F r o m Z A P
[NOTE: When switching from one play to another, a loud electronic sound is heard, followed by a brief blackout during which the actors quickly enter and exit.]
(Before curtain rises, the HOUSE MANAGER addresses the audience.)
HOUSE MANAGER
Good evening. Thank you all for coming to tonight's world premiere. A few preliminaries. No photographs, please, flash or otherwise. Likewise, no recording of any kind. Please check that all cellphones and pagers are turned off. Please do, however, make use of the remote controls you should have found on your seats. Vote for a change whenever you feel the need. The computer backstage will log all requests and make a switch when a sufficient threshhold has been reached. Our aim is to please you, the audience. You, after all, are why we are here. To entertain you is our first and foremost duty. Why else would--
(Zap sound. Blackout. Curtain rises on a drawing room furnished in a mix of styles, from 1860 to 1960. A long couch and two chairs occupy the center of the room. There is an old black telephone atop a telephone table, a wastebasket, a bookcase, a fishbowl with goldfish, and a full whiskey bottle and set of glasses. The fishbowl and whiskey bottle must be clearly visible to the audience. Lights up on the ENGLISH MYSTERY. The year is 1916, the place an estate in the English countryside. Distant thunder is heard. EMMALINE GRAY, 30 and distraught, enters scanning a guest list and stops BEETON passing in the other direction. Actors use English accents.)
EMMALINE
Beeton--there you are. Any word from the station?
BEETON
The train is expected on time, Madam. Unless the bridge at Highstoke were to be washed out.
EMMALINE
I pray it shan't be. He only has five days' leave. Everything must be perfect for him. You spoke to the cook?
BEETON
Yes, Madam. Roast beef shall be served. And English peas.
EMMALINE
Nothing French on the menu whatsoever, does she understand?
BEETON
Yes, Madam. Fear not.
EMMALINE
Nothing that might possibly remind him of the fighting. His last letter has me quite--
(She trails off, then looks at the guest list.)
Oh, Beeton. There's been an addition to the guest list. I've invited Inspector Swift up from London. I'm hoping he'll enthrall us with his latest case and take all our minds off this wretched war--especially Clifford's.
BEETON
I shall see that the table is set for seven.
(He begins to leave.)
EMMALINE
Oh, and Beeton. Tell the entire staff to be on special guard against dropped pots and slammed doors and such. We must spare him loud noises of any sort.
BEETON
Certainly, Madam.
(He begins to leave, getting farther this time.)
EMMALINE
And Beeton. Nothing red on the menu. Blood-red and runny. You understand.
BEETON
I shall speak to the cook about the brandied cherries, Madam.
(He exits.)
EMMALINE
Oh, and Beeton--
(Zap sound. Blackout. Lights come up on the COMEDY. The time is summer, 1965, the place New York City. SAMMY, 30, is lying on the couch and scanning the sports page, paying more attention to it than to IRV, 45, who's reading aloud from the New York Times while striding about the room. Both speak with New York accents.)
IRV
(With heavy mockery.)
"Never before have the traumas and textures of modern life been rendered so unforgettably."
SAMMY
Uh-huh.
IRV
"The big, boisterous Bromberg family leaps into life off the page and takes up immediate residence in our hearts."
SAMMY
Uh-huh.
IRV
"The author's powers of invention astound. Equal parts comedy and tragedy, the book solves as well our foremost literary mystery--namely, when will the great American novel appear. The answer is 'Now.' Its name is Brooklyn Blues."
(He looks for a reaction from SAMMY, who finally glances up.)
SAMMY
Hey, that's great, Irv.
IRV
(Exploding.)
What do you mean that's great! It's not my book!
SAMMY
Oh.
IRV
I mean it is mine! That's the whole point!
SAMMY
Right. Great. And in the Times. That's big. I mean it. Congratulations.
IRV
For what? His name's on it!
SAMMY
But I thought you said--
IRV
Jesus, will you listen?
(IRV collapses in a chair, then collects himself. Polka music sounds softly from below. IRV glares at floor and stamps his foot, to no effect, sighs, and sits back.)
Max writes novels, I write novels. It's lonely. You're a sportswriter--you wouldn't know. You got forty thousand people around you at Yankee Stadium. All I've got is a crazy neighbor who listens to polka records.
