Characters:

STEVE: 30-ish, travelling businessman

SIMON: early thirties, academic

KATHRYN: university student on holiday

LISA: university student on holiday

HOSTESS: attractive, French

A train carriage, rumbling along at night, empty except for four passengers: a pair of female university students, speaking to each other quietly; a professional-looking man in his early thirties, reading a packet of papers in the row ahead of them; and another man of about the same age, slouched in the seat facing him.

The second man, STEVE, leans into the aisle when the GIRLS giggle more loudly.

The overhead lights flicker intermittently.

A young HOSTESS passes through the carriage, counting their heads, stepping carefully around a wooden case beside the professional-looking man, SIMON. Seeing that everything is in order, she continues on, exiting other end of the car.

As she passes, STEVE turns to watch her go. The GIRLS notice and laugh. He hears them again, leans into the aisle, then stands abruptly and leaves the car in the same direction as the HOSTESS.

After a moment, the girl on the aisle, KATHRYN, leans towards SIMON, who has been reading intently.

KATHRYN.

Is that your case?

SIMON (without looking up).

I’m sorry?

KATHRYN (tapping it).

Is this yours?

SIMON.

Oh. Yes. (He goes back to reading for a moment, then stops.) Sorry. Here…

KATHRYN.

No, it’s fine. I…

He nods and continues reading. The other girl, LISA, who has been reading a magazine, nudges KATHRYN to leave him alone.

KATHRYN (ignoring her).

What is it?

SIMON.

Sorry? Oh. It’s a typewriter.

KATHRYN.

Really?

SIMON.

Yes. It’s a…

KATHRYN.

You know, she thought it-

She cuts off as the HOSTESS passes back through. She and KATHRYN exchange fake smiles.

KATHRYN (when the HOSTESS has gone).

My friend thought it was a bomb.

LISA (leaning over KATHRYN).

No, I didn’t.

KATHRYN.

Don’t listen to her. She said you were a terrorist.

SIMON.

Oh.

LISA.

I didn’t really. I was making a joke.

A moment passes in which it seems the conversation is finished. Then SIMON looks up thoughtfully.

SIMON.

Well, I guess you could say a typewriter is kind of like a bomb. In a way.

KATHRYN.

Or, you could make a bomb out of a typewriter.

SIMON.

Or…okay…

KATHRYN (suddenly excitedly).

Yeah, you could rig up a typewriter to explode like when you typed a certain letter. Or a certain word, maybe, like if you wanted to kill somebody and you knew for some reason they’d have to type a certain word at some point, like…I don’t know, ‘The End’ or something. And they’d be all alone, hunched over in their dark little flat writing their beautiful story for months and months, not having any idea that whenever they finished they were going to be blown up…along with the story.

LISA.

Please just ignore her.

KATHRYN.

That would make a wicked film!

LISA.

You’re an idiot.

SIMON (reading).

You should write it.

KATHRYN.

I should. Can I borrow your typewriter? I’m joking. (Pause.) I’d probably be too scared now anyway.

Pause. Then, suddenly:

KATHRYN.

Or, maybe I’ll write one about someone who thinks of that idea for a story-or, no! She’s writing a story about a typewriter that blows up when the writer in her story is done and so she just keeps writing and writing because she’s so freaked out it’s going to come true and if she stops, she’ll die. Oh, that’s wicked. And the ending could just be like, “And she just kept typing…”

SIMON (smiling).

Sort of a schizophrenic Scheherazade. It’s good.

KATHRYN.

What’s that? (The lights flicker.) Why do the lights keep flickering?

LISA.

I told you…

SIMON.

It must be a bad electrical connection with the rails.

LISA.

I told you that.

KATHRYN.

I can never tell when you’re just making stuff up to sound clever.

Beside the train car setup, STEVE walks out and stands facing the audience.

KATHRYN.

What did you say before?

SIMON.

Sorry?

The HOSTESS comes onstage and stands beside STEVE.

SIMON.

Oh, Scheherazade…

KATHRYN.

Yeah. I’ve heard of that.

LISA (without looking up from her magazine).

You are such a liar.

The HOSTESS and STEVE sit on the floor, perhaps on cushions.

SIMON (teacherly).

It’s a woman. She was a peasant’s daughter who told stories to the king to keep him from killing her.

The HOSTESS and STEVE are now Sheherazade and the king, Shahryar, solemnly pantomiming the story as SIMON describes it:

KATHRYN.

Why would he kill her?

SIMON.

Well…it’s a sort of… Every night he’d take a new wife, a virgin, but then have them killed the following day.

STEVE slits the HOSTESS’ throat with his finger and pushes her aside as she collapses.

