Chapter 13
Three Successful Ten-Minute Plays
The Popcorn Sonata
by Jenny Lyn Bader
The Popcorn Sonata was first performed at Primary Stages in New York, directed by Casey Childs, with Anne O’Sullivan and Margot White, in the event “A Moment of Bliss,” curated by Tyler Marchant. Its world premiere production was at Café Theatre at George St. Playhouse in New Jersey, produced by David Hoffman, directed by Julie Kramer, with Amy Clites and Gloria Garayua, with music composed by Matthew Aidekman. It had its regional premiere at City Theatre in Florida, directed by Susan Dempsey, with Kim Ostrenko and Lauren Feldman. Other credits include production in 0 at Henlopen Theatre in Delaware and Stamford Fringe Festival in Connecticut, both directed by Ari Laura Kreith, and at NYU/Strasberg, directed by Julie Kramer. It was published in 2004: The Best 10-Minute Plays for Two Actors (Smith & Kraus), ed. Michael Dixon and Liz Engelman.
SCENE 1
The Miles residence. The living room. At rise, we see a couch with plush pillows. An Elmo doll sits on the couch. KAREN MILES, in a rush, is running around, wearing a business suit, one earring and one shoe. Even at her frenetic pace, and late for a meeting, she maintains a sense of humor about it all. In a singsong, cooing voice, KAREN calls out to her young child, LAILA (pronounced “Lay-lah”).
KAREN: Laila, I only have one shoe, isn’t that silly?! Laila? Have you seen my other shoe?
There is no answer. KAREN finds the shoe. She calls out again, throwing her voice toward the offstage area.
KAREN: I found it, sweetie.
There is no answer. She glances offstage to try to spot her child.
KAREN: Sweetie, can you hear me? Laila! Have you seen my other earring?
There is no answer. KAREN finds her earring on an Elmo doll. She calls out, playful:
KAREN: Laila, is there a reason Elmo is wearing my earring? Does Elmo have a meeting right now? Come give mommy a hug, sweetie! Sweetie?
As she looks offstage for Laila, KAREN picks up a fringed silk scarf and starts draping it around herself. The doorbell rings. She rushes to open the door.
LAURIE: Hi, Mrs. Miles? I’m Laurie.
KAREN: (rapid-fire) Laurie! Thank God you came over so quickly. It’s really an emergency. It’s very nice to meet you. You come very highly recommended by the Morrissons, Cathy, and the Olson boy . . .
LAURIE: Mike? (smiles) I taught him everything he knows about babysitting. And algebra. And a few other things.
KAREN: I used to feel very strongly about rigorous screening for all babysitters. And David generally insists on questioning sitters for at least 90 minutes on the phone and then in person but he’s away and you—seem fine.
LAURIE: You can ask me anything.
KAREN: Um. How old are you?
LAURIE: Seventeen.
KAREN: (quickly) Good age. So. I have a meeting. Don’t know how late it will go. But while I’m gone, here is a list of things you might like to do with Laila. Though I should warn you no babysitter has ever gotten her to do any item on this list. You can feed her anything in the fridge, but her favorite foods are pot roast, dry toast, and dry cereal. She can play in the yard as long as you watch her. Good night!
LAURIE: Mrs. Miles? Where is Laila?
KAREN: Oh right. (Calling to offstage child) Laila!
KAREN looks stage left. LAURIE looks in the same direction. Then KAREN suddenly turns her head stage right as if she is watching somebody run. As she jerks her head to the right, there is a whooshing sound heard.
KAREN: There she goes. She is so fast! She’s got so much energy that sometimes you can hardly see her. Watch her go.
KAREN and LAURIE both look offstage right; then, in sync, their heads whoosh to stage left. They’re like the audience of a ping-pong match.
LAURIE: Wow. Laila . . .
KAREN: I know. I know. She’s a blur.
LAURIE (Smiles as “LAILA” whooshes by again) I remember being a blur. (Another whoosh.)
KAREN: Do you really? Whoosh, there she goes again. If you can ever get her to sit in one place, try the list. See you soon!
KAREN exits. LAURIE addresses the empty space where she believes LAILA is.
LAURIE: Hi Laila! My name is Laurie. I’m your new babysitter.
A whooshing sound as the blurring child goes by. LAURIE turns in the other direction, nervous.
LAURIE: So. Um. I think you’re over there now. You have a lot of energy Laila, that’s great. Like I said, I’m Laurie. You’re Laila. We both have L’s in our names! Do you know a lot of my closest friends start with L? It’s a great letter. Do you know about the letter L? It starts a lot of words. Like La. La la la!!!
LAURIE waits. No response.
LAURIE: Laila do you like jacks? I brought jacks.
LAILA whooshes by and LAURIE turns again.
LAURIE: Laila, would you like to eat a pot roast sandwich on dry toast in the shape of an L? You know, your favorite foods get better when you try them in a new shape.
The sound of a child’s footsteps is heard. LAURIE looks offstage in the direction of the sound, which comes from a “doorway” that is just beyond the edge of the stage and hovering above the audience. LAURIE sees “LAILA” in the threshold of the doorway.
LAURIE: There you are! You like shapes?
A silence. LAURIE reacts as “LAILA” nods.
Whoosh sound as “LAILA,” invisible to the audience, and LAURIE both run blurry fast into the kitchen; then whoosh morphs into rock music as lights fade out.
SCENE 2
Lights up two hours later, sounds of a violin playing. KAREN enters.
KAREN: Laurie! I’m home. Laurie? Where are you? Where’s Laila?
LAURIE enters through the screen door and points out the window, where LAILA sits practicing her violin in the yard.
LAURIE: She’s right there. Practicing violin.
KAREN: What? Oh my god. I thought that was the radio. Laila sometimes turns on W-H-O-A. (confesses) I’ve never actually heard her play before!
LAURIE: You haven’t?
The music is fading out by now, becoming soft and then inaudible. During the following, music should waft in occasionally to suggest more continuous playing, rather than underscoring the whole scene.
KAREN: (shakes her head) She learned in school. What did you say to get her to practice? Did you offer her a toy? Money?