(He pounds his feet more forcefully, then finally jumps up and down on the floor. The music stops.)
Maybe fifteen years ago, Max and I started having breakfast together. Once a week at Krupfeld's, on Thirty-fifth. We'd talk writing. Should he kill off a character, should I kill my agent, that kind of stuff. When Doris walked out and I was practically living at Krupfeld's, he let me talk it out hour after hour, for weeks. For months. Not just about Doris, but my parents, growing up, everything. That corner booth was like a couch at a shrink's.
SAMMY
You got a couch here. And you got me to listen, just two apartments down the hall. I'm a whole lot cheaper than a shrink.
IRV
Probably 'cause you wouldn't know a cerebellum from a softball. Anyway, the last couple years, he said he had writer's block. Fine. Said he was thinking about quitting writing. Fine. Stopped showing up at Krupfeld's. Fine. And then, bam--Brooklyn Blues. I open it up, and it's my family, exactly! My rabbi father, my closet atheist of a mother, my meshuggah aunts, my brothers, the neighbors. All of 'em, including me! He stole my life when I wasn't looking!
(He swats at a fly with his newspaper and misses.)
So now Max McPherson is the great American author. Eating eggs Benedict at the Algonquin instead of dunking a doughnut in his coffee at Krupfeld's. While me, I'm living on Campbell's soup out of the can till the next piddling royalty check crawls up the stairs. And pouring my heart out to you, the only shrink I know who hogs the couch!
(He swats SAMMY'S feet off the couch with the newspaper.)
SAMMY
Didn't he even change anything?
IRV
Oh, sure. Him with his "astounding powers of invention." Instead of allergies, he gave me bladder problems--the louse. And my father, he came from Minsk instead of Pinsk.
SAMMY
Wow. Isn't that paganism?
IRV
(Rolls his eyes.)
No--and it's not plagiarism either. That's stealing someone's writing, which is against the law. Stealing somebody's actual family--that's legal!
SAMMY
A writer's family--man, that's his capital. That oughta be a crime.
IRV
You're exactly right.
SAMMY
So what are you gonna do?
IRV
I'm gonna see justice is done.
SAMMY
But you said--
IRV
Not legal justice. Legal is out. So we go to our backup. Poetic justice.
SAMMY
He wrote poems about 'em too?
IRV
Poetic justice! He stole something from me, something beyond price. Now I steal from him. Which is where you come in, Sammy.
SAMMY
Steal? Steal what?
IRV
Don't worry. We're not jumping through a window and running out with the color TV.
SAMMY
So?
IRV
We need something more precious than that. Something that'll really hurt.
SAMMY
(Pause.)
His typewriter?
IRV
More precious.
SAMMY
His car?
IRV
Keep going.
SAMMY
His....His....His--
IRV
(Leans toward him.)
His wife.
(He swats at the fly, gets it, and grins at it.)
And it's gonna be sweet.
SAMMY
Jesus, Irv. Kidnapping? You could wind up in Sing Sing.
IRV
Yeah, and I hear they're looking for a sportswriter there to cover the knife fights. We're not going to kidnap her, you numbskull! We're going steal her affections. From him, to me. An eye for an eye, a theft for a theft. A betrayal for a betrayal. That's poetic justice.
(IRV throws down the newspaper, then feeds the fish in the fishbowl.)
SAMMY
But I thought you gave up on dames after Doris. Traded in females for fish.
IRV
Well, I'm making an exception. Not permanent. A temporary exception. Very temporary. Just long enough for Max to find out. And to rub his face in it. And you, with girls trooping in and out of your place like the dressing room at Bloomingdale's, you can be my coach. 'Cause it's been a while since I played this game.
SAMMY
(He stands and sizes up IRV.)
Jeez, Irv. I don't know.
IRV
What do you mean you don't know! I'll use a fake name, so she won't know who I am. She's never met me, so she won't know my face. I'm not that bad looking. It's perfect!
SAMMY
It's not perfect! It's a long shot. It's the Cubs winning the World Series.
IRV
Thanks.
SAMMY
(He walks around IRV, examining him, then checks his bicep. Pause.)
Can you kiss?
IRV
What--you're gonna send me down to the minors to brush up my skills? Of course I can kiss!
