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The Best Men’s
Stage Monologues 2018

The Best Men’s
Stage Monologues 2018
Edited and with a Foreword

by Lawrence Harbison
Smith and Kraus Publishers

A Smith and Kraus Book
177 Lyme Road, Hanover, NH 03755
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The Best Men’s Stage Monologues 2018

Copyright © 2018 by Smith and Kraus, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Manufactured in the United States of America

CAUTION: Professionals and amateurs are hereby warned that the mate-
rial represented in this book is subject to a royalty. It is fully protected un-
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covered by the Pan-American Copyright Convention and the Universal
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has reciprocal copyright relations. All rights, including professional, ama-
teur, motion picture, recitation, lecturing, public reading, radio broadcas-
ting, television, video or sound taping, all other forms of mechanical or
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strictly reserved
ISBN: 9781575259260
Library of Congress Control Number: 2329-2709
Typesetting and layout by Elizabeth E. Monteleone

Cover by Olivia Monteleone
For information about custom editions, special sales,

education and corporate purchases,
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to the following press agents for allowing me to

see productions they represented during the 2017-2018 theatre
season: Molly Barnett, Mike Borkowski, Scott Braun, Shane
Brown, Philip Carruba, Melissa Cohen, Alexandra Cutler, Tom
D’Ambrosio, Daniel Demello, Michelle Farabaugh, Glenna
Freedman, David Gersten, David Gibbs, Whitney Gore, Ka-
ren Greco, Jackie Green, Kelly Guiod, Dale Heller, Richard
Hillman, Ailsa Hoke, Judy Jacksina, Jessica Johnson, Michael
-RUJHQVRQ$ODQD.DUSR൵$P\.DVV$PDQGD.DXV%ULGJHW
Klapinski, Scott Klein, Richard Kornberg, Ron Lasko, Kevin
McAnarney, Aaron Meier, Miguel Mendiola, Logan Metzler,
Shayne Miller, Chelsea Nachman, Brett Charles, Emily
Owens, Leslie Papa, Joe Perrotta, Matt Polk, Imani Punch, Jim
Randolph, Philip Rinaldi, Lily Robinson, Katie Rosin, Matt
Ross, Sam Rudy, Susan Schulman, Sarah Sgro, Paul Siebold,
5DFKDHO6LQJHU-RQDWKDQ6OD൵'RQ6XPPD'RQ6XPPD-RH
7UHQWDFRVWD :D\QH :ROIH 6DPDQWKD :RO¿Q 0ROO\ :\DWW
John Wyczniewski, Billy Zavelson and Blake Zidell; and to
the following literary agents who granted me rights to include
their clients’ work in this anthology: Beth Blickers, Jonathan
Mills, Amy Wagner, Rachel Viola, Mark Orsini, Alexis Wil-
liams, Mary Harden, Charles Koppelman, Amy Mellman, Di
Glazer, Olivier Sultan, Mark Subias, Antje Oegel, Susan Gur-
man, Leah Hamos and Ally Shuster.
Thanks, too, to Amy Marsh of Samuel French, Inc., Peter

Hagan of Dramatists Play Service and Christopher Gould of
Broadway Play Publishing for sending me plays to read.
And, thanks most of all to the playwrights who sent me

their plays.
7ൺൻඅൾඈൿ&ඈඇඍൾඇඍඌ
FOREWORD 13
7ඁൾ0ඈඇඈඅඈ඀ඎൾඌ
AIRNESS (2) 17
Chelsea Marcantel
ALL ABOUT BIFFO 21

Stephen Bittrich
ARCHIPELAGO (2) 22
Caridad Svich
APROPOS OF NOTHING 25
Greg Kalleres
THE ARSONISTS (2) 27

-DFTXHOLQH*ROG¿QJHU
THE ART OF THE FUGUE (2) 30

Don Nigro
BLOOD AT THE ROOT (2) 34

Dominique Morisseau
BOYS NIGHT 38
Gary Richards
BLUE/WHITNEY 40
Steven Haworth
BREACH 42
Barret O’Brien
THE CHANGING ROOM 43
Joseph Krawczyk
CHASING THE STORM 45

Sandra A Daley-Sharif
CONTENT NO MORE 47
Steve Koppman
CRY IT OUT 49
Molly Smith Metzler
DEAD WOMAN’S GAME 51

Erik Christian Hanson
DISTRICT MERCHANTS (2) 53

Aaron Posner
THE DOG IN THE DRESSING ROOM (2) 57

Deborah Savadge
DOORMEN 61
Penny Jackson
DUSTING FOR VOMIT 63

Neal Reynolds
EL NOGALAR (2) 64
Tanya Saracho
THE END OF THE WORLD 68

Andrew Biss
ENTERPRISE 70
Brian Parks
EVERYTHING IS WONDERFUL (3) 72

Chelsea Marcantel
FAREWELL TO THE THEATRE 78
Richard Nelson
FATHERS AND SONS (2) 80

Michael Bradford
FIREPOWER (4) 83
Kermit Frazier
FOMO (2) 91
Rhea MacCallum
FRIENDLY’S FIRE 94
John Patrick Bray
GUNPOWDER JOE 96
Anthony Clarvoe
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ADAM SCHWARTZ 97

Cary Gitter
HOW ALFO LEARNED TO LOVE 98

Vincent Amelio
HUNGARIAN COMEDY (2) 99

Susan Cinoman
IZZY 103
Susan Eve Haar
KISS 105
Guillermo Calderón
L’APPEL DU VIDE 106

Molly Kirschner
THE LAYOVER (2) 108

Leslye Headland
LE DERNIER REPAS 110
David Eliet
LES FRÉRES 112

LOOK AT ME (RUFF RUFF) 114

C.S. Hanson
LOS SAMARITANOS (3) 115

LOST AND GUIDED 120

Irene Kapustina
MULTIPLE FAMILY DWELLING 121

James Hindman
ඈඋ:ඁඒ,¶ආ9ඈඍංඇ඀ൿඈඋ-ඈඁඇ$ඇൽൾඋඌඈඇ

Patricia Cotter
NO ONE LOVES US HERE 124

Ross Howard
OH, MY GOODNESS 126

Cayenne Douglass
ORIGEN (2) 128

Anderson Cook
A PATCH OF BLUE 132

Lisa Kenner Grissom
THE RECKLESS SEASON (3) 133

Lauren Ferebee
THE PERFECT SAMENESS OF OUR DAYS (2) 137

Michael Tooher
RAW BACON FROM POLAND 140
Christina Masciotti
ROAD KILL (2) 141

Karen JP Howes
RUNNING IN PLACE 145

Joshua James
SHOOTER (2) 146

Sam Graber
SMART LOVE (2) 150

Brian Letscher
SPEECHLESS 153
Greg Kalleres
STRANGE CASE 155

Don Nigro
SUMMERLAND (2) 157

Arlitia Jones
T 161
Dan Aibel
TELL HECTOR I MISS HIM 163

Paola Lázaro
THREE LADIES OF ORPINGTON 165

Daniel Guyton
THE TROUBLE WITH CASHEWS 167

David MacGregor
UNDERGROUND 169
Isla van Tricht
VALENTINO’S MUSE 171
A.J. Ciccotelli
WASHED UP ON THE POTOMAC (2) 173

Lynn Rosen
WELCOME TO THE WHITE ROOM 177

Trish Harnetiaux
WHAT DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE? 178

Deb Margolin
THE WHIRLIGIG 180

Hamish Linklater
WOLF AT THE DOOR 182

Richard Dresser
RIGHTS AND PERMISSISONS 185

FOREWORD
Here you will find a rich and varied selection of
monologues for men, most of which are from plays
which were produced and/or published in the 2017-
2018 theatrical season. Many are for younger performers
(teens through 30s) but there are also some excellent pieces
for older men as well. The age of the character is indicated
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E\DFWRUVRIGL൵HUHQWDJHV6RPHDUHFRPLF ODXJKV VRPH
are dramatic (generally, no laughs). Some are rather short,
some are rather long. All represent the best in contemporary
playwriting.
Several of the monologues are by playwrights whose
work may be familiar to you, such as Don Nigro, Aaron
Posner, Dominique Morisseau, Richard Nelson, C.S. Han-
son, Leslye Headland and Richard Dresser; others are by
exciting up-and-comers such as Paola Lázaro, Tanya Sa-
racho, Chelsea Marcentel, Sandra A. Daley-Sharif, Susan
Eve Haar, Barret O’Brien and David MacGregor. Many of
the plays from which these monologues have been culled
have been published and, hence, are readily available either
from the publisher/licensor or from a theatrical book store
such as the Drama Book Shop in New York. Some may not
be published for a while, in which case contact the author
or his agent to request a copy of the entire text of the play
which contains the monologue which suits your fancy. In-
formation on publishers/rights holders may be found in the
Rights & Permissions section in the back of this anthology.
Break a leg in that audition! Knock ‘em dead in class!
Lawrence Harbison
The Best Men’s Stage Monologues 2018 13

0ඈඇඈඅඈ඀ඎൾඌ
AIRNESS
Chelsea Marcantel
Dramatic
Facebender, 30s-40s
After Nina, a newcomer to competitive air guitar,

trashes the sport and its competitors, she tries to
apologize. Facebender, a veteran of the circuit,
attempts to make her understand what air guitar
means to him and to his friends by telling her about
his job.
FACEBENDER
Well, it was a match made in heaven. Nobody wants that job,
and at the time, nobody wanted me. I was bumming around,
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debts. I heard about this job from a buddy, and it sounded
easy enough, so I applied. And I got it. You basically just
have to be willing to walk into disgusting apartments. Some-
times we have to wear hazmat suits and bootees. These people
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%HIRUH DQ\RQH FDUHV 6RPHWLPHV WKHUH DUH ÀLHV RU URDFKHV
or mice. Lots of times, people’s apartments are just full of
wall-to-wall junk. This one lady last year, died standing up
and stayed that way. There wasn’t room in her place to fall
over. We work in pairs, to keep us from stealing. It’s weird,
seeing what strangers kept in their closets, what they ate, what
movies they watched, what kind of toilet paper they used. We
go through everything, looking for signs of relationships. Is
there an address book? A business card? A computer? Who
are the people in these photographs? Are they still alive, would
they care that this person is dead? It’s the most depressing kind
of archeology, but somebody has to do it. And that somebody
in San Diego County has been me, for the last few years. I’ve

been through a lot of partners. But I’ll tell you one thing. When
I die, somebody is gonna know. Right away. Lots of people.
I used to go through my life like I was gonna live forever,
but now I know. It could be any day. But I won’t go out
anonymous. No stranger is going to have to pick through my
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care to inherit the $300 in my bank account. Before I started
playing air guitar, I hadn’t seen my daughter, or her mother, in
like six years. I felt like too much time had passed, and I was
embarrassed to reach out to them. Now, we hang out at least
once a month. It’s awkward as fuck, but it’s happening. It’s
getting there. My list of friends gets longer and longer. I text
them every day. I hug them every time I see them. When I
die, there are gonna be so many broken-hearted motherfuc-
kers, playing sad, sad air guitar solos at my funeral. I put it in
my will. I look death in its nasty face every day. And then at
night, I come here, and I get up onstage and live like there’s no
tomorrow. Because there isn’t. There really isn’t. It’s silly and
LW¶VIXQDQGLW¶VDEVXUGEXWOLIHLVDVORZPDUFKR൵DFOL൵LQWR
nothingness, so why not be as silly as you want?
For information on this author,

click on the WRITERS tab at www.smithandkraus.com
18 Lawrence Harbison
AIRNESS
Chelsea Marcantel
Dramatic
Shreddy Eddie, 20-30s
Shreddy Eddy, a seasoned air guitar competitor, takes

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choice. Shreddy explains to Nina the amount of blood,
sweat, and heart it takes to pick the perfect perfor-
mance song, and become an air guitar champion.
SHREDDY
Grraaah! Have you learned nothing? Am I, Shreddy Eddy, a
man who wants to be sedated?? You are the music and the
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“I Don’t Wanna Grow Up” was written by Tom Waits for the
Bone Machine album, and he wrote that song for EXACT-
LY ME. It’s about a young man, a few years into adulthood,
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mly, “This is fucked, and I opt out.” He doesn’t want the
car, or the mortgage, or the soul-sucking job, or to be bald
DQG¿OOHGZLWKGRXEW+HGRHVQ¶WKDYHDQDOWHUQDWLYHVROXWLRQ
because he’s running on fear, he’s frantic, he’s not thinking
logically. The rhythm of it, the speed of the recording, the re-
petition – it’s a tantrum. He’s trying to stay a child, he’s run-
ning as fast as he can in the opposite direction, even though
there’s NOTHING THERE. It’s fucked up and it’s inevitable.
You can’t not grow up. (pause) That’s what Tom Waits knew.
That’s what the Ramones recorded. That’s what I bring to
the stage. Air guitar is hard work, The Nina. Here
(He smacks his head.)
and here
(He smacks his heart; almost angry)
<RXGRQ¶WZDOW]LQWRDTXDOL¿HUZLWK-RXUQH\EHFDXVH\RX¶UH

mad at your ex-boyfriend. Some of us here want to win this be-
cause we believe it’s special. You want to qualify in New York
next month? You want to be an air guitar champion? You need
to risk everything, because you’re gonna have to take it over
my dead body. I’m your friend at the bar, I’m your friend in
the green room, but for those sixty seconds onstage, I’m your
competition. And I bleed this.
For information on this author, click on the WRITERS tab at

ALL ABOUT BIFFO
Stephen Bittrich
Comic
Sid, 40s
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painful burn on his rear end and is very angry with the
UHQHJDGHXQSURIHVVLRQDO%LৼR
SID
And that’s another thing! Okay. While we’re talking about
things... you are out of control! Thirty years I’ve been in this
business, ever since I was old enough to be shot out of a can-
non, and not a single accident with the possible exception
of the leaky baby pool incident in ‘92. But that was a freak
accident! You, my friend, are reckless. You -- you come fresh
outta clown school one month to the day and already there
KDYHEHHQ¿YHFRXQWµHP¿YHDFFLGHQWVDOORIWKHPLQ-
volving me. Not the least of which was second degree burns
on my back side! Oh yeah, sure, sure, laugh it up. It was your
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fore it burns through the padding. I rely on you. Okay, you
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grabbed the whipped cream pie? No, you had to grab a jug of
moonshine and splash it generously on my blazing backside.
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ARCHIPELAGO
Caridad Svich
Dramatic
Ben, 20s-30s.
Ben is speaking to the audience, who throughout the

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BEN
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wrong thing, and she disappeared and left me standing with
change in my pocket Ad little else. Spent the whole day in the
station looking for her. Even slept there, thinking somehow
maybe she’d come back. In the morning I walked out,
miserable, angry, confused, not sure what had happened
between us, except it was clear I’d said the wrong thing.
And for all I knew she had gone to France and into ano-
ther century to start a real fucking socialist revolution. This
was May. Years before everything would start to turn and we’d
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away, wondering what had happened to us and if we were even
meant to be together. She was older then, and memory had
already started to play its tricks. As we watched whole cities
burn. I wanted to say sorry for everything. Sorry for being a
lousy traveler; sorry for being less than willing to see her at
the other end. But I didn’t say anything. When we found each
other again, all I said was Hey, Hey. And I smiled and she
smiled and there was that moment of wakefulness between us.
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good, while the shards of the world were nothing but desert.
ARCHIPELAGO
Caridad Svich
Dramatic
Ben, 20s-30s.
Ben is speaking to Hannah, the love of his life. They

have been reunited, by chance, after many years of
being apart. He has been in a hospital for a long time,
and has only been out of it for about a year or so. He
was shot by a sniper.
BEN
Your body. Missed it. Kept seeing your eyes. In dreams,
memories, don’t know, your eyes like the sun radiant and
keeping the pulse of the entire world. Lying there, tubes
fucked up bloated aching, weight of everything tears sad-
ness cries in the halls, no one around, no one wanted to see
me, after a while like dead I was, like a dead thing, on the slab
R[\JHQPHOWEUDLQ¿QJHUVFXUOHGORRNXSDWWKHVN\VLOHQFH
blood, shame, thinking of you, wanting you, of all people,
after years, why you… why…body goes numb, no words, a
kind of beeping, that’s what I… a beeping sound, body like a
little drum, strange robot drum, like artifact from junk movie,
junkyard robot man melting brain with a wink, it’s what I did,
wink, that was a word to them. Must be making progress. Must
be coming out of coma. But in sleep I was eyes open listening
everything everything, can’t imagine the waste carbon foot-
print of hell waste all around, and the wheeling bed creaking
down the hall a semblance of reality beep and loud prayers in
the next room, people begging the gods for mercy quick now
please, joke it was, joke to be there with bullet fucking ache,
hurting like no words, eyes open everything everything I see
but everyone like not there, like dead meat he is, not even
worth prayer…sometimes gods would come, no name gods,

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over the dead city of ruins like an angel of glorious vengeance,
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ld, make good, even when kindness is suspect, imagine that.
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pumping strange liquid metal, blood metal lullabies singing a
song of ancient rhyme and hopeful continents, no pasts to be
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thing, ghost one on the slab cot oxygen train dreaming a way
out, wink, wink, words, he speaks, wink, he speaks again. Pro-
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all that is critical care toxicology diagnosis he is awake. Think:
Here. Picture. You. Think: miss your body. Like when we were
full of feeling. Think: miss the city where I was ghost incar-
nate, not myself at all, but this other thing, this boy full of mu-
sic and not a care and pretending we could drift through hours
without anyone saying anything, because it was beautiful.
APROPOS OF NOTHING
Greg Kalleres
Comic
Owen, 30s-40s
Owen, slightly tispsy, takes the opportunity to chat it

up with a stranger at a wedding reception, as his
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OWEN
Piccata. Right? It’s always a piccata. At weddings? Veal,
chicken, vegetable. I don’t know even know what a piccata is
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(Beat)
It’s amazing how much time and energy is put into planning
these things. The meal, the tastings -- well, you’re married, you
know. The tastings, the preparation, the money, right? And in
the end, no one remembers because what you usually end up
with is chicken piccata.
(beat)
Because the thing is, and I don’t know you from Adam, I can
tell you know what I’m talking about; sitting back here, alone,
I can tell. The love, the ceremony, the togetherness, right?
All RI LW 7KH D൵HFW RQ us, the guests -- I mean that’s what
it’s all about. The theater of thing. And we all just pretend,
you know? (Before he can reply) And in the relationship --!
Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt -- but in relationships, espe-
cially we pretend. Right? You pretend that you’re as in love
ZLWKKHUWRGD\DV\RXZHUHRQWKH¿UVWGD\\RXIHOOLQORYH%XW
it ÀXFWXDWHV We know this. We like to think of love as this...
line, this hump you get over, and once you’ve gotten over it,
you’re in love! Boom! And every day from then on is love.
But this isn’t true! We’re not robots. You’re in love one day
and the next day you’re not. You’re on one side of the hump,

and then you’re on the other. Back and forth. Over and back.
And why do we deny this?? (Before he can reply) Because
WKHLGHDWKDWORYHLVÀHHWLQJLVWHUULI\LQJ “It feels so real
one day, it must be real today!” But it isn’t, so we pretend.
Half of love is memory! Remembering what it felt like to love
this person. She wants to have sex but you’re not in the mood,
it’s clear you better get in the mood or this opportunity might
not present itself again for a while. So what do you do? Have
sex. Because you UHPHPEHU “I remember that I’m in love
with you. I remember what it feels like to want to have sex
with you.” Because eventually the pendulum will swing back
around. (Before he can reply) And, hey, no, I believe in love! You
know what true love is? When it’s so real you never forget.
Because every time you see her, you fall in love all over
again. (Beat) Problem is -- the truth? There’s someone
else. And it’s my best friend’s wife, who I would never
touch in a million years, but the truth is: I love her. True love.
Martin has no idea and I would never tell him because what
would that do? Plus they’re “Martin & Lily” you know, it’s
like: “Martin & Lily!” It’s an institution! You don’t mess with
that. I mean, they fall apart, this whole thing falls apart, let me
tell you. Me, you, all of it. I tell you this because you seem like
a man who understands. And sometimes...sometimes it feels
good to say what’s in your heart. You know? Sometimes you
want to just say it, apropos of nothing. For once. No regard for
what it means, the consequences and the like. Because some-
times you just need to feel like you still can!

THE ARSONISTS
Dramatic
H, 50s
A father tries to convince his daughter to move on after

hisdeath, and that there is no escaping certain fates.
H
<RX¶GOLNHWLJHUV/LWWOHV7LJHUVDOZD\VLQÀDPHV6WULSHVVKLP-
mer, Just with the walkin’ of it. An’ when it runs, Shit, Looks
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it, leavin’ nothin’ behind. No smoke. No ashes. The cleanest
burn you ever seen. A tiger’s the best controlled burn. You’d
be jealous ah that Littles. Even you with a hun’red packs ah
matches couldn’t do that. Burn so clean you leave nothin’
behind. You can’t be a tiger, all heat an’ power an’ control. You
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¿UHRUWKHKHDWRUWKHSROLFHRUWKHVKHHUZHLJKWRIWLPH7KHUH¶V
always somethin’ more than you, Littles. Somethin’ out of your
control. The wind kicks up. It kicks at the moment I light the
head fuse. It catches my hand and wrist collar. Jump cross my
arms, melts the buttons. At, when, at that, when it jumped, Cross
P\ERG\7KDW¶VZKHQ,NQHZLW$QG,ORRNDFURVVWKH¿HOGDW
you, Just, Doin’, what I taught you, Just, shinin’ in our own
light. I knew you’s ready. And I knew I’s done. I said goodbye
WR\RXWKHQ/LWWOHV<RXFRXOGQ¶WJHWµFURVVWKDW¿HOGLQWLPH
XQOHVV\RXÀHZ$QGWKDW¶VRQH,FRXOGQ¶WWHDFK:KDW\RXFDQ
do now, Put me in the ground, give me peace. Leave. Start
somethin’ new. You can control that. You got a tiger by the
tail, Doodlebug. You think you own it now, but that’s a trick. It
already owns you. You don’t get out, it’ll take what it wants in
the end.

THE ARSONISTS
Dramatic
H, 50s
A father tries to explain to his daughter why he loved

her mother, even though the mother could be hurtful
to the daughter.
H
Your mother and I, There was a time where I … Before. I’d
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with, above, life. Skimming across the top. The unwaking
ZRUOG7KHUHZDVWKH¿UVWWLPH,VDZKHU«%XWWKHUHZDVD
VSDFHRIWLPHIURPZKHQ,WRRNP\¿UVWEUHDWKWRZKHQ,UHDOO\
VWDUWHGEUHDWKLQJ7KDWPRPHQWWKDWXVXDOO\ODVWV¿YHVHFRQGV
for ever’body else, Lasted 16 years for me. I mean, I knew how
WRJHWGUHVVHGDQGHDWDQGVOHHSDQGOD\IXVHV$QGGL൵XVHWKH
smell of gasoline. I did do the, the things you do. The waking
life things. But it was mechanical. A machine of a boy, A ma-
chine of a man, Not breathing. Not living. There was a terrible
completeness to it which in the back of my mechanical mind
equaled life. A to B to C to D to E to F to end of day to end of
night to end of morning to end of afternoon. The completeness
we’re told makes you full, makes life life. We’d weave and
measure and cut and pretend to be the fates .But really, There
was a coldness, Littles, A chill that just, froze inside me, kept
me from really breathing. I’d stand in the warm afternoon rain
QRWNQRZLQJZK\EXWFUDYLQJWKHWKDZ7KH¿UVWWLPH,WRXFKHG
KHUKDQGSUHWHQGLQJLWZDVDQDFFLGHQW%UXVKHGP\¿QJHUV
over hers at the market, reaching for a grocery bag, I started
JDVSLQJOLNHD¿VKMXVWUHHOHGLQRQWKHERDW,GURSSHGWRP\
knees and thought I was going to die. Thought this is what
it must feel like to be trapped in a blaze that won’t ever turn
over and burn out. Thought this is it. The cut. But she knelt
down with me and took both my hands and we breathed to-
JHWKHU$QGWKDWZDVP\¿UVWEUHDWK'RRGOHEXJ0\KRQHVWWR
*RG¿UVW$QGZKHQZHURVHXSWRJHWKHU,ZDVDQHZPDQ,
was 16 and just born and that was it. I think you’ve been born,
Littles, but you don’t breathe. You don’t live like how your
Momma did for me. You haven’t started breathing yet.

THE ART OF THE FUGUE
Don Nigro
Dramatic
Andrew, 22
In the summer of 1920, Andrew Rose and his older

brother Jamie are back from serving in the Army in
France in World War I, and both are troubled and
traumatized young men. Their father, a teacher, has
just committed suicide, tormented with guilt for im-
pregnating one of his students. Their sister Jane, an
accomplished violinist, has just graduated from the
Conservatory of Music and has brought her best
friend Felicia home with her, to their family house in
a small town in east Ohio, to spend the summer pre-
SDULQJIRUWKHLU¿UVWFRQFHUWWRXURI(XURSHLQWKHIDOO
Felicia is a brilliant and very beautiful pianist with
emotional problems and a dark family history, and is
having a rather good time watching Jamie fall hope-
lessly in love with her, while Andrew tries to seduce
her. Jamie has been the leader of two large families of
siblings and cousins all through their childhood, and
is loved and respected by everyone but Andrew, who
has always been desperately jealous of his brother,
and whose horrible experiences in the war have only
increased the intensity of his hatred. Andrew has ap-
parently been successful with Felicia, and it’s tearing
Jamie apart. Jamie is also concerned that Andrew
will do serious harm to her, and has just warned him
to leave her alone. This is Andrew’s response. He is
gloating, goading his brother, and very much enjoying
defeating and humiliating him.
ANDREW
I should leave her alone, or what? Or you’re going to what?
Give me a good, sound thrashing if I don’t? Really? Do you
think that would impress her? Because I don’t think so. Al-
though it’s true some women are excited by violence, and she
might well be one of them, but, trust me, nothing you can do
will impress her enough to make her want you. I’m the one
she’s drawn to. All these pretty girls, these prim, well brought
up girls are like that. They’re drawn to bad behavior, like the
preacher’s daughter. They’re excited by cruelty. They confuse
it with strength. They want to do it in cheap, dirty rooms in
cheap, dirty hotels. Or under the piano. Which is surprisingly
nice, by the way. I’ve been listening to you my whole life,
especially when you weren’t saying anything, which was most
of the time. You can’t stand for once not being the chosen one,
can you? You can’t stand it that for once I get something and
not you. All your life, it’s been you, and not me. People like
you. They don’t like me. People feel safe with you. They feel
uneasy with me. They want to tell you their troubles. They
don’t want to tell me anything. But she wants me. Not you.
Me. She wants me. And you can’t deal with it. It’s lovely. I’ve
never been happier. You could kill me right now and I’d die a
happy man, and she still wouldn’t want to sleep with you. And
you do want to kill me, don’t you? You’ve always wanted to
kill me. Well, take your best shot, brother. You can borrow my
service revolver if you like. But just a friendly word of advice:
Don’t miss.

