A
long train ride put me within earshot of an undergraduate couple on their way
back to meet the folks. They had been
living together for most of the year, but this was the first time real
family would be involved. The stakes
were raised.
You
should have heard them go at each other!
Gentle
bantering escalated into flesh-tearing criticism which was quickly tempered by,
"Oh, I-was-just-joking" denials—at which point the other
partner would ascend into savagery accompanied by a flurry of soothing
disclaimers; and the cycle resumed.
They couldn't leave each other alone.
On
the jump-off ledge of adulthood, they couldn't control their taunting,
immature word play.
I
was struck by the power and universality of this situation; you leave home,
create a new identity, live something like a grown up, and then return with
your partner. This has to churn
up major issues: separation, marriage, permanence, your relation to your past—and
then, who is this stranger, anyway?
Their
banter and mock combat was so intense, so intertwined and poignant, it
occurred to me that a verbatim transcript would make an interesting
play.
A
very interesting play.
With
very interesting implications.
What
if I had flipped on a tape recorder and later on transcribed their conversation
word for word into play form; and opened on Broadway?
Whose
play would it be? You have to frame and
take a photograph, but this would be the artistic equivalent of a photostat. Could I take credit for found art? Would I ever create something new—something
out of nothing? What is the nature of
New?
These
are not academic questions, because we're talking about a major artistic and
financial success here; one that has changed my life.
Hounded
by the media, I live in fear of inadvertently revealing my method in one of
those unguarded moments we celebrities guard so jealously.
Of
course, I covered myself with false modesty at the banquet: "I am here tonight accepting your plaudits
for my, heh, heh, trainscript simply because I stood on the shoulders
of giants ... and peeked at their exams!
Heh, heh."
Whew!
But
what if that couple catches the play and threatens to go public,
imperiling my Second Lifetime Achievement Award?
What
if they want—a writing credit?
They'd
have no proof, but there would be doubts;
how is it a first-time playwright wins an Obie and a Tony with
one play? People would talk.
If
it comes to that, of course, I will just have to swallow my pride and sue their
pants off.
Still,
I wonder ... would they remember?
Would they remember it the same way I did? How might it affect their relationship?
And
how important is true originality?
How
would you feel if it turned out that I heard this entire article from a
street beggar, flicked on a tape recorder and had my secretary transcribe it
mechanically, word for word?
Would
you be the first to know?
Would
you care?
Can
you spare a dime?