Summer Evening

Summer Evening
written by Joe Janes
first draft 11/01/08

CAST:
Carl, early 20’s
Mother, 50’s (voice only)
Mr. Drum, 40’s (voice only)
Mrs. Drum, 40’s (voice only)
Peggy, late teens
Brad late teens

(Circa 1948. Lights up on Carl. A thin, ratty looking man with soulful eyes. He sits in a dark red, heavy cloth, overstuffed chair with a doily on the back. It is slightly worn. Next to him is a lamp on a side table. The lamp is antique looking and has a pull string for switching it on and off. On the table is a pair of binoculars, a telephone and an ash tray. Carl is smoking a cigarette and staring intently out the downstage window. He closes his eyes for a moment, gets up and begins pacing behind the chair. He looks again out the window from behind the chair. He accidentally drops an ash on the floor. He backs his way to an upstage door, continuing to glance out the window, and quickly exits. Off stage, we hear him fumble through a closet. He returns with a broom and dust pan and sweeps up the mess, continuing to check out the window.)


MOTHER (off)
Carl…Carl…Carl! It’s Thursday night. Shouldn’t you be in bed? You have to work at the army base in the morning.

CARL
It’s Friday, Ma.

MOTHER (off)
What?

CARL
It’s Friday. It’s not Thursday. It’s Friday.

MOTHER (off)
……………………………………………Oh. How was your date?

CARL
I didn’t have a date.

MOTHER (off)
You had a date.

CARL
I didn’t have a date.

MOTHER (off)
I thought you had a date.

CARL
I had a date last Friday.

MOTHER (off)
………………………………………..Oh.

(Carl sees something out the window.)

CARL
Go to sleep, Ma.

MOTHER (off)
Goodnight, Dear.

(Carl looks agitated. He grabs the binoculars. He flips the emotional dial from anxious to angry to sad to bitter. He thinks he may have been spotted. He slinks down and crawls behind the chair. He reaches out and switches off the table lamp. He slowly returns to the seat/perch fixated on what’s going on outside the window. He picks up the phone and dials. It rings five times before someone picks up.)

MR. DRUM (on phone)
Hello?

CARL
Hello. Mr. Drum. Is Peggy there?

MR. DRUM (on phone)
Who is this?

CARL
It’s Carl Starling, Sir. Carl. From across the street.


MR. DRUM (on phone)
Are the clocks all broken at your home, Carl?

CARL
No.

MR. DRUM (on phone)
Did you call me because you needed me to tell you how late it is?

CARL
No, Sir. I just wanted to talk to Peggy. Your daughter.

MR. DRUM (on phone)
I know who she is, Carl. She’s not here. I suggest you call back tomorrow at a reasonable time. Not before 10am and not after 6pm.

CARL
Are you sure?

MR. DRUM (on phone)
Am I sure what?

CARL
Are you sure she’s not home? I mean, I thought I saw her walk by our window. She might be on the front porch or something.

MR. DRUM (on phone)
Oh, for crying out loud in church on a Monday. Hold on…

(We hear Mr. Drum put down the phone.)

MRS. DRUM (off phone)
Who is it, Ashley?

MR. DRUM (off phone, walking away)
It’s that retard from across the street.

MRS. DRUM (off phone)
I don’t think that’s a nice thing to say. What does the retard want?

MR. DRUM (off phone)
He wants to talk to your daughter.

MRS. DRUM (off phone)
Oh, dear.

FROM THE BACK OF THE THEATER, WE HEAR a screen door open…

MR. DRUM (off)
Peggy!..

PEGGY (off)
Dad!

MR. DRUM (off)
Oh. Good evening, young man.

PEGGY (off)
Dad, this is Brad. Brad, this is my father.

BRAD (off)
Hello. How are you?

MR. DRUM (off)
I am fine. Someone on the phone for you, Peggy.

PEGGY (off)
Who is it?

MR. DRUM (off)
It’s that Starling boy from across the street.

PEGGY (off)
What does he want?

MR. DRUM (off)
Damn if I know.

PEGGY (off)
Tell him I’m not here.

MR. DRUM (off)
He knows you’re here. He lives across the street. He thinks you’re having a parade out here or something.

PEGGY (off)
Fine. I’ll talk to him.

MR. DRUM (off)
Tell him not to call so late.


PEGGY (off)
Sorry, Brad.

BRAD (off)
I forgive you.

PEGGY (trailing off)
I’ll be right back.

(We hear the screen door close and, through the phone, footsteps leading up to the phone and Peggy picking up.)

PEGGY (on phone)
Hello.

CARL
Hi, Peggy. It’s me. Carl.

PEGGY (on phone)
What do you want, Carl?

CARL
You know, I was just thinking about the great time we had last week at the carnival. I had such a great time. You had a great time, too. Didn’t you?

PEGGY (on phone)
Yeah. I had a really good time.

CARL
We should do it again, sometime.

PEGGY (on phone)
Yeah. Sure. Look. I don’t know. I don’t think it’s such a good idea. I’m leaving for college in a few weeks.

CARL
I know. It’s cool. College is cool. We can just, you know, no strings attached. Have some fun. Who wants to be tied down? Not me. That’s for sure.

PEGGY (on phone)
We’ll see. Um. I’m real busy, right now.

CARL
I wrote another poem for you. It’s a sonnet. Iambic pentameter and everything.


PEGGY (on phone)
I have no idea what that means. I have to go.

CARL
Sure. Okay. Maybe tomorrow-

(Peggy hangs up the phone. So does Carl.)

MOTHER (off)
Carl?…Carl? Are you on the telephone?

CARL
No, Ma. I’m not on the telephone.

MOTHER (off)
Then turn down the radio.

CARL
The radio’s not on.

MOTHER (off)
……………………………………………Oh.

CARL
Go back to sleep, Ma.

MOTHER
Goodnight, Dear.

(Carl goes back to the window. He doesn’t see anything across the street. There’s a knock at the door. He doesn’t know what to do. He takes short steps in different directions settling on standing against the far wall. Peggy enters. She is dressed like the girl in Edward Hopper’s “Summer Evening.” She is followed by Brad, who is dressed like the boy.)

PEGGY
Carl?…Carl?

(She turns on the lamp and sees Carl pressed against the wall.)

PEGGY (continuing)
Carl?