THE ART OF THE FUGUE
Don Nigro
Dramatic
Andrew, 25
It’s 1923 in a hotel room somewhere in Europe,

and Andrew Rose and his older brother Jamie have
been touring for three years with their sister Jane,
a violinist, and her beautiful and brilliant but in-
creasingly unbalanced friend Felicia, a pianist,
the center piece of whose program is Bach’s The
Art Of The Fugue, which she practices obsessively
and which is slowly helping to drive her insane.
Felicia has a dark history of family abuse, and
she has chosen as her lover Andrew, who is cruel
to her, over Jamie, who loves her deeply and tries
to protect her. Andrew manages the tour, while Ja-
mie, the older brother Andrew has always resented,
is reduced to making sure their luggage gets on the
train and tuning the piano. Andrew has been greatly
enjoying his triumph over his brother, but listening to
Felicia play the Bach fugues over and over again has
been getting on his nerves. Jamie has just come upon
him being violent with Felicia, and tells him “If you
ever hurt her again—”EXWGRHVQ¶W¿QLVKWKHVHQWHQFH
This is Andrew’s response.
ANDREW
If I ever hurt her again, what? Speak up. I can’t hear you. What
a pathetic sight you are. You’re ridiculous. The piano tuning
stage door Johnny to a depraved lunatic. She pities you. When
I was about twelve, I heard a noise in the middle of the night,
and I looked out the window, and there was our father, sitting
on the porch, at three in the morning, just sobbing like a baby.
Over that poor, stupid girl, I’m sure. And I told myself, I will
never be like that. Not me. I’m going to make THEM cry. But
you’re just like him. And you’re going to end up the same way,
too. What a damned couple of fools. God, my head hurts. Do
you hear that? I keep hearing something like insects buzzing.
Maybe they’re insects. Maybe they’re aliens. Actually, it’s
probably those god damned fugues. I can’t get the fucking
things out of my head. I hate those fugues almost as much
as I hate you. I used to stay up late, waiting for you to come
home. I was hoping you’d be killed on the road, or in some
drunken brawl, or with your pants down at the whore house.
Something humiliating like that. She’s mine. Not yours. Mine.
To take possession. That’s the only truth. The only reality. To
take possession. And she’s all mine. So, are you going to try
and kill me, or what?

BLOOD AT THE ROOT
Dominique Morisseau
Dramatic
Colin, late teens, African-American
The students at Colin’s high school have staged a

demonstration protesting a racist act, which Colin
has found inspiring.
COLIN
It was like some shit out of a Civil Rights documentary. Like
the kind they be showin’ in class. And most of the folks be
fallin’ half asleep. Seen this one kid in 3rd period start droo-
lin’ on the desk when we was watchin’ this one---Eyes on the
Prize it called. Real interestin’ to me, but guessin’ not to most
everbody else. I interested cuz it’s nice to know what done
happened before I showed up somewhere. Nice to know how
thangs used to be and that thangs as they is now come from
somethin’. It all got roots. Way somebody choose not to sit
next to somebody in the lunchroom-got roots. Way somebo-
G\ JRW SUREOHPV ZLWK WKH ÀDJ VRPHERG\ HOVH ZHDU RQ WKH\
t-shirt - got roots. Way some people talk the way they talk, or
hang out with who they hang out with, or love who they love,
or hate who they hate - all got roots. It feel halfway comfor-
tin’ knowin’ it ain’t just start with us. That it been this way.
That somebody’s been plantin’ these awful feelins in the soil
somewhere. Long before we came along and started pulling up
crops. We been digestin’
WKLVVDPHVWX൵JURZQLQWKLVVDPHVRLODQGDLQ¶WHYHQNQRZLW
6R,OLNHVHHLQ¶VWX൵OLNHWKDW«(\HVRQWKH3UL]H«GRFXPHQ-
taries on the Civil Rights Movement. When that happened to-
day at school…when those students went and stood under that
great oak tree… Ol’ Devoted they call it…. Look like some
kinda protest. Look like somethin’ like from another time.
From a Civil Rights Time. And it got me thinkin’…what kinda
crop is the folks after us gonna dig up? Is it still gonna be from
this same ol’ soil? Or is we ever gonna plant somethin’ new?


BLOOD AT THE ROOT
Dominique Morisseau
Dramatic
Justin, late teens, African-American
Some white kids have pulled a racist prank at

Justin’s high school, and the black kids have
staged a demonstration protesting it. Here, Justin
explains why he won’t take sides.
JUSTIN
Things at Cedar High can be real divided. Lots of lines get
drawn and everybody wanna know what side you standin’
on. Now me? I get by like I always done. Be studious. Be fo-
cused. Be attentive. That’s never done me much for popularity.
Doesn’t give me the most friends. Keeps me… well… I don’t
like Toria callin’ it invisible. I mean what does she… who does
she… she doesn’t know me. Nobody knows me. That’s the
point. But at this stage in the game, I’m not askin’ for that any-
more. Sure, it might’ve bothered me when I was a kid. What
kid likes to be the outcast? Sure, it might’ve made me sad or
like some story from a after school special. But that’s not the
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)RONVOLNHPH«WKHUH¶VQRVSDFHZKHUHZHUHDOO\¿W\¶NQRZ"
No side we really make sense on. I’ve always just existed in
the cracks. So when they come askin’ me where I stand, what
do I say? Whose side am I supposed to take? Black kids pro-
testin’. White kids prankin’. What side am I supposed to be on
when don’t none of them ever … when ain’t none of ‘em really
… when I just seem to belong to myself. And that’s it. That’s
the side I’m on. But here at Cedar High, everybody want you
on a side. Wanna know where your loyalties lie. And what I got
to say about it? Who’s been loyal to me? Find me one person
that can answer that question, and I’ll tell you what side I’m
on. Til’ then, it’s all about bein’ objective. That’s the only way
I know to survive. In the cracks.


BOYS NIGHT
Gary Richards
Comic
Frank, 50
Frank is talking to a friend on a Soho, New York, roof-

top.
FRANK
So, check it out, I’m out in L.A. and I’m paying through the
nose for a dumpy, rinky-dink hotel room that has the nerve to
charge for porn, so I had to get out. I lace up my running shoes
and take a run along the boardwalk from Santa Monica to Ve-
nice to scope out the local talent, and I see all these homeless
guys and I think, “Wow, what a great place to be homeless!”
Right? I mean, if you’re going to be homeless in America, it’s
a great option. The weather is great every day, you’re on the
beach every day, you’re gawking at babes in bathing suits eve-
ry day. You wake up, maybe take a morning dip. Reach into
the garbage for yesterday’s newspaper, a couple of cold fries.
And you could probably scrounge enough money to sip on a
0DL7DLHYHU\QRZDQGWKHQ5LJKW"&OL൵RUGWKHKRPHOHVVJX\
that lives on my block, I’m betting he’s not sipping Mai Tais
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JXDUDQWHH&OL൵RUGKDVQ¶WERG\VXUIHGLQTXLWHVRPHWLPH6R
,VHH&OL൵RUGWKHRWKHUGD\SLFNLQJDEXWWR൵WKHJURXQGDQG
I ask him where he was originally from. He tells me Indiana.
6R,DVN&OL൵RUGZK\WKHIXFNKHSLFNHG1HZ<RUN&LW\WREH
homeless in. You know what he tells me? “The diversity!” You
fucking believe that?! “The diversity!” He says, “Where else
FDQ,PHHWKRPHOHVVSHRSOHIURPDOORYHUWKHZRUOG"´&OL൵RUG
could be on a beach in Santa Monica, soaking up the rays,
smelling the cocoa butter, and playing fucking beach volley-
ball!! But he wants diversity! Instead he’s squatting on a bench
at the corner in front of Crate and Barrel saving all his nickels
and dimes so he can suck down another Jamba Juice.


BLUE/WHITNEY
Steven Haworth
Seriocomic
Virgil, 16, African-American
9LUJLO¶V¿IWHHQ\HDUROGZKLWHJLUOIULHQGUDQDZD\IURP
her home in Westchester and was murdered, Virgil
is accused, but Whitney’s mother is convinced of his
innocence and bails him out of jail so he can give her
a tour of the life her daughter lived before she died.
Here Virgil tells the story of how he met Whitney, who
he knew as Blue.
VIRGIL
Check it out. I’m on the One train. Back in May. Goin’ down-
town. Morning rush hour. Some train went out a service so
Number One is packed tight. All the suits is miserable. I say
suits ‘cause when I say downtown I mean everybody going to
Wall Street. We pull into Franklin Street station. Doors stop in
front a this white dude. Pinstripe suit. Gold watch. Briefcase.
Like in his thirties. He is like DDDUUUJKHe need to get on that
WUDLQ1RERG\JHWVR൵1Rway nobody gettin’ on. He ain’t just
put out. He is like a straight up exploding brain! He got to get
to Wall Street or his life is over! So what does he do? Reaches
out. Pulls a young lady Rৼthe train. Gets in her spot. This shorty
little white rabbit on her way to Wall Street. Yellow blouse. Pearls
around her neck. Short blonde hair tucked around big ears with a
little pink nose. Little White Rabbit standing on the platform. She
can’t believe it. People on the train they can’t believe it. Doors
jerkin’ tryin’ to close. Pinstripe Dude holding his briefcase to his
chest. Squeezin’ his eyes shut please God let the doors close!
Then I see. Right there. This pretty little white girl with blue
hair. Now who is this white girl with blue hair, Mrs. Wing?
That’s right, it’s Blue, Mrs. Wing. But I ain’t know her yet so
I’m a call her Blue-headed White Girl. Blueheaded White Girl
got her hands on the door and won’t let it close! Pinstripe Dude
lookin’ at her like “What you doin’, bitch!” But she won’t let
the doors close. So the doors open up again. What does she
do?! SHE TRIES TO PUSH HIM OFF THE TRAIN! She
tryin’ to push this Pinstripe Motherfucker right out the door! I
am like damn! But she can’t budge him. He like twice her size.
So I say to myself “V?! THIS A MOMENT A TRUTH, NIG-
GA! You gonna let this little white girl lose this battle?! Lose
this battle against Pinstripe Muthafucka Tyrannical Bullshit?!
And do you know what the answer was, Mrs Wing? The
answer was NO! Hell no! I take Pinstripe Motherfucker up
E\ WKH FROODU , WKURZ WKDW 3LQVWULSH 0RWKHUIXFNHU R൵ WKH
WUDLQ,¶POLNH³*HWR൵WKHWUDLQ3LQVWULSH0RWKHUIXFNHU´
I grab little White Rabbit, pull her back on the train. Point
at Pinstripe Motherfucker, I’m like “Stay there, motherfuc-
ker.” Blue-headed White Girl is like “Yeah, motherfucker!”
So there’s Pinstripe Motherfucker. Standing on the platform.
Mouth hangin’ open. Soul gone. Cryin’ like a bitch! Blue-
headed White Girl lets go the door. Train start to move. And
the whole subway car – BURSTS INTO APPLAUSE! I look at
my new friend. I say, “Hey! I’m V!” She’s like: “I’m Blue.” I
say, “Really? ‘Cause you look happy.” She’s like: “No, ‘cause
a my hair, stupid.” I’m like, “I know I’m just playin’.” She’s
like, “Oh okay.” And that’s how I met Blue!

www.smithandkraus.com.

BREACH
Barret O’Brien
Comic
Young Man, 27
Four strangers have taken refuge from the rising wa-

WHUVRIDRQFHDFHQWXU\ÀRRGLQDGLYHEDUDWWKHHGJH
of the French Quarter, New Orleans. Here the Young
0DQWULHVWROLIWWKHÀDJJLQJVSLULWVRIWKHRWKHUV
YOUNG MAN
So...pops, psycho, and I are walking down Decatur Street
one night and the devil pops up out of the sidewalk. Poof!
And he says, “Y’all want to see hell?” And I’m all, “Hells
yeah.” So we all go down on this big ole escalator and there
are these clocks everywhere...on the walls. Everywhere. Well,
pops, being the keen observer that we now know he is, says,
“What’s wit’ all the clocks?” And el diablo says, he says, “Well
these map people’s masturbation habits. Every time one of you
rubs one out the minute hand moves one notch. You make it
clear across the face of your clock, I know I’m doin’ A-okay
on the temptation front.” Then the devil points out one on the
far wall which reads four-thirty. “Right there, pops. That’s
yours.” Not bad for an old-timer we all think. So psycho asks,
“Where’s mine?” And the devil points one out, “Right there.”
Psycho’s reads two-seventeen. So I pipe in, ever the eager,
“And mine? Where mine at?” And the devil looks me straight
in the eye and, without even cracking a smile, son-of-a-gun
VD\V³<RXUV"2K,NHHS\RXUVLQP\R൶FH*RWLWDERYHP\
desk. Use it as a ceiling fan.” (no reactions) It’s funnier in
Spanish.
THE CHANGING ROOM
Joseph Krawczyk
Comic
Frank, 46-55
At his wife’s urging, Frank has walked into the

changing room of a Gap clothing store to try on
a new pair of jeans. Unable to exit the changing
room, he finds himself trapped in an alternate
dimension.
FRANK
I don’t understand. I walked into The Gap with my wife Stella
and entered the changing room to try on a new pair of jeans.
And then poof, I stumbled into something, somewhere and
I’m trapped into what I can only guess is another dimension.
Not sure where I am now at this point or how I got into this
HFKROHVVFKDPEHU+H\WKLVLVGL൵HUHQW'LGVRPHRQHWXUQWKH
lights out? Hello, is anyone out there? Where the hell am I?
It’s dark and cold in here. And I feel as if I’m hurtling through
space at warp speed. Where’s that damn Mr. Spock when you
need him? What’s going on? What’s happening to me? Some-
body, anybody, get me out of here…Oh, damn, I’m panicking.
Stay calm, Frank, stay calm. Take deep breaths. C’mon you
FDQGRWKLV<RX¶OO¿JXUHVRPHWKLQJRXW+H\FDQDQ\RQHKHDU
me? Why am I in this place, trapped in what feels like some
kind of spongy membrane? What’s the story here? Did I fall
through a trap door? Did I get consumed by a whale? Stel-
la, are you out there? Can you hear me? I think I died and
VWXPEOHGLQWRKHOOEHFDXVHWKLVLVGH¿QLWHO\QRWKHDYHQ,¶PDOO
alone and I don’t know what to do or how to get back to you.
I love you and I miss you. Am I in a rabbit hole like Alice in
Wonderland? Is that what I’ve fallen into? Yes, a rabbit hole,
but there are no rabbits. Where the hell are the rabbits? Or,

DWOHDVWWHOOPHZKHUH,FDQ¿QGWKHUDEELWV,VLWVRPHWKLQJ
I’ve done? Is that why I’m here? I’m being punished, but for
what? What did I do to deserve this? I’ve always been faithful
to you, Stella, I swear. Well, there was that one time with your
sister, but it didn’t mean anything. There’s got to be an exit
somewhere around here. But all I feel are walls. Even the
characters in Sartre’s No Exit had a chance to leave if they
wanted to. Can anyone hear me?! Hello-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o.
7KLVSODFHMXVWJRHVRQIRUHYHU,W¶VLQ¿QLWH$ODE\ULQWK/LNH
I’m in some kind of parallel universe but there are no stars, no
moon, just this incredible twilight. How long will I have to be
in here? Stella, I’m trapped in some kind of bubble and I can’t
¿QGDZD\RXW:DLWDPLQXWH,NQRZ«:K\GLGQ¶W,WKLQNRI
this before? Where’s my phone? I’ll just call 911. Damn, the
battery’s dead. I’ve got to get out of here. We’ve got expen-
sive tickets for Hamilton tonight! Six hundred dollars each,
and they’re not refundable. What am I gonna’ do now?!
+H IDOOV WR WKH ÀRRU DQG VFUHDPV DW WKH WRS RI KLV
lungs for his wife Stella and tears at his shirt like
Stanley Kowalski from A Streetcar Named Desire.)
STELLA!!!
CHASING THE STORM
Sandra A. Daley-Sharif
Dramatic
Abioh: 30s, Any Race
The group realizes that Aquah is right. Abioh is a

traitor. He works for the Bureau. He defends his
actions.
ABIOH
You can trust me. I swear to you. I would’ve killed you
already, if that’s what I aim to do. I could’ve turned you
all in. I’m a Drop-Out. Just like you. That’s the truth.
I was helping to mobilize cities… New York, Boston…
That’s what I do. Long before I was called in to orga-
nize Ocean City, I was building pools, dragging water
from nearby springs. Helping to equalize, because there
was anarchy, those who had means had seized dozens of
natural springs, limiting access to already scarce water
supply. These past, what 40 years, globally, we’ve been
brought to our knees… We’re in a wasteland… living in
a desert. No water. Desolate….To stand on lines for the
basic necessities. How is that possible? In America? All
this technology and we can’t make enough clean water
to survive… What you don’t know is, they started kil-
ling Devlins. The Bureau. The Bureau of Counterterro-
rism. Said there were people stealing from the water supply.
7KH\GLGQ¶WKDYHDQDPHIRUWKHPDW¿UVW8QWLOWKH\QRWLFHG
WKDWWKHVHSHRSOHZHUHGL൵HUHQWDQGWKHUHZHUHPRUHRIWKHP
“cropping” up. Said that they were underground varmints,
XVLQJZKDWWKH\FDOOHG³WKHLUJLIW´IRUWKHLURZQEHQH¿W'H-
vlins. There’s an enforcement team responsible for rounding
them up, going into their homes in the middle of the night,

stealing them from their beds, their families, and locking
them up. Killing them. You won’t get far. You’ll be slaugh-
tered. Is that what you want? It’s top intelligence. Contrary
to the mandates going out to the public. They are telling us
it’s the rainfall, that we’re collecting. If it is some under-
ground source, some natural spring, or pool, plenty of it,
and rich with resources, you won’t get close. CT won’t let
you. They will kill for a lot less. Will use water for leve-
rage, as a weapon, and to suppress naysayers. Two years
ago when that small town, Spicewood was under attack,
their camps weren’t quite organized, CT spared no expense
to protect the water infrastructure. Well, I tell you… If it’s as
hidden as you say… this pool. They are not apt to share it with
the likes of us. Only a privileged few know about it, I’m sure,
and are living there. Like you said. It is the old 1%. Get close,
and they will round you up and kill you. I’ve seen it. One night,
they dragged a family back from the desert. A mother, father,
and their two young boys. Both no more than 8 years old. Said
they couldn’t have these varmints ZDQGHULQJR൵/RFNHGWKHP
all up in a iron cell. CT questioned them for days. Fed them
QH[W WR QRWKLQJ$QG GURSV RI ZDWHU$QG ¿QDOO\ WKH GHYOLQ
they tortured her. They slaughtered her in front of her family.
Probed her every senses. Immersed her in a frigid black pool.
Peeled away her skin, looking for sensors. Looking for mu-
WDWHGFHOOVLQKHUKDQGV,QKHUIHHW7KH\KRRNHGKHUOLNHD¿VK
CONTENT NO MORE
Steve Koppman
Comic
Gene, 20s
Mike, a middle-aged industry analyst for The Wis-

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WLRQ"¶ LV LQ D ¿UVWWLPH LQSHUVRQ PHHWLQJ ZLWK KLV
boss, 20-something Gene, who expresses ‘concerns’
about ‘throwback’ Mike’s work and enlightens him on
the goals of the company’s new Director of Thought,
(‘Our number one goals in 2019 are to be the source
of all insight’ and ‘to be part of every decision anyone
makes’) further embodied in Wisdom’s new Enlighten-
ment product suite, whose introduction Gene explains
to Mike.
GENE
If I believed anyone was doing anything to besmirch the name
of Wisdom, I’d stop it in a heartbeat. What I see are hundreds
RIWKHZRUOG¶V¿QHVWDQDO\VWVZRUNLQJWRWKHEHVWRIWKHLUDEL-
lities within constraints of time. You want to know what’s
really going on? We’ve asked customers what they want. So
we know, Mike! I talk to ‘em every day. You know what they
care about? Nothing like you say. They’re united on one
thing. They don’t want to waste time reading! Their time’s
too valuable for Mickey Mouse crap like that. What they
demand is more and more and more inside less and less
and less. In 2018 we’re giving it to ‘em. More and more
impactful, actionable thought in smaller and smaller and
smaller bites! That’s why our Enlightenment product will
come down next month from many pages to: one. We’re not
stopping there! That page will come down in third quarter to a
paragraph. Any page can be summed up in a paragraph. Then,

in the fourth quarter, a sentence. Then, in 19 -- what do we
need a whole sentence? Sum it in a key word. Then, maybe a
syllable. Finally a letter! Shorter the better! By the end of 19,
our research will be something you take with lunch, in a cup
RIFR൵HHDJODVVRIZDWHU<HVQR2.DVKUXJDQRGDVQRUW
a sigh, maybe just a weary knowing silence. They’d much
rather have that than all your verbiage! What our customers
want’s easy access and not to waste time reading like a bunch
of nerds! But it’s what we need too, Mike. ‘Cause Wisdom can
charge more and more and more for less and less and less!
CRY IT OUT
Molly Smith Metzler
Dramatic
Mitchell, late 30s-early 40s
Mitchell is very dismayed that his wife seems to lack

interest in their newborn daughter. He is talking to a
neighbor, Jessie, who has adjusted well to being a new
mother. He doesn’t know what to do.
MITCHELL
I have not seen her touch RXU GDXJKWHU LQ ¿YH DQG D KDOI
weeks. The hardest thing is that I really can’t gauge how much
of this has to do with her work and how much doesn’t. Or may-
be it was moving out here? I don’t know. It’s been a big change.
(But we built her a studio in the basement? -- I thought she’d
be thrilled.) And the doctor said it could certainly be all the
IVF we did-- failed IVF can take a psychological toll on the
mother. But I don’t think that’s what it is -- Adrienne was hap-
py when she was pregnant. She threw up every day, and still
VKHZDVLQJRRGKXPRU:HZHUHMXVWVRJUDWHIXOWR¿QDOO\EH
pregnant. And she designed the nursery in the new house, in
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that room since. Like an alien stole my wife. And I’m trying
to be understanding because she’s under a lot of professional
pressure right now, I know that. She landed a big account at
work just before we had Livia-- which should be exciting but
the whole thing has just made her manic. And she doesn’t need
WREHPDQLFVKHKDVDVWD൵LQ%URRNO\QZKRFDQKDQGOHHYHU\-
thing while she’s on leave, she’s supposed to be on leave. But
she’s locking herself in her studio for days at a time, working
RQVRPHHDUFX൵DFHOHEULW\ZDQWVPDGHIRUUHGFDUSHWVHDVRQ
or some custom ring for some PR person’s wedding. (She’s a
jewelry designer, that’s what she does). And I keep saying let

your team handle this, Adrienne, that’s what they’re for. You
have a seven week old and you are missing her -- you wanted
her and you’re missing her-- and she just slams her studio door
and says that if I loved her I’d understand. And maybe that’s
true? I don’t know. I have nothing to compare any of this to.
But she forgets to come upstairs and she forgets to eat and she
forgets to sleep and she forgets to take Livie to the one fucking
Mommy & Me class she’s supposed to take her to.....I think she
forgets we had Livie.

DEAD WOMAN’S GAME
Erik Christian Hanson
Seriocomic
Jimmy, 28
Jimmy, 28, an unemployed chatterbox, tries to rescue

Ren, his suicidal friend, from the clutches of a psych
ward.
JIMMY
Had a dream last night that the President of the United States
made various forms of technology illegal on account of the
fact that it was making people dumber. Ruder. Blackberrys,
IPods, IPads, I-whatever-the-fuck those computer geeks in
Seattle-have created, all of it, illegal. Beauty of the President’s
decision was that it actually made people talk to each other.
Look at each other. Listen to each other. Did wonders for do-
mestic peace. I wanted the dream to go on forever. I wanted the
dream to become my reality. But I woke up in an alley, looked
around and there were cell phones and I-things there, there,
everyfucking- where around me. And nobody was talking to
each other. Nobody was looking at each other. Nobody was
listening to each other. (Pause) People believe they’re com-
municating and it’s healthy, but it’s not. It shuts more people
out than it lets in. Life should be about inclusion, not exclu-
sion. The people are sheep. Programmed. The commercial
asks them, “You need the latest and greatest Blackberry?” If
you do, it’s on sale now. Only now. A one-day sale. Rush out
and get one before it’s too late. And the people buy the latest
and greatest Blackberry. Unfortunately for them, somebody
creates a newer version a week later. The 7.1. Blackberry. Last
week’s version, the one they just purchased, has been made
extinct. So they take the one they bought last week, turn it in
for credit so they can get the new one, the 7.1. Start using it.

Post the fact that they got the 7.1 on their Twitter account or
Facebook account. “Got the 7.1 Blackberry! Oh, yes, I did.
Aren’t I cool? How do you like me now?” And everybody likes
them now. But the comedy never stops because an hour later,
a friend posts, “I got the 7.2 Blackberry. Here are pictures of
me with it. Don’t we look cute together?” (Pause) No more
privacy. Everything is public. How do you think I found out
about you?
DISTRICT MERCHANTS
Aaron Posner
Dramatic
Antoine DuPre, 50s-60s, African-American
Antoine Du Pre is a wealthy and successful Afri-

can-American merchant who made his money in…
complicated ways, during the Civil War. He is now
a solid citizen and leader in his community, trying to
do the best he can for himself and his people in trying
times. He is speaking to the audience. He wants us to
understand.
ANTOINE
What do you see when you look at me? What assumptions do
you make? What will I have to work against? Those questions
are like breathing to me. That… commonplace. Because folks
don’t know exactly what to make of me, don’t know what
ER[,¿WLQ³-XVWwhat kind of black man is this?” they won-
der. I see it every day. You see… I was born a free man. A
free child, in a world of bondage. My father was… pressed
into the Navy during the war of 1812. He won his freedom
through “exemplary service to the nation.” Exemplary Ser-
vice. And then was shot dead on New Year’s Day, 1823, be-
cause a white man thought he’d looked at his daughter wrong.
,ZDV¿YH0\VLVWHU%HVVZDVWKUHH0\VLVWHU*UDFHZDVERUQ
about three weeks after the funeral. I remember his smell. Soap
… salt... And a rumbly voice. And that’s about all…My mo-
ther was… careful. Not kind. Not cruel. Careful. She always
told me “Look behind” That was her… daily admonition. Her
only philosophy. I’d say “His mama so mean” and she’d say
“Look behind. That boy Sassy, she got to keep him safe.” Or
I’d say… those white folks is so this or so that, and she’s say
“Look behind all that. See their fear. See the danger.” I was

raised up always “looking behind”… trying to see what was
really going on… A valuable skill, as it turns out, for a black
man in America.

DISTRICT MERCHANTS
Aaron Posner
Seriocomic
Ben, 20s-30s, African-American
Benjamin Bassanio has just asked his mentor, An-

toine Du Pre, for funds to help woo a wealthy young
woman. Benjamin is a very light-skinned black man,
light enough to pass, and did not tell Antoine that the
woman he is wooing is white.
BEN
I just lied and lied and lied and lied… but I never told
a single lie. Every word was true. Except there were also the
words I didn’t say, words like… “She’s white.” And “When
in Belmont, so am I...” I feel bad lying to him, but he’d
never understand. He’d see her color, and my betrayal, and
that’s it. But I… I won’t just stay a part of the damn pro-
blem: Another uppity Negro with nowhere to climb up
to. This country. This country is built to drive us all insane.
Or people like me, anyway... But, no, seriously, here’s how it
goes: America sidles up to you in her pretty red dress and says,
Hey handsome, here’s everything you could ever want, right
here for the taking. So you say, Well, great, can I have some
of it? And she says, Absolutely! So you say, How? And she
says Just Step Right Up, so you say, Ummm, how do I do that?
And she says “YOU CAN’T!” So you say… But you just said I
could. And she says, And you can…! And so you say, But how?
And she says, Just Come and Get It! So you say, Really???
And she says, “NO, NOT REALLY!!!” So, after a while you
try something. And America knocks you on your trusting black
ass and says, Nope, not that way. So you try something else.
Same thing happens. And again. And again. And again and
again and again… And you know why? Oh, wait, hold up…

you do know why, don’t you? People like me—we don’t know
the code. Any of the codes… And we don’t have the key. Any
of the keys…We don’t even know the rules, and we don’t even
know which rules we don’t even know! But here’s the thing.
My father knew the codes. He knew the rules, he had the keys,
and he also owned my mother and me. That’s right: My father
literally owned me. And now suppose that this raping, swag-
gering, devoutly Christian father is actually often kind.
Helpful, even. He taught me to read. And some of the codes,
and some of the rules… and then he died. And at thirteen I was
suddenly “free.” In America. “The land of opportunity.” And
I know some things. And I want some things. And I’ve been
knocked on my ass time after time by—excuse my language—
ignorant shit-heads… and to be honest, I’m tired of it.

