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Let's Learn About Unfinished Six-Year-Old Plays, Administrative Offices of Cemeteries, and a Dead 128-Year-Old New York State Governor!
by Eric Cohen, the Clown on Stilts
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Gov. Herbert H. Lehman (1878-1963): governor of New York State (1933-1942)
John Cutsogeorge, 61: manager of St. Morrison's Cemetery
Brian Rombola, 18: college student; temping at St. Morrison's (enters names into database)
Christina Ambrosino, 19: college student; works as a part-time secretary for Mr. Cutsogeorge
Barbara Karpf: irate client whose husband’s name was misspelled on an epitaph
It is a hot July morning at the dilapidated administrative office of St. Morrison's, a small cemetery in Staten Island, New York. An old, ratty light fixture holding a single incandescent light bulb hangs from the ceiling. At the back of the stage is an open window; next to it, an electric clock reading just past 9:30 am, and a giant electric fan. There are three desks, each with a computer. JOHN CUTSOGEORGE, the crusty, aging manager of the cemetery, sits at a desk by the window; BRIAN and CHRISTINA sit across from each other toward the front of the stage. BRIAN has spiked and dyed hair, various piercings, and is wearing a T-shirt of a hard rock band and huge-fitting jeans. He is wearing a headset and reading the latest copy of Spin magazine. CHRISTINA is dressed neatly but casually, all in black.
Play opens with TELEPHONE RINGING. CHRISTINA answers the phone after several rings.
CHRISTINA
Good morning, St. Morrison's.
…Yes, Barbara, Mr. Cutsogeorge is in.
(To Cutsogeorge) John, it's Barbara Karpf on line one.
CUTSOGEORGE
Tell her I'm not here.
CHRISTINA
John, she says it's urgent.
CUTSOGEORGE
I'm not talking to that woman. Trust me, she can wait.
CHRISTINA
Um, all right.
(Taking phone off hold) Barbara, I'm afraid he's on the other line at the moment. Can I take a message for you?
…Yes, Barbara, I know he's been on the other line all fifty-seven times you've called this past week. It's really busy here. People are dying left and right.
…I'm sorry, that's just the way it is.
…Goodbye. (Hangs up phone.)Oh my God.
CUTSOGEORGE
I don't know what the hell is wrong with her. Everything is urgent, urgent.
What could be so urgent? This is a fucking cemetery.
She should be in no hurry to do business with us.
CHRISTINA
Why is she always calling, anyway?
CUTSOGEORGE
I don't know. Something about a misspelled name on her husband's epitaph.
CHRISTINA
How do you spell "Karpf," anyway?
CUTSOGEORGE
We spelled it K-R-A-P. What the hell is the big deal?
It's not like spending a thousand bucks to get the fucking monument sandblasted is going to bring him back to life. I don't know what's wrong with these people. My God.
I'm going to get some coffee. Brian, I'll have a name for you to enter in the database when I get back. If anybody calls, Christine, tell them I died.
Christina and Brian exchange bewildered looks. Distant sound of Cutsogeorge's car engine revving, and racing away.
BRIAN
Why the hell did my temp agency send me here? They said they had a huge data-entry assignment at St. Morrison's.
CHRISTINA
Oh, John wanted to do some updating. Only six of the nine people buried here are entered into our database, and I'm scared of computers.
BRIAN
I fucking hate the summer. I fucking hate life altogether. Everybody sucks. I thought I'd be working in a church, not a goddamn cemetery.
CHRISTINA
Most people who are sent here seem to say that. What's your name again?
BRIAN
Brian Rombola. Yours?
CHRISTINA
Christina, but you can call me Chris. Don't worry, babe, this is gonna be a lot more fun than church. Want to walk around the graves later?
BRIAN
This is the fucking worst, man. My agency has sent me to every fucking piss-ass joint under the sun. Last week they called me with this job as a "petroleum assistant" for some company on Hylan Boulevard. I ended up pumping gas every night at an Amoco station. The week before that, they called frantic at eight o'clock on Friday night because they needed a "transportation specialist." Next thing I know I'm driving a fucking cheese bus for Pioneer. Now I'm here at a cemetery, a fucking cemetery. I can't take this shit anymore. When will this fucking summer end?
CHRISTINA (lustily)
I'll make it worth your while, Brian.
BRIAN
(very shaky)…Oh.
CHRISTINA
You're cute. Say, do you like Type O Negative?
BRIAN
Nah. Too gothic for me. I like the Offspring.
CHRISTINA
Oh, man, they're great, too. Dexter Holland has an ass that won't quit. God, I'd do him.
BRIAN
I just like the music.
CHRISTINA (romantically rolling her chair over toward Brian’s)
You're really cute, Brian Rombola.
(Phone rings) Fuck, fuck, fuck! (Rolls her chair back, and picks up the phone)Good morning, St. Morrison's.
…No, this isn't St. Patrick's Cathedral. You have the wrong number.
…I'm sorry, but I don't know.
…Try calling 411, maybe. Or call the pope. I really don't know those numbers offhand.
Goodbye.
(Slams down the phone) JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!
BRIAN
I'm not so sure I'd yell that name so loud in a place like this, Christina.