KATHRYN.

Wow! What a waste!

SIMON smiles.

KATHRYN.

That’s a good reason to get rid of your virginity, I guess.

The HOSTESS rises and walks back offstage.

SIMON can’t help laugh. The lights flicker. The HOSTESS walks through, briskly.

KATHRYN (stopping her).

Excuse me, why do the lights keep flickering?

HOSTESS (a bit flustered, with a French accent).

Yes?

KATHRYN.

Why do the lights keep flickering?

HOSTESS.

Pardon?

KATHRYN.

The lights. (She points.) The lights. Flicker. Blinking.

She shows blinking with her hands, quite condescendingly.

HOSTESS.

Ah – ze lights. I am sorry. Ze leck…trick?

She demonstrates bad electrical connections with her own hand gestures.

HOSTESS.

Electric?

KATHRYN.

Oh. Thanks.

The HOSTESS smiles and hurries along, out of the carriage.

LISA.

You’re just mean.

Beyond the carriage, the HOSTESS suddenly pauses, faces the audience, and lies back down at STEVE’s feet, as before.

KATHRYN (ignoring LISA).

So, she dies?

SIMON.

Actually, no…

The HOSTESS sits up.

KATHRYN.

Ooh!

The HOSTESS and STEVE pantomime and pose for the following:

SIMON (laughs).

She tells him a story every night for one thousand and one nights, and so, finally, he marries her.

KATHRYN.

Oh, what a sweetie. But didn’t he have her bumped off the next day?

SIMON.

No, no. She became the queen.

KATHRYN.

But she was still a virgin?

SIMON.

I assume so.

KATHRYN (thinking aloud).

How long is a thousand days? Like three years?

LISA (reading).

Less than three years.

KATHRYN.

But it’s still a long time. (Leaning forward.) How old was she when she started?

SIMON.

Oh, I don’t know. Fairly young, I’d think.

KATHRYN.

Young like my age or young like twelve?

SIMON.

I don’t know. Probably closer to your age, I’d guess.

The HOSTESS walks offstage again.

KATHRYN.

How old you do think I am?

SIMON.

Oh. I don’t know…

KATHRYN.

Guess.

LISA.

Don’t be annoying.

KATHRYN.

Guess.

SIMON.

Twenty?

KATHRYN.

Ta da!

LISA.

You’re not twenty!

KATHRYN.

In February I am!

The HOSTESS passes through.

HOSTESS.

Billets. Tickets, please…

She makes a point of saying ‘tickets’ to KATHRYN. All fumble for and display their tickets. STEVE walks offstage.

HOSTESS (ad lib).

Merci, merci.

KATHRYN leans forward again.

LISA.

Cut it out!

KATHRYN (swatting her off).

Where was she from?

SIMON, who is back reading, looks up and back down where the HOSTESS has exited.

SIMON.

Who?

KATHRYN.

Sheera…

SIMON.

Oh.

LISA (back with the magazine).

It’s not She-Ra…

SIMON.

Persia.

KATHRYN.

Persia like where the rugs are from? (He laughs.) Where is that?

LISA.

Leave him alone!

SIMON.

Iran.

KATHRYN.

Iran? Really? Hmm…

LISA.

Please don’t say anything racist.

KATHRYN.

I’m not! (To SIMON.) And when did it happen?

SIMON.

When? Oh, it’s just a myth. Old. A thousand years maybe.

KATHRYN.

Oh.

LISA.

See? You’re stupid.

KATHRYN (to herself).

A thousand and one years…

SIMON (smiling as he reads).

Maybe.

KATHRYN (suddenly).

Where did your friend go?

SIMON.

Sorry?

KATHRYN.

The other guy. Wasn’t he your friend?

SIMON.

Oh. No. I don’t know him.

KATHRYN.

He’s probably in the toilet. (Pause.) Lisa isn’t really my friend either.

LISA.

What?

KATHRYN.

We just met.

LISA.

She’s lying.

KATHRYN.

No, I’m not. We just happened to sit next to each other…

LISA.

Stop.

KATHRYN.

I’m not bothering him. (To SIMON.) I’m not bothering you, am I?

SIMON.

No. It’s fine.

LISA.

He was working.

KATHRYN.

He said it’s fine. (To SIMON.) The guy next to you was looking at us, you know.

LISA.

Not at me.

KATHRYN.

All right!

LISA.

Well, you’re the one-

KATHRYN (to SIMON).

Do you know if he just went to the toilet?

SIMON.

I don’t have any idea. I think he might’ve gotten off, to be honest.

KATHRYN.

Nope. Those are his bags.

SIMON.

Oh.

