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© 2004 by Wendy Kesselman

Published by Dramatists Play Service, Inc.

ISBN: 978-0-8222-1906-4

WARREN:

I have a secret. A terrible secret. No one knows. No one in the world. Except my parents. They have to. They live with me. But my secret…I like to read. What am I saying… “like.” Get up every morning, go to bed every night, breathe, dream, tremble, live to read!…I mean, I’ll read anything—cereal boxes, graffiti…But books! That first moment with a brand-new untouched book. Running my hand over the sleek shining cover. Opening it in the silence of my room. That first page. Those first words. And you know what’s even better than a new book? An old one. The worn leather cover, the soft secret smell! What hands have touched these pages, devoured these words in some faraway room long ago? War and Peace. My favorite! Exactly one thousand, four hundred and forty-four pages long. Why does it have to end? I bought it from this amazing man at a secondhand bookstore on the Lower East Side. And in it I found the one person I’d waited for my whole life, the person I’d die for, my favorite, my only heroine—the radiant, the divine…Natasha! But I can’t go into that now.

Lobby Hero

© 2002 by Kenneth Lonergan

Published by Dramatists Play Service, Inc.

ISBN: 978-0-8222-1829-6

JEFF

 [to female cop]

Hey, can I ask you something, Officer?…

Remember how a long time ago, like when we were kids, the police uniforms used to be all dark blue? And then around the 1980s I guess, they switched them to dark blue pants and a light blue shirt? And then recently they switched ‘em back to dark blue pants and a dark blue shirt again? What I always wondered was, Did they throw out all the old dark blue pants when they did that or did they just throw out all the light blue shirts and then get dark blue shirts that matched the old dark blue pants, so they wouldn’t have to buy all new pants? Because that would be quite a savings.

If you think about it, you could be wearing pants rights now that were being worn by some lady cop in 1975, if you think about it. Except I guess the women police officers didn’t wear pants back in 1975. I don’t mean they didn’t wear pants, like they were walkin’ around in their underwear. I just mean they were still wearin’ skirts back then, weren’t they? I know I’m blathering, I’m just completely in love with you, can I just say that?

Over the Tavern

© 2006 by Tom Dudzick

Published by Playscripts, Inc.

(No ISBN available)

RUDY

Jesus, I hate him, I hate him! I know I’ll go to hell for saying that, but I can’t help it, I do. Why does he have to be that way? You could do something, why don’t you?…Jesus, I never hear from you. I pray every night for things to get better. If you could just let me know that you’re listening. A sign. Nothing big. Just so I’ll know you’re working on it. Here, I’ll watch that candle. If you make it light up I’ll know everything’s going to be fine. Ready? Okay, I’m watching. Go…The one on the end there. On the left…Okay, I’ll close my eyes…Okay, you probably want to give me a better sign. I understand. Like when the angel appeared to Mary. Okay, so I’ll wait. I’ll wait until tomorrow morning. We had a deal, Jesus. I said I’d be a soldier for you. Please, let me know you’re listening. Please. If you don’t… I don’t know. I guess I’ll have some thinking to do.

Lusting After Pipino’s Wife

© 1994 by Sam Henry Kass

Published by Samuel French, Ltd.

ISBN: 978-0-573-69505-6

VINNIE

A man is with a woman, as Patsy seems to be with you… He meets his best friend on the street, introduces him to the mystery woman. The woman already has a semblance of knowledge, concerning the aforementioned best friend: that he’s “a real interesting guy.” So already the groundwork is laid… Perhaps there’s some sort of initial chemistry between the friend and the mystery woman. Perhaps it’s so buried, so hidden that neither one even recognizes its presence. Perhaps these two newly introduced creatures of our societal jungle—will bid each other farewell, after only minutes of introductory chit-chat, only to go through the remainder of the day, and the following day, and then who knows how many days after, only to be burdened with the sexual magnetism that makes two people prisoners of passion— More than likely, that fire eventually burns out. And what remains are ashes, of what might have been… However, there are those occasions, as history has documented—where these two benighted and tortured souls have no choice but to seek each other out—find one another, track each other to the earth’s end, because there is no other choice… Just some food for thought.

