Category: Plays (Page 3 of 4)

Kennedy’s Acolytes

by Jack Gilhooley

It’s the evening of November 22, 1963, in rural Ireland. Three mid-teenage girls grapple with the news that U.S. president John F. Kennedy has just been assassinated.

CHARACTERS: Deirdre, Moira, and Eileen all speak with a brogue
PLACE: A basically empty town square (A bench? A streetlamp?). There’s a shabby sign reading “Doyle’s Public House” inconspicuously situated far left or right. The pub itself is offstage.
TIME: Evening, Nov. 22, 1963.

Deirdre and Moira are heavily dressed. Each carries an unlit flashlight (“torch”).

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Jared Sampson’s Mom

 by Dallas Woodburn

CHARACTERS (in order of appearance)

GRACE:A college student and the play’s main character/narrator                 YOUNG JARED SAMPSON: A typical eighth-grade boy—not a dork, but not particularly cool either.
JASMINE:Grace’s roommate, also a college student. Self-absorbed and showy.
SASHA:Grace’s roommate. An art student in college.
JARED SAMPSON’S MOM:An attractive, pleasant middle-aged woman wearing bright red lipstick and flower-patterned capri pants.
YOUNG HENRIETTA:Grace’s best friend in eighth grade.
YOUNG GRACE:A typical eighth-grade girl—pretty, well-liked, but not one of the fashionable popular girls.
YOUNG JARED’S FRIENDS:Two or thre eighth-grade boys.
SCOTT:A college student. Grace’s boyfriend.
BECKY:A college student. Scott’s friend. Pretty and flirtatious.

SETTING:An apartment shared by three college girls. Center stage is a couch, perhaps also a coffee table littered with magazines, textbooks, empty water glasses, an empty take-out container or two. The apartment is not filthy but has a lived-in feeling to it.

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Partner Of —

 By Rachael Carnes


SALLY (Born Sarah) — 14 years old.

ELIZABETH (Called “Betty”) — Sarah’s mother.

SUSANNA — Sarah’s grandmother, a ghost.

(These three women should be played by African-American performers.)

SETTING: Underneath Monticello, in the mansion’s south wing — In a cold, windowless room laid with plaster and brick.

TIME:  2018 and 1787

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Poetic Statement

By: Remi Recchia

Cast of Characters:

REMI #1, 22, male, an alcoholic writer. REMI #1 should not be wearing shoes.

REMI #2, 22, male, an alcoholic writer. REMI #2 should wear a ridiculously large black beret.

REMI #3, 22, male, an alcoholic writer. REMI #3 should carry an outrageously pretentious pipe and an enormous lighter.

REMI #4, 22, male, an alcoholic writer. REMI #4 should not exist.

All four characters should wear matching nametags without numbers throughout the play. All four characters should also be holding amber bottles.

Time and Place:    Nowhere in no place. Never in the present.

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The Incident

By: Carol Guess

Anika—A woman in her thirties.

Officer—A man in his forties.

Security—Anyone in uniform.


A dingy, windowless room with one door, bare except for a metal table and two metal chairs.

ANIKA appears to be alone onstage, sitting in a chair, talking to herself.

ANIKA. The girl was so good in the car. Sometimes the dog barked, but the girl never cried. Well, not never. Once. Jenny and I were yelling at each other, yelling the old way, the way we thought the girl would fix, and she started crying, this high-pitched siren. Like she couldn’t fix the broken thing. We’d gone to the zoo, I mean the day Jenny and I started fighting again. We hadn’t had a fight in months. But it had all just gone underground. We’d been so busy with the girl, with living. We’d been too busy to fight about Chris.

Light illuminates the man sitting across from ANIKA.


ANIKA. I’m sorry.


ANIKA. The person Jenny was sleeping with. Out in the open. Everyone knew. I wanted Jenny to stop sleeping with Chris. It’s like breaking your diet. Once you start, you might as well keep going. Not that I diet, I mean, I resist those cultural messages. I’m going to teach my—

OFFICER offers coffee-stained napkin to ANIKA.

ANIKA. (Brushes the napkin away.) The fight at the zoo wasn’t important. It was just the day we started fighting again.

OFFICER. I understand. On the day of the incident, Jenny took a different route to work.

ANIKA. You keep calling it “the incident.”

OFFICER. What would you like me to call it?

ANIKA. Isn’t that your job? To name things?

OFFICER. It’s my job to—

ANIKA. Make up stories about Lizard.

OFFICER. Lizard was your daughter’s nickname?

ANIKA. What do you think? That we named her Lizard? You’re looking for more evidence of what terrible mothers we were.

OFFICER. I’m gathering information about the incident.

ANIKA. “The incident” again. Why don’t you call things by their names?

OFFICER. Is there a word you’d rather use?

ANIKA. It was an accident. Call it that.

OFFICER. I understand.

ANIKA. You can’t possibly understand.

OFFICER. I understand. I mean, I understand that I don’t understand.

ANIKA. Thank you for not understanding.

OFFICER. Did the explosion on Greenwood Avenue factor in? Difficulty sleeping, stress?

ANIKA. After the explosion we thought we were safe. Like our bad luck got used up on that one thing.

OFFICER. Would you say you were a careful parent?

ANIKA. I was bad cop, Jenny was good cop. Oh. Sorry.

OFFICER. No offense, ma’am. I consider myself a good cop. How did you approach—how did the two of you go about having a child?

ANIKA. Do you want to start with the egg? You want to start with the sperm.

OFFICER. I’m sorry if I asked—

ANIKA. We got pregnant in Florida. Jenny wanted to bring home a lizard, sneak it through security. For good luck. Like a lizard’s a souvenir, a t-shirt, or a postcard. Like a lizard’s not a living thing. So I said no, and we had a fight in the hotel, and she stormed off to a bar, and that’s where—

OFFICER. Jenny was the real mother, then?

ANIKA. We were both real mothers.

OFFICER. Birth mother, I mean. I’m sorry. I’m not up on the lingo. Continue? Please.

ANIKA. Jenny fucked some guy, a stranger, and got pregnant with Lizard in a bar in Palm Beach.

OFFICER. Was your wife—

ANIKA. “Wife” still sounds strange. I bet you say it all the time.

OFFICER. Was your wife—

ANIKA. Do you say the word “wife” without thinking about it? Does it slide off your tongue?

OFFICER. Was your wife—

ANIKA. Your wife. What’s her name?

OFFICER. That isn’t … Marie.

ANIKA. We were domestic partners, and the state rolled us over. The state made our partnership into a marriage after DOMA was repealed. We woke up and we were wives. We didn’t create it. It happened to us.

OFFICER. On the day of the incident—

ANIKA. Did you have a registry? You and Marie?

OFFICER. On the day of the incident—

ANIKA. Wine glasses, blender, those little forks for stabbing corn?

OFFICER. On the day of the incident—

ANIKA. I love it when people say “no gifts,” and everyone brings money in a silver envelope decorated with bells. Did you and Marie—

OFFICER. Stop asking about Marie.

ANIKA. Sorry. Officer.

OFFICER. On the day of the incident, Jenny’s car was in the shop. She took Lizard’s—what was your daughter’s proper name?

ANIKA. Taylor Astrid.

OFFICER. Taylor.

ANIKA. Astrid. Astrid was mine.

OFFICER. Taylor Astrid. It’s a beautiful name.

ANIKA. No, it’s not. They cancel each other out. “Taylor” and “Astrid” don’t belong to the same person. She was torn in half, there at the naming. She didn’t have a chance. Astrid was my Swedish grandmother’s name. She lived in Trosa. “Trosa” means “women’s underpants.”


ANIKA. I come from Swedish chicken farmers. We get up. We feed the chickens. We drown our kittens in the well.

OFFICER. Would you say that your daughter added joy or stress to your life?

ANIKA. My daughter was my life.

OFFICER. Would you say that your marriage added joy or stress to your life?

ANIKA. I used to watch Jenny read at night, hair falling in her eyes. Watch her lips move. I never stopped feeling that way. At the trial I still—I still wanted to be close to her. But she sat by herself.

OFFICER. On the day of the incident, Jenny’s car was in the shop. She took Taylor’s car seat—

ANIKA. Call my daughter by her name.

OFFICER. Of course. Which name do you…okay. She took Astrid’s car seat, and put it in the rental car.

ANIKA. Car-A-Mile. It sounded like candy.

OFFICER. Carmel.

ANIKA. No, sweeter. “Mile” sounds sweeter than “mel.”

OFFICER. Mile. Mel.

BOTH. Car-a-Mile. Car-a-mel.

ANIKA. Sweeter.

OFFICER. I see your point. On the day of the incident, Jenny took the car seat and put it in the back of the Car-A-Mile. Then she drove to work, but she took Aurora instead of Greenwood because construction was still blocking traffic on Greenwood, due to the pipeline explosion a few weeks earlier.

ANIKA. That’s right.

OFFICER. It says here, that Jenny called in late to work. Your address was 523 Dayton, correct?


OFFICER. You’d been out of town for a week on business, scheduled to come back that night—

ANIKA nods her head.

OFFICER. And someone stayed with Jenny while you were—

ANIKA. No one stayed. Just Jenny and Astrid.

OFFICER. Someone named Chris.

ANIKA. Chris came to our house? That day?  

OFFICER. No, Chris arrived the evening of the day you left—

ANIKA. And stayed.

OFFICER. Sometimes after an incident—

ANIKA. Accident. Accident, Astrid, Aurora. You’re missing all the A’s.

Officer: On the morning of the accident, Jenny called in late to work because—

ANIKA. Chris saw her, then.

OFFICER. Her car wouldn’t start. Then Jenny took the rental car with Astrid—

ANIKA. You think you know someone. Chris said goodbye to my daughter after I did. Chris was the second-to-last person to see her alive.

OFFICER. New information—

ANIKA. What good does knowing do? How do I go back?

OFFICER. Maybe Chris wanted—

ANIKA. It’s like those women who marry serial killers—the white dress, the house in the suburbs. Then one day, the sheriff shows up with a backhoe. You think you know someone. Then you learn they’re in love with their BDSM play partner. Then you learn what a BDSM play partner is. Then your daughter dies, and you pull out all your hair, and start eating dirt.

OFFICER. Once I left my gun at Starbucks. The barista ran into the street and almost got hit by a truck. Double homicide later that day, but not with my gun, and my coffee was perfect.

ANIKA. It’s not funny.

OFFICER. Sometimes the joke is just telling the truth.

ANIKA. It was an accident. It could happen to anyone. A few years ago, there was an increase in accidents. Because child safety laws changed. Air bag deaths when kids sat in the front. So everyone put their kids in the back, in car seats, faces turned away. Sometimes we forget what we can’t see. Different parts of the brain compete. The part that remembers competes with the part that has to forget, that needs to forget in order to focus. In order to drive, to navigate all the details we take for granted—stop signs, lights, red, yellow, green. How many minutes ahead we’ve set the clock on the dash. The name of the client at our first meeting. If the boss likes coffee black. There’s a push now for safer cars. For an alarm that goes off if your child is still in the car seat after you’ve turned off the engine. But it’s slow, the movement. Slow because people don’t want to admit it could happen to them. But everyone makes mistakes. Everyone forgets and later, remembers. What happens after that is random, good luck or bad. People forget, but the weather holds and nothing happens. Nothing at all. People forget, and their kids sleep in their car seats, don’t even wake up, never know, and maybe it goes unspoken. People run red lights, slip on ice, make peanut butter sandwiches, and kill other people. I can’t blame Jenny for something I might’ve done, you might’ve done. An accident.

OFFICER. You filed for divorce a year after it happened.

ANIKA. I filed for divorce because Jenny loved Chris. Loves Chris. Present tense. I lost my daughter and I lost my wife. She offered to stay. To split her time between me and Chris. Thought she was being generous when she offered me weekends. Jenny always had a plan. But I couldn’t live with half a marriage. I’d rather be alone. So you know what her version of our story is?

OFFICER shakes his head.

ANIKA. That I left her. “I can’t believe you left me,” she said. She said, “I would never have left you.” Because she offered me half the week. Because loving someone else, fucking someone else—somehow, that didn’t count as leaving. I wouldn’t have left her even though she killed our daughter. At first, my anger swallowed me alive. I tried to find out where Chris worked. I didn’t know anything about this person, this person Jenny loved. Loves. Who she was. Is. If Chris even existed. Exists. I wanted to kill her. Kill myself. And then, I realized, I was angry at Jenny.

OFFICER. So now you’re angry at Jenny. Not at Chris.

ANIKA. Being angry at Chris is like licking frosting off a knife. But I’m not angry at Jenny now, either. I can’t stay angry. If I let myself feel my anger, I’d destroy the whole fucking world. Can I tell you something? Something I’ve never told anyone?

OFFICER sips coffee.

ANIKA. Sometimes, I mean, it’s only happened once or twice, three times—sometimes I think I made the whole thing up. Not just Chris and Jenny, but Lizard, too. Like my life was never real. It always seemed too good, like I didn’t deserve it. After the accident I drove to Amit’s house. My high school boyfriend. I showed up on his doorstep and knocked and knocked and his mother answered and I asked about prom. I guess my brain just took a vacation. Like Palm Beach in winter. Can you imagine? I’m standing on the stoop, knocking on his door, waiting for my corsage, my first dance under fake stars. The theme was Cornucopia of Constellations, which makes absolutely no sense.

OFFICER. Themes never do.

ANIKA. I talked to his mom and kept asking where Amit was, why I couldn’t see him. “He has a job,” she said, like that explained it. While I was talking she dialed 911. At first, they thought I was drunk. Then they realized I was that lady. The one on the news, screaming in the parking lot. I dream about Lizard, wake up thinking she’s still alive. Sometimes I try to call her on the phone, as if she could talk, as if she ever spoke, but she was too young, and now she’s dead.

OFFICER. Eleven months—

ANIKA. I got off work early. Because it was Friday, and the first hot day. Everyone was headed to Gas Works Park or Alki Beach, but I didn’t care about the view. I just wanted to surprise my Lizard. My little girl. I drove to the daycare and parked and knocked on the door—it was yellow. Everyone’s always so pleased with the sun, but I like the rain, blue-gray swells on the Sound. The door was yellow. Tasha came out holding Jason on her hip. Dante stood behind Tasha and Jason, holding Sierra’s hand.

