It’s Not In The PI
A living Newspaper about a Dying Newspaper
(Lights up. A kitchen. Coffee is brewing. Next to the
coffee maker are two travel mugs. The door to the
outside is open. After a moment a Matt Nilson comes in
from outside. He is carrying a paper. He brings it to
the table and sits. He opens it and begins reading the
comics. They aren’t the ones he likes. A woman enters,
also dressed for work.
During the following
conversation she moves fluidly around the kitchen
getting things for her lunch.)
WOMAN: You’re still here?
MATT: Mmm?
WOMAN: I thought you’d be gone.
MATT: Oh, we forgot to reset the timer on the coffee machine. I
started it.
WOMAN: Shoot. Sorry.
MATT: No, it’s… . Comic editor at The Times is a moron.
WOMATT: Hmmm.
WOMAN: Anyone else going to this thing.
MATT: I hope so. Misery loves company.
WOMAN: It might be good.
MATT: It might be depressing confirmation that news people
have no transferrable skills.
WOMAN: Yeah. Tell the workshop person that and you’ll
probably get to come home early.
MATT: Oprah has Dennis Quaid on today.
WOMAN: My father warned me you were shallow.
MATT: You love me because I’m shallow.
WOMAN: Right. The unemployed is kind of a bonus though.
MATT: I’m reminded why I like to get out of here before you’re
up.
WOMAN: Wimp.
(Pause.)
MATT: Here ya go: Pisces: Do not trust anyone today, even
close friends. Today is a day of conservation, so resist your risky
impulses.
MATT: The Wizard of Id, Peanuts, Garfield. They’re still
wasting ink on Crankshaft!
WOMAN: You’re not a Pisces.
WOMAN: You’re becoming that guy.
MATT: You’re a Pisces.
MATT: Ha ha.
WOMAN: I’m Aries.
MATT: No you’re not. You are?
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(She hands him his coffee.)
WOMAN: Here you go, sweetie. You just drink this and you’ll
feel better.
MATT: (Getting up) You’re a Pisces, you’re just messing with
me. That’s what Pisces do.
WOMAN: Stan and Viv are coming tonight. Can you hit Whole
Foods on your way home?
MATT: Crap.
WOMAN: (Picking up the section of the paper he’s been
reading) I think salmon might be better. Don’t forget your
comics.
MATT: Wow, you’re on a roll. Do we still have some
asparagus?
WOMAN: No.
MATT: You leaving too?
WOMAN: I’m on your heels.
(They are exiting.)
MATT: Can we switch cars. You pass that Arco, you can fill up
cheaper.
WOMAN: I hate your car.
(They are gone. A town crier in old English garb
wanders into their kitchen. He picks up the paper
and carries it to a pool of light. He reads:
CRIER:
Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye! Lucy is flying Linus’
special blanket as a kite. Linus approaches. Linus is shocked.
He confronts Lucy. Lucy turns to respond. While turning she lets
go of the kite string. The blanket floats away. Linus reacts with
horror. Lucy says: ‘Good grief.’ That is all.
(The Crier gives the paper to a man sitting in a
comfy chair and leaves. The man opens the
paper. Lights rise on six or seven desks facing a
large screen displaying a PowerPoint slide which
reads “Understanding Your Value as a
Corporate Contributor”. At the desks sit a
variety of people, some bored, some vaguely
hostile, one woman knits. In front sits former P-I
science reporter Matt Nilsen. The instructor,
dressed in a smart suit, addresses the class with
verve and optimism.)
INSTRUCTOR: So what I’d like to do now is brainstorm some
answers to these key questions about your role at the P-I. First,
how did you fulfill your company’s mission?
(The instructor clicks a remote to swoop this
question onto the screen in some nifty
PowerPointy way.)
Let’s put some answers down. I don’t need full sentences
here, just jot down all the things that come to mind about the ways
you fulfilled the P-I’s corporate mission.
(The instructor pauses while the students write
down their responses. Matt doesn’t move.
Instead he sighs and stares blankly ahead.)
Okay. Good, now the same thing for this question:
(Again the instructor clicks the remote such
that the question appears simultaneously with
the verbal asking.)
How did you contribute to your company’s bottom line?
(Again a pause, again Matt does nothing.)
So, Matt, I see you haven’t written anything. You must be
one of those guys who keeps it all in his head.
3
MATT: Nope.
INSTRUCTOR: So what would you say to the first question?
(General laughter. The class has suddenly
become interesting.
Various people
mumble encouragement to Matt.)
INSTRUCTOR: Hey Matt, I’m not the enemy. I’m just trying to
help you build your resume.
MATT: Nothing.
MATT: Why?
INSTRUCTOR: Nothing?
INSTRUCTOR: “Why?”
MATT: I have no clue how I fulfilled the corporate mission. I
guess I sort of hope I didn’t.
(A few of the other classmates
chuckle at this.)
INSTRUCTOR: Okay, how bout the second. I know you
contributed to the P-I’s bottom line somehow or they wouldn’t
have kept you on staff.
MATT: They didn’t keep me on staff, remember?
INSTRUCTOR: Yes, well, how long did you work there prior to
being laid off?
MATT: 26 years.
INSTRUCTOR: Wow! Impressive. So during that time how did
you contribute to the P-I’s bottom line?
MATT: I have no clue. What was their bottom line? None of us
know. The Hearst company is private. We never knew squat
about the financials.
INSTRUCTOR: Well, be that as it may. You still contributed to
making the paper a profitable entity.
MATT: Yeah, I mean it’s not like we’re from some company that
went belly up and we’ll be looking for jobs at a similar company.
All the papers are going belly up. No one’s hiring reporters.
INSTRUCTOR: Well, that may be true, but I look around this
room and see a bunch of good people—
MATT: Good people? I just said we’re reporters. (laughter)
Have you ever even been in a newsroom?
INSTRUCTOR: No, I’m sorry to say I haven’t. What was it like?
MATT: Well, (looking around) it wasn’t too much different from
this: bunch of people sitting at desks, only it wasn’t so sullen and
silent. There was chaos. Life.
(The lights shift and the class becomes the P-I
newsroom. A bustling cacophony. During the
following mishmash of phone calls, the lights
sharpen on the individual reporter talking, while
the rest of the newsroom continues in an
animated murmur.)
REPORTER 1: P-I, this is Lemonchek.
MATT: That’s a hell of an accusation. Can you back it up?
CALLER 1: Yeah, the library’s on fire.
4
CALLER 3: Hey, what time is M*A*S*H on tonight?
REPORTER 1: What?
REPORTER 4: P-I. Phelan.
CALLER 1: The library’s on fire.
CALLER 4: Hi, Jerry.
REPORTER 1: Which library? Where?
REPORTER 4: Hi Mrs. Jorgensen.
CALLER 1: You know, the one that looks all fancy, near the
lake.
CALLER 4: How are you, Jerry?
REPORTER 1: The Green Lake Library?
REPORTER 4: I’m fine, Mrs. Jorgensen. How are you?
CALLER 1: Yeah, maybe that’s it.
CALLER 4: Oh, I’m fine. Still getting old, you know.
REPORTER 1: It’s on fire?!
REPORTER 4: Oh, nonsense, you’re seventy – nine years young,
if you’re a day, dear.
CALLER 1: Yup.
REPORTER 1: Did you call 9-1-1?
REPORTER 3: You’re calling the news room of an awardwinning major daily newspaper of a major Pacific Northwest City
to find out what time a sitcom rerun airs?
CALLER 1: Nope. I figgered you guys would want to know.
CALLER 3: Look, can you just tell me when M*A*S*H is on?
REPORTER 1: We do, we’ll be over. But for chrissake, hang up
and call 9-1-1!
(Dunlow opens a paper and looks up the listing.)
REPORTER 2: P-I this is Schneider.
REPORTER 3: 7:30 and 11:00 PM on Channel 16.
CALLER 2: Susy Schneider?
CALLER 3: Thanks!
REPORTER 2: That’s right.
REPORTER 3: You’re welcome.
CALLER 2: What makes you think you know fuck all about
music, Susy Schneider?
MATT: P-I, this is Nilsen.
JOHN: Matt, it’s John White.
REPORTER 3: Seattle Post-Intelligencer, this is Chris Dunlow.
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MATT: Ah, well, hey John, haven’t heard from you in a couple
weeks.
MATT: But here’s what I wanna know, John?
JOHN: Yeah, I’ve been busy.
JOHN: What’s that Matt?
MATT: What can I do for you John?
MATT: We have some pretty state of the art call tracking here in
the newsroom. We can pretty much track where anyone’s calling
from. As you can imagine, that comes in handy when trying to
track down a source.
JOHN: You can follow up the leads I gave you.
MATT: Yeah, John, like I told you before I don’t think my
editor’s gonna buy that I’m gonna break open a whole new angle
on the Kennedy assassination.
JOHN: I can imagine.
JOHN: Matt, I was involved.
MATT: But whenever you call all I get on my display is “Caller
Unknown”.
MATT: You were involved?
JOHN: I see.
JOHN: That’s right.
MATT: Where do you live John?
MATT: You were involved in the Kennedy assassination.
JOHN: I live close, Matt. Let’s say I’m in your regular
subscription radius.
JOHN: That’s right.
MATT: Western Washington.
MATT: Mr. John White, co-conspirator to highest treason.
JOHN: Sure. Western Washington.
JOHN: Obviously I haven’t given you my real name.
MATT: Obviously not.
CALLER 4: Oh, Jerry. There’s nothing young about me
anymore. My feet are tingly all the time and I can’t remember
anything important, though I can remember who lived in every
single house on either side of my street in Ballard seventy years
ago.
REPORTER 4: Isn’t that something.
MATT: Care to be more specific? Hell, I’ll even buy you a cup
of coffee if you wanted to meet and tell me your real name and
why you’re so obsessed with Kennedy’s murder. There might be
a story in that.
JOHN: I’m not interested in that, Matt.
MATT: Why all the mystery, John?
JOHN: Follow the leads, Matt.
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MATT: Okay, John.
JOHN: Talk to you soon.
CALLER 4: You know what I wish? I wish I could remember
my social security number. They ask you for that all the time
these days. I have to keep it on a slip of paper next the phone.
REPORTER 4: Okay, Mrs. Jorgensen. I have to get back to work
now.
CALLER 4: Okay, Jerry. You have a good night. Talk to you
soon.
REPORTER 4: I look forward to it, Mrs. Jorgenson.
(The news room turns back into the
resume class.)
MATT: Hey, Jerry. When was the last time you talked to Mrs.
Jorgensen?
REPORTER 3: If they got leads, they can email them to the online news desk.
MATT: Email the on-line news desk? Like Mrs. Jorgenson has
email? Like she’s going to be browsing the on-line edition from
her what? Blackberry? A whole generation of readers is flat-out
shit-outta-luck. They don’t have computers. They don’t know
from on-line news. Everyone acts like these people are worthless.
They might as well be dead for all anyone cares.
REPORTER 3: They were a nuisance.
MATT: Yes they were. And so were we. We were reporters.
Paid nuisances. Yeah, hey! Can I put that in my resume?
(The man in the comfy chair noisily turns
the pages of his paper. This cues transitions from
here forward. Lights shift.
A phone rings. A politician answers the
phone. A woman reporter is calling.)
TIM: Hello?
CHERYL: Councilman Sidler?
REPORTER 4: Not since we were all shitcanned, Matt.
TIM: Speaking.
MATT: Who’s Mrs. Jorgensen gonna call now?
REPORTER 3: She can call the Times.
MATT: The Times. Like they give a shit.
REPORTER 3: Who cares? That’s not the job of a reporter, to
talk to every lonely old lady looking for a little conversation.
REPORTER 4: Sometimes they have leads.
CHERYL: Hi, this is Cheryl Gilcrest from the PI. I have a polite
request for some information that should be publicly available
TIM: Oh, hello Ms. Gilcrest. Listen, I have an excuse to delay
answering your polite request. I have some evasive answers as
well, but I’d like to hold off on those until later. Can I get back to
you?
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CHERYL: That’s fine. I’ll continue with the polite line and be
respectful for a little while longer. But Tim, you should know that
I do have a flask of resolve that I’ll be sipping at as I wait.
TIM: I understand. Goodbye.
CHERYL: Bye.
The man in the comfy chair turns a page.
