A new play - Your Friends and Nightmares

[MalReynolds]

(The stage is set thusly: There is a radio booth in the pit SL. Onstage, there are several tables set – the set will change several times throughout the play. Sofas, chairs and end tables will need to be at the ready.

In the booth is an older gentleman, probably 35-40. He is known simply as The DJ. As the lights come up, his headphones are around his neck and he is flipping through a rather large stack of paper. A man dressed very casually enters SL and crosses to the booth, knocking. DJ motions, and the door opens with the other man walking in)

DJ: What’s up, Mickey?

MICKEY: Someone told me you got a package in the mail.

DJ: It wasn’t for me. I was just here.

MICKEY: What is it?

DJ: (Leaning back in his chair) It’s a letter.

(MICKEY crosses and picks up the stack of paper, leafing through them)

MICKEY: That’s a pretty long letter.

DJ: Ain’t it, though?

(MICKEY nods)

DJ: You can read it if you want. I’m done with it.

MICKEY: Already? You’re already done with it?

DJ: It’s a fast read. And I’m a fast reader.

MICKEY: (Picking up the papers again) I don’t think so. Looks more like a book than anything else.

DJ: I forgot that you don’t read.

MICKEY: Watch it, buddy boy.

DJ: What I meant was you’re too busy – Hold on one second. (He puts his headphones back on his ear, presses a button on the switchboard, and launches into radio personality mode) That was, “Hot Down, Summer in the City,” because hot damn, it’s summer in this city and hot damn, is it a hot one. We’ve got some commercials coming right up, but after that, we have another thirty minute music set to completely rock your early morning here on WXPX. (DJ presses another button and takes his headphones off) What I meant was you’re too busy to read a book. Not that you don’t read.

MICKEY: Whatever. Just remember what I’m paying you for.

DJ: My beautiful mug?

MICKEY: To host our midnight show. Your cousin, she’s a good lady. You need thank her you even have this job.

DJ: It’s a midnight to 4 shift. It’s thankless.

MICKEY: You’re lucky to get that. No one wants to hire you anymore. You’re washed up.

DJ: Says Mickey, the station manager of one of the worst radio stations in Virginia.

MICKEY: Hey! I didn’t ask you to tell me how our station is doing –

DJ: What’s that? You want me to tell you how your station is doing in the ratings? (Stands) Lemme tell you, Mickey. Lemme tell you! Dead last. DEAD! But at least from midnight to four we beat WLMP and WFUA. Do you know why? Because people listen to me, Mickey, more than they’ll ever listen to that Holly Go-Lightly you have working in the mornings. Any revenue you make is because of me, Mickey, so don’t you forget that.

MICKEY: That’s it. I’ve had it up to here with you. Tonight is your last night. It’s the same story every day, “I make you the money, you’re nothing, Mickey.” So this is how nothing I am... Make tonight worth something, because when your shift is over, you’re out of here.

DJ: We’re doing this dance again? You know you won’t fire me. I’m good for business.

(MICKEY looks as if he’s about to speak, shrugs, turns and walks out of the studio. As soon as he’s out the door, The DJ jumps up and locks it. MICKEY knocks, but the DJ just leans back and stares at him through the door. MICKEY gives up and storms off.

The DJ picks the letter back up, leafing through it again.)

DJ: Better make this a best last shift, then.

(He puts his headphones back up and presses a switch, moving close to the mic in full Radio Personality mode)

DJ: Welcome back, ladies and gentleman, to WXPX. Normally around this time, the two o’ clock hour, I share with you listener stories. Same is true for tonight, only tonight, I’m reading a letter. A very special cat sent this letter in, one you might recognize. Peter Miller, ladies and gents, that’s who sent it in. The very same Peter Miller that self produced “Your Friends and Nightmares.” So, just sit back and I’m going to spin you a tale, the very tale behind that very album here on WXPX... And since I’ve just been informed that it’s my last night here, I’ll be sure to make it with limited commercial interruption, dig? And the play list tonight isn’t something that Mickey Goddinger picked out, either... It’s DJ’s choice tonight... (Takes in a deep breath) So, let’s start, shall we? “The parents were everywhere, stuffed up in their tuxedos, wandering around looking at pricey little items their children made to buy to support some charity that I had never heard of. I was standing in the back...”

(As he is reading, the lights should come up on this very scene behind him. Tables set with goofy, ornate figures, and a banner hanging up that says, “Silent Auction for the Emissary Guild for Unruly Children”. The man who is ‘talking’ in the letter should be as far away from the crowd as possible, eyeing them. Men in tuxedos and suits, women in long black dresses perusing the goods.)

DJ: “...Holding my coke in one hand and a red napkin in the other, letting it dangle loosely by my side, trying to look as nonchalant as possible until it was time to make the announcement. I wondered where everyone’s kid was tonight, if they had all found sitters or if they had pooled their money to buy a communal house for them.”¬

(As The DJ finishes that sentiment, the lights in the booth go down and the full focus goes on stage. The Man standing away from the group, red napkin in hand, is leaning against the wall. He has a guitar case resting at his feet and he’s watching the parents walk back and forth at the tables. There is one woman he is watching almost intently walk up to the table, only to be muscled out by some of the other parents. She’s got a red dress on and sticks out like a sore thumb. Finally, she gives up, walking over to the wall next to The Man, who is PETER MILLER. The woman is OPAL BEY.)

OPAL: (Speaking to Peter) Hey there.

(Peter does not realize she is talking to him)

OPAL: I said... Hey there.

PETER: (Breaking his gaze from the parents) Oh, hello. (Has a sip of his coke)

(They stand in silence, watching the crowd)

OPAL: You don’t look like you belong here.

PETER: (Looks over at Opal and looks her up and down. Has a sip of the coke) I could say the same about you, you know.

OPAL: (Laughs) Oh, well, you know... I’m not supposed to be.

(Opal slides away from Peter, catching her dress on the side of a table, creating a small tear)

PETER: Really? You do know that... uh, you just tore your dress, right?

OPAL: (Nodding) It’s a rental. I can patch it up when I get home. (Stares at all the people milling back and forth) I knew this was formal... But God, they all look like penguins. Oh! Or dominoes! It’s like I could knock one of them down and they would all just tumble over. You could rob the place that way. I wonder if they know how close they are to being robbed.

PETER: Is that what you’re here for? To rob the place?

(OPAL walks around to the front of PETER, smiling)

OPAL: No, no. I thought this was a PTA meeting.

PETER: And you have a kid that goes to Bernadette’s Private School for Rich Snobs?

OPAL: No. I don’t have any kids.

PETER: Well, why are you here?

OPAL: In the future, the near future or the distant future, one of them – definitely the future, not the past – I plan on having a child. Or multiple children and I would like the peace of mind that comes with knowing that I helped shape the educational establishments that my children will be attending.

PETER: And you really want to send your kid to Bernadette’s? They’re having a silent auction for a charity I’ve never heard of. What exactly is the Emissary Guild for Unruly Children?

OPAL: Oh, I have no idea. And honestly, I would never send my children to Bernadette’s. I wouldn’t want them to go to a school that’s filled with stuffed shirts.

PETER: You can hardly call children stuffed shirts.

OPAL: Miniature stuffed shirts.

(PETER laughs)

PETER: Well, shouldn’t the ‘Formal Wear Only,’ have tipped you off to the fact that this wasn’t a PTA meeting? Unless the PTA meetings you haunt around the county are all black tie events...

OPAL: You’d really be surprised.

PETER: You know that PTA stands for “Parent Teacher Association,” don’t you? If you’re not a parent, or a teacher –

OPAL: Then I’m part of the association.

PETER: Ah... Wait, watch this.

(They watch as a man enters the room, walks over to a table, and picks up a stone figure, turning it over in his hands)

PETER: His kid made that.

OPAL: How can you tell?

PETER: You can see it in his eyes. They’re sad right now... He’s sad that he’s sending his little boy or girl to a private school, pumping all this money into his education, and all his child can manage to make is a malformed Baby Jesus figurine... But keep watching. See that?

(The man perks up)

PETER: That right there, that’s hope. Hope that maybe the malformed Baby Jesus is just the beginning of a great artistic future, hope that maybe this isn’t just a waste of his time. I mean, what else is he going to be doing? I hardly think he’s scheduled for his bi-monthly husbandly duties... But that’s hope right there. You can’t mistake it.

OPAL: Are you kidding me? You can tell all of that by looking at him?

PETER: Not at him. Through him. Besides, I’ve been around these kinds of people before.

OPAL: ...What are you drinking?

PETER: Oh, uh... Coke.

OPAL: Rum and coke?

PETER: (Laughs) My dad, he used to call that a ‘daddy coke’. No, I haven’t had liquor in five years.

OPAL: I’m proud of you.

PETER: I – uh... I don’t know you...

(OPAL stands there smiling)

PETER: I guess... Uh... Thank you.

(OPAL looks down at his guitar case)

OPAL: So... What exactly are you doing here?

PETER: (Sighs) You really want to know?

OPAL: Sure. You’re not looking at any of the tables over there, so you don’t have a kid here... You have any kids?

PETER: (Shakes his head) No. I’m Working.

OPAL: Security?

PETER: Part of an elite squad that protects the innocent via an unwieldy guitar case. No, not security. But if you can stand being in this non-PTA abomination of a room for a few more minutes, you’ll find out.

OPAL: If I’m going to stay any longer in this non-PTA abomination of a room, I’m going to need a name from you, Mister...

PETER: Mr. Peter Miller.

OPAL: Opal Bey.

PETER: You’re kidding.

OPAL: I only wish.

PETER: You had mean parents. What kind of name is Opal Bey?

OPAL: A bad one, but it’s my name none-the-less.

PETER: It’s individual, I’ll give you that. You’ve got a one of a kind name, Opal.

OPAL: My parents used to say I was as precious as the stone I was named after.

PETER: I failed my Geology class in community college, but if memory serves, that’s a high compliment.

OPAL: It still doesn’t mean I don’t have a terrible name.

PETER: Well then... If you don’t mind standing with someone who has a name as mundane as Peter, you could accompany me to the back wall until it’s time for –

(Before PETER can finish speaking, an old man approaches the risers, picking up a microphone. He speaks with a thick Scottish accent)

CONNERY: Thank you, ladies and gentleman, for coming out to this wonderful silent auction. As you may well know, we have entertainment lined up for this evening. You may have heard some of his tapes in your very own house... Without further ado, Peter Miller!

PETER: (To OPAL) I have to get to work.

OPAL: An entertainer?

PETER: Stick around, the show is just getting started.

(There is scattered applause as PETER approaches the makeshift stage. It’s very obvious that most of the parents are not interested. PETER reaches down, unclamps his guitar case, and removes a Ukulele and a Ventriloquists dummy. He grabs a stool and has a seat, staring out over the audience. They are dumbfounded.)

PETER: (In an incredible hick accent) Well, hey doodle-doodle everyone! I hope you’re having a good evening! (Sets the dummy down on the stage and plays a few chords of the Ukulele, much to the disdain of the audience) Does anyone here know who I am?

(No one moves)

PETER: Well my name is Peter Miller! Does that name jog any memories?

(A lone woman in the audience raises her hand. PETER points her out)

RANDOM WOMAN: You... You put out those novelty tapes for kids. You sing about space camp.

PETER: CORRRECCCCTTAAAMMUUNNNDOO!

(PETER is gauging the audience reaction. They’re halfway between mortified and dead, except for OPAL, who is standing in the back applauding.)

PETER: Well, I’m here to play some songs off of my brand new cassette, “NASA isn’t just for astronauts!” You care to help me, Johnny Rimshot?

(PETER picks the dummy up and sets the Ukulele neck across JOHNNY, manipulating the mouth. JOHNNY speaks with a British accent)

PETER: (As JOHNNY) You betcher bum I yam!

(PETER begins playing the Ukulele as the lights dim on stage. The action should still be visible, but this is a time lapse. Some lights come back up on The DJ, reading the note.)

DJ: “It was funny only to myself and Opal that I was having this conversation. It was funny to kids to see a man named Peter carrying on a conversation with an inornate piece of wood... These stuffed shirts really were more mortified than anything else. I doubt it would help me book more schools on the private establishment circuit. And I started. My set was six songs long, starting with “There’s No Gas In NASA,” and rounding out my set with the wonderful opus titled “Brits Can Be Astronauts, Too” where I played Ukulele and Rimshot sang.” What I wouldn’t pay to have some of those tapes to play on the air right now, ladies and germs... What I wouldn’t pay. “When the set was over...”

(The lights should go back down on the DJ and come back up on stage as PETER is finishing a song. It sounds relatively folk-ish, but you only hear the last few bars)

PETER: (Singing) And that’s why Brits can go to NASA, too! (Stands and takes a bow to no applause. He begins packing his stuff up in a hurry, kind of vaulting down the risers through the crowd.)

(The old Scottish man takes the stage again, giving PETER the evil eye as he makes his way through the crowd)

CONNERY: Well... That was special... And now for the results of the silent auction... (The old man fades out)

(PETER approaches OPAL, who is standing by one of the tables looking over the items)

PETER: Well... That’s what I do.

(There’s a pause)

PETER: What do you think?

OPAL: Simply marvelous.

PETER: You’re kidding me –

OPAL: Any person that makes their living off of mortifying the rich is okay in my book.

PETER: Well, now that you put it that way...

OPAL: Yup...

(Pause. PREGNANT pause.)

PETER: Well... I mean, I don’t have to work anymore tonight.

OPAL: That’s good.

PETER: Are you going to stick around?

OPAL: Probably not.

PETER: Oh.

(Pause. OPAL begins to nod and walk away))

PETER: Well, do you eat?

OPAL: I think everyone does. Yes, I eat.

PETER: Uh, well, okay. Since you’re not going to stay and I’m – I eat too, would you want to go get something to eat?

OPAL: What?

PETER: Never mind.

OPAL: Like, a date?

PETER: What, are you in the third grade? Do you want something to eat or not?

OPAL: I would love something to eat.

PETER: Any place in particular?

(OPAL grabs PETER’S arm and looks at his watch)

OPAL: It’s kind of late. Any place that’s open would be good. But it has to be a place we can sit down – my feet are killing me. I never wear heels.

PETER: Well, I know a restaurant that meets all of your stringent requirements: Open late, serves food... Has seats.

OPAL: Tell me. What is this magical place.

PETER: Denny’s.

(PETER walks off, while OPAL stands there)

OPAL: Are you kidding me?

(PETER, without so much casting a glance behind him to make sure she is following answers)

PETER: I never joke about Denny’s.

(As OPAL sighs and follows him, the lights go down all the way on the stage. The lights come up on The DJ)

DJ: “I didn’t know it at the time, but that night, I left the silent auction with something far more valuable than any of the parents that night. Asking Opal to dinner was the greatest risk I ever took in my life... And it was the greatest reward.” Well, ladies, how does that sound? Peter Miller, hopeless romantic, quite a catch.

(MICKEY approaches the booth and knocks)

DJ: Up now we have, “Inches and Falling.” I’ll get back to the letter right after this song... I myself am parched from all this reading, dig? (Presses a button, takes his headphones off and buzzes MICKEY in)

MICKEY: Your cousin called. Said you’re reading the letter on the air.

(The DJ nods)

MICKEY: She says you announced your retirement tonight.

(The DJ nods)

MICKEY: I didn’t really fire you.

DJ: I know, I know. But I think it’s time that I moved on.

MICKEY: We do need you here, you know. You are good for business.

DJ: That’s what I keep telling you.

MICKEY: Nothing we can do to get you to stay?

DJ: Put me on in the mornings.

MICKEY: I can’t do that. The girl, she’s under contract.

