GABRIELLA: Come on, man, you not gonna tell me your name? After all we bonded over and shit? A’ight. Not even like a nickname or sumptin’?
(No response.)
OK. Fine, we don’t have to talk about it. I’ll juss come up wit sumptin’ ta call ya. Well, now, you didn’t like wacko, so how ’bout Mr. Crazy-Man-Hangin-off-a-Crane-on-the-Brooklyn-Bridge? No, too formal, right? Playin’, playin’.
(Beat.)
I’m not callin’ you Spidey or wall-crawler, thas juss ridiculous. Yes suh. Ah. I got it. Porker. I’ll call you Porker. Get it? It’s the name of Spidey’s secret identity. Peter Porker. Yes suh, Porker. That’s it. Porker.
(Beat.)
Porker it is. Porker, Porker, Porker.
(Beat.)
Shit, I am still cravin’ me some Chinese food sumptin’ fierce. Some Moo-shoo Pork or sumptin’. Boneless spareribs. Now how you figure they do that? Ribs without bones. S’not natural. Think they’d deliver out here?
A Wing and a Prayer
By Ira Brodsky and Barbara Lhota
Kathy: nineteen, a college student
Dramatic
The United States is fighting a war in a Third-World country, and reports have come in about abuse of enemy prisoners. Kathy’s brother, Eric, is away fighting, and she has come to suspect that he may have been involved in these misdeeds. Kathy’s mom refuses to believe such a possibility, and Kathy tries to explain how it might have happened.
KATHY: I know. But it’s what I think. It’s how I understand Eric. I believe he wants to do good! I think he is practically blindly desperate to do good. But he doesn’t know what good is! He thinks doing good is doing what other people tell him. I mean, we all do in some ways, but Eric will do anything for praise. He wants to be on the winning side. Here’s what I fear. This is my crazy, horrible thought. That if his superiors said, “Eric, we need someone to help us out here. We have a bunch of terrorists in this building, and they won’t talk unless we scare the crap out of them. And even then, maybe not, because remember, they’re trained to die for their cause; and that cause is to kill us.” It wouldn’t be hard to convince him, especially if he was told by people he respects that this is the good and right thing to do.
HIGH-STRUNG/NEUROTIC/STRESSED-OUT
Better Places to Go
By David-Matthew Barnes
Candace: late twenties
Comic
Candace is late to her wedding. Stuck in a roadside diner, she unloads about the horrible time she has had trying to get to the ceremony. She barely takes a breath, fueled with anger.
CANDACE: Do you know what kind of a day I’ve had? I woke up late. My cat puked all over my shoes. My roommate decided to bring a criminal home with her last night and the guy stole her virginity (Pauses.) and my laptop. The landlord forgot to inform me that they were shutting off the water in my building to do some repair work. So, I had to boil bottles of Aquafina and wash my hair in the sink. A necklace my grandmother gave me fell down the drain and is probably lying at the bottom of Lake Michigan right now. I got locked out of my apartment, so I took the “L” train to Maxine’s house — in my wedding dress and my cat-puke satin pumps. I didn’t get a manicure so my hands look like I’ve been clawing my way out of Attica. My hair feels like Crisco because my hairdresser decided to try a new product on me and I swear to you, it smells like furniture polish. We missed the plane from Chicago and once we finally got on a plane, they rerouted us to Topeka because of some storm but I don’t see any rain, do you?! My own mother is refusing to talk to me because I wouldn’t allow my slutty sister to be in my wedding. My father has been missing for three days and we suspect he’s joined a religious cult in Arkansas. My fiancé thinks I’m a fat cow, an alcoholic, a drug addict and a chain smoker. And right now, all I want to do is be un-conscious!
Less Is Less
from Occupational Hazards
By Mark McCarthy
Felicia: an acting student in her twenties
Comic
Felicia has suddenly become deeply suspicious about her acting teacher.
FELICIA: I don’t want to hop around like a turtle.
For one thing, turtles don’t hop, anyway.
And I’m not being too literal. I don’t think you really know what that word even means.
