Morning in America

ben berman

EST. RUN TIME: 10 minutes.

SYNOPSIS: A pianist tries to write a song and as it plays out, the history of the tune becomes more and more apparent. The song follows a young all-American boy, Samson, and his relationships with his Mama; girlfriend, Delilah; and close friend, Lev within three vignettes. The vignette follows the impacts of the Red and Lavender Scares, as well as Baltimore’s Pepper Hill Club riot and their impacts on Samson’s life. In the end, we learn that Samson has killed himself due to the gay allegations, and the pianist is Lev, trying to mourn the loss of his lover.

SETTING: Roland Park, Maryland.

TIME: December in 1955; February 5th, 1950; Summer in 1955; and October 2nd, 1955.

CHARACTERS:

THE PIANIST (he/him): The Pianist is a 20-year-old musician. He attempts to write a song but struggles to find enough meaning in his music.

SAMSON (he/him): Starts as a 16-year-old fisherman but ends as a 21-year-old. He’s dating Delilah and his best friend is a fisherman and musician named Lev. He has a faint southern accent.

MAMA (she/her): Samson’s mom is a 40 (and later 45) year-old woman. She has a southern accent.

DELILAH (she/her): Delilah is Samson’s 20-year-old girlfriend.

WOMAN (she/her): The Pianist’s wife, played by the same actor as Delilah.

PLAYWRIGHT’S NOTES: The whole set should remain in the Pianist’s parlor. When scenes happen elsewhere, they should be invading his parlor. Their moments in life that haunt him, let them haunt him.

SCENE 1: An American Parlor

At rise, an old piano rests in the center of an American middle-class parlor. It’s December 1955. Roland Park, Maryland. At the piano, lies THE PIANIST (20), who sits and stares at the unplayed keys. The WOMAN (20) stands and studies him from the corner of the room. The ambiance is heavy. The WOMAN shakes her head and steps out of the parlor. THE PIANIST takes a breath and begins to play upbeat jazz improvisation. While original, the tune seems so familiar. THE PIANIST looks up.

THE PIANIST

Hear it, eh? Yeah, I’m not really sure yet what I’m doing with it. But it's, uh, it’s gonna be something. Something old, I think.

THE PIANIST looks outside the window, to the sun rising over the neighbors' houses. The sun lights up the parlor.

THE PIANIST

Well, look at that. It’s morning again. In America, the Roland Park milkman is biking down, ready to drop off Amelia Miller’s daily milk about now. You remember that. Oh, and I bet at any time—well, after I set off for work—Delilah will swing by and ramble on with my girl, about… Well, about something or—

The milkman rides by, ringing his bicycle bell. THE PIANIST waves and then focuses on his piano.

THE PIANIST

Yeah, I’m not really sure where this tune is heading, but I know the dirt road it takes to get there. You’ve seen the road before. The sharp-edged stones you’d have to dance on. The dry breezes and the dust. Hundreds have walked down it, I’m sure. People we've heard of and never we’ve really met. I only know about it… yeah, yeah, I’m sorry. I know you’ve seen that dirt road.

THE PIANIST’s tune grows, getting a bit more intense, or dramatic, maybe even dark.

Shift. It’s February 5th, 1950, in MAMA’s parlor. Roland Park, Maryland. MAMA (40) sits by the television, listening to it. Inhabiting it. Outside her parlor, a painting appears. The painting captures the symmetrical town of Roland Park, Maryland. Oil begins to drip off the painting and onto the floor of the parlor. Not too much, but the lines are starting to blur.

TELEVISION PERSON

“The State Department is infested with communists. I have here in my hand a list of 205—”

MAMA

(Not liking the sound of what she’s hearing.) Ooh.

TELEVISION PERSON

“A list of names that were made known to the Secretary of State as being members of the Communist Party.”

MAMA

Ooh!

SAMSON (16) enters in rubber boots, overalls, a fishing rod, and a bucket—inside of which is a letter. He drops his stuff down on the ground. It’s been a long day.

SAMSON

Mama, what are you watching?

MAMA

The television.

SAMSON

Ma.

TELEVISION PERSON

“And who nevertheless are still working and shaping policy in the State Department—”

SAMSON turns the television off. He heads back to his fishing gear. The music grows.

MAMA

Samson!

SAMSON

That’s all garbage, Mama. Don’t need to be listening to all those rumors.