The Town Crier appears and reads tomorrow’s
weather. The man turns another page.
Scoop and Flash stand, lost, on a street
corner in Detroit. Scoop – she’s at least forty,
could be older – consults a map. Flash, a guy who
might be a hair younger, takes her picture.)
SCOOP: What makes you think that?
(Lights up on Eddie, he’s
back in Seattle, a week ago.)
EDDIE: (Pointing a cigar at Scoop.) Hey, you know Detroit?
SCOOP: Yeah, did my undergrad there.
FLASH: That’s why.
SCOOP: So, I lied.
FLASH: What, you wanted free tickets to the Super Bowl?
SCOOP: Hey, cut it out.
SCOOP: Naw, football bores me.
FLASH: I want some proof when we get home that you were lost.
FLASH: Then, uh, why?
SCOOP: I’m not lost, we are lost.
FLASH: You were leading.
SCOOP: Fuck off.
SCOOP: Oh, the usual, there’s shit going down at home. A week
away sounded nice. You?
FLASH: Trying to earn enough brownie points for a Euro
assignment.
FLASH: I am freezing my balls off.
EDDIE: Your tickets.
SCOOP: Yeah, you and the brass monkey you road in on.
FLASH: Let me see. (Takes map) Oh, hand drawn maps always
inspire confidence.
FLASH: (Looking at them) Hey, Eddie, these are for a week
before the game.
SCOOP: Cab down in circulation drew it for me. He grew up in
Detroit.
EDDIE: Yeah, I want you to go and get a picture of the city.
Local color. Maybe find me some janitor at the stadium who’s got
a crippled kid or something. Or a blind guy.
FLASH: I thought you knew this city.
SCOOP: A blind guy who’s gonna watch the game?
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SCOOP: It is if you’re thinking tittie bar.
EDDIE: Or listen to it. It’s a big city, you’ll find something.
FLASH: This doesn’t look like the right neighborhood for a
football stadium.
SCOOP: Yeah. They tend to be big and hard to miss. But, it’s
marked, with a little star.
FLASH: There’s a lot of stars on this map.
SCOOP: Yeah. Cab told me what they were. Some good
restaurants, city hall. The stadium.
FLASH: Was the stadium built when he lived here?
SCOOP: Hell if I know.
FLASH: How are we gonna get pictures of people camping out in
front of the stadium if we can’t find the stadium.
SCOOP: Photoshop? Isn’t that what you guys do these days?
(A sign lights up, it reads
“Horseflesh.”)
FLASH: Horseflesh?
SCOOP: Oh, excellent! I know where we are (looking at map)
and it’s nowhere near the stadium.
FLASH: Horseflesh is one of Cab’s stars?
SCOOP: Yeah.
FLASH: And it is what I think it is?
(Scoop knocks. Pinto, a world weary
woman in tight pants opens the door.)
PINTO: We don’t open for another couple hours. Read the
fucking sign.
(Lights shift back to the newsroom. Greg
comes in from one side and speaks to the
audience. He is gentle and unassuming; casual
and not at all pushy. He is the opposite of the
‘hard boiled reporter’ type. He is wistful about
what has happened. The excitement that he once
had for his profession is gone, but he still feels the
sting of its departure.
GREG: Yes, I have tricks in my pocket. I have things up my
sleeve. But I am the opposite of a stage magician. He gives you
illusion that has the appearance of truth. I give you truth itself.
Facts.
Or I did. I was a reporter at the Seattle Post Intelligencer.
And I came in as idealistic as anyone – I came from the trades. I
was so proud of landing at a daily. The big leagues; real
journalism. But I was the business reporter, so I was already a
little jaded.
To begin with, let me turn back time. The 1960’s. The
best of times, the worst of times. Activism and social progress
and… Vietnam. And a bipolar America was matriculating a
citizenry at once fascinated by journalism – those images from
Vietnam – and completely indifferent to it. But there was still a
quaint belief that newspapers were worthwhile. So in 1970 the
congress passed the Newspaper Preservation Act. (No, this isn’t a
new crisis.) This legislation authorized joint operating agreements
– JOAs - that allowed and sometimes forced newspaper
companies to share operational costs. This was highly unusual
9
government intervention, ostensibly because newspapers
represented a unique public good.
In 1983 the Hearst Corporation, the owner of the PI,
entered into a JOA with the Seattle Times. This never sat well
with the conservative Times folks. After all, this was liberal, anti
free-market legislation that was forcing the Times to, in their
minds, subsidize a competitor. The Times wanted out from the
beginning.
There were more or less constant court cases, the last one
being a pre-emptive lawsuit by Hearst that sought to keep the JOA
in place. They could see that the Times was preparing to force a
separation, so Hearst went to court to prevent the divorce. After
several years in court Hearst won this final round. This was 2004
(?).
Big Party at the PI. Speeches and liquor and hope. And, I
think, a few bastard children. And then there came the Tornado.
The Tornado! The Tornado was a plan to revamp the PI to make
it a lean, mean, forward-thinking machine. This was going to be a
top-to-bottom overhaul of the way the PI did business. Editor’s
desks were moved to the third floor. For six months secret
meetings were held up there – brainstorming sessions, strategy
sessions. It was an ongoing think tank and planning session all
rolled into one. Rumors abounded. Every reporter was going to
carry a mini camera. Every reporter was going to blog. The paper
itself was going to be printed on special electronic paper that
would do fantastic, futuristic, market-share grabbing wonders.
After six months a meeting was called. The culmination
of The Tornado. Everyone was there. Excitement was palpable.
Six months of time away from their normal duties. Surely this
would be huge.
The editor in chief came down from the third floor and
announced… that The Tornado would be implemented gradually
instead of all at once. Details would come later. Then he
ascended the stairs and we didn’t see him again. The editors
stayed on the third floor. We saw them, but only when they
condescended – literally – to our level. The only tangible upshot
of The Tornado was fewer meetings between editors and
reporters. They had seized and capitalized upon the innovative
efficiency of… email.
My editor had asked me not to cover The Tornado. It was
an in-house story, he said. Not of interest to the general public.
Why should the public be interested that for six months, when the
PI actually had time to turn things around, the editors moved to
the third floor and spent time picking nits off one another.
So it wasn’t a surprise to me when the PI was given 60
days to live. Hearst let it be known: we get a buyer for the paper
in 60 days or we shut down.
It was an interesting 60 days. Being the crack reporter that
I am, I noticed that the newsroom became more and more sparsely
populated. Veteran reporters were taking their accrued sick time
so that they wouldn’t lose it when their jobs were terminated. The
smart ones were all out looking for other work. So there were a
lot more novice reporters hanging around when Wallace came
from Hearst HQ in New York. Wallace was a young guy who
gave us a speech about ‘maybe, possibly’ transitioning to a web
only paper. He was interested in meeting with anyone who had
ideas that might help the PI succeed with this new model. He’d
have a private office on the third floor to meet with people
individually.
It was clear to everyone that these were job interviews.
Mostly young people – the ones who were either desperate or who
didn’t really understand that they were abandoning 40-60% of
their salary, all their benefits and their union.
This was part of my beat. And rumors were flying and
everyone who was there was freaked out because Hearst was
obviously not going to get a buyer. There were 2 dozen other
papers for sale at that time and some of them were profitable. The
PI was not an attractive proposition. So the 60 days passed and
we waited for the hammer to drop.
A rumor got out that we were two days from closing and
that those people who would continue with PI dot com had
10
already been extended offers. So this is my beat. I start asking
questions.
(Greg enters the newsroom.)
GREG: Hey Chaz.
CONNERS: Sorry?
GREG: Rumors are going around that he’s making offers to
people up there. I’m wondering if you got an offer.
CONNERS: Well… uhm… I guess that’s kind of private.
CHAZ: Greg, man, what’s going on?
(Pause)
GREG: I don’t know. You know?
GREG: Private?
CHAZ: No.
CONNERS: You know. I don’t know if I’m comfortable talking
about it.
GREG: Wallace talk to you about staying on?
CHAZ: Shit no. I wasn’t gonna genuflect to that little fart.
GREG: You’re not comfortable talking about it? What does that
mean?
GREG: Ha. But he didn’t approach you?
CONNERS: I just don’t… you know. I’m… you know.
CHAZ: Like to see him try.
GREG: No, I don’t know. What are you saying? Did you get an
offer?
GREG: Carry on.
CONNERS: I don’t want to talk about it.
(Greg moves to another
reporter.)
(Pause)
GREG: Conners, you talk to Wallace yet.
GREG: I’m trying not to get insulted.
CONNERS: Sorry?
CONNERS: I’m not insulting you, I just don’t want to talk about
it.
GREG: D’you go upstairs and talk to Wallace?
CONNERS: Uh… yeah. I had some ideas.
GREG: You are a reporter. You are stonewalling another
reporter. How can that not be insulting?
GREG: He offer to keep you on at the dot com?
CONNERS: Greg, I just don’t want to get in the middle of things.
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GREG: I’m asking you a direct question. Did you get an offer?
interview every person at the PI. But then my editor called me up
to the third floor.
CONNERS: So I’m gonna say ‘no comment.’
EDITOR: Greg, close the door.
(Pause)
GREG: Say again.
GREG: No comment?
EDITOR: Close the door.
CONNERS: If you press me, yeah.
GREG: (Doing so) Uh oh.
GREG: (Taking out his PI spiral reporter’s pad) If I press you?
Yeah, I’m leaning real hard on you here Conners. I’m a
dangerous, bare knuckles type reporter here.
EDITOR: Who is working PI dot com is not a story.
GREG: (After a pause) It’s not.
CONNERS: Come on.
EDITOR: No.
GREG: No comment? That’s your final offer? You’re saying no
comment to a fellow reporter?
GREG: It seems like a story to me.
CONNERS: No comment.
EDITOR: It’s not. I want you to drop it.
GREG: (Gently) Well, fuck you very much.
Nothing pisses a reporter off more than ‘no comment.’ It’s
either arrogantly dismissive or actively obstructionist. To get that
from another reporter was… invigorating.
There were 175 people working at the PI. I interviewed
about 95. After the first three ‘no comment’s I got someone to tell
me off the record that she had been asked to say no comment by
Wallace himself. He didn’t want information about the ongoing
team to get out. Ordering people to keep information under wraps
– this from the man who is heading the team that will launch the
next big online news service.
I felt confident assuming that the only motivation for my
colleagues to insult me with ‘no comment’ was Wallace’s order to
answer my question with that insult. And I was determined to
GREG: Why?
EDITOR: There’s no point. What, are you gonna out people for
sticking with the PI?
GREG: Are you?
EDITOR: Don’t.
GREG: Don’t?
EDITOR: ‘No comment,’ alright. Is that what you want? You
know what that means? It means nothing. It means you’re not
getting any information that we could print anyway.
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GREG: I got a source who tells me –
GREG: Assess my motivation?
EDITOR: A source?
EDITOR: Yeah. Look at yourself, you’re angry.
GREG: – that Wallace told people he offered jobs to to say ‘no
comment’ to any questions about whether they’re moving to the
dot com.
GREG: Okay?
EDITOR: Reporters should not be motivated by anger.
Objectivity ring a bell?
EDITOR: So what?
GREG: So I feel confident that anyone working here who’s
gonna insult me to my face – and these people work with me – the
only thing that’s gonna make them do that is fear for their job.
EDITOR: You don’t know that.
GREG: And the fact that their new employer – ostensibly a news
person – is threatening them to keep them quiet, that doesn’t
bother you?
EDITOR: You don’t know that.
GREG: Come on.
EDITOR: You don’t know it and we can’t print it anyway.
GREG: Sure we can. The public has a right to know.
EDITOR: Oh, let’s not do noble cause here. You’re armor is not
shining. This is vindictive and subversive and –
GREG: Subversive?
EDITOR: You know what I mean. I think you need to assess
your motivation here.
GREG: Digging for the truth ring a bell to you? Getting the
story?
EDITOR: You’re doing this because you’re angry.
GREG: You’re damn right. What do you think motivates
reporters? What else but anger.
EDITOR: Please.
GREG: We write about people who steal money, people who
commit crimes. Legislators who talk one way and vote another.
