Sweat Page 2

  (Evan turns around, and he’s now talking to Chris [African-American, twenty-nine]. He is very neatly dressed, but quite fidgety and anxious.)

  EVAN: You okay, man? You seem antsy.

  CHRIS: Not gonna lie, it’s been tough. Not sleeping so good. Still trying to get used to things.

  EVAN: Well, you been away a long time. The river keeps flowing.

  CHRIS (Anxious): I guess. People. Psh. People, they’re a trip. You know? Before it was … um … it was easy, now every conversation I have, it’s like I’m circling in a traffic pattern, just circling. I don’t got shit to say to anyone, and nobody got shit to say to me.

  EVAN: You find someplace to stay … Chris?

  CHRIS: Yeah. Reverend Duckett lets me sleep in the rectory. I do some chores. It’s all right for now. Quiet. Trying to find my feet.

  EVAN: It’s gonna be that way for a while.

  CHRIS: Yeah, I’m figuring that out quickly!

  EVAN: What about work?

  CHRIS: Looking.

  EVAN: Did you follow up with the leads I gave you?

  CHRIS: Yeah, went down there, filled out a few applications, but they ain’t offering nothing real, I’m talking bullshit, you know … seven, eight dollars an hour.

  EVAN: Gotta begin somewhere.

  CHRIS: I guess. And I keep hitting up against that box. That damn question’s a barbed-wire fence, can’t go over it, can’t get around it.

  EVAN: I know, I know. But, whatcha doing to keep your head?

  CHRIS: Going to prayer meetings. Doing it one day at a time. Reverend Duckett has been real cool to me.

  EVAN: Good. Good. What about that prison program? How many credits you short?

  CHRIS: Eight. But first … I gotta throw a little money in my pocket. Get things on track, you know. Then, psh, I can think about finishing up my bachelor’s.

  EVAN: I’m really glad to hear that.

  CHRIS: That was the plan, you know, before the shit went down.

  EVAN: You seem a little on edge today.

  CHRIS: Yeah, well. Some days are like that. I get real mad at myself.

  (A moment. Chris, suddenly introspective.)

  EVAN: You okay? You need some air or something?

  CHRIS: Nah. I … I ran into Jason. Wasn’t expecting it.

  EVAN: What was that like?

  CHRIS: Weird … weird. He looked different.

  EVAN: Yeah?

  CHRIS: He had tats on his face. Big fucking tats. He looked ridiculous. I had to deal with that bullshit inside. You know, Aryan Brotherhood. But, Jason … that shit surprised me. He looked old, like a man. Like his dad useta, before he died. It kinda freaked me out.

  EVAN: I bet.

  CHRIS (Escalating emotions): I dunno. A couple minutes, and your whole life changes, that’s it. It’s gone. Every day I think about what if I hadn’t … You know … I run it and run it, a tape over and over again. What if. What if. What if. All night. In my head. I can’t turn it off. Reverend Duckett said, “Lean on God for forgiveness. Lean on God to find your way through the terrible storm.” I’m leaning into the wind, I’m fuckin’ leaning … And.

  (A moment.)

  And then there’s Jason. Crossing Penn, you know, and I’m just chilling, looking in the window of Sneaker Villa, not thinking about anything. He sees me. I see him. Neither of us could … um, move for a second. We … it was … I’ve been thinking about what I would do in that moment. How I would react, what I would say. I mean … fuck it. What we did was unforgivable …

  EVAN: So, what—?

  CHRIS: Next thing I know I’m walking fast toward him, I don’t know what I’m gonna do. But the emotions are right there in my chest. A fist pressing right there. Pressing. And I keep walking. And I’m expecting him to walk away, do something, but he just stands there like he’s been waiting on me all these years. And … we come face to face. Like right there. I can smell his breath, that’s how close we are. I can see the fucking veins in his eyes. And my fists clench. My fingernails dig into the palms of my hands and then it just happens … weird … We’re hugging. Hugging. I don’t know why. And for the first time in eight years, I feel like I could go home.

  (Tears are close, but they don’t come.

  A loud blast of music: Santana’s “Smooth.” The past rips through 2008.)

  SCENE 2

  January 18, 2000

  Eight years earlier.

  Outside it’s 19°F.

  In the news: American think tanks report that the booming stock market is widening the income gap between the poorest and richest U.S. families. Reading passes an aggressive dog ordinance to regulate ownership of certain pet breeds including pit bulls.

  Santana’s “Smooth” plays loudly from a jukebox.

