone but I have not heard anyone, I have not heard anyone a walking away. Was I, did I, my ears stunned and I might have I might have just skipped time in my head but I did not, where are the, what is the, and I am listening, I am listening abnormally I am holding my hands away from my side and my ears all the blood in my body is trembling in my ears is there a—no that was not a shifting a shufﬂe or a coughing I hear nothing, I hear nothing and then, from the bedroom to the left of me I hear the whispering pss pss pss pss pss pss pss . . . and then it say my name.

338

A n n e Wa sh b u r n

In the Lustrehouse We are behind a heavy old-fashioned curtain. A, C, D, and E wear masks. Periodically A peers through it and reports back. B is apart, in a chair. B:

Enter the murderer.

C:

There’s an urchin in the back all he does is lob bad oranges.

E:

Stage right or left?

C:

Dead center.

A:

Switch parts?

E:

No.

C:

(Counting all present.) One . . .

B:

This is the part where they’re poised behind what is the curtain but it is solidity, waiting to vapor enter. Bored, plucking at cigs and stamping them out on the ﬂimsy ﬂoor of nothingness; nattering away on the other side of reality.

A and E and C:

Hubble Hubble Coils of Gubble. C:

two . . .

A:

Where are we?

C:

I said the part where he’s talking with the murderer. Today the murderer is covered, covered in blood. The murderer has taken the blood bucket and heaved it over himself. Apparently he is hoping to make an impression. It runs from him in rivulets; his shoes squelch when he walks. There will be no more blood for the rest of us tonight.

D tries to walk through the curtain. E:

I said no, what are you doing, it’s not our cue.

D:

Oh. Um.

C:

three . . .

339

A p pa r i t i o n

A is trying to remember a line and is pacing out the rhythm of the preceding line. A:

Duh duh duh duh duh duh duh . . .

E:

I said don’t let them see you. Don’t let them see you—

A and C: Yet. B:

Listening to some kind of—this is in my dream, in my dream I’m listening to something twitching.

C:

Four.

E:

I said your head is on backwards and it’s covered in tats. I said here, let me. I said ick, what have you worked into here, are those real ﬂies?

C:

One . . .

A:

Duh duh duh duh duh duh duh duh duh duh duh duh duh duh . . . Fuck. Don’t tell me . . .

D makes another play for the curtain and is yanked back. C:

After the banquet goes wrong, after everyone’s gone, after they’re standing there alone talking about rowing in blood, after he says is it still night and she says it’s dark, but it’s glimmering, soon it will be morning, sleep, it will be all right in the morning. After that. After that we enter.

E:

It’s slippery out there. Mind the blood.

B falls sleep. E:

Come quickly, there’s been a tremendous thump!

C:

Prickling at the spine.

A:

Untorpid and slow torrid Pacing and unpacing unlaced

C:

periods of hazard

340

A n n e Wa sh b u r n

B:

who dropped—all this glass, on the ﬂoor, what dropped

E:

Evacuate

A:

I said what’s—

B:

patting gently and then prodding against the other side of reality.

C:

That’s a rascal for you. He wants me to validate his ticket for a time he didn’t exist in a car that cannot be driven. Silly rascal!

B:

Stamping with impatience over there on the other side of reality.

B rouses. C:

two, three . . .

B:

Standing at the edge of unreality, into the rim of the non-gone. Horrifying the passersby. Stepping out suddenly into obvious. Twirling suddenly into oblivion.

C:

I said listen. He’s so excited. You can hear him spitting from here.

E:

Mind the ﬂoor. When we step out. It’ll be drenched.

B:

Biting your nails. Rubbing your eyes.

C:

Four.

A:

(Forcefully) Duh Duh Duh Duh Duh Duh Duh Duh Duh Duh Duh Duh Duh Duh OPEN LOCKS WHOEVER KNOCKS! YES! THANK YOU!

C:

And I look around I look over I say there should be—

B:

Shufﬂing at the ﬂoorboards and smoking.

C:

But there is one more. How many of us are there.

E:

Three.

341

A p pa r i t i o n

C:

Three?

B:

Unexplainable amounts of slo-mo.

C:

Well, but why then are we four. Should there not be one less of us?

B:

the front steps creak

A:

we said

C:

head count

E:

evacuate

B is asleep again. E:

That’s a footstep. That big old booming thing (that). This is midnight. Oh, who am I? Oh. Well. I’m—

A:

jiggling in the ether

C:

Her ﬁngers dipped in and then along the rim of the glass. The one way. The other way. That faint eerie cry.

B:

And a one and a two and a—

C:

He said I’m going to knock and she giggled and said I wouldn’t.

A:

I said this is perfect. I’ll take it.

B:

He said—

A:

(Sure, if you can surge forward like a crowd.)

B:

I hoisted up the massive knocker and it fell upon the massy door like an explosion.

E:

Delectiator. Diabolitator. Horriditantetron.

B:

She said so, it was you broke that vase. You might have slaughtered innocents. You could just as easily have shattered my heart. Why instead destroy the irreplaceable, and the beautiful

A:

The Lustrehouse ﬂickered and shimmered and then it disappeared with an audible click.

342

A n n e Wa sh b u r n

T. Ryder Smith as C and Heidi Schreck as E backstage at the Lustrehouse in Apparition. November 2003. Photograph by T. Ryder Smith.

E:

I didn’t think I was shining until I looked down at my body. When All’s Done, You Look But on a Stool (I Will Not Think of Tygres)

C:

Standing there in dignity with her son by her side.

D:

Wrenched about.

C:

The boo-hooism of it all.

A:

And then there was a tremendous a mighty squall.

E:

I said—and I was standing—I said (and I’m still standing)

C:

She was restless: she said I’m not restless, it’s not my inner nature, it’s the wind. She said, the wind has all, has caught me up.

E:

I twisted around in his grip. He gave a gasp.

343

A p pa r i t i o n

A:

Anyhow. He isn’t— , not in that way. He’s awaiting his ﬁery destiny.

C:

Restless. Waiting for— . Mounting agitation. Perplexed. Scattered brains. Scatty. She’s scatty this morning—she can’t sort out the coming or the going or the circularity of the situation.

D:

Attending to the, waiting—

E:

those whirls that were his eyes

C:

slap and sob sharply.

A:

There is a deep luxurious dim humidity.

D:

The whirls.

Beat. A:

I said this isn’t, and I’m not. I said I’m asleep I said I’m asleep and dreaming. I said this is strictly a consciousness problem.

B:

I said wake up. I felt that I was incredibly rational I said this is a dream, this is a very Bad dream wake up! wake up!

D:

I’m awake.

E:

Wake up!

B:

I said all I have to do is open my

ALL:

Eyes.

Stage plunges into darkness. Next scene is in the dark. B:

Who is it Who is it Who’s there

Pause. I know you’re/there.

344

A n n e Wa sh b u r n

E:

You cut me.

B:

Oh.

Pause. I cut you. Where are you? Beat. How badly (Beat.) Are you all right E:

I don’t know. I can’t see. Turn on the light.

B:

It’s burnt out.

E:

Oh. All right. Well I’m bleeding. There’s a lot of—oh—that thing they say about blood being slippery? It’s true.

B:

Okay, I’m—

E:

Don’t touch me!

B:

No, I’m putting it, I’ve put it down.

E:

You cut me.

B:

I’ve trained myself. You know that. It’s beyond my conscious control.

E:

I know that. It’s your subconscious. Your subconscious was aware that I was there the moment I entered the room. Your subconscious has night vision and night hearing and all night long, while you’re out cold, your subconscious is up and your subconscious knew exactly when I entered the house and heard me coming up the stairs and curled your ﬁngers around the knife. Your subconscious knew exactly who I was. Your subconscious tried to take me out.

B:

It doesn’t discriminate.

E:

I don’t think you’ve trained it right.

B:

I’m just—slowly—

E:

Do not move.

345

A p pa r i t i o n

B:

I’m moving away from you.

E:

You are such an idiot. Look at what you’ve done to me: I’m not dead: I’m just wounded, and angry. I am so much more dangerous. Your subconscious is a fucking idiot. Your whole elaborate system of self-defense is fatally ﬂawed.

B:

I’m going over to the neighbors.

E:

Where are you going

B:

They probably have a phone.

E:

I want you to stay with me. Don’t you want to touch me? Don’t you want to . . . just, aren’t you curious? To know what a ﬂayed-open person feels like

B:

If I stay here—

E:

I want you to hold me.

