Front cover by Susie Trejo Azuceno Williams
​
​
Select Work, 2016 Edition
​
​
A Cleansing Cold
Sarah Fanning
Most people cringe away from the cold,
Cocooned in their thick coats
And wool gloves as wind whips harshly
Against the exposed skin on their
Nearly frostbitten faces.
They gripe and complain about the loss
Of their loved one: the summer.
They dream of sandy beaches,
Boiling temperatures, and the joyful
Sounds of song birds.
However, something can be said
For the beauty of winter.
Trees are glossed over with a thin layer
Of ice. The birds have gone, but fluttering
Snowflakes take their place.
The sun has said a temporary goodbye
And a soft gray now fills the sky.
The crisp, cold air floods your lungs
And spreads through your body,
Absorbing your warmth until you exhale
And watch as a cloud of vapor disappears
Into the frozen air.
While summer brings pleasant things,
I prefer the cleansing cold of winter.
Kentucky Dawn
Matthew Hutchins
From the edge of a crystal pond,
A fragile film of fog rolls across dew-drenched hills,
The Robin’s song awakens the trees.
Somewhere in the distance
The forsaken call
Of a lonesome whippoorwill
Without its mate.
The drowsy sun begins to rise
While straggling hours are counted
By still waters and purple skies.
What is time to a sleeping world?
Where do the minutes hide
When the earth is still and the silence heavy?
​Give Me the World in a Whisper
Erin Steele
Paint me a sunset on frozen plains –
Write me a forest at dusk –
Sing me an ocean in twilight –
Make me feel like I’m there
without saying it outright.
Send me to places I’ve never been
and never will be.
The subtle strokes of your paint-laden brush –
The tense ticking on your streamlined keyboard –
The up-tempo urgency in your melodious voice –
Take me to the where,
no matter your choice.
Send me to places I’ll feel I’ve been
and forever will be.
​Not a Raven to be Seen
Justy Engle
Blue hair rises
stakes in a big tent
revival by the graveyard
In 1895 my Pa walked out the house
And took us all up the road
Little ones and momma besides
Bulletin said he’s gonna preach
“How the heathen
might be saved”
Chorus of voices then proclaimed
“While I draw this fleeting breath,
When mine eyes shall close in death”—
That’s when the risers fell
Bless her soul, momma cried out
Like a mockingbird
But larks know true to listen at the light:
what draws the darkness home
Happy and Healthy
Sarah Durham
She had been in love before, but only once. She didn’t even remember his name now, but he was kind and generous. He laughed at her jokes, and he brought her onion rings, and even though it was his job to bring her onion rings, it felt special. She would have sat in that booth for the rest of her life, but the onion rings weren’t all-you-can-eat, and Chili’s doesn’t have 24-hour service. She went back a few times, but it wasn’t the same. He grew distant and other girls (customers) got in the way. She realized then that the only ring she ever needed wasn’t gold and shiny and it didn’t come in a tiny box. It came hot and greasy and served with a side of dipping sauce. Actually any food would do. Because food, unlike a man, would never leave her. Food isn’t scarce, unless you live in a third-world country, and most of those girls never even have to enter the dating pool in the first place, but dang, they could use a cheeseburger.
Through a life of romantic wins and losses, food had always been the one constant. She ate a whole pizza when she failed a test, and she ate a whole pizza when she aced a paper. Food was cathartic, even empathetic, and ever-present. She hid her emotions in her refrigerator next to the Diet Coke and Chinese takeout cartons. In fact, the last time she had cried was after finding out that Thai #1 had stopped delivering and she would have to leave her house for the Panang Curry and sticky rice that she loved so much. That had been at least seven years ago. While some women recalled what they were wearing when monumental events occurred in their lives, she remembered what she had eaten. She had eaten lasagna the night of her first kiss, tacos the night she moved into college, and, ironically, corn dogs the night she lost her virginity. One night after a terrible date, she had been mugged walking back to her car. While she couldn’t describe the thief in great detail to the police, she could describe the intricacies of the chicken marsala she had eaten. She was actually angrier over the loss of her leftovers since the wallet only contained plastic and a half-punched customer appreciation card from the fro-yo place by her apartment.