Toxic waste, global warming. Workers who get shafted by
management. You’re not mad about these things? Anger is what
makes us reporters. All a reporter is is someone who’s pissed off
enough to dig into something and try to let other people know. I
shouldn’t be angry about this? A news organization that tells its
own people to keep information from the public? A guy who
pressures his staff to dummy up so they can have an opportunity
to work for less with no benefits or security. You don’t see
something wrong here? This is like a Russian doll of wrong. And
I’m gonna write about it.
And I did. I interviewed every PI employee that day and I
wrote the story. And my editor didn’t touch it. Even though I
tagged him as one of the people who was likely going to the dot
com. And he wasn’t.
13
I don’t know why he said no comment to me. There’s
probably a lesson in it. Somewhere. But I can’t see it any more.
It’s a while ago now. Now I’m just… sad.
I used to be a journalist. Now I’m in a play. Look at me.
I’m trying to get my story out by being in a play. How desperate
is that?
(The man in the comfy chair turns a page.
Lights up on The Seattle PI newsroom. It is a
long room with short mauve cubicles.
Nick is in Allen's cubicle. Allen is eating a
messy, stinky sandwich. Nick leans for a
moment. Allen continues eating with focus.)
ALLEN: I don't know. Bless those marketing fuckers though.
Without them selling ladies panties no one would pay my rent.
NICK: It smells a little bit like vomit. Vomit that's been grilled.
ALLEN: Yeah. Thank God for those soulless marketing fuckers
though huh? And ladies panties. Especially, the panties.
NICK: Something's wrong with that sandwich.
ALLEN: Yes. Thank God for ladies panties.
NICK: Poor Tom. Don't you think? I mean...I think he had a
family.
NICK: Tom got fired.
ALLEN: Tom the Editor or Tom the guy with the mustache from
Marketing?
NICK: The Editor.
ALLEN: Too bad. I hate that douche bag from marketing. He
always wants to shake my hand.
NICK: Yeah?
ALLEN: Jesus Nick, Tom didn't get fired. Nobody gets fired at
the PI.
NICK: No, he got really fired. No shit . I saw him cleaning out
his desk this morning. He didn't look so good.
ALLEN: Tom never looks good He looks like a Rotweiler
NICK: I like Rotweilers.
(Michelle enters.)
MICHELLE: Bullshit.
ALLEN: Those marketing fuckers are so touchy feely.
NICK: Yeah.
NICK: He does look like a Rotweiler. Around the mouth
especially.
ALLEN: Yeah. I hate fucking hand shakers. And huggers. Oh
fuck, huggers are worse. I hate huggers.
MICHELLE: No, bullshit, he didn't get fired. He definitely looks
like a Rotweiler.
NICK: Is that... what kind of cheese is that….on your sandwich?
NICK: Oh. Well. He did. Get fired.
14
MICHELLE: He broke Jack's teeth in September. Remember? He
didn't get fired for that. Or for that hole that's still in the men's
bathroom wall.
ALLEN: How do you know what's in the men’s room? Or is it
too dirty to share in mixed company? Nick? Michelle and I need
some privacy. She's gonna tell me all about her time in the men’s
room.
MICHELLE: Funny. Allen. Really. I know everything. I know
every fucking thing that happens here. Remember that.
NICK: Never question a man’s lady skills.
MICHELLE: Okay, so Tom is batshit crazy and now he's fired.
Don't you have some work to do?
ALLEN: I am working. I'm deep in this investigation here. I'm
getting the facts. Night Editor fired in mysterious scandal.
NICK: Jack missed a deadline. So Tom was upset. Anybody
would've been upset. Michelle you would've been upset.
MICHELLE: Tom isn't news. We're a family newspaper
remember? We try to keep the unsavory exploits of our employees
away from God fearing decent people for Christ's sake.
(Mike enters)
MIKE: Oh hey. Tom got fired.
MICHELLE: Yes. But I'm a grown up lady. I don't punch people
in the face when I'm upset.
ALLEN: I know dumbshit. Everybody knows. Way to scoop that
story.
ALLEN: Michelle is more skilled in emotional trauma.
MIKE: He called in. Couldn't make it in last night. He was in jail.
MICHELLE: That's true.
ALLEN: Oh yeah?
NICK: Tom, he just got some kinda note in his file for punching
out all of Jacks teeth.
MIKE: Punched out a sixth grader on the bus.
ALLEN: Oh well.
ALLEN: Not all of them. Jack still has all of his molars and an
eye- tooth.
MICHELLE: Poor Jack. He should get that fixed.
MIKE: Yeah a buncha little kids were talking real loud and
getting real close up in his personal space. One of them called him
a fat fucker.
ALLEN: I don't know he used to be just ugly but now he's
interesting ugly. The ladies like that.
NICK: Oh shit. He's real sensitive about that. He's been drinking
those diet shakes and everything.
MICHELLE: How would you know what the ladies like?
MIKE: So he spit in the kids face.
ALLEN: Don't question my lady skills.
MICHELLE: Very nice.
15
MIKE: And then the kid pushed him and slapped his take out all
over the bus. It was corn dogs and pecan pie by the way so, so
much for the diet. Tom punched him in the mouth.
LOU: Yes my dear friends. The flowers are rising. The beauty of
nature surrounds us. All we have to do is reach out, stretch out our
poor needy hands and nature will provide her bounty.
NICK: What is he talking about?
ALLEN: That's his M.O. He's a mouth puncher.
ALLEN: Interns.
MIKE: Plus, I think Tom was drunk. So that was all part of the
arresting and firing.
ALLEN: Shit. I really didn't think you could get fired here.
MIKE: If you beat the shit out of a sixth grader on the bus they'll
fire you.
LOU: A fresh young ,nubile crop of innocent, eager interns
comes skipping eagerly into our office today. Today. I wore my
blue shirt. It brings out my eyes.
MICHELLE: Stay the fuck away from my interns.
MICHELLE: Is that in the employee handbook?
LOU: Whoa there. Hang on there. I seek to instruct and enlighten
our youth. Especially, the pretty lady ones.
MIKE: That kid was a huge sixth grader though. In Tom’s
defense.
(Lou enters.)
LOU: Hello boys and lady.
MICHELLE: Stay the fuck way from my interns. I'm not joking.
(Michelle exits.)
LOU: And so the sun has set. Hope is gone. Winter has come so
soon.
MICHELLE: Tom got fired.
MIKE: Don't fuck with her interns.
LOU: I know and I weep for him but we must go on. Outside the
birds are singing, the sun is bright and hot. It is the most glorious
time of year.
ALLEN: She'll cut you
MICHELLE: What's wrong with you?
LOU: Check the calendar men.
(Allen checks his calendar.)
ALLEN: Oh shit. It is the most glorious time of year.
MIKE: Yeah. I bet she would.
Nick makes a phone call.
NICK: Hey keep it down for a minute. I got Bob Dylan on the
phone.
(They all begin to sing a
rousing chorus of Blowin' in the
Wiind.)
NICK: Seriously. Hello? Hello? Mister Dylan. Nick Boyle here
Seattle PI. What?
They whisper the song annoyingly.
16
NICK: You're coming to the Memorial Stadium. Tell me what's
special about this show?
(Allen lobs his terrible sandwich
toward the trash. It slides off of Nick.)
NICK: Jesus Christ. No. No. That wasn't to you. Can you speak
up? There's some static.
NICK: Shut the fuck up. No not you. I'm sorry Mister Dylan. Tell
me what's your set gonna be like? Uhhuh. Great. Big fan. Oh.
Okay. Well, Seattle couldn't be more thrilled. Yes. Thank you.
He hangs up the phone.
NICK: What the fuck? I mean. It sounded like I was talking to
him from a tin can, under water. I have nothing here. Jesus. I can't
write a whole column about Bob Dylan's poor enunciation.
MIKE: Is he asking the great Bob Dylan to stop mumbling?
ALLEN: Yeah. I'm pretty sure that not breaking news to anyone.
NICK: Right. So… all I heard there was something about a hat.
Oh Okay. Right.
(Michelle enters)
MICHELLE: Hello again. Miss me?
LOU: I always miss you. Even when you're here Michelle. It's
like you can't get close enough.
MICHELLE: My interns are safely in my office. I have warned
them about all of you and your disgustingly predatory tactics. You
will treat them with respect.
LOU: I have nothing but respect for pretty ladies. I have never
disrespected any pretty lady.
MICHELLE: I think your first two wives would disagree.
ALLEN: She plays dirty. You are ruthless Michelle. I like that in
a woman.
(Nick puts his hand over the telephone
mouthpiece.)
NICK: I can't hear anything. Just like a moany sound.
MIKE: Maybe you're having a different kind of telephone
interaction. Is there heavy breathing?
MICHELLE: I have a very special story assignment.
Lou exits quickly
ALLEN: No.
MICHELLE: Because my affection for you is all encompassing.
Because, I am amused and titillated by your very romantic men’s
room remarks, I have earmarked this very important breaking
news item for you Allen.
ALLEN: I have assignments.
MICHELLE: Let me just read the newswire. ‘Punchy, an
abandoned and neglected one-eyed Labrador retriever living
under a local man's porch, was found badly burned after rescuing
three baby chicks and a kitten from a garage fire. Punchy (named
according to local children for his ability to take a punch) is in
stable condition although he may lose his front legs. He is
recovering at the Humane Society and donations are being
accepted for a special cart and an eye patch. The kitten and baby
chicks are in good health and were returned to their owners.
Myrna and Joesph Stuckey. The garage fire is being investigated.
Police believe it was started by lightening or firecrackers.’
ALLEN: No.
17
MICHELLE: I think you are the reporter with the most empathy
and appreciation for Gods creatures. Punchys story needs to be
told.
(She exits.)
MIKE: Too bad man. Too bad. Your inbox is gonna be flooded
with Grandmas. Everybody loves an animal story.
ALLEN: Jesus Christ Michelle. I hate fucking animal stories.
ALLEN: Fuck. Remember that Judge that was molesting little
boys and we spent a year building that story?
MICHELLE: Everyone hates animal stories. But you have a gift.
My great Aunt Cecily says no one understands kittens like you.
She always reads your animal stories.
ALLEN: I'm sorry about the men's room comments. Really.
MICHELLE: Those are sweet words and of course you are
forgiven. But, it is our responsibility to find out what happened to
Punchy. Who wants to talk to Sewage Management about their
new route?
(Stuart a young excited reporter runs on stage.)
STUART: I will.
MIKE: Sure. Yeah.
ALLEN: I got four emails. Four. The last time I did an animal
story...
MIKE: Mindy the dancing donkey.
ALLEN: Yes. Mindy. Fucking donkey. I got 247 e-mails.
MIKE: People are stupid as fuck.
NICK: I think something’s wrong with Lou.
MICHELLE: Thanks Stuart.
STUART: Fuck Yeah!
(Stuart runs off.)
ALLEN: What is wrong with that kid?
ALLEN: He's covering that double homicide. The police report is
really graphic. Some guy came home from work killed his babies.
Shot them in their crib.
MIKE: Shit.
MIKE: He's just very enthusiastic.
NICK: I think he's crying.
ALLEN: That shit'll get beat out of him.
MICHELLE: Absolutely. But like a sunny day in January or sex
with one you sad cases- We'll enjoy it for the very, very, very
short time it lasts.
MIKE: Ouch.
MICHELLE: That's just the word on the street. Bye guys.
MIKE: Yeah. He's packing up his stuff. Going home to his
family. What the fuck else are you gonna do?
(Silence for a moment.)
NICK: Allen? I smell like your sandwich.
(The man in the comfy chair turns a page.
Lights shift back to the resume class Rip, a
newsman speaks at the company party
following the demise of the paper. He is drunk.
18
RIP: I just want to say thank you to our leader, our editor-inchief. Thanks for coming down from the third floor; it’s nice to
know what you look like finally. You are our captain Bligh.
Don’t know that reference do you? I’m sorry, I forgot; you don’t
read. You know the captain of the Titanic probly, right? Saw the
movie did ya? Okay, you’re like him. You saved us from a long,
drawn-out demise. Since you’re arrival the pace of our decline
was really improved. So we’re here today years earlier than we
might have been. Now we can all get on with the rest of our lives.
So thank you captain. Where is he? Oh, the captain has left the
vessel. Ahh-ooo-ga, ahh-ooo-ga, no captain! Somebody text him
– he probably just doesn’t know the protocol about going down
with the ship. But who would want to go down with this one?
How ignomininy… ignominininous. Sorry: little polysyllable
trouble here. How ignominious, to go down with a sailing ship.
