EGO-BOOSTER NUMBER 7...

Good news! Dead Angel will have a five-week run at the Whitefire out in the San Fernando Valley. Here's the straight skinny from the Whitefire website and the Dramatists Guild online newsletter:








DEAD ANGEL - a short one-act play

UNFORTUNATELY, WE WILL BE ABLE TO USE YOUR WORK...

In an earlier post on this blog, I presented examples of various turn-down letters I've received from theatres over the years.

But the one I got this week tops them all. It was a form-letter email that hilariously left out the crucial telling adverb "not," as in "we will not be using your play."



Maybe I should show up for the reading. On second thought, no.

WHERE GONDOLIERS DELIVER PIZZA TO YOUR BOAT SLIP.....

The reading went well. Lovely audience. Wonderful actors. David Gold, Sonja Berggren, Erin Henriques, Pete Taylor, Paul Major. They brought my little play to life. Gave it bones, flesh and blood.

And the venue. We were in the neatest part of Long Beach. Naples. It's an island. Here's a satellite pic:



Every house in Naples backs up to a canal. Everyone in Naples has a boat.

I wanna live in Naples. I wanna live where gondoliers deliver pizza right to the slip...



Sigh.....

**************************

Oh yeah, the play. Here's the cover of the program. Understated. Though I do like that they put my name in bold type.



They asked me to write 5 questions for the audience to ponder. They told me to be serious. After all, this is a sophisticated group, most of whom have advanced degrees in theatre and the performing arts. We're talking crème de la crème here. Not the sort to be trifled with...

MY LESBIAN PLAY...

Cast of Characters

Joan..................Female, age mid 20s
Toni....................Female, age early 20s

Technical Requirements

A sofa, a chair, 2 doors, sound-effect of a Christmas party in next room

(Inside a room. Sounds of a Christmas party in the next room. Two doors. One door leads to party. The other leads to a bathroom. JOAN paces, drink in her hand. She sips nervously,
glances at watch)

JOAN:

Toni. Come on. Please, Toni. Please don't be late. Please don't be late for this. Toni, come on. I need you, Toni. Come on, Toni. Toni, walk through that door. Now.
(Sends telepathic message to door)
Door opens. Toni enters. Joan sighs.
(Snaps finger, sees nothing has changed)
Darn!
(Sits, takes out cellphone)
Love stinks. Sometimes.
(Dials. Listens)
Toni, where are you? Toni, please pick up. People are waiting. I'm waiting. Mitch is waiting. No, darn you! I. I will not leave a message!

(Door opens, laughing voices, clinking glasses.
Enter TONI, dressed Goth/Industrial,
with drink in hand)

TONI:

They're serving cuba libres out there.

JOAN:

Well, hi stranger.

TONI:

So. You were trying to call me?

JOAN:

Yes.

TONI:

Lost my phone.

JOAN:

Lost your phone?

TONI:

Yeah. Gonzo. Like into thin air.

JOAN:

How?

TONI:

Dunno. It was there one minute and.
(Drains glass)
Dog ate it, I guess.
(Laughs. Holds up empty glass)
Oh oh. Empty. Gotta go refresh.

JOAN:

Toni.

TONI:

Yeah?

JOAN:

No more after this.

TONI:

Yeah. Right.

JOAN:

I mean it, Toni. No more after this one. You know how you.

TONI:

Listen, I don't need this from you. I work fucking hard. Between Jerry Bonneau and that weasel Simon riding my ass, I earned me some R & R. Now back off.

JOAN:

I know you work har.

TONI:

No, you don't. And don't say you do when you don't. And don't gimme no speech. It's Christmas. It's okay at Christmas. I'm just one of Santa's fucking elves. Just waiting for the sleigh to pass by so I can jump on. What's the matter? Never seen a fucking elf?

JOAN:

Okay. Sure. Go. Go refresh.

TONI:

Fucking A.

(Opens door, laughing voices, clinking
glasses. TONI exits)

JOAN:

(Walks to an imaginary mirror. Mimes
brushing her hair)
We get one supremely magic night and we spend the remainder of our days trying to resurrect it. A part of us says, forget it, the effort is futile, while another part thinks our case might be the unique one. The exception to the rule. So we keep on keeping on, hoping against hope. That's how it is with magic. Even so, you could have said something. It wouldnt have cost you to say something. I wish you had. It hurt you didnt notice I bought a pretty dress. And a pretty pair of heels. I recall I was dressed like this the night we.
(Trails off. A short silence while
she collects her thoughts)
I so want things to be perfect tonight. I so want you to be proud of me. Why did you say nothing?

(Door opens, laughing voices, clinking glasses.
TONI re-enters carrying two drinks)

TONI:

Got you a fresh Shirley Temple.

JOAN:

Thank you.

TONI:

(Holds her drink in front of her close to her.
Covers top of glass with her hand)
Look uh. I'm sorry.

JOAN:

It's okay.

TONI:

No. It's not okay. Look, I'll just kind of nurse this one along. Okay?

JOAN:

Okay.

TONI:

Nurse. Nursing a drink. I wonder where that came from.

JOAN:

I don't know.

TONI:

You're the word girl. You know all the words. Why we say what they say. I just thought you might know.

JOAN:

No. Sorry.

TONI:

(Takes sip)
Bogart said the world's always three drinks behind. Did you know that?

JOAN:

No.
(Silence. Then......)
I'm thinking.

TONI:

Yeah?

JOAN:

Thinking about New York.

TONI:

Yeah, think. Hey, I got one. Who said, "What we think, we are?"

>JOAN:

Did you hear me?

TONI:

Yeah. You said New York. And I said, who said, what we think, we are?

JOAN:

I'm thinking about going back to New York.

TONI:

Guess.

JOAN:

I dont want to guess.

TONI:

I said guess.

JOAN:

No.

TONI:

Dammit, who said, What we think, we are?

