How the Middle Class Grows (One Corner at a Time)

Tom, in his mid forties, is scruffy looking in a t-shirt and jeans. Tom would be described as “a little slow. He’s wearing sunglasses and listening to music on his headphones. There’s a bottle of water at his feet and he’s holding a cardboard sign that reads: Homeless, Please HELP! I lost my job and fell behind on mortgage payments. Please help me.

Annette is a well-kempt woman in her thirties or forties. Her hair looks professionally done and she’s wearing frosted lipstick and professional clothing. She looks like a cosmetics representative.

Tom is standing on a street corner off the highway. Annette crosses the street and approaches him daintily.

ANNETTE: Excuse me sir, but you wouldn’t happen to have change for a dollar, would you? I need something for the parking meter.

TOM (lifts headphones away from ears): Huh?

ANNETTE: Change for the parking meter? If you could just give me change for this dollar?

TOM (brings a fistful of bills and coins from his pockets): Sure

ANNETTE: Thank you (turns to go).

TOM: Ma’am? Spare any change? I’ve got no place to stay.

ANNETTE: Well, that’s a silly question, isn’t it? I just asked you for change.

TOM: Oh.

ANNETTE (turns to go, then rethinks): You know, you’re not going to have much luck just standing there like that.

TOM: What’dya mean?

ANNETTE: You’re a mess, but you don’t really inspire sympathy. I wouldn’t give you anything if I were driving by. I’d say to myself, “There’s a lazy man who can’t think of anything better to do today than raise money for the bars tonight.”

TOM (miffed): Well ma’am, I guess I’m lucky there are people around who don’t think that way.

ANNETTE: Now you’re angry with me. Don’t be angry with me – it’s just an observation. I do this for a living. I’m an image consultant. It’s my job to know what people look like as opposed to how people are supposed to look. It’s all about visualizing what you want and how you need to look to get there.

TOM: Oh. You can’t very well expect me to go out and buy myself a suit, can you, lady? I’m barely scraping by, day-to-day.

ANNETTE: How much do you pull in on a daily basis?

TOM: It varies.

ANNETTE: Well, give me a range here.

TOM: On a good day, twenty, thirty dollars maybe. If it’s raining or really hot out, I’m lucky if I can clear five bucks.

ANNETTE: What would you say if I told you that you could clear three times that if you tweaked your image just a little bit? Imagine, ninety bucks on a good day!

TOM: Is that so? How would I pull that off?

ANNETTE: Well, you’d change a few things about your appearance, your posture, and so on. You make yourself in the right image and people will practically be begging to give you money.

TOM: Like what? What should I change?

ANNETTE: Sorry. You understand, I do this for a living. If I made a policy of giving my tips out for free, well, then I’d be in the same place you’re in, wouldn’t I? I’m a generous person, sir, but I’m also a businesswoman (turns to leave). Well, best of luck to you…hear it’s going to rain tomorrow, so keep dry while you can.

TOM (thinking): Wait. Hold on. How much does a person like you charge?

ANNETTE: Oh, nothing you could afford. I’ve been featured on Oprah, you know. Image consultants that are just starting out charge around thirty dollars an hour, but with my experience, my advice is priced a little higher than that. Sixty dollars an hour – more, if the job is complicated and requires research.

TOM: Oprah, huh. Harpo Studios.

ANNETTE: Let me tell you, she’s quite a lady. There’s someone who really appreciates what an image consultant is worth. She’s certainly come a long way – beautiful woman, now, don’t you think? And all that money. She knows what she’s doing (turns to go again).

TOM: Wait. Ok, I can’t afford an hour of your time, but what if I was to ask you for five minutes? We’ve already been talking that long anyways. That’d be five dollars, right?

ANNETTE: heh. I don’t think so. I’ve already spent five minutes too many on this street corner, but thanks.

TOM: Wait. What if I pay you for ten minutes – the five we’ve already spent, plus five more? Ten dollars.

ANNETTE: That’s very sweet, really, but the level of focus required for a five-minute evaluation would be enough to give me a headache for the rest of the day. It’s simply not worth it.

TOM: OK, twenty dollars. For ten minutes. No pressure.

ANNETTE (thinking): Make it twenty-five and it’s a deal. I don’t want this to be a total loss.

TOM (slowly counts out money to verify that he has enough): Deal. It’s about all I’ve got, but if the advice you give me is what you say it’s worth, I’ll make it back soon enough, right?

ANNETTE: Double (counts out the money, before depositing it in her purse).

TOM: Ok.

ANNETTE: All right, let me take a step back here, just to size you up and get a feel for your body type.

Tom steps back as well, looking self-conscious.

