[(A young actor comes on hesitantly; call him Tony.)
TONY: Me?]
TILDEN: Step out there, please. We’ll demonstrate the basic stance in tennis.
[TONY: (Proudly, grinning at audience.) OK!]
TILDEN: (Handing him the racket.) Take the racket. That’s it. Shake hands with it, as if it were the best friend you’ll ever have—which it may turn out to be. (Demonstrates.) Good. Firmly, but not too tight. Give your fingers some play. Yes. Good. (Stands behind him.) Make sure that this V . . . this V for Victory . . . (Reaching around, touching Tony’s hand.) between your thumb and forefinger, make sure it settles on the top of the handle. Yes. Now this is what we call the continental grip. (The lesson becomes more intimate as TILDEN stands behind his pupil, with his hand on top of the pupil’s hand, guiding his swing.) Yes, all right now, stand sideways, like this, with your left leg forward. (Moves Tony’s leg forward.) Yes. Now the ball is coming, so get your arm back in plenty of time, yes . . . good . . . now, now step forward and meet the ball out in front of you . . . there! Yes! And follow through all the way! (They end in a strongly intimate position.) There. That’s your basic forehand drive. Build on that, and all will be well. (HE steps away.)
[(Tony is obviously uncomfortable.)]
TILDEN: Thank you, my young friend.
(As Tony exits, TILDEN pats his rear with his racket, then begins to move gracefully around the stage, demonstrating the various strokes of tennis.)
TILDEN: Because footwork is everything, people. You see? It’s like a dance. . . . The serve . . . Pow!. . . the forehand . . . Pow! . . . the backhand . . . the rush to net . . . Pow, pow, pow! You see? Look at me. I’m a dancer, really . . . I’m Nijinsky, I’m Valentino, I‘m—who’s that young dancer who performs on Broadway with his sister? I’m Fred Astaire! (HE uses his racket as a cane.) “Puttin’ on the Ritz”. . . . And I’m not being facetious here, folks. The player owes the gallery as much as the actor owes the audience. . . . (HE calms down.) But I’ve come to learn that the attention span of American audiences is somewhat limited, so that’s enough lecture for tonight.
(HE bows, salutes the audience with his racket. HE sits down and puts his shoes back on.)
BIG LOVE
BY CHARLES MEE
This play is inspired by what some believe to be the earliest surviving play of the Western world, The Suppliant Women by Aeschylus: Fifty young women flee their country to avoid marrying fifty male cousins. In the monologue, two of the would-be grooms have been discussing manhood, throwing themselves on the ground and hurling saw blades across the stage into a wood building.
CONSTANTINE stands panting, weeping. HE kicks the ground over and over—releasing the last spasms of rage, like little aftershocks, finally settling down. HE speaks very quietly.
Or make of the monologue any character in any circumstance you like.
SCENE
A palatial home in Italy
TIME
Now
CONSTANTINE:
People think it’s hard to be a woman;
but it’s not easy
to be a man,
the expectations people have
that a man should be a civilized person
of course I think everyone should be civilized
men and women both
but when push comes to shove
say you have some bad people
who are invading your country
raping your own wives and daughters
and now we see:
this happens all the time
all around the world
and then a person wants a man
who can defend his home
you can say, yes, it was men who started this
there’s no such thing as good guys and bad guys
only guys
and they kill people
but if you are a man who doesn’t want to be a bad guy
and you try not to be a bad guy
it doesn’t matter
because even if it is possible to be good
and you are good
when push comes to shove
and people need defending
then no one wants a good guy any more
then they want a man who can fuck someone up
who can go to his target like a bullet
burst all bonds
his blood hot
howling up the bank
rage in his heart
screaming
with every urge to vomit
the ground moving beneath his feet
the earth alive with pounding
the cry hammering in his heart
like tanked-up motors turned loose
with no brakes to hold them
this noxious world
and then when it’s over
suddenly
when this impulse isn’t called for any longer
a man is expected to put it away
carry on with life
as though he didn’t have such impulses
or to know that, if he does,
he is a despicable person
and so it may be that when a man turns this violence on a
woman
in her bedroom
or in the midst of war
slamming her down, hitting her,
he should be esteemed for this
for informing her
about what it is that civilization really contains
the impulse to hurt side by side with the gentleness
the use of force as well as tenderness
the presence of coercion and necessity
because it has just been a luxury for her really
not to have to act on this impulse or even feel it
to let a man do it for her
so that she can stand aside and deplore it
whereas in reality
it is an inextricable part of the civilization in which she lives
on which she depends
that provides her a long life, longer usually than her husband,
and food and clothes
dining out in restaurants
and going on vacations to the oceanside
so that when a man turns it against her
he is showing her a different sort of civilized behavior really
that she should know and feel intimately
as he does
to know the truth of how it is to live on earth
to know this is part not just of him
but also of her life
not go through life denying it
pretending it belongs to another
rather knowing it as her own
feeling it as her own
feeling it as a part of life as intense as love
as lovely in its way as kindness
because to know this pain
is to know the whole of life
before we die
and not just some pretty piece of it
to know who we are
both of us together
this is a gift that a man can give a woman.
