Zap

by Paul Fleischman

  AUDREY. Lot of books.

  IRV. Yeah. I — I like reading. You know.

  AUDREY. Irving Weinstein, I see. A whole shelf of ’em. You a fan?

  IRV. (Flustered.) Yeah. Sort of. He’s, you know, pretty good. Underrated, actually.

  AUDREY. He’s a friend of my husband’s.

  IRV. No kidding. Wow. Wonder what he’s like.

  AUDREY. (Absently, while scanning books.) A heaping plate of neuroses, I hear.

  IRV. You don’t say. (Chews on this bitterly.) I wouldn’t have guessed that. (Tries to put it behind him, gestures toward the room.) So what do you think? Speaking as a professional decorator.

  AUDREY. Well, it’s certainly got potential. I like your idea of increasing the sense of sanctuary, of making it a place of peace and meditation. Couldn’t we all use that. You’d have to be flexible, of course. The couch, for instance.

  IRV. I think I could be very flexible on the couch. (Roguish smile.) Then again, it was my grandmother’s. Loyalty means a lot to me. Loyalty and fidelity. Fidelity and honesty.

  AUDREY. That’s refreshing. And clients’ sentiments certainly have to be taken into account. (She sits down on the couch.)

  IRV. They certainly do. Say. It’s after five. You must be done for today. Can I get you a drink?

  AUDREY. You must have read my mind. I’d love one.

  IRV. Comin’ up.

  AUDREY. It’s been an absolutely crazy week. I swear this is the first time I’ve sat down in days. (AUDREY settles into the couch and closes her eyes. IRV walks suavely toward the whiskey, holds up the empty bottle, gestures toward the wings, engages in a long, mimed conversation unseen by AUDREY, and eventually dips two glasses into the nearby fishbowl. Meanwhile:) You like Mozart, Mr. Silverman?

  IRV. Moe.

  AUDREY. Moe.

  IRV. I mean Mel!

  AUDREY. Mel.

  IRV. Moe’s my middle name.

  AUDREY. (To herself.) Mel Moe Silverman.

  IRV. Yeah, Mozart’s probably my favorite. . . . Right up there with . . . with . . . you know, the other great . . . music writers.

  (He brings the glasses, discreetly shaking his head at AUDREY, trying to tell her not to drink.)

  AUDREY. God, you’re a savior. Thank you. (She beams, takes no notice of IRV’s hint, clinks glasses with him, and takes a gulp. She smiles.) I used to — (The taste hits her. She grimaces and gives a mighty shudder, registers IRV’s headshaking, and peers at her glass. Her mind is on what she’s swallowed, not her lines, which she delivers flatly.) — play Mozart on the piano. But that was a long time ago. (She wipes her mouth on her sleeve.) My husband only likes jazz, which after a while makes me want to run out of the apartment.

  IRV. You can always come here. It’s always calm and— (Polka music comes up from below.) Calm and tranquil. (IRV taps his toe on the floor, to no effect.) Tranquil and appealing. (He pounds louder.) Appealing and — (He jumps up and down on floor several times. The polka music stops.) — and calm.

  AUDREY. This drink’s going to my head.

  IRV. You need something in your stomach. Feel like eating?

  AUDREY. (Forgetting her character, thinking of her stomach.) No! (Remembering her character, but with no enthusiasm in her voice.) I mean, yes. I’d love to.

  IRV. Right around the corner there’s this great little — (Reluctantly.) seafood place —

  (AUDREY stiffens. She sniffs her drink. Her eyes cut to the fishbowl, then to IRV. She speaks her next line as if ready to murder him.)

  AUDREY. How did you know? I adore seafood.

  IRV. (Fearfully.) Great. Let’s go.

  (They stand. Zap sound. Blackout. Lights come up on the RUSSIAN PLAY. KONSTANTIN is holding forth to a seated IRINA and NIKOLAI, his delivery maddeningly slow. He holds his staff in one hand.)

  KONSTANTIN. — nothing more important, you see, in the cultivation of beets, than the soil. Nothing. The condition of the soil is paramount. This cannot be stressed too highly. As my great-grandfather was fond of saying, an aphorism for which he was known far and wide, for dozens of versts in every direction, as he was wont to say — indeed he said it nearly every day, sometimes, actually, more often — as he liked to say, “Good soil — good beets.”

