One on One
Page 15
PLATONOV! PLATO NOV! PLATONOV!
BY ERIC MICHAEL KOCHMER
In this satirical adaptation of an early Chekhov story, PLATONOV, a village schoolmaster, is married to a “dumb sweet country girl.” But HE loves all women and fears only age and death.
SCENE
A Russian province
TIME
About 1881
PLATONOV: Wait! Don’t go, Sofya Yagorovnachorgaforgagorgaforgaborgachobia! Stay, please! Listen to me . . . I’m only just an ordinary schoolteacher. . . . Quack! Quack! Quack! that’s all I’ve done since we we we last saw each other . . . but that is not my passion. What have I done for Platonov! Platonov! Platonov! I’ve married a dumb sweet country girl. . . . And now? I’m just a happy drunk duck mucking around in the same swamp I’ve already mucked around. . . . Soon I will be old!. . . only then I’ll be a fat old worthless duck. My God, it’s shocking! I open my eyes up and all I see is mediocrity all around me, plaguing the earth, swallowing up my fellow man, and yet I sit here, arms and body in a limbo static state. . . . I sit and watch in the dark of silence with the rest of my friends and say and do nothing . . . and one day I’ll be 40 . . . and nothing will change. I’ll still walk around as the same fool I am today and with the same dumb wife and the same women will be falling at my feet . . . one day I’ll be 50 . . . one day I’ll be 60 . . . one day I’ll be 70 . . . 80 . . . 90 . . . 100—dead on the ground, dust in the earth—and nothing will ever change for me . . . nothing will ever change . . . I will always be lusting around . . . no change in the horizon . . . and meanwhile I grow into a fat and dull and idle duck . . . my feathers are ruffled and one day I’ll just be skin. . . . My life is lost. . . . All of my ambitions, all of my passions lost! The life of this duck wasted. . . . I am impotent to intellect and substantial opinions. . . . What is left? What is left? My feathers prick to the touch when I think of my death. . . . My feathers prick to the touch when I think of my death. . . . My feathers prick to the touch when I think of my death . . . death . . . death. . . . Oh Sofya, what have I done! What have I done!
[SOFYA: I can’t bear this any longer, take me now!
PLATONOV: Ha! Ha! Ha! I love women! Quack! Quack! Quack!]
PROPHECY BY KAREN MALPEDE
JEREMY is working class, and an acting student who threw a chair into a mirror midway through a monologue from Antigone by Sophocles. Later, we find out HE is an Iraq war vet. The play is about how the wars of the twenty-first century enter the lives of ordinary people.
SCENE
His acting teacher Sarah Golden’s living room in the middle of the night. JEREMY has come to her house to explain what triggered his behavior in class, although HE doesn’t tell her about the war until a later scene.
TIME
The summer of 2006
JEREMY: Yeah, okay, I will tell you. I was doing the speech of the prophet, see. Tiresias’ speech, the blind guy, and he’s giving this prophecy when all of a sudden, he’s saying that the fat isn’t burning, that the altars are glutted with the fat thigh bones smoking, that the gods aren’t hearing, that they won’t take the offering in. And that’s when it hits me, shit, fuck, like a truck, it hits. We’ve been cut off. We’re floating free in space and even the gods aren’t listening; they don’t care anymore. We’ve gone too far. They won’t take our offerings. I’m a Catholic. I was brought up to believe in forgiveness. In redemption, see. You say you’re sorry. You say you’ve sinned. It’s okay. God forgives you. You say twenty Hail Marys and you’re back in. He’s a forgiving god. But all of a sudden I think it might not work that way, you see what I mean? It might work another way. You might go too far. You might step off the end of the earth. There might be no way back. The altars might be glutted with flesh. And that’s when I saw, like I didn’t see out of my eyes. I was blind. I saw it inside my head. How it is when the gods can’t bear to listen. They can’t bear to hear anymore. They’ve already heard it all. You can’t ask for forgiveness. The gods aren’t hearing. They’re fed up with us, sick. We’re cut off. I got scared.
THE PROPOSAL
BY TIM MILLER
The performer, MAN, recalls an incident from his childhood when honesty was not necessarily the best policy regarding gender preference in a marriage partner. HE plays all parts.
SCENE
The stage
TIME
The present looking to the past
MAN: It was a day of judgmental Twinkies being smashed in my face. I was 9 years old. I was walking down Russell Street with my friend Scott, he was a second cousin of President Richard Nixon and we lived in Whittier, the president’s hometown. So you can see, Republicans have been fucking with me for as long as I can remember. We walked, free-associating as young boys will do. We walked by a house that was widely regarded as the most tasteful in our neighborhood, much respected for its impressive series of ceramic elves decorating the winding walkway to the front door!
