With gratitude to Santa Fe Institute
Evanescence, or Shakespeare in the Alley was first performed as part of 10 X 25, a festival of ten-minute plays by twenty-five playwrights. It premiered on June 15, 2011, at the Atlantic Stage 2 in New York City with the following cast:
| WOMAN: | Kathryn Erbe | |
| SHAKESPEARE: | Nic Novicki |
The production was directed by Neil Pepe.
Bare black stage. Raised wall upstage left, approximately three feet high, running to center stage then stopping abruptly. Plain black office chair with wheels, extreme downstage center. Elegant woman seated in chair facing audience; middle-aged, beautiful; white silk blouse, simple black skirt, white high heels, silver necklace, pearl earrings, no finger rings, red nails and lips, very little makeup. Pool of white light directly above her.
Her legs are slightly apart; she sits with elbows on knees, leaning forward toward audience, hands gently clasped together under chin, fingers interlocking, prayer fashion but not “in” prayer, thumbs overlapping, index fingers lightly pressed together and held just under her nose against lips.
She is deep in thought but including the audience in her gaze, as though they might be a distant background to her inward obsession. Long rest in this posture. Nothing moves but her breathing and, now and then, the wandering of her eyes; her head remains still.
After a while she slowly leans back in the chair, crosses her legs—right over left—then crosses her long arms in her lap—right over left—gently grasping her left biceps slightly above the elbow. She lets her head arch slowly back so that her gaze now shifts to the light above her. She begins speaking in this posture but then slowly draws her head back to the vertical so that she’s speaking directly to the audience.
WOMAN: (Begins looking up at light) You know how you see things—how you map things out in your head. The “future,” you call it. One little step at a time. Click by click. One thing leads to another—or so you say. So you tell yourself. It all seems to fall into place. Inevitable. Then—something happens. (Pause. At this point she is facing audience; speaking directly to them.) Something takes place that’s completely unimagined. A death, for instance. Not that you didn’t see it coming, but you couldn’t realize how it would affect you. Or there might be a loss of another kind—a leaving—someone abandons you or you leave them—or you both decide to leave each other. Out of the blue, you’ve suddenly both had enough. (Pause.) But it’s never exactly like that, is it? Sudden. I mean, it might happen very suddenly but the thing’s been building up over time. Together for decades, maybe; births, deaths, children, homes, careers, then—POW! Apart, like that. Completely apart. (Pause; turns her head—profile to the left—then turns back to the audience) Then, maybe you begin plotting things out in another way—an isolated way. In your mind, I mean. Your so-called mind. You might start thinking, how is this going to be now—just me—alone—me, by myself? What am I going to do now? What am I going to do with myself? This is all going on inside you, involuntarily, so to speak. Like a trash can rolling downhill, spilling all its garbage out; crashing into fences, smashing into trees. And—and, it’s not even necessarily lonely, like that. That’s the thing. I mean—it’s not— Well, of course you’re bound to miss someone off and on, from time to time, but not—not like it used to be—you know, pining away—pounding heart—can’t live without them—constant obsession—the aching for someone—the missing—the anguish—the terrible missing. (She suddenly stands.) I CAN’T DO THIS! (Slowly she composes herself, smiles at audience, and sits back down with her hands folded in her lap, legs together but not crossed, like an old-fashioned schoolgirl; pause.) Sorry. I thought I could do this but now I realize I can’t. I mean— It’s not intended to be a confession of any kind, if that’s what you’re thinking. I don’t know what you’re thinking. It’s not supposed to be a— Oh, well. (Pause.) Maybe it could be as simple as the words to an old song coming back to you and—you don’t really know where they’re coming from. Or the memory of a Bakelite radio playing in the background while your father sings along, shaving in the mirror with a silver Gillette and you can tell by the morning light in his eyes that he’s known what love is. Somewhere, sometime, he’s known. (She stops suddenly; long pause; smiles at audience) But what’re you going to do? Blow your brains out?
(Suddenly, a bright white spotlight pops on upstage center and almost simultaneously with the light a large ripe watermelon falls from the ceiling and crashes to the stage, shattering on impact—this triggers a loud Duane Eddy–like guitar riff. The woman does not react in the slightest to the crashing watermelon, which occurs behind her. She simply stares straight at the audience. The music continues for a short while, then stops abruptly. The additional bright light goes out. Pause; then woman continues talking.)
