#15: FALLING BEHIND ON PLAYS ALREADY

(Music plays. Lights up. The PLAYWRIGHT sits at his laptop. He searches the internet for an image of a trash can full of crumpled papers. He finds it, crops it and coverts it to black and white. He types the words "Falling Behind on Plays Already" in all capital letters. He cries a single tear of disappointment and decides to eat some food and drink a beer. He thinks about how BETSY needs to be in every play and how she's not yet in this one. "What does that mean?", he thinks to himself. "Does she really need to be?"; "Who even cares?"; "What does it all mean?".)

PLAYWRIGHT: So many thoughts...

(He continues to think. Soon, he is half-way finished with the bag of Tostitos, the jar of Tostitos Queso Con Salsa and the bottle of Yuengling. He is visibly fatter. He looks in the mirror and sees his fatty reflection. Standing behind him there seems to be a ghost: BETSY ROSS' ghost. He turns around to catch her walking spirit in the actual room and prove that she exists not merely in the mirror. But she's not there. He is alone and ghostless. He puts a chip in his mouth, closes the jar of Queso Con Salsa and realizes that it is actually called Salsa Con Queso. This makes more sense but it is not as funny.)

PLAYWRIGHT: Hmm. Salsa Con Queso.

(He clicks "Publish Post" on his nice new Dell computer that his friend won in a Scavenger Hunt and sold to him at a killer price. He goes to sleep.)

BLACKOUT

#14: AMERICANA TALES 2: BETSY MEETS JAZZ

(Lights up. A smoke-filled low-lit jazz club. BETSY sits alone with a gin and tonic in one hand and her heart in the other. It’s 2 a.m. She is not impressed. A JAZZ MAN stands at his piano. His jacket is tossed aside. Sweat drips from his brow. He is making music and singing. We should not question how BETSY manages to travel through time and space like this but rather begin to accept it as fact.)

BETSY: (Heckling) These words are not words!
JAZZ MAN: (Singing) Bebop bebop.
BETSY: Sloppy.
JAZZ MAN: Shoo-deee-oooo-beee!
BETSY: Infantile.
JAZZ MAN: Shoo-deee-oooo-BEEE!!
BETSY: Redundant even. (then quickly:) Redundant even. Get it?!
JAZZ MAN: Heeby-ja-bopbopbop-BA.

(A TRUMPET PLAYER appears from behind a curtain mimicking the tune of the JAZZ MAN’s most recent scat. He plays loudly and directly into BETSY’S face. She drops her cocktail on the table and covers her ears.)

BETSY: I prefer baseball any day.

(A TROMBONE PLAYER pops up from a trap door on the floor. His music is louder and bolder. The musicians are ecstatic and welcome him with “Hey’s” and “Ha’s”. BETSY is repulsed.)

BETSY: Check please.
JAZZ MAN: Five drink minimum starry 'n stripes. Keep drinking.
BETSY: Bollox.

(A spotlight appears and all focus goes to ELLA, a sultry Jazz goddess. She sings a self-indulgent parody of “My Funny Valentine”. She is prodigious: moving us with her dynamic range and soothing tones.)

ELLA: My funny Valentine.
Sweet, complaining Valentine.
You make me smile with your flag.
Your threads are red-white blue.
Very sexy woven through.
Yet you sorta make me gag.

BETSY: Well I’ve never –

(BETSY stands and goes to leave, but the TROMBONE PLAYER threatens her (playfully) with his trombone, thus forcing her to sit again.)

ELLA: Is your Betsy more than Ross?
Are you rock or just mere moss?
If Georgie threw you - no worse – toss
‘d you, would you sink?
Would you sink?

(Big Finish with the whole quartet.)

JAZZ MAN: Sinkinty sinkity sinksink-sink!
ELLA: Yeah!

TROMBONE PLAYER: Smooth.
TRUMPET PLAYER: Cool cats are around.
JAZZ MAN: You do it every time Ella.

(The JAZZ MAN and ELLA embrace passionately.)

