[OLIVER and JAMES stand in back from a deli case, allowing a couple locals to line up and order as they survey the options. The yellow-papered walls are plastered with newspaper clippings about fishing and small mentions of Sam's Delicatessen over the years, and pictures of smiling men who appear to all be related—Sam's descendents. In the case are different pastas and salads—spinach-mozzarella-tomatoes, Caesar with no dressing, campanelle pasta tossed in pesto with chopped vegetables and olives, spaghetti with chicken meatballs.]
OLIVER: I should be a cannibal.
JAMES: [sudden, surprised laugh] Oh, fuck, I missed you.
OLIVER: Olives are so good.
JAMES: Spoken with true passion, Marks, well-pronounced.
OLIVER: There were some in the fridge when I got home, and I must have eaten at least half of them.
JAMES: How tastes the flesh of your kin?
OLIVER: Heavenly.
JAMES: What are you actually getting? The campanelle?
OLIVER: Probably a sandwich. We had Italian pasta yesterday for lunch.
JAMES: We did, but it wasn't this Italian pasta.
OLIVER: I thought we were going to eat something different every day? It was your idea. We can't have two out of five for Italian pasta.
JAMES: I thought cannibalism might make the dish a new venture.
OLIVER: Ah… maybe I'll get a sandwich with olives.
JAMES: What, on the side?
OLIVER: Why not?
JAMES: Alright. Are you ready? Want a drink?
OLIVER: Sprite? Yes, are you?
[JAMES steps up to the counter, slipping one hand into his pocket and pulling out his wallet as he orders off the menu on the wall behind the counter.]
JAMES: Sprite, water, chicken sandwich with—uh—swiss—hot, please—and—
[JAMES turns expectantly to OLIVER]
OLIVER: Prosciutto on sourdough baguette?
JAMES: Can we get an—uh. Side of olives?
[OLIVER suppresses a laugh and JAMES' mouth twitches. The cashier, punching numbers into the register as the man behind the counter begins assembling these sandwiches, points them first to a glass-door drink refrigerator behind them, and then a squat one beside it that opens from the top.]
CASHIER: Sodas in the back, olives in the fridge.
JAMES: [to OLIVER] Grab some, will you?
[OLIVER takes first the Sprite and bottled water from the fridge and then peers down into the glass top of the short fridge containing the olives. His eyes trace the labels, but he doesn't open the fridge.]
OLIVER: Do we care what kind?
JAMES: They're for you.
OLIVER: Alright.
[OLIVER selects a plastic container of olives the size of a new roll of duct tape and returns to the counter with it. The CASHIER takes this an approving nod and scans it deftly. JAMES hands over his credit card.]
CASHIER: Are you splitting?
JAMES: No, all of it. Thanks.
CASHIER: Sure thing.
OLIVER: Wait a minute—
JAMES: Not a word from you.
OLIVER: James, you paid yesterday.
JAMES: You haven't had any income for ten years.
OLIVER: Well—
JAMES: [turning to OLIVER, serious] No, I mean it, stop.
OLIVER: [reluctant] My poverty, but not my will, consents.
JAMES: [smiling] I pay thy poverty and not thy will.
OLIVER: You could have at least picked the olives, then.
[JAMES smiles, takes his card back and puts his hands in his pockets. With OLIVER, he wanders over to peer idly at the cheeses as they wait for their sandwiches.]
OLIVER: Thanks.
JAMES: [hesitates a moment] Yeah. It's a good place.
OLIVER: Have you been here the whole time?
JAMES: What, you mean living? Or the deli.
OLIVER: [dryly] Take a guess.
JAMES: Yeah, I've been here since I left. I had to if I wanted you to be able to find me, you know.
OLIVER: You knew the length of my sentence, though. You could've just come at the end.
JAMES: And landed Horatio?
OLIVER: Fuck off, anyone with half a brain would've given you whatever role you wanted, even if you showed up in town out of no where, no references. You know that.
JAMES: Maybe.
OLIVER: No one even comes close. You out-did Hamlet on that stage by leagues.
JAMES: Oh, thanks.
OLIVER: You know you did.
JAMES: Maybe.
OLIVER: What I want to know is—why Horatio? Even if you were sick of love-sick fools, Hamlet's as good of a role as you can get. It's tragic, it's heroic, it's dark, it's clever. It's dynamic.
JAMES: [hesitates] I like Horatio.
OLIVER: [searching] Do you.
JAMES: I didn't realize I'd kept your program from last week until I got home, actually.
OLIVER: I know you were Horatio. I didn't need a program to figure it out. I'd know your voice anywhere.
