Shake Well Before Using: A Collection of One Act Plays

By A.Ross Shepherd

"Shake well before using," or simply dip in and stir your way around this collection of one–act plays. You'll find lots of laughs, several feel–good moments, and a few serious notes. There is a trilogy tracking the arc of a fiftieth–year class reunion, some old–time, sometimes off–the–wall melodramas and plays bringing a mixture of insights, running from the art of playwriting by committee to a unique view of the travel industry.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9781644625330

Book preview

Reunion: The First Day

A Play in One Act

A. Ross Shepherd

Characters

Joan Douglas (née Adkins), sixty-six

Jack Edwards, sixty-eight

Bill Singleton, sixty-eight

Cecilia Sissy Van Pelt, sixty-six

Time

The present, late afternoon in early June

Place

Hemphill, a moderate-sized suburb of a midsize city in middle America. The set represents the eating area of a cafeteria-style restaurant in an enclosed shopping mall. There are small tables with chairs, including a set as far stage left as feasible and another on line with it as far stage right as feasible. These are the two that will be occupied by the players. Up center and clearly visible to the audience is a coat-rack or small open closet.

As the lights come up, the restaurant is empty. Jack enters up right with a shopping bag. He approaches the coatrack, stops, and opens the bag, from which he extracts a truly bizarre necktie. It is unusually wide and streaked with garish hues in high-voltage patterns. He holds it up to inspect it so the audience can get the full effect, and then he holds it against his shirt and studies it for a moment. He slips off his jacket and hangs it on a coat hanger, then drapes the tie on the jacket, and steps back to get a different perspective. Bill enters up right and approaches the coatrack. He stops and stares in amazement.

Bill. Wow.

Jack, startled, embarrassed, and somewhat flustered, retrieves his jacket and tie from the hanger.

Jack, pointing to the tie. This is a joke.

Bill. I agree. (Looks directly at Jack.) Jack Edwards!

Jack, recovering his poise, shaking hands. Bill Singleton! You son of a gun! How are you?

Bill. I’m fine. How are you?

Jack. I’m fine. Great to see you! How long has it been?

Bill. Since the twenty-fifth reunion. Exactly twenty-five years.

Jack. Well, you’re looking great. The years don’t seem to faze you at all.

Bill and Jack, high school friends and baseball teammates, slide into the jargon of baseball to break the ice.

Bill. Oh, I’ve lost some of the hop on my fastball, but I compensate pretty well.

Jack, shaking his head admiringly. Slingshot Singleton, the pitching hero of Hemphill High’s state championship season, losing his fastball? Impossible!

Bill. I’m a crafty veteran now. I get by on experience and guile.

Jack. A pitcher and not just a thrower.

Bill. What about you? Still swinging for the fences?

Jack, suddenly subdued. Not really. Just trying to make contact since Nancy died.

Bill. We were all terribly sorry to hear about that. I’m glad we had a chance to talk at the time, even if we were fifteen hundred miles apart.

Jack. Thanks again for your calls. They really helped. How’s Deborah?

Bill. Oh, she’s fine. But we’re not together anymore.

Jack. Oh, really? I’m sorry… I… I didn’t know that.

Bill. The divorce was final four years ago tomorrow. Say, how about a cup of coffee?

Bill and Jack start toward the exit up right. Jack is still holding his jacket and tie.

Bill. Don’t forget the tie.

Jack. Oh, thanks for reminding me. I forgot about it.

Bill, eyeing the tie, shaking his head. I guess that’s easier for you than for other people.

Jack slips on his jacket and puts the tie back into the shopping bag, which he leaves on the floor near the coatrack.

Bill, continues. That’s quite a tie.

Jack. I’ll tell you about it over coffee.

Jack claps Bill on the shoulder as they exit up right. Joan and Sissy enter up left. Joan is carrying a light coat and a shopping bag identical to the one Jack has just left. During the following conversation, Joan hangs up her coat and sets her shopping bag near Jack’s.

Sissy. I’m glad you bought it. I like it.

Joan. I’m not surprised. You have an eye for the things I shouldn’t buy.

Sissy. How much?

Joan. $79.95.

Sissy. So? A little pricey, but so elegantly spicy.

Joan. Oh, Sissy, you know how practical I am. Why should I pay that much for something nobody will ever see but me?

Sissy. Hmm. Maybe that will change.

Joan. My being practical?

Sissy. Nobody seeing it but you.

Joan. Oh. Of course. A widow on the downhill slope of life never knows when the second Mr. Right might step out from behind a potted palm and ask to see her slip.

Sissy, jocularly. Remember our mothers’ warnings about the possibility of being in an accident.

Joan. jocularly inventing. That’s right. Why, just last week, there was a three-car accident on College Boulevard, and they said that fortunately, everyone’s underwear was in good shape.

Sissy. Just wearing it will make you feel alluring.

Joan. Is that your secret?

Sissy. One of them.

Joan. I wish I could be half as relaxed and outgoing around men as you are. But that’s just not me.

Sissy. Come on, Joan, you’re too young for the shawl and rocking chair. You’ve been alone now for what, almost four years?

