Deanna Strasse
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9/30/2024

UK updates 30/9

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More rambles!
I know that I just did an update a few days ago, but a lot has happened...including me crying in the back of an Uber.  
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  • Yesterday was not a good day.  Things have been getting progressively more difficult ever since last week Tuesday, and there’s a very good reason why.  I have not been sleeping well. It’s one of those things where in hindsight you think to yourself, “Well, yeah. Obviously.” But in the moment, your head is spinning, trying to sort out your emotions and this new overwhelming feeling of emptiness. 
  • I don’t like to use the word stupid so I’ll say unthinkingly…Unthinkingly, I assumed that, even though I am not longer getting up at Starbucks opener hours, I would still continue to be an early-to-bed-early-to-rise kind of person. I love the early morning hours when no one else is awake; even in the craziness of work, one of my favorite parts of the day were those wee hours when only a few customers were in the store, everything was chill, one could really talk to someone, and the sun hadn’t quite risen.  
  • Last Tuesday night, I was all set.  I had spent the day traipsing across London, I had only gotten about five hours of sleep the night before…I should have slept like a log.  But I didn’t.  I tossed and turned all night and felt strangely awake.  Sleep only really came for me around 3am, which is not like me at all.
  • Only it IS like me.  I fell asleep at 3am (UK time) which was 9pm (US time).  That’s normal for me.  This is where stupid, er, I mean unthinking…this should have been obvious but it took me another two days to realize just why I was struggling to sleep at night.  I didn’t like sleeping in until noon.  I wanted to be a morning person, darn it!  Was it the stress?  The excitement?  My body getting used to a new bed?  Possibly but mostly it was my circadian rhythm. 
  • To add to this, while I would love to live each day here like I’m on holiday, I do need to save money.  I’d like nothing more than to hop on a train into London or up to Edinburgh and live out all my tourist dreams, but I can’t.  Responsibility crept up on me and I decided that I should probably be using my funds to buy things like a bathroom rub (boring!) versus a Doctor Who walking tour (fun!).  
  • This all culminated yesterday 29/9 when I ended up on the outskirts of Colchester after misreading the bus schedule.  More on that later.
  • As far as public transportation goes, I have a lot to learn.  For basically all of my life, I have gotten around via car.  Buses and trains were reserved for vacations and served more as entertainment than actual means of getting from one point to another.  I LOVE that public transportation is so accessible in the UK, but there’s definitely things I don’t understand and am still figuring out. 
  • Thankfully, my friend Joanne Cunningham recommended this app (City Mapper) that has helped me immensely in figuring out which train or bus to take.  
  • (Again, so much of this will seem self-explanatory but, as someone who has rarely ever taken a bus or a train, it’s a whole new language and I’m doing my best to give myself some grace.)  For instance, the app says that I need to take Bus S1, but there are two different S1 routes: one going to Wivenhoe and one going to Highwoods.  Which one do you want to get on, Deanna?  Well, that depends on what your final destination is!  
  • There are usually two “get-on” locations for each stop, as well: one on either side of the street.  S1 Wivenhoe will stop at one (heading towards the university) and S1 Highwoods will stop at the other (heading towards the outskirts).  Which one do you want, Deanna?  How do you know which one you want?  (As lovely as the City Mapper app is, it doesn’t tell me which “get-on” location to wait at so, more than once, I’ve had to make a mad dash across the street when the bus I’m looking for suddenly appeared at the opposite location!) 
  • The answers have presented themselves now (there’s usually a sign outside the shelter, or even inside) that lets one know which bus is coming to this location and how long the wait can be.  Also, it helps to just ask people.  I should know by now that just asking a genuine human being will usually get me an answer faster than any app will.  (But I am still fighting off the anxiety of looking like a dumb tourist.  Again, I need to remind myself, I am (essentially) a tourist.  I am still figuring it out.  Give yourself a break, Deanna.) 
  • Also: what’s up with the “stop” buttons on buses?  People will hit these things and the driver will continue on for another half a mile before actually stopping!  But the people don’t seem upset by this.  Is this to ask the driver to stop at the next bus stop, regardless of if it's on their route or not?  I just assumed that “stop” buttons meant, “Stop the bus NOW! I want to get off!” but that doesn’t seem to be the case.  
  • Anyway, yesterday I got on the wrong S9 and rode it all the way to the eastern outskirts of town.  Realizing my mistake, I simply rode the bus back into Colchester City Center and jumped on an S1, but THAT was the wrong S1 and it took me to the northern outskirts of town!  By this point, I was so tired, I was practically in tears, but I told myself that I’d just do what I did before and ride the bus back into the city center.  If nothing else, I could walk from the city center to my apartment (a 20-ish minute walk).  The bus sat at a stop and I waited for a few minutes for it to take off again.  Suddenly, the driver flicked the lights and announced that this was the last stop on this route.
    “Oh,” I asked sheepishly, “You’re not going back into the city?”
    Nope.  I was stranded.
    I got off the bus and (of course) it started to rain.
    Holding back tears and tired beyond belief, I called an Uber…only the street I was standing on (apparently) wasn’t a street that my Uber driver could reach so the app suggested a nearby street for us to meet up on.  I agreed to it and then spent the next five minutes trying feverishly to find this mysterious road where my driver would be waiting. I ran across the street, dodged through traffic, and through an underpass, all the while messaging my driver with, “I’m trying to get to the meet up point! Please don’t leave! I’m on my way!”
    I eventually found him. 
    I cried the whole drive back to my apartment, and thankfully my driver didn’t say anything. I tipped him extra for leaving me in my misery. 
  • Once home, I took a Benadryl (this is no job for Melatonin!) and passed out.  I don’t even think I washed my makeup off my face.  
  • This morning I had a 9:20 appointment to finalize my registration with the school, and this was good for me.  It was something early (ish) in the morning that was going to force me up and about.  With the help of the Benadryl, I got 9+ hours of sleep and awoke somewhat refreshed before making myself some coffee.  I am truly hoping that this is the start of a more regular sleep cycle.  
  • Speaking of which, I am officially registered as an international student at University of Essex (see my cool lanyard).  Ever since accepting the university’s offer back in February, I have wanted some U of E merch, but they don’t really have a university website.  After registering, I took myself to the official store and got myself some swag.  (Er, I don’t think I’m the kind of person who says swag. It felt weird even just typing it.)  The woman working the store was extremely nice and she told me that she’s taking a trip to the US in October (going to Memphis and New Orleans).  I also asked about Pebbles the cat, half-wondering if he is real or just a myth but she assured me that he is real and she sees him nearly every day.  Pebbles and I are going to be best friends!  Just you wait and see!  (For those who don’t know, the Colchester campus has a “campus cat” named Pebbles.  He’s a stray who lives in the nearby woods (apparently) and wanders onto campus to beg for food and will even attend a lecture or two.) 
  • I don’t want to make it seem as though this past week has been completely awful.  I did get to see my lovely “wife” Melody last week Friday.  We went out to dinner at a lovely pub (where a drunk man tried to start a conversation with me and I ignored him).  But the coolest part of the day was visiting an indoor zoo that’s located directly across from the hotel where Melody was staying.  Melody got to hold a skunk!  (See all the pictures.  The “zoo” is more of an animal sanctuary where somewhat exotic animals (everything from alligators to rabbits) who were once pets can live out the remainder of their life in safety.  My favorite part was the bird section where I got to meet three blue and gold macaws (yay Jojo!  IYKYK.) 
  • Last Friday also had its fair share of public transportation woes. As I was coming home from Loughton, it was announced that someone had fallen on the tracks near Colchester and thus there were major delays.  My train to Hythe was cancelled at the last minute TWICE and I ended up just taking a different train to a different station and just Uber-ed the rest of the way home.  The biggest issue was that my phone was dying, and I was freezing.  
  • Melody has since moved into her housing and apparently has foxes living nearby.  
  • My classes don’t technically start until next week so I’m still just lingering at the moment which (as I learned last week) isn’t always great for my mental well-being.  I need to be doing something; as tiresome as work can be, it gave me a purpose and got me out of the house.  For this reason, I “gifted” myself the opportunity to go into London tonight and see a play at The National Theatre.  After so many years of watching only from their streaming service, I’m excited to be in the real venue. 
    Aside from that excursion, I will use my time to set up a UK bank account and apply for a part-time job.  Ideally, I’d like to work at a theatre so I can make some connections.  For everyone who asked if I’d just pick up where I left off and start working at Starbucks again, I have to tell you that Starbucks is not nearly as big of a deal over here as it is in the US.  Yes, there’s one on campus but Caffè Nero and Costa Coffee are definitely more prevalent than the Siren.  
  • Also, the vegetarian and vegan options over here are amazing.  I can get vegan (not just vegetarian but VEGAN) options at Burger King.  Do you know how amazing that is?  I had a Vegan Royale the other day and it was super cheap and super tasty.  11/10
  • Also, I love Tesco.  That’s all.  I just really like it. ​

