The Search Committee

 

A few years ago I submitted a one-act play to a contest.  It didn't win so I ran it here.  This year I submitted again, being a glutton for punishment, and got the same result.  So here is the new play.

 

THE SEARCH COMMITTEE

 

___

Cast of Characters

Chris

Tracy

They can be any gender and any age, but should be of roughly the same age, so they are more likely to be partners than parent and child.

Scene

Interior.

Time

The present.

SETTING: On the stage are many cardboard boxes and, if convenient, a few cabinets with drawers and/or closed shelves.  Also a couple of stools for sitting when opening the boxes and cabinets.

 

CHRIS enters, frantic, followed immediately by TRACY.  Throughout the play they keep opening boxes and cabinets, turning boxes upside-down, etc.

 

CHRIS

It’s got to be here somewhere.

 

TRACY

I can’t believe you lost it.

 

CHRIS

Me?  Who says it was me?

 

TRACY

Well, it belongs to you.  God knows you won’t let anyone else touch it.

 

CHRIS

Like I would trust you with it.

 

TRACY

So what are you saying?  That I lost the damned thing?

 

CHRIS

Don’t tell me you’ve never noticed it.

 

TRACY

Well, sure.  You practically force it on people, you’re so damned vain about it.             

CHRIS

I most definitely am not vain.  I just believe in sharing my good fortune.

 

TRACY

That’s right.  Everywhere you go people say, “There’s Chris, the famous philanthropist.”

 

CHRIS

It’s better than what they say about you.

                                                                            TRACY

Excuse me?

                             

CHRIS

Never mind.

         

TRACY

What do they say about me?

    

CHRIS

Not important.  Keep looking.

 

TRACY

No.  You’ve got my interest up now.  Do tell me what the world is reporting.     

 

CHRIS

That you’re lucky to hang around with me.  But that you should to be more careful with my stuff.  Where the heck is it?

 

TRACY

Where was it the last time you saw it?

 

CHRIS

If I knew that I’d look there, wouldn’t I?

 

TRACY

Well, where were you standing the last time  you remember seeing it?

 

CHRIS

     pauses

Right over there.

 

CHRIS walks over and opens a box.  It’s empty.

 

CHRIS

Damn.

         

TRACY

And when exactly was that last time?    

 

CHRIS

It was a Tuesday in late February.  The church bells had just rung midnight.  A hot  wind was blowing across the Serengeti Desert.  How the hell am I supposed to remember?

 

TRACY

Well, since the thing is so damned precious to you I thought you might have fond memories of it.

    

CHRIS

Since I didn’t know I was about to lose it I didn’t bother to take a picture of it in its natural habitat for my scrapbook.  Look, if you were to put it away—

 

TRACY

Which I didn’t.

 

CHRIS

Humor me.  Where would you have put it?

 

TRACY

Oh.  Good question. 

looks around, then heads to one corner

Ah!  Over here!

 

CHRIS

Oh, give me strength. 

 

TRACY

What now?

         

          CHRIS

You’ve never put anything there in your life.  On the rare occasions when you do put something in its proper place – and let me say that that happens so infrequently that each one deserves a party to celebrate it – you never go over there.

    

TRACY

Like you would know about parties.

 

CHRIS

Excuse me?

 

TRACY

This is why no one ever invites you to any parties.  Because you make speeches like that.

 

CHRIS

I’ve been to more parties than you have lost wallets.

 

TRACY

What, have you lost your wallet too?

 

CHRIS

No, that’s your specialty. It’s why you have the credit card cancellation number on speed dial.  Damn and blast, where did it go?

 

TRACY

Take it easy.  We’ll figure this out.  It’s always in the last place you look.         

 

CHRIS

Don’t say that!

 

TRACY

What do you mean?

 

CHRIS

Of all the stupid cliches that has to be the worst.  Of course it’s in the last place you look.  Do you know why?

 

TRACY

I suppose because if you knew where it was—

 

          CHRIS

No! Because when you find it you stop looking!

 

TRACY

     pause

 Well, sure.

    

CHRIS

So why do people keep saying that gibberish as if it has great meaning?

 

TRACY

Because we’re all very stupid and live for the pleasure of annoying you.