BETSY: If this is America, count me out.

(The JAZZ MAN and ELLA continue their embrace. The TRUMPET PLAYER and the TROMBONE PLAYER put their gaze on each other then on BETSY. BETSY drinks gin.)

BLACKOUT

#13: HIGH STANDARDS

(An empty stage. BETSY enters and stands firmly. She looks serious. Real serious.)

BETSY: Alright girls. Bring them out!

(Four WOMEN come marching in from offstage and form a line. They stop and turn in formation. They stare downstage stoicly. BETSY approaches WOMAN #1.)

BETSY: Unroll you flag.
WOMAN #1: Unrolling my flag.
BETSY: Unrolling your flag, what?
WOMAN #1: Betsy. Unrolling my flag Betsy!

(WOMAN #1 unrolls her flag. It's a woven cartoonlike picture of George Washington giving the thumbs up sign.)

BETSY: Too Juvenile.

(BETSY pushes WOMAN 1 off the line and perhaps to the ground. She approaches WOMAN #2.)

BETSY: Unroll your flag.
WOMAN #2: Unrolling my flag Betsy!

(It's stuck. She can't unroll it. BETSY is not pleased.)

WOMAN #2: It's stuck. I, the flag. It's stuck.
BETSY: 1... 2... 2 and half...

(BETSY raises her arms as to push the woman down to the ground. The flag miraculously unrolls. It's the silhouettes of many types of people holding hands. The letters USA are written with sewn flowers.)

BETSY: Too flitty. And so not Betsy.

(BETSY snaps her fingers and the woman falls to the ground out of fear. BETSY approaches WOMAN #3.)

BETSY: Unroll your flag.

WOMAN #3: I've been waiting for this moment for three grueling months.

(WOMAN #3 unrolls her flag. It's the words "BETSY ROSS IS A FRAUD" surrounded by stars and stripes. The other women gasp. BETSY begins a slow clap.)

BETSY: Done with your little show? When it's all said and done, who will they believe? Me or you?

WOMAN #3: You're a fraud.

BETSY: The Crusades ended a few centuries ago honey. You're a little late.

(BETSY grabs the flag and wraps it around WOMAN #3's head, blinding and confusing her. BETSY kicks her in the rear and she goes flying offstage. The others watch in disbelief.)

BETSY: Unroll your flag.

WOMAN #4: Don't hurt me.

(She unrolls the flag. It is Old Glory. Amazing craftmanship, color and design. It's flawless. BETSY stares, smiles and grabs it.)

BETSY: I sewed it. I finally sewed it.

WOMAN #4: But Betsy. I worked so hard and I -

BETSY: You're free. You're all free. I finally finished the flag. I no longer need you.

WOMAN #4: That's it - after three months - this is how it ends?

(BETSY throws the flag around her body like a cape or coat and models it in front of an imaginary mirror.)

BETSY: This is how it ends and how I begin. So long girls. Watch out boys. Here I come.

BLACKOUT

#12: AMERICANA TALES: BETSY MEETS BASEBALL

(Lights up. Bleecher seats in a baseball stadium somewhere. BETSY holds a cardboard tray with hot dogs, a pretzel, a large Beer, and some Cracker Jacks. Lots of mustard packs and extraneous plastic utensils. She sits next to a giant, costumed MASCOT. He's an odd duck; literally. He cannot speak words, so he communicates his lines with duck gestures. In production, maybe subtitles for the audience or some other fancy solution as BETSY rarely "hears" him correctly but the audience knows what he's actually "saying".)

