Act. A grand Lesson from Scene. The Catcher in the Rye

Holden comes on stage. 

He is 209 years old.

He wears the clothes he did as a teenager. 

His red hunting cap has seen his entire life too.

There are tears in it.

Moths fly from the holes they have chewed out on the side.

It is very limp.

It's one of those things that looks like it smells.

Like... you can't smell it but you can just tell that it smells.

It probably smells really bad. 

He takes of his hat and holds it in front of himself with two hands.

He begins to speak.

Holden. Phony... You're a real prince you know that?... Where do the ducks go? Do you know? When it gets to be winter and the pond freezes over? Where do the ducks go when the pond freezes over? I asked that to the cab driver. I wasn't really asking what happens to the ducks in the winter when the pond freezes over... I was asking... what happens to me in the winter. What happens to me when everything stops. When things don't exist anymore...

Tears well up in his eyes. 

He uses his red hunting hat as a tissue.

He wipes his nose.

Then coughs into his hat... you know the way old men cough every once in a while.

He wipes his mouth and looks back up.

Holden. Don't ever tell anybody. Anything.  Ever. If you do... You start missing everybody.

We hear a strange noise from off stage. 

Holden looks in the direction.

It's a nasally sort of sound.

On stage waddles a duck.

It looks at Holden.

It waddles up and cuddles with Holden's ankle. 

Holden smiles.

Holden Cries.

END

END

Act. I think if I talk Scene. I'll throw up (cunt)

SO the guy has decided to go to bed right?

becuase he has fucked everything the fuck up.

his best friend is mad at him.

The girl he loves it mad at him.

So to avvoice a hang over he get himself some emergen-C and makes his bed.

he accidentally knocks the drink over

He. FUCK!!!

He makes  a new and cleans the mess.

This happens over and over and over and over and over a million times.

He cannot catch a break.

Welcome to my life.

END

Act. I think if I talk Scene. I'll throw up

\A man sits on stage.

Empty bottles of booze soround him.

In fact. 

They build a fortress.

They protect him.

Odd.

He finishes his last bottle of Tequila.

He adds to the piles. 

he looks at the audience.

As soon as he decides to say something he throws the fuck up everywhere.

everything is thrown up.

Every meal this man has ever ate is thrown up.

Egg yolks and nasty shit everywhere.

He stops.

He looks at the audience.

He. Why do I fuck everything up?

he throws up again.

He keeps throwing up untill the audience can no longer take it and leaves.

God forbid the man dies.

God forbid I die.

END

Act. Maybe it means Scene. Something else?

A girl stands on stage.

She has her keys in hand.

It's attached to a lanyard.

She speaks.

Girl. So here are my keys, right? I only have three. Is that sad? I'm not sure. Anyway- I have three. One is for my car and the other two are for my apartment. They both don't get me through my front door though. One is for my door and the other is for the laundry room. You see, I live in this big house that used to be just a house, but then got sectioned into several apartments. I'm number 4. And this one gets me in that door, and this one gets me in the laundry room. Which we all share. It's coin operated. It pisses me of sometimes. I hate going places and asking them to give me change for like... a buck. So when I don't have enough quarters laying around I usually go and get some McDonalds and buy something that costs like 2.10 or 3.o5 so I get a couple quarts back. Thats all I usually need anyway. It pisses me off sometimes though when My hands are full, say I'm bringing some groceries home and I take out my keys and put my door key in and find out its my laundry room key. They are identical- except for the fact the laundry room key has the smallest 'L' engraved on it. It's hard to see. So when I have groceries that I bought for myself and I try to unlock the door to my room apartment where I live by myself and I see that I put my laundry room key in... well... the Other day I looked down and saw the 'L' and was like "fuck!". Then I got to thinking... Maybe the L doesn't mean 'Laundry' maybe it means something else? Lonely. Or maybe Loser. Or maybe it just means Laundry. 

I don't know.

END

Act: I deserve this Scene: Because people love me. (cunt)

We last left our hero sitting in a chair waiting for the entire world to hug him. 

Several people came from several places to let this person know that love doesn't come everyday.

That you cannot just conjure up this feeling of being loved whenever you are not.

That sometimes you have to wait.

A very.

Long.

Time.

The scene ended with The french woman smoking her cigarettes.

And then coughing up one of her lungs.

