Zap (8 page)

MAN. There is no questionnaire.

WOMAN. But that’s why you’re calling the front desk. To ask them to send one up. Or, if they don’t have one, to kindly have one printed.

MAN. Unfortunately, they don’t seem to be answering.

WOMAN. Typical.

MAN. I’m sure they’re quite busy attending to the other guests.

WOMAN.
(She throws down her imaginary knitting needles in anger, stands, and notices the female corpse for the first time, eyeing it while distractedly delivering her line.)
But we’re the other guests, too.

MAN. No, dear. We’re ourselves. We can never be the others.

WOMAN.
(Abandoning the script, trying to get the MAN to notice the corpse.)
Well, he’s not himself.

MAN.
(HE notices the corpse and begins improvising nervously.)
No, he’s not. You’re right. That’s extremely rare, isn’t it? To be one of the others and not oneself. The problem of identity is of course central to — the last portion of this play. And since I was just about to try on the corpse’s clothes, to see if they fit, I now find myself wondering, as I’m sure you are as well —

(Sharp knock at the door.
MAN
and
WOMAN
freeze, confused.
NORFOLK
from
RICHARD III,
still in Shakespearean dress, calls out “Room service” and enters briskly, dragging the male corpse, which he exchanges for the female.)

NORFOLK. Compliments of the hotel.

(He exits swiftly, leaving
MAN
and
WOMAN
speechless. Pause.)

WOMAN. I suppose, as long as it doesn’t appear on our bill.

(Zap sound. Blackout. Lights come up on the
ENGLISH MYSTERY.
The male corpse remains in place.
BEETON, REV. SMYTHE,
and
COL. HARDWICKE
enter.)

BEETON. Good lord, it’s Lady — Lady — Lady —
(He sees that the corpse is male and can’t finish his line.)

COL. HARDWICKE. Lady Denslow. Indeed it is. How death changes one, eh, Reverend?

REV. SMYTHE.
(Still angry, he speaks his line distastefully through clenched teeth.)
Lady Denslow was loved by all the village.
(He abandons the script and his English accent from here on.)
But she made the mistake of telling secrets!
(Faces wings.)
Just like that teenage twerp!

(All lines are improvised from this point on.
COL. HARDWICKE
and
BEETON
maintain their accents.)

COL. HARDWICKE. Reverend —

REV. SMYTHE. Let both their souls burn for eternity in Hell!

(The others are stunned by this outburst.
BEETON
clears his throat, faces
REV. SMYTHE,
and tries to get him back on track.)

BEETON. Aren’t you going to say a few words over her —
(Looks at corpse and corrects himself.)
— him —
(Corrects himself again.)
— her. You remember.

REV. SMYTHE. Yeah. Sure, I’ve got a few things to say.
(He bends down, stares at the corpse with hatred, and then yells.)
You better watch your back, lady, if you know what’s good for you!
(He gives the corpse a kick.)
That’s what I’ve got to say.
(Pause.)

COL. HARDWICKE. Right. Jolly good. Well, now, I’ve a suggestion. Let’s deduce the murderer’s identity, shall we, which only takes a few pages, actually. Then we wrap this thing up —
(To REV. SMYTHE.)
— and you can scoot off to your anger management class. What do you chaps say to that?

REV. SMYTHE. What do we say? How about, “Why don’t you shut your pompous trap, Colonel.” The fearless military man, who can’t face an audience without petting his good luck stuffed rabbit before every entrance!

(
COL. HARDWICKE
stares in shock at
REV. SMYTHE.
Pause.
COL. HARDWICKE
abruptly turns in military fashion and strides offstage.)

BEETON. Yes. Well. May I propose —

REV. SMYTHE. Oh, shut up, Jeremy!

(Zap sound. Blackout. Lights come up on the
COMEDY.
IRV
paces nervously while talking to
SAMMY.
Women’s clothes are strewn on the couch and floor, remaining in place through subsequent scenes.)

IRV. But I’m the one who got her thrown out! I can’t just tell her to go live in Central Park.

