City Lines by Terence Kuch
LIGHTS UP on an Office
MAN is seated at a desk, drawing intently on large scroll of paper
WOMAN enters.
WOMAN: (as Boss) What are you doing, Henry? I hope that's business.
MAN: FlexiCorp.
WOMAN: What's that thing you're drawing?
MAN: Nothing. A diagram. FlexiCorp project.
WOMAN: I want the FlexiCorp proposal on my desk tomorrow.
MAN: Yes, Ms. Rhineheart.
WOMAN: FlexiCorp is waiting.
MAN: Operators are standing by.
WOMAN: This is very important, I hope you understand. A lot is riding
on this. For you. Do I make myself clear?
WOMAN exits
MAN: (to himself) A map of my ideal city. Black lines - those are
streets; red lines - big streets; big blocky black industrial parks,
hospitals, prisons, asylums. Blue lines that meet are ponds; blue
lines that don't are creeks. One black line with little marks on it is
a railroad. It goes through parts of town I wouldn't want to see at
night.
Yellow lines show city limits where suburbs have taken the high
ground. Green lines mark an undetected fault system that will give way
about two hundred million years from now, or maybe sooner. Maybe a lot
sooner.
WOMAN enters
WOMAN: (as Boss) Mr. Prince, I've spoken with the Director. You are
to have the complete and finished FlexiCorp proposal tomorrow. Or you
choose to find yourself another job.
MAN: Hospitals, prisons, asylums.
WOMAN: Five p.m.
MAN: Maybe a harbor. For navigation. Escape.
WOMAN: Do you understand?
WOMAN exits
MAN: (to himself) At five o'clock every day, last ink not quite dry, I
cap the colored pens. Stop in the outer office and pass a few
pleasantries with the girls. They're barely polite, so I don't tell
them what's new in my ideal city. I don't think they're interested
anyway.
Take the elevator to the B-3 level, find my car bright red and ready
for hot road action, slopy in front and high behind like a sharky
wedge. Drive out of the garage. Still light out, warm. Sniff the other
cars, some strong with exertion, others just warming up. Nose up to an
old maid Plymouth, slide over beside a brawny Corvette. Light turns
green. The road home lies ahead, shimmering in the distance like the
runway when you're about to land and the captain plays this fuzzy
violin music on the intercom so it won't occur to you that you are
doing something very unnatural and probably highly dangerous: green
signs, white arrows.
I roar racing down the road at the top of my lungs, 73 miles an hour,
tear around curves, skim the big blocky areas until I realize that
this is a blue line and not the road at all. Back up, dry off. Look
around, a little embarrassed, to see if anyone's noticed my little
problem. There isn't anybody. I can't draw people. I've tried. They
turn out to be airports; asylums.
Sedately, a little chastened, I find the road for sure this time.
Drive carefully home and pull into the garage, stop the car now dull,
boxy, cold, grey; step inside.
(Gradual scene change from office to home)
MAN at desk, continues work on scroll
Enter WOMAN
WOMAN: (as Wife) Home already?
MAN: Yes, dear.
WOMAN: Busy day?
MAN: Not especially.
WOMAN: There's some mail.
MAN: (to himself) City Planning Monthly, airports in real brick and
steel, roads that get sticky in the heat, clanking trucks and sweaty
drivers, or some plan to mark roads better, little squares instead of
circles, or maybe new colors, green for parks isn't good enough now,
grow yellow grass.
MAN: (to WOMAN) Thanks I'll look at it later.
MAN: (to himself): An old story says the city was visited by aliens
from a third dimension a long time ago. From the street I can't see
the big numbers in the circles, so they must have been put there to be
seen from Space. I'm not sure I believe that, but every map needs a
legend: that's mine.
MAN: (to WOMAN) No wonder they left.
WOMAN: What, dear?
MAN: Never mind.
MAN: (to himself) Tomorrow I'll draw one-way arrows beside the lines
that run through the numbered circles, so I can get across the fault
lines a little quicker. I might even draw an interstate, where the
industrial parks could go if anyone wants one. Always nice to have a
park.
WOMAN: Did you have a good day at the office, dear?
MAN: FlexiCorp's moving to the airport.
WOMAN: That's nice.
MAN: Or maybe the asylum.
WOMAN: What?
MAN: Never mind.
WOMAN: Henry, I wish you'd stop drawing all those maps. That can't
all be work. At least at home.
MAN: Home.
Finds place on scroll, points vigorously.
