jogging back home along the lake there is a man about your make about your build about your height almost in every way your like except that he is wearing jogging clothes and is back home whereas you just returned from rome to the southern coast, near nice. and also different between you and him is the confection you are carrying back kim. she waits for you on rocks watching as the sailboats dock watching everything but the clock not really caring when you arrive if you arrive at all but she thanks you for the pastry and kisses you politely before gently pushing you out of her view: i can always see you. i can always see you.
last night you left your window open and the breeze danced with the thin drapes and tickled your back through the thin sheet and reminded you in every dream that time trots along while you sleep. kim is dreaming of ireland and she is dancing with her dad and she rolls over and smacks you in the chest and then laughs because she meant to hit her dad who was teasing her about her haircut. she doesn't wake but you wake enough to count the constellations over the Riviera. you find orion after whom you named your cat who is staying with friends until you return to chicago.
Showing posts with label Blogwrighting (Practice makes). Show all posts
Showing posts with label Blogwrighting (Practice makes). Show all posts
Sunday, January 13, 2008
identity theft
along the southern coast of france is a man wearing your pants wearing your shirt wearing your shoes wearing everything that you would choose. he is wearing your woman on his arm and wearing your dreams. along the southern coast of france is a man who took a chance to take a risk to make a leap to take the plunge into the deep deep dark unknown and that's why he has flown to a europe you will never see. he slides into your bakery drinks your coffee and brings your woman a morning snack where she is resting on the shore alone. not thinking of you. thinking of the sea. mystery. you sit and peer out your window at the lake. what did you forsake. what did you forsake.
down by the lake you're jogging in new jogging clothes you bought at Macy's because they were on sale after christmas and you needed some jogging clothes because you're out of shape old man and you're getting fat old friend because all you do all day is sit at a computer and it's february 13 and this is the first time you've exercised since before thanksgiving because sometimes life's too busy. your jogging clothes don't keep the cold out. your jogging clothes don't hide the rolls on your stomach or ease your breathing and you stop to let your bleeding lungs hack themselves open so they can gasp some air down and your lightheadedness makes you momentarily delusional and you find peace in the fact that you are about die. because it would be easier than jogging back home and making dinner and washing the dishes and watching history's mysteries before going to bed at 11 remembering how little you accomplished that day or that weekend or that year. i'm 39 years old, you'll think, and tomorrow i will be older.
down by the lake you're jogging in new jogging clothes you bought at Macy's because they were on sale after christmas and you needed some jogging clothes because you're out of shape old man and you're getting fat old friend because all you do all day is sit at a computer and it's february 13 and this is the first time you've exercised since before thanksgiving because sometimes life's too busy. your jogging clothes don't keep the cold out. your jogging clothes don't hide the rolls on your stomach or ease your breathing and you stop to let your bleeding lungs hack themselves open so they can gasp some air down and your lightheadedness makes you momentarily delusional and you find peace in the fact that you are about die. because it would be easier than jogging back home and making dinner and washing the dishes and watching history's mysteries before going to bed at 11 remembering how little you accomplished that day or that weekend or that year. i'm 39 years old, you'll think, and tomorrow i will be older.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
razorbutterflyapple
Here is that wild play -- wild in the sense of whattheFwerewethinking rather than in the sense of actual wild things happening in the script -- I was telling you about a while back that is a collaboration between me and EJC Calvert (whom I miss terribly: move to Chicago you NYC jerkface!) and Kristin Idaszak (who should add another i to her last name so it is more like Naomi Iizuka). Liz wrote razor, Kristin wrote butterfly, and I tackled apple. Other than the initial rules, we did not discuss what we were writing until we had each finished the first drafts. Then we kind of rotated the play around and revised to make it somewhat cohesive. But it is still fairly wacky. And by fairly I mean TOTALLY wacky.
razorbutterflyapple
act i: razor
TREE
razorbutterflyapple: Act I: razor.
It begins, as it always begins, in a field.
(CAROL enters, MAE dragging behind. She sets up at the base of the tree.)
TREE
Everything doesn’t always begin in a field. But all the stories that happen to me do. I don’t… move. Generally.
(CAROL begins shaving her face.)
TREE
Usually, I’m so sad, I’m the saddest tree in the world. A sad, sad, sad, sad, lonely tree.
MAE
Carol… Carol… come on… Carol… the bus…
CAROL
We got time and you know it.
TREE
Though, to be perfectly frank, these beginnings always make me nervous. The beginning began, it has already begun, and now all we can do is dread the end, when the story will be over and I will be lonely again.
MAE
If we miss the bus again—
CAROL
Shut up, Mae. I can’t talk and shave at the same time.
TREE
Usually, my only visitors are birds. Always flapping, flapping, pecking, flapping. Today I have children! O, joy!
MAE
You won’t grow hairs that way. You’re being stupid.
CAROL
I’ll grow hairs if a goddamn well want to!
MAE
You can’t! You’re a girl, and you can’t grow hairs on your face!
CAROL
Try having faith, Mae. “If you shave there, hairs will grow…”
TREE
I want hairs! I want hairs, too! Shave me! Shave me! Shave all over my bark, and we’ll be haired together!
MAE
Your mom only told you that because she didn’t want you shaving your legs and turning into a whore.
CAROL
You shave. Don’t you?
MAE
None of your business! Come on. Let’s go. Seriously. Come on come on come on come on come on come on come on come on come on come on
TREE (simultaneous with MAE’s “come on”s)
No! Take your time. Stay forever. Lounge, read, climb if you want, I don’t mind! Just stay!
CAROL
You can go on by yourself! Why don’t you just go on and pretend like you don’t even know me, if you think I’m such a freak and an idiot, why don’t you do that.
MAE
If you didn’t think this was wrong you wouldn’t do it hiding.
TREE
She’s not hiding, she’s with me!
CAROL
Mae, there is only one thing I want in the whole entire world. I don’t give a shit about trust funds or celebrity or my virginity, all I want is a thick, full beard.
TREE
All I want is YOU! I want US!
CAROL
Please, Mae.
MAE
Just hurry.
CAROL
Thank you.
TREE
If you slip with that razor and die, promise you’ll be buried among my roots?
act ii: butterfly
MAE
Act ii: butterfly.
TREE
Thank god we’re onto the second act. I mean, beginnings and endings are all the same. Middles, though. Middles are fun.
CAROL
What?
MAE
Mae and Carol die.
CAROL
That’s fucked up, Mae.
MAE
I don’t say it.
CAROL
I just heard you. Listen, I know you’re mad about the beard thing, but—
MAE
I know it came out of my mouth, but I wasn’t doing the saying. It just came out.
CAROL
That’s fucked up.
MAE
Mae and Carol die, Mae and Carol die, Mae and Carol die.
CAROL
Stop it. You’re freaking me out.
MAE
That’s how the story ends.
CAROL
What story? No it doesn’t. Mae, I’ll kill you.
TREE
Telling the middle of a story’s like detonating a bomb. You’ve already done all the hard science-fiction lab construction bullshit, and you don’t have to worry about cleaning up the bodies. You just press the little red button and watch the fireworks.
