#7: THE SPEECH: PART I

(Betsy's tailor shop. Her APPRENTICE, a quick-witted 18-year-old girl, and GLEN, an older man who spends more hours than not hanging around the tailor shop, are engaged in conversation. The APPRENTICE is a multi-tasker: always sewing, cutting, and/or shaping while she talks.)

APPRENTICE: So I said, "For the fiftieth time, I'm not a Quaker"!
GLEN: (Laughing hysterically) The stories you tell girl. You should write a book!
APPRENTICE: My penmanship is horrible.
GLEN: Well fix it girl, you need to write! What are you doing sewing?
APPRENTICE: Oh, I could never leave here. Betsy's like my mom.
GLEN: Your mom should be like your mom.
APPRENTICE: (He hit a nerve) Well, she's not.

Short pause.

GLEN: Louisiana. What kind of word is that? All that new land! Can you imagine living there?
APPRENTICE: You know I met these people who said they went there the other day....
GLEN: ??
APPRENTICE: Two women.
GLEN: I smell a story. Bring it on!
APPRENTICE: Guess what their names were?
GLEN: I don't know, but you're gonna tell me!
APPRENTICE: Come on Glen, at least take a guess!
GLEN: I dunno. Betsy and Ross?
APPRENTICE: Wrong. Louise and Anna... Louise and Anna went to Louisiana!
GLEN: (laughing hysterically) You've got the gift girl!!!
APPRENTICE: They're inseparable. There's never any room in between the two! Louise 'n Anna! Louise 'n Anna!
GLEN: Whoa. Weeeha! Take some time off and write that book. You're hysterical.
APPRENTICE: Women are not supposed to be funny, Glen. (she holds up a sewing project) I must not "divert from the pattern".
GLEN: Bah! Girl, you are the pattern. Someone get this girl a quill and a bottle o' ink!
APPRENTICE: Aw, thanks Glen. You're sweet.

(BETSY comes storming in from the outside with a large pile of fabric. She drops it and sighs a mega sigh of relief.)

BETSY: These people want everything from me. Apprentice. Glen. Betsy. Huddle up! We need Washington's pants done by six, Reverend James needs his Sunday sermon robe done Friday, and the Adams Family order got moved up: they need it tomorrow morning!
APPRENTICE: Tomorrow morning! I'll never have the Adams family order ready by tomorrow morning. Those creeps!
GLEN: You can do it girl! Louisiana! Weeha!
BETSY: And the school wants me to give a speech tomorrow on, what else, sewing! For the lower school's career day.
GLEN: But you hate speaking in front of people B.
BETSY: I know. And the only thing I hate more is writing speeches! Yucky, women are sewers, not writers. Everyone knows that!
APPRENTICE: I could write it B.
BETSY: You? But you're a sewer.
GLEN: Here's the ink! Where's the quill?
APPRENTICE: For real, I can write it.
BETSY: We have pants to hem, coats to adjust, and that's not even taking into account the Adams family!
GLEN: Those creeps!
APPRENTICE: I'll do it all. I have the time.
BETSY: Hm. Well, I don't know.
APPRENTICE: This is all I've ever wanted.
BETSY: To ghostwrite a speech about sewing and then have me deliver it to a room full of seven year olds?
GLEN: Weeha!
APPRENTICE: No B. All I've ever wanted is to write. My mom always said I couldn't. So I didn't.
GLEN: (starting a cheer) B... B... B! B! B!
BETSY: Alright alright alright! Have the final draft on my sewing machine by sunrise.
APPRENTICE: (hugging her) Thanks B!
BETSY: Now let us get to work on the Adams Family!

(The women snap their fingers to warm up for the intense night of sewing that is to ensue. And to further serve the Adams Family pun.)

GLEN: Fasten your carriage belts. It's gonna be a bumpy ride! Weeha!

BLACKOUT

#6: A SHORT PLAY WRITTEN HASTILY

(Lights up. We're on top of the Eiffel Tower. Or maybe the leaning Tower of Pisa. Or perhaps on the Hindenburg.)

BETSY: O, I wish they didn't lock me in this foyer... with all this sweetmeat... they promised I'd be on the two-dollar bill if I ate it all.
DOCTOR: Betsy? Betsy Ross?? Well, I'll be damned, is that you?
BETSY: I ate too much! Way too much!
DOCTOR: (with severe urgency) Too much what Betsy? Way too much what?
BETSY: Chocolate.

