February Stars: A Play

RICHIE: (dismissive) I've dealt with it.

SARAH: (doubtful) Really? What about yesterday?

(beat)

RICHIE: (genuine) What about yesterday?

SARAH: You don't remember? (aside) Of course, that shouldn't surprise me.

RICHIE: (overlapping, trying to process it all) What . . . I can't remember . . . What happened?

SARAH: (aside) You got drunk.

RICHIE: (slowly processing) It was Alex's birthday,--

SARAH: And you were drinking.

RICHIE: Yeah, coffee . . . (processing, then remembering a little) with Jack Daniels.

SARAH: And after a while, you stopped adding the coffee.

RICHIE: (tired and frustrated, to himself) I've lost a whole fucking day. (to SARAH) I'm almost too afraid to ask, but, what did I do?

SARAH: I honestly don't know. I had to go to work. When I got back, you were passed out on the floor. I couldn't wake you up so I called the E.M.T.s and they had to pump your stomach. They said you had a .36 blood/alcohol level. I stayed up all night to make sure you were okay. And you don't remember any of it. This morning I was so scared to go to work. I couldn't stand just leaving you here. I didn't know if I should stay longer, or if I should wake you up, or if I should just prop your head up in a waste basket. For the last three months I've been tryin' to help you deal with Alex's death and help you get back on your feet. I've hoped and prayed for some kind of improvement, any kind of improvement, but you don't get better, only worse. I can't do it any more, Richie, and its unfair of you to ask me to do it. I love you and I care about you so much, but please, don't ask me to stay here and watch you self-destruct, because its too hard.

(RICHIE takes it all in.)

RICHIE: I don't know what to say.

SARAH: Don't say anything. I'm just going away for a little while.

(SARAH picks up her bags and heads off stage, but RICHIE's next line stops her just short of an exit.)

RICHIE: They kicked me out.

SARAH: (genuinely concerned) Who?

RICHIE: Steven and Millie. They kicked me out of the band tonight.

SARAH: (unsure of what to say) Well . . . what are you gonna do?

RICHIE: I dunno. (his external facade decaying rapidly) I feel like I'm losing control, like I'm losing everything. I don't know what I'm doing any more, Sarah. I don't even think I know who I am any more.

(SARAH takes a moment to decide once and for all what she's doing. She then takes a deep breath and heads for the door.)

SARAH: Take care of yourself, Richie.

(SARAH exits, followed by the sounds of a door opening and closing. RICHIE just sits alone, staring at the door. RICHIE's eyes break their stare, as he tries to figure out what to do. Finally, he picks up his guitar. With a few quick strums, he begins to sing the first verse of something in a half assed attempt to cheer himself up. About halfway through the verse RICHIE's voice trails off as he runs out of steam, realizing that he really doesn't feel like being cheered up. Instead, he begins to sing and play something else. As he sings and plays, all of the lights, except for the ones on RICHIE, fade out. The projection fades, as well. As he finishes the first verse, the cast changes the scene around him from that of RICHIE's Apartment to that of The Kobyashi Club, and the house club comes in.)

Scene 4 - The Kobyashi Club

(As the cast removes the set for RICHIE's apartment, they set the scene of The Kobyashi Club, a semi-upscale, cabaret-style cafe, hosting an open mic night. The cast [one of whom is APPLEGATE] has shuffled in with chairs and tables and a bar off to one side. The projection behind RICHIE is now that of the bottom of a broken coffee mug, with print reading "The Kobyashi Club" [NOTE: The picture is a nod to the Brian Singer film 'The Usual Suspects'. You have to watch the film to get the reference.] RICHIE finishes up on the song, and the cast applauds with less than mild enthusiasm. JULIE McDUNOUGH, host of the open mic, takes the stage. RICHIE just grabs his guitar and heads for the bar.)

JULIE: (with a tone almost too laid back and mellow to be anything but chemically induced) Yeah. Let's hear it for Richie Benz.

