Story #8: The Complete One-Scene Plays of Adam Nathan (Works from 1965 – 2024)

The comprehensive collection of one-scene plays curated from original manuscripts. An essential treasure for aficionados, including unearthed gems from the private archives of Adam Nathan.

The Complete One-Scene Plays of Adam Nathan
(Works from 1965 – 2024)

Table of Contents

1. Mrs. Thomas Edison & The Invention of the Electric Lightbulb

2. Lobster Dinner (or How I Met Your Mother)

3. Thirty Tiny Polar Bears

Characters:

• Mrs. Thomas “Mina” Edison

• Mr. Thomas Edison

Scene 1:

Well before dawn. An inventor’s workshop. It is pitch black other than the red light of the EXIT signs in the theater, which is unfortunate. Possibly, a few diehards are still on their cellphones, compounding the problem.

Mrs. Thomas Edison, Mina, enters the workshop of Mr. Thomas Edison, Thomas, or simply Tom, stage right. Her nightwear is whatever nightwear was in vogue on the evening of October 21, 1879, the day the electric lightbulb was invented.

Mina fumbles with a small box of matches, touches the tip to a gaslight, it shoots out a flame of a good three or four feet. The mezzanine should be able to feel the heat on their faces. Mina dials down the flame until the workshop is pleasantly aglow. Imagine Charles Dickens with a dimmer switch.

In the corner of the room, by a table of miscellaneous beakers, Thomas Edison is head-on-arms out cold, asleep on his laboratory table. Mina confidently moves about the laboratory and fusses with random objects on various tables. The specific objects or tables hardly matter. Any fussing is fine as long as it feels like the start of a play.

High schoolers and community theaters, please don’t overdo it.

A giant chalkboard spans the rear wall. A heading reads “Lightbulb Filament Failure Count.” Arrayed upon it are giant hash mark groupings of five, the kind you make in children’s games. The count is up to 9,999, and we’re approaching the milestone of a famous quote. Everyone that isn’t still on their damn cell phone should understand this numerical detail if they read the reviews or are even moderately well educated. (Present company excluded. Don’t beat yourself up.)

Except where otherwise noted, Thomas never lifts his head up from the table where it rests upon a small quilted pillow. He maintains this sleeping posture throughout. Mina will be responsible for all of the theatrical moving about.

Mina: Are you catnapping, dear? Why, you look sound asleep.

Thomas: Catnapping.

Mina: How are the filament test failures coming along?

He raises his arm petulantly and points back to the chalkboard behind him. (Note: this is one of the aforementioned times when he moves his arms off of the table.)

Mina: You’re getting very close to 10,000.

Thomas: I’ve failed.

Mina: You haven’t failed. You’ve just found 9,999 ways that didn’t work, my love.

Thomas: Failed.

Mina: Some of it might be the catnapping, but I’m sure you’re certainly not running out of things to try for filaments.

Thomas: Wrong, Mina. Stop saying that. I should have quit 9,999 filaments ago. Nothing was ever going to work.

Mina: Well, what have you tried today?

Thomas: I’m just trying things at random now. It’s hopeless.

There is a long pause. He has fallen asleep again. Somehow we know this, maybe he buries his head deeper into the quilted pillow.

Mina: Thomas?

She shakes him. Nope. Out cold. She spots a journal by his side. She holds the journal well up in the air and reads aloud.

Mina: “I grow more desperate by the hour. I try carbonizing various filaments. Nothing stays lit. The team grows impatient. Mina leaves endless experiments for me: Fishing line, seaweed, coconut fibers, beard hair from Ulysses S. Grant, and hemp, which renders me uncommonly fatigued and curiously famished. I’ve also tried the laces from Mina’s best shoes, the little woman will die if she ever reads this. (Mina raises her eyebrows) I also found a Japanese hair brush with a bamboo handle. It shows up everywhere I turn. It’s practically following me. I feel I’m going mad. I should just focus on the hand-crank phonograph and the bicycle-powered movie projector.”

