SETTING — A modern-day campaign office: two chairs and a desk.

CHARACTERS — JUDAS ISCARIOT and JESUS CHRIST.

AT RISE — JESUS sits behind the desk, rifling through some papers. JUDAS sits across the desk with a clipboard.

JUDAS: Okay, fine. But what about a gift shop?

JESUS: A gift shop.

JUDAS: Yeah, like, in the temple.

JESUS: You know I have very strong opinions about that.

JUDAS: So do I, believe me! There’s a lot of ways to show the big guy your love. Key chains, refrigerator magnets, tee shirts…

JESUS: You do remember that time I found a marketplace in the temple—…

JUDAS: You flipped some tables, yes.

JESUS: I flipped a great many tables. Why did I do that, Judas?

JUDAS: Commerce and religion and something. But that was other people. This would be our gift shop.

JESUS: Next.

JUDAS: Okay, well, I think you should come out strong against the gays.

JESUS: …Why?

JUDAS: Because homosexuality is an abomination?

JESUS: Did I say that? When did I say that?

JUDAS: I dunno. We just kind of inferred.

JESUS: I really never said that.

JUDAS: Okay. (beat) But it is, isn’t it?

JESUS: “Love thy neighbor…?” Are you actually listening when I speak or?

JUDAS: Well of course I listen! But what if your neighbor is a man who lies with another man and they do… man things… with each other?

JESUS: …Is he still your neighbor?

JUDAS: In that he lives near me?

JESUS: That’s what a neighbor is, yes.

JUDAS: Okay, but! Suppose he doesn’t live near me.

JESUS: …Is there anything else?

JUDAS: Jews. (JESUS just stares) Pretty awful, am I right? With their hairpieces and... funny words?

JESUS: For the love of—… I AM A JEW!

JUDAS: Maybe technically, but you’re not Jewish.

JESUS: I think you need to leave.

JUDAS (standing up to go): Alright, fine. But think about the gift shop. We’re still thirty silver short this quarter.

JESUS: God will provide.

JUDAS: Ha! That’s a good one. Seriously though: key chains. Think about it!

JUDAS leaves. JESUS bangs his head repeatedly on his desk.

END OF PLAY.

I am troubled by the forgetfulness of places.

Why is there no record of the fall afternoon Halle and I clasped hands and ran down Beacon street, right past the historic office building where I would someday work, our feet pounding the uneven brick sidewalk all the way to our first class as college students? Before there was hurt and confusion there was briefly joy, a sense of boundless possibility. Beacon Street does not even keep a muscle memory of this, but it doesn’t seem that I will ever forget.

There’s the alley where, passing through one early September morning, I saw several men standing somberly around a parked car with the radio on. The announcer was saying something impossible about a second tower being hit, and I didn’t understand yet that everything was different now. And here I am again, cutting through that same alley on my way back from the Charles Street post office, having just mailed off my application for a master’s program in Ireland where I will be waitlisted and then, eventually, accepted. But foremost on my mind this morning is 1) that I am so glad to have rediscovered coffee and 2) I cannot wait to kill a lot of goblins on my buddy’s Playstation 2.

Or what about my favorite bench by the Duck Pond—the one framed perfectly beneath a giant weeping willow? There I am at the end of high school, sitting with my high school buddies, contemplating where life will take me. And here I am again early winter of my Freshman year, regretting leaving home. Brooding about the many upsetting things I cannot control. And look—Junior year. In the best shape of my life and convinced I was just average. Sitting there with my girlfriend, who I was not supposed to be dating but was anyway. I don’t know what we’re saying, but I can see us perfectly in the late spring light. She is sitting cross-legged, her blonde-brown hair a study in artfully arranged chaos. She is smiling in that genuine yet mischievous way she did as I gesticulate passionately about theatre, probably. Today, we live on opposite coasts and barely talk, but there we are, sitting together on our favorite bench. Can’t you see us?

Tomorrow morning I will walk from the Park Street T station to work, and before I go inside I might pause to see two college kids laughing as they race down the hill. The other pedestrians will look on and shake their heads and maybe swear, and I will wonder if I ever looked that young.

At lunch, I might grab a sandwich or a slice of pizza from Charles Street. I’ll pass that alley and glance down it, but not go. I haven’t been back through there in years.