SAMMY. Is she really so bad? Maybe you two —

IRV. Are you kidding? I’m through with women! I told you!
(He picks a dress up off a chair, flings it on the floor, and sits down.)
Her stuff’s everywhere. She gave half my things to the Salvation Army when I was out. Her cats want to sleep on my head. The minute they showed up, my allergies came back. Next week she’s got three kids coming home from boarding school for the whole summer. It’s not gonna work! You gotta do something!

SAMMY. So tell her the truth, that it was all a game.

IRV. I can’t do that! She thinks I’m a saint!

SAMMY. Saint Moe.
(Considers.)
Never heard of him.

IRV. Mel!

SAMMY. Mel. Him, I remember. Patron saint of vengeful writers.

IRV. Come on, think!

SAMMY. The thoughts would flow faster if you’d pour me a drink.

IRV. Coming up.

(
IRV
walks toward the whiskey bottle, remembers that it’s empty, makes a U-turn, and gestures to
SAMMY
to continue his lines.)

SAMMY.
(Uncertainly, miming drinking.)
Mmmmm. That sure tastes good. Hey, I’ve got it!

IRV. Yeah?

SAMMY. Yeah. You convinced her you’re a saint, right?

IRV. Right.

SAMMY. So now you do the same about her husband. Make him look like Saint Max. They get back together, she moves back with him, and you go back to being Irv Weinstein, deeply flawed cheapskate.

IRV. Great! How do we do it?

SAMMY. How?
(A stuffed rabbit flies through the air and lands in front of SAMMY. IRV looks toward the wings. SAMMY picks up the rabbit and stares at it.)
How? . . . Well, you . . . I’m sure there’s . . . a perfectly rational . . .

(Zap sound. Blackout. Lights come up on
RICHARD III,
act 5, late in scene 3.
RICHARD
is alone.)

RICHARD. The sun will not be seen to-day;

The sky doth frown and lower upon our army.

I would these dewy tears were from the ground.

Not shine to-day! Why, what is that to me

More than to Richmond? for the self-same heaven

That frowns on me looks sadly upon him.

(
NORFOLK
enters, his shoe hooking one of the pieces of women’s clothing on the floor. He notices this just as he’s about to speak and labors to shake himself free with contemptuous fury.)

NORFOLK. Arm, arm, my lord! The foe vaunts in the field.

RICHARD. Come, bustle, bustle; caparison my horse.

Call up Lord Stanley, bid him bring his power:

I will lead forth my soldiers to the plain —

(The zap sound is heard but lights remain.
RICHARD
snarls contemptuously at the audience, then turns to
NORFOLK,
dropping his accent.)

They’re not going to let us finish.
(Pause.)
What about my horse speech?
(To audience.)
What about my horse speech!

(The zap sound is repeated several times. Blackout. When lights come up, the casts of both the SOUTHERN PLAY and the RUSSIAN PLAY are onstage. REGINALD is reading the will to AARON, CAROLINE, and LUKE, who are dispersed around the room. IRINA, NIKOLAI, and OLGA stand among them. All are surprised at this, but each group feels it’s rightly onstage. All maintain accents except where indicated.)

REGINALD. “I testify that I am of sound mind and that this will was amended freely, neither under threat nor —”

OLGA. Perhaps you’d care to finish your reading elsewhere.

CAROLINE. Actually, you’re interrupting an extremely crucial —

IRINA. We’re interrupting?

REGINALD. We’re trying to read a will here. If y’all don’t mind —

IRINA. And we, may I point out, have a scene of considerable import to present as well.

LUKE.
(To IRINA.)
Say, you want to go out for a drink after?

(Snubbing him,
IRINA
turns her back on
LUKE,
who takes advantage of the chance and readies himself to experimentally poke both her buttocks at once. Before he can do so, the female corpse is thrown into the room.
IRINA
screams and moves out of
LUKE
’s reach. Rehearsed shock from the Russian cast; mild interest from the
SOUTHERN
cast.)

NIKOLAI. Great-Grandfather!

IRINA.
(To wings.)
Great-Grand
father
!

