Prologue/ Scene One
(As the scene opens, the stage is dark enough that the set can barely be seen. CALVIN is sitting alone in the center of the stage, dimly lit as if by the weak beam of a flashlight. He holds in his hand a chunk of wall, which he picks at, crumbling sand over his lap. )
CALVIN
The old boat house was what any good abandoned building should be to any bad kids.
The word is haven. Or sanctuary. Paradise wouldn't be a stretch at all.
I couldn't get in on my own. Tom was as good at opening doors as he was at opening girls' legs. He said there's nothing to it. Simple as sesame. The only trick, according to Tom, was to bring a chick along, because chicks always keep a bobby pin in their hair that you can borrow to jimmy the lock. Well, that was easier said than done. Some of us didn't know any girls. Some of us didn't have three lean sisters who brought home their friends in droves.
Some of us lived alone.
Beat. CALVIN looks down at the piece of wall in his hands. Laughs a sad little laugh, and then throws the piece of wall away from him, preferably into the audience. He pulls himself awkwardly to his feet, begins pacing in his small pool of light.
But there at the boat house, after we did get in, thanks to Tom and his girl and her beautiful hair, it seemed that even I had a family, even I a home. And oh, this was the home as home should be. Such freedom, such ease. We smoked whatever, wherever, whenever we pleased. We ate mealy apples from the feral trees that grew right inside our home. And maybe we got sick off the damp and fruit gone to rot, off the cold that climbed into our makeshift beds like a lover in the middle of the night. And maybe we ached in the morning, if we stayed till the sun.
Another beat, another laugh of maybe acceptance, maybe defeat.
And maybe it wasn't much of anything, really. And maybe Tom was a fuck up, and a jackass, and maybe he always will be. But certainly, there was a moment, in that creepy still, that boat house dim, when none of these hypotheticals mattered.
BLACK OUT. Brief but complete.
Scene Two
Morning. There is a silver quality to the air, the feeling of coolness in the colors of the world on the stage. In the chill early light, the canoe house can be properly seen. The boat house is old, the stones of its walls grown smooth and sandy from time, glass either thick and foggy or missing completely from the few small windows. Light pours in through a gaping hole in the right half of the roof. Through this gap stick the branches of a bold but scrawny apple tree that grows right from the floor, reaching roots out and tearing up the stones of the floor in every direction. SAMMY, the kind of cold-hot fierce-fine girl who every boy dreams of fucking but not a one dares to fuck with, leans against the apple tree’s trunk, eating a sad looking apple. Across the room from her is TOM, a lanky boy with an athlete’s easy grace, lies in an old canoe that has been padded with ratty blankets. He, too, holds an apple; but unlike SAM he is not interested in eating it, but only in tossing it from hand to hand like a sport’s ball.
TOM
You know how some words get to be their own plural?
SAMMY
Bluntly, even aggressively.
No.
TOM
Like buffalo.
SAMMY
Huh.
Sammy takes a loud bite of apple, then holds it out in front of her to look at it. A look of horror crosses her face. She spits. Straight on the floor.
Fuck, that’s nasty.
The are worms in my apple.
She throws the apple away from her. It bounces off the wall, and rolls to rest not far from Tom’s feet.
TOM
You’re not listening to me.
SAMMY
There. Are. Worms. In. My. Apple.
TOM
That’s sick. Spit that out.
SAMMY does not dignify this with a response. She gives TOM a pointed look. Beat.
Where was I?
SAMMY
Bungalows?
TOM
Shit Sammy, you really don’t listen to a thing I say, do you?
He shakes his head in mock awe at her insolence.
Buffalo.
I remember now. I was saying how it’s all the same. You say, “I saw a buffalo at the side of the road the other day,” or you say, “I saw a dozen buffalo trample a man to death.” Don’t matter if you’re meaning one buffalo or one hundred. It’s all the same. Buffalo, buffalo, buffalo.
SAMMY
Why you gotta be rambling on about buffalos anyway?
TOM
Buffalo, Sammy. No ‘S’. And I’m not talking about buffalo. I’m talking about plurals.
