Best Monologues from the Best American Short Plays, Volume Three Read online

  But his stories held no interest for me. And his interest in Katrina brought about no jealously whatsoever. You see, it mattered not to me. I wasn’t in love with her. What I did feel for her though was sorrow. Brom Bones was a persistent troll who wouldn’t take no for an answer. I didn’t want to see poor Katrina live out her days with such a beast and an ogre, and so I did what any respectable man must do to keep her from doom’s door—I made love to the woman.

  [He again smiles grandly.]

  Oh, not in the physical sense (please!), but with words of love, with pampering looks, and by listening to her as if I was really interested. You see, it wasn’t for me that I was doing it, it was for her. To save her from Brom Bones. And I must say, I played the part of the young lover quite well. Everyone was convinced that I had actually fallen for her. And the ruse worked. Daily Brom Bones got more irritable, more depressed, and more desperate. But I refused to let up. I, after all, was saving her. It was a duty; a calling!

  [Quite pleased with himself.]

  I’ve often fancied myself a hero because of that—sacrificing myself for the good mental health of another. Not a one of you would have done the same, I’m certain. But I’ve become sidetracked. Ultimately, I know all you gossipmongers want is the climax of the tale when I encountered the Headless Horseman. So, I will prolong your agony no longer.

  [As if telling a mysterious ghost story.]

  It was very late one autumn night. Van Aiken Lane was quiet and still. I could hear the church bells—a good half mile away in the distance—strike twelve o’clock midnight. The air was cold and damp, and I shivered repeatedly as my horse made its way gingerly through the thick fog that clung low to the ground. Although there was a full moon, Van Aiken Lane was black as coal due to the long, outstretched arms of the sycamores, which had not yet lost their leaves, and the long, dangling grape vines that hung precariously low and close to my face. Every so often one would reach out and grab me around the neck!—my escape coming only when I whipped my poor gelding to trot faster than he was able. I was staying with the Dusseldorfs that week, and the closest route home from the Van Tassel residence was down Van Aiken Lane, past the Old Dutch Cemetery, and over St. Amsterdam’s Bridge. Now, I’m sure you’re asking yourself, “What in Heaven’s name was Ichabod Crane doing out alone at such a late and ungodly hour that night?” I’ll tell you.

  [With lightness in his voice.]

  Earlier that evening the Van Tassels had thrown a wonderfully lavish party—presumably in my honor, although that bit of information seems to have been accidentally omitted from the invitations. The party provided me with one of the heartiest feasts I ever received in the Hollow. A true smorgasbord: kidney pie, shepherd’s pie, apple pie . . .

  [Realizing he’s gotten carried away.]

  Oh, and Miss Van Tassel? Yes, she was there too—by my side the entire time. In fact, the poor thing couldn’t keep her hands off me. I suppose that raised an eyebrow or two, and inevitably led to the floury of rumors that ran around the room like a dog after its tail.

  I had just gotten through the buffet for the second time when who walks in but that abnormally large Brom Bones. I nearly lost my appetite—a more homely and arrogant fellow I never have seen. His first stop, naturally, was to greet the guest of honor, although I received nothing more than a grunt before his attention turned to Miss Van Tassel. The giant oaf wouldn’t be able to utter a proper salutation even if Good Afternoon was his first and last name. At any rate, Miss Van Tassel was clearly annoyed with his presence, for she took my arm, and with that giggle in her voice that she reserved only for me, swept me into the back parlor before I’d even finished filling my plate. I cannot say whether she needed immediate lovemaking or whether she simply wanted to gaze at me—many women do, you know—but she clearly was “in the mood.” I, on the other hand, couldn’t stop thinking of that chicken pot pie I had yet to sample. Nevertheless, there we were—alone—together. The woman was making protestations of love and all that when suddenly I noticed my shoe had come untied. So, I merely bent down to retie it—here, let me demonstrate.

  [He comes around to the side of the podium.]

