Bringing Down the House

By Adam Wasserman

The mayor against a bunch of squatters! They are planning to make a big bust and run, but he's on to them. Or is he?

Meet Clemens, Paz, Ivo, and Emile. They smoke and watch too much TV. Clemens is the only one who's working - well, actually, he just got fired for sexual harassment. Fortunately, Ivo's collecting, so there's still enough money for food and beer. They're a happy lot.

Meet the City's eccentric mayor, Vladimir. He likes to go by the name Elvis. He's convinced these squatters are his ticket to promotion, and it's up to his lackey, Cramer, to try and convince him otherwise. Because there's real trouble brewing! He's got to manage it between the illegal wiretapping, accidental tip-offs, cover-ups, and shake-downs. And he's not getting any help from his colleague, MBA, either.

After all, could these practitioners of poor personal hygiene really pose such a dire threat to posterity?

This is a play and is meant for the theater. It's also meant to make you laugh! It ignores what are considered traditional forms, so leave your expectations behind.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Adam Wasserman
• Release date: Aug 4, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452355542

Adam Wasserman

Adam Wasserman was - like all human beings - born on Earth. In the years since, he has proved himself to be an avid breather. He also eats regularly.Since all humans look alike, it is hard to differentiate him from the rest. He is, however, easiest to spot when lying on a beach, subjecting himself to a steady stream of dangerous rays from Sol. Such behavior is illogical, a common trait among his species.Eventually, his body will wear out and he will cease to function. In the meantime, he keeps busy by publishing falsehoods in book form, which somehow he imagines others will find entertaining and instructive.Humans are, of course, a strange and unfathomable species.

Book preview

for the family Navarro of Guatire, Venezuela

in whose warm home I conceived this play.

if only everyone were as gracious as you!

Bringing Down the House

Adam Wasserman

First Edition, June 2006

Copyright 2006 by Adam Wasserman

All rights reserved

Smashwords Edition

(The stage is divided into two sections, one on the left and one on the right. If they are both illuminated at the same time, a swath of darkness separates them. An ample space should buffer the edge of stage from the set. When music plays it should be in the background, except at the end when specified.)

(Stage left is illuminated; stage right remains dark. Elvis’ Office. Elvis is seated at his desk, legs hanging over the front. Two chairs face him, empty. A large, official looking portrait hangs behind him. On the desk can be seen a telephone, a Macintosh laptop, and a bust of the queen’s head. Next to his desk, almost invisible in the shadows, is a much smaller desk, fit for a small child, an exact replica. Even the items on it are duplicated miniatures.)

Elvis (to audience): My name is Vladimir Vittorio Ekkel van Schlumpf. I am mayor of this city and I have the best job in the world. The best, because I wasn’t elected. And I’m not from here, so I’m not under obligation to anyone. All I have to do is assure the queen that I like her silly new hairdo and that ridiculous hat they somehow manage to squeeze over it, and I can count on years and years yet of sitting behind this pretty desk and giving orders. There are the other perks, too. Lots of important people kissing my ass and taking me out to expensive dinners. Exotic vacations. Free parking. Helicopter shuttle service. I could go on. I’m a happy man. Of course, I don’t like my name. I hate it. But it’s one of those quirks of fate that I really can’t do anything about. I can’t blame my parents. Fate worked against them, too. People like us, we collect names, and almost always for a reason. And as they are passed down and reused, they acquire a kind of weight. People recognize these names. I can’t just go and change it. I forget who was Vittorio and I forget who was Ekkel, but they were relatives of mine, and important ones, too. So to get back to the point, I’m a happy man. The happy mayor of a happy little city where the factories have long since been replaced by big glass office buildings crammed with happy little people. On weekends they go out and happily buy little gadgets or go to church or both, whatever makes them happy. The people like me, you see, partly because I’m affiliated with the Workers’ Party. Of course, there aren’t any workers here anymore. That’s the beauty of it. Just consumers now, with no loyalty to each other or their employer. God knows their employers have no loyalty to them, and if he doesn’t, I certainly do. Of course, I go out on important holidays and wave to the people on television. This is especially true whenever it has something to do with the Holocaust. I could forget Christmas and think up a good excuse, but the Jews really got this one figured out good. The best thing to do is just accept it. A human being’s got to choose his battles. Otherwise they’ll say I’m a Jew-hater, and once you’ve been called that the game’s over. You can never recover from that. Every once in a while I pay a highly promoted visit to an old age home, or a school, or some other feel-good joint, but it’s the executives I listen to now. They pay for all the fancy dinners, you see. The helicopter shuttle service. As long as no one tells the queen that the executives are unhappy, as long as I remember – perhaps most important of all! – when to do nothing, I can count on years of ease and good seats at the football matches. There is, in fact, only one thing that worries me. Yes, there is something, damn it. A little thing, that’s all. It’s nothing really. I don’t even know why I’m mentioning it at all.