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9/28/2024

UK update 28/9

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I'd like to do regular updates on what I've experienced, lessons I've learned, and just general rambles.  This will be less of a well-thought out blog post and more of a list of random-ness.  Unfiltered Deanna.  Proceed at your own risk.  :P
  • Woof.  Traveling.  I have never given birth, but I have a sneaking suspicion that traveling by plane is a lot like giving birth – in the sense that people who have given birth often say that as soon as they’re holding their baby, they tend to forget the pain they just experienced.  Sitting in a tiny seat for 7+ hours, praying that your Melatonin kicks in soon, and trying desperately to find a relatively comfortable position in which to fall asleep is not for the faint of heart.  
  • But, Deanna, didn’t you pay extra to be in the business class rather than economy?  Why were the seats so tiny?  Let me tell you a story!
  • There was some issue that came about, ending in Melody and I getting moved to the economy section.  Even now, I’m not entirely sure WHAT happened.  Melody and I were sitting next to each other but not in the same row; there was an aisle between us.  Apparently, the woman next to Melody (we’ll call her Betty) was complaining to her companion (a man in the window seat, we’ll call him Thomas) about something and then declared, “It’s not fair! I’m going to complain!” She then rose and stormed off to the front of the plane.  Meanwhile, Melody leaned over and asked Thomas if Betty was upset over something she had done, and he assured her that that wasn’t the case.  
Suddenly, a flight attendant showed up and told Melody that she’d have to move seats but wouldn’t say why.  They just kept insisting that she’d be in the emergency exit row, and thus would have more leg room.  Me, being me, was blissfully unaware of what was going on for the most part because I’d already stuck my headphones in my ears and was listening to ASMR (soft spoken, not chewing sounds).  It’s only when I heard Melody ask the attendant, “Can my friend come with me?” that I paid attention. 
Long story short (for reasons we don’t know) Melody was moved to economy and Betty got to have the seat next to her open.  Melody said I didn’t have to come with her, but I wasn’t going to not sit next to her on the plane so I followed.  We sat in the front row of the economy section, in the middle aisle.  Yes, there was extra leg room, but the seats themselves were definitely smaller.  We also had an empty seat between us, which was nice.  Every time we tried to ask someone why we had been moved, no one had an answer.  I was more than a little cranky by now and probably wasn’t a good sport about the whole thing, but it was extremely frustrating not to (at least) know WHY Melody was forced to move.  All the flight attendants just kept insisting that our new seats were an upgrade, given the extra leg room.  I’m sure that the issue involved Betty (who seemed extremely delightful *sarcasm* and the flight attendants were just trying to make the best out of a bad situation.  But overly tired Deanna just crossed her arms and was huffy about it.  In the end, we survived.  And we got our glass of wine (and they ended up giving us each an extra breakfast bag).  
  • Sunday 22/9 (← I have to get used to writing the date like that) was a tired, messy travel day.  I had no idea what to expect from the customs process so I gave us (in hindsight) WAY too much time.  I remember when I entered Dublin back in 2019, I had to wait in line for what seemed like a long time and had to present a variety of items (my passport, proof that I had booked an outgoing flight, etc.) so I simply assumed that coming into London on a Visa would require even more time and energy.  (Also, while the UK immigration website had told me that because I was a student, I didn’t need to pay customs, I was skeptical of that that sure that somewhere along the line, someone would magically pop out of nowhere, screaming at us for doing it all wrong.  In the end, the customs process involved me scanning my passport and having a quick picture of myself taken.  That was it.  Move along.  Welcome to the UK.
  • One of the big things I’d worried about when arriving was how I was going to transport all of my luggage from London to my housing in Colchester.  Taking various trains and buses is no big deal, but carting three 50 pound suitcases (plus my carry-on and backpack) across all that public transportation was daunting to say the least.  In the end, Melody and I decided to book a private van to pick us up from the airport and take us into Colchester.  And it was great.  I recommend Britway Airport Transfers…if you’re ever in need of a transfer.  So many places only operate within the London zones, but Birtway was up for the challenge.  There was a bit of a snafu trying to actually find our driver because I had told him to meet us at Terminal 1, only to discover that Terminal 1 was actually shut down.  Luckily, Melody showed me this amazing thing called WhatsApp and she was able to contact our driver (yeah Suresh!).  We met him in the car park and he effortlessly loaded our bags while Melody and I collapsed inside the van, exhausted.  I barely remember the ride from Heathrow to Colchester because I slept most of the way.
  • During so much of this journey, I find myself quoting the Richard Burbage character from Shakespeare in Love. “I don’t know!  It’s a mystery!”  There’s so much I don’t know and I can’t know until I get there.  It’s been a great exercise at thinking on my feet, asking strangers for directions, and being okay looking like a moronic tourist.  
  • When the van eventually made it to my apartment building, I was somehow even more tired.  I was under the impression that Suresh would just pull up in front of the building, dump our luggage on the sidewalk (excuse me, pavement) and drive off into the sunset, but he very patiently waited for me to run inside and check in.  I’m sure I looked a fright as I burst into the reception desk, with my raccoon eyes and overall defeated demeanor, and unceremoniously announced, “I’m here to check in!  Where do I check in?  Do I check in here?”  A very nice gentleman (named Matt) helped check me in and offered to bring a “trolley” (a grocery cart stolen from the local Tesco) down to where my bags were and help me move in. 
  • Melody’s housing wasn’t available just yet so we had agreed that she could just stay at my place, but truthfully, I was so tired and needed some time to myself (as did Melody) so we booked a hotel for her.  As Matt loaded up my bags, Melody and I gave each other one last hug and then we sleepily stumbled off in our respective directions. 
  • I knew that I should probably got to sleep right away, but a new wave of adrenaline whispered, “Set up your room!  Now!  Unpack!  Do it!”  And I followed orders.  This was great except for the fact that I got so worked up in getting my things sorted that I completely forgot that the main reception area closes at 6pm.  This was kind of a big deal because all of my mail comes through there and I can only collect it by checking in with one of the receptionists there.  I had Amazon-ed several packages to my Colchester address ahead of time and one of these packages included my bedding.  Thankfully, the building had provided me with a mattress protected at the very least, but my first real night in England consisted of me MacGyver-ing a pillow out of two sweatshirts and a blanket out of one of my dresses. 
  • Yes, I did just turn “Amazon” and “MacGyver” into verbs. 
  • Monday 23/9 was my first full day in England, and it was mainly made up of grocery shopping, finally picking up my bedding, and getting lost.  Now getting lost is not necessarily a bad thing.  One of my all time favorite things to do while in a new town is wandering.  When you have no particular place to be, it’s a fantastic way to waste some time and get to really know a city.  My initial intention was to find a pillow (as mine still hadn’t come in), but I ended up wandering all the way into the city center and traipsing across the Colchester Castle grounds.  I never actually found a pillow and spent another night curled up on my Dramatist Guild sweatshirt (thanks, Amanda; it does make a good place to rest your head when you’re in a pinch).  
  • Tuesday 24/9 was, of course, the London day.  As a tourist I have used the Underground and traveled by train, but that was two years ago and my anxiety of looking like a dumb tourist was hard to combat.  I simply tried to remind myself, “Well, you are a tourist.  You’re figuring it out.  Give yourself a break.”  I still spent the better part of the train rides sure that some kingsguard would randomly pop out from behind me screaming, “YOU’RE DOING IT WRONG!  YOU DIDN’T PAY FOR THIS TICKET PROPERLY!  OFF TO JAIL!”  
  • Luckily, no one yelled at me and I didn’t end up in jail.  
  • In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a nerd for some things: Harry Potter, Star Wars, Doctor Who, BBC Sherlock (Sherlock Holmes in general, but especially Benadryl Cabbagepatch’s portrayal), etc. There are so many fantastic pieces of film, television, theatre, and prose that take place in London so the city is kind of a landmine of geekery.  I want to visit as many locations as possible, but I know it’s going to take time…luckily, unlike two years ago when I was only in London for one day, I have more time.  Tuesday was more-or-less my Good Omens day, visiting St James’s Park.  At the risk of sounding dramatic (who am I kidding, I love to be dramatic) visiting that park (and THE bench) was an extremely powerful experience, one that definitely elicited tears.  
  • Moving to the UK has been in the back of my head as a pipedream for decades.  As a lover of fairy tales, I think it was only natural for little Deanna to look at pictures of castles, misty moors, copplestone streets, etc. and dream of visiting some magical places.  Add in the aforementioned love of London-based pop culture and the UK’s excellent theatre scene.  I have wanted this for a long time, but it was always so impossible.  I don’t make enough money.  I could never figure out the Visa process.  I would probably end up living in a box on the streets, offering to write limericks for spare change.  The anxious thoughts and the excuses went on and on.  So, yeah, to walk through the gates at St. James’s Park and actually see the places that before had merely existed on the television screen…that was a huge deal.  I stood in the walkway and cried.  I had done it.  I had actually made it.  Perhaps I didn’t have this reaction when I landed or actually walked out of the airport because I was so tired and (ya know) most airports look alike  But this (the park, the bench) was irrefutably LONDON.  
  • I ran my fingers over the section of the bench where someone had written, “This place feels…loved” and, yes, I felt a rush of love: love from the Good Omens fandom, love from the world, love from God, love from myself.  
  • I think back to when I first started working at Starbucks.  My employment there has always been a little funny to me because for years I said, “If there’s one job I could never do, it’s a barista.”  I said the pace was too chaotic, the jargon too strange, and the people (demanding their coffee) too rude.  I took the job originally out of desperation because I needed some job; I honestly assumed I’d be fired within the first month, but if I was getting paid for the training, then at least I was making some kind of income.  As many of you know, I ended up staying at Starbucks for over nine years. 
  • The point of this all is that I mourn the lost opportunities.  I mourn every time I ever just automatically thought, “Oh, I could never do that!”  I look back on my life at all the times I cut myself off at the knees and just assumed that I wasn’t smart enough or pretty enough or brave enough or talented enough to do fill in the blank.  
  • I want to do as RENT taught me and live with no regrets so hopefully this be a lesson learned: don’t doubt yourself.  Hopefully you (yes, YOU, gentle reader) can learn from my story as well.  What’s the thing you want to do?  Go and do it!  It may take time and patience and a GoFundMe account, but you can do it.  It sounds so cheesy and trite, but it cannot be overstated: stop doubting yourself.  This coming from the girl who said she’d never be a barista and never live in the UK.  ​
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9/27/2024

Five hundred theatres said no (and then one said yes)

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What does an artist DO anyway?  

Obviously, they create art.

In my case, as a playwright, I write plays.

But any artist will tell you that creating the art (writing the plays) is only half the battle.  The next step is getting someone interested in looking at your art (producing your play).  

Everyone has an opinion on how to do that, and while there are some general guidelines and resources, there are no hard and fast rules to “getting noticed”.  The last decade has been a baptism by fire of me writing and then doing whatever had to be done to get the attention of prospective theatres.  (Within reason, of course, I love my art, but I’m quite fond of my soul and would rather not part with it.) 

