by Njel de MesaGIRL / FUMOON
GUY / CHIEF
*the play may be performed with subtitles and projections (using OBBs or Opening Billboards of different mini-series as bookends—“what you know, feel, and watch are the materials of your dreams”).
(An Airplane landing is overheard. OBB Theme from Battlestar Galactica plays from the PA system. A blinding light reveal an airport terminal, passenger arrival detention area, in France. Guy, in pink pajamas, groans in his sleep on one of the benches. A Girl in a red dress enters with her innumerable luggage. She tries to wake him up from his obvious nightmare.)
GUY: (Waking violently. Fast paced percussive theme from Battlestar Galactica.) Argh! Whatta dream?! (Flustered. Talking to the Girl beside him peripherally.) I was being chased by Colonial guards. Madam President Roslin ordered to put me out the airlock. As I wrestled my
way through the fuming mob, everyone kept calling me “SHARON”!?! In a desperate attempt to escape them, I latched on to one of the Viper wings as it flew off… to…to… (Eyes the Girl.) You’re not mom. This isn’t exactly home sweet home. Okay. (Talking to himself.) Don’t freak out. You’ve seen this plot waaay too many times in the movies… You’d know exactly what to do… (Screams in panic.)
GIRL: (In French.) Ça va? (You, okay?)
GUY: (Screaming at the Girl. Flustered.) AAAAAAAAaaaaAAAhHHh!!! You’re a Cylon! Where am I? Who are you? What am I doing here? What did you do to me?! What’s your name? I mean, your number?!
(Girl slaps him violently.)
GUY: Ow, that… (Surprised.)…didn’t hurt. (Girl transfers to a farther bench carrying her luggage.) This is definitely the wrong side of my bed.
(Chief hesitatingly yells out an apology.)
GUY: Miss, I’m sorry. I get chatty when I’m stressed. (Beat.) Well, even when I’m not. (Beat.)
Sorry, if I scared you.(Silence.) You’ve a name, huh? (Silence.) Where are we, huh? (Silence.) I was hoping you’d have an idea on how I got here? (Beat.) Huh?
(Girl looks at him, top to toe, askance while she packs away her luggage. She’s putting one travel bag into a bigger one. One after and into another.)
So many questions but the answers are so few. Guess, I’ll just have to look to myself for a reply. (Looks around.) Okay. What do we have here. Obviously, I’m in an airport terminal. (Beat.) I’m in a what? AIRPORT?!! Yeah, b-but…where? (Goes closer to the girl.) Could you at least tell me where on earth we are?
(Silence. Girl doesn’t reply.)
Ugh. (Doing crude sign language. Gesturing.) Would you happen to know where the payphones are? (Girl doesn’t reply. Still using crude sign language.) Can you at least write down a number I can call?
GIRL: (Sarcastically smiling.) J’ai déjà un copain et il te casserait bien la gueule. (I have a boyfriend, I’m sure he’d be happy to break your neck.)
GUY: Okay, what do I have to press to get subtitles? (Canned laughter.)
GIRL: Il aime bien piétner la gueule des gens. (He likes to step on people’s necks.)
GUY: Exactly what I need in my life right now, a French ingenue! (Beat.) What?! I’m in—
GIRL: Tu trouves le français difficile? (Do you find French difficult?)
GUY: (Panics.) --FRANCE?! What am I doing in France? It’s quaint… but what am I doing here? Of all places?! How’d I even get here in the first place wearing nothing but… (Inspecting his pink pajamas. Realizing.) You gotta be kiddin’ me?! Dammit! Of all the sleeping disorders, why did I pick sleepwalking over snoring or teeth grinding? This is soooo stressful. I think I need to pop a smoke. (To the Girl.) You smoke?
GIRL: Je ne te dois rien. (I don’t owe you anything.)
GUY: Yeah, me neither. But this is probably the day I’d have to start. (Canned laughter.)
