Thom Pain (based on nothing) [Revised TCG Edition]

With Other Monologues for Theatre

Will Eno

• Publisher: Theatre Communications Group
• Year: 2019
• Print ISBN: 9781559369596
• eBook ISBN: 9781559369220
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: American Drama
• Index: Literature

“It’s sad, isn’t it? The dead horse of a life we beat, all the wilder, all the harder the deader it gets. On the other hand, there are some nice shops in the area.”

Thom Pain has come to a certain point in his life. Maybe you have too. His entire existence is ordinary; but that ordinariness is a revelation and a wonder and a curiosity. To him at least. He’d better hope so. It’s all he has (except maybe a dictionary and an old love letter).

Comic and disturbing, this provocative monologue charts one man’s anguished journey from shattered childhood dreams and trauma to the tenuous, if guarded, optimism of adulthood, told in dangerous intimacy by a voice loaded with wry humor and deceptive charm.

THOM PAIN

(based on nothing)

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

THOM PAIN

Male, 30s-40s, cold, grave, somewhat angular person. A wounded, stray-dog type, but with an odd intellectual aspect, perhaps even a little frail, in some way. He should seem 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

Female, male, various ages.

Setting: A mostly 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.

A props list and some general notes are at the end of the play.

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 (based on nothing) opened on November 11, 2018 at Signature Theatre (Paige Evans, Artistic Director; Harold Wolpert, Executive Director; Jim Houghton, Founder) in New York City. It was directed by Oliver Butler, the set design was by Amy Rubin, the costume design was by Anita Yavich, the lighting design was by Jen Schriever, the sound design was by Lee Kinney; the production stage manager was Charles M. Turner III, the production assistant was Elizabeth Emanuel, and the assistant director was Banna Desta.

The cast was:

THOM PAIN, Michael C. Hall

THOM PAIN

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

How wonderful to see you all.

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

I should quit.

Pause. It’s still dark.

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. Population 8,000,001, approx.

3. Fear.

4. See three.

5. There is no seven.

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.

For now, we should take a moment to consider –

A flash of bright light lights up the whole stage, and then, more-focused light comes 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. THOM is caught off-center, though he quickly adjusts.

And yet. I guess 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 is 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 box of raisins and eats some, 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?

Very brief pause.

Anyone?

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 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.

Pause. He returns upstage, turning his back for a moment. As he begins the following lines, a man in the audience, seated in the fourth or fifth row, begins to leave. The man is not angry or offended, and leaves quickly and 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. THOM notices him but tries to ignore him.

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. Quietly:

Au revoir, cunt. Pardon my French.

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

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.

You know, you might be better off if you had 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 is 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....

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Dedication
• Contents
• Thom Pain (based on nothing)
• Lady Grey (in ever-lower light)
• Mr Theatre Comes Home Different