Copyright © 1989 by Lisa C. Heyden
CHARACTERS:
PAINTER: Young woman who paints
SHAKESPEARE: Young man who shares room with Painter
BLACKSUIT: Man in a Black Suit
WHITESHIRT: Landlord who looks alot like Blacksuit.
MUSE: Young female fan of Shakespeare’s
(The action takes place in one room,
Painter and Shakespeare’s apartment.
The apartment is cluttered with books,
papers, art supplies, etc. There is a
door leading off stage that serves as
a door for the apartment.
PAINTER spends most of the play at the
opposite end of the stage from the
door with a sloppily stretched canvas
that she paints on continually.
SHAKESPEARE spends most of the play on
the couch. There can be a couple of
chairs, they’re good to trip over.)
Lights come up on Painter at her
easel. Shakespeare comes in, slamming
the door. He plops down in his usual
spot on the couch.)
PAINTER
Must you barge in her all the time like you own the
place?
SHAKESPEARE
Yes, it’s part of my character.
PAINTER
Yeah, and what if one day I’m vacuuming whilst stark
naked.
SHAKESPEARE
That would be an interesting day indeed, but I doubt that
it will ever come since there isn’t any visible floor and
you are destined to be perpetually in that corner,
painting away for no apparent income.
PAINTER
A lot we have to look forward to, you and me.
SHAKESPEARE
Indeed. I don’t suppose you’ve considered going
anywhere? Away? Have you considered not wasting your
time so atrociously.
PAINTER
Have you considered getting a haircut.
SHAKESPEARE
Never!
PAINTER
Same difference.
SHAKESPEARE
When are you going to do something with your life?
PAINTER
When poverty rears its ugly head, then I’ll go out and
get a job.
SHAKESPEARE
Such heights to aspire to. Hasn’t it already?
PAINTER
Indeed.
SHAKESPEARE
Why, the clock ticks on, you know.
PAINTER
Tick-tock.
SHAKESPEARE
And you’re not getting any younger.
PAINTER
Goo-gah.
SHAKESPEARE
Your biological clock is ticking!
PAINTER
Oh! Babies, babies, children.
SHAKESPEARE
Your sarcasm cuts me to the very quick.
PAINTER
Well, get your quick outa here.
SHAKESPEARE
Please! I’ll be serious! Let me stay!
PAINTER
Look, lets get something straight Shakespeare. I’m an
artist. Destined to starve in a cluttered apartment.
It’s an inescapable fact. Will you please resolve
yourself to it?
SHAKESPEARE
Yes.
PAINTER
Thank you.
(Long pause.)
SHAKESPEARE
You haven’t had a decent meal in ages.
PAINTER
That being so, I shall stuff some noodles in the
microwave.
SHAKESPEARE
Soon you will be ravished with various diseases caused by
poor nutrition and pollution from a shitload of paints,
solvents, lacquers, oils, photographic chemicals and the
like.
PAINTER
Such is the face of every starving artist. Open that
there window.
SHAKESPEARE
Nothing will deter you.
PAINTER
Will you and your vocabulary take to the hills?
SHAKESPEARE
(referring to the painting.)
What is that? It looks like leftover crusty ends of year-
old bologna.
PAINTER
You are so kind.
SHAKESPEARE
Seriously, do you ever expect to make a living thusly?
PAINTER
Do you expect to shut up soon?
(There is a heavy knock on the door.
Shakespeare sighs, gets up from his
seat and goes to open the door. It is
a tall man with long hair and dark
glasses in a black suit. BLACKSUIT.)
BLACKSUIT
(stepping in)
I’ve seen all your painting, Miss, and I love them all.
How much will you take for them? A million? A million
and some?
(Shakespeare pushes him back out the
door and slams it. He rushes to
Painter, who is staring towards the
door, brush still in hand, stars
popping around her head in awe. He
shakes her violently.)
SHAKESPEARE
Wake up, Painter! Wake up! He’s gone now.
(He continues shaking her in a panic.)
Oh no, she’s going under! C’mon Painter! Wake up!
(One last shake and Painter wakes with
a start.)
PAINTER
Huh? Wha?
SHAKESPEARE
How ever do you do that?
PAINTER
What happened?
SHAKESPEARE
Your over active imagination, that’s what! Jeez, you’ve
gotta stop this now. They’re getting bigger and bigger.
Pretty soon I won’t be able to push them out the door
anymore!
PAINTER
Jeesh! How do I do that?
SHAKESPEARE
Tis a mystery.
PAINTER
Well, why do you push him out?
SHAKESPEARE
What am I supposed to do? Let him ravish you?
PAINTER
Yes!
SHAKESPEARE
(pause)
Jeez!
(pause)
I don’t know what’d happen to you. Where would you go?
I’ll lose you forever. Never never Land.
PAINTER
Hmph. I’ve been wishing on stars for weeks now and you
keep pushing him out the door. Really!