VOICE OVER: (From the Airport P.A. system.) ATTENTION! (A tetchy woman is heard reprimanding.) Son, smoke and you die!!
GUY: (Rattled.) Mom?
(Girl pulls out her journal and starts sticking the pages together with glue.)
GUY: Miss? Uhm… miss-s-s-sieu? I mean, Madam Gazelle… Ugh. Shoulda taken French as my Foreign Lang back in college—
GIRL: Oui.
GUY: No, just me. (Canned laughter.) Marooned in pink pajamas with a French chick in a red dress who’s probably thinking of me as gay as pink can be? This is a nightmare!! (Beat.) Maybe if I close my eyes, this’ll all go away. (Closes his eyes. Opens them slowly. Shoots a glance if the Girl is still there.) C’mon, work! Work! Work!(Tries again and again until the girl notices and suspects he’s making a pass at her.) It’s not working. Great. Now, I’m dizzy. Feel sick. (Drowsy.
Stammering.) M-M-Must eat placebos. (Girl hands out a chocolate bar from one of her bags.)
Oh, mercy boocoo much! (Opens the bar starts munching on it then realizes; the Girl understands English.) Heeeyyy… (Crude French.) Excuse me mwah, Madam Gazelle? Comprendey English? We? We? (Girl doesn’t flinch. Silence.) Respondu… uhm… silver plate? (Annoyed. Girl stands up from the terminal benches to leave.) C’mon, I just wanna be “French” with you? (Laughs at his own joke.) HAHAhahaHAhA!! Get it? “FRENCH” with you?! HahaHA!!
(Girl laughs sarcastically at the Guy.)
(Trying to prevent her from leaving.) That was funny, you know? But what do you know, you’re French! I mean, yeah, you believe you invented Western Civilization but can you play basketball? Huh? You-me, one-on-one, huh? (Guy manages to snatch her journal. A loud
Referee’s whistle is heard. They jump ball then hustle for the journal.)
GIRL: (Gesturing “Go away”.) Dégage. (Back off.)
GUY: What does that supposed to mean? Back off? And what are you going to do, if I don’t?
Smash me with a Burgundy or a Bordeaux just ‘cause I can’t tell the difference?
GIRL: (She steps on his toes and snatches back her journal.) Tu te fous de moi! ( You’re making fun of me.)
GUY: Oh, that was you intimidating me? Yeah, anything French IS intimidating: (Mocking in crude French accent.) French toddlers, French pigs, French cats and dogs—hey, even French fries intimidate me. Come to think of it, that’s the only French with existential promise, the fries,
I mean… And it’s not even French… It’s Belgian! (Canned laughter.)
GIRL: Tu me rends malade! (You make me sick.)
GUY: There you go again, contaminating me with your French!
GIRL: (In fear. Screaming.) POLICE!!!
GUY: Great idea! (Upstaging.) “Police! Police!” that’s exactly what I need right now to keep you from attacking me with your mascara. That or powdering me to death. Oh, wait, …I get it… you were calling the “FASHION” Police! I’m sorry… You really need their immediate help… because your dress will be out of style in fifteen minutes.
GIRL: Police! Police!
GUY: Madam Gazelle, that’s not how you call police in the airport. You call them like this: BOMB! BOMB! (Unbuttons his top revealing his undershirt with the word BOMB printed on it.) I HAVE A BOOOOOMMMMB!! (Canned laughter. Realizing.) Okay, something’s obviously wrong. (Turns to the girl.) Voulez-vous coucher avec moi? (Would you like to have coffee with me?)
(Girl angrily slaps Guy.)
GUY: Déjà vu. (Dawning.) Hey, I speak French now?! (Straining.) Vous etes une super nana. (You’re one fabulous babe.)
(Girl is about to slap Guy, hesitates in mid-movement.)
GUY: Aaaa… that’s how you disarm the French. Now, if I can figure out what I just said and how I learned to say it. (To the Girl.) Sans vous je ne suis qu’un ver de terre. (I am only an earthworm without you.)