DJ: Buy it out.

MICKEY: ... I can’t do that.

DJ: It’s fine.

MICKEY: You have another job lined up?

DJ: I’m going Zen-Buddhist. I think I’m going to roam the country on a bicycle.

MICKEY: That’s pretty annoying. People on bicycles... They’re annoying to deal with.

DJ: You sound sad.

MICKEY: I’m not. I’m glad to be getting rid of your sorry –

DJ: I know. I’ll miss you too, bud.

(The DJ leans forward and presses the mic button. MICKEY steps out)

DJ: That’s one of my favorite songs, nothing you’d find on the Top 40... Quite a departure for WXPX. But let’s get back to this story, shall we? “I’m shaking...”

(The lights go down on the booth and come up on the stage, but instead of PETER, we’re met with a tall man dressed in a ratty wife-beater. He has a single sofa, and that’s his apartment. He is SEAN MILLER, PETER’S brother. On the sofa sprawled out is a ratty looking girl named PEARL, who seems strung out. SEAN is addressing her the best he can, but she’s unresponsive.)

SEAN: I woke up today, and I’m shaking... (He’s hugging his arms. He’s clearly on something) That’s... That’s a deadly combination. I scrounged around my apartment looking for money, under the sofa, in the shadows of my closet looking for any kind of change, Pearl, any kind of bill, any kind of anything I could trade for my... My second blood. I couldn’t find a damn thing except a broken TV. I’ve tried to hawk it before at the shop down the street, but they figured out it was busted before I even got out of the store. I’d have to go way out of my way to try and sell this piece of crap again, but you know, even if my feet say “no” now, they’ll be glad they did it later. Pearl, you with me baby?

(PEARL moans and nods)

SEAN: God... I’m mildly depressed just looking around my apartment. All I have is that sofa covered in burn marks... A container half full... half empty of cotton balls and my spoons. They’re just spoons, but they’re waiting.

PEARL: They’re spoons, Sean... They’re not waiting...

SEAN: They keep telling me that it’s time to find some more, time to let the sun hit my skin for those brief moments so I can score another hit, let the sun peel away the layers of grime that are my life. I step out into the sun, thinking that maybe today, just today, I can be a new man. And then I start to shake. Push comes to shove, I can always get Peter? to give me some money. Pearl, you remember Peter? You ever meet Peter?

PEARL: No.

SEAN: Well... He’s always got extra bills lying around. I should go over to his apartment tonight, ask him for some money. Or tell him a good story so I won’t feel like an ass. Tit for tat. Maybe. I don’t think so. I hate busting in on his life all the time for cash, but the last job I tried to hold down ended in such unpleasantness that I don’t think it would be possible for me to work again, at least not with me shaking like this. (Cries out, frustrated with his shaking) I could just be lazy. Or scared. I don’t know. I’m still shaking. I wish I hadn’t sold my car. It was a good car. The typewriter on the other side of the room, next to the sofa. I traded my desk in a while ago, Pearl, before I met you... There’s that damned sheet of paper poking its head out from the top, staring at me. I feel almost guilty looking at it but where is it written that paper is allowed to make me feel guilty? It can’t. I burned through that advance far too quick. Peter... No, he’s working tonight. I can’t go over. Got some private school gig or something. Not quite the village idiot but could have chosen a wiser career. Who am I to talk? I’m shaking.

(PEARL sits up on the sofa and pulls SEAN over, wrapping her arms around him)

PEARL: It’s okay, it’s okay... Shh... Shh...

(SEAN begins to scratch his arms and cry)

PEARL: Just hang in there, baby... Just hang in there.

(The lights fade on their side of the stage and come back up on PETER and OPAL sitting at a table, looking over menus.)

PETER: I like your car.

OPAL: It’s trash. I got it second hand at a lot.

PETER: Looks like one my brother used to have.

(A stocky waiter walks over to the table, looking them over. They’re way over dressed for a Denny’s, which makes him curious)

WAITER: So... Can I get you guys something to drink?

OPAL: Could I have a sprite and orange juice?

PETER: I’ll have a coffee, I guess.

(The waiter nods and walks away)

PETER: I figured you for a coffee girl myself.

OPAL: Never. Haven’t you heard? Caffeine stunts your growth.

(The waiter walks back over with the drinks)

WAITER: Are you two ready to order yet?

PETER: No.

WAITER: Oh. Did you guys just come from the prom or something?

OPAL: (Giggles) No.

PETER: (Kind of snapping) Could you just give us a minute?

(The waiter shrugs and walks off)

OPAL: That was kind of mean.

PETER: I – uh... Yeah. That – sorry.

OPAL: I don’t want your apology. Your money is no good here.

PETER: Well, when he comes back –

OPAL: I need to see your menu when you’re done looking it over.

PETER: Why?

OPAL: It looks like a kid threw up on mine.

PETER: Are you sure it’s not just the colorful decoration that only Denny’s can afford?

(OPAL flips her menu over and shows PETER)

PETER: Yeah, that’s gross.

(PETER slides his menu across the table)

OPAL: Danke schene.

PETER: Wayne Newton?

OPAL: German class.

PETER: Natch.

(The waiter walks back over)

WAITER: Ready yet?

PETER: Yes, I’ll have... The super slam. Enough fat in that to make a candle.

OPAL: Peter, don’t you have something to say to... (Looks at his nametag) Tim?

WAITER: What?

PETER: I – uh... Yeah. I’m sorry I snapped at you earlier.

WAITER: (Seems very happy that someone has taken the time to apologize for being an ass) ... Don’t worry about it.

OPAL: I’ll have what he’s having.

(The waiter nods and walks off with their menus)

OPAL: So... That’s what you do for a living then?

PETER: Well, I mean, I normally perform for kids. I’m a traveling act around Virginia, kind of local thing like that. Sometimes a school will let me sell my tapes, so I can make some good money if the market is right. Summer is a killer, though. I’ve been invited to exactly 1 camp in my five years of doing this.

OPAL: Is that what you want to be doing?

PETER: What, getting invited to camp, selling tapes or being an elementary school performer?

OPAL: Any of it.

PETER: Well, no. No one grows up wanting to play guitar in an elementary school for peanuts. I uh- well, this is stupid.

OPAL: Come off of it. Dreams are never stupid. Nightmares are.

PETER: Family motto?

(OPAL nods)

PETER: Well, if you must know – I grew up listening to Judy Collins, Gutherie, Peter Paul and Mary, you know... Earthy kind of folk music.

OPAL: It shows. Most of your songs you did tonight had kind of a folkish air.

PETER: As folkish as you can get with a ukulele. I always wanted to... Well, be like them. Put out albums that are folk in nature. Good stuff, but since I was a kid... The commercial market for folk music has died down. You can hardly make a living like that anyways.

OPAL: What’s stopping you from self producing an album?

PETER: I can’t make any money that way. Not exactly that my cost of living is through the roof, but the schools pay enough. I couldn’t make enough money to support myself going solo. Besides, I make enough money now to do fun stuff. Drive a car, live in a small apartment, take nice girls out to Denny’s.

OPAL: I see.

PETER: Denny’s wasn’t a random choice, I’m afraid. It’s very in my price range.

(The waiter comes by and drops 2 plates off)

OPAL: Is money the most important thing?

PETER: No, but I do need it.

OPAL: Ah, the root of all evil.

PETER: Please, the only people that say that are the people that have none.

(PETER realizes what exactly he has implied and how he might have insulted her)

PETER: I’m sorry, my father’s words coming out of my mouth.

OPAL: It just seems like money is the only thing standing between you and self producing an album. Following your dream instead of living a nightmare.

PETER: (Smiling) If this is a nightmare, then this is the most pleasant one I’ve ever had. Besides, there are other outside factors, too.

OPAL: Like what?

PETER: I’m not sure I want to get into it right now.

OPAL: That’s okay.

PETER: So, what is it that you do for a living, Opal Bey?

OPAL: I knit and sell scarves.

PETER: I didn’t know there was a big market for that anymore.

OPAL: Not big, but a market. Besides, high-school kids love carting around handmade clothing items, so long as it wasn’t their mother that made them. And stuff like that, you can machine produce it, but it’s not the same... The weaving is too fine for a machine to ever replicate.

PETER: Give it fifty years.

OPAL: In fifty years, I doubt I’ll care much.

PETER: You don’t like future generations?

OPAL: I doubt they’ll care for me, once I’m under.

(PETER laughs, as does OPAL. They’ve been picking at their plates the entire time)

OPAL: So, your parents are dead then?

PETER: What?

OPAL: Just the way you spoke about your father.

PETER: (Uncomfortable) ... Yeah. They’re dead.

OPAL: Mine too. I’m sorry.

PETER: Don’t worry about it.

(OPAL pushes her plate forward)

OPAL: Well... I’d like to see you some more. At some place, you know, that isn’t Denny’s... At some point that – uh... Isn’t uh... Right now.

PETER: You’re just as bad at this kind of thing as I am.

OPAL: Don’t make me change my mind.

PETER: No, no. That sounds like it would be very nice. Should I get the check now?

OPAL: Or we could stay a while and abuse the free refills.

(The lights dim on SL, where they were seated, and come up SR – it’s a house. A sofa, an end table, a telephone. A rich old man sits, staring at the phone next to an old woman. The man is MICHAEL, the woman is MARTHA. They are SEAN and PETER’S parents.)


-

That's all I have so far.

[MalReynolds]

(The lights dim on SL, where they were seated, and come up SR – it’s a house. A sofa, an end table, a telephone. A rich old man sits, staring at the phone next to an old woman. The man is MICHAEL, the woman is MARTHA. They are SEAN and PETER’S parents.)

MICHAEL: He hasn’t called in such a long time.

MARTHA: ... Five years.

MICHAEL: Has it really been that long? Five already?

MARTHA: I don’t know why I keep count.

MICHAEL: Martha... He’s still our son.

(There’s a knock at the door. MICHAEL stands and walks over, opening the door. SEAN walks in, wearing a sport coat over his wife beater and torn jeans.)

MICHAEL: What do you want, Sean?

SEAN: (His voice is hoarse) A little money.

MICHAEL: For what?

SEAN: You know... Extra-curriculars.

MICHAEL: Drugs?

SEAN: Oh, come on, pop. I’m your son! You should know me a little better than that. Straight as an arrow, just like I’ve always been.

MICHAEL: Could you... drink something? Your voice is bothering me.

SEAN: No chance, daddy-o. Drinking is Peter’s thing, remember?

MICHAEL: I meant water. You can get yourself a glass of water.

(SEAN nods and walks offstage)

MARTHA: Give him money.

MICHAEL: No. He’s on something.

MARTHA: He’s our son.

MICHAEL: If Peter showed up tomorrow and asked for money, would you hand any over?

(MARTHA sits silently. SEAN walks back on with a glass of water)

SEAN: I’ve forgotten how good this stuff can taste. Been a while since I’ve had water.

MICHAEL: What do you mean?

SEAN: They cut off the utilities at the Casa de Sean. Fell a little behind with the bills... You know how that goes. So, you think you could swing giving me a little cash, you know, just so I could get the utilities restored?

MICHAEL: (Looking past SEAN to MARTHA, who is nodding) How much is it going to take to restore the utilities?

SEAN: Shouldn’t be more than half a large, pop. (Holds his hand out)

MICHAEL: Half a large? That’s almost enough for your rent!

SEAN: We like to shower.

MICHAEL: We? Who do you have living with you now?

SEAN: A nice girl pop, don’t worry, don’t worry.

MICHAEL: I worry about all of your “nice” friends, Sean.

SEAN: Come on. That’s hardly fair.

MICHAEL: I don’t have $500 on me right now. You could come back tomorrow for it.

SEAN: Yeah, that’s a no-go on that either. I took a cab up here and –

MICHAEL: Where is your car?

SEAN: Oh, I had to trade it in to cover the heat last month. It gets cold up in –

MICHAEL: How did you get to work without your car?

SEAN: About that –

MICHAEL: What did you do?

SEAN: It wasn’t my fault –

MICHAEL: Those are my business associates, I sure as hell hope you didn’t burn any of my bridges, Sean.

SEAN: No problem, daddy-o. So... You think you could swing by my apartment tomorrow with the money?

MICHAEL: Yes...

SEAN: Oh, and could I have a few bills so I can get back? The cabbie is waiting outside.

(MICHAEL reaches into his wallet and pulls a few dollars out. SEAN hands him the glass of water and takes the money)

SEAN: Thanks a lot. You guys are great parents.

(SEAN turns around and bolts out. MICHAEL sits on the sofa next to MARTHA)

MARTHA: He’s a good boy, Michael.

MICHAEL: He’s not a boy anymore.

(The lights go down on MICHAEL and MARTHA, and come up on SEAN, who is talking rapidly into a cell phone)

SEAN: Hey, I got the money. I got the money. I had to go to Dad and Martha, but I told them they cut off my water so I’ll have the money tomorrow. You think you can... (Pause) Well, I lied to them. (Pause) They’re my parents, I know... But you know, if it weren’t for Dad, I’d be broke. Martha... She hates me. (Pause) Look, Abraham, can you get me the stuff or not? (Pause) Oh, buddy, I love you! Just, it has to be tomorrow. Can you come by my apartment? (Pause) No, that’s great. We need to have a talk, too. (Pause) I’ll talk to you tomorrow. (Hangs up, and says sincerely) I love you.

(The lights dim on SEAN and come back up on OPAL and PETER, who are walking around their cars. They are back at the private school)

PETER: Well... That was fun, you know?

OPAL: I agree.

(OPAL is walking over to his car)

PETER: Oh, you don’t – the car is really ratty.

OPAL: I just want to get a better look at it.

(PETER sighs)

OPAL: Oh, I like it. I like it very much. It’s homely. I bought my car off of a second hand lot. It’s so... Manufactured. Yours looks like it has all kinds of stories behind it. Where did you get it?

PETER: I bought it... three years ago, I think. My neighbor was moving and trying to unload it and I got it at a great price. I used to baby sit for him and I was riding my bike everywhere at the time, so he called me one day. It only cost me around $1,000. Of course, I thought it was a lemon to begin with, but after a while, it grew on me. I wouldn’t get rid of it for the world, not even for a Lexus. I uh... Well, I used to street race in it. Nothing big, just some forty yard stoplight dashes, not the kind that end up with you being chased by the cops.

OPAL: Did you name it?

PETER: My car? Did you name yours?

OPAL: No. Mine doesn’t have any history.

PETER: No. I never named mine, either. I never actually thought about naming it. Why would you name a car?

OPAL: It’s like a book. It has so many stories inside of it that are just waiting to be told. Just from you talking about it, I know you have to have hundreds of wild stories... I never ever would have thought you would have done stop light drag races. And books, they have names, they’re full of stories... Why don’t you name it right now?

PETER: Honestly, because I can’t stop thinking of any name other than Opal. I’m... Terrible at naming things, too. Just look at some of the songs I’ve written – the song titles are lyrics.

OPAL: Then why don’t you name it after a lyric in your life?

PETER: Why don’t you try naming it?

(OPAL shakes her head, hunkering down and looking at the car. She stands up, smiling, and walks around, quasi-dancing.)

PETER: You a dancer?

OPAL: No, I just pretend to be.

(She spins over to PETER, who catches her)

OPAL: Nice catch.

PETER: (Smiling) You’re telling me...

(OPAL looks up at PETER, and they smile at each other)

OPAL: Do you know any of the constellations, Peter?

PETER: No. Do you?

OPAL: No.

PETER: I used to be in the boy-scouts. I did, but I was terrible at it. I could never make myself pay enough attention to what they were saying. If I had known it would have – if I could have actually used the skill to court someone, believe me, I would have paid attention.