OK, that was a little mean.
But I’m really tired of hopping around like turtles or bunnies or whatever. I’m sick to death of “inhabiting” kitchen appliances and imitating frying bacon. I swear to God I will kill the next person who asks me to play a mirror game. One day it’s “How does a bunny feel when it’s hopping? Hop! Everyone hop!” And then the next day it’s “Don’t chipmunks hop? Come on, everyone, hop like a chipmunk.” And then it was on to marmosets, meerkats, and geckos; there was brief pause where we spent a class watching Buffy over here — Candy? Gosh, sorry. Watching Candy over here miming playing volley ball in slow motion, and then it was back to hopping like —
Hey, wait a minute.
Why is there so much hopping around in your acting classes? What is it about hopping around that will make me a better actor? I’m starting to think it’s all about boobs with you. Is it? Is it? (She grabs her boobs.) Is this what you think it’s all about? Well, it’s not! (She lets them go.)
You want to know why I don’t want to hop around like a turtle? I’ll tell you why I don’t want to hop around like a turtle. I don’t want to hop around like a turtle, because I’m afraid that if I do hop around like a turtle, my diaphragm will flop out onto the goddamn floor.
All right?
Missed Connections
By Barbara Lhota and Ira Brodsky
Jackie: twenty-fiveish, between jobs, wears a bright T-shirt and lots of Indian jewelry
Comic
Jackie and Cynthia are strangers on an airplane. Jackie is terrified to fly and has the need to vent all of her fears to the poor woman sitting next to her. Cynthia, the poor woman sitting next to Jackie, is a frequent traveler and sales rep. She is heading home after a long day of sales meetings. Cynthia tries desperately to avoid talking to Jackie, but as the play progresses, and the flight delays increase, Cynthia becomes more and more fearful about flying and everything else known to man.
JACKIE: No. I know. I know I’m a pain. I’m not stupid. I know I talk too much. I know the unwritten rules. Most people on planes like to be quiet and think about things. It’s sort of like church. You’re sitting there all quiet and you know you should be reading the safety manual or, in the case of church, praying or smelling incense, but you get distracted. I personally start thinking about little things I need to do — clean the car, alphabetize the spice rack, go on anti-anxiety medication. And then the ideas start flowing, like maybe we are delayed for a reason. Maybe the plane has a loose wing. Maybe there’s a bomb threat. Or, maybe I should have taken the earlier, more expensive flight to my aunt’s because maybe that one was the non-death flight, you know? Versus this one. It’s later, cheaper, but all about death!!
Missed Connections
By Barbara Lhota and Ira Brodsky
Jackie: twenty-fiveish, between jobs, wears a bright T-shirt and lots of Indian jewelry
Comic
Jackie and Cynthia are strangers on an airplane. Jackie is terrified to fly and has the need to vent all of her fears to the poor woman sitting next to her. Cynthia, the poor woman sitting next to Jackie, is a frequent traveler and sales rep. She is heading home after a long day of sales meetings. Cynthia tries desperately to avoid talking to Jackie, but as the play progresses, and the flight delays increase, Cynthia becomes more and more fearful about flying and everything else known to man.
JACKIE: (Sighs. Cynthia is startled.) I’m sorry. I sigh when I get nervous, and boy do I get nervous when I fly. I mean with terrorists, epidemics, global warming, you know. It’s terrible. Forget spring, straight to summer. April’s like February. October’s like August. And don’t get me started on the polar ice caps! And hello! The Kyoto Agreement? Why
didn’t we sign that? “Oh, clean up our environment for years to come and save the world? No, no thank you.” Do we want to suffocate? Do we want to burn up when some asteroid flies through some hole in the ozone layer? (She makes the sounds and gestures of an asteroid hitting the plane and exploding, followed by the plane plummeting to the ground.) Well, we can’t fly if we’re dead! And even if we don’t crash, what about the sheer awfulness of the experience? A bag of pretzels with like two in it. That’s it. No meals. But oooh, we’re the friendly skies. And we have leg room, unfortunately it’s for only one leg. (Pause.) You know, some people with peanut allergies can’t breathe? You open the bag and they’re dead. That’s why they stopped serving them. You start to wonder, do I have an unknown peanut allergy? I haven’t had them in awhile. I only ate them on planes, and now they don’t serve them. How will I ever know unless I open a bag, but what if I do it and then … (Does cut the throat sign.) You think Elvis died stupid …
The Pyre
By Terri Campion
Vicki Kearney: early to mid-twenties, a passionate, idealistic, middle-class woman, first-year third-grade school teacher
Comic
Vicki strives to keep positive while she prepares her third grade class for an unexpected fire drill, which has interrupted her day.
