(Sebastian enters a pool of light, carrying a letter. He addresses the audience.)
SEBASTIAN: I’ve received a letter from Dylan. I’ve never met Dylan—I read a book about him, detailing his case several years ago—and I was deeply moved by his plight. And his sense of humor. He has a very sharp wit for a convicted felon. Anyway, I wrote and told him so. He answered my letter and we’ve corresponded ever since. When he was nineteen, Dylan was convicted of first-degree murder, with dubious evidence, and sentenced to death in the gas chamber. When he was twenty-two, his sentence was altered, to that of life in prison, meaning he’ll be locked away for another thirty or thirty-five years. We’ve never met and, although I’m tempted, I plan on never seeing him.
(He reads from the letter) “Dear Sebastian,”
(A second pool of light comes up on Dylan, wearing prison coveralls. He speaks with a Southern accent and looks straight ahead as he recites the letter. Sebastian remains focused on the page.)
DYLAN: “First of all, let me thank you for the money order and the clipping. I’ve never read Vanity Fair and I truly enjoyed your article, although I must admit, I do not think I really understood it all. I have finally been transferred out of the factory. My new job is that of clerk/typist, which is another example of good prison management, as I can neither type nor clerk. To answer your first question, we make wine by taking a gallon of orange juice from the kitchen, adding yeast and letting it sit for a week or two. It’s not bad, really. It tastes pretty much like Mad Dog 20/20 Orange Jubilee—”
SEBASTIAN (Looking at Dylan): Dylan?
DYLAN (Looking at Sebastian): What?
SEBASTIAN: There are things I want to ask you.
DYLAN: Ask.
SEBASTIAN: I can’t seem to write them down.
DYLAN: Why not?
SEBASTIAN: I’m afraid the answers are none of my business. I’m afraid of violating the boundaries of our relationship.
DYLAN: Boundaries are for countries on a map, not human beings.
SEBASTIAN: That sounds familiar. I’m afraid you’ll think I’m judging you. But the answers don’t matter. I’m just curious.
DYLAN: If the answers don’t matter, why are you curious?
SEBASTIAN: That’s a very good question.
DYLAN: I thought you would think so.
(They return to their reading positions: Dylan looking forward, Sebastian reading.)
DYLAN: “Secondly, yes. The toilet is just right here, in the cell. And no, there are no curtains or dividers or anything. So true, everyone can see you take a dump. But that is something you get used to pretty quickly. And really, I do not think it would be possible to ‘hold it in’ for thirty years. Besides, I am sure you would get an impacted bowel—”
SEBASTIAN (looking at Dylan): Do I look like what you thought I’d look like?
DYLAN (Looking at Sebastian): I didn’t think about it one way or the other.
SEBASTIAN: Is prison like, well, what I assume it’s like?
DYLAN: What do you assume it’s like?
SEBASTIAN: Are there drugs everywhere?
DYLAN: Yes.
SEBASTIAN: Is everyone raped all the time?
DYLAN: No.
SEBASTIAN: Do you have friends?
DYLAN: Of course. I’m very likable.
SEBASTIAN: True.
DYLAN: I am the wittiest guy on my cellblock. People like me.
SEBASTIAN: I like you.
(A third pool of light comes up on Bernadette.)
BERNADETTE: I simply cannot fathom the appeal of this relationship.
DYLAN: Who’s that?
SEBASTIAN: That’s my sister, Bernadette.
DYLAN: It’s nice to meet you.
BERNADETTE: Don’t talk to me.
SEBASTIAN: Don’t be rude.
BERNADETTE: Don’t tell me what to do!
DYLAN: Don’t argue.
BERNADETTE: Don’t interfere!
SEBASTIAN: Don’t speak to him.
BERNADETTE: Don’t you understand that this is a fixation bordering on the perverse? How can you be friends with him? And don’t think I don’t know you spend a small fortune on books and presents—
DYLAN (To Sebastian): Thank you for the copy of In Cold Blood.
SEBASTIAN: Don’t mention it.
BERNADETTE: Sebastian, you’re my brother and I want you to be happy. I want you to have someone in your life. But you are obsessed with a convicted felon!
SEBASTIAN: Why don’t you just mind your own fucking business!
BERNADETTE: I’m going to cry now.
(Bernadette’s light goes out.)
DYLAN: She seems highly strung.
SEBASTIAN: Where was I?—Oh yes.
(Sebastian and Dylan resume their reading positions.)
DYLAN: “Yes, Sebastian, it is true that you can send things at Christmas that you cannot send at other times of the year. You can send food. Beef jerky is a particular favorite. You can send white handkerchiefs, sneakers, radios and jewelry valued at under two hundred dollars. But do remember, it takes a special strand of pearls to take these coveralls from day to evening—”
SEBASTIAN (Looking at Dylan): Do you miss people?
DYLAN (Looking at Sebastian): Some people.
SEBASTIAN: Your family?
DYLAN: My brothers and sister.
SEBASTIAN: Not your mother?
DYLAN: She died last year.
SEBASTIAN: I’m sorry.
DYLAN: Of a heart attack.
SEBASTIAN: Do you miss your father?
DYLAN: My father thinks I’m doomed to an eternity in the lake of fire.
SEBASTIAN: What does that mean?
DYLAN: I don’t miss him.
SEBASTIAN: Does he think you did it?
DYLAN: Do you think I did it?
SEBASTIAN: I don’t know.
(Dylan returns to his reading position, but Sebastian continues looking at him.)
DYLAN: “They’re gonna turn off the lights soon, so I better sign off—”
SEBASTIAN: No.
DYLAN: “All for now,”
SEBASTIAN: Yes.
DYLAN: “Sincerely, Dylan Taylor Sinclair.”
(Dylan looks at Sebastian. Sebastian reaches out for him as Dylan’s light fades out. After a moment Sebastian addresses the audience.)
SEBASTIAN: I can’t make up my mind. On one hand, I don’t want to think that innocent people end up on death row. On the other hand, I don’t want to believe that someone I care about, because I do, is so basically... bad.
(Sebastian’s light fades out.)