Short Play #3: "At Loon Lake"

“At Loon Lake”

a new one-act play

by

Kirby Fields

Produced as part of the New York 15-Minute Play Festival on April 29, and May 6-7, 2011, featuring Sue Berch, Dave Brown, Jeffrey Nauman, and Scott Sowers, directed by Kel Haney.

The Characters

MITCH – male, 40’s

MAUREEN – female, 40’s, Mitch’s wife

ROBIN – male, 40’s

CODY – male, teenager, Robin’s severely disabled son

 

The Place

The beach at Loon Lake.

 

The Time

The present.

“At Loon Lake”

At rise: Sounds of birds chirping, water lapping, children playing. MITCH and MAUREEN on a blanket on the beach. Assorted beach-appropriate items are scattered. MAUREEN holds a tube of sunscreen.

MITCH

Fucking Loon Lake. I’ve got to be as crazy as one to be out here. How’d you ever talk me into this anyway?

MAUREEN

I didn’t talk you into anything. You’re here because you love me.

MITCH

Is that so?

MAUREEN

And because you forgot our date night on Friday and instead played poker with the boys.

MITCH

Ah, right.

                        (Beat.  MITCH sighs, discontentedly.)

MAUREEN

Why don’t you go get in the water or something?

MITCH

Are you kidding me? It’s one of the most polluted lakes in the state.

MAUREEN

Don’t be ridiculous. Look at all the people out there.

MITCH

I’m telling you, it’s a fucking cesspool. When their doctors diagnose them all with Hepatitis C, they’ll be sorry.

MAUREEN

Since when do you know about polluted lakes anyway?

MITCH

I read an article.

MAUREEN

Since when do you read?

MITCH

Since your meatloaf gave me plenty of time to do nothing but.

MAUREEN

My meatloaf. As if you need an excuse.

           

MITCH

I’ll tell you one thing right now though, next weekend, this keister isn’t moving so much as an inch from the couch, certain biological obligations notwithstanding.

MAUREEN

Mitch!  Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. Cody gets in next weekend.

MITCH

Cody?

MAUREEN

He’s only got two weeks after the semester before summer school.

MITCH

You didn’t tell me.

MAUREEN

I was hoping you two could—.

MITCH

Nobody told me, Maureen. Not you and damn sure not—.

MAUREEN

Well, I’m telling you now. His last final is on Thursday. He’ll be home on Friday.

MITCH

That fucking kid.

MAUREEN

Mitchell!

MITCH

No. He’s been at that school for, what, two years now? And he’s called me a grand total of one time, and that only because the battery on your phone had died and he needed someone to send him some money.

MAUREEN

I’m sure that’s not—.

MITCH

One time, Maureen.

MAUREEN

Well, maybe if you would actually have a conversation with him when he did call.

MITCH

I have a conversation.

MAUREEN

“Hello, son. How are your grades? Don’t fuck up. Here’s your mother.”

MITCH

That’s a conversation.

MAUREEN

No “How are you doing? What did you do today? Are you seeing anyone?”

MITCH

It’s implied.

MAUREEN

In which part? The “don’t fuck up” or the “here’s your mother”?

MITCH

It’s implied. He understands. Men understand.

MAUREEN

Well maybe boys don’t.

He’s changing his major. I don’t know why he never called you before, but this time it’s because he’s changing his major and he’s afraid of what you’re going to say.

MITCH

He’s changing his major? To what?

MAUREEN

To Sociology.

MITCH

The fuck he is.

 

MAUREEN

See.

MITCH

I’m sorry, Maureen, but—.

MAUREEN

This is exactly why—.

MITCH

What’s wrong with Business?

MAUREEN

There’s nothing wrong with Business, except, apparently, that it’s not Sociology.

MITCH

It’s a perfectly respectable career path.

MAUREEN

It is.

MITCH

You know what they say, don’t you?

MAUREEN

No.

MITCH

You want to help people, study Sociology. You want to get a job, study Business.

MAUREEN

I’m not sure they say that.

