SPECIAL FEATURE: Memoir as Drama
DIAL OGUE BOX
Written, Directed, and Reviewed by Debbie Urbanski
Note from the Director
I first became aware of the play Dialogue Box in 2014 because I was living it. The script had been in draft form then, rough, unedited, low budget, minimalist costumes, my kids playing the role of the kids, my husband playing the role of the husband, the stage really just our family room and headlamps. We were amateurs. At the same time, I thought the raw reality of our performance compensated for our collective lack of theatrical experience. I lived this play from 2014 through 2018, after which I became a different person, and my life became something other than a play. My life became a life. This change was both a loss and a relief to me. What no one tells you about depression, at least no one had told me, is how you will miss it when it’s gone. Not all of it but parts. The world while I was living this play was strangely beautiful, with wild sharp edges, and perfect pitches of emotion, and over the edges there was a shelter made of silence, and I almost got there.
When I became a different person, I lost that world.
No one can live in such a world for long.
Nonetheless, I feel the place where I once lived is a useful place for both you, dear audience, and me to visit together. Depression is said to skew the depressed’s perspective, but let’s not forget the world is skewed to begin with. And your reality, like my reality, is not the only one.
I imagine some of you might have hidden, in your pockets, former selves of your own. And former, barely inhabitable worlds? Perhaps Dialogue Box may inspire you to travel in similar fashion to your former selves and your former worlds. Such travel will be encouraged, as long as you promise that you will not stay, you will only visit for a brief while, that you will come back and tell me what you have found.
* * *
CHARACTERS (in order of appearance)
ME: A wife, mid 40s. Should the play’s director think she is the problem, costume her accordingly in ragged selfish colors and make her hair knotted and witchy. On the other hand, if she is not the problem, if someone else is the problem here, dress her more gently. Stick flowers in her hair.
HIM: A husband, mid 40s, same as above. Either he is the problem, or he is not the problem. Part of the purpose of the play is to figure out who is the problem here. If he is the problem, have him wear a t‑shirt exposing his arm muscles, and he should be tall, or wear platforms in his shoes to make him tall, or he should always stand on a block or stool in order to be looming. If he is not the problem, drape him in fabric and do not have him wear boots or a leather belt.
ONE OF THE CHILDREN: Either a child of 8 years or a different child of 12.
ONE OF THE THERAPISTS: A therapist
STAGE HUSBAND: A husband in a different play
STAGE WIFE: She is never on stage
Note about the Staging
The set should be cluttered with an intensifying sense of claustrophobia. Rooms can swell or shrink in size throughout the play, even throughout a scene, depending on the desired tone and budget. Characters can stand increasingly closer together or further apart as the play progresses.
TIME: Somewhere between 2014 and 2018
ACT 1: Rope
SCENE 1
A house without photographs. ME and HIM stand in the middle of the house, in the middle of the room, not looking at each other. They speak stiltedly, as if performing a play, only they are performing it not well.
ME: Did my therapist call you?
HIM: She left a message. She had to pick up her kids.
ME: Are you going to talk to her sometime?
HIM: I’ll talk to her.
SCENE 2
The next morning. Same house, same room, only now there appear to be three windows cut into an exterior wall. The windows weren’t there before. Thick curtains block the view to the outside. Above the fireplace, a heap of keys on the mantle suggest locks. The walls are blank, dirty. ME and HIM are standing in the room wearing the same clothes as the previous day. They sound like they have spoken this dialogue many times previous.
ME: Did you talk to my therapist?
HIM: She told me to remove the ropes from the house.
ME: Did you go through my closet?
HIM: I went through your closet last night.
ME: Did you find—
Wrapping her fingers around her neck, ME raises her right hand above her head as if holding a rope. She tilts her head to the left.
HIM: Yes.
ME: Okay.
HIM: I asked if we needed to take down S.’s rope swing. She said we should take it down. [Pause] Do you want to tell me anything?
ME: I know so much about hanging.
HIM: [Carefully] I don’t think I’m the right person to talk to about this.