That’s right, we all wanted this to be a jet boat, but we’re here on
an old three-masted… schooner. Is that what they’re called? Big
old Horatio Hornblower sailing ship. And we tried to change it
into a jet boat – attached some motors with a little glue, put in
some gps equipment. But it wasn’t enough; it was still an old
sailing boat. And you know who uses sailing boats any more?
Rich people. For status. They’re good for status, but not much
else. Nobody really needs a sail boat any more. There’s faster
ways to get where you want to go. And it’s all about speed. And
we can stand here and wax poetic about the beauty of sailing and
the value of spending time with the wind and... stars. Navigating.
And not polluting – sailing boats are really green, you want green.
But the metaphor breaks down there doesn’t it? You want waste,
look to your daily newspaper. Hell, I only read three or four
articles on any given day. And then only if one of mine is in the
paper. Good to start the grill though, you get one of those
charcoal chimney things. No need for lighter fluid, just use the
paper. Best use left. God, I sound like a blog, don’t I. Stream of
consciousness news. Well, there ya go. Cheers!
(The man in the comfy chair turns a page.
Lights shift and this time we are inside
Horseflesh. Scoop knocks. Pinto, a world
weary woman in tight pants opens the door.)
PINTO: We don’t open for another couple hours. Read the
fucking sign.
SCOOP: Are you Pinto?
PINTO: Who wants to know?
SCOOP: We spoke on phone? I was going to do an interview.
PINTO: Oh, yeah. Reporter from Seattle Times?
SCOOP: The PI actually.
PINTO: I thought you were gonna come tomorrow.
SCOOP: Yeah, so did I. We were gonna go out to the stadium
today. Take pictures of people camping out in line.
PINTO: For the Super Bowl?
SCOOP: Yeah. I figured big events, new Star Wars movies,
Olivia Newton John Concerts, the Watergate hearing. People
think they can get in.
PINTO: People don’t tend to do that in Detroit, in January.
FLASH: That’s what I tried to tell her.
EDDIE: Or work the wife beating angle! You know, husband
gets drunk, team loses.
19
SCOOP: Yeah, Eddie, look, I checked the stats and it turns out to
be an urban legend. Super Bowl Sunday is not the domestic
violence festival we’ve be lead to believe.
PINTO: Pinto like the car. Larry, the owner, he’s got this civic
pride thing going. Likes all the dancers to have an automotive
themed name.
EDDIE: I appreciate your slavish devotion to the truth.
SCOOP: You expecting Super Bowl Sunday to be any different
for you guys?
PINTO: Well, shit. Come on in. But Camero and Volare are
gonna be pissed. They were looking forward to being interviewed.
PINTO: Busier. Better tips if the guy’s team has won. It’s still a
Sunday, most of ‘em gotta work in the morning.
FLASH: (Quietly to Scoop.) Why are we here?
FLASH: You gonna show the game?
SCOOP: The Super Bowl.
PINTO: Naw, we’ll get a post game crowd though.
FLASH: I mean why are we at Horseflesh?
EDDIE: Find me an angle.
SCOOP: We are here because they are hiring and training some
extra help for the big weekend.
FLASH: Like the Bon at Christmas.
(Sparky and Spare enter. Sparky is younger
with some verve and energy. Spare is more
house wifey.)
SPARKY: You ready for us?
PINTO: This is Sparky and Spare. This is a news lady from
Seattle and … what, your photographer?
SCOOP: It’s Macy’s now, but yeah.
FLASH: That’s me.
FLASH: Pinto, huh?
SPARE: I don’t want my face in the paper. If that’s OK, Pinto.
PINTO: That’s me.
FLASH: Your real name?
PINTO: Yeah, like I’d strip using my real name.
SCOOP: Pinto like the pony?
PINTO: I don’t really care. (To Flash and Scoop) You guys can
sit down.
(Scoop goes to sit down, Flash
makes big “not there” gestures with his
arm.)
SCOOP: What’s your problem?
20
FLASH: You do not want to sit there.
(Spare plasters a smile on
her face.)
SCOOP: Why the fuck not?
SPARE: Better?
FLASH: Those are…uh, special seats.
SCOOP: Too good for me?
PINTO: Hey, you’re the one working for tips here. OK, sit.
Sparky, what do you have?
FLASH: Can you trust me?
SPARKY: Here it goes.
SCOOP: You’re being weird.
(She starts across.)
FLASH: Those are the chairs guys sit in for lap dances.
PINTO: OK. OK. Girl, what are you doing with your ass?
SCOOP: You mean (Makes the universal Jack-Off gesture.)
SPARKY: Uh, shaking it?
FLASH: Yeah.
PINTO: You look like a dog wagging its tail. It’s not sexy.
(Points at Flash) Did you think that was sexy?
SCOOP: Thanks for the heads up. Although, later I’ll be asking
how you knew that.
PINTO: OK, Spare. Show me your entrance and a couple moves.
FLASH: Uh.
PINTO: The answer is no. No it is not. I bet this reporter could do
a better job. C’mon.
SPARE: Yeah.
SCOOP: Me?
(She starts to cross.)
PINTO: Yeah. Why not.
PINTO: OK. Head still, jiggle the tits, shake the butt. Spare, stop.
What the fuck are you doing?
SPARE: I’m doing just what you said.
PINTO: Can you give me a smile? Pretend you’re not miserable.
Miserable isn’t sexy.
SCOOP: Bar open yet? Can’t do it without booze.
(Pinto hands Scoop a flask, she swigs.
EDDIE: Maybe something domestic. A husband and wife getting
a divorce because they support different teams. Ooh, ooh! I
know. A pregnant lady who is due on the day of the game! Like
she’s gonna have a caesarian on Saturday so as not to miss it! Or,
21
you could hang out in the maternity ward and find a baby born at
kick off time. No, I’m dreaming here.
PINTO: OK. Why don’t you show me your costumes. We can
practice more dancing later.
(Sparky and Spare cross to Pinto.
Sparky has a nice wardrobe bag, Spare has
a brown paper sack.)
SPARKY: This was my mom’s!
(Pinto takes Sparky’s costume and holds it up. It is
an odd thing of gauze and sequins.)
PINTO: Fucking vintage this girl’s got. What about you?
(Spare hands her the bag, Pinto pulls out some
white fabric.)
SPARE: It’s all I had.
PINTO: Spare, honey. Is this your bathing suit?
PINTO: Look, I think we can find something. Go to dressing
room, the locker that says Slant Six, look through her stuff. She’s
not gonna need it for a while. She’s doing six months in county
for assaulting her gramma. Oh, but, uh, don’t put it on now. Take
it home, wrap it and saran and stick it in the freezer over night.
You’ll thank me. (To Scoop): You ready.
(The man in the comfy chair
turns a page. Lights shift.
TIM: Hello?
CHERYL: Councilman Sidler, this is Cheryl Gilcrest calling
again. You had said that you would get back to me, and I’m
hoping to exhibit… not anger so much as mild frustration. And a
persistence which I hope will be taken with seriousness this time.
TIM: Ms. Gilcrest, I want to appear sincere when I apologize for
not returning your recent respectful request.
SPARE: Yeah.
CHERYL: Polite, Tim, not respectful.
PINTO: Just your regular old bathing suit? Oh, jeeze. It’s pilling.
SCOOP: Pilling?
FLASH: When you get those little balls. Usually on the butt, but
if girls have really big…uh, breasts, it can happen underneath.
TIM: I see. Well, your previous politeness was pleasing. A
certain civility certainly seems appropriate for reporters.
CHERYL: You have a real way with words, Tim.
TIM: Thank you.
SCOOP: Good to know.
CHERYL: But you’ll recall that I mentioned a flask of resolve.
PINTO: Honey. No. We are not that low yet.
TIM: Yes, I thought that was… metaphorical.
SPARE: I won’t be wearing it for long.
CHERYL: Not in the least. (Raising her flask) Cheers.
SPARKY: My mom always said, first impressions are important.
22
TIM: I see. Well, I believe I said that I had some evasive answers
for you. I’d like to offer those now.
CHERYL: Are these to be baldly evasive, or just annoyingly offputting?
purse for a hankie. MIKE wears a trench coat and porkpie
hat. He sits at a desk, phone to his ear, writing in his
notebook. Two chairs. The COP is in uniform, pacing a
beat. HAL stands as far away as possible.
HAL BERNTON: This part isn’t funny.
TIM: I think even annoying has a negative ring.
MIKE: I would wish we could be, Hal.
CHERYL: So you’ll be denying the evasion?
JULIE: Some breaths have a catch.
TIM: No no, not at all. And I’ll answer this directly. I do not
abide evasion. The public has a right to know.
CHERYL: The public is asking.
TIM: Good. Strong. You do that well.
CHERYL: Thank you, Tim. So then… flattery to avoid denying
the evasion?
TIM: No no, not at all. You do what you do well, Ms. Gilcrest,
but it is your job.
COP: Some beats strike a different tone.
MIKE: Some parts of life involve death. I studied the ancient
classics, Sophocles: “For the dead there are no more toils.” But
we’re alive and so we must suffer a little. The news we need is not
always the news we want.
HAL BERNTON: “Journalism is a passion that never dies!”
MIKE: (Asks COP,) Who do I call today?
COP: Another corpse by the river.
CHERYL: Fine then. I’ll note the evasion and move on to some
other sources.
JULIE drops flower in to coffin. A sound might accompany
each flower dropped.
TIM: I’d like to complain that other sources may be unreliable.
MIKE:\ Somebody’s child.
CHERYL: True, but they may be more open to answering
questions as well. You have my number. Bye.
(The man in the comfy chair turns a
page. Lights shift.
SHANDRA wears black, faces an open coffin, its contents
hidden from the audience, holds a small bouquet of
daisies, or some other humble flower. She searches her
JULIE: My child?
MIKE: Talk, story, ink, question, column-- How much ink? Ink
for the child; to honor the child. Enough ink to capture the killer.
COP: Hot on the trail.
23
MIKE: For two dozen years.
COP: Hot and cold.
JULIE: (Drops a flower into the coffin,) Expulsion--(Drops a
flower into the coffin,) Lure--(Drops a flower into the coffin,)
Revelation. (Drops a flower into the coffin,) Grief.
JULIE: (To COP,) We had some words. In fact, I told her to go.
She heard that. She ran. She’d never left before. We’d had words
before. Everyone has words. They’re just words, you think. She
didn’t come home last night. Her friends didn’t know where she
was.
COP: It was too soon.
COP: --evidence, inquiry, give-and-take, confession, currency--
JULIE: She didn’t come home the next day. She hadn’t gone to
school. She never ---
MIKE: --columns, articles, answers. “Human beings are only
breath and shadow.” My man, Sophocles. Every day a call about
death. Every day, I--
COP and JULIE: Months and months of nothing.
MIKE approaches COP.
MIKE: Who do I call today?
JULIE: She said nothing. No word. No word from her. No word
from anyone. She didn’t come home. We had some words.
COP puts hand on her shoulder. MIKE takes the COP’s
hand off JULIE’s shoulder.
COP: Looks like another Green River Mother.
JULIE drops a flower. MIKE retreats.
MIKE: I say it each day. Years of… (repeats same words and
actions with the COP.) Who do I call today?
COP: Looks like another Green River Mother.
JULIE drops a flower.
MIKE: Who do I call today?
COP: Looks like another Green River Mother.
COP: (To MIKE,) Forty-eight prostitutes at his hands. Maybe as
many as 90.
MIKE: (Writes,) Most were children. Teenagers think they’re
indestructible. Good kids. Responsible. Their word is their bond.
They forget that it gets dark at a certain hour, that the bus doesn’t
run on Sunday or—and/or-- they try the drink, drugs. Then they’re
something special: more indestructible. Stay out longer. Piss off
their parents, neighbors, strangers. Exercise poor judgment.
Maybe as many as 90 children. “Grief teaches the steadiest minds
to waver.”
COP: It’s a pattern, Mike. The prostitutes. He’s taking out our
garbage. Write the story, Mike!
JULIE drops a flower.
MIKE gives COP cold shoulder. JULIE mourns.
24
COP: You piss me off sometimes, Mike. You just nod and I don’t
see you again until we have to make another call.
And then, I love you for it. (MIKE steps closer.) Respect, respect
you. And the brain on you, really.
