One on One

by Rebecca Dunn Jaroff

  I thought our nuances were essential.

  I can’t hear them anymore.

  When I read them . . . I don’t hear them.

  We all sound the same.

  (Beat.)

  We sound like the past.

  Even you, Gidger—even back when you seemed the opposite of everything—you were just . . . a different tempo in the same signature—I don’t want to think about it.

  (HE crosses to the window.)

  On the street there’s a woman standing in front of a shop window. Her chin is propped on her finger. She’s trying to decide whether to buy a dress.

  Across the street from her—she doesn’t see this—a man is taking her photograph.

  I know what the photograph will look like. All shades of gray and the light bunching behind her, that ghost look.

  This all happened ages ago.

  Look at us, Gidger—we’re period.

  These aren’t clothes we’re wearing—they’re costumes.

  (The phone rings. JOHN grabs it.)

  Yes?

  Oh . . . oh, thank you, yes, I’m very grateful to you . . .

  Oh, she hasn’t . . .

  Yes, please, I would so appreciate it.

  Yes, thank you very much.

  (HE hangs up.)

  The concierge at Miss Plinth’s building . . . she hasn’t appeared, but he heard the note of concern in my voice . . . and . . .

  People were so considerate back when we lived.

  THE VOYAGE OF THE CARCASS

  BY DAN O’BRIEN

  BILL, a disillusioned actor in his early 30s, laments his failed career and the state of the theatre, but is really lashing out at his wife, Helen, and best friend, whom HE suspects are having an affair.

  SCENE

  A small theatre in the middle of nowhere

  TIME

  Today

  [HELEN: What are you talking about, Bill?]

  BILL: I’m talking about the state of American Theatre! A fucking corpse, that’s what it is! A fucking cadaver! Nobody cares—nobody fucking cares anymore!

  [HELEN: That’s right: nobody cares, so shut up—]

  BILL: Shakespeare totally sucks!—Who decided he was good? Hm? A bunch of high school English teachers who figured out that Julius Caesar was cheaper than horse tranquilizers? Things would be so much easier if I were a woman . . .

  [HELEN: Bill—]

  BILL: No, wait: if I were a black, quadriplegic lesbian clown . . . I would have so much more grant money!

  [HELEN: You’d never get to Broadway.]

  BILL:—Fuck Broadway!—And off-Broadway. And off-off-off-Broadway. And the “downtown theatre scene.” And “regional theatre.” And “festivals,” and “workshops.” And theatre about “thorny social issues.” Fuck dramas. And comedies—fuck revivals; above all fuck revivals! Of musicals! Fuck all musicals. And plays based on literature in the public domain.—Fuck the public domain! Fuck the public!—No, I love my public, wherever they may be: fuck the proletariat. Fuck critics, speaking of commie pinko bastards. Fuck The New York Fucking Times and The Star-Fucking-Ledger. Fuck old people. And their fucking little crackling candies. Fuck “subscribers.” Fuck suburban housewives from New Jersey and their narcoleptic banker-husbands.—I fucking hate New Jersey so fucking much!—Fuck tourists from Idaho, or Iowa, whichever, doesn’t matter. Fuck Disney, of course. Fuck old people, again, one more time. And kids fresh from Juilliard, or NYU, or Brown. Fuck hipsters from Williamsburg. And as much as it pains me to say this because some of my best friends are members but: fuck the gay mafia. And lesbians, if they even have a mafia. Do they? They should. Fuck “Yalies.” Fuck trust-fund babies. Fuck actors and writers of all stripes—and mimes. And clowns. Fuck me. Above all fuck me. Above all you must all go ahead and fuck me so hard.

  WE HAD A VERY GOOD TIME

  BY DAVID AUBURN

  DIMA, a self-appointed tour guide, is telling Nicole, an American woman desparate for adventure, and determined to explore the native culture, about the revolution that occurred ten years earlier. His story may or may not be accurate, but DIMA’s aim is to seduce Nicole.

  SCENE

  An unnamed Eastern country

  TIME

  The present

  DIMA: Some people on the barricades on the avenue realized what was going on. They ran over here, a dozen of them. The tanks were just turning the corner into this plaza. It was midnight, very dark, August first, a hot night. No moon; the demonstrators carried flashlights. They didn’t have weapons. A couple had Molotov cocktails but these are useless unless the tanks are open and besides these are our people driving the tanks. A couple dozen more people had arrived: as many as could leave the barricade on the avenue. They lay down on the pavement. Stretched out—spread their arms and legs wide: there were just enough people to do this and reach all the way across the plaza with their fingertips touching. They were lying there in the path of the tanks. Staring straight up at the sky: no moon, no stars, cloudy night. It was humid. The tanks had to stop. That was the idea—that the boys driving the tanks would not drive over their brothers, cousins, classmates, their girlfriends in the street. The tanks stopped. For a minute no one knew what to do. Everyone was lying there. The pavement was very uncomfortable. Then one of the protesters stood up. He shouted at the tanks. “Soldiers! Remember that you have taken an oath to your country. Your weapons cannot be turned against the people! Clouds of terror and dictatorship are gathering over us but this night will not be eternal and our long-suffering people will find freedom once again, and forever. Soldiers! I believe at this fateful hour you will make the right decision. The honor of our country will not be covered with the blood of the people. Join us.” Everyone was waiting. Then the top of one tank opened and a soldier popped his head out. He looked very small. He had a rifle and he threw it to the pavement. Everyone leaped up. Everyone cheered. The other tanks opened. The soldiers poured out of the hatches. They threw away their guns. They were dancing on top of the tanks. Girls climbed up on the tanks and kissed the soldiers. We swarmed around the tanks. One soldier had a tape deck. He turned it on full blast. The Beatles singing “Twist and Shout.” Everyone was dancing, kissing, crying. It happened right here.