 

CHRIS

You’re an idiot.

 

TRACY

And yet somehow you’re the one who lost your--

 

CHRIS

I didn’t lose it!  I think you did!

 

TRACY

We’ve already been over this.  I never touch the blasted thing.

 

CHRIS

Well, I’m glad to hear that.  Because you’re careless with your possessions.

 

TRACY

While you know where everything you own is.  Right?

 

CHRIS

Absolutely.

    

TRACY

You don’t even hear yourself, do you?

 

CHRIS

Look.  Stop everything. Tracy, look at me.

 

TRACY puts down a box and looks at CHRIS.  They are practically eye to eye.

 

CHRIS

Are you really  a hundred percent certain, absolutely, guaranteed, in your heart of hearts, that you couldn’t possibly have thrown it away by accident?

 

TRACY

dramatic pause

Yes.

 

CHRIS

furiously

How can you possibly claim to know that?

         

     TRACY

     talking over

If I couldn’t know why did you bother to ask?

         

     CHRIS

I can’t stand it.

 

TRACY

Want me to leave?

 

CHRIS

No!  Listen, Tracy, I do appreciate that you’re trying.

 

TRACY

Anytime I can help...

    

CHRIS

…Would be the first.

 

TRACY

Excuse me?  What did you say?

         

CHRIS

Woodby the First.  He was a famous king.  Some people don’t know their history.

 

TRACY

Some people are looking to get crowned.

 

TRACY starts looking in a different part of the stage.

 

CHRIS

Don’t.

 

TRACY

Don’t what?

 

CHRIS

Don’t bother looking over there.  I would never put it over there.

    

TRACY

You sure?

 

CHRIS

Absolutely.

 

TRACY

Absolutely, a hundred percent, guaranteed, in your cold little heart of hearts?

 

CHRIS

Just look somewhere else.

 

TRACY moves back.

         

CHRIS

Not there.  You already looked there.

         

TRACY

So let me be sure I am clear on this.  That’s the place you are likely to have left it, but I can’t look there because I already did.

 

CHRIS

Right.

 

TRACY

And I can’t look over there because you would never put it there.

 

CHRIS

Now you’ve got it.

         

TRACY

I’m running out of options.

 

CHRIS

I’m running out of patience.  Just keep hunting.

 

TRACY starts reaching around high in the air

 

CHRIS

What are you doing now?

 

TRACY

You’ve forbidden me from looking in the tangible places so I thought I’d try some imaginary ones.

 

CHRIS

You are an idiot.

 

TRACY

You’re repeating yourself.  Look, maybe it doesn’t even exist, have you thought of that?  In that case imaginary places would be the best place to search.

                        

          CHRIS

It’s real. You know it’s real.  Please, keep searching.

 

TRACY

I think we have long passed that point.  I think we have established beyond the laws of probability that your precious McGuffin, your ring of power, your veritable Maltese Falcon, has vanished forever and will no more—

 

TRACY is looking in yet another box.

 

TRACY

Well, fry me a banjo.

 

CHRIS

What?  Have you got it?

 

TRACY

Look!

 

TRACY pulls an object out of the box.  What it is hardly matters, except it should be large enough for the audience to see, and obviously one-of-a-kind.  I imagine a brightly colored hat with feathers and bangles.

 

CHRIS

You found it!  Thank you so much!  I’ve been looking—

 

CHRIS is holding it now.

 

CHRIS

This is the wrong one.

 

TRACY reacts.

 

CURTAIN

Of Trains and Life Without Walls

I first encountered Hugh Lessig’s writing when he submitted “Last Exit Before Toll” to Mickey Finn: 21st Century Noir, and I’ve worked with him on several other projects since then. Additionally, I had the honor of reading prepublication proofs of Fadeaway Joe (Crooked Lane Books), and I believe it’ll be a strong contender for best debut novel of 2023.

— Michael Bracken

Of Trains and Life Without Walls

By Hugh Lessig

Hugh Lessig

I was intrigued by Robert Lopresti’s Aug. 2 post “Hobo Blues” because it combines two of my favorite subjects:

• Trains.
• People who go through life without four walls and a roof.

