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Part of the writing process is the cutting process. For me, it is often a lot of cutting because I am so long-winded on the first pass (and sometimes in the last pass). So, as a project develops, it’s not uncommon for entire themes, plots, chapters, or scenes to hit the cutting-room floor. It’s just the way that it is.
Sometimes it can be difficult because those bits that need to be disposed of don’t always lack quality or value. Sometimes they’re even great. Sometimes they’re the best lines in the whole thing! But still, if they’re not right, they have to go.
“Kill your darlings,” they say. Whoever the hell ‘they’ are.
I like to create a “cut bucket” to house these darlings temporarily. During the edit, if there is something that must be excised but which seems salvage-able for one reason or another, I’ll drop it into the cut bucket and hope that one day it finds a more permanent home. Now and again, it will find placement in some other piece, play, or maybe a tweet, but most of the time, the cut bucket is where these pearls remain. It’s a shame. They collect dust instead of shining for their true worth (whatever that worth might be).
So, let’s give the darlings a visit, shall we? Today we’re visiting the cut bucket.
Today, I’ve pulled from the depths of the bucket a passage from the first draft of one of my earliest plays. At the time it was written, the play’s working title was ‘I Explain Myself.’ (Yes, I know. You have permission to laugh.) Honestly, it wasn’t really even a play in this first form, and I think you’ll understand why. But hey. I was young as a person and as a writer, so it went through a large number of revisions before it settled in its final form as a play called MMF.
DEAN: Two years ago, I met a boy. I mean, he was clearly not a boy in the sense that he was a child, but he was a boy—a man in age and maturity—but a boy. A boy that I met. It was in the middle of a six-hour layover in Minnesota from Seattle to New York.
I’m standing in line for a cup of coffee, flipping through a GQ. I’m not the guy who subscribes to GQ, but I am the kind of guy that manages to find a need to have one of these magazines every time I’m in an airport. I’m wearing tired sneakers that are eight months overdue for replacement, a t-shirt I’ve had since my freshman year of college, jeans from the GAP, and a backward Cubs hat. I’ve never watched a Cubs game in my life. I’m reading this GQ and imagining that I will turn a new leaf. Get rid of my rags and vow only to wear quality clothing that I’m proud of. Invest in my wardrobe.
At some point in my line-waiting, I become transfixed on an article defining the appropriate length at which men should wear the cuffs on their dress shirts. 1) At the wrist, 2) on the forearm below the elbow, or 3) above the elbow. Never in the crease of the elbow. Thank GOD that I’m wearing a t-shirt because that means I am blessed with the ability to scoff. I’d never be caught dead with the sleeves rolled into my elbow. (I’ve totally done this before, but since I’m not committing the sin now, so I can lie to myself that I haven’t.)
Amidst my relationship with page 32 of this Gentlemen’s Quarterly, the line has moved up about eight feet. There are still three people ahead of me. There is one girl behind me who is tapping her foot and switching the position of her body weight from hip to hip with impatience. This drives me fuckin’ crazy. As if my walking six feet forward is going change the fact that there are still three people ahead of me waiting in line. I could stand in the corner and tap dance; it wouldn’t change the fact that three people are standing in line ahead of me. Who cares if there is a foot or thirty between us? This girl does.
So I waltz seven feet forward and settle into my new purgatory. The need to venture forward in line distracted me enough to glance around the terminal for a bit. This is, by no means, any noteworthy day. No delays, no terrorism, no nothing. Just normal people doing normal Minnesotan traveling. Then, I see this guy with a blue button-down shirt, and (wouldn’t you guess) he’s got his sleeves rolled up. They’re folded up, really. The cuffs are pristine and sit right on the forearm - below the elbow. He’s also got this gorgeous long black coat in his hands. It looks expensive. Miraculously, he doesn’t look like a dick, either. Not too uptight or hoity-toity. He seems like he’s himself. His very well put together self.
A few hours later, I’m finally sitting on the plane. I vow never to take indirect flights ever again because the day has stretched on for what feels like a lifetime. I am waiting for takeoff and reading the pamphlet about what to do in case of an emergency. I always do that. Every time I read through it and look at the cartoon drawings of the people in the crashing plane, I read Sky Mall and debate whether I need Bluetooth for my shower. It’s deeply original, I know.
As I’m doing this, I’m aware of everyone filing into the cabin. Then I see the guy with the sleeves again. He’s checking his ticket. Checking the aisle numbers. Inching along. I lock eyes with him for a quick second, and he keeps searching. Four or five hobbles later, he gets to my row. Guess what? He’s sitting in my row! Wow. Surprising, right? Don’t judge me; this is true. I’m at the window, and he sits in the aisle seat. Of course, we acknowledge one another briefly, but there isn’t any conversation. Then a sixteen-year-old girl sits between us. She wears her curly red hair and a bright pink t-shirt unabashedly.
This is the point where I recognize that my worst travel-fears have not come true. I’m not sitting next to a baby or a smelly guy that will drool on my shoulder. Two normal humans and the plane ride is only a few hours long. I can do this. We take off.
Nothing really happens for a while. I’m just sitting on this plane, having typical plane experiences. I’m sharing moments with these people around me without actually sharing moments with anyone around me. At some point during the flight, I end up having to use the bathroom. I alert the team to squeeze out, and as I’m getting up, I slip and end up sitting on GQ’s knee. Only for a second, though! I rebound out of that scenario more quickly than I knew my body was capable of. And, super flustered, so I don’t even apologize or anything. I just bolt towards the lavatory and lock myself inside.
In retrospect, I can’t help but laugh when I think about how much a doof I was. Knowing him now, I mean. We’ve talked about this whole thing a million times. We love it, actually. I love it.
Sitting back down is painless enough, save the blatant awkwardness of our previous interaction, and we ride out the rest of the flight in silence. Leaving the plane, we end up taking the same paths to leave. I mean, GQ and I are neck and neck. Leaving the terminal, we both bypass the baggage claim (because who on earth would possibly need to check luggage when you’re just going from Seattle to New York City?) and get into the same elevator that takes us to the train that takes us to Jamaica or wherever.
Right here, I consider taking a cab just to get away from him. But I don’t. We take the same train car, and I’m thinking, ‘Is he following me?… Am I following him?’
We are neck-in-neck and both very aware of it. Then, while sitting across from each other, we lock eyes at a diagonal of about three people, and I do the smile thing. No teeth, just a small smirk, and raise my eyebrows in a way that says, "crazy, right?". Then he speaks. He finally breaks the silence. He says, "Hi," and giggles to himself a little, which makes me giggle a little, though I don’t typically think of myself as a giggler. But who does?
You can read the published version of MMF at Concord Theatricals. Link HERE.
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