Zap (2 page)

A single set is used throughout. Actors are in period costume. When switching from one play to another, a loud electronic sound is heard, followed by a brief blackout, during which the actors quickly enter and exit. The speed of these cast changes is key.

I highly recommend reading or seeing the works mentioned in the foreword or others in the genre. It’s crucial to know the conventions that are colliding. It’s just as important to remain true to them despite the growing chaos onstage. None of the laughter should be coming from the cast. The straighter it’s played, the funnier it will be.

The image of a remote control could be copied onto programs as a nod to the play’s conceit.

Making use of the following doubling possibilities reduces the cast requirements to 12 males and 8 females:

The show runs roughly eighty-five minutes and should be presented without intermission.

(Before curtain rises, the HOUSE MANAGER addresses the audience.)

HOUSE MANAGER. Good evening. Thank you all for coming to tonight’s world premiere. A few preliminaries. No photographs, please, flash or otherwise. Likewise, no recording of any kind. Please check that all cell phones and pagers are turned off. Please do, however, make use of the remote controls you should have found on your seats. Vote for a change whenever you feel the need. The computer backstage will log all requests and make a switch when a sufficient threshold has been reached. Our aim is to please you, the audience. You, after all, are why we are here. To entertain
you
is our first and foremost duty. Why else would —

(Zap sound. Blackout. Curtain rises on a drawing room furnished in a mix of styles, from 1860 to 1960. A long couch and two chairs occupy the center of the room. There is an old black telephone atop a telephone table, a wastebasket, a bookcase, a fishbowl with goldfish, and a full whiskey bottle and set of glasses. The fishbowl and whiskey bottle must be clearly visible to the audience.)

(Lights up on the
ENGLISH MYSTERY.
The year is 1916, the place an estate in the English countryside. Distant thunder is heard.
EMMALINE GRAY,
thirty and distraught, enters scanning a guest list and stops
BEETON,
passing in the other direction. Actors use English accents.)

EMMALINE. Beeton — there you are. Any word from the station?

BEETON. The train is expected on time, madam. Unless the bridge at Highstoke were to be washed out.

EMMALINE. I pray it shan’t be. He only has five days’ leave. Everything must be perfect for him. You spoke to the cook?

BEETON. Yes, madam. Roast beef shall be served. And English peas.

EMMALINE. Nothing French on the menu whatsoever, does she understand?

BEETON. Yes, madam. Fear not.

EMMALINE. Nothing that might possibly remind him of the fighting. His last letter has me quite . . .

(She trails off, then looks at the guest list.)

Oh, Beeton. There’s been an addition to the guest list. I’ve invited Inspector Swift up from London. I’m hoping he’ll enthrall us with his latest case and take all our minds off this wretched war — especially Clifford’s.

BEETON. I shall see that the table is set for seven.

(He begins to leave.)

EMMALINE. Oh, and Beeton. Tell the entire staff to be on special guard against dropped pots and slammed doors and such. We must spare him loud noises of any sort.

BEETON. Certainly, madam.

(He begins to leave, getting farther this time.)

EMMALINE. And Beeton. Nothing red on the menu. Blood-red and runny. You understand.

BEETON. I shall speak to the cook about the brandied cherries, madam.

(He exits.)

EMMALINE. Oh, and Beeton —

(Zap sound. Blackout. Lights come up on the
COMEDY.
The time is summer, 1965, the place New York City.
SAMMY,
thirty, is lying on the couch and scanning the sports page, paying more attention to it than to
IRV,
forty-five, who’s reading aloud from the New York Times while striding about the room. Both speak with New York accents.)

IRV.
(With heavy mockery.)
“Never before have the traumas and textures of modern life been rendered so unforgettably.”

SAMMY. Uh-huh.

IRV. “The big, boisterous Bromberg family leaps into life off the page and takes up immediate residence in our hearts.”

SAMMY. Uh-huh.

