Zap (5 page)

AARON.
(Continuing his litany of complaints.)
Aunt Cordelia’s in the asylum in Tupelo, hoarding the sugar cubes from the dining room and giving ’em to all the young doctors she tries to seduce.

(Sound of train whistle.
CAROLINE
drains the last sip of whiskey from her glass and regards it.)

CAROLINE. Mighty fine breakfast. What’s for dinner?

AARON. Everyone’s waiting for Grandmammy to die, to hear the twenty-seventh revision to her will —

CAROLINE. Lawyer was here again yesterday.

REGINALD. Twenty-eighth.

AARON. Everyone cozying up to her in the most repulsive fashion, in hopes of getting River Oaks, her twenty-thousand-acre estate —

(
LUKE
enters. He’s thirty and wildly energetic, caroming around the room, picking up and putting down objects, chuckling to himself — the very opposite of the character Aaron describes. All stare at him in bafflement.)

AARON. While everyone knows that my stepbrother Luke, here — who’s hardly left his room for years, just hunched up in the closet, in the dark, hardly speaking —

LUKE.
(Hearty and loud.)
Howdy, all!

AARON.
(Pointedly to actor playing Luke.)
And
hardly moving,
just like the salamanders he raises in his closet. Which is all he’s done since the fateful day he came upon Grandpappy’s body down by the river —

CAROLINE.
(To REGINALD.)
This boy do go on, don’t he.

(Zap sound. Blackout. Lights come up on the
PERFORMANCE ART MONOLOGUE.
)

MARSHA. So like my father is the manager of Planet Snooze, this store that’s as big as a freaking galaxy that just sells beds. His one goal in the universe is to put people to sleep. Yawning was considered a big conversation starter in my house. “You going to sleep soon?” “Did you get a nap in today?” And then in the morning, every morning — the sleep report. “So how did you sleep?” “OK, I guess.” “Just OK? Let’s talk about that later. How ’bout you, Mother?” “Oh, my, I had a wonderful sleep.”
(She sniffles loudly.)
God, I’ve got to take something for this cold. Hold on.
(She fishes a pill out of a pocket, looks in vain for something to wash it down with, discovers that the whiskey bottle is empty, and throws up her hands.)
Oh, well. There’s always saliva.
(She stops talking, spends five seconds collecting saliva in her mouth, then manages to squeeze the pill down her throat.)
My mother stayed home till I was in middle school. Then she got a part-time job out at the mall at Jingle Bell Lane, one of those shops that sells Christmas crap the whole freaking year. The place is like on permanent pause. It’s always December there. There’s always fake snow on the windowpanes. Maybe you’d stop aging if you like barricaded yourself inside and never left. If you could stand “The Twelve Days of Christmas” playing nonstop. You want to set me off, start singing that song. And that stupid fake scent in those shops. Christmas is supposed to smell good by itself, without Dow Chemical. I swear that stuff affected my mother’s brain. She’s got this sort of bulgy forehead, probably because the part of the brain devoted to gift selection and home decoration is like totally huge and has swallowed up the parts for fashion and musical taste. Both my parents worked in these weird island worlds — no racism, sexism, pollution, assassinations, riots. Like they never happened. I swear, if you went into Planet Snooze and screamed “Martin Luther King!” in my father’s face, he’d say, “You bet. We’ve got loads of kings.” Can you imagine being an only child, marooned with these loonies? Where was Child Protective Services? It was like living in a freaking morgue. I should have gotten free antidepressants in my school lunch. Not too much, like that new guy playing Luke —
(Gestures toward the wings.)
— who I think maybe got his diet pill uppers mixed up with his Tic Tacs and took like a few dozen too many. So anyway, growing up with —

(Zap sound. Blackout. Lights come up on the
SOUTHERN PLAY,
as before. Luke is still bouncing around the room.)

AARON. And personally, I’ve always felt that Luke’s salamanders were metaphors for his desire to burrow into the darkness, to escape the horrible memory of —

(Luke is too wired to remember his southern accent or even that he’s in a play.)

LUKE. What horrible memory?

(
REGINALD,
CAROLINE,
and
AARON
exchange worried looks.)

CAROLINE.
(Improvising.)
My, what a northern southern accent you’ve got, Luke. Calm yourself. And tell us about Belle.

LUKE. Belle?

REGINALD AND AARON.
(Shouting.)
Belle!

(This jars
LUKE
’s memory.)