Joan. Five.

Sissy. That slip will be your secret weapon.

Joan. What do you mean?

Sissy. When you put it on, I want you to stand in front of the mirror and cheer.

Joan. What?

Sissy. You used to be a cheerleader.

Joan. Yes, a hundred years ago.

Sissy. Well, practice some of your old cheers.

Joan. Are you crazy?

Sissy. Why? I’m not asking you to put on a short skirt and turn cartwheels again, for goodness’ sake. Let’s get some coffee.

As Joan and Sissy exit up left, Bill and Jack enter up right, carrying cups of coffee, and sit at a table stage right.

Bill. It’s great to see you back here for Reunion Week. We’ve missed you these past twenty-five years. I didn’t think you came all this way for a necktie. So tell me about the tie. You said it was a joke.

Jack. More like a sight gag, actually. It’s a prop for a play I’m in.

Bill. You’re an actor now? Have you retired from Edwards Electric Enterprise?

Jack. Western Supply made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. I sold out lock, stock, and barrel. Now I’m a recovering entrepreneur, doing community theater when I need an adrenaline fix. Besides, like you, I have a theatrical background. Remember our senior play?

Bill. How could I forget it? The only senior play in high school history that closed after the first act.

Jack. You exaggerate. It was a rough beast all right, but we slouched on to the end of opening night and through three additional performances.

Bill. That was the problem. No one thought it would ever end. A four-act play, and my own parents left after act 3.

Jack. Not many people saw act 4.

Bill. Yes, but I had the lead. My father said he had an attack of indigestion and had to lie down. My mother just looked sad and kept a wet washcloth on her forehead for two days.

Jack. The first, and I presume last, original play ever performed at Hemphill High.

Bill. I can still see those giant posters around school. (Closes eyes to visualize then quotes.) "A Long Night’s Journey into Night, by the English Department Faculty Playwrights Workshop, Madeleine Van Pelt, chairman. Directed by Madeleine Van Pelt."

Jack. It was always my theory that each of the faculty wrote a one-act play and threw it into a barrel. Then Maddy Van Pelt closed her eyes, pulled out four of them, and called the collection a four-act play.

Bill, laughing. I’m sure you’re right. But why four acts?

Sissy enters up left, carrying a cup of coffee, and sits at a table stage left.

Jack. There were seven writers, and they needed a majority to approve the play.

Jack sees Sissy and stares intently in her direction.

Jack, continues. Is that Sissy Van Pelt sitting over there?

Bill, looking toward Sissy. Yes, it is. You’re exactly right. She’s divorced and using her maiden name again. Doesn’t she look like her mother?

Jack. She sure does. She looks just like Maddy did at the alumni banquet twenty-five years ago. Obviously, good looks run in her family.

Bill. You didn’t think Sissy was so good-looking in high school. As I remember, some of your famous unguarded observations were about her lack of looks.

Jack. Ah yes… Well, you and I were mighty seniors, and she was a lowly sophomore with braces on her teeth—and the weirdest hairdo anybody ever saw. Besides, I liked older women—I had a crush on her mother.

Bill. You did? Maddy Van Pelt? Madam Madeleine? With all her theatrical airs and that phony English accent we all joked about?

Jack, mocking theatrically. Love is blind—and deaf.

Joan enters up left with coffee and joins Sissy. They unobtrusively drink coffee and mime conversation.

Jack, continues, looks intently toward Joan. Is that Joan Adkins with Sissy?

Bill, looks briefly. Yes, she moved back to Hemphill last year to take care of her mother. Her husband died four or five years ago—her married name is Douglas. Her mother died a couple of months ago. First time I’ve seen her since the funeral.

Jack. She looks wonderful. Of course, she always did. She stole my heart in junior high.

Bill. Really? I never knew you were interested in her. Now let’s see, you had a crush on your English-teacher-slash-drama-coach while harboring romantic feelings for that English-teacher-slash-drama-coach’s daughter’s best friend. This is better than a soap opera. Tell me more.

Jack. I was in eighth grade when she started riding the same school bus I did. (Looks toward Joan.) Every time I’ve seen her since that first day on the bus, something happens to my breathing.

Bill. Like now?

Jack. Even as we speak.

The scene switches to Joan and Sissy. Bill and Jack unobtrusively drink coffee and mime conversation.

Sissy. Don’t look now, but we are in the presence of Hemphill’s finest.

Joan. The police?

Sissy. No, silly. Sports legends. Heroes of the state championship baseball team.

Joan, excited. Jack Edwards! And… Bill Singleton. (Turning to look) Where?

Sissy. Don’t look! I think they know we’re here. They’re looking this way like they’re trying not to look like they’re looking this way.

Joan. How do you know?

Sissy. Because they’re not looking right at us. They’re pretending to look past us.

Joan. How do you know they’re pretending?

Sissy. Because that’s what I’m doing with them.

Joan starts to look again.

Sissy, continues. Don’t look!

Pretending to look in her purse, Joan moves her eyes to get a look at Bill and Jack, then closes her purse, and turns back toward Sissy.

