#28: PENGUINS VS. BABY ELEPHANTS

(An audience enters a theater. They sit down and open their programs. Inside, there is a note from the PLAYWRIGHT and nothing else.)

"Dear Audience Member(s):

Penguins versus Baby Elephants.

I wrote this title as a space filler to make it look like I was going to write a play on Friday March 7th, 2008. The title represents a silly but ongoing debate that I've been having with two high school friends for a few years now. After I went out to dinner for chimichangas and over-priced margaritas with these good friends, I returned home with the intent to write a play about Betsy Ross. I had a title that I posted hours before, but no play and no plot. Perhaps I would flesh out Betsy's opinions on the penguin vs. elephant debate - or even better (!) put her on the newly formed board of directors of a colonial zoo that is debating which animals to collect for its inaugural zoo collection. Betsy would probably get mad at someone for no reason and release a tiger on his or her ass!

I could have, I could have, but I didn't.

Instead, I chose sleep. (gasp) I never wrote the play. I awoke refreshed on Sat. 3/8 determined to write the missing play and ready to write a new one, but I got lazy and am dealing with this whole mess today, Monday 3/10.

ALSO, I don't care what anyone says: a Baby Elephant would be a horrible and smelly choice for a pet. CLEARLY, if forced to domesticate, raise, and live with either a penguin or a baby elephant, a majority of the free world would side with me and choose the penguin. They may be flightless and dress in "mini-tuxedos" (two "great" "arguments" against me from my competition in this debate), but no, no, and not at all. Penguins would make awesome companions. Baby elephants have nothing to offer the world but poo and the harsh reality that they will inevitably grow up to become actual adult elephants. Anyone who thinks a pet baby elephant would act like Disney's Dumbo is dead wrong. Dead wrong.

What a horrible pet a baby elephant would be. Sorry Laura, you're just wrong.

- PLAYWRIGHT"

(The audience is confused about this note and worried about the PLAYWRIGHT; they wonder who the hell Laura is. Then they stop caring. Each member of the audience is distracted by some trivial and unrelated thought. Maybe yesterday's news or a sudden craving for a Twix bar. They exit the theater in turn. They throw their programs in the trash bins in the lobby. BETSY is hidden somewhere eating a chimichanga. We can't see her, but we know she's there.)

BLACKOUT

#27: A CONVERSATION WITH PAUL BUNYAN

(The upper branches of the tallest tree. The fingers of the giant right hand of PAUL BUNYAN are firmly wrapped around BETSY. PAUL places her onto a sturdy tree limb. A flock of birds flees the tree; this startles BETSY. PAUL BUNYAN squats and his giant face stares face-to-face with BETSY's. He speaks with a low, deflated voice.)

BETSY: Sorry about that. Where were we?

PAUL B: You were saying that you thought I was unqualified.

BETSY: Right.

PAUL B: Unsuited for this job.

BETSY: Yes, about that. We're looking for someone whose heart lies in the details of the craft. You're just so, well, forgive me: large.

PAUL B: You invited me here to have a conversation. I didn't think it was going to be an actual interview. I would have prepared!

BETSY: Forsight is the keystone of upholstery.

PAUL B: I threw together a resume while you were on the ground.

BETSY: I'll give it a look-see. Since you did make such a long trip down here. I suppose it won't hurt me.

PAUL B: Thank you.

(PAUL hands BETSY a huge piece of paper with ease. She struggles to hold it. Its weight and size overpower her and she topples down to a lower branch.)

BETSY: Ow!

PAUL B: Oopsies.

BETSY: No worries. It happens to everyone...

(BETSY stands up and examines the resume.)

BETSY: So Paul, care to explain to me how any of these "accomplishments" make you in any way qualified for this line of work?

PAUL B: Well, um. Inadvertently making ten thousand lakes was kinda cool. It taught me about nature I guess. And being a good team player and goal-setting. And recessing -

BETSY: Surpassing.

PAUL B: - those goals. Whatever.

BETSY: I think this about concludes our conversation.

PAUL B: Interview, just admit it!

BETSY: We come from different worlds.

PAUL B: I like plaid. That's upholstery right?

BETSY: Right... well, I don't wish to keep you from your buffalo.

PAUL B: Ox.

BETSY: Whatever.

PAUL B: I could be a huge asset to your business. A HUGE asset.

BETSY: This I know. You'll have to excuse me. I have another appointment.

PAUL B: I'm sure that regular-sized non-freak will be perfect for the job.

BETSY: Now, Paul -

PAUL B: Thanks for nothing!

(PAUL angrily walks the walk of a giant. He is gone. BETSY assesses her situation and begins to cautiously climb down the tree. A squirrel throws an acorn at her.)