(OPAL pulls away)

OPAL: (Playfully) Oh, so you’re courting me now?

PETER: Well, I mean, if that’s okay with you.

OPAL: Well, let me think about it... No, I don’t mind being courted.

PETER: You might want to wait – I mean, I got kicked out of the scouts.

OPAL: What happened?

PETER: I uh – well, I set fire to a trash can. It was at a badge ceremony, and I wasn’t getting any badges. They were recommending me for one, but uh... But they decided against it, even though my Dad... Well, I was angry, and I thought I could control the fire, but I almost burned the ceremony hall down.

OPAL: Oh, you’re definitely courting me now. What badge were they considering you for?

PETER: Uh... Fire safety.

OPAL: You’re kidding me.

PETER: Opal, I have to warn you. I never joke about fire safety.

(PETER pulls back in and the DJ’s voice is heard, but the lights do not come back on in the booth)

DJ: We sat on the hood of my beat up white car, watching the stars. But in those moments, it wasn’t a beat up car with missing left turn-signal; it was a sandy beach. We were on the back of a horse, riding along, watching the waves break against the shore. We were on a motorcycle, driving at deadly speeds along the turns of an even deadlier mountain. We were the stars. In that moment, I was everything, and she was everything with me.

(They stand in silence, gazing upwards until a flash-light interrupts them)

SECURITY GUARD: Hey, you two, this is private property. Well look at that! Define lucky!

PETER: What?

SG: Lucky! Running into Peter Miller. My kids, my kids love you! Do you think I could get an autograph? For... my kids?

PETER: No problem. Do you have something for me to write with?

(OPAL walks over to her car and brings a sharpie out with a few napkins. PETER signs them and hands them over to the guard.)

SG: Thank you so much. Thank you so much. You – Peter, you don’t have to leave. I didn’t know it was you. I can stand guard and make sure no one bothers you if you want –

PETER: No, it’s getting late anyway.

SG: Well... Sorry I uh... Killed the moment.

(He stands for a moment awkwardly before walking off)

OPAL: I guess more than one person tonight defines “lucky” by running into Peter Miller... Do you have anything I could autograph?

(PETER reaches into his car and pulls out some paper. OPAL jots her phone number down)

OPAL: This is my phone number, my cell number.

PETER: Work number?

OPAL: I work out of my house, remember?

PETER: That’s right.

OPAL: If I give you this paper, are you going to call me?

PETER: What kind of a question is that?

OPAL: Are you going to call?

PETER: I can’t not call you.

(OPAL smiles, folds the paper over, and hands it to PETER)

OPAL: Well, I have to be leaving, Mr. Peter Miller. It was good meeting you.

PETER: It was good meeting you as well, Ms. Opal Bey.

(OPAL begins to walk off stage and PETER pulls out his phone. He dials a number, and OPAL pulls her phone out, answering it)

OPAL: Hello?

PETER: (Walking up behind her) Turn around.

(OPAL turns around, and smiles. They kiss. Hurrah!)

OPAL: Well, maybe I’ll call you then.

PETER: I think I’d like that.

(They look at each other, smiling, before turning and parting ways with each other. The lights go down on the stage and come back up on the DJ)

DJ: “I shut my car door I shut the door, and watched the solitary red car drive into the distance, illuminated for brief seconds under the lighting before disappearing out of the gate. I watched until I was sure I could no longer see the tail-lights of her car. I sighed to myself, clutching the paper in my hands, folding it carefully and slipping it into my pocket.”

(While the DJ is talking the set should change up just a little bit. It should go back to SEAN’S apartment, but this is THE NEXT DAY. As the DJ finishes speaking, the lights should come up. PEARL is standing, talking to SEAN)

SEAN: You know I don’t like doing this –

PEARL: It’s okay, Sean. I understand.

SEAN: I just like to talk to him myself.

PEARL: I said it’s okay. Tell Abraham I said hello, will you?

SEAN: I’ll call you after I get the stuff.

(PEARL walks offstage. There’s a knock at the door, which SEAN answers. MICHAEL walks in)

MICHAEL: I love what you’ve done with the place.

SEAN: Sarcasm never became you, pop.

MICHAEL: Here’s the money.

SEAN: Thanks, pop.

MICHAEL: Don’t think me.

SEAN: Like Martha gives two rips about me.

(MICHAEL looks out the window, looking to change the subject)

MICHAEL: See that car in the drive way? It’s yours.

SEAN: Really?

MICHAEL: You need to get another job. Don’t go selling that car.

SEAN: I’ll take care of that baby like it’s my own.

MICHAEL: It is yours. I don’t trust it in this neighborhood, either. I’m frankly worried about leaving it here. Why do you live all the way out here, Sean? We worry about you.

SEAN: (Is nonplussed) Beacause, daddy-o, this is the closest thing I can get to my inspiration. This is as real as it gets. I look out the window, and I’m inspired to find the cure for all this.

MICHAEL: How noble. I have to go.

SEAN: Thanks much for the cash and car, pop.

MICHAEL: Don’t mention it.

(MICHAEL exits and SEAN flips his cell phone open, dialing a few numbers)

SEAN: You can come over, man. I’ve got the cash.

(SEAN tries to straighten his own clothes out. He leans back on the sofa, trying to look comfortable, when there is a knock on the door. SEAN answers, and ABRAHAM walks in)

[x-Thief]

Hm, well I read the post backwards- but either way I really like the play so far. I hope that you post some more of it, I want to know what happens.

[MalReynolds]

SEAN: Hey, man. Have a seat, have a seat.

(ABRAHAM moves over to the sofa and sits down)

ABRAHAM: I love what you’ve done with the place. It seems even more desperate without the end tables.

SEAN: But wait, there’s more!

ABRAHAM: What?

(SEAN pulls a letter out of his wallet)

SEAN: As my dealer and best friend –

ABRAHAM: Only friend, Sean –

SEAN: Pearl is my friend – as my dealer, but more importantly best friend, I thought you’d get a kick out of this.

ABRAHAM: I don’t want to read anything right now, Sean.

(SEAN unfolds the letter)

SEAN: Okay then, I’ll read it to you. “Dear Mr. Miller,” that would be me, ‘Mr. Miller.’

(ABRAHAM laughs and nods)

SEAN: “After the success of your first novel, ‘Intrinsic Ritual,’ you were paid a sum of $50,000 as an advance on your next book. One of the few stipulations of such a large cash advance was to have the first three chapters of whatever new book you were planning in our offices by last week. As of last week, we at Mill Press Publishers have seen nothing of your new novel. I’m sure that you’re just waiting to send a collective of chapters at the same time to really wow us, but the higher ups at the publishing house wanted me to send this letter as a polite reminder that you do, in fact, owe us either chapters by next week, or part of the advance back. ‘Intrinsic Ritual’ reached the number 1 spot on the best seller list and held firm for quite a period, as you’re well aware. Blah, blah, blah, get us chapters or return the advance.”

ABRAHAM: That’s... That’s not good news, Sean.

SEAN: They’re playing hardball. Once they read what I’ve got, it’s over. They’ll fall over themselves to apologize for the letter.

ABRAHAM: Well... What have you got?

SEAN: Nothing, yet. But when it happens... When it happens, boy will it ever.

(There’s a pause)

ABRAHAM: Sean, I got some bad news.

SEAN: You work for the publishing house? You’re going to withhold my next hit until I give them three chapters? Come on, Abraham. Even bad news from you is better than most good news.

ABRAHAM: I want out.

SEAN: What?

ABRAHAM: Look, Tony, you know Tony, right?

SEAN: Yeah.

ABRAHAM: Tony got pinched last week, and while he was in the police station, he sold out on Alex and Freddy. It could have just as easily been me he turned on, you know? And I was thinking on the way over here, if I get pulled and the cop checks my car, it’s all over. I have a wife and a kid to worry about, Sean... I can’t keep doing this.

SEAN: Oh, come on.

ABRAHAM: And it’s a profits game, too... There’s a shortage right now. I can’t make enough money to justify any risk I would be taking.

SEAN: So what does that mean?

ABRAHAM: I can give you someone else’s number.

(SEAN moves over to ABRAHAM)

SEAN: I don’t want any other number, Abraham.

ABRAHAM: They’re just as good –

(SEAN grabs his hand, and ABRAHAM stands. They’re staring each other in the eyes)

ABRAHAM: I know... but... my wife. I can’t get caught.

SEAN: Then be careful.

(ABRAHAM pulls away)

ABRAHAM: I can’t do this.

SEAN: (Sitting down) You’ve said that before.

ABRAHAM: Here. (Throws a baggie to SEAN) That’s the last dose you’re getting from me. It’s on the house, because you’re one of my best customers.

SEAN: (Aghast) You can’t be serious.

ABRAHAM: ... I am.

SEAN: I’ll pay you more. I’ll justify the risk. I’ll give you so much money that your wife won’t know how to spend it.

ABRAHAM: Sean, you don’t have that kind of money.

SEAN: I’ll find a way. I’ll start writing again. I’ll write an entire novel tonight and have it published in the morning.

ABRAHAM: No you won’t. As soon as I’m out that door, you’re going to dose. You’re going to dose, your eyes are going to roll in the back of your head and you’re going to be in heaven, and heaven is better than writing, isn’t it? Better than work.

(ABRAHAM stares at SEAN, who stands. SEAN moves towards ABRAHAM, but he shakes his head and walks out the door. SEAN stares at the closed door for a minute, before throwing the baggie down on the sofa and moving over to the typewriter. He tries to write something once, but his gaze keeps falling on the bag. Finally, he stands, kicking the typewriter. He cries out in pain, limping over to the sofa. He grabs the bag and pulls his cell phone out)

SEAN: Pearl? I got some...

(The lights go down, and back up on the DJ in the booth)

DJ: As much as I’d love to continue, my voice is about to die. I’m going to put some commercials on, ladies and gentlemen, and then I’ll be right back.

(END ACT I)

(ACT II)

(The lights come up on The DJ as he’s drinking water.)

DJ: ... Well, ladies and gentlemen, it looks like the light board is really coming to life. I didn’t realize we had this many listeners in the morning... I’d take some of your calls, honest Injun, but I’m afraid that if I don’t get started right away we’re going to run out of time before the story is over... “A few months had gone by with Opal. She moved in. Things were moving so fast, but it was so good. I never throw the word –

(As this is being narrated, the lights come back up on SL. There’s a comfortably decorated apartment, and OPAL is seated on a sofa, knitting a sweater. PETER is sitting in a chair across from her playing his guitar)

DJ: love around lightly, but I think this was it. I don’t think I’ll ever get there again.”

(The lights go down on The DJ.)

PETER: Well, that’s all I have so far.

OPAL: It’s good. No, no, it’s not good. It’s very good.

PETER: ... but?

OPAL: But nothing. It’s happy.

PETER: But I don’t want the music to be like that. It’s not real. It’s just not... It’s... The principle. There is no art without suffering.

OPAL: How about we break up until you finish your album?

PETER: Well, that’d do it, I think.

(Smiles and moves over to OPAL, sitting next to her, putting his guitar on the ground)

OPAL: I’m serious. If you want that, we can do that.

PETER: I wouldn’t ever want that. Why would I want that? When we walk down the street together holding hands, people want to gag. People stare at us with eyes so envious that all of a sudden everyone’s irises are green. We are perfect together, Opal, so perfect that other imperfect couples hate us, and I wouldn’t want to ruin that, not for an album. Not for two.

OPAL: Three?

PETER: Three albums has always been my selling point.

(OPAL laughs and pulls a camera out of her purse. She holds it up and starts smiling. PETER rests his head on her shoulder, but doesn’t smile)

OPAL: You’re not smiling.

PETER: Nope.

OPAL: Why not? I’m about to take a picture.

PETER: Because while I’m incredibly happy, I don’t feel like smiling at the moment. It has nothing to do with you.

OPAL: But it’s for a picture.

(PETER lifts his head off of her shoulders)

PETER: Well, right. Everyone always smiles in pictures. It’s fake – which isn’t a bad thing, but no one is happy all the time, which makes other people constantly scrutinize the picture. Are they really happy, or are they just smiling for the camera? When you don’t smile, when you wear your real face, people don’t ask questions. They know how you feel in that moment... So, when everyone smiles for pictures, they either end up looking psychotic or setting an unreasonable example of happiness for future generations of Peters and Opals.

OPAL: What about a picture of a flower?

PETER: Why would you even ask that?

(PETER starts laughing and OPAL takes the picture)

PETER: That’s not fair!

OPAL: It’s perfectly fair. You’re going to be remembered in the future as being happy with me. That’s the kind of memory I want to keep with me.

PETER: You’re so sneaky. Why are you so sneaky?

OPAL: It’s just the way I work.

(Before PETER can say anything, there’s a knock at the door. It’s SEAN, and PETER opts not to answer. SEAN walks away. PETER walks away from the door)

OPAL: Who was that?

PETER: That was my brother.

OPAL: Sean?

PETER: Well, I do only have one brother.

OPAL: I want to meet him.

PETER: Why?

OPAL: I don’t know a lot about your family, other than your parents are dead... I don’t think I’ve met any of your friends, either.

PETER: I don’t have a whole lot of friends, Opal, you know that. I’ve got Barry and that’s about it.

OPAL: Well, can I meet Barry?

PETER: ... When I was a kid, whenever something good would happen to me, like finding a five dollar bill, there would always be something to offset that happiness. It got to the point where I would simply stop picking up money or taking proactive measures to ensure self happiness, because the feeling was fleeting. And now I’ve met you, we get along great, you weren’t weirded out when I asked you to move in... I feel like maybe I’ve flown under karma’s radar this once and if I start to... I don’t know, I’m just afraid that you’ll get taken away.

OPAL: That makes sense in a very Peter Miller kind of way.

(PETER picks up a yellow legal pad and jots something down)

OPAL: What did you write?

PETER: Song title. Karma’s Radar. You’re probably the biggest font of inspiration I’ve ever run across.

OPAL: I’m glad to be a muse... But since, I don’t know... Do you want to meet some of my friends? I mean, I don’t think you register on the karma radar – not that you’re not a catch, I’ve just always been kind of lucky like that.

PETER: Of course I would.

OPAL: Well, there’s a guy at the grocery store that I go to. His name is Big Red.

PETER: Big Red?

OPAL: He’s from Looz-ey-anna. Lost his wife and kids in a fire a while ago, but is the sweetest old man.

PETER: And he’s your friend?

OPAL: I wouldn’t have him over for tea, but yes, I do consider him my friend. Or we could go see Pretty Mama.

PETER: Pretty Mama...

OPAL: Yes.

(Stands up and grabs his coat)

PETER: Either one. Or both. Let’s go.

(They walk out of the apartment and PETER is almost bowled over by SEAN, who was waiting for him)

SEAN: Hey, brother.

PETER: Sean... What a surprise. Opal, do you want to go start the car?

OPAL: Not really.

(PETER sighs)

SEAN: I didn’t know you had a lady friend, Peter. You didn’t have a rubber band around the door knob or anything.

PETER: Well, I wasn’t expecting company. I really have to be going, Sean.

SEAN: Wait, wait!

PETER: What?

SEAN: I need some money.

PETER: For what?

SEAN: Rent.

PETER: What about the drugs?

SEAN: I have that covered. I just need to make sure I have a place to do them.

PETER: I don’t have that much money, Sean.

(OPAL is watching them, and notices how uncomfortable PETER is.)

OPAL: Well, would you look at that? I do need to start the car.

PETER: Thanks. (Tosses her the keys and she walks offstage)

SEAN: She is pretty nice.

PETER: Thank you.

SEAN: On the eyes.

