ACT ONE
Characters
OWEN, late 30s (maybe 40-something), husband to Julia, reluctant-yet-grateful adjunct English professor, looking for more work but never finding it, failed writer, gem and rock collector (part of his collection being a geode big enough to stick your entire head inside of, which Owen will sometimes do—stick his head in the geode—like a helmet, awed by the beautiful complexity of Mother Nature), seeker of universal Truth.
JULIA, 35 (maybe 40-something), wife to Owen, bistro manager, happily childless (euphoric, even, especially when she hears a child cry, or when she parks her car at a park and watches the kids swing while she dips her fries in chocolate shake), known to wear overalls on the weekend, has a daily intake of 20 μg pharmaceutical-grade psilocybin, early-morning jogger (mostly when her husband sleeps, when the air is thin and the grass wet), steadfast believer that everyone gets three chances to make a mistake.
Setting
A bedroom like any bedroom. This could be in California or Virginia, the dry heat of Tucson. The Midwest. It doesn’t matter. But there must be a king-sized bed with a headboard and the kind of carpet that feels squishy between your toes. Venetian blinds on the windows. A wooden dresser, and atop the dresser an overgrown Monstera deliciosa (its leaves long and drooping) in a lacquered pot. The door to the attached bathroom will be stage left. The bathroom door should be open, the light on. Julia is a little bit messy so there should be an open backpack leaned against the bed, clothes draped on the headboard (maybe on the floor), a rolled-up yoga mat poking out from underneath the bed, and a collection of empty water glasses on the bedside table.
PRE-SHOW
15 minutes before showtime, as the audience is filing in and finding their seats, start a small generator backstage. The audience might wonder at the sound, and you might even hear their complaints or comments of confusion, but this is to be expected. (It is recommended to test the sound/volume of the generator days before the show. You want an ever-present dull hum that drones throughout the entirety of Act One. If too loud, so that the actor’s voices can’t be heard, move the generator deeper backstage or muffle it with layers of heat-resistant foam.) Five minutes before showtime, Owen walks onstage and sits on the bed. The curtains should be open for the start of Act One, so that the audience has been looking at the darkened set and listening to the generator. Then a glow from Owen’s phone, lighting his face from below. He scrolls through an article about a female bank robber from Kansas City dubbed the “Barbie Bandit.” The audience, unsure if the show has started or not, watches. Another minute passes before the house lights dim and the stage lights are lit.
OWEN (To Julia, offstage in the bathroom. Running water can be heard over the hum of the generator): I think I’m going to rob a bank.
(The water stops. Julia enters from the bathroom. She is fresh from a shower, her hair damp and wrapped in a towel on top of her head. She wears a terrycloth bathrobe, maybe silk.)
JULIA: Don’t be stupid.
OWEN: You didn’t even hear me. I said—
JULIA: I heard you. You said you were going to rob a bank, which is dumb and something you’re not going to do.
(pause)
OWEN: I might. Look—
(He turns his phone towards Julia.)
OWEN: This woman from Kansas robbed banks across the state, twelve total, before she got caught. And that’s what the article glosses over, that she got away with it twelve times. Twelve? Seriously? All I need is one. And she did all this without a gun, just a note. That must’ve been one hell of a note.
JULIA: What did the note say?
OWEN: I don’t know. Wish I did. It must’ve been something concise and forceful, but also reassuring, making it clear that if the rules were followed, nobody would get hurt.
JULIA: You’ve been thinking this through.
OWEN: I have.
JULIA: And you, a writer-guy, must be thinking, hey, I could write a better note than her.
(Owen tosses his phone on the bed and sits up higher against the headboard. He might stare at the ceiling or stroke his chin, some action to show he’s deep in contemplation.)
OWEN: Well, yes, I did think that and I still do. I’ve been doing research. I’ve gone to the Birchwood Trust bank on 3rd and studied their habits, their patterns. I went in and asked about a savings account so that I could study the layout, where the doors were, the tellers, the positions of all the cameras. I didn’t want to tell you until I was serious. I was nervous to tell you. It feels weird telling you now, the way you’re looking at me.
(Julia’s face should be slacked, her eyes narrowed, as if she’s trying to see something off in the distance.)
OWEN: Say something. Please.
(Julia doesn’t say anything. Then she bends over and unwinds the towel wrapped around her hair, her hair now hanging in strands, before she takes a comb and runs it through again and again, removing the tangles [this process can take as long as it takes]. She raises herself from the waist, flipping her now-smooth strands back over her head. She might smile, or even laugh.)
JULIA: What else haven’t you told me?