SAMMY
I'll bet. You and the Tin Man.
IRV
So it's been a while! So we squirt a little lubricating oil on my mouth.
SAMMY
And we know how dames go for the taste of 3-in-One.
(Pause.)
You dance?
IRV
Sure I dance.
(Searches his memory.)
Foxtrot....waltz...
SAMMY
....minuet. Irv, it's 1965! Maybe we oughta go for the color TV.
IRV
I can do it!
SAMMY
I'm just warning you, it might not be easy. Tell you what. Give me everything you know about her. Then I'll think about it for a couple of days and try to come up with a plan. But right now, I got my mind on other things.
(He checks his watch.)
Like the Yankees-Red Sox game in an hour. So if you don't mind--
(Zap sound. Blackout. Lights come up on the ENGLISH MYSTERY. BEETON is pouring glasses of whiskey, the bottle three-fourths empty by the time the drinks are all poured. EMMALINE enters with COLONEL AND MRS. HARDWICKE, in their 60s, the fresh-faced REVEREND SMYTHE, and LADY DENSLOW, 30 and sultry.)
EMMALINE
His train's still not arrived. This awful storm--
(BEETON circulates with the drinks on a tray, exiting when the tray is empty.)
COL. HARDWICKE
From our English climate, one could conclude, Reverend, that God quite enjoys playing with water.
LADY DENSLOW
And playing with soldiers. Another boyish pastime.
EMMALINE
Only they're real, not toys. But I mustn't start. We're here to help Clifford forget all that.
LADY DENSLOW
(Raising her glass.)
To forgetfulness!
THE OTHERS
To forgetfulness!
INSPECTOR SWIFT
(Entering, dapper in evening clothes.)
The same toast apparently drunk by the witnesses on my last murder case.
EMMALINE
Inspector Swift! I'm so pleased you're here. Let me introduce you. Colonel and Mrs. Hardwicke, our nearest neighbors....
INSPECTOR SWIFT
I couldn't help noticing, motoring here, the extreme isolation of the houses.
COL. HARDWICKE
Makes us value human contact all the more.
(He chuckles nervously.)
INSPECTOR SWIFT
Indeed.
EMMALINE
Lady Denslow. Her husband is also leading a regiment in France.
LADY DENSLOW
And will be dining this evening on horsemeat and rainwater.
INSPECTOR SWIFT
A most commendable sacrifice.
LADY DENSLOW
If we are what we eat, I suppose I should expect him to return even more of a beast than before.
EMMALINE
Reverend Smythe.
REV. SMYTHE
My apologies on the weather.
INSPECTOR SWIFT
Now, now. I don't think we'll be charging you as an accessory.
COL. HARDWICKE
A bit of a thorny question, what? Who is to blame for the weather? Perhaps that's the perfect crime, eh, Inspector?
(Chuckles nervously at his own observation.)
INSPECTOR SWIFT
Actually, I'm drawn to a different question--namely, whether your nervous laugh is a regular habit or especially in my honor.
(Pause. He turns toward REV. SMYTHE.)
Odd how my presence, like yours, Reverend, leads many to anxious recollection of their sins. We are walking confession booths, you and I. Mr. Freud has dealt with the topic in fascinating detail, inquiring as to--please stop me if I'm boring you.
(The others all encourage INSPECTOR SWIFT to continue, with "Not at all," "Please go on," etc.)
INSPECTOR SWIFT
Very well. He began by--
(Zap sound. Blackout. Lights come up on RICHARD III, Act I, Scene i. GLOUCESTER, hunchbacked, stands alone. The actor portraying him delivers his lines with great pride in Shakespearean oratory.)
GLOUCESTER
Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York;
And all the clouds that lowr'd upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows--
(Zap sound. GLOUCESTER appears stunned. Blackout. Lights come up on the PERFORMANCE ART MONOLOGUE. The time is the present. MARSHA, 22, is dressed in black, from her motorcycle boots to her lipstick. She wears a bandanna on her head. She stumbles onstage in slight confusion and flops onto the couch. She addresses the audience directly throughout.)