Jump/cut

© 2008 by Neena Beber

Published by Samuel French, Inc.

ISBN: 978-0-573-65088-8

DAVE

I just had a scientific breakthrough, Paulie. Some things are in fast motion and some things are in slow motion and therefore most of life, most of life, ‘cause it’s on a different speed setting than we have, is just this indistinguishable, undetectable blur…

I’m gonna end up a bum, Paulie…

What if I never get out of the slump…

I just got a glimpse, a glimpse of the future, life after high school, and I am such a fucking bum, man. Someday, someday when everyone is putting on their three-piece suits and ties, including you, Dude, and driving to their big-shot jobs in their big ol’ Buicks and shaking hands and smoking cigars and winning, like, Good Citizen Awards from the Rotary Club and driving their kids to Little League and whatever shit, I’ll still be sitting on some couch somewhere, except the couch’ll be really ratty and smell like cat piss, probably in some five-bucks-an-hour motel, and you’ll have forgotten about me except to think once in awhile “Poor David Hummer, have you heard what a sorry bum the guy turned out to be?”…

I’m not joking, Paulie. You gotta keep me off the ratty couch. Promise. Promise me. You gotta promise me.

The Substance of Fire

© 1992 by Jon Robin Baitz

Published by Samuel French, Inc.

ISBN 978-0573692932

MARTIN

Yes. That’s right. There are limits. I believe I know that. Hey, I spent most of my sixteenth year getting chemotherapy, remember? And it’s not that long ago, I can still feel it. I cannot waste my life. I feel you people dragging me into this thing. You want this confrontation, Dad. You want nothing more than your children gathered around you, fighting. Well forget it. You don’t know what I feel in my back, in my bones. I wake up some days and I’m crying. I think I’m still at Sloan-Kettering, lying there hairless and white and filling up with glucose from a drip. Hey! I can’t get that time back. I feel all the needles, some days, my lymph nodes, and I’m sweating. And part of my life is spent in fear, waiting. I know none of us has forever, know that very well, and I care very much how I spend my time. And involved in an internecine war over a publishing house is, by my reckoning, Father, a dead waste. And if I choose to live with plants as an assistant lecturer at an over-rated seven-sisters school, that is my goddamn choice.

Kramer vs. Kramer (1979)

Ted Kramer

There’s a lot of things I didn’t understand, a lot of things I’d do different if I could. Just like I think there’s a lot of things you wish you could change, but we can’t. Some things once they’re done can’t be undone. My wife, my ex-wife, says that she loves Billy, and I believe she does, but I don’t think that’s the issue here.

If I understand it correctly, what means the most here is what’s best for our son. What’s best for Billy. My wife used to always say to me: ‘Why can’t a woman have the same ambitions as a man?’ I think you’re right. And maybe I’ve learned that much. But by the same token, I’d like to know, what law is it that says that a woman is a better parent simply by virtue of her sex? You know, I’ve had a lot of time to think about what it is it that makes somebody a good parent? You know, it has to do with constancy, it has to do with patience, it has to do with listening to him. It has to do with pretending to listen to him when you can’t even listen anymore. It has to do with love, like, like, like she was saying. And I don’t know where it’s written that it says that a woman has a corner on that market, that, that a man has any less of those emotions than a woman does.

Billy has a home with me. I’ve made it the best I could. It’s not perfect. I’m not a perfect parent. Sometimes I don’t have enough patience because I forget that he’s a little kid. But I’m there. We get up in the morning and then we eat breakfast, and he talks to me and then we go to school. And at night, we have dinner together and we talk then and I read to him. And, and we built a life together and we love each other. If you destroy that, it may be irreparable. Joanna, don’t do that, please. Don’t do it twice to him.