PETER: Knock it off. You know I don’t have much money... Why don’t you go to Mom or Dad? They’ve got more than I’d ever have the use for.

[MalReynolds]

SEAN: I bet she’s just as easy on the eyes as she is in –

(PETER shoves him against the wall)

PETER: Be careful, Sean.

SEAN: Well, you must like her, then. Have you explained to her your stupid theory of karmic sonar or whatever it was yet?

PETER: Radar. And yes I have.

SEAN: And she’s still with you.

PETER: No. She’s starting the car right now. Of course she’s still with me, Sean.

(SEAN starts laughing)

SEAN: I’m sorry, I had a bottle of Robitussen on the way over and it’s just starting to hit me.

PETER: You just can’t quit it, can you.

SEAN: Quit what?

PETER: ... Have you started writing a new book yet?

(SEAN shakes his head)

SEAN: I’m still making some money off of the royalties of Intrinsic Ritual.

PETER: You wrote that book because you were excited about it. About the story, about the plot. You wouldn’t shut up about it. You didn’t write it because you needed the money.

SEAN: Things change.

PETER: I’ll give you $300 right now –

SEAN: There’s a catch, isn’t there?

PETER: You can’t come back here stoned again. Or tripping or anything.

SEAN: No problem, no problem.

PETER: And you can’t mention Mom or Dad in front of Opal.

SEAN: Why not? She’s got to meet them eventually.

PETER: She thinks they’re dead.

(SEAN leans against the wall)

SEAN: Now why would she think that?

PETER: Because that’s what I told her. Well, she assumed they were dead, but it was never a big talking point. If she finds out... She has something against money. I can’t let her know where I come from.

SEAN: (Sarcastically) Keeping secrets is the best way for any relationship.

PETER: Oh? And how are things with Abraham.

(SEAN clams up)

PETER: You have no idea what kind of book you want to write?

SEAN: I’ve always fancied a tragedy.

PETER: Everyone in this family has. If you can’t lead a good life, lead a tragic one. That’s why I had to get out, Sean. Dad, Mom, bless them for who they are and what they gave me... but...

SEAN: I know.

(PETER turns to leave)

SEAN: Hey...

(PETER turns around)

SEAN: Where’s the money?

PETER: (Reaching into his wallet) You take care, Sean. Write a short story. A poem. Give me something to read. I love reading what you write. You know that.

SEAN: An audience of one isn’t much. Oh, hey, did I tell you what happened with Verona?

PETER: No. Who is Verona?

SEAN: Verona is this cross dresser I hang out with sometimes. Anyways, we were at a club last week, and this guy was all over her. Turns out he had no clue she was a guy.

PETER: Really?

SEAN: And he has such a pronounced Adam’s apple.

PETER: Good story.

(SEAN nods and leaves. PETER follows. He meets up with OPAL in the pit. They begin walking.)

OPAL: The hospital isn’t that far away. We can walk.

PETER: Pretty Mama is in a hospital? How far away ‘isn’t that far away?’

OPAL: ... Not that far.

PETER: We can take my car if you don’t want to drive.

OPAL: Are you okay?

PETER: I’m fine.

OPAL: Are you sure?

PETER: I’m never in... Being around Sean messes me up. Sean was the one person in our family that has the most potential. He was naturally gifted at anything – acting, singing... Whatever drove him to choose writing is beyond me, but damned if he wasn’t good at that too. And I was always struggling – I took guitar lessons for ten years before I was worth anything and it was like he could just pick up and play. I just see what he’s become, what he’s into... It’s a waste. It’s potential that’s just rotting around in its apartment. I love him to death, I really do, but it’s painful to see him now. Physically, it hurts me.

(As this exchange continues, a hospital bed is brought on stage by two nurses as well as an easel. A woman in a hospital gown should be lying on the bed next to the easel which has a beautiful painting on it. She should be bald – late stage cancer, and she cannot afford a hospice.)

OPAL: I’m sorry.

PETER: It’s not your fault. I keep giving him money, he keeps telling me stupid stories in exchange. I can’t help it, though. He’s family.

OPAL: The only family you have left.

PETER: ... Yeah. Anything good from my parents went right into Sean. I was the left overs.

OPAL: Well, I like the left overs more.

PETER: Cold pizza.

OPAL: I love cold pizza.

(PETER pulls her in for a hug)

OPAL: Come on, Peter. We’re here.

(They walk back onstage, and knock on the hospital room door. PRETTY MAMA looks up and presses a buzzer. PETER and OPAL walk in)

PRETTY MAMA: Opal, dear, I haven’t seen you in so long.

OPAL: It has been a while, hasn’t it? I’ve been busy lately.

PRETTY MAMA: (Eyeing PETER) I can tell.

OPAL: We just moved in together. I know I don’t have a lot of stuff, but it still took some time to get everything together. Boxes. So many boxes.

PRETTY MAMA: Tell me, with all those boxes, that you made a fort.

OPAL: It touched the ceiling.

(PRETTY MAMA leans back in her bed)

OPAL: This is Peter.

(PETER walks forward and extends his hand. She shakes it)

PETER: Peter Miller.

PRETTY MAMA: My name is Jordan, but Opal won’t let anyone call me anything but Pretty Mama.

PETER: So... What are you in for?

(OPAL elbows PETER)

PRETTY MAMA: No, no, babe, it’s okay. It’s terminal.

PETER: ... I’m sorry to hear that.

PRETTY MAMA: Everyone was sorry to hear it. I’m... I’m over it.

OPAL: Pretty Mama used to help me sell scarves.

PRETTY MAMA: No one wants to buy a scarf from someone who looks like death now.

OPAL: Stop it...

PRETTY MAMA: Oh, get a sense of humor, Opal. A scowl was never ever becoming on you.

PETER: The first night I met Opal, we went out to dinner and I made fun of a waiter. She scowled at me... I swore I would never incur that wrath again.

(PRETTY MAMA laughs, which soon degenerates into a hacking cough. She gets some water, and drinks it)

PRETTY MAMA: Opal, do me a favor. In the foot locker.

(OPAL opens the foot locker)

PRETTY MAMA: The palette.

(OPAL hands a ratty paint palette to PRETTY MAMA. On the table next to her bed are a few tubes of paint)

PETER: (Motioning to the easel) Did you paint that?

PRETTY MAMA: Why yes, yes I did.

PETER: It’s lovely. I would really like to buy it.

PRETTY MAMA: What am I going to do with money, Peter? I promised that one to Opal’s sister, but the one I’m working on... You’re more than welcome to that.

(PETER pulls OPAL aside)

PETER: Is Big Red terminal, too? Why would you bring me here?

OPAL: Look at her.

(PETER stares at PRETTY MAMA as she paints. She looks happy. Content)

OPAL: She’s happy.

PETER: She’s dying.

OPAL: You can be dying and still be happy, Peter.

PETER: And the name, Pretty Mama?

OPAL: She’s the most beautiful person I’ve seen. Every minute that she’s awake, still breathing, still smiling, but knowing what’s about to happen? It’s... She is more of a person than I could ever be. I would rather be struck down then have to endure what she’s endured for the last five years.

PETER: ... five years?

OPAL: Five years. When the radiation took her hair, she started using a wig. She still tried to come in to work after she found out she was inoperable. I had to fire her to get her to take bed rest. She was bold, determined. She still is.

PETER: That’s –

OPAL: She’s my age. She’s my age and she looks sixty, and she’s still the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. She is the calm before the storm.

(As they watch, the lights should shift on MARTHA and MICHAEL. They’re sitting in a room in the same hospital. A doctor walks in and MARTHA removes her wig. She is bald as well – a secret she’s kept very well from her children. MICHAEL is trying very hard to be strong, but it’s clear that he’s devastated by her disease)

DOCTOR: Thank you for coming in. Both of you.

(They nod)

DOCTOR: There’s never an easy way to do this.

MICHAEL: Is it bad?

DOCTOR: ... It would appear so.

(MARTHA sighs, on the verge of tears)

MARTHA: How long?

DOCTOR: You have an infection, and sadly... The radiation has taken care of most of your immune system. You could have a marrow transplant, but it wouldn’t do any good. Anywhere between twelve hours to a week.

(MARTHA begins to cry. She sobs into MICHAEL’S shoulder)

DOCTOR: We can give you a room and make you as comfortable as possible.

MARTHA: No. I would rather be at home –

MICHAEL: Martha, please...

MARTHA: I would rather be at home than here. I would rather spend my last few hours with the semblance or normalcy rather than just... relegating myself to the past.

DOCTOR: Very well.

(MICHAEL and MARTHA stand. MICHAEL shakes the doctor’s hand. MARTHA walks out, but the doctor motions for MICHAEL to stay)

DOCTOR: If she gets any worse – any worse, you call us. Don’t wait for her to tell you it’s too much. Use your best judgment. What she’s... It’s going to be painful.

(MICHAEL nods and walks off. As MARTHA and MICHAEL are walking off, they run into PETER and OPAL. PETER stares at MICHAEL)

MICHAEL: Well, where are you two headed?

PETER: Oh... Back to my apartment.

MICHAEL: Care to split a cab, Peter?

PETER: No sir. We drove.

(OPAL looks at him. MICHAEL stares at him)

MICHAEL: My wife has terminal cancer.

(PETER looks at MARTHA, who is staring intently at the ground)

MICHAEL: Are you sure you don’t want to split a cab?

(PETER stares at him)

PETER: I’m sorry, but I... have no business with you.

(MICHAEL nods and walks off)

OPAL: Who was that?

PETER: Just some old man. I think I did a show at one of his kid’s schools.

[MalReynolds]

(End Scene)

(The lights come up on SEAN and PEARL’s apartment. SEAN has just dosed and is riding a high, while PEARL stares at him)

SEAN: There’s enough for another hit, Pearl. Come on, take it.

PEARL: No.

SEAN: I can’t take another hit. Come on, Pearl, tradition. Keep up the tradition, keep up, keep up, keep up!

PEARL: ... I don’t want any right now.

SEAN: What’s the matter?

PEARL: (Standing and walking towards the door) Nothing.

SEAN: Come on, what is it?

PEARL: (Turning to SEAN) I love you.

SEAN: I love you too, babe, now take the hit, come on.

PEARL: No... I love you.

SEAN: What?

PEARL: You heard me.

SEAN: Don’t do this. Why are you doing this?

PEARL: Because I can’t not. I do love you.

SEAN: Pearl...

PEARL: I know. I know, Sean.

SEAN: I’m sorry if I led you on, but...

PEARL: You didn’t. It’s my fault.

SEAN: What is it! Why is there blame? It’s no one’s fault, not anyone’s.

PEARL: I have to get out of here.

(SEAN moves to block her)

PEARL: What are you doing?

SEAN: Don’t be this way.

PEARL: I just need some time to think. Just a little bit of time.

SEAN: Things... don’t have to change between us, Pearl. Nothing has to change.

PEARL: But everything has, hasn’t it?

SEAN: ... Come on, Pearl... Just take the dose. You’ll feel better, and then we can forget you ever said anything.

PEARL: I don’t want to take back what I said. I... I hurt now, but it’s better than having to look at you throw this all away.

SEAN: Don’t turn into my mother. Don’t you dare turn into my mother, Pearl.

PEARL: I read your book, Sean, when it first came out. I read it cover to cover and it put Dan Brown to shame.

SEAN: A kindergartener could put Dan Brown to shame.

PEARL: But you know what I mean.

SEAN: Pearl...

PEARL: And now it’s this. You’re about to lose your apartment, your book contract... Why are you throwing it all away.

SEAN: I’m not.

PEARL: That’s bull****.

SEAN: Pearl, don’t leave...

(PEARL pushes SEAN out of the way)

PEARL: I’ll be back. We need to talk. I might need to move out, I don’t know.

SEAN: Pearl, please don’t.

PEARL: (Smiles at SEAN) It’s already been done. (Walks off stage)

(SEAN stumbles back to the sofa, collapsing. He’s just lost a best friend to a misguided romance – he is devastated. He begins to frantically scratch his nose before crying out and pulling his phone)

SEAN: Abraham, hey, can you come over? Something just happened with Pearl and I don’t want to be alone right now... I want... Yeah. Thanks.

(SEAN leans back, staring at the door. After a few seconds, there’s a knock)

SEAN: It’s open. Come in.

(ABRAHAM walks in. He looks much better than he did when we first saw him – he has clearly left the drug dealing business and moved on to bigger and better things)

ABRAHAM: Hey, Sean.

SEAN: Hey you.

ABRAHAM: So, you and Pearl have a fight, then?

(SEAN nods)

SEAN: She loved me.

ABRAHAM: You didn’t love her? I always thought that you two would... Make a great couple. Really.

SEAN: No. I could never see myself with her.

ABRAHAM: Oh, come on. She’s not that bad. A little work and she’d be damn near bangable.

SEAN: I’m just not attracted to her.

ABRAHAM: Why not?

(SEAN stands. He’s torn)

SEAN: I don’t want to talk about it.

ABRAHAM: Didn’t you call me over to talk? Or are we going to shoot hoops or something.

SEAN: Can we talk about something else?

ABRAHAM: Why talk about something else when this is clearly what’s bothering you.

SEAN: ... It’s not just Pearl, Abraham.

ABRAHAM: Your parents? I heard about your Mom. I’m sorry to hear.

SEAN: Abraham, you’re my friend, right?

ABRAHAM: Your best friend.

SEAN: Am I your best friend?

ABRAHAM: Of course.

SEAN: What about Cathy?

ABRAHAM: What? My wife?

SEAN: Am I your best friend over Cathy?

ABRAHAM: Sure.

SEAN: How long have we known each other?

ABRAHAM: Uh... Your brother introduced us at the literati party for your first book. Maybe four years? I know we went to the same high school.

SEAN: Yeah, we did. You played basketball.

ABRAHAM: With my height, who wouldn’t?

(SEAN smiles)

SEAN: You’ve always been a good friend, Abraham.

ABRAHAM: Thank you. You’ve been a good one too, Sean.

(SEAN stands there, staring at him. ABRAHAM is staring right back)

ABRAHAM: ... What?

(SEAN moves over slowly. ABRAHAM doesn’t move. SEAN puts his hand against ABRAHAM’S cheek)

ABRAHAM: What are you doing?

(SEAN leans in to kiss him. They briefly kiss, before ABRAHAM pulls away)

ABRAHAM: What the hell are you doing, Sean!? What the hell!?

SEAN: I’m sorry, I just –

ABRAHAM: What was that? Why did you do that?

SEAN: I couldn’t... I’m sorry.

ABRAHAM: Sorry my ass! I’m married, Sean. I’m married. I have a wife. Cathy, you know Cathy. Why... Why would you go and do a goddamned thing like that? Why would you do that?

SEAN: I love –

ABRAHAM: Don’t say it. Don’t you dare say it.

SEAN: You didn’t feel anything, then.

ABRAHAM: (Clearly bothered because he DID feel something) No! NO!

(SEAN steps forward and ABRAHAM shoves him)

ABRAHAM: Get away from me!

SEAN: Can’t we talk?

ABRAHAM: God, I don’t know – I –

SEAN: You felt it, then.

ABRAHAM: (Is practically ripping his hair out) I don’t know! I don’t know if I felt anything!

SEAN: You felt it.

ABRAHAM: There’s nothing to feel, Sean. Nothing.

SEAN: There’s something there. You’ll get used to the idea, Abraham.

ABRAHAM: No. No. No. No.

SEAN: Trust me.

ABRAHAM: Get away from me, queer!

