Thom Pain (based on nothing)

Will Eno

• Publisher: Oberon Books
• Year: 2012
• Print ISBN: 9781840024524
• eBook ISBN: 9781849436960
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: British Drama
• Index: Literature

From the last lonely wilderness, the last dark corner of these overlit times, in the camouflage of the common man, Thom Pain takes the stage, fumbling with his heart, squinting into the light. With terrible timing and impeccable regret, over-educated in the wrong ways, and wounded in the right ones, he appears. Teeth bared, as he picks a piece of lint off his suit. Listen to the language writhe, as he tries to say hello. Meet Thom Pain. A man who has only had, by his own reckless reckoning, three or four things happen to him in life. A man who is, by his own admittedly uninformed admission, a man much like a man or woman like you. Thom Pain opened at the Edinburgh Fringe in 2004, with a transfer to the Soho Theatre later that year.

THOM PAIN

(based on nothing)

Dramatis Personae

THOM PAIN

Male, 30s-40s, cold, grave, angular person. A skinny, wounded, stray-dog type, but with an odd intellectual aspect, perhaps even a little frail, in some way. He should seem to be a person capable of great cruelty, perhaps due to his having suffered great cruelties, himself. He must also be charismatic, must be able to “run the show,” but run it without a lot of effort, relying more on a kind of dark seductive quality. He is somewhere between Shakespeare’s Richard II and his Richard III. That said, the actor must also create a character that is close to – and is largely derived from – himself.

AUDIENCE

Male, female, various ages.

Setting: An empty stage, the theatre.

Wardrobe: Plain dark suit, white shirt, dark tie. Clothes should be non-descript: slightly-worn, not of a perfect fit, though certainly not ragged.

Stage properties: A match, a piece of paper, a watch, an unlightable cigarette, a chair, a handkerchief, a wrinkled envelope containing a wrinkled letter, eyeglasses, a pitcher of water, a water glass, perhaps a small table.

Thom Pain was first produced by Soho Theatre Company in association with Chantal Arts + Theatre and Naked Angels (NYC) at the Pleasance Courtyard, Edinburgh on 5 August 2004, before transferring to Soho Theatre, London on 3 September. The personnel were:

THOM PAIN, James Urbaniak

Director, Hal Brooks

Artistic Associate, Julie Anderson

Design Consultant, David Korins

Lighting Designer, Christoph Wagner

On its transfer to DR2 Theatre, New York, on 1 February 2005, Thom Pain was produced by Daryl Roth and Bob Boyett with the following personnel:

THOM PAIN, James Urbaniak

Director, Hal Brooks

Artistic Associate, Julie Anderson

Design Consultant, David Korins

Lighting Designer, Mark Barton

General Manager, Adam Hess

THOM PAIN

Enters in darkness, darkness remains. Footsteps are heard. Pause. A match is lit, to light a cigarette. It is snuffed out, accidentally, without the cigarette being lit.

How wonderful to see you all.

A second match is lit, and is, again, accidentally snuffed out.

I should quit.

Pause.

We should define some terms here. Then, maybe, you get a little story. So. From the New Century Dictionary of English (Rustling of paper, in the dark.):

Quote, “Fear:

1. Any of the discrete parts of the face, as in the eyes or mouth, or eyes.

2. The capital of Lower Meersham, in the north central southeast corner. Pop. 8,000,001, approx.

3. Fear.

4. See three.

5. There is no seven. (Very brief pause.) Colloquial. Archaic. A verb. Or noun. Depends.” End quote.

(Rustling of pages. The following lines are said somewhat to himself.) Hey, look at that. “Felicific. Adjective. Causing or intending to cause happiness.” (Very softly.) Felicific.

Anyway. Now. I guess we begin. Do you like magic? I don’t. Enough about me. Let’s get to our story. Do you want a story? Do you need to see me to hear me? If so, sorry. Not yet. I’m afraid you’d laugh at my native costume. Promise you won’t laugh. I know you won’t, friends, I trust you won’t. But not because you promised. You’ll see me soon enough, I suspect.

But not yet.

A flash of light, perhaps a single flash of a strobe light, and then, lights up on THOM PAIN. This light cue should only take a split-second: a flash and then lights up. It should have a jarring and accidental feel, but, again, should only take an instant. As the light on him comes up, as he begins the lines below, he is cleaning a pair of eyeglasses, holding them up, blowing on them, wiping them on his sleeve. He can put them away or wear them.

And yet. Some things are not really ours to decide. The shape of the face, say, or whether we’re forgiven or how tall we are. Where to die and when.

Brief pause.

I’ll wait for the laughter to die down.

Brief pause.

I still sense some laughter.

Brief pause.

There. Wait. Now. There.

Brief pause.