ME: I have no one to talk to about it. There are such small variations, like what kind of knot you’re to use. You don’t need a hangman’s knot. You don’t even need rope! Any long piece of material will do. I read how someone used a pair of nylons and a pencil! If you are using rope, you can wrap something soft, a scarf or hood, the collar of a shirt, around the rope to prevent it from digging into your skin and causing discomfort. Or you can lubricate the rope using hand soap. Also, there’s a big difference between drop hanging versus suspension hanging. There’s asphyxiation or there’s cutting off the blood flow to the brain via constriction of the carotid artery. One is probably better than the other. And where to place the knot! High and front near your face? Behind your neck? On the right side of your neck beside your jaw? There are different kinds of ropes. Static versus semi-static and so forth. Do you anchor the rope to a door or a stairwell railing?
HIM: Hey. [Pause. Uncertain of what to say] Hang in there.
ME: [Laughs unconvincingly] What an awful metaphor!
SCENE 3
The next day, though the light is dim as if it isn’t the day. ME and HIM are, yet again, in the middle of the family room. They are wearing the same clothes. They aren’t changing their clothes.
HIM: Listen here. [Looks to the right and left to make sure they are alone. They are alone.] I don’t want you to say the word “suicide” around the kids.
ME: Why don’t you want me to say the word “suicide” around the kids?
HIM: They don’t need to know.
ME: I don’t care if they know.
HIM: Well, I do. I care. I care if our kids know.
ME moves toward a window. Her fingers flick the heavy curtains. The curtains don’t move. Perhaps they are made out of stone.
HIM: [Without gesture] Step away from the window.
SCENE 4
The backyard. A generic tree grows in the center and towers over the house, casting wide shadows. ONE OF THE CHILDREN is pressing their back against the rutted trunk and waving their hands around. HIM’s arms are full of rope. He appears tired, as if this is not how he imagined his life.
ONE OF THE CHILDREN: [Stomping with frustration] I WANT MY ROPE!
HIM: Honey, listen. I need the rope for something else. Your mother and I need all the ropes.
ONE OF THE CHILDREN: I WANT MY ROPE! I WANT MY ROPE! I WANT MY ROPE!
HIM: Why do you think you need the rope, sweetie?
ONE OF THE CHILDREN: I need to tie myself to the tree. I need to tie myself to the monkey bars. I need to tie the monkey bars to the tree. I need to tie my friend to the monkey bars.
HIM: [Speaks like he’s trying to be patient, but he doesn’t have patience] We can’t have ropes in the house anymore.
ONE OF THE CHILDREN: Why?
HIM: Because your mother…your mother and I . . . we need the ropes for something else.
ONE OF THE CHILDREN: [Stomping her feet again] I WANT MY ROPE! I WANT MY ROPE! I WANT MY ROPE! I WANT MY ROPE! I WANT MY ROPE! I WANT MY ROPE!
Last utterance of “rope” morphs into an elongated scream that ONE OF THE CHILDREN should hold for several minutes.
SCENE 5
The next day. There are no longer windows in the family room or doors or doorways. The walls tilt inwards. ME and HIM stand off center to the right. They still have not changed their clothes. The two of them make eye contact briefly. For the rest of the scene, they should avoid further eye contact.
ME: [Looking at the ceiling] I found where you hid the ropes.
HIM: [Looking at the inside of his wrist] Were you looking for rope?
ONE OF THE CHILDREN: [Offstage, shouting] I WANT MY ROPE!
ME: [Looking at the spot where the door used to be] I found the ropes in your car under a towel. I found other rope in the basement. There’s not much point in taking away the ropes if you’re going to leave them lying around like that. You might as well make little nooses and drape them over the doorways.
HIM: [Looking at the floor] What do you want me to do? Do you want me to bury all the rope?
ME: [Looking at her shoulder] Yes. Bury all the rope.
ONE OF THE CHILDREN: [Offstage – repeat as necessary. There should be the strong feeling of repetition in this play.] I WANT MY ROPE! I WANT MY ROPE! I WANT MY ROPE! I— [Sound stops suddenly]
ACT 2: Bell
SCENE 1
A therapist’s office furnished with two chairs, lamp, rug. ONE OF THE THERAPISTS and ME enter at the same time from opposite sides of the stage. They settle into their respective chairs and stare at each other’s mouths. The therapist rings a brass bell, then sets the bell upon a stool near her feet.
