This is the first act of a play designed to be performed in small venues called "Three Duets and a Coda.". It only requires a small stage and a set of three tables--most of the action occurs at meetings for coffee. It can even be performed at coffeehouses and bars that don't generally host dramas.
All of the three encounters--the "duets"--revolve around music. The Coda occurs in a car as a father drives his daughter back to college for her senior year. This one kicks off the play, and is entitled "Derek and Patti."
First Duet: Derek and Patti
The curtain rises on a man and a woman seated at a small outside table at a cafe. They are both relatively young, in their early to mid-twenties, and fashionably yet casually dressed.
The MAN has a slight beard, almost a Van Dyke, and wears almost-new blue jeans, an untucked long-sleeved shirt open to the third button with the sleeves rolled up, a worn fedora, and is lugging along an acoustic guitar, with which he will pick a few chords randomly throughout their conversation. He projects a cool and world-weariness of someone much older, but while retaining a youthful energy – a cross between Russell Brand, Eric Clapton and Adam Levine. He has just stubbed out a cigarette.
The WOMAN is classically beautiful, naturally stunning without trying. She is wearing a wispy and flowing skirt, long and cream-colored, a loose blouse also open to the third button, and has a worn handbag. She takes a small notebook out of the purse as soon as she sits down, as if it is her ritual.
A WAITER comes up, neatly dressed in black pants, white shirt and loose tie. It is clear that this is a neat and trendy cafe, informal but not cheap, likely to be patronized by many others who closely resemble this couple.
WAITER: What would you like sir?
MAN: I'll have a beer, a Guinness. And make sure the glass is cold. Not one of those that just got out of the dishwasher and turns good beer into lukewarm soup.
WOMAN: I'll have an espresso please. (The WAITER exits.)
MAN: How's your day? Anything exciting happen?
WOMAN: Nope. (Noticing the beer in front of him) Isn't it a bit early to be drinking a beer? It's barely 10:30.
MAN: That's why I didn't order a shot of rye whiskey with it. (She gives a disapproving smirk.). Isn't it a bit early to be so judgmental?
WOMAN: It is early – that's why I need it. The caffeine, not the judgment. I just find it a great way to jump-start my day
MAN: That's why I need it too, liquid jumper cables for my mental battery. I guess I should order a Killian's too – I need both red and black cables, positive and negative.
MAN: So it's OK for you to hit the caffeine hard? Why is your addiction OK – because it's more popular?
WOMAN: I like coffee in the morning, but I don't need it. I'm not an addict.
MAN: Bet if you go a day without coffee, you get a splitting headache. It's called withdrawal. Trust me, I know.
WOMAN: Fine, I'll admit that I'm hooked on caffeine. But surely you recognize that there's a difference between coffee and booze.
MAN: You know how tough these early mornings are after a late night. And come on, we're talking Guinness – it's full of vitamins, barley, hops – practically breakfast in a glass.
WOMAN: I'm not asking you to go Amish. Just ease up a little. I don't want you to become a cliché. At least not until you're a rock star (grinning). Apparently addiction adds gravitas to the music. Speaking of gravitas, getting inspired enough to write any new songs?
MAN: Nah, still stuck in the same grind. We're getting tighter as a band, but it takes time: practice in the afternoons, at least one show a night, an after party or two. Lather, rinse, repeat. If I'm lucky, I get a few hours to write in the morning.
WOMAN: Well don't let me interrupt that here.
MAN: If anything, you're more likely to be an inspiration than a distraction. And I'm the one who asked you here, remember?
WOMAN: That's right. . .. See? Told you I'm not worth a damn until I get some coffee coursing through my veins. You should write a song called “Caffeine.” Make it all sad and bluesy, then speed it up at the end, swirling to a manic finish.
MAN: (deadpan) I'll put it on my to-do list. (Feigning empathy) So is your job still such a chore for you too?
WOMAN: A little. (The WAITER arrives with their drinks, and she takes a small but lingering sip of the espresso.) Aaaah, that's what I'm talking about.
I didn't mean to sound whiny or ungrateful – work is fine. It's just a little tedious now because we're fine-tuning most of the clothes, which means that we rush to make small changes in the design or cut, then we have to sit around for everyone involved to make comments, and then we race to make more changes, and so on. It's pretty ridiculous, but I knew that when I decided to work in a ridiculous industry.
MAN: But you like it on that side of the biz, right?
WOMAN: Absolutely. Sure it was easy to just take what they gave us, put in on, walk a few hundred feet, twirl once, and walk back. But good God, it was boooooring! And I couldn't eat, not even healthy food – how idiotic is that? A profession based on your ability to starve yourself or make yourself vomit? I love steaks and cheese and scones too much.
MAN: But you made a shitload of money doing that.
