A DICKENS OF A DREAM
The Dune Tramp
98 Rossi Dr. Bristol, CT 06010
2217 State Highway, Eastham, MA 02642
860-582-6358 Home
508-469-2128 Cottage
860-302-5420 Cell
Cast of Characters
BOB WRIGHT, Commissioner of the Historic Beach District, 60, Bob-Keeshanesque
JOHN GREGORY, bohemian poet and spectacularist, long-dead (and looks it)
DICK, Former Commissioner of the District, 72, athletic, rugged and ruddy
JOHN FITZGERALD KENNEDY, Former President of the United States, 46, gorgeous
SCENE I
At RISE:
(BOB sits at his office desk, surveying layers of splayed documents, all pertaining to the huts in the Historic District. A sign on his desk reads: I AM ALWAYS WRIGHT.)
BOB
Unbelievable. Look at all this. (lifting and tossing the documents, like a paper salad). Memoranda from historical societies and selectmen, pleas from artists, environmentalists, poets, activists and preservationists, letters from all manner of hut inhabitants and supporters. And this massive ethnography paid for by the feds (flumps the report onto the middle of the pile).
(Bob stands and runs his hands through his hair. He walks to a window and gazes out at the landscape.)
BOB
Gull dern huts. All mocking me. Now I have to decide what to do with you. (Nodding at each name) Utopia…Natasha…Jeannie’s… (Sighs) and John Gregory’s.
(He returns to his desk and plops into his chair, with a sigh. Reclines and folds his hands on his chest.
His eyelids descend once, twice...and then seal shut. The need for a late afternoon siesta, during this very trying time, becomes victorious. In moments, he is slumbering and his dreaming begins. Blackout.)
2
SCENE II
At RISE:
(Bob, in a dream state, is slowly walking along a narrow, sandy path. He can hear the peepers in the distance. Leaving the scrub oaks and pines, he ascends a hillside of rugosa and beach grass, to the Gregory hut, a former henhouse, looking one strong gust away from kindling. He enters. Blackout.)
3
SCENE III
At RISE:
(Bob lay in a small, rumpled bed. He cracks open his eyes to find himself on the mattress-and-board bed inside the tiny Gregory hut. Turning towards the brightness of the open doorway, he is startled at the silhouetted figure of a man in a billowing cape, a wreath of laurel atop his head. It is JOHN GREGORY.)
(Gregory raises a long, brass telescope to his right eye, looking into the large end of the optics, the smaller end aimed at Bob.)
GREGORY
You, sir, could be perceived to be a very small individual.
(He lowers the spyglass to his side, and begins to recite, his broad chest empowering the words as a bellows enrages a fire.)
When this man arrives, the sunbeams will shiver,
across the soft hills, the beach grasses quiver
in dread of mad tromping from hard, careless boots
that mangle rugosa and crowberry roots.
His scepter: a shovel; his sword: a sharp axe.
To sculpt a new landscape!
To level the shacks!
Or—is this a man who might spend a brief hour
dodging cruel thorns just to finger a flower,
or examine a clover, a mushroom, a pine—
or care for a plover and build him a shrine!
Unlike the still slopes, this man has a choice,
A will and a motive,
A conscience, a voice.
He can end the hut hist’ry
or assure that it thrives—
What course shall he set
When this man arrives?
(A moment of contemplative silence is shattered by burst of white light, like magician’s flash powder, and the hut is filled with floating seagull feathers. Then, suddenly, darkness, and the spectacularism has ended. Blackout.)
4
SCENE IV
At RISE:
(Bob’s retinas are abuzz from the transition of light to dark. Then, the sound of the sea infuses his blindness. As his sight begins to return, he finds himself perched on a high, grassy bluff, facing the ocean...and a priceless view. His serenity is interrupted by a rustling behind him. Turning, he sees a uniformed man ascending the barrier dune. The visitor is wearing a brown, leather belt, in which notches have been carved, with a huge, shiny “Caterpillar Tractor” buckle. A hard hat is parked on his head, cocked slightly forward, and is labeled "DICK". He is a past district commissioner, checking in.)
DICK
Bob. Dick.
(They shake hands. Commissioner Dick stands next to Bob, hands on hips, proudly surveying the shoreline.)
Ya shoulda seen “The Birdman’s” (makes sarcastic air quotes) place go down, Bob. That bulldozer skimmed that eyesore off the hill like a razor blade slicin' through a boil. A boil, an atrocity, on this beautiful landscape.
(The old man kneels down, crunching into the dry beach grass, and sifts some sand through his work gloves.)
Damn derelicts.
BOB
What, the huts?
DICK
Huts, people, whatever, it's the same thing. Damn disgrace.
(Bob looks out at the breakers, but he knows his predecessor has a fixed gaze on him. Dick stands.)
Back to nature, Bob. Restore the wilderness. You got the torch now (a sharp, quick nod).
(Bob watches him descend the hill, out of sight. Contemplating this latest apparation, Bob is violently surprised by an ambush of swallows, circling him tightly, shrieking with avian anger, toppling him off the bluff. Down the barrier dune he rolls, like a buoy in a hurricane, careening off the beach cliff and flopping onto the cool seaside sand. Blackout.)
5
SCENE V
At RISE:
(It is a calm ocean, quiet enough for Bob to perceive the sound of scrunching footsteps drawing near. He rights himself and peers down the beach, shading his eyes with a hand decorated with imbedded sand and seaweed. A man approaches him, barefoot, wearing khaki trousers - the legs rolled up to mid-calf - and a white t-shirt. The fellow sports a deep tan and his gait is athletic and purposeful. It is John Kennedy.)
JFK
Ask not.
(Bob squints to identify his third visitor.)
BOB
Ask not??…Jesus fucking CHRIST!
JFK
Close, but no cigah.
(Kennedy surveys the beach and dunes and ocean and sky. Bob, still seated, watches every tilt of his head, his "proud father" expression. With a sigh pierced by the chattering of gulls, Kennedy speaks his refrain again, facing the horizon.)
JFK
Ask not, Bawb. Ask not.
(Without farewell, the President pivots his heels into the sand and strolls away, his hands jammed into his favorite beach pants. Bob’s bewilderment is broken by a chuckle, then, a hearty laugh: the back of JFK's t-shirt reads "Who Shot J.R?" Blackout.)
6
SCENE VI
At RISE:
(Bob’s dreamtime laughter jostles his hanging head, awakening him from the unplanned nap. He snaps his head around, not so much to see if anyone has caught him snoozing, but to see if any phantoms have followed him back from the dreamworld. His slow respiration fills his office. After glancing at the wall clock - and his watch - and back again - he makes his way through headquarters, a bit unsteady, a bit unsettled.
He breaks out into the waning daylight, takes a few strides and stops. His mind is a flurry of images and voices. The air has never smelled so good - rich with seashells and rugosa petals - and his vision is so sharp, he can nearly discern every pinecone and beach plum in his purview. He can almost hear the sun's yellow fury, the sand's secret whisper.
A wee voice catches his attention. This one, he discovers, is his own, in his own head. The words are imperceptible, yet the tone is unmistakable. It has an urgency, like a warning. It has a veracity, like a moral.
He wonders if the words will ever come to him.
Curtain.)