JOAN:

Oh for God's sake. Kennedy.

TONI:

Which Kennedy?

JOAN:

I don't know! Toni, I'm going to New.

TONI:

I heard. Three times. We're not going to New York!

JOAN:

No, I'm going.

TONI:

No, you're not.

JOAN:

Why are you saying no? You don't want me.

TONI:

This is how it starts. When she wants to mix it up, she starts with the you don't want me.

JOAN:

You're dressed like we're going to a Goth club. You can't touch me without getting drunk. I bore you.

TONI:

And then she says bored. She doesn't know bored. I know bored. You want bored? Here's bored. Trivial Pursuit. Disco. Sushi. That's bored. Everything else is a fucking huge galactic extravaganza, so awesome it makes me come just thinking about it.

JOAN:

I dreamt I was in a cage. And you were watching me. I said, Toni, touch me and you looked away.

TONI:

Then she trots out the dreams and the psychic shit. I touch her. Sometimes I touch her. See?
(Touches JOAN's arm. She jerks her
arm away)
You're not going.

JOAN:

Yes. I am.

TONI:

No. Case closed.

JOAN:

You won't stop me.

TONI:

Buddha!

JOAN:·

I mean it.

TONI:

It was Buddha!

JOAN:

This is dying. This thing. This thing we have. It's dying. I'm dying. You're dying. We're dying.

TONI:

Look at me. Do I look like I'm dying? It was Buddha. Buddha said, What we think, we are. Now Buddha's a stupid fat fuck. And what's worse, a stupid-looking fat fuck. A stupid-looking fat fuck who sits and jacks off. Look how he sits. Crosslegged on the floor. With that shit-eating grin. That's the jackoff position. But every so often, the fat boy comes up with a gem. Something simple. Something clean. What we think, we are.
(Takes a sip. Sees her glass is half-full)
Hey, guess what? I think I'm a drink. I'm gonna have them kind of top me off. You okay with that?

(Starts to exit)

JOAN:

Please, Toni. Please don't upset Mitch.

TONI:

Brother Mitch can bite me.

(TONI opens door, laughing voices, clinking glasses. TONI exits)

JOAN:

(Walks to imaginary mirror. Takes out
handkerchief and dabs her makeup)
I went to see Mitch last week. I didn't tell you. I wanted to see how we stood. He's not like you say, Toni. He's nice, he's a gentleman, he makes you feel important when he's talking to you. And he listens. I like that. He said, thank you, Joan. I was taken aback! Thank you? Thank you for what? Thank you, he said, for bringing some sanity to my sister's life. Thank you. Wow! That was a shocker. It's been a while since anyone said thank you to poor Joannie.

(Door opens, laughing voices, clinking glasses.
TONI enters carrying two drinks)

TONI:

See? Still sober. Got you a fresh Shirley Temple.

JOAN:

I just don't want you being sick.

TONI:

Don't start on me, Joan. Mitch says we go in ten.

JOAN:

No.

TONI:

Okay, fine. Make it twenty minutes.

JOAN:

No.

TONI:

What do you mean, no?

JOAN:

I mean.

TONI:

No way you're standing me up with Mitch out there. That dickhead would ride me till my dying day.

JOAN:

Toni. Toni, please. Lets just.

TONI:

No! Were gonna do this. No is not an option. You're gonna back me up. Remember, you're on my side.
(Drinks half her glass)
We're gonna go out, hand in hand, just like we said. I'm gonna look at you and smile and say bla-bla-bla.

JOAN:

(Starts slowly backing toward the bathroom)
No.

TONI:

(Advancing toward her, hand outstretched)
Yes. You're gonna smile and flutter your eyelashes.

JOAN:

(Backing away more)
No.

TONI:

(Advancing)
Yes. Mitch is gonna grin from ear to ear. All the guestie-guests are gonna go, awwww, ain't that sweet?

JOAN:

(Backing)
No.

TONI:

(Advancing)
Yes. Now come on, let's do it. Let's roll.··

JOAN:

(slips inside bathroom)
No.

TONI:

Hey come on. Don't do this to me.
(Sound of door locking)
Oh shit, she did it.
(Knocks on door)
Joan. Come on. Come on out. Joan, please, we got to do this thing. We got to do this thing right now. Mitch is getting everybody ready. We gotta be there. Cause this is for us. They can't have it without us. So please come on out.
(Pounds on door)
Damn it, Joan! You can't leave me alone and naked! You get your ass out here and stand by me.
(Silence, then......)
We have good times. Sometimes we do. Good times. Fun times. Maybe not like we used to. But. Well. Right now there's this one thing. She wants me to go to meetings. She won't go. Says I'm the one with the problem. So I have to go. Well, they. They want you to go together to these things. Someone's gonna say, wheres your mate? And see, I'd have to invent something. Well, I'm not going to do that. I don't make up stories. That's not my way.
(Knocks softly on bathroom door)
Uh look, I'm sorry. Sorry I'm drunk. Sorry I rained on your parade. I know, I know. Don't have to say it. I'm like one of those jerks who dances with his wife maybe once every ten years and has to be shitfaced to do it. I'm clumsy, awkward. I fall over stuff. I don't know how to act. Sure, I admit it. Like a bull in a China shop. All thumbs? Yeah, that's me. A stumbler? A bumbler? You got my number. But you gotta remember, Joan. You picked me. Out of all the women you could have picked, you picked Toni. And, let me tell you, I want to thank you. I know I don't show it so good, but I want you to know it's an honor to be with you. To know people are saying, You see her? That's Toni. Her and that Joan chick got a thing going. They all talk about how Joan is so cool, so reserved, so controlled. And I have to tell you it drives me a little crazy sometimes. Like I don't know how to act around you. I'm like the clang and the bang and the crash on the the edge of your calm. I need your calm. I need you touching me so I know it's okay. I need some rules so I don't act stupid. I don't need someone to stand back and watch me fall on my face and say, Just look at her. That's Toni, that dumb bitch. I'm scared, Joan. I need you. I need you with me. I need you next to me. I need you now.