THE DOG IN THE DRESSING ROOM
Deborah Savadge
Seriocomic
Joel, 30s
Joel is the company manager of a play in rehearsals.

He has been beating around the bush about his ro-
mantic interest in Kira, the leading lady. Here, he de-
clares the way he feels about her.
JOEL
I saw you come in and I thought, “She’s beautiful. I think she’s
the most …radiantly …beautiful woman I’ve ever stood near.”
And then we were introduced and you smiled at me and said
my name and “Hello” and “Happy to meet you,” and I thought,
“I love her voice. Maybe a little Emma Stone mixed with a bit
of Laura Linney and a dash of early Nicole Kidman.” And then
you got up onstage and you took a moment to prepare. “An
Actor Prepares.”
(He laughs.)
And I could see you were intelligent and and an artist. And I
thought “God! I love actors.” ...And then you read, and it was
simple, and truthful and you did that thing with your arm, (He
throws his arm out and reels it in, in imitation of her. It’s funny
and accurate.) And I thought, “She’s breathtaking.”...And with
that thought, I felt dizzy. Like I couldn’t get my breath. And a
voice in my head said, “I want that in my life. That that that
¿QHQHVV´$QGWKHQ\RXJRWGRZQR൵WKHVWDJHDQG\RXWDONHG
WR5REDQG+ROO\DERXWVFKHGXOHFRQÀLFWVDQG,ZDWFKHG\RX
And I could see you wanted the role more than anything. And
Rob shook your hand. It was clear he was enthusiastic. And
you thanked him and covered his hand with your other hand.

(He extends his arm and covers his right hand with
his left.)
And you thanked Holly and touched her arm. And she looked
grateful. She was smiling.
(He imitates a broad grin.)
Which is pretty unusual for Holly. And when you walked up
the aisle you saw me. And you could tell I was rooting for you
to get it and you did a little,
(He does a little mini-victory dance.)
And then you kind of shrugged. And I was… a goner.

THE DOG IN THE DRESSING ROOM
Deborah Savadge
Dramatic
Joel, 30s
Joel is the company manager for a play in rehearsal.

He is smitten with Kira, the leading lady, but she has
reservations about his past. Here, he comes clean.
JOEL
I’m sorry. I know you didn’t want me back here tonight, but
I’ve been walking around and around and around, thinking
about everything that was said, and everything that was Not
said and I just felt I had to come back here and tell you – try
to – tell you - why you have to give me a second chance –
third chance probably… fourth chance. Why you have to hear
me out because – I understand you don’t believe this yet, but
you and I are meant to be together. So we can’t let something
I screwed up get in the way of that because, because...Let me
just explain. (Deep breath.) Victoria and I were very young
when we met and it was a very uncomplicated relationship at
¿UVW±IRUDORQJWLPH:HVWXGLHGWRJHWKHUDQGKXQJRXWDQGLW
was a very easy…we had fun. It wasn’t a great passion or any-
thing, but we had good times together and then, when she went
to graduate school, she fell madly in love with a professor, her
advisor, and he was married, and she thought he would leave
his wife and his three kids for her – even though everyone was
WHOOLQJKHUWKDWZDVQ¶WYHU\OLNHO\±EXWVKHEURNHLWR൵ZLWK
me because she was so sure that this was going to to to happen.
$QGWKHQVKHIRXQGRXWVKHZDVQ¶WWKH¿UVWRUWKHVHFRQGRU
even the third - of his advisees to to to – that he – put the moves
on – and then, when she realized she was just one in a series

±HYHQWKRXJKKHVWLOOLQVLVWHGWKDWWKLVZDV'L൵HUHQWDQGWKDW
he was going to leave his wife, but she was broken-hearted
and she…she came to me and and asked for my forgiveness
and wanted to get back together, and so we did. And then she
wanted to get married and and so we did – even though we
both had – I really think we both had a sinking feeling that
this wouldn’t – that it was a bad idea. But then we had only
been married for a matter of of of weeks, really, when the pro-
IHVVRUOHIWKLVZLIHDQGNLGVDIWHUDOODQGDQGDW¿UVW9LFWRULD
just took the position that it was too late; that she was married
to Someone Else...Me. And she wouldn’t see him, but he he
stalked her. He followed her. He stalked us. He called in the
PLGGOHRIWKHQLJKW+HZRXOGVKRZXSDWRXUGRRU$QG¿QDOO\
he just – wore her down. Or rather this great Passion was no
match for our little companionable, reasonably happy, but not
not not…Anyway, she left me - for him - and we got a divorce.
:HVWDUWHGWRSXUVXHDQDQQXOPHQWDW¿UVWEXWWKDWVHHPHGWR
deny that we…and anyway, that’s more of a Catholic thing,
and neither of us is…. So we we got a divorce and because he
KDVPRQH\+H¶VNLQGRIDIDPRXVVFKRODULQKLV¿HOGVRWKH\
have a yard for for for Molly. And I didn’t, at the time, even
have an apartment. So they got, as you said, “custody” of Mol-
ly and I would get – bones and chew toys for her, sometimes.
And this went on for a while and I was, I was over it. And then
, VDZ \RX DW WKH DXGLWLRQ DQG , NQHZ , ¿QDOO\ NQHZ ZKDW LW
was like to be to be knocked out, totally and completely struck
by by by… Love. By the need, the longing, to do whatever it
would take to be with this person – You. For for for always …

DOORMEN
Penny Jackson
Dramatic
Phil, 40-50
7ZHQW\¿YH\HDUVODWHUWKHVLPPHULQJKDWUHGIURPWKH
victims of the Bosnian war are ignited when a middle-
aged Serbian man, Phil, is hired as a doorman in an
Upper West Side building where all the other door-
men, particularly Milo, are Bosnian refugees who
hate Serbs. Two teenagers in the building, Josh and
Lydia, become involved in the feud. Here Phil, the
Serbian doorman, warns Lydia to stay away.
PHIL
You like Milo. You’re protecting him. I understand. But what
does Serb mean to you anyway? What does a young American
girl know about war? You ever see anyone shot in the head, Ly-
dia? Brains spilling out of their scalps? Eyes gouged out of the
sockets from torture? Do you know what a real battle is? Not
something you watch in your Star Wars movies. My people
were guilty. So were the Bosnians. No nice people when
\RX¶UH DW ZDU7KLV LV WKH VWX൵ WKH\ GRQ¶W VKRZ RQ7KH +LV-
tory Channel. Soldiers using axes to hack the babies right out
of their mothers’ bellies. Making the grandfathers shoot their
own grandsons. What those soldiers did to women - sickening.
Didn’t matter how old they were. Eight or eighty. Didn’t mat-
ter. Those men couldn’t see what they were doing. Or hear. Or
feel. That’s what happens in war. Makes you deaf, dumb and
blind. Inhuman. You don’t need to know these things. Lydia, so
leave it alone. Leave it alone. Do what you like to do - make
out with your boyfriend, smoke pot, dance in clubs. Because
you’re lucky. You were born in the right country in the right
time with the right religion and the right face and the right

place. Every night you should fall to your knees and pray to
God for your good fortune. Me? I can’t do that. History has
played its practical joke and landed me in a job surrounded by
my enemies.
DUSTING FOR VOMIT
Neal Reynolds
Comic
Gary, late-20s to late-40s
Gary, a star actor, tries to pitch another star on a

movie script with great roles for both of them, which
will only get made if they both do it.
GARY
The movie is going to be called “Dusting for Vomit.” Or may-
be “Dusting for Vomit -- a CSI Movie.” Or maybe “CSI co-
lon...” I’m not kidding. It’s inspired by the unsolved murder
of a British rock band drummer back in the sixties. He choked
to death on vomit. Somebody else’s vomit. Remember, back
WKHQWKHUHZDVQRZD\IRUWKHSROLFHWR¿JXUHRXWZKRVHYRPLW
it was. As one of the band members put it, “you can’t dust for
vomit.” With modern DNA forensics techniques, now you can
“dust for vomit!” All you have to do is get a sample of DNA
from each suspect and see which one matches the DNA of the
fatal vomit! A CSI investigator doesn’t have to go around to all
the suspects and get them to vomit into a specimen bag! A cot-
ton swab from the inside of a person’s mouth has enough DNA
in it. You of all people should know that, Bill. (Pause) Okay,
okay. I’m sorry. I know you’re trying to put those days behind
you and get back to the stage. But I really need you, Bill. The
VWXGLR¿QDQFLDOJX\VVDLGWKDWWKH\ZLOORQO\SXWXSWKHPRQH\
if we’re both in it! They plan to promote the movie as “a battle
between the titans of crime scene investigation!” You get to
play the murderer! The guy who throws up in the drummer’s
mouth! Don’t you just love it! Bill? Where you going? Should
I have my agent call yours to set up the deal?

EL NOGALAR
Tanya Saracho
Dramatic
Lopez, 30s
Memo Lopez was once a humble worker in the estate’s

pecan orchard, but is now a successful entrepreneur,
mainly due to his ability to stay under the radar and
play all sides of a quarrel. Here he explains to Dunia,
the housekeeper, that things aren’t the way they used
WREHZLWKWKHJURZLQJLQÀXHQFHRIWKH7KH0DxD WKH
local cartel) and that it’s better for people like them to
keep their mouths shut and know their place.
LOPEZ
You know why I end up worrying about other people’s shit?
Because people don’t know when to shut the fuck up around
here, that’s why. If I have nothing to say, I don’t open my
mouth. That has been my greatest gift. Zip it. Laugh when
everyone else is laughing, even if you don’t understand the
joke, laugh anyway. And then shut your mouth. Nowadays if
someone sees you open your mouth, even to take a breath, a
black truck with tinted windows will come driving down the
URDGDQGFDUU\\RXR൵WRWKHPRVWXQIRUWXQDWHFRUQHUVRIWKH
hills. So everybody should just shut their mouths. Half the shit
people say is stupid anyway. Half the shit that people write
too. People and their words. Words are for idle people. People
who don’t have to earn a living. (beat) This was the last room
I got to see inside this house... we were never allowed upstairs.
Well, the playroom, we were only allowed inside the playroom
if we were bringing things up or moving furniture, but never
the master bedroom. I always thought this room would be big-
ger, with draperies everywhere and maybe with gold things on
WKHZDOOVRUVRPHWKLQJ%XWZKHQ,¿QDOO\PDGHLWXSVWDLUVDQG
came in to see it... (beat) You always think things are better
on the other side when the door is closed on you. You imagine
it in your head with more color or something. Like this bed.
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%HG,WEHORQJHGWR3RU¿ULR'LD]3RU¿ULR'LD]KLPVHOIVOHSW
on it! So you think “oh, well the bed of a President must be
better and bigger than normal people’s beds, you know?” It
must be embedded with gold, dripping with diamonds and shit.
%XWWKHQ\RX¿QDOO\VHHWKHEHGDQGZHOOLW¶VMXVWDEHG,W¶V
a nice bed. It’s big and with a nice design. But it remains just
an old bed.

EL NOGALAR
Tanya Saracho
Dramatic
Lopez, 30s
Memo Lopez was once a humble worker in the

estate’s pecan orchard, but is now a successful
entrepreneur, mainly due to his ability to stay
under the radar and play all sides of a quarrel.
Lopez recalls the meaning of the orchard through a
story about Maité Galvan, the mistress of the Nogalar,
DIRUPDWLYH¿JXUHLQKLVOLIHDQGRQHZKRKDVVKDSHG
his view and place within the Mexican class system.
LOPEZ
My life is written out in the bark of those pecans. That orchard
LVWKH¿UVWWKLQJ,FDQUHPHPEHU0HUXQQLQJDURXQGZLWKQR
shoes, carrying those baskets of pecans back to the silos. When
I was like, I don’t know how old, old enough to feel like I was
a full-grown man, my father gave me one of those beatings
WKDWEUHDNR൵DELWRI\RXUVRXO7KHROGPDQZDVWDNLQJRXW
a whole day of frustrations on my back. Going at it hard as
he could with that whip when out of nowhere Maite appears
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leather face. She curses something at him and then drags me
with her to the silos. She says “don’t cry little man.” I’m
standing there in front of her, bleeding, shaking. And slowly,
YHU\VORZO\VKHWDNHVR൵P\VKLUW7KHQVKHVWDUWVWRKRVHPH
down. “Don’t cry, little man,” she says even when I had stop
crying. (Pause) Shit, after that, I followed her like a puppy. Too
old to be doing that and I know her parents had said something
to her. Well, because she was just divorced and with a kid and
well, it wasn’t proper. But she didn’t care and I didn’t care.
We went everywhere together. We... (Beat) One day, I guess it
was when her father found her the new husband. That day she
took me from cracking pecans, and... she just took me by the
river to this little wall the bank makes. She’d been crying. She
VDLG³WDNHR൵\RXUFORWKHVOLWWOHPDQ´2KPDQ,WRRNR൵P\
pants so fast. Almost fell in the water. She starts laughing
DQG WDNHV R൵ KHU GUHVV , KDYH QHYHU , KDYH QHYHU VHHQ
something more beautiful in my whole life. With that light
that day. With the sun on her. And all of her just standing there.
And me tangled on the ground with my fucking pants. She
says, “stay there, little man. You can look at me, but you can’t
touch.” So I freeze there. Looking. For I don’t know how long.
Then she pulls up her dress and runs. She ran so fast, so fast
that she left her sandals there. When I went up to the house to
give them to her the next morning they said she was gone. That
VKH¶GJRQHR൵WROLYHLQ0RQWHUUH\ZKHUHVKHZDVJRLQJWREH
married. Just like that, they took her away from me. (Pause)
Me and these trees, we’re the only ones who remember. Right
by that river there. Not far from the bank. “You can look, but
you can’t touch.”

THE END OF THE WORLD
Andrew Biss
Comic
Hank, 30s-50s
The End of the World is set predominantly in a bed

and breakfast establishment located somewhere in the
afterlife. While there, the play’s protagonist, Valen-
tine, meets a number of singularly unorthodox visitors
and fellow guests. Here, he is confronted by Hank, a
swaggering, bigger-than-life Texan who’s trying to
convince him to invest in an unusual business venture
he’s working on.
HANK
Okay, I’m just gonna spell it out for ya. I think it’s pretty clear
that in this day and age most everyone wants to talk and no one
wants to listen – specially if you’re the type to bore the pants
R൵DKHUGR¶FKLFNHQV,W¶VDEDVLFIXQGDPHQWDOKXPDQQHHGWR
be heard that we all share but no one gives a shit about. Am I
right? And that’s a demographic – a discontented demographic
– and a market share ripe for the pluckin’. Right? So here’s the
answer: We take people like you – nice enough in themselves,
but kinda bland on the whole…and they know it – these are
VPDUWVHOIDZDUHSHRSOHPLQG\RX±DQGZHR൵HUWKHPDWDQ
D൵RUGDEOHSULFHWKHRSSRUWXQLW\RIKDYLQJRQHRIRXUPHGLFDO-
O\FHUWL¿HGVXUJHRQV±IXOO\LQGHPQL¿HGPLQG\RX±LPSODQW
a small plasma TV screen into their foreheads that can receive
real-time feeds from some of the most popular cable television
networks available, right there into that useless empty space
above their eyebrows. (Beat.) Imagine it: You’re just itchin’
to impart all the tedious details of everything that’s hangin’
heavy on your mind to one of your co-workers at happy hour
in the local bar. They’re bracin’ themselves for an hour or two
of clenched teeth and thinkin’ to themselves “Won’t he ever
shut the hell up,” when suddenly, to their great surprise and de-
light, you produce a convenient palm-sized remote control that
gives them the freedom to choose between all the latest news
from CNN, up-to-the-minute action from ESPN, or a thought
provoking costume drama from your very own BBC, all at the
touch of a button. Meanwhile, you – all too aware of just how
disinterested your petty life concerns are to your captive au-
dience – can feel free to yak yourself into a frenzy as you bask
in the fully committed and rapt attention of your recipient’s
gaze. It’ a win-win situation!

ENTERPRISE
Brian Parks
Comic
Weaver, any age
Weaver is talking to a fellow businessperson as they

ORRNRXWWKHZLQGRZRIWKHLUR৽FH
WEAVER
/RRNDWWKLV7KLVYLHZIURPRXUR൶FHVRKLJKLQWKHVN\We
did this. Business built this view. That’s what business does.
Builds towers that reach into the atmosphere, towers with glass
entrances and soaring lobbies of polished marble, the fruit of
our greatest quarries! Elevator banks – elevator after elevator,
buttons ready to be pressed, each glowing with mystery. Who
knows what button 15 leads to, button 20, 50, or 85! Who was
WKHPDQZKRVHEUDLQ¿UVW¿UHGD1HROLWKLFV\QDSVHDQGWKRXJKW
of adding a VHFRQGÀRRU to his crude hut? Who took his eyes
R൵WKHKRUL]RQDQGORRNHGup$VHFRQGÀRRUWKHQDWKLUGD
fourth – till we get architects kissing the heavens with pointy
needles, then epic rectangles of glass. These architects were
geniuses, men with more talent in their silver mustaches than
WKHUHVWRIXVSXWWRJHWKHU9LVLRQVFDPHWRWKHPHGL¿FHVVR
tall they can be seen for miles, by grocers and mailmen, far-
mers looking up from their plows and wishing they could work
in them, away from their manure and poorly dressed wives.
And atop these skyscrapers they attach radio towers. Radio
waves throbbing to every horizon. But traveling upward, too
– into space! Through the ring of planets and great cold ether,
the dark void, speeding through the heavens and white-and-
orange galaxies, searching for anyone to receive their signal.
$Q\RQH7LOO¿QDOO\±¿QDOO\±WKH\KLWDSODQHWXQLPDJLQHG
by our best astronomers. A planet inhabited by creatures whose
bodies contain not a single element from our periodic table,
whose house pets resemble great balls of cottage cheese. But
a race besotted with the power of radio! Their landscapes clut-
tered with antennae, their homes ablaze with dials and knobs,
JDWKHUHG WRJHWKHU HYHU\ QLJKW ZLWK WKHLU R൵VSULQJ JOXHG WR
broadcasts from across their globe. And that’s how they’re
sitting the night their broadcast starts to crackle and hiss, then
turn to a kind of static, then into something they’ve never heard
before. They hear us! The consonants and vowels of their lan-
guage cannot describe it. But they know – they know they have
heard a sound from across space, from a vastly distant planet.
They know now they are QRWDORQH They hush those balls of
cottage cheese and listen to the signals and begin to quiver and
shake, then melt a little as they do when excited. They stand
and jump in celebration, hugging and melting on each other.
Then they go quiet and separate. They stand still and lift their
odd optic nerves toward the sky, to their heavens. They reach
out and clasp their...claspers, giving thanks for the sound co-
ming from their radio. A sound that started atop a skyscraper
– a country song about a pickup truck loaded with beer and
hope!

EVERYTHING IS WONDERFUL
Chelsea Marcantel
Dramatic
Jacob, late 40s-early 50s
Jacob, an Amish man, speaks to his daughter, Miriam,

who is thinking of leaving the community. She has
been sexually assaulted by her boyfriend, and the
rest of the community has forgiven him, but there is
QRPHFKDQLVPZLWKLQWKH$PLVKZRUOGIRUKHUWR¿QG
the closure she needs. The strain of this is hardening
Miri’s heart.
NOTE: “te” = “the.” “”Tat” = “that.”
JACOB
Forgiveness is te spine of life. If you cannot practice reconci-
liation, you put us all at risk. In Germany, and in Switzerland,
they persecuted us and martyred us. And now, here, they mock
us, close our schools, try to draft us for their wars, (pause)
kill and kidnap our children. And we forgive. Always,
we forgive. We do this te same way we do every-
thing. Gelassenheit. “Submission.” Submission is a bad
word to the English. Their lives are built around grabbin’
and holdin’ on. Our lives are not our own. We surrender
everything, from te moment we are born. (Beat) , VX൵HUHG
ZKDW\RXVX൵HUHGMXVWQRWLQWHVDPHZD\%XW,PXVWVXUUHQ-
der my right to revenge. I must surrender my right to anger
and resentment and self-pity. Bad things happen. They happen
quite a lot. And surrender is not te only way to move on. But it
is te way we know best. I wish I could show you an easier path,
but I have not found one. You must, you MUST let go of te
thing inside you tat makes you want to crush him. It’s a curse. I
DPWU\LQ¶WRWDNHWKLVKDUGQHVVR൵\RXUKHDUWJLUO(pause) For-
JLYHQHVVDQGUHFRQFLOLDWLRQDUHWZRGL൵HUHQWWKLQJV0LUL)RU-
giveness is a choice. It happens in an instant. Reconciliation is
a journey. It may take you the rest of your life. But forgiveness
PXVWFRPH¿UVW6SHDNIRUJLYHIRUJHW


Chelsea Marcantel
Dramatic
Eric, late 30s-early 40s
While driving impaired, Eric hit and killed two young

Amish men in a buggy. Instead of pressing charges,
the family has taken him in to work on their farm and
live in their barn. Eric speaks to Miriam, 25, the el-
dest daughter of the family, who was excommunicated
IURPWKH$PLVK¿YH\HDUVEHIRUH
ERIC
I drink. A lot. Alone. I mean, I’m quitting. I quit. I haven’t
had a drink since … I was on about day four of a bender and I
was just not disappearing the way I usually could. There was
still so much of me around. I got into my car. Just to drive
… just to try to outrun… the thing. I was driving for a long
time. Not speeding. Not being reckless. Hours. I had a full tank
when I started. I wasn’t really drunk then, at that point, but
I hadn’t slept in days. It was about 6:30. The sun was going
down. I was running out of gas. I thought to myself, ‘Well,
you’ll just run out of gas, and maybe you’ll just pull over
on the side of the road and stay there. What would you be
going back to if you turned around?’ I was close to here. I
didn’t know the place, but the sun was so nice. Nice colors. It’s
UHDOO\K\SQRWLFWRGULYHDURXQGKHUH7KHKLOOVDQGWKH¿HOGV
and… I didn’t feel happy right then, but I felt nothing. Finally.
:KLFKLVZKDW,ZDQWHG0\KHDGZDVJHWWLQJOLJKW/LIWLQJR൵
like a balloon. I felt myself fall asleep, and it felt so nice, and
I really didn’t care if I never woke up again. I drifted… then
my whole body exploded. I opened my eyes in a turned-over
car. And I thought, ‘you did it. You’re dead.’ I didn’t know
that anyone else was involved until I woke up in the hospital
the next day. (pause) They were just trying to get home before
dark. I wasn’t legally drunk when I ran up on the buggy. Just
tired. Legally, it was an accident, even though it was com-
pletely my fault. Your parents won’t press charges. That’s
why I came here, actually. I asked them to. And they forgave
me instead.


Chelsea Marcantel
Dramatic
Eric, late 30s-early 40s
While driving impaired, Eric hit and killed two young

Amish men in a buggy. Instead of pressing charges,
the family has taken him in to work on their farm and
live in their barn. Eric speaks to Jacob, the family’s
father, about what he has discovered about himself
during his short time on the farm.
ERIC
,OLNHWKHUHSHWLWLYHSK\VLFDOVWX൵,OLNHVOHHSLQJLQWKHEDUQ
I like living in my body, instead of my head. I like going to
sleep exhausted. And, AND, it’s been two weeks since I got
here and I don’t even think about drinking anymore. You
should be charging me for this. Really. I’ve been to lots of ex-
SHQVLYH UHKDE SODFHV WKDW ZHUHQ¶W KDOI WKLV H൵HFWLYH , UHDOO\
don’t want a drink, not at all. I do good work, and I can put
my hands on it. I can be in the same room as myself now,
and not need a distraction. It’s like I’ve been staring down a
long tunnel, at just one thing, but suddenly the tunnel is gone,
DQG,¶PORRNLQJDURXQGPHIRUWKH¿UVWWLPHLQ\HDUV%HIRUH
now, my whole life was just want, get, use, repeat -- day after
day after day. I can see the bigger picture now. This life is a
UHDO EOHVVLQJ 0D\EH WKH ¿UVW RQH ,¶YH HYHU KDG 7KLQJV DUH
simple here. It’s better. Rules mean something, because people
actually care about them.
(he begins to get really worked up, talking quickly)
And the whole issue of what it means to be a man! Ha! Don’t
even get me started. I look at myself, and I’m just so weak. But
I look at you and Abram and the others, and I think of your sons
— MEN. I’m going to do that. I’m going to be like that. The
work will make me into a man. I might lose all my hair one day,
I mean, I probably will lose all my hair, that’s hereditary, but I’ll
have SHOULDERS. I won’t be a coward. Not anymore. I won’t
be so afraid to fail that I don’t even try. Not anymore. Not now
that I know how to do it right, when everyone out there, eve-
ryone I used to know, is doing it wrong. (pause) I’ve been to
the top of Macchu Pichu. I’ve been to temples in Thailand. I
went to Catholic school for ten years. And I feel closer to God
sleeping in your barn than I ever have, anywhere else.


FAREWELL TO THE THEATRE
Richard Nelson
Dramatic
Harley Granville Barker, 39
Harley Granville Barker, all around man of the British

theatre, is contemplating leaving it all behind. He is
in Williamstown, Massachusetts visiting friends and,
possibly, looking for a teaching job. Here, he tells
a professor at Williams College his ideas about the
theatre.
HARLEY
No tricks. Nothing – “clever.” I’m not being clear. For
example, the Oberon. When he says he is invisible. I didn’t
KDYHKLPKLGHRUUXQR൵RUHYHQWXUQKLVEDFN7KHRWKHUDF-
tors just didn’t see him anymore. Simple. Do you see what
I mean? And I think that should be taught to students. Be
simple. And all that that says about stage design today. How
since really the late 17th century, the theatre has struck up
a rather doubtful alliance with scenic art and artists with a
capital A. And all the harm that has caused. We don’t need re-
volving stages, and switchboards, and overly fancy lighting. It
can be so much simpler than all of that. Someone should teach
them that, that’s all. If someone isn’t telling them in school,
if all they learn about is what they see in the theatre today,
most of which is rubbish. But we all know that. When plays
are kept going now for months merely as “the favour” of the
shirting hotel population. This is not what the theatre can be.
Must be. Once, at a public dinner, and old playwright – I won’t
say which one, he’s congratulated for the wonderful parts he’s
given actors. He stands up and shouts: “Parts! I do not create
parts! I create men and women!” That’s what I mean. That’s
what I’d teach, what they need to know. If they are really in-
terested in the theatre. Do you think your students would be
interested in learning that?


FATHERS AND SONS
Michael Bradford
Dramatic,
Marcus, late twenties, African-American
Marcus is talking to his wife, Yvette. It is almost a

week after the disappearance of their son, Stephen,
while he was in Central Park with Marcus. Yvette
cannot help but blame Marcus and in this moment is
about to leave to stay with family.
MARCUS
Together. That’s how we survive this. Together is what keeps
us sane in the midst of frogs and blood falling out of the sky,
and just ‘cause that ain’t possible don’t mean it won’t happen,
but we built a life on this rock between us, didn’t we? That’s
what you say to the one you lay down with when you give up
that thing that makes you … you put it in their hands and say
what I got for you is beyond love baby. I got crazy trust that
\RX ZLWK JXDUG WKLV OLNH WKH ¿IWK EDWWDOLRQ DQG \RX JLYH PH
yours and I will keep it like the Alamo and no man made or
natural disaster or otherwise can take this gift you gave me,
nothing but a decree from God and we ain’t even nowhere
close to being in a position the hear anything from God, perso-
nally … we just here for each other … and we might even go
toe to toe with God if it gets funky enough but that’s how it is
when you love. Yvette please. Hate me, if you can’t do nothing
else, hate me. But stay. Please.