(Fumoon smiles.)
GUY: Hey, I said something nice. (Beat.) Did I? (To the Girl. In French accent.) Madam Gazelle, it looks like you understand my French better zan I do. So, can you tell me what I just said?
GIRL: Tire-toi. (Buzz off.)
GUY: I could’ve sworn, it was longer. Now can we try it in English, please?
GIRL: Laisse-moi tranquille ou je t’arrache les yeux! (Please don’t disturb me again or I will scratch out your eyes.). (Beat. In English.) …Chief.
GUY: Oh, we’re chums now? You calling me “Chief” now? Madam Gazelle, there’s only one girl who gets to call me that. And you won’t happen to be—
GIRL: --Fumoon.
GUY: How’d you—
FUMOON: (In French accent.) And only one guy who got to call me zat…
CHIEF: Oh—my—lords of kobol! FUMOON?! (Awestruck. Theme from the O.C. plays.)
FUMOON: And… “who are you?”
CHIEF: “Whoever you want me to be…”
(They jam for old times sake.)
BOTH: (Singing ecstatically together.) California, here we come… right back where we started from… Californiaaaaaa!! Californiaaaa!! Here we come! OOOoooh! (They laugh.)
CHIEF: Fumoon, It’s been donkey’s years! Is it really you in there?
FUMOON: Want my autograph? (Hands him an autographed picture.)
CHIEF: Wow, did I make a pass at you in college?
FUMOON: No, I think it was the other way around.
CHIEF: Well, I’ll just make up for it now, if that’s fine with you? (Excited with delight.) What happened to you? You’re a… (Stuttering.) You’re a… a… woman.
FUMOON: Does that even count as a pick-up line? (Scoffs.) Nothing’s changed.
CHIEF: (Looking at her top to toe.) Everything’s changed… and your hair… your hair is… wow… longer. (Canned laughter.)
FUMOON: Longer is an adjective, right? Is it also a compliment?
CHIEF: Hey, I wanted to sweep you off your feet, if… (Straining to whip up a pick-up line.) …if …you hadn’t… swept me off mine first.
FUMOON: (Annoyed.) “That’ll do, pig. That’ll do.”
CHIEF: Working on it. So what’s up with you? What are you doing here?
FUMOON: Waiting.
CHIEF: (Sarcastic.) Wow, waiting. Cool. (Beat.) Could you be anymore vague?
FUMOON: Work.
CHIEF: Wow, that IS more vague. (Canned laughter.)
FUMOON: Ok, long and short, post grad; went into advertising which led to designing which led to fashion for the runways.
CHIEF: Haute couture, eh?
FUMOON: You?
CHIEF: Still working for my dad. Selling washing machines. Still the computer geek. Still in love with…
FUMOON: With?
CHIEF: With… uh… with… (Groping for a thought.) …theater!
FUMOON: Really? E-mail me when you’ll be in Carnegie then.
CHIEF: That’ll never happen. I’m quite resigned my theater dreams won’t ever come true.
FUMOON: Atta boy! That’s what you do to everyone… (Slips.) …I mean, everything you love… you just give them all up for “safety”, eh?
CHIEF: (Changes the subject.) Love to catch up, patch up love… but I’m not yet done with panicking so… can we just give more TLC in how we handle my predicament here.
FUMOON: Always hung up, I see.
CHIEF: Yeah? Yeah? Let’s see how well you handle sleepwalking.
FUMOON: (Scoffs.) So your telling me, you checked-in, got your boarding pass, paid the terminal fee, got inspected, boarded the plane and flew into the heart of France sleepwalking style. I don’t buy it.
CHIEF: I don’t buy it either. But, hey…(Shows his pajamas. Canned laughter.) Stop that already. (Canned laughter snaps out abruptly.)
FUMOON: Like the color.
CHIEF: Really. Thought it was kinda—
FUMOON: --Always knew you were gay.