Joan. I don’t think Jack Edwards ever knew who I was. But I’d know him anywhere. He’s still handsome.

Sissy. Oh? I didn’t think you noticed things like that anymore.

Joan. Just because I’m socially dormant doesn’t mean I’m dead.

Sissy. Socially dormant—what an interesting expression.

Joan. It just popped into my head.

Sissy. Is that the way you feel?

Joan. Well… I… I’m not sure.

Sissy. Ready to wake again, to grow, to bloom?

Joan. I’m afraid there’s no bloom left on this rose.

Sissy. Don’t sell yourself short. (Pointing toward Joan’s shopping bag.) Wait until you see yourself in that slip.

Joan. I can’t believe I paid eighty dollars for something so frivolous. I’m going to take it back.

Sissy, feigning serious intent by suddenly rising. Let’s ask Bill and Jack what they think.

Joan, grabbing Sissy’s arm. You wouldn’t dare! I’d die!

Sissy sits down as the scene switches to Bill and Jack.

Bill. Instead of just sitting here talking about her, why don’t you go over and say hello?

Jack. I seriously doubt that Joan Adkins would remember me. She and Sissy obviously haven’t noticed us yet.

Bill. Sissy has noticed us. She keeps staring around, pretending she’s not looking our way.

Jack. How do you know?

Bill. Because that’s what I’m doing with them. What are you doing?

Jack. Trying not to stare.

Bill. Exactly. Now go over and introduce yourself before she gets away.

Jack. Why don’t you introduce me?

Bill, obviously shy. I? Well… I suppose I could… But you don’t need an introduction. How could she forget the highest batting average in the history of Hemphill High? Your record still stands.

Jack. She was only a sophomore that year. Besides, women don’t remember things like that.

Bill. Well, you also starred in A Long Night’s Journey into Night. She couldn’t forget that.

The scene switches to Joan and Sissy.

Joan. Do you remember that senior play their class did?

Sissy. Do you remember that my mother directed it? She also was one of the writers. (Theatrically.)

"A Long Night’s Journey into Night." What a bomb.

Joan. I thought Jack was so great in that. Sir Lamont Chambers, Ninth Earl of Etherfield and master of Etherfield Hall.

Sissy. She was so embarrassed about that turkey. Four disastrous performances. But like the Countess of Etherfield (theatrically quotes from the play), She refused to bow before the gales of ill fortune, continuing her work among those less fortunate than she, until her name once more shone forth with all its former luster. Act 4, scene 4.

Joan. I never told you I saw all four performances. My parents were convinced I needed counseling. I dreamed that I was the Countess of Etherfield and Jack and I… well…

Sissy. If you were so taken with Sir Jack, how come you never said or did anything—not even tell moi, your best friend?

Joan. We were sophomores. Jack was a senior, a baseball hero hitting the highest batting average in school history. He was a star who didn’t know I existed. I would stand—oh, never mind.

Sissy. Oh, come on. Confession is good for the soul. (Prompts her to continue.) You would stand…

Joan, standing as she plunges ahead. I would stand right in front of his locker, pretending I was waiting for you. I had to move before he could open it. I thought it must be obvious to the whole school that I was throwing myself at him, but you never caught on. Neither did he. (Sitting.) For him, I was just another faceless sophomore cluttering up the halls.

Scene shifts to Bill and Jack.

Jack. She used to stand right in front of my locker after third period, waiting for Sissy. I didn’t need to go to my locker after third period, but I did every day, just to be close to her.

Bill. And you never talked to her?

Jack. Never.

Bill. Not even Excuse me, this is my locker?

Jack. No.

Bill, incredulous. How come?

Jack. She wasn’t interested in me. She was just waiting for Sissy.

Bill. How could you tell if you never talked to her?

Jack. Body language. She didn’t even really know I was there. My locker just happened to be the place where she waited for Sissy.

Bill. Well, you never had trouble breaking the ice with women when I was with you. What was the problem?

Jack. I guess with her, I was really afraid of being rejected. With the others, it didn’t matter so much. And—to be completely honest—I was also afraid of not being rejected.

Bill. Afraid of not being rejected—that’s a new one.

Jack. You know how the senior girls were. They were the real Hemphill Hawks.

Bill. Oh, I get it. You were afraid they would get on your case because Joan was a sophomore.

Jack. Remember the number they did on Cliff Jones when he dated that tall red-haired sophomore—what was her name?

Bill. Ah… Angie… no… Audrey! Audrey Adams.

Jack. They called him Cliff the Cradle Robber right to his face.

Bill. Yeah. Poor Cliff. I think he must have been the tallest guy in the county, and she was the only girl in the school who came close to his shoulder.

Jack. They still wouldn’t cut him any slack.

Bill. They were rough on old Cliff.

Jack. I could feel their talons in my back every time I looked at Joan. I was a big bad senior—chicken.

They both chuckle.

Jack, continues. Listen to us, sitting here talking about high school stuff that happened fifty years ago—talking like it happened last month.

Bill. That’s often the way it seems to me. Like it was just a few weeks ago—clearer than things that actually happened last month.

Scene shifts to Joan and