KATHRYN (to Lisa.)

He’s probably having a wank.

SIMON.

Sorry?

KATHRYN (incredulous).

What?

LISA (sniggering).

Can you do that on a moving train?

KATHRYN.

Heck if I know. (Aloud, to SIMON.) Hey, do you know if it’s possible-

As LISA grabs her and pulls her back, STEVE re-enters the carriage and takes his seat across from SIMON. The girls laugh.

STEVE.

Ah… Always nice to have a bit of a stretch, isn’t it?

SIMON smiles politely. STEVE leans forward.

STEVE (discreetly).

You spot them young birds sat behind you?

SIMON.

Sorry?

Pause. STEVE looks around. The girls act like they’re reading and laugh again after STEVE looks away.

STEVE.

What’s in that case there?

SIMON.

Oh. A ty-

KATHRYN (interrupting loudly).

It’s a bomb!

She immediately cowers back into Lisa.

KATHRYN.

Sorry!

She laughs, but LISA smacks her in the shoulder.

STEVE.

I don’t think that’s a funny thing to be yelling out on a train, do you?

KATHRYN (chastened).

Sorry.

STEVE.

You oughtn’t to be listening to our conversation anyway.

KATHRYN (cheeky).

Well, you shouldn’t be looking over here.

STEVE (starting to stand).

What’s that then?

LISA puts her hand over KATHRYN’s mouth. STEVE sits again.

STEVE (quietly, shaking his head for SIMON’s sake).

Need to learn to mind their own business…

KATHRYN (yanking away LISA’s hand).

Mind yourself.

STEVE (immediately on his feet).

What’s that then?

KATHRYN starts to jump up, too. LISA grabs her. SIMON half-stands between them.

KATHRYN.

I said ‘mind yourself’!

SIMON (calmly, to STEVE).

Okay. (To KATHRYN.) Okay now.

STEVE (still huffing).

All right now, mate.

LISA.

Sorry. She’s sorry.

KATHRYN (pushing LISA off her).

Stop!

The lights flicker.

STEVE.

Let’s just calm down there, girls.

SIMON.

Okay now. It’s okay.

STEVE.

Just calm there.

All sit again, however begrudgingly.

KATHRYN (after a moment, not quietly).

Perv.

As STEVE jumps up, suddenly the lights go out completely. STEVE and KATHRYN shout throughout. (Ad lib. as necessary.)

STEVE.

You fucking slut! (etc.)

LISA screams. The sound of a tussle.

KATHRYN.

Let go!

STEVE.

Mate, you get the fuck off me!

The lights flick on for half a second and SIMON seems to be holding STEVE back. Then darkness again.

STEVE.

Let go, you son of a bitch!

KATHRYN.

Let me the fuck alone!

STEVE.

You stupid slut.

Someone is slapped or punched and one of the girls is screaming again.

Someone with a flashlight enters the carriage, amidst continuous shouting.

HOSTESS.

Please! Excuse me! Please!

A large crash. The typewriter dings.

HOSTESS.

Please! Attencion!

The tussling falls silent fairly quickly. When her flashlight passes over them briefly, the men are hunched over one another in the aisle.

The girls are back in their seats. The HOSTESS holds the light on the LISA’s face. Her nose or lip is bloody.

HOSTESS.

Miss… Miss…

She steps over the men to the girls, keeping the flashlight on LISA’s face.

HOSTESS.

Can I help you?

KATHRYN helps LISA to her feet.

LISA (crying).

No. I’m okay.

HOSTESS (to KATHRYN).

Sit. Okay? Sit. I will get help.

The HOSTESS hurries out with the flashlight, leaving the car in darkness again.

KATHRYN.

Come on.

LISA.

Stop it! Let me go! (Pause. Then more quietly.) Let me go.

KATHRYN (angrily).

I’m sorry!

LISA.

Well, just fuck off.

SIMON (from the floor).

Girls!

They shut up. He grunts, trying to getting up.

KATHRYN.

Are you okay?

SIMON.

I’m fine.

Pause.

KATHRYN.

Her lip is bleeding.

SIMON.

I’m coming. Just a second.

KATHRYN.

Where is he?

SIMON.

Just one second.

The HOSTESS returns with the flashlight. SIMON immediately takes it from her.

SIMON.

Here.

He turns it on LISA, who is sitting, leaning against the window again.

SIMON (inspecting her).

Are you all right?

LISA.

Yeah.

KATHRYN.

You’re bleeding.

LISA.

I know!

SIMON.

It’s okay. (To the HOSTESS.) Okay, we need some bandages. (She holds up something.) No, bandages….uh… (Gesturing.) Les bandages…et…l’alcool. L’alcool?