He said, “Hey, Anika, we missed Lizard today. We missed her, didn’t we Sierra?”

And I said, “Lizard’s here.”

Dante said, “I don’t think so, but let me check with Tasha.”

Tasha was standing right there, holding Jason. She looked confused. “No Lizard.”

“She’s here.”

“Lizard’s not here. Is she with Jenny?”

“She’s here. Jenny dropped her off.”

Tasha said, “No.”

Dante said, “Sorry.”

And I knew.

I knew.

So I just left. Didn’t say anything else. I think they knew, too. I think we all did. They came to the funeral, Tasha and Dante, and they came because they knew in the same moment I did. We all felt it. There’s a knowing, a place you enter. A room. Later, I wondered why I didn’t stop it. Why I didn’t think of something else. I mean, the knowing felt so firm. My fault, as if just knowing was what made her go. Later, I wondered whether maybe, if I’d thought of something else, some other reason, like Take Your Daughter to Work Day, or Jenny home sick, or even Jenny leaving me for Chris, Jenny and Chris and Lizard all kidnapping each other in the Car-A-Mile—later I wondered whether maybe if I’d thought some other thought, it might’ve come true. I worried I killed her by thinking I knew. But I did. We all three felt it. So I raced out of there, so fast, I don’t remember but they tell me how fast, and I drove to TechSound. Looked for the Car-a-Mile. So many. Like five or twenty. I had to park in the guest lot and walk to the main parking lot. But I ran. Ran to the first one, blue—not that one—ran to the second one, gray—another blue one—fourth one—fifth one. It was the sixth. The sixth car was red. I think I knew she picked a red one. The sixth one was red. My daughter inside. By then five hours. The sun. All day. It never does, the sun never shines here. All it does in Seattle is rain. Gray skies might’ve saved her. I could see, but I couldn’t touch. So I dumped my bag on the ground and searched for the spare key to Jenny’s car, forgetting it wasn’t Jenny’s car at all. Forgetting. And I tried the key to Jenny’s car, kept trying to unlock. Wrong key. Wrong car. Kept trying to unlock the door. It was so hot that I stopped breathing. Screamed, they tell me. I don’t remember a thing after that.


ANIKA. What gun?

OFFICER. A gun goes off. And sometimes the kickback is all you remember.

ANIKA. I’ve never owned a gun. But I had a daughter.

OFFICER. Forgetfulness can be a gift.

ANIKA. A gift? I want to see. I’d give anything to see her face.

OFFICER. Sometimes we forget what our bodies can’t handle. Our brains protect it. Store the memories inside.

ANIKA. A gift? What the fuck is wrong with you, gifting? I can’t remember what she looked like. All I can see is the red car, and keys, and someone breaking the window. And Jenny, running out the door—

OFFICER. A gun goes off. Someone shoots a gun and the bullet hits, but the shooter feels numb.

ANIKA. We make assumptions all the time. We assume we’ll see the ones we love again, but we don’t know.

OFFICER. We don’t. Marie—

ANIKA. I keep trying to remember. If I forget, it’s my fault, too. If I can forget my daughter’s face, I could’ve left her in the car. I’m no different. It’s my accident, too.

OFFICER. I just went numb when the gun went off.

ANIKA. What are you talking about? There’s no gun in this story.

OFFICER. When I’m in a room, there’s always a gun.

ANIKA. This is a story about me and my wife. The daughter we had and the life we lost.

OFFICER. You speak as if it’s your fault, somehow. If I were you, I’d be angry at Jenny.

ANIKA. Angry?

OFFICER. It was an accident, but you have every right to your feelings.

Door opens. SECURITY enters.

SECURITY. How’s it going in here?

OFFICER. We’re fine. We’re getting the job done.

SECURITY. May I speak with you for a minute?

They step outside. ANIKA takes out a pack of cigarettes. Looks around nervously. Lights up, smokes. Waits a moment, then grabs his notebook. The notebook is blank. She’s confused.

ANIKA. Nothing at all. White on white. (ANIKA hears noise, puts notebook back.)

They enter the room.

SECURTIY. Well, then, I’ll leave you to it. Just making sure everything’s in order.

OFFICER. Of course. Thank you.

SECURITY leaves.

ANIKA. Why haven’t you written anything down?

OFFICER. No smoking inside the station.

ANIKA stares at him.

OFFICER looks down.

ANIKA hands him the cigarette. OFFICER takes a drag, then stubs it out on the table.

ANIKA. Why haven’t you written anything down?

OFFICER. I don’t need—

ANIKA. Who uses a notepad anymore? Where’s your computer? This doesn’t feel right to me.

ANIKA gets up, walks to door, puts hand on doorknob.


ANIKA. It’s just not right.

OFFICER. Okay, I can explain.

ANIKA. I’m not a prisoner. The door’s unlocked. I can leave anytime.

OFFICER. Of course, you can. Just a follow up interview. Strictly voluntary.

ANIKA. Voluntary?

OFFICER. You’re free to leave at any time.

ANIKA. Voluntary? You asked me here to talk about the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, every parent’s worst fear, the most horrific—you asked me here to talk about it all over again after three years of nightmares and pills and—this is me doing you a favor. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to remember. It’s been almost three years and I want to forget. I want five minutes where I don’t think about a fistful of keys.

OFFICER. I can explain. It’s not what it looks like.

ANIKA. It doesn’t look like anything. You called me here. You said this was part of the file on Jenny. I don’t love her anymore, but I did love her, and what she did was an accident. An accident. And the judge was right to let her go. Anyone can forget. You, me, Marie—

OFFICER. No more about Marie.

ANIKA. Why did you call me?

OFFICER. It’s part of my plan.

ANIKA. A man with a plan. Is this some sort of experiment to see how much pain you can put me through before I snap? Are you even a cop?

OFFICER holds up his badge.

ANIKA. That looks fake.

OFFICER. Because it’s real.

ANIKA. You should’ve called Jenny. It was always about her anyway: her guilt, her grief, her loss. Because she’s the birth mother and birth mothers mourn. Are you in AA? Are you making amends?

OFFICER. I’m on probationary desk duty. They took my gun. I called because I need help. Can’t sleep, can’t drive. Marie says—Marie says if I don’t get help—

ANIKA. You think I’m the help?

OFFICER. It sounds wrong when you say it.

ANIKA. Your notebook’s blank because it’s not about me.

OFFICER. Sometimes I can’t breathe. Marie says—

ANIKA. My wife killed our daughter. I tried to save her. Tried to break the windows of the car. When I got to the hospital my hands were bleeding. My nails were torn. I’d scraped the keyhole with my fingers. Pounded the windows. I attacked the car like it wanted to take me. My daughter. Inside.

OFFICER. I know how it feels to want to go back—

ANIKA. You have a gun. I’m just a mother.


ANIKA. Stop talking about Marie. You have no idea about marriage. How it feels to be denied, over and over. How your relationship means nothing. Not a goddamn thing. For so long. And then suddenly, boom, gunshot goes off and you’re married. And everything’s supposed to be easy. You’re supposed to know what to do. How to be a wife, how to be a mother. And then how to divorce. How to untangle ties you didn’t choose. We were together in a different way. The old way. The way queers have always—you wouldn’t understand. There was a community. We loved each other and we fucked. But we didn’t do this thing called marriage and look where it got us. Everyone’s getting divorced, all my friends, none of us were made for this—this thing. You made this thing. And you kept it from us, and then strangled us with it.

OFFICER. I have no idea what you’re talking about.

ANIKA. A gun goes off. Someone falls to the ground. You outline the body in chalk, in white. And when they move the body, the outline stays. After Lizard died, Jenny and I were just empty, hollow. An outline. We didn’t know how to be married. But Jenny had Chris. At least she had that. So, I let her, I just—I didn’t even try to stop them.

OFFICER. But it’s not like you were really—you know—

ANIKA. Really what?

OFFICER. Together. I mean, you were just—

ANIKA. Friends?

OFFICER. You said yourself you weren’t really married.

ANIKA. We were really together. We loved and we fucked. And our daughter is dead.

OFFICER. I’m not a bigot.

ANIKA. I’m not saying you are. I’m saying that marriage wasn’t the structure we chose. We had ways of loving that were outsider ways. And the state changed us. Made us more like you. You and Marie. Your wife. That word.

OFFICER. Everyone’s an outsider somewhere. They know, the guys. I used to be one of them. But now I’m just a paper pusher. A secretary, like I’ll start wearing a skirt.

ANIKA. Did you hear what you just said?

OFFICER. They look at me funny. But that’s not why. That’s not why you’re here. It’s the grief—the guilt—

ANIKA. Who did you shoot?

OFFICER. I can’t—

ANIKA. Why not? You’ve read my file. You know where I live, my dead daughter’s name.

OFFICER. Pending investigation.

ANIKA. Have you talked to anyone?

OFFICER. You wouldn’t understand.

ANIKA. Try me.

OFFICER. Marie says if I don’t—If I don’t get help she’ll—

ANIKA. Leave.

OFFICER. If she leaves I can’t—

ANIKA. Marie loves you. She loves you, that’s all. She’s sending you a message. A message and you have to reply. Like when someone texts. You don’t leave them hanging. You text back, little bubbles, and they see them, and they know you’re there.

OFFICER. I stand in the kitchen—

ANIKA. She wants to know you’re there—

OFFICER. I forget where I am—

ANIKA. And not a chalk outline—

OFFICER. I took the tablecloth once. It was white, white cotton. She says I pulled it off the table and put it on the floor. I was shaking. I covered the body but, when she lifted the cloth there was nothing there.

ANIKA reaches for his hand.

OFFICER. (Pulls away.) I don’t deserve your compassion. You’re innocent. You’re on that side of the line. Once you’ve crossed it, you can’t go back. I’m not supposed to say I’m guilty. But I can’t forget.

ANIKA. You’re not a monster. Everyone makes mistakes. It’s been three years. Why did you call me?

OFFICER. I asked you because I need to forget. And in order to forget I need your forgiveness.

ANIKA. Why me?

OFFICER. You forgave Jenny, so you’ll forgive me.

ANIKA. I don’t even know you. I have no idea what you did, or why, or if it was justified. I don’t even know what justified means. But forgiveness is supposed to be unconditional. I mean, if I can forgive Jenny, I can forgive you. Officer—wait. What’s your name?

OFFICER writes it down, slides the paper across the table.

ANIKA. (Looks up at him, back down at the paper.) Your name is Chris?

Fade to black.

Carol Guess is the author of eighteen books of poetry and prose, including Darling Endangered, Doll Studies: Forensics, Tinderbox Lawn, and With Animal (co-written with Kelly Magee). In 2014, she was awarded the Philolexian Award for Distinguished Literary Achievement by Columbia University. She teaches in the MFA program at Western Washington University and lives in Seattle.


By: Carolyn Núr Wistrand

Cast Requirements:

*Multiple roles for 3 men and 6 women/Diverse Casting


ANODIWA DIKO — South African student

BIG BERTHA — American corrections officer

CHILD BRIDES — Funani, Ifu, Icici, Botswanian teenagers

GAMBUSHE — Botswanian peasant farmer

OLD MAN — Botswanian village man

JUDGE TALISON — Immigration judge   

MS. HOPKINS — US Attorney

UN AIDS WORKER — Health official

T-KNICK — American informant/pimp

NATASHA — American escort  

NURSE — American nurse at 4th Street Clinic

DESTINY — American escort

VICKY HILL — American television journalist

CAMERAMAN — American camera journalist

TENDI — South African truck driver

JACOB — South African truck driver

DOCTOR — Doctor at Botswanian border clinic

NURSE — Nurse at Botswanian border clinic


Time: Now

Place: The action occurs in an urban American city and the memories of four African women.  

Scene One
US Prison Cell

(ANODIWA stands with hands on bar cells. CHILD BRIDES [FUNANI, IFU, and ICICI] sit, stand, and lie in adjacent cell.)

ANODIWA. I used to think if I could just get to America. That was my dream. I would lie on my bed and walk up the walls in my mind. When I got to the ceiling, I opened the roof. Each star was a city in America I wanted to know. The music, the fashion, the place that was better than heaven.  

BIG BERTHA. All right, Diko, let’s go.


BIG BERTHA. Step out here.


BIG BERTHA. Immigration judge wants to see you.

ANODIWA. I wasn’t given a court date.

BIG BERTHA. You don’t decide when. Get your ass out here. You got anything in your pockets?


BIG BERTHA. Put your hands on those bars.

ANODIWA. I need to shower.

BIG BERTHA. Judge said to bring you over now.

ANODIWA. They didn’t give me legal counsel.

BIG BERTHA. America doesn’t owe you a damn thing.   

ANODIWA. But they are required to give me legal counsel.

BIG BERTHA. Why don’t you go back to Africa and get one?

ANODIWA. I am not prepared to see a judge!

BIG BERTHA. You don’t make the rules, bitch. Shut up and move.

CHILD BRIDES. Anodiwa holds her head with dignity. But she forgot to wrap Africa in palm leaves and oil before she swam the ocean. Mother held a chamber in Anodiwa’s heart—American streets hurled her tender soil into shattered cracks of concrete. Drunken whispers ate at her breast—we were left on the shore.

ICICI. Do you remember the night we left?

IFU. Yes.

FUNANI. I was sixteen. You were fifteen, Ifu.

ICICI. I was twelve.

CHILD BRIDES. The old man was rich. He had fifteen rams and a herd of Nguni cattle.   

ICICI. But he was unclean.

FUNANI. He needed a virgin.

IFU. He came to see our father.

OLD MAN. Gambushe these are not good days.  I have buried my wives, children, and grandchildren. And now the oldest son of my first wife has gone to work in the mines. Who will be left to bury me?

GAMBUSHE. I will bury you, Chief. With my bare hands I will tear the dirt and honor you.

OLD MAN. (Coughing.) You will not bury me, Gambushe!

GAMBUSHE. No, Chief. You will outlive us all.

OLD MAN. The medicine the doctors give me is not strong.

GAMBUSHE. How can you be sure?

