Theatrical Paradigms of Narrative Theories and Social Justice

Citation preview

Theatrical Paradigms of Narrative Theories and Social Justice By Matthew Salazar-Thompson

The Black Box Theatre at San Diego City College

Introduction This collection of critical analysis articles and excerpts from plays fields issues of social justice in the world of theatre and performance. This collection of work is meant to coincide with learning outcomes in the fields of narrative theories and theatrical social justice. Within this collection of work I have broken down the varying components of cultural identity with relation to analysis papers and excerpts from various plays. I hope you will find these papers useful within the scope of your learning outcomes.

Professor Matthew Salazar-Thompson

Chapters · Dimensions in Storytelling - Theatre Product vs. Process - Critical Analysis

· Symbolism – Theatre A Symbolic Case for Art in the Theatre – Critical Analysis

· Native American Theatre Native Whispers – Play

· Narrative Structure Beetle Boy – Short story The Father - Short story Home is Where the Future is - Novel Cloud Barrier – Play

· Asian American-Theatre 9066 – Play

· Chicanx Theatre The Glass Borders of The Chicanx Theatre Artist – Critical Analysis Señorita Julia – Play

· Shakespeare Polonius: Of One Heart or Two? – Critical Analysis

· Theatre of the Absurd Appleyolk: The Trial of Rope and Twine on the Clouds – Play

· Industrial Theatre

The 146 Point Flame – Play

· African-American Theatre Articles of Freedom – Play

· LGBTQ Theatre Who’s Afraid of Me, Myself and Edward Albee? – Play

· Political Theatre Opera of the Oasis– Play

· Realism in Theatre and Film Switching Tracks– Play

Dimensional Storytelling Product vs. Process Critical Analysis Many of the stories that we are exposed to today are indefinitely based in the theatrical genre of Realism, yet we are unable to cross the realistic boundary between the screen and our audiences. Since Realism became a theatrical genre with the advent of Henrik Ibsen’s A Doll’s House in 1879 the cinema has followed theatre into this world of making make-believe believable. This storytelling form started in the theatre and eventually followed into cinema. an artistic and poetic movement or style using symbolic images and indirect suggestion to express mystical ideas, emotions, and states of mind.

Mistletoe, Music and Mayhem! – North Coast Repertory Theatre, 2010.

·

Since the advent of film technologies at the turn of the 20th century we have found that film turned from curiosity to education into a balance between art and commerce. The films that we consider to be those “art films” are specialized, unique, and full of symbolism and metaphor, much like the world of live theatre. This doesn’t mean that blockbuster films cannot contain artistic elements but as individuals began to realize the potential of film from an economic source we find that places like Hollywood and Bollywood began to focus on product rather than the art of process. If we are to breakdown the components of two-dimensional and three-dimensional art we will find that theatre is still a live process, a living breathing art and as much as we try film will maintain it’s two dimensional product form. So what does that mean? How does theatre survive in this media changing world? Think about what happens when we go to the movies or we watch TV. The images and sound of film is displayed through a screen. Unlike live theatre we are not the audience, in the same dimension as the art being constructed. The product is the film. The filmmakers are attempting to trick us into believing that we are watching things that are three dimensional, yet we are only able to access those images and sound through two dimensions. Pretty tricky, huh? And unlike live theatre, film doesn’t need an audience in order to exits. Films will play over and over whether someone is watching or not. That synergy, the connective energy between the audience member and the performers on a live stage, are not present. This allows the film-maker to make bold and broad choices in terms of his/her cinematic vision. So where does the real world and the world of cinema intersect? Well, if we were to look at film from a philosophical approach we know that so many stories are taken from a standard vision of reality. Many films are taken from previous material such as literature, plays, and even other films. Yet as we move through the twentieth century cinema is changing, morphing, shifting. Films are not longer simply two-dimensional elements but we are moving into a “brave new world” where virtual reality is becoming our reality. As we begin our voyage into the theatre it is important to understand the product of cinematic art versus the evolving, breathing art from that is the theatre. Film and media is a product that is meant to be produced only once, unlike theatre where plays are re-produced over and over again. And on that rare occasion

where films are re-made they are re-made with different intentions in different settings and different time periods with different screenplay writers. Film is also meant to capture the time in which the film is made. Theatre can do this as well, but so often we can look at a politicized piece of theatre or simply say that this play is “dated.” If we are to comb through the bevy of twentieth and twentyfirst century films we not that many of those films are part of our pop culture and our cultural identity. We frequently watch our favorite films over and over again because it touches us either emotionally, comically, or perhaps it simply speaks to our humanity or of fantasies of the world that cannot be. Theatre will never die as long as there is one person to tell a story to another. Is it lucrative as career? Well, there are many playwrights who make hundreds of dollars a year writing. Yep. Playwrights are collaborative artists and that means that you must write for not only yourself and the audience but also the actors, director, and designers, all creative individuals in their own sense. As you begin your world building process keep these individuals in mind, for they are your greatest partners in telling your story. Your audience is there to experience your experiences and to feel what you are feeling through your writing. Don’t inhibit yourself, but feel free to explore this world that you are creating for the stage. Your are working in three dimensions where each character on the stage needs to have an objective, a want a need. So think about what your characters want when you put them up on the stage. Think about what stands in the path of your character’s objective, that which is their conflict. The seed of Westernized Theatre began with the Greeks. Aristotle wrote about the plot and characters as the two most important elements when creating a play. If you stay on track with this ideal, you’ll succeed ten fold. To this next generation of playwrights, I hope you create a “brave new world” where art and commerce challenge each other in an explosion of new concepts, new ideas, and new visions!

Symbolism A Symbolic Case for Art in the Theatre Critical Analysis Art thrives on understanding and interpretation. This is the work of not only the theatre maker but also the theatre audience member. It can often be very challenging attempting to figure out why a deconstructed set design of Death of a Salesman is fragmented and skeletal. Symbolism will challenge us in this respect. Let’s analyse the composition of the play. In this class of the American Theatre scene we find Willy Loman’s descent into his final resting place, his tumultuous relationships with his wife and sons and then can understand that his world has been mentally and quite literally falling apart. In this case the set design that represents his world, is in disrepair and the design choice symbolises this breakdown, Loman’s mental destruction. Symbolism is an artistic and poetic movement or style using symbolic images and indirect suggestion to express mystical ideas, emotions, and states of mind. Theatrical symbolism will often use images, sounds or objects that indirectly express ideals and themes or shows it obliquely at face value. In theater, the application of symbolism often is demonstrated by the characters, indirect suggestions, their designs, the use of colors, and the set props. And if we think of the original 1949 Jo Mielziner’s set design for this play we begin to fill in the cracks in perpetuity. The play is stage in a fragmented world. Looking at the design we can visualise a cavernous crack into Willy’s Loman’s chest cavity, symbolic of where his heart, emotions and feeling lay. The splintered look of the beams and posts built into the stage symbolise Willy’s torrid love affair, the dark destruction of his relation with his son Biff, and ultimately the drab world of his suicide. Each element of the design incorporates these themes. Overall we can look at the set design in Death of a Salesman as it symbolically depicts the lack of stability in multiple arenas of Willy Loman’s life. The structural pieces of design are constructed to both obscure the foundation of his failing life yet simultaneously allowing the audience to empathise the inner workings of his heart and brain.

Both Arthur Miller and Jo Mielziner intentionally incorporated these symbolic visual and working elements in a theatrical collaboration that is not only contained within the design of the characters, the acting but also the physical set design. All of these minute design choices are intentional, put there for us to be reminded of the story of this broken down man. It’s also what we, the audience, first see when we step into the theatre and are also reminded of these themes while we are watching and experiencing all of Willy’s pain and suffering in three dimensions. Plays are meant to be produced and interpreted over and over again and so we often times have the luxury of learning from past productions and other visionaries. With new plays, such as Señorita Julia, this can prove a provocative challenge in finding those elements that propagate and symbolise a character’s feelings and the playwright’s underlying themes.

Jo Mielziner’s Original set design for Death of a Salesman (1949)

Claudia McNeil as Lena Younger in the 1961 film adaptation of A Raisin in the Sun.

Lorraine Hansberry’s A Raisin in the Sun is a classic of the American Theatre stage and there are symbols woven throughout in her semiautobiographical depiction of African-American life in Chicago in the 1950’s. Weaving through themes of Caucasian assimilation and African and African-American cultural identification, Hansberry’s play

finds rich symbols in dialogue, props and ideologies while this family reaches for The American Dream. In the opening moments of the piece we have the confrontation between Ruth and Walter at breakfast and the daily discussion of scrambled eggs. As Walter conflates his feelings about the Caucasian version of The American Dream day after day Ruth, his wife, tells him to “eat your eggs.” A literal symbolic snippet of dialogue that in broader non-progressive terms means to keep your mouth shut and don’t make trouble. Ruth has accepted her socioeconomic environment yet Walter strives above it. He desires and wants the same opportunities as his Caucasian boss owns and he feels, and rightfully so, that he is entitled to those same dreams as his Caucasian counterparts. Walter’s mother Lena looks at those dreams from a differing perspective, not only through a religious lens but also from as an earlier generation. Where Walter is intent on the material elements that consist of his future she views their family’s journey through the undercurrent of Jim Crow, lynching and their escape from the Deep South into a better world in Chicago. In response the house plant that Hansberry has assigned her is ripe with symbolism in terms of representation. Through Mama’s constant care and affection she has risen to become the matriarch of their family, setting aside her own dreams in order to simply survive. In this veritable house plant we find the roots of family, the leaves of progress and as they finally move to Clybourne Park, new growth not only as a family, but symbolic of the African-American status that has long denied so many based on skin color. Lena’s houseplant isn’t en empty plot to fill the space, it is a symbol of something akin to Hansberry’s theme of struggle, survival and perseverance. In the character of Beneatha we find her arduous dig into her African roots through her clothing and hairstyle. In 1950’s America many African-Americans would straighten their hair in order to assimilate into Caucasian culture. Many of the scenes finds Beneatha as the poster child of radicalism, especially in terms of her own hair style and African dress. During the 1950’s as the Beat Movement had begun to take shape in literature, music and poetry many identifying individuals slowly began to search for their own roots and identities. Beneatha’s hair, clothing and music choices reflect those symbolic elements of self-identity.

Diana Sands as Beneatha in the 1961 film adaptation of A Raisin in the Sun.

Doubt: A Parable by John Patrick Shanley was a stellar piece of writing for the stage when it premiered in 2004. The 1964 parabolic period piece drives a stake into the heart of so many confounding issues and elements of not only the state of the Catholic Church but explores the generational experiences of the 1960’s. If we look at both the play and the film we may find that Shanley has been able to expose several of the symbolic elements that fit each medium appropriately. When Father Flynn is first confronted by Sister Aloysius we find that the light bulb in her office has burned out, a symbol that Flynn’s truth has been snuffed out. Symbolically we understand that light to indicate honesty and truth and clear vision. And for Father Flynn, it appears that he is definitely hiding something. The same can be said about the blinds in the office. Father Flynn wants them shut indicating, symbolically, that perhaps this is how a liar or devilish person acts, literally in the dark. Sister Aloysius is toiling for the truth and continues to open the blinds allowing the light and possibly the truth to filter in. Father Flynn’s talk with the boys during basketball speaks volumes with regards to Flynn’s associated with the Devil. Shanley has given his character devilishly long nails. In both the play and film Flynn has no qualms about saying so. “They’re a little long. I like ‘em like that. And that’s okay, as long as they’re clean.” The 2008 film repurposes the same lines, yet we get a close up of his nails

emphasising this physicality to the devil incarnate. Drawing yet another comparison to the devil we find in the film adaptation the dinner in which Flynn is eating with his fellow priests. Their meal is carnivorous, and we can see the blood dripping out of the dead meat being consumed, all the while we see Father Flynn laughing and smiling, literally consuming the creatures of the earth. The film also incorporates several more heavy-handed symbolic imagery with regards to the “winds of change.” Tree branches falling down, nuns tripping and the like are symbolic allegories to the civil and religious changes that are cycling through the Catholic Church and American society in general. Even the weather itself seems to be an allegory for the changing state of the environment. Oftentimes symbolism is buried deep within the context of dialogue and other theatrical models. Señorita Julia repurposes several themes and symbolic elements embedded in the classic 1888 play Ms. Julie. Both plays speak to the theme of the socioeconomic barriers that confront various members of society. This play also weaves into its fabric elements of Greek mythology and the symbols that go along with it. Señorita Julia holds a plethora of symbols woven into the framework of this piece that delves into the lives of 1940’s Chicanx. As mentioned earlier symbolism can be found in the representations of the Greek chorus members themselves. Fire can give warmth but can also burn. Water is symbolic of healing and regeneration but one can also drown within it. Even the Wind can symbolise communication, but can also be the source of miscommunication. The play opens with a dialogue between the character Hombre which symbolises the eternal Chicano man and the struggles of those farm workers. We find his interaction with the Earth, Water, and Wind Choruses to be ripe with symbolic dialogue and metaphors. Through various Greek theatre models and using Percy Shelly’s Prometheus Unbound we find how the piece illuminates the fact that 20th century Chicanx immigrants are bound to the land, much like he classic story of how Prometheus was chained to the Earth. We also are able to analyze how the scorched earth bears a resemblance to the physical demands and mental anguish that lay in those that work the land to produce our nation’s food. We are also able to find that this interaction highlights the hopes and broken dreams that all Chicanx people have in their quest to attain loftier goals and better conditions for their families.

When the Earth Chorus speaks to the character of Hombre he says, “Chained as you are you must rip the womb of the berries from the cactus.” If we break this down we can find that in order to provide for not only his family, but his culture, Hombre must take the fruits of the earth in order to survive and provide for his family. All of this, despite the fruit of his “own labor” by being literally bound and bent over day after day, a servant to the earth. Bowing before the land, before the ranch owners, for he is symbolic of feeding the rest of America. He is caught is this loop, this rut where he receives no respect as he attempts to maintain a foothold in Caucasian-American culture. The Chorus emphasises this when they say, “His feet are weighted to this earth.” Much like the Native Americans from the past the Chicanx cultural has been forced to assimilate into the ideals of the Caucasian ideal. Like Prometheus once again from that ancient Greek myth, much of the Chicanx people are trapped and bound to the rocks of the Earth. Their servitude is to feed a nation that most often does not offer equal respect for this work or culture. The Earth Chorus reminds us of this piece of history: “…those people that were here before became trapped in the bones of my rib cage. And soon those men who carried steal swords began to chop down the men and women that were here before them. Their hearts filled with blood lust.” In a nod to A Raisin in the Sun, the symbolic scene of José and Christina talking about José’s dreams and desires while peeling back the onions is symbolic of The American Dream conversation that so many in The United States have had. Just like Walter and Ruth we see Christina hold firm for her place in society, while José desires so much more. Of course the symbolism of Mr. Warner’s boots are pulled directly from the 1888 play Ms. Julie. Just like the 19th century material, the master’s boots symbolise authority and dominance. Although we never see the master character of the house in either version his callous presence of Caucasian male authority dominates the lead characters of José and Julia in striking ways. Even Señorita Julia’s set design harkens to elements of Death of a Salesman. The doorways are fragmented and we are able to “see right into” the rooms where so much of the action takes place. In contrast the kitchen design is sturdy and realistic while the adjoining rooms are deconstructed specifically to symbolise the broken hearts and shattered dreams of the inhabitants that occupy those spaces.

Julia enters José’s room by play’s end and has found that she cannot survive within the surreal confines of not only the physical space but the life that José has been suffocated with. In response she commits suicide. Symbolism in the arts invokes participation among the audience for we must always be willing to be on the lookout for it. This is part of the theatrical experience. Symbolism challenges us, as audience members in terms of how we look at art, and what we are not only experiencing but feeling as well. Art doesn’t simply lay on the surface, but great stories and good storytellers know how to insert these little Easter eggs into not only the theatrical experience but also into our hearts as well.

Meryl Streep, Amy Adams and Phillip Seymore Hoffman in Doubt (2008).

Native American Theatre Native American Theatre has a beautiful blend of both Westernized and Eastern ideals. We take language and plot from the West and symbolism and myths from the East. The immigration of humanity nearly destroyed the origins and people of North America and the tempered stories that radiate throughout the theatre have allowed traditions, language and the shamans of Native cultural to thrive.

Native Whispers Play Synopsis An unearthly look at how social perception has looked at Christopher Columbus and the issue of genocide. Excerpt from… Live music plays on stage from the various cultural touchstones. The set consists of large sheets of velum that resemble tall ships’ sails. They are various in color and design. There are also flags of the Spanish, Dutch, English and other conquering countries from the 1600 and 1700’s. The music abruptly stops. The five actors sit at attention, much like grade school. They are about seven or eight years old. ALL: Christopher Columbus sailed the ocean blue in that monumental year 1492! The music starts up again at an exaggerated pace. The lights flash up and down as the five actors participate in a Native American Tribal circle dance. The music and lights stop as ENSEMBLE #1 address the audience. The other sit and listen. ENSEMBLE #1(entering) There is a such a thing as ignorance. There is such a thing as inferiority. There is such a thing as benevolence. There is such a thing as God. There is such a thing as iron. There is such a thing as... ALL: Wealth.

ENSEMBLE #1: There is a such a thing as... ALL: Virtue. ENSEMBLE #1: There is such a thing as... ALL: Class. ENSEMBLE #1: There is a such a thing as... ALL: Massacre. Beat. ENSEMBLE #1:There is such a thing as... (He looks around) God. The other ensemble members slowly cross to differing parts of the stage. ENSEMBLE #1: Children must be handled and beaten into submission. ENSEMBLE #2: Certain people must be cleared for stronger peoples to continue. ENSEMBLE #3: Slavery is acceptable. ENSEMBLE #4: Rape is acceptable. ENSEMBLE #5: Genocide is acceptable. ENSEMBLE #1: These are virtues and axioms of Christianity that has pervaded the modern world in the name the French, the English, the Spaniards, the Dutch, the Americans. ENSEMBLE #1: When Christopher Columbus crossed the Atlantic Ocean in search of gold he found more gold than he knew what to do with. He encountered the Arawak People... my people. Columbus raped and enslaved nearly every inhabitant of what is now the Bahamas Islands. We became more valuable than the metal that he so desperately sought. That accumulation of wealth that has pervaded societies for thousands of years has allowed lands and conquerors to continue their push. When does it

stop? When does it slow. When do we stop and look at the virtues of humanity from the inside. Feelings of benevolence, joy, altruism and family. How complicated those Europeans must be. The conflict from within. My people had a word for conflict and word for harmony. Christopher Columbus and those that followed destroyed our language and the only voices we have left are the desperate whispers of the past. END

Narrative Theory Let us look at Vladimir Propp and more precisely at Joseph Campbell and The Hero’s Journey. With in the context of this short story what elements can you find? Campbell’s heroes are unfortunately mostly male dominated as we find in films such as Star Wars, Indiana Jones and Harry Potter. Here is no exception.

Beetle Boy Short Story The beetle boy and beetle girl emerged out of the sand three days ago. They were twins. The brother was older by two minutes. His intention was to live on the top part of their world. Where they came from it was taboo, as well as dangerous, to stay on the surface for very long. He disobeyed their parents by coming to the surface. He was tired of digging and clawing. His hands were always filthy and full of dirt and earthworms and human trash and shale. He wanted to live with clean hands. If only for a little while, he had wanted to live without soil in his carapace, without oil in his lungs, without the fear of his bedroom collapsing. He wanted to feel what it was like to be on the surface, all the time, to be able to breath fresh air, to be able to look up and not feel enclosed. He had wanted to experience the sky. He had coaxed his sister into visiting the surface with him. The boy and the girl entered the forest of Palm trees. They put down their luggage. The luggage had stickers from all of the places that he said they were going to go to since they actually had never gone anywhere except the main tunnels of their city. The sand was very fine. The girl didn’t wear shoes. The boy had on boots. The Moroccan sky was exceptionally clear. The boy kissed his sister’s front left foot and dropped his luggage. She dropped her luggage as well. They were very hungry. She pointed to the ground. He pointed to the top of the Palm trees. There were dates at the top of the trees. She pointed back down into the Earth where she knew there were grubs and mealworms. He waved her off. He was tired of grubs and mealworms. With his black boots on, he began to climb the tree. It was difficult because of all of the dead palm fronds that sort of stuck out awkwardly. The dead limbs of the Palm tree were not very sturdy. He looked up. The dates at the top looked so very far away. He wanted to taste the dates. The girl pointed at the sand again. He knew there was food below, but they would have to burrow to find in, probably fairly deep. He had never been this far away from home before. She pointed once again at the sand and stomped five of her six feet. He shook his head. He was not going back under the ground. He was not going to dig any more. He wanted to climb. He wanted to go upwards.

The serrated edges of his six feet dug into the boots. Normally he would have no problem climbing the tree. His insecticide feet had an incredible amount of sticking power. But now he was wearing boots. He continued to climb. He navigated around floppy dead fronds and slowly ascended. He was nearly halfway up the tree. He stopped and looked down. He could see his sister at the bottom looking up. He was dizzy. He was scared of heights and how tall the tree was. He had never been so high up in the air before. The sister motioned for him to come down. He shook his head. He would not come down. A propeller airplane soared over the desert landscape. The boy looked at the plane and smiled. The girl did not smile. The beetle boy continued to climb up the tree. Up on the limb was a old colorful scarab. A rainbow of colors painted on his back the old beetle said to the boy, “use your pinchers young man and you’ll go high.” The beetle boy looked at the old man. He was about to speak when the elder scarab said, “careful of the leaves. They’re very flimsy.” The beetle boy looked at him as he flew away with a rainbow of colors on his back. The beetle boy looked up again. Hot desert wind began to poke at the shell on his back. He could feel the clear warm air tickle his body. He looked down at his sister, who had buried her feet in the sand and had taken off all of her clothes. He thought that she might want to go back home. He knew that she wanted to feel the comfort of the sand around her body. He knew that he had coaxed her into coming along on the journey with him. She grudgingly agreed. He thought that she might enjoy the experience of the Top Land. He may have been wrong. He knew now that she wanted to simply go home. It was comfortable at home. Mother and father were there. There was always sustenance in the corner, fungus, and rotting human food of some sort. Father and his friends would sometimes sneak up to the surface and they would pull a can of beer near the Great Opening and the band of beetle men would get drunk and drown themselves in the old, stale liquid. He thought about his parents. He looked down at his sister. She motioned for him to come back down yet again. He shook his head and continued to climb up the Palm tree. A small cobra slithered around the girl’s legs. She paid it no mind as it went on its way. She continued to bury herself in the cool desert sand. He continued to climb upwards. The dates were in reach. He was so very hungry. They had been traveling for six days. Off in the distance, the beetle boy in the tree could hear the sounds of music. It was rap music of some sort. He had never heard this type of music before. All he had heard was the sound of tunneling and scraping. With a smile he kept climbing higher

and higher. He was nearly at the top of the Palm tree, when he middle left foot slipped and he slid down a little. The sister let out a shriek, but didn’t speak. The edges of his feet dug into the old bark while the boy clung on to the tree. He twisted his head and looked out among the gentle desert. Other than the music there was hardly any sound except that of the rustling fronds and the gentle wind. Off in the far distance he could barely see the glimmering lights of one of the Moroccan cities far away. He could never remember the name of the cities. He had failed geography in school. His vision was blurry. He was nearsighted as most of the beetle people were. He looked down at his sister again. With her two left front legs she motioned for him to come down yet again. They both needed food. They hadn’t eaten for two days now. He told his sister this is how people on the surface ate. He had learned about this in school. The land dwellers would grow plants and trees and harvest the fruit. Land dwellers ate things in trees. The boy was so tired of picking out sand between his mandibles. So tired of drinking polluted water and stale soft drinks and left over food that was thrown away. He wanted to eat food that was fresh and new; food that grew high up in the air! At the top of the tree he sat for several minutes and looked out. Step by step he finally made his way up the very tall tree. His sister below was now lying on her back, on her carapace watching him. She stopped motioning for him to come down since he was near the top of the tree. She was hungry and she had never eaten a date before. He took his time at the top of the tree. He could see, clear out to what was called the ocean. He dreamed about floating on his carapace looking up at the night sky while floating on the sea. On the rare occasion that it rained in the desert most of his kind would bury himself deeper into the earth. The boy always climbed to the surface and would often ride the small river of water across the sand. It was very dangerous, but it is what he liked to do. The boy grabbed a hand full of dates. They sprinkled to the ground; a few of them hit the girl on the stomach. She laughed. He put one of the dates to his mouth He chewed on it. It tasted so delicious, like nothing he had ever eaten before. He continued to pluck the large ripe dates from the tree and dropped them to the ground. Even in the dark and with his nearsighted vision he could see his sister smiling as she ate the fruit. Then he looked off towards the ocean. He could barely make out the lights of some distant ships. The wind was blowing pretty hard out there on the water. In school he had learned about mermaids. He had never seen one in person but was told that they existed. He wondered what they looked. For several minutes he sat there, thinking about how one of his female scarab classmates wouldn’t go to the high school dance with him.

He thought about how his mother looked when his entire family surprised her with a full slice of white bread on her birthday, and they ate for a week. He thought about what the world would be like if beetle people could go to the moon. His lungs filled themselves with air as he took a massive beetle breath. He exhaled and smiled to himself. He spent a long time up in the tree in pure bliss. He leaned back and put his forward legs around the back of his head and closed his eyes. He fell asleep. A few minutes later he awoke to the sound of his sister clicking her teeth. She was attempting to get his attention. He felt refreshed and full of energy and life. He gazed up at the bright stars. He smiled. He leaned over the edge of the Palm leaf and saw his sister sitting on the sand. Left over pieces of date where strewn about. They had both gorged themselves. It was time to come down. Time to return to Earth. He peered over the edge of the large frond. With a full stomach, his sister plopped on her back, onto her carapace. She smiled at him. She stopped motioning for him to come down. He looked out again towards the darkened ocean. He dreamed about floating on his carapace looking up at the night sky while floating on the sea. On the rare occasion that it rained in the desert most of his kind would bury himself deeper into the earth. The boy always climbed to the surface and would often ride the small river of water across the sand. It was very dangerous, but it is what he liked to do. The boy grabbed a hand full of dates. They needed food for the their journey. They sprinkled to the ground; a few of them hit the girl on the stomach. She laughed. He put one of the dates to his mouth He chewed on it. It tasted so delicious, like nothing he had ever eaten before. He had his fill of dates and he began to slowly descend the tree. He backed himself up and slowly positioned around the trunk with his four front legs. He lowered his back two feet with the black boots onto the dead palm fronds. He was secure. Or so he thought. He was not used to wearing shoes, but he wanted to do what Top Landers wore. He found an old pair of boots at a junkyard. They didn’t fit him properly but he was enamored with the feeling around his feet. He took another step. Instinct told him that the stickiness of his feet and the serrated edges of his back feet would dig into the trunk of the tree. With the boots on, this didn’t happen. He took a step off of the secure limb. The slick boots simply slid out from beneath him. He tried to clutch the barrel of the tree with his hands but it slipped away from him. He heard the sounds of the plane, the rap music off in the distance, and the sound of the wind blowing through his carapace as he fell to the

ground. The taste of the fresh, delicious dates clung to his senses. He chewed the last bit of food that was still in his mouth, savoring the flavor of it. He smiled before he hit the sand with a thud. His sister rushed to his side. He had landed on his carapace, on his back, with his limbs sprawled out. The impact was so severe that his big boots had fallen off his feet and lay several meters away. The girl screamed more but there was no one around to hear her. He lay still. The beetle boy was dead. Several minutes went by where the sister didn’t move. Then with tears in her eyes she began to dig fast and furious until the hole was large enough. The digging was difficult because the smooth sand kept collapsing in on itself, covering up the hole that she attempted to make. With all of her strength she burrowed into the sand, pushing it away as hard and as fast as she could, all the while crying. Her brother’s body lay still. Sensing death, the cobra returned it began to twist its slithery body around his frozen limbs, until the giant snake opened its mouth and enveloped the dead beetle boy. The sister kept digging into the ground as the smooth sand began to fill up the giant hole she had made in the Earth. When she had reached a bit of hard earth, she dug even faster and with more intensity. She dug deeper and deeper until she returned to the world below the surface. She returned to where she belonged: under the sand.

The Father Short Story I often write about my father. I often wonder why? Is it out of sentimentality or a sense of longing to connect? Or is it that I am lonely myself and when we would watch a ball game or talk about cheesy science fiction movies or attempt to assess the odd noise under the hood of my car, I felt like two opposite magnets drawn together. At nearly seven feet tall and almost four-hundred pounds my father was something of a massive ogre near the end of his life. He passed away while I was at my senior prom. I had taken the bus into Dallas to the hotel for the night. When friends dropped me off, I opened the door to our two bedroom apart and found his body on the couch, not breathing. It was an odd feeling. I didn’t scream. I wasn’t scarred. I was almost… relieved. That may sound cruel, but then again, the world was a bit cruel to him looking at his life the way I did. I got my dad’s sense of humor from him, his obsequious attitude towards life, his loquaciousness and his bad Scottish teeth. I also received his penchant for loneliness, and troubles with the opposite sex which have followed me my entire adult life. When I was seven or eight years old or so, my dad used to tell me that he played in the minor league farm system of the Chicago Cubs. When I grew up I realized that he hadn’t done this and he had embellished this story to make himself look more important in the world, and in the eyes of his me, his daughter, and to himself. The maddening thing is, is that I loved him just the same without the lies and the exaggerating. But overall none of us really matter. Very few of us actually make a real difference in the world don’t we? The planet doesn’t care too much about what we do, or what we really have to say. Perhaps that’s why my father was so lonely. He had that intrinsic understanding of how the world actually was more of an organic organism than some hyper intelligent / meta intellectual energy. My dad died when he was only fifty-one, but he lived a full life on his terms, eventually. I forgave him for not sending me to college, not being there to teach me how to drive a car or even how to dance. On my ring finger I have a small freckle. My father used to tell me that that freckle meant that I was always married to him, as his daughter,

until a guy stole my heart away from him. He did love me, but I suppose he had a hard time loving himself and that got in the way of fatherhood for him. With the vacuum that would stand in as male figure for myself I worked hard to never need the alpha male figure in my life as a measurement of love, ironically choosing more male friends to keep me feeling… good. Looking back these twenty years now I have been ultimately following in the unfortunate footfalls of my father with regards to what I perceived as dead end relationships. Yet overall I miss his laugh and his smile and the way that he would sit for hours and stare out over the open ocean hoping to find his dreams. Sitting here now, along the cliffs of Carmel, I am often reminded of a very large man that seemed so infinitely small in the vast scope of the planet.

Home is Where the Future Is Novel Synopsis It’s the future and human beings are attempting to search for more than just intelligent life. When authors world build they are creating so much of the world around them, that elements must remain consistent. As you read this first chapter from the novel keep track of the world building names and concepts. Can you imagine this in your mind? Excerpt…

Home is Where the Future Is Novel “It’s called the living wallpaper.” A human named Norris stood before the board of directors for five hours straight, in what felt close to a hostage situation. Using a laser navigator he pointed to various design elements of the meticulously constructed four and five dimensional diagrams while he spoke. “In the future, the walls of your home will move around you. Your home will become a living entity. Part organic and part synthetic mater, every door, roof, and floor of your house will be shaped to your whims and desires. Just suppose you wanted to host a Triple Furton Competition. The entire house could be configured to hold the opening meetings with just a thought. Interior space would adjust to whatever you program into the Wampanite Computer Configuration.” A soft hum came from the interactive model. In the center of the very long table the computer projected a housing unit. The animation showed how the house’s walls would move and change according to the owner’s programing. One of the board members made a grunt. A woman near the front of the presentation ordered a coffee into her e-pad. Through the Sythasnake Tube Stock, (developed by Altair Systems Unlimited), the drink appeared in front of her. Norris kept at it. An orange platform grew out of the floor. It looked sturdy enough to stand on, but was only a hologram. “Now… Now let’s say that you wanted to feed five-hundred participants… that you want to feed a massive party… Your uh… your kitchen will stretch and grow to exactly whatever configuration you want it to be. You need to make them all sandwiches and a fresh glass of Napertine juice? No problem. A Type VIII Tiran Panini press and an Oymipanto Megablender will appear in your kitchen. If you uhh, let’s see… uh… All you have to do is…” He snapped his fingers, but after the nearly five- hour presentation he was utterly exhausted and his fingers were dry. There was no snapping sound. “Where is the food stored?” asked an older corporate executive. Norris smiled. “I love this question! It’s all off site, you see.” He punched a few tablets on his system and another hologram appeared in the center of the table. “Let’s just say you had this craving for an Unticanite

fruit smoothie from one of Jupiter’s moon bars? Not a problem. Just program it in.” He punched a few buttons and a beautiful marketing image from twenty years ago of an Unticanite fruit smoothie appeared. A thick Venusian creature with orange eyes stood up. He was dressed in a tailor made suit that fit his eight gills and extra wide torso. His voice clicked and whirled. “Mr. Breadwater, this is not new. We’ve had food tubes for a hundred years and housing units for longer than that. What makes your proposal so unique?” Norris smiled. “Well, because…” He looked at his brother who had not spoken a word since the presentation began. With a confident nod from his older sibling Norris continued. “Because, sir, this new concept is not limited just to the kitchen. What if… Well, let’s say… your in-laws were visiting and you needed an extra bedroom… for each of them… you know because they started arguing at dinner or something and they both wanted to sleep apart, then… you could construct your home in whatever…” He was beginning to sweat. His mind started racing in order to explain all of the features that he had packed into his concept design for the new Orbiter 11 Home Series. Fatigue had fully set in. He hadn’t slept in twenty-two hours. “Or, what if you wanted your lover to enjoy a luxurious bath after a hard day’s work on the Epsilon Seven Space Station in the K-11 District… You see, uh… With just a thought, your restroom will have the ability to turn into a gorgeous Jacuzzi hot tub so that your lover can soak his or her sore body in mineral salts from Io Prime and South Antarctic Cave Water.” The alien looked around the room and smiled, pleasantly. “Young man, in my culture my wife’s parents poison themselves with Venusian seaweed the moment they marry their daughter off as their wedding present, so I wouldn’t have a problem with in-laws. And as for a Terran Jacuzzi, one quarter of my life is spent underwater as it is. Let me say that I appreciate your energy towards the creation of these added features, but in this rapidly evolving solar system, we need to be able to adapt to other cultures, races, and alien needs, wouldn’t you say, son?” Norris’ brother stepped forward and spoke for the first time. “We are already tailoring such housing models to accommodate Terrans, Ionians, Neptunians and down the line we will most definitely develop models to accommodate Venusians. We are simply putting the hardwire programing into the development here to start with.” “I see. Thank you.” Norris then motioned to his brother to continue. A woman in a pink jacket stood and faced the duo. “Exceptional work, Norris and Bosco. We appreciate your time and energy put forth into this project.”

For a moment the group sat in darkness and then the filo tube lighting system clicked back on. The presentation was over. Norris stared down the end of the long table at the 331 board members of Altair Systems Unlimited. The room was waiting for a final response from the presenter. Finally Norris spoke. “Are there any questions… Uh… about the proposal?” “With confidence,” his brother whispered to Norris. Heads turned and low murmurs echoed throughout the cold office building. From the very end of the long table came a voice, “Where is the wallpaper?” Norris strained to hear the board member’s question. “Excuse me?” A tall man in a black suit stood up at the far end of the table. “I said where is the wallpaper? We already use synthetic Dickerson pine board and Winchester construction cores, but this organic mater you speak of, Mr. Breadfellow. Where is this organic mater found? Here on one of the twelve planets, or do we mine outside the system?” There was another low murmur among the group. “It’s not in this planet system.” “I didn’t hear that, Norris.” A plump woman just a few seats down put her hands on the table. “I said the organic matter is not found in this planet system.” The tall man at the end of the table chuckled. “Then were do we find this organic matter you speak of? If it’s not here, then where does it come from?” Norris swallowed hard. His mouth was dry. “We create the organic matter.” The table went silent. Norris repeated himself. This time he spoke a little louder. “We create the organic matter. Using the Miller’s Essence.” The plump woman leaned on the table. Her pudgy elbows wrinkled up. “The Miller’s Essence? Where do we find any of that product? It was all used up in the Veyronion War.” “There are six hecterons left in the Canterbury Caves.” “But the Canterbury Caves haven’t been excavated in decades, centuries even,” said a young man with silver hair and blinking red and yellow ornamental diodes clipped to his ears. A thick silence settled over the room. A bald man, who sat in the largest chair and was the farthest away, tapped his finger on the table. The rest of the board members turned to look at him. “How long would it take to excavate?”