Thomas stirs again. A little hard to see but an eye pops open.

Thomas: Genius is 100% luck, Mina, and I don’t have any. It has nothing to do with procrastination, or hesitation or resignation or exasperation…

Mina: We’ve been through this, Thomas.

Thomas (getting himself worked up): Or miscalculation or improvisation or hesitation or caffeination. What am I missing? It rhymes with “ation”.

Mina: Inspiration and perspiration. 1% and 99%. I sewed it onto your quilted catnap pillow. Lift your head, my love. See?

He lifts his head high in the air, reads the pillow irritably, and then he crashes his head down and falls asleep again. This is the other time, by the way, when he moves.

Mina: Genius is not luck.

Thomas: Well, fine then. “It’s all luck.” Westinghouse is crushing me with luck. Besides you said “needing a vacuum in the bulb” was luck.

Mina: I was vacuuming. Of course, it was luck. Do you remember what you said that day?

She’s prompting him, giving him a hint…

Mina: Come on… You said… you said… you said what?

Thomas: I can’t remember.

Mina: Yes, you can, Thomas. You said that when there was a vacuum what happened?

Thomas: It burned better. I didn’t say that. You said that.

Mina: Well, I got lucky. You even agreed with me at the time, adamantly, if I recall. You said, “That was 100% luck, Mina.”

Mina turns to the audience, comes crashing through the 4th wall, bricks flying everywhere. If she got any further out of character, she’d be in her dressing room sniffing roses.

Mina mouths very clearly and very slowly “it was definitely not luck.” I said vacuum like five times. V. A. C. U. U. M. I said. I had to S, P, E, Double L it out. I don’t know how long I can keep playing this charade.”

Mina: (turning back to Thomas): You don’t need luck. It’s me that needs luck. Me.

Again, an aside to the audience, shaking her head in a “No way, Jose.”

Mina discovers a dramatically long stem of hemp. Holds it up.

Mina: Thomas… Thomas… Where did you get the hemp?

His eyes blinker shut. He falls fast asleep again.

Mina: In the city? Have you been buying hemp in the city again? Is it Nikola Tesla? That Tesla is a horrible, horrible, horrible man.

Thomas makes a stirring sound as if to prove he’s sleeping.

Mina puts on a white lab coat like it’s second nature and wanders about the laboratory with authority now, checking on beakers, tapping on concoctions with a pencil she keeps behind her ear. She chances upon her bamboo hair brush.

To make extra sure that the audience understands this is the previously mentioned hairbrush from the diary she cries out:

Mina: My bamboo hairbrush! The one that’s gone missing! (aside to audience) Honestly, I couldn’t have spelled it out any clearer.

Mina sets it back down, but seeing he hasn’t woken, she momentarily picks it up again.

Mina (much louder, for Thomas’s benefit): I wonder if he tried not just the bristle, but the actual fibrous bamboo!

Nothing. No movement. She rolls her eyes. Frustrated, Mina takes things into her own hands. She grabs a bulbous glass beaker from the chemistry area, flips it upside down and, wonder of wonders, it is shaped like a lightbulb. Not everyone will get it. Don’t beat yourself up.

Mina positions the hairbrush, sucks on something strawish to create a vacuum, you figure it out, then connects two massive car jumper cables to either side and, finally, runs a cord over to Thomas. At the end of the cord is a large red button.

Mina tries several times to set Thomas’s finger on the button, but it keeps sliding off. When his finger does stick, the light comes on. When it falls off, the light goes off. There is a three-act scene within this scene about whether she can get his finger to stick and keep the light on.

Mina (sighs, then a soliloquy): It is dawn. I’m off to endless housework and looking after seventeen children. He certainly found time for that! But I’m not Alvie. I don’t have the luxury of catnaps.

Mina moves over to the blackboard, picks up a piece of chalk and crosses the 10,000th hash mark.

Make sure there’s a kind of it’s-all-building, end-of-play energy. How this is accomplished is hard to describe. Ask the actors for help.

