74 pages. Signed and numbered paperback. $15.95.
Gentle Scorpion Press, 21 January 2002.

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Act One

We hear "God Bless America," beginning with the line "my home sweet home." Fade in. We see Brian, David, and Charlene Watkins standing around the table in their modest kitchen. To the side is the house's front door. On the kitchen table is a birthday cake with twenty-one candles. The song finishes.

DAVID: I'm proud of you, son. Serving your country's a ... it's a fine thing, a fine thing.

CHARLENE: You're just like your father. He ... he went to war and now you, well, you're going to war too.

DAVID: Happy birthday.

CHARLENE: When you get back, we can play the same record ... on your first birthday back, as soon as good old April twenty-seventh rolls around ... it's just a few years ... and we'll see you again, Brian.

BRIAN: I know, Mom, I know. Thank ... thank you.

CHARLENE: Oh ... .

BRIAN: No, thank you. This has been great ... really wonderful.

CHARLENE: Oh, Brian, we love you so much. Your father and I.

DAVID: Hush, Charlene. Here.

David produces a couple of cigars from his pocket. Charlene seems surprised; Brian is silent. David hands Brian a cigar.

BRIAN: Sir?

DAVID: It's your twenty-first, boy. When you got your orders to ship out ... well, it made me proud, you know. You're ... you're a man now. Have a cigar with your old man.

[1 | 2]

BRIAN: I’m ... I’d be honored.

Brian takes the cigar and places it in his mouth. David lights Brian’s cigar. Brian coughs.

DAVID (laughing a bit): You’ll smoke worse than that in Vietnam, if I know you.

BRIAN (smiling): Oh, no. I’d ... I’d never do that, Dad.

David places the other cigar in his mouth and lights it. He puffs a bit.

DAVID: When you get back, we’ll smoke another ... you can tell me all about Vietnam. (pause) We can do this all again. Your birthday, just three years from now. We can do this again, just the same ... we’ll have a smoke.

BRIAN: Thanks, Dad.

CHARLENE: Oh, I’m so proud of you.

DAVID: You like the smoke?

The doorbell rings.

BRIAN (quickly): That’s probably Jane. I’ll get it.

He puts the cigar into the ashtray, not putting it out, and rushes to the door. Charlene looks over at David suspiciously. Answering the door, Brian finds Jane and John.

BRIAN: Hi, guys. My, um, my ... my parents were just celebrating my birthday.

Jane smiles and nods.

JOHN: How you doin’, buddy?

John imitates a punch to Brian’s stomach.

BRIAN: Fine ‘till you showed up. (to both of them) Come on in.

[2 | 3]

The two step inside and the three move into the kitchen area.

DAVID: Hi, Jane.

JANE: Hi, Mr. Watkins. Mrs. Watkins.

CHARLENE: Jane ... .

BRIAN: You know John, right?

DAVID: John Burrow ... (shakes John’s hand) we haven’t seen you for a while. How you been keepin’ up?

JOHN: Um, fine, Mr. Watkins.

DAVID: This is my wife, Charlene.

CHARLENE: John ... I know your mother from church.

JOHN: Oh, right ... .

CHARLENE: We don’t see you there often, do we, David?

DAVID: Leave the boy alone, Charlene.

Charlene seems mildly annoyed at this.

JANE: I’m sorry ... we haven’t much time ... I promised ... I promised my parents I’d bring the car back by ... well ... .

BRIAN: I understand.

DAVID (taking the cue): Well, son, happy birthday. We’ll go to a movie tomorrow ... spend some time before you fly out ... take you to the base the next day. Come on, Charlene.

CHARLENE (looking at Jane and John): David, are you ... .

DAVID: Come on, Charlene. (pointing) Don’t forget your cigar, Brian.

[3 | 4]

BRIAN (picking up the still-smoking cigar): Oh, thanks, I won’t.

David leads Charlene off. There is silence until the three are sure the adults have left.

JOHN: It’s been so long since I saw them, I forgot what pricks they can be.

BRIAN: Yeah ... I’m glad you came.

JANE: It’s your birthday.

She embraces Brian and they kiss.

BRIAN (holding out the cigar to John): You want this cigar?

JOHN (taking it): Sure.

John takes a puff.

BRIAN: Smoke it outside, will ya? (pause) You’re stinkin’ up the place.

JOHN (walking to the door): You gonna fuck on the kitchen table?

BRIAN: Fuck you.

John exits through the front door.

JANE (caressing Brian): It’s good to see you. Sorry about John.

BRIAN: No, no, it’s fine. We just talk that way.

