One on One Read online

  When I suggested we call her Ariel since she seemed to me a tiny, shimmering angel, Miriam snorted (she does that sometimes—snorts) and said, “Humph, a misguided angel.”

  When I looked at this wrinkled cooing bird that was my daughter and held her tight little fists in my hands, my ribcage expanded to make room as my heart grew bigger. Her whole body shuddered with an intake of breath. A breath of heaven. And what I felt then was truer than what, for most of us, passes for love, because it was uncorrupted by love’s hunger and fear of loss and damaging desperation. It was wide open and as big as all creation.

  Miriam and Ariel stayed in the hospital for a week. Doctors and nurses conferred quietly on our daughter. Miriam requested books on the subject. My clearest memory of that week is of Miriam propped up in bed, nursing Ariel, and reading some enormous medical text. Whenever I came into the room, I was astonished to see a furry little creature rooting around at my wife’s breast, and the sight of Miriam’s fingers gently stroking the curls on Ariel’s back caused my throat to swell and for a moment it was hard to swallow. Miriam read some paragraphs aloud from the textbooks, but I wasn’t really listening. By the end of the week, she said, “It seems to me, Samuel, that we have something serious to deal with.”

  Lanugo is a mysterious and rare disease. Lanugo is a fine, silky hair that coats the face and body. The more technical name for our daughter’s condition is Congenital Hypertrichosis Lanuginosa. It is a distressing disorder, usually hereditary, passed unknowingly from the opposite-sex parent, mother to son, father to daughter. The doctors know little about the cause. There are temporary measures, but no permanent treatment.

  Our Ariel is covered with the lightest, golden down. In some light, she fairly shimmers. I think of her as our misguided angel.

  AN ALMOST HOLY PICTURE

  BY HEATHER MCDONALD

  SAMUEL GENTLE, 50s, is invited to an art gallery where photographs are being displayed by a friend of the family.

  SCENE

  Truro on Cape Cod

  TIME

  Summer

  SAMUEL: I stepped into the gallery. It was a day of clear blue light, so it took a moment for my eyes to adjust. When they did, what I saw was this. Displayed on the walls of the Traynor Gallery were photographs of my 9-year-old daughter (covered in hair from her disease) taken by that wild child Angel Martinez. I know now what Ariel does between the hours of three and six. Something fierce in me lurched forward, blocking one photograph with my hands, trying to protect my daughter from the eyes of others. I remember how panicked I felt when I saw how many photographs there were. I staggered through the gallery pulling photographs from the walls, letting them smash to the ground behind me. Glass shattered. Ariel screamed. I called Angel Martinez “a foul creature.” I gathered as many of the photographs as I could carry into my arms, hidden safely away, and I ran from the gallery.

  I stopped visiting Mr. Martinez in the mornings and instead spent the time looking at these photographs.

  Let me describe these for you now.

  (HE holds the packet of photographs. We should not see the actual photographs.)

  The first few are a series of Ariel swimming naked in the Bay, turning over in the water like a sleek, wet seal. There’s another of her, in the woods, crouched, a small startled animal. And another where she’s sitting on a white blanket eating blackberries. Her fingers and hands are stained, and the dark juice has dribbled down her chin and runs down her chest and stomach so that her body looks bruised and streaked with blood. There’s one where she’s wearing a large hat decorated with ribbons and feathers and plumes and she’s sitting cross-legged in dungarees and grinning straight at the camera. In another one she’s in the woods asleep, and I believe she really was asleep because her mouth is slightly open in the way it is when she sleeps. And someone’s covered her body with twigs and branches and leaves.

  There is this one photograph, though, that I must tell you about in greater detail. It is a study in contrasts, light and dark. I believe the term is chiaroscuro. Ariel is running up a hill, the sea is in the background, and she’s trailing a gauzy scarf behind her, it billows in the wind, and it’s almost as if she’s covered her entire body in sequins because the way the white hot light is all around her, her body shimmers like a highway in the desert on a hot, hot day, and she is surrounded by a silvery halo. I can see that she is laughing and twirling and dancing and is completely unselfconscious and free. I’ve looked at my daughter all my life and I’ve never seen her quite this way before, but Angel Martinez has and he captured her and put her on this paper.

