Category Archives: Play

CAST LIST

Now the stage lightens again, perhaps it is brighter than before. Another rumble is heard. Dark again, then light only on the plateau. Dad enters, shell-shocked. Mom rushes to him, grabbing the stick with toast and offering it.

MOM (totally re-perked): Toast?

DAD (waving it away): Five-thousand men showed up to write one line of ad copy. It started raining. They wouldn’t open up the gates. Fights broke out. They sent in the dogs. It got ugly. I left.

A beat as Mom, Janey, and Joey frown.

DAD (not liking their frowns, attempting to re-perk): But I didn’t miss our phone call, did I?

Mom, Janey, and Joey now exchange angry, sullen looks.

DAD (now deflated again): Don’t tell me. Correctly assuming that I would return jobless, Mom did a hoochie-koochie dance for the highway patrol, Joey broke down and sold his Mark McGwire rookie card, and Janey was tied up and tongue-kissed by that roving band of inner-city youths.

JOEY (well-meaning): We couldn’t help it, Dad –

MOM (quickly cutting Joey off): – The point is, honey, I’ve got some good news…

Dad smiles.

MOM: …And some bad news.

Dad frowns.

MOM: The good news is…

Dad smiles.

MOM: …they did phone, so that means we still count…

Dad does an end-zone victory dance.

DAD: Team Doakes!

MOM: And the bad news is…

Dad stops dancing, then frowns.

MOM: …they only wanted to talk to the head of the household and you weren’t here…

DAD (disbelieving): Well, couldn’t you get them to phone back? They’ve never asked specifically for me…

JANEY: Maybe that’s because you always answer the phone.

MOM: Zip your lip, young lady. I won’t have any of that smart talk in this house.

Janey “zips” her lip and exchanges a look with Joey. Dad starts pacing around the camp. Mom plants the stick with the toast over the fire.

DAD: I suppose I didn’t have to go off on another wild goose-chase job hunt.

MOM: Sure you did, honey, because that’s the kind of guy you are.

Dad re-perks, as Mom begins to deflate.

MOM: …I suppose I could have disguised my voice and said I was the head of the household…

DAD: But, honey, that would have been dishonest, and that’s not the kind of gal you are.

Mom re-perks, as Dad deflates again.

DAD: Well, I suppose if I had a real head on my shoulders, I would have taken our family nest egg out of the bank, and put it in our king-size Serta sleeper and then removed it before the bank collapsed, some beggar in India got my telemarketing job, and the bed was repossessed. But thanks to my famous short-sightedness, I didn’t do that.

MOM: Hey, hey, hey, honey, you’re not Nostradamus!

Dad does not re-perk. Mom begins a cartwheel.

DAD: Well, I should have read Nostradamus. He predicted this whole shebang, didn’t he?

MOM (completing the cartwheel): Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t, but one thing’s for sure. Back in his day, they didn’t have toast.

Dad immediately re-perks, and the two of them move happily to the fire. The family huddles around.

DAD (picking up the toast stick and examining the toast): Mmmm…medium brown…Number four on the toaster. If you want my opinion, I like it!

Everyone agrees, anxiously waiting for Dad to start eating so they can follow.

DAD (shouting into the void): The Doakes Family loves medium-brown toast! Did you hear that, National Focus Group Survey? (Now sheepishly, to family). In case they’re listening.

JANEY/JOEY: We’re listening, Dad. We like to hear your opinions.

MOM (under her breath): I’m not so sure that the Coopers in the blue Honda are as interested as we are, but that’s okay…

The phone rings down below.

MOM: Oh my God! There it is!

The lights follow the Doakes as they leap for it. Dad tries to keep the toast stick clear of the jumble.

DAD (from under the jumble, excitedly): Head of the household. What can I do you for…(Not quite assimilating this as he repeats the Survey Group question). Do I think retina scans will improve homeland security?…Well, let me quickly poll my family…Doakeses, what do we think?

Now the lights come up on the full group, the “power animal” workshop, as seen before. Everyone is still dancing his or her power animal, very intensely now. Mike is still playing the tom-tom. But now he has found his power animal. He’s the San Diego Padres’ chicken (the team mascot, for these purposes, actually Chicken Little). He imitates a chicken, with everything he’s got.

WORKSHOP LEADER: Well…I guess a chicken is as noble as any other creature…although, people generally do not derive power from barnyard animals, but on the other hand, the egg is all there is to know, so to dance the dance of the chicken is a very ancient and important act, and they haven’t always been fryers, so I would say you’ve tapped into a powerful source…

The Man squawks in response for a moment too long, making the workshop leader uncomfortable.

