So during Story Week, I realized I wasn't exactly used to doing stuff outside my apartment other than class every day. My energy would dwindle around mid-day and I went into crazy-deep sleep-debt (that I'm still paying off). I also had trouble getting up, and after the first couple days, I'd show up to events some 10+ minutes late in the name of "I will die if I don't sleep in just these next few minutes". This turned out to be kind of a kick in my own teeth.
Wednesday was more or less "Playwriting Day". There were readings of student plays in the morning and a panel with playwrights later on. I was running a bit late to the readings, by about ten minutes, and I ran into a couple volunteers outside the room, the people who give you the surveys and programs and stuff. I knew them from volunteering at an earlier event, something something here's how the exchange went, more or less:
Not-Head-Volunteer: Hey, are you here to volunteer?
Me: Uhh...
Head Volunteer: Oh wait, you're in the event, aren't you?
Me: Uhh...? [pause] I don't...
Not-Head-Volunteer: You're reading, aren't you?
Me: Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh... [flopsweat]
Head Volunteer: Why is this confusing?
Not-Head-Volunteer: Oh! You must not know.
Me: Not know what?
At this point, the not-head volunteer pulls out a program for the event currently in session. And there, the second entry on the program, was "A-Muse-Ment by Thomas Gumbel". Jaw was dropped, eyes were wide, shit was flipped. I couldn't believe it. I rushed as quietly as possible into the little theater and...
I'd just missed it. Son of a poop. Son of a great, big, festering, motherless turd.
But hey! I had my motherfucking play featured in Story Week without even knowing it. And apparently people liked it. So that's pretty great. And I've decided that it's okay, because I don't want my writing to just be for me, you know? That's not why I write. I mean, yeah, a big part of it's for me, something about expression and saying things I can't say as a person through the page, bla bla bla who cares, but I write because I want to tell stories. I write because I want to amuse, inspire, tickle the fancy of every inner child that can pick up what I'm putting down.
So without further ado, here is: not that play! No, this is a different play, called "Monument". IT'S ABOUT MUSICIANS. IT'S RELEVANT DAMMIT. It's a one-act, about twenty pages, which is why I'll be posting it in pieces, tagging the next part to the end of the next few posts. I'll be posting some other music-related fiction things too later on, so stay tuned!
Scene
One:
[Lights up on a semi-furnished basement.
There are several outlets and power strips. There’s a drum set in one corner and a couch
in the other. There is an amp between
the couch and the drum set. Bang is
sitting behind the drum set. Slap is
sitting on the amp.]
[Bang is
tuning his drum set as Slap lights up a cigarette. Bang stops playing and stares at him. After a few seconds, Slap notices and looks
at him.]
Slap: Oh, right!
[Slap is about to drop the cigarette on the floor.]
Bang: Dude!
Slap: Sorry! Sorry! [accidentally
drops the cigarette] Oh.
Bang: FUCK! Stomp the thing, god damn you!
[Bang throws a drumstick at the still-lit cigarette, almost hitting
Slap’s foot as he stomps it out. Bang
glares at Slap.]
Slap: What?
Bang: More burns. More
burns on my goddamn carpet.
Slap: Hey, first, it’s your mom’s carpet…
Bang: So silly of me! Cool, I just have to explain the burns to my mom.
Slap: Oh, calm down. [picks up the cigarette butt] See? They’re minor.
[Bang rolls his eyes; Slap tosses the butt away when he’s not looking.]
Bang: You’re a dick.
Slap: So you tell me.
[They laugh. Silence. They’re not looking at each other.]
Bang: I still don’t forgive you.
Slap: Come on man! I’ve done it twice!
Bang: Dude. A threesome
is something you do twice. Throwing
your-
Slap: You haven’t had a threesome once.
Bang: True, but it’s coming. On average, every man has-
Slap: I know what you’re about to
say, and that’s the most bullshit statistic-
Bang: No! NO! Liar!