B:

If I stay with you. If I hold you. You’ll bleed to death.

E:

I don’t mind. What are you doing

B:

Putting on my pants.

E:

You might as well kiss me. You mad fool. Please.

Pause. Aren’t you going to put on a shirt? B:

I’ll be right back.

E:

Well . . . what. What about your feet?

B:

I’m lacing my boots . . . I’ll be right back.

A:

Please kiss me.

B:

I’ll be right back.

Very long silence.

346

A n n e Wa sh b u r n

So I guess I can assume that this is what it is like to bleed to death. This is what it’s like in the snow with no dog and his little keg. Or this is the gradual submersion in the glass chamber with no superhero busting through. Me, one crabby shark, and more and more water. One of us loses strength, as the other gains it. It’s like slowing, or slumber, or something . . . this is where I should organize my thoughts I think, and my breathing. I’m sure I’m not breathing right, I should be breathing . . . in case something happens next, something spiritual, I’m supposed to be composed for that in out in out abdominal breathing. Yes, I’m feeling calmer. Or weaker. Same thing. Don’t act surprised. I think that’s the crucial thing. Don’t show fear. In any case it makes sense to say, “Please.” In a ﬁrm manner. “Please,” “Hello.” This is where I should say “Hello Something.” Hello. Hello something. Hello. Hello I know you’re out there. Hello. Hello, I can seeee you. C:

Can you see all of me? Or just parts.

E:

Oh.

C:

Is it the cufﬂinks? They’re an affectation. They’re difﬁcult to conceal, I don’t know why. But I don’t feel altogether without them. Is it the cufﬂinks?

E:

Um. No.

C:

The shoes? I shouldn’t polish them. If I’m thinking about something else I can’t always remember to restrain all of the gleaming. But I love the gleaming. Is it the shoes?

Beat.

347

A p pa r i t i o n

E:

No.

C:

It isn’t my eyes. I’m always so careful, so careful about my eyes.

E:

Your eyes?

C:

It isn’t my eyes. My yellow, yellow eyes.

E:

Oh.

C:

What then? What. How did you see me? How is it that you know me

ALL:

Urgent. Hurgurick. Twenty odd shards of into the what forest paroxysm of meaning never losing sight of the ortendor dermimenin more sordid far torrid hard glorid This is the part where— stranorrid okay, I’m— Forms of compression and information. Initiation What, if I told you which thing? Lit up by a candle and ﬂickering. I said I’m not afraid. I meant it too. It was speculative. It was like it was true. It was—

(Distant shouting.) E:

The ﬁrst thing I thought was that there had been a someone there in the room just right before me that I must have just somehow from the corner of my eye

348

A n n e Wa sh b u r n

caught the tip of a part of a just the hem of something or a last trail of wisp of hair of a wedge of hat just the edge of a departure on my entrance I stopped and I eyeballed the room which is dusty, and which is still. I turned. I said, “They were sitting there, right there, in that chair.” I said that, I said—aloud— though I was alone—I said, “They were sitting right there in that chair.” Which, what would I know about that, what, where they were. And I turned again and I stepped toward the door ajar through which they would have must just departed as if I say to myself measured I will go there and lean out and catch a back glimpse of them down the hall I tell myself this and I step ﬁrmly but then I inexorably stop, stop and will not progress further because I am just I am gripped so certain what is this because I know they are right there. There is the door half open and the hall just beyond it: wainscoting and blue stripe paper and the bulb in the frosted glass shell—and they are there right just right the other side the door ﬂattened against the wall not facing so that when I walk ﬁrmly over to peer down the hall and am expecting a backward half personage dwindled by distance and turning the corner there they are right there grinning only with their ﬂashing inches away only eyes. I am I know this I am just so certain. I am stopped and I am standing. In the room which is so dusty, and so still. I am listening my ears aching staring through the doorway at the dim bulb burning at the blue stripe paper until it until my eyes sizzle and I am listening I am listening

349

A p pa r i t i o n

I don’t hear breathing. I am sitting in the chair I know they were only just sitting in—although it is cool, and although it is unrumpled—the chair I know they were sitting ears pricked in when down the hall I came—because the room had in it when I entered it had the feeling someone had just sprung from it. Sprung. I curl my hands around the knoblet carve wood the armrest which is all wrought into—they are lovely and it is skillful—claws feeling against my ﬁngers the talons the long mahogany nail beneath my pad ﬁngertip thinking there is nothing to be no why should I ha I have only to shout shout at any moment I might. Spring. I am launched up clattering somehow against the table having half-pounded against the ﬂoor with my good boots and well aware that I am a lot of noise and commotion. Who is listening now on the other side of the wall who is gripped with wonderment I could if I had a revolver I could a stout one I could ﬁre straight through blasting through the plaster. What is it, I wonder, to wait the one side of the gap waiting like a clutch a snatch a burning expression unexpect. Because I could you know I could what if what if I tippytoed away the room yes in my stocking feet and through the———and the———and the———and ﬁnally across the hall out, out into the garden, my stocking feet drenched in the grass shoeing them again slogging through the bright, the tremendous outpouring of sunshine the birds and their six hundred choruses, pushing through the gleaming lilacs sogged with dew and lit all up by the morning through the———and among———and then up the stone back steps the dim pantry the side door through and up the back passage unshod again

350

A n n e Wa sh b u r n

clutching the good stiff leather in my hand little feets sneaky little feets along the lean back hallways dim until here there that turn is the corner where I will look around is the long hallway that long hallway from the other way leading down into giving onto a door a door into a still and dusty room. There when I peer around is that someone dwindled by distance who waits head otherturned ﬂattened against the blue stripe paper eyes burning eyes on the doorway it is so supposed will disgorge me grinning sometimes perhaps horribly for practice yes not knowing what creeps mufﬂed toward it little feets, little feets What is it to be so wound up to suddenness and to oneself receive, yes, the bony tap ! But what what if I were what if in the hallway there there at the very edge there I am stiﬂing giggling to a tremendous degree and rolling my own eyeballs horribly around in my own head yes, gleeful, with my shoes fast in hand and turn

351

A p pa r i t i o n

turn just the tip of my head the one angle of my face thrust in cunning around to look down the long hallway and there no one is there just the one light in the shell glass burning, burning the long all the way down there no one is back turned to me watching the other way no one is waiting there. If there is no one in front of me then I must I must turn around. Very slowly. No. No I will not tippytoe sneaky away the back way, no, I stay where I am standing nowhere I am here I am and the room about me behind me the chair half teetered over and the doorway is ahead of me. Stand. I will step forward. Toward what is waiting to astonish. One good step forward.

352

A n n e Wa sh b u r n

My heart it is pounding terribly but it is a muscle and I clench it and step forward. And then from nowhere and nothing the room plunges into dark. A:

It might be dark but at least it wasn’t night

B:

It might be pitch black but at least it wasn’t night

C:

First it was dark and then, later on, it was night

D:

The moon, the moon was incredibly bright. It was melting, and trailing light.

E:

I didn’t want to open my eyes, I didn’t want to open my eyes—the lids were brightening, I knew there was a lightening outside of my eyes, I squinched them tight shut but the darkness, I couldn’t keep hold of the dark.

The end.

353

A p pa r i t i o n

This page intentionally left blank

DEMON BABY Erin Co urtney

DEMON BABY was commissioned by Clubbed Thumb Inc., and premiered at the Ohio Theatre in New York City. Direction by Ken Rus Schmoll. Set by David Evans Morris. Costumes by Kirche Leigh Zeile. Lights by Garin Marschall. Sound by Michael Newman. Original cast:

DEMON BABY

Glenn Fleshler

ALAN

Gibson Frazier

CAT

Nina Hellman

WORKMAN SALLY ART WREN CHARLES

Leo Kittay Polly Lee Patrick McNulty Heidi Schreck Mark Shanahan

No te: The Workman has been revised out of the play since this ﬁrst performance, and does not appear in the version of the play printed here.

