PI Project
“It’s Not in the P-I” 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. Time change. 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.
MATT: Crankshaft!
WOMAN: You’re becoming that guy.
MATT: Ha ha.
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.
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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.
WOMAN: You’re not a Pisces.
MATT: You’re a Pisces.
WOMAN: I’m Aries.
MATT: No you’re not. You are?
(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.
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(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.
(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 to 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.
MATT: Nope.
INSTRUCTOR: So what would you say to the first question?
MATT: Nothing.
INSTRUCTOR: Nothing?
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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 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: You think? That’s a hell of an accusation. Can you back it up?
(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: Why?
INSTRUCTOR: “Why?”
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 maybe 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.)
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REPORTER 1: P-I, this is Lemonchek.
CALLER 1: Yeah, the library’s on fire.
REPORTER 1: What?
CALLER 1: The library’s on fire.
REPORTER 1: Which library? Where?
CALLER 1: You know, the one that looks all fancy, near the lake.
REPORTER 1: The Green Lake Library?
CALLER 1: Yeah, maybe that’s it.
REPORTER 1: It’s on fire?!
CALLER 1: Yup.
REPORTER 1: Did you call 9-1-1?
CALLER 1: Nope. I figgered you guys would want to know.
REPORTER 1: We do, we’ll be over. But for chrissake, hang up and call 9-1-1!
REPORTER 2: P-I this is Schneider.
CALLER 2: Susy Schneider?
REPORTER 2: That’s right.
CALLER 2: What makes you think you know fuck all about music, Susy Schneider?
REPORTER 3: Seattle Post-Intelligencer, this is Chris Dunlow.
CALLER 3: Hey, what time is M*A*S*H on tonight?
MATT: P-I, this is Nilsen.
JOHN: Matt, it’s John White.
MATT: Ah, well, hey John, haven’t heard from you in a couple weeks.
JOHN: Yeah, I’ve been busy.
MATT: What can I do for you John?
JOHN: You can follow up the leads I gave you.
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REPORTER 4: P-I. Phelan.
CALLER 4: Hi, Jerry.
REPORTER 4: Hi Mrs. Jorgensen.
CALLER 4: How are you, Jerry?
REPORTER 4: I’m fine, Mrs. Jorgensen. How are you?
CALLER 4: Oh, I’m fine. Still getting old, you know.
REPORTER 4: Oh, nonsense, you’re seventy – nine years young, if you’re a day, dear.
REPORTER 3: You’re calling the news room of an award-winning major daily newspaper of a major
Pacific Northwest City to find out what time a sitcom rerun airs?
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: But you will. Follow those leads I gave you. Do you still have them?
MATT: Oh yeah. (He waves a random magazine in the air, maybe it’s a HUSTLER.) I got ‘em right
here in my file.
JOHN: Good.
CALLER 3: Look, can you just tell me when M*A*S*H is on?
(Dunlow opens a paper and looks up the listing.)
REPORTER 3: 7:30 and 11:00 PM on Channel 16.
CALLER 3: Thanks!
REPORTER 3: You’re welcome.
MATT: John, what makes you think that these leads aren’t just straws I’d be grasping at.
JOHN: Because I was involved.
MATT: You were involved?
JOHN: That’s right.
MATT: You were involved in the Kennedy assassination.
JOHN: That’s right.
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MATT: Mr. John White, co-conspirator to highest treason.
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: But here’s what I wanna know, John?
JOHN: What’s that Matt?
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: I can imagine.
MATT: But whenever you call all I get on my display is “Caller Unknown”.
JOHN: I see.
MATT: Where do you live John?
JOHN: I live close, Matt. Let’s say I’m in your regular subscription radius.
MATT: Western Washington.
JOHN: Sure. Western Washington.
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.
MATT: Okay, John.
JOHN: Talk to you soon.
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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 4: Not since we were all shitcanned, Matt.
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.
REPORTER 3: If they got leads, they can email them to the on-line 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, even though a lot of ‘em
have decades to go.
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?
(Lights shift. The screen reads in bold agit-prop font: “Pressing
a Politician in Four Parts. Part 1”
A phone rings.
A politician answers the phone. A woman reporter is calling.)
TIM: Hello?
CHERYL: Councilman Sidler?
TIM: Speaking.
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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?
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.
(Lights shift. The screen reads “Punchy”. 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.)
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: Those marketing fuckers are so touchy feely.
NICK: Yeah.
ALLEN: Yeah. I hate fucking hand shakers. And huggers. Oh fuck, huggers are worse. I hate huggers.
NICK: Is that... what kind of cheese is that….on your sandwich?
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.
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NICK: Poor Tom. Don't you think? I mean...I think he had a family.
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.
NICK: He does look like a Rotweiler. Around the mouth especially.
MICHELLE: No, bullshit, he didn't get fired. He definitely looks like a Rotweiler.
NICK: Oh. Well. He did. Get fired.
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: Jack missed a deadline. So Tom was upset. Anybody would've been upset. Michelle you
would've been upset.
MICHELLE: Yes. But I'm a grown up lady. I don't punch people in the face when I'm upset.
ALLEN: Michelle is more skilled in emotional trauma.
MICHELLE: That's true.
NICK: Tom, he just got some kinda note in his file for punching out all of Jacks teeth.
ALLEN: Not all of them. Jack still has all of his molars and an eye- tooth.
MICHELLE: Poor Jack. He should get that fixed.
ALLEN: I don't know he used to be just ugly but now he's interesting ugly. The ladies like that.
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MICHELLE: How would you know what the ladies like?
ALLEN: Don't question my lady skills.
NICK: Never question a mans lady skills.
MICHELLE: Anyway Tom had anger management issues. He had to take a class.
ALLEN: Oh, I took that class. I keep the 10 steps in my wallet.
(Allen pulls a laminated card from his wallet.)
NICK: Has this been set on fire ?
ALLEN: Oh yeah ,a couple of times .But it's laminated so its still pretty readable. See that? Step one
Breathe deeply, slowly repeat a calm word or phrase such as "relax," "take it easy."
NICK: Does that work?
ALLEN: No. Not at all.
MICHELLE: Tom is batshit crazy and now he's fired. That's all. Anyway. 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.
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.
ALLEN: I know dumbshit. Everybody knows. Way to scoop that story.
MIKE: He called in. Couldn't make it in last night. He was in jail.
ALLEN: Oh yeah?
MIKE: Punched out a sixth grader on the bus.
ALLEN: Oh well.
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.
NICK: Oh shit. He's real sensitive about that. He's been drinking those diet shakes and everything.
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MIKE: So he spit in the kids face.
MICHELLE: Very nice.
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.
ALLEN: That's his M.O. He's a mouth puncher.
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.
MICHELLE: Is that in the employee handbook?
MIKE: That kid was a huge sixth grader though. In Toms defense.
(Lou enters.)
LOU: Hello boys and lady.
MICHELLE: Tom got fired.
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.
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.
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: Interns.
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.
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LOU: Whoa there. Hang on there. I seek to instruct and enlighten our youth. Especially, the pretty
lady ones.
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.
MIKE: Don't fuck with her interns.
ALLEN: She'll cut you
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.
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.
MIKE: Is he asking the great Bob Dylan to stop mumbling?
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.
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ALLEN: She plays dirty. You are ruthless Michelle. I like that in a woman. Sure you don't want to tell
me all about the men’s room? You could show me.
NICK: Shh. I mean it. Mister Dylan?
(He 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?
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.
ALLEN: Bob Dylan doesn't much like the phone. He's so paranoid about people getting his phone
number he layers phone calls through three phone lines.
NICK: I have pretty much nothing here. Jesus. I can't write a whole column about Bob Dylan's poor
enunciation.
ALLEN: Yeah. I'm pretty sure that not breaking news to anyone.
