JOE OPPENHEIMER - THE WRITING GROUP - A SHORT PLAY IN ONE ACT

​I have always been concerned about civil rights and justice.  Having served in the military, I was sensitized to problems of homeless vets.  Currently, I assist at a writers’ group in a center for the homeless in Maryland.  Experiences there birthed both this short play and essay.  I was excited when our editor, Roxana Nastase, said she’d consider a script for the theater.  Earlier, I was a professor of ‘behavioral economics,’ a mathematical and experimental sort of social science and philosophy, mainly at the University of Maryland.  I retired to invent worlds and put them on paper.  I mainly write stories and poems.  I have submitted a few and published some.  Much is on my website:http://gvptsites.umd.edu/oppenheimer/id43.htm.   

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                        The Writing Group: a short play in one act

Cast of 8 in order of appearance:

Mark – a white new volunteer – retired.  A bit of a casual slob.  70.  First time enthusiasm. 
Jack – a white, long time,  volunteer, also retired, age 78.  Well dressed, trimmed beard.  A gentleman.  Weary.
Mona – elderly, tired (72 black woman).  Dressed decently.  Heavy.  Balding with dreads.  Lacerations and a black eye on one side of her face.
Leila – elderly (68) Peruvian Indian woman, Spanish accent.  Unbent.  Could be played as any ethnic immigrant.
     Iris – middle aged woman, somewhat under the influence.  (Can be played by same person as who does SHEILA)
Stranj (pronounced Strange) – big, strong, bald, black man.  Approaching 40. 
Ted – short, pale black man.  Almost bald.  Approaching 50.  Intellectual looking.
SHEILA – Very attractive tall, slim black woman, smartly dressed, red tinted lines in her long flowing hair.  Sun glasses, long white coat, high healed boots. 
Stage set up: an overhead video camera projects the surface of the table to a screen ‘above or to the side of’ the scene so the audience can see what is being written from time to time.  Screen shots indicated by “TV.”

Scene:  A large room in a community center for the homeless.  No windows.  Walls painted bureaucracy  green.  Linoleum floor.  Stacked folding chairs on the left side.  Stacked folding tables on the right.  A couple of file cabinets closer to the front of the stage along the right wall.  An entrance door from an interior corridor slightly off center.  Hanging florescent lights, some don’t work.  Motivational posters on the wall.


      Jack walks in.  He is carrying a large box labeled (in big black letters).
“MAGIC MATERIALS
for
WRITERS’ GROUP”
      General hubbub off stage (in the corridor randomly including raised voices and general talk, etc. intermittent through out the play).  Mark enters.  Has some papers and a slim paperback book on a clipboard.
MARK:      Hi.  You must be Jack.  I’m Mark. 
JACK: Nice meeting you.  You’re my replacement, right?
MARK:      I’ve heard a lot about the group here.  Even read the piece in the paper about its history.  I even got hold of those publications of the writings.  Pretty interesting.  You’ve sure done some good things here.  Sandra said you’re thinking of moving on.  That right?
JACK: Yup.  That was a good piece in the Post.  As they wrote the group,  waxes and wanes.  We haven’t met in 4 months.  That’s the summer – the weather’s nice.  But it’s interesting.  You learn a lot.  But I’m gonna quit. 
MARK:      How come? 
JACK: It’s a lot of driving and I’ve got a pretty full plate.  I help with my grandson.  I’ll stick with this long enough to teach you the ropes.   Not much to learn.  But leading this group can be frustrating.  You give it your all.  Then no one shows up.  Weeks go by.  And then you just start the whole thing over.  It’s a lot like Sisyphus.
MARK:      Yeah, well life does butt in and creates weird patterns, doesn’t it?  Thanks for sticking around long enough to help me get my sea legs.
JACK:        For a while. . . . For a while.  Here’re some things you gotta know.  Of course, you can change what you don’t like.  First, there’s the box of materials.  They’re stored in Sandra’s office.  We gotta set up tables.  Let’s do it.  Here help me with these.
      They start to set up a few tables together to form one larger table with some chairs.  Jack sits down.  Mark continues with some more chairs, and then they banter . . .