SHAKESPEARE
Fine! Next time I’ll just let him carry off like Fay
Wray!
PAINTER
Good!
(Lights dim.)
(Light up on Painter at her easel.
Shakespeare is comfortable on the
couch reading a play. There is a
knock on the door.)
PAINTER
Get the door, will you?
SHAKESPEARE
I don’t hear anything.
PAINTER
Are you kidding? Someone’s banging on the door. C’mon,
go get it.
SHAKESPEARE
I’m telling you. It’s your imagination.
PAINTER
Shakespeare, get the door!
(She turns around and stares at him.
He looks back, but doesn’t move.
Pause. She begins to stamp toward the
door. Shakespeare jumps up.)
SHAKESPEARE
I’ll get it, I’ll get, you just go back to your painting,
go ahead, turn around.
(He gestures for her to go back to
painting.)
PAINTER
Thank you. What’s with you anyway?
(Shakespeare stumbles to the door and
stands with his hand on the knob for a
moment while he collects himself.
Then, he flings the door open and
prepares to wrestle whomever it may
be. It’s WHITESHIRT, the landloard. He
wears blue jeans, an old white t-shirt
with holes in it, and dark glasses.
Shakespeare nearly tackles him.)
WHITESHIRT
What took you so long? Whoa! Hey!
(He ducks out of the way just in time
to avoid being tackled by
Shakespeare.)
SHAKESPEARE
Oh, it’s you.
WHITESHIRT
Who’d you think it was? King Kong?
SHAKESPEARE
Yeah, well, whaddya want?
WHITESHIRT
(He clears his throat)
I’ve come for the rent, the rent, the rent!
PAINTER
But I can’t pay the rent, the rent, the rent.
WHITESHIRT
I’ve come for the rent, the rent, the rent.
PAINTER
But I can’t pay the rent, the rent, the rent.
SHAKESPEARE
I’ll pay the rent.
PAINTER
You don’t have any money.
SHAKESPEARE
You needed a hero.
WHITESHIRT
Oh, but it’s been three months now!
PAINTER
I’ll have it for you. I will, I will.
WHITESHIRT
But...Hey! That’s a great painting! Bologna, isn’t it?
PAINTER
Yeah, how’d you guess?
WHITESHIRT
Alright... but I’ll be back for the rent.
(He leaves, slamming the door.
Shakespeare plops himself back down on
the couch. Long pause.)
SHAKESPEARE
You know, eventually, you’re going to have to pay him.
PAINTER
He won’t kick me out.
SHAKESPEARE
Well, maybe we should clean up the place a bit.
PAINTER
Okay, you start.
(Lights dim.)
(Lights up on Painter, painting.
Lights dim.)
(Lights up on Painter, still painting.
Lights dim.)
(Lights up on Painter, still painting.
Shakespeare is asleep on the couch.
There is a knock at the door.)
PAINTER
Shakespeare? That’s the door.
(Another knock at the door.)
PAINTER (cont’d)
Shakespeare? You awake?
(Another knock. Shakespeare wakes with
a start.)
SHAKESPEARE
Wha? Huh?
(Various debris, papers and such, fall
onto the floor as he gets up rubbing
his eyees. Another knock at the door.
This time Shakespeare opens the door
without preparing. It’s Blacksuit.
Shakespeare tries to slam the door but
Blacksuit is too strong for him.)
BLACKSUIT
Miss, that painting... I must have it, how much do you
want?
(Shakespeare continues trying to
wrestle Blacksuit out the door, to no
avail.)
BLACKSUIT (cont’d)
Would you... could you... that painting... I... I must...
I must have it...
(Blacksuit breaks away from
Shakespeare, throwing him to the floor
amongst the debris.)
BLACKSUIT (cont’d)
Marry me! Come away with me!
(He reaches painter who is frozen in
awe. He grabs her by the hand, pulls
her to him. They kiss. Then Blacksuit
carries her out the door.)
(There is a moment of silence. Debris
on the floor begins to move uncovering
Shakespeare. He sits up, feels his
head, and shakes it. He looks around,
realizes what’s happened and jumps to
his feet. He runs out after Painter.
But moments later he returns, head in
hands, defeated. Lights dim.)
(Lights up on Shakespeare on the
couch, half asleep, waiting. Lights
dim.)
(Lights up on Shakespeare waiting. He
rolls off the couch in a stupor.)
(Lights up on Shakespear still
waiting. Suddenly, Painter enters
slamming the door behind her. She
begins picking up clothes and things
off the floor. Shakespeare looks
through half-opened eyes and
recognizes her. He becomes animated.)
SHAKESPEARE
Painter! You’re back!
(He gets up happily and goes to
embrace her, but she escapes him.)
SHAKESPEARE (cont’d)
Where’ve you been? I’ve been worried sick! The least you
could’ve done was called! Hey, what’re you doing?
Painter!
PAINTER
Hmmm? Oh, hi Shakespeare.