CHRISTINA
Oh, don't worry about it. The devil has a nice room prepared for me.
Come over to my house later.
BRIAN
Gee, I was never so good at making friends before.
CHRISTINA (quickly putting her arms around Brian’s chest)
Let's ditch this place and go for a walk in back…
BRIAN (visibly uncomfortable)
This place is freaking me out. I can't believe I'm really working here.
CHRISTINA
This is only the beginning, sugar. Only the beginning.
A quick but distinctly noticeable rumbling noise is heard.
BRIAN
What the hell was that?
CHRISTINA
You're so nervous, Brian. Why?
BRIAN
I heard something from the graveyard. I swear, I fucking heard something.
CHRISTINA (laughing)
You're so funny!
Brian, those people are dead out there!
BRIAN
You can never be too certain.
I've heard plenty of songs about freaks who were buried alive. Scary shit.
CHRISTINA
You've been playing your Metallica way too loud, babe.
The same rumbling noise is heard, but this one is sustained, continuing for at least 6-7 seconds.
BRIAN
You can't tell me you didn't hear that.
CHRISTINA
John must be coming back. His car is fucking old.
He drives like a '76 Dodge, and I think it's still got the original muffler.
BRIAN
Does he ordinarily drive his car through the graveyard?
CHRISTINA
Uhh, no.
BRIAN
I think I need to call my temp agency and get the fuck out of here. I'm seriously getting creeped out. How do you work this phone? (As he says that, the rustling resumes, twice as loud as before).
WITHERED OLD VOICE FROM OUTSIDE
I would prefer to be called a 'non-living citizen'!
CHRISTINA
I wonder who that is.
BRIAN
Uhhhh…
WITHERED OLD VOICE
Where is the way in?
The sun is fierce, and there are bugs!
CHRISTINA
It's just around the corner!
A knock at the door.
WITHERED OLD VOICE
My right hand is arthritic!
I can't turn this blasted thing!
BRIAN
What the fuck is happening?
CHRISTINA
Oh, someone's rising from the dead.
Christina opens the door. Enter GOVERNOR HERBERT H. LEHMAN, an incredibly blanched and wrinkled 121-year-old wearing a raggedy suit, who can barely walk under his own power.
BRIAN
Holy mother of Godsmack.
CHRISTINA
Can I help you, sir?
GOV. LEHMAN
I am here to live the rest of my life!
Where are the frankfurters and sauerkraut?
CHRISTINA
I should call Mark and ask him to get us some.
BRIAN
I don't fucking believe this. A fucking dead guy is asking us for hot dogs.
GOV. LEHMAN
How dare you use profanity to an elder!
Do you swear at your mother and father?
BRIAN
All the time.
GOV. LEHMAN
For shame.
My old man would have given me thirty lashes for using such vulgar language!
BRIAN (pinches himself)
Ow.
Shit, this really is happening.
CHRISTINA
I don't know when you're from, sir, but we curse all the time now, and hitting kids is against the law.
GOV. LEHMAN
What kind of disrespectful chaps are you, anyway?
And where are the frankfurters?
CHRISTINA
Who are you, anyway?
BRIAN
Yeah, who the hell are you.
GOV. LEHMAN (livid, at Brian)
The better question is, who the hell do you think you are?
I am Governor Herbert H. Lehman!
Haven't you ever picked up a history book in your life, beatnik?
BRIAN
What the fuck did you just call me, you old piece of shit.
CHRISTINA
No, wait a second, Bri, this man is real important.
They named a Staten Island Ferry after him.
My ex-boyfriend was obsessed with the ferry. That's the boat we rode on together.
BRIAN
Holy shit.
GOV. LEHMAN
I have a good mind to report you to the Board of Regents if you continue to use that language, young man.
BRIAN
Geez, sorry.
You were really a governor?
GOV. LEHMAN
I was the governor of New York State from 1933 to 1942, Democratic Party.
I served as lieutenant governor under Franklin Delano Roosevelt.
I bet you don't even know who Franklin Delano Roosevelt is, you little whipper-snapper.
BRIAN
Fuck, man, you’re old. No wonder why you're so bent out of shape.
CHRISTINA
I could go for a Whipper Snapple now. I'll tell Mark to bring one of those, too.
GOV. LEHMAN
What the devil is going on here?
Where am I, anyway?
What year is this?
BRIAN
I don't know where you're living, but we're living in the year 1999.
GOV. LEHMAN (feels faint)
Lord, have mercy.
Herb!
an unfinished play
Copyright 1999 by Eric Cohen
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Today's LLA Circus Performer, Eric Cohen, is a writer/non-profit something-or-other from Staten Island, New York. His hobbies include writing poetry about attractive women he sees in the subway, driving aimlessly in an old car, and listening to ‘80s music. Eric is the author of the short stories "Enjoy the Silence," "Second Grade for Lawyers" and "A Ferry Tale," none of which are available in a store near you. He knows more about the New York City subway system and the Staten Island Ferry than you’d ever care to know, unless you are as dorky as he is, which would be really awesome. Eric is proud to live under a rock, and just might be the only 25-year-old New Yorker to not own an iPod OR a video game set, but he does have a Live Journal page where his off-the-wall writing is featured: www.livejournal.com/herb_lehman.
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