WORKSHOP LEADER (humoring him): Oh, you’re not telling us that the sky is falling, are you?

He continues squawking and playing the tom-tom, more furiously now.

WORKSHOP LEADER: Because if you’re saying that your power animal is Chicken Little, then I would have to reply that you have contacted a very negative spirit and you are in great danger to yourself and the other workshop participants…

The other workshop participants are oblivious to his squawking. She reaches into a pouch which dangles from her neck, removes a crystal, and begins to move it around his body, attempting to keep up with his frantic dance.

WORKSHOP LEADER: …this ought to stabilize the toxic force temporarily…

There is another thunderclap now, much louder than the others. The stage goes dark; there are lightning bolts, tumbleweeds that blow into the audience, the freight train sound of a barreling earthquake…A few pathetic squawks…Some howling wind…A sportscaster’s booming voice is now heard.

VOICE: And so the Padres go down swinging…

The lights come up. The set has been blown bare. All that remains are the bodies and the phone, and there is now a TV set that sits on top of one of the rocks. It’s tuned to a dour but energetic anchorman.

ANCHORMAN: A shaker rolled through the Southland this morning and Sandra Bullock, as well as thousands of others, may have perished…Let’s check in with our news van –

As he speaks, a female hand reaches from behind the TV and somersaults on to the stage, leading her class in the void (no music here).

EXERCISE INSTRUCTOR: Hut, hut, hey, let’s see a little hustle here, the holidays are around the corner and you know what that means…(ominously)…relatives! You don’t want your sister-in-law to have less flab than you do, so let’s get into our abs right away…(Lying down on the floor). Okay, put the weights on top of your chest. (Looking around at class). I don’t see any of you putting that little weight on top of your chest, come on, think “sister-in-law” and pile it on, that’s right, now knees bent, legs apart, heels up, tilt that pelvis and lift for three, one, two, three, and down one, lift, one, two, three, and down one…(Continuing to do this). Okay, we’re doing these forever, by the way, the results of my deodorant survey are in, in case you haven’t heard, and many of you use Mitchum but a surprising number just use good old soap and water. Personally, I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed but I need something stronger, like Pine-Sol…just kidding, okay let’s roll over on to our left sides and get into that turbo-flair…(Starting to do leg lifts, picking up coin tossed by derelict). Point up and flex down, point up and flex down, don’t forget to strap your weights around your ankles because I’m going to be doing my thigh measure on Wednesday, and I will give this lucky penny to the person with the thinnest thighs, now let’s do thirty-two of these, it’s always important to work toward a goal, and then after that we’ll rest. (Looking at someone). Joanne, you look fabulous, are you having an affair? Just kidding, okay, last eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one, hold it right there…okay, other side (turning over and resuming), hut, hut, point and flex, point and flex, by the way, am I the only one in here who showers after sex? Come on, I’m serious. I just can’t stand lying there all sticky and smelly so I always get up and wash off before going to sleep…I can’t be the only one who does that, girls, sixteen more to go, make your last ones the best ones, it’s all in the mind, and if you’re planning to give into a little eggnog over the holidays, brisket if you’re Jewish – aren’t your holidays coming up too?, you’ve got to make sure that your body is sculpted enough to take the punishment, four, three, two, one, okay (excitedly), mule kicks!…(On all fours, starting the exercise with one leg). Weakest leg first, for eight, seven, six – I don’t care what anyone says, Lady Gaga is not a lady, she’s a hermaphro whatever it is – and one, other leg (switching). No one really dances any more, okay, that’s six, five, four, and how come she never got that gap between her teeth fixed?…Okay, that’s it for today, let’s inhale and take the arms up, by the way, do you know how lucky we are not to have a son in the army reserve, have you ever thought about that, because it’s a real powder keg out there, now let’s stand up and shake it out, I mean any day now the world could blow, does everyone know where their gas line is in case they have to shut it off?…Great class, everyone. See you tomorrow. Remember, it’s rubber bands!

The music fades as the instructor disappears into a cave. There is another aftershock, and a few more rocks are heaved forth as the earth splits in yet another direction. There is silence for a few moments, then the sound of a rapidly moving mountain of water, barreling in and consuming everything in its wake. A gnarled and dripping surfer, in wetsuit and with longboard, enters, breathless from his ride.