355

Characters WREN—an American woman ART—her husband, an American, an executive ALAN—an editor, British CAT—skinny, smart, executive, not British, not American CHARLES—British executive SALLY—skinny, smart, British DEMON BABY—looks like a Garden Gnome but with something a little bit different about it

356

E r i n Co u r t n e y

Scene 1 There is an empty apartment with spare, modern furnishing, a picture window, and a balcony that overlooks a shared courtyard. Sounds of construction can be heard from the courtyard. CAT, ALAN, ART, and WREN enter with suitcases. ALAN: Here we go. Here we go, then. Watch your step there. ART: Oh. Let me get that, Alan. CAT: This is a lovely ﬂat. Just lovely. WREN: It’s great. ART: You like? WREN: I like. ALAN: It’s very New York, if you ask me. You’ve found yourself a very New York ﬂat. Impres-

sive. Impressive. WREN: It’s big. Bigger than New York apartments. ART: Look Wren, I thought you could put a desk right here by the window. WREN: There’s nice light. It’s great. CAT: I wish James could have come. He couldn’t get out of that weekend training. WREN: Big window. ALAN: (Looking out into the courtyard.) Looks like they haven’t ﬁnished up out there yet. ART: It’s a new development. It was supposed to be ﬁnished by now. WREN: It’s a little loud.

Long pause. Thanks for picking us up, Alan. I’m sorry about the mix-up. I didn’t realize that Art had organized for Cat to be there. ART: I didn’t realize that you had organized for Alan to be there. WREN: An embarrassment of riches.

357

Dem o n Ba b y

CAT: I told James that you absolutely could not be greeted by one of those corpses from Ex-

patriate Management Limited. ALAN cringes. WREN and ART awkwardly smile. When I was relocated here, that relocation adviser person just grated on my last nerve. Especially when you have jet lag. Beery robots, all of them. A paid companion but seemingly without a brain. Much better to be greeted by a normal person. ALAN: If you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to work. CAT: Oh, how rude of me. What is it you do, Alan? ALAN: I’m an editor. I’m an editor on a project that Wren is working on. CAT: Oh Wren. How exciting. I didn’t realize that you had work to do over here as well. What

kind of project? A novel? WREN: It’s a children’s book. CAT: Fascinating. How admirable. A children’s book. ALAN: If you’ll excuse me. Lovely to meet you, Cat. WREN: Thank you, Alan. I’ll see you in a month or so? ALAN: We’ll be in touch.

ALAN exits. CAT: Should I show around your neighborhood? We could go out to eat? Or would you like

some time to settle in on your own? Now, the horrible relocation drone was supposed to help you buy essentials. Bedding, television, an American coffee maker . . . show you around the shops. WREN: Personally, I’m starving. ART: Me, too. CAT: Excuse me for a moment, I’ll just use your loo, and then I will show you around the

shops. CAT goes into the loo. WREN and ART let out the giggles they have been suppressing. WREN: Oh, did you see Alan’s face?

358

E r i n Co u r t n e y

ART: He remained very calm. WREN: Oh, and Cat had no idea what she was getting herself into with that. ART: I didn’t have the heart to tell her. WREN: Oh God. You can’t tell her. She’ll be mortiﬁed. Horriﬁed! ART: “Beery corpses!” WREN: I saw all the blood drain from Alan’s face. ART: But he wouldn’t admit it. WREN: Oh never! Never.

CAT reemerges. CAT talks as they leave the ﬂat. CAT: Well, let’s get you all settled in. There is a great cheese shop up the road. The best cheese

shop in all of . . . And there’s one or two restaurants on the high street . . . and the Waitrose, you’ll do all of your shopping at the Waitrose . . . I know you’ve already seen the park . . . It’s lovely . . . Art, you are just going to love it here. You won’t regret it. Everyone is so pleased that you decided to come over . . . and Wren you can get so much work done on your book . . . It’s a wonderful opportunity for both of you. A really wonderful opportunity . . .

Scene 2 WREN is home alone. She stares out into the courtyard. She paces. She slumps onto the couch and stares out into space. She stares at the biscuits. She eats a biscuit. ART enters in business attire. He looks tired and frazzled. WREN: Hey, sweetness. ART: Hey. WREN: How’d it go? ART: Well, Cat is driving me crazy. We’re working on this little tiny project, and it should

only take about three hours to do the whole thing. I mean, I could get this whole thing done in three hours, but she wants me to write a proposal before we even start. Well, the proposal is gonna take ﬁve or six hours to write, and then she’s gonna wanna

359

Dem o n Ba b y

debate the whole thing. It’s ridiculous. At home, I’d already have this thing done and ﬁnished. It’s such a waste of time. Pause. She wouldn’t stop talking. She just kept asking more and more questions. Pause. What? WREN: I didn’t say anything. ART: I heard you say something. WREN: I didn’t say anything. ART: Oh.

Pause. What did you do today? WREN: Nothing. ART: Now, now. WREN: No. Literally. Nothing. ART: You got out of bed. You got dressed.

WREN glares. WREN: I watched some television. They showed color home movies of Hitler on vacation. He

looked so ordinary in his suit and hat staring over the railing at the hills of Bavaria. He seemed almost like he could be anyone. ART: I thought you said that you don’t watch television during the day. WREN: I was feeling sick today. I wasn’t feeling well. ART: How’s the book coming? WREN: It’s hard to work at home.

360

E r i n Co u r t n e y

ART: Should we rent you an ofﬁce? WREN: God, no! That’s a waste of money. All I need is discipline. I’m meeting with Alan in a

month, so I’ll have to have something done by then. A deadline is good. Long pause. ART: Well, what else did you do today? Did you explore the city?

WREN shakes her head no. ART: Why not? WREN: I was going to take the tube . . . ART: But? WREN: I couldn’t walk down the tunnel. ART: What? WREN: I was frightened. ART: By the tunnel? WREN: It was too long . . . there wasn’t anyone around. ART: They have closed circuit TVs. They have people whose job it is to watch out for you. WREN: It doesn’t matter. ART: It’s just going to take some time. Hey, hang on . . .

ART begins looking around the living room. WREN: What are you doing? ART: I’m looking for that book. WREN: What book? ART: The one from the beery corpses.

361

Dem o n Ba b y

WREN: It’s in the loo . . .

ART exits and returns with the relocation manual. ART: Hang on. Hang on. Right. Right here. (Waving the relocation manual.) The relocation

manual! . . . (Reads.) You are in the anxiety stage. WREN: How come you aren’t in the anxiety stage? ART: I get anxious sometimes.

Long pause. ART reads the relocation manual. WREN: I did go to the corner store to buy toilet paper. ART: Well, see, that’s good. WREN: But when I tried to give him change, I just stared at the coins in my hand and I

couldn’t count the change right and he was laughing right at me. ART: No one is laughing at you. It’s just going to take some time. You are just experiencing

the anxiety stage. WREN: Art, I’m not used to feeling this way. ART: It’s a stage. It will pass. WREN: It doesn’t feel like that. ART: Come on, we’ll go eat out tonight. WREN: Oh, the foreman was down in the courtyard and he told me that they are going to get

the roof garden ﬁnished in time for the bank holiday. ART: So that’s great news. WREN: He said they just have to get the guardrails in place and put out the tables and chairs.

Pause. But then he said, “So, no diving off.” ART: He was making a joke.

362

E r i n Co u r t n e y

WREN: So I said, “Well, I’m certain I won’t be doing that.” And he said, “Good, good, no diving

off.” Pause. Why do you think he said that? Why did he say that? “No diving off?” ART: It’s a joke. WREN: It’s a ﬁshbowl. They love to watch us. ART: Nobody is watching us. WREN: The workers watch. ART: The same way that you or I do when we walk down the street peering into people’s

living room windows. Our eyes go toward things that are alive. Pause. Oh, I almost forgot. WREN: What? ART: I got you something. WREN: What? ART: Wait.

He goes off. He comes back with a piñata. ART: A piñata. WREN: Where did you ﬁnd a piñata here? ART: Well, I was surprised to see one, too. I know how much you like them, so I bought it for

you. WREN: Thank you.

He places the piñata in the middle of the room and they stare at it.

363

Dem o n Ba b y

ART: Oh, also, James and Cat have invited us over for dinner. Charles, too. Since they invited

us, then they have to invite Charles. And Sally. WREN: Well, you have to tell them I’m sick. ART: If I call and say you are sick, they’ll know we’re lying. I told them you were having a

hard time adjusting. Cat hated it here, too, in the beginning. When she ﬁrst got here. They want to help. Let them help. WREN: They just want to make sure that you’re not going to jump ship and go back home. ART: They wanna make sure you are okay. WREN: I don’t want to go. I don’t want to leave the house.