(Door opens. JOAN enters)

JOAN:

Say. Youre Toni, aren't you?

TONI:

Yeah, that's me. I'm Toni.

JOAN:

Don't you and that Joan chick have something going?

TONI:

Yeah, we sure do. She's some gem.

JOAN:

Thats what I heard. I heard she's a gem. I heard you two are doing the thing tonight.

TONI:

You heard that?

JOAN:

Everyone's heard. Talk of the town. Christmas Eve commitments are special.

TONI:

Yeah. That was Joan's idea. Shes smart that way.

JOAN:

She must be. Well, I just had to come. I hope I'm not late.

TONI:

(Offering arm)
You're right on time. It's just about to start. Grab onto me. I'll escort you in. You'll get the best seat in the house.

JOAN:

Thank you.

TONI:

Oh, say.

JOAN:

Yes?

TONI:

That's a nice dress. Nice shoes too. Real classy.

JOAN:

Thank you.

(They walk together arm in arm. Blackout)

The End

ABOUT A DOG

Years ago, I wrote a short Christmas play for a playwrights group I used to belong to. Every Christmas season, the group put on a holiday festival at the Chance Theater in Anaheim Hills to raise money. So I decided to put my dog Becky in my play as a character. That's Becky in the picture...





Becky's English is pretty limited, so I gave her a non-speaking role. In fact, her character was never to be seen on stage, but only spoken of. Someone later told me that my Becky play would make a good full-length. So, in 2003, I wrote it, and the full-length, entitled A Better Place, made the 2004 O'Neill short list. Not bad, huh?





Anyway, here's the ten-minute. It's called A Dog's Christmas and it was a joy to write...

A DOG'S CHRISTMAS

Cast of Characters

Ali………………Bitch, confrontational, overweight
Artie…………Pug, impressionable, leads with his mouth
Brick…………Akita, tough guy but not a leader
Cyril…………Russian Wolfhound, a thinker, an artist

(Midnight. Animal Shelter. The humans are
all asleep. Four dogs, ARTIE, ALI, BRICK and CYRIL, sitting down to play cards)

ARTIE:

Dja hear about Becky?

BRICK:

Yeah.

ARTIE:

It sucks! It just sucks!

ALI:

What about Becky?

ARTIE:

I tell ya. Chicks get all the breaks.

ALI:

Oh yeah. Lucky us. We get all the breaks.

ARTIE:

It sucks! I mean, it just sucks!

ALI:

I’ll give you sucks. Try nursing seven pups.

CYRIL:

Wha? What’s all this about Becky?

BRICK:

Cyr. I already told you about Becky.

ALI:

It’s no big deal, Cyr. Just some type-A males venting about you know what.

BRICK:

Hey, shut up, Ali.

ALI:

Ooooh, struck a nerve.

ARTIE:

Tell ya, you can’t win. The fix is on. Game over, man.

CYRIL:

No, Brick. I don’t think you told me.

BRICK:

Cyr. I toldja about Becky. I know I did.

CYRIL:

You did? Well. Hmmm. I suppose if you say you did, you did. Guess I just wasn’t listening.

BRICK:

You never listen. Gotta open your ears, big guy.

ALI:

Cut!

ARTIE:

Cut!
(Long silence)
Cut!

BRICK:

Uh Cyr. They want you should cut the cards.

CYRIL:

What? Oh. Yes. Sorry, Artie.

ALI:

Geez, Cyril.

CYRIL:

I really am sorry.

ARTIE:

Willya just hurry up and cut?
(Cyril cuts. Artie grabs the deck and
shuffles and deals. As he shuffles and
deals, ARTIE speaks the following to
no one in particular)
That was a nice kid. A real nice little kid. With a pretty mom. They both had real nice smiles. I wouldda been so. Well shit. What am I thinking?

(They play cards as they talk)

Cyril:

Of whom are we speaking?

ARTIE:

Becky. Who the hell you think we’re talking about?

ALI:

Always blaming the female. Cherchez La Femme.

BRICK:

So the mom and the little kid. Did they stop and look at you?

ARTIE:

They make ‘em look at everybody. Just a formality.

BRICK:

Well, what happened?

ARTIE:

What happened? You wanna know what happened? I’ll tell you what happened! They were passing my cage and I went to my sit position just like I practiced a million times. You know, butt down, head up, eyes alert. I could tell the little boy was impressed. I even tilted my head so I could give him a really intelligent smile. And then you know what Becky does? She wiggles her tush. Jumps around going “Yap, yap, yap” Crouches down on all fours. Rolls over. And her tongue is goin’ a thousand miles a minute. You can’t compete with that! I tell you. Chicks get all the breaks.

BRICK:

Artie. Don’t get upset.

ALI:

It is such a double standard in this place. We’re supposed to be attractive, but when a male wants to strut his stuff, we’re supposed to back away and be invisible. Where’s the justice?

ARTIE:

All I’m asking is a chance.

BRICK:

Didja hear? He’s not asking much, Ali. Just a chance.

ARTIE:

I would be the best dog you ever had. I know I would. Just give me the chance. Please take me home. I will make you happy. I’m Artie. Try me. Please.

BRICK:

Relax, Artie. Take it easy.

CYRIL:

It’s true. Being the dog at someone’s house is a wonderfully unique experience. It was like that for me when I lived with Miss Rosa. What a wonderful woman.

ARTIE:

You see? You see? Even Cyril had a shot. What is wrong with me? What is wrong with this picture?

CYRIL:

Did I say something wrong?

ALI:

Naw. Artie’s a pug. Pugs always whine.

BRICK:

(Stage whisper to CYRIL & ALI)
Listen! Will you two watch it!? Artie’s got five days and if he doesn’t find a home, they’re gonna.
(Pantomimes execution by hanging)
So be nice to him.

