Salvaging the Absurd
Casey and Jack grapple with the worst play ever written, desperately trying to salvage its absurdity before opening night, all while dodging their eccentric director's wrath.
[SCENE START]
**INT. COMMUNITY THEATRE HALL - DAY**
A vast, cavernous space, aching with cold. Dust motes dance in the weak winter light filtering through tall, grimy windows. Condensation streaks the glass like tears.
The room is a graveyard of forgotten productions: stacks of wobbly flats lean against a peeling wall, a half-painted Roman column lies on its side.
At a rickety folding table in the center of it all sit CASEY (20s), sharp, pragmatic, her passion worn thin, and JACK (20s), a whirlwind of restless energy currently trying to look profound. They are bundled in layers of worn sweaters and scarves. Their breath mists.
A single, sickly fluorescent bar light HUMS overhead.
Casey’s finger jabs at a script, the cheap paper creasing.
CASEY
> No. I still don’t get it. “My heart, a paperweight, anchors me to this desolate hearth of forgotten embers.” What does that even mean?
Jack gnaws on a pencil, brow furrowed. He looks up, eyes wide and innocent. A smudge of graphite marks his cheek.
JACK
> It means… she’s sad, Casey. Profoundly sad. Her heart is… heavy. Like a paperweight.
He stretches the words, trying to inject them with a gravitas the cold room immediately swallows.
CASEY
(flatly)
> “Heavy, like a paperweight.” It sounds like she swallowed a brick.
She slumps against the table. A stack of dusty playbills skitters, one fluttering to the floor. It shows a faded, toothy grin from a forgotten production of *Our Town*.
Jack lets out a dry, rasping COUGH.
JACK
> Perhaps it’s… metaphorical? A paperweight holds things down. Like her despair holds her down?
He gestures vaguely with the pencil. It SNAPS in two. He stares at the pieces, then shrugs, tossing them on the table.
JACK (CONT'D)
> Well, that’s useful.
Casey rubs her temples, closing her eyes against the buzzing light.
CASEY
> Okay. Let’s take it from the top of page thirty-seven. The scene where I, Lady Beatrice, confront you, Sir Reginald, about your… “unsettling affection for the topiary garden.”
She shivers, a full-body tremor of cold and disbelief.
CASEY (CONT'D)
> Honestly, topiary gardens? Who writes this stuff?
Jack springs to his feet, striking an exaggerated, theatrical pose.
JACK
> A genius, Casey, a visionary! And your delivery, my dear Lady Beatrice, must convey not just disdain, but a deep, existential *fear* of my… arboreal devotion.
He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. Casey snorts.
CASEY
> “Arboreal devotion.” Right. As if that’s a thing.
She rises, taking her position. The floorboards CREAK under her worn boots. She clasps her hands, trying to summon aristocratic bewilderment.
JACK
> Action!
(clears his throat)
> Sorry. Throat’s like sandpaper. Right. Carry on.
Casey takes a deep, shaky breath, the cold air biting her lungs. She projects, forcing a regal tremor into her voice.
CASEY
> Sir Reginald. Your… your dalliances in the yew maze. They have become… the talk of the manor.
Jack’s face contorts. He presses his lips together, his shoulders shaking. A tiny SNORT escapes.
JACK
(choking on laughter)
> I’m sorry, I just… “dalliances in the yew maze.” It sounds like a bad euphemism for… for something unspeakable involving hedge trimmers.
Casey drops her pose, a frustrated sigh echoing in the space.
CASEY
> Exactly! It’s impossible to deliver it straight. We’re going to look like idiots. And Ms. Dubois will just say we’re ‘not finding the truth of the text’.
She kicks a loose floorboard. The sound is startlingly loud.
JACK
> Okay, okay.
(wiping a tear of mirth)
> Let’s approach this… creatively. How do we make ‘dalliances in the yew maze’ less… absurd?
He taps his chin, his gaze drifting to the bare bulb overhead as if seeking divine inspiration.
CASEY
> A prop? What if… what if I’m holding something, like a tiny, distressed squirrel? And I keep nudging it towards him, as if to say, ‘Look what your dalliances have done!’
