Blackout at Battery Cliff: a one-act play by Tim West

Sep12

SCENE 1 – IN THE BLACK, we hear Glenn Miller’s slow and sleepy “At Last,” overlaid by snippets of period radio: news announcer, folksy ad, ballgame, farm bulletin –the more bucolic, the better.

Suddenly, this is replaced by air-raid sirens, bombs exploding, and FDR’s declaration that the U.S. is at war with Japan.

The music continues underneath, but fades with the siren, bombs and declaration as the room shakes with the sound of airplanes taking off.

LIGHTS UP first from a naked bulb onstage, suspended from the ceiling, then on the bunker. A folding desk and chair with a radio unit stand beside a folding cot. An entryway from above (steps or ladder) is identified by the sign, “Watch Your Step,” and there is a narrow slit running across a wall. A key light penetrates the space from these, its effects indicated in the text.

TOM McCAIN sits at the desk, operating the radio, adjusting the tuning. He is a youngish man, with wire-frame glasses and perhaps a hint of a moustache, dressed in the khaki cotton shirt and high-waisted olive-drab worsted-wool knickers of pre-war U.S. Army issue.

He glances up as the last plane flies over –perhaps we see its shadow in the doorway. We hear some radio static, and a voice on the other end of a two way system.

TOM:

Hello? Hello? Are you still there?

VO1:

Roger, Battery Cliff. That’s a negative to your question, though. Checked with Loma and Rosecrans. They show no report to the infirmary. McCain, you still there?

TOM:

Roger. McCain here, still standing by. So, Lonergan never made it to the infirmary? Over.

VO1:

Confirming, no sign of Private Lonergan. You say he left for the infirmary half an hour ago?

TOM: (looking at watch)

Lonergan and Tucker. More than an hour ago, now. There’s no sign of either of them? Over.

VO1:

What, there were two of them? Tucker’s injured, too?

TOM:

No, Tucker took Lonergan to the infirmary with a snakebite, so they should be there by now. But listen, I’m calling about a replacement. I’m here all alone, and this is a three man crew.

VO1:

Lemme check with Battery Loma. Hold on, Battery Cliff.

TOM:

Roger. Standing by. Again.

Under radio static, something makes a small noise near bunker entrance. TOM stands to a new voice on the radio.

VO2:

Battery Cliff, this is Captain Kessler at the Com. Regarding your replacement, a three-man crew is already scheduled to replace you at 0:8oo. Over.

TOM:

But sir… As you say, they were already scheduled. That’s when Tucker and Lonergan and I were to stand down.

VO2:

Well, then you’re all settled, soldier.

TOM:

Beg pardon, Captain, but we’re not.

VO2:

Excuse me, soldier. Did I read you right?

There is a noise at the entrance, as a shadow plays on the wall.

Sir, I— Wait, here they are. Someone’s coming up the path. That must be replacement crew.

VO2:

There you are, then. Over and out.

TOM:

Er, Roger. Over. Whatever.

Radio out. The shadow in the doorway grows, and a pair of legs appear, in period stockings, followed by a skirt and the figure of THERESA BARONE, a girl in her mid-20s, in 1940s splendor. She is carrying a presentational tray of baked goods.

THERESA:

“Watch your step.” Oh Jeez, and me in heels. All I can say is, you better watch your step, Larry Lonergan, after I bake you cookies and come all this way to bring them to you for your birthday, I don’t want any monkey business from you or Tucker. You hear me, Larry?

THERESA stops short at the sight of TOM.

You’re not Larry.

TOM:

No, I’m Tom. Who the hell are you?

THERESA:

Watch your language, Tom. Lady present. Theresa Barone. Pleased to make your acquaintance. I’m here to see Private Lonergan.

TOM:

Lonergan isn’t here, he got— How did you get on base, anyway, Miss… Barone, is it? This is a secure facility.

THERESA:

I manage the PX, Poindexter. What do you think? Probably sold you your private’s stripes.

Where’s Larry?

TOM:

Corporal. I sent PFCs Lonergan and Tucker to the infirmary.

THERESA:

Tucker, eh? Is he trying to pull that stuff with the Army now? What do they call it? faking sick to get out of work?

TOM:

Excuse me, is it… Terry?

THERESA:

Theresa, if you please.

TOM:

Theresa. Well, Theresa, we’re under something of an emergency situation and I’m afraid

I’ll have to ask you to leave. Go back to the PX, where-ever.

THERESA:

It’s sundown. The PX is closed now.

TOM:

Wherever. Just not here, OK? Right. There are rules. Security. Besides, if you’re caught here, it won’t look good for Lonergan.

THERESA:

For you, you mean. You don’t have to get pushy, Corporal. Tell Larry that I used the last of my sugar, and he just missed his favorite cookie.

TERRY takes a bite of cookie, spins to make a dramatic exit; but before she clears the doorway, the wail of an air raid siren.

TOM:

Wait! What’s that?

THERESA:

Don’t ask me! It’s your bunker.

TOM pulls THERESA from the door, rushes to work the radio.

TOM:

This is Battery Cliff calling Battery Loma! Come in, Loma! Battery Cliff, calling! You there, Loma?

VO2:

Kessler, here. Get off the line, Battery Cliff! Can’t you hear the air raid siren?

TOM:

Roger, Battery Loma, but be advised, Battery Cliff is unmanned.

V.O.

Battery Cliff, we’re under lockdown. There is movement on the range. You hear the siren! Maintain radio silence, man your station until further notice. That’s an order. Over and out.

Radio out as siren fades. TOM puts out the overhead bulb, leaving the beam from the window the room’s only key light in the silence, TOM moves to the window apprehensively, and peeks out.

THERESA:

What’s going on?

TOM:

Just be quiet for one second, will you?

THERESA:

No, this is nuts. I’m getting out of here.

TERRY makes for the doorway, but TOM blocks her.

TOM:

You can’t go out there. There’s movement on the range.

THERESA:

What does that mean?

TOM:

You heard the alert. There’s someone unauthorized, or more than one, moving around out there. So they will shoot anything that moves on that range.

THERESA:

Who will?

TOM:

The other batteries. This whole peninsula is peppered with gun emplace- ments, little crews like this one. They’ll open up on anything that moves. You have to stay here now. Stay here and keep your voice down.

THERESA:

I have to leave, I have to stay. Speak up, pipe down. Make up your mind, Corporal.

TOM:

Look, I’m just telling you how dangerous this is. They’ll shoot you.

THERESA:

Why would they shoot me?

TOM:

They think there’s Japanese infiltrators moving in the dark.

TOM crosses to the window, peers into the darkness intently.

THERESA struggles to suppress a laugh.

THERESA:

Japanese infiltrators?

TOM:

Who knows? We’re at war! The whole West Coast is vulnerable to another sneak attack.

Don’t you read the papers? They found dynamite stashed near a dam up in Washington.

TOM: (cont.)

And they found guns buried in the desert just east of here…

THERESA:

I saw that. Dynamite near a construction site. What a surprise. And how do they know who buried them?

TOM:

Who do you think? They say Jap fisherman are scouting out the coast. And Japs in San Francisco have been seen photographing the harbor.

THERESA:

Japanese people with cameras? Imagine that.

TOM:

There’s rumors of Jap airbases in Baja California.

THERESA:

Oh, c’mon!

TOM:

And they’ve spotted dozens of Jap subs prowling all up and down the coast of California!

THERESA:

“They.” Who is this they?

TOM:

You think people make this stuff up? There was an attack just a few days ago. An oil-field was shelled. Then the next night, the whole of Los Angeles.

THERESA:

Yeah, everybody got jittery because of the oil-rig. One. Near Santa Barbara. Larry said it was just the Jap captain, getting revenge on account of they’re gonna put all his people here into camps.

TOM:

Lonergan talks too much. You think the government is actually gonna start rounding-up people and sticking ‘em in camps?

THERESA:

The President signed orders last week. The FBI rounded up dozens of Nisei just yesterday.

TOM:

Nisei?

THERESA:

Born in this country. Lived here for years. A lot of them where I live. National City has a bunch of families. Hard-working farmers, mostly. They produce half the vegetables in the county!

And the ones that aren’t farmers work in the canneries. Did you know they made it so that only native-born citizens could work in the canneries?

TOM:

You don’t see the logic of that?

THERESA:

Guigliermo Barone, born Palermo, Sicily; 1892. Been in this country since he was seven. Served in the war, wounded in action. Settled down, had kids. Had me. He works in a canning factory. Worked there, now.

TOM:

Sometimes the wrong people get hurt.

THERESA:

Yeah, when you’re ready to shoot anything that moves! And who are the right people? That could be me out there, if that siren came a minute earlier. Or Lonergan and Tucker.

TOM:

Yeah, unauthorized PX girl. Or two clowns pulling a ruse on a bunkmate.

THERESA:

Ruse?

TOM:

Ruse. Trick. Practical joke.

THERESA:

I don’t know what you’re talking about …Tom, is it? I don’t put nothing past those two, when they put their heads together, but I ain’t part of any ruse.

TOM:

Okay, okay, alright. There isn’t any ruse. It’s just: I didn’t actually see the snakebite.

This catches THERESA short.

THERESA:

Snakebite?

TOM:

At least that’s what they told me. They showed me the snake, but I never actually saw the marks on Lonergan’s arm.