About a year ago, I thought I had come up with a genius plan, and dove headfirst into setting it in motion.  

I was going to host a virtual pitch meeting for three of my plays and invite EVERY theatre company that I could think of to join.  And when I say every theatre company, I mean it. 

I am not exaggerating when I say that I sent out at five hundred emails, all with the same message: I’m a playwright, I’m going this reading of short scenes from three of my plays (The Cafe Mocha Murders, Leannán Sidhe, and Dancing With Hamlet), here’s a synopsis of them, here’s the Zoom link, join me on October 14th, okay bye! 

It became sort of a part time job for me to scour the internet looking for theatres that looked like they could potentially produce something of mine.  I looked up theatres in every US state and territory and even reached out to some UK and Australian companies.  The thought process was, “It’s a virtual reading so, theoretically, anyone can attend!” 

Even before the reading, I was running into some snags.  90 percent of people did not respond to my invitations…but just because they didn’t didn’t respond didn’t mean that they wouldn’t attend, right?  Those who did get back to me almost always declined the invite or outright told me, “This is not how we do business.  Please contact your agent and have them send your submissions through the proper channels.” (For the record, I don’t have an agent.) 

I cannot overstate how hard I worked at sending these emails and the hours that went into researching theatres.  

The day of the reading came!  My actors had their scripts, I had my Zoom subscription renewed, I opened the virtual door to let all the virtual people in and…three people attended.  Three people showed up to the reading, and they were all friends, no one who represents a theatre company.  (While I love my friends and cherish their support, they were not the target audience; the idea was to get theatre companies to attend…companies that could potentially produce my shows.)

I was pretty devastated and felt incredibly stupid. Obviously, this had not been the right route to take and I probably just came off as another loud-mouth playwright hocking my script onto someone.  

The talk-back session was more brainstorming WHY people didn’t attend rather than discussing the scripts or potential productions.  (Our biggest theories were that people are just sick of virtual events given the pandemic, that theatres would rather read a script than have to attend something, and that many companies don’t respond well to cold emails.  “Don’t call us.  We’ll call you” kind of mentality.) 

I licked my wounds, tried to take my friends’ suggestions to heart, and chalked it all up to experience.  I had tried and I had failed, but at least I had tried.

Several months passed with me trying to put some distance between myself that disconcerting night.  In January, though, I received an email from someone at the Network Theatre in London.  They had received my email about the reading back in October and while they had been unable to attend, they thoroughly enjoyed the sample I’d sent along of The Cafe Mocha Murders.  (They very politely said, “I hope the reading was well-attended!” Hah!) 

Furthermore, they wanted to purchase the full script.  I sold them a copy and before you knew it, they were asking about purchasing the rights to it. 

So it’s happening: this December, The Cafe Mocha Murders by yours truly at a genuine theatre in LONDON!  I have not seen a production of the show since its world premiere back in 2022 in California, and I am over the moon that I’ll get to see it this time around (did I mention it’s in LONDON!?)

I was dumbfounded: something good actually came out of this embarrassing night that had left me feeling like an idiot.  I don’t think I’ll be in any kind of rush to do another virtual staged reading, but I take this as a great reminder that you never know what will happen in life or what kind of connections you’ll make, even in the face of failure.  It sounds incredibly cheesy to write this,  but the truth of the matter is that this theatre probably would know who I am or any of my works had it not been for this dismal miscalculation.

You have to try and fail in order to figure things out.  No one is given the rulebook on how to make art or how to get your art out there.  Five-hundred (plus) theatres said no, but then one said yes.

And here we are.

Furthermore, it is my ultimate dream to see one of my shows produced at The National Theatre in London and The Network Theatre is located just down the road from them.  I’ve learned a lot about cold emails, but I think I may have to try just one more time and see if I can’t get someone from The National Theatre to come on over and see what my work is all about.  

Who knows?  Could be awful.  Could be great.  
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7/27/2024

We're About To Get Playfully Blasphemous Here (or...The Metaphorical Death and Resurrection of Me)

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2023 was the year I turned 33, and in case you didn’t know, many religious scholars cite that as the age Jesus was crucified and rose from the dead.  Now, within literature there’s a trope called the Christ-like figure in which a character sacrifices themself and from that death, something happens in order to advance the plot.  Usually that something is either the “dead” character rising from the ashes and obtaining new powers (think Gandalf the Grey battling the Balrog and then coming back as Gandalf the White) or the protagonist being so moved by the death of this secondary character that they are reborn in some way (think Red Badge of Courage’s Jim Conklin (JC…get it?) whose death changes Henry’s opinion on war.)

Because I’m a storyteller and have a dark sense of humor, I began to wonder if I would somehow have a Christ-like-figure-moment within my thirty-third year of life.  (Not long after my birthday, I told my mom that I just had to make it to 34 and then I would have “beaten” Jesus; being a good Lutheran woman, she did not appreciate this joke.)
Now, I may be reaching or forcing figurative imagery into the literal world (isn’t that what artists do?), but I think I did have a “death” and consequential “resurrection”.  

I’m at a strange place in my writing career in that I am not famous (by any means) but I’m also not considered emerging.  Recently, I was told by a theater that I should “sit this contest out” and give someone else a chance but at the same time my work has not been produced enough to catch an agent’s eye.  (It doesn’t help that theatre companies have an intense fixation on world premieres.  They want to be the first one to do the show, apparently assuming that as soon as a piece gets produced once, that means it’s finished.  But that’s a rant for another day.) 

Currently I live in Milwaukee and for a long time I thought (or at least hoped) that I could maybe just make it work here; it is technically a theater town.  Add to that the fact that my whole family lives in Wisconsin, my financial situation was not ideal, and my best friend (platonic soulmate) had made it fairly clear to me that she did not wish to move away from Milwaukee.  When I was honest with myself, I knew that I wanted to get out, but there were so many things holding me back from making the jump.  

As soon as the thought of moving away entered my head, Anxiety would perk up.  Always eager to be the backseat driver, it would shout things like, “Isn’t life here good enough for you?  You’ve got a roof over your head, a job that allows you to pursue your passion, and you’re perfectly healthy.  Be grateful for what you have and stop expecting something more!” 

I attended a workshop for other playwrights from the area and, at the risk of sounding arrogant, I didn’t have a lot in common with many of them.  Discussions and questions whirled around about how we find time to write, where we get inspiration, and how we format a script properly.  Some of the writers present had never even finished a full script.  I certainly am not bringing this up in order to shame anyone, but it was an eye-opening experience for me.  Was I a proverbial big fish in a little pond?

My anxiety had an opinion for that, too.  

“Wow!  Way to be egotistical, D!  You think you’re so much better than everyone here?  Get over yourself!  You’re not special.  You’re just another ‘artist’ who thinks they’ve got something special to say!”

A few weeks later I was at my cousin’s wedding and after the ceremony, he approached me to offer congratulations for all the success I’ve had…only to then immediately cut me off guard with the question, “So when are you moving to New York?”  As the groom, he was quickly called away for photographs and I never really got to answer his question.  

If this moment had been in a play, the spotlight would have hit me right then and there and I would have begun some contemplative soliloquy where I openly pondered, “New York, eh?  Maybe I should go to New York!”

Obviously, as a theatre person, the idea of moving to New York had crossed my mind; it’s the theatre capital of the US for obvious reasons.  But, at the same time, New York just didn’t feel like me.  (I have a lot of opinions on NYC, especially when it comes to the outrageous ticket prices.  When it costs a small fortune to see a Broadway show, art becomes a luxury rather than a necessity.  But that’s a rant for another day.)  It certainly seemed daunting, and every good dream should be at least a little daunting.  But New York was daunting without being exciting.  It felt like something I should do…something that was expected of me.

LA didn’t do it for me, either.  Nor Seattle.  I considered many locations, but nothing really made me sit up and take notice.  I wasn’t about to dive headfirst into debt and throw away a good thing unless it was something that truly excited me…something that was enticing enough to spark a change.  

Again, Anxiety spoke up, “Calm the fuck down, D!  New York?  Even if that is what you wanted, they’d eat you alive there!  You’re a soft midwestern girl who can’t take criticism and cries at the drop of a hat!  You really think you could handle New York or LA?  Also, the cost of living in any of those places is way more than you will ever hope to make!  Stick with Submission Helper.  Stick with the contests and the festivals.  Go back to dreaming only as big as The Milwaukee Repertory Theatre.  Sit down and shut up!”

It may have gone on like this…if not for the summer of 2023.

Close your eyes and picture it: WGA strike, Barbenheimer, The Eras Tour, OceanGate, the Grimace Birthday shake…and in the midst of it all, I was having an epiphany.  

A favorite television show of mine dropped its latest season and I eagerly pulled out the Chardonnay and the popcorn to binge it all. 

The vast majority of the show takes place in London and features several actors whom I admire greatly.  Between the giggles, sobs, and various twists and turns of the emotional rollercoaster that was Season 2, something all at once occurred to me.

This is what I want.  

That’s where I want to be.  

I want to move to the United Kingdom.

Was it daunting?  Hell yeah, it was daunting.  

And it was exciting.  

It was a dream that excited me.  

It burned inside me.  

It raged.

It burned so hot that I didn’t know what to do with it.  I paced around my tiny apartment, simply stunned by the prospect of it all.  

Anxiety was in the process of drinking a quad shot espresso con panna and promptly did a spit take upon hearing this new idea.  In a frenzied panic, it bellowed, “Are you nuts?  What the hell do you think you’re doing?  YOU can’t move to the UK!  It would be so difficult!  You’d need to apply for a Visa…or something like that!  Do you even know how to apply for a Visa!”  

“No,” I metaphorically replied, “but I could learn.”