(ALI & CYRIL blink, look frightened)

ARTIE:

Hey, Cyril!

CYRIL:

(Making the effort to sound especially
nice. ALI flashes a big smile)
Yes, Artie.

ARTIE:

Just for the record. How dja hook up with Miss Rosa?

BRICK:

Artie. Would you please just relax?

ARTIE:

I am relaxed.

BRICK:

I don’t want you getting upset.

ARTIE:

What are you talking about? I am relaxed, dammit! Very relaxed! Extremely relaxed! I’m just trying to understand some stuff, OK? Just trying to get some clarification.

BRICK:

You’re pissed. I know when you’re.

ARTIE:

I am not pissed!

BRICK:

Yes, you are!

ARTIE:

Hey! Don’t try and psychoanalyze me, OK? Cyril, willya tell me about Miss Rosa? Please.

BRICK:

Don’t tell him, Cyril. It’ll upset him.

ARTIE:

C’mon Cyr. Talk to your buddy Artie.

ALI:

I thought this was a friendly card game. Anyone wanna play cards?

BRICK:

(Growls threateningly)
Cyril.

ARTIE:

Now Brick, you’re starting to piss me off.

CYRIL:

(Getting flustered and nervous)
Brick. What do you want me to do?

BRICK:

Shit! I give up! Just go ahead and do what you damn well want.

ALI:

Don’t you just love how decisive males are? So hands on, take charge?

ARTIE:

Yeah, why doncha butt out, Brick?

BRICK:

OK, screw it then.

ARTIE:

Yeah, just screw it, dumbass.

BRICK:

Right. Screw it.

CYRIL:

Brick. I’m really don’t want you to be mad at me. I didn’t mean.

BRICK:

It’s OK!

CYRIL:

You’re certain.

BRICK:

I said it was OK!

ALI:

Didntja hear him say it was OK? It’s OK. Sheesh!

CYRIL:

OK. Uh, Artie. So what exactly did you want to know?

ARTIE:

I wanna know all the details. And the details behind the details. Like. Where’d Miss Rosa find you?

CYRIL:

Oh, ha ha. It was more like me finding her.

ARTIE:

Say what?

CYRIL:

To put it succinctly, I walked into her yard.

ARTIE:

Walked in? Walked in from where?

BRICK:

His owners dumped him out in the sticks.

CYRIL:

Yes. Sad to say. One day they wanted me. The next day they didn’t.

ARTIE:

Wait a minute. Are you talking about Miss Rosa? I thought you said.

BRICK:

No. Artie. This was before Miss Rosa.

ALI:

(Indicates CYRIL)
Brick. It’s Cyril’s story. Okay?

BRICK:

Well screw it. Everybody’s dumpin’ on me. Guess I’ll just shut up.

ARTIE:

Good plan, asshole.

CYRIL:

It was a young couple. No children. Dual income, no kids. DINKs. And they were away all day.

ARTIE:

They left you alone?

CYRIL:

They’d come back at night. They fought all the time and the woman would drink and kick me.

ARTIE:

You shouldda bit the bitch!

CYRIL:

That’s not my style. To make a long story short, New Year’s Day they were both home. They put me in the car and we went for a ride out on the country roads and.

BRICK:

And they threw him out of the car.

ALI:

(Shivers)
That happened to me, too.

CYRIL:

Brick, it wasn’t exactly like that!

BRICK:

All right, not exactly. They didn’t throw him out. They pushed him out. Then they drove off.

ARTIE:

They did this on New Year’s Day?

CYRIL:

Right after the Rose Bowl.

ALI:

My owners did it to me on Labor Day. I was pregnant.

ARTIE:

The maggots!

CYRIL:

I started walking and I came to a house. And there were chickens in the yard and two skinny cats who hissed at me and a big tom turkey and there was Miss Rosa tossing seeds to the chickens and the turkey. And she turned to me and she said, “Happy New Year, big fella. You look hungry.”

ARTIE:

Awright!

CYRIL:

I wasn’t hungry but I smiled and nodded. She went inside and came back out with the biggest soup bone I ever saw in my life.

ARTIE:

Oh man!

CYRIL:

She never cursed me. She never kicked me. She never scolded me. She always said, “Good boy. Good dog.”

ALI:

My female intuition is kicking in.
(Takes a hanky, dabs her eyes)
I know this is gonna have a sad ending.

ARTIE:

Hey! You wanna put a sock in it? So what happened next?

CYRIL:

One morning I woke up early. I heard the cats in the kitchen. I knew something wasn’t right. I walked in and I saw her there on the floor. The cats already knew she was gone. They were hissing and growling. I told them I was sorry. They rubbed against me and told me they were sorry too. That was the only time those cats ever spoke to me.

BRICK:

Fuckin’ cats!

ALI:

(Sobbing)
That is so sad.

CYRIL:

One of Miss Rosa’s sons came to the house around noon and they took her away.

ARTIE:

I’m sorry, Cyr.

ALI:

(Sobbing)
That is so sad.

CYRIL:

She was a saint. I loved her.
(Tears well up)
She was a saint.

(Long reflective silence. ALI continues to quietly sob)

ARTIE:

Cyr?

CYRIL:

Yes, Artie.

ARTIE:

A good woman like Miss Rosa. Good to dogs. Good to cats. Good to birds.

BRICK:

Fuckin’ birds!

ARTIE:

Do you think she’s you know. Somewhere? Out there?

CYRIL:

Artie. I have no doubt she’s up there looking down on us right now.

ARTIE:

Really?

CYRIL:

I believe a virtuous life is rewarded.

ARTIE:

Wow. So. So. Are you including uh. You know. Dogs in this?

CYRIL:

There are virtuous dogs. Just like there are virtuous humans. And virtuous cows.

