Plums and Prunes

Pardon me, Sir, But is my Eye Hurting your Elbow?

three mordant one-act plays by a triumvirate of black humor's most provocative practitioners--terry southern, arthur kopit and jack richardson

Exterior. Approaching the Brad Jeffery Home. Day.

It is an ideal ''suburbia home'' in Westchester: white, with well-kept lawn, shrubs, etc. It is the contemporary and Eastern counterpart of the house in the Andy Hardy pictures. Camera Moves Up the drive, Stops Abruptly.

Cut To:

Exterior. A Buick Car (Or Similar) in the Driveway. Day.

Brad Jeffery is getting out, briefcase in hand. We realize that the approach has been from his point of view. Brad is a dapper and handsome man of 40-45, a Madison Avenue advertising executive at the top of his profession. There is bouncy anticipation and assurance in his manner as he walks toward the house. We realize that BRAD is very much ''with it.''

Cut To:

Interior. Living Room. Day.

Westchester contemporary; a long, pearl-gray room; fireplace; bar; a couple of smart prints (Braque guitar and Modigliani nude) and a semiabstract original or two; on the wall nearest the door are a pair of African masks, spaced well apart, with a decorative crossbow mounted slightly above and between them. Music from the phonograph is soothingly, harmlessly modern jazz. Door opens ON CUT and BRAD enters. At the far end of the room, by the bar, is DONNA, his wife, gingerly emptying ice cubes into the ice bucket. She is about 38, trim, tanned and very attractive in her hostess-length skirt. Behind her we can see the kitchen area from which she has come. As BRAD approaches, she looks up, giving him a smile filled with warmth and a hint of sexual promise. (Note: Besides the kitchen door and the entrance door, there is another, leading to the downstairs bedrooms and bath. This door is opposite the bar and through it can be seen the staircase as well.)

Donna

Hello, darling.

There is a confident smile on BRAD'S face as he reaches her, places briefcase on floor, puts arms around her.

Brad

(tenderly sexual, with rich, masculine Princetonian modulation)

Hello, baby.

(continued on page 313)

Plums and Prunes(continued from page 148)

They kiss, very warmly. She finally draws back slightly.

Donna (teasingly) : Mustn't muss.

Brad (soft, masterful insinuation) : You know, sometimes I think you're psychic.... (Caresses her) That happens to be exactly what I feel like doing.

Donna (Close-Up, momentarily yielding, closed-eyed) : Hmm.... (Sighs, begins to withdraw, whispers) Debbie will be home any minute. (Gives him a seductive wink) Why don't you make us both a nice martini?

Brad (also sighs, somewhat theatrically) : Right. (Shakes his head good-naturedly as he turns to drink preparations) A child-centered home! Who would've thought it could ever happen to us?

Donna (happily) : Thank goodness she didn't hear you say that! She's a young lady now, darling. (In mock confidence, as she squeezes his shoulder) She told me so herself!

Brad, busily engaged in martini preparation, chuckles in bemusement at the notion.

Donna (adds, seductively) : Besides, we do have our moments, don't we, darling ... ?

Brad (in mischievous sex threat as he hands her her drink) : You can count on that.

Donna (flushes, pleased, starts to withdraw toward kitchen) : I won't be long, darling. I just have to speak to Sarah about the Thursday dinner.

She leaves, Brad looks after her momentarily, then turns back to pour his own drink, Close-Up of a smug, virile smile on his face.

Fade Out And In: A few minutes later. Brad is sitting in an Eames chair, coat off, tie loosened slightly, reading The New Yorker and sipping his martini. He is still looking as youthful and dapper as before--black knit tie, tailored shirt, etc. The door opens and in comes Debbie.

Debbie is 16 and is cute as a button--pert derrière and pert breasts--all freshness and innocence. She's wearing a pleated skirt, white sweater with school letter "F" (or "C") on it, saddle shoes and bobby socks, and carrying a small notebook and a couple of texts.

Debbie: Hi, Daddy. (Crosses to him, kisses his forehead)

Brad: Hello, cutie. How's the team spirit?

Debbie (sighs, sitting down on the arm of his chair) : Oh, it's awful, Daddy. Mulie broke his ankle again!

Brad: Mulie? Which one is he?

Debbie (despairingly) : The fullback! Gosh, if it had only been someone else! (Gets up)

Brad (laughs) : Preferably someone on the other team, I suppose.

Debbie (laughs, too) : Oh, Daddy! (Kisses him again)

Brad (gives her behind a fatherly pat) : You go and get ready for dinner.

Debbie (crossing room) : Tonight's the club dance, Daddy--remember? (Looks at her watch) Good grief, Tommy's picking me up in twenty minutes! I've got to shower and everything! (At the door) Remind Mummy I'll be eating out, will you, Daddy? (Rushes through other door)

Brad shakes his head in bemusement, gets up, goes to the bar, pours another drink from the mixer, Donna comes in from the kitchen.

