TIME
Today
RONNIE: Anyway, what the fuck—you should know that I have Psychic Powers.
[JOEY: Who? You?
(JOEY is laughing.)]
RONNIE: Yeah.
[JOEY: But you’re a joke.
RONNIE: Well, maybe.] It’s not something I can count on, or you know, just summon up on demand. [(JOEY, amused and dismissive, shakes his head and starts away.)] Because they just come over me, these psychic powers, like in a wave, all these thoughts about people and what they done. Like you—(This stops JOEY.)—you were married twice before, weren’t you.
[JOEY: No.]
RONNIE: How many times you been married? (Wait.)
[JOEY: (Returning, annoyed.) I never been married.]
RONNIE: You never been married?
[JOEY: No.]
RONNIE: Never?
[JOEY: I had some girlfriends.
RONNIE: No, no it’s more than girlfriends.] What am I doin’ here? I’m messin’ it up. Maybe I’m thinking too much, maybe I’m showing off. Because what I’m getting off you is about this woman, and she’s in love with you!
[JOEY: What woman?]
RONNIE: And I’m getting this old apartment building on the corner and you are a kid on the fire escape—you’re climbing up and you’re going one two three four five six—(Stopping, realizing.) You’re a kid! A kid! So of course you couldn’t be married. But it’s that kind of love—that’s what mixed me up, because if you coulda married this woman, you woulda. But you’re a kid, see, and it’s six—no, five stories to this window with white curtains on it, white curtains with apples pictured on faded cloth, faded apples, faded curtains and leaves—it’s all fucking faded. [(Facing JOEY.)] Where is this? What am I seeing?
[JOEY: Keep going!]
RONNIE: There’s a woman inside and you want to go see her, you want to go visit her, but you’re afraid. I don’t know why you’re afraid. It’s because of something—I mean somebody else, not her, but her husband. Except he isn’t really her husband. I mean, you didn’t know that then, but you do now—he was just this man, who was in her house all the time and he hated you, but he isn’t home. You could have come up the front way and knocked, but you’re trying to see in to find out if he’s there, and you make a noise and you hide. You’re ashamed of sneaking and afraid of the man and you don’t want anybody to see you, so you back up into the shadows. And she sticks her head out, but she doesn’t see you. Her hair is red, it’s all tangled, all tangled. Long. Falling down around her shoulders. She’s got something in her hand, it’s a—rosary—white with big beads, and she drops it as she looks out, and she reaches, and loses her balance, reaching for the rosary, spinning through the air, and she follows it. She grabs at the air and turns in the air, and she sees you. She sees you and your eyes meet and she says your name—she says, “Joey,” and she sees you standing there watching—(His fingers fall from the lamppost like a tiny figure falling.) as she drops down into the dark of the alley below. Who was that, Joey? (As JOEY turns, moves away toward the dumpster.) Do you know who that was?
DOUBT
BY JOHN PATRICK SHANLEY
FATHER FLYNN, a priest who will soon be accused of molesting a male student, gives a group of young men some tips on basketball as well as personal hygiene. The lights crossfade to FATHER FLYNN, whistle around his neck, in a sweatshirt and pants, holding a basketball.