OWEN: I’m… I’m not getting any classes next semester.
JULIA: Oh.
OWEN: Yeah.
JULIA: Why?
OWEN: Enrollment is down. Tom said there was nothing he could do.
JULIA: So instead of getting another job, you want to rob a bank. Like the woman in Kansas.
OWEN: Yes, exactly. I think I can do it. I think it makes sense.
JULIA: You think that because of whatever intelligence you may have means you don’t need to work as hard as everyone else?
OWEN: You don’t think I’m smart?
JULIA: If I didn’t think you were smart, I wouldn’t have married you.
OWEN: So you think I should do it?
JULIA: I didn’t say that. What would you do with the money if—if—you got away with it? Are we broke? No, we aren’t broke.
OWEN: I’d save the money, I’d hide it. I wouldn’t make any extravagant purchases. The money would be like four years of salary. It would buy me freedom. I could focus my time on something other than work, like my novel. Isn’t that what you’ve wanted for me all along?
JULIA: Yes, maybe, I don’t know. I want you to do something. I want you to contribute to our life, like, I want you to provide.
OWEN: I know, I know. That’s what I’m trying to tell you: I want to provide.
JULIA: Yes, please do—with a job. People provide with jobs.
OWEN: Not always, not all people. I could have a different path.
JULIA: Why don’t you sell some of your rocks, like you’ve said before? What if you sold your geode?
(Julia points to the ridiculously oversized geode that sits on the dresser next to the Monstera, a geode she knows Owen paid a lot of money for, even if she doesn’t know exactly how much.
Owen should stand and walk to the dresser. There, he will place his hand on the geode, softly, touching it the way you would touch something precious.)
OWEN: I’m not selling the geode.
JULIA: Then I’m not going to be able to change your mind, am I? This is going to be like how it was with the glassblowing or your podcast, and you’re not going to listen to me, are you?
OWEN: I want your blessing. We are mates, life partners, and my decisions impact you.
JULIA: Unfortunately.
OWEN: So you think I should do it?
JULIA: Yes, I do. I think you should do it.
OWEN: No, be serious.
JULIA: I am. I think you should do it.
OWEN: Swear on our love.
(Julia sticks out her right hand, as if she’s placing it on a Bible.)
JULIA: I swear.
OWEN: What if I got caught?
JULIA: That would be sad. I’d miss you.
OWEN: Would you fuck someone else?
JULIA: That’s the first thing you think about?
OWEN: Primarily, yes.
JULIA: You can’t expect me to end my life if you get locked up. I don’t want to be a widow. I could love again.
(Owen paces back and forth, then sits on the bed, against the headboard.)
OWEN: Wow. If you died tomorrow on your way to work, I’d never be with another woman. I’d stay pure and honor your memory.
JULIA: I’d want you to find someone else. I wouldn’t want you to go without love.
OWEN: I’d haunt you. You’d be hooking up with the new guy and I’d be there, haunting you.
(Suddenly, the sound of the generator stops. Its absence is startling, and both Owen and Julia should appear stunned, their heads cocked in unison, eyebrows pinched. Owen goes to the window and uses two fingers to split a gap in the blinds. What he would see would be his friend and neighbor—Samar—out in his backyard filling a generator with gas from a red plastic can. Samar would twist the cap back on the tank before starting the generator with a pull of the cord. He would return to his house through a sliding glass door. Owen should let blinds snap back into place and step away from the window.)
OWEN: I’m going to ask Samar if he wants to help. I might need help.
(Julia [exaggeratedly] groans.)
JULIA: Don’t drag him down with you.
OWEN: I won’t.
(The generator drones on and on, then it stops. End of Act One.)
ACT TWO
Characters
OWEN, older or younger than 40, friend and neighbor to Samar, someone who doesn’t have many “close” friends (of which he considers Samar to be, even if Samar doesn’t feel the same way in return [he doesn’t]), someone who lacks a diverse investment portfolio and isn’t in the stock market, ignorant to all things cryptocurrency (he did try and learn, though, watching a series of YouTube videos that left him baffled), intermittent vegetarian, fond of the phrase “Fake it till you make it.”
SAMAR, early 30s-ish, friend (not “close”) and neighbor to Owen, database administrator (remote), full-on bitcoin miner, fruit dehydrator (mostly apricots and dates), has the skills to play chess at the professional level but doesn’t realize it, Oxford comma supporter, likes to sing if among others who are also singing (and after at least two drinks), once watched a man plumet to his death after jumping off the top of the Burj Khalifa, surprised by the way a man’s body can spin as it falls through the air, hopeful for the day when humanity will reach the singularity.