(Pause.)

DOCTOR: Oh Silly Betsy! Some things never change!

(Crazy Tableau!! "Carmina Burana" plays, breaking the tableau. BETSY eats an extraordinary amount of chocolate things for five minutes, maybe six. The DOCTOR shakes his head disapprovingly. For one slight moment, he nods with support; then he begins to cry.)

BLACKOUT

#5: LOVE VS. CELEBRITY: A MUSICAL!

(BETSY runs out of a log cabin onto its front porch. She's shaken and distraught. PAUL REVERE is soon to follow, desperate and in love.)

BETSY: I have nothing left to say to you. Stop embarrassing me!
PAUL: Don't do this to me.
BETSY: Don't do this to you? Don't do this to you, Paul? What about what you did to me?
PAUL: People make mistakes.
BETSY: Well, you're not people Paul. You're Paul Revere.
PAUL: I'm human too!
BETSY: Don't flatter yourself!
PAUL: Your words are biting!
BETSY: Get on your horse and leave me.

(Music begins. It's slow and simple. PAUL sings:)

PAUL:
FROM THE MOMENT I SAW YOU
FROM THE MOMENT I MET YOU
I KNEW THAT YOU'D BE MINE

BETSY:
AT THE MOMENT YOU SAW ME
AT THE MOMENT YOU MET ME
I WAS ON MY OWN DOIN' FINE!

PAUL:
YOU'VE GIVEN ME REASON, YOU'RE MORE THAN A HORSE!

BETSY:
GIVE IT A REST PAUL, I KNOW NO REMORSE!

PAUL:
WHEN A LEGEND LOVES A LEGEND, YOU HAVE TO AGREE
THERE ARE TWO ADVERBS, HISTORICALLY AND PERSONALLY!

BETSY:
WHEN A LEGEND LOVED A LEGEND, YOU COULD HAVE SAID THAT!
INSTEAD YOU SIGNED YOUR AUTOGRAPHS, KNICKERS AND HATS!

PAUL: I guess my words are futile then.
BETSY: There's your horse! You know what to do with it!
PAUL: I'll be on my way.
BETSY: Go find your crowds and your women Paul. Lord knows they're waiting down at the saloon as usual. Heck, one day, maybe you'll actually find yourself.
PAUL: Good-bye Ms. Ross.

(PAUL gets on his horse.)

PAUL:
(slower and defeated)
SINCE THE MOMENT I MET YOU...
AT THE MOMENT I MET YOU...

I'M ON MY HORSE, ADIEU MY FAWN...

BETSY:
(aside)
SINCE THE MOMENT I MET YOU...
AT THE MOMENT I MET YOU...

(to PAUL)
TOO LITTLE TOO LATE, PAUL PLEASE BE GONE!

(PAUL rides away humming the tune with intensity and loss. BETSY remains on the porch, confused, alone and also humming.)

BLACKOUT

#4: THE PLAY ABOUT THE DREAM ABOUT THE BABY (IN THE ROCKING CHAIR)

(Teenage BETSY and her three female FRIENDS sit around a campfire beneath the Pennsylvania stars. Maybe an owl hoots. BETSY, FRIEND 2 & FRIEND 3 drink milk; FRIEND 1 sticks to whiskey.)

BETSY: I had the dream again last night.
FRIEND 1: Which dream?
BETSY: (insulted) You don't remember?

FRIENDS 2 & 3: The dream about the baby!
FRIEND 2: (to Friend 1) Duh!
FRIEND 3: Yeah, duh!
FRIEND 1: Hey hey hey, how come you guys know and I don't know?
FRIEND 2: Because you never listen and you're always drunk.
FRIEND 3: Yeah, you never listen and you're always drunk!

FRIEND 1: What? (She takes a swig.)

BETSY: It was different this time.
FRIENDS 2 & 3: Different this time?
FRIEND 2: Was the baby still fat?
BETSY: Still fat.
FRIEND 3: Was the baby still cute?
BETSY: Still cute.
FRIEND 1: Was still the cute baby a little baby? (Suddenly singing some song:) "Hey hey little baby! You're a baby!"

(Pause. All stare at FRIEND 1; she's wasted.)

