Play

[EDITOR is sitting at a simple table, with papers and books in systematic piles on it. He is wearing plain office wear. He is bespectacled, and evidently having a headache. He takes of his glasses, pinches his bridge of his nose for a while, and then puts the glasses back. He is tired, and not looking forward to the impending meeting.]

[Noise stage right. Sound of door slamming.]

[Enter PLAYWRIGHT. PLAYWRIGHT is dressed in a crumpled white collared shirt and black pants, along with a disheveled black outer cloak-like garment that is supposed to look classy. He is sweating, as if he has been running in the hot sun, and is breathing heavily. He makes eye contact with the EDITOR.]

EDITOR.                Finally.

PLAYWRIGHT.    Don’t look at me with those eyes. Getting here was a right pain in the midsection.

EDIT.      You and your excuses.

PLAY.     Have you taken the Tube lately? It smells like someone’s died in there and no one has bothered to give the poor sod a proper burial. It’s disgusting.

EDIT.      [wanting to get to business, speaking over “It’s disgusting.”] Yes, yes, yes, and so on, and so forth. Look, I didn’t ask for you to listen to your… your diatribes on public transportation.

PLAY.     You might, soon, I might write something on it one day.

EDIT.      [scoffs] You won’t be writing much more if you continue on like this, old chap.

PLAY.     [affronted] What?

EDIT.      They’re considering shutting you down. Cutting off your funding.

PLAY.     WHAT? [strides across the stage, stares down EDIT]

EDIT.      [at the same time, standing up, raising his voice to be heard] Banning your shows from the public theatres.

PLAY.     [silent for a while] Look, I didn’t come here to listen to this.

EDIT.      I’m afraid you did. [suddenly tired, takes off spectacles, massages eyes. PLAY just stands there, fuming silently, crossing his arms and trying to stare down EDIT. At length, EDIT wears his spectacles again, sits, then gestures to the chair in front of him.] Have a seat, why don’t you?

PLAY.     [sitting down and immediately launching in] I know you don’t like any of my scripts, you’ve said so yourself, but that’s no reason to be – be trespassing on my artistic license to write whatever I damn well please –

EDIT.      I didn’t say so, it was –

PLAY.     Well [emphasis on each word] I. Don’t. Care! What business is it of whichever rich snob-nosed fat cat to decide what kind of ideas and issues are to be discussed in the arts? The whole notion of outright, unabashed censorship, it’s, it’s frankly ridiculous.

EDIT.      It’s the government. [pause] They’ve looked at your previous scripts and are wondering how those got past their filters at all. You’ve got your whole Italian Godfather racist shindig going on that one time, and all those things you wrote about Jews – it’s always about Jews –

PLAY.     Schneider’s List was about Jews, what’s the difference –

EDIT.      The difference being is that you were racist, you twit! That’s a line that you can’t cross! Schneider was about – about the Nazis, and the Jews, and how you’re supposed to feel sorry for them, and already there was quite the uproar and everything. I don’t think you even watched it. But you – you – happily traipse into my office with that manuscript, oh sweet mercy.

PLAY.     Hey, hey, watch it. It earned you money, didn’t it?

EDIT.      That was a fluke. It wouldn’t even have been out if I didn’t help you sneak it past the censors. What’s that whole thing about greedy Jews and murder conspiracies and – and – laughably inane plot devices that wouldn’t look out of place in the bloody sixteenth century!

PLAY.     That was genius, might I remind you – everyone’s sick of Korean dramas and their sappy love plots anyway, this was a clever subversion of the whole notion of marriage and love –

EDIT.      Marriage and love my rear! I haven’t even started on that whole women-bashing pilot a few years back, don’t even –

PLAY.     Wait, what? What women-bashing pilot – what balderdash’re you spouting, man?

EDIT.      No, that – wait. [reaches under his desk, pulls out a large red binder. It’s marked with a giant X across its front with black marker, but it’s full of paper inside. EDIT rifles through it quickly, muttering.]

PLAY.     …is that …are those my materials?

EDIT.      [distractedly] What? Yes, yes. [continues rifling through.] Ah, this! Your – your nightmare of an outline, you got the feminists hot on your tail that time, and you don’t even remember me bailing you out of it! [He roughly wrenches the stapled sheets out of the grip of the binder, waves it around while talking and finally passes it at PLAY.]

PLAY.     [frowns as he reads the title page, then smiles, relaxed] Ahhhh, this one.