THERESA:

Larry got bit by a snake? Jesus!

TOM:

He’ll be okay. I sent him to the infirmary.

THERESA:

With a snakebite.

TOM:

He’ll be fine.

THERESA:

He got bit by a snake!

TOM:

You can’t go out there!

THERESA makes for the doorway, but TOM stops her. There’s a bit of a struggle, which TOM finally wins but it takes some effort and is not heroic. It leaves THERESA flat on her butt on the floor and them both breathless.

After a moment…

TERRY:

And to think I was going to offer you a cookie. Not all the thugs are in Germany, I see.

TOM:

Look, I’m not a thug, I’m just— Okay. Okay. They’ll shoot you to pieces, but… You go if you want to.

TOM steps aside, but THERESA doesn’t move from the floor. TOM offers THERESA his hand, but she waves him off and picks herself up off the floor.

THERESA:

Is he gonna be okay?

TOM:

Who, Lonergan? I don’t know. He hasn’t shown at the infirmary.

THERESA:

What?

TOM:

Lonergan and Tucker, not at the infirmary yet. At least, last I checked.

THERESA:

Well, where are they, then?

She crosses toward the window as she realizes.

Oh my gosh! You think they’re still out there?

TOM:

They might be. I don’t know. The whole thing may have been a practical joke. You know those two. And I never actually saw the snakebite. Lonergan’s hand was bandaged.

THERESA:

But why would they fake a snake attack? I mean, when they could fake any other injury?

TOM:

‘Cause they know I’m afraid of snakes. They turn up in all the bunkers. Snakes. Snakes, or rats. Tucker likes to joke that the snakes keep the rat population down. He says they can smell fear.

THERESA:

That Tucker is a piece of work. But he wouldn’t go so far as to fake a thing like a snake bite.

TOM:

Maybe. I did see the snake, before it slithered behind the bed.

TERRY wheels on the room, rigid and alert.

THERESA:

You mean the snake’s still here?

TOM:

Probably, somewhere. Pacific rattler, eight rattles.

THERESA:

You don’t sound like a guy who’s afraid of snakes.

TOM:

Then I hide it well. Terrified. But I grew up with ‘em all around me. On our ranch.

THERESA:

Oooh… Your ranch! Lucky you.

TOM:

In the desert, they’re all around you. When you ride the range long enough, you’re bound to come across one.

TERRY is not so good at disguising her amusement.

THERESA:

Sorry, it’s just… “Shucks, when you ride the range.” You don’t look like much of a cowboy.

TOM, surprisingly, gives a little self-deprecating laugh.

TOM:

Yeah, that’s what my father always says. Maybe if I lose the glasses. Grow a moustache.

THERESA:

He says that to you? To your face?

TOM:

Yeah.

THERESA:

That must’ve been fun growing up.

TOM:

It’s good for you, in a way. You grow a… protection.

TOM peers out the window, a thin stream of light beaming in from outside. TERRY paces, eyeing the room suspiciously.

THERESA:

So, you think that snake’s still around?

TOM: (perring into the dark)

It’s a real possibility.

THERESA stops suddenly, looks under the table: No snake.

THERESA:

We should make a lot of noise. Snakes hate noise. It hurts their little ears.

TOM:

Snakes don’t have ears. They sense motion with their tongues or something.

THERESA:

It’ll hurt their little tongues, then. TSSSST! ARGH! YOU HEAR THAT, SNAKE?

TOM:

Hey, keep it down!

THERESA:

Oh, right: The infiltrators will hear us.

TOM:

It’s no joke. We’re at war.

TOM peers out the window to see if there’s any movement.

THERESA sketches the simple “Kilroy” figure in some dust.

THERESA:

“Killjoy was here.”

She crosses to the window.

What are you staring at? Wow. I’ve never seen the city all blacked out like that. I never been up here after dark. What’s that dark patch north of the graveyard?

TOM:

That’s the aircraft plant. Gigantic tarp over it. Camouflage from enemy aircraft.

THERESA:

You think that’ll fool anyone?

TOM:

No. Let’s move away from the window, huh?

THERESA:

And do you really think there are foreign-born people here waiting to rise up against the United States, where they’ve lived and worked for years?

TOM:

The Chamber of Commerce thinks so. The American Legion. The California legislature. Even President Roosevelt.

THERESA:

That’s a disappointment.

TOM:

You a big Roosevelt booster?

THERESA:

Over Alf Landon or Wendell Wilkie? You bet! But, that a man like the President lets fear get the best of him…

TOM:

The man who said (FDR impression:) “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself”?

THERESA:

Don’t mock the President.

TOM:

He left us sitting ducks on December 7^th. Some people even say he let it happen. I heard a rumor that Jap pineapple pickers left bare patches in the pineapple fields in patterns that directed Jap pilots to Pearl.

THERESA:

What, like a giant arrow?

TOM:

Yeah, or… You know. Some Japanese symbol.

THERESA: (Jap on tarmac)

“Airfield this way”?

TOM:

Something like that. Why not?

THERESA:

So if they come, what are you supposed to do about it?

TOM:

Hit ‘em with the fifties. Fifty caliber machine guns.

THERESA:

Larry says those guns don’t have the range to hit a plane before it takes out the battery. He says none of the batteries do. A ship could sit outside the range of the guns and bomb the heck out of the city, not a thing we could do about it.

TOM:

Then we’d fall back and regroup.

THERESA:

Fall back where? The Rocky Mountains? Larry says they could take the whole West Coast.

TOM:

Larry’s got a loose lip.

THERESA:

He says everybody knows it. These guns are older than you and me put together. And never even used.

TOM:

“Never fired in anger.”

THERESA:

That’s not what I heard.

TOM:

What did Lonergan tell you?

THERESA:

How Tucker got antsy one time and opened up on what he thought was a submarine. Turned out to be a humpback whale. What?

TOM:

Nothing. Well, two things: One is that a dead whale washed up on the Strand a few days later.

THERESA:

And two: Tucker knew it was a whale all along. Larry didn’t suspect Tucker was capable of that.

TOM:

The problem with guys like Tucker is, nobody knows what they’re capable of. Hey, move away from the window. You don’t want to present a silhouette.

THERESA:

Is something wrong with my silhouette?

TOM:

You don’t want to make yourself a target.

THERESA

Not by a long shot. How long do we gotta stay here?

THERESA moves back, paces the room, bored and restless.

TOM:

Until they sound the all-clear. Then you can leave.

THERESA:

But you’re going to stay?

TOM:

Until they send a replacement crew.

THERESA:

Why?

TOM:

It’s my duty.

THERESA:

Tucker thinks you’re bucking for sergeant.

TOM:

Naw. They’d just assign me more Tuckers to keep an eye on. I’m hoping they’ll put me on the big guns. That’s what I trained for.

THERESA:

Yeah, Larry says you’re some kind of whiz kid with numbers.

TOM:

Lonergan said that?

THERESA:

Don’t get all gooey about it. He said you’re smart, but afraid to show it. Afraid to pipe-up when you know something’s wrong. Afraid to say “Boo” to that Captain Kessler.

TOM:

I’m not afraid of Captain Kessler.

THERESA:

Everyone’s afraid of something.

TOM:

Like Lonergan’s afraid of Tucker. Think he could talk Lonergan into faking a snake bite?

THERESA:

That Tucker’s a bad influence. But we don’t always get to chose what influences us, you know? Good men are at a premium right now. So many of them called up.

TOM:

“Theresa.”

THERESA:

Yep.

TOM:

Lonergan calls you “Terry.”

THERESA:

Really? I prefer Theresa. So what’s Larry say about me?

TOM:

That you’re a whiz with numbers. Don’t go all gooey on me. What do you think a guy like Lonergan tells a guy like Tucker? Lies, I’m sure. You’re a local girl, right? South Bay, you said?

THERESA:

National City.

TOM:

How’d you end up managing the PX on Point Loma?

THERESA:

After Pearl Harbor, I wanted to do my part. The PX was hiring. As a matter of fact, I am a whiz with numbers. They made me chief cashier, then supervisor. What about you? I mean, where you from? This ranch of yours?

TOM:

My father’s. Here, actually. East County. There’s a valley named for my family there.

THERESA:

Sounds grand. Big spread?

TOM:

Big, but not rich. Mile after mile of rocky slope and dry brush. There’s not enough water. We lose a lot of cattle.

THERESA:

And there’s the snakes.

TOM:

You think snakes are funny?

THERESA: (snake voice)

Ssss-s-s-silly to be sss-s-scared of them, is-s-sssn’t it?

TOM:

“Silly.” When I was nine, my sister and I were playing in what we call The Old Homestead, the cabin my grandfather built, back in the 1870s. We weren’t supposed to play in it, but… We didn’t know why not. Because the wood was rotting, and the floorboards collapsed.

THERESA:

And there were snakes.

TOM:

Rattlers. Lots of them. I fell into the space under the floorboards.

THERESA:

Did you get bit?

TOM:

No. I stayed very still, while my sister ran for help. My father came, and pulled me out. Never said a word about it. Never treated me the same afterward.

THERESA:

What did he expect you to do?

TOM:

My father respects strength. He doesn’t like weakness. He expected me not to be afraid.

THERESA:

You were just a kid.

In a silence, TOM hears a scratching sound from the doorway, just as THERESA speaks.