ANNETTE: First of all, you need to get rid of those headphones. They are not working for you – nobody wants to subsidize your music appreciation. As soon as someone lays eyes on that contraption, they know that the price of batteries alone would be the equivalent of a meal at Taco Bell.

TOM (removes headphones): ok

ANNETTE: The sunglasses have to go too. People can’t see your eyes; they don’t want to give you money. They want to see that you’re not on drugs and trying to hide your pupils. Besides that, if you want to hook them, you’ve got to be able to make eye contact. You’ve got to show them that you’re human, connect with them. They’re already trying to avoid eye contact with you – why make it easier for them by wearing sunglasses?

Tom removes his sunglasses and tosses his hair uncomfortably to the side. He looks down at the ground.

ANNETTE: That’s another thing. Keep your eyes up. You need to really make that human connection. If they can’t feel you reaching out to them, they’re not going to make that effort to reach out to you.

Bottled water has to go. Hide it in the bushes if you need to, but people still associate bottled water with the French, with elitism.

Do you have any other shirts beside that black one?

Tom nods and pulls a few out of his duffel bag.

ANNETTE: No…ok, that pinkish one will work. What you want is a color that really brings out your vulnerability, especially with your skin tone. You don’t want them to be afraid of you; you want them to want to protect you. This one will work for now, but if you get a chance, pick up a couple of t-shirts in lighter tones – salmon, pale greens and beige, pale yellows. Nothing militaristic or biker-like and definitely no blacks or grays.

TOM: All right. What else?

ANNETTE: Your hair is way too long. You look like a hippie or a derelict-by-choice. Greasy is fine – people don’t expect that you’re taking showers everyday, but your hair needs to say, “I’m a decent, respectable man who has fallen upon hard times.”

Now, have you got any extra cardboard?

TOM: Yeah. I’ve got a few pieces here in my bag.

ANNETTE: Great. The first thing you need is a new sign. The one you have right now is too wordy – people don’t have time to read anymore. And I bet half the people who drive by here don’t even know what a mortgage is. You’ve got to be able to grab their attention with just a few powerful words, something they can relate to, coupled with a call to action. Here..

Annette writes on the sign: HUNGRY. PLEASE HELP!

ANNETTE: After I’m done here, you can work on darkening those letters a bit. They should be big and bold, so that someone can read it from a distance instead of having to guess at what you want.

TOM: Yeah, ok, that makes sense.

ANNETTE: Then, with the rest of the cardboard, we’ll just create something that’s suggestive of homelessness. A little lean-to back here against the bushes. Nowadays, people really need something visual to glom onto. You don’t need to get complicated with it, but a few details here and there can have a powerful effect. Here, give me those extra shirts…I’ll just drape them a little here…There. Tell me what you think – like a little makeshift home, don’t you think?

TOM: Yeah, but, I can’t sleep out here. I’d get picked up by the cops. Usually I crash on a friend’s couch, this guy I know from….

ANNETTE: Doesn’t matter where you sleep. It should be the first thing you set up in the morning and the last thing you take down at night. It’s all about the power of suggestion and visualization. If you tell yourself that you’re not really homeless, that you don’t really need or deserve what you’re asking for, then you’ll never get it. People will read it all over you.

TOM (nods thoughtfully): I need the money. I deserve the money. I’m human too. I deserve to have what other people have.

ANNETTE: Hold it. You don’t want to go too far down that road. A false sense of righteousness can get you in a whole lot of trouble and it won’t do you much good on this corner. Truth is, you don’t deserve to have what other people have. You don’t deserve their homes, their cars, their clothes, their groceries. You don’t deserve any of that. You don’t deserve anything besides their eye contact – that single instant in which they recognize that you are human too, just like them.

Anything beyond that should be treated with gratitude. They give you five dollars, you say, “Thank you.” They give you two pennies, you say, “Thank you” and say it with the same enthusiasm you gave for those five dollars. Treat every single one of them as a valuable customer and you will be rewarded. They will keep coming back to you, and if you’re lucky, they’ll tell their friends about you as well.

TOM: Really? You think it will work?

ANNETTE: 100% of the time. If you treat them right, they’ll remember it and treat you right. You’ve got to remember that these people have it tough too – they’re coming to you right after they get yelled at by the boss, right after their kids throw a tantrum or they found phone-sex charges on the telephone bill. If you can turn that around for them, make them feel good about helping you, then you’ll have done your job.

TOM: I guess I never really thought about it that way. Thanks, that makes a lot of sense to me.