HOSTESS.

Yes.

SIMON.

Here. (He hands her back the flashlight.) Hurry.

The HOSTESS exits, leaving them in complete darkness once again.

SIMON (wasting no time, authoritative).

Okay, what’s your name?

KATHRYN.

Who?

SIMON.

You.

KATHRYN.

Katie…

SIMON.

Okay, Katie, I need you to help me.

KATHRYN.

What?

LISA.

What are you doing?

SIMON.

You just sit there. Katie, come here.

KATHRYN.

Where are you?

SIMON.

I’m here. Watch your step.

LISA.

Katie, stop it. Come here.

KATHRYN.

Just a second, Lise.

LISA.

No, come here.

SIMON.

Lisa, right? Lisa, I need you to just sit still for a minute. Okay?

LISA.

No!

SIMON.

Katie, come here, please.

LISA.

Katie, stop!

SIMON (firmly).

Be quiet, Lisa.

Pause. Silence.

SIMON.

Katie. Come here.

She does, carefully, starting to cry.

SIMON.

Okay, now, can you lift his feet?

LISA (quietly).

Katie?

SIMON.

Okay. Good girl. Now, back up that way. Okay. Good. Good girl.

LISA.

Katie?

SIMON.

Let’s go. Step by step. Okay. Easy now. Okay. Good. That’s a good girl, Katie. That’s a good girl.

They shuffle out the end of the car opposite that which the HOSTESS went out.

SIMON (off).

Okay, now, help here. Okay. Shh…

At the sound of the HOSTESS’s footsteps, beyond the other end of the car, KATHRYN starts to cry out, but it sounds as if her mouth is quickly covered.

The HOSTESS returns. Her flashlight glances for half a second off the typewriter in the aisle, before she gets to LISA, bolted upright in her seat, staring toward the dark end of the car. She’s crying.

HOSTESS.

Miss? I have bandages…

The flashlight is extinguished.

END.

J. T. Welsch is a Berklee alum. This play was written and produced at the Martin Harris Centre for Music and Drama in Manchester, England, on November 18^th, 2007, as part of the 24-Hour Plays project, sponsored by the London Old Vic theatre.

EXT. NORTH BOSTON – BY THE WATER

JACK and LÉA are walking side by side through crowds of pedestrians along a breezy boardwalk. The remains of the summer sun reflect off of nearby buildings and light the bay in a red orange glow. 

Still uncertain if this was meant to be a date or just a friendly outing with a classmate, Jack awkwardly tries to find a balance between giving Léa room and being romantically close.

Léa, clearly a lover of conversation, is rambling as they walk, but focusing more on the beauty and excitement of the world around her.

LÉA

…so in realistic terms, we’re talking about a bunch of people from all over the planet pursuing a very expensive, emotionally draining… dream… that will ultimately not pay off for most of them.

JACK

How do you know that?

LÉA

Averages. Statistics. I mean, look around next time you’re in class. Only two of those fifteen or so kids are actually going to ‘make it’ in the music industry.  The rest are going to end up getting ‘real jobs’ and having to make music their hobby.

JACK

So what’s the trick to not become one of the other thirteen?

LÉA

I think the real question is how do you become one of the two? And that depends if you’re a fatalist or if you believe in the personal empowerment to control your future.

JACK

You mean like destiny versus free will?

LÉA

Are you a believer Jack?

JACK

(hesitating)

No.

LÉA

(giggling)

So sure?

JACK

I think they’re both bullshit rationalizations so people will feel more…  complete… at the end of their lives. I think people will pick which ever is more convenient to justify their place in the world.

LÉA

That’s a little cynical don’t you think? So then what do you believe Jack?

JACK

I don’t believe either of those… or well, maybe some combination of both… in that we are given a set of predetermined circumstances and rules that we can’t control, like for example- the laws of physics, and we are forced to live by it, but what we do within those circumstances is what really matters. Like a test to our creativity and drive to either make a better life for ourselves within them or to somehow overcome them and achieve a new life in a new plane of existence. 

LÉA

See, I think…. I think that it all comes down to how much drive you have. Like deep down, you know what you really are and if you have the drive, you will eventually achieve whatever you want. Like take for instance the fact that there are a lot of other guitar players, vocalists, whatever, in our music school. I guarantee that there are a few guitarists better than you, and God knows there are a ton of vocalists better than me. So why don’t the rest of us just give up and quit? – Oh, hey, there’s this really cute coffee place I found with my roommate up here. Do you want to stop in?

JACK

Lead the way.

