An Evening with Phineas ACT I, Scene One

by Lyza Fennell | Nov 10, 2024 | Playwriting

An Evening with Phineas ACT I, Scene One

Act I, Scene One

AT RISE: PIERCE and PAULA, a married couple, are sitting in their living room. PAULA is holding a planner and writing in it, while PIERCE is on his smartphone playing a game.

Living room has a couch and chair, coffee table, a liquor cabinet, shelves with family pictures, magazines and books on the table. A door to “outside” where people will enter and exit from. Stage Right will be the exit to the outside, Stage Left will be the exit to the other room. Kitchen needs a fridge, cabinets, it has a rectangular table, a desk with a computer.

PIERCE

Honey, I got “Genius” again on Spelling Bee. Boy, I must be a genius. That’s what the game tells me (sarcastic; laughs).

PAULA

(Facetiously) Oh, sure you are. A real genius.

PIERCE

Let’s go in the bedroom and screw.

PAULA

What? The kids are in the other room.

PIERCE

Boring! Come on, Paula, you are so dull. It’s the same thing every day.

PAULA

Speaking of that, can you take the garbage out?

PIERCE

(Stands up) What the hell, Paula? I just asked you to have sex with me, and you want me to take out the garbage? If that isn’t a metaphor for our marriage.

PAULA

Pierce, watch your language. The kids will hear you. And I’m sorry. I guess that was thoughtless of me.

PIERCE

That’s an understatement. Jesus, Paula. Something’s got to give. I mean, we’ve been together for twenty years. It’s turned into the same shit routine day after day.

PAULA

(Annoyed) Pierce, what can I say? I work, take care of the kids, pay bills, and clean. I’m kind of tired, don’t you think?

PIERCE takes her in his arms; lovingly, PAULA leans into him.

PIERCE

I know, Paula. You need a break. I want to take you away from all of this.

PAULA

I can’t go anywhere right now, you know that. The taxes are due next week.

PIERCE

Paula! For God’s sake. Humor me a little. How about I pour you a drink (Walks to the cabinet)? Come on, just a little; it will help you relax. (Beat) Ha! We should get trashed like the old days. Remember that? We stayed up all night—

PAULA

I know, I know, no need to say it. Give me a break, Pierce, we aren’t 25 anymore. We have obligations; we have children!

PIERCE

And we aren’t 100, either. Come on, live wild.

Looking into her eyes, holding her hands.

Like you used to be. (Beat) You’re so dull these days.

PAULA

I know, I’m sorry. I’m just stressed out right now. Once I finish these damn taxes, I’ll feel more like myself, I promise.

PIERCE

But there’s always something. You need to let go of some of that worry. The tasks aren’t going anywhere; they’ll still be here tomorrow. You can leave it one day.

PAULA

That’s just the problem. It(emph.) will all be there tomorrow. Can’t you take the kids to their activities today so I can work on the taxes?

PIERCE

Paula, come on, when did it get like this? It’s like we wake up to the same broken record every day: ‘Take the garbage out’; ‘Can you go to the store?’; ‘Did you pick up the mail?’ I’m not in this world for mundane bullshit. (Urging) Come on, Paula, we’re in our forties; we aren’t dead. You’ve got to be spontaneous; live a little!

He grabs her and kisses her passionately; she pushes away from the embrace. She has tears in her eyes. She moves to the kitchen, and he follows her.

PAULA

Not now, Pierce. I’m sorry I disappoint you. I have laundry to do and dinner to prep; the kids have their games today. What time is it? (She looks at the time.) Shit, I have to get ready. I don’t have time for this right now, Pierce.

PIERCE

Damn, Paula. You are killing me. I feel like I am suffocating.

PAULA

I know. I’m sorry. But I have to get the boys ready.

PIERCE comes up behind PAULA, trying to kiss her on the neck while she prepares sandwiches and snacks, putting them into a cooler bag. There’s a heaviness in the air; they love each other, but both feel sad and stuck.

PAULA

(Wiping a tear) Not now, Pierce. I’m sorry. I promise we can put the boys to bed and have a drink together as soon as I’m done with the taxes.

PIERCE

OK, OK, but there’s always something, Paula. You’re lucky to have me.

PAULA

I know. Thanks for understanding. I do love you. (Beat. Calls out) PATTEN! PAXTON!

ENTER PATTEN and PAXTON Stage Left, dressed for soccer.

PATTEN

Hey Mom, what did you pack to eat?

PAULA

Ham and cheese for you.

PAXTON

(Whining) What about me? I hate cheese.

PAULA

Please don’t say hate. It’s a terrible word. I know you don’t like cheese, don’t worry. Come on, let’s go. Say bye to your dad.

PATTEN

Bye, Dad.

PAXTON

Bye, Daddy.

PAULA

Bye, Pierce. I love you. We’ll be back around 4:00.

PIERCE

(Subdued) Yeah, have a good day, guys.