MIKE: Wait for, find the truth.
MIKE: I thank those powerful guns. Powers behind a free press.
HAL BERNTON: “Journalism is a passion that never dies!”
HAL BERNTON: This part is not romantic. “Journalism is a
passion.”
COP: Who is that guy?
MIKE: “The truth is always the strongest argument.” Sophocles.
MIKE: Seattle Times reporter. Hal Bernton. On a mission.
JULIE: These are her dental records.
COP: (Walks to coffin, pulls out a cap, a watch,) I’m jumping
around. Mike holds that steadiness.
MIKE: Who’m I calling today? “For the dead there are no more
toils.” As they fall into my ear, into my hands, I spread tales of
ordinary humanity, mystery. About the deaths, the lives, the dead,
the remains, the remaining.
COP: (Lays out cap, purse, watch, T-shirt and shorts as if
accoutering a person, lying there.)
To JULIE,) It’s a match.
MIKE: I make the call.
JULIE: This is Julie.
JULIE: Breath and shadow—
COP: I didn’t think I’d like Mike, you know. He was just part of
the job. Then I see how he notices the wormy apples and they
show up in the paper. He burns the liars. I start feeling--
MIKE: I’m sorry you lost your daughter. Tell me about her. What
did she love?
JULIE smiles at a memory. Makes eye contact with MIKE. He
smiles back.
MIKE and COP: Protected.
COP: Protective. He even gets some folks out of jail that should
never have been there. I wanna give him what he needs even when
he pisses me off. (Pulls out a purse, T-shirt, a pair of shorts.)
Missing. Presumed. Dead. Victim. Green. River.
MIKE: No substantiation, no story. Listen for the false notes.
COP: That straight up approach. I start looking you up when I
smell a rat. (MIKE steps closer.) You can crawl places I can’t.
JULIE: What she loved---. She played basketball. She acted in
the school musical last year. She loved-- (JULIE walks to MIKE.
Sits with him. He covers her hand with his, jots notes with his
other.)
MIKE: Julie, some words carry too much freight; others save us.
One word can save us.
HAL BERNTON: “Journalism is a passion that never dies!”
25
MIKE: The “word frees us of all the weight and pain of life.” Ink,
story, column. (Tosses in notebook.) I was good at the phone calls.
“Ignorant men don’t know what good they hold in their hands
until they’ve flung it away.” (Tosses newspaper into coffin.) And
the wise—
JULIE: One word? Expulsion. Lure. Revelation. Then I did
know. Then phone calls. Talk of a corpse. (JULIE approaches
“corpse,” kneels. To COP,) That was my daughter. (To MIKE,)
My daughter was a corpse. (MIKE joins her.) My angry words
were the last words she heard from me. That man had found her
when I couldn’t. Lure. That man had talked to my daughter. That
man had used some words on my daughter. The words became
traps. She thought they were the right words. She got in his truck.
That man killed my daughter. Because we’d had words. (JULIE
lays flowers by the “corpse.” To MIKE,) I never thought I would
want to say another word, hear another word over the phone. But
your words kept her from being killed twice. You named her.
Never called her by a job or a crime. My daughter. She meant the
world to me.
EDDIE: Find me someone whose life is gonna change because of
this game!
SPARKY: This is a really good break for me.
SCOOP: Yeah? How so?
SPARKY: Well, it’s not always easy to get a job dancing. And
it’s not gonna be just this dancing. I’m going into the
entertainment industry. Or modeling. But this is a good start. And
I know they said it was just for this busy weekend, but I just know
they’ll keep me on. Right?
SCOOP: Sure.
SPARKY: I sing too. I mean, they aren’t going to want me to
sing here. Probably. It’s not that kind of place. What do you
think? Think they’ll let me sing? Like maybe on a Tuesday? My
mom always said Tuesday were bad days for dancers. So do you
think they’ll go for it?
MIKE: The word is love.
SCOOP: I really don’t know. You said your mom was a stripper.
MIKE collects the desk, folds it, the chairs, into the coffin.
JULIE has no more flowers, takes MIKE’s hand instead.
COP puts a hand on his shoulder. They look over to HAL.
SPARKY: Dancer. Yeah. She taught me some stuff.
SCOOP: Like tassel twirling?
HAL BERNTON: “Journalism is a passion that never dies!”
(The man in the comfy chair turns a
page. Lights shift back to Detroit.)
SPARKY: Yeah grandma! Jeeze, you’re kidding right? Nobody
does that anymore.
FLASH: Yeah, grandma.
PINTO: Take it home, wrap it and saran and stick it in the freezer
over night. You’ll thank me. (To Scoop): You ready.
SCOOP: Hey, Sparky. Can we talk to you for a minute.
SPARKY: My mom says that the big change is the amount of
time from all your clothes to none of ‘em. It used to be like,
26
twelve minutes. Now you’ve got like one and a half to show a
boob and you better be stark by five.
SCOOP: I blame the internet.
SPARKY: Hey! That’s what my mom said! (Phone rings, Sparky
looks at it.) It’s my boyfriend, I gotta take this.
FLASH: So, Pinto. No pole?
PINTO: Naw. It was getting to be a liability. Lot of our dancers
are getting older. They were just kind of leaning on it. And Larry,
bless his fucking heart doesn’t like to fire people. Well, that’s not
true. He got sued once by a girl in a wheelchair, now he’s scared
shitless to can anybody. This used to be a good place to work. I
tell you, we have slid. We are one step above a jack shack.
SPARE: Free country.
EDDIE: Someone whose whole fucking life is gonna turn around
because of this god damn football game!
SCOOP: What made you decide to become a dancer?
SPARE: Oh, I’m not a dancer. Friend of mine – Shirley?—Oh, I
guess they call her Speed Trap here. She told me about this.
SCOOP: And what made it sound good?
SPARE: I found a leopardy thing. That OK?
SPARE: Well, it’s eighteen bucks an hour plus tips. That’s good,
right? See, my husband – Gary? – he’s over at GM on the line. I
bring in extra money sometimes, just cause. You know how it is,
kids always need something. Sneakers or backpacks or cough
medicine. And Gary’s so good to ‘em, but they’re not his, so for
the extra stuff, I like to pay for it myself. Oh, and those pudding
cups. The kids love those pudding cups.
PINTO: Is it gonna be tight on you?
SCOOP: And you’ve never done this before?
SPARE: I think so.
PINTO: You do have heels, don’t you?
SPARE: Nope. But I figured it’s gonna be mostly guys from out
of town. So it’ll be all right. Anymore questions? ‘Cause I’d like
to grab a smoke before Pinto gets back.
SPARE: Yeah.
SCOOP: Don’t let me keep you.
PINTO: Hang loose while I pee, will you? I had some surgery
down there over Christmas and now I gotta take a whiz every five
minutes.
SPARE: Thanks.
(Spare re-enters)
(Scoop and Flash are quiet for a
minute.)
(Pinto walks off.)
SCOOP: You’re not taking any pictures.
SCOOP: Hey. Can I ask a couple questions?
27
FLASH: Like they’d print ‘em?
FLASH: Really?
SCOOP: You never know. There enough light in here?
SCOOP: Yeah, when it’s time, they take you out back and shoot
you.
FLASH: (Checking out a stain) Too much.
SCOOP: Hey, if the JOA fails, this may be my future.
FLASH: Maybe for both of us.
SCOOP: You really should get some shots. Oh, or are you
waiting for the action to heat up?
FLASH: Oh, yeah.
SCOOP: Just no faces, remember?
FLASH: Just the beaver.
SCOOP: And only the beaver.
FLASH: Oh, god. Wouldn’t that be something? Front page,
above the fold, right under the flag. A big old snatch sandwiched
between an article about the state budget and a blurb about
gardening tips in section B.
(They both laugh. Scoop pulls out a
bottle of hooch she has with her. Drinks
and passes it to Flash.)
FLASH: We are getting old.
SCOOP: Mighty old.
(Scoop and Flash continue to drink.
The man in the comfy chair folds his paper,
ready for a nap. He reaches and turns out
the light.
Intermission
(The towne crier enters and
reads the sports scores. He is loud
enough he wakes the man in the
comfy chair. The man turns on his
light, picks up the paper and reads.
The lights rise to reveal…
(Alternatively there could be
a live video feed from the roof.)
(Lights up on five men packing what looks
like a ton of gear: guns,
snowshoes, food, utensils. CHRISTIE takes photos
throughout.)
HAYES: (Headline:) Seattle Press Sponsors Modern-Day
Adventurers.
J. H. CRUMBACK: Press Expedition Boldly Ventures into
Unknown Olympic Wilderness.
FLASH: Too old to be doing this much longer.
SIMS: Dateline, Dec. 6, 1889. Seattle.
SCOOP: Good thing the PI has the best retirement policy in town.
28
BARNES: They were described as having an “Abundance of grit
and manly vim.”
J.H. CRUMBACK: They would need it because they had chosen
to tackle an unknown wilderness at the onset of winter.
BARNES: A winter they had no reason to suspect would be one
of the harshest ever recorded in the Pacific Northwest.
HAYES: As a further hindrance, they were burdened by their
own misconception of what they would need to survive.
CHRISTIE: They over-packed.
HAYES: They grossly over-packed.
BARNES: They carried, quite literally, a ton of goods.
(Additional lights on a 1989 “P.I.” editor’s desk occupied
by BAILEY.
A young reporter, DENNY, stands nearby.)
DENNY: Just think of it! Incredible. This is our history.
BARNES: Would you like to hear a little song about all the gear
we’re takin’!
Socks and skivvies and hats and coats.
Oh… we might be gone for a week or a year
So we’re bringing ourselves a ton of gear
In-clooo-ding pencils!
We’re ta-king…
Snowshoes, whiskey, rubber boots,
Blankets, beans, a gun that shoots.
We’re ta-king…
Fat-back bacon, flour and grease,
Canvas tents and cotton sheets,
Dogs and mules and ropes and a boat,
Socks and skivvies and hats and coats.
Oh… we might be gone for a week or a year
So we’re bringing ourselves a ton of gear
In-clooo-ding pencils!
We’re ta-king…
Snowshoes, whiskey, rubber boots,
Blankets, beans, a gun that shoots.
BAILEY: That’s enough, thank you.
DENNY: What about the fireworks?
BAILEY: No.
SIMS: The fireworks!
DENNY: Yes!
ALL but Bailey: The fireworks!
ALL FIVE EXPLORERS:
We’re ta-king…
Fat-back bacon, flour and grease,
Canvas tents and cotton sheets,
Dogs and mules and ropes and a boat,
J. H. CRUMBACK: Fifty pounds of colored fire with which to
illuminate a peak visible from Seattle.
ALL FIVE EXPLORERS:
29
Of all our stuff the last and best,
The thing that justifies the rest,
To light the skies for miles around,
To wow ‘em down in Puget Sound…
BAILEY: And our readers in Kirkland will care about this
because…?
DENNY: It’s the 100th anniversary. The Press Expedition.
Think of it: a Seattle paper sponsors five men venturing
out to the Unknown: “They were tough, rugged, perhaps a
little naïve.”
BAILEY: Stupid.
DENNY: Overly optimistic. And scrappy. Out there, putting
their lives on the line. Doing whatever it takes to Get That
Story.
The CHORUS hums a collective note.
BAILEY: If there’s room.
CHORUS HUMS. TITLES ON SCREEN: “Today in
History: Press
Expedition leaves Seattle to explore the Olympics.”
DENNY: …That’s it? Eight words in “Today in History”?
(The man in the comfy chair
turns a page.
An interviewer is centrally
located with three interviewees
distributed around.
Once the
question is asked, the interviewer
can move to listen to the different
responses from the different
interviewees.
A custodian is leaning on a
mop. A florist is trimming flowers.
A barista is polishing a counter.)
BAILEY: You’re looking to write historical features?
PLAYWRIGHT: What was your connection to the PI?
DENNY: That and everything else. I’m ready to ask the tough
questions. I want to write Northwest stories.
CUSTODIAN: I worked in the building, but it was through a
service. I worked at the PI, but I didn’t really work for the PI.
BAILEY: You’re gonna be the young Sam Clemens of the
Northwest.
FLORIST: Sometimes when someone won an award or even just
got a scoop, the managing editor’s secretary would call down and
order a tulip for them. They were that kind of place. Kind of a
family.
DENNY: Exactly. What do you think?