SURFER: Whoa…killer close-out set…(Surveying scene). This place really got worked. (Loudly). Knock, knock. Anybody home? (No response; phone rings; he picks it up). Hello?…(Repeating, incredulous)…Is this the head of the household? (Looking around)…Well, I’m all alone here…(Now almost a swagger)…Guess that makes me the head of the household…Yeah, I’m ready for today’s question. Fire away…(Repeating, incredulous)…Does my household have a two- or four-slice toaster?…(Trying to explain). Hey, man, I don’t actually have a household…

Now the Exercise Instructor jumps out of her cave.

EXERCISE INSTRUCTOR (cheerfully): But you could…

He drops the phone.

SURFER: You the only one left?

EXERCISE INSTRUCTOR: Did something happen?

SURFER (wistfully, to audience): Yeah, I knew a lot of chicks, could have had a lot of households, could have made an ocean of money…But then the waves were always calling…Didn’t take long to remember why I went amphibian…(To instructor). I ride in on the last wave and what happens? I get a call from a polling organization.

EXERCISE INSTRUCTOR (cheerfully): It’s just a bunch of people without friends who get paid to stay on the phone all day. But I’m sure they hear the waves. Everyone hears the waves…Some people just don’t want to be seen in a bathing suit.

SURFER: I don’t know. (A moment, as he looks at the sky). Sun seems to have permanently disappeared. (Exchanging a look with the instructor). Well, gotta go. (Starting to head back to sea, then stopping). Wanna be part of my household?

EXERCISE INSTRUCTOR (lovestruck): Oh yes!

The pair starts to leave. As the Surfer steps over the two dead derelicts, they rouse.

MAN: Can you spare some change?

The Exercise Instructor tosses him the penny.

MAN (reacting to coin): Hey, it’s a lucky penny. (To surfer). Do you think men really walked on the moon?

Now one of the Hispanic men rushes toward the surfer.

HISPANIC MAN: Yo, wet guy! Wait for me.

SURFER: Whoa! Fernando Valenzuela!

HISPANIC MAN: They say you ride the healing waters. Will you take me there?

The Surfer checks the sky again. The light is starting to fade.

SURFER: This old board’s handled a lot of situations. Let’s go.

He picks up his board and starts to leave, beckoning for everyone to follow. Their exit is accompanied by the guitar rapture of Dick Dale’s “Nitroglycerine,” the once-and-future surf anthem.

SURFER (to Hispanic Man): It was a long time ago, my friend, but men really did walk on the moon…The surf was very big that day, not angry like today, but very big…

The guitars of “Nitro” now thunder loudly, cranking their beat across the land and sea. The surviving group follows the surfer offstage, fading into starry night.

Curtain.

© 2010 Deanne Stillman

CAST LIST

…to re-cap, tourist #1 has just thrown a camera and hit a girl in the head…

She is Hispanic, about twelve or thirteen. The wailing grows louder as she approaches the tourists. They freeze in surprise. Now a Hispanic Boy, a couple of years older, enter.

HISPANIC BOY (to tourists): Hey, man, what’d you do to my sister?

TOURIST #2 (to Tourist #1): I told you this was the wrong tour.

A Hispanic Man in his twenties approaches.

HISPANIC MAN #1: Hey, man, what’d you do to my niece?

A Hispanic Man in his forties approaches.

HISPANIC MAN #2: Hey, man, what’d you do to my cousin?

More men add themselves to the group. The crying Girl, now just whimpering, is drawn to a tall cactus and gazes upward into it.

TOURIST #2 (cautiously): We’re sorry. My wife didn’t know anybody was here. Anybody living, that is.

TOURIST #1 (finding safety in map): According to this, this is a cemetery, so we just didn’t know…

HISPANIC BOY (gesturing): Does this look like Forest Lawn to you? This is Pico-Rivera, man, someone sold you people the wrong map!

TOURIST #2 (to himself): I knew it.

TOURIST #1 (indicating): But what about that grave stone?

HISPANIC BOY: What grave stone? I don’t see no stinkin grave stone…Posse, you see a grave stone?

The men ad lib remarks about not seeing any grave stone.

HISPANIC BOY: You stay out here long enough, you see all kinds of things…You start having visions (gesturing to girl)…Like right now, I see you buying some charcoal briquettes at Von’s…Aren’t you having a cook-out tonight? I know that you are because (sniffing) I detect a strong scent of lighter fluid…Anyone here like white meat?

The homeboys nod. He starts throwing lit matches at the tourists’ feet. The homeboys move in, all throwing matches at their feet. The tourists jump. An eerie organ sting is now heard as the girl sinks to her knees in awe. The cactus starts to glow. The boys are now drawn to it too. The tourists slip off as an ethereal female voice now emanates from the vicinity of the glowing cactus. Everybody makes the sign of the cross.

