The Lyons by Nicky Silver

Author:Nicky Silver [Silver, Nicky]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781559367264
Publisher: Theatre Communications Group
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Act Two

Scene 1

LOCATION, LOCATION, LOCATION

An empty apartment. One large room, with a kitchen along the wall and a door to a bathroom. There is some debris on the floor, in a corner: some magazines, a few paper coffee cups. Brian enters, dressed for business. He’s followed by Curtis, who is dressed more casually. Brian turns on the lights.

BRIAN: Well. As you can see, it’s move-in ready.

CURTIS: Except for the garbage.

BRIAN: Workmen.

CURTIS: Is that a northern exposure?

BRIAN: West.

CURTIS: So there’s no morning sun.

BRIAN: No, but it gets the afternoon. You can’t have everything. The view isn’t half bad really. Trust me. If you shut your eyes you can see the Chrysler building.

CURTIS: Pardon me?

BRIAN: I was making a joke. A little real-estate humor. There isn’t much of a view. But the price is right.

CURTIS: Maybe.

BRIAN: I think the bed would work along this wall, and you could screen off the kitchen area.

CURTIS: I could.

BRIAN: I’m told the seller’s very motivated.

(Curtis looks around.)

CURTIS: Is it noisy? What do you think? I mean the traffic. I work at home so that’s important.

BRIAN: I can’t imagine noise’ll be a problem. You’re five flights up—and you’re right next door to the Unitarian church.

CURTIS: Are they quiet?

BRIAN: I’m told they are. And as I said, the seller’s ready to deal.

CURTIS: Why?

BRIAN: The market. You must know what’s happening out there. It’s a bloodbath. A year ago you could sell a lean-to on the FDR for a million-five. Now everyone expects a bargain. Don’t you watch the news?

CURTIS: It depresses me.

BRIAN: Well, it can be grim.

CURTIS: Not the news, per se, although you’re right that can be grim, but the people who read it—they depress me. “The newscasters.”

BRIAN: Oh?

CURTIS: They’re all so pretty, you know? It’s like they have perfect teeth, and perfect hair—and perfect lives. Like giant Ken dolls spitting out tragedy.

BRIAN: What do you do again?

CURTIS: I write.

BRIAN: Not the news, I take it.

CURTIS: No, no. Short stories.

BRIAN: . . . You know they’re asking six-fifty?

CURTIS: I have other income.

BRIAN: I didn’t mean to imply—

CURTIS: It’s fine. You’re exactly right. Writing short stories in this day and age is like making Victrolas. People might think they’re beautiful, or fascinating, and they look good in a room—but no one has any real interest. It’s a losing proposition.

BRIAN: Still, it must be exciting.

CURTIS: Why is that?

BRIAN: I don’t know. Being creative. It must be exciting to start with nothing, just a blank piece of paper and create a whole world.

CURTIS: You’d be surprised how uncreative I can be. And there’s no paper anymore.

BRIAN: Right.

CURTIS: It’s computers now.

BRIAN: I know. —But, still metaphorically.

CURTIS: “Metaphorically”? You went to college, I see.

BRIAN: Is that a big word?

CURTIS: Everything is relative.

BRIAN: I went to SUNY, at Purchase.

CURTIS: Really? What was your major? I mean what does one study to prepare for the fast-paced and cut-throat world of glamorous Manhattan real estate?

BRIAN: Acting.

CURTIS: Of course.

BRIAN: Yes, I’m one of the ten million people in this city who call themselves an actor.

CURTIS: Could I have seen you in something?

BRIAN: I doubt it.

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