BAILEY: I’ll see if we have room for it.
BARISTA: A lot of ‘em came in in the mornings. Most of ‘em
just drank drip. The arts reporters and some of the editors would
get something more interesting, but most of ‘em were drips.
DENNY: You will?
CUSTODIAN: I work at a better building now. Cleaner.
30
PLAYWRIGHT: What were the PI people like?
CUSTODIAN: There were alright. Place I work now they’re
cleaner.
BARISTA: It’s kind of a stupid question. No offense, but there
were more than a hundred of ‘em. How can you say what they
were like?
PLAYWRIGHT: Well, they all worked at the same place. Was
there something that held them together?
FLORIST: They were fabulous. They were smart and dedicated
and they were really working for our community.
FLORIST: A common and noble purpose.
BARISTA: They were cheap.
CUSTODIAN: They had a good union. Great contract.
FLORIST: They were principled.
BARISTA: Well, they were in the same business. So what?
BARISTA: Sorry, I know you’re not supposed to speak ill of the
dead, but they were.
FLORIST: At some point in their lives each one of them made a
decision that bringing the truth to the public was… their life
mission.
CUSTODIAN: Some of ‘em smoked inside, even after the law.
BARISTA: They worked for the same company, that’s all.
FLORIST: Their whole job was to be informed, so when they
were around you felt like you were around… just… the
gatekeepers of democracy.
BARISTA: Cheap’s not the worst thing, though.
FLORIST: They could have done anything, but each one of them
chose to dedicate themself to… to rooting out the truth of things.
BARISTA: Oh please, it wasn’t all about rooting out corruption
and helping cops track down the bad guys.
FLORIST: Defenders! Defenders of democracy.
FLORIST: They were principled.
BARISTA: They seemed nice. They were fun. They laughed a
lot and they seemed to like their work. They had funny stories.
CUSTODIAN: The third floor bathroom was a pain. Someone
up there had… issues.
BARISTA: They were employed.
CUSTODIAN: They were experts.
BARISTA: Come again?
FLORIST: They were principled and kind and it is so, so sad.
CUSTODIAN: The reporters anyway, they were all experts in the
thing they covered. That was their job – knowing about that
thing.
31
FLORIST: Yes.
BARISTA: Maybe, but that doesn’t hold them together.
FLORIST: But it’s a loss. Where are those experts now? Who
else is going to be an expert in…
FLORIST: Because it promoted that. You could read about what
to plant, when to plant, what soils to use, everything. You could
see the moon cycles and the weather and the tides.
BARISTA: And now that information is lost?
CUSTODIAN: Sanitation.
FLORIST: No, but it’s not all right there. It’s not where you can
hold it in your hands and see it all together.
FLORIST: Yes, or…
BARISTA: The Times?
CUSTODIAN: The penal system.
FLORIST: Yes, or…
FLORIST: Is a totally different paper. It’s a conservative piece
of trash! It’s a pro-corporate, pro-republican… gross thing! It
endorsed Bush!
CUSTODIAN: Light rail.
CUSTODIAN: Twice.
FLORIST: Yes, but I was going to say… just… local gardening.
FLORIST: Right!
BARISTA: (After a pause) Yeah, what a loss.
CUSTODIAN: Wing!
FLORIST: It is. People are so separated from the earth these
days, and there’s no place to go for that old, old wisdom. These
things are being lost.
FLORIST: What?
BARISTA: (After a pause) Gardening tips?
BARISTA: I think that outburst really tells you what people will
miss about the PI. They’ll miss the bleeding heart, liberal, pronanny-state point of view.
FLORIST: Yes!
BARISTA: Are ‘old, old wisdom?’
FLORIST: You know what I mean. Children are being raised
with nothing but concrete under their feet.
CUSTODIAN: Nothing.
FLORIST: That’s right! I will! Because you could pick up the
PI and know what a group of extremely intelligent, extremely
informed people thought was important.
BARISTA: With a grossly liberal bias.
BARISTA: And how does that relate to the PI?
32
FLORIST: Yes, god bless them. News organized around what’s
good for people. A paper that was more than a conservative
mouthpiece for corporations.
FLORIST: I don’t! I don’t think that’s the point of the question.
BARISTA: That’s not what the Times is.
FLORIST: I remember the coverage of the Green River Killer.
Amazing.
CUSTODIAN: Well… .
FLORIST: Is too. Rank conservative bias. Always has been.
BARISTA: That’s ridiculous.
FLORIST: When Susan B. Anthony came to talk to Seattle about
women’s rights – which the Times was against – the Times
printed her name upside down!
BARISTA: Did someone give you these questions? Because I
don’t see the point. What are you trying to find out?
PLAYWRIGHT: I guess I’d hoped to get something entertaining.
For the play.
BARISTA: So what, our answers will be in the play?
BARISTA: That’s a myth. And a silly one, I might add.
FLORIST: Oh?
A projection of The Seattle
Times with Susan B. Anthony’s
name upside down.
PLAYWRIGHT: Yeah. I don’t know. Maybe. It’s research. I
can use it for a story or… I don’t know.
BARISTA: You don’t know what you’re doing.
FLORIST: He’s interviewing us. Leave him alone.
BARISTA: That’s Photoshoped.
BARISTA: Why? And why are we talking to him?
FLORIST: It is not! That is what the PI fought against. And
with the PI gone who will combat that kind of bias?
PLAYWRIGHT: Do you know Anna Deavere Smith? She puts
people’s interviews on stage. Maybe I’ll do that.
CUSTODIAN: I think we’re off topic. Do you have another
question?
BARISTA: What, us on the stage? Like, us us?
PLAYWRIGHT: Maybe. Why not?
PLAYWRIGHT: Okay, what is your most vivid memory from
the PI?
CUSTODIAN: I remember… walking in on this reporter and – I
think she was an intern – who were –
BARISTA: Because I don’t want some actor pretending to be me.
FLORIST: Oh, I don’t know. Could we choose?
CUSTODIAN: Can I be thinner?
33
BARISTA: No. No. When you said you were doing research I
thought you wanted facts and background and stuff.
PLAYWRIGHT: I do.
BARISTA: But you can’t just do anything you want with it.
PLAYWRIGHT: If I think there’s some artistically meritorious
reason, sure.
(The florist pulls out a gun
and shoots the barista, then smiles.
The man in the comfy chair
turns the page. Lights shift.
CHERYL: Hello?
PLAYWRIGHT: Well… why not?
BARISTA: Because there are facts.
PLAYWRIGHT: Right. And if they work I’ll use ‘em, but if they
don’t I’ll tweak ‘em. I just want to get at the ideas.
BARISTA: So you’re just… stealing ideas from us?
PLAYWRIGHT: Essentially, yeah.
CUSTODIAN: That’s good. We need more idea reporters; fuck
fact reporters.
TIM: Ms. Gilcrest? This is Councilman Sidler. Can you hear the
honesty and good intention in my voice?
CHERYL: I can. Well done.
TIM: Thank you. I’ve been thinking about your questions and I’d
like to argue for the unworthiness of this topic. In a
friendly way I’d like to suggest you move on to something
else. Certainly you have more important stories to pursue.
CHERYL: Well Tim, I’d like the pitch of my voice to rise
slightly in order to indicate that you’ve not only not put me
off the story, you’ve actually increased my interest.
PLAYWRIGHT: Fact reporting is kinda old school.
FLORIST: So… he could be thinner?
PLAYWRIGHT: Sure, if I want him to be.
TIM: Then I’d like my voice to register disappointment that you
are being so unreasonable.
CHERYL: I hear that. And can you hear the barely disguised
pleasure with which I register your change in tone?
FLORIST: And I could be different too?
TIM: (After a pause) I can, yes.
PLAYWRIGHT: Why not? It might reveal a deeper, artistic truth
that the reality would conceal.
CHERYL: Good. Then: direct question.
FLORIST: Could I… do different things?
TIM: Insincere confusion about the point of the question.
CHERYL: Restatement of question.
34
TIM: Oooff-topic comment.
memorized from talk shows. Phrases I haven’t used since
adolescence! Abuse and accusations degenerating into a
nonsensical eruption!
CHERYL: Same question.
CHERYL: Thank you.
TIM: Deep rumination and troubled contemplation.
CHERYL: Same question.
TIM: Complicated reasons that the question itself can’t be
addressed as poised.
(The man in the comfy chair
turns a page. The lights shift.
CHORUS HUMS.
A moment.)
DENNY: Can I have a word with you?
CHERYL: Carefully. Rephrased. Question.
BAILEY: Make it quick.
TIM: Counter question about the future of the PI with the
suggestion that the Pacific Northwest would be better off
without so many questions.
DENNY: As much as I enjoy the obits and “Today in History”?
BAILEY: OK.
CHERYL: Restatement of rephrased question.
TIM: Um… . disappointed evasion.
DENNY: I heard the drama guy quit and you’re looking for an inhouse hire.
CHERYL: So precipitously?
BAILEY: Maybe.
TIM: That’s your characterization.
DENNY: I studied theater in college. I translated some plays.
CHERYL: Evasion followed quickly by denial.
BAILEY: oboy.
TIM: Denial of denial.
DENNY: I could be one of those working critics. You know,
somebody who loves theater because, well, because I’ve
done it. I appreciate it.
CHERYL: Denials of denials make for great reading,
Councilman Sidler.
BAILEY: All right.
TIM: Memorized argument about how the media looks for
sensational stories rather than real news. Purgative ranting
and recriminations and generalized outrage. Phrases I’ve
35
DENNY: And that doesn’t mean I’m going to be one of those
know-it-all, Look-at-me, I hate everything, I’m so clever
kinda guys.
BAILEY: (On the phone.: Yeah, Adcock? …I need a new drama
guy. How’d you like a promotion? …Gardening, Drama, what’s
the difference? Weren’t you in the skit at the company party?
BAILEY: You love everything.
DENNY: Wait… .
DENNY: I love theater. And the potential. I mean “Critic for the
P.I.” In this town? That job has so much—
BAILEY: (Points his finger at DENNY as he continues.) Yeah,
the giant tomato! Love that…Great, OK…you know, I
could give a rip about your feature on geraniums, get your
ass down to the Group Theater and write a review. On my
desk tomorrow morning…Thank you! And Adcock (To
DENNY.) How did you describe that play? (Holds up the
receiver to DENNY.)
BAILEY: Potential.
DENNY: Right.
BAILEY: Sort of a symbiotic thing. Your criticism feeds the
playwright. This inspires the playwright to create work
with a lasting artistic resonance.
DENNY: Exactly. You understand! Here, this is for a new play
at the Group Theater. And it’s brilliant, really. The play, I
mean.
DENNY: (Into the receiver.) “Brilliant. At times confounding. I
didn’t always understand it but I couldn’t take my eyes off
it.”
BAILEY: (Takes the receiver.) You hear that? Don’t ever use
any of those phrases in your reviews. Ever. Right. Just
try not to sound like an idiot, OK?…Thank You!
BAILEY: I’m sure it is.
DENNY: OK, I didn’t understand every line. I mean, some of it
was (gives an ‘over my head’ gesture) but oh my god, I
just couldn’t take my eyes off it. Which is the long way
around for saying I want to go back tonight and see it
again.
The CHORUS hums.
(CHORUS hums.
TITLES
ON
SCREEN:
“New Play at Group Theater –
Mildly Amusing”)
DENNY: What?
In an ideal world, this character appears as an Audience
member. However,
BAILEY: Excuse me. (Dials.)
DENNY: Sir?
CHRISTIE: Excuse me. Sorry. That crap about Joe Adcock is so
totally inaccurate and I can’t, I mean you’re talking about
a man’s life here, you know? Joe Adcock fucking loved
theater. He went to shows like, three times a week for
36
fucking years. And to fringe stuff, even shit like this.
Because he loved it, fucking loved it. And this whole
myth about him transferring from the Garden Section is
just, it’s bullshit. He was a critic, OK? The P.I. hired him
as a drama critic. And just because a bunch of pissed off
actors make up this story about the “gardening section,”
that’s bullshit. This is this man’s life, all right? I mean
c’mon. It’s not like he can defend himself. (To the
Audience.) I’m sorry. I’m not sorry. I’m sorry for the
interruption.
BARNES: I told you guys. What did I say?
HAYES: Yep.
