THREE DAYS OF RAINRichard Greenberg

Walker is talking to his sister Nan, while reading his dead father’s secret journal. Walker wants Nan to give him her share of the famous house that their father built. WALKER: “May 12, 1972: A terrible night.”[…]No—I am not making this up:“May 12, 1972: A terrible night.” That evening—[…] This is the only sentence he devotes to it. In my delirium, I thought maybe a page was missing, but no, the subsequent entry is right in place: “May 13, 1972: Food at New York Hospital surprisingly edible.”[…] I mean, it really is the most extraordinary document. The first thing you notice when you start reading is the style: It doesn’t have one. And it manages to sustain that for hundreds of pages – you flip through – narratives of the most wrenching events, and the affect is entirely flat – wait – listen to this – winter of 1966 – you know, when Theo is going under? Listen to our father’s rendering: “January 3 – Theo is dying.” “January 5—Theo is dying.” “January 18” – (I’ll skip a little) – “Theo is dead.”I mean! His partner. Best and oldest friend: “Theo dying, Theo dying, Theo dead.” You could sing it to the tune of “Ob-La-Di”. And it’s all like that. Every entry. Years and years of – wait—this is the best of all – the first note – the kickoff, you’ll –listen. “1960, April 3rd to April 5th – Three days of rain.” (Beat.) Okay. Look. Let’s – Reconstruct along with me a moment. You are this young man, ambitious, of course – what architect isn’t ambitious? And it’s that moment when you’re so bursting with feeling that people aren’t enough, your art isn’t enough, you need something else, some other way to let out everything that’s in you. You buy this notebook, this volume into which you can pour your most secret, your deepest and illicit passions. You bring it home, commence – the first sacred jottings – the feelings your couldn’t contain. “April 3rd to April 5th: Three days of rain.” A weather report. A fucking weather report! (Beat. He quiets down). You know, the thing is with people who never talk, the thing is you always suppose they’re harboring some enormous secret. But, just possibly, the secret is, they have absolutely nothing to say. (Beat).

THE FOOD CHAIN

By Nicky Silver

Otto is lamenting that Ford (the man he is in love with) doesn’t return the affection. Here he has a gun and seems to be threatening harm to himself and/or the other characters in the room. This is taken from the alternate ending of TFC, which has a few endings.

OTTO: No one ever liked me. Mother, you carry pictures in your wallet of people you never met, instead of picture of me! … When I was a child, I was in the sixth grade, I think, we had a dance at my school on the first day of May, a Sadie Hawkins dance. It was silly, it was nothing--is it hot in here as Buchenwald, or what? ---Anyway, the girls were supposed to ask the boys to dance. And I was not an unattractive child! Tell them, Mother. I wasn’t fat then. I didn’t have clubbed feet or dandruff or anything. I was quite normal looking and maybe even a little better than normal looking. But NO ONE asked me to dance...no one. The entire dance went by and not one little girl ever came over and asked me to dance. I went to the cloak room and cried and cried. The teacher, Miss MacFarland, I’ll never forget her. Miss MacFarland heard me. She came to the cloak room, drawn there by my hideous, shrieking sobs. And she knelt down, next to me, down to where I’d curled myself into the fetal position on the floor, buried under a mountain of coat. She uncovered me and said…. “Otto, Otto, why are you crying?” I could barely talk. But I spoke in that spastic, convulsive way children do when they’re sobbing. I said, “No one will dance with me.” She nodded very sagely, the chain that held her glasses around her neck bobbed up and down. And then she said, “Oh.” I wasn’t satisfied. That wasn’t the comfort I needed. I asked her, “Why?” She thought for a very long time. And then she answered me…”No one likes you, Otto. No one likes you and no one ever will…”