Making Mission

A Voluntary Tragedy

By Paula Brehm 

    About the Characters

Sergeant Bobby Joe Fowler, an Army recruiter that has recently returned from the war in Iraq.  He is suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome and feels guilty for helping unfit recruits join the Army only to be killed in Iraq.  Bobby Joe had always been proud to serve his country, but his current assignment is causing him so much physical, mental, and emotional stress that he can no longer summon up his previous level of pride in his job.  He was hoping that returning to his home town of Harmony, Texas would help him heal from his time in Iraq, but the combination of stress and post-traumatic stress syndrome has turned Bobby Joe into a ticking time bomb.

Captain Stowe, the commanding officer of a recruiting station in the Houston, Texas area.  He is from Harmony, Texas also and went to high school with Bobby Joe.  He and Bobby Joe were not friends in high school—Bobby Joe was a jock; Stowe was a scrawny bookworm—but it was a small school and everyone knew everyone.  Stowe went to West Point after high school and tried to leave his bookworm characteristics behind him, but even at West Point he was an outsider, the butt of jokes and a brown-nosing suck-up.  He has not been to Iraq or any other military engagements.  He is both relieved and shamed by this. 

Another recruiter in Stowe’s unit, a general representative of lying recruiters.

Jimmy Noble, son of a dairy farmer that wants to experience life outside of Harmony, Texas.  He is about to graduate high school, but has no plans for his future other than joining the Army.  He is not very smart.  His family farm has not been very profitable, and he feels that joining the Army would be a way to have a better life and see the world.  He is nervous about going to Iraq, but he is not old enough to accept his own mortality.

Ruby Noble, Jimmy’s mother, the wife of a dairy farmer.  She is a woman who works side by side with her husband on the farm.  She is about 55 and has never really wanted to leave Harmony, Texas.  She did not want Jimmy to join the Army, but she didn’t feel that she could stop him.

Dr. Haven, Fowler’s psychiatrist.  He has been to Iraq and specializes in Iraq War returnees and post-traumatic stress disorder.

Nancy Fowler, Fowler’s wife.  She met Bobby Joe when the two of them were stationed in Iraq during Desert Storm.  She was also in the Army, but she got out after her first tour of duty.  She went back to college and earned a degree in journalism. She is very aware of the change in Bobby Joe since his return from Iraq, but opted to give him time.  She encouraged him to see a psychiatrist, and she was the one who found Dr. Haven and recommended him to Bobby Joe

Warrant Officer Anthony Clarkson, part of the team investigating the unusually high number of suicides among Army recruiters in the Houston area. 

Making Mission

“One” by Metallica swells.  On scrim is a scene of moonlit trees in silhouette. Noises of birds and insects are playing. The stage is dark except for a dim spotlight on Captain Stowe and Sergeant Fowler.  Both men have just come from a funeral and are still in Army dress blues.  They are muddy and disheveled.  FOWLER is in his late thirties.  He is a tall man with broad shoulders.  STOWE is around the same age.  He is almost as tall as FOWLER, but he has a slighter build. Sergeant Fowler has a rope around Captain Stowe’s neck in such a way that it tightens and chokes him whenever he pulls against it. He has another length of rope gathered into a ring and slung over his shoulder.  Captain Stowe is gagged and has his hands tied behind his back.  FOWLER is leading STOWE like a dog on a leash.  The two men are walking on a path in the woods outside of Houston, Texas near a small town called Harmony.  It’s late at night, but there’s enough moonlight to see the path.    Unless stated otherwise, the two men continue to walk on the path.  The music softens.

FOWLER

(Addressing audience.) I was already on the edge, you know. 

                                                                                    (Pause.) 

Working twelve hour days, seven days a week, getting up at four in the morning to drive two hours to meet some kid in a barn on a farm in the middle of nowhere. 

                                                                                    (Pause.)

 Talking to him while he’s hooking the cows up to the milking machines, surrounded by shit, the smell of shit, and the flies buzzing around the shit. 

                                                                                    (Pause.) 

I mean this kid’s about to graduate high school.  He’s just seventeen.  He has no idea what he wants to do with his life.  He just knows that he’s seen his parents bust their asses all of their lives for little more than nothin’.  This kid, he just really wants to get away from the farm for a little while—away from the shit.

(Music ends. Lights off.  STOWE and FOWLER exit left.  “Traveling Soldier” by the Dixie Chicks plays quietly.  FOWLER and JIMMY NOBLE enter right.   An office scene with Army personnel at desks is projected on the scrim. Lights rise bright on JIMMY NOBLE and FOWLER who is now dressed in the new Army Service Uniform—blue slacks, black jacket and choroframs.  He has several rows of ribbons.    There is a metal desk at center. It is positioned so that the audience can see both men. An office chair is on one side; two straight chairs are on the other side facing the desk.  FOWLER is sitting in the office chair.  JIMMY NOBLE is sitting in one of the straight chairs.  He is dressed in coveralls, muddy work boots, a work jacket, and a winter ball cap with ear flaps.  He has a pair of grimy work gloves draped over his right leg.  )

FOWLER

(Leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head, elbows out.) So, Jimmy, how long have you been interested in joining the Army?

JIMMY NOBLE

(Taking his cap off, leaning forward, elbows on knees.) Well, ya know, I’m ‘bout to graduate, and I don’t know what I’m gonna do next.  Am I gonna stay on the farm and keep bustin’ my butt for mostly nothin’? 

                                                                                    (Sits up.  Rubs hand across eyes.)

That’s what my parents want, ya know.  Farm’s been in the family for over a hundred years.  I’d be the fourth generation of Nobles to run a dairy farm on that land.

                                                                                    (Crosses arms across chest.)

But I don’t think that’s what I wanna do.  Least not now.  I don’t want it to be the only thing I know.

                                                                                    (Takes deep breath.)

But what else could I do?  The dairy farm’s all I really know.  I sure ain’t goin’ to college.  I’m so sick of school.  I cain’t wait to be done.  I figure, if I join the Army, they’ll teach me somethin’ else, and I can see if I like it better than dairy farmin’.

FOWLER

(Puts arms down.  Reaches for a pencil.) So, not into school, huh?  Well, how’re your grades? 

JIMMY NOBLE

(Rubbing the back of his head.) Fair to middlin’, I guess.  I’m just tryin’ to pass and get outta there, you know?

FOWLER

(Leaning forward, elbows on desk.) You know, you’ve gotta take a test to get into the Army—and you’ve got to pass it.

JIMMY NOBLE

(Holding his arms out, palms up, shrugging.) Well, right now I got C’s and D’s in everything except my Vo-Tech classes. 

FOWLER

(Tapping pencil eraser on a pad on his desk.)  So what’re you taking at the Vo-Tech?

JIMMY NOBLE

(Folding arms across chest, but gesturing with top hand.)  Mostly engine repair, some construction and equipment operation.  I figure I could get on with a local mechanic or construction company, but I just don’t know if that’s what I want to do.

FOWLER

(Leaning on elbows, pointing pencil at JIMMY.)  So ya like those classes, huh?

JIMMY NOBLE

(Nodding head.) Oh, yeah.  If I didn’t have that half a day at Vo-Tech, I’d lose my ever-lovin’ mind.

FOWLER

(Laughing.) Well, you know, they’ve got some jobs in the Army that would be right up your alley—mechanical maintenance, construction equipment operator, and plenty of other things—but you gotta do good on the ASVAB test. 

JIMMY NOBLE

(Frowning.)  What kinda test is that…ASVAB?  That mean somethin’?

FOWLER

(Laughing.) Yeah, I forget sometimes that everybody doesn’t know what it is.  It’s Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery.

JIMMY NOBLE

(Raising eyebrows.) Wow!

FOWLER

(Rolling eyes.) Yeah, big name for we’re gonna ask you a buncha questions and figure out what you’re good at.

JIMMY NOBLE

(Crossing arms over chest.) Well, what sorta stuff they ask ya on this here…ASVAB test?

FOWLER

(Leaning back in his chair.) Well, it’s both an entrance exam and an aptitude test, so they ask a little bit of everything—vocabulary, map reading, 3-D visualization, mechanics, science, history, and just some common sense questions.

JIMMY NOBLE

(Seriously.) Hmmm.  So, no questions about cows, huh? 

FOWLER

(Laughing.)  No, no cow questions that I can remember.

JIMMY NOBLE

(Looking up, thinking.  Shrugs.)  I don’t know.  I think I could do good on some stuff, but I’d probably bomb a lot of it. 

FOWLER

(Leaning forward, elbows on desk, hands out palms up.)Well, if you do particularly good in a certain area, that’ll help us figure out where you can best serve.  You know, be all you can be, and all that.

JIMMY NOBLE

(Looking down at hands in lap.)  I don’t know; I ain’t that good at tests.

FOWLER

(Sitting up.  Chin in hand.  Other arm crossed over waist.)  Well, what’s the main reason you want to join the Army, Jimmy?

JIMMY NOBLE

(Looking up.  Shrugging.) I just wanna see something else besides Texas.  Do something else besides milkin’ cows, fixin’ fences, shovelin’ shit.  I wanna see what else I can do. 

                                                                                    (Pause.)

What kinda places you been?

FOWLER

(Looking up and counting on his fingers.) Let’s see.  I’ve been to Georgia, Germany, New York, Iraq.

JIMMY NOBLE

(Leaning forward, excited.)  You been to Iraq?  What was that like?  You see any action?

                                                                                    (FOWLER stands, turns away from JIMMY                                                                                                 NOBLE.  Shrugs.)

FOWLER

Some. 

                                                                                    (Pause.  Turns back around.)

FOWLER (cont.)

I’ve been twice.  First time…I was mostly standing guard at the embassy. 

                                                                                    (Pause.) 

This last time…I was on the ground…driving a tank. 

                                                                                    (Pause. Walks back to desk.  Smiles.)

That’s what I do.  I operate and repair Army tanks. 

                                                                                    (Long pause.  FOWLER looks down then                                                                                         back up.)

But I’ll be honest…it can be bad over there.

JIMMY NOBLE

(Looking away.)  Yeah, I bet it can be. 

                                                                                    (Long pause.)

You think I’d go over there?

FOWLER

(Shrugs.  Turns away.)  Hard to say.  It depends on how long it takes you to get in, what schools you go to, what job you get trained for. 

                                                                                    (Long pause.  FOWLER turns back and                                                                                            smiles.)

The war could be over by the time you’re ready to ship out.

JIMMY NOBLE

(Looking into FOWLER’S eyes.)  But it might not be.

FOWLER

(Returning JIMMY NOBLE’S look.)  It might not be…that’s right. 

                                                                                    (Pause.)

Listen, Jimmy, you think about it for a few days and come back to see me if you want to talk more.  I’m having a barbeque this weekend, inviting some of the guys I’ve talked to here.  Maybe you’d like to come?

JIMMY NOBLE

(Standing.)  Sure, yeah.  Maybe I’ll come.