BRICK:

Fuckin’ cows!

ARTIE:

Cyril.

CYRIL:

Yes, Artie.

ARTIE:

Do you think?

CYRIL:

You’re a good dog, Artie. You’re a shoo-in.

The End

MAYBE MOHAMMED WILL GO TO CHICAGO...

Ahhhh. Another nice ego-booster out of the blue. This time from the n.u.f.a.n. ensemble. They're out of Chicago. They hold a lively playwrighting competition every year. And look who made the semi-finalist list this year. Little ole Dale!



I've been really busy lately trying to shake off my writer's block and get my screenplay done. Haven't thought much about Mohammed's Moon. I wrote it in 2005-6 for the South Coast Repertory Practicum and we had a nice reading of it on the Nicholas Stage. My teacher, the playwright Cecilia Fannon, said of it:



You know? The way I see it, it doesn't matter if it never again gets read or produced. The good opinion of Cecilia Fannon is enough. And that she read it not once but twice. That's the ultimate compliment.

PANNDORA COMES CALLING

Another nice ego-booster.

Panndora Productions (which is ramrodded by two brilliant ladies, Sonja Berggren & Karen Wray) emailed me.



Looks like they might do The Best Years Of Her Life in July.

What would be really cool is if they decided to produce it. They did such a great job with Three Tall Women. And my play was inspired by the Albee play.

One can hope!

A TEAM PLAYER - a short play about a murder/suicide...

A Team Player is based loosely on a murder/suicide incident in Mountain Lakes, New Jersey. It was expanded into a full-length in 2007.

A Team Player was fun to write. It flowed out of me like a river. It got readings and productions in 2004, 2005 and 2006. It won a playwrighting award up in Canada.

The best production was in Columbus, Ohio, in 2005 by Madlab. Michelle Batt was the director. Cindy Frazzini, Jim Azelvandre and Robert Stretch performed their parts wonderfully. They got a fine review in the local paper:

Character Breakdown

Cop..............................male, twenty-something
Maddie..................................female, early 40s
Henry.......................................male, early 60s

Technical Requirements

Police uniform, wheelchair, softball bat, softball, 2 softball mitts

(Bare stage. COP standing. Behind him, HENRY,
MADELINE and wheelchair)

COP:

At ten in the morning, Madeline wheeled Henry out to the swimming pool. Like so.
(As he describes, MADELINE & HENRY come
forward and demonstrate)
Positioned him on the pool deck at the deep end. Like so. Eased herself onto his lap, strapped herself in. She used one of those expandable belts,



running it under the seat and pulling it tight, securing it over her thighs, like so. Then she switched the motor on and they drove into the pool. They sank together.
(MADELINE & HENRY retreat upstage)
The coroner took one look. No sign of forced entry, no sign of violence. Called it murder/suicide. First murder in this town in fifty-one years. I grew up next door to Henry. I recall before Madeline, there was another woman. Then one day, the other woman was gone.
(Beat)
Dad and I were in the back playing catch. And there was Madeline, doing stretching exercises. I said in my six year old voice, Are you the new mommy?

MADELINE:

Yep, that's me, little guy. I'm the new mommy.

COP:

She had a terrific laugh. She was really tall. And when she bent over to shake my hand, I thought I caught the scent of the ocean.

MADELINE:

Nice handshake. He's gonna be a little toughie.

COP:

My Dad said, Yup. He's my little baseball player. She gave me her sweatband.

MADELINE:

All real ballplayers have sweatbands.

COP:

I thought, Wow! No one had ever given me a sweatband before. She grinned. Great grin. Then she scrunched down next to me.

MADELINE:

When a lady gives a little boy a sweatband, that's a sign of a special friend. Are you going to be my special friend?

COP:

Sure. You bet And every year, until I was eighteen, I got a birthday present from Madeline and Henry. It was always from Madeline and Henry. Never the other way around. And it was always athletic gear. Like when I was ten, I got a chest protector. I was second string catcher on my Little League team. I noticed right away with the chest protector, I got more innings behind the plate. I started noticing Madeline at my games. Occasionally, Henry came with her. But usually, it was Madeline by herself. She always sat alone and she always watched the whole game. Not like the moms and dads who only watched when their kid was out there. Sometimes I'd get a note. Never signed, but I knew who it was from.

MADELINE:

Choke up, Benjamin, stop swinging for the fences. Benjamin, keep the ball in front of you. Use your knee, Benjamin, use your knee to block the plate.

COP:

She came to my football and basketball games too. Including the big game against Immaculata. Mom and Dad weren't there. But Madeline was. Right at courtside. I'm matched up against a big dummy. I'm eating him alive. His coach's giving him hell. Suddenly, five minutes into the second half, I'm on the floor bleeding from my forehead. Blood in my eye blinding me. I feel Madeline pulling me to my feet.

MADELINE:

Flagrant foul! Eject him, ref! Get that hoodlum off the court!

COP:

The ref hits our bench with a technical because of Madeline. Their coach comes at me and Madeline. I hear her saying.

MADELINE:

Keep coming, I'll drop you like a bag of dirt!

COP:

Meanwhile, my guy's at midcourt snickering like a typical Catholic asshole.

MADELINE:

Number eight marked you. You better mark him back or he wins. Doesn't matter if you scored twenty-seven to his five. He wins if you don't mark him.

COP:

I can't do that.

MADELINE:

Then you're a coward. Do you want to be a coward?

COP:

She gives me a hard shove. At which point my instincts basically take over. I know I got to him. I know I took him down. I know I got my ass kicked. We forfeited the game. I got booted off the team. My Mom cried. My Dad bellyached about how I ruined my chances of getting into Rice or Duke. I didn't care. I wasn't exactly Rice or Duke material. The next day, we're at Neil Homedale's house down in his basement. With my teammates listening in, I called Immaculata. Uh hi, this is number twenty-four, Mountain Lakes High? Would you please tell that dogass number eight, if he wants his front teeth, he can pick them up at twenty-one Hanover Road. Go Lakers! Damn, that felt good!