ONE OF THE THERAPISTS: (Sighs) You don’t have anything else in the house that you can use to kill yourself, do you?
ME: Anything can be used to kill yourself. You realize that, right? People have killed themselves with spoons I’m pretty certain.
ONE OF THE THERAPISTS nods sympathetically before writing in the notebook on her lap. She writes for minutes. She looks up from the pages.
ONE OF THE THERAPISTS: Why didn’t you go through with it last week?
ME: That one day, the day I told you about, I knew my family was coming home. [Closes her eyes to better remember] They were getting ice cream and I knew they would be home soon. I spent too long getting ready and assembling the supplies.
ONE OF THE THERAPISTS: Supplies?
ME: [Opens her eyes] The rope. The towel. Choosing the right door. There wasn’t enough time.
ONE OF THE THERAPISTS: How much time do you need?
ME: Ideally an hour. I didn’t have an hour. A few days passed. It became my daughter’s birthday. [Scolding herself] I should not kill myself on my daughter’s birthday. Then my daughter had a sleepover. I know I should not kill myself during my daughter’s sleepovers either.
ONE OF THE THERAPISTS bends to retrieve the bell. She rings the bell.
SCENE 2
The therapist’s office. ME and ONE OF THE THERAPISTS are positioned in the same chairs. ME is staring at her hands. ONE OF THE THERAPISTS rings the bell heartily.
ONE OF THE THERAPISTS: Let’s begin. Do you love HIM?
ME: [Rubbing her forehead with her right palm as if trying to wipe something off of her forehead] That word has lost all meaning for me.
ONE OF THE THERAPISTS: [Helpfully] Which word?
ME: [Stops rubbing her forehead] All of them.
ONE OF THE THERAPISTS: Do you love your kids?
ME: [Starts rubbing her forehead again] That’s like asking a blind person to describe color.
ONE OF THE THERAPISTS: You’re not blind, and I’m not asking you to describe a color.
ME lunges forward to grab the bell. She rings it with frantic swinging.
SCENE 3
The therapist’s office. ME and ONE OF THE THERAPISTS are sitting in their respective chairs studying each other. The lights illuminating ONE OF THE THERAPISTS fade until it appears ME is by herself. Surrounded by the dark, she turns toward the audience. As she speaks her body should be completely still, only her mouth moving. Also the bell, which is in the dark, should continuously toll in the background. It is unclear who or what is ringing the bell.
ME: Knives, any knife, even a dull one, can be used to kill yourself if you’re willing to hack away at both wrists, not in a horizontal line but in a vertical cutting deep enough to ideally slice through the tendons and get to the arteries or veins, while bathing in warm water to increase circulation thereby increasing blood loss and reducing clotting. A belt can also be used to kill yourself. Or your husband’s ties. Tylenol, if you go away for a few days, long enough for your liver to be irreparably damaged. Or a helium tank. A plastic oven bag, the kind used when cooking a turkey. Or you can drive your car into a tree or better yet a lamp post so that you won’t damage any trees, or you can drive into a lake. I can walk into a lake.
Another ME, played by the same actress if logistically possible, enters the room carrying a folding chair. She is lit by a dim gray light. She unfolds the chair and sits to watch ME as if watching a play.
ME: I can walk and walk leaving behind my cell phone and become lost in the woods without food to die of dehydration or exposure. I can lay in the snow, when again there is snow, though to die of hypothermia sounds surprisingly difficult and slow. Sometimes a cold body can be resurrected. I can drink bleach. Actually I don’t know for certain whether that kills a person or only sickens them. It is not something specifically I researched. Specifically I studied pictures of people threatening to jump off bridges or other high places. Sometimes the pictures were of people clinging to a ledge in the process of being saved or who had been saved. Sometimes the photos were of people after they crashed onto the sidewalk and a sheet is covering their bodies. I also looked up people who committed suicide using less popular methods.
Another ME, bathed in similarly dim light, enters the room. She sits on the floor, bored, waiting for this monologue to end.
