In the Wake

by Lisa Kron

  DANNY: I don’t know anything about it. But I do know that people gotta do what people gotta do.

  (They sit together, watching TV.)

  ELLEN: What is this?

  DANNY: Football. Ever heard of it?

  ELLEN: I know it’s football. Who’s winning?

  DANNY: The Vikings.

  ELLEN: Vikings. Good team. They have a really deep bench. Who’re they playing?

  DANNY: The Cowboys.

  ELLEN: Cowboys. Good team. They have a really deep bench.

  DANNY: That joke is so lame.

  (Beat.)

  ELLEN: Danny? We’re so lucky.

  DANNY: Shit yeah.

  Scene 2

  Projections: Coverage of the Supreme Court decision in Bush v. Gore and Al Gore’s concession, urging the nation to support the new president.

  It is May 2001, six months later.

  Ellen and Amy sit in a lounge area outside a lecture hall somewhere on the Harvard campus. They are deep in conversation.

  AMY (Trying to figure it out): But . . . but . . . wait. I’m lost. I thought you said you were writing about strip malls.

  ELLEN: No, no, I’m writing about the tax code—

  AMY: Okay?

  ELLEN: —My example is strip malls.

  AMY (Thinks about this, then): More.

  ELLEN: Okay.

  AMY: Okay.

  ELLEN: Stick with me—

  AMY: I will.

  ELLEN: —’cause this is good.

  AMY: I believe you.

  ELLEN: All right, the thing people don’t realize about strip malls is that the reason they’re everywhere is that in the 1950s Congress made a tiny change to the tax code, accelerating the depreciation rate for new construction—

  AMY: Okay . . . ?

  ELLEN: And the reason they put it there was to encourage manufacturing, but what it actually did was create a tax loophole that made it profitable for developers to build strip malls in nonpopulated areas. And that’s why strip malls are everywhere. These boring little infrastructures matter.

  AMY: Aha.

  ELLEN: But we don’t see it. Because Americans are dedicated to the myth that we’re all operating independently, and I’m not just talking about motherfucking Libertarians who think all humans act in a self-interested vacuum, Alan Greenspan and his Ayn Rand bullshit—fucking Libertarians drive me crazy—no, no, no, I’m talking about us on the left. Somehow we are incapable of thinking systemically or politically. Our whole strategy seems to be to find some magic personality to make it 1968 again, while—okay, okay, okay, this is the thing: somebody is thinking systemically and it’s Karl Rove, and the Club for Growth guys. While we’re putting all of our energy into praying for another Kennedy, they are making a million tiny changes to the tax code, to media regulation, to antitrust protections, to election laws, and they are successfully channeling money, power and votes their way, and we can’t figure out what is going on. We’re like, “Waaaait a minute. Waaait a minute. What’s going on?”

  These systems matter because . . . because . . . Because, look—when the American Revolution was over, the logical thing for the framers to do would have been to say: “Okay. King George is out, our guy is in, thank you very much, now go back to your . . . candle dipping.” But they had this vision of a dynamic society and they believed the only way to create that was systemically. All those brilliant men and they didn’t just put one of them in charge. Instead they created this system, this carefully constructed series of conduits through which people’s energies and aspirations could flow.

  It’s the thing that just . . . moves me about this country. It’s the thing that just . . . just slays me about this country—that it was set up to be a place where people could change—that the whole idea was to allow people to change their status, change their lives—was that your question? I’m sorry, I got off track, what was your question again?

  AMY: You have a beautiful mouth.

  ELLEN: What?

  AMY: You have a beautiful mouth. People must tell you that.

  ELLEN: What? Uh. No. Not so much.

  AMY: I really like watching you talk.

  ELLEN (Flustered): Good thing. I talk a lot.

  AMY: I’m sorry. Go on.

  ELLEN: Well, I lost my train of thought.

  AMY: The framers?

  ELLEN: The framers . . . the framers . . . I don’t know. I can’t remember what I was saying. (Looks around, startled) Weren’t there a lot of people here? Where did everybody go?

  AMY: I don’t know.

  ELLEN: My ass hurts!

  AMY: I think we’ve been sitting here a while.

  ELLEN: What time is it? Didn’t the panel just end? It’s dark out.

