Category: Plays Page 1 of 2

Edward:

I’d like to welcome the newest member to our literary society, Merilee Watkins.

[Polite applause from the group.]

Merilee:

Thanks. It really means a lot for me to be here. When my husband and I moved here from Toronto, I was afraid I’d lose all of the intellectual pursuits I love so much. I was so happy to find out there was a literary discussion group here.

Edward:

We’re always glad to have new members – even from Toronto.

[Polite intellectual chuckles from the group.]

Edward:

Let’s get started, shall we? Our selection for this week was the “Collected Works of Edward Ferguson, Volume III.”

Merilee:

Um, I know this is my first night here, but I have to admit I didn’t understand this week’s selection. It was just a bunch of handwritten notes and drawings thrown in a three-ring binder. It wasn’t really a book at all.

Edward:

And what does this tell you about the author? Anyone?

Others:

Oooh, ooh, pick me!

Edward:

Sarah?

Others:

Groan.

Sarah:

It tells us that your all-encompassing genius is easily misunderstood by those who lack your obviously superior intellect. Right, Mr. Ferguson?

Edward:

Very good, Sarah. I am often misunderstood.

Merilee:

I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you wrote this. Do you usually discuss the writing of people within the group?

Paul:

No, that would be crazy. We just discuss Mr. Ferguson’s writings.

Edward:

Shall we continue? I’d like to direct everyone’s attention to the passage entitled, “I’m much more smarter then God (and taller, too)”. Now in this passage, I –

Merilee:

Um, I don’t mean to interrupt, but I was wondering what the picture at the top of the page was.

Edward:

That’s not a picture, that’s oatmeal. I wrote this particular passage when I was eight. For the sake of our newcomer, can anyone tell me what the significance of the oatmeal is?

Others:

Ooh, ooh!

Edward:

James?

Others:

Groan.

James:

That you were trying to construct a new fossil fuel entirely out of oats.

Edward:

No, that was when I was twelve. Sarah?

Sarah:

The oatmeal represents the mindless mush of everyone else’s brain when compared to your mighty intellect?

Edward:

Good answer. Cookie.

[He tosses her a cookie. She catches it in her mouth and wags her tail. Well, if she had a tail, she’d be wagging it.]

Edward:

Now, onto the passage itself.

Merilee:

I actually liked parts of this one. There were certain traits reminiscent of Melville’s man raging against nature in that –

Edward:

Excuse me. What does this Melville nobody have to do with the subject at hand – that being me? Anyone?

Others:

Oooh, ooh!

[Edward points to Paul.]

Paul:

Nothing?

Edward:

Right, nothing. Let’s keep this discussion focused purely on me, shall we? Now, who wants to rub my feet?

Others:

Ooh, ooh, pick me!

Edward:

James.

Others:

Groan.

[James begins to massage Edward’s feet.]

Merilee:

This isn’t a literary discussion group. This is some kind of cult.

Edward:

I’m not asking you to bow down and worship me –

James:

That’s our Friday meeting.

Edward:

I’m just trying to share a part of myself with the group. Do you think that’s easy for me? Do you think it’s easy to take my most private thoughts and put them on display so people like you can put them down and ridicule them? Is this how you pay me back for my honesty and sharing?

Merilee:

I’m – I’m sorry. It must be a huge risk to share something like this with the group.

Bill:

Uh, hi. I’m here to see Dr. Malone.

Doc:

Doctor Malone’s on vacation. I’m Doctor Kathryn Hall. I’m taking care of Doctor Malone’s patients while he’s gone.

Bill:

Oh. I – I guess that’ll be ok. I just need to have a physical for my health plan at work.

Doc:

All right then I need you to strip down and hop up on the examining table.

Bill:

You know I’ve never been to a woman doctor before.

Doc:

It’s just like going to a male doctor, I assure you. There’s nothing to be nervous or self-conscious about.

[She turns and sees Bill in his tacky, novelty boxer shorts and dress socks and undershirt. She stifles a chuckle.]

Bill:

What? I knew I shouldn’t have worn these today. Maybe I should come back when Dr. Malone is here.