Long Day’s Journey Into Night

EDMUND:

You’ve just told me some high spots in your memories. Want to hear mine? They’re all connected with the sea. Here’s one. When I was on the Squarehead square rigger, bound for Buenos Aires. Full moon in the trades. The old hooker driving fourteen knots. I lay on the bowsprit, facing astern, with the water foaming into spume under me, the masts with every sail white in the moonlight, towering high above me. I became drunk with the beauty and the singing rhythm of it, and for a moment I lost myself–actually lost my life. I was set fee! I dissolved in the sea, became white sails and flying spray, became beauty and rhythm, became moonlight and the ship and the high dim-starred sky! I belonged without, past or future, within peace and unity and a wild joy, within something greater than my own life, or the life of Man, to Life itself! To God if you want to put it that way. Then another time, on the American line, when I was lookout in the crow’s nest on the dawn watch. A calm sea, that time. Only a lazy ground swell and a slow drowsy roll of the ship. The passengers asleep and none of the crew in sight. No sound of man. Black smoke pouring from the funnels behind and beneath me. Dreaming, not keeping lookout, feeling alone, and above and apart, watching the dawn creep like a painted dream over the sky and sea which slept together. Then the moment of ecstatic freedom came. The peace, the end of the quest, the last harbor, the joy of belonging to a fulfillment beyond men’s lousy, pitiful, greedy fears and hopes and dreams! And several other times in my life, when I was swimming far out, or lying alone on the beach, I have had the same experience. Became the sun, the hot sand, green seaweed anchored to a rock, swaying in the tide. Like a saint’s vision of beatitude. Like the veil of things as they seem drawn back by an unseen hand. For a second you see–and seeing the secret, are the secret. For a second there is meaning! Then the hand lets the veil fall and you are alone, lost in the fog again, and you stumble on toward nowhere, for no good reason! (He grins wryly) It was a great mistake my being born a man, I would have been much more successful as a seagull or a fish. As it is I will always be a stranger who never feels at home, who does not really want and is not really wanted, who can never belong, who must always be a little in love with death!

The Moonlight Room

© 2004 by Tristine Skyler

Published by Dramatists Play Service, Inc.

ISBN: 0-8222-2011-3

SAL

What do you know? Your mom’s with someone. She’s happy. My mom barely goes out. She says she’d rather stay home and clean the apartment. I’m not even allowed to have friends over because they’ll interfere with her depression. And she doesn’t want to wash her hair. Sometimes she goes a whole week. I tell her that if maybe we had people around she would start to feel better. But she doesn’t listen. She’ll sit there watching “Jeopardy” and badmouth my dad. The same speech I’ve been hearing since he left. On and on and on and on. And then when he comes over to pick me up, she puts on lipstick!!! She doesn’t wash her hair, and she has on the same outfit she’s worn for three days, but she puts on lipstick!! I swear one night I’m going to go out, and I’m just not going to come home.

(a beat, Sal becomes embarrassed)

I just don’t want to have to call her.

(pause)

You don’t realize how lucky you are. You do whatever you want. You could come home tomorrow and it’s fine. I come home tomorrow and I’m on the back of a milk carton.

Sarah, Sarah

© 2005 by David Goldfarb

Published by Dramatists Play Service, Inc.

ISBN: 978-0-8222-2013-8

ROCHELLE

Look, I want you to like me, Mrs. Grosberg. I do. Because I’m not going anywhere, and life’ll be a lot easier if we can be friends…

I can do a lot of things, Mrs. Grosberg. But I can’t make myself rich. I can’t make my daddy alive. And I can’t make him more responsible with his money when he was alive. I can tell you he was great. And I loved him a lot. And I miss him a lot. I can tell you, that, even though he maybe spent too much, he did it out of love. And that he had enormous respect for the right things; for education, for culture. He came over from the Old Country when he was nine, by himself Mrs. Grosberg, and worked. He worked hard. And I promise you, I work hard too. I don’t need big rings and cashmere sweaters. If Arthur likes to buy them, if he’s proud, as you say, fine. But my needs and desires aren’t that fancy. I believe in Arthur. I’m going to put school on hold and work to support him while he’s finishing his philosophy degree. And I know, there aren’t a lot of rich philosophers, Mrs. Grosberg, and that’s OK by me—

Abstract Expression

© 1998 by Theresa Rebeck

Published by Samuel French, Inc.

