I wrote this letter-to-the-editor to the OC Metro in 2004 in response to an article on Paul Folino's fund-raising endeavors to benefit the South Coast Repertory Theatre.
The letter, in retrospect, was probably too snarky and certainly too bitchy. But the point was (and is) valid.
Theatres like the SCR will survive. They have the support of the community bigwigs who will always give to "The Arts" because they want to appear cultured and refined, even when they're not.
But the struggling small theatrical entities will always remain under your basic OC billionaire's radar. I'm talking about the theatres that operate out of storefronts in the inner city. Theatres where the members of the company work for no pay.
These are the ones who take the risks and carry on for the love of the art. But nothing is forever. And sadly, when one of them gives up the ghost, nobody seems to notice, or care.
We have maybe eleven theatres that do live stage in the OC. We used to have twelve, but the Rude Guerrilla just shut its doors. The landlord raised the rent and...well, you get the picture.
It happens. It's too bad when it does. I'll miss it. RIP, RG.
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.....
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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...
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.
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.
Dan Acre got a production of his hilarious play, "Wasted." Except it's not "Wasted" anymore. It's "Dirty Laundry." The theater people made him change the title. Because of the drug and alcohol connotations. Go figure.
Dan's a true artist. He writes, he versifies, he critiques, he pontificates, he carouses, he regales, he consumes. He's even been known to doodle. Here's a self-portrait:
As for Dirty Laundry, it's the touching story of a boy and his dog.... No, actually, it's about four marginal characters, Uncle Roy, Dort, Jimbo & Smith living in a kind of group house. They pool their Social Security and Veterans' Benefits for booze and hookers. As the first scene opens, Denice the Hooker is getting ready to do her thing when, out of the blue, Uncle Roy's nephew Kenny shows up to upset the apple cart....
KENNY: Does she live here too?
SMITH: No, Kenny.
UNCLE ROY: Oh man.
DENICE: I ain't doing no kid, if that's what you're thinking.
DORT: He's only going to watch. No harm in that.
DENICE: No. The kid's got to leave, or else I will.
UNCLE ROY: Alright. Kenny, go wait outside in the yard.
KENNY: What are you going to do?
JIMBO: Nothing. Go outside.
DENICE: No. He'll be looking through the window. He needs to go, go.
KENNY: Come on. What's the big secret?
JIMBO: Jeez, you're dumb. She's a whore. Now go away and come back in an hour.
DENICE: I don't like being called that. Don't call me that.
DORT: Don't call her that, Jimbo.
KENNY: You're really a whore?
DENICE: That's it. See you later.
(Denice tosses the envelope back onto the counter and exits.)
JIMBO: Wait! You're not a whore!
DORT: Yes she is.
JIMBO: Roy, do something!
UNCLE ROY: What can I do?
(Jimbo runs to the door.)
JIMBO: Denice! Come back! Come on, baby!
SMITH: She's gone.
KENNY: She got mad when you called her a whore.
JIMBO: God damn it!
DORT: Jimbo wants to marry her.
JIMBO: I do not.
SMITH: Next month, Jimbo.
JIMBO: What if she doesn't come back?
UNCLE ROY: She'll come back. Next month.
JIMBO: But what if she doesn't?
DORT: Yeah. She might not, Jimbo. Ever. You'll never have a woman again.
UNCLE ROY: We'll find another one if we have to.
KENNY: Was she really a whore?
DORT: What do you think?
JIMBO: The kid bugged her. Made her leave.
KENNY: I didn't know.
JIMBO: We told you to leave and you wouldn't. You scared her off.
KENNY: She didn't look scared. Who was she going to do it with?
SMITH: It's alright, Jimbo. Let's just have a drink.
DORT: All of us.
KENNY: Really? She'd let you?
DORT: Yeah. We share everything. Like a commune. We're communists. She would have screwed you, too, if we gave her enough money.
KENNY: Really? I wouldn't screw her.
JIMBO: Why not?
KENNY: She's a whore.
DORT: Are you crazy? A whore's the perfect woman. She leaves when you're done with her, and she doesn't ask for alimony.
(Uncle Roy picks up the envelope.)
UNCLE ROY: Uh oh!
JIMBO: What?
UNCLE ROY: She took the money.
JIMBO: Oh that bitch! Oh god damn it!
SMITH: Jesus Christ.
DORT: I guess she won't be coming back. (Sings) I tried to love you, But you stole all my money, Yodel-aye-he-heee-heee-hoooo. (Stops singing) Hey, that's a good lyric! Quick, Jimbo, find one of your crayons and write that down.
JIMBO: Roy, how could you let this happen!
UNCLE ROY: That was booze money, too.
SMITH: Not again!
(Smith goes to the kitchen and looks through the cupboards.)
JIMBO: We're broke?
UNCLE ROY: Almost. You guys said "Let's get Denice tonight, Roy." I tried to tell you.
DORT: Ain't no woman worth being sober over. Shit.
JIMBO: It's the kid's fault.
KENNY: I didn't do it!
DORT: Yeah you did.
SMITH: Almost out of food, too.
JIMBO: Roy, what's with him anyway? What's he doing here?
DORT: He's a queer, Jimbo.
KENNY: I am not.
DORT: He's gonna touch your scrotum when you're sleeping.
JIMBO: He better not!
(Smith goes through the house, trying to straighten up the mess.)
UNCLE ROY: Come on, come on. Who needs another beer? Jimbo, you good?
JIMBO: Yeah. But it ain't right, Roy.
UNCLE ROY: Let it go. Kenny, what are you doing here? Are you in trouble?
