Nobodies Page 11
Tucker: They have to do their homework then.
Todd sighs and shakes his head. He sits in one of the chairs by the table, leans forward, and massages his temples.
Todd: You know, I thought working with you on this would make my life easier—
Tucker: This is good stuff, man.
Todd: It’s bullshit.
Tucker: It is anything but bullshit. It asks timeless questions: “Who am I?” . . . “Who are you?” . . . “Who are we?”
Todd: “Who gives a shit?”
Tucker: A fascinating question in itself. What is shit? Why do we give it? To whom do we give it? And why would they want it in the first place?
Todd: We’re starting over.
Tucker: Come on, man—
Todd: You said if I came up with the story, you’d write the dialogue. I gave you a simple, realistic story— like the assignment said—and you turned it into something a schizophrenic T.S. Eliot would write.
Tucker: I decided to go in a different direction.
Todd: What was wrong with my direction?
Tucker: It was a bit . . . dumb. No offence.
Todd scoffs.
Todd: And this is what? Brilliant?
Tucker: It’s original.
Todd opens his mouth to speak but resists the urge and clears his throat.
Todd: Look: I just want a decent mark. I know you want to be the next Tom Stoppard or whatever, but I just want to graduate by the time I’m forty.
Tucker: Yes, I keep forgetting: you’re a business major now. Who cares about art if it can’t buy you a Porsche?
Todd: Who cares about art if it can’t buy you a meal? Integrity is nice, but it isn’t very filling.
Tucker looks down at the script and curls it into a tube.
Tucker: I want to keep the scene when King Lear wrestles Uncle Vanya.
Todd: We’re starting over, man. Page one rewrite.
Tucker: I worked pretty hard on this, you know.
Todd: I’m sorry to hear that.
Tucker: Yeah. I’m sure you are.
Tucker joins Todd at the table. He takes a pen out of his pocket and starts reading through the script, making notes and corrections as he goes.
Todd leans back in his chair and looks up at the unlit lights, the ropes, the catwalk. He follows the pipes along the ceiling, down the wall, and into the darkness of the wing, where he spots a costume rack, filled mostly with broken hangers, and a bin overflowing with props. In the red glow of the exit sign, he can discern the outline of Yorick’s skull and Macbeth’s severed head, peeking over the top of the bin.
Todd: Did Mulligan ever get back to you on the other play?
Tucker: Not yet.
Todd: When did you give it to him?
Tucker: About a week ago.
Todd: What’s taking so long?
Tucker: He’s a busy guy. Probably hasn’t got to it yet.
Todd: Or he read five pages and put it down.
Tucker: I’m sure he’s just busy.
Todd: How long did it take you to read Paula’s play?
Tucker: That’s different.
Todd: How?
Tucker: Hers was awful.
Todd: What about Carly? You read hers.
Tucker: She’s my girlfriend.
Todd groans.
Todd: I know. You need to do something about that.
Tucker: Why? You want her?
Todd: I don’t want your leftovers.
Tucker: Good, cause she ain’t for sale.
Todd: How is she, by the way?
Tucker: What do you care?
Todd: I’m just curious.
Tucker: She’s dead. I shot her and buried her under the stage. Don’t tell anyone.
Todd furrows his brow.
Todd: You are not a nice person.
Tucker: I dare ask how Brittney’s doing.
Todd: How do you think she’s doing?
Tucker: Still haven’t called her?
Todd: You told me not to.
Tucker: I know. I’m just checking.
Todd: Thank you for checking.
Tucker: You’re very welcome.
Todd: I’m touched by your concern.
Tucker: I touch you as often as I can.
Todd: So does your girlfriend.
Tucker: At least I have a girlfriend.
Todd: Girlfriends are overrated.
Tucker: They’re better than boyfriends.
Todd: How would you know? You’ve never had one.
Tucker: I am one.
Todd scratches his head, perplexed.
Todd: I’d go out with you.
Tucker: I wouldn’t.
Tucker turns the page and keeps reading.
Todd picks his fingernails.
Todd: Guess who I’m going out with tomorrow night.
Tucker: Your sister?
Todd: Julie Garner.
Tucker: Julie Garner?
Todd nods, grinning.
Tucker: I saw her last night at the bar.
Todd: Oh yeah?
Tucker: She was dancing with this guy . . .
Todd’s grin fades.
Todd: Which guy?
Tucker: Uh, I don’t know. Just a random guy.
Todd: They were dancing?
Tucker: I’m sure it was nothing.
Todd: Were they . . . making out or . . .
Tucker: I don’t know. I didn’t see them make out.
Tucker stops reading and looks up at Todd, who seems lost in his own series of thoughts and confusions.
Tucker: Mulligan always tells us to write what we know.
He scans the room for guidance.
Tucker: What do we know?
Todd: In a metaphysical sense?
Tucker: In any sense.
Todd: Video games . . . weed . . .
Tucker makes a list on the back of the script.
Tucker: Binge drinking . . .
Todd: Porn . . .
Tucker stops writing and examines the list.
Tucker: I wonder if we could use any of that.