  (KONSTANTIN smiles, awaiting response. IRINA stifles a yawn. NIKOLAI produces a pen and tiny notebook.)

  NIKOLAI. Let me write that down.

  KONSTANTIN. (Repeating words slowly for NIKOLAI’s benefit.) Good . . . soil . . . good —

  (Zap sound. Blackout. Lights come up on the ENGLISH MYSTERY. CLIFFORD, COL. and MRS. HARDWICKE, REV. SMYTHE, LADY DENSLOW, and EMMALINE are all standing.)

  COL. HARDWICKE. — propose that we all recount to the group as a whole all our movements, from the time dinner finished to the present, leaving out no detail, however seemingly unimportant.

  EMMALINE. Good thinking.

  MRS. HARDWICKE. No detail whatsoever.

  COL. HARDWICKE. Marjorie, why don’t you begin.

  MRS. HARDWICKE. Very well. Let me see. After the dessert, which I thought was quite lovely — I’ve always been quite partial to custard — Lady Denslow and I began chatting, didn’t we, first off, about her dress, which I could never wear, not with that neckline, but which on her really does look —

  (Zap sound. Blackout. Lights come up on the AVANT-GARDE PLAY. MAN is holding a street map in front of his face. He unfolds it dramatically. WOMAN is miming knitting with pleasant concentration, using neither yarn nor needles. He notices her.)

  MAN. Do you enjoy knitting?

  WOMAN. Oh, yes. Very much.

  MAN. And yet I notice you don’t use yarn or needles.

  WOMAN. That’s the way my mother taught me. And what with the price of yarn these days . . .

  (MAN mutters in agreement, then turns his map to study a different portion. Silence. Zap sound. Blackout. Lights come up on the SOUTHERN PLAY. GRANDMAMMY, ancient and wearing a white dress, is sitting in a chair. She holds a glass of iced tea. Facing her is LUKE, fidgeting madly, scarcely able to stay put on the couch. He uses his southern accent in this scene.)

  GRANDMAMMY. You’ve always been my favorite, Luke.

  LUKE. Why’s that, Grandmammy?

  GRANDMAMMY. Reckon it goes back, way back to when I was just a knee-baby. Back before the Yankees set their guns on Vicksburg.

  LUKE. You know I love your stories, Grandmammy.

  GRANDMAMMY. And it’s a long story I’m fixing to tell. (Clearly addressing the actor playing LUKE.) So get comfortable!

  (She takes a deep breath preparatory to beginning her tale. Zap sound. Blackout. Lights come up on the RUSSIAN PLAY, as before. IRINA has slumped down farther in her seat.)

  KONSTANTIN. A salty soil is good for beets. How do you tell, you ask? Well, I’ll tell you. What you do is this. First, you take a little pinch in your hand. Not a great deal. Just a pinch. Then you put a bit of that on your tongue —

  (Zap sound. Blackout. Lights come up on the ENGLISH MYSTERY, as before.)

  MRS. HARDWICKE. — and I told her I thought the sleeves were darling, and then we spoke of the war, and when it might end, and what we would wear when it did —

  (Zap sound. Blackout. Lights come up on the SOUTHERN PLAY, as before.)

  GRANDMAMMY. — but General Grant didn’t count on Vicksburg holding out this long. No sir, he —(The phone rings.) That must be the lawyer. Got a change I want to make. (Phone continues ringing. She addresses actor playing Luke.) Aren’t you gonna answer it?

  (LUKE bustles to the phone table, finds the phone gone, looks into wings, then searches the room for it, while the phone continues ringing. He’s forgotten his southern accent.)

  LUKE. We never had this problem before.

  GRANDMAMMY. Well, we never shared a house with no uppity royal family before. Look in the wastebasket!

  (Luke crouches by wastebasket, picks up the receiver, and puts it to his ear. Ringing stops.)

  LUKE. Hello. (He listens. To GRANDMAMMY.) Nobody t
here.

  GRANDMAMMY. (Rolls her eyes, then addresses audience.) Y’all go on to another play. I need to talk to this boy a minute.

  (Zap sound. Blackout. Lights come up on the RUSSIAN PLAY, as before. IRINA is now asleep.)