  Late that night, I found the gallery’s brochure in a tuxedo pocket.

  RECENT PHOTOGRAPHS BY ANGEL MARTINEZ

  ARIEL LIGHT AND DARK

  I confiscated the photographs and demanded the negatives. These were given to me. Angel threw his camera into the Bay and smashed up his darkroom. Ariel disappeared that afternoon.

  (SAMUEL carries a white enamel basin of water.)

  She shaved herself. She did it alone. There are nicks and gashes on her, spots of blood, red bumps and chafing. Her hair is gone. She looks almost like everyone else now.

  (HE pours out the basin of water. It is full of blood.)

  AT SAID

  BY GARY WINTER

  A building superintendent, MR. CARLOS, is trying to fix the pipes in Darra’s apartment. HE answers her accusation that repairing pipes is more important to HIM than what she perceives as bigger world problems.

  SCENE

  Darra’s apartment, which is located in some isolated and impoverished American neighborhood

  TIME

  The present

  MR. CARLOS: I don’t think that way. You can but I don’t. It’s stupid, man. Being a building super is stupid. I know that and everyone knows that so what do you want me to do? You want me to go to Africa with a sandwich? Huh? You want I can kill that bus driver? I ain’t no voodoo. I ain’t sleeping heavy like that shit. I ain’t remembering on the typewriter like Ms. Sybil. I don’t have to. I got my pail and my hammer. I got my little girl. I had my wife, she became a whore so now she’s sleeping in the gutter. I don’t give a shit—I threw her out. You see that? I say fuck you whore we got things bad enough around here.

  We got a daughter and you fucking with little shits in the stairwells? What they give you, witch? Bags of shit you can sniff on? Some stuff to shoot in you? That what you teach our girl? I say fuck you whore. I fucked her and I hear the bones crack, so what? What the fuck, some shit whore I marry, I was supposed to marry a princess?

  I got a place. I fix the pipes. I take the garbage out. I got a daughter. So what, you fucking whore, you get straightened out if you want good things like I got. I work here so I got all this. So we got a daughter and she fucks it all up.

  What—okay, gimme a plane ticket and I’ll go to Africa and I’ll give out sandwiches. You watch my girl and you fix the pipes. Take out the garbage. Clean the shit. Chase away the shooters in the stairwell. Push the bodies out of the way. Is that fair? I’ll get souvenirs too.

  What they got over there? They got pictures? They got postcards? They got dolls? They got dolls of the starving people? That anything you need, Ms. Darra? Make a list. Make a list.

  [(Darra puts paper in the typewriter and begins to type.)

  DARRA: For Mr. Carlos, to do: Feed the people. To buy: Doll. Rug. Toy. Beads. Postcards.]

  AUNTIE MAYHEM

  BY DAVID PUMO

  CHARLOTTE, a heavy-set man in his 30s, is a professional drag queen. Throughout his speech, HE sits at a table and removes his wig, shoes, jewelry, makeup, and other accessories. HE is speaking to Felony and Bobo, the occupants of the apartment, unconcerned that HE is interrupting them.

  SCENE

  Somewhere in downtown Manhattan

  TIME

  Winter

  CHARLOTTE: What a long night! What a fucking endless, miserable, tedious night. Marty missed three lighting cues. Every fucking sound cue is off. I al
most stopped the show to strangle his fat, hairy neck. No tequila shots before the show, Marty. No fucking tequila shots—just say no! How many times I gotta tell him? You need to be sharp. You need to be quick. That’s what coke is for. He’s losing it. I’m gonna replace his ass by next week. This is not a fucking joke. This is art. This is my fucking reputation on that stage.