“I bet it’s super difficult!” Anxiety shot back, trembling in fear, “I bet it’s expensive and complicated and you’ll never figure it out!  I bet your sense of humor wouldn’t translate!  I bet you’d end up broke and living under a bridge and crying because you threw away this good thing you had!”

For a split second, Anxiety almost won…but somehow, prompted by the promise of this new dream, I dared to ask, “But what if it worked out?  What if I could figure it out?  What if I somehow scraped up the money and did the research and filed the paperwork and just made it work?”

If it were a play, I would have been standing center stage, staring out into the audience like some kind of dramatic hero and whispering hopefully, “Yes…what if…?”  

It has been a long road to get here, but, despite what Anxiety likes to tell me, I did figure it out.  The process has been stressful enough to induce atypical Shingles and a few anxiety attacks, but it’s happening. 

It’s actually happening!

This October I’m going to grad school at the University of Essex where I’ll pursue my masters degree in Scriptwriting.  I’ll hone my skills as a playwright while learning the ins and out of writing for film, television, and radio.  I’ll take the train into London on the weekends and see every show I can at the National Theatre.  I’ll get new life experiences.  I’ll do my best to explore every inch of that beautiful island.  I’m going to do something new because it’s scary and, most importantly, it’s exciting.  

(To add to the awesomeness of this new adventure, my best friend (platonic soul mate) is moving with me and pursuing her own dreams of studying acting…also at the University of Essex.)

My “death” was not as dramatic or world-changing as Jesus’s, but it gave way to a new life for me.  The power of storytelling combined with a newfound confidence was enough to catapult me into something new, something different.    

And I know you’re wondering what show I was watching that prompted this sudden change; if you know anything about me, you’ve probably guessed it already.  

​Along with seeing as much theatre as I can on my visits to London, I also plan to have surreptitious meetings at The Bandstand, feed ducks some frozen peas at St. James’s Park, and maybe help avert an apocalypse (or two).  My birthday is in January and it just so happens that Season 3 is scheduled to begin filming around that time; perhaps on my winter holiday, I’ll put myself onto a train and take myself up to Edinburgh.  I have so many thoughts on what could possibly happen next to my favorite angel and demon…but that’s a rant for another day.

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Fun fact: I say this line at least once a week...if only to myself.

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6/22/2024

Five things this barista wants you to know...

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This June marked nine years of working for Starbucks.  As someone who didn’t think that they’d last a week there, I honestly consider this a massive achievement.  I have learned so much about myself since becoming a partner, especially in regards to what I’m capable of and how to handle conflicts.  This journey has had its ups and downs, but all in all, Starbucks has treated me very well.
As with any corporation, the biggest issues arise from people higher on the pay scale not understanding how things “at the bottom” work.  I like to picture some big corporate suit walking into one of our stores and asking a barista, “What can we, as a company, do to help you?”
The barista replies, “We need more people on the floor.  Can we hire more people and ​have more labor hours?”
Nodding and scratching their chin, the suit says, “What I’m hearing is you want us to update the sequencing of drinks so you now make three at a time rather than two and you want a free reusable cup.”  
The barista stares blankly at them and asserts, “That is not at all what I said.”  
But it’s too late; corporate has already thrown thousands of dollars at some lackey who is going to study the partners efficiency and see how they can make their employees do more with less.  The gifted cup will come with stickers!  Won’t that be fun?!
While my time with the siren is about to end, I have picked up a few tips along the way.  Not tips for the employees, mind you.  No, these are tips for you…the consumer.  
I would say that ninety percent of the people who have come into one of my stores have been lovely and friendly individuals, but – ooh-weee!! – that remaining ten percent (especially at drive-thru stores.  This is not to shame drive-thru stores or people to use them.  Drive-thru stores are amazing for people with small children, social anxiety, certain mobility needs, etc.  But there’s a certain kind of crazy that doesn’t want to get out of its car to get its coffee.  And it’s usually the kind of crazy that insults the employees or throws hot drinks at them.)
To help steer people away from joining that ten percent group, I’ve created this simple list of things everyone can do to help their baristas out and make the process go a little smoother.  Yes, this is taken from the standpoint of Starbucks, but many of these points apply to any coffee shop.  Let’s begin!

  1. Give yourself more time than you think you need.
The thing about any coffee shop is that the length of time it will take to get your order ready will always be a crapshoot.  You may be able to usually receive your order in a certain amount of time, but things come up: the blender might break down, a barista may have called out, maybe someone ahead of you placed a massive twenty-drink order.  Be prepared for the unexpected.  If you think you can get in and get your coffee in five minutes, you’re probably wrong.  At the very least, this isn’t going to happen every time, and it isn’t the barista’s fault.  That’s just life.  Things come up, and you might have to be flexible.  
Oh, and full disclosure: when you tell us that you’re “running late”, we don’t care.  We aren’t going to move your drink to the front of the line.  If you’re running late, don’t stop for coffee.  It’s as simple as that.

  1. Get off your phone. 
People generally dislike it when we mess up your order which is why we are trained to ask a lot of questions.  You come up to the register and order a latte?  Well, I’m going to ask what size, hot or iced, is two percent milk alright, is there anything else I can do for you, how are we paying for this today, do you want a receipt, and so on.  That’s a lot of questions, but we’d rather get all the info at the register rather than have to go back once the drink is made and start over again.
You can help us out by paying attention, and (hands down) the biggest distraction we see is the cellphone.  Contrary to popular belief, baristas are not telepathic.  If you want almond milk in that mocha, then you have to tell us.  If you didn’t want that banana bread warmed up, then you have to tell us.  We try our best to ask questions, but help us out…and more importantly, don’t get upset with us when we ask questions.  I’m not grilling you for information on how you like your frappuccino because I enjoy bothering you or because I’m trying to lower your defenses so you join my cult; I just need to know what you want so we can avoid wasting time.  
Please get off your phone and tell me clearly what you want.  If you don’t know, I am happy to answer questions and guide you towards what you’re looking for, but no matter how dexterous you think your mind is, you cannot simultaneously focus on the drama going on with your friend Becky and order an iced Tall quad shot shaken espresso, no classic syrup, sub five pumps hazelnut and two pumps sugar-free vanilla, light ice, chocolate cream cold foam, lightly sprinkled with cinnamon powder, in a Grande cup.  

  1. The barista is probably not flirting with you. 
    I’m not going to spend too much time on this one.  It should be self-explanatory.  
Just know that it’s our job to make you feel welcomed and comfortable, but that does not mean that we want to sleep with you.  I did not really experience sexual harassment until I became a barista and then suddenly I had a flock of men (usually old and white) talking about my “pretty little lips” or asking if I wanted to share a scone with them or reaching across the counter and grabbing my arm to tell me that my skin is very soft.  (Thankfully, my current boss is incredibly good at nipping any of that stuff in the bud and has a strict no tolerance policy for customers making partners feel unsafe or uncomfortable.  Thanks, Char!)
Stop.  I am not your toy.  I am just a person doing a job and trying to make a living.  Yes, I do enjoy welcoming you to this third space and even establishing friendly relationships with anyone who comes in, but customer service me is not the real me.  I am not trying to flirt with you, I don’t want you to flirt with me, and I will tell you when you cross a line.  

  1. I do not care if you mispronounce things.
I also do not care if you get the names of the sizes incorrect.  Let’s just admit that the sizing at Starbucks is awful.  The whole thing started because once upon a time, they only offered the sizes Short (8oz) or Tall (12oz) and while that’s easy to remember, Starbucks just kept adding sizes up because, ya know, America.  At one point in time, the Grande was considered extra large and then they added Venti before finally adding Trenta.  What we’re left with is a lot of people assuming that the biggest size we have is a Tall and then getting disappointed when they’re large frappuccino is so tiny.  (Honestly, I personally prefer it if you simply say small, medium, or large.  At least then I know that we’re speaking the same language.) 
So many of the terms used are Italian or at least Italian-derived and most Americans do not speak Italian.  If you call it a “grand mach-yee-otto”, I will understand what you mean.  As someone who spent years being afraid to order a sauvignon blanc because I knew that I wasn’t pronouncing it correctly, I get the instinct to try and “speak the language”, but just know that no one is going to laugh at you.  And if they do, then you tell their store manager.  
Furthermore, don’t be afraid to ask us questions.  We are here to help you figure out what exactly that one drink was…you know, the one your sister got for your last time (“I just remember that it was hot and it tasted like caramel.”  Hey, I can work with that!) I don’t mind people asking questions; what I do mind is when people complain about having to wait in line but then get up to the register and only then think about what they want to order.  Get your life together, Karen.  

  1. Read the room.
Picture it: you’re waiting for your drink.  You’ve been waiting maybe five minutes.  You think to yourself, “Why is this taking so long?”  And then you decide that you’re going to march up to the handoff plane or (God forbid) crane your neck over the glass partitions in front of the bar and demand to know why you don’t have your drinks yet.  
Stop.  Look around.  Are other people waiting?  Are the baristas running around crazily?  Is there a line of drinks on the counter?  How many people are at the bar?  During peak, there should be at least two (hopefully more if it’s very busy).  Is one person running the register and the oven?  Is there a pile of dishes laying off to the side?  Is an employee yelling something like, “I need peppermint syrup on the fly?!”  If you’re in a drive-thru, is there a line of cars behind you?
If you answered yes to any of the questions above, the store is probably very busy.  And, being very busy, there are going to be some longer wait times.  I have worked primarily in a cafe store (meaning no drive thru), and our general rule is that we want people to be waiting ten minutes at the absolute most.  Check your watch and ask yourself, “Have I been waiting longer than ten minutes?”  If it’s very busy and the answer is no, then take a seat and calm down.  (And, no, that ten minutes does not start when you walk in.  It starts when you finish paying and your order goes through.  See #1 if you have questions.)  
The amount of people who go into a rage because they had to (dramatic gasp) wait, is stifling.  Take a look around and have some pity on the people making your coffee. 
If you truly feel that something is unacceptable (be it wait times, a barista’s attitude, etc.), the best thing you can do is email or call the store manager or the district manager.  Stores should have business cards with contact information for both of these individuals.  Said cards are usually located at the hand-off plane but not necessarily.  Before you start yelling at the twenty-two-year-old who has been awake since 4am and is doing the best they can, contact someone higher up and complain to them.  I know that it isn’t as cathartic (you maniac) as screaming in the middle of a Starbucks and getting up on some proverbial soapbox about how “no one wants to work anymore”, but you’re going to get better results if you express your frustration to the people who actually have a say in things like labor hours.  