LUKE. Oh, yeah.
(Puts on southern accent and rushes madly through his lines.)
I think Belle might be hurt. She’s my favorite salamander. She’s the one I found down by the river. You know the place. You all do. Down there where they found the — found the — found the body, found Grandpappy’s body.
(Having finished his speech, he resumes moving around the stage, stops next to CAROLINE, and speaks without an accent.)
So what are you doing after the show?

(Zap sound. Blackout. Lights come up on the
COMEDY.
A Mozart slow movement is playing.
IRV
is finishing showing
AUDREY M
C
PHERSON,
a harried forty-year-old, around the apartment. She finds herself eyeing the books in the bookcase.)

AUDREY. Lot of books.

IRV. Yeah. I — I like reading. You know.

AUDREY. Irving Weinstein, I see. A whole shelf of ’em. You a fan?

IRV.
(Flustered.)
Yeah. Sort of. He’s, you know, pretty good. Underrated, actually.

AUDREY. He’s a friend of my husband’s.

IRV. No kidding. Wow. Wonder what he’s like.

AUDREY.
(Absently, while scanning books.)
A heaping plate of neuroses, I hear.

IRV. You don’t say.
(Chews on this bitterly.) I wouldn’t
have guessed that.
(Tries to put it behind him, gestures toward the room.)
So what do you think? Speaking as a professional decorator.

AUDREY. Well, it’s certainly got potential. I like your idea of increasing the sense of sanctuary, of making it a place of peace and meditation. Couldn’t we all use that. You’d have to be flexible, of course. The couch, for instance.

IRV. I think I could be very flexible on the couch.
(Roguish smile.)
Then again, it was my grandmother’s. Loyalty means a lot to me. Loyalty and fidelity. Fidelity and honesty.

AUDREY. That’s refreshing. And clients’ sentiments certainly have to be taken into account.
(She sits down on the couch.)

IRV. They certainly do. Say. It’s after five. You must be done for today. Can I get you a drink?

AUDREY. You must have read my mind. I’d love one.

IRV. Comin’ up.

AUDREY. It’s been an absolutely crazy week. I swear this is the first time I’ve sat down in days.
(AUDREY settles into the couch and closes her eyes. IRV walks suavely toward the whiskey, holds up the empty bottle, gestures toward the wings, engages in a long, mimed conversation unseen by AUDREY, and eventually dips two glasses into the nearby fishbowl. Meanwhile:)
You like Mozart, Mr. Silverman?

IRV. Moe.

AUDREY. Moe.

IRV. I mean Mel!

AUDREY. Mel.

IRV. Moe’s my middle name.

AUDREY.
(To herself.)
Mel Moe Silverman.

IRV. Yeah, Mozart’s probably my favorite. . . . Right up there with . . . with . . . you know, the other great . . . music writers.

(He brings the glasses, discreetly shaking his head at
AUDREY,
trying to tell her not to drink.)

AUDREY. God, you’re a savior. Thank you.
(She beams, takes no notice of IRV’s hint, clinks glasses with him, and takes a gulp. She smiles.)
I used to — (
The taste hits her. She grimaces and gives a mighty shudder, registers IRV’s headshaking, and peers at her glass. Her mind is on what she’s swallowed, not her lines, which she delivers flatly.)
— play Mozart on the piano. But that was a long time ago.
(She wipes her mouth on her sleeve.)
My husband only likes jazz, which after a while makes me want to run out of the apartment.

IRV. You can always come here. It’s always calm and—
(Polka music comes up from below.)
Calm and tranquil.
(IRV taps his toe on the floor, to no effect.)
Tranquil and appealing.
(He pounds louder.)
Appealing and —
(He jumps up and down on floor several times. The polka music stops.)
— and calm.

AUDREY. This drink’s going to my head.

IRV. You need something in your stomach. Feel like eating?

AUDREY.
(Forgetting her character, thinking of her stomach.)
No!
(Remembering her character, but with no enthusiasm in her voice.)
I mean, yes. I’d love to.

IRV. Right around the corner there’s this great little —
(Reluctantly.)
seafood place —

(
AUDREY
stiffens. She sniffs her drink. Her eyes cut to the fishbowl, then to
IRV.
She speaks her next line as if ready to murder him.)

AUDREY. How did you know? I adore seafood.

IRV.
(Fearfully.)
Great. Let’s go.

