Perhaps in the intervening days since leaving high school I have simply aged into a grumpy old man. Perhaps I have excessively high expectations. Perhaps it was that I was simply in a foul mood. Quite possibly all of the above; I won’t contest any or all of these charges. Whatever the case, the round of plays which were read at our local playhouse last week were all mediocre at best.
I should explain: Our local playhouse (that is, theater,) put on an event in cooperation with the local library and high school in which they solicited entries for original short plays, and had a number of them read by the school theater cast, which included my brother. Had I known about this, I probably would have entered. Alas, I did not know, and did not enter. Which is a shame, because most of the plays were just okay. I am reasonably certain I could have been a finalist.
Of course, it’s easy to throw stones without doing anything constructive. And I do endeavor to lead by example. And so I have taken it upon myself to write a short play, to prove that I can. In the grand tradition of those plays sampled earlier, mine is vaguely autobiographical, subtly (and not so subtly) caricaturing those closest to me, and lampooning those I feel have wronged me with satire and pretentious moralism. I don’t claim that mine is exceptional, or even good, merely that it is at least as good as those I saw.
Square Peg in a Round Hole
A short, vaguely autobiographical, but still fictional play by the Renaissance Guy.
Scene 1
The curtain rises on a bored English class waiting for last period to draw to a close. It is unseasonably warm for a Friday in October, and the temperature is producing a mix of agitation and sloth among the STUDENTS. TEACHER stands in front of the room, supervising.
TEACHER: Remember, if you don’t finish your write up for today’s discussion questions they’re for homework over the weekend. If you do finish, you can start working on edits for your college essays.
STUDENTS, BROOKE, and PAIGE groan.
TEACHER: Hey, you’re all upperclassmen now. You need to start taking personal responsibility. (Aside.) Not that that’ll help those of you who shouldn’t be in an honors class anyways, but that’s not my problem.
BROOKE twirling hair: Hey Max, did you get an answer for question four?
MAX: Yes. I’m just finishing the last one, and then I’m done. (Aside.) And then, god willing, I can be out of here before anyone notices I showed up today.
BROOKE: What’d you answer for number four?
MAX: These are, I understand, supposed to be our own opinions on moral issues. You can’t just copy my answers.
BROOKE places her hand over her chest, more for drama than actual indignation: I wasn’t going to copy. I already have my answer. I just want to know yours.
MAX: How about you tell me your answer first?
BROOKE: Alright. (Reading) If I were forced to choose to torture an innocent child in order to create a utopia, I would not do it. It is never right to harm an innocent, least of all a child. Even if this would create a better world, the ends do not justify the means.
MAX shaking his head: I disagree.
BROOKE: Oh? What’d you say?
MAX clears his throats and begins reading: Assuming for the purposes of this question that I am confident beyond a shadow of a doubt that inflicting torture on this child would indeed bring about the Utopian society promised, I would reluctantly agree to torturing an innocent in order to eradicate future suffering.
Indeed, I submit that such is the only moral course of action; for unless one is to argue that the current world is at all times entirely moral and fair by nature, which I do not believe for a moment, then it is accurate to say that innocents are already being tortured. Indeed, at this very moment there is already far more pain and suffering happening than could possibly be inflicted upon or experienced by a single mortal being, much of it experienced by innocents, all of it unnecessary in this scenario.
That this particular innocent sufferer happens to be visible, while the majority of sufferers are not, is not particularly important to the dilemma at hand. To claim otherwise is to claim that moral quandaries only really matter insofar as they apply to oneself, which in addition to being exceedingly selfish, assaults the foundational assumption of a universal standard of moral behavior, and is thus self defeating.
BROOKE applauds. PAIGE gives a thumbs down gesture, and BROOKE shoots her a glare, causing her to stop without MAX realizing.
MAX: I wasn’t done.
BROOKE: You wrote more than that?
MAX defensively: It’s an interesting question! And besides, our assignment is to give our opinions. My opinions all happen to be complex and multifaceted. Which naturally means they take up several pages.
BROOKE: Mm-hmm. And that’s why you’re the smartest guy in our class. (Aside) But goddamn if I can get him to stop paying attention to his work and start paying attention to me for five minutes.
The bell rings. MAX, caught off guard, begins immediately rushes to pack his things. PAIGE and STUDENTS exit.
BROOKE: So, are you coming to my party this weekend? It’s going to be themed after The Great Gatsby. You really liked that book when we read it for class last year, right?
MAX: Indeed I did, and still do. Alas, I have to get my transfusion later today, which usually pretty well tuckers me out for at least a few days.
TEACHER: Max! When you’re done, can you come over here for a moment.
MAX stops rushing to pack his things: Of course, just a moment. (Aside.) Curses.
BROOKE crestfallen: Oh. Well, if you feel better or whatever you should definitely try and come. If you’re up to it.
BROOKE pulls out a crumpled piece of paper decorated with doodles in colored ink, and a phone number: Here. Text me and I’ll give you all the details. Or even if you don’t feel up to coming and just want to chat.