Mina exits

Thomas’s finger continues to flop about the button randomly. The light fades. Flickers. Fades. Unless they read past the spoiler alerts in the reviews, the audience should still have no idea how this will end with the lightbulb.

Mina re-emerges wearing an apron then stands at the door to the offstage and claps twice very deliberately. If you’re not American, you may not understand why.

Suddenly, the gas lights flame up to six or seven feet, then disappear.

She claps twice a second time. Thomas’s finger dramatically lifts in the air, then charges down. The lightbulb grows brighter and brighter.

The house lights abruptly come on which might be a bit startling, but make sense as a directorial choice. The reviewers will understand. (High schoolers and community theater, you can skip the previous direction.)

Thomas takes endless bows and multiple curtain calls. Mina is nowhere to be seen.

Offstage we hear vacuuming.

---

Lobster Dinner (or How I Met Your Mother)

This play requires:

• Man (1)

• Woman (1)

• Old Man (1)

• Old Woman (1)

• Waiter (4)

• Busboy (1 -3)

Scene 1:

Candlelit restaurant. White tablecloth. Elegantly dressed waiters range about an expensive restaurant presenting wine bottles and opening oversized, hardcover menus for the patrons.

An attractive young man sits alone at a two-top. An equally attractive young woman approaches the table led by the maitre’d. The manners between all parties are painstaking to a fault throughout.

Man: Hello! You found me! Delighted to meet you.

The man stands and greets her with a handshake.

Woman: Well, it’s so wonderful to meet you as well. I’m not really one for blind dates, but Carolyn spoke so highly of you. She said we had so much in common, but she was coy about it so I didn’t press. You know how she is.

Man: I poke and prod her, too, but I can barely get a single word out of her these days.

Warm smiles. Silence again.

Man: You know, it’s crazy given our work that we’ve been in different departments this whole time. So, you’re History of Criminal Justice? To be honest, I had no idea the university had a Department of Criminal Justice.

Woman: I think Carolyn said you’re in Medieval Studies? Or was it Philosophy?

Man: My work is a esoteric. I had the pick of departments, but I chose Medieval Studies...

Woman: She mentioned you earned your doctorate in the thumb screw. You’re teaching “The Thumb Screw: Psychology of Fear in the Medieval Germanosphere.”

Man: Yes. It’s a mouthful, isn’t it? The undergraduates love what I’ve done with it, but who’s kidding themselves? It’s probably the spring semester in Berlin! And how about yourself?

Woman: Boring stuff compared to yours, I suppose. My dissertation was in the “Intersectional Analysis of Confession Extraction and the 16th Century East Asian Woman's Experience.” Much of my work focuses on bamboo and fingernails. It’s a narrow field.

Man: That’s a mouthful, too! (laughs) Hardly boring.

Woman: Oh, it can be.

She looks at him to see if he noticed the pun. They both chuckle.

Man: Carolyn didn’t mention you were such a card.

She’s flattered, blushes. This is followed by an awkward silence.

Man: I apologize for being so quiet. For the last few years, it’s been hard getting dates. Faculty parties are a disaster. It’s always what do you teach and then they’re off to the buffet table. (laughs)

Woman: I have that, too. I can’t rule out if it’s me or my focus on work.

Man: Well, that doesn’t make any sense, just looking at you.

Woman: Thank you, but, oh, hardly. You’re not so bad yourself.

Man: Not to get too personal and go into a big, long agonizing history, but I’ve had my own challenges, but I’ll just put it out there and get it over with. My first wife said I became a “tortuous drag” I think she put it, that I was nothing but shop talk 24/7. “Drip, drip, drip,” she said till until she was “going out of her mind.”

Woman: You’re too hard on yourself. Maybe she was just being cruel.

Man: Oddly enough, the last few months when things were blowing completely apart we couldn’t have been any happier. If only they’d blown apart earlier. It might have saved the marriage.

The waiter approaches and presents a bottle of wine. The Man indicates he’d like to see the corkscrew. The Man holds the corkscrew to the light and tests its point with his finger. He approves. The waiter allows the Man to inspect the screw entering the cork. The Man approves.