All in all, friends, assume the best in others and have patience.  If you can do both of these things, you’ll get your drink and us baristas won’t have to run to the backroom in tears.  At the end of the day, it’s just coffee.  Is this really the hill you want to die on?  I didn’t think so.  

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6/16/2024

Summers in Prague (a sample)

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​​© Copyright 2018 by Deanna Strasse
CAUTION: Professional and amateurs are hereby warned that
SUMMERS IN PRAGUE is subject to royalty.
All rights, including professional, amateur, motion picture, radio, television, public reading and the rights of translation into foreign language are strictly observed.
All questions with regard to licensing should be addressed to the author: Deanna Strasse [[email protected]]
No performance of any or all of the play may be given without obtaining in advance the written permission of the author and paying the requisite fee.
:::
Characters
Mara, she/her/hers, American, thirty-five to forty
Václav, he/him/his, Czech, twenty-seven to thirty-one
Time and setting
A hotel room in Prague. Present day.
Summers in Prague was originally produced through Sidecar Theatre, in conjunction with Chameleon Theatre Circle for the 2018 Minnesota Fringe Festival. It opened on Friday, August 3rd in the Rarig Center Arena Theatre.
Crew:
Director………………..Kimberly Miller
Stage Manager…………Jessi Kadolph
Costume Coordinator…Kathleen Martin
Dialect Coach…………Corey Boe
Producers………………Megan West and Kimberly Miller
Cast:
Mara…………………..Samantha Papke
Václav…………………….Avi Aharoni
:::
It was further developed and produced through Windfall Theatre in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. It opened on Friday, March 20th, 2020.
Crew:
Director……………….Deanna Strasse
Stage Manager………..Carol Zippel
Costume Coordinator…Amanda J. Hull
Intimacy Coordinator…Kara Penrose
Cast:
Mara………………….Melody Lopac
Václav…………………Cory Jefferson Hagen
:::
Part I
A hotel room in the city of Prague. It’s nearly nightfall and summer time. There’s a breeze blowing through the open window, pushing the curtains aside delicately. Everything has an air of gentleness and cleanliness. Everything is perfect. A large four-poster bed sits upstage. Suddenly, we hear a cell phone go off. It vibrates wildly. Mara, a woman in her thirties, enters from the bathroom, anxiously. She’s half put together — a nice cocktail dress (nothing too short) is on but her hair is a mess and possibly she only has one shoe on. She does not want to miss this call. Nervously, she picks up the phone.
MARA: Hello? Hi. This is she. Yes. Yes. Room 341. On the third floor. Correct. Correct. Yes. Thank you. I have the check ready and…oh? Oh? Of course! Yes! How silly of me! (She laughs nervously) Of course! That makes perfect sense! No! Not a problem at all! I have cash. Yes. Yes. Lots of cash. I mean…don’t go telling everyone that, but…(She’s embarrassed.) I…uh…not a problem…of course…thank you…oh! Uh…sir? I’m just…could you tell me the name of the gentleman who is coming tonight? Okay. Václav. Yes, that’s a nice name. Thank you. Yes.
(She hangs up, embarrassed. But she doesn’t have time to waste. Mara dashes into the bathroom once more. A beat. Mara exits the bathroom with both shoes on and busily throwing her hair together. She’s in a panic suddenly, pacing back and forth, unsure of what exactly she’s doing. And then there is a knock at the door. The sound makes Mara jump and squeal. She gets control of herself and takes a breath before doing one last sweep of the room. She turns off her phone. She pulls the curtains. She checks her makeup once more. There is another knock.)
MARA: (A little too excited) I’m coming! (She walks to the door, takes a breath and then opens it.)
(In the doorway stands Václav: tall, dark and very good looking. He smiles winningly at Mara and speaks very good English but not without a distinct Czech accent)
VÁCLAV: Ms. Wright?
MARA: That’s me.
VÁCLAV: (Holding out his hand) Václav. How very nice to meet you.
(Mara accepts his hand and Václav kisses it)
MARA: (Startled by this gesture, but enjoying it) Yes…um…please…come in.
(She moves out the way so Václav can enter.)
MARA: Can I take your coat?
VÁCLAV: Thank you. (He removes his suit jacket and hands it to her)
MARA: Oh…sorry…I…I wasn’t thinking…I thought…that’s what you say when people enter…I mean you ask them if you can take their coat but this is a suit jacket, which is typically something you wear…even inside…I thought it was a normal coat, but it’s not…I’m sorry. You can have this back. (She hands him the suit jacket)
VÁCLAV: (Laughing a bit) No. Please. I wanted to take it off. It was very polite of you to offer to take it. (He lays the jacket aside) I’ll just put it there. Is that alright?
MARA: That’s fine. That’s great.
VÁCLAV: Very good.
MARA: Would you like something to drink?
VÁCLAV: Are you going to drink?
MARA: I’ll probably just have water.
VÁCLAV: I will have the same.
MARA: Alright. Just a second. (She goes to the kitchen area and begins to run two glasses of tap water) I…uh…I talked to uh…to…uh…I have the money for you…
VÁCLAV: Would you like to get that out of the way?
MARA: Yes. It’s here. (She goes to the nightstand and pulls out her purse. She hands him an envelope with cash in it.) I just…I don’t want to you to think that I’d cheat you.
(He goes to his coat and puts the envelope in an inner pocket before turning back to Mara)
VÁCLAV: I know.
MARA: Okay. Sorry.
VÁCLAV: (He goes to Mara) You’re very nervous.
MARA: Yes.
VÁCLAV: (He’s very close to her) You don’t have to be.
MARA: Sorry…I’m just…
VÁCLAV: (Laughing) Don’t apologize.
MARA: Sorry…
(Mara stands there awkwardly with two glasses of water in her hands. She’s paralyzed by how close Václav is to her. Smiling, Václav helps himself to one of the glasses in Mara’s hands. He takes a sip and stares at Mara.)
VÁCLAV: Don’t be nervous.
MARA: Oh, I’m way past that.
VÁCLAV: You don’t seem to understand, Mara. You control what happens tonight. It’s my job to make you happy, and I look forward to it.
(Again Mara is paralyzed as she stares into Václav’s eyes)
VÁCLAV: Would you like to sit down?
MARA: On…on the bed?
VÁCLAV: Anywhere you like.
MARA: The bed is fine.
(She sits on the edge of the bed and Václav follows)
VÁCLAV: May I kiss you on the cheek?
MARA: What?
VÁCLAV: May I kiss you on the cheek?
MARA: Um…sure.
(He leans in and kisses her on the cheek)
VÁCLAV: There. How do you feel?
MARA: That was…that was nice…
VÁCLAV: We’ll just go from there. You’re American?
MARA: Yes. You’re Czech?
VÁCLAV: Yes.
MARA: You speak very good English.
VÁCLAV: So do you.
(Mara laughs)
VÁCLAV: What brings you to Prague?
MARA: Oh, you know…travelling.
VÁCLAV: Prague is one the finest cities in the world.
MARA: I’ve always wanted to go. And it’s just a train ride from Berlin. Everything is by train in Europe. I like it. It’s very…old fashioned.
VÁCLAV: What do you think of our fine city thus far?
MARA: Oh, it’s beautiful.
VÁCLAV: Have you seen the Charles Bridge yet?
MARA: I did that on my first day. I was nervous my first day. But…there are all those statues by the bridge you know. Well, of course you know. I’m Catholic and…I was raised Catholic at least…and just seeing all the saints…Saint Augustine was really good for me. I suppose that sounds silly.
VÁCLAV: Not at all.
MARA: I suppose even if it did sound silly, you wouldn’t say so. Sorry.
VÁCLAV: Don’t be.
MARA: (Suddenly rising) I’m sure you hear this all the time, but I don’t…I don’t usually do this. I’ve never done this. I don’t even know why I’m doing it now.
VÁCLAV: Mara, I know why you asked me here tonight.
MARA: Oh?
VÁCLAV: Because it’s a shame for a beautiful woman to be alone in such a beautiful city.
MARA: (Giggles a bit) Oh wow. You’re kind of ridiculous. (Stops) Sorry.
VÁCLAV: Don’t apologize. What kind of work to do you do?
MARA: It’s boring.
VÁCLAV: I’m sure it isn’t.
MARA: I teach…kind of. I teach English. The American School in Berlin. I’m a teacher.
VÁCLAV: That doesn’t sound boring at all.
MARA: Well…I don’t really…the majority of work that I do is just editing. Working with adults who already have a grasp of the language and writing essays and correcting it.
VÁCLAV: But you are American, yes?
MARA: Yes. I go home every once in a while. I went home for Christmas…uh…not this past Christmas but the one before it.
VÁCLAV: Do you have a significant other?
MARA: (Laughs) No. I wouldn’t…I wouldn’t be here if I did.
VÁCLAV: Understandable.
MARA: Though, I assume you get all kinds of people coming to see you.
VÁCLAV: I do. It’s nice to hear that there is still some nobility in the world. You must be very lonely. (He takes her hand and runs his fingers across it. He gently kisses it)
MARA: Huh? Oh…yeah…there are plenty of English speaking people…(Gesturing to him) Obviously. But…it’s still hard to…meet people. You speak very good English.
VÁCLAV: Thank you. Americans seem to look at learning another language as something…silly or unneeded. Most everyone else knows that one language is not enough.
MARA: Say something in Czech.
VÁCLAV: Co byste chtěl, abych řekl?
MARA: (She giggles) What did you say?
VÁCLAV: I said, “What would you like me to say?”
(Mara laughs)
VÁCLAV: Smím tě políbit na rty?
MARA: What did you say that time?
VÁCLAV: “May I kiss you on the lips?”
(Mara studies him for a second)
MARA: Okay.
(He leans in and kisses her gently on the lips)
VÁCLAV: There. Are you alright?
MARA: Yeah.
VÁCLAV: May I kiss you on the neck?
MARA: Uh…sure.
(Václav leans in closely and begins to kiss her neck)
MARA: (Giggling a bit) Ahhhh!
VÁCLAV: What?
MARA: Sorry. That tickles. Go ahead. Try it again.
(Václav attempts to kiss her neck again)
MARA: (Standing and giggling) Ahhhh! Sorry! Sorry! Sorry! I’ve never been kissed like that and your…your…your…uh…hair face…
VÁCLAV: My…hair face?
MARA: Yeah…
VÁCLAV: My stubble?
MARA: Your stubble! It kind of tickles.
VÁCLAV: I can honestly say I’ve never gotten that kind of a reaction from one of my kisses before.
(Mara opens her mouth to speak)
VÁCLAV: And don’t apologize. In fact, you’re not allowed to apologize anymore tonight.
MARA: This is how S&M starts, isn’t it?
VÁCLAV: What?
MARA: Never mind…
VÁCLAV: Your neck tickles, eh? Perhaps I should kiss you somewhere else.
MARA: You can try.
:::
Want to read more? If you’re on New Play Exchange, check me out. PDFs of the script can be purchased by contacting me through [email protected]

