Alone at night in a quiet corner of the Metropolitan Museum, a taxidermied deer, looking back over his left shoulder. From his antlers to his hooves he is coated by a thin but ornate layer of glass. In places the glass is semi-transparent and traces his contours; in others it is built up and crafted with bubbles and beads.

GLASS: One thing I noticed about you, and I can see you through a lot of different lenses—you don’t know how to project yourself onto the world.

DEER: I don’t know, could that be ‘cause you’re encasing me, you stiff bastard?!

GLASS: C’mon, that’s just an excuse. Look back, be honest. How many times did you get nudged aside from a big acorn just as your mouth closed in? And what’d you do about it? You’d slink off, saying, ‘I aimed too high. I go to my rightful place.’

DEER: I liked the smaller acorns. See, that’s the thing you don’t know. To me they tasted sweeter.

GLASS: Uh-huh. And did you like celibacy?

DEER: Why don’t you turn all those bulging lenses on yourself? Afraid?

GLASS: I’m trying to offer some constructive—

DEER: You look like a bag of tumors. If you were fur instead of clear you’d be a monster. But everyone sighs, ‘Exquisite’. I don’t get it, I really don’t. You’d be nothing without me, there’d be nothing for you to be! But no one can even see me, or just faintly! ‘Oh, there he is in there’. Standing on tiptoes, leaning in: ‘Oh there  he is, I think I can make him out—the poor dead thing.’ While you’re ‘amaaazing’. No. Even if no one else in the world knows the truth, I do.

GLASS: Yeah? What is it?

DEER: The classic jawline, that’s me! Your…coat, your ‘bubbles’: he just took my liquid eye and fractalized it.

GLASS: Funny, no viewer or critic has ever seen it that way, and it’s not in any of the artist’s statements, unless I’ve missed something—and I haven’t.

DEER: You’re nothing but a death mask! Of me!

A guard has entered and is listening.

You’re the shadow. I’m the object. But nobody knows it!

GLASS: Then why don’t you do something about it?

DEER: If I was naked, you think I’d be in the Met? They’d hustle me out a back door and throw me in the garbage. The best I could ever hope for is Natural History, as background in some diorama.

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GLASS: So you got me to thank for something.

DEER: I’d rather be a head on a wall—at least I’d be seen, at least I’d be me!

GLASS: You got a serious interiority complex there, m’boy.

DEER: He took a full-blooded, full-bodied animal with a whole rich history and made it a skeleton. I’m someone else’s bones, not even my own!

The guard approaches. He’s middle-aged, stooped.

GUARD: I couldn’t help overhearing. Do you want me to bust you out of that glass cage? I’ll do it.

DEER and GLASS are silent.

There must be a fabrication seam. Or I’ll smash it if I have to.

Silence.

They caught you in one moment. And then somehow that one moment—that maybe you think isn’t even really you, or just a little part—somehow it’s become everything. It’s grown and hardened, and your fate is sealed! 40 hours a week, of showing up only in body…after 20 years, you can’t disown that.

But maybe it’s not too late. Tomorrow night, I’ll bring a crowbar. Tomorrow night, you come into your own.

The only thing I ask is—let me paint your portrait. In that moment of deciding whether to bolt. Any viewer can relate who’s ever been in the woods and tried to make a deer stay, tried to project his own harmlessness, saying with his face and outstretched hands, “Look, friend, I’m well-intentioned through and through, you can even smell it through my pores! Don’t run.”

But not with you looking like late Elvis. The fear. The moment of deciding. The even more fragile self that you surround. I can capture that. (He takes a folded form out of his breast pocket.) To enter in the contest.

I’ve been smothered for too long by…(looks around at the art) all this. This year I’m gonna force myself. (He rattles the form.) I think we could help each other.

I won’t lie—sudden exposure to the air…who knows? Mummies and unburied scrolls—some of them, poof. But what are the options? Are you happy in there? Is this all there is? If you’re happy, tell me and I’ll go away.

Silence. Curtain.

The dressing room of a small nightclub, live music in the background. Dana, a singer in a black dress and red scarf, sits calmly on a tattered couch, an untouched glass of red wine on a table nearby. Darryl, the owner, paces back and forth in front of her.

DARRYL: You sure you can’t start now? This guy’s killing me—I got customers walking out!

DANA: Darryl, we’ve been through this. The Sabbath ends at 9:10. That’s when all the light is gone from the sky.