Doc:

Don’t be silly. I’m a doctor. There’s nothing for you to feel self-conscious about. Now take off your shirt.

[Bill removes his shirt and holds in his stomach.]

Doc:

[Behind him with a stethoscope] Take a deep breath.

[Since he’s already holding in his stomach, Bill can only take in a small gulp of air.]

Doc:

Deeper.

[Small breath]

Doc:

Deeper.

[Small breath]

Doc:

Let it out.

[Bill let’s out all of his breath, releasing his paunchy gut.]

[Doc continues doing doctor stuff, like tapping his kidneys and looking in his ears while Bill rambles on.]

Bill:

So, a woman doctor. Did you have to go to a school for that? What am I saying, of course you had to go to school. Look, I’m really uncomfortable. Maybe I should…

Doc:

Mr. Richardson, I am a physician. It makes no difference if I’m a man or a woman. Now we’re almost finished so please let me do my job.

Bill:

You’re right. I’m being stupid. The worst is over, right?

Doc:

Right. Now just turn your head and cough.

Bill:

What?!

Doc:

It’s part of the exam. Please, just turn your head and cough.

Bill:

Nooooo way. Uh, uh. I’m a happily married man. You’re not allowed to look there. No ma’am.

Doc:

It’s a simple procedure. It just takes a second. It’s done thousands of times.

Bill:

Slut. [He realizes what he said and clamps his hand over his mouth.]

Doc:

What?

Bill:

I’m sorry! I’m just nervous.

Doc:

Mr. Richardson, I’m starting to be offended here. I am a fully qualified professional. I have earned my right to practice medicine. My gender has absolutely no bearing on my ability as a doctor, and I find your attitude to be both sexist and demeaning.

Bill:

You’re right. I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I apologize.

Doc:

That’s better. Now let’s just get this over with. [She pulls the front elastic of his boxer shorts forward.] It’s just a simple – hello!

[Bill looks embarrassed.]

Doc:

This is a lot easier to do if you’re relaxed.

Bill:

I am so embarassed.

Doc:

No, it’s a normal biological reaction.

Bill:

This never happened with Dr. Malone.

Doc:

You know, this is starting to look like a case of sexual harassment.

Bill:

No. Look, I told you I’m not used to a woman doctor. What am I supposed to do?

Doc:

Make it go away.

Bill:

I’m trying! It’s not working.

Doc:

Think about your grocery list or Andy Rooney or anything.

Bill:

Can’t you just look at whatever you have to look at so we can be done here?

Doc:

I can’t quite make it out. Maybe this will help. [She pulls out really large magnifying goggles.]

[Bill frowns.]

Doc:

Works every time. [Puts goggles aside.] Now, turn your head and cough.

Bill:

Cough.

Doc:

I’ll have your exam results typed up and sent in to your office. Good day, Mr. Richardson.

Bill:

That’s it?

Doc:

You’ll just have to leave a urine sample, but my nurse can take care of that. [Calls] Nurse, can you come here?

[Lou, a large burly man, enters.]

Lou:

Yes?

Doc:

Please show Mr. Richardson where he can give us a urine sample.

Lou:

Yes, Doctor. If you’ll follow me, Mr. Richardson.

Bill:

[Exiting with Lou] You know, I’ve never had a male nurse before. I feel kind of awkward.

Scene: A darkened living room, lit only by the glow of a t.v. screen. A young couple are “necking” on the couch.

T.V. News Report:

Police are looking for an escaped mental patient in the Greenville area. More information following our Wheel of Fortune marathon.

[Sounds of a storm.]

Dave and Crystal:

[Assorted smooching sounds.]

[A shuffling or scraping noise from offstage.]

Crystal:

[Breaking off kiss] Did you hear that?

Dave:

Hear what? [He moves to kiss her again, but she stops him.]

Crystal:

I thought I heard something in the kitchen.

Dave:

There’s a loose shutter by the window. It makes noise sometimes.

[They kiss again. Suspenseful music plays. A figure walks up behind the couple.]

All Three:

Aahh!!

