(MONKEY-BOY shadowboxes in his cage.)
—he was weavin’ and duckin’ in an’ out—
(MONKEY-BOY weaves and ducks while throwing punches.)
—jabbin’, settin’ him up for the big one . . .
(MONKEY-BOY jabs and then spins his whole body into a windmilling upper cut which HE delivers with such force that HE slips on the straw and falls on his rear.)
(Beat. HE gets up and dusts HIMSELF off.)
Sorta like that, and the Kraut was down for the count. They say there were thirty thousand people screaming Max Baer’s name in Yankee Stadium that night. The Hebe, our boss Al Zipperstein, was so happy our guy creamed that Nazi. Not that I ever seen a Nazi, but Al’s pretty worked up about ’em, whatever they are.
(Beat.)
Where was I? Oh, yeah, the beatin’s weren’t the worst of the dirty jobs I had to take. No, the women were the worst, you know? Nah, you don’t know about dames yet, do you? Well, take it from me they ain’t all like your mama. You love your mama? Yeah, me too. I miss my mama. These dames, not your mama, are cute as hell. Curves all over and sometimes they smell sweet but inside they’re hard as nails, they are. Good times and lots of kisses when you’re flush, and goodbye, Charlie, when the dough runs out. Be careful of dames, kid, that’s all I gotta say.
‘Course this hair didn’t help me any. They say when life hands out lemons make lemonade, but they never said nothin’ about what to do when life hands you hair. Wanta feel it? (Beat.) That’s okay, I don’t blame you. Mostly the dames don’t wanta feel it either. But now I’m on the upswing, see. Al tells everybody I’m the “Missing Link,” whatever that is. And people are payin’ good money to see me. It ain’t Yankee Stadium yet but I hear them sayin’ my name, “Monkey Boy, Monkey Boy.” ‘Course my name is really Billy, but they’ll be cheerin’ someday, you wait and see.
LETTERS FROM CUBA
BY MARIA IRENE FORNES
ENRIQUE notices a picture of Fran on the wall. HE sits on a windowsill and begins talking to it.
SCENE
New York
TIME
Today
ENRIQUE: Francisquita—
Do you remember when you came and brought us different kinds of food? Dry food, that was good once we soaked it in water, and food in cans. You apologized and said that food in cans was not as good as fresh food, but that you were not allowed to bring fresh food through customs. But it turned out that we loved food in cans. Mmmm.
At first you thought we were being polite to you because that was what you brought. But we really meant it. We liked food in cans. It had an American taste. A little taste of tin. When we ate it, we thought we were in the U.S. and spoke English to each other. We said, “Thank you”; “Water, please”; “How do you do?”; “Good morning”; “What is your name?”; “Do you speak Spanish?”
But also, it was good because we could use the cans as glasses to drink water, or pots to heat water for coffee or containers to put food in and save it in the refrigerator. We could make holes in the bottom and turn them into pots for plants. We grew beans, not too many, because the pots were small. And we also grew coffee. We kept one (without the holes) to put on the roof to collect water when it rains. Mother likes to wash her hair with rain water. I kept another in my room to hit with a spoon as a cowbell to use when I play music with my group. We also keep a candle in the sardine can. When the lights go out, Mama lights the candle. We thank you for the light.
When you came, we thought you might not like how we lost electric power so many times in one evening, and we told you we were sorry. You cheered us up and said, “Oh, no! Look how beautiful the light of the candle is when the room is dark.” We looked, and we saw that you were right. We all looked elegant. You said, “This is how fancy restaurants are lit in New York, and Paris also.” That did cheer us up and made us understand the irony of it. At home, we get depressed when we have to eat in the dark, and in rich places where they have electricity, they turn the lights off and light candles to make it look more elegant. So you see how much we have learned from you.
(ENRIQUE goes over to Fran’s picture and gives her a kiss.)
LIGHT
BY JEAN-CLAUDE VAN ITALLIE
The love triangle of KING FREDERICK THE GREAT OF PRUSSIA, a promiscuous scientist marquise, and the famous Voltaire carries them on a passionate, painful, incandescent voyage toward enlightenment and revolution.