(ABRAHAM shoves SEAN hard – SEAN falls over, slamming against the ground. He stares up at ABRAHAM, who swings down and hits him in the jaw, hard. SEAN drops, but gets back up on his elbows to look at ABRAHAM, who swings down at him again. SEAN, clearly losing conciousness props himself back up to look at ABRAHAM, who swings down, knocking SEAN out)

ABRAHAM: (Realizing what he did) I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry.

(He stumbles to the door, opening it. PEARL is standing in the door frame.)

PEARL: Hey Abraham.

(ABRAHAM says nothing but rushes past her. PEARL walks in and gasps as she finds SEAN sprawled out on the floor. She cradles his head in her arms)

PEARL: Come on, come on, Sean. Come on...

SEAN: I’m not dead. Might as well be.

PEARL: What happened?

SEAN: ... It turns out Abraham isn’t quite as gay as I thought he would be.

(PEARL chuckles)

PEARL: Sean... (Kisses his forehead) It’ll be okay.

(SEAN stands)

SEAN: I know it will be. I know it will. I thought it... I thought it was a sure thing. Ah, my jaw.

PEARL: A slam dunk.

SEAN: A slam dunk... Funny. He played basketball in high school. I think I admired him even then. God, that feels like it was so long ago. And then I thought it must have been fate when he ended up at my book party.

PEARL: Fate is a funny thing.

SEAN: I didn’t have anything in common with him. I learned how to play basketball so we could start hanging out... I started... Heroin because he sold it.

PEARL: Why don’t you stop? He stopped selling.

SEAN: I can’t. Just like I can’t help not hating him right now. He did what he had to do, you know? He’s married. I was in the wrong. Who am I to drive a wedge between him and Cathy? I’m no one. I’m a flash in the pan novelist. I’m not even his real best friend.

PEARL: It’s okay, Sean. It’s okay.

SEAN: It doesn’t feel that way.

(PEARL sits down on the sofa)

SEAN: I don’t know what I’m going to do.

(SEAN moves over to the sofa, sitting down and putting his head in PEARL’S lap. SEAN begins to scratch his arms and cry)

PEARL: Just hang in there, baby... Just hang in there. It’ll get better. Don’t beat yourself up. (She runs her fingers through her hair while he sobs)

(As the lights go down, SEAN’S phone begins to ring)

(END SCENE)

(The lights come up on PETER’S apartment. He’s sitting down with his guitar while OPAL watches. In the back hangs the picture that PRETTY MAMA painted him)

PETER: It’s still not as intense as I would like it to be.

OPAL: It’s a folk album, Peter. It’s not going to be intense.

PETER: But it’s not... It’s lacking something. There’s no punch. I’m no different than anyone else out there that’s trying the same thing.

OPAL: Not true. You have me, they don’t.

(PETER’S cell phone begins to ring. He picks it up and looks at the name)

PETER: It’s Sean. I’m letting it go to voicemail.

(Almost as soon as the phone stops vibrating, his house phone rings)

PETER: Don’t answer that.

OPAL: Why not?

PETER: He wants money or drugs. It’s never life or death with him.

OPAL: You don’t mean that.

PETER: I do.

(OPAL stands up and looks at the picture PRETTY MAMA painted)

OPAL: She’s gifted, you know.

PETER: She is.

OPAL: Are you just agreeing with me, or do you actually believe that?

PETER: I believe it.

OPAL: Well, why?

PETER: Why what?

OPAL: What sets her apart from other painters.

PETER: Her technique.

OPAL: (Smiling) Well, I think it’s cute that you agreed with me just to agree with me.

PETER: How can you tell?

OPAL: You can’t quite put your finger on what sets her apart.

PETER: I’m terrible with analysis.

(OPAL smiles as PETER slides up behind her and wraps his arms around her waist)

OPAL: She’s been through it all.

PETER: And that’s what makes her a good artist?

OPAL: An artist is a product of their environment. I’ve always believed that. And she’s been through so much.

PETER: So, I’d have to suffer my entire life to write an album?

OPAL: No. You have to draw on experiences. Otherwise... If you write it having lived a happy or normal life, it will be a happy or normal album. If you write it having lived a terrible life, it will be a dark album... All of those are beautiful extremes, nothing else. Not representative of life.

PETER: Like smiling for pictures.

OPAL: Well, I guess so. It’s a cumulative total that will help you create. You’re happy, the album is happy. You need to detach yourself from your emotions, because I have to tell you, it sounds so saccharine as it is. Let the neutrality of your life take over. Let some suffering in.

PETER: I can’t help it, being around you.

(There’s a knock at the door. SEAN does not wait for PETER to pretend to not be there)

SEAN: Peter, open up!

PETER: Go away Sean.

SEAN: Peter, open up!

PETER: I forgot the rubber band on the door, Sean, but you can’t come in.

SEAN: Mom is dying.

PETER: What?

(OPAL pulls away from PETER)

OPAL: ... what?

SEAN: She’s in the hospital, but she won’t last through the night, Peter. She won’t last for a few hours. She’s going, man, she’s going...

PETER: I’ll be right out, Sean.

OPAL: Your mother is alive?

PETER: ... Yes.

OPAL: Your father?

PETER: ... Yes.

OPAL: Why would you lie to me about that? Of all things, why would you choose to lie to me about your parents being alive?

PETER: You just assumed they were dead, Opal.

OPAL: Oh, Peter, don’t try and blame this on me. We’ve been together for five months. Five. Every second of every day was another opportunity to tell me the truth.

PETER: My parents are rich.

OPAL: So what?

PETER: You disliked – hate the wealthy.

OPAL: But I like you.

PETER: I was afraid that if you found out, you wouldn’t... I don’t know. It made more sense in my head, Opal.

OPAL: I’m sure it did.

PETER: Opal, I’m sorry.

OPAL: No. No, don’t apologize.

PETER: But I’m sorry.

OPAL: You don’t trust me. You don’t trust my feelings. I would still love you if your parents lived in a house made of solid gold, Peter, because you are not your parents.

PETER: I’m sorry I didn’t trust you. I’m so sorry.

OPAL: I need to go for a walk.

PETER: No, please. I need you with me. I need you with me at the hospital. I can’t go through this without someone by my side.

OPAL: I’ll be there for you. I just need to clear my head. You drive, and I’ll walk.

(PETER walks over to the door, and turns to OPAL)

PETER: I love you, Opal.

OPAL: I love you too, Peter. Don’t you ever forget that.

PETER: I don’t think I will.

(PETER steps outside of the apartment. SEAN is waiting for him)

SEAN: Jesus, I didn’t expect you to come out. I was about to leave.

(PETER pushes SEAN against the wall)

PETER: I’d hit you, but it looks like someone did a number on your face already.

SEAN: What?

PETER: I told you – I told you never to mention our parents on front of Opal. Never.

SEAN: I kind of figured this was important.

PETER: I’ve never had a fight with her in five months. Never said an unkind word to her and I – I don’t know how close it came tonight to ending.

(OPAL walks out of the apartment. She stops and kisses PETER before walking on)

SEAN: Yeah, looks like it came really close to ending.

PETER: Get the hell out of here.

SEAN: I took a cab over. Can I get a ride to the hospital?

PETER: No. No, I don’t want you in my car. I don’t want you anywhere near me.

SEAN: Come on – come on, Peter. Don’t do this.

PETER: Yeah, yeah. I don’t want you in my car. I want you out in the elements. I hear it’s about to rain, so maybe you should get running.

(PETER walks offstage, swinging his keys around his finger. SEAN walks into the pit, and begins to make his way towards the ‘hospital’, but after getting halfway through the pit, ABRAHAM enters behind him)

ABRAHAM: Sean.

SEAN: (Turning) Who – Oh, Abraham. Hey.

ABRAHAM: I’m sorry.

SEAN: (Begins walking towards him) No, no, I’m sorry, I had no right to –

(SEAN’S apology is cut short as ABRAHAM removes a gun from behind his back, firing it once into SEAN’S stomach. SEAN stops walking forward, dropping to his knees)

SEAN: What?

(SEAN pitches forward. ABRAHAM stands and stares at the body for a few seconds before running away. )

(Blackout. END SCENE)

[MalReynolds]

(Lights up in the hospital. MICHAEL is holding MARTHA’S hand, staring at the floor. PETER enters, standing in the door way, staring)

PETER: Hey, Dad.

MICHAEL: (Looking up) Peter. I didn’t expect you to come.

PETER: I don’t have much choice, do I? She’s my mother.

MICHAEL: Would you like to have a seat?

PETER: ... I don’t know what I’m doing here.

MICHAEL: I didn’t think you had anything to say to us.

PETER: Not to you. To her.

MICHAEL: I don’t know if she can hear you or not. She’s been under for some time... The doctor says it’s a matter of hours before she’s... gone.

PETER: May I be with her alone?

(MICHAEL nods, and walks over to PETER)

MICHAEL: I have a newspaper clipping. They were talking about a show you played. A big charity event.

(PETER does not move)

MICHAEL: I’m proud of you. We both are.

(MICHAEL exits. PETER walks over to MARTHA and stands over her, his arms at his sides)

PETER: Hey Mom. (He stands there staring at her) You don’t look so good. I’m sorry. Not sorry that we haven’t talked in six years. That’s... I liked that. I’m sorry that you’re not going to get to hear what I’m saying to you. (Stares at her, looking for some kind of response. There is none) I came here to say I don’t forgive you. I do not forgive you. I just wanted you to know that.

(PETER walks back towards the door and MICHAEL walks in.)

MICHAEL: Where is Sean? I thought you might have come with him.

PETER: I made him walk. He... He made a mistake. I didn’t want him in my car.

MICHAEL: Peter, is Sean... He’s in trouble, isn’t he? He keeps borrowing money all the time.

PETER: ... No. He’s fine. He’s a good guy. Just needs to get his finances in order.

(PETER’S phone begins to ring)

PETER: It’s an unknown number, hold on.

(PETER answers the phone)

PETER: Hello? (Pause) This is Peter Miller. (Pause) Yes, he’s my brother... (Pause) Why would I be his emergency contact? (Pause) Wait, why would you need to call his emergency contact? (Pause) Jesus. Jesus Christ.

MICHAEL: What?

PETER: No, no, no... No. Okay. Thank you. I’ll be right there.

MICHAEL: What is it? What happened to Sean?

PETER: He... Someone shot him.

MICHAEL: What?!

PETER: He was walking over here and someone shot him.

MICHAEL: Why didn’t you let him in your car? Where is he?!

PETER: They just brought him in. He’s in the ER right now.

MICHAEL: What have you done, Peter? What have you done?

PETER: I – oh, God.

(MICHAEL pushes him out of the way and runs out of the room. PETER stands, staring at his mother)

PETER: He listened to you. We both listened to you. All you had to do was tell him to stop, tell me I was making a mistake. Why didn’t you do anything? Why didn’t you do anything? I don’t forgive you.

(PETER leans against the wall. He turns to the door just in time to see a gurney wheel past. There’s a young woman lying on the stretcher, and PETER does a double take. It can’t be possible. Not this.)

PETER: Wait!

(PETER rushes out into the hallway)

PETER: (Pushing nurses and paramedics out of the way) Get out of my way, get out of my way!

(Stares down at the stretcher. Laid out, almost peacefully, is OPAL)

PETER: Opal... Come on. Wake up. Wake up, Opal. Don’t do this. Not you too. Not you too, baby... Come on. Just snap out of it.

NURSE: Please, sir, step away.

PETER: No! Get away from us! (Back to OPAL) I love you. I love you, why are you going to leave me like this? Why are you just gonna... Opal, come on. Quit faking. Wake up. (Begins to shake her lightly) Come on. Come on, baby, come on. (Begins shaking her harder) You can’t do this to me, you can’t do this to me. Why are you going to... Why are you going to do this to me?

(The NURSES pull PETER away. They roll OPAL away, while one nurse stays behind to explain to him what happened)

NURSE: She was struck by a passing vehicle. They didn’t stop or slow down. I’m sorry, but it doesn’t look good.

PETER: She’ll... She’ll be fine, right?

NURSE: We’re doing everything we can for her.

PETER: Sean... brought it on himself. What did Opal do? Why did this happen to her?

NURSE: There’s never any reason for something like this to happen. There’s never any easy way.

PETER: But she’ll be fine. All she has to do is just wake up, right?

NURSE: ... We’re doing all that we can to make her comfortable.

PETER: She has a smile that could light up a room, you know? Bright. Brilliant. She’s so smart. She’s smarter than I am.

NURSE: I... We’re doing everything.

PETER: Do more. Can’t you do more?

NURSE: Sir, maybe you need to have a seat.

PETER: That’s... that’s a great idea.

(PETER slides down against the wall. The NURSE looks down at him, before moving on. PETER sits there, flipping through his phone)

PETER: Barry? You there, Barry? I know you work nights, but... I don’t know why I called. I... Barry, remember that time I found five dollars and my dog had to be put down? You remember that? ... Of course you do. And that time I found an antique bottle cap stuck to my shoe and our dryer hose came out, almost burned the house down? Barry, it’s... I’m going crazy. I’m going crazy because it’s one of those things again. Jesus, oh God, just call me when you get this please, please. Please call me. Please.

(MICHAEL walks back on, staring down at PETER)

MICHAEL: Stop being so pathetic. Your brother is in surgery right now and all you can do is think about yourself.

PETER: The girl I love is... she’s beautiful, Dad. Prettier than Mom. She’s... She’s an angel and I don’t think you’re ever going to get the chance to meet her.

MICHAEL: Did you push her away, too?

PETER: Maybe I did. Maybe that’s what I did. Maybe I did bring this down on myself.

(PETER extends his arm, asking for help to stand, but MICHAEL does nothing. PETER helps himself to his feet)

PETER: You’re reminding me why I left.

MICHAEL: Do you want to cry on my shoulder? You want me to pat you on the back and tell you everything is going to be okay?

PETER: Why? You’ve never done it before.

MICHAEL: I was being sarcastic, Peter.

PETER: Never been your strong suit... Michael.

(They stare at each other)

MICHAEL: I’m getting some coffee. I don’t want to see you outside your mother’s room when I get back or I’m calling the hospital security.

PETER: I’m your son. I have a right to be here.

MICHAEL: The only son I have is in surgery right now.

(MICHAEL turns and walks away. PETER stares in his direction. A NURSE walks onstage, over to PETER, but stops when her pager starts going off. She runs in the direction of OPAL. A heart monitor begins to flatline, and MARTHA tries to sit up, dying. More nurses rush past the room towards OPAL. PETER watches, and the one flatline is joined by another.)

(PETER lets out an extended, anguished cry, slides down the wall and begins to sob. As both heart monitors flatline and harmonize. MARTHA is gasping for breath, but finally leans back, dead. As PETER sobs, MICHAEL rushes back on stage, into MARTHA’S room. He rushes to her side, but it’s too late. She’s already dead.)

MICHAEL: Oh, Martha... Martha...

(The lights go down)

(END ACT II)

(ACT III)

(Lights come up in PETER’S apartment. He no longer has his cheery demeanor – quite the opposite. He’s donned almost entirely in black. The painting by Pretty Mama has a large, red X over it. He’s sitting in front of his coffee table, just staring at his hands. The lights come back up on the DJ booth, as he sits there. His demeanor has changed as well, while reading the letter. His hair has gotten disheveled and he’s taken off his overshirt, revealing a sweaty white undershirt.)

DJ: “I tried everything the next few weeks. I tried everything to make myself forget, but who could forget something like that?

[Ice wolf]

You are not human.












You are amazing. Does all the stuff you write just...come to you? You seem to come up with new stuff pretty quickly for the amount you give us. Anyways, support from Ice wolf.

[MalReynolds]

Most of what I post is the first edit that I write during 30 minutes on my lunch break.