WOMAN: That's a good word for it. And I was young, and the money and the attention was flattering. But as I grew up, I saw it for what is was, and I wasn't willing to do that, for any price.
MAN: Was it really so awful?
WOMAN: It was dehumanizing. I was a glorified hanger made of flesh for someone else's ideas, or in the worst instances, someone else's lack of ideas. At least now, even when the process is silly or frustrating, I know that at least some of me is in the design. I'll take ridiculous and creative over boring and inhumane any day. I get to be a person, not just a model of one.
MAN: Sometimes I feel a like that when I play, like I'm a monkey performing on a stage. Even though you'd think that I have so much creative freedom, I'm still a victim of people's expectations – their ideas of what rock or folk should be, their concept of the blues.
If I expand on those concepts a little, great – I'm a genius. But if I go too far and depart from what they came to hear me play, I'm an idiot or a poseur. Or worse of all, an intellectual.
WOMAN: I don't think you'll ever be accused of that (grinning).
MAN: Thanks a lot (feigning mock outrage, but a little stung).
WOMAN: But you didn't ask me here to discuss art, did you? We could have done that back at our place, smoking weed. You're over there enough.
MAN: Well, I don't have to be hanging out with your boyfriend to have a conversation with you, do I? (He starts to strum very soft chords on the guitar)
WOMAN: Depending on how wedded to traditional ideas of gender roles and relationships, maybe. He'd have been here right now, except he had his usual Thursday morning meeting with his manager. (squinting) But you knew that, didn't you?
MAN: He might have mentioned it. And isn't that just like him? Everything like clockwork, always set to a schedule. Talk about tedium . . . .
WOMAN: Being organized and disciplined isn't tedious, at least not for him. It frees him up to have more energy to devote to music and other creative or spiritual endeavors.
MAN: Oh Christ, I forgot about his 'spiritual endeavors.' Do you believe all that religious mumbo-jumbo?
WOMAN: I don't believe what he believes, but I respect it, and him for pursuing it. You could use a little spirituality yourself.
MAN: That's OK, I don't feel like bending my knee to anyone, real or imaginary. And anyhow, my God is music. (Bowing with a flourish to his guitar)
WOMAN: So in other words, you're an atheist?
MAN: Nah, I don't have enough faith for that.
WOMAN: What do you mean?
MAN: Being an atheist is like giving the finger to God. And not just one God, but ALL of them: Allah, Buddha, Yahweh, Krishna, Mao, every single deity that's in the running for the top job. To do that, you've got to be really sure there's no God. I don't have that kind of absolute certainty that I'm right – so I'll play the 'Pass' line and stick with being agnostic.
WOMAN: Well, isn't that playing things safe.
MAN: For a change.
WOMAN: I'll grant you that. Your problems usually don't stem from taking too few risks.
MAN: I agree. But there is one area that I am a total wimp, a coward who plays it totally safe – romance.
WOMAN: Really? I can't remember a week when you haven't had a different woman on your arm.
MAN: True, but those are just women, not true objects of my affection. Sex is easy; love is a lot riskier.
WOMAN: That's almost profound. Almost.
MAN: I mean it. You know how serious I can be, especially about things that a lot of people see as abstract: art, literature, music . . .
WOMAN: Well, you did punch that guy who said that Tolstoy was full of shit.
MAN: Then he kicked my ass. (Laughing) I guess he showed me who knew more about 'War and Peace'. War won.
WOMAN: So am I to conclude that you spend your nights bedding beautiful women because you are soooo sensitive that you're terrified of true love. How hopelessly romantic, yet conveniently hedonistic. Rubbish!
MAN: I'm not going to rationalize it that completely. But if I am not able find my one true love, my true –
WOMAN: (Interrupting) Don't you dare say 'soulmate'!
MAN: I was going to say 'beloved.'
WOMAN: That's even cheesier. (Shaking her head in disdain) Sheesh.
MAN: Only if it isn't meant sincerely. Let's ignore the semantics, and just pretend that we can agree on a word that means the one who we're meant to be with romantically, and who we will spend the rest of our life with.
If one can't find that person, what's wrong with spending time entangled with an interesting, attractive woman? Must the consolation prize for failing to our true companion be a punishment? Are you that cold?
WOMAN: I have no problem with adults deciding who to be with, why to be there, and doing whatever they want together. But we both know that many of your entanglements aren't quite that transparent. You may not have broken any hearts, but you've definitely left several in need of repair. How gently does that rest on your conscience?
MAN: Not as easily as you might think. Would it matter if I told you that in every case, I warned them that I couldn't commit to them and it might end sadly and suddenly?
WOMAN: A little. But are you truly so self-centered that you can't see how that might make you even more alluring to them?