(The cast once again applauds with less than mild enthusiasm. RICHIE, meanwhile, has pulled up a bar stool, and set his guitar [now in it's case] upright on a stool next to him. JULIE introduces the next band [good place for the rest of the cast to ham things up], and they begin to play [hopefully "One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer"]. RICHIE tries to flag down the bartender who, although RICHIE is the only person sitting at the bar, is completely occupied with something else.)

RICHIE: Hey, Bartender!

TERESA: (still facing away, playfully) Well, now, that sounds like a country song to me. (turns around, mock surprise) Jesus, would'ya look at this pimp!

RICHIE: (real surprise) Teresa? Damn! I haven't seen you in-

TERESA: Almost a year.

RICHIE: Yeah, since the institute! How you been?

TERESA: No real complaints. Workin', payin' bills. How about you? You still luggin' around the same old ax?

(APPLEGATE leaves his table, and pulls up a spot at the other end of the bar.)

RICHIE: (gives the guitar case a pat, like it was his pet) Yeah, still got my dad's old guitar.

TERESA: Well, good for you. At least you're still playing.

(APPLEGATE tries to wave down TERESA.)

RICHIE: What, you mean you haven't been?

TERESA: You kiddin'? I spend all my time payin' bills. Rent in this town sucks.

RICHIE: Tell me about it. I miss one more payment, my landlord'll have me by the sack.

APPLEGATE: (overlapping) Excuse me, bartender!

TERESA: (oozing sarcasm) Nice image. (finally notices APPLEGATE) Hold that thought.

(RICHIE watches as TERESA goes over and takes APPLEGATE's order. RICHIE notices a brief exchange between APPLEGATE and TERESA. The moment passes, and TERESA heads back over to continue her conversation.[It should be noted at this time that throughout the rest of their conversation certain elements of TERESA's character; gestures, tones, looks, should suggest to both us and the audience that TERESA feels something more for RICHIE.])

TERESA: Sorry 'bout that, where were we?

RICHIE: Talkin' about rent. (switches gears almost immediately) Who's the suit? (indicating APPLEGATE)

TERESA: Who, him? (also indicating APPLEGATE) He's a regular.

RICHIE: I mean, what's he do? I think I've seen him around before.

TERESA: Could be. He's a talent agent, works with musicians. Comes into the open mics all the time, says he's always got his eye out for 'the next big thing'.

RICHIE: I can't stand agents. I met so many of them with my old band, (aside) they pissed me off so much. (to TAELI) You could tell from talking with them for just ten minutes that they knew nothing about music. (aside) Probably spend all their time listening to Michael Bolton, John Tesh and David Hasselhoff. (to TAELI) I mean, these are the guys that made Milli Vanilli famous, and their running the industry!. No wonder the music's gone straight to hell.

(RICHIE trails off as he finally notices that TERESA looks more and more worried.)

RICHIE: What is it?

TERESA: (rushed) Watch out for this guy. I've heard things about him. Most of these agents come in here and they're trying just as hard to make it in the business as the musicians. But this guy . . . I dunno. I've been able to avoid him 'till tonight. He's got his eye on you, so keep your guard up.

(awkward pause, then TERESA decides to change the subject)

TERESA: You were good tonight.

RICHIE: Thanks. (mind wandering) I need my own band. I'm better with my own band. There's just something about playing music with people you know, there's a dynamic there in--

APPLEGATE: A-hem!

(By now, APPLEGATE is sitting almost right next to RICHIE's guitar. RICHIE notices.)

TERESA: (all smiles, but somewhat nervous) I'm sorry, I didn't see you there. How may I help you?

(APPLEGATE looks at TERESA incredibly annoyed, then talks to her with the most condescending tone possible.)

APPLEGATE: Yesss. (hands her the almost full drink) I'm going to give this back to you and reorder my original drink.

TERESA: Is there something wrong with it?