MARSHA
Whoa. This is too weird. Totally. I can't believe we're really doing this. And that I'm in it. That we all are. And with barely rehearsing, so we could hurry up and open and bring in some money. Talk about opening night jitters. You should see it backstage. Bunch of chickens with their freaking heads cut off. And the director--totally ballistic. Not that that's exactly a change of pace. And Ron Throckmorton, the guy who runs the company, he's like oozing around telling everybody, "It's just for a little while, to help balance the books." Except we're always short of cash, even with none of us getting paid. And we're always about to lose our lease on the building, like right now, which is always gonna be the way it is in theater as long as people can sit at home and watch three million freaking cable channels with the zapper in one hand and a bowl of bubble gum fudge swirl in the other. But you gotta compete. Which is how Ron thought up putting on seven plays at once, something for everybody, including my performance art piece, and giving you guys zappers. High art meets short attention span. Naturally, I came down with a cold two days before we open, but who cares, you know? Acting's not actually my thing. Telling the truth is my thing. The whole truth. Nothing but the truth. The truth shall make you free! Somebody famous said that.
(She sniffles loudly and wipes her nose on her sleeve.)
The truth shall gross you out! I said that.
(She displays her sleeve to the audience.)
'Cause I'm going to tell you about my repulsive family and my amazingly disgusting hometown and how I discovered theater and dared to tell the truth and how for the past five years I wouldn't stop telling the truth no matter what anybody--
(Zap sound. Blackout. Lights come up on the RUSSIAN PLAY. The time is 1870, a morning in spring. The place is a Russian country estate, home to the Volnikov family. NIKOLAI, 35, rushes in and looks about in rapture. Actors use Russian accents.)
NIKOLAI
The sofa....Great-grandfather's books....the view of the birches!
(Calling offstage.)
Irina! We're here!
(To himself.)
Everything just as I recall it from my boyhood! Exactly!
(IRINA enters, 30 and beautiful, sulkily surveying the room's furnishings.)
Darling Irina! Can you believe it? Never again the noise of St. Petersburg, the crowding, the greed and money-grubbing, the filthy air, the coarseness of spirit. Here in the country we shall both be reborn!
IRINA
(Trailing a finger on the furniture and staring at her dusty fingertip.)
If that filthy ogre who brought our bags is our midwife, I believe I'd prefer a St. Petersburg specialist.
NIKOLAI
Dearest--you'll come to adore Gregor. Believe me.
IRINA
And frankly, Nikolai, I must confess that I feel no great need to be reborn. I leave that to the Hindus of India.
NIKOLAI
Come now, Irina. We've already decided.
(He takes her arm.)
And here is the house I've described to you so often!
(He tries to land a kiss, but IRINA pulls away.)
IRINA
With its awful curtains.
NIKOLAI
Irina, darling. It's a house filled with tradition!
IRINA
A tradition of tasteless furnishings.
NIKOLAI
Here I shall learn to farm as my ancestors did. Here we shall live on honest toil, eat from our own fields, make merry with the local inhabitants at harvest time.
IRINA
If I don't perish of boredom first. How far is it to the nearest ballet?
NIKOLAI
Hmmm. I'm not certain, exactly. Probably only a moderate distance. Perhaps six hundred and fifty versts.
IRINA
And just how far is a verst, anyway? I'm always forgetting.
NIKOLAI
A verst?
(He thinks.)
Isn't it three point two leagues?
(IRINA raises her arms in a how-should-I-know gesture.)
Gregor will know. And if not, here in the house you have the country branch of my family, happy to instruct you in such practical matters and to entertain you with droll family stories. They should be here shortly. Let's review.
(His delivery speeds up.)
First, there is my great-grandfather, Konstantin Alekseyevich Volnikov. My aunt, Olga Andreyevna Barkakovich, nicknamed Nika. My cousin, Pavel Sergeyevich Spivetsky, nicknamed Spavil--
©2005
F r o m B R E A K O U T
Southbound. Fast lane. A green Acura. An Amnesty International decal on one end of the bumper. On the other end, "Skateboarding Is Not A Crime." It's one of the few cars containing more than one human, a rare double-yolker. Mother and fifteen-year-old son. People used to have kids because they needed help on the farm. In L.A., you have kids so you can use the carpool lane.
I hear the mother clearing her throat, very softly. Then again, just a bit louder. A signal for the imminent arrival of words, like a train being announced at the station. The mother chooses her voice settings. She flicks the switches for Cheery, Nonjudgmental, and Nonchalant. She inhales and licks her lips. Then she starts. "I suppose we'll just have to make the best of it."