NICK: He's a tough interview. So's Ringo Starr and Joan Baez. Don't you think Alice Copper and Joan
Baez look like the same person? You know who's a great interview? James Taylor. He's just as sweet
as can be.
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.
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ALLEN: No.
MICHELLE: I think you are the reporter with the most empathy and appreciation for Gods creatures.
Punchys story needs to be told.
ALLEN: Jesus Christ Michelle. I hate fucking animal stories.
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.
MICHELLE: Thanks Stuart.
STUART: Fuck Yeah!
(Stuart runs off.)
ALLEN: What is wrong with that kid?
MIKE: He's just very enthusiastic.
MICHELLE: Yes, He has a good attitude unlike every other person in this room.
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. I'll be checking back later for all the dirt on
Punchy the Miracle Angel Dog.
(She exits.)
MIKE: Too bad man. Too bad. Your inbox is gonna be flooded with Grandmas. Everybody loves an
animal story.
ALLEN: Fuck. Remember that Judge that was molesting little boys and we spent a year building that
story?
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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.
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.
NICK: I think he's crying.
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.
(Lights shift back to the resume class
INSTRUCTOR: I want you to try to get out of the pigeon hole you’ve put yourself in. 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.
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 not know more than say, maybe, one to ten
percent to of what’s actually going on 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
always helps too.. 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 they get the
chance to tear into it, looking for any miniscule error of fact or presentation, and boy they’ll let you
know about it it, too. So you pray that you haven’t fucked it up too bad, and then when that’s all over,
we do it again. And again. Every frickin’ day.
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.
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[House lights go up. Everyone on stage but one goes into the
audience and starts asking questions.]
Example question template.
What’s your name?
Where you from?
What do you do for a living?
What’s the story?
Follow up: What’s something you know about that’s
happened or is happening that you think more people should
know about?
If the audience member hesitates the reporter immediately moves
on, saying something, like “Never mind. I need a story. You [next
person]. What’s your name? Where you from? What’s the story?
After about three minutes the reporters go back on the stage and
each pitch their best story vying for “A1”. The editor white boards
the selection process and a front page story is selected. Then
someone on stage writes the lede for the story. We watch them put it
together on the large projected screen.
Lights shift.
The screen reads: “Pressing a Politician in Four Parts. Part 2”
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.
CHERYL: Polite, Tim, not respectful.
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.
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CHERYL: But you’ll recall that I mentioned a flask of resolve.
TIM: Yes, I thought that was… metaphorical.
CHERYL: Not in the least. (Raising her flask) Cheers.
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 off-putting?
TIM: I think even annoying has a negative ring.
CHERYL: So you’ll be denying the evasion?
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.
CHERYL: Fine then. I’ll note the evasion and move on to some other sources.
TIM: I’d like to complain that other sources may be unreliable.
CHERYL: True, but they may be more open to answering questions as well. You have my number.
Bye.
The screen reads simply, “Detroit”.
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: Hey, cut it out.
FLASH: I want some proof when we get home that you were lost.
SCOOP: I’m not lost, we are lost.
FLASH: You were leading.
SCOOP: Fuck off.
FLASH: I am freezing my balls off.
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SCOOP: Yeah, you and the brass monkey you road in on.
FLASH: Let me see. (Takes map) Oh, hand drawn maps always inspire confidence.
SCOOP: Cab down in circulation drew it for me. He grew up in Detroit.
FLASH: I thought you knew this city.
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: Naw, football bores me.
FLASH: Then, uh, why?
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.
EDDIE: Your tickets.
FLASH: (Looking at them) Hey, Eddie, these are for a week before the game.
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.
SCOOP: A blind guy who’s gonna watch the game?
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.
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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: It is if you’re thinking tittie bar.
(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. The screen reads: “Anger.”
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. He stands to one side of the
newsroom – as at the beginning of The Glass Menagerie.
GREG: It’s the bitter end. 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 and I had
been covering the Joint Operating Agreement with the Times. So I was probably more jaded than
anyone. I mean, I knew more about what was going on.
In 1975 (?) congress realized that newspapers were having trouble. (Lest we think this is a new
crisis.) So they passed the JOA legislation that allowed and sometimes forced newspaper companies to
share operational costs. This was highly unusual government intervention, ostensibly because
newspapers represented a unique public good.
In 1982 (?) the Hearst corporation entered into a JOA with the Seattle Times. This never sat
well with the 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
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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 already been extended offers. So this is my beat. I start asking questions.
(Greg enters the newsroom.)
GREG: Hey Chaz.
CHAZ: Greg, man, what’s going on?
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GREG: I don’t know. You know?
CHAZ: No.
GREG: Wallace talk to you about staying on?
CHAZ: Shit no. I wasn’t gonna genuflect to that little fart.
GREG: Ha. But he didn’t approach you?
CHAZ: Like to see him try.
GREG: Carry on.
(Greg moves to another reporter.)
GREG: Conners, you talk to Wallace yet.
CONNERS: Sorry?
GREG: D’you go upstairs and talk to Wallace?
CONNERS: Uh… yeah. I had some ideas.
GREG: He offer to keep you on at the dot com?
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.
(Pause)
GREG: Private?
CONNERS: You know. I don’t know if I’m comfortable talking about it.
GREG: You’re not comfortable talking about it? What does that mean?
CONNERS: I just don’t… you know. I’m… you know.
GREG: No, I don’t know. What are you saying? Did you get an offer?
CONNERS: I don’t want to talk about it.
(Pause)
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GREG: I’m trying not to get insulted.
CONNERS: I’m not insulting you, I just don’t want to talk about it.
GREG: You are a reporter. You are stonewalling another reporter. How can that not be insulting?
CONNERS: Greg, I just don’t want to get in the middle of things.
GREG: I’m asking you a direct question. Did you get an offer?
CONNERS: So I’m gonna say no comment.
(Pause)
GREG: No comment?
CONNERS: If you press me, yeah.
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.
CONNERS: Come on.
GREG: No comment? That’s your final offer? You’re saying no comment to a fellow reporter?
CONNERS: No comment.
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 that could convince my colleagues to insult
me with ‘no comment’ was Wallace’s order to answer my question with that insult. And I was
determined to interview every person at the PI. But then my editor called me up to the third floor.
EDITOR: Greg, close the door.
GREG: Say again.
EDITOR: Close the door.
GREG: (Doing so) Uh oh.
EDITOR: Who is working PI dot com is not a story.
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GREG: (After a pause) It’s not.
EDITOR: No.
GREG: It seems like a story to me.
EDITOR: It’s not. I want you to drop it.
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.
GREG: I got a source who tells me –
EDITOR: A source?
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.
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 –
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GREG: Subversive?
EDITOR: You know what I mean. I think you need to assess your motivation here.
GREG: Assess my motivation?
EDITOR: Yeah. Look at yourself, you’re angry.
GREG: Okay?
EDITOR: Reporters should not be motivated by anger. Objectivity ring a bell?
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.
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 purveyor of information. Now I’m talking to a playwright. Look at me. I am
talking to a playwright to get my story out there. How desperate is that? I mean, no offence, but it’s
not like live theater commands the attention of the masses. Like newspapers. If newspaper readers
come to join the theater-goers, maybe we’ll have an actual audience. But what kind of… event it’ll be,
I just don’t know.
(Lights shift. Screen reads: “Detroit”.
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.
PINTO: We don’t open for another couple hours. Read the fucking sign.
SCOOP: Are you Pinto?
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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?
FLASH: There something else going on this week at the Stadium?
PINTO: Camping out?
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: Maybe you can find an immigrant who is baffled by our love for football. People love a fish
out of water story. You’ll probably find one driving a cab.
SCOOP: Thanks for the tip, boss.