OLD MAN. (Coughing.) I am still sick!

GAMBUSHE. What can be done?

OLD MAN. I need a virgin. You have three in this house. Is it not so?

GAMBUSHE. The oldest one, Funani, is sixteen.

OLD MAN. Why have you not married her?

GAMBUSHE. She has her heart set on Fareke, but he can’t pay the bride price.

OLD MAN. And the middle one?

GAMBUSHE. Ifu is fifteen.  

OLD MAN. I will pay you the bride price for all three.

GAMBUSHE. My youngest, Icici, is only twelve.  

OLD MAN. She is ripe. You are poor. The bride price for all three will make you a rich man. With a ram, two goats, and four cattle your belly will be full.

GAMBUSHE. Funani! (FUNANI steps out of jail cell.) Ifu! (IFU steps out of jail cell.) Icici! (ICICI steps out of jail cell.) This is a blessed day. You will marry into the same house and be wives and mothers. Come and bow before your husband.

OLD MAN. Bring them to me on Thursday so we can prepare a wedding feast.

ICICI. Do you see them standing there?

FUNANI. The memory is bitter.

ICICI. I was the youngest.  

IFU. And the most stubborn.

ICICI. But it was you who ran away, Funani!

FUNANI. Did I cut off your feet and drag you with me?

IFU. In the village or the city every demon has its own bite.

CHILD BRIDES. America must decide if all children belong to the same sky.  

(JUDGE TALISON enters in robes and sits at table followed by MS. HOPKINS, US Attorney, who stands to one side of the table. BIG BERTHA brings in ANODIWA, who stands at the opposite end of the table.)

JUDGE TALISON. Am I to assume there is no defense counsel for the alien?

MS. HOPKINS. She has not secured one, Your Honor.

JUDGE TALISON. Are you ready for the preliminary hearing?

MS. HOPKINS. We are, Your Honor.

JUDGE TALISON. Then let’s begin. Where is the interpreter? And where are we shipping this alien?

MS. HOPKINS. I am not in possession of her full file yet, Your Honor. The United States is requesting that she be detained in the Maximum Security Women’s Detention Facility until we can process all of her papers.

JUDGE TALISON. You know every day the United States makes that request we have to pay to house and feed her?  

MS. HOPKINS. We are aware of that, Your Honor.

JUDGE TALISON. My thought is that you should have prepared your case for deportation.

ANODIWA. I don’t know why I am being subject to deportation.

JUDGE TALISON. Did you just say that?

ANODIWA. It is true. No one has explained why I was arrested and sent to this prison.

JUDGE TALISON. This is a detention facility. . .not a prison.

ANODIWA. Then why am I in a maximum-security cell with bars?

JUDGE TALISON. All right, that’s enough. Another outburst and I will send you right back there. It seems we don’t need an interpreter. (Rummaging through files.) Here it is: Anodiwa Diko; born December twenty-four, nineteen eighty-nine, South Africa. Student visa issued November 2013. So, you have been in the United States two years?


JUDGE TALISON. Attending college?

ANODIWA. Until they brought me here.

MS. HOPKINS. We have reason to believe she entered the country HIV positive and has been transmitting the virus sexually.

JUDGE TALISON. Are you prepared to bring criminal charges against her?

MS. HOPKINS. We are, Your Honor, once we have our case in order.

ANODIWA. She is lying!

JUDGE TALISON. Stop your outburst! Listen to me—the United States is just like any other country in the world—it has laws! You don’t apply for a visa knowing you have a contagious disease that could kill other people through sexual transmission.

ANODIWA. I am not HIV positive.  

MS. HOPKINS. The United States is requesting that her F-1 visa be revoked.

ANODIWA. You have made a mistake.

MS. HOPKINS. Your Honor, I would like to submit these papers to the court. The 4th Street Clinic administers swab and blood tests. She is HIV positive and came to the United States knowing she was sick.

ANODIWA. I took a wellness test at the clinic.


ANODIWA. As a measure of prevention.

JUDGE TALISON. So, you admit you are HIV positive?

ANODIWA. No. . .

MS. HOPKINS. Here is my report based on information from the clinic.

JUDGE TALISON. (Reading.) “Weight loss, profuse night sweats, swelling of the lymph glands in the armpits, diarrhea, sores in the mouth or genitals, pneumonia, red, brown, pink, or purplish blotches on or under the skin or inside the mouth, nose, or eyelids, memory loss, depression, other neurologic disorders.” How are you even standing here?

ANODIWA. She is misleading you, Judge! Those are the symptoms of someone who has not taken HIV medication and suffers from a weakening of the body’s immune system. People infected with HIV may have some or all of those symptoms. She copied that straight from the pamphlet at the clinic.

MS. HOPKINS. May I remind the court that the United States government is not on trial here?

JUDGE TALISON. But the burden of proof is on you, counselor.

MS. HOPKINS. As we are aware, Your Honor.

JUDGE TALISON. How do you know so much about AIDS, Ms. Diko?

ANODIWA. I am a nursing student. I work at the clinic as an intern.   

MS. HOPKINS. She has been stealing medication from the clinic and administering it illegally to prostitutes throughout the city.

ANODIWA. That is another lie!

JUDGE TALISON. Enough! Do you have substantial proof for this allegation?

MS. HOPKINS. The clinic has been under investigation for over six months. We will prove that Anodiwa Diko is an infected alien employed by C&S, an escort service, which covers for prostitution, to illegally administer medication to sex workers in this city. Because of the public health risks involved we are requesting that her F-1 visa be revoked and papers issued for her deportation.

JUDGE TALISON. I have heard enough. I am setting the court date for three weeks from today. Will that give the government enough time to prepare the case?

MS. HOPKINS. Absolutely, Your Honor.

JUDGE TALISON. In the meantime, I want her in isolation.

ANODIWA. Am I not entitled to legal defense?

JUDGE TALISON. Are you mentally ill?


JUDGE TALISON. Then it is up to you to secure legal defense. Remove the defendant.

ScEne Two
Rural village in Republic of Botswana

Sound of trucks comes up. CROWD enters as a UN WORKER on loudspeaker calls out.

UN WORKER. We invite you, we encourage you to come and get tested. We have come a long way, so you can protect your family. It is time. We invite you, we encourage you to come and get tested. We have come a long way, so you can protect your family. It is time.

FUNANI. Does it hurt?

UN WORKER. Less than a scratch. It takes ten minutes. Who is ready?

FUNANI. My sisters.

UN WORKER. And you?

FUNANI. You can test me first.

ANODIWA enters with portable HIV testing materials.

UN WORKER. (To CROWD.) Please step back! Testing will be done inside our mobile unit. Take out your identification cards.

FUNANI. These are my sisters. We would like to be tested together.

ANODIWA. Are you married?

FUNANI. An old man paid for all of us.

IFU. We need to know our status.

ICICI. If we have the virus or not.

ANODIWA. Everything that takes place at this testing unit is confidential. Does your husband know you came here?


ANODIWA. What will he do if one of you is positive?

IFU. We don’t know but, we will stay together.

ANODIWA. I can only test you one at a time.

FUNANI. I am ready.

ANODIWA. Your sisters must wait outside. It won’t take long. I am just going to prick your finger. We will collect a few drops and place it on this testing strip.  

ANODIWA draws blood from FUNANI’S finger and places drops on strip inside testing pan, then covers the lid.

ANODIWA. Now we wait.

FUNANI. There are many sick women in our village.

ANODIWA. This is why we came.

FUNANI. How many hours did you travel to reach us?

ANODIWA. Four. Our clinic is on the border. Have you had other partners?

FUNANI. No. I was promised to someone who couldn’t pay the bride price.

ANODIWA. Is it so bad to be with one who provides for all of you?

FUNANI. That old man smells like goat piss. He takes turns with us—six days a week. Thursday is the only day of peace.  

ANODIWA. Are you his youngest wife?

FUNANI. No, my sister, Icici, is twelve—she is the youngest.

ANODIWA. Is your husband in good health?

FUNANI. No. There is blood in his cough and black sores in his mouth.    

ANODIWA. Go ahead. Open the lid.  

FUNANI. (Lifting the lid and staring at the strip.) Positive. (She covers her face.)

ANODIWA. It is not a death sentence. But you must start antiretroviral therapy. One pill a day will allow you to live.

FUNANI. How do I get these pills?

ANODIWA. You must come to the clinic. We need to do additional tests to supply you with a monthly prescription.

FUNANI. It is impossible.

ANODIWA. There is a man with a cart and a donkey. It’s nineteen hours but he can get you to the border. Your sisters could go with you.

FUNANI. Will you be there, at the clinic?

ANODIWA. This is my last trip with the mobile unit. I am leaving for America.   

FUNANI. America.

ANODIWA. To study medicine.

FUNANI. Please—I want to see my sisters.

ANODIWA rises and motions for IFU and ICICI to enter.

IFU. Is it positive?

FUNANI shakes her head.

ICICI. Test me.

IFU. No. I am going next. She should test us in the order he made us sick.

ANODIWA. This goes quickly.

ANODIWA pricks IFU’S finger, draws blood, then places it on strip inside testing pan and covers the lid.

Scene Three
US Attorney’s Office

T-KNICK. (Entering on his cell.) I’ve got something.

MS. HOPKINS. (Taking out her cell.) All right.

T-KNICK. There is an African girl over at 4th Street Clinic asking a lot of questions.  

MS. HOPKINS. What kind of questions?

T-KNICK. How many sexual partners patients have, if girls are using female condoms, what kind of symptoms they have . . . a bunch of shit.  

MS. HOPKINS. Who is she?

T-KNICK. I don’t know—some African girl.   

MS. HOPKINS. Does she work there?

T-KNICK. Something like that.

MS. HOPKINS. I am preparing a brief.  Don’t use this phone unless you have something legitimate.

T-KNICK. She shook up two of my girls.  

MS. HOPKINS. That is not my problem. Where are we with the Romanian girls?

T-KNICK. On track.  

MS. HOPKINS. Has Meder contacted you again?

T-KNICK. He’s still in London.

MS. HOPKINS. Then you’re wasting my time.

T-KNICK. Hold on, you are the Immigration lawyer. I’m giving you a solid tip. This African girl is a prostitute infecting our city with AIDS.

MS. HOPKINS. You just said she worked at the clinic!

T-KNICK. That’s her day job. A cover-up. I think she is stealing medication out of that clinic and giving it to the street prostitutes she is working with.   

MS. HOPKINS. How did you come up with that?

T-KNICK. She gave herself a swab test with one of my girls sitting in the room. What kind of a nurse does that?  She was way too friendly. These whores have their own language when they are looking for action.

MS. HOPKINS. What does this have to do with our case? You better remember why the government gave you informant status. Your job is to hand over Meder when he brings those Romanian girls into this country.

T-KNICK. I just told you we were on track. But this could mess up my operation.

MS. HOPKINS. How so?

T-KNICK. That African knows every whore in this city. Thinks she’s a black Mother Teresa.

MS. HOPKINS. You are paranoid.

T-KNICK. She gave the name of one of my girls to that bitch reporter from Nightwatch working her stupid story on prostitution and AIDS over at 4th Street Clinic.

MS. HOPKINS. You were supposed to have that under control.

T-KNICK. This bitch don’t work for me. I don’t know who she is talking to.  

MS. HOPKINS. As soon as we have Meder in custody, your job is done.

T-KNICK. In the meantime, you need to lock her up.

MS. HOPKINS. Just make up a charge? Is that what you’re saying?

T-KNICK. I am telling you to get her loose lips off the streets before we have a domino effect.    

MS. HOPKINS. Dealing with you is nothing but trouble.

T-KNICK. The government needs T-Knick to do its dirty work—so don’t disrespect me.  

MS. HOPKINS. I’m hanging up.

T-KNICK. You figure out a way to lock that African bitch up or I will blow this whole operation.

Scene Four
4th Street Clinic, USA

ANODIWA. (Drawing blood from Natasha.) You remind me of someone.

NATASHA. Someone in this clinic?

ANODIWA. No—a beautiful girl from my country.

NATASHA. I hope she didn’t have AIDS.

ANODIWA. There has been progress in prevention and treatment all over Africa.   

NATASHA. I did something kind of messed up.  

ANODIWA. Anything you say is confidential.

NATASHA. I had sex with this guy I didn’t know.

ANODIWA. Did he use a condom?

NATASHA. Yeah, it was latex. I mean, I saw him take it off and it was fine, but there was a small discharge stain on my bed when he left. . .a small brown spot. Now I have got bad sinus problems.

ANODIWA. Protected sex means risk-free if you are sure the latex condom did not break.

NATASHA. No, I am sure it didn’t break. But that brown spot on my bed.

ANODIWA. I can’t speak to that, but HIV cannot permeate intact latex.

NATASHA. I should have mentioned it last week when I was in here.

ANODIWA. When was this encounter?

NATASHA. About a month ago.

ANODIWA. Do you have frequent sinus problems?

NATASHA. About a month ago.

NATASHA. Constantly.

ANODIWA. I doubt there is a correlation, but you were smart to come back to the clinic.

NATASHA. It was my first time doing something stupid like that. I feel like I can’t wash him off me.  

ANODIWA. Have you tried a female condom?

NATASHA. I tried once but, couldn’t figure it out.

ANODIWA. Well, a female condom would give you added control. We have a video here you could watch.

NATASHA. It is not like I am having sex with different men all the time.

ANODIWA. I didn’t say you were.

NATASHA. But you were thinking that, right? I only see a select group of men. It’s not like I work for C&S. Those girls are on their backs more than their legs.

ANODIWA. We should have the results in two days.  

NATASHA. I thought I would know in 30 minutes!

ANODIWA. Not with the standard test. The laboratory will have the results in two days.

NATASHA. I can’t handle waiting another two days.

ANODIWA. I am sorry.

NATASHA. I have been a nervous wreck since I took that swab test last week.

ANODIWA. That is why we asked you to come back—to be sure. Do you want to see a counselor?

NATASHA. What is she going to ask me? No. I don’t want to see anybody.

ANODIWA. It might help you.

NATASHA. What did you mean, I remind you of some African girl?

ANODIWA. She was beautiful.