JACK: I try to keep everything simple.  Anyone can come and write.  If they sit and don’t write, so what?  It can be a safe space to talk.  They can take a notebook.  At the end, I encourage them to share.  Or not.  No rules, of course.  They can tear out pages they write and take them with them, or leave the notebook here.  They can write their name on the notebook so it’s theirs for when they come to write again.  If they don’t come back after a while I tear out their pages and put it in an envelope for them.  Then I cross out their name on the notebook.  That’s it.  Oh, I often start with a quote, or a short reading, or whatever.  I like some of the poems by this minister I know.
Then (after a few seconds) - Mark looks in the box, Jack takes out a few notebooks and yellow pads and a bag of pens from the box.  
            Mona walks in. 
MONA:     Morning.
JACK: Hi.  I think you’re new, aren’t you?  Or have you been here before?
MONA:     You be right.  I’m Mona. 
MARK:      Nice to meet you.  I’m Mark.
JACK: And I’m Jack.
MONA:     You guys teach reading?
JACK: Not really.
MONA:     I can’t read.
MARK:      Not at all?
MONA:     Nope.  Isn’t this here a reading class?  (Sits down on a chair such that her wounds aren’t visible to Jack and Mark.) 
JACK: This is a writing group.  Not a reading group.  Ask at the desk.  They could help you get reading lessons. 
MONA:     (Not moving) I guess I could ask sometime. . . . I can’t read. 
MARK:      Mark looks at Jack, who remains totally impassive.  Mark after a few seconds of reflection – Well, since no one else is here, I could help you.  Do you know the alphabet? 
MONA:     Sure.  (Starts the alphabet; hesitates. leaves out ‘l’)
MARK:      Interrupting her: You left out ‘l.’
MONA:     Oh yeah.  Continues with ‘l’, after l says ‘q’ and then making a few more errors.  Mark doesn’t comment again.
MARK:      Can you write the alphabet?
MONA:     I think.  Most of them. 
            Mark moves over to sit next to Mona with his clipboard, and an attached yellow pad.
TV ON: shows Mona’s writing on the yellow pad
MARK:      Go ahead and write the alphabet. . . . Let’s see  . . . watching . . .  No, after G comes H, not J.  Ok. . . .  Good.  Wait. . . . No.  L comes before M. . . .  After T comes U not V.  OK, that’s all of them.  Now let’s talk about reading. 
MONA:     I already done told you I don’t read.
MARK:      We’re just talking about it.  We’ve got to talk about it if you want to learn to read.
MONA:     OK.
MARK:      Each letter represents some sounds.  Since you know how to speak the language, all you need to know is which sounds are represented by the different letters.  That will help you puzzle out the words you see when you see the letters.  Want to start?
MONA:      OK
MARK:      Let’s start with ‘B.’  What sort of sounds do you think that B would stand for in a word?
MONA:     I don’t know.
MARK:      Think about it.  What do you think it might be?
MONA:     (Hesitates, then . . . ) buh?
MARK:      Great.  That’s right.  And what about a T
MONA:     (Quicker, though not quickly) tuh?
MARK:      Great.  It’s not so hard.
            Leila walks in.  Looks at Mona.  Mona doesn’t look up.
LEILA:      Is this the reading group? 
TV: OFF
MARK:      No.  This is a writing group.
LEILA:      Well, that’s what I meant.  I’ve been here before.
JACK: Good to see you again Lillian.  I think we have your book here in the box.
LEILA:      I’m not Lillian.  I’m Leila, for sure.  And I have my own note book, Mr.  Jack.  I left it in the box.  I was here last winter.  I was here every week back then.
JACK: Oh yeah.  Glad you’re back. 
He looks through the notebooks, finds an old one with her name on it.  Gives it to her.
JACK: Glad you can get here.  Mark, Leila is a regular.  Or at least she was before last summer.  Weren’t you?
LEILA:      Now isn’t that what I just said?
MARK:      Nice to meet you, Leila.  (Then to MONA,)  Ask at the desk.  They’ll fix you up with reading lessons.  (Mark stands up, moves back to his first seat, with his clipboard and pad.)
            Mona doesn’t leave.  Stares at Leila.  Leila takes a pen.  Sits down and begins to write, assiduously. 
TV ON: SHOWS LEILA’S WRITING
MARK:      (Quiet aside, to Jack.)  She is just writing “O dash O dash ” repeatedly . . . she’s filling up a page.  (Jack makes absolutely no response.  Then long pause - still as quiet aside, to Jack, but less surprised) She’s now on her 2nd page of just filling it with O’s and dashes.  (Jack makes absolutely no response.)
