· · ·
turning to page one
turning to page one
The PLAYERS sit silently. Ryan on the drum throne, Carl and Andrew behind him -- Carl still humiliated, Andrew 100% focused. The clock reads: 9:00. Not a word in the room.
Fletcher emerges. A CD PLAYER in his hand. He plugs it in.
FLETCHER
Ok... Um...
For the first time ever, he seems uneasy, unsure what to say.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
We...we have a new player. Ryan Connolly.
Ryan nods, waves to the other PLAYERS. Chipper--
RYAN
Sup, dudes.
Andrew glares at him. Seething now. But, continuing, softly--
FLETCHER
But I...if you could just...put your
instruments down... Just for a second...
He turns to the CD player. Turns it on. A big-band ballad swells. A muted trumpet takes the lead. It’s CASEY’S SONG, and it’s a tender sound, full of melancholy...
For a few seconds, Fletcher doesn’t say a word. His thoughts seem to be drifting. Then, hesitant, as the music plays...
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Six years ago...I saw a kid practicing
scales in a band room here. He’d started at
Shaffer with a lot of hope, but the truth
was he’d barely squeaked in and he was
struggling. Everyone on the faculty told
him: “This isn’t for you.” But they didn’t
see what I saw...
(his voice croaking again, emotional,)
...this...this scared, skinny kid cursing
himself ‘cause he couldn’t get his scales
right... I saw a drive in him...
Pink (9/10/2013)
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
And I put him in Studio Band, and we
worked together for three years, and when
he graduated, Marsalis made him third
trumpet at Lincoln Center. A year later,
he was first. That’s who you’re hearing
now.
(then,)
His name was Sean Casey.
The name catches Andrew’s attention. The trumpeter Fletcher mentioned to him... And the word “was”...
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
I found out this morning...that Sean died.
He died in a car accident yesterday...
(takes a moment, is having trouble speaking)
I just wanted you guys to know that...
He was... Sean was a...
(and, almost dissolving into tears on these next words)
...beautiful player...
(breathes in, collects himself)
I just thought you all should know.
Beat. He leans back down and turns off the CD. Silence.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
(another moment; then, still shaky--)
“Caravan”. From bar 142, please.
The PLAYERS open their folders, pick up their instruments. Fletcher waits. Hesitates again... Then -- CLAPS. Just drums, bass and trombone play the trombone solo section of CARAVAN STUDIO BAND REHEARSAL. Fast, precise -- but Fletcher waves to Ryan to stop.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
No, that’s...that’s not quite right,
Connolly... Sorry...
Andrew’s eyes instantly fill with hope. Is this his chance?
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
I... I want to try Neiman on this... Ok?
Ryan nods, slowly slides off -- as Andrew quickly gets on. Clutches his sticks tight. This is it... Fletcher’s still shaky--
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Maybe...maybe now’s the time for Neiman
to earn the part...
Beat. He CLAPS off, Andrew starts, and, only ONE SECOND later--
Pink (9/10/2013)
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
No, I guess not. Tanner.
An anger is creeping into Fletcher’s voice now. The stammering fading away, bit by bit. Dismayed, Andrew gets off, Carl gets on, Fletcher CLAPS him off -- and then, SLAMMING his fist down on his table, the barely suppressed grief giving way now to terrifying, full-out rage--
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Mother-FUCKER!!!
Carl JUMPS. The band goes silent. Fletcher glares at his drummers, eyes so heated they could burn holes into you.
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Get your ass back on the kit, Connolly.
Ryan does. The other players are still. Real fear in the room...
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
I will find my tempo out of one of you
faggots if it takes me all goddamned night.
His tone is vicious, his eyes still watery. He CLAPS, stops--
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Which it just might. Neiman.
Andrew gets on. His hands are shaking. Fletcher CLAPS, stops--
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Not my tempo. Switch.
Carl gets back on. Fletcher CLAPS, stops yet again--
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Not my FUCKING tempo!!!!
He turns to the rest of the band. Rubs his eyes, breathes, and then, trying to keep calm but his face already beet-red...
FLETCHER (CONT’D)
Ok... Sorry about this, gang, hate to put
you through it. But rest your arms, put
aside your instruments, if you need to
take a dump do it now, ‘cause I am going
to go for as long as it takes until I
find a drummer who can play in time.
(to the drummers--)
You hear me talking, cocksuckers? You’d
better start shitting me perfect 400’s.
Connolly. You first. Get on the kit.
Pink (9/10/2013)