A Play in One Act
Cast of Characters (in order of appearance)
JOE: Except for his name — and his penchant for quasi-philosophical musings — just your average … Joe.
THE DIRECTOR: Faceless, but not entirely nameless.
THE ASSHOLE: ’nuff said!
GALILEO: As his name suggests, he’s Italian.
MRS. STEVENS: A sadistic piano teacher.
Scene
Varies. Unless otherwise noted, transitions between scenes should be as seamless as possible.
Time
The present.
Setting
Props that are obvious as props.
At Rise
Open on Scene 1.
(Scene 1) The Welcome
(Lights go up on a stage with a minimal set: desk with papers spread around, mirror on back wall. A door, obviously fake, is painted on one wall. A portable chalkboard is at hand. Joe is seated at the desk, his profile to the audience. He’s busy writing, editing, re-writing. He stops, apparently satisfied. He stands, steps toward the mirror, checks his appearance, pauses. Notices something in the reflection. Turns to the audience and speaks.)
JOE
You again!
(Moves downstage center)
I thought I …
(Sternly)
Wait right there.
(Returns to desk, consults papers)
That’s what I thought! That’s what I thought! I wrote you out of the last version of this script! You’re not supposed to be here! Where’s the director? Lesley!
DIRECTOR
(From offstage)
What?
JOE
Did you get that last script rewrite I sent you?
(Silence)
Lesley?
(Silence)
JOE
These people aren’t supposed to be here, Lesley.
DIRECTOR
(Still offstage)
It’s not my problem!
JOE
Shit. Well, I can’t exactly ask you to leave now, can I? I mean, it wouldn’t reflect all that well on me, would it? Or on the director …
(Sarcastically)
But why the hell should I care about her? She’s not even working with the right script!
No, we’ll just have to make do. One of life’s little surprises, I suppose you could say. You know, you think you’re alone and … BAM! … suddenly you’ve got a group of would-be critics plopped down right in front of you.
I hope you didn’t actually pay to get in here?!
Well, under the circumstances — with all of you on board as “stowaways,” so to speak — we’ll just have to improvise. Sort of like rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic. Okay, let’s have another go at it, shall we?
Lesley, could you bring the house lights down briefly, please? Thank you.
(Returns to desk as lights go down, music from intro briefly comes up, fades as lights come back up. As before, Joe busies himself with writing. Finishes. As before, he seems content. Stands, goes through same spiel in front of mirror. Finally turns to audience, smiling warmly, obviously adopting a “false” character.)
Hello. And welcome. I’m glad you showed up tonight. I was expecting you. Or rather: I was hoping you’d be here. I wrote the script with you in mind, you know. Oh, yes. In fact, I even gave you a major, albeit non-speaking, role. And here you are, right on cue. Yes sir, here you are. And I … well, I simply couldn’t be happier.
(Returns to desk, turns to face audience, long pause)
Let’s cut the crap, shall we? I can’t keep up that saccharine role for the entire play. Besides, it’s not what I wrote anyway. At least, not the last version of what I wrote. And we’re all entitled to a little rewrite now and then, aren’t we? I mean, where would we be if we couldn’t change our minds?
(Pause)
I’ll tell you where we’d be: stuck right in the middle of somebody else’s goddamn play, that’s where we’d be! And that’s NOT going to happen here. Not tonight. Not in this scene, anyway! Even if it did get started off on the wrong foot.
(Pause)
(Scene 2) The Apology
JOE
I’m sorry. I mean, here we are already several minutes into this thing, and I haven’t even properly introduced myself.
(Approaches a member of the audience, pause)
May I? Thanks. … “Average Joe”? “Just your average Joe”? What’s with this? No matter. It’s not all that important. I mean, I could be you. Or you. Or you. (Well, maybe not you.) Anyway, my point is, I could just as easily be down there and you could be up here. After all, from where you’re sitting, here is there and there is here, right? So, you see, there really is no difference here anyway. Structurally speaking. Between you and me. Or at least between the spaces we happen to be occupying just now.
(Pause)
Hmm. I’ll bet you’re thinking to yourselves, “Who was it anyway that said ‘What’s in a name?'”
(Pause)
You see? I rest my case. It’s not the questioner who remains, it’s the question. Always the question. And so even if one of you would be tempted to, say, “expose my ignorance” and, in so doing, you know, “improve your position,” so to speak, in terms of relative power — and knowledge, we all know, is power, right?
(Beat)
Anyway. So. If one of you were to feel the need to put me in my place and, whether it be “just for the record” or to “get the facts straight” — I mean, for heaven’s sake, who knows what axes you have to grind, right!? Anyway. So. If you were to feel compelled, you know, to shout out loud enough for everyone to hear — now I’m not talking about just whispering to your husband or your wife or your companion or your date or your partner or your friend or your significant something-or-other or some stranger or whoever the hell the person sitting next to you might be, I’m talking about the public display of power, the demonstrative flexing, as it were, of your mental muscle, right? Anyway. So. If any or all of this were to prompt you — or you
(Pointing to same individual as above)
— no, probably not you — but maybe you — or hell, even me! — to stand up and shout without warning (after all, it’s not in the script, you know!), to stand up and shout, you know, “It was Shakespeare, you idiot! It was Shakespeare who said ‘What’s in a name?'” … would that really get us anywhere? Really? I don’t think so. Besides, strictly speaking, Shakespeare didn’t say it; he wrote it. It was Romeo who said it.