EDIT.      Yeeeesss, [mocking] this one.

PLAY.     The guys loved it though.

EDIT.      And nobody else!

PLAY.     [shrugs] Worth it.

EDIT.      [senses he’s not going to go anywhere with this line of logic, sighs. PLAY passes him back the sheet, he files it back in the binder and puts the binder back under the table. As he is doing so, in a calm voice:]

                You’ve got talent, old chap. You write things no one else would dream of handling, and you manage to get guffaws for your efforts. Yes, they worked out, financially. If nothing else, they are pretty good pieces for shock and awe.

                [He steeples his fingers, and looks at PLAY pleadingly. He picks up the latest script from his table and holds it up accusingly.]

But this latest one of yours – this one – no, I’m sorry, it just won’t do.

PLAY.     Hm. [hand on chin, then asks] Is it …because it is racist?

EDIT.      No.

PLAY.     Is it …because it’s sexist?

EDIT.      Well, a little, but not exactly, no.

PLAY.     Then why is it so refused?

EDIT.      I was hoping you would know it, without needing me to tell it to your face.

PLAY.     Oh, no, don’t, I know, I know.

EDIT.      Do tell.

PLAY.     The government can’t tolerate it, because I’ve subverted the sappy notions of their horrendous serial dramas and indoctrinating regimes of K-dramas with depictions of love as it really is, a stripping away, if you will, of societal expectations and a full embracing of love between a boy and a girl –

EDIT.      [explodes, immediately after “girl”] SHE’S [expletive] THIRTEEN YEARS OLD, WILL.

[a loaded pause. PLAY has stopped mid-explanation, frozen, looking at EDIT, surprised by his outburst.]

It’s not even funny. It’s not even tragic! It’s some demented, twisted depiction of – of – who knows what, maybe you’ve something for sixteen-year-olds and thirteen-year-olds sneaking out after bedtime –

PLAY.     Well, I think that’s perfectly okay –

EDIT.      - AND HAVING SEX, TAKING DRUGS AND KILLING PEOPLE.

PLAY.     Hm. When you put it that way…

EDIT.      It’s not funny anymore. Stop it. I can’t do this anymore. It’s just grating. It’s just irritating. You’ve got the crowd going now, but they’re going to turn on you, sooner or later.

PLAY.     [dropping his sardonic humour] Come on. We can do this. One more, just this once more. I swear, I swear to you we’re going to strike it big with this one, I just know it, I feel it in my bones. Generations from now, people will be shouting our names.

EDIT.      [scoffs lightly] They’ll be cursing our names, more likely than not. Or your name.

PLAY.     [chuckle] Always a pessimist.

EDIT.      This from the bloke who writes death for a living.

PLAY.     [snorts] Ha.

[They sit in silence, contemplating.]

PLAY.     Well, what do you say? One more shot.

EDIT.      [shrugs resignedly] No can do, guv’nor. I’m out of chips, I’m broke, I’m broke. No more buy-ins, no more roulette rounds with a loaded revolver. I’m so sorry, William, but I can’t do this.

PLAY.     [breathes in deeply, looks like he’s going to explode, then, with a breath, lets it out slowly, deflating] I see.

EDIT.      Mmph. [hands PLAY the script. PLAY stands up, takes it, and slowly walks towards the door. EDIT buries his head in his hands, thinking, mulling. PLAY’s almost out of the door when EDIT raises his head and calls:] William?

PLAY.     [pause] Yeah?

EDIT.      [pause, last piece of advice to a friend] One thing though… what’s the full title again? The exact words kind of escape me for now. Some – some – some longwinded thing. “The Excellent and Tragic something-or-the-other.”

PLAY.     [looks at the script, then speaks over “something-or-the-other”] “An Excellent and Conceited Tragedy of –”

EDIT.      [interrupts] Yes, yes, exactly.

PLAY.     Well, what about it?

EDIT.      People don’t like those kind of titles anymore. They like snappy ones. Things they can remember. Just, just cut it short.

PLAY.     [questioning] Short.

EDIT.      [agrees] Short. [pause] Just “Romeo and Juliet”.

PLAY.     [pause] That sounds good. [pause, genuinely] Thank you.

EDIT.      [breathes out, it’s the least he could do.] You’re welcome.

PLAY.     Good day to you, you old fart. [jocular, small smile, tips imaginary hat]

EDIT.      And you too, wretched paedophile. [tension dissipates, jokes back]

PLAY.     [laughs] [exit]

[Lights off.]