CARL
Oh, hi. Peggy. I didn’t hear you come in. Would you like something to drink for you and your guest. My mother made a pitcher of pink lemonade.

BRAD
Why is it pink?

CARL
I don’t know.

BRAD
Lemons aren’t pink.

CARL
No they are not.

PEGGY
Carl, this is Brad. Brad is my boyfriend.

BRAD
Hello. How are you?

CARL (he looks back and fourth between Peggy and Brad)
Are you going to hurt me?

BRAD
Are you talking to me or Peggy?

CARL
You?

BRAD
No?

CARL
I swear I didn’t know she had a boyfriend. You should have told me you had a boyfriend.



PEGGY
When we went to the carnival, I didn’t have a boyfriend. As of tonight, I have a boyfriend. I thought you should know.

CARL
Oh.

PEGGY
Thank you for writing a poem about me.

CARL
Two poems.

PEGGY
Goodnight, Carl.

(She starts to leave, Brad follows.)

BRAD
No lemonade?

PEGGY
We have some at home.

BRAD
Is it pink?

(They exit.)

(Carl goes back to the chair and sits down. He takes the poem out of his pocket, unfolds it and looks at it. He sets it on the table and turns off the lamp. LIGHTS FADE.)

Mermaids

(She is seated on the bed, looking out the window. He is in an armchair looking at her.)

H-Wake up
S-I am up
H-Then get dressed

(She doesn’t move.)

H-I said get dressed
S-I am wearing something
H-Something decent
S-I like what I’m wearing. It’s comfortable
H-You can’t go out like that

H- I said, you can’t go out in that. It’s too cold.
S-I’m not going out.
H-You said we’d go out.

S-I can’t
H-Why not?
S-I don’t want to
H-Look at me… Look at me.

(She looks at him.)

S-I’m not going out.
H-It’s no good just sitting up here.

(She looks back out the window)

H-What are looking at?
S-The water
H-You can’t see the water from here.
S-Just a bit.

(He goes to the window)

H-I don’t see anything.
S-Mermaids. I see mermaids.
H-I thought you promised me we were going to out? Aren’t you bored up here?
S-You go
H-I’m not leaving you alone.
S-I’ll be fine
H-Like last time.

S-Will you draw your mermaid a bath?
H-You already had your bath

H-I think we need a radio.
S-No. I like it quiet. Or I can’t hear the waves
H-You can’t hear the waves. Nobody can hear any waves from here?
S-Yes
H-It is too far away. Too high up.
S-Come here
H-You promised we’d go out today.
S-Look there. The sun.
H-I can’t
S-Why not
H-It’s blinding

H-If we’re not going anywhere. Will you dance for me?

(She laughes)

S-In a minute
H-Like you did on the boardwalk. Before it went to pot.

(He goes to the closet and pulls out a box. It is full of photos.)

H-Remember this?
S-Show me?

(He brings it over and holds it up for her to see.)

S-I used to have hips
H-You still got hips
S-No no no. You’re sweet. Those aren’t hips. Old mermaids don’t keep their hips.

(She touches her legs.)

H-You still got hips, honey. I love these hips

(She points to the photo)

S-You don’t miss those hips?
H-Those hips are these hips.
S-You’re breathing heavy, Stan
H-If were not going out. Then lets stay in. Lets really stand in baby.
S-You like my dancing?
H-I love it. I want you to move.
S-But then I can’t see it.

(She points to the window)

H-But if you don’t move, why are we here?
S-Maybe tonight
H-No, dance for me now. I can’t stand it in here.
S-Ok…ok…I’ll dance. We don’t have any music.
H-I’ll be your music.

(He starts humming. She is staring out the window. Always out the window. She starts to move her shoulders a little.)

S-Not so loud. I want to hear the waves
H-There’s no waves
S-You’re just not looking right.
H-Show me the waves

(She points to the arm chair.)

S-Sit.
H-Come on

(He is smelling her hair.)

S-Over there. I’m going to dance for you. I’m going to show you waves

(He sits down. She stands up. He starts humming again. She hunts around for a shoe under the bed and throws it at him softly.)

H-What?
S-I told you to be quiet. Listen.

(She dances while looking at the window. It is slow shoulders and hips.)



H-Back at the boardwalk.

(Her garment slips off. She is dancing naked.)

S-I’m treading water. I’m treading water for you baby.
H-I’m back at the boardwalk. Tell me I’m your boy.

S-You’re my boy. Come to me.

(They dance. He is in his bathrobe. She is naked. We can hear the ocean.)

S-Put me on the bed.

(He does. She rolls over. He touches her. The phone rings.)

S-You don’t have to get it
H-They wont stop till I get it

(He gets off the bed. Goes to answer the phone. She looks through the photos in the box. We can’t hear the ocean anymore. He comes back and sits on the edge of the bed.)



S-It was the kids?
H-They’ll be here tomorrow
S-You know they’ll try to make us go
H-Yeah.
S-I don’t want go with them. We’re not going.

(He cries a little.)

S-Come to me. You’re my boy.

(She gestures. She invites him. He leans in. Blackout.)

ART; On Edward Hopper, Loneliness and Children

I recently found this article from the New York Times archive when I was poking around the internet looking for things on Hopper. I thought it was interesting to see how others, children in particular, react to his work.

March 3, 1991

ART; On Edward Hopper, Loneliness and Children

By ROBERT COLES; ROBERT COLES IS A CHILD PSYCHIATRIST WHO TEACHES AT HARVARD UNIVERSITY. HIS MOST RECENT BOOK IS "THE SPIRITUAL LIFE OF CHILDREN" (HOUGHTON MIFFLIN).

Three years ago I began teaching a fourth-grade class in a Cambridge, Mass., elementary school. I noticed, right off, that on the playground or in the halls, or even in the classroom itself, the children were often marvelously forceful and vigorous storytellers. But when they were asked to write, they commonly became inarticulate, even fearfully so. "I can't write," was their refrain, and I decided not to take them up directly on that claim.

Instead, I turned the English class into an informal art seminar. I brought in slides, fed them into a projector, and we all looked at Picassos and Pissarros, Remingtons and Renoirs, and nearer home, John Sloans and Edward Hoppers. I noticed that Hopper's paintings, especially, both excited and puzzled the children. I also noticed that they wanted to connect what they saw to stories, which they constructed as I flashed one Hopper slide after another against the wall. It was almost as if this 20th-century American realist painter (who died only 23 years ago) somehow addressed these children, prompted in them a desire to respond to his pictures by telling of their various experiences.