BLACKOUT

#26: NORTHWARD HO!

(BETSY has fallen asleep on a makeshift bench on a dirt road just outside of Philadelphia. She clutches two small suitcases and is sleeping soundly. An OFFICER approaches her.)

OFFICER: Yet another one. Miss, MISS. Wake up.
BETSY: (in her sleep) Let me see... they all smell so good...
OFFICER: Wake up, Miss.
BETSY: (in her sleep) I'll have the strudel this time...
OFFICER: Miss, you need to wake up -

(The OFFICER goes to shake her awake. She snaps to life just before he makes contact.)

BETSY: Wha, who, oh!
OFFICER: You were asleep miss. On this bench.
BETSY: So I was. Not anymore. Thank you for your help officer.
OFFICER: My my my, how long were you out for? You were dreaming deep about pasteries or something.
BETSY: I, I don't know. Well, what time is it now?
OFFICER: Let me see. It was one p.m. when I got to McCarthy's. I spent awhile there because it's Saturday and we always get slippy on Saturdays. That puts it at half past five p.m. when I left McCarthy's. And that was a solid two hours ago.
BETSY: Half past five - two hours ago?!?
OFFICER: Probably puts it at about seven p.m. No, seven thirty p.m. right now. Something like that. Feels right to me. Sun's setting.
BETSY: I've been stood up!
OFFICER: Now who would stand such a pretty sight up?
BETSY: My stupid brother.
OFFICER: Oh! (Beat.) Oh I see. Well, to each his own. Or her own as the case may be. How long have you two been open about this?
BETSY: Open about - Gross! He's my brother
OFFICER: I see this all the time. No need to be ashamed. He'll come to his senses and take you back.
BETSY: (Spelling it out clearly.) I was waiting on this bench for my brother and his wife to pick me up. We are spending the week in New York.
OFFICER: Oh! (Beat.) Oh I see. Well, that's now a new one, but pretty darn exciting. Good for you three to have found one another.
BETSY: Look, the last time I checked it wasn't illegal to be sitting on a bench, so if you'll excuse me, I am going to sit some more until they show up.
OFFICER: About that. It actually is illegal now. This is a public road. You've been inactive. So that's loitering. It's the newest law as of about half past three yesterday.
BETSY: Loitering?
OFFICER: Loitering. Fact: people standing still get into trouble. We're done with trouble in this city.
BETSY: For your information, I'm very well connected here. I'm going to have a few words about this "law" when I'm back from New York.
OFFICER: By all means, feel free to. But in the meantime, I'm under strict orders to take all necessary action to deal with any loiterers.
BETSY: Is waiting for an overdue carriage a crime?
OFFICER: Sounds like a question a loiterer would ask, doesn't it?
BETSY: What? Look, I may be at the wrong bench, I will try the one further down the road in case they're waiting there.
OFFICER: Two counts of loitering if you do that. We'll be talking jail time.
BETSY: If you persist with this I will see to it that I write a series of strong letters to the right people that will leave you without job by month's end. We don't want that now, now do we?
OFFICER: No we don't. (He takes out a large book and a pen with ink. He writes.) One count of loitering. One count of plotting to loiter. And one count of threatening an officer. Three counts at seven thirty p.m. Perhaps seven twenty-five.
BETSY: Did Hamilton put you up to this?
OFFICER: We are required to keep a written record for when it goes to trial.
BETSY: While you're at it, don't forget about the bank I robbed last Tuesday, or the church I lit ablaze.
OFFICER: (He is writing furiously.) How do you spell ablaze?

(We hear the sounds of a horse-driven carriage rapidly approaching from offstage. BETSY collects her belongings and looks with great anticipation in the direction of the noise.)

OFFICER: So we're looking at five separate charges here. Two of which are accompanied by documented confessions. Please sign here.
BETSY: I'll be in New York buying Dutch shoes and eating fine foods. Feel free to send the state militia after me.

(The carriage enters and stops. BETSY jumps inside. It quickly exits. A cloud of hoof-induced dirt hangs in the air.)

OFFICER: (writing in his book) Charge number six. Fleeing the scene of a crime. (He closes the book and packs up.) She'll soon be America's most wanted. (Beat.) If only I knew her name....

BLACKOUT

#25: NUMBER FOURTEEN

(March 4, 1791. Montpelier. BETSY and MS. DAVIS stare out the window listening to the crowds of dozens on the street below.)

CROWD A: We want a new name!
CROWD B: New Connecticut's lame!
CROWD A: We want a new name!
CROWD B: New Connecticut's lame!

