And King Farouk, he moons the crowd, while swingin’ from the ceiling,
As Adam and the snake have one more drink just to show there’s no hard feelings.
Isadora Duncan’s getting’ kind of drunk, and
Doin’ something filthy with a scarf,
And they bring out the turkey, and Jack the Ripper says,
“Hey, I’ll be glad to carve.”
And there’s old Dante dealing three-card Monte, Harpo Marx is tellin’ jokes,
While Fatty Arbuckle is trying to collect the deposit on a bottle of Coke.
Elliot Ness shows up in a dress and Dillinger asks him to dance,
While Ivan the Terrible’s tryin’ to get into Susan B. Anthony’s pants.
’N bare-ass naked on the balustrade sits Edgar Allan Poe,
Posin’ for a two-dollar caricature by Michelangelo.
Abraham Lincoln and John Wilkes Booth, they’re posin’ for publicity photos,
While out in the foyer Richard the Third is comparing his hump with Quasimodo’s.
And Catherine the Great, she’s makin’ a date with the horse of Paul Revere,
While Don Juan whispers love and lust into Helen Keller’s ear.
And General MacArthur and Tokyo Rose, they’re gigglin’ behind the door,
While the daughters of Lot are yellin’ “Hey, Pop, let’s do it just once more.”
And then John Wayne and Mary Magdalene announce they’re going steady,
While Abel and Cain form a daisy chain with Jeannette McDonald and Nelson Eddy.
And Doctor Faust and Johann Strauss, Nabokov and Errol Flynn,
They’re arguin’ over some teenaged girl that they’re all interested in.
Lee Harvey Oswald’s tryin’ to make a phone call, getting in some target practice,
And Salome’s in the hall playin’ volleyball with the head of John the Baptist.
And Al Capone gives Eva Braun a big bouquet of roses,
And Gertrude Stein has a little more wine and hits on Grandma Moses.
Delilah, she’s clippin’ and snippin’ the snakes out of old Medusa’s hair,
While Oscar Wilde says to Billy the Kid, “Can I show you ’round upstairs?”
And the Devil, he sips his boilin’ blood
And glances side to side
From the eyes of Billy Markham
To the eyes of his own sweet bride.
Then the music stops—and all heads turn—and the revelers freeze where they stand.
As Billy Markham approaches the throne and says, “May I have this dance?”
“And who be this?” the Devil snorts, “with the balls to think he can
Just walk up to the Devil’s throne and ask the Devil’s bride to dance?
Can this . . . can this be Billy Markham, who loves only the chaste and the pure?
No, Billy wouldn’t bow and kiss the hand of a woman he once called whore.
But whoever this poor, lonely wretch may be, it is my wedding whim,
That no man be refused this day—step down, darlin’, and dance with him.”
The Devil grins and waves his tail, the music begins again gentle and warm.
As the lady nervously steps from her throne into Billy Markham’s arms.
And the guests all snicker and snigger and wait, and they watch the dancers’ eyes,
As ’round and ’round the floor they swirl ’tween Hell and Paradise.
[Dances with mop.]
“Oh, baby doll,” says Billy Markham, “I’ve done you an awful wrong.
And to show you how rotten bad I feel, I even wrote about it in a song.
I never should have called you a dirty whore, and I never should have spit on your bed.
And I never should have left you to burn here in Hell ’cause you gave the Devil some head.
But if there’s any hellish or heavenly way that I can make things right,
For your sweet sake, whatever it takes, I’ll get you away tonight.”
And the lady smiles a mysterious smile, as ’round the room they swing,
And she whispers low in Billy’s ear: “Well, there is . . . one little thing.”
Now the hall is empty, the guests are gone, and there on the rusted throne,
Hand in hand in golden bands, the Devil and bride sit alone.
And the Devil stretches and yawns and grins, “Well, it has been quite a day,
And now it’s time to seal our love in the usual mortal way.”