WOMAN: (To audience) No, that’s not in the cards. Suicide. Too messy. You’re certain of that. It’s not in your makeup. Never was. Suicide’s for sissies, you say to yourself. (Pause.) Is that your idea or did somebody put that in your head? Didn’t your dad used to tell you that? Maybe that’s where it comes from. Your daddy. Or maybe it’s the other way around entirely and you never even considered it—suicide, that is. You lack the guts is what it amounts to. Just plain chickenshit. (Pause.) It’s all too much anyway, isn’t it? (Very deliberate, quick tempo) Knives, guns, ropes, gas, poison, hanging, overdose, drowning; jumping off bridges, leaping into the fast lane on the Ventura Freeway. (Pause; exhales loudly through her lips, causing them to flap rapidly.) Exhausting just to think
WOMAN: (cont.) … about. Exhausting. (Pause.) Where was I? Oh—things popping up. Yes. That was it. Middle of nowhere. Devastating things. Maybe this thing we’re talking about—this particular thing has been hanging around for lifetimes. Who knows? Just waiting for the perfect moment to appear. Like a tsunami or an earthquake. Just lurking in the wings, as it were. Hovering, like some spectral bird—like those frigate birds down in Mexico that just hang there high over the beach like black sailboats, then plunge straight down to spear a tiny white crab skittering across the sand. Maybe it’s like that. Out of nowhere. From the crab’s point of view, I mean. You don’t even see it coming. Lost in thought. Not even aware of the shadows of wings high above you. (Pause.) In any case, there’s no foreseeing. No prescience. That’s the point I’m trying to make. I mean, if you could—if you could see it coming wouldn’t you go out of your way to try and avoid it? Seems to me. I mean, why would you plow straight into it if you could see it right in front of you? But maybe that’s just what you’re doing now anyway, without really knowing it—dodging around trying to avoid calamity—slipping and sliding and here it comes, uninvited: desolation, devastation, evacuation, perdition, oblivion—scorched earth—
(Very loud, aggressive electric guitar riff again from stage left but a variation on the first “watermelon” riff. WOMAN stands abruptly, turns in direction of music then immediately back to face audience. She clasps both hands over her eyes—not ears—and holds them there as music continues for a short while then abruptly stops. WOMAN keeps her hands tight to her eyes for a while then slowly lets them fall to her sides. She stares at audience, smiles weakly. She kicks off her high heels but not so far she can’t reach them in a pinch. She rubs one bare foot over the other one, then changes feet and repeats. She smiles weakly again. She looks toward stage left then looks back to audience; smiles. She remains standing and now seems slightly embarrassed.)
WOMAN: (To audience) Well, so, here’s how the story goes—here’s what I’ve been trying to get at, if that’s what you’re wondering. I don’t know what you’re wondering. All this beating around the bush. (Pause.) Two people meet, randomly—seemingly randomly—as they do all over the world, every day, every minute of every day—as they have from time immemorial. Young, of course. Beautiful. Both of them. The boy maybe even more so than the girl, which is often the case in the very young. Voluptuous lips. Heavy-lidded dark eyes. Aquiline nose. You know the story. The attraction between them is like lightning over water. Trees shake when they look into each other’s eyes. Dogs run for cover. Liars tremble in their boots. They hypnotize everyone on the street by the way they move, the way they glide together as though joined by an invisible throbbing membrane, as though they belonged to each other for all eternity. (Pause; then directly to first row in audience) Isn’t this what Shakespeare was on about? The Greeks? It must’ve been. And it seems to keep happening doesn’t it? Repeating itself wherever you look. Wherever you go. Same exact thing. Unstoppable. (Now to audience in general) Every day. Every minute of every day. You see it—some street corner—two people. He has her backed into a brick building; licking her neck, kissing her breasts, his hand between her thighs. She giggles and moans;
WOMAN: (cont.) .… tosses her great mane of blond hair, throws her head back and lets him have every bit of her. He’s beside himself with lust—dripping hard and she wants him that way. She wants him to take the plunge between her legs, devour her whole until she collapses in a pool of ecstasy. And right in that moment they both go utterly blind. Don’t they? Lights out. Each of them. Together. The world goes black and neither of them can see the seeds of their own oblivion. Isn’t that the way it goes?
