Lisa Soland
excerpt from
Spatial Disorientation
from
The Best American Short Plays 2012–2013
character
CAROLYN John’s wife, thirty-three, cocaine-addled.
time
July 16, 1999, at 8:00 p.m.
place
Essex County Airport in Fairfield Township, N.J.
setting
The moon has just risen above the horizon but barely casts any light onto the ladder, which can be seen off in the distance, upstage left, representing the steps one must take to board JFK Junior’s private plane.
CAROLYN I had to give up my job because of this, because of you. A job that I really enjoyed. And now it’s gone and there’s nothing. There’s not a single place I can go without insufferable harassment, and you, the thing I left my job for . . . you work night and day, continuously, on and on and on. What do you expect me to do? What do you want me to do with my time, tell me? [. . .] A person can imagine, but really, John, this is impossible. The press is impossible. They followed me to the salon, seven or eight cars, snapping, flashes, riding my tail, trying to get me to falter, show my imperfection, finally getting that priceless photo of me flipping them off. And then the thought came-to take the wheel in my hands and quickly turn it into the oncoming traffic and then they would get to see for themselves, front row center, what they drove me to—photograph me to their heart’s content slapping up against an immovable force. I imagined clothes, dinner parties, and lovemaking, romantic nights under the moon with you, my dear love, but not this. Not wanting to veer into oncoming traffic at a tremendous speed and everything suddenly, peacefully finally being over. This is where I am, John. This is where my “lack of imagination” has brought me.
Jonathan Fitts
excerpt from
White or the Muskox Play
from
The Best American Short Plays 2011–2012
BON Dad looked like a zombie. He’d lost a lot of weight. It wasn’t like the life drained out of him or anything, you know? It’s like he’d already sprung a leak and now we knew what it was. That it was life draining out of him. And we just had to watch. We sat in the car for an hour, and just . . . sat in the AC. I didn’t want to cry, you know? Didn’t want him to feel bad. Like he needed to protect me. But holy shit. Holy. Shit. I couldn’t think of anything else. The inside of my head was wallpapered with it. And I looked around . . . you know, in my head . . . trying to find other things to focus on. But there weren’t. The walls, the windows, they’d all been wallpapered over. Everything else was gone. It had drained out. And I started to get panicky. Almost claustrophobic. I couldn’t let it out my eyes, I couldn’t let it out my throat. I just had to sit there, with it in my body, pushing from the inside out. And I think Dad had to notice. ’Cause he started fidgeting. And of all things to say, he looked at me and said, “Let’s get some ice cream.”
Patrick Holland
excerpt from
The Cowboy
from
The Best American Short Plays 2011–2012
LINDA I’m still figuring this all out. Things at work have gotten so complicated lately. I’m so damn stressed. And it’s not just the normal work things. I’m having an affair with my boss. He’s married. But we’ve been seeing each other for a while now.
[Stopping abruptly. Changing tone, starting over.]
Let me set this up a little better. I work for an ad agency. Our office is this old three-story mansion that’s been converted to condos and offices. Our office shares the top floor with a condo. Business next to pleasure. We just moved into it. There are boxes everywhere. State-of-the-art kitchen, large stainless-steel restaurant fridge (not even plugged in yet), skylights, balcony, view, foosball table, you know.
[A moment.]
It was a Saturday. I was coming into work early to get some things done. No one was supposed to be there. It was early in the morning. As I got to the office door, I heard quiet moaning. I put my key in the door.
[The sounds stop.]
I walked in and my boss, the man I’ve been having an affair with, had obviously been up to something, with someone else. I was the “other woman.” And now she was. That hurt. That hurt bad. I was angry. [. . .] He was on the conference table, a favorite spot, naked. But where was she? All I wanted to do was find this “other” “other” woman. He was cheating on me. I wanted to find her. I looked everywhere: closets, under desks in offices, and then, I was standing in the kitchen and I looked out on the balcony. I peered down and saw . . . two hands gripping a balcony. I was stoned. I was freaked. And now, there was this half-dressed woman hanging from the balcony. I did what I felt. I stepped with purpose on her fingers until she let go. She fell three stories. And I watched. Suddenly, I was an emotional mess. But when she hit the ground it made a sound. [. . .] Her body broke. But she wasn’t dead. She was still breathing. Now, I was really freaked. What had I done?
[Getting more worked up. More chaotic.]
I fucking freak. It was like every thing I’d repressed came out at once. She wasn’t dead. Shit. Was that good or bad? Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. I stepped in from the balcony. I needed to fix this. So I went for the nearest and biggest thing I could find. Our fridge, the stainless steel restaurant one . . . I rolled it across the floor to the edge of the balcony. This thing was heavy, but I was running on adrenaline and emotions. [. . .] I pushed it out on the balcony. Then over the edge. It fell. And it crushed her. Now this might be hard to believe, but the cord caught around my leg. [. . .] and pulled me over the balcony. I hit the fridge and then the pavement. I was dead when I hit the fridge.
