No, really. There's nothing to see here. If you're looking me and my writing, look here or look here. Not here, not no more.
So long and thanks for all the fish!
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Friday, February 12, 2010
New Play Project: AT HOME AND ABROAD
AT HOME AND ABROAD
(MARTINSON’s non-descript office in Washington, D.C. (well, Foggy Bottom, to be precise). MARTINSON is white, serious-looking, conservatively dressed. His desk is covered with neat piles of paper. He has a file in front of him. There’s a knock on his door.)
MARTINSON:
Come.
(TERRY enters. He is black, early thirties, wearing a simple suit and tie.)
TERRY:
Is this office 304? There’s no sign. I was sent a message. Told to come here.
MARTINSON:
(indicates the chair in front of his desk, not unkindly, but not warmly)
Sit.
TERRY:
(as he sits)
Is this / Room 304?
MARTINSON:
Do you love your country, son?
(TERRY freezes, mid-sit.)
TERRY:
Is this Room 304?
MARTINSON:
Do you love your country?
TERRY:
Yes?
MARTINSON:
You sound unsure of that.
TERRY:
Of course I do. I work for the / State Department.
MARTINSON:
I’m aware of where you work.
TERRY:
Don’t you…work here, too?
(Slight beat. MARTINSON consults his file.)
MARTINSON:
Winston. Terrence M.
TERRY:
Yes?
MARTINSON:
D.C. native. Technically.
TERRY:
Well. I moved here from New York when I was about one. What’s this about, sir?
MARTINSON:
Columbia, double B.A. in poli sci and American history. Master’s from Harvard Kennedy, Public Policy. Second Master’s, Georgetown. What? Got tired of the Ivies?
(TERRY opens his mouth to say something, but isn’t sure what he can say at this point. MARTINSON barrels on.)
Joined State, public relations department. Writing press releases and blog posts. Three years now. Still in the PR department. A little overqualified, aren’t you?
TERRY:
I…just wanted to help out. Wherever I could.
MARTINSON:
I see. Can’t pass a background check. Why would that be?
TERRY:
Is there some kind of problem? If something’s come up, something wrong with my work, with my…I can answer any question you have. Anything at all.
MARTINSON:
Okay. Tell me about your father.
(A beat.)
TERRY:
Do I have to answer that question?
(MARTINSON says nothing in a way that says, “Yes. You do.”)
I didn’t know him. Ever. He died before I was born. My mother moved me here as soon as she could because she had family here.
MARTINSON:
Was his name Winston?
TERRY:
…No. It’s my stepfather’s name.
MARTINSON:
What was his name? Your father’s name.
TERRY:
…Makimba. His last name was Makimba.
MARTISON:
Which is your middle name.
TERRY:
Yes.
MARTINSON:
It’s an African name, yes?
TERRY:
Yes.
MARTINSON:
The same last name, interestingly, of William Ade Makimba.
(Behind them, MAKIMBA appears. He is in his fifties, regal, dressed in military garb, fierce and powerful. He stands proudly.)
TERRY:
Yes.
MARTINSON:
Ever thought you might be related? You two?
TERRY:
…Yes.
MARTINSON:
I thought so, too. So I checked. You are. He’s your uncle. The dictator of Okundi. The butcher of Amas Bay. One of America’s sworn enemies. Your uncle.
TERRY:
I’ve never met him. I’ve never talked to him. Jesus Christ, I’ve never set foot in Africa. In any part of Africa. My dad died and my mother cut off all ties.
MARTINSON:
Yes. Your father died. In a car accident. You were told.
TERRY:
Oh, Jesus.
MARTINSON:
It was a car accident. Don’t worry. His car crashed. When your uncle’s operatives ran it off the road.
TERRY:
Look…I don’t even know your name.
MARTINSON:
Call me Martinson.
TERRY:
Mr. Martinson. My mother was an American citizen. I’m an American citizen.
MARTINSON:
Your unborn child will be an American citizen.
(LAURA, white, 7 months pregnant, appears.)
TERRY:
Yes. You wanted to know if I love my country. I do. Absolutely. In every possible way. And, yes, I joined the State Department because I wanted to help. And you’re right. I knew about this thing with my uncle, so I set my sights low and didn’t want anyone poking around. The man is…a terror on earth. I don’t want to be associated with him.
MARTINSON:
And yet, you are.
TERRY:
Only in name. In blood. Do not fire me because of this. I should have disclosed it, I know. But…I don’t know the man.
MARTINSON:
I’m not here to fire. I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. I don’t work for the State Department.
TERRY:
…What?
MARTINSON:
What do you know about the Right Honorable General Makimba?
TERRY:
Not much. To be honest. He’s not a very nice man. Or a good leader.
MARTINSON:
That’s not…strictly true. On either point.
(MAKIMBA steps forward. The sound of a crowd swells up. He gestures for quiet. They respond. He speaks with a rich, sonorous voice, with more than a hint of English education to it.)
