(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.
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.
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