MAMA

They ain’t rumors. They’ve got a list of the names of all those-those people. They’ve been hangin’ in clubs now too—you should stop going to that Pepper Hill Club of yours, with all the boys. I don’t want others to start getting the wrong idea.

SAMSON

Stop worrying, Ma, no one enjoys the news. That’s why you like to listen to all its bull.

MAMA

Oh, come give me a kiss, Samson.

SAMSON heads over to MAMA. She gives him a tender kiss on the forehead. SAMSON goes back to his gear. The music softens.

MAMA

One day you’ll have to explain how you go fishin’ in the middle of this weather. Catch anything good?

SAMSON

(His accent begins to slip.) Oh, no, not this time. Lev almost reeled in this real big one. I swear it could’ve been a big ol’ bass or somethin’. But then when it started floppin’ and splashin’ all near us, he got all sissy and dropped it back in. For a musician, he ain’t that good with his timin’.

MAMA

That’s Lev, for you. Since you met him, you’ve been sewn together. Y’all are always at that lake. He reminds me of your father in that way, all like, like all risen up or whatever, on some hot air balloon. Just flying up with such… fake gestures, until he leaves you or whatever, in this middle-of-nowhere avenue. Remember, I always told you I never wanted to be in this place, or this town, Roland Park, Maryland. But your father took us here and left and I don’t know. (She pauses) When are you gonna find a nice girl to keep around your arm? You better treat her like a garden, that’s all you should ever do.

SAMSON

Sometime, Mama. I will.

MAMA

Yeah, I’d like to see that. It’s time for you to have a nice girl to spend all your time with, understand me?

SAMSON

Yeah, yeah.

MAMA

Good. That’s what you need.

MAMA turns the television back on. SAMSON finds the letter in the bucket.

MAMA

I ought to be making us some lunch. You didn’t catch any fish, and lord knows if you’ve been puttin’ anything in your stomach since Church lunch.

MAMA walks off to the kitchen. SAMSON reads the letter, smiling.

TELEVISION PERSON

“They are hiding all among us: in our towns, in our cities, our governments. These people. They’re morally weak. Psychologically disturbed. Godless. We need—”

SAMSON looks towards the television. He rushes back and turns the television off.

MAMA (O.S.)

Oh, why’d you turn the television off, Samson?

SAMSON

Nothing … distracting, is all.

The music grows. Shift back to THE PIANIST’s parlor. It’s noon now. THE PIANIST hasn’t gone to work today. Instead, he sits at the piano, playing. He briefly stops.

THE PIANIST

Yeah, it sounds like a loving tune. It starts with simple, delicate blades of grass brushing against your feet. They want it to be a path of blossoms. Isn’t that how all streets begin? It’s not daisies forever, it’ll end in dust. Unless I'm mistaken, of course. Unless I’m wrong. Maybe you thought there really were daisies ahead. Nothing, but a loving tune.

THE PIANIST continues his song. It grows.

Shift to MAMA’s parlor. It’s August 1955. It’s midnight. Crickets and breezes pass by the house. The front door is heard creak open and close. SAMSON and DELILAH (20) run into the parlor, giggling.

SAMSON

Shhh…. shhh! Mama’s asleep upstairs.

DELILAH

Oh, come on! Your shushing is just as loud as my laughing.

The two chuckle and look into each other's eyes. Or at least they think they are. DELILAH then looks past SAMSON, seeing fishing gear sprawled all over the floor.

DELILAH

Oh, my lord! Sam! What is all this!?

DELILAH runs over to the fishing gear and picks it up. She begins to dress in it.

SAMSON

Hey, stop it! Delilah, stop it!

DELILAH finds the letter in the bucket.

DELILAH

I’ll be quiet, Sam. It’s August. Your mother won’t care about all this noise right now. I didn’t know you were a fisherman, I feel so foolish. (DELILAH finds the letter.) Oh, and a letter, Sam, what other girls are you seeing?

SAMSON rips the letter out of DELILAH’s hands.

SAMSON

That isn’t yours.

DELILAH begins to take the gear off of herself, stiff.

DELILAH

Sorry, I-I didn’t mean anything.

SAMSON

It’s from my old friend. His name’s Lev.

DELILAH

Lev?

SAMSON opens the letter. DELILAH peaks at what’s written.