APPLEGATE: It's the wrong drink. I ordered a very dry Gibson on the rocks. This is a poor excuse of a Martini floating in slush.

TERESA: (defensive) I'm very sorry, but (*) there's no need to be--

APPLEGATE: (condescending) (*) Listen, I'll make this easy on you and walk you through it. Take a clean glass.

TERESA: (appalled) EXCUSE ME!?

APPLEGATE: (cold and cruel) Hello. I'm the customer. I didn't pay for attitude, I paid for a drink. Now, take a clean glass.

(TERESA fixates a cold, angry stare on APPLEGATE. APPLEGATE reaches inside his coat)

APPLEGATE: I suppose you'll need some incentive.

(APPLEGATE pulls out a really fat wad of cash wrapped in a money clip and drops it on the bar. TERESA has a little mental debate, then, coldly.)

TERESA: Fine.

(TERESA reaches for the money, but APPLEGATE pulls it away.)

APPLEGATE: First, the drink.

(TERESA never breaks the cold, hateful stare while she follows APPLEGATES instructions. She takes a clean glass.)

APPLEGATE: Good. Now, pour just a little vermouth in, slosh it around and dump it out. Now put the ice in. (we can see that TERESA is really fuming.) Good. Pour the vodka, and then garnish it with an onion, not an olive. Good. That wasn't so hard, now was it.

TERESA: (handing him the drink, fighting back the urge to shove the drink up his--) Will there be anything else, sir?

APPLEGATE: Yesss, get something for my friend here, too, and let's see if we can't lose the attitude.

(TERESA looks at RICHIE, who shakes his head 'no'. RICHIE looks coldly at APPLEGATE, who merely sits and enjoys a sip of his drink. APPLEGATE then turns and addresses RICHIE.)

APPLEGATE: A free word of advice Mr. Benz. The times in your life when someone is willing to give you something for free are few and far between, so take what you can get when you can get it.

RICHIE: And you would be?

APPLEGATE: Name's Applegate.

RICHIE: Just Applegate?

APPLEGATE: Some say mister and some don't, but its all the same to me.

RICHIE: ('Is this guy for real') Riiight. Look, if you don't mind (*), I'm gonna just keep--

APPLEGATE: (*) No, I don't mind at all. It's just one less drink that I have to pay for.--

RICHIE: No, that's not (*) what I was saying.--

APPLEGATE: (*) Would you mind if I give you my professional opinion? (not giving him time to answer) You played well tonight. (matter-of-factly) I would have picked something a bit more up beat, maybe some Clapton or some Dylan, but you pulled it off.

RICHIE: What the (*) hell are you--

APPLEGATE: (*) Of course, you do realize that the best(*) rock stars are the ones who've-

RICHIE: (finally getting a word in) (*) Who the hell do you think you are!?

APPLEGATE: (moving in for the kill) I'll cut straight to the chase. I want to sign you, represent you. I've been watching you for some weeks now, and you've--

RICHIE: (cutting him off, done being toyed with) Now, just hold on a second. One, I don't like agents. Two, I don't like people insulting my friends. Three, I don't like people thinkin' they know me. Three strikes. There's the door, (nods offstage) now fuck off.

APPLEGATE: (turning the charm up to '11') Look, there's no reason to get nasty.

RICHIE: No?

(RICHIE takes one final swig on his drink, stands up to go, drops a couple of bills on the bar and grabs his guitar.)

RICHIE: Seeya 'round, Teresa.

TERESA: Take care, Richie.

(APPLEGATE and TERESA watch as RICHIE exits. TERESA turns to APPLEGATE.)

TERESA: So, how'd I do?

APPLEGATE: (tosses her the packet of money in the money clip) Good enough to earn your bonus.

TERESA: Sweet. (pockets the money) Interesting business you're in; buying people's lives.

APPLEGATE: (serious) My dear lady, I'm not buying people. I'm giving music to the world by giving it musicians.

(APPLEGATE gives TERESA a sly little smile.)

