[SANDRA: (To audience.) But not . . . all the way.
KERRY: Oh, no, no, no.] I was in there for about maybe thirty, forty-five minutes, whatever, and I got cold feet because she was so aggressive, and I left.
And I didn’t ever see or hear from her ever again until I’m arrested for her murder three months later, August of 1977.
EXPECTING ISABEL
BY LISA LOOMER
NICK and Miranda have been trying to conceive a baby—by every means known to science—but without success. Their efforts have put a strain on their marriage which results in a fight and a breakup. NICK is alone on stage.
SCENE
An empty stage
TIME
The present
NICK: (To audience.) Okay, I’m gonna pick up the story and help her out. But first, you gotta understand something. I don’t like to yell at my wife in the middle of Columbus Avenue—who does that? I was taught to turn the other cheek! Besides, you talked back, some nun’d pull your sideburns. And let me tell you something else. Until I met that hamster—I was a pretty happy guy! (Glances offstage) Unlike some people. . . . Sure I saw some bad things go down when I was a kid—who didn’t? I saw Nino Gallata push his brother off a balcony when they were moving furniture. Palmer Di Fonzo—I cut off his eyebrow accidentally with a pen knife—his mother came after me with a gun. Hercules Sorgini, smallest kid on the block, broke his neck in a sled accident, it was like this—(Leans head on right shoulder.) For a year they called him “Ten After Six.” And Wee Wee Scomo had a heart attack right on the dance floor in junior high. Doing the Twist. He jumped up, did some splits, never got up again. Best dancer at Holy Savior. What are you gonna do? You gonna tell a kid, “Wee Wee—don’t dance”? Besides—(Glances offstage.) If his mother had worried about violent television and the crap they put in the school lunches—would it have saved him from the Twist!? (Yells offstage.) THAT’S WHY I DON’T WORRY! (To audience.) And that’s why I’ve always been a happy guy. Like when I go to the bank. I don’t think, “Oh shit—(À la Miranda.) “What if the guy on the other side of the cash machine’s got a drug problem?” I don’t even cup my hand over the keypad when I punch in my pin, which happens to be “Jude,” by the way, after the patron saint of lost causes—and not on my worst days—not even on the day my wife left me on Columbus Avenue would I have had a problem telling you that—’cause, hey, if you wanted to go out later, and use my favorite saint’s name to steal my money—(Yells offstage.) I JUST WASN’T GONNA WORRY ABOUT IT! Besides . . . (Pause; remembers.) I didn’t have any money. I spent my last fifty bucks on paint for the baby’s room. And then we sold the apartment. Pretty fast, too, because the couple who bought it were expecting a baby any day. Then me and Miranda had that fight in front of this Starbucks they put up where my favorite used art-book store used to be. . . . Then she went down to the sperm bank. . . . (Distraught.) I did what any guy’d do—(Pause.) I went home to my mother. [His mother enters and kisses HIM on both cheeks.]
FABULATION, OR THE RE-EDUCATION OF UNDINE
BY LYNN NOTTAGE
At a gathering of recovering drug addicts, ADDICT #1 recounts his descent from a popular and highly respected college English professor to a common criminal due to his crack cocaine habit.