MAKIMBA:
My people! We have come so far! So far from the dark days of colonial oppression, foreign interference and abuse, corporate raiding and guerilla attacks. A new day is dawning in our country, a new era. And we must face it with courage, conviction and a belief in justice, justice made manifest. The old ways, the too few with too much, the too many with too little, this must end. And it will. Once we have forgotten the old ways, burned them out of our memory with passion and clarity, then we can turn our face towards a new sun, a new world, a new Okundi!
(The crowd cheers. MAKIMBA holds his hands up in triumph. Freeze.)
TERRY:
I don’t really watch the news or anything.
MARTINSON:
You do press releases for the State Department.
TERRY:
We kind of make the news. I just type it up, really. It gets exhausting, following all of it. Laura, my…partner. She’s better about it. She needs to be.
(LAURA is addressing her students. A map of Africa appears. She points to it vaguely.)
LAURA:
Did you know that once upon a time, they called Africa the Dark Continent? They did. It wasn’t a very nice thing to call it, was it? No, Jordan, it wasn’t because everyone this is black. Well, not just because. You see, it’s very, very big and there are lots of kinds of people there. It was a place of mystery and secrets. Adventure. But…that was a long time ago. Things are different there now. And right now, it’s very, very poor. For a lot of reasons, Dylan. No, we can’t go into all of them today. We’re going to start with one country. Okundi.
(She points at one country. Freeze.)
MARTINSON:
Maybe I should be talking to her.
TERRY:
Maybe.
MARTINSON:
But. I’m talking to you. What do you know about Okundi?
TERRY:
Not a lot.
MARTINSON:
Do you know they just had elections there? Free elections. First time in a couple of decades.
TERRY:
That…sounds good.
MARTINSON:
Is it?
TERRY:
…Yes?
MARTINSON:
Only if the right guy wins. Then it’s good. My job is to make sure the right guy wins.
TERRY:
Can I just say…that doesn’t sound very democratic.
(MARTINSON looks at TERRY steadily.)
Aren’t we in the democracy business?
MARTINSON:
You were. When you worked at the State Department.
TERRY:
I work at the State Department.
MARTINSON:
No. You don’t.
TERRY:
I…didn’t sign up for this. I’m sorry. I work at the State Department. I like working at the State Department.
MARTINSON:
I’m sure you did.
TERRY:
You’re not listening to me, Martinson. If that’s your name. I don’t even know what you want from me.
MARTINSON:
No, you don’t. You haven’t even waited to hear what I have to say. You haven’t heard what I want from you. You don’t know. Don’t jump to conclusions.
TERRY:
…Okay.
MARTINSON:
We are. In the democracy business. We make democracy happen. Sometimes it needs a little help. Okundi hasn’t had an election in three decades. Makimba is…
(MAKIMBA speaks again.)
MAKIMBA:
And I tell you this, my people: I lead us out of the dark days of colonialism and internal strife. I lead us out of chaos. And I promise you, I promise all of you, that I will lead us into the future!
MARTINSON:
Complicated. The U.N. wants the elections monitored. We’re good at that.
TERRY:
Monitoring elections?
MARTINSON:
Democracy. With help. With your help. Your country is asking for your help.
TERRY:
My help?
MARTINSON:
We have a man on the ground there, in Okundi. But…he’s…compromised. We need some…
TERRY:
Local flavor?
MARTINSON:
That’s cute. But yes. A face that they can trust. A face that they can understand.
TERRY:
You want me to go there, to Okundi and…
MARTINSON:
Observe. Report. Monitor.
TERRY:
That’s all?
MARTINSON:
That’s all. Listen. Terry. Come on. I’m not asking you for a lot here. You take a trip. A couple of weeks, tops. A tropic country. Get away from D.C. for a while. And while you’re there…
TERRY:
Throw an election.
MARTINSON:
No one asked you to do that.
TERRY:
Yet.
MARTINSON:
Think about the upside.
TERRY:
The upside?
MARTINSON:
For you. For your country. For your brother.
TERRY:
Leave him out of this.
MARTINSON:
He’s going to need your help. Isn’t he?
(CUBBY appears. He’s in a prison jumpsuit, talking on a payphone.)
CUBBY:
I know you check this voicemail, bro. Sooner or later, you gotta get these messages. And sooner or later, you gonna have to talk to me. We got shit to settle. You know that. You can’t hide from me. You can’t hide from blood. I’m not going to be in here much longer. When I get out, we gonna have to talk.
(Freeze.)
MARTINSON:
You’re going to need help.
TERRY:
I can’t help you. I won’t.
(A beat.)
MARTINSON:
You were right.
TERRY:
Right?
MARTINSON:
To think you wouldn’t pass a background check. You wouldn’t. You didn’t.
TERRY:
What background check?
MARTINSON:
The one I ordered. This one. Ties to a foreign government. A convict brother. That doesn’t sound like the kind of person we want with access to sensitive documents.
