by David Ives
(WAITRESS enters and goes to the specials board.)
AL: Good. Now there’s the waitress. Order yourself a Bud and a burger. But don’t ask for a Bud and a burger.
MARK: Waitress!
AL: Don’t call her. She won’t come.
MARK: Oh.
AL: You’re in a Philadelphia, so just figure, fuck her.
MARK: Fuck her.
AL: You don’t need that waitress.
MARK: Fuck that waitress.
AL: And everything to do with her.
MARK: Hey, waitress! FUCK YOU!
(WAITRESS turns to him.)
WAITRESS: Can I help you, sir?
AL: That’s how you get service in a Philadelphia.
WAITRESS: Can I help you?
MARK: Uh—no thanks.
WAITRESS: Okay, what’ll you have? (Takes out her pad.)
AL: Excellent.
MARK: Well—how about some O.J.?
WAITRESS: Sorry. Squeezer’s broken.
MARK: A glass of milk?
WAITRESS: Cow’s dry.
MARK: Egg nog?
WAITRESS: Just ran out.
MARK: Cuppa coffee?
WAITRESS: Oh we don’t have that, sir. (MARK and AL exchange a look and nod. The WAITRESS has spoken the magic words.)
MARK: Got any ale?
WAITRESS: Nope.
MARK: Stout?
WAITRESS: Nope.
MARK: Porter?
WAITRESS: Just beer.
MARK: That’s too bad. How about a Heineken?
WAITRESS: Heineken? Try again.
MARK: Rolling Rock?
WAITRESS: Outta stock.
MARK: Schlitz?
WAITRESS: Nix.
MARK: Beck’s?
WAITRESS: Next.
MARK: Sapporo?
WAITRESS: Tomorrow.
MARK: Lone Star?
WAITRESS: Hardy-har.
MARK: Bud Lite?
WAITRESS: Just plain Bud is all we got.
MARK: No thanks.
WAITRESS (calls): Gimme a Bud! (To MARK) Anything to eat?
MARK: Nope.
WAITRESS: Name it.
MARK: Pork chops.
WAITRESS (writes down): Hamburger …
MARK: Medium.
WAITRESS: Well done …
MARK: Baked potato.
WAITRESS: Fries …
MARK: And some zucchini.
WAITRESS: Slice of raw. (Exits, calling.) Burn one!
AL: Marcus, that was excellent.
MARK: Thank you.
AL: Excellent. You sure you’ve never done this before?
MARK: I’ve spent so much of my life asking for the wrong thing without knowing it, doing it on purpose comes easy.
AL: I hear you.
MARK: I could’ve saved myself a lot of trouble if I’d screwed up on purpose all those years. Maybe I was in a Philadelphia all along and never knew it!
AL: You might’ve been in a Baltimore. They’re practically the same.
(WAITRESS enters with a glass of beer and a plate.)
WAITRESS: Okay. Here’s your Bud. (Sets that in front of MARK.) And one cheesesteak. (She sets that in front of AL and starts to go.)
AL: Excuse me. Hey. Wait a minute. What is that?
WAITRESS: It’s a cheese steak.
AL: No. I ordered cream of kidney and two pairs of feet.
WAITRESS: Oh we don’t have that, sir.
AL: I beg your pardon?
WAITRESS: We don’t have that, sir. (Small pause.)
AL (to MARK): You son of a bitch! I’m in your Philadelphia!.
MARK: I’m sorry, Al.
AL: You brought me into your fucking Philadelphia!
MARK: I didn’t know it was contagious.
AL: Oh God, please don’t let me be in a Philadelphia! Don’t let me be in a—
MARK: Shouldn’t you ask for the opposite? I mean, since you’re in a Philad—
AL: Don’t you tell me about life in a Philadelphia.
MARK: Maybe you’re not really—
AL: I taught you everything you know about Philly, asshole. Don’t tell me how to act in a Philadelphia!
MARK: But maybe you’re not really in a Philadelphia!
AL: Do you see the cheese on that steak? What do I need for proof? The fucking Liberty Bell? Waitress, bring me a glass of water.
WAITRESS: Water? Don’t have that, sir.