And the devil strips off his crimson cloak, and he casts the pitchfork aside,
And he frees his oily two-pronged tail, and waits to take his bride.
And his true love lifts her wedding dress up over her angel’s head.
And hand in hand they make their way to the Devil’s fiery bed.
And her upturned breasts glow warm in the fire, and her legs are shapely and slim.
And for the very first time since time began, the Devil feels passion in him.
“Now for the moment of truth,’’ he whispers. “My love, my queen, my choice.”
“I love you, too, motherfucker,” she laughs—in Billy Markham’s voice.
And the Devil leaps up and howls so loud that the fires of Hell blow cold.
“Ain’t no big deal,’’ says Billy’s voice. “While we was dancing, we swapped souls.
Now she’s up in Heaven singin’ my songs and wearin’ my body, too.
Safe forever in the arms of the Lord, while I’m down here in the arms of you.”
“Why you creepin’ crud,” the Devil cries. “I’ll teach you to fuck with my brain.
I’ll give you a child who weighs ninety-five pounds, you wanna talk about screamin’ pain!”
“Oh no, no, no,” says Billy Markham. “I will be your wife only in name—
You come near me with that double-pronged dick, and I’ll rip it right off of your frame.”
“Shhhh . . . ,” says the Devil. “Not so loud. If Hell learns what’s been done.
They’ll laugh me off this golden throne and damn me to kingdom come.
And you—you’ve given me my true love’s body with a hustler’s soul inside.
You know more of torture than I’ve ever dreamed—you’re fit to be my bride.”
“Well, don’t take it so hard,” Billy Markham says. “You know things could be worse.
Havin’ her soul in my body—now, that would be a curse.
But you and me, we got lots in common, we both like to shoot the shit.
And we both like to joke, and we both like to smoke, and we both like to gamble a bit.
And that should be the makin’s for a happy marriage, and since neither one of us is gonna die,
Well, we might as well start the honeymoon—you wanna cut the cards or should I?”
Now the wedding night is a hundred years past and their garments have rotted to rags.
But face to face they sit in the flames, dealing five-card stud and one-eyed jacks.
And sometimes they play pinochle, sometimes they play gin.
And sometimes the Devil rakes in the pots, and sometimes the lady wins.
And sometimes they just sit and reminisce of the night they first were wed.
From dawn to dawn the game goes on . . .
They never go to bed.
A. K. Abeille and David Manos Morris
A Little Haunting
from
The Best American Short Plays 2011–2012
setting
A girl’s bedroom. Someone sleeping in the bed. Bedside table with lamp and book. Slippers on the floor.
[At rise: A man falls backward into the room.]
MAN Sheesh! What—?
[Spies person sleeping in the
bed.]
Oh! Cr—sh! Sh, sh, sh, sh—
[Whispering.]
—okay. Okay. Okay. I can do this. I can do this.
[Pulls out a piece of paper.]
I just have to successfully haunt each client, and I can move up to bigger and better locations. How hard can it be? Some little girl. No sweat. Who knew that the afterlife would have ghost middle managers giving out assignments. I screamed “BOOO!” in his face. Priceless. No one’s ever told me what to do before, and I don’t take their crap in the afterlife either.
[Creeps over to look at the sleeper, then whispers back toward the way he came in.]
No problem. This’ll be better than dumping little Kyle Kosinski in the trash and stealing his pants. She’ll be cryin’ for momma in ten seconds. I’ll be haunting movie stars and politicians in no time. Watch this!
[Starts stalking around the bed, waving his arms weirdly.]
Oooooooo. Ooowooooooo! Booooooooooo! BoooooOOOOOOOoooooo.
[No response from sleeper.]
Sound sleeper.
[Looks around; takes the book from the bedside table and “floats” it around the room and over the bed.]
Oooooooo. Oh, OOOOOOOOOO! Boo. Boo, kid. Dang. What, your parents NyQuil you or something? What!
[He drops the book on the floor with a thump; no response from sleeper.]