(Pause)
Or was it Juliet? No matter. My point is, your observation wouldn’t do anything to, you know, move the plot along. And, frankly, that’s why I didn’t write that line for you into the script in the first place. At least, not in this version.
Oh, I know. You’re probably thinking, “I know a sophist when I see one!” And, to tell you the truth, you’d probably be right! But then I just might be thinking, “It takes one to know one.” Ha! Didn’t think of that, did you? You see, that’s the advantage of having studied the script. Even if it’s not the one being used!
(Pause)
(Scene 3) The Admission
JOE
Sure, I admit it, I wondered: What would I do tonight if I invited you and you didn’t show up? In all candor, I decided to sidestep the issue altogether by not writing you into the script. — Right, Lesley? — But then, there wouldn’t be much point in my carrying on up here all by myself, now, would there? Although I’m really the only one holding up my end of the conversation now, aren’t I? But then, this isn’t really a conversation, is it? Otherwise, you’d be more engaged, wouldn’t you? Or maybe you are already? Good God, who knows what’s going on in your heads?
(Pause)
I wonder.
(Pause)
And … I wonder … where tonight fits, you know … into the … the “Cosmic Scheme of Things.” You know, the Playbill of all Playbills. But then I wonder too: Is there a even “Cosmic Scheme of Things”? God, I’d hate to think that this was a reflection of that!
(Pause)
I don’t watch a lot of TV. Okay, some. Movies maybe. “Mystery Science Fiction Theater 3000.” Now that’s what I call interactive art! I can think of a lot of movies I’d like to rewrite the lines to. I can think of a lot of conversations I’d like to rewrite the lines to. (Including this one, as a matter of fact!) But that’s another topic, and I wasn’t talking about that. I was talking about TV and watching it. I say: Why bother? I mean, I wonder sometimes if our lives aren’t like soap operas, and we go for months without tuning in, and then, for some reason — for some random reason — we do, and hey … the same stuff is still going on!
I wonder a lot. But these are just clichés and mind games, and quite frankly we really don’t have time for clichés and mind games this evening. Not when more pressing issues are at hand. Like, say … gravity.
(Moves to chair downstage, lights lower except for spot on chair)
(Scene 4) Flying
JOE
I remember reading about a boy — or rather, a man, probably about my age, in fact — who, thinking back on his childhood, recalled how he, as a small boy, could fly. Now, mind you, I’m not talking about (or rather, he wasn’t talking about) “almost flying” or “quasi flying” or some sort of “near flight experience,” no, no, no, no. no. I’m talking about flying, plain and simple. Honest to God! Or
(Gestures toward audiences, as if revealing some “secret”)
to be more precise — I mean, I can talk openly with you, right? — to be more precise: it would have been within his power to fly had he only really, really wanted to, I mean really, really wanted to. And, of course, if he had gone ahead and given it a proper try, you know.
There was this one day, you see, a fall day, he’s in the first grade at school, and on the way home a wind of such magnitude blew that I — or rather, he — could have leaned against it without falling over, diagonally, rather like a ski jumper — like so, you see — not bothering to spread his arms.
(Beat)
And as I ran against the wind back then on that day, ran across the fields and down the hill on which the school lay — it was a small hill, just outside of town, you see — I pushed off from the ground just ever so slightly, just SO!
Well! The wind whisked me up, and without the slightest exertion, I kid you not, I could jump four, five, six feet high and 20, 25 feet across the ground — or maybe not quite that far or quite that high, I mean, what does that really matter?! My point is that I (or rather, he) was that close to flying, that close. And if I had just unbuttoned my coat and taken both sides in my hands and spread them out like wings — just this one simple and irrevocable move, made without hesitation, you see, and with utter and unshakable conviction — then the wind would have lifted me up completely and — with the greatest of ease, I assure you — I would have sailed from the top of that hill across the valley below and over to the woods and on past the woods down to the lake where our house was and, once there, to the unbounded astonishment of my father, my mother, my sister and my brother — all of whom, every last one of them, were all much too old and, consequently, much too heavy, you know, to fly — I would have described an elegant curve, just like this, so that then I might hover over the lake, reaching almost to the other shore, and finally — yes, finally — I would have let the wind carry me back leisurely — no hurry, you know, just leisurely — but at the same time, and most important perhaps, punctually, you see, so that I’d be back at my house just in time for lunch.
(Pause)
But he didn’t unbutton his coat. No, he didn’t unbutton his coat and he didn’t really fly on up high. Not out of any fear of flying, mind you. No, no, no. But because he didn’t know how or where or even if he would ever be able to land again. That was it! The terrace at the house was just too hard, you see, the garden too small, the water in the lake was just too cold for a landing. Getting up … now, that was no problem. But how in the hell were you supposed to get back down?
(Pause)
(Scene 5) Climbing Trees
JOE
It was the same thing, you know … climbing trees. Getting up was the least of your difficulties. I mean, you could see the branches in front of you, you could feel them in your hands, could test their strength, you know, before you used them to pull yourself up and then placed first your one foot then your other one on some branch. But climbing down you couldn’t see anything — not a thing! — and you had to poke around with your feet, more or less blind, in the jumble of branches below you before you could step onto one, and more often than not the footing wasn’t solid but mushy or slick and you slipped off or broke through and then — woah, then! — if you didn’t grab on to a branch tightly with both hands, man, you fell to the ground like a rock.
(Pause)
In compliance, I might add, with the so-called laws of motion, first discovered not by Newton, as you might think at first, but by the Italian scholar Galileo, already more than four centuries ago now. Laws which, to my knowledge anyway, still hold true today.