  [(By this point, Bobo is fed up with this interruption. He turns away from Felony and tries to go to sleep. Felony, having lost Bobo’s attention, sits in bed and listens to CHARLOTTE)]

  CHARLOTTE: Then I spend two hours with Merle and Sandy. They really want me. They’re doing a whole song and dance. They’ve got a bigger stage than Stingray, which they do. They’ve got state-of-the-art sound and lighting, which they don’t, but it’s better than the thirty-year-old shit I’ve been working with. They want a whole new show. They want to do a four-color ad. I’ve got complete creative control. . . . Do you know how much they offered me? Do you have any idea what they thought they could get away with? I just stared at them. What is this, a fucking workfare placement? I’m livid, but I manage to politely tell them what my going rate is. They start bargaining, like I’m a fucking flowerpot in Tijuana. I ordered one more gimlet, chugged it, and walked out. I’m not leaving Stingray to be treated worse somewhere else. I’m not climbing down the ladder of success. (HE has taken off his wig, shoes, jewelry, makeup, etc. HE gets up to leave the room.) I’ve had it. My feet are swollen. Please don’t wake me up till at least Thursday.

  THE BEGINNING OF AUGUST

  BY TOM DONAGHY

  JACKIE, a new father in his early 30s, copes with the fact that his wife, Pam, abruptly left both HIM and their baby for no apparent reason. Here JACKIE tries to explain his side to Ben, who has asked HIM what HE did to make Pam leave.

  SCENE

  The backyard of a nice suburban home

  TIME

  The present

  JACKIE: What did I do? (Beat.) The thing I don’t get is what did I do? You know? (Beat.) It’s a two-way street. She’s part of it. A few late nights! My friends over—and hardly ever. Hardly ever except Phil Miyale—who is a friend from college! Nothing was different. Nothing! (Beat.) She didn’t like this one gift I wanted to give my Secret Santa. Inappropriate or something. This little ceramic thing. She’s like, “It’s not funny.” Why did I even show her? She’s like, “He won’t get it.” I knew the taste of my Secret Santa. Working on that account seven months and I don’t know his taste? She’s like, “People who have lupus don’t like jokey gifts!” She’s all the time here—she wasn’t in my workforce, my environment. She had her own environment. Lupus isn’t even always fatal! He’s had it thirteen years! He didn’t laugh at cheap jokes for thirteen years because of lupus? You learn to live with things. You better laugh or you just don’t. She used to laugh at my jokes. Little teasing. Jokes at each other’s expense. She’d laugh and laugh. Until she stopped. The minute she started working at that animal shelter the fun stopped. But then whenever I laughed with someone else, boy oh boy. Sitting there with that face. Stifling anyone else’s enjoyment. Standing in the hallway with that face I hated. You just can’t be silent with your face! That’s why I got the new music system. Liven things up. Our songs! The ones we listened to! They’re oldies now but they’re good as new on that system! And she’s all—she’s fucking, “What do we need a new music system for?” Like I’m some ultraconsumer. Fuck you! I would never buy things. Never. And she’s talking about buying? These catalogues? Her tastes were out of hand! Ordering things for the house from catalogues, state-of-the-art kitchen appliances—and who needed a garlic peeler? So your hands don’t have to touch garlic! TOUCH SOME GARLIC FOR FUCK’S SAKE!

  A BICYCLE COUNTRY

  BY NILO CRUZ

  In an effort to escape the poverty-stricken lifestyles they have in Cuba, Ines, Julio, and PEPE depart their country on a raft, hoping to sail to Florida and begin a new life in the States. After several days at sea, PEPE has a vision, believing HE can walk on water.

  SCENE

  On a raft in the middle of the Caribbean Sea. Projected on the Screen: Third Day Out at Sea.

  TIME

  The third day out at sea, probably in October/November 1993 (before the U.S. intervention on Cubans fleeing to the United States on rafts)

  (JULIO and INES are asleep. PEPE speaks to the sea. HE’s on top of the mast, looking out at the distance. HE is hallucinating.)