SAMSON

Yeah, we met a while back. (His accent begins to slip.) We’d always go fishin’ together on Sundays—that afternoon, me and him would head down to the lake, take out a cheap canoe, and just… take charge. He’s coming home this December—from the music school of all things. I miss him like hell. He wrote me this the last day I saw him and left it in my stuff. It was real sweet. I never saw him goin’ to accomplish so much, but you know what they say, it's always those ones that go

DELILAH

(Pretending as if she isn’t listening.) How come you’ve never kissed me?

SAMSON

What?

DELILAH

It’s our third date, Sam. You are the boy that likes to hang around at clubs in the city and probably hit on girls for that matter. How come you’ve never kissed me?

SAMSON

Well, I-I guess I never just felt it right with you.

Beat. DELILAH looks down at the letter.

SAMSON

Oh, no, Delilah!

SAMSON grabs DELILAH’s hands.

SAMSON

I never meant anything like that, alright? The timing’s just never been right, you know?

DELILAH

They’ve been hunting down a lot… odd and unusual types of people, Sam. They also lay around those clubs in the city. Ones you like going to. It’s making me nervous.

SAMSON

Why are you saying stupid stuff like that? Delilah?

DELILAH

It’s making me nervous. It just crossed my mind

SAMSON

Delilah, you don’t think I’m… Do you, Delilah, think I’m one of those…

DELILAH

Sam.

SAMSON pins DELILAH against the wall.

SAMSON

DELILAH, YOU BETTER TALK STRAIGHT WITH ME.

DELILAH

I’m sorry, Sam. Sam, I’m sorry.

SAMSON

I’m not like that. You listening to me?

DELILAH

I know.

Beat.

SAMSON

How about that kiss. Delilah.

The music grows. DELILAH slowly leans in, and SAMSON kisses her. Almost passionately. DELILAH becomes uncomfortable, nearly pushing him off of her in order to break free.

DELILAH

Sam, I-I should really get home. We’ve got church tomorrow, and I don’t want my mother to be cross with me. It’s nearly midnight, Sam… goodnight.

DELILAH scurries off. SAMSON watches behind her as the oil painting around him begins to crack now. Chunks of the painting begin to fall onto the stage. The paint splatters around the parlor, soaking in the home.

Shift. THE PIANIST’s parlor. It’s the afternoon, the sky is golden. THE PIANIST sits at the piano, after playing something more intense.

THE PIANIST

I don't think this was a rotten tune, you know? No, he never meant any wrong. That’s just how the song played out. I-I know for a while, it feels like a love song or something. With all those charming signals telling you it’ll be alright and sweet I love you’s. It’s funny. But I don’t think that’s what it thought it was supposed to be. It never ends that way, the others don’t like it to. It’s just not in the structure, I guess. I guess you're supposed to keep wandering through streams, ramping up melodies, straying towards other’s gardens, note after note, and finally, when everything's in unison—you’ve got to reverse it, then. Or else, what… what—what were all scrapes along that grass path for?

THE PIANIST begins to play again. The song’s much more somber.

Shift. It’s October 2nd, 1955. Very early in the morning. Part of the parlor is MAMA’s parlor once more. The other half is unseen. MAMA stands in her parlor, holding the phone, now in a black nightgown. She stands by the window. Watching. Outside, there’s the faint sound of screams, shattering, and destruction of perception. The painting has thawed away, its reminisce smothered across the parlor. What is left hanging is a dull, corrupt canvas.

MAMA

(On the phone) No, Amelia, I’m sure your daughter is alright. I just want to know where Samson is. Have you seen—yes I know what they’ve been sayin’ … No he ain’t—yes he does hang around that club, Amelia, I just don’t know where he is …

The outside violence rises, until MAMA closes the blinds, cutting herself off. She turns to the coffee table, seeing a letter there. MAMA stares.

MAMA

(On the phone) I don't know where he ran off to.

MAMA hangs up the phone and takes a letter. She holds it up to the light.

When the letter is picked up, the other side of the stage becomes visible. It’s the local lake. SAMSON runs in, laughing with no socks on. He holds a fishing hook and rubber boots. SAMSON takes his shirt off and stumbles into his rubber boots. He grabs the fishing hook and walks into the water.

MAMA

(Reciting the letter.) Dear Mama, I forgot to make you dinner tonight. I was gonna go out to the club again and I know. But I was gonna make you a nice grilled salmon…

Once in the lake, SAMSON begins to unstring the fishhook.