SCENE
New York City
TIME
They present
ADDICT #1: I miss it. I miss the taste and the smell of cocaine, that indescribable surge of confidence that fills the lungs. The numbness at the tip of my tongue, that sour metallic taste of really good blow. (The addicts savor the moment. “Mmm.”) It was perfect, I mean in the middle of the day I’d excuse myself and slip out of an important faculty meeting, go to the stairwell and suck in fifteen, twenty, thirty dollars worth of crack. (ADDICT #I pretends to inhale. “Mmm.”) I’d return a few minutes later full of energy, ideas, inspired, and then go teach a course on early American literature and not give a God damn. In fact the students admired my bold, gutsy, devil-may-care attitude. Why? Because I’d lecture brilliantly and passionately on books . . . I hadn’t read. Indeed, the university didn’t know how high and mighty I was when they promoted me chair of the English department and gave me an office with a view of Jersey. It was fantastic, I could smoke crack all day, every day in my office, seated in my leather chair, at my solid oak desk. It was near perfect, it was as close to nirvana as a junkie can achieve. But my colleagues were always on my case. “Beep, Mr. Logan wants you to attend a panel on the symbolism of the tomahawk in The Deerslayer. Beep, Beep, Ms. Cortini is here for her thesis defense, what should I tell her?” Those thesis-writing motherfuckers drove me crazy. And I wanted to kill them. But you know what happens. I don’t have to tell any of you junkies. “Beep, President Sayer wants to see you in his office. Right this minute. Beep. He’s getting impatient.” Fuck you! But by that time I was on a four-day binge, my corduroy blazer stank like Chinatown. And I was paraded through the hallowed halls like some pathetic cocaine poster child. But I don’t remember when I became a criminal, but it happened at some point after that. The descent was classic, it’s not even worthy of detail. Blah, blah, blah.
FAT PIG
BY NEIL LABUTE
A somewhat narcissistic, shallow 20-something, CARTER tries to apologize to his friend Tom after making fun of his overweight girlfriend by talking about his own reaction to his “fat” mother.
SCENE
A big city near the ocean
TIME
The present
CARTER: I used to walk ahead of her in the mall, or, you know, not tell her about stuff at school so there wouldn’t be, whatever. My own mom. I mean . . . I’m 15 and worried about every little thing, and I’ve got this fucking sumo wrestler in a housecoat trailing around behind me. That’s about as bad as it can get! I’m not kidding you. And the thing was, I blamed her for it. I mean, it wasn’t a disease or like some people have, thyroid or that type of deal . . . she just shoveled shit into her mouth all the time, had a few kids, and, bang, she’s up there at 350, maybe more. It used to seriously piss me off. My dad was always working late . . . golfing on weekends, and I knew it was because of her. It had to be! How’s he gonna love something that looks like that, get all sexy with her? I’m just a kid at the time, but I can remember thinking that.
[TOM: God, that’s . . .
CARTER: Yeah, It’s whatever, but . . . ] this once, in the grocery store, we’re at an Albertsons and pushing four baskets around—you wanna know how humiliating that shit is?—and I’m supposed to be at a game by seven, I’m on JV, and she’s just farting around in the candy aisle, picking up bags of “fun-size” Snickers and checking out the calories. Yeah. I mean, what is that?! So, I suddenly go off on her, like, this sophomore in high school, but I’m all screaming in her face. . . . “Don’t look at the package, take a look in the fucking mirror, you cow!! PUT ’EM DOWN!” Holy shit, there’s stock boys—bunch of guys I know, even—are running down the aisle. Manager stumbling out of his glass booth there, the works. (Beat.) But you know what? She doesn’t say a word about it. Ever. Not about the swearing, the things I called her, nothing. Just this, like, one tear I see . . . as we’re sitting at a stoplight on the way home. That’s all.
[TOM: Wow. I’m, I mean . . . ]
CARTER: I did feel that way, though. Maybe I shouldn’t’ve yelled or . . . . but it was true, what I said. You don’t like being fat, there’s a pretty easy remedy, most times. Do-not-jarn-so-much-food-in-your-fucking-gullet. (Beat.) It’s not that hard.
FEAR ITSELF, SECRETS OF THE WHITE HOUSE
BY JEAN-CLAUDE VAN ITALLIE
A cruelly dysfunctional family in the White House results in a cruelly dysfunctional national policy.
SCENE
At the White House, GENERAL ATTORNEY SING SING, a Southern revivalist preacher in a black suit, delivers a eulogy for one of the Emperor’s children. The eulogy turns into a ferocious call to arms.