But I ran into a snag with Act III. See, I killed off most of the characters, so scene transitions won't be a problem... Because there can't be more than 2 scenes.

This was based on a book I was going to write but lost the steam part way through

[MalReynolds]

(The lights come up on MICHAEL’S house. He seems to be seated, just staring at the door. The lights come back up on the DJ booth, as he sits there. His demeanor has changed as well, while reading the letter. His hair has gotten disheveled and he’s taken off his overshirt, revealing a sweaty white undershirt.)

DJ: “I tried everything the next few weeks. I tried everything to make myself forget, but who could forget something like that?”

(MICKEY walks onstage, knocking at the door)

DJ: And we’ll be back right after this.

MICKEY: What the hell was that?

DJ: What?

MICKEY: What the hell was that?

DJ: What are you talking about?

MICKEY: What just happened.

DJ: At the station?

MICKEY: In the letter, smartass.

DJ: So, you’ve been listening.

MICKEY: ... Maybe off an on. Mostly off. But I start, I mean, I perk up again and everyone is dying.

DJ: I didn’t say it was a happy letter, did I? I just said it was a letter. A fast read.

MICKEY: A sad fast read.

DJ: Well, sure. It’s not exactly a happy-go-lucky type deal. It’s life.

MICKEY: I don’t think I like it.

DJ: It’s a good thing I didn’t ask you to like it. Why are you getting all sappy, anyway? My cousin, she’s really done a number on you, hasn’t she? What, after you get off work are you going to go watch Sleepless in Seattle or something? Hug a teddy bear, eat a pint of rocky road and cry yourself to sleep just because you couldn’t have that paramount kiss on top of the space needle?

MICKEY: You talk too much sometimes, you know that?

DJ: It’s what you pay me for.

MICKEY: So, he lost everyone then?

DJ: Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe I’ve just been making the whole thing up.

MICKEY: You haven’t.

DJ: How do you know that?

MICKEY: Look at you. You’re sweating like you’re under studio lights. You couldn’t be making it up because it looks like you’re going through something emotional. Reading that letter out loud, that’d be emotional.
DJ: Or maybe it’s just hot in here.

MICKEY: Or maybe it’s just hot in here... Are you making it up?

DJ: Maybe. Maybe not. When I finish my shift, I’ll leave the letter behind... Although honestly, the idea of changing the story never even entered into my head until this moment. Or who knows, maybe I just said that to throw you off. Maybe I’ll change the ending completely. I know most people won’t like the real ending, so maybe I’ll give them something happy. They won’t know the difference, will they?

MICKEY: I don’t think they will. I will.

DJ: And if I change the ending, would you go on the air and make a correction? An addendum?

MICKEY: Why would I want to ruin that for people?

DJ: I don’t know. You’re Mickey Goddinger. You don’t have a really good ‘people’ streak.

MICKEY: ... Yeah. So, that’s it then? The letter, it’s over?

DJ: Why would you ask that?

MICKEY: His brother his dead, his girlfriend is dead, his mother... Dead. You said the ending would be unsatisfactory. It doesn’t get any more unsatisfactory than that.

DJ: Oh, just wait.

MICKEY: ... Well, are you going to do it?

DJ: What?

MICKEY: Are you or aren’t you going to change the ending?

DJ: I’ll see how I feel when I get close to there.

MICKEY: Yeah. Well... Get to it, then.

(The DJ motions for MICKEY to leave and picks up the letter. Onstage, PETER enters MICHAEL’S house. MICHAEL stands. The lights fade on the DJ booth)

MICHAEL: Hello, Peter.

PETER: Hello, Michael. What’s this about?

MICHAEL: Never any nonsense with you.

PETER: Well... Time is precious.

MICHAEL: Don’t talk to me about time. You don’t know anything, Peter. You’re thirty. You don’t know anything.

PETER: Is that why you called me here? To tell me I didn’t know anything?

MICHAEL: Your mother –

PETER: My mother nothing. You called me here. She’s dead. What’s this about?

MICHAEL: She didn’t leave you anything in the will. I didn’t want you to come knocking on my door looking for a handout –

PETER: Like I do that now –

MICHAEL: Because you’re entitled to nothing. Nothing.

PETER: You said it yourself. The only son you had went into the ER.

MICHAEL: That’s right. Martha died alone because of you, Peter. Because of your selfishness.

PETER: No.

MICHAEL: Yes. I should have been in there with her.

PETER: Instead, you were getting coffee and calling security. Hardly my fault.

MICHAEL: You –

PETER: No, you listen to me, Michael. You weren’t in there because you’re a selfish, greedy twisted old man.

MICHAEL: I am your father. I’ll be damned if you talk to me like that.

PETER: Yeah. Sean was your only son. I don’t think you’re my father.

(MICHAEL moves as if he’s going to hit PETER, and PETER sidesteps. MICHAEL falters, tripping and falling. He lies on the ground, on his back, staring up at PETER.)

PETER: Do you want me to help you up? You want me to help pick you up while you’re down? Hey, Michael, your wife just died... Want me to throw salt in the wound?

(PETER kneels down next to MICHAEL)

PETER: You weren’t the only person that lost someone that day, you self righteous son of a bitch. Don’t act like you were the only person hurt.

(MICHAEL holds his hand up)

PETER: And I’ll be damned if I’m going to help you back on your feet.

(MICHAEL rolls over and slowly climbs up as PETER stares at him. He moves over to the side table and removes a check book.)

PETER: What are you doing?

MICHAEL: How much is it going to cost?

PETER: What? How much is what going to cost?

MICHAEL: How much is it going to cost to never see you again?

PETER: ... What?

MICHAEL: Don’t act like you don’t understand. How much money is it going to take to ensure that I will never have to look at you again.

PETER: ... You don’t need to pay me any money for that.

MICHAEL: And then you’ll show up again. No, no, I need to make this real. I need to make this solid.

PETER: So this isn’t just a fight, then?

MICHAEL: How much is it going to take.

PETER: This is a termination of a relationship.

MICHAEL: Ten thousand?

PETER: If you write that check, you’ll never see me again. I will want nothing to do with you. Michael – Dad... You will be dead to me if you pay me to leave your house.

MICHAEL: Twenty thousand, then?

PETER: Think about what you’re doing.

MICHAEL: Fifty thousand.

(MICHAEL writes the check)
PETER: If that check leaves the book...

(MICHAEL rips the check out and hands it to PETER)

MICHAEL: You have ten minutes to get off of my property before I call the police and tell them there’s an intruder.

PETER: A whole ten minutes? Gee, when did you get so generous?

MICHAEL: What are you waiting for? Why aren’t you leaving? I gave you the money, get out of my sight.

PETER: In two months, you’re going to regret doing this. You might even call. You might ask me to come over. I’m asking you right now to look at this rationally, because if I walk out of that door with this check then you will never, ever see me again.

MICHAEL: You act like you’re the only person who knows that they’re doing.

PETER: Must be genetic.

MICHAEL: What makes you think I’d ever want to see you again? Martha died alone because if your incessant –

PETER: Because of your pig-headedness.

MICHAEL: Thinking no one loved her. I loved her. I was the only one who loved her in this whole damn family.

PETER: Yeah, well, maybe there was a reason for that. I know it might be hard to wrap your mind around, but maybe there was a good reason that the reason you were the only one that loved Martha.

MICHAEL: And there you go, thinking you know everything. Peter, the world is so big. You can learn so much.

PETER: Now, what’s this? Some sage advice coming out of you? The world is a big place... Yeah. All the money you have, all the money you earned – you inherited a company. You didn’t have to get dirt under your nails, you didn’t have to bleed for any of it, and you won’t let any one person forget that. You gave Sean a car. You gave him five thousand dollars without even acknowledging how much that was. Never a second thought, because you were above that. The world is a big place... it sure is. Will I ever get to see any of it? Out my window, and down the block. I’ve never wanted to be painted into a corner, Michael, but... I had to get out of here. There’s nothing like the crushing feeling of superiority to make your own flesh and blood feel small.

(PETER moves over to the side table, staring down at the phone)

PETER: Phone... the mouth piece is made out of Opal, isn’t it? You never met her, though. I wouldn’t want you to spoil her. You couldn’t go near milk without it curdling. Opal, she was one of a kind, Michael. One of a kind.

MICHAEL: What are you going on about? Who is Opal?

PETER: That’s right. You have no idea. The world is a big place, Michael. Absolutely huge. But you couldn’t look at the Arc de Triumph without wondering what it would look like with one of your labels on it. The Roman Coliseum? Not without some corporate sponsored event. Hanging Gardens would only be great if each step was flowing with electricity. The world is a big place, but you can’t see it without your gold tinted glasses. Could you have ever loved the world for what it was, or could you only love the potential? Did you treat me like you did because you loved me, or because you only saw that I would be nothing?

(MICHAEL doesn’t say anything, but stares.)

PETER: Yeah, well... Opal, she was the world to me. She’s dead now. She was hit by a car the same night Martha died. I wasn’t just at the hospital for Martha or Sean. If I had the chance, it would have only been Opal there. There was no proper send off. Both of her parents are dead. I went to the funeral. It was me, a preacher, and a cancer patient. That’s it. We were the only people in the world to her. We were the world to her.

MICHAEL: ... You can give me the check back, Peter.

PETER: You know... I could really use the money.

(PETER stares at MICHAEL before turning to the door. He walks out, shutting the door. He pulls the check out of his pocket, tearing it up, and dropping the pieces by the exit before walking off stage)

[MalReynolds]

(Set change to PETER’S apartment. PRETTY MAMA’S painting is hanging behind the sofa. PETER walks in and crosses to the other side. He opens a cabinet and removes a bottle. It’s clearly alcohol, and he sets it on the table. He stares at it for a few seconds before pulling a glass out and filling it to the top. He then stares at the glass. He takes a deep breath and downs the entire glass – 4-5 shots easily – and then tosses the bottle aside. He sits back and puts his hands behind his head, staring forward. After a few seconds, PETER gets up and pulls his guitar out. He plays a few chords very sloppily when there’s a knock at the door. PETER walks over and opens it. It’s SEAN, who is now wheelchair bound)

SEAN: Hey, brother.

PETER: Hey Sean. Do you have your stuff?

(SEAN points to the bag on his lap)

SEAN: Right here.

PETER: That’s not a lot of stuff...

SEAN: One of the perks of having no money. Not a lot of stuff to carry around. I thought you would be happy that you did have to lug a sofa all the way up here.

PETER: I already have a sofa.

SEAN: Exactly!

(PETER sits down, and looks at SEAN)

PETER: So how are you holding up?

SEAN: Not bad, considering. Worse things have happened than ending up in a wheel chair. At least I’m alive.

PETER: What worse has happened to you?

SEAN: What put me in the chair was pretty painful.

PETER: I wouldn’t imagine getting shot is easy.

SEAN: ... Yeah. Getting shot.

(PETER stands up and the alcohol begins to take effect. He’s not really functioning well)

PETER: Lemme get your stuff.

SEAN: You okay?

PETER: Peachy. Lemme show you your room. It’s not handicap accessible yet or anything, but I managed to get a bar for the bed.

SEAN: Peter, sit down. You’re looking rather pekid.

PETER: I’m fine, Sean, really. Lemme just get your stuff.

(SEAN rolls backwards)

SEAN: I can smell it from here.

PETER: It wasn’t me.

SEAN: How long has it been? I forgot how poorly you hold your liquor.

PETER: Oh, about three days. Before that, a day. Before that, a day. Before that, a day. Before that, five years six months, two weeks and five days.

SEAN: Doesn’t take much to push you off the wagon, does it.

PETER: Go through what I’ve been through, then we’ll talk.

SEAN: I forgot the number one rule of being Peter – you have to suffer more than anyone else on the planet.

PETER: There’s that sarcastic heroin wit that I love so much. I was wondering when you would start up with that.

SEAN: I’ve been clean since... Since, you know.

PETER: Well, good for you. You want a gold star?

SEAN: Well, I was going to tell you that you don’t need to wait up holding my hand or holding my hair back because I’ve been through the worst of it. Out of the forest. The trees are thinning and I’m almost back to society.

PETER: Metaphorically.

SEAN: Metaphorically. I’m not literally in a forest right now. You, however, you’re literally drunk.

PETER: Prove it.

SEAN: The empty bottle on the floor, the look in your eye, the glass, you can’t stand up straight. Just like old times. It’s like you and I traded.

PETER: Well, then, let me waste my talent for two years. Then we’ll all be caught up.

(SEAN looks at him)

PETER: What?

SEAN: If this is a bad time, I can come back later.

PETER: Yeah, maybe that’d be good.

(SEAN turns his chair and begins to leave)

SEAN: You were happy.

PETER: I was.

SEAN: I was happy.

PETER: What the hell did you have to be happy about?

SEAN: What does it matter?

PETER: Cause maybe you don’t know happiness. Or maybe you do. Maybe you just don’t know the kind of happiness I had.

SEAN: Every time the needle tore my skin it felt like I was having ten thousand orgasms. I was living a quiet life with my best friend, and I didn’t have a whole lot of worries. Everyone out there struggles to pay bills, to make ends meet, but I didn’t have that. It was so simple. Why would I remove myself from bliss and enter the fray like that?

PETER: Because you’re insane.

SEAN: Because if you’re too happy for too long, you’re not really happy. That’s why it falls apart. You and I, we both have to have conflict. We can’t live without it.

PETER: Lies.

SEAN: Sure, lies. You’ve obviously chosen a wise and easy career. I have my next book ready! We’re not digging ourselves into holes.

PETER: I was happy because I was in love, Sean, not because I’m a no-talent folk singer.

SEAN: To be a folk singer, Peter, you have to play folk music. Not just want to play folk music. And you know I was in love.

PETER: Yeah, well... It would never work out. Abraham isn’t...

SEAN: Isn’t ready. Is scared. I don’t know, either. But the nicest thing he ever did was help me into my chair.

PETER: He wasn’t there.

SEAN: It’s a metaphor.

PETER: ... Abraham did that?

(SEAN says nothing)

PETER: Why haven’t you gone to the police?

SEAN: I didn’t say he did it. Even if he did, I would understand exactly why he did what he did. Maybe someone put him into a corner and it was the only way out. He was forced to play that hand – metaphorically – and it was the only option.

PETER: What are you talking about? He shot you.

SEAN: I’m not saying he did. I’m saying that you’re not the only one who could possibly understand the hurt of losing someone that you loved.

PETER: And you’re not pressing charges?

SEAN: No witness except myself. It was a random act of violence, I say.

PETER: No evidence?

SEAN: Except a bullet that belongs to an unregistered gun.

PETER: ... I don’t get you.

SEAN: I hardly get myself sometimes. Can’t blame you for that.

PETER: (Standing) And another thing... (Begins to stumble. SEAN rolls over and helps him onto the sofa. PETER lies down)

SEAN: Just rest a little while. Sleep this off.

PETER: Yeah, sleep...

SEAN: Were you playing guitar before I came in?

PETER: Just a few chords. Nothing big. I got writers block, big brother, like you wouldn’t believe.

SEAN: You’re talking to a novelist. I can relate.

PETER: I play a few chords, but I can’t put anything together that’s worth anything.

SEAN: You’re just drunk. You’ll work through this.

PETER: Maybe I don’t want to.

SEAN: We’ll talk when you’re sober.

PETER: I’m not done... talking... (PETER falls asleep.)