BETSY: Well that was certainly an experience.
MASCOT: (Yep.)
BETSY: Is it always so expensive?
MASCOT: (Yes.)
BETSY: I spent all my flag commission already.
MASCOT: (Well, apparently you're eating for four.)
BETSY: Oh stop it! You're not overweight.
MASCOT: (You misunderstood. It degrades me to speak like this, but I'll lose my job if I speak.)
BETSY: More mustard?? I don't know, maybe in a bit. I wanna catch some of "the game" first.
MASCOT: (If you made an effort to actually understand my skilled gestures instead of just assuming you know what I am trying to communicate, it might actually work out.)
BETSY: Enough with the mustard already. And thank you, I sewed it myself.
MASCOT: (I'm not talking about mustard.)
BETSY: Baseball? In the 18th century? No way Jose!
MASCOT: (Don't call me by my real name. I signed a contract.)
BETSY: I love the way the salt is everywhere on the pretzel. And you can just scrape it off onto the ground like it's nothing. Woosh, watch it fly!
MASCOT: (Someone will have to clean up after you. You're making a mess. It's insensitive.)
BETSY: Here it comes, here it comes, here it comes!

(BETSY rids her hands of food products and joins "the wave". She's stiff and scientific about it, but nonetheless, having the time of her life.)

BETSY: The adrenaline, wow. This is something.
MASCOT: (You're supposed to sit down now Betsy. It's over. That's the way it works.)
BETSY: I know you have wings and not arms, you don't have to keep telling me. You're a duck, I get it!
MASCOT: (It's on days like this one that I remind myself: I am an artist. I do this job for the health insurance.)
BETSY: It's touching. It really is. To know that something you were a part of can balloon and or snowball into something like this.
MASCOT: (I know you'll misunderstand me. But I have no idea what you're talking about. Not even a clue.)
BETSY: Oh, I hear you loud and clear. This: America's pastime!. You wouldn't be here today dressed like a giant duck and I wouldn't be here collecting my free poncho and getting drunk had the forefathers - and myself! - not come before us.
MASCOT: (I wouldn't mind not being here dressed as a giant duck. Believe me.)
BETSY: I'm just saying. Old America (me!) made New America. Which made baseball.
MASCOT: (America also made college. You could benefit from it.)
BETSY: No I can't stay. This is just a visit. There's so much more Americana for me to explore.
MASCOT: (The sooner you leave, the sooner I get my nicotine.)
BETSY: I made a drunken promise I would explore it all and explore it all I shall: Superman. Jazz music. Cowboys. Quesadillas.
MASCOT: (Not Americana.)
BETSY: Hey, I'm Betsy Ross. I designed a flag and by default define Americana and what I say goes. And I say Quesadillas.
MASCOT: (Quack Quack.)
BETSY: (To the field:) You call that SAFE!?!? You're blind!
MASCOT: (The game hasn't started yet Betsy...)
BETSY: Yeah tell him whose boss, #3. (Swept away in her own enthusiasm) The Ducks win the pennant! The Ducks win the pennant.
MASCOT: (We're barely minor league.)
BETSY: You read my mind. I want a funnel cake!

(BETSY darts off spilling drinks and food on her way out. The MASCOT produces a cigarette and lighter from a duck pocket on his duck costume. He lights it and finds a way to awkwardly inhale through his over-sized bill. As the "National Anthem" begins to play, he smokes and scratches himself.)

FADE TO BLACKOUT

#11: BEFORE THERE WAS CRAIGSLIST

(BETSY and a POTENTIAL RENTER enter the now abandoned 2nd floor study of her Philadelphia townhouse.)

