George and Connie Bury a Body

A forest in Lackawanna County, PA. Summer; night. The sound of rhythmic digging. Illumination begins with a flickering campfire at CENTER STAGE. The fire is flanked by two large logs. Seated on the log to STAGE RIGHT is GEORGE (mid-forties). His tank top and jeans are soiled. His exposed arms glisten. A shovel lies at his feet. A cooler sits to his right. Creeping moonlight at DOWNSTAGE LEFT reveals an occupied body bag. The moonlight grows: cool purples and dark blues. The backdrop suggests endless woods. At UPSTAGE CENTER is heaped a pile of earth. The digging ends with the peal of steel striking bedrock. Beat. From the grave and over the heap of earth flies a shovel, landing just behind the logs. Beat. A panting CONNIE (early forties) emerges from the grave. Her bib overalls are dusty and soaked with sweat. She stumbles DOWNSTAGE, grabs a bottle of water from the cooler, and plops herself on the log opposite GEORGE.

CONNIE: Did you bring anything to eat?

GEORGE: No.

CONNIE: Fucker. You gotta start bringing sandwiches or something for these short-notice digs. I didn’t have time to eat after you called.

GEORGE: How deep are we?

CONNIE: About nine feet. Deep as we can go. (takes a quick drink of water) Christ, I wish you brought something to eat. You’re a shitty husband for letting me starve.

GEORGE: I know I said “camping” on the phone, but this ain’t camping.

CONNIE: No shit. All I’m saying is you went through all the trouble of loading the truck with a tent, a cooler, and all that other shit in case we got pulled over. Why not pack some food? If I were a nosy cop, I’d be like, “I don’t know, Jethro. These two say they going camping but ain’t nothing to eat. They plan to munch on grasshoppers?” When we get home, we’re showering and you’re taking me to the diner.

GEORGE: Fine.

A thought strikes GEORGE. He stands up, moves to the body bag, opens it, and begins rummaging.

CONNIE: What the fuck are you doing?

GEORGE: Jimmy here was a diabetic. He usually kept one in his breast pocket. Bingo. Snickers bar.

GEORGE tosses the candy bar to CONNIE. She catches it, smiles, and rips open the wrapper. She takes a bite and laughs. GEORGE zips the body bag back up and returns to his log.

GEORGE: Better?

CONNIE: (chewing) Most definitely. (swallows) At least that fat cunt was good for something in the end. You wanna bite?

GEORGE: No, thanks.

CONNIE: (bites again) You sure? It’s really good.

GEORGE: It’s all you. Finish that and then we’ll clean up.

CONNIE bops her head and gyrates her shoulders in a subdued happy dance. She continues to enjoy the candy bar. GEORGE stares into the night sky. CONNIE finishes eating, throws the wrapper into the fire, and downs what’s left of her water. She tosses the bottle into the fire, too.

CONNIE: All right. What’re you thinking about?

GEORGE: This is what now? Number 12?

CONNIE: Thirteen. You forget about Boris.

GEORGE: Oh, yeah. What an asshole. Anyway, remember back in high school when the nuns and priests were preaching to us about masturbation?

CONNIE: Sure, I think about those lessons every day.

GEORGE: Be serious for five minutes.

CONNIE: (adjusts herself to denote serious listening) Lay it on me.

GEORGE: Okay, forget it. (standing) Let’s just dump Jimmy and go home.

CONNIE: No, no, no. (grabs his hand) I’m listening. I’m listening. Honest. You were staring at the stars and now you got something to say. Share, please.

GEORGE: (sitting) I was just thinking about when the nuns and priests would tell us about how masturbation is a mortal sin. That means jerking off is just as bad as killing. And I’ve jerked off a lot more than I’ve killed.

CONNIE: You should’ve had a bite of that Snickers bar.

GEORGE: And then they said that masturbation is murder, because whatever sperm was being squeezed out wasn’t being used to make a baby. Fucked up.

CONNIE: So, if masturbation is murder, is murder masturbation?

GEORGE: Right! You see where I’m going.

CONNIE: Yes, I do. (beat) I do… and it’s fucking stupid.

GEORGE: It’s a valid philosophical question.

CONNIE: No, a better question is why you didn’t bring any food and… AND… why we never make these fuckers dig the hole for us. That’s what I was thinking about while enjoying the dead diabetic’s candy bar.

GEORGE: Oh, come on, Con.

CONNIE: No, fuck you. Why we always digging the holes? Why don’t we ever point our guns at them and make them dig?

GEORGE: You think Jumbo Jimmy over there was gonna dig a nine-foot hole?

CONNIE: Okay, maybe not the whole thing. Hank the Hands could’ve dug one without a shovel.

GEORGE: (stands) Okay, forget about the logistics of getting someone to a drop site who’s still alive and fighting. Yeah, we could somehow get him here. That’s done. Now we’re gonna point our guns at him, tell him to dig a hole, so we can shoot him and throw him in it.

CONNIE: Yeah?

GEORGE: Go ahead. Go on. Stand up and point your piece at me. Tell me to dig my own grave.

CONNIE jumps up, reaches into her overalls, and produces a pistol. She points it at GEORGE.

CONNIE: Okay, cocksucker. Pick up that shovel and start digging.

GEORGE: You want me to dig my own grave?

CONNIE: No, we’re looking for treasure, dumbass. Start making a hole and don’t stop until I say so.

GEORGE: Fuck you, bitch. You want me to dig my own grave, or what? You’re gonna clip me? Go on and shoot. Put one right between my eyes. You’ll still have to dig the hole. Well, come on! What’re you waiting for? Shoot!

CONNIE pulls the trigger. The round strikes the log behind GEORGE.

GEORGE: You crazy, cunt! I’m just trying to prove a point. What’d you do that for?

CONNIE: I’m still hungry!

GEORGE stomps over to the body and starts to drag it UPSTAGE.

GEORGE: You gonna help me?

CONNIE puts away her gun, walks over, and helps GEORGE drag the body to the grave. After dropping the corpse in, they both retrieve their shovels and start refilling the hole. After a few shovelfuls, CONNIE pauses, sighs heavily, and looks at GEORGE. He stops shoveling and meets her gaze.

CONNIE: You’re still taking me to the diner, right?

CURTAIN