JAMES: No, I know. [a pause] You know, Horatio contains multitudes, too. Mysteries. He's compelling. He's a really interesting study in loyalty.
OLIVER: Oh, no, I wasn't saying he didn't.
CASHIER: Prosciutto on baguette, chicken sandwich!
[JAMES reaches across the counter, accepts two sandwiches wrapped in white paper and closed with stickers that read "Sam's Deli" with two hands, checks the red scrawl on the wrapper, and gives one to OLIVER.]
JAMES: Thanks.
[JAMES glances at the sandwiches and hands one to OLIVER.]
OLIVER: Thank you. Do you want to eat by the sea?
JAMES: Sure.
[JAMES and OLIVER exit the shop with a gentle jingle. It is sunnier than their cloudy day on the trail along the shoreline; in this heat, ice cream is melting down the fingers of the kids chattering across the street.]
OLIVER: Maybe not. There's cover here.
[OLIVER points to a circular wooden table with two rickety looking chairs on either side of it, shaded by the striped awning of the delicatessen they've just exited. There's a penny on the seat of one chair and a thin, crumpled paper napkin on the table.]
JAMES: We can sit under a tree if you'd like. There's a bench that way.
[JAMES points vaguely in the direction of the shoreline, and to their right.]
OLIVER: Oh, yeah, that's good.
[JAMES and OLIVER set off, sandwiches in their hands.]
Scene 2: Bench Under a Tree[OLIVER and JAMES walk together towards a wooden bench with sandwiches in their hands. They are close enough to the shore that the breeze ruffles through their hair and rustles the leaves above them.]
[JAMES and OLIVER unwrap their sandwiches and begin to eat. They cover their mouths when they speak and sit a few feet apart.]
OLIVER: Is this the one?
JAMES: Yeah. I come here when it's warm, and I don't feel like being at home.
OLIVER: Do you like it here? The town, I mean.
JAMES: Yeah, it's grown on me. It didn't seem—it felt too quiet at the beginning, when I first moved in. I mean, no, that's not true. When I first moved in I didn't want anyone to notice me—not the waiters, not the lady at the visitor's center help desk. No one but the bartender.
OLIVER: [with realization] Oh.
JAMES: [perceiving the question] It's not a problem anymore. It used to be really bad. They stopped serving me for my own good after the first few times I blacked out. The last time they thought I might have—you know.
OLIVER: [draws a sharp breath] Jesus.
JAMES: [grimly] What else would you expect from me? You knew I wasn't doing so well.
OLIVER: [obviously guilty] I know. Sorry.
JAMES: Oh, for fuck's sake.
[OLIVER seems unable to find a response. He peels the paper around his sandwich down lower.]
OLIVER: What was that you were saying about Horatio and loyalty?
JAMES: [thoughtfully] He's so secondary to Hamlet. If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart / Absent thee from felicity awhile, / And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain, / To tell my story. The only reason he doesn't die with Hamlet is because Hamlet asks him not to.
Hamlet is the tragic hero—but Horatio's probably the most heroic character in the play.
OLIVER: [with disbelief] You really think so?
JAMES: Hamlet is acting on behalf of his father, right, but he's also acting on his own desires—to punish his mother for betraying her father, and to bring vengeance on Claudius. Horatio is acting on loyalty alone. Hamlet needs him, and so he is there.
OLIVER: I don't think it's about loyalty. It's about friendship.
JAMES: Maybe so. But Horatio never falters, and Hamlet never… pays it back, if you will. When he starts to act, it even likely damages Horatio's reputation—
OLIVER: That's not what friendship is about. He believes in Hamlet—that's all there is to it. Now cracks a noble heart. Goodnight, sweet prince. He doesn't begrudge Hamlet anything.
JAMES: That's what makes him such an interesting character.
OLIVER: What does?
JAMES: He doesn't begrudge Hamlet anything. He doesn't find fault in one goddamn thing.
OLIVER: Gwendolyn might call that a "surface level reading."
JAMES: It's interesting, it's compelling.
OLIVER: Maybe. Not more so than Hamlet himself.
JAMES: Oh, come on. Hamlet's been analyzed to death.
OLIVER: You're not wrong.
[They're quiet for a moment, a comfortable silence punctuated only by their crinkling sandwich wrappers.]
OLIVER: You were right. Good sandwiches.
JAMES: I'm glad to finally be getting you some good food.
OLIVER: That's the first thing I did after I got out: I asked for real food.
JAMES: [with delight] Did you really?
OLIVER: No, I asked where you were, so I could see you.
[JAMES is silent for a long moment, clearly trying to understand this statement.]
JAMES: [tense] None of them knew. They thought I was dead. You told them I was alive?