JIMBO: He just might be queer. Said he wouldn't want to screw a girl. I can't see why he wouldn't want to. Any normal kid would.
DORT: Yep. The kid's a queer, Jimbo. Because of you.
JIMBO: That's bullshit, Dort.
KENNY: Well, I'm not in trouble, really. I was driving to Florida when I ran out of gas. And I'm not a queer.
DORT: You've got a car? Jimbo, he's got a car!
JIMBO: We need a car.
"Dirty Laundry," developed in Cecilia Fannon's class at the South Coast Repertory Practicum, will play at Stages Theatre in Fullerton, from July 11 to August 16.
STAGEStheatre 400 E Commonwealth Ave. Fullerton Ca. 92832 714-525-4484 Stagesoc@stagesoc.org
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.
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.
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 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.
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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.
In 2004, The University of Idaho held a playwrighting contest. The contest was to write a monologue about this guy named Bobby. And they gave out a back-story. And you could use all of it or a part of it or make up your own. Here is the back-story they gave us. I used some of it:
--Bobby was born in 1968.
--Bobby's mother is deceased, along with a younger brother and sister. Car crash in the desert.
--Bobby's father lives "somewhere in California." They don't talk.
--Bobby has a great sense of humor, terrifically sharp and engaging personality, but it's all "smoke 'n mirrors."
--Bobby likes history, appreciates the idea that where we come from informs us on who we are.
--Bobby doesn't like riding in cars.
--Bobby keeps a journal; the journal is called "Old Faithful."
--Bobby shops almost exclusively online, spends way too much money on books and music.
--Bobby likes to sit in coffee shops.
--Bobby once smashed all the mirrors in the house.
--Bobby decided to return to school last year, to study "something he cares about this time." Bobby attends a state university somewhere in the Midwest.
--Bobby is a veteran of the Persian Gulf War in 1991. Was injured while stationed overseas. Since the injury, and largely because of Bobby's attitude toward it, Bobby has become a "quiet observer," choosing to remain on the subjective sidelines of life.
--Bobby dreams of dancing, of falling in love, of being "included."
--Bobby always feels like an outsider.
--Bobby spent two weeks last year at the Grand Canyon.
--Bobby likes white wine.
--Bobby cannot stay in a relationship very long.
Okay. Now for my monologue. I chose Kent State for the University he's attending.
Oh, by the way, I didn't win anything. I don't care. I still think mine is pretty good...
(It is night. BOBBY enters. He walks with a cane)
It was right here. On this spot. Right here in the parking lot outside Prentice Hall. Blood everywhere. Someone said, so much blood pouring out, it was like someone tipped over a bucket. They shot thirteen kids. Four were dying. And right here on this spot. One of them. Jeff Miller by name. Age twenty. Dying. Blood pouring from a hole in his face. And. And then this fourteen year old hippy chick comes out of nowhere. Mary. Mary Vecchio. Fourteen year old runaway. And she kneels down next to him and screams, “Someone, help him, he’s dying!” And. And someone else with a camera snaps a picture of Mary and Jeff. And suddenly. Suddenly! The whole world knows about Kent State. Neil Young sees the picture and writes a hit protest song
This summer I hear the drummin' Four dead in O'-hi-o
Americans shooting Americans. Unfuckingbelievable. I swear I could never do that. God help me, I could not!
(Pause)
I get visits. Army buds. Doug Duhaime comes by. He lives in Akron. He was my sergeant. 23rd Engineers. Yeah. Go, Thunder Echo. We kicked some major ass. Doug stops by just to see how Ole Bobby’s doing back in school. I show him how I can walk all right.
(Indicates his cane)
And hey, if I can walk, I can make it with the ladies, okay? He says, so where’re the chicks? I say, so I’m between relationships, okay? And I take him here. I show him this spot. Right here. And I say, it should not be forgotten. It was one of the bleakest moments in our country's history. It was a terrible, terrible thing, and we need to keep the story alive. Doug just rolls his eyes and goes, yeah yeah. Army. Best people in the world. They’ll do anything for you. But sometimes they just don’t see the big picture. I mean, they don’t see the consequences. Not taking anything away from Doug. He was a great sergeant. We’d be in a jam and he’d say, okay people, listen up. I got an announcement. We're not gonna die. We got a Plan Bravo, and if that don’t work, we got a Plan Charlie. After that, we die. He cracked us up. Doug got me out of there alive. God bless him. Go Army. See, it’s all part of a plan. I really believe that. See, somewhere out there, I got a brother. When I was little, Mom would rock me in her arms and tell me about my secret brother. She didn’t know his name or where he lived. When they take your baby away, they don’t tell you nothing. She promised me someday we’d find him and it would be like he never left. She talked about him a lot. It was like a hole was ripped in her soul. Poor Mom. She was too young to take care of a baby. She was a runaway. She swore me to secrecy. It was our secret. Just the two of us. See, I was her favorite. Except for him maybe. And I never told anyone. Not Sean or Sara or Dad. Then, one day, she went away and left me here all alone. I was with Dad in California and she was driving the car across country with Sean and Sara to meet up with us. Somewhere past Las Vegas she fell asleep and went off the road. I miss her a lot. One of those stars up there is her. That one right there.
(Takes test tube from pocket. Uncorks top and raises it in salute)
Hi Mom. You keeping everyone in line up there?
(Drinks)
Chardonnay. It was her favorite. I promised Mom I’d find him. I hope he’s like Doug Duhaime. You know, tough but with a heart of gold. I’d like an older brother. I surely would.
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