HENRY:

Damn it all! Damn it all to hell! What do you do when it gets to a point where everything stagnates? Where everyone's in a deep funk? Where nothing seems to advance with a purpose? You ask yourself, is this what it's all about? Is this as good as it gets? You recall how you used to look forward to each dawn as a fresh miracle.



Now, you just want it to end. Because you're too numb and burnt out to care anymore. Maddie was twenty-two. I was forty. She had gorgeous eyes. The first thing she did was knock me down. She was incredible. She was. Well, let's just say she was in a higher league. She was a friend of a friend. She came with Danny Benes' sister, Lynnie. Lynnie and Maddie had this dog-walking business. People too busy to walk their dogs hired Maddie and Lynnie. And speaking of dogs, it was the dog days of August, 1984. Early evening. Sokol versus Scores for the league fastpitch trophy. Sokol's a Czech social club. I'm Czech. Proud of it. Scores is this sports bar that sponsors a team. For a bunch of fat drunks, they're not bad. It was a tough game. Final score, twelve to nine, us. I crushed everything in sight. Four for four. Two doubles. Two home runs. Six ribbies. Read 'em and weep. Afterwards, we all headed back to Scores for the post-game bash. You know the saying. Losers cry. Losers buy. Lynnie sits next to me. "You and Danny had a great game." Her brother Danny went two for four. Lynnie introduces us. "Maddie, this is Henry Slezak. He tells everyone hes a bigshot Republican attorney. So be nice to him, maybe he'll let us walk Reagan's dog." Maddie's sitting directly across the table. I grin. Yeah, I heard about you guys. Walking dogs for Yuppies. Talk about a scam.

MADELINE:

It's not a scam. We do it all. We bathe. We groom. We babysit. Tell all your rich Republican clients.

HENRY:

Do these Yuppies ever actually get to see their dogs?

MADELINE:

'Course they do.

HENRY:

Well, I'm just a simple attorney. Don't have time for a dog. So what did you think of my four for four?

MADELINE:

You were pretty good.

HENRY:

Pretty good? Whaddaya mean? I had an MVP night.

MADELINE:

Their pitcher wasn't exactly making you work.

HENRY:

What are you talking about? He could bring it.

MADELINE:

His pitches had "hit me" written all over them.

HENRY:

Say what?!?

MADELINE:

Hitting is timing. Pitching is upsetting timing. There was no movement on his ball.

HENRY:

I suppose you could do better.

MADELINE:

Better than him.

HENRY:

Tell you something, Lynnie. You got a helluva partner here. She's got some balls. Lynnie giggles. I turn back to Maddie, I bet you couldn't.

MADELINE:

I know I could. I could dust you on two pitches.

HENRY:

Dust me? Youre gonna dust me?!? You hear that, Danny? Bright Eyes here says she can dust me. Danny rolls his eyes. Tell you what, Bright Eyes. If you can dust me, I'll buy you the best steak in town. Just name the time and place.

MADELINE:

First of all, my name isn't Bright Eyes. Secondly, I don't eat steak. But you can buy me a salmon fillet.

HENRY:

You mean, if you dust me.

MADELINE:

I mean, when I dust you.

HENRY:

So how about let's do it right here? Outside?

MADELINE:

You are really pushing it.

HENRY:

That's what I'm good at, pushing it. Okay, winner crows, loser owes. She shakes, strong handshake. I get a bat, two softballs. We gather in the alley behind Scores. Half the people in the bar come out. We pace it off, a piece of cardboard for a plate. I flip her the softballs. Here you go, Bright Eyes, two balls, two pitches. I settle into my crusher stance. She has her game face on, staring me down. For the first time, I focus on the whole Maddie. Inside, it was across a table covered with beer steins, the air thick with smoke. I see she's about five ten, long straight black hair, long legs, long arms, giving me a Sparky Lyle smirk. I give her my Thurman Munson scowl. I spit. She winds up, strides and releases. A riser toward the middle of the plate letter high. Looks easy. I stride into it, beginning my swing, just as it leaps up and flashes past my chin. I pick myself off the asphalt, you trying to kill me?

MADELINE:

Oh gee sorry. Guess it slipped.

HENRY:

Want me to move closer? Make it easier for you?

MADELINE:

You just worry about your hitting, Slugger.

HENRY:

I dig in. Her back to me now. She's holding the ball up to her face, talking to it. Then she turns, gives me an Al Hrabosky Mad Hungarian glare. I counter with my Gary Carter unflappable grin. I'm thinking, she jammed me last time, she's setting me up for the outside corner. She nods,winds up, strides, a little crouch just before she releases. The ball starts out low, rising quickly and heading toward the outside corner of the plate. Aha! Just as I guessed. But, as I shift my body, it tails inside and kind of drops. I pop up weakly to the mound. She one-hands it.

MADELINE:

I'll have that salmon cajun style.

HENRY:

Damn! Was she ever good!

MADELINE:

Damn you, Henry Slezak. Damn you! Damn you! Damn you! No! No, wait. Stop. I didn't mean that. I take it back. I don't want you damned. At bottom, you're as good a man in your way as there has ever been. A wonderful provider. A wonderful lover. A wonderful companion. And a very stubborn man. The word no is not in your lexicon. Does not compute. You bought a dog. Twice a week, you knocked on my door with some canine issue. I said, no, go away. Then the gifts started coming. Gift after gift after gift. I said no, no, no. Take them away. Then you camped on my doorstep. I said, go away. But I had to let you in or you would have caught pneumonia out there. The gifts kept coming. I kept saying no, but you broke me. You're a big attorney. You know how to break people.

HENRY:

I want you on my team, Bright Eyes. We'll be world class.

MADELINE:

World class. You like that term.