FATHERS AND SONS
Michael Bradford
Dramatic
/HRQODWHIRUWLHV¿IWLHV$IULFDQ$PHULFDQ
Marcus and Leon, son and father respectively, are dis-

cussing their relationships with the women in the lives
and Marcus is challenging Leon’s version of his story.
Leon decides to instead speak to the core problem of
their relationship and why he is here now.
LEON
Every story got a little more to it than what you get in the
telling and it don’t matter who’s telling it. That’s how I know
it was me you was talking about. (Beat) That’s right, I read
your book. Surprised ain’t you? Your Aunt told me about it
and I got myself to one of those big book stores and found it.
Whatn’t hard. They had set it up in its own little space and I
said I’ll be damn! Look at my boy. I was so damn proud. And
they wouldn’t even let me pay for it. I had the money. But I
told ‘em you was my boy, pulled out your picture from when
you was in the service.
(He takes the picture from his wallet.)
The manager came over and gave me a copy. Just like that.
Couldn’t even wait till I got to the house to read it, I was trying
to look at it the car. Drove all up in the damn curb. You know
the last book I read? Hell I can’t even remember what it was.
(Beat) I know that was me you was writing about. First word
fell out of the man’s mouth, I knew it. And I knew I had to do
something, between me and you, ‘cause everything you said
about me, I said about my daddy. Everything I hated about that
PDQ,VHHQLWPHVHHPOLNHIRUWKH¿UVWWLPHZLWKWKDWERRNLQ

my hand. I said right then, my son ain’t burying me feeling like
,IHOWDERXWP\GDGG\%XW,FRXOGQ¶WSXWWKHVWX൵GRZQDQGLW
damn sho’ whatn’t putting me down. I swear I stayed straight
that whole time you was in Iraq, read John 3:16 every morning
for you son. And the day I heard you might be coming home
I thought, a little taste, to celebrate, might be alright and …
When your Aunt told me about your boy, that he was missing,
I knew it was time, do something worth something, help you
in any way I could.

FIREPOWER
Kermit Frazier
Dramatic
Neil, 27, African-American
In a Washington, D.C. motel room hoping to soon

meet his boyfriend T.C.’s father yet fearful that T.C. is
still reluctant to follow through, Neil tells T.C. about
WKH¿UVWWLPHKHYLVLWHG'&
NEIL
We were on the Mall near the Washington Monument. Us and
about a million other folks. And it was pretty hot for spring.
We’d been there most of the day. And man were we ever tired
and hungry. Starting to get all up in each other’s faces and shit.
And then somebody begged the teachers to take us to a real
mall so that we could at least be cool. Our teachers powwowed
while we just hung out. I was sorta in the back by myself as
usual. Never was one those class clowns, you know. Despite
what you might think. . . . Anyway, I’m just standing there
waiting when suddenly I catch the eye of this guy. He’s sta-
ring at me. A white guy. In his thirties maybe. Dressed like
a tourist. And when he sees that I’m seeing, he smiles at me.
And I’m thinking, shit, man, is this for real? But just then this
white woman, kinda dumpy, comes up to him holding a little
girl’s hand. And just like that it’s gone: the smile, the look,
the . . . whatever. All melted into the crowd. It was kinda like
it didn’t happen. He didn’t happen. Like I’d dreamed him up.
And when I came back to myself and turned around, my class
wasn’t there anymore. And you know what I did? I panicked,
man. Which was kind of stupid ‘cause, shit, I was 17 years
old, for God’s sake, not seven. But I still felt . . . abandoned.

That my classmates and teachers had deliberately ditched me.
I turned around and around like a damn spinning top, started
to get dizzy, to hyperventilate. And then pow, I saw them. That
LV,VDZ&DUULH¶VÀDPLQJDVVHGUHGKDLU%XWZKHQ,FDXJKWXS
to them it was like nobody had even missed me. Like it didn’t
really matter whether I was there or not.

FIREPOWER
Kermit Frazier
Dramatic
Eddie, 41, African-American
Having shown up unannounced on his old girlfriend

Joanne’s doorstep after a nearly 20-year absence, Ed-
die tries to explain himself to her.
EDDIE
Yeah, I’ve changed. Changed a hell of a lot. And like I said,
and it’s the God’s honest truth, I really, really missed you. The
ZKROHWLPH$IWHUWKDW¿UVWVXPPHUEDFNKRPHZKHQZHGLG
all those things, made all those plans, I went back out to Ca-
lifornia and got too wrapped up, swallowed up. It wasn’t like
I didn’t think about you a lot. It was more like I was working
so hard to keep my ass from drownin’. And it was like Eddie
this and Eddie that. Eddie, Eddie, Eddie. Then Melinda got
pregnant and I thought getting married was the right thing to
do. Get married, have the kid, be a man. And then tryin’ to go
pro with a family in tow. Rocket for an arm just like my dad,
and they want me to play some scat back defense like all I was
was legs and moves. And then my damn knee went out. Twice.
And suddenly I’m expendable. Gotta get me a regular-assed
job. And I looked around and saw how white my world had
become. Found myself spending more and more time with the
brothers in South Central. Cracked my marriage wide open.
But I couldn’t come back home. I was too ashamed. Tail
between my legs like some ole beaten down performing mon-
key. Besides, you were hitched and gone yourself by then. So
I just gradually booked on out of the country to Canada, then
Morocco, then across Gibraltar to Spain. Odds and ends in

Spain. Hell, you’d be surprised how easy it is to slip into this
image of yourself as some sorta sapped-out expatriate. Some
beat-down writer or some jazz musician who’d hocked his
horn. Or better yet some black power burnout. Especially with
my Eldridge Cleaver goatee. And now . . . back home.

FIREPOWER
Kermit Frazier
Dramatic
George, 64, African-American
Having come home late and in a drunken state even

though he’s just begun radiation treatment for
prostate cancer, George, former football star and
now Washington, D.C. city council person, speaks
WRKLV\RXQJ¿DQFpH/L]²DVZHOODVWRKLVWZRDGXOW
sons, Eddie and T.C.
GEORGE
I’ve been sitting down in that bar all evening, Liz. . . . Anacos-
tia. Shoot, I came up there. Lotta folks did. Had me a rocket
for an arm, too. Do you know what it’s like to have a rocket
for an arm and then all of a sudden not be allowed to use it?
$OO WKDW ¿UHSRZHU DQG QRZKHUH WR DLP LW &DQ \RX LPDJLQH
how much it hurts? Your arm getting hot and heavy like it was
some kind of sealed up cannon just aching to explode. You
know, when I was younger—not that much younger, mind you
‘cause I ain’t that old. But when I was younger I’d sometimes
dream my right arm was so humongous I couldn’t even lift it.
It’d get bigger and bigger and bigger until it’d sorta push the
rest of me right on outta the bed. Plop. It’s a wonder it didn’t
MXVWUROHRQR൵WKHEHGDQGFUXVKPHWRGHDWK$PDQ¶VJRWWDEH
DEOHWRXVHZKDWKHKDVER\V8VHZKDWHYHU¿UHSRZHUKHKDV
Your mother knew that, rest her sweet soul. Alma understood
where I was coming from. Always understood. But it seems
like y’all don’t seem to know it all of a sudden. f you ever
did. Just look at you. The two of you. But where’s my daugh-
ter, my little girl? Where’s Kathy? How come she ain’t here?

Bet you understand that. Know about that. (Pause) Armstrong
High School. Yeah, baby, I was the “Strong Arm of Arms-
trong.” I was it at Armstrong, just like my brother had it going
on in his head at Dunbar. As for Anacostia High right nearby?
Well, you see, white folks claimed it was much to “high” for
us coloreds back in the day. Private homes, though. We had
us some private homes. Middle class. Ole Frederick Douglass
looking over us up on Cedar Hill. And when integration came
along we showed’em, didn’t we, Alma? Showed’em how we
could spread out, make it out. And now they wanna be squee-
zing the rest of us outta that good ole housing stock close in
town. Capitol Hill striving like hell to be a mountain. “Choco-
ODWH &LW\ PHOWLQJ LQ WKH QRRQGD\ VXQ RI JHQWUL¿FDWLRQ´ And
that damn Councilman Pierce having the nerve to condemn me
for compromising, for so-called “trading gay rights for hou-
sing rights.” Hell, I’ve got a right to trade on it. We been traded
on and traded on and traded on for far too long. So he better not
be gettin’ all up in my face like that. I do what’s right for black
folks. To hell with his queer ass. He and all his AIDS-spreadin’
constituents. Talkin’ about how I promised to stand with him.
:HOO,VWDQGZLWKEODFNIRONV¿UVW%ODFNIRONVDQGPRUDOLW\
Always have, always will.

FIREPOWER
Kermit Frazier
Dramatic
Eddie, 41, African-American
In frustration and anger, Eddie has just thrown his

FRPSOHWHGDXWRELRJUDSKLFDOPDQXVFULSWRQWRDFRৼHH
table in front of his accusatory father, George.
EDDIE
You wanna know why? You wanna know who, what, when,
ZKHUH DQG KRZ" ,W ZDV LQ P\ KHDG IRU VR ORQJ 6WX൵HG DOO
up in there. Pounding, taking up space, sucking up oxygen,
keeping me awake all night and then sending me crashing
down. Like some sorta . . . hallucinogen. Like when I’d do
mescaline back in the day. Tripping for hours that seemed like
seconds and then sleeping for more hours that stretched on like
days. The glaring sun, then the stars and the moon. Over and
over and over again like a cycle that never seemed to wanna
take me along with it. And I’d pace up and down and up and
GRZQZKDWHYHUFRQ¿QHZKDWHYHUOLWWOHURRPZKDWHYHUVSDFH
I’d secured, commandeered, carved out of someone else’s
place—some woman’s, or even some admiring guy’s. Me. The
H[SDWULDWHWKHEODFNSRZHU¿JXUHPDQTXp6KLWWKHSRZHUOHVV
¿JXUHMXVWEODFNDQGORVWLQDVWULQJRIFLWLHVWRZQVYLOODJHV
a badgering bunch of foreign languages taunting me, teasing
me. Languages which I never studied, didn’t have to study,
‘cause in school I was so cool, a star athlete just like you, Dad.
Until suddenly, one night in some dim light in, in, shit, I don’t
know. Switzerland, I think, the pressure had built up so much
I was either gonna die right there or let it out, open up some
hidden door and just let it all pour. And I took up this pen and

grabbed this pad I’d been using to calculate my expenses, my
DOORWPHQWIRUWKHGD\P\¿JXULQJRXWKRZPXFK,ZDVJRQQD
have to beg, borrow, or steal to get through to the next night,
and I wrote . . . I fuckin’ wrote in big bold capital letters: “I
SEE DC.”

FOMO
Rhea MacCallum
Comic
Jack, late 30’s and up.
Jack panics when he realizes that his wife, Ellie, is

mentally spiraling into a deep funk after spending too
much time exploring social media websites.
JACK
Oh, no. No-no no-no. This can’t be happening. Not now. You’re
not due for your next existential crisis for another three weeks.
I’m not prepared. If you’re going to melt down on me I need to
go to the grocery store. There’s no ice cream in the house. No
cupcakes. Is your favorite bathrobe clean? Do I need to run a
load of laundry? Oh, God, laundry. I can do this. What do you
need? Are the Kardashians available on demand? What about
The Housewives? Or Million Dollar Listing":HFDQ1HWÀL[
Love Actually/ Would you like to sit through your millionth
viewing of Love Actually? You love it when Hugh Grant starts
dancing. I can set you up with your favorite movie butter
popcorn and the foot massager so you can catch some Nati-
vity Lobster and Billy Bob Thornton as President while I run to
the store. What was it that pulled you out of the last funk? Was
it the Chunky Monkey or the Cherry Garcia? Or both? I’ll buy
both. Just in case. Why be frugal when it could spell disaster.
Should I light a candle before I go? Where’s your relaxation
FDQGOH")DPLO\URRP"%DWKURRP"1HYHUPLQG,¶OO¿QGLW2U
something like it.

FOMO
Rhea MacCallum
Comic
Jack, late thirties and up
Jack tries to convince his wife, Ellie, to make life deci-

sions for herself based on her own true desires versus
the social media activity of others.
JACK
Friends? I don’t know most of the people you’re talking
about. Can you really call them your friends? They’re ac-
quaintances, maybe. Former friends, okay. Former colleagues,
former classmates. People who were part of your life at some
point but aren’t anymore. Not really. You don’t spend any
time with them, live and in person. This social media thing,
it’s not natural. It keeps you connected to people who would
have otherwise faded away from your life. And it’s not like
you really know what’s going on in their lives. You’re only
getting the highlight reel of accomplishments and vacations,
the things they want you to know about but it’s an incomplete
picture. There’s so much more to living than what people post
online. Don’t you remember what the world was like before
social media? When if you wanted to catch up with a friend
you called and heard their voice or grabbed a drink after work
together? That was friendship. You made time for each other.
Made plans with each other. Hung out and ate and listened to
one another and connected, really connected. If it wasn’t for
social media do you really think you’d even know what was
going on with half of those people? You’d maybe see them
HYHU\¿YH\HDUVDWDUHXQLRQDQGWKDWZRXOGEHHQRXJK2XU
parents, our grandparents, they never tried to stay connected
to everyone they ever met. It’s too much. Life is too busy to
even try to keep up with every random person from your past.
If you haven’t talked to someone since elementary school why
are you letting social media drag them into your present day
life? So… so what if someone’s a grandma again or goes on
vacation or out to eat or whatever? That’s great for them, but
you shouldn’t let it affect you like this. If you want to do
something, then let’s talk about it. Let’s do it, but let’s
do what we want to because we want to and not because
someone you knew once did it and posted it online. Okay?

FRIENDLY’S FIRE
John Patrick Bray
Dramatic
Todd, late 20s
Todd is dressed as an astronaut ready for SciFi night

with his best buddy, Guy Friendly. Guy, a “bee-herder”
VXৼHULQJ IURP 376' DIWHU D WRXU RI GXW\ LQ WKH ¿UVW
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desperately trying not to relive the last moments of his
brother’s life. His imagination, something he never
bothered with, is starting to run wild. Todd attempts
to talk Guy through his darkest hour.
TODD
The way I see it, life is entirely imagination. You know? It’s
why I never cared about getting rich. Never meant anything.
Imagination gets us through the rough patches. You know? TV,
PRYLHV«JDPHVLQWKH\DUG"$OOWKDWNLGVWX൵7KDWZDVJUHDW
My favorite thing was to play gangsters. Al Capone. I had a
toy Tommy Gun and everything. There was a girl who was a
tomboy that lived across the street. Wore overalls. She always
wanted to be Frank Nitti. She did a neat impression of the guy
on the old Robert Stack TV show. We grew apart a bit in high
school – that’s just life. She started listening to loud music she
FRXOGGDQFHWR,ZHQWLQIRUUDGLRFRQWUROVWX൵FDUVKHOLFRS-
ters…other things. Still have a bunch of them, too. So, anyway,
one night I’m out walking the dog, and I see her in the win-
dow. Her bedroom window. She’s getting undressed, and I’m
ORRNLQJDWKHU6KH¶VDERXWWRWDNHR൵WKLVEODFNEUD,GLGQ¶W
know what to do. I mean, her lights are on, I can see her. There
was a streetlight, so I stand right under it, and I…I clear my
throat. Loud. I do it again. She unhooks the bra from the back,
and I give a real loud cough. She turns and looks at me. I look
at her. I give her a little wave. The moment kind of suspends. I
don’t know what to do. She takes the bra…the rest of the way
R൵DQG,VHHKHU,VHHKHU6KHWXUQVR൵WKHOLJKWDQGGLVDS-
pears into darkness. I still have the light over me. You know
what happens next? That damn dog, “Sugar” mama named him,
a little Beagle Chihuahua Jack Russell mix; he lifts his leg and
pisses on my boot. I look down, and say “shit.” And I hear
laughing from the dark. I shout back “thanks, Nitti!” And walk
away. You know, I think that’s the reason I never got married.
I met the perfect girl way too young in life.


GUNPOWDER JOE
Anthony Clarvoe
Dramatic
Benjamin Franklin Bache, 30s
Fears of foreign terror are running high and the

president is enraged by his critics in the press.
Congress has passed a set of repressive laws, the
6HGLWLRQ$FWVLQDQHৼRUWWRVWLÀHGLVVHQW%HQMDPLQ
Franklin Bache (male, 30s), an outspoken newspaper
editor, has been arrested. As he is questioned by, and
is simultaneously trying to get some answers from, a
IHGHUDOR৽FLDOKHH[SORGHVDWWKHDEVXUGLW\RIKLVVL-
tuation.
BACHE
So, writing anything in opposition to the Sedition Act is a vio-
lation of the Sedition Act? If I write that the Sedition Act is
XQFRQVWLWXWLRQDO\RXUMXGJHZLOO¿QGWKDW,KDYHYLRODWHGWKH
Sedition Act. If I write that the Sedition Act is unwise policy, I
am questioning the wisdom of our leaders and I have violated
the Sedition Act. When I tried to publish the Congressional de-
bates about the Sedition Act, I was arrested for printing state-
ments criticizing the Sedition Act. I was quoting Congressmen
who are our leaders! If I write that the Sedition Act forbids me
to write that someone has criticized the Sedition Act, I have
violated the Sedition Act. That’s quite an act, that Sedition Act.
Good God, sir! Is it a crime to doubt the capacity of a Pre-
sident? Have we advanced so far on the road to despotism in
this country that we dare not say our President is mistaken?

HAPPY BIRTHDAY ADAM SCHWARTZ
Cary Gitter
Comic
Adam, 30
It’s his 30th birthday and Adam, a struggling actor,

has just been “broken up with” by his best friend, Liz,
and his boyfriend, Jerry, for being such a narcissist.
He suddenly stands up on a chair at the restaurant
they’re in and addresses the room.
ADAM
Ladies and gentlemen! Fellow diners! Good evening. I apo-
logize for interrupting your meals. My name is Adam Jacob
Schwartz. I am an actor. Today is my thirtieth birthday, and my
best friend, Liz, and my boyfriend, Jerry, have just broken up
with me. They say I’ve been self-obsessed, insensitive. Fine.
MAYBE THEY’RE RIGHT. But I wanna say this, to them
and to all of you: perhaps the world NEEDS people like me.
Perhaps you need neurotic, witty, attention-starved Jews to
stress you out, to make you laugh, to remind you you’re alive.
What would we do if we had only responsible, professional
adults? Or sweet, handsome dolts? Our culture as we know it
would perish. So for the excitement and humor I try to bring
you, I say: you’re welcome. And for your failure to honor it, I
forgive you.
(He makes a grand gesture of absolution.)
As for me: I’m going to keep auditioning! I’m going to get my
big break! And one day I will share the Golden Light of My Per-
sonality and Talent with All the World. MY NAME IS ADAM
SCHWARTZ. HAPPY FUCKING BIRTHDAY TO ME.


HOW ALFO LEARNED TO LOVE
Vincent Amelio
Comic
Tony, 40
Tony Vallone tells Alfo Idello, his childhood friend,

that marriage is not as complicated as it seems. Alfo
desperately needs advice to get married in order to
inherit the family bakery.
TONY
Marriage is like . . . eatin’ pizza. You’re sitting at home with
nothing to eat - you start thinking about pizza cause your sto-
mach’s empty but your head’s full. So you order a pie cause
you weren’t getting any – and when you’re not getting any you
GUHDPWR¿OO\RXUKHDG6R\RXJLYHWKHGHOLYHU\JX\DWHQGRO-
lar tip cause this pizza’s gonna change your life! You eat three
slices. Now your head is empty and your stomach is full. You
JRW¿YHVOLFHVOHIWRYHUWKDWZRQ¶WOHDYH\RXUKRXVH<RXFDQ¶W
throw ‘em away cause you’re not a killer. You can’t give ‘em
away. And selling ‘em makes you a pizza pimp. But then you
realize . . . you like having the pizza around . . . it’s your pizza.
So you start to take care of it. You wrap each slice in aluminum
foil. You put each slice in the back of the fridge to keep it fresh.
You check on ‘em before you go to bed. Then in the morning,
you got cold pizza for breakfast. And it’s good – it’s not the
best pizza of your life – it’s not toe-tingling, mind-blowing,
make-me-scream pizza. It’s good decent pizza. But it’s there
for you. It was there at night to put you to bed and it’s there
in the morning to wake you up. It’s your pizza - - and you can
deal with that. That’s marriage!

HUNGARIAN COMEDY
Susan Cinoman
Dramatic
Baysha, 30-40, a Gypsy
Baysha has broken into the home of Angala, a farm

woman, alone in her house. He has been watching
Angala for a while now, and has designs on both her
and her house, which, through mysterious means, he
knows belong to him. In this monologue, Baysha ex-
plains to Angala how he has become a lost soul in
need of something that he contrives for her to give
him. He tells her the story of his friend, who had been
left in his care, and died. The speech is part lamenta-
tion, part seduction.
BAYSHA
Have you ever been so close to someone that you didn’t know
where you stopped and the other began? That’s how it was
for me and my friend. He was like a brother... a little brother
to me. Like a child, an innocent child. I had known him since
I myself was a boy. We were messy un-scrubbed children to-
gether, just the type that you wouldn’t want in your house. It’s
not the point, really... what I mean is when you have something
like this in your life, this closeness, this responsibility and then
it’s gone... it changes something about you. It leaves a hole.
$QGPD\EH\RXMXVWZDQGHUDURXQGDLPOHVVO\WU\LQJWR¿OOWKDW
hole or trying to just forget that hole. But it’s there—that hole.
It’s just always there. And even if you’re happy or drinking
or rich or wounded there’s this small feeling that your friend,
your reason for doing things, is gone. Sometimes you’re even
nervous that you’ve forgotten your friend because you’re
feeling free or making love to a beautiful farm girl but then
something reminds you that yes... he’s gone. And you wish

and believe that he’s somewhere else, that he’s being taken
care of, but you’re not sure. You’re just not really sure. You
don’t want me to feel pain because you’ve come to like me
and I’ve come to like you. And you know me only just a little.
Think of how much I would do to protect my friend who I like
so much and knew for so long. Think of how I’d try to right
any wrong that was done to my friend when he was alive. He
expected me to protect him and I didn’t. He’s gone. And I’m
here with you. And there are things that I’m supposed to be
doing and I’m not. Maybe I’m not very good at anything. It
doesn’t matter anymore. Maybe no wrong was really done.
Maybe he just got sick and died. Just like that. I came here to
avenge him. I came here to kill a farmer! To rape a farmer’s
wife! But I was cold. And hungry. And I’ve decided that I like
you. And I want you. You see?


HUNGARIAN COMEDY
Susan Cinoman
Dramatic
Baysha, 30-40, a gypsy
After spending the night with Angala, Baysha confesses

to her his original plan for her. He then informs her of
how his plan has changed and reveals his true nature.
He assures Angala that he could never have done her
any harm and, much to his own surprise, his true wish
is to marry her and be with her forever.
BAYSHA
Look, I wanted revenge when I came here. I wanted to
ravage the farmer’s wife and make the farmer feel small, like
they make us feel. In my mind, I wanted to kill a farmer! But,
I ouldn’t do it. How could I ever do that? I’m not a killer. I
planned things carefully in my own spontaneous way. I was at
the bar, out of funds, feeling angry, very angry. I’d seen you
in the market in the town. Smelling things likes cheeses and
squeezing things like lemons. You were all wound up like a
top. I wandered back to this house, my house. I thought I could
almost hear the cries of my poor, slow, innocent friend. As he
died. When I couldn’t get him to a decent hospital... He cried
out. “Avenge me!” That’s what I thought he said. So I knocked
on your door, acting just like you thought a murderous, lunatic,
frightening gypsy would be! I wanted to scare you! And then
I just wanted you! You understand? But I was wrong about
what my poor friend called out to me. He didn’t say, “Avenge
me”... he said, “Angala. Angala.” The thing I never planned
to happen, did. I fell in love with you. You see? Love is mys-
terious! We started out as foreign to each other as the stars to
WKHHDUWK%XWQRWDQ\PRUH:HFDQEHRXUVHOYHV¿QDOO\,¶P
actually quite tame. Life will be good. Yes, there will be bills.

And laundry. I can be a pig! Like any man! I like to watch foot-
ball, I’m not that unusual! We’ll make a permanent situation of
this. You, my wife. I’ve never been very legal up to now, but
sometimes a man has to face the facts. He mates for life. And
he signs a piece of paper to do it. And what’s more, the paper
costs him a fee collected by the state. What a turn of events!


IZZY
Susan Eve Haar
Seriocomic
Ned, 38
Ned, son of the tyrannical Izzy, addresses his father

who is allegedly on his death bed. Liberated to say
what he has always felt, Ned lets loose. But Izzy isn’t
going down that easy. Ned and his sister Denise strug-
gle to get something, anything from their father. They
are going to get Izzy’s blessing even if they have to
give it to themselves.
NED
It’s my thirty eighth birthday, Dad.
(imitating IZZY’s voice)
“Happy birthday to you, Ned!”
Thanks, Dad. Or maybe you’d say, “Happy birthday to you,
VRQ´WKDW¶VDOLWWOHPRUHD൵HFWLRQDWH:RZ,IHHOVRJRRG
(He laughs.)
Well, this is it. The beginning of a new life. Yeah. It’s kind of
scary, Dad, and yet it’s kind of great. Now I can do things--
travel, if I want to. Wow. Maybe go to Hawaii. You used to
say there were women there with nipples like chocolate moons
LQ+DZDLLီ12025(&+2&2/$7(02216)25<28
DAD! Cause it’s my turn now and I’m not going to fuck it up.
Wow. You don’t look so good, Dad. I guess it shows in the end
-- what you do. And Dad, you’ve been greedy. Oh yes. And it’s
not nice to be greedy. It leaves you bloated and old, and wrin-
kled like an elephant scrotum. And dead. But you’re not quite
dead, are you, Dad? Not yet. YOU MADE ME WAIT, YOU
OLD BASTARD! Well, I have been waiting thirty eight years

for my life. I have been reading comic books and smoking
weed and just waiting for my life to begin. IT’S MY TURN
NOW!
(shouting in IZZY’s ear)
ARE YOU SLEEPING, DAD? HAVING SWEET DREAMS?
You were not a good dad, Dad. Not that I don’t admire you.
You were a great man, a man who employed thousands of
workers. Even if most of them were Chinese political priso-
ners. And Dad, you had it all. You earned it, or cheated, or
stole it. BUT, YOU SUCKED THE LIFE OUT OF ME, YOU
FUCKING VAMPIRE! DIE!

