Thursday, October 19, 2006
1st draft of scene from new play
The REPORTERS remove their reporting clothes and underneath they wear desert fatigues. They carry machineguns and are marching through the desert.) SARAH I just don’t understand. Why are we the only people looking for Osama? HANK We don’t know that. SARAH Well, is someone else looking for him too because if so we should talk to those people and then maybe we could do this in a more systematic way. HANK Let’s just do our job, OK? JONES Why is this even my job? I am a radiologist. SARAH This wind is killing me. Do we know where we are? HANK We’re in the desert. SARAH Sure, but as compared to where we were yesterday. JONES I am a radiologist. HANK We’re north of there. SARAH I know, but . . . Are we getting any closer? Are we making any progress? HANK No one shot at us today yet. SARAH Is that progress? HANK Well, I’m happy about it. JONES I am a specialist. I have a degree. Why did they send me? SARAH I’m a helicopter pilot. HANK Can you both be a little more positive? We have a job to do and I can’t stand to hear you complaining all the time. SARAH Sorry, Hank. JONES I’m sorry too. JONES and SARAH We’re sorry. (Pause) JONES I wish we were back guarding the oil fields. At least then I knew what the fuck I was doing. SARAH Hey, what did he just say? HANK It’s OK, Sarah. JONES I’m sorry. Sorry. HANK Let’s stop here. (Pause) JONES Maybe we should go back to those caves. SARAH Are we going to start going in a different direction again? HANK Shut up for a second will you? Let me think. (A shift in light. Perhaps the sound of wind.) SARAH (looking at HANK) I like to watch his eyelashes flutter while he thinks. What is it about him? The way he stands, the commanding presence? The little specks of gray in his eye? Sometimes when I close my eyes I feel his hand on me, on my toes, on my legs, on my waist, on my back. I feel him on the back of my neck and it makes me feel tiny. Like he could hold me in his hand. Sometimes I imagine him reaching in and pushing aside my ribs like a waterfall to grasp my beating heart. If it’s beating too fast he can squeeze it and release, squeeze it and release until it beats at whatever pace he wants. It will beat for him, because of him. I think it’s beating for him now. Thump thump. Thump thump. Oh, if I could only have his lips on me. His eyes on me. His hands. /His hands his hands his hands his hands his hands. JONES I like to watch her eyelashes flutter when she thinks. I imagine she’s thinking of me. She doesn’t dare to look at me. How could she? She’s too embarrassed. Her feelings for me run too deep. Should I tell her? Should I let her know that it’s not just her who feels this way but I too am hiding deep feelings? It’s funny and indescribable but I know it as soon as I see it. This is only the second time I’ve been in love and the first time burned with the same intensity. Sometimes in the desert I think she’s a mirage but then she coughs or spits and I remember that she is not a mirage but my second serious love. Soon, I’ll tell her. I’ll tell her soon. Those eyes. Ow. Physical pain from those eyes, those lips, those hands, those hands, those hands / those hands. (Shift) HANK (To SARAH) Why are you looking at me like that? SARAH I’m not. (To JONES) Why are you looking at me like that? JONES I’m not. (Pause) HANK Let’s go this way.