You Should Write a Mystery

You Should Write a Mystery

Donald

You should write a mystery. It was that simple. That was all she said.

Donald reclines in Walter’s Barcalounger. It is mid afternoon on an August day in a small town in Wisconsin. Jack sits across the room in his mothers’ favorite armchair. Samantha is on the phone trying to get Mrs. Tucker to hang up so she can make a call.

Samantha

Mrs. Tucker, please. This is a party line. We have to share it. I must use the phone. How long? I’ve been waiting for ten minutes already. Okay then. Thanks. I’ll try again in three minutes.

Jack

It’s already cooling down, Donald. The Dog Days of August are always so, what’s the word? Sultry? Yeah, sultry.

Donald

You always use such, theatrical language, Jack.

Samantha

Such a drama queen.

Jack

I resemble that remark.

Samantha

I didn’t mean you. It’s Mrs. Tucker. She gets on the phone at 7 am and ten hours later she’s still on the line.

Jack

A drama queen is someone who exaggerates.

Samantha

I don’t exaggerate.

Jack

There’s only one drama queen in this room, right Don?

(A long pause stretches into a pregnant pause, which grows into an awkward pause. Jack looks at Donald quizzically. Samantha crosses to the open window. They wait for Donald’s next line. In an attempt to spur his memory,,,)

Samantha

What do you think Donald? Are you a drama queen?

(Donald looks at Jack and then at Samantha. A flush of disbelief washes over him.

Donald

Sorry, Jack. I don’t know what to say. I don’t remember my next line. It’s a blank. I've got nothing.

(Jack and Samantha exchange a glance.)

Jack

(Playing along) Seriously? You’ve gone up on your lines?

Dave

Yes, Jack. I don’t remember my next line.

Samantha

There goes the rehearsal, right?

Donald

That would be my assessment, Sam.

Jack

Fine, great, wonderful. Damn. I thought it was going so well.

Donald

Come on you guys. This is not funny. I can’t remember my lines. Suddenly it’s as if I had never memorized anything. Where’s the script?

Jack

Script? Okay, now who’s the drama queen? Have it your way. I’ve got things to see and people to do. (He exits)

Samantha

I’ve got to make that call.

Donald

Where is my script? I swear. I can’t remember my next line.

Samantha

Donald, this is not a dress rehearsal. This is your life. (Picks up phone.) Finally, a dial tone.

Gussie

(V.O.) Operator. Who can I connect you with?

Samantha

Gussie? I need to call Doc. Houghton. Would you put me through, please?

Gussie

Samantha? How’s that handsome brother of yours doing?

Samantha

Don’t ask. Donald is just being himself.

(Donald can’t remember his next line. He begins searching for his copy of the play titled, “You Should Write a Mystery.” He looks in every notebook and wracks his brain for a memory of having memorized the play up to the point he lost that train of thought. He can’t find the script.

Donald

(To himself) Am I losing my mind? This can’t be happening. This is the classic actors’ nightmare. In the middle of a performance, suddenly you go up on lines or you walk out on stage and don’t know what show you are in or what character you are playing. Wait a minute. If this is a performance, where is the audience?

He looks to all four quadrants of the room he is in. From his point of view, there is no illusory fourth wall. Where are the stage lights? He cannot see the scoop lights or strip lights, the footlights or follow spot so clearly visible to us, the audience. When he opens the front door, he sees traffic on the street and hears a plane flying overhead. We see the projection; we hear the recording. This whole production reminds one of the Truman Show.

We watch him closely as he struggles with the shift in his reality. We see what he sees on the monitor screen hung above the set. His eyes are our camera. He is so totally immersed in the role, he believes he is the character. He is no longer the actor, Philip Chess, he is the character Donald, at home in central Wisconsin in 1959.

The playwright pulls another sheet of dialogue out of his typewriter and crumples it up, tossing it toward the overflowing waste bin on the floor.

Harold

Janice! I need more paper.

Janice

(off stage) Coming right up.

Harold

And bring me another coffee, please?

Janice

(enters with ream of paper) Damn it Harold, do you have to throw them everywhere?

Harold

Do I look like Wilt Chamberlain?

Janice

How’s Samantha’s brother doing?

Harold

Donald is having an existential crisis. He thinks he is a character in a play.

Janice

He is a character in a play.

Harold

Yes, but he doesn’t know it. He did know it, when the play began but, suddenly he can no longer rely on the written script.

Janice

Why not?

Harold

(Picking up a crumpled sheet of paper.)

Because, I haven’t written it yet.