  WTC VIEW

  BY BRIAN SLOAN

  ALEX is a 27-year-old Wall Street guy from Goldman Sachs, dressed for the corporate scene. HE has come to look at a room Eric is trying to rent out. In their interview Eric’s remarks elicit ALEX’s painful tale of escaping from Tower One.

  SCENE

  An apartment in SoHo

  TIME

  The last week of September 2001

  ALEX: I had an early meeting that morning to go over some new bonds. The meeting ended around quarter of nine and—

  [ERIC: That’s right when the—how’d you get out?]

  ALEX: I was in the Sky Lobby and everyone was getting off the elevators, going to work. So I got in an empty elevator by myself and hit the lobby button. And I’m just standing there, whistling and looking at my feet . . . you know, elevator stuff. Then suddenly the whole thing comes to a stop and there’s this huge whoosh of air, then a low rumbling sound. And the lights and everything flicker off for a minute but then come back on. I tried to open the doors but they were stuck. And then I heard some voices coming from the speaker but it was all jumbled. Then there was another rumbling sound, not as big. After that I was beginning to think this is probably pretty serious but still I didn’t know what was going on. A voice comes on the speaker that I can finally understand and says there’s a fire and that someone’s coming to get me. So I just stand there waiting. So I wait and wait and wait. No one comes. All I can see is this sliver of dusty light through the doors and I think maybe I should try to open them again. So I did and they opened. Just like that. I couldn’t believe it, but all that time I was in the lobby. On the ground floor. So I walk out and look around and all the windows are smashed and there’s all this smoke but there are no people. I mean no one is aroun
d. So I walk out to the plaza and there is just—all this . . . luggage. Suitcases that are open and garment bags and business clothes and shoes. . . so many pairs of shoes. Then I hear this huge thump behind me—almost like a mini-explosion. And about twenty feet away is what I guess is a body . . . not ’cause it looks like one. But because of all the blood. So I look up and see two more coming down, holding up tablecloths as these makeshift parachutes that would work for a few seconds and then . . . don’t. At that point I knew I should run but with all this carnage and things falling I didn’t know where to go. I froze. Then, outta nowhere, I feel something on my wrist—something that’s burning hot. I think I’m on fire for a minute, that some piece of something’s hit me, but I turn around and there’s this huge fireman grabbing me by the wrist and he starts running, dragging me behind him. I tried to slow down and turn around and see exactly what the hell’s going on, but the fireman yells, “Don’t turn around.” And hearing that . . . I just get shivers all over my body. So we’re just booking—down Fulton, over to West Street. Even though we’re running, I feel cold all of a sudden. The only part of my body that feels warm is my wrist where he’s holding me, and it’s really starting to hurt. Finally, we get to the river where all these fireboats are parked and I hear this enormous crack, like a clap of thunder. I turn around to see it falling—coming down into this insane cloud that starts barreling toward us. The fireman just about throws me on a fireboat but the cloud stops before it gets to us. So I’m sitting on the boat and just shaking . . . I’m so cold. And a nurse comes up to me, staring at me, and asks if I’m hurt and I look at my pants and there’s all this blood but it’s not mine—it’s from the plaza. So she checks me out and I’m not hurt at all. Not a scratch. The only thing I had was this big bruise on my wrist from the fireman. From his grip. That’s all.

  PART TWO

  THE EXTENDED MONOLOGUE

  THE ANNIVERSARY

  BY SPALDING GRAY

  On one of the happiest days of the year, SPALDING GRAY encounters mortality and the existential nature of life.

  SCENE

  A table and chair, a glass of water

  TIME

  2000

  SPALDING: On the morning of January 12, 2000, I woke with the usual anxious feeling caused by the lingering bottom-line memory that one day, never to be known by me until I’m there, that I, as I have come to know myself, will disappear forever, and ever, and forever, amen. End of story.

  Kathie tried to cheer me up by reminding me that today was our tenth anniversary. That we met in Rochester ten years ago.