ISBN: 0573642451

JENNY:

It’s my life too, Dad. I am the only person, I kept you going, all those years everyone told you it was shit, and now it’s like, oh big deal, that’s your problem, Jenny… but that’s what I did, with my life, and I know it was stupid, everyone keeps telling me how stupid I’ve been, but what was I SUPPOSED TO DO, let you die? I told you not to drink, I told you so many times and I know, I’m too good, well, I’m the one who bought the damn — it’s my fau — I bought that, you were drinking, that night, if I didn’t have that here…

No. It’s not my fault. You killed yourself, you son of a bitch. You couldn’t be bothered to try and live, for me, because I needed you, that didn’t even occur to you. You just went right ahead and killed yourself. Well, you’re dead now so you don’t get everything you want anymore! I’m not selling those paintings.

Big Love

© 2000 by Charles L. Mee, Jr.

Published online by the author, at http://www.charlesmee.org/html/big_love.html

All rights reserved.

LYDIA:

You know, everything you say may be right, Thyona but I have to ask myself, if it is then why don’t I feel good about it? I have to somehow go on my gut instincts because sometimes you can convince yourself in your mind about the rightness of a thing and you try to find fault with your reasoning but you can’t because no matter how you turn it over in your mind it comes out right and so you think: I know it’s right but I don’t think it is or I think it’s right but I know it isn’t and you could end up thinking you’re just a moron or some sort of deficient sort of thing but really there are some things when you want to know the truth of them you have to use not just your mind or even your mind and your feelings but your neurons or your cells or whatever to make some decisions because they are too complicated they need to be considered in some larger way and in the largest way of all I know I have to go with my whole being when it says I love him and he loves me and nothing else matters even if other things do matter even quite a lot even if I’m doing this in the midst of everyone getting killed I can’t help myself and I don’t think I should.

Probably this is how people end up marrying Nazis but I can’t help it.

Strange Snow

© 1983 by Stephen Metcalfe

Published by Samuel French, Inc.

ISBN: 0573618887

MARTHA

Look, I’m not one of those pieces of fluff you see in men’s magazines. Does that make me less of a woman? It does not. And I’m a fool because for some stupid reason I think it does. And so I buy contact lenses and clothes I can’t really afford. You think I’d of learned by now. You think I’d have learned at the start…

David even had to get me a date for my high school formal. I was on the decoration committee. I put together the whole thing. Nobody asked me to go. David rounded up his friends and told them one of them had to invite me or he’d beat them all up. I think perhaps they drew straws. I didn’t know. Suddenly I was invited, that’s all that mattered. I was so happy. Well, it was something that couldn’t be kept quiet, David’s blackmail. I heard rumors. I confronted David. He wouldn’t admit what he’d done but I knew…

I got very sick the night of the prom. A twenty-four hour thing. David meant well.

“Maid of Athens”

© 2001 by David Rambo, from Back Story: A Dramatic Anthology

Published by Dramatic Publishing Company

ISBN: 978-1-58342-022-5

AINSLEY

(Cuts her finger while preparing a meal.)

Shit! Oh…shit! I’m okay. I’ve got an ice cube on it…Come in ice cube. Make it numb. Ice…Kissing my finger, making the pain go away. Glaciers. Snow…Leonard Bernstein’s hair. The summer I was eleven, and Reuben took me to Tanglewood. They remembered him, all the older musicians did, from when he played there. He told them he was just teaching now…but they knew. It was a hot day and when a drinker sweats, you can just smell it on them. We all could. And then this…this wave of energy comes at us, and it’s Leonard Bernstein. “Reuben! Reuben, God, where the hell have you been? Reuben, dear, darling, Reuben.” And Leonard Bernstein’s hugging Reuben and kissing him. Kissing! Then, Reuben says, “Lenny”—to Leonard Bernstein!—he says, “Lenny, this is Ainsley Belcher, my star pupil. She plays the clarinet.” And then…Leonard Bernstein kisses my hand! Can’t look him in the eye, or I’ll sink like the Titanic. So I’m looking at his hair, these waves of thick, soft, white hair. Like snow. Big, soft, Alaskan glaciers.