Norris swallowed. “I estimate that it would take two years.” “Just to excavate?” “To excavate and then to extract the mineral from base.” “You’ll need radion suits even if you are three hundred feet from the Essence. And they don’t take kindly to aliens, as we all know.” The plump woman stood up. “How can you control it? It’s illegal as it is, but let’s just supposed we passed some type of ordinance, guise it somehow, that would make it legal to use the Essence again, how can you assure us that you can control it?” Here, Norris turned a separate projection monitor on and without speaking a word showed the board members a single image. The group sat back in their seats and stared. Some nodded their heads. Some shook their heads. Some looked at the image while a tear slid down their cheek. Some of the board members turned away sickened by what they saw. “This, ladies and gentlemen. This is the only item within the entire Terran Quadrant that is able to organize and control the bacterial organism known as the Essence.” On the screen was a giant red disk with six protruding tunnels from underneath the device. Two thin blue strips ran parallel to each other across the topside of the disk. These two strips were filled with a special organic compound, which ran the course of the circular item. This gigantic device meant different things to different people. Everyone knew what it was, but it hadn’t been used for years. Just the image elicited a strong emotional reaction from every single human being and alien in the room, except for the one Uranasian seated on the left hand side of the table. His eyes had rolled back into his cranial skull so he could meditate. His body covered itself with a type of slime as he slipped into mini-hibernation mode. Slowly all eyes began to turn in his direction. He knew what this meant. The Red Disk had once nearly destroyed the inhabitants of Venus, Earth and Jupiter. Could the power of this disk be harnessed once again? Hand in hand with the Miller’s Essence, the Red Disk held a special power. Could this former weapon be used to make titanium inkwells for the company? Could it be possible to harness the power of a living star? It had never been done before. Altair Systems Unlimited would become the most powerful agency of housing units in the entire twelve-planet system if they could harness the disk. The Uranasian’s hibernation ended abruptly. He scratched his upper left antennae. He let out a deep breath that for human beings sounded much like a hiccup. The bald man spoke. “Thank you, Norris for your presentation. We’ll give careful consideration to your proposal. Excellent work.” The

group clapped. Norris bowed, folded up his wallet projection system and put it back in his pocket. Bosco clicked a large smooth button on his control pad. The entire room disappeared. The simulation had ended. They both stared at the wall of their Martian home. “That was better, but we need to come up with an alternative plan in case the board doesn’t want to go with a mining activity. We can extract the Essence through transpower drilling if necessary.” Norris was silent. He crossed his arms. “And let’s make sure we have at least three plans. I always forget about Harold. I mean, who kills themselves on their daughter’s wedding day?” Norris sat down. “It’s one of the basic constructions of the Venusian culture. When the parents give their daughter away, it’s the ultimate sacrifice. It also instills a sense of guilt in the groom. Supposedly it bonds the bride and groom, making the marriage stronger.” Bosco smiled. “You see, little brother! This is exactly why I wanted you to pitch this thing. I don’t know a lick. You got the big brains, my boy. I’m just the vessel. I’ll put you in front of my board of directors. They’re going to love you! Daddy gave you the big brains and with this housing concept we’ll be able to buy one of the moons of Saturn for our own!” Bosco was confident as he paced the room. Norris was still. For years he had been wrestling with his conscience over this project. Seven years of his life had been devoted to developing what was to become the magnum opus of the young housing scientist’s career, but he held doubt in his heart. “Every time we run the simulation the question is always the same: is it safe?” Bosco laughed and brushed aside his brother’s concern. “You came up with the idea. You said it was worth exploring.” “I said it was worth exploring, but I may have been wrong. Bosco, I’ve never even handled Miller’s Essence. I really don’t have any idea whatsoever if that element is a workable component in this whole project. This is all conjecture.” He shook his head. “I think we need to take everything back to formula and find another solution to the organic motion problem.” Here the brother’s jovial mood dissipated. “Back to formula? Are you mad? It will take ten years just to develop a prototype unit. New material housing units are popping up all over the system. If we wait another ten years, then this may never happen for us. It was a dream of Dad’s. How much of his life did he spend working on it? He gave his life for

this project. Let’s honor our father. You’re the scientist. I’m just here to shuttle your brilliancy along, little brother. And we’ll both get rich from it.” “I… I don’t…” “Look, just think about it. I can obtain the permit in a week or so to mine some of the material. I’ll tell the Crubaltian Board of Directors that we need a micro slab of the Essence for non-profit medical synthetic processing. I’m sure they’ll give us a dash of it for that reason. We’ll go in with the full force of the government. The Deltians will have no choice but to give up at least a fiber of it. Then we can take the Essence and use it in a real simulation in front of a real board meeting.” Bosco put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I’m counting on you, Norris. So is Marlene. You can’t continue to make kitchen appliances for the rest of your life, you know. No one makes their own food any more. It’s a dead end. I’m giving you a way out. This is the future!” He slapped him on the back and made his way down the winding staircase. Norris listened to him leave the upstairs area and out the front door of his housing unit. Norris closed his eyes and took a deep breath. *** The Venusian atmosphere was a horrible place for human beings. The air was thick with volcanic particles from the Ceystinline Crater and it poured hot steaming rain nearly every revolution. From the lower orbit the little planet glowed the color of amber as their ship moved across the plane between Mercury and the debris field of space junk that encircled Venus. The citizens were nice enough but the women of the species were not the lookers of the solar system, that was for certain. Marcus Belroni was a Terran, dealing in the finest of sleeping materials for all species. At least that’s what his former life was, up until six days ago. Humans and aliens alike all need their rest. It was his job to see that the universe slept soundly. With a revolving interstellar schedule that ran full tilt every microsecond of each individual’s life, people paid good money to sleep well. Those that could bring about an excellent cycle of rest were revered, and in some species nearly considered shamans. Whether they had special hypnotic powers or if they were simple entrepreneurs, if he or she could get you to close your eyes and sleep soundly in the vacuum of space, on an alien world, or in your very own sleep chamber, you were nearly worshipped. Marcus Belroni was such an individual. Bestowed with many of the most sacred honors from the Sleep Chambers of the Universe, he had been honored by the Fifth Council of Neptune for his diligent work on the Packlart Traders Strike. He was a Third Medallion Receptor, became an honorary chamber member of the Tubsulion Order for his work with that planet’s vice-president, and received

The Fril’yinite Award for Excellent Service to the Neptunian Community. The little man with long arms and a balding head was breathing rapid and heavy by the time he sat in his taxi. The inter-stellar pilot made a series of clicks and whirls and then looked over what Marcus thought might have been his shoulder, “You want Nexlosis or Portostamorio IV?” The passenger was slowly pulling small pieces of skin from his lower lip. He was quick to respond. “Nexlosis, please.” He hated Portostamorio IV. Ten months earlier he and his beautiful wife had been there on a conference for sleeping and bedding materials. One short Venusian day he came back to the hotel early, only to find his wife trying out one of his new bedding patens with a buff Altrusian trader. He walked in on them in the middle of the act. He found her kneeling in front of his furry frame, sucking the silver juice out of his thorax. One week later she divorced him and took half of his earnings, which at that time were substantial. She got the home on Enceladus, a major portion of his stock portfolio, and the thing that stung his heart the most: custody of their twin children. She knew that her alimony payment would be enormous if she got the kids. The court agreed. His ex-wife was something of an actress. In court she pleaded assault while composing a fable about a fight they had been in involving the kids. She regaled to the jury of mostly female Mercurcians about how Marcus physically struck his young daughter. As the story went they had been arguing about something related to money when he yanked a learning pad out of his wife’s hand and then out of anger struck his daughter. Marcus knew the first part was true but in reality he accidentally bumped his four-year old daughter with his elbow, who unbeknownst to him, had been standing behind her father. She fell to the ground and required eleven stitches above her left eye. They were together for nine years. After further investigation he found out she had been with other Terrans, Neptunians, hell, half the quadrant had managed to sample both his new bedding construction and his wife. He spent a fortune after the divorce hiring a private detective to chase down old leads. Even through the infidelity and practically losing his children he still managed to keep a place in his heart for her. Why? He couldn’t explain. Perhaps he hoped that one day she would finally appreciate him. He was slowly beginning to realize that that day might never come. She was young and he was a good fifteen years older than her. His wispy hair and bloated body was an odd match for her long legs and shining blue eyes. He liked to think that she didn’t marry him for his cubits, but this may have been her goal. Anyone of any creed, species or

sex was treated equally, but sometimes it was hard to let go of old or instinctual habits. It was a big solar system. It was a lonely solar system. Although the second planet from the sun held some terrible memories it was also home to an exceptionally fertile deposit that very few people knew about. By mere chance, nearly thirty years ago it made him wealthier than the richest Nurbaton Traders in the galaxy. For the riches were not only in cubits, but also in something else, something difficult to attain, something nearly impossible to physically conquer. It had nearly cost him his life. His left lung was punctured. His eyesight was fuzzy to this day from the incident. He has trouble breathing at times. He had thought he was done, that he was finished with it. The memories slowly drifted from his head and all was forgotten. Then six days ago the cloud lifted and everything that he longed to forget of the past was as transparent as could be. He knew what to do. He knew he had to go back. He knew that this time, he would make it right. The Kor’lliant Trading vessel turned out into space and then plunged head first towards the lightly inhabited planet. From outside his window Marcus saw the burning blue flames rise up as they broke the planet’s atmosphere. He was alone now. And he was going back to a place that caused him so much pain, not only in his heart but in his body as well. *** Norris sliced a piece of bread with a knife. He enjoyed the lost art of cooking. He liked to feel food between his fingers as he mashed rooted vegetables. He loved to bake his own bread using grains and flour from his garden. Many thought him ridiculous to grow and make his own food especially since the Fertritude Crystal poisoning had not been eradicated from the dirt. To deflect the deadly rays Norris built a special growing box out of exceptionally rare Redwood. The dirt was cultivated from all over the system; the finest minerals and sustenance went into his planting and growing dirt. To keep the toxins out he lined the bottom of the box with aluminum shielding. The bread was spongy and soft in his hand. It was warm too, for it had just emerged from the outside hearth. Taking a bite, he looked off across the landscape of his home near Lake Maggiore. Boats dotted the water. People screamed and clamored. It was an August day on Earth. It was warm, but not exceptionally hot. His brother’s words kept ringing in his ears, “rich, rich, rich.” He already felt rich. Altair Systems had made him wealthier than he could have ever imagined. He was the youngest engineer at the plant. He had

developed a multitude of prototype housing units throughout the seven systems. Through natural talent and ingenuity his skills allowed him to flourish creatively and economically. So what other riches was his older sibling talking about? He took very good care of his older brother. He bought him a home in their old district of Cypress III, a used streamliner vessel, and even helped to put his nephew through schooling. Norris stood in his kitchen, opened up a jar of Goytenberry preserves and spread a thick layer onto his bread. He thought about his brother, his protector after his father passed away during the war. From a young age Bosco instilled in him certain resources that remain to this day, resources that Bosco could have kept for himself but didn’t. He gave them to his younger brother, freely. He sacrificed his own vitality so that he could survive, so that he could thrive and prosper. Why shouldn’t he feel obligated to pay that debt back to the only sibling he had. Just as he was about to take a bite of bread, Norris looked down and saw a small pile of Fliparian worms weaving in and out of the sickly sweet jam. Through impulse he dropped the piece of bread onto the kitchen floor, then quickly recovered and folded it up with a napkin and walked outside where he dropped the spoiled Ionian fruit preserves and its alien hosts into the disintegrator. He clapped three times and then lifted his hand to shield his face from the mid day sun. The people on the lake were still laughing and smiling. Norris was not. *** The Kor’lliant trading vessel’s anti-grav thrusters pushed the dilapidated vessel off into the air. Marcus could see Twelinger birds with six sets of wings flying in formation against the greenish blue hue of the horizon. The Tingle-Simz Mountain Range jutted out away from him. A vaporous green mist began to slowly drift in. He looked up and could see the last blinking lights of his taxicab. From the metal scaffolding that he stood on, he peered down to the valley floor some five-hundred meters below. Standing on the cliff side he could barely make out the little dots of vehicles and people moving about near the Sarggion River. Society was moving forward, mulling about their everyday routine, not even realizing that there was something below them that could alter the life of every Venusian and alien on the planet. He pulled out a device from his overcoat. He had brought no extra clothing or food, only credits and the ancient device that he had managed to “borrow” from the Allorian Government weeks earlier. He held the smooth, circular device up to the sky. In his other hand he pulled out the hard fractured

piece of Corbonite Miller’s Essence. It wasn’t the actual element but one that was made in a lab to resemble Miller’s Essence. Testing and sampling had gone on for decades after the war in a secret effort to control it for economic advantage. This small rock had cost nearly as many credits as the entire cost of the war and thousands of lives in an effort to duplicate the actual red crystalized stone. Now was the moment of truth. Will it work? Marcus took a few steps off of the empty platform near a small alcove of ornamental rockwork. He moved onto a grassy patch of land with an ornate Shezani Garden and a stone statue of X’Certim, the Venus leader who led the revolt against the Martian invaders nearly two hundred years ago. There was barely a soul about. Taking three large breaths he put the device up to his lips and spoke the Jupiterian words: Kiranon Butriko Sutanose. The element began to pulsate with a red color. It needed to turn green. He knew this. He tried again. Kiranon Butriko Sutanose. Nothing. Again. Kiranon Butriko Sutanose! This time he screamed: Kiranon Butriko Sutanose! The faux Miller’s Essence continued to pulsate the red color. It wouldn’t turn green. The chubby bedding salesman was breathing hard in the thin atmosphere of Venus. He was a little lightheaded. Tiny flashes of light twinkled in front of his face, like stars. He reached out with his backside to the stone bench that was contorted to fit Venusian lower bodies. He awkwardly sat down on the lip of the bench with the Corbonite Miller’s Essence in one hand and the compass-like device in the other. Had he come all this way for nothing? Did he sacrifice his entire life for something that he thought he was assured of, that he believed that he deserved, only to be denied access to it? No. He would not give up. Not now. He had left everything behind. Well, almost everything. A giant Xturian Dragonfly landed on his left arm. With a sense of annoyance he flicked it away then gazed into the piece of Corbonite Miller’s Essence in his other hand as if it might have the answer to his question. Immediately it began to glow red and pulsate in an unsteady rhythm. Marcus could not sense any danger from the faux Miller’s Essence, although a small headache began from his lightheadedness. He tucked the crystalline rock into his windbreaker pocket and looked at the circular metal device. Below the lip of the cover there was an inscription written in Jupitorian. Marcus Tholliam was an eloquent linguist. It had helped him sell millions of sleep and bedding units across the galaxy. While other children were learning music, or dance, or playing with rockets, Marcus’ was very busy learning the seventeen basic languages of the Terran solar

system. Five days a week after school he sat home with his paternal grandmother and their nine-meter tall language tutor from the Sacred Blue Pool of Neptune. In the late afternoons the young man poured over thousands of pages of Uranusian syntax, was drilled on the Saturian Ring alphabet with their 764 letters and 384 numbers and numerous accents. And as a boy of fifteen he had not only mastered the exceptionally challenging clicking adverbs of the Mercursian Polar language but had learned to congregate the underground Rilow dialect of the under dwellers from the Dunes of the Open Sea from the Alpha Prime continent of the same planet. In addition to several Terran dialects from separate countries he was forced to learn the languages of nearly all the Citi System and once even fooled the governor of Tallusik VI of Uranus Prime into believing that he was speaking to his father when the planet wide imaging system was forced offline from a meteor shower. The governor was so impressed that he purchased sixty Deziun sleep chamber units and scores of bedding. Marcus lived for a year off of the single sale. Nexlosis wasn’t bustling, as it was midweek. After the long walk to the valley floor the chubby Terran stepped into a water bar on the southern side of the city and ordered himself a double Geyser Fizzgum. The server scanned his wrist, extracting six credits from his account. The light blinked green beneath his skin, indicating the transaction had gone through without an issue. He wasn’t worried about credits even with the messy divorce. In a separate secure account he had stored away nearly 30,000 credits, unbeknownst to his ex-wife. During divorce proceedings he never revealed the secret account that he had opened outside of the solar system on Orantic. According to inter-stellar law all credits and earnings are subject to alimony, child support, and legal confiscation as long as those credits were made within the scope of the work environment. Marcus did indeed work on Orantic, but it had been nearly ten years since he had done so. He vowed to himself and his two children that he would not touch those thirty thousand credits, no matter how sour life had gotten for him. The credits were secure. Credits were not the issue at hand here. The economic wealth of the universe was not important. The clothes, the homes, the transport runabouts, the excursions to the far sides of the galaxy, the exquisite Gerti’I caviar, all of the material elements of one’s life seemed inconsequential to Marcus Tholliam in this moment. He had enjoyed the luxuries, and was looking forward to the second half of his life free of such wants and needs. He was ready to forsake those parts of his life that he had worked so hard to achieve for the greater good of what he believed was coming, as any creature of this solar system would. He had kept the credits for his children as a security blanket in case things

went awry. Even in this benevolent hour Marcus still had plenty to lose: his children, his reputation, and his Mother, whom he cherished dearly. For twenty years his mother refused to speak to him. With all of his linguistic skills she thought that he would serve the Solar System as an ambassador or Triskeltion Conversationalist or some position in higher government affairs. When she had found out that he had chosen to use his skills for economic benefit, going into bedding and sleep materials, his mother had harsh words for him. A rift appeared shortly after Marcus had made his first 500,000 credits. She pleaded with her son to use his language skills for the good of Earth and its people. Marcus ignored her while the money came rolling in. The more credits and homes on distant planets he had acquired, the less and less he communicated with his mother, until one day she finally shuttered him altogether. After his divorce, elements of his life seemed to be not so important. It had taken him nearly half a century but he had come to realize the importance of humanity. He was now stripped of those material wants. Marcus Belroni was now looking at a different future than the one he had imagined. His life had purpose; real purpose, and he knew what he had to do. The two boys were one-eighth Xernon, their mother being one quarter Martian. In the last three years the oldest boy had exhibited telepathic powers in minor ways, a trait that skipped their mother completely. Their mother had begun to use the boy’s power for personal gain in a variety of ways. Marcus couldn’t allow that to happen. He wouldn’t. It had been nearly six months since he had been able to contact his son for she was shielding them on Europa. He swore that he would not only see them again, but also would be able to take them away from their hate filled, credit grubby mother. The tubby man continued to sip on his drink. Marcus played a hunch. Placing his hand on his inside pocket he could feel the outlined shape of the Corbonite Miller’s Essence. He replayed the words he had spoken. From his heart he knew he was speaking the words correctly. There was no doubt whatsoever. He could speak the Jupitarian language all right, but perhaps what was needed was an actual Jupitarian! He whispered the words: Kiranon Butriko Sutanose. Sitting at the oxygen counter sipping the frothy remains of his Geyser Fizzgum he could see the red crystalline rock pulsate through his windbreaker once again. He ordered three more Geyser Fizzgum’s waiting for the rock to change its color to green. It never did. ***

Norris’ brother placed the fortune cookie on the back of the Ver’matiile Tortoise. With a shot glass full of South African Whisky in his left hand he balanced himself on one foot. The crowd at bar cheered him on. The reptilian creature was slow and lethargic. Bosco raised his free hand and shouted out the New Victorville High School Anthem throughout the dingy confines of The Purple Tornado Bar and Grill. The throng of humans and aliens alike responded once again with cheers. The sliver of what was once called California had been crumbling towards the sea for eons. After the Mega earthquake of twenty years ago a hugely populated section of California west of the San Andres Fault had recently fallen into the Pacific Ocean. In its wake an entirely different West Coast had been created. New Victorville now held breathtaking views of the Pacific Ocean. The area had been an arid desert for centuries and a bust for real estate developers. But now, that section of the country was the hot place to be. The blue-collar workers of the old glass and Styrofoam industry were quickly giving way to intergalactic celebrities, politicians and New Punk industrialists. The gentrification of the area was rapidly building up with beautiful tree lined pathways and high-class inter-alien clubs. The wealthy influx of individuals from all over the solar system mas made the area a new mecca of cultural identity. The once desolate hamlet had become a booming and vibrant symbol of what New America was all about. LeFleur was one of the older neighborhoods of Victorville. Named for a former Welshman who had come to California hundreds of years ago, the seedy massage parlors and dive bars looked like a dirty thumb on the newly manicured city. The large tortoise with the tough carapace was moving slowly across the sandy area at the center of the drinking establishment. The reptile stopped in front of him and Bosco shifted his weight from his left foot to his right. He raised foot up about half a meter above the ground. His flipflop fell off, but he still held the shot of whiskey in his hand. While balancing on one foot his head came crashing down onto the turtle’s back, crushing the fortune cookie. A small trickle of blood oozed from his forehead. Bosco drank the shot of whisky while the crowd cheered him on. With some difficulty he managed to grab his other flip-flop and push open the simple gate. Two drunk, large breasted human females shoved themselves into Bosco’s face. A silent conversation using sign language ensued before he began kissing one of them, and then the other. An Uranusian waitress with a greenish blue ponytail dropped another drink in front of him. Still kissing the tall brunet, Bosco held out his left wrist for her to scan his credits, but she simply shook her head.

“This drink’s already purchased sweetheart,” she said. “Nice turtle trek.” Bosco didn’t say a word. He recognized the drink immediately. A Devil Slide Stargazer: a potent mix of Off Lander Cacti syrup, orange juice, and a very rare brand of alien vodka. It was not a cheap drink costing at least 25,000 credits. He quickly sniffed the concoction, prepared for the worse, and slugged it down. Usually there was a burn in the back of his throat from the vodka. There was no burn though. This drink had all the sweetness but no alcohol. In fact there was a shot of Sobering Stimulation Syrup inside. Bosco knew why. This was his calling card. With a sigh, he peered around the enormous fake implanted breasts of the brothel girl. His brother was sauntering towards him. His wispy hair bounced up and down with each step. Bosco let out another sigh, this one more audible than the last. The smile on his face turned upside down. “I thought I would find you here.” Bosco turned to his companions. “Girls, this is my little brother, Norris. Norris, the girls.” Norris smiled politely and offered a simple, “Hello.” The girls both nodded but didn’t say anything. “They’re slave trade rescues, little brother. They’d be dead if they weren’t walking the streets.” Norris was silent. “They can’t speak to you because they have no tongues. They’re mute.” Bosco kissed the brunette before he switched over to the red head. “But that doesn’t stop them, ya know.” He chuckled. “Bosco…” He watched his brother kiss the red head again. He always felt out of sorts in these types of establishments. He tried again, “Bosco, I need you back at the lab. We need to go over some equations. You turned off your transmitter…” “You’re damn right I turned it off.” “Bosco, please.” “I’ll meet you at the lab in an hour. Now scram, kid.” “Bosco…” Norris reached for Bosco’s arm, gently. The older sibling swatted him away. Norris fell right on his ass. A cacophony of sounds all happened at once: glass breaking, music screeching to a halt, and a man in the tortoise circle began to scream. Norris wasn’t hurt. He peered into the gated circle of sand where he saw the reptile’s mouth cupped over a bar patron’s right forearm. The man looked to be about thirty years in human age. He was wearing a t-shirt that read “Free Titania!” a long twisted bear and yellow eyes indicated that he

was part Martian. The Ver’matiile Tortoise moved very slowly, but if one should get a razor tooth bite that punctured through the muscles, the venom could be deadly. The man began to scream wildly now, thrashing about, as the tortoise would not let go. Bosco exchanged glances with his brother, then turned to the girls. “Watch this, ladies.” In one gulp he swallowed the rest of his drink and jumped over the fence and into the sand circle. With his bare hands he began to choke the turtle, just enough for the reptile’s mouth to open and allow the MartianTerran to escape. The man stumbled to the little gate and out into the drinking area. Greenish blood was squirting everywhere. The man stumbled to the little gate and out into the drinking area. Several individuals rushed to help once he was out of the ring. With lightening speed Bosco let go of the animal, hopped the fence, and crashed shoulder first onto a table. Bosco laughed from the bottom of his gut. The crowd at the bar erupted into cheers. The two female companions he had purchased glided over to him and put their arms around him. Bosco looked down to where his brother had fallen. A small feeling of regret passed over him. But Norris was gone. The slim man slammed his fist onto the table. A giant gash appeared on his palm. His hand was bleeding, but within seconds skin began to graft over itself and within seconds his hand was healed. He touched his forehead. The silly cut from the fortune cookie incident was now a mere memory as it was restored as well. He realized immediately he shouldn’t have showed off like that. “Nice job,” mumbled a short Mercusian female. “Want a drink?” “Sure.” And just like that he felt better. Over the past several weeks he had attempted to rationalize the massive decision he had made. He hadn’t told his brother about the self-injection. He didn’t have to now. At least he didn’t use all the artificial powers that were now flowing through his veins. The crowd didn’t understand. The women didn’t care. But his brother knew. Norris knew. For Bosco’s brother was the one man in the galaxy who understood the dangers. For two months the elder sibling had hid his test tube powers from his brother, but now the secret was out. No man alive could pry the jaws of a Ver’matiile Tortoise. No one. Not a single human being or alien in the entire quadrant had ever been able to do what Bosco had just done. The Mercusian girl had purchased three shots of Delarian Wine. “Shoot that,” she shouted half drunk in his face. She was very short, shorter than Bosco had first realized, and not very attractive. He took the three shots with her and then sauntered away.

“You want another drink?” the little alien asked him, but he was already back at his table where the gorgeous prostitutes were waiting for him. Bosco Breadfellow didn’t feel exactly human, because he wasn’t. A trace of the Miller’s Essence resided within him, purchased two months ago from a human named Marcus Belroni. Although purchased isn’t quite the correct word. He… traded for it. Bosco was resigned to trade for it, but considering his own personal gain first, he had stolen the item from the lab where Norris had developed it and traded the chip for a sliver of the powerful agent and had traded the item with Marcus Belroni. In exchange he traded something nearly as powerful and dangerous as the Miller’s Essence itself. He would have to pay up at some point, but it would be worth it if the Breadfellow brothers could make their money on the housing units. For the past two months Bosco Breadfellow had trained himself on how to control its power. Shooting Miller’s Essence was dangerous and illegal and outlawed after the war, but perhaps he didn’t put on as big a show as he thought. He needed to reveal to the Crubaltian Board of Directors what kind of people it would take to create these new housing units that had to work in the vacuum of space, in the mines of asteroids. No normal alien or human being would be able to withstand the extremes of nature. He would exemplify these skills, using himself as an example. He had not experienced any side effects of the drug, at least not yet. Only minutes later he was completely sober, an effect of the. Bosco resigned himself to head back to the lab and join his brother. He thought about how awkward Norris was in establishments such as this. While his baby brother studied and intellectualized with intergalactic scholars at the age of eighteen, Bosco was hanging out at the dive bars and at the Duburtian Slave Trade stations, purchasing drinks and women. Now, nearly twenty years later, the elder Breadfellow felt it was time for the big coins to drops into his pocket. The slave girls groped his slender arms. He told himself he would just have one more drink and then head back to the lab. He did have one more drink and another after that. And another. The lab could wait. *** The stalagmites thrust out of the ceiling with alacrity. Massive sharp edged rocks made of quartisine and derinium dramatically curved out of the sides of the giant lair. Inside the enormous cave Marcus could feel the hot steam from the water that dropped into the bubbling cauldrons below.

Deep within the bowels of the planet the musty massive caverns felt quite surreal to the little bedding salesman. Most of his life had been spent in the comfortable upper class environment of some sort or another. He passed one of the pools of steaming water underneath the dripping rock formations. Looking down he spotted a pod of Nebulian eels gliding across the top of the water. They were large, much larger than any off planet eel he had ever seen. The few remaining hairs on the top of the little balding man’s head stood up, but he pressed forward, and down the stairways that were built eons ago by the extinct Rho’Sine people. The light that glowed throughout the stalagmites was of natural origin, the result of billions of festering Wasterline Bees embedded in the rock that illuminated the cavern in brilliant colors of purple, red, and blue. Step by step, Marcus descended the informal stone staircase. It was wet on the rocks where the condensation had formed. With his hand gripping the Miller’s Essence in the pocket of his windbreaker, he took one step after another into a darkened world. He must have travelled for nearly a mile into the planet’s core. He could no longer hear the drip-drop of the water pools above him. The natural light that seemed to emanate from all over had disappeared. It was deafeningly quiet and very dark. The air was thinning as he began to breathe harder. He turned on his scanner light. The light was dim, but just bright enough to see about a meter in front of his path. With every slippery step he thought of his children Jynor and Felicia. At childbirth Jynor had been caught in a Tenteris Web inside his mother’s womb. The parents had believed that this would not be an issue given that the children were only one-eighth Martian, but his Jynor was not spared the dramatic exit from his mother’s womb. He had practically drowned from the toxic fluid and had nearly been strangled by his mother’s Martian stomach strings. The mortality rate for Martian-Terran children was still quite low because of this exact risk. It was very dangerous situation and one that required precision and. Marcus had hired the best doctor past the Asteroid Belt for the delivery. His son was lucky to have beaten the survival rate of twenty-five percent. Several lacerating scars remained around his neck just below his barely visible gill line. He was lucky because he was wealthy. Whenever the little devils on his shoulder cautioned him regarding the massive decision he was making, he always remembered the teaching of his childhood priest, Minister Zeno. She was a kind-hearted half-breed of Terran and outer world blood. Zeno had a unique power to effect change, not only with religious words and a righteous nudge, but through a force that Mr. Belroni never quite understood. Marcus had witnessed near miracles when people would seek her counsel. There always seemed to be

some sort of retribution to the individual, but the initial miracle always seemed to happen. Minister Zeno was kind and warm to her congregation on Earth, but Marcus could always sense an underlying ruthlessness beneath the toothless smiling veneer. Two weeks earlier Marcus Belroni had gone to visit her on her death bed, only to find the old woman had already passed on. No one had come to check on the poor creature for a week in her palatial estate where she lived alone, except for the company of male prostitutes. Very few individuals were privy to the Minister’s lifestyle, but Marcus was one of them. He thought he saw something moving behind the eyes. Peering closer a Delium caterpillar slowly emerged from out of her right ear. Marcus jolted back in terror. The small insect was nibbling on a piece of parchment of some sort. He looked under the skull area. There was an envelope. Gently he slid it out from under the corpse’s head. Marcus’ was written on it. Zeno’s only attendant living in the mansion was a coordinator named Drak who managed all of her affairs but he lived in another section of the grounds. The envelope was made of a type of animal skin he gathered. It was warm and stretchy to the touch. The package was glowing from the inside. Three asteroid rocks fell out and onto the bed. One was a bluish rock from the Saturn moon of Enseladus. The second rock was a piece of slate from the former area of the Grand Canyon, which was now the new north western Caribbean coast line due to the massive tectonic shift of twenty years prior. The third rock was the glowing crystal that Marcus had never seen this before. At first he did not understand what the deadly rock was or why it was glowing. He would soon find out. He slowly picked it up. The rock morphed, and turned into a liquid like form that spread out around his hand. The liquid essence grasped harder and harder until his bones nearly broke. He hyperventilated yelping like a dog. He thought the shape shifting rock might break his hand, then it reformed into the hard crystal like appearance and dropped onto the bed again, next the dead body of Minister Zeno. Marcus picked up the strange animal skin like envelope. A small piece of paper drifted out and onto the floor. On the ragged piece of parchment was a note that looked as if it had been written by either a five year old child or a ninety-five year old woman. He unfolded the scrap of paper and read the note that contained only two words: “Find me.” This is exactly what Marcus Belroni was attempting to do. *** End of excerpt.

Cloud Barrier Play Synopsis It’s New Year’s Eve on the top of a New York City high rise where five citizens are trapped on the roof. Cultural differences between an Hispanic maid and Middle Eastern security guard unravel societal barriers. Ageism and self worth find seeds in a veteran television star while what seems like an engaging online date defines the elements of truth. Secrets are later revealed when we find out there is more than one thief amongst the group. This play explores the stereotypes and boundaries that we subconsciously put upon one another and challenges these characters to break those cultural limitations. Excerpt… ROBERT and MANUELLA look at each other for just a moment. ROBERT: I am prepared. If this is your agenda, then I am prepared. Allah will protect me and when he comes for you he will even protect you. That is the wisdom of god. That is the protection of god. That is the definition of faith. My soul is ready. (Beat.) Is yours? The loud sound of a cork pop is heard, nearly sounding like a gun. JENNY and OLIVIA let out a small scream. A long pause, then CLAUDE pulls his finger out of his pocket. He has no gun. CLAUDE chuckles. JENNY: You jerk. CLAUDE: (with the normal English accent) Just a bit of fun, eh? (Beat.) This whole thing, sitting up here among the clouds. It’s so fucking grand I can’t stand it. This is a game, right? They all stare at each other, unsure of how to react or what to do.

JENNY: Is that what this is? CLAUDE: It’s at least a joke. Trapped up here, like this when the rest of the world is ready to have fun down below. Beat. OLIVIA: You should be the actor. What do you do, Claude, for a living I mean? Beat. He doesn’t answer. MANUELLA: (to JENNY) What did his profile say? Beat. CLAUDE looks at JENNY. JENNY: (very earnest) Claude is a submarine commander. Pause. They all stare at him. MANUELLA: You’ve got to be kidding. CLAUDE: I served in the British navy. OLIVIA: In what capacity? Beat. CLAUDE: I was a cook. OLIVIA: A cook? Well, heavens to hellcats. What’s your favorite dish? RICHARD: Torpedo sandwich. Beat. The all laugh. JENNY: You told me you were in the British Navy. CLAUDE: I am.

Beat. OLIVIA: Well... You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear but no harm no foul. It’s probably what we need a little more of around here. A little story telling and fun. Wouldn’t you all say? A beat. OLIVIA: Come on now. What’s with all the maudlin madness? “Find the bright corners of the game of life. The light sides. The amber corners. The peacock covered bed sheets that we wrap ourselves up with at night. That sliver of beauty that comes from smiling... JENNY: I love that line. OLIVIA: My favorite film. My favorite role. Beat. ROBERT: (very clear and modulated) I had sexual intercourse in a model home. They all stare at ROBERT. ROBERT: We’re still playing the game, yes? OLIVIA:(a wry smile to ROBERT) Could you say that again? ROBERT: (very clear and modulated) I had sexual intercourse inside of a model home. In Beacon Falls, Connecticut. Beat. MANUELLA: Is that true? ROBERT nods. JENNY: Where did you do it? ROBERT: On top of the wooden island thing in the kitchen.

MANUELLA: (smiling a bit) Touche. Beat. OLIVIA: Just once? ROBERT: Six times. OLIVIA chuckles a little out loud. JENNY reacts. MANUELLA watches the laughter. CLAUDE watches MANUELLA. ROBERT: Once for each model home. OLIVIA laughs again. OLIVIA: Six model homes? ROBERT: One with each of my wives. OLIVIA laughs more. JENNY joins her a little. MANUELLA acknowledges. CLAUDE lightens a bit. Beat. ROBERT: Giant food stores. Different people. Model homes. I like America. OLIVIA: God bless America! JENNY starts to giggle uncontrollably. OLIVIA joins her. CLAUDE even loosens a little. MANUELLA then pulls out from her pocket JENNY’s necklace. Everyone stops laughing. ROBERT looks at her. OLIVIA: (looking at MANUELLA) What’s that? Beat. CLAUDE: The thief. A long silence. JENNY stares at MANUELLA who stares at her back. JENNY: You took my necklace? A long pause. CLAUDE: (putting it together)Downstairs.

Silence. MANUELLA: Yes. JENNY: And my earrings? MANUELLA: I could only get one of them off you. CLAUDE: How? Beat. JENNY: (shaking her head) The girl in the rest room. I didn’t turn to look at her because it happened so fast but... it was you. Wasn’t it? MANUELLA doesn’t say anything. OLIVIA is now becoming aware of the jacket she is wearing. OLIVIA: Then who’s jacket is this? JENNY’s head is spinning. OLIVIA begins to take off the jacket. She feels in one of the inside pockets. Inside is a man’s wedding ring. OLIVIA holds it up. JENNY: What is that? OLIVIA: If I’m not mistaken it’s a wedding ring. JENNY: Where was it? OLIVIA: In the side pocket here. (To MANUELLA with a bit more conviction.) Who’s jacket is this? She turns to look at CLAUDE. He is looking directly at MANUELLA. They know. MANUELLA: (To CLAUDE indicating JENNY) I don’t want to tell her. JENNY: Tell me what?

OLIVIA slowly crosses to CLAUDE and hands him his jacket back. He just holds it. OLIVIA ceremoniously places the ring on top of the jacket. JENNY: This is yours? This is your jacket? CLAUDE holds the jacket and ring, barely moving. JENNY: No, it’s not. Your jacket is... it’s... This is your fucking jacket?! CLAUDE: SweetheartJENNY: Don’t sweetheart me. (Beat.) You’re married? MANUELLA: That wasn’t on his profile? OLIVIA: (to MANUELLA) Quiet. JENNY: How long have you been married? Silence. CLAUDE looks around. CLAUDE: Twelve years. JENNY: Twelve... years? CLAUDE: You see we’ve been having some problemsJENNY: Don’t speak to me. (Beat.) Just don’t. I don’t believe this. Is Claude even your real name? MANUELLA: Nope. CLAUDE: Quiet. MANUELLA: It’s Grant. It’s on his driver’s license andOLIVIA: (to MANUELLA) That’s enough now. Beat. JENNY: Grant?

Beat. CLAUDE: Yes. JENNY: And that’s why you wanted to get back downstairs so bad. Because you knew that she had your jacket? CLAUDE: (Indicating ROBERT) Yes. No, I had to watch him. JENNY: Why... Claude? Grant. Or whatever the fuck you name is. CLAUDE: It is my middle name and because it’s our duty. I’m in the military. JENNY: You are a fucking cook! CLAUDE: (With ire) Regardless I’m still more vigilant than everyone else around here. No matter what happens I have the right to protect myself and my family. Beat. JENNY:You have children? CLAUDE doesn’t answer this as he slips the ring into his pocket and slowly puts on the jacket. JENNY, in shock, crosses to one of the old chairs and sits down. JENNY: (To ROBERT indicating MANUELLA) You knew? He doesn’t say anything. OLIVIA: Robert knew. Didn’t you pal? Beat. ROBERT: (To JENNY) You thought I was a mercurial killer. Beat.

CLAUDE: Does that make someone a bad person to be on the look out? She was onlyStill no answer. JENNY: (to CLAUDE) Don’t defend me. Don’t do anything. (To ROBERT) Why didn’t you tell us who you are? ROBERT: (with his accent) Am I not allowed to enjoy the starlight? Am I not allowed to ponder, to look, to gaze? ROBERT: Let me ask you... Have you sequestered yourself on top of an Oregon mountain top and let the millions of Monarch butterflies fly throw the sunshine and under your arms, over your head, feel them tickle your checks as they make their migratory journey north towards the . My arms spread out and while I inhale the briskness of the biting Pacific air. He slowly begins to spread his arms out. Music. Lights change. ROBERT Those orange and black winged creatures make my legs dull and lifeless, as if the tiny creatures are beating their wings so hard, thousands of them, millions of butterflies are entering my legs, driving into my spines, melting into my veins and the creatures lift me up, higher and higher, further and further towards the sun, towards the whispy clouds, up, up towards all that is enlightened, my fingernails are no loner sharp, for now they curl inward unable to scratch, my jaw drops at pure astonishment at the power of those winged beasts as thy lift me higher and higher, further and further, closer and closer to that which is oh so holy. These butterflies are not unlike the Corintheans and their knowledge of life, and as I feel my lungs empty with air I kiss Exodus as I feel my own re-birth through my own personal genesis. ROBERT has assumed a position as close as possible to Christ on the cross. The music ends. Beat. He breaks the pose. ROBERT: Is that what you want? OLIVIA: I want a martini, that’s what I want. CLAUDE: Your accent...

ROBERT: Who’s the most afraid in this situation? (To them.) You? Or you? Or you? (Beat.) Or me? Beat. JENNY: Who are you... Robert? Beat. CLAUDE: (to ROBERT) Are you a security guard or... or something else? ROBERT looks at CLAUDE. He reaches into the bag again and pulls out his wallet. He throws it to CLAUDE. ROBERT: People call me Robert because it is easy to pronounce. CLAUDE: (reading his badge) NYPD? Detective Rahmed Al Jazeed. OLIVIA: (To ROBERT indicating MANUELLA) So you came up here to watch her? ROBERT and MANUELLA stare at one another, almost a face off. Pause. MANUELLA: I was the one that was watching. All of you. I had an eye on him downstairs all night. CLAUDE: (holding up his wallet) But are you really a cop? JENNY takes it and gives it back to ROBERT. JENNY: (to CLAUDE) You are one serious dickwad. CLAUDE retreats. Beat. MANUELLA hands the earring and necklace back to JENNY and then pulls out a small money clip of cash. She holds it up for CLAUDE to see. CLAUDE: That’s my money clip. She hands it to him. MANUELLA: (flippant) Buy yourself a new personality.

ROBERT takes out a pair of hand cuffs. ROBERT: (To MANUELLA) Game’s over. MANUELLA puts her hands out. He clasps the hand cuffs on her. He guides her to the door. JENNY: Are those really necessary? ROBERT: You guys think you’re the only ones who she’s been pickpocketing? They start towards the door. JENNY: But we can’t get out. It can only unlock from the inside. Beat. MANUELLA: It was unlocked this entire time. OLIVIA: What? ROBERT She’s right. (Beat.) No one was ever trapped. That door never locks. A long silence as they all ponder each other’s positions. Then, ROBERT leads MANUELLA downstairs, exiting. When they exit we hear the sound of the street scene below become alive with activity. It is seconds from midnight. Horns start blaring, a new year’s rukas is starting. We hear the crowd: “Five, four, three, two one... Happy New Year’s!” The sound of party noise makers and general clamor. OLIVIA, CLAUDE and JENNY all look at each other as Auld Lang Syne faintly plays down below. We hear the crowd singing as the lights slowly fade. The lights draw down so that we are only able to see the three actors on stage under a cool, blue moonlight evening. The party sounds fade into the sound of a simple soft wind. The lights hold then slowly fade completely to black. The sound of wind slowly fades out after that. End of play

Asian-American Theatre Asian-American Theatre is a ubiquitous term which can apply to a wide range of topically and culturally inspired subjects. Much of Eastern Theatre is reliant upon dance, ancient storytelling and song. In Japan, Kabuki and Nō Theatre dominates the landscape. In Western Theatre dialogue is the prevalent form of communication on the stage and we find much of that here. In this short excerpt from the Westernized play entitled 9066, we find a mother of three children interned during World War II. Her ex-husband’s best friend has fallen in love with her and is dying of cancer. As a historical reference in February of 1942 all individuals of Japanese ancestry on the West Coast of the United States were imprisoned to concentration camps. Both Issei (Japanese immigrants) and Nisei (those born in the United States as citizens with Japanese background) were ordered to the camps. Executive Order number 9066 forcefully all individuals of Japanese ancestry from the West Coast and were forced into internment camps in other areas of the country. Forcefully removed from their homes, ranches and businesses, they were removed from the West Coast simply based on their physical appearance. Most of those interned were United States citizens. This play and this small section finds Miko in conflict over her loyalty both to her country and her heart.

9066 Play Synopsis Set during in the Japanese-American internment camp of Manzanar, during World War II, Miko Takahashi attempts to lead her family through a myriad of crises while being imprisoned because of her cultural identity through Executive Order #9066. A snapshot into the history of The United States, its fears and broken promises, as well as its convictions this is a story that resonates today, where the influx of America’s cultural blend of individuality constantly asks the question: who am I? Excerpt… MIKO looks at the journal on the table. She places the government letter into the small pot-bellied stove. It burns as MIKO steps our into her “light.” She picks up the journal and turns the page. She reads. MIKO: “Sometimes when you clip the thorns of the rose it becomes more approachable, softer, more delicate. The beauty of its petals has not changed, but somehow that element of risk... is gone.” (She closes the book.) My dearest Cousin. Since being interned many months ago, life has been challenging. The air in Manzanar blows with the sweet smells of apples. We do not eat very often in the mess hall for fear of dysentery and food contamination. I have lost so much weight that my wristwatch slides down off of my hand. Outside the gates I can see the vultures feasting on the flesh of dead animals. As I peer beneath the wilted rose garden, all I see are scorpions. In the sand I can see red ones and white ones and blue ones, crawling everywhere. They sting when they are angry. (Change.) Narja has been good at keeping my mind distracted. I visit Hiro every day. It has been nearly a week and his condition has remained the same. Throughout the barrack there is always so much noise, it is difficult to think sometimes, for there are so many families confined into such a small

space. Our home is made of cloth. We are not unlike the silkworms back home who spin their houses made of thin fabric. Our home is just as delicate but ranks of mildew, mud and excrement. NARJA enters opposite MIKO in his own special light. The two turn to face each other. They speak in unison, unaware of each other’s thoughts, dovetailing each other’s lines as they speak. She crosses to pick up a rose. The lights begin to slow fade into special areas for the two of them, with the illumination of the burning letter between them, upstage. MIKO: The barracks are small and side by side. Nothing is private. I sleep only inches from his sweaty body. NARJA: Her beautiful bodyMIKO: (a smile on her face.)I can smell Narja as he comes back to his barack every evening. NARJA: I dream of a more complete world. MIKO: Of a land that truly is free. NARJA: And I think of that freedomMIKO: And I think of him. NARJA: The rose in her cheeksMIKO: The way he sighs as his eyes are wet with sweatNARJA: My bond with my friend. MIKO: His face is so smooth. I feel soNARJA: Dead. My bond to my friend has been broken. NARJA and MIKO cross towards each other, unconscious of each other. The light sound of rain can be heard tapping on the tent. It slowly grows in intensity throughout the end of the play.