MITCH

Well, they should. Or something like it, anyway. Fucking Sociology. It just doesn’t make any sense. Do you know what I would have given to have the opportunity that boy has?  A diploma, Maureen. A college degree. He’s going straight to the top, not stall halfway up the corporate ladder.

MAUREEN

Oh, baby, you haven’t stalled.

MITCH

I wasn’t talking about—.

MAUREEN

Of course you weren’t.

(MITCH sees something offstage.)

He’s 20 years old. I’m sure he’s just—.

MITCH

Hey. Check it out.

(MAUREEN looks off. Sound of an inarticulate moan from offstage.)

MAUREEN

Oh my god. There but for the grace of god go—.

MITCH

I know, right? Can you believe this shit? I mean, like you said, we’re trying to have a day here. We’re trying to have a good fucking day.

                        (another piercing moan)

MAUREEN

I just don’t know what I would have done. I just—.

MITCH

I know what you would have done. You wouldn’t have let it get to that point in the first place.

MAUREEN

But—.

MITCH

No buts about it. It’s unconscionable. Bringing something like that into the world. After all, there are tests for these kinds of things nowadays. After a certain point, the only ass you should be required to wipe is your own.

MAUREEN

Hush up. They’re coming this way.

(ROBIN enters. He’s a pleasant-looking, middle-aged man. Behind him is CODY. CODY is a severely disabled teenage boy. His face, hands, and body are contorted. He communicates via yelps and moans.)

                        (CODY bellows.)

 

ROBIN

That’s right. We’re going to go for a swim in the lake.

                        (CODY)

Oh, I don’t know. I suppose it will be a little on the cold side, but it’s so hot out, I bet it’s going to feel good.

                        (CODY)

Colder than your bath, yes, but with less soap in your eyes.

                        (CODY)

No. You’ll still have to get a bath.

                        (CODY)

Because bathing and swimming are two different things, that’s why. One is hardly a substitute for the other.

                        (CODY)

True. But they’re different kinds of water. Think about it. After you’ve taken a bath, you hardly feel like you’ve gone swimming, right? Well, the same idea works in reverse.

(ROBIN makes eye contact with MITCH and shakes his head as if to say, “The questions just never stop, do they?” Then, to MITCH:)

Beautiful day, isn’t it?

MITCH

It is.

ROBIN

I’m telling you, the sky on days like this.

MITCH

Supposed to be turn by the end of the week.

ROBIN

Is that so?

MITCH

What the news says, anyway.

ROBIN

Well, enjoy it while it lasts.

MITCH

You too.

ROBIN

Thanks. Come on, Cody.

MAUREEN

Mitch.

MITCH

I heard, Maureen.

ROBIN

I’m sorry, did I—?

MITCH

No.

MAUREEN

It’s just—.

MITCH

It’s just nothing.

MAUREEN

It’s just that we have a son named “Cody,” too.

ROBIN

Is that right?

MAUREEN

We do.

ROBIN

My Cody is named after his grandfather, my father.

MAUREEN

That’s so sweet. Ours is named Cody because it’s the only name Mitch and I could agree on.

ROBIN

That’s important too.

MAUREEN

He’s thinking about changing his major, our Cody is. He’s starting his junior year at college and he’s—.

MITCH

He’s not changing his—.

MAUREEN

He’s thinking of changing from Business to Sociology.

ROBIN

That’s quite a change.

MAUREEN

It is. I tell him whatever makes him happy.

MITCH

Provided it keeps him out of the line at the soup kitchen.

(CODY whimpers. He stares at MITCH. MITCH stares back, uncomfortably.)

ROBIN

Well, I can’t speak too much to the business angle—I teach math to sixth graders, myself—but Cody here has taken a real shine to his caretaker. He’s almost become like a member of the family like. It’s a little different than briefcases and spreadsheets and, well, whatever it is business people do, but it’s rewarding in its own right, I suppose. You said it best, yourself: Whatever makes him happy.

                        (CODY continues staring at MITCH.)