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6/16/2024

Dancing With Hamlet (sample)

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​​© Copyright 2020 by Deanna Strasse
CAUTION: Professional and amateurs are hereby warned that
DANCING WITH HAMLET is subject to royalty.
All rights, including professional, amateur, motion picture, radio, television, public reading and the rights of translation into foreign language are strictly observed.
All questions with regard to licensing should be addressed to the author: Deanna Strasse [[email protected]]
No performance of any or all of the play may be given without obtaining in advance the written permission of the author and paying the requisite fee.
:::
Synopsis
When the matriarch of the Flack family, Rosie, decides to remarry, her three grown children are not exactly thrilled with the idea. They are mortified, however, when their father dies tragically in a car accident just a week before the big day and Rosie plans to go on with the wedding. The Flack’s only daughter, Elvira, begins to see the whole thing as a tragedy…on a Shakespearean level. In the days leading up to the wedding, someone is out to sabotage the big day, someone just wants to survive it and Elvira can’t make up her mind. Hearts will break, but the show must go on.
Characters
Elvira Flack…she/her/hers, 30s
Rosie Flack…she/her/hers, late 50s, Elvira’s mother
Beau Flack…he/him/his, 30s, Elvira’s older brother
Wilde Flack…he/him/his, 20s-30s, Elvira’s younger brother
Tony Simms…he/him/his, 50s, Rosie’s fiancé
Jean…she/her/hers, 20s-30s, the next-door neighbor to the Flack’s
(A Greek chorus of sorts also plays an integral role in the show. It must feature at least four actors of any gender or gender-identity but can have as many as ten players. The lines of “The Player” can be delivered by one actor in particular or divided among the chorus.)
Setting
The Flack family home in an unnamed Midwestern city as well as dramatic limbos in Elvira’s mind.
November. Present day.
Production History
Dancing With Hamlet was originally produced by Windfall Theatre in conjunction with Milwaukee Entertainment Group on March 15th 2018 in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
Carol Zippel directed, and the cast included:
Elvira…………..Melody Lopac
Wilde…………..Josh Scheibe
Rosie…………..Donna Daniels
Beau……………Cory Jefferson Hagen
Tony……………Emmitt Morgans
Jean……………Amanda J. Hull
:::
Act 1, Scene 1.
The scene is set. All is dark across Denmark. Francisco stands at their post. Enter Bernardo.
BERNARDO: Who’s there?
FRANCISCO: Nay, answer me: stand, and unfold yourself.
BERNARDO: Long live the king!
FRANCISCO: Bernardo?
BERNARDO: He.
FRANCISCO: You come most carefully upon your hour.
BERNARDO: ’Tis now struck twelve; get thee to bed, Francisco.
FRANCISCO: For this relief much thanks: ’tis bitter cold,
And I am sick at heart.
BERNARDO: Have you had quiet guard?
FRANCISCO: Not a mouse stirring.
BERNARDO: Well, good night.
If you do meet Horatio and Marcellus,
The rivals of my watch, bid them make haste.
FRANCISCO: I think I hear them. Stand, ho! Who’s there?
(Enter Horatio and Marcellus)
HORATIO: Friends to this ground.
MARCELLUS: And liegemen to the Dane.
FRANCISCO: Give you good night.
MARCELLUS: O, farewell, honest soldier:
Who hath relieved you?
FRANCISCO: Bernardo has my place.
Give you good night.
(Francisco exits)
MARCELLUS: Holla! Bernardo!
BERNARDO: Say,What, is Horatio there?
HORATIO: A piece of him.
BERNARDO: Welcome, Horatio: welcome, good Marcellus.
MARCELLUS: What, has this thing appear’d again to-night?
BERNARDO: I have seen nothing.
MARCELLUS: Horatio says ’tis but our fantasy,
And will not let belief take hold of him
Touching this dreaded sight, twice seen of us:
Therefore I have entreated him along
With us to watch the minutes of this night;
That if again this apparition come,
He may approve our eyes and speak to it.
HORATIO: Tush, tush, ‘twill not appear.
MARCELLUS: Peace, break thee off; look, where it comes again!
(Elvira enters now, carrying a large urn)
MARCELLUS: Thou art a scholar; speak to it, Horatio!
(Elvira stares around, confused)
HORATIO: Most like: it harrows me with fear and wonder.
BERNARDO: It would be spoke to.
MARCELLUS: Question it, Horatio.
HORATIO: What art thou that usurp’st this time of night,
Together with that fair and warlike form
In which the majesty of buried Denmark
Did sometimes march? by heaven I charge thee, speak!
ELVIRA: Ummm…
(Elvira begin to exit)
MARCELLUS: It is offended.
BERNARDO: See, it stalks away!
HORATIO: Stay! speak, speak! I charge thee, speak!
(Elvira exits)
MARCELLUS: ’Tis gone, and will not answer
HORATIO: Before my God, I might not this believe
Without the sensible and true avouch
Of mine own eyes.
This bodes some strange eruption to our state.
Heaven will direct it
MARCELLUS: Nay, let’s follow it.
HORATIO: Something is rotten in the state of Illinois.
(They exit, following Elvira)
:::
Act 1, Scene 2
The lights come up on the living room of a cozy home. It’s a lively place, filled with color. A large bay window sits upstage and doors lead off towards the kitchen, the rest of the house and so on. It’s late at night in November. Beau, a young man of about twenty-seven enters from the kitchen. While this is the home where he lived all his childhood, he doesn’t feel at home here. He treats the surrounding area like a museum, looking but never touching, afraid of possibly breaking something. He stares around and eventually meanders his way to the window. Everything about his demeanor says he’s uncomfortable. Off in the distance, we suddenly hear Beau’s brother, Wilde, whistling or humming (possibly something like “Chapel of Love” or “White Wedding”). Wilde enters from the main door, with a suitcase, having just arrived. The two brothers share a look.
WILDE: Hey, bro. I heard someone was getting married!
(Beau gives Wilde a wry look and then awkwardly exits to the kitchen. Wilde continues to hum as he walks towards the window. A moment passes and then he notices someone outside)
WILDE: Jean! Jean! (Opening the window) Hey, Jean! Look who came home! Jean! Over here! Jean! Jean! Jean! Jean! Jean! Jean!
(He continues with this obnoxious chant as he watches Jean, a pretty young woman about his age, walk up the front steps and enter from the main door)
JEAN: Well, look what the cat dragged in!
WILDE: Look who came home!
JEAN: Wilde! (She goes to hug him. It’s clear that she’s enjoying the hug more than Wilde is) Look at you! You haven’t changed a bit since I last saw you! How have you been?
WILDE: Terrible. Just rotten.
JEAN: I was right. You haven’t changed a bit. You just get in? Me, too, actually. Just this morning. Funny how things work out. I was up north with Mom. Isn’t that funny?
WILDE: Isn’t what funny?
JEAN: I don’t know. You were traveling. I was traveling.
WILDE: Yeah. Incredible. Where is everyone?
JEAN: I don’t know --
WILDE: I saw Beau moping around, but where…(His words are drenched with sarcasm) …where, oh where, is that lovely blushing bride?
(Jean clearly hasn’t picked up on the fact that he’s joking)
JEAN: Oh, your mom’s around. Two days to the wedding. You can imagine that she’s a little in over her head. But I swear in all the years I’ve known your mother, Wilde, I’ve never seen her happier. You should see her. She’s like a whole new woman.
WILDE: You’ve talked to her?
JEAN: Yeah. She should be around here somewhere. (Walking to the kitchen, calling) Rosie! (Turning back to Wilde) Anyway, she told me that you and Beau will be sharing the guest room. And Elvira will have to sleep down here on the couch.
WILDE: Weight room.
JEAN: I’m sorry?
WILDE: Weight room. She turned my old room into a weight room, right?
JEAN: Uh…yeah…
WILDE: How nice. I’m looking forward to seeing how bulked up she’s become.
JEAN: I think it was mostly for Tony.
WILDE: Ah, yes. Tony. Petite little thing. He could use a weight room.
JEAN: Would you like some help taking your stuff upstairs?
WILDE: Weight room. Guest room. Library. That’s what became of us. I became a weight room. Beau became a guest room and Elvira became a library.
JEAN: Are we really going to do this, Wilde?
WILDE: Do what?
JEAN: How old are you?
WILDE: I’m just saying --
JEAN: This is the happiest time for your mom. Just…try to be happy, okay? Forget all the melodramatic stuff. I know you and your mom are…you and your mom…but Saturday is going to be her day.
WILDE: You only get married once. Oh, wait.
JEAN: Wilde, if you saw how happy your mother is.
WILDE: I can imagine.
JEAN: Seriously, Wilde, wait until you see her --
WILDE: Why are you so perky, Jean?
JEAN: Just in my nature, I guess.
WILDE: I expected you to be a little more…(He can’t find the word)…considering everything.
JEAN: Do you want to see your mom?
WILDE: No. I’m okay.
(He looks to the coffee table where a platter of muffins has been laid out)
JEAN: Go ahead and have one if you like. They’re my special recipe.
WILDE: What are they?
JEAN: Muffins.
WILDE: I can see that.
JEAN: Honey, rosemary, Guinness.
WILDE: (Examining the muffins) Honey, rose --
JEAN: — rosemary and Guinness. Muffins. My own recipe.
(Wilde now stares at the muffins, almost frightened)
WILDE: Yeah.
(He looks to Jean who smiles and then he tentatively takes a bite)
JEAN: What do you think?
WILDE: Not as bad as I would have imagined.