I mean, it just bloodily splattered right in front of our hero.

The french woman extended her arm and flexed her finger to point at the organ, revealing her unshaved arm pits to our hero.

She opened her nicotine ridden lips and exclaimed.

"That is for you."

And everyone left.

So now.. let's join our hero as he sits in his chair with an unused lung right in front of him.

And... SCENE

The hero sits looking.

The lung does nothing.

The hero sits back and stops looking.

The lunch coughs.

The hero sits up in anticipation that the lung had said something to him.

hero. Pardon?

Lung. I wasn't talking to you.

hero. Oh...

The hero slumps back in his chair. 

His eyes are looking around the room searching for anyone, but his head is not. 

His head remains on the back most part of the chair he is sitting on.

He takes one final glance around the room.

Hoping there is some one there to just say at least one kind word.

That's all he really needed.

For someone to come up to him and say one nice thing.

"Nice hair."

"Nice Shoes."

"Nice Nails."

Any of these would suffice. 

(Though he would be undoubtedly confused about the last one. He bit his nails, you see. And they are anything but nice.)

There is no one. 

He slumps further down into his chair. 

Leans his head back farther than it was earlier. 

He looks up at the ceiling. 

If no person on earth would share with him, perhaps he can rely on his creator.

His eyes search the ceiling.

For something.

For anything.

Nothing.

His eyes begin to hurt from the long illuminating bulbs that are supposed to imitate day light.

There's 13 of them.

He counted.

The one to the right of the door is burnt out and doesn't work.

He closes his eyes.

But remains awake.

This is his last plea.

Perhaps someone will purge through the door.

Anyone.

Someone from Mexico to say his teeth are crooked.

A young man from Denmark to point and laugh at his bad hair day he's having.

Or even a young nurse with a cooler to collect the once living organ on the floor to take back to the hospital for a transplant. (Not sure how much good it would do, though)

Nothing happens. 

Nothing ever happens.

He wonders what he would do if someone did offer him help.

If his creator walked in the room and offered a hug.

Would he take it?

All signs point to yes. But he begins to re-evaluate his life.

Does he like being this way?

Does he enjoy the attention?

He has always been so fucking self less to everyone. 

He has dealt with Selfish friends his entire life. 

And he doesn't do it so he can later say, 'Hey buck-o. You owe me one.'

Not at all.

He does it because he loves his friends.

He loves them so fucking much.

He would do anything for him.

And the one time when he is desperate enough to ask for help... He sits there alone. 

In a room.

With a tobacco infested lung on the floor. 

The lung coughs again.

It has been coughing more and more lately. 

Our hero smells something sour in the air. 

Takes in a deep breath to try and analyze what it is.

He is cut off short. 

With his eyes close and body remaining perfectly calm, his brain makes a realization.

The lung and he have been there so lung, waiting for someone- that they have successfully converted all the oxygen that was at there disposal into carbon dioxide.

The hero can't get a breath.

But he doesn't flail about and panic as you expect someone would.

He lays back there and allows the poisonous gas to infect his body. 

Though his eyes shut.

He shuts his eyes.

He shuts his mouth.

His fingers turn from a soft clench fist into digits that seemingly hang by a string.

There is no more muscle tension in his body. 

His blood has decided to rest at whatever spot they were at.

The lungs take a nap.

The brain takes out it's favorite book.

And hit heart watches T.V.

And our Hero dies.

And the lung on the floor coughs.

END 

Act: Dust them off Scene: They're still good

A walks into a very dark room.

It is A's attic.

A is looking for something.

There is stuff everywhere.

Pilled up the rafters.

Cobwebs and dust blanket it all.

A goes through draws and trunks.

A pushes over mannequins and ladders.

A lifts up carpets.

Finally A sees it.

A. Ah! There!

A bends down and helps up B.

B has been laying there for 3.98 Thousand years.

A dusts B off.

B coughs. 

A mouth flies out of B's mouth.

They are both silent.

Then laugh at the funny little moth.

A. Hi.

B. Sup.

A can no longer contain it.

A breaks down and hugs B.

For dear life. 

A. I'm sorry.

B. It's okay. I was just chilling out. Do you wana do something?

A. Like what?

B. Not sure. What is it you do now?

A. I'm not sure.

B. You're not sure.

A. It's just that... I mean... I don't remember. All I can think about is all the stuff we used to do.

B. Let's do that then.

A and B both smile.

