Thom Pain

by Will Eno

  THOM PAIN

  (based on nothing)

  BOOKS BY WILL ENO

  AVAILABLE FROM TCG

  The Flu Season and Other Plays

  Also includes:

  Intermission

  Tragedy: a tragedy

  Gnit

  Middletown

  The Open House

  The Realistic Joneses

  Thom Pain (based on nothing)

  Title and Deed/Oh, the Humanity and other good intentions

  Wakey, Wakey (forthcoming)

  THOM PAIN

  (based on nothing)

  published with other monologues for theatre

  Will Eno

  Thom Pain (based on nothing) is copyright © 2004 and 2018 by Will Eno

  Thom Pain (based on nothing) is published by Theatre Communications Group, Inc., 520 Eighth Avenue, 24th Floor, New York, NY 10018-4156

  Thom Pain (based on nothing) is published by arrangement with Oberon Books, Ltd. 521 Caledonia Road, London, N7 9RH

  All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio or television reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Professionals and amateurs are hereby warned that this material, being fully protected under the Copyright Laws of the United States of America and all other countries of the Berne and Universal Copyright Conventions, is subject to a royalty. All rights, including but not limited to, professional, amateur, recording, motion picture, recitation, lecturing, public reading, radio and television broadcasting, and the rights of translation into foreign languages are expressly reserved. Particular emphasis is placed on the question of readings and all uses of this book by educational institutions, permission for which must be secured from the author’s representative: Rachel Viola, United Talent Agency, 888 Seventh Avenue, 9th Floor, New York, NY 10106, violar@unitedtalent.com.

  “Mr Theatre Comes Home Different” originally appeared in Post Road, Vol. 4, and appears here with gratitude to the editors.

  The publication of Thom Pain (based on nothing) by Will Eno, through TCG’s Book Program, is made possible in part by the New York State Council on the Arts with support of Governor Andrew Cuomo and the New York State Legislature.

  TCG books are exclusively distributed to the book trade by Consortium Book Sales and Distribution.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the Library of Congress

  ISBN 978-1-55936-959-6 (trade paper)

  ISBN 978-1-55936-922-0 (ebook)

  Cover image: Michael C. Hall from Thom Pain, photo by Tristan Nash/Signature Theatre

  First TCG Edition, March 2005

  Revised TCG Edition, November 2018

  THANK YOU and LOVE,

  MARIA, ALBERTINE, MADELEINE,

  JOHN, GORDON, and JIM.

  Contents

  THOM PAIN (based on nothing)

  LADY GREY (in ever-lower light)

  MR THEATRE COMES HOME DIFFERENT

  THOM PAIN

  (based on nothing)

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  THOM PAIN

  Male, 30s-40s, cold, grave, somewhat angular person. A wounded, stray-dog type, but with an odd intellectual aspect, perhaps even a little frail, in some way. He should seem capable of great cruelty, perhaps due to his having suffered great cruelties, himself. He must also be charismatic, must be able to ‘run the show,’ but run it without a lot of effort, relying more on a kind of dark seductive quality. He is somewhere between Shakespeare’s Richard II and his Richard III. That said, the actor must also create a character that is close to – and is largely derived from – himself.

  AUDIENCE

  Female, male, various ages.

  Setting: A mostly empty stage, the theatre.

  Wardrobe: Plain dark suit, white shirt, dark tie. Clothes should be non-descript: slightly-worn, not of a perfect fit, though certainly not ragged.

  A props list and some general notes are at the end of the play.

  Thom Pain was first produced by Soho Theatre Company in association with Chantal Arts + Theatre and Naked Angels (NYC) at the Pleasance Courtyard, Edinburgh on 5 August 2004, before transferring to Soho Theatre, London on 3 September. The personnel were:

  THOM PAIN, James Urbaniak

  Director, Hal Brooks

  Artistic Associate, Julie Anderson

  Design Consultant, David Korins

  Lighting Designer, Christoph Wagner

  On its transfer to DR2 Theatre, New York, on 1 February 2005, Thom Pain was produced by Daryl Roth and Bob Boyett with the following personnel:

  THOM PAIN, James Urbaniak

  Director, Hal Brooks

  Artistic Associate, Julie Anderson

  Design Consultant, David Korins

  Lighting Designer, Mark Barton

  General Manager, Adam Hess

  Thom Pain (based on nothing) opened on November 11, 2018 at Signature Theatre (Paige Evans, Artistic Director; Harold Wolpert, Executive Director; Jim Houghton, Founder) in New York City. It was directed by Oliver Butler, the set design was by Amy Rubin, the costume design was by Anita Yavich, the lighting design was by Jen Schriever, the sound design was by Lee Kinney; the production stage manager was Charles M. Turner III, the production assistant was Elizabeth Emanuel, and the assistant director was Banna Desta.

  The cast was:

  THOM PAIN, Michael C. Hall

  THOM PAIN

  Enters in darkness. Footsteps are heard. A match is lit, to light a cigarette. It is snuffed out, accidentally, without the cigarette being lit. The darkness remains.

  How wonderful to see you all.

  A second match is lit, and is, again, accidentally snuffed out.

  I should quit.

  Pause. It’s still dark.

  We should define some terms here. Then, maybe, you get a little story. So. From the New Century Dictionary of English (Rustling of paper, in the dark.):

  Quote, “Fear:

  1. Any of the discrete parts of the face, as in the eyes or mouth, or eyes.

  2. The capital of Lower Meersham, in the north central southeast corner. Population 8,000,001, approx.

  3. Fear.

  4. See three.

  5. There is no seven.

  Colloquial. Archaic. A verb. Or noun. Depends.” End quote.

  (Rustling of pages. The following lines are said somewhat to himself.) Hey, look at that. “Felicific. Adjective. Causing or intending to cause happiness.” (Very softly.) Felicific.

  Anyway. Now. I guess we begin. Do you like magic? I don’t. Enough about me. Let’s get to our story. Do you want a story? Do you need to see me to hear me? If so, sorry. Not yet. I’m afraid you’d laugh at my native costume. Promise you won’t laugh. I know you won’t, friends, I trust you won’t. But not because you promised. You’ll see me soon enough, I suspect. But not yet.

  For now, we should take a moment to consider –

  A flash of bright light lights up the whole stage, and then, more-focused light comes up on THOM PAIN. This light cue should only take a split-second: a flash and then lights up. It should have a jarring and accidental feel. THOM is caught off-center, though he quickly adjusts.

  And yet. I guess some things are not really ours to decide. The shape of the face, say, or whether we’re forgiven or how tall we are. Where to die and when.

  Brief pause.

  I’ll wait for the laughter to die down.

  Brief pause.

  I still sense some laughter.

  Brief pause.

  There. Wait. Now. There.

  Brief pause.

  Oh, me.

  So.
Our story. Don’t make it hard on yourselves. Don’t be troubled by what you might perceive as obscure, hard, troublous. Just remember the simple human picture before you. This.

  Brief pause.

  A little boy in a cowboy suit, writing in a puddle with a stick, a dog approaching. Deaf or dumb, the boy is, or, like anyone, a little timid, partly stupid, ashamed, afraid, like us, like you. Our little boy is wearing shorts, shoes, no socks, no cowboy boots. He is there. Dreaming of this real life right here. Picture the boy. A terrible storm has just ended. A cloud, overhead, a little rumble. The boy writes his watery lines. See his eyes. Sympathize with his little clothes. Now, break his arm, give him an injury, some problem with his hip so that he stands funny, can’t walk “real good.” Now picture that the stick he is writing with is a violin bow. Picture a violin section. Picture every living person as a member of a violin section. We hold the bow above the strings, ready to play. Picture a bird settling on a branch. The violins are on fire. Feel the world inhale. Picture the readiness, the stillness, the virtuosity. Among this, the child. Picture ash blowing across a newly-blue sky. (The following is said almost without anger, as if it’s just another request, as in “Picture a violin section.”) Now go fuck yourselves.

  He takes out a small box of raisins and eats some, staring at the audience.

  Picture, I don’t know, a bird. Or the kid, the child. Picture whatever you want. You’re free, at least to this little extent, yes? Who knows. Not me.