KISS
Guillermo Calderón
Dramatic
Youssif, 20s-30s
In this over-the-top monologue, Youssif is expressing

his love for Hadeel in order to make fun of the melo-
dramatic style the play is criticizing.
YOUSSIF
I just I want to be part of you, Hadeel. And I know that you
love Ahmed… but let me tell you... It is totally human to love
two men at the same time. Try to love the two of us. You know
what I’m talking about. You can love two men at the same
time. You can. The heart is a big muscle and yours is bigger
than normal. I know. And it happens to a lot of women. They
are in love with one man and then one day they meet another
man and they don’t know why but they hate him. Why? Be-
cause they secretly like him. And that is the beginning of a
second love. They feel it’s treason. But they can’t stop. They
FDQ¶W7KH\ORYHWZRGL൵HUHQWPHQ$QGWKHQQDWXUDOO\WKHUH
will be broken hearts, screams, tears, even blood, the same old
story. But, Hadeel… listen…. even if you love him you have
every right to choose the man who really makes you happy.
Not the one who promises you a wonderful future but the one
who shows you happiness here and now. And that man is me.
You know that. I’ve seen it in your eyes. Right now you can
despise me. You can even hate me. But that’s just the begin-
ning of something… You have two loves right now. I know
it. Choose me, Hadeel… Choose me. Forgive me for being so
honest. I just want you to be my wife.


L’APPEL DU VIDE
Molly Kirschner
Dramatic
Quentin, 18
Quentin, a college freshman, is speaking to his new

roommate, Simon. He has spent the last several minutes
trying to convince Simon that the whole room belongs
to him, Quentin, as he needs a medical single, and
insisting on putting up a poster of Nietzsche, much
to Simon’s horror. After assuring Simon that Simon’s
SHUVRQDOLW\ LV ³ÀDFFLG DQG ZRPHQ DUHQ¶W DWWUDFWHG
to that,” Quentin continues to assert his dominance
over Simon, describing his own great successes with
women.
QUENTIN
We’re roommates. We gotta help each other out. I’m just trying
to show you as much of the ropes as I know. Which isn’t a
whole lot, I’ll admit. But once I liked a girl. Yeah. In high
school. Elissa. She was on the model UN team. I think she
was also a model. If she wasn’t she shoulda been. Anyway I
used to pick white and purple violets for her. I’d tape them to
her locker. Sometimes dandelions. I think she liked it because
after a while she caught on and started smiling at me in the
hallways. But then winter came and there weren’t any more
ÀRZHUVEXW,GLG¿QGWKLVGHDGEDE\VQDSSLQJWXUWOHVR,WDSHG
that to her locker. And she acted all weird about it. Like she
stopped smiling and even looking at me in the hallway even
though she obviously saw me. And one day I saw her and be-
fore she could breeze by me I said, “Hey, Elissa! What’s your
problem?” She didn’t say anything so I explained to her that
WKHÀRZHUVZHUHalso dead they were just better

smelling. I didn’t kill that baby snapping turtle, but I did kill
WKRVHÀRZHUV)ORZHUVGRQ¶WGLHZKHQWKH\GU\WKH\GLHDVVRRQ
DV\RXSLFNWKHP$IWHUWKDWVKHGLGQ¶WDFWDQ\GL൵HUHQWEXW,
could tell she realized I was right. She went to the prom with a
jock who was a jerk. Anyway, I’d never go out with a girl who
GLGQ¶WJHW1LHW]VFKH,PHWKLP¿UVW$QGWKHWKLQJ\RXYHJDQV
don’t get or have an impossible time digesting is that plants are
conscious and you have to kill to live.

THE LAYOVER
Leslye Headland
Dramatic
Dex, late 30s – early 40s
'H[¶V ÀLJKW KDV EHHQ FDQFHOOHG GXH WR LQFOHPHQW

weather and he can’t get out of O’Hare Airport until
tomorrow morning. The airline has put him up in a
hotel for the night. Here, he confesses to the woman
who was sitting next to him on the plane that he had
a revelation about her before they got on the plane.
DEX
I lied to you. I saw you. Before we got on the plane. I saw
you at the gate. Waiting to board. Everyone around you was
so busy. Keeping themselves busy. And you... you were
staring at nothing in particular. No book. No phone. You
looked--Misunderstood. Like a profoundly misunderstood
person. And, I know this doesn’t make any sense, but as I
was standing there, looking at you, I skipped to the part of
the story where we already knew each other. And I was the
person who knew you best in the world. I could identify eve-
U\ ÀLFNHU LQ \RXU SXSLOV HYHU\ VOLJKW FKDQJH LQ \RXU PRRG
Detect it as you felt it. Anticipate every rise and fall of your
chest. I was suddenly that person for you. There have been
many times when I could’ve stopped this. Conversation. Many
times I could’ve exited gracefully. And no matter how, I guess,
“right” it would’ve been to walk away... there was... a nagging
feeling I had... Why can’t I be that person right now. Please
look at me real quick.
(she does)
Oh man. So... do you believe... that without knowing me... I
could be that person? Just for tonight. I don’t want to spend
years growing close then drifting apart. I want to be the one
who knows you. Right now.

THE LAYOVER
Leslye Headland
Dramatic
Dex, late 30s-early 40s
'H[LVWU\LQJWR¿QGDZRPDQZDVVLWWLQJQH[WWRKLPRQ
a plane, with whom he had a one-night stand during
a weather-induced layover. She then disappeared. He
KDVWULHGWR¿QGKHUEXWKDVOHDUQHGWKDWHYHU\WKLQJ
she told him about herself was a lie. He is speaking
to a private detective he has hired to locate her. Since
Dex is engaged to be married, the detective has asked
KLPZK\KHZDQWVWR¿QGKHUZKDWKLVHQGJDPHLV
DEX
I can remember everything she said that night. And those
things repeat. In my head. Over and over. Like the lyrics to a
song. So even though she’s not a part of my life... she. Is. Now.
You know? On a very real unconscious level. It’s like compart-
ment syndrome. It’s when... if you injure yourself, you know,
KXUWRUWZLVWRUVSUDLQ\RXUDUPRU\RXUOHJDQGDW¿UVW\RX
don’t think there’s anything wrong cuz there’s no external da-
mage. So you don’t go to the doctor. ‘Cuz you don’t think you
need to. But with compartment syndrome, blood has stopped
going to the muscles and nerves in the injured limb. And then
this pain begins. It’s so, uh, slight. It sets in like a dull hum and
builds steadily and stealthily into this deep constant pain. But
with no external damage to point to... the pain... seems like
it’s only in... your... head. But if you don’t treat it, you have to
amputate the limb. (pause) So I guess, yeah. I’m trying to treat
it. That’s my endgame. The symptoms I’m experiencing... Not
love but pain. It’s exquisite. And so out of proportion to the ini-
WLDOLQMXU\LWOHDGVPHWREHOLHYHWKDWVRPHWKLQJVLJQL¿FDQW
is happening to me.

LE DERNIER REPAS
David Eliet
Dramatic
Louis, mid 30s-mid 40s
He is speaking to Robert. They are both French chefs.
LOUIS
There was this girl sitting all by herself at a table on the other side
of the room, twenty-three, twenty-four, maybe a bit younger, a bit
older. Very pretty in a plain unadorned way, dark sad eyes. One
of the German refugees clinging to the shore, staring across the
ocean towards inaccessible freedom, with the enemy crowding
in on their backs – our backs. There was a small orchestra,
locals I suppose. Not very good by any standard, keeping to-
gether and in time was about the best they could manage. I got
up, walked across the room and asked the girl if she wanted to
dance. I’d never done anything like that before, just gone up
to a total stranger and asked them if they wanted to dance. No,
I was always too shy, too afraid of rejection, I guess. “Made-
PRLVHOOHZRXOG\RXFDUHWRGDQFH"´$W¿UVWVKHUHMHFWHGP\
R൵HUPHUHO\VKDNLQJKHUKHDG³QR´6KHSUREDEO\WKRXJKW,
was some aging lothario. Unasked, I assured her I was a mar-
ried man with a daughter of my own, not much younger than
herself, and that I had no ulterior motives, that I simply wanted
to dance, just one dance and then I would be leaving. She he-
sitated, staring down at her plate, like she was trying to move
the food around by sheer mental concentration – pot au feu,
as I recall. Finally, maybe because she was afraid I’d never
JRDZD\VKHDJUHHGWR³RQHGDQFH´$W¿UVWZHZHUHERWKD
bit shy and awkward, and to speak truthfully, she was not a
good dancer. But after a few minutes we were managing to
PRYHDFURVVWKHÀRRUZLWKDELWRIJUDFH,KHOGKHUORRVHO\VR
as not to frighten her. she told me she was living not far from

there with her grandfather, that her parents were in Holland.
She said she was a painter, that she was painting her life story,
DQG ZDV VWD\LQJ DW WKH KRWHO WU\LQJ WR ¿QLVK XS WKH WDVN VKH
had set herself, while there was still time. She was twenty-
three, twenty-four, and she was painting her life story, as if
her life had already reached its climax. And I wondered, even
LIVKHPDQDJHGWR¿QLVKLWZKRZRXOGWKHUHHYHUEHWRUHDG
it, to gaze upon those pictures and piece her story together?
And even if they did, what would they understand? How could
anyone ever understand what it was like to be twenty-three or
twenty-four, and to know your life was over, and not because
of any sickness of the body, but simply because you had been
designated as “other,” without the least bit of interest in who
you are, what you are, what talents you might possess, what
qualities as a human being, what dreams or aspirations live
in your soul, what memories in your mind, what loved ones
hold you dear. No, it’s not comprehensible. How can anyone
understand that? Near the end of the dance, she rested her head
RQ P\ VKRXOGHU DQG ¿QDOO\ VXUUHQGHUHG WR WKH PXVLF WR P\
leading. For a brief moment, very brief, we moved as one, this
young girl and I, this sad young girl standing on the edge of the
abyss looking down at the end of her life. And I could feel her,
I could feel her entire being melting into mine with everything
else fading away. It was one of the most perfect moments I
have ever experienced in my life.

LES FRÉRES
Dramatic
Fedji, 30, Haitian-American
Inspired by Loraine Hansberry’s Les Blancs, Les

Fréres tells the story of three estranged brothers of
Haitian descent, who come home to Harlem for their
IDWKHU¶V¿QDOGD\V7URXEOHGPHPRULHV¿OOHGZLWKDQ-
ger and abuse come rushing back as they deal with
their father’s death. They are forced to deal with how
each choose to deal with memories, how each have
escaped, feelings of abandonment, betrayal and loss.
This speech is delivered by the oldest brother Fedji,
as he and his brothers catch up after years apart, he
tells them about his work as a Jehovah Witness Elder,
working in the community.
FEDJI
,WHDFK$IULFDQ6WXGLHV1RWVRVXUSULVLQJ1RWKLQJGL൵HUHQW
really. It’s all teaching. Just that, when I’m an Elder, I teach
a congregation. My own congregation. I’m in and about the
community, investigating matters in the community, a lot of
our own people, but it’s black, white, Indian, Asian, you name
it. And… I decide disciplinary actions. You see, my brother
is blessed. He’s in Harvard. But I teach brothers, just like
you. Men - not so blessed. Incarcerated in Bayview, Lincoln,
Rikers… They don’t have better. They don’t know better.
Some from Haiti, Puerto Rico, Dominican Republic… I teach
them the healing words of Yahweh. I share the word with these
young and old men. Men who occupy dark jails, live in self-
imposed prisons, live in stark hospitals and facilities… Some
are drug abused. Hiding their pain. Some sitting on street cor-
ners. Some right out there, on St. Nich.

(as he gestures to the outside).
Just last month, a young brother, Malcolm, he’s been in jail
more years than out… He’s 18 years old! A child, really. Still,
a child of God. Not much younger than Christophe. Serv-
ing life for ¿UVWGHJUHHPXUGHU. His family came to me, they
said, Elder Ewens, “He’s a thug! A disgrace! A menace to our
community.” You know what? I recently, I baptized him as
one of Jehovah’s Witnesses. Now, he knows the love of Yah-
weh and recognizes the scourge of his pasts. Praise Jehovah!
I am a witness to the courage of these men. I didn’t see much
of that before I became an Elder. Courage. Of Men. The life-
changing power of the Bible is outstanding. My desk - my
ZDOOVDUHSDSHUHG7KH\DUHIXOORIFHUWL¿FDWHVDQGDZDUGVIRU
the work we do. For men like Malcolm.

LOOK AT ME (RUFF, RUFF)
C.S. Hanson
Seriocomic
Omar, 21
Omar, a journalism student in college, talks to his for-

mer middle-school teacher whom he wants to inter-
view for a news story.
OMAR
I have never forgotten you. I used to dream about you at
night. . . . At night. During the day. All the time. Mrs.
Shepherd, you changed my life. I used to fall asleep at night
thinking of your classroom, dreaming that all the books were
mine. I could hear the sound of your voice speaking perfect
English and I pretended that you were near me. I don’t want to
interview anyone else. You’re the woman who opened up my
world. The Mrs. Shepherd that I’ve never forgotten. You were
GL൵HUHQW IURP WKH RWKHUV 7KHUH ZDV QR RQH OLNH \RX <RX
were -- you are -- a woman who wears nice clothes. Especially
now. This is how you dress in your home! . . . You must never
change. I’ll never forget how, whenever I whispered in class,
you would stand beside me – And when you did, you smelled
like springtime -- a scent that I later learned was Chanel No. 5.
I was a middle school boy whose mother was still in Mexico
City and I used to pretend that you were my mother. I’d see
billboards advertising Chanel and they always made me think
of you.

LOS SAMARITANOS
Dramatic
Denver, early 30s, Mexican-American
Denver is speaking to his pregnant wife Rosa.

While he tries to convince her to pack up and move
WR&DOLIRUQLDKH¿QGVRXWWKDWQRWRQO\KDVKLVJDV
station been robbed, but 10 illegals were found hid-
den in the shed behind the station. Does Rosa know
DQ\WKLQJDERXWWKLV":KDWHOVHPLJKWVKHEHKLGLQJ"
DENVER
We all agreed. They pass through once a month. Lately, it’s
been getting more frequent. More frequent means more dan-
gerous for you and me. We can’t risk that. Now look at what’s
happened! And 10 of them Rosa! What the hell!? We have an
agreement. If we don’t stick to the agreement, nobody’s safe.
I’ve got to go down to the fucking precinct. Rosa, what am I
JRLQJWRVD\"'RQ¶W\RXWKLQNWKH\¶UHJRLQJWR¿JXUHRXW,ZDV
hiding ten illegals in that shed? What am I going to say, Rosa?
And you and Monte pick a night that we get robbed. On the
same night! Why did Bloom take them to the precinct? Let’s
hope he just pack their asses up and send them back across the
border. ‘Cause God help them if he accuses them of stealing
that money. Ten grand. I got there this morning, found Manny
RQWKHVRIDWLHGXSKDGSHHGLQKLVSDQWVDQGWKHEDFNR൶FH
turned upside down. They broke into the safe box and took
all the money from the week. I straightaway called the police.
Called Old Man Beaver. We waited till the police got there.
They didn’t even go near the shed. Tavo’s right, Sgt. Bloom’s a
damn Sherlock Holmes and Pink Panther rolled into one. He’s
a fucking ninja! … Now this. I don’t know. With all that’s been

going on in town lately, it could be anybody. Folks are pissed
R൵ 7KH\¶UH VFDUHG /RRWLQJ /RRWLQJ WKHLU RZQ QHLJKERUV
Getting desperate. And losing jobs. I don’t know. It’s probably
some gang.I got to go back to the station.

LOS SAMARITANOS
Dramatic
6JW%ORRPV$UL]RQD3ROLFH2൶FHU
Sgt. Bloom is speaking to Denver. He long suspects

that Denver, his wife Rosa, and the famed Monteverde
are Los Samaritanos - sympathizers aiding, transpor-
ting and hiding illegals.
SGT. BLOOM
I am onto you. I hear them in the cell whispering, Monteverde.
Monteverde ÀRDWV DERYH WKH PXUPXUV 6RPH NLQG RI 0H[L-
can messiah, they say. I hear them… and his samaritan friends.
Then, I hear Denver… whisper, whisper, whisper… Did I hear
correctly? The white Mexicano. I hear Denver. I hope you are
VPDUWHUWKDQWKDW'HQYHU$QGQRZ\RXDUHUXQQLQJR൵WR&D-
OLIRUQLD7KHVHLOOHJDOV\RXVKX൷HDFURVVWKH\FRPHKHUHZLWK
their hands out. Beggars! All of them! In droves. Like cattle.
They take good paying jobs. Pay no taxes, to boot. Instead
they run here, ready to steal what we Americans have already
broken our backs for. They scratch along the highway, dying
in the desert. I pity, the fools - the traitors, who call themsel-
ves Los Samaritanos, who give them water, supplies, and safe
haven. Dead most of them. These illegals. Fools. Days in!
Bodies piled high in the unforgiving desert. Take this as a war-
ning. I have got my eyes on you, on the gas station, on Gustavo,
on Constanza. I’ve got my eyes on both of you.
(He walks to the door. Turns.)
How rude of me, thanks for the delicious water, Rosa. Muy
delicioso!

LOS SAMARITANOS
Dramatic
Denver, early 30s, Mexican-American
Denver is speaking to his wife Rosa. She has accused

him of stealing $10,000 from the gas station. He ad-
mits to it, and here’s why…
DENVER
A couple of weeks ago my father drove into the gas station.
Like he didn’t know I worked there. :KDWWKHIXFN" Or like
he did…, but there was no surprise on his face. Nothing. And
there was Denver right on my chest!!! It was surreal. Pero,
nada. I looked at him, and I hadn’t really seen him since, since
I don’t know, since I was a kid. Pero sabía que era mi padre. I
would recognize him anywhere. I was looking into those same
eyes. Mis ojos. I’d been dreaming of the day I would stand
in front of him cara a cara. Y allí estaba, sitting in a pretty
fucking Cadillac convertible with a V-8. And, he said a whole
lot. And, check this, he had this girl sitting there next to him.
<RXQJHUWKDQ\RX+HDGLQJR൵WR9HJDVWRmarry her. And I’m
thinking, :KDWWKHIXFNGR\RXZDQW? I said, congratulations!
6KLW+HJDYHKHUDGLDPRQGULQJ,VDZLWVLWWLQJRQKHU¿QJHU
glistening in the sun. She was over ripe and pretty. She was
pregnant. Like you. Pregnant for his old DVV +HDGLQJ R൵ WR
Vegas! It was all I could do not to kill him. Put my hands on
him! NICE WHITE SHIRT!! Head butt him! Fucking knock
him senseless. Leave him for dead!… in front of his soon-to-
be-bride5RVDJHWWKLV+HR൵HUHGPHDMRE±DFWXDOO\she
R൵HUHG PH D MRE 68=$11$ 7KDW¶VKHUQDPH My 23-year-
old step mom. He told me my luck’s going to change… or it
FRXOG DQG LW ZDV WLPH WR GR VRPHWKLQJ GL൵HUHQW Youbetter-

IXFNLQJEHOLHYHLWSo…, I took a pause…, and I thought about
you. I thought about my son. I thought about California. Gus-
WDYR)LQGLQJ«P\PRWKHU¶VIDPLO\LQ0H[LFR,¿JXUHGHell,
I’ve got nothing to lose. That night…, I know… I know… I
ORRNHGKDUGDWWKDWPRQH\«VLWWLQJLQWKHVDIH,¿JXUHGThis
is enough to give me and Rosa a start for something new.

LOST AND GUIDED
Irene Kapustina
Dramatic
Sami, 30s, Syrian
SAMI
I will be honest with you. Things are very, very bad, actually.
I stay here day and night, I stay here… I will stay here till the
end. And listen… Our Arab brothers, our Arab Muslim brothers
are abandoning us. The Arab world is turning their back on us.
They are supposed to be our neighbors, but they refuse to take
us. In the whole gulf region, they say they accepted millions of
refugees, they are lying. They never accepted them, they didn’t
accept anyone. And if you went there, Syrians are threatened
every day. You never have job security. My cousin just left a
job after ten years. He worked in a famous oil company. They
just threw him out. Because he’s Syrian. And I have to get a
YLVDWRDOORIWKHVHFRXQWULHV7KH\UHIXVH7KH\VD\«WKHR൶FLDO
decision to not allow any people from Syria to go and get a
visa. It’s a very, very small amount, small number of people
who are getting visas. I tried Saudi Arabia, I tried Emirates, I
tried to go to Oman. I did more than ten job interviews. I was
WKH¿UVWLQP\FODVVLQP\JUDGXDWLRQH[DPDOO$UDEFRXQWULHV"
Of some 20 countries! And what? First, they say, “Yes, you’re
hired, sign the contract, now you will wait for the visa.” I have
copies of them, of my contracts, I still have them. There is
this big hospital in Saudi Arabia…The head of the OBGYN
department, till now she is sending me emails...till now she
is communicating with me, sending me emails, she tells me,
“Sami, I need you to come but I can’t control the visa issue.”
So there are no visas for Syrians! But these are old news, and
you know them. What I am saying is… is that I am not going
anywhere, brother. I am staying right here, till the end. I am
staying here, with my patients and my people.

MULTIPLE FAMILY DWELLING
James Hindman
Dramatic
Stuart, late 30s-40s
6WXDUWVXVSHFWVKLV¿DQFp7LDKDVKDGDPRUHFRORU-
IXOSDVWWKDQVKHOHWVRQ,QRUGHUWR¿QGRXWWKHWUXWK
he confronts Tia’s best friend, Kelly. He hopes that by
showing her a more vulnerable part of himself, she
will tell him the truth about Tia.
STUART
Tia tell you I was married before? Lasted two years. We’re
married about a year when we’re invited to another wedding.
Thirteen months, to be exact. And for some reason, out of
QRZKHUHHYHU\EULGHVPDLGHYHU\JUDQGPRWKHULV¿JKWLQJWR
GUDJ PH RQ WKH GDQFH ÀRRU 7KH\¶YH JRW PH GRLQJ VKRWV RI
Tequila…leading the conga line. And then it hits me…Where’s
Catherine? That was her name. I look in the parking lot,
the kitchen; I peek in on the wedding down the hall. All those
women…the bridesmaids, the grandmothers, are distracting
me because they know where my wife is. I go up to our room.
Figure, maybe she isn’t feeling well…and there she is…and
this guy…and they’re so drunk they don’t even… And I don’t
get mad, I don’t. All I can think to say is, ‘What the hell are you
doing?’ And she says, ‘What does it look like I’m doing? I’m
fucking the best man!’ They’d been hooking up for years. And
I still wasn’t mad. Embarrassed, maybe. (Beat) ‘God throws a
stone before he throws a rock.’ That’s what my old man tells
me. I should have seen it coming. Should have seen the signs.


ඈඋ:ඁඒ,¶ආ9ඈඍංඇ඀ൿඈඋ-ඈඁඇ$ඇൽൾඋඌඈඇ
Patricia Cotter
Dramatic
Will Moore, late twenties, African-American
Boston, Massachusetts 1980, just months before the

election of Ronald Reagan. In the tiny four-person,
³-RKQ$QGHUVRQ)RU3UHVLGHQW´FDPSDLJQR৽FH:LOO
ORRNV IRU WKH PLVVLQJ R৽FH NH\ DV KH GHVFULEHV WR
Kathleen, a young volunteer, his morning run in with
a racist Boston cop. He was accosted by two police of-
¿FHUVDIWHUWU\LQJWRUHWXUQDZDOOHWWRDZKLWHZRPDQ
WILL
I had a little incident on the bus today. There was a woman
ZKRJRWR൵DWWKHVDPHVWRSDV,GLG$ZKLWHZRPDQZKLFK
LV LPSRUWDQW IRU RXU VWRU\ WRGD\:KHQ VKH JRW R൵ WKH EXV ,
noticed that her purse was open. I actually noticed that on the
bus, and I was going to say something, but I just didn’t. When
ZH ZHUH JHWWLQJ R൵ KHU ZDOOHW IHOO RXW RI KHU SXUVH 3UHWW\
much landed on my foot. I picked it up and I yelled out to
her, but she didn’t hear me, so I start following her. And all of a
sudden she starts running, so I have to pick up the pace. I hear
yelling and I thought it was other people, telling her to stop,
you know? People who’d seen what happened. I’m just behind
KHUKROGLQJLWRXWR൵HULQJLWXSDERXWWRVD\³+HUH¶V\RXU
wallet, lady. You’re welcome.” When out of nowhere this
big, fat red faced cop is right behind me, and he tackles me
- right on the street. The fat fuck. Sorry, but that is actually
the most accurate description of this individual. Then I’m on
the sidewalk, face down, and this other cop has his gun pulled
out and is standing over me. And they’re both yelling “Stay
on the ground.” “Put your hands over your head.” Which of
course I was already doing, because they have a gun and I’m

not an idiot. Then the one cop, I guess the brains of the opera-
tion says: “Give me the wallet!” And then I get it. Of course.
I toss it to them and I tell them: “I was running toward her.
Toward her with her wallet.” By this time all these people are
watching - including the wallet woman. So I look at her and
say: “You dropped your wallet.” She’s just staring at me. Then
VKHJHWVLW6KHVHHVLWDGL൵HUHQWZD\QRWZKDWVKHWKRXJKWVKH
saw a scary, black guy chasing her, but she sees it the way it
happened. She tells them that, yes, I was running toward her,
but she didn’t see me running after her with her wallet, she
saw me running after her with a gun. Her wallet was pink by
the way. So I was chasing her with my big, pink gun. Final-
ly they let me go. Nobody says, sorry. Sorry we completely
screwed up. Sorry we left you on the ground for forty minutes,
while half of Boston walked by, nothing like that. All he says
is: “You’re free to go.” Like that was enough. Like they
did me some big favor. I’m from Evanston. Chicago cops?
3OHDVH%XWLW¶VQRWOLNHLWLVKHUH,W¶VGL൵HUHQW7KLVWRZQ
KDV D YHU\ VSHFL¿F DQG XQDSRORJHWLF DWWLWXGH DERXW LW ,W¶V
kind of schizophrenic. Sorry about the bigots, but try the
FODP FKRZGHU¶<RX FDQ HOHFW WKH ¿UVW EODFN VHQDWRU VLQFH
Reconstruction and in the same state, another black man gets
VWDEEHGE\DZKLWHJX\XVLQJWKH$PHULFDQÀDJ

NO ONE LOVES US HERE
Ross Howard
Seriocomic
Washington, 19, Native-American
Washington has been staying with the Beaumonts

these last couple of weeks. He has just killed Mrs.
Beaumont’s father during the wake for Mr. Beaumont’s
mistress, who he has also killed. With all now revealed
and being pressured to leave, Washington explains
himself to Mr. and Mrs. Beaumont.
WASHINGTON
You both may look at me in your lives right now with, I don’t
know, some suspicion . . .and Mr. Beaumont, with no doubt,
some regret, but by no means . . . to my coming here, could
anyone describe your marriage as healthy. I’m doing all this
IRU\RX0UV%HDXPRQW,Q\RX,VDZDEHDXWLIXOÀRZHUVXU-
rounded by nothing but disease. As a keen pruner yourself, I’m
sure you know what I’m talking about. Mrs. Beaumont, you’re
WKHPRVWEHDXWLIXOZRPDQ,¶YHHYHUVHHQ(YHUVLQFH\RX¿UVW
came into the video store, I’ve been obsessed with you. You
would come in regularly, and for the twenty-four hours or so
after those times you came in, I was unable to either sleep or
eat. I took more shifts, came in to help when I didn’t have
a shift, and sometimes I would just go there to hang out be-
cause I didn’t ever want to miss you. I always had access to
your address but it was only when you started to come into
the store less and less that I decided to come here. It was just
making me crazy. My mind was racing. “Have they switched
to an online service?”, “Are they just happier with their cable
movie package?”, “Do they now only watch on Blu-ray? Or
KDYHWKH\MXVWPDGHDFRQVFLRXVH൵RUWWRUHDGPRUH"´$OOWKHVH
questions I asked myself, and it was killing me. Fortunately,

you did have some movies out that were due back and so I
came over here. When you both invited me to live here, I could
not believe my luck. This house, you, it’s really all I’ve ever
wanted. I love you, Mrs. Beaumont. You may not be quite right
in the head and maybe neither am I. Maybe Mr. Beaumont isn’t
either. But at least you and I have a soul.


