Saddam's Lions

The play I wrote this week was too full of in-jokes about Ohio University to make sense posting publicly. So, instead, I'm posting my play Saddam's Lions which has been produced at the Source Festival in Washington, D.C., and in Chicago and Kentucky.

Saddam's Lions
by Jacob Juntunen

RASHIDA enters, extremely agitated, throwing on a light jacket. She tries to shake off her mood and relax. She embraces the cold, the solitude, the afternoon sun, and the trees. JON enters, also throwing on a light jacket.

            JON
I’ve been looking everywhere for you! Do you need something? A drink? More chicken teriyaki?

            RASHIDA
I might take a walk through the woods.

            JON
Come on, you can’t skip out on your own homecoming party.

            RASHIDA
I told Mom I didn’t want a party.

            JON
Mom’s asking for you. Didn’t you love what she did when she saw you?

            RASHIDA
I guess.

            JON
She was like, jumping up and down and bawling, like: (JON imitates their mother) She didn’t act like that when she saw me.

            RASHIDA
You’re one state away, not in a combat zone.

            JON
Well, at Christmas, when you weren’t here, Mom was like, “Rashida’s not here. Grr.” Like actually saying, “Grr!” Joking, I guess, but, you know, cause she was sad. You sure I can’t get you something?

            RASHIDA
So how’s University of Chicago? You rich yet?

            JON
I wish. I miss Milwaukee.

            RASHIDA
It’s your first year; you get used to being away from home.

            JON
Do you want to move to the front yard where there’s sun?

            RASHIDA
It’s nice finally seeing real trees.

            JON
Bagdhad didn’t have trees?

            RASHIDA
Not real ones. Coupland talked about missing these conifers, these oaks. We were in a kind of palace area, in a huge beautiful building right on the river, but half blown up, you know? So we made quarters in the rubble. And Baghdad’s sort of tropical with palm trees and stuff, but in the summer it would be like, probably 130something, 140, so it’s hot, and everything just turns brown, gets wilted and burnt up.

            JON
140 degrees?

            RASHIDA
And you still have to keep on all your gear.

            JON
Damn. Doesn’t spring here feel cold?

            RASHIDA
It feels good. Coupland and I used to talk about getting back here and sleeping in the woods, smelling the leaves, catching a cool breeze. The guys would sleep inside, but she and I would sleep on the roof, try to cool off in the wind, but it’s like someone blowing a hairdryer in your face, so it doesn’t really help.

            JON
You sure you don’t want more chicken teriyaki or something? You’re skinny.

            RASHIDA
Yeah, nothing I left here fits me anymore.

            JON
I thought you’d build up muscle carrying that stuff around.

            RASHIDA
I lost weight cause I didn’t want to eat those freakin’ MREs.

            JON
That’s all you had?

            RASHIDA
Sometimes we got Iraqi food, but yeah. Mostly MREs. Some had combos or pretzels, but they also had this meatloaf thing… or ravioli in a tube that you squeeze into your mouth. Ich.

            JON
So why aren’t you eating more of mom’s chicken teriyaki?

            RASHIDA
I don’t know.

            JON
You wrote about it all the time.

            RASHIDA
All we did was talk about food. I don’t know.

            JON
What?

            RASHIDA
It’s just, like, I don’t know. It’s just chicken teriyaki.

            JON
Well, you need to put some of the weight back on. I bet none of your bras fit right, either!

            RASHIDA
Shut up!

            JON
Damn—and what did you do to your hair?

            RASHIDA
Everyone’s hair got messed up! The heat, sweat, stress, Kevlar. I’m going to see Tina tomorrow.

            JON
I sent you all that relaxer and stuff.

            RASHIDA
Yeah, and me and the two other black females in our company used it. Give it a rest.

            JON
Couldn’t you just put it in a pony tail or something?

            RASHIDA
Why don’t you go back inside and see if mom needs help?

            JON
What did the Iraqi women use?

            RASHIDA
How many black Iraqi women do you think there were?

            JON
Couldn’t you just go to an Iraqi store and see—?

            RASHIDA
Okay, for one, I don’t speak to Iraqi women because I’m in full battle rattle and look like a dude, and they don’t come up to the humvees. And for two, they don’t have deoderant half the time, they don’t relax their hair, and I can’t go shopping!