HENRY:

So tell me. What's it gonna take to add you to the Henry Slezak roster?
(He hands her a pen and a pad)
Here, go ahead. You write a number. Then I'll write a number. Then we'll compare, see if we're in the ballpark.

MADELINE:

Ballpark. Another favorite Henry Slezak term. Then you divorced your wife.

HENRY:

(Holds up a thick legal document)
Look, Bright Eyes. The settlement agreement. I cut Candace from the squad. She's a free agent now.
(Turns to the last page)
See that number? That's what it cost to buy out her contract. You wanna know something? I would have paid ten times that amount because.

MADELINE:

Because you were resolved to clarify your life, bring the essential things into sharp focus. You said you were intent on clearing out.

HENRY:

Clearing out the clutter. Clearing out the chaos. I need to revive. Renew. Refresh. Rejuvenate. You're worth the investment, Bright Eyes, because you.

MADELINE:

Because I represent simplicity. Your word, Henry. You were so sure you had me caught in your web. So sure of yourself. So sure of your purpose. And you were right. Who could resist you?

HENRY:

(Takes folded sheet of paper from pocket.
Unfolds it. Hands it to her)
The prenuptual agreement. Hereinafter called, The Agreement. Everyone's using them these days. And they're a good thing. Think of it like a contract to play for a team. Defines your relationship to the team. Outlines your.

MADELINE:

Outlines my duties and responsibilities as a member of the team. Specifies the rules and guidelines of the game.

HENRY:

The ump doesnt say work ball. He says play ball. K. I. S. S. Keep it simple. You got a question, go to the Agreement. Read the guidelines. Read the rules. It keeps things simple. Lets you focus on the game.

MADELINE:

I must admit, I like rules.

HENRY:

Rules are what separate us from the animals.

MADELINE:

Break the rules, suffer the consequences.

HENRY:

Do the crime. Do the time.

MADELINE:

Should Pete Rose be inducted into the Hall? Absolutely not! He broke the rules!

HENRY:

Exactly!

MADELINE:

(Reads)
The parties to this marriage have discussed their future plans and desires relating to having/adopting children. Both parties hereby acknowledge they shall not have/adopt children once married. This provision is based upon an analysis of the parties present and anticipated family structure, financial situation and the lifestyle the parties anticipate having.
(He gives her a pen. She signs)
Of course I signed. And the next fifteen years were absolute heaven. Trips to Southeast Asia, East Africa, Peru, the Galapagos Islands, Sweden, Antarctica. Receptions at the White House with President Reagan and President Bush. My Henry, the big VIP, the donor, the political fundraiser. A man to be stroked and treated with respect. I on his arm, tall and thin and bright-eyed, basking in his glory. I could feel heads turning. Could you feel them, Henry? But time passes. That's what time does. You're not forty-one anymore. Three strokes in three years. 1999. 2000. 2001. Ding dong. Ding dong. Ding dong. Like a giant tolling bell. You're dead, Henry. The cupboard is bare. I feel empty, drained, sucked dry. Somewhere it says you're immortal through your daughters and your sons, but Maddie doesn't even have a dog. Because youre allergic to dander, Henry. I pretended the boy next door was mine. I celebrated his birthdays, his graduations, his Bar Mitsvah. I watched him grow. When he graduated from the Police Academy, I almost choked. I almost lost it. I almost said, I'm so proud of you, son.
(Beat)
So it's down to you and me, Henry. No regrets except it was much too short a season. But we made a heck of a team, didn't we? Winners. You know what they say about winners. You don't break up a winning team. Look what happened to the Sox after they sold Babe Ruth. But damn you, Henry Slezak! Damn you!

COP:

Damn, you should see it! Town's filling up. Hotel's packed. Funeral's at one. Henry was a mover and a shaker, lots of bigwigs and high mucky-mucks paying their respects. People from the Reagan and first Bush administrations. And because of how he died, the media is here. The whole Department's on overtime. I hadn't seen Madeline for over a year. My job took up all my time. Even so, every now and then I'd get a snippet of information about her. People said after Henry's first stroke she pretty much kept indoors. She insisted on taking care of him personally. But, at the end, I saw that same attention to detail she used to apply to my batting stance. She was meticulous. Every bill paid off in full. The insurance policies laid out on the dining room table covered with post-it notes. A handwritten note directing that Romans chapter five and A Mighty Fortress be included in the funeral ceremony. Madeline's people were Lutherans.
(Lights up on a small table on which there's a
package. COP goes to package, opens it. takes
out letter, scans letter as he says the following)
Then a FedEx to me from an attorney firm. Inside, a short letter noticing me of two trust funds, each amounting to $10,000.00, set up for any children I may have. At the bottom of the letter, in Madeline's familiar script, the following: Remember, Benjamin, you are immortal through your daughters and your sons.
(Long pause)
Well, damn it all.



(Blackout)

Tags:
Dale Andersen
theatre
playwright
baseball
tragedy
Theatre In The Raw
Dragonfly Festival
The Darien Players
MadLab Theatre
FirstStage
Vanguard Theatre
The Best Years Of Her Life

THE COOLEST PLACE IN NEW JERSEY

Mountain Lakes is where I used to live. It's an hour by train from Midtown. Delightful place. Deer and turkeys wander through your back yard. Cardinals build nests in your bushes.

There's a small library next to the Post Office. Very homey. Very folksy. In there you'll find a copy of my award-winning short play, Team Player.