She looks up into the mirror. Her son, being driven to his private school in Westwood, has started sitting in the back lately. His eyes are on the game he's playing on his cell phone, in which a convertible tries to evade the falling excrement from a flock of seagulls.
"Then again, in my own life, quite often really, I've found that what appears on the surface to be bad news--"
He turns up the CD he's listening to through headphones, blocking out most of her words.
"--the time we got the flat tire on the way to the Grand Canyon--"
He jerks the convertible to the left too late and gets bombed. The phone emits an electronic splat.
"--normal for adolescents to pull away. I remember when I--"
He switches CD tracks and bumps the volume up two more notches.
"--both your father and I--"
He gets bombed again, fires an accusing glance at his mother, then checks his score: 9 hits, 33 seconds remaining.
"--communication is so--"
Two more hits. He rolls his eyes.
"--make use of the chance to just talk for a change."
Another hit. He absolutely can't play while she's yapping. He jabs at a button and pauses the game. "Talk about what?"
She shrugs off his tone and smiles up at the mirror. "Anything. Whatever you want to talk about. If you wouldn't mind taking off your headphones for just--"
"I can hear fine with them on."
"But Brice--"
"I can hear you! Trust me! That's why I've got bird crap all over me!"
She whirls around and checks his green sweater and navy pants, the school uniform. "You've got what?"
"Never mind! Let's get this over with!"
"Well, it would be common courtesy if you'd take off your headphones for just a few--"
"We just went over that! Don't you listen?"
She turns back toward the front. "All I'm saying--"
Brice rips them off his head and throws them on his lap. "There! OK! Are you happy now?"
She sighs. She props up her smile. "Anyway, I just thought that we could make use--"
"You already said that."
She gets tired of aiming her eyes up at the mirror. She lowers them and faces the round, side-by-side gauges for fuel and temperature. "So what would you like to talk about?"
"Nothing. There. Are we done now?"
Miniature voices are shrieking from the headphones. "Would you mind turning off the heavy metal for a minute?"
"It's techno, not heavy metal!" He laughs uproariously. She turns around in her seat, sees the greenish tinge to his teeth, considers beginning with a discussion of brushing, but restrains herself. She faces the front. His laughter dies down after two and a half minutes.
"Heavy metal!"
"Pardon me." She pauses. "Now, if you'd kindly turn it off--"
"I can hear you just fine! I'm right here! Are you kidding?"
"Brice, please."
"I can't believe you!"
"Just out of politeness." She turns and faces him. "So I know I have your full attention."
The song ends. Silence descends. His mother closes her eyes in gratitude. "Thank you."
The next song starts. She snaps. "Turn that off."
He mutters, then turns it down to half its volume.
"I said off."
"It is off."
"It's not off. I can hear it!"
He turns it lower. "Can you hear that?"
"Yes," she lies.
He turns the volume to number one. "How 'bout now?"
Her left arm shoots forward. She snatches the CD player and its tentacles off his lap and slams it all down on the passenger seat. She closes her eyes, then spends half a minute trying to slow her breathing. She emerges from this session stone-faced. Her voice is unnaturally soft.
"I thought...we might...have a simple--"
His cell phone rings. He answers instantaneously. "Hey....Yeah. Us, too....No kidding....Don't ask.....Chillin' with my mom, who's like completely weirded out by being stuck and like wants to psychoanalyze me. Hold on, I've got another call..."
©2003
F r o m S E E K
ROB (reading from autobiography)
"I've always had flying dreams--looking down on landscapes and towns far below. These are thrilling, but very rare. Radio gave me the same sensation on demand."
4th RADIO ANNOUNCER
--pancake breakfast this coming Saturday, from eight to eleven sponsored by the Fort Worth Elks Club. All you can eat, and let me tell you, you won't need to eat breakfast again for a week.
AUNT JESSICA
I think it was for your twelfth birthday. I'd seen it in a catalog of educational toys at school. And I knew right away it was meant for you.
AUNT JUNE
Jessica and I used to have a friendly competition with the presents. I remember I gave you birding binoculars that year. I was sure she couldn't top that. But when you opened up that shortwave radio kit--she'd trumped me. She was your favorite aunt.