CAROL
So what do we do?
MAE
I don’t know. Something middling. Say something about a butterfly?
CAROL
My pussy looks like a butterfly.
MAE
That’s it?
CAROL
Uh-uh. Passive aggressive. Like you.
MAE
I’m not—
CAROL
Sit there in a shadow box looking beautiful and dead.
TREE
Stop!
Carol and Mae acknowledge the tree for the first time.
CAROL
What?
TREE
Know what’s hard about being a tree?
CAROL
You can’t have sex?
MAE
You’re such a nympho.
TREE
There’s no pathos or bitter longing or sweet affection in this play. There’s no sense of scale, no grandeur.
MAE
Trees have grandeur. Or at least scale. Right?
TREE
You’re missing the point. There’s no high tragedy. The stakes aren’t life-and-death.
CAROL
Life’s not life-or-death.
TREE
Fuck it. Let’s just move on to apple.
act iii: apple
TREE
apple has nothing to do with the fruit. There are no apples in this scene. I'm not an apple tree. No apples are going to be eaten, and no apples were harmed in the writing of what you are about to see.
Apple attempts to extrapolate from one's understanding of an apple and create an end to this strange tale. The friendship you've seen begins with a conflict between Mae's need for punctuality and Carol's need for a beard and progresses into a conversation about coming of age with the brief acknowledgment that a pussy resembles a butterfly.
Many years have passed since the razor and the butterfly, and we are looking for an end like an apple: clean, crisp, hard, sweet, juicy. Refreshing. Simple. Many years have passed because sometimes time passes. We trees know this.
MAE
Can I say I'm sorry.
CAROL
You can say whatever you want.
MAE
I'm/
CAROL
Shut up.
MAE
Okay.
CAROL
Just shut up. Just shut up. Shut up shut up shut up.
MAE begins to cry softly. CAROL goes over and hits her and continues to hit her until MAE is curled up in a ball and then CAROL kicks MAE and CAROL is crying and they are both sobbing and then CAROL collapses on top of MAE and they hold each other and rock back and forth.
MAE
I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I am so so sorry.
CAROL
Shhhhhhh. Shhhhhhhhhh. Oh god. Shhh shhh shhh.
MAE
I didn't know. I honestly had no idea. I didn't I wouldn't have, there's no way.
CAROL
Shhhhhhh. I know. I know. Shhhhhhhhhh.
More crying and hugging that eventually turns into laughing.
MAE
You hit me really hard.
CAROL
I'm sorry. You can hit me back if you want.
MAE
I'm not going to hit you.
CAROL
You can if you want.
MAE
I miss you.
CAROL
I miss you too.
Hug into blackout.
TREE
This is the moment I dreaded. Everything doesn't always end in a field, but all the stories that happen to me do. Mae and Carol die. Yes, it is my line. Mae and Carol die. Not now, but eventually. And they won't be buried amongst my roots.
There is no one here to hear me as I fall apart. Not even you. I'm alone waiting for visitors. The saddest tree in the world because I'm the most awake.
END OF PLAY
razorbutterflyapple
act i: razorTREE
razorbutterflyapple: Act I: razor.
It begins, as it always begins, in a field.
(CAROL enters, MAE dragging behind. She sets up at the base of the tree.)
TREE
Everything doesn’t always begin in a field. But all the stories that happen to me do. I don’t… move. Generally.
(CAROL begins shaving her face.)
TREE
Usually, I’m so sad, I’m the saddest tree in the world. A sad, sad, sad, sad, lonely tree.
MAE
Carol… Carol… come on… Carol… the bus…
CAROL
We got time and you know it.
TREE
Though, to be perfectly frank, these beginnings always make me nervous. The beginning began, it has already begun, and now all we can do is dread the end, when the story will be over and I will be lonely again.
MAE
If we miss the bus again—
CAROL
Shut up, Mae. I can’t talk and shave at the same time.
TREE
Usually, my only visitors are birds. Always flapping, flapping, pecking, flapping. Today I have children! O, joy!
MAE
You won’t grow hairs that way. You’re being stupid.
CAROL
I’ll grow hairs if a goddamn well want to!
MAE
You can’t! You’re a girl, and you can’t grow hairs on your face!
CAROL
Try having faith, Mae. “If you shave there, hairs will grow…”
TREE
I want hairs! I want hairs, too! Shave me! Shave me! Shave all over my bark, and we’ll be haired together!
MAE
Your mom only told you that because she didn’t want you shaving your legs and turning into a whore.
CAROL
You shave. Don’t you?
MAE
None of your business! Come on. Let’s go. Seriously. Come on come on come on come on come on come on come on come on come on come on
TREE (simultaneous with MAE’s “come on”s)
No! Take your time. Stay forever. Lounge, read, climb if you want, I don’t mind! Just stay!
CAROL
You can go on by yourself! Why don’t you just go on and pretend like you don’t even know me, if you think I’m such a freak and an idiot, why don’t you do that.
MAE
If you didn’t think this was wrong you wouldn’t do it hiding.
TREE
She’s not hiding, she’s with me!
CAROL
Mae, there is only one thing I want in the whole entire world. I don’t give a shit about trust funds or celebrity or my virginity, all I want is a thick, full beard.
TREE
All I want is YOU! I want US!
CAROL
Please, Mae.
MAE
Just hurry.
CAROL
Thank you.
TREE
If you slip with that razor and die, promise you’ll be buried among my roots?
act ii: butterfly
MAE
Act ii: butterfly.
TREE
Thank god we’re onto the second act. I mean, beginnings and endings are all the same. Middles, though. Middles are fun.
CAROL
What?
MAE
Mae and Carol die.
CAROL
That’s fucked up, Mae.
MAE
I don’t say it.
CAROL
I just heard you. Listen, I know you’re mad about the beard thing, but—
MAE
I know it came out of my mouth, but I wasn’t doing the saying. It just came out.
CAROL
That’s fucked up.
MAE
Mae and Carol die, Mae and Carol die, Mae and Carol die.
CAROL
Stop it. You’re freaking me out.
MAE
That’s how the story ends.
CAROL
What story? No it doesn’t. Mae, I’ll kill you.
TREE
Telling the middle of a story’s like detonating a bomb. You’ve already done all the hard science-fiction lab construction bullshit, and you don’t have to worry about cleaning up the bodies. You just press the little red button and watch the fireworks.
CAROL
So what do we do?
MAE
I don’t know. Something middling. Say something about a butterfly?
CAROL
My pussy looks like a butterfly.
MAE
That’s it?
CAROL
Uh-uh. Passive aggressive. Like you.
MAE
I’m not—
CAROL
Sit there in a shadow box looking beautiful and dead.
TREE
Stop!
Carol and Mae acknowledge the tree for the first time.
CAROL
What?
TREE
Know what’s hard about being a tree?
CAROL
You can’t have sex?
MAE
You’re such a nympho.
TREE
There’s no pathos or bitter longing or sweet affection in this play. There’s no sense of scale, no grandeur.