  I knelt down to retie my shoe and . . . well, surely you can see how this could be misconstrued. Then, while I was kneeling there, who enters but the hippo himself—Brom Bones. Well, naturally, he thought I was proposing, and Katrina thought I was proposing, and I was in the midst of tying my shoe when suddenly Brom knocks me over with a blow to the ribs and off he goes dragging poor Katrina behind.

  Now, it’s at this point that I’m sure you expect me to say that I chased after him. But, you see, I noticed the remains of a muffin I had pocketed squishing out of my pants. Well, naturally, I had to dispose of the evidence—it was blueberry and delicious—and by the time I returned to the party, Brom had fled with Katrina in hand. All the party was abuzz and astir. Apparently, it was the scandal (and the highlight) of their social season. Though others were concerned for my well-being—looking upon me as the jilted lover—I really gave it no thought at all. Instead, I kept myself busy at the buffet—the chicken pot pie was well worth the wait, I’ll have you know—where I shared small talk with a variety of incompetents until Katrina returned alone from the garden thirty-two minutes later.

  Once again she whisked me off to the back parlor—where I simply had to take a few minutes and brush her mussed hair—and there and then she proposed a tête-à-tête alone with me following the party. Hmmm . . . women just adore me.

  [Spotting a woman in the audience.]

  You do, don’t you? You’ve been staring at me all evening. At any rate, the party broke up and I soon found myself alone with her. Well, the poor thing nearly threw herself at me, begging that I marry her, so as to save her from a miserable life with that stuffed buffalo that had recently dragged her off. I gave it a bit of thought. But I simply couldn’t sacrifice my entire life for the poor bedraggled waif, and I told her so in no uncertain terms. Well, the poor thing was just crushed—as I’m sure you can imagine—and crumbled into a hundred tiny tears right before my eyes. It really was embarrassing.

  But I was adamant. I told her I approved of her friendship but that was all there was to it. I tried to let her down easily—I didn’t want to blow my chance of spending another week or two in that lavish house. And that was that. I gathered my hat and coat, and a particularly sweet-looking pumpkin from the buffet table, and headed for home.

  So . . . we return to Van Aiken Lane. As I said, I mounted my nag and in the chill of the night, he and I headed away from the Van Tassel residence and down the dark, winding, tree-lined road. The quiet of the night was interrupted only by the occasional bark of an angry dog . . .

  [He barks.]

  . . . or the hoot of a startled owl.

  [He hoots.]

  Suddenly, as my steed and I continued down the lane, I heard from behind me the hooves of another rider. I could hear it getting closer and closer; traveling faster and faster. The horse and rider were moving at a full gallop! He came up upon me. I felt a cold, damp wind brush past my face. Then all of a sudden the rider shouted out to me, “Good evening, Ichabod! Lovely gala, what?” and he raced on right by. It was drunken Mr. Moody making his way home from the party. The man was so intoxicated he turned backwards in his saddle and waved me good-bye as his horse carried him ’til they disappeared down the path.

  I soon came upon the Old Dutch Cemetery—and the long line of headstones filled with the names of dead soldiers who’d fought in the Revolution. Van Dyke, Van Buren, Van Rhine. We walked on; grave after grave, plot after plot, body after body. Some graves had flowers, while others only weeds; still others had been obviously forgotten long ago. I could see each name clearly etched into the stones, for the road had widened, the trees had disappeared, and the full moon now shone brightly, lighting everything in shadows of gray and black. As we made our way toward the church—a short distance fr
om the bridge—a clip-clop sound came a-tapping from behind. Clip-clop, clip-clop, closer, closer, faster, faster. Could it be another drunken reveler, I thought, racing to get past the cemetery grounds. Clip-clop, clip-clop. Faster, faster, closer, closer. The sound began to grow and grow and wild laughter began echoing in the Hollow. I kept my sights in front of me, my eyes glued to the road, when a shadow began to engulf me. The moon was growing dim as the shadow grew and grew until it had overtaken me. A piercing cackle screeched from behind . . .

  [He cackles.]