While she maintained a stable relationship with food, her body wasn’t so bad off that she needed to be crane-lifted out of her apartment. Her grandmother referred to her as healthy. It’s hard to believe that a girl who, in her lifetime, had eaten roughly the combined weight of an NFL team in buffalo wings was healthy, but she was. The thought of dieting was as absurd to her as the idea of a black president would have been to the forefathers. She possessed average cholesterol, average blood pressure, average intelligence, and an average life. She was Happy. Literally Happy. Actually her name was Harriet, but she had been called Happy ever since she could remember. “You are my healthy and Happy girl,” her grandmother would say. Her grandmother was dead. In actuality she hadn’t been the best judge on a healthy lifestyle as she had smoked a pack a day her whole life, even after her emphysema forced her to cart around an oxygen tank, but she had still lived to the age of 86. Happy was in her late 20’s, and she worked as a syndicated food critic and columnist for several newspapers and periodicals. The job allowed her to travel when she wanted to, write from home, and afforded her free meal tickets to all the best and worst restaurants that the mid-west had to offer.
One Monday, after a long weekend spent covering a Latvian street festival, she found herself writing and eating lunch at a sandwich place not far from her house. Her Reuben with onion rings was brought to her table, and within ten minutes she had devoured it all, even the dill pickle spear that was mostly there for garnish. She went back to her laptop and began writing about a piragi that had made her want to move permanently to Little Latvia.
“You’re Harriet Lange aren’t you?”
She was still in a pastry-wrapped bacon and egg reverie when she noticed the man standing at her table.
“You are! I read your column in The Scene and I love it!” He held a copy of a local, independent magazine that she wrote for pro bono, turned to a recent article she had written. Her picture was printed next to her name.
She managed to spit out, “Yeah, I’m me. Well, that’s me, and I’m me. Her. That’s us,” before turning as red as the remaining glob of ketchup on her plate. She had never been recognized by a reader before, and the shock made her come off as a recent stroke victim or one of the Latvian street vendors she had encountered over the weekend, just barely grasping the English language.
He pulled out the empty chair next to her and invited himself into her space. “Your article on why brunch is overrated was great! I bet it pissed off the hipster population. I love anything that pisses off the hipster population.”
“Thanks. I did get a cassette tape-recorded death threat in the mail, but they haven’t followed up on anything yet.”
He let out a laugh that she could only imagine the Brawny man letting out or maybe the dad from Little House on the Prairie. It was rich and full and deep, and her appreciation of this stranger’s laugh took Happy by surprise.
“That’s hilarious! Gyah, you’re funny,” he said through a smile. “Can I get you a drink or something? The pie here is pretty great.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s free refills on the soda . . . ”
“Ma’am,” he called to a server behind the counter, “bring a banana cream pie and two spoons.”
“If the pie is that great I don’t think sharing one piece will cut it,” Happy remarked right before a whole, gorgeous banana cream pie was laid on the table. “On second thought, I think this will do.”
The pie was phenomenal, and between the two of them it was halfway gone in about five minutes.
The man slowed his eating and asked, “If you were writing about this pie what would you say?”
Happy thought about this for a moment and said, “When one thinks about losing their virginity to a pie, it is this pie they should be thinking of.”
He laughed that same laugh. The laugh that Happy imagined smelled like mahogany and maybe scotch. A man’s laugh.
“That’s fantastic! I probably can’t put that on the menu though.”
“You own this place?”
“I do. My name’s Lee, but everybody calls me Sadler, my last name.”
“I like your shop,” Happy remarked. “It’s cozy and just quiet enough, but not too quiet, and the food is great.”
“Really? Thanks. I’m happy to hear that.”
“I’m actually Happy. Well, that’s what I’ve been called since I was a kid. A weird, shortened version of Harriet.”
Sadler smiled. Actually he had not stopped smiling since he had approached her table. The only moments that had ever made Happy smile like that involved a good meal.
“So what do you do for fun,” he asked, “what makes you happy?”
Images of Happy’s favorite meals ran through her mind, but that was it. She couldn’t think of anything besides food that truly made her happy. She couldn’t remember the last book she had read or movie she had watched, but she could recall every meal she had eaten for the last month.
“Well,” she began, “food makes me happy.”
“Yeah, that’s what you do for a living, but what else?”
