Current Occupants

a short play by Aaron Kaplan I believe that scripts are kits to create realities. I want to see DIY theatre and I want to see theatre that has nothing to do with illusions and I want to see theatre that doesn’t need state funding and Masters degrees. I want to see theatre performed by people who are not theatre people. I want to see theatre attended by people who are not theatre people. I want punk theatre and I want it now. Anyone who can copy this play can read it and perform it, as they will. I only ask that I be credited in the performance. Find me online at deathoftheactor.tumblr.com

Dark. Jangling keys. Voices from off. GRETA. (Struggling with door) I can never, remember, which fucking key it is. SUSAN. It’s always been like this. The whole house is sinking towards the front. Squeezes the door to it’s— GRETA. (Suddenly managing it) breaking point? Light pours across the basement floor from outside. Cardboard boxes and central junk is now illuminated. Two women make their way inside, and shut the door behind them. It gets dark again. SUSAN. There we go. It’s warm down here. GRETA. I love it. This winter, I’d honestly come down here for hours to “practice”, and basically just huddle near the heater. SUSAN. What do you play? Fumbling. Greta pulls on one of those light bulb chains, and is standing under it, bass strung around her. Rock and roll pose. SUSAN. Lovely. GRETA. (Playing the riff from “Seven Nation Army”) I am a truly devoted musician. I am dedicated only to my art. SUSAN. Can we get some more light in here? Greta flips the light switch and the whole basement is illuminated dimly. She puts down the ax. SUSAN. Oh my God. GRETA. Sorry, I know, it’s a mess. It is. SUSAN. No, no, it’s exactly as I left it. Better. GRETA. Ah, so the Snow St. Landfill predates you?

SUSAN. Frankly, I’m glad to see it. The whole apartment feels different now. You guys have, brightened up the place. When I was living here it was dark, and dirty, and kind of a punk house. Huge mice. GRETA. Yeah? SUSAN. You’ve seen them? GRETA. (Shrugging) We have a, cat. SUSAN. I don’t think they had been invented yet when I was here. GRETA. How long ago were you here? SUSAN. It must have been… God, 11, 12, years ago? GRETA. Whoa. SUSAN. A lot has changed since I left. Who knew I’d been living in the bougie part of town? GRETA. Yeah, it’s gotten pretty— SUSAN. Yeah. GRETA. I dunno, I like it. How much was rent when you lived here? SUSAN. It was $1,150 for my floor. GRETA. Hey, that’s what I pay! SUSAN. Imagine that. GRETA. Go Snow St. SUSAN. Go Snow St. All right, I guess I could start looking? GRETA. Right. What are we looking for again? SUSAN. Um, a box labeled MOM SHIT. A like, powder blue plastic thing. Squat. About this wide. My guess is it’s at the bottom of one of these piles of shit. If it’s here. GRETA. Do you expect it to be? SUSAN. Who knows? It’s worth looking, to me. GRETA. (Surveying the nonsense) Right. Like, which… zone do you think it would be in? SUSAN. I honestly don’t know. GRETA. Ok. I’m taking this side. SUSAN. You don’t need to help—

GRETA. No, it’s fine! I’ve been meaning to go through some of this shit since I moved in. SUSAN. (Smirking) Well, if you really don’t mind. Greta takes the right side. Susan takes the left. They work wordlessly for a minute, beginning to move stuff around. SUSAN. Greta? GRETA. (Looking up) Yeah? SUSAN. How old are you? GRETA. Um… I’m 23. SUSAN. Sorry. I just— GRETA. No, it’s fine. How old are you? SUSAN. (Does that thing where she sucks in air through clenched teeth) I just hit the 40 mark. GRETA. Really? You look great. SUSAN. Oh, shucks. GRETA. Why d’you want to know? SUSAN. You’re younger than I was when I was here. GRETA. Let’s see—40 minus 12, you were 28 or so when you were here? SUSAN. Yeah. GRETA. How long did you last? SUSAN. (Swallows) Almost a year. GRETA. Hm. They go back to sorting through the boxes. Every so often, they pull out a miscellaneous tchotchke and show it to the other. Susan laughs, Greta chuckles through her nose or rolls her eyes. GRETA. Sue-Susan? SUSAN. Hm? GRETA. While you’re here can I ask you a question that I’ve always wanted to ask? SUSAN. Shoot.