I remember, especially, some personal tales told by those children in response to the more familiar Hopper paintings. I remember the girl who said of the "folks" who figure in "Nighthawks" (three customers at a food counter in the middle of the night, being served by a waiter): "They have a different day -- I mean, night. Night is their day. Maybe something is on their minds, and they can't sleep -- but maybe they just work at night, like my mom does." Her mother runs a Dunkin Donuts shop on the 11-to-7 shift. "She says she has a good time talking with some of the people, and they have a good time talking with her. She says people talk more at night -- or maybe it's that night people talk more. It's easier then."

Other Hopper paintings prompted an almost universal chorus of perplexity or apprehension. Pictures like "Sunday," in which a man sits, arms folded, in front of stores that seem empty, abandoned, or "Approaching a City," in which tenement buildings hover over subway tracks that head underground, stirred the children to anxious questions, to gloomy statements about not only the content of the slides but their own lives as well.

"That's a funny one," said one girl. "It's weird -- it's spooky ." The emphasis on that last word said it all for the whole class -- nods, several "yeah's," and the fidgeting that is more telling, at times, than any words. In their own way, these children may have been circling around the thoughts I was entertaining -- the grim, sinister, dangerous side of urban life, maybe even that aspect of our psychological life: the electric third rail, the dark underground that looms before the viewer.

In "Approaching a City," a mood of stark stillness dominates; in the better-known "Early Sunday Morning," with its storefronts, and above them, tenement apartments, with its street hydrant and old-fashioned barber pole, a serene stillness is offered -- the city sleeps, as it should on the morning of the week's seventh day. Such pictures prompt the children to ask about people: where are they or, better, why are they left out?

At that point, I was ready with some pictures in which human beings are given a more intimate kind of attention: "Office at Night," or "Hotel Room," or "Hotel by a Railroad," or "Sunlight in a Cafeteria" or "Automat," or "The Barber Shop." The result, however, is often further unease. A boy tells me: "The people don't seem happy. Their heads seem bent. Either they're alone, or if they're with someone, they don't look at each other. No one is smiling." A chorus of agreement -- though a girl demurs: "Just because they're not smiling doesn't mean they're unhappy. I think they're thinking ."

That line of reasoning evoked much discussion. Some children pointed out that in several pictures Hopper's women look "sexy" but his men seem cold, buttoned up, self-preoccupied -- or, as in the dramatic "Excursion Into Philosophy," of a man seated on a bed, introspectively tied to reading matter rather than connected to a woman who is lying nearby, her back (with its exposed bottom) to him. Others expressed indirectly their sense of the confinement of those urban rooms and offices, the frustrations of the people who inhabit them, through urgently stated therapeutic recommendations: "Those people should get out and go take a long walk in the country; then they could unwind."

This high-strung, tense, self-preoccupied side to certain of Hopper's American city dwellers, office workers, travelers, doesn't yield, unfortunately, to the remedy suggested by that 9-year-old child. I follow her advice, in a way -- we move to Hopper's suburban and rural world.
If anything, things get worse away from the downtown streets. In "East Wind Over Weehawken," no one is in sight, but a large "For Sale" sign tells of a collapsed economy. (The picture was painted in 1934.) In "Ryder House," a field of grass is overgrown near a house whose windows are boarded up -- a forlorn, abandoned farm.

In "Cape Cod Evening," overgrown grass again surrounds a house whose two occupants, a man and a woman, are outside, grimly stoic, their dog turned away from them. Even more threatening, a dark cluster of nearby trees seems on the march, ready to overwhelm a rural scene already stifled, uncompromising. The woman's crossed arms, her dark blue dress, the man's T-shirt -- this is a bedraggled, woebegone couple, as the children recognize.
Again, rather than analyzing and explicating, they suggest action: "Let's go back to the city -- that restaurant, where there was the food, or to the movie one." The boy who said that was referring to "Tables for Ladies," which features a couple eating, a cashier, and a worker arranging a display of fruit, and to "New York Movie," which emphasizes not a film or its audience, but a pensive usherette who stands aside under some light.

In the former, however, the viewer is outside the restaurant, maybe hungry (the picture was painted in 1930, as the Great Depression deepened), and in the latter the viewer is asked to think of someone who is, literally, outside a particular mainstream: others lose themselves in a few hours of film distraction, while the one who has helped them get to their seats, who has been, in a way, an instrument of their subsequent pleasure, is left to stand apart -- left to her own, isolated, personal resources.

To return to the city, we need gas, I remind the children by showing them Hopper's "Four Lane Road" and "Gas" -- but again, a couple in the former, running a gas station, seem out of touch with each other, and without customers, big as the road is, whereas the latter poses yet another of those dark, encroaching forests next to a Mobil station tended by a man who is alone as evening settles upon a carless road, this one narrow and headed obliquely into the dark. No wonder these children have become restless -- and, finally, have resigned themselves to the realization that all does not go well in Hopper's America: an alienation of individuals, one from the other, and too, a good deal of social and economic dislocation, distress.

When I use Hopper's slides with Harvard college students, only a few blocks away, a different emphasis can often be heard. I teach a seminar titled "American Light," named after a wonderful poem written by E. L. Sissman. It is meant to honor Hopper's shrewd eye for much of what takes place in our country, as well as his extraordinary way with light and darkness -- a cold, even supernatural glow, often given intensity and prominence by a nearby stretch of darkness in the form of shadows cast by buildings or by trees.

We look at the same slides the elementary school children do, but we also read and discuss Raymond Carver's fiction, his brilliantly constructed, emotionally piercing stories, in so many of which a failure of communication, of human understanding, figures so prominently. The loneliness of his characters, their down-and-out state becomes transfigured by the genius of this writer into the greatness of one compelling, dramatic moment after another. The students respond with feeling as well as intellectually to Carver -- examine his texts, but also let themselves personally enter and walk their way, open-eyed, through his narratives.

Yet, with respect to Hopper, they are wont to favor analysis of his pictures: shapes, sizes, forms, arrangements of objects, nature of pigment, contrasts of color -- all noted with big-deal words like chiaroscuro coming up now and then. Yes, I think, this is important, to learn "critical skills," but we sometimes go further, hasten to question common truths entertained outside the academy: "Too much is made of the loneliness and alienation in Hopper," a student announced. Maybe so, I think.