She fumbled over her words, “I mean . . . I’ve . . . Well, I cook sometimes, but that’s food, too. I like cooking shows, but . . . sheesh, I guess it’s pretty pathetic that I’m a food writer and the only thing I can think of that I do in my free time is eat.”
“Not pathetic,” he replied, “maybe passionate? And just a little sad. But you found your calling, and that’s saying something.”
She had never cared before that food was so important in her life, but Sadler’s smile had made Happy question why her meals had been the only constant joy in her life. “I guess I need to branch out, huh?”
“We can work on that.” Sadler smiled and laughed again. The laughter that seemed to pour out of his being like molasses. And Happy realized, maybe for the first time ever, that food wasn’t the only thing that could make her Happy.
​
​
​
Southern Castration
Josh Christian
Fields stretched for miles on end. High-standing green stalks of corn weren’t the only crop that grew regularly; fields of soybeans and thousands of rows of grain occupied the soil. I drove the back roads, only really seeing the forest and its hidden secrecy. No Wall Street big-wig was yearning to bulldoze the backwoods of a Tennessee town. I could just be for hours, turning one curve after the next, watching faded yellow and white lines turning to broken concrete or gravel roads. I have to drive slow in gravel, but with the window down and the sun roof open, twenty miles per hour in my V6 Accord still feels like freedom.
Yet, the back roads still lead you to where you want to go. Just three hours after I started my drive, I pulled into the driveway of what used to be a ranch. Now it was modern. Chipped paint on vinyl siding and a broken-down deck that looked as if it could cave any minute were in my line of sight, but the inside was well-furnished. Smooth beige wallpaper and a fresh white coat of paint decorated the walls. Not many places on the wall stayed unoccupied for long. Pictures of our full-sized family were framed in various shapes and sizes all over. It looked like a museum of faces.
I was only alone for minutes before I heard the black SUV doors slam and the pitter-patter of little feet. My niece, wearing a yellow floral dress, burst through the door first. The bow she usually wore in her hair was now in her clenched fist. She ran to me, her messy hair flailing and eyes wide with a smile on her face. Just when I thought she was going to hug me, she punched me straight in the stomach.
“You turd!” I yelled.
She laughed and immediately pulled herself onto the countertops of the kitchen and ferociously dug into the newly-stained cabinets.
“Yeah, she does that a lot now,” my older nephew said, walking in behind her. He dressed sloppy and out of character, with pants that hung below his waist and a shoe always untied, laces hitting the floor every time he took a step.
“How ya doin’, man?” John, my brother-in-law, called as he walked in, both hands full of plastic Wal-Mart bags. “Sorry we’re late. Had to get food. These young-uns eat like horses. I ain’t seen nuthin’ like it!”
I moved to help him put away the groceries. I didn’t live there, but I didn’t have to know where my sister’s family put their groceries. Nothing ever changed.
Moving at light speed, my niece and nephew pulled me in two directions. Everything happened at another vibration in that house. My niece wanted to show me her new stuffed moose and American Girl Doll costume. My nephew wanted me to watch a YouTube video of him taking a hit in football practice. He was a short and scrawny middle school boy, so when he took a hit and got back up, he was the proudest kid I have ever seen.
“Dinner!” I heard my sister yell as she came through the kitchen door. She set an oversized bag of McDonalds on the kitchen counter. It was first come first serve, and nothing I could do would get me there faster than my niece or nephew.
Shelby, with a large grin spread across her face, embraced me the moment she saw me. I always knew she loved me, but hugs were about as far as her love went. She couldn’t show it well.
“Chris, how was your trip up? You didn’t get lost, did ya?” she asked, her southern accent thicker than I remembered.
“I have been here plenty of times. How would I get lost?” I asked.
“Oh, knowing you, you could get lost goin’ som’ place you have been a thousand times.” She laughed.
McDonalds wasn’t the best meal, but we ate and were full. The kids smiled and laughed at a ridiculous cartoon. My sister and John stayed in the kitchen, cleaning up. I tried to help, but they hardly ever accepted it, so I sat on the counter talking to them in between bites of a hamburger my niece wouldn’t eat.
“So, how is school goin’?” John asked.
“It’s good. Less homework so far,” I replied.