TIME
The reign of George W. But
ch
GENERAL ATTORNEY SING SING: (Southern drawl, and a fire-and-brimstone preaching style.) First, I want to offer my best condolences to our famous Emperor Butch and his beautiful Empress Mommy. I know how you’re feeling, Emperor Butch and Mommy. Your little girl’s hurt. But I say unto you, Sir, put your feelings behind you. Right now. It’s time to move on and do your duty. The greatest emperors in the world flinched not in the face of duty. Bravely ignoring their feelings, in the name of righteous revenge they did pillage and burn and torture and kill. They did. And now it’s your turn, Emperor Butch. Your turn to demonstrate your toughness to the world, to become part of this empire’s glory. History will praise and uplift you to the heaven of everlasting fame, Emperor Butch, for girding up your powerful loins and battening down your iron guts to lead us forward into righteous battle against evil, lest our enemy think for one single solitary second he could attack us first. Our Father who art in heaven, the Lord God did command the slaughter of Jerusalem, saying, “Cut down the old men, the young men, the young women, and the little children—and the old women. No peace for the wicked. Cry aloud. Spare not the rod. Lift up your voice as a scourge.” Thus did Our Father who art in Heaven, the Lord God, thus did he command: “I will turn my almighty hand against the little ones. So sound now the trumpets and march ye forth in the whirlwind. For behold, I shall rise up like a shining scimitar and turn my sharp blade against those who threaten to rise up against me. I shall execute vengeance upon the heathen for I am a destroying wind. So make bright the arrows, gather the shields and prepare the ambush. Babylon’s sins reek unto heaven! Her plagues shall come, and punishments upon her people—death, mourning and famine, and she shall be utterly burned in fire!”
FÊTES DE LA NUIT
BY CHARLES MEE
The play examines love and passion. In the monologue HENRY talks to a young woman HE has just met.
Or make of the monologue any character in any circumstance you like.
SCENE
Where else? In Paris.
TIME
Today
HENRY:
I wonder:
would you marry me
or
would you have a coffee with me
and think of having a conversation
that would lead to marriage?
If not right now
maybe later this evening?
Or late supper.
Or breakfast tomorrow
or lunch or tea in the afternoon
or a movie
or dinner the day after
Thursday for lunch
or Friday dinner
or perhaps you would go for the weekend with me
to my parents’ home in Provence
or we could stop along the way
and find a little place for ourselves
to be alone.
Or just we could
have coffee over and over again
every day
until we get to know one another
and we have the passage of the seasons
in the café
we could celebrate our anniversary
and then perhaps you would forget
that you are not married to me
and we can have a child.
Because
don’t you think
after we have been together for a year
it will be time to start to think of these things?
You know, I have known many women.
I mean, I don’t mean to say . . .
I mean just
you know
my mother, my grandmother
my sisters
and also women I have known romantically
and then, too, friends,
and even merely acquaintances
but you know
in life
one meets many people
and it seems to me
we know so much of another person
in the first few moments we meet
not from what a person says alone
but from the way they hold their head
how they listen
what they do with their hand as they speak
or when they are silent
and years later
when these two people break up
they say
I should have known from the beginning
in truth
I did know from the beginning
I saw it in her, or in him
the moment we met
but I tried to repress the knowledge
because it wasn’t useful at the time
because,
for whatever reason
I just wanted to go to bed with her as fast as I could
or I was lonely
and so I pretended I didn’t notice
even though I did
exactly the person she was from the first moment
I knew
and so it is with you
and I think probably it is the same for you with me
we know one another
right now from the first moment
we know so much about one another in just this brief time
and we have known many people
and for myself
I can tell
you are one in a million
and I want to marry you
I want to marry you
and have children with you
and grow old together
so I am begging you
just have a coffee with me.
FOLKDANCE
BY ROBIN REESE
GLENN is a 16-year-old African-American man who just jumped into the window of a neighbor, whom HE has never met before. HE’s cut and bleeding. His father is out looking for him and GLENN is quite scared for his life. HE’s telling the neighbor, Jessica, a 30-something Jewish woman, as well as Moisha, a 50-something African-American Ph.D., and Carlos, a 30-something Puerto: Rican Chinese-delivery man, his story.