MAE
Trees have grandeur. Or at least scale. Right?
TREE
You’re missing the point. There’s no high tragedy. The stakes aren’t life-and-death.
CAROL
Life’s not life-or-death.
TREE
Fuck it. Let’s just move on to apple.
act iii: apple
TREE
apple has nothing to do with the fruit. There are no apples in this scene. I'm not an apple tree. No apples are going to be eaten, and no apples were harmed in the writing of what you are about to see.
Apple attempts to extrapolate from one's understanding of an apple and create an end to this strange tale. The friendship you've seen begins with a conflict between Mae's need for punctuality and Carol's need for a beard and progresses into a conversation about coming of age with the brief acknowledgment that a pussy resembles a butterfly.
Many years have passed since the razor and the butterfly, and we are looking for an end like an apple: clean, crisp, hard, sweet, juicy. Refreshing. Simple. Many years have passed because sometimes time passes. We trees know this.
MAE
Can I say I'm sorry.
CAROL
You can say whatever you want.
MAE
I'm/
CAROL
Shut up.
MAE
Okay.
CAROL
Just shut up. Just shut up. Shut up shut up shut up.
MAE begins to cry softly. CAROL goes over and hits her and continues to hit her until MAE is curled up in a ball and then CAROL kicks MAE and CAROL is crying and they are both sobbing and then CAROL collapses on top of MAE and they hold each other and rock back and forth.
MAE
I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I am so so sorry.
CAROL
Shhhhhhh. Shhhhhhhhhh. Oh god. Shhh shhh shhh.
MAE
I didn't know. I honestly had no idea. I didn't I wouldn't have, there's no way.
CAROL
Shhhhhhh. I know. I know. Shhhhhhhhhh.
More crying and hugging that eventually turns into laughing.
MAE
You hit me really hard.
CAROL
I'm sorry. You can hit me back if you want.
MAE
I'm not going to hit you.
CAROL
You can if you want.
MAE
I miss you.
CAROL
I miss you too.
Hug into blackout.
TREE
This is the moment I dreaded. Everything doesn't always end in a field, but all the stories that happen to me do. Mae and Carol die. Yes, it is my line. Mae and Carol die. Not now, but eventually. And they won't be buried amongst my roots.
There is no one here to hear me as I fall apart. Not even you. I'm alone waiting for visitors. The saddest tree in the world because I'm the most awake.
END OF PLAY
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
TOWERS (TOWER version the second)
TOWERS is the first revision of TOWER in an attempt to make it less of a complete downer and to incorporate the two other rules set down for the project: 1) use of a mandolin and 2) "future building as a theme." Rule 3 was to use a character who was silent but present, but I nailed that the first time. I love rules!
TOWERS
Scene 1
Lights up. SAMMY, alone on the stage, is looking straight up. He is carrying a sack lunch. There is a distant yelling that gets closer and closer as the lights fade. And then, in darkness, the sound a body makes when it hits the pavement after falling a few miles.
Scene 2
Lights up. Mandolin music starts quietly. There is a broken body face up almost exactly where SAMMY had been standing. The body reaches his hand up to SAMMY. SAMMY is looking down at the body. The mandolin music gets louder and louder. SAMMY bends down to the man and tries to hear what the man is saying but the mandolin music is too loud. Lights fade but music does not.
Scene 3
Lights up. SAMMY is facing the audience as far away from the body as the stage will allow. The mandolin music quiets slowly until it is a soft hum.
MAN 1 enters with a briefcase that he
immediately drops and goes to the body.
MAN 1
Oh my god Oh my god. Hey man. Hey are you alright. Oh god you're not alright. You're not alright. Alright what do I do? Ummmm...hey you you there hey! Call 911. Hey you! Oh shit oh shit.
MAN 1 approaches SAMMY. Mandolin music gets louder.
MAN 1
Hey. Hey! Somebody call someone! Where's that music coming from!
The body reaches his hand up to MAN 1. And MAN 1 leans down to listen to the body.
MAN 1
What? I can barely, what? No I can't...what? Turn that damn music off!
SAMMY closes his eyes and concentrates really hard. The music dims.
SAMMY
In the middle of the street there is a man.
MAN 1
Shhhhhh. He's saying something! Somebody help!
SAMMY
And that man's my father. Who I haven't spoken a word to in thirty-three years.
MAN 1
He's trying to say something. You're his son? Get over here!
SAMMY
And he wants to tell me all that he didn't tell me when he was alive.
MAN 1
He's not dead yet!
SAMMY
But he can't.
MAN 1
Help!
WOMAN 1 enters with a purse from which she has pulled a cellphone.
WOMAN 1
Omigod what happened?
MAN 1
He just fell. He fell from the sky.
WOMAN 1
What?
MAN 1
Just call someone.
WOMAN 1
I'm calling, I'm calling. Jesus Christ Jesus Christ.
SAMMY
He didn't fall from the sky. He fell from his tower.
MAN 1
What? What? I can barely hear you. Sammy. Are you Sammy? Sammy's here. Sammy's here. What? I know. He won't come. Should I make him come?
SAMMY
He fell from his tower.
MAN 1 goes to SAMMY
MAN 1
Hey man, you gotta get over there your dad he's/
MAN 1 grabs SAMMY and the mandolin music bursts so that MAN 1 is blown over. SAMMY tries to help catch him.
SAMMY (shouting over the music)
I'm sorry. When I was seven I swallowed a mandolin. My dad's mandolin.
WOMAN 1
Hello? 911? Yes there is man in the middle of the road.
Mandolin music begins to quiet.
SAMMY
I swallowed it because I thought he loved it more than he loved me.
WOMAN 2 enters with a grocery bag leading CHILD by the hand.
CHILD
Mommy look.
WOMAN 2
Don't look sweety.
CHILD
He's all flat. Did he fall.
WOMAN 2
Sweety I said don't look.
SAMMY
He asked, Sammy where's my mandolin and I lied and said that it had run off with mom. But then mom came home and then the mandolin started to play in my stomach. So he knew I was lying.
WOMAN 1
Yes. In the middle of the road. Where? Where? I don't know where? Where are we?
MAN 1
Corner of 5th and 2nd.
WOMAN 1
At the corner 5th and 2nd. No I'm not hurt. No, nobody is hurt except the guy lying in the middle of the road. No he's not drunk he's dying!
SAMMY
But he wasn't mad. He smiled. But it was a sad smile and that's when I realized that I had eaten my dad's best friend because my dad talked very little because he hated talking. Or he was bad at talking my mom said. He got uncomfortable talking because he was a brick-layer and that was solitary work.
WOMAN 2
He's asking for a Sammy.
MAN 1
That's that guy over there.
WOMAN 2
We should go get him.
MAN 1
No. No.
SAMMY
And after I ate his mandolin, he didn't have anything to do so he started building his tower. He would leave at sunrise and come back late into the night. Mom blamed me. She hated me for a long time. But dad was happy.
WOMAN 1
The ambulance we be here in 3 minutes.