POTENTIAL RENTER: Oh, Of course. I'm the epitome of tidy!
BETSY: (throwing a bunch of sewing supplies everywhere as a test) So this is the room.
POTENTIAL RENTER: (Picking up all the supplies out of sheer instinct) Oh, it's gorgeous. I could really see myself here.
BETSY: Not so fast. What sort of hours do you keep?
POTENTIAL RENTER: Some could say I'm a night person -
BETSY: AHA! I'm afraid that just won't do. (Opening the door) Good-bye and good luck.
POTENTIAL RENTER: But they'd be fibbing!
BETSY: (closing the door) Fibbing? So you're a (gulp) morning person?
POTENTIAL RENTER: (overlapping) morning person!
BETSY/POTENTIAL RENTER: (put off) Just like me... / (giddy) Just like you!
BETSY: So, you're tidy and you're a morning person, yes my girl, but whether or not you wind up renting my study is predicated on a lot more than that. Believe me. This is not tea and cookies. This is real life. REAL. This is complex.
POTENTIAL RENTER: Oh I almost forgot, here are the handwritten references you asked for in your announcement.
BETSY: I'll examine them later... (unsuccessful scare tactic) with my attorney!
POTENTIAL RENTER: You know, the writing on your poster at the tobacconist was so small. I had to put on my fancy glasses to read it. It's almost as if you didn't want anyone to be able to read it.
BETSY: (lying) Poppycock! That would be foolish. Of course I wanted people to read it. I want the whole world applying to live her.
POTENTIAL RENTER: That's what I suspected. Everyone else said you were just being (whispering) the S word! And that you secretly wanted this big old house all for yourself.
BETSY: The S word?
POTENTIAL RENTER: S - E - L - F - I - S - H. (She giggles a giggle.)
BETSY: (not wanting to be caught) Wha, why, who, now who who could suspect such a thing? Why would silly little me want a whole big nice spacious house to myself when people like you are hopping off the boat each month and moving to Philadelphia looking to take my home? Selfish! Never never never never never.
POTENTIAL RENTER: King Lear, Act Five! "Never never never never never".
BETSY: NO THEATRICS IN THIS HOUSE!
POTENTIAL RENTER: Brava! I love when you pretend to be mad. It's good, it's sweet.
BETSY: Listen to me and listen to me good...
POTENTIAL RENTER: We're going to be besties Betsy. I can sense it.

(Beat. Betsy's terrified of the idea. She's getting inexplicably desperate. As if she doesn't even know why this scene is happening. Maybe no one does.)

BETSY: (Out of nowhere and overacted) OH MY! Did you hear that?!?
POTENTIAL RENTER: No, hear what? (suddenly serious) Oh no, I get it. You passed gas. Well, you're excused. Those biscuits take no prisoners.
BETSY: No you stupid thing! I need privacy!
POTENTIAL RENTER: Betsy, you're so funny! I love you.

(She goes to hug her.)

BETSY: Don't touch. Now listen closely. The walls. In the walls. It's the bugs, the termites.
POTENTIAL RENTER: Termites? I hear nothing.
BETSY: That's because they - they just stopped. That's right. All of them. All five hundred - no thousand no million. All five million of them. In the walls of this room. The room you want is infested with killer bugs. I knew I overlooked something in the advertisement of this room. Sorry. Have a good life!
POTENTIAL RENTER: Termites in here? Never. The wood's solid. You are one for the keeping, Betsy Ross.
BETSY: Betsy Ross... (New idea:) So right here, the murder happened like this. (She demonstrates senseless stabbing.) The blood went there. We cleaned most of it. The killer was never caught. Left a note saying he - OR SHE - would be back to kill again. Ten stab wounds in her sleep. She - the victim - looked a lot like you - YES SHE DID.
POTENTIAL RENTER: Murder? Blood? Sleep? What will you think of next! You're so FUN! And FUNNY!
BETSY: (thinking of a way to send her packing) I bring the horse up here to bathe it. Hourly. On the hour every hour. I scrub it. And it smells. Bigtime.
POTENTIAL RENTER: I love horses, I'll do it whenever you don't feel up to it.
BETSY: (trying harder) They say the British left some gunpowder hidden in the walls and just a slight lightning storm or burning candle or noise even could explode the whole room at any moment. KABOOM!
POTENTIAL RENTER: What God wants God will deliver. Amen. I'll go get my jammies.
BETSY: Wait!

(BETSY grabs her by the wrist. The POTENTIAL RENTER freezes.)

