Scene – Rain is
pouring down on THE CITY during the twilight hours. Make no mistake, THE CITY is an almost tangible
character is this piece, one with its own arc, feelings, and needs. It is mysterious, with residents of all
shapes, sizes, and colors – some good citizens, some not-so-good. Also, like all cities, THE CITY has a sewer
system and some street lights and tall buildings. THE CITY speaks to the audience, its voice
overlaid with a cacophony of car horns, crowd noise, and dog barking.
THE CITY: Why hello
there! How are you doing? Me? I’m
okay, I guess. Getting older… I’ve seen
a lot, but I should tell you that today was strange, even for me. I mean, there are days and there are days, you know? Take it from me; I’m a city. I’ve lived them all. Yes, I’ve certainly seen my share of
excitement, as you scum crawl through me and dirty up my streets, but today, a
course of events happened that I’d like to share with you. It all started with DYLAN FEATHERS, an
unlikely hero. Watch, will you, as I
share my story….
A taxi in THE CITY splashes
through a puddle, stopping suddenly in front of a run-down convenience store. DYLAN FEATHERS steps out. He is tall and thin and wearing a brown
trench coat with a matching fedora. He holds his hat to his head as he rushes
through the rain and into the convenience store. The store is empty, save for a
CASHIER in his late twenties. Dylan heads straight towards him.
DYLAN: I need to
speak to Marco.
CASHIER: No can do,
buddy. Sorry. He left for the day. He might be in tomorrow though.
Annoyed, DYLAN pushes
past the CASHIER and walks into the back room.
He sees MARCO sitting on a faded brown couch. MARCO is wearing a stained wife beater and crouched
over a coffee table with a rolled up dollar bill. MARCO looks up and sees DYLAN.
MARCO: Hey! Dylan!
I was just about to call you! I
was!
DYLAN: That’s great,
Marco. You must have my money then.
MARCO: Well, about
that…
DYLAN: Don’t you do
this to me, Marco. I said two weeks. You
think I’m just some punk who is asking
you? Because I am fucking telling you
--
MARCO: No! I mean I’ve got it - it’s here! It’s just…it’s not exactly like you asked.
Sweating and
jittering, MARCO gets up, heads to a safe, and begins to unlock it. DYLAN takes out his holstered revolver and
points it at MARCO.
DYLAN: Don’t pull any
shit, Marco. I’m warning you.
MARCO: Easy,
Dylan! I won’t! I swear it! We had a deal!
MARCO opens the safe
and pulls out four stacks of 100 dollar bills.
DYLAN closes his eyes and shakes his head.
DYLAN: This isn’t
what we agreed upon, Marco. I’m
disappointed.
MARCO: I know - I
know it isn’t. But it’s more! It’s an extra two thousand dollars! I mean…money’s money, right? Count it!
It’s yours!
DYLAN: I said “dimes.” I was very clear.
MARCO: I know you
did, but…it just…it sounded like a joke, you know? I mean, who wants $20,000 in dimes? Nobody, right?
DYLAN: I wasn’t
joking, Marco.
MARCO: But you can’t
just go to a bank and ask for 200,000 dimes, Dylan! You’ve got to know that!
DYLAN: That wasn’t my
problem, Marco. That was your
problem. But now you’ve made it mine.
With an annoyed look,
DYLAN shoots MARCO in the head and picks up the money. The CASHIER rushes in to see what
happened. Sighing, DYLAN shoots the CASHIER
in the head too. He then leaves the convenience store and hails another cab.
THE CITY: *wink*
CUT TO the darkened
interior of Dylan’s apartment. The door
opens, silhouetting DYLAN for a moment before he steps inside. He flips on the light and we see barrels and
crates scattered throughout the apartment, each filled to the brim with
dimes. DYLAN, still wet and ruffled from
the rain, walks over to his kitchen counter.
He sorts his mail, quickly tossing aside the junk mail and focusing on the
items he’d been waiting for. He tears
through each one rapidly - the envelopes all contain dimes he’s purchased or
ordered. He gives each a quick glance
before swiping them off his counter in frustration. There is an unexpected knock at the door, and
DYLAN looks up sharply. Carefully, he
walks to the side of the door and pulls out his revolver.
DYLAN: Yes? Who is it?
A deep voice with an
Eastern European accent speaks through the door:
MR. POE: Hello, Mr. Feathers. My name is Mr. Poe and I would like the
chance to speak with you. I believe we
have a mutual interest.
DYLAN: Sorry, buddy. You’re
going to have to speak more plainly than that.
MR. POE: The dimes,
Mr. Feathers. I’m here about the
dimes. Now please - open the door. We have much to discuss.
DYLAN (to himself):
Fuck!
DYLAN opens the door
and MR. POE walks in calmly. He is tall,
appears well-groomed, and has a dark, pointy beak. DYLAN ushers him to the
couch with his revolver and Mr. Poe sits down, unconcerned with the fact that
revolver is pointed at him.