LEILA:      (Looks up at Mona, then, softly, to Mona) Dios mio!  What happened to your face, girl? . . . Who cut your face, girl?
MONA:     softly, turning to Leila.  This turning should be showing Mona’s bruises to the audience, and to Mark and Jack for the first time.  Mark stares at her bruises.  Archie.
LEILA:      That bastard.  Archie?
MONA:     Yeah, Archie. . . . Again.
LEILA:      You shoulda left him.  He’s a bully.
MONA:     Yeah, he’s always mixed up in some shit. 
LEILA:      I know.  Did you get him back?
MONA:     Sure I did.  I done hit him with a pipe.
LEILA:      Mia Madre, you could kill an hombre with a pipe.
MONA:     Well, if I wouldn’t a hit him I’d most likely be at the Pearlies right now.
LEILA:      Did the cops book you?
MONA:     Hell, no.   They told me I was good to go.
LEILA:      What’d ya tell them?
MONA:     I told em what happened.  He come on me cause he wanted what I got.
LEILA:      All’s cool?
MONA:     He’s in jail.  I’d picked up some money workin’ the parkin’ lot in front of the Giant.  You know that’s pretty easy.  Lot’s goin’ down there.
LEILA:      (Now at the bottom of page 2 of her O–O’s.  To Jack) You gotta ’scuse me, I gotta have to check my laundry a few times.  Like in a minute or two. 
TV: OFF
JACK: Sure.
      Jack picks up a clip board with a sign up sheet and puts Leila’s name on it.  Mark picks up the clipboard and looks at it. 
            Iris walks in.
IRIS:          I don’t got me a lot of time.  I’m tired.  Know what I mean?  Gotta get me some sleep.  I ain’t slept right in a long time.   Know what I mean?  This here’s where you write, right?  That’s why I come here.
JACK: Yes.  Do you need a pad?
TV: ON shows Iris’s paper
IRIS:          No I got me some paper.   But I need one a dem pens.  I got to write what is that I come here to say.  She takes a felt tip pen, sits and writes quickly and boldly on one page.  Here it is.  She hands Jack a page which he puts down in front of him. 
TV ON: Iris’s paper says:
SUCCESS IS NOT A
DESTINATION
IT IS A
JOURNEY
                                                                       Iris MITCHELL
TV: OFF
JACK: Would you sign in?  (Slides over the clipboard.)
IRIS:          No way, man.  I gotta get me some sleep.  I’ll sign in some other time when I come and write some more.
            Iris walks out.  Jack looks at her ‘writing’ and copies her name on the sign up sheet.
MONA:     Can you gimme something to write on?
JACK: Sure we have these note books.  You can leave it here and use it whenever you come, or if you want to take it with you, you can do that.
TV ON: shows Mona’s tablet
            Mona takes a notebook, sits down, with the book, opens it.  Doodles and draws in it. 
JACK: You can put your name on it.
MARK:      (Aside to Jack) She can’t read. 
      Mona doesn’t put her name on it.  Puts her head down, close to the open notebook.  It appears she is going to sleep.  Leila gets up. 
LEILA:      Goin’ to check my laundry. 
JACK: Sure.
Mona raises her head and begins to draw some more.  Then switches to writing her alphabet in a rectangle with errors.
MARK:      (Quietly to Jack) She’s writing letters, in a rectangle.  Jack makes absolutely no response. 
MARK:      Mona, what brought you here?  
TV OFF
MONA:     Sandra told me there was a reading group in here.  Said I should try it.  So I came.
MARK:      Great.  Glad you’re here. 
Mark picks up the clipboard and signs in Mona.  Mona looks at him quizzically.  Leila comes back from checking her laundry.  
MONA:     Clothes good?
LEILA:       No way.  These dryers don’t hardly do nothing.
MONA:     Well at least they’re free.
Stranj walks in.
JACK: Hi Steven.  Glad to see you back.  How’ve you been?
STRANJ:   I’m not Steven, man.  After a whole year I figure you’d be knowin’ I’m STRANJ.  S-T-R-A-N-J.  I’m all right.
JACK: Good summer?  (Signs Stranj in as Steven on the sign up sheet.  Mark picks it up and looks at the sign up sheet.)
STRANJ:   Maybe. . . .  Probably not. 
JACK: Do you have your notebook or do I have it here in the pile?