  Brief pause.

  You know who I suddenly don’t need?

  Very brief pause.

  Anyone?

  No, I don’t know, either. No bother. Or – to employ the popular phrase we use today to express our brainless and simpering tolerance of everything, the breakdown of distinction, our fading national soul – whatever.

  Casually.

  I’m like whatever.

  Pointedly. As if a grave admission.

  I really am like whatever.

  THOM moves downstage.

  Does it scare you? Being face to face with the modern mind? It should. There is no reason for you not to be afraid. None. Or, I don’t know. (Gently.) Shall I save your life? Shall I love you slowly and be true? Shall I stroke your cheek, gently, almost not at all, and bring you a glass of cold water in the restless humid night? Whatever.

  Pause. He returns upstage, turning his back for a moment. As he begins the following lines, a man in the audience, seated in the fourth or fifth row, begins to leave. The man is not angry or offended, and leaves quickly and quietly. It is as if he has suddenly realized that he is in the wrong show and is meant to be at the theatre down the street. THOM notices him but tries to ignore him.

  Meanwhile, we were speaking of the infant, the cowboy-suited child, making his way in the business world. A tale for the ages, a flowery unfolding that will leave you yearning for that old yearning that –

  (To the man who is leaving.) Goodbye.

  The man is gone. Quietly:

  Au revoir, cunt. Pardon my French.

  THOM starts to return to a story-telling mode. Then, something occurs to him to say, with reference to the man who left.

  I’m like him. I strike people as a person who just left.

  But, our little performance, our little turn, on the themes of fear, boyhood, nature, hate, the nature of performance and vice-versa, the heart of man, of woman, et cetera.

  You know, you might be better off if you had gone with your heart and left, like our friend, now departed, who just left with his heart. And the rest of his organs. I don’t know. This was an aside. Pretend I didn’t say it. Don’t imagine a pink elephant.

  Brief pause.

  Yes, our little story, the little boy in the cowboy suit. Did I say he had a cowboy suit? Not important. Did I say he had a heart and body full of bleeding wonder and love? Not important. Either way, there is our little man, before the puddle, in the quiet after the storm. There is a little thunder but no more rain. Not unimportantly, the sky is all blue now. Blue skies for Child Harold, whose name is not Harold. Trees are down, branches everywhere. The boy’s beloved dog jogs toward him, daintily avoiding other yet-to-be-written-in puddles. She’s been making her rounds, pawing around the bases of trees and sniffing butterflies drying themselves in the breeze. Ah, the dog. Long story short, boy loves dog, dog loves boy, no question, no amendment, no need to revise. The dog came closer, stopped to scratch. (Without pausing, he becomes distracted by some lint on the sleeve of his jacket or somewhere on his clothes and removes it, as he speaks the next two lines.) Then she lowered her head to lap water from a puddle and was electrocuted. A power line had come down and was lying frayed in the water. She was thrown some distance, flew like some poorly thought-out bird. Her eyes were burned open and smoking; the pads on her paws had blistered off. She was dead instantly, veterinarians and electrical engineers would later agree. Poor dog. The boy laughed and laughed and wrote maniacally into his puddle. We don’t know why. Trust me, that this happened, and happened, like this. He went over to her, knelt down by her. He opened the jaws and tried to put his ear in the mouth. The dog had white markings above her paws. He patted it. Oh, the clear blue sky, the whitish backs of the leaves in the breeze, the feeling of the world, renewed but still the same. The boy yawned. A car came by, slowed, passed. An everyday moment. The boy swallowed. He lived through this.

  Questions? (Brief pause.) No?

  I have one.

  When did your childhood end? How badly did you get hurt, when you did, when you were this little, when you were this wee little hurtable thing, nothing but big eyes, a heart, a few hundred words? Isn’t it wonderful how we never recover? Injuries and wounds, ladies and gents. Slights and abuses, oh, what a paradise. Living in fear, suiting the hurt to our need. I’m serious. What a happy life. What a good game. Who can stand the most, the most life, and still smile, still grin into the coming night saying more, more, encore, encore, you fuckers, you gods, just give me more of the bloody bloody same. (Brief pause.) Or, I don’t know, what do I know?