FRIEND 2: Tell us Betsy.
FRIEND 3: Yeah, you tell us Betsy.
BETSY: Well, it was like any other night. Right after sundown, I had my milk. I said my prayers. And then I did a little knitting. On my little brother's little hat. The one that I'm knitting. I don't really remember falling asleep. I remember getting real tired and putting the needle and yarn back down on my red rocking chair where I always put them and then -
FRIEND 1: (bloody murder scream) AHH!!
FRIENDS 2 & 3: It's not a scary story. It's a dream!
BETSY: (softly) It might be both...

FRIENDS 2 & 3: (excited and scared) It might be both?!?

FRIEND 1: Who has the sauce. I swear it, I'll slice-
FRIENDS 2 & 3: Shh!
FRIEND 1: Sorry. (She burps a girly burp.) Double sorry.
BETSY: So I'm sleeping and dreaming and dreaming and sleeping and sleeping and finally, I have the dream about the baby, the dream I always have about the baby.
FRIEND 2: Did it... ?
BETSY: Oh yes, just like last time.

FRIENDS 2 & 3: Awwww!
FRIEND 3: And were there... ?
BETSY: Just as many as before... if not more.

FRIENDS 2 & 3: Ooooooh!

BETSY: And then...
FRIEND 2: And then?
BETSY: I...
FRIEND 3: Yeah, and then?
BETSY: I...
FRIEND 1: (asleep) Zzzzz and then? where's my sauce? Zzzz.
BETSY: And then I woke up.

(A short silence.)

FRIEND 2: We don't get it.
FRIEND 3: Yeah, we don't. We really don't!
FRIEND 2: What was different Betsy? What was scary?
FRIEND 3: Yeah, what was different? What scared you?
BETSY: I woke up... and looked over... and sitting in my rocking chair... with my knitting supplies... holding my little brother's little hat... the one I'm knitting for him... was a real... live... baby.
FRIENDS 2 & 3: A real live baby?!?
BETSY: A real live baby.
FRIEND 1: Zzzz (Song from before) "Hey hey little baby!" Zzzzz.
BETSY: I don't know how it got there. But I returned it to the neighbors. Honest to God I did. Please don't tell anyone.

FRIEND 2: You carried it down the road?

FRIEND 3: Yeah, really, down the road you carried it?

BETSY: I carried it down the road. Then I returned up the road. Then I sat in the chair. I rocked. And I knitted.

(Silence. FRIENDS 2 & 3 share a glance.)

FRIEND 2: Wow... pass the milk...

FRIEND 3: (passing it) Here....

FRIEND 1: Zzzz pass the sauce... Zzzz.

FRIEND 3: (passing it) Here....

BETSY: I can't be certain.. but I'm pretty sure that the baby... that little cute baby from down the road... I think it knitted some of my little brother's little hat while I was asleep. I think it took its little baby fingers and wrapped them around my needles and knitted. And I don't know why... but I think it wants me to knit more.

FRIEND 2: Knit more?

BETSY: A lot more.

FRIEND 3: Like another hat?

BETSY: Like another hat or like knit forever. Or sew. Or something. In preparation for something. I don't know. It's foggy. I'm tired.

FRIEND 2 & 3: Us too.

BETSY: Dreams are odd. Babies are odd.

FRIEND 2 & 3: We agree.

BETSY: Let us sleep.

(They lie down and they sleep.)

ALL: Zzzz Zzzz.

BLACKOUT

#3: BEFORE THERE WERE WEATHERMEN

(Lights up on a field. Early autumn, late afternoon. Unseasonably cold. An older and paler BETSY stands in the grass waiting for something. Her grandson WILLIAM - age 10 - comes running up the hill. She speaks to him.)

BETSY: I'm glad you got the message. Thanks for meeting me up here.
WILLIAM: Anytime grandma. Look at this toy I found!

(He shows it. She looks at it.)

BETSY: Look at that! Look at you. You're lucky.
WILLIAM: So are you grandma.

BETSY: Promise me something William.
WILLIAM: Anything grandma.
BETSY: Tell people that I did something.
WILLIAM: What people?
BETSY: Talk about me.
WILLIAM: What should I say?
BETSY: Surprise me.

WILLIAM: I'll talk about you grandma.