Now, my worst fall …
(By the way, I wrote that word in lower-case, I’ll have you know — “fall.” Just in case you were wondering. Which would be legitimate. Your wondering, that is. After all, you probably came here expecting to find some larger meaning, or at least allusions to some larger meaning and, I admit, a “Fall” written with a capital “F” would probably deliver on that level. Well, sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not going to make it that easy for you! I mean, come on! You certainly can’t expect me to speak words with capital letters just so that every Tom, Dick, and Harry can say “Hey, did you hear that? I think that was an important word, it sounded … capitalized!” No, trust me on this one, folks, capitalization — and while we’re at it, bold-faced type too — … highly overrated. Highly overrated. Especially in the spoken medium.)
Anyway, as I was saying, or as I was about to say, my worst fall took place in my first year of school. It happened from a height of roughly 15 feet, from atop a silver fir tree. Now, as you can imagine, it unfolded in strict accordance with Galileo’s first Law of Motion, which states
(Goes for whiteboard on desk and illustrates: d = 1/2 at2)
that the distance fallen is equal to one-half the product of acceleration and time squared and, consequently, my fall lasted approximately .9682458 seconds. Now that, my friends
(Beat)
is an extremely short time. It’s shorter than the time it takes to count from “twenty-one” to “twenty-two.” Shorter even that the time it takes to say the number “twenty-one” in the first place!
Anyway, the entire affair went by so incredibly fast that I could neither stretch out my arms nor unbutton my coat to use as a kind of parachute, you see. It all happened so fast, in fact, that I couldn’t even hit upon the one saving thought — my God, if only I could have thought of this! — namely, that I didn’t even need to fall in the first place, since I was, after all, as I tried to explain earlier, capable, you know, of flying.
Nope, I couldn’t think a thing in these .9682458 seconds, and before I even understood the fact that I was falling, I pounded to the ground at the base of the tree, in complete accordance with Galileo’s Second Law of Motion
(Reaches again for whiteboard: v = gt)
(velocity equals constant acceleration — we’ll call this “g” — times time) — yes, I pounded to the ground with a terminal velocity of over 20 miles per hour and with such force that I severed a branch as thick as my arm with the back of my head. Now, the force that caused this is called … gravity.
(Pause)
(Scene 6) Gravity
JOE
Gravity. It not only holds the world together in its innermost workings (at least, that’s how Goethe’s Faust phrased it), it also has the peculiar characteristic of attracting everything, and I do mean e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g, no matter how large or how small, with vehement force, and it’s only as long as, say, we still repose within our mother’s womb or, shall we say, hang motionless, like divers in the sea … it’s only then that we appear to be free of its grasp.
(Pause, mutters next line almost under breath)
Ha. Free of its grasp.
Well, anyway, I came away from that fall not only with this elementary insight, you see, but also with a substantial … bump. Now, the bump itself was already gone after a few weeks, but over the years I could sense, right here, you know, on the spot where the bump used to be, I could sense a strange tingling and throbbing whenever the weather was about to change, especially when snow was in the air. And today, nearly forty years later, the back of my head still serves as … well, as a trusty barometer! And I can predict more accurately than any weather service if it’s going to rain tomorrow or snow, if the sun is going to shine or if a storm is approaching. Uh-huh. Yep.
(Pause, somewhat distracted)
I also think that a certain confusion and lack of …
(Gets distracted)
lack of concentration, with which I’ve been afflicted of late, I think that these are the rather belated consequences of that fall from the silver fir. That’s why, for example, it gets harder and harder for me to stay on topic, to formulate a particular thought briefly and concisely, and when I’m telling a story, like this one, you know, then I have to watch out like the devil to make sure that I don’t lose my train of thought, otherwise I’ll soon be talking about everything under the sun and in the end I won’t even know how it was that I started.
(Pause, lights dim, then go up slowly. JOE seems to “awaken.”)
(Scene 7) .9682458 seconds
JOE
Goodness, you’ll have to excuse me. I’m afraid I may have been rambling. But then, perhaps you understand now somewhat better my concern at the outset that we at least get the beginning straight. Let’s see now, how did that go?
(Returns, with chair, to desk, rummages, pauses, apparently before finding what he’s looking for, turns to audience, holds up whiteboard)
.9682458 seconds. Think about it. I mean, what could possibly happen in .9682458 seconds? “Not much,” you say. But might you not just as well answer: Everything? I mean, picture this: In .9682458 seconds … a knock on the door … the van … the balloons … Ed McMahon … you’re the next Publisher’s Clearinghouse Sweepstakes Winner!
(Beat)
Admit it, you’ve sent in those stupid contest applications!
Or say: In .9682458 seconds … the power goes out … and we’re all sitting here in the dark. (Hell, some of us don’t even need a power outage for that!)
(Pause)
.9682458 seconds … . That’s enough time to … to break out in laughter. Or tears. Or song.
(Music, excerpt from Goo Goo Dolls’ “Iris”)
Thanks, Lesley. Nice touch. Very nice.
.9682458 seconds … . You know, when you think about it, it’s enough time to pass through a life-changing experience! A short one, true, but still …
(Pause)
Can life be started in .9682458 seconds? It can certainly be snuffed out. Pow! Just like that. In .9682458 seconds. Maybe less. Needn’t be a gun either, just because I said “Pow!” Someone’s car crosses the line. Your line. Your line, your time.
