Boone emerges from the subway on the corner of Off-Off-Broadway and Canal, carrying the Banker’s Box through sweaty tourists and street hawkers.
Three blocks south, an office building bears a poster on the door:
A truffle hunter and his dog with their bounty, a young woman looking on. Beneath it, the text reads:
Truffles / A Play by Boone Whitaker / Starring Henry Pearson and Mona Waggler
On the third floor, an open loft with picture windows and bleacher-seating for 75. The set’s dressed as a rustic cabin.
Red leather, yellow leather—
Red leather, yellow leather,
Red leather!
Mona lies on the bed, stage-left, projecting loud-voice exercises at the ceiling:
The lips, the teeth, the tip of the tongue!
The tip of the tongue,
The teeth,
The lips!
Henry sits cross-legged on the floor in a meditative state, wearing a pair of DJ headphones plugged into his iPod.
The Young Mutt lies feet away, gnawing on a chew toy shaped like a hot dog—erratic squeaks with every chomp.
The door screeches with Boone’s entrance—its sharp steel bottom rakes across the uneven planks.
She pops onto her feet—her voice lilts.
Yo, yo, yo!
Hey…
He walks over to the bed and shoves the Banker’s Box underneath.
What’s with the box?
Just a little last-minute texture.
Henry pulls off his headphones, anxious.
Hey, dude—
I brought Marlon Brando’s shit…
The squeaking stops.
The Young Mutt looks up.
Crate’s in my dressing room.
The little bastard is all yours.
Leave it in there.
I’ll get it tomorrow.
Great…
I’m done with that mutt.
The squeaking starts back up.
Where’s Margot taking us tonight?
Margot’s not coming.
Mona moves in on Boone.
Why isn’t she coming?
She gives him a sniff.
Have you been drinking?
Rhetorical questions don’t suit you.
What did she do?…
Shitcan your ass?
She and Henry chuckle until they realize.
Jesus Christ…
Is that it?
She dumped you?
Boone shrugs.
What did you do?
Nothing.
I somehow find that hard to believe…
Boone’s phone rings: Unknown Caller.
Is she pulling her funding?
Yes.
Another ring.
What are we gonna do?
Boone edges toward the door:
We’ll discuss it after the show—
After the show?
A third ring. Boone’s urgency ratchets up:
I gotta take this—
The steel door slams shut.
Boone’s voice echoes in the stairwell.
Hello?
There’s a well-spoken man on the other end.
Is this Boone?
This is Boone…
He fumbles his phone—it clatters down the stairs.
Fuck!
He rushes to pick it up.
Hello?
Are you there?
I’m here.
He exits the stairwell and the building.
Sorry—
I dropped my phone.
The voice remains tranquil:
No need to apologize.
I’m a friend of Seamus’.
He told me to call you…
You know why I’m calling?
I do.
You still interested?
I am.
Good.
Seamus vouched for you.
I trust him dearly,
so I just need to get a look at you.
Give you a rundown of things.
See what you’re about.
How’s that sound?
Sounds great.
You got a pen?
He pats himself down.
No, I don’t.
Aren’t you some kind of writer?
I’m one kind—
How does a writer not have a pen?
I type on a laptop.
A long silence…
Hello?
I’m here.
Oh…
Sorry.
Stop fuckin’ apologizin’.
Okay.
Listen—
There’s a cafe on the corner of Twelfth and Avenue B.
It’s called B Cup.
Be there tomorrow at 1 p.m.
How’ll I know it’s you?
You’ll know.
Just be there.
Got it?
Boone swallows hard.
Got it.
The line clicks. Boone casts a reluctant look back toward the theater.