THERESA:

Your old man sounds like—

TOM:

Shhhhhh…

THERESA:

—no, I wasn’t going to say anything bad! He sounds—

TOM:

Shh!

THERESA:

What?

TOM: (trying not to move)

Something. Moved. In. The. Doorway.

THERESA: (matching him, mocking him)

In. Fill. Tray. Tore?

TOM:

Quiet.

We hear a noise again, more clearly now.

THERESA: (still quietly, but reasonably)

Oh, come on. It’s probably just Larry and Tucker got lost on their way to the infirmary.

TOM: (still whispering)

You don’t think Lonergan would make more noise, with all that venom in him?

THERESA: (a little louder, now)

Maybe it was some kind of… What did you call it? A prank. Is that you, Larry?

TOM:

Shhhh…

TERRY crosses to the doorway before TOM can stop her.

THERESA:

Tucker, is that you, you rat?

TOM:

Theresa—

TERRY hesitates in the doorway, her shadow on the wall.

THERESA:

Huh. Maybe it is a rat.

TOM:

Terry!

THERESA:

Or else it’s—

We hear a rattle, and TERRY’s scream. BLACKOUT.

SCENE 2 – LIGHTS UP on the same set, with THERESA now returning to consciousness propped up on the cot, one leg draped across one side of it, showing signs of a snakebite. TOM is operating the radio.

TOM:

This is Battery Cliff, calling Battery Loma. Come in, Loma. Battery Cliff, calling Battery Loma.

(to THERESA)

I can’t raise them. They’ve gone radio silent.

THERESA:

What does that mean?

TOM:

It means—

TOM is interrupted by a series of gunshots, far off but unmistakeable. He rushes to the window and peers out.

THERESA:

Was that…?

TOM:

Yes.

TOM rushes again the radio.

TOM:

Battery Cliff, calling Battery Loma. Come in, Loma. This is an emergency. Loma, can you hear?

VO2:

This is Kessler. Get off the airwaves, Battery Cliff. You’ve been warned once. Sign off and maintain radio silence.

TOM:

Begging your pardon, Captain. Something has come up. I’ve got a woman here with me, with a pretty serious snake bite.

VO2:

Not again with the snakebite. Did you say a woman with you? With you, there in the bunker?

TOM:

Roger that, Captain. A PX employee who—

VO2:

Battery Cliff, my patience for this is at an end. I’ve already sent Lonergan and Tucker to the stockade for this snakebite stunt.

TOM:

Lonergan and Tucker?

VO2:

Are both under arrest. They were the movement on the range. I was just about to call stand down when someone got jittery. Didn’t you hear the shots? Now, it’ll be another— You any part of this, McCain?

TOM:

No sir. Negative.

VO2:

Infirmary found no sign of snakebite on either Tucker or Lonergan. Some kind of… of thing those two concocted.

TOM:

Sir, be that as it may, we’ve got a real crisis here. A serious medical emergency.

VO2:

We’re standing by to give the all clear. Then you report to me. Until then, McCain, you are to remain at your post and maintain radio silence on pain of court-martial. Is that understood. Private?

TOM:

Roger, sir. …er, Corporal.

VO2:

Get off the air! Stay put until the all clear! You’ll be fired-on if you don’t! Am I clear?

TOM:

Yes, sir.

VO2:

Over and out.

Static until TOM switches off the radio. He turns to THERESA.

TOM:

Well, it looks like we’ll have to stay put just a little while longer. Until they sound the all clear.

THERESA:

Cause they’ll shoot us if we don’t.

TOM:

Let’s see what we can do for you until then. You and me, kid.

THERESA:

I’m not a kid, but okay, McCain. What do you got?

TOM retrieves a small book from the table, brings it to the cot.

“First Aid for Military Personnel.” But I’m not military.

TOM: (paging through it)

Quiet. “Shingles…. Syphilis… Smallpox…” Here it is! “Snakebite: Common symptoms include tingling, weakness, anxiety, perspiration, swelling, severe… er, pain, nausea and vomiting…”

THERESA:

Go on.

TOM:

No, that’s all there is.

THERESA grabs the first aid manual from him, and reads from it.

THERESA:

“…localized hemorrhaging, circulatory trauma and eventually heart failure.”

TOM:

“Remain calm.” Look, it’s important. They underlined that one.

THERESA:

Stop trying to make me laugh.

TOM:

Me? Hey, it’s the manual. “Retreat from the snake by at least fifteen feet.”

THERESA:

Great. That’s a good start. Is the snake still here?

TOM:

Yeah, he was just leaving.

THERESA:

He’s gone?

TOM:

He’s history.

THERESA:

How can you be so sure?

TOM:

I’m sure. I… I killed it.

THERESA:

You killed the snake? Great. What else does the book say to do?

TOM: (reading)

“Keeps limbs… below heart level. Keep the victim… calm; put… the victim at rest…”

THERESA:

–You know It might calm me down and put me at rest if you didn’t call me “the victim.”

TOM:

“…which will lower… their heart rate… slowing the spread of the venom.”

THERESA:

What?

TOM shows her the text. THERESA reads:

“Remove restrictive clothing items.” Dream on, you.

TOM:

It also says here, “Make an incision over the wound, using a knife, as shown.”

Then I draw out the venom by mouth.

THERESA:

Bad idea.

TOM:

I’m not thrilled about it either. Why?

THERESA:

Taking poison into your mouth?

TOM:

Venom, technically. Yeah?

THERESA:

Nature’s way of saying “Don’t come anywhere near this.”

TOM:

Well, it’s a little late for that. It’s the only thing I know to do that might help you.

THERESA:

“Transport the victim to a hospital as soon as possible.” Get me to the infirmary, Tom. That will save me. Anything else is just for show, and you know it.

TOM considers for a moment, turns to the radio.

TOM:

This is Battery Cliff, calling Battery Loma. Corporal McCain, here. Captain Kessler?

VO2.

Kessler, here. McCain, I warned you. I’ll have you court-martialed for this. You are in violation of a direct order.

TOM:

Sir, I know. But we’ve got a situation. No time to explain. I’m bringing a civilian casualty from Battery Cliff to the infirmary. She’s the victim of a… of a snakebite.

VO2:

Lonergan and Tucker have already tried this.

TOM:

Shut up! Begging you pardon, sir, but I’m not discussing this. If you fire on us you’ll be firing on a friendly and a civilian, and it’ll be your court-martial, not mine.

Static for a long moment.

VO2:

Hold your fire, men. All batteries, hold your fire. Stand down. Stand down, I say.

TOM:

Thank you, Captain!

VO2:

Shut up, McCain. You’re finished, you understand me? Finished. Over and Out.

TOM puts down the radio receiver, turns to THERESA, who smiles at him and faints as LIGHTS FADE OUT.

SCENE 3 – LIGHTS UP on TOM, lying on the cot, staring at the ceiling. After a moment, he sighs heavily. We hear a noise at the doorway. We see a shadow there, and hear footsteps as a pair of legs come into view. It is TERRY’s gams, still with the stockings and heels.

THERESA:

Ten-Hut!

TERRY steps into the room, with a slight but detectable limp.

She is carrying a cardboard box in her hands. TOM sits up.

TOM:

Theresa!

THERESA:

Well, stand to, soldier. Lady present.

TOM stands, awkwardly.

TOM:

Ma’am.

THERESA:

Miss, if you please.

TOM:

Really? Rumor has it you and Lonergan got hitched.

THERESA:

I heard they took your stripes.

TOM:

“Stripe.” I only had the two.

THERESA:

I coulda spoke for you.

TOM:

Naw. Military justice: Summary court-martial. A panel hand-picked by the captain.

THERESA:

I’m sorry.

TOM:

There are worse punishments.

THERESA:

Your father wasn’t happy about it?

TOM:

He’s really angry. At the U.S. Army.

THERESA:

Uh-oh. They’re in trouble now.

TOM:

Yeah, he’s writing letters to the Judge Advocate General, the Army Chief of Staff, the Secretary of War…

THERESA:

President Roosevelt?

TOM: (his father’s voice)

“That Man”?

THERESA:

Mrs. Roosevelt?

TOM:

He hasn’t got to that yet.

THERESA:

Any luck with the letters?

TOM:

I think they made it worse, actually. They transferred me from the Coast Artillery.

THERESA:

Where to?

TOM:

The 32^nd Infantry. It’s a great unit. Lots of history. The Iron Brigade in the Civil War.

THERESA:

Ooh… “Iron Brigade.” Bet your father likes the sound of that.

TOM:

Yeah, he does. He does, at that. And it looks like I’ll see combat. They’re shipping us out.

THERESA:

What? No?

TOM:

I’m not alone. A lot of other guys, they’re in the same boat. The same situation. We’re all in this together.

THERESA:

Where are they sending you?

TOM:

You know I’m not at liberty to say.

THERESA:

Yeah. Yeah, I do know that. I hear Tucker’s shipping out. (whispering) To the Aleutians.

TOM:

Couldn’t say.

THERESA:

And Lonergan’s staying right here. I hear he’s cleaning the latrines. But you can’t believe everything you hear, you know?

TOM:

Yeah You gotta be careful about rumors. I heard you almost lost your leg.

THERESA:

There was some tissue damage. Not much. The doctor says I was lucky.

TOM:

I’m so sorry.