OLIVER: I—what? James, they didn't tell me you had—well, presumably died. They didn't even give me your note until I was out. I asked because I thought you were still alive.
JAMES: [blank] What?
OLIVER: Yeah, I didn't know.
JAMES: What—what did you think when I didn't visit?
OLIVER: I didn't know what to think. I guess I thought you just didn't want to see me anymore—maybe because of the guilt. Maybe you just wanted to leave it all behind.
JAMES: You weren't completely wrong. Not entirely.
OLIVER: Yeah. I thought not. Is't I / That chase thee from thy country?
JAMES: Don't be an idiot.
OLIVER: Sometimes, I thought you just couldn't forgive me.
JAMES: There's—me? Forgive you? What for?
OLIVER: James.
JAMES: I'm the one who's sorry. You know that, right? You understand? I'm fucking—it's like you forget I killed Richard. I did that, Oliver. Me, with my hands, with that boat hook, because I couldn't handle it when he called me queer.
OLIVER: That's not why you killed him.
JAMES: No, it was. He was pissing me off.
OLIVER: No it wasn't.
JAMES: Were you there?
OLIVER: That's not what you told me the first time, and I know you were telling the truth the first time.
JAMES: What did I tell you?
OLIVER: [sighs] He was drunk. He was violent. He wouldn't let you leave, he was shoving you and provoking you and calling you a coward. Don't twist yourself into a villain. You never were.
JAMES: [bitterly] Oh, coward that I am, to live so long / To see my best friend ta'en before my face!
OLIVER: You're not a coward either.
JAMES: [ignoring this] I cannot believe they didn't tell you. I never thought… every time I imagined what it would be like for you, you were still in prison when you read it. You had years to think about the monologue—
OLIVER: It wasn't a difficult monologue to parse.
JAMES: You just sat there, without any visits, not knowing where the hell I was? Did they at least give you a fake story?
OLIVER: No. I had no idea. But maybe it was for the better—I can't imagine agonizing over Pericles' monologue for that long without being able to look for you. It would've driven me mad.
JAMES: I hadn't thought of that. God, I don't know why I didn't think about that.
OLIVER: When I first read it, I didn't even know if I was reading it right. I thought maybe—I was seeing what I wanted to see.
JAMES: If which you shall refuse, when I am dead…
OLIVER: Yes, I know.
JAMES: Was it a difficult note or not?
OLIVER: It wasn't difficult to understand. It was just difficult to see past my hope, I guess.
JAMES: Oh. Yeah. Oliver…
[JAMES doesn't keep speaking, though OLIVER looks at him as if waiting. Instead, they stare at each other for a long time. OLIVER's fingers smooth over his pocket, and JAMES' eyes flicker towards the motion before returning to OLIVER's face.]
JAMES: What is it?
OLIVER: Nothing. You were saying something.
JAMES: [quietly] You're the same person. You're the exact same.
OLIVER: Was it meant to be? It couldn't have been.
JAMES: Was what? Did I want my fake suicide note to be a complicated riddle?
OLIVER: [looking away] I don't know. That sounds worse than it did in my head.
JAMES: It's pretty bad.
OLIVER: I suppose I just wonder why… what you were thinking when you did all of this.
JAMES: Not trying to torment you with a difficult riddle, that's for sure. Come on.
OLIVER: No, yeah. Sorry.
JAMES: [softening] Don't. I am. I don't know what I was thinking. I thought about it a lot more after I did it than before. You were right—I wanted to get away. I wanted to be someone else, and I didn't want to see you, or Filippa or Wren, or Alex. Or Meredith.
OLIVER: [half-question] Not Wren.
JAMES: They all knew it was me. And then you were locked away, and they all knew I let you. It was—I think a part of each of them hated me a little.
OLIVER: [half-heartedly, understanding JAMES' statement to be at least partly true] Oh, no…
JAMES: No, they did. Maybe it would have been better if Alex or Meredith had gone, but it had to be you. You were the best of us, you know—you were good. I mean, no one else has a heart like you and we knew it.
OLIVER: [with real conviction] Not at all.
JAMES: [without pause] We all knew it. It was like, it was infinitely worse that it was you of all people taking my place. It felt twice as wrong—first that it wasn't me and second that it was you. I just, I couldn't stay. I must be gone and live or stay and die.
OLIVER: God, that's morbid.
JAMES: You don't get it. I really thought I'd do it.
OLIVER: [slowly, as if afraid of the answer] Do what?
JAMES: Stop. You know. A lover that kills himself, most gallant, for love.
OLIVER: [weakly] You didn't. Tell me you didn't.