OH, MY GOODNESS
Cayenne Douglass
Dramatic
Tom, 60s
TOM
Um… okay, well, basically there are a lot of protein wastes that
we produce as a society and don’t use. A considerable portion
of those are left to aerobically compost and that produces a lot
of nitrous oxide and methane emissions. These are toxic green-
house gasses that hurt the environment. But they don’t have
to, not with technology! So, what I, what my lab was working
on when I left was utilizing biology and biological principals
to solve engineering problems. Anything that comes from a
QRQUHQHZDEOHVRXUFHZHWULHGWR¿QGDUHQHZDEOHZD\WRPDNH
it. We looked at municipal waste and agricultural waste, like
manure, sewage, plant matter, and then we had a variety of
GL൵HUHQWEDFWHULDDQGPLFURRUJDQLVPVWKDWZHZRXOGPDQLSX-
late. For example, we could engineer the metabolism of bac-
teria to eat the greenhouse gasses, and in doing so, get them to
excrete alcohol compounds, and those compounds can be used
as the building blocks for an alternative fuel source! See, waste
is just potential energy. Energy that can be used for fuel, or life,
or to fuel life. Isn’t that neat? It’s pretty spectacular to think
of things like that. It’s so satisfying to know, to feel, when the
wind blows, I’m getting electricity. When the sun shines I’m
JHWWLQJHQHUJ\DQGKRWZDWHU:KHQLWUDLQV,¶P¿OOLQJXSP\
tanks to water my garden. It’s right there. It’s right in front of
us. I mean, if you step outside, if you look, really look; you’d
see that it’s worth protecting. You can’t help but see this incre-
dible abundance, this sacred divinity, this fantastical beauty,
this, this God-like… It’s not about religion, it can be, but for
me, it’s just about… It’s what makes me feel connected. I see
that divinity in nature and that I’m part of it, not separate from

it. Sometimes I’m just, I’m overwhelmed by, there’s this abun-
dant benevolent force that washes over me, through me, and I
know, in my bones, in my body, that there’s something grea-
ter we all stem from. It’s the thing that’s gotten me through,
that lets me trust and believe everything will be okay. That
there’s a natural order to things… even through the chaos…
even through the darkness...


ORIGEN
Anderson Cook
Dramatic
m00t, late 20s
m00t is a programmer in his late 20’s with osteoporo-

sis imperfecta, or brittle bone disease, which has left
him stuck indoors with limited mobility as the slightest
bump on the street would be enough to fracture his
bones. His rage at his parents for mistreating him, his
GLVHDVHDQGWKHZRUOGIRUUHMHFWLQJKLVGLৼHUHQFHKDV
manifested into misogynistic anger towards the women
of the world who won’t pay attention to him. Here, m00t
speaks to a younger friend whom he is teaching to de-
sign a website, and explaining to him the supposed pe-
rils of manhood and feminism along the way.
M00T
Did you see that Anita Sarkeesian got like a $300 million dollar
partnership with Intel? Fucking absurd. The Feminist Frequen-
cy girl, the one who has made a career bitching and moaning
about the representation of women in video games when she
doesn’t even play video games. Her whole fucking campaign
is just about trying to make other people as miserable and un-
happy as she is. I mean, God forbid she actually learn a useful
skill and build her own video games. Of course not, ‘cause
she majored in women’s studies and now all she’s equipped to
GRLVFRPSODLQDERXWVWX൵'XGHWKDW¶VWKHWLSRIWKHLFHEHUJ
It’s not really about the video games. It’s about the fact that
although we’re already rejected by society, by all the chads and
dudebros who think we’re pussies and losers, by the women
who would rather be dead than give us a chance on a date, and
now we don’t even get loser nerd culture. She has to come in
and sanitize it for her tastes when it isn’t for her, was never for

her, and after she fucks things up for a while and nobody buys
these shitty video games with strong women, like, I dunno,
getting abortions and taking down the patriarchy, she’s gonna
be gone. And all the shit that made our lives barely tolerable
will have been ruined.

ORIGEN
Anderson Cook
Dramatic
m00t, late 20s
m00t is a programmer in his late 20’s with osteopo-

rosis imperfecta, or brittle bone disease, which has left
him stuck indoors with limited mobility as the slightest
bump on the street would be enough to fracture his
bones. His rage at his parents for mistreating him, his
GLVHDVHDQGWKHZRUOGIRUUHMHFWLQJKLVGLৼHUHQFHKDV
manifested into misogynistic anger towards the women
of the world who won’t pay attention to him. Here, m00t
and his friend Jason have just doxxed (leaked the per-
sonal information of) a women who was arguing with
Jason on the internet, and Jason begins to feel guilty.
PWUHDVVXUHV-DVRQWKDWWKH\ZHUHMXVWL¿HGLQZKDW
they did.
M00T
'R\RXWKLQNVKH¶VJRLQJWRJHW¿UHGEHFDXVHVRPHDQRQ\PRXV
person accused of her selling drugs? If her boss is that stupid,
we did her a favor. I just posted it to a couple of chans and
RWKHUSHRSOHGLGWKHUHVW,PHDQWKLVVWX൵LISXEOLFO\DYDLODEOH
She should be more careful. A lot worse things could have hap-
pened than this. All people did was say things on the inter-
net. I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately. I think that people
who don’t code, who don’t really understand how computers
work, they think that we have literally put real life onto com-
puters. They think it’s exactly the same, somehow, so the rules
should be exactly the same. When it’s not, at all. And if you
actually knew how programming works, how machine code
and assembly language and HTML and CSS and your jquery
and ruby and php shit all comes together to show your pretty

little Twitter window, you’d realize how fake it is. It’s not like
talking to someone at all. You don’t have to stand there and be
scared of them. There are no consequences. There can’t pos-
sibly be. You can’t punch someone in the face if they make fun
of you, and that’s what they hate. They hate that people who
are losers and who have been made fun of forever in society
IRUKRZWKH\SUHVHQWWKHPVHOYHVDUH¿QDOO\DEOHWRSXVKEDFN

A PATCH OF BLUE
Lisa Kenner Grissom
Dramatic
Joe, 30s, African-American
Joe, a postman, is in a church, speaking to the assis-

tant pastor.
JOE
I broke my TV the other day. Smashed it with a baseball bat
on my front porch. Then I set that piece of shit on the sidewalk
for everyone to see. To see that I don’t want to live in fear.
Why? So people will leave me alone. So the bruthas won’t
come around and stir me up. Barely got three channels and
they all spouted bullshit. White guy on channel four? He looks
positively stoked reporting black men getting killed every day
ZKLWHSROLFHJHWWLQJR൵³Now back to you, Jessica, and the
ZHDWKHUVXQQ\DOOZHHN´Sunny for who? We’re holed up in
our houses--straight up depressed. So I smashed my TV and
it felt good. Now I know what you’re thinking but I can tell
you--I am not a violent man. I’m just your average guy with
a government job trying to provide y’know but sometimes the
situation calls for it. And lately the situation is calling for it
a lot. So you can try to convince me I’m praying...that God
works in mysterious ways. Well it ain’t gonna work with me.
But if I can look at something that takes me away / something
that gives me an ounce of peace / and it happens to be here,
what’s wrong with that? I apologize. For the language. The
trash. I’ll just deliver the mail from now on.

THE RECKLESS SEASON
Lauren Ferebee
Dramatic
Simon, 22
Simon is speaking to his younger brother Terry, 19.

Simon has just returned home from a four-year stint in
the army where he served two tours in Iraq. He’s dis-
covered his mother is dead and Terry is obsessed with
a video game about ancient warfare. Just prior to this
scene he has overheard the town drug dealer, Flynn,
warning Terry about how many of the Iraq veterans
come back mentally disturbed.
SIMON
Let’s say you just saw your best friend get blown up by an IED
planted in a pile of trash on the side of the road. And someone
gives you a tip that there’s a kid at the end of the road that
JHWVSDLGPRQH\WRVHWWKHPRXW$QGVR\RX¿QGRXWZKHUHWKLV
kid lives, and so you raid their house at midnight and everyone
is screaming and crying and you’ve got that kid and you’ve got
his dad and you’ve got his mom and you’ve got everybody up
against a fucking wall and you look in this kid’s eyes and he’s
shitting himself he’s so scared. What’s the big picture vision
there? What’s the plan? What’s the strategy? You’re mother-
fucking right that’s not what the game is about because if that
was the game, no one would play it. No one in their right mind
would play a game like that. The game is a fairytale. The game
LV¿FWLRQ$QG\RXMXVWHDWLWXSKRXUDIWHUKRXUKRZQREOHWKDW
shit is, because it’s got a fucking story and it all makes sense, it
DOO¿WVLQDOLWWOHIXFNLQJER[%XW\RXZDQQDSOD\DZDUJDPH
man? Play Russian roulette with a twelve-year-old and let me
know how you sleep after that.

THE RECKLESS SEASON
Lauren Ferebee
Dramatic
Flynn, 22
Flynn is speaking to Lisa, 23. She and her husband are

both army veterans who served in Afghanistan, and
her husband has gotten addicted to meth, which Flynn
sells to him. One night, high on meth, Flynn comes
to the truck stop where Lisa works to absolve himself
of the guilt he feels.
FLYNN
It is all a part of this pattern, I mean, your husband left you be-
cause you didn’t love you anymore, and Terry’s mom died be-
cause nobody loved her, and she wanted to die because of that,
Lisa, the thing that connects them is that they were not loved
enough, that you did not love your husband when he was hur-
WLQJ<RX FRXOGQ¶W VDYH KLP IURP WKRVH ¿UHEUHDWKHUV ZKRVH
eyes bled sand, and you couldn’t save him from his night-
mares – but I did, Lisa, I helped him, and I helped their mom,
and it’s me, I help, I ¿OOWKHPXSZLWKZKDWIHHOVOLNHORYHRU
even better than love, actually. I did that. It’s like a superpower
I have, like, I can give them the chemical compound for the
love that you can’t give them, so... but I feel bad now, Lisa. I
feel bad because now I look at you, and now you have that,
there is a cavity inside you, the absence of love, and I am here,
I am here, I am here to help you, to give you the thing that
you need. Do you know how he loves you, Lisa? I mean, he
NQRZVZKDWSXUHORYHLVZK\FDQ¶W\RXMXVW¿JXUHRXWKRZWR
ORYHVRPHRQH",¶OOWHOO\RXZK\\RXUKHDUWLVGH¿FLHQWLW¶VWRR
human, you know? You don’t love enough.

THE RECKLESS SEASON
Lauren Ferebee
Dramatic
Flynn, 22
Flynn is speaking to the audience. He has just been

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As he does so he is breaking apart the world of the
play and re-forming it, echoing how meth changes the
chemical responses of the brain.
FLYNN
Are these the hands of someone who’s a bad guy? No. No.
No. These, what I see, extending from my hands, are these
like, points of light that they like, they connect me with all of
these people and I just have to pull a little or they pull a little
and I’m there and they’re there, and we together - it’s like, you
know, in those superhero movies, like the bat signal, like, that’s
what my hands are but like the bat signal in this case is like to-
tally, like the end of things. The end of things, end of love, and
that’s where I come in. I rearrange the world, not just in big
pieces but I mean like, in molecules I rearrange the world, and
it’s my world and I change it, I change the world, I change
the people in the world, until the most ordinary sounds are
symphonies and a fucking shithole is really a mountain and
on the mountain is enlightenment so close you can punch
it right in the fucking face, you can give enlightenment a
bloody nose. And you should, too, because enlightenment just
fucks you and leaves you right? And the symphony spins an
spins and spins – no that’s not- no, don’t – there’s like, you
can bend it all, you think you’re stuck, and you’re stuck, and
you’re stuck, and you’re stuck you know, there’s just, there’s
something holding you back and then you have to get above

it. I heard you give visions, like end of the world shit, and I
don’t want that – don’t, just let me hold onto this. I just want to
hold on to this, I just have to remember –
(Something invisible socks him in the chest and
he falls down.)
Oh. Oh shit. How did I never see before that the sky, it’s made
of this fragile glass, like the kind you can almost see through,
the kind that shatters and can never be repaired because it’s in
too many pieces, and you have to be so careful with it, even
holding it up you could break it, and it has within it the end
of itself, like, at any moment, just this could all end. (Beat.) I
think I’m disappearing.

THE PERFECT SAMENESS OF OUR DAYS
Michael Tooher
Dramatic
Soldier, 19-26
In the grip of PTSD, the Soldier has taken a Gardener

prisoner in the mistaken belief that he is an enemy
from a forgotten battle. After being repeatedly asked
by the Gardener why he wants to hurt him, this is the
Soldier’s reply.
SOLDIER
You want an answer? Here’s your fucking answer. We’ve lost
lots of people, Ali. Men and women. Good people. People with
futures. People who joined up because they just wanted to do
their time and get a little money so they could get an educa-
tion or start businesses. Or just chase their dreams. People
like me. And a lot of them are no longer here. They are dead,
Ali. Dead. And those of us who are still here are really angry
about that. Really angry. We’re angry about what your raghead
brothers have done to us. We’re sick of saying goodnight to
our buddies and discovering them dead in the morning, slit
open ear to ear. Put yourself in our place, Ali. Thousands of
miles from home with an enemy that can appear and disappear
at will. Once, you’ve seen the shit come down, it makes you
hard, man. Shit that would have made you blow chunks before
you got here becomes standard operating procedure. People
can become used to anything. I know I have. And when you’ve
had a friend, a buddy, someone you care about, someone who
was very much alive a second ago, suddenly stone dead at your
feet, well, you’ll do anything to anybody to make sure that
doesn’t happen again. Anything.

THE PERFECT SAMENESS OF OUR DAYS
Michael Tooher
Dramatic
Gardener, 45-50, Middle Eastern
Desperate to distract the deeply troubled Soldier from

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tell him about his garden if the Soldier will share the
wartime incident that left him so damaged. When the
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of his garden.
GARDENER
For thousands of years this fruit has been our sustenance,
our income, our salvation. My father taught me these
skills. This orchard connects me to my ancestors, to my history
and to my people. My orchard started with seedlings, planted
carefully. Yet from the beginning of their lives they create illu-
sions, because the tree starts to fruit very rapidly. But it takes
DOPRVW¿YH\HDUVRIFDUHIXOFDUHIRUJRRGIUXLWIUXLWVXLWDEOH
for the marketplace, to develop. Much like having a cat, one
must have a good relationship with your trees. Not enough at-
tention, they will fail to produce in abundance. But part of me
senses that the trees do not care to be attended to too much.
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early harvest comes. My trees will fruit up to three times in the
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life. The colors are a promise from the tree to give more. And
it does, my friend, it does. It is not only a food, as a medi-
cine the oil of the apricot has been used for centuries to help
treat the sick. And the fruit, and I can tell you this as we are
both men, always reminds me of the delicate, most secret part

of a woman. Imagine the joy of this place at the harvest. To be
surrounded by these shy females in their full ripeness. Is that
not paradise for a man? But what I love the most is the ritual
of my orchard. At each point in the season I know what has
been done, what needs to be done and what will come. Some-
times in the orchard I feel as if I am thousands of years old,
with all the experience and knowledge that come of that great
age. There is a peace to this place. A comfort of knowing. The
peace, the perfect sameness of the day and the days without
end.

RAW BACON FROM POLAND
Christina Masciotti
Seriocomic
Dennis, 20s
Dennis has just been sentenced to a 90 day inpa-

tient treatment center after a violent outburst with a
co-worker. When his Iraq combat-veteran mentor co-
mes to visit, Dennis lets him know how it’s been going.
DENNIS
I thought I walked into “Someone Flew Over the Cuckoo’s
Nest.” They have us drawing pictures in pyramids, our life ten
years ago, knowing how far life is, you’re here today and gone to-
day. I can’t take three months sitting in these rap sessions. They
have us sitting around on these ratchet couches. Like a cult of
Hohova witnesses or something. When people stand up to talk,
the couches are so old, they fart. That’s exactly what it sounds
like. The air conditioner shoots out ice. You hear a crack and ice
JRHV À\LQJ DFURVV WKH URRP 1R RQH VD\V VKLW7KH\¶UH DOO NLV-
sing the sorry ass of that Counselor Ken. He has no idea what
he’s doing. Mr. Egotistic. Someone asked where he lived and he
said, “I don’t feel comfortable sharing that.” He thinks we need
to follow him home to kill him? I’ll slit his throat right outside
this building. Anger management is a coloring book. They gave
me a box of pencils and a book called: Coloring the Mandela.
'R\RXNQRZPDQGHODV",W¶VDFLUFOH<RX¿OOXSWKHFLUFOHZLWK
the little things. Some artists are good. Those things are sold in
galleries. But they use it to help the brain of a person with a ner-
vous thing. Focusing on tiny details. They say, “Start coloring.”
They give me a coloring book to cure me, and they think I’m sick.


ROAD KILL
Karen JP Howes
Seriocomic
Sonny, mid to late-30s
Sonny is a bounty hunter who had dreams of being a

stand-up comic in Las Vegas but things didn’t work
out. He was never very funny, so his day job as a se-
curity guard at a manufacturing plant turned into a
night job as a bounty hunter. His latest assignment is
to track down and capture a Native American activist.
7KHWZRVWRSRৼDWDURDGVLGHGLQHULQWKHPLGGOHRI
nowhere.
SONNY
Do you know who hired me? Important people. Government
people. You know what they told me about you? They told
me you drink diet Dr. Pepper, which means you’re a hypo-
crite because there is nothing about the moon and the earth
and nature on the ingredients list for diet Dr. Pepper. Ya know,
\RXU¿OHFDOOV\RXDSROLWLFDODFWLYLVWDQGVD\V\RX¶UHVWDUWLQJ
to make trouble that jeopardizes the peace and well-being of
this country. How come it is that people like you say, “I’m a
1DWLYH$PHULFDQ´RU³,DP$IULFDQ$PHULFDQ´(YHQVWX൵OLNH
“I’m homosexual” or “I’m a female” -- and they have this pride
thing going, and I’m supposed to have this respect thing. But
if I say “Hey – I’m a Caucasian male,” I’m what? I’ll tell you
what. I’m the bad guy. I’m the reason for the generation gap
and the gender gap and the widening of the social classes. I’m
even the reason we got minorities to begin with ‘cause I’m what
makes up the majority and you can’t have a minority with-out
a majority. But because it’s my fault we have minorities I don’t have
majority rights. No, I’m the one with the minority rights. Equal
opportunity my butt. You think I got any opportunities? Well I

kind of like moccasins, Beau. However, what keeps me from
getting a pair of my own is that a lot of people, me being one
of them, think dancing naked with paint on your ass is a hell of
a way to make it rain. Nature? What -- Dancing with Wolves?
(laugh) I’ll tell you about nature, though I hate to be the one to
break it to you. It sucks. An apple on a billboard and a peach on
a water tower. Communing with nature is a hike in some State
forest with mile markers. It’s an emissions test on your car and
a chat group to save the polar bears.

ROAD KILL
Karen JP Howes
Seriocomic
Jami, 22-25
Jami is a recent college graduate who is ambitious

and thrilled about stepping out into the world and
working his way up the ladder in journalism -- except
the world isn’t hiring. Still ambitious, Jami has carved
out a niche as a small town reporter. He is talking to
a beautiful Cuban immigrant dancer who he wants to
feature in the lifestyle section of his newspaper.
JAMI
I have degree in journalism from the University of Michigan,
but only 52% of journalism graduates were able to get a full
time job last year. The average salary is $28,000 and you have
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this county paper as a stepping-stone. But the stones here are
actually microscopic pebbles. Not one murder in the whole
year I’ve been on the desk. The upside is you should feel safe.
There’s a lady in the bathroom, and I think she wants a fried
egg sandwich and a side of bacon. She’s very large so you
should use cannoli oil instead of butter when you make the
eggs. Maybe microwave instead of fry. We don’t really know
her. She ran over something in the road and it blew out her
tire. How about clams casino? That’s not Spanish is it? You
need to eat Ms. Llorente. Roadkill. See that’s the kind of news
we get here. It’s not a real story. We don’t have Indians. We
have irrigation problems. Sometimes, a billboard falls over.
I was banking on serial killers and escaped convicts. Ameri-
ca’s heartland with all the ailments and psychoses of the whole
country bottled up, exaggerated and packaged into a decep-
tively perfect small-town in America. You have no idea the

dreams I had. Pulitzer. Prime-time special guest. Keynote
speaker. Panels. Documentaries. Before I got on board, my
paper covered the entire county with four pages. Eight thou-
sand square miles. Do you understand how lame that is. Then
I add a lifestyle section and we upped our page count to 24
and increased circulation to half the 85 population. You mi-
ght want to take out an ad. Lifestyle is hot. It’s like reality
TV. People want to read about other people. This is the middle
of America. It’s a void. A microcosm of everywhere else. A
steady dustbowl. Sand sweeping across the plains in gusts to
cover the marks made by the cars and the footsteps that came
during the day. Does something happen when there’s no trace
of it? If it occurs and then is gone, was it ever here? I’m not
talking about “if a-tree-falls-in-the-forest.” That tree lies there.
It’s there tomorrow for someone to trip over it. It decomposes
and feeds the seedlings that grow into other trees that fall over
years later. I’m talking about who notices, which is why I’m
a reporter, a writer. I keep account and don’t let things go un-
noticed. You don’t understand the newspaper business. We
have a narrative. We have drama like one of those Hollywood
pieces. This is a Hollywood piece, Ms. Llorente. It’s the kind
of news that sells papers and is picked up by television. It turns
regular people into stars. You swim from Cuba. Hitch hike
from Miami. Give life to small town America. Revive an
entire county and it’s all because of the American dream of
success and love and happiness. You work hard. You’re pretty.
You dance. You do all the right things and right things will
happen for you. But -- is the American dream still out there? It
started on the coasts. Ellis island and the California Gold Rush.
Then it went everywhere. It became the mindset -– Cattle in
the Great Plains. Cars in Detroit. Oil in Texas. Technolo-
gy in San Francisco. But what does it do? It fades from the
edges, dissipates throughout the country. Thins out. Becomes
nothing more than a dot. And here we are. Poof! Foreclosures,
XQHPSOR\PHQW,VWKHGUHDPVWLOOWKHUH"7KH$PHULFDQ¿UHPDQ
and immigrant dancer. My pebble has become a stone.

RUNNING IN PLACE
Joshua James
Seriocomic
Trevor, 20s.
Trevor defends the idea that homemade apple pie like

Grandma used to make is, in fact, a compliment.
TREVOR
No, no, it’s a compliment, I mean, not the age thing but a work
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home-made cakes, everything is frozen and microwaveable.
Most people don’t have the patience to make something like
this. That’s something about our culture that I’ve been thinking
about. No patience, no responsibility. We want everything now,
fast food, fast cars and instant messaging. We want everything
done for us and done quickly so we can get on with enjoying
our lives. And we want that enjoyment to start NOW. We want
WKH¿UHZRUNV12::HGRQ¶WZDQWWRVWDQGLQOLQHZHGRQ¶W
want to be put on hold, we want to see the doctor NOW. That’s
why there are so many divorces these days, because people
want the love and happiness to start NOW. They say, I paid my
money, I got the license, I want my happy marriage. When it
starts to get shaky, they say whoa! I ordered a happy marriage,
not this one! I want my money back! If they had put the kind
of time and care into their relationship as you did into making
this pie, if they rolled the dough themselves, if they peeled and
cored the apples themselves and timed the baking just right,
by the time they were ready to take a bite, it would have tasted
great. Instead, they said, let’s have pie and slapped the ingre-
dients together and wondered why it tasted like shit.


SHOOTER
Sam Graber
Dramatic
Jim, 40s
Jim reveals to his range instructor the reason he

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contextualizing the internal solitude he feels after so-
cial abandonment by his two close friends.
JIM
You asked why I’m here. I didn’t live up to whatever men are
supposed to be. But I never thought she’d leave. For some guy
she met through my friends. Driving the fancy whatever at his
fancy lakeside…my daughter decided to walk out as well. That
was the real kicker, when Sophie decided to go. And friends
aren’t supposed to take sides but my two close buddies I grew
up with, the ones who it shouldn’t matter now about which one
has the cars and houses…I guess it’s been a long time they’ve
all been walking out on me. But that’s nothing new. Life walk-
ing out on me. Because the thing is, the real thing is that every
day you feel less a man. And what is being a man today, what
is that? I know what it used to be. I’d sure like to know what it
is. At least she left me the dog. Probably because the new guy’s
allergic. But what happened was I was home one night keeping
P\VHOI RFFXSLHG E\ ZKDWHYHU WZHQW\IRXU RXQFH FRXOG ¿W LQ
my hand when I noticed the dog hadn’t come back, and I went
outside to yell for the dog, the only living thing in the world
that hadn’t walked out on me, when I see coyotes. At the edge
of the yard. Toeing the curb. Blood on their lips. And they were
smiling at me. With blood on their lips, laughing at me, as if
to say being a man didn’t just walk out on you, it full-on ran
away from you and it’s never coming back. The coyote faces

like the people I know, the ones I thought I could always count
on to be there. Laughing at me. I’m sorry but when my dog
got taken that was the moment when I felt like something right
KHUH¿QDOO\FROODSVHG/LNHHYHU\WKLQJ¿QDOO\JRWULSSHGRXW
and was falling out. And I wanted so very badly to grab, in my
KDQGVWR¿UHEDFNWRsqueeze.


SHOOTER
Sam Graber
Dramatic
Jim, 40s
Jim hosts a party at his house and the only attendee is

Gavin, a young high-schooler enrolled in an evening
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Gavin’s hidden motive to perpetrate a shooter-massacre
at the high school. Ultimately, in the course of the
SOD\¶VFKURQRORJ\-LPDQG*DYLQH[FKDQJH¿UHEHIRUH
Gavin can carry out his intention.
JIM
Lately it’s like everything’s about making everything more
complicated. You get older you’ll see that. The older I get the
more I can’t stand noise. People yelling. It’s like someone
shouts they don’t realize they’re raising the alarm. Every-
thing’s more complicated. So I’ve been kind of working on
simplifying things. I think it’s all simpler once you have a plan.
<RXJRWDSODQ":LWKRXWDSODQWKLQJVJHWGL൶FXOW:LWKRXWDQ
idea of who you are and what you’re after. I’m always seeing
myself driving along, just easy highway driving, when all of
a sudden this white van comes out of nowhere and I slam into
it and it’s horrible. Sorry, it’s a dream, I forgot to tell you that.
And when I wake up I’m like: I’m the one making the dream. I
should know what’s coming. Like there’s two of me. Fighting
for control. My own sweet enemy. So to sort out the two of
me I’ve been working on a plan. You really don’t have a plan?
Should think about it. When I was at the high school I didn’t
have a plan. I had tests and confusion. Not what man needs,
you know? You should. You think you’re a man right now but
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You think it’ll just happen, it’ll just show up, all you have to
do is be there. My Dad died and I kind of stumbled along and
the whole time I was like what is it? Because what we read
about and what we’re taught, and then what we see on the
streets? I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you. I’ll give the answer but you
still won’t know, but I’m still going to tell you. Because the
truth is…things have changed. They won’t tell you but things
have changed. I mean some things haven’t changed. Earn the
money. Provide the house. Bring the food. And discipline and/
and/and consistency. That’s all the same. That’s been for ages.
That’s nothing new. But what’s changed is now how we’re the
joke. All those screens and shows telling how we’re stupid.
You know what I’m talking about. You know. We’re on the
same side. The same team. Threatened. Endangered. See them
come in here and tell us we’re like that. Because we still know
how to get it. And to get it, it has to be done. So let me ask: how
are you getting to the range without a car?