Okay, okay—I get it, I pissed you off, you give me narcoleptic-girl. No problem. Up the game.
[Looks around; jumps for the lamp; tries to turn it on but can’t find the switch.]
Wh—crud.
[Picks up the lamp and hovers it over the bed.]
Little girl—little girl! Want a lamp on your—
[Notices the lamp cord just trails, no plug on the end.]
Great; no wonder it doesn’t work. Duh. What’s the matter, you reading too late, Mommy Dearest cut the cord?
[Flips the lamp around over the sleeper’s head a few times, moaning, mimes about to smash her with it in frustration.]
Wow, are you a heavy sleeper or what?
[Puts lamp back; spies the book on the floor, picks it up.]
Must be one heck of a bedtime story.
[Tries to open the book, but it is made of wood.]
What the—? What kind of parents—? Not your business, spook! You’re the haunt—haunt!
[Ditches the book; creeps up near the bed, starts shaking the covers, then the bed itself.]
Hauuuuuunting! Haaaaaaaaaunting! I’m haaaaunting you, little girl!
[Shouting.]
You’re haunted!
[No response from sleeper.]
For Pete’s sake!
[Violently shaking the bed.]
Wake up! Wake up! No way. No way! She’s dead? She’s dead?! That’s not fair. That’s not fair! Nobody can wake the—noooo way. . .
[He backs away from the bed, hits the wall—tries to get out of the room the way he came in, then tries the other walls, increasingly desperate.]
Hey! Hey, let me out of here! Manager dude! Crap, man! Get me the—get me out of here! You can’t stick me in here with a dead girl and I can’t get out until I can scare her! Nobody can! Hey!
[He gives up, panting, then pulls out his contract again, scanning it quickly.]
. . . mission support! There!
[He pulls out a cell phone and makes a call.]
I want to speak to a manager. There’s something wrong with my assignment.
[He pauses until his boss comes on the phone.]
Hey, to you too. Get me another client right now. You screwed up, and I’m not going to take the crap for this. No way. No way. Yeah, I know the contract says I can’t move on until I scare the “present client”—but you don’t get it! She’s already dead or something. She’s dead! She’s dead, you idiot! I don’t know, crib death or something. No, she’s not a baby, I just mean—she’s just lying there—died in her sleep or something—she—what? What do you mean the client’s just fine and hasn’t been scared at all? Hasn’t been scared, man, she’s frickin’ dead over here!
I’ll go over your head. I’ll have your job. You can’t stick me with this client. That’s not fair! That’s not fair! Nobody can wake the—Wait, she can’t hear me! Is that it? That’s the deal, isn’t it? She’s deaf, is that it? Some equal opportunity haunting bullshit? Oh, fine. Think I feel sorry for poor little deafy girl and won’t give her a real haunt? Think you’re gonna stop me moving up by giving me some pity case? Idiot. I’ll be your boss this time tomorrow. Listen to this!
[Goes over to the bed, but hears the manager cut off the call.]
Hello? Hello? Idiot.
Whatever. Here you go, deafo!
[Shakes the mattress violently, then turns the mattress clear over, spilling sleeper out.]
WAKE UP!
[Sleeper is clearly a doll.]
A doll.
[Relieved.]
It’s just a doll—she’s not dead, she’s just a d—Wait a minute. You said I had to—how could I—okay, that really isn’t fair! I can’t scare a little girl that isn’t even—
WOMAN’S VOICE [Offstage.] Lana? Have you got everything you want to put in storage?
GIRL’S VOICE [Offstage.] Just about—I just want to bring the dollhouse; I need more room for my new stereo!
MAN [Looks around frantically, putting the pieces together.] Dollhouse?! Wait—! [Loses his balance as the house is lifted.] Wait! Wait! Booo! BoooooOOOOOOO!
WOMAN’S VOICE [Offstage.] Oh, someday when you have a little girl of your own, she’s going to treasure this.