CHIEF: Now look who’s hung up.
FUMOON: I’m not hung up on you.
CHIEF: Then, why were you pretending you’re French and didn’t want to talk to me?
FUMOON: I wasn’t pretending.
CHIEF: Touché! (Clap of thunder.) When it rains, it surely pours.
FUMOON: You’re over reacting. For all you know, this might just be a dream.
CHIEF: Oh yeah? (Tries pinching himself.) Then, why can’t I feel anything, smarty-pants?
FUMOON: Duh. Because you’re in a dream. I swear, you’re still stuck in second grade. Can’t distinguish dreams from reality. Oh, please don’t pee on your pants.
CHIEF: (Suddenly delighted.) You’re telling me I’m consciously dreaming!?! I’m consciously… in my subconscious?! This is so cool. (Beat. Basking.) So, this is a dream?!
FUMOON: Yeah, but whose…
CHIEF: Hmm. So, I shouldn’t be jumping up and down ‘cause it might not be mine. Great.
FUMOON: (Perfunctorily.) Could be yours. Could be mine. Who knows?
CHIEF: (Mawkish.) Could be ours?
FUMOON: Ugh. I wouldn’t dare dream of you.
(Blackout. Pitch black darkness. Silence.)
CHIEF: This is what happens when you don’t pay your bills, Fumoon. (Silence.) Fumoon? Where are yaaaaaaah? (Silence.) Great. Guess, that answers whose dream this is. (Sound of him groping for the lights switch.) If I can just find the switch.
FUMOON: Ow! You stepped on my newly pedicured toe.
CHIEF: Ooops, hey, you’re still here. Hope I didn’t wake you up.
FUMOON: Or maybe you’re beginning to dream about me again. I’m the victim here. Stop making this a two-way thing.
CHIEF: Right, because back in college, it was just a one way thing. Yours to be exact.
FUMOON: I hate you.
CHIEF: Hate you, too.
FUMOON: I read somewhere that all the people in your dreams are there because you put them there. Things in dreams symbolize how you feel about them. And since this is YOUR dream, YOU forced me to be here. Betcha heard I was getting fashionably famous in France and bitten by regret, started dreaming of me and your shoulda-woulda-couldas.
CHIEF: Well, dreams are impossible to verify. So, you can’t actually prove THAT theory.
FUMOON: Watch me.
CHIEF: I can’t actually WATCH anything in the dark.
FUMOON: And I don’t actually WATCH Battlestar Galactica.
CHIEF: And I don’t actually WATCH the O.C.
FUMOON: (Sings.) California, here we come…
CHIEF: (Sings.) Right back where we started from…
FUMOON: (Sarcastic.) Uh-huh… and you don’t watch the O.C.
(Lights flicker up again. They are seated face to face in a fancy restaurant eating cakes from a frying pan. Fumoon is fashionable with a cocktail dress—ribbons and all. Chief is a rubber toad. *Chief’s lines may be actual croaking with projected subtitles.)
CHIEF: Whaddaya know, dreams are memories. Memories are dreams.
FUMOON: I hate you. (Drinks water from her glass with a spoon.)
CHIEF: How can you, if you’re still hung up with me?
FUMOON: This is your dream! (Brazen.) YOU’re hung up on me.
BOTH: (Sighs. Looks around.) Abject humiliation.
(Silence.)
FUMOON: (Whimpering.) I hate you.
(Silence.)
CHIEF: (Guilty.) Yeah, you should. I’m sorry I’m a toad.
FUMOON: (Keeps stuffing her mouth with cake from the frying pan. Crying.) When will this pancake end?!
(Chief appears to be quietly nibbling on his share.)
FUMOON: I was practically throwing myself at you… to you. I poured my heart out. I said, “I love you”. And you just had to say—
CHIEF: --Thank you.(Beat.) I’m sorry.
FUMOON: And I paid the bill! I swear, I will never kiss you. You’ll be a rubber toad for the rest of your artificial life!
