by Neil LaBute
Things should probably change here to something more formal—what the hell does that mean? I don’t know, But we could use a desk, maybe, and a few chairs. CODY and the WOMAN should already be seated, waiting. The MAN can wander over in his own time. Soon, but you know what I mean.
MAN … hello. Sorry that I’m …
WOMAN It’s okay. (checks CODY) I mean, fine.
MAN Right, right … “fine but not okay.” I remember.
WOMAN Yes. That’s … right.
They sit in silence for a moment—make it a long one. CODY glances around. Checks his watch.
CODY Where is this guy? (to the MAN) You see anybody out in the hall?
MAN Ahh, no, I didn’t. I was just … no.
CODY Fine.
MAN I’m sure he’s coming …
CODY Yeah? How do you know that?
MAN Just hopeful. That’s all …
WOMAN Guys, let’s not do this. Not right now … okay?
CODY grunts and goes back to staring at the wall; the MAN reaches over and squeezes the WOMAN’s hand. She smiles.
CODY You two look over everything? The papers I had sent over, and the … ?
WOMAN Yes. (looks directly at CODY) You don’t have to involve him, this is really between us.
CODY Hey, he’s the one you’re screwing now, so he can—
WOMAN I’m really not gonna sit here for that! I won’t, Cody, I mean it.
CODY Fine. I’ll shut up …
MAN … I doubt that …
CODY Fuck off.
MAN No, Cody, I don’t want to. So I won’t.
CODY and the MAN have one of those adolescent male stare-downs; CODY blinks first. Looks away. Checks his watch again.
CODY Two hundred bucks an hour, ya think he could be on time …
MAN Right.
WOMAN Yes. That’d be nice …
CODY Man … (Beat.) You did look at the stuff, though, right? I mean, all the changes from that last draft and the—
WOMAN Yes, Cody, we read it over. Both of us.
CODY Good. All right. And you’re sure you want the single payment instead of the … ?
WOMAN Yes.
MAN We do. Yeah. Better to just finish this off, clean, and we can all … you agree to the custody schedule, and we’re fine with the settlement. (takes the WOMAN’s hand) We don’t want your precious house or your stores, any of that crap. We’ll manage …
CODY From what, your book deals … ?
WOMAN Cody …
CODY Just asking.
MAN I don’t write books. I’m writing a … look, don’t worry about us, okay?
CODY Whatever.
MAN Seriously …
WOMAN We’re going to be happy. That’s what’s important. Something we never figured out, you and me …
CODY That’s bullshit, but think what you want.
WOMAN I will. I’m gonna think and feel and do whatever I want from now on. And you can’t do anything about it. You can’t yell at me, or make faces behind my back, or turn Cody Jr. against me anymore …
CODY Oh, please …
WOMAN You can’t! You cannot do one damn thing to me … none of your silences or hitting or putting one of those dark fingers of yours anywhere near me. Not ever again. No, you are not allowed …
CODY … you better watch it …
MAN No, Cody, she doesn’t have to …
CODY I said to watch your mouths, man!! BOTH OF YOU!! Just watch that kind of fucking shit around me …
CODY stands up and slams his chair against the table, taking a step toward the MAN. The MAN remains seated, not engaging. That’s probably best. The moment deflates, and CODY tries to save face—he heads for the door.
CODY … I’m gonna go look in the hall, check on this motherfucker.
WOMAN You do that.
CODY I will.
MAN So, go then. Do it.
CODY starts off, then looks back at the MAN. The WOMAN, too. A gleam in his eyes.
CODY … but if I ever wanna trade back, you’ll let me, right? Hmm?
The MAN stares at him for a moment, then slowly nods; CODY smiles and exits. The WOMAN watches him go, looking at the door. The MAN watches, too, until the WOMAN turns to him.
WOMAN … what’s he mean by that?
MAN Oh, ya know.
WOMAN No, I don’t. No. What?
MAN He’s, ummm, he’s just … Cody’s just trying to …
They look at each other, then the WOMAN glances at the door again. After a moment, the MAN rises and crosses to us.
MAN Okay, sort of a dilemma here, right? Bit of a pickle … do I tell Belinda everything or make a run for it?
The MAN glances back at her, then turns pleadingly to us for advice.