Speaking of taking a shine. I think he likes you.

                        (CODY bellows.)

Yeah. He likes you.

MITCH

You can really understand him?

ROBIN

As much as anybody understands anyone, I guess. You can respond to him, you know. He is capable of carrying on a conversation.

MITCH

I wouldn’t know what to say.

ROBIN

Just say whatever pops into your head.

MAUREEN

That’s not a good idea.

ROBIN

I’m sure it’s—.

MITCH

No, she’s right. That’s probably not a—.

 

ROBIN

Come on… Whatever pops into your head. Really. It makes his day.

(Beat as MITCH looks at MAUREEN. She shrugs.)

MITCH

Cody. Now, you listen to your dad now, you hear. I read an article, you see, and that lake there is one of the dirtiest in the state. Now, I’m not saying you shouldn’t go out there and enjoy yourself. A little dirt comes with life. And on a day like today, it should cool you off something real good. But you make sure when you get home that you get yourself a bath tonight, you understand? I know it may not make much sense to you now, but your dad is just watching out for you, just making sure you do what’s best.

(MITCH stares at CODY, searching for some kind of recognition.)

Are you sure he’s able to—?

(CODY reaches toward MITCH’s face. MITCH recoils.)

ROBIN

It’s OK.

(CODY reaches up and strokes MITCH’s cheek. He moans loudly.)

MITCH

Yeah. You too.

                        (After a pause, ROBIN takes CODY by the hand.)

ROBIN

Come on. We don’t need to impose on these fine people anymore than we already have.

                        (ROBIN and CODY begin to exit.)

MITCH

Hey.

ROBIN

Yes?

MITCH

You decided to name him after your old man before he was born?

ROBIN

When we learned it was a boy, yes.

MITCH

And you knew that…. You knew he was going to be that way?

ROBIN

Yes. We knew.

MITCH

How’d that make him feel? Your pops?

ROBIN

Are you kidding me? He was honored. Have a nice day.

                        (ROBIN and CODY exit.)

(Pause as MITCH and MAUREEN listen to CODY’s cries recede into the distance.)

MITCH

See. What I fucking tell you, huh? I mean, talk about a buzzkill. I’m not saying that they shouldn’t be let out of the house. I won’t go so far as to say that, but I will say—.

MAUREEN

Shut up, Mitch.

MITCH

Excuse me.

MAUREEN

I said shut the fuck up.

                        (She reaches into her purse and pulls out a cell phone.)

MITCH

Hey. Just because they ruined your day at the beach doesn’t mean—.

                        (MAUREEN holds the phone to MITCH.)

MAUREEN

Call.

MITCH

What?

MAUREEN

You heard me. Call.

MITCH

What are you talking about? Who am I supposed to—?

MAUREEN

You know damn well who.

MITCH

And what am I supposed to say? We just saw a retard on the beach and thought of you.

MAUREEN

If that feels right.

MITCH

Maureen.

MAUREEN

You’ll think of something.

MITCH

He’s not going to answer.

MAUREEN

It’s my phone. He’ll answer.

MITCH

But what am I supposed to—?

MAUREEN

It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you call. Now.

                        (MITCH takes the phone.)

MITCH

Why don’t you get into the water or something?

MAUREEN

In that water? No way. I hear it’s a cesspool.

MITCH

Oh, for Christ’s—.

MAUREEN

But I’ll tell you what, I will take a stroll along the shore, if you promise.

MITCH

I promise.

MAUREEN

There are records, you know, on the phone. There are ways of knowing.

MITCH

I know.

MAUREEN

Logs that list numbers called, even lengths of conversations.

MITCH

I know, Maureen. I know. Go take your walk.

                        (She kisses him on the cheek.)

MAUREEN

You’re a good man, Mitchell. Or at least there’s a good man in there somewhere.

                        (She exits.)

                        (MITCH looks at the phone. After a few seconds, he calls.)