DARRYL: What are you a vampire?

Dana gives him a look, says nothing. Darryl listens to the music.

It’s not like Jimmy’s a hack. He’s got a great voice, great range, he can play. But there’s something inside him that’s unhealthy. A knot. Turns people off. Skeeves them. Then there are the few who lean forward. They take the empty seats and move closer. It speaks to something in them.

DANA: I know Jimmy a little. He’s had a tough life.

DARRYL: Aww, he had a wotten childhood? Well, we’re all adults now, you know what I’m sayin? You gotta hide that shit on stage. Or use it. Look at Billie Holiday.

Dana doesn’t bother to rebut this.

You’re just sitting there? You can’t even do vocal exercises on the Sabbath?

Silence.

Dana, that’s four…five customers on their way out. Come on, stop the bleeding!

Silence.

DARRYL: All right, all right. I respect…spirituality. You want to be alone?

DANA: Yeah, Darryl, I want to be alone!

DARRYL: (listening) That’s a beautiful note–almost. But there’s a clusterfuck inside him, you can hear it. I’m not booking him again. 9:10?

DANA: 9:10.

DARRYL: Few more months, you’re good for the 8 o’clock, right?

DANA: Yup.

DARRYL: I need an almanac with this chick.

He leaves. Dana sits there breathing calmly. After a moment she reaches into her bag and takes out a braided red Havdalah candle. She looks at a barely visible hole in the wall, takes a handkerchief from her bag, and crosses to it.

DANA: Stop it, Darryl! I told you. That’s creepy. Don’t make me go to the cops!

DARRYL: (from off ) Just keeping an eye on the talent. People have OD’d in here.

DANA: Uh-huh.

She plugs the hole with the handkerchief, places the Havdalah candle on the table and lights it. She averts her eyes from the flame, holds up a hand to its light, and catches the reflection in her fingernails.

How was Shabbat?

A young woman in a white wedding dress appears and hugs her.

SHECHINA: It was fun.

DANA: Details, details.

SHECHINA: Synagogue in Queens—they were singing and dancing on the lawn. So I joined them. Then all of a sudden the rabbi kneels down—he’s elderly—and says he wants to ‘kiss my grass- scented feet’.

DANA: Whoa!

SHECHINA: A little different. But I went with it. He lost his son a few months ago.

Dana clucks sympathy.

So he kneels down and…very fervent. Then the whole congregation lines up—men, women, and children—and they all do it. It was good. It was love.

DANA: Feet, huh? You have quite the life.

The Shechina forces a radiant smile. Dana looks at her wedding gown which is covered with writing. She examines a place on her arm.

What’s this part here? I can’t read the Hebrew without vowels.

The Shechina gives Dana a small silver stylus that she wears around her neck and guides Dana’s hand as she runs the tip over the words.

SHECHINA: It’s from Leviticus. Proper rites of animal sacrifice in the Second Temple. The line you’re on describes folding back a flap on the kidney.

DANA: (dropping the stylus) Eww.

SHECHINA: Hey, you asked. (Half to herself.) The Temple—the last time I had a home here and could be with you all… Anyway, how are you?

DANA: Fine.

SHECHINA: Yeah? You sure?

She looks gently in Dana’s eyes and plays a little with her hair.

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DANA: I don’t know. I feel a little funny. I had that thing again, where I got claustrophobic. I couldn’t stay inside, so I went outside, but then when I got to the street, I felt overwhelmed, so I went back in. And then, I swear, I almost had to go right back out. I was walking toward the door…but, I ended up taking a bath and it calmed me down.

SHECHINA: It was a panic attack.

DANA: I guess.

SHECHINA: We know where it comes from.

DANA: Right.

SHECHINA: And you’re taking steps.

DANA: I’m trying.

The Shechina puts her hand on Dana’s forehead.

Oh, that feels nice.

SHECHINA: Are you writing down your to-do lists, not repeating them in your mind?

DANA: Yes.

SHECHINA: You seeing friends?

DANA: Monica, Andre, Rebecca this week.

SHECHINA: Good. Let me hear something.

Dana weakly sings a bit of Many Rivers to Cross.

(sadly) Oh, honey.

DANA: Pathetic little voice! I can’t put any power into it! I can’t modulate. I love this song and I can’t even show it!

SHECHINA: Dana–

DANA: It’s the knot! Unhealthy! What am I gonna do?!

