by Neil LaBute
ALSO BY NEIL LABUTE
Bash: Three Plays
COPYRIGHT
CAUTION: Professionals and amateurs are hereby warned that performance of THE DISTANCE FROM HERE is subject to a royalty. It is fully protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America, and of all countries covered by the International Copyright Union (including the Dominion of Canada and the rest of the British Commonwealth), and of all countries covered by the Pan-American Copyright Convention, the Universal Copyright Convention, the Berne Convention, and of all countries with which the United States has reciprocal copyright relations. All rights, including professional/amateur stage rights, motion picture, recitation, lecturing, public reading, radio broadcasting, television, video or sound recording, all other forms of mechanical or electronic reproduction, such as CD-ROM, CD-I, DVD, information storage and retrieval systems and photocopying, and the rights of translation into foreign languages, are strictly reserved. Particular emphasis is placed upon the matter of readings, permission for which must be secured from the Author’s agent in writing.
The stage performance rights for THE DISTANCE FROM HERE are controlled exclusively by The Joyce Ketay Agency.
Inquiries concerning all other rights should be addressed to The Joyce Ketay Agency, 1501 Broadway, Suite 1908, New York, NY 10036, attn: Joyce Ketay.
First published in the United States in 2003 by
The Overlook Press, Peter Mayer Publishers, Inc.
New York, NY
141 Wooster Street
New York, NY 10012
www.overlookpress.com
[for individual orders, contact [email protected]]
Copyright © 2002 by Neil LaBute
Production photographs © Ivan Kyncl
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.
ISBN 978-1-46830-405-3
CONTENTS
COPYRIGHT
ALSO BY NEIL LABUTE
PREFACE
THE MONKEY CAGE
THE LIVING ROOM
THE MALL BUS STOP
THE LIVING ROOM
THE SCHOOL PARKING LOT
THE LIVING ROOM
THE EMPTY LOT
THE DETENTION CENTER
THE LIVING ROOM
THE PET STORE
THE LIVING ROOM
THE PENGUIN POOL
THE LIVING ROOM
THE WALL OF THE ZOO
For John Lahr
“O plunge your hands in water, Plunge them in up to the wrist; Stare, stare in the basin And wonder what you’ve missed.”
—W.H. AUDEN
“Oh well, whatever, nevermind.”
—KURT COBAIN
PREFACE
I KNOW THESE GUYS. Well, maybe not “know” know them, but I know them.
The people that populate the landscape of The Distance from Here are very familiar to me, much more like the kind of folks I grew up around than the fairly privileged, white collar, white bread men and women I’ve spent the last few years writing about. Don’t get me wrong, I know those people too, but the Darrells, Tims, and Jenns of this world hold a special place in my mind. A unique, uncomfortable space that says, “Damn, that could’ve been me.” Even growing up in America, I think most of us are only two detentions and one dead-end job away from ending up just another failed dreamer with a difficult childhood and lousy luck. You make another couple mistakes, have a baby or two, start pulling down minimum wage, and you might be staring real trouble in the face. A fellow like Darrell, however, doesn’t even have that chance. In high school, I sat next to a bunch of boys like Darrell and Tim in woodshop and algebra and study hall and watched them simmer and burn and consistently pull down a solid D– in nearly every subject. They knew, even at sixteen, that they had absolutely no hope in this life and they were pretty pissed about it. Pretty damn pissed indeed.
The Distance from Here takes a whack at capturing some of that teenage rage in a story about families. Shattered families, to be sure, but families all the same. The absent fathers that haunt the pages of this play are not the only “missing persons” here; emotionally, Darrell and company went AWOL a long time ago. Darrell, his friends, and the other characters of this story are banging their collective heads against the bars of their cage, not exactly sure whether they’re trying to get out or to get back in. As people, I’d probably give them wide berth if we ran into each other in McDonald’s. As characters, they make me laugh, they make me frustrated, they make me sad. They also make me wish I were a better person, which I guess is saying something.
When I was in high school in Washington State, there was a myth that ran through our hallways; our own little urban myth, in fact, about a boy and girl who had dated since junior high. I still remember their faces. It was whispered that she had gotten pregnant on several occasions and, whenever it happened, the boy would pound the girl in the stomach until she miscarried. That story stayed with me for a long time, right up until I wove it into the dramatic fiber of this play. I hope it has finally left me now, a part of this world and no longer a frightening image from my teen years. I think that is often why writers write and painters paint and musicians play their instruments. It’s not just because they have a gift, but also to create something even slightly more beautiful or coherent or illuminating than the frenzied, scrambled memories of their own pasts. The Distance from Here is some sort of effort on my part, then, to acknowledge a kind of person I’ve always known well but consciously and constantly marginalized. I never liked the way those kids dressed, or the music they listened to, or the way they talked, so from the beginning they were, in essence, dead to me. This is my attempt at a resurrection.