I might then cross into the Public Gardens and see if my favorite bench is open. It’s usually not—turns out that a lot of people like that bench. But I’ll sit on another one nearby, and eat, and think.

Sometimes I will write. Sometimes I just brood. And sometimes I contemplate where life will take me. 

Who said "If I had more time, I would have written a shorter letter"? Everyone thinks it's Twain, but it was Blaise Pascal, writing 178 years before Samuel Langhorne Clemens was born.

Likewise, Marie Antoinette never said "Let them eat cake." "Well-behaved woman rarely make history" was a Harvard professor, not Marilyn Monroe. Gandhi never encouraged us to "be the change you wish to see in the world."

Anyway, life's full of these little disappointments, and your birthday was just one of them.

Happy belated.

"Aw, Jesus."

"What?"

"He shit on the floor again."

Okay maybe that's one intrepretation the other being maybe that I was here alone and no one was present for designated Doody Time so I went okay I went and what else is there to go on but the floor and—

"Bad dog! Bad!"

OH GOD NO this is the worst thing I am terrible just kick me I deserve to be kicked or eaten or sat on please just do it—

"Ohhh he's cowering. Here buddy—"

ACK NO I DON'T WANT TO DIE! unless you are going to pick me up instead I like that very much but I am SO FULL OF ANXIETY RIGHT NOW that it will be the other thing and not tender face lickin'... oooooh... ooh is it... which is it... I might Wee Wee again if...

"Therrrre. It's okay."

"You're coddling him. Cesar Millan says—"

"Fuck Cesar Millan. He's clearly terrified."

"I'm terrified we're going to lose our deposit. Oh. Oh look. He also peed on my shoes."

Yeah okay I did that too they go together typically I mean think about it have you ever Doodied but not Wee-Wee'd also—

"BAD DOG!"

"Stop it! He doesn't know what he did."

I don't in the slightest know what I did very true thank you Person I Love I didn't at all know those were Shoes Belonging to Person I Fear okay fine so I did my sense of smell is very refined you know and those shoes are not subtle with their scents but was it intentional you might ask—

"Whatever. Enjoy cooing at him while I clean this up. At least he's got us trained..."

Well was it intentional do I do these things for a certain result namely this right here with the scratchin' and the lickin' and... ahhh yep right in that spot... Ahhhhhhhhh...!

What was I saying? I am a small dog and these are my people and is that doodie on the floor goodness that's disgusting I hope someone disposes of that in a timely THERE IS A LARGE DOG OUTSIDE THE WINDOW RIGHT NOW HEY HEY HEY HEY HEY HEY HEY HEY HEY!

...He is gone. What was I saying? I am a small dog.

“I won’t be the one to tell her, but she’s more like her mother than she knows.” From the darkness beyond the campfire came Reeve’s voice, heavy with drink.

Garith sighed again. People tended to think otherwise, but Garith hated when he was right.

“And how is that?” Garith replied, stepping around the fire to the drunk merchant. “It seems to me that they could not be more different.”

“That lady’s a hell of a woman,” Reeve swore, reverently. “They both are,” he took another swig of his bottle, “in each their own way, I suppose.”

“I see. And is everyone getting drunk tonight?”

Reeve smirked. “I don’t think the boy is. Sit down, would you? Can’t enjoy the fire with you looming over me.”

Garith took a seat, and shook his head when Reeve offered the bottle to him.

“Just like your father. Gods.” The old man chuckled darkly and took another long drink.

Garith felt the familiar sting that came with any mention of his father. Anxious to turn the discussion elsewhere, Garith said, “Not to be indelicate, but I’m surprised you enjoy fire of any kind after…” Garith trailed off, seeing the flame’s shadows playing with the scarred flesh around Reeve’s hardened eyes.

“Well, you’ll notice I’m a fair distance from it,” Reeve finally said, nodding to the campfire. “One thing I’ve learned these long years is that beautiful things can burn yeh. I suspect that’s something else the girl and her mum have in common, though I wouldn’t advise telling her that, neither.”

Garith touched his still-stringing cheek and said nothing, suspecting for once that Reeve might have a fair point.

“The girl don’t know bad parents,” Reeve continued. “Mine would slap the piss out of me just as soon as speak a kind word, and that was on a good day. But they taught me something. Every parent does. Even the ones that ain’t around anymore.”

Garith grimaced. “I don’t wish to speak of my father tonight.”

“But I do,” Reeve grinned, “so where does that leave us?”