There is a pause.

JANE: I’m gonna miss you.

BRIAN: I’ll miss you too ... .

JANE: It’s a long time ... I can’t imagine three years. It’s like ... it’s like our whole lives.

[4 | 5]

BRIAN: We’re strong enough. Our love ... our love is strong enough. I love you.

JANE: Brian ... (looking down) come back home, okay? Remember me ... remember me and ... come home.

BRIAN: I will, I will. (seeing she’s emotional, embracing her) I’ll miss home ... I’ll miss you ... every day I’m there.

JANE: And we’ll get married then?

BRIAN (looking at her pointedly, the two making eye contact): As soon as I get back. You’ll be Mrs. Jane Marie Higgins Watkins.

JANE (pulling closer, tighter): Oh, Brian.

In the silence between them, Jane begins to slowly reach down towards his crotch as they embrace. Then she pulls back, suddenly happy -- to distract from the conversation.

JANE: I have a present for you.

BRIAN: Really?

JANE: Of course. But you can’t get it now.

BRIAN: Okay ... when am I going to get it?

JANE: Tomorrow night. (acting seductively as only an inexperienced twenty-year-old can) You’ll come over ... after the movie ... won’t you?

BRIAN: I ... I think it can be arranged.

JANE: I have a ... special ... surprise ... for you.

BRIAN: Really?

JANE: Really.

[5 | 6]

BRIAN: I love you.

JANE: I love you too.

They kiss and Brian begins to fondle her. John opens the door and enters.

JOHN: Whoh!

BRIAN: Shhh!

JOHN: Sorry, man. It’s just ... I got through with the cigar and ... um ... .

BRIAN: It’s okay.

JANE (checking her watch): Um, we, uh, we really have to go. I’m sorry ... I’ll ... (caressing him) make it up to you tomorrow night.

BRIAN: Mmmm ... okay ... .

Jane moves to the door.

BRIAN (to John): Can I talk to you for a minute?

Jane opens the door.

JANE: I love you.

Jane exits.

JOHN: Man, I’m fucken sorry ... .

BRIAN: Don’t ... look, don’t worry about it. But I want you to promise me something.

JOHN: Yeah, man.

BRIAN: No, I’m serious.

The two make eye contact and John perceives Brian’s seriousness.

[6 | 7]

JOHN: Okay.

BRIAN: I ... I want you to look after Jane for me.

JOHN: Brian ... .

BRIAN: No, listen ... . I ... I’m going to Vietnam ... I don’t know ... well, anything could happen, you understand?

JOHN: Yeah.

BRIAN: Look after her. Take care of her. I want you to be there for her. This is going to be hard on her.

JOHN: Okay.

BRIAN: Do you promise?

JOHN: I promise.

BRIAN: Okay.

Brian leads John to the door. They open it.

JANE (off-stage): John? I have to go.

BRIAN: She means the world to me.

JOHN: I know, man. I know.

John exits. Brian stands at the door for a few seconds. Then he starts to wave, which he continues for a while. He then closes the door, seeming a little depressed. Fade out.

[7 | 8]

Act Two

We hear loud machine gun fire. Fade in. Brian and Nate are half-wearing army fatigues and are crouched beside some trees. The two have machine gun emplacements in front of them and are firing. They are facing away from the audience, positioned so that they can’t see each other.

BRIAN (shouting): NATE? WHERE THE FUCK ARE THEY?

NATE (shouting): HUH, KANSAS?

BRIAN (shouting): WHERE THE FUCK ARE THEY?

NATE (shouting): NO FUCKIN’ CLUE.

BRIAN (shouting): WHAT?

NATE (shouting): NO FUCKIN’ CLUE.

The two stop talking for a while and we just hear machine gun fire.

BRIAN (shouting): YOU GOT A GIRL, NATE?

NATE (shouting): YEAH.

BRIAN (shouting): YOU LOVE HER?

NATE (shouting): I GOT HER PICTURE, DON’T I? HELL, WE ALL GOT PICTURES. IF WE DIDN’T, WE’D STEALEN THEM FROM PICTURE FRAMES AND PRETEND.

BRIAN (shouting): YOU LOVE HER?

NATE (shouting): I MARRIED HER BEFORE I LEFT, DIDN’T I?

BRIAN (shouting): THEY DON’T SEEM REAL OVER HERE. OR THIS DOESN’T SEEM REAL AND THEY DO.

[8 | 9]

NATE (shouting): HANG ON TO YOUR GIRL, MAN. SHE’LL GET YOU THROUGH.