VOICE: Don’t be afraid. I am here to stand and deliver. Chevrolet is not the heartbeat of America. I am. There are some things that must be accomplished before the waning of the baseball moon…Bring me the arm of Fernando Valenzuela. It must be bathed in my healing waters…Do you know that the gringos have stolen his stuff?

There is another organ sting and the cactus stops glowing. The lights go down for a moment, there is thunder and lightning, and the lights come up. The Hispanics are gone. Now, a White Man in his forties – pony tail, corporately hip – reclines seductively across a rock. His assistant Brad, in his twenties, sits on the floor with pad and pen, gazing adoringly at his boss. A Writer, casual, thirties, sits cross-legged, facing Brad.

WHITE MAN (to writer): So, how would you describe the tone of this?

WRITER: “Kill Bill volume 2” meets “Macbeth”.

WHITE MAN: I didn’t know Shakespeare, but he shot his wad with “Julius Caesar”.

BRAD: Exactly.

WHITE MAN: So here’s what I think. You brought me some fabulous characters and a so-so arena, but what I’m not hearing is the 30-60-90 tent pole of story structure…As Jerry Bruckheimer says, I’m the guy at the table who kills ideas that are going nowhere…
(proudly)…I guess I’m kind of a creative exterminator…I know that sounds bad, but it will only help you down the line…As Brad knows, I am a structure man from way back…

Suddenly, the White Man appears to be possessed by another personality. He stands up on the rock, pulls a harmonica from his pocket and starts doing a sloppy blues riff for a few moments, then launches into a dirty blues song, as if he is suddenly channeling James Brown, but the lyrics are unintelligible.

BRAD (to writer, as if this is perfectly normal): Great voice.

He continues singing for a couple of minutes, then starts riffing again on the harmonica.

BRAD (now confidentially): He’s not channeling, it’s Tourette’s Syndrome.

WRITER: I thought that was the other part.

BRAD (flatly): That’s very funny. I wonder if you’re on our dialogue polish list. (Grabbing phone). I’m just going to check with Nancy…It’s busy. (Puts it down). Anyway, his doctor says there’s nothing he can do other than open for Amy Winehouse, so he has decided – and wisely, I think – to continue running this company –

WHITE MAN (resuming his “normal” persona): …So, as I was saying, if you have any other notions, make sure to have your representatives let us know.

BRAD (to writer): Do you need validation? You can get stickers from Natalie. I’ll show you out.

He gets up and so does the Writer. From atop his perch, the White Man extends his hand and he and the Writer shake, he very limply. Brad walks the Writer out.

WRITER (one last try): My work is very dark, actually.

BRAD (cheerfully): We love dark…Call us!

The White Man disappears through a door in the frieze. The lights go down and come up on the plateau. Joey is on the phone.

JOEY: Hello? (Annoyed). Bobby, I told you. I can’t talk on Wednesday morning.

As she listens, Mom droops.

JOEY: That’s when the Survey group calls and asks for our opinion!

At the mention of “Survey group”, Mom recovers, pretending that she is a puppet and pulling herself up with an invisible string.

JOEY: Bye!

He hangs up the phone and Mom inspects it to make sure it’s working properly, then puts it on top of the car.

JOEY: Sorry, Mom. Some people just don’t understand the importance of being polled.

MOM: That’s right. Polls are important. Polls are used to determine important decisions. Polls tell us that…(Now, a total change of character, as a screaming Jesse Jackson)…We are somebody!

Janey and Joey exchange a look and Mom realizes that she just cracked, then quickly regains her composure and moves to check the toast.

MOM: Not a moment too soon!

She starts to wrap the toast in a towel. But the phone rings and Mom leaps to grab it. The toast goes flying.

MOM (mid-air): Children, make more toast. (Into phone). Hello? (Excitedly)…Yes, this is the Doakes Family…the National Focus Group Survey? Well, hello! May I tell you how synchronistic this is? I was just willing you to phone us…Of course I believe in synchronicity. Is that what you’re asking in today’s poll?…You can’t tell me because you need to talk to the head of the household…(Stalling and scanning the horizon). Well, three out of four Doakeses are ready to be asked for your opinions, children, line up for the Survey people…

Janey and Joey line up.

MOM: …and say hello.

Janey and Joey ad lib “hellos” into the phone. It doesn’t help. Mom is almost completely unglued.

MOM: You know, Mr. Doakes will be here any second, as you may recall, he’s got an impeccable record when it comes to being polled, he’s always on hand for your call, in fact, you could say, it’s the reason he gets up in the morning, that goes double for all the members of our family…

Janey and Joey cheerfully nod in agreement.