The Shechina touches her forehead and says the word, ‘Wisdom’

On her Mouth, ‘Beauty’
Breastbone, ‘Compassion’
Stomach, ‘Perseverance’

SHECHINA: Try it again.

Dana sings, stronger this time.

Almost there.

She touches Dana’s throat.

DANA: I just had this image: my chest was orange and I was breathing out light.

The Shechina smiles.

I’m ready.

SHECHINA: I can see that. You’ll make the audience very happy.

DANA: Right. It’s about them.

They smile at each other.

SHECHINA: By the way, Jimmy’s staying for your set. He’s struggling right now. So maybe some attention his way?

DANA: (kissing her on the cheek) I can do that. Thank you for the heads up.

She checks her watch.

It’s time. Are you ready?

The Shechina nods. Dana pours wine onto the Havdalah candle, extinguishing it.

SHECHINA: Oww.

DANA: Sorry!

SHECHINA: I’m just a little sad. Now it’s gone. Have a good week, my dear.

DANA: You too.

SHECHINA: Reach out whenever you want.

DANA: I will.

They embrace and for a moment each sings a clear note into the other’s mouths. The Shechina disappears. Dana heads for the stage.

Rachel and Feldman sitting next to each other at a bare plywood table facing the audience. Each is half-present, ghostly.

RACHEL: If one more person mentions Grandma Moses, I’m gonna stab em in the eye! I get it. There’s always hope, and it’s not how you start it’s how you finish. (Pause.) I’ve spent years, decades, doing nothing. But I really think I’ve turned a corner. My time is coming. And thank God I’m not 80 or whatever, like that old runny…

FELDMAN: Can I ask—how old are you? Ballpark.

RACHEL: Let’s not go into it. I mean, how many individual days do you have to waste to add up to decades? It seems like just yesterday I was a girl being punched in the face by her father. A kid whose favorite toy was the cardboard box she hid inside.

FELDMAN: Wait. You talking about a literal…?

RACHEL: Yeah. A regular cardboard box. I’d get bigger and bigger ones to fit me as I grew. I used my allowance, and then money from my jobs. (Pause.) Funny, it seems like just yesterday I was an 8-year-old with abnormally small arteries, having a stroke. Yup, I remember stroking out, and dying, and going to the gray world where…someone held me by the hand, and I was happy.

FELDMAN: Jeez. An 8-year-old having a stroke? And an out-of-body experience?

RACHEL: Oh, I was a prodigy.

FELDMAN: So that was you as a kid, and here you are now. What happened in between?

RACHEL: I don’t know. It seems like just yesterday I was cutting myself and walking toward my dad, blood pouring down, saying, ‘Look what you made me do.’ But there must’ve been other events. I vaguely remember a trip across the river. And I think I had to move to a new apartment…

FELDMAN: The lost decades. It’s a mystery. Well, we agreed to meet. Are you ready?

RACHEL: Wait, what about you? What’s your story?

FELDMAN: I’ll tell you sometime. (He takes out two bowls and two forks.) Here we go—quinoa with vegetables. Enjoy.

RACHEL: Healthy food for a healthy mind.

FELDMAN: Exactly.

RACHEL: I’m trying to lift a fucking finger, you know? Trying to help myself.

FELDMAN: I hear you.

RACHEL: To finally get something out of my system. The bleeding didn’t do it. Or showing the blood to any of the boyfriends who laughed at me, and they all did. And they all had a point, because look how I was made—my own arteries were wrapping me tighter and tighter. A medieval torture device under my own skin! A person like that is not viable and they were just stating the obvious. I mean, what does it take? Do I need God himself to come down and say, ‘What was I thinking? Better to drown her like a kitten’. (Pause.) But somehow I did live, so I figure now at my age let me look around. And health is key. Health is the foundation. How about you?

FELDMAN: Pretty similar.

Two hulking guys burst in with two plates of pancakes.

MAN 1: (to Rachel) Eat this.

RACHEL: Is it gluten-free?

MAN 1: No, it’s loaded with gluten.

RACHEL: Then I’ll have to pass. On top of everything else, I’m gluten-intolerant.

MAN 1: Eat it.

RACHEL: Hell if I will.

MAN 1: Oh, you’re gonna eat this.

RACHEL: If I do, I’ll swell up. You want that? You don’t even know me.

MAN 1: I wouldn’t mind seeing you swell up. What part swells? Your stomach?

RACHEL: My tissues. Throughout my body. And that causes me pain. Which makes me nervous and depressed. Why would you want that?

