Title: Bathtub Scenes #1

Author: Peter Wood

Draft date: 13-08-12

Contact: peterwood2@gmail.com

On stage: two large clawfooted bathtubs. One is steaming with hot water. The other is filled with cold.

Two Stage Hands each bring out a bucket. One fills the hot tub with hot water. The other pours ice into the cold water. They exit.

Lights out.

Lights up to reveal a man standing upstage of the hot water tub and a woman standing upstage of the cold water tub. They both wear thick, white robes. They look at the water in front of them. They look at each other. They take off their robes and stand, naked, looking straight ahead.

Lights out.

In the darkness the Man and Woman both get into their respective tubs.

Lights up on Man to reveal him reclining on the upstage end of the tub.

MAN

If they said, back then, that I would be what I am, I would have laughed. If they said, back then, that I would not be what I am not, I would have cried.

He moves forward and rests his head upon his arms on the downstage end of the tub.

MAN

But what they could not have known, what I could not have known, was that the alternatives would be better. And that I could never have predicted the joy I have met. My skin is hot, the water flushes me red, the steam causes tears in my eyes. I hear a song. It moves me. I can hold no longer.

He disappears under the water. His light fades.

Lights up on Woman. She is leaning her head on her arms on the downstage end of her tub.

WOMAN

The smell of campfire on his shirt. The flash of fishing lures in the early morning light.

She goes underwater for a moment. Reappears, takes the same pose.

WOMAN

This cold is deep, leaves me numb and shivering. But the pain of it reminds me of something, of a day. Long ago but not so long ago. Forgotten but not entirely. A long-legged day that spun and spun a web from which I have never escaped. His name was . . . is unimportant. His eyes were gray. He painted me once. The sky was blue.

She goes underwater. Her light fades.

Lights up on Man. He kneels in the middle of the tub. He is examining a live fish. It wriggles in his hands.

MAN

I know one thing about survival, really, I’m useless when it comes to the zombie apocalypse or the collapse of civilization due to water wars. One of these things will happen. Is happening. Useless. But for one thing. I know how to scale and gut and cook a fish.

Pause. He lets the fish go.

MAN

That is all.

He goes underwater. His light fades.

Lights up on Woman. She is kneeling in the middle of her tub.

WOMAN

He held me tightly. I could feel his fear as his breathed upon my skin. I knew I was stronger than he.

Pause.

WOMAN

I also knew that being stronger does not mean anything, really, when one is discussing survival.

She goes underwater. Her light nearly goes out, it flickers but then returns. She emerges from the water as the light on Man brightens as well.

WOMAN

What?

MAN

I don’t know how long I can do this.

WOMAN

Of course not. I told you, I have forgiven you.

MAN

Then why can’t I get out?

WOMAN

I don’t know.

MAN

I am sorry.

WOMAN

Yes, I know. But every time you say it, it means less.

She goes underwater. Her light fades.

MAN

I write. I’ve written her death. I’ve written her resurrection. I keep writing her. This one woman, this old wound. The ways I hurt her. Still. Years. I mean years have gone by. Years. Fucking years. More water. Hot.

As he speaks the following lines, a Stage Hand brings another bucket of hot water and pours it in the tub.

MAN

And still it’s her, always her. In plays and short stories and monologues and poems and songs. Sometimes, occasionally it is another, but most often, nearly all, it is her.

Pause.

MAN

And I keep forgetting how happy I am.

He goes underwater. His light fades, then flickers, then returns, brighter. He surfaces as the Woman’s light comes on and she also surfaces.

WOMAN

You are happy.

MAN

I am happy.

Pause.

MAN

You are happy?

WOMAN

I am happy.

MAN

I just. Forget sometimes.

Blackout. There is the sound of water sloshing as the Man and Woman leave their tubs.

MAN

I love you.

WOMAN

Yes. That’s what you think.

In darkness they leave the stage.

Sometime later, the play ends.

Title: A Word with Our Playwright

Author: Peter Wood

Draft date: 13-08-12

Contact: peterwood2@gmail.com

On stage: a table with two chairs behind it and two microphones on it.

VOICE-OVER

And now . . . a word with our playwright!

The sound of tepid applause. A tight-lipped young man enters with a stack of note cards. He is the INTERVIEWER. He takes a seat . . . waits. Someone applauds. Someone snickers.

An Intern, young and nervous and dressed all in black with a headset on, rushes over to the Interviewer, whispers in his ear. The Interviewer makes a face and shakes his head. The Intern points to the wings. The Interviewer sighs, makes a small gesture of apology to the audience and follows the Intern off stage.

The lights go dark.

VOICE-OVER

And now . . . a word with our . . . playwright.

The lights blaze on and a pudgy man in his 40s enters. He is bald, has a beard, and is carrying a tumbler of whiskey. The applause is less than enthusiasitic. He frowns. Mutters something, drinks, and sits. The Interviewer comes out and sits.

INTERVIEWER

Thank you for this opportunity to speak with you and learn a bit more about your process.

PLAYWRIGHT

Yeah. Sure. Ok. Just don’t fucking ask me where I get my ideas from, right?

He looks pleased, as if he made a funny joke. Nobody else seems to get it. The Interviewer slips the top note-card to the bottom of the stack.

INTERVIEWER

Can you speak a little about your approach to dramatic structure?

The playwright sips his whiskey.

PLAYWRIGHT

I don’t have one?

INTERVIEWER

What do you mean?

PLAYWRIGHT

What do you mean?

INTERVIEWER

I mean, I . . . when you write . . . look, let me be perfectly honest here: we’ve been sitting here, watching these so-called plays, plays that don’t have any conflict, monologues that are more like broken memories, many of these are more like movement pieces than actual plays. You create these pretty soundscapes in your writing but you don’t have character development, you don’t have conflict, perepetia, or even action. Guys dressed in bunny suits telling jokes? I mean, what the hell is that?