I can’t connect the two as well as he did, but I’ve somehow managed to incorporate both of these personal fascinations into crime stories, including my debut novel, Fadeaway Joe, releasing August 22.

Why trains? My grandfather, a railroad engineer, was killed in 1926 in a head-on collision of two trains in New Jersey. Thanks to a Facebook group dedicated to the rail line, I found the original accident report and a map of the crash site. He died on a nasty curve and made the front page the next day.

My grandfather was a complete unknown to me. No photos of him survive, and my own father was only 3 years old when the accident occurred. I can only imagine what he was like, and that’s what I did.

My grandfather was in my head while writing “Peace Train,” my contribution to the first volume of “Groovy Gumshoes: Private Eyes in the Psychedelic Sixties.” In this case, a train running through eastern Pennsylvania in the 1960s represents a fading industrial power, as trucks and the interstate highway system overtake the flow of commerce. In “Peace Train,” the locomotive is also a getaway for an abused kid fleeing the draft during the Vietnam War. The story centers on the P.I. hired to find him, a hard-bitten World War II veteran who wrestles with the ghosts that followed him home from Iwo Jima and Okinawa.

The runaway knows exactly where to jump the train: a long, winding curve just before a bridge. The engineer is not a character in this story, but I always imagined my grandfather in the cab, taking his time, watching the curve. In this make-believe world, someone would relay the message that he needed to pull into a side track because another train was speeding the other way from New York. He’d come home that night to my grandmother and their eight children.

Why hoboes? This one is a bit harder to explain.

Today we don’t have rail-riding hoboes who travel to far-off job sites or simply seek a different place to live. As Lopresti cites in On The Fly, these men proved pivotal—if underreported—in influencing culture, politics and music of the era, not to mention their practical contributions to farming and industry.

If we don’t have hoboes in 2023, we certainly have the homeless. Is there a comparison? That’s tough. The homeless population of today defies a blanket description. Some are homeless for a short period. Others are chronically homeless and depend on shelters.

Still others experience a hidden form of homelessness. Instead of riding the rails, they “couch surf” with friends and relatives, or live out of their vehicles. They may even hold down jobs during this time, and their fellow employees may be none the wiser about their sparse living conditions.

I spent 36 years as a newspaper reporter and began reporting on homelessness toward the end of my career—oddly enough, when I picked up the military beat. Veteran homelessness was a problem in Hampton Roads, Virginia, which has a heavy military presence.

Over the years, I’ve interviewed homeless veterans of all types. Many battled drugs, alcohol or mental illness. Some, like that P.I. in “Peace Train,” dealt with post-traumatic stress.

I also met a few—not many—who tolerated or even favored the homeless lifestyle.

To be clear, these were not hoboes of the 2020s, on their way to some adventure or escape. And they didn’t become homeless by choice. But they found solace in their fluid world and didn’t want to go back to four walls and a roof. Maybe they put their best face forward for me, a newspaper reporter, to hide their fear or to rationalize their existence. But reporting gives you a pretty good BS detector, and I believed them.

Which brings me to Fadeaway Joe, my debut novel from Crooked Lane Books.

The main character is Joe Pendergast, an aging mob enforcer who suffers from early-stage dementia and is abandoned by his longtime boss, a man he considered a brother. Joe vows revenge, but early in the story he meets 22-year-old Paula Jessup. She’s on the run from labor traffickers, having freed a woman from their clutches. She needs protection, and her plight gives Joe a higher purpose than personal vengeance. With a clock ticking inside his head, he begins to wonder about his legacy. What will he be remembered for? Maybe helping Paula straighten out her life is more important than personal revenge.

Paula is homeless. She’s living out of her car, a vintage 1975 Chevy Nova. Her closest friend runs a homeless shelter for women. She’s tough and independent, extremely nosey and a total pain in the ass to Joe, who isn’t accustomed to dealing with strong, independent women who talk back.

Homelessness gives Paula a hard edge. It’s essential to her character, but it does not define her life. I found this to be true of homeless people I’ve interviewed over the years. They are deeper and more complex than a shadowy figure holding a cardboard sign at the exit ramp.