  KONSTANTIN. Of course, if you should see black spots on the leaves, that tells you something. Something important! (He pounds his staff on the floor for emphasis, waking up IRINA.) I cannot emphasize that enough.

  NIKOLAI. (Writing in notebook.) Black . . .

  KONSTANTIN. (Repeating for NIKOLAI.) Black . . .

  (Zap sound. Blackout. Lights come up on the ENGLISH MYSTERY, as before.)

  MRS. HARDWICKE. — how lovely it would be if the war were to end in the springtime, because I have this absolutely precious linen dress with a brocade bodice —

  (Zap sound. Blackout. Lights come up on the PERFORMANCE ART MONOLOGUE.)

  MARSHA. Wow. You natives are restless tonight. (Sneezes. She takes the bandanna off her head, blows her nose into it, can’t decide what to do with it, and puts it back on her head.) So anyway, my family lived in the suburbs, naturally. And my parents, naturally, picked the newest, stupidest suburb to live in. And, naturally, our street had a stupid name. So stupid, I’m too embarrassed to say it. (Silently debates whether to tell.) All right, all right. Gotta tell the freaking truth. Burbling Rivulet Court. These developers like suddenly turn into American Indians when they name their streets. Probably his son was named Pees on Toilet Seat. My father actually liked the name. Naturally. And my mother appreciated the shag carpeting in the bathrooms and the sparkly finish on the walls. I was twelve when we moved there from the city and I thought it sucked. The whole neighborhood looked fake, like it had been built by some model train nut. I kept expecting to see this giant hand reach down. Maybe, I thought, we were only an inch high and we were actually living in some weirdo’s basement. That would have at least been more exciting. There were all kinds of lawsuits against the developer for sewer problems, heating problems, mold problems, karma problems, so practically half the houses were empty. After living downtown, it was like being shipwrecked. The closest store was like two miles away at a mall. No wonder I got into make-believe. It was the only way to escape from Burbling freaking Rivulet Court. First, I started calling myself Alexandra instead of Marsha. Then I switched from Alexandra to Atlantis. My parents totally refused to go along and change my name on all the legal papers and stuff, so I finally had to go back to Marsha, kind of like —(English accent.) “Clifford,” with his arm in the sling, who was born a woman, then he went through all the treatments and operations and became a guy and married that dolt who plays Lady Denslow, but then, I don’t know, maybe it was the hair on his back or having to wear boring men’s clothes, but he told me, like in private, that he’s started cross-dressing and is kinda thinking about going back to being a woman — especially with the big lingerie sale at Macy’s —

  (Zap sound. Blackout. Lights come up on the ENGLISH MYSTERY. CLIFFORD and EMMALINE are alone in the room.)

  EMMALINE. Oh, Clifford — I’m so frightened!

  (She runs toward him, then seems to recall MARSHA’s revelation and pulls up short of the expected embrace. The following exchange is delivered with trepidation by the actors, the words reverberating with coincidental double meaning.)

  CLIFFORD. Don’t be afraid, Emmaline. I’m here.

  EMMALINE. But you haven’t — you haven’t seemed like yourself.

  CLIFFORD. No one comes back from there unchanged.

  EMMALINE. But I never expected — this.

  CLIFFORD. I know it must be a shock to you.

  EMMALINE. I feel I hardly know you.

  (LADY DENSLOW saunters onstage, glaring at CLIFFORD. She speaks without a British accent.)

  LADY DENSLOW. Yeah. Me, too.

  EMMALINE. I’m sure everything must be quite disorienting for you.

  CLIFFORD. You’ve no idea. (Dropping character, fingering his uniform’s buttons.) I’d just gotten used to having buttons on the right.

  (Zap sound. Blackout. Lights come up on the PERFORMANCE ART MONOLOGUE.)