ME: I found an article in a trucking magazine about people who throw themselves in front of semis. It was written from the trucking industry’s point of view. The article discussed the lifelong trauma of truck drivers forced to assist with a stranger’s suicide. I also looked at photographs of people who committed suicide but the photos were from the weeks preceding their suicide. I liked looking into their eyes which were generally understanding. I hear on YouTube there are videos showing individuals successfully hanging themselves using a variety of methods but I haven’t watched those videos. Nobody, no record, as far as I know, ever describes a hanging as peaceful, but that is the image I try to keep in my mind, a simple fading.
The bell is rung. It keeps ringing. The remaining lights go out.
ACT 3: Mattress
This act may occur simultaneously as the other acts, perhaps performed by similar or identical actors in a cramped corner of the stage; or be moved to the beginning of the play; or be repeated as necessary; or be broken up and inserted into the middle of other acts or other scenes; or be pre-recorded then projected in the background throughout the remaining scenes, continuously playing at an unbearable volume.
SCENE 1
A bedroom on the second floor of the house: square, symmetrical, quiet, a mattress in the center, spot-lit. Moving away from the mattress means the actors will move into the dark and no one will be able to find them. ME begins the scene in the dark and stays in the dark. HIM is never in the dark. He spends this scene and future Act 3 scenes growing in heft until he occupies much of the stage. There used to be windows looking out onto the front yard and the busy road. There aren’t windows anymore.
HIM: [Calling to the dark] Think of it as an experiment. If you don’t like it, or if it’s not okay, you don’t have to do it again.
ME: [Speaking from the dark] I won’t have to do it again.
HIM: [Nodding] That’s right. You can always say no.
ME: [Speaking from the dark] I can always say no.
SCENE 2
The bedroom. HIM, sitting on the mattress, smooths the sheet with his hand. He is wider and taller than before. ME, standing off to the side, is again in the darkness. It is difficult to say what sort of person she is or appears to be since no one can see her.
Caution: An air of puzzlement may radiate from the audience during this scene. In order to alleviate audience discomfort, the director may choose to project, onto the set’s dark back wall, information regarding asexuality, including a glossary, statistics, FAQ’s, and further resources. This may only result in more uncertainty and an endless string of questions, including isn’t there medicine for this? Haven’t ME and HIM been married for 14 years so why is this a suddenly a problem? Is asexuality even real? Can we blame this on ME’s depression? The director has the writer’s permission to tell the audience to stop asking questions and just watch the play.
ME: I want the lights off. [All lights switch off, leaving the stage in darkness.] And I don’t want you to kiss me while we’re doing this.
HIM: [Pause] Can I kiss you now?
ME: No.
HIM: [Long pause] How do we do this?
ME: I want to listen to a musical. Is that okay?
HIM: [Hesitantly] I mean, it’s your choice.
Background music begins, an ensemble number. HIM groans.
ME: Or Amy Winehouse?
HIM: More appropriate.
Amy Winehouse music begins.
HIM: Now what?
ME: We listen to the music.
HIM: I meant . . .
ME: I guess we take off our clothes.
The sound of clothes being removed and dropped onto the floor.
HIM: We haven’t done this for a while. [Pause] Is this okay?
ME: [Expressing, through vocal tonality, that it is not okay] It’s okay.
HIM: What are you thinking about?
ME: I’m thinking about brushing my teeth. I’m trying to visualize brushing my teeth very carefully. Right now I’m in the upper quadrant.
Long pause.
HIM: How is this?
ME: Stop. Can I have a back rub?
HIM: Okay.
Long pause.
ME: Let me turn up the music up.
HIM: Okay. I love you. I love you!
ME: Stop.
HIM: What? [Pause] Do you want to roll over?
ME: Okay.
The mattress creaks.
HIM: [Breathing heavily] I love you.
ME: Can you finish up?
HIM: [Breathing heavily] I’m trying.
ME: [Flatly] Finish up now.
HIM: [Breathing heavily] Oh my god. I love you.
SCENE 3
The bedroom. Both HIM and ME are reading on the mattress, their respective pillows propped up against the back wall. HIM is reading a magazine about science. He takes up most of the mattress. ME flips through the newspaper, her face hidden by the oversized pages.