SMART LOVE
Brian Letscher
Dramatic
Benji, 24
It’s the eve of Benji’s parents, Sandy and Ron’s, 25th

wedding anniversary. Or, what would have been if
Ron hadn’t died of a sudden heart attack 7 months
ago. Benji, a brilliant MIT Phd student, has returned
home in the middle of a stormy night, surprising his
Mom not only with his disheveled appearance but also
ZLWKDYHU\KXPDQOLNH$UWL¿FLDO,QWHOOLJHQFHYHUVLRQ
of his father. This speech is right after he has unveiled
his life-like father. A speechless Sandy struggles to un-
derstand while Benji explains how he made Ron.
BENJI
We all have computer parts. Our brains are basically naturally
wired hard drives. Which is why the phones in our pockets are
actually more reliable extensions of that biological hard drive.
I mean, who bothers to actually remember phone numbers any.
And Dad’s brain - this Dad, him, right here. The brain is the
exact same as Dad’s brain from before he died. My team and
I input tens of thousands of documents -- four hundred and
seventy-one of dad’s journals, dating back to when he was
eight years old, six hundred and eighty-nine of the audio tapes
he was always using to record his random thoughts and ideas,
essays and term papers he wrote in high school, any and all
video and pictures of him, tons of letters -- lots of business let-
ters, queries about his inventions, patent applications, rejection
letters - sorry, Dad, had to include those. All of my journals, my
memories of us went in too - and, of course, hundreds of thou-
sands of emails and personal letters. From him to others, others
to him. He actually had kept one hundred and fourteen letters

you had sent him, did you know that? Love letters. I input those
myself - you were really a beautiful writer, Mom, some real-
ly beautiful metaphors. And then of course great strides were
made in building the body, the skin, the hair - all made from his
very own DNA. We had another lab do that. But the real leap
-- the one I personally worked on the hardest, was mapping
his brain. Filling it in with billions of pieces of hard data, And
that, that right there, is where I’ve made a glorious leap. Most
important, when mapping the brain, is being able to map the
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FRQQHFWLRQVZHPDNHLQDQDQRVHFRQG7KHÀH[LELOLW\HODV-
ticity, the ability to plan, to problem-solve. To learn from the
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human being.


SMART LOVE
Brian Letscher
Dramatic
Benji, 24
This speech is toward the end of the play. A sobbing

Sandy has just told Benji that Ron has to go back to
MIT, that she will not marry him, that it’s all over. Benji,
is holding Sandy’s new boyfriend, Victor, hostage with
a gun until she agrees to marry Ron again. Ron is an
android copy Benji has made of his deceased father.
BENJI
Where do you think all of these things come from, your brand
new toys that Victor bought you? Who do you think INVENTS
them?! Do you think these things just appear -- on a billboard or
a commercial or Best Buy!? “Oh cool, another awesome thing to
improve the quality of my life” - swipe, pin number, it’s yours!
The Invention Genie strikes again!! No. People spend years on
it. Very smart people like me and, and like Dad - we work eighty
hours a week to give you what you want! We memorize your
preferences, remind you what kind of music you like - make
the pictures of you, me and Dad at a Tigers game automatically
pop up on your computer too -- yay! - you love the Invention
Genie!” And you should. You should bow down and pray to the
gods of MIT and, and, and to me! You should bow down and
thank ME! YOUR SON! FOR BRINGING YOUR HUSBAND
BACK FROM THE DEAD!! That’s him, right there - your Ron!
My dad! ...that’s my dad. He is right here with us now - alive and
happy and, and...I want him here. I miss him. Mom. Don’t you
miss him? Please let him stay, Mom...please let him stay...


SPEECHLESS
Greg Kalleres
Dramatic
Addison, 25-30
Addison’s father, a renowned and respected journalist,

has had a stroke. In his confusion, confesses to
$GGLVRQ¶V VLVWHU &ODLU WKDW KH WKLQNV KH PD\ ±
or may not -- have molested her as a child. And
while Clair doesn’t buy it, Addison can’t get it out of
his mind. And when he meets Clair’s boyfriend, David,
IRUWKH¿UVWWLPHKHXQORDGVWR'DYLG¶VPDVVLYHGLV-
comfort.
ADDISON
It’s just, it’s a mind fuck, you know? Not saying he did any-
thing. But just the fact that he thinks he could have. That it’s in
his head. I mean, that’s enough to mess with you. He sees him-
self doing it. Watches it. Over and over. Every night. That he
thinks this is who he is. (Beat) Because there are even things
I remember. Little things that I never thought much about but
QRZLW¶VOLNH/LNH,UHPHPEHUJRLQJLQWRKLVR൶FHRQFHZKHQ
I was like six? And you weren’t supposed to do that, you know,
JRLQWRKLVR൶FHZKHQKHZDVZRUNLQJLWZDVOLNHDWKLQJ$QG
he looked at me with this like really strange look. He didn’t say
anything it was just this...look. At the time, I thought it was
just that he was pissed that I’d interrupted him. But it always
haunted me. I mean, I remember it. To this day. And now I
think about it. That look. And I don’t know, you know? And
,¶P WKLQNLQJ WKLV VWX൵ DQG ,¶P annoyed that I’m thinking it.
But it’s like the way it’s infected him – it’s infected me. And,
I mean, you know who he is. Which is why it’s so fucked up
because then I’m thinking, like, “what business did he have,
really, running all over the world, writing about the plight of

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Tampa! You know? He was a coddled white kid. His father
was a successful lawyer and he worshipped him! So, why? Is
it because he felt guilty for something? Or is it because all
the violence he researched -- and even witnessed at times –
infected him? And I hate that I’m thinking this but the man
just shot himself with an antique Chinese handgun because he
couldn’t handle the guilt so ...it’s hard to not be infected by
that.


STRANGE CASE
Don Nigro
Seriocomic
0DQV¿HOG
,Q /RQGRQ LQ 5LFKDUG 0DQV¿HOG WKH JUHDW

American actor, is trying to persuade Robert Louis
Stevenson and his wife to allow him to perform a stage
adaptation of Stevenson’s book, The Strange Case
Of Dr. Jekyll and Mr Hyde. Stevenson is not sure he
wants to get mixed up in this, or even if it’s possible to
GRLWRQVWDJHEXW0DQV¿HOGDEXEEO\HQHUJHWLFFKD-
rismatic fellow, has just demonstrated his ability to
transform himself into the monster Hyde, before their
eyes, without makeup, genuinely terrifying them, and
now has bounced back immediately into his cheerful,
con man self. He is impatient to get the thing on the
stage. Stevenson, still a bit shaken by the transforma-
tion into the horrifying Hyde and back, has just asked
him how he did that.
MANSFIELD
Acting. That’s my job. There’s a whole army of people inside
everybody, actually. With actors and lunatics, these other per-
sons inside us are just a bit more likely to bob to the surface
QRZDQGWKHQDVLWZHUHOLNHDFRUSVHLQD¿VKSRQG7KHKX-
man soul is like a cornucopia. A smorgasbord. And no makeup.
No tricks. Well, some jiggling with lighting, certainly, but es-
sentially, I’ll do it with my own physical instrument. I will
contort my features. I will extend my lower jaw. I will become
nearly a foot shorter. Trust me. I’m working it all out. It will
be absolutely bloodcurdling. The audience will audibly gasp.
Women will faint. Men will give birth. Elderly bankers will
clasp their chests, call for their mothers and drop dead on the

spot. I’ll be the sensation of twelve continents. The greatest
theatrical triumph since Aeschylus wore high heels. All right.
That’s enough. Time is money and I don’t have any. Even as
we speak I have personal knowledge of at least seven pirated
dramatic versions of this book ready to go on the boards. And
those pirating bastards won’t pay you one cent of royalties,
whereas I will make you a handsome payment for the rights,
a very generous percentage of the gross of the net, minus ex-
penses, after taxes, every full moon there’s a Thursday. We’ll
work it all out. But we’ve got to get the jump on them. In the
theatre, timing is everything. Well, that and pretty women. And
timing is also everything with women. But that is a tale to be
told another time. We spend our years as a tale that is told. But
I’ve got to catch a boat. I’m doing Lear in Pittsburgh. So, what
do you say? Shall we spit in our palms and shake on it? We can
bring in the lawyers to mop up the blood and brains later.

SUMMERLAND
Arlitia Jones
Dramatic
Tooker, 30,
Joseph Tooker is an ambitious Chief Marshall in

1869 investigating spirit photographer William H.
Mumler’s claims that he is able to photograph people
who have passed to the Other Side, or Summerland.
After visiting Mumler’s studio undercover to sit for a
SRUWUDLW7RRNHUWHVWL¿HVEHIRUHWKHMXGJHXUJLQJKLP
to go forward with a trial.
TOOKER
Yea, I have walked through the valley, Your Honor, where the
War dead covered the ground, the blue and grey of Earth’s lost
DUPLHV'HDWKUDYDJHVZLWKRXWIDYRULWHV,VX൵HUHGWKHVWHQFK
of rotting corpses, searched in vain for a place to step my foot
upon dirt not strewn with the maimed limb, crushed skull,
or shattered rib cage of my fallen brethren. Not one of them
rose up to walk beside me. Not one in a thousand. Not one in
ten thousand. The dead remain resolutely dead. Am I to believe
I saw no spirits for lack of a camera? Do not be taken in, Your
Honor. William H. Mumler is a humbug. Do not fall for his talk
of Eternal Summerland where our loved ones wait for us next
WRDEXEEOLQJVWUHDPVXUURXQGHGE\EULJKWÀRZHUVDQGELUGV
singing sweet melodies. Why are there birds in Eternity? Why
birds? Are there also insects? Are there Raccoons? Do not be
taken in. The sound of a gavel pounding a sound block. Your
Honor, answering the Mayor’s request, I have just come from
his studio. Under false name I paid to have him make my pho-
tograph with a spirit. I made out I wished to see my dead wife.
It costs ten dollars to have your portrait made with a spirit. It
also costs ten dollars to have your portrait made without a

spirit, because sometimes the spirits miss their appointment.
Mr. Mumler takes your money all the same. Or rather I should
say Mrs. Mumler, takes your money. She guards the treasury
and the door to the studio. Together, they are a well matched
team. They pander to our wounded selves. In three days I
will return to receive my printed spirit photograph and at that
point I will have the evidence to submit in a formal complaint
against him. I played the gullible well and I doubt he will resist
the temptation to place some woebegone woman in the frame
with me. You see, I have no wife dead or living. I will catch
him at his game and bring clear evidence against this fabulist
and there will be a trial. The dead must stay dead. The living
must keep their money.


SUMMERLAND
Arlitia Jones
Dramatic
Mumler, 40
William H. Mumler, the country’s most renowned

spirit photographer in 1869, claims to be able to
photograph people in the Spirit World, or Summer-
ODQG+HWHVWL¿HVEHIRUHWKHMXGJHLQKLVZHOOSXEOLFL]HG
trial, claiming his innocence and emphasizing his
calling as a Spiritualist to absolve his clients of grief.
MUMLER
I plead innocent, Your Honor. I stand before you wrongfully
accused of fraudulent enterprise. In my own defense I claim
no occupation beyond that as an honest spirit photographer. I
alleviate grief. My process is sound and sincere. I invite you
to my studio to observe. [Beat.] Your Honor, the real argument
here is Spiritualism versus Materialism. We are debating the
QDWXUHRIPDQ¶VVSLULW)LQLWH"2UQRQ¿QLWH"-XGJH'RZOLQJLI
\RXDUHD0DWHULDOLVWDQGEHOLHYHZHDUHPHUHO\¿QLWHEHLQJV
then we have no further discourse and you must judge me a
fraud surrounded by mere mortals who inevitably crumble
into inconsequential dust and ash. All of our loved ones have
become dust and ash. The land is covered in dust and ash. It
pains me to think of Mrs. Mumler cleaning my studio last week.
Her polishing rag brought shine to every smooth surface and
PHWDOOLF ¿WWLQJ ,I LQ WKH HQG PDQ EHFRPHV QRWKLQJ PRUH
WKDQ¿QLWHSDUWLFOHVRIGXVWDQGDVKVLIWLQJRQWRWKHIXUQLWXUH
I wonder who’s lost sweetheart did she set cartwheeling into
the afternoon breeze along Broadway when she leaned out the
window to shake her dust rag? [Pause] I am a Spiritualist, I
follow the teachings of Reverend Andrew Jackson Davis who
compels us to push back the veil between this world and the

next where our loved ones wait for us in the paradise of Sum-
merland. Your Honor, if you are a Spiritualist like me, then
it is our belief that the spirit of man, my spirit, your spirit,
HYHU\VSLULWLQWKLVURRPLVDQLQ¿QLWHEHLQJWKDWH[LVWVEH\RQG
XWLOLW\RIÀHVKDQGERQH,WLVRXUEHOLHIWKDWWKHVSLULWRIPDQ
is eternal, incorporate and free to communicate with the living
according to the spirit’s own will. It is our belief we can once
more look upon the departed wife we never stopped loving, or
the cherished face of the lost child we long to hold. If Sum-
merland is where your belief leads, or at the very least your
curiosity, then we have much to converse upon. The oldest
and deepest mystery: What happens to us in the end? Where
do we go when we die?


T
Dan Aibel
Dramatic
-H൵ODWHV
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and co-conspirator Shawn after an attack they have
FRPPLVVLRQHGVLGHOLQHVWKHFRPSHWLWLYHULYDORI-Hৼ¶V
wife.
JEFF
If I’d heard rumors. You name it. What people were saying.
“What’s a salchow?” All this whack job bullshit. Does T. have
security? Gave him your card. She ever get heckled? On and on.
1H[WIHZGD\VVD\VVKRXOGNHHSP\HDUVRSHQ$QGEUHDNLQJR൵
every few minutes. To call his sergeant. Take a whiz. Could I sit
tight a sec he asks. (An aside.) Like I could say “no”? (Resuming.)
Guy comes back—third time—with these two FBI guys. Look
like…accountants still my heart is pounding crazy. Except they
start? Start talking? Sound like fans. Can’t believe it. These big
goofy skating weirdos. How much she practice? Does she lift
weights? Her diet—yeah. How much sleep she get. Whether
she tapes her ankles. Finally comes out—cause I ask—they
say no good leads so far. Guy who pulled it they think did it
pretty solid. Even working up a sketch is going nowhere fast.
Descriptions full of holes and contradictions. Meanwhile
they’re moaning about their boss. Telling shitty jokes. One’s
got a four-year-old —asks “Too early for her to skate yet?” I’m
like “depends.” (Other side of the conversation.) “Depends on
what?” (Resuming.) 6R , ZDON KLP WKURXJK VRPH VWX൵ *X\
eats it up. Three pages of notes he’s taking. Then “Hey who’s
Derrick?” Wham. Outta nowhere. Other guy. Other FBI guy.
Guy who’s stood there quiet. And just says it like it’s nothing.
/LNHLW¶VVRPHWKLQJKH¶VEHHQZRQGHULQJDQGLW¿WVLQ¿QHZLWK

the conversation. I said “who”? I said “Derrick?” Said “dun-
QR´'RQ¶WNQRZDQ\RQHR൵KDQGWKDW,UHPHPEHU

TELL HECTOR I MISS HIM
Paola Lázaro
Dramatic
7RxR3XHUWR5LFDQ
Toño has been kicked out of school for sexually harassing

a teacher. then he has been beaten by his mother. Now, he
tells Mostro, the owner of the corner store, and his wife
Samira what happened.
TOÑO
Missis Vargas. English teacher. I thought she loved me Sami-
ra. I mean, El Catcher in the Rye. She showed me El Catcher
in the Rye. I thought she loved me. I thought she loved me.
She taught me so much. She taught me so much. Like, I think,
when I think about it. I think, that nobody understood me, but
her. Ella na’ más. And now not even her. But, I really thought
she loved me. That’s why I tried what I tried. I knew she had
to grade papers and she usually does it in our classroom after
all the kids leave. She’s not like the other teachers that go home
after the day is done. She stays until she’s done correcting cause
I guess she doesn’t want to bring the work over to home. You
know? Keeping it separate? So she was gonna grade papers
in our classroom after she got her café cortadito in the faculty
room. I hid under her desk and then when she came back into
the classroom after all the kids had left. I had a (he points to
his pants) cause I usually have one all throughout her class and
I sit in the front and I can smell her and this time she was even
closer and I was under her so I could really smell her so I had
a... And I went to touch her and I may have fallen on her- I fell
on her with the... and. And she thought---- I think she thought--
I know she thought--- I was gonna you know sexually do so-
mething to her, but that’s not it! That’s not it! That’s not what I
was trying to do! I just wanted to read her a poem. She didn’t

wanna hear me. She didn’t wanna hear it. She didn’t wanna
hear me. I just have a lot of energy, you know?

THREE LADIES OF ORPINGTON
Daniel Guyton
Dramatic
Marvin, 21
Marvin is a proper British gentleman in Victorian

(QJODQG +HUH KH ¿QDOO\ UHYHDOV WKH KRUUL¿F WUXWK
about his life.
MARVIN
She tried to murder me, you know. On the day that I was born.
She shoved a napkin inside my throat, and pinched my nose
FORVHGZLWKKHUWZR¿QJHUV0\ERG\WXUQHGSDOHWKHQEOXH
And then cold. You knew all about it. I was your child. Yours
DQG /RUG &KHVWHU¿HOG WKH<RXQJHU¶V %XW WKH GD\ WKDW , ZDV
born… She gave me to Mr. Fennimore to… dispose of. But
Mr. Fennimore didn’t bury me, though, did he? Oh no, he kept
me. And there I lived. And fed. And grew. The malice. And
the hate. Within my heart. And even you, dear sister. Though
I understand far more than most, the depravity of blaming an
innocent child for the malfeasances of its mother. But there I
festered. Until one day your grandpapa showed up, in dear old
Mr. Fennimore’s shop. Something about your grandfather’s
EORRG6SLOOLQJRXWEHIRUHPH6RPHWKLQJ«GL൵HUHQW«KDS-
pened that day. For you see, your grandfather didn’t die of old
age. Or of some sad disease. Oh no, it was a letter opener,
shoved deep into his abdomen. On a cold autumn day, out by
the woodshed. And your grandmama paid Mr. Fennimore a
visit the very same day, with 10,000 pounds for his silence.
1RZKRZGR\RXWKLQN,FRXOGD൵RUGVXFKEHDXWLIXOFORWKLQJ
mother? And Mr. Fennimore… Well, Mr. Fennimore is a rich
man now. And he desires an heir. He’s not a young man though.
And I’m afraid he has a touch of the gout in his left leg. And a
bit more than a touch in his right. So we’ll have to move rather

quickly on this one. So what do you say, Elenore? You can win
back your entire family’s estate with two words: “I do.” So do
you, or would you rather it all fell to ruin?

THE TROUBLE WITH CASHEWS
David MacGregor
Comic
Paul, 20s-40s
At a family gathering, Paul vents to his sister Tara

as he watches their Aunt Dorothy eat from a bowl of
assorted nuts and realizes that humanity is doomed.
PAUL
Just look…right over there. What do you see? Just watch her…
there! She did it again! What, do you think I’m losing my
mind? I know it’s an old woman, sitting at a table, drinking a
glass of wine, and eating some nuts from a bowl. Anyone can
see that. But look more closely. Watch when she goes for a nut.
And…she did it again! Seriously? You don’t see it? Okay, let
me ask you something. What’s in that bowl? Nuts. Now, what
kind of nuts? Assorted nuts. You get me? Please tell me you’re
beginning to understand … there! Did you see that? She’s only
eating the cashews! That bowl is full of assorted nuts. So, what
does that typically mean? It means there’s peanuts, almonds,
hazelnuts, walnuts, and cashews. Does that sound about right?
Now, is it just a random assortment? Equal amounts of every
nut? No! It’s mostly peanuts. Now, why would that be? Listen,
I know you’re not some kind of nut expert, but it means that
peanuts must be the easiest to grow and the cheapest to harvest
and people like them less than other nuts. Of all the nuts in
that bowl, what kind of nut do people like the most? Cashews.
Aunt Dorothy is deliberately eating only the most expensive
and tastiest nuts. And the worst part? She knows what she’s
doing. That’s why she keeps looking around to see if anyone
is watching. It would be one thing if she was so out of it that
she was only eating the nuts she liked best, you know, like a
chimp or something. But she knows what she’s doing. And

it would be okay if it was just Aunt Dorothy eating all of the
cashews at a family party, but there are plenty of people out
there in the world just like her. People who not only want their
fair share, they want everyone else’s share too. In fact, do you
know what we’re witnessing here? The end of humanity. The
total and complete destruction of human beings as a species. It
may be just a bowl of nuts to you, but we are doomed. Com-
pletely and utterly doomed.

UNDERGROUND
Isla van Tricht
Seriocomic
James, early twenties
At the beginning of the play, James has just awoken

and turns to the audience. What he doesn’t know is
that he about to have quite an adventure in the
Underground.
JAMES
I have some very strong memories. You know the ones that
you can smell, or taste. The ones that make you shiver. I was 11
years old, my friend’s Dad put on… whichever record ‘Heaven
Knows I’m Miserable Now’ is on…actually maybe it was the
single. Anyway, I was hooked. We were sitting on a rug in his li-
ving room, and they had a cinnamon candle burning on the cof-
fee table, I think it was almost Christmas. Whenever I hear that
song now I swear I can smell cinnamon. Other Smiths songs
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water, saccharine girl’s perfumes blended through dull hanging
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WLPH,ZDVPRUHLQWHUHVWHGLQZDWFKLQJD¿OPWKDQJUDEELQJ
the tits of the girl snuggling up to me. And I’ve always won-
dered which Breakfast Club character I am. I always thought I
wanted to be Bender, because, because he wore those leather
¿QJHUOHVVJORYHVOLNHQRRQHHYHUFRXOG$QGWKHQGRQ¶WMXGJH
me, but I kind of thought of myself as a male Allison. You know.
Because of that makeover scene, I’ve always wanted that kind
of transformation. Suddenly, like that, for people to look at
me and be shocked at how much I’ve changed, shocked in a
good way. And I don’t even really mean - I mean something

inside that has changed, that is so dynamic people can see
it. Now, though, things are different. And somehow I think
Brian has it best. He doesn’t leave as part of a couple that will
LQHYLWDEO\EUHDNLWR൵/HW¶VIDFHLW$QGUHZLVJRLQJWRGURS
Allison like a hot plate, and Bender will probably sell Claire’s
diamond earring for a pack of cigarettes. Brian, though, Brian
OHDYHVDORQHEXWZLWKVRPHWKLQJFKDQJHGZLWKLQ+H¶V¿QDOO\
happy in himself, by himself. I think the most powerful thing
a human being can be is to be happy by themselves, some kind
of form of whole on their own. Whole and alone. That’s the
GUHDPLVQ¶WLW"%HVLGHV%ULDQJHWVWKHODVWOLQHLQWKH¿OPDQG
we would all fucking love to have that.

VALENTINO’S MUSE
A.J. Ciccotelli
Comic
Dan, 19
$IWHU¿QGLQJDÀ\HUIRUDSRHWU\FRQWHVW'DQ*DUGQHU
a would be poet from New York City, tries to reinvent
himself as Ricardo Salome, a world class poet, and
contemplates writing a poem for the contest.
DAN
The romantic poet waits… and waits… and waits. No hap-
piness in his line of work. Ignorance is programmed bliss!
Eons ago, his parents said they’d castrate him if he got more
than a B in his art class, scared that he’d become a painter
and therefore a broke, homeless, drug addicted, homosexual,
alcoholic, communist atheist, who would ask them for money
perpetually, or far worse, the neighbors. Then one day his
KDQGSLFNVXSDSHQDQGNDERRP7KH¿UVWSRHPZDVELUWKHG
followed by the next and then the next. A plethora of words
all around this poet with bleeding hands like stigmata! Then
down on his knees he drops and cries to the heavens, “God,
if you have inspired me to write with no other reason but to
write, then could you give me a little talent to go along with my
drive?” God gave him far worse; he gave him writer’s block.
So, this poet is named Ricardo Salome! He is me and I am he.
Perhaps some people think poets only want the approval of
others. Perhaps people are right. Fuck success! Oh, this poster
of Greece? The representation of that long faded golden age…
Where men were men and boys… frolicked naked under the
sun and wrote poems to each other. Sometimes I wonder if I’m
like those Greek boys but I snap out of it because… once there
was this boy named Farris and we used to… OH GOD SHUT
UP DAN! I mean, Ricardo! “Stuck in this man made prison of

my own device, am I! Left to the demonic forces of man-made
hysteria, My mind goes asunder.” Not too shabby but what
does it mean? “Stuck in this…”
(Laughs at himself.)
It means I’m fucked. Perhaps life would be easier for this poet
if he were born the garbage man or the paperboy. His mind
would try to make stoop rhyme with… “My sadness thrown
onto the stoop Isn’t my life a constant droop?” No! No! No!
No more. The only way I will get out of this bed is if God is
willing to give his ungifted something that will rhyme with…
with… That brown wooden sandal… “That brown wooden
sandal Belongs to a boy named Daniel.”