  It was loud and long and scared the birds right out of the trees. But not I—no, not I. As I reached the edge of the bridge, I glanced behind me and out of the mist a figure arose—and out of the mist a figure arose—and there he was! A horse in full stride and a horseman with no head! A large, strong, impressive presence holding in one arm what appeared to be the horseman’s very own head. The horse reared up and whinnied a cry; the horseman cackled and threatened my very existence. But was I scared?! Not on your life!! I rode across the bridge—across which I was told the Horseman could not pass—got off my horse and stood right up to him! I said, “You go away this instant!” (Timid, my ass!) At which point the Horseman raised his head above his head—or where his head should have been—and there it turned into a bright red ball of fire which he hurled at me with great delight. “Ha-ha-ha!” he screamed as the gruesome appendage shot straight for my head. “Ha-ha-ha!” I said in return. “Ha-ha-haaa!”

  [Much calmer.]

  Now, here’s where details over the years have gotten a bit sketchy. Some accounts have the ball of fire knocking my own head from my shoulders where it shattered on the ground like a smashed pumpkin; and that my body and soul were “spirited away” by the Horseman and taken to the nether regions, never to be seen again. Well, simply put, I was not “spirited away” that night by the evil Horseman—and I am here tonight as proof of that. Nor was my head turned into a pumpkin and smashed along the roadside. What was smashed was the actual pumpkin I had procured from the buffet table for my late night dessert. I merely dropped it while dodging the fireball which had been hurled at me.

  [Back to the story with intense interest.]

  At any rate, after his head had been thrown and extinguished in a puddle, I yelled at the vision with the strength of twenty generals, “Go away, you vile creature, or I’ll rip off all your other limbs!” And the Great Headless Horseman rose up from the ground with a cackle and a laugh and a whinny and a fart, and the rider and its stallion evaporated into the mist and were gone—gone!—never to be seen again. You see, it was I—yes, I—who scared away the Horseman and not the other way around! And that, my friends, is what really happened when I encountered the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow. The explanation of the Horseman’s appearance is usually flippantly dismissed as merely Brom Bones in disguise; the idea being that he intended to scare me away from his dear Miss Van Tassel by playing upon my belief in the supernatural. Oh, what an easy and uneducated conclusion to reach, brought about by men who prefer to hear themselves talk—loudly and at length—rather than chronicle the truth.

  [With disgust.]

  Yes, I’m speaking of writers. A despicable lot—all of them! The truth is the Headless Horseman was a spirit from beyond. It’s as simple as that. Some of you, I can tell, are non-believers. But it matters not to me. For I know the truth; you see, I was there and you were not. The Horseman was clearly a restless soul of the Revolution whose head had been blown off by a cannonball, and who had returned to earth seeking vengeance. It’s all very clear, don’t you see? I, however, not being responsible for the loss of the Horseman’s head was never in any danger; and once he recognized that, he vanished into the night like fog in the sun.

  As to my disappearance from Sleepy Hollow following this encounter—which is usually described as a frantic fleeing for my life (please!)—there is a very simple and straightforward explanation. My horse, being shaken to the bone by this encounter, raced along furiously and took a wrong turn after crossing the bridge onto Tarry Town Road—the main route out of town. By the time I realized his mistake, I had already crossed the border back into Connecticut; and, well, having already gone that far, figured I might as well return home and visit my family. The next day—having quite a reputation in my hometown—I was offered a teaching position there—one much closer to home. And it is there that I have remained for the past forty-nine years.

  So, as you can see, I was an innocent bystander in all of this. I did not bring about Brom’s jealousy, or Katrina’s unhappy life, and I certainly didn’t deserve to be chased down like a common criminal by a horseman with no head. It all remains a mystery to me. But that was many years ago. Last I heard, Miss Van Tassel married that large, bovine-shaped man and they bore seven fat little children—all of whom resembled Brom—even the girls. I can only imagine the width of her hips after seven consecutive childbirths.

  [He shudders with disgust.]