They call rehearsal and “Lenny” looks up at me, and quotes Lord Byron, my favorite poet!

“Maid of Athens, ere we part,

Give, oh give me back my heart.”

And he left…

After that, when I practiced up in the cake room, if my cheeks hurt, or the muscles in my jaw got tired, I couldn’t feel it. Leonard Bernstein was there. Conducting. Kissing my…

(Her hand.)

It doesn’t hurt anymore.

Eve’s Bayou

Mozelle

You’re too young to understand. But when I was with Hozea, it was like my whole body was burning. I’d come home and I’d have to rub ice on my face and neck to cool down. If Maynard knew he never said a word. And then one night, Hosea showed up at the door. He said, “pack your bags, woman, I’ve come to take with me.” And God help me…(she gets off from the sofa) I pushed past my startled husband, I was going upstairs to pack my bags when I heard Maynard say in a tone I’d never heard him say: “I don’t care who you are, sir, but if you do not leave my house at once, I will hurt you.”(the figures from the past appear in the full-length mirror in the living room as Mozelle looks into it) And I turned just in time to see Hosea pull the gun out and aim it at Maynard. “I’m in love with your wife and if you try to stop us, I’ll kill you…” Maynard walked right up and pushed his chest in the barrel of the gun. And he said, “Well, you’ll have to kill me, ’cause my wife ain’t going nowhere.” Oh, Eve…in that moment, I knew that I loved Maynard! He was so calm and brave, and it was Hosea who was trembling. Maynard said, “Mozelle, tell this man you ain’t going nowhere with him–so he can get the hell out of my house.” Mama was standing in the doorway of the kitchen and she was holding her heart like this. (she holds her hands to her chest) I walked slowly over (she “joins” the memory inside the mirror and there is a long pause)…and I stood next to my husband. I looked at my lover: this man who had lit this great fire in me, and I said, “please leave our house. I never want to see you again.” Hosea’s eyes went another color. He stopped trembling. He looked right at me. And he said, (very quiet) “all right then.” (gunshot) And he shot Maynard in the chest. And I was alone. For awhile.

Like Dreaming, Backwards

NELL:

Have you ever had a dream and suddenly, you realize what’s happening doesn’t make any sense – and you realize that you’re dreaming. And you realize: if you know that you’re dreaming, then you can control what’s going to happen next?

When I have an episode, it’s exactly like that – only backwards.

Sometimes, when things are bad, I sit and make lists of reasons not to kill myself. My mom is always at the top of the list. I love her, and I know that if I died, she would be devastated. I try to stay alive for her sake. Next is usually my little sister. She’s had enough go wrong in her life. And it would be sad to die without ever really knowing her. Next, I list friends of mine. But when you want to kill yourself, sometimes it’s hard to think rationally about who your friends are. You can think that they all hate you behind your back. You can even think, sometimes, that secretly, they want you dead. I’m not saying it makes any sense. But you can think it, anyway.

The first time I tried to kill myself, I was ten. When I woke up the next morning, I was so relieved. I was so happy that I hadn’t succeeded. I didn’t tell anyone. And for a while, I was happy to be alive. A year later, I tried again. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve tried. They were all cries for help. I tried to poison myself, overdose on sleeping pills, hang myself, drown myself, suffocate myself, and throw myself into traffic.

Now, when I wake up after taking every sleeping pill in arm’s reach and washing it down with a bottle of wine, I’m never, ever relieved. I feel trapped. I feel desperate. I feel like even more of a failure. And I have even wondered if the reason that I can’t kill myself is because I’m already dead and in Hell. This is a living Hell. There’s no better description than that.

But your physical drive to live can undermine your mind’s desire to die. Your instincts to breathe are hard to overcome. You can’t bear another second of misery – but your heart just refuses to stop beating. It has some nerve.