  PEPE: If your voice is coming from there, say something! (Pause.) If your voice is coming from there, say something! (Pause.) Push me! Push me, like you said you would. (Sound of children laughing. A distant angelic aria. Then the continual sound of the rippling waves.) Don’t think you can play with my mind. You can’t trick me. You’re not going to make me lose my head. I’m not sentimental. I’m not. I’m like a fish. Scales. Sharp bones. You never see a fish cry. Why cry when fish live in the water. If I cry, I’ll cry in the shower, enh! So no one can see my tears. Tears to the water. Water to the sea. (Sound of roaring sea. The sound of a child calling someone in the distance. Then it all subsides.) I’ve heard what the ocean does to people. I’ve heard. Like the desert. A fever. You see things. A mirage. You play tricks on the eyes. Whatever became of that day, eh? Whatever became of that day when I was a child, and my father brought the whole family together and said, “We’re moving to the coast, and I’m going to show you the sea.” And we sold all the chickens to buy the bus fare. We sold the cows and the pigs to rent a house close to the seashore. Look. . . . Look. . . . You can’t trick me! I can close my eyes. . . . I can close my eyes and see you like that first day, when the driver said, “We’re in Havana. We’re by the seawall.” And I climbed down from the bus, with my eyes closed, and my father said, “Open your eyes, Pepe. Open your eyes. This is the sea. This is the sea.” And when I saw you, you were blue and big as the falling sky. Calm and full as bowl of blue soup. . . . You were all I imagined you to be.

  Look. . . . Look. . . . Look at me running to you. (Starts running in place.) Look at me running to drink you! Look! Look! You can’t trick me! (Sound of children laughing.) You can’t trick me! You’re not a lie! You’re not a lie! You’re not a lie! Look at me swimming! Look at me swimming! Look at me walking on your water, like Jesus. Julio! Ines! I’m walking on top of the sea like Jesus! (Sound of a woman laughing in the distance. Julio and Ines wake up.)

  [JULlO: One can’t even . . . ]

  (PEPE continues running in place.)

  PEPE: I’m walking . . .

  BIG BILL

  BY A. R. GURNEY

  WILLIAM TATEM TILDEN II, otherwise known as BIG BILL, was one of the great sports stars of the twentieth century. Ranked number one in the world seven times, HE was instrumental in popularizing tennis in this country and, in 1920, was the first American ever to win Wimbledon. TILDEN’s life was dogged by his homosexuality, which surfaces unconsciously in the following speech.

  SCENE

  The Germantown Cricket Club in Philadelphia

  TIME

  The twenties

  TILDEN: (To audience.) Let’s start with the golden rule of all athletics. Always play to win. Never play just not to lose. Every match is a battle, within and without. Cultivate a killer instinct in your soul, but be a sportsman to the world. Be murderous but courteous. The tough thing is to reconcile the two. (Indicates his sweater.) Which leads us to clothes. In tennis, we wear white. It’s cooler, of course. And more attractive—by that I mean it’s less likely to display unsightly patches of perspiration. And of course white makes the players more visible from the higher seats in the newer stadiums. And we always play better when we’re watched, don’t we? But there’s yet another reason for whiteness. You’ll notice that in the Bible the angels of the Lord always appear in white raiment. Why? Because white is pure, white is innocent. And tennis is an innocent game. That’s why I don’t approve of shorts. There’s a young player in Grosse Point—good serve, exceptional net game—who wears shorts, at least in practi
ce. I find it distracting. It says in the Bible, “Take no delight in a man’s legs.” Nor a woman’s, either, I hasten to add. Men should wear long white trousers. Women, white stockings. The whiteness is what we want, not naked flesh. I hope we’re all agreed on that. (Taking up his racket) Now for the tool of our trade. Our Excalibur! (Displays it.) Consider the stringing. All rackets should be strung with gut, preferably taken from the intestines of a young lamb. . . . (Strums his racket like a guitar.) Listen to that sound. (Sings.) “Ain’t she sweet. . . . Don’t she knock you off your feet?” . . . Nowadays there is talk of shifting to manufactured fibers, but I much prefer real gut. It’s organic, it has texture, it puts more spin on the ball. Keep it natural, say I. Natural strings in a wooden racket. Lately, in my wanderings, I’ve noticed that some players are beginning to wrap their grips with leather. They say their hands are less likely to slip. Not me. I like to sense the grain of the wood. It tells me where I am. (Holds it up.) My rod and my staff! It comforts me. (Sits.) Let’s now talk about feet. (Removes his shoes.) Sneakers are important, of course. But not as important as shoe salesmen would have us believe. Many times during a match, I play in bare feet. (Wiggles his toes.) Why? Because you can feel the give of the grass. Or if it’s clay, you can sense its density. You can dig in your heels or use your toes for purchase. (Moves around.) See? I’m grounded. I’m connected. . . . Ah, but I need a guinea pig. . . . (Points off.) You there.