  AMY (Looks at her watch): It’s nine. We’ve been here four hours.

  ELLEN: Really? Oh my God. Wow. I talk a lot! I’m sure you wanna get home. Or to your studio. Do you work late? You probably want to get back to your clay.

  AMY: Clay?

  ELLEN: I don’t know why I assumed clay. What kind of sculpture do you do?

  AMY (Amused): I’m a filmmaker.

  ELLEN: How did I get sculptor?

  AMY: I have no idea.

  ELLEN: Sculptor. Hmm. Do you sculpt anything?

  AMY: No.

  ELLEN: Did you tell me you were a filmmaker?

  AMY: Yeah.

  ELLEN: I’m sorry.

  AMY: It’s okay. I called you out of the blue when I saw you were coming to Harvard.

  ELLEN: I’m so embarrassed. Okay, so films. About what? Did you tell me that already, too?

  AMY: No. Uh . . . Well, I’m kind of starting a new thing . . . But the films I’m known for—you know, to the extent that I’m known—are collections of fleeting images of everyday things. They’re short—a minute each. “Short and intense.” My signature style. Sadly.

  ELLEN: What are they about?

  AMY: They’re . . . Ah. If I could give you a clear articulation I’d get so many more grants. I actually want people not to think about them too much. I want them to be . . . felt.

  ELLEN: Huh.

  (A beat.)

  AMY: Were you surprised when I called you?

  ELLEN: I don’t know. Yeah.

  AMY: You remembered me.

  ELLEN: Well . . . yeah, I mean. Whenever you were home from college your sister gave us daily reports. It was a big event in the debate team. She was so dazzled by you.

  AMY: Yeah, well . . .

  ELLEN: I’m surprised you remember me.

  AMY: I remember you because you seemed so . . . brave.

  ELLEN: Brave? Me? I was afraid of everything all the time.

  AMY: Really?

  ELLEN: I had to teach myself to be brave.

  AMY: How do you do that?

  ELLEN: I don’t know . . . at some point I thought—if I get to the end of my life and realize I didn’t do all these things because I was afraid I’m going to be so pissed. I couldn’t bear that.

  (A beat.)

  AMY: You think a lot.

  ELLEN: I do.

  AMY: I feel a lot. Too much, really.

  ELLEN: How can you feel too much? I can’t imagine it.

  (Amy shrugs.)

  AMY: My sister showed me that article about you in the Times.

  ELLEN: Wow. She must read the Times really carefully.

  AMY: Well, she was very impressed.

  ELLEN: How’s she doing?

  AMY: She’s good. She’s married. Three kids. My dad lives down the street from them—he moved there when my mom passed away a few years ago. They’re all family, family . . . And . . . I think I’m not really cut out for that kind of family life.

  ELLEN: Not everybody wants the same kind of life.

  AMY: Yeah. No, I want it. I want it a lot, actually. But maybe not, you know. Maybe not really, or I’d have it, right?

  ELLEN: I don’t know about that. Maybe you just don’t have it yet.

  AMY: Maybe it doesn’t want me.

&
nbsp; ELLEN: That doesn’t seem right.

  AMY: It’s okay, we don’t have to talk about it.

  ELLEN: We can talk about it.

  AMY (Simply): I don’t want to.

  (A small beat.)

  ELLEN: So . . . you said you’re doing something new with your films?

  AMY: I did?

  ELLEN: I thought // you did—

  AMY: Oh yeah. Yeah. Uh . . . well . . . I’ve been thinking about negative space . . . or, I mean, my relationship to negative space.

  ELLEN: Negative space? . . .

  AMY: It’s . . . Have you ever taken a drawing class?

  ELLEN: No.

  AMY: Me neither, actually. But I was teaching myself to draw—

  ELLEN: You were? That’s so industrious.

  AMY: Is it?

  ELLEN: I’m sorry. Go on.

  AMY: Well, there’s a basic exercise you do when you’re learning to draw where you draw the negative space.

  ELLEN: Which means . . . ?

  AMY: It means you don’t focus on the object you’re drawing, you draw the space around it. So if I was drawing your hand— (Taking Ellen’s hand in hers) I wouldn’t draw your fingers. Instead I’d look at the shapes of these spaces between your fingers— (Tracing those shapes) This is negative space. Your hand is positive space. And when you draw with this exercise, the drawings are . . . almost unsettling, they’re so vivid. You really see the thing. You really see the hand. Somehow by focusing on what it’s not, you end up with an intense . . . an intense sense of what it is.

