There’s this play I wrote about two girls that steal Lance Armstrong’s bike while he’s doing the Tour of California. Just a crime of opportunity, you know. So they go on this road trip to get rid of it, but end up being in over their heads. They post about it online and become internet-famous. It becomes a meme. A hashtag. An event. It gets really big and more than they can handle. Things escalate – you know how it goes.

This is a play that I send out a lot as a sort of “here’s what I write” thing. It was written in such a weird way – different than I had done in the past, but I felt good when it was done. I mean, not that I think it’s done done. I gotta hear it again. I’d love to see it, but, you know, that takes commitment from a theater company or something. I suppose I could do it myself… Hmm…

Anyway, so I’m going to share a couple of pieces of it over the next couple of posts. Feel free to enjoy.

This is about midway through the play. They are now starting to steal cars to cover up their tracks. I played with the formatting a bit from how it is in the script. I want to see how it reads.

 

SCENE TWELVE: jamie’s secret blog

JAMIE updates her blog while simultaneously remembering a part of the journey. The two are driving down Highway 5, California. The screen is a blurry California landscape from a car window. ELLA drives the car. JAMIE leans her head against the window. Silence.

 

JAMIE

Ella drives fast. I don’t, but she does.

She likes the flow.

I get nervous, I put my foot on the gas, I drive fast, my heart beats fast. She drives fast, her heart rate slows down. To a pulse.

Thump…

Thump…

…

Thump…

Like it’s sounding its last beat.

The one thrill it has left isn’t a thrill at  all. It’s soothing to her, the flow of traffic.

She bobs in and out of cars, I grip the edge of my seat, the Jesus handle, anything I can latch onto, I hold on for dear life like that’s the only thing I can do. The only thing I’m supposed to do. Fight for my life. A new one.

When Ella’s like this I wonder how much longer before the other shoe drops. I used to relax too – go with the flow – but I can’t anymore.

I can’t.

I see everything.

I see how close we come to dying every time she passes another car.

I grip the seat.

There’s nothing else I can do, you see?

Nothing.