Setting
Samar’s living room, which has been converted into a cryptocurrency mining farm. The walls should be lined with insulated foil. A collection of fans should be placed throughout the room, slowly oscillating. If possible, hang a large circular fan from the ceiling (and connect it to a series of ducts that rise up out of view). Weeks earlier, Samar would’ve given Owen a tour of the operation. He would’ve described all of the equipment that sits here now, including the 18 mining rigs with handmade wooden frames, each with six Nvidia graphics processing units, for a total of 108 GPUs sucking up 2,000 continuous kilowatts 24 hours a day. The noise of the generator is not heard. Instead: the constant whirring of the many processors computing at high speed. Also: the heat. (It is recommended to install space heaters around the auditorium, so that the temperature might reach 85 or 90 degrees. The audience might sweat or complain, might use their programs to fan the hot air in front of their faces. This is all part of the show.) At center stage, Owen and Samar stand, hunched over a table, both staring at a monitor that displays an endless stream of numerical data…
OWEN: What does it all mean?
SAMAR: Means I’m making money.
(Owen turns away from the monitor, clearly mystified. He might shake his head or make snorting noises like an angry pig.)
OWEN: The numbers, though. What do they mean?
SAMAR: They’re telling me I have an inefficiency. I’m running at plus 450 when I should be pushing 680, 700, no problem.
OWEN: Samar, there must be an easier way. There is an easier way.
(Samar keeps his attention on the screen.)
SAMAR: This is pretty easy.
OWEN: No, I mean like easy-easy. Like, one day your life is this way and the next it’s not.
SAMAR: Like one day I have freedom and the next I’m in jail?
OWEN: What?
SAMAR: You want me to help you rob a bank.
OWEN: What?
SAMAR: Julia texted me this morning, you fuck.
OWEN: Are you kidding me? She told you?
(A loud “Cha-ching!” followed by the Kool-Aid Man saying, “OHH YEAHH!” bursts from the phone on the table. Samar picks it up and checks the screen, then puts it back down. He has his phone set up to do the cash register and the Kool-Aid Man whenever the price of bitcoin goes up by $500, and, conversely, the sound of breaking glass whenever the price falls by $500.)
OWEN: What did she say?
SAMAR: That you were going to come over today and ask for my help robbing a bank. I thought she was joking, but no, she insisted, and here you are.
OWEN: It’s true, I’m here.
SAMAR: Why me?
(pause)
OWEN: Well… I know you. We’ve been friends for years, now. I feel like I can trust you.
SAMAR: If you knew me, you’d know I would never do some shit like that. I should slap you.
OWEN: Slap?
(Samar makes a move like he’s going to slap Owen but pulls back at the last moment, laughing.)
SAMAR: I thought you were a smart man, Mr. Professor. You know what they’ll do to you in prison?
(Samar may or may not make lewd gestures with his thumb and fist.)
OWEN: Yeah, yeah, HA-HA, but listen: We won’t get caught. I’ve considered every outcome. I’ve been studying. Just like how I trust you, I want you to trust me.
SAMAR: I will slap you.
(The stage lights flicker/dim/flicker, as if the power is about to go out but it doesn’t, and the lights stay on. Unfazed, Owen continues.)
OWEN: Let me try and convince you. Let me present my thesis and support it with reason and evidence.
SAMAR: What’s your thesis?
OWEN: That due to preparation, timing, and skill, we will successfully rob the Birchwood Trust bank for over two-hundred thousand dollars.
SAMAR: That’s a shit thesis, and I’m not a thief.
OWEN: Look around, Samar.
(Owen spreads his arms, indicating the computers.)
OWEN: You’re a thief.
(Samar, who is shorter but stouter than Owen, steps forward and slaps Owen across the face, firm and loud, a crack.
A half-second after the slap, “Cha-ching! OHH YEAHH!” sounds from Samar’s phone.
Owen drops to his knee and rubs his jaw. His ears would be ringing. A single tear might slide down his cheek.)
OWEN: I’ve never been slapped before. Hurts.
SAMAR: Your daddy should’ve slapped you years ago. You’re the child who took the first marshmallow.
(Owen stands.)
OWEN: I think it was M&M’s, peanut M&M’s.
SAMAR: It was marshmallows, okay? The kids who waited for the second marshmallow proved to be more successful in life. The longer a kid waited, the more successful they’d become. My guess is you wouldn’t have waited very long.
OWEN: Samar, that experiment was debunked years ago, a lie. The test was rigged.
SAMAR: Not a lie. There is truth in that test.
OWEN: I didn’t take the marshmallow.