THERESA:

Sorry I was lucky?

TOM:

Of course not. Sorry I didn’t take you to the infirmary straight off.

THERESA:

You’re the reason I’m still here.

TOM:

Still alive? You’re exaggerating.

THERESA:

No, still in San Diego. I’m moving to DC. Got a job with the Navy. Catching a train out tonight.

TOM:

You came just to say goodbye?

THERESA:

I came to give you this.

THERESA takes the box from the cot, presents it to TOM.

TOM:

Cookies?

THERESA:

I thought you were worth a whole cake. Cost me all my sugar ration for the month.

TOM opens the box, looks inside, and smiles.

Is that a whale? TOM:

THERESA:

Supposed to be a snake. It kinda got mushed. Sorry.

TOM:

No, that’s alright.

TOM dips a finger in the cake, tastes the icing.

Doesn’t taste like snake.

THERESA laughs. They enjoy that for a moment.

THERESA:

So, if you’re ever in DC…

TOM:

They’re sending me to the Pacific. I can at least tell you that much.

THERESA:

No, I mean… When all this is over. If you find yourself in New York.

Look me up. Is all I’m saying.

TOM:

I’ll do that.

THERESA:

You come through.

TOM:

I’ll try.

THERESA takes out a small piece of paper. In the meanwhile, send me a postcard now and then. Don’t worry, the army will black out any sensitive information.

TOM:

I’ll try not to say anything sensitive.

THERESA:

Yeah.

TOM:

I’m glad we got to know each other.

THERESA:

Yeah. Me too.

THERESA embraces TOM, who balances the box of cake as best he can, and then drops it to embrace THERESA. It is not a romantic embrace, but one of grief and relief. And they just hold each other like that, not moving.

LIGHTS CROSSFADE to a blue exterior light through the window, as we hear Glenn Miller’s “Moonlight Serenade” and LIGHTS FADE TO BLACK. END OF PLAY.

Green Flash at Sunset: a one-act play by Tim West

Jul11

SCENE 1. We hear the sound of waves on shore;

and a seagull’s cry recedes into the distance.

LIGHTS FADE UP on a woman, 20ish, dressed

in modest but immaculate clothes of the late 1890s,

seated on a blanket, engaged in reading a book.

A 20ish man enters. He’s somewhat nattily attired

in the mode of amateur outdoorsman of the period;

bespectacled, but not too bookish.

He’s burdened with beach-gear: a picnic basket,

a parasol, and a cumbersome device on a tri-pod,

and barely avoids tripping over her where she sits.

MR. BUSHNELL:

(managing to tip his hat to her)

I beg your pardon, miss. Am I intruding? Sorry, don’t mean to be a masher.

MISS DELANO:

(not looking up, she shrugs)

Nobody says “masher” anymore. And the Mussel Beds are a public beach…

for now.

He rests his burden with some relief, though

too proud to show it. Did he hear her correctly?

MR. BUSHNELL:

“Mussel beds,” did you say?

MISS DELANO:

It’s what the local people have always called this place. “OceanBeach,”

the speculators are calling it now –though precious few will end up with

an oceanfront vista.

MR. BUSHNELL:

I’m sorry?

MISS DELANO:

This place is known locally as The Mussel Beds; the speculators renamed it “Ocean Beach.”

MR. BUSHNELL:

Speculators.

MISS DELANO:

Is that what brings you out here today? Conducting some sort of survey?

MR. BUSHNELL:

Survey.

MISS DELANO:

Laying out lots?

MR. BUSHNELL:

Lots of what?

MISS DELANO:

Lots of land! Additions. Sub-divisions. Whatever you call them. Isn’t that

what the… er, semi-portable optical device is for?

MR. BUSHNELL:

Ah! I see now. Not a surveyor, no. I’m a scientist. I’ve simply come to observe this evening’s sunset.

He busies himself with setting up his equipment, with the lady

somewhat warmer, now she knows he’s not a speculator.

MISS DELANO:

Simply? You seem to be burdened by a lot of very complicated equipment.

MR. BUSHNELL:

It’s the new Kodak camera.

MISS DELANO:

A camera bug!

MR. BUSHNELL:

I plan to capture the sunset in a photograph. In a heliotype, to be precise.

MISS DELANO:

Heliotype?

MR. BUSHNELL:

It’s a type of photograph.

MISS DELANO:

Of the sun?

MR. BUSHNELL:

You were right. It’s complicated. Do you take an interest in photography?

MISS DELANO:

I take an interest in the sunset.

She indicates the sunset, and we see the glow of it on her face;

he notices this, really for the first time.

MR. BUSHNELL:

Hm? Oh, of course! Yes, indeed. Remarkable. Especially beautiful

this evening.

The setting sun, and music at the close / As the last taste of sweets,

is sweetest last / Writ in remembrance more than things long past.

MISS DELANO:

Oh my! A scientist and a lover of Shakespeare! And I mistook you for

another of those money-hungry land speculators and stock-jobbers!

MR. BUSHNELL:

Not entirely sure what a stock-jobber is, but surely glad I don’t seem

to be one. Permit me to introduce myself. My name is Bushnell, Miss… er?

MISS DELANO:

…Delano. Well, you don’t seem much of a masher, Mr. Bushnell.

And the sunset is here for everyone to enjoy.

MR. BUSHNELL:

You’re fond of sunsets, are you?

MISS DELANO:

Never the same twice, different from each other, night to night –even during

the same sunset, from minute to minute. I watch it every evening.

MR. BUSHNELL:

Every evening?

MISS DELANO:

That’s surprising, Mr. Bushnell?

MR. BUSHNELL:

Well, it’s quite a trek. Someday, I suppose they’ll extend electric lines

all the way to Ocean Beach. Excuse me, “The Mussel Beds.”

MISS DELANO:

Oh, I don’t come from town. I ride my bicycle down from Lomaland.

MR. BUSHNELL:

“Lomaland”?

MISS DELANO:

Point Loma? The narrow peninsula overlooking both the Mussel Beds to

the north and the harbor to the south. We live on the other side of the hill

in Roseville. Well, La Playa, actually. With all the Portuguese— you’re not

from the area, are you?

MR. BUSHNELL:

Do I give myself away that easily? I’m woefully ignorant of the local

geography.

MISS DELANO:

That, and you dress like an Easterner!

MR. BUSHNELL:

I beg your pardon?

MISS DELANO:

Well, what with the spats…

MR. BUSHNELL:

They’re practical!

MISS DELANO:

If you’re hunting for mussels. But the tide’s too high. You’d get

your spats wet.

MR. BUSHNELL:

Miss Delano, are you suggesting that I’m what’s known colloquially

as a “Dude”?

MISS DELANO:

No, I wouldn’t have called you a dude. They overdress in cowboy

accoutrement –whatever they are convinced is worn “way Out West.”

MR. BUSHNELL:

What, boots and a Stetson, here at the beach?

MISS DELANO:

Oh, they’re full of paradox. They often end up retiring here for their health

and then complaining daily about how much they miss the change of

seasons.

MR. BUSHNELL:

I like the weather here!

MISS DELANO:

Yes, and you don’t look tubercular, though you are perhaps a bit

overdressed for a beach outing, with some rather unusual gear.

But not a dude, exactly. I really would have guessed “speculator.”

MR. BUSHNELL:

You make it sound like it’s a crime to speculate.

She frowns, as a schoolmarm might at the

briefly promising pupil who’s backsliding.

MISS DELANO:

You seem to be a literate man. Have you read Mr. Edward Bellamy’s book

Looking Backward?

MR. BUSHNELL:

Is that the book you were so engrossed in, as I came up just now?

MISS DELANO:

Looking Backward is not beach reading, Mr. Bushnell: It is a serious

indictment of a social system that rewards speculators and stock-jobbers.

MR. BUSHNELL:

I see.

MISS DELANO:

Mr. Bellamy posits a man, such as yourself, who awakens from a long,

hypnotically-induced slumber, in a society that has abolished the irrational,

exploitive and volatile in favor of a political economy based upon the

humane, equitable, and democratic.

MR. BUSHNELL:

I’m afraid I don’t go in much for speculative fiction.

MISS DELANO:

You make it sound like it’s a crime to speculate.

MR. BUSHNELL:

What do you mean?

MISS DELANO:

You’re a scientist! What do scientists do but speculate about the world?

MR. BUSHNELL:

But there’s a great difference between scientific speculation and… and…

MISS DELANO:

Yes?

MR. BUSHNELL:

Well, I’ve not read Mr. Bellamy’s book, but it sounds rather… utopian.

A romanticist’s notion of Things To Come.

MISS DELANO:

Utopian? What is any quest for human perfectibility –democracy or

free trade, or true love– but an idealized view of a future we’ve yet to

achieve.

MR. BUSHNELL:

What are they? Abstractions. As different from scientific speculation as

day and night, or sunlight and moonbeams. I strive to confine myself to

the substantive, the physical senses, and physical sciences. Things that

the eye can see. Optics is my interest.

He turns to his camera, his back to her.

And atmospheric conditions tonight bode particularly well for observing

a phenomenon known as…

MISS DELANO:

The Green Flash.

He turns to her, struck by the coincidence.

MR. BUSHNELL:

A green flash, yes. How extraordinary. How do you know about

the green flash?

