Killing David Mamet

To hold you over during my July vacation, here's a play produced by The Mill Theatre as part of their 2008 Et Cetera VII evening of shorts in Chicago.

Killing David Mamet

By Jacob Juntunen

(JACOB is onstage wearing an aluminum foil hat and carrying a cap pistol.)

            JACOB
Fucking Mamet! Fucking Mamet! Fucking Mamet! I’m gonna kill that fucking fuck!

(MOLL enters carrying The Reader)

            MOLL
Honey, look! You’re in the paper again!

            JACOB
(to audience members, waving his cap pistol at them ominously) Are you a playwright? Are you? What about you? Hey, you there—you a playwright?!

            MOLL
(reading) “The mysterious killing spree of playwrights across the country continues. The body of Sam Shepard was recently found in a remote Western cabin.” Yeah, he was hard to find, wasn’t he baby?

            JACOB
Fuck yeah, the reclusive son of a bitch. But I got him. (to audience) You there, you a playwright?!

            MOLL
(reading) “FBI officials warn all remaining American playwrights to be on the lookout for a thirty-five-year-old playwright known to the public thus far only as the Son of Ed because of his suspected mentorship by the recently murdered Edward Albee. Reached for comment just before his untimely death, Albee said, ‘Don’t call me Ed.’” Gee, honey! You’re famous!

            JACOB
But not yet America’s Greatest Living Playwright. One man stands between me and that fucking title. And second prize is a set of steak knives.

            MOLL
I don’t know why you always gotta talk like the next playwright you’re gonna knock off.

            JACOB
What paper’s that?

            MOLL
The Reader.

            JACOB
The Reader? The motherfucking Reader? You read me an article from the fucking Reader? Who gives a shit what The Reader says. What’s the New York Times got to say about me?

            MOLL
I didn’t see nothin’ in the New York Times.

            JACOB
You didn’t see nothin’? Did you read it? Did you take those pretty little baby-blues and turn them towards the country’s fucking Paper of Record and read it? Or did you just look at it?

            MOLL
I read it, baby. Don’t get mad.

            JACOB
And it didn’t say nothing about the 367 playwrights I killed in the last two months?

            MOLL
No.

            JACOB
That’s a helluva killing spree to just be ignored by the fucking Paper of Record.

            MOLL
Well, we ain’t killed no one in New York since we got Adam Rapp last month. You know they don’t cover regional theatre.

            JACOB
I fuckin’ killed Sam Shepard!

            MOLL
Then he ain’t gonna be America’s Greatest Living Playwright, is he baby?

            JACOB
No.

            MOLL
You almost got all of ‘em. You just gotta get Mamet.

            JACOB
Yeah. And I’m ready for him.

            MOLL
But how you gonna get him? You can’t even go outta the motel room with the FBI after you.

            JACOB
I invited him here for a speaking engagement.

            MOLL
He ain’t gonna fall for that! He knows playwrights are gettin’ killed left and right!

            JACOB
No playwright’s gonna turn down a speaker’s retainer.

            MOLL
But this is a skuzzy motel room!

            JACOB
I told him it was an urban development grant that was paying him! A speaking engagement for at risk youth! I said we were gonna give him a fuckin’ plaque and everything! A retainer and a fucking plaque! No playwright can resist a plaque.

            MOLL
Oh, baby! You’re a genius!

            JACOB
It ain’t for nothing that I’m gonna be the fucking Greatest Living American Playwright.

(A knock at the door)

            JACOB
That’s him! Just follow my lead!

(DANATURG enters)

            DANATURG
(to audience) Hello! I’m Dan, dramaturg extraordinaire, known to my friends as: THE DANATURG!

            MOLL
(as they fist-bump) Hey, Danaturg.

            JACOB
Fuckin’ Mamet.

            DANATURG
Ah, are we down to Mamet?

            MOLL
Yeah.

            JACOB
I’m gonna fucking kill that fucking fuck. (to audience) You there—you a playwright?!

            DANATURG
You know, technically if he’s supposed to be talking like David Mamet he doesn’t need to swear that much. I feel like this sketch is confusing a playwright’s characters with the playwright himself. Does Mamet really swear like that?

            MOLL
I don’t know nothing about that, but at least he ain’t talking like Paula Vogel no more. It was like I was dating a fucking driver’s manual.

            DANATURG
Another thing I don’t understand: why save Mamet for last? I mean, there was just that big Mamet Festival in this city. Chicago loves their Mamet.

            JACOB
So they’ll fucking notice! You don’t flush someone’s goldfish down the toilet to make ‘em sit up and pay attention to you; you kill their fucking dog and leave its rotting carcass on their porch and then give ‘em a fucking puppy! That’s my play! The fucking puppy! The fucking puppy is my play! You get it? My play’s a fucking puppy!

            DANATURG
I grabbed your mail from the front desk on my way up. There’s a letter here from the New York Theatre Workshop—

            JACOB
Gimme that! Gimme!