TERRY:
I write press releases.
MARTINSON:
You make the news. You just said so. Maybe you’ve done some unauthorized editing. Changed the news a little bit. I’m sure if we look at every single scrap of paper you’ve ever touched, talked to all of your colleagues, friends, neighbors, asked enough people enough questions, we can find something. In about a year. Maybe two.
TERRY:
You don’t have to threaten me.
MARTINSON:
I didn’t want to. Your country loves you, Terry. Your country needs you. So. Again. I ask. Do you love your country?
(MAKIMBA, LAURA and CUBBY all turn and look at TERRY.
Shift. TERRY and LAURA in their bedroom. He’s packing.)
TERRY:
A couple of weeks. Tops. Maybe less.
LAURA:
A couple of weeks.
TERRY:
I’ll be doing…good. Giving back.
LAURA:
To who? Who are you giving back to?
TERRY:
I don’t know. Africa. My people.
LAURA:
People you don’t know. People you’ve never met. People you have no connection to.
TERRY:
Just because I didn’t know my father…
LAURA:
And have never been there.
TERRY:
You’ve never been to Ireland. And yet, I remember a girl who really loved her green beer on St.
Patty’s Day.
LAURA:
Yeah, but I didn’t pick up a gun to go shoot some Beefeaters, either.
TERRY:
No one’s shooting anyone.
LAURA:
It’s a war-torn country. That’s how they describe it. War-torn. Torn apart by war.
TERRY:
Laura…
LAURA:
You know nothing about the country, nothing about the people, nothing at all.
TERRY:
Thanks for reminding me. Maybe that’s what I’m trying to change.
LAURA:
Read a book. Don’t get on a plane.
TERRY:
Honey. I have to go. My country is asking me. It’ll be a couple of weeks. I’ll be on the phone with you the whole time. You can take the phone to the birthing class. I’ll bring you back something for your class.
(LAURA is still sulking.)
There’s nothing you can say, anyway. I have to go.
(LAURA gets out of bed.)
LAURA:
I have to grade homework.
TERRY:
This isn’t my fault. I didn’t ask for this. I tried to get out of it.
LAURA:
But you didn’t.
(She goes. TERRY sits, holds his head in his hands.
Shift.
TERRY is on the plane.)
(MARTINSON’s non-descript office in Washington, D.C. (well, Foggy Bottom, to be precise). MARTINSON is white, serious-looking, conservatively dressed. His desk is covered with neat piles of paper. He has a file in front of him. There’s a knock on his door.)
MARTINSON:
Come.
(TERRY enters. He is black, early thirties, wearing a simple suit and tie.)
TERRY:
Is this office 304? There’s no sign. I was sent a message. Told to come here.
MARTINSON:
(indicates the chair in front of his desk, not unkindly, but not warmly)
Sit.
TERRY:
(as he sits)
Is this / Room 304?
MARTINSON:
Do you love your country, son?
(TERRY freezes, mid-sit.)
TERRY:
Is this Room 304?
MARTINSON:
Do you love your country?
TERRY:
Yes?
MARTINSON:
You sound unsure of that.
TERRY:
Of course I do. I work for the / State Department.
MARTINSON:
I’m aware of where you work.
TERRY:
Don’t you…work here, too?
(Slight beat. MARTINSON consults his file.)
MARTINSON:
Winston. Terrence M.
TERRY:
Yes?
MARTINSON:
D.C. native. Technically.
TERRY:
Well. I moved here from New York when I was about one. What’s this about, sir?
MARTINSON:
Columbia, double B.A. in poli sci and American history. Master’s from Harvard Kennedy, Public Policy. Second Master’s, Georgetown. What? Got tired of the Ivies?
(TERRY opens his mouth to say something, but isn’t sure what he can say at this point. MARTINSON barrels on.)
Joined State, public relations department. Writing press releases and blog posts. Three years now. Still in the PR department. A little overqualified, aren’t you?
TERRY:
I…just wanted to help out. Wherever I could.
MARTINSON:
I see. Can’t pass a background check. Why would that be?
TERRY:
Is there some kind of problem? If something’s come up, something wrong with my work, with my…I can answer any question you have. Anything at all.
MARTINSON:
Okay. Tell me about your father.
(A beat.)
TERRY:
Do I have to answer that question?
(MARTINSON says nothing in a way that says, “Yes. You do.”)
I didn’t know him. Ever. He died before I was born. My mother moved me here as soon as she could because she had family here.
MARTINSON:
Was his name Winston?
TERRY:
…No. It’s my stepfather’s name.
MARTINSON:
What was his name? Your father’s name.
TERRY:
…Makimba. His last name was Makimba.
MARTISON:
Which is your middle name.
TERRY:
Yes.
MARTINSON:
It’s an African name, yes?
TERRY:
Yes.
MARTINSON:
The same last name, interestingly, of William Ade Makimba.