LAURIE: I told her music is more fun outdoors, so she wanted to try it.
KAREN: (suspicious) How do you know what’s fun?
LAURIE: (figuring this out as she says it) I don’t. I just guess. I try to sense it.
KAREN: (disgusted) Sense it. Sense it. Okay . . . I see practicing outdoors could have a certain—(suddenly this hits her) Practicing outdoors! My goodness. There are noise ordinances in Westchester. What about the neighbors? Didn’t anyone complain?
LAURIE: Which neighbors?
KAREN: The Grotzes.
LAURIE: Don’t know any Grotzes. Didn’t hear from them.
KAREN: Excellent.
LAURIE: (suddenly remembering) There was this guy Alvin—
KAREN: That’s him! Alvin Grotz!
LAURIE: Oh, I didn’t get his last name. Yeah, he did come over.
KAREN: (horrified) And?
LAURIE: He’s still here. See? (pointing out the window) He brought his clarinet. They’ve been improvising.
KAREN: Alvin Grotz plays the clarinet?
LAURIE: Yeah, they’ve been jamming! And I brought my flute! So we did Bach’s Violin Concerto #2 in E Major. You know . . .
She starts humming a melody from the concerto.
KAREN: You’re a musician?
LAURIE: No, I suck. But Bach, he’s good. And Alvin, he’s good too. There, he just came in.
Sounds of violin and clarinet can be heard together.
LAURIE: And his wife, Shelly? She plays cello.
KAREN: Shelly Grotz plays cello?
LAURIE: She has a master’s degree in music. Shelly couldn’t tonight but she wants to come to the next rehearsal.
KAREN: There’s a next rehearsal?
LAURIE: Not officially. Just a general sense that there should be music in the moonlight.
KAREN: I see.
LAURIE: But Laila said Tuesdays would be best for her.
KAREN: She did? Did she . . . eat any dinner? I should’ve warned you she doesn’t eat much. My husband says she once finished a peach but I wasn’t here.
LAURIE: (not bragging, just trying to remember dinner) She had pot roast with toast, a side salad, a carrot, a few pieces of cereal, and a medallion of cold poached salmon. Then she had dessert.
KAREN: She did? How did you do that?
LAURIE: I just used the promise of dessert. I told her if she tried enough of the other foods, she could finish with a popcorn sandwich using mini-chocolate bars as bread. You know, two little chocolates, three pieces of popcorn.
KAREN: What made you think this would work?
LAURIE: Haven’t you ever been to the movies and dropped chocolate into your popcorn?
KAREN: No.
LAURIE: It works.
KAREN: It does sound good. I’m going to make some cocoa. Would you like some cocoa?
LAURIE: Sure.
(KAREN gets up to heat the cocoa. On her way back she looks out the window.) I also put the dry cereal pieces into her salad. For kids her age, Cheerios are like croutons.
KAREN: Did you just make that up or is that a verified fact?
LAURIE (not sure) I think everything I know about babysitting is a made-up verified fact?
KAREN: (looks out the window and calls to Laila) That’s very beautiful, darling! (to Laurie) Don’t you think she plays rather remarkably well?
LAURIE: Yes.
KAREN: Did you—play that well, as a child?
LAURIE: I don’t play that well now.
KAREN nods, takes this in.)
KAREN: Did she ask you where I was?
LAURIE: It . . . didn’t come up.
KAREN: Why is that, do you think?
LAURIE: I probably just distracted her.
KAREN: Right. (KAREN brings out the cocoa in red mugs and serves it, a little apprehensive) Was anything else . . . accomplished?
LAURIE: Let’s see. She did her alphabet homework, dressed Elmo in a necktie, glued her broken china doll together, took a bath, finished putting the photos in her album, braided her hair . . .
KAREN: Are you mocking me?
LAURIE: Mocking you, Mrs. Miles?
KAREN: After I told you no one could do anything on the list—to go and do the whole list like that—
LAURIE: Did we? I stopped using the list.
KAREN: What?
LAURIE: Laila . . . reminded me of that blur time. When I liked things to be sudden and surprising. So I thought I’d do better without the list. Don’t you remember it?
KAREN: Remember what?
LAURIE: Childhood.
KAREN: God, no.
LAURIE: I forget more every day. But I try to remember it when I’m with children.
KAREN: I not only can’t remember . . . I don’t even know where to start.
She starts sniffling, almost crying.
LAURIE: Oh Mrs. Miles.
KAREN: And then—you come in here and show me what a complete failure I am!
LAURIE: I’m sorry.
KAREN: Get out of my house!
LAURIE: I can’t do that. (The violin music changes to Mozart.)
KAREN: Oh, you think you can stay and help me? You can’t. David and I—have no idea what we’re doing. We’ve read all the books you’re supposed to read, the one by the big college professor with the beard, and the one by the guru about what drives the human soul, and the one by the priestess woman with the necklaces, and not one of these books explain our daughter one little bit. Half the time, we don’t even know where she is, she runs so fast. And now she’s—playing Mozart! (starts crying again) So you can leave. You can’t help. But you can leave.
LAURIE: I can’t leave because you owe me money.
KAREN: Oh, so it’s all about money, you don’t give a shit about Laila!
LAURIE: I didn’t say that, Mrs. Miles!
KAREN: How much do I owe you, kid?
LAURIE: Six to 8:30 is two and a half hours. I charge ten an hour. So you owe me $25.
KAREN: Oh my god. You did all that in two and a half hours?
LAURIE: It’s very common, Mrs. Miles, for a child to behave differently with a babysitter than with her parents.
KAREN: Yes, but it’s not as common for a hyperactive little blur to suddenly turn into Itzhak Perlman!
LAURIE: That’s less common.
KAREN: Here’s your money.
LAURIE: Thanks. So I should be going.
KAREN: Good night.
The music stops. LAURIE gets up. Suddenly KAREN turns to her.
KAREN: Laurie! Laurie. I can’t remember any of it . . . Can you show me how? Remind me?
LAURIE: (sits back down) No. But you can feel it. You’re in it now.
KAREN: What?