MIKO: He serves me my food in the mess hall. I look into his eyes and I cannot help but feel his anguish. The hot steam filters up into his face and I can see his tired crumpling muscles. NARJA: I have brought myself upon this soil, so that I may learn. But, what have I learned? MIKO: His face is dripping with perspiration, or is it tears that run down his cheeks? NARJA: My body is red. MIKO: When he looks in my eyes, he sees blood. The blood of his best friend, of my husband, of Akio. NARJA: My blood is white. MIKO: His strong arms dish out the rice. NARJA: My heart is blue. MIKO: His jaw is strong. NARJA: Miko... My sweet Miko. MIKO: His presence in the lunch line makes me tremble with anticipation and at the same time shake with guilt. It is the only time that we are ever alone. NARJA: You, Miko, whose face is pure as the driven snow, whose eyes are black as Acheron and whose caressing touch makes my flesh melt. MIKO: What seems like an eternal exchange, here in this prison... NARJA: An endless river that has been muddled by time. Here among the flower beds of the desert, I hold this delicate petal to my heart. MIKO: We stand tall. NARJA: I stand before her.

MIKO: He has stood by his oath to protect this family. NARJA: This camp, this prison, has entombed my soul, but now, I loveMIKO: I loveNARJA: Here in the rose garden high above the desert. MIKO: I love the strength of the rose. NARJA: I love. (He smiles, and then begins to break down.) MIKO: I love how strong these flowers are. NARJA: My heart is taintedMIKO: There is strengthNARJA: My brother, my oath. MIKO: Blood soaked petals caress my flesh. NARJA: And runs through my veins. MIKO: If you prune the rose of it’s thorns, you find it is easiest to hold close. NARJA: Inches from her body. MIKO: We sleep between the sheets. NARJA: Myself on one side. MIKO: A rose on the other. NARJA: (crying) I am forsaken! MIKO: I cannot forget. NARJA: Forgive me! MIKO: But I have learned to forge on and forgive.

NARJA: Forgive me. MIKO: Through the dust and sorrow, I have found a slice of peace. I can feel the hot sand as it squeezes between my toes. NARJA: The pebbles are warm and smooth. MIKO: The sun has flowered and it’s flaming hot petals whip across my face. I melt under its amber waves. NARJA: JapanMIKO: Japan is so beautiful in the summer time. The snow on Mount Fuji. The blooming of the white, powdery Sakura cherry trees. NARJA: I missMIKO: I miss it very much. But I have learned to be at peace. NARJA: At peace. MIKO: Here, in the night, here in the desert among the petals of time. Music begins to play. MIKO: I feel as though my spirit has been squeezed by one flag and hand cuffed by another. The two flags grip my hot body and with all of its strength, they are squeezing me tighter and tighter until I can hardly breathe. It is choking my lungs, sucking my strength, pacifying my patriotism. It feelNARJA: Lost. MIKO: Lost. NARJA: (Producing a knife in his hand.) I am lost. MIKO: We are lost, and forgotten, up here in the high desert. NARJA: Up here where time has no hands.

MIKO: The petals are now gone. The thorn is now stripped. But the bulb glows brightly. And all that remains is... MIKO and NARJA are both smiling, facing straight out. MIKO holds the rose up in the air, smiling. NARJA holds up the knife. MIKO brings down the rose as NARJA simultaneously brings down the knife, both to the heart. Before the knife touches his body, NARJA’s light fade out. Beat. MIKO’s light fades out. Beat. NARJA and MIKO exit. Stove light extinguishes. Music. END

Chicanx Theatre The father of modern Chicanx Theatre, Luis Valdez, has propagated that we must weed out the seeds of injustice. Theatre and art is a platform for that change. Ever since he joined Cesar Chavez on the picket line of the United Farm Workers Strike in the 1960’s, Valdez had become the beacon of light and hope for Chicanx Theatre artists. El Teatro Campesino, a theatre company formed by and for farm workers during the fulcrum of the UFW strike during the ‘60’s has become an iconic symbol of Chicanx and Hispanic experiences. Using short scenes of Commedia dell’arte or actos, Valdez instilled sight specific theatre, with scenes being played out on the very farm fields, where they were striking. The actors were made up of the farm workers themselves, taking on the roles of farmers and farm owners. Much of the short plays were performed with very little dialogue in order to transcend both English and Spanish speakers. When he graduated from San José State in the 1960’s he moved right into the world of activist action, writing plays and theatre that focused on the Hispanic experience. One of his prized theatre musicals, Zoot Suit, has become a staple of the American Theatre scene. Centered on the 1940’s Zoot Suit Riots in Los Angeles the play has become a focal point for exploiting Chicanx injustice and racism in mainstream America. Valdez has become associated with being the father of modern Chicanx Theatre since he continued to push this movement from the 1960’s onward to today. Many plays by other artists deal directly with the Mexican-American struggle in terms of equality, racism and the quintessential quest for not only the American Dream, but the human experience. Señorita Julia demonstrates that Chicanx culture remained fairly isolated from Caucasian social norms during the 1940s. The struggle to gain not only acceptance, but to see the world beyond, in terms of visions and dreams, seems to lay out of reach. The play is littered with symbolic emblems of Chicanx past both in the groundwork of the environment and the embodiment of the Hombre character. His lines add voice to the fact that much of the Chicanx population has the ability to peer “through the rancor of hate and disgust” and see the ultimate beauty that is America. As

Hombre states, “the land still bears our name, New Mexico. We live here. We die here. But there is always a connection to where we came.” As a theatre movement what had started as primarily a Mexican and Mexican-American experience began to spread through out the Hispanic environment to include stories from around the globe.

The Glass Borders of the Chicanx Theatre Artist Critical Analysis “We didn’t cross the border, the border crossed us.” This axiom of America has been issued forth by Paul D’Amato, along with a plethora of others as one of the antithesis statement of the immigrant rights movement. When we dissect the ideologies of walls and borders, in particular the construct of the border between the United States and Mexico, we understand that formal immigration checkpoints and procedures have always been in place. From these walls artists have grown incredible works of art, rotting themselves on both sides of the border, planting seeds inspiration in those that are willing to challenge and scale these immense boundaries. In this politically charged and exceptionally divided country, where we look to the highest office for clarity, it often seems as though our current administration is producing its own political actos based on the personal whims of one man. These improvised performances deny truth and the foundations that have been built up between the two countries of Mexico and the United States. Aside from the physical walls that separate these

two countries, an opaque wall of fear and often time loathing of those that are different has been forming. These cultural ideologies permeate American society and threaten our very humanity. Yet along with instilling fear and terror there is a direct line of communication that is open and hospitable . Is it possible to root out these steeples of misunderstanding and fear? As artists can we inject an intervention of cultural awareness that spreads beyond the southern border states? Where does the Chicanx theatre artist make waves north of the Mexican border? Southern California, Arizona, New Mexico and Texas are the gateways of Chicanx culture, but how does Oedipus El Rey play in the Twin Cities and retain its audience? How does Real Women Have Curves play in Bloomfield, Indiana? Can a professional theatre produce The Mexican Trilogy in Alberta, Canada and still pay their actors? Can Guillermo Gómez-Peña stage his immersive experiences in North Dakota? To answer this we need to look to a bit of history. Many underrepresented cultural groups fought in World War II only to find oppressive racism upon their return. Whether in reaction to many Hispanic dispositions, or as a type of educational imperialism, the United States delved into a comprehensive “education” of their own neighbors to the south. Diana Taylor speaks about Hispanic/Latino Theatre and its comprehensive absorption of all Spanish speaking countries and the austere views that many populations from the United States and Canada seem to view, “Latin American studies emerged as a result of cold war by

the U.S. government to advance ‘intelligence’ […] in countries to the south” (Taylor XVII). This vested interest in the northern Americas, particularly Canada and the United States in particular, allowed these two countries to examine hemispheric attitudes in science, history, and art and to bridge the understanding of history, conquests, colonization, slavery, indigenous rights, imperialism, migration, and globalization” (Taylor XVIII). This proliferation of the southern Americas was a modest beginning for the general population of the United States and Canada into the culture of many Hispanic communities particularly the sourcing of Chicanx culture. As seminal as this seems today it took another twenty years or so for many Hispanic art communities in the United States, and in this case Chicanx Theatre, to start a true physical artistic movement. The ideas that had been permeating in that cerebral form finally emerged with the explosion and the collective of many of the other empowering movements of the 1960s. Each “movement” building upon one another. The Civil Rights movement built off the Anti-war movement which built

off the Second-wave Feminist

movement which built off the Red Movement which fueled the Hispanic/Chicano movement and El Movimiento, etc…

“At a time when

the New Left and the counterculture were on the rise, these artists reflected the decade’s political and cultural radicalism and helped to define a new aesthetic” (Martin 11). While Luis Valdez and Cesar Chavez were fighting for farm workers rights during the mid-to-late 1960s on the very earth that once belonged to

the very campesinos that where picking grapes and chopping off heads of lettuce, it may have felt that the Anglo-Saxon dominated land of North America was being ripped at the fragile fabric of those that had conquered the earth hundreds of years earlier. Chavez and especially Valdez were eager to explain that the United Farm Workers strike was a milestone in Chicanx human rights. The strike was orchestrated in an attempt to reverse the mostly myopic visions of many citizens and to make create a sphere of cultural awareness. Valdez headed the theatrical portion of the strike but he was quick to highlight the deeper issues that struck at the hearts regarding the strike, “…[it] was not simply economic but concerned the deeper issue of cultural identity” (Wilmer 138). During the strike of the late 1960s El Teatro Campesino launched a national tour, the first such tour for a Chicanx theatre organization in the United States. Luis Valdez and his efforts helped to spawn other mostly student-based organizations that were dedicated to the Chicanix cause such as Teatreo de la Esperanze in 1969 and Teatro de la Gente in 1970. By 1971 several of the smaller Chicanix based theatrical organizations formed TENAZ or El Teatro Nacional de Aztlán in order to “…coordinate the activities of the different groups in both the United States and Mexico, and to facilitate communication and organize annual events” (Wilmer 140). By 1970 many considered El Teatro Campesino to have reached their apotheosis yet under Valdez the organization proliferated its status and slowly began to produce productions and projects that centered on the

political and cultural activities that were affecting Chicanix people at that time. The mostly improvised Vietname Campesino explored the “…direct connection […] between the exploitation of the fruit picker and that of the Vietnamese peasant”(Bigsly 360). The play draws many parallels to American political action of the early 1970’s and the direct link to the undervalued viewpoint of a free trade market and human rights is exploited in the piece: Each is seen as a victim of American capitalism the military, and the agricultural businessman working in a harmony marked not only by shared objectives but so common methods. Thus both are shown using chemical sprays to destroy their enemies, and issues concerning the pickers at that time being the indiscriminate use of crop-spraying with no regards for the effects for those actually working in the field (Bigsly 360). By the mid 1970s el Teatro Campesino moved away from the improvised acto and began to concrete on mitos, or myths “…which emphasized the link with Native American spirituality” (Wilmer 144). By the time that Zoot Suit hit the stage in 1978 the organization was considered somewhat mainstream in the United States and Valdez was cemented as the father of Chicano Theatre. Since that time, theatrical voices, professional and student, that were once silent slowly began to seep up from the south, in particular Mexico and into states such as California, Arizona, New Mexico and Texas

where growing Chicanx Theatre movements have continued to thrive. And since the mid-century those border-states have seen a steady influx of artists that are ready to propagate those stories that uphold the Chicanx experience. “Rather than focusing on the immediate problems of the [United Farm Workers] strike, [El Teatro Campesino] began producing plays about Chicano identity a wide variety of grievances” (Wilmer 140). Although those Mexican stories, tales and myths of creationism and human awareness have always been told, the Chicanx Theatre movement was a major turning point. Several organizations took hold of Luis Valdez as their figurehead father and has followed his lead for the past fifty-plus years. Chicanx artists have worked in teatros since Valdez’ work in such cities such organizations as GALA Hispanic Theatre in Washington D.C, Teatro Vista in Chicago and The Latino Theatre Group in Los Angeles, whose co-founder Evelina Fernandez, author of A Mexican Trilogy, was a dancer in the original Mark Taper forum production of Valdez’s Zoot Suit. A Mexican Trilogy, a three-play cycle written by Evelina Fernández patterns itself off August Wilson’s Century Cycle of plays about the AfricanAmerican experience. Fernández points out that Eduardo Machado’s 1990’s epic, Floating Island Plays, that covers the Cuban-American experience was a groundbreaking set of plays that set in motion the drive in order to tell her own story. She talks openly about her feeling on writing directly to the Chicanx experience when she said of her trilogy that “…she had no intention of joining the ranks of the epic durational play à la Angels

in America or The Kentucky Cycle” (Fernández). She speaks highly of Luis Valdez, “I always thank Luis for giving me that opportunity and pointing me in a whole new direction” (Fernández). Her understanding that her role in Zoot Suit and her working relationship with Luis Valdez was the current that moved her career forward. She spoke about this in 2017 with Center Theatre Group Magazine: It was the first time Chicanos were on the main stage at a regional theatre, and it was the first time Latinos attended the theatre in huge numbers. We didn’t realize it at first, but it soon became apparent that we were making history in the American theatre, and that the play’s truths about racism and discrimination suffered by Mexican-Americans in the U.S. struck a full emotional and political chord in our community” (Fernández). As the United States looks at its own culture of art, performance and theatre we must ask is there a place in the northernmost Americas for these continuing opportunities? Fernández’s extraordinary feats as an artist seem to have a challenging time finding not only production roots beyond the Southwestern border states but that ability to connect with audiences that are not Chicanx. These journeys of faith and hope are human journeys, not just Chicanx dreams, but the manifestations of the human condition regardless of skin color or cultural ownership. In order for art and commerce to thrive simultaneously the artist must find a balance between

what might be considered “accessible.” As many Chicanx artists have found, this balance has been an immense challenge. Are these “allowances” of art and performance mitigated to certain communities? South Florida’s vibrant Cuban community embraces several playwrights including the acclaimed avant-garde María Iren Fornés. Fornes managed to break those walls down, but she was already in New York in the 1960s when she began to write plays. We can also look to the Pulitzer Prize playwright Nilo Cruz and his proliferation of the Cuban and CubanAmerican experience as it relates to that particular region in many of his works including Anna in the Tropics. These playwrights have managed to infiltrate the major theatre scenes both in south Florida and the mainstream theatrical environments including artistic and academic enclaves. While we speak about walls and borders, art has its own ironic limitless bounds. Models and forms are erected and torn down, but as all theatre artists we ponder the balance between art and commerce, how do we conceive, propagate and protect those culturally rich stories that do not follow the accessible model? What models of theatrical expression will be able to find the correct intervention through the people of the United States? These models move through theatre, film, dance and animation. Delving into models such as Forum Theatre which consists of live, active workshops in which those passive audience members become directly involved, as actors gives life to social and cultural consciousness. Augusto Boal developed his own style of Forum Theatre based on “…the

principles of Paul Freire's as a tool of collective empowerment and emancipation” (Kaptani). Those that are oppressed which bring to light a variety of complex issues and delineations of cultural awareness. Forum Theatre constitutes a series of workshops in which the participants are transformed from a passive audience into the double roles of actors and active audience. They construct dramatic scenes involving conflictual oppressive situations in small groups, and show them to the other participants who intervene by taking the place of the protagonists and suggesting better strategies for achieving their goals (Kapatini). Boal writes in Games for Actors and Non-Actors, “The Theatre of the Oppressed is theatre in this most archaic application of the word. In this usage, all human beings are Actors (they act!) and Spectators (they observe!)” (Boal 30). As we look at under-represented or “oppressed” cultural societies, could Forum Theatre be used to highlight and accentuate the hegemony that the United States has consistently created? With relation to Hispanic Theatre and more specifically Chicanx Theatre Doctor Jorge Huerta, among the first Chicanx theatre maker to receive a PhD in Drama in 1970, once wrote in the early 1970’s, “…with the production of plays came the development of scholarship focused on the theatre and performance(es) by Chicana (read female), Chicano, and other Spanish-surnamed people living in the US. I called this incursion into theatre “ (Huerta 43). As the decades progressed there continued to be an upwelling of academic and artistic support in the 1970’s and 1980’s nationwide in the United States for the Hispanic Theatre movement as a whole.

With relation to history Huerta writes, “... to be a Chicana or a Chicano in the United States-which is to say to have been educated in this country-means that your indigenous history and myths have basically been ignored, suppressed or ignored all together” (Huerta 17). In an American Theatre Magazine article fifteen years later Huerta retrospectively writes, “the 1980s and ‘90s saw a proliferation of projects aimed at enhancing the financial and aesthetic development of Hispanic theatre in mainstream regional theatres as well as in Chicano and Hispanic theatre companies” (American Theatre Magazine). On film there has been slow but steady progress with regards to Chicanx filmmakers. Alfonso Cuarón has seen excessive success as a director, screenwriter, producer, cinematographer, and editor. With such notable works as Y Tu Mamá También (2001), Gravity (2013) and Roma (2018). The last two films on this list garnered Best Director nominations at the Academy Awards. And even though his success has been profound in helping to guide the path for more Chicanx filmmakers, progress is still slow. Other notable Chicanx directors include Guillermo del Toro Gómez whose works often moves back and forth between stories of social justice and blockbusters.

Patricia Cardoso has also found moderate success

when she helmed the big screen adaptation of Josefina López’s 1990 stage play Real Women Have Curves, a piece that is marked by the issues of gender politics and the Latina immigrant experience.

There does appear to be some steady progress in terms of the broader landscape in order to tell these stories, but like the border walls that seem to dominate the political landscape these days, there appears to be a glass ceiling on how far the Chicanx experience appears to be able to rise. Each of these “movements,” if we can call them that, supply an intervention against the mainstream Anglo-Saxon perception of what “theatre” and “performance” is defined as. That definition of theatre and performance is constantly evolving, progressing, and changing. In Luis Valdez’s piece The Shrunken Head of Pancho Villa that played at the Teatro Campesino in 1968, “Valdez depicted a Chicano family divided over the question of assimilation” (Wilmer 140). Chicanx artists have unique and powerful voices and what methods can we use or construct to instill understanding and context in this intervention? Huerta unearths Mexican-American culture in relation to the context of Chicanx storytelling. In 2000 he wrote “…when our playwrights began to resuscitate Mexican legendary figures along with Aztec and Mayan gods and concepts, they challenged both the Mexican and American hegemonies” (Huerta 18). Doctor Huerta goes on writing about the challenges, but also the intrinsic need for Chicanx artists to understand Mexican folklore and history. “Myths are created through generations of storytelling and cultural logic which gives those stories mythic significance, not through plays or murals on barrio walls” (Huerta 19).

Chicanx storytellers are burdened with the questions as to whether it is in their best interest to conform to the Western Theatre model of Victorian Realism, Naturalism and Greek Theatre models in order to propagate those stories that came from the hearth of Aztec culture? Or do they borrow from Eastern traditions and speak directly from the mythos and origins stories? Is the Chicanx theatre creator attempting to reach that audience through American assimilation of theatrical convention or could the artist express him/herself in a unique and vibrant manner. In order to capitalize on the riches of the Chicanx storytelling model it may be necessary to lift the weight of those traditional American theatrical genres. Those artistic obligations to Mexico’s cultural past and those transitions into the United States are powerful messages. Yet it may not be necessary to always stoke the fires of the past. This sense of cultural identity is transforming and when we dissect the very word “Chicanx” we find this split between history of where one has been and where one is today. Although to be Chicanx doesn’t necessarily mean that one has to be born in Mexico, yet heritage is an essential foundation. Unlike the the Japanese where there is a grammatical divergence between Nisei (children born in the Americas to Japanese born immigrant) and Issei (Japanese immigrants) Chicanx is inclusive of any generation that contains specifically Mexican heritage. And many children born in the United States and Canada to Mexican immigrant parents are able to look to the past, yet this new identity of being Chicanx in this country to many is all “American.”

Could these new stories of today help to build upon the construct of the Mexican identity in the northern Americas without sacrificing the roots of cultural identity? Luis Valdez’s early works that do incorporate those more surrealistic and non-traditional theatrical models such as Eastern Theatre elements are considered “experimental work” in this country.

Such plays as The

Shrunken Head of Pancho Villa, We Don’t Need No Stinkin’ Badges and even Zoot Suit with its documentary theatrical style were and still are considered secular theatre pieces for Hispanic and especially Chicanx audience. But why? Is it the playwright and the theatre producers that determine this cultural audience, or is it the audience’s mind-set? Eventually Zoot Suit managed to reach a wider American audience by moving towards the mainstream in terms of marketing by first bringing the show to one of the country’s largest population bases: Los Angeles’ Mark Taper Forum in 1978 and then later to Broadway in 1981. After that success Valdez was pushed into more mainstream theatre and film work most notably being the Ritchie Valens docudrama La Bamba. Is it possible that theatre makers need to modify the thinking of the modern American audience, without relation to cultural touchstones? Valdez seems to have done so with the film La Bamba to a certain extent, but here is another question to ponder. How do those Chicanx writer and performance artists from Birmingham, New Orleans, and Atlanta find roots for their stories in states where they may find challenges in introducing

Chicanx stories to its audiences? Do we propel the Chicanx artist through that glass border using color blind casting into the afore-mentioned predominantly Anglo-Saxon story line or do does the Chicanx artist continue to push their audience to a comprehension of those cultural touchstones that make Mexican experiences so unique? Many people from Canada and the United States have digested the term Hispanic as one that includes practically any persons that speak Spanish. For as much as we write about the overall Chicanx experience, those sub set cultural differences exist between Argentinian, Cuban, Spanish, Puerto Rican, and Chicanx playwrights. While all share a common cultural artistic language, each has a mitigating tone that sets them apart. All may speak a Spanish tongue yet the Aztec derivative of the Chicanx artist differs from that of the Arawak experience that many Caribbean and South American theatre makers derive source material. Maureen Dolen, author of Chicano Theatre in Transition: The Experience speaks to these idioms of Latino and Hispanic Theatre as she writes, “…it has become increasingly clear that Chicanos […] have seen the necessity of uniting in a national minority with other, less numerous, groups of Latin American provenance such as Salvadorans, Nicaraguans and Colombians living in the United States… (Dolan 17). She goes on to tackle the deliverance of the largest Spanish speaking peoples in the United States when she writes about the political disposition that started in the 1960s, “Chicanos where the first people of Mexican origin in the United States to connect radical

politics with culture, at a time when the radicalization of American society as a whole was occurring…” (Dolan 19). Speaking

directly

about

the

Chicanx

Experience

through

performance and theatre what new models, what new interventions are needed to isolate those stories and propagate their deliverance? The waves of immigration have helped to move the spectrum of identity for many Hispanics, especially Chicanx individuals. As new Chicanx voices have infiltrated the predominantly Anglo-Saxon Theatre scene in The United States how do we cultivate and nurture these artists in areas of writing and performance? And most importantly do these performances have the power to sustain an idea, a concept, a story. As Diana Taylor writes, “...whose memories, traditions, and claims to history disappear if performance practices lack the staying power to transmit knowledge” (Taylor 5). Theatre is a cyclical experience at certain points. Not all performance

is

drawn

from

written

language.

Performance

art,

improvisation, living newspapers can oftentimes be lost in that moment of an immersive three-dimensional experience. But do we need records? Do we need these propagations of Broadway style theatre in order to maintain performances’ staying power? Luis Valdez didn’t need it in 1965 when he formed Teatro Campesino. El Henry, a 2014 site-specific theatre piece by Herbert Siguenza developed through the La Jolla Playhouse and the San Diego Repertory. In it the playwright used Shakespeare’s Henry IV part 1 as a sustaining futuristic adaption, using a traditional theatrical script but its

requirements where built around those particular environmental setting of Balboa Park in San Diego, California. Part Forum Theatre, part SiteSpecific Theatre the piece, much like the playwright’s interactive Beach Town which premiered at the San Diego Repertory Theatre in 2018, creates an interactive environment where the audience is more than spectator. Whereas El Henry used more theatrical Realism, Beach Town opened the play up where the audience was voting on specific artifacts of Beach Town (San Diego) as it relates to historical culture and context. The actors were directed to improvise with the audience in a Forum Theatre style, soliciting questions and offering mostly improvised responses. Many Chicanx artists still turn to the father of modern Chicanx Theatre and to Zoot Suit as the major theatrical device that paved a rugged path towards diverse stories of non-assimilation, cultural exploration and historical perspective. We call Valdez the father of modern Chicanx Theatre for his contributions to the American Theatre scene, and his inspiration for countless artists. He is lauded and applauded for exposing many of the injustices, and disheartening effects of immigration through his origins of El Teatro Campesino. His creative and often overlooked administrative vision in terms of producing and exposing Chicanx art has been groundbreaking, not only for his creative vision but in his effects of making theatre accessible to a Hispanic and specifically a Chicanx audience of all socioeconomic statuses. When Doctor Huerta’s interviewed Luis Valdez in 2000 he spoke about what the artist will need as the 21st century appears, “…

some people live in the present, some people live in the future, but most people live in the past” (Chicano Drama, Huerta 32). If the Chicanx artist is able to hold those memories of the past that has been slowed the progress of cultural identity while not just looking ahead to the future but creating a brave new future through performance and art, then there may be hope for the Chicanx artist north of the northern border. A Raisin in the Sun exposed the working class environments of African-American life and gave rise to so many beautiful and spirited writers such as August Wilson’s history cycle. Those other cultural plays that make tectonic shifts in the theatrical landscape include Amiri Baraka’s mind shuffling two-hander The Dutchman, with its direct symbolic stabs at racism, to today’s epics by Suzan Lori-Parks The America Play. Now over forty years old Zoot Suit still gives us an historical look at racism, cultural divide, and our own insecurities as it relates to the human condition. Valdez speaks on condition of the wholeness of the American Dream, and how that dream has been diminished. In the 1970s Zoot Suit was able to absorb many of the mythos, feelings and emotions of the Chicanx lifestyle of the twentieth century. This is an excellent example of using the harsh realities of the past in order to mold the theatre forms for the future. Yet as an adapted play for the cinema Zoot Suit’s themes are just as relevant as when the film was produced in 1981, yet why do we continue to produce the live musical over and over again? The power of

live theatre is able to show us this courage in three dimensions, not to take anything away from the ubiquitous power of film. Delving once again into film we find that Real Women Wear Curves is able to find that wider audience, either by happenstance or mistake. Yet the central issue of artist merit takes on a whole different analysis. With a more light-hearted approach we can find the Disney animated film Coco (2017) to emulate several Chicanx themes, yet also exhibits some stereotypes and tropes about family, music, folk art and religion. Not to say that this film is enjoyable and its audience is widespread. Disney made the decision to release the film in both English and Spanish, to reach the broadest audience possible and is one of Pixar’s most successful films in terms of revenue. Still, where does that leave the three-dimensional Chicanx theatre artist? So how do we forge forward with the knowledge and the collection of playwrights that are writing to keep the Mexican and Chicanx experience alive on both sides of the border? Doctor Huerta had said, “…when our playwrights began to resuscitate Mexican legendary figures […] they challenged both Mexican and North American hegemonies” (Huerta 9). And with this is the instillation of those true interventions into cultural progress. In order to make an intervention into the subcultural aspect of those non-bordering states the Chicanx artist needs to root out those souls who are moving forward within their own artistic communities willing to embrace the culture, the joy, the injustices of being Mexican-American. The strength

and vitality of the Chicanx theatre maker and performance artist is the imperative understanding that history may be able to teach lessons for the future. Those glass borders are translucent on both sides of the border. In that same interview back at the turn of the millennia Doctor Huerta had said, “…the whole narrative of the American experience, of the American nation, needs to grow and change and evolve in the 21st century to allow Americans of all colors, from all religions, origins, and backgrounds subscribing to the fundamental issues of our country which are inscribed in the Constitution” (Huerta, 23). This cultural intervention of Chicanx art moves northbound but it is required that artists and audiences on both sides of the glass border are open to an infusion of rich historical and cultural experiences.

Bibliography Baol, Augusto. Games for Actors and Non Actors. Routledge Press, London & New York, 1992. Bigsly, William. Twentieth-Century American Drama. Cambridge University Press, New York, 1985. D’Amaro, Paul. The Meaning of Marxism. Haymarket Books, Chicago, IL, 2006. Dolan, Maureen. Chicano Theatre in Transition: The Experience of El Teatro de la Esperanza. Department of Hispanic Studies of the University of Glasgow, 1994. Fernández, Evelina, Center Theatre Group Website, January 5, 2017 blogs/news/2017/january/how-zoot-suit-changed-theatre-forever/ - Evelina Fernandez Huerta, Jorge. Latinix Theatre in the U.S , American Theatre Magazine. November 21, 2016. https://www.americantheatre.org/2016/11/21/elteatros-living-legacy/ Huerta, Jorge, Chicano Drama: Performance, Society and Myth. Cambridge University Press, 2000. Kaptani, Erene & Yuval-Davis, Nira. Sociological Research Online. Participatory Theatre as a Research Methodology: Identity, Performance and Social Action Among Refugees, University of East London, Sept 2008, http://www.socresonline.org.uk/13/5/2.html Martin, Bradford. The Theatre is in the Streets. University of Massachusetts Press, 2004. Taylor, Diana. The Archive and the Repertoire: Performing Cultural Memory in the Americas. Duke University Press, London, 2003.

Wilmer, S.E. Theatre, Society and the Nation, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, UK, 2002.

Play Synopsis In a tragic updated retelling of Strindberg's classic tale of servitude and status, JOSÉ and Christina live under the auspice of Julia and her father, Mr. Warner. Blending themes from Miss Julie and Percy Shelly's Prometheus Unbound we find that the relationship between a Jewish kept daughter and a Chicano valet escalate to a dangerous consummation in a world that is not ready to accept the differences between class, race, and religion. Act I, Scene 1. The action takes place on Midsummer Eve, 1943 in the kitchen of Fredrick Warner’s sprawling ranch home in the Central Valley of California. There are two shelves full of utensils and other kitchen items. There is a modern refrigerator. A working sink sits next to an oven. A large standalone wooden cutting block sits somewhere on the set. Two matching chairs and a small dining table adorn the room. A Philco radio sits upon the kitchen counter somewhere. Adjacent to the kitchen are two symbolic door frames, but no doors. The frames of the doors are organic and broken. The stage left frame leads to CHRISTINA’s room. The stage right door frame leads to JOSÉ’s room. In both “rooms” there are only two pieces of furniture: a simple single bed and a small dresser. An ornate cross hangs somewhere over CHRISTINA’s

room. Downstage of the door frames lead to other areas of the house. There is also a telephone and a suspended clock which reads 9:33pm. In the dark we hear the sound of shoveling dirt. A low vibrating sound plays. A dark red light slowly rises. Down center HOMBRE stands, shoveling “dirt.” The CHORUS uniformly focuses their attention towards him. CHORUS: Behold the carrion caretaker of this land. You dare defy that single god, that single carrier of the cross, those whose skin bleeds alabaster, whose cobalt eyes mire the sanctity of civility. HOMBRE stops digging and address the CHORUS. HOMBRE: I ask you... Are not Thou and I alone of living things, behold with sleepless eyes regard this soil? With toil and tombs of broken hearts, with fear and self contempt and barren hope I ply my hands through this Earth. O’er Mine own misery and thy vain revenge-three hundred years of sleep unsheltered hours have divided the pangs of scorn and despair-but these are mine empire. O Mighty God! Almighty, I had I deigned to share the shame of thine ill tyranny, and hung not here, Nailed to this wall of condorbaffling desert, Black, scorching, dead, unmeasured; without herb, yet full of locust the shape and sound of life. EARTH CHORUS: Your misery, hath brought misery to the golden veins than travel through my stones, through my rivers, through my skies. My rent hart shall answer ye to thee. Your refuge, and your deference lies fallen and vanquished here is the valley of sun bleached stones in this Spanish Caucus. HOMBRE: My sacrifice hath turned the emblem of hot breath of Aztec youth from starry eyes to that of bruised fruit. WIND CHORUS: Yet behold that emblem, that is scorn for these chains upon you, one hath heaped a thousand fold torment from the sand slapping breeze. HOMBRE: You dare remit the anguish of that lighted stare? These chains? These chains that bury the meat of my limbs? That seek to set a fire under the flame of my heart?

WIND CHORUS: In each heart terror survives the raven it has gorged? HOMBRE: Your words are not unlike that of winged snakes. This land burns my feet, buries my back. CHORUS: Though chained... there are clouds to climb through the eagles periscope. I bid ascend these subtle and fair minded spirits beyond that twilight realm as in the glass coffer of confession. HOMBRE: Climb? (Beat.) Where hath my body seek to climb from this wretched and spiked desert? Through this very inlet of cropped rock where fertile crops once sprouted from the sequestered soil and the dappled sunshine without so much a lifted human wrist, upon only the breathe of the Aztecs found firm roots? WATER CHORUS: Your words douse not our eyelids. You dare defy the fire of Pizzaro, Balboa, Coronado. EARTH CHORUS: Pena, Hererra, Arista. FIRE CHORUS: Taylor, Filmore... Roosevelt. HOMBRE: The great green gorgons sway and drag their heavy tails in those heights. Each step is lacquered with ointment and each step I slip further into despair. The CHORUS moves in and out among him quickly now. EARTH CHORUS: Chained as you are, you must rip the womb of berries from the cacti. FIRE CHORUS: ¡Quemar!(Burn!) WATER CHORUS: ¡Ahogar! (Drown!) WIND CHORUS: ¡Brisa! (Breeze!) EARTH CHORUS: ¡Cavar! (Dig!) HOMBRE collapses. The CHORUS circles him.

FIRE CHORUS: Spark! WATER CHORUS: Drown! WIND CHORUS: Quick! EARTH CHORUS: Dig! HOMBRE drops to his knees in exhaustion. A low musical note begins to rise in intensity. HOMBRE: These cracked and coarse hands. FIRE CHORUS: The spasms. HOMBRE: The glowing orb upon my neck. WATER CHORUS: The liquid drops blind the orbs. HOMBRE: The rays have evaporated by bones. WIND CHORUS: Wait... Wait. No. No. Now... you must... Run! HOMBRE: My feet are weighted and chained to this earth. WIND CHORUS: Run. CHORUS: Sus pies están cargados y encadenados a esta tierra. (His feet are weighted and chained to this earth.) HOMBRE: My hand holds a delicate berry. CHORUS: La delicada baya que ahora sangra verde. (The delicate berry that now bleeds green.) WATER CHORUS: To crack that thick ice that laid across my temples. They sailed across my belly and found themselves something more valuable than gold. The savior has foundCHORUS: Muscle.

EARTH CHORUS: Muscles undulating in and out of the fertile land. Eyes as dark as the earth itself. WIND CHORUS: And breath as heavy as theWATER CHORUS: Surf. FIRE CHORUS: They found the shimmering flame, the gold that could fill their ships. They foundEARTH CHORUS: The labor they needed toFIRE CHORUS: Conquer. To destroy. To dominate. They left their footprints inEARTH CHORUS: My heart. And those souls... those people that were here before became trapped in the bones of my rib cage. And soon those men who carried steal swords began to chop down the men and women and children that were here before them. Their hearts filled with blood lust. WIND CHORUS: We ran intoWATER CHORUS: The ocean. WIND CHORUS: We ran intoFIRE CHORUS: The fire. WIND CHORUS: We were run intoEARTH CHORUS: The desert. (Beat.)The more they tried to escape, the more their sinews exploded with fear, the deeper the tendons began to slid into the sand to the point where we wereCHORUS: Buried. Beat. WIND CHORUS: I brought them here. I pushed their boats with mighty gusts.

FIRE CHORUS: And the slaughter had soon begun. And those that survived began toWATER CHORUS: Drown in the waves of the men who first moved theEARTH CHORUS: Land that was once me. The caverns of my mountains, my cloven fire-crags. WIND CHORUS: The unmeasured wilderness of my clouds that came and billowed over the camps. It was onceCHOURS: Ours. All of it. CHORUS: Now, we dig with wrists that have been slit. Lungs, suffocating with a solid hot thundercloud that has splintered our spirit. We are buried. WE ARE BURIED! HOMBRE: No.(Beat.) We are alive. HOMBRE is exhausted but still he stands up and looks around. The CHORUS watch him with anguish. The sound is building in intensity. He is exhausted. The musical note has reached its crescendo. A look of horror. CHORUS: Run. Run. (Beat.) RUN! He begins to run. Before he can take the first step, lights and sound out. Silence. A 1940’s period commercial ad plays. 1940’S COMMERICAL: Would you like a nice glass of refreshing lemonade or one of those hot summer days? Well, who wouldn’t? After a hard day mowing the lawn or simply having fun in the backyard you owe it to yourself to cool down and refresh. Have you thought of the greatest in comfort when purchasing a new refrigerator? Well, even during these hard times Fridgidaire is still the choice of most Americans when it comes to keeping your food cool. Leftovers will never spoil when you have the assurance of the best well built machine, manufactured right here in the US of A. When purchasing a refrigerator look to Frigidaire. And don’t forget to sell your War Bonds, we are all doing the world a great adjustment!

After that big band music rises from the radio. Every now and again we can hear the distant party sounds from outside the house. Act I, Scene 2. Lights slowly rise to find CHRISTINA washing dishes in the sink. She wears a comfortable light-colored cotton dress that goes down to her ankles and a plain apron. A door bell rings. She continues washing the dishes. CHRISTINA: ¡Andar! ¡Andar!(Go around!) The bell rings again. The lights slowly rise. She is washing the dishes. Door bell rings again. She takes off her apron and exits. The stage is empty except for the sound of the radio. We hear the door bell again. A long pause. CHRISTINA re-enters with JOSÉ dressed in livery and carrying a pair of big, spurred riding boots, which he places on the floor in such a manner that they remain visible to the audience. CHRISTINA: ¿Por qué no te fuiste?(Why didn’t you go around?) JOSÉ: ¿No está en casa, verdad? (He’s not home, is he?) CHRISTINA: Estás siguiendo la suciedad por el pasillo. (You’re tracking dirt through the hall.) JOSÉ: No soy un animal. (I’m not an animal.) CHRISTINA: Entonces deja de actuar como uno. (Then stop acting like one.) JOSÉ opens the refrigerator, takes out a decanter of orange juice and starts to pour himself a glass. CHRISTINA: ¿Por qué vuelves tan pronto? (Why are you back so soon?) JOSÉ: Tomé el Senor Warner a la estación de tren y cuando regresé me detuve en el ... (I took Mr. Warner to the train station and when I came back I stopped by the...)

CHRISTINA: No beba el zumo de naranja. (Don’t drink the orange juice.) And speak English. JOSÉ: Estaban solos. No hay nadie- (We’re alone. There’s no one-) CHRISTINA: (insistent) In English. He stops, pours the juice back into the decanter, and turns off the radio. CHRISTINA: And don’t leave the boots in here. You should take them outside to clean. JOSÉ: I’m not cleaning them. CHRISTINA: You will clean them. JOSÉ: I have three days until he comes back. Beat. CHRISTINA: You managed the cars? JOSÉ: The truck and the Chrysler. CHRISTINA: Speak English. JOSÉ swats at a fly. JOSÉ: (putting his arms around her.) Damn pests! You deserve better you know. Peeling and broiling all day. CHRISTINA: I don’t mind it so much. JOSÉ: Scraping shit off of the master’s boots. Scrapping shit off the car tires. Scraping the shit off his CHRISTINA: Scrape that off your mouth! Don’t start again JOSÉ, youJOSÉ: I’m not starting anything. (Beat.) I’m only-

CHRISTINA: Keep your nose clean. (Beat.) For us. (Beat. Change.) This heat is killing me. JOSÉ: We’re being killed out there too. Up in the air, down on the ground, out at sea. And for what? CHRISTINA: Stop. Now, peel the onions. JOSÉ: Peel the onions. Is that all you can say? I’m trying to talk to you and all you can say is peel the onions. Peel the onions. We come to the land that was once ours and they treat us no better than the shit under Señor’s shoes. CHRISTINA: What do you want me to say? You say the same thing every day, over and over. JOSÉ: But you don’t listen to me. CHRISTINA: Every day I listen to you. JOSÉ: Do you? Beat. CHRISTINA: There is work to do and we must do it. Now eat your dinner. JOSÉ: I’m trying to talk to you and all you can say is eat your dinner. Maldita sea este lugar! CHRISTINA drops a pan in the sink and stops. JOSÉ: We’re dying. CHRISTINA: Do you forget what we went through? Silence. CHRISTINA: Now help me with these onions. A long pause. He crosses and starts to peel the onions for her at the sink.

JOSÉ: Where will he sleep? CHRISTINA: Tito has a room. JOSÉ: He has a room, but not a house. My son, where will he sleep? CHRISTINA: It might be a girl. JOSÉ: It’s a boy. I can feel it. He’ll be strong. Masculine. CHRISTINA: is quiet. JOSÉ(stops peeling) The wind... it’s blowing out there tonight. That dry wine. It’s like we are trapped in the desert here. CHRISTINA: Not like the Japanese. JOSÉ: The Japanese. (Beat.) We’re the structure, the pillars of everything that this land is about and still we dawdle in the piss and shit. Stepped on, kicked at, shouted atCHRISTINA: Enough! (Beat.) Peel the onions. She turns away and continues peeling. Beat. He does the same. CHRISTINA: (cheerful) I think William is going to set the date. JOSÉ: (chuckling sarcastically) I don’t think so. CHRISTINA: Why? JOSÉ: Miss didn’t have on her ring yesterday. CHRISTINA: She probably took it off when she went swimming. JOSÉ: That kid... No nose for business and he’s a damn manager. He’s never cooked, cleaned the floors, nothing. I have no idea what she sees in him. CHRISTINA: She’s a good match for him.