Or, let’s say a bone in the chicken you’re eating for dinner lodges in your throat. In .9682458 seconds. It doesn’t take any more time than that for a chicken bone to get stuck, I wouldn’t think. Would you? No.
How much time does it take for your heart to stop? .9682458 seconds? No need to calculate in the time for understanding why it stops, it just stops. How much time does it take to lose a friend? A lover? To lose a parent? A child? How much time does it take to lose yourself, for heaven’s sake? I mean, just how much time does it take?
.9682458 seconds … the difference between then … and now. Between here … and gone. Between yes … and no. Between what is and what might have been. In other words, you see, between life and death.
.9682458 seconds. A goddamn eternity, if you ask me.
(Pause, grows agitated)
But who’s got time to think about eternity, for heaven’s sake? I mean, let’s get on with it, after all. What are we waiting for, huh? Time is money! Time’s a wastin’! We need to budget our time! Do you have time to spare? Can you put aside some time for me, please? Is this worth your while? Don’t forget — memento mori! — you’re living on borrowed time!
(Looks at watch)
Why, just look at how much time you’ve lost tonight already! But hey, thanks for your time! There’s no time like the present, you know. Me, I’d like my time to go, please.
(Pauses, rubs back of head)
Hmm. If I were you, I’d be expecting a change in the weather.
(Long pause, lights down then back up)
(Scene 8) In the Trees
(JOE moves downstage to chair, lost in thought, spot on chair)
JOE
It was quiet … up there in the trees. Nobody ordering you around. Or at least, if you climbed high enough, their voices faded, you know, just became part of the rustling of the leaves, the creaking of the branches. And the view … boy oh boy, I could see not only past the house and the garden, I could see past the other houses and the other gardens, across the lake and the land on the other side of the lake, up to the mountains. And even when the sun went down at night, from my perch atop the tree I could see the sun even on the other side of the mountains, long after it had disappeared from the view of the people down below. You know, it was almost … it was almost … like … flying. Not quite as adventurous, maybe, and not quite as elegant, but all in all a decent substitute for flying, especially since I was, after all, growing older and, as a consequence, bigger and heavier, which spelled the certain end to my flying days, even if a really big wind were to whip up (I mean a REALLY BIG WIND) and even if I were to open my coat up wide.
(Pause)
I thought I’d be able to climb trees my whole life long. An old geezer of 120, I’d sit up there, at the top of a birch or a fir tree, like some old ape, and let the wind rock me gently, back and forth, and I’d look out over the land and the lake and the mountains …
(Pause)
I’m sorry, I seemed to have wandered off the topic again, haven’t I?
(Pause)
Hmm … I’m going to have to consult my script on this one.
(Returns to desk, sits, is struck by something in the newspaper lying on his desk)
Now, see, just take a look at this, would you? I mean, this is the kind of bullshit that just really gets on my nerves. I’d like to meet the asshole who wrote this crap!
(Lights down, then back up)
(Scene 9) The Asshole
(Knock on door. JOE frowns, consults script)
JOE
Lesley!
(Silence, another knock)
There’s not supposed to be a knock on the door here, Lesley. Christ, the fucking door isn’t even functional!
DIRECTOR
(From offstage)
It’s not my problem!
(Another knock)
JOE
Okay, okay. Hold your horses! This door isn’t even real. Just come around right over here, would you?
(THE ASSHOLE enters from one of the wings, a man of nondescript nature, except for a possible resemblance to Ed McMahon. He stands and waits)
JOE
And who are you?
THE ASSHOLE
I’m the asshole.
JOE
Excuse me?
THE ASSHOLE
I’m the asshole who wrote that bullshit.
(Points to newspaper on desk)
JOE
Oh, I see. Yes, well, nice of you to own up to it, but … as you can see, I’m sort of in the middle of something, you know, unexpectedly having a few people over at the moment. Right, Lesley?
(Long pause, Joe looks him over)
You seem a little small, but —. You wouldn’t happen to be Ed McMahon by any chance, would you?
(Silence)
No, I suppose not. Well then, just come on in! Make yourself at home! Have a seat! Out there, up here. I don’t care.
THE ASSHOLE
(Stays put)
I brought you this.
(Hands Joe a manila envelope, folded and opened on one end)
JOE
What’s this?
THE ASSHOLE
It’s the script.
JOE
Script? … What script?
THE ASSHOLE
The script for the remainder of the play.
(Pause)
JOE
Lesley!
(Silence)
Lesley!!
THE ASSHOLE
She won’t answer.
JOE
How do you know?
THE ASSHOLE
(Nonchalantly points to envelope, which has obviously been opened and poorly re-sealed)
I read the script.
(Starts flossing his teeth while JOE looks at envelope)
JOE
(Defeated)
Oh.
(Unfolds and reads envelope)
“DO NOT FOLD.”
(Looks at THE ASSHOLE, turns the envelope over)
“If you notice that this package has been damaged, or that someone else has read these documents without your express permission …
(Notes open end of envelope; sidelong glance at THE ASSHOLE)
… you may wish to contact United States Postal Authorities.” This is the script?
THE ASSHOLE
Hey man, don’t shoot me. I’m just the messenger.
JOE
(Looks at picture on envelope, then closely at THE ASSHOLE, who’s still cleaning his teeth.)
Do you mind?
(THE ASSHOLE looks at Joe, shrugs him off and continues flossing.)
JOE
Hey, are you sure you’re not Ed McMahon?
THE ASSHOLE
(Exasperated)
Yeah, I’m sure.
JOE
Damn.