CHIEF: Well, if we get to prove this dream’s mine, can I still take my “Thank you” back and say, “I love you”.
FUMOON:(Mawkish.) Really?
CHIEF: (Correcting.) If…
(Blackout. They talk in the dark again.)
FUMOON: Great, another blackout. I was about to give you one.
CHIEF: I read about this. The REM cycle.
FUMOON: The band?
CHIEF: Duh. Consider dreaming like weird channel surfing. Some nights you just see ads, images—maybe, if you’re lucky—a news clip. But some nights, you come across a really good episode.
FUMOON: Well, this is a terrible episode.
CHIEF: (Sarcastic.) See, I’m ignoring you there. (Beat.) It’s quite a possibility that, miles apart, we’re dreaming exactly the same thing.
FUMOON: Great, betrothed by a dream.
CHIEF: (Idea.) And if YOU are—
FUMOON: (In revolt.) No way!
CHIEF: Know what, we should consciously find clues on whether we are, in fact, dreaming the same dream… tonight!
FUMOON: Dream on, Chief! Dream on.
CHIEF: Afraid to admit that subconsciously, we might be… (Hesitates.) …meant for each other?
FUMOON: M.F.E.O.? Could you be any sappier?
CHIEF: So, you game?
FUMOON: But only because I have to prove to you I’m not dreaming this.
(REM shift happens. Blinding light and then off to the next vivid dream sequence.)
FUMOON: (Freaking out.) AAAAaaaAAAAaaaAHHhhHHHhh!!
(Lights on. They apparently slept together on a bedroom showcase at a display window inside a mall. Both are naked and just wearing white bed sheets. Fumoon feels desecrated and wraps her entire body with the sheets; her face sticking out. Chief has a big wide grin on his.)
CHIEF: Hehe. I obviously like you. Happy Valentines.
FUMOON: I can’t belive this! (Gets the pillow and hurls it at Chief.) You fantasize about me?! Huh? Huh?!
CHIEF: Hey, hey, hey, hold your allegations until we have enough proof this dream is not entirely YOURS!
FUMOON: Are you saying, you’re certain it’s mine? You’re the only one capable of thinking such PERVERBIAL thoughts!
CHIEF: “Perverbial”? Good thing we’re not playing scrabble, or you’ll cheat me with your own vocabulary. (Beat.) Wanna play twister, instead?
FUMOON: (Freaking out and covering her ears.) AAAAAhhhhHHH!! My virgin ears!
CHIEF: Well, brace yourself, honey ‘cause the REM cycle loops 5 to 6 times a sleep…We’ll be doing this allllll night. Yeah.
FUMOON: (Covering her ears again.) AAAAHHHhhh!! Can you stop your sexual innuendoes? I want to keep this dream as dry as possible.
CHIEF: You mean, I don’t turn you on, verbally? (Beat.) Orally?
FUMOON: (Covering her ears again.) AAAAAAAHhhhHHHh!!
CHIEF: Hehe. (Removing her hands on her ears.) Come now, I won’t do it again. Promise.
(They hold hands for awhile. They feel awkward. Fumoon pulls away.)
FUMOON: (Brazen.) Keep your hands to yourself.
CHIEF: That’ll do too.
FUMOON: (Covering her ears again.) AAAAAAAAHhhHHH!! You’re hurting my virgin ears!
CHIEF: Better I hurt your virgin ears than your virgin—
FUMOON: (Covering her ears again.) AAAAAAHHHHHhhh!! You’re doing it again.
CHIEF: Sorry. Freudian slip.
FUMOON: Freudian nightmare!
CHIEF: Virgin, my ass…
FUMOON: Hey, I’m 100% certified Chlamydia clean. Vacuum sealed. In mint condition. I happen to believe: True love waits and temporary flings equal permanent damage. A single night of pleasure felled Samson forever. You see, my heart is a treasure as valuable as my physical purity. How much treasure will be left, if I give it away, piece by piece in one relationship after another? This way I’m learning to love my future spouse even before we meet.