            JON
Why couldn’t you go shopping?

            RASHIDA
Like I’m going to get a squad of humvees just to go down the street to get hair products? What are you talking about?

            JON
Why do you need a squad of humvees to go out? You just said you got Iraqi food.

            RASHIDA
Yeah, if we were coming back from a mission or something—

            JON
Well, how am I supposed to know that?

            RASHIDA
We couldn’t even drive down the street without maybe getting blown up, you know? Always swiveling, scanning, looking for IEDs, just these piles of garbage that’ll explode, but the thing is, there’s garbage everywhere, it’s like driving through a landfill, a third world country, you know, so, I mean, it’s kinda hard. I’m not going to just go get hair supplies.

            JON
Is that why you drove around the block this morning?

            RASHIDA
When?

            JON
On the way to Benji’s for breakfast, you, like, made a u-turn and went all the way around the block instead of parking in that space.

            RASHIDA
I don’t know.

            JON
 Wasn’t there, like, a box or something by the spot?

            RASHIDA
Who cares?

            JON
I don’t know. It was just weird.

            RASHIDA
Yeah, there was a box. So what? I just didn’t like that spot.

            JON
Did you like eating at Benji’s this morning?

            RASHIDA
It was okay.

            JON
I thought it was great. Man, you can’t get a breakfast like that in Chicago.

            RASHIDA
Coupland never had it. We were going to get it when we got back.

            JON
Oh.

            RASHIDA
So, you know. It was all right. I’m sweating. Are you hot?

            JON
It’s pretty chilly out, still. Do you want want to go in and—

            RASHIDA
What are they doing in there?

            JON
Looking at your pictures.

            RASHIDA
Oh, God.

            JON
There’s, like, one of you and Coupland in bikinis.

            RASHIDA
That was after we got the haji’s—uh, Iraqis—to clean up the palace pool. Pool day! Man, that was awesome. We had that pool for months. And you all laughed when I packed that bikini, you were like, “It’s the desert” and I was like, “You never know.” All the other girls had to wear t-shirts, except Coupland. She brought a bikini, too. We were the only ones. I can’t believe we didn’t meet until we got there. Drilling together for years, but.

            JON
Just how the national guard is, I guess. It’ll be different when you’re a cop.

            RASHIDA
I had enough being an MP.

            JON
I thought the whole reason you joined was to get the police training?

            RASHIDA
Is Coupland’s mom still in there?

            JON
Yeah.

            RASHIDA
Is she coming out to dinner with us, too?

            JON
I guess.

(pause)

            JON
Hey, what’s the deal with the lions?

            RASHIDA
What lions?

            JON
In your pictures.

            RASHIDA
Oh, they’re just Saddam’s lions.

            JON
What do you mean, “they’re just Saddam’s lions”?

            RASHIDA
Oh… (laughing) It’s not funny, but those are the lions that Saddam fed people to.

            JON
What?

            RASHIDA
Yeah, (laughing) it’s not funny, but he killed people with those lions—

            JON
(laughing) That’s not funny.

            RASHIDA
And we were like, “What are we supposed to do with these?” Nobody knew. So we just kept them, and they were just like behind a chain link fence. You know, a high one, but it wasn’t secure, and— It was so funny: there was this sign, I should of took a picture, this sign said, “Please don’t feed the lions. Don’t throw over MREs, garbage, food… dogs, cats!” (laughs) So you know people did it. There were lots of stray dogs and cats and some stupid soldier would just pick one up and watch the lions tear it apart. (laughs) It’s not funny. Coupland got scratched by a lion.

            JON
(laughing) What kind of shit is that? My friend got scratched by a lion?

            RASHIDA
It was a small one.

            JON
Oh, it was a small one.

            RASHIDA
I have a picture of her somewhere with her face like she’s pretending to be afraid, you know, like: (mugging fake fear for the camera), because the lion’s right behind her— and then she for real got scratched!

            JON
It’s a lion! Leave it alone!

            RASHIDA
She didn’t think it could fit its paw through the chain link fence.