They are very happy.

A leads the way as they get out of the dusty attic.

It's hard to breath up there.

As B closes the door/ladder thingy on the floor, we look at the attic for a while.

As the night draws on the moon shines through one of those small circular window thingy's that are on the steeples of houses.

As the room is illuminated by the moon we see the bodies of other old friends laying on the ground.

Their faces are not emotionless.

But show little emotion.

They are not Mad.

They are not Happy.

They're waiting.

END

Act. James Dean Scene. Writes a Letter

---The First Movement: Only the gentle are ever really strong.---

James Dean sits on stage.

By himself.

He is smoking a cigarette. 

He is writing a letter. 

Barbara Glen walks on.

Barbara. It was as if suddenly you ceased to exist and he couldn't care less. You were an annoyance. And it was something, when he did it to me, that I just couldn't cope with. He wasn't a very social human being, or a nice person to a lot of people. Jimmy was not good at reaching out, he was so frightened of letting people in. He's show you some of himself, you'd really share something, and then you'd feel him backing off. He sensed his isolation, though he often caused it.

Paul Newman walks on stage.

Paul Newman. Hey Jimmy. What you rebelling against today?

James Dean. What you got for me, Paul Newman?

Jonathan Gilmore walks on stage.

Jonathan Gilmore. He asked me a great deal about myself. But he gave little in return- and then he seemed to regret sharing anything at all, as if to share was to give part of himself away. His intense interest in gay sex seemed as intense as his passion for the heroics of bullfighting or sculpture. He wanted to fool around, to do the forbidden thing, to be artsy, a renegade and an outside. But as for being a hustler or a whore -well, I don't know anyone who had an indication that was true. He never had to hustle, and he certainly was not some promiscuous madman.

James Dean looks up.

James Dean. Tell 'em about the night we had sex.

Jonathan Gilmore. Jimmy-

James Dean. Tell 'em! Hahaha

Jonathan Gilmore. Frankly... It just didn't work. He liked to do the weirdest thing.

James Dean. Tell 'em about Greenwich Village. That one time we went there. Hahaha

Jonathan Gilmore. Jimmy likes to go to Greenwich Village together. I would be dressed up as a woman. Very convincing, I might add. And he would go as my date. We would look like just an ordinary couple. Jimmy looked like the strange one. Everyone whispered and asked why is that handsome man with such an awkward, tall, lanky woman. We would have a few drinks in a bar and we would kiss and then pull the wig off my head and be completely shocked I was a man. We would stage a fight and then get drunkenly kicked out of the bar.

James Dean. Hahaha. It was fun.

Jonathan Gilmore. You were fun.

James Dean reads the letter he wrote.

James Dean. Got a new pair of shoes, honey. Shit! I'm so proud of them. Got a pair of pants, too. My uncle sent me 30 bucks and besides I deserved it. Made me feel good just to go in and get something. I would like to see you very much. I miss you too. Didn't figure on that too strong. But you just can't tell always, I guess. I'm getting sleepy. You write me real soon. You hear? Then I'll write again.

Barbara Glen. I wrote back. So did he.

James Dean. I never suspected on could know as few nice people as I know. My own damn fault. Everything is not just illusion. You are my proof. You have gone to Israel but you have not. I am very lonely for you. I am alone. THoughts are sweet, then wicked, then perverse, then penitent, then sweet. The moon is not blue. It hangs in the sky no more. 

James Dean takes a swig of Whiskey. 

He is almost to the bottom.

Almost.

James Dean. Please forgive me for such a sloppy letter, I'm a little drunk, drink quite a bit lately. You see, I don't know what's going on any more than you do. Remarkable lot, human beings. I care too.

Another swig.

James Dean. In antiphonal azure swing, soulds drone their unfinished melody... When did we live and when did we not? In my drunken stupod I said a gem. I must repeat it to you loved one. Let's see... "Great actors are often pretentious lives. THe pretentious actor, a great liver." (Don't get a headache over it.) God damnit!! I miss you... You're terribly missing. Come back. Maybe I can come up and see you. You think you need understanding? Who do you think you are? I could use a little myself. You're probably running around up there with all those handsome guys. When I get my boat, you'll be sorry.