“With five hours’ sleep, if we’re lucky,” Garith said, starting to rise, when a large hand clamped his shoulder, forcing him back down.

“Your dad wasn’t nothing like what they say about him. That he led the prince astray, that he missed the signs that the prince was changing? We all did. Your dad was no different.”

“He was Prince Tirone’s tutor,” Garith responded, evenly.

“And I was his personal guard,” Reeve barked back. “I could have seen it just as easily, but the signs were too small. What prince isn’t arrogant? Reckless? Huh? How were we supposed to know that he was under the thrall of some powerful artifact and not just becoming an arsehole?”

Garith’s eyes searched the flickering dark for Darren, found him nearly outside the fire’s light… his eyes closed, his right hand draped protectively over the ornate bracelet shackled to his other wrist. Was that a faint smile on his lips, or a grimace of pain from the blow he took at the butcher’s shop?

“I won’t miss the signs,” Garith finally said, his eyes still on the boy. “I won’t make his mistake. Or yours.”

“Arrogant fecking…” Reeve muttered several more expletives and then spat into the fire, which snapped, loudly. Across the flames, Darren did not seem to notice. “The mistake would be to watch and wait, wouldn’t it? To let the trinket whisper to the boy that he’s powerful, that he’s special, huh? Until we can work it off him, we have to train the boy how to use that thing, or it’ll do that for us.”

“We do, do we?” Garith said, standing. “No, Reeve, we don’t.”

“No, not we,” the merchant agreed, looking up at Garith with utter seriousness. “You do.”

Garith said nothing.

“And when you finally come around to my side of things, which you will,” the merchant continued, “you’d better hope it wasn’t too late. Ach. Enough of this piss.” He tossed the last of the spirits into the fire, then stood to leave.

Across the surging flames, Darren was watching them now, his face expressionless. 

            The urine ceased. The Lieutenant drew breath and swallowed.

            “Hi,” Kaira whispered. “Remember me?”

            “Godwin’s balls, woman,” the Lieutenant muttered, not quietly. “Stick me and be done with it, then.”

            “But I’ve already made you bleed,” Kaira responded. “What I want now are answers. And softly, you idiot, or I’ll have both.”

            She felt the Lieutenant smile. “Alright then. What is it?”

            Kaira realized now that she’d thought only of getting him here, not of what she would ask him once she did. She hesitated.

            “Oh, girl, you’re far beyond your depth now. If you put the blade away I’ll give you a night’s start beyond I and my men—”

            “You and your men,” Kaira cut him off. “You’re here, carousing, when you must know very well that my companions and I broke out of your prison.”

            “Well, not all of them,” the Lieutenant said, smirking.

            Kaira gripped his hair tighter pressed the blade against his neck until he gasped.

            “Don’t do that. It won’t end well for you.”

            The Lieutenant said nothing. Kaira thought she had drawn blood, but it was difficult to tell how much. Irrelevant, anyway.

            “Tell me why you are here and not out looking for us. Did the Commander send you away for failures?”

            “If he had,” the Lieutenant answered, his breath ragged now, “we’d be awaiting the executioner’s blade, wouldn’t we?”

            “You’ve struck the heart of my confusion exactly. Well done, you. Now answer my fecking question.”

            “If you haven’t surmised the answer yet, then you’re even less clever than we credited you.”

            Kaira’s mind reeled. After months of relentless pursuit, no one was hunting them. What was different now? Either they had what they needed, which Kaira knew they didn’t, or—

            “You wanted us to escape.”

            “I didn’t. Not me personally. Had my druthers I’d have killed you all. But this one came from the top.”

            “The Commander. But—”

            “No,” the Lieutenant said. “The top.”

            The Arch Magus of the Arcane Order? Kyra’s mind reeled again. If they’d caught his attention... No. Not “they.”

            “Darren,” Kaira said, realizing.

            “Aye, they want the boy.”

            “You are never going to find him—” Kyra started.

            “No? He and your traitor are not skulking back to the keep right this moment?”

            Kyra said nothing. Feck. Feck. Feck.

            “I’d wager they’re relieved to find that I and my men are elsewhere, likely out searching for them. Certainly now would be the opportune time to strike, would it not?”

            Again, Kaira said nothing.

            “Like I said, not my call. My way would have been much cleaner. A more dignified way to die. But we don’t always get what we want, do we, Princess?”