  Lights up. Bar. Lived-in and comfortable. End of a raucous celebration. Music blares.

  Cynthia (African-American, forty-five) and Tracey (white American, forty-five), just a little too drunk, are dancing. Stan (white American, fifties), the bartender, stands behind the bar, smiling, and enjoying the show. Jessie (Italian-American, forties) is passed out, face planted on the table.

  Tracey and Cynthia dance together with the intimacy of close friends who’ve shared many adventures.

  CYNTHIA: C’mon, Stan.

  STAN: Nah, don’t dance!

  CYNTHIA: I don’t believe ya!

  TRACEY: Stan the man! Don’t fail me! I know ya got some moves!

  STAN: Nope!

  (Tracey does a sexy, enticing dance.)

  Don’t break anything.

  (The music ends.)

  CYNTHIA AND TRACEY: Aww.

  (Cynthia walks over to the jukebox. Tracey flops down next to Jessie and finishes her friend’s drink.)

  STAN: Hey. Who’s driving her home?

  TRACEY: Howard just locks up and leaves her there. Somehow she always manages to punch in to work on time. Right, Cynth?

  CYNTHIA: Showered and dressed.

  TRACEY: We all got a seven A.M. call and that one’s out drinking until two every night.

  STAN: Well, someone’s gotta drive her.

  TRACEY: Not happening. I got the inside of my car cleaned Thursday.

  STAN: Hey, Cynthia, can you drive Jessie home?

  CYNTHIA: Hell no, she was the designated driver.

  (Tracey laughs and nudges Jessie.)

  TRACEY: Jessie!

  (Jessie rouses.)

  JESSIE: What?!

  (She slumps back onto the table. Laughter.)

  STAN: Well, she can’t stay here.

  (Stan, with a pronounced limp, an old bothersome injury, hobbles over, and takes Jessie’s keys from her pocket. He throws them into a key jar on the shelf.)

  CYNTHIA: How many keys you collect?

  STAN: Didn’t fill the jar, but the night’s still young.

  (Stan places a bottle of bourbon on the bar.)

  One more drink?

  (He pours Tracey a drink.)

  TRACEY: Now, you’re really trying to get over.

  STAN (Seductively): It’s an open invitation.

  TRACEY: Yeah? Really?

  (Stan gives her a disarmingly seductive smile and strokes her arm.)

  Nice. Does that work for you? Because, I’m not feeling anything. I mean should I be feeling something?

  STAN: I’m definitely reading something.

  TRACEY: Get outta here! It was one fucking time, it’s definitely not happening again.

  (Stan continues to work his charm.)

  STAN: Two.

  TRACEY: Not technically.

  STAN: Oh really?

  TRACEY: Really!

  (Tracey laughs. She’s a laugher, it’s her refuge.

  Oscar, the Colombian-American busboy, twenty-two, hauls in a rack of glasses. He wipes down the bar. He goes about his business, rarely acknowledged by anyone except Stan.)

  STAN: Thanks, Oscar.

  CYNTHIA: Okay. I love you, but

  I’m officially drunk-b-dunk,

  which
means I gotta go.

  TRACEY: No …

  CYNTHIA: Got an early shift.

  TRACEY: Frank can kiss my ass. Jesus, haven’t you done enough overtime?

  CYNTHIA: Babe, come hell or high water, I’m taking that cruise through the Panama Canal this summer.

  TRACEY: One more drink. One. It’s my birthday. C’mon, c’mon. Stan, pour this bitch another drink!

  CYNTHIA: Okay. But, if I lose a finger in the mill, it’ll be your fault. Remember that. It’s her fault!

  STAN: It’s her fault!

  (Tracey gives Cynthia a hug. Stan chuckles and pours Cynthia’s drink.)

  CYNTHIA: You gonna have a drink with us?

  TRACEY: One …

  STAN: Sure. Two pretty ladies. No downside to that.

  TRACEY: Watch what he’s putting in there. That’s how I got into trouble last time.

  STAN (Seductively): Oh, c’mon, trouble?

  What a night! A lot of folks turned out to celebrate.

  TRACEY: It was fun, huh? Never thought I’d make it to this age.

  STAN: Tell me about it. Hadn’t seen some of those guys in ages. And I was kinda hopin’ I’d see Brucie.

  (A moment. Tracey looks at Cynthia.)

  CYNTHIA: Well, don’t hold your breath. I put his ass out.

  STAN: Oh no. What happened?

  CYNTHIA: I let him move back in.

  TRACEY: // Told ya.