It’s hard to tell the people I love that I want to die. So I spend a lot of my time and energy pretending that everything’s okay. I make jokes. And when I ended up in the hospital, it was almost a relief. Because I didn’t have to act for anyone, anymore. I just cried all day. And no one took it personally. No one wanted to blame themselves. I could cry to my heart’s content, and it didn’t hurt anyone’s feeling. The honesty was refreshing.

But then, I started to look at the other patients around me, and I started to realize that I was never, ever going to get better. No therapy was going to help me cope any better than I already do every day on my own. No medication will ever fix me. I will always have depression. I can fight it. I can achieve all kinds of things. I can make everyone think I’m normal, that I’m coping, that I’m okay. But I’ve never been okay. I’ll never be okay. I will always be one bad day away from suicide. Until I’m dead. I spend my life trying to delay what I know is inevitable.

Spilled Milk

JOAN

It happened right here, you know. Almost a year ago. Right before I left. He came to the party with Kevin and his friends. And he liked you right away. Like they always do. Oh, I got used to being invisible, whenever you were around a long time ago. I mean, just look at you. And look at me. If I were a guy, I wouldn’t look twice at me, either. The point is, he wanted you. No surprise. He saw you, he wanted you. And you definitely didn’t want him. And he could tell. And that was when I moved in for the kill.

We had all been drinking. People were starting to leave. We were sitting on the floor in the living room, and I kissed him. You saw us, and you watched me bring him up here. And then you went to sleep on the couch. Like you had a dozen other nights, after a dozen other parties. And then… everyone else left. I brought him here. We were kissing… and he was a good kisser. And he… he started… and I didn’t stop him. And then, he went downstairs, to the bathroom. And he was gone a long time. And when he came back, he brought a condom.

I woke up the next morning, and he was gone. And I put on my clothes, and I came downstairs, and you were there, sleeping. And I woke you up, and I told you what had happened. I told you that I had slept with him. And you know what you told me? You said, “I woke up, in the middle of the night, and he was on top of me.” He was feeling you up, in your sleep. He was groping you, basically molesting you… while you were passed out. You woke up, and his hand was in your crotch. I mean, that’s what you said, right? It was… strange, how it didn’t really seem to bother you. But I guess you’ve had guys do worse. You told me all this… so calmly. Like, it meant so little…

You said, “I woke up, and I made him stop, and I kept telling him, ‘Go back to Joan. Go back upstairs with Joan.’” You said, “I gave him a condom from my purse.” Why? Why would you do that? I mean, what the fuck is wrong with you? A guy tries to assault you while you’re passed out, and you think, “I know. I’ll send him upstairs to my best friend.” Why?

Why didn’t you kick him out of my fucking house? You could have screamed bloody murder and woken up my parents. You could have threatened to press charges. What he did was assault. What do you think would have happened if you hadn’t woken up? He could have raped you. And you… you sent him back to me. How generous. How benevolent. Why didn’t you fucking warn me? Why did you wait until the next morning to tell me what he did? Why didn’t you tell me right then? God, Helen. I mean, think about it. You send this guy, this guy… who has just violated you… up to my attic. What do you think would have happened if I had said no?

It never occurred to you… that I might say no? Well, sure. That makes sense. I mean, I had certainly brought enough guys up to the attic that summer, hadn’t I? Yeah. I mean, I kissed this guy this guy, who I barely knew. So, I guess I deserved whatever I got. And you were right. I mean, I didn’t say no. But I would have. If I had known what he had done to you, I would have. But you didn’t know that? Oh, right. Because I’m such a slut, I’ll fuck anyone. It’s what you were thinking, though. It had to be. It’s the only explanation. You had a chance to protect me, and you didn’t. Because you never thought, not even for a second, that I would say no…

I was drowning! …And you couldn’t see it. You were my best friend. And you couldn’t see it. All I wanted was for someone… to look at me the way they all looked at you. I just wanted someone… to want me. Someone, anyone. I didn’t fuck those guys in the attic because I wanted to. I did it to prove that I existed. That I wasn’t invisible. And you… you were oblivious.

I would have done anything to protect you. I would have done anything.

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