SHAKESPEARE
Where’ve you been?
PAINTER
(sighs, looking up happily)
With the man of my dreams!
SHAKESPEARE
What’re you doing?
PAINTER
I’m leaving. He’s taking me away!
SHAKESPEARE
That’s ridiculous!
PAINTER
That isn’t ridiculous!
SHAKESPEARE
Yes it is. It’s ridiculous. You can’t go with him.
PAINTER
Why not?
SHAKESPEARE
He’s a mind creature, you made him up.
PAINTER
His money works!
SHAKESPEARE
You’re good at it.
PAINTER
Then why shouldn’t I enjoy it?
SHAKESPEARE
Because! He isn’t real. You made him up.
PAINTER
How do I know I didn’t make you up? Huh? Huh?
SHAKESPEARE
Because...
PAINTER
Because why?
SHAKESPEARE
I think, therefore I am.
PAINTER
I could’ve made you say that.
SHAKESPEARE
But I think!
PAINTER
That’s debatable.
SHAKESPEARE
Be realistic!
PAINTER
But I hate realism.
SHAKESPEARE
Surrealism.
PAINTER
Now, that’s the thing.
SHAKESPEARE
C’mon, snap out of it.
PAINTER
He loves my paintings! I’ll be rolling in it.
SHAKESPEARE
Is that all it is? Money?
PAINTER
No.
SHAKESPEARE
So why are you running away with him?
PAINTER
He’s cute.
SHAKESPEARE
Oh, gimmee a break! He’s a goon!
PAINTER
Don’tchoo talk about him like that! I made him! He loves
my work!
SHAKESPEARE
But he isn’t real!
PAINTER
Real is overrated.
SHAKESPEARE
He’s a figment of your imagination.
PAINTER
He’s rich.
SHAKESPEARE
He’s unreal.
PAINTER
He’s cute.
SHAKESPEARE
He’s imaginary.
PAINTER
He loves my work.
SHAKESPEARE
Unreal.
PAINTER
Rich.
SHAKESPEARE
Product of fancy.
PAINTER
Cute.
SHAKESPEARE
Lacking substance.
PAINTER
Rich.
SHAKESPEARE
Such stuff as dreams are made of.
PAINTER
Oh poop!
SHAKESPEARE
Face it, Painter. He just doesn’t exist!
(There is an audible pop. Suddenly, an
expression of dread comes over her.
She drops everything and runs out the
door.)
SHAKESPEARE (cont’d)
Hey, wait!
(He follows her. The stage is empty
for a moment. Then, Painter stamps
back in with Shakespeare right behind
her.)
PAINTER
Oh, thanks a lot, Shakespeare, how he’s gone.
(A sad expression overcomes her.)
PAINTER (cont’d)
My love is gone, and it’s all your fault. You did it!
SHAKESPEARE
I didn’t do anything. I didn’t say anything that wasn’t
so.
PAINTER
You made him disappear.
SHAKESPEARE
Oh, yeah, right, like he existed in the first place.
PAINTER
He did! And he was more man that you’ll ever be!
SHAKESPEARE
HA!
(pause)
SHAKESPEARE (cont’d)
You don’t really mean that.
PAINTER
You’re so mean!
SHAKESPEARE
But, I didn’t do anything!
(Painter plops down on the couch, arms
folded, pouting. Shakespeare plops
himself at the opposite end, and pouts
as well. After a pause, there is a
kock at the door. They both start,
change expression, then together jump
up and race for the door. Shakespeare
gets there first. He opens the door
cautiously. In steps Whiteshirt.)
WHITESHIRT
I’ve come for the rent, the rent, the rent.
PAINTER
Oh jeez.
SHAKESPEARE
I don’t suppose loverboy gave you any money before he
left.
PAINTER
Well, he did. But it disappeared when you dissed him.
WHITESHIRT
You mean...
PAINTER-SHAKESPEARE
(in unison)
No rent!
(Whiteshirt looks very depressed.
Then, he looks at the painting and
brightens.)
WHITESHIRT
Hey, you know! That’s a great painting! I’ll tell you
what. You give me that painting, and I’ll call us even.
PAINTER
(shocked)
Uh.. uh... yeah, sure... it’s yours.
WHITESHIRT
Great!
(He takes the painting from the easel
and carries it out happily.)
PAINTER
(after a pause)
You know... he’s kinda cute...
(Shakespeare’s eyes narrow. Annoyed,
he plops himself back down on the
couch, arms folded. He looks up,
thinking. His expression changes to
one of dreamy happiness. Moments pass
as they are both in a dreamy state.
Then there is a loud knock at the
door. This time Painter opens the
door. It’s a blonde MUSE. She peers
in, sees Shakespeare on the couch...)
MUSE
Hey, aren’t you Shakespeare? The famous playwright?
(Shakespeare remains in a dreamy state
of awe as Painter pushes Muse back out
the door and slams it. Lights out.)
END OF PLAY
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