TERESA: (impressed) Oooo, you're good!

(APPLEGATE takes one last sip of his drink, then exits. TERESA starts thumbing through the money.)

TERESA: I love this job.

(The lights fade and the curtain closes.)

Scene 5 - Streets of Chicago

(Lights. RICHIE enters an empty stage, crossing hurriedly. APPLEGATE follows in suit.)

APPLEGATE: So that's it, you're not even going to take five--

RICHIE: (overlapping) Didn't I already tell you to fuck off?

(APPLEGATE stops walking.)

APPLEGATE: --minutes out of your night to hear me out, you're just going to keep running away.

RICHIE: That's right!

(RICHIE exits. APPLEGATE watches him walk away for a moment then pulls out a pocket watch, adjusts it, then starts counting down in time with the watch, subtly and inaudibly mouthing the words.)

APPLEGATE: (silently) Five . . . four . . . three . . . two-

(On 'two' RICHIE enters slowly and stops just on stage.)

RICHIE: I'm not running away.

APPLEGATE: No?

RICHIE: No! Look, its guys like you and those fascists down at Paradigm Records that are killing Rock & Roll. (break out the soap box) You walk into the clubs and the bars and the little unknown venues with your flashy and expensive suits and your bad ties and your Steven Segal ponytail and a fat wad of cash. You talk a big game and make a lot of promises and catch the eyes and ears of the young and naive. You tell stories about fame and fortune and glory and girls and what happens? YOU end up with all of it, and all they end up with is a single that was popular for a week and then dropped off the face of the planet taking them and their credit rating with it. You think you know Rock & Roll!? I AM ROCK AND ROLL! And I say fuck that. I'd rather walk away from fortune and glory than have to pay that kind of interest. So you can just turn right around and slink your way back to whatever slimy little mid-rise office you crawled out of this morning.

(RICHIE stands there staring down APPLEGATE. APPLEGATE turns to leave, pauses, then turns back.)

APPLEGATE: Nice soap box. You always this passionate?

RICHIE: I just call'em as I see'em.

([During APPLEGATE's monologue, RICHIE should physically react negatively at these points (*)])

APPLEGATE: (straightforward) So do I. So I'll tell you what I see. I see someone I've seen before, repeatedly. (slowly, calmly, and coldly) You probably think that I've never met someone as stubborn, or as rude, or as naive, or as passionate, and that somehow, those things make you unique, or special, or different. (*) Well, let me educate you with a bit of a revelation. The world is full of stubborn, rude, and naive people. The only thing that sets people apart in this world is passion. You have passion. (*) That's what sets you apart. You are a rock musician. Not a rock'n'roller, not a rock star, not a pop star, a rock musician. You've come along at a very precarious time for rock and roll. (At this point, RICHIE actually begins to listen.) Insipid boy bands, talentless blonde bimbos, punk-rocking rapper wannabes, everyone and anyone who wants to be heard but has nothing to say. THEM! All of them! They've destroyed rock music! Rock and roll is an institution, built from the ground up by the blood, sweat, tears, and hearts of blues, jazz, swing, country, and gospel. Men and women like Muddy Waters, Hank Williams, Etta James, Duke Ellington, Elvis Presley, Janis Joplin, Buddy Holly, Ma Rainey, John Lennon, Paul McCartney, and the man who made us all remember in one single simple song what Rock & Roll really meant, Don McLean. Pop music and Rock stardom chewed up and shit out their legacy, sending rock and roll straight to HELL in a hand basket in the process. (this next line should be particularly genuine) But even though the people may die, they may crash their fancy cars or jump off buildings or overdose on the latest chemical high, even through all of that, the music survives, and its people like you that can give it new life. You have a chance to bring rock & roll back to life, to rejuvenate it, even rebuild it and reinvent it. Bring the heart and soul of rock & roll back to the people.

(APPLEGATE notices that he's really getting to RICHIE. From the look on his face we can tell that RICHIE's confidence is shot, so APPLEGATE changes tactics.)

