Music plays, tinny, on the car radio. Something Top 40. Typing on an iPhone, sending a text. The DRIVER sings the song playing on the radio. The car door opens. The iPhone clicks off, music turns down. The DRIVER stops singing.
DRIVER
Robin?
PASSENGER
Yes. Kyle?
DRIVER
You got it.
PASSENGER
Okay.
Skin sliding against the hot leather car seat.
PASSENGER
Great. Thank you.
The car door closes.
DRIVER
Yep. So…Montrose Beach?
PASSENGER
Yep.
DRIVER
All right.
Typing on an iPhone. Google Maps turn-by-turn directions speak over the music “Head North on Greenview Avenue, then right on Morse Street”...
PASSENGER
Do you know how long it’ll take?
DRIVER
This says fifteen minutes.
PASSENGER
(Under breath)
Jesus. Shit.
DRIVER
Running late?
PASSENGER
Yes.
DRIVER
Ah. Well. ‘Do what I can.
Silence. Tires against pavement. The small jostling sounds of a car in motion.
PASSENGER
(Under breath)
Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. Silence.
DRIVER
(New thought)
Oh, uh… Do you need a water?
Crinkling of a water bottle in the driver’s hand.
PASSENGER
No. Thank you.
Silence.
DRIVER
Okay. How is— Is the temperature fine? You getting enough air?
PASSENGER
Could we not?
DRIVER
What?
PASSENGER
Sorry, but could we not?
DRIVER
I— What?
PASSENGER
Can we just not do…the thing? The talking thing. I’m not— look, we both know how this goes. You offer the stuff at the beginning of the ride. The water, the air, maybe a mint—I don’t know. You’re probably gonna offer a charger for my phone next. I’ll decline. We’ll ride in silence for another minute. You’ll say you can’t believe the weather this weekend. I’ll say yeah, sure is a hot one. You’ll ask if I’ve been in the city long, if I like my neighborhood, if I think it’s safe. You’ll ask what I do for a living. I’ll ask you how long you’ve been driving for, if you like it—even though I really just don’t care—and then we’ll talk about how great Chicago is. But I don’t know enough about the city to have any interesting facts to move the conversation along, so you’ll pull out some random tidbit you bring up in every ride about how the freemasons built some of the oldest buildings in the city—or some shit. Then we’ll both be quiet again. But you’ll mention the weather again. Then we’ll arrive at the beach, and you’ll pull a block past where I say to stop and you’ll be like “oh, right here, right here, right? Right here?” And I won’t fucking say anything because you’re cheaper than a cab so, like, who-the-fuck cares, and before I get out you’ll try to make weird eye contact like this is an important human connection that matters to either of us, or something, and I’ll get out and I’ll give you five stars and you’ll probably give me three or four because I’m quiet which you take as rudeness, I guess, so, yes—three stars. And tomorrow I’ll get an email about this ride asking me to tip and I’ll probably forget. Okay? Is that okay? Can we skip all this and just ride in silence?
Silence. Google Maps: Turn right on Sheridan and continue south for one mile.” Silence.
PASSENGER
And you know what?
DRIVER
Uh—
PASSENGER
I’m not sorry.
DRIVER
What?
PASSENGER
I said I was sorry before I went into that whole…thing. But I’m not. That’s what I meant. I’m speaking my mind. I’m not sorry.
DRIVER
Okay.
PASSENGER
Okay.
Silence.
DRIVER
I, um… This is actually my first ride…like, ever.
PASSENGER
Oh. Well, fuck, man.
DRIVER
So I wasn’t gonna, like…
PASSENGER
Man, it’s…fine…
DRIVER
I don’t know anything about, / like, freemasons, or whatever.
PASSENGER
/ Forget it. No, it’s fine.
Silence.
PASSENGER
Sorry.
DRIVER
(Timid)
No big deal.
Silence. On the music on the radio. Rummaging in a purse.
PASSENGER
Do you mind if I put on sun tan lotion right now? I should have done it before I left my apartment. I don’t want to stink up your car. Your...new(?) car.
DRIVER
Why not put it on when you get to the beach.
PASSENGER
Okay, I won’t put it on in your car—
Further purse rummaging.
DRIVER
No, I just meant like, you know, that’s where people usually do it.
PASSENGER
I burn really easy. I don’t know where on the beach I’m meeting everyone. I don’t wanna walk around for fifteen minutes and be burnt by the time I find them, so…
DRIVER
Yeah, bit you can put on sun tan lotion before you start looking for them so I'm not really seeing—
PASSENGER
(Toneless)
I’d like to do it before I get out of the car. If that’s okay.
DRIVER
Okay. Please, just— don’t spill on anything.
The cap of a sun tan lotion tube snapping open. That weird farting sound of a half-empty tube of sun tan lotion. The DRIVER stifles a small laugh.
PASSENGER
What?