(Behind them, MAKIMBA appears. He is in his fifties, regal, dressed in military garb, fierce and powerful. He stands proudly.)
TERRY:
Yes.
MARTINSON:
Ever thought you might be related? You two?
TERRY:
…Yes.
MARTINSON:
I thought so, too. So I checked. You are. He’s your uncle. The dictator of Okundi. The butcher of Amas Bay. One of America’s sworn enemies. Your uncle.
TERRY:
I’ve never met him. I’ve never talked to him. Jesus Christ, I’ve never set foot in Africa. In any part of Africa. My dad died and my mother cut off all ties.
MARTINSON:
Yes. Your father died. In a car accident. You were told.
TERRY:
Oh, Jesus.
MARTINSON:
It was a car accident. Don’t worry. His car crashed. When your uncle’s operatives ran it off the road.
TERRY:
Look…I don’t even know your name.
MARTINSON:
Call me Martinson.
TERRY:
Mr. Martinson. My mother was an American citizen. I’m an American citizen.
MARTINSON:
Your unborn child will be an American citizen.
(LAURA, white, 7 months pregnant, appears.)
TERRY:
Yes. You wanted to know if I love my country. I do. Absolutely. In every possible way. And, yes, I joined the State Department because I wanted to help. And you’re right. I knew about this thing with my uncle, so I set my sights low and didn’t want anyone poking around. The man is…a terror on earth. I don’t want to be associated with him.
MARTINSON:
And yet, you are.
TERRY:
Only in name. In blood. Do not fire me because of this. I should have disclosed it, I know. But…I don’t know the man.
MARTINSON:
I’m not here to fire. I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. I don’t work for the State Department.
TERRY:
…What?
MARTINSON:
What do you know about the Right Honorable General Makimba?
TERRY:
Not much. To be honest. He’s not a very nice man. Or a good leader.
MARTINSON:
That’s not…strictly true. On either point.
(MAKIMBA steps forward. The sound of a crowd swells up. He gestures for quiet. They respond. He speaks with a rich, sonorous voice, with more than a hint of English education to it.)
MAKIMBA:
My people! We have come so far! So far from the dark days of colonial oppression, foreign interference and abuse, corporate raiding and guerilla attacks. A new day is dawning in our country, a new era. And we must face it with courage, conviction and a belief in justice, justice made manifest. The old ways, the too few with too much, the too many with too little, this must end. And it will. Once we have forgotten the old ways, burned them out of our memory with passion and clarity, then we can turn our face towards a new sun, a new world, a new Okundi!
(The crowd cheers. MAKIMBA holds his hands up in triumph. Freeze.)
TERRY:
I don’t really watch the news or anything.
MARTINSON:
You do press releases for the State Department.
TERRY:
We kind of make the news. I just type it up, really. It gets exhausting, following all of it. Laura, my…partner. She’s better about it. She needs to be.
(LAURA is addressing her students. A map of Africa appears. She points to it vaguely.)
LAURA:
Did you know that once upon a time, they called Africa the Dark Continent? They did. It wasn’t a very nice thing to call it, was it? No, Jordan, it wasn’t because everyone this is black. Well, not just because. You see, it’s very, very big and there are lots of kinds of people there. It was a place of mystery and secrets. Adventure. But…that was a long time ago. Things are different there now. And right now, it’s very, very poor. For a lot of reasons, Dylan. No, we can’t go into all of them today. We’re going to start with one country. Okundi.
(She points at one country. Freeze.)
MARTINSON:
Maybe I should be talking to her.
TERRY:
Maybe.
MARTINSON:
But. I’m talking to you. What do you know about Okundi?
TERRY:
Not a lot.
MARTINSON:
Do you know they just had elections there? Free elections. First time in a couple of decades.
TERRY:
That…sounds good.
MARTINSON:
Is it?
TERRY:
…Yes?
MARTINSON:
Only if the right guy wins. Then it’s good. My job is to make sure the right guy wins.
TERRY:
Can I just say…that doesn’t sound very democratic.
(MARTINSON looks at TERRY steadily.)
Aren’t we in the democracy business?
MARTINSON:
You were. When you worked at the State Department.
TERRY:
I work at the State Department.
MARTINSON:
No. You don’t.
TERRY:
I…didn’t sign up for this. I’m sorry. I work at the State Department. I like working at the State Department.
MARTINSON:
I’m sure you did.
TERRY:
You’re not listening to me, Martinson. If that’s your name. I don’t even know what you want from me.
MARTINSON:
No, you don’t. You haven’t even waited to hear what I have to say. You haven’t heard what I want from you. You don’t know. Don’t jump to conclusions.
TERRY:
…Okay.
MARTINSON:
We are. In the democracy business. We make democracy happen. Sometimes it needs a little help. Okundi hasn’t had an election in three decades. Makimba is…
(MAKIMBA speaks again.)