(FOWLER pulls open a drawer on his desk and reaches in pulling out a business card.  He reaches over the desk.  Hands it to JIMMY NOBLE.)

FOWLER

Okay, here’s my card.  It’s got my cell phone and email.  Just let me know or just stop by.

(JIMMY NOBLE takes card.  Looks at it intently. Tucks it into his coat pocket.)

JIMMY NOBLE

(Holding his hand out to shake FOWLER’S hand.)  Sure thanks, man.

FOWLER

(Taking JIMMY NOBLE’S hand and shaking it.)  Yeah, sure.

(JIMMY NOBLE exits right.  FOWLER leans back in his chair with his fingers interlaced behind his head.  Sighs. Light fades on FOWLER.  Music Ends.  Exits left. “One” by Metallica swells.  The silhouette of moonlit trees is projected on the scrim.  At rise, FOWLER, dressed as before, and STOWE enter right as in opening.  FOWLER looks down, shakes head, tugs rope.  STOWE stumbles and wheezes.  Music softens.) 

FOWLER

I mean, I thought this was going to be a break after that shit in Iraq.  Coming back to Harmony.  Getting a chance to spend time with my family, to be a hero in my home town, a chance to get my head back on straight. 

                                                                                    (Laughs disgustedly.) 

Instead, I got my head more up my ass than ever.  All I can think about—all any one of us can think about—is making mission.  And does anyone help anyone else out?  No. Hell no.  Everyone’s just out to get their quota.  To hell with the rest of us.  And I was the new guy.  I didn’t know the score.  I was just thrown in with the fucking sharks.  Before I knew it, I was one of the sharks—eatin’ up the poor little fishes. 

                                                                                    (Tugs rope hard.  Captain Stowe falls                                                                                        to knees, makes muffled noises, struggles                                                                                          to free himself.) 

And this fucker

                                                                                    (Yanking to feet.)

He’s the head shark. 

(Music ends. Lights dim.  Stowe and Fowler exit left.  On the scrim is projected a row of men in uniform standing at attention.  Sounds of marching and cadences plays.  After several minutes, the lights rise.  STOWE enters right.  He is dressed in the Army Service Uniform for officers.  He marches determinedly across the stage to center.  He turns toward the audience.   His forehead is furrowed in a frown.  His eyes are squinted.  His jaw is set, and his lips are pressed together.  He addresses the audience speaking loudly, pacing and gesturing wildly. Sounds soften.)

STOWE

I don’t know what’s wrong with you dirtbags, but you’re going to either make mission or die trying. 

                                                                                    (Louder.)

Do you hear me?  I want you at the schools, at the churches, hell, at the Wal-Mart.  Anywhere there might be kids looking to get out of Texas and see the world. 

                                                                                    (Louder.)

 Do you hear me?  I will not be ruined by you lazy dirtbags.  I will not.

                                                                                    (Louder.)

Do you hear me?  Any man that doesn’t make mission will be here on Saturday and Sunday on the phone making appointments for next week.  You will not see your wife.  You will not see your kids.  Haven’t gotten laid in a month?

                                                                                    (Louder.)  

I don’t give a shit.  Missed your kid’s piano recital? 

                                                                                    (Louder.)

 I don’t give a shit.  You will make mission by the end of the month, or you will answer to me. 

                                                                                    (Louder.)

Do you hear me?  In fact, you will write an essay explaining why you couldn’t make mission.  You will read that essay to the unit once it has been approved by me—once I decide that it properly explains what a dirtbag you are. 

                                                                                    (Louder.)

 Do you hear me?  I have a spotless record.  And I want to make Major—get my gold leaf.  I will make Major. 

                                                                                    (Louder.)

Do you hear me?  I will!  Now get to work, dirtbags!

                                                                                    (Marching and cadences stop.  STOWE                                                                                             exits right. Light fades. “One” by                                                                                                      Metallica swells.  The moonlit silhouette of                                                                                       trees is on the scrim.  Lights   rise on                                                                                      STOWE and FOWLER as previous.)

SERGEANT FOWLER

(Addressing the audience) You see?  Screamin’ at us, “Make mission—make mission, or you’ll never see your kids, never see your wife.”  Up in your face on the line, screamin’, “You little pussies!  You get out there, and you get signatures!” 

                                                                                    (Pause.)

God!  It drove me fucking crazy having that little prick talk to me like that.  I didn’t need that shit.

                                                                                    (Pause.)

I mean, fuck!  I had killed men for less.  Men who hadn’t done a thing to me personally, and now I gotta put up with this little worm dressin’ me down in front of everyone.  It fuckin’ sucked.

FOWLER (cont.)

                                                                                    (Pause.)

Of course the guys that’ve got their two, they’re behind him on the other side, grinning like assholes.  Yeah, they got their two.

                                                                                    (Pause.)

 They got their two…but what did they do to get them?  What lies did they tell?  What shit did they hide? 

(Music ends.  Light fades on STOWE and FOWLER. Theme song to Gomer Pyle USMC plays quietly.      Lights rise. On the scrim is a projection of high school students sitting in the bleachers in a gym ANOTHER RECRUITER IN STOWE’S UNIT dressed in Army dress blues enters right, crosses to center and addresses the audience.)

ANOTHER RECRUITER IN STOWE’S UNIT

War, what war?  They’re already bringing troops back.  We’re pulling out.  By the time you get outta boot camp, the war’ll be over, son.                                                                                                                                                                              (Pause.  Folds arms across chest.)

If you do happen to go to Iraq or Afghanistan, you’ll get your first choice of duty when you leave.  Anywhere you want to go—Hawaii, Italy, back to your hometown—anywhere. 

                                                                                    (Pause.  Shakes head. Points finger                                                                                                    accusingly.)

No, don’t tell the doctor that your pediatrician said you had asthma.  Just make sure you’re breathing fine when you see the doc.

                                                                                    (Pause.  Spluttering.)

Shave your head?  Hell no, they haven’t done that for years.  Decided it was stupid.  Course you do have to cut you hair.  Don’t want no hippies in the Army.

                                                                                    (Pause.  Paces with arms across chest.)

Now the standard answer to, “Have you ever done drugs,” is, “No.  Never done ‘em.  Never want to.”  A week before you go to the MEPS station, you quit doing everything.  No alcohol, no drugs.  On the drive up, I’ll pump you with fluids like there’s no tomorrow.  By the time you have to piss in the cup, there’ll be nothing in your system but pure water. 

                                                                                    (Stops pacing.  Appears to be listening.)

MEPS?  That’s Military Entrance Processing Command, not that you’ll ever need to know that.  Just call it MEPS.  Everyone will know what you’re talkin’ about.

                                                                                    (Pause.  Big smile.)

Now listen, one more thing, if you don’t like it when you get to boot camp, just tell your CC.  You can just come on back home if you don’t like it.  No one’s gonna make you stay if you don’t want to.  You’re defending our country, kid.  They’re gonna treat you like royalty.

(Music ends.  Light fades on ANOTHER  RECRUITER IN STOWE’S UNIT. Exits right. Scrim returns to silhouette of moonlit trees. “One” by Metallica swells.  spotlights rise on STOWE and FOWLER. Music softens.)

FOWLER

(Addressing audience.)  Hell half these shitheads ain’t even been to Iraq.  They don’t know.  They don’t know shit.  Yeah, we did a lot of standing around, walking around, driving around.  But you’re never off-guard—never.  Your finger is on the trigger twenty-four seven.  Your eyes are open, scanning the horizon.  You never trust anyone—not even the little kids.  You can’t. 

                                                                                    (Pause.)

You see, the thing is…you never know when or where it’s gonna happen.  You could be driving along on an ordinary supply run, and the truck in front of you blows up. 

                                                                                    (Pause.)

You could be in Mosul walking past the police station…the fucking police station, and a truck comes outta nowhere, hits the gate and blows up.  And bam!  Three of your guys are gone.  Two others out of commission. 

                                                                                    (Pause.  Quieter.)

You could’ve just had your one hot meal of the day, dumped your tray and walked out of the chow hall…and it blows up.

                                                                                    (Long pause.  Turns away trying to control                                                                                        his emotions.)

You see, the thing is, there’s no war zone.  The war zone is everywhere.  There is no safe place.

                                                                                    (Pause.)

That can make a guy a little twitchy…a little crazy…or a lot crazy.

                                                                                    (Pause.)

You can’t even trust your own guys.  They got guys over there, paid soldiers that are supposed to be on our side.  But they’ll do anything for money.  That’s what it’s all about for them.  Ain’t about patriotism.  Ain’t about defending your country.  Nope.  Just money.  Some asshole wearing the same uniform we are will get offered a big raise to change sides.  Next thing you know, some guy who’s supposed to be on your team leads you right into a firestorm.  Shit. 

                                                                                    (Looks down, shakes head, yanks rope.                                                                                             STOWE is caught off guard and falls.) 

And this little shit. 

                                                                                    (Yanks rope again. Pulls him to his feet.)

He ain’t never been nowhere.  Just a fuckin’ West Point prick.  They’re the worst.  In charge without a clue.  Wherever there’s a giant cluster fuck, you can bet there’s a West Point prick in the middle of it.  Before you know it, everything is FUBAR—fucked up beyond all recognition.  Aint’ that right, Captain? 

                                                                                    (Yanks rope, looks down, chokes back sob.) 

When I heard Jimmy Noble was dead.

                                                                                    (Pause.)

Shit.

                                                                                    (Longer pause.)

That just sent me over the edge—right over the fucking edge.  That kid shoulda’ never been sent over there.  He shoulda’ never gotten in the Army in the first place—stupid shit.  He just wanted

FOWLER (cont.)

it so bad, and this prick…                                                                                                                                                                                                       (Yanks rope.)

…wanted me to get my two, so we made it happen—me and Jimmy. You shoulda seen his face the first time he found out that he failed the ASVAB.  So young, so disappointed.  Looked like a droopy old hound dog, but he perked right up when I told him he could take it again.  Yep, I even helped him study. 

(Music ends.  Light fades on STOWE and                                                                            FOWLER.  “What a Wonderful World” by                                                                           Sam Cooke plays quietly.  Lights rise on                                                                                JIMMY NOBLE and FOWLER as they                                                                               enter right.  Jimmy is dressed in jeans,

sneakers, and a t-shirt.  Fowler is dressed in a work uniform.  JIMMY paces and rubs his head.  FOWLER sits tilted back in a straight-backed chair reading from some papers.)

FOWLER

What does the abbreviation A.C. stand for?

JIMMY NOBLE

A.C., A. C., what does it stand for? 

                                                                                    (Pause.)

After Christ?

FOWLER

No.  Here’s a hint.  This is a science question.

JIMMY NOBLE

Hmm.  Science question.  Science question. 

                                                                                    (Pause.)

Alternative chemistry?

FOWLER

No.     

                                                                                    (Laughs.)

Nice guess, though.  It stands for alternating current. 

