excerpt from
The Highwayman
from
The Best American Short Plays 2005–2006
HIGHWAYMAN One wants to say something, I mean. Here’s the floor. Thanks. You want to keep people’s hopes up, when you can, that’s not, I’ll admit that’s not the first thing on one’s mind all the time. I’ve tried to dress in a way that’d be appropriate to passing by at a gallop or stopping and saying “dismount.” People don’t always know what that means. This is a strange area. I’ve traveled, I travel a long ways, and it’s hard to say where I’m originally from. They’re entranced from the first word and I don’t like to disagree. There’s so much of the same for them. It’s the same by the ocean as it is on the moor. In my opinion, a trance is what they’re after. It seems to me to be the wrong prize. The last man I killed, I’d gotten him in the belly and he dropped his gun. So he asked me to. Or music. I find both of these helpful in trying to understand. But at the same time, I’ve never been entranced. It might have to do with the motion of the horse. Air blowing by. Through. And the night: at nighttime, light always changes. I mean, and the maneuvering keeps you unkept.
[Beat.]
It usually goes like this: they’re riding and I’m riding. I pull mine out in front. I say, “Stop. Give me everything you’re carrying.” And I don’t give exceptions. They’ll try to lie, but I can tell when they’ve been comfortable. When people have too much it sits ill on them. They’re better off without it. Sometimes that can refer to the most essential things. Sometimes it’s their hair. Sometimes some of their clothes. I have an idea, which I see as a picture, and in it the world is almost empty, and everyone I see is just the bare bones of a self, staggering through bright weather between days.