Team Player, an award-winning 10-minute play

Publish at Scribd or explore others: Fiction & Literature eBooks suicide murder

Team Player is based loosely on a murder-suicide in Mountain Lakes in 1997. Here's a news article about it:

SYMPATHETIC COP CAN'T BRING HIMSELF TO CALL IT MURDER

Every town should have Charlie McCoy as its police chief, not just Mountain Lakes. He's this silver-haired, professorial-looking guy, a sort of Steve Martin with brains, whose idea of law enforcement includes stopping by to talk flowers with old residents like Betty Schell. He had been doing that for nearly 30 years, ever since he was a rookie, because Betty knew flowers and was willing to help McCoy get his own garden in Boonton in shape. He says he knew Betty well. ''The last time I saw her, I bumped into her at the Foodtown a couple of weeks ago. She was, well, it's hard to explain, she was just a bundle of nervous energy. Like a bee flitting from one thing to the next.'' He uses his hand, darting back and forth, to show what he means. ''She had something important to do and not a lot of time to do it.'' McCoy asked about Emil, her husband, and Betty smiled and said he was doing well.''Just fine,'' he remembers her saying. He also remembers thinking that was sad because Emil wasn't fine. He was 82 years old and he had had three strokes in three years and his strong body and mathematician's mind were gone. About the same time, Dean Mackey found this in the mail: a copy of a deed to two cemetery plots in Hiram, Ohio, a map of the cemetery with the site of the plots marked and a note in Betty Schell's hand. ''Please put this in our folder,'' the note read, according to Mackey, who runs the Mackey Funeral Home, just a few hundred feet from the Foodtown where McCoy last met Betty Schell. He remembers not making too much of the note. His parents and the Schells were friends, and over the years, she would talk about what she wanted and didn't want. There was a folder with very general notes about a funeral.

The Friday before last, Mackey and McCoy met at the Schells' house on Laurel Hill. McCoy got the call about 7 p.m. and had one of his people call Mackey. Instructions, written out by Betty, were left to do that. Neither man will talk about what he saw in the swimming pool or just how a tiny 80-year-old woman managed to strap both herself and Emil in Emil's wheelchair and push the thing into the pool where they both drowned. What they will talk about is what McCoy calls ''the sense of completion'' he found inside the big, beautiful brick house on Laurel Hill. McCoy and his cops and investigators from the Morris County Prosecutor's Office spent four hours in the house. They found not a mote of dust, not a shred of lint, not a smudge, nothing. Dishes were washed and put away. The laundry had been done and folded into closets and drawers. Books and old photographs were dusted and aligned perfectly on shelves. Garden tools had been cleaned and stored. On the dining room table were several small piles of paper, neatly stacked. These were the notes and instructions Betty Schell had left, very detailed, complete with who to call and when and what to say. ''She let us know she was sorry to put us through a lot of trouble,'' says McCoy. ''They had a full and complete life and they were leaving it the way they wanted to. They were leaving it in a way that would cause the least amount of trouble for their relatives and friends.'' Instructions to Mackey were explicit. No funeral was to be held. Instead she wanted friends to gather for a ''time of remembrance.'' Their ashes would be buried near Hiram College, where Betty Woods and Emil Schell met as students nearly 60 years ago. ''She was the sweetest person I knew,'' says McCoy. ''I'll miss her, but I try to be philosophical. I think they were happy to leave together.'' McCoy doesn't buy the ruling from the Morris County Medical Examiner's Office that what happened was a murder-suicide. He knew Betty and Emil well enough to know they communicated. ''What they did, they did together.''

For my story, I changed some things. I made her a trophy wife half his age and I put him in the government working for George Bush. But I kept a lot of things the way they were. And I kept the cop. He has a big role, an interesting one.

The play got a number of productions and readings. Two years ago, someone said it would make a good full-length. So, last September, I wrote the full-length. It's called The Best Years Of Her Life.

************************

Believe it or not, Mountain Lakes is also a term, as in "that girl is sooo mountain lakes." Don't believe me? The Urban Dictionary has an entry:


...a small, snobby, rich, white, preppy suburb of new york that no one has ever heard of. It is filled with big houses and beautiful, rich, bitchy white girls who enjoy shopping. The boys are beautiful as well. If you don't have the newest model of bmw/mercedes/lexus when you get your license, you are looked down on. These rich kids think they can get away with whatever they want so they smoke pot, a lot, even at school....they're pretty smart. They store morphine in their lockers, and have any drug imaginable ready at hand because their parents give them the money to buy it. Beiruit's the name, drinking's the game. On any given night you can find the teenagers, and parents, playing this classic game in their basements. Tournaments are frequent and last up to 12 hours. This small town as an exceptional sports program for having such limited choices of players. Lacrosse players are gods and everyone plays lacrosse, if you don't you are killed. Most live here all their lives, so one has the same friends from when they are two years old, until they die because most return when starting their own families. The high school is made up of mountain lakers, boonton townshipers, and a bunch of deaf kids. yes, deaf kids. This results in most of the high school population knowing sign language. it's awesome. You could probably count the minority race population of the high school on one hand. In fact, there was an article in the new york times about the lack of diversity in mountain lakes. This town is great if you like small towns where everyone knows everything about you, especially what you did last night. If you like privacy, i don't recommend living here...

person #1-"she is so mountain lakes."

person #2-"ohhhh that's why she is so gorgeous, rich, and bitchy."

person #1-"i want to be her"

Other than money, academics, recreational drugs and drinking, the big thing in Mountain Lakes is the Herd, the high school football team. Coach Wilkins is a legend. Just won his 300th game. The cool thing to do is to support the team by wearing their gear. Another thing is to take your expensive video equipment to the game and film the Herd kicking ass.

When you live there, you can't help yourself. Everyone ends up being a Herd fanatic. Even moi.

Oh, speaking of kicking ass, here's the Herd's 2008 record, so far:



Not bad for wimpy, pasty-white rich kids, huh? And by the way, about that last game against Glen Rock? The Herd won, 35-21, at Giants Stadium. How cool is that?

If you suck at football, play lacrosse. That's the other stud sport. Face it. You can't look any cooler than this:



Mountain Lakes. That's where I lived. So the next time you fly over Northern New Jersey, wave. They'll wave back. Unless they're busy playing beruit. Or whatever.