STRANJ:   You ain’t got it and I ain’t got it.  And none of the others neither.  I’m needin’ a new one.
JACK: Finished another?
            Leila now writing seriously .
TV SHOWS LEILA’S WRITING
STRANJ:   No, man.  I ain’t got any a my books.  That’s what fucked my summer.
      Mona gets up stretches, takes a tiny walk around part of the room and sits back down.
JACK: What?  What happened to your books? 
STRANJ:   I met this woman and she’s askin’ me what I was writin.’  So I’m tellin’ her my novel was most writ.  So she be sayin’ she could get it published – she wantin’ to do that for me.
JACK: Great!
STRANJ:   No, man.  That ain’t the way the summer ended.
JACK: What do you mean?
TV OFF
STRANJ:   I’m jes gettin’ to that.  She took my books.  She be sayin’ she jes borrowin’ the books.  So she done took all my books.  She’s gonna be stealin’ my story.  She gonna put her name on it.  It’s mine.  It’s my life.  The bitch. 
      Leila walks out.
MARK:      Why don’t you talk to her?
STRANJ:   I can’t talk to her.  I don’t even know her friggin’ name.  I never saw the bitch again.  I should’ve gotten me a copyright for what I writ. 
MARK:       Sorry, I don’t know you.  I’m Mark.  What’s your name?
STRANJ:   I’m Stranj, Mark.  That’s S-T-R-A-N-J. 
MARK:      Cool spelling.
STRANJ:   Yeah, my Mom gave me that name.  Said my great grandfather was a slave and he was named that way.  My Mom said his real name was strong but the slave owner couldn’t spell none.  So it was a family tradition to keep it spelt wrong cause it showed the owner was uneducated.
MARK:      How much of your novel had you written when you gave it to the woman?
JACK: Must have been a lot.  Stranj’s been writing pretty steady for 3 years.
STRANJ:   Yeah.  It was 3 fuckin’ big notebooks full.
MARK:      Jesus.
STRANJ:   Right.  God damn copyright’s what I needed. 
MARK:      You don’t need a copyright.  If she ever publishes it, you can show you wrote it, you can claim it all.  She’d have to pay.  But she isn’t going to publish it.  Don’t worry.   Jack could back you up in court if she tried though, couldn’t you Jack? 
JACK: Maybe.  I probably remember a lot of it from when you shared in the group.
MARK:      But losing those books is a big deal.  If you are writing something really serious, you have to keep a copy of your writing.
STRANJ:   Ain’t that a joke.  Where would I get a copy?  And where am I gonna keep it?  In my garbage bag?  Stuff gets stolen all the time on out there and in these fucking shelters.
MARK:      You could keep a copy here.
STRANJ:   But I like to write when I’m not here.
MARK:      Then you keep your notebook with you and let us make a copy before you leave.  We can keep the copy here for you.
JACK: What are you going to do about the novel now?
STRANJ:   I’m starting over.
MARK:      Sounds like a real lot of work to me. 
STRANJ:    Yeah, but I’ll do it.
MARK:      Did you grow up around here? 
STRANJ:   ’course I did.
MARK:      Where?
STRANJ:   DC.  Southeast.  That’s what I’m writing about.  Growing up in DC.  Pauses.  Sits down, grabs a pen. 
Leila walks back in.
JACK: Laundry done, Leila?
Leila looks up, doesn’t say anything.  Goes back to writing.
STRANJ:   I got shot up a lot.  In the leg.  In the back.  In my head even.  Got in trouble.  Been in jail.  Stayin’ in prison a long time.  I got a lot to write about.  Writin’ helps me think about it.  Gets it all out of me.
JACK: Glad you’re back.
MARK:      Let’s make sure we make a copy of your stuff every time.  We can keep a copy here for you if you want.
            Ted walks in.  Looks around.  He’s carrying a heavy backpack, a pamphlet and a book. 
STRANJ:   I don’t know what I want.  I gotta write some first.
TED:         This the writers’ thing?
MARK:      Yup.  I’m Mark.
JACK: I’m Jack.  You need to sign in.  Hands Ted a clipboard with a sign up sheet.
TED:         I’m Ted.  Signs in.
Leila stops writing seriously, but starts writing a repeated pattern of cursive “a’s and d’s” as “a d a d”.  She continues this until she enters the conversation again.