JIMMY NOBLE

(Groaning.)  I should have known that.  Dang!

FOWLER

Let’s try another one.  Water is an example of A) a crystal, B) a solid, C) a gas, or D) a liquid. 

JIMMY NOBLE

A liquid! 

                                                                                    (Stops pacing.  Folds arms across chest.                                                                                             Looks at FOWLER.)

Was that really a question, or are you just tryin’ to keep me from feeling stupid?

FOWLER

It’s a real question I swear.  How about this one?  If twelve men are needed to run four machines, how many men are needed to run twenty machines?

JIMMY NOBLE

Now why would ya need twelve men to run four machines?  What kinda machines are they?

FOWLER

Doesn’t really matter, Jimmy.  Now think.  You’ve got four machines, and it takes twelve men to run them, so how many men are at each machine?

JIMMY NOBLE

Well, how should I know?  Are they all the same?  Do they all need the same number of men to run them? 

                                                                                    (Paces.  Rubs head.)

They sure ain’t no milking machines.  Hell, I can run twelve milkin’ machines all by myself. 

FOWLER

(Taking a deep breath.) Let’s just assume that they are all the same kind of machines, and that they all require the same number of men to run them.  How many men per machine, Jimmy?

JIMMY NOBLE

Let’s see, four machines, twelve guys.

                                                                                    (Pause.  Points finger at FOWLER in                                                                                                excitement.)

That’s three guys per machine!

FOWLER

Good!  Now, how many for twenty machines?

JIMMY NOBLE

So same kind of machines, same number of guys.  Twenty machines, three guys per machine….That’s sixty!

FOWLER

That’s right!  Good.  Okay, next.  A car uses too much oil when which parts are worn?

JIMMY NOBLE

Oh, that’s an easy one.  Piston rings!  Why can’t all the questions be like that?

FOWLER

I wish they could be, Jimmy.  Let’s try another one.  An eclipse of the sun throws the shadow of the, A) moon on the sun, B) moon on the earth, C) earth on the sun, or D) earth on the moon?

JIMMY NOBLE

Oh, uh…eclipse of the sun…hmm.  Shadow, uhmmm. 

                                                                                    (Long pause.  Turns to FOWLER and                                                                                               shrugs.)

I don’t know…the earth on the sun?

FOWLER

Nope. The moon on the earth. 

                                                                                    (Pause.)

How about some vocabulary?  What does the word ‘blatant’ mean?  A) worn-looking; faded; exhausted, B) not excitable; very casual, C) overly loud or offensively conspicuous, or D) thorough; complete?

JIMMY NOBLE

Blatant, like he’s a blatant liar, hmmm.  I say, ‘C.’

FOWLER

That’s right.  You’re really getting better.  I think you’re going to pass this time, Jimmy.  Why don’t we go a few more minutes and then go get some pizza?

(Music ends.  Light fades.  JIMMY NOBLE and FOWLER exit right.  Scrim returns to silhouette of moonlit trees.  “One” by Metallica swells. Spotlights rise on STOwe and FOWLER. Music softens.)

FOWLER

(Pause, choked sob.)  I killed him

                                                                                    (Sobbing harder.) 

I killed Jimmy Noble.

                                                                                    (Pause, yanks rope.  STOWE  tries to say                                                                                           something through his gag.) 

And this prick helped.  Steadied my hand while I pulled the trigger. 

                                                                                    (Pause.) 

Shit.  I knew he’d get sent over there without a specialty.  He finally passed the ASVAB, yeah, but his score was so low—he couldn’t get nothing’ good.  Just a grunt, and all grunts are disposable. 

                                                                                    (Looks down.  Shakes head.)

He was a sweet kid, but dumb as a rock, man.  And I knew it.  Hell, I knew I was killin’ him, and I did it anyway.  And his parents.  Clem and Ruby Noble.  Known ‘em all my life.  They never wanted their boy to leave the farm, and he probably wouldn’t have, if it hadn’t been for me.  But

FOWLER (cont.)

I made him believe that there was a better life out there, that staying home on the farm just wasn’t enough. 

                                                                                    (Pause.)

I went to his funeral.

                                                                                    (Choked sob.)

Today.  And they didn’t blame me, his parents, not with words, but their eyes. 

                                                                                    (Pause.)

Their eyes blamed me.  And they were right.  I killed their son. 

(Music ends. Lights dim on FOWLER and STOWE. On the scrim is a farm scene—barn, fields, cows.  “Dear Mr. President” by Pink is playing quietly. RUBY NOBLE, a woman in her mid-fifties, enters stage right.  She has her hair stuffed under a ball cap, but gray tendrils are escaping. She has on work boots, overalls, a flannel shirt, an old chore coat and work gloves.  She’s   leaning on a shovel. spotlight rises on her.)

RUBY NOBLE

(Shaking head.)  I never wanted Jimmy to leave, but I could see why he’d want to. 

                                                                                    (Pause.)

Farmin’s a hard job, and nobody ever got rich doin’ it.  Ya cain’t hardly go on vacation.  Askin’ a neighbor to take care of a barn full a cows ain’t the same as askin’ ‘em to take care of your dog. 

                                                                                    (Pause.  Shrugs.)

Every day is the same as the last.  Ya gotta get up and do chores…week days, weekends, even when it’s rainin’ or cold. 

                                                                                    (Pause.  Takes deep breath.)

Ain’t really the life I chose so much as it’s the life I’ve been given.

                                                                                    (Pause.  Scans the audience.)

I never lived nowhere else but here in Harmony, Texas.  

                                                                                    (Shrugs.)

I sometimes wondered what life was like in other places, but I ain’t had no way of knowin’ or findin’ out.  I ain’t finished high school.  I sure ain’t been to college.  Didn’t want girls in the Army when I was a kid, so I did what everyone else did.  Married a farmer and had kids. 

                                                                                    (Pause.)

Jimmy was my last…my baby. 

                                                                                    (Looks down.  Sniffs.) 

He was so proud when he got in the Army…so proud. 

                                                                                    (Looks up.  Holds arms out, palms up,                                                                                               pleading.)

I couldn’t of made him stay even if I’d a wanted to. 

                                                                                    (Looks down.)

RUBY NOBLE (cont.)

Course he never had no notions ‘bout leavin’ till he met Sergeant Fowler, started hearin’ bout fightin’ for his country and bein’ a hero. 

                                                                                    (Pause.  Shakes head.)

Now I don’t really blame Bobby Joe.

                                                                                    (Pause.  Shrugs.)

But Jimmy’d probably still be here, if he’d a never met Bobby Joe.

(Lights dim. Music ends. RUBY NOBLE exits stage right.  The scrim returns to the moonlit silhouette of trees.  “One” by Metallica swells.  Spolights rise on STOWE and FOWLER as before. Music softens. )

FOWLER

I went back to the office after the funeral.  It was late.  Wasn’t nobody there but this prick.

                                                                                    (Jerks rope.  Stowe makes gagging                                                                                                 noises.) 

And he’s got the nerve to ask me if I’ve gotten my two. 

 (Shakes head.)

Can you believe that?  God, I wanted to kill him right then…but I had to think.  I knew I was done, and I knew I was taking this bastard with me, but it had to be good. 

                                                                                    (Yanks rope.  STOWE’S face is turning                                                                                             red.)

He’s gotta know before he goes what it’s like to be scared shitless…with no way to stop it.  He’s gotta know how hard it is to know if you’re doing the right thing.

                                                                                    (Long pause.)

You think those kids over in Iraq and Afghanistan are brave?  Maybe.  But they’re scared too.  All of them, and if they ain’t, they’re fucking crazy.  Those are the guys that live too, the crazy ones.  Ain’t got sense enough to be scared—crazy fuckers.  They come home heroes for doing crazy shit like sneaking behind enemy lines to plant a bomb, or running right into the line of fire to draw out a sniper.  Yeah, they’re crazy fuckers. 

                                                                                    (Pause.)

Not me, though.  I spent every second there thinking that the next second was going to be my last.  It sucks—living like that—it fucking sucks.  And I sent Jimmy right into it.

                                                                                    (Pause.)

He’s dead, and I should be dead too.  I don’t deserve to live.  One of the other guys.  He lost one during basic training, and all he could think about was having to make up the loss.  Yeah, that’s right, if one of your two don’t make it through boot camp, you gotta make it up—even if they die.  Sucks.  I can’t believe we don’t lose more.  Hell, half the kids we ship out got problems—problems we tell ‘em to lie about. 

                                                                                    (Yanks rope.  STOWE seems to be having                                                                                         trouble breathing.) 

This prick, he’s got a whole list of tricks to get the kids in.  Don’t tell ‘em you smoke pot.  Don’t tell ‘em you only got one kidney.  Gain some weight kid.  Lose some weight.  Whatever.  Whatever it takes. 

FOWLER (cont.)

                                                                                    (Pause.  Deep breath.) 

He was so proud.  Jimmy was…so proud.  I drove him to the airport, sat with him ‘til he boarded.  All he could talk about was showing his parents, making his parents proud.  And he wrote to me.  Wrote to me from boot camp.  Wrote to me from Iraq.  A lot of the

kids write to their recruiters. 

                                                                                    (Laughing.)

A lot of them are pissed ‘cause of the lies they got told. 

                                                                                    (Shaking head.)

Not Jimmy though.  Wasn’t even smart enough to be pissed. 

                                                                                    (Lights fade.  Music ends.  Stowe and

                        Fowler exit left.  Jimmy Noble enters

                        right. “The Army Goes Rolling Along”

                        plays quietly in the background.  On the                                scrim is a projection of Army recruits                                     marching in formation during a boot camp                                    graduation ceremony.  This should include                             the “eyes    right” portion of the ceremony.                                Spotlight rises on JIMMY. He is dressed in

                        desert camouflage.  He’s wearing a helmet

                        and Army jump boots             and carrying a             rifle.)             

JIMMY NOBLE

(Addressing audience.)  I was so excited when I got that passin’ ASVAB score.  And the trip to Fort Benning.  Oh, my Gawd!  My first time on a plane.  My first time out of Texas.  It was somethin’. 

                                                                                    (Pause.  Nods)

Yeah, boot camp was a little hard, ‘specially at first—getting up early, all that working out.  I think because I was a farm boy, I was already sorta used to those things.  It helped me out, you know, workin’ on the farm. 

                                                                                    (Shrugs.)

I was already getting’ up early, and farm work is pretty physical.  So I was pretty good in that area, but the classes were somethin’ else, just like being in school.  We had to learn about Army history; we had to learn all of the military uniforms and pins; we had to learn the chain of command—then fire-fighting, first aid, survival skills.  It was a lot.  And the drillin’, drillin’, drillin’.  How to march, how to handle the rifle, hand-to-hand combat. 

                                                                                    (Pause.)

But wow! When I made it, man, I was so proud, and I felt good too.  I was in great shape.  I felt more…sure of myself.     