EXIT PATTEN, PAXTON, and PAULA Stage Left.

BLACKOUT

Black and white photo of a tattooed man sitting in a leather armchair, lighting a cigar. Text: Finding the Spark, one marriage at a time.Text SPARK to: THE-HOT-NITE. (don't actually text)

Synopsis: An Evening with Phineas delves into the complexities of long-term marriage, desire, and the allure of the unconventional. Pierce and Paula find their relationship stagnating in routine, leading Pierce to enlist the help of Phineas, a charismatic “Marriage Mentor” with unconventional methods. Phineas’s arrival disrupts their complacency, forcing Pierce and Paula to confront buried insecurities and deep-seated desires.

Through sharp dialogue and compelling character dynamics, An Evening with Phineas invites audiences to reflect on the complexities of love, the fragility of trust, and the pursuit of personal fulfillment.

Worst Week Ever

by Lyza Fennell | Nov 7, 2024 | Writing

Worst Week Ever

The mind is a powerful tool, they say. Tara watches her thoughts turn to reality as if by magic. She wonders if a lobotomy would make life more bearable or electroshock therapy might be enough, it’s come back in fashion.She’d recently had a nerve conduction test, and those zaps felt like repetitively sticking her wet finger in an electric socket. And why would my finger be wet? And why would I do that repetitively?

She spends time every day with tools to help her: meditation, a vision board, visualization, journaling, and a rubber mallet to the head. She doesn’t always make the best choices.

She feels like she’s been saying for five years solid, “This is the worst week ever.” But she feels that, maybe, just maybe this week takes the cake.

She also complains sometimes, maybe she’s a bit negative, but maybe anyone in her situation would be. She loves to say, “I just want someone to take care of me.” Recently, she had a birthday that put her into the next age bracket. She doesn’t think she was being negative by saying,”I don’t want to age! I don’t want to get old!”

She’s hoping these thoughts that become reality as if by magic haven’t come true as she opens her health portal and reads the doctor’s note.

“A terminal, debilitating disease is suspected as a cause for symptoms. Tara must see a neurologist as soon as possible.” She remembers that moment quite well. She mutters, “No. What the fuck?” Then the tears fall slowly down her cheeks–her children.. Grief and fear take over.

But her sick child calls from the other room, “Mommy?” Tara wipes her tears off her face and composes herself. Then, she throws something—anything—angrily across the room and walks in to see her kid.

The kid spiked a high fever, 103.8, a flu-like virus taking over their febrile body. The flu turns into an infected lymph node, and after eight days of fever, pneumonia, and an ear infection. Oxygen level is 92%, respiratory rate is 30, and sounds in the left lung are diminished. Two antibiotics and a follow-up in two days.

Tara’s other child met with the rheumatologist. Their lupus is flared, and the fatigue and joint pain are unrelenting—the nerves are raw, on fire, shooting missiles of pain. Now, even holding a fork feels like a chore. The doctor said, “If we don’t get your symptoms managed soon, we might need to admit you to the hospital.”

Her 6-month-old puppy had her left eye removed yesterday and has to have a cone on her head for two weeks. It’s squishing her ears, and she can’t smell or touch the ground. So she’s lost her ability to use her other senses that she relied on when her blinded, glaucoma eye was still intact.

Tara is pretty sure this is the worst week ever, and that’s not all.

Tara grapples with the looming suspected diagnosis she read in her chart. Why would the doctor put it in her chart that he discussed it with her and that she fully understood the cause of her symptoms? That’s false. He never told her anything.

“That’s malpractice,” people have told her. Yes, maybe. But then she remembers those thoughts that turned into reality as if by magic, and she wonders if this terminal disease is how her thoughts turned into reality as if by magic. “I want someone to take care of me,” and “I don’t want to age!”

Terminal thoughts and she scrambles to visualize better outcomes; she forces thoughts of independence and old age. “If my thoughts turn into reality as if by magic, then I’m going to imagine the best week ever.” She sits there squeezing her brain, searching for positive thoughts and an open mind. She tries to squeeze the scary thoughts out of her head but can’t squeeze hard enough.

She hopes that next week will be the best week ever because she’s done with shitty weeks filled with stress and fear. She’s ready to throw off her shoes and socks and ground herself on the ground outside. But she steps on a small stick, then a sharp rock cuts into the bottom of her foot, and she bleeds.

She sits on the ground, squeezing her foot, thinking to herself: It’s going to get better; life will be blissful… and suddenly, she’s swallowed into the ground. A crevice opens, the Earth beneath her, and she gets pulled into a strange underworld. It’s warm, maybe a little too warm, but she likes it. A man walks up to her. He’s wearing a scarf that says, “Go Devils.”

“Hi, my name is Tom. I’m sorry I’ve been controlling your life down here. I had the wrong Tara. All that stuff was meant for the Tara two streets over. Please forgive me.”