MITCH

Hello. Cody? No. It’s your dad. I said, It’s your dad. Yes, I know. No. She’s fine. We’re at the beach, actually. I know, right. How she ever talked me into this one. Hey, listen. I know you’re busy and all, and I’ll let you talk to your mom in just a minute, but first I wanted to…first I just wanted to say….

                       

(MITCH pauses, searching for the right words, searching for any words. He is unable to find them. After faltering for a few seconds, he rocks his head back—the phone still to his mouth—and unleashes a primal scream.)

                        (end of play)

Short Play #2: "Job Hunting in the Age of Farmville" (a one-minute play)

“Job Hunting in the Age of Farmville”

a One-Minute Play

by Kirby Fields

Produced as part of Spare Change Theater's One-Minute Play Festival, New York, September 10-11, 2010, and again as part of the Best Of Festival, July 29, 2011

At rise:  GLADWELL on one side of the desk, RUPERT on the other.

GLADWELL

So, Mr. Rupert.

RUPERT

Yes.

GLADWELL

Your education is impressive.  Your past experience exactly what we’re looking for.  And your references impeccable. 

RUPERT

Great.  So when do I—?

GLADWELL

I’m afraid, however, that we’re not going to be able to hire you.

RUPERT

But, why not?

GLADWELL

Well, we were all ready to make an offer, and then we checked your Facebook page.

RUPERT

Oh.

GLADWELL

Yes.

RUPERT

I see.  May I ask what it was exactly that—.

GLADWELL

I’d really rather not—.

RUPERT

Was it the picture of me getting tazed on the field in Philly?  Or the one of me doing a line of coke off a hooker’s ass?  Or wait a minute!  I know!  It was the beer bong with Mike the Situation Sorrentino, wasn’t it?

GLADWELL

No, no.  We’re a very tolerant company.  It wasn’t any of those things.

RUPERT

Then what was it then?

GLADWELL

It’s your status updates.

RUPERT

What about them?

GLADWELL

They’re just not very funny.

(end of play)

Guest Blogger: "Stepping Back," by Craig Weiner

I don't read anymore.  Not like I used to, when I spent hours in used bookstores desperately seeking performance-enhancing supplements to my English major and two subsequent masters degrees.  Now, I'm lucky if I can get through a Sports Illustrated before the next one comes in the mail.  My wife will turn to me in bed and say, "You should read this book, but I know you won't."  I don't even give her an empty promise.  I just roll over and go to sleep to numb the shame. 

I've thought a lot about books since reading Kirby's inaugural Remainders post.  I have a lot of them.  Each time I've moved, I've faithfully packed them up in new cardboard boxes that I've had to purchase for the occasion because the last thing you want to do after you move is look at cardboard boxes, let alone keep them.  Five different apartments in six years in St. Louis, a year in Boston, to a storage unit while searching for myself abroad for a few months, a year in New York, two in Pittsburgh, and then seven more and counting back in New York.  I'm in my fourth apartment here.  The last three apartments have come with a wife and two of those have included a small child.  The last time I moved, I didn't even bother to organize the books on the shelves.  Ernest Hemingway rubbed shoulders with whoever wrote the "I'm a Lebowski, You're a Lebowski" trivia book based on the Coen brothers film and no one cared.  When space got tight in our daughter's room, we moved the bookcases into a narrow hallway that has essentially served as stroller parking and storage.  Suddenly, it appeared that there were no books in our apartment, save for the hundred or so books for two year-olds, many of which extol the myriad virtues of not defecating in one's pants.

I know he claims that this is his daughter's, but don't let him fool you.  I've shared a hotel room with the man.  I know the truth.

It seemed strange to me that the bookcases were not the central feature of the living room, like trophies on a mantelpiece to show off how well-read I once was.  You ought to be able to tell a lot about a person by the books on their shelves.  What did it say about me that I had no books?  Or rather had hidden from them like a former best friend with whom you no longer had something in common, yet always rode the same busy subway train each morning, avoiding eye contact, perhaps moving to another car during a stop.  I was angry that the books had been relegated to obscurity, but of course I was only angry at myself for arriving at this point.  I had all the excuses, including the scarcity of space and the compromise that comes with not living alone anymore, but I was finally resolved to do something about it.  Our apartment was closing in on us.  Toys mounted.  I tried to counteract the expanding force by exercising in the hopes that a smaller ass might allow us to live here another year without moving to a three bedroom in Queens.  My last resort was to redesign the apartment.