Scene 3 SALLY, CAT, and WREN are sitting in the living room at CAT and JAMES’s house. SALLY and CAT are skinny and chain-smoking. It’s 2 a.m. CAT: It gets so cold in winter here, and I swore that I wouldn’t buy a hat. I won’t buy a hat,

I said. I’ll buy a big scarf and gloves, but I won’t buy a hat. But ﬁnally it got so cold, that one Friday night I told James, I said, “James, I’m going.” “Where?” he said. “Out to buy a hat.” WREN: You lose a lot of heat through your head. CAT: So what have you been up to? WREN: Well, I work at home. I am working on a children’s book, but I’ve been having a dif-

ﬁcult time getting work done. I think, oh, I’ll just eat a cookie or have a gin or watch television for a few minutes. SALLY: I think there are deﬁnitely two types of people, the people who can work at home and

the people who can’t. CAT: Well, I have no problem working at home. Some days I prefer to work at home. James

used to make fun of me because he would wake up at 5:30 in the morning and shower and go to work, and I would get on the phone in my nightdress and start working, and when he got home at 7:30 at night, I would still be right there on the phone in my dressing gown. Working.

364

E r i n Co u r t n e y

WREN: I also ﬁnd it difﬁcult to exercise. CAT: Oh, I never exercise. SALLY: Me neither. There is so much here to take advantage of. You really must take advan-

tage of everything here. The museums. The theater. You could take classes. WREN: What kind? CAT: Art history. I’m taking art history. Or French? You could learn French or gardening.

Whatever you want. You’ve got to take advantage of this situation. WREN: I am. I am. CAT: Well, it’s a great city, and there is so much to do here.

CAT takes a drag off her cigarette, and the women stare off into space. ART and CHARLES enter holding the butts of cigars. ART: Wasn’t that a great dinner? CHARLES: Cat is great. She knows how to make loads of money. Did you know that? James is

a lucky man. CAT: Don’t embarrass me. CHARLES: She has great powers of concentration. ART: That dinner was just great. CHARLES: Yeah, Cat can pull money out of thin air and put it in her pockets. WREN: Like magic. CAT: You’re embarrassing me. ART: It’s a compliment. CHARLES: You’re a great cook, too, Cat. ART: It was a wonderful meal. WREN: Wonderful.

365

Dem o n Ba b y

CAT: Where’s James? CHARLES: He’s out there having a contemplative moment. CAT: Surveying his kingdom. ART: Something like that.

They all sit quietly. WREN: How did you meet James? CAT: Believe it or not, we meet at an Expatriate Management Limited cocktail party. You

know James is from Scotland . . . so there we were, and it was so ghastly there that James and I ended up sharing a bottle of gin . . . It turns out James hates gin . . . He was just drinking it to stay near me. CHARLES: James is a whiskey man . . . (In a Sean Connery voice.) She’s got a great ass. ART: (In a Sean Connery voice.) She’s got a great ass. CHARLES: Sean Connery is absolutely the best James Bond. SALLY: Absolutely. WREN: And how old are your girls? CAT: Sophie is four and Louise is two. CHARLES: They are adorable. Luckily, they take after Cat and not James. WREN: Kids are great. CAT: You should do lots of traveling before you have them. You should go skiing. We do still

go skiing, but it’s not as easy as it was. ART: Well, the girls do look adorable in that picture.

WREN stiﬂes a yawn. It is late and time for the guests to leave, but everyone is too polite to make the ﬁrst move.

366

E r i n Co u r t n e y

Scene 4 WREN is lying on her back on the ﬂoor of her living room. A garden gnome, the DEMON BABY, is sitting on her chest. WREN’s eyes open, frightened. The DEMON BABY stares into her face. WREN is paralyzed. She cannot move at all. She cannot speak. The DEMON BABY makes the sounds that WREN would make if she could. DEMON BABY: Oh huh. Huh! Uh!

Some time passes like this.

Scene 5 WREN and ART are standing alone in the living room. WREN: Thank God, you’re here. ART: What is it? WREN: I lost time. I lost three hours, Art. From two to ﬁve. I can’t remember anything. ART: I am sure we can account for them. WREN: No. No. I’ve tried. I can’t. ART: Tell me exactly what you remember. WREN: I was napping on the ﬂoor and when I woke up, I couldn’t move. I was paralyzed. I

was frozen. I could see and think, but I couldn’t get my muscles to move. I felt a pressure on my chest and it was a demon baby, a demon baby sitting on my chest, and it wouldn’t let me up for hours. I thought I was dying. ART: You were dreaming. WREN: I wasn’t. ART: Wait. Wait. I remember reading something about this, it’s . . . Oh! Wait! It’s called . . .

sleep . . . sleep . . . paralization . . . no . . . paralysis. WREN: What? ART: Sleep paralysis. That’s what it’s called. We read about it on the airplane over here. In

the airplane magazine. It’s a biochemical reaction.

367

Dem o n Ba b y

WREN: I think this was real. ART: People wake up frozen for a few minutes and they feel some kind of being pressing

down on them. Right. And it’s very interesting because in different places people see different things sitting on them. In Europe, people see witches. In Japan, it’s a monster’s foot. Now most Americans think they see aliens, so you don’t quite ﬁt in with that. What did you say you saw? WREN: A demon baby. ART: What did it look like? WREN: Don’t laugh. ART: I’m not going to laugh. WREN: It’s not going to sound scary when I tell you what it looked like. ART: I promise to leave open the option of feeling scared. WREN: It looked like a garden gnome. ART: What does a garden gnome look like? WREN: You know, those ceramic statues people put out on their lawns. ART: So why are you calling it a demon baby if it’s a garden gnome? WREN: Well, it had something a little bit different about it. Something stranger than a gnome. ART: Was it bloody and mucusy? WREN: No. ART: Anyway, it’s perfectly normal. I read about it in the airplane magazine. And the scien-

tists think it’s chemical and the spiritualists think it’s spiritual and the UFO abductees—well, they really believe that they have been abducted by aliens. It’s a very common phenomenon. WREN: Well, it was terrible. And it wasn’t a few minutes. It was hours. ART: You believe everything you read. Everything you read turns into fact inside your head. WREN: That’s not true.

368

E r i n Co u r t n e y

Wren (Heidi Schreck) wakes up to ﬁnd a garden gnome, a.k.a. the Demon Baby (Glenn Fleshler), sitting on her chest. January 2004. Photograph by Carl Skutsch.

369

Dem o n Ba b y

ART: You’re highly suggestible. You read it in the airplane magazine and now you’re living it. WREN: You think I am that malleable. ART: Sometimes. WREN: Well, why don’t you just reprogram me? ART: Wren. WREN: Do you want to reprogram me? ART: Wren. WREN: Stop saying my name! ART: Do you think you might be pregnant? WREN: What’s that got to do with it? ART: I thought maybe that’s why you dreamed up this demon baby. WREN: I’m not pregnant. ART: I’d be happy if you were. If we were.

WREN walks away from ART and sits at her desk. She stares out the window. ART stands for a while, sits, looks around the apartment. ART: I think that if you left the apartment, then you would feel better. Look, I’ll pack a picnic.

Long pause. WREN: The ground is wet! It hasn’t stopped raining for days. ART: We have a plastic mat. WREN: It’s too heavy. ART: I’ll carry all of it. WREN: People will recognize me. ART: As what?

370

E r i n Co u r t n e y

WREN: As someone who doesn’t live here. ART: Oh. I almost forgot!

ART disappears and returns holding a large object covered in white fabric. Voilà! Ta da! He pulls off the fabric. WREN: A cage! ART: With a bird in it. WREN: With a bird in it. ART: To keep you company. WREN: To keep me company. ART: A pet.

Pause. What do you think? ART puts the cage down and they peer inside. Eventually, chirping sounds come from inside the cage. WREN: What happens if we cover it back up?

ART covers cage. ART: It stops. WREN: Good. ART: Oh, you know that night at Cat and James’s house, and James was outside and we said

he was surveying his kingdom? WREN: Yeah. ART: He was actually pissing on his own yard. He was staring up at the stars watering the lawn.

They sit and stare at the covered birdcage.

371

Dem o n Ba b y

Scene 6 The DEMON BABY is sitting on WREN. They stare at each other for a long time. WREN: Ow. DEMON BABY: Oh. Sorry. WREN: Ow. DEMON BABY: You felt that? WREN: Yes. I feel that. DEMON BABY: You aren’t supposed to feel that. WREN: I feel. A claw. Digging into my breast.