“Well, that is good to hear. Don’t want you to work too hard.” John said sarcastically.
I took a minute to reply, knowing if I failed, it could send us into a college debate we had discussed already a dozen times. He beat me to the punch.
“College isn’t real work,” John said. “Real work is what your brother does. Military is real work. Manual labor—that is real work. College isn’t real work. Y’all just sit around talking about books and not even try to do a lick of good for no one but yourselves.”
“Now, John, we don’t want to get started again. Chris works hard to maintain his grades,” Shelby interjected.
“No. No. If Chris is ever going to become a man, he must know how to really work, and college isn’t real work. It is sissy stuff,” John said. “Those men in the military do real work. They fight for us and could die any day. If you read a book, it ain’t gonna save anyone’s life. To me, college wastes money. You can’t get a job no more and wanting to be a journalist won’t get you anywhere in life.”
“John, I am sorry you feel that way. I try, I really do,” I said, getting depressed. Yet John didn’t pick up on it. He had the emotional capacity of a wild boar, and with his burly form and round face, he could have been one.
“One day, you are gonna have to get your head out the clouds and do real work. Written ain’t real work,” John jabbered on.
I listened helplessly.
“This is what’s wrong with the world. Men can’t do anythin’ right anymore. Most are lazy, and if they aren’t lazy, they are full-blown sissies and homos. Chris, don’t tell me your a homo?”
I could barely make myself answer. “I like girls,” I said plainly.
“Well, at least you aren’t no homo. I couldn’t bear to call you a brother then,” John said.
Every fiber of my being wanted to hall off and hit him, but his boar-like form and redneck anger saved him a lick to the face. Instead, I just spent the rest of the night watching trippy cartoons with my niece and nephew and faded into the background. I knew a lot would change about the world, but I knew it would never be John. I sighed. Men weren’t men if they weren’t manly.
I knew I would always be a lesser man.
Needle and Thread
​
Becca Noel
​
CAST OF CHARACTERS
TOMMY
MAGGIE – Tommy's friend
ANGELA – Tommy's friend
CATHERINE – Tommy's sister
BILLY – Catherine's boyfriend and Tommy's friend
SETTING
A small, unimportant kitchen. Empty and off to the side.
A living room. It was happy once, but it is forgotten and dim. If there are windows, the curtains are closed. If there is a lamp, it has a dark shade and the bulb is old and weak. There is a TV that casts a dull light, but there is no sound. There is a recliner and a couch. The couch is entirely covered in large piles of fabrics and thread spools. Behind the couch, or somewhere on a wall, an elaborate blanket is hung up as decoration. Though it is beautiful, it is not lit and is kept dark and dull.
(Black out. Focus light fades up on the blanket. Then spot up.)
ANGELA:
(Angela is vibrant and smiling.) In high school, Tommy was the only boy who took home economics. He got picked on for most of the year until we got to sewing and we saw what he could do. He was the only one that got an A, and all the girls were torn between crushing on him for dear life or hating his guts. But I knew that he could draw as well. He was the one that drew the comic of our principal using a toilet in the middle of the cafeteria—I was the only one he told and may or may not have helped him anonymously distribute them. And when we went to prom, the corsage he gave me was a multicolored rose made out of fabric. How cool is that? He's always been there for me. We were best friends.
(Spot fade down. Spot fade up.)
BILLY:
I met Tommy through Catherine. He was an all right guy; I just wanted him to like me because he was her brother. (Pause.) His voice, it's the kind of voice that's the loudest in the room. Not because he's yelling or nothing, but it just is. And that means his laugh is the loudest in the room, too—but people were usually laughing right along with him. We don't really have much in common, Tommy and I. I work on cars; he sews and draws and stuff—but he told me once that we were the same because we both work with our hands. That we create things. (Pause.) I was gonna propose to Catherine last year . . . and if I had . . . I think I would've asked him to be my best man.
(Spot fade down. Spot fade up.)