HIM: [Nervously] So I saw you ordered a book, Rape In Marriage. Why—
ME: It’s for something I’m writing.
HIM: [Relieved] Oh, good. I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t sure if you felt. . .
SCENE 4
The bedroom, similar to previous scenes – a mattress, light – only now the mattress is split by the light. One part of the mattress lies in darkness, the other part in the light. ME lays on the mattress in the dark. No one can see her lying there but she is there. HIM lays in the light, taking up the available space with his long limbs. There is the possibility ME has shrunk or practically disappeared. After skimming carelessly through another science magazine, HIM tosses the weekly aside and glances impatiently toward the dark part of the bed.
HIM: Can we spend some time in bed tonight?
ME: It’s not time yet.
HIM: It is time. We’re actually supposed to have sex every two weeks, that was our agreement—
ME: You mean twice a month—
HIM: —and now we’re leaving town. Then I’m traveling. If we don’t do it tonight, it will be four more weeks before there’s time.
ME: But we’ve been so busy! You with your surgery. Me with my surgery. Then I was depressed! Again!
HIM: [Growing larger] My body doesn’t care about any of that.
ME: What will happen if I say no?
HIM: I hope you don’t say no.
SCENE 5
The same night. The same room, the same people, the same characters, the same light, the same dark. HIM’s body has reached its maximum size. An hour has passed.
ME: [Speaking from the dark] I don’t want to do it tonight.
HIM: [Glancing quickly towards ME’s voice] What did you say?
ME: [Ignoring him] The kids are still awake, first of all.
HIM: So what?
ME: It’s late.
HIM: It’s 9:30!
ME: I’m tired.
HIM: But I’ve been looking forward to it all day. [Accusingly] You said— [HIM breathes deeply though his nose, trying to calm himself. When he continues, his voice is tense, quiet.] Yesterday you said it was going to be tonight.
ME: 9:30 is when I go to bed.
HIM: How about tomorrow?
ME: I have the hip MRI tomorrow, remember? They’re giving me Valium. They said I’ll be out of it for the rest of the day.
HIM: Maybe that will make sex easier.
ME: Easier for who?
HIM: I mean, you won’t be so afraid.
ME: I won’t be fully conscious. Do you want to have sex with me when I’m not conscious?
HIM: I’m not going to be picky.
He reaches into the darkness with momentum.
ACT 4: Reuptake & Duet
SCENE 1
The house. HIM and ME are in the family room sitting on an old couch whose springs groan if either of them shift their weight. HIM has returned to his original size. Artificial light now shines down on both of them equally. In the backyard, ONE OF THE CHILDREN sounds like she is crying. Actually she is playing a game. The point of the game is to cry, which she does realistically. ME lifts her head and looks toward the wall where there used to be a window.
ME: [Speaking to the wall] I saw my doctor today. I’m going to start taking antidepressants.
HIM: That’s a good idea.
SCENE 2
Several weeks later. ME and HIM are sitting on the same couch. ME has changed her clothes. She is wearing pants that have a zipper and a snap. Her hair is wet, fragrant from the shower. HIM has exchanged his t‑shirt for a button-down that is too tight around the chest. He sits up straighter, shoulders back.
ME: I feel like I lost part of myself.
HIM: [Cheerfully] Don’t worry, you’re all still there. I do like you better this way!
ME: I had to take three naps today.
HIM: Don’t go off your medication.
SCENE 3
Early morning of the next day, ME is lying alone on the mattress in the bedroom. She is trying to see how long she can lie there and not move. The room is filled first with the warm beginnings of daylight, then the intensity of light increases. Outside, a catbird sings a series of phrases. The phrases should not be repeated. Each phrase is unique. ME’s eyes are open even though the audience cannot see that her eyes are open due to their point of view. This scene should last for hours and feel boring.
SCENE 4
The afternoon of the same day, ME is still lying on the mattress actively watching the ceiling. ONE OF THE CHILDREN bounces into the room. The child leaps onto the mattress and crawls toward ME’s body.