                                                                                    (Pause.)

My parents came to see me graduate.  It was a big deal for them too. 

                                                                                    (Pause.  Looks down.  Looks back at the                                                                                           audience.  Smiles.)

JIMMY NOBLE (cont.)

Mom had never been out of Harmony, and she sure hadn’t never been on a plane—just like me.  Dad had made a few trips, to conferences on dairy farmin’ and to buy equipment, stuff like that, but he’d never been to Georgia, so it was new for him too.

                                                                                    (Pause.  Takes helmet off.  Holds under                                                                                             arm.  Wipes forehead with other arm.)

And they were both so proud.  Lord, I thought we all might just bust we was so proud. 

                                                                                    (Looks down.  Shifts feet.)

But we was all scared too.  I already knew I was goin’ to Iraq.  We got our orders about two weeks before graduation.  Some guys was going on to school, like explosives experts, or communications, or translators, but I wasn’t smart enough to do any a those things. 

                                                                                    (Pause.  Laughs.)

‘Course, I think you gotta be pretty stupid to want to work with explosives.

                                                                                    (Pause.  Looks down.  Rubs eyes with free                                                                                        hand.)

Anyway, I had to tell ‘em at supper that night.  Their eyes just sorta froze.  I thought they mighta stopped breathin’.  Them being scared made me scared, but I told ‘em I’d be all right.  I sure hoped I’d be all right.

                                                                                    (Pause.  Shrugs shoulders.)

But you all know that wasn’t the case.  I got myself killed. 

 (Pause.  Extends free hand palm up.)

I don’t blame Sergeant Fowler.  He’s just doing his duty, you know.  He told me it could be bad over here.  He didn’t lie like those other recruiters.  I couldn’t blame him.  I loved it at first.  Living in tents, hanging out with the guys, drinking, smoking, cussing.  All things I didn’t do at home. 

                                                                                    (Pause.  Speaks quietly.  Looks around.)

Even smoked a little pot.  No one seemed to care.  Even the officers.  I think they may’ve been smoking themselves.  In their tents. 

                                                                                    (Long pause.  Puts free hand over eyes.                                                                                             Rubs face.  Takes deep breath.)

But then, one of my buddies got killed. 

                                                                                    (Pause. Shakes head.)

It was awful.  We were moving camp.  Getting deeper in, you know.  We was all packed up with supplies and gear…and weapons, of course.  Some guys were in the trucks, and some guys was in the tanks, but most of us grunts just walked, kept a look out, you know.

                                                                                    (Pause.  Rubs eyes.)

 Me and this kid from Ohio was talking about our girls back home and you know, stuff like that.  We was laggin’ behind a little.  Ole Tight-ass, that’s what we called him, on account of him always wanting to follow the rules and bustin’ our balls when we just wanted to relax and mess around.  ‘Course he was marching right along, looking ahead, looking around, keeping a quick pace. 

                                                                                    (Pause.  Puts hand over mouth.  Closes eyes.                                                                                     Takes deep breath.  Opens eyes.)                   

I seen him starting to turn his head, and I knew he’s about to start ragging on us to keep up.

JIMMY NOBLE (cont.)

                                                                                    (Long pause. Looks down.  Wipes eyes with                                                                                     arm as if wiping tears away.  Looks up.                                                                                             Voice is choked.)

But he didn’t get the chance.  Nope.  One minute he’s opening his mouth to give us a hard time, and the next he’s chopped in half.  I don’t think he ever knew a thing, but us…                                                                                                                      (Pause.  Sobs.)

…we knew way too much.  I never thought of a body…a human body…as just so much meat. 

                                                                                    (Pauses.  Looks around as if searching for                                                                                         the right words to explain the feeling.)

You know, like the cows on the farm.  I’ve seen cows butchered all my life, so I didn’t think much about it anymore. 

                                                                                    (Long pause.  Covers face with hand.  Takes                                                                                     deep breath.  Drops hand. Shakes head.)

But a person.  I just never thought of them that way, but that’s what he looked like.  A butchered human.  A badly butchered human.  Just chopped off at the knees.  One leg went one way, and the other went off the other way. 

                                                                                    (Long pause.  Holds arm over eyes.  Drops                                                                                        arm.  Voice is choked.)

Something landed on me, and I had to run puke in the scrub. 

(Pause.)

I wasn’t the only one neither.  Most of the guys puked or looked like they wanted to. 

                                                                                    (Long pause.  Puts hand over mouth.  Closes                                                                                     eyes.  Breathes deeply twice.  Drops hand.                                                                                        Opens eyes.)

The medics come, but there weren’t nothin’ they could do but scoop him up, gather up as much of his parts as they could and bag him.  They had to wait for the helicopter to come get what was left of him.  The rest of us just…moved on.  Wasn’t nothin’ else to do.

                                                                                    (Pause.  Shrugs.  Shakes head.)

After that…we was all terrified just to take one step.  And I stayed that way…all the time…until I got myself killed.

(Music ends.  Light fades.  JIMMY NOBLE exits right. Scrim returns to moonlit silhouette of trees.  “One” by Metallica swells.  Spotlight comes up on Stowe and Fowler as before.)

FOWLER

I wrote back.  A lot of recruiters don’t, but I know.  I remember. 

                                                                                    (Pause.  Closes eyes.  Glares at STOWE.                                                                                           Turns back to the audience.)

How lonely you get in boot camp, and how lonely you get over in that fucking sand pit. How tired you get of sand fleas and eating MRE’s.  Sick of the heat and oh, my God, the camel spiders.

                                                                                    (Shivers.  Makes face.)

FOWLER (cont.)

Those things are crazy!  Ain’t like nothing we’ve got in the states, sure ain’t like nothing in Harmony.  These things are big, and hairy, and they ain’t afraid of us.

                                                                                    (Shakes head.)

They’ll crawl right through the middle of the tent, and some of ‘em will rare up at you if you try to get ‘em out.  And nobody wants to smash ‘em ‘cause they make a horrible mess.   

                                                                                    (Pause. Rubs hand over head.)

And you can’t tell your parents that shit—not when you’re trying to show them that you ain’t a kid no more.  You gotta stay upbeat, positive, make ‘em think you’re having a fuckin’ ball in Iraq.  And you are.  Yep, having a ball not gettin’ enough sleep.  Havin’ a ball scratchin’ at the sand fleas and runnin’ from camel spiders.  Havin’ a ball in a tent with a hundred other guys, snoring, screaming, and farting all night.  Yep.  It’s a ball all right.  A fucking ball. 

                                                                                    (Long pause.  Looks down.  Puts hand over                                                                                      face.  Shakes head.  Stays that way as he                                                                                           starts to speak.)

And then some guy, some guy you’ve been living with for months, some guy just a few feet in front of you gets his legs blown off. 

                                                                                    (Pause.  Drops hand.  Opens eyes.  Looks                                                                                          up.  Takes a deep breath.  Shakes head.)

You freeze.  You can’t even understand what’s happened.  You can’t possibly be looking at your Army buddy with his body scattered all over the place, with the blood pumping out of him like a fire hose—pump, pump, pump—the sand’s soaking up the blood just as fast as it runs out of him. 

                                                                                    (Pause.  Glares at STOWE.  Speaks with                                                                                           choked voice.  Nods head.)

Yeah, Jimmy wrote me about it.  Something like that happens to all the guys over there. They may not tell anyone about it, but it happens. 

                                                                                    (Long pause.)

I wrote him back.  

                                                                                    (Pause.)

Told him my story. 

                                                                                    (Pause.)

How one morning we were unloading supplies from a truck that had come in that morning with food, soap and ammo and stuff like that.  Riley, the kid that was helping me, he was whistling and bouncing around, ‘cause he was headed home.

                                                                                    (Pause.  Laughs.)

 I wanted to kick his ass.  I was about to tell him to knock it off, when he went down.  Outta nowhere. MK-16  fire. 

                                                                                    (Pause.  Shakes head.  Speaks in choked                                                                                            voice.)

They musta been behind the truck, just waitin’, ‘cause Riley was shot in half practically.  He was already dead when I got to him, but his eyes were wide open.  He never knew what hit him.

                                                                                    (Long pause.  FOWLER looks down.                                                                                                Yanks rope.  STOWE falls again with                                                                                                a grunt.  He struggles.  FOWLER                                                                                                      just leaves him on the ground.)

FOWLER

And this asshole didn’t even tell me when he heard that Jimmy had died.  I had to hear it from his parents.  They wanted to know if I was coming to the funeral.  They were trying to find out about the military burial and all that.  

                                                                                    (Pause.)

That was the start of it all.  That was the first time that I really wanted to kill this prick.

                                                                                    (Kicks STOWE in the gut.)

I went home that night and just drank myself into a coma.  I didn’t give a shit about no mission.  All I could think about was getting this fuck and what a coward I was.  Sending kids to die. 

                                                                                    (Long pause.)

I tried to make it work, you know.  I tried to get back to normal.  I went and got help…and I might’ve been okay…if it weren’t for Jimmy.

(Lights fade. Music ends.  FOWLER and STOWE exit left.  At rise, there is an expensive looking desk at center, perpendicular to the audience.  The rest of the office is projected   on the scrim—book shelves, plants, diplomas, etc.  There is a meditation fountain on the desk, and the audience hears the sound of the water, along with some calming music playing very softly.   At the             desk is seated DR. HAVEN.  He is dressed somewhat casually.  He is about the same age as FOWLER.  He leans over and presses a button on an intercom system on his desk.) 

DR. HAVEN

Nancy, you can send him in.

                                                                                    (Pulls a pad of paper toward him and digs                                                                                         for a pen from a pencil holder on desk.                                                                                              Opens a drawer.  Pulls out a tape recorder.                                                                                        Puts it on the desk.  Swivels in chair.  Opens                                                                                     an apartment-sized refrigerator behind him.                                                                                            Pulls out two bottles of water.  Closes                                                                                             refrigerator.  FOWLER enters right.  Stands                                                                                       uncomfortably at right.  He is dressed in                                                                                            jeans, a t-shirt, and sneakers.)

DR. HAVEN

Come on in, Sergeant Fowler.  Have a seat.

FOWLER

(Crossing to desk.)  Bobby Joe. Call me Bobby Joe.

DR. HAVEN

Bobby Joe.  Please.

                                                                                    (Gestures to chair.)

Have a seat.

FOWLER

(Pulling chair away from desk and sitting.)  Thanks.

DR. HAVEN

(Standing and reaching across desk to shake hands.)  It’s nice to meet you, Bobby Joe.

FOWLER

(Standing and reaching to meet DR. HAVEN’S hand.)  Yeah, you too.  It’s nice to meet you.

                                                                                    (The two men shake hands, smile and sit                                                                                           down.)

DR. HAVEN

(Picking up notepad and pen.  Gesturing to tape recorder.)  Do you mind if I tape our session?  It helps me remember what my notes mean.

                                                                                    (Laughs.)