(Stage left falls in darkness. Stage right illuminated. Squatters’ Living Room. Two couches in poor repair face each other, slightly turned towards audience. The colors clash. There is ample room both between and behind the couches. Two or three small tables are scattered about with overflowing ashtrays and cans and bottles of different kinds of beer. A TV is present in a corner at the front of the stage facing the couches and somewhere on the floor a telephone. There is an exit offstage to one side.)

(Emile and Clemens are on one couch, Ivo on the other. All are drinking a beer. Ivo is smoking. Music plays in the background. TV is off.)

(Clemens lets out a huge belch.)

Ivo: Why didn’t you just deny it? Felix would have let it lie.

Emile: You said Felix would let it lie.

Clemens: Felix is an asshole. I always thought so.

Ivo: No you didn’t. I heard you say –

Clemens: Forget what I said. Felix is an asshole.

(Enter Paz with plates which she hands out.)

Paz: You shouldn’t have touched her ass.

Emile: He pinched her.

Paz: Yeah, on the ass. I told you to leave her alone.

Clemens: Why?

Emile: Clemens pinches your ass.

Paz: That’s because I let him.

Ivo: She didn’t dig you, Clemens. That’s why.

Clemens: Shut up, Ivo.

(Exit Paz.)

Ivo (shouting): Hey, Paz, that smells good!

Emile: Did you get paid?

Clemens: I got the cash, yeah. Ivo, you still collecting?

Ivo (shouting): What’s in that? Is that garlic?

Emile: Can’t you collect, Clemens?

Clemens: It’s always garlic, Ivo. Shit, day in, day out, Paz cooks with garlic. Can’t you recognize it by now?

Paz (off stage): I like garlic. It’s good for you.

Emile: I heard it makes you smell funny.

Clemens: I wouldn’t blame it on the garlic, Emile.

Ivo: Beers?

Emile: Any Duvel left?

Ivo: Don’t know.

Emile: Duvel.

Clemens: It was all under the table.

Ivo: What if there’s none left?

Emile: You worked there at least two years.

Clemens: One year.

Ivo: Clemens?

Clemens: I’m talking. What?

Emile: I still think you should be able to collect.

Ivo: He can’t collect, Emile. It was all under the table.

(Enter Paz.)

Paz: All you had to do was deny it.

Clemens: Why deny it? She’s been flirting with me since she started.

Emile: She asked you to come home with her one night.

Ivo: No she didn’t.

Clemens: It was my kitchen. She came into my kitchen.

Paz: Clemens likes to think she did.

Ivo: She didn’t.

Clemens: She asked me to come home with her after work.

Ivo: Yeah, for an Oreo cookie and some milk.

Emile: How old is she?

Ivo: Sixteen.

Clemens: She’s not sixteen! Ivo! If you say that again, I’m gonna fuckin’ smack you!

Paz: When?

Emile: When what?

Paz: When did she ask you home?

Clemens: I don’t know when! Will you guys just leave me alone!

Emile: Hey, Paz, maybe you could try cooking us something without garlic.

Clemens: What?

Paz: He wasn’t talking to you. (to Emile): It’s not garlic. Onions in butter. Gonna fry up some chicken. With white wine and lemon.

Ivo: Not pork, right?

Paz: Chicken.

Clemens: That’s what she said, solapa! Chicken!

Ivo: What?

Clemens: Shut up. Weren’t you gonna get us beers?

Ivo: Yeah, everyone but