MAGGIE:
(Arms crossed. Indifferent expression.) Tommy was a dumb little kid. I remember when he moved to town in the middle of the year and the entire class took to him immediately. He was supposed to stand in front of the class and introduce himself—which he did. Then the teacher asked if he was excited for his first day, at which point he let everyone know he was so excited he felt like he was gonna pee his pants. This sounds like a kindergarten story, but we were eleven. The class lost it. Sometimes my mom would forget to pack my lunch, and on those days he would share his food with me. He was always the best in English and Art—I knew he was going to make beautiful things. I maybe never told anyone, but I knew. And he made things more beautiful than I ever could have anticipated.
(Spot fade down. Spot fade up.)
CATHERINE:
(Hands clasped in front of her. Bright, desperate smile.) Tommy is my big brother and my best friend. He's as solid in my childhood memories as my parents. I'm positive my earliest memory has Tommy in it, because before there was me, there was him. Then there was us. There's us. My whole life I've been running right behind him trying to catch up. He rode a bike, so I had to. He got to drive first, and I was furious. He started rock climbing with Dad, and I absolutely had to learn that too—who knew I'd be terrified of heights? (Amused. Pause.) Tommy is my hero.
(Light on blanket fades out. Spot out. Living room and kitchen up. Tommy is seated in his chair, hands on his thighs. No movement, silence. Figure out allotted space of silence before Angela and Maggie enter through the front door. Should be at least a minute.)
ANGELA:
(Entering with Maggie.) Hi, Tommy. I decided to stop by today, too. Hope you don't mind.
MAGGIE:
Hey, Tom. I've got your lunch right here—it'll just be a few minutes. (Heads into kitchen and begins to set out food. There is a brief silence in the living room.)
ANGELA:
So, I got you something at the store this morning. (Approaches Tommy while reaching into bag. Brings out yellow thread.) And I just had to get it! I just thought that, well, I just thought that it was a nice, vibrant color. (Silence.) I'll go ahead and put it on the couch with the rest of it. That way you'll know where it is when you get ready to use it!
(Desperate to be away, Angela moves to the kitchen.)
MAGGIE:
I'm sorry to bother you on your day off, but I just wasn't sure what to do at this point.
ANGELA:
I completely understand. It's no trouble at all.
MAGGIE:
I'm honestly at my wits end here—like, I've known the guy since sixth grade, I love him to death but—
ANGELA:
I get it! I mean, I've known him since high school. You do what you can do for your friends, but at some point it just becomes too much—
MAGGIE:
Exactly! I come here three times a week—
ANGELA:
And I come twice a week!
MAGGIE:
Right! And it's always the same, no change, no talking, no moving, no . . . no nothing!
ANGELA:
(Brief pause.) It's weird . . . right?
MAGGIE:
No, it definitely is.
(During this Maggie continues to remove Tommy's lunch from the bag and arranges it on a serving tray. At the end of this dialogue the lunch should be ready. Maggie should pick up the tray.)
MAGGIE:
Let's just drop this off and get the heck out of here.
(They enter the living room, and the kitchen goes dim. Tommy is at his chair in the same position as always—his hands resting calmly on his thighs. He does not move ever.)
MAGGIE:
Tom. Tom? Tommy, here's your lunch. Sorry that we're a bit late today.
(Pause. Maggie is impatient, huffing. Is about to say something else when Angela can't take it anymore.)
ANGELA:
I'll just take this into the kitchen! (Goes to kitchen. Kitchen remains dim. It is not the focal point again.)
MAGGIE:
All right. (Setting down his lunch.)
(More silence. In the silence Maggie grows uncomfortable. Eventually moves over to the mess of the couch, picking through a few things.)
MAGGIE:
(Loudly. Like an adult to a child.) Angela brought you some new thread, Tom. I see the yellow on top. (Picks up the yellow thread.) You haven't made anything yet, have you?
ANGELA:
(Re-entering eagerly.) I hope you like the color, Tommy. (More silence.) Um, I still have the blanket you gave me when we graduated. I don't know if I've told you that. My mom really wants to buy one from you. You know, when you feel like it . . .
MAGGIE:
(Having crossed over to Tommy.) Your refrigerator's empty again, Tom—
ANGELA:
Maggie!
MAGGIE:
(Annoyed with them both.) It is! And your cable is getting due, and the trash is piling up. I'm not taking it out this time; you have to get up eventually.