POTENTIAL RENTER: Aw, I get it. I get it Betsy.
BETSY: You do.... ?
POTENTIAL RENTER: Of course. I can see what you are trying to do. And you are so unbelievably... sweet!
BETSY: No sweet no sweet. Unsweet. Unsweet roommate!
POTENTIAL RENTER: Tomorrow morning first thing we'll bake a cake. Then you can teach me to sew. Then after tea, singing! It can be like friends do in books.
BETSY: I have malaria!!!
POTENTIAL RENTER: I'll go make soup.
BETSY: I'm f*cking George Washington. I'll hang!
POTENTIAL RENTER: I won't tell a soul.
BETSY: Ugga-poka-Hiss!!! I'm a witch!
POTENTIAL RENTER: You're so complex and layered. I love it.

(She bear hugs BETSY.)

POTENTIAL RENTER: I love you. We're going to best friends forever and ever and ever! I will never leave.

BETSY: (slow turn to the audience) H - E - L - P (Beat.) M - E (Beat.) S - I - G - H (She sighs a desperate sigh of defeat.)

(and...)

BLACKOUT

#10: HURRICANE BETSY

(September 1965. Grand Isle, Louisiana. SAM DELERAY, 40, and his son ALEX, 11, stare out at the Gulf. Hurricane Betsy is regaining strength off the coast and approaching.)

ALEX: Those waves are too big Dad.
SAM: We'll be okay. Waves ain't guns.

ALEX: Listen to 'em.
SAM: (impressed) Once in a lifetime. Look at that...
ALEX: We need to go.
SAM: We'll be okay. No storm is movin' us.
ALEX: ...
SAM: Alex, you hear me? No storm is movin' us.
ALEX: This one's different.
SAM: My parents didn't take me runnin' at ev'ry drop of rain, Al. And I turned out alright, didn't I?
ALEX: This one's different. Can't you tell?

(BETSY appears suddenly and without effort, as if... from nowhere.)

BETSY: (over the wind) The Beach is closed gentlemen!
ALEX: See dad. see! Sorry, we were just leavin'.
SAM: Now everyone calm down, hold yer horses. I'm showin' my boy this. You mind your bee's wax, we'll mind ours.
BETSY: The beach is closed. It's my duty to tell you this.
SAM: It's my duty to say we'll leave when we want to leave.
BETSY: I'm just the messenger.
SAM: Didn't your shift end or somethin'? We don't need the Beach Patrol dictatin' our ev're move. You ruinin' this here.
ALEX: Dad, she seems serious.
BETSY: Move inland. Hesitate no more.

SAM: Man! Look at those waves, Al.
ALEX: (with urgency) Dad, we need to go.
SAM: Once in a lifetime!
ALEX: Dad, this isn't normal. We should pack then drive.
SAM: No horizon. Feel the air. This'll be a recordbreaker!

ALEX: (frustrated) Do something!
BETSY: Me? I tried.
ALEX: Try again.
BETSY: I'm just the messenger.
AELX: It's your job!

(BETSY nods. She approaches SAM, leans in and whispers. The winds slow while she speaks.)

BETSY: You will leave this beach. This storm will be worse than you think. You will save your son and yourself. He will be grateful. You will want to thank me. You will never see me again.
SAM: (Speechless) I -
BETSY: Twice in a lifetime for you. Twice in a lifetime for him. Leave now Sam.
SAM: Who are you?

(No response. The winds return.)

SAM: Alex, stop playin' around. We gotta pack some things before the roads go out.
ALEX: Let's go. Thanks, whatever you said must have - (He stops dead in his tracks.) She's gone! That lady's gone.
SAM: Yeah, so she is. So she is. We should go.

(They turn to leave and the flashlight of the BEACH PATROL, a female officer, catches their eyes.)

BEACH PATROL: The Beach is closed gentleman. Storm's gonna be huge. Gotta leave.
ALEX: We know. She was just here.
BEACH PATROL: Who was what now?
ALEX: She didn't have a uniform like you, but the lady told us.
BEACH PATROL: Lady! You seein' ghosts? I'm the only one stupid enough to be searchin' this beach. Now lets move it!
ALEX: Sorry. Ready dad?
SAM: ... ready ...
BEACH PATROL: Once in a century they say. Once in a lifetime.