Angela C. Hall
excerpt from
Wife Shop
from
The Best American Short Plays 2011–2012
setting
Includes a sign, “BUMPY’S USED WIFE SHOP.” FOXXY has a sign around her neck. The sign reads, “LIKE NEW—FOXXY—STANLEY MODEL BLK 1978.” There is a slash through the $10,000 price, and a new price, “50% OFF—$5,000” is listed.
FOXXY Hi, honey, I made your favorite for dinner . . . and, look, I even crocheted these new socks . . . Can’t you do anything right? Damn! I’m not gonna put up with this shit! Cook your own goddamn dinner. She-it! And cut the goddamn grass already. Do a bitch have to do everything around this motherfucker? I feel like I’m walking through the jungles of Africa.
I’ve ironed up enough clothes for the entire week, sweetheart. I figure we’ll go to church on Sunday, then a nice meal at Olive Garden. Or maybe even a picnic. Oh, that would be lovely, don’t you think? Shit, a bitch is tireder than a field slave. Don’t just stand there looking at me. Go get me a glass of water or something, motherfucker.
Andrea Sloan Pink
excerpts from
Warner Bros.
from
The Best American Short Plays 2011–2012
character
TINA twenties. Attractive and smart. Her clothes might be business poetic.
setting
The office. Cheap secretarial furniture and push-button telephones. A large metal Rolodex sits on the table. The other holds a dictionary and porcelain Woodstock pencil cup.
TINA [Stands alone in office.] And when I’m driving to work—I mean, I got this crappy car. Totally unromantic. I wanted a Karmann Ghia and instead I ended up with a diesel Rabbit off of auction. Life is like that, you know? Anyway, when I’m driving to work, the sun is always too bright when I come over Barham. I get on the 101 at Highland and then I’ve got to do this five-lane switch over to get to the exit, and it’s like every time I think I’m going to die on my way to the friggin’, pointless, dead-end job, and then I crest over Barham and I’m coming down to the lot, and if the light passes over, I can see it, the wall painters. They’ll be there in the early-morni
ng light, under the water tower, dangling off the wall in a harness, and they’ll be painting the sunglasses on Tom Cruise’s face in super size and I just think, isn’t that the coolest thing? Isn’t that the coolest thing to see the guy painting the billboard for a movie that’s coming out of my studio even though all I’m doing is answering some guy’s phone?
[The phone begins ringing. TINA answers.]
Good morning, John Daniels’s office. Please hold. Good morning, John Daniels’s office. Please hold for John Daniels.
[TINA picks up one of the lines.]
Yes, Mr. Daniels wants to know when his VCR will be repaired. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. I’ll tell him. Yes, I tell him next time to take the porn tape out before he brings it in. Mr. Daniels’s office, please hold. Mr. Daniels’s office, please hold. Drinks at Trumps. Dinner at Morton’s. New tires for the Jag.
[TINA hangs up the phone.]
We’ve got to have the story meeting on Rich’s boat once a month, so he can write the whole boat off on his taxes. We’re sitting down there on deck, and the boat’s tied to dock in Marina del Rey, and the wind is whipping and we’re all huddled together in the cold, shouting at each other over the gusting wind about the announcements in Publishers Weekly.
[The phone rings again. TINA answers.]
Oh, hi, Duke. No, I can’t go out tonight. I have to do John’s expenses.
[TINA hangs up phone and crosses to a window looking out on the lot.]
What is the value of something old? People look at this lot with its crumbling ghost town and huge soundstages full of used backdrops and they just see the face of it. They don’t see the Polish brothers, Hirz, Aaron, Szmul, and Ithzak. Those were their secret names, their hidden names. To the outside world, they were Harry, Albert, Sam, and Jack. They started with a single projector, showing silent films at the Cascade Theater in Pennsylvania. These soundstages were built in 1928. How many hopefuls toiled here, pounding away at a wooden-framed backdrop, dreaming of getting in to the union? This whole place is a ghost town. You feel their spirits moving through the offices, through the old lath and plaster walls. It’s the same dust the cowboys rode through when they shot High Noon. I don’t have a romantic view of it. No, I don’t. As far as I’m concerned, hope has a bitter after taste.
• • •
TINA [On an empty stage.] When we buried Stu, it was like the air going out of a balloon. Turns out that Stu was Jewish and we all chipped in and got a plot for him at Rose Hills. His mom came out. She had no idea where he’d been living. Rich showed up at the cemetery, the douche bag. That night I went up to the top of Mulholland. When you looked out, you could see Rose Hills in the distance. And in the foreground was the lot. You could tell because it was a big black void surrounded by all those little lights, everybody with their families tucked neatly in their homes. You could barely make out the soundstages in the moon light. The lot. That’s what we used to call it. We spent that summer living on the lot. After that, nothing was the same. Lola left for Placerville, and Rich’s contract didn’t get renewed. Someone else moved into our offices. The desks were thrown onto the scrap heap. One day, years later, after I made my film, I had a meeting on the lot. It was so weird coming back. I had to get a pass to get through the gate. All during the meeting, I never heard a word they said. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. All I wanted to do was go back. Afterwards, I didn’t go to my car like you’re supposed to. I walked down that Western street. I went into the saloon. It was cool and dark. I looked for a crate to pull up but there weren’t any. I looked out from the darkness into the bright L.A. light. We didn’t all get our day in the sun.