(BETSY slams the window shut.)

BETSY: They're relentless.
MS. DAVIS: Must you really be slamming things like that?
BETSY: Ruthless really. They wouldn't have lasted two minutes at the '87 Convention before being shown the door.
MS. DAVIS: It's right over there. I suggest you use it!
BETSY: Oh Marjorie please.
MS. DAVIS: You're behaving like my husband.
BETSY: Thank you.

MS. DAVIS: You're so worked up. I've never see you like this.
BETSY: I'm nervous.
MS. DAVIS: They'll have this territory named by tea time. Then we can go celebrate. Jacob hired a band of drifters. They're quite good really.
BETSY: Who knows I'm here?
MS. DAVIS: Everyone does. Absolutely everyone in New Connecticut. Jacob wanted you here to be recognized for this.
BETSY: I've made a huge mistake.
MS. DAVIS: Compose yourself. You're acting like a chipmunk.
BETSY: Tell them I'm ill. Tell them I've left. Don't force me to face them.
MS. DAVIS: You should be proud. Let me see your sketch.

(MS. DAVIS crossed to the giant easel that's been hiding in the corner of the room. BETSY intercepts her - physically.)

MS. DAVIS: My heavens!
BETSY: No, it's not ready yet.
MS. DAVIS: Chipmunk chipmunk in my way.
BETSY: Look, Marjorie, I kinda just threw this together. I never anticipated we'd have more than thirteen.
MS. DAVIS: Don't say that in front of Jacob. He's put his blood into this place and won't rest until it's signed into Statehood.
BETSY: Fourteen is such a clunky number. Aesthetically speaking.
MS. DAVIS: How hard can it be to throw one measly star on? Let me take a look at the sketch, it can't be that bad.

(MS. DAVIS forces her way through BETSY.)

BETSY: Marjorie, no!

(MS. DAVIS eyes the sketch of the next flag of the United States of America. It's horrific.)

MS. DAVIS: ...
BETSY: I warned you.
MS. DAVIS: You intend to sew that?
BETSY: It's just a sketch. An idea. I didn't plan on their being a fourteenth when I planned the original.
MS. DAVIS: You didn't plan? You didn't plan!? (She runs to the window and opens it.) Here that boys and girls. Betsy Ross didn't plan!
CROWD MEMBER: Who what now?
BETSY: That is highly uncalled for...
MS. DAVIS: You listen and listen good chipmunk. New Connecticut is why my husband gets himself out of bed every morning. New Connecticut is why I've been parading around this place from town to town spreading pamphlets like Thomas Paine in a room full of literates. New Connecticut is why I have been without love-making for two soon to be three months.
BETSY: Marjorie, you're over-
MS. DAVIS: We didn't pay you talk. We didn't pay you to whine. We paid you to adapt and redesign your precious little baby... because God forbid anyone else sews a measly little star on the brainchild of world renown artiste Betsy Ross!!
BETSY: It's not like that.
MS. DAVIS: Your sketch is insulting to my husband and to this soon-to-be-State.
BETSY: You put so much pressure on me.
MS. DAVIS: You make me want to vomit.

(JACOB bursts in the room; he radiates pride.)

JACOB: Vermont!
MS. DAVIS: No honey. I said vomit.
JACOB: And I, Vermont! We have a name, we're a state. Betsy, the gang is dying to meet you. Cannot wait to see what you've done with the thing. Marjorie, you look - splendid. (He winks.)

BETSY: I have a sketch I can show them... it'll have to do.
JACOB: Great. See you girls down there!

(JACOB exits.)

BETSY: You know, you said some awful things to me that I would never in a million years say to you.
MS. DAVIS: Yeah, well, welcome to Vermont, Betsy!

BETSY: What does that mean?
MS. DAVIS: See you downstairs chipmunk. If you know what's good for you, you'll whip up a sketch that approaches decency. I'll be at the bar looking "splendid". (To herself:) Tonight's the night.

(MS. DAVIS exits. BETSY tears the sketch off the easel and begins drawing a new flag. We hear:)

CROWD MEMBER: We got a new name guys.

CROWD A: Yeah!

CROWD MEMBER: So we're done. Just like that?

CROWD MEMBER: Yeah, it looks that way.

CROWD MEMBER: Let's go home.

CROWD B: Okay. Good idea.

BLACKOUT

#24: WEEKEND @ BETSY'S

(1783. A cold night in Philadelphia. JOHN CLAYPOOLE, a recently released prisoner of war, sits anxiously in BETSY's living room.)

