The Distance From Here Read online

  ALSO BY NEIL LABUTE

  Bash: Three Plays

  COPYRIGHT

  CAUTION: Professionals and amateurs are hereby warned that performance of THE DISTANCE FROM HERE is subject to a royalty. It is fully protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America, and of all countries covered by the International Copyright Union (including the Dominion of Canada and the rest of the British Commonwealth), and of all countries covered by the Pan-American Copyright Convention, the Universal Copyright Convention, the Berne Convention, and of all countries with which the United States has reciprocal copyright relations. All rights, including professional/amateur stage rights, motion picture, recitation, lecturing, public reading, radio broadcasting, television, video or sound recording, all other forms of mechanical or electronic reproduction, such as CD-ROM, CD-I, DVD, information storage and retrieval systems and photocopying, and the rights of translation into foreign languages, are strictly reserved. Particular emphasis is placed upon the matter of readings, permission for which must be secured from the Author’s agent in writing.

  The stage performance rights for THE DISTANCE FROM HERE are controlled exclusively by The Joyce Ketay Agency.

  Inquiries concerning all other rights should be addressed to The Joyce Ketay Agency, 1501 Broadway, Suite 1908, New York, NY 10036, attn: Joyce Ketay.

  First published in the United States in 2003 by

  The Overlook Press, Peter Mayer Publishers, Inc.

  New York, NY

  141 Wooster Street

  New York, NY 10012

  www.overlookpress.com

  [for individual orders, contact [email protected]]

  Copyright © 2002 by Neil LaBute

  Production photographs © Ivan Kyncl

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.

  ISBN 978-1-46830-405-3

  CONTENTS

  COPYRIGHT

  ALSO BY NEIL LABUTE

  PREFACE

  THE MONKEY CAGE

  THE LIVING ROOM

  THE MALL BUS STOP

  THE LIVING ROOM

  THE SCHOOL PARKING LOT

  THE LIVING ROOM

  THE EMPTY LOT

  THE DETENTION CENTER

  THE LIVING ROOM

  THE PET STORE

  THE LIVING ROOM

  THE PENGUIN POOL

  THE LIVING ROOM

  THE WALL OF THE ZOO

  For John Lahr

  “O plunge your hands in water, Plunge them in up to the wrist; Stare, stare in the basin And wonder what you’ve missed.”

  —W.H. AUDEN

  “Oh well, whatever, nevermind.”

  —KURT COBAIN

  PREFACE

  I KNOW THESE GUYS. Well, maybe not “know” know them, but I know them.

  The people that populate the landscape of The Distance from Here are very familiar to me, much more like the kind of folks I grew up around than the fairly privileged, white collar, white bread men and women I’ve spent the last few years writing about. Don’t get me wrong, I know those people too, but the Darrells, Tims, and Jenns of this world hold a special place in my mind. A unique, uncomfortable space that says, “Damn, that could’ve been me.” Even growing up in America, I think most of us are only two detentions and one dead-end job away from ending up just another failed dreamer with a difficult childhood and lousy luck. You make another couple mistakes, have a baby or two, start pulling down minimum wage, and you might be staring real trouble in the face. A fellow like Darrell, however, doesn’t even have that chance. In high school, I sat next to a bunch of boys like Darrell and Tim in woodshop and algebra and study hall and watched them simmer and burn and consistently pull down a solid D– in nearly every subject. They knew, even at sixteen, that they had absolutely no hope in this life and they were pretty pissed about it. Pretty damn pissed indeed.

  The Distance from Here takes a whack at capturing some of that teenage rage in a story about families. Shattered families, to be sure, but families all the same. The absent fathers that haunt the pages of this play are not the only “missing persons” here; emotionally, Darrell and company went AWOL a long time ago. Darrell, his friends, and the other characters of this story are banging their collective heads against the bars of their cage, not exactly sure whether they’re trying to get out or to get back in. As people, I’d probably give them wide berth if we ran into each other in McDonald’s. As characters, they make me laugh, they make me frustrated, they make me sad. They also make me wish I were a better person, which I guess is saying something.

  When I was in high school in Washington State, there was a myth that ran through our hallways; our own little urban myth, in fact, about a boy and girl who had dated since junior high. I still remember their faces. It was whispered that she had gotten pregnant on several occasions and, whenever it happened, the boy would pound the girl in the stomach until she miscarried. That story stayed with me for a long time, right up until I wove it into the dramatic fiber of this play. I hope it has finally left me now, a part of this world and no longer a frightening image from my teen years. I think that is often why writers write and painters paint and musicians play their instruments. It’s not just because they have a gift, but also to create something even slightly more beautiful or coherent or illuminating than the frenzied, scrambled memories of their own pasts. The Distance from Here is some sort of effort on my part, then, to acknowledge a kind of person I’ve always known well but consciously and constantly marginalized. I never liked the way those kids dressed, or the music they listened to, or the way they talked, so from the beginning they were, in essence, dead to me. This is my attempt at a resurrection.