MAKIMBA:
And I tell you this, my people: I lead us out of the dark days of colonialism and internal strife. I lead us out of chaos. And I promise you, I promise all of you, that I will lead us into the future!
MARTINSON:
Complicated. The U.N. wants the elections monitored. We’re good at that.
TERRY:
Monitoring elections?
MARTINSON:
Democracy. With help. With your help. Your country is asking for your help.
TERRY:
My help?
MARTINSON:
We have a man on the ground there, in Okundi. But…he’s…compromised. We need some…
TERRY:
Local flavor?
MARTINSON:
That’s cute. But yes. A face that they can trust. A face that they can understand.
TERRY:
You want me to go there, to Okundi and…
MARTINSON:
Observe. Report. Monitor.
TERRY:
That’s all?
MARTINSON:
That’s all. Listen. Terry. Come on. I’m not asking you for a lot here. You take a trip. A couple of weeks, tops. A tropic country. Get away from D.C. for a while. And while you’re there…
TERRY:
Throw an election.
MARTINSON:
No one asked you to do that.
TERRY:
Yet.
MARTINSON:
Think about the upside.
TERRY:
The upside?
MARTINSON:
For you. For your country. For your brother.
TERRY:
Leave him out of this.
MARTINSON:
He’s going to need your help. Isn’t he?
(CUBBY appears. He’s in a prison jumpsuit, talking on a payphone.)
CUBBY:
I know you check this voicemail, bro. Sooner or later, you gotta get these messages. And sooner or later, you gonna have to talk to me. We got shit to settle. You know that. You can’t hide from me. You can’t hide from blood. I’m not going to be in here much longer. When I get out, we gonna have to talk.
(Freeze.)
MARTINSON:
You’re going to need help.
TERRY:
I can’t help you. I won’t.
(A beat.)
MARTINSON:
You were right.
TERRY:
Right?
MARTINSON:
To think you wouldn’t pass a background check. You wouldn’t. You didn’t.
TERRY:
What background check?
MARTINSON:
The one I ordered. This one. Ties to a foreign government. A convict brother. That doesn’t sound like the kind of person we want with access to sensitive documents.
TERRY:
I write press releases.
MARTINSON:
You make the news. You just said so. Maybe you’ve done some unauthorized editing. Changed the news a little bit. I’m sure if we look at every single scrap of paper you’ve ever touched, talked to all of your colleagues, friends, neighbors, asked enough people enough questions, we can find something. In about a year. Maybe two.
TERRY:
You don’t have to threaten me.
MARTINSON:
I didn’t want to. Your country loves you, Terry. Your country needs you. So. Again. I ask. Do you love your country?
(MAKIMBA, LAURA and CUBBY all turn and look at TERRY.
Shift. TERRY and LAURA in their bedroom. He’s packing.)
TERRY:
A couple of weeks. Tops. Maybe less.
LAURA:
A couple of weeks.
TERRY:
I’ll be doing…good. Giving back.
LAURA:
To who? Who are you giving back to?
TERRY:
I don’t know. Africa. My people.
LAURA:
People you don’t know. People you’ve never met. People you have no connection to.
TERRY:
Just because I didn’t know my father…
LAURA:
And have never been there.
TERRY:
You’ve never been to Ireland. And yet, I remember a girl who really loved her green beer on St.
Patty’s Day.
LAURA:
Yeah, but I didn’t pick up a gun to go shoot some Beefeaters, either.
TERRY:
No one’s shooting anyone.
LAURA:
It’s a war-torn country. That’s how they describe it. War-torn. Torn apart by war.
TERRY:
Laura…
LAURA:
You know nothing about the country, nothing about the people, nothing at all.
TERRY:
Thanks for reminding me. Maybe that’s what I’m trying to change.
LAURA:
Read a book. Don’t get on a plane.
TERRY:
Honey. I have to go. My country is asking me. It’ll be a couple of weeks. I’ll be on the phone with you the whole time. You can take the phone to the birthing class. I’ll bring you back something for your class.
(LAURA is still sulking.)
There’s nothing you can say, anyway. I have to go.
(LAURA gets out of bed.)
LAURA:
I have to grade homework.
TERRY:
This isn’t my fault. I didn’t ask for this. I tried to get out of it.
LAURA:
But you didn’t.
(She goes. TERRY sits, holds his head in his hands.
Shift.
TERRY is on the plane.)
Friday, February 5, 2010
New Play Project: IVY LEAGUE
IVY LEAGUE
Scene 1:
(The library of a small boarding school in upstate New York. It’s seen better days. Shelves of books line the walls. There is a table in the center of the room. On it are several large brown boxes. In the back, we can see the Dewey Decimal System card holders. There is a desk off to one side, the information desk, with pens, pencils, various papers and office items on it. Educational posters hang around the room. There’s a set of double, glass-fronted doors leading into the hallway.
It is 1989. Spring break. Sunday night. Late. The whole place is quiet and slightly spooky. The only light on in the library is a desk lamp on the information desk.