SCENE
FREDERICK, a young prince here, in high boots, military trousers, and an open shirt, in prison, confides to the audience
TIME
18th century
FREDERICK: (To us.) I’m 18, on maneuvers—staying in a barn. My father and his general are staying in another barn. We’re close to the border. Tonight we’re planning to escape. Katte—my equerry, my friend—Katte’s arranged it all. I’ve had a red riding coat made. Hoof-beats in the courtyard. It’s Katte. He’s brought my horse. Clutching my new coat, I look out the window. It’s not Katte. It’s my father’s general. We’ve been discovered! I drop the coat. I’m arrested, taken to the fortress of Kustrin and labeled “traitor.” Four soldiers enter my cell. Am I about to be killed? An old general in the corner shakes his head sadly. “It’s worse than that,” he murmurs, pointing to the barred window. Terrified, I look out. Immediately I try to look away but there are hands around my head, like a vise. “The King’s orders, Sir,” says a giant grenadier. My father collects giant grenadiers, captures them all over Europe. I force myself to open my eyes. Surrounded by soldiers, my dear Katte, walking across the courtyard, waves almost merrily and blows me a kiss. He shouts, “Your Highness, forgive me!” I’m frozen. Katte, kneeling, places his head on the block. I don’t see his head severed from his body—but I see it again and again. Katte, I kiss your eyes, your lips. For days I can’t eat. Is it my turn next? The old general: “Be careful, Sir.” And I am careful. I don’t wish to die.
LOST LOVE
BY PETER PAPADOPOULOS
TITO, a streetwise, Zenwise parking valet, is stranded on a mountaintop with Mitzy, a ditzy bride. Floodwaters have ripped through the wedding and all of the other guests and workers have disappeared in the sudden disaster. After Mitzy implies that she doesn’t like valet parking, TITO tries to set the record straight.
SCENE
The top of the world, biblical flooding below
TIME
The near future
TITO: (Thick Hispanic accent.)
What are you talking about?
Everybody likes valet parking.
It’s like an extra special service
somebody parking your car
exceptional service
for the average man.
Or woman.
It’s like
your special day
today
when someone is going to
pay this much attention to
your luxury
for the last few feet of your trip
and they’re going to take special care
of your car
bring her around back
feed her some oats and water
brush down her coat
until it’s silky smooth
while you relax
inside
comfortable
and very pleased
that you didn’t have to get out of your car
in the rain
or the wind
or the snow
or the sleet
or the hail
or the fog
or the freezing cold
or the smoggy heat
and struggle across
the broiling hot pavement
sweat trickling down your armpits
your hair wilting, losing its shape
after all that work to make it look
just right—
and before you even get inside
for everybody to admire it.
VALET PARKING.
&n
bsp; What’s not to like?
LOST LOVE
BY PETER PAPADOPOULOS
TITO, a streetwise, Zenwise parking valet, is stranded on a mountaintop with Mitzy, a ditzy bride, after floodwaters ripped through her wedding carrying away all the other guests and workers. Here, TITO calls on his years of therapy to convince a terrified Mitzy that even though HE felt like killing her only moments ago— HE won’t, because many years of therapy and introspection have made HIM a changed man.
SCENE
A barren peak at the top of the world
TIME
The near future
TITO: (Thick Hispanic accent.):
I have a bad temper.
Sometimes I punch people.
Not all the time.
Just when they say something that hurts my feelings.
That’s what I learned in therapy.
That I’m really quite sensitive.
(Pause.)
It’s okay for a man to be sensitive, you know.
Violence is not the answer to everything.
Just because some people
are bothering you
harassing you,
calling you faggot
and shit
when you’re not even gay,
well, just because they’re calling me these names
it doesn’t mean I should just crush them
use violence on them,
beat them,
shoot them,
crack their head with a baseball bat.
No, violence is not the answer.
There are other options available to an individual.
And sometimes
what seems like strength
is not really strength at all,
just a traditional way of
masking male insecurity.
Because it can often seem easier
to crush something
than to learn to coexist with it.
Because then you don’t have to contend with
all of the difficulties that come with this. . .
trying relationship,
which can be
in fact
a hidden opportunity
for real growth.
Did you know that boys are more sensitive than girls?
If you take a baby away from its mother
on average
a baby boy will cry much faster than its female counterpart.
They’re much more sensitive.
THE LUDICROUS TRIAL OF MR. P
BY SUSAN YANKOWITZ
This is the opening speech of the play. Defense Counsel LEMONT is a French man of any age between 30 and 70, quite huge in build and intellect.
SCENE
Addressing the audience
TIME
1400s (but LEMONT is really a resident of any century!)
LEMONT: I take this opportunity for introduce myself, despite it is shame and dommage that educated people have ignorance of me. In my century, everyone—the whole world—know me by only the one name, same like your Madonna or Prince: LeMont! The mountain, is how you translate it. You never hear what I do to be the legendary personage? No? History do not begin when you born from womb, mes amis! You need lesson; I give you one. Medieval Europe and even up to twenty century, it happen often that domestic and wild animals prosecuted in court for crimes against man. Amazing, oui, but true. You look, you listen some little examples from court record.