PLAYWRIGHT

A fucking mistake . . . I specified that that play should be staged in an actual high school football stadium. Not a fucking theatre and where--

INTERVIEWER

Exactly my point! I mean, who does that? And calling for people to light a fire on stage or get in a bathtub of ice-cold water . . . you are scripting performance art, maybe but plays? Theatre? I don’t think I’m the only one here who thinks you are not writing plays at all.

The audience applauds.

The Playwright takes a drink.

PLAYWRIGHT

See . . . you’d think I’d get mad at that right? You’d think I’d be upset at the fact that you and this audience don’t see these as plays, or are bored. And the truth is, yeah, I’m a little mad and want to say fuck you, fuck all of you and walk off this stage and go home to my cat and my bottle of Jamesons 18 and probably sneak a couple of cigarettes that I’m not supposed to be smoking and maybe even watch some porn and complete the pitiful picture of a struggling, bitter, alone, and unknown writer in his 40s. But . . . that’s what you are expecting me to do. Hell, that’s what I expected me to do as well. But . . . look, I . . .

Long pause.

PLAYWRIGHT

I’m tired of it. Tired of the theatre I see, tired of the theatre that most of you see. What is my approach to dramatic structure? I am attempting to create moments. Just moments, that’s all. Some for laughing, some for reflection, some for mystification because I like being mystified even if many don’t. I’d like to think that if you spend three to ten minutes watching my works, you will have an experience. I’m not asking for participation, for you to move around or to be surrounded by the experience, I’m simply asking for my audiences to let the sounds, the sights, the words, the actions wash over them. Accept it. Bathe in it. Maybe not all moments work for all people but--

INTERVIEWER

That’s all well and good, and I understand pushing against boundaries, but it seems like you throw away so much of what makes drama . . . well, drama.

PLAYWRIGHT

To who?

INTERVIEWER

To who? To . . . people, audiences.

PLAYWRIGHT

If you were one of my students I’d assign you some reading . . . really, who the fuck are you to determine what drama is and isn’t?

INTERVIWER

I have a PhD from--

PLAYWRIGHT

Then you should fucking know better. Have you ever seen a Noh play? There is nothing, nothing that the stage cannot do, that theatre cannot present. Do you have to like everything, fuck no. But to say that what I do is not drama, that I’m not writing plays is to put theatre into a tiny box devoid of any joy and light and pleasure and experimentation. My belief in theatre is much stronger. There is nothing that cannot be done on stage. If it is true and honest and an attempt to . . .

He trails off. Two men dressed in bunny suits and carrying guns are approaching the stage from the audience.

INTERVIEWER

See, this is precisely what I mean. I mean, the absurdity, the randomness, the fact that your plays never have any cohesive logic to them. Actions never seem to arise from other actions or understandable motivations, character arcs are broken, people do things for no reason, or reasons so obscure to the audience that it’s the same thing.

PLAYWRIGHT

Look, I--

INTERVIEWER

No. I don’t care that you are in your 40s and a sad, pathetic man, I don’t care that your plays are the only thing you have to show for your existence. They are crap and this . . . this, men in bunny suits approaching the stage in order, to, one would assume, shoot me, is just . . . just . . . stupid.

PLAYWRIGHT

No. I . . . I didn’t write them into this.

Pause.

INTERVIEWER

You . . . what?

The Intern runs out, whispers in the Interviewers ear, then runs off.

PLAYWRIGHT

I. Did. Not. Write. Them. Into. This.

He sips his whiskey.

The bunnys take the stage. One aims at the Interviewer.

INTERVIEWER

Oh.Shit.

One aims at the Playwright.

PLAYWRIGHT

Now, this is . . . interesting.

.BLACKOUT

Title: Lift-Off

Author: Peter Wood

Draft date: 13-08-07

Contact: peterwood2@gmail.com

A cave. Slowly dripping water. Occasionally the sound of small animals scurrying along wet stone.

An old woman enters. She is dressed in rags and carring a bundle of sticks. She hums softly to herself as she places the sticks in a fire circle. She lights them using an old and battered Zippo lighter.

She laughs. A distant sound of children. She stops laughing. The sound of water: drip, drip, drip. She quickly shuffles off stage.

The fire burns. The sticks pop and shrivel. The water drips.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

A small, dirty, and nearly naked child runs through the space. Then is gone.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

A tall woman wearing an astronaut suit enters, goes to the fire, sits, and removes her helmet. She spits at the flames. Pokes at them with a gloved hand. Sneezes. Yawns.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

She falls asleep. She dreams.

A young girl helps her father repair the carburetor on an old, red, Ford Fairmont. The car turns to a dragon with a tiger’s head. It licks the little girl who giggles in ticklish delight. Then a full moon is shattered into precisely 1172 pieces and all is dark.

The fire fades. The cave is lit only by the glowing moss that covers the cave walls in a bluish-green tint.

Nearby, the sound of Tuvan throat singing wakens the astronaut. Then the song fades. Distant sounds of a car engine revving.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The astronaut stands, tiredly, nearly stumbling. She puts her helmet back on and exits, walking slowly and carefully.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The old woman returns with more sticks. The child follows, making faces at the old woman. From far, far away, the sound of a NASA countdown.

Skittering animals in the dark.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The old woman lights another fire. The child curls at her feet and sleeps . . . without dreams. The old woman runs her shaking hand along the child’s dirty, matted hair. In a voice weak and trembling, she says:

OLD WOMAN

Once upon a time.

Blackout.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

Silence.

Then, faintly, very faintly:

NASA VOICE

We have lift-off.

Drip. Drip.

Silence.