SAMMY
Sounds an awful lot like buffalo to me.
TOM
The point is how the single’s the same as the plural. I want to be like that. I want to be my own plural. I want to be fifty big men in one body, fifty million menaces and wars and powers in one little name. One word. Tom. But it won’t just mean Tom. It’ll mean Tom times infinity.
SAMMY
That’s cute. You should write an essay or something. Ms. Ricky would like it.
TOM
Fuck Ms. Ricky.
SAMMY
Like that, wouldn’t you?
TOM
Shut up.
TOM throws his apple roughly at SAMMY. SAMMY catches it in one bored grab without even looking up or turning her head. She throws it back to him, still without turning.
SAMMY
Eat your apple.
TOM
Eat yours.
But he takes an obedient bite. Swallows. Takes another. Closes his eyes. Speaks with his mouth full, around loud crunches. Swallows.
Mmmm. That’s good. Nothing better ‘n a good apple in the world.
Another bite. His chewing slows. Suddenly, a look of horror crosses his face and his eyes spring open. He rolls over and spits over the side of the canoe in which his lies.
There are worms in this apple!
SAMMY
Were in mine too.
TOM
Why didn’t you tell me?
SAMMY
Mockingly, her voice forced an octave too low:
Shit, Sammy, you really don’t listen to a thing I say, do you?
At this moment, the door opens. It swings wide and crashes into the wall, causing both SAMMY and TOM to startle. CALVIN stumbles into the boat house. His right hand is cupped gingerly under is left elbow. His hair is wild; his clothing wet, his jacket hanging open over a bare chest decorated with a few choice bruises. SAMMY and TOM seem unfazed by his condition; it is evident that this is nothing out of the ordinary in their world.
TOM
You make an awful lot of noise for such a little man.
CALVIN
The door--
SAMMY
Yeah, it’s broken.
TOM
Can’t just go slamming it around like that.
CALVIN
Calvin is examining the door, fussing with the hinges.
I’m sorry. Someone could have told me.
SAMMY
Meant to.
CALVIN
Okay.
TOM tosses his apple to CALVIN. CALVIN fumbles to catch it-- and does, just barely, clutching it nervously to his chest in both hands.
Thanks.
He takes a hasty bite. Swallows. Beat. His face contorts. Tom chuckles.
That’s not funny, Tom.
TOM
Just a little.
CALVIN
I’ll get sick.
TOM
Relax. Not my fault you swallowed.
CALVIN
How was I supposed to--
TOM
Now, Sammy. Sammy spat. Every smart girl knows to spit.
SAMMY
Guess the same don’t apply to smart boys.
CALVIN
What?
SAMMY
Sammy nods in TOM’s direction.
Tom swallowed.
Gave him fair warning, even; and he swallowed anyway. How stupid do you gotta be to go and do something like that?
TOM
Unfazed.
Tsk tsk. I trusted you.
SAMMY
How stupid you gotta be to go and do something like that?
TOM
Ouch, Sammy. Good point.
CALVIN
Calvin takes off his jacket, slowly, wincingly; there is something strange about the gesture. Then the reason for the tenderness of his movements is revealed: his right elbow is caked in dried blood, and long lines of dried blood reach down his forearm like fork tongs. In places the blood has adhered his coat to his skin, and as he pulls the coat off he gasps in pain and the wound, reopened, begins to bead pink with fresh blood. He starts towards the canoe-bed in which TOM lies, and goes to sit on the end of it, but just before he can, TOM, grinning mischievously, flings his long legs out flat over the rest of the boat, leaving no room for CALVIN. For a moment they stand there, locked in a staring contest. Finally, CALVIN speaks.
Really, Tom? Please?
TOM
Nope!
CALVIN
Even though--
TOM
Don’t want you bleedin’ all over my bed.
CALVIN
Your bed, since when is it---
SAMMY
Jesus, Tom, let him lie down.
