Nick Sangalis, Senior, Finance, Denver, CO
Scene 1
JOE sits on his couch in his living room during the daytime. The curtains are drawn, the lights are off, and the room is dusty and crowded. There are dark, ornate posters hung on the walls, mostly of dragons, goblins, and other mystical creatures. A pesky crow sounds in the background. JOE himself is in a brightly colored suit that doesn’t quite fit him right, one hand behind his back. His lazy eye darts from side to side.
JOE
You may notice, I don’t have a lot of hair. When I was in middle school, I thought people without hair – like my father – could go weeks on end without showering and no one would notice, because their hair would look the same as if they had showered four times a day. I was jealous of those people. Having to get up an hour early back then just so I could do my hair routine – with real hair, mind you – was like having to use a can opener in front of a date the first time you’d ever cooked for her. It never ends, and the whole time you’re questioning every decision you’ve ever made. Back then, I would start my shower by coating a layer of my prescription dandruff shampoo, and let it soak for a minute or two while I washed the rest of myself. I would sing something spectacular, like Frank Sinatra’s “That’s Life” or something. Then I would put in the real shampoo – you know, to mask the fact that I, at 12, had to use dandruff shampoo. I would lather for 15 minutes. Make sure I really got it all out. Then, the piece de resistance, I would pour in the conditioner. I don’t think I can emphasize enough how much conditioner I would put in. I would fill my left palm with a layer, then I would do the right palm (the symmetry was so important). I would smack my hands together and I would shove it in my scalp. (beat) I should note that, back then, I had a buzz cut.
Even still, nowadays, I spend an inordinate amount of time on my hair. Sometimes, when I have extra time in the morning, I’ll do a light touch up, and I’ll take my electric razor, pop out the little precision extension that comes with it, and grind it up against my receding hair line. Something about having a really clean hair line seems really nice to me. You may notice, though, that I have these two little fuzzes coming out of the tops of my head. They might seem haphazard to you, like I forgot to trim them this morning. But, believe me, it is an intricate detail that I have spent hours analyzing and postulating. Something about being able to reach up and really grab at that little extra piece keeps me company. And knowing that when you look at me you see these little horns kind of excites me.
I think that’s why I run up to people and pluck hair off their heads and glue their hair onto mine. I have this nasty habit of plucking at my own hair, and – I know, this is rather strange, isn’t it? – I’ll eat it. That’s probably why I’m bald, you could say. But other people’s hair – it just looks so refined, you know? And you have to be sure you present the best version of yourself out the door – otherwise, you’re just a nobody from nowhere with nowhere to go.
Scene 2
GUS sits in a chair next to his grand piano. The walls are filled with vivid murals, and the windows are adorned with ornate stained glass. GUS is surrounded by 4 of his cats, and he strokes one of his cats in his arms. He wears a furry jacket and long pants that don’t quite fit him.
GUS
Sometimes, when I’m alone, cuddling a blanket, watching TV, I’ll wonder what it would be like to be alone. I wonder what it would be like to not have friends. I wonder if people feel bad about themselves when they have no one around them.
It’s funny to me, because that is so far from what my reality is. Even when I’m asleep, I have dozens of eyes on me, making sure I am alive and well. I have books on every corner of the room filled to the brim with sketches that, frankly, you would be amazed by. (Of course, all are drawn by me for my own amusement. I wouldn’t want people gazing too intently at my work – wouldn’t that just take the fun out of it?). I have a large home, a smart brain, a kind glance. But what really defines me are my cats.
Cats. What can we say about them? They remind me of everything that’s ever made me smile. When I was a boy, my pops would take us and our family cat Ralph to the dog park. He would laugh and laugh and laugh, because Ralph would be running around acting like a dog the entire time. Ralph would lick the dogs’ tails, smell their butts, jump up against them, and, in all senses of the word, really was a dog with them. He would come home and try to play and jump around like a dog in our house, but the ole man would pick him up by the ears and scream “you are not to do that in my house! Save that for the park!” (laughs).