Dave:

Dad!

Crystal:

You live with your father?

Dave:

I thought you were going to stay upstairs?

Dad:

I wanted a sandwich. I didn’t realize I’d be stepping into Sodom and Gomorrah here.

Dave:

We were just kissing.

Dad:

“Just kissing”? I didn’t kiss your mother like that until we’d been married for eight years, and even then she had half a bottle of rye in her. But you go back to your “just kissing”. I don’t want to interrupt you on your way to eternal damnation.

Dave:

Dad, I’m 29 years old.

Dad:

Yes, but as long as you’re living under my roof…

Dave:

This is my house. You moved in with me, remember?

Dad:

How could I forget? You keep rubbing it in. [To crystal] There I was – alone, about to be thrown out on the streets, and I had to beg my only son to let me live with him. After all I did for him as a child. He wouldn’t have been able to afford this house if I hadn’t worked so hard to put him through school.

Dave:

You were laid off from the factory when I was six. Mom put me through school.

Dad:

And it’s a good thing your mother isn’t here to see this. God rest her soul.

Dave:

Why do you keep saying that?

Dad:

What?

Dave:

God rest her soul. She isn’t dead. You know perfectly well that mom’s living with that chartered accountant in Kingston.

Dad:

Well, it’s still a good thing that she isn’t here to see the two of you locked together in that sweaty embrace. Your lips pressed together, your bodies writhing with carnal ecstasy, your heated blood surging through your sweaty flesh… Uh, you don’t think that the three of us could…

Dave:

Dad!

Crystal:

Mr. Hatfield!

Dave:

Where do you get an idea like that?

Dad:

Nowhere.

Dave:

C’mon, I know all about those magazines under your bed.

[Dad looks at the floor, sheepishly.]

Dave:

[Moves over to Dad, consolingly.] I know the last few decades have been hard for you, but you’ll get through this. You know I love you, don’t you?

[Dad nods.]

Dave:

Then give me a kiss.

[They kiss. Then they kiss again more deeply. Crystal freaks out and leaves.]

Dad:

I’m sorry I spoiled your date, Son.

Dave:

That’s okay, Dad. [He strokes his father’s face.] You know what, Dad?

Dad:

What?

Dave:

I miss Mom.

Dad:

Me too, Son. Me, too.

[They exit room, arm and arm.]

Jim:

[Subdued] ‘Morning, Al. How was your weekend?

[Al simply grunts as he shuffles towards the coffee maker with his eyes half shut.]

Al:

Coffee…

[Al takes the pot out of the coffee maker and goes to pour it into his mug. Al shrieks in distress when he discovers the coffee pot is empty.]

Jim:

[Tired and subdued] We’re out of coffee. I checked.

Al:

[Moans]

Judy:

[Trudges in] God, I need some coffee,

Jim:

There is no coffee.

Al:

[Moans again, staring at his empty cup.]

Judy:

What do you mean there’s no coffee? How can we work without coffee? There has to be coffee somewhere. [She grabs Jim by the shirt.] I need my coffee. Someone has to have coffee.

Al:

Coffee…

Tim:

[Sails in, bright, cheerful, and extremely hyper.] Good morning, everyone!

Jim:

We’re out of coffee.

Tim:

[Very peppy] Oh, that’s ok. I’ve got this great idea I’d like to get working on. I figure I can reorganize the file system for all our accounts. Judy, did you get a haircut? It looks great! Anyways, with the files, I figured we could…

Judy:

Didn’t you hear him? There’s no coffee.

Al:

[Sobs.]

Jim:

[Comforts Al.] There, there. It’ll be okay.

Judy:

Ok?! Everything’s not going to be ok! Look at Al. How can he function without his coffee? How can any of us function? We’re not going to make it I tell you. We’re not going to make it!

[Al is crying now.]

Jim:

Stop, you’re scaring him. [He hugs Al to comfort him.]

Tim:

Oh well, better get started on my project. Excuse me.

[Tim leaps over to his desk and ducks behind it. The sound of an espresso machine is heard. He comes out from behind the desk, wiping his lips, then leaps over to get some files.]