JOSÉ: She’s a firecracker. CHRISTINA: And she’s getting older. (Beat. With a little discord in her voice.) She has lines across her forehead. She can’t live here forever. JOSÉ: Can’t she? Living fat on the land. Papa’s still here for the suckling. All she needs to do is go to synagogue each week and she collects her allowance. CHRISTINA: She’ll marry soon and start her own life. JOSÉ: Start a life? She’ll be thirty next week. She stops. CHRISTINA: How do you know that? He stops. CHRISTINA: Did you go through her diary? Beat. CHRISTINA: Did you go through Miss’s diary when you cleaned her room? She stops peeling the onions. JOSÉ: She told me. (Beat.) Her birthday is Tuesday. A pause as CHRISTINA puts the onions down, washes her hands and then pulls her hands out of the sink dripping with water. She stands there, not moving, looking at JOSÉ. CHRISTINA: I should bake her a cake. JOSÉ: As long as you make rugelach with sterling silver icing. JOSÉ sits at the table, lights a cigarette and picks up the newspaper and reads. She stands: there, her hands still dripping, looking right at JOSÉ who stares at her back. Beat. He tosses her a dish towel. She dries her hands. He reads. She takes the paper away from him.

CHRISTINA: Where did you get those? JOSÉ: I bought them. CHRISTINA: They’re Señor’s. You stole them. JOSÉ: He has enough. A pause. CHRISTINA: Why did you come through the front door? JOSÉ: I had to check the tiles in the back. CHRISTINA: Did you go to the barn? JOSÉ: I stopped in for a secondCHRISTINA: And? JOSÉ: She’s crazy. Beat. CHRISTINA: She didn’t go? JOSÉ: It’s her barn. She goes where she wants. CHRISTINA:I mean she didn’t go to the lake? JOSÉ: I guess not. CHRISTINA: And you were in the barn with her? Beat. JOSÉ: She needed help... pulling out... the... barrels. Moving them. CHRISTINA: You said you were working on the tiles-

JOSÉ: I did. CHRISTINA: She was supposed to have been gone. JOSÉ: Well she stayed. CHRISTINA: Why? A long silence. CHRISTINA: I assumed she was going. JOSÉ: Me too. Señor sat the entire staff down like we were little children and told us. (Imitating him. He talks very slow.) “Pardon Señors and Señoras. Tomorrow, mi familia is going to el mountain-os. There is a partyo in el barn-o for you manana. Si? Gracias.” CHRISTINA: He’ll hear. JOSÉ: He’s gone. CHRISTINA:

Las paredes tienen orejas. (The walls have ears.)

JOSÉ: What are you getting on me about. You make fun of Miss all the time. CHRISTINA: (back to peeling the onions) He said that the entire family was going. I assumed she is part of the family. JOSÉ: The money part I suppose. CHRISTINA: Don’tJOSÉ: (throwing his hands up) This isn’t fair. A very long pause. CHRISTINA: I thought William was going to propose. At the lake. JOSÉ: (chuckling) I’m telling you that’s off. You should have seen the way that fella treated her yesterday. I was on the back porch but... The two of

them were out in the field. He had the truck ready... You know teaching her to drive. They drove around and around like wild turkeys. And then she drove the car into a little ditch. He jumped out screaming at her like a madman looking at the busted fender. You know what she was doing? (Beat.) Laughing. She cocked her head back in the sunshine and the dappled sun dressed her face with the sweet nectar of the fragrant air. (He remembers.) She just kept laughing her head off while he walked away kicking up dust frustrated as hell. She laughed so hard that tears streamed down her face. CHRISTINA: You said you were on the porch. JOSÉ: So? CHRISTINA: You were so close that you could see her tears? Beat. CHRISTINA: (quickly and a little jealous.) She’s a child. JOSÉ: Youthful I suppose. CHRISTINA: Her cheekbones are too high. JOSÉ: Perhaps. CHRISTINA: Her shoulders? She’s a little squat don’t you think? JOSÉ: Her hair is stringy. CHRISTINA: When you danced with her did you feel her tits against your chest? A pause. JOSÉ doesn’t quite know what to say. CHRISTINA: They are round like peaches. Fuzzy and warm on the outside I would imagine. Wouldn’t you say? A long pause. JOSÉ: I didn’t feel her breasts.

CHRISTINA: Tits. But you were dancing with her. JOSÉ: Just the one song. How did you know that? CHRISTINA: I didn’t. You just told me. (Beat.) You talk too much. A pause. JOSÉ Miss... she invited me, us to come and dance. You too, but you were in the house, so I just pulled up to the barn before taking the car to the house and... and I just... I just heard the music and was dancing with some others and that was all. Nothing to speak about. Beat. CHRISTINA is still, listening to every word. She doesn’t move. He turns the radio back on, and kisses her on the forehead. They start to dance. She pulls away and turns the music off while she stares him down. JOSÉ: Her tits are saggy andCHRISTINA: Te estoy viendo. (I watch your eyes.) Pause. He doesn’t know where to go from here. JOSÉ: That smells horrible. What is it that you are cooking? He sits at the table. CHRISTINA: It’s for the dog. She pulls a plate of food out of the oven and drops it in front of JOSÉ at the table. JOSÉ: What is it? CHRISTINA: Tongue. He pushes the food away. He sighs and pats his leg signaling her to sit down. Beat.

CHRISTINA slowly crosses and sits on his leg. He puts his hand on her stomach. JOSÉ: My son. She puts her hands through his hair. CHRISTINA: Our daughter. She slowly gets off of him crosses to the refrigerator and pulls out a beer, pours it in a glass and places it in front of him. He takes a sip. JOSÉ: (looking at the beer) What is it? CHRISTINA: Budweiser. He takes a sip. JOSÉ: It’s awful. He distastefully sets it down. CHRISTINA: Was Miss teaching you all to dance? JOSÉ: A little. She was more interested in teaching everyone about the play. CHRISTINA: Play? JOSÉ: A Midsummer Night’s Dream. It’s Shakespeare. CHRISTINA: I have no time for silliness. Did she only dance with you? Beat. She studies him. He takes another swig. CHRISTINA: She was wearing something from Clara’s? JOSÉ: What do I know about clothes? CHRISTINA: Floral print dress, bonnet, cuffs?

JOSÉ: doesn’t answer. CHRISTINA puts the radio back on, turning the channel to Mexican polka. She pulls JOSÉ up. CHRISTINA: Dance with me JOSÉ. JOSÉ: Ah... CHRISTINA: You never dance with me. JOSÉ: (putting his hand on her stomach) I’ll be dancing with you for the rest of my life. CHRISTINA: Dance with us. (She pats her stomach a little.) JOSÉ reluctantly gets up and moves towards CHRISTINA. JULIA laughs off stage. JULIA: (off stage, giggling) I’ll be back in a minute. You go right on in the meantime. Don’t be too long though. I expect you to be ready! JULIA enters smartly from the barn party. She is wearing a pair of costumed fairy wings. CHRISTINA pushes JOSÉ away and grabs her apron, putting it back on as quickly as possible. JULIA: (to CHRISTINA) Is it ready Christina? CHRISTINA signals to JULIA that JOSÉ is present. JULIA: I have eyes you know. I can see that he’s here. It’s not a secret. JOSÉ: Secrets? JULIA: (getting a little too close to him) Wouldn’t you like to know? (Beat.) Well, give it here Christina. Beat. CHRISTINA pulls from a cabinet an unmarked bottle with alcohol in it. She gets a

glass and starts to pour. JOSÉ: You look quite pure, Miss Julia. JULIA: Looks an be so deceiving. Beat. JULIA: (upbeat) I’m Mustard Seed! Over hill, over dale, Thorough bush, thorough brierJOSÉ: (finishing the lines) Over park, over pale, Thorough flood, thorough fire, I do wander everywhere. Beat. JULIA giggles. JULIA: Do you? Do you wander everywhere? (Beat.) Be careful Christine, I might steal him away from you. JOSÉ: Miss her name is Christina. JULIA: If you add the Spanish “a” to the feminine word andCHRISTINA: Miss can call me whatever she likes soJOSÉ: (emphatic) Her name is Christina. Beat. JULIA: Making mountains out of molehills. (She giggles.) It’s all the same to me. Have it your way. Christine doesn’t seem to mind. CHRISTINA gives him a look. JULIA stays in high spirits. JULIA: (to JOSÉ) Now don’t peek! Don’t peek! Close your eyes! JOSÉ closes his eyes. JULIA: This is a very special concoction.

JOSÉ turns around. JULIA: A special brew for this hot summer night. My father gets a bottle every now and again from an agave plantation from a guy he knows. JULIA gives him the bottle. He opens the top and smells it. JOSÉ: Resposado? JULIA: Is that good? JOSÉ: You don’t drink tequila Miss Julia. JULIA: How do you know? JOSÉ: Your father doesn’t like you to drink anything but brandy and that... Uh... ... Mane... JULIA: Manischewitz, yes. It’s juice for child. (Beat.) Well, come on, let’s have some fun. She grabs three small glasses and places them on the counter. JULIA: Go on Christina pour us some. CHRISTINA pours two shots. There is a stillness. JULIA notices. JULIA: Well come on, come on. All three of us. CHRISTINA: Miss, I... JOSÉ pours another glass. JULIA takes hers and raises it. JOSÉ takes his and offers a glass to CHRISTINA. CHRISTINA: JOSÉ... JOSÉ: Just hold it. JULIA: To friendship!

They salute. JULIA shoots the tequila. It’s rough going down. JOSÉ takes a sip. CHRISTINA toasts but does not drink. JULIA: Oh come Christina, drink. CHRISTINA: Miss, I am withJOSÉ: Just hold it. JULIA: Hold it? Come now, this is an order. Now drink! JULIA grabs the bottle and pours more shots. She looks to JOSÉ and doesn’t say anything. CHRISTINA takes a small sip and coughs. JOSÉ sips again. JULIA shoots hers. JOSÉ: You drink this down like cough syrup. It’s to be savored. JULIA: Now there’s some scholarly advice. CHRISTINA: Miss Julia, I love your costume. JULIA: Do you? CHRISTINA: Yes. You look like an angel. She takes off the fairy wings. JULIA: Now I’m a witch. A pause. JULIA breaks the silence. JULIA:L (to CHRISTINA) Another shot my dears! CHRISTINA: Yes, Miss. JULIA: Now JOSÉ, come and dance again with me. CHRISTINA places her glass on the counter and pours another shot for JULIA. JOSÉ: Most gracious Miss, but I must say no.

JULIA: Who’s proper here? Daddy is gone. Your fiancee doesn’t mind. I make the rules. You’re dancing with me now. JOSÉ: I have already promised Christina a dance and it wouldn’t be proper toCHRISTINA: JOSÉ is an excellent dancer, Miss. JULIA: So civilized and orderly. She knows her place. Christina can find someone else to dance with. Thomas is there, lurking behind the hay barrels. I’m sure he’ll dance with her (She giggles.) Won’t you let me borrow JOSÉ for a dance? He is so muy guapo. Oh, please! He’s just too charming to resist. CHRISTINA: (doing her duty) When Miss Julia is so gracious it isn’t easy for him to say no. Dance with Miss Julia. JOSÉ: Miss Julia, I don’t wish to offend but we have already danced. Perhaps you would preferJULIA: Prefer? JOSÉ: Yes. Beat. JULIA: What are you implying? CHRISTINA: (stepping in) He’s not implying anything Miss. He was simply being, how do you say, regal? JULIA: Well, regal is one thing and rudeness is another. I am the mistress of this house and when it so happens that I actually want to dance, I want to dance with someone who knows how to lead, so that I am not made ridiculous. Does that make sense? (Beat.) Ustedes comprenden? JOSÉ: I understand perfectly. JULIA: Good. Tonight is a celebration! We have the ranch all to ourselves. (Beat.) We can burn the crops and throw our clothes on the porch and we’ll

tear out the chandelier and hang a piñata and put it in the dining room! (She giggles.) And tonight, we should all be the same. We are all the same! I am not your Miss and you are not my servants. (Beat.) Now, JOSÉ, give me your strong arm. I’m liable to fall down. Beat. JULIA crosses, turns on the radio. She changes the channel to big band music. She takes a hearty swig of her tequila then places the glass back on the counter. She takes JOSÉ’s arm. JULIA: Don’t fear my dear, I’ll return your CHORUS to you safe and sound. Join us at the party, won’t you? They begin to exit. JULIA: And Christina, don’t forget the uh... She makes a drinking motion, giggles and exits with JOSÉ. CHRISTINA takes the glasses and vehemently pours out the remaining tequila. She then picks up JOSÉ’s dinner and puts it in the sink and runs water over it. She picks up the meat cleaver and looks at it. With venom she takes a long look at it and then forcefully sticks it into the chopping block. As soon as the cleaver hits the counter the music cuts and the lights go to black. CHRISTINA exits. In the darkness we hear the sound of a ticking clock. A pin spot of light comes up on Mr. Warner’s boots. Ominous music. After a moment pin spots slowly rise on JULIA and JOSÉ, who are standing on opposite sides of the stage looking out to the audience. The ticking of the clock grows in intensity. JULIA begins to cover her ears at the sound of the clock. JOSÉ is calm. After this establishing moment the music and the sound of the clock cut and the lights are up full. The kitchen is now clean. The meat cleaver is gone. The tequila bottle is placed neatly on the counter. The clock reads 11:35pm. JULIA: My head is spinning. JOSÉ: That’s strong stuff. JOSÉ goes to the sink and pours her a glass of water. She drinks it. JOSÉ: Your father has been quite generous tonight. JULIA: My father? This wasn’t his idea.

JOSÉ: He had said... JULIA: It was my idea. (She looks into his eyes.) Who wants to go to the boring lake and hang out with my Uncle Norman and cousins and sit around and talk about nothing but frivolous nothings and discuss the war. JOSÉ: Are you not worried that we will be invaded? JULIA: I highly doubt that the Emperor of Japan would risk his Pacific Fleet to conquer the Warner Ranch of the Central Valley. JOSÉ: They’re coming. They will need resources. Oil. Provisions. The people will fightJULIA: My people will fight. Beat. JULIA: You never know what can happen in the future, that’s why it’s unwritten. (Beat. She giggles.) But why are we speaking of such academic matters? I want to move. I want to dance and forget the war, forget this silly clash. JOSÉ: Do you think you are shielded here? JULIA: (ignoring his remark.) I’ve seen you move from across the barn before. Your hips and ankles.... They... burst from your cavity and take command of the floor. Now, show me... Show me Señor JOSÉ how you dance again. Beat. JOSÉ: If that’s an order. JULIA: It’s not. I’m asking you. Pause. She smiles at him. She gingerly lifts her hand and allows him to take it. He pulls her into him with an excited sexiness, slow and moving. All the while their eyes are locked. Violin music plays while they dance exceptionally intimate. They cross off to one side of the stage in a special

light of their own as the kitchen lights cross fade to a dark blue. Lights comes up on CHRISTINA in the kitchen, bent over at the sink getting sick. She recovers and pours herself a shot of tequila, and shoots it. She gags and then pours herself another shot. JULIA and JOSÉ dance right into the next scene. JULIA “floats away” and exits. JOSÉ is panting, out of breath, as he dances right into the scene with CHRISTINA. She throws the shot into his face. He spins. The lights rise on the entire stage. He laughs. CHRISTINA pours another shot and holds it. CHRISTINA: You’re sweating. JOSÉ: It’s hot as hell tonight. Hot as hell! CHRISTINA: Where have you been? JOSÉ: Ah marone chincuenta! Miss is muy loco! Swinging her hips, shaking her head, her hair is wild. The girl is crazy! CHRISTINA says nothing. JOSÉ calms down and kisses her. She is passionless. JOSÉ: ¿Qué es eso en tu respirar? He sees her holding the shot. A long pause. CHRISTINA: An elixir. It is supposed to make me attracted to the way you move through the air. It is supposed to make me want to spread my legs over and over again after you have bruised me with your words and actions. JOSÉ: Stop this nonsense. CHRISTINA: This also helps to remind me... of my place. He takes the glass from her and puts it down. JOSÉ: Your place... is with me. She falls into his arms.

CHRISTINA: Then dance with me now. You have performed your servitude for the evening. He kisses her quite passionately. Unknowingly JULIA enters. They continue kissing, starting to undress each other. She gets his dress shirt off revealing his T-shirt. CHRISTINA notices JULIA. She stops. JULIA: Please don’t let me get in the way of... true love. Beat. JULIA: You walked out on my dance. JOSÉ: My apologies. Let me put on a shirtJULIA: (flirtatious)You don’t need to put on a shirt. CHRISTINA: Ve y se puso una camisa José. A long pause. JOSÉ slowly saunters off stage through his doorway and begins to change. JULIA: (smiling at CHRISTINA) He’s so bashful ... on my account? There’s no need. CHRISTINA: Miss Julia, our apologies. We didn’t mean toJULIA: Well, I hope that I wasn’t... interrupting. CHRISTINA: I amJULIA: When are you getting married? Beat. CHRISTINA: Soon. We were thinking about the end of the year. Beat.

JULIA: (upbeat) You should have the wedding here! On the ranch. (Playful and young.) It’ll be so much fun! I’ll be your maid of honor. I’ll invite all of my friends and yours too of course. CHRISTINA: Of course. And we have seen you with that young man, William. That appears promising Miss. JULIA: Appearances can be just that. They look at each other with stillness for a moment. JULIA: Your wedding will be muy loco! We’ll have a giant fiesta and I’ll get Daddy to buy us all kinds of drinks and gifts and we’ll drink long into the night and stay up all morning. And tequila too. I like tequila so much you know. CHRISTINA: I had no idea that you enjoyed tequila, Miss. JULIA: Your fiancee is to blame. Months ago he brought some to me one time. Everyone had gone to bed and I had come down stairs for a nightcap and JOSÉ strolled up with this bottle of tequila and we just sipped the spirit until the wee hours of the morn. He didn’t tell you? JOSÉ enters dressed in his serving outfit. CHRISTINA: He never told me that. Beat. JULIA: It must has slipped his mind. You know how hard he works in this house, always having to please everyone around here. (Turing to him.) Don’t you JOSÉ? JOSÉ: My apologies Miss, I wasn’t privy to the entire conversation. JULIA: And such manners. You were so sensible to snatch this one away Christina. My father is correct. You’re a real baleboste. CHRISTINA doesn’t know if she was just insulted or complimented. Pause. JOSÉ: What does that mean?

JULIA: It’s Yiddish for good home maker. You’d agree that your fiancee is an excellent home maker. She’ll always be a homemaker. She dreams of making... homes, isn’t that right Christine? JULIA grabs the bottle and swigs a sip. JOSÉ: And Miss Julia must have real chutzpah to say a thing like that to my fiancee. JULIA chuckles. She finds this amusing. She goes over to JOSÉ and caresses his jacket. JULIA: Well you’re a fine partner, running away from your lady. CHRISTINA: What do you mean? JULIA: I mean that JOSÉ ran off from our dance so that he could come back and dance with you. CHRISTINA doesn’t say anything but looks at JOSÉ. JULIA: Oh don’t act so surprised. And who am I to stand in the way of your bliss. You serve each other well, I’m sure. She exits. JOSÉ: What are you doing? CHRISTINA: I may ask you that same question. JOSÉ: What do you mean? CHRISTINA: What are you telling Miss Julia? JOSÉ: All that is necessary. CHRISTINA: That included details about our life? JOSÉ: She is the mistress of this household and-

CHRISTINA: And she doesn’t need to understand anything that has to do with you and I. JOSÉ: Christina... CHRISTINA: Our life is our life, not the Señor’s or anybody in this household’s. JOSÉ: They house us. They feed us. We have our own quarters. CHRISTINA: And that is where our relationship must stay. Not in the open where everyone can see and ridicule. JOSÉ: You’ll be showing in mere weeks. CHRISTINA: That’s not the point. There is an intimacy that shouldn’t be shared. JOSÉ: Felipe sees it. Miguel sees it. Mariposa sees it. We all see it. CHRISTINA: But Miss JuliaJOSÉ: Miss Julia sees it more than anyone! CHRISTINA: And she shouldn’t. JOSÉ: And why not? CHRISTINA: Because we are her servants! Beat. JOSÉ: Is that all that you see us as? A long silence. CHRISTINA: We are different than them. JOSÉ: Are we? Are we not different and yet the same?

CHRISTINA: We don’t have their money. We don’t own this ranch. We didn’t build our riches in cattle and real estate. JOSÉ: And who says that we can’t do this? Who? CHRISTINA: JOSÉ... JOSÉ: One hundred years ago this land was ours. Mine and yours! CHRISTINA: It’s not ours now. JOSÉ: And why couldn’t it be? You think they are the only ones that can own real estate and gold bracelets and drive fancy cars? CHRISTINA: You can dream. JOSÉ: I’m not dreaming anymore sweetheart. CHRISTINA: There’s always a price to pay. JOSÉ: There’s a risk. Not a price. And you just can’t see it. I’ve been saying this every day and you just aren’t hearing me. CHRISTINA: I hear you. JOSÉ: Do you? Do you hear yourself? CHRISTINA: I’ve been listening to you and you’ve been saying the same thing every day. JOSÉ: Have I now? CHRISTINA: “Look at Señor’s new Packard. It’s a V-8 engine! Why can’t I have that? Señor’s coat is made out of leather. Why can’t I have that? He has the fanciest masquerade parties with martinis! Why can’t I have that?” JOSÉ: I want to give you a mink shawl and a string of pearls and a gold bracelet. Why can’t you have that? Don’t you want that? CHRISTINA: We don’t need those things.

JOSÉ: But I want those things! (Beat.) If I could tear the skin off of my bones or paint myself alabaster I could have anything I wanted. Anything in this country do you hear me? Anything! A long silence. JOSÉ takes the bottle of tequila and pours two shots. He shoots one, looks at CHRISTINA. She doesn’t move and he doesn’t offer the shot to her directly. Beat. He takes the second shot and downs it. Silence between them. CHRISTINA: Good night JOSÉ. CHRISTINA slowly exits to her room. She turns on the lights with an imaginary switch and closes the “door.” She kneels down and silently prays in front of the cross before she begins to change her clothes. She switches off the lights and crosses into bed. The light fades in her “room.” As soon as she exits into her room he pours two more shots. He shoots the first one and then leans against the sink. In a fit of violence he pounds the chopping block with his hand, bruising it. CHRISTINA’s light rises, she stops and looks towards the kitchen listening. Pause. She turns the lights back off. He turns the sink on and puts water on his face. With his face towards the sink JULIA enters. She watches him with utter curiosity for a moment. She then saunters up and takes the second tequila shot on the counter and downs it. JOSÉ turns around. Silence. JULIA crosses towards the sink, right next to JOSÉ, reaches over and turns off the tap. JULIA: You’re wasting... that tequila. JOSÉ: You’re still awake? JULIA lets out a laugh. JULIA: I like the way the corners of your mouth move when you say “awake.” Beat. JOSÉ: Do they? JULIA: Yes. They do.

They are both smiling now. She puts her hands on his mouth. At first he pulls back. JULIA: Why are you afraid of me? JOSÉ: I’m not afraid, Miss. JULIA: My name is Julia, not Miss. JOSÉ: Miss Julia is the mistress of the house, are you not? Beat. JULIA I am the mistress of the house. But of which house, that’s to be determined. He tentatively takes a step forward. She places her hands on his mouth and gently touches his face. There is no kissing, but only an exploration of each other. He responds minimally, not reaching out to her, but simply cocking his head here and there to her touch. She takes his injured hand. He winces. JULIA: (flirtatiously) Are you hurting? (Beat.) Are you hurting JOSÉ? JOSÉ: I presume that you are exaggerating. Beat. She begins to rub his injured hand. JULIA: How does this feel? (Beat.) Does it feel good to be massaged, to be taken care of? Beat. JOSÉ: Yes. She rubs his hand for a while. Just as he is able to clasp his hand to hers she pulls away. Beat. JOSÉ: Did you go to school? The atmosphere changes. Beat.

JULIA: Daddy sent me to The University of the Pacific. JOSÉ: What did you learn there? JULIA: I learned how the Spanish came to this land and conquered it. More silence. She watches him intensely. JULIA: Did you even finish grade school? Silence. JOSÉ: My education has been the land, the fields, the sun, the sky and the people who spit in my face. JULIA: How did I spit in your face? Silence. JULIA: Oh... you mean my father. More silence. JULIA: You don’t like how he commands you to wash the car and clean his boots andJOSÉ: No one commands me to do anything. JULIA: Isn’t that your job? To serve my father? JOSÉ: I am not omnipotent but rather austere in my employment duties. She laughs out loud. JULIA: You’re not as dumb as the others. JOSÉ: What others? JULIA: Oh, you know what I mean. I see your kind. I’ve danced with your kind. I’ve eaten with your kind.

JOSÉ: In order for you to feel that you have a sense of power over us. JULIA: (smiling) How little you understand the world today. JOSÉ: I am more concerned with the future. JULIA: You speak like a man. JOSÉ: My natural modesty does not allow me to believe that you could be paying me a genuine compliment Miss Julia. Beat. She busts up laughing. JULIA: So serious señor. So, serious! She pours two shots of tequila. She gives one glass to him. JULIA: I’m not trying to flatter you. I’m stating a fact. El CHORUS! A mensch! That’s what you are. I salute you. She downs the shot. JULIA: You talk about the future but it seems as though you are stuck in the past. She crosses slowly toward him and wraps her hand around his hand that has the shot. She takes his shot and downs it. JULIA: Sit down. He doesn’t move. JULIA: I said sit down. JOSÉ: Is that an order? JULIA: A request. JOSÉ: It wouldn’t be proper to sit with you in my presence. JULIA: Because I’m your master?

JOSÉ: Because you’re a woman. She laughs again. JULIA: You should think about your future. JOSÉ: I think about it all the time. JULIA: You hate me? Beat. She sits. She pulls the other chair next to her. JULIA: Now sit down. (Beat.) I said sit down. (Beat.) I’m no longer a lady. But you know that, don’t you? JOSÉ looks around and then sits. JULIA: That wasn’t so hard now was it. JOSÉ: No. JULIA: How much have you saved? JOSÉ: Excuse me? JULIA: How much money have you saved for the wedding? Christina’s father isn’t going to pay for it. He has no money. JOSÉ: How do you know? JULIA: Because if he did, his daughter wouldn’t be working as a servantJOSÉ: She’s not a servant, she’s a maid. JULIA: Same difference. JOSÉ: Is it? Beat. She laughs again. The light goes on in CHRISTINA’s room. She gets up and crosses to the door. She listens. He notices the light under the door.

Julia watches him for a moment. JULIA: When you get a little bit angry your upper lip quivers just the slightest. Let’s see if I can make your lips quiver again. She looks into him as she moves close. JOSÉ stands. CHRISTINA “opens” her door and “enters” into the kitchen with an empty cup. CHRISTINA: JOSÉ. Oh, Miss Julia. I didn’t see you there. JOSÉ: I thought you were going to bed. CHRISTINA: Is the party still going on? Silence. No one says anything. JULIA: There is always a party going on in this house. CHRISTINA takes the apron puts tit on and crosses to the sink and begins to wash the: cup. She places it on the counter. She begins to clean up the kitchen a bit. More silence. JULIA: Your handsome fiance was just telling me about your wedding plans. CHRISTINA: Yes? JULIA: He said that you were going to get married on top of a mountain. And you’ll have the most ornate ceremony that any of your relatives have ever had in their lives. CHRISTINA: Did he? JULIA: Of course you can always get married here in the orchard. Daddy lets the workers get married there all the time. Of course you’ll have to get married under the chuppah. CHRISTINA: A what? JULIA: A chuppah.

JOSÉ: It’s like a canopy. JULIA: You’re fianceé is very smart... for a servant. CHRISTINA: Yes. JULIA: You’re very lucky Christina. You should never forget that. CHRISTINA: Miss Julia, I don’t forget. JULIA: Remember how I helped pick out that shawl that you liked so much when we went to town last month? I am instrumental in your appearance wouldn’t you say? CHRISTINA: Of course. You offered to purchase it for me. JULIA: Si, si, I’m very generous. JOSÉ: We have our own money. JULIA: Yes, you do. CHRISTINA begins to clean the counters. Silence. JOSÉ: Christina, I’ll clean that. CHRISTINA: I have it. JULIA: When is the wedding? JOSÉ: We haven’t set a date. CHRISTINA: Whenever it’s most convenient for your father. We don’t want to cause a disturbance on the ranch. JULIA: Life is full of disturbances Christina. They come in all shapes, all forms. Realistically. Naturalistically. Existentially. Do you know what that word means? Existential?

CHRISTINA smiles. CHRISTINA: Miss Julia, IJOSÉ: It meansJULIA: It means that things are not always as they appear. (Beat.) You see, I did learn something from that very expensive college. JOSÉ: (with ire towards JULIA) What else did you learn? A very long pause. CHRISTINA then goes back to washing the dishes. JULIA: I learned serfdom. And how serfdom keeps order within a world of chaos. And how those that are in the care of others do not always appreciate the feelings of comfort and safety. JOSÉ: Serfdom is an institution that was created by those with the money to keep everyone else down. To keep those below them always below them. JULIA: You can’t change history. JOSÉ: Well history is about to change. A very long pause. JULIA: So you’re going on a honeymoon? JOSÉ: We haven’t decided. JULIA: To Mexico? JOSÉ: Why would we go to Mexico whenCHRISTINA: Miss Julia, José knows that we can’t have a honeymoon soJOSÉ: And why not? Shouldn’t we have a honeymoon? CHRISTINA: We aren’t the kind of people that can do that. And I think that we should not involve Miss Julia in the discussion.

JULIA: You are going to be married here on the ranch! We’ll have a pitch in and everyone can donate a small amount for you to go on your honeymoon. Beat. CHRISTINA: That would be most generous Miss Julia. JULIA: All you have to do is get married under the chuppah. Silence. JOSÉ: No. CHRISTINA: Miss Julia, you are most kind but we cannot get married under the... uh... canopy. We are Catholic. JULIA: That’s alright. Daddy’ll just says a few words from the Torah to make it official. Beat. CHRISTINA: Yes, well, either way we cannot be married under the huppy. JULIA: (sarcastically) Chuppah. (Pronouncing the word clearly.) Chuppah! It’s called a chuppah Christina. Can you say that, Christina? Chuppah. CHRISTINA: (saying it incorrectly) Huppa. JULIA: (testing her) Chuppah. CHRISTINA: (still incorrectly) Chuppah. JULIA: Chupa! JOSÉ: Stop. (Beat.) We are not getting married on the ranch. Beat.

CHRISTINA: The night is getting tired and so am I. I take my leave Miss Julia. Buenos noches. JULIA: Hasta lueganos! CHRISTINA nods and exits. She closes her “door” and stands near the doorway. Pause and silence. No one moves. Finally she turns off the light and crawls into bed. JULIA: So Handsome... it’s just you and me. JOSÉ: Please Miss Julia, I know that you do not flatter. She drinks and giggles. JULIA: You’re a lion one moment and a mouse the other. She walks around him, dragging her finger across his frame. JULIA: (flirting) I will admit... Your physique does not resemble a mouse. JOSÉ: I’d be careful Miss Julia. There are more windows in this rancho than you know. JULIA: Who do think is watching us now? JOSÉ: Everyone. JULIA: (still flirting) Everyone? Oh, do tell! Tell me. What is the gossip? What are they saying about us? JOSÉ: I’m merely pointing out that people will talk. JULIA: Let them yell. I don’t care. JOSÉ: Gilberto said thatJULIA: Gilberto said what? JOSÉ: He saw us dancing in the barn.

JULIA: So? JOSÉ: So, people are talking. JULIA: What people? The servants? JOSÉ: Your father. She stops. JOSÉ: That doesn’t make you nervous does it? Silence. JULIA: No. JOSÉ: Not at all? Silence. JULIA: No. JOSÉ: He doesn’t mind if you’re hanging around “those dirty little wet backs?” JULIA: He never said that. Silence. JOSÉ: Have you been out in the fields as he watches over us picking beans? Or down on the driveway as we are laying concrete? Or standing right here in the kitchen hovering over Christina’s shoulder while she cooks his dinner and washes his laundry like aJULIA: My father is a good man. JOSÉ: Good to you perhaps. JULIA: You’re an ungrateful little shit aren’t you? You don’t have to stay here you know. You’re not a slave. He pays you.

JOSÉ: He pays us too little. JULIA: Of course he does. Because most of the workers on this ranch are not even supposed toShe stops. JOSÉ: Not supposed to be here. She turns to him. JULIA: That’s right. We know you’re here illegally. JOSÉ: Do you think that I’m here... illegally? (Pause.) Do you know where I was born? (Pause.) Do you know what I did before I came into your Judaic Elysian Fields here? She is silent. He touches her gently on the arm. JOSÉ: Do you know who I am? (Beat.) You haven’t a clue do you? You don’t remember me? A long silence. JOSÉ: We’ve met before Miss Julia. Beat. JOSÉ: Your mother took you to a little day care center in Delano. The same little day care center that my mother worked at, taking care of the babies. Perhaps you remember or perhaps you were just too young. I remember everything since I was born. My mother fed and took care of the little white babies. All the rich rancheros in this valley sucked my mother dry and there was no milk left for me. See I was born here too. Right here in the dusty bowl of inequity. And one day, your mother walked in with a little six-year-old in her arms. You were too old for day care, but your father carried you in after your mama passed. He said she needed a mother. He walked in with his back bent and his brow sweating with you in his arms. I worked with my mother filling bottles for those little tykes day in and day out. I’d see you... every day, come into the little room screaming and yelling. And I’d sit there and watch you. Your daddy would drop you off,

give you a sucker to shut you up, shrug his shoulders and leave. And my mother would lay down all those little babies and let the little ones suck on her teets for milk like a fat sow until she was dry. You sucked the life from my mother’s tit until there was no more for me or my brothers and sisters or my father. But I didn’t need it. I didn’t need her. My mother was a goddess, and she was chained to this earth. Never to be freed. And all you could do was suck at her day after day. Because I knew that I would be my own man one day. And your father knows that. That’s why I work with the cars and the horses and the shit. He’s scared of letting me walk through your house, into the place where all of these secrets, all of his money, where all of his children hide away. Beat. JULIA drinks. JULIA: What am I hiding from? JOSÉ: From yourself. (Beat.) He sees you in what he saw in your own mother. JULIA: And what is that? JOSÉ: A longing... to be free. JULIA: I don’t ever want to be free of this place. JOSÉ: You wanna be your daddy. Hang around all the beaners and squash us under your boots? She is very close to him now. Beat. She shakes his arm off and walks away. JULIA: Christina left dishes in the sink. Would you mind cleaning them please? A long silence. JOSÉ: I don’t do dishes any more. Beat. JULIA: What did you say?

JOSÉ: You heard me. JULIA: You work for me. JOSÉ: I work for your father. A very long silence as they stare at each other. The clock strikes twelve o’clock. Beat. JULIA: It’s hot in here. JOSÉ: It’s a new day. She crosses to him and takes her hand across his face. He pulls away. JULIA: You have something in your eye. Dirt perhaps. Sit down. He sits on the chair. She gets very close, practically between his legs and brushes the dirt out of his eye. JULIA: You’re shaking. JOSÉ: No Miss. JULIA: Not from where I’m standing. JOSÉ: So you think. JULIA: You’re below the working class. He moves to kiss her and she pulls away. Beat. JOSÉ: Estás jugando con fuego.(You’re playing with fire.) JULIA: Yo soy el fuego. (I am the fire.) JOSÉ: That’s your father speaking. JULIA: Esa soy yo hablando! (That’s me speaking.) You think I don’t know what you and the rest of the servants chatter about like rats? My father may

not understand you, but I do. I understand everything. JOSÉ: Do you? JULIA: I’m here aren’t I? JOSÉ: Maybe you are and maybe you aren’t. She laughs. JOSÉ: You’re afraid. She stops laughing, then pours two shots of tequila. She drinks the first one and offers the second to him. When she sees he won’t take the shot she takes it and then sits. JOSÉ: You want to make love to me. JULIA: I’d rather make love to a horse. JOSÉ: That could be arranged. JULIA: Oh come Señor Cortez. A long pause. JOSÉ: You know my name. JULIA: I’m not a child. Of course I know your name. It’s in the ledger. We pay you, don’t we? Beat. JULIA: I notice details. (Beat.) Of course you don’t know my real name. When my family left Germany years ago my grandfather changed our nameJOSÉ: From Weintraub. He changed it from Weintraub to Warner. So you would sound more American. Beat.

JULIA: That’s right. JOSÉ: What were you hiding in Germany? JULIA: What? JOSÉ: Why did your last name? Beat. JOSÉ: You can change your clothes, you can change countries and you can even change your name but deep down inside your family is still looking in from the outside isn’t it? Even with the money and the landJULIA: You’re jealous. JOSÉ: I am not jealous of your wealth and apple orchards and cars and your father’s riding boots. I am jealous of only one thing. He moves very close to her, slowly reaching out to touch her face. JOSÉ: I am jealous of that snowy white skin of yours. A long silence as they stare into each other. JOSÉ: But even your skin cannot hide your fear. For I can see right into you, and if a lowly peasant can see your frightened Jewish soul pushing against the closing walls of a Christian society, a lot of other people can probably see you’re quivering as well. That’s why you hide isn’t it? (Beat.) You hide behind the stone walls of this estate, of this valley. To hide. (Silence.) But you won’t be able to hide much longer. The war is coming and you can put make-up on your nose, and drive fancy cars and pretend that you’re like one of them, the “true” Americans. You can even change your name Miss Weintraub but you’ll never be one of those that belong to the land, to this land, because even as beaten and dirty a wetback as I am, this land... is my land. It always has been mine. I’ve felt the fabric of this fertile valley’s soil between my long dark fingers. I’ve tended to the delicate color palettes of the apples and the oranges and caressed the leaves of lettuce and stalks of celery. And before that my ancestors grew the maize and built their homes here. It’s mine. It’s all mine. It was mine before the

missionaries or the Protestants. I may laugh like a mouse in the dark, and nibble on the scraps of food left over from the table, but I know what I am and where I belong. I might not be able to fight for this country, but I have always fought for the land that I own. I may be Mexican... but I am no Jew. A very long silence. Finally... JULIA: If I decide to step down and make love to you? JOSÉ: No one will believe that you stepped down. The town will say that you fell down. Your synagogue will say that you fell down. (Beat.) Your father will say that you fell down. JULIA: And what do you think? You think I would fall down? Here I am making love to the hired help in the middle of the night. JOSÉ: I think that you should make your own decisions. JULIA: You mock me. JOSÉ: I’m saying you can do whatever it is that you want to... for yourself. Without being under the thumb of your father. JULIA: Maybe I like being under the thumb of my father. JOSÉ: No one likes to be kept. JULIA: Oh but I do. You mistake me my young handsome servant. I love it when people passing by in town stop, nod, and call me Miss Warner. It warms my blood in the cold night to see all of you... people... scurrying around in the middle of the night like fat rats while I’m nice and warm in my bed. I like that I am not dressed like a vagrant, in tattered and smelly clothes. Oh, my gracious duke of the kitchen you are so mistaken. I like the way that I am treated. JOSÉ: Like a princess in a castle? JULIA: Like a man. (Beat.) Isn’t that what you want? I’m treated like a man more than you are. (Beat.) Isn’t that ironic?

A long silence. She goes over to Mr. Warner’s riding boots and picks them up. She places them on the kitchen counter. JULIA: All your muscles and sweat and furrowing brows and strength cannot lift you up from that that border you had to cross. JOSÉ: I never crossed the border. The border crossed me. She laughs at him. His ire struck, JOSÉ spits on the ground. She stops laughing and rips a piece of her dress and wipes up the spit. They stare at one another as JULIA smiles and “cleans” her father’s boots with the fabric. She stops and slowly pushes the boots toward him. He stares at them. She spits on the boots. Beat. She walks up to him, tears a piece of his shirt and hands it to him. He slowly cleans the boots. He stares at the boots, finishes cleaning them and then puts them aside. A long silence. They stare at one another. JULIA: (changing her attitude) Can you smell them? JOSÉ: What? JULIA: The strawberries. She giggles, then begins to laugh. She looks at the boots and slowly walks around them, leaving them prominently where they are. JULIA: When I sleep I... I climb up into those oak trees. The deeper I dream the higher and higher I climb. I crawl out onto one of the snaking branches and settle myself in the bushy leaves. Every time I look down, I get dizzy. Then I hear my father huffing and puffing through the citrus trees, coming closer and closer, his musky scent is like a veiled mist over my shoulder, my head. I sling myself off the tree into a patch of strawberries and wrap myself in the vibrant fresh monochromatic red fruit. I dream that if he would only wrap himself up in the land it would eradicate his breath and all will smell fresh and light. (Beat.) But I can’t get down. I can’t climb down the tree. I’m stuck there. The branches are like handcuffs around my silky body. I feel the veins and muscles in my flesh pulsate with energy, desiring to fling my soul towards the earth. I want to bury my body into the fertilizer as deep as I can until my toes are tickling the magma of the planet. And then I will burn and burn... and burn.