[Neil Young’s “Heart of Gold” comes up as lights fade to black.]
Crystal Skillman
excerpt from
Rise
from
The Best American Short Plays 2012–2013
time
Now.
place
A beach in San Francisco.
JOY This morning I woke up hung over in my own vomit. The windows were open. My cats escaped. Or I can’t find them. My book has been passed on. That’s twenty-four different publishers. That’s twenty-four different agents. And I don’t even like it anymore. It’s not me. I’m just trying to be someone else in it—to sell—sell because I don’t know why—I want to write one story that someone opens and just goes—that changed me. That changed my life, but I’m not changing my life. I’m drinking a lot and I tell myself it’s the wine that goes with pasta, but it’s too much and Sherry has been falling out of love with me for a long time and I’ve been watching it happen like a TV show where you know it’s happening and Tina, we went through such hell to get her. Do you know I got the book you illustrated with all the monkeys. We sit and we count all the monkeys. All the fucking monkeys and I think I should be good for something. I should be such a good mother. My mother was such a good mother, even though I gave her such shit. Are you going to try to have kids? [. . .] See, you’ll make a good mother. That’s what I was thinking when I saw your invitation in the garbage after Sherry took Tina and left. I got off the floor. I got to the airport. I got on a plane. I followed the invitation—had a driver drop me off to Oakland Beach. I’m not like you . . . I’m shit at writing. When I met you I didn’t know what love was. I thought I did. I thought I knew everything. The day we met here. The day you wore your silly pink hat and looked up at the sun, but the sun was me. This gigantic creature of a woman with red hair over you on your beach towel. You said I was in the way of the light. You were drawing the waves. But in them you drew mermaids and creatures of the sea and fantastical things. You said you drew for kids and I told you I made dances for adults. I thought looking at you, drawing, looking away from me that I was seeing beyond something. I’d look at the world and see the beautiful stars and think what I saw was what was. But with you. The stars are a chariot. The waves a home. In my heart. We were always married. Now we are wife and wife. But what a wife is with you changes . . . and I want it to always change. Like the water. Like us.
I love this poem:
You will remember that leaping stream where sweet aromas rose and trembled, and sometimes a bird, wearing water and slowness, its winter feathers.
You will remember those gifts from the earth, indelible scents, gold clay, weeds in the thicket and crazy roots, magical thorns like swords.
You’ll remember the bouquet you picked, shadows and silent water, bouquet like foam-covered stone.
That time was like never, and like always. So we go there, where nothing is waiting; we find everything waiting there.
Edith Freni
excerpt from
Flare
from
The Best American Short Plays 2012–2013
setting
A two-seater row on a somewhat empty commercial aircraft. Night flight from New York to Miami.
time
None like the present.
PASSENGER [A woman in her thirties. A very bad flier but a semidecent human being.] Miami sucks for sports specifically because of the Marlins! Because of Jeffrey Loria, who is literally stealing from me. Stealing my money to build this new stadium, stealing from me to fill it with $140 million dollars worth of crap free agents who don’t know how to win games and don’t need to because as quickly as they come, they go. They’re gone. And nobody cares! The fans don’t. Loria doesn’t. The city of Miami doesn’t. Everyone’s too busy eating Joe’s stone crabs and then drinking raw sea turtle eggs at Nikki Beach off the tits of Brazilian volleyball models who balance mangos on their heads while dancing salsa in platform stilettos and triathlon wetsuits. It’s absurd. It’s a terrible, terrible place to live. To be a fan. Especially when you grew up somewhere like New York. Where people live and die by this shit. In the ’90s. In the late ’90s. I graduated from high school during Jeter’s rookie year. That does something to a person. People live or d
ie. Do you understand me?
[Beat.]
Sometimes it’s like, it’s like the only thing you have to talk about with a person. You meet a stranger and you don’t know them but you can talk about baseball.
[Beat.]
I think my pill is kicking in.
Janet Allard
Creatures
from
The Best American Short Plays 2010–2011
characters
A WOMAN
A WEREWOLF (non-speaking)
setting
In the woods. At a drive-in movie. A full moon.
[At rise: A WOMAN and a WEREWOLF in a car at a drive-in movie. There is a full moon behind them. The WOMAN stares at the WEREWOLF in disbelief.]
WOMAN So . . .
Anything else you’d like to tell me?
[Pause.]
[The WEREWOLF says nothing.]
[He offers her popcorn.]
No. You can’t pretend this is normal, Tom. This is not a normal night at the drive-in anymore.
[Screams come from the drive-in speakers. A horror film—a B movie.]
So the monthly business trips to Vegas?
[He shakes his head.]
Why didn’t you tell me sooner?
[The WEREWOLF is quiet.]
Did you think I wouldn’t find out?
Best Monologues from the Best American Short Plays, Volume Three Page 14