MAN When she has—hey, I can’t wait until this little girl has a kid! WAIT! BOOOOOOOO!
GIRL’S VOICE [Offstage.] Mom! I think we might have mice in the walls again! I hear that squeaking. . .
WOMAN’S VOICE [Offstage.] Oh no—I’ll call the exterminator right away; just put that right in this box honey and tape it up tight . . .
[Man falls over the doll, still protesting, as blackout.]
Jean-Claude van Itallie and Joseph Chaikin
Struck Dumb
from
The Best American Short Plays 1991–1992
Notes from an Author of Struck Dumb
Joe Chaikin and I have been close friends and co-workers in the theater since 1963 when Joe founded and directed the Open Theater, of which I was the principal playwright.
In May of 1984 Joe suffered a stroke during heart surgery to repair a faulty valve. As a result of this stroke, Joe became aphasic. His speech and comprehension of speech became “out of phase.”
I wrote a play, The Traveller, inspired by experiences around Joe’s stroke, which premiered in Los Angeles at the Mark Taper Forum in the spring of 1987. During rehearsals I thought it would be useful for Joe to have a play to perform himself along with the short War in Heaven, which Joe and Sam Shepard had written before and just after Joe’s stroke.
Gordon Davidson and Madeline Puzo at the Taper were kind enough to commission Struck Dumb, and we started writing while Joe and I and the dramaturge Bill Coco were living close to where our character, Adnan, lives in Venice, California.
Struck Dumb is a play about an aphasic character, who may be played by an aphasic actor needing to read his lines rather than memorize them. Adnan, in the middle of his life, is newborn to language and to the world.
Struck Dumb is a theatrical metaphor for Adnan’s mind. Adnan’s written thoughts appear to him from all parts of the stage.
It is Joe’s hope and mine that Struck Dumb will focus attention on the problems and potentials of persons afflicted with aphasia. There are about a million aphasics in the United States. The very nature of aphasia requires a voice.
It has been said that one does not usually recover from aphasia, but that, by dint of hard work and time, one recovers with aphas
ia.
—Jean-Claude van ItallieBoulder, Colorado March 14, 1989
character
Adnan
scene
Venice, California. Time: 1988
[Facing the audience, on an old oriental carpet, is a comfortable chair and a wooden desk, with a monitor, a tape deck, and a typewriter. Some of the objects have hand-lettered signs on them saying what they are: “desk” and “tapes.”]
[ADNAN, who is aphasic, may be played by an aphasic actor who cannot memorize lines but who can read them. ADNAN may also be played by a nonaphasic actor who does not ever lapse into speaking memorized lines.]
[The production provides a spare, functional set as well as a changing environment of text and light, which helps ADNAN from place to place on the stage (as if he were going from home to seashore to Santa Monica mall to sunset on the pier).]
[ADNAN is sometimes surprised by his own thoughts when the text appears suddenly on a placard or is lit on a floor-to-ceiling scroll (giving mosque-like overtones to the set).]
[Some music and sound may be used, but the principal focus is the actor’s voice. During the course of the play, the light changes from dawn to night.]
WAKING UP
[ADNAN, fifty-ish, is in his “home” area of the stage, behind his desk. He wears comfortable clothing (with may be a slight middle-Eastern flavor). He does not look poor or alien. As he leans back, the first text comes down to him suddenly from the ceiling on a placard.]
Waking up: it’s a shock.
Sleeping: it’s dreaming, it’s traveling, it’s easy. But waking,
Waking up on earth, it’s amazing.
Every morning: an event.
Every morning, ordinary.
I look, wanting to find “perfect.”
But there is no “perfect.”
Except sometimes—
A few seconds—they are perfect.
Every, every day, waking:
I wonder, what is this room?
What is this day?
What planet?
Light?
Lights?
Sky?
Only one sun?
How to move this body?
Body: it’s universe.
Sometimes feeling—it’s tremor—
It’s trauma—
Best Monologues from the Best American Short Plays, Volume Three Page 11