MAN 1
I don't know that he has 3 minutes.
WOMAN 2
He's asking for him.
MAN 1
That Sammy guy won't come over.
WOMAN 2
Well, how do you know if you don't ask him.
MAN 1
I asked him.
WOMAN 2
Well, I'm going to ask him.
SAMMY
He'd say hi to me and pat me on the head on his way up to the bedroom. He would walk straight into the shower leaving a trail of his dirty work clothes. I'd watch him sometimes and sneak out when he was toweling off.
WOMAN 2
Hey your dad's over there and/
SAMMY is taken by surprise and the mandolin music bursts from him. The groceries spill every where. He rushes to help her pick them up apologetically.
SAMMY
I'm sorry. I can't control it. Whenever I'm startled or nervous or sad or...well anything.
CHILD
Mommy? Mommy? Hey mommy.
MAN 1
Hey man cut that out!
WOMAN 1
Hello? Hello are you still there? Yes can you send the police too? Oh they're already coming great. Great. There's a man here...yelling music at people. I don't know...yelling music. I don't know if he is drunk or not? He might be.
SAMMY
And every day I would come here and bring him lunch. My mom would make it and I would carry it down and he would come down and pat my head and grab this sack and go back up again. I would get so nervous I couldn't say anything to him. Just, music.
CHILD
I think he's dying.
WOMAN 2
Get away from him.
WOMAN 1
He is dying.
CHILD
Do something.
WOMAN 2
We have to wait for the ambulance.
CHILD
Why?
MAN 1
Because we don't know the right thing to do.
CHILD
We could ask him.
WOMAN 2
Sweety leave him alone.
SAMMY
Every day for 30 years.
CHILD
Hey mister. What can I do? Huh? Sammy? Oh is that your son? He's real mean. He's yelling at everyone.
SAMMY
I’d meet him at this spot.
CHILD
What? You have to tell him something. Well can you tell me? I don't think he's coming over. I don't know, were you mean to him?
SAMMY
It’s about 3 miles high by this point. He’s a local hero.
CHILD
I’ll write it down if you want.
CHILD writes.
SAMMY
My dad.
CHILD goes to SAMMY and hands him paper. SAMMY reads. He looks down at CHILD and then he concentrates as hard as he has ever concentrated in his life. If the actor can make his nose bleed, that seems to be the current visual cue to indicate concentration. The mandolin music becomes more manageable and then it is just a hum and SAMMY goes to his father and leans down.
END OF PLAY
TOWERS
Scene 1
Lights up. SAMMY, alone on the stage, is looking straight up. He is carrying a sack lunch. There is a distant yelling that gets closer and closer as the lights fade. And then, in darkness, the sound a body makes when it hits the pavement after falling a few miles.
Scene 2
Lights up. Mandolin music starts quietly. There is a broken body face up almost exactly where SAMMY had been standing. The body reaches his hand up to SAMMY. SAMMY is looking down at the body. The mandolin music gets louder and louder. SAMMY bends down to the man and tries to hear what the man is saying but the mandolin music is too loud. Lights fade but music does not.
Scene 3
Lights up. SAMMY is facing the audience as far away from the body as the stage will allow. The mandolin music quiets slowly until it is a soft hum.
MAN 1 enters with a briefcase that he
immediately drops and goes to the body.
MAN 1
Oh my god Oh my god. Hey man. Hey are you alright. Oh god you're not alright. You're not alright. Alright what do I do? Ummmm...hey you you there hey! Call 911. Hey you! Oh shit oh shit.
MAN 1 approaches SAMMY. Mandolin music gets louder.
MAN 1
Hey. Hey! Somebody call someone! Where's that music coming from!
The body reaches his hand up to MAN 1. And MAN 1 leans down to listen to the body.
MAN 1
What? I can barely, what? No I can't...what? Turn that damn music off!
SAMMY closes his eyes and concentrates really hard. The music dims.
SAMMY
In the middle of the street there is a man.
MAN 1
Shhhhhh. He's saying something! Somebody help!
SAMMY
And that man's my father. Who I haven't spoken a word to in thirty-three years.
MAN 1
He's trying to say something. You're his son? Get over here!
SAMMY
And he wants to tell me all that he didn't tell me when he was alive.
MAN 1
He's not dead yet!
SAMMY
But he can't.
MAN 1
Help!
WOMAN 1 enters with a purse from which she has pulled a cellphone.
WOMAN 1
Omigod what happened?
MAN 1
He just fell. He fell from the sky.
WOMAN 1
What?
MAN 1
Just call someone.
WOMAN 1
I'm calling, I'm calling. Jesus Christ Jesus Christ.
SAMMY
He didn't fall from the sky. He fell from his tower.
MAN 1
What? What? I can barely hear you. Sammy. Are you Sammy? Sammy's here. Sammy's here. What? I know. He won't come. Should I make him come?
SAMMY
He fell from his tower.
MAN 1 goes to SAMMY
MAN 1
Hey man, you gotta get over there your dad he's/
MAN 1 grabs SAMMY and the mandolin music bursts so that MAN 1 is blown over. SAMMY tries to help catch him.
SAMMY (shouting over the music)
I'm sorry. When I was seven I swallowed a mandolin. My dad's mandolin.
WOMAN 1
Hello? 911? Yes there is man in the middle of the road.
Mandolin music begins to quiet.
SAMMY
I swallowed it because I thought he loved it more than he loved me.
WOMAN 2 enters with a grocery bag leading CHILD by the hand.
CHILD
Mommy look.
WOMAN 2
Don't look sweety.
CHILD
He's all flat. Did he fall.
WOMAN 2
Sweety I said don't look.
SAMMY
He asked, Sammy where's my mandolin and I lied and said that it had run off with mom. But then mom came home and then the mandolin started to play in my stomach. So he knew I was lying.
WOMAN 1
Yes. In the middle of the road. Where? Where? I don't know where? Where are we?
MAN 1
Corner of 5th and 2nd.
WOMAN 1
At the corner 5th and 2nd. No I'm not hurt. No, nobody is hurt except the guy lying in the middle of the road. No he's not drunk he's dying!
SAMMY
But he wasn't mad. He smiled. But it was a sad smile and that's when I realized that I had eaten my dad's best friend because my dad talked very little because he hated talking. Or he was bad at talking my mom said. He got uncomfortable talking because he was a brick-layer and that was solitary work.
WOMAN 2
He's asking for a Sammy.
MAN 1
That's that guy over there.
WOMAN 2
We should go get him.
MAN 1
No. No.
SAMMY
And after I ate his mandolin, he didn't have anything to do so he started building his tower. He would leave at sunrise and come back late into the night. Mom blamed me. She hated me for a long time. But dad was happy.
WOMAN 1
The ambulance we be here in 3 minutes.
MAN 1
I don't know that he has 3 minutes.
WOMAN 2
He's asking for him.
MAN 1
That Sammy guy won't come over.
WOMAN 2
Well, how do you know if you don't ask him.
MAN 1
I asked him.