(To himself)
I sent in the contest application forms, you know. Even ordered some magazines, just be to on the safe side, you know.
(To THE ASSHOLE)
Well, Mr. Messenger, anything else I should know?
THE ASSHOLE
Yes.
JOE
And?
THE ASSHOLE
Sorry. This is my last line.
(Exits)
(Pause)
JOE
I could use a change of scenery.
(Turning to the audience)
Couldn’t you use a change of scenery? I could sure use a change of scenery.
(To offstage)
Lesley, isn’t there supposed to be a scene change here?
(Blackout, long pause)
That’s what I thought.
(Lights up)
(Scene 10) Galileo
(JOE and GALILEO are engaged in a shouting match. They are standing at opposite ends of an imaginary ping-pong table and, with each riposte, they go through the motions of a heated ping-pong game, with paddles but sans ball.)
JOE
Could so!
GALILEO
(With exaggerated Italian accent)
Could-a not-a!
JOE
Could so!
GALILEO
Could-a not-a!
JOE
Could so!
GALILEO
Could-a not-a!
JOE
Could so!
GALILEO
Could-a not-a!
JOE
Could so!
(GALILEO is unable to “return ball.”)
JOE
Ha!
GALILEO
“Ha!” what-a?
JOE
“Ha!” I told you I could fly!
GALILEO
Just-a because I miss-a da ball-a? Just-a because I miss-a da ball-a doesn’t mean-a you fly-a!
JOE
Of course it does.
GALILEO
No, it-a no mean-a dat-a.
(Pause)
JOE
Who’s serve is it?
(Pause, JOE and GALILEO together)
Mine! / Mine-a!
(Pause, GALILEO “serves”)
GALILEO
Does-a not-a!
JOE
Does too!
GALILEO
Does-a not-a!
JOE
Does too!
GALILEO
(Fires furious shot past JOE)
Does-a not-a!!
(Pause)
JOE: It’s a draw.
GALILEO
(Philosophic, but with utter assurance)
Come sempre. It always is-a.
(Exits)
(Lights down, then back up)
(Scene 11) How Much . . .?
(JOE returns to desk. Opens envelope and removes script delivered by the THE ASSHOLE. Skims, reads silently, then appears to find a passage of some interest. Indicates this through a “grunt” or “chuckle” or some such gesture. Begins to read the passage out loud. In the process of reading, lowers script and continues speaking the text, but now obviously from memory.)
JOE
How much of it is only gravity, all those words about love, integrity, and the difference between night and day? How much of it is only unwitting acceleration, the uncompromising rush to get from here to there? How much of it is only distance traveled, and – getting there – realizing there’s no “there” there?
(Stands, recites the rest from memory)
How much of it is only passing through windows, and other ordeals? How much of it is only time? Time spent? Time less spent? How much of it is only latitude? Shifting degrees of separation? How much of it is only fear? Fear of heights? Fear of depths? Fear of motion? Fear of emotion?
(Pause)
Pressed for words, you stood there, time and time again, fluently speechless in several languages simultaneously.
(Approaches individuals in audience)
You used to be able to fly. Do you remember? How long has it been? What happened? You used to be able to climb trees. Do you remember? How long has it been? What happened? You used to be able to see the sun on the other side of the mountains. Do you remember? How long has it been? What happened?
(Returns to stage, shouts)
What happened?
(With a hint of sarcasm)
Like everyone else, you wanted to become the self-evident body and walk off the edge of the earth.
(With a hint of melancholy)
Into all that space.
(Pause)
Under all that moon.
(Pause, then “awakens” from his apparent “poetic trance” and returns to stage. Adopts a decidedly different tone for the following.)
Whoa! I’m back. But only because I was gone and didn’t stay.
(Pause)
Had I stayed, you see, I would now be gone. Long gone. But, as you can plainly see, I wasn’t gone long, neither prior to my return nor subsequent to my departure. Which latter would have been premature, had I left earlier, and nonexistent, had I not left at all.
(Pause)
But, let’s face it, you know: there are just some places best attended in absentia.
(Sits down on the edge of the stage, legs hanging over, like a small child.)
(MRS. STEVENS enters unobtrusively)
(Scene 12) The Piano Lesson
(Spot on MRS. STEVENS)
MRS. STEVENS
Stop crying!
(Spot off MRS. STEVENS, spot on JOE)
JOE
That’s what Mrs. Stevens yelled at me when I showed up late for my piano lesson on a Thursday afternoon in December. I remember it was December because she accused me of dallying, of buying ice cream or some such nonsense. Ice cream! In December!! Here, maybe. But not where I’m from! . . . And I remember it was a Thursday afternoon because of what really happened that had caused me to be late. What really happened was, uh, I had been, . . . well, I was “stood up.” That’s right. Stood up by my first, great love. If 10-year olds can in fact be stood up. But if they can, that’s what I was, and I won’t even go into it here because, even though I put it behind me years ago, you know, it’s just not what I want to talk about right now.
(Spot off JOE, spot on MRS. STEVENS)
MRS. STEVENS
Stop crying and get your music out! You probably haven’t practiced again all week!
(Spot off MRS. STEVENS, spot on JOE)
JOE
Well now, as much as it pains me, I can’t say that Mrs. Stevens was entirely wrong. In point of fact, I had hardly touched the piano all week, on the one hand because . . . well, because I had more important things to do, you know, and, on the other, because the etudes she had given me were so disgustingly difficult — fugue-like monstrosities that were supposed to be played at some ridiculous tempo, right and left hands running in opposite directions, the one lingering here for some ungodly reason, the other over there, with weird rhythms and unusual intervals, and, and! — on top of all that — well, on top of all that, the music just sounded simply wretched. The composer’s name, if I’m not mistaken, was Häßler. Well, to hell with him!