NATASHA. Was? That’s a shitty thing to say when you know my other test was positive.

NURSE. (Entering with pan.) We will have your results in two days, Natasha.

NATASHA. She told me.  

NURSE. Get the results before you see any clients.

NATASHA. I thought everything I said in here was confidential.  

NURSE. There are serious risks involved.

NATASHA. (Walking out.) You think I don’t know that?  

ANODIWA. She is angry.

NURSE. Do you need a break or are you ready for the next patient?

ANODIWA. Send them in.

NURSE. Destiny you can come in.

DESTINY. I just puked my guts out over at the diner.

ANODIWA. Do you need to vomit again?   

NURSE. I brought a pan—just in case.

ANODIWA. Thank you.

NURSE. (Taking vial of blood.) I will send this over to the lab.

DESTINY. (Coughing.) I need some antibiotics. Feels like I have walking pneumonia.

ANODIWA. I need to ask you a few questions first.

DESTINY. Like what?

ANODIWA. Have you had any recent weight loss?

DESTINY. I haven’t weighed myself in ages.

ANODIWA. Night sweats?

DESTINY. Yeah, my pillow has been drenched.

ANODIWA. Diarrhea?

DESTINY. It has been coming out both ends for three days.

ANODIWA. Let me check a few things. (She feels the lymph glands under Destiny’s armpits.) Open your mouth. (Checks gums, nose, eyes, and throat.) How long have you had these sores in your mouth?

DESTINY. They are just canker sores. I get them all the time.

ANODIWA. Your lymph glands are swollen, and I am concerned about two of the sores in your mouth. We should do a swab test.

DESTINY. A swab test? Isn’t that for AIDS?

ANODIWA. No, we are testing for HIV. We can’t give you the proper medicine if we don’t know what is wrong with your immune system. Do you want the test?

DESTINY. I want to shoot myself in the head.

ANODIWA. It is your choice.

DESTINY. You are just going to stick that in my mouth?

ANODIWA. It is not painful. Do you want me to show you?

DESTINY. That would help.

ANODIWA. (Rubs swab in the inside of mouth.) You see? There is nothing to be afraid of.

DESTINY. That’s all there is to it?

ANODIWA. That’s it.

DESTINY. All right, go ahead.

ANODIWA rubs swab inside DESTINY’S mouth.

ANODIWA. You can have a seat out in the waiting room. Take this pan with you. We will have your results in thirty minutes.

Scene Five
Truck Stop on border between Republic of Botswana and South Africa

TENDAI and JACOB stand with BORDER OFFICIAL reviewing their papers. WOMAN sits on ground stirring meat in pot.

CHILD BRIDES. (In short skirts, tank tops, and spiked heels, putting on makeup with broken mirrors.) Three ghosts in the back of a donkey cart fled the goat that bled their heart. Medicine is cheap on the border if your purse has American dollars. One hundred and twenty cash can buy you a year. But we were three. Do you open your coffin or bury your sister? Last week we laid with fifty men at the truck stop between Botswana and South Africa.


IFU. Hungry

ICICI. Outcast


TENDAI and JACOB hand money to BORDER OFFICIAL, who stuffs it in his pocket and walks away.

JACOB. Six days I have been waiting for him to process my papers. Now he adds this new expense to park my truck. Holes will be the only thing left in my pocket.  

TENDAI. It is true. There are more officials with rooster feathers on this border than sex workers laying eggs.

JACOB. My ears are crammed full of dung from the sound of their crooked tongues.

TENDAI. Those who have our money join hands with the guards.

JACOB. And charge us for their bullets and guns.

TENDAI. Let’s eat something.

JACOB and TENDAI approach WOMAN cooking food.

JACOB. Two plates.

JACOB and TENDAI hand WOMAN cash. WOMAN places stewed meat and rice on plates. WOMAN hands them plates.

TENDAI. (Shoving plate back at woman.) Put some meat on this.  

JACOB. (Taking out a knife.) We are not paying for sauce, you old whore!

WOMAN slaps meat on both plates. JACOB and TENDAI walk around eating.

TENDAI. How many girlfriends have you found here?

JACOB. Three since Tuesday. Last month I brought my wife. She saw all these girls moving around. She doesn’t mind if I use a condom.

TENDAI. I won’t cap it for anyone.

JACOB. They always break.

TENDAI. That is why I don’t bother.

JACOB. What can we do but drink and find girlfriends in this congested place?  

FUNANI. We want to do business with you.

TENDAI. All three of you?

IFU. Whatever you like.

TENDAI. (To FUNANI and IFU.) You two.

IFU. Pay my sister.

TENDAI. (Handing money to FUNANI.) My truck is over there.

IFU. Do you have a condom?

TENDAI. I only do business with flesh!

FUNANI. What if we have the virus?

TENDAI. Do you?

IFU. It is possible.

TENDAI. (Shoving plate at ICICI.) Finish this. (Grabbing and fondling FUNANI and IFU.) Bittersweet. I don’t give a damn about the virus. Come on. (Walks to truck with FUNANI and IFU.)

FUNANI. (Walking off on TENDAI’S arm.) You have to pay extra if you don’t use a condom.

ICICI. Let me be your girlfriend.

JACOB. Beat it. I am still eating.

ICICI. (Touching JACOB.) My plate is empty.

JACOB. (Throwing a few scraps of food on her plate.) Does your father know where you are?

ICICI. My father gave me to an old man.

JACOB. All you sex workers blame somebody else.

ICICI. You can have me.

JACOB. How old are you?

ICICI. Sixteen.

JACOB. More like twelve.

ICICI. Does that concern you?

JACOB. No. (He throws plate on the ground.)

ICICI. What if I have the virus?

JACOB. It doesn’t matter. I already gave it to my wife.

Scene Six
Outside of 4th Street Clinic, USA

VICKY HILL stands speaking into a rolling camera.

VICKY HILL. It has been thirty years since the first cases of AIDS were reported in the United States. Since then, more than half a million Americans have died of the disease and 1.1 million people are currently living with HIV. Recently, the Obama administration has attempted to reinvigorate the domestic response to the HIV epidemic by developing the National HIV/AIDS Strategy. Tonight, we are live at the 4th Street Clinic to talk with healthcare officials and people living with HIV. This is Vicky Hill for Nightwatch. All right cut it.   

Scene Seven
Truck Stop on border between Republic of Botswana and South Africa

CHILD BRIDES. Our bodies carry a weapon. We kill because it is in our blood. When we spread our legs, the virus crawls from the man’s trunk to the village wife, babies are born with no milk to feed tomorrow.

Scene Eight
4th Street Clinic, USA

ANODIWA and VICKY HILL are in the middle of an interview.

VICKY HILL. It must be difficult to work at this clinic, coming from Africa where AIDS is such an epidemic.

ANODIWA. No, I am passionate about health prevention. That is why I came here—to study medicine.

VICKY HILL. But the AIDS virus is ravaging the African continent.

ANODIWA. There is no AIDS virus.

VICKY HILL. I am not sure what you mean.

ANODIWA. HIV is the virus we associate with AIDS. In this clinic we are testing for HIV. If one tests positive, we want to ensure the virus does not damage their immune system to the point AIDS develops. You see, AIDS takes myriad shapes with infections and diseases.

VICKY HILL. Thank you for that. In 2002, Kofi Annan said that women are the face of AIDS in Africa. Is this still true?

ANODIWA. It does not discriminate. But, yes—the new cases are disproportionately young females.

VICKY HILL. Will you go back?

ANODIWA. At some point.

VICKY HILL. I would like to turn to the United States. Do you see similarities between female sex workers in Africa and prostitutes in America?   

NATASHA. I left my cell phone in here.

ANODIWA. There it is.

VICKY HILL. I’m Vicky Hill with Nightwatch.

NATASHA. I know who you are.

VICKY HILL. I am doing a story on this clinic. I would be very interested in speaking with you.


VICKY HILL. It could be strictly confidential.

NATASHA. What about no do you not understand?  Did you say anything about me?

VICKY HILL. Of course, she didn’t.

ANODIWA. Your name was not mentioned, Natasha.

NATASHA. You just said my name!

VICKY HILL. I can pay you for the interview, and I won’t use your name since that seems to be such an issue.

NATASHA. You are just trying to make a name for yourself off of sick people. This is not reality TV—I am a real person who needs privacy. I come to this clinic because it is a safe place.    

VICKY HILL. Are you HIV positive?

NATASHA. Is that camera still going? You bitch! (Grabbing VICKY HILL.)

ANODIWA. Natasha, stop!

NATASHA. (Grabbing camera and throwing it on the floor.) This is not your story, asshole—it’s my life.

CAMERAMAN. What the hell are you doing?

NURSE. What is going on in here?

NATASHA. I came back to get my cell phone and she had that camera going.

NURSE. Miss Hill, we talked about this. You can’t record patients without their consent. I am going to have to ask you to leave.


NURSE. Are you all right, Natasha?

NATASHA. No! Why would you allow a reporter in here?

NURSE. Because we still need HIV and AIDS awareness in this country.

NATASHA. She told her my name.

NURSE. Why would you do that, Anodiwa?

ANODIWA. I was trying to calm her down—she was agitated.

NURSE. Natasha, a national news story promotes funding to keep this clinic open.

NATASHA. You sound like a whore—you all are no better than me.

NURSE. No one said we were—but we are trying to keep people healthy.

NATASHA. Really? You might know how to read an HIV test, but you have no idea what it feels like to be positive.

NURSE. That can’t be confirmed until your report comes back from the pathologist.

NATASHA. You don’t think my body has been talking to me? I already know. (Looking at ANODIWA.) She knows too. I remind her of some dead girl. (Walking out.)  

NURSE. Make sure you come back in two days, Natasha. . .

NATASHA. That bitch reporter better not be in here if I do come back. (Exits.)

NURSE. She is probably texting her pimp. These girls play Russian roulette with their bodies every day. They want to blame us when the gun is loaded? Bullshit. What about Destiny? Do you have her results?

ANODIWA. Positive.

NURSE. God, I wish this day was over.

ANODIWA. But we still have to face tomorrow.

Scene Nine
Truck stop on border between Republic of Botswana and South Africa

JACOB drags ICICI twisting her arm.

JACOB. (Dragging ICICI.) I would have been better fucking a goat!  Their teats are bigger than your breasts! Give me my money back!

ICICI. Let me go.

JACOB. Your father should have beaten the whore out of you.

ICICI. Stop! You are breaking my wrist!

JACOB. I am not paying for bad sex.  

ICICI. That is mine!

JACOB. (Walking off.) Go find some clean work. You shame the father that gave you life.   

ICICI. Wait! My shoes and pants are in your truck.

JACOB. (Pulling out a knife.) Get over to the camp before I call the guard.

ICICI. But I am half-naked.

JACOB. Move out of here. There is nothing between your legs to satisfy a man.

JACOB walks off. ICICI takes off her outward blouse and attempts to tie it around her waist as TENDAI, FUNANI, and IFU walk in, drinking and laughing.

TENDAI. Hey, where are your shoes, little sister?

FUNANI. Did that trucker hurt you?

ICICI. He wouldn’t pay and took my pants and shoes.

FUNANI. That was your friend.

TENDAI. Forget him.

IFU. But he didn’t pay and took her clothes.

TENDAI. This is how it goes with business out here.

FUNANI. We gave you a good time.

TENDAI. And I paid you! Now don’t spoil it or I will find some new girlfriends.

FUNANI. Take my shoes and go back to camp.

ICICI. I am bleeding sister.

Scene Ten
US Attorney’s Office

MS. HOPKINS. (On her cell phone.) It’s done. You have three weeks to secure contact with Meder.

T-KNICK. This isn’t my calendar. I have to wait for Meder to contact me.

MS. HOPKINS. The immigration judge is expecting me to present a case against this girl in three weeks.

T-KNICK. Tell him you need a delay.

MS. HOPKINS. No, this is spiraling out of control.

T-KNICK. I’ve got two sick girls on my hands because of her. I want her gone.

MS. HOPKINS. I don’t give a damn what you want, T-Knick. This is not some illegal who crossed the border. She is a nursing student who came to America to study medicine. She has been over at that clinic ten hours a day and worked with a UN mobile unit in African villages. This has got me sick. I am going to ask for her release when I go back in front of that judge.

T-KNICK. You do that, and the deal is off.

MS. HOPKINS. I’m done—I mean it.

T-KNICK. She better not go back to the clinic.

MS. HOPKINS. Or you’ll do what?

T-KNICK. As long as she stays away from the clinic, we can move forward.

MS. HOPKINS. Contact Meder—I want this over.

Scene Eleven
US Prison Cell

CHILD BRIDES. Ten fingers can’t heal two continents. When you planted your legs in the soil of America, did you forget our faces?

ANODIWA. America wrapped her arms around me. Even when her people hated me—America loved me.   

BIG BERTHA. Diko, are you talking to yourself?  Be careful—a lot of girls crack up in isolation.

ANODIWA. Three weeks is not a long time for one who knows the bush.

BIG BERTHA. Lights out.

CHILD BRIDES. You were the final drink from clean water, the last eyes that saw three brides. We took the donkey cart to the border clinic and asked for Anodiwa, but you had gone to America. With no money for medicine, not every doctor has hands you can trust. When the trucks ran us over, we became three dangling spirits watching a memory.

Scene Twelve
Clinic on border between Republic of Botswana and South Africa

FUNANI and IFU carry in ICICI.

NURSE. Where are you coming from?

FUNANI. The truck stop.

NURSE. Are you sex workers?

FUNANI. She is only twelve.

NURSE. Has she been tested?

FUNANI. We are all HIV positive.

DOCTOR. There are no open beds in here.

FUNANI. Please just stop the bleeding.

DOCTOR. Nurse.

NURSE. Bring her over.

ICICI. I am freezing.

NURSE. When did her legs start swelling?

FUNANI. I don’t know—she was with a trucker tonight. He left her half-naked. I think he caused this bleeding.

NURSE. Doctor.

DOCTOR. She has swelling in the legs, ankles, feet, face, and hands. Swallow for me. Does it taste like metal?

ICICI. Yes.  

DOCTOR. (Feeling her back.) Is there pain here?