MAX: Thank you. I’ll bear your advice in mind.
PAIGE steps in from offstage: Brooke, c’mon!
BROOKE: Coming!
BROOKE exits. MAX braces himself, standing alone against TEACHER.
MAX: (aside) Once more unto the breach. (To TEACHER) You wanted to see me?
TEACHER: Yes, Max. I’ve hardly seen any of you this semester. And it’s only October.
MAX: I can get a doctors’ note if you’d like.
TEACHER: I’d much rather see you in class. Or failing that, see the first draft of your college essay, which you were supposed to hand in last week.
MAX: I wasn’t here last week.
TEACHER: No. No, you weren’t here at all last week. Or the week before that. Why is that?
MAX shrugs: Lead guesses are either bacterial sinusitis or a garden variety coronavirus, but we haven’t definitively ruled out strep or a mild influenza.
TEACHER: Right. Look, you’re not the first kid to come in here with special needs, or an IEP. You’re not even the first to have… remind me, what’s your problem again?
MAX: Seventeen years and they still don’t know. There are some theories, but as yet nothing that matches all of the lab pathology and the symptoms. Though if you can figure it out, I’m quite sure there’s a doctorate in it for you.
TEACHER: …Right. Well, look, you’re not the first kid to come in with weird health issues. But all of those kids were able to put in the effort.
MAX: I am hopeful that the work I turned in today will show that I am indeed putting in my maximum effort wherever possible.
TEACHER: That’s a start. But I can’t grade you on just today’s in class assignment. You’ll need to complete the college essay for a start.
MAX: I will try. But I missed all the in class time that was spent on it, and as yet lack the stamina to work after school.
TEACHER: Christ, Max. You must have some free time. What’s your schedule look like?
MAX: Well, today I have to go get a transfusion.
TEACHER: Can you work on schoolwork there?
MAX: No. It drives up my blood pressure and pulse rate too much and makes the nurses nervous.
TEACHER: Okay… How about after?
MAX: After the infusion center is dinner. Then after that I usually spend another hour or so fighting to avoid throwing up dinner. Then my mother will sit with me and try and get me to take in some fluids to avoid dehydration.
TEACHER: Could you work on your essay then?
MAX: Not likely. The nausea tends to impair my ability to properly construe syntax. After that is bedtime. I usually sleep until around eleven, that is, unless I have a migraine, and then it’s more like two. And then it’s pretty much the whole meal-nausea-rehydration thing over again until the next day.
TEACHER (aside): I just don’t know what to do with this kid. I’m stuck between a state-led crackdown on kids slacking off, and a federal civil rights lawsuit waiting to happen. God knows I don’t want him here any more than he does. But God also knows the department will have me out the door faster than you can spell favoritism if I don’t put his nose to the grindstone. He can’t really be that sick all the time, can he?
TEACHER: Do you think this is going to get better later in the year?
MAX: That would be a pleasant change. It hasn’t before, though.
TEACHER: If you knew this was going to be a problem, why did you choose to take an honors course?
MAX gives an over dramatic shrug: I don’t know. The other course I had been interested in taking didn’t get enough signals and wasn’t offered so… I suppose perhaps I guessed it would be more interesting than the regular course on the days I was here? Maybe I was led to believe by my standardized test scores and my advisers that I needed to be challenged intellectually as well as physiologically? Or that an honors course teacher would be more invested, and in a better position to work with individual students?
TEACHER bristles, but does not respond.
MAX: Or my IEP committee flat out told me that I needed to take more honors and AP courses to look good for my transcript, and for their official records? No idea really. Why does any teenager do anything?
TEACHER: Just… just get your work done.
TEACHER exits. As soon as he is gone, MAX plunges his head into his hands in silent but obvious distress. He remains like this for several moments before the scene ends.
Scene 2
Max’s MOTHER is picking him up in her car to drive to the hospital. The car is loaded with snacks, entertainment, and various other amenities that only veterans think to bring to the hospital, along with stacks and stacks of medical files and medication.
MOTHER looks anxiously at her watch.
MAX enters, apparently recovered.
MOTHER: Hey. How’s it going?
MAX answers slowly and in a soft voice: As my blood tests would say… equivocal.
MOTHER: Well, that at least beats terrible. How was class?
The car begins to pull away from the curb. MAX dribbles his index finger back and forth over his lips in answer.
MOTHER: That bad?
MAX chooses his words slowly: The English teacher apparently came to the conclusion that rather than reducing my workload of make up work, that I required a motivational speech on personal responsibility.
MOTHER: Again? I’ll call the guidance counselor. This is not acceptable. Your IEP is a federal document. “Essential work only” is not a suggestion.
MAX: You’re preaching to the choir again.
MOTHER: I know, I just… argh. You just need to remember that it’s not you, it’s them. You’re a square peg in a round hole, and if they can’t deal with that… well… we’ll make them deal with that. (Beat.) Was the discussion at least interesting?