LAURIE: You’re sinking into the couch, Mrs. Miles. Surrounded by plush pillows. And you’re wearing a soft silky scarf with fringe. Drinking hot cocoa with mini-marshmallows from a square red mug with a rounded handle. And in some of the sips of cocoa, you get two or three mini-marshmallows! This is it.
KAREN: It is? Now? Just now this is it?
LAURIE: No, not yet. Just at that moment when you sip the cocoa and stop talking about it.
They sip in silence. The music starts again, a beautiful melody. A stunning flourish on the violin. Followed by quiet. Blissful, both women settle into the sofa beside the Elmo doll. KAREN takes a deep breath and giggles. LAURIE giggles too. KAREN pulls off an earring and puts it on the doll. She slips off her shoes. Then she takes another sip of cocoa.
Discussion on Writing The Popcorn Sonata
by Jenny Lyn Bader
I wrote The Popcorn Sonata in 2002, when the Off-Broadway theater company Primary Stages invited a number of playwrights to contribute short plays to a theme-based evening. It was just a few months after 9/11. The event was too raw to write about, yet it seemed in its wake difficult to write about anything else. So the chosen theme was “A Moment of Bliss.” The idea was, amid a pervasive feeling of tragedy, to find a small pocket of hope. Where, in those dark days, might one find a hint of joy—even if it lasted only briefly? Each play, whether light or dark, needed to feature just that.
This idea of a “moment of bliss” reminded me of Virginia Woolf’s quest for “moments of being,” the modernist desire for glimpses of heightened vision, special connection, and intense awareness in a world lacking intimacy and permanence. As Woolf writes in To the Lighthouse,
What is the meaning of life? The great revelation had never come. The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark.
Woolf reminds us in her essay collection Moments of Being that “a great part of every day is not lived consciously.” Those bits of time when one becomes conscious of being, then, become the transcendent moments that make life worth living. Ideally a moment of bliss should also be transcendent, though it occurred to me that rather than being self-aware, it might instead be strikingly free of consciousness.
Considering the idea of pure bliss, I decided I wanted to write about the bliss of childhood, the feeling of uncontained exuberance that we so often forget when we grow up. Wondering how to express that onstage, I concluded that the theatrical device I needed was an invisible child—one who runs so fast, has so much energy, and is so caught up in the delight of childhood that it’s hard to see her. Sometimes she appears to be invisible. When seen, she frequently looks like a “blur” to adults, including her own mother. Then I would introduce a babysitter character who would be younger, closer to childhood than the mother. The sitter would have the challenge of locating said blissful child and would need to figure out some way to catch a glimpse of her.
How to make the invisible seen onstage? One way was through the visible characters watching the frenetic, joyous blur run by. Another way was through music, which I incorporated into the play.
Somehow it was not until I had finished the first draft of the play that I realized it was the second play I had written involving invisible characters, and that it might be a companion piece to my short play The Third First Blind Double Date. I then began thinking about whether I might have yet another play to complete a full-length evening . . . though I didn’t figure out what that would be for a while.
I have found that the perspectives of other writers can always be valuable in play development, even for a short piece. During my time as a Lark playwriting fellow, I brought this piece into the playwrights’ workshop there. In particular, I was trying to define the moment where the child settles down and is briefly “seen,” and refine the stage direction there, using lights, or perhaps a pair of shoes peeking in from just offstage . . . Tina Howe encouraged me to add a stage direction where we hear the footsteps of the child but still don’t see her feet. Not every director has followed that direction, of course, but when it can be pulled off, I think it is a highly satisfying, theatrical moment. That stage direction also ensures that no one tries to cast the offstage child, which would not be as effective a way of celebrating the joy and poetry of childhood. In that same workshop session, Arthur Kopit asked about David, the offstage husband. As I revised the play, I looked at it from each character’s point of view, as I always do. Then, inspired by Arthur’s question, I also considered the viewpoints of the offstage characters and added just a little more detail about them, for instance: “My husband said she once finished a peach but I wasn’t here.”
Eventually I decided to write an entire play cycle contemplating invisibility, where in each playlet, there is someone who goes unseen in a different way. That decision led to another revision as I wanted the plays to be connected not only by theme but also by recurring characters. I went back over all of them, incorporating characters I invented later into plays written earlier. So when Karen says, “We’ve read all the books you’re supposed to read, the one by the big college professor with the beard, and the one by the guru about what drives the human soul, and the one by the priestess woman with the necklaces”—she is referring to characters in some of the other plays in Out of Mind: 7 Short Plays with Some of the People Missing. Of course, if someone asked my permission, I would allow them to cut that line if they were performing just Popcorn Sonata without the others and needed to cut something for time, but even out of context the line makes sense . . . and offers more detail about the offstage husband, too.
One thing I discovered in auditions and rehearsals for some of these productions and readings was that for the play to work, the babysitter has to be in a state of discovery and wonder, too, rather than a know-it-all—a natural and an innocent rather than smug or superior. While she does calm the mother, she also has to be a bit nervous herself at times. That way, both characters have the opportunity to grow. Before the play was first published, I added a couple of stage directions to clarify some of the character questions that came up in rehearsal. And I added a few technical stage directions, too, as I learned about the play in production. In particular I noted when the music should stop playing, because I realized that even though the play is deeply based in music, too much underscoring can be detrimental to it.
Ultimately, it is the unseen, unheard child who has the last word here. I should add that when I wrote The Popcorn Sonata—and when I completed the rest of the “invisible plays” on the themes of seeing others and being seen, I did not yet have children. But then I did have children, which caused me to look at those plays in a new way. When my daughter was four, she went to a birthday party at a gym and refused to enter the gym but watched from a hallway window. When asked why she had not gone inside to play with the other children she said, “I was worried they would notice me . . . and they would think that I wasn’t there.” She hadn’t seen the plays. She didn’t have to. As a child, she intuitively knew more about the fear of invisibility than I did—and about its wonder.
On the Edge
by Craig Pospisil
It is night, and GENE, a young man of 17, stands on a ledge on the outside of a New York City building, ten stories up in the air. He is plastered to the wall and is very careful with any movement. He forces himself to look down at the street and scans it for a few seconds before looking up again.