(Each of these sections should be spoken in the accent of the different countries.)
Puglia, Italy, 1208. A wolf mangia the infant in his cradle and the court makes him lashed till skin breaks open and he exhibited in town square for quatro days as a warning to all the wolves who might see a little baby and think, “Buon appetite!”
County Clare, Ireland, 1470—and a dark day it was, a horse murdering a priest with three kicks to the head. The crowd dragged the beast to the hangman and in an hour the devil was swinging from a noose. But nooo! “Killing an animal in anger is not justice, it is revenge!” the judge proclaimed—and sent the hangman himself to the gallows!
Leipzig, Germany, 1843. A goat butt a child down a staircase into death. The jury sentence the goat to bury alive in mass grave with other criminals. What criminals? Who knows? How many? Maybe bulldozer counted.
Shanghai, China, 1885. Six wooden idols fall from ledge, crush life from high government officer. Heads of idols cut off, crowds cheering, and bodies thrown in pond for drowning.
Russia, 1591. When Prince Dmitri, son of Ivan II, was assassinated, the great bell of Uglich rang out the signal for revolution! Treason! So the bell put on trial and banished to coldest Siberia in company of eight other political prisoners.
(LEMONT now resumes speaking as himself.)
You think I make up these stories? Non, non. Laws in Middle Ages say everything in universe, even insect, even flowerpot, must to be treated with dignity and egalité, same as human being, entitle to due process: defender, prosecutor, jury. How I know this? I am most famed defender of animals in world! My big case it happen in Provence, that is south France, 1421. The court call me—“LeMont! We entreat that you defend the rights for some poor creatures who cannot engage legal counsel for themselves.” How can I refuse? I am busy man but noblesse oblige, I must sometimes give the pro bono. It is tremendous difficult job. My clients—you will be very amazement!—they are RATS who destroy the fields of barley and wheat and maybe make famine for the people, and also the TERMITES, a thousand, two thousand, maybe hundreds thousands! They have chewed up the foundation of Our Holy Lady Church and the cellars arid walls are collapse! A crime terrible! Naturally they are indicted and must appear in court. And naturally they do not appear. I explain to Judge: “They mean no disrespect, Your Honor, but the rats, the termites, they live everywhere, in every smallest village. You will agree, I think, that a single summons could not reach them all?” He ponders and yes, it is so, he says—and orders that the summons be read the next Sunday from every pulpit in every parish in Provence!
C’est fou! C’est impossible for the suspects to appear, I tell him. “We must only to consider the length and difficulty of their journey from Aix or St. Remy to Avignon and the fatal perils along the way. The termites, how could they escape the ants below and the birds above who live only to make a dinner of them?! As for the rats—mon Dieu!—their mortal enemies, the cats, would be lying in wait for them at every corner and crossing! The journey, it would be suicide!”
This argument, it make the judge’s head to spin—BUT he see that my logic have no holes. And the legal opinion make precedent—“If a criminal is ordered to make court appearance somewhere he cannot travel safely, he has lawful right to disobey for survival sake!” And this decision, it put hard cement on my international fame.
So justice demand the case versus the rats be dismissed. And justice for once prevail! St. Patrick, he rid his country of snakes. But LeMont, LeMont, he save from gruesome poisoning and extermination countless numbers of helpless creatures! I believe it is allowed to congratulate myself. The vermin, they do not spend one day in jail. . . .
But there are others, many others not so lucky to enjoy pursuit happiness. You must to look back, and then at the future where, I think, you are sitting now. You will see.
MAGGIE MAY
BY TOM O’BRIEN
CHARLIE is a fisherman, and a self-proclaimed pleasure-seeker. HE is trying to persuade Donny, with the help of some high-class marijuana, to stop being so cautious and to adopt his carefree lifestyle.
SCENE
The docks of an island in the Bahamas
TIME
The present
CHARLIE: I mean, you’re drinking Budweisers and smoking some cheap-ass, back-of-the-school-bus weed. It gets old. But if you drink the finest imported wines, have steak that melts in your mouth, scotch, cigars, this beautiful Jamaican herb—it is happiness. This is it. They don’t want to tell you that. But here it is, my friend. Happiness. They don’t
know. The people writing the self-help books? The “happiness comes from within” bullshit? They don’t got access to this stuff. How would they know happiness when they don’t even know what the world has to offer? Do I look unhappy? Do I look like I’m searching for meaning in life? Like I’m looking for a soul mate to spend my golden years with? Fuck off! They’re all golden years. I’m living a golden life. I beat the fucking system, kid.
[DONNY is lost in his haze.]
[CHARLIE: And then my grandpappy made love to me in an outhouse.
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