Long pause. Could you? Could you? DEMON BABY: Move it. WREN: Move it.

There is no apparent movement. Better. DEMON BABY: You talk. You aren’t supposed to talk.

Scene 7 WREN and ALAN stand in the living room. There is a manuscript on the coffee table. WREN: Alan, thank you for coming over. ALAN: It’s my pleasure. WREN: Come in. ALAN: Thank you.

372

E r i n Co u r t n e y

WREN: Tea? ALAN: No, thank you. WREN: Gin and tonic? ALAN: Thank you. WREN: The manuscript is on the coffee table. Would you take a look?

ALAN sits on the couch and picks up the manuscript. He studies the images closely. ALAN: Wren, the illustrations are beautiful, and the text starts off wonderfully well. The child

is boarding the space ship and heading toward her new home, the moon. The father gives the sweet child a coloring book about the moon in order to prepare her for her new home environment. Preparation is very important, and we want to stress that. The child stares at the window at the passing stars. However, it is this next image which seems to comes entirely out of context here and . . . He looks ups. WREN is holding the gin and tonic, and she is totally nude. ALAN: Wren? WREN: Yes? ALAN: What’s going on? WREN: Well, I had an impulse to seduce you, and I wasn’t quite sure how to do it. ALAN: The windows are open. WREN: Yes. ALAN: I would rather sleep with your husband.

She sits naked on the couch with him. WREN: Really? ALAN: Yes. WREN: Are you attracted to him? ALAN: Yes. Slightly, in a normal sort of a way.

373

Dem o n Ba b y

WREN: Yes. ALAN: Nothing to write home about. WREN: And so you are not attracted to me? ALAN: You may deduce that. WREN: Are you in love with my husband? ALAN: No. No. Just mildly attracted. WREN: Oh, I see. Well. Let me put on a robe, and we’ll continue with the book. ALAN: I should go. WREN: I want to hear what you were saying about the book. ALAN: Perhaps, we could reschedule a meeting. WREN: No. No, tell me now. You are here now, so you should tell me now. ALAN: I don’t think I should stay. WREN: Nonsense! I’m putting on the robe. Continue. ALAN: Right! Well, once this demon baby enters the book. Well, you seem to be going on a tan-

gent. It’s turned into a horror book. We’ve commissioned you for a book for children. “How to adapt to your new country,” and we feel it should not have scary monsters in it. WREN: Yes. But I made the new country the moon. ALAN: Yes. Yes. We agreed to that idea, but this demon baby here. Well, I think this demon

baby might give children . . . might put ideas in their head that people might rather keep out of their heads. This book is supposed to help them in their transition. The folks at Expatriate Management Limited are a very literal bunch. I had to ﬁght to even get the moon idea approved. (Reading from his notes.) They wanted the child at their new home, the child at the new school, the child experiencing loneliness, the child eventually making friends, celebrating their differences, a party scene, inclusion. This demon baby is just too frightening. It’s not going to ease the child’s apprehensions. WREN: Children love fantasy and metaphor. They aren’t interested in the ordinary. You have

to give them information in a fantastic way.

374

E r i n Co u r t n e y

ALAN: Well, in this case perhaps it just isn’t appropriate. WREN: (Offended.) Interesting opinion. I will think about that certainly. I will certainly con-

sider that opinion. ALAN: May I venture another opinion? WREN: Yes. ALAN: On your seduction technique. WREN: Yes. ALAN: I think you should try to put a layer of suggestion between you and the nudity. WREN: Oh, but I hate projection. ALAN: Projection? WREN: Oh, rejection. ALAN: Yes, but perhaps it would be milder form of rejection if you had ﬂirted ﬁrst. WREN: You may have ﬂirted back. ALAN: (Blushing.) Well, yes, I may have. WREN: And then I might have gotten the wrong idea about you. ALAN: Yes. Yes. WREN: This way there was no mistaking anyone’s intentions. ALAN: Yes. WREN: And if you had been interested, it would have been a very efﬁcient form of commu-

nication. ALAN: Yes, you do have a point there. WREN: Will you try to sleep with my husband? ALAN: There are plenty of ﬁsh in the sea. WREN: That’s a no?

375

Dem o n Ba b y

ALAN: No. WREN: Is that a yes? ALAN: Let me be clear. I am not going to attempt to seduce your husband. WREN: But you could do? ALAN: Won’t. WREN: Won’t. All right, then. ALAN: Other than the demon baby, the manuscript looks very good. WREN: Thank you for coming over. ALAN: You should leave the ﬂat sometime. There’s so much to see. WREN: That’s a wonderful idea.

Scene 8 The DEMON BABY perches on WREN’s chest. WREN is lying on the ﬂoor. DEMON BABY: It’s a beautiful day out today. WREN: I wouldn’t know. DEMON BABY: It stopped raining. WREN: It seems to have. DEMON BABY: I can actually see the sun. WREN: It seems odd that somebody died last night. DEMON BABY: Yes. WREN: And the night before that. DEMON BABY: And the night before that. People just keep dying and dropping like ﬂies. They

cannot stop themselves, it seems.

376

E r i n Co u r t n e y

WREN: From dying or killing. DEMON BABY: Or being born. WREN: Yes, they do keep doing that, too. Keep being born. Boring bunch. Boring cycle. DEMON BABY: Are you bored? WREN: I’ve always thought of myself as a take-charge person. Like, I take charge of any situ-

ation and make it work out—make it fantastic—that’s the image that I have of myself . . . I’ve never had a problem with subways before. I’ve always felt at home in cities—on subways—and . . . It is sunny today . . . very sunny. Almost enough to make you wanna go outside. DEMON BABY: Bad things happen on nice days.

Pause. ART enters. ART: Hello, honey. WREN: Hello. ART: Watcha doing? WREN: Lying on the ﬂoor. ART: Why? WREN: No reason. ART: How did it go with Alan? WREN: He wants the demon baby out of it. ART: Well, the demon baby is a bit creepy, honey. WREN: We’ll see. I think it’s gonna work. I think it needs the demon baby. ART: You gonna sit up? WREN: I can’t.

ART sits next to her on the ﬂoor. ART: Maybe this move has been too much for you.

377

Dem o n Ba b y

WREN: I’m going to be ﬁne. I am starting to feel better. ART: That’s my girl. DEMON BABY: Your husband is drunk. WREN: Are you a little bit drunk? ART: I had a few pints with Charles. We started at lunch and then we had two pints and then

three, so we didn’t go back to work, actually. We just stayed at the pub and had a few more. A long Friday lunch. When in Rome . . . WREN: Right. ART: But on the way home. On the tube. Oh, Wren, you would have been truly disgusted. WREN: What? ART: All right. Well. This man in a business suit. WREN: Yeah. ART: Was rolling around on the tube platform. Flopping like a dead ﬁsh. WREN: A soon-to-be-dead ﬁsh. ART: You know what I mean. Just ﬂopping there. Commuters passing by. Vomit on his face

and business suit. DEMON BABY: Guess he took a long Friday lunch, too. ART: Guess so.

Scene 9 WREN is alone onstage. She has a pile of sheets and towels that are neatly folded. The television is on. She eats a biscuit.

378

E r i n Co u r t n e y

WREN: Too much temptation.

She covers the television with a towel. She covers the biscuits with a towel. She covers the couch with a sheet. She covers the birdcage and the chirping stops. She covers the piñata. She examines the room. She sits on the couch. She covers herself with a sheet. ART enters. ART: I had no idea that we had brought this many sheets with us. I didn’t even know that we

owned so many sheets. ART uncovers the birdcage. ART: Hey, Chirpie!

ART sits next to WREN on the couch. ART: Wren! Sweetness! Let’s go out tonight! Let’s eat sushi! I’ll get the scissors. I’ll poke two

eyes holes for you. No one knows us here. Who will care? Hang on a moment, dear. Just a moment. Okay? Now let me feel for your eyes. Don’t be scared. Got ’em. Okay. Okay. I’m going to cut so don’t move and don’t be scared. He carefully cuts one eyehole out of the white sheet. How do they get it so smooth? Probably cut it when it is ﬂat. Off the body, not on the body. Okay! Cutting! Okay! There’s my love! Right! So, what kind of shoes do you want to wear? Oh, hold on! He looks under the sheet. Okay! Yes! Well, that will do. That will do. He goes and gets her shoes.