DOCTOR. (Feeling her side.) Here?

ICICI. Yes.  

DOCTOR. Get an IV ready.

FUNANI. You have to save her.

DOCTOR. We can do something for the pain tonight—but she is bleeding out.

IFU. What does that mean?

DOCTOR. Her kidneys are shutting down. The closest hospital is a hundred miles. She would never make it.

FUNANI. What are you telling us?

DOCTOR. She only has a few hours.

NURSE brings IV.

ICICI. Funani? Ifu?

NURSE. She needs to be moved to that corner.

ICICI. I am so cold.

FUNANI. Do you have a blanket?

NURSE. There are not even open beds. Give her your jacket and try to keep her calm.  

ICICI. What does it mean?

FUNANI. We are not going back to the truck stop.

ICICI. I hate them.

IFU. They won’t hurt you again.

ICICI. I am so cold.

IFU. Here, let me hold you. (Lies down and holds ICICI.)

FUNANI. Please, you must be able to do something. This is all my money. Take it.

DOCTOR. Go back to your sister.  

Scene Thirteen
US Prison Cell

BIG BERTHA. Get up, you got a visitor.


BIG BERTHA. They are letting you out.

MS. HOPKINS. Ms. Diko, the United States is dropping all charges against you.

ANODIWA. I can leave now?

BIG BERTHA. Your papers have to be processed first.

ANODIWA. How long will that take?

BIG BERTHA. By tomorrow.

ANODIWA. And my visa status?

MS. HOPKINS. Everything will be in order. When the government obtains false information, we try to correct it as quickly as we can. I know this has been a nightmare, and I feel personally responsible—I want you to know that.

BIG BERTHA. You are getting a lucky break, Diko.

ANODIWA. I never stole medicine out of that clinic, and I am not HIV positive.

MS. HOPKINS. We are well aware of the mistake. The clinic contacted my office today. They were adamant about your release.

ANODIWA. Who gave you this false information?

MS. HOPKINS. Ms. Diko, my office is flooded with all kinds of these cases. The United States has a responsibility to investigate and take action on every lead it receives, to protect its citizens.

ANODIWA. So, because I am on a student visa, you have no obligation to protect me? You just lock me up and then do your investigation?

BIG BERTHA. Diko, watch your mouth—you haven’t been released yet.

MS. HOPKINS. Our investigation has cleared you of all charges.

ANODIWA. There was so much sacrifice for me to come here. All of the market women in my village gave part of their earnings. Now I wonder why I ever came to this country.

MS. HOPKINS. I regret that you were placed in this difficult position, Ms. Diko.

ANODIWA. You did this to me.

MS. HOPKINS. I am going before the judge in the morning. You will be released by noon.

MS. HOPKINS and BIG BERTHA walk out.

CHILD BRIDES. Do you remember us, Anodiwa?

ICICI. My sisters buried me with the money for our medicine.

IFU. An aneurism exploded the moment a saline IV entered my veins, so they dragged my body to the morgue.

FUNANI. I took the longest to die. My stomach grew as my arms and legs shriveled. The police arrested me for possession of a condom. They threw me in a prison cell, where a baby was born, and my dead sisters found me.

ANODIWA. Did I sacrifice village girls to walk up the walls to America? I stepped down from the roof and entered the city where the taste of metallic prison bars stings my tongue with no familiar in the heart. How do people look from the sky? Are we all the same in our apartments, houses, and huts? Medicine sits silently on warehouse shelves. Without American dollars, is there value in an African child?

CHILD BRIDES. The virus works guerilla tactics to shoot bullets at your organs. Leaving the earth isn’t difficult when your body is a war zone.

ANODIWA. I would have to walk the stars to get to the place on my birth certificate. I have touched the tips of fingers in villages and cities—it is always the same, hands craving to sustain life. African rhythms are in American blood. We just have to hear them.


Carolyn Núr Wistrand’s plays include She Danced With A Red Fish ( 2018 Winner of the Inkslinger National Playwriting Competition, Southeastern Louisiana University); Rising (Winner of the Mario Fratti-Fred Newman International Political Playwriting Award, Castillo Theatre, New York City); 9 Steps from St. Ann Street (New Perspectives Theatre, New York City); Even the Dirt Bleeds (Around the Coyote, Chicago); Tic Toc, Watchwomen, Lit (Savannah State University); Magdalena’s Crossing (Wordsmyth Theatre, Houston; Echo Theatre, Dallas; Runner-Up Female Playwright of the Year, Bridge Initiatives, Phoenix; and the Negro Ensemble Company in New York City). She is a recipient of a MCACA/NEA Award and NEH Fellowship in Greek Drama. Her plays have been published with One Act Play Depot, Canada, Contemporary Drama Service, Denver, Africa World Press, and Carmel Publishers, India. Carolyn lectures online for the Dept. of Africana Studies, UM-Flint and is an Assistant Professor of English at Dillard University in New Orleans.

The Dome

A monologue
By: Scott T. Starbuck

The rock where the scene takes place is before a backdrop of Biosphere II in Oracle, Arizona.  Cactus and sage props give the illusion of a natural desert setting. Dawn is breaking. There is a light breeze. A large live lizard stands before the rock.  The entire scene is addressed to the lizard with only short moments of reflection, or gestures toward The Dome. The speaker is a Yakima Elder, with a small flask, who decided to die instead of entering The Dome with his tribe.

I already know I won’t go in.  I know I’ll die out here. Survival may be the greatest form of justice; and greed, the greatest evil. Right now, I’m fighting for the survival of my soul, gazing as deeply into the ancestral waters as I can.  Honoring what’s there in my pinhole of light in the universe.  It’s the best I can do.

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Beautiful Scar

By: Kathy Rucker

(An adaptation of the memories of Eduardo Galeano)



            The stage is dark. On the stage is a small house, a house in a poor neighborhood in South America. It has been blown up. All the bits and pieces are now hung from invisible wire from high above the stage—planks of wood that once were walls, shards of glass, pieces of chairs, tables, utensils, cloth, bedding, torn clothing, books—all floating in air. In the middle hangs one solitary light bulb. The set of this blown up house takes up almost the entire stage. In geometric form, the profile still resembles a house.

              Stage is dark. We hear traffic sounds, horns honking in the distance, dogs barking, screeching tires of a car stopping, the pounding on a door.

             MAN is in the center of the house and the light bulb goes on.

MAN.  They blindfolded me and put me in a van and drove. You could hear people laughing, the chorus of the street musicians, the sounds of noisemakers and horns. They told me:  “Listen to the people having a good time. This is the last carnival you’re going to hear in your life.” This hurt. When they took me out of the car, I stepped on grass. I thought we were close to the train tracks. I prepared myself to be shot. (WOMAN enters from stage left. We hear the sounds of a street carnival, people laughing. The sounds become softer and softer.)

WOMAN.  He had been given neither food nor drink for two days and his head had been covered by a scratchy hood. He had been interrogated about the sources of his articles, among other things. He saw only the dusty, worn shoes of his interrogators.

MAN.  She had been with us the entire weekend, but it was at dinner that I discovered that Indian face that Siqueiros would have liked to paint. I saw abundant light in those greenish eyes, as well as their dry tears, the dignity of her cheekbones, the very womanly mouth marked by the scar: a woman like that should be banned, I thought, with surprise.

WOMAN.  Afterwards we played cards and I bet my last cent. I won. Then…

MAN.  …she pushed everything she had into the middle of the table, and lost. I did not yet know that it had been a bullet that had grazed her face, but perhaps I already realized that no scrape from death’s claws would be able to disfigure her.

WOMAN.  My body had grown to find you, after so much walking and stumbling and losing itself. Not the port, the sea: the place where all the rivers end and where the ships and little boats sail. I was home.

MAN.  (Pacing the stage.) Later I got up and walked. I felt the cool sand under my bare feet and tree leaves touching my face. I pinched myself and laughed. I had no doubts or fears. That night I realized I was a hunter of words. This is what I had been born for. This was going to be my way of being with others after I was dead and this way the people and the things I had loved wouldn’t die. To write I had to get my feet wet, I knew. Challenge myself, provoke myself, tell myself, “You can’t do it. I bet you can’t.” And I also knew that in order for the words to come…

WOMAN.  I had to close my eyes and think intensely about a woman.

MAN.  Our bodies entwined, we change position while we sleep, shifting this way and that. Your head on my chest, my thigh on your belly, and as our bodies turn, the bed turns and the room and the world turn. “No, no,” you explain, thinking you are awake. “We are no longer there. We moved to another country while we slept.” (WOMAN moves to stage right. She stops at the wall of the house. In this section are a group of different colored glass bottles hanging. This section of the stage is lit with a soft warm light; everything else is dimmed. She taps the bottles with a spoon making as if playing a xylophone.)

WOMAN.  I dreamed that the poets were entering the house of words. The words kept in old glass bottles, waited for the poets, mad with desire to be chosen: they begged the poets to look at them, touch them, lick them. The poets opened the bottles, tried words on their fingertips and smacked their lips or wrinkled their noses. The poets were in search of words they didn’t know as well as words they did know and had lost.

MAN.  The telephone rings and I jump. I look at my watch—nine thirty. Should I answer or not? It’s the Argentine Anticommunist Alliance. “We’re going to kill you, you bastards.” “The schedule for calling in threats, sir, is from six to eight,” I answer.

WOMAN.  It’s time to go. We haven’t slept more than a few minutes but feel fresh and wide awake. We have made love and have eaten and drunk, with the sheet as a tablecloth and our legs as a table, and we have made love again. He has told me sad things about Uruguay. It’s difficult, he has told me, for companions to be dead after he has seen them so alive. He escaped by the skin of his teeth and now asks himself what he should do with so much freedom and survival. We arrive at the airport late. The plane has been delayed. We have breakfast three times. A long time—minutes or years—passed while the two of us sat there in… (BOY enters, goes to the center of the house.)

BOY.  —Silence. The dictatorship had erected a machinery of silence. They hoped to hide reality, to…

MAN.  …erase memory, to empty consciences. Once in a while the government would close us down and dawn would find us at the police station. Standing in the smoky hallway we received the news with more relief than indignation. Every day we didn’t publish the paper was a day to get money together so we could come out the next. We would go to the police headquarters and at the door we would say good-bye just in case.

BOY.  To survive we would have to become mute, banished in our own countries, and internal exile is always harder and more futile than any exile outside.

MAN.  I empty my desk drawers, full of my papers and letters. I read, haphazardly, the words of women I loved and men who were my brothers. With my finger I caress the telephone that had brought me friendly voices and threats.

WOMAN.  Night has fallen. The compañeros have left a few hours—or months—ago. I hear, I see them; their footsteps and voices…

MAN.  …the light that each one gives off and the vapor that remains behind when they leave. (Stage goes dark. MAN and WOMAN leave. We hear the sound of pots banging rhythmically.)

BOY.  (Spotlight on BOY banging on the pots hanging in the house upstage. Stage is enveloped in a late afternoon         golden light.) We waited for the summer, and in the summer, party time, carnival. Mars shone red in the sky, and the hot earth was warm with little toads. We roamed the quarries for good clay for the masks. We would hang an old pot around our necks, and the masked orchestra would set out to wander around the carnival parade. Every neighborhood had a stage, maybe two. In the shadows under the stage, with the commotion above, the first little kisses happened. (BOY exits stage left as MAN walks on stage right. WOMAN enters from stage left. Light goes from gold to early morning pink.)

WOMAN.  The police came. They put me in a car. They moved me and locked me in a damp cell. I stared for hours at the black boot left in the corner by a forgotten soul. The night they let me out, I heard murmurings and distant voices and sounds of metal clanking while I walked through corridors, a guard on either side. Then the prisoners began to whistle, softly, as if blowing on the walls. The whistling grew louder and louder until one voice, every voice as one broke into song. The song shook the walls.

MAN.  She dreamed that her glasses were smashed and her keys were missing. She scoured the city for her keys, groping on hands and knees, and when at last, she found them, the keys told her that they didn’t open any of her doors.

WOMAN.  Exile involves the risk of forgetting. Please don’t.

MAN.  Go where I may, I will never forget the land I belong to, because I wear her, I walk with her, I dream her,

WOMAN.  I am her. Cities and people unattached to my memory float toward me: land where I was born, children I made, men and women who swelled my soul.

MAN.  I walked out of Montevideo because I don’t like being a prisoner, and out of Buenos Aires because…

WOMAN.  …I don’t like being dead.

MAN.  We chat, we eat, we smoke, we walk, we work together, ways of making love without entering each other, and our bodies call each other as the day travels toward the night. I hear the train pass. Church bells. And then I remember, you are not…

WOMAN.  …here. (Silence. Stage goes dark.)

            Spotlight on MAN, WOMAN, and BOY in sequence as each begins to speak. They are each standing downstage, in front of the house. The sound of a slow tango begins.

MAN.  When I return…

BOY.  …I’m going back to the places where I made myself or was made. I am going to the red brick patio of the house where I learned to walk by holding onto our dog Lily’s tail. I’ll go horseback riding through the arroyo Negro grassland, where I learned to gallop. I will return to the streets leading down to the sea, the battlegrounds and soccer fields of my first years. That’s where we waged war with sticks and stones.

WOMAN.  They pushed me against the tree. I was still blindfolded. I heard several men get in line and kneel. I heard the click of their guns. A drop of sweat rolled down my neck. I heard an explosion.

BOY.  But I was still alive.

WOMAN.  I heard the sounds of cars driving off.

MAN.  I managed to untie myself and pull off the blindfold. It was raining. The sky was dark. Dogs were barking someplace. I was surrounded by tall, old trees. I could smell the eucalyptus.

WOMAN.  A morning made to die in. I walked…

MAN.  …home. It was a warm, serene night. Autumn was arriving in Montevideo. I learned the week before Picasso has died. A short time passed and my exile began. My exile from you, from our life together. (Pause.)

WOMAN.  Tell our children about the things that are happening now. Talk to them about the friends who are dead and in prison and about how hard life was in our countries. And I want them to look into your eyes and not believe you and tell you you’re lying. I want them to not be able to believe that this was possible. I want them to say that this time never existed. (Music ends.)

