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***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected copy proof***
Copyright © 2016 Richard Greenberg
AARON: The End.
. . .
By which I mean what exactly?
Once, briefly, I loved someone who hated quotations: she claimed they’d ruined her life.
Nevertheless:
“Death sanctions all stories,” wrote Walter Benjamin.
But does it?
And even if it does,
the end that comes with death is by definition
someone else’s and so can’t really bring us close to the notion. And for a
lapsed atheist like me—
by which I mean, I continue to believe there is no God but
suspect for me He might make an exception—even that final
ending is, possibly,
not so final.
. . .
But this is no kind of introduction. All right, then:
The year is 2014 and I am eighty-five years old. I look wonderful.
So much has turned out nicely.
. . .
And that’s about that for 2014. Listen:
There’s a story I’ve been meaning to tell and, I guess, avoiding for a long time.
It’s a simple story about a few events that took place in late fall and early winter forty-seven years ago and I may not come off well in it.
But if not now—when? So.
Okay:
The year is 1967 and I am thirty-eight years old. I look fretful.
So much has turned out badly.
Lights on a high school classroom.
Night.
Aaron is with Frieda and Anna.
FRIEDA: We wanted Anna and I
to take Contemporary Events and Politics, but that sold out
like a shot when they announced that Dr. Rose Franzblau might be a
Guest Speaker,
which I hear is not the case—
So back to registration and they ask us if we’d like to take
Flower Arranging, instead. It’s taught by John Scorfutto?
You know,
he owns Hempstead Turnpike Bloomery? (Oh, that’s right,
you’re not from here.) Well, I never use them.
Everything there is carnations; so cheap. Anyway, when it
comes to Flower Arranging I think I’m more of an expert than
John Scorfutto.
Whereas Anna, whenever she’s tried,
her flowers come out looking like gloves that nobody’s wearing.
So, no, thank you to Flower Arranging,
and they wonder, can we do Wednesdays?
As it happens, we can and writing was available so here we are.
ANNA: Actually, for me there was more to it than that. I’ve always
been a good writer.
I won a writing award in high school.
FRIEDA: Which was before they invented the pencil. You didn’t have
a dirty fingernail, you had to recite from memory.
No, I’m kidding,
However, my question is:
Will we be, in this class, expected actually to write?
AARON: It’s a writing class.
FRIEDA: Uh-huh.
Now, that perturbs me a little.
AARON: Don’t let it.
FRIEDA: I’m no James Michener.
AARON: I should hope not.
FRIEDA: I’m not claiming to be James Michener.
ANNA: Can we write about current affairs?
AARON: You may.
ANNA: Because that was the class we wanted to take.
AARON: I believe I knew that.
ANNA: Though this is exciting, too.
FRIEDA: But we haven’t been formally introduced: I’m Frieda Cohen.
You may have seen my house on the way over. It’s the one
with the well-known garden:
If you haven’t seen it in person, it was featured in Newsday.
My husband, Lou, is a chemist and I have two boys.
Todd is nineteen, Brian is seventeen—they’re the joy of my life.
And now let me introduce you to one of the most magnificent people you’re ever going to meet:
This is Anna Cantor,
who, for whatever reason, got started late in the childbearing game and has two adorable five-year-olds, Seth and Abby, who are twins!
ANNA: You don’t have to tell him they’re twins.
What? I have two five-year-olds who aren’t twins?
FRIEDA: I was just pointing out—
ANNA (TO AARON): Twins are a lot more common than is generally known.
Midge enters.
FRIEDA: Midge! I didn’t know you were taking this class!
MIDGE: French Cooking was full.
FRIEDA: Anna, you know Midge—from the Sisterhood.
ANNA: I’ve known her twenty years; you introduce us every time we meet. Hi, Midge. You look terrific!
MIDGE: Vitamin E.
FRIEDA: Mr. Port, this is another uncommonly superb person— Midge Braverman. Her husband is a CPA.
Her son is, what, fifteen? Michael. And her other son, Stewart, is a year or so older.
AARON: Nice to meet you.
MIDGE (RE: AARON): He’s a baby!
FRIEDA: Only comparatively—
AARON: I’m a lot older than I—
MIDGE: This is going to teach us to write?
AARON: I hope so—
Jack Hassenpflug enters, finds a seat.
FRIEDA: This gentleman I don’t know, you’re on your own with him.
AARON: If you’ll excuse me. I have to . . .
He heads for his desk.
Marc Adams enters, pauses in doorway, tentative.
FRIEDA: Oh my God—I don’t believe it.
MIDGE: Who is that?
ANNA: Marge Adams’ boy, Marc.
FRIEDA: It’s such a pity.
MIDGE: Which is Marge Adams?
FRIEDA: You’d only know her from the PTA, but she was before your time.
MIDGE: She’s not Sisterhood?
FRIEDA: Marge Adams?
ANNA: He’s not right, this Marc.
FRIEDA: He’s not right in the head. He had so much promise.
ANNA: A sports star.
FRIEDA: A bully, though, kind of a mean kid—
MIDGE: What happened?
ANNA AND FRIEDA: Drugs.
MIDGE: Ooohh. What drugs?
ANNA: Dope.
FRIEDA: And marijuana.
MIDGE (GETTING IT): He was a user.
ANNA: This brilliant kid, isn’t that terrible?
FRIEDA: On course to be valedictorian.
ANNA: Now all he does is take long walks and smile at everybody.
FRIEDA: Hello, he says. “Hello! Hello!”
ANNA: It’s—the loss—
FRIEDA: The loss.