(They stand. Zap sound. Blackout. Lights come up on the
RUSSIAN PLAY. KONSTANTIN
is holding forth to a seated
IRINA
and
NIKOLAI,
his delivery maddeningly slow. He holds his staff in one hand.)

KONSTANTIN. — nothing more important, you see, in the cultivation of beets, than the soil. Nothing. The condition of the soil is paramount. This cannot be stressed too highly. As my great-grandfather was fond of saying, an aphorism for which he was known far and wide, for dozens of versts in every direction, as he was wont to say — indeed he said it nearly every day, sometimes, actually, more often — as he liked to say, “Good soil — good beets.”

(
KONSTANTIN
smiles, awaiting response.
IRINA
stifles a yawn.
NIKOLAI
produces a pen and tiny notebook.)

NIKOLAI. Let me write that down.

KONSTANTIN.
(Repeating words slowly for NIKOLAI’s benefit.)
Good . . . soil . . . good —

(Zap sound. Blackout. Lights come up on the
ENGLISH MYSTERY. CLIFFORD, COL. and MRS. HARDWICKE, REV. SMYTHE, LADY DENSLOW,
and
EMMALINE
are all standing.)

COL. HARDWICKE. — propose that we all recount to the group as a whole all our movements, from the time dinner finished to the present, leaving out no detail, however seemingly unimportant.

EMMALINE. Good thinking.

MRS. HARDWICKE. No detail
whatsoever.

COL. HARDWICKE. Marjorie, why don’t you begin.

MRS. HARDWICKE. Very well. Let me see. After the dessert, which I thought was quite lovely — I’ve always been quite partial to custard — Lady Denslow and I began chatting, didn’t we, first off, about her dress, which I could never wear, not with that neckline, but which on her really does look —

(Zap sound. Blackout. Lights come up on the
AVANT-GARDE PLAY. MAN
is holding a street map in front of his face. He unfolds it dramatically.
WOMAN
is miming knitting with pleasant concentration, using neither yarn nor needles. He notices her.)

MAN. Do you enjoy knitting?

WOMAN. Oh, yes. Very much.

MAN. And yet I notice you don’t use yarn or needles.

WOMAN. That’s the way my mother taught me. And what with the price of yarn these days . . .

(
MAN
mutters in agreement, then turns his map to study a different portion. Silence. Zap sound. Blackout. Lights come up on the
SOUTHERN PLAY. GRANDMAMMY,
ancient and wearing a white dress, is sitting in a chair. She holds a glass of iced tea. Facing her is
LUKE,
fidgeting madly, scarcely able to stay put on the couch. He uses his southern accent in this scene.)

GRANDMAMMY. You’ve always been my favorite, Luke.

LUKE. Why’s that, Grandmammy?

GRANDMAMMY. Reckon it goes back, way back to when I was just a knee-baby. Back before the Yankees set their guns on Vicksburg.

LUKE. You know I love your stories, Grandmammy.

GRANDMAMMY. And it’s a long story I’m fixing to tell.
(Clearly addressing the actor playing LUKE.)
So get comfortable!

(She takes a deep breath preparatory to beginning her tale. Zap sound. Blackout. Lights come up on the
RUSSIAN PLAY,
as before.
IRINA
has slumped down farther in her seat.)

KONSTANTIN. A salty soil is good for beets. How do you tell, you ask? Well, I’ll tell you. What you do is this. First, you take a little pinch in your hand. Not a great deal. Just a pinch. Then you put a bit of that on your tongue —

(Zap sound. Blackout. Lights come up on the
ENGLISH MYSTERY,
as before.)

MRS. HARDWICKE. — and I told her I thought the sleeves were darling, and then we spoke of the war, and when it might end, and what we would wear when it did —

(Zap sound. Blackout. Lights come up on the
SOUTHERN PLAY,
as before.)

GRANDMAMMY. — but General Grant didn’t count on Vicksburg holding out this long. No sir, he —
(The phone rings.)
That must be the lawyer. Got a change I want to make.
(Phone continues ringing. She addresses actor playing Luke.)
Aren’t you gonna
answer
it?

(
LUKE
bustles to the phone table, finds the phone gone, looks into wings, then searches the room for it, while the phone continues ringing. He’s forgotten his southern accent.)

LUKE. We never had this problem before.

GRANDMAMMY. Well, we never shared a house with no uppity royal family before. Look in the wastebasket!

(Luke crouches by wastebasket, picks up the receiver, and puts it to his ear. Ringing stops.)