SCENE
Jessica’s apartment
TIME
The present
GLENN: When my dad came in and saw us, she had been laughing at me. I was naked, lying on the bed, limp, and she was laughing at me and calling me a girly-boy and telling me I was only half a man, not like my father, and that I was a queer and lots of mean stuff, and my dad walked in and heard all this. That’s why he punched me the first time. It’s like he forgot all about my sleeping with his girlfriend, and then it was all about me being gay. And today he got me out of bed and told me that we were going out. He wanted me to go sleep with some whores. He said maybe Randy wasn’t the best thing going, but he knew other girls that would make me hard and who I could have sex with, only he said really bad, gross things, that I won’t repeat because it would offend Jess.
We were out, driving to this one girl’s house, and I told him I wouldn’t go and if he made me then I’d tell Mom about his girlfriend, and he said that no I wouldn’t because he’d tell her that I was a faggot and then I said, no he wouldn’t because she was the one who came up to me and said that she knew I was different and that I probably didn’t like girls, and if I wanted to go love men, that was fine with her, she wouldn’t love me any less. And that got me thinking about things, and I realized that she was right. I was gay and if my mom loved me, that’s okay. But then Randy came up to me at school and she told me that I was good lookin’ and she wanted to spend some time with me and she started rubbin’ her body on me.
If I had been alone, I would’ve told her no thank you, but wouldn’t have insulted her, maybe lied that I already had a girl, or something, but this was in front of my boys, and she’s a cutie, so I had to go with it, like I was interested. And by going along with it, I thought maybe my mom was wrong, maybe I just hadn’t met the right girl, and she was the right girl—she had been the right girl for a lot of guys, so I thought, okay, I’ll give it a try. What’s there to lose?
FOLKDANCE
BY ROBI
N REESE
MOISHA is a 50-something African-American professor with a Ph.D. in Religion, who speaks in a fake British accent. HE lives in the same building as 30-something Jessica, who just buried her father. MOISHA walks in on Jessica, clearly distraught, in the arms of Carlos, a young Puerto Rican man MOISHA, has never seen before. At Jessica’s request, MOISHA is telling Carlos his story.
SCENE
Jessica’s apartment
TIME
The present
MOISHA: So . . . as I had been in the midst of telling you, I grew up in New Jersey. It’s quite boring in New Jersey, and darling . . . that’s an understatement. Anyhoo .. I came up during a time when, in addition to going to church, my momma would take me to NAACP family mixers. In the sixties she became heavily involved with the Black Power movement and started going to an African-inspired church. My parents changed their names to Adowa and Ali. They tried to make me answer to Jawara but I’m not some dog they brought home from the pound, already named, but willing to come when called by anything, just to have a home and food. I had different ideas for myself, and like the flower children in the Vietnam era, I decided to live my own life, so I became Jewish, and changed my name to Moisha, and so I started looking for who I really wanted to be. I thought—if they can reinvent themselves, then I could too, but I’d be in control. During our senior-year field trip, one of the new teachers took us to New York. My friend Clay and I went up to Harlem. We weren’t supposed to, but Clay was interested in seeing what the real black folk were up to. My mom told me I should really go to Harlem, instead of all the “white shit” UN they were taking us to. We were walking around and I saw this little place and heard this music in a language I’d never heard before. We went in and there was this Black guy wearing this white robe with tassels, and he had a big unkempt beard, and he was singing in this language, he had this black box on his head and the straps were around his arm. It turned out that I was witnessing Rabbi Matthew conduct a Bar Mitzvah class for a small group of 12-year-old boys, Black boys, like me, who were going to be Bar Mitzvahed later that week. He had been chanting in Hebrew. It just felt right. I met Rabbi Matthew, who was with the Commandment Keepers in Harlem. Boy, did that man move me, so I became a Jew. I moved to the City to go to City University, where I studied Religion and eventually took a Ph.D. Darling, it was a type of paradise. All my Jersey brothers and sisters were being beaten and taken off to jail, several were killed, but me, I was holed up in one of these library cubbyholes with my yarmulke on, and I would learn with the hip Jewish kids who’d dared to study with a Black brother. I studied the Talmud and Maimonides, and took my degrees with pride. The worst part of being Black in the sixties was that people would call me a kike and knock the yarmulke off my head.
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