  ELLEN (Flustered, taking her hand back): Oh. Uh-huh.

  AMY: Negative space is also an idea in architecture. It’s open space. Space that’s . . . undefined. It makes people uncomfortable. They instinctively move toward positive spaces where the boundaries are clear. It’s not unrelated to what you were saying before about Jane Jacobs.

  ELLEN: Oh, Jane Jacobs. I do love her so.

  AMY: Well, of course you do. She’s all about infrastructure and flow. I always want to make the intelligent-design people read her.

  ELLEN: Why?

  AMY: Because . . . Okay, their central argument is: “There must have been a plan.” And Jane Jacobs says the opposite. She says that cities only work when they’re not completely planned, when there’s space for unplanned juxtapositions and unexpected encounters . . . for randomness.

  ELLEN: Yes.

  AMY (Building this idea): And . . . it’s . . . it’s such an important idea. Because any artist will tell you, any scientist will tell you, that it’s the accident, it’s the mistake, that causes you to reframe and expand everything. Nothing really amazing is created by one mind thinking rationally. The “intelligent design” argument is absurd! How could something so complex and amazing as the universe come from one rational mind? But nothing really extraordinary happens without some irrational leap. We don’t leave our comfort zone easily right? People who want to lead big lives and think big thoughts— they know, a wrench in the works, well, it might not be pleasant but it will get them to the next place. They’re willing to let themselves be knocked off track.

  ELLEN: I agree, but for some reason people are afraid of that.

  AMY: Some of them. Yes. Well, of course they are.

  ELLEN: Why?

  AMY: Because . . . flux is very uncomfortable.

  ELLEN: But I don’t get it. You can think you’re choosing certainty but you get strip malls and George Bush. How can that be more comfortable?

  AMY: Lots of people grapple with complexity. But . . . complexity is scary.

  ELLEN: To me it feels obvious.

  AMY: The things that matter, the huge, magnificent things, the big three—Art, Religion . . . Sex—each of them can take us to the highest place. Or the lowest. You know? Each of them offers transcendence—and also degradation. I think probably that’s what makes them . . . the biggest things.

  ELLEN: You’re very smart. You’re a smarty-pants.

  (Amy shrugs. A little embarrassed. A beat.)

  AMY: Are you and Danny planning to have kids?

  ELLEN: No. Kayla and Laurie are.

  AMY: But not you?

  ELLEN: Maybe. I don’t know. I feel . . . I’m ambivalent. It’s that thing of wanting to stay open to the injection of randomness.

  AMY: I think having kids is probably one injection of randomness after another, actually.

  ELLEN: Probably so. Yes, that makes sense. We talk about it sometimes. Maybe we will. Are you thinking you want to have kids?

  AMY: I want so much.

  (A beat.)

  Wanna hear something funny?

  ELLEN: What.

  AMY: When I saw that piece about you in the Times, I thought: That’s the person I’m going to marry. And then, one second later, I thought: Oh. No. She’s already married.

  ELLEN: That is funny.

  AMY: I know. And so I called you.

  ELLEN: Well. Huh.

  AMY: Yeah. It’s funny.

  (A beat.)

  ELLEN: I’m not speechless that often.

  AMY: It’s okay. I know you’re with Danny. I just wanted to see you. I’m glad that I called you.

  ELLEN: I’m glad, too. I didn’t really know you then—it’s funny—as kids. But I feel now—I don’t know—something . . . familiar ? . . .

  AMY: Yes.

  (A beat.)

  I feel kind of scared.

  ELLEN: You do? Why?

  AMY: I don’t know. It’s okay.

  ELLEN (Shaking her in a jokey way): You! What’s going on here?

  AMY: I don’t know. Something.

  (Ellen lets go of her.)

  How many more days are you in Boston?

  ELLEN: Four.

  AMY: Huh.

  ELLEN: What?

  (Amy gives her a look.)

  I know. I have to get the hell out of town!