AL (to MARK): “We don’t have water”—? What, you think we’re in a sudden drought or something? (Suddenly realizes.) Holy shit, I just lost my job …! Susie left me! I gotta make some phone calls! (To WAITRESS.) ’Scuse me, where’s the pay-phone?
WAITRESS: Sorry, we don’t have a payph—
AL: Of course you don’t have a payphone, of course you don’t! Oh shit, let me outta here! (Exits.)
MARK: I don’t know. It’s not that bad in a Philadelphia.
WAITRESS: Could be worse. I’ve been in a Cleveland all week.
MARK: A Cleveland. What’s that like?
WAITRESS: It’s like death, without the advantages.
MARK: Really. Care to stand?
WAITRESS: Don’t mind if I do. (She sits.)
MARK: I hope you won’t reveal your name.
WAITRESS: Sharon.
MARK (holds out his hand): Good-bye.
WAITRESS: Hello. (They shake.)
MARK (indicating the cheese steak): Want to starve?
WAITRESS: Thanks. (She picks up the cheese steak and starts eating.)
MARK: Yeah, everybody has to be someplace.… (Leans across the table with a smile.) So.
BLACKOUT
LONG AGO AND FAR AWAY
A WINTER’S TALE
Nessun maggior dolore
che ricordarsi del tempo felice
ne la miseria; a cio sà ’l tuo dottore.
Ma s’a conoscer la prima radice
del nostro amor tu hai cotanto affetto,
dirò come colui che piange e dice.
Dante, Inferno
Canto V
This play is for Lisa Schwarzbaum
Long Ago and Far Away was first presented at the Ensemble Studio Theatre in New York City in May 1993. It was directed by Christopher A. Smith; the set design was by H. Peet Foster; costume design was by Julie Doyle; lighting design was by Greg MacPherson. The cast was as follows:
LAURA Crista Moore
GUS John Ottavino
JACK Baxter Harris
LANDLADY Gretchen Walther
The main room of an apartment in New York City. Except for a few boxes and a CD player against the wall, the place is empty. There is a fireplace without a fire in it, a door to the outside at left, and an open doorway to a hallway at center, LAURA, thirty and handsome, is sitting on a packing box and looking at a pen which she holds in her hand, turning it over and over. After a moment, GUS, same age, enters from center carrying a box.
GUS: This is the end of it. Nine pounds of ancient correspondence. (LAURA says nothing.) Aloha.
LAURA: I’m sorry.
GUS: Lost in space?
LAURA: Yeah, I was, a little.
GUS: You’re probably exhausted.
LAURA: No, I’m good. I’m very good.
GUS: Good. Excellent. (Kisses her.) Happy day, happy day, happy day. And this is just the prequel. (He notices an old record album lying on a crate near LAURA.) What’s this?
LAURA: I don’t know. I found it when I was cleaning.
GUS: “Long Ago and Far Away and Other Favorite Songs.” Looks ancient. (Holds it to his ear. Timex commercial.) “But it’s still ticking!” Yours?
LAURA: No, I’ve never seen it before.
GUS: A mysterious object. (Noting a newspaper.) Did you see us in the Times today?
LAURA: We were in the Times’?
GUS: “West Nineties apartment near Central Park. Brownstone building. One bedroom, small study, remodelled kitchen, marble fireplace.” Of course, they didn’t mention that the fireplace doesn’t work
, but…
LAURA: How do you know it was us?
GUS: Well. West Nineties. Near Park. Fireplace. Sounded like us. And a million other apartments, it’s true. But somehow I had this weird feeling they were talking about us.
LAURA: A woman disappeared.
GUS: A woman what… ?
LAURA: Did you see that in the paper? A woman in our neighborhood disappeared.
GUS: New neighborhood or old neighborhood?
LAURA: This neighborhood.
GUS: Anybody we know? We’ll take her off the Rolodex.
LAURA: Ruth somebody.
GUS: Ah. Ruth Somebody. Her.
LAURA: Her husband came home and pots were cooking on the stove, the TV was on, all her clothes were still in the closet—and she was gone.
GUS: Still more reasons to move. Can’t live in a neighborhood where you have people just disappearing on you.
LAURA: “Vanished without a trace …”
GUS: She probably ran off with a Hindu ski instructor. Got caught in a time warp, or an alternative reality. Anyway, she’ll be back. Even in a separate reality you need a change of socks.