  The Distance From Here was first performed by the Almeida Theatre Company on May 2, 2002. It was directed by David Leveaux; the set design was by Giles Cadle; the costume design was by Edward K. Gibbon; the lighting design was by Mark Henderson; the sound design was by Fergus O’Hare; US casting was by Daniel Swee; UK casting was by Fiona Weir; the fight director was Alison de Burgh; the production manager was Paul Skelton; the company manager was Rupert Carlile; the company stage manager was Maris Sharp; the deputy stage manager waas Sophie Gabszewicz, the assistant stage managers were Helena Lane-Smith and Simon Wilcock; the costume supervisor was Edward K. Gibbon; wardrobe supervision was by Meg Lawrence; Almeida artistic directors: Jonathan Kent and Ian McDiarmid. The cast was as follows:

  Darrell

  Mark Webber

  Tim

  Jason Ritter

  Cammie

  Amy Ryan

  Shari

  Ana Reeder

  Rich

  Enrico Colantoni

  Jenn

  Liesel Matthews

  Girl

  Malaya Rivera Drew

  Boy

  Joshua Brody

  Employee

  Alan Sayce

  SILENCE. DARKNESS.

  THE MONKEY CAGE

  Thick steel bars surround a dusty replica of an African landscape. A large PLEASE DO NOT FEED THE ANIMALS! on a metal sign.

  Two teens stand near the exhibit, peering through the bars. Both about seventeen. Concert T-shirts, baggy jeans, Nikes. DARRELL has long hair and cunning eyes. He’d have an angel’s face if not for the downward twist his mouth makes. TIM is taller, with a softer look about him altogether. Not muscular yet, but carrying plenty of bulk.

  T
IM scratches at his leg, lost in thought, while DARRELL tosses the last of a candy bar into the cage.

  DARRELL

  —fucking apes, huh?

  TIM

  Yeah.

  DARRELL

  They gotta be so cheery about?

  TIM

  Dunno—

  DARRELL

  Shitting up their cage, eating all sorts ’a tropical crap give you the runs your whole life through—

  TIM

  Uh-huh—

  DARRELL

  And filthy little babies hanging from your backsides . . . ’s a bullshit life! 12 x 12 pen’s your kingdom and you don’t know shit about whatever.

  TIM leans forward, scratching and studying the animals.

  TIM

  —they got nothing on us.

  DARRELL

  Wipe that smile off your fucking faces! (BEAT) Ecstasy for no apparent reason—

  TIM

  Yep.

  DARRELL

  Hey, lookit that one . . . hanging there, picking at herself like she’s got a lifetime ahead of ’er. (loudly) Shoot a documentary on your ass, squeeze a couple kids outta you and you’ll be a fucking ashtray on somebody’s coffee table time the new year rolls around! Stupid ass chimp . . .

  (TIM suddenly jumps back and pulls hard at his leg. He shakes the denim with fury and stamps at the ground. DARRELL looks over casually at his friend but waits a bit before speaking.)

  . . . fuck you doing?

  TIM

  Ants! Ants or something!

  DARRELL

  Come on, man—

  TIM

  Ouch! Fucking oww!!

  DARRELL

  Can’t take you anywhere, I’m serious.

  TIM

  Crawling up my leg, for chrissakes!

  DARRELL

  Fucking production number—

  TIM

  Red ants doing at the zoo in October?!

  TIM dances about while DARRELL watches.

  DARRELL

  They on your thighs yet? That ain’t good—

  TIM

  Scratching my ass off . . . sue these fuckers for this, talk to my dad or something!

  DARRELL

  Call St. Louis about bugs? Yeah, your old man’d really get into some ’a that shit.

  TIM

  Fuck!

  DARRELL

  —then maybe he can chase you around the neighborhood with a hammer, like he used to.

  TIM

  He said “gimme a jingle ya need anything” smart ass! (BEAT) They’re, like, hiding in the fucking seams, gonna pinch me for six weeks from now!! Damnit!!!

  DARRELL looks back at the monkeys again while TIM goes down on the sidewalk, clawing at his inseam.

  DARRELL

  Don’t worry about your fucking stone wash, man, they can crawl up your dick, make their way to the prostate, article I read once—

  TIM

  Up yours!

  DARRELL

  No, up yours, that’s what I’m telling you.

  TIM

  Fucking pinchers! Awwww!!

  DARRELL

  I fuck you not . . . Geographic magazine or something, study in Indonesia, some country you can’t find on a map you look for twenty minutes—

  TIM

  Fuck!

  DARRELL

  Not out to frighten you, hell no, but they crawl right in the hole, hang out in the folds ’til you doze off, they got a dozen ways to go about it, but climb right in and pitch a fucking pup tent knee-deep in your testes, later tonight.

  TIM

  That’s bullshit!!

  DARRELL

  Wish it was, man, but it drove some dude half insane in, like, Sri Lanka. Ran through the bazaar and killed, maybe, forty guys or something with a machete . . . and they let him go. Yeah! ’Cause ants up your dick are some kinda legal hitch, most countries that part ’a the world—

  TIM now looks petrified. He glances about, then begins tearing his jeans off and pawing at himself.

  TIM

  Fuck that!

  DARRELL

  I’ll keep watch, tell ya if any girls are coming, shit like that—

  TIM (checking himself)

  —don’t see any.