Man: Can you tell me about the lobster?

Waiter: Maine lobster flown in this morning.

Man: Boiled?

Waiter: Of course, sir.

Man: For how long?

Waiter: Do you have a preference, sir?

Man: The longer the better. From ice cold to a deafening boil if you would. Bright red.

Waiter: Consider it done. Forgive me, but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. Would you care for the tail split prior to the boil?

Man: Please. Lengthwise.

Woman: How hot is the mustard in the Rack of Lamb with Crushed Walnut and Mustard Crust?

Waiter: Positively searing.

She turns to the man.

Woman: That sounds wonderful. Will you share a bit with me?

Man: Delighted to. Anything on a rack! (laughs) I’m ready to order if you are.

He politely indicates to his guest.

Woman: I’ll take the rack well done. No, bloody. No, well done. You know what? Never mind. I’ll have the lobster, too. I’ll take the smallest soft-shell in the tank. I’ll split its tail myself.

Waiter: Exceptional choice.

Man: And two dozen oysters to get us started. Don’t open them. Bring two oyster shuckers. Dull is fine. Better even. (Chuckles)

Woman: Look at you, you romantic. You read my mind.

Waiter brings the oysters. Their conversation will become strained with the exertion of opening the oysters. Eye contact, like foreplay, as they shuck them. Delight in dripping the lemon, shells hitting the floor, an orgy of consumption and cracking.

They take a breath. A busboy sweeps the shells delicately into a pan.

He spots something on her hand as he holds it close.

Man: Is that a cut? That must hurt terribly.

Woman: Yes. I cut it on Carolyn.

This is a cue to dive back in. Their exertion now is so high and their mouths so overwhelmingly stuffed, that their conversation is breathlessly reduced to phrases whose logic we can only dimly track.

Man: The thumb screw as I was saying...

Woman: Carolyn...

Together (in unison): Nobody knows better than Carolyn. “Oh, God stop! Oh, God stop!” She kills me.

Man: Faculty cocktail party...

Woman: A wedding…

Man: A wake...

Woman: AA Meeting...

Man: Children’s birthday party… No, a bris, a bris, a bris... Carolyn!

The lobsters are delivered and set down simultaneously. The two don’t stop their conversation

Woman: Donating blood...

Man: A delivery room...

Woman: Jimmy Carter...

Both: Eisenhower! Carolyn!

Man: Judas Cradle...

Woman: Truman Capote.

Both: In Cold Blood!

Man: The knee splitter...

Woman comes close to spitting out her water this is so funny. She puts her hand roughly over his mouth squeezing his cheeks together, begging him to stop. It snaps his head back on release.

Woman: Pear of Anguish, of course, your own specialty...

Man: Five points! Pillory...

Woman: Pear of anguish...

Man: Yes! Twice and Thrice! Shoot the moon!

Woman: Does The Scavenger’s Daughter count?...

Man: Only if Fork of the Heretic does…

Both (in unison, yelling this time for the entire restaurant): CAROLYN!!!

An Old Man and Old Woman at the next table look over without expression.

The younger Man and the Woman grab each other and pull themselves into a long slow embrace. Then the woman suddenly shrieks in pain.

Woman: My lip!

Man: Oh, God! Sorry-not-sorry!

They dive right back in where they left off and begin to tear at each other’s hair till it looks like it is killing them. It is a cage match of kisses and caresses. She frees up her hair while she’s got him pinned with his head on the side of the table. She shakes her hair out with a giant victorious librarian bun head shake. She uses his head to clear the entire table.

Woman: Again and again and again and again. Like that… And that…

She kicks him hard under the table. He cries out and sweeps the entire dinner off the table, tablecloth and all. The Old Man and Old Woman clasp hands warmly across the table.

Man: (panting) Oh, God, give me a minute. What is the noun for delirious? Is there a noun for delirious?

The waiter waits patiently sets down desserts for The Man and The Woman.

