May 7, 2005
1st scene of new play
ONE (Lights rise on BOBBIE’s mostly-empty apartment.) (BOBBIE sits at the desk, typing on an old non-electric typewriter. A beer sits on the desk next to the typewriter.) BOBBIE’S VOICE When you have visions—visions that beat at your brains while other people are talking, when you hear screams--synapses won’t stop crackling and blood pumps--the pounding don’t stop pounding you look for an exit to start the ending or search sideways in vain to extract a distraction but even then what will curls of hair give to you, hips and breasts, lips sip out of you in a moment distract what abstraction pounds-pounds ‘til you steal— The night is a foundation for crumbling, the boy thought to himself. He dressed in haste, pulled the hood on his head and he took to the street, boot in front of boot to find her. Who would she be tonight? Last night she was brunette, red-lipped and serious, mouth curled around a tiny white smokestack, long leopard-fur coat collecting snowflakes on its tips. When she stopped in the streetlamp, he was there. He was a boy and she was not afraid. She took a drag and he took her lips and all her smoke and sadness drained into him. She gasped in the kiss and the snow fell on her lashes. When she opened her eyes, he was gone. That night he took his silver pen knife from the drawer of his desk—the only furniture he owned. He opened the blade, splayed his left hand on the desk and stabbed himself with the right. (BOBBIE stops typing.) BOBBIE No! No! NO! That’s not right. No one would do that. It’s so fucking stupid. It’s so fucking . . . (BOBBIE stops himself, takes out a knife, and stabs himself in the hand. He yells out in pain.) BOBBIE Ahhhhh!