  DARRELL

  Nah?

  TIM

  The hell I’m so itchy for?

  DARRELL

  Don’t know, Tim . . . not your conscience, so I dunno.

  (After a bit more scratching, TIM stands and buttons his fly. DARRELL waits until he is nearly finished.)

  Yeah, as long as you checked your thing we’ve got no problem. I mean, you did examine it, right?

  TIM

  Huh?

  DARRELL

  ’Cause those little fucks are nothing if not cagey. (BEAT) I just don’t wanna see you driven nutty, that’s all . . .

  (TIM sizes this idea up, then looks about. He begins pulling down his pants again, hunching over protectively in his underwear while examining himself. DARRELL watches, amused.)

  Don’t worry, Tim, looks like the most natural thing in the world, take your time—

  TIM

  Shut up! You see any on me?!

  DARRELL

  Uh-uh.

  TIM

  Fucking red marks all over—

  DARRELL (pointing)

  That one on your calf?

  TIM

  Where?!!

  DARRELL

  Back ’a the knee—

  TIM

  Ahh, no. Birthmark.

  DARRELL

  All pink like that?

  TIM

  Yeah, since I was a kid—

  DARRELL

  That’s pretty—

  TIM

  You fucker . . . (BEAT) Come on, you see ’em or anything? Fucking Hanes underwear in a public place—

  DARRELL

  Don’t be ashamed. You got a legit beef with these guys, wear whatever the fuck you want—

  TIM

  Come on, help me!

  DARRELL leans forward, examining TIM a bit more intently.

  DARRELL

  Nope—

  TIM

  Fucking ants. (looks again) Don’t see nothing . . .

  (DARRELL laughs to himself.)

  Just knock it off!

  DARRELL

  —so pull on your pants, then, you got no troubles. Look like a fucking homo—

  TIM

  ’Kay. You dick.

  TIM works at pulling his jeans back on over his shoes. DARRELL fires up a smoke.

  DARRELL

  Let’s blow this—

  TIM

  Yeah. (BEAT) You wanna go back for gym, last couple periods?

  DARRELL

  Fuck you think?

  TIM

  Right.

  DARRELL

  Head on over to the mall, if ya wanna—

  TIM

  Sounds good. Time you gotta be home?

  DARRELL

  Whenever—

  TIM

  Time your mom get in from work?

  DARRELL

  Two-thirty, three, something around there—

  TIM

  Oh. (BEAT) What about her boyfriend? He works over at the, what, Ken-L-Ration plant or somewhere like that, right?

  DARRELL

  I guess.

  TIM

  Time he come over? I mean, usually?

  DARRELL

  Hey, you taking a fucking census or something?!

  TIM

  No—

  DARRELL

  Kinda fucking game show shit is this?! Huh? I don’t gotta be home no time—

  TIM

  Sorry.

  DARRELL

  Worry about it. You hungry or not?

  TIM

  Yeah.

  DARRELL

  Me too. Get us some eats, “International Food Fair.” ’Kay?

  TIM

  Sounds good.

  DARRELL

  —means we get some hot sauce on a f
ucking burger, some mexi-fries—

  TIM

  Food’s not bad . . . lot ’a tables, anyway.

  DARRELL

  It’s okay. At least better’n the fucking joint you work at—

  TIM

  —hey, ’s money.

  DARRELL

  Whatever. Fucking Chink food, Tim, that’s stooping pretty low.

  TIM

  Uh-huh.

  DARRELL

  Way the fuck down there—

  TIM

  I know. (BEAT) Need some bucks, though, ’s why I took it.

  DARRELL looks over at TIM, poking him with a finger.

  DARRELL

  Whatever . . . (BEAT) You did check on the inside, right? I mean, pull it open and all? ’Cause I don’t want you showing up at our place all hours with a fucking cleaver or that kinda shit—my mom’s boyfriend’d kick your ass.

  In spite of himself, TIM laughs at this.

  TIM

  I looked. I fucking did!

  DARRELL

  Good for you. (BEAT) Me, I could never do that, mess around down there, don’t got the stomach for it. Feel like a total fag—

  TIM

  Just shove it.

  DARRELL

  All right, we’re outta here . . . fucking primates, had enough for one day. Like my step-nephew, plays all fucking day, still don’t get enough. I hate that age—

  TIM

  Which?

  DARRELL

  Little. I hate ’em when they’re little.

  TIM

  —yeah.

  DARRELL

  Let’s go check out the new Nikes, something like that.

  TIM

  Sounds good.

  DARRELL

  Whatever. (toward the apes) You got anything we can heave at these fuckers before we take off?

  TIM

  Nah.

  DARRELL

  Couple quarters? Maybe a rock?

  TIM

  No . . . I don’t got nothing.

  DARRELL

  Ahh, fuck it. Let’s go . . .

  (TIM makes a sudden move and noise that scatters the apes and causes a frightening chatter. TIM and DARRELL smile at this.)

  Fucking simians . . . they just don’t get it, do they?

  THE LIVING ROOM

  Well worn and threadbare. Not messy but cheap. Really cheap. Matching chairs and couch. TV in the corner, on and loud.