WOMAN 2
Well, I'm going to ask him.
SAMMY
He'd say hi to me and pat me on the head on his way up to the bedroom. He would walk straight into the shower leaving a trail of his dirty work clothes. I'd watch him sometimes and sneak out when he was toweling off.
WOMAN 2
Hey your dad's over there and/
SAMMY is taken by surprise and the mandolin music bursts from him. The groceries spill every where. He rushes to help her pick them up apologetically.
SAMMY
I'm sorry. I can't control it. Whenever I'm startled or nervous or sad or...well anything.
CHILD
Mommy? Mommy? Hey mommy.
MAN 1
Hey man cut that out!
WOMAN 1
Hello? Hello are you still there? Yes can you send the police too? Oh they're already coming great. Great. There's a man here...yelling music at people. I don't know...yelling music. I don't know if he is drunk or not? He might be.
SAMMY
And every day I would come here and bring him lunch. My mom would make it and I would carry it down and he would come down and pat my head and grab this sack and go back up again. I would get so nervous I couldn't say anything to him. Just, music.
CHILD
I think he's dying.
WOMAN 2
Get away from him.
WOMAN 1
He is dying.
CHILD
Do something.
WOMAN 2
We have to wait for the ambulance.
CHILD
Why?
MAN 1
Because we don't know the right thing to do.
CHILD
We could ask him.
WOMAN 2
Sweety leave him alone.
SAMMY
Every day for 30 years.
CHILD
Hey mister. What can I do? Huh? Sammy? Oh is that your son? He's real mean. He's yelling at everyone.
SAMMY
I’d meet him at this spot.
CHILD
What? You have to tell him something. Well can you tell me? I don't think he's coming over. I don't know, were you mean to him?
SAMMY
It’s about 3 miles high by this point. He’s a local hero.
CHILD
I’ll write it down if you want.
CHILD writes.
SAMMY
My dad.
CHILD goes to SAMMY and hands him paper. SAMMY reads. He looks down at CHILD and then he concentrates as hard as he has ever concentrated in his life. If the actor can make his nose bleed, that seems to be the current visual cue to indicate concentration. The mandolin music becomes more manageable and then it is just a hum and SAMMY goes to his father and leans down.
END OF PLAY
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Maybe the most unrelenting play yet! Yipes!
After HotCity did Demons, my friend Nancy mused that I must be incredibly put together to be able to write about such screwed up people without being consumed by them. I like to think that she's right. I think she's right. Right?
Disclaimer for the posted play: My dad and I get along REALLY REALLY REALLY well. Except when he bugs me about health insurance. Although I now have health insurance thanks to him bugging me. So, I guess, he wins.
Scene 1
Lights up. SAMMY, alone on the stage, is looking straight up. He is carrying a sack lunch. There is a distant yelling that gets closer and closer as the lights fade. And then, in darkness, the sound a body makes when it hits the pavement after falling a few miles.
Scene 2
Lights up. There is a broken body face up almost exactly where SAMMY had been standing. The body reaches his hand up to SAMMY. SAMMY is looking down at the body. The lights fade.
Scene 3
Lights up. SAMMY is facing the audience as far away from the body as the stage will allow.
Ummmm...hey you you there hey! Call 911. Hey you! Oh shit oh shit.
Disclaimer for the posted play: My dad and I get along REALLY REALLY REALLY well. Except when he bugs me about health insurance. Although I now have health insurance thanks to him bugging me. So, I guess, he wins.
TOWER
Scene 1
Lights up. SAMMY, alone on the stage, is looking straight up. He is carrying a sack lunch. There is a distant yelling that gets closer and closer as the lights fade. And then, in darkness, the sound a body makes when it hits the pavement after falling a few miles.
Scene 2
Lights up. There is a broken body face up almost exactly where SAMMY had been standing. The body reaches his hand up to SAMMY. SAMMY is looking down at the body. The lights fade.
Scene 3
Lights up. SAMMY is facing the audience as far away from the body as the stage will allow.
MAN 1 enters with a briefcase that he immediately drops and goes to the body.
MAN 1
Oh my god Oh my god. Hey man. Hey are you alright. Oh god you're not alright. You're not alright. Alright what do I do?MAN 1 realizes he is going the throw up and runs offstage and throws up offstage and runs back to the body.
Ummmm...hey you you there hey! Call 911. Hey you! Oh shit oh shit.
SAMMY
I'm sorry.MAN 1
What? Hey. Hey! Somebody call someone!SAMMY
I can't.The body reaches his hand up to MAN 1. And MAN 1 leans down to listen to the body.
MAN 1
What? I can barely, what? No I can't...what?SAMMY
In the middle of the street there is a dead man.MAN 1
Shhhhhh. He's saying something! He's not dead yet. Somebody help!SAMMY
And that man was my father.MAN 1
He's trying to say something. You're his son? Get over here!SAMMY
And he wants to tell me all that he didn't tell me when he was alive.MAN 1
He's not dead!.SAMMY
But my father once told me never listen to ghosts because they are lying sonsofbitches so I am talking to you instead.MAN 1
Help!WOMAN 1 enters with a purse from which she has pulled a cellphone.
WOMAN 1
Omigod what happened?MAN 1
He just fell. He fell from the sky.WOMAN 1
What?MAN 1
Just call someone.WOMAN 1
I'm calling, I'm calling. Jesus Christ Jesus Christ.SAMMY
He didn't fall from the sky.MAN 1
What? What? I can barely hear you. Sammy. Are you Sammy? Sammy's here. Sammy's here. What? I know. He won't come. Should I make him come?SAMMY
The sky wouldn't have let him fall. The sky loved him. It cradled him his whole life.MAN 1 goes to SAMMY
MAN 1
Hey man, you gotta get over there your dad he's/ SAMMY punches MAN 1so that he falls, unconscious.
SAMMY
My dad once told me a story about his childhood.WOMAN 1
Hello? 911? Yes there is man in the middle of the road.SAMMY
He and his friends built a kite our of sheets and broom handles and wire.WOMAN 2 enters with a grocery bag leading CHILD by the hand.
CHILD
Mommy look.WOMAN 2
Don't look sweety.CHILD
He's all flat. Did he fall.WOMAN 2
Sweety I said don't look.SAMMY
And everybody laughed at them and said it couldn't fly and his parents just shook their heads and went back to playing gin because it was Sunday afternoon.WOMAN 1
Yes. In the middle of the road. Where? Where? I don't know where? Where are we?WOMAN 2
Corner of 5th and 2nd.CHILD
What happened to that man over there?WOMAN 1
At the corner 5th and 2nd. No I'm not hurt. No, nobody is hurt except the guy lying in the middle of the road. No he's not drunk he's dying!SAMMY
But the design was flawless and they took it to the field and my father wouldn't let anyone fly it but him and the sky laughed at him because it saw its own stubborness in this boy and it pulled the kite harder and harder until the kite lifted my father into the air.WOMAN 2 has gone over to MAN 1
WOMAN 2
Hey are you okay? Hey you. Honey, stay back.SAMMY
They found him an hour later three miles away. Smiling as he picked the bugs out his teeth and the feathers and leaves out of his hair. "Like goddamn Peter Pan."CHILD
Did he fall too?WOMAN 2
Hey are you alright.MAN 1
I'm fine.MAN 1 gets up and returns to the body.