SCENE
School playground
TIME
The present
FLYNN: All right, settle down, boys. Now the thing about shooting from the foul line: It’s psychological. The rest of the game you’re cooperating with your teammates, you’re competing against the other team. But at the foul line, it’s you against yourself And the danger is: You start to think. When you think, you stop breathing. Your body locks up. So you have to remember to relax. Take a breath, unlock your knees—this is something for you to watch, Jimmy. You stand like a parking meter. Come up with a routine of what you do. Shift your weight, move your hips. . . . You think that’s funny, Ralph? What’s funny is you never getting a foul shot. Don’t worry if you look silly. They won’t think you’re silly if you get the basket. Come up with a routine, concentrate on the routine, and you’ll forget to get tensed up. Now on another matter, I’ve noticed several of you guys have dirty nails. I don’t want to see that. I’m not talking about the length of your nails, I’m talking about cleanliness. See? Look at my nails. They’re long, I like them a little long, but look at how clean they are. That makes it okay. There was a kid I grew up with, Timmy Mathisson, never had clean nails, and he’d stick his fingers up his nose, in his mouth—This is a true story, learn to listen! He got spinal meningitis and died a horrible death. Sometimes it’s the little things that get you. You try to talk to a girl with those filthy paws, Mr. Conroy, she’s gonna take off like she’s being chased by the Red Chinese! (Reacting genially to laughter.) All right, all right. You guys, what am I gonna do with you? Get dressed, come on over to the rectory, have some Kool-Aid and cookies, we’ll have a bull session. (Blows his whistle.) Go!
DUST
BY CARRIE LOUISE NUTT
THE CLEANER is not only the killer Frankie has hired to eliminate her former husband, but later HE turns out to be MIKE, a childhood friend of Frankie’s present boyfriend. THE CLEANER is now out of prison and trying to start a new life as a preacher. HE has broken into Frankie’s apartment and is holding a gun on her and her former husband.
SCENE
Eastern Washington
TIME
The present
THE CLEANER: It’s people like you that make living in this world a miserable experience because we have no protection. It’s the minions of Satan. The spawn, shall we say: the abortionists, the child molesters, the drug users, the homosexuals and the idolaters. They have forced God to remove His protection from us, making this great place—as they say—Hell on earth. But let’s remember this is God’s country! Paradise! We have His ear. We are His people. He has given us wealth and power and we can get right with Him! We can win back His protection. We have to put God back in the house, the schools, the government. We have to win the war on immorality!
God has handed me, like Michael, a swift sword to wreak His vengeance upon any foe who dares to undermine His plan for us. To strike down those who have led us astray, to clean up and reassert that which is good and right and Godly in this country. I have been sent by God, into the bed of sin to protect Eden, and I am not about to see the Feminazis and prostitutes, the Teletubbies and the black people make us subjects to Evil by angering the good Lord with their worldly, and otherwise negligently secular ways. I will not be proverbially—or literally—banished from Paradise. Because I know what that is like, and I refuse to go back. To backslide.
This is Paradise. Here. On earth. Aside from all the greedy iconographers, the prideful sinners and the oversexed homosexuals, who would like to promote their agenda, and ultimately, seize power. They are working to convert our children, youth targeting. Targeting the innocent. Just like the tobacco industry. I mean, obviously, Satan is at work here.
You should really come to a meeting, Ms. Simmons. I think you’d find it—of course, I’m not sure women are allowed, especially your type. Are you a Feminist? Because Feminists have long escaped the wrath of God’s angels without mercy, but believe me, you Feminazis are responsible for the deterioration of the family, as are lesbians and abortionists, but PEE is a well-regarded organization, and if you meet the requirements, you might be interested in looking into us. We’re working on spreading the Word. And soon, PEE will be recognized as a purveyor of the Good, and also as a grass-roots success, which is an important part of the movement for reclamation of culture and morality. Secretly, and this is just between us three, well, four, we’re hoping the good Lord will see our work and send us one of his evangelicals to preside over a meeting, but we know we have a long spiritual mountain to climb before we get there.
&nbs
p; Okay, now, if you don’t mind, Ms. Simmons, the Lord wants you to sit down. Sit your ass down.
DUST
BY CARRIE LOUISE NUTT
Speaking to Bo, his ex-wife’s lover, EVAN recalls his chaotic relationship with his ex, Frankie, which started in grade school.
SCENE
Eastern Washington
TIME
The present
EVAN: Me and Frankie, we’ve known each other since we were little kids. Probably 6, 7. Something like that. We were in grade school. I stepped on her heels cause I . . . I thought she was cute. She punched me, broke my nose. I bled all over. My pants, my shirt, the floor. That was how we met. She has a way of making you hold on when you know it’s gonna kill you. One time, years ago, this was before . . . before.