(Loud clap of thunder. Heavens open. God speaks from a cloud.)
GOD: I pray, you are telling the truth, young lady… for in the dense, immoral fog of this generation, you should shine your life as a beacon, guiding others to the goodness and grace of God. And though this world is polluted, you should live in spotless purity, uncontaminated by all the garbage around you. (Philippians 2:14-15)
(Heavens close.)
CHIEF: I agree with that guy.
FUMOON: That there’s garbage around me? (Looking at Chief.) I wouldn’t be surprised you’re still a virgin.
CHIEF: Hey, abstinence is my greatest skill.
FUMOON: Not by choice, I’m sure.
CHIEF: Au contraire. As you CAN’T see, (Showing the bed’s headboard.)…the lack of notches on my bedpost is a product of my choice to be a one man-woman kinda guy.
FUMOON: Such commitment. And who’s the lucky girl, you’ve chosen to save yourself for.
(Chief shoots an It’s-always-been-you-don’t-you-know look at Fumoon.)
FUMOON: Oh.
(Blackout. They talk in the dark again.)
CHIEF: It’s probably your fault I’m still single. So many beautiful women out there, but you’re the only who makes sense to me.
(Long silence.)
FUMOON: What are you trying to do, Chief?
CHIEF: I’m trying to sweep you off your feet for a change. Can you atleast give me an “A” for effort?
FUMOON: I’d give you an “A+” for your dream seminar, if you’d segue into that NOW.
CHIEF: Fine. Obviously, not the romantic type…
FUMOON: Chief, romancing me will never be your strong suit. You had your chance then. Move on.
CHIEF: Fine. (Ignoring her.) Dreaming can be broken down to five categories: Stage one, Stage two, Stage three, Stage four…and…
FUMOON: Lemme guess: Stage five.
CHIEF: Yes.
FUMOON: Must’ve taken a genius to name them.
CHIEF: Stage one happens after nodding off. Not much happens. Your brain’s winding down, replaying the day in your head. Stage two, your body jerks in deep sleep. Then, off to Stage three…which basically is like Stage two but deeper.
FUMOON: No diff at all?
CHIEF: There is, if you’re a psychophysioanalyst.
FUMOON: Say it again?
CHIEF: Don’t make me say it again. (Continuing.) Right now, we’re in Stage four and sleeping-like-a-log.
FUMOON: We’re not dreaming yet? (Beat.) I mean YOU’re not dreaming yet?
CHIEF: Not yet, but brace yourself… ‘cause REM sleep’s a-comin’! (SFX: Subtle rumbling of impending doom.) You hear that?
FUMOON: The band?
CHIEF: Rapid Eye Movement. When your eyeballs go nuts. Hormones party. Pulse rate goes up. You take in more oxygen then out goes extra gas.
FUMOON: Not fun.
CHIEF: Funny how you’re even getting enough rest with these things happening. Older people sometimes suffer heart attacks and seizures. You wouldn’t be surprised if you read your dream brainwaves on the… (With difficulty.) …electroencephalograph.
FUMOON: Say it again?
CHIEF: Don’t make me say it again.
FUMOON: What?
CHIEF: Electroencephalograph.
(REM shift happens. Blinding Light. And then off to the next vivid dream sequence. Lights change. They are now in an empty collegiate classroom. Chief is pregnant and laboring on the teacher’s table. He is dressed in a maternity gown while giving birth to self-help books. Fumoon is dressed as the midwife.)
CHIEF: (Freaking out.) AAAAAAAAAaaaaHHHHHHHHhhhh!!
FUMOON: And you tell me you’re a virgin.
CHIEF: Ever heard of immaculate conception? (Beat.) Wait a minute, you did this to me in the dark? You sneaky skank!
FUMOON: Only in your wildest dreams, Chief. Like I told you.