MAN 1: Will it kill you?

RACHEL: No.

MAN 1: Well, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?

RACHEL: I’m sick of that mentality.

FELDMAN: Maybe you should eat.

RACHEL: What?!

MAN 1: Listen to the nice little wimp. Look, they’re fluffy.

RACHEL: So I have this choice, to feel better or worse.

She knocks the plate out of Man 1’s hands.

MAN 1: Oh, wow.

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He raises his fist to hit her. She cringes and retreats, stops, gathers herself, then lunges at Man 1 and fights him.

RACHEL: (to Feldman) Help me!

FELDMAN: Anyone who knows me, knows I’m the analytical type.

She keeps fighting. Man 1 breaks away and comes back with a cardboard box.

MAN 1: Here girl, here girl.

Most of Rachel’s body lunges toward him, but slowly, against her will, she goes over to the cardboard box and gets inside, shuts the lid.

MAN 2: (to Feldman) Now for you, boyo. (To Man 1.) Get me the drill. Just kidding. You’re so inoffensive. With that shit-eating grin. You ever get mad?

FELDMAN: Oh, I can get mad.

MAN 2: Yeah?

FELDMAN: You better believe it. Most people fight the logic of their opponent’s argument, but a lot of times I quibble with the premise itself.

MAN 2: Uh-huh.

FELDMAN: I’m a truth-teller. An iconoclast. I’m not afraid to speak truth to power. And when someone’s premise is blatantly shaky—that pisses me off! I also find it irksome when people are obsequious.

MAN 2: Ever been in love?

FELDMAN: Plato believed that we go from love of the—of the— individual, to abstract love of mankind. I skip right to the second part.

Man 2 slaps Feldman.

MAN 2: Now, you’re gonna eat these pancakes.

FELDMAN: Okay. I can’t argue with a superior force. But I want you to know. I have this thing. Gluten comes in and my system attacks it like a virus. I’m going to have headaches, serious fatigue, digestive problems. I’ll have to fight every minute just to get through the day, then I’ll drag myself home and crawl into bed.

MAN 2: That’s most people, pal. Now open up.

Man 2 gets some pancakes onto the fork.

FELDMAN: So I have this choice—to feel better or worse.

MAN 2: That’s about the size of it.

FELDMAN: All right. But at least let me do it to myself. Give me my dignity.

Man 2 hands over the fork with pancake speared on it. Feldman stabs him in the side with it.

FELDMAN: I only disabled you!

Man 2 removes the fork from his side and lunges at Feldman. Feldman ducks him, runs, does a jumping pivot off the wall, lowers his head and plows into him in a tackle. They go down. Man 1 comes over and tries to pull Feldman off. Rachel bursts out of the box and tries to pull Man 1 off. All are fighting. Feldman immobilizes Man 1’s head and Rachel punches him out. She immobilizes Man 2’s head and Feldman punches him out.

FELDMAN: (primal scream at Man 2) Next time I’ll shit down your throat!! (Still wild-eyed, to Rachel.) Nice!

RACHEL: You, nice!

FELDMAN: Thanks for the backup! You came out of nowhere! How’d you get out of the box?

RACHEL: Oh. Well, I was lying there having an out-of-body experience. I went off to the gray world, and that Someone was holding me by the hand. I felt like I belonged there. But then something changed, and I saw a world of—don’t laugh—parrots, beagles, swans, the ocean. I saw red, blue, and a pink-orange. Debussy was playing. So I came looking for it. Then I saw you, in your fight.

She looks at the two men on the ground, then takes Man 1’s unconscious hand and beats it against his face.

RACHEL: When I see someone hurting himself, I want to take it on myself. But not with him. Can quinoa be eaten at room temperature?

FELDMAN: Yes. It’s versatile.

RACHEL: Good. Let’s eat.

They go back to the table and start eating.

RACHEL: Yeah, it definitely works like this.

FELDMAN: It’s good with the zucchini.

They eat silently.

RACHEL: I’ve never seen the face. But I would know the person, in real life, when we hold hands. That’s what I always thought. But now I’m thinking: what a search. To look my whole life for one person. Maybe it could be many. It could be my husband, but also friends, teachers. It could even be…my own child.

Feldman smiles at her and they keep eating silently.

FELDMAN: (with gusto) Oh, hell yeah! Tastes good and it’s good for ya!

RACHEL: I love it.