ANNETTE: One last thing and then I’m done. You’ve got to work on that posture. Quit slumping – people will think you’re either drunk or lazy. Stand straight up so they take notice of you. Keep your shoulders back, your chin up. You don’t want to look cocky, but you want to show that you’re a man who’s doing what he has to do in order to survive. Never sit down or lean against a wall while you’re on this corner. The minute you do that, word’ll get out that you’re no-good. Right now, there should be nothing more precious to you than your image. Got that?

TOM: Yeah. My image. It’s all I’ve got right now. I’ll do it. From here on out, nobody’ll ever accuse me of being lazy or drunk. No more, “Get a job, dickhead.” No more comments about blowing it all at the liquor store. God, you don’t know how much those comments get to me. I’m a man, dammit, I’m tired of all those things people say about me that just aren’t true. I’m tired of having to defend myself all the time. I’m tired of being taken advantage of. From now on, people are going to say, “There’s a man – a human being – to take notice of. A human being deserving of our attention.”

ANNETTE: Very good. And now, our five minutes are up.

TOM: Thank you.

ANNETTE: Thank you, sir, and have a nice day.

Lights fade out on Tom as Annette walks away. Once Tom is safely out of sight, we see Annette taking off her suit jacket and skirt to reveal a stained t-shirt and shorts underneath. Carefully, she folds her clothing and places it in a duffel bag that has been hidden in the bushes. She reaches up to remove her wig, revealing a head of greasy, unkempt hair. Sitting on a street corner, she removes a Styrofoam head from the pag and places the wig on it. She lights up the butt of a cigarette picked up off the street, sighs, and then begins to comb the wig. Then the duffel bag is zipped and arranged to form a pillow as Annette lies down to sleep.

BLACKOUT.

Hungover Again

Uhhhhhh. Fuck.

Consciousness again. I was more than happy, closer to ecstatic in my previous state of dreamless sleep induced by a night of strong, cheap gin. Lots of gin. Maybe some port wine? Things got a little hazy there towards the end, I remember leaving Nye's with that cute little brunette art student…Sara? Suzanne? Samantha?

Not important. My head hurts. And fuck, my legs are sore. For an Irish kid I must have been one hell of a polka dancer last night. Whirling, spinning, clapping…I think I recognized the house band's drummer from that VH1 special. And then I saw her. She was a dark ball of energy, with a smile. Mischievous and alluring. A smile that made me want to hold puppies and kiss babies, or maybe it was make babies …Svetlana? Christ, what was her name?

No. Still not that important. Important is a glass of water, maybe two, and a double dose of aspirin. A few more hours of sleep definitely required; a trip to the bathroom paramount to my existence. Consciousness now includes the cool puddle of drool underneath my left cheek, and a glare coming through my bedroom window. Gross. Bright. Way too bright. Maybe if I just open one eye first…baby steps.

Ready right eye? Go. Definitely too bright still, but the scene outside my window slowly comes into focus. It appears to be a beautiful day outside, the sun shinning, birds chirping, it is a fucking Disney movie out there. Look at that beautiful little girl all decked out in her Sunday best, tiny white gloved hands outstretched into those of her proud parents as they ascend the steps towards St. Edwards…shit.

There should be no St. Edwards Church outside my bedroom window.

Consciousness is painful now, the headache in full effect. Where the fuck am I? Two dry eyes scan the room. Definitely a college house with band posters, political slogans, and crappy art adorning nearly every inch of dilapidated dry-wall. I wonder if…

A soft snore, more a gentle inhale comes softly from behind me cutting off my wondering. Oh shit, oh shit. There’s someone in my bed, no, this isn’t even my bed!

The art student? Please let it be that beautiful art student! Who else could it be? Fuck, a new pain, this one more psychological than physical hits the back of my head, really more towards the top of my spine. That spot that tingles when you look the wrong way and almost get blindsided by a city bus or a suicidal cyclist. That spot is on fire now.

Now her name is extremely important. Steph? Simone? Salena? This is very bad. My eyes, more alert, dart around the room for any clue as to her name. Any paper, note, mail, any wall adornment, any scrap…anything.

A soft feminine rustle, a shifting of weight in the small double bed and my heart skips a beat. Desperation turns into resignation. For some absurd reason, a prayer materializes in my panicking brain…

Oh Lord, if you are truly up there, do not let this beautiful, wonderful, magical girl wake up with me not knowing her name. Lord, I've always done my best to be a decent human, and if you allow this to happen…well Lord, you're going have me on your hands.

"mmmmm," such a delicate morning noise comes from behind me.

Now what? Do I feign sleep, let her make the first move? Do I bolt for the stairs, hoping to grab my clothes on the run? Do I stay here and stare out the window towards St. Edwards while this girl sleeps between me and the door?

