The Blank Canvas
CHARACTERS:
- CHARLIE: Wearing a yellow shirt with a black zig-zag. Sitting on a wooden crate.
- LUCY: Standing beside a small wooden booth.
- LINUS: Lying on the floor, wrapped in a faded blue blanket.
SETTING:
A stark, open field. A single bare tree stands in the background. A tiny wooden booth sits stage left with a hand-painted sign: THE DOCTOR IS IN (OR OUT).
[SCENE START]
(CHARLIE sits slumped on an overturned wooden crate, staring blankly ahead. LUCY stands near her booth, mechanically adjusting a small paper cup. LINUS lies flat on his back on the ground, his face completely covered by a worn blue blanket.)
(A long, heavy stillness. A cold wind whistles once.)
CHARLIE:
The leaf fell.
LUCY:
Which leaf?
CHARLIE:
The last one. It was brown. It hovered for a moment, suspended between the branch and the mud, then it surrendered to gravity. Now the branch is merely an line drawn against a gray sky.
LUCY:
Everything surrenders eventually. That will be five cents.
CHARLIE:
I haven’t asked for advice.
LUCY:
The fee is not for advice. It is for the presence. I am standing here. You are sitting there. The five cents acknowledges the distance between us.
CHARLIE:
I have no coins. My pockets contain only lint and a small, smooth pebble I picked up in July.
LUCY:
Then you are in debt to the atmosphere.
(Pause. LINUS shifts slightly under the blanket. A muffled voice emerges from beneath the fabric.)
LINUS:
The weave is thinning.
CHARLIE:
What weave?
LINUS:
The cotton. If I hold it up to the light—if there were light—I can see the individual threads separating. It was once a barrier. A wall against the morning. Now it is only a grid of tiny holes.
LUCY:
Throw it away.
LINUS:
(From under the blanket)
If I throw it away, the air will touch my chin.
LUCY:
The air is already touching your chin. You are simply pretending the thread counts for something.
CHARLIE:
I tried to kick the ball this morning.
LUCY:
There was no ball.
CHARLIE:
I know. But the motion was required. I ran three paces forward. I reached the spot where the sphere ought to have rested. I swung my right leg with great intention.
LINUS:
And?
CHARLIE:
I fell on my back. I lay in the clover for twenty minutes, staring at the ceiling of the world. My lumbar region aches.
LUCY:
You always fall. It is your primary function. If you kicked the ball, the sequence would break. The world depends on your back hitting the grass.
CHARLIE:
It seems a heavy responsibility for a boy in a zig-zag shirt.
(LUCY walks slowly to her booth, sits down on a small stool behind it, and rests her chin in her hands.)
LUCY:
Look at this booth. Four boards. A box. A sign painted with leftover blue enamel. People come to the window. They present their small, round grievances. “I am lonely,” they say. “I am confused by the twilight.” And I tell them to pull themselves together.
CHARLIE:
Does it help?
LUCY:
It passes six minutes. Then they leave, and the wind returns.
LINUS:
(Lowering the edge of the blanket just enough to expose his eyes)
Do you know what is behind the fence?
CHARLIE:
More fence.
LINUS:
Precisely. An infinite succession of wooden slats, painted white, rotting quietly at the base where the soil stays damp.
CHARLIE:
I had a dog once.
LUCY:
You still have a dog. He is sitting on top of his house right now, writing bad prose on a mechanical typewriter.
CHARLIE:
No. That is an idea of a dog. A real dog stays on the ground. A real dog barks at the mailman. Mine simply stares at the stars and imagines he is an aviator. He refuses to acknowledge his own paws.
LINUS:
Perhaps he is wise. Paws tie you to the earth. If you believe you are in the clouds, the mud on your belly feels like a cloud too.
(Silence. CHARLIE reaches into his pocket, pulls out a small, flat gray stone, and turns it over in his fingers.)
CHARLIE:
Smooth. Unremarkable. It has no opinions.
LUCY:
Give it to me.
CHARLIE:
Why?
LUCY:
So I can drop it into my tin cup. It will make a pleasant sound. A short, sharp clink. Then we can move on to the next silence.
CHARLIE:
(Hands the stone to Lucy)
Here.
(LUCY drops the stone into an empty tin can on her desk. CLINK. The sound dies instantly.)
LUCY:
There. It is done.
LINUS:
Was it satisfying?
LUCY:
It was brief.
CHARLIE:
The sun is setting behind the schoolhouse.
LINUS:
It isn’t setting. The earth is merely tilting away from it, turning its cold shoulder to the furnace.
CHARLIE:
A matter of phrasing. The result is darkness.
LUCY:
We should go inside.
CHARLIE:
Inside is just a larger box.
LINUS:
(Pulling the blue blanket back over his face entirely)
The blanket remains. It is thin, but it has a border.
CHARLIE:
Good grief.
(The light fades to a dark, uniform gray. The three figures remain completely motionless.)
[SCENE END]