Oh, me.

So. Our story. Don’t make it hard on yourselves. Don’t be troubled by what you might perceive as obscure, hard, troublous. Just remember the simple human picture before you. This.

Brief pause.

A little boy in a cowboy suit, writing in a puddle with a stick, a dog approaching. Deaf or dumb, the boy is, or, like anyone, a little timid, partly stupid, ashamed, afraid, like us, like you. Our little boy is wearing shorts, shoes, no socks, no cowboy boots. He is there. Dreaming of this real life right here. Picture the boy. A terrible storm has just ended. A cloud, overhead, a little rumble. The boy writes his watery lines. See his eyes.

Sympathize with his little clothes. Now, break his arm, give him an injury, some problem with his hip so that he stands funny, can’t walk “real good.” Now picture that the stick he’s writing with is a violin bow. Picture a violin section. Picture every living person as a member of a violin section. We hold the bow above the strings, ready to play. Picture a bird settling on a branch. The violins are on fire. Feel the world inhale. Picture the readiness, the stillness, the virtuosity. Among this, the child. Picture ash blowing across a newly-blue sky. (The following is said almost without anger, as if it’s just another request, as in “Picture a violin section.”) Now go fuck yourselves.

He takes out a small bag of raisins and eats some, without hurrying, staring at the audience.

Picture, I don’t know, a bird. Or the kid, the child. Picture whatever you want. You’re free, at least to this little extent, yes? Who knows. Not me.

Brief pause.

You know who I suddenly don’t need?

Next line, as if he is asking the audience.

Anyone?

Brief pause as he waits for an answer.

No, I don’t know, either. No bother. Or – to employ the popular phrase we use today to express our brainless and simpering tolerance of everything, the breakdown of distinction, our fading national soul – whatever.

Casually.

I’m like whatever.

Pointedly. As if a grave admission.

I really am like whatever.

THOM PAIN moves downstage.

Does it scare you? Being face to face with the modern mind? It should. There is no reason for you not to be afraid. None. Or, I don’t know. (Gently.) Shall I save your life? Shall I love you slowly and be true? Shall I stroke your cheek, gently, almost not at all, and bring you a glass of cold water in the restless humid night? Whatever.

Brief pause. He returns upstage, having turned his back. As he begins the following lines, a man in the audience, seated in the fourth or fifth row, begins to leave. The man should be seated so that he must cross in front of the audience. He is not angry or offended, and leaves fairly quickly and fairly quietly. It is as if he has suddenly realized that he is in the wrong show and is meant to be at the theatre down the street.

Meanwhile, we were speaking of the infant, the cowboy-suited child, making his way in the business world. A tale for the ages, a flowery unfolding that will leave you yearning for that old yearning that – .

(To the man who is leaving.) Goodbye.

The man is gone.

Au revoir, cunt. Pardon my French.

THOM PAIN starts to return to a story-telling mode. Then, something occurs to him to say, with reference to the man who left.

So, we were, um… I’m like him. I strike people as a person who just left.

But, our little performance, our little turn, on the themes of fear, boyhood, nature, hate, the nature of performance and vice-versa, the heart of man, of woman, et cetera.

Brief pause.

You know, actually, the rest of you might be better off if you’d gone with your heart and left, like our friend, now departed, who just left with his heart. And the rest of his organs. I don’t know. This was an aside. Pretend I didn’t say it. Don’t imagine a pink elephant.

Brief pause.

Yes, our little story, the little boy in the cowboy suit. Did I say he had a cowboy suit? Not important. Did I say he had a heart and body full of bleeding wonder and love? Not important. Either way, there is our little man, before the puddle, in the quiet after the storm. There’s a little thunder but no more rain. Not unimportantly, the sky is all blue now. Blue skies for Child Harold, whose name is not Harold. Trees are down, branches everywhere. The boy’s beloved dog jogs toward him, daintily avoiding other yet-to-be-written-in puddles. She’s been making her rounds, pawing around the bases of trees and sniffing butterflies drying themselves in the breeze. Ah, the dog. Long story short, boy loves dog, dog loves boy, no question, no amendment, no need to revise. The dog came closer, stopped to scratch. (Without pausing, he becomes slightly distracted by some pieces of lint on the sleeve of his jacket or somewhere on his clothes and gingerly removes them, as he speaks the next lines.) Then she lowered her head to lap water from a puddle and was electrocuted. A power line had come down and was lying frayed in the water. She was thrown some distance, flew like some poorly thought-out bird. Her eyes were burned open, smoking...

Table of contents

• Front Cover
• Half-title Page
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Dedication
• Contents
• THOM PAIN (based on nothing)
• LADY GREY (in ever-lower light)
• MR THEATRE COMES HOME DIFFERENT