"Redesign" is probably a generous description of what can be done on a $300 budget.  "Rearrange" is really the word.  Move a dresser here, throw out a dresser there, buy another dresser, throw out a broken bookcase, buy a smaller used dining room table, move a nursing chair from here to there, and now we have the makings of a roomier home.  In a stunning transformation, the bookcases have been moved to a more prominent part of the hallway, just off the living room, visible to anyone who wants to stand near our hallway.  Last night, I arranged the books.  One entire bookcase of plays, another one for literature, i.e. anything written before 1970, plus contemporary fiction on the lower shelves.  The remnants of my other major in History now sit neatly atop two dressers, as well as in a smaller bookcase, in the bedroom.  There is still a box of my wife's cookbooks in the hallway.  We need another bookcase, but I oughtn't push my luck.  To purchase a new hideously wood-colored Ikea bookcase to match the relics from graduate school that persist in our lives is a design folly my wife would not stand. 

What made this event momentous was not so much the return from banishment of the books, but the fact that I voluntarily removed nearly a dozen books from my collection, to be donated to Housing Works, where no one else will read them, either.  Big, thick books that I packed and unpacked, year after year, but certainly never re-opened.  Textbooks about Dramatic Theory & Criticism, Theater Production & Management, even an old French textbook from God knows when.  It was liberating in a way I hadn't imagined, not because I had freed up space, but because I had come to terms with my new life.  Not only do I no longer read, I no longer write.

Ask Craig about this one between innings of a Red Sox game sometime.  Just don't expect him to be conversant in English.

I used to be a playwright.  I haven't written a new full-length play since the day my fingers grasped the diploma that came with my MFA.  Yes, I've written some shorter pieces, even had some some minor productions of them.  I've tinkered with and retooled a play that I began in 2002, but haven't quite been able to adequately finish.  I attend meetings with a writer's group, but it is more an excuse to see my friends than it is to workshop any pages.  I used to consider myself a serious writer, always with some sort social or political theme in mind, whether it be race or war.  I used to write angry, which I felt spurred my productivity, but I don't get angry anymore.  Now, the news is just minor indigestion, and the moment passes.  I don't have the energy for anything more.  Maybe my priorities have changed.  Maybe I'm just getting old.  I'm more interested in dabbling in writing sitcom pilots that only tangentially deal with identity or injustice, and I'm lucky if I make time for that once every other week.

So, I don't need to hold onto obscure textbooks that I once thought I'd refer to when I joined the faculty of a college theater department.  That ship has sailed, so there's no longer any need to pack for the journey.  I am content to spend whatever free time I have with my daughter, tickling her and dusting off my reading skills to help put her sleep.  Or I'd rather go to a bar and watch football with my friends and have a pint or three.  Or just have a date night with my wife, which I will do tonight, instead of writing something not terribly important to me.  Maybe one day I will be fired up about something, or strike a brilliant idea for a play, but I'd list myself as "doubtful" on the injury report for that game.  I'm certainly a little remorseful that I am not living the life of a successful playwright, but it's not something that tears me up inside, and it seems like something that should.

Now, I take a step back from the hallway and into the living room and look at my books--arranged, but not yet alphabetized.  I am the curator of my own museum.  I am a little lost, but I know I am home.  I should look for something to read.

 

A still from the New York production of Craig's play, The Home for Lost Boys.

 

Short Play #1: "Dead on Our Feet"

“Dead on Our Feet”

a ten-minute play

  

Produced in Allentown, Pennsylvania, on January 8, 2005, as part of the Kennedy Center American College Theater Festival, directed by Victor Maog.