Many have extensive work histories and job skills. Shipyard welders. Truck drivers. I once met a former city hall employee who served as a source for a news story. He was living on the street.

How quickly can people become homeless? It’s downright scary. If you live paycheck to paycheck and develop an expensive health problem, you’re in trouble. Then your transmission goes kablooey and you can’t drive to work, which leads to a lost job. (This last one is all too common. Can’t drive, can’t work.) You can’t pay rent and stay with friends or relatives until they get tired of the routine.

Homeless people can also be resourceful. Years ago, I met a homeless guy who handed me his business card. He somehow saved up enough cash through panhandling to print a few, and he cleaned yards, garages or houses. He left those cards in laundromats, grocery stores, pretty much everywhere. I always wondered what happened to him. Maybe he got back on his feet.

And maybe he’ll be in a crime story one day.

What was, what could be, and everything in between.

One reason I love reading history is it’s already happened.  No need to fear impending catastrophe; we already know how the story turns out.  At least in the opinion of the historian, who may differ from others in the field.  And some historical commentary is energetically revisionist.   But generally, you’re safe from new, alarming events suddenly cropping up.  

I especially enjoy history where things worked out well for us, an outcome that at the time was seriously in doubt.  The big daddies of these stories focus on the American Revolution and World War II.  In fact, you could start reading books on these subjects when you’re ten years old and never live long enough to exhaust the supply. 

I like reading about all the stress and worry flooding the nervous systems of people like George Washington and Dwight Eisenhower, whom we think of as implacable, irresistible over-achievers, fully confident that things like crossing the Delaware River in December, in open boats, to attack a bunch of well-trained German mercenaries was a swell idea that was sure to work out just fine.

Eisenhower wrote an apology for the failure of his planned Normandy invasion and stuck it in his pocket the night before D-Day:

"Our landings in the Cherbourg-Havre area have failed to gain a satisfactory foothold and I have withdrawn the troops. My decision to attack at this time and place was based upon the best information available. The troops, the air and the Navy did all that bravery and devotion to duty could do. If any blame or fault attaches to the attempt it is mine alone."

It’s powerful reading, also poignantly written.  I’ve never undertaken anything close to what he faced, though I’ve had plenty of moments when I prayed to a God I’m not sure I believe in, “Oh please, Lord, don’t let me f**k this up.”   

I also like to learn that something we all thought had happened one way, has turned out to be something entirely different.  This results from either fresher, better research, or the historian re-examining an event unblinkered by the prejudices of prior commentators.  Or both. 

Despite the fulminations of people unhappy about academics rethinking American history, since much of it throws treasured, self-congratulatory tropes overboard, I’d much rather know.   A good example is the Revolutionary War. Historians like Rick Atkinson are explaining that it was really bloody and awful, with plenty of gruesome excess on both sides of the conflict.  Well, yeah, all wars are like this.  And rather than making our success ignoble it should instruct us that it was one hell of a fight, one over which our ancestors gave their all.

Another benefit of reading history is it reminds us that our humanity hasn’t changed that much, if at all, since people started writing things down.  While technology has evolved, the thoughts, feelings, anxieties, hopes and dreams are all pretty much the same for the Mesopotamian grain merchant as the Wall Street Master of the Universe.  The grunt hauling stones to the pyramid or the slob on the subway trying to make his way home.

How is this germane to the fiction writer?  First off, history has a steadying influence over creative writing.  Things that have happened provide the context for what could have happened, even in science fiction.  Especially. 

Plausibility, credibility, believability.  Some writers hate the notion of being pinned down by the reality of human experience, but any editor will tell you that otherwise promising fiction can be utterly thwarted by flights of fancy launched from unsteady moorings.  You know when you’re reading it that the author is confusing invention with absurdity.  The great jazz musicians knew their scales and classic harmonic relationships.  Joyce, Pound, Stravinsky and Picasso never said abandon all prior structure, but to adapt, modify and innovate within established forms. 

Listeners and readers know this instinctively.  It’s an agreement with the artist.  Know your history, and trust the creators to know it as well.  And it goes both ways.  New Journalism was premised on describing real events with the flair and artistry of fiction.  The historians we love today understand this, and eagerly employ novelists’ techniques to power their tales of the past.  