The two round the corner and cross a back alley that leads to a small chain of stores. Léa leads them across a street and up to a quaint café with the name, “Not Starbucks.”

INT. NOT STARBUCKS

Jack and Léa ENTER the old fashioned, yet strangely eccentric, wood framed restaurant. Its sparse decoration is unlike most coffee shops and it has a warm, welcoming atmosphere. An elderly couple, apparently the owners, are speaking with some customers at the far corner of the store and turn to wave to them.

Jack and Léa choose a table by a window and sit across from each other. Léa’s hair falls over her face and she smiles as she brushes it back. Jack can’t take his eyes off of her and tries to hide the growing grin across his mouth.

LÉA

I love it here. It’s just so…

JACK

Cozy?

LÉA

Yeah… makes me want to cuddle. Hey! You never answered my question.

JACK

So ask me again.

LÉA

Why are you here? What’s your motivation for pursuing something so difficult and so competitive like music?

JACK

Well, maybe I’m not the ‘best’ guitarist, not that I think there is such a thing, but there are things I can do that no one else can.

LÉA

(giggling)

Oooh? Like what?

JACK

Well… that’s my secret.

LÉA

Oh-ho Mr. Mysterious. Alright, well, you know you’re not the only one with secrets.

JACK

Tell me one of yours.

LÉA

Oh, c’mon. Like what?

JACK

I don’t know, it’s your secret.

LÉA

Yeah, but… ask me a question.

JACK

Alright.

(hesitating)

Is this a date?

Léa blushes and looks away, gazing out the window of the café into the dimming sun. She doesn’t respond for a moment and begins to chew on the end of her thumbnail.

LÉA

I told you I have a boyfriend, Jack.

JACK

Yeah, I know, I’m sorry, I just-

LÉA

But my boyfriend doesn’t watch the setting sun with me and listen to me bitch about my life. He doesn’t trek through Boston with me and he isn’t even as damn cute as you. Do you know why?

JACK

Look, I-

LÉA

Because I don’t have a boyfriend Jack. I made that up because I thought you were just another sketchy guitarwanking music guy who was trying to hit on me.

JACK

I am a sketchy guitarwanking music guy and I am trying to hit on you.

LÉA

I know.

JACK

But you still didn’t answer my question. Is this a date, Léa?

LÉA

(grinning)

Well that entirely depends on how it ends.

Matthew Baamonde is a student at Berklee.  

EVELYN goes back into the kitchen. TIMOTHY checks his watch.

TIMOTHY:

Three-thirty, you bastards. (sighs ) Fun, fun, fun.

EDMUND enters from the front door, wearing a long, expensive-looking coat and a woolen hat. TIMOTHY turns, sees him, and starts laughing. EDMUND smiles and briefly glances around the restaurant with a “God, why am I here?” look on his face. He takes off his hat, hangs his coat on the rack, and walks over to TIMOTHY’s table.

TIMOTHY:

(singing )

Welcome back. You’re dreams were you’re ticket out. Welcome back…

EDMUND:

That’s it? I was expecting more of a fanfare.

TIMOTHY:

Ah, you see, I forgot my horn.

EDMUND:

How can the be? You’re always tooting it.

TIMOTHY:

(mock British accent )

Ah, a hit! A very palpable hit!

EDMUND:

Thank you, thank you.

TIMOTHY:

How have you been?

EDMUND:

How do you think I’ve been?

TIMOTHY:

That’s not a response.

EDMUND:

It’s not?

TIMOTHY:

Are we playing the question game here?

EDMUND:

Would you like to?

TIMOTHY:

I…oh, come on. Speak.

EDMUND:

I’ve been…floating, I guess, would be a way to put it.

TIMOTHY:

Pretentious ,I think, would be more precise. What? You’ve been out on a quiet spree, fighting vainly the old ennui?

EDMUND:

You’d get a kick out of that, right?

TIMOTHY:

Edmund.

EDMUND:

What?

TIMOTHY:

Come on. You…what?

EDMUND:

What?

TIMOTHY:

Edmund, I haven’t seen you in months, I rent out this whole place so we can have a nice romantic dinner and, what, you refuse to talk to me? Come on. How have you been?

EDMUND:

God, the same. Really. Dreading going back to school. Glad to be leaving the house. Same old scholastic purgatory I’m sure to be lingering in for what…seven more years?

TIMOTHY:

You’re fault for being an academic.

EDMUND:

Epidemic?

TIMOTHY:

What’s the difference? How’s your sister?

EDMUND:

You say that like you’re going to tell me she’s been peddling drugs or something.

TIMOTHY:

No, I just saw her the other day and I want to know and since your being so hush-hush about your own squalid little existence I figured hers might be more interesting.