[JAMES' mouth twists humorlessly, and he wraps the rest of his paper in its wrapper, putting it aside. He runs his finger over the ripped sticker that sealed it shut. OLIVER watches JAMES intently, tense and taking deep breaths. He wraps the remainder of his sandwich with shaking hands.]
JAMES: From this instant / There is nothing serious in mortality / All is but toys.
OLIVER: But—you didn't.
JAMES: I would set my life on any chance / to mend it or be rid on't. And I couldn't do either.
OLIVER: [a pause. OLIVER looks like he is struggling to speak.] What happened? I—I get out after doing ten years for you and I hear that you're dead, and then I get this—this monologue from you and I drive all the way here and you're alive.
[JAMES stares at OLIVER for a long moment, as if gathering himself. His expression is pained, his body still. Jerkily, OLIVER raises a shaking hand and rakes it through his hair, making him appear even more distraught. After a pause, JAMES opens his mouth to speak.]
OLIVER: [sudden, upset] Jesus Christ, shut up. Stop. Will you use your words?
JAMES: [blank] You asked.
OLIVER: [words coming faster, turbulent] You were going to quote more at me—what, Romeo and fucking Juliet?—I didn't spend a third of my life in love with William Shakespeare, alright? I'm in love with James Farrow.
[JAMES stares at OLIVER. OLIVER stares back. There is another long pause. OLIVER slowly tames his audible breath, JAMES watches him.]
OLIVER: [whispering, turning his gaze away] Sorry. I told you, I'm not good at this either.
JAMES: It was going to be Macbeth.
OLIVER: [thickly] Christ.
JAMES: [with slight humor] No, you're right, I did consider more Romeo. [a pause, when OLIVER doesn't laugh or smile] Sorry.
OLIVER: No. Just—stop. I'd rather not hear about it than riddle through we but teach bloody instructions, or something.
JAMES: [mindlessly, finishing the line on autopilot] which, being taught, return to plague th' inventor. I didn't think of that one. It fits.
OLIVER: It doesn't. You're alive.
JAMES: Well, I… It took me a long time to realize I didn't want to die. I just wanted to not live the life I was in.
[OLIVER draws a sharp breath and swallows hard, but doesn't interrupt. JAMES is speaking without looking at him, his head tipped up towards the tree branches above them. His eyes are closed. His Adam's apple bobs several times before he continues.]
JAMES: I had the Xanax—You heard about it?
OLIVER: [quietly] Yeah, they found the it empty. In the car.
JAMES: And I was really going to, and I was writing you letters—all of you. What I wanted to say to each of you…. In all of them, I ended up apologizing so much. For killing Richard, for not saving him, and for letting you take my place. I mean, it felt like I was doing everyone wrong by doing you wrong.
OLIVER: You didn't—
JAMES: [deliberately talking over OLIVER] And then I was looking at yours, and I had no idea what to say. Not a clue. There was no way to say sorry to you—even Shakespeare didn't have anything good enough for you. And I wanted to tell you… things that I didn't think you wanted to hear.
OLIVER: [shaky] Your death didn't start out fake.
JAMES: I gave up. [OLIVER makes a quiet noise of dissent.] Not on life, on writing your note. And I just thought… the worst part was living like this—sorry to everyone and unable to say one goddamn thing to you, and being right in the middle of it. Every day, I was just looking at the people I'd stolen you from. And Richard. I went back to the notes, and I went back to Shakespeare, and I just started writing to you. I thought it was going to be—sorry—I was going to write you R and J.
OLIVER: No.
JAMES: No, I was. And then I started writing, and it was Pericles. It started with Here to have death in peace is all he'll crave, and such. But—I don't know, I changed my mind.
OLIVER: [quiet] James.
JAMES: I should've known when I switched to Pericles, I guess.
OLIVER: [a long pause. His eyes are wet.] Alright.
JAMES: Alright?
OLIVER: Alright, thanks. You can quote Romeo and Juliet now.
JAMES: [laughs, surprised, like letting out a long-held breath] My grave is like to be my wedding bed—?
OLIVER: [cracking a smile] Oh my god, James.
JAMES: Is this better—By a name / I know not how to tell thee who I am. / My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself / Because it is an enemy to thee. / Had I it written, I would tear the word.
OLIVER: [speaking lines out of order] Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?
JAMES: [smiles] I used to be.
Scene 3: Amy's Guest Room[OLIVER is sitting in sweatpants on his bed. The curtains are open, but the sky is dark, swirling with the threat of rain. OLIVER is fingering a letter with one hand, the paper so worn that the folds of it are fuzzy. From the other pocket, he is idly fiddling with a lighter. He holds the two beside each other: the letter and the flame. Then he closes the lighter and puts it back in his pocket. He puts the folded letter back in his other pocket without opening it.]