JOSÉ: Digging into the soil like a worm. JULIA: Sliding and moving, gripping whatever I can with my body. Beat. JOSÉ: What does it feels like? JULIA: What? JOSÉ: Crushing the strawberries between your toes? She smiles and stands. JULIA: Why don’t we find out? She approaches him closer and closer until they are close enough to kiss. There is a sound of an explosion and then the lights cut to black. Act I, Scene 3 Sound of wind. HOMBRE enters, dressed in 1940’s laborer’s clothing, in an amber light. He crosses and begins to pantomime the shoveling of dirt. The echoing sound of dirt shoveling. He stops and addresses the audience. HOMBRE: This land... is the fountain from where I live, where I love. The sprawling wasteland that has stood for thousands of years has finally grown into God’s most abundance garden oasis. And now in those small towns we call Kern, Salinas, Weed, Bakersfield where there are more farmers than bakers... They grow. I grow. We grow. Here and now. Today my people cannot fight for this country, but one day, I will fight against the sun on my back, the sweat on my brow. I will fight for the tomatoes in your soup, for the peaches in your pies, and the lettuce in your salad bowl, in places like Lodi, Gait and Delano. My skin burns brown like the dry earth that I tend to, but my heart bleeds as red as the wine that you sip from your chalice at Passover. This land was here before you, before me, before humans tracked their bloody foot prints across these dusty sands. (Beat.) Peering through the rancor of hate and disgust one can almost see the ocean from here. And the waves... look beautiful. But these waves come not only from the oceans but from across the borders, into California, into Arizona, into Texas, and into the land that still bears our name, New

Mexico. We work here. We live here. We die here. But there is always a connection to where we came. “Dearest brothers and-” A colored pin spot on CHRISTINA standing in the kitchen. The CHORUS slowly enter and turn to CHRISTINA. They watch her. The sound of her writing a note with pencil and paper. She directly addresses the audience. CHRISTINA: “...sisters. I hope that your bodies are fit, your mouths are full and warmth fills each of your hearts. I know the days and even weeks between letters are difficult and it has been some time since I have written. But now God has asked me to summon your counsel. I am with child. Every evening when the sun sets I have prayed that God will grant me the proper strength to deliver this miracle into the Earth. (Beat.) The strength that I had once felt in JOSÉ seems to be slipping away. His voice has become... sometimes difficult to understand. Distant and foreign, even to me. I watch him work from the kitchen window. He tills the fields, moving the earth, digging, clawing into the ground like an animal at times. I sense the anguish and the pain and I feel helpless to soothe him. A pin spot comes up on JOSÉ, who is facing the audience. CHRISTINA: For I know that only God can help him, for the Almighty’s guiding hands soothe the blazing fires of passion in each of us. (Beat.) The summer nights are long and the mornings are warm but when I turn my attention to the delicate white blossoms on the thousands of pea pods that litter the valley floor, I feel invigorated. It moves me to a place of pure joy. Row after row of snap peas with their little white flowers shining under the sun. It is a vision of beauty. In the mid-day the heat is intense but we can feel the air changing. It is hard and strong. The swirling of the dust moves the air and moves my spirit. But for JOSÉ... JOSÉ: They cut out our hearts. They cut out our tongues. CHRISTINA: (Beat.) The dust is often stirred up and strewn across the fields. It’s what is left behind after the tension, after the birth. It is on these days that the vibrant colors of the ranchero seem to dull. Those rich fields of emerald green peppers melt into a dark avocado gloom. The bright red strawberries slowly burn into a mushy crimson. The violet tender globes that are the grapes have matured too quickly and are ruddy and black. The spirited sounds of all of us, the mechanics, the maids, the pillars of the

farm. When this hot wind blows in the sounds and the sounds of the Sabbath inside the house become silent and the our voices rise and are twisted around in the dry hot maelstrom that envelops the ranch. For inside the house, there is another God. One that Senor and Miss have found, but there is no vision. There is no relationship between the owners of this house and the owner of their souls. (Beat.) For we understand the wind. We understand the sand. We understand the dust. We understand the voices, the parties, the undulating backs of the workers in the fields and the stables. We are worked very hard and very long and we are paid accordingly. The dust never settles here in the valley. Sand settles in... CHRISTINA: Never leaves me, never leaves... JOSÉ & CHRISTINA: Us. (Beat.) Never. CHORUS: Never. The light on JOSÉ fades. CHORUS speaks a gobo of a barbed wire fence slowly projects somewhere on the set. The soft sound of blowing wind outside can be heard. EARTH CHORUS: There. Can you hear it? WIND CHORUS: It is the breath of God. The wind. WATER CHORUS: Unlike the rain pushes all the problems to the side. JOSÉ’s light up. JOSÉ: Can you hear it? CHRISTINA: The wind... JOSÉ: That wind can blow something awful at night. WIND CHORUS: And that wind blows through the twisted metal tips of the barbed wire fence. WATER CHORUS: The fence that is supposed to keep the vagrant animals out of the fields, out of the orchards, out of...

HOMBRE: Paradise. JOSÉ: And now those fences... EARTH CHORUS: Those... CHOURS: Borders... EARTH CHORUS: Bottle our bodies close to Eden. WIND CHORUS: But so far away from our dreams. CHORUS: The line, the fence... The wall between the dreams of humanity. JOSÉ: Across the river, across the ocean. I can hear it. EARTH CHORUS: Howling and shrieking like the whining child inside of the womb. JOSÉ: The unborn dreams. WIND CHORUS: That wind blows through the twisted metal tips of the barbed wire fence. The fence that is supposed to keep the vagrant animals out of the fields, out of the orchards, out of... JOSÉ: Paradise. CHORUS: Those fences keep us bottled in, close to the Earth, close to Eden, but so far away from the dreams ofJOSÉ: My mother. CHORUS: (to CHRISTINA) Your mother. CHRISTINA: My mother. He looks at JOSÉ. CHORUS: Who is she? (Beat.) CHRISTINA: Who was she?

HOMBRE: She was the woman who gave you to a stranger and crossed the border in the back of a truck. I saw her. JOSÉ: How did she... CHRISTINA: She found me. In the arms of a stranger at a bus stop. HOMBRE: She was the woman who swam across the freezing river in the middle of the moonlight to find you. JOSÉ & CHRISTINA: On the other side. CHORUS: This side. JOSÉ: We must choose a side. CHRISTINA: I don’t have to choose. I know who I am. I am Mexican. JOSÉ: I am Chicano. CHORUS: We are American. CHRISTINA: The heat and the lack of water makes my child’s brain swell. JOSÉ: Between the sand and anguish and pain, between the heat and the savory odors of the produce thought there is a type of... CHRISTINA:(with joy) Sweetness... CHORUS: In the arrogance of those that stole the land from us. JOSÉ:(angry) There are days... CHORUS: There are days... CHRISTINA: (sweet) There are days when the smell of the oranges sift through the air. With that sweetness there is a sense of... JOSÉ: Wanting.

CHRISTINA: A renewed sense of hope. CHORUS: How much longer can you fight? JOSÉ: I can’t fight. They won’t let me. CHORUS: They won’t let you? HOMBRE: Or are you afraid? Beat. JULIA slowly enters wearing a pants suit, unseen by CHRISTINA who is back to “writing her letter. She “listens” to the rest of the letter being read as the light on CHORUS fades. He slowly exits. The lights begin to rise on the “scene” in the kitchen. CHRISTINA: José is afraid. (Beat.) That he will be drafted. Take care of madre and Altuve. Relay my hopes to them, that one day you will join us in the desert that once belonged to our people, in the oasis that harvests our dreams. Your youngest sister, Christina. She places the letter on the wooden block. The lights fade on CHRISTINA. She exits. JULIA crosses to the letter. She picks it up. CHORUS watches her, while she turns on the kitchen lights. She picks up CHRISTINA’s letter, looks at it. Beat. JOSÉ enters. She hides the letter. JOSÉ: What are you doing? WIND CHORUS: She’s making a fool of us. JULIA: Nothing. (Beat.) Is she asleep? Beat. JOSÉ: Yes. JULIA: I am alone with a very handsome caballero. WATER CHORUS: They have stolen the mud from under our fingers. JOSÉ: You should go to bed.

JULIA: Don’t talk to me like a child. I’m a grown woman. I do as I please. JOSÉ: Do you? Beat. She walks away then stops. JULIA: What do you know? EARTH CHORUS: You know who she is. Who she wants to be. JOSÉ: I know you... Julia. Since I was a boy. JULIA: I don’t... JOSÉ: Your batmitzvah. JULIA: What? CHORUS: Tell her. Show us. JOSÉ: I spied on you when you had your batmitzvah. (Beat.) With all of your fake little girlfriends flittering away through the oak tree grove playing and pretending to be drunk under the dappled sun. You watched them and smiled and then your smile turned upside down when they all danced away. And you climbed that one tree... with the long curved branch. It cradled you like its own child and I watched you. I watched you sit there and write in your journal. You sat there for maybe half an hour before any one noticed you were gone from the party. And I watched you. I watched you sit there and cry. Why? Why were you crying on that oh so happy day? A long pause where JULIA is about to speak but then she doesn’t. JOSÉ continues. JOSÉ: Then your father found you and you yelled out... HOMBRE: And I would run, far and fast, with my pride buried under my arms, my back bent over. I would run away into the dark groves of apricots and the whistle would... CHROUS: BLOW!

HOMBRE: They are going to catch me. They’re going to catch me! JOSÉ: But he didn’t want to catch you. He didn’t want to hold you. Your father told you to climb down the tree the same way you got up and then he walked away. And you sat there... not moving. And all that time I watched you from behind Miner’s Point, behind the rocks I watched this pretty Jewish girl who ran away from her own party longing to be somewhere else. HOMBRE: I didn’t want to be caught. JOSÉ: (to JULIA) You wanted to be caught. (Beat.) Then other little girls came back giggling and laughing. They coaxed you out of the tree and you let out an incredible laugh, Julia. But it wasn’t real. It was all contrived. I knew. I knew from all that distance of the past and this intimate moment of the future that you are living in your own mirage. HOMBRE and CHORUS’ lights slowly extinguish. A long pause. JULIA: How dare you tell me you know how I feel? JOSÉ: You hate him. You hate him for trapping you here in this desert of waste and nothing. Your eyes sparkled with youth back then. Now, they have greyed with age and desperation. Beat. JULIA: What do you know about me? You think that you somehow know me? You know nothing about me. You know nothing. Beat. JOSÉ: I know what you have in your pocket. JULIA: I don’t have anything in my pocket. JOSÉ: Don’t you? JULIA: Then come and get it.

He slowly crosses towards her. They are as close as can be. He slides his hand into her pants pocket and pulls out the letter. They stand there for a few moments absorbing each other’s sexual energy. She starts to walk away. He grabs her by the arms and pulls her in and kisses her. She slaps him. Beat. Then she kisses him. JULIA: I hate you. (Beat.) I’ve always hated you. Since the moment I laid eyes on you. JOSÉ: I know. A very long silence. Neither of them seem to be able to speak. The silence is broken by the sounds of Mariachi music and the party playing outside. JOSÉ: They’ll talk. JULIA: I don’t care. JOSÉ: Don’t you? JULIA: Don’t you? Your language is different. JOSÉ: Isn’t the language of the heart spoken the same way? Pause. JULIA: You’re a dreamer. JOSÉ: When there is a war going on, isn’t that the best time to dream, when it feels desperate, when you have no hope and time is running out? She kisses him again. Beat. She slowly pulls out the letter and begins to tears it to pieces. JULIA: And what do you know about love, Señor? Beat. JOSÉ: Es triste no amar, pero es mucho más triste no poder amar. (Love is sad, but it is more sad without it.)

Beat. JULIA: Miguel de Unamuno. Silence. JULIA: You think I don’t know a lot don’t you? JOSÉ: You give off an air ofJULIA: Of course. You nearly killed yourself for my attention. A long silence. She hops up on the counter and extends her boot. She demands her control back. JOSÉ: What? JULIA: Kiss my boot. JOSÉ: What? JULIA: You are my servant. Now kiss my boot. Like you do my father’s. He slowly takes her boot and kneels down, just short of kissing her boot. She starts to kick him with the same foot but he stops her and slowly takes her boot off, kisses it and places it on the ground next to her father’s. He maneuvers himself to her other foot where he does the same with the other boot. Once the boots are off he slides his hands along her feet, slowly up her calves, stopping just above her knees. He slowly retreats and pulls himself up and backs away. She hops down, picks up her boots and saunters to his door. She turns to face him. JOSÉ: They’ll call you a vagrant. They’ll mock you. They’ll mock both of us. There will be nowhere to hide. JOSÉ is on the other side of the kitchen. Mr. Warner’s boots are in between them. JULIA: There is always a place to hide.

She stands in the doorway to his room. She turns and walks in. JOSÉ doesn’t move. Beat. Then... lights to black with a booming sound. Five loud church bells ring. A soft light comes up on CHRISTINA in her room. During her dialogue a Catholic cross figures prominently somewhere on stage. CHRISTINA: With each kick of the heartbeat that is growing inside of me I dream of expanding my life. To be able to feed that which is inside of me that is desperate, that is growing and will one day blossom. That dream inside of me needs help. I dream of a world where my child can walk down the street with pride in a land that is his own, in a mind that is his own. He will not cook or clean or even be a valet like his father. He will be in government or run an important business. As I sleep, as I dream of God and how he will deliver my familia to me I pray... I pray for the glory of that white light to be cast down upon me and José and our child. The war outside our pueblo, the war outside the world, the war inside my heart, creeping into my brain will not daunt me. Will not daunt us. The sun has risen this morning only for me, only for us and through God we shall hide from the serpent’s fiery tongue and walk through the sweet fruits of this valley and into the light. Into the light. Into the light. With a loud cacophony of string instruments her light goes to black. Music. Lights up. JOSÉ, a bit disheveled is in his own pin spot. Another colored spot is on Mr. Warner’s boots. Beat. The lights slowly rise on the kitchen set. He crosses and puts his ear to CHRISTINA’s door. Listening and hearing that she is asleep he crosses to the sink and begins to scrub his hands feverishly. He turns out and raises his hands with the soap still on them. He slowly lowers his hands and runs them under the water, cleaning himself of his sin. He turns off the water, dries his hands and finds the tequila and pours himself a shot then downs it. JULIA enters. She goes up to him and attempts to kiss him. He stops her. JOSÉ: They’ll see. JULIA: I see everything now. JOSÉ: You’re more blind than you realize. JULIA: We’re like Army spies. We’ll have fun with it. Hiding and ducking in and out of hallways, hiding in the orchards, or burrowing ourselves in the leaf piles... pretending to be dead. (Beat.) Give me what I want.

JOSÉ: What you want is not possible here. JULIA: Then we’ll go somewhere else. JULIA pulls from her pocket a large stack of bills. JOSÉ: Where did you get that? JULIA: Does it matter? JOSÉ: Is that your father’s? A beat. CHRISTINA stirs and turns on the light in her room. JULIA kisses JOSÉ. JULIA: We are not children. Not any longer. JOSÉ: To where? Where would we go? JULIA: Mexico. JOSÉ: Mexico? JULIA: We could open a restaurant. Live the American dream in your own backyard where you would be the king. You wouldn’t have to bow and cast your eyes aside when you walk down the street José. JOSÉ: What about Christina? CHRISTINA enters. CHRISTINA: What about Christina? (Beat. She reaches for her apron and puts it on.) Is there something I can help you with, Miss? Pause. JULIA: José and myself would like to know if you would like to run away with us and be the cook at our new restaurant.

Beat. CHRISTINA stops and smiles, assuming the joke. There is another long pause. CHRISTINA: (flippant and joking) I see. You and Miss Julia are running away together? JULIA: Yes. And we want you to run the kitchen Christina. You cook so well. You would work for me. (To JOSÉ) And you too. CHRISTINA: José is a smart worker. He is always sayingJULIA: (to JOSÉ with poignancy) Or do you want to spend the rest of your life working for my father? Silence. JOSÉ: (to CHRISTINA) The play was moved from the barn to the kitchen, darling. CHRISTINA: The play? JULIA: The drama. CHRISTINA: Drama? JULIA: Yes, we’re creating real life drama. CHRISTINA looks to JOSÉ who is about to speak. JULIA: (impatiently to CHRISTINA) Oh you poor thing. Of course you’ve never been to the theatre. Shakespeare. O’Neil. Strindberg. (Beat.) Occasionally Father would take us into San Francisco when I was small. Mother and I would dress in elegant adorned gowns and we would parade outside the theatre. CHRISTINA: I don’t believe I have ever experienced any drama. JULIA: That’s what JOSÉ says. You never create any drama. CHRISTINA: (Smiling.) I think that’s good.

JULIA: You’ll have to take care of the baby on our own. That’s the agreement. She goes to the sink and fills up a glass of water and drinks the entire glass. CHRISTINA: (going along with what she still thinks is a game) Whatever Miss wants of course. JULIA: You see José, she is a very reasonable woman. I’m sure that is precisely why my father hired her in the first place. She’s willing to sacrifice everything for you. Pause. JULIA smiles and looks around. Beat. JULIA: (with a grin) I’ll go pack. She exits. Silence. JOSÉ is frozen. CHRISTINA: Why are you sweating? JOSÉ: Why are you awake? CHRISTINA: I heard a noise. JOSÉ: A noise. CHRISTINA: Yes. Pause. JOSÉ: What kind of noise? CHRISTINA: I’m not sure. I couldn’t place it. I’d never heard it before. I thought I heard your voice. Silence. JOSÉ: Miss Julia and I... Long silence.

CHRISTINA: Miss is playful tonight. Has she drawn you into her little drama? Beat. JOSÉ: Yes. CHRISTINA: Which character are you? A long pause. JOSÉ: A fool. Beat. CHRISTINA: Fool? JOSÉ: Shakespeare always had a fool on hand in his plays. To make the audience laugh. CHRISTINA: To laugh. JOSÉ: Yes. Beat. CHRISTINA: I like the clowns. I always like the funny clowns. They make me smile. You make me smile JOSÉ. JOSÉ is not smiling. JOSÉ: What are you doing up? Beat. The wind blows outside. CHRISTINA: I told you there was a sound. And... I was having a nightmare. The storm is coming. It’s brewing. Don’t underestimate the storm this time JOSÉ. The last storm you didn’t close the garage door. JOSÉ: It’s closed.

CHRISTINA: I locked the garage. JOSÉ: Just now? CHRISTINA:Earlier. You know how Master feels when the cars aren’t in the garage. JOSÉ: Yes. CHRISTINA: Don’t want anyone stealing them. JOSÉ: Of course. She goes and gets another glass of water. JOSÉ: What was your nightmare about? Silence. CHRISTINA: Something unreal. (Beat.) When my head hits the pillow again I will dream of nothing but sweet dreams para nuestro pequeño niño. She rubs her stomach. CHRISTINA: He’s kicking. Here. Feel. JOSÉ does not move. CHRISTINA: Come here and feel your child JOSÉ. She goes to JOSÉ, who is nearly in a daze, and takes his hand and guides it to her stomach. CHRISTINA: It is a boy. I can feel it. Potent and virile, like his father. He will grow up to have a strong back and a booming deep voice. (Beat. She touches his forehead.) You’re sweating. She turns and grabs a kitchen towel and dabs it with cold water on his forehead. CHRISTINA: Here.

She attends to him. CHRISTINA: Before the nightmare do you know what I was dreaming of? A very long pause. JOSÉ: No. CHRISTINA: God. JOSÉ: How so? CHRISTINA: How the virtues of God infiltrate each and every one of us. His light. His knowingness. He knows everything. He sees everything. Our family he protects. Protected by the virtues of the Almighty. JOSÉ: Oh God. CHRISTINA: God. He sees all. He knows all. He knows who we all are, on the inside and out. She picks up Mr. Warner’s boots. JOSÉ recoils. CHRISTINA: Put Mr. Warner’s boots on the back porch. You can clean them in the morning. JOSÉ is frozen. CHRISTINA: José. JOSÉ: No. CHRISTINA: (She crosses to him) JoséJOSÉ: No. Take them away. CHRISTINA: Why are you acting so silly? JOSÉ: I have asked you to refrain.

CHRISTINA: I like it when you use the good English. It makes you so sophisticated. It’s almost like you are one of them. JOSÉ: Who? CHRISTINA: One like Miss and Mr. Warner. JULIA enters, dressed for what appears to be church, with a bird cage which is covered with a dark cloth. JULIA: He is one of us. CHRISTINA: (bowing a little)Miss. I meant no disrespect. JULIA: I know. You’re just stuck where you are. JOSÉ: Please Julia... CHRISTINA: José! JULIA: The moon is still out. There are no formalities here. CHRISTINA: You are ready for mass? Do they do that? Jewish people I mean? Beat. JULIA: I’m ready for a spiritual journey if that’s what you mean. She places the birdcage on the kitchen counter. CHRISTINA: Miss? JULIA: Yes, Christine. Inside is the only creature that has ever loved me unconditionally... until I met José. Silence. She smiles and laughs. CHRISTINA laughs yet JOSÉ does not. After the laughter there is a long silence. CHRISTINA is about to inquire. JULIA: Christine, would you be a dear and put my father’s boots on the back porch.

JOSÉ: That’s my errand. JULIA: Not any more. Beat. JULIA: Christine. Beat. JOSÉ: Christina. JULIA: Yes, how tawdry of me. Would you mind? CHRISTINA: Of course Miss. Right away. She gives a look to JOSÉ, who says nothing, then exits with his boots. JOSÉ: Never do that again. JULIA: What? JOSÉ: Treat her like that. JULIA: She’s a servant. That’s how you treat servants. Civil and non approachable. JOSÉ: I’m a servant. JULIA: Are you? Silence. JULIA: I have the rest of the money. I knew exactly where to find it. JOSÉ: Where is it? Pause. JULIA: It’s safe.

JOSÉ: Where? Pause. JULIA: With me. You just have to trust me. JOSÉ: That’s your father speaking. The sound of thunder. JULIA: (smiling) How dare you eavesdrop on our conversations. JOSÉ: What do you think? Do you think we’re not human? We have ears, eyes. JULIA: And a mouth too. JOSÉ: The servants may be silent but we are the walls, the pillars of the household. And without us you would all collapse. JULIA: It will be raining soon. Unless we want to get caught in the mud. JOSÉ: She’s locked the garage. JULIA: Then unlock it. JOSÉ contemplates. He looks at the birdcage. JOSÉ: You aren’t taking that damn thing with us. JULIA: I am. JOSÉ: No. JULIA: It’s still dark out. JOSÉ: The house will be awakening soon. JULIA: Then we must go... now.

JOSÉ doesn’t move. She saunters over, takes his face and kisses him. They release but are holding hands. CHRISTINA enters. She watches. A long silence. CHRISTINA: Your father’s boots are in the back. JULIA: Now take them back in. The storm is coming and his boots will get wet. A very long pause. CHRISTINA: The storm has already settled upon this household. (Beat.) And my God will judge you both. José knows that. But Miss, I don’t think that you believe this. For you God tends to look the other way, doesn’t he? JULIA: We share the same God. CHRISTINA: The same man. JOSÉ: ChristinaCHRISTINA: Quiet! (Beat.) Do not speak. I am having a conversation... with Julia. (Beat.) You see, the difference between you and I is that I believe. For whether he is my God or your God doesn’t matter. It only matters that you can believe in him. For you can repent. If you do not, then you will be judged and your sentence will come down from a very tall figure. (Awkward silence. CHRISTINA is attempting to control her emotions but they seem to be getting the better of her.) We cannot stay in this nest of incest any longer. Your son is waiting, José. CHRISTINA extends her hand. A long pause. JOSÉ does not take her hand. She reaches to him again. He is still. She lowers her arm. CHRISTINA: When one's superiors are no better than oneself, there is little point in trying to emulate them. A long pause while CHRISTINA walks up to JULIA. CHRISTINA: You think you are so proud. You believe you have the answers. In a world of crosses and stars, your star is about to flame out, and you don’t even know it. You are about to be extinguished. For there is

longing between your legs, but angst in your heart. Gentleness, Virtue, Wisdom, and Endurance. These are the seals of that most firm assurance which bars the pit over Destruction's strength. (Beat.) How I pity you. She turns her gaze towards JOSÉ. She goes up to him and with her hand caresses his face. He thinks she is about to slap him, but she doesn’t. She pulls her hand back, rubs her stomach and exits into her room and begins to pack her things into a suitcase. Sound of thunder. The lights in her room go out. The rain is starting. JULIA: Let’s go. (Beat.) Let’s go José! I’ll say it was a robbery. JOSÉ: And that I kidnapped you? Your father will hire a detective andJULIA: They’ll never find us. She goes to pick up the birdcage. He places his hand on top of the cage. Not moving it. JOSÉ: No. JULIA: Fly away with me. Now! JOSÉ: We leave it. JULIA: No. JOSÉ: Then I am staying. JULIA: Staying for what? There’s nothing left! JOSÉ: I’m staying. JULIA: You have dragged me through the mud with false dreams. When my father finds outJOSÉ: He’ll kill you. JULIA: He’ll kill both of us. But he won’t get a chance to kill the love that you have put inside of me, because I’ll have already spread its blood upon the floor and singed its skin against the stove and plucked its eyeballs out

and smeared them on the walls! I’ll rip it out of my gut with my nails until it’s an empty bleeding mass on the floor! With one hand she takes JOSÉ’s hand. With the other hand she moves to pick the birdcage up. He releases her hand and slams the cage down again. JOSÉ: Leave it! JULIA: You want the American dream? Here it is, in the flesh. I’m offering it up to you like no one can. You want to be like us. Like me? You want that privilege? I know you do. JOSÉ: You’re not privileged. You’re Jewish. She spits in his face. A light shines on HOMBRE. JULIA: You’ll regret it. HOMBRE: These are the spells by which to reassume An empire o'er the disentangled doom. JOSÉ: (to HOMBRE) I already regret everything that has happened this evening. JULIA: ¡Tu puerco! She slaps him hard and grabs the meat cleaver, waving it in front of him. JULIA: (shaking uncontrollably) You’re filthy. You’re swarthy. You’re vile. HOMBRE: (to JOSÉ) Are you going to take this? From her? JULIA: You have spilled seeds and blood within a chaste body. (Pause.) And you touched me. With your hands. With your lips. With your... The sound of a car pulling up. HOMBRE: The Lord has descended. JULIA: Who’s that?

JOSÉ: It’s sounds like a taxi. HOMBRE: He’s here. JOSÉ: (To HOMBRE) Cállate! JULIA: What? HOMBRE: He’s come home. JULIA: He’s come home. HOMBRE: The lord of the manor. JULIA: Daddy. JOSÉ: Your father is home. JULIA: Let’s get out of here! The CHORUS filters in and fill the edges of the scene. JOSÉ: God has been watching us this entire time. He looks up at the Star of David on the wall, then to CHRISTINA who stands in her doorway. She is dressed to travel. CHRISTINA looks to JOSÉ, then turns and exits the house. JOSÉ: Christina. JULIA: God will punish you if you don’t come. HOMBRE: No la escuches. JOSÉ: Christina! JULIA: Your God wants you to leave. JOSÉ: We share the same God. HOMBRE: No la escuches.

JOSÉ: Silencio! JULIA: My God would never do this to me. JOSÉ: He has. You are your father’s daughter. And I am your father’s servant. JULIA crosses into the doorway of JOSÉ’s room. JULIA: It is here, José. This place of immaculate conception. You and I are above God now. We don’t need a deity to drive us. We don’t need anything but each other anymore. We don’t need anyone! Come away! JOSÉ: No! JOSÉ takes the birdcage and slams it to the ground breaking it apart. There is no bird inside but thousands of dollars, now spread throughout the kitchen. He looks at the money on the ground in awe. A thunder pulse begins to resonate faster and quicker together. We hear the sound of footsteps down a long hallway. The footsteps continue to grow in intensity. HOMBRE: He’s home. JULIA: (hearing the footsteps) He’s home. JULIA grabs the meat cleaver, crosses into JOSÉ’s room and “turns off” the bedroom lights. Thunder. JOSÉ crawls to Mr. Warner’s boots and holds them in his arms. He rocks back and forth on the floor amongst the money and the chaos. EARTH CHORUS: The fields find their roots in us. WIND CHORUS: The bleeding cactus has quenched its thirst. WATER CHORUS: The rocks, the stones, the oceans and the air, the fruits, the vegetables it is all... me. HOMBRE: Esta tierra ... CHORUS: Es mi tierra.

HOMBRE: It carries the dust, the ocean, and the wind up to the clouds. And now, we look out. Past the barbed wire. Past the fences. Past the walls. And it is those walls, those walls that keep those old ideas in and new ideas and people out. Peace, I am not dead, for I doth not sleep He hath awakened from the dream of life 'Tis we, who lost in stormy visions, keep With phantoms an unprofitable strife, And in mad trance, strike with our spirit's teeth Invulnerable skin. We decay Like corpses in a charnel; the border is patrolled Convulsing in us and consuming us day by night, For hot hopes swarm like worms within our living clay. And like the seeds that we planted hundreds of years ago, the fruit of our labor has been in the reticulation of our demise. The thunder sound continues to peak and then hits a crescendo whereas a cacophony of sounds sound like they are all being sucked out of the scene. Lights to black. End of play.

Shakespeare in Theatre and Film William Shakespeare is one of the most ubiquitous playwrights in human history. Hamlet has been performed live more than any other Western play on the face of the Earth. Shakespeare was an early model in terms of how to tell stories on film and there have been scores of adaptations of his thirty-six plays to the silver screen. And there are many adaptations of Hamlet throughout the 20th and 21st centuries, but none so complete as the Kenneth Branagh version from 1996. The play was written in 1600 and performed around this time. Shakespeare died in 1616 and this specific film was based on the First Folio edition of Shakespeare’s Complete Works from 1623 in which John Heminges and Henry Condell, two actors in the King’s Men company in which Shakespeare was a part stakeholder in as playwright and actor, is based. Granted even scholars agree that not every word and line of iambic pentameter is in Shakespeare’s own hand since Heminges and Condell took some minor liberties in completing the text for publication. After all the only sources they had to completing this folio were hand written scripts from the actors and the company manager of The King’s Men. None-the-less, no theatre/film maker has ever attempted to produce the entirety of Hamlet’s full length theatrical script for the screen. As with many adaptations of Shakespeare the themes stay prevalent no matter where in time the film is set. Although the piece is written in 1600 it is set in the Middle Ages. Branagh updates his setting for Hamlet to the turn of the 19th century where the themes of power, revenge and abuse are as universal then as they are now. Great plays and films encompass the qualities of the human condition. Hamlet is viewed primarily through the male viewpoint of these themes. Shakespeare was writing in a time of male domination where women had little or few rights. Women were not allowed to perform on stage during the time Shakespeare wrote his plays and therefore all female roles were played by men in drag.

The female roles in Hamlet are unfortunately seen as voiceless and borderless. We do not have an opportunity to get inside the mind of either Ophelia nor Gertrude, since Shakespeare did not offer any monologues for these amazing characters. Ophelia is left to die without a clear and concise voice and even though Laertes vows to destroy Hamlet for the destruction of both Polonius, his father and Ophelia, his sister her spiral into madness ends in a suicide that is more often seen as tragic through mirrors of our own humanity. Her death often depicted in paintings and poems without a true analysis of her source of pain and suffering. Gertrude does not fare much better while she is taken in by Claudius’ charm in her preemptive rush to marry her former brother-in-law. Her body and soul are poisoned by men’s domination of territory. Although Hamlet avenges his mother near play’s end, Gertrude’s voice is mostly silenced throughout the piece as one of “womanly” concerns. When looking at Polonius he has often been thought of as a fool. Shakespeare would often times mix in comedy relief with all the tragedy as a way of balancing the audience’s emotions. With the passage below we will find out that Will Kemp, the proverbial heavy clown in Shakespeare’s company died in 1603 and not much is know if Kemp was available to perform in the premiere or not. Regardless many productions have offered Polonius as a backdrop of comedic disproportions, offering not only linguistic jests in terms of his challenging word speak but is often ridiculed as a foolish old man. Branagh changes this attitude towards Polonius by offering him as a sly politician and calculating man that is only interested in grabbing the reins of power, alongside Claudius. When viewing the 1996 film we can see the mechanizations at work, even using those line and words that Shakespeare wrote that may seem for Polonius to be incompetence he is actually testing those around him. Without changing or modifying a word of Shakespeare’s text Branagh proves to us that Shakespeare’s character intensions are meant to be interpreted. Even though this film is offered as a product of a process we understand that the next attempt at a full length Hamlet, may find Polonius in an entirely different mindset.

Kenneth Branagh as Hamlet and Richard Briers as Polonius – Hamlet (1996)

Of One Heart or Two: Where is Polonius?

Critical Analysis Is Polonius truly a doddering old fool? Throughout the last few centuries, so many productions of Hamlet have played Polonius as such. Viewed through the text and his syntax, the character’s dialogue could indeed lend itself to appear as if Polonius’ memory is fading, his skills deteriorating. But is this Shakespeare’s true intention of this character, or is there more to Polonius than meets the eye? If we take a closer look, we may yet find a cunning and deceptive elder statesman, that proves to be a almost as keen a foil to the Prince of Denmark as Claudius himself. Hamlet has many interweaving threads to its plot line that makes each individual production’s elucidation of the script all the more varied. And the role of Polonius has been played by thousands of actors over hundreds of years, and each and every thespian has had a different interpretation of this storied character. More often than not, modern interpretations of the role have polarized Polonius as a standard old man with grey hair, who can’t remember what he just said, and hobbles around the castle. Was this Shakespeare’s true intention when he wrote the character? Catherine Stimpson wrote some handsome words about the character of Polonius in American Scholar, “He accomplishes what he must accomplish— management of a small but tricky political world—by wearing masks, playing games, setting traps” (Stimpson 101). When looking at one of the most influential and ingeniously misunderstood characters of Shakespeare’s cannon she goes on in her article to say that Polonius is essentially “cunning and full of guile” (Stimpson 103). In terms of an academic and performance based view what supporting material do we have that makes Polonius a true foil to Hamlet? First we must look at how Shakespeare created the character of Polonius to begin with. When the play was written around 1600, Queen Elizabeth was in power. In 1598 her chief advisor, Lord Burghley, know as William Cecil had just passed away. We do know of a lost play entitled Ur-Hamlet, but authorship of this piece is unknown, but many scholars, including Harold Bloom, believe it to have been composed in the late 1580’s. Bloom also believes that Hamlet’s own hand composed Ur-Hamlet. He is quoted

in his book, Hamlet:The Invention of Human, “I do suggest that Shakespeare never stopped rewriting it [Hamlet], from the early version circa 1587-1589” (Bloom 245). Bloom ascertains that Shakespeare was the author of both plays. He goes on to say that,"...Shakespeare was not grafting onto a [Thomas] Kydian melodrama but was revising his own earlier play" (Bloom 248). Bloom makes a case that Shakespeare was indeed writing the fabled tale during Lord Burghley’s lifetime. If this was true, then Shakespeare may have been modeling his character of Polonius after the real life Lord Burghley. This parallel between Polonius and Lord Burghley was first noted in George Russel French’s Shakspeareana Genealogica as early as 1869. “The identity of language with that of Polonius is so close that Shakesepare could not have hit upon it unless he had been acquainted with Burghley” (French 303). Why is this parallel of importance to the Polonius character? If the Bard did model Polonius after Burghley, we may find that Polonius’ true character intent is one of a cunning elder statesman, a man that is not doddering and old, but a character that provides proverbial strength to the argument that Polonius is a true foil towards Prince Hamlet. The parallels are quite striking between the real live Lord Burghley and the fictional character of Polonius. The matter of position is already establishing. Although Polonius has no given title in the oft produced classic Claudius stresses Polonius ’ importance to the state when speaking to Laertes about his father, “ The hand more instrumental to the mouth / Than is the throne of Denmark to thy father” (Thompson & Taylor 1.2.4748). Burghley, during his later years in Elizabeth ’ s government, devised an intricate spy network that succeeded in uncovering the Babington Plot of 1586; a network that he managed until his death in 1598. If the seeds of Polonius hark back to Elizabeth ’ s chief advisor, we find this, along with several other Burghley characteristics for Shakespeare to draw from as inspiration. In Hamlet, Polonius acts as such a spy first and foremost against his own son, when he sends Reynaldo to France to check up on Laertes. He spies, yet again in an effort to find the cause of Hamlet ’ s lunacy. He even tells Claudius that he may use Ophelia as bait: “ At such a time, I'll loose my daughter to him” (2.2. 159). Ironically his final act of spying in 3.4 will result in his own death. As for characteristics in regards to the act of espionage, Polonius could not have been procured such intelligence if he was a doddering old man, but only a man of utter deceit. Burghley was a strong arm of Elizabethan law during her reign. If the parallel is true than surely the fictional character of Polonius would have been just as powerful; indeed

powerful enough to spy on the second most powerful man in Denmark. Would Claudius and Gertrude entrust such a devious act to an old man who is losing his faculties? Most likely not for Hamlet wasn ’ t constructing farce, he was composing an intricate web of purposeful and tactful evaluations of the human condition. Yet, another parallel between the real life Burghley and the fictional Polonius are the ten precepts that Polonius instills upon his son, Laertes, before his voyage to France. Lord Burghley instilled such a list of precepts to his real son, Robert, who “…succeeded his father’s political position upon the elder Cecil’s death in 1598” (French 303). Though not every precept is verbatim, several are very similar. We can also see similarities between the relationship of Polonius and kin. Polonius has one son, Laertes, and one daughter, Ophelia. Lord Burghley shad one son, Robert, and a younger daughter, Anne. Then there is the matter of Polonius’ name change. Shakespeare’s original naming for Polonius in the First Quarto was Corambis, which, when translated from the Latin means, Cor Ambo, or “double hearted.” What was Shakespeare trying to say? Perhaps, one of Corambis’ heart is full of love for his son, daughter, and family, the other heart is the love of power and ambition. This ideal is supported by Corambis, and Shakespeare’s Second Quarto counterpart Polonius, who relishes his position in the state. Does his powerful position in the state of Denmark overweigh his affection for his daughter? So, why did Shakespeare change the name from Corambis to Polonius? Perhaps the parallels were too obvious and since Latin was spoken by many, Shakespeare’s naming of the character would have reflected poorly on one of Elizabeth’s strongest supporters. The Chamberlain’s Men were admired during Elizabeth’s reign, and the great writer would not attempt to unbalance the harmonious relationship over the parallel. To guise the Corambis character so as not to draw attention, the famous author may have changed the character name to Polonius. If we confirm the parallels between Lord Burghley and Polonius, including the matter of the name change, we may find Polonius in the mold of a very bright, very intelligent, very cunning individual. Although, not all scholars agree with the Burghely/Polonius parallel, nor the name change. Harold Jenkins disagrees with both. In the 1982 introduction of the Arden edition of Hamlet, he states, “…but the notion that Polonius […] was a caricature of Lord Burghley is sheer conjecture“ (142). He also explains his thoughts on the Corambis/Polonius name change. Jenkins believes that there is no sustainable evidence to prove that Shakespeare changed the name to distance himself from promoting Corambis as a caricature of

Burghley. He goes on to state that since Montano was renamed Reynaldo in the second quarto, that the “…double substitution is a part of a single process” (142). Reviewing much of the first quarto in comparison to the second quarto, there is in fact minimal dialogue substitution or subtraction from the two quartos where the names are changed. Shakespeare may have kept the intent that Corambis/Polonius was cunning, yet nothing in his dialogue between the two editions seem to forge a distinction between the two “characters.” So, how do these parallels make Polonius a foil to the Great Dane? In both quartos, the parallels to Lord Burghley are very strong. We can assume that the real man must have been eagerly deceitful as Elizabeth’s chief advisor. William Cecil would not have been a doddering old fool, but a very true and heralded official seeking advancement, as his political portfolio in history indicates. We know that the man was cunning and ruthless as he presided over the execution trial of Mary, Queen of Scots. He was also honored with “… numerous honorary titles and high-ranking political offices throughout his life” (Smith 67). If Shakespeare had this in mind, he may have intended Polonius to help Claudius kill the elder Hamlet. Not an absurd idea, especially considering the timeless, dog-eat-dog political spectrum. In this scenario, Polonius could well indeed possess the faculties, skills and cunning intelligence that a hungry minded politician would require in order to play in the same arena as Hamlet. Where else does Polonius and Burghleys’ corresponding character and dialogue intercede? Like the political minded politician that the historical Burghley seems to have been, we find that Polonius is absorbed with the all consuming human emotion of greed. Greed doesn’t absorb Polonius, as it does Claudius, but Polonius uses consider the fact that he uses his own daughter as bait. Why does he do this? Where do his obligations lie? If Polonius truly is a loving father, he would not subject his daughter to such a duty. Why does Polonius feel the need to show Claudius and Gertrude Hamlet’s lunacy then? Is Polonius’ political relationship with the state of Denmark stronger than that of his own family? In Hamlet 1.3, we are privy to the conversation between Ophelia and Polonius. She says, “He hath, my lord, of late made many tenders / Of his affection to me” (1.3.98-99). Polonius responds: Marry, I will teach you: think yourself a baby That you have ta’en these tenders for true pay Which are not sterling. (1.3. 104-106)

In Franco Zeffirelli ’ s madly edited 1990 filmed version of Hamlet, we see Ian Holm ’ s Polonius speak these lines as if it were a knee jerk reaction. He is harsh and biting with Helena Bonham Carter ’ s Ophelia. Holm plays the elder statesman as a strong individual with clear intentions, with the effects of his age catching up to him. Holm balances a sense of determination with the effects of aging. You see the character struggle with remembering his words and thoughts, not because he blunders around, but because he is in a mad whirl of zealous emotions, attempting to align his children and do right unto the state, but he is by no means ignorant or dismissive. He presents a threat to Hamlet. He is an obstacle to truth. He speaks with more venom than any other character in the play, except Hamlet. The doddering that he plays out on screen is the frustration at understanding that his faculties are slipping. He has not achieved lunacy, but he is fighting to maintain his edge, this insidious intention to disrupt the political system of Denmark and to assist Claudius. We return to this element of greed. For Polonius, how deep does it run? Does the monster of consumption consume Polonius so far as to conspire with Claudius to kill the elder Hamlet? Like much of Shakespeare’s works, this is open to interpretation, although one such production in Northern California took the note. In the 1994 North Beach Shakespeare Festival’s surrealistically staged piece, the production included a silent prologue before act one, that featured an image of the elder Hamlet standing behind a scrim with his eyes closed, presumably asleep. As tempestuous music builds throughout the scene, in the background behind the scrim, coming into light, we see Claudius slowly approach the sleeping king. A little further upstage, on the other side of Hamlet we see, none other than Polonius. The imagery illuminates the direct link that Polonius was indeed a conspirator in the death. This image ties together the unrelenting greed for power that courses through politics. We see it in today’s political power struggle as it has been for eons. In this production, ambition and greed liquefy both characters’ motives for murder. A more ubiquitous interpretation is Kenneth Branagh’s 1996 film version, that according to its on screen commentary, roughly follows the entire First Folio without a single cut. In it we see a very ambitious and powerful Polonius, a man of utter importance and strength, not a doddering old fool. Branagh inserts scenes sans dialogue, whereby we see Claudius lusting after Gertrude, and a scene of him actually murdering the elder Hamlet, although without Polonius nearby. By setting the film in the Victorian era, we are dangling on the precipice of the modern industrial age of C.E.O’s and huge corporations. In this version we see a very recognizable Polonius; a man of modern political stature who uses his

power in politics so as to manipulates the ones around him. Modern consumerism, and commercialism are in its infancy, but Branagh’s Hamlet gives us a glance at Polonius’ ambitions, unlike any other Polonius seen on screen. A closer textual look into the profundity of his character can be found in the film’s 2.1 when he speaks with Reynaldo. In the dialogue exchange between Richard Briers’ Polonius and Gérard Depardieu’s Reynaldo we are witness to a strumpeted harlot half naked in the statesman’s bedchamber. Polonius is also seen taking long drags on what is perceived to be expensive cigarettes. Briers’ interpretation has Polonius played as a wealthy man of the world. These characteristics give the Polonius character strength and power. Branagh is a smart enough director to know that while the character does promote an overall story arc, especially for Hamlet, since this is the first time he kills, Branagh reads between the iambic pentameter in order to find a source of strength in this elder statesman. Also, a weak Polonius would not be smoking in Victorian-era Denmark and definitely would not keep such an exotic figurine in his bed. Only a man of power would display his fortunes of investment. Looking at the scene that follows 2.1, Hamlet calls Polonius “a fishmonger,” ( 2.2. 171). The 2003 Arden states in its page notes that several editors have speculated that the wordplay here is actually fleshmonger (2.2.186). This would coincide with the male double standard of the time, giving even more weight to Polonius as an example of the tough and tumble male double standard. This would hark back to Branagh and Briers’ interpretation. Also, why does Polonius act so quickly to find the cause of Hamlet’s lunacy? Is it for fear of his daughter’s safety? Or is it for fear of his career and standing with the king and queen? If Polonius was attempting to protect his career, then the young Hamlet, who was already in line as king before Claudius married Gertrude, would probably loose his position within the high council. Perhaps this is why he is so eager to please the royal court. In 2.2, Polonius reads Hamlet’s letter to Ophelia in the intimate audience of the King and Queen. In the 2003 Arden there is a footnote that states that in the Branagh film Ophelia reads Hamlet’s letter, but in actuality this is not entirely correct (Thompson 245). Ophelia reads the first half of the letter, but she cannot continue, for she is crying. With Brannagh’s film we then cut to a scene of Hamlet and Ophelia in bed where Branagh speaks a few lines of the letter before Polonius buttons the written works with his own voice; an excellent choice to shift the dialogue in order to exemplify both Ophelia and Polonius’ characters.