WOMAN 2
What happened?MAN 1
He fell out of the sky.SAMMY
From that moment on, he was in the sky whenever possible.MAN 1 (about the body)
What is he saying?WOMAN 1
I'm on the phone with 911. I don't know.SAMMY
He climbed every tree to its highest branch and never fell. He visited his grandmother whenever he could because she lived in Oregon and he had to fly there. When he was 16 he dropped out of school to join the air force. Never shot down. Never shot down once. He retired to fly stunt planes and then he found skydiving and realized that he didn't even need a plane anymore. He could fly without wings. The sky let him.WOMAN 2
He's asking for a Sammy.MAN 1
That's that guy over there.WOMAN 2
We should go get him.MAN 1
No. No.SAMMY
But it was all too temporary for him. He always had to come back to earth. To eat. To sleep. To marry. To make me.WOMAN 1
The ambulance we be here in 3 minutes.MAN 1
I don't know that he has 3 minutes.WOMAN 2
He's asking for him.MAN 1
That Sammy guy won't come over.WOMAN 2
Well, how do you know if you don't ask him.MAN 1
I asked him.WOMAN 2
Well, I'm going to ask him.SAMMY
That was the only story he ever told me. WOMAN 2
Hey your dad's over there and/SAMMY punches WOMAN 2 so that she falls, unconscious. The groceries spill every where.
SAMMY
That and the advice about not trusting ghosts.MAN 1
Hey man I know you're upset but/SAMMY punches MAN 1so that he falls, unconscious.
CHILD
Mommy? Mommy? Hey mommy.SAMMY
Because when I was seven he started building a tower. A tower that he could live in that would be tall enough so that he could always be in the sky.CHILD runs to WOMAN 1
CHILD
I think my mommy's hurt.WOMAN 2
Why don't you wait over here. The ambulance is on the way. Hello? Hello are you still there? Yes can you send the police too? Oh they're already coming great. Great. There's a man here punching people. I don't know if he is drunk or not? He might be.SAMMY
And every day I would come here and bring him lunch. My mom would make it and I would carry it down and he would come down and pat my head and grab this sack and go back up again without so much as a "hey son".CHILD
I think he's dying.WOMAN 1
He is dying.CHILD
Do something.WOMAN
We have to wait for the ambulance.CHILD
Why?WOMAN
Because we don't know the right thing to do sweetheart.CHILD
We could ask him. WOMAN 1
I don't think he'd know either.SAMMY
Every day for 40 years.CHILD
Hey mister. What can I do? Huh? Sammy? Oh is that your son? He's real mean. He punched my mom. What? You have to tell him something. Well can you tell me? I don't think he's coming over. I don't know, were you mean to him?SAMMY
It’s about 3 miles high by this point. He’s a local hero.CHILD
I’ll write it down if you want.SAMMY
What a shit.CHILD
I think he’s dead.WOMAN 1
Are they close? How close? No I think we’re losing him. I don’t know if there’s a pulse hold on. Nope no pulse. Okay. Okay hurry.SAMMY goes to the body and stares at him like he did in Scene 2. CHILD goes to WOMAN 2.
END OF PLAY
Monday, December 3, 2007
A play I'm fix'n to submit.
Two friends and I are joint writing a seven page three-act play called Razor Butterfly Apple. Why, you might ask? Well, Kristen and I were at Red Moon's Hunchback (stellar!) and we were waiting for the show to begin and she said "razor butterfly apple," not randomly but the back-story to how we reached this point in the conversation is long and incomprehensible, so suffice it to say we arrived at "razor butterfly apple."
And I said, "What a great title for a play."
And in the deep background of both of our brains, a gunshot rang and we were off: Structure: 3 acts. Length: 6-7 pages. Characters: two girls and a potentially talking willow tree. I claimed apple. Kristen took butterfly because razor was too obvious. This took about 2 minutes. An email to Liz later secured our third. And our guerrilla playwriting project had begun.
This was all last night. The first draft is already done. I have found my people.
I will post the completed terrifying mess when we have "finished" it.
The length of 6-7 pages was actually determined by a festival that a local company holds every year called Sketchbook, and it is our intention to submit it after we dramaturg the shit out of it. And once I start writing, all I kind of want to do is write, so I wrote another piece to submit (we can enter three each because they are short).
I am posting this play with the following disclaimer:
This is NOT autobiographical.
The character in this monologue play is NOT me, though we share some thoughts.
And most importantly: mom, I do NOT think you look old at all.
Because in the back of the room behind the seats resting comfortably by the door ready to slide behind us as we exit is a truth that we don't want to think about. And if I'm not doing my job or if I'm doing a shitty job, he'll sneak into the seat next to you and prop his elbow on the arm of your chair and start breathing silently into your ear and you don't even realize it but all of a sudden you thinking about how old your mom looked when you went home for her 60th birthday. You're thinking about how you can't remember high school anymore and how when you look back at your childhood you are seeing yourself in the third person. Thoughts usually reserved for the eerie quiet of 3AM when you haven't been able to fall asleep because you can't quite reach that annoying little itch somewhere between your skull and your chest and suddenly the flood gates crack and you're drowning.
You roll over and cling to the person next you. You try to think about anything else. What you have to get done at work tomorrow: oh I have a lot to get done I have to xerox that report for administration and coordinate that meeting with management and utilities and if I can sneak it in my nephew's birthday is in two months and I wonder if that toy store has an internet site, or if Amazon.com has it, or if Ebay has it.
You think about what you are going to eat for breakfast oh bacon sounds good bacon sounds great maybe I should make some bacon right now oh but I am so tired I can't move there's no way I can move I’m just going to fall asleep.
Hey baby hey sweety: sex come on come on kiss kiss kiss wake up sweety I am going to rock your world baby if you would only wake up baby oh hi did I wake you well now that you're awake...
That's why we fuck so much, and when we're not fucking we're masturbating and if not that then we are thinking about fucking or masturbating. Or we are watching a tv show in which people either presently fucking or in the process of securing a person with whom they can fuck. Because sex is not just a recreational past-time: it is a defense mechanism. Because the evolution that is corsing through us is telling us that we need to procreate and so when we are having sex we have tricked our brain into thinking that we are actually achieving something.
And despite all that practice, we all think we're dissatisfied with our sex-lives; but we're really just dissatisfied with life. The whole mechanism. We say that we're unhappy with our sex life because we can fix that. We can buy another toy, call up another friend, try doing it on the roof in the rain...
Catharsis is a term that is thrown about a lot in the theatre. As a good thing. As a thing that cleanses us. A thing that makes us feel like we have achieved something just by watching a play. Like we have achieved what the actor has achieved even though we're just sitting there. Like when an asshole character gets his comeupins, we feel like we gave it to them. We feel like justice has been served and that we somehow served it. Or some character in need got helped, and we feel like we helped them.