379

Dem o n Ba b y

He slips them on. Prince Charming, hey? Fit perfectly. All right, off we go then. He holds her hand and she rises from the couch. She walks to the living room center. She drops hands and stops walking. He circles her. Wren, Sweetness. Sweet Wren! They’ve promoted me. I’m in charge of fourteen departments now. Fourteen, Wren. I thought, Sushi to celebrate. I’ll bring it home. Sake home too! Don’t go anywhere. He leaves. He returns. He lifts the sheet off of WREN. Wren, why are you under the sheet? WREN: It makes me feel more comfortable. ART: I thought you would be happy here. You love cities and museums and bookstores and

theater, and there is so much history here and beautiful hills up in the north—for walking—I thought you would get so much work on your book done. WREN: It’s not even a real book. It’s a pamphlet! It’s not going to be published—it’s just going

to be printed and handed out with all the other useless information they give the expats. It’s nothing. WREN relaxes. That’s great that you are promoted. I’m really happy for you. She leans over and kisses him.

380

E r i n Co u r t n e y

Scene 10 The DEMON BABY lounges on the couch smoking a cigarette. DEMON BABY: First of all, it’s all in the timing. It must be just the right time, and this is a skill

that I have developed over the years. It becomes like second nature, but it takes years to master. There is only the slightest moment between waking and sleeping. If you miss the window, you miss the moment, and you don’t get another chance at one until they fall off to sleep again. Second of all, in order to do one’s job well, one must take proper breaks and rests. A siesta. An August holiday. WREN enters from the bedroom. She looks at DEMON BABY and then crosses toward the kitchen. WREN exits. This is something that you Americans do not understand. You like to think about work endlessly. Even when you are not working, you like to have panics about it. You like to second-guess yourself, as if this will make you more effective. WREN reenters. WREN: But you have an American accent. DEMON BABY: Oh, we all do. We all have American accents. WREN: Huh.

Scene 11 The sheets still cover everything except for WREN. ART has a slight British accent and he is very anxious now. WREN seems more relaxed. ART: They’re coming, Wren! Wren! They’re coming! WREN: Yes! ART: Our guests! You still have all these sheets out. There’s no food out! Is it in the fridge? WREN: We’re having drinks and biscuits. ART: What? WREN: Just drinks and biscuits.

381

Dem o n Ba b y

ART: Great. WREN: It’s going to be fun, Art. It really is going to be fun. I am deﬁnitely feeling better. Let’s

have some fun tonight. ART: We can’t just serve gin and biscuits. When we went to their house, they served us a

three-course meal. There were courses and different drinks for each course. And an aperitif. You can’t have people over and offer them nothing. The doorbell rings. WREN: We’ll just say—it’s an American custom. ART: Wren! WREN: An American custom! ART: Oh God. (At door.) Hello! Hello! Hello!

SALLY and CAT enter. They are already mildly drunk. SALLY: The men are parking the car. ART: Come in! Come in! What would you like to drink? WREN: Ladies! CAT: Gin and tonic. SALLY: Oh, a white wine would be lovely. WREN: All we have is gin and tonic. SALLY: Well, a gin and tonic would be lovely, then. WREN: It’s an American custom. ART: An American custom. WREN: To cover over household objects. CAT: Really? SALLY: I’m not familiar with that custom.

382

E r i n Co u r t n e y

ART: In some regions. WREN: Really, all the regions. In every region there is some variation of this custom. SALLY: I see. CAT: Yes. ART: Biscuit? WREN: So the spirit of the object does not get out. It fetters the spirit of the object.

Doorbell rings. ART: Hello. Hello. Hello. It’s Alan here. It’s Alan. Wren’s editor. WREN: Alan. Gin and tonic? ART: Sally. Cat. This is Alan. CAT: Why yes, we’ve met. SALLY: Nice to meet you, Alan. Is it a novel? ALAN: Children’s book. WREN: It’s really just a pamphlet. CAT: Delighted to see you again. WREN: For Expatriate Management Limited. ALAN: Delighted. CAT: That’s a great service. Really. So helpful. ART: (Nervous.) Let’s sit. Shall we? Shall we all sit? WREN: Yes. Yes. It’s all right to sit on the shrouds.

They sit for a long a time. Nobody talks to each other. WREN gets up to prepare another plate of biscuits.

383

Dem o n Ba b y

Alan follows her. ALAN: I’ve changed my mind. WREN: You like the addition of the demon baby. ALAN: About you. About that image of you. Your suggestion . . . WREN: Really? How can that be, Alan? ALAN: Well, I’m both, you see. It comes and goes at intervals. I feel very strongly one way

and I think I won’t be going back to the other way, and then I ﬁnd myself returning despite what I had thought previously. WREN: I ﬁnd that very hard to believe. ALAN: I can’t get that image out of my mind. WREN: You see, very efﬁcient. Now, what about the demon baby? ALAN: What about it? WREN: I want to keep it in my book. ALAN: That is not my decision. That came from marketing.

WREN walks away from him. WREN: Biscuits! Biscuits! Biscuits! Let’s all go to the roof, shall we? SALLY: The men are still parking the car. CAT: Parking is terrible. WREN: We’ll leave a note on the door. Come on!

They all go to the roof. SALLY: Nice landscaping. CAT: Good view. ART: Is everybody warm enough? I brought the gin up. ALAN: I’ll have a little, thank you.

384

E r i n Co u r t n e y

WREN: It’s a full moon. It’s perfect, Art. Isn’t it perfect? ART: Yes, I guess it is. WREN: Oh, I just feel so much better! Let’s all lie down and look at the moon. ART: I don’t think people will want to lie down. SALLY: I will. ALAN: Me, too. CAT: I’ll keep an eye on things from up here. WREN: I think we should play party games. Spin the Bottle. Two Minutes in the Closet. Who

Can Get Closest to the Edge. CAT: (Sarcastic.) Great choices.

DEMON BABY appears smoking a cigarette. WREN is the only one able to see him. DEMON BABY: What a bunch of cold ﬁsh. WREN: I know. DEMON BABY: The world could lose a few of these. WREN: We could play a game called . . . DEMON BABY: Good People Versus Bad People. WREN: . . . “Good People Versus Bad People.” SALLY: That sounds good. What are the rules? DEMON BABY: Yes! What are the rules? ART: Let’s go back downstairs? What do you say? CAT: Yes, let’s. WREN: The challenge of the game is answering the question, How can we tell the good people

from the bad people? ALAN: I think we can tell by people’s actions.

385

Dem o n Ba b y

WREN: Yes, but we can’t always see what people are doing. ALAN: Well, then we can tell by what we see people doing. WREN: Yes, but that doesn’t take away from what they are doing when nobody’s looking. DEMON BABY: So, how do we play the game? CAT: So, how do we play the game? SALLY: I’m not sure there is a game. I think it’s a philosophical discussion. CAT: I think you can often tell the good from the bad by what they wear. ALAN: Oh, I don’t think that’s true. CAT: In my experience, it’s been empirically proven. ALAN: If it were empirically proven, it would have to be through your own experience. You

repeat yourself. CAT: I was just trying to be clear. DEMON BABY: What is wrong with these people? Can’t they do something interesting? ALAN: Interesting. ART: She has a point. Like in the States, some people wear gang clothes, and these clothes

identify them as members of a gang. SALLY: And some people just have a strange look about them. They look odd and then you

cross the street. ART: Yes, even in the U.S., almost everyone is wearing clothes that look like gang clothes. SALLY: Like what kind of clothes? ART: Oh, I don’t know—khakis. DEMON BABY: Khakis! CAT: Oh, that’s no help. Everybody wears khakis. ART: Exactly.

386

E r i n Co u r t n e y

DEMON BABY: Khakis. ART: Now, we have a criminal justice system that has a series of procedures to deﬁne the good

actions from the bad. SALLY: There’s the United Nations.

Pause. ALAN: If someone has bad thoughts, does that qualify them as a bad person? CAT: I say, bad actions, witnessed or not, makes a bad person. WREN: And who decides what makes a bad action? ART: Something that is harmful to others? WREN: Also, seemingly harmless actions can have exceedingly harmful effects. SALLY: Sometimes I want to steal things.

Long pause. Someone’s coat off the back of a chair in a restaurant. A greeting card. Candy. Useless things. Walk out without paying for dinner. I did that once. It feels perfectly natural, like yawning, but I have to remind myself that I might get caught. ALAN: You don’t think about the fact that it might be wrong? SALLY: No. I just think—I don’t want to get caught doing this, so I don’t do it.

