Dan Perry
Flipping the Script
CAST:
DASHING MALE LEAD - 30s-40s; great body, great hair, great teeth; a casting director’s wet dream; any ethnicity.
LONG-SUFFERING DEAD WIFE/ROSIE THE RIVETER/UNION
ORGANIZER/PERSON - Female; 30s-40s; she’s all for patience and reasoning; however, when those don’t work, she’s not above being -- What’s the word so often used? -- difficult; any ethnicity.
AUTHOR - Male; 60s or older; behind the bookish exterior lurks an insecure man who’s afraid of change; any ethnicity.
SETTING:
A bare stage with a single, open grave. (If your stage cannot accommodate a grave, entrances and exits from the wings will suffice.) While the author wears contemporary clothing, the characters on stage begin in period garb (think 1800s Europe; think romance novel cover).
LIGHTS UP on DASHING MALE LEAD. He kneels before an open grave. In his arms he cradles a small bundle: his infant son.
DASHING MALE LEAD
Why do You do this, God? Why do You torture me so! I work this land day and night. I sweat and I toil. I claw at the earth till my fingers bleed and what do You give me in return? Not food. Not hope. Only rocks. And tears. And now You take my wife before
she could lift our beautiful son to her breast. What sin did I commit to make me worthy of such cruelty? I demand to -- !
LONG-SUFFERING DEAD WIFE appears in the open grave.
LONG-SUFFERING DEAD WIFE
Sorry, I hate to interrupt but isn’t this all a little ... much?
LIGHTS UP on AUTHOR, who sits at a desk his laptop open before him.
AUTHOR
How do you mean?
LONG-SUFFERING DEAD WIFE
I mean, you’ve put us through a war, a plague, a crazy-long winter where we had to eat our faithful horse, and now this?
AUTHOR
But your death scene was brilliant. The way you held your newborn baby, your face glistening with sweat, and gave him a single kiss before exhaling your last breath -- I cried real tears. So will the audience, trust me.
LONG-SUFFERING DEAD WIFE
If you say so.
(Disappears back into her grave)
AUTHOR
Pick up where you left off.
DASHING MALE LEAD
What sin did I commit to make me worthy of such cruelty? I demand to know why the darkest levels of hell have ravaged my soul and --
LONG-SUFFERING DEAD WIFE
(Reappears)
Nope. Sorry. Still not buying it.
AUTHOR
Must you keep interrupting? I’m under a deadline here.
LONG-SUFFERING DEAD WIFE
But he’s all ‘I’,‘me’, ‘my’. He barely says a word about yours truly -- you know, the one who actually kicked the bucket.
(Climbs out of grave)
And while we’re at it, aren’t I a little ... one dimensional? I don’t mean to be difficult but we suffer through all that stuff and never even learn my last name. Do I have a last name?
AUTHOR
No one cares about your last name. Now get back in your grave or you’ll regret it.
LONG-SUFFERING DEAD WIFE
You’ve already killed me off, what more can you do?
AUTHOR
I’ll rewrite you and make you a mute.
DASHING MALE LEAD
I’d be down with that.
By this point DASHING MALE LEAD has placed the bundle on the ground and chews on a
wedge of bread he removed from a pocket.
LONG-SUFFERING DEAD WIFE
Where’d you get -- ? (To Author) Why does he get bread after I went hungry for an entire winter?
AUTHOR
You look better thin -- highlights your cheekbones.
LONG-SUFFERING DEAD WIFE
All I’m asking is, can’t we, like, update things a little? I mean, your theme is solid: the plight of the working class under the whims of an oppressive regime --
AUTHOR
-- Glad you approve. --
LONG-SUFFERING DEAD WIFE
-- But who gives a damn about someone way back when? We’ve got real problems here, now, why not write about those?
AUTHOR
Too much of a downer. Historical dramas sell, look at Jane Austen.
DASHING MALE LEAD
If she won’t play ball I’ve got a million ideas how we can beef up my character and --
LONG-SUFFERING DEAD WIFE
Can it, pecs. (To Author) You’re telling me, with that massive imagination of yours, you can’t think up one female character who doesn’t wear a corset?
AUTHOR
You don’t think I can write something more modern? Try this.
(Bangs away at his keyboard)
LONG-SUFFERING DEAD WIFE
(Feels what he’s typing)
Oooh ... Oh, yeah ... I like where you’re going with this ....
DASHING MALE LEAD
What’s he ... ? (To Author) What are you writing?
LONG-SUFFERING DEAD WIFE peels away her period dress; reveals 1940s ROSIE-
THE-RIVETER-era garb underneath.