MAN: I realize that. But what other choice to I have? Is telling them that they just might be “the One”, which I know is a lie, any better? Either way, you play the love game, you know you might get hurt.
WOMAN: But I thought that love was serious to you, how can it be a game? And is that damn guitar you drag around a prop?
MAN: I was using 'game' as a metaphor. I only mean that anyone decides to pursue love knows there is always a risk of getting hurt.
Or they should.
As to the guitar, it's not a prop, but maybe a reminder of my first real love. I almost think of this beauty as a woman – beautiful curves, temperamental tone, I have to lightly strum her just right...
WOMAN: Comparing a woman to a musical instrument is no compliment. It's just gross.
MAN: Am I? B.B. King named his guitar Lucille, Jimi Hendrix carried his guitar everywhere too – it's a way to make it part of me, an extension of my body.
WOMAN: First, you're not Hendrix. And second, the guitar as “an extension of my body”? Could you be more Freudian?
And creepy?
MAN: I know I'm not Hendrix or B.B., but a good student learns from the masters. I want my playing to be instinctive, not refined and diluted. The guitar cannot be a medium between my mind and the sound – it has to become an afterthought.
WOMAN: Fine, you're Jimi's long-lost bastard child.
But getting back to your idea of love as an all-or-nothing, headlong rush toward a cliff – I get it. Love is important, it's dangerous, so people can and will get hurt.
But my real question for you is, why is it always someone else? Isn't that damn convenient?
MAN: A little. But have you considered that maybe I hide how much it really hurts? As time goes on, and more of my relationships have fallen by the wayside, even if that woman wasn't the right one, it stings that I'm still so far from happiness. Not as convenient as you might think.
WOMAN: So why not change? Grow up, man up, whatever the proper phrase is?
MAN: I want to. I'm trying.
WOMAN: Saying you want to change is easy; doing it is the hard part.
MAN: I agree.
WOMAN: So what are you going to do?
MAN: Try to be more honest. Admit that I want love, and go after it, headlong and completely. Take big chances romantically, knowing that it will hurt more, but in the end, that's the only way to get what I really want.
WOMAN: (shaking her head back and forth as if she was dosed with smelling salts) This is too intense for 11 in the morning. How did we get into this deep of a conversation anyhow?
MAN: You told me that I don't usually play things safe; I disagreed.
WOMAN: Well, you were right.
Next topic: why did you ask me here in the first place? You're not exactly a breakfast person.
MAN: Connect the dots, genius. (smiling apprehensively)
WOMAN: (realizing why she's there this morning) Ooooh noooo, you have got to be kidding. You're kidding, right?
MAN: (looking her directly in the eye) I sincerely wish I was. Really I do.
[The WAITER walks by, and she catches his attention]
WAITER: Another espresso?
WOMAN: A coffee. Make that an Irish coffee, please.
MAN: Well now that we're drinking like the Irish, I'll have another Guinness, WAITER! (Majestically) And a scone for the lady.
(The WAITER walks off, and The Man chuckles, while The Woman looks uncomfortable).
WOMAN: So that's why you waited until he went to his manager's? To seduce me with what – scones and boozy breath? If that's your plan, you fucked up royally.
MAN: How about sincerity? Does passion and heartfelt emotion really mean so little to you?
WOMAN: It means plenty. But I'm not sure that it's so much heartfelt (pointing toward his chest) as hardfelt (pointing toward his crotch).
MAN: That's a low blow, isn't it? (Realizing his bad pun) And for real, no pun intended. Is that how little you think of me?
WOMAN: I'm not trying to be cruel or insult you, but how well do you really know me? You only met me three months ago.
MAN: Yes, and I've seen you almost every day since then.
WOMAN: When I was with another man.
MAN: Yes.
WOMAN: Who happens to be your best friend.
MAN: Yes.
WOMAN: Who's best friend wants to sleep with his girlfriend.
MAN: Yes. (Realizing what he just admitted) I mean no! (Shaking his head like she shook hers, as if to wake from a bad dream) I mean, yes, I do want to sleep with you, but that's not all I want from you, and with you . . .
WOMAN: My, does that sound as pervy to you as it does to me?
MAN: Please don't twist my words, you know I'm not as clever as you are. (Almost a whisper)
I mean I want sex and more, a real relationship, a deep love: marriage, kids, the whole deal.
WOMAN: Again, you don't even know me.
MAN: And he does? George has only known you a few months more than me.
WOMAN: It's not just a quantity thing, it's quality. He's better at connecting with people on a deeper level than you are.
MAN: (sarcastically) On a spiritual level, right?
WOMAN: Is he really your best friend? Or he just a guy who likes the same music and beer as you? Why would you say something like that about him? Why wouldn't you realize how distasteful that makes you seem in my eyes, so disloyal and petty?