VICKI: OK boys and girls. CLASS??!! All eyes up front! As you know, like our special guest of the week — Fire Person Ms. Crawford — told you yesterday, it’s Fire Prevention Week. And I was just told, at the last possible minute, that in … (She looks at the clock.) three minutes we are going to have a fire drill. So, I need everyone to close your notebooks for now. We’ll come back to our journal writing after lunch. But right now, we need to QUIETLY clear our desks. That means all erasers, pencils, tissues, cell phones — everything must disappear. Now I’m going to close my eyes and count to five and when I open them I want to see clear desks and thirty-three little angels sitting with their hands folded. (She covers her eyes.) One. Two. Three. No talking! Four. Five. Boys and girls are your desks clear? (She uncovers her eyes.) Very nice. Now calmly — we will stand. (She gestures with her hands, rising them out of their desks.) And starting with the first row — Jason put your palm pilot inside your desk! This is a drill. There is no actual fire, but if there were, we might have all been burned to a crisp by now because some of you refuse to let go of material possessions! Now! Single file! First row, march! QUIET … ly! Please. Thank you. Follow behind Ms. Rippo’s class, I’ll be right there and I want to hear nothing but excellent reports on your behavior. (Beat.) Aren’t they cute?
Changing Attire
By Robert Koon
Barbara: twenty-four
Comic
Barbara, after a difficult breakup, is trying to get dressed for a blind date. She is speaking to her roommate, a flight attendant.
BARBARA: You don’t know how lucky you are. You don’t have to spend all this time thinking of what to wear. You have uniforms. You’re lucky.
But you know what’s even luckier? When you guys serve your meals, there are only two entrees. Only two! Beef or chicken. God, that must be so wonderful. I am so sick and tired of people changing their order. Everybody changes their order. You go back to the kitchen, give them the order and then as soon as you get back out, they call you over “Oh, miss.” And it’s not like you don’t have other people to take care of, but then you have to go back in the kitchen and they’re all snooty about it, too, and all you can say is “Hey, it’s not my fault,” but they look at you like you’re out there just making things up, and you’re not, and you’d think that, my God, they’ve got the menu right in front of them how hard can it be to pick something and stay with it?
And another thing. This leaving the money on the table and just walking out. What’s up with that? I hate that. Throw a couple of bills down and walk out. You go over there and it’s like “I hope they left the right amount. I hope they didn’t just throw down a couple of ones, just to look like they paid. I hope I don’t have to go chasing them down the street or anything.” I mean, what would it hurt to wait one minute and hand me the money in person? What is this, anyway, “hey baby, give me what I want and I’ll leave the money on the table?” I mean what do I look like, a food prostitute?
The Fainting Couch
By Jill Elaine Hughes
Julia: about twenty-six, an emotionally drained urban woman who is suffering from depression
Seriocomic
Julia is an unemployed temp worker without health insurance who is seeking counseling for her depression at a free clinic run by the local medical school and staffed by psychiatry residents.