I think my father took Ralph to the dog park at first because he thought it would be some sort of sick joke. He really hated Ralph – it was my mom who suggested the idea to get him to me, and ever since the moment she did, I would hound my father to take me to the pet shop every chance I got. And he would yell at me in return once we got it. He would say “take Ralph for a walk!” or “Ralph could clean these dishes better than you!” (laughs). I miss him doing that. So, taking Ralph to the dog park was the only chance he got to stop watching the damn thing (at least, that’s how he put it). He wanted Ralph to get mauled out there – that would solve his problems. But Ralph stood his ground and adapted, he overcame. Ralph made friends. Ralph was happy until the day he died, never knowing how much my father resented his presence.
I named the first cat I got out of college – I went to RISD, by the way – Ralph in his honor. I thought he might bring me similar joy and happiness. But he was hit by a car running into New York traffic. My fault, really – should’ve had him on a leash. So I bought a few more, and here we are.
To answer your question though, loneliness has never been a problem of mine. I’ve always had my cats!
Scene 3
NORA sits in a comfortable chair. The room around her is well-lit and bright. She wears joggers and a well-fitted top.
NORA
So many things to say. Well, once when I was young, my mother braided my hair. She combed it. She tangled it (not into knots though, into rows). She tightened it. She sprayed it with spray. She blew hot air onto it to make it stay. Mostly, though, she loved it. That’s what love is, I’m sure. Spending hours in the morning just to whisper life to something inanimate, especially when that inanimate thing is attached to something animate like me. So, for me, braids have been my life.
I am almost nothing without it reaching to the floor for me. How else could I stay balanced? Why else would I stand? I remember my mother took me to New York one winter – the winter after my father died, maybe? – so I could see a show. It was not Broadway. It was off-Broadway. Pretty far off Broadway. It was in this shack, it felt like an old home had been converted into a theater. It smelled bad. Like rotten fish. My mom loved to cook fish, so I came to know when it was rotten. This fish was certainly rotten. The ceilings were low, there was a chandelier over the audience, and you could tell there was a kitchen once where the stage was. I was scared because I was eleven, and my mother was older than me. She knew more than me and was not scared, but I still felt scared. Maybe because I did not know. Despite the confusion I tried to sit straight in my chair. Mother hated when we slouched in our chairs, so we came to learn to sit in our chairs with straight backs and extended heads. Maybe another reason I love a braid – it is the only thing that can bend when you are sitting up straight as can be. When the show started, I gasped. The lights turned off, and it was night, so the room became very dark. I reached for my mother’s hand, but she rejected my offer quickly. Probably for the best – I would not want to be needy in my adult life for that type of attention to be returned to me. Not many people hold your hand when you’re older, no matter how hard you try or how nice you ask. At the stage, a beautiful blonde woman came to the front. She was so beautiful. Way too beautiful for our stage – this was off-off-off of Broadway, after all. I would have expected everyone to be ugly. Most people are ugly, I have found. Most people don’t have braids.
This is why I got a braid. It is my mother’s hair, not mine. She had long, flowing hair, and she cut it for me before I – before she died. I had it fastened to mine. It is real hair. It just is not mine.
The woman in the play turned to us and then turned around. She shook her head and removed her hair tie, and out came this hair. It flowed. It whistled. It curved, it turned, it danced, and it migrated down. Down to the floor it went. It touched so low I didn’t think I knew when it would end. If it hadn’t been for the floor it might have crawled all the way to the Enemy. At least, that was what my mother said. And I agreed. I think. A man in the distance yelled “Rapunzel!” and she screamed, and she put her hair in her tie, and she danced with fear back offstage, and the man who had yelled “Rapunzel!” replaced her, and the audience sighed. I do not think they liked that the blonde woman did not come back to the stage after that. Perhaps she was what they came for.
Scene 4
DONOVAN sits outside on the concrete of a public park. There is a thick wood behind him, so much so that you cannot see through it. There is a bench directly to the right of Donovan, but he has instead elected to sit on the concrete with his legs crossed. He holds a tree branch in his hands, excited.