Donna (sigh of relief) : Well, that much is done. (Brightly) Did I hear Deb coming in?

Brad (mixing another batch, chuckles) : Hmm. Not for long, though--she's got to change and everything--whatever that may mean.

Donna (smiling) : It means that she's a young lady, darling, and that she's going to the club dance.

Brad: Where's your glass? Ready for another?

Donna: Not just now, dear. I think I'll rest for a bit before dinner--it's such a trial getting things straight with Sarah.

Brad (with mischievous insinuation) : Say. you know I wouldn't mind a little rest myself ... before dinner.

Donna (smiles, flushed and pleased, starts out) : Oh, do say hello to Tommy for me. darling--and tell Debbie to behave herself. (Hesitates, adds coquettishly) Perhaps you'll ... wake me with a kiss, as they say.

Brad (in a charmingly masculine sex threat) : I might just do that.

They exchange meaningful looks and Donna leaves. Brad's eyes follow her as before; his point of view, her handsome tushy as she goes up the stairs, then Close-Up of his smugly virile smile as he turns back to his drink and adds a bit of fresh to his glass. He crosses the room toward his chair. The telephone rings. He gets it.

Brad: Hello. (Glances toward Debbie's room) Yes, who's calling? Oh, hello, Tommy, how are you? Sorry to hear about Mulie--doesn't look too good, does it? (Pause, chuckles) Yes, that's the spirit.... Hold on a minute, Tommy, I'll call her. (Covers phone, calls) Debbie! Deborah! Telephone!

We hear a distant response, indistinct but vaguely affirmative in tone. Brad shrugs, speaks into the phone again:

Brad: She'll be right with you, Tommy ... (Chuckles) I think.

He puts down phone, picks up his drink and crosses to his chair, sits down, picks up The New Yorker again. His point of view, Debbie comes in, picks up phone. (The phone is about 25 feet away from where Brad is sitting, so that her remarks are indistinct, have a purring, sensuous quality, and her movements are coordinated with the sounds.) She is wearing panties and bra, and as she talks, she absently fingers them, smoothing the side of the panties, idly toying with the edges, waistband, checking the bra straps, etc., as though she is subliminally being undressed. These movements and gestures should have an extremely sensual and erotic quality, though performed quite absently and reflexively. She is barefoot and occasionally raises one leg and draws her toes slowly up and down the back of tier calf and knee. This is all shown from Brad's point of view, though the Close-Ups give it an effect of intercut, and her remarks on the Close Shots are clearly audible to the audience, though presumably indistinct to Brad. Their effect, however, is by no means lost on him.

Debbie: Hello? Hello, Tommy.... Yes, I'm almost ready.... Uh-huh, I bet you would. (Laughs shyly) Tommy, don't be silly.... Yes, I'm listening.... Where? Indian Lake? You mean after? (Shakes her head) Uh-uh.... Sure, that's what you said last time, too--remember? And the time before that. (Pause) Tommy, you promised then, too! ... I couldn't, anyway--it would make it too late getting home. (Pause, looks interested) They are? Kathy and Jean? (Hesitates) Well ... wait a minute. (Covers phone, turns) Daddy, some of the kids are going up to Indian Lake for a cookout after the dance. It would only make it about an hour later getting in. Would it be OK?

As she turns, Brad lowers his eyes, then raises them at her voice. There is an almost imperceptible pain in his look of nonchalance.

Brad (slightly strained) : Sure, don't see why not. (Takes a sip of his drink)

Debbie: Gosh, Daddy, that's swell. (Back to phone) It's OK! (Softer) But remember what you said, Tommy. (Pause, doubtfully) Uh-huh, I'll bet.... Yes, in about ten minutes. OK, bye now. (Hangs up, crosses to Daddy)

Debbie (leans over to kiss him) : Thanks a lot, Daddy--you're a darling.

When she leans over, we get (his point of view) a nice Close-Up of her well-defined young cleavage, enticingly marked at the edge of the bra by a tiny crossed ribbon, almost, it might seem, in invitation.

Brad (as though absorbed in his magazine) : Sure, kitten, sure.

Debbie (turning away) : Gosh, I've got to hurry!

She crosses the room again and Brad raises his eyes, following the provocative twitch of her pert rump as it recedes in the distance. Camera moves slowly straight into his troubled eyes, through them to black. Camera pulls quickly back on a knock at the door, Brad rises, walks slowly toward the door; Close-Up of a slight tic appearing on his right jaw. He opens the door on Tommy--17 or 18, leaning insolently on the casing, hands in pockets, a matchstick dangling from the corner of his mouth, his head cocked to one side. His appearance and demeanor are a mixture of the ultimate in sneakiness and arrogance. He surveys Brad with amused contempt, finally speaks--in a revolting nasal whine of indifference.