MAN: There!
WOMAN: What?
MAN: Never mind.
WOMAN exits
MAN: (to himself) Morning, back to work. FlexiCorp. Operators are
standing by, but some of them are sitting.
Gradual change from home to office. Man, at desk, continues work on
scroll.
MAN: Five suburbs: Wiggly black lines for terraces, and places, and
drives, and courts. Suburbs don't have anything called "street". I
draw a house just for me on a wiggly black line called “Hunting Creek
Court”, although there's no blue line for a creek, and no court, and
hunting isn't permitted here anyway.
Circles on top some of the thicker red and black lines, big numbers in
the circles: A new interstate from my house at the top edge of the map
to my office in the middle, on "Center Street", of course. Two
lines of bright red, with a circle and a low number: I-1. Two exits:
my driveway and my office garage. Drawing the interstate was fun,
because I got to rip up a lot of streets in the poor part of town and
make the others dead-end, and swoop around the edge of Pond, and
follow Creek in long gentle curves.
enter WOMAN
WOMAN: (as Friend) Hi, Henry.
MAN: Hi, Alice. How are things in Accounting?
WOMAN: Well, OK. - Henry, -
MAN: Yes?
WOMAN: Henry, I think Ms Rhineheart and the Director are talking about
you. The door's closed.
MAN: That isn't logical.
WOMAN: What isn't?
MAN: Your deduction.
WOMAN: Yes it is, Henry. Whenever the door's closed they're
talking about you. I've overheard them.
MAN: Thanks for telling me.
WOMAN: What's that? A map? Is that Oakland? It's pretty.
MAN: FlexiCorp.
WOMAN: Their new plant?
MAN: Something like that. Navigation. How they get there, get back,
ship their stuff.
WOMAN: It's beautiful. Ever been there?
MAN: Where?
WOMAN: The site. That place. Where the new plant's going to go.
MAN: All the time.
WOMAN: Looks exciting! Better than this dull place. You could take me
there - for lunch or something. There must be a restaurant. There,
that's a main road, isn't it? Over there? - And what's that?
MAN: An airport.
MAN: (to himself) Big black thorax in the middle of its web, tempting
all the little planes to land on its sticky runways and watch the tiny
passengers try to get away.
WOMAN: I wouldn't have guessed. - That's no way to draw an
airport.
MAN: (started; his fantasy's been invaded) What?
WOMAN: I'll show you.
WOMAN takes one of MAN's pens and draws on the scroll.
WOMAN: See? There's more room for gates now. And better security.
MAN: Thanks.
WOMAN: And look there. What's that blue line?
MAN: A pond.
WOMAN: A pond needs a park, Henry.
MAN: Industrial parks are over here.
WOMAN: Not industrial, Henry, a real park. You know, smell the grass?
Have a picnic? Get some sun? Look. Here.
(draws on scroll)
MAN: Well ...
WOMAN: I think you're just too rigid about this, Henry. People need
places to play, ramble, just wander around. I'll bet every street
you have is just for cars.
MAN: And trucks.
WOMAN: OK, and trucks. What about people?
(draws)
There! a promenade! No cars allowed. That's - the door's
opening. I'd better leave.
WOMAN exits
MAN: (to himself) A perfect city, perfect suburbs. Streets, drives,
terraces, one way and two, lights timed for those unfortunates who
aren't allowed to drive on my interstate. There are only two exits,
anyway: my house, and my office. So there's no reason for anyone else
to come here, even to walk around, just wander, use the hospitals,
prisons, asylums if they ever get built. Here am I; no one else. -
But maybe ...
WOMAN enters
WOMAN: (as Boss) Mr Prince.
MAN: Yes.
WOMAN: Where is the FlexiCorp proposal?
MAN: Maybe next week.
WOMAN: Don't go home today until I've had a chance to speak with
you. Privately.
WOMAN exits
MAN: (to himself) My streets have names: Center, First, Second, Third,
and so on, and going the other way we have Maple, Alder, Redwood, Oak,
and when I ran out of patriotic trees I named streets for Presidents,
from Washington to Harrison - but then I forgot who came next, or
which Harrison I was at anyway.
WOMAN: enters
WOMAN: (as Friend) Was it bad?
MAN: Probably.
WOMAN: That's too bad.
MAN: I guess I'll have to leave.
WOMAN: Where will you go?
MAN: Somewhere on Alder Street, - about - between Third and
Fourth, I think.