BETSY: Very good.
WILLIAM: Put on a sweater.
BETSY: I will William. I didn't realize how cold it was going to get today.
WILLIAM: Everyone said it was going to be warm. I had to run back home to get my sweater. I was almost late for school!
BETSY: Good thing you did that. Ran back home.
WILLIAM: Yeah, good thing. Great thing really.

WILLIAM: Grandma.
BETSY: Yes?
WILLIAM: What's this meeting about?
BETSY: Oh. That's it. It's over.
WILLIAM: Okay then. I'm gonna go home then.
BETSY: Run along. Stay warm.

(WILLIAM runs down the hill. BETSY waves good-bye and smiles.)

BETSY: I knew it.

(Pause.)

BETSY: He'll make of me a legend one day.

SLOW FADE TO BLACKOUT

#2: 29,326 TONS OF BETSY

(Lights up on a small town hall auditorium in Delaware. Summer 2007. Betsy sits on an uncomfortable stool. Next to her is a small table with a single glass of water. The room's hot lights are making her sweat. She has to shield her eyes from the lights when answering questions from the audience.)

BETSY: Frankly, having a bridge in Delaware named after you is not easy work. Especially in Delaware. Trust me. (Beat.) Good question! Firstly, I have to compete with both Ben Franklin and Walt Whitman for overall bridge popularity and bridge usage. How the Delaware River Port Authority landed on the three of us - I still don't know! (impersonating herself:) "Uh, hey Ben, lets get together and recite O Captain! My Captain! with the hopes that someone named WALT will write it down in a few decades and then maybe just - pretty pretty please - maybe in a few centuries, America will immortalize the moment by naming three bridges in a puny state after You, Me and - drumroll please - WALT! Together forever, the three musketeers! L - O - L" (Beat.) You know why I don't remember that? Why that's not in the history books? Because it never happened. No one asks your permission to name bridges after you once you're dead. That's one of the hardest parts of being dead. People reinvent you left and right. Throwing your name on bronze plaques in historical parks and museums. I have a friend who calls them mytheums. He's kindof a lame person, but he makes a good point. No one knows the real story. We barely know the real story. (Beat.) Good question! There are eight lanes and it spans almost eighty-five hundred feet. (She smiles.) Ben's bridge is only seventy-five hundred feet. But size doesn't matter right? (Another smile and a wink:) Wrong. (Awkward silence.) Ok! Thanks for your patience. I'm off to my next event. Enjoy the bridge. Have fun. Or whatever one says to a room full of people who paid to hear a talk about a bridge. (Beat.) Walt's a dorky name. Yeah. I'm outtie.

(She exits.)

BLACKOUT

#1: UNSPOOLED

(Lights up on your stereotypical thread store circa the 1770's. There are spools of every color. All shapes and sizes are literally inundating the small storeroom.)

BETSY: I said red you traitor. This is firebrick.
THREAD SALESMAN: Firebrick? What's firebrick?

BETSY: Cute.
THREAD SALESMAN: Look, it's as red as any Brit's coat.
BETSY: Your bifocals need a washing.
THREAD SALESMAN: Well your manners need a polishing.

BETSY: Say that again.
THREAD SALESMAN: Your manners. I said they need a polishing.

BETSY: If I had the time of day, I'd do it...

THREAD SALESMAN: Polish your manners?
BETSY: Polish my - NO! Open a thread store that actually prides itself on knowing something about thread.
THREAD SALESMAN: My thread store knows Everything about thread.
BETSY: You are just - just like the rest of them. All fools.
THREAD SALESMAN: People travel for hours to buy my thread. Some even for days.

BETSY: (under her breath:) Polish my manners... (and then with a sudden and volatile shift:) Show me red!

(Pause.)

THREAD SALESMAN: Look at the time, we have to close now and I -
BETSY: (With a newfound surge of evil:) Show. Me. Red.

THREAD SALESMAN: I think - I think it's best if you leave... the time - the spools - oh, and I have to, the seamstress down the road needs her... uh, her -

BETSY: Red. Show it show it. (Beat.) I said Show it!
THREAD SALESMAN: (scared for his life:) The Heavens...

(BETSY picks up the firebrick thread and tosses it in her colonial satchel; she does not pay for it.)

BETSY: (quietly, directly:) This will not do, sir. I will not forget you.
THREAD SALESMAN: Leave me witch!

BETSY: I'm already gone.

BLACKOUT