LAURA: A couple of years from now we’ll probably see her picture in the paper and they’ll say she’s never been heard from.
GUS: Mmm. Husband heartbroken. Friends and neighbors baffled. “Ruth was always such a wonderful person.”
LAURA: She has to be somewhere. Even if you disappear you don’t just… disappear.
GUS: You’re in a pretty spooky mood tonight. Care for a final celebratory glass of wine at the old homestead?
LAURA: Sure.
GUS: Mmm. Not the most convincing reading of that line I’ve ever heard.
LAURA: Yes, please. I’d love some wine.
GUS: Brilliant. (Kisses her.) Are you sure you’re okay?
LAURA: Yeah. Fine.
GUS (pouring wine): Did these people say when they were coming over? The phantom apartment-seekers?
LAURA: No, just tonight sometime.
GUS: I don’t see why we have to hang around for them. I told Tony and Bea we’d go out and celebrate. The really meaningful question for tonight being, do we go to the Empire Pagoda for their incomparable cold sesame noodles, to the Empire Dragon for the superb eggplant with garlic sauce, or to the Empire Valley for the killer Moo Shoo pork. Someplace conducive to dissecting this latest spate of bad movies—including that Lithuanian ode to ennui they sent us to. You’re absolutely sure you’re all right?
LAURA: I’m splendid.
GUS: I’ve always said so. (Hands her a glass of wine.) Cheers, babe. To better days.
LAURA: Why “better days”?
GUS: Well. The new apartment. The great future out there ahead of us. The fact that I got insulted in the street today. Days have got to get better than that.
LAURA: You got insulted … ?
GUS: Still more reasons to move.
LAURA: On our street?
GUS: Today. And I don’t even… Maybe this was a metaphysical experience. Maybe I hallucinated it. Who knows. Anyway I’m coming up the street and up ahead of me I see this couple sitting on a doorstep about halfway down the block. A man and a woman.
LAURA: Homeless people?
GUS: Just ordinary everyday-looking people. Ergo, probably homeless. Anyway, the guy looks over and sees me coming and he nudges the woman and she looks over at me so all the time I’m walking by them I can feel them looking at me. You know? All this while still saying nothing. So I sail on and I’m probably about two feet past them when I hear the guy turn to the woman—obviously talking about me—and he says to her (with a smirk) “See what I mean?”
LAURA: “See what I … ”?
GUS: “See what I mean?” What the hell is that supposed to mean? I never see these people before in my life, then I go walking by and—“See what I mean?” They had to be talking about me. And if I’m the punch line to somebody’s story, I’d kind of like to know what the joke is! Is that insulting or what? And most insulting because I don’t even know what it means! Any wisdom? Speculation? Thoughts?
LAURA: Do you know what I think I’ve just realized?
GUS: You were the woman on the doorstep? No. Tell me.
LAURA: I think I’ve only just realized that this is reality.
GUS: Excuse me? Did you just say “This is reality”?
LAURA: I think I’ve just realized that I exist.
GUS: You mean, tonight, or … ?
LAURA: No, I mean … Lately so often it’s like there are these … moments of illumination …
GUS: Hmmmmmmmmmmm.
LAURA: … when just for a second or two I realize, I mean I really realize, that this—all this—is really here. That it exists. And that I’m part of it. I don’t know. Somehow it just recently hit me that when philosophers talk about the nature of reality, they’re not talking about words, or ideas, they’re talking about things like this box, and this newspaper, and this pen in my hand. Which are all real.
GUS: Uh-huh.
LAURA: I am in the universe. It’s so strange. There’s this large empty hole a billion years old and a trillion light years across, and I’m standing on a tiny piece of a small rock flying through it. We are. Everybody is. Right now. At this instant. I exist, and this pen exists. It’s sitting in my hand. In my living hand …
GUS: Uh-huh. Listen, just click the heels of your ruby slippers together and say “There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home. …”
LAURA: Oh go to hell.
GUS: Go to hell? Come on, Laura. “This is reality”?! This is New York. This is hell. This Is Your Life with Ralph Edwards, maybe. But—“this is reality?” “I am in the universe”? Okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to not take you seriously.