MAN I’m serious, gimme some help here. I always imagined a day like this, one where she stumbles on to a cell-phone record or a scribbled note on a napkin and asks me about it … and I believe that I’d do the righteous thing. Tell her the truth. But the thing of it is, the truth is just so damn … elusive, isn’t it? Like, I mean, unknowable. In the end. The second you start telling somebody what the truth is—how it goes—it all starts to slip away. Not, like, some lie, exactly, but close. This half-remembered version of one side ‘a things. And what would the point be? I’ll tell you this much—we end up pretty happy. Or will, however this time issue works itself out. We go and get married not too much later, even have ourselves a couple kids. Both boys, pleased to report. And we live happily ever after … or the equivalent of that, whatever that means today. Yes, we disagree on occasion, I sleep in the guest room every now and then, one of the kids breaks an eardrum when he’s swimming, but all in all, we survive. We make it as a couple, and that, my friends, is not easy. It is work. But I love it, I do, I love her … always have. And I can see it on her face, at night or when we’re on the back patio, at that blue hour when the sun’s just dropped down … she is finally at peace. So what the hell am I gonna tell her right now to ruin it all? Huh? Nothing, that’s what … I’m gonna make up some tale about a baseball card I’ve promised him from my collection and go with that. Stick with it to my dying breath … (Beat.) Quick story. The “Jackie Robinson” story. Cody gave me that card—it really is a nice one—if I’d go out with Belinda to the movies that one time. Time I mentioned way earlier. Remember? See, he was cheating on her, even way back then. He’d met this other girl, another cheerleader from over at Central, and he wanted to go out with her. That same night. So, he calls me, comes over, and tells me this whole tale about Belinda and how they’re dating other people and shit and would I mind helping out? Cody tells me to go and pick her up at her house, six-thirty, and head over to the drive-in, this Showboat spot. He tells her the same thing—well, that I’m gonna pick her up, but—he’ll meet us there, friends are joining us, I mean, the usual line of Cody Phipps bullshit. And that’s how I end up seeing a movie with Belinda. One that she doesn’t even remember going to. But I did get that card outta the deal. He was in a pinch, Cody was, and he agreed to it … screamed his head off, but yeah, he gave it to me. And this was the ’52 Topps card with the red overlay. That thick smear of crimson on the backside—like a baboon’s ass. Very scarce. But see, Cody was always so desperate to get into some white girl’s pants that he’d part with something he really cared about. And that always made me hate him a bit—a little bit. Because he picked on me … picked me to help him, since I was no threat. Friendly and fat and always up for whatever. A perpetual Bachelor Number Two. I knew what he was doing, totally got it, but I liked her so much, Belinda, that I was willing to … anyway, that’s the kind of guy Cody was. (Beat.) See, Cody Phipps was born a nigger. He still is, to this day. And I do know the difference, believe me, between regular black people and what Cody is. Oh yeah, absolutely. I never really liked the guy—yes, back in school, I’d hang with him, do some stuff, but basically just so he wouldn’t make fun of me or knock me around. But Cody was always a nigger, even back then. This lazy, mean-spiri
ted coon who acted like everybody owed him something. All that sort of post–Civil War, Malcolm X, heavy-lidded bullshit that guys like him’ve been trading on for years. Forty acres and a mule and always ready to lay down the ol’ Ace ’a Spades. Well, hey, man, forgive us for dragging your sorry asses over here, ’cause-it-wasn’t-fuckin’-worth-it!! (Beat.) Now, look … I don’t really think in that way, use those terms very often, because the good side of me, the educated portion, says, “Hey, no, don’t you do that, we’re all God’s chillun,” and so on. But see, raised like I was, where was—by whom I was—and that crap is always right up there, near the surface, waiting to bubble over. Cut me off in traffic sometime, you’ll see what I mean! (Beat.) And anyhow … it’s just a word, right? “Nigger.” A word like any other. Only has power if you let it …
The MAN looks back at the WOMAN—she’s still staring off. Waiting for her cue. He looks back at us one more time.
MAN But I’m not gonna screw this up … forget it. I’ll make up a lie—I’m a lawyer, don’t forget, ex, so it comes easy to me. Something. I’m not saying the other stuff was at all true, that crazy shit about us trading or whatever, but … we did see each other, Cody and I, at the airport that one time. And if she knows that, finds that out, then it’s only another step to realize that Cody might’ve mentioned the garage apartment and some of their problems and all the rest. Maybe. And I’m not gonna take that chance, because from there it’s only a hop-skip to understanding that, yes, I may have used this, used them in some way … to get what I wanted. What I’ve probably always wanted. Belinda. I’ll tell ya one thing, though—whether he was in on it or not—Cody was no idiot. Not ever. He could see what I was up to—slowly trying to take her away, away from him—and he did nothing to stop me. Encouraged it, even. So, that says something … it does. I still see him, Cody, some days around town. Running. Over past the golf course and down there. I don’t think there’s so many hard feelings anymore. Least I hope not … (He looks over at the WOMAN.) But I’ll smooth this over, and we can get on to all that stuff I just told you about. That good stuff. I can’t wait … to be with her. Finally. After all this time. It’s taken a lot to get here, to this place, but it’s all for the best, isn’t it? Years of hatred and lies and betrayal that it took for Belinda and me to be together. For her to be happy. ’S worth it, though, right? Sure. I mean, anything’s worth it, as long as you mean well …
The MAN smiles at us, then returns to his seat next to the WOMAN. He takes her hand, and she turns back to him.
WOMAN … what did he mean, sweetie?
MAN Nothing. It’s a card, that’s all. That stupid Jackie Robinson card he’s been talking about …
WOMAN The rare one?
MAN Uh-huh.
A quiet falls over them as the WOMAN studies the MAN. She reaches out and touches his face. Softly.
WOMAN … I know what you’ve done.
MAN What? I mean—
WOMAN I do. I’m not stupid, so I know …
MAN I never said you were. (Beat.) Okay, honey, what? Come on, what?
WOMAN You gave it to him. Didn’t you? That card.