            Slitting his throat would accomplish nothing, but Kaira did it anyway. It was too late for anything else. 

SETTING — A home.

CHARACTERS — CHILD and ADULT.  

AT RISE — CHILD is playing. ADULT is trying to work.

CHILD: Why is there an alphabetical order?

ADULT: Um. Hmmm. Well. I don’t know why.

CHILD: Why don’t you know why?

ADULT: Because no one knows why.

CHILD: Why?

ADULT: They started doing it so long ago that no one remembers who did it first.

CHILD: Why?

ADULT: Why did they start or why does no one remember? You should learn to be more specific with the questions you ask.

CHILD: Why?

ADULT: Because it’s an essential part of being a thinking person.

CHILD: Why?

ADULT: Because if you don’t ask the right questions, how will you get the right answers?

CHILD: Why?

ADULT: Why what?

CHILD: Why?

ADULT: Why why?

CHILD: Why?

ADULT: Why?

CHILD: Why?

ADULT: Why?

CHILD: Why?

ADULT: Why?

CHILD: Well I suppose it’s that I’m a dry sponge right now—you’re not so much taking the time to fill my head with things that make me wonder, so I have to seek them out myself. It’s a process of discovery, maybe. Noisy and annoying, perhaps, but essential.

ADULT: Oh.

CHILD: Why?

ADULT: “Oh” is what I say when someone makes such a good point that I’m not sure what to say next.

CHILD: Why?

ADULT: Because I have to say something.

CHILD: Why?

ADULT: That’s a good point. Maybe I don’t. You’re a smart kid.

CHILD: Why?

ADULT: Because your mother and I are smart people, too.

CHILD: Why?

ADULT (realizing): ...Because we asked a lot of questions.

CHILD: Oh. (beat) Can I watch Sid the Science Kid now?

ADULT: Sure.

CHILD scampers off. ADULT sits back, contented smile.

ADULT: Never should have fucking had kids.

END OF PLAY.

SETTING — Bedroom.

CHARACTERS — FATHER and MOTHER. Young parents-to-be.

AT RISE — FATHER and MOTHER are in bed, their hands on MOTHER’s very pregnant belly.

FATHER: So, Harvard, definitely. 

MOTHER: Oh, without question.

FATHER: We need to figure out his extracurriculars now.

MOTHER: Or her extracurriculars.

FATHER: You’re right. Okay, one thing at a time. Let’s parse this step by step, otherwise we’re going to get overwhelmed. 

MOTHER: Good plan.

FATHER: Harvard has a preschool program; that could be an excellent “in.” 

MOTHER: She... or he... could make connections there.

FATHER: Exactly. Valuable connections. And so early on.

MOTHER: And then we can’t slouch. Elementary, middle, and high school all need to be just as good.

FATHER: Or better.

MOTHER: This is going to cost a lot of money.

FATHER: We’re going to need better jobs.

MOTHER: The best jobs.

FATHER: But you’ll be staying home for the first year, naturally.

MOTHER: Absolutely not. 

FATHER: Are you kidding me? There is so much research about the effects of breast milk on cognitive ability.

MOTHER: Pump and dump, baby.

FATHER: Disgusting. What about early development? The first five years are so key.

MOTHER: True. We can’t afford a single misstep. We’ll hire the best nanny.

FATHER: We’ll vet her very carefully.

MOTHER: Full background check.

FATHER: Background, health, pedigree, ancestry... We can’t afford to take any risks with that one. One small inconsistency...

MOTHER: The trauma will multiply and echo forward for years.

FATHER: Generations.

MOTHER: What do you think about early therapy? Just as a preventative measure? 

FATHER: I think we’re idiots for not thinking of that much sooner. That way...

MOTHER: Insurance policy in case there’s anything we missed. Exactly.

FATHER: And we’ll have to vet him or her just as carefully.

MOTHER: More carefully. Our failsafe must be foolproof.

FATHER: Yeah. Oh god. This is terrifying. What if there’s something we can’t plan for? 

MOTHER: Stop that right now. If we’re careful, and execute this exactly according to plan, that will never happen.

FATHER: Okay. Okay. So discipline.

MOTHER: We can’t be too harsh. She or he will grow up needing to seek permission everywhere.

FATHER: But we can’t be too lax either. No one likes an undisciplined child.

MOTHER: Undisciplined or entitled. But where is the line?

