[A simple basement, bare of furniture except for a small desk with a chair and a computer. A woman, Mary, stands with her ear to the door, listening. Another woman, Jane, paces. A man, Greg, sits on the floor with his head in his hands. The three are being held captive.]
Jane:
[pacing] Think! Think! There has to be a way out of here.
Greg:
[moans] There isn’t.
Jane:
There has to be a way. We can’t give up. We have to keep trying.
Greg:
It’s been two years. There’s no way out.
Jane:
Don’t talk like that!
Mary:
Shh!
Jane:
[quieter] Don’t talk like that. We’ll get out of here. We will, I promise. It can’t go on forever. I’ll think of something.
Greg:
There’s nothing you can do. Why won’t you admit that?
Jane:
Because if I stop trying, I’ll go crazy.
Greg:
It’s never going to end.
Jane:
C’mon, Greg, we made it this far. There were – what? – twenty of us at the beginning. The three of us have made it this far. We can make it to the end.
Mary:
Shh! I think I hear something.
Jane:
He can’t drag this out forever. It has to end sometime.
Greg:
I wish I had never made it this far.
Mary:
He’s coming!
[In a panic, they cower as a group in the corner furthest away from the desk. Cheerful whistling is heard off-stage. The Writer enters. He sits down at the desk and turns on the computer. He cracks his knuckles and limbers up his fingers.]
Greg:
Oh, God, I can’t take this anymore.
[The Writer begins to type on the keyboard.]
Writer:
[As he types] Act three, scene five.
Mary:
Who still writes three act plays, anyways?
Jane:
Shh. Let him work.
Writer:
Scene five… scene five…
Jane:
[Takes a few hesitant steps toward the desk] That’s it, you can do it.
Writer:
[Typing] Setting: The train station.
Jane:
That’s it…
Writer:
It’s morning. No, it’s evening. The moon is out. Standing on the platform is Jane, a well-dressed woman in her thirties.
Mary:
It’s the third act. They already know what she looks like.
Writer:
She’s waiting anxiously, peering down the tracks every few seconds, looking for… Looking for…
[Jane looks to the others for guidance. Mary and Greg shrug.]
Jane:
The train?
Writer:
Looking for the train. Mary enters and says –
[Mary and Jane transform into characters in the story.]
Mary:
I’ve spent enough time at this station to know that when a woman is that anxious for a train, she’s either running from love or running to it.
Jane:
Is it that obvious?
Mary:
‘Fraid so. So which direction are you running?
Jane:
Away.
Mary:
That seems to be the most common. Want to talk about it?
Jane:
I don’t know. I –
Mary:
Sometimes it helps to talk.
Jane:
There’s really not much to tell. Girl meets boy, falls madly in love. Boy’s wealthy parents disapprove, and here I am.
Mary:
How did you two meet?
Jane:
[To the Writer] They know how we met. The entire first act was how we met. C’mon, stay focused.
[The Writer hits the backspace key several times.]
Mary:
You know sometimes you have to run away from something in order to run to that something.
Jane:
What does that even mean? That’s gibberish.
Greg:
You’re going to ruin it…
Mary:
Don’t criticize him. Just let him keep writing!
Jane:
We can’t let him write that. It’s drivel.
Mary:
This could wind up being the end of the play. Let him finish.
Jane:
The play is not going to end with me getting on the train alone.
Mary:
Why not?
Jane:
Plays generally don’t end that way.
Mary:
That’s how Casablanca ended.
Jane:
That was an airport, not a train station.
Mary:
Still.
Greg:
We’re never going to get out of here.
Writer:
Mary – “Sometimes you have to run away from something in order to run to that something.” And then Jane says…
[Jane opens her mouth to speak. No words come out. She opens her mouth again. Still nothing. She looks over at the Writer encouragingly, gesturing for him to continue.]
Writer:
Jane says…
[The Writer’s cell phone rings.]
Jane, Mary and Greg:
[together] Don’t answer that!