MAN.  I believe you.


End of Play

Kathy Rucker is an SF Bay Area playwright. Her plays have been seen in San Francisco, Los Angeles, New York, London and Valdez, Alaska. Her play, Beautiful Scar, was a finalist for the Heideman Award at the Humana Festival Ten-Minute Play Contest. She is a graduate of the University of California, Berkeley.

And This Before Leaving

By: Rachel Joseph


MARTY – 30-70 years old. Joan’s husband. He wears a worn blue hat.
JOAN – 70 years old. Marty’s wife. She suffers from dementia.
YOUNG JOAN – 25-60 years old. Marty’s wife.
LORI – 10-30 years old. Granddaughter to Joan and Marty. Sister to Dori.
DORI – 6-25 years old. Granddaughter to Joan and Marty. Sister to Lori.

Characters slide in and out of different ages and moments from their lives. Each lives in their own reality that collides with the other character some time to time. MARTY, JOAN, and YOUNG JOAN wander the stage like ghosts; they seem almost translucent and as if they come from another world. Joan’s aphasia-like speech is caused by dementia.

The set is simple—a bare stage, maybe some stairs, a screen door, and a few chairs. The movement of the characters should establish place and time. All objects except YOUNG JOAN’S painting and the yellow dishwashing gloves should be mimed. The pace at the beginning should be brisk and light.

JOAN.  (Rocking gently side by side with YOUNG JOAN) Wonderful. Oh, that is just the wonder. Will we go? When should…ich…ah…that rain. Wonderful. What? Will we go? Take me to the…the…cat.

YOUNG JOAN.  Wonderful. Oh, that is wonderful. Shall we get the groceries? When should we go? The weatherman says it looks like rain. Wonderful about the girls coming! They will need cookies. I’ll get the car.

JOAN.  Sky is gray…ich…gray, gray, gray. Wet. Smell. Wet-smell. Down the street? Huh? Huh? Huh?

YOUNG JOAN.  Oh, Marty it’s so funny. Last night I dreamed you were nude—but I didn’t know you yet. Last night I dreamed that I was running down a street and it had just rained and the pavement smelled wet. Rain smell—deep and musty. The sky was gray, gray, gray—you know, Seattle gray. I was insanely happy. The girls are coming. They just love Oreo’s. Will you come with me to the store? Marty? Are you there? Are you listening? 

MARTY.  (His back is to the audience.  He wears a blue hat and speaks as if delivering a joke) There’s a man with two drumsticks and a drum. The man gets a bus going downtown and gives the bus driver ten cents. He goes to the back of the bus and sits with his two drumsticks and the drum. The bus goes around the block twice. The man stands up, walks to the front of the bus, and gets off the bus. Get it? Listen carefully. There’s a man. He has two drumsticks and a drum. He gets on a bus going downtown. He pays the fare—ten cents. He goes to the back of the bus and sits. He holds the two drumsticks and the drum. The bus goes around the block twice. The man stands up, walks to the front of the bus, and exits the bus…

JOAN.  Drum picks?

YOUNG JOAN.  Oh, Marty.

MARTY.  No. No. Listen. There’s a man. He has two drumsticks and a drum. He gets on the bus…

JOAN.  The woman at the end of the road…

MARTY.  The bus goes around the block twice…

YOUNG JOAN.  That hat reminds me of my father.

JOAN.  Blue, blue. Sky-blue. Father?

MARTY.  Listen! Listen! He gets on the bus! Two drumsticks and a drum. Ten-cent fare, back in the day of the ten-cent fare…

JOAN.  Is. Fare-is. Ferris. Ferris Wheel. Round ball.

YOUNG JOAN.  High up. Remember that? Remember he was waving below?

JOAN.  Yes. Oh, yes. Round and round

YOUNG JOAN.  He yelled, “Hold your horses!” He grabbed his hat.

MARTY.  Around the block. Twice.

JOAN.  Wonderful.

YOUNG JOAN.  Marty? We better get those Oreo’s. The girls just love Oreo’s. They’re coming soon. They’re really coming!

MARTY.  Don’t you get it? Huh? Listen, there’s this. . .

JOAN.  I never wanted this…this…-at…h-at…ach. All gone.

YOUNG JOAN.  I never thought he’d be gone. (Chanting) One, two, three, four—hut the door and say no more. Five, six, seven, eight, pick up sticks and stay up late. Nine ten—A big fat hen!

JOAN.  Ah-ha. Those chickens.

MARTY.  I always salt my food. I like things fried.

JOAN.  What happened to the man?

YOUNG JOAN.  Shhh…listen. There was a time you could go to the supermarket and buy a real live chicken. And you did. You bought six. The house was the only house on the block. Remember? Remember? You brought six live chickens, home. And there was that dog—Chico.

JOAN.  Oh, Chico! Chico.

MARTY.  Chicken sounds good.

JOAN.  Oh, yes. Those…yellow…

MARTY.  I always loved the way you fried chicken.

JOAN.  Chick…chick…chick-en. Chicken. Ha, ha.

YOUNG JOAN.  Well, Chico killed one of those chickens!

JOAN.  Aw.

YOUNG JOAN.  Just killed it dead.

JOAN.  Oh dear. Tsk, tsk, tsk.

MARTY.  Pass the salt.

YOUNG JOAN.  And you. You Joan…Joan…

JOAN.  I? I?

YOUNG JOAN.  You tied that chicken around Chico the dog’s neck.


MARTY.  (Half-singing) I-owa, I-owa. Place where the tall corn grows.

YOUNG JOAN.  You wanted to teach that dog a lesson.

JOAN.  (Laughing) Well, I never!

MARTY  (Half-singing) “Never fall in love again.”

YOUNG JOAN.  Chico wore that chicken for a week. A week!

JOAN.  For heavens’ sake!

YOUNG JOAN.  A dead-old –rotten-old-chicken. Around that poor old dog for a week!  Poor Chico. Rotten old chicken. My God.

MARTY.  A real stinker.

JOAN.  Oh, my! (Imitating a chicken) Bawk, bawk, baaawk!  Baaawk! Bawk, bawk, baawk.

MARTY.  Pass the salt, Joanie.

JOAN.  I love you honey.

YOUNG JOAN.  I love you honey.

MARTY.  Pass the salt.

JOAN.  Marty was a prince.

YOUNG JOAN.  A prince like in the book with bright pictures. I always got chocolate ice-cream on those pictures. All those blues and the gold stained forever brown.  Mother never complained.

JOAN.  Where? She? The girl?

MARTY.  I’m finished

JOAN.  Am. I? Where I am?

MARTY.  I wish I didn’t go. I’m finished.

JOAN.  Wonderful. Just wonderful. When we should…ich…ah? The girl…car…ich…ah…that rain. Take me to the…the…cat.

YOUNG JOAN.  Marty? The girls are coming. Will you go to the store with me? It looks like rain. We need Oreo cookies. The girls love Oreo cookies. I’ll back the car out of the garage. Will you come with me? I had the funniest dream. You were nude. Will you back the car out of the garage?

MARTY.  I’ve gone fishing. Finishing. I’m finishing.

JOAN.  Hurry and don’t go.

YOUNG JOAN.  Here they come…

JOAN.  Those girls.

MARTY.  They’re here. (Dori and Lori tumble onstage in a rush of excitement.)

DORI.  Wheeeeee!

LORI.  Wheeeeee! We’re here! We’re here!

JOAN.  Hip hip hooray!

DORI.  Where’s the jar, the jar, the M&M’s jar?

LORI.  We love M&M’s love M&M’s love M&M’s.

JOAN.  Whooops.

YOUNG JOAN.  M&M’s! Oh no! We got Oreo’s. Not M&M’s! Oreo’s!

DORI.  Oreo’s! I love Oreo’s.

LORI.  Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.

MARTY.  Hello. Hello. Hello girls. Have you heard…?

JOAN.  Hello. Hello. Have you heard? Have you heard the pretty little bird?

MARTY.  I’m telling a joke.

YOUNG JOAN.  Oh, Marty. Not this again.

JOAN.  My, my…sis…sis…sis-te play up. Er. Oh, the children. Ah-ha.

MARTY.  There was a man with two drumsticks and a drum…

DORI.  I don’t get it.

LORI.  Say it again!

MARTY.  Listen…there was a man with two…

LORI.  Say it, say it, say it!

JOAN.  Spray it? Spray what? What?

YOUNG JOAN.  I forgot the M&M’s. What a thing to forget. Oh dear…

JOAN.  Oh dear bread and beer.

MARTY.  Around the block twice…

LORI.  Say it again.  Again and again and again.

DORI.  And again and again and again.

YOUNG JOAN.  Oh, Marty.

JOAN.  Was a prince.

YOUNG JOAN.  Oh dear.

JOAN.  Bread and beer. Where do we go from here?

MARTY.  Oh dear.

DORI and LORI. Again and again and again!

YOUNG JOAN. Bread and beer.

JOAN.  Where do I go from here?

MARTY.  I always loved beer. Now girls, settle down. Did I tell you the one where…

LORI.  Dear oh dear bread and beer.

DORI.  Beer, beer, beer, beer. Berry berry beer beer.

YOUNG JOAN.  Hush. What would your father say? This isn’t going right. Let’s start over.

DORI and LORI.  But we’re already here.

JOAN.  Hello? Hello? Uh, hello?

MARTY.  Hello girls. Have an Oreo. Nice to see you. I’m going down to the basement.  You stay up here. I’ll go down to the basement and you stay up here. I’ll go down to the basement and listen to records and make up a new joke. You stay up here. I don’t often know what to do with loud girls. Perhaps you can make some raspberry jam. Well, hello girls. I’ll be down in the basement, just listening to a little something or other. You can cook and be loud then. Without me here, you can cook and be loud and I won’t hear you.  Then I’ll tell you a little joke.

JOAN.  Watch out girl. Girl. SSS.

LORI.  Sorry.

DORI.  Watch out, Lori.

LORI.  Shut up, Dori.

JOAN.  Uh oh. Shh. Shh.

YOUNG JOAN.  Let’s go swimming. Come on girls. Let’s not fight, let’s go swimming.  Look at my new cap. Isn’t that something? Come on in, the water’s warm.

LORI.  Watch me! Watch me!

DORI.  I’m scared.

YOUNG JOAN.  Come on.

JOAN.  Come on.

DORI.  I don’t like water.

JOAN.  (indicating she has wet her pants) Wet.

LORI.  Watch me! Watch me!

DORI.  I’m scared. I don’t want to swim.

LORI.  Don’t be a baby.

DORI.  I’m scared.

YOUNG JOAN.  I’ll catch you. Come on, Dori. I’ll catch you. I promise.

JOAN.  Ach. Wet. I’m wet. Ach.

DORI.  Don’t let go.

YOUNG JOAN.  There, doesn’t that feel nice?

LORI.  Watch me! Watch me!

DORI.  Hold on.

YOUNG JOAN.  I won’t let go. There. Isn’t this fun? See, you’re swimming!

DORI.  Wheeee!

LORI.  Watch me! I can float on my back. I can do a underwater handstand. Hey!  Watch me. I look like a mermaid. Hey, no. I look like a princess…

DORI.  I’m swimming.

JOAN.  Wet.

YOUNG JOAN.  Now you have it!

JOAN.  Ach. Wet. I’m all wet.

YOUNG JOAN.  You’re a brave girl.

LORI.  But look at me.

JOAN.  Oh my.  Such wet.

YOUNG JOAN.  Lovely girls. Now dry off. Make sure to get in between your toes.

DORI.  Brrrr. I’m cold.

LORI.  It’s not cold stupid.

DORI.  I’m a real swimmer.

LORI.  You can’t even do a waterdance. I can do a waterdance.

YOUNG JOAN.  You were both lovely.

JOAN.  Brrrr…hot.

DORI.  I can so do a waterdance.

LORI.  Can not!

DORI.  Can so!

YOUNG JOAN.  Now girls, hush.

JOAN.  Quiet. Loudwet. Quit, quit.

YOUNG JOAN.  Let’s get along. Let’s have some ice cream.

LORI.  Ice cream?

DORI.  Ice cream?

JOAN.  I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice scream!

LORI and DORI.  Ice cream!

JOAN.  Rah!  Rah!  Rah!

YOUNG JOAN.  Now, lets take a nap.

MARTY.  I’m still down in the basement. Later, I’ll go sit in the garden.

JOAN.  Rah! Rah! Rah!

DORI.  Thank you.

LORI.  Thank you.

YOUNG JOAN.  You’re welcome. You’re welcome.

JOAN.  Ahhh-haaa. Ahhh-haaa.

MARTY.  Later I’ll make French fries and salt them with the silver shaker. Then I’ll tell a joke.

YOUNG JOAN.  Oh, Marty.

JOAN.  Marty was a prince.

JOAN.  Just beautiful.

MARTY.  I sit in the garden and watch for gophers. They tunnel under everything. They leave hard clumps of dirt. Like clay. The dirt here is hard, grainy. The ground is lumpy. I’d prefer to garden in Nebraska. There’s a strawberry. Joanie loves strawberries. Joanie planted all the roses and petunias. She planted the mint too. The raspberries too. Joanie is a real beauty.

JOAN.  Beautiful…oh, honey you’re so beautiful…

YOUNG JOAN.  Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.

JOAN.  That girl. Where’s that girl?Yoo-hoo…yoo-hoo…Where are you?

YOUNG JOAN.  What’s happening?

JOAN.  Mm…M-a-t…rrr…Mrrty…


JOAN.  Oh, yes. We danced and danced and danced. All round the dinba.

YOUNG JOAN.  I want to tell you about Marty. He knew how to dance. He put his hand around my waist and knew how to lead me anywhere. I love to dance. How I miss to dance. How I miss to dance with Marty. We danced all around the dance hall. Once they all cheered and we won a ribbon. A blue ribbon. We laughed and danced some more. We were so happy after the war.