PINTO: Well, shit. Come on in. But Camero and Volare are gonna be pissed. They were looking
forward to being interviewed.
EDDIE: Ooh, work the wife beating angle! You know, husband gets drunk, team loses.
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.
EDDIE: I appreciate your slavish devotion to the truth.
FLASH: (Quietly to Scoop.) Why are we here?
SCOOP: The Super Bowl.
FLASH: I mean why are we at Horseflesh?
EDDIE: Find me an angle.
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SCOOP: We are here because they are hiring and training some extra help for the big weekend.
FLASH: Like the Bon at Christmas.
SCOOP: It’s Macy’s now, but yeah.
FLASH: Pinto, huh?
PINTO: That’s me.
FLASH: Your real name?
PINTO: Yeah, like I’d strip using my real name.
SCOOP: Pinto like the pony?
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. I said to once, if that’s the case, why don’t you change the name
of this place to something like The Fan Belt. He laughed and said he liked it but he don’t wanna pay
for new stationery.
SCOOP: You expecting Super Bowl Sunday to be any different for you guys?
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: You gonna show the game?
PINTO: Naw, we don’t shit for reception. But fuck, we could put in a tape of last years game and the
morons wouldn’t know. We’ll get a post game crowd.
(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?
FLASH: That’s me.
SPARE: I don’t want my face in the paper. If that’s OK, Pinto.
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?
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FLASH: You do not want to sit there.
SCOOP: Why the fuck not?
FLASH: Those are…uh, special seats.
SCOOP: Too good for me?
FLASH: Can you trust me?
SCOOP: You’re being weird.
FLASH: Those are the chairs guys sit in for lap dances.
SCOOP: You mean (Makes the universal Jack-Off gesture.)
FLASH: Yeah.
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.
SPARE: Yeah.
(She starts to cross.)
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.
(Spare plasters a smile on her face.)
SPARE: Better?
PINTO: Hey, you’re the one working for tips here. OK, sit. Sparky, what do you have?
SPARKY: Here it goes.
(She starts across.)
PINTO: OK. OK. Girl, what are you doing with your ass?
SPARKY: Uh, shaking it?
PINTO: You look like a dog wagging its tail. It’s not sexy. (Points at Flash) Did you think that was
sexy?
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FLASH: Uh.
PINTO: The answer is no. No it is not. I bet this reporter could do a better job. C’mon.
SCOOP: Me?
PINTO: Yeah. Why not.
SCOOP: Bar open yet? Can’t do it without booze.
(Pinto hands Scoop a flask, she swigs. Flash carefully puts his
camera on his knee and aims. Scoop starts to cross.)
FLASH: Yes.
SCOOP: Hey, (Pointing at Flash) Lens cap back on, buddy!
FLASH: Two more seconds and I’d have had you.
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, 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?
SPARE: Yeah.
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.
SCOOP: Good to know.
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PINTO: Honey. No. We are not that low yet.
SPARE: I won’t be wearing it for long.
SPARKY: My mom always said, first impressions are important.
PINTO: That’s great, Sparky. 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 Sparky): Take five.
(Lights shift. The screen reads in bold agit-prop font: “Pressing
a Politician in Four Parts. Part 3”
CHERYL: Hello?
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.
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?
TIM: (After a pause) I can, yes.
CHERYL: Good. Then: direct question.
TIM: Insincere confusion about the point of the question.
CHERYL: Restatement of question.
TIM: Oooff-topic comment.
CHERYL: Same question.
TIM: Deep rumination and troubled contemplation.
CHERYL: Same question.
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TIM: Complicated reasons that the question itself can’t be addressed as poised.
CHERYL: Carefully rephrased question.
TIM: Counter question about the future of the PI with the suggestion that the Pacific Northwest would
be better off without so many questions.
CHERYL: Ignoring counter question and suggestion, restatement of rephrased question.
TIM: Um… . disappointed evasion.
CHERYL: So precipitously?
TIM: That’s your characterization.
CHERYL: Evasion followed quickly by denial.
TIM: Denial of denial.
CHERYL: Denials of denials make for great reading, Councilman Sidler.
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 memorized from talk
shows. Phrases I haven’t used since adolescence! Abuse and accusations degenerating into a
nonsensical eruption!
CHERYL: Thank you.
(Shift.
The screen reads: “Editorial: Misha v. Joe.”
Lights up on Paul Mullin {ideally played by an eminently more
qualified performer.})
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. You have
Misha, the nationally respected theatre critic, frequently contributing at the national level to journals
such as American Theater. And then 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.
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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. 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.
(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: 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.
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.
PAUL: Oh, okay;. I’m sorry, Misha. I hope your job isn’t in danger.
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. And as always thanks for talking with me in
general.
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.)
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JOE: P-I, this is Joe.
PAUL: Hi Joe, it’s Paul Mullin calling.
JOE: Hi, 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.
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?
JOE: I’m retiring after 25 long years.
PAUL: Oh, no, Joe. That’s terrible.
JOE: Why?
PAUL: Well, I—It’s not terrible, but you’re—I’m gonna—you’re an institution in this town.
JOE: No, I’m not.
PAUL: You’re gonna be missed.
JOE: No, I won’t.
PAUL: I mean it.
JOE: Paul, who are you kidding?
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—although you’ve given me great previews and I thank you
for that because I’d rather have a good preview than any review at all, but—this is—this is a shock,
Joe.
JOE: No, it’s not.
PAUL: Joe, you’re the guy who after seeing my first full-length world premiere in Seattle back in
1996 said that I reminded you of another Irish American playwright, Eugene O’Neill, but that you
found him boring too.
JOE: Yeah.
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.
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PAUL: In your review of LOUIS SLOTIN SONATA you wrote me off as “a clever mess-maker.”
JOE: I don’t recommend committing reviews to memory, Paul. Especially not mine.
PAUL: Only yours, Joe. Only yours. I’ve collected your pans over the years like peculiar Purple
Hearts. The only thing of mine you seemed to have even remotely liked was back in ’92: a revue of
Frank Loesser show tunes that I wrote a loose campy book for.
JOE: I remember that. Mostly I liked the Loesser tunes on that one.
PAUL: Exactly. You’ve seen every play I’ve ever premiered in this town. I don’t know another critic
I can say that about.
JOE: Well—
PAUL: Joe.
JOE: Yeah, Paul.
PAUL: I don’t know another person I can say that about.
JOE: Well.
PAUL: I’m just—uh… you’ll be missed. Okay?
JOE: Paul, that’s sweet. But listen, I got paid every Friday.
PAUL: Yeah…. Yeah, Okay, Joe.
JOE: You take care, Paul.
PAUL: You too, Joe.
(Lights shift. The screen reads simply: “Sports”.
Lights up on a group of five men packing their what looks like a
ton of gear: guns, snowshoes, food, utensils. And if the big grant comes
through be sure to add three dogs and some mules. CHRISTIE takes
photographs throughout.)
HAYES: (Headline:) Seattle Press Sponsors Modern-Day Adventurers
J. H. CRUMBACK: Press Expedition Boldly Ventures into Unknown Olympic Wilderness
SIMS: Dateline, Dec. 6, 1889. Seattle.
BARNES: They were described as having an “Abundance of grit and manly vim.”
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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 CRUMBACK, stands nearby. )
BARNES: Would you like to hear a little song about all the gear we’re takin’!
BAILEY: No.
DENNY CRUMBACK: Yes!
ALL FIVE EXPLORERS: [Help, I need a lyricist!]
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: Stop!
They stop singin’.
DENNY: Wait there’s one more thing.
SIMS: The fireworks.
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HAYES: The fireworks!
J. H. CRUMBACK (Sings) 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…
SIMS & HAYES:
We’re briiing-ing fireworks!