FOWLER

Mmmm.  I guess that’s all right.

DR. HAVEN

(Turning on the tape recorder, and writing on pad.)  So, Bobby Joe, what would you like to talk about today?

FOWLER

(Crossing arms across chest.)  Well, my wife thought I should talk to someone.

DR. HAVEN

(Looking at FOWLER, pen poised.)  And why does she think you should talk to someone? 

FOWLER

(Hesitating.)  Well, I haven’t been sleeping really.

                                                                                    (Pause.)

I have nightmares.

DR. HAVEN

(Nodding.)  That’s not uncommon with the men returning from Iraq…or any war.  Do you remember the nightmares?

FOWLER

(Shrugging.)  Yeah, pretty much.

DR. HAVEN

(Looking at FOWLER, eyebrows raised expectantly.)  Can you tell me what you remember?

FOWLER

(Closing eyes.)  It starts off with this screaming.

                                                                                    (Pause.)

Just screaming and screaming and screaming. 

                                                                                    (Pause.)

And then I’m looking into this burning building.

DR. HAVEN

(Pressing the pen against his lips.)  What do you see?

FOWLER

(Eyes still closed.)  Kids….  Kids and women…their mothers.  They’re screaming.

DR. HAVEN

(Frowning.)  Do you know why they’re screaming.

FOWLER

(Hesitating.)  They’re on fire.  The whole building’s on fire, and they can’t get out.  They’re trapped.

DR. HAVEN

(Pausing and making notes.)  Does this dream mean anything to you, Bobby Joe?

                                                                                    (FOWLER doesn’t answer.  Presses lips                                                                                            together tight.  Tears begin to seep from                                                                                            under his closed eyelids.)

Look, Bobby Joe.  I’m not here to judge you.  Whatever you tell me doesn’t leave this room, and no matter what you think, I’ve probably heard worse, or just as bad. 

                                                                                    (Pause.)

I’ve been there too, Bobby Joe.  I was there in 2003.  I was a medic.

                                                                                    (Pause.)

I didn’t have to kill anyone, but I saw a lot of shit.  Almost got killed a couple of times.  Nothing’s off limits over there.  

                                                                                    (Pause.)          

There’s no safe place.

                                                                                    (FOWLER opens his eyes.  Looks at DR.                                                                                          HAVEN.  Wipes at his face with the heels of                                                                                    his hands.  Leans back in chair.  Takes                                                                                               several deep breaths.)

FOWLER

We got intel that there were weapons being stored at this house outside of Mosul.  Me and six other guys drove our tanks over.  A few other guys went in helos.  We didn’t get too close.  We didn’t have to.  The tank’s got a range of a little over two miles.

                                                                                    (Pause.)

So we went in shot the place up.  Pulled back.  And the helos went in dropped a few cluster bombs, lit the place up.  We waited for about an hour, then we went in to…check our work.

                                                                                    (Squeezes eyes tighter.)

We could smell it before we saw it.  First it was just fuel and sulphur.  Then you could smell the burning…

                                                                                    (Grimaces.  Swallows.) 

…flesh.  And oh, God.  The bodies.  Kids, babies, women.  It was hard to tell, but I don’t think there were but a handful of men. 

                                                                                    (Shakes head.)

I couldn’t stop thinking about how awful it must have been for them.  Being burned alive.  I hope most of them were dead from the tank fire, but…I don’t know.  They shoulda been dead.  We really pounded ‘em with the tanks, but there coulda been some of ‘em alive.

(Opening eyes.  Sitting up.  Pounding fist on chair arm.)

And it just pisses me off!  Nobody told us there were going to be women and children in there.  We thought we were just getting rid of some arms.  I thought I was doing something good, my duty, but instead, I end up doing something that I never would have done in a million years if I had known.

DR. HAVEN

(Writing.)  And that’s why you think you’re having this dream?

FOWLER

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.  I can’t stop being pissed about it.  I can’t sleep.  The smell of any kind of fuel makes me want to puke…and then run.  Crowds freak me out.  And I can’t even barbeque.

DR. HAVEN

Barbeque?

FOWLER

Yeah, burning flesh is burning flesh.  They all smell pretty much the same.

                                                                                    (FOWLER puts both hands over his face                                                                                          and rubs them up and down.  He takes a                                                                                           deep breath and looks at the doctor.  DR.                                                                                          HAVEN reaches over and turns off the tape                                                                                                 recorder.)

DR. HAVEN

(Looking at FOWLER for several seconds.)  That must have been horrible…and even more horrible to keep to yourself.

                                                                                    (Pause.)

I hope that just telling someone else about this will help with the nightmares, but I’d like to prescribe a few things.

FOWLER

(Leaning forward.)  What sort of things?  I gotta go to work.  I can’t be doped up.

DR. HAVEN

(Taking a prescription pad from a drawer.)  Not sleeping is pretty much the same as being doped up, but these things should be okay.  We’ll start with something mild.

                                                                                    (Writes on pad.)

Prazosin has been very helpful for vets with nightmares.  Try it for a few days and see if your nightmares stop.

                                                                                    (Rips prescription off pad.  Hands to                                                                                                             FOWLER.  He reaches for and takes the                                                                                           prescription.  Reads it.)

FOWLER

All right.  I’ll give it a try.  Thanks.

DR. HAVEN

Make an appointment for next week at the front desk.  I’ll see you then.

(FOWLER exits right.  Lights dim. Music ends.  DR. HAVEN exits left.  Scrim returns to moonlit silhouette of trees.  “One” by Metallica swells.  At rise FOWLER and STOWE are on stage as before.  STOWE manages to get gag off. Retches for several seconds.  Gasps, coughs, spits.  Music softens.)

STOWE

(Squirming on ground.)  Fowler, you’re dead!  Do you hear me?  Dead!  I’m gonna make you sorry you was ever born!

FOWLER

(Nodding.)  Huh.  I’m already sorry.  And we’re both gonna be dead soon enough. 

STOWE

(Struggling to knees and forehead.)  As your superior officer, I order you to let me go.  Do whatever you want to yourself.  I don’t give a shit.

                                                                                    (FOWLER kicks STOWE over.  STOWE                                                                                         grunts and then yells in rage.)

FOWLER

Now that’s just the kind of caring attitude that got you in this fix in the first place, ain’t it?  And your orders don’t mean shit to me now.  They’re unlawful orders—damned unlawful—and I’m not following them anymore.  You’re following my orders!

                                                                                    (FOWLER drags STOWE                                                                                                                  across stage to left for several                                                                                                             yards while STOWE tries to get                                                                his feet under him.)

STOWE

(Angrily.)  Listen, you shit.  Don’t be an idiot!  We’re at war.  People die.  You managed to go over there and not die.  What’s so special about this Jimmy Noble?

                                                                                    (STOWE manages to stand.  FOWLER                                                                                             wraps rope around his hand until he and                                                                                STOWE are standing nose to nose.)

FOWLER

(Growling through clenched teeth.)  I had ten years of preparation for Iraq.  Hell, I was in Desert Storm.  I knew exactly what I was getting into.  But these kids right outta high school.  They don’t know shit.  They barely know how to get themselves dressed and fed without their mammas, and we’re sending them off to a place where they’ve got to figure out to stay alive.  It’s bullshit!

                                                                                    (Pause.)

And who says I’m not already dead?  I sure as hell feel dead…or at least I don’t feel alive any more.

                                                                                    (FOWLER pushes STOWE away from him.                                                                                     STOWE stumbles but stays on his feet.)

STOWE

(Walking toward FOWLER.)  That’s what boot camp is for, asshole.  To weed out the incapable and to train the capable.  It’s not like we just grab ‘em and drop ‘em in the war zone with no training. 

FOWLER

(Walking toward STOWE.)  Boot camp?  Really?  That’s your answer?  What boot camp did you go to?  Sissy West Point boot camp?  Boot camp prepared me for functioning with no sleep, for eating like I might not get my next meal and for standing still and taking it while some prick screams in my face.  Desert Storm is what prepared me for that shit in Iraq.   I learned how to stay alive, but I was one of the lucky ones.

STOWE

Luck’s got nothing to do with it.  It’s survival of the fittest.

                                                                        (FOWLER pushes STOWE on his butt.)

FOWLER

(Laughing.  Shaking head.)  And I guess you think you’re one of the fittest, huh?  A real soldier.  A men among men.  Is that what they taught you at West Point?  That real men, real soldiers get other guys to do all the dirty work?  As far as I can see, you don’t know your ass from a hole in the ground. 

(Lights fade.  Music ends.  FOWLER and STOWE exit left.  “Blaze of Glory” by Jon Bon Jovi swells.  STOWE enters right with free hands, no rope, and a clean uniform.  The West Point Coat of Arms is projected on the        scrim.  Spotlight on STOWE. Music

softens.)

STOWE

(Addressing audience.) He’s right, you know.  I really don’t know my ass from a hole in the ground.

(Looks down.  Shuffles feet.  Looks back at the audience.)

West Point didn’t prepare me for anything, certainly not for life in the real Army.  But I can’t let these guys know that. 

(Pause.  Looks down.  Looks back at             audience.)

All I know is that my job is to get bodies, and that’s what I try to do. 

                                                                                    (Puts hands in pockets.  Shrugs shoulders.)

Guys like Fowler, they don’t know the shit I get from the brass.  It’s not like I can whine about the shit I take, no.  And shit rolls downhill, you know. 

                                                                                    (Pause.  Paces.  Holds arms out pleadingly.)

I’ve just got to get bodies. 

                                                                                    (Throws arms up.  Looks up.  Nods.)

Yeah, war is hell.  Kids die.  That’s nothing new. 

                                                                                    (Looks into the audience for understanding.)

Am I right?  And who better to answer questions about the war than the guys that’ve been there? 

                                                                                    (Paces.  Hands clasped behind back.)

            STOWE (cont.)

I know it’s hard, but it makes sense. 

(Pause.  Massages temples.  Looks back at audience.)

I guess the debriefing and therapy after coming back from Iraq just isn’t enough for some guys.  I don’t know.  Fowler is right.  I don’t know a thing about combat, and I don’t want to.  What I do know, is that this is the longest military action fought with an all-volunteer army in the history of our country.  You do what you gotta do.

(With one hand in pocket holds other hand   out toward the audience palm up.)

You know, it just depends.  Some guys don’t mind sending kids on suicide missions.  Sometimes it’s the only way to get things done.  Our job is to find warm bodies.  It is what it is, you know.

                                                                                    (Paces.  Stops.  Looks at audience.)

And sure, yeah, I yelled a lot, embarrassed the guys that didn’t make mission, extended hours, but there’s got to be some sort of repercussions for not doing your job, right? 

                                                                                    (Pauses as if waiting for a reply.)

And I’ve got my own career to think about.  If these guys don’t make mission, I’m the one that looks bad.  I can’t afford that.  I’ve got plans.  I wanna make full bird colonel before I retire.  Maybe even the youngest one in the history of the Army. 