Slap: Okay, okay, whatever! You’re… destined to have a threesome,
whatever.
Bang: …Really?
Slap: No, no you’re not. But continue.
Bang: Shit like threesomes, and
bungee jumping, and the Malaysian Giraffe Position-
Slap: [to himself] The Malaysian Giraffe Position?!
Bang: That is shit you do twice.
Not tossing burny things on another man’s carpet.
Slap: Fine, yeah, I’m sorry; but the Malaysian Giraffe Position?
Bang: Well, you kinda do like this
Spider-Man thing- [starts to demonstrate]
Slap: No, no, forget it. I’m – I’m suddenly terrified.
Bang: Wuss.
Slap: Deviant monster.
[Bang nods. They promptly space
out. Silence.]
Bang: So uh… I smell an elephant.
[Slap looks at Bang, befuddled.]
Bang: Like…in the room?
Slap: [slow realization] Ohhhhhh.
That’s actually pretty good.
Bang: You think so?
Slap: Actually, yeah. That from something?
Slap: Actually, yeah. That from something?
Bang: Nope.
Slap: Nice. So yeah, elephant. Elephant in the room.
[Bang gestures for him to continue.]
Slap: [takes a deep breath] I kind of want to break up.
Bang: I fucking knew it.
Slap: Please don’t take it
personally, man. I knew this is your
baby, but it’s not about you.
Bang: It’s Screech, isn’t it?
Slap: [starts, hesitates, starts again] Among other things, yes.
[Bang starts to speak, but stops and puts his chin in his hands. Slap looks away.]
Slap: Look man… What if we just give Screech the boot?
Bang: Gee, wonder who’s gonna do that.
Slap: Dude – fine, fine, I’ll do it
if you want, I barely know the guy beside the fact that I hate him, I’ll fucking fire him!
Bang: Great. [goes back to fiddling with the drum set]
Slap: What? What is it?
Bang: Look, we lose Screech, we lose
Shred.
Slap: So? I mean, how?
Bang: Shred knows Screech.
Slap: She knows-
Bang: Did you say-?
Slap: She knows us too.
Bang: Did you say ‘so’?
Slap: …No.
Bang: You fucking did.
Slap: …So?
Bang: [levels a drumstick at Slap] Say ‘so’ one more time and I end you.
Slap: Look man. I like Shred too, she’s cool, but she, like
Screech, is replaceable.
Bang: Awesome, I’ve been playing with
Josef Stalin for two years.
Slap: Stalin never had a band and you
know it.
Bang: Well no shit dude. He’s like the Axl Rose of dictators. Definitely would’ve been a solo act.
Slap: More like the Idi Amin of rock
stars.
Bang: [levels the drumstick again] Do not call Axl Rose a rock star in my
presence. He is a ginger.
Slap: Really? Your biggest problem with him is that he’s a
fire-crotch?
Bang: How do you know what his crotch
looks like?
Slap: You called him a ginger,
implying the carpet matches the drapes.
Bang: I implied no such thing! You just like imagining crotches!
Slap: Do you ever think before words
travel from your brain to your mouth?
Bang: You shut your mouth when you’re
talking to me.
Slap: As I said-
[Without warning, Bang hits a cymbal wildly, making Slap jump.]
Bang: Enough! We’re off-track as it is!
Slap: Which reminds me: why did you
call me Stalin?
Bang: Hey man, that’s just where my
brain went.
[Brief silence.]
Slap: What if Shred’s in on it?
Bang: What, it’s a conspiracy now?
Slap: No, you goon. Here: we bring this to her, see if she’s on
our side. If so, hey, we’re only down by
one.
Bang: [beat] And if she’s not?
Slap: Well…
[Silence.]
Bang: Hell no.
Slap: Dude…
Bang: I mean… Fuck, no.
We’re not losing Shred. Screech,
fine. I’ll give him the axe if you
want. But we’re keeping Shred.