BITTER BIERCE
BY MAC WELLMAN
In the following speech from a play based on the life of American writer, journalist, and satirist AMBROSE BIERCE, the title character recollects his newspaper coverage of a corrupt railroad tycoon, whose funding bill HE helped to defeat.
SCENE
A public lecture hall
TIME
1897
BIERCE: Things livened up a bit in early 1896; Hearst wired me from New York: Railroad combination so strong in Washington that seems almost impossible to break them up, yet it is certainly the duty of all having interests of coast at heart to make the most strenuous efforts. Will you please go to Washington for the Examiner?
I replied.
I shall be glad to do whatever I can toward defeating Mr. Huntington’s Funding Bill and shall start for Washington on Monday evening next.
Collis P Hu
ntington was the sole surviving appendage of the Bay Area Big Four—tycoons and swindlers—that had included Mark Hopkins, Charles Crocker, and Leland Stanford, by 1896 the latter three all mercifully dead.
The Southern Pacific and Union Pacific Railroads had been built using public monies loaned out at a reasonable rate of interest. The railroad men had enriched themselves enormously, at public expense, and had failed to make anything more than token repayment of either interest or principal (an amount conservatively estimated at seventy-five million dollars).
Mr. Huntington’s Funding Bill was a ruse not merely intended to delay repayment for another thirty years, but in effect to assure that the issue of repayment would never be forced. The chief lobbyist for the corrupt and depraved railroad contingent in Congress was one John Boyd, whom I referred to as Huntington’s tapeworm.
My first article began: Mr. Huntington is not altogether bad. Though severe, he is merciful. He tempers invective with falsehood. That is, although he says ugly things of the enemy, he has the tenderness to be careful that they are mainly lies.
Mr. Huntington appeared before the Committee and took his hands out of all pockets long enough to be sworn.
The spectacle of this old man standing on the brink of eternity, his pockets loaded with dishonest gold which he knows neither how to enjoy nor to whom to bequeath was one of the most pitiable it has been my lot to observe. He knows himself an outmate of every penal institution in the world; he deserves to hang from every branch of every tree of every state and territory penetrated by his railroads, with the sole exception of Nevada, which has no trees.
I called him an inflated old pigskin.
I called him a veteran calumniator.
I called him a promoted peasant.
I called him the swine of the century.
Of our modern forty thieves, Mr, Huntington is the surviving thirty-sixth.
One day I encountered Mr. Huntington on the steps of the Capitol.
Previously I had declined Huntington’s hand in a committee session. It was once more offered. Met with stony rejection, Huntington finally shouted: Well, name your price; every man has a price.
My price is seventy-five million dollars, and you might make it payable to my good friend, the Secretary of the Treasury..
Later on someone asked the old reptile why he had approached me. Oh, I just wanted to see how big he was. And then added, now I know.
But that was the Mauve Decade. Once at the home of a Western family who had recently acquired a vast fortune, I was admonished by the hostess to notice her “spinal” staircase.
In January 1897 the Funding Bill was defeated and I returned to San Francisco.
THE BLACK MONK
BY DAVID RABE
ANDREI VASILICH KOVRIN—an orphan, raised by a renowned horticulturalist—is a scholar and idealist in his 30s. The following monologue gives an early indication of his fragile mental state, which will deteriorate further during the course of the play. HE is speaking to Tanya, his future wife.
SCENE
A flourishing Russian estate
TIME
Late 1800s
[TANYA: I think we should have sung something more lively and upbeat!]
KOVRIN: No, no, it wasn’t the music.
[TANYA: The truth is, Kovrin, I find that serenade almost hypnotic.]
KOVRIN: No, no. It’s something else entirely. I’ve been thinking all day of it, and growing more and more frustrated. It’s this book—the one I was looking for. It contains a legend that I—
[TANYA: What legend?]
KOVRIN: I can’t stop thinking about it.
[TANYA: Is it famous?]
KOVRIN: I’m fascinated by it and I feel the need to—but I can’t find the book it’s in. I’ve looked everywhere.
[TANYA: Could I have heard of it?]