                                                                                    (Pause.)

I’m sure every guy on my team has had one of their recruits get killed in Iraq, but that didn’t make them freak out.  It happens. 

                                                                                    (Pause.)

You know, there are guys that are willing to do whatever it takes to get a kid to sign up.  Those guys understand.  They  know what it’s all about.  They don’t freak out if a kid gets killed.  Once they ship off to boot camp, they’re out of your mind.  You’re on to the next recruit.

(Holds both hands palm up out to the audience.)

That’s just how it is.  What really sucks about kids getting killed in Iraq is that we’ve got to replace those bodies. 

(Music ends. Lights down. Exits left.  Scrim returns to moonlit silhouette of trees. “One” by Metallica swells. FOWLER and STOWE enter right as before.  Spotlights rise on FOWLER and STOWE.  Music softens.)

STOWE

(Pleading now.  Trying to loosen the rope around his neck.) Listen, Sergeant.  You’re right.  I don’t know my ass from a hole in the ground.  I’m an idiot—a monster—a coward.  Everything you think I am, that’s what I am, and worse, but you don’t have to do this. 

                                                                                    (Pause.  Struggling for right words.)

You know, you’re not the only one this has ever happened to.  Some of the other guys have felt guilty when one of their recruits got killed.  But they move on.  I even had a kid of mine get killed in Iraq.  I felt bad.

STOWE (cont.)

                                                                                    (FOWLER glares at STOWE.)

No, really I did.  It tore me up inside for a while.  But then I realized that it was all part of the process…like the circle of life, you know.  Some people gotta die, so that the rest of the people can live. 

                                                                                    (Pause.  Searching for the right words.                                                                                               Realizes that he’s not reaching FOWLER.                                                                                         Looks up suddenly, hopeful, with a new                                                                                           tactic.)

It’s not just about you.  Think of your wife.  What’s this going to do to her?  Think of how she’ll feel when she sees that government vehicle sitting outside of your house.  How she’ll feel when she hears that you’ve left her nothing but a mess to deal with.  Is that what you want?  Is that how you want her to remember you?

(Light fades on Stowe and Fowler.  Music ends. They exit left.  “Dear Mr. President” by Pink plays.  On the scrim is projected an Army funeral in progress at Arlington National Cemetery.  Nancy Fowler, Sergeant Fowler’s wife, enters right.  Spotlight rises on her.  She is wearing a form-fitting black dress, a black blazer and black pumps.  She has a yellow ribbon tied in a bow pinned to her lapel.  Music softens.)

Nancy Fowler

(Addressing the audience.) You know, he wasn’t always so angry.  He used to be so proud to be serving his country.  He was a good man; he just got off track. 

                                                                                    (Pause.)

He was just a small-town boy trying to find another way to live, you know.  He was from Harmony, just like Jimmy.  His parents weren’t farmers; they worked at the dairy plant in Harmony—long, hard hours for hardly any pay.  Bobby Joe was just like Jimmy, he was looking for a way out, a way to do better than his parents.

                                                                                    (Pause.)

It was different for me.  My dad was a pharmacist.  My mom stayed home with me and my brother.  Joining the Army was just a way to get some money for college—it was never a way of life for me, never a calling.  My parents just about lost their minds when I took orders to Iraq.

                                                                                    (Laughs.)

I met Bobby Joe in Iraq during Desert Storm. 

                                                                                    (Shrugs.)

I had it easy, though.  I worked in the press office at the embassy.  Bobby Joe had guard duty there every so often.  Sometimes we saw each other at embassy functions.

(Music ends.  Lights fade.  NANCY FOWLER exits left.  An Iraqi instrumental plays quietly.  Over the music the noises of people talking and of a dinner being served and eaten.  Projected on the scrim is a scene of people at a formal dinner.  The dress is a mixture of American and Iraqi military and civilian formal attire of both American and Iraqi styles.  NANCY and FOWLER enter right.  When the light comes back up, NANCY and FOWLER are sitting at the end of a long banquet-style table.  Both are in their dress uniforms.)

NANCY

(Leaning toward FOWLER)  I’m so glad they seated us together.  These things can be so boring, and I hate sitting with all the officers I work with.  I feel like I have to be so proper.

FOWLER

(Smiling.) So does that mean you plan on being improper sometime during this dinner?

NANCY

(Laughing.  Holding a hand to her chest.  Raising eyebrows.) Me?  Improper?  A girl who works all day with nothing but rude, crude guys?  I wouldn’t know a thing about being improper.

FOWLER

You mean to tell me those guys over there aren’t treating you with the utmost respect?  You want me to come over and teach ‘em some manners?  I’ll show ‘em how we treat ladies in Texas, ma’am.

NANCY

(Laughing and holding one hand out in a halting motion.)  No.  Please.  Don’t rough anyone up on my account.  I’ve been in the Army for three years now.  I can take it.  I can even dish it out a little.

                                                                                    (NANCY and FOWLER both unroll their                                                                                         silverware from their napkins, place napkins                                                                          in their laps, pick up their forks, and begin                                                                                         poking their food around their plates,                                                                                                examining it.)

FOWLER

Three years?  That mean you’ve only got one left?

NANCY

Yep, I’m outta here in eleven months, fourteen days and about four hours, but who’s counting.  What about you?  How much time you got left?

FOWLER

(Shrugging.)  I’m about ready to re-up.  They’ll probably extend me indefinitely over here, and I can have a real reenlistment ceremony when I get back stateside. 

NANCY

 So you’re a lifer, huh?

                                                                                    (Nancy grabs a roll from a basket on the                                                                                            table and cuts into it.  Fowler tips the basket                                                                                                 toward him and takes a roll.  Nancy begins                                                                                        buttering her roll.  She sees FOWLER                                                                                               looking around the table, so she hands him a                                                                                     pat of butter.  ) 

FOWLER

Thanks.  Yeah, I don’t really know what else I’d do, and I like the Army.  I like feeling like I’m doing something important.  You know, be all you can be, and all that BS.  I guess if I quit feeling that way, I’ll get out.  What are you gonna do?

NANCY

I’m taking my GI Bill and going back to college.  I’m going to major in journalism or communications, maybe both. 

FOWLER

That’s great.  Where do you think you’ll go? 

NANCY

I don’t know.  I don’t really want to go back home.  Maybe I’ll go to Ole Miss or Bama State, maybe Tulane. 

FOWLER

Those are some big southern schools.  Big on football.  Where are you from?

NANCY

Just some little Podunk town in Mississippi—place called Puckett.  It’s not far from Hattisburg.  You might’ve heard of that.

FOWLER

Oh, yeah.  I did some training there at Camp Shelby.  Wow, small world. 

NANCY

(Holding a fork up to her mouth.) I don’t know about Texas, but we sure never ate lamb kabobs in Mississippi.  How about you?

FOWLER

(Poking at his food with his fork.  Shaking head.) Nope, I’ve eaten some strange things—snake, frog legs, snails, squirrel, eel—but never lamb, not that lambs are that weird.  I just never ate it before. 

NANCY

(Laughing and picking up her kabob.)  Well, I’m game if you are.

                  (FOWLER picks up his kabob too, and takes                        bite.  NANCY bites into hers.  They both                                 chew and make faces of surprise.)

FOWLER

(Wiping his mouth with a napkin.)  Well, it ain’t mamma’s cookin’, but it’ll do.  Not bad really.

NANCY

(Chewing, swallowing, and nodding her head)  You’ve got that right.  Man, I could go for some of mamma’s fried chicken and biscuits…and grits.  Man, I miss grits.  You can’t even buy ‘em in the commissary here. 

FOWLER

(Shaking his head and holding hands out in a stopping gesture.)  Stop.  Stop.  You’re making this food seem worse than it is. 

            (Takes a few more bites.)

Blackberry cobbler…and fig preserves.  My grandmother makes the best blackberry cobbler, and she’s got fig trees right in her yard and makes preserves every year.

NANCY

(Chewing and swallowing.)  I bet they go great with biscuits.

(FOWLER and NANCY both laugh.  Lights fade.  Music and sounds end.  Exit left.  Scrim returns to funeral scene.  “Dear Mr. President” by Pink plays. NANCY enters right, crosses to center.   Lights rise on her.  Music softens.)

NANCY

(Addressing audience and gesturing to where the table was.) You see?  That’s the Bobby Joe I fell in love with—sweet, silly, proud.

(Pause.)

NANCY (cont.)

I knew something was wrong with him.  I don’t think he ever slept.  I…I thought he was getting help.

                                                                                    (Pause.)

I should have made him talk to me.   

                                                                                    (Pause.)

I just thought he needed some space, you know.  I thought he’d work through it himself. 

                                                                                    (Pause.)

I knew he was having trouble at work.  I never saw him.  When he finally got off, he’d be at the Wal-Mart, or a high school football game, or the mall.  He’d just walk around in his uniform, trying to be friendly, trying to get some kids to talk to him, hoping they might ask him some questions just because he was in uniform. 

                                                                                    (Pauses.  Looks down.  Looks back and                                                                                            forth at audience.)

You know how kids are.  First thing they want to know is if you’ve ever killed anyone. Then they want to know if you’ve ever seen anyone die.  Bobby Joe worried about the kinds of kids they were sending over there.  He always said that they were either stupid or crazy.  The stupid ones asked him questions like, “Do you get a lot of girls when you’re out in uniform.” 

                                                                                    (Laughs sadly.)

Somehow Jimmy Noble was special.  He even invited him over to our house for supper.  I cooked steaks on the grill.  Bobby Joe wanted to give him a good send off, and Jimmy was so excited about heading off to boot camp. 

                                                                                    (Shaking head.  Choking sob.  Grabbing                                                                                            tissue from blazer pocket. Dabbing eyes.)

Jimmy’s funeral was so hard on him.

                                                                                    (Pause.  Throws arms up.)

I just didn’t know how to help him.  I might have figured it out if he’d given me more time.

(Music ends.  Lights fade.  Exits right.                                Scrim returns to silhouette of moonlit trees.  “One” by Metallica swells.  Light comes up.  Stowe and Fowler enter right situated as before. Music softens.)

FOWLER

(Shaking head.)  My wife?  Don’t talk about my wife.  You didn’t give a shit about my wife when you were riding my ass, keeping me at work twelve, fourteen hours a day.  She’s better off without me anyway.  I’m no good to her or anybody else.  My career is over.  I’d probably go to jail.

                                                                                    (Pause.)

And if I don’t kill myself…I might kill someone else.

                                                                                    (Long pause.  Angrily.)

I’m just so fucked up in my head!

                                                                                    (Slams head with fist.)

STOWE 

Yeah, you’re fucked up in the head all right, but you could get help. 

                                                                                    (Looks down, squeezes eyes together, trying                                                                                     to think of right words.)

Look, Nancy loves you.  She can help you figure this out.

                                                                                    (Pause.)