AMY: [through the door] Oliver?
OLIVER: Yeah, I'm here. Come in.
[AMY opens the door, first her head and then, after a moment, the rest of her body coming through the doorway. She's wearing a bright yellow dress with large pink roses printed across it.]
AMY: There was a young man on the phone for you the other night—you got back late, so I forgot to tell you when you woke up.
OLIVER: Oh. I was at Hamlet again.
AMY: [smiling warmly] I thought you might be.
OLIVER: Did he leave a number or a name?
AMY: Alexander Bass?
OLIVER: [with surprise] Oh.
AMY: You know him.
OLIVER: Yes, yes, he's a—uh. He's a friend from school, I guess. [small laugh] Yeah, a friend from college. It'sVass, with a V.
[OLIVER stands and makes his way to the doorway. AMY moves aside to let him through, and then follows him out as OLIVER walks down the hallway towards the phone.
AMY: [pleasantly] Vass. Vass. Where'd you go to college?
OLIVER: A little place, you wouldn't know it. Dellecher.
AMY: [apologetic] No, I haven't heard of it.
OLIVER: That's just as well.
[AMY leaves OLIVER alone in the hallway as OLIVER rings up a number and holds the phone up to his ear. He does this all with the sluggishness of apprehension. It rings all the way out. OLIVER sighs.]
OLIVER: [to himself] One more time.
[OLIVER calls again, and the phone rings nearly out.]
ALEXANDER: [flat] Oliver, hi.
OLIVER: [apprehensive] I guess Filippa told you this number?
ALEXANDER: Yeah, you really need to get a phone.
OLIVER: On the list of things to do, yeah.
ALEXANDER: You can drive who-knows-how-far to look for a dead guy but you can't be assed to get a phone?
OLIVER: [a pause] Okay, just tell me what I did.
ALEXANDER: God, what do you think, Oliver? Look for James without saying a word to me about it? You even called me to fish for information. You know—not just that—the fact that you're looking for James at all.
OLIVER: I have to.
ALEXANDER: By heavenly command?
OLIVER: Look, I'm sorry it upsets you, but I'm not going to stop.
ALEXANDER: I'm not upset.
OLIVER: I'm not going to even entertain that.
ALEXANDER: I'm fucking worried.
OLIVER: [a pause] I'm not going to hurt myself. Why is everyone worried I'm going to hurt myself?
ALEXANDER: If James hurled himself off a bridge you wouldn't follow?
OLIVER: You pretty much told me a month and a half ago that he did and I'm still here, aren't I?
ALEXANDER: So far.
OLIVER: Alex. I'm not James. His life is not inextricably tied to mine.
ALEXANDER: [quiet] You know, I wouldn't go so far as to say that.
OLIVER: Oh, thanks.
ALEXANDER: [sudden] You're a good actor, but you're not a good liar.
OLIVER: Meaning?
ALEXANDER: You're shit at lying to people you care about.
OLIVER: Ah.
ALEXANDER: [sighs] Do I have to ask right out? What's going on. There, I gave it to you.
OLIVER: [a pause] Nothing.
ALEXANDER: [sarcastic] Sure as shit.
OLIVER: [abruptly] He's not dead.
ALEXANDER: What? James?
[OLIVER's expression morphs quickly from frustration to horror, and his forehead creases. He drops his head back against the wall behind him and holds the phone out in front of him for a minute, looking at it.]
OLIVER: I'm still in love with him. [choosing his words carefully] He's not… dead to me yet. He was alive in my mind for four years, and I hadn't even seen him once that whole time. It's hard to kill that, even when I know he's—gone.
ALEXANDER: [a long pause] Oliver, listen. I'm only going to say it once.
OLIVER: Hmm?
ALEXANDER: If you need me to ditch this production and drive over there myself I will do it. We can throw that stupid letter in the sea and I can introduce you to my lovely boy toy. Every drink will be on him.
OLIVER: [smiling] Are you talking about Colin?
ALEXANDER: Yes. My boy toy.
OLIVER: Your boy toy of ten years.
ALEXANDER: I said what I said.
OLIVER: [serious] Thank you.
ALEXANDER: [with reluctance] Meredith wants to see you.
OLIVER: Oh, God.
ALEXANDER: [sarcastic] Let not your ears despise my tongue forever / Which shall possess them with the heaviest sound / That ever yet they heard.
OLIVER: Fuck off.
ALEXANDER: Is it so hard? It was all ages ago.
OLIVER: Does it feel far away to you? [a long moment] Yeah, I suspected as much. [Another pause] I don't know how to see her. I miss her like hell.