DENNY: That’s my great grandfather’s uncle. J.H. Crumback.
J.H. CRUMBACK waves to BAILEY.
BAILEY: And our readers in Kirkland will care about his because…?
DENNY: I’m sorry?
BAILEY: Who gives a rip? Forget it.
DENNY: But this is the 100th anniversary. The Press Expedition. Sponsored by a Seattle paper. Five
men going out into hitherto unexplored territory. Tough, rugged, fact-finding men. OK, they were a
little naïve.
BAILEY: Stupid.
DENNY: Overly optimistic. And scrappy. Out there, getting dirty, putting their lives on the line.
Tough, but you know, open to discovery. Doing whatever it takes to Get That Story.
BAILEY: And as my ten-year-old likes to say (eyore imitation) “Nobody cares.”
DENNY: That’s my great grandfather’s uncle, J.H. Crumback.
J.H. CRUMBACK waves to BAILEY.
DENNY: Vintage Northwest newspaper guy: tough, scrappy. Unstoppable.
(The CHORUS hums a collective note.)
BAILEY: …This means a lot to you.
DENNY: It certainly does.
BAILEY
I can see this man is your hero.
DENNY: Yes sir. I’ve got some terrific photos.
BAILEY: Tell you what, Crumback.
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DENNY: Yeah?
BAILEY: I’ll see if we have room for it.
DENNY CRUMBACK
You will?
BAILEY: If there’s room.
(CHORUS HUMS.
TITLES ON SCREEN:
“Today in History: Press Expedition leaves Seattle to explore
the Olympics.”
CHORUS HUMS.
Shift to a graveside. Backdrop: the P-I building.
All quotations are Sophocles.
MIKE sits at end of open grave, reading newspaper, his legs
dangling in, a large cardboard box at his side. Closes newspaper.
SHANDRA enters in black. SHANDRA stands by grave, looking in. COP
enters. COP stands nearby, looking “on guard.” Each is in his/her own
world. HAL BERNTON stands as far away as possible from the grave.)
HAL BERNTON: (Shouts through bullhorn,) Journalism Is a Passion that Never Dies!
SHANDRA (To the air): Remember the dead. I am here to remember the dead. Sophocles said, “A
human being is only breath and shadow.”
MIKE (to self): These minds may not be so steady. All these voices loose at once. Down in their
cellars, tapping on keys. Blogging babble to the universe. How do we weed them? Is there a “we” any
more? Who knows what they have seen? Who knows if they have seen or are merely fantasizing? Our
craven new world journalists. Who will watch over them? A no-newspaper town. Am I fantasizing? A
single-paper town. The oldest business in town: dead. My career: dead. (Tosses newspaper into open
grave.) “Ignorant men don’t know what good they hold in their hands until they’ve flung it away.” And
wise men--(CUB enters with open cell phone in hand. )
CUB (to self) I don’t know how to do this. (Sees MIKE, runs to join him) Mike! Thank god you’re still
here. This investigation thing, Mike. (Crouches beside him.)
MIKE: And wise men are weeping.
CUB: Mike, a word?
MIKE: There’s also tact.
CUB: I have tact.
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MIKE: This is a funeral.
CUB: Really? Already? (Looks around.) I’m sorry for your loss. My deadline-MIKE: Mmmm. Thanks. And you’re looking forward to some free advice. Here. Now.
CUB: Oh sorry. Were you doing something else, Mike?
MIKE: Be an altruist, why not? All this free time on your hands. Little liar. You know what you’re
doing.
SHANDRA: (To the air) I’m here because of a reporter.
CUB: (Speaks to MIKE while texting) I was a big fan.
MIKE: Not big enough.
HAL BERNTON : (Shouts through bullhorn) Journalism Is a Passion that Never Dies!
CUB: What could I do? Any way, I’m investigating this death. (Indicates grave.) It’s my first! My
first death! We don’t have to be enemies, Mike. We aren’t, right? I don’t want to be. Look, I don’t
know why Hearst waited so long to tell you that it was the end of the line. For you. I mean, that the
newsroom would shrink. That the paper wasn’t going to be a “paper” any more. There’s no paper in it!
SHANDRA (To the air) I am here because a newspaper lies dead. My daughter lies dead. Remember
the dead.
MIKE: Left us to investigate the date of our own decease?
CUB: Hold on; let me get that. (Texts.) See, I have some quotes. Over on the wall somebody wrote
this great thing. First there’s the Thomas Jefferson thing, (She checks her phone notes, reads,) “Were it
left to me to decide whether we should have a government without newspaper or newspapers without
government I should not hesitate a moment to prefer the latter” and then the writing on the wall, the
real wall, under the globe over there says, (reads from phone notes again,) “Or at least an online
version with greatly reduced staff and plenty of links.” Funny, huh?
MIKE: Karen, look where you are, please.
CUB: Come on, Mike. I could use some of your old guard quotations, please. Truce?
MIKE: “For the dead there are no more toils.”
CUB: Huh?
MIKE: That was a very-old-guard quotation.
CUB: Don’t worry. You’ll find something else. You’re not that old, Mike.
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MIKE: Sophocles. That is Sophocles… I gave at the office.
CUB: (She texts,) Oh, that’s right. You were like a paleontologist or something.
MIKE: (Winces.) Classicist.
CUB: Where’s your humor, man? But you care about the truth? I know you want me to get it right.
Right?
MIKE: Everyone here is wounded. Go slowly.
CUB: Bodies get cold, Mike. Or so I have heard.
HAL BERNTON (Shouts through bullhorn,) Journalism Is a Passion that Never Dies!
MIKE: You have nothing to run with?
CUB: Nothing sexy.
MIKE: Ugh! Karen, death is not sexy.
CUB: I can’t help it. I am sexy. They read me for sexy. My audience is going up. It’s about saving
trees, Mike. I guess I’ll just have to write around you then.
MIKE: “What you cannot enforce, do not command.”
CUB: Huh?
MIKE: Sophocles. Twitter that. (She does.) If you aren’t willing to be there, don’t ask to go.
CUB: Oh, but I’m willing. You went. You think I can’t? I’ll deal with the corpses and the police and
the murders and killers and—
MIKE: Don’t enjoy it too much, will you?
CUB: I heard that Gary Ridgway sent the P-I a letter once. You once got a letter from the Green River
killer.
(SHANDRA turns her back, sits, cries.)
MIKE: I did.
CUB: You touched the same object that the sinister and mysterious killer had touched.
MIKE: Yes.
CUB: No shit. See, I could totally do that. That’s a sexy story. The subject of the investigation making
contact with me.
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MIKE: (Wipes hands.) Actually, that was not a story at all. The F.B.I. discredited the letter. It sat. I
wrote something else that day.
CUB: But you had a letter. Write that you’d gotten a letter.
MIKE: Can’t print without substantiation. I copied it. I wrote on it. Gave it to the cops.
CUB: That’s so sad.
MIKE: It was very sad.
CUB: You had such a story. In your hands. I’m sure I could’ve made it a story.
MIKE: Could be, Karen. It didn’t become a story until later. When he confessed. Turns out the F.B.I.
hadn’t taken it seriously, the letter. I wrote about it then. The sadness? Yes, it is all sad. The sadness
was that so many teenagers and young women were killed by him. The sadness is that people cause
each other so much pain. And more pain. The sadness is that you are not sad. My advice today: avoid
adding hurt. And talk to the cops. That cop. My source, at one time. My ex…(More to self,) There’s
nobody manning the corridors. The snicker alongside the sublime. The snarky alongside the
sententious.
HAL BERNTON (COP makes her way over to HAL BERNTON. Shouts through bullhorn,)
Journalism Is a Passion that Never—(COP seizes bullhorn. HAL, in ordinary voice,) Dies! (HAL exits.)