TV ON: shows Leila’s writing
TED:         Puts down the backpack on a chair and sits down next to it.  The backpack falls off the chair with a crash.  Ted is sitting on a chair that is next to Mark.  Signs in.  I’ll do it.  Deal me in.  No one responds.
STRANJ:   (to the room)  Got in lots of trouble.  Been in jail.  Writing helps me think about it.  Gets it all out of me. . . .   Looks at Mona.   What the fuck happened to you?  Who cut you up?  That fucker Archie again?
MONA:     He cut me.   But I got him good.  He’s in jail.
STRANJ:   That’s where he oughta be.  He oughta never get out.  I hope you slugged him good.
MONA:     Smiling.  Worsen than he got me.  She then gets up to leave.  Starts to walk out.  Changes her mind; turns around and sits back down.
TV SWITCHES: shows Ted’s writing
(& his pamphlet: which the audience can not identify but is the Watchtower newsletter.)
      Ted takes a notebook and opens it.  He looks at his pamphlet, turns and copies, very carefully and slowly, as if he is going to write the address on a letter (right upper corner of the paper):
xx International Court of Justice
The Peace Palace
The Hague (Netherlands)
            Ted turns the pamphlet over to page 3.  Underlines Romans 24:17. 
      Ted opens the pamphlet to page 2, folds over the pamphlet and underlines some words: “International Court of Justice The Peace Palace The Hague (Netherlands)”. 
TED:         (To the room) I like these people.  They minister.  Like real Christians.  They minister to the Romans.  That’s good.  I like them.  See?  (No response in the room.  Softer now to Mark.)  They’re just like Christians.  (Pause) They minister.  They be ministers.
Opens up his book, which proves to be an old beat up bible, to Romans 15:19.  In it, Illyrikum is underlined in pen. 
TV: Off
TED:         To no one in particular.  How do you pronounce this?  Is it ill-ee-ree-kum? 
MARK:      Let me see.  Gets up, takes a look.  I’m not sure.  Probably.
TED:         I’ve never been good at this.  I can’t keep my consonants and vowels clear.  You know, can’t keep it clear in my mind.  That makes it hard for me to read.  I like to read.  I learn a lot when I read.
STRANJ:   (jumping up, starts looking at the walls for a thermostatt): It’s fuckin’ hot in here.
MARK:      Well, for not keeping those letters’ sounds in your mind, you did pretty good with that word. 
STRANJ:   Can’t we change the damn temperature in here?  I’m gonna melt.
JACK: No, we don’t have control of the temperature here.
STRANJ:   We don’t control nothin, man.  (Sits back down.)
TED:         Well, what is Illyrikum?  See it says here he ministered from Jerusalem to Illyrikum.
MARK:      Well then, it probably is a city near Jerusalem.  What do you think? 
TED:         Now reaching for the dictionary.  Mark sits down.  Ted struggles to find Illyrikum in the dictionary. Got it.  Here.  Very slowly reads A Roman province on the Adriatic. 
MARK:      The Adriatic?
TED:         That’s what it says.
MARK:      To JACK:  Where’s the Adriatic, isn’t it between Italy and Greece? 
JACK: I don’t really know.  I’m not great on geography.
STRANJ:   Can’t we keep it quiet in here?  Man’s gotta have quiet to write.
MARK:      Glances at Stranj.  Then checks his cell phone.  Yup!  Boy, was I wrong!  Ted, it’s not near Jerusalem.  He walked a long way.  Or maybe he rode a donkey.  Either way that’s a long way from Jerusalem.  I mean to Illyrikum.  That’s longer than from here to Chicago.  Much.
TV: ON shows Ted’s pad.
TED:         Wow!  I like these people.  They minister good.  Ted turns to the title page of the pamphlet.  Picks up his pen and starts reading – letting his pen guide his eye movement along the words.  Then he starts writing - underneath the Hague ...
Jehovah’s Witnesses
The Watchtower
© 2015 Watch Tower Bible and Tract Society of Pennsylvania
 
TED:         They minister the Romans. Ted moves the pamphlet away and returns to the dictionary.  He turns to the title page.  Starts reading.  Picks up his pen and starts writing - underneath the last line of writing but left justified now, he starts writing all the information on the dictionary’s title page, including the formatting of the ISBN number, etc.   
            Sheila walks in.  Very agitated.
SHEILA:   Life sucks.  People make me so angry!  These people – all over me . . . Every day. . . . All the time. 