ALEXANDER: Tell her that.
OLIVER: She didn't tell me she wanted to see me. We email.
ALEXANDER: You expect her to ask?
OLIVER: [awkwardly] Does she have a—is she, you know, seeing anyone?
ALEXANDER: [suggestive] Oh? Oliver Marks? Excuse me?
OLIVER: [quickly] No, God. I don't want to—I just thought it would be—she would have less of a grudge, maybe, if she wasn't, you know…
ALEXANDER: [an audible smirk] Free to love?
OLIVER: [huffs] Well, is she?
ALEXANDER: She's seeing some up-and-coming director.
OLIVER: [with interest] You're kidding.
ALEXANDER: You've missed a lot.
OLIVER: Is he younger? Mad for her?
ALEXANDER: Both.
OLIVER: [sincerely] That's good to hear.
ALEXANDER: [with amusement] You were very worried about it?
OLIVER: I treated her like shit.
ALEXANDER: If it makes any difference, she clearly knew you were mad for James when she decided she wanted you.
OLIVER: Not really.
ALEXANDER: Well, it's been forever anyway.
OLIVER: I'll visit her. I just have to…
ALEXANDER: Judging from the way Pip's reacting to this, I guess there's something I don't know?
OLIVER: Alex…
ALEXANDER: Just asking.
OLIVER: Sorry.
ALEXANDER: Great. Yeah. Well, I guess good luck finding a dead man. If he is even dead.
OLIVER: [guilty] Thank you. I'm sorry.
ALEXANDER: Yeah, yeah. What am I going to do, beat the information out of you? I'm gay.
OLIVER: What happened to sexually amphibious?
ALEXANDER: [a pause] You remember that?
OLIVER: I remember a lot from those weeks.
ALEXANDER: [strained lightness] One of these days I am going to beat it out of you. But I have to go.
OLIVER: Thanks for calling.
ALEXANDER: You're getting stitches if you don't show up here in a month.
OLIVER: [with amusement] Bye, Alex.
ALEXANDER: Bye.
[The phone line clicks. OLIVER hangs up his end of the call. Then he drags his hand down his face and exhales heavily, sagging against the wall. He pulls out the lighter, and turns it in his fingers as he walks back to his room. When he gets there, he digs through the pockets of his suitcase, sitting in the corner, pulls out a pack of cigarettes, and shakes one out.]
Scene 4: Local Theater[OLIVER stands from his seat in the center of the second row, and pushes towards the front against the tide once again. The two women at the railing let him through with reluctance.]
[JAMES stands in a crowded, curtained-off section backstage that functions as a dressing room, pulling off Horatio's many layers. His curls are slightly damp with sweat around his temples and at the back of his neck, the hair darker. His make-up has been wiped clumsily off, and there's a touch of red at the corner of his mouth, a dark smudge of shadow over his right eye.]
OLIVER: James.
JAMES: [blinking] Oh—uh, hi. How was I?
OLIVER: Just as good as before. Better.
JAMES: Are you talking about in school, or last week?
OLIVER: Last week. Of course you're better than you were in school, no competition.
JAMES: Sometimes I think I never will be what I was in school.
ACTOR 1: You were even better in school?
OLIVER: You wouldn't believe it, but he was good, actually. Once.
JAMES: Oh, shut up. [to ACTOR 1] He was a classmate of mine. In the conservatory.
ACTOR 1: [holding out a hand] Nice to meet you. Challan.
OLIVER: [accepts handshake] You too, your Hamlet is very good. I'm Oliver.
JAMES: Oh, fuck.
ACTOR 1: Two Olivers? What are the chances? No wonder you two became friends, huh? Two Olivers in one little conservatory class.
[OLIVER looks at JAMES blankly. JAMES looks back with bugged-out eyes, mouth tight. He has taken off all of his costume, now, and stands in a plain white tank top. He has wrangled on shorts without notice.]
JAMES: Yeah. No, it was his Banquo that did me in.
OLIVER: [uncertainly, still watching JAMES] Your Macbeth did me in. Literally.
ACTOR 1: [delighted] You're a Shakespeare actor too, Oliver Two?
OLIVER: [dryly] No, I'm Oliver One.
JAMES: [tensely] We went to a—a school where they focused only on Shakespeare.
ACTOR 1: Oh, wow, that sounds like an incredible experience.
JAMES: It was incredible.
OLIVER: Certainly was an experience.
[OLIVER and JAMES stare at each other. Now OLIVER's mouth is tight, too. ACTOR 1 has finished changing and is putting on a sweatshirt. The rest of the cast around them is also beginning to file out, some with stage make-up still on.]