CUB: No one wants to read “sententious.”
MIKE: No, of course not. It’s about pandering now. No lessons. No need. No nutrition. Empty
journalistic calories. Who needs what they write? Side by side with the salads and tofu—yet no one
can discern—
CUB: It’s about choice.
MIKE: It’s about danger. Sadness. No overseer of content, tone, meaning. The reader abandoned.
SHANDRA: My girl was gone. He honored her in the paper.
CUB: The reader is powerful. This is democracy. It’s not sad. It’s just change.
MIKE: News is news. It’s not democratic. Where is the corporate media when we need them?
CUB: I don’t need the corporate media.
MIKE: You do. Those of the big guns. Those of the deep pockets. Those of the fancy-pants lawyers.
Could always make power talk.
CUB: Really? Ok. I gotta get some coffee.
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(CUB exits, texting all the while. SHANDRA steps forward.)
SHANDRA: I am here because my daughter was killed but this paper kept her from being killed
twice. That meant the world to me. My daughter. She meant the world to me.
(PAPER CHILD enters, running and waving a newspaper. Runs
around COP and MIKE; corrals them.
PAPER CHILD: Extra! Extra! "P-I Presses Fall Silent." Read all about it! Extra! "You've Meant the
World to Us."
COP (Bullhorn whisper,) Shut up, kid. (Sets down bullhorn.) Shut up, kid.
PAPER CHILD: Just doing my job.
COP: This is a funeral.
PAPER CHILD: It doesn’t look like a funeral. (Gestures toward P-I building.) Everybody’s taking
stuff. Looks more like a looting.
COP: Shows how much you know. The family always rifles the house after the ceremony. They want
what’s rightfully theirs.
PAPER CHILD: They don’t trust each other. This is during the ceremony, isn’t it?
COP: Can’t trust anybody.
MIKE: But it’s about their relationship to the diseased. They want a little piece of the diseased and
they can’t wait for a reading of the will. But, of course, there’s no will, in this case.
PAPER CHILD: Death came unexpectedly.
MIKE: Some saw it coming…
COP: “The keenest sorrow is to recognize ourselves as the sole cause of all our adversities.”
MIKE: (Smiles.) That’s not really fair. And quoting my man, to me.
COP: They don’t want these things to go to waste.
PAPER CHILD: Isn’t it stealing?
MIKE: When there’s no one left at home?
COP: I can’t tell you, kid. Go hock your stuff somewhere else. (Indicates SHANDRA,) I want to hear.
PAPER CHILD: Come on. Buy one. I’ve been out here all day.
COP: None of them’s buying, notice?
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PAPER CHILD: Ok. So I don’t know how to choose my venue.
COP: It’s unkind. Go away. Be a good kid.
PAPER CHILD: You’d think they’d at least want to see the jobs section.
MIKE: Not funny.
COP: Go away. Or wait. Let me see that.
PAPER CHILD: That’ll be $1.50.
COP: Shhh. I’m borrowing. Hold on.
PAPER CHILD: I’m not a library.
COP: Shut up. Let me read.
COP walks away from grave. PAPER CHILD follows. MIKE
stays, stares into grave.
COP: (Reads.) Unnamed sources. Huh. He didn’t need me. It was never about me. I wasn’t even the
muse. Now I’m really depressed. And now it’s all over. He’ll never need me again. I’m second-hand
news. Ha.
PAPER CHILD: Maybe he’ll call. At least you have a good steady line of work.
COP: Like yours.
PAPER CHILD: Thanks a lot.
COP: Do me a favor, kid. Go in there and see if you can find Karen.
PAPER CHILD: Can’t you go in? You’re a cop. Isn’t that like having a key to the city?
COP: No, that’s firefighters. Man, it’s always the firefighters get the good---This is different. See if
you can find this wom—girl--blogger. Give her this. (Writes note.)
PAPER CHILD: Want me to wait for a reply?
COP: She’ll find me if she wants to. Thanks, kid.
PAPER CHILD: You didn’t even pay for the paper.
COP: What do you expect around here? (Hands paper back.)
PAPER CHILD: You’re depressing. I aspire to greater things.
COP: Lucky you. Now get lost.
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PAPER CHILD: I’ll be back.
COP: I’ve heard that line before.
PAPER CHILD: So one thing. What’re you doing here if you’re not stopping them from taking the
computers and chairs and the archives?
COP: I’m just traffic. That’s all.
(PAPER CHILD exits, running. Beat. CUB enters from other side
of stage.)
CUB: So, you’re homicide? I thought this was natural causes? Who found the body, anyway?
(CUB hands COP a coffee cup.) Grease, for the wheels. I’m the death and murder reporter, now. I
could use some words…
COP: (Looks offstage, after PAPER CHILD.) Don’t sound so excited about it. There is no body.
SHANDRA: Remember the dead.
CUB: So how do you know …? Who called in the murder? Without a body how’re you going to make
a case?
COP: You might say there’s a ghost or an avatar. Roaming the halls. There has been a murder. That’s
you story.
CUB: Paul Allen? Has good places to hide the body—all those construction sites around the lake.
Nice deep holes, already dug.
COP: He didn’t move a muscle. Complete inaction, the perfect alibi. You’d think he’d’ve wanted to
be seen as a savior. Anyway, they’ve already thought of that. The higher ups. I just work here.
CUB: Exert a little initiative. We could do it together. I’ll do the angles you need to keep out of sight
of the higher ups and we’ll share. Both get what we want.
COP: You didn’t hear me and I doubt we want the same things. (Looks toward MIKE.)
CUB: A little fame? A little action? Aren’t you ambitious?
PAPER CHILD runs in, sees COP and CUB together. Comes to stand by graveside.
COP: That’s what you want. I want a nice glass of wine, the dog curled at my feet, the night off.
Listen to Soundgarden. You’re the one who’s burning up. I said, there has been a murder, not, solve
the murder.
CUB: I need something definitive. The general population: too vague. The Hearst Company: too
narrow a view. The bloggosphere: maybe, a little. The economy: maybe a lot. Paul Allen: well, he
could have stepped up.
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COP: Not a whodunit. We know whodunit. But you should stick around. This is your story.
CUB: This is a lot of folks. Everyone gonna say a few words? I could be here a-SHANDRA: Hello, I’m Shandra. I am here to mourn with you the passing of a newspaper. I had a
daughter. My daughter mystified me. I knew what teenagers were about. I remembered being a
teenager. But my daughter was-- It wasn’t the age. It was us. We had some words. She ran. In fact, I
told her to go. Told her to. She heard that. I didn’t know that she would really go. She’d never left
before. We’d had words before. Everyone has words. They’re just words, you think. But then the
words make a daughter leave. I don’t know where she stayed. I couldn’t find her. I phoned all her
friends. She didn’t come home that night. Her friends didn’t know where she was. I called the police. It
was too soon. She didn’t come home the next day. She hadn’t gone to school. She never called. We
didn’t know where she was. Didn’t know who she met. Didn’t know. Months and months of nothing.
She said nothing. No word. No word from her. No word from anyone. Anywhere. They did not protect
my child. My young, mystifying teenager was lost. She ran at my words. And then I did know. And
then phone calls. Police. Talk of a corpse. That was my daughter. My daughter was a corpse. She was
never coming home again. Talk of dental records. That was how they learned that the corpse was my
mystifying daughter. My angry words were the last words she heard from me. That man had found her
when I couldn’t. 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 had
killed my daughter. In that mystifying time when my mystifying daughter ran away from me. Because
we’d had words. Then there was the kind man. The just man. The newspaper man. He phoned too.
MIKE: (Into the grave,) I was good at the calls.
SHANDRA: He listened to me tell of my mystifying daughter. Wrote about her. More words. Fair
words. Telling words. He never said an ugly thing about my daughter.
