Saturday Special from the Vaults: Three Writers in Search of a Character
For two or three years, several years ago now, Globe Theatre ran something called “On the Line: A Freefall Through New Work.” Authors submitted scripts, which were given a staged reading. Below is the first script I ever submitted. It was a blast seeing it given life by the actors!
Oh: the following contains scenes of coarse language. Reader discretion is advised.
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THREE WRITERS IN SEARCH OF A CHARACTER
By Edward Willett
(A MAN, FILTHY, DRESSED IN RAGS, LIES IN THE GUTTER OF AN URBAN STREET, ALIVE OR DEAD, WE CAN’T TELL.)
(ENTER THE POET.)
POET
How tragic, how typical! Another victim of the pro-globalization capitalist agenda, another foot soldier in the fight for human dignity, worn down to nothing by the grinding wheels of industry, discarded like toxic waste in the gutters of the uncaring city!
(THE POET STRIKES A POSE.)
The weary warrior lost the fight
One black and icy winter night
And though the moon poured down so bright
His dying eyes could see no–
(ENTER THE NOVELIST.)
NOVELIST
Hold that rhyme!
POET
What?
NOVELIST
Not another word!
POET
How dare you censor my work!
NOVELIST
I’m not censoring it! I don’t care what you say–as long as you don’t say it about him. He’s mine. I saw him first.
POET
You can’t own another human being!
NOVELIST
Of course I can. I’m a novelist. I’ve been stuck for weeks in Chapter Three. I need a new character to move the story along–and he’s it.
POET
Too late! He’s the perfect symbol of the vicious oppressiveness of right-wing thinking, and I’ve already incorporated him into my new poem cycle, entitled “The Vicious Oppressiveness of Right-Wing Thinking.” It begins with an epic 687-line poem describing the current economic and political situation.
(HE RESUMES HIS POSE.)
All around the marketplace
The bulls and bears were dancing,
While in their towers of shining glass
The bankers were romancing.
The–
NOVELIST
That settles it. You’re not a real poet.
POET
What?
NOVELIST
Your poetry rhymes. Everyone knows serious poetry hasn’t rhymed since the 19th century.
POET
That’s what makes my poetry cutting-edge. When no one else is rhyming, only the true revolutionary dares to do so.
NOVELIST
Fine. Whatever you say. But you’ll have to be revolutionary without this character. He’s mine!
(BENDS DOWN AND STARTS TO DRAG THE RECLINING MAN OFF BY THE ARMS. THE POET GRABS THE MAN’S LEGS. THEY GET IN A TUG OF WAR.)
POET
No! You can’t have him! I am a poet! I exist to exalt the common man, and I refuse to let you use this victim of society in your silly middle-class entertainment. It’s my sacred duty to protect his dignity!
(THE NOVELIST ABRUPTLY LETS GO, LEAVING THE POET HOLDING THE MAN’S LEGS OFF THE GROUND IN A MOST UNDIGNIFIED POSITION. HE CONTINUES TO HOLD THEM DURING THE NEXT EXCHANGE.)
I have already begun to formulate the lines that will describe his life and death, which will move people to anger and tears, which will cause them to rise up and bring the rotten structure of modern society tumbling down like a termite-ridden barn so that we may build a shining new tower of beauty and truth in the ruins of the–
NOVELIST
Betcha I made use of him before you did.
POET
Did not.
NOVELIST
Did to.
POET
Oh, yeah?
NOVELIST
Yeah!
POET
Prove it!
NOVELIST
(PULLS OUT HAND-HELD TAPE RECORDER, PRESSES PLAY. HIS RECORDED VOICE SAYS:)
Over there is a man lying in the gutter. Perfect for Chapter 3! Suzanne has to step over him to get in her limo, he opens his eyes, reaches out to her for help, she looks down at him and says–hey, you! Get away from him!
POET
“Hey, you, get away from him?” What kind of stupid dialogue is that? And you call yourself a novelist…
NOVELIST
That’s not dialogue. That’s what I yelled when I saw you trying to appropriate my character.
POET
Appropriate?
(HE DROPS THE MAN’S LEGS WITH A THUMP, STEPS OVER HIM TO CONFRONT THE NOVELIST.)
You accuse me of appropriation? Me, when it’s obviously you who is the appropriator–a full-blown cultural appropriator, the most despicable kind of writer there is…well, except maybe for the people who write those huge trilogies about unicorns.
NOVELIST
I don’t know what you’re talking about.
POET
You would dare to speak in the voice of this man? You, who have obviously never been hungry a day in your life, have never known a life of poverty, of wandering the streets, friendless, alone…how can you write in the voice of the down-and-out when you’ve always been up-and-in?
NOVELIST
What about you? You’re planning to do the same thing.
POET
That’s different. While I have not had the privilege of living among the people of the street, I, too have been poor and friendless…
NOVELIST
Not surprising, seeing as how you’re a poet.
POET
Is that a slur against poetry?
NOVELIST
Well, it’s not like it’s real writing, is it? I mean, you throw together a few words, break lines wherever you please–you don’t even have to write complete sentences!
POET
Poetry is the oldest form of literary art!
NOVELIST
Guess that’s why it’s gone senile.
POET
Why, you pompous, self-righteous overstuffed middle-class baby-boomer prick–
NOVELIST
Baby-boomer? Baby-boomer? You take that back!
POET
Baby boomer, baby boomer, baby boomer!
(NOVELIST STARTS FOR POET. POET STARTS FOR NOVELIST.)
(ENTER THE PLAYWRIGHT.)
PLAYWRIGHT
Hold it right there!