MISS DELANO:

(holding up the book)

Have you by any chance read Mr. Jules Verne’s novel, Le Rayon Vert?

MR. BUSHNELL:

(taking the book from her, he leafs through it)

As I said, I don’t go in for the fantastical, which I believe Mr. Verne also

writes: subterranean worlds, trips to the moon, submersible warships, that

sort of thing, is it not?

MISS DELANO:

“Fantastical”? But Mr. Bushnell, you’re a scientist! Is le rayon vert

“fantastical”?

MR. BUSHNELL:

I don’t know… It’s French.

MISS DELANO:

Vert means “green” and Le Rayon is “The Ray,” or flash. Mr. Verne relates

that the sun, setting behind an ocean horizon, emits a final burst of light, of

a green unlike anything in nature, which according to an old legend of the

Highlands imparts to the viewer a unique and profound insight into the heart

of another. In Mr. Verne’s novel, a young couple go in search of it. Are you

in search of it, Mr. Bushnell?

MR. BUSHNELL:

A unique and profound insight, or the green flash?

MISS DELANO:

According to Mr. Verne, they are one and the same.

MR. BUSHNELL:

(handing the book back to her)

Well, I can’t speak to the charming if spurious folktale, nor the veracity of

a novelist apparently known chiefly for his powers of invention, but the

optical phenomenon is real enough. And at this specific place and time,

the elements favor our observing it –and my capturing it on film!

MR. BUSHNELL again turns to his device, which MISS DELANO now rises

to inspect more closely.

MISS DELANO:

You believe you can not only predict a green flash, Mr. Bushnell, but

actually record the occurrence?

MR. BUSHNELL:

Predict a flash, Miss Delano? No, but we can maximize the probability of

observing it, and be prepared to best advantage when it comes.

MISS DELANO:

How do you propose to do that, Mr. Bushnell? Your button-down

braggadocio intrigues me.

MR. BUSHNELL doesn’t really hear this last;

having taken a folded map from his pocket,

he begins the process of unfolding it on the

nearest flat surface –her beach-blanket.

MR. BUSHNELL:

The unbroken line of a distant horizon, seen from a promontory facing a

large body of water to the west, is an ideal for viewing the flash. The Pacific’s

temperature differentials create the proper refraction, and it’s generally

cloudless at this latitude. Indeed, 32^oN might be considered the nearly

optimal geographic point. A slight elevation is helpful. The heights on either

side of False Bay are ideal.

MISS DELANO:

Duckville, Mr. Bushnell. No one but a dude calls it “False Bay” these days.

After the real estate boom and bust, “False Bay” seemed ironic. “Seaside

lots,” otherwise known as swampland. Fathers with hungry families hunt

there, hoping to bag a stray duck for supper. Thus, Duckville.

MR. BUSHNELL:

Hence your dislike of land speculators and… what did you call them?

MISS DELANO:

Stock-jobbers. Sellers of false securities. They ruined my father. He never

recovered. His heart. So, I’m not fond of them, no.

MR. BUSHNELL:

I’m sorry.

MISS DELANO returns to her blanket, and

picks up her book, though she doesn’t read.

MISS DELANO:

It was a long time ago. Mother and I are doing much better now, thank you.

MR. BUSHNELL crosses to the blanket

to retrieve his map and fold it up.

MR. BUSHNELL:

I didn’t express that well, did I?

MISS DELANO:

Have you never lost someone?

MR. BUSHNELL:

My parents are living, if that’s what you mean. But… I’ve endured loss, yes.

MISS DELANO:

A broken camera?

MR. BUSHNELL:

A broken romance. An engagement. With a girl I’d known since childhood.

MISS DELANO:

I’m sorry.

MR. BUSHNELL:

It was a long time ago.

(beat)

MR. BUSHNELL:

How does the story resolve?

MISS DELANO:

What?

MR. BUSHNELL:

Your book. Le Crayon Vert. Do our heroes ever witness their green flash?

MISS DELANO:

I don’t know. I haven’t finished it.

MR. BUSHNELL:

One could read ahead.

MISS DELANO:

Then what’s the point of a story? No, I’ll wait. All in good time, Mr. Bushnell.

(She looks at the book, then to the sunset)

You said “at this specific place and time, the elements are favorable.” For a

green flash. What makes present conditions so propitious in terms of time?

MR. BUSHNELL:

Ah! Autumn likewise favors the temperature differential that makes

the flash.

MISS DELANO:

Autumn. That’s a full season, three months. Say, ninety sunsets. Why

this one?

MR. BUSHNELL:

The coast is quite a trek. Seventeen miles. I work six days a week, so I only

have Sundays off to view the sunset without interfering with the day’s

business.

MISS DELANO:

Alright, say Sundays. Still, four a month, that leaves twelve Sundays in

Autumn. But you said… What was it? “Conditions bode particularly well”

for this evening?

MR. BUSHNELL:

It’s rained recently, with the wind out of the southwest. A storm has passed,

scouring the sky so it is clear and free of particulate.

MISS DELANO:

It is particularly lovely this evening, isn’t it?

They look at the sunset, their faces glowing red.

MR. BUSHNELL:

I have never seen such a beautiful one. Yes, this evening is most propitious.

He abruptly takes out a pocket-watch and studies it.

Sunset’s less than a quarter of an hour off.

MISS DELANO:

Well, Mr. Bushnell, I’ve watched the sunset here every evening since I began

Mr. Verne’s book, and I’ve yet to witness a Green Flash. I’m afraid you may

be disappointed.

She crosses back to her beach-blanket and sits.

He snaps his watch shut, puts it away, and kneels.

MR. BUSHNELL:

I would have been disappointed before we met, Miss Delano. But there is

not the slightest chance of it now.

MISS DELANO:

Mr. Bushnell, is that your way of… flirting with me?

MR. BUSHNELL:

(unsure of this burst of bravado)

It… it might be.

MISS DELANO:

Why, sir, you are a speculator!

They share a smile, and present a soft tableaux.

LIGHTS CROSSFADE. END OF SCENE 1.

SCENE 2. A young man enters, with guitar and

a backpack slung over his shoulder, from which

a pair of boots protrudes. He is barefoot, with jeans

and a casual top; has long hair, or facial hair –

the look of one who marches to a different drummer.

He deposits his bag, sits sans towel, and places

the boots on the ground before him as he sits.

He looks like a panhandler as he plays.

After a few moments, a young woman enters.

She’s a broad-shouldered, sun-flecked blonde

with her hair cut short or pert. She wearing

a wetsuit, glistening from her swim, handily

carrying a surfboard. She stops short.

SAM:

Dude, what are you doing with my boots?

DAN:

Just watching ‘em for you.

SAM:

What, they gonna do a trick?

DAN:

Saw you surfing –gnarly wipeout, by the way!— and these boots tucked into

that crevice in the tide-pools…

SAM:

Yeah, where I hid them!

DAN:

Thought they were probably yours. Along with a half-a-dozen flip-flops

wedged in there, but I think those belong to the tourist kids wading around

in the run-off from the storm drain.

SAM:

Can I have my boots?

SAM takes the boots, looks in them, then at DAN.

SAM:

I keep my car key in them. So no one—

DAN:

(holding out a key, he reads it)

—no one steals your… VW.

SAM:

(snatching the key from him)

I surf here almost every night. No one has ever messed with my stuff.

DAN:

Hey, I didn’t mean to mess with your stuff. Just trying to help a sister out.

You surf here every night, and nothing happens, but there’s a first time

for everything.

SAM:

What are you talking about?

DAN:

I’m talking about the shifty-looking dude, shaking like he was tweeking,

skulking around, scoping-out your boots like he was thinking about stealing

them, and anyway the tide was rising, so I made like the boots were mine,

brought them over here and waited for you.

SAM:

A “tweeker”?

DAN:

A crankster, a meth-head. You think I’m making this up? Talking to himself

and—

SAM:

Looking like he needed a pair of shoes?

DAN:

Aw, I always go barefoot! I don’t need boots. Look at these puppies.

Calluses like dogpads! Oh, wow, toenails too!

SAM:

Where’d he go, this “tweeker”?

DAN:

He split. The cops came by.

SAM:

Where’d the cops go?

DAN:

I dunno. Donut-shop?

SAM:

They just happened by?

DAN:

Somebody must’ve called ‘em.

SAM:

Somebody?

DAN:

Aw, it’s not like that! Do I look like I’d drop a dime on a brother? Naw,

Some local business-owner. Tweekers frighten the tourist trade.

Which is OK; I hate tourists. Anyway, the cops won’t come unless

someone’s damaging property.

SAM:

You got a problem with cops?

DAN:

Not a big fan of them, no. Look, why am I the bad guy here? Hey, I’m

the guy that saved your boots! Just in time, too. Look!

He gestures toward the water. She looks.

Perhaps we even hear a bit of surf.

SAM:

The tide’s come in.

DAN:

You were out there a long time. I was just about to give it up, unlock

your microbus, toss your boots in the cab, and go.

SAM:

How do you know I drive a microbus?

DAN:

Only VW with a surf-rack. …but I was afraid that tweeker would break your

windshield to steal the boots.. And anyway, what would I do with the keys?

SAM:

I hide ‘em where I hide ‘em for a reason. I use my boots to walk on the rocks.

And there’s no place to put a key in the wetsuit. Some jerk tore the pocket

off it.