Judy:

How come you’re not tired like the rest of us?

Tim:

What? Oh, yes. I’m tired. I’m very tired. See? [Tim is incredibly hyper trying to pretend he’s tired.]

Judy:

What have you got under your desk?

Tim:

Nothing! Nothing at all. Nothing’s under my desk. Well, back to work.

Judy:

What’s that on your breath?

Tim:

Nothing! I just want to get back to my collating…

Judy:

You’re holding out on us, aren’t you? Aren’t you?

[Al, with a Frankenstein-like groan, pushes Tim aside and reaches under the desk. He pulls out an espresso machine.]

Judy:

I knew it! Espresso!

Tim:

[Grabs the machine from Al.] That’s mine!

Jim:

We really need that espresso.

Tim:

No, it’s mine.

[The group closes in on Tim who is hugging the machine defensively.]

Judy:

Give it to me!

[They struggle over the machine. Finally, the machine breaks apart, sending Tim sprawling. He hits his head on the corner of the desk and collapses.]

Jim:

[Bends over Tim’s body] Great, now Johnson’s dead.

Judy:

Never mind that, what about the espresso maker?

Jim:

It’s broken.

Judy:

Fix it!

Jim:

[Sobbing] I don’t know how.

Judy:

There has to be caffeine still in his bloodstream! We can drink that!

[Judy dives under the desk. She reaches up to pull a pencil off the desk and stabs it down like a knife.]

Mr. Maxwell:

[Enters] Hi, sorry I’m late. I remembered we were out of coffee so I stopped to pick some up for everyone.

[Judy sticks her head up, her face has blood on it. Al rushes over and grabs a cup of coffee and guzzles it.]

Maxwell:

So, did I miss anything important?

[Everyone avoids his gaze.]

Maxwell:

Say, where’s Johnson?

Judy:

Uh, he had to step out.

Al:

Can I have his coffee?

The following was written in 1997 when convenience stores were still a thing, cigarettes were stored in a metal cabinet above the counter, and Cypress was still a living memory.

Scene: A convenience store. A young clerk waits on an old man.

Clerk:

…That’s a bag of milk, box of crackers, a nudie magazine… and these. [Clerk reaches up and adds a couple of items to the bag at the last moment.]

Old Man:

What’s that? I didn’t ask for those cigarettes.

Clerk:

No, but you implied it.

Old Man:

What?

Clerk:

You implied it when you spoke to me.

Old Man:

I just said, “I’ll take these.”

Clerk:

Yes, but it was the way you said it. You said it in that “…and throw in a tube of lip gloss and a pack of Virginia Slims” tone of voice.

Old Man:

What would I need lip gloss for?

Clerk:

It’s not my place to ask those kinds of questions, sir. That’ll be thirty-seven dollars and eighteen cents.

Old Man:

Is that with my senior’s discount?

Clerk:

I’m sorry, we don’t give senior’s discounts.

Old Man:

What do you mean you don’t give a senior’s discount? You have to. It’s in the Constitution.

Clerk:

No, it isn’t.

Old Man:

Well then it was part of that Meech Lake thing. Old people deserve a discount.

Clerk:

Why? You’ve already got a bigger disposable income than I’ll ever have. Look at me, I’ve got a Master’s degree in Russian Literature, and the only job I could find is as a night clerk at a convenience store. If someone here should get a discount here, it should be me.

Old Man:

You’re right. You should get a discount, too. Only mine should be bigger.

Clerk:

Isn’t it enough that I’m paying for your Canada Pension Plan and your medical benefits, two programs that will be bankrupt long before I ever get to enjoy them.

Old Man:

Listen, sonny, I fought a war to save you.

Clerk:

What, World War II?

Old Man:

[bitter] No, not World War II. Didn’t you ever hear of a place called Cypress?

Clerk:

Cypress? That wasn’t a war. It was a peacekeeping mission.

Old Man:

Don’t listen to that history book crap. It was war!

Clerk:

It was a tropical Greek island.