APPLEGATE: But all you want to do is make music. Hit that groove, that note, that downbeat. Whether its on stage, in the club, the tavern, the little unknown venue, or maybe just in the car or in the shower or anywhere. Just to make music. And that is what the people want; something with a heart and a soul that expresses some sort of deeper emotion than preadolescent angst or teenage hormonal imbalances, something more than just a back beat and a catch phrase. And that's what you are.

(APPLEGATE checks his watch, then pulls a slip of paper from his pocket.)

APPLEGATE: But its getting late. Here (hands him the card), just in case you change your mind.

(APPLEGATE exits. RICHIE watches him go, looks at the card, stuffs it into his pocket, then exits off in a different direction. Lights.)

Scene 6 - The pay phone

(Lights up. RICHIE enters, walking rather slowly, obviously bummed. As he crosses the stage, he passes a phone booth. After a moment, he turns back and looks at the phone. He goes to the phone, picks up, and dials. It rings a few times, and MARK's machine picks up.)

MARK: (voice over) Hi, this is Mark Hallow. Just kidding, this is just a machine, but it's Mark Hallow's machine. Leave a message after the beep and I'll get back to you A-sap (pronounced as a word).

(The machine beeps and RICHIE leaves a brief message.)

RICHIE: (a little nervous and hesitant) Hey Mark, it's me, Richie. Look, I know after how we left things last week I'm probably the last person you want to talk to, and I guess I can't really blame you. Anyway, I just wanted to call and apologize to you guys. And, uh, well, I was hoping to see about getting back together with the band, but you're not there, so . . . I . . . --

MARK: (voice over, rushed) Hey, Richie! Don't hang up!

RICHIE: Hey Mark. I didn't wake you up, did I?

MARK: Uh, naw, naw, I was just . . . in the can.

(We can tell from the sound of his voice that MARK is terribly groggy, and lying badly.)

MARK (con't): What's goin' on?

RICHIE: Uh . . . nothin', I just wanted to . . . talk, ya know.

MARK: Yeah. So how ya been?

RICHIE: Been better. And you?

MARK: Same. How's Sarah?

RICHIE: I . . . really wish I knew. She took off.

MARK: No way!

RICHIE: Yup.

MARK: Wow. That sucks.

RICHIE: ('tell me something I don't know') Yup. (changing the subject) How's the band?

MARK: I really wouldn't know. I quit. Couple a' nights after they kicked you out, I just picked up my bass after the first set and walked out.

RICHIE: Damn!

MARK: Well, it just wasn't working. Shoot, you've heard Steven sing. It sounds like somebody's steppin' on his nuts.

(A beat, then RICHIE starts laughing hysterically.)

RICHIE: (still laughing) Yeah, it does.

MARK: Anyway, I had to get outta there.

RICHIE: Well, at least you still have a day-job.

MARK: Yeah. Speakin' 'a which, I gotta get up early, so I should get some sleep.

RICHIE: Yeah, I should get goin', too.

MARK: Hey, if you're ever in the market for a bass player,--

RICHIE: I know who to call.

MARK: You better believe it.

RICHIE: Yeah.

(The conversation lulls as if neither of them knows what to say.)

MARK: Look, Richie, just forget about her man. Fuck her, ya know. She left, so fuck her.

RICHIE: Yeah. Thanks. (pause) Hey, look at that, it's three in the morning. I really oughta let you go.

MARK: Yeah. I'll talk to you later.

RICHIE: Yeah . . .

(CLICK. RICHIE hangs up the phone, slowly backs away from the booth, sticks his hands in his pockets and starts off stage. When he is almost off stage, he stops, and pulls a small slip of paper out of his pocket. He looks down at it, shakes his head in self disapproval, and semi-reluctantly turns back to the phone. He picks up, dials, and waits impatiently. CLICK! A machine picks up, this time with Sarah's voice.)