Another swig.

Hope you're okay up there. Working pretty hard I guess. More than you can say for us poor thespians back here in the city. Got to move out of this crappy old apartment. Can't get along with nobody I guess. Make you feel good when you're not wanted.

James Dean stands up and smashed his bottle on the floor.

(This is the end of the first movement)

--The Second Movement: A Scene from Jimmy's Broadway debut show, " The Immoralist"

Marcelline is played by Barbara Glenn.

Michel is played by both Paul Newman and Jonathan Gilmore. They are tied at the waste with an obese man's belt.

MARCELLINE: Tell me how to accept it or to ignore it- to say to myself, this is only a fraction of him... How would we live together?

MICHEL: There are many kinds of marriages, and people sacrifice many things to hold on to them... We must promise nothing- except to like each other as we are.

MARCELLINE: You want me to accept all of you.

MICHEL: That's what our child will want.

MARCELLINE: I can do it for him.

MICHEL: Can you? Can I? And what will happen to him if we don't?

MARCELLINE: We must learn, Michel. A good way will be to practice on each other.

They stand there contemplating what to do.

Forever.

(This is the end of the second movement)

---The Third Movement: Another scene from the immoralist---

Bachir is played by James Dean.

Michel is still played by Paul and Jonathan under the same conditions.

BACHIR. Soon the warm season will come and I can spend the nights in the orchards.

MICHEL. The orchards?

BACHIR. Yes, sir- the trees are filled with fruits; dates, figs, oranges, everything grows in the orchards. Many boys tend the crops, the earts, the goats. They are very beautiful, those places.

MICHEL. Where are they?

BACHIR. Which one, sir?

MICHEL. I don't know- the one you seem so poetic about.

BACHIR. They are all out there beyond those walls. It is always green and cool and they live like a thousand years ago.

MICHEL. And do whole families live there?

BACHIR. There are no families. Only men and boys Beautiful men. They live without women.

MICHEL. Oh. That is not very interesting.

BACHIR. You asked me, sir.

MICHEL. You misunderstood me! And you eat disgustingly, Bachir!

BACHIR. Yes, sir. I think so. I am very healthy and disgusting.

James Dean breaks from the scene.

James Dean. Kiss me.

Jonathan Gilmore. What?

James Dean. Kiss me.

Paul Newman. I didn't hear that.

Jonathan Gilmore. Okay.

They kiss.

(This is the end of the Third Movement)

---The Fourth Movement: A bottomless well- no love was enough---

James Dean is back with another whiskey.

He is writing another letter.

James Dean. I don't like people here. I like it home in New York. and I liked you and I want to see you. Must I always be miserable? I try so hard to make people reject me. Why? I don't want to write this letter. I would be better to remain silent. Wow! I am fucked up!... I DONT KNOW WHERE I AM.

Takes a swig

James Dean. Rented a car for 2 weeks it cost me 138 bucks. I WANT TO DIE... I HAVEN'T BEEN TO BED WITH NOBODY and won't until after the picture and I am home safe in NYC. Sounds unbelievable but its the trust I swear. So hold everything. Stop breathing, Stop the town-- all of NYV until (should have trumpets there) James Dean returns.

Takes another swig

James Dean. Am I fucked up! I got no motorcycle, I got no girl. HONEY- shit, writing in capitals doesn't seem to help either. Haven't found a place to live yet, still living with my folks. HONEY. Kazan sent me out here to get a tan, haben't seen the sun yet (Fog & Smog). He wanted me healthy looking. I look like a prune. Don't run away from home at too early an age or you'll half to take vitamins the rest of your life. Wish you cooked. I'll be home soon.

Another swig.

James Dean. Write me please. I am sad most of the time. Awful lonely too isn't it. I hope you're dying, Because I am.

James Dean stands up and smashed the bottle on the floor.

(This is the end of the fourth movement)

--The Fifth movement: Razor Blade Bed---

Marlon Brando comes on stage.

Marlon Brando. A very tough guy- James Dean was. They say he slept on razor blades and put cigarettes out on his hand. He needed people to love him, never mind that he didn't love them in return. He was like a bottomless well. He latched on to people he liked, took what he needed and was quick to drop them before they might drop him. A bottomless well. No love was enough.

(This is the end of the fifth and final movement.