MOM: Well, couldn’t you call back? Mr. Doakes has so many opinions, and we already know what they are, so of course he’s anxious to share them with you, in fact, the last thing he said to me was, “Honey, you know what really rings my chimes?”…(Reacting to the line going dead). Hello? (Shaking phone). Is anyone there? (Frantically taking phone apart and quickly putting it together again to see if it’s working). Did you kids do something to this phone?

She loses control and throws it. It lands down below.

JANEY: Of course not, Mom.

JOEY: I’m sure they’ll call back.

MOM (attempting to re-perk): Oh, I’m sure you’re right. You’re always right. Except of course when your father –

The lights go down as Mom spots a figure out on the horizon approaching the camp. We hear Mom’s voice as the lights come up below.

MOM: Children, go get that phone.

The phone rings. The Hispanic girl enters, rushing out to answer it. She is followed by the rest of her group.

HISPANIC GIRL: Hello?…No, this is not the Morris household. Yes…(Looking to her group). This is a household…

There are ad lib comments among the group like, “Yeah, a household,” “That’s what we are,” etc.

HISPANIC GIRL (to group): Someone is taking a survey. They want to know if we’ve joined the switch to Tylenol gel caps…(Into the phone). What are gel caps?

A siren is heard, then a door slam and police lights flood the stage.

COP’S VOICE: Drop the phone!

The cop enters.

COP: And assume the position.

The girl drops the phone and the group flees. The cop circles the phone a couple of times, as if he is afraid of it, then cautiously picks it up. This cop is the same character as the man in the power animal workshop who couldn’t find his power animal.

COP (as if this is the most difficult thing he’s ever said in his life): Hi…My name is Mike and I’m addicted to UPS deliveries…

GROUP VOICE (from offstage): Hi, Mike.

Five or six people now enter. Mike drops the phone. One of the group carries a coffee urn, another Styrofoam cups, another a platter of cookies. Some get a cup of coffee and then the group sits down. Mike now takes off his helmet and says something he has obviously been wanting to get off his chest for quite some time.

MIKE: …I know this might sound strange…

GROUP MEMBER #1: Not at all, Mike.

GROUP MEMBER #2: We love you.

GROUP MEMBER #3: You’re doing the best you can.

MIKE: …Well, ever since my wife left me for her best friend, I stay up all night watching the Home Shopping Network. It’s not that I want any of the stuff they’re pushing. What do I need with a bogus gold medallion from some chest of so-called sunken treasure. It’s just that I really like, I suppose you could say I get off on receiving all of these deliveries, with my name on them, that I have to sign for…

GROUP MEMBER #4: That’s not strange at all, Mike. I listen to all-news radio on a ‘round-the-clock basis, and whenever I hear a report of a jackknifed truck, I rush to the scene. I don’t know why, but I simply cannot stay away from a big rig that has pulled an unforeseen U-ey. In fact, that’s why I was late for this meeting.

GROUP MEMBER #5: Why didn’t you call me instead of going to the scene of the accident? You’re supposed to call me, remember? I’m your sponsor.

GROUP MEMBER #4: Because some of us don’t have fancy new car phones in their fancy new Escalade.

MIKE: Yeah, but that’s not the strange part. The strange part is I’m not even home to get the deliveries. I just like getting those yellow notices that tell you to go down to UPS headquarters to pick up your package…You know, “We will hold the package for 72 hours…”

GROUP MEMBER #1: Thank you for sharing, Mike.

GROUP MEMBER #2: That was lovely.

GROUP MEMBER #3: My family is dysfunctional too.

GROUP MEMBER #4: You’ve entered into a three-way co-dependency relationship with the Home Shopping Network and United Parcel Service.

GROUP MEMBER #5: Just keep calling me, Mike, whenever you feel the urge to shop, charge, and wait for the notice, instead of calling that 800 number. No matter what time it is.

MIKE: Thanks.

Now we hear the sound of a doorbell. Mike jumps.

GROUP: Who is it?

MALE VOICE: Special delivery.

Mike starts pacing as if he needs a fix.

GROUP: Break the chain, Mike. Break the chain of addiction.

MIKE (shouting in agony): Come in!

A guy in Federal Express shorts walks in. Mike rushes to him.

FEDERAL EXPRESS GUY: Hi, has anyone seen Tiger Woods? Looks like some more bad news.

MIKE (pleading): No, but I could sign for him. I’d be happy to sign for the delivery. Really happy.

The group converges menacingly on Mike.