  People ask about the name. “Thom Pain.” I don’t answer. Or I say, “It’s been in the family a while.” Or I say, “Child Harold,” for no reason. Then one of us walks away.

  Anyway, the boy lay down behind the dog, holding her. He closed his own eyes with his fingers. The boy lay in a puddle behind his former dog, whispering, “I do. I do.” He came home later, without stick or dog. No one noticed him, the change in him. The boy got some scissors and cut his hair half-off. He drew a simple bone on his stomach with some of his mother’s lipstick. He tucked himself badly into bed. He sang a little song without words or tune. He lay there, awake, breathing too much, biting a crayon, trying to hold everything in. The boy smelled of dead wet dog. His legs shook and he wet his bed. (Brief pause.) This all being an example of – I don’t know – how some days can go, of actual life, of the close relations between man and animal.

  Now, imagine a pink elephant. Now, stop.

  Brief pause.

  Good. Wait a minute? There. Thank you, sir.

  Pause.

  (With earnest enthusiasm.) Now I think would be a good time for the raffle. I hope you held on to your tickets, on the back of which is a number. We have some very nice prizes.

  He moves off the stage, perhaps to a back area, checking his pockets, looking back to the lighting booth, etc.

  All right, are you ready? Okay. Here we go. Who’s feeling lucky, who’s got the luck? This’ll be fun.

  Brief pause.

  There is no raffle. Who said there was going to be a raffle? The good news is, you didn’t lose. You lost nothing except the time it took to find this out. Which is a pretty big chunk. Someday, some minute, you’ll have thirty seconds to live. Think of me, my little comic bit about the raffle. Think of me, fucking around with your life, and try to smile.

  Trust me, there are people out there who don’t love you. Who don’t love you enough to spit on your little hopes, so as to leave you all alone, re
spectfully and truly alone, with your larger ones. Your larger hopes. Which are what? (To a man in the audience.) Sir? Care to share your larger hopes with us? (After a brief pause.) No? That’s fine. I understand. Don’t want to jinx anything. Or have nothing to jinx. Or can’t feel hope. Or don’t like sharing. Oh, the varieties of experience. Feel free to feel anything. Religious ecstasy, Anarchy, Shivery physical things, Nothing, Blood, Your neighbor, That stranger you married. What possibilities we all have here, ways and means to live and die. Cancer, for example, or depression. Anxiety, Insecurity, Holes in your knowledge, Spots on your lungs, Total oblivion. Sky-diving. (Brief pause.) Financial crisis, Outer space, Inner peace, Shame, Lust, Heavy-heartedness, Light-headedness, Sympathy, God, a Migraine, Me, Words, Sounds, Afraid, the Past, Present…God. The things you may be feeling. The list goes on. Then the list ends.

  (The next two lines or so are directed toward a specific person somewhere in the first row.) If I were you, I’d be sick of this already. I’d feel restless. I’d feel like eating or urinating. I think that covers it. Or maybe I’d feel like taking a long walk on a long pier. Or I’d feel sorry. For me. If I were you. I don’t know, really. But, again, feel whatever you like. As if you need me to tell you that. It’s your life. Yes?

  (To a particular person in the audience.) What if you only had one day to live? What would you do? That’s easy. You’d be brave and true and reckless. You would love life and people with wild and new abandon. If you only had a day. (Very brief pause.) What if you only had forty years? What would you do? If you’re like me, and – no offense, but – you probably are, you wouldn’t do anything. It’s sad, isn’t it? This dead horse of a life we beat, all the wilder, all the harder the deader it gets. On the other hand, there are some nice shops in the area. I bought a candle-holder and a chair, today. I lost the candle-holder somewhere.

  Pause. The following is announced exactly the same as when announced before.

  Now I think would be a good time for the raffle. I hope you held on to your tick– no. Sorry, where was I? I was thinking about your life. Very distracting. Okay. (Lines spoken quickly, as he seeks to find his place again.) I bought a candle-holder and a chair today. I lost the candle-holder somewhere. Okay. Sorry. I bought a – Huh.