Best Monologues from the Best American Short Plays, Volume Three
Page 13
Coming sexually to her: “Hello.”
And she’s smiley, “Hello,”
And puts her hand on his shoulder,
And a hand around his waist:
She’s taking his wallet!
It’s true.
I saw it.
She’s pickpocket!
Sometimes, myself wanting to shout on street,
Like crazy person:
“Earth, it’s beautiful,
Earth, it’s too beautiful.
Watch out, watch out!
Earth, it’s dangerous.”
But shouting to whom?
To you, my friends.
Who else?
Through the pastry window, I see the cook.
He’s working there at the oven.
The cook and myself.
We wave through glass,
But we never talk.
That man and that woman
Do not see me.
They are looking in the window of a store.
He calls her Lisa.
Lisa is talking, talking, talking.
Lisa is a liar. I see lying in her face.
Lisa lies so much
She forgets she is lying.
Meanwhile her friend is daydreaming.
His fantasy: to live in the jungle,
To be Tarzan.
But really he works in an office.
What’s a curse?
A curse means you are stuck.
You will never be different,
Never grow,
Never change from right now.
That’s a curse.
I love to eat.
I like eating in Ethiopian restaurant
With my friends.
Many people’s conversation to me, it’s babble, of course
—Like Tower of Babble—
But I like to listen
By watching faces.
I have a friend.
His name is Fred Graves.
It’s a serious name.
It’s dark.
He could be Fred Dark,
Fred Coffin,
Fred Catastrophe,
Fred Cataclysm,
Or Fred Earthquake.
But he’s very happy, really.
He’s coming from satellite—
No—I mean Seattle. Seattle.
But now, Fred, he’s living in Venice.
Telling Fred: I’m scared of dying.
Freddy, he says to me:
“Adnan, it’s not so bad,
So die, already.”
It’s good advice.
Fred, he’s funny.
[ADNAN walks.]
SUNSET
Some days, going home,
Seeing sunset from pier,
And seagulls flying.
[ADNAN listens.]
I’m listening.
It’s evening.
Light.
Lights.
Stars.
Sky.
And seagulls flying.
[ADNAN listens.]
I’m listening.
It’s new to me,
Watching stars.
Planets, for instance:
There are no numbers . . . the planets . . . endless . . .
Like atoms in a piece of shell.
Violently born, the stars—they must be.
Earth born violently:
Everything swirling.
Universe born violently.
It’s not so sweet—
Not like California hangaround.
I relish some violence in myself.
Maybe planets inside yourself—myself.
Planet, it’s like light from inside.
It’s Venus, Mercury, Saturn . . .
[ADNAN listens.]
Earth ending—it’s going to happen when?
Earth, it’s five billion years old.
Myself five billion years old.
[ADNAN listens.]
Earth, it’s happening again.
I’m listening.
She’s throbbing.
Can you feel, she’s throbbing?
[ADNAN shakes.]
Earth the Mother, she’s trembling,
And everyone behaving like it’s not happening.
But animals, really animals, they know.
Oh, yes.
When earthquake coming—before—
All animals running away.
Running north.
It’s true.
[ADNAN listens.]
I’m listening.
It’s mysterious.
I am living in water,
In air,
On earth,
And sun is fire.
Planets, stars . . .
Planets are on and on . . .
Like seagulls flying . . .
On and on . . .
Endless . . . Stars . . .
Sky . . .
You know, it’s really endless . . .
Endless . . .
More than possible to imagining . . .
On and on . . .
On and on . . .
On and on . . .
On and on . . .
On . . .
[Lights out.]
Part II
Monologues for Women
Mac Wellman
excerpts from
The Sandalwood Box
from
The Best American Short Plays of 1995–1996
setting
In the rain forest of South Brooklyn.
PROFESSOR CLAUDIA MITCHELL [A professor of cataclysm at Great Wind University.] This is . . .
[She holds up a small, bright object.]
Seoul, Korea. December 25th, 1971. The worst hotel fire in history. An eight-hour blaze at the 222-room Taeyokale Hotel. A total of 163 persons are incinerated or succumb to the horrors of noxious inhalation. Two workmen are later sent to prison for terms of three to five years, convicted of carelessness in the handling of gasoline.
[Pauses. She replaces it in its place and holds up another.]