  MARSHA. I wanted to act. Not that anyone in my town knew anything about any form of culture whatsoever, except what they’d picked up on Jeopardy! I mean, let’s face the truth. Living in the suburbs is about shopping. Pure and simple. Every person, get it, is like King Tut. And every person’s house is like King Tut’s freaking tomb. The more crammed with crap, the better. (Imitating wife, then husband.) “Look at this darling set of ceramic finger bowls I picked up on sale.” “That’s wonderful dear, even though we’ve never unwrapped the ones we have.” “Well, of course, I expect to do quite a bit more entertaining in the afterlife.” Instead of the Egyptian Book of the Dead, people have the Williams-Sonoma catalog. And since you can’t buy art and literature at the mall, it must not be worth anything, right? There’s some chemical they put in the water in the suburbs that keeps people from seeing how totally clueless they are. Except for me. I drank bottled water. So I got into drama, except in middle school the only play we put on was Annie, which the whole eighth grade class did. I tried out for the lead. Mrs. Hoffmeister gave it to Sylvia Scapellini and put me on stage crew because she hated my guts because I did some research and found out she hadn’t been married to Harrison Ford after all —

  (Zap sound. Blackout. Lights come up on RICHARD III, act 3, scene 1. PRINCE EDWARD, wearing a crown, enters to sound of trumpet flourish. GLOUCESTER and BUCKINGHAM enter from the other direction.)

  BUCKINGHAM. Welcome, sweet prince, to London, to your chamber.

  GLOUCESTER. Welcome, dear cousin, my thoughts’ sovereign;

  The weary way hath made you melancholy.

  PRINCE. No, uncle, but our crosses on the way

  Have made it tedious, wearisome —(Zap sound. Blackout, but only for an instant as the furious GLOUCESTER stamps his foot, causing the lights to come back up.) — and heavy:

  I want more uncles here to welcome me.

  GLOUCESTER. Sweet prince, the untainted virtue of your years —(The zap sound is repeated. No blackout. GLOUCESTER again raises his hand in a “Stop” gesture toward the wings while facing the PRINCE and continuing his lines.)

  Hath not yet div’d into the world’s deceit —

  (GLOUCESTER emphasizes those last three words, turning his gaze on the audience. The zap sound is heard three times in a row. Blackout. After a longer than normal period of darkness and sounds of a scuffle, lights come up on the RUSSIAN PLAY. IRINA and PAVEL are standing alone. We hear a mournful tune played on a balalaika.)

  IRINA. (Cocking ear to the music.) What is that dreadful, depressing music?

  PAVEL. Your husband asked a few peasants to play him some of their traditional tunes.

  IRINA. But that’s been going on for hours now! The lazy rascals are supposed to be working in the fields!

  PAVEL. Your husband is blissfully blind to human evil, from the laziness of the peasants to the thieving of the servants to my own much more grievous sins. Though what we all find even more remarkable about him is that he actually appears to like the provinces. Never in life or in literature have I encountered such a man. The dearth of stimulation, the contempt for the arts, the coarse food —

  IRINA. I believe I would kill to get my hands on a croissant right now.

  PAVEL. It quite baffles me. Frankly, Irina, I wonder how a woman of your refinement will bear it.

  IRINA. I swear, I would murder a harmless old woman for one of those Parisian raspberry tarts —

  PAVEL. It will be very difficult.

  IRINA. — with that delicate, buttery crust —

  PAVEL. Very difficult, indeed. Unless, of course, you find comfort . . . elsewhere.

  (PAVEL has been slowly approaching IRINA. He now takes her in his arms. They embrace passionately. After several seconds, the audience sees one of his hands moving in the air, trying to decide which buttock to sample. IRINA senses this and grabs his hand just in time. She pulls quickly away
and must force her next line out of her mouth.)

  IRINA. Oh, Pavel, the touch of your fingers so —(With the greatest reluctance.) — thrills me. Without you —

  (Zap sound. Blackout. Lights come up on the COMEDY. IRV is parading around the room, holding a strip of photos and triumphantly reporting to SAMMY.)

  IRV. You wouldn’t have believed it.

  SAMMY. Yeah?

  IRV. I’m telling you, she was eating out of my hand!

  SAMMY. I just hope you washed your hand first, better than your dishes.

  IRV. So we have this long, quiet dinner together. Max had just left town for an autographing. She has a glass of wine, then another, then a third, and pretty soon she’s telling me what a jerk he is. Other women on the side, screams orders at her, blows up if she spends a dime on herself.

  SAMMY. Not like our philanthropist here. How’d you pay for the meal?

  IRV. Got a credit card offer in the mail that morning.

  SAMMY. So then what?

  IRV. So then, we go out strolling. It had cooled off. It was gorgeous out. I take her for ice cream and tell her all about Marie.

  SAMMY. Marie who?