Oasis Madrid

Time: The present.

Place: A forest.

Synopsis: The character calls himself Everyman, but he clearly is a real person with a real name. He’s an orphan, searching for identity. He grew up in a “stable” home, until everything fell apart. That’s when he found out he didn’t really belong. So, he ran away. In this scene, we see him in his new home, his final destination, the forest.

Author’s notes: This play was originally inspired by a song called “Belong” by Chris Rice (on his album “Smell the Color Nine”). The lyrics to that song fit perfectly with this script and together the script and the song would make a nice “package” for presentations. Currently, however, there is a different song written into the script. If you like, you can omit the current suggestion for music at the beginning and end of the script and substitute “Belong” for that. The song currently suggested is called “I Could Run Away” and it’s by a group called Waterdeep. The Waterdeep song also, of course, fits rather well with the script.

Production notes: This play was first performed by Troy Cady at the Crossroads International Church in Amsterdam, Holland on 3 August, 2003. Kelly Crull performed the Waterdeep song with two or three other musicians. For scenery, we had rather a lot of leaves, branches, old logs, pine needles, pine cones, and such on the stage. The more you can do to suggest the setting of a forest, the better. I would encourage you to use your imagination with the scenery.

Copyright Note: This play is protected under copyright law and performance is strictly prohibited without the express consent of the author. Though production is generally granted royalty free, please contact Troy Cady at troy@oasismadrid.org for permission to perform this play.

Voluntary Orphan

(We see a blank stage. A picture of trees, as if in the middle of a forest, on screen. Dead pine needles scattered on the stage. We hear a voice singing with an instrument: “I could run away, you would never leave, you are always here right by my side.” As the music plays, Everyman enters. He’s dressed in black shorts, black shirt. He carries a black bag. He’s shoeless with dirty feet. His hands and arms and legs and face may be dirty too.)

Everyman: I started traveling 17 years ago and haven’t stopped since. I left on a Sunday– the day of rest. I needed the trip.

My mom died when she gave birth to me. Later, when I asked about how that kind of thing could’ve happened, all they really told me was that it was due to “complications.” My father was traveling somewhere at the time, I guess, and he just sort of got lost. Never really found his way home. I guess he died of “complications” too, you know. So, I’m what you call an orphan by birth, I guess.

I got placed in a home by the state, then I got placed in a home by the home. I didn’t really know any of this, though, until I was about 13 years old. Up to that time, I had a pretty good life: I lived in a big house with a big yard. We had thick, soft grass in our yard, which my father trimmed every Saturday morning in the summer, raking up the clippings afterwards. When I was nine, I used to play ball with my friends every Saturday on that grass in my bare feet while my dad finished trimming around the fence line.

On Sundays we’d go to church. I guess you could say I believed in God when I was a kid. I can remember praying at meal times and singing “Jesus Loves Me”. One Tuesday, when I was seven, I prayed to Jesus and asked him to live in my heart. I don’t really know what that meant, but I do know that for the first time that next Sunday my mom and dad let me eat the little cracker and drink the little glass of grape juice they passed out every first Sunday of the month in church.

Other than those initial complications early in my life things were pretty good, I guess. Then I turned 13, and my mom and I moved to another town. Dad stayed put. My mom took a new job, while my dad took a new sex partner. That kinda thing, you know. I guess he got a little too close to the neighbor’s property one day when he was trimming around the fence line. My mom was just a little mad at my dad, so outta spite she went and told me he wasn’t my real dad. I asked, “Who was my dad, then?” She said she didn’t really know. She said all she knew was he was “some kinda deadbeat.” “Some kinda deadbeat”: that’s what he was.

Then, I asked about my mom: “What happened to her?” “She died of complications. That’s all I know.” “How old was she? Where did she die? What was her name?” “She died of complications. That’s all I know.”

It was a lot to take in, really. For a 13 year old. That’s when it was really hard to keep my mind on my school work. Well, it was hard to do everything, really. It was hard to get dressed. It was hard to sleep. It was hard to eat. Hard to swallow. Hard to speak. I didn’t know whether to shout, punch, cry, scream or just fall down. So, I fell. I was in choir practice. We were standing up on risers under some hot lights and I was trying to sing, but I just couldn’t breathe anymore.

They took me to the nurse’s office and then they sent me to the shrink. He gave me some pills to help me calm down. Those didn’t seem to help, though, so he gave me some pills to pep me up. Those didn’t really help either.

That’s when I made some new friends at my new school. They gave me some pills that really seemed to help my breathless condition. Their pills helped me forget what I had.

And that’s when mom sent me to the minister. We went back to church, see. The minister was nice enough, but he made me remember stuff when all I wanted to do was forget things. I’m sure he didn’t mean any harm by it, but he made me remember “Jesus Loves Me.” He made me remember “Let the little children come to me.” He made me remember the days I had a Father. He made me remember “Jesus Loves Me.” I’m sure he didn’t mean any harm in it, but I wish he hadn’t made me remember. Memory can be a terrible thing, you know.

The thing is: I had just about as much remembering as I could handle and I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing Jesus again on Sunday morning, so one Sunday 17 years ago I ran away before it was light out and I’ve been traveling since. Now, don’t ask me to give you my name, because I don’t have one. If you like: call me Everyman. But I’d rather you just didn’t ask me who I am. See: I’m the son of a deadbeat faceless dad. I’m the author holed up in the apartment down the hall from you, unable to bring his masterpiece to completion. I’m the architect designing the home you never see the plans for. I’m the singer who keeps going flat. Does it really matter who I am? Hell, I’m you, aren’t I?

No, don’t ask me who I am, because all I know is: I ran away one Sunday morning 17 years ago while it was still dark and I’ve been traveling ever since. I’m not just an orphan by birth. I’m an orphan by choice. I’m running away from a Man who says he loves me. Running away from a Man who makes me remember.

So I ran to the heart of this forest on the other side of the universe and got here a few months ago. And I love it here because they say the forest has no memory. That’s why this is my new home. I’ve decided to stay here. I just want to forget. Is that too much to ask?

(He calmly pulls a syringe out of his black bag. Holds it up to eye level. Inspecting it. Puts it to his arm. As he does so, gravity pulls him down. He kneels. Hunched back. Pause. Tears.)

Jesus, I know you love me and I know what I’m doing hurts you. But I can’t stop myself. I need this trip.

(For a moment the tears subside. During the following the pain shows itself, hides, shows itself, hides…)

My knees are tender. My charcoal feet are bare and calloused. A floor of unraked, sharp needles. Pricked, bleeding, scabbed and scarred. I know there’s a clear pool of moving water in another part of this forest. I could go there to clean my cuts, but I don’t dare contaminate it. Besides, I prefer the still waters. I can just make out my dirty reflection in the cloudy mirror at the edges of this muddy swamp.

(He weeps, as before…)

Jesus, I know you love me and I know what I’m doing hurts you. But I can’t stop myself. I need this. The forest is my home now. A solitary resident in a palace of dirt. A poisoned runaway. A voluntary orphan.

( He weeps. Then, stillness: he doesn’t move at all, with the syringe still pointed toward his arm, touching the skin. We hear a single singing voice pierce the darkness; no instrument: “I could run away, you would never leave, you are always here right by my side…” Just one acapella line of the song, then, the voice subsides, a guitar plays the musical theme; no voice. After a moment, Everyman gets up and walks off. The instrument fades softly.)

END OF DRAMA