Several feet away from him there is a dimly lit, open window. From inside the apartment low levels of rock music and snatches of conversation from a party can sometimes be heard.
After a few moments, SAMMY, a young woman of 17, appears in the window. Gene freezes, hoping not to be seen by her. Sammy sticks an unlit cigarette in her mouth and pulls a match out of a matchbook. She strikes the match against the book a couple of times, but it won’t light. She tosses the match out the window . . . and notices Gene.
Long pause. They look at one another.
Sammy glances down at the sidewalk below as she tears another match from the book and tries lighting it. Before it catches, though, Gene speaks up.
GENE: Ah . . . would you mind waiting a couple minutes?
SAMMY: Hm?
GENE: Cigarette smoke really bothers me.
SAMMY: Oh. Sure.
Gene looks down and scans the sidewalk again. Sammy watches him.
SAMMY: So, what’s up? You’re missing the party.
GENE: I’m just hanging out.
SAMMY: That’s cool. (Pause) How’s the view?
GENE: I can see my building from here.
SAMMY: (Slight pause) I know you. You’re in my physics class, right?
GENE: Yeah.
SAMMY: What’s your name?
GENE: Gene.
SAMMY: Right. Right.
GENE: You’re Samantha. Sammy.
SAMMY: Yeah. How’d you know?
GENE: . . . you’re in my physics class.
SAMMY: Oh. Yeah. (Pause) So, what’re you doing?
GENE: What does it look like I’m doing?
SAMMY: It looks like a major bid for attention.
GENE: With my parents? I stopped trying.
SAMMY: (pause) So, what’s the deal?
GENE: (shrugs) I decided life’s just not worth it.
SAMMY: Bummer. (pause) So, what’re you waiting for?
GENE: Amanda.
SAMMY: Amanda Harris?
Gene nods. Sammy looks over her shoulder into the apartment and then back at Gene.
SAMMY: You want me to get her?
GENE: No, I’m waiting for her to leave.
SAMMY: But then you’ll miss her.
GENE: Not by much.
SAMMY: Whoa. That’s harsh.
GENE: Yeah, well . . . so’s life.
SAMMY: So, what happened? She dump you?
GENE: We weren’t dating.
SAMMY: So, she wouldn’t go out with you.
GENE: . . . uh, not really.
SAMMY: (slight pause) Did you ask her out? (pause) Gene?
GENE: I don’t wanna talk about it.
SAMMY: Hey, I just want to be able to tell people why you did it. I mean, I’m sure to be interviewed by the news and the tabloids. After they hose you off the sidewalk.
GENE: They’ll know.
SAMMY: Did you leave a note?
GENE: (slight pause) No.
SAMMY: Do you want some paper?
GENE: Would you go away?
SAMMY: If you don’t leave a note, how’s anyone gonna know why you did it?
GENE: Because I’m gonna scream her name out as I fall, okay?!
SAMMY: (pause) What if you can’t finish?
GENE: What?
SAMMY: I mean, do you have this timed out? How long will it take? Probably the sort of thing I could figure out if I paid attention during physics. But, I mean, what if you only get to say, “Aman—!” before you hit?
GENE: I’ll finish.
SAMMY: There’s a breeze. What if the wind takes the sound away?
GENE: I’ll make sure they hear me.
SAMMY: I’m just trying to help.
GENE: I think I can handle it. (pause) You know, this isn’t gonna be pretty. I’m gonna split open on the sidewalk when I hit. If I don’t jump far enough, I might impale myself on that iron fencing. So, unless you wanna have nightmares about this for the rest of your life, you might wanna go.
SAMMY: No, I’m cool. (pause) I don’t think Amanda knows you like her so much.
GENE: I don’t like her. I love her.
SAMMY: Whatever. You should tell her.
GENE: (pause) I can’t.
SAMMY: It’s gotta be easier than this.
GENE: Yeah, but this makes more of statement.
SAMMY: A statement about what?
GENE: It’s just more dramatic, okay?!
SAMMY: Oh! I know where else I’ve seen you. You’re in all the plays at school, right?
GENE: Yeah.
SAMMY: No wonder.
GENE: “No wonder” what?
SAMMY: You theater people are weird.
GENE: We are not!
SAMMY: Dude, you’re on a ledge.
GENE: You don’t understand.
SAMMY: Maybe not. (slight pause) Does your shrink understand?
GENE: I don’t go to a shrink!
SAMMY: Something to think about. (slight pause) But, you know, Amanda’s not so great. She’s got a hot body, yeah, but she’s kinda obvious. I mean, she’s the sort of pretty you like to look at, but I can’t imagine what I’d talk to her about.
GENE: No, she’s really nice. She always smiles at me in the halls at school, and sometimes I run into her when I’m walking my dog, and we say hi, and then she talks to Molly and pets her. She’s not like you think. (slight pause) I love her voice. It’s kind of rough, but sweet.
SAMMY: Yeah, she’s got a kinda sexy voice. (pause) So, where do you live?
GENE: What?
SAMMY: I live near Amanda, too. East 78th between Park and Lex. Where are you?
GENE: Why do you want to know?
SAMMY: Jeez, I’m just curious. I thought maybe we could share a cab across the park.
GENE: After I kill myself?!
SAMMY: Oh, yeah, right. I forgot.
GENE: Stick around. You’ll see.
SAMMY: Uh-huh. (pause) Wait a minute. You said you could see your building. This is the West Side. You don’t live near Amanda.
GENE: (slight pause) I didn’t say I did. I said I saw her walking my dog.
SAMMY: Oh, man.
GENE: What?
SAMMY: Tell me you don’t drag your dog across town, hoping you’ll run into her.
GENE: No. We just go for long walks.
SAMMY: Oh, man! You’re like a stalker.
GENE: I am not.
SAMMY: Oh, wow. Now that’s an angle for the tabloids. Wait ’til I tell people.
GENE: No! Don’t! (slight pause) Please.
SAMMY: Then come back inside and talk to her.
GENE: No. I can’t.
SAMMY: Why not? I’ll help you find—[her.]