ROB (reading)
"Suddenly my radio flights increased vastly in distance."
AUNT JESSICA
Since it was a kit, I thought Nick could help you put it together. Another of my father-son, quality time get-togethers. Or that was the theory.
NICK
You gotta be kidding. Listen to this! "Locate now wires H and J, vigilantly having remove insulations previous to solder to E and F respectfully, kindly to consult the Figure 12." Can you believe that? Every sentence is like that! This translator oughta go build his own electric chair and then sit in it!
ROB
Nick's not really all that mechanical, is he?
AUNT JESSICA
He's a PE teacher. I thought that was enough.
ROB (reading)
"My uncle knew nothing about electricity or radios. I was in middle school now and got advice from my sixth grade science teacher. Nick and I wound wires around coils and soldered and glued and sneezed tiny washers off the table and cut ourselves and cursed for weeks. I later found out that it was at this time that he signed up for his vasectomy."
ROB'S MOTHER
It was as if you were building Frankenstein. Working at night, smoke from the soldering iron, attaching a speaker instead of a voice box. And then when you finished and the moment finally came for plugging it in, sending electricity through it, and we all heard that high static, like a baby's first cry--
AUNT JESSICA
And then the first station--
ROB'S MOTHER
The creature's first words--
AUNT JUNE
Wasn't it cricket scores?
AUNT JESSICA
And even Nick smiled.
ROB'S GRANDMOTHER
The sound of Big Ben tolling, very low, and then--
5th RADIO ANNOUNCER
This is the world service of the BBC.
ROB'S MOTHER
It was like watching a boat being launched. Everyone clapped.
ROB (reading)
"They celebrated. I waited for them to leave. The shortwave was more than a new toy. I remembered my mother's college friend who'd gotten a job broadcasting in English at Radio France. There was now nowhere on earth that I couldn't look for my father."
©2001
F r o m
S E E D F O L K S
K i m
I stood before our family altar. It was dawn. No one else in the apartment was awake. I stared at my father's photograph--his thin face stern, lips latched tight, his eyes peering permanently to the right. I was nine years old and still hoped that perhaps his eyes might move. Might notice me.
The candles and the incense sticks, lit the day before to mark his death anniversary, had burned out. The rice and meat offered him were gone. After the evening feast, past midnight, I'd been wakened by my mother's crying. My oldest sister had joined in. My own tears had then come as well, but for a different reason.
I turned from the altar, tiptoed to the kitchen, and quietly drew a spoon from a drawer. I filled my lunch thermos with water and reached into our jar of dried lima beans. Then I walked outside to the street.
The sidewalk was completely empty. It was Sunday, early in April. An icy wind teetered trash cans and turned my cheeks to marble. In Vietnam we had no weather like that. Here in Cleveland people call it spring. I walked half a block, then crossed the street and reached the vacant lot.
I stood tall and scouted. No one was sleeping on the old couch in the middle. I'd never entered the lot before, or wanted to. I did so now, picking my way between tires and trash bags. I nearly stepped on two rats gnawing and froze. Then I told myself that I must show my bravery. I continued further, and chose a spot far from the sidewalk and hidden from view by a rusty refrigerator. I had to keep my project safe.
I took out my spoon and began to dig. The snow had melted, but the ground was hard. After much work, I finished one hole, then a second, then a third. I thought about how my mother and sisters remembered my father, how they knew his face from every angle and held in their fingers the feel of his hands. I had no such memories to cry over. I'd been born eight months after he'd died. Worse, he had no memories of me. When his spirit hovered over our altar, did it even know who I was?
I dug six holes. All his life in Vietnam my father had been a farmer. Here our apartment house had no yard. But in that vacant lot he would see me. He would watch my beans break ground and spread, and would notice with pleasure their pods growing plump. He would see my patience and my hard work. I would show him that I could raise plants, as he had. I would show him that I was his daughter.
My class had sprouted lima beans in paper cups the year before. I now placed a bean in each of the holes. I covered them up, pressing the soil down firmly with my fingertips. I opened my thermos and watered them all. And I vowed to myself that those beans would thrive.
©1997
F i r e f l i e s
F r o m J O Y F U L N O I S E