The Woman abruptly shoves the desserts violently off the table with her forearm.

Woman: Too sweet.

They are locked in an excruciating embrace and building, building…

Old Man: (trying to get their attention, indicating his wife) Forty-two years!

Old Woman (to her husband): It reminds me of how we met!

The Old Man turns to the Old Woman and she air kisses him, then decks him hard enough to knock him out of his chair. He remains motionless on the ground.

Exactly four waiters come over and each pulls on a different limb trying to steer in different directions as they carry him off. He groans.

Waiters (ad hoc): This way, I believe… No, that way…

The waiters are politely quartering him into a spread eagle.

The Man and Woman observe this wiping their faces with the back of their hands, then they glare at each other, gathering steam for the next assault.

The moment of relative calm allows the waiter to set the check politely in front of them.

Waiter: No hurry.

The Waiter rubs his palms briskly as if preparing for a delicate process. Then he slowly guides his hand over the candle flame and holds it there. He politely struggles not to cry out in agony.

Seeing this, the Man and the Woman become so aroused that they are right back at it.

Behind them the Old Woman begins to bang her forehead into the table. One of her hands is obscured beneath the tablecloth.

All four cry out in a simultaneous crescendo of agony.

The Man/The Woman: Harvard! Princeton! Columbia! Yale!

---

Thirty Tiny Polar Bears

Ingredients for Casting Agent:

• Clerk (1)

• Man (1)

• Polar Bears (30, Tiny)

• Inuits (2)

• Male Puffin (1)

• Female Puffin (1)

Scene 1:

Man steps up to the counter at a pet store. He sets down a picnic ice chest.

Clerk: How can I help you?

Man: I’d like to return the Arctic Set. I bought it for my daughter two weeks ago.

Clerk: I remember. You’re the guy who didn’t buy the Polar House.

Man: And you’re the guy who told me I needed 30 tiny polar bears.

Clerk: So, what’s the problem?

Man: It’s been a nightmare. They’ve taken over the refrigerator.

Clerk: It’s a transition for them. Did you put up the night time sky? Usually that settles them.

Man: With the pin pricks in the black paper? Yes. I hung it from over the fridge light. North Star towards the door.

Clerk: How many did you defrost?

Man: We did what you said: we defrosted the smallest polar bear first. He was aggressive right out of the ice tray. He thought I was the one who froze him. Then we built the Arctic world exactly like the instructions: “Large flat ice floating freely in a baking dish with adequate clearance from the back wall. Hang the starlit sky from 3pm to 11am.” During the day we put gauze over the refrigerator light to make a winter sun.

Clerk: The ice floated freely on top of the water so they could get at the anchovies?

Man: Yes.

Clerk: Just one anchovy a day cut up real small?

Man: Yes.

Clerk: Finely minced?

Man: Yes.

Clerk: You defrosted just the one polar bear?

Man: My daughter thought the first one was lonely. She defrosted the others without asking. I should have never bought thirty. One of the babies got into a milk carton. We could barely see him. My wife was furious.

Clerk: It happens. Did you defrost the Inuits?

Man: Briefly.

Clerk: I may have to speak to my manager if you defrosted the Inuits.

Man: Well, that’s outrageous. You can see in the ice cubes that the Inuits are fine.

Clerk: And you planted the tundra grass in yogurt?

Man: Yes.

Clerk (indicating the ice chest): May I?

Man: I don’t know why you’re asking me. They’re yours. I want my money back.

Clerk raises a miniature polar bear on his finger. The polar bear stands up on its rear legs and paws the air fiercely. It has a yawning red mouth. You can just hear a tiny roar.

Clerk: They’re all here?

Man (long pause): My daughter defrosted the puffins, and we can’t find two of them. The others are in the trays.

Clerk: Not a boy and girl by any chance?

Man: You must be kidding me.

Clerk: You gotta be careful with puffins. They’re breeders, alright – which is why I told you to buy the Polar House... I’ll take them back. Show your receipt at the counter. I gotta get these little guys into the walk-in.

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