            JON
There was also, uh, this picture of a car, the inside of a car, and the car was kinda messed up, there were like specks of something, like, I think we were looking at, I don’t know. What was that?

            RASHIDA
That was my picture?

            JON
It’s not my picture.

            RASHIDA
I don’t think I took it.

            JON
I don’t know, it was with—

            RASHIDA
Guys would borrow the camera, you know? Get shots of different gruesome, disgusting things, “cool stuff,” “must of blew through a checkpoint,” so I might have some of that, but…

(pause)

            JON
Don’t tell Mom that guys fed dogs to the lions.

            RASHIDA
What were we supposed to do for those lions, you know? Just let them go? Take care of them? How could we help them? Like, what was the point? I think for me, just not knowing the point was… you know? We had these lions, but they were getting annoyed with us and we were getting annoyed by them. So I don’t know why we were still there. And I don’t know what to say to Coupland’s mom.

            JON
I’ve been thinking about taking this semester off school and coming home.

            RASHIDA
Why?

            JON
To be with you.

            RASHIDA
Why would you do that?

            JON
I don’t know. You come home all skinny and just spend all this time up in your room alone, don’t even want to talk to Mom, and maybe you got messed up—

            RASHIDA
I’m fine.

            JON
I thought maybe when you guys got attacked and Coupland—

            RASHIDA
I was in my rack when that happened! Asleep! The BC pounded on the door until someone let him in and he was like, “We lost someone.” And I’m thinking somebody’s lost in Bagdhad, like maybe their vehicle drove off without them, and I’m like, “That’s messed up! We gotta go find them!” Shit.

            JON
But I could take a semseter off, just spend—

            RASHIDA
No, look, I just want to go back to school. Get back into routine. No welcome home parties. No ceremonies. Maybe that’s good for some people, but I just want things to be normal. That means you in Chicago. So don’t even—

            JON
Okay, I get it.

            RASHIDA
If you even think about—

            JON
I said I get it.

            RASHIDA
Sorry, I—

            JON
You just want to be out here with the real trees.

            RASHIDA
And go back to school on Monday, and not get annoyed when people complain about their crappy cell phones, or the dirty bathrooms— At least you have a phone. At least there is a bathroom.

(pause)

            JON
You sure you’re okay out here?

            RASHIDA
The breeze feels great.

            JON
I guess I should get back inside, then.

            RASHIDA
Tell them I’ll be inside in a little bit.

            JON
Okay.

(JON exits. RASHIDA looks at the trees)

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Getting Out

 

Getting Out
by Jacob Juntunen

MAN is interrogating WOMAN.

            WOMAN
So I can still get out?

            MAN
Eight years is the maximum sentence for your type. If you convince me you’ve learned, you can walk out of here, head held high. Otherwise, you’re finished.

            WOMAN
But I just need a little more time—

            MAN
It’s eight years to the day. If you can convince me, right now, you can still get out. If not, everything’s over for you.

            WOMAN
What else do you need from me?

            MAN
Say something original.

            WOMAN
I’m sure you’ve heard every kind of desperate plea—

            MAN
I don’t want an excuse for your behavior. I want one original thought. And I’ll let you go.

            WOMAN
But you know how hard I worked in here—

            MAN
Your work while under my supervision has been, frankly, questionable at best. In fact, I looked back at your file to see what you did to get in here, and I was shocked—

            WOMAN
Fine, all right: most Marxists after Lenin argue that imperialism is the highest form of capitalism, that for a capitalist country to continue to make a profit, it must invade places with less developed economies.

            MAN
That’s received wisdom after 1917—

            WOMAN
Right, but my dissertation suggests that imperialism is actually the pioneer of capitalism; I show that the ex-colonies of Britain become capitalist countries after their independence movements, at least to a greater extent than before colonization.

            MAN
And you think that’s an original contribution to the field? Eight years is the maximum time you can take to finish your doctorate here.

            WOMAN
I think arguing that British imperialism contributed to the liberalization of post-colonial economies is quite new, yes.

            MAN
Well, then. Congratulations. You passed your oral exam, Miss Coleman. Or should I say, “Doctor” Coleman?

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Transforming the Darkness

Transforming the Darkness
by Jacob Juntunen

MAN and WOMAN onstage on a coffin block lying on its side midway through a heated conversation...