(Pause. She stares at audience without expression, then smiles and returns to chair without picking up her shoes. She sinks into chair, exhausted; pause; then she continues.)
WOMAN: (Pause—exhausted.) This unforeseen event, coming up. What’s going to happen? What’s going to happen now is not even a question for them. Lost in love. Lost in lust. How could anything destroy this—this coming together? Impossible. Impossible to see the murder—the poisoning—the double suicide. But there it is. There it all is—wrapped up in a kiss. Wrapped up in each other’s arms. All contained in the blood.
(Again the blast of guitar music, different riff again but this time from down right. WOMAN pushes off with one foot, very emphatically, and sends the wheeled office chair straight back, upstage, with her sailing in it. Guitar continues at same intense volume. Lights shift as SHAKESPEARE enters backward down right hauling a large black Visqueen bag with a female body in it—you can tell it’s female because long, luxuriant blond hair pours out of the end of the bag that’s dragging on the floor while SHAKESPEARE hauls it backward by the ankles. He makes little grunts and groans with his efforts but that’s all. He’s a very small man but definitely not a child; hair in a ponytail; dressed in the easily identifiable style of his portraits: ruffled collar, plumed hat, pink tights, buckled pointed shoes, etc. He wears a goatee and an earring. He keeps struggling backward with the bag that contains the body, dragging it slowly to the guitar riff across stage from down right toward down left. His hands are dripping with blood. He wipes his brow once, midstage, and the blood paints his face. Then he continues dragging the body.
WOMAN has spun her chair around toward upstage wall when she reaches upstage center, in the midst of the watermelon mess, and remains there with her back to audience as SHAKESPEARE continues his cross with the music. When SHAKESPEARE finally exits down left with the body bag, the guitar riff stops abruptly. Long silence. WOMAN just sits there, back to audience. Then she quickly swings chair back around in the same spot but now facing audience. Pool of light above her. Pause again. Silence.
SHAKESPEARE reenters, but this time from upstage left, sidelit with white light. He is walking tentatively on the wall toward WOMAN, tightrope style, placing one foot carefully in front of the other as though he might suddenly fall from a great height. His arms are spread-eagled out from the shoulders for balance. Blood drips from his fingers. He repeats the following lines very slowly, very deliberately, as he continues to tightrope.)
SHAKESPEARE: (As he slowly walks the wall)
“How comes it now …
that thou art thus estranged from thyself?
‘Thyself’ … being strange to me …”
(Repeats.)
(WOMAN pays no attention to him but simply stares at audience while remaining seated in chair. Slowly, SHAKESPEARE reaches center stage on the wall, arriving directly behind WOMAN. When he reaches this position he stops, turns toward audience, and lowers his arms. He’s now standing directly behind WOMAN and above her. He stops repeating the lines. Pause. SHAKESPEARE jumps down from wall, goes behind WOMAN, and begins pushing chair and WOMAN slowly downstage center. WOMAN speaks softly as she travels downstage. She should almost seem to float.)
WOMAN: (Speaking straight ahead—it’s up to the actor who she’s speaking to) I was wondering when you’d show up. You dream about these things. The moment. Reunion. Time of day. Sky. Wind. Smell of pine. You can almost see it. Well, you do see it, don’t you? Right in front of you. Maybe it’s happened already. Maybe that’s it. Vivid. The picture. The colors. It’s already taken place and you’re just—here—now. Living the past, as it were. Living—well—in time. I guess. Fleeting. Time. (Pause. She now has arrived extreme downstage center and stops. SHAKESPEARE exits down right. WOMAN stares straight ahead, just over the heads of the audience. She speaks.) It is good to feel you in the world, though. To know you’re there. Somewhere. To know there’s a connection. (Pause.) We are connected, aren’t we? Always. In that way—I mean. We are—always. Aren’t we?
(She stops but continues to stare at audience. Pause. Then another watermelon falls directly behind her and shatters on the stage. She does not react but continues to stare at audience. The falling of the second watermelon should be much farther downstage than the first and as close as possible to the WOMAN’s back, without being dangerous to her. No music. Lights slowly fade to black as WOMAN stares without expression. When lights get to black, again the guitar variation on Duane Eddy, very loud and continuing as lights come back up for curtain call.)