ACTOR 1: Well, 'night, gentlemen. I say, farewell. I'm off to the kiddos. [to OLIVER] Nice to meet you. I think I learned more about this one than I have in all three years I've shared the stage with him put together. [to JAMES] See you tomorrow night, Oliver.
JAMES: 'Night. See you.
ACTOR 1: Jess?
[ACTOR 1 exits backstage, the last woman in the changing area—the player for OPHELIA—picking up her bag and accepting ACTOR 1's offered arm. OLIVER and JAMES are left alone backstage, which is silent.]
OLIVER: So.
[JAMES sits in a chair, changing his shoes, his eyes fixed on his feet.]
JAMES: One might read one's program.
OLIVER: I wasn't sure if I wanted to know what roles you'd played, yet.
JAMES: Horatio.
OLIVER: Yeah, but.
JAMES: Benvolio, Banquo.
[A long pause. JAMES turns in his seat and stares at himself in the mirror. OLIVER stands behind JAMES and stares at JAMES in the mirror, and puts one hand on JAMES' shoulder, seemingly mindlessly, as he leans over and grabs a make-up wipe from the pack in front of the mirror.]
OLIVER: You have a smear of blood, Oliver.
JAMES: [turning in his chair towards OLIVER] Don't tell me we're doing this.
OLIVER: What, you want to talk about it later?
JAMES: Where's the blood?
OLIVER: Just…
[OLIVER gestures for JAMES to lift his chin, and when JAMES does, he looks for a moment, uncertain, before putting a couple fingers on JAMES' jaw and turning his head to the left. It's dry and artificially red, caked thickly. OLIVER leans closer and wipes at it.]
JAMES: Thanks.
OLIVER: Talking isn't helpful.
[JAMES hums.]
OLIVER: [not entirely kindly] Can I ask why you're taking all my roles? And my name? Or am I not supposed to ask?
[JAMES hums.]
OLIVER: [not looking for an answer] Is that why you quoted Romeo at me? By a name / I know not how to tell thee who I am. / My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself / Because it is an enemy to thee. / Had I it written, I would tear the word.
[OLIVER folds up the make-up wipe in his hand and finds a clean area. He tips JAMES' face back down and begins on the missed eye-shadow. Both of them talk quietly, breathless.]
JAMES: I think you're mad at me.
OLIVER: I think you're mad.
JAMES: I didn't quote Romeo at you by accident, no.
OLIVER: Good to know. Do you have to be out of here?
JAMES: We were supposed to be about ten minutes ago.
OLIVER: [sarcastic] Nice, James. Or Oliver—should I call you Oliver?
JAMES: [with impatience] Oliver, please.
OLIVER: I'm done.
JAMES: [pleading in earnest] Oliver—please. I don't know why you're upset. I'm sure you're right, okay? I'm sorry.
OLIVER: [begrudgingly] I meant with your make-up.
JAMES: [slightly sheepish] Oh. Thank you.
OLIVER: Don't think you're off the hook.
JAMES: [weakly] Of course not.
[JAMES looks at OLIVER, as if waiting for a response, but OLIVER doesn't give one. JAMES picks up his own jacket from the back of his chair and puts it loosely on without putting his arms through the sleeves. Reaching over, he pulls his keys from the left pocket.]
JAMES: [looking away from OLIVER] Come on. It's late.
Scene 5: James' Car[OLIVER and JAMES sit beside each other in JAMES' car. The moon lights the white lines of the road faintly before JAMES turns the ignition and his headlights flick on, flooding the small parking lot with light. For a minute, they drive in silence, JAMES' gaze flicking between the road and OLIVER, who stares at the dashboard.]
JAMES: I really don't know why you're angry, by the way.
OLIVER: No, why would you.
JAMES: Sorry.
OLIVER: I didn't—I didn't mean for that to be sarcastic. I didn't expect you to guess at it.
JAMES: [quiet] Alright.
OLIVER: [distressed] I'm just. I'm sorry. I'm just upset.
JAMES: Alright. [A long pause] Sorry for using your name.
OLIVER: I'm not mad about it.
JAMES: Oh, no? Oh.
OLIVER: Yeah. No, I just don't understand it, is all.
JAMES: [low] You know, I can't make it right if I don't know what I did. I want to… get this right. If that's not clear.
OLIVER: [quiet] I don't know.
[A pause]
JAMES: Is that what it is?
OLIVER: You know, Filippa's called. She and Alex know I'm here.
JAMES: I wondered. I didn't want to ask.
OLIVER: Filippa knows I'm looking for you.
JAMES: [looks suddenly over] She knows I'm—alive?