(The BEACH PATROL extends her hand and exits with SAM. ALEX stares at the horizon. He turns his head quickly over his shoulder. He hears something, but it's just the wind.)

SAM: Bring it on Betsy. You're not takin' us today.

(SAM runs off to catch up with ALEX. The winds pick up.)

BLACKOUT

#9: IT WAS HER PARTY

(Philadelphia. The morning after a huge party at BETSY'S house. Lights up on BETSY and the DRUNKEN NEIGHBOR WHO SPENT THE NIGHT ON THE COUCH:)

BETSY: What a great night last night was. So many people came to my party.
DRUNKEN NEIGHBOR WHO SPENT THE NIGHT ON THE COUCH: I drank too much ale. Who came Betsy?
BETSY: (reciting from memory) Mr. MacPherson, Mr. Heysham, Mr. Wilcox, Mr. Bushell, Ms. Ashburn, Leslie, the Dorsey's, John Gardin, Buchard 1: Andrew Buchard, Buchard 2: Thomas Buchard, Mr. Neil Cummins, Mr. Claypoole, Widow Ford, Harvey Sampson - THAT DRUNK! - William Sellers, Mr. Owen, Ms. Jacob, Ms. Crysler, William Heysham, Mr. Alexander Wilcox - I think I alreasdy said him - John Gibbons, William Ashby, age 97, James Wilson and wife, William Niles and mistress, Jonathan Worrell, Mr. Wing - Oh, I so wish he left earlier! - Thomas Carmalt, Mary Smith - boring name if you ask me - Mr. William Montgomery, Joseph B. McKean, Esq., James Lewis, Widow Gideon and that weird guy Joseph.
DNWSTNOTC: Who was after Mr. Owen?
BETSY: Ms. Jacob.
DNWSTNOTC: Ashby's 97?
BETSY: Last Tuesday.
DNWSTNOTC: You're a social butterfly Betsy.
BETSY: Um, thanks. I think.
DNWSTNOTC: It's good. People know you.
BETSY: Mr. Wing was snooping in my jewelry and personal things. Well at least that's what Jon Worrell told John Gibbons.
DNWSTNOTC: Who told you.
BETSY: Bingo. I swear if as much as a cent's worth of anything is missing from this house, I am blaming him.
DNWSTNOTC: Him?
BETSY: Wing!

(Pause.)

DNWSTNOTC: Come lie with me on the sofa.
BETSY: Philip! You still smell like ale!
DNWSTNOTC: Please?
BETSY: I have to clean up and there's-
DNWSTNOTC: Please...

(Pause. BETSY's tone changes.)

BETSY: Butterfly? Nice try.
DNWSTNOTC: I just think it's time.
BETSY: Oh do you? John's been gone less than a year.
DNWSTNOTC: And a year is a long time. Everyone at the party thinks it's time.
BETSY: Well, I'm glad you took a vote. What - is every goddamn thing done with democracy now? Real nice Philip.
DNWSTNOTC: We just think you could afford to move on.
BETSY: Move on? How does one move on from a gunpowder explosion. Enlighten me.
DNWSTNOTC: Betsy, you say it as if you were there.
BETSY: Look, I saw him. You didn't.
DNWSTNOTC: You can't use John's death as an excuse forever. Get out and do something. Enough with the parties.
BETSY: You like my parties.
DNWSTNOTC: I just think it's time you moved on, that's all I'm saying B.

(Pause.)

BETSY: I'm going to go clean up in the kitchen. Mr. Bushel punctured a grain bag and I don't want it to stick.
DNWSTNOTC: I'll be here on the couch. When you get back.
BETSY: I can't Philip.
DNWSTNOTC: Okay. But I'll be here.

(Pause.)

BETSY: I have to go sweep up grain. Thanks for coming to the party.

(BETSY exits to the kitchen. DRUNKEN NEIGHBOR WHO SPENT THE NIGHT ON THE COUCH lies back down on the couch and stares at the ceiling.)

BLACKOUT