SAMAR: You did, and you came here today to ask for my help in taking more.
OWEN: So you’re not going to help?
SAMAR: No, I’m not. I’ll wait and get two marshmallows.
(The stage lights should flicker once or twice more before they finally go out. End of Act Two.)
ACT THREE
Characters
OWEN, still 35 or 40 or whatever, still an adjunct (sadly), still smarting from Samar’s slap, someone who spent more time drafting a bank robbery note than he did grading his student’s rhetorical analysis essays, someone who has watched sixteen heist movies in the last eleven days and thinks it gives him a certain level of expertise, the type of person to think that watching a movie can give someone expertise, consciously envisions himself as a roguish Paul Newman from the 1973 heist film The Sting, while subconsciously he’s closer to Robert Redford’s boyishly hopeful Johnny Hooker, dreams of one day hiking the Appalachian Trail.
BANK TELLER (Sara), 28, tells her friends she works as an account manager even though she’s only worked as a teller (still, she’s happy and proud to be a teller—They trust me with all that money!), once ended a relationship when she discovered her partner had over $100,000 in debt (something she doesn’t regret, as she believes a person’s level of debt is an indicator of their character), likes to talk trash when she’s playing pickup basketball, could (probably) survive on a diet of avocados and lime LaCroix, a surprisingly skillful freestyle rapper (even if no one else has ever heard her rap, as she’s both stage shy and embarrassed by the abundance of her talent).
SECURITY GUARD (Jordan), 30s, former Staff Sergeant in the U.S. Army (spent two years in Afghanistan and hated every second), loves his dog more than his family, can fit three hardboiled eggs in his mouth at the same time, suffers from a constant and near-crippling inferiority complex (and really isn’t all that important to this story).
Setting
The lobby of the Birchwood Trust bank, a bank like any other across America (and less than two miles from Owen and Julia’s house). Stage left features a pair of glass doors, the entrance, where the Security Guard stands. Stage right is dominated by the counter, where the Bank Teller waits. They are the only employees in the lobby. There are no customers (just as Owen expected, as he planned for this). The Bank Teller yawns and taps her ID badge on the countertop (a habit she’s picked up when bored or waiting for customers). The carpet: plush. The lighting: harsh. A circular desk sits at center stage (with pens that have those little ball-chain-things attached so people don’t steal them) where customers can fill out deposit slips or sign checks. A gentle whoosh should be heard from the air conditioner as it cycles cooled air through the auditorium.
(Owen enters stage left, through the glass doors, then immediately turns and puts his hand on the door like he’s going to leave, but he doesn’t and turns back towards the lobby, his resolve seemingly found once more. He takes two steps before the Security Guard stops him.)
SECURITY GUARD: Sir, could you come over here, please?
(Owen is visibly frustrated. Maybe his eyes bug out or he cracks a knuckle.)
OWEN: What? Why? I didn’t do anything.
(Despite his protest, Owen walks towards the Security Guard.)
SECURITY GUARD: Have you had any flu-like symptoms in the last 48 hours?
(Without asking, the Security Guard aims an infrared thermometer at Owen’s forehead. It won’t be lost on Owen or anyone in the audience that it looks like the Security Guard is pointing a gun at his face.)
OWEN: No. No flu-like symptoms.
(The thermometer beeps.)
SECURITY GUARD: You’re all set, sir. Have a nice day.
(Owen steps aside and checks his watch. It’s 9:30 on a Monday morning and Owen thinks: any time now. Seven seconds go by before the walkie-talkie at the Security Guard’s shoulder squawks out, “Delivery here.” The Security Guard should press a button on the walkie-talkie and respond, “Be right there.” Then the Security Guard will exit stage right. This all happens as Owen expected. He knew the Security Guard would be out back [offstage] with an armored truck driver from approximately 9:30 to 9:55. Owen and the teller are now the only two left onstage.
Owen walks to the counter.)
OWEN: Hello.
BANK TELLER: Hi, there. What can I do for you today?
(Owen responds by reaching into his front pocket and pulling out the robbery note, carefully unfolding it, then handing it to the Bank Teller.
The note [printed on a 3 x 5 index card]:
This is a ROBBERY and I have a GUN. I am desperate and will SHOOT YOU. Act casual. Do not trigger any alarms. Gather ALL CASH and put it in a bag. I will leave and you will live.
The Bank Teller should take her time reading the note. Maybe she reads it two or three times.
Owen waits. He could scratch his scalp or check his watch.)
BANK TELLER: Just so I’m sure: Are you serious? Is this a joke?
OWEN: Yes, I’m serious! Get the fucking money and put it in a bag!