EDMUND:

She’s seeing someone if that’s what you want to know.

TIMOTHY:

What, a man can’t ask another man how his sister is doing without sounding like he’s trying to morally corrupt her or something?

EDMUND:

No, he can’t. Not with your history

TIMOTHY:

Well, I’m sorry. Nevermind then. I just heard she was heavy into drugs, that’s all.

EDMUND:

She ain’t heavy, she’s my sister.

TIMOTHY:

Ha-ha.

EDMUND:

Well…you’re turn.

TIMOTHY:

How am I?

EDMUND:

Mm-hm.

TIMOTHY:

Just dandy. Floating would be another way to put it.

EDMUND:

Still…acting?

TIMOTHY:

Like what?

EDMUND:

Like an fool, apparently.

TIMOTHY:

Ah, see? I can be prickly too, you know. No fun for the one handling the inquiries, is it?

EDMUND:

Yes, yes.

TIMOTHY:

Yes, one more year until my degree in waiting tables and crippling poverty is completed. I invited you to my last play, you know.

EDMUND:

You did?

TIMOTHY:

Yes, I sent you an e-mail, I think. No, yes, yes, I did. You never responded.

EDMUND:

Were you heartbroken?

TIMOTHY:

Well, the show had to go on.

EDMUND:

What was it?

TIMOTHY:

Do you care?

EDMUND:

No.

TIMOTHY:

Mm-hm. Well, it was the Rape of Lucretia.

EDMUND:

Oh, yes. I did get that. I thought it was an ad for a pornographic site so I deleted it. So sorry.

TIMOTHY:

It’s fine. I’ve recovered. I’ll be performing in The Flying Dutchman next semester. So, if you’re in the mood for three hours of caterwauling with no intermission, feel free to stop by.

EDUMND:

If I were ever in the mood for that, I would simply attend another one of my family’s Christmas parties and frankly, my eardrums are still recovering from last week’s.

TIMOTHY:

Oh God. A fate worse than Wagner.

EDMUND:

If that’s possible.

TIMOTHY:

How was your Christmas? Made out like a bandit, I assume.

EDMUND:

Unfortunately, all I got was my two front teeth.

TIMOTHY:

All you wanted, right?

EDMUND:

Even so…

TIMOTHY:

What was last year? A weekend trip to a spa?

EDMUND:

Oh, yes.

TIMOTHY:

Was there a happy ending?

EDMUND:

More like a twist ending, if I remember correctly.

TIMOTHY:

Ah, painful.

EDMUND:

Skilled hands she did not possess.

TIMOTHY:

Well, it still beat my Encyclopedia.

EDMUND:

Still unopened, I imagine.

TIMOTHY:

(Pepe Le Pue)

But of course.

EDMUND:

All that knowledge left undiscovered.

TIMOTHY:

I was thinking of putting it under my pillow and letting it seep into my subconscious while dreaming.

EDMUND:

A typically lazy solution.

TIMOTHY:

I am, if nothing else, consistent in my ways.

EDMUND:

A consistent disappointment. Cheers to that. That is, if we had something to cheer with. Where’s the waitress?

TIMOTHY:

I gave her an incredibly complex order so it will probably be awhile. Do you think they still let you smoke in here?

EDUND:

Yes, I believe this is one of the last bastions for the nicotine-addled…why, do you smoke now?

TIMOTHY:

Yes.

TIMOTHY takes out a cigarette, lights it, and starts to smoke.

EDMUND:

I never thought I’d live to see the day.

TIMOTHY:

What?

EDMUND:

Nothing.

TIMOTHY:

What?

EDMUND:

Nothing. I’m…surprised, that’s all.

TIMOTHY:

And why is that?

EDMUND:

I just…didn’t picture you as someone who would smoke. I don’t know. I have to reevaluate my entire idea of who you are as a person now.

TIMOTHY:

Oh, please.

EDMUND:

May I ask why?

TIMOTHY:

Must I explain?

EDMUND:

You must. You must.

TIMOTHY:

Fine, fine. Well…look at me. I have no great culture, no history, no teams I support, no religion I adhere to, no past persecutions of my people besides being thrown to the lions a couple of thousand years ago and no one takes that seriously, anyways. I mean, nothing, in that sense, you know?

EDMUND:

A man without a country.

TIMOTHY:

Well, no. But, yes. With this, I’m instantly part of a greater community. I can now say to other fellow smokers “Do you have a light? Mm, thanks. God, can you believe what they charge for a pack these days? Isn’t it horrible trying to quit these things?” We share an affliction. It’s quite nice, actually.

EDMUND:

I guess that’s a very silly way of looking at it.