  I don’t think Kathie and I made love or had sex that morning because Theo was sleeping with us, and that always diffuses any chance for a pure, flat-out erotic event.

  But on this day, January 12, 2000, I do remember the following. I remember Theo not eating his cereal. Kathie had gone to work, and I was taking care of him. I remember he quickly got bored of the TV, and wanted to play the piano with me. We did that for a while, improvising in our own way.

  Then he wanted to play the Mummy with me. He had recently seen the video The Mummy a number of times and was most caught up by the scene in which the central character is being punished for his transgressions with the pharaoh’s wife. He is being punished by being placed in a coffin and then wrapped alive like a mummy. Then the soulless pharaoh’s guards turn over this large jar filled with these horrific, swarming black beetles that Theo kept referring to as “the Bees.”

  And these black beetles swarmed toward this poor man’s head and most likely devour his living brain in a matter of seconds.

  And this is what my 3-year-old Theo is most interested in having me help him reenact. And I get to be the Mummy.

  “Get in the box, Daddy, get in the box,” he says.

  And I lie down on the floor and pretend to be the Mummy.

  For a moment it feels so good to be lying so still and quiet. And then Theo releases “the Bees.” And I start screaming, to his delight.

  Theo and I meet Kathie at 11:30 AM and walk over to a nursing home on the Lower East Side. It is at this nursing home that Theo’s godmother Freya has been vegetating for over a year and a half from a series of strokes she had while summering in Africa.

  It is an unthinkable situation that has to be thought about. Particularly by her daughter, who does not, for so many apparent reasons, does not execute her mother’s living will. How could she? Her mother talks and cries and still has a sense of humor. And she is only my age. And I am only hers.

  The first time I brought Theo to see her in that nursing home his whole being went into a kind of electrified alert. The minute he entered he was all bug-eyed and looking every which way. What is this?

  This time Theo is calmer. And Freya is less aware of him. She can’t see, and can hardly understand how she has come to be wherever it is—she is not sure. She is in an obviously horrific bardo state. Somewhere in between living and dying. It’s as if she comes alive only for visitors and then returns to some limbo state where time does not exist.

  When we ask her what she thinks about she says, “Juice.” She also dreams about juice. She loves to drink juice. I apologize for not bringing some. I will do it next time, I tell her.

  We don’t stay long. We promise to return soon.

  On the way out, Kathie says, “It’s awful. She doesn’t know what to do. She doesn’t know what to feel. She doesn’t deserve this. What did she do to deserve this?”

  I am amazed that Kathie still seems to believe in some intrinsic justice system. Some absolute, hierarchical reward program. And at that moment I wondered if she too believed in fate.

  On the way to the nursing home, Kathie had told me that she had just found out that our Sag Harbor neighbor Carlos was in St. Vincent’s Hospital with pneumonia. He had been in there for over a week and we hadn’t gotten the message on our answering machine. The doctors didn’t expect him to live. Carlos was Theo’s oldest buddy, and Theo was Carlos’s youngest friend. We had to go right away.

  When we got there we met Carlos’s wife, Marie, and their daughter and her husband. They’d all been pretty much camping out at the hospital for the past week.

  Carlos’s wife, Marie, who is in her early 70s, was her old chatty self and very up. She was sure that Carlos was going to pull through even though the doctors only gave him a one percent chance. Marie was so enthusiastic about the emergency room and all the nurses that she wanted to give me her own tour right away, starting with the four-hundred-pound Egyptian who was also lying in bed with pneumonia.

  She told me how it took six men to carry him in. I peeked in at him, or rather at the massive bulk of bedding I took to be him. A small woman I took to be his wife was kneeling and praying over his giant body.

  When I at last came to Carlos, with all those tubes coming out of him, I really didn’t know what to say, but I felt I had to say something. Marie told me he was not conscious, but I thought he might still be able to hear me. I said, “Hi, Carlos. It’s Spalding. I hope you get better soon.”

  I wish I had had a new joke to tell him, but I didn’t. I don’t remember any jokes, except for the one Carlos told me. The one that goes, “A skeleton walked into a bar, and ordered a glass of beer and a mop.”

  Outside in the waiting room, Marie told me that there were people all over the world praying for Carlos. She also told me that if I needed any kindling to start my fire at home, to look in their driveway because Carlos had left a pile of sticks there for me. Was that where his life had stopped?

  Going down on the elevator with Kathie and Theo, I thought, Why not pray for Carlos? It might be better than just standing here waiting for the elevator to reach the first floor. I didn’t know how to pray or who to pray to, so I just did the first thing that came to mind. I imagined myself standing at the end of Carlos’s bed. I visualized a warm ball of energy at the base of my spine. It looked like a little sun. Then I let it rise up my spine and burst out the top of my head. It burst out like a volcano of mu
lticolored confetti, and it sprayed up and out and settled on Carlos like a colorful electric snow. Like a 60s poster, I thought, and at the same time I wondered why I hadn’t prayed for my dad when he was dying in the hospital.