Jack claps his hands together, the sound sharp and sudden.
JACK
> Brilliant! A traumatised squirrel! Or, even better, a particularly judgmental garden gnome! We could have him enter with a small, meticulously crafted topiary miniature of a… a badger. And he’s petting it. Obsessively.
A genuine, unforced smile breaks across Casey’s face. The worry lines soften. This is the spark.
CASEY
> Yes! And then my line, ‘Your arboreal devotion frightens me, Reginald,’ could be delivered with me trying to shield the gnome from his creepy badger.
JACK
> Perfect! That gives it layers! Subtext! And Ms. Dubois will be none the wiser. She’ll just think it’s our ‘artistic interpretation’.
He mimes a conspiratorial wink.
JACK (CONT'D)
> Alright. New plan for the paperweight line. ‘My heart, a paperweight...’ What if, when you say ‘paperweight,’ you pull an actual paperweight out of your corset? A really heavy, ugly one. And you just… set it down. *Thud*.
CASEY
> A literal paperweight. From my corset. In a ballgown?
She pictures it. The jarring CLUNK. It’s gloriously, profoundly stupid.
CASEY (CONT'D)
> Yes. Yes, I like it. It’s so jarringly out of place, it might actually work. It’ll be so bad it cycles back to being good.
JACK
> Exactly! And then, as you say ‘desolate hearth of forgotten embers’, I could be… quietly trying to rekindle a tiny, unconvincing fire in a miniature fireplace with a miniature bellows.
He puffs his cheeks, making small, earnest ‘whoosh’ sounds. A warmth spreads through Casey that has nothing to do with the temperature.
CASEY
> Okay. Let’s try it with the paperweight and the tiny bellows. And the traumatised garden gnome. We’ll need to find a gnome.
She points to another line in her script.
CASEY (CONT'D)
> And what about this? Sir Reginald declares, ‘My soul yearns for the simple purity of the turnip patch.’ A turnip patch, Jack. A turnip patch.
JACK
(rubbing his chin)
> Okay, what if… what if you’re actually holding a turnip? A large, earthy turnip. And you clutch it to your chest with a yearning so profound, so utterly bizarre, that the audience questions *everything*?
CASEY
(deadpan)
> A turnip. Onstage. In a drawing-room scene.
JACK
> Yes! And when you say ‘purity’, you could even… sniff it. Gently. A moment of profound, turnip-induced peace.
Casey breaks. A genuine, bubbling laugh escapes her, making her shoulders shake. The sound feels like the first sign of life in the dead room.
CASEY
> Okay, you’re officially insane. But… it just might work. It’s so off-kilter it becomes its own logic.
JACK
> We’ll make it a very clean turnip, of course. No soil. Unless the soil is part of the character’s emotional journey.
He pauses, considering this.
JACK (CONT'D)
> No, probably too much. Just a pristine turnip.
The room falls silent for a beat. They look at each other, a silent understanding passing between them. They’re in this together, clinging to a life raft of absurdity.
The clock on the wall, a cheap plastic thing, TICKS loudly. It’s past five.
CASEY
> Alright. She’ll be here soon. Let’s run it again. Act Two, Scene Three. With the turnip, the gnome, the paperweight. All of it.
A new purpose firms her jaw. She pushes away from the table. Jack mirrors her, his playful energy now a focused intensity. He picks up an imaginary teacup.
JACK
> Wait. What if I spill tea on the turnip? Accidentally. A moment of pure, unadulterated human clumsiness amidst the melodrama.
Casey stares at him. The idea is so monumentally, brilliantly awful. It’s perfect. A slow, wide grin spreads across her face.
CASEY
> Jack. You’re a monster. A beautiful, terrible monster.
He bows dramatically.
JACK
> Only for my art, Lady Beatrice. Only for my art.
He holds out the imaginary teacup.
JACK (CONT'D)
> Shall we?
A sharp RAP RAP RAP on the heavy hall door.
The sound VIBRATES through the floorboards.
They both freeze. Eyes wide. The energy, the laughter, the conspiracy—all of it vanishes.