MAN
But have you ever seen a miracle?

WOMAN
When I was a little girl, on an Easter egg hunt, there was a little stuffed lamb that I thought was alive.

MAN
This isn’t a decision for a child.

WOMAN
I still feel it: when ashes are put on my forehead and I’m told, “Remember that thou art dust, and to dust thou shalt return.” When I take the blood and body of the Host. Something transforms in front of me. It’s miraculous.

MAN
But that’s just what I’m saying: What we do here is holy. Why would you walk away from it?

WOMAN
But why can’t I do both? Why can’t there be some accommodation—

The MAN stands up he’s so upset.

MAN
Because the people you’re talking about are evil. Look at their values.

The WOMAN follows him.

WOMAN
But how am I supposed to turn half of myself off? Why can’t religion and theatre co-exist—

MAN
What we do is based on practices of worship that stretch back thousands of years. If you stay, it’s because you’re serving something bigger than yourself, isn’t it? What else does being here get you? Money? Fame? We are here to give meaning to what is otherwise an empty existence.

WOMAN
But I see meaning in so much; I’ve felt at one with everything just walking through the woods—

MAN
And you’ve felt that same connectedness sitting here in this room full of people, drawing in a collective breath. It’s a transformative power that gives an object meaning, but it happens in your mind, not in the real world. You think you have the power to turn wine and bread into blood and flesh?

She stands the coffin block upright.

WOMAN
Here is the cross that contains all the shadow that comes after Jesus’s jagged death: “Now from the sixth hour there was darkness over all the land unto the ninth hour. (…) And, behold, the veil of the temple was rent in twain from the top to the bottom; and the earth did quake, and the rocks crumbled.”

She pushes the box over so it crashes to the ground.

WOMAN (cont)
And my soul is in this box; it’s as much my coffin as my cross. I’ve made this box transform, right here, before your eyes: a miracle. But I can’t transform the darkness on my own; I don’t know a way out of my coffin except the eternal life that’s promised to me.

MAN
No educated artist believes in an almighty, invisible cloud person who controls our lives. But our audiences, as educated as they are, still feel a void, and need the ritual of live performance in front of them. And I have not directed out of town previews of this show for six months to have you ruin our chance in New York. We are taking this show to Broadway, with or without you.

WOMAN
And I would love to go with you if my understudy could simply play my part for one weekend.

MAN
Easter is our second weekend, right after all the press comes out, and we need our stars in the show. When is the likes of you going to get another chance at a speaking role eligible for the Tony’s? If you feel you can’t be in this production simply because a performance falls on Good Friday, or it interferes with some Easter egg hunt where you hallucinate a lamb, just go. Go home to your ignorant family. But remember: you passed up the opportunity to make something truly great. Well? Are you coming to New York or heading home?

Blackout.

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Dark Fairy Tale Frame Story

I wrote this as a series of short moments to act as a frame for an evening of 4-5 minute plays written by my fellow Ohio University MFA playwrights on the theme of “Dark Fairy Tales.”

Dark Fairy Tale Frame Pt 1
by Jacob Juntunen

TZADDIK enters. He takes out a leather-bound journal and sits, back to the audience, writing.

NARRATOR
Once upon a time, there was a Jewish mystic, a Tzaddik, who traveled around East Central Europe seeking enlightenment and recording his findings. He had such faith in the One Who Must Not Be Named that he carried no provisions, eating and drinking only what he found in the forest and what kindly villagers offered him. One day…

The Narrator enters the scene with TZADDIK.

NARRATOR
Hello!

TZADDIK
Oh! Excuse me, am I trespassing?

NARRATOR
Not at all, not at all.

The narrator speaks to us again.

NARRATOR
It was then that he saw he was surrounded on all four sides by a great crowd of people. As he took them in, he finally heard the inner voice he had sought for years, “You must leave this place as soon as possible.”

The narrator is in the scene again.

NARRATOR
What can I and my humble village do for you?

TZADDIK
Nothing, nothing. I was only stopping to write my daily observations.

NARRATOR
It is a lovely place, is it not? Lush, green, full of frogs and ponds.

TZADDIK
I’ll just be on my way then.