DRIVER
Sorry, just that sound always gets me.
PASSENGER
Great.
Silence.
DRIVER
You know I burn all the time too. Like a lobster.
PASSENGER
Good for you.
DRIVER
I actually had to go to the hospital one time.
PASSENGER
Really?
DRIVER
Yeah. It totally sucked.
PASSENGER
I'm sorry.
DRIVER
Yeah, it's fine.
PASSENGER
What happened?
DRIVER
A couple of friends went day drinking out on a creek near where we grew up. Stayed out there for like 5 hours. Passed out in an inner tube for a while. Woke up and just... Just red. All over. Stomach. Shoulders. Legs. Forehead. Neck. The front of my neck. ‘Cause I was, you know, sprawled out. So, I flipped out of the inner tube and the water hit me like, BAM, like needles. My whole body was numbed. I get out of the water over to where our stuff is and my friend Brent brought some aloe because I guess he planned ahead or whatever, so I started putting some on and suddenly my body is just on fire. I look down, it's not aloe; it's fucking Vicks Vapo-Rub.
PASSENGER
Noooo.
DRIVER
Yeah, like, fire of a thousand suns. Brent thought they were the same thing ‘cause they’re both, like, soothing? Almost killed me.
PASSENGER
Wow.
DRIVER
I’ve still got some scars, like ruddy skin, on my upper back, if you look close.
PASSENGER
That’s pretty crazy.
(Beat)
Thank you for sharing. For getting me out of my head.
DRIVER
Oh. Uh, any time.
PASSENGER
Can you turn this song up, I like it.
DRIVER
Sure, sure.
The music gets louder.
DRIVER
Oh, yeah. I love this song.
The PASSENGER starts humming along with the song, then singing. The DRIVER joins in.
End of play.
An Interview with the Playwright, Ian Michael James
S & B: What does your creative process look like? Do you start with an idea or a theme or a character? Is it a solitary thing or do you prefer to be around people?
IMJ: For me, it always starts with an image. Maybe something very small, like lifting a glass of water off a table, or something large like a an entire zoo visible onstage. Either way, I try to be considerate of the fact that an audience will view this image. For this play, with the whole thing being aural, audio-based, I really clicked into that sound of saying hello to an Uber or Lyft driver; the car door, the question, the scooching over on a leather seat.
S & B: What drew you to the medium of playwriting?
IMJ: The immediacy. Plays always start as stories I can tell myself. When I’m acting, I have to audition, wait to be cast or not cast, get into rehearsal, go through table work, blocking, figuring out an intention. With playwriting, it’s all just there. You can set up everything you need to know for yourself with a stage direction. And then you can just go.
S & B: Contemporary plays like The Flick and Pocatello are signaling a shift towards millennial realism. Your style, particularly in this play, falls under a similar concept of examining human interactions through the lens of these new types of interactions. Why do you think playwrights of our generation are so drawn to this style of storytelling?
IMJ: I’m a big fan of Annie Baker. I saw Steppenwolf’s production of The Flick and just loved it. I think Annie Baker is an absolute master of this style (same for Samuel D. Hunter, although I’ve only read a couple of his plays). I think a lot of playwrights—especially young playwrights—try to emulate this style because they want to see their world—their experiences—reflected onstage. I think Millenials are a bit of a neurotic group, so you read lots of plays today punctuated by ellipses, and ums and uhs, and ahs and ohs. I think there’s specificity and humanity in those tiny little verbal ticks. And I think a lot of people are drawn to that right now.
S & B: Do you feel like the interactions that your characters in the play have is a reflection of the negative affect of the technology in our life’s or do you feel it has more to do with the power dynamics of a society that’s classes are divided by those who consume and those who serve? And why?
IMJ: I think the interactions in the play are probably closer to the former. I’m not some luddite who thinks that technology is ruining our lives. In fact, I think—by and large—it’s improving everything about our lives and has a tremendous capacity to create positive change. But I do thinkall the technology around us also makes it very easy to relationships. Especially with strangers, non-essential relationships, like drivers, delivery people, and strangers in comment sections. It’s easy to write them off as commodities. Pluses and minuses. Thumbs up and thumbs down. But when we see those people as real people, that’s when things get interesting.
About the artist...
Ian Michael James is an actor, playwright, and dramaturg living and learning in Chicago. Ian is the Associate Artistic Director of No Stakes Theater Project and a Resident Playwright at Mercy Street Theatre Company. Recent credits include MERRY CHRISTMAS, MULCH PILE! (Tree), CABARET (Dramaturg), BURN (Playwright), and HORNET, or THE KIDNAPPING OF MARTIN SHKRELI BY THE TOTALLY JUSTIFIED AND NOT AT ALL CRAZY PERSON EVIE RYERSON (Playwright). ianmichaeljames.com
The cast...
David Stobbe as Driver
Anna Rose Wolfe as Passenger