from Fé in the Desert

Characters

Fè Sloan—Bill’s ultra-chic wife; age 30s, early 40s

Bill Sloan—Fè’s wealthy husband; age late 30s, early 40s

Tyrone Arroyo—an ex-con just released from Attica; age 40s or 50s

James “Mook” Blake—an ex-con just released from Attica; age 20s

Ramon Fontaine—a movie producer; same age as Tyrone Arroyo

Suze Meinhof—Ramon Fontaine’s secretary; in her 20s

Setting

The play mainly takes place in the Sloan household in California’s Palm Springs Desert. There are brief stopovers in Culver City, the Santa Monica Airport, the Attica Correctional Facility and the Staten Island ferry terminal.

Time

The present.

from Scene One

(Lights up on FÈ—stylish, sexy, whippet-thin—as she addresses the audience.)

FÈ: Miuccia Prada . . . Henry Beguelin . . . John Galliano for House of Dior . . . Helmut Lang . . . Narciso . . . Rodriguez . . . Yohji Yamamoto . . . Issey Miyake . . . Rei Kawakubo for Commes Des Garcons . . . Delicious, isn’t it? A litany of exotic names and labels that probably don’t mean a thing to you. My juju. It gives my life purpose, maintaining this polished veneer. This façade. There—I’ve gone and done it. Given it up too early, broken the rules. My sister would say that in a “play” such as this—I love that word, don’t you? “Play”—you’ve got to keep the mystery going and let the story unfold. “Show, don’t tell.” Ha-ha. My sister used to live in New York. She went to a lot of theater and taught at a university and had a lot of rules about what made good art, GOOD . . . and bad art, BAD. Until it all came tumbling down and she exiled herself to a dump in the San Francisco Tenderloin! I’ve been told she was an excellent teacher but somewhat rigid. Writing had to be this, not that. Movies had to be—oh, dear god, did the poor girl ever relax and just have FUN?

I did. I do.

FACE? Francois Nars. You can never go wrong with the French. Francois’ motto? “Make-up is not a mask.” A load of tired crap, but I forgive him. Now you’ll have to admit—I look good. And if I were to allow you to get close enough? You’d know I smell good. And of course the underwear’s exquisite! La Perla, darlings. None of that tacky Victoria’s Secret hooker shit for Miss FÈ . . . (the following is spoken as FÈ gets into the driver’s seat:) And now Miss FÈ is gonna step into her husband’s brand-new Escalade—a pretty vulgar machine, really—and take a little ride. I have my own car, of course. But I love climbing into this tank of a thing that sits so high up off the ground I feel absolutely safe! Plus the sound system? PERFECTION. My husband hates music—but I insisted on having custom speakers installed just for ME. I like my music way, way UP, especially on a sizzling, sweltering, sauna of a day like today!

(FÈ turns on CD player. Smokey Robinson’s “Your Love Was Just A Mirage” blasts from the speakers. FÈ lipsynchs happily as she drives)

.......

Two

(Same day, late afternoon. The kitchen of FÈ and Bill Sloan’s luxurious desert home. Lights fade up on Bill uncorking a bottle of wine. A sumptuous dinner is on the stove. FÈ enters and drops several fancy shopping bags and purse on the counter. She pecks Bill on the cheek and—without missing a beat—reaches into her purse, pulls out a tiny vial of coke and snorts a couple of hits.)

BILL: What the hell are you doing?

FÈ: What the hell does it look like I’m doing?

BILL: Is that coke you’re ingesting?

FÈ: Think of it as nostalgia for the mud, Bill. “Déjà vu”. Want some? It’s quite pure.

BILL: For godsake, Fè. Where do you get that stuff? Nobody does coke any -

FÈ: I almost died today.

BILL: What?

FÈ: Had a little accident. Driving home from that stupid mall.

BILL: Were you driving...