DAN:

Why’d he do that?

SAM:

We were at a –None of your business.

DAN:

Okay, all I’m saying is: That wasn’t me. I didn’t know. I’m sorry I touched

your things. Your stuff. I should’ve just let it be.

He grabs a pint of tequila from the backpack,

from which he takes a drink. She sits to put on

a boot. After a moment, she relents.

SAM:

Hey, I didn’t mean to dump on you. I see you were just trying to help.

If the tweeker didn’t get my boots, the tide might’ve. I suppose I should

even say thank you.

DAN:

(cool) That’s cool. You don’t gotta thank me. (warmly) I do like that smile.

She stops smiling, puts on the other boot.

DAN:

Aw, you’re not staying for sunset?

SAM:

I surf here every evening. I’ve seen plenty of sunsets, believe me.

DAN:

Why not chill with me and catch one more? It’s only a short time ‘til.

SAM:

Chill is right. I’ll freeze in this wetsuit.

DAN:

I got a blanket.

He pulls a woolen blanket from the backpack,

tosses it at Samantha. She looks at it.

SAM:

This looks nice. I don’t want to get it all dirty.

DAN:

It’s just an old horse blanket. It’s already dirty.

SAM:

Thanks.

DAN:

Chill matter of fact: there’s a limited number of sunsets in anyone’s life.

Factor in how few of those you actually stop to watch… What? One in seven?

in thirty? You’re missing out on one of life’s few truly dependable moments

of wonder, and… and connectedness.

SAM:

So I’m missing “connectedness”?

DAN:

We’re all missing connectedness.

SAM:

Yeah?

DAN.

Yeah. Plus, I’m a scintillating conversationalist.

SAM:

I’ll bet you are.

DAN:

I’ll throw in a shot of tequila and a toke. Final offer.

SAM:

I don’t smoke.

DAN:

Suit yourself. It’s the real deal, the kind with a worm in it. The tequila.

It’s from RosaritoBeach. Beautiful sunsets in Rosarito. Tequila sunsets.

Ever been?

SAM:

I’ve never been that far into Mexico.

DAN:

Dude! Rosarito isn’t even as far away as Oceanside. And Mexico’s beautiful!

SAM:

“Dude”?

DAN:

Sorry. I got carried away. Believe me, you don’t look like a dude.

She smiles at the left-handed compliment.

She wraps the blanket around herself.

SAM:

So which sunsets are better, here or south of the border?

DAN:

Here, definitely.

He extends his hand cordially; She takes it.

DAN:

I’m Dan.

SAM:

Sam. Short for Samantha.

DAN:

Yeah? Dan’s short for something.

SAM:

You a local? Don’t think I’ve seen you here before.

DAN:

A local. Hmm. I don’t live in O.B., so I suppose I should say “No.”

I grew up in La Keside.

SAM:

La Casida? Where’s La Casida?

DAN:

Sorry. Inside joke. Spanish pronunciation of Lakeside. La Keside?

SAM:

Way out in the EastCounty?

DAN:

“Waaay out in EastCounty?” “Alongside the feed store yonder, I reckon.”

I see: If it’s outside the People’s Republic of O.B., then it’s not on your radar.

SAM:

That’s kind of a stereotype, too, isn’t it?

DAN:

If the shoe fits. In your VW microbus, right now, at this moment, do you or

do you not have at least two organic items purchased at the local co-op

known as “The People’s Market”?

SAM:

Do they both gotta be organic?

DAN:

Whereas, I, the native of Lakeside, am wearing neither boots nor spurs.

Those shoes fit you. I rest my case.

SAM:

So, my question is, what brings you so far from the rodeo, cowboy?

DAN:

My motorcycle.

SAM:

Barefoot?

DAN:

And no helmet.

SAM:

I meant, that’s a long trip, just to see a sunset. Even if it does make you feel…

What was it?

DAN:

Connectedness.

SAM:

Connectedness, right. Is that all that brings you so far from home?

DAN:

Unvarnished truth, or unabashed bullshit?

SAM:

Try me.

DAN:

Ever hear of something called a green flash?

SAM:

It’s a beer, isn’t it?

DAN:

Under the right conditions, you can watch the sun going down and, right at

the end, that sucker flashes green.

SAM:

Isn’t that a myth?

DAN:

So, you have heard of it. No, it’s for real. Something to do with green light-waves travelling slower.

SAM:

Slower?

DAN:

Or above the earth’s curvature or something. Something like that.

Reflection, refraction, defraction, deflection.

SAM laughs, heartily, for the first time.

SAM:

Scintillating!

DAN deftly downs an ounce of tequila.

DAN:

I’ve come down here, looking for it, at least once a week for a while now.

It’s supposed to be this transcendent experience or something.

SAM:

I thought it was just an optical illusion. Transcendent experience, huh?

Where’d you hear that?

DAN laughs, takes another sizeable sip of tequila.

DAN:

I took this class, up at UCSD.

SAM:

You go to UCSD?

DAN:

Went. So?

SAM:

Me too. Revelle.

DAN.

Cool. Me? Muir.

SAM:

What’s your major?

DAN:

Was. Film Studies. You?

SAM:

Physical Therapy.

DAN:

Cool.

SAM:

So… How does the green flash relate to Film Studies?

DAN:

Oh, we watched this one film in class. The professor roomed with the

producer or slept with the cinematographer or something. I forget the

director, but… French New Wave, so same old crap: Bad ad-libbed dialogue,

hand-held camera… Very Cinema Verite.

SAM:

I know the type.

DAN:

But the story was cool. It’s about this girl who’s looking to… connect with

somebody. She overhears this guy by the sea-side, gabbing about this

legend of the green flash, and how it helps you find insight and… well,

connectedness to another person…

SAM:

“Connectedness.” Like, “soul-mates” or something?

DAN:

Maybe. The subtitles said “connectedness.”

SAM:

You’re sticking with that, huh? You buy that concept?

DAN:

What, subtitles, or connectedness?

SAM:

Soul-mates.

DAN:

I don’t know. Do you?

SAM:

Like, The One Person that you’re meant to be with, it’s Destiny, it’s…

DAN:

Kismet?

SAM:

I was going to say, Fate. I don’t know. I think there’s a lot of crap connected

with love, if you really want to know the truth.

DAN:

Like what?

SAM:

Like “love at first sight,” for starters. Or even the concept of “falling” in love,

which is really just some form of attraction until it’s replaced by…

DAN:

Real love. Trust, maybe. Respect, yes.

SAM:

I was going to say “habit.”

DAN:

Connectedness!

SAM:

That’s not even a word!

DAN:

Alright, then. Call it what you will. But maybe you don’t know until after it

happens to you. So, you never know who might end up being that person.

You might’ve just bumped into him.

SAM:

You have a very positive outlook. Lemme tell you, you can waste a lot of

time with the wrong person.

DAN:

Or miss seeing the right one when they come along. Spend any amount of

time with someone, you’ll find something to like.

SAM:

Or dislike.

DAN:

Girl, you are a hard case!

SAM:

Yeah, I must sound pretty cynical. It’s just… People get all excited about

that initial connection. But that’s not the same as… as…you know?

DAN:

No, I know. Like “Oh wow, we went to the same school” or “Dude plays

wicked guitar” or “That chick’s toned to the max.” You can’t base a

relationship on that. Those are surface things that…

SAM:

Evaporate.

DAN:

I was going to say, fade. Become less important. Shift in priorities. So you

never know at first, it might be just a superficial connection, a coincidence.

But it might be the beginning of a beautiful relationship. It’s like a… wadya-

call? A McGuffin!

SAM:

A McWha..?

DAN:

In film. Some object or event for characters to connect over, when the real

story is about… Something else entirely. Maybe just about making that

connection.

SAM:

Or not.

DAN laughs heartily at that, goes to drink, stops;

then fishes a joint out of the backpack, dusts it off,

and deftly lights it.

DAN:

Take that French flick about the green flash. It’s based on something in an

old novel by… I’m not good with names. Another French dude.

(DAN offers SAM a toke, but she declines)

Predicted trips to the moon, and submarines and all that.

SAM:

I’m sorry, I’m not good with names either.

DAN:

But you do know who I’m talking about.

SAM:

Sorry.

DAN:

Why can’t I can’t think of his name? Ow!

DAN’s roach has burned his fingers. He tosses it.

Anyway, the movie was based on a book, which is supposed to be based on

this old Celtic legend that says that if you see a green flash at sunset, you’ll be

granted this like, profound insight. Something like that. But the whole thing

was made-up!

SAM:

Made-up?

DAN:

Yeah, there is no Celtic legend. It’s an excuse the writer made up for this

couple to travel the world, watching sunsets together.

SAM:

Like… Who needs an excuse?

DAN:

Exactly!

A pause while they look at the sunset together.

SAM:

I need an excuse. I haven’t watched a sunset in forever.

DAN:

And a legend is born.

(beat)

SAM:

Celtic, huh? That legend.

DAN:

Yeah, supposedly Celtic. I’m into Celtic. I got this tattoo.

SAM:

Me too!

DAN

You have a Celtic tattoo?

SAM:

Does that surprise you?

DAN:

It does.

SAM lifts aside a hem to expose a tattoo.

SAM:

See?

DAN:

That’s pretty cool.

SAM:

It’s a cross.

DAN:

I can see that.