LAURA: Nice job, buddy.
GUS: It’s just—When somebody says “This is reality,” anything you say in response is bound to sound a little trite. What is the proper riposte to “This is reality”?
LAURA: Why does everything have to be a riposte? Why does everything have to be a snappy answer?
GUS: Well. A little snap takes the sting out of reality. This being the only reality. And I’ve known you to snap out an answer in your time. The original riposte-woman. Even though tonight you’re impersonating Hamlet the melancholy dame. But listen, if you want to take up philosophy, sort of a thoughtful hobby on top of an already lucrative career, I say go for it. I’ll back you up, honey.
LAURA: Okay, okay. I was being trite. So shoot me.
GUS: I can’t shoot you. You wouldn’t exist anymore, and what would I do with all the furniture? We finally get a bigger apartment and she dies on me! Oh great! Thanks very much!
LAURA: But you know what?
GUS: What.
LAURA: This pen still exists in my hand.
GUS AND LAURA: In my living hand.
LAURA: Thank you.
GUS: Maybe we could sell this to Parker Pens. “The new bottom-line fountain pen. Doesn’t write very well—but it exists.”
LAURA: “To Bic or not to Bic.”
GUS: That’s the spirit. You know what you need in your present mood? You need my new invention. Listen to this, you’ll love it. Two-D glasses. You put them on and everything looks like a movie. Is that brilliant? Those days when the shit is hitting the fan at the speed of light, you just pop these on and, Hey, no problem! I’m in a movie! Available in black-and-white, or technicolor for that gaudy MGM look. Perfect for somebody with reality jitters like yourself. What’s the matter?
LAURA: Nothing.
GUS: Here’s a philosophical speculation. Since you’re in a philosophical mood. You know how the secret purpose of bees is to pollinate flowers? Has anybody ever thought the secret purpose of human beings might be to pollinate furniture? I mean look. I sit down on a couch, I move to a dining-room chair, carrying some couch pollen on the backs of my thighs, maybe in the middle of the night a little divan quietly blossoms into being. Or maybe I sit in a chair, you sit in a chair
, we change chairs, and a love seat is born.
LAURA: Could you be quiet for a minute? Please?
GUS: I’m sorry. Was I babbling again?
LAURA: I’m sorry.
GUS: Well. You’re in a rather somber and serious mood and I was feeling rather good. Just wanted to keep things lively.
LAURA: Don’t you sometimes …
GUS: What.
LAURA: Sometimes I think I live in the world but I don’t know anything about it. Even after all these years. I still don’t know the first thing about the world. I don’t know anything about anything! Lately some days I think my life’s just going to go on and on like this. And then stop.
GUS: Go on like what?
LAURA: Well. Like this.
GUS: What’s “this”? And what’s wrong with “this”?
LAURA: No—nothing. I just…
GUS: We’re doing great.
LAURA: Sure.
GUS: As always.
LAURA: We’re doing fine.
GUS: Mmm. Not the most convincing reading of that line I’ve ever heard.
LAURA: You yourself said “to better days.”
GUS: Oh come on, Laura.
LAURA: Implying that everything isn’t as perfect as it could be.
GUS: I just meant—I didn’t mean anything, I just …
LAURA: It’s like tonight. We’ll go out with Tony and Bea and we’ll argue about which restaurant to go to—as if it was important—and then we’ll talk about what movies we’ve all seen and we’ll all be very clever and have a lot of snappy answers and then we’ll discuss and compare the food we’re eating and the food we’ve had this week and the food we’re planning to eat and the movie reviews in the Times, and then we’ll go home and everything will be the same as it was until the next time we meet to talk about restaurants and movies.
GUS: Well. There’s nothing wrong per se with restaurants and movies. I mean, Szechwan cooking and bad foreign films are what make life worth living.
LAURA: Mm.
GUS: Laura, what is with you tonight? You’re a dirge. You’re the Brahms German Requiem when you ought to be a Rodgers and Hammerstein musical. We’re moving out! This is no time for philosophy! I have seen the future and it’s Riverside Drive! And it is going to be great!
LAURA: What if they never find that woman?
GUS: What?
LAURA: This Ruth. What if it’s never explained what happened to her? And she really does vanish without a trace?