Old Man:

It wasn’t all lounge chairs and fruity drinks, you know. Here, look at my war wound. [turns and lowers his pants] Damn cabana boy. [pause] He never calls, he never writes…

Clerk:

Listen, there’s no discount for seniors, and that’s final.

Old Man:

Not even if I show you my war wound again?

Clerk:

No.

Old Man:

Fine.

Aaron:

You wanted to see me, Moses?

Moses:

Yes, Aaron. Come in. I want to talk to you about what happened here while I was gone.

Aaron:

Oh?

Moses:

When I left here to go up the mountain and talk with God, the Israelites were a pious, righteous people united in their desire to create a moral society here in the wilderness. And what did I find when I came back? The camp was in shambles, clothes were strewn everywhere. There was lust, carnality, sins of the flesh… Aaron, I left you in charge. How could you let this happen?

Aaron:

I tried to stop them. I really did.

Moses:

Aaron, I know all about you and that farm animal.

[Aaron looks down sheepishly.]

Aaron:

[Quietly] You shouldn’t have left us.

Moses:

Look at it from my point of view. I’ve been under a lot of stress lately, leading everyone through the wilderness. I just needed to spend some quality time alone with God – just the two of us. Is that too much to askl?

Aaron:

No.

Moses:

How could things get so out oof hand while I was gone?

Aaron:

You were gone a long time. People started to get scared.

Moses:

I was only gone for a weekend.

Aaron:

Yeah, but it was touch and go there for a while. Friday night dragged into Saturday morning, Saturday morning dragged into Saturday afternoon. People thought you weren’t coming back. Then somebody suggested that we sacrifice a virgin. We held a lottery to pick a virgin, and then we sent Brother Samuel to fetch her.

Moses:

And?

Aaron:

Well, we had to find another virgin. After that, the word got out, and we had a major decrease in the number of virgins.

Moses:

[Rubbing his brow] I can imagine.

Aaron:

So what are you going to do now?

Moses:

I don’t know. Prepare a sermon, I guess. Pass me that Bible.

[Aaron takes a one page pamphlet and passes it to Moses. Bibles were smaller at that point.]

Moses:

We really need to add some more material to the Bible. Every week I have to preach on the same passage. It loses something after a while.

Aaron:

But it’s a good passage.

Moses:

Now you’re just sucking up.

Aaron:

Sorry.

Moses:

[Looks through the pamphlet and throws it down.] Oh, there’s nothing in here that covers this kind of situation. What we need are some new rules. Here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to go back up the mountain and work out a set of Commandments with God. While I’m gone, you and your friends have to get this camp straightened up.

Aaron:

You’re leaving again?

Moses:

Yes, and this time there will be no more parties while I’m gone. Do you understand?

Aaron:

Yes, sir.

[Moses starts to leave.]

Aaron:

Oh, Moses? If you go by the stables on your way out, tell Bessie I love her.

[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.]

(A WRITER, on stage, writing at a desk.  Another man, a CHARACTER, sits at another desk, as described by the WRITER.)

WRITER:

Act one, scene one.  A run down hotel room.  A man sits in front of a battered typewriter.  Beside him sits an empty bottle of scotch and a picture of a woman at a park.  A naked light bulb casts shadows over the man’s worn face as he stares at the photo.  He speaks.

(The CHARACTER looks up thoughtfully and is about to speak. He pauses, and then moves to speak again. Long pause.)

CHARACTER:

Well?

WRITER:

What?

CHARACTER:

Aren’t you going to give me something to say?  You’re the writer.

WRITER:

 I’m thinking.

CHARACTER:

 The play can’t start until I say something.

WRITER:

The very first line of the very first scene is the most important line in the entire play.  It sets the whole tone of the piece.  The words have to be chosen and arranged perfectly or everything that follows will sound false.

CHARACTER:

Sounds great – let’s hear it.

WRITER:

It’s not something you can rush.  Just give me a moment.

CHARACTER:

Sorry, I didn’t mean to rush you… Take your time…   Don’t mind me…  You know, they say you should start with a joke.  “A priest with syphilis walks into a bar with a German Shepherd on his shoulder— ”

WRITER:

Would you just be quiet for a minute?  I’m trying to think.