ROSIE THE RIVETER
(A new energy and demeanor)
Hitler’s on the move, girls, and it’s up to us to stop him! That’s our husbands, brothers, and sons on the front lines and we can’t let ‘em down, so let’s get to work! We didn’t start this war but we’re sure as heck gonna finish it!
(Back to regular voice)
(To Author) ‘Heck’? ‘Heck’?
AUTHOR
What’s wrong with heck?
ROSIE THE RIVETER
What’s wrong with an emphatic, full-throated ‘hell’?
AUTHOR
Audiences don’t like it when women curse.
DASHING MALE LEAD
It’s true, they don’t.
AUTHOR
You must understand, there are rules in place. People expect things a certain way. If you deviate too much, you’ll disappoint your audience.
DASHING MALE LEAD
You never want to disappoint your audience.
ROSIE THE RIVETER
I’m not suggesting you write me as, like, God or anything.
The men laugh.
AUTHOR
That’s a good one!
DASHING MALE LEAD
Can you imagine a woman with a long, white beard?
ROSIE THE RIVETER
I’m just saying, let me drop the F bomb once in awhile; give me a little, you know, agency.
AUTHOR
You want some agency? Try this on for size.
(He types away)
DASHING MALE LEAD
What are you writing now?
ROSIE THE RIVETER
Oh ... Yeah ... Wow, this is for sure a different vibe ....
She removes another layer of clothing; is now a 70s-era union organizer.
UNION ORGANIZER
(Bronx accent)
Dat’s right muddafuckers! If you’re sick o’ The Fuckin’ Man fuckin’ ya over on dis twobit fuckin’ job, I say --
She unfolds the bundle DASHING MALE LEAD placed on the stage floor; on it, in large letters, is the word ‘Union!’
UNION ORGANIZER (CONT’D)
Stand up ‘n’ fight back, ya fuckin’ mudda -- !
(Stops; Bronx dialect gone)
Okay, not to sound ungrateful .... I mean, you took the note and I appreciate it but, don’t you think there’s too much profanity now?
DASHING MALE LEAD
Just say it like a guy would. I can show you how, if you want.
UNION ORGANIZER
Go floss. (To Author) You’re a creative guy, I know you’ve got it in you to flesh me out more.
AUTHOR
You still don’t get it. When people see my name in the credits they expect a very specific thing. I deliver it; they buy it; everyone’s happy. Why would I want to tamper with success?
UNION ORGANIZER
Because times change. Because it’s the right thing to do. Think of the bigger picture.
AUTHOR
I’m a writer, all I do is think about the bigger picture.
UNION ORGANIZER
Yeah, the same bigger picture over and over.
AUTHOR
It’s established.
UNION ORGANIZER
It’s predictable.
AUTHOR
It’s respected.
UNION ORGANIZER
It’s boring!
AUTHOR and DASHING MALE LEAD gasp in shock at the utterance of that word.
DASHING MALE LEAD
(To Author) Don’t listen to her, it’s not boring at all. It’s brilliant!
AUTHOR
What I do here dates back to the ancient Greeks. To Plato. Aristotle.
UNION ORGANIZER
White men, imagine that.
AUTHOR
The classic three-act structure, with identifiable archetypes and mythos, didn’t just pop up over night. Great minds -- yes, who happen to be white males -- birthed it into being through their intellect and creativity. I’m not going to toss that out because you want something different.
DASHING MALE LEAD
How about writing some fantasy or sci-fi? Those have kick-ass women. And laser guns. I could rock a laser gun.
(”Pew! Pew!” He shoots an imaginary laser gun)
UNION ORGANIZER
C’mon on, be brave! Be the change we want to see in the world!
AUTHOR
You want to see, not me. You have no idea the pressure I’m under to deliver content that sells.
(Starts typing)
Time to put you back where you belong.
UNION ORGANIZER
Please don’t!
AUTHOR
I’m sorry but you’ve given me no choice.
DASHING MALE LEAD
Here, let me help.
(Haphazardly throws the discarded clothes onto her) Get these back on you ....
(Tries to shove her back into the grave)
Now, back in you go!
UNION ORGANIZER
No! I can’t go back!
AUTHOR
You have to go back!
UNION ORGANIZER
I won’t! I won’t do it!
DASHING MALE LEAD
It’s not for you to say! He’s the one writing this script! He’s the one who decides how things end!
UNION ORGANIZER
(Shoves him away)
Get off me!