  Many years later I heard through the grapevine that the poor dear was quite happy with her choice of men and the life that had been bestowed upon her. Oh, Katrina. How brave of you to put up such a front for the sake of the children; truly an admirable attempt to keep them from suicide or some other grizzly end. Untimely, though, Katrina Van Tassel made the biggest mistake of her life . . .

  [A cackle of disgust is heard in the distance. It is so distant it is almost inaudible. ICHABOD continues on without taking notice.]

  She chose a man—Brom Bones—who was completely wrong for her . . .

  [Another cackle, a bit closer.]

  And is now forced to feign love at the expense of her own wants and desires and needs . . .

  [Still another cackle, even closer.]

  Simply put, Katrina Van Tassel is a stupid woman.

  [With that, the HEADLESS HORSEMAN comes riding or flying into the theater and attacks ICHABOD CRANE, who runs for his life. The menacing spirit laughs and cackles as he attacks the aged and weak ICHABOD. The lights flicker and fade as the HORSEMAN moves rapidly about. ICHABOD screams with terror and just barely avoids scaring himself to death when the HORSEMAN disappears as fast as he came.]

  [NOTE: It’s not important how the effect of the HORSEMAN is accomplished: whether through shadows, puppetry, video, or a second actor—it could even be as simple as a lighting and sound effect. What is important, however, is that it be a true moment of fright. It should take the audience by surprise and, without humor, make them sit up in their seats. They must believe that the Headless Horseman exists.]

  There! There! Did you see it? Did you?! The Horseman . . . The Horseman! The Headless Horseman rides again! Let that be a lesson to you—all of you—especially you who don’t believe. The Horseman is real—he exists—he is here. He is always here! Always! You see, I’m not insane! I’m not! I said he was real, and he is! If I were you, I’d watch my step tonight. Especially while traveling over bridges. For you never know when the Headless Horseman—or any other spirit from beyond—will visit you. But remember: he brings a message—he always brings a message. And it’s up to you to unmask it, and listen to it, and heed it. Or else be damned.

  [The lights are restored. ICHABOD is clearly shaken but attempts to recapture his composure.]

  I must go, and I suggest you do the same. Go! Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

  [ICHABOD gathers his notes and hurries offstage. There is a subtle, distant cackle of laughter heard from the HORSEMAN as the lights fade to black.]

  Murray Schisgal

  Queenie

  from

  The Best American Short Plays 2002–2003

  scene

  A park bench on the east side of Central Park.

  time

  Spring; Saturday, noon

  [At rise: LAWRENCE ALBERTSON enters, right, whistling cheerfully, perhaps the waltz from Der Rosenkavalier.]

  [On a leash following him is QU
EENIE, a smooth-haired fox terrier or a dog of similar size. Both owner· and animal are groomed to a splendid shine. LAWRENCE is sixty-two years of age: he can easily pass for a man ten years younger: He wears a cashmere turtleneck sweater; an English hacking jacket, gabardine khaki slacks, and cordovan jodhpurs; a pair of knit gloves dangle from his jacket’s breast pocket. He passes the bench once, turns about, walks back to sit on bench. He beats the bench with his open hand.]

  LAWRENCE Up here, Queenie! Up! Up, sweetheart! Up! Up!

  [QUEENIE jumps up on the bench. In the event that she doesn’t respond to a specific command, the actor is given license to improvise whatever lines are necessary to accommodate her behavior; always, however, with shameless affection.]

  That’s the girl. That’s my good girl. You are the best. The best there is. Did I ever tell you how much I enjoy walking with you, huh? Did I? Did I? I can’t imagine what I’d do with myself if you weren’t around, my little friend.

  [He muzzles and pats QUEENIE on the rump.]

  The irony is that when I first saw you in the pet shop on Madison Avenue . . . Do you realize it was almost three years ago! Three years!

  [Reflectively.]

  Time. Time. Where does it go? Not the most scrupulous and attentive observation can alter . . . it’s irrevocable momentum. Pity. Pity.