Todd: Tucker.
Tucker: Yeah?
Todd: Did you see Julie with anyone else last night?
Tucker: No. I told you . . .
Todd takes his phone out of his pocket and starts typing.
Tucker: Are you texting her?
Todd nods.
Tucker: You think she’s . . .
Todd: I don’t think anything. I’m just making sure we’re still on for tomorrow.
Tucker: I’m sure everything’s fine, man.
Todd finishes the message and puts his phone back in his pocket. He forces a smile.
Todd: I’m sure too.
Tucker turns the page and keeps reading.
Tucker: Were you ever going to ask me what I’m doing tomorrow night?
Todd: Nope.
Tucker: Would you like to know?
Todd: Not really.
Tucker: I’m seeing Othello.
Todd: With Carly?
Tucker: No. Just myself.
Todd: That’s depressing.
Tucker: Naw, man. Girls are distracting. I’m there to work.
Todd: Work?
Tucker: Work. Learn. Absorb. Become inspired.
Todd rolls his eyes.
Tucker: We see each other enough as it is. I don’t think she’ll mind.
Todd: Your fellow theatre-goers will thank you.
Tucker: What does that mean?
Todd: You know what it means.
Tucker: At least we didn’t make out at the dinner table.
Todd: We were drunk!
Tucker: So was everyone else.
Todd: We were in love!
Tucker: So was everyone else.
Todd: What about you and Carly?
Tucker tosses the script on the table.
Tucker: What about me and Carly?
Todd: You don’t even like each other.
Tucker: I can’t believe how jealous you are.
Todd: Of you and Carly?
Tucker: Of me and Carly.
Todd: Two minutes ago, you said she was dead. Tucker: Sometimes I wish she was. It’s natural when you’re in love.
Todd: You’re insane.
Tucker: Insane with a girlfriend.
Todd: I’ll take celibacy over Carly any day.
Tucker: I’m sure the feeling’s mutual.
Todd: Can we work on the play, please?
Tucker: I’m sorry. Am I distracting you from your work?
Todd: No. I don’t know where I’d be without you.
Tucker: I don’t know where you’d be either.
Todd: With Brittney most likely.
Tucker scoffs.
Tucker: Exactly.
He picks up the script and starts reading. After a moment, he puts it down.
Tucker: And speaking of distractions, guess what I saw today.
Todd shrugs.
Tucker: A nip slip.
Todd: A nip slip?
Tucker: A nip slip.
Todd: Whose nip . . . slipped?
Tucker: Lauren’s.
Todd: Lauren Pressley?
Tucker: Lauren. Emmanuel. Pressley.
Todd: Her middle name’s Emmanuel?
Tucker shrugs.
Todd: You saw Lauren Pressley’s tits.
Tucker: Well, a nipple at least.You know when they lean forward and sometimes their bra sort of falls forward too . . .
Todd: How old are you again?
Tucker: You’re just jealous.
Todd: It’s 11:30! I want to get this stupid play done, and you’re talking about nipples!
Tucker: Fine. Jesus.
Todd looks away, arms folded.
Todd: Probably didn’t see anything, anyway.
Tucker: What?
Todd: I said you probably didn’t see anything.
Tucker: I saw enough.
Todd: Sure you did.
Tucker stops reading.
Tucker: Hang on. This should be the play.
Todd: What should be the play?
Tucker: This. You know, just talking. No plot, no premise—
Todd: What would we talk about?
Tucker: You know, school, girls—
Todd: Nipples.
Tucker: Sure, why not? How many plays have you seen with a conversation about nipples?
Todd: None.
Tucker: Right. Exactly.
Todd: There’s a reason.
Tucker: No one writes about nipples. Why? We spend half our day thinking about them.
Todd furrows his brow.
Todd: Really?
Tucker: You know what I mean.
Todd: So you’re suggesting we write a play about nipples.
Tucker: Come on, man. We could start a revolution here. Todd: No one has ever started a revolution writing about nipples.
Tucker: You clearly haven’t read any D.H. Lawrence.
Todd sighs and leans back in his chair. He takes out his phone and dials a number.
Tucker: Who are you calling?
Todd: Julie.
Tucker: Didn’t you just text her?
Todd ignores him.
Todd: Voice mail.
He waits for the tone.
Todd: Hey Julie, it’s me. Just wanted to make sure we’re still on for Saturday. Give me a shout when you get a chance.
Todd puts the phone back in his pocket.
Todd: Sorry. What were you saying?
Tucker: I believe we were discussing the merits of—
Todd’s phone vibrates.
Todd: Hold that thought.
He checks his new message and sighs.
Tucker: Is it from Julie?
Todd: No . . .
As he reads the message, he starts laughing.
Todd: Oh, Jesus . . . Why did I give this girl my number . . .
Tucker: Who is it?
Todd: A chick from class. Listen to this . . . “Hey, Todd!!! How’s it goin? lol Just checkin in to say hi. Hope everything’s goin well. haha. R u still comin to the club tonite? U said u might come and ur not here and now I’m MAADDD at you. Jk, I’m not mad. But I’m just like wonderin what ur up to. haha. hopefully I’ll see u soon. haha lol smiley face”.