The Distance From Here was first performed by the Almeida Theatre Company on May 2, 2002. It was directed by David Leveaux; the set design was by Giles Cadle; the costume design was by Edward K. Gibbon; the lighting design was by Mark Henderson; the sound design was by Fergus O’Hare; US casting was by Daniel Swee; UK casting was by Fiona Weir; the fight director was Alison de Burgh; the production manager was Paul Skelton; the company manager was Rupert Carlile; the company stage manager was Maris Sharp; the deputy stage manager waas Sophie Gabszewicz, the assistant stage managers were Helena Lane-Smith and Simon Wilcock; the costume supervisor was Edward K. Gibbon; wardrobe supervision was by Meg Lawrence; Almeida artistic directors: Jonathan Kent and Ian McDiarmid. The cast was as follows:
Darrell
Mark Webber
Tim
Jason Ritter
Cammie
Amy Ryan
Shari
Ana Reeder
Rich
Enrico Colantoni
Jenn
Liesel Matthews
Girl
Malaya Rivera Drew
Boy
Joshua Brody
Employee
Alan Sayce
SILENCE. DARKNESS.
THE MONKEY CAGE
Thick steel bars surround a dusty replica of an African landscape. A large PLEASE DO NOT FEED THE ANIMALS! on a metal sign.
Two teens stand near the exhibit, peering through the bars. Both about seventeen. Concert T-shirts, baggy jeans, Nikes. DARRELL has long hair and cunning eyes. He’d have an angel’s face if not for the downward twist his mouth makes. TIM is taller, with a softer look about him altogether. Not muscular yet, but carrying plenty of bulk.
T
IM scratches at his leg, lost in thought, while DARRELL tosses the last of a candy bar into the cage.
DARRELL
—fucking apes, huh?
TIM
Yeah.
DARRELL
They gotta be so cheery about?
TIM
Dunno—
DARRELL
Shitting up their cage, eating all sorts ’a tropical crap give you the runs your whole life through—
TIM
Uh-huh—
DARRELL
And filthy little babies hanging from your backsides . . . ’s a bullshit life! 12 x 12 pen’s your kingdom and you don’t know shit about whatever.
TIM leans forward, scratching and studying the animals.
TIM
—they got nothing on us.
DARRELL
Wipe that smile off your fucking faces! (BEAT) Ecstasy for no apparent reason—
TIM
Yep.
DARRELL
Hey, lookit that one . . . hanging there, picking at herself like she’s got a lifetime ahead of ’er. (loudly) Shoot a documentary on your ass, squeeze a couple kids outta you and you’ll be a fucking ashtray on somebody’s coffee table time the new year rolls around! Stupid ass chimp . . .
(TIM suddenly jumps back and pulls hard at his leg. He shakes the denim with fury and stamps at the ground. DARRELL looks over casually at his friend but waits a bit before speaking.)
. . . fuck you doing?
TIM
Ants! Ants or something!
DARRELL
Come on, man—
TIM
Ouch! Fucking oww!!
DARRELL
Can’t take you anywhere, I’m serious.
TIM
Crawling up my leg, for chrissakes!
DARRELL
Fucking production number—
TIM
Red ants doing at the zoo in October?!
TIM dances about while DARRELL watches.
DARRELL
They on your thighs yet? That ain’t good—
TIM
Scratching my ass off . . . sue these fuckers for this, talk to my dad or something!
DARRELL
Call St. Louis about bugs? Yeah, your old man’d really get into some ’a that shit.
TIM
Fuck!
DARRELL
—then maybe he can chase you around the neighborhood with a hammer, like he used to.
TIM
He said “gimme a jingle ya need anything” smart ass! (BEAT) They’re, like, hiding in the fucking seams, gonna pinch me for six weeks from now!! Damnit!!!
DARRELL looks back at the monkeys again while TIM goes down on the sidewalk, clawing at his inseam.
DARRELL
Don’t worry about your fucking stone wash, man, they can crawl up your dick, make their way to the prostate, article I read once—
TIM
Up yours!
DARRELL
No, up yours, that’s what I’m telling you.
TIM
Fucking pinchers! Awwww!!
DARRELL
I fuck you not . . . Geographic magazine or something, study in Indonesia, some country you can’t find on a map you look for twenty minutes—
TIM
Fuck!
DARRELL
Not out to frighten you, hell no, but they crawl right in the hole, hang out in the folds ’til you doze off, they got a dozen ways to go about it, but climb right in and pitch a fucking pup tent knee-deep in your testes, later tonight.
TIM
That’s bullshit!!
DARRELL
Wish it was, man, but it drove some dude half insane in, like, Sri Lanka. Ran through the bazaar and killed, maybe, forty guys or something with a machete . . . and they let him go. Yeah! ’Cause ants up your dick are some kinda legal hitch, most countries that part ’a the world—
TIM now looks petrified. He glances about, then begins tearing his jeans off and pawing at himself.
TIM
Fuck that!