            MOLL
What’s it say, baby? They wanna do your play?

            JACOB
(reading) “Thank you for submitting your play to the New York Theatre Workshop. The work of a playwright is vital and we applaud your creativity and resolve in writing and submitting this play. We have decided not to pursue your script for production at this time. Thank you for thinking of us. Though all other American playwrights are dead and we are committed to producing new work by living playwrights, we have decided to devote our next season to new material from David Mamet. We wish you luck in finding other venues for your work.”

            MOLL
But look, it’s a real signature, not just a photocopy.

 (A knock at the door)

             JACOB
That’s him! Follow my lead!

(DAVID MAMET enters)

            DAVID MAMET
Hello, I’m David Mamet.

(Applause.)

            DAVID MAMET
Recently hailed as “King David” by the Chicago Sun-Times.

            JACOB
Fucking Mamet.

            DAVID MAMET
Excuse me?

            JACOB
Welcome!

            DAVID MAMET
This is a skuzzy motel room.

            JACOB
Yes, yes it is, but we’ve got you a little podium set up over there.

            DAVID MAMET
Where are all the at risk youth?

            JACOB
They’re all around us.

            DAVID MAMET
Oh. We’re supposed to acknowledge the audience?

            DANATURG
It goes in and out. It’s very undisciplined. No real dramaturgical sense to it.

            DAVID MAMET
Are those dead bodies in the audience?

            JACOB
I doubt it. Okay, so just go on up to the podium there.

            DAVID MAMET
Are these at risk youth actors or at risk youth playwrights? I was going to do my whole “you should act like you’re reading from the phonebook” speech, but if they’re playwrights I can do my fucking “olley olley ocean free” bit from Writing in Restaurants.

            JACOB
See? He does fucking swear.

            MOLL
You’re so smart, baby.

            DAVID MAMET
Aigh! What’s that?

            JACOB
What?

            DAVID MAMET
That! Over there! It just talked!

            JACOB
That’s Moll.

            DAVID MAMET
Who let a woman in here?!

            DANATURG
Now, come on. That’s not fair. Mamet has some very strong woman characters. Lesbians, even.

            MOLL
Yeah, I did a Mamet monologue in school once.

            DAVID MAMET
Are you an… actress?

            MOLL
Sure.

            DAVID MAMET
Well. Okay, then. You want me to just stand at the podium here?

            JACOB
This is taking way too long.

(JACOB shoots DAVID MAMET.)

            MOLL
Baby! You killed David Mamet!

            DANATURG
That was terrible! What kind of arc was that? Where was the conflict?! The rising action?! The negotiation between characters?! You can’t just shoot someone during the central conflict!

            JACOB
I… I’ve killed David Mamet. Does that mean that now… Now I’m… Dare I say it?

            MOLL
Go ahead, baby. Say it.

            JACOB
Now I… I am America’s Greatest—

(BRETT NEVEU enters wearing a tuxedo with a gun trained on JACOB.)

            BRETT NEVEU
Hold it right there!

            JACOB
Who are you?!

            BRETT NEVEU
Neveu. Brett Neveu. Recently heralded by the Chicago Tribune as theatre’s “Chicagoan of the Year.”

            JACOB
Do you want to give a speech? We’ve got a podium all set up. We have a plaque for you.

            BRETT NEVEU
Your little tricks won’t work on me.

(JACOB tries to shoot BRETT NEVEU, but BRET NEVEU shoots first. JACOB falls.)

            MOLL
Baby!

            JACOB
(as he dies) Curse you, Neveu! Curse you!

(JACOB dies. Blackout.)

Read full lengths by Jacob Juntunen here!

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Taking a Break

Taking a break this July for some big transitions. I'll announce them in August as well as write a play a day for the entire month! Check out 31 Plays in 31 Days.

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Harold and Aphra

This play was produced by Caffeine Theatre at Theatre on the Lake as part of the League of Chicago Theatres' Theatre Thursday on June 21, 2012. Enjoy!

Harold and Aphra
by Jacob Juntunen

            HAROLD
Good morning, ninth graders. I’m Harold Bloom of Yale University, here today because—

            APHRA
And I’m Aphra Behn.

            HAROLD
This is your public schoolteacher, Mrs. Collette, who today for some reason feels it’s necessary—

            APHRA
Actually, I’m Aphra Behn.

            HAROLD
She feels it’s necessary for her to act as Aphra Behn, and me as King Charles II.

            APHRA
I’ve just returned from Venezuela—

            HAROLD
You were never— I mean, Aphra Behn was never in—

            APHRA
And I will write a novel about an African King with whom I—

            HAROLD
I’m only here because of that unfortunate DUI and the uncanny ability of New Haven police officers to spot—

            APHRA
But I am loyal to you Charles! Regardless of what any officers may say—

            HAROLD
Yes, yes.

            APHRA
I’ll go to the Netherlands and be your spy!

