Three women visiting their loved ones in the same prison share a piece of their lives they leave behind once they enter prison grounds. Caroline is new to this routine and has yet to grasp what has happened--and how she feels about it. Clutching on to a dream to maintain her own sanity, Caroline learns that inner strength is hanging on to at least one memory that reminds you of what it means to be human.
Running Time: 45 minutes
First Produced by The Drilling CompaNY 2005
First published by New York Theatrical Experience in Plays and Playwrights 2005
For rights and script purchase: email@example.com
From the play:
EVANGELINE: It’s a Friday night. That’s what it is. Cruising with the windows down and the stereo’s up real loud, with the bass pumping so it’s like replacing your heart beat or something. You know that feeling?
EVANGELINE: Maybe you had a bad week, if you’re lucky enough to have a job your boss yelled at you all week or the guys laughed and ribbed you rough for a stupid mistake, but it’s a Friday night and the sun is down and the windows are open and maybe there’s a girl beside you. You’re cruising and all these people on the sidewalk are looking at you, they’re all dressed up in their weekend finest and you’re just passing them by, leaving them behind, and maybe you can just see the moon but it’s outshined by the lights of the bars and streetlights and convenience stores and the women in their sequined dresses. They’re all looking at you too, you know, in your car that’s yours, that you built, with your own hands, it’s you. They’re looking at you. With. Desire. Like you’re magic, you pulled this car off an old poster of their childhood walls and you made it real, made it run. They’re looking at you like you’re a magician. With respect. It’s his respect. His freedom. That they can’t take away. Even in here. You know? It means that he’s somebody. Even in here. It’s not fair to ask him to choose between his respect and me. That’s all.