Beat. TOM glances at SAMMY and sees that she isn’t fucking around. A look of penance (although questionably sincere) crosses his face. He sighs dramatically, rolls his legs over the boat on the floor, and moves into a sitting position. CALVIN sighs in tired relief, and collapses into the boat, careful to keep his feet from falling into TOM’s lap.
TOM
That better?
CALVIN nods.
Good. Hope you’re happy.
CALVIN
Not sure I’d go quite that far.
He closes his eyes. Props his good arm behind his head. Awkwardly shifts his bad arm between positions, unable to find one that is both comfortable and not likely to get blood somewhere it shouldn’t be. At length:
Well?
SAMMY
Well, what?
CALVIN
Well? Isn’t anybody even going to ask me?
TOM
Coyly
Ask you about what?
CALVIN
About the arm, stupid.
TOM
Woah there little brother. No need to get sassy with me.
CALVIN
You’re not my brother.
TOM
An enigmatic, infuriatingly dapper smile.
But you know I love you like one.
CALVIN
Is that so? Good thing you don’t have brothers, then.
TOM
Well I love you like a sister then. That’s more accurate anyway.
He snorts.
CALVIN
But you don’t even care what happened to me?
TOM
Tom shrugs.
Figure you’ll tell me if you feel like it.
CALVIN
You’re not curious?
TOM
I bet I know just want happened. You were riding that goofy-ass bike of yours to the store to get me those cigarettes you still owe me, and you saw some fine young thing-- or no, you saw Ms. Ricky, more like, all done up in that skinny skirt and heels, and you damn near went right out of your head! Next thing you knew, you’d lost your balance and were skidding across the street on your side, screaming like a cat in heat for mercy mercy please please please. And then, you lucky thing, Ms. Ricky’s bending over you and asking all sweet if you’re okay, and you can’t speak cause your mouth is full of blood and you’re taking in the view. That’s when the car that almost hit you stops, and the owner gets out, and comes over, and it turns out it’s Ms. Ricky’s lover, and he don’t like when he see. So what you do then is--
SAMMY
That some sick sort of fantasy you drum up at night, Tom? Sounds like one. Only I imagine the hero ain’t Calvin; it’s you. And I imagine you give yourself a fly-ass moped, not a goofy-ass bike.
TOM
What you on me about today, Sammy?
SAMMY
What you on Calvin about today?
TOM
Tom ignores the question.
Besides, babe, you got a detail wrong.
SAMMY
Did I now?
TOM
Ain’t Ms. Ricky I dream about; it’s you.
SAMMY
Ha-ha.
She isn’t laughing. But she is, to CALVIN’s visible horror--smiling. Just a little.
TOM
Ain’t no wussy moped, neither. That’s weak. It’s a bona-fide harley davidson. And I don’t have a helmet, cause fuck that, so when I hit the road it’s a miracle I survive. And I’m bleeding something nasty from my head, but to you that’s just sexy, now isn’t it?
CALVIN
You’re incorrigible.
TOM
You’re just jealous.
CALVIN
You’re--
SAMMY
You guys. Kill it.
TOM
Don’t have to worry about me, sweet thing. I can take care of myself.
SAMMY
Not you I’m worried about.
CALVIN blushes. SAMMY gives him a look that almost looks like an apology, but a little too ambivalent for one to be sure.
Fine, Calvin. Tom’s not playing. But I’ll ask you. What happened to your arm?
CALVIN sits up with an effort, and turns towards SAMMY. He begins to speak, but the instant he does, the wailing cry of a police siren begins, drowning out his words. TOM gapes at CALVIN incredulously. Pitching his voice loud to be heard over the sirens he asks:
TOM
Calvin, you gone and gotten us all fucked over now? What the hell you do that for? What the hell happened?
CALVIN
Might have had time to tell you if you’d asked earlier.
The three continue talking, increasingly panicked, but the sirens grow closer and louder, until nothing they say can be heard. The three fall silent, and drop as low to the ground as the can. SAMMY crawls across the floor so as to be better hidden from view of the door/ window. The three lie very still. Still, the sirens rise. At the climax of their noise, the stage abruptly goes black, and the sirens cut out. End Scene Two.
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