Again, Briers’ interpretation of Polonius is that of a man with sharp wit, excellent intelligence and a man that could indeed play cat and mouse with any man of the state, even Hamlet. In 1999, The Old Vic’s production had Ophelia reading the entire letter as Polonius watches her daughter and the reaction of the King and Queen. By having Ophelia read the letter, it makes Polonius a harsher, more conniving, man. In the Franco Zeffirelli film version, we are treated to a prologue. In it, we see our main players at the elder Hamlet’s funeral. Gertrude is crying frantically on top of the tomb. We then see Claudius piercing his eyes in lust for the former queen. Hamlet’s mother meets eyes with her dead husband’s brother and her internal struggle calms. We then cut to a shot of Polonius, who has just observed the looks between the two, looking stern faced across the entombed area. What is he thinking? Those silences and pause that Shakespeare, and for that matter Heminges and Condell, never wrote into any folio, may give us an insight into what type of character Polonius might be. Shrouded in disillusionment as a father to Ophelia and longing for more political wealth we find that this character, and elements of leads us to speculate as to the position of the character in relation to power. If Claudius weds Gertrude, how will this new marriage affect Polonius’ position in the state? Zeffirelli leaves that open to interpretation. The Old Globe ’ s 2007 summer production of Hamlet in San Diego, Charles Janasz, played Polonius. His take on the role had been to play the character with such utter senility that it seemed to make the audience uncomfortable. He holds a pause of five or six seconds after his line to Reynaldo, “ What was I about to say” (2.1.49). The pause is so great that one could hear the audience hold its breathe. The effects of this modern comic stereotype for playing Polonius leaves no doubt as to where the characterization lies. Almost farcical in nature we may have a challenging time remembering that when the Bard of Avon was writing this piece, and it is one of his darker tones, he had just lost his young son Hamnet a few years earlier. And unlike The Comedy of Errors, we may speculate that Shakespeare ’ s intent wasn ’ t broad comedy. In 3.3 while the players are staging their performance at Elsinore, we know that Polonius does say that he enacted the role of Julius Caesar and that he was “ killed in the capital.” This is a dark and ironic vision of Polonius ’ end, not to be taken with triviality. In C.B Cox ’ s Shakespeare Wide and Universal Stage his view is one of an empowered man and hard nosed intelligent, politician in which “… the disgarding of Polonius we have a [political] puppet rather than that of a man” (175). We have our character placed before us, cut and served, with nothing left to explore. With so rich a play as Hamlet, there are intrinsic challenge in order to believe that

Shakespeare ’ s true intent of the character of Polonius was that of a silly old man. With all of this in mind, why is Polonius today, still played as the doddering old comedic fool? “In 1730, Arthur Colby Sprague began what would become a common tradition of doubling Polonius and the Gravedigger in an effort to use as few actors as possible” (Holland 97). Some scholars say that since Will Kemp had left the Chamberlain’s Men in the late 1590’s, there was no major clown character when Hamlet had constructed the play so he left it out. Our clowns in Hamlet are the Gravediggers and in a sense Osric. But none of these characters are the larger than life, prating fool that Shakespeare had been using as a stereotype for the last ten years. One can only speculate that productions of the past needed a funnier angle on the piece, and so directors started to sacrifice the Polonius character as comic stock. Over the centuries several productions have followed suite for several obvious economic reasons of having to pay one less actor. Casting a comedic actor to fulfill both parts is easier than finding an actor that can play two extremes. Perhaps this is where the comedic tradition was started and Shakespeare had wanted to continue the comedic aspects of the play. We truly do not know. Jumping back to our Burghley train of thought, if Polonius was indeed the mastermind spy that Shakespeare had intended him to be, then Hamlet’s reaction to Polonius’ death would seem apt. Especially when he says, “Thou find’st to be too busy is some danger” (3.4.31). Hamlet is saying that to be interfering has proven dangerous. Of course, how the actor carries the scene is another story. In the Globe’s 2007 production Mr. Hall, is furious and mixed with mad emotions. If he had killed the frail, old father of his girlfriend, the actor playing Hamlet should show more sorrow. This is rarely the case because the lines do not promote the grief. Hamlet says, after slaying the old man behind the arras, Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell: I took thee for thy better. Take they fortune; Thou find ’ st to be too busy is some danger. (3.4.29-31.) If Polonius were played as a scrupulous, villainous man of the state, alongside Claudius, then these harshly spoken lines by Hamlet would present truth. With relation to performance we are left to the creative team to make this decision as to which dichotomy to infuse Polonius with. Again, deliverance of the lines ultimately ends in the hands of the actor playing Hamlet, but the same reasoning can be said for the Danish Prince’s witty repertoire with Claudius throughout 4.3 about Polonius’ whereabouts. If Polonius was in on the senior Hamlet’s murder and was the deceitful man

that he has been made out to be in Branagh’s version, we the audience sympathize more with our lead character. We then assume that Polonius had negative intentions towards Hamlet, so we the audience, can follow Hamlet’s sorrow. Shakespeare’s line holds little remorse for his action. For Hamlet, this is the first time he has slayed a man and that moment is one of the central climax’s of the film, a point of no return. Hamlet heat and anger boils over into Polonius’ sphere of influence, yet he shows little remorse at all at his death. The dynamics of how these two roles are interpreted matter greatly, but we have more empathy for Polonius as a comic character than that of a bulwark politican who was on Claudius bankroll. If the character was of a darker tone then Hamlet’s cold reactions to his death would seem more logical. When Claudius asks “Now, Hamlet where is Poloinus” (4.3). Hamlet states, “At supper” (4.3). This interplay is cold and sardonic without an empathetic element to convince us otherwise. This is afterall the father of Ophelia, with whom he had exchanged his love. Ultimately, it is the production’s choice to play the character of Polonius the way that fits into the scheme of its vision. Shakespeare’s pen would not have been so sloppy as to leave this character to chance. His craft of Polonius as a piece of the Hamlet puzzle is rich and should be played as such. The theatre model of Shakespeare is interpretive, no doubt, yet there are certain specific elements that define character, and as a play Hamlet has been produced more than any other play in the English language and so he will have to deal with thousands upon thousands of actor and their subtext as to how to play Polonius. We will probably never know what the great writer’s true intentions were. How we deal with this mixture of fact and conjecture is up to each actor, each director, each production. As Majorie Garder wrote in Shakespeare’s Ghost Writers, “ … Polonius [stands more] of a ghostly vision than the common eye may catch” (133). Between the numerous Lord Burghley connections as well as the Zeffirelli and Branagh film versions of Hamlet, we find that Polonius, at least according to one actor/director/theatre lover, may very well be the true foil to the Prince of Denmark.

Works Cited Bloom, Harold. Hamlet: The Invention of Human. Riverhead Trade; Open Market Ed edition. 1999. 245-268. Bradley, A.C. Shakespearean Tragedy. Meridian Books. 1960. 68-108. Brannagh, Kenneth, dir. Hamlet. 1996. Sony Pictures. C.B Cox. Shakespeare Wide and Universal Stage. 1984. Manchester Universal Press. Cleaves, David. “To Thine Own Self be False: Polonius as a Danish Seneca.” Shakespeare Yearbook 3 (1992): 45-61. Cleaves ’ articles draws a comparison of “ Seneca and Polonius as they both share several characteristics: both are hypocrites, flatters, and ministers to tyrants.” Foster, Donald. "A Romance of Electronic Scholarship; with the True and Lamentable Tragedies of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. Part 1: The Words." Early Modern Literary Studies 3.3 / Special Issue 2 (January, 1998): 5.1-42 . In the article Foster discusses the differences of the first and second quarto and the how Polonius ’ character is different between the two texts. French ,George Russel. Shakspeareana Genealogica. 1869. Discussion of the parallels between William Ceil/Lord Burghely and the fictional character of Polonius. Garber, Majorie. Shakespeare’s Ghost Writers . New York. Methuen. 1987. 147-178. Garber discusses the reflective persona of Polonius. Is the father of Laertes and Ophelia doddering or is he cunning? Has he changed from Q1 to Q2?

Holland, Peter. Shakespeare Survey 56 .

Cambridge University

Press. 2003. 97-98. Richardson, Tony, dir. Hamlet. 1969. Colombia Pictures. Shakespeare, William. Hamlet. The Riverside Shakespeare. Ed. Blakmore Evans . Houghton Mifflin Company, 1984. 1345-1357.

G.

Shakespeare, William. Hamlet. The Norton Shakespeare. Eds. Stephen Greenblatt, et. al. New York: Norton, 1997. 1664-1665. Shakespeare, William. Hamlet . The Arden Shakespeare . Ed. Harold Jenkins. London: Thomson Learning, 1982. Introduction. 34-35, 421-422. Jenkins discusses the Corambis/Polonius name change in the introduction. He argues against the Polonius relationship to Lord Burghley. Shakespeare, William. Hamlet . The Arden Shakespeare . Eds. Ann Thompson and Neil Taylor. London: Thomson Learning, 2006. 228-253. Smith, Alan Gordon. William Cecil: The Power Behind Elizabeth. University Press of the Pacific, 2004. 14-88. Stimpson, Catherine R. “Polonius, Our Pundit.” American Scholar 71.4 (Aut. 2002): 97-108. Stimpson ’ s article suggests that Polonius is “ a policymaker ” and “ fine seasoned conniver. ” She goes on to explore that dual role of Polonius as “ court official and patriach. ” Her ideas expand upon the notion that Polonius is indeed conniving as opposed to doddering. Zeffirelli, Franco, dir. Hamlet. 1990. Warner Brothers Pictures.

Theatre of the Absurd The scope and breadth of Theatre of the Absurd is a 20th century expansion that sought to defy the norms of the Realistic Theatre Genre that developed in 1880’s. Using elements of symbolism, Dadaism, surrealism and other non-linear theatrical forms this “abstract” style of theatre took root in artistic enclaves in major cities of the world starting at the turn of the 20th century.

Appleyolk: The Trial of Rope and Twine on the Clouds Play Synopsis In this absurd short one act play we delve into the symbolic elements of corporate greed versus humanities desires to be unfettered from the struggles of society.

Scene I Two men in a lifeboat. The sea is calm and the sky is clear. PAUSE. TWINE burps. He looks at ROPE and then begins to laugh hysterically. ROPE then lifts up a bottle of apple juice from behind the lifeboat and takes a swig. He burps too. TWINE laughs and ROPE joins in as they keep exchanging the bottle, drinking, burping, and laughing. LIGHTS FADE. Scene II LIGHTS UP. Both men are asleep and the sun is frying. TWINE wakes up slowly, looks around, burps, and goes back to sleep. LIGHTS FADE. Scene III LIGHTS UP. Both men are awake now. Silence, and then... TWINE: Baby's breathe. ROPE: Baby boom. TWINE: Baby food. ROPE: Baby talk.

TWINE: Rosemary's baby. ROPE: Baby boy. TWINE: Baby girl. ROPE: Baby toy. TWINE: Babycakes. ROPE: Rubber baby buggy bumpers. TWINE: Baby farmer. ROPE: Baby farmer? LIGHTS TO BLACK. Scene IV LIGHTS FADE UP. TWINE takes the apple juice bottle, rips off the label, and sets the bottle in front of the lifeboat in the ocean. LIGHTS FADE. Scene V LIGHTS FADE UP. The bottle is gone, drifting to shore. TWINE: Double-decker chili-cheeseburger with chili fries and a Mountain Dew. ROPE: A thick nine-inch steak, onion rings, baked potato, salad with Bob's Bleu cheese, bread, and an iced tea. TWINE: Cheesecake for dessert? ROPE: Strawberry cheesecake. (Pause.)

TWINE: Actually all that stuff is awful for you. It clogs up your arteries and you die. Like an ant dies when you spray Woolite on it. You see it freeze, and then it realizes its dying. Its legs start to quiver and then before the ant realizes it he's being squashed by a big foot. (Pause.) Not Sasquach. ROPE: I hate ants. TWINE: Actually the potato's okay as long as you don't put anything fattening inside it like cheese. ROPE: My goats used to make cheese. TWINE: I used to go down to the drugstore and every time I'd go I'd see this huge ad: "Melbourn Cheeses-The Happy Cows are smilin!" (Pause) What the hell does that mean anyway? And they even have the little 'c' thing with a circle around it underneath the "Happy Cows" part, you know like its copyrighted or something. (Pause.) So what the fuck does that mean? I mean what the fuck does "HAPPY COWS" mean? Does it mean they're happy to make milk for the cheese or just happy that they give the milk because then they get to eat grains and grass and stuff to feed their bellies to remain smiling and therefore become these 'HAPPY' cows. Or maybe it means that the girl cows have utters and bulls don't and the girl cows are doin' all the work, and its a female advantage thing and those female cows are relishing in their self-worth and so they actually are happy. (Pause.) Or maybe they just like being cows; and they smile. ROPE: The cow is actually a sacred animal. A cow alive is more useful because you can reuse her all the time for milk. I'm not a vegetarian or nothin' but its kinda true. Cows give a lot of people strong teeth. I wish cows could swim, then we could be rescued by a cow. Coast Guard Cows we'd call 'em. They would have their own rescue-copter and they'd run drills on the beach and have big boats to accommodate all the crew. They wouldn't have to build seat cushions because cows stand up all the time. You could save a lot of money by not building cushions. Cushions cost a lot because you have to pay a stitcher guy to sew 'em all together. So with the money saved they can get binoculars. Cows have good necks, so the binoculars would hang there perfectly, just like a pendant. Cows necks are fatter than humans. TWINE: Yeah. Cows.

ROPE: Hey did you ever cap down those double snow-shoes they used to serve at Wolfies? TWINE: The what, where? ROPE: You remember Wolfies! That place right in the village downtown right next to the train tracks, and every evening when the sun began to melt into the wine-blue ocean and the essence of time seemed to grow sharp edges and develop a color of whispering rain that train went roarin' by, and all drinks were only a dime, from the time the crossing lights started a tinklin' until you could hear the whispering echo of the huge love-lock of that locomotive gliding into the horizon along the sand covered dunes while children played in the foaming surf. For all of ten seconds that bar was jammed like 50 ostrich heads hidin' from a coyote. Everyone wanting something. And the bartender had a pencil thin mustache and was always smiling with a smile that stretched across his aging wrinkling face as he served up the drinks in a silent tongue. Pause. TWINE: I'm sorry, I can't says that I recall. ROPE: Yeah, me neither. I guess it ’ s give and take out here in the open. At this moment ROPE looks upstage of the lifeboat and pulls up two life vests and hands one to TWINE. ROPE: Polyester. TWINE: Polyester and Styrofoam. ROPE & TWINE: The 70's. TWINE: This stuff will kill ya. They both throw the life vests upstage. LIGHTS FADE except for two blue spots on ROPE & TWINE seated in the boat. Pause. ROPE & TWINE then begin to sing, with no particular tune, just random voice fluctuations, but it must sound melodic like an Indian dance of some sort. Blue spots quickly fade in and out as a blue spot comes slowly up on an apple in front of the raft. The Indian chant continues with a

V.O. of Indian drums and a war chant. The lightning and sound reach a climax and than the lights and sound cut abruptly. NORMAL LIGHTS FADE UP as blue spots fade out. ROPE & TWINE act relaxed as if nothing happened. TWINE: (Picks up the apple.) Mmm. ROPE: What variety? TWINE: (Looks it over.) Red. ROPE: Mmm. TWINE: Looks really good. (Pause. He takes a bite.) Delicious. ROPE: Here gimme. (TWINE tosses ROPE the apple, and takes a bite.) Mmm. Delicious, JUST delicious. (Tosses the apple back to TWINE.) TWINE: (Takes a bite.) Oh, yummy. ROPE: No worms. TWINE: Hey that's right, there are no worms out here. (Takes a bite.) ROPE: No, but there are eels. Eels are kinda worm-like. They stealth through the murky caves below, and eat benthic creatures. Worms hide in apples. Eels hide in caves, sometimes in gym lockers too. One time in gym class I made a clay statue in the shape of a papaya and an eel spurted right out of the top and snapped at my friend. TWINE: Who was your friend? ROPE: He sold green machines. You know those things that rivaled big wheels. TWINE: I had a big wheel. ROPE: I had a green machine. TWINE: Oh.

ROPE: You could only have one, you know. You couldn't have both a big wheel and a green machine because they were in competition with each other. Two huge companies fighting for the attention of an eight-year-old who wants an alternative to a SIT 'N SPIN. TWINE: Actually I liked to play in the sandbox when I was a knipper. ROPE: Yeah me too. (He takes a bite of apple.) Because you always make really neat things out of sand and a bucket of water. Dragons and sand castles and lizards and liqueur stores and once I made trumpet. It blew bubbles. And once I made a huge tomahawk. It was so beautiful Not like those fake plastic ones you get from the drug store, but this one had a huge wood handle with real buffalo hide for the straps. (Indian chant V.O. starts again.) And the feathers were made from the black tailed hawk. You would see that bird of prey sail across the emerald sky at noon and nothing could... (Lights change to the flickering blue spots as the music builds once again and both actors start miming their conversation in slow motion. As the music continues two women dressed as angels begin to dance a ceremonial dance around the boat. A heart beat starts as the music continues to build until the women are upstage of the boat. One of them slowly pulls out a ray gun and points it at ROPE. Music and lights cut abruptly and we are once again in normal light and time.) MERMAID BITCH #1: Okay slugs. (ROPE & TWINE raise their arms.) Would you mind handing over that apple. ROPE: Actually I'm rather found of it. (Pause.) MERMAID BITCH #1: Give me the apple. Now! (Pause.) TWINE: We can share I suppose. ROPE: Well, I suppose we can share, huh? TWINE: Yeah, we can share the apple. It's really delicious...

MERMAID BITCH #2: It's a WASHINGTON DELICIOUS. TWINE: No, it's just delicious. MERMAID BITCH #1: Just give us the apple. ROPE: No, it's just delicious. MERMAID BITCH #2: I think we need that apple guys. TWINE: Why? You guys have plankton and shrimp and cetaceans to play with. What are you guys going to do with another apple? MERMAID BITCH #1: We want that apple! TWINE: When? MERMAID BITCH #1: NOW!!! ROPE: Can't you guys wait until we're done? MERMAID BITCH #1: No! And if you don't give us that whole, red ripe, WASHINGTON DELICIOUS apple I will have to vaporize you both! TWINE: Are you from the sea? MERMAID BITCH #2: Yes, we are mermaids. ROPE: Do you know the lobster man? MERMAID BITCH #2: Yes, he is a very important political figure below the sea. MERMAID BITCH #1: Yes! Now give us the apple!!! TWINE: Have you ever talked with him personally? MERMAID BITCH #2: He just grunts a lot. MERMAID BITCH #1: Enough talk! Give us the apple!

TWINE: How does he grunt? MERMAID BITCH #2: Well, he sort of just grunts. You know. Kinda like, well...(She grunts then laughs.) ROPE: Hey, that's pretty good! except MERMAID BITCH #1.)

(ROPE grunts and everyone laughs

TWINE: Let me try! (He grunts and all laugh except MERMAID BITCH #1.) MERMAID BITCH #2: No, it's more like...(She grunts and all laugh except MERMAID BITCH #1.) ROPE: Yeah! (Starts laughing hysterically.) TWINE: Yeah! (Starts laughing hysterically.) MERMAID BITCH #2: Yeah!!! (Starts laughing hysterically.) (All three are laughing hysterically and grunting.) MERMAID BITCH #1: Shut up! All of you! silent.) Now, you, give me the apple.

Shut up!!!

(Everyone is

ROPE: I seemed to have consumed much of it already... MERMAID BITCH #1: Just give me the FUCKING apple!!! (Pause.) TWINE: (Hands over the apple.) It was delicious. (LIGHTS TO BLACK.) Scene VI (LIGHTS UP. Night. ROPE & TWINE are asleep. There are now many apples in front of the boat. LIGHTS FADE.) Scene VII

(LIGHTS UP. Morning. ROPE & TWINE are eating apples very casually, passing them back and forth and taking large bites. They both have big grins on their faces. They are content. LIGHTS FADE.) Scene VIII (LIGHTS UP. Mid-day. ROPE & TWINE are asleep napping. Apples are still in front of the boat. ROPE & TWINE slowly wake up.) ROPE: Beautiful day! Absolutely beautiful! I love the smell of the fresh open air. No smog, no nothing! TWINE: Yeah no cars, no buildings, no building permits, no building permit guys who sell building permits, no lumberjacks, no steel mills, no oil refineries, no commercial chained restaurants, no crime, and no policemen. ROPE: No Chia pets, no Clappers, no television, no smoke stacks, no landfills, no Barney the drugged out purple dinosaur, no seedless watermelons, no super glue, no poverty, no overpopulation for the sea is infinite and its waters are nourishing. TWINE: It sure is nice out here. There's nothing but clouds and clouds and sky and clouds. ROPE: Yessir it sure is beautiful! (Pause.) TWINE: Hey, want should we have for lunch? (They both look down at the apples.) ROPE: How about apples! TWINE: Great! I love apples! (He reaches down and grabs one apple.) You want the first bite? ROPE: No, go ahead.

TWINE: No, I had the first bite at breakfast. ROPE: No, you go ahead. Okay, let's uh... (He ROCK/PAPER/SCISSORS by pounding his fist three times.)

motions

TWINE: Alright, on three, okay? ROPE: Okay! 1st deal comes up with both "rock." 2nd deal comes up with both "paper." 3rd deal comes up with both scissors." Actors freeze with "scissors" pose with huge grins on their faces as lights fade into two blue spots. Music. Song ends and lights fade out. HOPEFULLY NOT THE END BUT THE BEGINNING

Industrial Theatre When we think of Industrial Theatre, what does this mean precisely? Well, in this case this is theatre that has to do with the social injustices of

employment in society. What injustices might exist that theatre may be able to root out. And what genre is best to illustrate those practices. Do we use Realism, Forum Theatre, Interactive Theatre? Topics such as union regulations, workers ’ rights, and safety issues are melded together within the context of history.

The 146 Point Flame – Long Trail School – Dorset, Vermont

The 146 Point Flame Play Synopsis This piece is based on the historic 1911 Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire in New York City. Through words, movement and music, four young women share their dreams, thoughts, fears and feelings about their ultimate destinies. An Italian immigrant, Vincenza, shares her last night on Earth with romance, smiles and dancing. Tessa celebrates her life with a story

about her brother and mother. Sisters Lena and Yetta meditate on the strength and endurance of moving from Russia to America and the parallels of moving from life to the afterlife. Touching and poetic, this piece illuminates the definition of human courage.

(AUTHOR’S NOTE: Even though there are five actors on stage, each actor has a story to tell. They are conscious of each other, but they have minimal interaction. They do listen to each other's stories throughout, sometimes reacting to each other's words, smiling, clapping, etc... The staging should suggest quickness in between character dialogue. If more design elements are desired, there may be a backdrop of the interior of the building or a more elaborate design involving some architectural aspect of the building, but the play works well with just five black boxes. This piece is not linear in form and should be taken as such for the artists involved. The element of time is critical to this piece.) Setting: 1911. Five black boxes litter the stage. The women wear very simple dresses of the period Very dull, nothing fancy or colorful. The MALE ENSEMBLE may wear a suit. The change into different characters can be done using the skills of the actor. Very little costume change is needed. The atmosphere is a mix of colored lighting and odd shapes. In the dark we hear the crackling and snapping sounds of fire mixed with a light breeze. In the dark we hear the sounds of chaos, screaming and yelling and the clanging of fire wagon bells. Each cast member is frozen in a different position on their respective blocks. LENA and YETTAs’ blocks should be very close together. The lights slowly rise to a darkened and very moody feeling. The cast begins to breathes in and out in synchronization, slowly at first and then quicker and faster. There is a pin spot on each box that flashes in quick secession as the lights bounce back and forth between the cast as they breathe in different broken rhythms now. Music plays as the cast breathes faster and faster with the lights bumping up and down on them quicker and quicker. The chaotic sounds of that fateful day begin to play once again. Each breathe is now panic. The sound of breathing now begins to echo. Their breathing gets more and more frantic as smoke fills the stage. Then the music, sounds and breathing abruptly stop, except for the wind which will play throughout the piece. Beat. The ensemble takes one long deep exhale. The lights rise a little on the factory. There should be very little in terms of staging elements. Slowly, the actors become “conscious” of the sounds and eventually of each other. The actresses begin to “mime” their work at various sewing machines. Their “miming” should resemble a choreographed dance. FEMALE ENSEMBLE: Sew. Sew. Sew. Sew.

FOREMAN: Sew, snap! Sew, snap! FEMALE ENSEMBLE: Sew, snap! Sew, snap! FOREMAN: Cut, sew! Cut sew! FEMALE ENSEMBLE: Cut sew! Cut sew! The smoke begins to clear as the lights rise to full. FEMALE ENSEMBLE:( rising in volume and passion with each word ) Sew! Sew! Sew! Sew! Sew! Sew! Sew! TESSA: Twenty-three. VINCENZA: Washington Place. YETTA: Greenwich Village. TESSA: New York City. ALL: 1911. TESSA: America is meltingLENA: Melting. YETTA: Melting. LENA: The sound of bells. VINCENZA: Yes. The bells are ringing for us. I can hear them. TESSA: For us all. YETTA: In my mind ’ s eye, I can see myself as a dove with elegant snowy wings gliding, softly flapping through the ocean of clouds. The ringing of the bells draws my tiny body closer, closer to the edge of the sky. I am drawn to the rays of the sun glinting off of my crystal chariot.

TESSA: In my home of Warnemuende, we would cook sausages. LENA: Air fills my lungs. Clean, fresh air. TESSA: My father would fatten the casings, and he would throw the dead pieces of meat onto the metal rods, lifeless... impaled. VINCENZA: And the buildings stretch out into space. My fingers graze the tips of the hard cinders. YETTA: Higher and higher we go as our bodies lift gracefully towards the open land. In the flash of a flame ’ s second, I senseVINCENZA: The opportunities. TESSA: The fire would ignite with a thunderous roar. My mother would laugh at the site of the stinking, smoldering flesh. YETTA: The freedom. LENA: Freedom. TESSA: It meant that we had enough money to eat. VINCENZA: Why? TESSA: And I would watch the small pieces of animal flesh scorch underneath the flames. VINCENZA: Why? LENA: So young. YETTA: I always ate so many pyriths that they called me little dough girl in Russian. TESSA: As the drippings of the animal ’ s lard plummeted toward the open flames through the meager metal rods, there was this sizzling sound and then aYETTA: ( in a stage whisper ) Pop.

VINCENZA: Pop. Pop. LENA: Pop. Pop! POP! POP! POP! POP! ALL: POP! POP! POP! POP! POP! POP! POP! POP! Beat . TESSA: Pop. LENA: The dress I am wearing is from Poland. Our wages are so low at the factory, we can ’ t even afford to buy one of their cheap garments. This tattered dress that I am wearing was my mother ’ s. She gave it to me before we left. Before the trip. Before we left the old country. YETTA: That was many years ago. LENA: My sister was barely old enough to comprehend. FOREMAN: Get to work! ENSEMBLE OF WOMEN: Work! FOREMAN: Work, work, work, work! FEMALE ENSEMBLE: Work, work, work, work! VINCENZA: From the outside this tall magnificent structure lookedFORMAN: Strong. VINCENZA: When in reality it wasLENA: Fragile. TESSA: Like the shell of an egg. YETTA: Mother was-

LENA: Weak. Was always trembling. Her mind was tough but her body wasYETTA & LENA: Brittle. YETTA: I can barely remember my mother. She did not smile often. LENA: We came to America. And that made her veryYETTA: Sad. There was joy inside, but at the same time... Utter sadness. LENA: My mother ’ s eyes were sapphire... deep oceans. I can see them piercing through water into the atmosphere, she sees me. Between the rusty clay of the setting sun my mother ’ s eyes glow outward across the skyscape. YETTA: My father loved her very much. But my mother ’ s eyes … LENA: My mother ’ s eyes. Inside her saddened eyes there was a place of maternal comfort that I carry with me, with my sister. Within the rim of her iris is we I live now. VINCENZA: Last evening, I met a man... Garcalanco. The FOREMAN transforms into GARCELANCO. They act out the scene VINCENZA describes. VINCENZA: He hailed from Sorrento. Six feet tall, chestnut colored hair, the most impressive amethyst eyes. How striking he is! Arm in arm we strolled, as we turned the corner around 13th Street. My heart, for the first time in my life felt the strange elation I had only known from literature. I began to pull ahead down the sidewalk, but Garcalanco held me back in a... sensitive sort of manner. (She smiles. Beat.) We walked along the storefront until we stopped at one. We looked up. “Mazzarino’s Italian Food.” Beneath the red and green painted sign he confidently approached the large glass window and waved his hand. In an instant... a flicker of light. I looked up at this gorgeous stranger whose arm I had clutched as if to hold on forever. He smiled down at me. My face flushed but I managed to smile back. Then, Mr. Mazzarino opened the door and welcomed his only customers for the evening as we sat down at a table for two. He closed the front door and he was closed for the evening except we were the only ones

in the restaurant. During dinner, we laughed and smiled, and I stared into this man’s beautiful face. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of Mr. Mazzarino smiling. He turned off the kitchen lights and walked right out the back. And just like that. We were aloneGARCELANCO: Alone. VINCENZA: Alone. ENSEMBLE OF WOMEN: Alone. VINCENZA: Alone, in the restaurant, Garcalanco told me how Mr. Mazzarino was his neighbor in Naples and he had known him since he was a young boy. He told me stories of his past. How he would help his uncle pull in King Fish at the docks in a giant net and how he had to learn how to club these enormous fish on the head until they struggled no more. He watched the life go out in the animal. As a boy he was told this was merciful but cried every night afterward by himself in bed. He was strong but held a tender heart within his cage. ( She smiles.) We shared stories of our past, our lives, and dreams for the future. In fact when I told Garcalanco that I wanted to be a designer in fashion... he didn ’ t laugh like so many others had. He looked into me and said in a calm voice... GARCELANCA: I know you will be wonderful. VINCENZA: My entire existence culminated into one single night. (Beat.) That night. (Stage whisper.) Ohhh! How many lives would one give for the opportunity to explore this world on a night like that! (Change in attitude.) The lights in New York are so bright in the evening, one can barely make out the stars in the sky. GARCELANCO: We have all the time now! TESSA: Time. ENSEMBLE OF WOMEN: Time. GARCELANCO: All the time that the planet can offer us. We are no longer looked down upon as immigrants. Filthy, gritty immigrants they call us. Why? Why are we so disgusting?

VINCENZA: Why are we so different? GARCELANCO: But we are no different here. Here we are exactly the same. Breathing and living and dreaming among the heavens, just like the rest of the city. VINCENZA looks down. VINCENZA:I’m scared. He takes her chin. GARCELANCO: Don ’ t look down. Never look down. TESSA: It was hot. The heat was in my heart. The heat was in myVINCENZA: Head. TESSA: The heat was in myGARCELANCO: Soul. TESSA: The heat was... VINCENZA and GARCELANCO go into kiss but they stop, as if a barrier is now between them. LENA: Don’t! TESSA: Don’t! YETTA: Don’t! GARCELNACO pulls away from her and resumes the role of the FOREMAN. FOREMAN: Don’t! Don’t look down! TESSA: Never look down. And so I looked out. Straight out into the future. Forward were my eyes. Forward were my hands. VINCENZA & LENA: Sew, sew, sew.

TESSA: Forward was my future. LENA & YETTA : Sew, sew, sew. TESSA: As the wind snapped at my ruddy checks, high above the atmosphere, I could see a large man with beady eyes standing at a door. His eyes peered into the depths of my being. FOREMAN: What ’ s in your bag missy? TESSA: Nothing. FOREMAN: Empty the contents. TESSA: No, IFOREMAN: Empty your bag, now! TESSA: (She ‘empties’ her bag) They’re only scraps. FOREMAN: What is this? TESSA: (Desperate.) There are scraps of the fabric. We don’t use them for the trousers or anything. We throw them away! They’re scraps for the trash. FOREMAN: Lock the doors! ENSEMBLE OF WOMEN: No! FOREMAN: Lock them I say! We hear the sound of several doors locking as the FEMALE ENSEMBLE re-act. VINCENZA: Let me out! YETTA: I can ’ t breathe! I cannot breathe! FOREMAN: (grabbing YETTA by the arm) Come with me.

TESSA: No. FORMAN: Now! TESSA: No! FOREMAN: You can tell your story to the owners. TESSA: No! FOREMAN: Let’s go. LENA: Let her go!

TESSA: Let me go!

FOREMAN: Come with me urchin! TESSA: No.

YETTA: No!

TESSA: I am free! With an element of dance YETTA frees herself from the FOREMAN. Music starts. YETTA: I am free. LENA & VINCENZA: Free! TESSA: Free! FOREMAN: Sew! Sew! ENSEMBLE OF WOMEN: Sew! Sew! FOREMAN: Sew! Sew! ENSEMBLE OF WOMEN: Sew! Sew! FOREMAN: Faster! ENSEMBLE OF WOMEN: Faster!

FOREMAN: Sew! Sew! Sew! ENSEMBLE OF WOMEN: Sew! Sew! Sew! ENSEMBLE: Sew! Sew! Sew! Sew! Sew! Sew! Sew! YETTA collapses, exhausted. The music and choreography stop. The FOREMAN walks over to her. FOREMAN: Sew! ( Pause .) Sew! He pulls her up off of the ground. FOREMAN: Sew! LENA: No! Leave her alone. FOREMAN: She doesn ’ t sew. VINCENZA: Let her go. FOREMAN: If she doesn ’ t sew, she will be let go. VINCENZA: We are Americans. FOREMAN: And what does that mean? TESSA: It means we have endurance. VINCENZA: Determination. LENA: And strength. FOREMAN: Perhaps. But for how long? LENA: As long as we live. FOREMAN: We’ll see about that. YETTA: Air! I need air!

She rushes past the FOREMAN and crosses upstage. She bangs on the imaginary door. We hear the sound of her pounding twice on the door. It is locked. She tries another door. It is locked too. YETTA: I want air! FOREMAN: You ’ ll sew until the ending bell. TESSA: She needs to breathe. She needs a break! You lock us away like animals. FOREMAN: You steal and lie. Who ’ s the animal now? She slowly crosses back up stage as YETTA returns to her pedestal. YETTA: ( smiling ) I am clear. I can pass. I collected myself, and I push against the door. ( Her smile has faded .) It does not move. ( Becoming frantic .) I push again, and again, with all my weight, but the door does not move. The door isALL: Locked. VINCENZA: Away in our own little world, we strolled through the crisp January air. His warm hand tickled my palm. His fingers crawled like loving little spiders, then he wrapped his hand in mine. I stood gazing at the darkened aurora. The enormous pumpkin orange moon lazily seeped into the corners of my cornea reddening our faces as we basked in a different kind of glow. In one hand I held my heart, in the other, I reached out to touch the moon. My stomach began to churn and my entire body began to tremble. His palms were coarse and weathered. Before he goes to bed each night, he feverishly attempts to scrub the black, darkened ink from underneath his fingernails. He works in a printing factory on the Lower East Side, but no amount of washing can remove the oil and grease from under his fingers, the hard institute of American labor. Within his large dirty paws, my strained, tired hands sit like a delicate rose petal. I shivered as rain began to lightly drizzle from the heavens. He swung his other arm behind my back and drew me close, in a warm embrace, as we stood face to face. I thought he was going to touch my lips with his, and as I leaned in to meet his breath he jerked my body away, and we began to dance. I let out a startled scream of joy. AHHHHH!

VINCENZA smiles and the girls laugh. Eerie Polka music is head overlapping the wind. She is tentative to move at first. And then, as if her memory sparks her feet, she dances a polka, by herself. She lets the music take over her body as she begins to sweetly laugh. After a few moves, GARCELANCO joins her. The girls watch them dance and smile. VINCENZA: And like those forgotten days of childhood summers in Innsbrook, the two of us danced... and laughed. The cathartic tones and forgotten rhythms of the music enveloped my body, and the entire day at the factory was forgotten. We swung our young, precious, delicious bodies around and around in the middle of Times Square. There was no music, but we danced nonetheless. Onlookers pointed and laughed at the crazy immigrants swinging around the horses and carriages and men carrying boxes. Against the flickering illumination of the street candles, our shadows bounced across the moonlight as we danced. ( Beat .) How does this remarkable man, who knows nothing in the world about me, know that when I am dancing, the movement possesses my feet and feeds my soul full of mirth? How did he know this? We only met nine days ago, yet he has mysteriously entered my soul and found the key to my laughter. I let my body and spirit runLENA: Free. YETTA: And loose. VINCENZA: My mind is un-tethered, like carousal as it spins. The sweet chords of the instruments rub my temples and the tunes sink deep within the pores of my skin. As I enter my front door, the smiles on our faces collapsed into straight lines. GARCELANCO smiles and bows as the dance ends. She touches the curves of his face, remembering the moment. A moment between them. They kiss. VINCENZA Soft and slow. I savor each precious moment. The taste of his lips are safe. The ecstasy of his breath irresistible. The gleam in his eyes as we finally pulled ourselves away. This drop of time, I will always carry with me. ( Savors the moment in a still sadness ) For I will never see him again.