OLIVER: No, but I did… I did let her read the monologue. I'm sorry. I just wanted to know if she saw what I saw.
JAMES: [quiet for a moment] Yeah, that's okay.
OLIVER: You're sure?
JAMES: [with certainty] Yeah. It's not like I didn't think you might.
OLIVER: Really.
JAMES: It didn't occur to me that you would—consult with them about what it meant. I just thought you might gather them all up and come to find me.
OLIVER: Would you have preferred that?
JAMES: [with emphasis] Oh god no.
OLIVER: But I might have done. You were just going to let that be a possibility?
JAMES: You're not the type.
OLIVER: [disbelieving laugh] Hence forward do your messages yourself.
JAMES: Who's pulling R and J now?
OLIVER: You were.
JAMES: [smiling] So they're asking about what you're doing here?
OLIVER: Filippa knows why. I guess Alex does too. They ask how I'm doing, and whether I've found you. They're convinced I'm going to lose myself chasing ghosts or drown myself or both.
JAMES: [quiet] Oh.
OLIVER: I hate lying to them.
JAMES: Yeah.
OLIVER: I'm just—what the hell am I doing here?
[JAMES makes a small sound to indicate that he's listening and signals his upcoming turn. The road is empty, and he is watching OLIVER. OLIVER's tense, angry expression has melted, and he slumps in his seat. He runs a hand over his face.]
JAMES: [carefully] Seeing me?
OLIVER: I've seen you for about six hours every single day for over a week. What's my endgame here? My month is going to end; am I going to rent it another month?
JAMES: Are you?
OLIVER: [deflated] I probably can't afford it.
JAMES: You can stay at my place, if you like.
OLIVER: [searching] Do you want me to?
JAMES: Only if you like.
OLIVER: [with frustration] That's what it is.
JAMES: What's what what is?
OLIVER: I have no clue what you want from me. What was I supposed to do once I found you? Just—live with you? Leave, knowing you're alive? Tell people? Keep it a secret for the rest of my life?
JAMES: [frustrated] You're not supposed to do anything. I've told you—it's up to you.
OLIVER: No it's not. It's about the two of us. There are two of us.
JAMES: Oliver. It was a request that you come find me. You want to know what I wanted? I wanted to see you out of prison. Sleeping in a good bed, driving a car, eating real food. I wanted to be able to—[faltering] to touch you. Instead of staring at you through glass. [quiet] That's what I wanted. You didn't have to give me that—because, and I literally cannot emphasize this enough—it was a request—but besides that, all I wanted was for you to know I was out there.
OLIVER: [taking this in] Okay. A true devoted pilgrim is not weary / To measure kingdoms with his feeble steps.
[OLIVER shifts in the passenger seat. Without saying anything more, he offers his hand, palm up, over the gear shift. JAMES pulls in an audible breath and takes OLIVER's hand. He swallows and breathes out. OLIVER squeezes his hand.]
OLIVER: [soft] Is that all?
JAMES: Your virtue is my privilege. For that / It is not night when I do see your face. [a pause] What do you want from this?
OLIVER: [strained] You know what I want.
JAMES: Do I?
OLIVER: Come on. The same thing I always have.
[JAMES appears surprised and slightly frightened by OLIVER's directness. He looks quickly away from OLIVER. They are passing by Dunan's Ice cream, it's awning flashing pink when the headlights catch it, the sign flipped to "closed." OLIVER, catching JAMES' reaction, releases a small breath.]
JAMES: Do you want to tell Filippa and Alex?
OLIVER: Do you want me to?
JAMES: I asked you. I'm not telling you to, I'm asking if you want to. I'm not even saying you can if you want to.
OLIVER: I'm not going to do it if you don't want me to.
JAMES: [flatly] Jesus fucking Christ.
OLIVER: [unhappy, impatient] Alright, yeah. I kind of do.
JAMES: Okay. Thank you.
[There is a long silence. JAMES has reached AMY's house and is pulling up close to the curb. OLIVER watches AMY's front door through JAMES' window and looks miserable. JAMES and OLIVER are still holding hands across the gear shift, loosely, as if they have forgotten or as if neither want to be holding on but neither want to draw attention to their hands by withdrawing them either. JAMES cuts the engine and then lets go.]
OLIVER: Goodnight, Oliver.
JAMES: There's a program—your program—in—
OLIVER: In the glove compartment?
JAMES: Yeah.
OLIVER: Are you trying to tell me I should take it?
JAMES: If you—[glances at OLIVER's expression] Yes.
[OLIVER takes the program from the glove compartment and closes it with his fingers. Then he gets out of the car.]
OLIVER: [hard] Goodnight, James.
JAMES: Yeah.