Pause. I’m a little chilly. I think I’ll go down and look for the men. ART: This bottle’s done, but there’s another in the ﬂat. Shall we? CAT: Well, I could use a refresher. WREN: I’ll come in a minute.

They all go downstairs except for WREN and ALAN. ALAN: You look beautiful in this moonlight.

387

Dem o n Ba b y

WREN: Do you consider yourself good or bad? ALAN: Mostly good. What do you consider yourself? WREN: Depending on the day, most days I would have to answer . . . DEMON BABY: Bad. WREN: Bad. ALAN: You have a warped self-perception. DEMON BABY: Good. WREN: That does add another layer to the discussion.

ALAN leans over and kisses WREN. WREN: You change your mind often. ALAN: All the time. WREN: I wouldn’t have thought that of you.

WREN kisses ALAN. An experiment—and then on to the next thing. I dreamt last night that the end of the world was coming and everyone was very frightened because they were all looking to see what form the end of the world would take. We formed block patrols and watch parties, but nobody saw anything for a long time. Well, there was one ﬁring squad that executed people at point-blank range, but that was an isolated incident. DEMON BABY: Anyway . . . WREN: Anyway! It turns out the end of the world was coming in the form of a hard-to-see

cult. ALAN: (Trying to caress her.) A cult? WREN: (Ignoring the caress.) This small group of people is brainwashing people, and they

brainwash you by putting eyedrops in your eyes. The complete brainwashing process takes six days, and on the sixth night if you ﬁnd yourself in the company of six brainwashed people . . . well, it gets kind of confusing here, so stick with me . . . when a seventh brainwashed enters the room, this seventh person is programmed to kill all

388

E r i n Co u r t n e y

of the other six. The seventh brainwashed gets to live another six days until it’s time to kill more of the converted. ALAN: Hmmm. WREN: The only way to stay alive is to keep killing the converted. In this way, the cult ﬁg-

ured they could kill as much of the population as possible. Very efﬁcient. Very organic. ALAN: I think we are all brainwashed to a certain degree. We’re brainwashed to go to our jobs.

To be kind to our neighbors. To buy cars. To wear clothes. WREN: But in the end, it was a happy dream because I realized that I was part of the resist-

ance movement. I had the power to not be brainwashed. There were others, too, who had the power to not be brainwashed. These are the options: 1. Allow yourself to be brainwashed, join the cult, and die. 2. Allow yourself to be brainwashed, and stay alive by killing other people. 3. Fight the brainwashing, ﬁght the cult, and die trying. Which would you choose? ALAN: Which? WREN: Would you choose? ALAN: Number three. WREN: No. You’d choose number one. It’s not a coward’s way. It’s very practical, actually. ALAN: I disagree. WREN: You dream about it tonight and see which one you pick. ALAN: You think very little of me. DEMON BABY: Yes. I rarely do think of you. WREN: Yes. I rarely do think of you. ALAN: We are going to discontinue the children’s pamphlet.

389

Dem o n Ba b y

WREN: What? ALAN: Budget cuts and we can’t spend any more money—so we won’t be using your piece—

so I hope this won’t affect our friendship—our relationship—or any future collaborations. SALLY, CAT, and ART return with fresh drinks. Everyone stands awkwardly around, not talking. Suddenly, CHARLES appears. He is drunk. CHARLES: Sorry I’m late. SALLY: Charles! CAT: Where’s James? CHARLES: He’s had an accident. CAT: What? CHARLES: Parking. SALLY: Is he all right? CHARLES: Wounded pride. CAT: Well, where is he? CHARLES: He drove himself to hospital. CAT: Which hospital? SALLY: Why didn’t he come get us? CHARLES: Oh, it’s nothing. He didn’t want you to worry. He told me to go back inside and

enjoy myself. CAT: I’ll go meet him at the hospital. May I use your phone, Wren? CHARLES: He didn’t want you to miss the party. It’s just a few cuts on his hand and a few

stitches, and he’ll be good as new.

390

E r i n Co u r t n e y

SALLY: How do you cut your hand parking? CHARLES: He said we should we take cabs home. And he’d see you at home and not to worry. CAT: Which hospital? CHARLES: It’s just a small thing. ART: It’s all sorted, then. SALLY: Perhaps we ought to call it a night. WREN: Don’t be silly. James drove himself out into the night to the hospital because he wants

you to stay and have a good time. So, let’s all have a good time. CHARLES: Yes, James wants you all to stay. WREN: You see. It’s sorted. SALLY: It seems so strange. WREN: But it’s what he wants. SALLY: Yes. WREN: Yes. ALAN: Yes, well. ART: Aaah. CAT: Yes, I guess. CHARLES: Yes!

CHARLES pulls out a piñata. I found this downstairs. Should we play? WREN: Wonderful. Art, go get us a stick and a hankie for a blindfold. ART: Do we really want to play hit the piñata? SALLY: Why the hell not?

391

Dem o n Ba b y

ALAN: Yes. A party game. Better than Spot the Evil One. DEMON BABY: I heard that. WREN: What are you waiting for, Art? ART: I’m going. Going. Gone.

ART leaves. WREN: Good. CHARLES: Now, where to string it up? You do string it up, don’t you? SALLY: Don’t play dumb. Of course you string it up. ALAN: Not too close to the edge. CHARLES: This is a perfect tree for it. SALLY: I hope it’ll hold it. WREN: Let’s try it. CHARLES: Perfect. Let’s string it up!

CHARLES and SALLY string up the piñata. CAT: May I use your phone, Wren? I’m going to try and reach him on his cell. WREN: Of course, dear. Of course.

CAT leaves. WREN grabs ALAN. WREN: Here’s what I think. I believe that Charles has murdered James. ALAN: Don’t be silly. WREN: Who cuts their hand parking? ALAN: There will be a reasonable explanation. WREN: No, there will not be a reasonable explanation. ALAN: I think you are reading into this situation.

392

E r i n Co u r t n e y

WREN: His eyes look hard. They look like a light went out. ALAN: Great powers of exaggeration. WREN: We’ll see. ALAN: If you think he did this, why are you so cheery? WREN: I just wanna see what happens next. ALAN: Great.

ART returns with a broom and the white sheet. ART: I thought we could use the broom for a stick and I couldn’t ﬁnd a blindfold, so I

thought people could just cover themselves with the sheet. WREN gives ART a big kiss. WREN: Thank you, Art! That’s fantastic. All right now, here are the rules when playing piñata.

You put on the sheet and you swing until you smash the piñata. When you smash the piñata, candy comes ﬂyin’ out everywhere, and everybody gets to scramble around picking up the candy. SALLY: Oh, good. I love candy. WREN: People take turns. ART: The problem is the winner never gets that much candy because they are blindfolded. ALAN: Doesn’t seem fair, then. CHARLES: Who goes ﬁrst? WREN: I’ll go ﬁrst. So people can get an idea of how it is done.

WREN covers herself with the sheet. CAT returns to the rooftop. CAT: I was just in your bathroom. You have all those little candles lit, so I was just enjoying

the soft glow of the room. I was orienting myself to the tenderness when I looked over the toilet, preparing myself to use it. Feeling very warm and nice, I looked down and on the back of the toilet I saw this beautiful pink surface. A gorgeous, inviting pink surface, and I thought, “Oh! What’s that?” So, I looked closer as I was unbutton-

393

Dem o n Ba b y

ing my pants and I, upon closer inspection, . . . I realized it was . . . tender . . . pink . . . vomit . . . . It still looked nice somehow. Someone neatly placed the toilet seat on top of their pink vomit. WREN takes the sheet off herself. ART: Oh. Cat. CAT: I’m leaving anyway. WREN: Don’t go, Cat. CAT: I’m leaving the country. CHARLES: What? SALLY: Cat? CAT: My marriage is over. I don’t love James anymore. I’m bored and I can’t stand this place.

It’s horrible. I miss my family. I miss my home. I’m going back. SALLY: What happened, Cat? I didn’t know. CAT: I reached James on the cell phone. He’s not at the hospital. He didn’t have a parking ac-

cident. He’s home. He couldn’t stand to be near me anymore. SALLY: What? He adores you. CAT: I told him just today I was leaving the country. I told him I was leaving him. I’m taking

the children. I don’t want them growing up here. Pause. Charles, James didn’t like your alibi. I told him no one believed you. WREN: But, weren’t you the one convincing me to stay here? That it wasn’t so bad? CAT: Things aren’t always what they seem. WREN: Apparently not. CAT: And things change. WREN: Things do change.