DARRELL
I’ll keep watch, tell ya if any girls are coming, shit like that—
TIM (checking himself)
—don’t see any.
DARRELL
Nah?
TIM
The hell I’m so itchy for?
DARRELL
Don’t know, Tim . . . not your conscience, so I dunno.
(After a bit more scratching, TIM stands and buttons his fly. DARRELL waits until he is nearly finished.)
Yeah, as long as you checked your thing we’ve got no problem. I mean, you did examine it, right?
TIM
Huh?
DARRELL
’Cause those little fucks are nothing if not cagey. (BEAT) I just don’t wanna see you driven nutty, that’s all . . .
(TIM sizes this idea up, then looks about. He begins pulling down his pants again, hunching over protectively in his underwear while examining himself. DARRELL watches, amused.)
Don’t worry, Tim, looks like the most natural thing in the world, take your time—
TIM
Shut up! You see any on me?!
DARRELL
Uh-uh.
TIM
Fucking red marks all over—
DARRELL (pointing)
That one on your calf?
TIM
Where?!!
DARRELL
Back ’a the knee—
TIM
Ahh, no. Birthmark.
DARRELL
All pink like that?
TIM
Yeah, since I was a kid—
DARRELL
That’s pretty—
TIM
You fucker . . . (BEAT) Come on, you see ’em or anything? Fucking Hanes underwear in a public place—
DARRELL
Don’t be ashamed. You got a legit beef with these guys, wear whatever the fuck you want—
TIM
Come on, help me!
DARRELL leans forward, examining TIM a bit more intently.
DARRELL
Nope—
TIM
Fucking ants. (looks again) Don’t see nothing . . .
(DARRELL laughs to himself.)
Just knock it off!
DARRELL
—so pull on your pants, then, you got no troubles. Look like a fucking homo—
TIM
’Kay. You dick.
TIM works at pulling his jeans back on over his shoes. DARRELL fires up a smoke.
DARRELL
Let’s blow this—
TIM
Yeah. (BEAT) You wanna go back for gym, last couple periods?
DARRELL
Fuck you think?
TIM
Right.
DARRELL
Head on over to the mall, if ya wanna—
TIM
Sounds good. Time you gotta be home?
DARRELL
Whenever—
TIM
Time your mom get in from work?
DARRELL
Two-thirty, three, something around there—
TIM
Oh. (BEAT) What about her boyfriend? He works over at the, what, Ken-L-Ration plant or somewhere like that, right?
DARRELL
I guess.
TIM
Time he come over? I mean, usually?
DARRELL
Hey, you taking a fucking census or something?!
TIM
No—
DARRELL
Kinda fucking game show shit is this?! Huh? I don’t gotta be home no time—
TIM
Sorry.
DARRELL
Worry about it. You hungry or not?
TIM
Yeah.
DARRELL
Me too. Get us some eats, “International Food Fair.” ’Kay?
TIM
Sounds good.
DARRELL
—means we get some hot sauce on a f
ucking burger, some mexi-fries—
TIM
Food’s not bad . . . lot ’a tables, anyway.
DARRELL
It’s okay. At least better’n the fucking joint you work at—
TIM
—hey, ’s money.
DARRELL
Whatever. Fucking Chink food, Tim, that’s stooping pretty low.
TIM
Uh-huh.
DARRELL
Way the fuck down there—
TIM
I know. (BEAT) Need some bucks, though, ’s why I took it.
DARRELL looks over at TIM, poking him with a finger.
DARRELL
Whatever . . . (BEAT) You did check on the inside, right? I mean, pull it open and all? ’Cause I don’t want you showing up at our place all hours with a fucking cleaver or that kinda shit—my mom’s boyfriend’d kick your ass.
In spite of himself, TIM laughs at this.
TIM
I looked. I fucking did!
DARRELL
Good for you. (BEAT) Me, I could never do that, mess around down there, don’t got the stomach for it. Feel like a total fag—
TIM
Just shove it.
DARRELL
All right, we’re outta here . . . fucking primates, had enough for one day. Like my step-nephew, plays all fucking day, still don’t get enough. I hate that age—
TIM
Which?
DARRELL
Little. I hate ’em when they’re little.
TIM
—yeah.
DARRELL
Let’s go check out the new Nikes, something like that.
TIM
Sounds good.
DARRELL
Whatever. (toward the apes) You got anything we can heave at these fuckers before we take off?
TIM
Nah.
DARRELL
Couple quarters? Maybe a rock?
TIM
No . . . I don’t got nothing.
DARRELL
Ahh, fuck it. Let’s go . . .
(TIM makes a sudden move and noise that scatters the apes and causes a frightening chatter. TIM and DARRELL smile at this.)
Fucking simians . . . they just don’t get it, do they?
THE LIVING ROOM
Well worn and threadbare. Not messy but cheap. Really cheap. Matching chairs and couch. TV in the corner, on and loud.