GRETA. Why do we still get your copy of Women’s Health, after all these years? SUSAN. You still get that, ey? My mom bought that for me, and I guess she kept renewing it. Thought I could use the inspiration, I suppose. GRETA. And a lot of other mail came for you. SUSAN. Anything good? GRETA. A whole envelope of it, apparently. They didn’t leave us with your address or number when you left, so I guess people have been saving your stuff in one of those big manila pockets. SUSAN. (Genuinely surprised) Really? GRETA. I was so excited to get that letter from you. It’s been sort of a long-running joke here, when someone’s knocking at the door and we don’t expect anyone, we say, “it must be Susan Long.” Just one of those names that you don’t really have a face for, you know? My roommates wished they could be here. SUSAN. I’m amazed I still get mail here. GRETA. I am too. You must have left behind a complicated life when you left. Awkward silence. GRETA. I, um, need to go outside for a cigarette. Want one? SUSAN. (Quick) No! GRETA. I’m… sorry. I’ll be back in a minute. Greta leaves, and Susan breathes. She kicks a cardboard box and a bunch of packing peanuts fall out. She scoops them up and in two hands and puts them back. As she bends down, she sees something. She reaches for it, pulls it out. Covers her mouth with one of her hands. It the container, just as she described—dusty. SUSAN. Shit.

Susan pulls out a chair from behind her, and sits down with the blue box on her lap. She opens the lid and pulls out a baby dress. Greta comes back in. GRETA. (Excited) You found it? SUSAN. (Ecstatic) I can’t believe it’s here. This is nuts! GRETA. Nice dress. SUSAN. My mom made it for me, when I was a little girl… and now, I’m going to give it to my little girl. GRETA. (Only a little slack-jawed) Your… little girl? SUSAN. Mm-hmm. That baby’s gonna be born with cobwebs. Knocked up at 40, isn’t that a hoot? I just, finally— GRETA. Congratulations! SUSAN. (Going through the box) I’m just so happy this stuff is still here. Look, this was my favorite book my mom read to me. The Little House. And, thanks. GRETA. Sweet. SUSAN. (Pulling out a cassette tape, under her breath) Oh Jesus. GRETA. This is amazing. I didn’t know this was down here. SUSAN. I didn’t think it was either. GRETA. It’s like you never left. Susan starts to cry. GRETA. Oh, oh— Susan continues to cry. SUSAN. I don’t know—I’m sorry. It’s just… GRETA. It’s ok! It’s ok. SUSAN. No, it’s not— GRETA. Susan, why did you leave? What happened?

SUSAN. My mom was dying. I had to go take care of her. And—I didn’t tell anyone, not even… GRETA. A boyfriend? SUSAN. A girlfriend. I tried writing but… no one ever wrote back. And this was all before cell phones; this was before everyone was “connected”. I just disappeared. GRETA. Fuck. SUSAN. I kept my mother alive twelve years. Life moves so fast when you put everything on hold. Now what do I do? GRETA. Well, have the baby for one thing. SUSAN. Yeah, but… She slumps down, back against the chair legs. SUSAN. Fuck. Greta sits next to her. GRETA. Hey. It’s going to be all right. Trust me. SUSAN. I’m sorry for being so crazy. I think it’s the hormones. GRETA. That’s ok. You’re just shocked to be home… Hey! I got something for you. I got all your mail for you. She retrieves a manila pocket from the door.

GRETA. (Reading a postcard) “Julie Long.” That your mom? SUSAN. (Perking up) Yes. Greta hands her the postcard. SUSAN. This is only dated six months ago. GRETA. Why would she write you here then? SUSAN. She had Alzheimer’s. In her mind, I was still 28 and living on Snow St. I never left. Susan’s hand trembles, and she reads the card aloud. SUSAN. “Dear Susan, I miss you greatly and can’t wait to see you for Christmas. I hope things are getting along out there, and I can’t wait to—to meet Rachel. I saw a girl who looked just like you today. She was very sweet but wouldn’t help me find my bus. Dad’s away on a business trip to New York. I’m sending you a pair of gloves. Don’t ask me where you find gloves in Florida. I think you’ll need them up there—it’s starting to get cold. Love, Moms.” Blackout.