At rise, we can see a figure, sitting on the floor in front of the information desk, talking on the phone. The phone is still on the desk and the person has pulled the receiver down, stretching the cord across the desk. The figure is hunched over and wearing many, shapeless layers, including a hooded sweatshirt with the hood up. A backpack sits on the floor, overstuffed with clothes and other things, notebooks, sketchbooks and the like are spread out on the floor. We can’t tell if it’s a boy or a girl, though we can just see a shock of bright blue-dyed hair sticking out from under the hood. Lots of rings and bracelets. Fingernails painted black or dark blue. Doc Martens, covered in ratty stickers. A battered Sony Walkman on the floor, headphones snaking up under the hood. We can’t really hear a voice, just whispering.
A beat.
Through the glass doors, we see MARC walk by. A beat. He walks back and enters the library. MARC is about 16, a little chubby, bespectacled and black. He is wearing sweatpants and a beat-up Yale sweatshirt. He looks around the library. He walks over the information desk. He looks at the person on the phone.)
MARC:
…Excuse me.
(The figure turns away a bit, and stays on the phone.)
Excuse me. You shouldn’t be in here.
(The figure turns and looks at MARC. The hood comes down. We see a girl, about MARC’s age, white. This is She looks at MARC. She turns around and goes back to her conversation.)
Excuse me. The library’s closed. You can’t- You shouldn’t- Excuse me.
(RAIN whips around on him.)
RAIN:
I’M ON THE PHONE! CAN’T YOU SEE I’M ON THE PHONE!
MARC:
…Sorry. Sorry.
(He retreats out the door. RAIN goes back to her phone call. MARC stops and comes back.)
Wait. Wait.
RAIN:
What?
MARC:
You’re not supposed to be in here. You can’t just yell at me.
RAIN:
I’m on-
MARC:
You’re not supposed to be using that phone. For personal calls. Or any calls.
RAIN:
(into the phone)
Hang on.
(to MARC)
What are you, the phone monitor?
MARC:
…Yes?
RAIN:
Really?
MARC:
I work in here. I know the rules.
RAIN:
(jangling a ring of keys at him)
I work here, too. So it’s cool.
MARC:
I don’t think it is.
RAIN:
I’m just, you know, on the phone. For, like, five minutes. What do you care?
MARC:
You shouldn’t be in the library when it’s closed.
RAIN:
Scared I’m going to steal some dumb books.
MARC:
The library’s closed.
RAIN:
What’s your name? I know you.
MARC:
I’m Marc.
RAIN:
Right. Right. Look, Marc. I’m going to be five minutes, then I’ll lock up. No one’s here. No one cares. Okay?
MARC:
I’m here. I care.
(RAIN gives an angry, frustrated sigh.)
Moe will care. If I get him.
RAIN:
Why you gotta bust my balls, man?
MARC:
The library is closed.
RAIN:
If you’re going to get Moe, go get him. Go on.
(She turns back to her phone call. MARC looks at her. He turns to go. He comes back. He puts his finger on the base, disconnecting her call.)
What the fuck - ?!?
MARC:
If I went and got Moe, you’d be gone by the time we got back.
RAIN:
You hung up the phone.
MARC:
The library’s closed. You can go now.
RAIN:
This isn’t, like, your personal property. It’s a public space, dude.
MARC:
Not when it’s closed.
RAIN:
GOD. FINE. I’m going.
(She starts gathering her things.)
Not supposed to be here. You’re not supposed to be here.
MARC:
What?
RAIN:
It’s spring fucking break. Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, home? Or something.
MARC:
I’m staying here.
RAIN:
What the fuck for?
MARC:
I don’t have anywhere else to go.
RAIN:
Oh.
MARC:
What are you doing here?
RAIN:
I live here.
MARC:
No one lives at Winterbrook.
RAIN:
In town. I live in the town.
MARC:
Oh. But you go here.
RAIN:
Yeah. And?
MARC:
You’re a day student?
RAIN:
…Yeah.
MARC:
Do you have a pass?
RAIN:
Oh, my god. It’s Sunday night. Sunday night of winter break.
MARC:
You…snuck in?
RAIN:
Are you sure you go to this school? I thought they only let in smart kids.
MARC:
You have to go. You have to get out.
RAIN:
I’m trying to.
MARC:
If Moe finds you, you’ll get in trouble.
RAIN:
I. Know.
MARC:
Wait. You snuck in to use the phone?
RAIN:
You’re just full of questions. It’s a long story. Don’t ask me any more questions, okay?
MARC:
Okay.
(RAIN finishes gathering up her things.)
Why would you sneak in to use the phone?
RAIN:
It’s none of your business. And don’t tell anyone you saw me in here. I’ll break your arm.
MARC:
Okay.
RAIN:
If you see me in here again, you just keep walking, okay?
MARC:
Okay.
(RAIN glares at him. She goes to the door. We can see a flashlight in the hall.)