NARRATOR
Surely you’ll stay the night? It’s after 11 already and the path is tricky for those who don’t know it. And fires can be dangerous for those like you in our forest of ashen white birch trees.

TZADDIK
I’m afraid I’m, um, expected somewhere in the morning—

NARRATOR
We’ll wake you early, send you on your way with provisions.

TZADDIK
It’s very tempting, but I must—

NARRATOR
At least let us give you dinner. Don’t offend us by not accepting our hospitality.

TZADDIK
Well. I wouldn’t want to offend you.

NARRATOR
Then sit here and eat. While you do so, we’ll entertain you with fairy tales from our region.

TZADDIK sits on the floor, back to the audience. Narrator speaks to the audience.

NARRATOR
Of course, it was a lie that anyone expected him. And so, with some trepidation, he sat on the cool damp grass, ate the rich fatty food they gave him, and listened to their fairy tales.

Narrator also sits on the floor, back to the audience.

Several short plays based on Dark Fairy Tales theme.

Part II

TZADDIK
(jumping up) Well! That was very, um, elucidating. Thank you for the meal, but I must be moving on.

NARRATOR
Why are you in such a hurry to be away from us?

TZADDIK
I’m in no hurry, it’s just that I’m expected—

NARRATOR
From the way you wander, no one expects you. If you were lost in this forest forever, no one would miss you. A vast pit could open to swallow your body and there would be no headstone.

TZADDIK
Why would I lie?

NARRATOR
Does our food offend?

TZADDIK
It was very good. I’m quite full and ready for travel—

NARRATOR
Then it must be our stories.

TZADDIK
No… Well. They are a bit dark.

The Narrator speaks to us again.

NARRATOR
It was then that the voice spoke to him a second time, saying, “Tell them no more, and leave, now!”

The Narrator is in the scene again.

NARRATOR
Dark? They are simply the stories of our village. But if they are not to your taste, sit, sit. We will bring you honey and nuts, sunshine and light, and calm your worried head. It is nearly midnight, you can’t leave now. You must stay the night with us.

TZADDIK
Perhaps you could simply give me a candle to help me find my way through the forest?

NARRATOR
I told you, fires are dangerous for you in this part. But, anything you wish. After dessert.

TZADDIK
I can go after dessert?

NARRATOR
You can go now, no one holds you back. If you want to give us offense.

TZADDIK sits on the floor, back to the audience. Narrator speaks to the audience.

NARRATOR
And so, he sat again, the ground now as cold as a stone. He ate the sweet viscous honey and the meat of nuts while he watched.

A few more dark fairy tale shorts.

Part III

NARRATOR
Was that sweet enough for you?

TZADDIK
What’s sweeter than forest honey?

Narrator speaks to us.

NARRATOR
And, indeed, he felt nearly asleep on his feet after the rich meal and unusual sugar rushing through his veins. Sucrose was a rarity in those days, especially for a wanderer. He expected the Voice to return, to tell him to leave, but he heard nothing.

The narrator is back in the scene.

TZADDIK
Perhaps it would be possible for me to spend the night after all?

NARRATOR
Of course! Simply follow my servants with their torches, they will lead the way to our village fires—they’ll warm you to your soul.

The narrator speaks to us.

NARRATOR
When the torches came out, however, the Tzaddik saw hundreds of frogs jump into ponds that were full of ash, and the voice came a third time, saying simply, “Leave.”

The narrator is back in the scene.

TZADDIK
Then again, my friends will worry if I don’t arrive soon. I believe I will take my leave after all.

NARRATOR
As you wish. Tell your “friends” of the stories you saw here this evening.

TZADDIK
(taking out his notebook and pencil) Would you mind telling me the name of this place, so I may make a note of your, um, particular hospitality?

NARRATOR
In Polish, our village is called Oświęcim. In Yiddish, it is Oshpitsin. In German, it is Auschwitz.

The narrator speaks to us.

NARRATOR
So the story comes to us, from an actual historic document of the 15^th century, that a Jewish mystic felt an overwhelming sense of darkness when he tried to spend the night in the woods outside Oświęcim, and had to move on. But we’ll not keep you here with our stories any longer. Good night.

Sudden blackout.

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