G Stein, What Are Master-Pieces
Once when one has said what one says it is not true or too true. That is what is the trouble with time.That is what makes what women say truer than what men say. I once said that nothing could bother me more than the way a thing goes dead once it has been said. And if it does it it is because of there being this trouble about time.
What is the use of being a boy if you are going to grow up to be a man. And what is the use there is no use from the standpoint of master-pieces there is no use. Anybody can really know that.
A white bathroom. A black shower curtain that fails to reach the lip of the bathtub, drawn closed. SAM stands facing himself in the mirror, hands on either side of the sink, fully-clothed. The door is propped open by a doorstop.
CHRIS. (Off) Is it on yet?
SAM breaks his trance, opens the sink’s tap—nothing—closes it.
SAM. (Shouting) No. (Quieter) I said I’d let you know.
SAM moves from the sink to sit on the toilet.
CHRIS. (Still off) What? Yo, this is bullshit.
SAM. Tell me about it, been up for two days straight now. Still up. Rents due. Problem is once you have one thing to worry about, you wake up every morning and do nothing else but worry. About one thing or the other. And you start thinking “What should I do?” about, well, whatever you’re worrying about. I don’t know what’s worse: not being able to sleep, or not being able to pay rent. On top of that there’s housework to do. On top of that there’s that essay on Civil Disobedience. On top of that I don’t know what to wear today, let alone tomorrow. On top of that—
CHRIS. (Yawning) WA-AAH. Hello, hello-ohh.
Enter CHRIS. He stands in the doorway topless, towel around his waist, seeming both nonchalant and rushed at once as if waking quickly, but comfortably, from some dream.
SAM. I see your back from the dead.
CHRIS. Yeah well, I knew how much I was missed.
D McIvor, You Are Here
J. Look at me.
J. Just look at me. You’re so fantastic.
A. I read your story.
J. You’re so fantastic.
A. I liked it. You’re a good writer.
J. I’m not a writer I’m a psychologist.
A. You could be a writer if you wanted to be.
J. I wrote that story for you.
A. You wrote it before you met me.
J. And I still wrote it for you.