MAX: Somewhat. I gain the distinct feeling that most of my conversations in that class are rather one-sided in my favor. Though whether for want of intelligent response, or for want of a modicum of interest, I cannot fathom.
MOTHER (laughing): I bet it’s a little of both. But it was interesting?
MAX: I suppose on balance. Apparently my points were warmly received enough to merit my invitation to another event.
MOTHER: What do you mean?
MAX pulls out the crumpled piece of paper: I was invited to a party this weekend. It is apparently to be fashioned after those thrown by none other than the Great Gatsby himself. Quite an ambitious aim; almost sure to disappoint. I see no particularly pressing need to attend.
MOTHER: Who invited you?
MAX: Brooke.
MOTHER: Who’s Brooke. A girl in your English class?
Max nods.
MOTHER: Is she nice?
MAX: Well, she has apparently insisted on fetching documents for me from the front table when necessary, and has made a point to be my discussion partner on multiple occasions. Granted, she sits next to me, and I strongly suspect she copies my work.
MOTHER: You should try and go if you’re feeling alright. When is it?
MAX: I don’t know. Brooke gave me her number and said to text her for details.
MOTHER smiles: She gave you her phone number?
MAX: Well, she said it was her phone number. I am familiar with cases of fake phone number giving, though I can’t think of any motivation given that she gave me her number unsolicited.
MOTHER: You should definitely try and go. You should text her now.
MAX: We’ll see how the infusions go.
Scene 3:
The party is in full swing. STUDENTS are dressed in a variety of attire, ranging from casual, to semi-formal, to 1920s themes. PAIGE and BROOKE both wear art-deco design fringe dresses and hair bands. George Gershwin’s Summertime plays in the background.
MAX enters, dressed in black pinstripes.
PAIGE: Well. He showed up. Guess I owe you twenty bucks.
BROOKE: Sh!
MAX: Good evening ladies. Quite a nifty little rub you’ve arranged. I dare say, you spiffied up nicely. You two looked like a pair of veritable choice pieces of calico.
(beat)
BROOKE: Huh?
PAIGE: I think he’s complimenting us.
MAX: Now you’re on the trolley.
PAIGE: Uh-huh. I’m going to go… what’s the phrase… see a man about a dog?
MAX: Sounds swell.
PAIGE exits.
MAX: I can tone it down if you’d prefer.
BROOKE: Maybe just a little bit.
MAX: I must compliment you on your choice of music. Though I’m slightly disappointed that you didn’t go with the Ella Fitzgerald version.
BROOKE: I can add it to the playlist if you’d like? I think this version is by a guy called Gershwin. He did the thing from Fantasia that was set in the city. It comes up in the new Gatsby movie.
MAX: I’m well aware of George Gershwin’s work. I’m quite partial to Rhapsody in Blue myself. My grandfather used to play his vinyls for me as a child, to make sure I didn’t just grow up knowing it as the United jingle.
BROOKE giggles affectionately. The music changes to a modern synth-pop dance track. The two stand in awkward silence for several moments.
BROOKE: Do you want to… uh… foxtrot?
MAX: Do you mean the actual dance the foxtrot, or just dance?
BROOKE smiles flusteredly: Um. Either? You’d have to teach me to do the actual foxtrot.
MAX: Sure thing. It’s actually deceptively easy.
MAX and BROOKE begin to dance a foxtrot, and other STUDENTS begin copying. PAIGE renters, carrying several liquor bottles.
PAIGE: Alright. Now to get this party really on theme: I’ve got the moonshine.
STUDENTS clamor towards PAIGE. Within moments almost all have a drink in their hand.
BROOKE: Come on. I think I could use a drink, how ’bout you?
MAX: Are you kidding?
BROOKE: What? You’re not one of those fundamentalists in class. It’s just a little ‘moonshine’.
MAX: More like coffin varnish. Aside from the fact that with all my medications I’d be better off drinking bleach than beer, this is all very illegal and dangerous, even without all my medical conditions. I’m sorry, Brooke, I really am. But I’m afraid I ought to take my leave.
BROOKE: You’re not going to turn us in, are you?
MAX pauses, hesitates: Unless I’m specifically compelled to testify, no. I’m not going to tattle. But I can’t stay here. If I passed out or had a seizure or something, and everyone else thought I was drunk because they had been drinking… I’m sorry, I have to leave.
MAX moves to leave.
PAIGE (shouting): Oh for crying out loud! Come freaking on, Max.
MAX pauses: I beg your pardon?
PAIGE: You don’t fit in as a student in class. You’re not an establishment kid, great. Now you’re claiming you don’t even fit in with us rebels? I mean, come on. You can’t have it both ways.
STUDENTS gawk and laugh
MAX exits.
BROOKE: Max, wait.
BROOKE exits.
PAIGE: You think you’re being edgy? You’re not being edgy. You’re just a loser. You’re just a square peg in a round hole.
Curtain falls.
End of play.
Parties interested in using this play may reach me by the Contact page to discuss licensing arrangements. This has been an amusing exercise, and one I may return to at some point.