(The male corpse is thrown into the room, next to the female. The
SOUTHERN
cast rolls eyes and shakes heads.
NIKOLAI
crouches over the male corpse and examines it.)

NIKOLAI. Dead! Throwing himself down the stairs. Why didn’t he think of this decades ago?

REGINALD.
(To Russian cast, indicating female corpse.)
Yeah? So who’s she?

OLGA.
(Disdainfully.)
She’s certainly not one of ours. Probably a forgotten member of your bizarre ménage.

(Sound of cat yowling.
AARON
looks toward the wings.)

CAROLINE. I got a feeling that’s the sound of your train, Aaron.
(Cat yowls again. AARON throws up his hands in disgust.)
Don’t be late.

(
AARON
picks up his suitcase and stomps off. The zap sound is heard, but the lights stay on and actors remain where they are.)

REGINALD.
(Determined to continue.)
“To my son, Reginald —”

(
IRV
and
AUDREY
enter,
IRV
’s line beginning offstage.)

IRV. Like I said to you before, Max is a great guy. I couldn’t be happier for —

(
IRV
and
AUDREY
look around in shock. Both improvise.)

AUDREY. I didn’t know I was . . . interrupting.

IRV. It’s fine. Really. I was just having a little . . . get-together. To celebrate . . . the fact that . . . that —

(
EMMALINE
enters breathlessly, calling to an offstage
BEETON.
)

EMMALINE. Beeton! I know who the murderer is!

IRV. — that we know who the murderer is.

EMMALINE. It’s not Clifford after all! And it’s
not
Colonel Hardwicke!

CAROLINE. Hell, woman, I could’ve told you that.

(
EMMALINE
stamps her foot in frustration and bolts offstage.)

AUDREY.
(To IRV.)
I guess I’ll just collect my things.

(She begins picking up clothing.)

REGINALD. “To my son, Reginald —”

(Zap sound.
MAN
and
WOMAN
enter, still in robes, and improvise.)

WOMAN. I wonder if perhaps we’re in the wrong room.

MAN. It said 704 on the door.
(Indicating AUDREY picking up items.)
I told you the housecleaning staff would eventually show up.

WOMAN.
(She looks around the room, then at AUDREY.)
After you’ve finished changing the bed, would you please change the wallpaper? This pattern is so depressing. Oh, and we’d like fresh corpses, also. These are beginning to putrefy.

(
AUDREY
ignores her. Loud thunderclap.)

CAROLINE.
(Indicating thunder.)
Don’t worry, it’s not for us. It’s for somebody else.

(Offstage we hear
REV. SMYTHE
growling in a fury. The stuffed rabbit flies onto the stage, followed by
REV. SMYTHE,
who jumps up and down on it. This elicits the polka music at high volume.
IRV
taps his foot on the floor, to no effect, then jumps up and down, looking toward the wings. The music continues. The zap sound is heard over and over.
COL. HARDWICKE
enters, sees the rabbit, and hurls himself at
REV. SMYTHE.
The stage goes dark. Sounds of fighting and shouting, fading as the fight and the actors move offstage. Polka music plays on, then abruptly stops. Lights come up on the
PERFORMANCE ART MONOLOGUE.
)

MARSHA. Whoa. Chekhov meets WrestleMania. Of course, you expect opening night to be a little rough. But I hear there might be some talent scouts in the audience, which could actually be pretty important for me —

(
IRINA
enters, unseen by
MARSHA,
and starts singing softly.)

IRINA. “Twelve drummers drumming,

Eleven pipers piping,

Ten lords a-leaping —”

(
MARSHA
whirls around in a rage. She sticks her tongue out at
IRINA,
covers her ears, and yells her lines at the audience.
IRINA
continues singing “The Twelve Days of Christmas” at increasing volume.)

MARSHA. So like I’d really appreciate it if you’d let me do this next scene, without being interrupted, you know, ’cause I think it really shows off what I can do —

(Zap sound. Blackout. Pause.)

RICHARD.
(Offstage.)
A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse —
dammit
!

(Pause. Lights come up on the empty stage.)

CURTAIN