JULIA: It was January and I was feeling generally like crap, which has been my usual state of mind since I was at least fifteen, but it’s kind of been in varying levels of crap, you know? This wasn’t just the winter blues — this was a crap explosion. Not even a crap explosion — a runny shit explosion. I think I can say that. You see, for me there has always been this basic level of crapness sort of hanging over the top of my head — you know, not too heavy, but still noticeable — which has been there for so long that I’ve just gotten used to it. Like when the muffler on your car just starts rattling and rattling, and you keep meaning to go to Midas to get it fixed, but you don’t, and you start getting so used to the rattling that it just becomes part of the normal sound of your car — it becomes so natural to you that it begins to reassure you that your car can just keep on running with this new and interesting noise underlying its normal function, and you forget that anything is wrong until your whole exhaust system suddenly falls out of your car and your entire underbody is just lying in the middle of the fucking Kennedy Expressway. Only then do you realize that the goddamn car isn’t going to run anymore without that rattling rusty muffler that you had grown so attached to, and you just panic. I mean really panic. Like waking up in the middle of the night gasping for breath, thinking the world is going to end because your sinuses are so clogged up by your constantly running tears. Now, I can deal with feeling like basic-level crap all the time. That’s just the way it’s always been. But when I can’t breathe at all, and I’m turning blue and using up an entire box of Kleenex every night between the hours of three and four A.M., then I think it’s time to get a tune-up. So here I am.
Cutting Remarks
By Barbara Lhota and Ira Brodsky
Candie: twenty-six years old, a teacher
Comic
Dana and Candie are strangers who happen to strike up a conversation at a hair salon. Candie is a grumpy kindergarten teacher who wants to go off on people who want to blame students’ failure on the teachers.
CANDIE: When I first became a kindergarten teacher, I felt I had to uphold the image of the perfect teacher. I bought a laminating machine. Every good teacher has one at home. I laminated everything. If I met you, I’d probably laminate you. Anyway, my fiancé, at the time, was depressed. So I thought I should be very up to counteract his depression. I’d come home and talk about clay and Bob the Builder and how happy I was. “I’m so happy.” And one day little Larry decides to put dirt up the noses of several of his little pals — “fun age,” huh? Several parents call inquiring how the dirt got up there. I wanted to tell them that we were trying out some new horticultural adventures, but instead I apologize and explained about little Larry. And even though my relationship was going to hell, I smiled and bounced around the classroom, “I love you. You love me. We’re a psychotic family.” I came home to my fiancé that night and he had taken a bat to my laminating machine. Not exactly a bat. Well, he said he knocked it over. But believe me, it was deliberate. He told me he wanted to leave me because I had told him to look on the bright side twenty-one times. He counted. He said that I may act happy or even think I’m happy, but underneath I was boiling angry that he and all these children were zapping my energy. And instead of expressing it, like a normal person, I was acting happy and kindergarten-teacherly, forcing him to take on my boiling anger. I thought he was de
ad wrong until I told him to “Shushee up, get his coat, and line up by the door so we could run off all that bad, bad energy.”
Cutting Remarks
By Barbara Lhota and Ira Brodsky
Candie: twenty-six years old, a teacher
Comic
Dana and Candie are strangers who happen to strike up a conversation at a hair salon. Candie is a grumpy kindergarten teacher who wants to go off on people who want to blame students’ failure on the teachers.
CANDIE: They always want to blame the teachers. (Looking up.) But what about the parents? It’s always that we’re incompetent. We’re overpaid. We need more education. What about the parents? They don’t need an education? They can be dumb as bricks. Half my students come in and they don’t even know their real name, let alone how to spell it. (Kid voice.) “I don’t know my name. My momma calls me Fifi.” More than half us teachers have two degrees. I only have one, but I was a straight-A student. Well, three Bs and a D in Physics, but those were dumb classes. And that’s not the point. I plan to go to grad school! Once I pay off undergrad. Twelve million years from now. “Oh, get educated on soft subjects like sympathetic behavior.” What about a little sympathy toward us? We’re stuck with your brats every day! (Tosses down her magazine.) I read articles on this “No Child Left Behind” stuff and get all worked up. Sure, it’s good to focus on education, watch out for kids, but I have been doing this for a while now, and not just kindergarten, and let me tell you, there are some children we should leave behind. If we don’t, they’ll teach the others and take over. In fact, there’s at least two, I’d like to ship off to Canada.
Audition Arsenal for Women in their 20's Page 9