            HAROLD
Well, that’s true, she did go to—

            APHRA
And here I am, back from the Netherlands! But for all my valuable information—

            HAROLD
Gained by sleeping with a Duke, actually.

            APHRA
Despite all the valuable information I gained as a spy, you wouldn’t even give me the fare to return to England. Why do you refuse to pay me?

            HAROLD
You can see she’s no writer, but merely the first woman to sleep to the top of the literary—

            APHRA
I’m in debtors’ prison and still no one will help me!

            HAROLD
All right, very good histrionics Mrs. Collette—

            APHRA
I’m Aphra Behn! The sexiest bisexual spy playwright ever!

            HAROLD
I’m sure these ninth graders don’t care about Aphra Behn’s sexual exploits. We should, perhaps look at one of Shakespeare’s plays—

            APHRA
But after someone, Charles, wink wink, gets me out of prison—

            HAROLD
There’s actually no evidence that I— I mean, Charles— had anything to do with—

            APHRA
I become the world’s first professional woman playwright!

            HAROLD
Just because people liked your plays doesn’t mean they were good.

            APHRA
Just because people liked my plays doesn’t mean they were bad.

            HAROLD
Witty, but a syllogism is far from proof that your plays— I mean, Aphra Behn’s plays, were of a quality comparable to—

            APHRA
I become the most produced playwright of the 1670s.

            HAROLD
After John Dryden.

            APHRA
But I did it on my own, with no help from the likes of you. I’m in anthologies!

            HAROLD
A sign of the dumbing down of American culture, like this class. Speaking of which, my sentence is just about up.

            APHRA
No! Wait! We haven’t done the ending yet!

            HAROLD
Children, I’ve finished my hour of community service for my DUI. Whatever your teacher tells you, the story of Aphra Behn mainly demonstrates that sex sells and lurid curiosity keeps a fourth-rate playwright taught alongside the men who count. Skip this class if she continues down this feminazi path, and read the only playwright that matters: William Shakespeare. Do you want to be Harold Bloom of Yale University, or a deranged, possibly schizophrenic, schoolteacher who believes she’s Aphra Behn?

            APHRA
I am Aphra Behn!

            HAROLD
Have a good morning, everyone.

HAROLD exits.

            APHRA
Wait! I am Aphra Behn! I am… All right everybody. See you on Monday. And before you ask, Ms. Idaszak, this will be on the test.

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In the Shadow of his Language Trailer

This is a preview of my full-length play, In the Shadow of his Language, which will have its first public staged reading on May 30th, 2012 at Ohio University.

            In the Shadow of his Language Trailer
            By Jacob Juntunen

MRS. O’CONNOR addresses the audience. DIDI and RICHARD sit facing each other.

            MRS. O’CONNOR
(South Boston accent) My daughter, Didi, is the first of us to go to college. She’s fucking brilliant.

            RICHARD
(RP UK accent) This sentence needs to be buried in an unmarked grave at midnight.

            DIDI
(South Boston accent) Well, a student’s work must reflect her teacher’s skill—

            RICHARD
Our two weeks together is the cause of this abortion?

            DIDI
If you read it more generously—

            MRS. O’CONNOR
I ain’t saying she didn’t have no trouble her first year…

            DIDI
I can’t fail this class.

            RICHARD
Of course you can.

            DIDI
If I get an F, I lose my financial aid.

            RICHARD
Perhaps you’d like to use our office phone to call your parents and have them come pick you up?

            MRS. O’CONNOR
But she’s got this teacher helping her.

            RICHARD
One more thing. Who’s Didi, Miss O’Connor?

            DIDI
Um. That’s me.

            RICHARD
I noticed it said that on your paper. But Didi is a poodle, Miss O’Connor, not a university scholar.

            MRS. O’CONNOR
He made her change her name. And she talks real funny now. Like she’s on TV. But... I guess that’s success, you know?

            DEIRDRE
(American Standard) Why did you do this to me?

            RICHARD
Teach you? Prepare you? Enlighten—

            DEIRDRE
I try to show you what I’m up against and you just scurry back to this vault.

            RICHARD
I don’t allow anyone to speak to me like that anymore—

            DEIRDRE
But you leave the door open a crack just to make sure we can’t ever have a real conversation.

            RICHARD
That is the legal reality of the times Miss O’Connor—

            DEIRDRE
Call me Deirdre. You made me change it. Let me hear you say it. Just once.

            RICHARD
Miss O’Connor—

            DEIRDRE
You can’t even say it? (silence) Why did you put me put me up to this? Was it just to laugh at me?

            MRS. O’CONNOR
Anyway, she’s doing real good.

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Opening Night

Opening Night

MAN

Okay. Previews are over. My script is perfect. The guys from the Times and the Post are here, and the woman from the Journal. I’m about to take Broadway by storm. The new O’Neill. Here we go. Why aren’t they laughing? Oh, God. No one’s laughing. This is terrible. Okay, here comes the great tragic monologue. Why is everyone laughing?

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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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