(Pause)
Nevertheless, I think I would have done a decent job of weaseling my way through the two pieces if I hadn’t been so worked up because of … well, I just don’t want to talk about that. Besides, it was a long time ago.
But my nerves were shot, it’s true, and I sat there at the piano, trembling and sweating, and before I knew it my eyes welled up with tears, the 88 keys and Häßler’s etudes in front of me, Mrs. Stevens behind me, breathing angrily down the back of my neck. I sat there … and … I failed miserably. Utterly and completely. I mean, I mixed up everything: the bass and treble clefs, half notes and whole notes, quarter rests and eighth rests … I didn’t even make it to the end of the first line; keys, notes, and my spirit just “dissolved” into a mist of tears. I remember, I lowered my hands from the keyboard and cried quietly to myself.
Now, I don’t need to mention here — after all, you seem to be attentive and perceptive listeners — no, I don’t really need to mention here that the tears were NOT about my confusion over the clefs, the notes or the rests. But Mrs. Stevens assumed as much. (And really, how could she have known any differently?)
(Spot off JOE, spot on MRS. STEVENS)
MRS. STEVENS
Just as I thought!
(Spot off MRS. STEVENS, spot on JOE)
JOE
You see, the words fairly flew from her mouth, and in fact I remember feeling the fine spray of her saliva on the back of my neck.
(Spot off JOE, spot on MRS. STEVENS)
MRS. STEVENS
Just as I thought! First you eat ice cream, then you come late, and after that you dream up excuses!
(Spot off MRS. STEVENS, spot on JOE)
JOE
(I couldn’t very well tell her the truth now, could I? I mean, a ten-year old has pride too.)
(Spot off JOE, spot on MRS. STEVENS)
MRS. STEVENS
That you can do. But your assignments? Oooh no. You just wait, young man. I’ll teach you!
(Spot off MRS. STEVENS, spot on JOE)
JOE
And with that she promptly seated herself next to me on the piano bench, took my right hand with both of hers, took hold of each and every finger and jabbed them, one after the other, into the keys, striking each note as Häßler had written.
(Spot off JOE, spot on MRS. STEVENS)
MRS. STEVENS
This goes here! And this one here! And this one here! And your thumb here! And your third finger here! And this one here —
(Spot off MRS. STEVENS, spot on JOE)
JOE
And when she had finished with the right hand she took up with the left, applying the same questionable pedagogical technique.
(Spot off JOE, spot on MRS. STEVENS)
MRS. STEVENS
This one goes here, that one there —
(Spot off MRS. STEVENS, spot on JOE)
JOE
Now, mind you, in the intervening years I’ve read a thing a two about teaching, and even though I hadn’t read them yet at that age, still I sensed that she was going about this all wrong. She pushed and pulled around on my fingers so relentlessly, I thought she wanted to knead the études into my hands, note for note. It hurt more than a little, and went on for, oh, I don’t know, maybe half an hour, I would say. Then she finally set me free, slammed the book shut, and hissed:
(Spot off JOE, spot on MRS. STEVENS)
MRS. STEVENS
Next time, young man, you’ll be able to play it, and not just from the music, but from memory. And allegro, or else you’ll really be in for it!
(Spot off MRS. STEVENS, spot on JOE)
JOE
And then she opened a thick score for four hands — my God, it was a heavy piece! — and banged it down on the stand.
(Spot off JOE, spot on MRS. STEVENS)
MRS. STEVENS
And now we’re going to play Diabelli for ten minutes. So that you finally learn how to read music. Woe is you, if you make a mistake!
(Spot off MRS. STEVENS, spot on JOE)
(Scene 13) Diabelli
JOE
What can I say? I was broken. In every respect. My will. My pride … my heart. I nodded in ascent and wiped the tears from my face with my sleeve. And, you know, with my vision thus cleared somewhat, I could see that all was not lost. Diabelli! Now that was my kind of composer! Not some kind of fugue-butcher like that despicable Häßler guy. Diabelli was easy to play, simple to the point of simplistic, and sounded all the while first rate. I loved Diabelli, even if my sister always said mockingly “What, can’t play the piano? Don’t worry, you’ll still be able to play Diabelli. Just look at my brother!”
So we played Diabelli four hands, Mrs. Stevens and I, she on the left taking the bass, I on the right with both hands in unison. For a while it went as smoothly as clockwork. My confidence grew, I had nearly forgotten about the … about the … ice cream thing. You see, I was busy thanking God for having created the composer Diabelli, and in my sense of relief I simply forgot that this little sonatina was in G major and thus had an F sharp noted in the key signature. Now, this meant that, in the long run, I couldn’t be content to flit about only on the white keys.
Oh, the white keys. How I loved the white keys! Like solid, familiar ground underfoot. I could traverse the white keys all day long, if needed …
But no, with the piece in G major, in certain places, and without any further warning in the music, I would have to strike a black key, namely this very same F sharp, which was located just below the G.
Now when the F sharp first appeared in my right-hand part, I didn’t recognize it as such, I missed the mark, and I played an F instead, which, as every devotee of music will understand immediately, resulted in a distinctly, shall we say, unpleasant tone.
(Spot off JOE, spot on MRS. STEVENS)
MRS. STEVENS
Just like you!