CHIEF: Among the Jungian Archetypes, which one are you? “Trickster” or “Prankster”?
FUMOON: “The Masculine”. You’re obviously “The Feminine”.
CHIEF: Hey, your humor got the whole yin/yang jung theory all mixed up.
FUMOON: Trying to be the “Sage” now? ‘Cause looks like we’re back in school, and you’re playing teacher.
CHIEF: Looks like your having fun. Enjoy it. Atleast, one of us is gaining something from all of this.
FUMOON: Uhm, “sir”… (Snickers at his maternity gown.) …that would be you. When you dream of school, even if you’re done with it, means you’re learning new lessons or finding out something new about life. And when you’re pregnant: about yourself.
CHIEF: I hate role reversals. So, what did I find out this time?
FUMOON: (Pulling out books.) Lessons from the Road Less Travelled? Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus? When God Writes Your Love Story? (Scoffs.) I wouldn’t be caught sticking my nose into one of these, even if Oprah recommended it. Since when did you get to be the touchy-feely afficionado?
CHIEF: If I tell you, I’d be praying your boyfriend’s not an African Ashanti or I’d be dead by tomorrow.
FUMOON: (In denial.) Boyfriend?!
CHIEF: Just checking.
FUMOON: Yeah, me too. Just checking.
CHIEF: Check what? (Suspicious.) Unless, you said something in French… that needs to be translated if truth be told…
FUMOON: (Panics.) Translated? What? No! What? No. I made it all up. French noises and “On”.
CHIEF: Well, it sure did sound authentic to me. (Excited.) Hey, do it again!
FUMOON: (In smeared French accent.) Stupide.
CHIEF: (Crudely imitates.) Stooopeeede.
FUMOON: No. you have to puck your lips, then show your teeth like Orangutans for the “U” sound. Like this… (Showing the mouth position.) “Stupide”.
CHIEF: (Imitating farcically with bedroom eyes.) “Stupide”!
FUMOON: There, now you really look stupid.
CHIEF: Mercy boocoo much, French fraud.
FUMOON: But that’s “entre-nous”. Between you and—
CHIEF: --I know what it means I’m not “Stupide”.
FUMOON: Say, you look kinda cute looking “Stupide”!
CHIEF: (Fumoon pulls out a camera. Chief poses intermittently as if for a fashion shoot to the camera.) Stupide! (Another pose.) Stupide! (And another.) Stupide!
FUMOON: That’s hot. So hot. (They laugh.) Yup, we always clicked. (They take a snapshot of themselves together.)
CHIEF: Yup… (Plaintively.) …the heart stubbornly remembers, what the mind cleverly forgets. Fumoon, I don’t need a professional dream interpreter from the Nile to figure out that… (Hesitates.)… I love you.
(Blackout. They talk in the dark again.)
FUMOON: Say it again…
CHIEF: (Pretending to be oblivious.) What?
FUMOON: I love you.
CHIEF: Oh, thank you.
FUMOON: I hate you. (Long pause.)
CHIEF: I love you. There. I’ve crossed the rubicon. Pathetic that I can only say it subconsciously? I know. But it doesn’t make it any less than what it is. Believe me, it doesn’t. (Beat.) I’m sorry for being a coward then. And for putting you through all of this.
FUMOON: (Kidding.) Finally, we agree on something.
CHIEF: No, seriously. This is my dream. Just mine. (Plaintive sigh.)
FUMOON: Okay, Sherlock. Blow me.
CHIEF: (In British accent.) Gladly.
FUMOON: (Freaking out.) AAAAAhh!
CHIEF: I thought the Battlestar Galactica OBB Maintitle theme, the self-help books, my sucky pick up lines… gave it away.
FUMOON: Funny, that’s why your futile jabs at comedy get canned guffaws… ‘cos you always fantasized to be a sitcom superstah? Aintcha? (Canned laughter.)