MARTY.  That’s how you play it! I’ll take you around the waist like this. Right, like so.  Good. I’ll lead you through the night like this. Yes, that’s right. Hold on tight. I’ll swing you around like this. Right. We’ll laugh like this. Don’t worry. We’ll have a cold drink if we get too hot. Two gin and tonics, please. The rest of the fellas will adore you. You’re a good sport. Let’s dance. Sorry, pal—she’s taken. Aw, Mitch—you’re a real kidder. See? See how I wrap my hands around your waist? Such a small waist. Your lips are red. I’ve never seen such red red…here we go…pick up the pace. I swing you around and around.  Look at you go! Your hips swivel. Your skirt—I love the way it whooshes—grazes your calves. I like to watch your calves move. And then when things slow down—the fellas signal to the band to take it easy. Hey, we’ve got ladies here to sniff and press up against. We’ve got ladies here with red, red and calves that move and skirts that whoooosh. Now I’ll press you close. I’ll smell your hair and of course it smells good. Finally close enough for a whiff of everything that I am not. I think you like how I smell too. I am completely different than you. I am completely the opposite. I make sure you know that I can keep close all night. I’m not scared. Across the water is where I’m scared. Right here I know what to do. I guide you to me all night. We keep going on and on and on and on and on.

JOAN.  We go up and then we go down. We go up and then we go down. We go up and then we go down. Hello…yoo-hoo…where are you?

YOUNG JOAN.  What does it feel like? It feels like a door shutting. A window closing.  It feels like black. Like nothing. Come on, honey…let’s keep walking.

LORI.  (Leading Joan gently by the arm) Does it hurt?

JOAN.  No.  No.

YOUNG JOAN.  No. But everything is slipping.

LORI.  Let’s head back.

JOAN.  Oh my.

YOUNG JOAN.  Couldn’t we keep going? I might remember where I saw her. I might see something for a sketch. I’d like to draw you a picture. I’d like to make a portrait.  You could sit by the ducks and I’ll draw you. My hand won’t slip—my hand will know what to do and my eye will see and everything will be like it once was. Remember? Keep going.

LORI.  (Seats Joan in a chair) Now you can rest.

JOAN.  Oh dear. Oh dear bread and beer where do we go from here.

YOUNG JOAN.  Let’s go! Let’s run! The lights still good.

LORI.  (To Joan) And we’ll take off your socks now and we’ll slip on your slippers now and we’ll wrap you in a warm blanket now and we’ll watch the television now and we’ll have some smooth pudding now and we’ll lay down for a nap now. And we’ll sleep and be quiet now. We’ll sleep and be still now. We’ll remember to just sleep now and let our dreams wander now and don’t make a peep now and just go to sleep now and we’re all warm and cozy now.  Shhh…shhh….sleep.  Just sleep and hush.

DORI.  I can’t sleep. I hate to nap. No one knows what will happen to me. I’ll have my own story. My story will be secret and sad. No one will understand. They will shake their heads and think the worst of me. And eventually I’ll stop knowing what the worst is and it will be the worst but I’ll think it is the best. I’ll become a liar. I’ll lose myself completely. I don’t know if I’ll ever get back. I don’t know the end of my story. I just know about the part where I get lost.

LORI.  The whole world is in my head.

DORI.  I don’t even know what I see.

LORI.  Go to sleep, Dori.

DORI.  We’ll never be close.

LORI.  It’s not my fault.

DORI.  I know.  I’ll blame you for everything though.

LORI.  I’ll blame myself.

DORI.  You will always wonder about me.  Is she dead?

LORI.  I’ll never understand.

DORI.  And maybe one day everything will change. Maybe one day I’ll surprise everyone. Maybe I’ll turn out fine. I’ll be fine. I’ll be happy and content and fine. I’m not like you.

LORI.  It’s not my fault!

DORI.  And maybe one day everything will change.  Everything will change and I’ll know everything.

LORI.  It’s not my fault!

JOAN.  No. No. Please, no fight.

YOUNG JOAN.  Quiet girls. Try to get some sleep.

LORI.  It’s not my fault. Is it? Can’t you just be like you?

YOUNG JOAN.  Hush.  Now it’s time to get up and go to the store!

DORI and LORI.  Wheee! The store! Wheee! Will you buy? Will you buy? Will you buy me this? And this. And this. And this. Will you buy? Will you buy? Will you buy me this? And this. And this. I really need this. Gosh, I really, really, really need this. Why can’t I have this? Please let me have this? It’s really not fair unless I have this. She shouldn’t have this unless I get this. And if I get this I should also get this…and this…and this…

JOAN.  And this is blech. Bla-ta. Ah-ha. What? What? Look at this…bl…at…cat.

DORI and LORI.  Nooo! But I need this! I really need this. And this. And this. Noooo!  Whaaaaa! Give me this! And this! Why won’t you buy this. If you loved me you would give me give me give me this. Noooo! Whaaaaaaaaa!

YOUNG JOAN.  Girls! Hush. Oh, honestly. What would your mother say? Selfish this and this and this. Selfish, selfish this. We’re going home right now. Not another word.  There, now we are home and now you will march yourselves upstairs and go to bed.

LORI and DORI.  We’re sorry. So sorry. Really, really sorry. But don’t you think I need this? Or this? Whaaa! Sorry.

JOAN.  Thank you…oh, thank you.

YOUNG JOAN.  Upstairs. I’m going to count to three—One, two…

JOAN.  Look.  Look.  It goes up and then it goes down.  It goes up and then it goes down.

YOUNG JOAN.  Now I try to paint. Whenever I have quiet I try to paint. Marty watches the Flintstones downstairs and eats liver and onion sandwiches. He’ll fall asleep on the floor. I’ll paint this pretty picture. I saw it in a magazine and I liked it so I cut it out. I cut it out and thought—Well, I’ll just have to paint this up real nice into a pretty little picture.  And I will use yellow and red and blue—not just blue, but many different shades of blue—sky-blue, indigo blue, pale blue, watery blue, clear blue…

JOAN.  Sky.  Up and it goes down.  Hello.  Hello.

MARTY.  This sandwich is good. Liver is smooth and the onions make my eyes water.  Here’s some salt. This is when I take a nap. I eat and then I fall asleep and then I wake up and then I check on Joanie—What’s for dinner? And she will have paint on her nose, which I think is sweet—so I’ll kiss her. Then we will watch shows on television. Joan will read Readers’ Digest and I’ll solve another mystery. Then we’ll sleep. We’ll sleep and we won’t really know how sweet this all is and we won’t really know how brief this time will seem. The next morning we’ll have coffee and start again. And again. And again.

JOAN.  How now brown cow.

YOUNG JOAN.  Girls, dinner’s ready!

DORI.  I want to go home.

LORI.  Shut up, Dori

DORI.  You shut up, Lori.

LORI.  No, you shut up.

JOAN.  Ach. Wet.


DORI.  I don’t fit here.

LORI.  You don’t fit anywhere.

DORI.  What am I supposed to do?

LORI.  I don’t know.  Things are sure going to be hard for you.

DORI.  I know.

LORI.  I’m glad I’m not you. I’m not really glad to be me, but I’m sure glad not to be you.

DORI.  I wish I had two puppies.

YOUNG JOAN.  Dinner! There. See, we like to eat string beans…

DORI.  Please pass the candied yams.

LORI.  Please pass the cucumbers in cream and dill.

MARTY.  Joanie, please pass the ham.

YOUNG JOAN.  Marty, could you please pass the butter?

JOAN.  Pass…t…ban…banana…please. Up down.

YOUNG JOAN.  Let’s clear our places.

LORI.  Clear my place, Dori.

DORI.  No way, Lori.

YOUNG JOAN.  Lori! Come help with the dishes.

LORI.  It’s not fair. It’s not fair.

JOAN.  Come on. Come on. Get up. Come on.

LORI.  I’m tired. I don’t want to help the dishes. I want to read and sleep and dream and wake-up and read and sleep and dream and wake-up…

JOAN.  (singing) “Good morning.  Good morning…”

DORI.  Do the dishes, Lori.

LORI.  Shut up, Dori.

YOUNG JOAN.  Girls. Enough. Lori, into the kitchen on the count of…

JOAN.  One, two, three…

MARTY.  A delicious meal, Joanie. The string beans and mashed potatoes and candied yams and ham and bananas and cucumbers in cream and sourdough rolls and fresh parsley and fresh zucchini and white wine…just delicious.

LORI.  Fine.

DORI.  (chanting) I’m going to watch TV. Now…I’m going to watch TV. Now…

JOAN.  (singing) “Good morning…good morning…”

LORI. (singing) “It’s great to stay up late…”

JOAN.  Why, good morning! Good morning.

MARTY.  Good morning. Good morning. What would you like today? I’ll make you a house today. I’ll buy you a little mouse today…

YOUNG JOAN.  (Putting on yellow gloves and miming washing dishes) When you wash the dishes you want to put on yellow gloves like this. You want your hands to stay soft.  Men like soft hands. You want the water to be warm like this. Not too hot and not too cold. Good. You place the plates in the tub like this. Now add the soap—always buy lemon soap, lemon soap smells the best. Not too much…good. Now you pick up the plate and hold the wet cloth like this. Then you wash the plate like this. Use this scrubber like this for dried food like eggs or sauce or even mashed potatoes. Rinse the plate like this.  See how the yellow gloves protect your hands. See how they keep my hands soft and smooth. Now you try. Now you take the next plate…good…that’s right…beautiful…

JOAN.  Just beautiful…

MARTY.  I’ll make you a birdhouse and a bracelet and a ring…

LORI.  Do you miss sketching? Do you miss painting? Do you miss your mother? Do you miss your father? Do you miss the blue car? Do you miss your house? Your shoes?  Your aprons? Your perfume bottles? Do you miss the garden? Do you miss the gopher mounds? Do you miss walking around the block? Do you miss your kitchen…your kitchen with the bells…your pots and pans and tubs with “Flour” and “Sugar” painted on the sides with little yellow daisies? Do you miss those raspberries? What about Marty?

JOAN.  Marty was a prince.

LORI.  What about him? Do you miss him? What do you miss? Please tell me. What do you miss?

JOAN.  Miss…kiss…mmm…Honey, give me a kiss.

LORI.  Sit down…good…now let’s take off your shoes.

JOAN.  Honey, no.

LORI.  Take off your socks.

JOAN.  Ach. Cold.

LORI.  Take off your pants…

JOAN.  You’re a terrible person.

DORI.  I’m a terrible person. I never tell the truth. I’m going to grow up to be a thief.  I’ll waste my life. I won’t even try. I’ll disappoint everyone. I’ll resent how easily they just let me slip away. And maybe everything will change.

LORI.  Everything will change. Come on. You need to take a shower. A nice warm shower. Come on—step into the shower and we’ll get you clean clean clean…

YOUNG JOAN.  Beautiful. Now we’ll dry them. Take a white towel like this and pick up a plate like this…

MARTY.  I always wonder when this won’t be like this anymore. The house is too quiet at night. I can hear the heat click on and off. Her breathing. All that quiet takes you into strange places. Places that I’d rather not be. During the day I can’t picture this being any different. I sit in the garden and think about sailing around the world. I love to go around the world in my head and know that it will never happen—that I’m in the garden and safe…I don’t have to worry about leaving…it’s just a dream…a nice foolish dream…then I go inside and drink coffee.

LORI.  The whole world is in my head.

DORI.  I don’t understand anything.

JOAN.  How now brown cow. Come on. Come on. I’ve got to go home. I’ve got to go to the end of the road. I’ve got to find the lady at the end of the road. I need to find my brother. I need to find my mother. And Marty…is he? Is he? Kaka…dinba…Yee-ha…life of ease. Life of ease…

LORI.  Shhh….it’s going to be okay….shhhh….

MARTY.  Listen. I left the backdoor unlocked. My dirty laundry is under the bed. I don’t care about the magazines. The storm windows need to be changed in May. Don’t worry about the tomatoes—they’ll be fine. That boy down the street will mow the lawn. I’m going to leave the records where they are and hope that someone will listen to them.  Don’t worry about Christmas—I’ll just leave your present under the bed next to the dirty clothes. Don’t worry. Everything will turn out fine in the end. You’ll see. Everything will be fine.

DORI.  You can’t tell me what to do because I won’t listen. I’m going to go to ballet class but then I’ll quit that because I don’t know. I’m going to learn to ice-skate—but then I won’t because I don’t know. I’ll try gymnastics but Lori will ruin that. Maybe I’ll be in a play—but they won’t let me say any lines. Okay. Maybe I’ll talk to him. Oh, yes.  He’s nice. He likes to talk. Then I’ll talk to a different him. He’s nice. He likes to talk and more. Oh, yes. This is what I’m good at. Then I’ll talk to him and him and him…

MARTY.  Let’s ride this yellow bike. Here I’ll push you. There you go. There you go.  Okay. Let’s go home now.

JOAN, DORI, and LORI.  Wheeeeeeee!

MARTY.  Okay, good. Let’s go home now. Let’s really go home now.

JOAN.  Home now.

YOUNG JOAN.  (painting on a translucent surface) When you draw a flower you need to really look at a real flower. You need to notice the way it is shaped—really notice. You don’t just notice the general overall flower-shape but the smaller parts-of-the-flower-shape. You need to make your eyes work harder. You need to see deeper than before.  And then you pick blue and different colors of blue—sky blue, indigo blue, pale blue—and you begin to paint. Take your time. Don’t rush. Just remember what you saw.

JOAN.  Honey, let’s go…

MARTY.  Wait a second. I need to fix this…

JOAN.  Honey, let’s go…

MARTY.  Wait a second. Now I need to fix this…

YOUNG JOAN.  Let’s go dancing.

JOAN.  What fun!

MARTY.  I can’t just drop what I’m doing.

JOAN.  What fun!

YOUNG JOAN.  Let’s forget about this and this and this and this and this. Remember this? And this? And this. And this.

MARTY.  Swoosh.

LORI.  I could do anything.

DORI.  Something’s broken.

MARTY.  I’ll make sure the door’s fixed. I’ll make sure that leak is taken care of. I’ll water the tomatoes and zucchini. I’ll change the blue car’s oil. I won’t leave my clothes out. I’ll make sure everything is tidy and put away.

YOUNG JOAN.  Remember this? And this. And this. And this.

JOAN.  You’re an angel.

LORI.  You are…

JOAN.  You’re a doll.