ANGELA:
Look, Tommy, (Crosses to Tommy. Kneels next to him.) maybe if you get up, you'll like being up, and you'll feel like . . . like cooking again. Or sewing. Or heck, going out for a walk. When was the last time you went to see your parents?
(The front door opens, startling Angela and Maggie. Enter an uncomfortable Billy and Catherine—who is carrying groceries. When she spots Angela and Maggie, she acts incredibly happy to see them. )
CATHERINE:
Maggie, Ang! Oh, you brought Tommy lunch—that's so lovely! I just need to put these groceries up; I'll be right back! (Catherine crosses to kitchen—kitchen remains dim.)
MAGGIE:
(To Billy) She is the one that's been putting groceries in his fridge?
BILLY:
And she does the dishes, and she vacuums the whole place every week.
MAGGIE:
Are you kidding me? (Pause.) So what does he do all day? He really does just—
ANGELA:
(Hushed) Maggie, he's right there.
BILLY:
But is he? Is he really?
(Uncomfortable Pause. It is only broken when Catherine returns.)
CATHERINE:
I'm just all over the place today—honey, this bag's ours . . . (Catches onto the down air in the room, pauses, holding the groceries.) What are we talking about?
(Brief Pause.)
MAGGIE:
Actually, Angela and I were about to leave.
CATHERINE:
Oh, really? You don't have to on account of us being here. Besides, company is a good thing. Tommy loves you guys—you know it's important to him for you visit like this. I appreciate it too.
(No one responds to Catherine—each character for their own reason. Brief Pause.)
ANGELA:
Actually, Catherine . . . there's this new commercial I saw on TV the other day—it made me think of Tommy. When was the last time he went to the doctor, Cathy? Maybe he could try a new medicine, something new—
CATHERINE:
(Has instantly shut down.) Tommy has been through enough medicine. The Zoloft has worked best—and the doctor upped his dosage last month. Changing it now would just be forcing him to start over all over again. That is not what he needs.
MAGGIE:
She's just saying that maybe something—
CATHERINE:
He's not some cartoon image that has a cloud following him around all over the place! Or a crack in the earth that appears behind him wherever he stands! He doesn't have chains on his chair or a fog over his eyes! He's not some stupid infomercial, and you are not a doctor. You don't know.
(Brutal silence.)
CATHERINE:
I need to finish putting up those groceries. (Catherine sets down her bag of groceries. Exit Catherine back to kitchen.)
MAGGIE:
We should leave. (Angela remains silent. They leave.)
(Billy is left alone with Tommy, who he has not looked at the entire time. In fact it is incredibly obvious that he is restless and uncomfortable and is willing to look anywhere but Tommy. When it seems like he's finally going to have an outburst, Catherine finally returns from the kitchen.)
BILLY:
They already gave him food; can we leave?
CATHERINE:
No, I want to show him the fabric I found on clearance for him. (Moves to bag to remove fabric.)
BILLY:
What for? He's not gonna look at it!
CATHERINE:
Stop it!
BILLY:
He's not! He—
CATHERINE:
He is right there!
BILLY:
Is he?
CATHERINE:
And what's that supposed to mean?!
BILLY:
You know! You— (Billy pulls back, stopping himself from saying something he would regret. Billy takes a moment.) I'm using the john, and when I'm done, we're out. (Exit Billy.)
(Now Catherine takes her moment. She holds the fabric, not moving as Billy leaves. When he is gone, she takes a breath before putting on a smile. Catherine crosses to Tommy's chair, perching herself on the arm rest to be beside him.)
CATHERINE:
Hey bubs, check this out.
(Catherine holds up the fabric, admiring it. The fabric unrolls, falling and rolling out across Tommy's lap and hands as she holds onto it. Tommy does not move. Catherine continues to admire the fabric, feeling the texture of it between her fingers. When Catherine speaks again, it is to the fabric—gradually it is not the fabric anymore.)
CATHERINE:
It was on clearance at the fabric store. It just made me think of you, and I had to get it for you. (Silence.) It reminded me of that dumb old race car bed you had when we were kids—remember? I used to be so mad that all I had was a stupid canopy bed and you got a car. This is the exact same red, don't you think? Or close, maybe. I'm not much at shades and things. You're the artist, after all, Tommy. (Light pause.) Mom still wears all the clothes you made her—so do I. (Pause.) She wonders why you didn't make her anything for her birthday last month. Or call.