Suddenly, the door creaks open.

“hey Laine, can I borrow your stencil? I left mine in the studio,” comes a young female voice, and then pauses. “Oh…I didn’t know you had company…sorry.” The voice giggles and shuts the door slowly, firmly.

I breathe.

Laine. I smile to myself and snuggle in.

3100 Block

The scene opens with Beth (late thirties – early forties) sitting on top of John (in his thirties), a gun to his head. John is conscious, but has been pacified and is lying face down on the floor. Joan (in her early to mid thirties) is on stand-by, ready to come to Beth’s assistance. It’s 3 a.m. They are in the living room in a one-bedroom apartment on the 3100 Block of Lyndale Ave. S., Minneapolis. It’s a bachelor pad, with very little in the way of furnishing. A cheap couch is pushed up against the wall. Other furnishings include a coffee table, a CD rack, and a television. The coffee table is tipped over. There are a few framed vacation photos hanging on the walls, and a three-foot souvenir sword is prominent on a rack above the couch.

Beth: My god, Joan. I can’t believe we’re doing this!

Joan: I know!

Beth: You know what I’m gonna do? When I get home, I am going to sit down and just type. I’m not even going to think. I’m just going to write it all out. You know, screw work, screw actually planning out the narrative arc. I’m just going to write.

Joan: Oh, I can’t wait to read it. Is this something you’re thinking about workshopping next Sunday? Or did you have something else you were planning to bring? I know you said you had a story you were working on.

Beth: God, I don’t know. We’ll see. I mean, who knows what could come of this? Maybe I’ll write a whole novel tonight. I feel like I could right now. I could write it straight through, with all this energy coursing through me. Isn’t this what they say menopause is supposed to feel like?

Joan: Beth, Beth. Watch it. He’s moving a little.

Beth (returns focus to John): Right.

Joan: Where do you want to start, then? An overview? Want me to look through all the rooms while you sit there? I could sort of summarize what’s in each room and we could go from there?

Beth: Umm..No..We should really just start in one room, see where that goes, and then move on to the next. It should follow some sort of logical sequence. I mean, you don’t just walk into someone’s house and peek into every single room before deciding where you want to sit and have coffee. People don’t do that. They just walk in and sit someplace.

Joan: Okay, well it’s up to you. I mean, under normal circumstances, you’re right. People don’t really do that. I just thought that a room-by-room summary might tell us a little bit about how it all fits together.

John (very softly): Please…

Beth (ignores John): Jesus, Joan. We’re here to rob the place, not critique it! It’s not like we’ve got all night to go through this.

Joan: Yeah, but if you don’t have a good structure, it doesn’t matter how well done the rest of it is.

John: My wallet’s in my back pocket…there’s a few things in the bedroom – electronics, mostly.

Beth: Joan, can you get the wallet?

Joan: Sure (with some difficulty, manages to wiggle wallet out).

Beth: Well?

John: There’s about fifty dollars in there, take it.

Joan: Okay, hold on. Here’s his driver’s license. John Eric Granger, born 1970.

Beth: Let me see the picture. (Joan holds license out for her). Blue eyes? Funny, I didn’t think they were. (To John) All right, listen to me. I’m going to stand up now and I’m going to keep this gun pointed at your head. What I need for you to do is roll over onto your back. Do you think you can do that?

John: Yeah. Just don’t shoot me.

Beth: Ok. I’m getting up and when I say ‘go,” you roll over and keep your arms flat against your body, ok? If you look like you’re making some kind of move, you’re going to get shot.

John: ok. I won’t. I’ll just roll over. I won’t do anything else.

Joan: Funny.

Beth: What’s funny?

Joan: Oh, it’s just that that’s exactly what your problem is. No offense – I’ve heard you say it too - your characters don’t really ever do anything.

Beth: (To John) Ok, Go. Roll over.


Both Beth and Joan are silent as John rolls over.

Beth: (To Joan) Even that last piece? The one about the Rastafarian?

Joan: Well, that one wasn’t too bad, but, well yeah – he did come off as a little passive sometimes.

Beth: hmm. (stares intently into John’s face) German or Scandinavian, maybe. Thirty-five, huh? Looks like he’s had a couple of tough years. Teeth..he’s a smoker. No ashtrays around here? Maybe quit a little while ago?

John: I..I quit about two months ago.

Joan: Good for you. I’m still trying.

Beth: Squareish jaw, veins in his neck pop out…good looking in kind of a run down way.

Joan: I think if you backed off a little bit on the description, you wouldn’t have as much of a problem.

Beth: Yeah? You think that’s it?