ONE OF THE CHILDREN: Mommy, Mommy, I love you.
ME: Do you love everybody?
ONE OF THE CHILDREN: I love my horse.
ME: You don’t have a horse.
ONE OF THE CHILDREN: That horse in my closet.
SCENE 5
Days later, in the family room, ME and HIM stand uncomfortably close to each other. Their bodies are tense and occasionally battered by unexplainable wind. Their lines should be spoken simultaneously using multiple voices/actors if necessary and repeated for an uncomfortable amount of time until their throats hurt, and their voices hoarsen. The repetition and general cacophony may make the dialogue incomprehensible. This is fine. To increase character and audience discomfort, traditional elements of anxiety and horror may be interspersed throughout this scene (suggestions below).
ME: I am thinking of going off my medication.
HIM: Don’t go off your medication.
ME: I am not going off my medication.
ME: I am thinking of going off my medication.
HIM: Don’t go off your medication.
Blood seeps from the baseboards across the floor.
ME: [Stepping onto a chair so that her feet don’t touch the blood spreading across the floor] I’m not feeling well.
HIM: [Leaping out of the way of the blood] Do you need to talk to ONE OF THE THERAPISTS?
ME: When I say I’m not feeling well, you’re supposed to ask, “Are you feeling suicidal?”
HIM: Okay.
ME: What I meant was I’m feeling suicidal again.
The shredded exoskeletons of bugs skitter across the floor.
HIM: [Stomping on the exoskeletons of the bugs] I can tell.
ME: I think the medication is making me worse.
HIM: Have you gone off your medication?
ME: I have not gone off my medication. But I’m thinking about it.
There is uncontrolled knocking beneath the floorboards.
HIM: [Ignoring the knocking] Don’t go off your medication.
ME: [Staring at the floorboards] Did you read that article I sent you?
The knocking stops.
HIM: No.
ME: It contains success stories from mixed orientation relationships.
HIM: I don’t read articles about other people.
ME: Did you read that other article I sent you?
There is knocking at the front door now, only there is no front door.
HIM: [Looking around for the front door. He doesn’t find the door.] Don’t go off your medication.
ME: The article is about how you can change yourself but you can’t change other people.
HIM: Do you need to talk to ONE OF THE THERAPISTS?
A fog rolls in, muffling the sound.
ME: No.
HIM: Okay.
A bloody ghost in the corner shakes its head.
ACT 5: Date Night
SCENE 1
Evening. HIM and ME are seated in a restaurant under pendant lighting at a table that holds a water carafe and two glasses, half-full. Efforts have been made to comb their hair. Their meal over, they are discussing, with formality, the book set between them upon the crisp tablecloth. The book has a dangerous red spine.
HIM: So, if you got this power to electroshock people . . . what would you do to me? Would you physically hurt me?
ME: I don’t know. Probably.
SCENE 2
Another evening at the same restaurant. Having finished their meals, HIM and ME have activated their core muscles and display good posture. They are discussing their opinions of the day’s headlines. Orchestral music plays pleasantly in the background.
The music increases in volume.
ME: — first James Dashner, then Jay Asher, then Sherman Alexie, then Junot Diaz apparently. They were role models to a lot of people. I read their books! Who’s next?
HIM: I don’t even know what forcible kissing is.
ME: [Puzzled] It’s when you . . .
The music increases in volume.
ME: I mean, you hold someone down and you kiss them. You back someone into a corner and kiss them.
HIM: [Thoughtfully] Hmmmm. It’s so interesting talking about this with an asexual. It’s pretty funny actually.
The music increases in volume. The tone of the music, its stirring nature, suggests the possibility that something big is about to happen. A twist in the plot, a revelation of character. Maybe the major problem of this story/play/life is about to be resolved.
ME: Why is it funny?
The music increases in vol.5ume, becoming uncomfortable.
HIM: Um. What do you know about it?
The music, having increased even more in volume, is now so loud it is impossible to hear the scene’s remaining dialogue.