Scott said to me, “When I grow up, I’m going to marry that cute girl in our class, Gail Gardener, and we’re gonna live in that house with the ceramic elves.” Then Scott looked at me as if he thought he deserved a ninety-nine and a happy face on a spelling test.
This was a new subject and I sensed that it meant trouble. I bought some time and walked silently along, my Lost in Space lunch box clanking against my leg. My Lost in Space lunch box filled with my favorite lunch. A sandwich, made with Wonder Bread of course, and layers of delicious Jif smooth peanut butter and Welch’s grape jelly with a generous crunchy handful of Fritos corn chips in between. (MMM, all that delicious sugar, oil and salt! Everything a young American needs to grow strong.) Next to my thermos was a special treat: a Twinkie in its crisp, confident plastic wrapper.
I knew I was making a mistake before I even opened my mouth. “But, Scott, when I grow up, I want to marry you and live in the house with the ceramic elves!” He looked at me as if I suggested that we tap dance together to the moon.
“What! Boys can’t get married to each other. Everybody knows that.”
“Why not?”
“They just can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“Because why?”
Clearly, logic wasn’t working so Scott pushed me hard with both hands, knocking me into the deep dusty ivy of my Congregationalist minister’s front yard. We all knew rats lurked and prospered in the dark gnarly labyrinth of the ancient ivy. I drowned in the dirty green.
Scott jumped on me, looking around to see if anyone had heard me ask him to marry me. “Take it back! Say you don’t want to marry me and live in the house with the elves!”
“I won’t take it back!”
“Take it back, or I’ll give you an Indian burn.” He pinched my side hard and then grabbed my wrist with both hands and twisted in opposite directions. He screamed, “Do you take it back?”
“I won’t take it back!”
He Indian-burned my other wrist. I probably could have fought him off. I wasn’t that much of a wuss, but part of me had longed for some kind of closeness with Scott ever since kindergarten. Being tortured by him would have to do. You’ve all been there. My lunch box had fallen open near my head, revealing the Twinkie in all its cellophane splendor. Scott got a horrible idea and grabbed the Twinkie in his little fist.
“Take it back or I’m going to jam this Twinkie in your throat and kill you!”
“I won’t take it back!” The strength of my high-pitched voice surprised me. “When I grow up, I’m going to marry you and live in the house with the ceramic elves!”
A look of shock and frustration passed like bad weather across Scott’s face. He shoved the Twinkie into my mouth and held his small dirty palm over my lips. I exploded with cellophane and Twinkie goo. Now, even more than climbing into boxes with lids, I knew kids weren’t supposed to suck on cellophane. I took the warnings on the dry-cleaning bags seriously. I knew I’d reached my Twinkie limit and I would have to take it back. Fortunately, my oldest brother
had just taught me the week before a special trick. Whenever anyone is tormenting you and wanting you to be untrue to yourself and take something back, all you have to do is cross your fingers and put them behind your back. This erases it. In case you thought this stopped working in childhood, it didn’t. It still works in adult life, especially around relationship issues! I quickly crossed my fingers behind my back.
“All right! I take it back.” Scott got off of me. He looked so strange. He kicked me, grabbed his math book and banal Bonanza lunch box, and stormed off to school and the rest of his life filled with petty disappointments and three wives who would fear him. (Don’t ask me how, I just know!)
I lay there on my back, pinned to the earth. Surrounded by primordial ivy dust and Twinkie. I pulled my crossed fingers from underneath my back and held them up to the sky. The crossing of those fingers negated my “I take it back,” my one triumph over his small tyranny. I held them up to the hot California sun as I repeated the words—they gathered steam inside me. “I will never take it back. I will never take it back. I will never take it back.”
RABBIT HOLE
BY DAVID LINDSAY-ABAIRE
In this letter, JASON, a 17-year-old, tries to explain his feelings to the parents of the young boy HE accidentally killed with his car.
SCENE
Larchmont, New York
TIME
The present
JASON: Dear Mr. and Mrs. Corbett,
I wanted to send you my condolences on the death of your son, Danny. I know it’s been eight months since the accident, but I’m sure it’s probably still hard for you to be reminded of that day. I think about what happened a lot, as I’m sure you do, too. I’ve been having some troubles at home, and at school, and a couple people here thought it might be a good idea to write to you. I’m sorry if this letter upsets you. That’s obviously not my intention.