JEAN: Thanks…? Anyway…welcome home, Wilde. I should go back to my mom and…I’ll be back later tonight. Rosie said she wanted to take you all out for dinner, but she also wanted to work on cleaning this place up. So I said I’d stop by and get a head start on it. So you’ll probably see me --
WILDE: Wait. What did you just say?
JEAN: Uh…well…We’re having the rehearsal dinner here, but your mom wanted to really give this place a good cleaning and --
WILDE: And you’ll be stopping by?
JEAN: Well, yes.
WILDE: You’ll be stopping by while we’re out to dinner?
JEAN: Well, yes.
WILDE: How will you be stopping by?
JEAN: I have a key and --
WILDE: What?
JEAN: I have a key. To your house. Your mom gave me a key. A while ago. Sometimes, when she and Tony are off doing something, they ask me to stop in and water the plants or feed the cats.
WILDE: You have a key?
JEAN: Well…yes…
(Wilde considers Jean and then begins to laugh. Jean, not knowing what else to do, laughs as well)
JEAN: Why are we laughing?
WILDE: Nothing. Nothing. Never mind.
JEAN: Okay.
WILDE: Can I see it?
JEAN: My key?
WILDE: Yes, your key. For the house.
JEAN: Oh. Uh…sure…(She takes out her keys, complete with a variety of quirky keychains and hands them to Wilde) It’s the silver one with the purple nail polish painted on top. I do that for all my keys. So I know which one is which.
WILDE: (Assessing the keys) Very nice. This one.? (Holding up a key)
JEAN: Yes.
WILDE: (Staring at the key) Very nice.
(A long pause while Wilde simply stares at the key. Wilde begins to laugh again. Again, not knowing what else to do, Jean joins in)
WILDE: Isn’t that just grand? Isn’t that precious? So precious. I can’t believe that.
JEAN: I know, right?
WILDE: You have a key?
JEAN: Yeah.
WILDE: A complete stranger. You have a key to my mother’s house --
JEAN: I wouldn’t say I’m a stranger, Wilde --
WILDE: I don’t have a key. She said she wouldn’t feel safe with so many keys floating around. We’ve legitimately had this conversation, Jean. I can’t believe this. She gave you a key?
JEAN: Yeah.
WILDE: She gave you a key?
JEAN: I live next door.
WILDE: I don’t have a key.
JEAN: You live two hundred miles away in Chicago.
WILDE: You’re not seeing the point.
JEAN: No, I’m afraid I’m not.
WILDE: Forget it. Forget I said anything.
JEAN: No. I’ve learned that when people say, “Forget it,” what they’re really saying is, “Please! Ask me! I beg you!”
WILDE: Jean, this time I actually don’t want to talk about it. That’s just my mother for you.
JEAN: There you go. “That’s just my mother for you.” Go on. Talk about it. Get it off your chest. You’re upset with your mother.
WILDE: Of course I am.
JEAN: So talk about it.
WILDE: I don’t want to talk about it, Jean.
(A long pause)
WILDE: I shouldn’t have to say it, Jean. My god, you should know. You know what she’s like.
JEAN: What did she do now?
WILDE: This whole thing. This whole thing. Damn it, Jean, why are you so…perky? Why are you so…happy?
JEAN: Just in my nature, I guess.
WILDE: You honestly can sit there and not think that this whole…thing is a fiasco!?
JEAN: What thing? The wedding? No, I don’t think it’s a fiasco. Your mother loves Tony. They want to marry each other. End of story. And if you’re wondering about your dad, Wilde --
WILDE: Of course it’s about Dad! (Sighs) Nobody understands.
(Jean laughs)
WILDE: What was that?
JEAN: Well, I was just giggling at you.
WILDE: And why?
JEAN: “Nobody understands.” That is so…you, Wilde.
(She rises, as if going to exit)
WILDE: Where are you going?
JEAN: I should get going.
WILDE: What does that mean, “That is so…you, Wilde.”
JEAN: Well, it is. If normal people had catchphrases, that would be yours. “Nobody understands!” You are such the youngest child.
WILDE: What does that mean?
JEAN: How long have we known each other? Practically our whole lives. And you got taller over the years. You moved around a couple of times. But you’ve always been the same. Dramatic.
(She throws herself on the couch)
JEAN : “Oh, I’m Wilde, and they got more than I did!” “Oh, I’m Wilde, and the world is so unfair!” “Oh, I’m Wilde and my mother didn’t hug me enough!”
WILDE: That is not true --
JEAN: “When I was twenty-three, my parents got a divorce, and it ruined my life!”
(Jean flops onto the floor, trying to be as dramatic as possible)
WILDE: That is not funny.
JEAN: “My entire childhood was ruined!”
WILDE: That is not funny.
JEAN: “I knew my parents weren’t compatible, but they should have stayed together and been unhappy…for ME!”
WILDE: You’re not funny.
JEAN: You’re the most dramatic girl I’ve ever met, and you’re a guy.
WILDE: How can you say that?
JEAN: You make it really easy!
WILDE: I realize that he wasn’t your father, but he’s still…he’s still important.
JEAN: Wilde, have you talked to him about all this? The last I talked to your dad, he was perfectly fine with all of this. He didn’t mind that your mom was getting remarried. He was happy that she had moved on and was starting again. Your dad is a good guy. I’m surprised I haven’t seen him around.
(Beau enters now)
BEAU: Oh. Jean. I thought I heard your voice.
WILDE: (To Jean) What did you just say?
JEAN: Your dad. He’s a good guy. I’m just --
WILDE: You don’t know. She didn’t tell you. You said you just got back from up north with your mother. You weren’t here last Sunday, were you?
BEAU: Wilde --
WILDE: (To Jean) Were you?
JEAN: Was I what?
WILDE: You weren’t here. You don’t know.
JEAN: Don’t know what?
BEAU: Wilde, don’t lose your temper. I’m sure Mom was going to tell her --
JEAN: She was going to tell me what?
WILDE: That bitch! She didn’t even think to tell you!?
BEAU: Wilde!
(Rosie’s voice is heard from upstairs)
ROSIE: Tony?!
WILDE: Mom! (He crosses to the stairs)
ROSIE: Wilde? Is that you?
BEAU: (Crossing to the stairs as well) Yeah! Wilde is here, Mom. He just got in.
ROSIE: Is Tony around?
BEAU: No. Tony stepped out I think.
ROSIE: No, that’s fine! I’m about to make my entrance! Are you ready? Prepare yourself, Wilde! I’m coming down!
BEAU: Jean is here, too, Mom!
ROSIE: Oh, Jean, good! Are you ready? Beau’s already seen this!
JEAN: Ready for what, Rosie?
(Jean begins to cross towards the stairs)
ROSIE: Wait! I don’t want you to see yet! Just wait there! Are you ready? All of you! Back away from the stairs! I’m about to make my entrance!
(Everyone crosses back, allowing Rosie her full catwalk)
JEAN: What is it?
(Rosie begins to make her descent from the stairs. Rosie Flack is edging closer and closer to sixty, but she likes to pretend that’s not true. She is dressed in very white wedding gown that probably came from the prom section of the store rather than wedding. It’s a little too tight and a little too low cut. Wilde and Jean are both speechless. Beau smiles wearily)
ROSIE: Well? What do you think?
JEAN: (Biting her tongue) You look magnificent, Rosie! Oh my word! You look…stunning! I can’t…I can’t think of words. You look…look at you.
ROSIE: It’s not too much?
JEAN: Oh, no. Go big or go home I say. This is going to be the happiest day of your life. You should feel like a million bucks.
WILDE: Happiest day of your life?
JEAN: Well, one of them, anyhow.
ROSIE: Wilde, you haven’t said a thing about your mother’s dress.
(Wilde just stares at her)
ROSIE: Wilde? What is it?
WILDE: You didn’t tell her.
ROSIE: Didn’t tell her what?
BEAU: Wilde, shut up.
WILDE: Afraid it would ruin your day? Your special day? God, Mom!
JEAN: Wilde, what is it?
ROSIE: What are you talking about?
WILDE: Jean doesn’t know! She doesn’t know about Dad! You’d think that would be somewhat important information to relay to someone, but I can see where it would overshadow your special day.
JEAN: What didn’t she tell me?!
(At this moment, Elvira enters, carrying the large urn we saw before. All eyes are on her, especially Rosie’s. There is an eerie silence)
ELVIRA: Well, hello to you, too.
ROSIE: Elvira. What is that?
ELVIRA: What’s what?
ROSIE: What do you have there? In your hands.
ELVIRA: Oh, nothing. Just Dad’s ashes.
(The silence is deafening)
ROSIE: I thought…they wouldn’t be done with…with that until --
ELVIRA: They called just this morning. Apparently, cremation business is really slow over there so they got to him sooner than expected. I just went to pick him up.
(Elvira walks to the coffee table, setting the urn prominently at the center of the room. All eyes are on it)
ROSIE : Not on the coffee table, dear.
ELVIRA: Where would you like him then?
ROSIE: I don’t know. Just not there.
(Everyone is still staring at the urn)
ROSIE: Elvira, I’m serious. Put it somewhere else.
ELVIRA: Okay. Fine.
(She picks up the urn and considers everyone on the room)
ELVIRA: It’s actually a lot heavier than I expected. Would you like to try holding it?
(Rosie suddenly bursts into tears and exits upstairs. There is a moment of silence. Without another word, Wilde exits out the front door. Jean considers Elvira and the urn)
JEAN: His…his…ashes? Dennis? That’s…that’s Dennis? Dennis Dennis? Your dad Dennis? He…he’s dead?!
BEAU: Car accident. This past Sunday.
JEAN: That was four days ago.
BEAU: Yes.
JEAN: She…she’s going forward with the wedding?
BEAU: Yes.
JEAN: She didn’t…(Looking at where Wilde exited)…she didn’t mention anything to me. (Back to Elvira and Beau) They’re…they’re still getting married on Saturday?
BEAU: Yeah.
JEAN: Oh.
ELVIRA: Yeah. Oh.
(The lights fade)
:::
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6/16/2024