CHARACTER:

What’s this play about anyway?

WRITER:

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 age. It’s about…

CHARACTER:

You have no idea, do you?

WRITER:

No.  No, I don’t.

CHARACTER:

Just make up something.

WRITER:

I’m trying.

CHARACTER:

Try harder.  I have to have something to say.

WRITER:

I said I’m trying.

CHARACTER:

You’re a writer.  Write!

WRITER:

It’s not that easy!  Just leave me alone for a moment.  Let me think…

CHARACTER:

…they say you should write what you know.

WRITER:

You’re not helping!

CHARACTER:

Maybe I’m a millionaire bachelor on my way to a steamy rendezvous with the lustful daughter of a school teacher.

WRITER:

No.

CHARACTER:

Maybe I’m a bantam weight prize fighter coming to grips with my leukemia.

WRITER:

No!

CHARACTER:

…and there’s this chesty nurse with a heart of gold…

WRITER:

Would you just shut up!

CHARACTER:

I have to be something, for Christ’s sake… Millionaire bachelor?

WRITER:

No!

CHARACTER:

It’s a lot better than anything you’ve come up with.  Not much of a writer,

are you?

WRITER:

I’m working on it!  Can’t you see I’m working on it?  I just need that one idea, that one kernel of truth that will give birth to the entire piece, those first few words that set everything in motion.

CHARACTER:

You’re putting too much pressure on yourself.  I know, skip the first scene.

WRITER:

What?

CHARACTER:

Come back to it later.  Just start with scene two.

WRITER:

Start with scene two?

CHARACTER:

You’ve built too much of a mental block around the first few lines.  You’ll never get past it.  Just pretend you’ve already written the perfect first scene and you’re ready to start scene two.

WRITER:

I can do that.

CHARACTER:

Okay, just clear your head and think of something for me to say.

WRITER:

I can do this.  Here.

(The WRITER hands what he’s written to the CHARACTER.  The CHARACTER pauses thoughtfully, then speaks.)

CHARACTER:

I am slain… What?!

WRITER:

It’s a good line.

CHARACTER:

You can’t kill me in the second scene.

WRITER:

Why not?

CHARACTER:

Because you don’t have any other characters!

WRITER:

Oh… Maybe I can write some other characters.

CHARACTER:

You can’t even write me.  How are you going to write someone else?

WRITER:

I’ll just write what I know.

(The UBER-WRITER enters, carrying a notebook.)

UBER-WRITER:

This draft isn’t going that well. Maybe I should re-write this scene from scratch.

WRITER:

Uh, where did you come from?

UBER-WRITER:

Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.

CHARACTER:

Who are you?

UBER-WRITER:

I’m the writer.

WRITER:

I’m the writer.

UBER-WRITER:

No, you’re the writer character in a play that I’m working on.  It’s about a writer suffering from writer’s block talking with the imaginary character of a play he’s never going to write.

WRITER:

I’m just a character?

CHARACTER:

What do you mean, “never going to write?”

UBER-WRITER:

Oh, he’s never going to finish it.  See, it’s all about the creative process.  You know, the inner dialog of the soul and all that.  I can’t have the writer character successfully finish the play.

WRITER:

Why not?

UBER-WRITER:

Because then it wouldn’t be art.  He has to suffer needlessly if my play’s going to have any weight.

(The ALPHA WRITER enters.)

ALPHA WRITER:

That’s such a bad cliché.  What was I thinking?

CHARACTER:

Okay, now who are you?

ALPHA WRITER:

I’m the writer.

UBER-WRITER:

I thought we were the writer.

ALPHA WRITER:

This is all getting out of hand.  I’ve got a lot of editing to do.

WRITER:

What are you talking about?

ALPHA WRITER:

This whole play within a play thing. I thought it was a good idea, but obviously it needs more work.

UBER-WRITER:

Play within a play?

ALPHA WRITER:

I thought it would be clever to write a play about a dialog between a character and his writer nestled within a larger play about the life of a struggling playwright.  It’s just starting to get out of hand.