RAIN:
Shit. Shit.
(She comes back into the library.)
MARC:
Is it Moe?
RAIN:
No, it’s the boogeyman.
MARC:
What?
RAIN:
Of course it’s Moe.
(She slings her backpack over the desk. She jumps over the desk.)
Not. A. Fucking. Word.
MARC:
Okay.
(RAIN drops behind the desk. The door opens and MOE enters. He’s a security guard, late 40s, black, tall and imposing. He carries a flashlight.)
MOE:
What are you doing in here?
MARC:
Huh?
MOE:
Marc. What are you doing in the library?
MARC:
I…just wanted…to check on the books.
MOE:
The books?
MARC:
Yeah.
MOE:
They still on the shelves?
MARC:
Not those books. The new ones. Just came in.
MOE:
Oh.
(He walks over to the table, looks at the boxes.)
Bunch a new books?
MARC:
Yeah. I gotta catalog ‘em.
MOE:
Okay. But you should be up in your room, now.
MARC:
I know. I’m just…excited.
MOE:
About a bunch a books?
MARC:
They’re new.
MOE:
Okay.
(He heads out. Sees the Walkman on the floor.)
That yours?
MARC:
What?
MOE:
That there. Is that yours?
MARC:
Oh. Uh. Yeah?
MOE:
Then pick it up. I ain’t your maid.
MARC:
Sorry. Sorry.
(He picks it up.)
MOE:
What you listening to?
MARC:
Uh. Music.
MOE:
What kind of music?
MARC:
Uh.
(He’s trying to see the name on the tape.)
The…Replacements?
MOE:
Oh. Never heard of them. They new?
MARC:
…Yeah.
MOE:
They like the Commodores or something?
MARC:
Something like that, yeah.
MOE:
Hm. I should borrow that from you. I need some new tunes.
MARC:
Yeah. Anytime.
MOE:
Okay. You okay here?
MARC:
Yeah. I can lock up.
MOE:
You better.
(He heads for the door. He stops.)
You all right?
MARC:
Yeah.
MOE:
I…I know this place gets lonely without all them other kids around and everything. You must miss your folks a lot.
MARC:
A bit.
MOE:
Well. You know I’m here. If you wanna talk or something.
MARC:
Thanks.
MOE:
We brothers gotta stick together here, you know. Up amongst all these white devils.
MARC:
…Yeah.
MOE:
I’m kidding around. Don’t look so scared.
MARC:
Okay.
MOE:
But…we do gotta stick together. Okay?
MARC:
Okay.
MOE:
Don’t stay here, messing with them books. Well, not too late.
MARC:
I won’t.
(MOE goes. A beat. RAIN stands up.)
RAIN:
You had to have, like, a chat with him?
MARC:
We were just talking.
RAIN:
I’m crouched down there. My leg’s asleep. Give me that.
(She takes her Walkman back.)
You don’t even know who The Replacements are, do you?
MARC:
Are they like the Commodores?
RAIN:
No. You’re really staying here for the break?
MARC:
What did you think I was doing here?
RAIN:
I don’t know. Thought maybe you were leaving in the morning.
MARC:
I’m staying. I always stay for the breaks.
RAIN:
That must suck.
MARC:
It’s okay.
(A beat.)
RAIN:
I’m gonna sneak out the back.
MARC:
Okay.
RAIN:
Don’t tell anyone you saw me here.
MARC:
I won’t.
RAIN:
See ya ‘round. Ivy League.
MARC:
What?
RAIN:
Your sweatshirt. Ivy League.
(She puts on her backpack and slips out. MARC stands looking around. He turns off the light and leaves. End of scene.)
New Play Project 2010
Back here, I made a promise:
- I write the first scene of a play.
- I post that scene.
- You all chime in, as you see fit.
- The next week, I post another first scene of another new play.
- You all chime in.
- Lather, rinse, repeat, and then, based on my own energy and your feedback, I finish one of the plays. (Or more.)
Pretty simple, huh. So Fridays are going to be New Play Fridays around here. Get used to it.
Over the next week or so, I'm going to write the first scene or 5-10 pages of some plays I have kicking around in my skull, and I'll post them here, here and even here. You read 'em and let me know what you like, what you want to hear more of, what excites you. And then I write 'em.Obviously, things got a bit screwy on various fronts and I got a bit side-tracked, but I'm actually back at it. Here's the plan:
- I write the first scene of a play.
- I post that scene.
- You all chime in, as you see fit.
- The next week, I post another first scene of another new play.
- You all chime in.
- Lather, rinse, repeat, and then, based on my own energy and your feedback, I finish one of the plays. (Or more.)
Pretty simple, huh. So Fridays are going to be New Play Fridays around here. Get used to it.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Starting Gate
Last year, on my facebook profile, I wrote:
Well...not great. But not bad. I got about 50% there. I wrote two new full-length plays (one of which is being read in Chicago this weekend, plug, plug), a couple of short plays and did one major re-write on a full-length. Not to mention, between this blog and my other one, about 200 posts or so (leaving out a guest stint or two at Parabasis). But I didn't finish all of the ones I wanted to. Because, well, it was hard.