In Hopper, we begin to realize, there is a 20th-century sensibility at work: his often explicit interest in a documentary art that tells of a nation not at ease with itself, and individuals not at ease with one another.

To be sure, Hopper's paintings lend themselves especially well to the viewer's inclinations -- in the tradition of Rorschach cards or, better, Henry Murray's "Thematic Apperception" pictures, they tell about us viewers, as opposed to an American "them." The elusive ambiguities of those paintings are fodder for our conflicts and worries, for the constant complexities of feeling within us that struggle for expression and find it in our dreams (our own private, nightly art) as well as in the pictures to which we become attached, and to which we make our various personal attributions. Still, Hopper remarked, in connection with "Nighthawks," that he "simplified the scene a great deal and made the restaurant bigger" than the one in Greenwich Village in New York City that he used as a model of sorts. He went on to say: "Unconsciously, probably, I was painting the loneliness of a large city." In our university sanctuary, we read those words, look again at his various railroad tracks slicing through the land, his empty drugstores and bleak bridges, his eerie country houses or massive tenement blocks, his hotel lobbies and roadside gas pumps, and begin to realize that this was an artist whose unconscious knew well not only how to supply energy to a wonderfully gifted talent, but also knew well how many Americans, at least some of the time, both live and feel.

Excursion Into Philosophy

((Lights up on a small motel room in an east coast city. The walls and floor are a neutral yellow and there is a window that is open with sunlight streaming in. It is early morning. MARLA, a 24 year old redhead, is partly undressed. She is sleeping with her back towards the audience on top of the covers of a simple bed. JOHN, 54, is fully dressed. He sits on the bed, staring in deep thought at the floor. There is an open book next to him. The room is quiet and around it are strewn clothes, books and other various items. MARLA slowly wakes, yawns and turns to JOHN. She is bright and warm and speaks with a slight New Jersey accent.)

MARLA
Good morning, Professor.

(JOHN is broken out of his trance. He turns and acknowledges her.)

JOHN
Morning.

(MARLA yawns and stretches.)

MARLA
Boy that was some sleep. I haven’t had it that good for ages. Must be this bed. How’d you sleep?

JOHN
Fine. Not well. Short. I mean...

MARLA
Well you’re all sorts of confused, ain’tch ya?

JOHN
I slept well, thank you, but I awoke suddenly this morning. And I didn’t dream.

MARLA
That’s funny. I always dream.

JOHN
What do you dream about?

MARLA
Oh, I don’t know. Swimmin’ in the ocean. Runnin’ around like a wild animal. Last night I dreamed about eatin’ ice cream.

JOHN
You were having a sundae last night.

MARLA
Huh?

JOHN
When we met. You were eating a sundae.

MARLA
Oh yeah. Vanilla ice cream with hot fudge on top. That’s my favorite.

JOHN
Maybe it was the sundae that made you think about eating ice cream.

MARLA
I hadn’t thought of it, but I suppose that might’ve had somethin’ to do with it. Do you ever dream about things like that.

JOHN
Like what?

MARLA
Eatin’ ice cream.

JOHN
I used to. But lately...I’ve been dreaming of other things.

MARLA
What kinds ‘a’ things?

JOHN
People, mostly. A person.

MARLA
I never seem to dream about people. I wonder why that is. Oh well.

(She yawns again.)

MARLA
I don’t know about you, but a cup ‘a’ joe sure could do me a world of good.

(JOHN smiles warmly.)

JOHN
I thought you said you slept well.

MARLA
I did! But you can’t deny a girl a cup ‘a’ coffee in the morning. Not when she’s had a night like the one we had.

(She wraps her arms around him and smiles, satisfied.)

MARLA
So where we off to today, Professor?

JOHN
We are not going anywhere. I’ve got to catch the next train out to San Francisco.

(MARLA pulls away from JOHN.)

MARLA
Well that ain’t fair. You can’t take the goods and run like that.

JOHN
I think we were equally guilty in wanting the goods, Marla.

MARLA
Yeah, I suppose you’re right. When I saw you last night in the diner, lookin’ all sad and sorry, I couldn’t help but want to give you a little company. You were like a little lost puppy, is what you were.


JOHN
I felt like one. Lost. (Slight pause.) You’ll be all right, then?

MARLA
I’ll get by. I always do.

JOHN
You don’t need any money, do you?

MARLA
I don’t need nobody’s money, I’ll have you know.

JOHN
You’re not worried about what will happen next, if I leave you.

MARLA
I never think about what will happen next. I’ve been on my own since I was fourteen. And some sucker with an appetite for a girl like me will always turn up sooner or later. Not that I’d call you a sucker.

JOHN
Thank you.

MARLA
No. In fact, I like you Professor. And in a way, I kinda wish it had worked out between us.

JOHN
Me too.

MARLA
Say, you still got that book layin’ around?

JOHN
That book?

MARLA
Yeah. The one you was readin’ from last night.

JOHN
Leaves of Grass?

MARLA
That’s the one. Before you go, will you read me that poem again? The one about Abraham Lincoln? He was my favorite President when I was a kid.

JOHN
Well, um...certainly.

(He searches around for the book, which has been discarded on the floor. He finds it, picks it up and opens to O Captain, My Captain. MARLA listens. JOHN becomes emotional as he reads it, overcome with sadness as he reaches the end of the first stanza.)

JOHN
“O Captain my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.”

(MARLA puts her hand on JOHN’s. He stops reading.)

MARLA
It’s ok. You don’t have to read it anymore.

JOHN
Thank you. (Pause.) I should really go.

(He stands up and begins to pick up the clothes and personal items that have been strewn about the room. MARLA watches for a moment, then begins to help him. She offers a handful of items, including a gray men’s sweater, to JOHN.)

MARLA
Here.

(JOHN accepts the items. He notices the sweater and holds it out, showing MARLA.)

JOHN
This was his.

MARLA
Oh.

JOHN
I can’t keep it anymore. Here, you take it.

MARLA
No, I can’t take...

JOHN
No, please. Take it. And the book. Take the book too.

(He gives MARLA Leaves of Grass.)

MARLA
Thanks. It’s very sweet.