DONOVAN
My good lord, would I ever love to discuss my utter fascination of my collection with you! Ever since I was a child, I’ve wanted to keep simple things, little things, things from afar and things from below. I’ve collected vines, rocks, animals, creatures, sporting balls, frisbees, trophies, and really anything else that can be found in a trash bin. It is my complete passion. It is my reason for existing, for feeling, for fleeting, for fading, for joy, for peace, and for love. If you give me a flannel shirt, I will see to it that I collect ten more. If you give me a pet snail, I will be certain I obtain another thirty. There is something youthful, joyful, blissful about holding onto things. Things define us only subtly, but they consume our definition so utterly that we cannot help but define others by their things.
I think my passion for things comes from my passion for stuff. And there is quite the pesky difference between things and stuff, you see. Things are tangible and easily obtainable. You can pick them up at your local pub or grocery mart, or hell, even the bloody petrol pump. You hold them in your hands, you take them on a walk, you can throw them, toss them, conjoin them, and destroy them. Stuff, on the other hand, is utterly different. You cannot throw away stuff. You cannot drown it, soil it, boil it, burry it, or murder it. Stuff is the very substance with which we define a thing. Whilst things are clear and observable to us, stuff is so much more curious. It is the soul of a thing, the reason for its being, the fabric of its existence. Without stuff, we have no things.
And yet, you cannot collect stuff. Well, I suppose, if you were a murderer, you might declare that you have collected others’ lives, per se, as they have now become your own. You would say that by keeping your victim’s dead body parts in your fridge that you are preserving what has now become a part of you. When I murdered for sport – mind you, not for any illegal purposes – I quite oft felt the same way. The stuff fell into my lap, and I consumed it whole. I loved every second of it. ‘Course, when my uncle shut down his farm and gave it (so willingly and generously, I might add) to the state, we had to stop that way of life. And now that I have been properly sobered up from that philosophy of living, it has come to my attention one cannot quite collect stuff in the literal sense. One can only observe it, clean it, run with it, learn with it, and kill it.
Hence, I now collect trees mostly. Trees can talk to each other, don’t you know? They communicate through their roots and exchange nutrients to branches that need it most. They provide shade for the babies, and they can tell the adults where the sunlight is most available. Marvelous, really. Thus, it seems most certain that trees are both things and stuffs. They have souls, and you can pick them up, tangibly speaking. I do wish humans were like that. But, alas, beggars can’t be choosers.
I do miss my days of sporting, mind you.
Scene 5
MELINDA sits in a church pew at dawn. She wears a fuzzy vest, puffy shit, and jeans. She holds an excessively large cross in her hands.
MELINDA
When I was eight years old, my grandma took me to church for the first time. She lied to me. She said it was going to be fun. Well, she prefaced it by saying we was going to the pool, so. I loved the slides at those places, man, still do. It was almost like she knew church was going to be miserable for an eight-year-old. Just like she knew it was a chore for everyone else.
People who love church terrify me. I know they don’t love it for the right reasons, honey. They probably only go because their parents told them to, or their friends would hate them, or something kinda like that. They probably grew up in the South, too. I’m from the South and that still terrifies me that people will sit there and act like they love church. I wonder if it ever scared Jesus, too.
Anyways. What was I saying? Oh, right, my first church experience. Well, I was eight years old, and my granny lied to me and said we was going to the pool. And I sure did love the pool. My granny sat me on her lap at first, then I think I punched her square in the shoulder and said “no, granny, I’m too old,” or something like that. I wanted her to be in physical pain, probably because I was in emotional pain. Granny said the Lord would change all that. She was wrong. He did nothing. My friends made fun of me the next day at grade school, called me names like sissy and wuss. But I wasn’t no sissy or no wuss! I was me! I was strong! So I punched a few of them too, this time square on the nose, as if they had nothing to gain from having a nice one. And they really didn’t, because their faces were already all screwed up looking on account of being so ugly. The teachers ain’t like that explanation, believe it or not, and they ground me from coming to school for a whole week. Which is a mighty funny punishment, because I hated being at school more than I hated being at home playing checkers with my momma and sleeping in until I would watch the cartoons on the tele. I thought to myself, maybe I should punch some more kids. Maybe I should get grounded from school more often! And so I did. I punched a few more kids, and got grounded from school a few more times. Finally, the principal sat me down, Principal Keller or something or other, and said that my punishment would be an in-school grounding. I wouldn’t go to class, and I wouldn’t be able to draw or write or nothin’ like that, and I just had to sit there and do nothing while I waited for my momma to come get me from school. Now that’s a punishment. Borderline criminal stuff! I stopped punching kids right then and there. Would you believe they was still afraid of me though? I was just a girl, just a short little girl, and they was terrified! My granny wasn’t proud, but I sure was. No one messed with me for a while after that.