BRIAN (shouting): NATE?

NATE (shouting): YOU’LL GET USED TO IT HERE. YOU BEEN HERE THREE MONTHS. JUST LONG ENOUGH THAT YOU’RE SAFE TO START TO GET TO KNOW.

BRIAN (shouting): GOD, IT’S HELL.

NATE (shouting): YOU’RE DOING FINE. I’LL TALK TO YOU.

The two stop talking for a while and we just hear machine gun fire.

NATE (shouting): YOU GET USED TO IT. IT BECOMES ... MUNDANE.

BRIAN (shouting, frustrated): WHAT THE FUCK ARE WE DOING?

NATE (shouting, with very seperate deliberate words): I’M SEEING HOW LONG IT TAKES TO CHOP DOWN A TREE.

BRIAN (shouting): WHAT?

NATE (shouting): I’M CHOPPING DOWN A TREE WITH BULLETS.

BRIAN (shouting): I’M JUST FIRING BLIND.

NATE (shouting): TIMBER!

BRIAN (shouting): SO WHERE THE FUCK ARE THE GOOKS?

NATE (shouting): SOMEWHERE, EVERYWHERE, WHO-THE-FUCK-CARES.

BRIAN (shouting): WHAT?

NATE (shouting): I SAID NO ONE KNOWS.

BRIAN (shouting): SO WHAT ARE WE DOING?

[9 | 10]

NATE (shouting): WHAT?

BRIAN (shouting): I SAID WHAT THE FUCK ARE WE DOING.

NATE (shouting): FIGHTING A WAR. THEY SHOOT, WE SHOOT.

BRIAN (shouting): WHAT THE FUCK ARE WE FUCKING DOING.

NATE (shouting): WHAT WE’RE SUPPOSED TO.

BRIAN (shouting): SOMEONE HEARS A SHOT AND WE ALL START FIRING. THAT’S WHAT WE’RE DOING.

NATE (shouting): WHAT?

BRIAN (shouting): WHAT WE’RE SUPPOSED TO?

NATE (shouting): IT’S A FORMULA, KANSAS. MUNDANE. ALL BULLSHIT. WE’RE FIRING IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION. BLIND. BULLSHIT.

BRIAN (shouting): WHAT?

NATE (shouting): WE’RE COMMUNE-EYE-CATIN’ WITH THE ENEMY. IT DOESN’T MATTER. IT’S ALL BULLSHIT, YOU KNOW?

BRIAN (shouting): WHAT?

NATE (shouting): LOOKIN’ BUSY. ACTIN’ LIKE WE’RE DOIN’ SOMETHING. FOLLOWING PROCEDURE. IT’S A WAR SO WE OUGHT TO BE SHOOTING, RIGHT? WE OUGHTA HATE THEM, RIGHT? IT’S JUST A FUCKIN’ CLICHÉ.

BRIAN (shouting): WHAT?

NATE (shouting): RELAX AND KILL SOME TREES.

The two stop talking for a while and we just hear machine gun fire. Then Brian jerks slightly back and then forward -- quick and thus fairly subtle. He then essentially holds still for a few seconds -- before falling naturally backwards, as if he’s been propped up by tensed muscles that just did not know they were dead. As he does, he twists enough that we clearly see blood on him. [10 | 11] Nate is utterly oblivious of all this.

NATE (shouting): I’VE RACKED UP MORE TREES THAN ANYONE ELSE IN THE PLATOON. (pause) YOU JUST FIRE BLIND AND HOPE YOU HIT A GOOK. FOLLOW PROCEEDURE. IT’S EXPECTED. (pause) FOLLOW EXPECTATIONS, MAN. GIVE ‘EM WHAT THEY WANT.

Nate continues firing, still utterly oblivious. After thirty seconds or so, we fade out. Then the machine gun fire stops.

[11 | 12]

Act Three

Fade in. The stage is completely empty of actors, sets, and props. We have here a vision of utter emptiness. No sound is heard. If the audio system has a level of background noise, the audio system should be shut off. The silence and emptiness of the stage should be absolute. All we get is the lights, just at normal power. (We let the audience sit there for a time, hearing their own responses, mostly fundamentally nervous, as nothing happens. Let them wonder. We’re not going on with the play: he’s dead. The third act is that there is no third act. Is the light representative of an inexpressible religious experience -- or just spotlighting lack? The viewing experience is different for each: most, there with someone else, have a very different experience than the few there alone.) After a minute or three, we fade out. There is not more.