CHIEF: Yeah. You know what else’s funny; I won’t remember all of these ‘cause I’ve a gut feeling I pretty much dream about the same thing every night.
FUMOON: (Shoots a wild guess.) Me.
CHIEF: Yeah. (Beat.) And it’s getting pretty boring.
(Fumoon slaps him on the shoulder.)
CHIEF: Well, I never knew “boring” could be so much interesting.
FUMOON: Yeah, I had fun.
CHIEF: Yeah?
FUMOON: Yeah.
CHIEF: Yeah, well…
BOTH: (Sad. With a heavy sigh.) Yeah.
(Blinding Lights come up again. They’re back in France. Overlooking the Eiffel tower. Both in formal wear. Everything’s in red except the moon.)
CHIEF: This is me.
FUMOON: You could’ve told me earlier.
CHIEF: Was hoping I’d get a clue that this was yours too.
FUMOON: Well, there’s still a chance, we get 5 to 6 REM cycles a night, right? Maybe, in the next?
CHIEF: (Shrugs.) Check yourself. I’m not coming with you.
FUMOON: Why not?
CHIEF: Nah. I wanna keep this dream like… (Holds her hand.) … this. With some hope that this might also be yours?
FUMOON: Your dream, your call.
CHIEF: Guess it’s the next best thing to being with you.
FUMOON: Then let me hold on to that, with you.
CHIEF: I’d like that.
FUMOON: Never thought you’d fall for me. (Beat.) Then why did you say, “Thank you”, when you really meant—
CHIEF: --Look, falling in love with you was/is easy. It’s waking up from that fall that terrifies me. Oh, and please don’t ask me to explain it… Love seems more illogical than dreams are…
FUMOON: But dreams are more hopeful…
CHIEF: Huh?
FUMOON: I may not know the difference between a toaster and a Cylon… but I can definitely tell Seth and Ryan apart.
CHIEF: (Clueless.) Who?
FUMOON: See, there’s hope.
CHIEF: Hmmm… “So say we all!”.
FUMOON: There’s no such word as “perverbial”…and you don’t speak French.
CHIEF: Yeah, and you do speak French…
FUMOON: Oui, I do.
CHIEF: I like the sound of that.
FUMOON: (Stands and tugs him for a dance.) Dance with me.
CHIEF: Fumoon, I can’t dance.
FUMOON: No worries, we’re doing a comedy this time. C’mon, get up. I’m sweeping you off your feet.
(Both in dancing position.)
FUMOON: How’d you get some mood music here?
CHIEF: Close your eyes and it will start.
(She closes her eyes. A band magically appears and starts playing romantic music.)
FUMOON: Neat. If I stick out my tongue, will it change tracks?
CHIEF: No, but it will turn something else on.
FUMOON: AaaaHh! You’re doing it again.
(They both laugh. They lull slowdancing to the music. Stardust fall from the sky. After a brief pause.)
FUMOON: Did you love me—atleast, like me—back in college?
CHIEF: (Breathes in.) From freshman to senior year…with no one else in between.
FUMOON: Liked or Loved?
CHIEF: Love, I guess. But what do I know, right? The only thing I know about love is that: it has always been about you.
FUMOON: (Smiles.) That’ll do pig. That’ll do.
(Fumoon presses closer to Chief for a kiss.)
CHIEF: (Stopping her.) Let’s save it when we’re awake. Besides, we won’t be feeling anything here anyway(s). Let’s call it an incentive.
FUMOON: Je n’aurai plus jamais le même regard sur Paris. (I’ll never see Paris the same way again.) Sadly, it’s only in dreams that we can meet being miles apart.
CHIEF: You know what, pinch me. So I can make this dream come true.
FUMOON: Go get me, Chief.
(An alarm clock rings. Blackout.)
CURTAIN
* No part of these plays may be staged without a written permission from the author. For performance rights, permit to play, and inquiries email ktfi2001@yahoo.com or call 386.3278 /text (0917)9726514.
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