SAMSON

(Reciting the letter) You know, with the edges seasoned with pepper and sides all burnt and crispy. It was gonna be buttery too, like when you cut into a nice juicy well… salmon, I guess. But not like that one time that Papa made it all dry and paste-like…

MAMA

(Reciting the letter). Before he left.

Finished unstringing, SAMSON throws the hook into the abyss. The music grows.

SAMSON

(Reciting the letter.) I know you’ve been hearing all the talk about me. I mean, there’s nothing you didn’t know about in this town. I know how you and Ms. Miller and Mrs. Johnson would always chat in the backyard on those pool chairs in the mornings after me and the others went off to school. I don’t know what you’ve heard exactly. But it’s probably…

MAMA

(Reciting the letter.) It’s all true.

SAMSON retracts the hook, checking it. He throws it back in.

SAMSON

(Reciting the letter) I don’t think what they say on the television is all truthful though… what they say about us. How we broadcast ourselves. I’m not all like that. I mean…

MAMA

(Reciting the letter). I like fishing.

SAMSON

(Reciting the letter.) I like fishin’.

MAMA

(Reciting the letter.) That was true.

Something in the water tugs at SAMSON’s rod. SAMSON begins to rewind it back in. The music grows.

SAMSON

(Reciting the letter. His accent slips.) We would catch fish. Not all the time. Sometimes, me and him—we’d just lie there for hours and hours and seconds. But it felt like no time had gone by until the sun was coming down and I had to tell him my Mama was waitin’ at home with lunch. And by that point, probably dinner too. (His accent goes away.) I’m sorry. I don’t mean for anything worse to happen. I want you still talking to people and all. Please. People started talking about me and what I was doing to Delilah. I did like her too. It was just, it was just like the way I liked you, or Papa.

SAMSON keeps reeling back. The music grows.

MAMA

(Reciting the letter.) It was all different.

SAMSON

(Reciting the letter.) I don’t have much to ask of you anymore. You were my Mama.

SAMSON keeps reeling. The music grows.

SAMSON

(Reciting the letter.) I was for you.

MAMA

(Reciting the letter.) I was for you.

SAMSON

(Reciting the letter.) Please don’t forget me, I don’t know how you will—but don’t forget me. Like you forgot him. I don’t want you all snug in church, just sitting and praying, and laughing at how the Priest gets all mumbly during the sermons, and then suddenly, you just start forgetting. Who I am, who I was to you, or to them. I still want to belong to you. Please. I love you, Mama. Goodbye. (His accent slips once more.) And, P.S. If you walk by the lake on your way home and see all the fish in there just making it their home, one day tell two kids just to go down there and stomp all around the water and just raise some hell. Maybe fish a little. Let that lake mean something for someone else, for someone who never saw my footsteps there. And never will.

SAMSON finally reels it in, but he’s lost the fish. THE PIANIST stops playing, cutting himself off. SAMSON stares at the fishing line in front of him. He pulls some of the line out from the rod. He starts to wrap himself in the line, consuming himself. THE PIANIST stands from the piano and watches SAMSON. MAMA looks away from the letter and watches SAMSON. SAMSON continues to wrap himself in the fishing wire. He begins to fade away. When SAMSON’s gone, MAMA looks back at the letter and crumples it. She looks towards THE PIANIST and stops herself from sneering. She strides out of the parlor.

Shift. THE PIANIST plays, once again. Somber and slow. There’s nothing outside but pitch black. Maybe just a little light. THE PIANIST, now fully taken over, bangs on the keys and stands up, knocking the piano bench to the floor. Beat. The WOMAN steps in, wearing a nightgown. She stares at her husband, THE PIANIST, also known as…

WOMAN

Lev?

LEV

Y-yeah?

WOMAN

It’s almost dawn, what’re you still doing down here?

LEV

I’ll be up in a minute.

The WOMAN looks at the fallen bench.

WOMAN

The word spreading about Samson. They aren’t gonna be saying the same thing about you. Right?

LEV

The sun’s coming up … and it’s almost morning again.

And somehow, at daybreak, all goes to darkness. End of play.

Ben Berman is a junior creative writing major at Interlochen Arts Academy. He is from Baltimore, Maryland. His work has appeared in Stagedoor Manor’s Dramafest and has been recognized by the Eugene O’Neill Theatre Center. Ben can usually be found doing his daily 15 minutes of yoga.