CHRISTIE: Say what you want about his writing; he didn’t come
from the fucking garden section.
HAYES: Oh, so we can “say what we want” about his writing?
SIMS: Fire away.
HAYES: He was…unencumbered my imagination or wit.
CRUMBACK: Hmm.
HAYES: A formulaic hack?
CRUMBACK: Accurate but mean.
SIMS: A formulaic hack terrified of taking intellectual or creative
risks who dedicated a career to mediocrity at a critical time
when a better writer could have helped to develop a more
discerning and appreciative audience?
BARNES: …Let’s stick with “unencumbered by imagination or
wit.” And a nice guy. Really nice, caring man.
(They all agree and then hum:’Nice.’
(The man in the comfy chair turns a
page. Lights shift.
PAUL: Anyone who’s lived here long enough has their
SEATTLE P-I versus the SEATTLE TIMES comparison. The
formula runs something like this: the Times is the better paper,
more sophisticated and urbane, its best writers move on to better
jobs in bigger cities. The P-I is scruffier, looser, a little more off
kilter, more working class and quirky. Its writers move on to—
well most of them don’t move on, not ever, not unless the
unthinkable happens and they all get shit-canned en masse on the
same fateful day, but occasionally the exception that proves the
rule would get away, like Tom Robbins for example, going on to
write outrageous and hilariously epic psychedelia. The TIMES is
the better paper, but the P-I’s the one you hang out and have a
beer with. It’s funner. It’s your friend.
As a local playwright who’s lived in this town on and off
for seventeen years I’m here to tell you that a modified version of
the formula held true even in the tiny toy world of theatre. At the
Times you have Misha, the nationally respected theatre critic,
frequently contributing at the national level to journals such as
American Theater. At the PI you had Joe, universally maligned in
our tight knit community: at his best a bloviating hack; at his
worse, quite possibly insane, writing reviews that made you
wonder if he had even seen the show in question. The only proof
you had was that you personally tore his comp ticket and fretted
from a side seat, watching him watch.
Bottom line: you hoped Misha would come. She might
like it, she might not. But whatever she wrote about you would be
competent, incisive and maybe even insightful. It would make
sense. You didn’t hope Joe would come. Joe always came. It
seemed like he saw every goddamned play put on in this town.
37
Joe came, and you just hoped whatever Joe wrote bore some sort
of tenuous relationship to the show you wrote. You hoped
knowing that your hope was vain.
MISHA: All of our jobs are in danger. Newspapers are dying.
And you people in the theatre would do well to be aware of that.
PAUL: Okay. Misha. Thanks for sharing that with me.
(One of the news desk
phones ring. A woman answers it.)
MISHA: Hello, this is Misha.
PAUL: Hi Misha, it’s Paul Mullin calling. Don’t know if you
remember me but you’ve reviewed a few of my plays in the past,
LOUIS SLOTIN SONATA at the Empty Space, and-MISHA: Yes, hello Paul. How are you?
PAUL: I’m fine. Hey, I’m just calling to follow up on a press
release for my newest play THE TEN THOUSAND THINGS
over at Washington Theatre Ensemble.
MISHA: You’re welcome. Bye, Paul.
(Lights out on Misha.)
PAUL: Bye-bye.
Yes, I was a good boy and bit my tongue. Made nice with
the critic that might be reviewing my new play in a few weeks
when what I really wanted to say was, “You’re bitching to me
about your medium dying? I’m a fucking playwright! My form
first crawled into its deathbed half a century before I was born.
You love writing? Welcome to the world of writing for only that:
love.”
. . . . But I was a good boy. I bit my tongue.
(Another of the of the news
desk phones ring. A man answers
it.)
MISHA: I don’t think I got a press release from WET yet.
PAUL: No, it was me that sent it. I wanted to personally invite
you to the play of course, but also this pretty exciting seminar I’m
organizing on the subject of Deep Time.
JOE: P-I, this is Joe.
MISHA: Unh-hunh. Well, why don’t you send it again and I’ll
take a look and I’ll try to come and review it. I don’t know about
the seminar. Frankly, it’s tough enough to get to the plays. In fact
you might want to take this message back to your friends that they
might want to consider being a little bit more grateful for what we
do for them because it’s entirely possible that we aren’t going to
be around much longer.
JOE: Hi, Paul. How are you?
PAUL: Oh, okay. I’m sorry, Misha. I hope your job isn’t in
danger.
PAUL: Hi Joe, it’s Paul Mullin calling.
PAUL: I’m fine. Hey, I’m just calling to follow up on a press
release for my newest play THE TEN THOUSAND THINGS
over at Washington Theatre Ensemble.
JOE: Oh, well, I’m sorry, Paul. But I won’t be able to come see
your play. I’m retiring next week.
PAUL: What?
38
JOE: I’m retiring after 25 long years.
PAUL: Oh, no, Joe. That’s terrible.
JOE: I don’t recommend committing reviews to memory, Paul.
Especially not mine.
PAUL: Well, I—It’s not terrible, but you’re—I’m gonna—you’re
an institution in this town.
PAUL: Only yours, Joe. Only yours. I’ve collected your pans
over the years like peculiar Purple Hearts. You’ve seen every
play I’ve ever premiered in this town. I don’t know another critic
I can say that about.
JOE: No, I’m not.
JOE: Well—
PAUL: You’re gonna be missed.
PAUL: Joe.
JOE: No, I won’t.
JOE: Yeah, Paul.
PAUL: I mean it.
PAUL: I don’t know another person I can say that about.
JOE: Paul, who are you kidding?
JOE: Well.
PAUL: Joe, listen, I gotta tell you, and this is coming from the
guy who you have never once, in the space of 17 years ever given
a good review. Joe, you’re the guy who after seeing my first
world premiere back in 1996 said that I reminded you of another
Irish American playwright, Eugene O’Neill, but that you found
him boring too.
PAUL: I’m just—uh… you’ll be missed. Okay?
JOE: Why?
JOE: Paul, that’s sweet. But listen, I got paid every Friday.
PAUL: Yeah…. Yeah, Okay, Joe.
JOE: You take care, Paul.
JOE: Yeah.
PAUL: You too, Joe.
PAUL: You called my AMERICAN BOOK OF THE DEAD,
“interesting and dull, intriguing and frustrating, amusing and
confusing.” I mean, what does that even mean?
JOE: It was, all of those things, I remember.
PAUL: In your review of LOUIS SLOTIN SONATA you wrote
me off as “a clever mess-maker.”
(The man in the comfy chair turns a page.
Lights shift. Spot up on Nick.)
NICK: Cobain was by now famous. Just come back from his
European success. This must’ve been the Fall ’91. Backstage
well-wishers. All the band had separate dressing rooms but Kurt's
was filled with people kinda standing there awkwardly. I don’t
39
know, nervously. Like something might go off. Kurt was sitting
on a stool. Wet with sweat, head in his hands. I said hi. I stuck
out my hand. He stuck out his hand, shook my hand and then put
his head back in his hands and that’s the only interview I got with
Kurt Cobain. And then not so long after… he was dead. Kurt's
death was on a Friday, the day after my birthday. Boeing had just
introduced the triple 7. The PI put 12 reporters on that story. And
at the house throngs of people. TV vans on the sidewalk. TV
vans don't care where they park. Courtney invited me to his
memorial. It’s an awkward situation. You’ve been invited
because people trust you but there’s a story to be told you know?
Courtney… I like Courtney she talks a lot. At the service they
passed around this flyer with a picture of Kurt, he was something
like 7. He had a blonde prince valiant haircut. Just the sweetest
picture.
(breath)
When they announced that the PI had officially closed, I
got this e-mail from a reader. Never did find out who it was. She
said, “Your PI was so wonderful. Please don’t sleep in your car. I
had a friend who had to sleep in his car.” I wanted to tell her, It’s
okay I don’t have to sleep in my car.
In an ideal world, this character appears as an Audience
member. However,
the monologue can also be delivered by a member of the
CHORUS:
CHRISTIE: Excuse me. Sorry. That crap about Joe Adcock
is so totally inaccurate and I can’t, I mean you’re talking
about a man’s life here, you know? Joe Adcock fucking loved
theater. He went to shows like, three times a week for fucking
years. And to fringe stuff, even shit like this. Because he
loved it, fucking loved it. And this whole myth about him
transferring from the Garden Section is just, it’s bullshit. He
was a critic, OK? The P.I. hired him as a drama critic. And
just because a bunch of pissed off actors make up this story
about the “gardening section,” that’s bullshit. This is this
man’s life, all right? I mean c’mon. It’s not like he can
defend himself. (To the Audience.) I’m sorry. I’m not sorry.
I’m sorry for the interruption.
BARNES: I told you guys. What did I say?
HAYES: Yep.
(The man in the comfy chair turns a page.
Lights shift.)
HAYES: Horrible news! Two mules died, we’re out of soap,
and most of our colored fire got wet and had to be--
CHRISTIE: Say what you want about his writing; he didn’t
come from the fucking garden section.
HAYES: Oh, so we can “say what we want” about his
writing?
BAILEY: Denny?! Get in here!
SIMS: Fire away.
DENNY: Right here, boss.
HAYES: He was…unencumbered my imagination or wit.
BAILEY : I send you to Olympia for one little story and—
CRUMBACK: Hmm.
HAYES: A formulaic hack?
40
CRUMBACK: Accurate but mean.
SIMS: A formulaic hack terrified of taking intellectual or
creative risks who dedicated a career to mediocrity at a critical
time when a better writer could have helped to develop a more
discerning and appreciative audience?
has the audacity to brag about it. And when we ask Lt. Weasel
Brad Owen to confirm he says, “Yes, I took the signal. I mean it
happens, but not that often.” OK. This is essentially a five
million dollar bribe by one of the richest men in the world and
what’s his pay-off? $300,000,000.
Extra-Inspiring backup humming.
BAILEY: Denny, get in here!
That’s the P.I. Get the facts, tell the truth, ruffle some
feathers. Are we willing to have Paul Allen hate our guts?
Yes we are. Are we scared of Brad Owen? (not scared:)
ooooo. And now the world’s going to know about the bipartisan slime stealing $300,000,000 of Your Money. That’s
the P.I. That’s hard-hitting. That’s the tell-it-like-it-is
journalism that made this paper great!
CHORUS provides inspiring back-up humming throughout
this monologue.
DENNY hands the story to Bailey, then shakes hands with
the CHORUS. They prepare to light fireworks.
DENNY:(To the Audience.) So I’m down in Olympia covering
Paul Allen’s attempt to get the state to cough up three hundred
mill for a new football stadium and the Speaker of the House has
just declared the whole deal “dead in the water.” Again. So I’m
standing outside the republican caucus with the Speaker’s lawyer
and I say, “Hasn’t that stadium been declared ‘dead in the water’
eight times since January? What’s going to happen?” And he
says, “It passes 65-33; I may be off one or two votes, but I doubt
it. I could tell you who’s going to vote which way, too. But I
won’t.” One month later it passes 65-33 but gets stuck in the
Senate. In fact, it’s so close that Bud Coffee, the hired gun Paul
Allen has leading his $5,000,000 lobbying team, actually stops the
senate vote. He’s In the Wings of the Senate Floor and signals
the Lt. Governor to Delay the Vote because one of his senators is
in the can. A lobbyist. Signaling the Lt. Governor. Sure
enough, the Lt. Governor waits until the senator returns, gets
the OK from Coffee, and then takes the vote. And then Coffee
SIMS: This is gonna light up Seattle!
BARNES: …Let’s stick with “unencumbered by imagination or
wit.” And a nice guy. Really nice, caring man.
They all agree and then sing:”Niiiiice Guyyyy.”
Hayes: All of Puget Sound!
Crumback: They’re too soggy. They’re ruined.
Denny: Guys… . What you did, it’s still inspiring!
TITLES: “SCORE ONE FOR ALLEN AS SENATE
PASSES STADIUM!”
DENNY: What?!
BAILEY: It was too long. Didn’t want to upset the advertisers.
CHORUS: (They sing:) “Twelve Years Later.”
41
DENNY: (To the Audience.) They moved me to high school
sports.
Chorus hums—they prepare to light what’s left of the
fireworks.
BAILEY: (Reading copy.) Not bad. Not bad at all.
BAILEY: OK, well how about a feature on The Kid?
DENNY: Thanks.