So I keep my cross here for safekeeping, even now that I’m old, just in case the kids forget about what ole Melinda did back in the third grade. Jesus might not be able to help ‘em, but his cross sure can.
Scene 6
GENEVIEVE sits on a chair in her library. Its mahogany wood is filled to the brim with books from all different eras and genres. One stands out as The Art of Living by Alexander Nehamas. It is just recently sunset, and the colors of a melting sun sift through the blinds. GENEVIEVE wears a muted skirt and jacket.
GENEVIEVE
I think I have only ever really had one true love in this entire god forsaken world. And that, my friends, is hip hop. You children would never understand. I used to wake up early in the morning to sprint to the record store and steal Grand Master Flash and Sugar Hill Gang records when Old Buddy (that was his name, the guy behind the counter) would sneak them to me under the table. He must have thought I was cute or something, because the bastard never let me leave without this stupid devilish smile on his face. Which was kind of fucked up, because I was a teenager, and he was a full-grown man working at a record store. But, I would do a lot for some Kurtis Blow, so I didn’t pay it much mind. My mother would hiss at me for the rap. She wanted me to listen to her old country vinyl collection, spewing some bullshit like it taught you good morals and the importance of love in a fucked-up world. Or, at least, she would say some less spicy version of that. But me, all I wanted was that bass. I wanted some rebellion. I wanted to feel like I was the baddest MC out there, like I had just walked into an underground dungeon, steamy and sweaty from all the bodies that shouldn’t be there, so many horny people angry at the world, and I get up on stage and roast the hell outta some poor sap and give him the what for. That’s what music is about, man. It’s about murder. It’s about destruction. It’s about hating those that hate you. And that… that… is my only love.
I tried rapping a little back then. Old Buddy would have these kick ass parties at the store on Fridays, and anyone from anywhere could get up there and spit. I hated him a little for that – I was the only one worthy of going up there. One night, this asshole and I battled. He was so pretentious – like in this ascot, or some shit, I don’t really remember. He called me a woman (what an insult!) and I called him a douche. But the bastard Old Buddy said he was the winner! As if I hadn’t even been there!
So I had to take care of it. Rap, really, was like a man I could never get – constantly energizing, yet so alluring that you want to blow something up. And oh boy, did I blow shit up.
Scene 7
MARTY sits in a large lawn outside his home. He has on a polo T-shirt and khakis.
MARTY
My wife and I were married for seven years. We had two children, three dogs, four fish, and one house we shared in the outskirts of Connecticut. It was a simple life, and we loved it.
I first met Debra when I was fourteen. She was in my biology class when we were in the eighth grade, and I thought she was the most repulsive person I’d ever met. That was how I knew I liked her. I was the guy that pulled on girls’ pigtails to get their attention, and then whined to the teacher when they would tell me to stop. But Debra was different. I didn’t want to pinch her or annoy her at all. I just flat out did not want to talk to her. She was disgusting – a girl? How gross! I’m not sure if this will be helpful information to you, but I was a late bloomer in terms of puberty. Might explain a few things.