GENE: (interrupting) Because she’s got her tongue halfway down Bobby Chamberlain’s throat, okay?!! (pause) I ran into her when I was walking Molly last weekend, and we talked and she said she was coming to M.J.’s party tonight, and I said I was too, and she said, “Great. I’ll see you there. We can hang out.” I’ve been waiting all week for this party. I thought, “Perfect. We’ll talk a little and then I’ll ask her out.” I’ve wanted to for months, but first she was dating Dean and then Chris, but . . . . Well, I got here right at eight. I was the first one here. And I waited near the door. And I waited. And waited. And I drank a lot while I was waiting, . . . and then she came in. And Bobby had his arm around her neck. (pause) So, then I had to go throw up for a while. And when I got back she was making out with him on the couch. So then I went to throw up a little more, and as I came out of the bathroom, I saw them duck into M.J.’s mother’s bedroom. (slight pause) All I wanted was to hold her hand and smell her hair, and she’s down the hall fucking him!
SAMMY: Bobby’s kinda cute, you know.
GENE: What?!
SAMMY: Well, he is.
GENE: He’s an idiot. We’ve been going to school together for six years and he still can’t remember my name. He’s always . . . I mean, it’s like other people just don’t . . . . He’s an asshole!
SAMMY: Hey, he’s not my type, but a lot of girls go for him.
GENE: Oh, go away! Please?!
SAMMY: The thing is you shouldn’t have waited to ask her.
GENE: Like I don’t know that! Like that’s not the reason I’m out here. I’m a loser. I’m weak! No one wants to be around me. I get it! I know, okay?! (slight pause) I can’t take it any more, all right?! I’m tired. I’m tired of trying to “just keep smiling,” like my mother says. Or go, “Well, some people are late bloomers.” (pause) I can’t.
SAMMY: Gene . . .
GENE: What?
SAMMY: I’ve got bad news.
GENE: You’re fucked up, you know that!
SAMMY: Amanda’s gone.
GENE: (slight pause) Bullshit. I’m not falling for that.
SAMMY: You must’ve missed her while we were talking. I bummed that cigarette from her as she and Bobby left.
GENE: No! You’re lying! I’ve been watching. I couldn’t have missed her.
SAMMY: Okay, fine. Keep waiting then. I’m going back inside.
GENE: No, wait!
SAMMY: What?
GENE: You’re just gonna go in there and tell people or call the cops. Or you’ll tell Amanda not to leave.
SAMMY: I’m telling you, Gene, she’s already gone.
GENE: I was watching.
SAMMY: Fine, she’s still here. Me, I need a drink.
GENE: If you go, I’ll jump.
SAMMY: Yeah, so? I thought you were gonna jump anyway.
GENE: But I’ll jump now. And it’ll be your fault.
SAMMY: I can live with that.
Sammy turns and disappears into the apartment.
GENE: Hey! Sammy? Sammy?! (slight pause) Bitch!
Sammy suddenly reappears in the window.
SAMMY: Wha’d you call me?!
Gene flinches and struggles to keep his balance.
GENE: Jesus Christ! Don’t do that.
SAMMY: What did you call me?
GENE: Oh, give me a break.
SAMMY: No one calls me that!
GENE: Everyone calls you that!
SAMMY: What?
GENE: Everyone calls you a bitch. (slight pause) And after tonight I know why!
SAMMY: Knock it off, asshole!
GENE: Or what?
Sammy climbs out onto the ledge and starts inching her way toward Gene.
GENE: What the hell are you doing?!
SAMMY: I’m gonna make you shut up.
GENE: You stay away! You . . . oh, I get it. This is like reverse psychology, right? You say you’re gonna push me, so I say, “No, no, I want to live.”
SAMMY: No, I’m just pushing you.
GENE: I’ll take you with me!
SAMMY: Like I care.
GENE: Okay-I’m-sorry-I’m-sorry. I’m sorry.
Sammy stops. She is about a foot or so away from him.
SAMMY: Fine, whatever. Forget it. (She looks around for the first time.) Hey . . . this is kinda cool out here.
There is a pause as Gene gets his breath back.
GENE: Oh, man, I am so fucked up.
SAMMY: You just need to talk to a shrink or something.
GENE: I don’t think I could.
SAMMY: It’s not so hard.
GENE: (slight pause) You go to one?
SAMMY: Yeah.
GENE: How come?
SAMMY: My parents make me go.
GENE: You’re kidding. Why?
SAMMY: They’re worried I’m a lesbian.
GENE: Oh, that’s fucked! Why do they think that?
SAMMY: ’Cause I’m a lesbian.
GENE: (pause) What?
SAMMY: I like girls.
GENE: Really?
SAMMY: Yeah.
GENE: Whoa. (slight pause) What’s that like?
SAMMY: I don’t know. Probably like you liking girls.
GENE: Does anyone else know?
SAMMY: (slight pause) No.
GENE: What does your shrink say?
SAMMY: Not much.
GENE: What do you say?
SAMMY: That I don’t have a problem liking girls.
GENE: Is that true?
SAMMY: Yeah. I mean, it’s . . . . No. I don’t have a problem with it. My folks are kinda messed up about the idea, though. They said they’d like disown me or not pay for college or something. It’s a drag.
GENE: So, what are you going to do?
SAMMY: I don’t know. Try to hold out until I get through school and college and then get away or something.
GENE: That sucks.
SAMMY: I guess.
They are silent for a moment.
GENE: My parents are nuts, but . . . not like that.
SAMMY: Good.
GENE: You wanna go back in?
SAMMY: In a minute. It’s kinda fun out here.
GENE: Yeah, it’s a rush when the wind blows by.
SAMMY: Yeah?
GENE: Yeah. Wait . . . here it comes.
They stand there feeling the breeze. As the wind picks up, they spread their arms flat against the wall for extra support. Their hands touch, and Gene and Sammy look at each other. Smiling, they take each other’s hand and feel the wind blowing by.
THE LIGHTS FADE TO BLACK.