  CYNTHIA: You know Brucie, he can be as smooth as satin. Turn that shit on and off at the drop of a dime. Things were going fine, then Christmas Day, we’ve got this nice bottle of Chablis. He’s looking dapper. I’m dressed for danger. We’re laughing, chilling and having fun. And … we talk. I mean, talk. It’s all good. We drink wine, we drink some more wine, then we do what you do after you drink too much wine. Middle of the night—

  TRACEY: Listen to this—

  CYNTHIA: I go downstairs. My Christmas presents under the tree are gone—

  STAN: // Get outta here.

  CYNTHIA: AND my fish tank with my expensive new tropical fish, gone.

  STAN: Don’t tell me—

  CYNTHIA: A week later, New Year’s Eve, I wake up. And this fool’s digging in the refrigerator like he actually put something there. High as a muthafucking kite. Says nothing. No apology. Nada. I damn near lost my mind. Brucie was lucky I wasn’t holding a gun, cuz right now he’d be in hell trying to hustle the devil.

  STAN: That don’t sound like him.

  CYNTHIA: The hell it don’t, let me tell you something, once he started messing with that dope, I don’t recognize the man. I know it’s tough out there, I understand. Yeah, yeah, yeah. He went through hell when his plant locked him out, I understand, but I can’t have it.

  TRACEY: More importantly, you don’t // have to.

  STAN: So, what—?

  CYNTHIA: I tell that joker, it’s time to go. Bye-bye. And we get into it. Police come down, chest-pumped, I get cuffed, photographed and fingerprinted for disorderly conduct in my own damn house.

  STAN: No way.

  CYNTHIA: Yes …

  TRACEY: Yeah, can you believe

  it? I had to go down there

  and bail her out. New

  Year’s Eve. I’m wearing

  heels and a sequin dress.

  STAN: Jesus. What about Brucie?

  CYNTHIA: Ask me if I give a goddamn.

  STAN: Tough. Sorry to hear it. You two were good together.

  CYNTHIA: Yeah, well, not anymore.

  STAN: Oh shit, speaking of arrests, did you guys read about Freddy in the paper this morning?

  CYNTHIA: No, what was Freddy doing in the paper?

  STAN: God, you didn’t hear?

  TRACEY: Nah. What happened?

  STAN: He burned his fucking house down.

  CYNTHIA: What?

  TRACEY: Was anybody hurt?

  STAN: Just the dog.

  CYNTHIA: Pepper? Oh my God—

  STAN: Yeah, crazy, huh?

  CYNTHIA: Oh my // God

  TRACEY: What about Maggie?

  STAN: I thought you knew, she walked out … two weeks ago.

  CYNTHIA: What?

  TRACEY: What happened?

  STAN: Yeah.

  (Jessie rouses for a second.)

  STAN: Gone.

  JESSIE: Yeah!

  CYNTHIA: That’s some shit.

  TRACEY: Our Freddy? Freddy Brunner?

  STAN: Freddy—

  CYNTHIA: I don’t get it. Why would the man burn down his own house?

  STAN: // Dunno.

  TRACEY: Crazy.

  Three-alarm fire.

  That sucks.

  Nothing // left.

  STAN: He was in here on Saturday, got shit-faced. Maggie just up and left him—

  TRACEY: Where would that bitch go?

  STAN: That’s what he said. Dunno. The paper says he tried to shoot himself in the head. Can you believe it? But, he was too wasted, and ended up shooting off his right ear.

  TRACEY: Ow.

  CYNTHIA: Get the hell outta

  here.

  STAN: They found him lying on his neighbor’s lawn, bleeding—

  CYNTHIA: Damn. That’s all I gotta say. // DAMN!

  TRACEY: Freddy Brunner?

  STAN: Turns out he was up to his neck in fucking debt.

  TRACEY: Terrible—

  STAN: And Clarence—

  CYNTHIA: Clarence Jones?

  STAN: Says he got wind that they were gonna cut back his line at the plant. Couldn’t handle the stress.

  CYNTHIA: That rumor’s been flying around for months. Nobody’s going anywhere.

  STAN: Okay, you keep telling yourself that, but you saw what happened over at Clemmons Technologies. No one saw that coming. Right? You could wake up tomorrow and all your jobs are in Mexico, whatever, it’s this NAFTA bullshit—

  TRACEY: What the fuck is NAFTA? Sounds like a laxative. NAFTA.

  (Tracey laughs.)

  STAN: You don’t read the paper?

  TRACEY: You read the paper?

  STAN: Yes, I do.