Anyway, we decided to get drunk and go swimming. So we drove down the valley, winding our way between the long grass and pine trees, ‘til we hit this bend, where the river widens. Every summer, this is where people go. It’s called Driller’s Pool. We parked the car. Rolled the windows down. Lit up. Drank beer after beer, just talking. Not hating each other. She had her feet up on the dash. Leaving footprints on the window, even though I told her not to. She always did what she did cause she wanted. Didn’t matter what you said. There was so much then, you know. Life was good and it was simple. It was enough just to be barefoot in the dirt with a Bud. Anyway, we got nice and toasty, made our way to the water and were standing on the last couple of steps, when I said something about her ass. Something mean-spirited, probably. I don’t know. I laughed. She didn’t say nothing. We climbed into the water, and before I knew it, she was on top of me, pressing my head under. Holding me like that. And I was drowning. Got a mouthful of water in my lungs. Couldn’t breathe. I was hitting her and pulling, but she wouldn’t let go. I nearly passed out ’fore she let me up. And still she didn’t say nothing. Just climbed out. Walked back to the car. Stripped, wrapped herself in a towel and finished the case.
END ZONE
BY BOB SHUMAN
While HE mixes drinks and unwraps takeout food, ARTHUR TRAINER—a freelance composer and percussionist (late 30s)—talks to his father (late 70s). THEY haven’t seen each other in seven years.
SCENE
A motel. It’s about a mile down the road from a prep school in the Northeast. Two adjoining rooms have been rented.
TIME
Several years ago, in November
ARTHUR: You go ahead and eat if you can’t wait. I thought you’d like Old Fitzgerald and lemon, Dad, like sitting out in your garden. You and Norm during the summer, building, digging—boxwood: a Jeffersonian ideal. Seven years old. Running away. You remember me? Down by the lake to the powerhouse—(About his drink.) Should make this a little stronger. The man who painted in the boiler room. Always in the dark, waiting for his pictures to dry. Dwight. Painting without models; used dirty magazines instead. (Pause.)
Carting sand and bricks in the wheelbarrow. Ivy, mountain laurel, replica Greek statuary, the Brussels “Statue of Piss!” (Pause. Continuing to make drink.) I don’t care what anybody thinks of me, Dad—mi’ as well teach like you wanted. Been fired four times, I keep telling people the truth! (About the drink.) What’s the matter? This is your favorite. Old Fitzgerald and lemonade.
(Pause.)
I’m supposed to watch you two from the magnolia tree. Rhododendron being planted. Pretend I’m sweeping leaves. “Don’t come over here, stay over there, get out of the way!” No more powerhouse trips, no more rafting, no more hikes across the bridge. Drifting farther off on the hot grass, and . . . walk right into town, just like that, past bullies and vagrants, Mr. Jackson delivering groceries, end up petting the Dalmatian in the firehouse. (About the drink.) This is too sweet, they don’t make that kind of lemonade, looked all over for it. Shoulda gotten mint. (Pause.)
I was so afraid you were going to die, Dad. I don’t know why. There wasn’t anything wrong with you, I just found out people . . . die. Mom in India studying the Taj Mahal. Norm says when that number comes up you’re on your own.
Out to the overpass to break bottles. Balancing on planks at the lumber yard. We were playing hide and seek, Dad. Flatten coins on the tracks, pumping my arm up and down for the conductors to blow the whistle. Over to the woods where that boy and girl from the high school committed suicide. . . . Rumors among the faculty, Dwight molested a kid. (Pause.)