(JOHN looks at her for a long moment, then turns and stuffs his items into a large suitcase. MARLA is concerned but unsure of what to do. When JOHN finishes, he turns to her.)

JOHN
Goodbye.

MARLA
Good bye. And good luck.

(They look at one another for another long moment. JOHN turns and exits, leaving MARLA alone. Lights out. End of scene.)

Writing to Stimulus

Tangentially related to Hopper, and to Write Club as well:

If you have access to iTunes and the ability to play video podcasts, check out "All Songs Considered" and their new series called "Project Song."

They take musicians and give them 48 hours to write and record a song.  Each gets to choose a phrase on a note card and an image for inspiration, then they get to work writing.  Each episode ends with the song they wrote.

They've done 2 so far, Stephin Merritt and a band I'd never heard of called Georgie James.  In iTunes, do a search for All Songs Considered, then scroll until you see those podcasts.

Cool look at the creative process.

Office at Night

“Office at Night”
Michael Brownlee – Draft 1

AT RISE: An outer office, late 30s early 40s. Late evening. The set looks as much like the painting as the budget allows. Mr. Franks sits at his desk, intently looking over a report. Ms. Green, his secretary, is lost in thought, standing at the open drawer of the cabinet.

Silence. Maybe some sounds from the city outside.

MR. FRANKS
(Not looking up.)Did you find it?

Ms. Green is snapped out of her daydream and flips through the files. She finds one and pulls it out.

MS. GREEN
Here it is.

As she passes it to him, their hands briefly touch, freezing them for an instant as they look at each other. Mr. Frank tries to quickly shake it off.

MR. FRANK
Thank you, Ms. Green.

He opens the file and begins comparing its contents with the report on his desk. Ms. Green, standing a little too close, doesn’t take her eyes off of him. He is trying to concentrate on the papers, but not having much luck. She turns to walk away and he quickly glances at her. She turns back around and his eyes return to the reports.

MS. GREEN
Will you be needing me anymore tonight?

The slightest hint of a pause.

MR. FRANK
(Trying not to look at her.)No. No, I don’t think so. Thank you. Goodnight, Ms. Green.

Silence. She doesn’t move for a moment. Finally, she exits. Mr. Frank steals another glance in her direction. He unconsciously rubs his forehead. Loosens his tie. Ms. Green enters, wearing a coat and hat. She is looking for something in her pocketbook. Mr. Franks is trying to make himself invisible. Ms. Green takes a small bottle of perfume out and daubs some on her wrists. She then takes out a lipstick and mirror. Mr. Franks becomes very aware of her smell. He watches her put on the lipstick. She places her pocketbook under her arm and begins to exit, walking towards the audience. Mr. Franks drinks her in.

MR. FRANKS
Ms. Green.

She stops but doesn’t turn around.

MR. FRANKS
Ms. Green?

She turns to him.

MS. GREEN
Yes, Mr. Franks?

MR. FRANKS
I, uh…I just wanted to…

She walks towards him.

MR. FRANKS
Wanted to apologize.

She stops.

MS. GREEN
Apologize?

MR. FRANKS
For keeping you so late the last couple of nights.

MS. GREEN
I don’t mind.

MR. FRANKS
Well, I just want you to know that I don’t plan on making a habit of it.

A flash of disappointment crosses her face, then she smiles.

MS. GREEN
It’s been quite nice, really.

MR. FRANKS
Nice?

MS. GREEN
The office is so peaceful at night.

MR. FRANKS
I suppose it is.

MS. GREEN
Sometimes I like to imagine we’re the only two people left in the world.

He laughs.

MS. GREEN
Are you laughing at me, Mr. Franks?

MR. FRANKS
No. It just struck me as funny. The only two people left in the world, and I’m still trying to balance the books.

MS. GREEN
Well, you aren’t doing that when I imagine it.

MR. FRANKS
Oh? What am I doing?

Ms. Green has to look away in case Mr. Franks sees the answer in her eyes.

MS. GREEN
I’m sorry, I’m being silly. I should let you get back to work.

She begins to walk away. Now the disappointment is on Mr. Franks’ face.

MR. FRANKS
Ms. Green.

She stops.

MS. GREEN
Yes?

MR. FRANKS
You should be prepared to work late, again, tomorrow night.

She smiles.

MR. FRANKS
Maybe…all week.

She beams.

MS. GREEN
Yes, Mr. Franks. Good night, Mr. Franks.

She exits. He goes back to his reports.

What is the Hopper Project?

It has been suggested that I post a little about the project so that people can refer to it from time to time.

THE PROJECT: HOPPER (Working Title)

Using the paintings of Edward Hopper as inspiration, we will write short plays that focus on urban living, isolation, voyeurism, eavesdropping, and varying definitions of intimacy. The end goal is to have 7-10 ten minute plays that may intertwine (or not) and create a full urban environment. The audience will be situated on porches, fire escapes, restaurant tables and train car seats as they are forced to peep/eavesdrop/spy on the individual stories.

THE WRITING PROCESS:

1. I have selected 30 paintings by Edward Hopper
2. Everyone is allowed to work from as many Hopper paintings as they like – but the pictures must be from the selected 30.
3. Please write a short play inspired by the painting, using the people, setting and/ or atmosphere of the picture.
4. While we are not setting this show during a specific year, please keep the plays true to the period represented in the painting.
5. At every writing meeting, we will be reading aloud and discussing the scripts. The discussion will include the questions: What would you like to see more of? Less Of? What was Clear? What was unclear? Some suggestions may be made to solve problems or work out critical areas in the scripts (which is natural in the course of discussion), but I ask that the “I would do this, I would do that” be kept to a minimum.
6. At the end of February, I will be collecting the plays submitted and compiling them into a master script. I am looking for 7-10 ten-minute plays. I will have a second set of eyes looking over the script as the compilation process starts.
7. At the end of March, any final re-writes of individual scripts are due.
8. Company Readings will begin in April.
9. The Final Script is due May 11.


SCHEDULE FOR WRITING MEETINGS
(Mondays seem to be best for most. If you have to miss one or two meetings, that’s fine, just let me know...but please make it a priority to be there.)

