Outside Marcy Projects, a rat mines an overflowing trash can, claws scraping steel. It surfaces with a half-eaten beef patty and drags the treasure across a subway grate, bits crumbling each inch.
Tunnel wind whips through the lattice, ferocity increasing.
Panic flashes through the rodent. It freezes.
The G Train screeches to a halt at the station below.
The rat aborts the heist and retreats into a drain pipe.
Underground commuters climb the steps to street level. Boone brings up the rear.
A police radio crackles: two cops linger outside the corner store, watching the crowd disperse.
He eases up and lights a cigarette—reflexes honed.
Charcoal smoke and burnt spice hang like fog on Vernon Avenue. Jamaican Dancehall’s the vibe. A woman grills jerk chicken at the big house on the corner. Children chalk the sidewalk while older ones loop on push scooters and bikes. Men play dominos and sip extra stout.
Two doors down, an unlicensed auto shop operates out of a condemned house. A line of customers has become a small party; cars shake with blasting bass.
A hunched man operates on the perimeter. He sees Boone and dashes over:
‘Sup ‘dere, Champ!
Chillin’.
Lemme hold a dolla’—
No dice.
C’mon man!
Sorry, Cheese.
I got nothin’ for you.
Cheese ambles back to the car party, mumbling:
Don’t sorry me,
Mothafucka’.
I’ll box your ears.
Across the street sits the only unfinished house on the block—just rough, gray concrete scored for a brownstone face that never happened. The windows on the third floor are lit. The Young Mutt perches in the middle sill.
The barks echo down his stairwell. A bald man emerges from the first floor apartment in his robe.
Good evening, Mr. Boone…
Hey Manny.
We need to talk.
About what?
That dog upstairs.
Does he live here now?
Well…
I’ve let this go for three months now.
Your lease is very clear about the pet policy.
I know.
The barking is a problem.
He’s usually quiet.
Manny scowls.
There was a girl singing today.
Singing?
Yes.
Disruptive—
but lovely.
That’s probably Mona.
Does she live here?
Absolutely not.
Does she have keys?
Is that a problem?
Not for me.
The dog is the problem.
You’re violating your lease.
I understand.
The mutt can stay,
but the pet fee is $200.
That’s fine.
Manny holds out his hand.
You can pay me now.
He raises a brow at Boone’s bag:
Smells like money.
Boone counts out the cash.
Never took you for an extortionist.
Manny chuckles:
I never heard that one before.
The Young Mutt greets him at the door, tail thumping the wood floor. The air has a faint dampness, a powdery sweetness.
Marlon Brando—
my dude…
After a thorough petting, the dog rolls over. Boone rubs his belly. There’s splashing down the hall.
Mona?
I’m in the tub.
The bathroom door is wide open: Mona’s in a bubble bath, sipping wine.
Hello, darling.
He takes her in, pleasantly surprised.
Miss Waggler—
you never cease to amaze me.
That’s funny, Mr. Whitaker—
I was gonna say the same thing.
She gestures to a script sitting on top of the toilet.
I read it.
What’d you think?
Her face changes. Her inhale draws slow.
I wrote you a letter
I never gave it to you.
I burned it.
It was supposed to liberate me.
It didn’t.
The fire tempered the words.
A beat.
A tear rolls down her cheek.
How can you look into my eyes?
What kind of man are you?
Mona sniffles, then bows.
Boone applauds:
Bravo.
Thank you very much.
So you like it?
I love it.
I just…
Love it!
Has Henry read it?
Nope.
Just you.
I wrote it for you.
I know you did…
Turns me on thinking of you,
thinking of me,
while you type.
Her glow brightens as she flips back through the pages.
And you’re gonna have the money to do this?
I already have the deposit.
Guess where I’m going Tuesday?
Where?
The Mercer Theater.
She squeals:
Ewwwww!
Locking in those December dates.
Ah!
I love that theater!
That’s right…
Fuck yes!
Let’s celebrate.
There’s wine in the fridge.
No thanks.
I need a real drink.
Can you get me a refill, please?
Sure.
He grabs her glass and heads to the kitchen. Sets his bag on the counter. Opens it. Pours himself a stiff one. Throws it back. Pours another.
Her voice carries from the bathroom, half-muddled by splashing:
It’s cute that you have Mr. Bubble.
Reminds me of my childhood...
The Pretext DVD lands on the counter. Boone glances at it as he unloads the remaining cubes into a Tupperware in his freezer.
We’ve never really talked about our childhoods.
Of course, I’ve read your plays.
The number your mother did on you…
The broiler drawer opens: it’s filled with cash. Five grand easy. He adds the fresh earnings to the stash.
You’re not close with her…
Right?
The Young Mutt sits. Boone tosses him a biscuit. Puts him in his crate.
Why are you asking about my mother?
Because…
I was talking about our childhoods.
An open bottle of Pinot Grigio in an otherwise empty fridge—the assortment of condiments rattles as he shuts the door. Dumps the rest of the wine in her glass.
Why are we talking about that?
Mr. Bubble.
Ah, yes…
He steps into the bathroom with the drinks.
Her nose crinkles:
Why does it smell like weed in here all of a sudden?
I bought some at work.
At the shoot?
Yeah…
He sits on the edge of the tub.
We had a delivery guy come to the set.
Cartoon Network or something…
I’ve heard of them.
They have those plastic cubes.
That’s them…
She splashes water at him, gets serious.
Thanks for this play.
You’re welcome.
I’m genuinely excited.
So am I.
You kept it going, and…
That means the world to me.
Thanks for saying that.
It’s gonna be good.
I know it.
I think so.
The pause drags while they admire one another.
Whatever you’re doing…
I want you to know that I don’t care.
What’d you mean?
What I’m trying to say is—
However you’re getting the money.
I just want you to know that—
I’m proud of you.
The words cut deep. He tries not to show it.
I don’t know what you’re talking about.
You’re a terrible liar, Boone.
Keep it up though, ‘cause…
I don’t ever wanna know.
Understand?
Whatever you say.
He wipes a patch of bubbles from her cheek, remembers how soft they are.
Your hands always did know what to do…
His fingertips run down her neck, over her shoulder, around her waist, onto her thigh.
I’m your director…
I know how to push your buttons.
He kisses her neck.
Yes, you do…
She closes her eyes, drifts away.
Direct me…
Her legs part slowly: his hand slips inside.
I don’t have to…
A ragged breath escapes her curled lips—he’s found her spot.
Mmmmmmm…
Her body buoys to the rhythm of his arm—waves spill out of the tub, sloshing onto the manuscript, drenching it.
The title page reads: Under the Halogen Screams.
The ink starts to run.