MIKE: “It was my care to make my life illustrious not by words more than by deeds.” I called and
called. New dead every day. New pain every day. Who am I calling today?
SHANDRA: Never turned her into a job. Or a crime. Kept her a person. My mystifying daughter. The
reporter told the story. Kept my daughter a teenager, my girl. Gave her name. Told her story. I thank
him. Good bye, P-I.
SHANDRA steps back. A moment of silence.
CUB: Even I feel the sadness. When did this sadness set in? (Sits at graveside and texts.)
COP: (To self,) It’s been sneaking up. The sadness. And now, every time I look at the globe…
MIKE walks over to COP.
MIKE: Hello, Rachel.
COP: Mike. I remember Shandra. I remember her daughter. The story. Here to say your farewells to
those you won’t be seeing again? Clearing out from the neighborhood?
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MIKE: Looks like you found Karen. Forgetting your protocols?
COP: You guys are gone, Mike. So go the protocols. Who else am I to call? No watchdog at the gate
now. (She swigs coffee.)
MIKE: Ah, we return to the dark ages. “Grief teaches the steadiest minds to waver.”
COP: “A short saying oft contains much wisdom.”
MIKE: She speaks my language!
COP: Ancient Greek? Well, translated Ancient Greek. I always have, Mike...I’m sorry for your loss.
MIKE looks over his shoulder at grave, nods thank you.
MIKE: She forgot to get you a doughnut. (Pulls a doughnut from his pocket and hands it over.)
COP: Some of us talk anyway. (Nods thanks and bites doughnut.)
MIKE: Some of you did.
COP: You pissed me off sometimes.
MIKE: And then I came to face you.
COP: Always. And I loved you for it.
MIKE: Did you?
COP: Respected. Respected you for it. You screw up, you own up. That’s how I see-MIKE: Sometimes you screwed up. I was agreeing to disagree.
COP: Karen’s covering the story, Mike.
MIKE: The youngster on the loose with an iPhone. She’ll do fine. Bright thing. Big eyes—sees the
details.
COP: Big nose? Smells a rat?
MIKE: Now, now. I told her some of the essentials of the trade. Tell the stories of the good cops. Told
her to print the story when she thinks the cops have it wrong. Hold the bad ones accountable. And if
your source lies, burn ’em. A reporter could look for what was being held back. What the police didn’t
tell.
COP: “The truth is always the strongest argument.”
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MIKE: Smart guy that Sophocles. How is that he knew so much about us? The pain is eternal, cycling,
chronic. The phone calls. Every day I called the shadows of the dead. The left-behind. Who will it be
today? What is the story today?
(COP takes MIKE’S hand. They stand by the grave together
while SHANDRA sings. CUB stops texting to listen. PAPER CHILD
stands at graveside.)
SHANDRA: (Sings,) They tell me it’s dead. So I’m wearing
black. I am here because of a newspaper.
I am here because of a man who tells
stories in the newspapers. Told her story
in the newspaper.
reporter
He told her story in the P-I
Seventeen. She ran. I didn’t know
that she would really go. We had
some words.
They tell me it’s dead. So I’m wearing
black. We’re here to pay our respects
My daughter mystified me. Seventeen.
We had some words. She ran. I didn’t know
that she would really go. She’d never left
before. I don’t know where
she stayed. I couldn’t find --phoned all her friends.
I didn’t know--She didn’t come home
that night.
I didn’t know--her friends
didn’t know where she -police didn’t know—
She never called. We didn’t know
where --- Didn’t know
who she met. Didn’t know.
Months and months, didn’t know
No word. No word from her.
No word
She ran at my words.
And then I did know.
a corpse,
that was my daughter.
She was
never coming home again.
In that mystifying time
when my mystifying daughter
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ran away from me.
And then the phone---a kind man.
The newspaper man.
heard me tell
of my mystifying daughter
never said an ugly thing
about my daughter
My mystifying daughter
Gave her a name. Told her story.
I thank him.
Remember the dead.
Every day he called
the shadows of the dead.
Who will it be today?
What is the story today?
(PAPER CHILD drops the papers into the grave.
Lights shift. Screen reads: “Detroit”. )
PINTO: Take it home, wrap it and saran and stick it in the freezer over night. You’ll thank me. (To
Sparky): Take five.
SCOOP: Hey, Sparky. Can we talk to you for a minute.
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?
SCOOP: I really don’t know. You said your mom was a stripper.
SPARKY: Dancer. Yeah. She taught me some stuff.
SCOOP: Like tassel twirling?
SPARKY: Yeah grandma! Jeeze, you’re kidding right? Nobody does that anymore.
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FLASH: Yeah, grandma.
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, 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 re-enters)
SPARE: I found a leopardy thing. That OK?
PINTO: Is it gonna be tight on you?
SPARE: I think so.
PINTO: You do have heels, don’t you?
SPARE: Yeah.
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.
(Pinto walks off.)
SCOOP: Hey. Can I ask a couple questions?
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?
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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.
SCOOP: And you’ve never done this before?
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.
SCOOP: Don’t let me keep you.
SPARE: Thanks.
(Scoop and Flash are quiet for a minute.)
SCOOP: You’re not taking any pictures.
FLASH: Like they’d print ‘em?
SCOOP: You never know. There enough light in here?
FLASH: (Checking out a stain) Too much.
SCOOP: Hmm. You know anything about scratch and sniff technology? You think they’d spring for it
for this story?
FLASH: Oh, yeah, that delightful Pinesol and Spooge blend. Just what people want with their coffee.
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.
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SCOOP: OK, for the record, never again use the words “snatch” and “sandwiched” in the same
sentence.
(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.
FLASH: Too old to be doing this much longer.
SCOOP: Good thing the PI has the best retirement policy in town.
FLASH: Really?
SCOOP: Yeah, when it’s time, they take you out back and shoot you.
(Scoop and Flash continue to drink.
Lights shift.
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.)
PLAYWRIGHT: What was your connection to the PI?
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.
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
o a family.
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.
CUSTODIAN: I work at a better building now. Cleaner.
PLAYWRIGHT: What were the PI people like?
CUSTODIAN: There were alright. Place I work now they’re cleaner.
FLORIST: They were fabulous. They were smart and dedicated and they were really working
for our community.
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BARISTA: They were cheap.
FLORIST: They were principled.
BARISTA: Sorry, I know you’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but they were.
CUSTODIAN: Some of ‘em smoked inside, even after the law.
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: Defenders! Defenders of democracy.
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.
FLORIST: They were principled and kind and it is so, so sad.
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: A common and noble purpose.
CUSTODIAN: They had a good union. Great contract.
BARISTA: Well, they were in the same business. So what?
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.
BARISTA: What holds any group in a business together? It’s a job. It’s not a club for people
who have some shared interest. They worked for the same company, that’s all.
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: They were principled.
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BARISTA: They were employed.
CUSTODIAN: They were experts.
BARISTA: Come again?
CUSTODIAN: The reporters anyway, they were all experts in the thing they covered. That was
their job – knowing about that thing.
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…
CUSTODIAN: Sanitation.
FLORIST: Yes, or…
CUSTODIAN: The penal system.
FLORIST: Yes, or…
CUSTODIAN: Off light rail.
FLORIST: Yes, but I was going to say… just… local gardening.
BARISTA: (After a pause) Yeah, what a loss.
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.
BARISTA: (After a pause) Gardening tips?
FLORIST: Yes!
BARISTA: Are ‘old, old wisdom?’
FLORIST: You know what I mean. Children are being raised with nothing but concrete under
their feet.
BARISTA: And how does that relate to the PI?
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?
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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.
BARISTA: The Times?
FLORIST: Is a totally different paper. It’s a conservative piece of trash! It’s a pro-corporate, prorepublican… gross thing! It endorsed Bush!