(Spot off MRS. STEVENS, spot on JOE)
JOE
Mrs. Stevens was in her element again.
(Spot off JOE, spot on MRS. STEVENS)
MRS. STEVENS
Just like you! At the first suggestion of difficulty the young man falls apart. Have you got eyes in your head? F sharp! There it is, just as big as day! Look at it! Once more from the top! One, two, three, four …
(Spot off MRS. STEVENS, spot on JOE)
JOE
Now just how it happened that I made precisely the same mistake a second time, I can’t really say even today. I suppose that I was so intent on not making it, that I sort of, you know, suspected an F sharp following every note. To tell you the truth, I would have preferred playing nothing but F sharps from the very beginning. Of course I didn’t realize it at the time, but that would have made me something of an avant-garde artist, and I’m quite certain Mrs. Stevens had next to no appreciation for the avant-garde. Still, I had to downright force myself not to play an F sharp. Not yet, no F sharp just yet, not quite yet … until … well, until I finally arrived at the spot in question … and played F instead of F sharp.
(Spot off JOE, spot on MRS. STEVENS)
MRS. STEVENS
Good grief! I said F sharp, for heaven’s sake! F sharp!! Don’t you know what an F sharp is, you blockhead? There!!
(Makes a “thudding” noise)
(Spot off MRS. STEVENS, spot on JOE)
JOE
And she slapped at the black key just below the G with her index finger, the tip of which had been broadened to about the size of a nickel, you know, through years of teaching piano.
(Spot off JOE, spot on MRS. STEVENS)
MRS. STEVENS
This is a F sharp!
(Another loud “thud”)
This —
(Spot off MRS. STEVENS, spot on JOE)
JOE
And at this point she had to sneeze. She did so —
(Spot off JOE, spot on MRS. STEVENS)
(MRS. STEVENS sneezes, grotesquely loud.)
(Spot off MRS. STEVENS, spot on JOE)
JOE
… ran her aforementioned index finger quickly under her nose in a sweeping clean-up maneuver, we might say, and followed up with two or three more emphatic strikes on the key, screaming at the top of her lungs:
(Spot off JOE, spot on MRS. STEVENS)
MRS. STEVENS
This is an F sharp, this is an F sharp … !
(Spot off MRS. STEVENS, spot on JOE)
JOE
Then she pulled out her handkerchief and blew her nose.
(Loud blow)
(To black, pause)
(14) The Booger
(Spot on JOE)
JOE
I, meanwhile, stared at the F sharp and went pale. There was something sticking to the closest end of the key — approximately the size of a fingernail, you know; almost as thick as, say, as thick as a pencil; and curled like … curled like a worm. It was the greenish-yellowish shimmering portion of a slimy, fresh booger, obviously deriving from Mrs. Stevens’ nose, from where — first via the sneeze to the upper lip, then from the upper lip to the index finger via the clean-up maneuver and, finally, from the index finger — it had come to rest on F sharp.
(Spot off JOE, spot on MRS. STEVENS)
MRS. STEVENS
Once more from the top! One, two, three, four —
(Spot off MRS. STEVENS, spot on JOE)
JOE
We started to play.
(Pause)
Ladies and gentlemen, I can tell you this much: the next 30 seconds were among the most dreadful of my entire life. I could feel the blood rushing from my cheeks, could feel the cold hand of fear closing upon my neck. The hair on my head stood on end. My ears flushed first hot, then cold, and finally went deaf altogether, as if they’d been plugged. I could hardly hear anything of the lovely Anton Diabelli melody that I was playing — automatically, I should add, without even looking at the music (after the second review my fingers did it on their own; but did Mrs. Stevens take note of this? Nooo!). No, my attention was focused elsewhere: I simply stared, eyes wide, at the slender black key just below G, where Mrs. Stevens’ ball of snot stuck fast.
(Sound of metronome gradually increases in volume.)
Seven measures to go … six …
(Metronome fades out.)
You see, it was clearly going to be impossible to strike the key without touching down in the middle of the slime.
(Metronome fades in.)
Five measures to go … four.
(Metronome fades out.)
But if I didn’t touch down in it and, for the third time, played F instead of F sharp …
(Metronome fades in.)
Three measures to go.
(Metronome fades out.)
Oh dear God, make a miracle happen! Say something! Do something! Open up the Earth! Crush the fucking piano! Make time runs backwards, so that I don’t have to play this stupid F sharp! …
(Metronome fades in.)
Two measures to go, just one …
(Metronome stops.)
(Pause)
But God in Heaven was silent and did nothing, and the last ungodly measure was upon me. It had — I remember it still quite clearly today — it had six eighth notes, running from D down to F sharp and culminating in a quarter note on the neighborly G. As if plummeting to hell, my fingers negotiated the descending series of eighth-notes, top to bottom: D – C – B – A – G —
(Spot off JOE, spot on MRS. STEVENS)
MRS: STEVENS
(MRS. STEVENS fairly screams)
F SHARP! NOW!
(Spot off MRS. STEVENS, spot on JOE)
JOE
I heard her bark her command next to me. How could I not? I heard her, and I, in full knowledge of my actions, and, I must say, with complete and utter disregard for my certain impending death, I played … F.
(15) Being There
JOE
I was just able to pull my hands away from the keys when the cover came crashing down, and at the same time Mrs. Stevens shot into the air like some sort of jack-in-the-box.
(Spot off JOE, spot on MRS. STEVENS)
MRS: STEVENS
You did that on purpose!