Writer:
[answers the phone] Hello?
[Jane, Mary and Greg groan.]
Writer:
Why are you calling me? I told you not to call me when I’m writing… How do you know I’m writing? You’re kidding, right? Whenever I write, I set my Facebook picture to “Snoopy at his Typewriter”. Whenever you see that on my profile, you know you shouldn’t call me.
No, it’s too late. I’ve already lost my train of thought. What did you want?… I think so… Let me go upstairs and check.
[Writer exits with phone.]
Jane:
We were so close!
Greg:
No, we weren’t.
Jane:
He was on a roll.
Mary:
You know the pattern. He comes in here every night for a week, and then he leaves us alone for months. These spurts of energy never last.
Greg:
He’s not going to come back.
Jane:
He’s got to.
Greg:
You know how distracted he gets.
Jane:
He’s got to come back. He’s almost finished the play.
Mary:
What do you think that will be like?
Jane:
What?
Mary:
You know. The End. What do you think it will be like?
Jane:
I’ve never really thought about it.
Greg:
What will happen to us?
Jane:
It’ll be over. We’ll have this sense of completeness. A feeling that we’ve finished everything that we were meant to do. We won’t have to worry about staying in character or plot twists or cliff hangers. It’ll be just like intermission…Only longer.
Greg:
That sounds wonderful.
Mary:
What about when someone reads it?
Greg:
What do you mean?
Mary:
The play. What happens when someone reads the play? Are we going to have to re-live scene after scene all over again?
Greg:
[horrified] No…
Mary:
And what about when someone performs it? What happens when they go to perform it?
Jane:
You’ve seen the script. No one is going to perform this. You’re getting him upset over nothing.
Mary:
I’m not even supposed to be here, you know.
Jane:
We know… you’ve told us before.
Mary:
He stole me from a novel. I was only in four chapters, but I was well-written and had my own sub-plot. Then he just stole me and dropped me into his play. Now I’m stuck here.
Writer:
[from offstage] Well I’m glad I checked. I’d hate to have found out she didn’t have her shots.
Jane:
He’s coming back. There can’t be more than a scene or two left. Let’s just get through this.
[Writer enters, still on the phone.]
Writer:
All right, I better get back to work. On my play! Geez, don’t you read any of my Facebook posts?… What’s it about? It’s about life. It’s about love found, then lost, then found again. It’s about how the dreams of youth turn into the regrets of… Ha, ha, very funny. Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you later.
[Writer hangs up.]
Writer:
[to himself] It’s about life… It has to mean something, doesn’t it?… Is the act of creation meaningful in and of itself or does the object that is created have to have its own inherent worth? Hmm…
[The Writer stares at the screen, thinking.]
Greg:
What’s he doing?
Jane:
Shh! He’s thinking. He’s thinking of the perfect line to write next. And that perfect line is going to be followed by another and another and another.
Mary:
[almost sexually] Oh, Jane…
Jane:
And those lines are going to lead him inexorably to the perfect ending.
Mary:
Do you really think so?
Jane:
I know it. I can see it on his face. The ideas are building up inside him, and when the dam bursts, he’s going to start typing in a flurry of energy the likes of which we have never seen. Look at him. He’s close. You can see it. Here it comes…
Writer:
[typing] “Pustule”… Triple word score, got rid of both my U’s. That’s 27 points.
Jane:
Stop playing Scrabble! Why do you even have that thing installed?
Writer:
Okay, where was I?
Jane:
We’re screwed.
Writer:
Greg enters, his hair swept back, shirt half open, muscles rippling, pearly white teeth gleaming in the sunlight – er, moonlight. He vaults across the platform.
[Greg transforms, no longer cowering, his actions reflecting the Writer’s words.]
Writer:
No, no, he strides across the platform like a puma.
[Greg goes back to where he was and re-crosses the stage, trying to mirror the Writer’s words.]
Writer:
No, that’s not right…
Jane and Mary [together]:
Just get on with it!