CUSTODIAN: Twice.
FLORIST: Right!
CUSTODIAN: Wing!
FLORIST: What?
CUSTODIAN: Nothing.
BARISTA: I think that outburst really tells you what people will miss about the PI. They’ll miss
the bleeding heart, liberal, pro-nanny-state point of view.
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.
FLORIST: Yes, god bless them. News organized around what’s good for people. A paper that
was more than a conservative mouthpiece for keeping people down.
BARISTA: That’s not what the Times is.
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: 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.
BARISTA: That’s Photoshoped.
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FLORIST: It is not! That is what the PI fought against. And with the PI gone who will combat
that kind of bias?
CUSTODIAN: That’s really amazing, it’s… archival. But I think we’re off topic. Do you have
another question?
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 –
FLORIST: I don’t! I don’t think that’s the point of the question.
CUSTODIAN: Well… .
FLORIST: I remember when the (Insert significant Seattle event here)
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?
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: Why? And why are we talking to him?
PLAYWRIGHT: Do you know Anna Deavere Smith? She puts people’s interviews on stage.
Maybe I’ll do that.
BARISTA: What, us on the stage? Like, us us?
PLAYWRIGHT: Maybe. Why not?
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?
BARISTA: No. No. When you said you were doing research I thought you wanted facts and
background and stuff.
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PLAYWRIGHT: I do.
BARISTA: But you can’t just do anything you want with it.
PLAYWRIGHT: Well… why not?
CUSTODIAN: Wait, I see what’s happening here. You thought he was a reporter.
PLAYWRIGHT: (Together) I am.
BARISTA: (Together) He is.
CUSTODIAN: A newspaper reporter though, who’s tied down to facts. He’s a playwright.
PLAYWRIGHT: Right. Facts are toys. If they work you use ‘em, if they don’t you change ‘em.
BARISTA: So you’re just… stealing ideas from us?
PLAYWRIGHT: Essentially, yeah.
CUSTODIAN: That’s good. More idea reporters out there now, fewer fact reporters.
PLAYWRIGHT: Fact reporting is kinda old school.
FLORIST: So… he could be thinner?
PLAYWRIGHT: Sure, if I want him to be.
FLORIST: And I could be different too?
PLAYWRIGHT: Why not? It might reveal a deeper, artistic truth that the reality would conceal.
FLORIST: Could I… do different things?
PLAYWRIGHT: If I think there’s some artistically meritorious reason, sure.
The florist pulls out a gun and shoots the barrista. She smiles.
Blackout.
(CHORUS HUMS.
TITLES ON SCREEN:
“Today in History: Press Expedition leaves Seattle to explore
the Olympics.”
CHORUS HUMS.
A moment.)
DENNY: That’s it? Eight words in “Today in History”?
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CHORUS (Sings.) “Seven Years Earlier.”
DENNY: Can I have a word with you?
BAILEY: Make it quick.
DENNY: As much as I enjoy the obits and “Today in History”?
BAILEY: OK.
DENNY: I heard the drama guy quit and you’re looking for an in-house hire.
BAILEY: Maybe.
DENNY: I studied theater in college. I translated some plays.
BAILEY: oboy.
DENNY: Maybe I could be one of those working critics. You know, somebody who Loves theater
because, well, because I’ve done it. I appreciate it.
BAILEY: All right.
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: You love everything.
DENNY: Not at all. But I love theater. And the potential. I mean “Critic for the P.I.” In this town?
That job has so much—
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: Uh-huh.
BAILEY: Like a Michael Feingold or Eric Bentley.
DENNY: Exactly.
BAILEY: And let me guess. You want me to read your adaptation.
DENNY: No.
BAILEY: Is it Russian?
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DENNY: Romanian. The first act. The second is Japanese but—
BAILEY: No thank you.
DENNY: There’s a new play at the Group Theater. And it’s brilliant, really.
BAILEY: I’m sure it is.
DENNY: OK, I didn’t understand every little bit of it. I mean sometimes it’s confounding, but oh my
god, it just carried me away. I 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. And then I know, I know I can write a great review.
The CHORUS hums.
BAILEY: Excuse me. (Dials.)
DENNY: Sir?
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?
DENNY: “Sketch.” It’s called a “sketch.”
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 for DENNY.)
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.) Yeah, it’s me. Listen, don’t ever use any of those terms in your
reviews. Ever. Right. Just try not to sound like an idiot, OK?…Thank You!
(CHORUS hums.
TITLES ON SCREEN: “New Play at Group Theater – Mildly
Amusing”)
DENNY
What?
(Shift.
[Paul’s going to write a segue from resume class into this scene with Gates and Matt.
(Lights up on Bill Gates, sitting at a desk. Matt Nilson sits at a
chair in front of the desk. Another woman, a PR rep for Gates, sits near
by.)
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BILL: Have a seat, Matt.
MATT: Thanks. And thanks for agreeing to meet with me in person, Mr. Gates.
BILL: Oh, come on, Matt. You can call me Bill.
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: 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.)
PR REP: That’s inappropriate, Matt.
MATT: It was a joke, Shelly. We can’t joke here?
PR REP: We were talking about kids dying, Matt. I don’t think there’s anything funny about that.
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: That’s right, Matt.
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: 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.
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MATT: Why is she even here?
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?
PR REP: It’s protocol.
MATT: It’s protocol.
BILL: He’s right. You don’t need to be here.
PR REP: But, Bill, I—
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: 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.
REPORTER 3: The fish rots from the head?
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.
(Lights shift.
The screen reads: “Pressing a Politician in Four Parts. Part 4”
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TIM: Hello?
CHERYL: Former Councilman Sidler?
TIM: Ms. Gilcrest?
CHERYL: That’s right.
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.
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?
CHERYL: That’s right.
TIM: May I call you Cheryl?
CHERYL: If you’d like.
TIM: Cheryl, I’d like to make this personal. Can you hear the honesty in my voice?
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: You seem in earnest.
TIM: I am. I am earnestly filled with loathing for a person who sees it as her duty – and 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: You chose a public life, Mr. Sidler.
TIM: Is that evasion, Cheryl.
CHERYL: No no, not at all.
TIM: Ah, denial of evasion. Would that make for good reading, Cheryl?
CHERYL: It would not, Mr. Sidler.
TIM: Because the public isn’t interested in hypocrisy in the media?
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CHERYL: There is no hypocrisy here, Mr. Sidler. You are evading.
TIM: Am I? Tell me then, what is your interest in this trial?
CHERYL: The public has a right to know.
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 in this divorce case?
CHERYL: The public has a right to know.
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?
CHERYL: Critics of the free press often accuse journalists of pandering.
TIM: Are they right, Cheryl?
CHERYL: I have some questions.
TIM: So do I, Cheryl. And the most important questions I have haven’t any answers to be found in
your paper.
(He hangs up.
Lights shift. The screen reads simply “Sailing”.
Ri, a newsman speaks at the company party following the demise
of the paper. He is drunk.
RIP: I just want to say thank you to our leader, our editor-in-chief. 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
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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!
(Lights shift. Screen reads: “Sports”.)
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.) Yeah, it’s me. Listen, don’t ever use any of those terms in your
reviews. Ever. Right. Just try not to sound like an idiot, OK?…Thank You!
(CHORUS hums.
TITLES ON SCREEN: “New Play at Group Theater – Mildly
Amusing”)
DENNY: What?
CHORUS (Sings.): “Fifteen Years Later.”
BAILEY: Crumback?! Get in here.
DENNY: Right here, boss.
BAILEY: I send you to Olympia for one little story and—
(JAN stands up. She (or he) is, by all appearances, a member of
the Audience.