MR. POE: So nice to
meet you at last, Mr. Feathers. I’ve
been hearing some very interesting things about you.
DYLAN: Right. You
mysteriously know all about me. Now tell
me what you want or get the fuck out of my house.
MR. POE: Aha! As promised: a man of action! Very well, I’ll get right to the point. Where to begin…how about I start with dimes?
DYLAN: Perfect.
MR. POE: Yes. The dimes…the dimes. While we don’t have information on earlier
years, in 1890 the US minted over 11 million, 300 thousand dimes. That’s certainly a lot of dimes, Mr.
Feathers, but that was 125 years ago.
They’ve minted millions – often billions – of dimes every year since,
and in 2014 they minted over 2 billion, 300 million dimes. What you have here, in your apartment (MR. POE gestures absently to the barrels
and barrels of dimes), while impressive to the outside observer, is a grain
of sand on a beach. It is an exercise
in futility.
DYLAN: Mmm hmmm.
MR. POE: You doubt
me?
DYLAN: If what I’m doing is so futile, then why are you even
here? Why would you bother if it’s as
hopeless as you say?
MR. POE: Ah, a more
astute question than I gave you credit for, Mr. Feathers! Yes, why would I be here if I honestly doubted
that you will never find the dime we both seek?
I’ll answer your question with a question of my own. Why would you continue to search for the dime when
you know full well you would need to be the luckiest duck alive to find it?
DYLAN: …
MR. POE: Yes. That is why I’m here. Because while you haven’t found the dime, you
did manage to find something else that my employer seeks. And we’re prepared to pay you handsomely for
it, Mr. Feathers - pay you enough so
that you never need work again.
DYLAN: I don’t even
know what you’re talking about.
MR. POE: Oh, we both
know that isn’t true. But I can state it
bluntly if you wish. I’m talking about Gladstone Gander, the luckiest duck that
ever lived. We know you have him. And with the luck he carries, anything is
possible. Even finding Scrooge’s Number
One 1875 US Dime.
DYLAN: But…I told no one…I was so careful.
MR. POE: Of course
you were. But you can’t keep secrets
from us, Mr. Feathers. Try as you might.
For example, I know you ate pancakes yesterday.
DYLAN: Well I don’t
know how you found out about him, but he’s not for sale!
MR. POE: Oh yes he is.
Yes, he most certainly is. It will be
much smoother for you this way.
Smarter. Safer. The woman I work
for -
DYLAN (interrupting and lifting his revolver): The woman you work for isn’t my mommy, Mr.
Poe, so I don’t have to do what she says.
Don’t you threaten me, you fuck. I
don’t need smoother, smarter, or safer.
I’ve got Gladstone Gander, remember?
Mr. Poe, looking
mildly startled, stands and begins chanting under his breath. An unseen force
immediately pulls the revolver from Dylan’s hand and sends it crashing into the
refrigerator. Starting to panic, Dylan runs to his room. Swearing under his breath, he grabs a
rosewood box from underneath his bed and then immediately dashes back to his
living room. He arrives just in time to
watch the room burst into flames. Mr.
Poe, untouched by the fire, begins walking towards Dylan as he starts chanting
again.
DYLAN: Duck, duck,
dead, mother fucker!
Dylan tears open the
rosewood box, revealing the decomposing severed head of Gladstone Gander. It
truly looks lucky. Mr. Poe’s eyes widen
with fear, but he continues chanting and walking towards Dylan. But, as he does, he steps on a roll of dimes
that had been left on the ground. He
tries to maintain his balance while waving his arms frantically.
Mr. Poe fails at
balance, whooshing into the air and crying out as he does so.
MR. POE: My perfect
balaaaaaance!!!
Mr. Poe slams the back
of his head into the table, which flips it up into the air. It comes down right on his neck, and while he
is not decapitated, he is FOR SURE almost decapitated, as his head kind of flops
around on his neck like a phone receiver off its blood-spurting hook.
THE CITY: Ooch! As
a city without a head, I can only empathize! And to think: all of this happened
over the search of one measly dime! But then,
if you think about it, a dime that is measly to one person could be invaluable
to another! Why, if everyone here in the
theater donated just one dime to me, THE CITY, why, it sure would go a long way
to fixing things up. Image a city with
better roads, better jobs, and better schools, a city determined to better
itself? Just one dime a week, and you’d
help pay the salary of maybe Paul Rickerson, who helps make sure your water’s
clean. Or Jan Meyers, who helps make
sure the buses run on time. So help us,
won’t you? Donate your dimes for a
better tomorrow.
THURSDAY
THE CITY: The dime is mine, Feathers! I swear by my God-damned roads, jobs, and
schools, that you will never, ever lay one fucking wing Uncle Scrooge’s dime! Not before I’m a smoldering heap of rubble
and ruin!
DYLAN: I wish it didn’t
have to be this way, THE CITY, but it sure seem like it do.