Anarchists was the hardest one. I had high hopes (and still do) and a real connection to the material, but the damn thing just didn't materialize for me. My "open source playwriting" plan had some flaws, I admit. Mainly, it's hard to get good folks together in the summer. Maybe I'll take another whack at it this spring.
So...a .500 batting average. Not shabby...actually, for a baseball player, it would be amazing. But this isn't baseball, is it? That was my 2009. What's 2010 got in store? Another whack at it, that's what.
We're nearly through January. I've got about 11 months left in the year. That's a lot of time. And I have a lot of ideas still rattling around in my brain. And I like a good challenge. So back at it. But, as always, with a twist: you get to decide which plays I work on.
Over the next week or so, I'm going to write the first scene or 5-10 pages of some plays I have kicking around in my skull, and I'll post them here, here and even here. You read 'em and let me know what you like, what you want to hear more of, what excites you. And then I write 'em. Then you come and see 'em. Pretty simple, no? Could be fun...could be a total trainwreck. Hopefully, it will be interesting either way.
Time to get climbing up that hill...
So, yeah, that’s four plays. It’s April now, which means I’ve got about eight months. A new play every two months. Plus I got a couple of one-acts brewing and one big rewrite of something else planned. It’s a bit crazy. But let’s also note that William Shakespeare wrote Titus, Romeo and Juliet, Love’s Labours Lost and The Taming of the Shrew in about a year. Am I Shakespeare? Hell, no. But you gotta aspire to something.Pretty ambition, no? And when I wrote that, this whole blog was still anonymous, so I didn't even include it. And 2009 turned out to be a bit of a banner year in these parts. A lot of writing planned there, a lot of work. So, how did I do?
At least I have an answer when someone asks me, “What are you up to?”
Well...not great. But not bad. I got about 50% there. I wrote two new full-length plays (one of which is being read in Chicago this weekend, plug, plug), a couple of short plays and did one major re-write on a full-length. Not to mention, between this blog and my other one, about 200 posts or so (leaving out a guest stint or two at Parabasis). But I didn't finish all of the ones I wanted to. Because, well, it was hard.
Anarchists was the hardest one. I had high hopes (and still do) and a real connection to the material, but the damn thing just didn't materialize for me. My "open source playwriting" plan had some flaws, I admit. Mainly, it's hard to get good folks together in the summer. Maybe I'll take another whack at it this spring.
So...a .500 batting average. Not shabby...actually, for a baseball player, it would be amazing. But this isn't baseball, is it? That was my 2009. What's 2010 got in store? Another whack at it, that's what.
We're nearly through January. I've got about 11 months left in the year. That's a lot of time. And I have a lot of ideas still rattling around in my brain. And I like a good challenge. So back at it. But, as always, with a twist: you get to decide which plays I work on.
Over the next week or so, I'm going to write the first scene or 5-10 pages of some plays I have kicking around in my skull, and I'll post them here, here and even here. You read 'em and let me know what you like, what you want to hear more of, what excites you. And then I write 'em. Then you come and see 'em. Pretty simple, no? Could be fun...could be a total trainwreck. Hopefully, it will be interesting either way.
Time to get climbing up that hill...
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Black Playwright Convening Responses
The first two are up. Adam Thurman, blogger for the Mission Paradox blog, is here. Mine is here. There's also a couple of great pictures of the participants here. I posted the pics to my Facebook and got it tagged, in case you're wondering who's who here.
Monday, January 4, 2010
The Next Thing
So. Yesterday, I made my big announcement. And some folks noticed and said some nice things (and made awesome comic book references) about me and my blog.
For a while now, I've led a kind of double blogging life, writing more personal stuff here and saving the theatre stuff for over there. But now the two worlds are, as they say, colliding. And I'm not sure what that means for this blog here. I know most of you read it as part of my facebook page, but the geniuses that make facebook only allow me to import one blog at a time. And I'm not saavy enough to figure out how to cross-post and keep my links (I do love my links).
So...I may be wrapping this one up and shifting over to 99 Seats full time. Or I may not. We shall see. In the meantime, feel free to swing over to my other joint from time to time and say hi.
For a while now, I've led a kind of double blogging life, writing more personal stuff here and saving the theatre stuff for over there. But now the two worlds are, as they say, colliding. And I'm not sure what that means for this blog here. I know most of you read it as part of my facebook page, but the geniuses that make facebook only allow me to import one blog at a time. And I'm not saavy enough to figure out how to cross-post and keep my links (I do love my links).
So...I may be wrapping this one up and shifting over to 99 Seats full time. Or I may not. We shall see. In the meantime, feel free to swing over to my other joint from time to time and say hi.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
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