FATHER: We need to do much more reading on this.

MOTHER: Consult the experts.

FATHER: All of them.

MOTHER: And we’ll need to establish a trust fund.

FATHER: But not tell him or her that there is one.

MOTHER: Until she or he has learned to thrive without privilege.

FATHER: But won’t he or she realize that they are different?

MOTHER: Not if we screen all of their friends.

FATHER: Yes. No artists.

MOTHER: Absolutely no artists. Not one.

FATHER: Which means screening the parents first.

MOTHER: Oh god. Yes. 

FATHER: All these people who will influence our child... This private investigator has to be the absolute best.

MOTHER: But how will we screen the private investigator?

FATHER: Oh. Shit.

MOTHER: Shit.

Long beat. MOTHER removes the pillow from underneath her shirt.

MOTHER (cont.): We’re not ready yet.

FATHER: We are absolutely not ready.

MOTHER: But someday. 

FATHER: Eventually. After we’ve isolated all the variables.

MOTHER: Yes. Once we’ve done that.

FATHER: Then it will be perfect.

MOTHER: I’m really looking forward to that.

FATHER (smiles): Me too.

They kiss. Turn out lights.

END OF PLAY

SETTING—An empty stage.

CHARACTERS—CHARACTERS 1 and 2.

AT RISE—They are standing on the empty stage, awkwardly.

CHARACTER 1: Sooo.

CHARACTER 2: Yeah.

Long beat.

CHARACTER 1: Maybe, like, we just start talking.

CHARACTER 2: Could be, yeah.

CHARACTER 1: What’s your name?

CHARACTER 2: I don’t appear to have one. You?

CHARACTER 1: Same.

Long beat.

CHARACTER 2: What do we know about each other?

CHARACTER 1: I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before.

CHARACTER 2: I can’t think of anyone I’ve seen before.

CHARACTER 1: Do we know anything about ourselves?

CHARACTER 2: I think maybe I don’t like you very much.

CHARACTER 1: Great! That’s a really good start. Conflict.

CHARACTER 2: I guess so. And I’m either male or female. Humanoid, it would seem. What about you?

CHARACTER 1: I think I’m sad.

CHARACTER 2: But you were just so excited.

CHARACTER 1: Well. Maybe I’m volatile.

CHARACTER 2: You are so volatile. I hate that.

CHARACTER 1: That’s all I can think of.

CHARACTER 2: I think I’m smarter than you.

CHARACTER 1: You might be. You probably are. Doesn’t that make you sad?

CHARACTER 2: It does make me sad. Now I’m sad. This is just like you.

CHARACTER 1: Maybe ignorance is bliss. Now that you know things...

CHARACTER 2: Yeah. I guess I’m too intelligent to enjoy life.

CHARACTER 1 stares at CHARACTER 2 in utter disbelief, then smacks him/her in the face. CHARACTER 1 walks offstage.

CHARACTER 1 (over shoulder): Asshole. 

END OF PLAY

He wanted to like this class; he really did. He was certainly paying enough for it. Or, more accurately, Sallie Mae was paying enough for it, and for the next 30+ years he would be paying more than enough for it.

So he should focus. He knew that. But there was the reading he hadn't done last night, and the reading he'd only glanced at the night before, and now nothing being discussed made any sense to him. So he granted himself the same bargain he always did: He would figure all of this out later.

Later, there would be time (and motivation!) to catch up on all the missed readings. Later, he would make a list—a long one—and cross things out one by one. Later, he would become a better student. The best student.

Of course, later never came. Instead, he found himself trapped in an endless cycle of Now—each one more discouraging than the last for the growing pile of good intentions he hadn't yet sorted out. It was just too overwhelming. There was just no way to do it all before the end of the semester, and besides which, it was all so late that the very best he could hope for now was a solid C minus. 

This is how he didn't fail out of college: Two weeks from the end of each semester—fueled by panic, deperation, and not a little caffeine—he made a sprawling list of everything he had to do. He named the days he had left and crammed his overdue assignments into them. He did as many as he felt he could and crossed them off as he went. 

That's it. Once he had to do them, he mostly found that they weren't so bad. Some he even enjoyed so much he wished he had more time with them. All of his work was good. None of it received the full grade it might have if he had just done the work when it was actually due.

And so he resolved, once and for all, that he would be a better student.

He would be the best student.

Later.