END OF PLAY
Creating On the Edge
by Craig Pospisil
I wrote On the Edge a number of years ago after going through a divorce. During the divorce proceedings it occurred to me that some of the emotions I was having were every bit as dramatic (and melodramatic) as feelings I’d had when I was a teenager desperately in love with a girl, who didn’t feel that way about me. I decided to write about what I was going through in the present (the divorce), but to approach it through the guise of a seventeen year-old kid. Seventeen was the age I was, but I thought it worked well too because it’s an age that stands at the end of what is considered—legally at least—childhood and the beginning of adulthood. I also remember that year as a time of enormous drama for my friends and me. We felt everything so keenly, and yet we also were often putting on an air of cynical detachment: so jaded, we’d seen it all.
I like to play with opposition when I write. I like to take a set of circumstances that look or sound familiar and then subvert that, and play against the audience’s expectations. That isn’t to say that I throw in a sharp right turn without warning or justification, but I like to defy expectations as a way of revealing something about my characters. The unexpected can also be a great source of comedy, which is what I usually write and what this play is.
I tend to use elements from my own life when I’m writing. So in thinking about what to write, the first character to come to mind was a variation on my younger self. Gene is a bit shy, still trying to figure out who he is and how he fits into the world. He’s full of big emotions, but doesn’t know how to express them. He’s also an actor, so he also has a flair for the dramatic and grand gestures. One of the big dramatic events of my senior year in high school was a disastrous cast party after a play we’d done. The guy throwing the party hadn’t told his parents, who were out that night, and the party got out of hand, with a lot of freshmen showing up uninvited, and then drinking too much and making out in corners. In the middle of this scene, one of my best friends learned that everyone in the class knew that he was gay. He was very upset to find himself outed this way, and several of us had to leave the party to talk things out with him. In my mind, that’s the party Gene is at. Even though the audience will never know about that party and the rest, it helps make the piece all the more specific and real to me.
On the Edge begins with Gene literally on the edge. He’s standing on a ledge on the tenth floor of a building, threatening to jump because a girl he’s madly in love with is making out with some other guy. (For the record, in real life, no one went out on a window ledge at that party. But to my mind that was the kind of oh-so-dramatic thing a teenager might consider.) This starts the play with pretty high stakes right away. And just inside the window next to him, the audience can hear the sounds of a party—rock music play, people laughing—so that is also in opposition to Gene’s situation. While Gene is standing there, a girl, Sammy, who’s a classmate of Gene’s, comes to the window to smoke a cigarette. The expectation is built in that Sammy will try to talk Gene off the ledge and back into the apartment. Someone’s life is in danger, so the audience’s assumption will be that the play is about getting that person out of danger.
To work against that I wrote Sammy like she didn’t care. If Gene has all the over-wrought, deeply felt emotions of a teenager, Sammy has all of the “yeah, whatever” and jaded attitude of teenagers. As I started to write Sammy I decided that not only would she not try to talk Gene off the ledge, but in fact she makes fun of him for being so dramatic, teases him, basically dares him to jump.
Sammy continues to tease him and in doing so pulls some details from Gene about why he’s on the ledge. This drives the play from the initial meeting into the next phase where the two of them start to be more honest with each other and reveal things about themselves. Sammy starts to understand that Gene isn’t just being melodramatic, but he’s in a very bad place. But by then she’s pushed Gene away so far that he doesn’t believe her when she genuinely tries to help him, and he responds very angrily.
When I first started On the Edge, I wasn’t sure exactly where the story was going to go or how it would end. But I did know two things that I did not want to do. First of all, I didn’t want Gene and Sammy to end up as a couple. He wears his heart on his sleeve, she’s the tough girl who saves his life, they find love. I felt that would be too obvious, and it wouldn’t really be realistic. I wanted to make Gene and Sammy a pair of lonely kids, misfits, who make a connection to one another. Which, I think, is hard enough to do in this world.
That was one of the reasons I decided to make Sammy a lesbian. It removed the possibility of a love relationship between her and Gene. Her sexuality wasn’t something I planned from the start. In fact, it only occurred to me at the point in the play where she announces it to Gene. But I’d happened to write a line for her in which she talked about going to therapy and another where she commented that Amanda, the girl Gene loves, has a “sexy voice.” Those were instances of simply trying to write a “worldly” character that ended up supporting the choice for her sexuality. But I also loved what the revelation of her sexuality did for her character. Gene had been the one whose life we learned about through the piece as he talked about Amanda and about his parents, whereas Sammy had been quiet about herself. The way she reveals herself to Gene and what she tells him after that makes her a much more human character.
The second thing I knew I did not want to do in the play was connected to the ending. When I began writing it, I didn’t know how it would end, but I knew how I didn’t want it to end. At first there seemed to be two ways the story could end: with Gene coming in off the ledge, or with him jumping to his death. The play is a comedy, so he couldn’t really jump without the play taking a very dark turn. But that made the idea of him going back inside too obvious, the expected choice.
So I decided that I had to leave him on the outside of the building for some reason. But if he wasn’t coming in, what would keep him out there? So I built up the argument between Gene and Sammy to the point where Sammy goes out on the ledge, too. In fact, she’s threatening to push him off, putting both of them in danger. Once the argument that propelled Sammy out on the ledge is over, it leaves both of them in a very exposed place—emotionally and physically—and that allows them to make a very real connection to each other. And at that point, it seemed perfect to leave them there, almost savoring the danger, on the edge of their own coming adulthood and lives.
The Pain in the Poetry
by Glenn Alterman
CAST:
SHERIDAN: He may seem timid, but has inner passion and power.
PAMELA: Sheridan’s wife. She may seem cool, controlling, but also has warmth and deep passion.
NOTE: Both SHERIDAN and PAMELA can be played by actors as young as their thirties or as old as their fifties or sixties. They must be believable as a married couple.
THE SET: There is no set.
PAMELA is seated in a comfortable chair (possibly a rocking chair), knitting. Next to her chair is a large knitting basket. SHERIDAN enters, stands in front of her.
SHERIDAN: (Meekly, softly) I wrote a play.
PAMELA: (Looking up) Hm, what?
SHERIDAN: (A little bolder) I said, I wrote a play.