December 10, 7pm – Uptown Writer’s Space
January 14, 7pm – Uptown Writer’s Space
January 28, 7pm – Uptown Writer’s Space (Reading/discussing second and third drafts only)
February 11, 7pm – Uptown Writer’s Space
February 25, 7pm – Uptown Writer’s Space (Reading/discussing second, third or fourth drafts only)
March 10, 7pm - Uptown Writer’s Space


GETTING PAINTINGS

If you were unable to get to the meeting last night, I have hard copies of the remaining paintings at my house, or I can email you several of the jpegs I have, so you may choose one of those. Or you can look at this link: http://www.museumsyndicate.com/artist.php?artist=54

Attached to this email is the list of paintings I have selected. All of those paintings are on that link.


FAQs

1. Are we writing for Nighthawks?

As Joe said last night, damned if you do, damned if you don’t. For now, I’d like keep your focus on the other paintings. We may have an “All Nighthawks” meeting. But don’t let me squelch you. If you have a burning vision for something you’d like to write inspired by Nighthawks, go ahead. We’ll see what comes of it.

2. What if someone else takes my painting?

This will probably happen. Go ahead and write. There might be plenty of differences or similarities in your pieces. Perhaps it will add up to a collaboration. Whatever happens don’t say no to yourself before you begin. Write about the painting that inspires you and we’ll go from there.

3. Can I connect two paintings into one story?

Yes.

4. Are all the scripts going to be in the show?

With 30 paintings and a writing pool of 10-15 people, we won’t be able to use every piece. But it’s not a competition. I want everyone involved to write as much as they feel like contributing. Even if some pieces aren’t used, they might lead to longer, full-length plays. The important thing is to keep our company writing.

5. Do the scripts need to be realistic?

Since we're working with a painter that deals so heavily in Realism, I suggest that we keep it the scenes themselves fairly realistic. However, if we come across one that is more surreal and supports the overall theme of the show, I won't say no to it.

Night Windows

NIGHT WINDOWS

(A run down room in a transient hotel. There is a single bed, rumpled having been slept in, SL. Next to it is a small nights stand and table lamp. Immediately up stage is a door. Across the room is a doorway leading to a bathroom. Upstage are two large picture windows, out of which another building is visible. It is very near and it’s windows gape open. All lights in these outside rooms are dark, however there is a dim glow just below the sight line and some shadowy movement, indicating that there may be some life in a room below.

There is also some light coming from just above, out of another window.

Underneath the window, on the floor, there is an ashtray, overflowing with dead cigarettes and some candy wrappers.

The hotel room is dark - the shapes of the furniture in the room are outlined by the dim glow of the city lights outside.

Outside the door there is the sound of a distant elevator “ding” as it reached the floor. Instantly following it are footsteps marching down the hall. They stop in front of the door. A key in the lock, the door opens.

Standing in silhouette is GWEN. She is breathing heavily as she stares into the room. She reaches for the light switch. As she does this, a door slams down the hallway followed by heavy footsteps running towards her. It is MARTIN. He stops, out of breath, behind her. GWEN turns on the lights. She is dressed as if for a party)

GWEN
Is this it?

MARTIN (Still breathing heavily)
Gwen, please…

GWEN
This is it? (Calling out) Chuck?

(Pause. No Answer.)

MARTIN
Don’t go in there, Gwen, please don’t…

GWEN
Whaddaya mean, “don’t go in”?

(GWEN takes a dramatic step into the room. She continues, looking around, leaving MARTIN by the door.)

GWEN
Huh. Doesn’t look like much.

MARTIN
It isn’t. It isn’t much at all. In fact, it’s not anything.

(GWEN laughs for a second and then cups her hand over her mouth, crying. She turns and rushes into the bathroom slamming the door.)

MARTIN
Oh, god, Gwen please don’t cry…

GWEN
Will you stop saying my name please?

MARTIN
Gw-

(GWEN opens the bathroom door)

GWEN
You shut up! Shut. Up. Stop saying my name- you’ve said it at least, what, eighteen times in the last fifteen minutes and that average has got to end here, do you understand me? Just cut it out!

MARTIN
Fine…yes.

(GWEN goes back into the bathroom. MARTIN stands for a moment and then looks heads up to the window. He peers out, lingering for a moment at the glow below. The bathroom door opens and he snaps out of it. GWEN re-appears, her eyes are read and puffy.)

GWEN
I’m going to wait for him. You should leave, probably, or something.

MARTIN
I think I should stay. I could-

GWEN
How long have you known about this place?

MARTIN
Gwe-

GWEN
I swear to god, Martin, if you say my name one more time…(A beat) Answer my question.

MARTIN
What difference could that possibly- it can make no possible difference, Gwen, how long I’ve known.

GWEN
That’s not an answer, Martin. Martin, Martin, Martin. See? I’m catching up.

(MARTIN tries to laugh, but no dice.)

GWEN
What time’s Chuck going to be here?

(MARTIN gives a reflexive look at his watch. He stares at it for a long moment.)

GWEN
Will he be alone?

(MARTIN drops his hand and looks around the room)

MARTIN
Martin?

(Holds his hand up to shush her)

MARTIN
I don’t know the answer to either of those questions. It really isn’t…it’s really not what you think it is.

GWEN
Yes…You said that. I think you should leave, Martin.

MARTIN
I think I should stay…Gwen.

(A long moment. She sits on the edge of the bed. After, what seems like an eternity:)

GWEN
Katy Dennis is a gorilla.

MARTIN
Now, she didn’t know….

GWEN
You know she did, You KNOW she did. She’s an absolute ape, that woman - always doing that thing with her mouth. Who invited her?

MARTIN
It wasn’t my party-

GWEN
Jeanette Larrabee, that’s who. I’d bet money.

MARTIN
You like Katy Dennis.

GWEN
I’ve always had my suspicions about her…I never said anything but I’ve always had that sinking feeling. You know, any time I ignore that feeling, I get into trouble.

MARTIN
Feeling?

GWEN
That she was lying in wait. Did you hear her? (Imitating the unseen Katy) “Darling, Andrew said he saw Chuck on 54th buying cigarettes. What do you mean that’s impossible? It’s not impossible at all. Andrew! Come here darling, tell Gwen how you saw Chuck…she simply won’t believe me.”

MARTIN
Mm-hm.

GWEN
You heard her! And at the top of her lungs, too. Gorilla.

(A beat)

GWEN
Why?

MARTIN
What’s that?

GWEN
Why on Earth do you want to stick around? Seriously, Martin, to see the bloodshed?