IRV. “The author’s powers of invention astound. Equal parts comedy and tragedy, the book solves as well our foremost literary mystery — namely, when will the great American novel appear? The answer is ‘Now.’ Its name is
Brooklyn Blues.
”

(He looks for a reaction from
SAMMY,
who finally glances up.)

SAMMY. Hey, that’s great, Irv.

IRV.
(Exploding.)
What do you mean that’s great! It’s not my book!

SAMMY. Oh.

IRV. I mean it is mine! That’s the whole point!

SAMMY. Right. Great. And in the
Times.
That’s big. I mean it. Congratulations.

IRV. For what? His name’s on it!

SAMMY. But I thought you said —

IRV. Jesus, will you listen?
(IRV collapses in a chair, then collects himself. Polka music sounds softly from below. IRV glares at the floor and stamps his foot, to no effect, sighs, and sits back.)
Max writes novels, I write novels. It’s lonely. You’re a sportswriter — you wouldn’t know. You got forty thousand people around you at Yankee Stadium. All I’ve got is a crazy neighbor who listens to polka records.
(He pounds his feet more forcefully, then finally jumps up and down on the floor. The music stops.)
Maybe fifteen years ago, Max and I started having breakfast together. Once a week at Krupfeld’s, on Thirty-fifth. We’d talk writing. Should he kill off a character, should I kill my agent, that kind of stuff. When Doris walked out and I was practically living at Krupfeld’s, he let me talk it out hour after hour, for weeks. For months. Not just about Doris, but my parents, growing up, everything. That corner booth was like a couch at a shrink’s.

SAMMY. You got a couch here. And you got me to listen, just two apartments down the hall. I’m a lot cheaper than a shrink.

IRV. Probably because you wouldn’t know a cerebellum from a softball. Anyway, the last couple years, he said he had writer’s block. Fine. Said he was thinking about quitting writing. Fine. Stopped showing up at Krupfeld’s. Fine. And then, bam —
Brooklyn Blues.
I open it up, and it’s my family, exactly! My rabbi father, my closet atheist of a mother, my meshuggah aunts, my brothers, the neighbors. All of ’em, including me! He stole my life when I wasn’t looking!
(He swats at a fly with his newspaper and misses.)
So now Max McPherson is the great American author. Eating eggs Benedict at the Algonquin instead of dunking a doughnut in his coffee at Krupfeld’s. While me, I’m living on Campbell’s soup out of the can till the next piddling royalty check crawls up the stairs. And pouring my heart out to you, the only shrink I know who hogs the couch!

(He swats
SAMMY’s
feet off the couch with the newspaper.)

SAMMY. Didn’t he even change anything?

IRV. Oh, sure. Him with his “astounding powers of invention.” Instead of allergies, he gave me bladder problems — the louse. And my father, he came from Minsk instead of Pinsk.

SAMMY. Wow. Isn’t that paganism?

IRV.
(Rolls his eyes.)
No — and it’s not
plagiarism
either. That’s stealing someone’s writing, which is against the law. Stealing somebody’s actual family — that’s legal!

SAMMY. A writer’s family — man, that’s his capital. That oughta be a crime.

IRV. You’re exactly right.

SAMMY. So what are you gonna do?

IRV. I’m gonna see justice is done.

SAMMY. But you said —

IRV. Not legal justice. Legal is out. So we go to our backup. Poetic justice.

SAMMY. He wrote poems about ’em too?

IRV. Poetic justice! He stole something from me, something beyond price. Now I steal from him. Which is where you come in, Sammy.

SAMMY. Steal? Steal what?

IRV. Don’t worry. We’re not jumping through a window and running out with the color TV.

SAMMY. So?

IRV. We need something more precious than that. Something that’ll really hurt.

SAMMY.
(Pause.)
His typewriter?

IRV. More precious.

SAMMY. His car?

IRV. Keep going.

SAMMY. His . . . His . . . His —

IRV.
(Leans toward him.)
His wife.
(He swats at the fly, gets it, and grins at it.)
And it’s gonna be sweet.

SAMMY. Jesus, Irv. Kidnapping? You could wind up in Sing Sing.