(Silence. Catherine looks to Tommy's unwavering face and wavers herself. Slowly she reaches out, brushing her thumb along his jaw line. The sound of the toilet flushing startles Catherine upright, and she bundles up the fabric quickly. Enter Billy, who watches her move to the couch and toss her fabric on top of the pile.)
BILLY:
(Obviously condescending.) So, did he like the fabric?
CATHERINE:
Very funny. I know you hate coming here, but why do you have to be such an ass?
BILLY:
And why do you insist on coming here every day when it makes you like this? There is nothing here!
CATHERINE:
You don't know what you're talking about!
BILLY:
Whatever, Catherine! Everyone has bad days, but everyone still gets up anyway! Everyone tries to push forward! He just sits there!
CATHERINE:
You don't know what you're talking about!
BILLY:
Don't talk to me like I didn't know the guy! Hell, we used to drink beer together every Friday night! (Finally Billy looks at Tommy, turning to him, shouting.) Hey, Tommy! Remember when we used to drink beers and play pool? Remember the time you got so smashed you gave yourself a black eye with the stick, and when I tried to take it away from you, you cracked it over my head? Or the next day when we practically pissed ourselves laughing about it? Or hey—remember when you started to not show up, and then I would wait over two hours for you? Remember all the times you said it wouldn't happen again? Remember—
CATHERINE:
(Furious.) Shut up! Shut up now, Billy! You don't what he's feeling or what he's going through! You don't know! You don't know anything!
BILLY:
What is he going through, Catherine? He is right there! Just sitting! He's been in the same shirt for a month!
CATHERINE:
(Decidedly.) It's his favorite shirt.
BILLY:
Oh my god— (Billy covers his face, choking on his words and making a kind of strangling noise that occurs when you want to scream but you've been suffocated by stupidity. Billy takes a moment to regain calm. When he removes his hands and looks at Catherine, he's been defeated once again.) I'm gonna go start the car. You finish up here.
(Catherine's eyes are closed, and she remains still as Billy exits. Breathing slowly in, out, in out. Once calm, Catherine opens her eyes and turns to Tommy—just watching. A moment.)
CATHERINE:
I would like to apologize for Billy, Tommy. You know he only gets loud when he's emotional—he's a big ol' baby, but he likes to pretend he's a badass. (Awkward silence. Desperate to be useful, Catherine adjusts Tommy's food table slightly. Adjusting some of the things on his tray, though not quite moving them. Then she picks up the remote that's fallen to the floor. She contemplates changing the channel but leaves it on what it's on. Desperate still, Catherine looks around and moves to pick up a photo resting on a table beside the couch. She moves her hand around the glass, dusting it off. Catherine looks at the picture, smiles desperately. Then suddenly . . .)
CATHERINE:
Oh! Here, Tommy! I've got an idea! (Hurriedly Catherine moves to the pile and shoves her hand in. She pulls apart the pile, reaching deep into it. This continues in silence until Catherine finds the pin cushion underneath. She stands, pulls out a needle, and drops the pin cushion back on the couch.) Here, Tommy! (Catherine moves to Tommy, holding out the needle. Picking up Tommy's hand, she forces his thumb and index finger to hold the needle for himself. She places his hand back on his thigh, the needle pointing upwards.) Take the needle. Just hold it and sew—like you used to! It made you so happy—so many people loved your work. Maggie and Ang bring you fabric and thread all the time, and so do I. Others have dropped off stuff, too; do you know that? Of course you do. It's so important that you sew again. You've got everything you need to sew! It's all right here, I even just gave you a needle. Sew, okay? Okay? (Silence.) I'll be back tomorrow.
(Catherine says goodbye to Tommy, gathers up her bags, and exits. Lights remain up, and there is silence. More silence, and stillness. Tommy is not moving. In this silence, very gradually the light on the blanket goes up. When it is the brightest thing on stage, Tommy's breathing begins to quicken, deepen. It escalates so that his chest is visibly rising and falling. Tommy shuts his eyes and struggles with his breathing. Gradually it slows down to a normal pace with the light on the blanket fading. Stillness. Tommy is still holding the needle and does not move.)