394

E r i n Co u r t n e y

ALAN: Yes, they do. WREN: Stay for the piñata, Cat. I am sorry about James, but why not stay and hit something

with a stick? CAT: I shouldn’t. WREN: You should. CHARLES: It might make you feel better. SALLY: Yes. Hit something with a stick. ART: Wren’s right. It might make you feel better.

CAT takes the sheet and covers herself. She grips the bat ﬁrmly. WREN: Wait.

WREN spins CAT to disorient her. Okay. CAT chokes up on the bat again and then begins swinging wildly. She is nowhere near the piñata. Her swings are forceful and uncontrolled. As she swings, she moves toward the edge of the roof. She falls off the roof. CHARLES: Oh! ART: Oh! ALAN: Oh! SALLY: Oh! WREN: I think I see her moving.

395

Dem o n Ba b y

Scene 12 The DEMON BABY is sitting on ART’s chest. ART is asleep on the ﬂoor. He opens his eyes wide and then he cannot move. DEMON BABY makes the noises that ART would make if he could speak. DEMON BABY: Huh. Huh. UH UH. Huh huh.

Scene 13 The DEMON BABY is still on ART’s chest. This DEMON BABY is very similar to WREN’s DEMON BABY, except this one looks like melted plastic in places and has a slight British accent. ART: I hate my job. I hate the people that I work with. I have fantasies about hurting them.

Scraping their soft, ﬂeshy cheeks across gravel. Dropping them down the elevator. They pay me too much money to leave. They give me everything I ask for. I have no idea what I am doing. I used to do things that I enjoyed. Things that made sense to me. DEMON BABY: When was that? ART: I don’t know. I don’t remember. I have pictures. I have a picture of us on a Ferris wheel.

We are so much younger and happy. We are smiling. DEMON BABY: You’re drunk in that picture. ART: We aren’t drunk. Tipsy. You look a little melted. DEMON BABY: You could be happy again. It’s a stage. It’s hard to adjust, to accept, but once

you do, it’s a wonderful place to be. ART: Yes. Yes. I know. DEMON BABY: It’s perfectly natural to go through a difﬁcult time at ﬁrst. To rebel. But eventu-

ally, you begin to ﬁt in. ART: I don’t like to get out of bed. DEMON BABY: Yes. ART: People are bumping into me, talking too loudly . . .

396

E r i n Co u r t n e y

DEMON BABY: Yes! Yes! It’s all perfectly normal! Biscuit? ART: No. Well. Yes. Yes. Thank you. DEMON BABY: You’ll be all right. ART: I . . . DEMON BABY: Yes. ART: I don’t like to go outside. DEMON BABY: As I said, it’s all part of the process. It’s horrible, but it ends. ART: I want to go home.

WREN enters from outside. She takes her coat off and puts her bag down. She does not see the DEMON BABY. WREN: Whatcha doin’ down there? ART: Just resting. WREN: You wanna sit up? ART: How’s Cat doing? WREN: I didn’t go. I just rode the tube to the end, and then I rode it back. I saw the cutest

baby on the tube. Big round face. Big cheeks. Big eyes. An absolutely gorgeous baby. And he just watched everything. And he watched everything with so much interest, I just thought, this baby must be a hundred years old. I mean this baby really seemed to know some things. And he looked at me, he looked right at me, and I thought, that baby knows exactly what I am thinking and exactly how I am feeling. And I felt all warm and absolutely perfect. It’s so great when that happens. When you just feel exactly right some times. Oh! Everything about this little baby was fascinating and perfect. And then moments like that, you just feel great being alive. It’s just great to be alive. ART continues to lie very still. The DEMON BABY continues to perch on his chest. The baby’s head wobbled just ever so slightly with the movement of the train and such delicate hand movements.

397

Dem o n Ba b y

WREN imitates the hand movements of the baby. Something like that. ART: Wren. WREN: Hmmm? ART: Let’s go home. Wren? WREN: Yes? ART: What are you thinking about? WREN: Nothing. ART: Do you want to have a baby? WREN: Oh, no. That wasn’t what I was thinking about. ART: Oh. Did you hear what I said before? WREN: Which thing? ART: Did I say it out loud or just think it? DEMON BABY: You said it out loud. WREN: What was it? ART: No. No. It’s nothing.

WREN imitates the delicate hand movements of the baby. WREN: It went something just like that.

The end.

398

E r i n Co u r t n e y

CONTRIBUTORS

BARBARA CASSIDY received a Master’s in Fine Arts in playwriting from Brooklyn College. In-

terim was nominated by Playwrights’ Horizons for the Barrie Stavis Award in 2003. ERIN COURTNEY is a playwright and visual artist in Brooklyn. Her plays include Demon Baby, Quiver and Twitch, Alice the Magnet, and Mother’s Couch. She is a member of 13P and teaches playwriting at Brooklyn College. WILL ENO is a fellow of the Edward F. Albee Foundation. His plays have been produced in

London, Brazil, and New York. Most recently, THOM PAIN (based on nothing), a nominated ﬁnalist for the 2005 Pulitzer Prize in drama, opened at the DR2 Theatre in New York. ELANA GREENFIELD is the recipient of a 2004 Whiting Award for writing. She is the author of At the Damascus Gate: Short Hallucination. JEFFREY M. JONES is a playwright, and co-curator of Little Theater @ Tonic in New York. MADELYN KENT’s plays Black Milk, Crawl, Peninsula, and Nomads have been presented at New York Theatre Workshop, the Public Theater, and Soho Rep, where she is a founding member of the Writer/Director Lab. In 2001 she formed Shufu Theatre, which creates and performs work developed through improvisations with Japanese women. YOUNG JEAN LEE has directed her plays at HERE, P.S. 122, Soho Rep, and the Ontological-

Hysteric Theater. She is a member of 13P and the recipient of an individual artist award in theater from the Foundation for Contemporary Arts. Three of her plays will be published by Samuel French in 2006. KEVIN OAKES has written the plays The Vomit Talk of Ghosts, The High Priest of Bad Math, and

All Spoken by a Shining Creature: a hypertext punk tragedy. His work has been produced or developed by The Perishable Theatre, the Flea Theater, the Ontological-Hysteric Theatre, Soho Rep, and The Cutting Ball. ALICE TUAN is the author of Last of the Suns (Ma-Yi, Berkeley Rep), Ikebana (East West/Taper), Some Asians (Perishable, UMASS Amherst), a new adptation of The Roaring Girle (Foundry), and Iggy Woo (Brown Trinity Playwright Rep). Her Virtual Hypertext Theater play Coastline was developed during her MFA studies at Brown University and played at Edinburgh Fringe ’05. She teaches at Cal Arts. ANNE WASHBURN’s plays include Apparition, The Ladies, The Internationalist, and The Commu-

nist Dracula Project. Her work has been produced or developed by the Actor’s Theatre of Louisville, Annex, Cherry Lane Theatre, Dixon Place, New York Theatre Workshop, the Public Theater, and Soho Rep. She is a member of The Civilians, 13P, and New Dramatists, and she developed the Pataphysics playwriting workshops at the Flea Theater in New York City. MAC WELLMAN is the author of numerous plays and the recipient of three Obie awards, most

recently in 2003 for lifetime achievement. He is professor of playwriting at Brooklyn College.

399

Co nt r i b u t or s

New Downtown Now: An Anthology Of New Theater From Downtown New York

Downtown

Downtown

DownTown

Downtown

Downtown

Downtown

Downtown

Downtown

Downtown

Downtown

New York New York

New York New York

New York, New York!

Downtown Blues

Live From New York

Live From New York

Downtown Owl

Downtown Owl

Downtown Owl

Deep Downtown

Downtown Owl

New York

New York

New York

New York

New York

New York

New York

New York

New York

New Downtown Now: An Anthology Of New Theater From Downtown New York

Downtown

Downtown

DownTown

Downtown

Downtown

Downtown

Downtown

Downtown

Downtown

Downtown

New York New York

New York New York

New York, New York!

Downtown Blues

Live From New York

Live From New York

Downtown Owl

Downtown Owl

Downtown Owl

Deep Downtown

Downtown Owl

New York

New York

New York

New York

New York

New York

New York

New York

New York

Recommend Documents