They exchange a look of shared, terrified excitement.
The Director is here.
[SCENE END]
**INT. COMMUNITY THEATRE HALL - DAY**
A vast, cavernous space, aching with cold. Dust motes dance in the weak winter light filtering through tall, grimy windows. Condensation streaks the glass like tears.
The room is a graveyard of forgotten productions: stacks of wobbly flats lean against a peeling wall, a half-painted Roman column lies on its side.
At a rickety folding table in the center of it all sit CASEY (20s), sharp, pragmatic, her passion worn thin, and JACK (20s), a whirlwind of restless energy currently trying to look profound. They are bundled in layers of worn sweaters and scarves. Their breath mists.
A single, sickly fluorescent bar light HUMS overhead.
Casey’s finger jabs at a script, the cheap paper creasing.
CASEY
> No. I still don’t get it. “My heart, a paperweight, anchors me to this desolate hearth of forgotten embers.” What does that even mean?
Jack gnaws on a pencil, brow furrowed. He looks up, eyes wide and innocent. A smudge of graphite marks his cheek.
JACK
> It means… she’s sad, Casey. Profoundly sad. Her heart is… heavy. Like a paperweight.
He stretches the words, trying to inject them with a gravitas the cold room immediately swallows.
CASEY
(flatly)
> “Heavy, like a paperweight.” It sounds like she swallowed a brick.
She slumps against the table. A stack of dusty playbills skitters, one fluttering to the floor. It shows a faded, toothy grin from a forgotten production of *Our Town*.
Jack lets out a dry, rasping COUGH.
JACK
> Perhaps it’s… metaphorical? A paperweight holds things down. Like her despair holds her down?
He gestures vaguely with the pencil. It SNAPS in two. He stares at the pieces, then shrugs, tossing them on the table.
JACK (CONT'D)
> Well, that’s useful.
Casey rubs her temples, closing her eyes against the buzzing light.
CASEY
> Okay. Let’s take it from the top of page thirty-seven. The scene where I, Lady Beatrice, confront you, Sir Reginald, about your… “unsettling affection for the topiary garden.”
She shivers, a full-body tremor of cold and disbelief.
CASEY (CONT'D)
> Honestly, topiary gardens? Who writes this stuff?
Jack springs to his feet, striking an exaggerated, theatrical pose.
JACK
> A genius, Casey, a visionary! And your delivery, my dear Lady Beatrice, must convey not just disdain, but a deep, existential *fear* of my… arboreal devotion.
He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. Casey snorts.
CASEY
> “Arboreal devotion.” Right. As if that’s a thing.
She rises, taking her position. The floorboards CREAK under her worn boots. She clasps her hands, trying to summon aristocratic bewilderment.
JACK
> Action!
(clears his throat)
> Sorry. Throat’s like sandpaper. Right. Carry on.
Casey takes a deep, shaky breath, the cold air biting her lungs. She projects, forcing a regal tremor into her voice.
CASEY
> Sir Reginald. Your… your dalliances in the yew maze. They have become… the talk of the manor.
Jack’s face contorts. He presses his lips together, his shoulders shaking. A tiny SNORT escapes.
JACK
(choking on laughter)
> I’m sorry, I just… “dalliances in the yew maze.” It sounds like a bad euphemism for… for something unspeakable involving hedge trimmers.
Casey drops her pose, a frustrated sigh echoing in the space.
CASEY
> Exactly! It’s impossible to deliver it straight. We’re going to look like idiots. And Ms. Dubois will just say we’re ‘not finding the truth of the text’.
She kicks a loose floorboard. The sound is startlingly loud.
JACK
> Okay, okay.
(wiping a tear of mirth)
> Let’s approach this… creatively. How do we make ‘dalliances in the yew maze’ less… absurd?
He taps his chin, his gaze drifting to the bare bulb overhead as if seeking divine inspiration.
CASEY
> A prop? What if… what if I’m holding something, like a tiny, distressed squirrel? And I keep nudging it towards him, as if to say, ‘Look what your dalliances have done!’
Jack claps his hands together, the sound sharp and sudden.