(Spot off MRS. STEVENS, spot on JOE)
JOE
She bellowed so loud that, despite my temporary deafness, she nearly shattered my eardrums.
(Spot off JOE, spot on MRS. STEVENS)
MRS: STEVENS
You did that on purpose, you little good-for-nothing! You little bastard, you! You snot-nosed little brat! You impudent little devil! —
(Spot off MRS. STEVENS, spot on JOE)
JOE
Now, I silently took offense at her reference to “snot-nosed” and wanted to set the record straight, but thought better of it. Mrs. Stevens carried on in this fashion for some time … 5 minutes, 10 minutes, I really couldn’t say.
(MRS. STEVENS exits unobtrusively.)
What I do remember is the slamming of the door
(Sound of door slamming)
after she had gathered my books and sent me packing. And with that, my career as a pianist was aborted.
So, you see what I mean about some places best attended in absentia? The truth is, I would have been better off not even going that day. The flu. A cold. My dog ate my music. Who knows? Some kind of plausible excuse. Anything other than actually being there. But, disturbed as I was at having been “stood up” and all — and don’t even think you’ll get me talking about that! — no, disturbed as I was, I suppose I wasn’t thinking clearly, you know, and so I never really anticipated how my presence, there, on that afternoon …
(Pause)
… how her absence there on the afternoon …
(Pause)
… would end up changing my whole life.
(Pause)
My whole fucking life!
(Lights fade out and in on next scene.)
(16) Galileo’s Return
(A knock at “the door”)
JOE
Aha! This time I’m ready!
(JOE prepares to give the would-be visitor the instructions to come around the side. As he’s doing this, GALILEO enters through the door, which now works.)
You’ll have to come around over here, asshole! (Jeez, what an asshole!) Hey stupid, did you forget about the door?
(Meanwhile GALILEO has taken up position behind him.)
GALILEO
Just-a because you lost-a last-a game-a doesn’t give you-a da right-a to call-a me names.
(JOE whirls around, looks at GALILEO, then at the door, which GALILEO didn’t bother to shut.)
GALILEO
Yes-a, well-a, it-a no be locked-a, and I hear-a you-a and-a I think-a to myself-a —
JOE
(Harshly)
Never mind.
(Beat)
Look, I’m not in the mood for a game of ping-pong right now. What do you want?
GALILEO
It’s about-a dat-a fall-a.
JOE
“That fall?”
GALILEO
You know-a.
(Exaggeratedly rubs the back of his head)
JOE
Oh. That fall. What about it?
GALILEO
Well-a … I just-a want-a say … well-a, come dite? … I’m-a sorry.
JOE
You’re a what?
GALILEO
I’m-a sorry.
JOE
Oh. You’re sorry … For what?
GALILEO
Sorry dat-a you fall-a.
JOE
Look, it wasn’t your fault. Things just happen, you know.
GALILEO
Si, but-a …
(Reaches for and holds up whiteboard on desk, upon which is written)
Ma quelle erano le mie leggi di movimento.
JOE
True, those were your laws of motion, but I still don’t see …
GALILEO
I just want-a you-a know-a … eh … non era personale. It-a no personal.
(Exits, as if carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders)
JOE
(Stunned)
Not personal? Not personal?!
(Gathering himself)
Well, I knew that, actually. I mean, of course I knew that! How could I not know that? I mean, how could it be personal when … when it was only … gravity?
(Slowly returns to desk, sorts papers mindlessly, stands again, goes to mirror and checks appearance, as at the opening of the play. And, as at the outset, appears to notice something in the mirror. Stops. Turns to audience. Not with vigor, as before, but resigned.)
You know, to tell you the truth, I’m not really sure that you were supposed to be here tonight.
And while I’m at it, let me go ahead and confess: I’m not really all that certain about any laws that falling bodies obey.
(Beat)
Or about distances traveled.
(Beat)
Or about what it is that keeps bringing us back, you know? What it is that keeps holding us here in the first place. Keeps holding us here. All of us. Together.
(Pause, turns, moves toward door. Stops. Turns back toward audience.)
It must be something powerful, don’t you suppose?
(Turns and exits through open door. Slow fade to black.)
(End of scene)
(End of play)
Props
30-second clock
Chalk
Desk
Door (fake)
Door (real)
Jacket
Keyboard chart with darts in and around F sharp
Metronome
Mirror
Music stand
Newspaper (tabloid)
Ping-pong net
Ping-pong paddles
Portable chalkboard
Salvidor Dali print
Script in manila envelope (delivered by THE ASSHOLE)
Small fridge
Various papers
Music
Pat Benatar “Gravity’s Rainbow” (Gravity’s Rainbow)
Jimmy Buffett “Gravity Storm” (Off To See The Lizard)
Drugstore “Gravity” (Drugstore)
Jim Carroll Band “Wicked Gravity” (Catholic Boy)
Men Without Hats “Gravity Is My Enemy” (MCA Demos)
Sam Phillips “Tripping Over Gravity” (Cruel Inventions)
R.E.M. “Feeling Gravity’s Pull” (Fables Of The Reconstruction)
Story “Grace In Gravity” (Grace In Gravity)
Talking Heads “I Get Wild/Wild Gravity” (Speaking Tongues)
Inspired in part by: (1) the dramatic monologues of Spalding Gray, Jane Wagner’s The Search for Signs of Intelligent Life in the Universe, and Patrick Süskind’s Die Geschichte von Herrn Sommer; (2) the unforgettable theater-loving students of Lovett College and Rice University, both past and present; and (3) life’s little ups and downs.