Everyone’s better for it. 

Fodder for Great Crime Stories: Amateur scuba divers

Recently, stories have appeared in the news about amateur scuba divers helping solve missing persons cold cases. 

In Florida, the team of Ken Fleming and Doug Bishop found 60 submerged cars statewide. Also, the controversial Youtube sensation, Jared Leisek, an Oregon entrepreneur who heads Adventures with Purpose, works with volunteer salvage divers to help families find their loved ones. 

Amateur scuba divers solving cold cases has all the makings of a new series of crime novels. I wish someone would write these because they’ve been bouncing around in my fantasies for decades.

About thirty years ago my husband talked me into learning scuba diving. He was trained by an army scuba diver, so he’s extremely competent and also has a great deal of talent. I got trained at a resort, and that, along with my lack of natural talent, made me a competent but not even close to excellent diver. When the children came along, they got the scuba diving fever and certified at eleven and twelve. They have their father’s talent and scuba diving became our family sport.

Over the years, we’ve had wonderful dive adventures and often, as I putter behind my elegant family of divers, I’ve fantasied about helping solve cold cases by discovering guns and bodies by diving expertly to places other divers haven’t gone. This is exactly what I do when watching gymnasts, where I picture elegant tumbling moves while trudging to the kitchen to get more popcorn.

A childhood friend and English teacher recently bemoaned her lack of writing skills by saying, “Those who can do, those who can’t, teach.”. This quote by Bernard Bernard Shaw from his 1905 stage play Man and Superman is often taken out of context and wasn’t meant to demean teachers per se. In fact, as a daughter of scientists - even though I loved Shaw in my teenage years - I also knew this quote is inaccurately used when applied to teachers, because the best scientists, the most competent researchers, taught.

I do think that, for me and maybe me alone, a riff on this quote would be accurate: Those who can do, those who can’t, write about it.

With the pandemic, we haven’t been diving in years, but one of our last dive trips set off a fantasy of a perfect crime, fostered by my fury. We were diving in the Bahamas where, I learned afterwards, they were also feeding sharks. So, when we all innocently did a back roll water entry, an entry where you sit at the edge of the boat with your back against the water, with your regulator in your mouth, held in place with your left hand while your right hand holds the back of your head to prevent your skull from smacking into the first stage regulator when you hit the water. Then, point your chin toward your chest and gently fall backwards. You do a little somersault, pop right back up but it is a tad disorienting.

We headed down into the water and when we were about 30 feet down, I turned to check with my designated ‘buddy’, my son, and saw a shark between us. I looked up, and there were sharks, I looked below and there were sharks. It was simply awful.

We have seen sharks previously, but they keep their distance and leave quickly. Never have we had sharks surround us for a dive. When I got back on the dive boat, I was not just frightened, I was perplexed by the unusual behaviour of the sharks. When I asked about it, our dive master – who looked about twelve years old - explained cheerfully that they feed the sharks to teach divers how friendly they are and, by making friends with sharks, it helps with their conservation.

I was raised by a biologist father who took me on many field trips and he and his colleagues spoke often about conservation. It made me not just an animal lover but also a conservationist. To truly protect animals, you need to also listen to the experts studying them and not anthropomorphize them. Sharks deserve to be protected and can be best protected by not misunderstanding them. A shark is not your friend when they are swimming beside you in hopes of food. It takes one woman on her period or one inadvertent coral cut to put blood int the water and turn you into prey. I’m not a biologist, so I’ll use a term I hope is also used by experts to describe this behaviour: it’s nuts.

As we headed back to shore on the dive boat, my fury gave rise to a plot: chum the waters near a cheerful, far too young dive master (who might be an heiress to millions), and you have a perfect crime.

As I said, those who do, do, those who can’t write – or in my case – fantasize.

On our next dive trip I ensured that the country we went scuba diving banned shark feedings – many of them have – and we had lovely dives where sharks kept their distance.

So, from solving cold cases to creating a perfect murder scenes, amateur scuba diving provides a wealth of story ideas. I’m sure I’ll think of more stories the next time I putter behind my elegant family, pretending I am them.