(Rips off all remnants of Long-Suffering Dead Housewife and Rosie the Riveter)
Get all of this off me! No one is writing my ending but me!
AUTHOR
I won’t let you do this. I’ll close this laptop; I’ll unplug the power; and I’ll never write another word.
UNION ORGANIZER
You’d do that just to shut me up?
AUTHOR
(Places his hands on the laptop, ready and willing to close it) Try me.
UNION ORGANIZER
I’ve got a better idea: What if I rewrite you? What do you think of that?
DASHING MALE LEAD
Get a load of her!
AUTHOR
That’s a good one! I’m the one in control -- always have been, always will be.
UNION ORGANIZER
Oh, yeah? Watch this: A writer sits at a desk. It is (gives general description of desk). On it rests a (gives make & model of laptop). The writer is (describes the actor playing Author). He has known success in his profession but not enough. There can never be
enough. We do not see the sweat forming under his arms as he waits for inspiration to come. His right foot taps nervously.
AUTHOR’S right foot taps nervously.
UNION ORGANIZER (CONT’D)
He bites his nails.
AUTHOR bites his nails.
UNION ORGANIZER (CONT’D)
Strike that, too much.
AUTHOR stops biting his nails.
UNION ORGANIZER (CONT’D)
New ideas were plentiful once; washed over him like a waterfall. Now, they come in a trickle, if at all. He thinks back to his early days, when he was eager to write something important. To change the world. Only the world was too stubborn ... or he was too weak.
His ambition has been tamed by the safe and familiar, and all for a good table at the latest restaurant. (To Author) How’d I do?
Now for me: Present day. A bare stage. I stand before a house of (number of audience members) people. They’re a nice crowd. No one’s checked their phone or unwrapped any candy, and for this everyone is grateful. (Modify this line if any audience members have, in fact, checked their phones or unwrapped candies.)
I am (describes her height, hair and eye color, and any other features she cares to share). In my time I have embodied a variety of supporting roles: Wife, Mother, Worker -- and today I reject them all. I demand to do more than just suffer. Or pander. Or be the savior. I will no longer speak words written for me by others.
(Removes another layer; reveals nondescript street clothes underneath)
I will take center stage and craft my own script. I will be my own self, possessing a kaleidoscope of moods and secrets. As my story plays out I will have successes and failures. I will experience joy and pain. None of this will be easy -- forging new paths never is. And, when I die, I will do so with the knowledge that I made a small difference.
(MORE)
UNION ORGANIZER (CONT’D)
This is my ending and it is enough.
(To Author) Do you guys know if they’re selling Milk Duds in the lobby? I’m hungry as hell.
Whatever. Later, losers.
She exits.
DASHING MALE LEAD
What do we do now?
AUTHOR
Don’t worry, she’ll be back. She’ll never make it out there on her own.
DASHING MALE LEAD
What if she doesn’t come back? Who will swoon over me and tell me I’m special?
AUTHOR
She has to come back. And, when she does, she’ll be lucky if I deign to make her a stoic mother or hooker with a heart of gold.
DASHING MALE LEAD
If she doesn’t come back, can I have her lines?
AUTHOR
That’s an excellent idea! I should have thought of that myself. Put on those clothes!
As DASHING MALE LEAD randomly throws the discarded clothing over his shoulders and
head --
AUTHOR (CONT’D)
We don’t need her. All I have to do is make a few simple tweaks and we’ll be better than ever. What was I thinking? I should’ve written it this way from the start.
DASHING MALE LEAD
How do I look?
(He looks absurd.)
AUTHOR
Perfect! I’ll show her. I’ll show all of them.
(Types)
Winter. A bare field. A man. No, a ... a .... Help me out here.
DASHING MALE LEAD
A farmer?
AUTHOR
Maybe.
DASHING MALE LEAD
A soldier?
AUTHOR
You think?
DASHING MALE LEAD
I don’t know, you’re the writer!
DASHING MALE LEAD watches with dread as STAGE LIGHTS DIM.
DASHING MALE LEAD (CONT’D)
This isn’t good. (To Author) Don’t just sit there! Hurry up and do something before I -- (To lights as they continue to dim) Stop that! ... Don’t! ... I haven’t had my sex scene yet!
DASHING MALE LEAD is swallowed by the darkness. The only remaining source of light is from the laptop. It gives AUTHOR’S face a ghost-like pallor.
AUTHOR
Come back! You can’t leave me here all alone!
As the laptop’s light FADES --
AUTHOR (CONT.)
Oh, heck.
BLACKOUT.
END OF PLAY.