BANK TELLER: Oh, nice use of “fucking.” Very serious, very tough. Do you have a bag?
(The Bank Teller pretends like she’s looking behind the counter for a bag.)
BANK TELLER: I don’t have one.
OWEN: Fucking… find one!
BANK TELLER: You didn’t bring your own? They always bring their own bag. You don’t really have a gun, do you? No, otherwise you would’ve pulled it by now.
OWEN: Find something. Get a box.
(The Bank Teller looks behind the counter again and actually finds a box, sets it on the counter.)
BANK TELLER: Look at that: a box.
OWEN: Good. Fill it up, and hurry. I know you have a weekend’s worth of deposits back there.
BANK TELLER: How about—instead—I don’t do that and you leave. This is me trying to help—I’m giving you an out. You’re about to have a really bad day.
OWEN: You’re about to have a really bad day if don’t put that money in the box.
(Then, suddenly, all the lights go out. Total darkness [the entire auditorium should be pitch black]. It will later be reported that a local bitcoin miner blew the power grid. The same article will report that the bank’s backup generator failed. The author will use the phrase, “a perfect storm.”
The Bank Teller, everyone in the audience, they’ll think this is Owen’s chance to escape, some sort of act from God, a final reprieve.
A single spotlight breaks the darkness and shoots straight down on center stage, Owen underneath.)
Begin Soliloquy—
OWEN (To audience): When I was a kid, I don’t know, maybe seven or eight, my dad bought me a toy car. It was summer and the sun was bright. We had left the store and were sitting in his car, still in the parking lot. I took the toy car out of the box and it was attached to a cardboard base, part of the packaging. I pulled and pulled at the car, not understanding it was attached. My dad kept saying, “Stop, stop, you’re going to break it,” but I didn’t listen and kept pulling. I ended up ripping the car right off its axels, breaking the plastic, when all I had to do was listen to my dad and undo the twist ties that held the car down. I knew—in the moment—that something significant had happened, that I had really messed up. I knew there was something to grasp but I lost it, didn’t understand. Even here, now, in the bank with the Bank Teller, I might think I understand all the lessons and implications, but I don’t. I can admit that failure to myself even if I won’t tell the Bank Teller, or my wife. And what no one ever wants to admit is that it’s smart to take the first marshmallow. You might never get a chance for the second.
(pause)
(The spotlight is cut and the room returns to total darkness. Soon, starting from the back of the auditorium, red emergency lights flicker on in a cascading sequence that leads to the stage, then the stage is lit, Owen resuming his position in front of the Bank Teller, and everyone—the audience, the actors—all of them soak in a bath of omnipresent red light. The audience might look around and wonder if they’re taking part in a psychological experiment. The only sound heard is a buzzing from the lights. Then…)
BANK TELLER: I’ve never seen these lights before. Reminds me of a ninth-grade basement party.
OWEN: I never went to parties like that. All the parties I went to had regular light.
BANK TELLER: Hey, not to kill the vibe or anything, but one of the managers is going to come through here. If we’re going to get out, we better go now.
OWEN: You don’t mean it, the “we.” This isn’t about us.
BANK TELLER: No… you’re right. I’m sorry, I get excited.
OWEN: Same. My heart is pounding. I can feel it between my ears.
BANK TELLER: I love that—I do, your honesty—but it’s kind of bullshit that you’re probably going to get away with this. Why should you get away?
(The Bank Teller puts the box back behind the counter, then she returns the robbery note to Owen.)
BANK TELLER: There’s also a part of me that’s cheering you on. I guess I’m conflicted. Also, that was a terrible note.
OWEN: Really? I thought it was good. I wanted it to be both intense and comforting. My wife helped me workshop it.
BANK TELLER: You’re married?
OWEN: Yeah. I have a wife, a house. I have a subscription to six different streaming services. What am I doing?
BANK TELLER: You should go home and kiss your wife.
OWEN: She should punch me in the throat for being a moron.
BANK TELLER: I’d like to see that.
OWEN: I’m going to leave now. Thanks.
BANK TELLER: This was fun, and good luck.
(Owen turns and walks to the front doors, stage left. When he gets to the door, he looks back towards the Bank Teller, waves, then leaves.
After Owen exits, the Security Guard enters from stage right.)
BANK TELLER: That guy who just left tried to rob us.
SECURITY GUARD: Yeah, I bet.
BANK TELLER: Listen, I’m serious! He had a note.
SECURITY GUARD: I better go chase after him, then.
BANK TELLER: Yes, go. Run!
(The Security Guard walks offstage, in the opposite direction of Owen.)
—END—