BETSY: Thanks for bringing his belongings by, it's nice to have the closure.
CLAYPOOLE: I imagine it must be.
BETSY: You really should consider staying: it's a nightmare out there.
CLAYPOOLE: I couldn't ma'am. I have some family that I need to see up the River.
BETSY: Of course you do. I'm sure your children and wife have been missing you these years. They deserve every minute with you that they can get.
CLAYPOOLE: Yes well, no. Just brothers. And some cousins are there for the season. A camp up the river. We built it.
BETSY: Oh, I'm sorry.
CLAYPOOLE: It's a decent camp for what it is.
BETSY: No, about your family. I just assumed.
CLAYPOOLE: Apologize not. I have a lot to be grateful for.
BETSY: That you do.
CLAYPOOLE: I'm alive aren't I? (Beat.) That was ill-timed.

BETSY: Joseph was my second, you know. My first was John.

CLAYPOOLE: I don't mean to bring this up. It must be late. I should be on my way.
BETSY: Widowed once, it's a tragedy. Widowed twice, it's a curse, right?
CLAYPOOLE: Yes. (Unsure what to say) God's work is something.
BETSY: Oh there I go again, running my mouth. It's not your fault, you couldn't have saved him. I know that. I didn't intend to make you feel uncomfortable about all this. I've had my grieving.
CLAYPOOLE: You don't run your mouth.
BETSY: Thanks, but what else can one say at this juncture?

CLAYPOOLE: He wanted me to meet you. Said we'd all make a night of it one night playing cards. We always talked about it. We'd come to Philadelphia, play a good card game, and drink some great whiskey.

BETSY: Quite the competitor. No match for me of course.
CLAYPOOLE: That's what he said.

BETSY: It's hard to wrap my mind around it.
CLAYPOOLE: I know the sentiment.
BETSY: To sail out one day and never come back like that.
CLAYPOOLE: You know what they say about war.

BETSY: John Claypoole.
CLAYPOOLE: Yes ma'am?
BETSY: Funny name.
CLAYPOOLE: It's the only one I have.

BETSY: It'd mean the world to me if you would come back next week and tell me stories about the final year in the life of my second husband.

CLAYPOOLE: Stories?

BETSY: Anything. What he talked about in there with you, the jokes he tried to pull. The fights. Nothing fancy. Anything will do. Just to fill in the blanks and put this away.
CLAYPOOLE: It would be my pleasure.
BETSY: I must warn you though. You'll be dead by May with my track record.
CLAYPOOLE: Good fortune always comes to those in need.
BETSY: I'm not a fairy tale. I'll be okay.

CLAYPOOLE: I should really go. Will you sleep soon?
BETSY: I have some projects to keep me up. Then I'll sleep.
CLAYPOOLE: Thank you for your cake.
BETSY: It's fresh. Welcome back Mr. Claypoole. Enjoy your time up the river.
CLAYPOOLE: Just a few days really. Then I'll be back in the city.

BETSY: So Friday it is.
CLAYPOOLE: Yes. Friday works.
BETSY: Now leave my house before you die too.
CLAYPOOLE: Oh, I'm sorry -
BETSY: Just a game John. My apologies.

CLAYPOOLE: I'll think up those stories.
BETSY: I'd like that.
CLAYPOOLE: Could I grab another loaf of cake for Herbert?
BETSY: Brother?
CLAYPOOLE: Horse.
BETSY: Of course.

BETSY: There you are.
CLAYPOOLE: Goodnight.
BETSY: Until Friday.

(JOHN exits. BETSY returns to her projects.)

BLACKOUT

#23: LES MISERABETSY

(Exit JAVERT SR. BETSY is left alone, unemployed and destitute.)

BETSY

There was a time when men were kind
When their voices were soft
And their words inviting
There was a time when love was blind
And the world was a song
And the song was exciting
There was a time
Then it all went wrong

I sew'ed a flag in years gone by
When threads were fine
And flags worth raising
I sew'ed a flag that should not die
I sew'ed so George would keep on gazing
Then I was deft and unathritis'd
The States were new 'n fresh, not yet wasted
There was no epidemic encephalitis
No flags were burned, no wine untasted

But the rumors come at night
With their howls blunt as butter
As they tear your reputation apart
And they turn your name to shame

They slept many summers by my side
They filled my days and/or nights with endless wonder
They took my late adolescence/early adulthood/and womanhood with their strides
But they were gone when Betsy woke up

And still I dream they'll come back to me
The many men I've loved now and forever
George, Tom, Patrick and the team
Each I loved freely where or whenever

I had a dream my life would be
So different from this heck I'm living
So different now from what it seemed
Now poor choices have killed the flag I sew'ed.

BLACKOUT