IRV. Yeah, and I hear they’re looking for a sportswriter there to cover the knife fights. We’re not going to kidnap her, you numbskull! We’re going steal her affections. From him, to me. An eye for an eye, a theft for a theft. A betrayal for a betrayal. That’s poetic justice.

(
IRV
throws down the newspaper, then feeds the fish in the fishbowl.)

SAMMY. But I thought you gave up on dames after Doris. Traded in females for fish.

IRV. Well, I’m making an exception. Not permanent. A temporary exception. Very temporary. Just long enough for Max to find out. And to rub his face in it. And you, with girls trooping in and out of your place like the dressing room at Bloomingdale’s, you can be my coach. ’Cause it’s been a while since I played this game.

SAMMY.
(He stands and sizes up IRV.)
Jeez, Irv. I don’t know.

IRV. What do you mean you don’t know! I’ll use a fake name, so she won’t know who I am. She’s never met me, so she won’t know my face. I’m not that bad looking. It’s perfect!

SAMMY. It’s not perfect! It’s a long shot. It’s the Cubs winning the World Series.

IRV. Thanks.

SAMMY.
(He walks around IRV, examining him, then checks his bicep. Pause.)
Can you kiss?

IRV. What — you’re gonna send me down to the minors to brush up my skills? Of course I can kiss!

SAMMY. I’ll bet. You and the Tin Man.

IRV. So it’s been a while! So we squirt a little lubricating oil on my mouth.

SAMMY. And we know how dames go for the taste of 3-in-One.
(Pause.)
You dance?

IRV. Sure I dance.
(Searches his memory.)
Foxtrot . . . waltz . . .

SAMMY. . . . minuet. Irv, it’s 1965! Maybe we oughta go for the color TV.

IRV. I can do it!

SAMMY. I’m just warning you, it might not be easy. Tell you what. Give me everything you know about her. Then I’ll think about it for a couple of days and try to come up with a plan. But right now, I got my mind on other things.
(He checks his watch.)
Like the Yankees–Red Sox game in an hour. So if you don’t mind —

(Zap sound. Blackout. Lights come up on the
ENGLISH MYSTERY. BEETON
is pouring glasses of whiskey, the bottle three-fourths empty by the time the drinks are all poured.
EMMALINE
enters with
COL.
and
MRS. HARDWICKE,
in their sixties, the fresh-faced
REV. SMYTHE,
and
LADY DENSLOW,
thirty and sultry.)

EMMALINE. His train’s still not arrived. This awful storm —

(BEETON circulates with the drinks on a tray, exiting when the tray is empty.)

COL. HARDWICKE. From our English climate, one could conclude, Reverend, that God quite enjoys playing with water.

LADY DENSLOW. And playing with soldiers. Another boyish pastime.

EMMALINE. Only they’re real, not toys. But I mustn’t start. We’re here to help Clifford forget all that.

LADY DENSLOW.
(Raising her glass.)
To forgetfulness!

THE OTHERS. To forgetfulness!

INSPECTOR SWIFT.
(Entering, dapper in evening clothes.)
The same toast apparently drunk by the witnesses on my last murder case.

EMMALINE. Inspector Swift! I’m so pleased you’re here. Let me introduce you. Colonel and Mrs. Hardwicke, our nearest neighbors . . .

INSPECTOR SWIFT. I couldn’t help noticing, motoring here, the extreme isolation of the houses.

COL. HARDWICKE. Makes us value human contact all the more.

(He chuckles nervously.)

INSPECTOR SWIFT. Indeed.

EMMALINE. Lady Vanessa Denslow. Her husband is also leading a regiment in France.

LADY DENSLOW. And will be dining this evening on horsemeat and rainwater.

INSPECTOR SWIFT. A most commendable sacrifice.

LADY DENSLOW. If we are what we eat, I suppose I should expect him to return even more of a beast than before.

EMMALINE. Reverend Smythe.

REV. SMYTHE. My apologies on the weather.

INSPECTOR SWIFT. Now, now. I don’t think we’ll be charging you as an accessory.