GROUP: Break the chain. Break the chain.

A loud thunderclap is heard. The stage goes dark for a few moments, and the cactus glows. The Hispanic Girl prays before it.

CACTUS (ominously): Where is Fernando’s arm? Bring me Fernando’s arm. We must pray for Fernando…

© 2010 Deanne Stillman

Check back for Part III Friday August 27th.

CAST LIST

The lights come up on a frieze of the Mojave Desert, a repetition of creosote and Joshua trees. It’s sunrise. Two derelicts (male and female) are asleep on the sand. As the sun climbs, they stir and immediately begin passing a bottle of rum.

The key props are one or two outcroppings of rock, a plateau, and portable phone. Sometimes it rings. Sometimes someone answers it. Under one of the rocks is an area of shade, or perhaps a cave. During this play, people will, in addition to the usual kinds of entrances, emerge from under or on top of a rock or step out of the frieze.

NOTE: The celebrity references herein are intended to function as modern mythology, a point of universal intersection. They can and should change according to which rumors are functioning at this level at any given production time.

WOMAN (rousing): So, did you hear Sandra Bullock and Jesse James are breaking up?

MAN (immediately drawn in): Yeah, isn’t that wild? I heard it the other day. He fucked some stripper. (to passerby, whom we do not see): Hey, man, can you help me out? I’m an Iraq War vet. (Receiving coin). Thanks, brother. God bless. (Contemplating coin, to woman). Well, I heard Sandra’s a bitch so can you blame the guy for stepping out?

WOMAN: How can you say that?

MAN: I heard it, that’s why.

WOMAN: Well, that’s not what I heard…

MAN: Like everything, it’s a fifty-fifty chance…Hey, have you heard that the Kardashians drink blood on a regular basis?

An enthusiastic Real Estate Broker approaches the pair.

BROKER: Hi, there. (Gesturing). Is this for sale?

MAN: Property is theft. What do you got – water on the brain?

BROKER (not hearing this): Well, things’re turning around soon and if you ever buy this (gesturing) and then want to sell it, call me. (Handing him a card). Or, if you’d like to develop a strip mall…It’s always an option. I made nest egg number one on Chicken-on-Fire and Thai-to-Go. I’m planning to cash out and retire by the time I’m 35!

The Real Estate Broker walks off enthusiastically. The man puts the card in his pocket.

MAN: I never owned land…You?

WOMAN: Don’t worry about it. Tiger Woods got a piece of the rock and look what it’s doing for him.

MAN: So the real reason the Kardashians don’t show their age is –

WOMAN: – they’re not vampires…they have implants…they are entirely formed of implants. Get the story straight!

MAN: Don’t worry! I have my sources.

WOMAN: Same here, Mr. Know-It-All. Hey, did you know that the space program was a hoax? It all started with the so-called moon walk…the whole thing was just some gigantic diversion…to distract everybody.

MAN (attempting to one-up her): Hey, here’s a regular, watch this. Excuse me, miss, do you believe in collateral damage? Did you know that over one-third of the Americans who served in Iraq have brain injuries? Well, I’m one of those guys, baby…My brain is fried…(As passerby ignores him). But not as fried as yours! (To woman). Yeah, Kim Kardashian has fangs, that’s what I heard. They took out the guy who knew the whole story is what I am hearing from my sources.

WOMAN: Actually, I heard that he was paid off and relocated. I heard it from my step-brother’s wife’s cousin, who’s the pool man for a lot of people in Hollywood.

MAN (excited, suddenly): My source is a pool man too!

WOMAN: I didn’t get your name.

MAN (the excitement fades on the word “name”): It’s not important.

WOMAN (now morose): I know.

The Man now very deliberately removes a pistol from his pocket.

MAN: Give me a coin.

She gives it to him.

MAN: Call it.

WOMAN: Heads.

The Man flips the coin.

MAN: You win.

He holds the gun to the side of her head.

MAN: Say good-night to the Kardashians.

WOMAN: Good-night, Khloe.

He shoots her.

MAN (to himself): Good night, Kim.

He turns the gun on himself and pulls the trigger. Their dead bodies remain on the stage throughout the play. People either do not notice them or step over them as if they might as well not be there, or alternatively, the bodies are outlined in chalk and the actors exit.

A very forced, very labored coyote yell is now heard. The man who made the sound enters, on all fours, continuing to make his coyote yell. He is followed by several men and women, each dressed for their day jobs (the usual round of occupations), and each imitating a different animal – a turtle, bear, eagle, lion. A man at the end of the line is not imitating an animal, but follows the parade anyway, awkwardly keeping time with a tom-tom. The groups start to dance as they call out their various sounds, moving around the stage in a circle. (In this case, “dancing” means inhabiting the body of the animal, and doing whatever it does in some sort of rhythmic pattern).