The same thing continued on into high school. I haven’t told anybody this story, but Debra was really a pretty big reason why I went to college at all. My father wanted me to work for the body shop, just as his father had done before him, and his father before him, and so forth. Debra wanted to go to an Ivy League school, which disappointed me, because I knew I could never get in. By some sort of miracle, Debra’s parents couldn’t afford Ivy League college, and so we both ended up at University of Tennessee. She was in a sorority – I can’t remember which one honestly – and I sure as hell was not in a fraternity. They don’t take squares in those places as I understand it. It took me a couple years, but finally, I was really drunk after coming home from my friend’s house my senior year, and I went up to Debra. I said something to the effect of “you’re gorgeous and I know you,” but I’m sure she would’ve remembered better than I. I woke up the next morning in her bed, and I suppose the rest is history.
I’m not really sure if that answers your question. Now that she’s gone… mysteriously. … All I know is that I have some thinking to do, I think.
Scene 8
GRENDA has on too much makeup and overly ornate clothes. She sits on the balcony of her apartment, high above the ground.
GRENDA
I was beautiful. Oh wow, I was so lovely. The boys would look at me from miles and miles away and wonder how they could possibly be so lucky to look at me. They would smile from across the room, yelling and laughing amongst themselves. When I was thirteen or fourteen, teenage boys would come up to me when I was with my girlfriends at malls and ask me if they could call me sometime and take me out for a meal or two. I would say no thank you, my mother wants me home by ten most days and that’s if it’s not a school night. They would pester and hound me, talking about how my excuses were no good and they didn’t believe me. Well, then I would have to give them a fake number, and I think they would know it was fake because they would look into my eyes and say how disappointed they were. Mind you these were youngsters too, mostly only a few years older than I was. Maybe at the time I was just timid, a little afraid of what it might mean to have boys like me. I was pretty and I didn’t know what to do with it.
Little did they know the number I gave usually was my mother’s office number, just to mess with her a little bit. All these boys would call her office saying “I can’t wait to take you out” and “you’re the most beautiful creature I’ve seen.” And my mother would come home and yell at me for hours about how embarrassing that was (laughs) and what a whore I was (trails off)… I wanted to punch her in the face so many times back then.
Now, though, I mostly just sit up against this balcony and look up at the stars during the daytime and look for the sun at night. At least, that’s what my third husband – maybe my fourth? – used to say. Something about youth is so wasted on the young, or whatever that phrase is. Which was funny, because I was not so young when I first married. He thought I was pretty, and I thought he was rich, and it turned out we were both right. I thought I had finally figured out what to do with my prettiness, and I knew it was not a second too late.
It’s hard to be lonely when everyone around you thinks you’re so pretty. Girls always want to be your friend, boys always want to talk to you, and you always know that things will work out okay. Everything ends up being okay, because at the end of the day, no one wants to upset the pretty girl. At least, that’s what my ninth husband would say – maybe the tenth? – who can keep track at this point! (laughs)
When I look out at the beaches now from my porch and think about those days, I’m pretty sure they’re all dried up. Just like my skin is now. I’ll get a massage or two here and there, a mani-pedi if I really feel good-looking that day, all courtesy of my second husband’s estate. But it never seems to change anything. The beach looks the same, I look worse, and my younger self looks dead. And my husbands… all 13 of them… they look deader than me. I don’t miss them in the slightest.
Balconies are really something, though.
Scene 9
NATHAN is in his living room, bright and forgiving. He wears a novelty T-Shirt and athletic shorts.
NATHAN
I often wonder what the point of it all is. Why I’m here, what’s worth doing, that sort of thing. Perhaps that’s what decades of trauma does to you. Or maybe that’s just the byproduct of majoring in philosophy.
Existential dread is so necessary, though. Too many people wander through life completely unaware of how terrible everything is. They think the world is made for them, and yet it is just a sad amalgamation of literally infinite loss and travesty. The weight of the world is too often carried by those with the weakest shoulders, such as mine. How terrible it would be to live unaware of your mortality, though!
I still remember the first time I came out to anyone. When I was seven or eight, my best friend Randal and I would play Chutes and Ladders at his house. He would sit across from me, both of us on our stomachs, such that our faces were immaculately close. He would drag his hand down the board towards me to grab his piece, and slowly march it the necessary spaces until he would reach a ladder and climb to victory. He must have been fooling me because he won every single time we played. But one time, after we played and I lost as always, I looked him square in the eye. Randal had these great blue eyes, but they had this bizarre speckle of red in the corner of each of them. Right in the same place. It was so strange to me, so much so that I can see it in front of my own youthful eyes right now. In that strangeness, I said my least favorite words to him: “I wish I could kiss you.”