PAMELA: That’s nice, dear. Did you feed the dog?
SHERIDAN: Did you hear what I said?
PAMELA: Yes, you said you wrote a play or something.
SHERIDAN: A full-length!
PAMELA: And I asked you if you fed the dog.
SHERIDAN: One act with no intermission.
PAMELA: The dog hasn’t eaten all day.
SHERIDAN: (Blurting it out) It’s been my whole life for the last two years!
PAMELA: What has, your play?
SHERIDAN: Every second at work when I wasn’t working I was working on it!
PAMELA: You were?
SHERIDAN: On lunch hours, in subway stations, on stairwells! Anywhere, anytime, whenever I had a moment it was just me . . .
PAMELA: I see.
SHERIDAN: . . . alone with my play!
PAMELA: Why didn’t you tell me?
SHERIDAN: I couldn’t.
PAMELA: Why not?
SHERIDAN: It was—too private. Something I had to do alone; something I couldn’t share with anyone.
PAMELA: Not even me.
SHERIDAN: (An edge) Especially not you.
PAMELA: I see.
SHERIDAN: Then late last night, well actually early this morning, while you were asleep, I finished it, on the bathroom floor, by candlelight.
PAMELA: I wondered why you were spending so much time in there.
SHERIDAN: I didn’t want to talk about it until it was all down on paper. I was afraid.
PAMELA: Of what?
SHERIDAN: Giving away the ending.
PAMELA: But you say it’s over now?
SHERIDAN: Yes. Finished. Complete. Done.
PAMELA: (SHE puts her knitting down. Gently, sincerely.) Well, I’m glad you told me. I understand.
SHERIDAN: Do you?
PAMELA: Yes. Now let’s just forget about it and go on as if . . . (Suddenly SHERIDAN walks away from her) Where are you going, what’s wrong?
SHERIDAN: Nothing.
PAMELA: Tell me. (HE stops, looks guiltily at her.) There isn’t another one, is there?
SHERIDAN: No.
PAMELA: Don’t lie to me!
SHERIDAN: I tell you I haven’t written another word!
PAMELA: I won’t put up with it; the bathroom, backstreets, another two years!
SHERIDAN: I said, I haven’t-written-a-word!
PAMELA: Okay, all right.
SHERIDAN: But . . .
PAMELA: What?
SHERIDAN: I’ve been having these “thoughts.”
PAMELA: What kind of thoughts?
SHERIDAN: (Filled with guilt) Snippets, little snippets—of dialogue.
PAMELA: No!
SHERIDAN: (Walking away, tormented) Yes, this two-character scene keeps playing over and over in my head. All right, I admit it, YES, I’m thinking about another play!
PAMELA: You can’t be! You just finished one, this morning. My God, what kind of insatiable . . . ?!
SHERIDAN: I was lying there on the bathroom floor, satisfied, content. Holding my play lovingly in my arms. Caressing it, fingering the folder. When I heard the faucet drip.
PAMELA: The faucet?
SHERIDAN: Drip, drip-drop; a lovely sound, really.
PAMELA: You were holding your play in . . . ? Caressing it?!
SHERIDAN: I gently put it down by my side, and just listened to the water for a while. Drip, drip-drop, drip-drop. Sounded like, I don’t know, little feet.
PAMELA: Little feet?
SHERIDAN: Tiny, little, tap-dancing feet. I lay there on the floor for I don’t know how long, just listening. When suddenly it hit me!
PAMELA: What, the water?
SHERIDAN: No, the thought.
PAMELA: What thought?
SHERIDAN: Maybe . . . maybe a musical!
PAMELA: A musical?!
SHERIDAN: You know, dancing, singing . . .
PAMELA: We are a family, have you forgotten?!
SHERIDAN: (Walking away) Don’t.
PAMELA: You have a job, responsibilities. And what about me, huh, us?!
SHERIDAN: (Stopping) I’m sorry, it’s just something I have to do!
PAMELA: (Getting worked up) What’s next, huh?! A comedy, some cheap comedy? Oh I can just see it now, you and your dirty little comedy. The two of you having lots of laughs in some dark stairwell together. A chuckle on the bathroom floor. Dirty jokes, pathetic puns. Well I’m telling you right now your fun’s over. I will not play second fiddle to some musical!
SHE gathers her knitting, starts to leave.
SHERIDAN: Where you going?
PAMELA: I’m leaving you—playwright!
SHERIDAN: (HE grabs her arm) Don’t leave, please! (As she pulls her arm free, her knitting basket accidentally opens up. Hundreds of sheets of paper fall out. They both stop, see the papers fall.) What are those?
PAMELA: (Quickly gathering some of the papers) Nothing, knitting instructions.
SHERIDAN: (Picking one up, reading it) This is your handwriting.
PAMELA: (Trying to grab it from him) Give me that!
SHERIDAN: What is this?
PAMELA: Scribblings, recipes. Give me that paper!
SHERIDAN: It’s . . . it’s a poem! (Looking at her, astonished) You’ve been writing poetry.
PAMELA: Yes, all right, I had to do something! What was I supposed to do, knit all day?! You were always away, or upstairs locked in the bathroom. I was going out of my mind with loneliness. Then one day in my despair, a couplet came to me. A rhyme, and then a verse. A beautiful image, a matching thought. And after that, well, there was no stopping me.
SHERIDAN: You’re a poet!
PAMELA: (Looking away) Yes, . . . I guess I am.
SHERIDAN: How long?
PAMELA: Two years.
SHERIDAN: Why didn’t you tell me?
PAMELA: When? You were never here. And when you were, you were always a million miles away, probably thinking about your precious play. (As she picks the papers up and gently puts them back in her basket) And my poems, they kept me company, gave me solace. My poetry was something I didn’t have to share with anyone.
SHERIDAN: Not even me?
PAMELA: (An edge) Especially not you.
SHERIDAN: I see. (They look at each other for a moment. Then, with disdain) So—what are they about, your poems?
PAMELA: (Tenderly) Love, loss, unrequited love. (Then, with disdain) And your play?