But then we don't give any money to the homeless guy outside trying to sell you a Streetwise. Catharsis is the queengoddess of all distraction because you feel like you’re the opposite of distracted: you feel like right now at this very moment you are hyperaware of all of the realities of truth and beauty because it has just been presented to you in an easy-to-digest coated blue pill on a silver-spoonful of sugar. Like we were in a cave and we had been looking at shadows, but we can now turn around and look at the candle. And we are so happy, so fucking gleeful, that we don't even think to look past the candle outside the cave.
Or maybe we do look past it, but it's too fucking dark out there to see anything.
It’s not just cathartic for you all either. When I experience something up here, I almost really experience it. It’s like life without the risk of death. I can't die when I'm up here. (DEATH comes up behind him/her) My character can die. (S/he dies) In any number of ways (S/he dies again). But I will always (S/he dies again) come back (dies again). It's like a shield. Or like a bodyguard. And as long as I have my guard up, I'm safe. And this stage is safe because we made it
The irony of it all is/
And I said, "What a great title for a play."
And in the deep background of both of our brains, a gunshot rang and we were off: Structure: 3 acts. Length: 6-7 pages. Characters: two girls and a potentially talking willow tree. I claimed apple. Kristen took butterfly because razor was too obvious. This took about 2 minutes. An email to Liz later secured our third. And our guerrilla playwriting project had begun.
This was all last night. The first draft is already done. I have found my people.
I will post the completed terrifying mess when we have "finished" it.
The length of 6-7 pages was actually determined by a festival that a local company holds every year called Sketchbook, and it is our intention to submit it after we dramaturg the shit out of it. And once I start writing, all I kind of want to do is write, so I wrote another piece to submit (we can enter three each because they are short).I am posting this play with the following disclaimer:
This is NOT autobiographical.
The character in this monologue play is NOT me, though we share some thoughts.
And most importantly: mom, I do NOT think you look old at all.
WHEN IT’S ALWAYS 3
ACTOR
I am ignoring the large dark elephant in the room. So are you. I'm distracting myself by talking to you, and you're distracting yourself by watching me, listening to me, wondering if I am going to go up on my lines, wondering if I am going to crack under the pressure. But the truth is when I'm up here is the one time that I feel no pressure because I have ceased to be me. I have taken on my merry little role, my character, which in this play is a reluctant nihilist, just as you have taken on your polite little role as audience. We don't do this because we have to, we do this because we need to. To distract ourselves.Because in the back of the room behind the seats resting comfortably by the door ready to slide behind us as we exit is a truth that we don't want to think about. And if I'm not doing my job or if I'm doing a shitty job, he'll sneak into the seat next to you and prop his elbow on the arm of your chair and start breathing silently into your ear and you don't even realize it but all of a sudden you thinking about how old your mom looked when you went home for her 60th birthday. You're thinking about how you can't remember high school anymore and how when you look back at your childhood you are seeing yourself in the third person. Thoughts usually reserved for the eerie quiet of 3AM when you haven't been able to fall asleep because you can't quite reach that annoying little itch somewhere between your skull and your chest and suddenly the flood gates crack and you're drowning.
You roll over and cling to the person next you. You try to think about anything else. What you have to get done at work tomorrow: oh I have a lot to get done I have to xerox that report for administration and coordinate that meeting with management and utilities and if I can sneak it in my nephew's birthday is in two months and I wonder if that toy store has an internet site, or if Amazon.com has it, or if Ebay has it.
ACTOR looks around content and then it fades and s/he is freaking out again.
You think about what you are going to eat for breakfast oh bacon sounds good bacon sounds great maybe I should make some bacon right now oh but I am so tired I can't move there's no way I can move I’m just going to fall asleep.
ACTOR looks like s/he is asleep but then is freaking out again.
Hey baby hey sweety: sex come on come on kiss kiss kiss wake up sweety I am going to rock your world baby if you would only wake up baby oh hi did I wake you well now that you're awake...
That's why we fuck so much, and when we're not fucking we're masturbating and if not that then we are thinking about fucking or masturbating. Or we are watching a tv show in which people either presently fucking or in the process of securing a person with whom they can fuck. Because sex is not just a recreational past-time: it is a defense mechanism. Because the evolution that is corsing through us is telling us that we need to procreate and so when we are having sex we have tricked our brain into thinking that we are actually achieving something.
And despite all that practice, we all think we're dissatisfied with our sex-lives; but we're really just dissatisfied with life. The whole mechanism. We say that we're unhappy with our sex life because we can fix that. We can buy another toy, call up another friend, try doing it on the roof in the rain...
Catharsis is a term that is thrown about a lot in the theatre. As a good thing. As a thing that cleanses us. A thing that makes us feel like we have achieved something just by watching a play. Like we have achieved what the actor has achieved even though we're just sitting there. Like when an asshole character gets his comeupins, we feel like we gave it to them. We feel like justice has been served and that we somehow served it. Or some character in need got helped, and we feel like we helped them.
But then we don't give any money to the homeless guy outside trying to sell you a Streetwise. Catharsis is the queengoddess of all distraction because you feel like you’re the opposite of distracted: you feel like right now at this very moment you are hyperaware of all of the realities of truth and beauty because it has just been presented to you in an easy-to-digest coated blue pill on a silver-spoonful of sugar. Like we were in a cave and we had been looking at shadows, but we can now turn around and look at the candle. And we are so happy, so fucking gleeful, that we don't even think to look past the candle outside the cave.
Or maybe we do look past it, but it's too fucking dark out there to see anything.
It’s not just cathartic for you all either. When I experience something up here, I almost really experience it. It’s like life without the risk of death. I can't die when I'm up here. (DEATH comes up behind him/her) My character can die. (S/he dies) In any number of ways (S/he dies again). But I will always (S/he dies again) come back (dies again). It's like a shield. Or like a bodyguard. And as long as I have my guard up, I'm safe. And this stage is safe because we made it
The lights hiss and pop and go dark as if a fuse just melted. In the dark, ACTOR remains basically still. Then ACTOR improvises. S/hee can wait a while if s/he wants. But then s/he tries to strike up a conversation. Maybe about her/himself. Maybe about the festival. Maybe about some local bit of news that everyone knows about. S/he is making small talk because if s/he doesn't then s/he will start freaking out...the improv should end with the following line:
The irony of it all is/
All the lights burst on and during the darkness as many DEATHs as you can costume have slipped into the audience, in the aisles, in empty chairs, standing directly in front of people. Hopefully there will be screaming. And no catharsis.
End of Play
Monday, November 19, 2007
It took me four years to learn how to ride a bike and that was only after I rode smack into a huge blue wall in the middle of a completely empty space
Late Night Break Up
I love you.
No you don't.
How do you know?
Because I don't love you.
Oh.
I'm not sorry either.
Oh.
I love your father.
What?
You're dad.
He's, like, 70.
He's a real man.
He's 70.