(SEAN rolls over to a chair that has a blanket hanging over the back, and helps it onto PETER. SEAN rolls over to a telephone and picks it up, dialing a number)

SEAN: Hey, Pearl? Yeah. No, it’s me. Sean. Still kicking, kind of. Yeah, yeah... No, I just moved in to my brother’s place. He’s good sometimes. Yeah, I was wondering if you – what? No. If you – no. Yeah... No, do you want to talk or something? I’d like to see you. Kind of holed up in the apartment. Gotta make sure Peter doesn’t choke on his vomit... 17 Crest Drive, apartment 4C. A few minutes? Sounds good...

(SEAN hangs the phone up, and stares at PETER)

SEAN: You had it all, baby brother. And you let it slip through your fingers. I’d be angry... But I’m envious. For those five months, you were alive. You knew what it was to live. I would have traded my simple life for a minute of what you had. Just a minute. You’ve never met Pearl, have you? I think you’d like her. She’s nice enough. Congenial. I feel useless talking to you when you’re passed out, but I haven’t seen you lately when you’re not drunk.

(There’s a KNOCK at the door. SEAN wheels over and opens the door. PEARL walks in –she looks very different. While not dressed in nice clothes, she looks showered and clean. Her clothes are not torn. She looks like she walked out of an upper middle class catalogue)

PEARL: What happened to you?

SEAN: What happened to you? I almost feel dirty looking at you in clothes that aren’t torn.

PEARL: Yeah, well... I had some time to think about life. The direction mine was taking, in particular... I kicked it.

SEAN: The habit?

PEARL: Yeah.

SEAN: Me too. It doesn’t feel good.

PEARL: No, no it doesn’t. But, what about you? Why are you in that chair? It’s temporary, right?

SEAN: No. It’s – ah... Well, someone shot me.

PEARL: Jesus. Jesus, why would anyone shoot you?

SEAN: Lord knows I was shooting myself enough.

PEARL: So, this is permanent?

SEAN: Yup.

PEARL: ... Well, at least I’m taller than you now.

SEAN: Please, only if you stand up all the time. Lord knows you couldn’t manage staying on your feet for five minutes when we lived together. The victory will be mine in the long run, Pearl.

PEARL: So you say!

SEAN: Plus, I have to play the game with a handicap. I’m predisposed to winning now.

PEARL: Whoa, maybe you need to sit down before you dizzy yourself.

SEAN: ... Too soon.

PEARL: Oh, God, I’m so sorry –

SEAN: Just as easy to trick when you’re not high.

PEARL: (PEARL gives SEAN a push) Things like this are supposed to humble you, you ass.

SEAN: Oh, please. Someone cared enough to shoot me. That’s good enough for my ego.

[MalReynolds]

SEAN: Oh, please. Someone cared enough to shoot me. That’s good enough for my ego. You look good, Pearl.

PEARL: Thank you. Your mother... That was the last time I saw you. When you got that phone call.

SEAN: Well, a note saying, “I need space,” didn’t really make me want to seek you out. You’re a big girl. You know what you’re doing. She’s dead.

PEARL: I’m sorry.

SEAN: I didn’t get to see her before she died.

PEARL: What happened?

SEAN: (Motions to his chair) Life happened. I screwed up. I hadn’t spoken to her in six years, too. But the weird thing is, it’s that I don’t feel bad. I don’t feel anything. I’m not numb – don’t get me wrong – getting shot hurt a whole bunch and when I saw Peter drunk, I felt bad for him... I just didn’t feel anything when Martha died.

PEARL: I’m so sorry. I don’t even know where to begin... Want to compare losses?

SEAN: Oh, the good ol’ contest of who has suffered more. Well, you’ve got mine – I’ve been paralyzed, my mom is dead any my brother fell off the wagon.

PEARL: I don’t have much. My sister died a few weeks ago.

SEAN: Oh?

(Before PEARL can say anything else, PETER wakes up yelling. When he settles down, he sits up and stares at PEARL)

PETER: You look familiar. Have we met?

PEARL: I don’t think so.

SEAN: Peter, this is Pearl.

PETER: Ah, Pearl, the enabler.

PEARL: Excuse me?

PETER: You lived with Sean. I’m just being funny. Ha-ha, funny. What’s she doing here, Sean?

SEAN: I invited her over. You were too passed out to help me with anything and I hadn’t seen her in a long time.

PETER: Fair enough. Excuse me, I think I have to go throw up.

(PETER runs to the bathroom, slamming the door. PEARL crosses to the sofa and sits down, looking at SEAN)

PEARL: Looks like he hit the ground hard when he fell off the wagon.

SEAN: Naturally. Everyone in our family is a dog for the dramatic. We can’t do anything quietly. Even with failure, we explode like a dying star. When we win, we make newspapers. When we’re mediocre... That’s when you don’t hear from us.

PEARL: You’re funny. I forgot that about you.

SEAN: Well, something had to attract you to me. I figured it was either my indelible looks or my sense of humor.

PEARL: You talk like you’re a writer.

SEAN: Writer’s talk like they know everything. Oh. I see what you did there.

PEARL: Or they try to start fights or they sulk or they drink. You just act like you know everything, Sean.

SEAN: Well, you know what they say.

PEARL: What?

SEAN: They say that I know everything.

(PETER stumbles out of the bathroom)

PETER: You’re in my seat. I think I called fives.

SEAN: You didn’t call fives. It’s a sofa. You don’t need to lie down.

PEARL: I can get up –

SEAN: Don’t get up.

PEARL: I like your apartment, Peter. It’s very well decorated.

PETER: You can thank my live in girlfriend for that.

PEARL: Oh? Is she going to be coming in soon?

(PETER looks at SEAN, who is motioning for PEARL to drop it)

PEARL: Never mind. I like that painting. It looks like something I would own.

PETER: You want it? You can have it.

PEARL: I couldn’t. It must have cost an arm and a leg.

PETER: I got it free. You can have it if you really want. I need to purge this place anyway. I’m living in nothing but bad memories.

PEARL: ... I’m sorry.

PETER: Don’t be. Who knows, maybe I had fallen into a comfort zone. Those are bad if you want to make progress. You can’t get comfortable or you don’t want to strive.

SEAN: Exactly. That’s why I’m going to start writing again.

PEARL: Really? Sean, that’s fantastic!

PETER: Well, look at you, rolling around here like you’re in the Indy 500. What’s your book going to be about?

SEAN: Oh, who knows. I just want to write again. I feel like I have a great story to tell.

PEARL: Life is like a book. Filled with stories.

PETER: Or a car.

PEARL: Or a car. So, Peter, what are you going to start doing again? Whittling? Sean told me you used to whittle.

PETER: Useless hobby. I might go out and get a real job.

PEARL: So, you had a fake job then?

PETER: I was chasing a dream. But don’t worry about it. That’s pretty much gone. It’s stupid.

PEARL: Dreams are never stupid. Nightmares are.

(PETER stares at her for a second)

PETER: What did you say?

PEARL: I said ‘Dreams are never stupid. Nightmares are.’

PETER: Family motto?

PEARL: Naturally.

(PETER stares at her for another second)

PETER: Excuse me. I’ll be right back.

(PETER walks offstage)

PEARL: What was that about?

SEAN: Who knows. Peter’s drunk. Does it really matter what it was about? He’s probably passed out on his bed right now.

PEARL: Seems like you know him pretty well.

SEAN: Only as well as you can know a sibling.

PEARL: Pretty well, then.

SEAN: (Laughs) Yeah. I grew up with him. Peter had this stupid theory when we were growing up... Karma hit him hard. That’s just what he thinks. Uh, he lost his girlfriend. Same night I was shot, same night we lost Martha.

PEARL: Jesus, that sounds like a rough night.

SEAN: So rough it could be poetic in the right light. But he hasn’t been the same since. They were very deeply in love.

PEARL: He had it and it was taken away.

SEAN: When he was a kid, whenever something good would happen to him, something just as bad would whip back around and hit him. Sometimes it was worse. I’ve never known anybody with worse luck than my brother. He picked a dying genre to start his music career in. I used to joke that maybe it died because he picked it up, but then when we both started to realize that folk was a dead genre, the joke wasn’t funny anymore.

PEARL: What happened to his girlfriend?

SEAN: She was hit by a car.

PEARL: God. That’s terrible.

SEAN: It was.

PEARL: That happened to my sister a few weeks ago.

SEAN: Is she okay?

PEARL: No, no, she died.

(PETER comes back into the room holding a piece of paper that seems to have been folded over many, many times)

PETER: I didn’t know there was anyone I could tell, but now you’re here and I know who you are. So, here it is. “Five weeks ago, I made one of the biggest mistakes of my life but not offering to go on the walk with you. You weren’t mad at me, but I was mad at myself, and I didn’t want you to see me like that. I couldn’t let you see me like that. There’s,” sorry, this part is scratched out, “You were willing to forgive me when I wasn’t able to forgive myself. People say that the people they find are their better halves, but I don’t think there was anyone more perfect. You could the me beneath the real me, the face behind the jokes. You took me for who I was, and I let you die. I let you walk out the door that night, and I let you die. I couldn’t be there for you, and there was nothing I could do. When they wheeled you in, I felt part of me slip away. Even if you had lived, I – I don’t think I would have ever been the same. You changed me so much for the better, and I was so thankless. You told me once that dreams weren’t stupid, nightmares were and that you couldn’t have art without suffering.” – There’s more scratched out. I changed this so many times... “And I wouldn’t ever have wanted you to suffer for my art. In a perfect world, there would be no art. There would be no need for self expression, and there would have been no need for you. That’s hardly a perfect world. Opal, I love you.”

(PEARL sits there and looks at him)

PETER: You can have the painting, because you already have another one just like it, don’t you?

(PEARL is still looking at him)

PETER: Please tell me I didn’t just make a huge mistake.

PEARL: No.

PETER: No I did make a mistake or no I didn’t.

PEARL: No, you didn’t.

PETER: I’m so sorry I killed your sister, Pearl. (PETER is trying very hard not to cry. PEARL stands up, walks over to PETER, and embraces him)

PETER: (Sobbing) I’m so sorry.

(The lights fade. END SCENE)

[MalReynolds]

(The lights come up on the apartment. It’s still a wreck, but PETER is sitting on the couch, with his guitar across his lap. He strums a few bars before getting frustrated and setting the guitar down. He moves across the room to the painting, and stares at it for a few seconds before touching it. As he’s staring, the door opens and SEAN is wheeled in by PEARL. SEAN has a ream of paper sitting on his lap, and PEARL pushes him over to the coffee table, where there’s a small typewriter.)

SEAN: Hey Peter. What’s going on?

PETER: I’ve lost it.
SEAN: You went off the deep end when you were seven. Whatever you thought you had, your probably don’t anymore.

PETER: No, I can’t write music.

SEAN: Of course you can.

PETER: I can’t hit any notes. I don’t have any control over anything, Sean.

SEAN: You kicked the booze again, didn’t you?

PETER: Yeah, but I still can’t sing or write music.

SEAN: You couldn’t even write a song for me, baby brother?

(PEARL moves over to the guitar and picks it up. She turns it over in her hands and sits down on the sofa, playing Ode to Joy very poorly.)

PEARL: I like the guitar, Peter.

PETER: It looks good on you. Used to be a lonely old guitar.

PEARL: I can’t play it.

PETER: Can you sing?

PEARL: Can anyone, really?

PETER: What does that even mean. Can you or can’t you sing?

PEARL: I’ve started doing some stuff with a choir at my church –

SEAN: What’s this? You’re a choir girl? If I were straight –

PEARL: But that’s it. You can’t single my voice out or anything. Why?

PETER: I don’t know. I don’t know.

(SEAN grabs the guitar and plays a quick, impressive song. He looks at PETER)

SEAN: I haven’t picked up the guitar in a long time. Stays with you. You just have to work past this block you have.

PETER: It’s self imposed. I know it’s self imposed, but I can’t do anything about it.

SEAN: I guess not.

(PETER grabs the guitar and just holds it)

PETER: You know what made me want to be a singer?

SEAN: Singer/songwriter?

PETER: Yeah.

SEAN: No.

PETER: Uh, you just had a short story published in an old rag. You know that one, the one that went under about a month after they ran your story. First time you’d been published.

SEAN: Oh, right. Science Serial Magazine. The story was about uh... I think a house that doubled as a space ship or something.

PETER: Anyway, Martha and Mike, they weren’t very impressed. I mean, getting a short story published verses millions of dollars... What’s a little self pride to money. So, you took me out to celebrate. I was thirteen, you were sixteen, and you managed to nick Mike’s car keys. The nice one, the ‘vette. I asked where we were going, and you said a celebration dinner.

(SEAN is nodding along. He’s staring to remember)

PETER: Remember where we went?

SEAN: Wendy’s. Martha would never let us have anything like that. Food for the poor, but that just made it so much better, didn’t it? Having something we couldn’t? Driving in that car was the tops, too.

PETER: Coulda’ driven all the way to the sun, you and I. So... We had just finished dinner, and we were driving back to the house. You were worried about the odometer, because you thought Dad – Mike would notice. You turned the radio on, and a song started playing, and you turned me and you uh... You asked me to sing. It had never crossed my mind that I could do that, you know, for a living or anything. I didn’t think I was much good at it in any case, but when I tried to stop, you just kind of looked over.

SEAN: You sung well.

PETER: Yeah, well... That’s what made me want to start.

SEAN: I made you want to start singing. You’d better get famous then, asshole, otherwise I’m going to be le pissed at starting something like that.

(PETER walks over and shoves SEAN. He goes rolling backwards a little bit. PETER turns to PEARL, who is seated on the sofa.)

PETER: So, I never found out how you met Sean.

PEARL: Oh, it’s ah... Not that great of a story.

PETER: That doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear it.

PEARL: Well, I was at Club Sisco, in the bathroom, throwing up, and Sean walked in. And I was nervous, because why would a man be in the woman’s bathroom? But it turns out I was in the men’s room. He started making fun of me, saw the track marks on my arm... Bam, that’s a great conversation piece, you know? “Oh, hey, looks like we have a lot in common,” that sort of thing. And I just so happened to be between apartments at the time, and this charming, handsome man is stumbled through the door.

PETER: That’s a good story, I’d say.

SEAN: Well, that’s kind of how it happened. Pearl was really drunk. You’re a mean drunk, Pearl, you know that?

(PEARL laughs)

PEARL: You know I couldn’t hurt a fly.

(PETER is staring intently at PEARL, and their eyes meet. They stare at each other for a few seconds before PETER looks away.)

PETER: Hey, could you hand me the guitar?

(PEARL reaches down and hands him the guitar)

PETER: I’m gonna go to my room. I gotta write something.

SEAN: Music?

PETER: No, a Shakespearean sonnet. Of course music.

SEAN: Well, I mean –

(PETER walks into the bedroom and shuts the door. PEARL feeds a sheet of paper through the typewriter and tries to type something)

PEARL: I’m rubbish at typing. I can’t play the guitar, I can’t type worth a damn. Why do you keep me around, Sean?

SEAN: Oh, you make me look better by comparison.

(PEARL smiles, balls up a piece of paper, and tosses it at his face)

SEAN: Oh, good. You’re assaulting a crippled man.

(SEAN rolls over and gives her a shove. They begin to playfully fight back and forth, until PEARL’S hands are on SEAN’S face. She stares at him for a second, and he pulls back.)

SEAN: I’m sorry.

PEARL: About what?

SEAN: I just... I know, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have –

PEARL: Oh, God, will you can it? I wasn’t going to make a move on you.

SEAN: I’ve seen that look before, that’s all.

PEARL: Sean, the world doesn’t rise and fall because of that look.

SEAN: But those eyes could launch a thousand ships.

PEARL: You flatter me. For a gay man that has no interest in me, you’re not short on compliments.

SEAN: Well, that should say something about you rather than about me. If I find it so easy to compliment you, and there’s no attraction... You must be doing something right.