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Afterword
by Stephen Lighton

I have been asked by the publisher to write the afterword that the artist cannot. This in itself is a curious thing, for Nostalgia in Three Acts seems to beg for some sort -- some sort -- of explanation. After all, it’s mostly blank. And it’s sold as a play. And it costs money. Hence, I think, the publisher’s concern.

But if we look at what Julian Darius had done here, the blank pages are suggested from the very beginning. This is a work that interrogates the nature of realism, even of representation itself. It begins with an opening act that is nothing but a masterful series of conscious clichés. Even before the lights come on, we hear “God Bless America,” itself a cliché but also a reminder of the forced ending to The Deer Hunter. The first act, complete with a birthday party and the girlfriend promising sex to the young man about to go off to war, is far more about the nature of fiction, of staging, than about its apparent plot. In fact, we know the plot already. The G.I. is going to be in Vietnam in the second act. He’ll return with psychological wounds only to discover a sexual relationship between his girlfriend and his best friend (who he did, after all and in typical clichéd form, tell to look after her). We’ll watch the tearful broken-heart-to-broken-heart between the G.I. and the girlfriend. And that’ll be that.

Except that act two presents something different. It has no dialogue but shouting, and it feels as if communication itself has broken down (as if the simple transmission of words and ideas is more difficult away from that earlier Edenic home). But, radically, the protagonist is killed. He does not die nobly; in fact, we and his compatriot do not even see his killer. His death might be deliberate or the result of a stray bullet. The ambiguity of war is introduced in a radical, disconcerting way as the actors, in a move more radical for those who know the theatre, face away from us, their bodies generally unmoving except to die without clear cause. This is simultaneously realistic and anti-realistic: it is like the real world but not like “realism” as a school of writing, of art.

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Perhaps most interesting about the second act is Nate’s interaction with the language of fiction. He says to Brian that shooting back is a cliché, that it means nothing but is expected of them, and he advocates giving their audience of military commanders what it wants. But by the time we as the audience of the play hear this, our main character is dead, his death unnoticed on stage. Julian Darius sets up the cliché to demolish it. And it is worth noting that the cliché is linked to violence, or (perhaps more accurately) to stupid and thoughtless violence.

But it is in the third act that the play truly becomes a brave work that interrogates life itself. For, after all, this is not particularly a short play. Its first two acts may be short, but its final act is over sixty pages. The number at the bottom of each page tells us that the play is continuing. The body of the book in front of you continues on those pages. And it offers silence.

This is the equivalent of the black page mourning Yorick’s death in Tristram Shandy. The implication is that words cannot express death. But, because the play ends here, because “there is not more,” we are left with the apparent absence of God. We are left with a blank stage and the ambiguity of what that light means. And we are just plain left -- ultimately, by God. And what else is the response to Vietnam? To horror? To the uncertainty of the world? Where are the answers we seek? In reply, we receive only a blank stage -- or sixty white pages.

We do not get Nate returning home to talk with the family and girlfriend about the dead Brian. We do not change characters. No, we follow a character through to the end. Only the expectation that the play continue drives it onward. This exposes convention in a multitude of ways. Obviously, it argues against artificial structures of three acts and the like. (Life, after all, is often abrupt as a bullet when seriously altered, yet rarely in fiction, which seeks to foreshadow and crop a life so as to frame an artificial tale.) But it also suggests that we want the cliché we found so intolerable -- or at least boring -- in the first act. After all, Darius has dared to be boring to make a point -- and he has done a masterful job in the first act at being boring, if a cliché that gives us a clear map of where the entire play is going is indeed boring. But Darius has pulled the rug out from [page break] under us -- and not just in terms of our expectations that this play continue as a cliché. He has also pulled the rug out from under our dislike for the cliché, for what we really dislike is having the play end so suddenly -- followed by sixty white pages that we paid for.

And it is exactly this effect that the publisher’s a bit worried about, and I can understand why. It’s a powerful effect. It not only reveals our sympathy for clichés -- whether of plot or even the structure of plays themselves -- but it makes us question just how unrealistic those scenes really are. After all, clichés typically become clichés because they are commonplace, yet we feel disdain for them as if they were unrealistic. There’s been a confusion of the two in the mind, leaving both the cliché and the realistic as slippery terms that this slippery play shines a painful light upon. And it is that -- the idea of realism in drama, the expectations of dialogue and length and pacing -- that is sitting on that blank stage in the spotlight. Darius has shone a bright light upon them, and we can only squirm in our seats.

If that lesson is costly, dear readers, it is only to be appreciated all the more.

shortly after midnight on Tuesday, 8 January 2002

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