KOVRIN: Of course, you could have [heard of it], but it’s unlikely, because I have the feeling the source is esoteric. But it tells how one thousand years ago a monk, dressed in black, walked into the desert in Arabia. He walked over the sand, up and down the dunes, and in those very same minutes, fishermen hundreds of miles away saw a black monk gliding over the surface of a lake. [(At the piano someone plays.)] This second monk was a mirage. Now don’t try to apply the laws of optics, because the legend pays no attention to them. Just listen to the rest. The mirage of the monk at the lake produced another identical mirage above it, and from that one came another, and on and on so that almost instantly, the mirage of the black monk was sent endlessly from one level of the atmosphere to the next, resulting in the Black Monk being seen in Africa and in Spain. There were Italians who saw him. People in the Far North. And all at the same time. And then he sailed right out of the earth’s atmosphere into the heavens. (This leaves HIM gazing up and out at the star-filled sky.) And there he has roamed ever since, never finding the right conditions that might allow him to fade away. At the moment he might be seen on Mars, or near a star in the Southern Cross. (Glancing at Tanya who gazes skyward.) But the main point, the heart of the whole legend, is that exactly one thousand years from the day that monk first stepped into the desert, the mirage will come back to the earth. (Once again HE studies the heavens as if expecting to see the Black Monk.) . . . and people will see it. According to the legend, the thousand years is coming to an end. So we should be expecting the Black Monk any day now.
BLACK THANG
BY ATO ESSANDOH
Sam’s best friend is JEROME, a black man who says whatever HE wants, and HE has definite opinions on a number of subjects, including the fact that Sam is dating a white girl.
SCENE
A bar. Sam and JEROME are drinking beers.
TIME
The present
JEROME: There is one thing that I have to warn you about, my brother. One very important thing that, as you embark on this new frontier of dating, you will find lacking. One thing that cannot be duplicated, cannot be replicated, cannot be approximated, or facsimilated. That one thing my brother . . . is the Ass. White women don’t have It. They may think they have It. They may act like they have It. But they don’t have It. They just don’t. It’s the law of nature. The amount of Ass, or the Ass Content per se, is directly proportional to the concentration of pigmentation in the skin. Therefore Sisters have high Ass Content while White girls and other pigmentally challenged females have low Ass Content. It’s just the way it is. Can’t do nothing about it. As a result, you will experience what I like to call A.W . . . Ass Withdrawal. A.W is a painful ordeal, my brother, and you may have thoughts of going back, but you must work it through because in the end, remember, it’s for the best. Your case is particularly critical because you’re going straight from sisters to white girls. See, I did me a couple of Puerto Ricans in order to ease the transition. You know what I’m saying?
BLACK THANG
BY ATO ESSANDOH
Sam has been sitting alone with a drink when JEROME enters. There is an awkward pause as JEROME sits.
SCENE
A bar
TIME
The present
JEROME: I knew this Indian chick once. You know, red dot on the forehead and all that shit. Her name was Sipi. Worked at the Foot Locker on Flatbush. She was something. Mad cute in the umpire stripes. Little black Converse on. The girl was fine, man. Fine ass little Sipi. Sold me a pair of Airwalks, the New Jordans when they came out. A pair of Reebok pumps. Remember Reebok pumps? The fly shit. Right? Sold me all kinds of shit. Socks, tees, my Knicks hat. Damn. I would just go in there sometimes, not even wanting to buy shit. Just check her out. She had this shy smile, the way she looked at me, all shy and shit. I think she was sweating me too. You know. So one time I’m like, “Yo check this out, I‘ma roll up in there and ask for her number, and I’ma take her to Coney Island.” You know, go slow because you could tell she was one of those slow girls. Take a whole six months before she’ll let you even see her bra strap you know what I’m saying? Probably got to go to some funky ass
holy temple and sacrifice a goat or some shit before she’ll let you fuck her. You know what I mean? But she looked like she was worth it. You know them Indian people be some freaks behind closed doors. Kama Sutra? ’Nuff said. So I rolled up in there, had my pumps on, had my Knicks hat on with matching Reebok suit. Yeah, you know the deal. And I rolled up in there and I said, “A yo Sipi come here girl!” And she was all embarrassed and shit. Talking about, “Can I help you sir?” And I was like, “Yeah, you can help me . . . what’s up with that red dot on your forehead girl somebody poke you or what?” You know, just trying to break the ice and shit. And she looked at me for a second . . . and started to cry. And I’m like, “Naw Sipi baby don’t cry. I was just teasing. Shit I like the red dot!” And that was the truth. I was cool with the red dot. But she just kept crying like I stole her suede Pumas. or something. So the manager, probably her father or some shit, comes out and says to me (Mimicking Indian manager.), “My friend. You must leave. You must leave right now my friend.” And I’m like, “Yo can’t I apologize? Can I say I’m sorry?” “No my friend you must leave. You must leave right now my friend. Or I call the cops.” Shit what’s this friend shit? You ain’t my friend motherfucker! You ain’t my friend! How you gonna call the cops on your friend? So anyway, they kicked me out. Banned me from Foot Locker. Imagine that? Ban a brother from Foot Locker? That shit ain’t right. . . . I heard through the Foot Locker grapevine that Sipi went to med school a couple of years ago. I knew that girl was smart. Heard she got married too. Some Indian doctor. Two doctors in the house? They must be making bank! Wish I could see her again. Let her know I was cool with the red dot. . . .
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