WRITER:

This is all just an elaborate play?

ALPHA WRITER:

Oh yes, you three, this stage, the audience, the whole city – it’s all just something I’ve been working on for the last few months.

CHARACTER:

Everything here is just something you made up?

ALPHA WRITER:

Everything.  I don’t want to brag, but I’m really pleased with the level of character development and backstory I’ve achieved.  You see that guy there… (HE POINTS TO SOMEONE IN THE AUDIENCE). He’s an ex-hockey player secretly in love with that woman from the other table. That woman over there…she’s a hard as nails police detective determined to solve one last case.

CHARACTER:

What about that guy? (HE POINTS TO SOMEONE ELSE IN THE AUDIENCE)?

ALPHA WRITER:

Nobody. I’ll probably cut him in the rewrite.  The point is that everything is happening just the way I outlined it with the director.  There’s really no reason for anyone to get upset.  Everyone’s sub-plots may seem chaotic and scattered now, but it will all come together meaningfully in the end.

UBER-WRITER:

So we don’t actually get a choice in any of this?

ALPHA WRITER:

Sorry.

WRITER:

Every moment of joy we have…every moment of sorrow…is because you decided to write it that way?

ALPHA WRITER:

I’m afraid so.

(The CHARACTER, the WRITER, and the UBER-WRITER reflect on this for a moment.)

WRITER:

Can I just ask you one question?

ALPHA WRITER:

Sure.

WRITER:

What was your first line?

ALPHA WRITER:

“If it weren’t for the broken cigarette machine, we never would have met.”

WRITER:

 Not very good, is it?

Setting:  A little girl’s room. A wooden toy box sits center stage. A doll rests in front of it, half sitting, half laying. A few feet away is a chair.

[A woman enters, carrying an empty garbage bag. Her hair is slightly dishevelled and there are rings under her eyes from crying. She pauses upon entering, surveying the room sadly.]

Woman:

Oh, honey, you never did keep your room clean.

[She sighs and slowly walks around the room, looking at some of the toys and things she sees.]

Woman:

So many toys. We spoiled you pretty good, didn’t we? You were happy though. That’s what matters, isn’t it? You always loved playing with all your toys.

I’m sorry, sweetie, but I have to do this. I can’t keep walking by your room and seeing all your things here. It’s just too hard for me. I see your room just the way you left it and for a moment – just for a moment – I forget you’re gone. I expect to hear your voice, singing to your dolly, and then I remember. And it hurts so much, baby. It hurts so much. And I just can’t keep hurting like that anymore. I’m sorry, honey, but it’s time.

[She opens the toy box and begins removing toys and placing them in the garbage bag. She looks at each one as if she can physically see the memory each one evokes. As she pulls out a teddy bear, she murmurs]

Woman:

              Mr. Charlie.

[She has Mr. Charlie do a little dance and then puts him in the bag with the rest. Two more items follow before she removes a music box. She closes the toy box, winds the music box, and places it on the lid. She listens to it for a moment before sliding to the floor, resting her arms and head on the toy box.]

Woman:

Oh, God. What am I going to do without you? What am I –

[She breaks into tears. She sobs uncontrollably for an uncomfortably long time.]

Woman:

Why did this have to happen? Why couldn’t you have stayed in the backyard with your brother? I told you to stay in the backyard. I was only gone for a few minutes. It was only a few minutes… [Crying again] I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.

[There is the sound of a girlish laugh – ‘Tee hee’. The woman looks up, but in her state the laugh only half registers. Her eyes come to rest on the doll laying on the floor. She wipes her eyes and reaches for the doll.]

Woman:

Oh, Miss Elizabeth. You’ve fallen out of your chair again. You’re always falling out of your chair. You were her favourite, you know that? Right from the first time she saw you at that garage sale. She couldn’t take her eyes off you. She had to have you. Heh, we spent a fortune on toys for her and a fifty cent second-hand doll turns out to be her favourite. She carried you around everywhere, Miss Elizabeth. Mmmm, I can smell her on you. That’s so nice…

[She hugs the doll for comfort, stroking its hair. She sighs.]