MARTY.  When we go to Reno I will remember this and this and this but I won’t come home in the same way as before. Everything is different now. I’m not afraid like I thought I might be. Everything is just fine. Joanie—understand me. Everything is just fine.

YOUNG JOAN.  Put the coin in the slot and pull. And then? Another coin. Put the coin in the slot and pull. And then? Another coin. And pull and pull. Five dollars. And pull and pull. And then…

JOAN.  Where are you? Hello? Where are you?

MARTY.  Everything is different and just fine.

DORI.  Everything might be different.

LORI.  I’m the same then I change then I change and I’m the same and yet I’m different.  My face is fat and different and I hope I will be different.

YOUNG JOAN.  And I pull and I pull and he’s gone. He’s not there and I pull and I pull…

JOAN.  Yoo-hoo! Where are you.

MARTY.  Don’t forget to look under the bed.

YOUNG JOAN.  Empty. The slot is empty. My hand is empty. My eyes are empty. My mouth is empty. My stomach is empty.

JOAN.  Ich.  Don’t go.

MARTY.  Under the bed.

YOUNG JOAN.  Pull and pull and pull and empty. Just empty. I’ll look and look and look and gone. All gone. Nothing left. I’ll come home. After. I’ll come home and the house will look ready to swallow me. I’ll come home and get on the exercise bike. Gotta keep moving. I’ll ride for hours. And then I’ll go to all the places, all the places he was and is and I’ll keep riding and riding and I won’t stop, can’t stop or I won’t ever be able to breathe again, and I’ll keep riding and riding past Chicago and the dancing and past the dogs and the children and the grandchildren and Christmas with a skimpy little tree and the cookies that I bake and bake and bake and I won’t stop riding I won’t stop riding I can’t stop riding and Marty isn’t and I ride and Marty was and I go past the garden and past the church and past the slot machines and past all the people and past the trees and past the clouds, sky, moon. I ride past all this and I’m gone.

LORI.  Are you sad?

JOAN.  Yes.

LORI.  Tell me the secret to life.

JOAN.  Secret to strife?

LORI.  No. No. The secret to life. Tell me the secret to a long happy life.

MARTY.  Things happen fast. Just keep an even keel. Don’t forget to take out the garbage. Mow the lawn once a week. Water the flowers and vegetables. Plant raspberries. Salt your food if you like. Take naps. Remember to go on vacation once a year. Go to someplace warm and exotic. Then come home and secretly be glad. You never did like the heat. Go away sometimes to remember how nice it is to be where you are. Don’t forget to remember what happened. Play music and remember. Tell jokes. Always buy souvenirs. Keep them and store them under the bed. Take them out and hold them. Hold the Detroit shot glass. Trace the Statue of Liberty with your finger. Jingle the Nashville key chain. Don’t forget to wear the plastic Lai. Always have people in your pictures.  Admire the flower she painted and buy a frame. Hang it over your bed and tell her you can smell it at night. Tell her that it smells sweet—a garden over your head. Let her kiss you. Hold her tight and breathe. Like this. And this. And this.

YOUNG JOAN.  And this and this.

LORI.  Take off your shoes.

JOAN.  Honey, no.

LORI.  Take off your socks.

JOAN.  I’m cold.

LORI.  Here get under the covers. Good. Cuddle up…Cuddle up.

JOAN.  Cuddle up, cuddle up.

LORI.  What does it feel like?

JOAN.  Like a door shutting. Dark. B..b…ach. Blaba.


LORI.  I wish I knew the secret. This is empty and it’s full. I wish I was…

DORI.  What?

LORI.  I wish I was inside and outside.

DORI.  Outside and inside.

LORI.  I want to go. I want to go. To go

DORI.  Someplace

LORI.  Inside the outside.

DORI.  Home.

YOUNG JOAN.  The girls are leaving soon.

MARTY.  Have fun in school.

YOUNG JOAN.  Be good.

MARTY.  Listen to your mother and father.

YOUNG JOAN.  Give your mother a kiss.

MARTY.  Ride the yellow bike.

YOUNG JOAN.  Remember how we went to Disneyland and Indian Country.

MARTY.  Remember to pick the raspberries before they wither.

YOUNG JOAN.  Help your mother.

JOAN.  Hold your horses.

YOUNG JOAN.  Let me tell you something.

LORI.  Shh.

YOUNG JOAN.  You won’t remember half of it. Just keep going.

DORI.  I remember everything.

MARTY.  Bye-bye girls.

JOAN.  Bye-bye.

YOUNG JOAN and JOAN.  Good-bye. Good-bye. Bye-bye. Good-bye. Good-bye. Bye.  Bye. Bye. Bye. Bye.

LORI.  Wave hard.

DORI.  I am.

MARTY.  There was this man. He had two drumsticks and a drum. He got on the bus and began to play his drum. They all cheered and he was content. Get it?

YOUNG JOAN.  Draw a straight line and then a curve. Then dab on blue. Short strokes.  Little feathery strokes. Good. Do you see it? Do you see the sky?

JOAN.  I see the sky. I see the sky and the mountain and the house and the tree and the girl and the others and the picture and the garden.

YOUNG JOAN.  I see the sky. I see the sky and the mountain and the house and the tree and the girl and the others and the picture and the garden.

JOAN.  I see blue.

YOUNG JOAN.  I see blue.

JOAN.  Here I go. The light is good today. I’m happy to slip into it. I’ll run. I’ll run and touch things. I’ll take off my shoes and run.

YOUNG JOAN.  Fast. I’ll keep going until dark and then I’ll keep going until day and my feet won’t hurt. It feels like I’m flying.

JOAN.  Home. I am. I’m flying home. Nothing can stop me. I run fast through the dark and through the light and through this and this and this…

MARTY.  Joanie.

JOAN.  All the bright star. Inside the outside. We go up and we go down.

MARTY.  Like this.

YOUNG JOAN.  And this.

JOAN.  And this. (Blackout)

End of Play

Rachel Joseph’s short stories and plays have appeared in literary journals ranging from North American Review to Kenyon Review Online. She was a finalist for the 2017 Arts & Letters Drama Prize, and a finalist for the 2017 Hudson Prize. She is an Assistant Professor of Theatre at Trinity University.




Roberta – late 20s/early 30s
Jake – late 20s/early 30s


Just outside of a house where there’s a New Year’s Party/Almost 2017

            In the DARK, a song plays, such as Prince’s “1999.” The music fades and             becomes muffled, as if blasting inside of a house. LIGHTS UP. 

            JAKE sits out in the snow, bundled up. He is wearing a winter coat and a   sparkling tophat that has “2017” on it. He holds a perfect sliver of ice. He places the ice under his nose. Pauses. He works it up into his nose. Works it around. He reacts to the pain. Blood flows down the ice and onto his hand. YELLOW LIGHT       from a door opening spills onto JAKE. We hear the song a little louder. The light and music fade as ROBERTA, who is not wearing a winter coat, approaches JAKE.

ROBERTA.  He’s gone. They kicked him out. More like…strongly suggested he’d leave. So. He did. (Beat.) You okay? (JAKE turns away, trying to wipe off his mouth/nose.) So….I don’t know. I didn’t know he was going to be here. (Pause.) He, uh…he gets it. He gets what you’re doing. We all do. Okay? (She looks around.) This patch of snow taken? (She sits.)

JAKE.  How long?

ROBERTA. Until what? He comes back?

JAKE.  How long has it been…for you?

ROBERTA.  Over eighteen months. (Beat.) I know you have me beat. I know….you’re a role model…I mean…. (Pause.) Jake?

JAKE.  I haven’t been….I haven’t been honest all the way. I’ve…I’ve tried. (Beat.) It’s only been six months.


JAKE.  Six weeks.

ROBERTA.  Everyone falls off. Right? I mean, my shrink tells me that…um…most people fall off in some way between five and seven times a year. Can you believe that? And they’ll still wave around their chips like they’re at some kind of, you know…poker game. Like a big poker game or something. And see? See how well I do? It’s like they tell you…you won’t do so well. You won’t. You will fail, but I won’t fail. I have the chips. You know? (Beat. JAKE is still not looking at her.) Yeah.  My ass is getting cold.

JAKE.  Want me to warm it?

ROBERTA.  (Looking back toward the party) I don’t think Jeanette would like that.

JAKE.  I don’t care.

ROBERTA.  Yeah, you do.

JAKE.  No, Roberta. I don’t. You know what the problem is right now…right now…the problem right now is…I feel great!


JAKE.  I mean…I feel…fantastic! Like I could…I don’t know…like everyone’s afraid of the incoming president…but maybe he’s not such a bad guy, and if I could sit here and come up with like a letter, which is awesomer than a tweet, I could like practice it in my mind so I don’t forget, then I could go in and like write it down on paper… (He finally turns. ROBERTA simultaneously sees some of the blood on his face. He’s high.)

ROBERTA.  Oh, Jake..

JAKE.  …and he could read it, and understand that we all have the same fears, the same issues, the same…consider abortion.

ROBERTA.  I’ve considered it.

JAKE.  No one wants it. We all think it’s a terrible choice—

ROBERTA.  —Jake.

JAKE.  Hear me out! But, it’s like…how do we prevent people from having to make that terrible decision? On our side we have sex ed, condoms—

ROBERTA.  —which some of us never use.

JAKE.  And, you know, reproductive health, information, knowledge, compassion…on that side, there’s fear…fear of…everything…so they live in fear…abstinence, clothing regulations on girls from a young age, like hide…hide the private parts…I don’t just mean like the private-private parts, I mean the chemistry, the parts where we’re all feeling, thinking, loving beings, that experiencing an orgasm with another person can be the most magical and the most heartbreaking thing you can ever put yourself through, plus it like feels amazing, almost as amazing as… (Beat. He looks at her. She looks at him, somewhere between sympathetic and reproachful.) In twenty-four hours I’ll have a day.

ROBERTA.  Yeah. (Pause.)

JAKE.  Does Jeanette know?

ROBERTA.  Nope. And she’s not going to know.

JAKE.  (Beat.) I just…I can’t believe he showed up here.

ROBERTA.  It’s a small town.

JAKE.  But…this can’t be like the only party in four square miles. It just…I mean…how do we get through the next year?

ROBERTA.  I don’t know. Maybe someone in there called him, you know? Not everyone is recovered. Or recovering or…(Beat.) You know I almost had an abortion, right?

JAKE.  No!

ROBERTA.  Sammy was not planned.

JAKE.  Huh.

ROBERTA.  And, um…neither was the wedding. More of a, you know. “Oops. Guess we’re doing this.”

JAKE.  Huh. Jesus.

ROBERTA.  So, I mean…I get your use of abortion as an example, but….some people don’t like to think about it. At all. Because it doesn’t like exist in the realm of the hypothetical.

JAKE.  (Beat.) Shit.

ROBERTA.  It’s okay.

JAKE.  I mean…just shit.

ROBERTA.  Yeah. (Beat.) I might be getting divorced.

JAKE.  Oh, God.

ROBERTA.  And I really hate Jeanette.

JAKE.  She’s just…Long Island…just her way.

ROBERTA.  And I really wanna screw you.

JAKE.  Ah.

ROBERTA.  And I really want you to tell me…

JAKE.  Tell you what? You’re beautiful.

ROBERTA.  Not to do it.

JAKE.  Not to screw me?

ROBERTA.  Not to do it! (She reaches into her coat and produces a small, tightly packed baggie.)

JAKE.  You…you bought, too. (She chuckles. He gets a big grin on his face.) You called him. (Roberta gives no response.)

JAKE.  Roberta!

ROBERTA.  I have a problem.

JAKE.  (Beat.) Me, too. (Beat.) When you came out here, I was actually just…trying to dig the shit out of my nose with some of the ice that fell of the gutter there. Jesus. Like it wasn’t…too damn late. Like it wasn’t already. You know. In. (He chuckles. She chuckles with him.)

ROBERTA.  I can’t do this.

JAKE.  Which part?

ROBERTA.  Any of it. I just can’t. The average person falls off five to seven times a year. I…I haven’t. But…God, it’s close…every day watching Sammy, I think “how selfish can I be…” You know? “To even consider….” and here we are. (The sounds of the party gets louder as yellow lights spills out on them. ROBERTA waves.) Did she…did Jeanette really tap her watch at you?

JAKE.  Wants me to kiss her at midnight. I guess we’re close.

ROBERTA.  Yeah. I guess we’re close. (They look at each other. They shake their heads.)

JAKE.  Is she still looking?

ROBERTA.  (ROBERTA looks.) No. (She turns to him. He gives her a quick peck on the mouth. She chuckles. They kiss once more. Not with tongue. Just simple. They look at each other. She wipes a bit of the blood away. Motions as if to say, “did I get any on me?” He looks at her, and then gestures as if to say “nah, you’re good.”)

JAKE.  Happy last minute…of the worst year of our lives.

ROBERTA.  Happy last minute. (He stands up and brushes off his butt.)

JAKE.  What are you gonna do with that?

ROBERTA.  I don’t know. I’m just going to hold it for a minute, I think.

JAKE.  Okay. You ready to go in? Give your husband a kiss?

ROBERTA.  (Beat.) I don’t know.

JAKE.  Yeah. Yeah….

ROBERTA.  If you do write that letter to Mr. Trump…tell him….I don’t know.

JAKE.  Ah, I got plenty to tell him. I have some great ideas about how-

ROBERTA.  I know. I know. (He starts to leave her. He pauses.)

JAKE.  Oh, and uh…(a-la a PSA) “Don’t do drugs.” (A moment. He chuckles. She forces a smile. The yellow light spills on them. JAKE nods towards it. He stands up. He offers his hand to ROBERTA as if to ask “you sure you don’t want to come in?”)  No. Not yet.(A moment. He exits. She wipes away tears. She holds up the baggie.)

VOICES INSIDE.  Ten…nine…eight…seven…six…five….four…three…two—(Blackout. Sound Out.)

End of Play

John Patrick Bray (PhD, MFA) has had plays developed and/or produced with Barter Theatre, The Word at the Road, Lyric Arts Main St. Theatre, Axial Theatre, Rising Sun Performance Co., among others. Bray is a member of The Dramatists Guild of America and teaches at the University of Georgia.

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