Randal’s dad was in the military. He hated “queers,” as he called them, and so did Randal. Randal sprinted out of the room after he had spit in my face. He was yelling “Dad! Nate’s a fag! Nate’s a fag!” I didn’t know what that meant. But Randal and his dad sure did, and it did not seem like something I wanted to be. I ran out the door before I could see Randal’s dad, mounted my bike, and pushed home like it was the last day of my life.
And in a sense, it was.
That was my first acquaintance with death. I looked it right in the face, squarely nose to nose that day. Its face was Randal’s, and it had the most beautiful eyes I’d ever seen. That day, I hoped those eyes would know the death I did.
After all, how terrible it is to live unaware of your own mortality!
Scene 10
PATRICIA sits in a simple classroom chair with a completely blacked out background behind her, the only light a spotlight on her. All other characters sit behind her in similar chairs, but they cannot be seen yet. PATRICIA wears a black sundress.
PATRICIA
I was in high school when I snuck out to watch the airshow in town. It was an annual thing in Minnesota, but my parents would never let me go. I think it was because they were too afraid of me being too much of a wild child, and they knew once I got that sense of adrenaline in me, it was over. My friends didn’t even want to come with me. I just went by myself. The boys would sneak out to smoke cigarettes or weed or whatever they did, the girls would sneak out to meet up with their boyfriends or whatever they did (I understood what they did less, really). But I would sneak out just to watch airplanes fly overhead with a bunch of hillbillies and former marines. That was my safe haven.
I remember that first one like it was yesterday. Really. I can picture it in my head right now. It had started fairly early in the morning, but I got there just in time for the main event. This one plane came out of nowhere, and it made the most deafening sound I have ever heard in my life. It was a jolt like no other. I still have no idea what type of plane it was, but it had the sleekest design I’ve seen in my entire life. Even if it had come out today, it would be sleek. It had this wonderfully shiny black finish that sparkled in the sun, and I just remember thinking – how great would it be to be up there.
So this plane takes this huge dip and then essentially stalls and goes directly upwards, all the while making that same “whoosh” sound from before. Even though it was far away, everyone could hear it like it was right up close. I thought this pilot was going to come tumbling out from the cockpit at thirty thousand feet and crumble onto the ground, but he stayed in, and the plane kept ascending. Then, all of a sudden, it stopped climbing. It went right back down the same path it had came, nose up and everything. Its descent was terrifying. I had no idea those machines could do that. It fell and fell and fell until… the pilot quickly turned it upside down, did a few tricks, and left flight streams gushing behind him as he stormed right over the top of us. I thought I could touch the belly of the beast then.
The pilot tried one more move. He did the opposite this time, nosediving straight for the ground, clearly wanting to pull up at the last second. This time, though (pause, excited). This time he didn’t pull up. The plane hit the ground and burst into fiery disaster. He did not survive, and something like fourteen of the surrounding spectators suffered permanent flame wounds.
I knew I had to go back.
(a long pause, making the audience think her monologue is over. She leans forward in her chair after some time, staring the audience down devilishly. After a moment of staring, all characters behind her now have their own spotlight in addition to hers)
…Is that why you gathered us all here? To interrogate us about some meaningless shit that happened years ago? I don’t know about these other idiots (gestures behind her), but I loved killing. Watching all that pain, all that suffering, and knowing it was all because of you… you can’t beat that! And now you, you interviewer, you want to understand the “why,” as you say? Ha!
I don’t regret a single murder. Not even one of them. I’m sure all the people here would tell you the same thing. Go back, ask them! See what they think. They’d say the same thing I would.
We’re all killers, really. No, not just us, the ones in front of your innocent, green faces, but all of us. Some of us, the geniuses, let that part of our humanity breathe. You should let that side of you breathe, too. It’s really quite a human thing.