DENNY: On Junior? Great. ‘Cause see, I’ve got this whole
theory. I mean when he first came up, I loved him; how could
you not? Father/son; back-to-back homers. Plus senior’s one of
my all-time favorites: hard-working, team player--
BAILEY: This section here.
DENNY: Yeah?
BAILEY: Just like the Kid.
BAILEY: Very concise. But readable. And that’s a good quote.
BAILEY: You’ve been here a long time, haven’t you?
DENNY: That’s the thing, you look at those teams in the ‘90s
and wonder how such great teams could be such losers and then
you realize—Griffey, Edgar, Buhner, Tino, Alex, they were all
trying to hit home runs. And they did, but even so, they stunk.
DENNY: Twenty-seven years.
BAILEY: Until the Kid turned them around.
BAILEY: Twenty-seven years. Seen a lot of changes. Lot of
people come and go.
DENNY: Until ’95 when the Kid got injured, sat out half the
season and the rest of the team started playing baseball. They
went from perennial losers to division champs.
DENNY: Thanks.
DENNY: Yeah.
BAILEY: Ever think you might want to cover the M’s?
DENNY: Cover the M’s? Waka-Yes-U! Of course.
BAILEY: Don’t ever use that word again. Ever.
DENNY: Waka-Yes—
BAILEY: Just Yes or No. That’s good.
DENNY: Yes!
DENNY: What’d he play, half a season in Safeco? Next thing
you know he works a trade. And what does he do there: the Reds
go from being a hot, young 90+win team to sub-500 losers.
How’s this for a headline: “Team Cancer Traded to Cincinnati –
M’s Win Historic 116 Games!”
BAILEY picks up the phone, makes a call.
DENNY: But now he’s back, “The House that Griffey Built.” He
can’t run, can’t field, he’s going to clog up the #4 slot until the
M’s realize, guess what, they really are better off without him.
Again. And isn’t it just a little suspicious when a dude with
man-boobs and diverticulitis bulks up like a sausage and hits
50 home runs?
42
BAILEY: I.E.S.
BAILEY ends his phone conversation.
DENNY: I’m sorry.
DENNY: Here’s the story: Seattle is so desperate for a sports
hero, they canonize a steroid injecting, cancerous, non-interview
giving, pampered, selfish brat for decades. Why not save it for a
real hero, like Gary Payton, Lou Pinella or heaven forbid, August
Wilson?
A moment.
BAILEY: Are you finished?
BAILEY: (Whispers.) It’s Entertainment, Stupid.
DENNY: Ah. Of course. Somehow I didn’t, you know…I never
really picked up on that.
BAILEY: Now you know.
DENNY: I’m afraid so, yes.
A moment.
BAILEY: We have to make some more cut-backs. In every
department.
DENNY: Now I know.
DENNY: I know.
DENNY: He’s batting .194
BAILEY: Of course you do.
BAILEY: I said are you done?
DENNY: OK.
A moment.
BAILEY: …People want to take their kid to the park and see
Griffey hit it over Smith Tower.
DENNY: Yes.
HEADLINE: “The Kid Returns – Leads M’s in All-Star
Ballot”
BAILEY: …One thing. A possibility.
DENNY: Uh-huh.
DENNY: He’s a lefty.
BAILEY: Think you can Twitter?
BAILEY: That’s not the point.
DENNY: What’s the point?
BAILEY: Watching the man play center field was a thing of
beauty. A thing of extraordinary beauty.
DENNY looks to the CHORUS. They light matches are
raise them in salute toward him.
(The man in the comfy chair turns a page.
Lights shift.
TIM: Hello?
DENNY: That’s true.
CHERYL: Former Councilman Sidler?
43
TIM: Ms. Gilcrest?
TIM: Is that evasion, Cheryl.
CHERYL: That’s right.
CHERYL: No no, not at all.
TIM: I was hoping you’d call. I’d like to strike a conciliatory
tone before I even know what you’re calling about. I want to
convey an apologetic air that allows us to just… start anew.
TIM: Ah, denial of evasion. Would that make for good reading,
Cheryl?
CHERYL: It would not, Mr. Sidler.
CHERYL: Pre-emptive mollification. Check.
TIM: Let’s call it temporary mollification as a setup for
immanent reversal. I assume you’re calling about the trial?
TIM: Because the public isn’t interested in hypocrisy in the
media?
CHERYL: That’s right.
CHERYL: There is no hypocrisy here, Mr. Sidler. You are
evading.
TIM: May I call you Cheryl?
TIM: Am I? Tell me then, what is your interest in this trial?
CHERYL: If… you’d like.
CHERYL: The public has a right to know.
TIM: Cheryl, I’d like to make this personal. Can you hear the
honesty in my voice?
TIM: For what reason, Cheryl? I am out of office. I am out of
office because personal indiscretions having nothing to do with
my work were revealed. But be that as it may, I am out of office.
So what possible interest could the public have my divorce now?
CHERYL: I can hear something.
TIM: Because as I turn from being pleasant to being absolutely
filled with vitriol and derision I want you to register the sincerity.
CHERYL: The public has a right to know.
CHERYL: You seem in earnest.
TIM: Yes, you’ve said that Cheryl. But is there a need to know,
or is this about selling papers? Is there a reason, or is this just
salacious voyeurism?
TIM: I am. I am earnestly filled with loathing for a person who
takes joy in dragging someone else’s dirty linen out into the public
view. I want you to register my tone more than my words when I
say that you are scum.
CHERYL: Critics of the free press often accuse journalists of
pandering.
TIM: Are they right, Cheryl?
CHERYL: You chose a public life, Mr. Sidler.
44
CHERYL: I have some questions.
MATT: It was a joke, Shelly. We can’t joke here?
TIM: So do I, Cheryl. And the most important questions I have
haven’t any answers to be found in your paper.
PR REP: We were talking about kids dying, Matt. I don’t think
there’s anything funny about that.
(The man in the comfy chair turns a page.
(Lights up on Bill Gates ushering Matt Nilson
into his office. Another woman, a PR rep for
Gates, sits near by.)
BILL: Have a seat, Matt.
MATT: Thanks. And thanks for agreeing to meet with me in
person, Mr. Gates.
MATT (to Gates): This is what I’m talking about.
BILL: What’s that?
MATT: Your media folks need to loosen up. They don’t need to
control everything. I mean the hoops I had to jump through to get
this interview, them trying to make me feel like I’d won the
lottery just to get to talk to you when all I’m trying to do is tell the
story of your global health initiative, a story that I’m pretty sure
you want told, right?
BILL: Oh, come on, Matt. You can call me Bill.
BILL: That’s right, Matt.
MATT: Okay then, Bill.
BILL: And I’m happy to meet with reporters in person if they’re
really willing to start reporting on the issues of global health but
getting you guys interested is like pulling teeth. Every year 1.9
million children die because of diarrhea - completely curable. .
That’s a holocaust-sized catastrophe every six years. And the
media just doesn’t care. All we get is Britney spears and plane
crashes.
MATT: You know, I was at one of your events last month, this
ice cream social for the kids and I had biked over from my house.
Had the bike pants on and the helmet. I was just there for the
event; no notebook, nothing. And these people followed me
around like I was a shoplifter the whole time I was there. And I
was just there for the ice cream. I mean, you want to help people,
right?
BILL: That’s right, Matt.
MATT: Well, I’m sure if you tossed us reporters even a small
percentage of the 750 million you’re spending on this you could
get diarrhea on the front page.
(Awkward pause. Bill looks over at
his PR rep.)
MATT: Wouldn’t that be easier if people knew what you were
doing? And wouldn’t that be easier if I could just get the story
without your media folks trying to control it. If you trust people,
they tend to like you naturally.
PR REP: We’re not trying to control you.
PR REP: That’s inappropriate, Matt.
MATT: Why is she even here?
45
PR REP: I need to be here, Matt. You’re making that painfully
obvious.
MATT: It’s a waste of her time and your money. No offense. I
mean, think about it, is she really going to stop you from saying
what you want to say or me from asking what I want to ask?
MATT: Hell no.
INSTRUCTOR: I guess Gates couldn’t push through the web his
PR team had created.
MATT: Yeah, maybe, but you get what you pay for. And he pays
a lot of money for them to protect him from looking bad.
PR REP: It’s protocol.
REPORTER 3: The fish rots from the head?
MATT: It’s protocol.
BILL: He’s right. You don’t need to be here.
MATT: Your words, not mine. The point is, with the PI tits up,
that’s one less entity whose questions the Gates Foundation feels
obliged to answer.
PR REP: But, Bill, I—
INSTRUCTOR: I think this is important. I think this is good.
But I’d like to get back to resumes. I think it’ll help out a lot if we
can identify how we all contribute to the bottom line. Let’s try
this: Forget for a second that the word “reporter” exists. I’m
from Mars. I want you to tell me what you’re good at. Without
using jargon, describe your skill set. What it is at the basic level
you do.
BILL: Thanks.
PR REP: Thanks.
MATT: Thanks.
(The PR Rep goes.)
BILL: Now that I’m aware of the problem it’ll be fixed.
MATT: Okay. Thanks.
BILL: So you still want to do this interview or am I going to have
to pay you a million bucks first?
MATT: Let’s do the interview. I’ll bill you later.
(Crossfade back to the resume class.)
REPORTER 4: So did the Gates Foundation PR folks back off?
MATT: You wanna know what we’re good at? My basic skill
set. Here’s what we can do for you, over and over, day after day,
at level of consistency and quality you won’t find anywhere else.
We can go into a room full of powerful people, and start
asking questions. Annoying questions, follow up questions to the
annoying questions, questions that make those powerful people
uncomfortable, maybe even push them off guard, so we get a real
answer instead of something canned. A good telling quote. Then
we take what we get, turn around, run to a key board and in 25
minutes type you a story that will be read by hundreds of
thousands of people the next day. And then when that’s all over,
we do it again. And again. Every frickin’ day.
46
Look. I’m the last person in the world to praise reporters.
It sticks in my throat for chrissakes. We’re annoying. We’re
generally not well liked. By anyone. We don’t even really like
each other. But when you close down a P-I you take off the
streets about a hundred people whose full-time job it is to go
around asking questions.
WOMAN: I’ll go.
MATT: No, you stay. You just got home, put your feet up.
WOMAN: Don’t even, alright. You get the grill going, I’ll go.
MATT: I’ll go.
INSTRUCTOR: Tell you what: it’s about time, so let’s break for
lunch a little early. You can just leave your things here, the
building is secure. And we’ll meet back here in an hour and a
half. Great.
(The instructor leaves. The former journalists look at
one another. They pick up all their things and leave.
(The towne crier comes to the man in the comfy chair
and takes the paper out of his hands. He reads a
headline. He begins reading the article, but his cell
goes off. He takes it out and begins a personal call as
he crosses and drops the paper on the kitchen table. He
exits. Matt enters.
WOMAN: You won’t remember what to get anyway.
MATT: Salmon.
WOMAN: And?
MATT: (Not remembering) Lots of wine and Chunky Monkey.
WOMAN: Jesus.
MATT: I’m sorry. I’m a little distracted.
WOMAN: I’m going in your car because it’s full of gas.
The kitchen from the top of the play has returned. Matt
comes in from outside, just home from the resume class.
He throws keys and wallet on the counter, goes to the
fridge and opens a beer. He sits at the table and idly
begins leafing through the remains of the paper. The
woman enters. She looks at him. He looks at her. It’s
a standoff. Finally the man realizes with a jerk. He
stands.
MATT: Whole Foods! Crap, I’m sorry.
WOMAN: How long have you been here?
MATT: I just pulled in, I’m sorry. I’ll go.
MATT: You’re just a better person than me.
WOMAN: And I’m employed. Don’t forget it.
The woman is gone. Matt goes to the door, stops,
grabs the paper and then goes out. After a
moment he wheels a grill out of the garage. It is
a fancy charcoal grill with an attached shelf unit
that contains charcoal and a charcoal chimney.
He removes the grill lid and places the chimney
on top. He begins stuffing newspaper into the
bottom. He pauses when he sees an article that
he’s about to crumple. He takes this sheet aside
and stuffs another piece of paper into the
47
chimney. He puts the charcoal in the top and
then lights the paper underneath. It begins
smoking. He turns back to the piece of paper he
has set aside. He begins reading it. He stands
reading as the smoke billows up next to him.
Lights out.
End of paper.)