MARTIN
Gwen…right now, I’m not feeling too keen on explaining myself to you.

(Another beat. GWEN starts giggling, a sort of desperate giggle.)

MARTIN
What’s so funny?

GWEN
You should have sent he look on that guy’s face.

MARTIN
Yeah, well I was too busy trying to park the-what guy?

GWEN
The night manager-or whatever he is- downstairs. I said, “I’ll have the key to Chuck Kildaire’s room please.” And he said, “Well, then, Missy” -He called me “missy”, can you believe it? “Well, then missy, just who in heck are you?”

MARTIN
What’d you say?

GWEN
“His goddamn wife, that’s who.” I thought his head was going to pop.

(She laughs and then her face saddens again. A beat, she notices all the cigarettes and candy wrappers on the floor next to the window. She gets up and walks to the window. MARTIN stiffens. She stares at the mess.)

GWEN
You know it is near impossible for him to keep anything clean-(In an instant, she notices the activity in the room across the alley below. She looks at all the trash and then back out the window, putting it together) Who’s that?

MARTIN (Completely unconvincing)
Who?

(She glares at him)

GWEN
You know very well “Who.”

MARTIN
Gwen, we should be getting back. I told, Abbie I would giver her a ride home and now it’s-(He looks at his watch) well, the party’s probably over by now and what’s she gonna do?

GWEN
No one forced you to give me a ride here.

MARTIN
No one should drive your…state of mind.

GWEN
A-DOR-able. Who. Is. That? (She points out the window on “that”.)

MARTIN
I don’t know.

GWEN
Is it her?

MARTIN
No.

GWEN
Well, then WHO IS IT?

MARTIN
I told you, Gwen, I don’t know.

GWEN
What’s going on here? I deserve some answers. I find out, most unceremoniously, from Katy Dennis, of all people that perhaps I may not always know what my husband is up to. And While I thank you, truly, from the bottom of my fragile heart, for owning up about this place, beyond that you have been a complete and utter BUST in the information department.

(She looks out the window.)

GWEN
So. Does she always lounge around like that? In some skimpy pink nightgown?

(Pause. MARTIN is at a loss as GWEN stares down into the unseen room. MARTIN approaches her from behind and tentatively puts his hands on her shoulders. GWEN raises her head and turns around to look at him. A beat. She touches his cheek but almost instantly thinking better of it, retracts her hand.)

GWEN (Stepping back and away from him)
I’m starving. I didn’t get a chance to eat a thing before the, uh, explosion.

(Pause.)

MARTIN
There was a little diner around the corner…I’ll see if I can’t get something. A sandwich?

(GWEN nods and MARTIN makes his way out. The door closes and his footsteps plod down the hall. A door opens and closes in the distance and he is gone.

GWEN looks around the room, walking aimlessly. She brushes off the bed and sits in the downstage edge, bouncing a little. She looks back over at the window, confusion across her face.

After a few beats, the elevator bell rings down the hall, and footsteps march down the hall.

In a panic, GWEN lunges over to the light switch above the bed and turns it off as quietly as she can. She edges over to the head of it and sits…keeping still.

There is the sound of a key in the lock. The door swings open and light fills the room, although GWEN is still disguised in shadow. CHUCK’s silhouette stands in the doorway.)

CHUCK
Gwen?

(GWEN does not answer, but tries to pull herself up tighter. CHUCK enters and slams the door. He does not turn on the light.

CHUCK’s breathes heavily for a moment, and heads for the window. He mumbles for a beat, leaning on the sill. Pause. In one quick motion, CHUCK pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and matches. He lights one, the flame illuminating his face for a second. He shakes it out and stands, staring down though the window to the apartment below. He sighs, placing the cigarettes on the sill.

GWEN leans forward. Both of their outlines are visible, GWEN watching CHUCK, CHUCK watching the woman below. A long silence.)

CHUCK
I don’t even know her.

(GWEN knows he’s talking to her)

CHUCK
This place isn’t what you think it is. Sometimes I just has to…be away.

(GWEN does not answer. CHUCK finishes his cigarette, holds for a beat, and stamps it out. He walks to the door and opens it, light flooding the room once again. His shadow remains in the door for a beat, and then he shuts the door. His footsteps walk away from the room, down the hall. The elevator bell rings and the doors close. He is gone.

GWEN lets out a long loud breath. Gets up and moves towards the window. She picks up the cigarettes and takes one out. Lighting it. She chuckles, enjoying the moment.)

GWEN
You think you’re the only one?

(GWEN looks out the window.)

END

Chair Car

CHAIR CAR

LOIS, Early 30’s
VERBENA, Early 30’s

(The common area of a passenger train, early afternoon. There are four people in the car: A Man sitting at the fore, looking out the opposite window from the chair in which he sits, a woman in a hat who cannot seem to take her eyes off the Man’s right ear, VERBENA, sitting further back still, and LOIS. LOIS is sitting with her back turned to the window, reading a dog-eared paperback book. At times she appears frustrated by it, huffing out one or two frustrated sighs, closing the book and turning it over to look at the back cover. When she has finished eyeballing it with displeasure, she turns back to where she left off with a rough flip.

When she flips back she consistently returns to a page where the spine has cracked a bit from wear as if that page has been read over and over. It is not the page she’s reading and having to hit it every time she goes back to looking at the book, increases her agitation.

VERBENA is watching this. Her chair is turned halfway towards LOIS. She is trying, with little success, to observe LOIS with a covert nonchalance. LOIS is at first unaware of this, but during one of her scolding glances at the back of the book, she catches a glimpse of VERBENA turned almost directly her way. Their eyes meet for half a second and VERBENA swivels back around to face front. LOIS remains fixed on VERBENA for a beat, and then returns to her book.

VERBENA tries a few more times to look directly at LOIS and LOIS is ever more aware of VERBENA’s intrusion.

The sound of the train thumping and clacking over the tracks is heard throughout.

Finally, catching VERBENA in another stare, LOIS has had enough.)

LOIS
Excuse me.

(VERBENA swerves back around forward in her chair.)

LOIS
Excuse me…you there.

(A beat. VERBENA turns back to view LOIS at a turtle’s pace. LOIS waits.)

VERBENA
Hi.

LOIS
Uh-huh…Hello…can I help you with something?

VERBENA
I, uh…I don’t kno-

LOIS
No, no, no…you’ve been turning your chair and looking over at me. I’ve seen it.