SHERIDAN: Love. Lost love. It’s the story of a married couple who can barely stand to be with each other in the same room anymore. Something had happened two years earlier; an incident, a betrayal.
PAMELA: Betrayal?
SHERIDAN: That they both knew about but never acknowledged. A dark secret that tore them apart. (Then, smiling) It’s a two-character comedy.
PAMELA: A comedy, you’re kidding?
SHERIDAN: No, it’s an absurd comedy. The humor comes out of the pain. The play is filled with hidden meanings; the pain is in the subtext.
PAMELA: I see.
SHERIDAN: So are all your poems sad?
PAMELA: Tragic, each and every one.
SHERIDAN: What are they about?
PAMELA: Regrets.
SHERIDAN: Regrets?
PAMELA: And the loneliness that comes from lies. And about apologies, thought about, but never actually made.
SHERIDAN: How sad.
PAMELA: How does your play end?
SHERIDAN: You’ll have to read it to find out.
PAMELA: You’d let me? I’d love to. When?
SHERIDAN: (Backing off) I don’t know, we’ll see, someday.
PAMELA: And maybe someday I’ll let you read some of my poems.
SHERIDAN: You would? I’d like that.
PAMELA: Would you?
SHERIDAN: Very much.
PAMELA: And who knows, maybe, maybe someday we could even “collaborate” on something.
SHERIDAN: Collaborate?
PAMELA: Sure, why not?
SHERIDAN: Maybe . . . someday. (THEY look at each other for a moment. Then . . . ) But for now I prefer working alone.
PAMELA: (Sitting down in the chair) So do I. (She starts knitting again. HE starts to leave) Where are you going?
SHERIDAN: (HE stops) To the bathroom.
PAMELA: Oh, I see. Well don’t let me stop you.—Your faucet is waiting!
HE looks at her, then leaves. SHE watches him go. After a moment SHE slowly puts the knitting down, sadly looks up, takes out some paper and a pen. Just as she begins to write, SHERIDAN appears in the doorway. She puts the pen and paper down by her side.
PAMELA: What, what is it?
SHERIDAN: (Softly) I realized—I don’t have to go to the bathroom.
PAMELA: (With hope) No?
SHERIDAN: No.
SHE looks down at the pen and paper next to her for a moment, then looks back up at SHERIDAN. SHERIDAN sits down. They look at each other for a moment. Then, slowly, we notice just a hint of a smile appear on their faces, as the lights fade.
END OF PLAY
Creating The Pain in the Poetry
by Glenn Alterman
For me, it all started with the one line “I wrote a play.” I have no idea where that opening line originated, but it somehow became like a bullet shot from a gun. I put it down on paper. I looked at it. And then a response line came to me: “Hm, what?” At that point, I had an image in my mind, a woman sitting in a chair, sewing. In that image she didn’t seemed too concerned about what the first speaker had said. She was too preoccupied with sewing. That made me go back to the first line and add the stage directions “Meekly, softly.” So now I saw this gentle man speaking to his perhaps more dominant wife. I could see him as small in stature and a bit oppressed by his wife. He repeats the line, but this time more boldly: “I said, I wrote a play.” There was something about the way he responds that opened up the dynamic of these two characters for me. I always feel that artists are bold when they create something from nothing. In this moment of the play, she is like an authoritative mother figure. There were echoes of George and Martha (from Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf) floating through my mind. I instinctively knew I didn’t want to quite go in that direction. But I knew I wanted there to be contention between these two characters, some underlying anger or ambivalence toward each other. It was the first clue I had to their relationship. The way that I could express her passive-aggressive behavior toward him was to be dismissive with her line “That’s nice dear, did you feed the dog?” Angered by her dismissive tone, Sheridan stands up for himself (and his art) as he gets more riled up by her next disinterested comments. And that dynamic continues in tandem with the revelations about his secret life writing a play. I realized that this was not going to be a realistic play, so I let myself imagine how Sheridan has been secretly writing his play for two years. I connected with my own feelings when I get possessed writing a play and let the absurdities go as far as they could. Her surprise, even shock, added the drama and comedy in the scene. I realized I had to be deadly serious with all this to make it funny; life-and-death funny. I avoided easy jokes and references about playwriting as much as I could, and went for his passion and truth, moment by moment.
As the play progressed it felt one-sided; all the energy was about him, his secretive playwriting and her shock and acceptance of what he’d been doing. His writing of the play and admission of it was like that of a husband finally revealing that he’s been having an affair; but in this case the affair was writing of the play. All of the references, sexual and otherwise, applied to his clandestine secret life as a playwright.
It is his admission that he’s thinking of writing another play (i.e., another affair) that prompts her to get up and threaten to leave him. At this point I had no idea what would happen. But as she stood up and the papers from her basket fell the idea came that perhaps she too had a secret life. At first I believe I thought she might also reveal that she was a playwright. But I felt I had mined all the humor I could with his revelations about playwriting. I’m not sure where the idea of her being a poet came into play. I don’t know that much about poetry writing. But I went with it, and through her dialogue I realized I knew more about poetry than I thought I did. And now she had to match his references about playwriting to hers about poetry. The obvious reference in the real world is the wife admitting that she too has been having an affair, after her husband has revealed that he had been unfaithful. I allowed the two of them to equate their art with the same passion based on the same pain and revealed past real life indiscretions—the idea being that in both their cases their art came out of their pain and loneliness. The idea that art comes from pain is one many people believe to be truthful, and I allowed that cliché to be the center of these two characters’ universe.
After all the cards were on the table I needed to end my play. I was getting close to my ten-page limit. I had already worked through the first draft and continued with rewrites, so I had several endings, as I usually do. For a while I had him leave and that was it. I wanted ambiguity as to whether their life and marriage could ever come together. Then, perhaps in a better frame of mind, I had him return. I like the tension of that moment, not knowing why he’s returned—then her asking why he came back. And his simplistic answer, “I realized I didn’t have to go to the bathroom.” The line has several meanings. It is in the following stage direction, “we notice just a hint of a smile appear on their faces, as the lights fade,” that I tip my hand a bit more with just the possibility of hope and reconciliation. I found that a more satisfying ending.