Now a woman in her mid-forties enters enthusiastically. She is a Workshop Leader on a mission – hair in serious dreadlocks, traditional Native American clothes.

WORKSHOP LEADER (without guile): You’re all doing very well. Just keep dancing your power animal until you actually become it.

The animal calls intensify.

WORKSHOP LEADER (to non-dancing man): Don’t be shy.

MAN (earnestly): Oh, I’m not…When we had the meditation, and we were supposed to visualize being in the primordial swamp, all I saw was the swamp. I didn’t see any animals. (As if warning the audience). All I saw was the swamp.

WORKSHOP LEADER: You will…keep working on it. (The man shrugs). Hey, I know just how you feel, I was so blocked, it took me six trips to Tibet to find mine…When your power animal wants to reveal itself to you, and you are ready to see it, well, that’s when it will happen.

She now whinnies loudly like a horse and gallops offstage, leading the group. The Man follows, pounding his tom-tom, pondering this as the animal cries trail off. We hear the continued pounding for a moment as it fades to silence. Suddenly the beat is picked up with early rap music, ideally something about bitches and hos. The bass is cranked. An overly-toned Exercise Instructor in her twenties and in exercise clothing crawls out through the frieze onto a rock, looks around, and excitedly jumps off to begin her exercise class.

EXERCISE INSTRUCTOR: Okay, it’s Monday. Today is the first day of the rest of your week. Let’s all inhale (she inhales), then plee-ay and exhale (she does this), and do it again for four…one, two, three, four…(Now launching into routine). Okay, step touch, step touch (continuing as she talks)…Has anybody in here not heard that Sandra Bullock and Jesse James are breaking up? (not waiting for an answer, now more loudly). Hut, hut, basketball…(she does this move), right foot, one, two, three, four, now left, one, two, three, four. I mean how do you think Sandra feels? Personally, if I found out that Joey was fucking pole queens (looking offstage), I don’t think I could show my face…Now come on, people, you’re not working, it’s bikini time, or maybe if you’re Vanessa (looking towards someone), we’re talking mono-kini (more loudly), tell us, ‘Nessa, what don’t you have? The handsome hubby, the lap pool, and now this new anniversary rock that you’re wearing, has everyone seen it? Flash it for us would you, girl? Now come on, people, let’s concentrate on that turbo-flair! You know I was on the beach the other day and there was this girl with the best butt I have ever seen in my life better than J Lo’s, although personally I don’t think she’s so sexy, but she’s all Joey talks about…Okay, we’re working the hamstring now, not our mouths, so stop jabbering in the back row! By the way, after class I’m taking a collection for Chilean earthquake victims (loudly and pivoting), hut, hut, let’s pivot, one, two, three, four, and now we’re starting the new combination (demonstrating) which you should have all been practicing at home (laughing at her own joke)…So here we go, five, six, seven, eight, right for two, right again, right again, and right, in a big square (loudly). Use your space, people! Really travel…(tripping over one of the bodies but not missing a beat). By the way, I’ve talked to all of my classes now and I’ve finally tabulated the results from my deodorant survey and will be revealing them tomorrow…Hut, hut, now let’s chassee (does this, off into the void)…Remember to use your space…

The music fades. The phone rings. No one answers it. Two tourists wander in with maps.

TOURIST #1: So, according to this, he should be buried around here somewhere.

TOURIST #2: I told you, he’s not dead.

TOURIST #1: Yes, he is. I saw the item in the paper.

TOURIST #2: Maybe we got on the “Homes of the Stars” bus, not “Graves of the Stars” and we’re wandering around in someone’s yard by mistake.

TOURIST #1: Well, we’d still be on a tour then, wouldn’t we?

TOURIST #2: Yes, but it would be the wrong tour. We would have paid for the wrong tour.

TOURIST #1: According to the brochure, he should be in this section, it even shows where the stone is on this map.

TOURIST #2: He’s not here because he’s not dead.

TOURIST #1: Of course he’s dead. These tour companies are very accurate with their information about who’s buried where, it’s their bread and butter.

TOURIST #2: If you ask me, this whole thing is some kind of scam.

TOURIST #1: You think everything is a scam. To you everything is some kind of scam. Remember when we went to see “Shakespeare-in-the-Round” and you said you couldn’t really enjoy the performance because no one really knows who wrote those plays, maybe it was Sir Walter Raleigh?