No lights, please. )
JAN: Excuse me. Sorry. What the fuck just happened right there, that’s so, that’s totally inaccurate
and I can’t, fuck, that’s so offensive. I mean you’re talking about a man’s life here, you know? And
Joe Adcock, he fucking loved theater. He went to shows like, three times a week for years, for fucking
Years. And to fringe stuff, too, even to shit like this. And why? Because he loved theater, he fucking
loved theater. And this whole myth about him working in the gardening section is just, it’s bullshit.
He was a critic, OK? He was hired by the P.I. to be a fucking 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.) And I’m sorry.
I’m not sorry. I’m sorry for the interruption. Sorry.
HAYES: She’s got a point.
SIMS: Yep.
BARNES: I told you guys. What did I say?
HAYES: Yeah.
JAN: (Still in the Audience.): Say what you want about his writing, but he didn’t come from the
fucking garden section.
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CHRISTIE: OK!
HAYES: “Say what you want about his writing.”
SIMS: …He was…unencumbered my imagination or wit.
BAILEY: Hmm.
CHRISTIE: A formulaic hack?
BAILEY: Accurate but mean.
DENNY: 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 sing:)
CHORUS “Fifteen Years Later.”
DENNY: (To Audience) I’m sorry. We missed a little transition about me going to Olympia to cover
the legislature.
BAILEY: Crumback, get in here!
(CHORUS provides inspiring back-up humming throughout this
monologue.)
DENNY: (To the Audience.) So it’s 1997 and I’m down in Olympia covering Paul Allen’s attempt to
get the state to pony up $300,000,000 for a new football stadium and the Speaker of the House, Clyde
Ballard has just finished a press conference declaring the bill, “dead in the water.” So I’m standing
outside the republican caucus, standing there with the Speaker’s main lawyer, and I say, “Correct me if
I’m wrong, but hasn’t that stadium been declared ‘dead in the water’ at least eight times since January?
What do you think is going to happen?” And then he predicts the exact vote, 65-33, and he says, “I
may be off by 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 the thing passes 65-33 but it has a little trouble in the Senate. In fact,
it’s so close that Bud Coffee, the former lobbyist from Boeing, the hired gun Paul Allen has leading his
5-million dollar lobbying team, signals to the little weasel taking the vote, Lt. Gov. Brad Owen.
Coffee is standing In the Wings of Senate Floor and signals Owen to Delay the Vote because one of
his senators is in the can. A lobbyist. Signaling the Lt. Governor. So what does Brad Owen do, he
waits until the senator returns, Coffee sees he’ll have enough votes, gives Owen the OK, and Owen
takes the vote. And then Coffee has the audacity to turn to me and brag about it. And when I ask Brad
Owen to confirm he said, “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 the pay-off?
$300,000,000.
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(Extra-Inspiring backup humming.)
And this, this story is the stuff of Pulitzers. Get the facts, tell the truth, ruffle some feathers.
Am I willing to have Paul Allen hate my guts? Yes I am. Here’s Brad Owen, little weasel, Exposed.
Deer in the Headlights. OK, mixed metaphor. I’m going with the weasel. And everyone who reads
this story is going to know about the bi-partisan slime that’s 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!
(DENNY shakes hands with the CHORUS.
TITLES ON SCREEN: “SCORE ONE FOR ALLEN AS
SENATE PASSES STADIUM!” )
DENNY: What?!
CHORUS(Sings.) “Twelve Years Later.”
DENNY (To the Audience.) Now I cover high school sports.
BAILEY: (Reading copy.) Not bad. Not bad at all.
DENNY: Thanks.
BAILEY: This section here.
DENNY: Yeah?
BAILEY: Very concise. But readable. And that’s a good quote.
DENNY: Thanks.
BAILEY: You’ve been here a long time, haven’t you?
DENNY: Twenty-seven years.
BAILEY: Twenty-seven years.
DENNY: Seen a lot of changes. Lot of people come and go.
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—
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BAILEY: Just Yes or No. That’s good.
DENNY: Yes!
(Chorus hums.)
BAILEY: OK, well how about a feature on the Kid?
DENNY: On Junior? Great. ‘Cause see, I’ve got this whole theory. I mean when he first came up, I
loved him as much as everybody. How could you not? Father, son, back-to-back homers. Plus
senior’s one of my all-time favorites, you know, just hard-working, team player, find-a- way-to-win
champion.
BAILEY: Just like the Kid.
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.
BAILEY: Until the Kid turned them around.
DENNY: Until ’95 when the Kid got injured, sat out over half the season and the rest of the team
started playing baseball. They went from sub-500 perennial losers to division champs. And then
Griffey’s back for the play-offs and he’s all, “This team’s going to ride my back.” That’s what he said
on the way to Baltimore. “They’re going to ride my back.” Then hit .133.
(BAILEY picks up the phone, makes a call. )
DENNY: What’d he play, half a season in Safeco? Next thing you know he works a trade to the
second tiniest stadium in history and what does he do there: the Reds go from being a hot, young
90+win team to sub-500 losers. For the next nine. Nine Years! 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: The Reds finally unload him to Chicago where he goes all Mendoza on the White Sox. But
not before ending his misery with the Reds by giving a goodbye, on-camera throat slash to the media.
Darling. And now he’s back, “The House that Griffey Built.” He can’t run, he can 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. I
could do a “House that Randy Built” or more accurately, “The House that Lou built,” or we could go
all taboo and do some research along the lines of, other than Jason Giambi, how many guys do you
know that get diverticulitis and man-boobs in their early their 30s, hang out in a clubhouse with David
Segui, bulk up like a sausage and hit 50 home runs? And then miss over 700 games due to assorted,
weird, ongoing injuries? Hmm, what do you suppose might cause all that? It’ll be curious, won’t it,
to see if the Reds, now that he’s gone, can go back to winning.
(BAILEY ends his phone conversation. )
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DENNY: Here’s the story: Seattle was so desperate for a sports hero, they canonized this steroid
injecting, cancerous, non-interview giving, pampered, selfish brat for decades. Why not save it for a
real hero, like Gary Payton, or heaven forbid, August Wilson?
(A moment.)
BAILEY: Are you finished?
DENNY: I’m afraid so, yes.
(A moment.)
BAILEY: We have to make some more cut-backs. In every department.
DENNY: I know.
BAILEY: Of course you do.
DENNY: OK.
(A moment.)
BAILEY: …People want to take their kid to the park and see Griffey hit it over Smith Tower.
DENNY: He’s a lefty.
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: That’s true.
BAILEY: I.E.S.
DENNY: I’m sorry.
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: Now I know.
(One the screen is the HEADLINE: “The Kid Returns – Leads
M’s in All-Star Ballot”)
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DENNY: Sweet. He’s batting .194
BAILEY: I said are you done?
DENNY: Yes.
BAILEY: …One thing. A possibility.
DENNY: Uh-huh.
BAILEY: Think you can Twitter?
(DENNY looks to his ancestor in the CHORUS.
They Hum.
Lights shift.)
[Paul’s going to write a sequence here where the instructor tells the resume class
students it’s time to break for lunch “The rooms secure so feel free to leave your
stuff here and we’ll resume after lunch.” Everyone picks up all of the their stuff and
leaves. ]
(Spot up on Nick.)
NICK: Kurt 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 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 is 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, “You’re I 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.
Lights shift. Screen reads: “Evening”.
The kitchen, as in “Morning”. The man 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.
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MATT: Crap, I’m sorry.
WOMAN: How long have you been here?
MATT: I just pulled in, I’m sorry. I’ll go down to the market.
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.
WOMAN: You won’t remember what to get anyway.
MATT: Salmon.
WOMAN: And?
MATT: 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.
MATT: You’re just a better person than me.
WOMAN: Yup.
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 paper 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 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.)
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