Joan: Sure, that’s what slows the pacing down.

Beth: Yeah.. I guess you’re right.

Joan: It’s good, though.

Beth: Well, let’s keep it moving. (Leans over John) How’re you doing down there?

John: I’m…are you going to..hurt me? What are you..?

Beth: Are you frightened? What are you feeling right now?

John: Scared. Confused. I don’t know…please.. just take anything you want. I don’t care. I’ve got two kids, coming over tomorrow. Please, just..

Beth: That’s it?

John, (more bravely): What are you here for? What are you going to do to me?

Beth, (deadpan): We’ve been sent here to kill you, John. The microchip. Where is the microchip?

John: What? Microchip?

Joan: Oh, quit teasing him, Beth. (Beth laughs, To John) Don’t take her seriously. (To Beth) Look at this sword. Don’t you think this would be interesting? There’s a lot of nice detail.

Beth: God, no. Cliché. Sword fighting warrior, on quest to save father/lover/brother/whatever. Been done a million times.

Joan takes the sword down from the wall and removes the sheath. She takes a playful stance, wielding the sword in her right hand as if poised to attack.

Joan: Come on, Beth. Play with me. (Affects a pose) My name eez Enigo Montoyo. You keeled my father. Preepare to die.

Joan lashes the sword around a few times, then deliberately brings the point to rest on Beth’s heart.

Beth: Joan. Quit. I’m trying to be serious here. Here, you take the gun and I’ll go get the stuff. I’ve got a better idea of what I want anyways.

Joan takes the gun, but continues to play with the sword. The gun is hanging almost limply in her hand. Beth stuffs the wallet into a tote bag that has been lying on the floor. She walks briskly around the apartment, inserting various items into the bag. The items are of no particular monetary value – merely things that catch her interest

Beth: Joan, I think this is really working for me. I think this is what’s going to get me out of this rut. Get the adrenaline going, the creativity.

God, an embalmed fish. I’ve got to include that. Picture of a girlfriend, sister maybe? Let’s look at the C.D.s… Paper Lace, Led Zeppelin, Phish….Whitney Houston? That’s outa left field. Ha… Joan did you..

John leaps up from the floor and manages to wrestle the gun out of Joan’s hand. Joan struggles with him, dropping the sword to the ground. Beth drops her bag and tries to get at John from behind. She bites his hand, causing the gun to fly underneath the couch. John breaks free of both of them, makes a grab for the sword and, elbowing Joan so that she falls heavily to the floor, takes hold of it. He begins to slash at the two horrified women.

Two of Beth’s fingers drop to the ground. They all pause to look. Beth screams.

Joan and Beth struggle to get away from his lashes and out the door. They are bleeding and frantic.

Beth (offstage): MY FINGERS! MY FINGERS! THEY’RE GONE! What am I going to DOOOOO? Joan, it's your goddamn lack of focus! You're all over the place.

John (hurries to lock door, slows to look at the fingers lying on the floor. Grins, suddenly): My God! The adrenaline! I’ve never felt so alive!

John twirls around and brandishes his sword in some classic, swashbuckling pose.

Black Out.

Harold, At Home

1. Suddenly we’re playing with a whole cast of imaginary characters, running around in our pajamas, and smearing flour paste all over our bodies. She works at slowly unhinging me, bringing me from premise to premise until I’m totally turned about and unsure of what kinds of boundaries we’re working with.

When Harold comes home from work, I can feel him do a visual scan of the apartment. He wonders why there’s flour paste on the floor, sees the basket of dinosaurs overturned in the middle of the room, the instruments stacked at awkward angles, the grid of masking tape on the walls, the punctured plastic cups in the sink.

He wonders what we’ve been doing all day. He doesn’t say anything when he comes in, just changes clothes and gets to work loading the dishwasher, scooping up dinosaurs, rinsing out whatever needs to be rinsed. The apartment is transformed in a matter of minutes and a hush falls over us.

2. She’s in a bathtub full of floating legos, so absorbed in her marine engineering that she does not question why we are hiding in here. Her hair parts itself in damp tendrils and her thin naked back is bent over the water. Her chin is folded down upon her chest in study.

She smiles to herself with satisfaction and raises a dripping tower in triumph. Primary colors, bold against the fizz of bubbles.The structure floats toward one side of the bathtub as she reaches for a couple of blocks and a plastic donkey she has brought in for company.

The radio plays harsh against earth tone tiles. It’s something between rockabilly and punk. She pays no attention, but the music seems to drive her into focus. She looks up from her plastic nest of blocks and says out of habit, “I need more toys in here.”

In the other room, Harold is getting ready for bed.