Tucker: Does she have some sort of laughing disorder?
Todd: What do you say to something like that?
Tucker: Just say you can’t come. You’ve got to work. Todd: She won’t buy it. She’ll find us and drag me out anyway.
Tucker: Say you’ve got food poisoning.
Todd puts his phone on the table.
Todd: Maybe I just shouldn’t say anything.
Tucker: Don’t ignore her. That’s such a bitch move. Todd: (picking up the phone) Yeah. I’ll just say I have Chlamydia.
Tucker: This should be the play.
Todd: Chlamydia?
Tucker: No, listen. Let’s write what we know. We know what it’s like to be two students, dealing with girls, and rejection, and—
Todd: Nipples?
Tucker: Sure!
Todd: Who the fuck’s gonna watch that?
Tucker scoffs.
Tucker: Don’t worry. People will sit through anything these days . . .
Todd: I’m not sure about anything . . .
Tucker: Todd, it doesn’t matter if anyone enjoys it, as long as it’s good.
Todd: But if no one enjoys it, then no one will think it’s good.
Tucker: We think it’s good.
Todd: Who the hell are we?
Tucker: We’re writers.
Todd leans forward and looks suggestively at the script.
Todd: Not yet.
Tucker: Then why don’t we write about this? About writing a play?
Todd: Huh?
Tucker: We write a play about two students trying to write a play for a drama class.
Todd: Oh, it would be one of those ‘plays about a play within a play’ sort of things.
Tucker: Exactly.
Todd: Those fuckin suck.
Tucker: No, they don’t.
Todd: What’s the point of them?
Tucker: They’re . . . commentaries.
Todd: On?
Tucker: On the nature of reality. On epistemological limitations. On solipsistic subjectivity. Using a variety of devices to examine illusions—theatrical and otherwise—in highly ironic, insightful and original ways to ultimately produce or provide or propose a conclusion about the paradoxes and dialectics of contemporary postmodernity.
Todd: So what’s the point of them?
Tucker sighs. He stands, takes out his phone, and starts to walk off-stage.
Todd: Where are you going?
Tucker: I’m calling Professor Mulligan.
Todd: What’s he going to do?
Tucker: He might have some ideas.
Todd: (as Tucker walks out of earshot) Make sure you ask him about your play! Twenty bucks says he hasn’t read it yet.
Tucker’s footsteps fade.
Todd lets his gaze wander across the stage. He notices the usual skids and scars, the stains, the evidence of swordfights and spilled blood. Some scars are longer than others, some deeper, while each stain—whether matte or glossy, spotted or streaked—contains a darkened shade of red.
Todd stands
and starts walking. Every few feet he spots tape residue, stripped varnish, chips in the pitch-black paint. He drifts upstage and leans against the wall, surveying his surroundings: the everrising curtain, the countless rows of seats, the trapdoor half-hidden beneath the table.
Todd checks his phone: No New Messages.
Frustrated, he starts pacing. He looks at his watch, stands still for a moment, then makes a call.
The phone rings and rings.
No answer. Voice mail.
Todd: Hey, it’s me again—it’s Todd . . . Uh, just wanted to check in . . . I know I already called. I just, uh . . . just call call me when you get this, okay? All right. Bye.
Todd hangs up. He shakes his head and closes his eyes, trying to stay calm. He places his phone on the table and steps away. He looks off-stage.
Todd: Tucker?
Silence.
Todd: Tucker.
He walks off-stage.
Todd: Tucker!
Todd enters, starts pacing again, then stops and looks at the phone on the table. Reluctantly, he walks over and dials a number. He hesitates before pressing CALL. No answer. Voice mail.
Todd: Hey. It’s almost midnight, and you haven’t called me back . . . Are we going out tomorrow or . . .
Todd covers the phone and hangs his head.
Todd: Look, I just . . . I’m not trying to make a big deal out of this. I’d just like to hear from you . . . Okay? . . . I’ll . . . I’ll talk to you soon . . . Bye.
Todd hangs up. He looks off-stage.
Todd: Tucker!
Silence.
Todd: (walking off-stage) Get out here! Let’s finish this fucking play!
He enters again and tosses the phone on the table. He walks to the other side of the stage, leans against the wall and crosses his arms, glaring at the phone.
Todd: Tucker!
He waits for a response, then walks over forcefully and makes another call. He starts pacing.
No answer. Voice mail.
Todd: Are you . . . Are you ignoring me? I know you have your phone on. I know you got my . . .
He stops pacing and takes a breath.
Todd: You know what? Don’t bother responding.
He hangs up and looks around indecisively, closing his fist around the phone. He turns to the audience for help, only to find an ocean of empty seats. He lets himself fall back into his chair, lazily, sluggishly, as though he has given up on the proper way to sit. He places the phone on the table and leans back, head hung, staring at his mistake.
Todd: Fuck.
Tucker enters with his phone in his hands.
Tucker: What’s your problem? Professor Mulligan thought someone was being murdered.
Todd: What did he say?