And the Army will help you.  Pay for you to see a doctor, figure out what’s wrong.

FOWLER

(Laughing.)  What’s wrong?  What’s wrong is you.  What’s wrong is the Army.  What’s wrong is this fucking war.  I know what’s wrong; I just don’t know how to fix it.  Taking myself out of the picture and taking you with me seems to be the only thing I can do, the only thing I can actually control.

STOWE

Well, it’s not going to stop a thing, Bobby Joe.  It’s all gonna just keep going on the way it’s been going on for the last seven years.  You’re not gonna change a thing.

FOWLER

I’ll change one thing.  You won’t be there riding guys to cut corners, to send kids over there that you know won’t make it. 

STOWE

Well, if it ain’t me, it’ll just be someone else, Bobby Joe.  It’s all gonna keep going on without us.

FOWLER

It’ll have to, ‘cause we’re gonna be gone. 

                                                                                    (Stops.  Puts hands on hips.  Looks around.)

Well, we’re here.

STOWE

(Looking over FOWLER’s shoulder.) Where’s here? 

                                                                                    (FOWLER turns around.)

FOWLER

This is his favorite place.

STOWE

Who’s favorite place?

                                                                                    (FOWLER yanks on the rope.)

FOWLER

Jimmy’s, you asshole.

FOWLER (cont.)

                                                                                    (Gazes out at audience.  Takes a                                                                                                         deep breath.  Seems at peace.)

Now let’s just sit down and enjoy it for a while.

(Music ends.  Lights fade on FOWLER and STOWE.  Exit left.  On the scrim is a lake surrounded by trees. “I Miss Mayberry” by Rascal Flatts plays softly.  JIMMY NOBLE and FOWLER enter right.  They sit on the bank of the lake at an angle to the audience.  Lights rise to a level that would simulate dawn.  JIMMY and FOWLER are both dressed in jeans, t-shirts and sneakers.  They’re both holding fishing poles and are waiting for a bite.)

FOWLER

This is a great spot, Jimmy.  Do you come here a lot?

JIMMY NOBLE

(Nodding.  Shrugging.)  Whenever I can.  Usually I’m too busy to get out here much, but I figure what the hay.  I’m shipping out in few days.  I wanna remember Harmony and all of the things I like about it.

FOWLER

(Laughing and elbowing JIMMY.)  I thought you were sick of Harmony.  Ready to see new places.

JIMMY NOBLE

(Nodding.)  Yeah, yeah, I know.  But now I feel sorta…sentimental, I guess.  I don’t want to forget Harmony.  I just want to see other places and other people.

FOWLER

Yeah, I know what you mean.  I couldn’t wait to leave Harmony when I was a kid.

                                                                                    (Pause.)

Now…now that I’m back…even though I’m not thrilled with my job…I’m seeing Harmony in a whole new way.

JIMMY NOBLE

(Looking at FOWLER.)  Whaddaya mean?

FOWLER

(Shrugging.)  I don’t know, exactly.  Harmony sure hasn’t changed much…,so I guess I’ve changed.  Learned to appreciate Harmony.

                                                                                    (JIMMY NOBLE nods his head.  Suddenly                                                                                      his line is pulled down.  He and FOWLER                                                                                        both jump up.)

JIMMY NOBLE

(Excitedly.)  Shoot fire!  I gotta bite!  It’s a big one too.

                                                                                    (Pulls on pole and starts reeling in.)

Oh, come on now.  I caught ya fair and square.  Stop fightin’.  Everyone’s gotta go sometime, and this is your time to be fryin’ in momma’s fryin’ pan.

(Music ends.  Lights down.  FOWLER and JIMMY NOBLE exit left.  Scrim returns to silhouette of moonlit trees, but now there is a lake included.  “One” by Metallica swells.  FOWLER and STOWE enter right and take their positions as before.  Two logs are on stage, perpendicular to the audience and near the lake.  Music softens.)

STOWE

(Struggling against the ropes.) It’s dark you idiot.  We can’t see a thing.

                                                                                    (FOWLER yanks on rope and drags                                                                                                  STOWE to a couple of fallen trees.  Forces                                                                                       him to sit.) 

FOWLER

(Pointing.)  Yeah, you can.  See the moon shining on the water, the bridge crossing over.  Jimmy used to like to come here early and fish.  He loved the river.  Old Trinity. 

STOWE

Oh, who gives a shit, Bobby Joe?  It’s a stinky, muddy river…probably full of pollution.  This is not where I want to die.

(Pause.  No response from FOWLER.)

It might be where you want to die, or where Jimmy Noble would have preferred to die, but it’s not where I want to die.  Do you hear me? 

(Pause.  Still no response from FOWLER.)

Say something, you jackass. 

FOWLER

(Putting a finger up to his lips.)  Shhhhh.  You’re spoiling the moment.

STOWE

Moment?  Moment?  What fucking moment?  The moment I’m gonna die?  Why shouldn’t I spoil it?  Why shouldn’t I scream and fight as much as I want to?  I don’t want to die.  I will not go quietly.

(FOWLER takes off his shoes and socks.  He takes one sock, stands, grabs STOWE  by the hair and yanks his head back.  STOWE opens his mouth wide and screams.  FOWLER stuffs the sock in his mouth.  Sits back down.  STOWE leans over and begins to sob.  FOWLER takes the rope from around STOWE’S neck and the extra rope he has brought with him and begins to tie a noose.)

FOWLER

I think dawn would be the perfect time.  The beginning of a new day in Harmony—a day without me, without you and without Jimmy.

(Music ends.  Lights dim.  FOWLER and STOWE exit left.  On the scrim is projected an average living room scene.  Theme to “M.A.S.H.” plays quietly.  Lights rise.  Nancy Fowler is sitting on a couch. She is barefoot and wearing jeans and a blouse. Warrant Officer Anthony Clarkson is seated in a chair across from her.  The officer is in his Army dress uniform.)

Warrant Officer Anthony Clarkson

ma’am, my name is Anthony Clarkson.  I’m working with Brigadier General Murphy from the Secretary of the Army’s office.  I’ve been assigned the duty of investigating the suicides at the Houston recruiting office.

(Removes a small notebook and a pen from an inside pocket of his jacket.)

Now, Ma’am, I know this is probably still very painful, but I need to ask you a few questions about the incident that happened last month involving your husband…

                                                                                    (Looks at notebook.)

…Sergeant Robert Joseph Fowler and Lieutenant Donald Marcus Stowe. 

                                                                                    (Looks up at Nancy Fowler.)

Is that something you feel comfortable with, Ma’am?

Nancy Fowler

I….yes, I believe I can do that.

Warrant Officer Anthony Clarkson

Good.  Now, Mrs. Fowler, was your husband inclined to violence?  Have you ever seen him hit another person?

                                                                                    (Pause.)

Have you ever been a victim of domestic abuse at his hand? 

Nancy Fowler

(Tensing.) Officer Clarkson, my husband never raised a hand to me. 

                                                                                    (Long pause.)

He was a man who could get angry on occasion, but he had to be pushed pretty hard. 

                                                                                    (Pause.)

That job…that job and Jimmy Noble’s death…they pushed him hard.

(Warrant Officer Anthony Clarkson writes in notebook.)

Warrant Officer Anthony Clarkson

Mrs. Fowler, can you describe your husband’s relationship with…

                                                                                    (Looks at notebook.)

…James Tompkins Noble?

Nancy Fowler

It was a pretty normal recruiter-recruit relationship.  I think Jimmy may have reminded Bobby Joe a little of himself at that age.  Excited, anxious to leave Harmony, ready to serve his country, but naïve about what that might really mean.

                                                                                    (Pause.)

I don’t think he wanted to ruin that for Jimmy, but he didn’t want him sent to Iraq blind…with romantic ideas of war and combat.  He didn’t want to lie, but he knew what it was like for a kid, especially a grunt kid.

(Warrant Officer Anthony Clarkson writes in notebook.)

Warrant Officer Anthony Clarkson

I see.  Can you describe your husband’s relationship with Lieutenant Donald Marcus Stowe? 

Nancy Fowler

(Shrugging.)  It was good at first.  They were in high school together—but Donny went to West Point and Bobby Joe went to Desert Storm.  This was the first time they’d been stationed together. 

                                                                                    (Pause.)

NANCY FOWLER (cont.)

They would hang out together at first—get a couple of beers—see a game—but then Donny got a real kick in the pants from someone up the chain of command and started riding his guys like dogs.  I hardly saw Bobby Joe.  He worked sometimes until midnight, and he worked every weekend. 

(Warrant Officer Anthony Clarkson writes in notebook.)

Warrant Officer Anthony Clarkson

Did your husband talk to you about his problems with Lt. Stowe? 

Nancy Fowler

All I know is that Bobby Joe felt bad about signing up kids that weren’t really Army material.  He helped Jimmy because he wanted it so bad, but when Donny wanted him to get his kids to lie about drugs or medical problems, Bobby Joe just wouldn’t do it. 

                                                                                    (Pause.)

Then when Jimmy got killed…he thought it was his fault.  All those other misfits he filtered out, but he helped Jimmy…and he got killed. 

                                                                                    (Pause.)

The night before the funeral, he was drinking…a lot.  He kept saying, “I killed Jimmy Noble.  I killed him.”

Warrant Officer Anthony Clarkson

Mrs. Fowler, were you aware of other suicides in the recruiting district?

Nancy Fowler

(Shaking her head.)  I wasn’t at first, but then I started hearing things.  That other recruiters, male and female, had killed themselves. 

                                                                                    (Pause.)

Of course, nobody else took their Lieutenant with them. 

                                                                                    (Laughs sadly.)

Bobby Joe was always an over achiever.  But in a way, what he did, even though it was wrong and horrible, it got the ball rolling on this investigation, didn’t it?

Warrant Officer Anthony Clarkson

Well, Ma’am, it certainly made us take a look at what was going on.  The suicides have all been at different recruiting stations.  Houston’s a big district.  Lots of kids get recruited from this area.  Especially the poor.  When your prospects are limited, the Army looks like a good way to leave poverty behind.

Nancy Fowler

Instead they die.  That’s sad.  I guess at first you thought you had a pretty good team, huh?

Warrant Officer Anthony Clarkson

It sure seemed like it, Ma’am.  We thought the Houston district was full of go-getters, top-notch recruiters.

Nancy Fowler

(Wiping at her eyes.)  Well, I guess I’m glad that Bobby Joe’s death accomplished something.  I’d certainly rather have him here, but if his death keeps even one kid from getting recruited when he wasn’t really fit to serve, well, then he’d of probably thought it was worth it.

Warrant Officer Anthony Clarkson

Yes, Ma’am.  I can certainly see that Sergeant Fowler was in a tough spot.  I can’t really go into specifics, but I think there’s going to be some changes.  Not just in the recruiting office here, but in the whole program. 

                                                                                                (Closes notebook.  Puts back in pocket.)