SCENE 3
Another evening. HIM and ME are having dinner at the same restaurant, apparently the only restaurant in town, ordering the only meal ever on the menu, a never-ending bowl of pasta. The music has ended, and it is evident nothing important happened after all. These people have multiple problems and to solve any one of the problems, they would have to cannibalize their lives. No one wants to eat their own lives. The mood is heavy, stale with familiarity. HIM and ME study each other warily and wait for the other person to change. While they are waiting, they discuss the book on the table, a blue book with wide clouds on the cover.
ME: [Irritably] Deciding you no longer love your wife after she attempts suicide, so you leave her in the middle of her depression? That’s inexcusable.
HIM: [Shrugging] I guess I understood where the husband in the story was coming from. I could understand his emotions. He was so tired, so fed up . . .
ME: Well, the wife was tired too.
HIM: Well, I’m also tired.
ME: Well, I hate this story.
HIM: Well, what did you want, a different story?
ME: A different ending.
HIM: A happy ending?
ME: A moral ending.
HIM: [Confidently] You can’t force somebody to keep loving another person. You can’t do that in real life and you can’t do that in a story.
ME: But you can realize, in a story or in a life, that this moment or series of moments is not all about your love. Sometimes it’s more about the other person who needs your help.
HIM: (pointing his finger at ME for emphasis) That sounds illegal. That sounds like a prison.
ME: Or marriage.
HIM: Or hell!
ME: Or commitment.
Repeat the above three scenes as necessary. Move to Act 6 only when the audience or actors are about to walk out of the theater.
ACT 6: Epilogue
Some other day at a modest community theater. HIM and ME are sitting on unpadded folding chairs in the second row. Before them, facing them, STAGE HUSBAND is on his knees, scrubbing STAGE WIFE’s blood from the stage floor while he sings, in a high rock baritone, about how it feels to be cleaning up after his wife’s failed suicide attempt.
ME: [Leaning in toward HIM, whispering] I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was going to be about this.
Without looking at her, HIM pats ME’s hand. It begins to snow. The snow, falling from the ceiling, blankets their shoulders, their heads, their eyelashes. STAGE HUSBAND continues to clean the floor. He also continues to sing using a full voice, meaning he is singing with the fullest sound of which a voice is capable.
CURTAIN
THE REVIEW
I was lucky enough – if lucky is the right word, it probably isn’t – to catch the first early performance of Dialogue Box, a slow and repetitive workshop production lasting for many years. On the one hand, it was thrilling to witness such brutal unpolished emotion flooding off of the inexperienced actors and across the wooden floors. On the other hand, peeking through somebody’s living room window felt uncomfortably voyeuristic, and four years is a long time to watch a play. Since this early staging, I’m happy to say that Dialogue Box has been pared back and updated and, in many ways, improved. This recent performance, while still taking place in a residential house and acted out by the director’s family, is both better paced and better performed. The actors this time around seem as if they are acting instead of living in the play, and no one is forgetting their lines or refusing to say their lines. Yes, some emotional intimacy has been lost – I cried throughout that first performance. I did not cry at the second. Then again, I don’t really cry anymore due to the Prozac. A face full of tears does not necessarily equal good theater anyhow.
It would be difficult to review Dialogue Box without mentioning the ethical concerns that have been raised. Some have questioned the director’s decision to keep casting her own children in a play about suicide. Others have been troubled by the lack of sympathy shown to the husband – what about his version of the story? What about his point of view? Still others have argued that this writer should not keep putting people from her life into her work, especially when she is calling the work non-fiction, especially when these people are portrayed unflatteringly, and they are people she loves. While I understand these concerns, I do not share them. Dialogue Box is a period of time as kindling, given a form and then set on fire. The play that’s left is not the fire itself but the shadows, the ash, the heat.
Debbie Urbanski is a frequent contributor to Alaska Quarterly Review. In addition to AQR her writing has been published in The Sun, Kenyon Review, Orion, Utne Reader, Nature, Terraform, Conjunctions, Fantasy & Science Fiction, Lightspeed, The Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy, and The Best American Experimental Writing. Her work has been named notable stories/essays of the year for The Best American Mysteries, The Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy, and The Best American Essays. Urbanski was a 2019 recipient of a Rona Jaffe Foundation Writer’s Award for emerging women writers of exceptional promise.