Forward March (a fanfic)

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​Specifically, a “Harry Potter” fanfic.
(Hufflepuffs against TERFs!)
:::
Overall, it had been a lovely holiday. Kreacher was still being his usual self, but at least he stayed away from most people. It was as if the Christmas Spirit was a stench he couldn’t stand.
Most everyone assumed that the house elf had gone nocturnal and roamed about at night, doing his dirty work. However, it was nearly two in the morning and Sirius hadn’t seen any sign of him. Not that Sirius was worried or upset over Kreacher’s absence. He wasn’t wide awake, sitting on a moth-eaten couch, bouncing his leg in anticipation (and high levels of caffeine) to hear any of Kreacher’s moronic and disillusioned rants.
Sirius was waiting for a far more interesting story.
And at exactly one past two, the door opened and a figure shakily entered the Black house. The stranger shook the snow off his cloak and then pulled it off, throwing it upon a hook on the wall. He was rubbing his hands together and attempting to create some kind of warmth when Sirius realized he couldn’t wait anymore and pulled out his wand, conjured some light, and asked slyly, “So…how did it go?”
The reaction was perfect. Remus had the look of a deer caught in headlights. He jumped and froze, staring at Sirius’s face and blinking a few times as his eyes got used to the sudden light.
“You’re…you’re up…”
“Well spotted,” Sirius had to use every bit of control not to laugh at his friend’s face. He took a breath and repeated the question, “So…how did it go?”
Remus’s eyes hit the floor, and he went back to rubbing his hands together; now more out of nervousness than the cold. “You stayed up all this time just to ask me how it went?” He tried to walk past Sirius, but Padfoot blocked his escape.
“Well, it’s a milestone of an occasion. Things like this don’t happen every day. Well, not for you, anyway, Moony. So…how did it go?”
“It was fun,” Remus finally said after a few nervous bounces on the balls of his feet, “It was a lot of fun. I’m glad I went.”
“You’re glad that I told you to go, you mean.”
“I’m glad I went.”
Had he said good night and run away quickly enough, Remus could have avoided any further questioning. But the fact of the matter is that both men knew there was a part of Remus (however small) that wanted to talk about what had happened that night. That part left him standing there, staring at the floor and waiting for Sirius to continue asking questions.
“And…” Sirius obliged, “What happened? What did you eat? What did you do?”
“Well, it was a Christmas party so we did…party-like things.”
“Remus, I don’t get out much these days. Entertain me. Tell me about the party-like things. Tell me about Dora.”
Remus ignored the way Sirius said her name and pushed on, “Well, Moody never showed up. No one was really surprised by that. Kingsley and a few other Aurors did, though, and they were all very nice. We had dinner. It was very good. The best food I’ve had in a while. Don’t tell Molly. Not that her stuff is bad at all. She’s fantastic, but Andromeda and Ted pulled out all the stops. Ham, turkey, black pudding, potatoes of every variety-”
“Andromeda and Ted? You’re on a first-name-basis with the parents?”
“I wasn’t very well going to go on calling them Mr. and Mrs. Tonks all night. She’s your cousin, afterall! We’ve met. We know each other. I thought you wanted to hear about the party. I was going to tell you about the food-”
“Moony, you know damn well I don’t want to hear about the food! Who did you sit next to at dinner?”
Remus didn’t have to answer that question; Sirius already knew so he just went on, “Did she ask you to sit next to her or did you just sit next to her all on your own?”
Even in the dim light of the Lumos charm, Sirius could make out that his friend was turning a bright red color that he had not donned in ten years probably. Remus finally moved past Sirius and fumbled his way to the kitchen. Sirius was practically skipping as he followed him and asked, “What was she wearing tonight? A dress? What color was her hair? Did you meet any of the Muggle cousins? Did she look pretty?”
Remus was pacing in the kitchen now, torn between his general embarrassment and that small stupid part of him that wanted to go on, “She was wearing a red dress. Yes, she did look very pretty. Her hair was black because, yes, the Muggle cousins were there, and Andromeda didn’t want her to scare them. I didn’t talk much with the cousins because they seemed utterly terrified to be in the same room as us-”
“Did you kiss her?”
Remus stopped, “What?”
:::
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6/16/2024

Something Wicked (a fanfic)

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Specifically…a “Good Omens” fanfic.
Enjoy, solider.
:::
Everything was so lovely.
And that seemed odd…suspicious even.
Aziraphale eyed Crowley from the passenger side of the Bentley and asked cautiously, “What’s the occasion?”
The demon raised his eyebrows, “Occasion?” he purred.
That was all the confirmation that Aziraphale needed. It wasn’t what Crowley had said (that one simple word), but how he said it. The demon liked to point out how easily he could read Aziraphale just based on tone of voice, but he himself wasn’t as aloof or mysterious as he liked to think he was. One word, said so whimsically that it was almost sarcastic, gave him away. Something was going to happen…something devilish.
“Whatever do you mean?” Crowley went on, his eyes never leaving the road.
“We just ate at Nachtigallhaus, a restaurant that you hate,” the angel pointed out before gesturing to the radio, “We are listening to Schubert, rather than your usual bebop music, and…” he leaned over to verify that this was correct, “We are currently only going ten miles over the posted speed limit. Something is up. Why are you being so nice to me? Have you done something?”
“I didn’t realize that going a certain speed counted as being nice to you,” Crowley said dryly.
“You know how much I hate it when you drive recklessly. Forget the speed limit. You hate German food and you hate classical music even more so I’m only left to assume that you have something up your sleeve. You’re trying to make me let down my guard.”
Aziraphale said this all in a somewhat playful manner, but truthfully he was more than a little concerned. Crowley often got the pair into scrapes that required smoothing over (an unintended murder, a burglary that he conveniently forgot to tell Aziraphale about, and the like.) As a demon, his ability to get himself into trouble was limitless. Even after all the millenia, he still found ways to surprise Aziraphale when it came to disorder. (Truthfully, Aziraphale was no better, though his mishaps were usually unintentional, stemming from ill-planned attempts to do good while Crowley’s were always intentional and usually always wicked.)
Crowley shook his head and laughed, “Could it be that I just want to pamper you?” he said, with a malicious smile. His hand left the steering wheel and found a spot on Aziraphale’s knee, “I am doing this because I like the things that you like.”
“But you don’t like the things that I like,” Aziraphale argued, “Who has died? Did you kill them? Who did you anger this time? Do we need to leave London and create new identities? What is wrong? Just tell me. I can handle it.”
Rubbing the angel’s knee with his thumb affectionately, Crowley attempted to assuage his counterpart, “I haven’t done anything. Nothing is wrong. Nothing is up.”
“Perhaps you haven’t done anything, yet, but I can only assume that you’ve got something planned,” Aziraphale looked out the window to truly take in the scenery, “We’re going somewhere…certainly not home. Where are we going?”
Not home was right. Somewhere between basking in the memory of the Black Forest Gateaux he had just eaten and a particularly lovely recording of Symphony №9, Aziraphale had lost track of time and direction. The pair were currently driving through dark backroads, lined with trees and the occasional open field. Every kilometer or so, a stray street lamp would appear, offering a tiny bit of illumination to travelers, but, for the most part, the whole scene was pitch black, save the Bentley's headlights. Admittedly, out of the city and away from the light pollution, one could truly appreciate the flickering stars and quarter moon that hung so perfectly in the inky sky. Aziraphale caught himself gazing at the beautiful celestial display and thinking, This is so romantic.
That made him stop. It was just one more factor to add to the list. Something was going to happen. This was a premeditated apology or some kind of token to smooth over whatever Crowley was about to tell him.
Sensing the growing tension, Crowley sighed, “We’re just going for a drive, Angel. Just a drive….away from the city. Just the two of us. It is nice, isn’t it?”
The way he said that made the angel feel a twinge of guilt. It was very nice, after all. And the look on Crowley’s face when he said it was nothing short of darling, if not a little pathetic-looking. Even through his dark glasses, Aziraphale could see the demon’s eyes get wide and doe-like and the slightest hint of a pout had crossed his lips. With that, the angel melted and relaxed his shoulders before placing his hand over Crowley’s. A lovely drive in the woods with his beautiful demon while one his favorite composers serenaded them was decidedly nice. Perhaps even devils did the occasional considerate and amorous thing. He pulled Crowley’s hand to his lips, kissing it, as if offering an apology. They drove on in a comfortable silence, broken only by Franz’s marvelous symphonies.
And then something did happen…
:::
Want to read more? Check out my profile at Archive of Our Own:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/51938647

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6/16/2024

I hope you had fun (2023 in review)

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