TIMOTHY:

Besides, it’s just so terribly romantic, isn’t it? Just substitute this horrible little town with Paris and this horrible little restaurant with a dilapidated sea-side bistro and, voila, instant tortured artist.

EDMUND:

You would have to substitute sophistry with artistry before you came to that conclusion.

TIMOTHY:

Ah, but if done well, sophistry is artistry.

EDMUND:

And I’m sure you’re going to make that you’re life’s pursuit.

TIMOTHY:

Just you wait.

EDMUND:

Mm. Well, I spoke to Albert. He said that he should be coming…I guess soon. Which could mean hours for that poor sod.

TIMOTHY:

By that time we’ll have probably just placed our orders. What about Charlie?

EDMUND:

I don’t know. Just you and me ‘til then, I guess. God, how awful.

TIMOTHY:

I mean, this is painful enough already.

EDMUND:

Worthless hack.

TIMOTHY:

Bourgeois philistine.

EDMUND:

(laughs ) Thanks, friend.

TIMOTHY:

Your welcome.

A pause

EDMUND:

So, any plans for the new year?

TIMOTHY:

What, this weekend, or do you mean the entire year? If it’s the year, I can’t tell you. If it’s this weekend, I plan to be curled up by the fireplace with my girlfriend, Lola, discussing the metaphysical wonders of Dick Clark’s face and wishing doomsday on the riotous ball-watchers below.

EDMUND:

Your girlfriend?

TIMOTHY:

I’m lying, of course.

EDMUND:

I was going to say…

TIMOTHY:

God, are you kidding me? The last time I saw female reproductive organs was the nude exhibit at the Whitney last summer. I lunged for one of them and almost chipped a tooth.

EDMUND:

So no plans?

TIMOTHY:

At the moment, no.

EDMUND:

You know, they say whatever you’re doing on New Year’s Eve, you’re bound to repeat for the rest of the following year.

TIMOTHY:

Well, last New Year’s, I had my tongue down the throat of fat Holly Perkins, occasionally coming up for air and to belt out a verse from Aude Lang Syne. And if memory serves me, I have only done that four other times in the past twelve months.

EDMUND:

You know, if…

TIMOTHY:

Or was it five?

EDMUND:

You know, if your having…mating difficulties, I know a few terribly lonely, masochistic girls who would certainly be up for an emotion-free and most likely damaging relationship with a strapping young lad such as yourself.

TIMOTHY:

Do you really?

EDMUND:

Oh, yes. Quite a few, actually.

TIMOTHY:

Well, then why aren’t you pursuing them? Or are you just saving up your virility for when you actually are a surgeon and you’ll be having to beat them off with a stick?

EDMUND:

I, sadly enough, am with someone at the moment so it’s not exactly a possibility for me.

TIMOTHY:

Are you really?

EDMUND:

Yes.

TIMOTHY:

Still?

EDMUND:

Yes…

TIMOTHY:

But…

EDMUND:

I know, I thought…

TIMOTHY:

Ah, you see? You thought. A horrible idea in any relationship. No good will ever come of it. You must throw yourself back into an amoeba mentality and just do whatever you can to stay alive.

EDMUND:

I see.

TIMOTHY:

You think and, what, you end up doubting your capacity for love, your need for freedom, you start to see little vocal tics and psychical imperfections that were never there before, sex starts to feel like a wet diaper…

EDMUND:

Are we talking about you and Susan here?

TIMOTHY:

Please, don’t say that name aloud in my presence. I’ll start feeling all queasy again.

EDMUND:

Still aren’t speaking to her?

TIMOTHY:

No, thank God. It will be seven months to the day next week, since I retrieved my testicles from her icy grip and stormed out of that dragons lair and I don’t want start having flashbacks or seizures as I might injure myself, so please.

EDMUND:

Well, at least I feel better about my current state of affairs. Or lack thereof.

TIMOTHY:

So you’re together but aren’t really together, is that it?

EDMUND:

She says she wants me to see other girls while she’s away and “enjoy myself”, she says, and then she goes and tells me that she only wants me and no one else. She’s to be the good and faithful wife while I’m supposed to be the humping, heinous husband, and I’m not supposed to feel guilty about that? I shouldn’t I suppose, but I can’t help it. It’s awful.

TIMOTHY:

Why don’t you just end it?

EDMUND:

Well, then you know how it goes. All those fawning little nymphets that seem to prance around me everywhere I turn will suddenly disappear the moment I become available to them. Better I simply flirt and enjoy them as an aesthetic pleasure then lose them entirely when they see that I no longer am unattainable, right?

TIMOTHY:

You could have her killed.