MAN: I don't mean to knock him like that, and there may be a little envy in the way that he really does connect emotionally better with people. But we've known each other for a decade. I'm so goddam sick of hearing how spiritual and deep he is – I've seen the guy crack fart jokes, I've seen him grab a boob while drunk, I'm seen him lie in order to avoid paying for a drink. Spiritual my ass, he's no more deep or connected than I am; I'm just brutally honest about it.
WOMAN: So what is it that you find so compelling in me?
MAN: Everything. Even now, as you look at me with barely concealed mockery in your eyes and a sneer on your lips, all I see is a beautiful, intelligent woman with so much going for her. I love the way you walk, the way you talk, everything you do – you're like a goddess who did something wrong and her punishment was to be sent to live with us mere mortals.
WOMAN: I hate to burst your bubble, but I'm not a goddess. I'm just as 'mortal' as you seem to despise. Hell, I may have even have cracked a fart joke or two in my day as well.
MAN: And I bet it was graceful and lovely and endearing when you did.
WOMAN: Don't you think all of this is a bit over the top? A little pie in the sky? I like idealism, but I abhor stupidity.
MAN: So what if it is? Isn't love supposed to be optimistic and passionate, and maybe even a little stupid? Shouldn't romance and passion be worthy of veneration?
WOMAN: But aren't you really just passionate about passion? IA guy who's in love with love?
MAN: (excitedly) If I am, aren't there are worse flaws?
(more calmly, respectfully) How did Keats put it: “truth is beauty, and beauty truth; that's all you know, and all you need to know.” – Ode to a Grecian Urn, right?
WOMAN: Yes. Actually, I'm pretty sure that you have the title wrong, and you got the quote backwards: “beauty is truth, truth beauty.”
MAN: (Annoyed) I didn't know that there would have been a quiz, or I would have taken better notes.
(now almost pleading) But you get my point, don't you? Why shouldn't we shoot for the stars? If we're not going to for it in love, then what? If truth and beauty aren't things to aspire to, to worship and chase and strive for, with all our hearts and being, then what is worthy of us?
WOMAN: (gently) I admire your ardor, really I do. And I respect your idealism, your willingness to ask the big questions, and chase their answers with all your might.
But I'm not truth. I'm not beauty. I'm just a girl. With dreams and passion and strengths, just like you. But also with flaws and weaknesses. Silly biases, and foolish pride.
MAN: You sell yourself so short! I look in your eyes, and watch the curl of your smile when you think nobody is watching, and at that moment – that precise moment – I'm no longer an agnostic. You calm my worried mind, for once you make me believe in the divine – because it's sitting not five feet from me!
WOMAN: (now near tears) I'm so very touched. Really I am. Thank you, Derek. Thank you, because I know you mean all of this with so much heart and sincerity..
But don't you see how what you say hurts me so? It's not fair to see only the good in me, only the beauty. It diminishes me to ignore my flaws, to pretend that I lack basic human weaknesses. It polishes me from a real person into an ideal, a dainty figurine.
(She pauses for a moment and sighs) Do you know why Keats called that poem “Ode on a Grecian Urn? Do you know why it matters that it's a not just any urn, but a Grecian one?
MAN: No, I have no idea. Does that matter?
WOMAN: I think it does.
Think about the Greek art you've seen, on TV and museums, how their statutes look in the Parthenon. The Venus de Milo – putting aside the missing arms, she is elegance in every way.
The Greeks only made statues of gods and goddesses and heroes – never ordinary people like farmers, housewives, or merchants. The Romans would depict people from every walk of life, every station—but not the Greeks. They were always looking for the divine, the perfection in everyday life – even the urns were designed to be flawless. I think you'd be right at home in ancient Greece, and I mean that as a compliment.
MAN: I think I would too. And I'd want you there with me. You are as lovely and noble as any one of those magnificent works of art, a true goddess. And I although I refuse to worship anything, I would get down on my knees for you. For you, Layla.
WOMAN: I would hate that Greece and that time. Look carefully at those statues, those perfect men and women who lived on Mount Olympus. Look closely at their eyes.
(Dreamily, almost talking to herself) So perfect, yet empty. Soulless. Ideal, but not real. Soulless.
(She pulls out some money as a tip and places it under her plate)
MAN: I love your soul, Layla. (Pleading)
Don't leave me. Let me give you consolation in those dark times, and be with you during the good.
I want you so much. I'm begging, darling. (Gets down on his knees, pleading) Please.
WOMAN: I'm sorry Derek, I really am. (Getting up from the table)
I don't want to sound mad or cruel, but let me be perfectly clear (speaking firmly and without anger but with passion):
I am not a meat hanger for clothes . . .
I am not a fucking guitar, and I am damn sure of one last thing:
I am NOT a goddam Grecian urn!