(PEARL smiles and leans back on the sofa)

PEARL: I guess you’re right.

SEAN: Remember, remember, I’m always right.

(SEAN wheels over to the typewriter)

SEAN: So, the process begins. I have the motivation, I have the will power, I have the drive to write a novel, but I’m only missing one thing.

PEARL: What?

SEAN: A story. Characters, a plot. Overarching themes – although most of the time those are written in accidentally – locations. Anything. I have everything except what it takes to write a story.

PEARL: That’s too bad. I’m sure there’s an interesting story out there somewhere.

(PETER opens the door to the bedroom)

PETER: Pearl, could you come in here?

PEARL: What?

PETER: Please?

PEARL: Why?

PETER: You have her eyes. Opal’s. When I first met her there were parents everywhere stuffed up in their tuxedos, wandering around looking at pricey little items their children made to buy to support some charity that I had never heard of. I was standing in the back. It was a silent auction, and across the room, I saw her. I will never forget that.

PEARL: I see.

PETER: I can look at you, and I can see her. Her kindness in your face, her laugh whenever you speak. I can look into your eyes and see her. And however briefly it may be, it helps. Can you – will you please come into the bedroom. I need to look at you while I write. It’s the only way I can get past this block.

PEARL: ... Okay.

PETER: I have my emotions under control. I can tap into any kind that I want, I just need you. Opal is the missing ingredient, but... I don’t think I would have the... Control if she were still here.

SEAN: Go on.

(PEARL stands up, and walks over to the bedroom. She walks inside and PETER shuts the door)

SEAN: Well, we’re all characters, aren’t we. And this life, that’s a story to tell. Ain’t it just always the way. (SEAN rolls over to the typewriter and begins writing)

SEAN: “The parents were everywhere, stuffed up in their tuxedos, wandering around looking at pricey little items their children made to buy to support some charity that I had never heard of. I was standing in the back...” That’s a good start so far. Not a bad start at all. I just hope I don’t burn out before I finish writing... ““...Holding my coke in one hand and a red napkin in the other, letting it dangle loosely by my side, trying to look as nonchalant as possible until it was time to make the announcement.”

(As SEAN writes, the lights go down.)

(END SCENE)

(The lights come up. PETER’S apartment is clean, and on the table is a large stack of papers. It should look oddly familiar to the audience – it should look familiar. It’s the very same stack of papers that The DJ is reading. PETER walks in, entering the apartment. SEAN rolls out of one of the other rooms to greet him)

SEAN: Hey, baby brother.

PETER: Hey man. How’s the book coming along?

SEAN: Almost done. One thing is up in the air, though. Happy ending, or sad ending.

PETER: Middle ground. Make it real.

SEAN: Middle ground?

PETER: You still haven’t told me what it’s about.

SEAN: Ah, yeah. Maybe later. How did the pitch go?

PETER: No one wants to buy it. No one is interested in an angry alternative folk album. The market’s dead and it’s a tough sell.

SEAN: I mean, you tried singing it to them?

PETER: Not everyone is as accommodating an audience as you, I’m afraid.

SEAN: So that’s it, then?

PETER: That’s it. It was cathartic, writing the album, but I can’t say that I’m happy. It’s... I don’t know. It’s a tribute. When people listen to it, they’ll feel something.

SEAN: You hope.

PETER: I hope. But people aren’t going to get that chance. I don’t even have enough money to self record it. I’m rapidly running out of cash.

SEAN: Well, don’t worry about it. I’ll help out with rent.

PETER: Since when do you have money?

SEAN: I sent the first few chapters to Mill Press. They like them, apologized for the letters and gave me a little more money.

[MalReynolds]

PETER: Not enough to get me into a studio, though.

SEAN: No. Not a lot. You know what they say, fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me, cheat a publishing house out of a large sum of money, don’t piss them off again.

PETER: Common phrase.

SEAN: Very. So that’s it, then. End of the line.

PETER: I gave it a good run. Besides, at least I have a book of songs written. Not too shabby, when it’s all said and done, is it?

SEAN: Not too shabby at all.

(PETER walks over the to the table and flips through the book)

PETER: So, it’s all there, then.

SEAN: Every last word.

PETER: Except for the ending.

SEAN: Except for the ending.

PETER: We... It’s over.

SEAN: That’s not an ending. It’s not final.

PETER: It’s an ending.

SEAN: Not quite.

PETER: If you could write the ending, what would you make it?

SEAN: I don’t know. I don’t know.

PETER: Maybe help out that struggling, depressed folk singer you have written in there?

SEAN: Maybe. Yeah, maybe helping.

(PEARL knocks on the door. PETER opens the door, and nods at PEARL, who smiles.)

PETER: Hey Pearl.

PEARL: Hey Peter. Hey Sean.
SEAN: Hey Pearl. Hey Peter.

PETER: Hey Sean.

PEARL: How did it go?

PETER: Not so hot.

PEARL: ... Nothing?

PETER: Nothing. Come on, Sean. Write the ending. Gimmie something good.

(SEAN leafs through the stack of papers on the table.)

SEAN: Alright. I got something.

(SEAN wheels offstage, and the sound of a typewriter is heard)

PEARL: I’m sorry, Peter.

PETER: It’s not your fault. You were such a big help to me. Throughout this entire mess.

PEARL: Thank you.

PETER: It’s the truth. You’re something else, Pearl.

(PEARL smiles and sits down on the sofa.)

PEARL: Wait.

PETER: Wait, what? I wasn’t going anywhere.

PEARL: Just hold on a second.

(PEARL stands and walks across the room. She pulls her cell phone from her purse and dials a number)

PEARL: Father Brown? This is Pearl Bey. Thank you... Thank you. Yes. Of course, Sunday, Wednesday, Friday. You’re – what? No. I was wondering something. I have a tiny favor to ask.

(PETER freezes and looks over at her)

PEARL: Right, well, I know. How do you all put out your Christmas album? Oh, you have an Easter album, too? I was just wondering if you rented a studio... Yes, they can get quite expensive. More than I can pay, I’m afraid. Oh, no, no don’t you worry about it, Father Brown... You do?

(PEARL motions for PETER to come over)

PEARL: Can I get some time in there? Maybe to just mess around with one of my friends? Really? Really? That’s fantastic!

(PEARL hangs up the phone)

PEARL: Father Brown said we could adopt kittens.

PETER: What?

PEARL: Kittens, little kittens and – oh, who am I kidding. The church has a recording studio that Father Brown owns, and since I’m such a choir girl, turned away a life of sin, I’m in his graces and we can use it. We can use the studio. We, well, not we, I mean, you can use the studio and, are you okay?

(PETER nods and moves back over to the sofa. He looks down at his book of songs and lightly touches the cover)

PETER: (Whispers) We did it.

(PEARL stands there and looks at him as SEAN rolls into the room)

SEAN: Well, I ended the book.

PETER: What’d you decide on?

SEAN: I ended it good, I think.

PETER: Can I read it?

SEAN: No, no, I don’t think so. Remember how we used to do things?

PETER: Oh, come on. We’re grown ups. Barry doesn’t even have time to read books anymore.

SEAN: He still gets first stab at it.

PETER: That’s not fair. I want to see how you wrote me in there.

SEAN: Not you. Someone based on your every mannerism, speaking tone, speech pattern, down to the way you hold the guitar, but not you.

PETER: I think it’s stupid that you’re sending it to Barry first.

SEAN: I think it’s tradition... I heard the fuss from the bedroom. Sounds like you two found a studio.

PETER: Miraculously.

PEARL: Literally. It’s through my church.

SEAN: Lucky that, isn’t it? It’s all here.

PETER: It really is. When can we go down there, Pearl?

PEARL: As early as tonight, if you want.

PETER: I do. I want this more than anything, Pearl.

PEARL: Then we can go tonight.

PETER: But you have to promise me one thing.

PEARL: What?

PETER: I want you to sing backup vocals.

PEARL: I can’t.

PETER: I want you to.

PEARL: No, Peter, I’d ruin the record.

PETER: Then I want it ruined. I don’t want to record it unless you sing.

SEAN: I’ll sing.

PETER: You can’t sing.

SEAN: I mean, if Pearl doesn’t want to do it then I’ll do it.

PETER: Pearl, if you really don’t want my record to be ruined, then for the love of God don’t make Sean sing on it. You can’t be worse than he is.

SEAN: I’m more successful!

PETER: But you’re not a singer.

SEAN: Really, I’m not. I would hate to ruin that record just because poor little Pearl got a little bit scared of her voice in a microphone.

PETER: Oh, look at me, my name’s Pearl and I don’t want to sing –

PEARL: OKAY! I’ll sing if it’ll just shut you two up!

(PETER and SEAN turn and look at each other)

SEAN: About time you manned up.

PEARL: I hate you sometimes.

PETER: Come on, if we leave now and meter our steps, we’ll hit the church right as the sun is going down.

(PETER grabs his guitar and the book of songs and bolts out of the apartment)

SEAN: You two don’t need me there. I wouldn’t do anything but muck things up for you two and you know it.

(PEARL walks up behind SEAN and begins to push him)

PEARL: Oh, shut up. You talk too much sometimes.

SEAN: Sometimes?

(The lights fade out as they walk offstage)

(END SCENE)

(The lights come back up on the apartment, but something is different. The painting Pretty Mama made is gone, so is the guitar case that has been resting against the back wall.

(SEAN and PEARL enter)

SEAN: Hey, Peter?

(There’s no answer)

SEAN: Yo, baby brother!

(Still no response)

PEARL: He’s probably out somewhere.

SEAN: Yeah.

(SEAN rolls to the sofa)

SEAN: With his guitar.

PEARL: And that painting.

SEAN: Hey, Peter!

PEARL: Peter? You still here?

SEAN: ... He left.

PEARL: Where could he go? He doesn’t have any money.

SEAN: It doesn’t matter. He did what he needed to do.

PEARL: And that’s it? He’ll just leave like that?

(SEAN looks down at the table on the book he’s written. He picks up a note)

SEAN: He left a note. “You’re right, big brother. I don’t know how it’s going to end and I won’t look past the first page. Barry gets to read it first. Maybe someday down the line I’ll be able to find it at a bookstore. Who knows, maybe someday down the line you’ll be able to find my album on a shelf. I came up with a name for it, Sean, the album. When I started working on it, it was called ‘Your Friends,’ but that’s not it. It’s ‘Your Friends and Nightmares.’ It fits, doesn’t it? I thought finishing the album would be cathartic, but it’s more painful than anything else. I feel like I’ve lost a part of her, and now I need to go find it. I’ll go wherever I have to to get that magic feeling again. And if I can’t, well, I’ve got my affairs in order in the event of such an occurrence. Maybe I’ll see you around, big brother.

“Stay out of the funny papers,

“Your baby brother.”

PEARL: ... He has his affairs in order?

SEAN: He’s gone... He’s a funny one. I don’t think he meant anything by it.

PEARL: So, what now?

SEAN: I send the book to Barry. Get his final approval on it, send it to the publishing house. Help me package it up.

PEARL: You’re not going to look for him?

SEAN: He’s a big boy. He knows what he’s doing.

PEARL: And what if he wants to be found?

SEAN: Then maybe someone should start looking.

(PEARL walks with the manuscript into the bedroom and walks out a few seconds later with a box. SEAN writes the address down on the top)

SEAN: Run that down to the mailbox, will you?

(PEARL smiles, nods, and exits. SEAN rolls around to the bedroom when there’s a knock on the door.)

SEAN: It’s open, Pearl.

(The knocking persists)

SEAN: It’s open, Pearl!

(The knocking persists. SEAN rolls over to the door and flings it open.)

SEAN: I said it was –

(ABRAHAM walks into the room)

SEAN: Abraham.

ABRAHAM: Sean.

SEAN: What the hell are you –

ABRAHAM: I left her.

SEAN: What?

(ABRAHAM looks at him)

SEAN: Are you okay?

(PEARL walks into the open doorframe, but neither man notices her)

ABRAHAM: I am now.

(PEARL smiles, and stares for a few seconds before silently turning and leaving.)

(The lights go down on the stage and finally come back up in the studio. The DJ is sitting with the last page in his hand. He finally sets it down)

DJ: And that concludes my final broadcast on WXPX. Everyone out there, be sure to stay frosty. This is your favorite DJ, signing off.

(MICKEY is standing outside the booth, and when The DJ flips a switch, MICKEY walks in)

MICKEY: That was a waste of my time.

DJ: I didn’t ask you to listen.

MICKEY: Nothing else happens? Peter’s lost out there, somewhere? Sean was the only one that got a happy ending?

DJ: Not every ending has to be happy.

(The DJ stands and moves towards the door, leaving the papers behind)

MICKEY: Did you change the ending?

DJ: No, the one on the paper was good enough, I think.

MICKEY: The lady that dropped that off, she’s still here.

DJ: I know. I think I know who it was, too.

MICKEY: Yeah. I have one question, though. Why would you spend your last broadcast telling that story? Did it effect anyone? A no-name album out there, whoop-de-do.

DJ: Just give it some time. I’ll bet you anything that the album crests the airwaves before a month is up.

MICKEY: You sound like you’ve heard it.

DJ: Maybe I have.

MICKEY: So, Sean always sends his rough drafts to you, Barry?

DJ: Yeah. Started back when we worked on the school newspaper together. I hated most of what he put out because he couldn’t write without his ego entering into it, so he trust me most to dissect the best and worst parts of the story.

MICKEY: You going to try and find him?

DJ: Peter?

MICKEY: Yeah.

DJ: I’m his only friend now. Yeah, I’m going to try and find him.

MICKEY: How?

DJ: You said the girl that dropped this off is still here?

MICKEY: Yeah. She said she would wait for you.

DJ: Well, excuse me.

(The DJ leaves the booth and walks across the stage to the ‘waiting room’ of the station building. The lights come up as he crosses the stage to reveal PEARL sitting, cross legged waiting for him)

DJ: Pearl, I presume?

PEARL: Barry?

(They stare at each other for a few seconds)

DJ: Did it really end like that?

(PEARL doesn't move)

DJ: Then let’s find Peter.

(The lights fade out.)

(END)

[MalReynolds]

I'm just bumping this because it took me forever to formulate and the amount of responses was really disheartening.

[LunaFFR]

Aw, sorry for no replies. I just finished reading your first post, but it will take me a little while to finish the others. Even if I'm the only one, I'll be your critic.
I love the humor you put into this play so far, and I like Peter a lot. He seems to do whatever makes him happy and doen't care what other people think. I hope Peter and Opal stay together! (:

[andy-o24]

Took about a 20 hour long break after the first 6 posts and just finished it now. All in all, pretty boss. I just got done reading Oedipus the King so this playwright style is much easier to understand and comprehend.

As for the play itself, I thoroughly enjoyed it. You captured the complexities of life and documented them in a clear and concise way. The point you make about not every story ending happily and how you have death, drugs, and financial issues riddled throughout make for a very interesting read.

The only parts I don't fully understand are "Stay out of the funny papers" and what part of Opal Peter lost. I'm sure if I read through it again, which I might end up doing, I could find the answer, but as of now I'm not sure.

A delightful read despite the length. Mal, you're amazing.

-o24

[LunaFFR]

Oh my gosh I LOVED IT! You have real talent. Do you write for a hobby or a profession? Have you published anything?
Well, I think you should because your writing is fantastic! (:
The play was complex, but not too complex where the reader gets confused. A perfect balance to the perfect play. Great job! (: (:

[Dr Tran]

posting for later

[MalReynolds]

I've had some stuff produced, but not this one. I'm not a profession writer either, but I have had some stuff published. I'm editing my first book at the moment, but we'll see if I ever actually finish with it.