  (Amy takes Ellen’s face in her hands. She captures Ellen’s gaze and holds it. She leans in and kisses her. It’s a moment of electric intensity. Amy breaks the kiss. They’re both a little stunned.)

  AMY: I shouldn’t have done that.

  ELLEN: No. It’s okay.

  AMY: I’m a little slain by you.

  ELLEN: I’m . . . I’m . . .

  AMY: I feel a little overwhelmed. I feel a little scared.

  ELLEN: Oh no. It’s okay. This—um. You know. Nothing is happening. I mean— This is . . . this is probably the best part anyway. Right? I mean . . . this part is probably better than sex.

  AMY (Direct, sincere): Oh no, I’m sure sex would be much better.

  Scene 3

  A few months later. Five A.M.

  Ellen has just woken in her hotel room. She picks up the phone and dials. Amy, sleeping, in Boston, picks up.

  AMY: Hello?

  ELLEN: Hey. It’s me.

  AMY: Hey. Hey, you. (A sleepy beat) What’s going on?

  ELLEN: Nothing. I . . .

  AMY: What time is it?

  ELLEN: It’s late. It’s the middle of the night.

  AMY: Oh . . . I was dreaming.

  ELLEN: You were?

  AMY: Yeah . . . (Progressively remembering) My family was on a picnic . . . on a . . . boat? And . . . it’s kind of hard to describe—my mother was . . . kind of there but kind of not? And then . . . somehow . . . (Amazed) you were there.

  ELLEN: I was?

  AMY (Remembering): You found me.

  ELLEN: I did?

  AMY: I was . . . I didn’t know where I was. And you came and got me.

  ELLEN: I did?

  AMY: And you put your arms around me. And you held me. You held me. (Wondrous feeling) Even right now, I feel like you’re holding me.

  ELLEN (Feels it physically. Amazed): I know. I feel it, too.

  AMY: You do?

  ELLEN: Yes. You woke me up. Do you know that? I was sleeping and I felt you shake me awake.

  AMY: I did?

  ELLEN: I feel like you did.

  AMY (Drifting back into sleep, so happy
): Oh. That’s so nice.

  Scene 4

  Projections: Coverage of Bush’s speech from the rubble pile, alerts on airline security and Giuliani urging people to go on with their daily lives.

  It’s January 29, 2002.

  On the fire escape, Judy smokes, jumpy. Ellen, in the kitchen and wearing her coat, pours two glasses of wine.

  JUDY (Calling in to her): What time is it again?

  ELLEN: Five minutes since the last time you // asked.

  JUDY: Okay, okay.

  ELLEN (Climbing out to join her): They’re going to be here any second.

  JUDY: We cannot miss that nine o’clock train.

  ELLEN: I know, Judy. But it’s six.

  JUDY: We should have just taken the earlier train. Tessa has to get up so goddamn early for school—we didn’t need Larry to pick us up—we could have taken a cab.

  ELLEN: You will make your train. I promise you.

  JUDY: Okay.

  (Ellen hands her the wine.)

  Thanks.

  ELLEN: How is the dashing Larry?

  JUDY: . . . Fine.

  ELLEN: Uh-oh. What’s happening?

  JUDY: Nothing . . . Exactly what I knew was going to happen. I knew it was a bad idea from the minute he got that World Bank job and started in about me finding a job in DC. I knew it was a bad idea. What’d someone say to me one time? . . . “Don’t sign up for pain”? I signed right up.

  ELLEN: Well, you didn’t know that Tessa was going to come live with you.

  JUDY: I did not.

  ELLEN: So . . . It’s a whole different situation.

  JUDY: Why did I take her?

  ELLEN: Because she asked. Is she a problem for Larry?

  JUDY: Are you kidding? Larry’s fine with Tessa. She’s just a problem for me.

  ELLEN: You are helping her. (Off Judy’s look) You are. She’s with you and not her bat-shit mother. You got her into an excellent school. You know this tutor Danny set her up with today is considered the guy for kids struggling with math.

  JUDY: I think you don’t know how different this world is from hers.

  ELLEN: But that’s the point, isn’t it? She wants a different life.

  JUDY: Maybe.

  ELLEN: Judy, this is a girl who had the wherewithal to track you down in—wherever the hell you were—

  JUDY: Senegal.

  ELLEN: Yes, and ask to come live with you.