Don't tell him.
Why would I tell him.
Why wouldn't you.
He's married. To my mom. For like 50 years.
She's old though.
So is he.
And men cheat.
I think you should leave.
Loads of men want to cheat with me. I've had offers. I, like, remind them of something.
I need for you to leave now.
Is your dad home?
Where's your coat?
He's probably asleep. Is he a light sleeper? Lighter than your mom?
Here.
I wonder if I just lightly knocked on the door...
I want you to leave right now.
Or if I just slipped in next to him...
I'll call the cops.
She laughs.
Oh come on.
I will.
I'm not serious. (Beat) You think I want to do your dad. You're mom's like the sweetest person on the planet.
Ok.
I mean, your dad's fine and all.
Yeah.
But he's, like, 70.
He is.
Probably couldn't even perform if I did jump him.
73 actually.
I mean, it would be a thrill for him no doubt.
Sure. Sure.
I mean when you're 70.
73.
I bet you'll want your son's friend...
Girlfriend.
to make a pass at you.
I don't think so.
Oh come on you'll take your jimmys were you can get them.
I don't think so. And it's jollys I think.
I'd probably give him his first hard-on in years. Maybe decades.
I think I still want for you to go.
It was only a gag.
No. It's fine. But I think I still...
I mean except for the part about old men wanting me. That's true. I don't know why. Maybe they want all the girls. Oh god here I was thinking I was special but what if they make passes at everything walks by them. Jesus that's embarrassing.
It's getting late and I have to get up in the morning.
Would you want me if you were 70?
Not if I was married.
No, no but say you weren't married would you want me?
When you're 70?
No like I am now.
But I'm 70?
Right.
Probably.
Really?
I mean, I want you now; I don't think taste in women changes. But maybe it does. I guess it does. It must, right? Or else old people would be chasing around young people all day. So I don't know. Maybe I'd want you.
Maybe.
Or maybe I'd want you only I'd want you-at-70.
You want me to be 70.
Well not now, no, I...
There's a word for that. For the opposite of pedophile. But I don't know it because nobody talks about it because it disgusts people. Not that it disgusts me. But I'm a girl. And girls find older men, maturity, sexy. But it disgusts men because Mrs. Robinson and Maud aren't real. Men want firmness more than they want maturity. And I'm firm.
Yes.
And you like that I'm firm.
...yes...
But I won't always be firm.
...no?
I think we should break-up.
Okay.
Because I don't love you and you love me and I think that's going to make things awkward because there is all this expectation, all this pressure for me to fall in love with you now and I don't think I will because I really don't do well under pressure. I resist it. I run away from it. Kind of like I think I am going to run-away right now. Maybe that is why I find older men attractive. They're going to die soon. I tell you I love you and, wham bam!, we're married and then we're 70 and we have spent 40+ years together wanting to screw other people but remaining faithful out of politeness even though we want to be chasing around all the firm 20somethings; but if you're 70 then the pressure is off because even if we do end up married, it won't be for the rest of my life. The rest of your life, sure, but I will have a life after marriage. A safety net.
I think we should break-up.
Oh. You're sweet.
Okay.
You don't have to.
I know. But I think I do. Think that.
Oh.
You're freaking me out.
And so you're breaking up with me.
I'm agreeing with you.
That we should break up.
Right.
Because I'm freaking you out.
Yes. No...Yes.
You're so immature.
She opens door.
And you wonder why I'm sleeping with your dad.
She leaves.
I love you.
No you don't.
How do you know?
Because I don't love you.
Oh.
I'm not sorry either.
Oh.
I love your father.
What?
You're dad.
He's, like, 70.
He's a real man.
He's 70.
Don't tell him.
Why would I tell him.
Why wouldn't you.
He's married. To my mom. For like 50 years.
She's old though.
So is he.
And men cheat.
I think you should leave.
Loads of men want to cheat with me. I've had offers. I, like, remind them of something.
I need for you to leave now.
Is your dad home?
Where's your coat?
He's probably asleep. Is he a light sleeper? Lighter than your mom?
Here.
I wonder if I just lightly knocked on the door...
I want you to leave right now.
Or if I just slipped in next to him...
I'll call the cops.
She laughs.
Oh come on.
I will.
I'm not serious. (Beat) You think I want to do your dad. You're mom's like the sweetest person on the planet.
Ok.
I mean, your dad's fine and all.
Yeah.
But he's, like, 70.
He is.
Probably couldn't even perform if I did jump him.
73 actually.
I mean, it would be a thrill for him no doubt.
Sure. Sure.
I mean when you're 70.
73.
I bet you'll want your son's friend...
Girlfriend.
to make a pass at you.
I don't think so.
Oh come on you'll take your jimmys were you can get them.
I don't think so. And it's jollys I think.
I'd probably give him his first hard-on in years. Maybe decades.
I think I still want for you to go.
It was only a gag.
No. It's fine. But I think I still...
I mean except for the part about old men wanting me. That's true. I don't know why. Maybe they want all the girls. Oh god here I was thinking I was special but what if they make passes at everything walks by them. Jesus that's embarrassing.
It's getting late and I have to get up in the morning.
Would you want me if you were 70?
Not if I was married.
No, no but say you weren't married would you want me?
When you're 70?
No like I am now.
But I'm 70?
Right.
Probably.
Really?
I mean, I want you now; I don't think taste in women changes. But maybe it does. I guess it does. It must, right? Or else old people would be chasing around young people all day. So I don't know. Maybe I'd want you.
Maybe.
Or maybe I'd want you only I'd want you-at-70.
You want me to be 70.
Well not now, no, I...
There's a word for that. For the opposite of pedophile. But I don't know it because nobody talks about it because it disgusts people. Not that it disgusts me. But I'm a girl. And girls find older men, maturity, sexy. But it disgusts men because Mrs. Robinson and Maud aren't real. Men want firmness more than they want maturity. And I'm firm.
Yes.
And you like that I'm firm.
...yes...
But I won't always be firm.
...no?
I think we should break-up.
Okay.
Because I don't love you and you love me and I think that's going to make things awkward because there is all this expectation, all this pressure for me to fall in love with you now and I don't think I will because I really don't do well under pressure. I resist it. I run away from it. Kind of like I think I am going to run-away right now. Maybe that is why I find older men attractive. They're going to die soon. I tell you I love you and, wham bam!, we're married and then we're 70 and we have spent 40+ years together wanting to screw other people but remaining faithful out of politeness even though we want to be chasing around all the firm 20somethings; but if you're 70 then the pressure is off because even if we do end up married, it won't be for the rest of my life. The rest of your life, sure, but I will have a life after marriage. A safety net.
I think we should break-up.
Oh. You're sweet.
Okay.
You don't have to.
I know. But I think I do. Think that.
Oh.
You're freaking me out.
And so you're breaking up with me.
I'm agreeing with you.
That we should break up.
Right.
Because I'm freaking you out.
Yes. No...Yes.
You're so immature.
She opens door.
And you wonder why I'm sleeping with your dad.
She leaves.
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