SAM:

It’s a Celtic cross.

DAN:

I know.

SAM:

It’s not a Christian thing. Everyone’s getting them. Well, I showed you mine?

Aren’t you going to show me yours?

DAN rolls up his sleeve and shows his.

DAN:

Mine’s based on a design from an old locket. The interlocking heart motif.

SAM:

That’s cool. I like authentic designs. Not like your legend. Made-up, not real.

It’s a cool idea, though. That legend. Made-up, or not.

DAN:

Yeah, real or not, since I heard it, whenever I have a chance to watch the

sun set, I do it. Even without the flash. It’s magic, a sunset. Any sunset.

Every.

SAM:

But there’s no special reason the green flash should happen tonight.

Just saying.

DAN:

Tonight, tomorrow… Gotta be optimistic. Catch every opportunity

to try for it.

They both look toward the setting sun, which

bathes their faces in a warm glow.

SAM:

How long ‘til the sun sets?

DAN:

Dude, I don’t wear a watch!

SAM:

Look in my other boot.

DAN looks in her other boot, inverts it and

dumps the wristwatch into SAM’s palm.

SAM shows the watch to DAN;

DAN:

(reading the watch still cupped in her palm)

T minus six minutes, and counting.

LIGHTS CROSSFADE. END OF SCENE 2.

SCENE 3. While MR. BUSHNELL occupied himself with his camera,

MISS DELANO has been gazing at the sun, meditating on time and

timelessness.

MR. BUSHNELL comes to her, consults his watch

and starts to announce the time when he notices

her expression on her sunlit face.

MISS DELANO:

I know you’re not fond of the speculative genre, Mr. Bushnell, but

humor me?

MR. BUSHNELL:

Of course, Miss Delano.

MISS DELANO:

You’ll not have read, but have you perchance heard of The Time Machine

by Mr. H.G. Wells?

MR. BUSHNELL:

He’s a novelist in the vein of Monsieur Verne, I assume.

MISS DELANO:

Mr. Wells, you’ll appreciate, trained as a scientist at Oxford. He imagines an

anachronic traveler who navigates time using a device that he has designed

and constructed precisely for that purpose.

MR. BUSHNELL:

Surely, Miss Delano, you regard time travel as an improbable fancy.

MISS DELANO:

The machine part, yes. But, Mr. Bushnell, I believe it is one of the most

incontrovertible facts of the universe that we travel through time.

Would that we could navigate it! Unfortunately, our journey through time

is in only one direction, dependable but irreversible, like an inconvenient

trade wind.

MR. BUSHNELL:

I’m sure young Mr. Wells would have to agree with that.

MISS DELANO:

I think old Mr. Wells will. The curious thing is that when Mr. Wells’ traveler

arrives in the future, he finds only backwardness, not progress. One would

like to believe in a better future, but it is hard to believe that, at times.

MR. BUSHNELL:

Well, next year marks the beginning of a new century. Though technically,

I suppose, it will begin in ought-one.

MISS DELANO:

Eastern mystics believe that last year marked the beginning of the Kali

Yuga, the Dark Ages, a cycle to be accompanied by social convulsions

as souls are freed from dogma and bigotry.

MR. BUSHNELL:

Well, social convulsions aside, freedom from dogma and bigotry

would be nice.

MISS DELANO:

Worldliness above all, that scoffs outright at the spiritual view of man

and nature.

MR. BUSHNELL:

But, my dear Miss Delano, worldliness can be considered the very hallmark

of Progress.

MISS DELANO:

What if there is no “Progress”? What if one day is pretty much like another,

and another, and there really is nothing new under the sun? What if all we

have is the happiness we can eke out of each and every day, from sundown

to sundown?

It makes you think, the sunset. Its terrible beauty, its link to yesterday’s

sunsets. And tomorrow’s, and tomorrow’s…

MR. BUSHNELL:

I have never thought before how beauty could be terrible.

MISS DELANO:

Beauty is so transient. Experienced only for an instant. And hence, somehow

unreal. Have you never felt like that?

MR. BUSHNELL:

Precisely why I want to photograph the flash.

MISS DELANO:

You think recording something proves it real?

MR. BUSHNELL:

Is there any other way of fixing a thing as real?

MISS DELANO:

Well, Science dictates that for something to be verifiably true, two people

must witness it. Which is of course what M. Verne and the Scottish legend

both suggest. Perhaps both possess more validity than you suppose.

MR. BUSHNELL:

Well argued, Miss Delano! You are quite the rhetorician. I wonder what you

might make of this argument: Here’s an alternative method of travelling

through time, an antidote to aging, if you will: a Record. A moment of

History, a Memory, fixed in time, as with a photographic plate.

MISS DELANO:

Ahh, but with history, or memory, Mr. Bushnell, you can only travel

backward. That’s not the way we live through time.

MR. BUSHNELL:

That’s not the way we live through it, Miss Delano. But I suggest that it is

the only way one can make sense of it.

MR. BUSHNELL closes his watch, busies himself with his camera as

MISS DELANO turn her gaze back to the sunset. LIGHTS CROSSFADE.

END SCENE 3.

SCENE 4. DAN & SAM, as before.

SAM:

So… your not at Muir anymore?

DAN:

Naw, I got disillusioned with the whole… aw, it just wasn’t my thing.

SAM:

So, what do you do?

DAN:

Clerique d’ Tarjay. That means “cashier at Target.” Photo department. You?

SAM:

Well, the demand for physical therapists was over-stated. I’m working

as a medical assistant in a chiropractor’s office. Not what I trained for.

But Russell, the guy I work for, is letting me reorganize the office.

I’m good at organizing things. He’s a really cool guy, Russ. Not like

the last guy I worked for. Greg. Selfish jerk.

A beat while DAN takes this in.

DAN:

Well, there’s lots of other stuff besides work. Or, there should be.

SAM:

Yeah. I surf, I do yoga. So, are you still into film? Cinema, I mean.

DAN:

Film, music… Different stuff. I’m a classic dabbler. Photography, mostly

Black & white, sepia, old-school stuff. I even have my own darkroom.

SAM:

Your parents garage?

DAN:

Actually, it’s what used to be the carriage house.

SAM:

Ooooh, ”carriage house.”

DAN:

Aw, it’s not like that. Well, Gram’s father was well-off. He was a doctor, one of

the first in the east county, built one of the first houses in Lakeside on money

from some patents he held. They lost most of their money in the Great

Depression, though. Barely held onto the house. Anyway: the carriage

house. I used to play there when I was a kid. Like my own private little

clubhouse. The place was a full of wooden crates and broken glass and rusty

canisters full of chemicals. I don’t know why Grams let me.

SAM:

Where were your parents?

DAN:

They died when I was a four.

SAM:

I’m sorry.

DAN:

That’s okay. I was four. I don’t even remember them. Anyway, when

I turned eighteen I huffed all the chemicals and, in a rush of superhuman

energy, cleaned out the crates and glass and outfitted the place as a studio.

Put up a bunch of black curtains and infrared bulbs. There was tarpaper

already stapled to the walls and windows, so I can get it pretty dark in there.

SAM:

So, is that… just a hobby, or do you do something with it?

DAN:

I entered some contests. Won some prizes, if that validates.

SAM:

Hey, I didn’t…

DAN:

No, that’s cool.

SAM:

I wasn’t…

DAN:

It’s cool.

SAM:

No, it isn’t.

DAN:

It’s not a crime to be young and not know where you’re going. What you

want out of life. What you believe in.

He takes a drink of tequila.

SAM:

“I’ll drink to that.”

An awkward, uncomfortable moment.

He goes to propose a toast…

DAN:

To slackers!

…but she gently forestalls him.

SAM:

I never said that. You’re not a slacker.

He considers.

DAN:

No, I’m not really.

He puts the bottle down. She considers,

then picks it up and proposes a toast.

SAM:

To sunsets.

She takes a swig of tequila. It winds her,

though she tries not to show it.

DAN:

And seeing a green flash.

Suddenly, DAN digs into the backpack, and

comes up with a pair of matching sunglasses

of the cheap plastic variety we might buy at

the beach.

DAN:

Dig it! I got two pair. Ray Ban or Oakley?

SAM:

Ray Ban. For sure.

DAN and SAM don their glasses and

look toward the sun, in soft tableaux.

LIGHTS CROSSFADE. END SCENE 4.

SCENE 5. MISS DELANO gazing at the sun,

though MR. BUSHNELL has been gazing

at her for some time now.

MR. BUSHNELL:

You do want to be careful, Miss Delano, about gazing overlong at the setting sun.

MISS DELANO:

Did you know that there are religions of the Far East which claim a link

between sun-gazing and enlightenment? There are stories of Hindu adepts

who subsist on nothing else.

MR. BUSHNELL:

Where-ever did you read such a thing?

MISS DELANO:

Tracts from the Theosophy Society.

MR. BUSHNELL:

Theosophy?

MISS DELANO:

The Universal Brotherhood and Theosophical Institute.

MR. BUSHNELL:

What, that building with the green glass dome? I thought that was some

sort of lighthouse.

MISS DELANO:

They tell me it’s visible at sea for miles, but no. That’s the Yoga Institute.

We call it the Homestead.

MR. BUSHNELL:

The Lomaland that you bicycle from every night?

MISS DELANO:

The WhiteCity of a New Century. Southwestern-most point in the U.S.