Woman:

I’ve got to get all of this packed away before Danny gets home from school.

[She gives the doll a squeeze and it says ‘Let’s play.’]

Woman:

You always want to play, don’t you Miss Elizabeth? I don’t have time. Danny’s going to be home soon.

[She considers putting the doll in the garbage bag but places her in her chair, giving her an affectionate pat.]

Woman:

Okay, I can do this.

[Her back to the doll, she puts the music box in the garbage bag, reopens the toy box, and starts putting toys in the bag again. The doll says again, ‘Let’s play.’]

Woman:

I told you, Miss Elizabeth, I have to get this done.

[Doll: ‘Let’s play in the front yard.’ The woman stiffens.]

Woman:

What did you say?

[Doll: ‘Let’s play in the front yard.’]

[The woman reacts, backing away. There’s another girlish giggle.]

Woman:

Oh my God…

[Doll: ‘Let’s play in the front yard. Mommy won’t mind.’]

Woman:

              Did you – Oh my, G- What did you do to my daughter?

[Doll giggles again.]

Woman:

              You told her to play in the front yard?

[Doll: ‘I told her to play near the cars.’]

[Woman gasps as if she had been hit.]

Woman:

              What are you?

 [Woman backs towards the door and turns to leave.]

[The doll’s voice changes slightly. Doll: ‘Mommy? Are you there Mommy?’]

[Woman stops dead in her tracks.]

Woman:

              Honey?

[Doll: ‘It’s cold here, Mommy.’]

Woman:

              Is that you, honey? Where are you honey?

[Doll’s voice changes back. Doll: ‘We’re going to play forever.’]

Woman:

              No, let me talk to Becka.

[Doll giggles.]

Woman:

              Let me talk to Becka. Let me talk to Becka! [shaking the doll and starting to cry again]

[Doll: ‘Maybe Danny wants to play too.’]

Woman:

What? No.

[Doll: ‘I bet Danny will play our special game.’]

Woman:

              No! He’s at school.

 [The woman throws the doll into the toy box, slamming down the lid.]

[Doll: ‘That’s what you think.’]

Woman [as she rushes out of the room]:

Danny!

[The room is silent for a moment. Then there is a banging noise from the toy box. The banging continues even after the lights fade to black.]

[A bar. Two women are sitting at a table. One is 20 and pretty. The other is 40 and wearing too much makeup to hide the fact that she used to be pretty.]

Younger Woman:

It was raining when I met him.

Older Woman:

It was July.

Younger Woman:

He was in the middle of the plaza off of Delaware Avenue. The rain was coming down in buckets, but he had taken off his coat and was splashing and prancing through the puddles just like in that movie… you know the one.

Older Woman:

He hit on me in a Laundromat. [She lights a cigarette.]

Younger Woman:

[Laughs] He couldn’t dance a lick.

Older Woman:

All of his clothes turned pink. I should have taken it as a sign.

Younger Woman:

You should have seen him – gangly arms flailing everywhere. It was ridiculous. And I joined him. Dancing in the plaza in the rain.

Older Woman:

He took me to a bar.

Younger Woman:

We went to a bar.

Older Woman:

I remember there was a band, but he wouldn’t dance.

[They sip their drinks.]

Younger Woman:

He was tall.

Older Woman:

He was short. [She takes a long drink.]

Younger Woman:

His eyes were the colour of the sea.

Older Woman:

[Finishes her drink] And balding.

Younger Woman:

And every time he smiled, my heart stopped.

Older Woman:

He kept trying to swoop over what hair he had left to hide it.

Younger Woman:

He invited me to his place.

Older Woman:

That little patch on the side of his head must have gone down to his shoulders.

Younger Woman:

The sex was good.

Older Woman:

God, the sex was good.

Younger Woman:

Afterwards, he sang to me.

Older Woman:

It was over after a week. It just took six years to realize it.

Younger Woman:

At that moment, I knew we’d be together for the rest of our lives.

Both:

Love.

[They clink their glasses together and take a drink.]