      Ted looks up.  Silently he is staring at her, but seems lost in thought.  Doesn’t really take her in at all. 
JACK: Hello.
TV: OFF
SHEILA:   Hello.  Is this the writer’s group?
JACK: Yes. 
SHEILA:   Thank God.  I absolutely need to write.  When I get this angry there is like nothing else left for me.  Nothing.  I have to like sit down and write.
            Stranj stops writing and looks at her.  Obviously thinks she is good looking.
STRANJ:   Want a seat, here’s one.  (Pointing to the chair next to him.  Sheila looks at him, steadily, then turns toward Jack.)
JACK: Do you need a pen?
SHEILA:   No.  She unbuttons her coat – wearing a shear blouse  – and takes a seat on the other side of the table from Stranj.  Got one.  She fishes in her big bag.  Shit.  Looks some more.  Fuck.  No, I don’t have a pen.
JACK: Have you been to this group before?
SHEILA:   Would I have asked you if this was the writers’ group if I’d ever have been here before? 
JACK: Well, (pushing the plastic bag with the many pens and pencils toward her) we have lots of pens. Just take one.
            Sheila takes one.
JACK: Do you need some paper?
SHEILA:   (Still angry.)  No, can’t you see?  I got my own notebook.  (She takes out a 3 ring glossy red notebook which has blank lined paper in it.)  Now everyone be quiet.  I have to write.  That’s what I need to cope.
TED:         They printed this a long time ago. 
STRANJ:   Quite angrily You know it’s hard enough to write in here without a lot of talking.
TED:         But they did.  Turning to Sheila.  When did you come in?
SHEILA:   I just got here.  Don’t you see pay attention?
TED:         I didn’t notice.
STRANJ:   (To Ted.)  No kidding.  How could we know? 
TED:         I go to my church Sundays.  My man there helps me.  Makes sure I’m packing my Christianity strong and inside.
STRANJ:   (To Ted.)  You were staring straight at her, man.
TED:         Well, I d idn’t notice.  I was thinking.
MARK:      Ted, do you like poetry?
TED:         I don’t know poetry.
MARK:      I got one here.
TED:         Yeah, what’s that like?
MARK:      It’s by Gwendolyn Brooks.  She’s an important black poet.  She died about 15 years ago.  Her poetry is in this book.  Shows Ted the book.
TED:         He takes the book in his hand.  Looks nice.  I like the design.  (He turns it over slowly.  Then with surprise and enthusiasm)  She won the Pulitzer. 
MARK:      (Surprised that he recognized this.)  Yeah, it is a nice design on the cover.  She did win lots of prizes.
TED:         But the Pulitzer, that’s a very big deal.
MARK:      Again surprised.  Yup.  Here, let me find the poem I was thinking of:  “We Real Cool.”
TED:         Let me read it.  Very slowly at first, starts to read the poem out loud.
“We Real Cool
The Pool Players.
Seven at the Golden Shovel.”
                 I think she been writing them seven people up where they been playing pool at some place called the Golden Shovel..
TED:         Continues reading slowly out loud:
“We real cool.  We
Left school. . . . ”
                  And that sounds like cool.  I like that.
. . . We
Lurk late.  We
 Strike straight.  We
 
Sing sin.  We
Thin gin.  We
 
Jazz June.  We
Die soon.
      (All this is read aloud by Ted very slowly, carefully.  Then everybody stops, stares at him and he repeats it, far more fluently and without the interjections.) 
“We real cool.  We
Left school. We
Lurk late.  We
 Strike straight.  We
 
Sing sin.  We
Thin gin.  We
 
Jazz June.  We
Die soon.
That Jazz June.  That’s great.  Jazz.  Jazzy.  I like jazz.  And Miles.  I like Miles.  He’s got a bee-bop tune I love.  But Jazz June.  That’s what’s really great Jazz June.  I love that.  Like each thing is a separate picture.  Left school.  To do what, play pool?  Thin gin?  Die soon?  Listen to Lurk Late.  (Even slower, more deliberate)  Lurk late.  Lurk late.  Lurk late.  That sounds like trouble, for sure.
STRANJ:    (Getting up, and then facing Ted, with an edge of envy and anger.) Man, you’re crazy.  (Everyone goes back to their own papers.)
MONA:     Why you bein’ so up tight, Stranj?  The man jus’ likes poetry.  Nothin’ wrong wid dat.