Ideal for sun-gazing.

MR. BUSHNELL:

My dear Miss Delano, are you aware of the risk of photic foleomacular

retinopathy?

MISS DELANO:

Heavens! We wouldn’t want to risk… what was it? Photic foleo…

MR. BUSHNELL:

Foloeomacular retinopathy. Light damage to the organs of sight.

MR. BUSHNELL:

It can lead to partial or even complete loss of vision.

MISS DELANO:

Are you a medical man, Mr. Bushnell?Are you a medical man, Mr. Bushnell?

MR. BUSHNELL:

I am currently, by trade, a store-clerk, at a rather busy shop. But as a matter

of professional training, I attended a college of ophthalmology, and am what

is known as a refracting optician.

MISS DELANO:

Surely there’s no shame in being a store-clerk.

MR. BUSHNELL:

If there is, I’m not sensible to it. I am working as an oculist at the shop.

MISS DELANO:

In the optical department?

MR. BUSHNELL:

I am the optical department. But I have saved what I can of my meager

earnings, and will soon have enough to set up shop on my own. I understand

that many towns in the Southwest that are in need of the service.

MISS DELANO:

I’m sure you’ll do well. This city has an unshakeable faith in the efficacy of

traditional methods of self-improvement.

MR. BUSHNELL:

At any rate, Miss Delano, you needn’t rely on my or anyone’s medical

acumen regarding sun-gazing. Really, common sense should suffice.

MISS DELANO:

Common courtesy, aside.

MR. BUSHNELL:

Forgive me. Out of pride, perhaps, or a misplaced passion for the topic,

for which I do apologize, but mostly motivated by an honest concern for

your welfare, Miss Delano, I assure you.

MISS DELANO:

Quite alright, Mr. Bushnell. I can be proud and even overzealous, myself.

But we mustn’t let that blind us to the good in others.

MR. BUSHNELL:

Someday, I believe, everyone will recognize the deleterious effects of the

sun’s rays, and people will quite commonly wear lenses to filter the sun’s

harmful glare.

(MISS DELANO suppresses a laugh.

MISS DELANO:

That sounds as fantastical as sun-gazing, doesn’t it, Mr. Bushnell?

MR. BUSHNELL:

I suppose it does.

(Hetakes out a pocket watch)

Three minutes.

MISS DELANO:

And what is it that you propose to do, exactly, Mr. Bushnell, when

the sun sets?

MR. BUSHNELL:

To record an impression of the moment on a photographic plate. I believe

the green flash is a real event, and not just an afterglow. So, I am attempting

to demonstrate that, using a color system of my own devising.

MISS DELANO:

Color photography?

MR. BUSHNELL:

A primitive system, yet to be perfected; our rudimentary sensors pale in

comparison to what happens before our eyes, those fleeting moments of

brilliance, which appear as a blur. I haven’t got it yet, but I’m working on it.

MISS DELANO:

Why do you attempt it?

MR. BUSHNELL:

I can, at the least, demonstrate that the phenomenon is real. The colors may

not appear as the true colors do, but perhaps the colors are all in our eye,

anyway.

MISS DELANO:

You can’t be serious, Mr. Bushnell. What is more intensely real than a

sunset?

MR. BUSHNELL nervously takes out his watch and examines it.

MR. BUSHNELL:

Two minutes.

They turn toward the sunset, its glow on their faces.

LIGHTS CROSSFADE. END OF SCENE 5.

SCENE 6. SAM and DAN, as before. SAM takes off

her sunglasses to look at her watch.

SAM:

Two minutes.

DAN:

So, what’s next for you?

SAM:

With my life?

DAN:

After sunset.

SAM:

No plans. Go home, feed my cat.

DAN:

I’ve been thinking about getting a cat. There’s rats in the carriage house.

SAM:

What’s your grandmother think about that?

DAN lifts his sunglasses, rest them on his head

so that his eyes are visible as he breaks the news.

DAN:

Oh. Grams passed a couple years ago. Eighty-six, alone, in her sleep.

SAM:

Oh.

DAN:

You didn’t know. So me, I’m going home to an empty house. Yeah, a cat.

Gotta get me a cat.

SAM:

They’re nice.

DAN:

I been thinking I should sell the house, but it’s been in my family for years.

Grams grew up in there. Her father was the first eye doctor in the East

County.

SAM:

Oh?

DAN:

He was a pretty interesting dude. A tinkerer, old school. Part artist, part

scientist. Played around with colored glass. Invented these special lenses

for his wife. Like, polarized or something. She had cataracts, slowly going

blind, so he fitted her with these glasses he crafted, just for her. Made it

easier for her to read. Then after she couldn’t anymore, he read aloud to her.

SAM:

Lucky woman.

DAN:

Grams said he doted on her. She must’ve been a pretty interesting lady in

her own right. She had volume after volume of these musty old leather-bound books, each with her name written in it. Some going back to the

1880s. You could tell because she used her maiden name. This is Grams’

mother. Her husband must’ve spent a fortune on that library. Collected

Works of… oh, I don’t know… not Orson Welles, the other one… And… and—

(claps himself on the head)

Jules Verne! That’s the French dude’s name!

SAM:

Dude!

DAN:

What.

SAM:

Why do you talk so much?

DAN:

What?

SAM:

Shut up and kiss me.

He does. END OF SCENE 6.

SCENE 7. LIGHTS UP on 1899, but we’ll call

the remaining minutes of the play, with the

two couples, a single scene.

MR. BUSHNELL:

Miss Delano?

MISS DELANO:

Mr. Bushnell.

MR. BUSHNELL:

You said I was no masher, but I must confess something

to you.

MISS DELANO:

Go ahead, then.

MR. BUSHNELL:

This evening is not the first one on which I’ve caught sight of you.

MISS DELANO:

No?

MR. BUSHNELL:

Last week. Last Sunday. I saw you, here on the Mussel Bed.

MISS DELANO:

“Mussel Beds.”

MR. BUSHNELL:

And I found myself more eager to see you again than to watch the sunset

itself.

MISS DELANO:

Indeed.

MR. BUSHNELL:

Yes. I feel I am almost irresistibly attracted to you. There: I’ve said it.

MISS DELANO:

“Almost irrestibly attracted.” Well, I must tell you that I have a problem

with that, Mr. Bushnell.

MR. BUSHNELL:

Yes?

MISS DELANO:

That word “almost.”

The two gaze at each other. Soft tableaux.

Back in the 2oth Century, SAM and DAN part lips.

DAN starts to speak, but SAM puts a finger to

his lips, points to the watch, and then toward

the sunset, which they both now turn to.

The sunlight pulses red on their face for a moment,

and pulses out. And yes, a green light flashes

briefly across the faces of all four lovers.

But MISS DELANO and MR. BUSHNELL, so intent

on each other’s gaze, look up to find that they’ve

missed it.

MISS DELANO:

Oh my, Mr. Bushnell. I’m afraid we’ve missed our opportunity.

The sunset, I mean.

MR. BUSHNELL:

Ah. Then perhaps next week. Well, it will be getting dark soon. And quite

cold, I’m afraid.

MISS DELANO:

Oh, I’ll be alright.

MR. BUSHNELL:

I have a blanket in my carriage.

MISS DELANO:

You’ve a carriage?

MR. BUSHNELL:

Nothing very grand. Just a one-horse shay, an old phaeton I’ve adapted to

carry my glass plates and darkroom chemicals, with which to develop my …

MISS DELANO:

Oh my! Your photograph.

MR. BUSHNELL:

No matter. I shall return next week, and the next, and be patient. I’m usually

a very patient man, believe it or not. I hope I haven’t spoken or acted rashly

today, but since I do seem to be in the rare state to risk it, and do have the

phaeton… Miss Delano, I wonder if I might offer you a ride to your home in…

is it Lomaland?

MISS DELANO:

A bit forward of you, Mr. Bushnell. I’m afraid I must decline. However, you

might conceivably call on me next Sunday. Meet my mother, sit down to tea.

Then, if you like, you may accompany me to watch that evening’s sunset.

MR. BUSHNELL:

I very much look forward to that.

She offers her hand, and he takes it, tipping

his hat with the other. They stand in soft tableaux.

SAM and DAN are still staring in awed silence.

SAM:

You were going to say something?

DAN:

Whoa. That was awesome. That green flash wasn’t bad, either.

SAM:

Hey, how far east is La Casida?

DAN:

Twenty-five miles by motorcycle. It’s almost the same by microbus.

SAM:

How big is your motorcycle?

DAN:

It’s street-legal. A little 200cc.

SAM:

But you take the freeway, huh?

DAN:

Barefoot, and no helmet.

SAM:

Plus, the tequila. Toss your bike in the back of the microbus, and

I’ll give you a lift home.

DAN:

For real?

SAM:

You gonna make me regret it?

DAN:

Wouldn’t wanna do that, Sam, no. You wanna stop by your place and feed

your cat?

SAM throws two bronzed biceps across DAN’s shoulders.

SAM:

Don’t push your luck, Dan. Don’t push your luck.

LIGHTS FADE TO BLACK.

END OF PLAY.

Tim West

theatre artist

Category Archives: SRT Out on a Limb

Blackout at Battery Cliff: a one-act play by Tim West

Green Flash at Sunset: a one-act play by Tim West