Even though I never knew Danny, I did read that article in the town paper, and was happy to learn a little bit about him. He sounds like he was a great kid. I’m sure you miss him a lot, as you said in the article. I especially liked the part where Mr. Corbett talked about Danny’s robots, because when I was his age I was a big fan of robots, too. In fact I still am, in some ways—ha ha.
I’ve enclosed a short story that’s going to be printed in my high school lit magazine. I don’t know if you like science fiction or not, but I’ve enclosed it anyway. I was hoping to dedicate the story to Danny’s memory. There aren’t any robots in this one, but I think it would be the kind of story he’d like if he were my age. Would it bother you if I dedicated the story? If so, please let me know. The printer deadline for the magazine is March 31st. If you tell me before then, I can have them take it off.
I know this probably doesn’t make things any better, but I wanted you to know how terrible I feel about Danny. I know that no matter how hard this has been on me, I can never understand the depth of your loss. My mom has only told me that about a hundred times—ha ha. I of course wanted to say how sorry I am that things happened the way they did, and that I wish I had driven down a different block that day. I’m sure you do, too.
Anyway, that’s it for now. If you’d like to let me know about the dedication, you can email me at the address above. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll assume it’s okay.
Sincerely, Jason Willette
THE REBIRTH
BY LISA SOLAND
SAMUEL is a typical workaholic in his late 20s or early 30s. HE has just learned who his birth mother is and has inadvertently met her as well. HE speaks directly to the audience.
SCENE
A hearing room in Washington, D. C.
TIME
The present
SAMUEL: My birth mother.
(It settles in.)
My birth mother?
(Beat.)
How did you do that? How did you find her? Do you have any idea how hard that is? I’ve been looking for her for, I don’t know . . . three years now. Who are you people? That’s it, isn’t it?
(Rises, crosses downstage to audience.)
You’re with the government, aren’t you? You must be, because no one could do that any faster than me, her own son, for God’s sake. Jesus Christ. If it’s that easy, why don’t you do it for everybody? Huh?! Why don’t you guys do it for everybody and earn those tax dollars we keep handing you on a fucking silver platter! Do you realize how many kids are searching desperately for their birth parents? Some never find them. I was afraid I wasn’t going to. . . . Where is she? Is she . . .
(Crosses stage right and points towards the door.)
Was that her?
(Beat.)
Oh God, I gotta sit down. Do you mind?
(Sits on the edge of stage, downstage right.)
This is awful what you people do. You can’t mess with people’s lives like this. Where did you find her? Alaska? Because it’s the only state I didn’t look.
(Looking up at audience, directly, with determination.)
Yet.
(Beat.)
Is she okay?
(Begins to loosen tie.)
I’m having a hard time breathing here.
(Removes tie.)
So, are you going to bring her in here or what, because I’ve got to lie down or something. I’m not feeling too well.
(Lies back on the stage floor.)
[HARRIS: Excuse me. (Stands and moves toward exit, calling out.) Laurie?
LAURIE: (Offstage.) Yes.
HARRIS: (Offstage.) Could you get me some water?
LAURIE: (Offstage.) Sure.
(Harris re-enters, sitting back in same seat.)]
SAMUEL: (From lying position.) You know, they took me away, right after I was born. I know that now because after the rebirth in Seal Beach, I called the hospital in Cincinnati and they described it to me in detail. They weren’t going to tell me at first. I had to get rough.
[(Laurie enters with water and is not sure whom to give it to. Harris motions to SAMUEL. She hands it to HIM.)
SAMUEL: Thank you. (HE looks up to see that it’s Laurie. HE quickly rises, brushes off his pants, leaving tie on floor.) Oh, Laurie! Thank you very much.
(Laurie smiles and exits. SAMUEL drinks nearly the entire bottle, while watching Laurie leave.)]
SAMUEL: (Crossing to chair, HE sits.) Don’t you think that’s unfair? They took me away. I should have been held by her. I should have been up against my mother’s bosom. I needed to hear her heartbeat. I needed to hear the thing that I’d been hearing for the past nine months, in that safe, quiet place. People don’t realize how important this is. “Be a man.” Well, I don’t want to be a man anymore. I want to be a HUMAN BEING.
(Beat.)
It affects your whole life, those first few moments out here in the open, and they stole that away from me. They stole that away from me and I needed to know that this place, out here, was safe too. I needed to know that. I needed to hear her heartbeat!
RED ROSES
BY LISA SOLAND
ROBERT, 30 to 45 years old, is a work-at-home father, frustrated and angry about his wife’s receiving a bouquet of red roses. HE confronts her with his suspicions.