 |
THESIS PAGES: PLAYS
David Ervin
(Playwriting, 2006)
|
|
The Tree Thing
JOE, 30, stands next to a tree in a school yard. He holds a slip of paper.
A woman approaches him.
WOMAN
Can I help you?
JOE
Hmm? No. I’m just waiting.
WOMAN
Waiting?
JOE
Yes.
WOMAN
This is a school yard.
JOE
I know.
WOMAN
Are you a parent?
JOE
No. Well, yes, but my kid is two. She’s not in school yet.
WOMAN
So what are you waiting for?
JOE
Does it matter?
WOMAN
I can’t allow you to just hang out in a school yard.
JOE
Can’t allow me? What are you, the principal?
WOMAN
Yes.
JOE
I’m not hurting anything. I’m here for an appointment.
WOMAN
Well, you’ll have to call your appointment and tell them
you’ll meet up at some other time.
JOE
I’m not a child molester or anything.
WOMAN
Good day, sir.
JOE
No, you see, I’m waiting to see if someone else will show up.
For the tree.
WOMAN
Excuse me?
JOE
The tree. I went here when I was a kid—k through fifth. In third grade,
Ms. Johnson’s class, we planted this tree.
WOMAN
Uh-huh.
JOE
Yeah—we, uh, got this slip of paper. See? (He hands it to her.)
WOMAN (reads)
We plant this tree with little hands
Little women little men
In twenty years the seeds we’ve sewn
Will have blossomed, will have grown
We’ll meet again on this same day,
At this same time in this same way
In twenty years beneath this tree
How much we’ve grown we all shall see.
(To JOE)
That’s sweet.
JOE
Yeah, so—what time is it, 3:05? I’m a little late. You think everyone
else left?
WOMAN
You’ve kept that paper all these years?
JOE
Yeah. (Beat) Who’m I kidding? I’m thirty years old. Everyone else
in Ms. Johnson’s class is thirty years old. They’ve got better things
to do with their time.
WOMAN
I knew Ms. Johnson.
JOE
Oh, yeah?
WOMAN
She became Mrs. Gray. Retired about five years ago.
JOE
Really?
WOMAN
She did this with her class every year.
JOE
What, the tree thing?
WOMAN
Yeah. That one there—class of ’94. That one—class of ’91.
That one over there—’88.
JOE
I don’t see one over there.
WOMAN
That’s because it’s a Walgreens.
JOE
That’s sad. Well, maybe I’ve got the wrong tree.
WOMAN
There’s no one else here. In fact, I don’t think anyone’s ever actually
come back to see their tree.
JOE
Seriously?
WOMAN
Most people lose the slip of paper after twenty years. Or forget. Or don’t care.
Don’t you think?
JOE
That’s pessimistic.
WOMAN
I suppose.
JOE
Look how small it is. I mean, it’s not tiny—but I expected it to be a lot
bigger. Maybe this is the wrong tree.
WOMAN
She put a little plaques next to them. (Kneels down and digs a little with
her hands.) There.
JOE
Nineteen eighty-five. This is the tree. There were twenty-four of us in that
class. (Looks around) Thought it’d be bigger.
WOMAN
It’s a nice tree, Joe.
JOE
I guess. (Beat) Did you just call me Joe?
WOMAN
No.
JOE
How do you know my name? (Beat; he looks closer) Amber Sullivan?
WOMAN
Yes.
JOE
I sat across from you.
AMBER
You used to kick my shins under the table.
JOE
You came. I can’t believe you came. You’re the principal? Wow.
AMBER
I’m not the principal.
JOE
You lied?
AMBER
I wanted to make sure you weren’t a child molester.
JOE
I’m not. (Beat) I lied, too. I don’t have a daughter.
AMBER
Why would you lie about that?
JOE
I don’t know.
AMBER
So where do you live now?
JOE
Chicago.
AMBER
Chicago?
JOE
Yeah. Where do you live?
AMBER
Right across the street. I lived next door to Mrs. Gray. Ms. Johnson.
JOE
Lived?
AMBER
She passed away last year. (Beat) So you came all the way from Chicago
just to see the tree?
JOE
No, no. Family reunion—you know.
AMBER
Uh-huh.
JOE
So are you married?
AMBER
Divorced. You?
JOE
Bachelor.
AMBER
What do you do?
JOE
Accounting. I’m an accountant.
AMBER
Cool.
JOE
No it’s not. What do you do?
AMBER
Bank. Customer service rep.
JOE
Oh, that’s—
AMBER
Terrible.
JOE
You look great. I hardly recognized you.
AMBER
I was an ugly kid.
JOE
No, I didn’t mean—
AMBER
It’s okay, I was. You look good, too.
JOE
I got fat.
AMBER
No, you look nice. (Beat) If you didn’t recognize me I wasn’t going to fess up.
To coming to this.
JOE
Why not?
AMBER
I don’t know. It’s kind of embarrassing.
JOE
You think you’re embarrassed? You crossed the street for this thing. I flew
in from Chicago.
AMBER
Well, it’s nice to see you. (She reaches in her pocket and pulls out the paper.)
I still have my slip, too. What a terrible poem, huh?
JOE
I actually wrote it.
AMBER
Really?
JOE
I thought it was pretty good for a third-grader, but—
AMBER
So you were a poet?
JOE
Once upon a time.
AMBER
Hey—once a poet always a poet, huh?
JOE
Yeah.
AMBER
I used to write, too. When I was a kid. No idea when I stopped. Or why.
JOE
This is depressing. Ms. Johnson had to know what she was doing.
The only people who show up to stuff like this are the ones who haven’t
done much blossoming. If I’m all grown up and happy and standing big and tall
like a tree then why would I come all the way back to it twenty years later
to meet up with some kids I knew way back when? The ones who’ve actually got
something to show for the last twenty years have better things to do than meet
under a tree.
AMBER
Wow. What do I say to that?
JOE
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean you—but—
AMBER
No—you’re right. I mean, when I was nine years old I stood here digging a little
hole, and twenty years later I’ve moved exactly fifty yards to a little place
across the street. Haven’t stopped digging.
JOE
Didn’t you think that thirty would feel a lot older?
AMBER
I’m still 29. I may never reach thirty.
JOE
Believe me, it’s a relief when you do. Hearing the footsteps behind you can be
more terrifying than the actual thing. But I don’t feel grown-up, you know?
AMBER
I thought by now I’d have all the answers.
JOE
I thought by now I’d have a family.
AMBER
I thought by now I’d have fallen in love.
JOE
I thought by now this damn tree would have been a lot bigger.
AMBER
How long are you in town, Joe?
JOE
Couple of days, a week—forever.
AMBER
You don’t know?
JOE
I lost my job last month. Since I lost my job I lost my apartment. My mind
is next on the list, right? I just wanna get out of the city. Start over.
AMBER
Is that why you came back? To your old home? To this tree?
JOE
I don’t know why I came.
AMBER
I do.
JOE
Oh yeah?
AMBER
So you could have coffee with me.
JOE
You think so?
AMBER
Yeah.
JOE
Maybe you’re right.
(They share a smile.)
AMBER
But you have to promise me you won’t kick my shins under the table.
JOE
It’s a deal.
AMBER
It’s a nice tree, Joe. It really is.
(They exit.)
LIGHTS DOWN
DAVID ERVIN is a playwright from Mansfield, Texas. He has recently
received his M.A. in Creative Writing from Boston University. His work
has been produced throughout Texas and in the Boston area.
(c) copyright 2006, David Ervin; author retains all rights.
|
|
|
|