MAN Ummm, well … yeah. Yes, I did.
WOMAN You felt bad, and you gave it to him …
MAN I … Look, I did it for you. For us. I thought it might, you know. Help. To smooth things over …
WOMAN Oh. (Beat.) So, what’s he wanna give you for it? I thought you were …
MAN Just one of his players. His …
WOMAN Yeah?
MAN … yes. One of his good ones.
WOMAN Huh. You sure you want to? I mean, you love that thing … just don’t let him bully you. Okay?
MAN I know. I won’t.
WOMAN Because he can do that. Be a bully. And you’ve got a good heart, so …
MAN It’s fine. (smiles) Promise.
WOMAN All right, then. (Beat.) You sure?
MAN No, yeah. I’m sure. Very sure. Yep. Very …
WOMAN … okay.
She smiles at the MAN, then looks straight out at us. He reaches over and kisses her on the cheek. Slowly turns out to the audience. They are together now, but lost in their own thoughts. Alone.
Silence. Darkness.
This Is How It Goes had Its world premiere on March 27, 2004, at the Public Theater in New York City. Director: George C. Wolfe. Executive director: Mara Manus. Managing director: Michael Hurst. Scenic design: Riccardo Hernández; costume design: Sandra Hernandez; lighting design: David Weiner; sound design: Fitz Patton; projection design: Batwin + Robin Productions. Production stage manager: Rick Steiger; stage manager: Gwen Gilliam. Casting: Jordan Thaler and Heidi Griffiths. Producer: George C. Wolfe; associate producers: Peter DuBois and Steven Tabakin.
The cast was as follows:
MAN: Ben Stiller
WOMAN: Amanda Peet
CODY: Jeffrey Wright
Neil LaBute
This Is How It Goes
NEIL LABUTE is a critically acclaimed playwright, filmmaker, and fiction writer. His controversial works include the plays bash: latterday plays, The Distance from Here, The Mercy Seat (Faber, 2003), Fat Pig (Faber, 2004), and Autobahn (Faber, 2005); the films In the Company of Men (Faber, 1997), Your Friends and Neighbors (Faber, 1998), Nurse Betty, and Possession; the play and film adaptation of The Shape of Things (Faber, 2001); and the short-story collection Seconds of Pleasure.
Other works by Neil LaBute
In the Company of Men
Your Friends and Neighbors
The Shape of Things
The Mercy Seat
Autobahn
Fat Pig
Praise for the plays of Neil LaBute
The Mercy Seat
“[A] powerful drama … LaBute shows a true master’s hand in gliding us amid the shoals and reefs of a mined relationship.”
—DONALD LYONS, New York Post
“Though set in the cold, gray light of morning in a downtown loft with inescapable views of the vacuum left by the twin towers, The Mercy Seat really occurs in one of those feverish nights of the soul in which men and women lock in vicious sexual combat, as in Strindberg’s Dance of Death and Edward Albee’s Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?”
—BEN BRANTLEY, The New York Times
“An intelligent and thought-provoking drama that casts a less-than-glowing light on man’s dark side in the face of disaster … The play’s energy lies in LaBute’s trademark scathing dialogue.”
—ROBERT DOMINGUEZ, New York Daily News
The Shape of Things
“LaBute is the first dramatist since David Mamet and Sam Shepard—since Edward Albee, actually—to mix sympathy and savagery, pathos and power.”
—DONALD LYONS. New York Post
“LaBute … continues to probe the fascinating dark side of individualism … [His] great gift is to live in and to chronicle that murky area of not-knowing, which mankind spends much of its waking life denying.”
—JOHN LAHR, The New Yorker
“Shape … is LaBute’s thesis on extreme feminine wiles, as well as a disquisition on how far an artist … can go in the name of art … Like a chiropractor of the soul, LaBute is looking for realignment, listening for a crack.”
—JOHN ISTEL, Elle
The Distance from Here
“LaBute does not trivialize darkness but treats it with proper awe … In his most ambitious and best play to date, [he] gets inside the emptiness of American culture, the masquerade of pleasure and the evil of neglect. The Distance from Here … is a new title to be added to the short list of important contemporary plays.”
—JOHN LAHR, The New Yorker
“A bold dramatic concept … [The Distance from Here’s] trailer trash characters are keenly observed through the fug of cigarette smoke and beer fumes that envelops their native habitat.”
—MARILYN STASIO, Variety
bash: latterday plays
“Transfixing … In rendering these narratives, Mr. LaBute shows not only a merciless e
ar for contemporary speech but also a poet’s sense of recurring, slyly graduated imagery … Unmistakably American … Bash is informed with an earnest, probing moralism as fierce as that of Nathaniel Hawthorne.”
—BEN BRANTLEY, The New York Times
“Excellent … The fearsome power [of] this drama [is] meticulously crafted, so that the horror of the crimes creeps up and then slams in.”
—RICHARD CHRISTIANSEN, Chicago Tribune
“Captivating … LaBute’s subtle poetry … arouse[s] a deeply disturbing emotional response.”
—STEVEN OXMAN, Variety
Copyright © 2005 by Neil LaBute All rights reserved
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