This is Clontarf, Ireland, in the year 1014 AD. Danish raiders under chieftain Sweyn the First (Forkbeard) are repelled by the forces of King Brian Boru. The Danes are mauled, with a loss of 6,000, and driven back to their stumpy ships. Both Boru and his son are killed. Forkbeard is slain later that year. And another. Saint Gotthard Pass, Italian Alps. 1478. During the private war between the Duke of Milan and another feudal lord, an array of sixty stout Zurichers, allies of the Milanese, are flattened by an avalanche in the early afternoon, with the solar furnace blazing away so innocently above. And another. Kosovo, in former Yugoslavia. 1389. Prince Lazar’s Serbian army of 25,000 meets the Spahis and Janizaries of Sultan Murad in the morning mists of the 28th of June. In accordance with a prophecy of the Unseen, the entire Serbian force is annihilated, thus clearing the way for Turkish mastery of the region for over half a millennium. And another. The Johnstown Flood. May 31, 1889. A wall of water thirty to forty feet high bursts down upon the town as the entire damn collapses. Over two thousand people are drowned, or dragged to their deaths over tree branches, barbed wires, and overturned houses. Victims continue to be unearthed, some far upstream, for the next seventeen years. Yet another. The retreat of the French Army from Moscow, begun on October 19th, 1812. Hounded cruelly by marauding Russian guerrillas, the Grande Armée is soon mangled, and beaten—reduced to a desperate, starving horde. Snows begin to fall on November 4. Ten days later, Napoleon is left with only 25,000 able-bodied fighters. At the River Berezina 10,000 stragglers are abandoned in the crossing on the 29th. French l
osses are the worst in history: 400,000 men, 175,000 horses, 1,000 cannon.
[Pause.]
This wonderful collection constitutes only a merest part of the world catastrophe, which in toto comprises the dark side of the Unseen’s id.
• • •
MARSHA GATES [A student and prop girl at Great Wind Repertory Theater.] Why is the night better than the day? Why do the young become old, and not the other way around? Why is the world made mostly of clay? Why can’t a person always tell what is wrong from what is right? Why does the full weight of the Unseen fall most heavily upon the visible, like brass? Why can’t we see what it is that compels both cause and effect to be so interfixed? Why can’t I find a number beyond which nothing can be enumerated? Why can’t I know what will come of what I do, think, and say? Why can’t I know truth from lies the way I do “up” from “down.” Why is one person’s disaster not catastrophe for all? And who knows why these things are called unaccounted. Unaccountable. Uncountable. And why, oh why, don’t we know who does know the answers to these things?
[Pause.]
. . . because isn’t it so that if we possess, and are possessed by, a question, the answer must too be hidden somewhere, somewhere in the heart of someone, someone real, and not a phantom of the Unseen.
Darren Canady
excerpt from
You’re Invited!
from
The Best American Short Plays 2010–2011
setting
An upscale kitchen in an upscale home.
MAGGIE [Pointing out the window.] Look! Look at ’em!
[We hear the children brightly singing “Happy Birthday.” As the kids keep singing.]
Oh my God, look at ’em. They’re pattin’ Logan on the back, givin’ him high fives and stuff. Wow! Hugs and kisses—the whole nine yards. Like they’re actually having fun. Isn’t that just like kids? The second we leave ’em alone, they actually start acting like humans. Like seriously. My Brian was a real dumbass the whole car ride over here. And he was like Mikey’s lead cheerleader with the cake. But look at him now. I think Brian just kissed Logan on the forehead. He only acts likes an ass when I’m around. I think it’s on purpose.
Kyle John Schmidt
excerpt from
St. Matilde’s Malady
from
The Best American Short Plays 2010–2011
setting
A private sitting room on the top floor of a massive preindustrial brothel.
MOLLY FORGE [A young prostitute.] He was my evening’s final customer. And he fell asleep astride me, my breasts rocking in the soft hammock of his palms, my hair entangled his, his eyes locked upon mine. We bedded our armies in blissful concordance. When we awoke, he called me his star fire, I lauded him my saintly fox. Then a thousand joyful kisses without purpose or monetary remuneration. I saw my life’s end on the ruby curve of his lips and he said as much to me. It was right then that my hands froze into the puppets you see now. [. . .] Yes. He gave me St. Matilde’s Malady. The moment he saw my hands, he bolted out of bed discovering that he couldn’t bend his knees from a similar and simultaneous disease. Frightened, he robed himself to leave, dropping his oil tanker’s wheel keys. I tried halting him, but limping so to travel farther, he trundled out my window and down the trumpet vines toward the harbor. [. . .] I hate him with all the darkness and fury caught in the monstrous hurricane of my soul. In a night he has caught my dear profession from these hands and abused the morning so he can steal away. If I ever see him again, I will use every fist my body can create to tear holes across his corpse. [. . .] Bullets of rain, calamity, thunder, wind whirl, and strike! I am the worst beast the wharf ever dreamed. My staid wooden dock demonically rises plank by plank from its stale marine home and writhes viciously high above the oceanic horizons. I am the storm tornadoes flee from. I am the bluster cities bow towards. I am the devil fire no virgin sea could dream.
John Bolen
excerpt from
A Song for Me, or Getting the Oscar
from
The Best American Short Plays 2010–2011
setting
The den of a small house in Venice, California.
EMMY [Late twenties to mid-thirties singer.] Don’t you remember we were pretty drunk when we got together that first time, and we were making love, and when I first saw your erection I accidentally blurted out, “Oh my, Oscar, look at you!” You asked me what I was saying, and I just quickly covered by saying I was referring to your penis as Oscar. I think I mumbled something like it was a little golden statuette. Well, after that, it was you that kept referring to it as Oscar, saying things like “Oscar wants attention.” And “Oscar’s feeling lonely tonight.” And “Emmy’s going to get the Oscar tonight.” I couldn’t stop you, you just kept going on and on about Oscar this and Oscar that. [. . .] It just happened, Jake. But look at it this way. We spent that night together and every night after. And we’ve been married for five years and have our beautiful son, Sam, together. It really worked out for the best, didn’t it?