WASHED UP ON THE POTOMAC
Lynn Rosen
Dramatic
Mark, late twenties, a proof reader and wannabe novelist
Mark is speaking to Kate, a badass rock musician

and fellow proofreader at a job where they don’t
matter to anyone but each other. They have a jokey,
ÀLUW\ ZRUN IULHQGVKLS EXW WKH WUXWK LV KH¶V VHFUHWO\
in love with her. On this day, a former coworker has
apparently washed up dead on the Potomac. Addi-
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may never see Kate again. In this scene, Mark is in
DGLYHEDUDQGKDVMXVWKHDUG.DWHVLQJIRUWKH¿UVW
WLPH$IWHUKHDULQJKHUVLQJZKLFKKH¿QGVPRYLQJ
and after a day where endings surround them, he’s
inspired to take a chance and tell Kate how he feels
about her. Kate is too fearful to respond sincerely to
his expression of love, so she tries to change the sub-
ject, jokingly calling him “Sugar Pops” and other
silly things. He decides not to play games anymore
±KHJHWVVHULRXV±KRSLQJVKH¶OOWDNHDFKDQFHZLWK
him on love.
MARK
I’m not Sugar Pops! I’m Mark. Mark Aaron Colker, named
for the great grandfather I never met who perished in a terrible
train derailment in South America while starting a mining bu-
siness. And maybe that information is not sexy or pertinent, but
it’s real! And I want to get real cuz I’ve been at this job three
years, Kate. In three years I got all my wisdom teeth out and
no one came with me and I almost got hit by a car afterward
cuz of the happy gas, oh the irony, and no one knew I almost
died. And my favorite teacher - the only person who believed

in my writing - had a stroke and can’t talk now, trapped in his
body. And your father, your father who worked three jobs to
get you guitar lessons died, and you’re an orphan now. And
my mom started looking old. And we said “Such is life” and
ate pizza again. And your hair smells like the tropics. And if it
weren’t for you I’d go days without talking to anyone. You’re
my only friend, Kate. And yet, except for Pizza Palace, this is
WKH¿UVWWLPHLQRXU\HDUWRJHWKHUWKDW,¶YHVHHQ\RXRXWVLGHWKH
R൶FH$QGP\JRG\RX¶UHHYHQPRUHVPDVKLQJLQWKHZRUOG
,¶PWLUHGRIJDPHV7LPHLV¿QLWH.DWH:HDUHQRWFKLOGUHQ

WASHED UP ON THE POTOMAC
Lynn Rosen
Dramatic
Mark, late twenties, proof reader and wannabe novelist
An intellectual with the energy of a puppy dog,

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agency where no one cares about him except his fel-
low proofreaders, Kate, a hot musician, and Sherri,
D VRFLDO PLV¿W +H DWWHPSWV WR ZULWH HVRWHULF ³*HU-
PDQOLNH´QRYHOVEXWQHYHU¿QLVKHVWKHP7KHGD\EH-
fore this was disturbing: A former co-worker washed
up dead on the Potomac; the proofreaders learned one
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IRU .DWH DQG ZDV UHEXৼHG 5LJKW EHIRUH WKLV VFHQH
Mark realizes Sherri, 40s, has vanished mysteriously,
OHDYLQJWKHFRDWDQGEDJVKHDOZD\VZHDUVOLNHDUPRU
Sherri needed this job to get her away from her abu-
sive mother, whereas Mark just thought of it as a job
WRVXৼHUWKURXJKZKLOHDZDLWLQJIDPH%XWLIKHZHUH
EHLQJKRQHVWWKLVMRELVWKHRQHSODFHKHPDWWHUV$I-
ter realizing Sherri is never coming back, Mark, a
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+HZULWHVDERXW6KHUULJLYLQJKHUDVWRU\RIKRSHDQG
SURPLVH,W¶VDVWRU\XQOLNHKHUUHDOOLIH±DVWRU\KH
ZLVKHVIRUKLPVHOI
MARK
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knew how, our potential victim- Potential hero, marches into
WKHQLJKWXQDIUDLG6KHJRHVWRWKH3RWRPDF3HUKDSVVKHVLWV
RQWKHULYHUEDQNOLVWHQLQJWRWKHOHDYHVZKLVSHURIWKHVFRSHRI

the world, watching the water travel where it must. She tries to
FDSWXUHWKHZDWHULQKHU¿QJHUVZKLFKVHHPFKLOGOLNHLQWKLV
act of folly. Perhaps she remembers her mom holding her hand
when times were younger. She wants to touch everything. She
wants even to be touched by the weather. She removes layers
of herself - armor accumulated against a sea of intranquility
- so the warm October breeze may embrace all of her - her
KDLUKHUVNLQKHUODVKHV0D\EHVRPHRQHZLOO¿QGKHUDUPRU
and conjure a tale about her, she thinks. Whose were these?
Where is she now? In France with the birds? Our potential
hero knows how she wants the story to go. She knows she
KDVRQO\KHUVHOI6KHLVUHDG\7KHZDWHUURLOV6KHJHQXÀHFWV
before the river. She feels the brittle veins of the fallen leaves
SUHVV LQWR KHU NQHHV 6KH GRHVQ¶W PLQG 6KH VHHV KHU UHÀHF-
tion in the water. She thinks the moonlight agrees with her.
She should live in moonlight, she thinks. She wonders if
anyone wonders about her. She leans in closer to her moonlit
self. And what happened next? Maybe she came to a terrible
conclusion that night. Or maybe, seeking a new beginning,
heart pounding, heart pounding. She kept what was important
-- and left the rest behind.

WELCOME TO THE WHITE ROOM
Trish Harnetiaux
Dramatic
Jennings, 40s-50s
Mr. Jennings, British, speaks to Ms. White and Mr.

Paine about the dangers of a kiss.
JENNINGS
Let’s think about this. Say you kiss Ms. White. Then what?
Sure, momentarily you are sentinto orbit, eyes closed, lips
wet, head spinning, unsure if your feet are still on the ground -
WKLQNLQJSHUKDSVWKHWZRRI\RXQRZRFFXS\DGL൵HUHQWSODQH
IURPWKHUHVWRIUHDOLW\ WKDW\RX¶YH¿QDOO\IRXQGLWPDGHLW
are in a state of existence that catapults you above andbeyond
the rest of normal civilization and its celestial counterparts...
But wait... what then ... what’s this? Once you’ve drawn apart
and your eyes have left each other, what then I ask? I’ll tell you
what Paine: coldness, darkness. Ms. White will quietly turn
DZD\DVVKHWKLQNVIRQGO\RQO\RIWKH¿UVWWLPHVKHZDVNLVVHG
on the playground when she was a small child genius of six,
how the boy’s hand had lingered on her child waist just long
enough to plant a taste of what’s to come in her child brain.
<RX¶OOKDYHVXGGHQÀDVKHVRIH[ZLYHVDQGVDWLQVKHHWV\RXU
mind already horizontal, hovering above reason and clouded
in the moment, not to clear until another front storms in and
ZLSHVDZD\DOOPHPRU\RIZKDWLWIHOWOLNHWRÀRDWIRUMXVWRQH
PRPHQW LQ WLPH WR À\$QG ERWK RI \RX DQG WKLV ZLOO RQO\
WDNHVHFRQGVZLOOEHGHÀDWHGGXOOHGDQGGHP\VWL¿HGE\DOO
the power held in the suggestion of the kiss, the kinetic
WUDQVFHQGHQF\RIZKDWFRXOGEHဨEXWGDVKHGE\ZKDWZDV


WHAT DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE?
Deb Margolin
Comic
Arnie, could be any age
Arnold Schmidt, an unemployed man, addresses the

audience, as he often does throughout the play. He
speaks of his wife, Myrtle, a sexy woman who is both a
high-powered attorney and a cracker-jack pastry chef.
The couple live in Ding A Ling A Ling Land, a made-
XSWHUULWRU\DQGDUHERWKDZDUHWKDWWKH\DUH¿FWLRQDO
characters. Through the comic cartoon-drama, the
WZR VWUXJJOH WR UHFRQFLOH ZLOGO\ GLৼHUHQW DWWLWXGHV
WRZDUGVWKLV¿FWLRQDOXQLYHUVH0\UWOHLVYHU\LQVXOWHG
by it, whereas Arnie’s attitude is more like the epony-
PRXVWLWOHRIWKHSOD\:KDWGLৼHUHQFHGRHVLWPDNH"
ARNIE
0\UWOHDQG,ZH¶UHVHFRQGJHQHUDWLRQWRZQLHVKHUHWKH¿UVW
generation consisted of the Booble family. There was Ishkibibble
Booble and his wife, Missa Booble; Ishky was a rotund man
who’d lost his penis in a pickle factory, but nonetheless he and
his wife had hundreds of children, many of whom came out of
their mother’s womb older than their mother. Ishky was one of
26 brothers, and each brother looked exactly like the others,
DQG KLV MRE VWDUWHG ZLWK WKH VDPH OHWWHU DV KLV ¿UVW QDPH
Larry Booble was a Lawyer, Bob Booble was a Butcher, Dan
Booble was a Doctor, and Ishky worked for IBM. Since there
were hundreds of children, the Boobles had a food machine
that just pushed out the food, so you could order 345 lasa-
gnas, 19 chickens a l’orange, etc. And this sad, erudite and
handsome man lived inside this machine who cooked all these
menu items frantically at a small stove. One day Missa Booble
let him out, and told him he had 24 hours to live his life. He

H[LWHGLQWRWKHGDZQDQGVPHOOHGÀRZHUVLWZDV6SULQJWLPH
he walked and walked along a brook that sang to him, the sun
rose over him, people smiled at him with their eyes, he ate by
a river, he met a beautiful woman, jazz began to play: low,
knowing jazz; he and the woman gazed at each other, told
stories, laughed, fell in love, they kissed as the moon rose, they
spent the night in each other’s arms by the Ocean, and came
the tiniest minute before dawn, the man, devastated by love
and elevated by resignation, climbed back into the machine
to begin his breakfast duty, never to see the sun again. This all
was made up by the same weirdo who made us up!

THE WHIRLIGIG
Hamish Linklater
Comic
Derrick, early 30s
Derrick, a fervent Red Sox fan and a baseball purist,

is watching a game on TV. He is on the phone with a
friend.
DERRICK
No, no, NO. Ok, you wanna play that game? You wanna play
the Blame Game? Forget Sosa/McGwire - forget Barry Balco
Bonds - Blame the Bambino! Blame Babe-blubber butt-Ruth
IRU PDNLQJ XV IRU PDNLQJ XV ZLOO \RX OHW PH ¿QLVK" )RU
making us fall in love with the Home Run and for ruining the
LQWHJULW\RIDJDPHZLOO\RXOHWPH¿QLVK"WKDWZDVQHYHU
conceived of by Abner Doubleday to be an exhibition of power
- but Rather - yes I just said rather - an exhibition of Beauty -
yes I just said beauty ---- AND THIS is WHY, oh by the way,
yes, this is WHY!!! the man standing at the plate right now?
he’s gonna save us, because, In Spite of his Power, but Because
RIKLV%HDXW\RQO\IRXUWKLVLVP\¿IWKEHFDXVHKHLVDJRRG
no, a great man - while the rest of them lied, and smirked, and
had sex with Kate Hudson, and let that testosterone corrode
their souls - oh, AND ADDITIONALLY - (and this should be
incidental, but it is a perfect example so I will cite it), because
he picked up that microphone and walked out on the mound at
Fenway, after those marathon terrorists had tried their worst,
tried to tear us apart, and he said, and I quote, - yes my voice
is breaking a little, because I am a fucking human being, Cur-
tis, - and I quote : “This ... is our fucking city.” ... I KNOW I
HAVE NEVER LEFT BERKSHIRE COUNTY - and so, not
because of his numbers, but BECAUSE of his spirit, his soul,
ZKLFKLVDEHDXWLIXORQH'DYLG2UWL]%LJ3DSLZLOOEHWKH¿UVW

player inducted into Baseball’s Hall of Fame - OHWPH¿QLVK-
IN SPITE of the fact that he was a drug addict, whatever, used
steroids, H.G.H. - and on cue he strikes out. No, you’re right.
There’s no point caring any more.


WOLF AT THE DOOR
Richard Dresser
Comic
Garth, an adult (age not important)
Garth, A Norwegian, is explaining himself to an old

woman in his apartment building in New York.
GARTH
I was about to go back to Norway. But I fell in love with a Lat-
vian. Inga. She had beautiful feet, it’s what attracted me, like a
rat to cheese. She was a foot model and I a cook. She moved in
and we were happy. Until her brother Ivars wrote from Latvia.
He needed to get out because of the Russians. She urged him to
come to the USA and move in with us. He told me he couldn’t
ZRUNEHFDXVHKHZDVPLVVLQJWKUHH¿QJHUVDOWKRXJKKHDOZD\V
wore a mitten. I would cook fourteen hours a day at The House
of Borscht and come home to cook for Inga and Ivars. One day
I found them in bed together. I was puzzled but Inga explained
that Ivars had been tortured by the Russians. I said, okay, good,
but why the naked? She said, you have never been to Latvia.
You know nothing of totalitarianism. You only know exciting
recipes. One night when I brought Ivars his strudel, I told him
he must at last get a job. He got angry and we ended up wrest-
OLQJRQWKHÀRRU,VDWRQKLPDQGSXOOHGR൵KLVPLWWHQDQG,
VDZKHKDGDOOKLV¿QJHUV$KKD6R,EHDWKLVIDFHXQWLOKH
told me his dream to be a circus performer. I bought him a new
VXLWDQGMXJJOLQJEDOOVDQGVHQWKLPR൵WR&ORZQ&ROOHJHLQ
Florida. He graduated in the top three-quarters of his class
DQG,QJDÀHZGRZQIRUWKHFHUHPRQ\%XWKHIRXQGWKHFLUFXV
world too political so he worked as a freelance clown, child-
ren’s birthday parties, but he hated children and they hated
KLPDQGLWHQGHGEDGO\+HZRXOGOLHRQP\VRIDLQP\ÀX൵\
robe watching pornography and talking about how much he

loved the USA and I would cook for the two of them. Inga
had let her feet go so the model work dried up and I had to
pay for everything: the food, the rent, Inga’s vodka and Ivars’
gym membership which he never once used. They went on
a holiday but I couldn’t go because of my work. When they
arrived home they told me they had married. I said, holy cow,
what kind of country is this where a sister can go to Calabasas
and marry her own brother? Inga took my hand and said very
JHQWO\*DUWKP\ORYHWKLVLVGL൶FXOWWRWHOO\RXEXW,YDUVLV
not my brother.

5ං඀ඁඍඌ๟3ൾඋආංඌඌංඈඇඌ
(NOTE: To obtain the entire text of a play, contact the
rights holder or, when indicated, the publisher.)
AIRNESS © 2017 by Chelsea Marcantel. Reprinted by permis-

sion of Amy Mellman, ICM Partners. For performance rights,
contact Di Glazer, ICM Partners, [email protected]
ALL ABOUT BIFFO © 2013 by Stephen Bittrich. Reprinted

by permission of Stephen Bittrich. For performance rights,
contact Stephen Bittrich, [email protected]
APROPOS OF NOTHING © 2017 by Greg Kalleres. Reprinted

by permission of Greg Kalleres. For performance rights,
contact Ron Gwiazda, Abrams Artists Agency,
[email protected]
ARCHIPELAGO © 2016 by Caridad Svich. Reprinted by per-

mission of Caridad Svich. For performance rights, contact
Caridad Svich, [email protected]
7+($5621,676E\-DFTXHOLQH*ROG¿QJHU5HSULQWHG
by permission of Amy Wagner, Abrams Artists Agency. For
performance rights, contact Amy Wagner,
[email protected]
THE ART OF THE FUGUE © 2017 by Don Nigro. Reprinted

by permission of Don Nigro. For performance rights, contact
Samuel French, Inc., 212-206-8990, www.samuelfrench.com
BLOOD AT THE ROOT © 2017 by Dominique Morisseau. Re-

printed by permission of Jonathan Mills, Paradigm Agency.
For performance rights, contact Samuel French, Inc.,
212-206-8990, www.samuelfrench.com

BLUE/WHITNEY © 2017 by Steven Haworth. Reprinted by per-
mission of Steven Haworth. For performance rights, contact
Steven Haworth, [email protected]
BOYS NIGHT © 2017 by Gary Richards. Reprinted by permis-

sion of Gary Richards. For performance rights, contact Gary
Richards, [email protected]
BREACH © 2017 by Barret O’Brien. Reprinted by permission

of Barret O’Brien. For performance rights, contact Barret
O’Brien, [email protected]
THE CHANGING ROOM © 2017 by Joseph Krawczyk. Re-

printed by permission of Joseph Krawczyk. For performance
rights, contact Joseph Krawczyk, [email protected]
CHASING THE STORM © 2014 by Sandra A. Daley-Sharif. Re-

printed by permission of Sandra A. Daley-Sharif. For perfor-
mance rights, contact Sandra A. Daley-Sharif,
[email protected]
CONTENT NO MORE © 2018 by Steve Koppman. Reprinted

by permission of Steve Koppman. For performance rights,
contact Steve Koppman, [email protected]
CRY IT OUT © 2017 by Molly Smith Metzler. Reprinted by permis-

sion of Molly Smith Metzler. For performance rights, contact
Dramatic Publishing Co., www.dramaticpublishing.com
DEAD WOMAN’S GAME © 2018 by Erik Christian Hansen. Re-

printed by permission of Erik Christian Hanson. For perfor-
mance rights, contact Erik Christan Hanson, [email protected]
DISTRICT MERCHANTS © 2017 by Aaron Posner. Reprinted by

permission of Beth Blickers Agency for the Performing Arts.
For performance rights, contact Dramatists Play Service,
440 Park Ave. S., New York, NY 10016, 212-683-8960,
www.dramatists.com.

THE DOG IN THE DRESSING ROOM © 2017 by Deborah Sa-
vadge. Reprinted by permission of Deborah Savadge. For per-
formance rights, contact Earl Graham, the Graham Agency,
[email protected]
DOORMEN © 2017 by Penny Jackson. Reprinted by permission

of Penny Jackson. For performance rights, contact Penny
Jackson, [email protected]
DUSTING FOR VOMIT © 2017 by Neal Reynolds. Reprinted

by permission of Neal Reynolds. For performance rights,
contact Neal Reynolds, [email protected]
EL NOGALAR © 2017 by Tanya Saracho. Reprinted by per-

mission of Mark Orsini, Bret Adams Ltd.. For perfor-
mance rights, contact Samuel French, Inc., 212-206-8990,
www.samuelfrench.com
THE END OF THE WORLD © 2017 by Andrew Biss. Reprinted

by permission of Andrew Biss. For performance rights,
contact Andrew Biss, [email protected]
ENTERPRISE © 2017 by Brian Parks. Reprinted by permission

of Brian Parks. For performance rights, contact Brian Parks,
[email protected]
EVERYTHING IS WONDERFUL © 2017 by Chelsea Marcan-

tel. Reprinted by permission of Amy Mellman, ICM Partners.
For performance rights, contact Di Glazer, ICM Partners,
[email protected]
FAREWELL TO THE THEATRE © 2012 by Richard Nelson.

Reprinted by permission of Amy Mellman, ICM Partners.
For performance rights, contact Broadway Play Publishing,
212-772-8334, www.broadwayplaypubl.com

FATHERS AND SONS © 2017 by Michael Bradford. Reprinted
by permission of Mary Harden, Harden-Curtis Associates.
For performance rights, contact Broadway Play Publishing,
212-772-8334, www.broadwayplaypubl.com
THE FINAL ADVENTURE OF PRINCE GALLANT © 2017

by Rory Leahy. Reprinted by permission of Rory Leahy. For
performance rights, contact Rory Leahy
FIREPOWER © 2017 by Kermit Frazier. Reprinted by permission

of Kermit Frazier. For performance rights, contact Broadway
Play Publishing, 212-772-8334, www.broadwayplaypubl.com
FOMO © 2017 by Rhea MacCallum. Reprinted by permission

of Rhea MacCallum. For performance rights, contact Rhea
MacCallum, [email protected]
FRIENDLY’S FIRE © 2016 by John Patrick Bray. Reprinted by

permission of John Patrick Bray. For performance rights,
contact John Patrick Bray, [email protected]
GUNPOWDER JOE © 2017 by Anthony Clarvoe. Reprinted

by permission of Anthony Clarvoe. For performance
rights, contact Broadway Play Publishing, 212-772-8334,
www.broadwayplaypubl.com
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ADAM SCHWARTZ © 2018 by Cary

Gitter. Reprinted by permission of Mark Orsini, Bret
Adams Ltd. For performance rights, contact Mark Orsini,
[email protected]
HOW ALFO LEARNED TO LOVE © 2015 by Vincent Amelio.

Reprinted by permission of Vincent Amelio. For performance
rights, contact Vincent Amelio, [email protected]
HUNGARIAN COMEDY © 2017 by Susan Cinoman. Reprinted

by permission of Susan Cinoman. For performance rights,
contact Susan Cinoman, [email protected]

IZZY © 2017 by Susan Eve Haar. Reprinted by permission of
Susan Eve Haar. For performance rights, contact Susan Eve
Haar, [email protected]
KISS © 2017 by Guillermo Calderón. Reprinted by permission

of Antje Oegel AO International Agency. For performance
rights, contact Antje Oegel, [email protected]
L’APPEL DU VIDE © 2017 by Molly Kirschner. Reprinted by

permission of Molly Kirschner. For performance rights,
contact Molly Kirschner, [email protected]
THE LAYOVER © 2017 by Leslye Headland. Reprinted by per-

mission of Mark Subias, United Talent Agency. For perfor-
mance rights, contact Samuel French, Inc., 212-206-8990,
www.samuelfrench.com
LE DERNIER REPAS © 2004 by David Eliet. Reprinted by

permission of David Eliet. For performance rights, contact
David Eliet, [email protected]
LES FRÉRES © 2017 by Sandra A. Daley-Sharif. Reprinted by

permission of Sandra A. Daley-Sharif. For performance rights,
contact Sandra A. Daley-Sharif, [email protected]
LOOK AT ME (RUFF, RUFF) © 2017 by C. S. Hanson. Re-

printed by permission of C. S. Hanson. For performance
rights, contact C. S. Hanson, [email protected]
LOS SAMARITANOS © 2015 by Sandra A. Daley-Sharif.

Reprinted by permission of Sandra A. Daley-Sharif. For
performance rights, contact Sandra A. Daley-Sharif,
[email protected]
LOST AND GUIDED © 2017 by Irene Kapustina. Reprinted

by permission of Irene Kapustina. For performance rights,
contact Irene Kapustina, [email protected]

MULTIPLE FAMILY DWELLING © 2017 by James Hindman.
Reprinted by permission of Charles Kopelman, Abrams
Artists Agency. For performance rights, contact Charles
Kopelman, [email protected]
1980 (or Why I’m Voting for John Anderson) © 2017 by Patri-
cia Cotter. Reprinted by permission of Susan Gurman, Susan
Gurman Agency LLC. For performance rights, contact Susan
Gurman, [email protected]
NO ONE LOVES US HERE © 2014 by Ross Howard. Reprinted

by permission of Ross Howard. For performance rights,
contact Ross Howard, [email protected]
OH, MY GOODNESS © 2017 by Cayenne Douglass. Reprinted

by permission of Cayenne Douglas. For performance rights,
contact Cayenne Douglas, [email protected]
ORIGEN © 2017 by Anderson Cook. Reprinted by permission of

Anderson Cook. For performance rights, contact Anderson
Cook, [email protected]
A PATCH OF BLUE © 2017 by Lisa Kenner Grissom. Reprinted

by permission of Lisa Kenner Grissom. For performance
rights, contact Lisa Kenner Grissom, [email protected]
THE PERFECT SAMENESS OF OUR DAYS © 2017 by Michael

Tooher. Reprinted by permission of Michael Tooher. For perfor-
mance rights, contact Michael Tooher, [email protected]
RAW BACON FROM POLAND © 2017 by Christina Masciot-

ti. Reprinted by permission of Antje Oegel, AO International
Agency. For performance rights, contact Broadway Play Pu-
blishing, 212-772-8334, www.broadwayplaypubl.com
THE RECKLESS SEASON © 2016 by Lauren Ferebee. Reprinted

by permission of Lauren Ferebee. For performance rights,
contact Lauren Ferebee, [email protected]

ROAD KILL © 2017 by Karen JP Howes. Reprinted by permis-
sion of Karen JP Howes. For performance rights, contact
Marta Praeger, Robert H. Freedman Dramatic Agency,
mp@bromasite
RUNNING IN PLACE © 2017 by Joshua James. Reprinted by

permission of Joshua James. For performance rights, contact
Joshua James, [email protected]
SHOOTER © 2016 by Sam Graber. Reprinted by permission of

Sam Graber. For performance rights, contact Sam Graber,
[email protected]
SMART LOVE © 2017 by Brian Letscher. Reprinted by permis-

sion of Brian Letscher. For performance rights, contact Brian
Letscher, [email protected]
SPEECHLESS © 2017 by Greg Kalleres. Reprinted by permis-

sion of Greg Kalleres. For performance rights, contact Ron
Gwiazda, Abrams Artists Agency,
[email protected]
STRANGE CASE © 2010 by Don Nigro. Reprinted by permis-

sion of Don Nigro. For performance rights, contact Samuel
French, Inc., 212-206-8990, www.samuelfrench.com
SUMMERLAND © 2017 by Arlitia Jones. Reprinted by permis-

sion of Arlitia Jones. For performance rights, contact Arlitia
Jones, [email protected]
T © 2017 by Dan Aibel. Reprinted by permission of Dan Aibel. For

performance rights, contact Dan Aibel, [email protected]
TELL HECTOR I MISS HIM © 2017 by Paola Lázaro. Reprinted

by permission of Rachel Viola United Talent Agency. For per-
formance rights, contact Rachel Viola, [email protected]

THREE LADIES OF ORPINGTON © 2016 by Daniel Guyton.
Reprinted by permission of Daniel Guyton . For performance
rights, contact Daniel Guyton, [email protected]
THE TROUBLE WITH CASHEWS © 2017 by David MacGregor.

Reprinted by permission of David MacGregor. For perfor-
mance rights, contact David MacGregor,
[email protected]
UNDERGROUND © 2017 by Isla van Tricht. Reprinted by per-

mission of Isla van Tricht.For performance rights, contact
Isla van Tricht, [email protected]
VALENTINO’S MUSE © 2017 by A.J. Ciccotelli. Reprinted by

permission of A.J. Ciccotelli. For performance rights, contact
A.J. Ciccotelli, [email protected]
WELCOME TO THE WHITE ROOM © 2016 by Trish Harnetiaux.

Reprinted by permission of Antje Oegel, AO International
Agency. For performance rights, contact Antje Oegel,
[email protected]
WASHED UP ON THE POTOMAC © 2016 by Lynn Rosen. Re-

printed by permission of Alexis Williams, Bret Adams Ltd.
For performance rights, contact Alexis Williams,
[email protected]
WHAT DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE? © 2016 by Deb Mar-

golin. Reprinted by permission of Deb Margolin. For perfor-
mance rights, contact Deb Margolin,
[email protected]
THE WHIRLIGIG © 2017 by Hamish Linklater. Reprinted by

permission of Amy Mellman, ICM Partners. For performance
rights, contact Di Glazer, ICM Partners,
[email protected]

WOLF AT THE DOOR © 2017 by Richard Dresser. Reprinted
by permission of Richard Dresser. For performance rights,
contact Richard Dresser, [email protected]

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The Best Men’s

Stage Monologues 2018

Edited and with a Foreword

Smith and Kraus Publishers

The Best Men’s Stage Monologues 2018

Manufactured in the United States of America

Typesetting and layout by Elizabeth E. Monteleone

For information about custom editions, special sales,

Thanks to the following press agents for allowing me to

Thanks, too, to Amy Marsh of Samuel French, Inc., Peter

And, thanks most of all to the playwrights who sent me

ALL ABOUT BIFFO 21

THE ARSONISTS (2) 27

THE ART OF THE FUGUE (2) 30

BLOOD AT THE ROOT (2) 34

CHASING THE STORM 45

DEAD WOMAN’S GAME 51

DISTRICT MERCHANTS (2) 53

THE DOG IN THE DRESSING ROOM (2) 57

DUSTING FOR VOMIT 63

THE END OF THE WORLD 68

EVERYTHING IS WONDERFUL (3) 72

FATHERS AND SONS (2) 80

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ADAM SCHWARTZ 97

HOW ALFO LEARNED TO LOVE 98

HUNGARIAN COMEDY (2) 99

L’APPEL DU VIDE 106

THE LAYOVER (2) 108

LES FRÉRES 112

LOOK AT ME (RUFF RUFF) 114

LOS SAMARITANOS (3) 115

LOST AND GUIDED 120

MULTIPLE FAMILY DWELLING 121

 ඈඋ:ඁඒ,¶ආ9ඈඍංඇ඀ൿඈඋ-ඈඁඇ$ඇൽൾඋඌඈඇ 

NO ONE LOVES US HERE 124

OH, MY GOODNESS 126

ORIGEN (2) 128

A PATCH OF BLUE 132

THE RECKLESS SEASON (3) 133

THE PERFECT SAMENESS OF OUR DAYS (2) 137

ROAD KILL (2) 141

RUNNING IN PLACE 145

SHOOTER (2) 146

SMART LOVE (2) 150

STRANGE CASE 155

SUMMERLAND (2) 157

TELL HECTOR I MISS HIM 163

THREE LADIES OF ORPINGTON 165

THE TROUBLE WITH CASHEWS 167

WASHED UP ON THE POTOMAC (2) 173

WELCOME TO THE WHITE ROOM 177

WHAT DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE? 178

THE WHIRLIGIG 180

WOLF AT THE DOOR 182

RIGHTS AND PERMISSISONS 185

The Best Men’s Stage Monologues 2018 13

After Nina, a newcomer to competitive air guitar,

The Best Men’s Stage Monologues 2018 17

For information on this author,

ඈඋ:ඁඒ,¶ආ9ඈඍංඇ඀ൿඈඋ-ඈඁඇ$ඇൽൾඋඌඈඇ