Writer:
I’ll fix it later… Greg enters [Greg re-enters] stage left.
[On the wrong side of the stage, Greg sighs, drops his head, and crosses the stage to the other side of the stage to re-enter. The Writers line can be changed to stage right depending on the blocking.]
Writer:
Greg takes Jane’s hand and says –
Greg:
[his voice now deep like Bogart and sexy] Jane, don’t get on that train.
Jane:
Greg!
[Greg twirls Jane in an overdramatic dance-like fashion, ending with her in his arms.]
Greg:
Don’t get on that train.
Jane:
But last night you said –
[During Greg’s next speech, melodramatic music such as the theme from the final scene in Casablanca begins to play.]
Greg:
Last night we both said a great many things. But that doesn’t matter now. The only thing that matters is that I was a fool. I was a fool for listening to my parents. I was a fool for putting my money first. And most of all I was a fool for letting you get this far. Don’t get on that train, Jane.
Jane:
But your parents. Your inheritance.
Greg:
You’re worth twelve inheritances. Maybe even thirteen.
Mary:
Guys, I think this is it!
Jane:
Oh, Greg, how do I know I can believe you?
Greg:
Inside both of us we know it’s true.
Jane:
But-
Greg:
If you get on this train, you’ll regret it. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, maybe not even the day after tomorrow. But most likely, before the end of next Tuesday, you’ll regret it. And then you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.
Jane:
I’ll never leave you.
[Jane and Greg kiss passionately as the music builds to a crescendo.]
Writer:
Mary re-enters.
Jane:
[whispering to Mary while she is kissing Greg] What are you doing?
[Mary shrugs helplessly.]
Writer:
And Mary says…
Mary:
[woodenly] Stop, Greg. It’s not her you love. It’s me.
Jane:
[still whispering while her mouth is locked with Greg’s] You’re going to ruin everything.
Greg:
[Drops Jane] You? But you’re my rich parents’ chambermaid. What are you doing at the train station?
Mary:
I – I work here on evenings and weekends. Good thing too so I can stop you from making this mistake. Search your feelings, Greg. You love me. You’ve always loved me. Kind of like how you loved her for the first three acts, only more so. Much, much, much more so.
Jane:
[From the floor, grabbing Greg’s leg] No! She’s wrong. I’m the one you love. C’mon, focus! We were kissing. The lights were going to fade, and we were going to live happily ever after. The End. The End!
Writer:
Mary pulls out a gun.
[Mary pulls out a gun. Greg shrieks in a high pitched squeal.]
Mary:
[To Jane] I’m sorry. It’s not me. [Back in character] Can’t you see she’s been lying to you the whole time? Come with me to Mexico.
Jane:
Mexico?
Writer:
“Yes, Mexico. Where I’m from.”
Mary:
[now speaking with a bad Mexican accent] Jes, come weeth me to Mexico where we weel travel the countryside robbing banks. [Normal voice] Wait, what?
Writer:
[the thought dawning on him] Yes… banks.
Greg:
[moans] He’s doing it again.
Jane:
Don’t do this. Not now. You’re so close.
Writer:
Maybe the whole story should be about robbing banks.
Mary:
Make him stop.
Jane:
Just write “They kiss. Fade to black” dammit.
Writer:
No, not banks…
Mary:
Oh, thank goodness.
Writer:
Trucks. Those big tanker trucks filled with gasoline.
Jane:
What are you talking about?
Writer:
[getting more and more excited] The two of them are in Mexico, they hijack gasoline trucks, avoid the Federales, drive to little villages, and give free gasoline to everyone.
Jane:
How are you going to get tanker trucks on stage?
Writer:
It’s like a modern day Robin Hood meets Bonnie and Clyde meets the Road Warrior. And it’s a musical! This is perfect.
Mary:
Here we go again.
Greg:
God, no.
Writer:
This is the story I should have been telling all along. [starts typing] Act one, scene one. Mary – no, Margarita – enters carrying an empty gas can…
[Lights fade.]