EDMUND:

And that would help my guilt how? Besides her ghost would haunt me in my bed, turn me into a toad or something, mid-coitus.

TIMOTHY:

That could be a problem.

EDMUND:

Yes, so, you see? You take them and I’ll enjoy it vicariously when you come to me the morning after, tussled-haired and reeking of sex and spouting off about the wonders of tantric love-making.

TIMOTHY:

That’s very generous of you, Edmund. I’ll be sure to get on that.

EDMUND:

Yes. So, anyways, I was going to ask you if you’d like to come to my family’s party at the Plaza. My perpetually plastered aunt Carol will be there, along with other sad drunken adults so it’s sure to be entertaining.

TIMOTHY:

I don’t know. Thank you, I mean, but, I haven’t gone to a single party this entire break and I wouldn’t want to ruin my streak now.

EDMUND:

What have you been doing?

TIMOTHY:

Oh, well, were do I begin? Let’s see…yes…um, absolutely nothing.

EDMUND:

Nothing?

TIMOTHY:

Nothing. I’ve been completely useless these past two weeks. It’s horrible, I know.

EDMUND:

But, what about Christmas, come on. Happy. Fun. Yay Jesus!

TIMOTHY:

I’m old, it’s depressing, I know. Nothing’s fun.

EDMUND:

Don’t be one of those young people who say that they’re old before their time, trying to seem world-weary and attractive to girls. It won’t work on me.

TIMOTHY:

Well, I’ll tell you, I cannot wait to be old and senile and bitter. Then I’ll be happy.

EDMUND:

What are you talking about?

TIMOTHY:

I mean, when I’ve done everything that I’m going to do. When there is nothing left to do but to do nothing. You’ve done everything. Doing nothing is the only thing you can do so at least I won’t feel like there’s something I should be doing and end up realizing that I’m doing nothing .

EDMUND:

You’ve actually done nothing these two weeks?

TIMOTHY:

Well…I tried writing a bit, actually.

EDMUND:

What? The great American novel, epic poetry, Penthouse Forum?

TIMOTHY:

I don’t want to say.

EDMUND:

Oh, come on.

TIMOTHY:

Must I?

EDMUND:

You must. You must.

TIMOTHY:

God, I…I started writing my memoirs.

EDMUND:

Well, at least that’s not indulgent or anything.

TIMOTHY:

Trust me, I know.

EDMUND:

Your memoirs? What would you write about? You do nothing.

TIMOTHY:

I have a very nice first paragraph and…yes, well, that’s pretty much it.

EDMUND:

Well, I guess it’s something.

TIMOTHY:

Yes, a doodle of the artist as a young man.

EDMUND:

Mm-hm.

TIMOTHY:

It’s a start, right? I’ll simply make up some torrid affairs, run-ins with the law, a few illegitimate children peppered across the country…

EDMUND:

Now, is that something you would want?

TIMOTHY:

Well, God, no, but it would make for a hell of a…

EDMUND:

No, I mean, children.

TIMOTHY:

Children? What do you mean?

EDMUND:

I don’t know, I’ve been thinking about it a great deal for some reason…children, that is.

TIMOTHY:

Edmund…you’re not thinking of priesthood are you?

EDMUND:

Oh, funny. Funny. No, I…I mean the whole concept of having children…I can’t imagine why anyone would want to have them, that’s all.

TIMOTHY:

Well, you know…fill an ever growing void in your marriage, live through their success, dress them up in funny costumes and make a sideshow out of them. You know, the usual reasons.

EDMUND:

It seems, the state we’re all in now, I mean, the world, that is, why anyone would force anyone else into it. It seems almost cruel in a way, I mean, doesn’t it?

TIMOTHY:

Well, I certainly was forced into it. I was two weeks late and had to be cut out, screaming by brains out the whole time.

EDMUND:

Really?

TIMOTHY:

Yes. I wonder if I missed out on something that you’re supposed to get coming out the proper way. If there was a coating you received, or a film that was shown that’s supposed to help you make sense of what you’re about to see.

EDMUND:
Well, just speaking from my own experience, I don’t think you missed anything.

TIMOTHY:

Well, that makes me feel better. I am lucky, though. If I ever need to slay a Scottish king, I’ll have no problems.

EDMUND:

Yes, I suppose. It’s just strange though, thinking about it.(pause ) Sorry, I didn’t mean to get reflective there.

TIMOTHY:

No, it’s alright. I’m depressed and you’re regretting being born. I’d say we’re both in fine shape.

EDMUND:

Yes, I suppose.

Chris Parlon is a student at Berklee. This scene is from a play written for the Playwriting Workshop.