Well, thank-you, Ma’am for taking the time to answer my questions.  Would it be all right if I call you or come back if I think of more questions?

Nancy Fowler

Absolutely.  Whatever it takes to…make mission. 

(Music continues as lights fade.  Both exit left.)

I am engaging with the text though.  I’m actually able to recognize when a character has been mentioned before, so the cast of characters is starting to gel in my mind.  The reader starts out with Hal and his “fit” and wondering how he got to this place, and now I’m dealing with Joelle and just starting to learn how she got to the place she was at when she was going to kill herself, or does kill herself; I don’t know yet.

Maybe, just maybe, Wallace wrote this book with the idea in mind that people would have to read it again and again in order to “get” it, which could be good for an author, if you can manage to get people to read it the first time.  Most authors, popular authors, are just trying to get people to buy their book, whether they read it or like or not.  Getting people to re-read, study and discuss your book could lend some longevity to it’s popularity.  It could be the kind of book that decades later, someone says, “You’ve never read Infinite Jest?  Oh, you’ve got to.  It’s a great, very complex novel.”  That happened to me with Atlas Shrugged. I’d never even heard of it, and although I didn’t think it was the best book ever, it did present me with some interesting food for thought, and I would say that it does require reading again just to “get” it.

One other comment I would make, is that I’ve noticed that the dialogue is a little stiff.  In Hal’s conversations with Orin, I can’t imagine two brothers talking to each other the way they do.  The scenes in the rehab center remind me of A Million Little Pieces and the I’m-so-tough speech pattern.

I guess the main reason I’m having trouble with the book is that I’m the sort of writer and thinker that thinks something through and tries to put it in the simplest most accessible format for my readers.  Often the writing I’ve done has been non-fiction, and I’ve written about things like PCBs and dredging and year-end tax strategies and solar energy in houses, so I’ve had to understand what I was talking about before I could write about it.  Afterward, when I’m presenting it to my readers, I don’t want them to have to go do the same research I did to understand what I’m talking about; I want them to get it from what I’m saying.

Well, that’s the end of my tirade about the book until class.  See you then.

I did a little bit of digging to see what other people might be saying about the novel and what Wallace might have said about it.  I found in one interview where he’s talking about the end notes with Charlie Rose that he refers to them as a “method of disrupting the linearity of the text while maintaining some sense of narrative cohesion.”  If that was his intent, I don’t think it worked, at least not yet.  I’ve still got 824 pages left to go, not counting the end notes, which I rarely read because they don’t really shed any light on what they’re meant to clarify. 

One of the other things that I found out while poking around on the Internet that I didn’t know prior to beginning this novel, is that the author suffered from depression and killed himself a little over a year ago.  Now I really wonder about what I’m reading here.  Is it just the manic ravings of a man on the edge?  I can’t wait to see what everyone else thinks.

What is mobility?  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C3eAen8g8rI&feature=related

“…mobility refers at once to the voluntary geographic motility of consumers and to the ability of programming to migrate across platforms.”

Rather than just the ability to view, listen and talk on the run, Dawson proposes that mobility in the sense of mobile television also includes the mobility of the format. However, the transfer of viewing material from the television to the mobile television is not always an aesthetically pleasing one.  The mobile televisions have limitations:  “reduced frame rates, short battery lives and limited storage capacities.”  Creating viewing material specifically designed for the smaller screens is not always aesthetically pleasing either: “trading long-shots for static close-ups, fast zooms for slow motion replays, and pans for cuts, increasing the size of props and graphics, and reducing program durations….”

Can you watch a television show or movie just as easily on your computer, Ipod, MobiTV or phone as you can in the comfort of your living room?  Can you begin watching the morning news at home on your television while you drink your coffee, continue watching it on your phone on the subway on the way to work and finish up at your desk on your PC?  If that’s how mobility is defined, then most programming is not meeting the demand.

One of the reasons that the mobility of formatting has not been addressed has to do with the target consumer of mobile television.  Industry projections have defined that target as “a white male, under 36 years old, and wealthy enough to afford programming services that can add more than twenty dollars to his monthly telephone bill.”  The message that programmers are sending to this target audience is that mobile television will enhance the target’s ability to be free from the domestic sphere and domestic programming.  However, until the target audience can view aesthetically pleasing material on the mobile television, they won’t be making the purchase.

Unfortunately the target audience isn’t cooperating.  Most tend to watch mobile television in their homes.  The true desire of the target, in regard to mobility, is in the formatting—being able to watch the same show on all electronic devices.

The experts at Nielsen Mobile agree saying, “…mobile video use isn’t more prevalent due to lack of differentiating capabilities, high cost, and lack of compelling content.”  According to Nielson, only 5% of U.S. cell phone users subscribe to any sort of mobile television programming.

The problem with tiny television screens is the same problem that was faced when movies were first converted for television, and then for videos and DVDs:  making it fit.  For the technologically challenged, like me, this is a little difficult to envision.  Just squish the movie to fit on the smaller screen, right?  No, not so.  It’s not so much about squishing as it is about cutting.  Think about a couple on a lake in a boat.  On the big screen you might see both people in the same shot, the entire boat, the entire lake, other people on the beach, and the mountains in the background.  On the smaller television screen, you might just see two people in a boat.  On the even smaller mobile screen, you might just see one person in a boat, and then the other person in the boat, because they can’t both fit into the screen at the same time.  Think of what’s lost.  First, with just one person in the screen at a time, you lose the interaction between the two people.  Secondly you lose all of the ambiance of the setting.  This is a very simplistic explanation, but hopefully an understandable demonstration of the issue.

One of the answers to the problem is to create viewing material specifically for mobile viewing, but there are still problems.  In order to see anything on the tiny screen, everything is filmed in close-up mode and props must be huge.  In order to be brief to incorporate issues such as battery life and memory space limitations, dialogue must be quick and to the point—no time for meaningful stares.  The plot must be uncomplicated, and the action must be tight—no battles on wide plains (Lord of the Rings reference).  Additionally, consumers will inevitably want to transfer small screen programming to the bigger screen.  In that case, the formatting designed for the smaller screen struggles to fill the larger screen.

Mobile Issues:

Proprietary content

Hackers can break into locked programming (record phone)

Filming to the phone

24: Conspiracy     http://www.angelfire.com/planet/24conspiracy1/Minute_1.wmv

Smaller screen to original small screen translation

A process that Dawson calls unbundling is one option that works for the smaller screen.  Unbundling is a product of what Dawson calls “an itemized economy.”  It’s no longer the magazine, the newspaper, the CD, or the television series; it’s the article, track or episode.  There are even online companies where consumers can by just one episode rather than the entire season.  Television episodes can be broken down further into self-contained segments.  It’s the association of one segment to another that gives an episode meaning, but consumers can take unbundled parts and re-bundle (redact) them with segments from other television shows, music videos, newscasts, or games, which creates new meaning (appropriation, Masterpiece Theater).

Mobile screens take advantage of and incorporate the segmented form of television—unbundling and re-bundling things like Jay Leno’s monologues.  Taking out all of the character development, character interaction and no-action-no-dialogue-music-soundtrack scenes, you can boil many shows down to a few concise minutes.  These segments can be viewed alone or tied together with other clips to form what I would call an appropriation.  AT&T offers 5 minute recaps of The Sopranos, and GoTV reduces episodes of Desperate Housewives and Alias to 4 minutes.

The television show Lost is one example of a television show that offers true mobility.  It can be viewed on the home set, on a computer, an iPod, or a mobile phone.  In fact Dawson theorizes that thorough television viewing of a complex show like Lost requires an ensemble of devices.  “With a program like Lost, viewers may compensate for the technological shortcomings of one screen with the strengths of another.”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o-zYeqKSVkk

A fan of the show Lost was able to use his/her PC and perhaps some editing software to crop, zoom in and lighten up this shot mentioned in the Dawson article allowing them and many other fans to see the clue.  This and some other Lost clues are only accessible to viewers with DVR-equipped, high-definition televisions.

http://lostpedia.wikia.com/wiki/Sharks

Do you think that mobile television will make traditional television viewing and programming obsolete?

If a television channel or show has an agenda as we discussed last class, how will unbundling and re-bundling affect that agenda?

How do the appropriation of existing content and the editing, adjusting and rearranging of it impact things like copyright and reputation?  (For instance a Carrie Underwood song was recently pirated and released on the Internet in an unpolished version.  Underwood’s response was to move up the release of the single.)

I also know from some of the reading that I’ve done for my expertise assignment that there are clues to look for on the show.  I haven’t seen any, but I’m probably not looking that hard.  However, the idea that there are clues that reveal more information just lets the audience know that they’re not getting the whole story.  My reading has also let me know that avid fans often re-watch the shows on their computer or Ipod or portable television in order to watch frame by frame and improve the resolution to look for these clues.  That’s a lot of audience participation.  It’s more of an activity than just leisure television viewing.  It’s like homework.

When considering the movie in the context of literary complexity and whether or not the complexity of our lives is making us smarter, you could think about the sheer mass of information that was thrown out at us.  I know that I couldn’t keep up, but I wanted to.  The viewer was almost an active participant in the film.

This film offered up just about every clue or lead associated with the Zodiac killings.  In that way it was not only complex, but it challenged the viewer to figure out the puzzle right along with the detectives.  To make things even more complex, not every clue or lead was valid and the case was never solved.  When you add in the brief views of the killer’s ciphers, you just kind of give up the first time through.  However, I imagine if you read Robert Graysmith’s books on the killings, you’d be able to really digest all of the clues, reading and re-reading and flipping back and forth to try and keep things straight.  Although his books aren’t novels, I’d imagine that they are still very complex and require a lot of attention and dedication to absorb all of the clues associated with this case. 

Additionally, like some contemporary fiction, Zodiac, was a mixed-genre film, according to one of the articles that I read about it.  I didn’t think of it while I was watching the film, but after reading the article, I could see the author’s point.  Zodiac had a little bit of a newspaper movie, a little bit of a police movie, a little bit of a thriller, a little bit of a true-crime and serial killer and a little bit of character study.  In another article, I read that the movie was difficult to film because so much of the story was based on dialogue.  No one was really doing anything except talking on the phone, talking in diners, talking in bars and on and on.  I can imagine that it would be difficult to keep that interesting. 

I think that the movie did a good job of creating a not-to-distant past with the old cars, old soda machines, old cigarette machines, old glasses, and the phone booth.  It was so evident how frustrating a police investigation was without computers, databases, advanced DNA and ballistics science and fingerprint analysis and of course handwriting analysis.  And no cell phones.  Watching as the characters uncovered over the years all of the little things that one department knew but didn’t share was so frustrating, again, it was like the viewer was part of the process.

Of course the most frustrating part of the whole movie, like in The Uses of Enchantment, was that there was no satisfying conclusion.  The film-viewing audience is not really happy with unresolved detective movies, although they know going in that this one was not solved.  I imagine that was also very hard to deal with when filming the movie.