  TRACEY: Well, I don’t read the paper, okay? I’m dyslexic, thank you.

  STAN: Eyes open. Not a good philosophy to resist knowledge.

  TRACEY: Where’d you read that bullshit?

  STAN: I didn’t read it, I intuit it.

  CYNTHIA: Whatever. It’s a rumor. Management // spreads that crap to keep us on edge.

  STAN: I’m just saying. But, it ain’t my problem // anymore.

  TRACEY: Hey, is it against the law to burn down your own house?

  STAN: Dunno. I think you need a permit.

  (Jessie rouses again.)

  JESSIE: Where’s the FIRE at?

  TRACEY: What?!

  STAN: A permit.

  TRACEY: Really? For your own damn house?

  STAN: Ya can’t set a fire that big without a permit.

  TRACEY: Wait a minute, you’re saying if he got a permit he could legally burn his house down?

  JESSIE: Yeah.

  CYNTHIA: Shit, I should burn down my house. Crappy little money trap.

  TRACEY: To hell with the permit, I’d hire someone else to do it.

  CYNTHIA: Shut up, who do you know?

  TRACEY: I dunno.

  (Tracey laughs, then gestures to Oscar.)

  Hey. What about you?

  OSCAR: Me? What? Ya need water?

  TRACEY: No, but … if I wanted to hire someone to burn down my house where would I go?

  OSCAR: I dunno. How would I know?

  TRACEY: What do you mean, you don’t know? C’mon.

  OSCAR: I don’t know.

  TRACEY: You Puerto Ricans are burning shit down all over Reading, you gotta know.

  OSCAR: Well, I’m Colombian. And I don’t know.

  TRACEY: Yeah, right.

  CYNTHIA: Ignore her. She’s stupid.

  TRACEY: He fucking knows, he’s just not saying.

  CYNTHIA: Let it go!

  TRACEY: He fuckin
g knows.

  STAN: Lighten up! Let it go!

  OSCAR: Psh.

  TRACEY: Psh.

  (Oscar cuts his eyes at Tracey and walks back to the bar. Stan redirects Tracey, defusing the tension.)

  STAN: Hey, you know, Freddy was on the line with my old man. He trained me. Yeah.

  CYNTHIA: Really?

  STAN: As matter of fact, when I got injured, it was Freddy who shut down the mill.

  TRACEY: I didn’t know that.

  STAN: Yeah. If it wasn’t for him. I would have lost my entire leg.

  (Jessie suddenly alert:)

  JESSIE: Hey, Stan, quit yapping, get me another gimlet.

  STAN: You’re joking. Absolutely not.

  JESSIE: What? Are you the bartender on tonight?

  STAN: Not giving you another drink.

  JESSIE: C’mon! Gimme another drink! You gave her a drink, why can’t I have one?

  STAN: Because that’s how it goes. You’ve had enough.

  JESSIE: You got a fucking problem.

  STAN: No, you got a fucking problem.

  JESSIE: You can’t talk to me that way. My husband—

  STAN: You mean your ex.

  JESSIE: All I gotta do is make one phone call and he’ll wipe that fucking smile off your face.

  STAN: Yeah, go ahead. Here, use my phone. Wake up his beautiful young wife, what’s her name again, Tiffany?

  CYNTHIA: That wasn’t // necessary.

  JESSIE: You are a asshole!

  STAN: Take her home.

  TRACEY: C’mon. // Don’t start this again—

  JESSIE: You fucking cripple.

  STAN: Nice language.

  CYNTHIA: She’s had a little too

  much to drink.

  STAN: And that’s why it’s time for her to go home. Night-night.

  JESSIE: I’ll kick your ass, gimp!

  (Jessie struggles to her feet. She attempts to walk, but is completely wasted.)

  CYNTHIA: Jessie. // C’mon.

  JESSIE: Cripple! You fucking warlock!

  CYNTHIA: Calm down.

  STAN: Relax …

  CYNTHIA: All right. We’re celebrating …

  JESSIE: Fucker. Fucker!!

  STAN: That’s nice … Nice …

  CYNTHIA: You’ve had enough. Okay. Calm the fuck down.

  JESSIE (Snaps): Don’t talk to me!

  CYNTHIA: Don’t start with me, babe.

  (Cynthia makes an “I mean business” face. Tracey laughs.)

  JESSIE: Oh shit.

  CYNTHIA: You okay? You need a hand?

  (Jessie struggles to walk to the bathroom, attempting to maintain her dignity, but it’s a herculean task. Finally:)