Characters

            ALVIN – 37 year old banker

            OLIVIA – 35 year old part-time real estate agent

Setting

ALVIN and OLIVIA’s upper-middle-class bedroom:  a bed flanked by floor lamps; also, a vanity.  Eleven o’clock on a weeknight.  July.

At rise:  ALVIN wears his pajamas and reclines in bed.  He reads a copy of US News and World Report through his reading glasses.  OLIVIA enters the bedroom from the bathroom.  She sits at the vanity, reclines her head, and examines the underside of her nose in the mirror.  She touches a Kleenex to her nostrils and inspects it.  She repeats this action twice.  She is satisfied with the results of her inspection. 

OLIVIA

I read today that most women would rather be widows than divorcees.

ALVIN

That doesn’t bode well for us husbands.

OLIVIA

Something about coping more easily with a permanent loss than a loss you would have to interact with on the weekends.

ALVIN

I could see that.

OLIVIA

What with the children and the joint custody and all.

ALVIN

I got the reference.

                        (pause)

OLIVIA

That’d be awful, wouldn’t it?

ALVIN

Uh-huh.  What?

OLIVIA

If something were to happen.  Something catastrophic.

ALVIN

That would really be something.

OLIVIA

What would we do?

ALVIN

I don’t know.  I don’t like to think about it.

OLIVIA

Me neither.

                        (pause)

But really. 

ALVIN

Olivia.

OLIVIA

What would we do if something bad, something really bad happened?

ALVIN

Olivia, not tonight, please.

OLIVIA

OK, OK, Mr. Grumpy.

                        (pause)

If something bad were to happen I hope it would happen to me.  I hope I die first.

ALVIN

So do I.

OLIVIA

“So do I?”  What is that supposed to mean?

ALVIN

What is what supposed to mean?

OLIVIA

“So do I.”  “So do I” like so do you hope to die first?  Or “so do I” like you also hope I die first?

ALVIN

That one.  So do I hope you die first.

OLIVIA

That’s a terrible thing to say.

ALVIN

I just agreed with what you said.  Was I not supposed to agree?

OLIVIA

Of course you weren’t supposed to agree.  You were supposed to say, “Olivia, honey, don’t think such things.  Neither one of us will ever die.  Ever.  Besides, if one of us has to go I would rather it were me.  I couldn’t bear going on without you.”

ALVIN

Do you want me to try again?

OLIVIA

Would you?  I’ll say my line.  Then you say yours.

                        (a beat)

I hope I die first.

ALVIN

Olivia, honey, don’t think such things.  Neither one of us will ever die.  Besides, if one of us has to go—.

OLIVIA

“Ever.”

ALVIN

Excuse me?

OLIVIA

You forgot the “ever.” 

ALVIN

I said “ever.”

OLIVIA

You said the first “ever,” but not the second.

ALVIN

There are two “evers”?  “Neither one of us will ever, ever die?”

OLIVIA

No.  Not there.  It comes after.  “Neither one of us will ever die.  Ever.”  The second one punctuates the first.

ALVIN

So it does.

OLIVIA

Again.

                       

(While OLIVIA gathers herself, ALVIN rolls his eyes.)

OLIVIA (cont.)

I hope I die first.

ALVIN

Olivia, honey, don’t think such things.  Neither one of us will ever die.  Ever.  Besides, if one of us has to go I would rather it were me.  I couldn’t bear going on without you.

OLIVIA

That was good.  Did you mean it?

ALVIN

            (meaning “no”)

Yeah.

OLIVIA

Al! 

ALVIN

What?  I did.  Really, I did.

OLIVIA

I want you to mean it.  Say it like you mean it.

ALVIN

I did say it like I meant it.  You even said so yourself.

OLIVIA

But now I know you didn’t. 

ALVIN

What do you want from me?

OLIVIA

I want you to say it like you mean it and really mean it.

ALVIN

Jesus.  How do you expect me to take you seriously when you’re always clowning around?