TOURIST #2: Francis Bacon, but even that’s not a given. (Pointing at the bodies on the stage, horrified). Oh my God, I think I found him.

The two rush to the area.

TOURIST #1 (handing Tourist #2 her camera): Here. (Double-checking map, disappointed). Oh, no, no, no…It says here he’s in a crypt with a plaque…He won the People’s Choice Awards three times consecutively…Whenever they put him on the cover of US Magazine, it would sell out, every time…I was in the audience once when he was on Tyra Banks and he was such an entertaining conversationalist that they had to bump all the other guests…He was a noted humanitarian…I’m sure he has a lovely burial vault…

The tourists wander offstage, still searching.

Lights up on a plateau overlooking the stage. A Ford Taurus is parked there. A teenage girl, Janey, is on the phone under the car. A young boy, Joey, puts several slices of bread on a stick, then moves to a crude campfire to make toast.

JANEY (under car): …No living here isn’t so bad. I don’t have to make my bed because I don’t have one, there’s a cute, roving band of inner-city youths that prey on everyone, and –

An overly perky Mom enters.

MOM (checking her watch and looking under car): Young lady, get off the phone this instant –

JANEY: Call you later. Bye.

Janey hangs up, crawls out from under the car, and hands Mom the phone. Mom takes it as if it’s a large, precious gem, examines it, gives it a light dusting, then places it atop a pedestal – the hood of the car.

MOM: I’ve told you time and time again to stay off the phone when we’re expecting our call from the National Focus Group Survey. Do you have potatoes in your ears?

JANEY: Sorry, Mom.

MOM: Now go help your brother make toast. Your father’s been away all night and I’m sure he’ll be ready for a good, hot breakfast when he gets back.

JOEY: And appreciate of how thoughtful we are.

Janey moves to help Joey.

JANEY: It’s not like I was being negative, or anything.

MOM: I know you weren’t, Janey. You’re a perfect daughter and Joey’s a perfect son…
(She moves to inspect the toast). And this toast looks almost…perfect.

She becomes even more cheerful at the thought of her own little word jokes.

JOEY: Medium-brown, just like Dad likes it.

JANEY (nostalgically): Number four on the toaster.

The three of them ponder this for a moment.

MOM: Now that’s enough wallowing in the past! Let’s count our blessings…

Mom looks around, sees no blessings, looks again – this time at the desert, and immediately perks.

MOM: We live in…

JANEY/JOEY: …a scenic overlook.

MOM (cheerfully continuing the chant): Our lives are…

JANEY/JOEY: Suitable for framing.

MOM: And we’ve never gone a day without toast.

JOEY: That’s because you’re the best mom in the whole world, Mom.

MOM (looking to ground and shuffling): Aw, thanks, sweetie, but let’s be fair. I owe it all to those calls from the National Focus Group Survey. (An afterthought). And your father, of course.

JANEY (concerned): I wonder where he is. It’s not like him to be late for an appointment with a pollster.

MOM: Young lady, turn that frown upside down. I’m sure your father’s fine. Although you’re right. It’s not like him to be late for an appointment with a pollster.

JOEY: I’m sure he’s fine. (Trying to be encouraging). Maybe he stopped off to sell some blood, like last time!

They are buoyed by this thought. The phone rings. Joey leaps to answer it. As he does, the lights on the plateau fade, and come up on the rest of the stage. The tourists now wander back on. Tourist #1 spots the grave.

TOURIST #1 (pointing): See, here it is. I told you we would find his grave. He was a wonderful human being, they say. (She grabs Tourist #2 and arranges a graveside pose for the camera, holding the camera in front of them and setting the timer). Did you know that he built a hospital for children with asthma? It has two wings so the parents can stay upstairs.

The phone rings. They don’t hear it.

TOURIST #1: Say land of the free.

TOURIST #1 and #2: Land of the free.

The photo is taken. The shutter doesn’t snap.

TOURIST #1: Wait. Let me try it again.

TOURIST #2 (checking watch): Well, let’s get a move on. It’s almost time for Indian bingo. Remember how last time I won with G3? Maybe it wasn’t rewound from the last time. Sometimes it sticks. Let me see. (Testing camera). Yes, it was. Look. I think there’s something wrong with it.

TOURIST #1 (grabbing camera and ripping it open): Oh, for God’s sake! The whole thing’s corroded.

She throws it across the stage. There is a thud. A Girl cries offstage in pain, and now enters, holding her head…

© 2010 Deanne Stillman

Check back for Part II Wednesday August 25th.