(THE POET AND NOVELIST, FROZEN IN THE ACT OF GOING FOR EACH OTHER’S THROATS, STARE AT HIM. HE WALKS SLOWLY AROUND THEM, TAKING IN THE TABLEAU FROM ALL SIDES.)
Not bad, not bad. Should make a good picture on stage, if I get a director that knows what he’s doing…not that they ever do…
(HE PULLS OUT A NOTEBOOK AND SCRIBBLES IN IT.)
(POET AND NOVELIST BREAK OUT OF TABLEAU.)
POET
Who the fuck are you?
PLAYWRIGHT (musing)
Fuck, fuck…do I really want a fuck? It’s used so much now that it’s pretty well lost its shock value. And is it really in character? This poet guy has been sounding pretty erudite up ’til now. Hmmm…maybe too erudite. He just said he’s been poor, friendless…hmmm. Maybe he could use more fucks, a few shits, lots of hells and damns…
POET
Damn, I don’t fuckin’ believe this shit.
PLAYWRIGHT
That’s better.
NOVELIST
Who are you?
PLAYWRIGHT
Maybe that should be “Who the HELL are you?” Hmmm…no, I don’t think so. The novelist is solidly middle-class, respectable. He swears deliberately, for emphasis, not as a matter of course…no, no swearing this time.
(SCRIBBLES.)
NOVELIST
I said, who are you?
PLAYWRIGHT
Hmmm? Oh…oh, sorry, I’m always doing that, getting lost in my work. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m the playwright.
NOVELIST
Don’t you mean I’m “a” playwright?
PLAYWRIGHT
Oh, that’s very good, very precise attention to words, perfect for a novelist…um, no, I mean, I’m THE playwright. I’m the one writing all this.
NOVELIST
All what?
PLAYWRIGHT
This scene. Sketch. Whatever you call it. It’s mine.
POET
What the fuckin’ hell…?
PLAYWRIGHT
Hmmm…maybe a little TOO much swearing…
(SCRIBBLES.)
POET
You’re saying this isn’t real? That we’re just play-acting? And YOU wrote the script?
PLAYWRIGHT
Well, I wouldn’t say it’s not real. I’ve always felt that the world on stage is more real than the world outside the theatre. Hyper-real, you might say.
POET
You’re nuts!
NOVELIST
I couldn’t agree more.
PLAYWRIGHT
What?
(FLIPS BACK THROUGH NOTEBOOK.)
No, no, agreeing is out of the question. I need both of you arguing over him.
(NUDGES THE MAN ON THE FLOOR WITH HIS FOOT.)
See, that’s the whole idea. A novelist, representing the middle-class conservative, with a “what’s mine is mine and what’s yours ought to be mine” mentality, arguing with a poet, representing the radical, anarchist mentality of the street. Making one a poet and one a novelist highlights the communication gap between the classes. Clever, eh?
POET
Then what does he represent?
(INDICATES MAN ON FLOOR.)
PLAYWRIGHT
Him? Oh, he’s just a symbol of the individuals whose immediate, day-to-day needs are sometimes forgotten by those who spend their time spouting political rhetoric.
NOVELIST
So how come he’s just lying there?
PLAYWRIGHT
Well, duh!, because he has to be voiceless. It’s part of his symbolism. You know, a novelist should really understand that. Hmmm…
(SCRIBBLES FURIOUSLY.)
NOVELIST
Oh, I get it!
POET
But he’s not just voiceless, he’s dead!
PLAYWRIGHT
Not necessarily. He could just be sleeping. I haven’t decided yet.
NOVELIST
You’re making all this up, aren’t you?
PLAYWRIGHT
Oh, good, you really do get it, don’t you? It’s about time…
NOVELIST
No, I mean you’re making up all this nonsense about this being a play you’re writing. You’re just trying to steal my character. Just like him!
(POINTS AT POET.)
POET
I told you already, he ain’t yours, Jack.
PLAYWRIGHT
Quite right. Technically, he’s mine. But then, so are both of you–
POET
No way! No goddamn way am I letting you appropriate my voice.
(STRIKES A POSE.)
My voice, my voice is mine alone
It’s all I have to call my own,
My sword, my shield, my armor, too;
And if you want it–well, fuck you!
PLAYWRIGHT
Oh, now that’s going too far.
(SCRIBBLES, THEN READS ALOUD…)
Novelist and Poet glare at each other, then exit, unable to bridge the gap between them.
NOVELIST
I’m leaving, all right, but it’s got nothing to do with you. I’ve just thought of a better way to make Chapter 3 work than using this old derelict, that’s all. Suzanne steps over a dog, not a man, lying the gutter, and the dog looks up and…
(HE EXITS, MUTTERING.)
POET
Typical. He can’t see a way to use the homeless wretch in the gutter, so he just walks away, wrapped up in his own concerns. He…hey…hey, that’s perfect!
(EXITS, PROCLAIMING…)
The fat white rich man in his suit,
He doesn’t give a single hoot
About a man, all rags and soot
Who lies there at his very foot…
PLAYWRIGHT
Ugh. Well, I can fix it in rewrites.
(HE STEPS OVER THE MAN IN THE GUTTER AND EXITS.)
(FOR A MOMENT NOTHING HAPPENS, THEN THE MAN IN THE GUTTER OPENS HIS EYES. HE SITS UP, LOOKS AROUND CAUTIOUSLY, THEN GETS TO HIS FEET. HE PULLS OUT A CELL PHONE, DIALS.)
MAN
Morty? Josh. Listen, I’ve got it! No, I’m not kidding. It’ll be huge, huge! Bigger than Titanic! Listen to this…Fade in. Exterior, night. A man lies in the gutter of a rain-soaked urban street. In comes this poet…
(EXITS, TALKING.)
BLACKOUT