Beat. He returns to his block leaving her staring at nothing. VINCENZA: And now... now there is... TESSA: Nothing. YETTA: Nothing. VINCENZA: There is nothing. Slowly VINCENZA returns to her block. LENA: My bones are melting, my skin is flaking as the searing heat licks my brain. The crimson dragon is tugging at my soul while the drops of blood perspire off my eyeballs. The shards of broken veins burst in my legs. The capillaries fuse with my frail chalky bones of my broken body. LENA and YETTA clutch each other. YETTA: I have never seen such height. LENA: I can feel her heart hammer through her chest. We hold each other so tight that her bony ribs stab through my ashen, searing skin. YETTA: Smoke begins to fill my lungs. I must leave. I must escape. I must traverse the fire escape. Hand in hand, we slip our charred bodies through the red bricks and shards of broken glass. I can hear the terror, the screams of people on the street below. LENA: We are nine stories upYETTA: And afraid of heights. LENA: As we begin to descend the window out onto the fire escapeYETTA: I hear a voice. A primal howl. A girl screams from inside the building. She speaks Russian. The girl is shrieking, thrashing around like a savage beast. I can only see her backside. I hesitate, and then I move. In an instant I stop, as the body turns around, flames of fire are bathing her torso. Her flesh, the pyre. Her dress and hair were once tender, smooth.

Her arms flail wildly. I can see bone. I don ’ t know this girl. I have never seen this person in our factory. Or maybe I have, but I can no longer recognize her as the hellfire envelops her face. I move towards her, but my sister pulls me back. LENA: Come back! YETTA: I break free and run towards the wild creature. Before I can take two steps, the wooden floor boards beneath my feet give way, and for an instant I feel all of my internal organs in my throat. My body falls! As my arms reach instinctively upwards, I can feel a pair of hands grab my wrists. It isLENA: I. YETTA: My sister. LENA: The person I am closest to in this world. YETTA and LENAs’ FATHER appears. YETTA & FATHER: Lena! LENA & FATHER: Yetta! LENA & YETTA: Yes father? The two sisters join their father. FATHER: My daughters, we have given your life meaning. Be free. Live as you couldn ’ t in our old World. This new land is wonderful. It ’ s people are magnificent. ( Coughing ) I must go now. LENA & YETTA: No! FATHER: It is the will of God. Now is the time. ( Coughing ) The mighty lord has blessed you both with the wings of angels. And I cannot help but feel proud that I have helped you to fly. And you will live a long and wonderful life. LENA & YETTA: Father!

FATHER: No tears. No sorrow. Only life. Live your life my children! Make me so proud. I will see you again beneath the rainbow. FATHER has been standing in between the two sisters as they both cross to hug him. FATHER: Farewell. He bows out of the way as the sisters end up hugging each other. LENA & YETTA: Father! LENA: And now we are together. Finally together. I am with the person that I am closest to. YETTA: The person I am closest to in this world. LENA & YETTA: My sister. YETTA: Glancing down through the cedar cindered planks below my feet, I spot the tempest, that is the raging fire. Through the searing heat, time freezes. Girls like us, barely women, are running, screaming, dying. I see the pictures in my mind, unclouded, like moving photographs. LENA: I pull. YETTA: My sister pulls my tiny body up close to hers. Unscathed. Safe. LENA: We are safe. We race to the window where hundreds of bodies are wedging, crushing their way out of the ninth story. The building ’ s frame is splitting. The structure is collapsing. The heat is melting the mortar between the red bricks. LENA and YETTA pantomime, putting their hands on the wall. LENA (CONT’D) As I put my hand on the outer wall it simply gives way, nine stories down to Greene Street. I look out over the abandoned confines, My long auburn hair whips across my mouth. Sweat and smoke pollute my brain. Yetta is in

my arms. Stiff, still like a porcelain doll. Down below, I can make out a circle. A group of men hold a massive net. TESSA: A circular net. VINCENZA: Like fishermen. They have come to take us home. TESSA: They can catch us like butterflies! VINCENZA: The fishermen are strong. The muscles in their backs undulate and spasm from hauling massive fish in from the depths of blue. Day in and day out these men provide for their families. They look after the family. It is the way of things in Italy. It has always been that way. LENA: Yes. I can see them. The men are wearing bumble bee striped hats and heavy wool coats. Their strapping voices rise up through the ebony smoke and winding soot. Their resonance is garbled, but solid. FIREMAN: Jump! LENA: We must jump. ENSEMBLE OF WOMEN : Jump! VINCENZA: Like creatures of the ocean who want to be caught. TESSA: But the women are terrified, frightened. FIREMAN: You must jump! LENA: Our spirit is undeniable. YETTA: Yes. LENA: I am reminded of the Torah. Inside our Temple is stained glass. Across the luminescent rainbow patterns, I see a woman. A mature woman. Her back is arched, she smiles with a rose in her teeth. I cannot see her face. YETTA: I can see her. She is looking for Adonai.

LENA: She gently turns towards me, the woman looking back at me isYETTA: Gazing and staringLENA: Fixing on my face. It is me. My face. I am old. YETTA: You will grow old Lena. You will be the most beautiful babushka in the world. VINCENZA: And now we are the fish waiting to be caught in the net below. A girl's body pushes me out over the edge. I didn ’ t know who she was. I never got to look upon her face. And without another thought, another word, another human being to touch, I am diving, straight toward the Earth. Toward Greene Street. FIREMAN: Greene Street. You must jump onto Greene Street! TESSA: The mere word brings a smile to my face. Greene. Green! I am reminded of the summers in Hannover. VINCENZA: The summers in Innsbrook. YETTA: The summers in Slovakia. TESSA’s older BROTHER enters and sits down picking grass. TESSA: ( smiling ) The luscious blades of towering grass. I would try to hide from my brother, as we would play childish games while my parents would try to find us. The succulent blades of towering grass. In a childish game we loved so much, I would hide from my brother and he would hide from me deep in the grass behind the weeds, silent and motionless untilBROTHER: Here! Below this tree! Come on! They laugh and play as they run for the tree and hide. TESSA: A spider. He captures the imaginary spider in his hands. BROTHER: I have it.

TESSA: It bites. BROTHER: So do I. TESSA: ( laughing ) It will bite you! He releases the spider. BROTHER: It’s just as much afraid of you as you are of it. TESSA: I feel when I am here. Nothing else matters. The fighting, the pain. Promise me when you get married one day that you would will be good to her. BROTHER: Who? TESSA: The one you will love. ( Beat .) Never strike her. Never hurt her. Promise me. BROTHER: I promise. TESSA: Protect me from the world. BROTHER: I’m your brother. I will always protect you. TESSA: Even against … him. Beat . BROTHER: When I am big and strong enough... yes. She hugs him. TESSA: He hurts me. Father hurts me in waysBROTHER: I know. But I promise you when I am strong enough... he will never hurt you again. They hug. The MALE ENSEMBLE then goes back to his block, leaving her alone. She looks out upon the green field.

TESSA: They never knew where we went... To escape the pain. We would escape into the green. The beautiful, rich fields of emerald, jade, and malachite. It seems so simple, but he never came after us, after me... while we were here, among nature. It was only in the confines of the house, the confines of that building that held my soul captive. LENA: As the wall disintegrates, I gaze across Manhattan ’ s sky-scape. ( Pause .) The black braiding smoke has cleared for a moment allowing, finally, the snowy clouds to almost reach out and caress my hand, alluring me, inviting me. With my sister ’ s head buried in my chest, we jump. And for an instant... ( Smiling .) We are flying. We have wings. And we can fly our wings will take us. In a fraction of a second, our world has become a microcosm. My entire life fits on the head of a pin. VINCENZA: So many pins. LENA: Our lives are threaded to this moment, to this place. The pattern of our lives is now exposed. YETTA: As I peer through the crumbling edifice, I can now hear the cacophony of languages sifting through the haze of confusion. For the sixteen years I have lived in The United States, I have not spoken a word of Russian. I speak in English, I read in English. In Russian the words are harsh and bitter. In this new world the words flow and fly. For English is now my tongue. This is how I will remember. My father instructed us. FATHER: Gather around now. Gather around girls. Come, come. YETTA: Mother had passed before the journey, but my father held such a warm heart and against all odds brought us to this land of new. FATHER: You will be in America soon. you will speak only English. YETTA(in Russian)But FatherFATHER: No. In English. Do you understand? YETTA: He taught us the wordsFATHER: Work.

YETTA & LENA: Work. FATHER: Play! YETTA & LENA: Play! FATHER: Joy! YETTA & LENA: Joy! FATHER: Heart. YETTA & LENA: Heart. FATHER: Compassion. YETTA & LENA: Compassion. FATHER: Truth. YETTA & LENA: Truth. FATHER: And family. YETTA & LENA: Family. They embrace. FATHER: You are my family. What has been left behind is only a memory. Live now my children. Live now. Work hard. Enjoy your life. Look forward and never back. I will soon pass and Lena, you will soon become the head of family. Do you understand? LENA: Father. I am frightened. FATHER: Lena, you have a firmness, vitality. You will one day find that strength in great measure and lead this family. LENA: Yes father. FATHER: (smiling) Never forget. Never look back. And never-

YETTA & LENA & FATHER: Look down. FATHER: Never... YETTA & LENA: Look down. LENA: In the curving sounds and puckered vowels that roll down my lips I know that I have one person to thank for this gift. My sister. ( She looks at her .) My sister taught me to speak English in this country. ( Beat .) And as I stand on the fire escape, I look into my sister ’ s eyes, there is but one word for love and I cannot express my feelings through words anyhow. My heart felt realization is so much that she isLENA: All I have in this world. And all that I will carry into the next one. TESSA: It didn ’ t hold. YETTA: It didn ’ t hold. LENA: Under the mounting pressure of bodies, the fire escape... did not hold. TESSA: The elevator shaft, molten metal. I am drifting downward. FOREMAN: We all are downward now. Compassion knows not the bounds of economics. VINCENZA: The chaos in my mind constricts my throat. LENA: I feel the smoke as it fills my lungs. VINCENZA: I feel nothing. LENA: I see nothing. YETTA: We are nothing. TESSA: And we drift.

LENA: As I gaze out across the clouds, I spot an aluminous painted mural of gold and green lines snake across the body of.. Of... a little bug. It ’ s a butterfly! Its wings seem to pulsate at a different pace than real time. She flies with great difficulty for one of her wings is defectively larger. She struggles to maintain her flight, to maintain her dignity, even in the face of certain doom. The oversized, deformed wing flutters harder to compensate for the fallacy of her birth. A lesser creature in a world that orders the survival of the fittest. Her body writhes and turns with the blowing wind, nine stories above the Earth. Never has this butterfly flown so high and so far. She is now alone in the world. But still, the little creature, full of spirit and beauty, maintains her dignity. She is determined that her deformity, her difference, will never affect her flight. TESSA: I can see the faces of my past. VINCENZA: My relatives. YETTA: My friends. TESSA: I can see the images as if caught in a photograph. Near the bottom of the elevator shaft a sea of flames has engulfed the tangled, aching, mourning bodies. I am falling, falling, down into a maelstrom of blood and tears. The golden flames are like a creature ’ s tongue as it licks my feet and quickly sucks me into it ’ s mouth. Now enveloped, I broil within the confines of my own skin. YETTA: As children, my sister and I imagined how we could dance on the evening clouds that settled low over the horizon. My sister and I would laugh until the last of the sunlight was gone and, the hungry moon would make its entrance. We would laugh and... YETTA & LENA: Laugh. LENA: ... And laugh. My sister and I would stare off into the golden orb that was the moon and dream of the sweet taste of chocolate. And I would stand beside her ears and make up tales of lands of opportunity. YETTA: It ’ s there my sister! Look! Look! The little butterfly! I see it! Its contour seems to transform while it morphs into a liquid beast. I can see it! LENA: And so my sister will fly.

VINCENZA: As my sinews snap and the layers of my flesh and muscle melt into themselves, I could only ask one question: ALL: Why? TESSA: Was this the worth of my life? She steps of her platform. She dances to the dark music. TESSA: I had always wanted to be a ballerina. MYSTERIOUS MAN: You can be whatever you like here. TESSA: A dancer? MYSTERIOUS MAN: Yes! TESSA: A chocolate maker? MYSTERIOUS MAN: Yes. TESSA: A daughter. MYSTERIOUS MAN: Yes. TESSA: A mother … one day? Pause. MYSTERIOUS MAN: You will be anything that you want to be. TESSA: When can I choose what I want to be? MYSTERIOUS MAN: Very soon. Very, very soon. TESSA: I’m looking… But, I’m scared. MYSTERIOUS MAN: It ’ s okay. I ’ m with you now. TESSA: (becoming frightened) I ’ m... I ’ m...

MYSTERIOUS MAN: It ’ s okay. VINCENZA: (crossing to TESSA and holding her)It’s okay. TESSA: I ’ m so very scared. VINCENZA: I know. We all are. YETTA: Swaths of beautifully rich fabric now lay scattered at my feet. Fluent material squeezes up through the holes between my toes. ( Beat .) Oh, that blazing summer day my sister and I went to Brighten Beach. The warm sand curled between my toes. The sun beat down upon my sluggish, worn body from the weeks work. I closed my eyes, protecting them from the harsh beams of light. I can still feel the tiny pebbles of the sand massage my exposed skin. It sends pleasurable tingles up my spine and chills my head. With all my strength my fingers now plunge into the rich felt. I attempt to grasp the material but it simply slips through my fingers. I try to grasp with all my strength but I can ’ t seem to grab hold. My fingernails are tearing. Blood is pooling under my nails and streaming down my hands. The fabric of my existence is tearing apart! TESSA: (in a stage whisper) Tear the fleshYETTA: Along with the metal fire escape my body careens down through the black cavern, toward the cornucopia of colored terrain. An overflowing profusion of images snare my eyes as the gnarled metal sled courses through my veins. The wrested piece of iron punctures my skin, enters my arms, my torso and finally rests unapologetically above my abdomen. Still conscious the bloody burning bodies of broken flesh rain down around me like the leaves of the Copper Beach tree. The bodies seem to cascade as they slowly rock back and forth, back and forth, before they hit the ground with a soft thud. It’s raining. It’s raining hot blood; hot delicate, purple blood. My blood. The blocking has culminated into the staging of a triangle. TESSA is one point. VINCENZA and GARCELANCO are another point and the two sisters, LENA and YETTA, together form the final point. TESSA: ( direct address )The fire started at 4:30 in the afternoon.

VINCENZA: ( direct address ) And spread up from the eighth floor. YETTA: ( direct address ) We were on the ninth floor. No one told us. No one warned us. LENA: ( direct address ) The doors were locked. ALL: Locked. YETTA: We were locked in. TESSA: Like animals on a spit of fire. VINCENZA: The fire. YETTA: The fire. FOREMAN: The fire. LENA: ( direct address ) The workers strike of 1909 resulted in a signed agreement for all the clothing factories in New York for safer working conditions. FOREMAN: (direct address) The United States government had no authority over who signed the agreement. VINCENZA: ( direct address ) Every major company signed the agreement out of good faith. TESSA: ExceptALL: ( direct address ) The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory. VINCENZA: March. TESSA: 25th. LENA: 1911. YETTA: New York.

FOREMAN: City. VINCENZA: In less than thirty minutesFORMAN: 146 bodies are destroyed. VINCENZA: Hundreds more wounded. LENA: The largest industrial disaster in the city ’ s history. YETTA: And now we live, and die withLENA: The consequences... FOREMAN: Of capitalism. YETTA: We left our country we thought superior. FOREMAN: We left our families with the promise of a richer future. LENA: Little did we know that our rights were already made up for us. TESSA: We left our own country to a land we thought was different. Secure. LENA: But no place is secure. VINCENZA: No place is safe. YETTA: One day. FOREMAN: Perhaps one day. It ’ s not the country ’ s job to protect the people that work for it. FEMALE ENSEMBLE: Isn ’ t it? FOREMAN: Sew! VINCENZA: So! TESSA: So!

LENA: So! YETTA: So. FOREMAN: So, now what? VINCENZA: Not now. TESSA: No, not now. For now, there is nothing. VINCENZA: Nothing but memories. YETTA: Nothing but fear. LENA: Nothing but fulfillment. YETTA: Nothing... but bells. VINCENZA: I can see the land approaching, faster and faster. Closer and closer. Through the brisk blistering air, my body quivers. I am approaching! Carry me! (Frantic) HOLD ME! (Beat. Calm. Stage whisper.) Smile for me. VINCENZA closes her eyes . LENA: She cannot slow down. YETTA: She cannot stop. TESSA: Yet before she kisses the Earth... she remembers. ( Stage whisper ) She remembers. They all look back out to address the audience, as VINCENZA’s smile fades from her face and she opens her eyes. VINCENZA: ( direct address ) My body is found several feet below the sidewalk. TESSA: My body was discovered fused within a heap of molten metal... one of the two elevators that burned in the fire.

YETTA: I hold my dear sisterLENA: I hold my dear sister. YETTA: And I keep holding her. LENA: I keep holding her. YETTA: So tight. LENA & YETTA : And will never let go. YETTA: Never. LENA: Never. YETTA: We take one last journey together. One last adventure: The undiscovered country. ELEVATOR OPERATOR: Five times I went up to get people. Five times. But then the fire had burned the cable and we were stuck inside. In life we build boxed barriers from those around us. So why is it that only through tragedy do we come so close together? Why couldn ’ t I have reached out to those around me. Why did I stay in my box? Why did I hide and fear? We come into the world wet, crying and alone. Some of us leave in exactly the same way. On this day we left... ALL: Together. They all hold hands. ELEVATOR MAN: It is a journey that none of us wants to take. That path that awaits us all has been laid out. ( Looking straight ahead ) So! ( Beat. No response as the girls all look at him. ) I too must travel. TESSA lifts her head to speak. TESSA: The fire and smoke are closing my lungs. God ’ s brick and mortar tears have fallen to burn through and bury themselves inside my corpus. My lungs are sanguine soot. And our bodies are carried away on a palatial

chariot across the great city of New York. Hand in hand, soul in soul, all of us will cross the heavens, into the temperate climate, married in unison as a single footprint upon this Earth. One day when the sun has risen just for us, we shall climb the steps into that place where there are sounds of laughing, a place of smiles and playfulness. Up... up... Everyone looks up. ALL: Towards home. The sound of wind. The faces of our characters do not show a face of fear, but one of contentment. The lights slowly fade, then in the dark the wind slowly fades. END

The 146 Point Flame at Long Trail Schoo in Doreset, Vermont.

African- American Theatre

Articles of Freedom Play Synopsis 1948. Ray Springle, a reporter from the Pittsburgh-Post Gazette disguises himself as an African-American in the racially divided Deep South of Macon County Georgia in order to uncover the falsities regarding the Jim Crow Laws of “ Separate but Equal. ” Excerpt… Light cross fades to a tight spot on the hanging clock. It ticks louder and louder until it is drowned out by some tranquil sound. Lights up on our NARRATOR, a tall young man dressed in a suit and hat. NARRATOR Remember all those romance novels you ’ ve read in which the hero is going to turn Hindu or Arab? Remember how almost invariably he goes to an old woman in the nearby village and she gives him a lotion that turns him dark for months? Well, the trouble is that you just can ’ t find one of those old women anymore. You just can ’ t find any lotion or liquid that would turn a white hide brown. Let me modify that statement. The Melon Institute recommended any one of a series of phenol compounds. But there was one drawback. It seems that if you covered yourself thoroughly with one of them you ’ d find yourself dead anywhere from 15 minutes to 15 days depending upon your resistance? Thank you very much. Walnuts. They taste good and did you know that they stain your clothes? And your skin. Try it. Smother walnuts all over your body, and it ’ ll look like you just rolled around in a vat of Ovaltine. Go ahead. I am also able to report that a day or two later it will neatly remove the human hide. There is just one sure fire thing left -sunshine and plenty of it, but with one big drawback, the time required. Pennsylvania ’ s sunshine is a mighty uncertain commodity, but in Florida, that is something else. The sun shines 365 days of the year. It ’ s hot enough to fry an egg on your chest if you lay there long enough. You may look like a lobster after a couple of days, but if you bake

long enough your skin will be a nice golden brown. So, who needs an old woman in a village when you have the nice warm Miami sun. Sound of seagulls fade into Billie Holiday. Lights up on Walter White’s desk. He sits there writing. NARRATOR Minutes turn to hours, as hours turn to days. Days turn to weeks. Time gnaws and wears away; it separates; it flies. Ray enters wearing glasses and a cap which he adjusts around his freshly shaved noggin. His skin is very dark. He looks like a light skinned AfricanAmerican. WALTER WHITE (Smiling.) May God have mercy on your soul. They both laugh. They shake hands. WALTER WHITE Now, I hope you ’ re willing to endure the hardships that come ahead. You ’ ll be staying in cheap hotels, private boarding houses, things like that. RAY SPRIGLE I ’ m not on vacation. WALTER WHITE Good. Now, I ’ ve arranged a guide for you. Dobbs. J.W. Dobbs. Smart fella. He knows the South better than anyone I know. RAY SPRIGLE And how will I know this Dobbs. WALTER WHITE He wears a hat. A bright red hat, everywhere he goes. Cross fade to a simple bench seat DC. We hear the a train whistle blow and the sounds of a train moving over the tracks. A spot comes up on a small sign somewhere on stage that reads “COLORED.” J. W. Dobbs is seated reading Shakespeare’s play Coriolanus. Ray enters .

NARRATOR His name was J.W.RAY SPRIGLE Dobbs? The NARRATOR watches the action. Dobbs holds up a finger as if to say “wait just a second.” The light on the NARRATOR slowly fades out. When DOBBS finishes his reading, slowly puts the book in his back pocket, and looks up. DOBBS Yes? RAY SPRIGLE James R. Crawford. Dobbs stands up, looks Sprigle up and down and they shake hands. Dobbs smiles and then laughs out loud. DOBBS Very nice to meet you “ Mr. Crawford. ” Have a seat. I didn ’ t think you made the train. RAY SPRIGLE I got a little lost. DOBBS Aren ’ t we all. RAY SPRIGLE Was it necessary to use the pseudonym? DOBBS I ’ d like it if you could. That way nobody gets hurt if something goes awry. RAY SPRIGLE Are these people that we can trust? DOBBS I trust them, but I don ’ t want to see anyone hurt.

Dobbs goes back to reading. After a moment, Ray tries to make conversation. RAY SPRIGLE You read a lot of Shakespeare? DOBBS Hmmm hmmm. RAY SPRIGLE I like Shakespeare. DOBBS (to Ray) “ What may be sworn by both divine and human seal what I end with all. This double worship, where one part does disdain with cause the other insult without all injury. ” RAY SPRIGLE Othello? DOBBS (back to his book) Coriolanus. RAY SPRIGLE Ah. Dobbs keeps reading. There is silence. DOBBS (without looking up) Why did you say Othello? RAY SPRIGLE Pardon? DOBBS I said why did you think I was quoting Othello?

RAY SPRIGLE Well... I don ’ t... because Othello is... DOBBS (looking up) Black. It’s funny. Othello is black. He is a moor. Although you’ll never see a black man play Othello. Not in a theatre, not on a movie screen, nowhere. RAY SPRIGLE I ’ m sorry. I didn ’ t mean to offend. DOBBS I didn ’ t mean to imply that you had. RAY SPRIGLE I appreciate what you ’ re doing. Dobbs smirks and goes back to his reading. Ray pulls out a pad of paper and begins to jot down some notes and ask questions. Dobbs continues to read. RAY SPRIGLE So... you ’ re from Georgia? DOBBS That ’ s right. RAY SPRIGLE Where were you born? DOBBS If you don ’ t mind I wouldn ’ t like my name mentioned in your articles please. RAY SPRIGLE Not a problem. Although I would think that you would want your name mentioned. A black man helping a white man. DOBBS

Black men help white men all the time. We pay taxes to a white government. Our children receive a substandard education. We fight the white man ’ s wars. RAY SPRIGLE Could you elaborate on that? DOBBS I thought you wanted to experience this first hand? RAY SPRIGLE I thought that ’ s what we are doing right now. Starting with my guide I would like to start uncovering the truths. Dobbs looks up from his reading, closes his book and looks up at Ray. DOBBS The truth? RAY SPRIGLE The truth. DOBBS (In Latin.) The truth isn ’ t always what it appears to be. Ray is transfixed upon Dobbs’ words. RAY SPRIGLE May I ask you a question? DOBBS Sure. RAY SPRIGLE Why? DOBBS Excuse me? RAY SPRIGLE

Why are you doing this? You ’ re risking your life. DOBBS I risk my life every day being a black man. RAY SPRIGLE Is that all? DOBBS You want a quote? RAY SPRIGLE Well... DOBBS I think it is a feasible, possible, necessary, and ultimately highly important and useful tactic in getting nearer the so called truth of conditions in our country for all races. You can print that. RAY SPRIGLE You should be a writer. DOBBS I ’ m a reader not a writer. I ’ ll leave that to you. The car is silent. Dobbs reads Shakespeare while Ray writes. Out of the silence we hear Dobbs chuckle and then goes right on reading. He chuckles again, and then continues to read. And then Dobbs abruptly closes the book. DOBBS Sweet meats. RAY SPRIGLE Pardon? DOBBS Food. I’m hungry. You hungry? RAY SPRIGLE As a matter of fact I am.

DOBBS Well we gotta wait. RAY SPRIGLE (Looking.) There seems to be plenty of empty tables up there in the dining car. DOBBS Yep, well that ain ’ t for us. Those is for the white folks. Our Jim Crow table is taken. See? RAY SPRIGLE But there ’ s only one table. DOBBS You catch on quick. Come on, let ’ s grab some grub. The train whistle blows as we fade out. The clock and the “COLORED” sign stay lit as the rest of the lights fade to black. Through the buzzing of the Georgian insects HENRY plays the harmonica. DOBBS sings. RAY slowly meanders out to the old wooden porch and watch the two men perform a BLUE GRASS HARMONY. The NARRATOR enters with a newspaper as he reads under the music as RAY writes in his pad. NARRATOR (Reading from the newspaper.) “The discrimination is great. I've only peered around the corner and it is everywhere. It is a most gracious thing to open your home to a stranger. Together, like a tribe being hunted from a wild animal the black community pulls together, although pride prevents the Negro from being caged in. They do what they can.” When do you begin to teach your child how he is to live as a Negro? When do you begin to teach him the differences between black and white - not as colors, but as races? When do you begin to teach him how to live under the iron rule of a master race that regards him as an inferior breed? When do you begin teaching him that the “Constitution” and the “Declaration of Independence” are scraps of paper?” April 3, 1948. Pittsburgh-Post Gazette. END

LGBTQ Theatre

SCENE: The sound of chirping birds signal an early spring morning. A bus stop. A bench sits bolted to the ground. A slightly damp button-down shirt lays, spread out on the bench. Edward, wearing slacks and a tweed dress coat, enters carrying a satchel. He notices the shirt. It stops him in his tracks. He looks around and then with two fingers, slowly picks up the shirt and drops it behind the bench with utter disgust. Now content, he sits, placing the satchel down, gently. Beat. With his hands in his lap he whistles a little tune to himself. He stops, and takes out a little notebook and pencil from his jacket pocket and jots something down. He puts the notebook and pencil away and begins to whistle again with his hands in his lap. His whistling trails off. Again, he takes out the pencil and notebook and writes another note to himself. A monotone note of music begins to rise slowly. Edward stops writing in his notebook, looks inquisitively around, not sure what he hears, if anything at all. The note builds in volume and then slowly fades out. Edward shrugs the thought off and continues to write. After a moment, the note begins to fade up again, and this time Edward hears it. He stops and patiently listens to the note, until it fades away again. He stands up, looks around, sees nothing and sits back down again, continuing to write in his notebook. After a moment, he tucks the notebook and pencil back into his inside jacket pocket. Edward puts his hands back in his lap and waits patiently once again for the bus. Silence. Projected, extremely quick, across the scrim are images in successive order: a black and white computerized geometric image, a child ’ s drawing of a green tree, blue water. Albee enters stage left, shirtless. He strolls in confidently wearing tattered pants. He ’ s not homeless, just free flowing in his apparel. Methodically he walks over to the bench and picks up the shirt. He looks at Edward and sighs. Albee starts drying the shirt. He first wrings it out, then fans it wildly. Edward, purposely, does not look at him. Albee then spreads the shirt out on the bench as before. Beat. He walks away. Edward does not look at either the shirt or Albee as he walks away. A long pause. Edward stands up and looks off in the direction that Albee exited and sits back down. He stares at the shirt, then goes back to his notebook. With decisive action he closes the notebook and attempts to slowly pick up the shirt once again. As he does Albee enters, from the opposite location of where he exited from the stage. Edward freezes, looks at a stoic faced Albee, then slowly puts the shirt down on the bench. After the shirt is on

the bench, Albee smiles at Edward. Edward turns away. Albee then picks up the shirt and slowly puts the shirt on, watching Edward. He stands there watching him. After Albee has put on his shirt, Edward, still feeling his gaze, turns to talk. EDWARD I ’ m sorry, I didn ’ t know it was yours. Silence. EDWARD (louder, as if to a deaf person) I said, I didn ’ t realize it was your shirt! I didn ’ t.... know... that ’ s all. Beat. Edward turns his attention back towards the street. Albee, still showing no emotion, starts to jog in place. He jogs in place for perhaps 2030 seconds before Edward notices. Edward and Albee lock eyes. Albee is now panting, looking into Edward’s eyes. While still jogging in place he takes off the button down shirt and lays it on the bench, once again, never taking his eyes off of Edward. He waits until Edward breaks eye contact, and then he jogs off, exiting. Silence. Edward, looks at the shirt but does not move it. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. Albee slowly reenters. Without a sound Albee slowly approaches Edward and quietly and methodically puts on the shirt. After Albee has put on the shirt he stands there, staring at Edward. Edward, feeling the gaze. slowly opens his eyes and sees Albee. Edward smirks awkwardly and goes back to looking out across the street. Albee slowly moves to the front of the bench as he tilts his head back and begins to gargle water to a “circus tune.” Albee walks an imaginary tight rope right in front of Edward, until he pretends to fall off the high wire and onto the bus stop bench, with the water still in his mouth. He takes a long stare at Edward and begins to gargle the water as if it were a bong. Albee swallows the water and then “blows” imaginary smoke into his face. Edward feels uncomfortable with the situation and lets out a sheepish smile which Albee does not return. Albee continues to stare at Edward making him very uncomfortable until he cannot stand it any longer and begins to say something. EDWARD Can I help youALBEE Evenin’!

Beat. EDWARD Actually, it ’ s more like morning. ALBEE Yes, I know, but it ’ s just something I like to say. Edward nods. Beat. Albee looks straight out. EDWARD I didn ’ t know. Silence. EDWARD I mean, I just didn ’ t know about... Silence. Albee turns to look at Edward, who has re-opened his notebook and is writing yet another note. Edward doesn ’ t notice Albee ’ s stare. After he has finished with his notes, Edward puts the notebook back into his jacket pocket, once again. Edward, now feeling Albee ’ s gaze, slowly turns to meet his stoic face. EDWARD (very softly) Are you... Uh... ALBEE What was that? EDWARD Nothing. ALBEE You asked me a question? EDWARD No. (Beat.) Yes.

ALBEE What was your question? EDWARD (quietly) Are you... Uh.. Are you headed downtown? ALBEE Excuse me? EDWARD (louder) Are you headed downtown? ALBEE No. EDWARD To the library? ALBEE No. EDWARD Going to gymnasium? Albee does not answer. Silence. EDWARD Where ya headed? ALBEE No where in particular. Silence. Albee stands up and takes a step. EDWARD Bye. Albee stops, turns and addresses Edward.

ALBEE I ’ m not going anywhere. EDWARD Oh. ALBEE Would you like me to leave? EDWARD (a little nervous) No, I... Just thought that you were... Going... because you got up. ALBEE I see. So, if I sat down... Albee sits down on the bench. He smiles at Edward who turns and looks away. Beat. Edward buttons his coat, securing himself. ALBEE Are you leaving? EDWARD No. ALBEE You don ’ t have to go. EDWARD I know. I was just buttoning my jacket, but I ’ m not going anywhere. ALBEE Good. EDWARD I was just... packing up, for when the bus comes. ALBEE When does the bus come? EDWARD

It should be here in a little while. ALBEE What I mean is, when does the bus come? EDWARD You don ’ t know? ALBEE If I knew, would I have asked you the question? EDWARD (Chuckling sheepishly.) I don ’ t know. Maybe you were just making conversation. ALBEE Making conversation? EDWARD Yes. ALBEE How do you make conversation? EDWARD Well, I thought you were justALBEE I mean you. How do you make conversation? EDWARD Me? ALBEE Yes. Beat. EDWARD I don ’ t know. I guess... I don ’ t know, I would say, “ Hello? How are you? ”

ALBEE If I was sitting on the corner playing a banjo would you come up to me and say, “ Hello? How are you? ” EDWARD Sure. ALBEE Oboe? Beat. EDWARD Excuse me? ALBEE If I played the oboe, would you talk to me then? EDWARD Maybe, I don ’ t know. Feeling relieved, Edward writes in the notebook. Albee stands up and slowly walks around the other side of the bench. Albee bends down, attempting to read what ’ s in the notebook. Edward sensing this, quickly packs up the notebook. ALBEE If I didn ’ t know you, would you talk me? Edward turns to him. EDWARD I don ’ t know you. ALBEE But you ’ re talking to me. EDWARD I suppose.

ALBEE Then you should have invited me into your parlour. For tea and yummy biscuits. Silence. EDWARD I don’t have a parlour. ALBEE If you don ’ t have a parlour and don ’ t say hello to strangers on the street, then how do you communicate? Edward politely smiles and goes back to writing in his book. ALBEE You been here long? EDWARD Uh... Just a while. ALBEE Hmmm. Silence. ALBEE Where are you from? EDWARD Around the corner. ALBEE So, you could walk home from here? EDWARD Yes. ALBEE So, why are you waiting for the bus to take you home?

EDWARD No, I ’ m waiting for the bus to take me to... ALBEE To where? EDWARD Uh... To the grocery store. ALBEE smiles, knowing he is lying. Beat. ALBEE Why don ’ t you take a bicycle? EDWARD Because, it ’ s too far to ride on a bicycle. ALBEE The grocery store is just two blocks that way. You could ride a bicycle that far. Silence. EDWARD continues writing. ALBEE What ’ s your name, again? EDWARD You didn ’ t ask me. ALBEE I ’ m asking you now. EDWARD You said again. ALBEE What? EDWARD (proud of himself for pointing out the details)

You said, “ What ’ s your name, again. ” And I said that you didn ’ t ask me before, so you couldn ’ t ask me my name, again. ALBEE So, what ’ s your name? A very long pause. Edward turns away and doesn ’ t answer at first. Then, feeling Albee ’ s gaze upon him, he answers. EDWARD Edward. What ’ s your name? Silence. ALBEE Does it matter? EDWARD I was just making conversation. ALBEE You don ’ t know me, so why are you making conversation? EDWARD I thought that ’ s what you wanted. We ’ re getting to know each other. (Beat.) Right? Silence. ALBEE Will you invite me into your parlour? EDWARD I told you I don’t have a parlour. ALBEE An ice cream parlour? EDWARD No, a parlour in my house. I don ’ t have one.

ALBEE If you built a parlour in your log cabinEDWARD (Correcting Albee.) My house. I don ’ t have a log cabin. ALBEE (continuing) If you built a parlour you could host important delegates from all over the world. What if you got all the big leaders of the world, stuck them in your parlour and put them on ponies? How threatening would dictators and rulers of super powers be if they all rode around in circles on little burros yelling “ We will destroy you! We will destroy you! ” And we can give them toy laser guns and sling shots and they can settle the disputes of the planet, just like the children they are. Albee smiles at Edward. ALBEE (Changing the subject.) Ever been to Chow-Chow’s? EDWARD No. ALBEE Coffee Shop on Riverside. Best place in town. Surprised you haven ’ t been there. EDWARD Good coffee? ALBEE I don ’ t know. I don ’ t drink coffee. I drink Tang. EDWARD What’s Tang? ALBEE Astronauts drink it.

EDWARD Oh. ALBEE Did you eat lunch already? EDWARD Yeah. ALBEE What did you have? EDWARD Uh... a patty melt. ALBEE Do you like it with the crusts cut off and the cheese cut into a perfect cube so it fits the bread. Like your mom made for you? EDWARD Yeah. She did make it that way. How did you know? ALBEE Just a hunch. Beat. ALBEE Do you like your mother? EDWARD What kind of question is that? ALBEE A simple one. A long pause. EDWARD notices his wedding ring. ALBEE Are you married?

A long pause. EDWARD Uh... ALBEE It ’ s alright. You can tell me. Beat. EDWARD Yes. ALBEE Do you love her? Beat. ALBEE cannot answer. ALBEE Oh. (Beat.) So, what ’ s your handle? EDWARD Handle? ALBEE Yeah, what do you go by? You know, truck drivers have nicknames. What's your nickname, Edward, when you drive your bus? EDWARD I don ’ t do that. ALBEE You don ’ t have a nickname? EDWARD No, I don ’ t drive a bus. ALBEE But, you do have a nickname?

EDWARD No, I don ’ t have a nickname. ALBEE You don ’ t have a nickname, but you do drive a bus? EDWARD No, I don ’ t have a nickname, and I am waiting for the bus! ALBEE You don ’ t drive a bus? EDWARD No, I told you, I am waiting for the bus to pick me up so I can go to the grocery store. ALBEE So, who ’ s picking you up? EDWARD What? ALBEE Who ’ s picking you up with the bus? EDWARD The bus driver, I guess. ALBEE What ’ s his name? EDWARD I don ’ t know. ALBEE You ’ re getting on a bus and you don ’ t even know who driving you to your mysterious destination? … ALBEE

Now... tell me. EDWARD Tell you what? ALBEE What you ’ ve never told anyone. A long pause. ALBEE moves closer. A single monotone note begins to play. EDWARD (he tells the story that he has never told anyone) He was in my seventh grade social science class. I ’ d look at him... I ’ d stare at him. Occasionally. Those deep brown eyes. That smile. He... He always volunteered to read and... his voice was a little scratchy but... sumptuous. I wasn ’ t intimidated or scared of him and we started to hang out after school. Getting food after wood shop. (Beat.) I ’ d... I ’ d see him at church. He sang. (Smiling.) He was terrible, absolutely horrible, but he loved to sing. We sang in choir at church and at school. When we would stand together in our robes I could smell him. I could feel his propensity to... He could slightly brush up against me on purpose. He always apologized but I knew he did it on purpose. (Beat.) We became friends. I was about nine months younger than him and I always felt like he protected me a little... I didn ’ t have an older brother or anything so he sort of took on that role and I let him. He was cool and preppy and I was pretty awkward and not very popular... And... And we went out with a lot of girls. So... One night we had a sleep over and he... He was... (Pause.) He was sleeping over and I reached down in between his legs. (Pause.) I had... I hadn ’ t kissed a girl or a boy yet and... (Long pause.) And he took his hand and placed it... around me. He was kind and gentle yet rough and sharp. (Silence.) He engorged me and my eyes fell back into my head. ALBEE What did you feel? A long pause. EDWARD (difficult for him)

Guilt. (Beat.) I felt guilt. (Beat.) I didn ’ t... Girls weren ’ t attracted to me and I... Wasn ’ t sure and... Silence. ALBEE What happened next? (Beat.) That night. EDWARD That night I took my future in my hands while I studied him. (Beat.) I studied his muscles when he stretched across the bed. I studied his dark, fresh cut hair, and his newly stubbled face while his eyes burned into mine. I studied his perfect white teeth while he bit into my flesh. We loved each other that night when we were twelve. (Beat.) And when it was over his teeth has left a small imprint in my wrist in the shape of a butterfly. ALBEE Was he selfish? EDWARD No. He was so confident, so giving. ALBEE Did your parents meet him? EDWARD My parents? ALBEE Did they meet your boyfriend? EDWARD (change) He wasn ’ t my boyfriend. ALBEE But you just saidEDWARD He wasn ’ t my boyfriend. He was... just a friend.

ALBEE slowly picks up EDWARD ’ s hand and studies his wedding ring. EDWARD What are you doing? ALBEE takes his hand and caresses his face. EDWARD looks around to see if anyone is watching. EDWARD Stop it. He takes his hand and slowly caresses ALBEE ’ s. He then takes his hand is about to place it between his legs, but he lets go. EDWARD ’ s hand hovers, just above ALBEE. EDWARD slowly pulls his hand away. ALBEE Your wife wouldn ’ t like that would she? EDWARD Would you please put on your shirt? ALBEE Is that what you want? Silence. EDWARD slowly takes his hand away from his chest. ALBEE For you Edward, I ’ ll put my bacon shirt back on. EDWARD Thank you. ALBEE You ’ re welcome. Albee takes his shirt and puts it back on. ALBEE Where ’ s the next stop? EDWARD

Next stop? ALBEE Yes. EDWARD It ’ s three blocks up, on Virginia Street. ALBEE It ’ s that close? EDWARD Yes, it ’ s not very far. It would only take you a minute to walk there. ALBEE Are you trying to tell me that I should go to that bus stop? EDWARD No. You asked me, so I was just relaying information. ALBEE Would you go to that bus stop? EDWARD If I needed to. ALBEE Would you do it now? Pause. EDWARD I don ’ t know. ALBEE Because one of us could go to that bus stop. It ’ s not far. Then we could stretch out and lay down on our own bus stop benches. I could be the viceroy of this bus stop bench, if you weren ’ t here. EDWARD (chuckling sheepishly)

I could be the queen of this bus stop bench, if you were the king at that bus stop. ALBEE That ’ s a nice thought. A king and queen. EDWARD Uh... yeah. ALBEE If you were the big old queen, and I was your viceroy three blocks down, I ’ m sure we would be able to recruit other bus riders to take on similar positions. We could have regional governors to man all of the bus stop benches. The entire city would be under our command. We would have so many benches that we could lay down on them whenever we wanted, however we wanted, with whomever we wanted. We would own those bus lines. And we could charge a buck or something for somebody to sit down. That ’ s what capitalism is all about. We ’ d make a buck, Edward. You and me. We could go into business together. EDWARD (Placating.) Yeah, sure. Me, a queen. Right. ALBEE You can be the head of the company. We ’ ll call it Busybody Benches. EDWARD Okay. ALBEE And I can be your business manager. EDWARD If you want. (Beat.) But I don ’ t need one. ALBEE You don ’ t need me? EDWARD I don ’ t need a business manager.