Gabriel Rivas Gomez
excerpt from
Scar Tissue
from
The Best American Short Plays 2010–2011
setting
The then and there, the here and now. USC Medical Center.
CLAUDIA [Heart surgeon, fifties. Attractive. Cold.] The da Vinci Robot can allow us to perform complicated procedures. As you can see, this procedure is dramatically less invasive than standard BACG, and as a result requires far less recovery time. The da Vinci Surgical System allows a surgeon to get a closer view of the heart and mimics the surgeon’s movements.
[ALMA demonstrates.]
In addition, it compensates for minor, involuntary motions which would otherwise make the procedure impractical. In addition to controlling the arms, the surgeon can also control the scope of his or her view. “Zoom.” [. . .] The most difficult part of the procedure is the attachment of the blood vessel to the aorta. While the standard procedure allows the surgeon to use her hands to sew the tissue together, the da Vinci model uses a different method.
[She demonstrates.]
It punctures a small hole, here, and anchors the vessel similar to how a small rivet would work. [. . .] You’ll notice the heart is still beating. This procedure, in most cases, is performed off pump, which is ultimately safer for the patient. What’s more, the surgeon doesn’t even need to be in the same room as the surgery. He can perform the procedure from his office with other attendees in the O.R. [. . .] This is the future, ladies and gentlemen. [. . .] In ten years, standard coronary bypass will be obsolete.
[CLAUDIA sets her instruments down. She moves about the crowd with each question.]
While the da Vinci machine is not cheap, we can expect to recover costs in twelve to fifteen months, at which point, it actually becomes a very cost-effective procedure. [. . .] The recovery time with this procedure is cut by 25 percent. What’s more, since it is performed on a beating heart, the patient does not need to rely on a heart and lung bypass machine. As you know, the use of these machines has been called into question as some studies have shown a correlation between them and long-term depression. [. . .] We are in a result-oriented profession, doctor. If the patient lives, we have succeeded. If not, we’ve failed. So far, nineteen surgeries have been performed with the da Vinci machine. Zero have died. In fact, all of them have recovered at an extraordinary rate. We are not motivational speakers or therapists. We are not kindergarten teachers or priests. We are not paid to be peoples’ friends. We are paid to do what most other people can’t do: save lives. And this robot does that incredibly efficiently. I’ve selected the twentieth Da Vinci patient. You are welcome to observe. Once you do, I think you will agree that this machine should be a fixture at USC Medical.
Craig Pospisil
excerpts from
Disson
ance
from
The Best American Short Plays 2010–2011
setting
A room in a funeral home used for memorial services.
TRICIA [Early thirties.] A good memory. Summer between junior and senior years at college I was s’posed to go to Europe with my dad, but he cancelled. Seems he’d just met the very beautiful, young, and soon-to-be second Mrs. Roberts, so he decided to take her instead. You’d think I’d’ve been mad at him for being stuck in Pittsfield all summer—and I was—but he wasn’t around, so I took it out on my mom instead.
[Slight pause.]
I think she knew why I was being such a jerk, though, because she took me everywhere that summer. Museums, theater at Williamstown, minor-league baseball games. But my favorite was taking picnic dinners to Tanglewood for concerts like yours. And James Taylor. [. . .] By the time I went back to school we’d relapsed to our standard mother-daughter cat fights.
[Pause.]
By the next summer she’d been diagnosed. She thought she was being forgetful because she wasn’t getting enough sleep. Oh, we had a good time. It was a beautiful night. Warm. Lying on a blanket and watching the stars overhead, while Debussy drifted through the air.
• • •
TRICIA For years, while she got worse and worse, I was here every weekend. And it wasn’t easy. I’m in Manhattan. I don’t have a car. I’d ride four hours on a bus, get into town late Friday night, stay in a dingy hotel, then Saturday get a cab to Stony Field. Sometimes she knew me, and we’d fight. Sometimes she didn’t know me, and we’d fight. Sometimes she knew me, and she’d cry. Sometimes she didn’t know me, and I’d cry. Then I got to turn around and spend another five or six hours getting back home.
[Pause.]
I left angry and upset, and she forgot I’d even been there as soon as I left the room. Then one trip home I found myself wishing she’d just die. Wanting her to die.
[Pause.]
So I just stopped going. [. . .] I was at LAX just about ready to board a plane when they called to tell me she died. I was too stunned to do anything but just get on the plane to come home.
[Slight pause.]
I got bumped up to first class. Isn’t that something? I travel a lot for work, and I’d just gotten enough frequent flyer miles to make the Silver Medallion class of membership. And I got upgraded. It was like they knew. I sit down and they give me a hot towel, which I press to my face, let the warmth sink into my skin. Then they bring me a mimosa. And when I finish that one . . . they bring another. And a third. Then somewhere over Nebraska . . . I snap. And I get up in the aisle and start tearing my clothes off, telling everyone on the plane what a terrible daughter I am because my mother who I haven’t seen in five months just died alone.