OLIVIA

I do not “clown around.”

ALVIN

“Say this.”  “Do that.”  “Not like that, like this.”  “You’re doing it all wrong.”

OLIVIA

So what if I play games?  It’s the only way I can keep you from being so clinical.  But if you want me to be serious I can be serious.  I can be as serious as a preacher on Easter if you would prefer.

ALVIN

No, no.  If you want to play, we can play.  We can play.

OLIVIA

Al, don’t.

ALVIN

In the event that something catastrophic did occur, how long should I wait before I begin dating again? 

OLIVIA

I am not having this conversation.

ALVIN

What length of time is respectable but reasonable?   

OLIVIA

I’m not listening. 

ALVIN

Clearly, bringing somebody to the service is in poor taste.

           

OLIVIA

This is me ignoring you.

ALVIN

Two major holidays?  Three?

OLIVIA

You are speaking another language.

ALVIN

What if they’re back-to-back?  Like Christmas and New Years?

OLIVIA

We aren’t even the same species.

ALVIN

I’m not sure she should stay over in any case. 

OLIVIA

We are not amused.

ALVIN

If things get serious, do I introduce her to your sister?

                        (OLIVIA looks devastated.  ALVIN realizes he has crossed

the line.)

Olivia, I’m sorry.

                        (The apology does not take.  HE tries a new tack.)

I’m joking.  You know I’m joking.

OLIVIA

I don’t think it’s very funny.

(OLIVIA gets into bed and turns off her light.  ALVIN returns to his magazine.  After a moment, OLIVIA abruptly turns on the light.  She again touches her nose and inspects her fingers.  She sits on the edge of the bed.)

ALVIN

Olivia?  Honey?

OLIVIA

Earlier tonight, as I was preparing for bed, I turned, I turned my head, in the bathroom. 

                        (pause)

I was in the bathroom and I turned my head and I felt something seep, escape from my nose, and I was confused, and I saw there, on the floor, a drop, a single drop of blood, my blood, that had flown from my face to the tiles of the bathroom floor, and just kind of splashed there, a red drop of blood on the white tiles of the bathroom floor.

ALVIN

So you had a nosebleed. 

OLIVIA

A spontaneous nosebleed.  This perfectly healthy person just happened, without cause, to discharge blood from her body onto the bathroom floor. 

                        (pause)

And you are un-alarmed. 

ALVIN

It was the air conditioning.

OLIVIA

What?

 

ALVIN

The air conditioning dries the capillaries in your nose.  When you sneeze or blow your nose the capillaries burst and your nose bleeds.  Had you sneezed before going to the bathroom? 

OLIVIA

I sneeze from May to September.

ALVIN

There you have it.

OLIVIA

                        (turning towards him)

I get headaches.  Crippling headaches.  Balls of pain the size of a pearl nestle behind my left eye.  They expand to the size of cue balls. 

ALVIN

Millions of people suffer from migraines.  We’ll ask Doctor Chase to increase the potency of your painkillers.

OLIVIA

Sometimes I have . . . episodes.  Seizures.  Spells.  I lose consciousness.

ALVIN

You blackout?

OLIVIA

I’m discombobulated.

ALVIN

Oh.

OLIVIA

I stand in the aisle at the grocery store and I can’t remember why I’m there.  I can’t remember what vegetable oil is called.  I forget what the children look like, what brand of peanut butter they prefer.  I forget their names.

ALVIN

You forget their names?

OLIVIA

Sometimes.

ALVIN

You’re exhausted.  That’s all.  You need sleep.

OLIVIA

That’s what everyone says.  Drink more fluids.  Take your vitamins.  Rest.  What if it’s more than that?

ALVIN

It’s not.

OLIVIA

I know it’s not.  But what if it is?  Illness today is crafty.  It hibernates.  It squirrels itself away into your breast, your colon, your immune system.  Or it strikes without warning.  A bomb rupturing a pipeline.  A volcano smothering a civilization unawares.

ALVIN

Olivia.