Marc sees them.
MARC: Hello! Hello!
He finds a seat.
ANNA: In a way, he’s pleasant.
MIDGE: Such a shame.
ANNA: It happens.
MIDGE: These times.
FRIEDA: And he’s taking this class. Guttenyu.
They take desks.
AARON: I guess we can start. Hello. Good evening. Welcome.
This is, as you know, Creative Writing.
I’m your instructor. My name is Aaron Port.
Uh, first: Don’t feel you need to interpret the course title too rigidly. Any kind of writing is welcome: Fiction. Biography. Recipes.
Well, maybe not recipes.
What I mean to say is, this is not a highly formalized class.
That doesn’t seem appropriate to adult ed.
Anyway, that’s not how I like to learn so it won’t be how I, um, teach.
I like to learn things obliquely. Watchcries, dogma, interest me less.
The way this will work is you will write, we will read, comment. Little by little, knowledge will accrue.
Hemingway, whatever we may think of him, wrote: “Write the truest sentence you know.” Or something like that. I haven’t memorized it verbatim.
I don’t really like Hemingway much, he always sounds to me like a first-grade primer: Dick, Jane, and Ernie.
No one laughs.
But the true sentence . . . I that, I stand by that. All right.
Okay. Oh, by the way, I’m sorry but no smoking—I have asthma. So then.
You were asked to bring to this first class a sample of your writing, a little autobiographical something or . . .
along those lines.
Who would like to read first?
Silence and abashed expressions.
Shall I pick someone?
More deeply abashed expressions.
Has anyone brought anything?
Silence.
Okay, then.
Joan rushes in.
JOAN: Am I late?
They take her in. The three ladies look at one another with an opinion.
AARON: A little, but—
JOAN: I’m so sorry—
AARON: You’ve missed very little. You are Mrs. um . . . (CONSULTS PAGE)
JOAN: Joan.
AARON: Dellamond, is it?
JOAN: I’ll just sit here in the back.
She does.
AARON (A BIT THROWN BY HER): We were saying—write the truest thing you know. Hemingway . . . wrote um . . .
Beat.
Have you brought anything to read?
JOAN: Oh God, no.
Subtle lights and Aaron talks to us.
AARON: And so:
A forty-five minute vamp.
A general discussion of important topics in literature ensues.
Mrs. Cohen, Mrs. Cantor, and Mrs. Braverman become quite heated debating Norman Mailer on David Susskind the other night and the possibility that Truman Capote is a homosexual.
Ganug.
To the class:
Since no one has brought in anything, I’m going to end early, but I do ask that next week you come with something.
Anything.
A paragraph.
As I said, there are no restrictions. I’m
. . .
. . .
. . .
very excited about your potential.
Good night.
The class starts to leave.
In the back of the room, Joan remains.
Aaron sits at his desk, takes out a paperback, and starts to read it. Then he notices Joan.
AARON: May I help you?
JOAN: No.
Beat.
AARON: Is there something—
JOAN: I’m waiting for the ladies to disperse. They’re in the parking lot now ripping you to shreds,
I’d imagine—but cheerfully!—
and I’m waiting for them to be gone.
AARON: (NODS): Oh.
Beat.
Why?
JOAN: I don’t like being shunned.
AARON: Do they shun you?
JOAN: They do.
Well, not these, I’ve just met these, but . . . their ilk.
Beat.
You don’t have to stay with me—or do you have to lock up?
AARON: My train isn’t for another . . .
JOAN: Oh, I see.
AARON: Wantagh Station has few amenities this time of night.
JOAN: No.
And in daylight it’s even worse.
AARON: Usually when I come it’s dusk.
JOAN: Dusk is a little better.
AARON: There’s a—
JOAN (OVERLAPS): Dusk is
AARON: —clemency to it—
JOAN (OVERLAPS): nature’s candlelight.
AARON: Yes!
JOAN: Tricky, tricky dusk.
Beat.
So you do the reverse commute?
AARON: I do.
JOAN: My husband is a regular commuter.
AARON: Ah.
JOAN: Works in the city; doesn’t work at home.
AARON: That’s more standard.
JOAN: Levittown is not where people generally come seeking opportunities.
AARON: No.
JOAN: There have been no gold rushes in Levittown. No one, to my knowledge, auditions here.
AARON: A bedroom community.
JOAN: People do sleep here. I can attest to that.
. . .
If that should be necessary. For any reason.
Smiles awkwardly.
He smiles awkwardly back.
One would imagine that a person who lives in the city and works in Levittown would be involved in some singular pursuit.
He shrugs, smiles, conceding.
Or is a failure . . .?
A failure of some kind . . .?
AARON (AMUSED?): Why do the ladies shun you?
JOAN: Well, I don’t know that’s the word.
AARON: It’s your own word.
JOAN: They don’t really shun—not in a formal, not in a literal way.
. . .
No one’s Amish.
AARON: Ha.
JOAN: Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m a paranoiac.
I haven’t really made friends yet in Levittown.
AARON: It can take a while.
How long have you lived here?
JOAN: Eighteen years.
Beat.
AARON: That’s a long time, eighteen years.
JOAN (VAGUELY): Yes.
Beat.
Why do you have to travel so far to teach?
AARON (TOO QUICKLY): Oh, I’m not a teacher! I mean . . .
. . .
a friend knew of this job and so—
JOAN: Yes, I think I know what you mean. Well.
I wish you luck.
AARON: You are coming back?
Backing off:
Under six people, they can make us disband.
JOAN: I expect I’ll try . . . to try again. Even so, I wish you luck.
