arnie/lucia by Jake Cohen
This Play is the copyright of the Author and may not be performed, copied or sold without the Author's prior consent
CHARACTERS
Arnie, 53 year-old white man
Lucia, 47 year-old Chilean woman
Smitty, 66 year-old black man who sleeps in Post Office
Kenny, 18 year-old black man who works in Post Office
Johnson, 36 year-old white supervisor
SET
At one extreme, sidewalk and street where Smitty resides. Rest of
stage is interior, back room of a post office. A door leads to a
washroom. Another door leads to sorting room and reception, etc.
Periodically, a service bell rings indicating a customer is at
reception.
TIME
Now.
TEXT
Most of the dialogue is hyper-conversational and should tumble.
ACT ONE
PROLOGUE.
(Lights up on SMITTY, on sidewalk.
KENNY sits inside, in low-light.)
SMITTY: (singing)
Alabama's got me so upset
Tennessee made me lose my rest
But everybody knows about Mississippi. Goddamn.
You don't have to live next to me
Just give me my equality
Everybody knows about Mississippi
Everybody knows about Alabama
Everybody knows about everybody. Goddamn.
Right? Shit.
(Lights shift.)
SCENE ONE.
(Lights up on KENNY, reading a letter.
After a beat, JOHNSON enters. KENNY doesn't notice.)
KENNY: Jesus. You two. You two are nasty.
(After one last glance, he methodically slips the letter back into
its envelope, seals it with spray adhesive, and meticulously returns
it to its spot in a mail bin.)
JOHNSON: It's like you want / me to catch you.
KENNY: Shit! You scared me.
JOHNSON: It's like you don't get enough of a thrill on your route
so you walk the wire in here. You don't get off delivering magazines
through gang warfare so you gotta push the envelope-fuck the
pun-in the office too.
KENNY: It's not / what it looks like.
JOHNSON: Do you like, show up here so fucking bored that the federal
offense of tampering with the mail is the only way to like, salvage
your day?
KENNY: You gotta believe me that I try not to.
JOHNSON: Try harder.
KENNY: Ok I will.
JOHNSON: No, Kenny- already have done it. Have put this illegal
idiot-syncrasy of yours in the past. Make my concern obsolete.
KENNY: All right. Sorry- yeah. Right. Sorry. How are the sonnets?
JOHNSON: And let's be clear-not only illegal. Bizarre. Like
fucking voyeuristic creepy. If you read about vacations on postcards
like a pissant daydreamer that's one thing but fuck no-you go
straight to the domestic jugular, straight to the heartbreak, straight
to people's letters.
KENNY: Not anymore. / I'm done.
JOHNSON: I mean it's a select group of people that still confines
their bullshit to an envelope and you've made them like, a fetish.
Like you're obsessed with their little details and their, like big
details. Like you want in on their mess-don't you have your own?
Don't answer that.
KENNY: It won't happen again.
JOHNSON: Don't let it happen again. Deliver the mail. Don't read
it. Read your own. If you get any. I mean, how the fuck would you feel
if you discovered that your love letters between you and your
girlfriend are actually part of some twisted ménage-a-trois that
includes a federal employee to whom you often wave.
KENNY: I don't have a girlfriend, Johnson and-
JOHNSON: Quel sur-frikken-prise.
KENNY: -and even if I did you bet your ass there wouldn't be any
letter writing.
(Beat.)
JOHNSON: Good fucking point.
(Beat.)
JOHNSON: I mean you have to actively forget so much of the modern
world to still use the USPS. Not that we can think about that.
KENNY: Nah. I love the mail.
JOHNSON: I love the mail.
KENNY: I love the mail.
JOHNSON: I know you do. And if you keep loving it so much you undress
it, we'll have a problem. Last time, right?
KENNY: Yeah. Right. You're right. Sorry.
JOHNSON: No pasa nada. Well, no pasa mucho.
(Beat.)
KENNY: How're the sonnets?
JOHNSON: Ha. They're okay. I'm slumping.
KENNY: What? You need a muse?
JOHNSON: Yeah. Right. A muse. Amusement. Fucking something It's
just Not happening for me.
KENNY: Blocked?
JOHNSON: Who knows? I need a good night class. Some fucking
incentive.
KENNY: Meditate.
JOHNSON: Excuse me?
KENNY: You heard me. Try it out.
JOHNSON: You meditate?
KENNY: No.
JOHNSON: But?
KENNY: But I've read about it. Thich Nhat Hahn. It's all about
noticing inspiration. Taking your time. Being thorough.
JOHNSON: You read Thich Nhat Hahn?
KENNY: Skimmed it.
JOHNSON: You are tragic.
KENNY: It's a phase, man. You'll get out of it. You'll be a
Langston again. Well, a Walt, anyway.
JOHNSON: Hard to pen a sonnet when you're supposed to sign divorce
papers.
KENNY: No shit. Shit.
JOHNSON: Yeah shit. Shit.
KENNY: I'm sorry. You want to talk about it?
JOHNSON: No thanks, kid. It's complicated. Different than losing a
prom date.
KENNY: I'm listening.
JOHNSON: It's way grown-up shit.
KENNY: I'm way grown-up.
JOHNSON: So you tell me.
KENNY: Shit, man.