(A long beat. VERBENA just looks at LOIS.)

LOIS
I’ve seen you doing it. You can’t pretend here, because I’ve seen you.

(VERBENA furrows her brow.)

VERBENA
You don’t have to be so upset.

LOIS
I’m not upset.

VERBENA
You sound like you are.

LOIS
I’m not.

(Pause.)

LOIS
I just want to know what’s going on here.

VERBENA
Nothing.

LOIS
Then why are you looking at me?

(Pause. VERBENA mulls it over and then:)

VERBENA
I was looking at your book.

LOIS
That’s it?

VERBENA
Yes…I was wondering what you were reading. I can’t help it. I’m always looking at what other people are reading, on the train, on the subway.

LOIS
You could have just said that, without going through all the- (She makes a circling motion with her finger.) You can say “Excuse me, what are you reading?”

VERBENA
Excuse me, what are you reading?

LOIS
Exactly, just like that.

VERBENA (Shy laugh)
No…I’m really asking.

(LOIS lets out a humorless snort.)

LOIS
Oh.

(LOIS closes the book and looks at its cover.)

LOIS
“Pictures of the Gone World” by Lawrence Finger-letty.

VERBENA
Oh.

LOIS
Pretty depressing name, if you ask me.

VERBENA
How come?

LOIS
Well, it just sounds so damn melancholy, doesn’t it? Poets these days have to make everything sound like it’s the end of the world.

VERBENA
You don’t go in for poetry too much.

LOIS
Sure I do. I can’t get enough of the stuff.

(VERBENA is incredulous)

VERBENA
Really? You don’t seem-

LOIS
I like it as much as the next gal, with a bunch of roses and a box of chocolates, but honestly…it’s when these fellas get all (makes a circling motion with her finger by her head) you know, it gets to be a bit much for me.

VERBENA
Do you like any of them? The Poems?

LOIS
What? In here?

(VERBENA nods.)

LOIS
Not really.

VERBENA (Pointing)
It’s just that it looks like that one page has been read more than the others.

LOIS
Oh, right…just the way the book is. (Looking at the page, reading the title out loud.) Number 8. You know, they don’t even- they could try a better title than that, for crying out loud. Something with a little verve.

(A long beat. LOIS, assuming the conversation is at a comfortable parting lull, opens the book.)

VERBENA
It’s Ferlinghetti.

LOIS
What’s that?

VERBENA
It’s Ferlinghetti. That’s how you say his last name.

LOIS
So?

VERBENA
You said “Finger-letty.”

LOIS
No I didn’t.

VERBENA
I heard you.

LOIS
I said “Finger-letty.”

VERBENA
Yes…and that’s not right.

LOIS (Shrugging)
Who cares?

(VERBENA is silent. LOIS tries to open the book again)

VERBENA
Where did you get it?

(LOIS is visibly annoyed)

LOIS
Get what? This?

VERBENA
The book.

LOIS
What difference does it make?

VERBENA
I just want to know where you got it.

LOIS
Right and I want to know what difference it makes.

VERBENA
I know it’s strange…

LOIS
You’re tellin’ me?

VERBENA
I used to have that book. Used to own it.

LOIS
Uh-huh.

VERBENA
So, I just wanted to know where you got it.

(LOIS pulls the book towards her.)

LOIS
This is my book.

VERBENA
I know.

LOIS
It was a present to me.

VERBENA
Mine was too…a present.

LOIS
But this one was a present to me…from a friend.

(Pause.)

VERBENA
They must not know you very well.

LOIS
What the hell kinda thing is that to say? And to a total stranger?

VERBENA
I didn’t mean to-

LOIS
Oh yes, you did! (The Woman with the hat turns her head and looks at them. LOIS Sees this and evens her tone.) Yes, you did…what other possible reason could you have to say such a thing? You most assuredly did mean to-(Makes a circling motion with her finger, completing her thought.)

(There is a long silence as LOIS and VERBENA look at one another. LOIS slowly sits back in her seat and swivels it away from VERBENA.)

VERBENA
May I see it?

LOIS
No.

VERBENA
Why not?

LOIS
You can’t be serious.

VERBENA
I only want to see something and then I’ll give it right back.

LOIS
No.

VERBENA
You have my word.

LOIS
Of all the childish- (She swivels back around) Tell me what it is and I’ll look at it for you.

VERBENA
That’s not the same thing.

LOIS
You’re right…it’s not.

VERBENA
Please…I just want to see-

LOIS
See what?

VERBENA
That’s my business.

LOIS
And this book is my business.

(Pause. VERBENA is growing more desperate.)

VERBENA
It looks like it was my book. It looks just like it.

LOIS
Well, it’s not your book. It’s my book.

VERBENA
But it looks like-

LOIS
There are about a thousand of these books around, how could you possibly, out of all the copies of this goddamn book there are in the world, think that this one is yours?

VERBENA
It’s got the same-

LOIS
The same-

VERBENA
The same, I don’t know the same marks on it. It folds back the same way…and there (she points) I can see where I colored in the “O” in “gone” with a pen. I had it on my desk and I was just, you know, on the telephone and I colored it in. It was a stupid thing to do…I felt like I ruined it a little. I used to carry it around with me. Everywhere. It was a present from- (she stops short of saying his name) we were going to get married, he told me. Or run away, he said. He gave it to me and in the front he wrote- something silly, really. A sweet nothing. And afterwards, after he was gone…the book went missing. I probably left it somewhere, that’s what I thought. But it was a present…to me. And I just want to see if maybe…what he wrote….

(A beat. The train has slowed down and the conductor announces the stop that’s coming up)

LOIS
This isn’t your book.

VERBENA
But…can I look?

LOIS
This is mine. It was a gift to me.

VERBENA
I just want to see.

LOIS
It’s mine.

VERBENA
Just for a second…

(The train has stopped. LOIS stands up.)

VERBENA
Please, before you go. Can I see?

(A long beat. The Man and the Woman in the train car get up and exit. LOIS stands for a beat. In one quick motion she whips the book to the front page and hold it up for VERBENA to see. VERBENA looks at it for a beat and takes in a sharp breath. Then, just as swiftly as she opened it, LOIS slams the book shut and stuffs it into her handbag. She marches out of the train, leaving VERBENA alone.)

END