Slap: Dude. Re-place-a-bull.
Bang: [scoffs] Doctor Frankenstein.
Slap: Excuse me?
Bang: Geppetto!
Slap: Make sense! Make… sense!
Bang: You’re replacing things! Replacer! [Slap tries to interject] How do I know your family’s real, huh?! [keeps
ranting]
Slap: Okay, okay, shut up!
[Bang stops talking and glares at Slap.]
Slap: I think… you’re accusing me of cloning people.
Bang: [defiantly] Yes.
Slap: You’re insane. You know that, right?
Bang: Look man, my point is, like
Philip K. Dick taught us through his cautionary tales, you can’t replace
everyone. Not like Geppetto. Not like Dr. Frankenstein.
Slap: I take that back. You’re illiterate.
Bang: Bullshit I’m illiterate! I just referenced Philip K. Dick!
Slap: Yes, very badly. I don’t even think he wrote a story about
cloning. And what the hell do
Frankenstein or Pinocchio have to do with this?
Bang: See, there ya go, it’s simple
really. They both… created life… to
replace their dead sons. …Like you. [Slap
is staring at him, slack-jawed and incredulous] See-
Slap: NO! No, that never happened! In either book!
Bang: What about the movies?
Slap: No.
Bang: Damn.
Slap: You didn’t read either.
Bang: I’m right about the Philip K.
Dick though! Mark my words, I’ll find
the story I’m thinking of. There will be
dead sons and clones galore and I will paste it to your eyeballs so you view my
validation firsthand!
Slap: Can’t I just read it?
Bang: Fine.
[Silence.]
Slap: I’ll fire Screech if you want.
But-
Bang: But nothing; I don’t want you
to, because I don’t want to lose Shred.
Slap: Why is this-
[Slap’s phone starts to vibrate.
He pulls it out and looks at it.]
Slap: Speak of the devil. Wait a tic.
Bang: Wait, which devil?
[Slap gets up as he answers the phone, strolling a few feet away.]
Slap: Hello?
Bang: Which one, dude? Hey!
Slap: What’s up, Shred?
Bang: There we go. Was that so
hard?
[Brief silence as Slap is listening to Shred.]
Slap: Oh wow. Great, great. [beat] Yeah, we’re just tuning up here.
Bang: [“whispering” loudly] What’s she saying?
Slap: …You do? That’s… [glances
at Bang] Interesting. Yeah, yeah,
totally.
Bang: [sticks out his arm, still whispering loudly] Can I talk to her?
Slap: Yeah, no problem! See you soon. [hangs up]
Bang: Dickbastard!
Slap: …What and why?
Bang: I asked to talk to her!
Slap: So?
[Bang tackles Slap, smacking him on the back with a drumstick.]
Slap: He’s crazy! He’s crazy HELP MEEEE!
Bang: So? SO?
SO?! How’s the word sound now,
Slap?! Sososososososo-
Slap: FUUUUCCCKKK!
[Bang stops hitting Slap.]
Slap: I’m fucking sorry, okay? I’m sorry for saying ‘so’!
Bang: …Thank you. [sits down on the amp]
Slap: [dusting himself off] I swear to God you were dropped at birth.
Bang: Well… [clears throat and looks away]
Slap: Wait, you were?
Bang: No! I just… while I was…
[A long silence follows. Slap
stares at Bang. A doorbell sounds. Bang rushes to sit behind his drum set.]
Bang: Could you get that?
Slap: No dude, it’s your house!
Bang: So? You’re closer.
Slap: So? SO? Do I get to beat you with a drumstick now,
huh?!
Bang: Get the door, Slap.
[Doorbell chimes again.]
Slap: Fine; fine! [starts walking out] God damn, you’re
impossible.
[Bang watches Slap walk out. Once
he does, he starts to re-tune his drum set while whistling to himself.]
No comments:
Post a Comment