JACK
> Brilliant! A traumatised squirrel! Or, even better, a particularly judgmental garden gnome! We could have him enter with a small, meticulously crafted topiary miniature of a… a badger. And he’s petting it. Obsessively.
A genuine, unforced smile breaks across Casey’s face. The worry lines soften. This is the spark.
CASEY
> Yes! And then my line, ‘Your arboreal devotion frightens me, Reginald,’ could be delivered with me trying to shield the gnome from his creepy badger.
JACK
> Perfect! That gives it layers! Subtext! And Ms. Dubois will be none the wiser. She’ll just think it’s our ‘artistic interpretation’.
He mimes a conspiratorial wink.
JACK (CONT'D)
> Alright. New plan for the paperweight line. ‘My heart, a paperweight...’ What if, when you say ‘paperweight,’ you pull an actual paperweight out of your corset? A really heavy, ugly one. And you just… set it down. *Thud*.
CASEY
> A literal paperweight. From my corset. In a ballgown?
She pictures it. The jarring CLUNK. It’s gloriously, profoundly stupid.
CASEY (CONT'D)
> Yes. Yes, I like it. It’s so jarringly out of place, it might actually work. It’ll be so bad it cycles back to being good.
JACK
> Exactly! And then, as you say ‘desolate hearth of forgotten embers’, I could be… quietly trying to rekindle a tiny, unconvincing fire in a miniature fireplace with a miniature bellows.
He puffs his cheeks, making small, earnest ‘whoosh’ sounds. A warmth spreads through Casey that has nothing to do with the temperature.
CASEY
> Okay. Let’s try it with the paperweight and the tiny bellows. And the traumatised garden gnome. We’ll need to find a gnome.
She points to another line in her script.
CASEY (CONT'D)
> And what about this? Sir Reginald declares, ‘My soul yearns for the simple purity of the turnip patch.’ A turnip patch, Jack. A turnip patch.
JACK
(rubbing his chin)
> Okay, what if… what if you’re actually holding a turnip? A large, earthy turnip. And you clutch it to your chest with a yearning so profound, so utterly bizarre, that the audience questions *everything*?
CASEY
(deadpan)
> A turnip. Onstage. In a drawing-room scene.
JACK
> Yes! And when you say ‘purity’, you could even… sniff it. Gently. A moment of profound, turnip-induced peace.
Casey breaks. A genuine, bubbling laugh escapes her, making her shoulders shake. The sound feels like the first sign of life in the dead room.
CASEY
> Okay, you’re officially insane. But… it just might work. It’s so off-kilter it becomes its own logic.
JACK
> We’ll make it a very clean turnip, of course. No soil. Unless the soil is part of the character’s emotional journey.
He pauses, considering this.
JACK (CONT'D)
> No, probably too much. Just a pristine turnip.
The room falls silent for a beat. They look at each other, a silent understanding passing between them. They’re in this together, clinging to a life raft of absurdity.
The clock on the wall, a cheap plastic thing, TICKS loudly. It’s past five.
CASEY
> Alright. She’ll be here soon. Let’s run it again. Act Two, Scene Three. With the turnip, the gnome, the paperweight. All of it.
A new purpose firms her jaw. She pushes away from the table. Jack mirrors her, his playful energy now a focused intensity. He picks up an imaginary teacup.
JACK
> Wait. What if I spill tea on the turnip? Accidentally. A moment of pure, unadulterated human clumsiness amidst the melodrama.
Casey stares at him. The idea is so monumentally, brilliantly awful. It’s perfect. A slow, wide grin spreads across her face.
CASEY
> Jack. You’re a monster. A beautiful, terrible monster.
He bows dramatically.
JACK
> Only for my art, Lady Beatrice. Only for my art.
He holds out the imaginary teacup.
JACK (CONT'D)
> Shall we?
A sharp RAP RAP RAP on the heavy hall door.
The sound VIBRATES through the floorboards.
They both freeze. Eyes wide. The energy, the laughter, the conspiracy—all of it vanishes.
They exchange a look of shared, terrified excitement.
The Director is here.
[SCENE END]