ALBEE So, how about it? I ’ ll take this bench, and you can take that other bench three blocks down. Albee looks at Edward, who smiles, looks down the street for the bus. Never answering the question, Edward pulls out of his satchel a magazine, and begins to look at it. ALBEE What are you looking at? EDWARD A magazine. ALBEE About what? EDWARD People. ALBEE Any particular people? EDWARD Movie stars and people like that. ALBEE So, you are looking at pictures of famous people? EDWARD Well, I ’ m reading about them, I guess. ALBEE (looking at the magazine) There ’ s no article. Just pictures. EDWARD I read the captions. ALBEE

(innocently and with pure enthusiasm) Will you read to me? EDWARD I ’ m not sure that ’ s such a good idea. ALBEE Why? EDWARD Uh... Sure. I ’ ll read to you. Um... See, look at this one, it says “ Crime Investigator star Lindsey Goldman has an affair with Hank Barometer. ” ALBEE Hank Barometer? EDWARD Yeah. ALBEE Will you show me the picture? Like a parent showing a child a picture book, Edward shows the magazine to Albee. ALBEE Could you read me another one? EDWARD Uh... Okay. (Thumbing through the magazine) Here ’ s one. “ Rock star Blaze Hammocks arrested for disturbing the peace. ” ALBEE Tell me about it. EDWARD (Reading.) “ Rock star Blaze Hammocks stayed true to his moniker, Tuesday, when created a disturbance. After ordering a meal in the posh London eatery Teeth and Tummy, Hammocks set his meal on fire, using a cigarette lighter. The aging rock star flamed the fire under his food, he said, because the highly touted restaurant under-cooked his lamb shank dinner. The

restaurant was quickly evacuated as a quick thinking bus boy threw two pitchers of iced tea on the burning booth. When arrested, Hammocks and his three female dinner companions laughed, as one of the young ladies chucked a dozen bread rolls at a London police officer. No one was injured in the incident. ” Edward holds up the magazine to Albee, who smiles like a kid in a candy store. ALBEE Thanks, Eddie. EDWARD Don ’ t call me that. ALBEE This is a fun magazine, but what have you got against books? Real books, like literature? EDWARD Nothing. Nothing at all. ALBEE What ’ s the matter with nice big words like panoptical and dinitrobenzene. EDWARD There ’ s nothing wrong with those words. I like big words. I liked books. I used to read them all the time, when I was a young man. ALBEE So, what happened? EDWARD In school, I was... Quiet. And I used to read this one very famous author. I read everything he wrote. I was enthralled with his plot and characters and his far away destinations. (Edward begins to relax.) You know that feeling when you snuggle down in a big comfy chair with a favorite story? It ’ s like you are sitting with your best friend. The smell of autumn leaves filter through the window and the pitter-patter sound of light rain dances outside. (He smiles.) During my first year in college, there had been a literature discussion.

EDWARD (reflecting with warmth) This author, my favorite author, had been asked to speak on a panel of famous living literary figures. So, I went to see him speak. He was so charming... and the way he talked about his characters in such a vivid and dynamic way just stirred me. Listening to him read I had a difficult time distinguishing between what was fiction and what was real. His stories were that life like. As the discussion ended, I asked him a few questions. Something about structure and rewrites. Nothing too cerebral. Then he said goodbye and he and Professor Sandberg walked off. (Beat.) It was the Friday before Spring Break around six in the evening and our college campus was deserted. Feeling elated, I started to walk home. As I did, I saw him, my favorite author, walking ahead of me about ten paces. He was glancing around, looking for something. So, I quickened my own pace and caught up with him. He was a smaller man with a long now-grey mustache. I just popped up on his right side and said, “ Hi there! ” He jumped a little bit, and with a wave of his hand he said in a gruff manner, “ Where ’ s the john? ” (A small smile) I offered to I take him to Larlham Hall because that was the closest rest room, but it was locked. Then I shuttled him over to the Science building. It was locked too. And all the while we were searching for a toilet, we chatted about his books and his writing and... (Edward is momentarily caught up in the past.) It was... Such a pure type of joy: putting a face to all the stories that I had buried myself in. It was enchanting. Just me and my favorite author, an icon, walking a deserted college campus looking for a rest room. (He chuckles.) By the time we had reached the lower parking structure I realized that the entire campus was locked, and I had failed to find one of the great scholars of literature a place to pee. (Beat.) But he was kind. He thanked me and shook my hand and with that he walked away into the university parking lot, his wispy grey hair bouncing up and down with every step. And I stood there like a little boy, watching him with a goofy grin on my face. After that meeting, I felt like I could retreat into that little moment, the odd bathroom experience, whenever I needed to feel good about myself because I felt a certain... connection to the characters... ALBEE You liked him? EDWARD I liked the characters that he created. They were real and flawed and somewhat abstract.

ALBEE You read all of his works? EDWARD Yes, but... I began to realize that he was just a person, another human being, and that connection that I had felt, that bond began to fade, because I now know that the relationship that I had built up inside my head never really existed. It was a relationship with a book; words written down on a piece of paper. Now, that ’ s a thought: a relationship with a piece of paper. That ’ s utterly ridiculous, really. ALBEE Why? EDWARD Because it isn ’ t real. ALBEE What is a real relationship? EDWARD Family. I suppose that a family is a relationship. Pause. ALBEE Your family must love you very much. EDWARD Yes, they do. ALBEE Only one? EDWARD What ’ s that? ALBEE Siblings?

EDWARD Oh. ALBEE Do you have a sister? EDWARD No. ALBEE A brother? There is a pause. Edward tightens up. ALBEE Do you have a brother, Edward? There is a long silence. Albee drops the subject. Edward is still connected to the original question. EDWARD I don ’ t know. ALBEE I ’ m sorry? EDWARD You asked me if I had a brother, and I ’ m answering you. (Beat.) I don ’ t know. ALBEE What kind of answer is that, Edward? EDWARD He was just so... Angry. And when my parents came and took me, they wouldn ’ t take my brother. I didn ’ t understand. It ’ s very difficult to adopt and break up siblings, but I guess it was a rare case. (His thought trails off.) I don ’ t know. ALBEE And your parents gave you a nice house?

EDWARD Yes. ALBEE A nice car? EDWARD Three of them. ALBEE You have three cars? EDWARD No, I mean each of my parents had a car and then there was one especially for vacations. When I was younger, I mean. ALBEE Ah. Your papa put you through school? EDWARD Yes. ALBEE That was very nice of him. EDWARD Yes, very nice. ALBEE Did your family take many vacations, with your special car? EDWARD It was a Winnebago. ALBEE Oh. EDWARD Yes, we went everywhere. All over America.

ALBEE The United States. EDWARD What? ALBEE You went all over The United States. EDWARD America, United States, same thing. ALBEE Tell that to a Canadian. They ’ re American too. EDWARD (Chuckling.) I don ’ t think so. ALBEE And Central Americans, and South Americans. They ’ re also Americans. EDWARD Well, not really. If you live in Argentina, you say you’re Argentinian. ALBEE But you could also say that you’re American. EDWARD Well, you don ’ t, though. ALBEE But you could. EDWARD Then if we aren ’ t American, then what are we? ALBEE United Statesian.

Half a beat. ALBEE So, what did you do on your vacations in the Winnebago? EDWARD What every family does, I guess. We saw national monuments and camped in the wilderness. ALBEE (correcting him) But you camped in the Winnebago. EDWARD Well, we ’ d drive the Winnebago somewhere and then sleep next to the Winnebago. ALBEE Outside or in another Winnebago. EDWARD No, outside, in sleeping bags. ALBEE So, as you went to sleep, you saw the wheel wells of your Winnebago. EDWARD I also saw the wilderness and the trees and nature. ALBEE That was nice for you wasn ’ t it? EDWARD Yes. It was nice. ALBEE For you. EDWARD Yes. (Pause.) For me.

Albee nods. Beat. ALBEE (direct) What happened to your brother? Silence. EDWARD Half brother. (Beat.) I ’ m sure he got adopted into a nice family. ALBEE Are you sure? EDWARD No. ALBEE Think he ’ s still angry? EDWARD I don ’ t know. ALBEE You don ’ t care? EDWARD No. I just don ’ t know. ALBEE So, you never saw him again? Edward, as if under a trance slowly turns to meet Albee ’ s gaze. A pause. EDWARD No. I never saw him again. ALBEE Did you ever try and find him? EDWARD

No. ALBEE That ’ s a shame. I ’ m sure he ’ s looking for you. EDWARD How do you know? ALBEE Just a hunch. Who wouldn ’ t want to feel connected to family? You wake up, look in the mirror every morning, and who do you see? You. And nobody else. Nobody else. Silence. ALBEE It ’ s nice to have somebody looking back at you. Family, I mean. Pause. Piano notes start. EDWARD I ’ m sure you have someone like that. ALBEE Yes, I ’ m sure I do. Edward and Albee are frozen as they stare at one another with the sound of the piano notes playing. Time seems to freeze for an instant. The projections flash across the scrim successive order, a little slower now: a black and white computerized geometric image, a child ’ s colorful drawing of a tree, water, a male and female symbol in black with a white background, a dollar sign, and a reversed negative image of a desert highway. The order of images are repeats several times as clouds slowly settle in over our scene throughout Albee ’ s dialogue, as the bus stop slowly gets darker and darker, once again. A long pause. Piano notes stop. Half a beat. The sound of thunder. The images fade away. ALBEE What was your brother’s name? A long silence.

ALBEE (very calm) Edward, what was your brother’s name? Pause. EDWARD (honest) I don ’ t remember. Edward is maudlin, and turns away. Albee slowly reaches out his hand and touches Edward ’ s hand. Edward, instinctively breaks away. EDWARD What are you doing? ALBEE Nothing. I thought that you might need a hand to hold. EDWARD I’m fine. ALBEE You don ’ t seem fine. EDWARD I said that I ’ m fine. (Changing the subject.) The bus should be here soon. ALBEE What happens if the bus never comes, Eddie? EDWARD It will come. It has to come. It always comes. ALBEE But if it doesn ’ t, I guess you ’ ll have to find another way of getting to where you ’ re going. EDWARD Maybe they have a new driver?

ALBEE (Change.) Maybe the driver stopped to roll a fatty. EDWARD (frustration building as he stands up) Are you a hippie? Edward smiles. Albee is very serious. He stands up and slowly begins to cross to Edward. Albee grabs Edward, pulling him in and kisses him gently. Beat. EDWARD I don ’ t know if you should have done that. ALBEE I didn ’ t. You did. Edward turns to face Albee. ALBEE Your churlish commentary makes you the perfect ape. EDWARD What? ALBEE I can see you hanging from a skyscraper like an ape does in the jungle when he jumps from tree to tree, eating yummy cocks shapes like bananas all day. I can also see you in a boiler room pumping coals into some huge engine, not wearing any clothes while you watch the other workers. Watch their muscles undulating and twisting with the clear sweat glistening off of those hard bodies. But I can also see you as a big green bug Edward, with a bowler hat. A bug with long slender legs and a tiny little mouth with teeth too small to suck anyone off. Just like a preying mantis. Yes, Edward, yes, I can see you as all of these things, part ape, part man, and part bug. Yes, yes! Wait I ’ ve got it! Apemantus! It ’ s the perfect name for you Edward, don ’ t you think? Apemantus Apemantus! Albee looks down the street and begins to yell. At this point he has gotten up on the bench and is dancing. Clouds begin to darken the bus stop. The

sound of thunder is growing closer. ALBEE (CONT’D) Hey! It’s Apemantus! Apemantus everybody! I’m talking to a true hybrid here, it’s Apemantus! ALBEE (to the tune of a nursery rhyme) ...Edward IS APEMANTUS, APEMANTUS, APEMANTUS, WE ALL FALL DOWN! EDWARD AHHHHHHHHHHHH!!! Edward charges at him and pushes him down onto the ground. Albee is hurt as he looks up to Edward with a smirk on his face. The lights slowly fade. Thunder. The projection of the black and white computerized geometric image slowly rises. It stays for three seconds. The sound of a camera flash. The projection of the child ’ s colorful drawing of a tree slowly rises. It stays for three seconds. The sound of a camera flash. The projection of water slowly rises. It stays for three seconds. The sound of a camera flash followed by the sound of a male breath breathing hard. It stays for three seconds. The sound of a camera flash. The projection of an oil painting of the actor playing Edward , a self portrait, slowly rises. The painting should include only the colors red, blue, green, black and white. It remains for three seconds then slowly fades out as the thunder continues and we hear the sound of rain. As the lights slowly rise, it is now raining. Albee is gone, but his shirt lies in the exact position on the bench as it was at the beginning of the play. Pause. Edward is in the same position when the lights faded. He slowly crosses to Albee ’ s shirt and picks it up He stands there examining the shirt. We hear the sound of an approaching bus. Edward looks up. Its doors open, as we then hear the rumbling of an idle engine. Thunder. He looks at the shirt, then up again. He then pulls the shirt up to his nose. Closing his eyes, he takes a slow, long whiff. He holds his breathe for a moment, then exhales, as he opens his eyes. Two beats. Lights to black as the sounds of the bus and rain abruptly end as if turning off a television set. End of Play

Who’s Afraid of Me, Myself & Edward Albee premiered at the New York Fringe Festival, 2013

Opera of the Oasis Play Synopsis Symbolism and reality interweave in this cautionary tale about war in the Middle East and the pursuit of the American Dream. A news reporter is looking for her next big story when she learns of a U.S. soldier, captured in Iraq. Is she just performing her job or is she searching to climb the steps of the corporate ladder? Her estranged father, a professor and former Vietnam Vet, offers some metaphysical insight into the human condition. CHARACTERS The REPORTER / NEWSCASTER (20-35) Ambitious. Politically conservative. She has been drawn into the web of economic domination. Does she have the will power to crawl out? Real name is Irene Slater. She goes by the pen name of Margaret Beck. Also plays a newscaster documenting the Vietnam War. PRISONER / COMMANDING OFFICER (18-35) Sergeant Lana Burnelli. Grounded with a sense of purpose. As more and more human elements of her captives become apparent she questions her intents. THE PROFESSOR / CAMERAMAN (45-65) Former Vietnam Vet who is now a professor of history. He carries a liberal viewpoint on war. Irene's father. Is Margaret Beck's cameraman when she "interviews" Lana Burelli. Excerpt from… The PRISONER’s light slowly fades. REPORTER: The sins of the father. No. The sins of a soldier. The course of action, or the course of decision. Which is the more difficult path to pursue?

My words can change the thoughts of thousands, millions, even. I can open this country ’ s eyes to the perils of war or I can scare the crap out of everyone from housewives to horse vendors. What would I do? The PROFESSOR crosses to the REPORTER. PROFESSOR: The pen has always been mightier than the sword. REPORTER: Edward Bulwer-Lytton. PROFESSOR: A great writer. I taught you that. Remember? REPORTER: Yes. Eighth grade. Social Studies. That paper I had to write on the SALT Treaties. PROFESSOR: We were up all night. REPORTER: And you played piano. You helped me write that paper and to understand all the elements of the countries and how they related. We were up all night. Mom was asleep, but you were there to help me. We must have been up until three in the morning, finishing that paper. PROFESSOR: You passed out on the couch. You glowed like an angel as you slept. And I picked you up, one last night and put my little daughter, my little girl to bed. REPORTER: I was 13. You never picked me up again. PROFESSOR: I ’ ve always been around to pick you up. Always. You just never needed a hand. You found other people... other things to pick you up. REPORTER: That seems so long ago. Another... PRISONER: Lifetime... REPORTER: Ago. Now... it ’ s in the past and history can... PROFESSOR: Teach us so many things. REPORTER; Dad, I don ’ t know if I can do this.

PROFESSOR: Irene. REPORTER & PRISONER: I’m... REPORTER AND PRISONER: I’m scarred. PROFESSOR: You should be. REPORTER AND PRISONER: It hurts. PRISONER: My child. My husband. My family. The letters I have stored in my mind will soon be released. Soon, you will receive my letters my cherished babe. Soon, you will be able to hear my thoughts aloud. The entire world will hear me. PROFESSOR: Let it go. You will feel so... PROFESSOR AND PRISONER: Free! PROFESSOR: You know what you must do. You are my daughter. You are my little girl. I can save you. PRISONER: You can ’ t save us all. PROFESSOR: I can save you. REPORTER: I don ’ t know. PROFESSOR: I do. Walk towards me. REPORTER & PRISONER: I can ’ t. PROFESSOR: You can! You have the ability! Stay strong! Clear your mind! Keep your mind open! During the following, the PRISONER, takes a large black piece of fabric from the ground and begins to roll it in her hands. PRISONER: (interrupting) They scratch and they claw and they dig in the earth. God gave them these fingernails. Allah gave them the rock on which to scratch. Our eyes are red with dust and sand. Our bones are dry and

rusted. (She begins to fold the black fabric as it were a child in her arms. She talks to the “child.”) We smile the same. We have the same numbers of teeth in our head. We have brown eyes. We have ten fingers and ten toes. A desert ocean separates the classes. (She unfurls the black fabric.) My body is crawling with vermin and oil pumps through my veins. My teeth are now rotting away from the wind blown sands. My heart still pumps the black crude from beneath the mantle of my planet. I gain nothing. I hear the sounds of the wind. I hear the sound of the men, the women. (She starts to move the piece of fabric as if it were a wave in the ocean.) I hear the sounds of children drowning in the sand. The ocean is large and the pebbles are consuming me. Consuming us. An ocean apart. A world apart. I hear the strings of Allah whispering close to my skin, close to my brain, close to my heart. Goodbye my babies. We will see each other soon enough. (She begins to slowly wrap herself in the fabric as if it were a burka. NOTE - she should not finish the burka until the end of the dialogue.) I can hear the sounds-they are blending and twisting, mixing and dividing through the fabric of my life, here. My ears are covered but my eyes see all. My vision has never been more clear, never been more opaque. The figures build themselves up in the sand, until they look like mechanical monsters and then the tiny grains of sand blow apart and the steps toward equality are pushed back into time. The man takes care of us. The man feeds us. The man procreates our people. The man is Allah. To be nestled in the arms of a man. To be caressed and kissed like a woman. To be bathed in beauty for one man. And only one man. I am content. I am beautiful. I am a woman. I sing for the desert. My voice touches the clouds and the rains cascade across the ocean into the oasis that is a dream. It is me. It is my dream. These thoughts, these images, these fantasies are inside me. (The burka is complete.) Beneath my cloak. Beneath my heart. Beneath my skin. The cells in my body have died. New cells emerge. New cells grow through my skin. New cells grow in heart. Like poppy seeds, planted in the rich soil. New cells grow in... REPORTER: The brain. Sound of an old fashioned movie projector starting. National Geographic style video images of the brain are projected on the set. Music starts and will build toward the end of the play. PROFESSOR: (in full teaching mode) All this comes from a jellylike mass of fat and protein weighing about 3 pounds. It is, nevertheless, one of the

body's biggest organs, consisting of some 100 billion nerve cells that not only put together thoughts and highly coordinated physical actions but regulate our unconscious body processes, such as digestion and breathing. The brain's nerve cells are known as neurons, which make up the organ's so-called "gray matter." The neurons transmit and gather electrochemical signals that are communicated via a network of millions of nerve fibers called dendrites and axons. These are the brain's "white matter." The cerebrum is the largest part of the brain, accounting for 85 percent of the organ's weight. The distinctive, deeply wrinkled outer surface is the cerebral cortex, which consists of gray matter. Beneath this lies the white matter. It's the cerebrum that makes the human brain — and therefore humans — so formidable. Whereas animals such as elephants, dolphins, and whales have larger brains, humans have the most developed cerebrum. It's packed to capacity inside our skulls, enveloping the rest of the brain, with the deep folds cleverly maximizing the cortex area. The cerebrum has two halves, or hemispheres. It is further divided into four regions, or lobes, in each hemisphere. The frontal lobes, located behind the forehead, are involved with speech, thought, learning, emotion, and movement. Behind them are the parietal lobes, which process sensory information such as touch, temperature, and pain. At the rear of the brain are the occipital lobes, dealing with vision. Lastly, there are the temporal lobes, near the temples, which are involved with hearing and memory. PRISONER: The skin. Video images of skin a la National Geographic. The informative images progress into that of more violent scenes of war throughout human history. We see fighting, death, and bleeding bodies. As the PROFESSOR speaks on stage an audio recording of the following monologue is simultaneously played. Throughout the PROFESSOR’s speech, it rises and falls to the point of very loud to very audible. The actor playing the PROFESSOR will attempt as best as possible to keep up with the audio recording, occasionally falling behind, skipping sections. NOTE: The flow of the “skin” and “heart” monologues should start out smooth and get more jagged by the end of the “heart” section. PROFESSOR: Skin acts as a waterproof, insulating shield, guarding the body against extremes of temperature, damaging sunlight, and harmful chemicals. It also exudes antibacterial substances that prevent infection and manufactures vitamin D for converting calcium into healthy bones. Skin additionally is a huge sensor packed with nerves for keeping the brain in

touch with the outside world. At the same time, skin allows us free movement, proving itself an amazingly versatile organ. Skin is made up of three layers. The outermost is the epidermis. This consists mainly of cells called keratinocytes, made from the tough protein keratin. Keratinocytes form several layers that constantly grow outwards as the exterior cells die and flake off. It takes roughly five weeks for newly created cells to work their way to the surface. This covering of dead skin is known as the stratum corneum, or horny layer, and its thickness varies considerably, being more than ten times thicker on the soles of the feet than around the eyes. The epidermis harbors defensive Langerhans cells, which alert the body's immune system to viruses and other infectious agents. The epidermis is bonded to a deeper skin layer below known as the dermis, which gives the organ its strength and elasticity thanks to fibers of collagen and elastin. Blood vessels here help regulate body temperature by increasing blood flow to the skin to allow heat to escape, or by restricting the flow when it's cold. A network of nerve fibers and receptors pick up feelings such as touch, temperature, and pain, relaying them to the brain. The dermis houses hair follicles and glands with ducts that pass up through the skin. Sweat glands bring down internal temperature through perspiration while ridding the body of the waste fluids urea and lactate. Apocrine glands, which develop during puberty, produce a scented sweat linked to sexual attraction that can also cause body odor, especially around the armpits. Sebaceous glands secrete oil-like sebum for lubricating the hair and skin. The skin's base layer is the subcutis, which includes a seam of fat laid down as a fuel reserve in case of food shortage. It also works as insulation and cushions us from knocks and falls. SOLDIER AND REPORTER: The heart. PROFESSOR: The heart is the body's engine room, responsible for pumping life-sustaining blood via a 60,000-mile-long network of vessels. The organ works ceaselessly, beating 100,000 times a day, 40 million times a year — in total clocking up three billion heartbeats over an average lifetime. It keeps the body freshly supplied with oxygen and nutrients, while clearing away harmful waste matter. The fetal heart evolves through several different stages inside the womb, first resembling a fish's heart, then a frog's, which has two chambers, then a snake's, with three, before finally adopting the four-chambered structure of the human heart. About the size of its owner's clenched fist, the organ sits in the middle of the chest.

The REPORTER and PRISONER curl their bodies into tiny balls. They hold their positions. Music plays underneath. PROFESSOR: This magnificent organ rests behind the breastbone and between the lungs, in a moistened chamber that is protected all round by the rib cage. REPORTER: Dad. PROFESSOR: (ignoring her on purpose) In a cage. It ’ s protected. The heart is made up of a special kind of muscle that works involuntarily, so we don't have to think about it. It speeds up or slow downs automatically in response to nerve signals from the brain that tell it how much the body is being exerted. REPORTER: Dad, listen to me. PROFESSOR: Normally the heart contracts and relaxes... The REPORTER and PRISONER breathe deeply in and out together. The REPORTER is still attempting to connect with her father. He is resisting. The PRISONER has given over completely and moves with eloquence and grace. With the music, they begin to move and dance, simulating the movement of a heart. The narration of the PROFESSOR will slowly be drowned out by the music. His light must slowly fade as the images must continue until we are left with music, dance, and the visual projections. PROFESSOR: The heart beats between 70 and 80 times per minute, each heartbeat filling the four chambers inside with a fresh round of blood. These cavities form two separate pumps on each side of the heart, which are divided by a wall of muscle called the septum. The upper chamber on each side is called the atrium. This is connected via a sealing valve to the larger, more powerful lower chamber, or ventricle. The left ventricle pumps most forcefully, which is why a person's heartbeat is felt more on the left side of the chest. When the heart contracts the chambers become smaller, forcing blood first out of the atria into the ventricles, then from each ventricle into a large blood vessel connected to the top of the heart. These vessels are the two main arteries. One of them, the pulmonary artery, takes blood to the lungs to receive oxygen. The other, the aorta, transports freshly oxygenated blood to the rest of the body. The vessels that bring blood to the heart are the veins. The skin, the brain, and the heart are all part of the

same web of life. These three elements make up an opera. If you listen, around the world in every hemisphere one can hear the sounds of this concerto. In the valleys, the savannahs, the mountains, the lowlands, the jungle, and even the most unlikely of places... the desert. The images and sound abruptly end. Lights to black. REPORTER V.O.: (whisper) Daddy. End of Play

Realism The Realistic genre for stage and film didn’t appear until the late 1870’s, yet it is the theatrical genre that seems to connect with us the most. Why is that? Could it be that the emotions elicited by those characters on the stage and screen are those that we can relate to most? Even when those characters might be aliens from another planet, or wizards, or hobbits, or fictional queens that sit on iron thrones? Many of the plays and films that we watch are based in this theatrical genre called Realism. Realism in the theatre was a general movement that began in the 19th-century theatre, around the 1870s with a play called A Doll’s House written by Henrik Ibsen in 1879, and remained present through much of the 20th century. It developed a set of dramatic and theatrical conventions with the aim of bringing a greater fidelity of real life to texts and performances. These presentational element and conventions occur within the text, set, costume, sound, and lighting design, performance style, and narrative structure. They include recreating on stage a facsimile of real life except missing a fourth wall, on proscenium arch stages for live theatre. Characters speak in naturalistic, authentic dialogue without verse or poetic stylings, and acting is meant to emulate human behaviour in real life. Narratives typically are psychologically driven, and include day-to-day, ordinary scenarios. Narrative action mostly moves forward in time. Sound and music are diagetic only. We as human beings have a need for stories that we can relate to and Realism is that modern genre that allows us to best relate those stories of our lives.

Set design for A Doll’s House .

Switching Tracks Play Synopsis A divorced couple, Michael and Rebecca haven't seen each other in over ten years. After a chance encounter at Grand Central Station, both of them find new connections with each other as they comb through the bevy of old emotions as they strive to move forward. The past and future come together in this dramedy about the present state of modern divorce. In this excerpt they haven ’ t seen each other in over ten years. CHARACTERS MICHAEL (40’s) Lawyer. Rebecca’s ex-husband. REBECCA (40’s) Artist. Michael’s ex-wife. Excerpt from… Switching Tracks Scene: We are in the great terminal of Grand Central Station in New York. A bench and a bit of the station way exists on stage. The set is fragmented and broken suggesting that our characters are incubated in their own world in this very public place. There is a schedule board that lists the various arrivals and departures. The sounds of Grand Central Station. A small blue light appears on both stage left and stage right. This is where REBECCA and MICHAEL spend much of their time when addressing the audience. Lights slowly rise on the schedule board. It reads: “Art. That’s a man’s name.” The image holds for a few beats and then the schedule board and MICHAEL’s blue light slowly fade out. Rebecca, in her 40’s, enters, dressed very “artist-like” casually carrying a number of painting supplies and a small easel. She stops in her blue light

spot. She puts down her painting items and pulls her cell phone out of her pocket. She presses a button and listens to the voice mail. Michael, in his 40’s, enters from the opposite direction, dressed in full on business attire, carrying a briefcase moving briskly. He’s on his phone and stops in the area where his blue light is. More lights slowly rise to fill out the stage. MICHAEL is on his cell phone with one hand over his other ear attempting to have a work conversation. Even after all these years REBECCA is able to recognize MICHAEL’s voice through all the sounds of Grand Central. MICHAEL: There wasn ’ t any second trial. You told the DA that remember? This happened last time with the Bowerman case remember? Yeah. There ’ s no plea bargain for a- (Listens.) Yeah. Yes! (Listens.) Okay, then send it upstairs. Check with Robert to make sure. (Listens for a long time.) We ’ ll just have to go to re-trial on this and- (Listening to his phone) But the prosecution doesn ’ t need to know that. They haven ’ t- (Listening) I don ’ t need to know that either if you want to be honest. And I ’ m being honest. He already signed for it so it shouldn ’ t matter if-. Michael turns in REBECCA’s direction. There is a moment of recognition and his entire body language shifts. REBECCA is grinning at MICHAEL. The busy sounds of the train platform fade off into the background. There is a moment of stillness between them. Realizing he’s on the phone she puts her hand up to say hello. MICHAEL: (into his phone) Yes, I ’ m still here. I uh... I... Uh. ListenMichael crosses towards her. He is still on the phone. He is trying to get off the phone as he gives Rebecca a hand signal that he is attempting to get off his phone but the person on the other end of the line won ’ t stop talking. MICHAEL: Yes, and if you could show Carson that fileHe listens for a little while longer. Rebecca goes back to looking at her phone. MICHAEL: Hey Donna, can- Yes, can I call you back in a few minutes? (Listens) Yeah. (Listens as he turns his back to Rebecca.) I just ran into a

client. Can I call you back? (Listens.) In just a few minutes. (Listens) Yes. Okay. Yeah. Okay. Thanks. (He listens for a long time again, giving Rebecca another hand signal as if he is still attempting to get off the phone. She stands up, starts to check her stuff as if she is going to leave.) Okay, listen I really need to go. I just ran into an important client and- (Listens) I gotta go. Can I call you in a bit? I gotta catch a train too and I- (Listens.) Okay, yeah. (Listens as he looks at Rebecca who is looking at him.) Yeah, you too. (Listens) Bye. (Listens again.) Bye. He finally hangs up. MICHAEL: Sorry. I got caught there. Beat. She just smiles. He is a little unsure as to how to approach her. REBECCA: Hi. Beat . MICHAEL: How are you? They hug a bit awkwardly with his briefcase over his shoulder and her cell phone in her hand. The moment they make physical contact there is a little awkward tension-filled chuckle from both of them. REBECCA: Good, I ’ m good. MICHAEL: Great. You look fantastic. REBECCA: Thank you. Beat . REBECCA: You heading in or out? MICHAEL: In. Yeah, it ’ s my uh... yeah, I ’ m just jumping over to Chelsea. REBECCA: Chelsea? MICHAEL: Yeah.

REBECCA: Takeover? MICHAEL: Oh, no. Just a few meetings. You know... Same old stuff. REBECCA: Sure. Silence as they both smile awkwardly at each other. They both speak at once. MICHAEL: Sorry. A small beat. REBECCA: You were saying. MICHAEL: No, go ahead. Silence. MICHAEL is a little uneasy. REBECCA is still and calm. MICHAEL: I was just coming from The Tin Sardine. REBECCA: Oh my God! I haven ’ t been in there for... years now. MICHAEL: I thought you would be the executive chef by now. You were always telling the wait staff how toREBECCA: How to cook andMICHAEL: Yeah, you were always doing that. I ’ m surprised they didn ’ t let you into the kitchen one night. REBECCA: It was just a hobby. MICHAEL: Six weeks of that culinary correspondence course didn ’ t feel like a hobby to me. REBECCA: WellMICHAEL: You were good. I remember. You made that amazing dish, the uh... crab, uh-

REBECCA: Yeah. MICHAEL: The crab thing with the uh... the uh... oh what was it? REBECCA: Grilled Soft Shell Crab with Squash Blossom Potato Purée. MICHAEL: That was it. That was amazing. REBECCA: I don ’ t think the squash was ripe though. It was a little chunky. MICHAEL: What was? REBECCA: The puree. MICHAEL: Oh. REBECCA: Yes. It was chunky. MICHAEL: (shaking his head because he doesn ’ t remember it that way) I don ’ t... REBECCA: It was chunky. MICHAEL: I just remember eating it. REBECCA: Right. MICHAEL: I don ’ t remember it being chunky or anything. REBECCA: That ’ s because you have a soft palate. MICHAEL: That ’ s right. I do. You said I do. (Beat.) Do I? REBECCA: Yes. We talked about this that night? When you came to my cooking final? MICHAEL: Oh yes. I have uninteresting taste buds. REBECCA: Unrefined taste buds is how the argument proceeded. MICHAEL: Right. Unrefined. That was me.

REBECCA: That was a good fight. MICHAEL: Yeah, I slept on the couch for two nights because of it. Beat . REBECCA: Sorry. MICHAEL: No, that’s... it’s... Beat . REBECCA: The meat ‘n’ potato kidMICHAEL: I like oysters now. Beat . REBECCA: Oysters? You? Really? MICHAEL: Yes. REBECCA: (very much in awe)Seriously? MICHAEL: I’m not joking. Half my client meetings are at the oyster bar in our building. REBECCA: I tried for years to shove those buggers down your throat. MICHAEL: Well we were out one night. (Quickly) I was out... with some friends and we stopped by the Siren Shack. Have you heard of this place over on, uh... MICHAEL: Yes, you ’ ve been there? REBECCA: No, but I ’ ve heard of it. It ’ s supposed to beMICHAEL: It is. It ’ s great. Good seafood. Scallops and, uh...

Beat . REBECCA: You still like shrimp? Fried, right? MICHAEL: No. REBECCA: Oh. MICHAEL: Cholesterol. REBECCA: Ah. Beat . MICHAEL: But, occasionally. (Beat.) Anyhow, we... I tired a few oysters and I really, really liked them. REBECCA: (smiling a little) Did you dip them in the cocktail sauce? MICHAEL: (trying a little to impress her) No, but I had a few Wellfleets with a bit of red wine reduction. REBECCA: You still like Rockefellers though. MICHAEL: Can’t teach an old dog too many tricks at once. The Wellfleets and uh, the... BlueREBECCA: Bluepoints. MICHAEL: Yes. Those are very tasty. (Beat.) At least my unrefined palate thinks so. Silence. MICHAEL: So, uh... so what agency are you with now? REBECCA: Good lord, I ’ m done. MICHAEL: Done? REBECCA: Done! I ’ m done with it. Done. Out. I got out.

MICHAEL: You ’ re kidding. REBECCA: Nope, I did it. I finally did it. I said I would do it and I did. MICHAEL: You talked about that for how many years? REBECCA: Many years. MICHAEL: And you just did it. I never thought you would do it. The money is always good. REBECCA: Well, I did. I needed a career not a job. MICHAEL: And you feel all right about it? REBECCA: Amazing! It ’ s so freeing. I can ’ t tell you the feeling. MICHAEL: I can imagine. REBECCA: Yeah. MICHAEL: When did you quit? REBECCA: About seven, eight years ago now. I never could get there. I was stuck just doing assistant paperwork stuff. Pretty soon after I left that DA ’ s I just... I don ’ t know. (Beat.) Yeah. A beat. MICHAEL: That’s good. So, now you’reREBECCA: It just got to be such a head case with the government red tape and you know I hated wearing a suit. I think I was there more for my parents more than myself. I barely passed the bar you know that. So, it just wasn ’ t... (She stops and smiles, redirecting her energy towards him.) So. And youMICHAEL: Me? REBECCA: Yeah?

MICHAEL: I’m still there. REBECCA: Still, huh? MICHAEL: Yeah. But for you... Beat . REBECCA: For me it was... (attempting to redirect this) You know. It’s... it’s just so much- I mean I was slinging crap. MICHAEL: Yeah I know. REBECCA: There was so much crap, and I just couldn ’ t handle that. You know? MICHAEL: I know. REBECCA: I was... It was hurting me. I thought I was actually making the world a better place. What an eye-opener. MICHAEL: Yeah. REBECCA: I just couldn ’ t sling crap any longer at people. MICHAEL: I can understand. REBECCA: So, what are you doing now? MICHAEL: Slinging crap. She chuckles a little. REBECCA: You love it though. MICHAEL: It fits me. REBECCA: Yes, it does. You ’ re definitely a crap slinger that ’ s for sure. He smiles politely, but knows how loaded her comment was.

MICHAEL: Yeah. REBECCA: One of your specialities. MICHAEL: I plead the fifth. REBECCA: You were born to do it. MICHAEL: I might have been born a natural crap slinger but the shit took a lot of work. REBECCA: And you ’ re partner now, I ’ d imagine. Beat . MICHAEL: No. Uh... no. REBECCA: No? MICHAEL: I’m still not uh... partner. No. REBECCA: Why not? There is a long pause. MICHAEL: It’s... You know... REBECCA: No, it ’ s okay. I just thought that. You ’ re still with Bresky andMICHAEL: Yeah. There has just been a ton of restructuring and so we all thought, I mean I thought it best that I stay where I was and... so... He laughs a little. She’s listening. A pause. Uncertain what else to do with their conversation. MICHAEL: Oh. REBECCA: Sorry. I didn ’ t mean to cut you off. You were saying? MICHAEL: I was just asking... uh... do you still live in the city, or...

REBECCA: No. No, actually... I don ’ t live in the city, any longer. MICHAEL: Really? Such a city girl. REBECCA: I was just up here for the day. MICHAEL: Right. You wereREBECCA: I just saw you and I thought... I just thought... I would just say hello. MICHAEL: Hello. REBECCA: Right. A pause. REBECCA: So I shouldMICHAEL: Did you recognize me immediately or uhREBECCA: No, I mean yes... You walk the same. MICHAEL: Really? REBECCA: Yeah. MICHAEL: What do you mean? REBECCA: You just walk the same. Even in a crowd I could find you byMICHAEL: You never... wait, what? REBECCA: You have that weird stoner, Steve Jobs kind of walk. MICHAEL: (smiling a little) I still don ’ t know what that means. You always said that, butREBECCA: Walk around I ’ ll show you.

MICHAEL: Forget it. REBECCA: Come on. MICHAEL: No! Get outta town. I ’ m not doing that. REBECCA: Fine. An old connection. MICHAEL takes a few steps and REBECCA laughs. REBECCA: That ’ s the walk. You lead with your head. That ’ s the Michael Weston walk. Ever since Dryser & Harris it ’ s been a thing. MICHAEL: My walk was a thing? REBECCA: You didn ’ t know that? MICHAEL: No. Beat . REBECCA: I um... How ’ s the Old Sod? MICHAEL: I’m not there too often. REBECCA: Really? MICHAEL: I stopped drinking. A long pause. REBECCA: Really? A long pause. MICHAEL: Yeah. (Beat.) Yes. I don ’ t drink. REBECCA: What uh... what happened? Beat .

MICHAEL: A few years ago I was with Scotty Carsons and there were a few kids who just passed the bar. A bunch of us from the firm go and there ’ s this guy at the door. I had a few nips before we headed downstairs and soREBECCA’s funny sounding alarm on her phone rings. REBECCA: Sorry. MICHAEL: Is that your alarm? REBECCA: (quickly) Yes. She turns her alarm off. REBECCA: Sorry. Go ahead. Beat . MICHAEL: No, it ’ s all right. She nods. Beat. REBECCA: (declarative) No longer drinking. MICHAEL: A better choice. REBECCA: Choices. MICHAEL: We all make choices. Beat . REBECCA: Yes. Yes, we do. Beat. Awkward pause. REBECCA: You look different. I mean your hair. It’s... MICHAEL: More grey.

REBECCA: I was going to say longer. And your eyes have a little... MICHAEL: What? REBECCA: No, nothing. Beat . MICHAEL: You still look the same though. Still radiant as ever. There is a long silence. Rebecca’s phone rings. REBECCA: I... uh... MICHAEL: Rebecca. REBECCA: I just wanted to say hello. That was all. She looks at her phone, pondering whether to answer it. She awkwardly pulls it out and looks at it and then decides to not answer the phone. REBECCA: Suppose I should go. She doesn’t leave. Michael doesn’t leave either. They both stand there while her phone rings. After the fifth or sixth ring she picks it up. REBECCA: Hello? She looks at who called and then hangs up. REBECCA: Just missed it. It ’ s uh... MICHAEL: Important. REBECCA: Very. Hang on. She texts on her phone then puts it away. REBECCA: I thought I saw you once. MICHAEL: Really.

REBECCA: I was eating with a friend of mine and I looked across the restaurant and I thought I saw you as you passed by the front window. In Chicago. Michael doesn’t say anything. Rebecca waits for a response that Michael won’t give. A long pause. REBECCA: Where did you go Michael? Another pause. Michael stirs and is very uncomfortable. END of EXCERPT

Jon Sachs and Julie Sachs and Faeren Adams in a staged reading of Switching Tracks at Scripps Ranch Theatre in San Diego, California.