TED:         (To Mark) You got another in here?  (Pause.)
MARK:      Yeah, there’s one about a Mrs. Miles. 
TED:         Let me see that. 
MARK:      Here: It’s about a woman in a Red Hat.
TED:         Starts reading it.
MARK:      Can I read it?
TED:         Sure.


MARK:    Reads it.  During his reading, Stranj still up, paces.  No one else takes notice of Stranj.  Only Ted seems to listen.
                  Bronzeville Woman in a Red Hat
                  They had never had one in the house before.
                  The strangeness of it all.  Like unleashing
A lion, really.  Poised
To pounce.  A puma.  A panther.  A black
Bear.
There it stood in the door,
Under a red hat that was rash, but refreshing –
In a tasteless way, of course – across the dull dare,
the semi-assault of that extraordinary blackness.
The slackness
Of that light pink mouth told little.  The eyes told of heavy care . . .
But that was neither here nor there,
And nothing to a wage-paying mistress as should
Be getting her due whether life had been good
For her slave, or bad.
There it stood.
In the door.  They never had
One in the house before.
TED:         Ted takes the book from Mark.  He then  reads the poem very slowly, hesitatingly, out loud.  Everyone listens, again. 
                  Bronzeville Woman in a Red Hat
                  They had never had one in the house before.
                  The strangeness of it all.  Like unleashing
A lion, really.  Poised
To pounce.  A puma.  A panther.  A black
Bear.
There it stood in the door,
Under a red hat that was rash, but refreshing –
In a tasteless way, of course – across the dull dare,
the semi-assault of that extraordinary blackness.
The slackness
Of that light pink mouth told little.  The eyes told of heavy care . . .
But that was neither here nor there,
And nothing to a wage-paying mistress as should
Be getting her due whether life had been good
For her slave, or bad.
There it stood.
In the door.  They never had
One in the house before.
            When he finishes, there’s a murmer of shock.  Even Stranj, who is still standing.  Then Ted continues:
            This is like Tom Cruise.  There’s this movie and this guy comes to Cruise’s door to set things down.  He says ‘I am comin’ to get you.  Cruise,’ he says ‘I’m comin here to set these things down.’  Cruise, he doesn’t understand says, “You are in the wrong place.”  But no.  Blackness.  Slackness.  Red Hat in the door.  So much . . . I like poetry.  I’m going to bring this to my white man in the church I go to.  It’s a black church.  But I got my white guy there.  I don’t like to say that.  But I got my white guy there.  He help me.  Keeps me tight with Jesus.
STRANJ:    (Without his edge of envy and anger.)  Like I bin sayin’, man, you are one crazy mother-fucker.  (Goes to his chair and sits down.)
JACK: Well, we have about 10 minutes.  Does anyone want to read what they’ve written?
No response
JACK: Does anyone want to read what they’ve written?
LEILA:      I wonder . . .
JACK: No one has to read if they don’t want to.
LEILA:      No.  I just mean . . .
JACK: The rule is that no one needs to share.
LEILA:      But that’s not what . . .
MARK:      What was your question, Leila?
LEILA:      I mean did you know that it is very hard to see the difference between a ‘d’ and an ‘a’.
STRANJ:   Fuck woman.   What you talkin’ bout?
LEILA:      I mean they are almost the same.
TED:         Maybe that’s why I have trouble with the consonants and the vowels.
MARK:      Do you mean they look a lot alike?
TED:         I think I can see some difference
LEILA:      Yeah.  If you are writing them and are a little sloppy, then they look a like.  You have to be really, really careful or no one can read what you’ve written.  Isn’t that true?
MARK:      You have a good point.  Did you write something else you might want to share?
LEILA:      Yes.  I wrote a letter to my mother.
MARK:      Would you like to share it?
LEILA:      Yes, let me read it:
Dear Momma,
      We don’t call as much as we used to.  But I was so happy to speak to you.  Did you realize that I am now 68.  How old would you be?  I told you on the phone I would write you all the things I am doing.  But yesterday I got so tired.  Then I fell asleep.  I promised I would tell you all about my days, what I do, what I eat, what I  am seeing.   There are so many things to say.  It is not that I am doing so much, Mom.  Did I tell you I had a son?  He grew up and has been in wars and now is a citizen up here.  But I don’t know how to find him.  What, do you say about that?  Your daughter without an address.  We are all without mothers.  I will write more often.  And we can call more often too.  I am sorry about our not having the time to talk.