Tommy: HOW 'bout it, Pops? That chickie got her pants on yet?

Brad slowly, wordlessly beckons him inside. Tommy shrugs, as if to say, "What a kook!" then saunters in. Brad carefully closes the door, faces Tommy--who is now standing about five feel in front of the door, standing slouched, a repulsive sexually demented leer on his face, Brad casually sets himself, then delivers the most powerful right haymaker in the history of the cinema--a blow with an effect more like those of Pop-eye than of Duke Wayne. This should be so slated that it is shattering even to the audience--a blow of such force that when Tommy hits the floor five feet behind him, he seems to be a couple of feet off the ground (volume should be up heavily both on the sound of the blow and on his slamming against the door). It is obviously a mortal blow, obviously a blow that crushed every bone in his head. He goes sacklike to the floor, out of frame. During the entire living-room sequence, he remains out of frame, Brad moves with a sense of great urgency, crouches over him and throttles him powerfully. His expression is not one of anger but of a strange nameless urgency. Near at hand is the edge of the fireplace, with a wrought-iron stand holding poker, tongs, etc. Having choked the life out of him, Brad rises, draws the poker from the stand and smashes it with incredible force against his adversary (Off Scene), then he picks up the entire stand, raises it on high and slams it down with tremendous power. He looks about the room, an expression of extreme urgency; his eye falls on the crossbow on the wall; he walks quickly, takes it from the wall, removes safety clasp as he returns, stands directly above the body (Off Side) and shoots; then, without hesitation, he holds the crossbow like a club and splinters it in a blow of fantastic power against the adversary (Off Side). He turns, crosses the room to a side table, opens the drawer and takes out a .45 automatic (or .44 magnum--the bigger the better), turns up the phonograph, walks back, wonking the action of the gun and slamming a shell into the chamber, picks up a cushion from the davenport on the way, cups it over the gun and, standing directly above the body, empties the clip. This should be done with full-lead blanks, so that the recoil of each shot is tremendous, jerking his hand up, realistically conveying the power of the weapon and the outlandish excess of Brad's efforts at destruction. When the hammer clicks on an empty chamber, Brad stands momentarily gazing down, as though the job may be finished; then he realizes it isn't. He bends over and starts dragging his adversary toward the kitchen. Here we merely glimpse the form (Long or Medium Shot of Tommy).

Cut To: Interior. Kitchen. A large, modern kitchen, very clean, Brad has gotten the body into the sink. He presses down on it; then he reaches over, flicks the garbage-disposal unit into operation; it comes on with a loud grating sound and Brad raises himself on tiptoes, pressing down with both hands. His expression is one of earnest urgency and high purpose, no trace of mania or anything negative.

Cut To: Same. Motor is off; Brad bends down, opens cabinet door beneath sink; there is the familiar trap receptacle; he stares at it momentarily, then reaches in and wrenches it off in a powerful motion; he stands holding it, looking around the kitchen, then walks quickly back toward the living room.

Cut To: Interior. Living room, Brad comes striding in, with the receptacle under one arm, places it on the floor, goes to closet, takes out a heavy oblong cardboard container, tears it open, draws out a 16-pound sledge hammer. He raises the sledge on high and begins to smash the receptacle, tremendous blow after blow, Close-Up of his face, guiltless, earnest resolve and heroic effort.

Wavering Dissolve and Match Sound to Cut Back To beginning, where Brad was on his way to the door. Sound of knocking synchronized to sound of sledge blows, which grow rapid toward the end as we discover that this killing sequence has all taken place in an instant in Brad's mind.

Brad now is still on his way to the door, opens it on Tommy. It is the same Tommy, except that his manner is extremely normal.

Tommy: Hello, Mr. Jeffery.

Brad (unsteadily) : Good evening, Tommy.... I think Deb is----

At that minute, Debbie appears, hurrying across the living room.

Debbie (brightly) : Who says girls aren't ready on time! (Gives Daddy a peck) Bye, Daddy!

Tommy: So long, Mr. Jeffery.

They go down the steps, Debbie taking Tommy's hand, Brad stares after them; Debbie's flouncing skirt and pert derrière. He slowly closes door, face still away from camera. Donna calls down from upstairs, seductively.

Donna (Off Side): Brad ... darling....

Brad slowly turns, Close-Up of his face has transfigured into that of an 85-year-old man. He moves slowly.

Brad (looking vaguely in Donna's direction, speaks in a voice ancient with age): Yes, darling ... I'm coming....

Fade Out.