OLIVIA

That woman in Santa Fe died from a brain tumor.  Her husband recalled only that she was forgetful and occasionally her nose bled.  She was thirty.

ALVIN

Olivia.

OLIVIA

We no longer confine the unwell.  They’re among us. 

ALVIN

Olivia!

OLIVIA

Look around you.  We’re all dead on our feet.  And we don’t even know it.

ALVIN

Olivia!  Don’t think such things.  Neither one of us will ever die.

                        (pause)

Ever.

                        (pause)

(OLIVIA smiles a bittersweet smile.  She reaches up and kisses ALVIN on the cheek.  She lies down.  OLIVIA sneezes.  She sits up.  She touches her fingers to her nose.  She turns and shows ALVIN the blood on her hand.)

(end of play)

           

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I'm working on another project right now but expect to be back soon with essays inspired by What to Listen for in Music, What's Your Cheers IQ?, and Lollapalooza.

Until then, I hope you are enjoying whatever you are reading.

Playwright's Note: Kickstart Me, Baby

There are few things that I find less interesting than an artist talking about his or her own work. My feeling is that everything you need to know about a painter's relationship with her painting, a composer's relationship with his symphony, or a novelist's relationship with her novel is in the painting, the symphony, or the novel, respectively. You want to hear what the artist has to say? Look at the work. She's said it already.

(Don't even get me started on cast-driven DVD commentaries.)

So when I was invited recently to contribute some Playwright's Notes for a show that was being produced, I resisted the request to talk about the work and instead opted to write about the way in which the production was funded, which was through a Web site called Kickstarter, which matches projects to donors.  

Enough people contributed who were unable to actually attend the show and, thus, never received my attempt at a public thank you, so I thought I would re-run the note here.

By the way, Amanda Hamm gets the shoutout, only because she's the oldest of my friends to kick in, but that lead paragraph could also have been about Lisa Osio, Christine Stanley, Stephanie Brady, or any number of other supporters, each of whom would have brought with them their own histories.

Of course, the more interesting stories might be about the scores of other names that I don't even recognize.

The number of donors eventually swelled from the 87 referenced below to a final tally of 108, though the math still pretty much remains the same, not that I'm any good at math.

In any case, the note:

“The future belongs to crowds.” – Don DeLillo, Mao II

I kissed Amanda Hamm (then “Helms”) in the first grade. Broke ranks from the boys' line, crossed over to the girls', and planted one right on her cheek. This was in Richmond, Kentucky, where I lived through the fourth grade, before I moved to San Diego. I returned to Richmond once, the summer after my seventh-grade year, where I saw Amanda at a party. This was 1986. Ronald Reagan was president. Top Gun was in theaters. I haven’t seen Amanda since, yet she has funded part of tonight’s show.

Amanda and (as of this writing) 87 others fueled this production through a Web site called Kickstarter.  Kickstarter—which has been featured on NPR and in The New York Times Magazine, among other national media outlets—is one of a growing number of sites that matches (usually) artistic projects with potential donors. These sites strike me as being a crucial component of the future of the arts in this country. I’m not bitter enough to say that the American government doesn’t care for the arts, but I do recognize that they have to make choices, and, for example, no play or painting or symphony is as important as a textbook or a bottle of milk or a vaccination.

So, in the absence of government support, private donations fill that vacuum. Only the term “private donation” has been replaced by this terrific new phrase, “crowd funded.” “Crowd funded.” If “private donation” is roughly akin to “money to burn,” then “crowd funded” is more like “I can’t really afford this, but I like/believe in you so here you go.” We found 88 people who like/believe in us. One generous donation skews the numbers (thanks, ma-in-law!), but remove it from the equation, and the average donation was approximately $70, which is one of the cheap seats in a Broadway house nowadays. 

Think about that. Rather than paying $70 to see theater, these donors have paid $70 to make theater. Many of the contributors—like Amanda—won't even be able to see that which they have supported.
Nonetheless, we intend to give them their money's worth. It's the best thank you we can offer.