I love you.  Leila.                     
MARK:      Is she alive?
LEILA:      No, she died a long time ago.
MARK:      Was she here in Washington?
LEILA:      No she was in Peru.  I only got here some 45 years ago.
JACK: Does anyone else want to share?
MONA:     I do. 
JACK: Wonderful.
MONA:     I didn’t write nothin’ but I got something to say.  Speaks slowly, carefully.  I came to the writer’s group today.   The teachers were very nice and they were friendly and they were very helpful. 
JACK: Thank you Mona.
SHEILA:   I wrote a poem.
JACK: You don’t have to share it.
SHEILA:   I’d like to.
JACK: Wonderful.
SHEILA:   Stands up.  Reads her poem:
Where people be when you cry
out for help? - They just hide
Where people turn when they see you black
and hurt?  They but leave, turn their back.
Where aid be when you need
but they just let you bleed
in the street ’n cross to the other side
so they’s can glide
to their next fix,
their next tricks. 
It makes my blood boil
makes me want to coil
                        and strike so hard
and minister to them
that be sinister
and force them to look in the cage
and see the rage
their turnin’ away
creates.  (Shiela stays standing.  There’s audible mumbled approval from other members of the group.)
STRANJ:   (He stands up) Ain’t she right!
MONA:     She sure is.  That girl is good!  Stranj walks over to see her writing.  Then goes back and sit down.
JACK: (Impassively)  Thank you, Sheila.  That was a very nice, a very pretty poem.  Anyone else?  (No response.  But Sheila’s facial movement shows she doesn’t take Jack’s comment well.)  Well, if you want, you can take your notebooks with you, or you can leave them here.  Sheila picks up hers and stands up as if to leave.  All the others put them on the table.  Thank you.  There will be another writing group meeting here next Friday.  11 o’clock.  Hope you all can make it.
      Sheila stares at Jack.  puts her stuff back down.  She grabs a notebook from the pile.  She starts tearing out the pages.  Ripping them furiously.   Everyone stares at her.  No one does anything.
JACK: (After a moment’s hesitation . . . ) What are you doing?
SHEILA:   What the fuck does it look like, dick head?
JACK: You don’t have to curse.
SHEILA:   What you tellin me what I am to do?  I don’t have to curse?  To do what, get your attention?  Don’t you even hear yourself.  I be writin’ and then recitin’ and you be no way listenin’ to nothin’ I say.  (She continues to destroy the book.  Picks up another, similarly destroying them as she talks, till she leaves) ?  Do you listen to nobody?  Hear anything?  Anyone?  We can be sharing . . . What bull-shit. You never shared diddly shit any where no time with nobody.
JACK: Why are you angry now?
SHEILA:   Course you can’t understand.  Your mother never taught you to listen.  Fuck you.  You are never gonna see me again.  (She drops the last book, picks up her stuff, throwing her coat over her shoulder and leaves.)
JACK: As I was saying, hope the rest of you will be back next week.
TED:         I’ll be back, for sure.  I’ll be back. 
STRANJ:   (Hesitates and not convincingly)  Maybe I be back, man.  Gotta write my story somewhere. 
SHEILA:   (From the hall, yelling back) I ain’t never comin’ back here again.  You fuckers don’t listen.  You’re both just honkies just crossin’ to the other side like everyone else. 
      Leila looks for her note book, finds her letter torn up in pieces. 
LEILA:      (Wails) My letter!  (Leaves, crying, quieter, hurt.)  Momma, Momma . . .
MONA:     (hugging Leila) There, there . . . There, there.  It’ll be OK. . . . It’ll be OK.  Your Momma’s got her letter.  Your Momma’s got her letter.  (Leaves with Leila.)
            The others leave.  Jack and Mark start to clean up.
JACK: What got into her? 
MARK:      Sheila?  I don’t really know.  Do you?
JACK: Something happened.  She sure seemed to blame us.  But what did we do wrong? I said she could recite her poem.  She did.  Then I complemented her.  I don’t think we did anything. 
MARK:      You said it was very nice . . . and pretty, I think.  Then she lost it.
JACK: She’s one angry woman. 
MARK:      Who knows.
JACK: Yeah.  She’s angry.  Some people are like that, aren’t they?  See you next week?
MARK:      Sure.
Lights dim.