(In his father’s voice.) “Don’t know what’s the matter with you, become a nuisance!” You grab my hand tight. Sometimes picking me up, walking so fast, “get you home.” Past cookouts and 4-H clubs, ghosts in the graveyard. Back to the construction of my maximum security pen—destined to become the place where I’d be dumped after school while teams made championships and Mother’s anthropology clubs won prizes. To think that your continually growing creation of intricately designed brickwork with window boxes, slate landings, mini-turrets, a sundial, and birdbath—even an ice-skating area, as well as white picket fencing—should have been built to rein in one lousy pain-in-the ass kid! (Pause.) It really wasn’t though, was it? It wasn’t for Mom—and it wasn’t even for sitting outside and having bourbon and lemonade. It was something to do during a summer; demonstrating the deep bonding between a father and son: you and Norm. (Pause.) Come on, let’s get you set up! One drink isn’t going to hurt you. This is a celebration. Clayt offered me a job, back here for the spring. They think I know something about music even. (Silence.)
I want to visit Dwight. Purples, dark canvases, umbers. My days are numbered, the new yard almost complete. . . . (Pause.) I know the route where I won’t get caught—find a feather, blow a dandelion’s top off. Past the Quonset huts, across the campus gravel walks. (Suddenly, loud.) “HEY! YOU GET OUT OF THERE!” (As if seeing him.) Norm. Both of us stop. (Pause.) He knows where I’m headed. Chasing me, blood pulsing through my neck. “DOWN BY THE LAKE!” Running me down, shoving me, on top. Pulling, won’t let me go, I’m falling, pushing me. It’s you! Heard him. Hold my hand, dragging me, find rope, I’m biting. Against the magnolia. “Put him up there.” Norm telling me to “eat that bark.”
No wonder somebody called the cops! Tying, pulling it tighter! No wonder they called! “Won’t run away again!” Vomit across the sidewalk. I can’t breathe . . . like now! I’m glad somebody called. . . . I’m glad they saw it. (Pause.) I wanted you to die.
(ARTHUR throws the glass, shattering it.)
THE EXONERATED
BY JESSICA BLANK AND ERIK JENSEN
In this play, six former death-row inmates, now exonerated, tell their stories. KERRY is a 19-year-old, trapped in a 45-year-old’s body. Born and bred in Texas, and with a strong Texas accent, KERRY is a white male, wrongly imprisoned for twenty-two of his forty-five years, and eager to rediscover the world.
SCENE
Minimal set pieces, perhaps a straight chair
TIME
The present
KERRY: It actually started when I was in the ninth or tenth grade: Me and my friends would, you know, act like we were going to school and then run out the back door and start trying to find a car with the keys in it. And I had the misfortune that one of the cars that I stole, in my adventures to conquer the world, was the sheriff deputy’s car and I, ah . . . wrecked it—driver’s ed I didn’t take—and, make a long story short, the deputy beat me for it.
And that was pretty much it—after that, any robbery, any broken window, any cat up a tree, everything was just my fault, as far as the sheriff was concerned.
And then, fast-forwarding, I’m 19 and I’m at this apartment complex in Texas, called the Embarcadero—there’s a swimming pool there; it’s where all the hip people hang out. And I was an attractive guy; I dressed real nice. It was the seventies, you know, man, I bought my clothes from the hippest place, like the Gap, and I had my hair styled real long, platform shoes and bell-bottoms. I looked tight. And I was walkin’ towards the swimming pool, and there was this beautiful gorgeous girl, man.
[(To S
ANDRA.) Not as pretty as you.
SANDRA: Go on.]
KERRY: But really gorgeous, man—just nude and fondling herself, right there in the window. So I look up and I go, “Oh my God, man . . . wow.” ’Cause I had lived a very sheltered, naive life, I’d never even been to a strip club before—and I’m seeing this total complete mature woman, and I’m goin’, “Okay, yeah, that’s cool, man.
And so anyway, a couple days go by, and I’m back at the pool and there’s this chick layin’ out there. To make a long story short, we started talking, told her I was a bartender in Dallas—course I was working at a gay bar, but I didn’t tell her that—I’m just stretching everything as much as I can because I want to be all that plus a bag of potater chips. Anyway, we end up going back to her apartment. . . . We . . . uh . . . you know . . . made out.
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