JOHNSON: You don't want to hear it anyway. Too fucking bleak. Worst
part is, I can't even write about heartbreak. Fucking "channeling" my ass.
Too much ouch, amigo. Too much fucking ouch.
KENNY: Too much ouch. Yeah.
(Beat. Then, E.T. impersonations.)
KENNY: Ouch. I'll be right here.
JOHNSON: Be good.
KENNY AND JOHNSON: Elliott.
(LUCIA enters.)
LUCIA: Morning boys.
KENNY: (still E.T.) Buenos dias, Lucia. ¿Qué tal?
LUCIA: Hola, loco. What's the matter with you?
KENNY: Yo soy E.T.
LUCIA: ¿Qué?
JOHNSON: It's a movie.
LUCIA: Oh! El extra-terrestre.
KENNY: Yeah. About the alien?
LUCIA: Right.
KENNY AND JOHNSON: Like you.
LUCIA: Ha. (E.T. voice.) Fuck you.
JOHNSON: Does your heart light up, too?
LUCIA: Of course. I'm Latin.
KENNY: ¡Ay yay yay!
LUCIA: Fucker's a lucky little freak. Doesn't deal with any of
this shit. I'd kill to live on another planet.
JOHNSON: Perchance to dream.
KENNY: Shit sucks down here.
LUCIA: They probably think that about their home.
KENNY: That's what you thought about Mexico, right?
LUCIA: Fuck you. Call me a Mexican again. I dare you.
KENNY: Whatever.
LUCIA: That what you thought about Africa?
KENNY: Yeah. I hated the sun. My family. Civilization. Lucky to be
here.
LUCIA: Damn, right. Love it here. We thank you, white man, for saving
us.
JOHNSON: (Loudly, slowly.) You. Are. Welcome.
LUCIA: You mother / fucker.
KENNY: Racist fuck. / Honky.
LUCIA: Cracker.
JOHNSON: You're too kind.
LUCIA: But a sweet cracker. I'll call you cookie.
JOHNSON: All right, savages. Get to work. Your "cookie" would
love to know why you're late Lucia but he won't ask because that
could be racist because you people operate on colored time or /
something, right, and it's my job to respect that.
LUCIA: And a go screw yourself and a no thank you that's the Blacks
and fuck you very much I was late because this news crew was blocking
Main filming whatever suicidal cat's cry for help.
KENNY: Breaking news.
LUCIA: If it meows it leads.
KENNY: In this town.
JOHNSON: I got a poem about ants in an ant farm that scurry around
everywhere except for some ants who scurry around telling other ants
about how other ants are scurrying. They clog the place up. Ant hill
collapses. Commentary on media and how they're the assholes of the
ant hill.
LUCIA: Wow.
(Beat.)
KENNY: You have a poem about asshole journalist ants?
JOHNSON: Like, no it's not about journalism it's a metaphor. Like
I was telling you about fuck it it's a shitty poem I agree.
KENNY: Ha.
(ARNIE enters.)
LUCIA: You have good ideas, Johnson. You too, loco.
KENNY: Well, gracias, bonita. (Noticing ARNIE.) May I help you?
ARNIE: I'm looking for Bert Johnson? He told me to come back
here-
JOHNSON: Arnold? Hi there. Johnson. Good to meet you. Welcome aboard.
ARNIE: Thank you.
JOHNSON: Everybody this is Arnold Palmer-
ARNIE: Arnie's fine.
KENNY: Arnold Palmer?
JOHNSON: Kenny.
ARNIE: Yes.
KENNY: Really?
ARNIE: Yes.
JOHNSON: You probably have never heard it before, huh?
ARNIE: Right. It's okay, I don't / really mind it.
KENNY: That's unreal. That's too good.
LUCIA: Kenny.
JOHNSON: You could have been Loggins.
LUCIA: Or G.
JOHNSON: He's young; ignore him.
ARNIE: It's really fine.
JOHNSON: Like I said, Arnie's taking north perimeter.
KENNY: Welcome aboard. Kenneth.
LUCIA: Good to have you. Lucia.
ARNIE: Lucia. Kenneth. Good to meet you.
LUCIA: Where'd you carry before this?
ARNIE: Actually this is my first postal work.
KENNY: Doesn't matter.
LUCIA: You'll be great.
KENNY: Besides, we're not really postal workers around here.
JOHNSON: Kenny.
KENNY: I mean we are, but Johnson and I are poets.
JOHNSON: Kenny-
ARNIE: Really?
KENNY: Well, Johnson's a poet and he's teaching me.
ARNIE: I see.
JOHNSON: I'm not a poet. I might take some night classes but-
KENNY: Yeah. He's going to take some night classes.
ARNIE: Got it.
KENNY: And Lucia makes tamales.
ARNIE: Really? That's terrific.
LUCIA: No, they're assholes. I mother.
KENNY: Really? That's terrific.
LUCIA: You see how hard it is?
ARNIE: I do.
JOHNSON: As much as we'd love to claim otherwise we are definitely
mailmen.
LUCIA: Mailmen. Every one of us.
KENNY: Except Johnson.
ARNIE: Well that's what I signed up for.
KENNY: Johnson?
JOHNSON AND LUCIA: Kenny.
[end of extract]
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