The Condo Board: A Play

The Condo Board: A Play

Alex Lubischer, a playwriting teacher at Chicago’s Goodman Theater, taught my beginning playwriting class that every play has its own interior logic that doesn’t have to be bound to reality. I’ve seen plenty of those, good and bad. He prompted us to write a short “bad” play that included a fire escape, a talking animal, a fur coat and a Venmo payment. I can’t guarantee my bad play, The Condo Board, has any interior logic, but it is definitely not bound to reality. The characters and their dialogs are fictional. However, you may see a similarity or two if you’ve ever been to a condo board meeting.

The Condo Board

SET: COURTYARD—48 UNIT FOUR-STORY BRICK BUILDING-EVENING

WE OPEN in a three-sided courtyard. It’s the end of summer. Onlookers sit in their open windows around the courtyard, on the lumpy grass, or lean against the building, waiting for the condo board meeting to start. In a 4th-floor window, a well-dressed, emaciated man with a straw fedora is stretched out on the windowsill. He’s drinking from a whiskey bottle and smoking.

Board members sit in a circle of mismatched folding chairs. Fire escapes are fixed to all three walls. Potted red geraniums fill the 3rd-floor landing of one. A bicycle is locked to the 2nd-floor railing of another. An old rag rug lays over the 4th-floor railing of another. In the center of the building, a cement sidewalk leads from the back door to the grassy courtyard’s edge. 

(PAUL, 49, the Condo Board President, balances a spiral notebook and some loose papers on his lap. The sleeves of his white dress shirt are rolled up. He’s wearing khakis and fancy sneakers and holding a pen.)

PAUL. The meeting will come to order. Do we have a quorum?

(BIANCA, 35, building manager, sits next to PAULwith a clipboard stuffed with papers. She’s slight and perky, long dark ponytail, wearing an ill-fitting grey suit.)

BIANCA. No.

(NORA, 50, board member, sitting next to BIANCA. Blonde bob, 1950s flowered fitted dress, pearls, shiny barrette, round wire-rim eyeglasses, white socks, classic white Keds.)

NORA. I talked to Barry an hour ago. He said he’s coming. He agrees to paint the meeting room aqua.

(BARRY, 45, board member, paraclimbs down the fire escape from the 4th floor like a chimpanzee, stopping to do chin-ups on the metal bars. Fit, athletic, Margaritaville T-shirt, shorts, black sneakers.)

BARRY. I’m coming! I’m coming! 

PAUL. (Strains his neck to see BARRY.) 

What are you doing on the fire escape? 

BARRY. (Lands on the ground and walks to a chair next to NORA. NORA perks up.)

Since we’re meeting in the courtyard, I thought I’d get a workout on my way down. It’s faster than that rickety old elevator.

NORA. (Shouts at no one in particular.) 

When will the meeting room be finished? It’s gonna be too cold out here next month. Can we paint it aqua?

PAUL. (Looks at BIANCA.)

Do we have a quorum?

BIANCA. Yes.

PAUL. Did everyone read the minutes from the last meeting?

(The emaciated man, hugging his bottle, falls out of his 4th-floor window into the bushes below. His hat flies off in the direction of the meeting. No one notices.)

BARRY. My name is spelled wrong.

(SUSAN, 55, board member, next to BARRY, bleach blonde straightened long hair, fake diamond ring, tight white t-shirt, blue jean jacket, tie-dyed tights, ankle bracelet, oversized pink sneakers.)

SUSAN. I didn’t get the minutes.

BIANCA. Minutes are in everyone’s board pack.

SUSAN. Not mine.

PAUL. Do we have a motion to approve the minutes with the correction of BARRY’s name?

(CARMEN, 45, board member, next to PAUL, black unruly hair, thick eye makeup, red lips, hoop earrings, head scarf, bangle bracelets, ruffle blouse, stuffed into blue jeans.) 

CARMEN. (Signals a silent thumbs-up motion)

PAUL. All in favor?

SUSAN. Don’t we need a second?

PAUL. What?

SUSAN. A second, someone to second the motion.

PAUL. How about you?

SUSAN. (Shaking her head) 

Oh no, I’m not gonna have my name in no minutes.

(MARCO, 33, board member next to Carmen, tall, black slicked back hair, goatee, sleeveless t-shirt, tattoos, tight jeans, pointed tie shoes, aviator sunglasses.)

MARCO. I second.

PAUL. All in favor?

NORA. When will the meeting room be finished? Does everyone like aqua?

PAUL. Can we have the Treasurer’s report?

BIANCA. The Treasurer isn’t here. 

PAUL. That’s Mark. Did he sell his unit?

(Pause. No one answers.)

BIANCA. Tsk. I’ll do the Treasurer’s Report. We have 239,241 dollars in operating.

PAUL. Motion to approve the Treasurer’s Report?

BARRY. I move to approve the Treasurer’s Report.

PAUL. (Gives Susan the evil eye.) 

All in favor? 

ALL. Ay

MARCO. I’ll volunteer to take over the Treasurer spot.

PAUL. Ok. Let’s table that ’til next meeting.

NORA. Wait. Hear that? Someone’s playing rap music. I hate rap music. When will the aqua board room be painted?

CARMEN. I’ll be right back. 

(she stands and walks off, shouting over her shoulder). 

I have to get my fur coat. It’s too cold out here. (voice fades)

(BOARD members talk all at the same time about nothing in particular)

PAUL. Order, please. BIANCA, let’s have the Manager’s Report.

NORA. (curled over, swinging her legs, muttering toward the audience) 

Finally. The meeting room.

(GREG 35, board member, next to MARCO, sandy hair, Rolling Stones t-shirt, blue jeans, Converse sneakers, skateboard at his feet)

GREG. Carmen! Carmen! Your parrot got out!

BARRY. I’ll get him. 

(BARRY paraclimbs up and around the fire escapes, trying to capture the PARROT.)

(PARROT, played by a child, green & red feathered costume, yellow beaked mask, hooked up to circus wires from the ceiling, flies up and perches on a fire escape railing.)

PARROT. Squawk! Squawk! Squawk!

BARRY. (mutters toward PARROT.) 

Yeah, we’re writing you out of the building, Buddy.

(Various Board members and onlookers simultaneously try to catch the PARROT and shoo him back into CARMEN’s open window. The PARROT flies around squawking and settles on CARMEN’s window ledge.)

PAUL. Order! Leave the PARROT. BIANCA! Please. The Manager’s Report? Order everyone!

(BARRY swings back down from the fire escape and returns to his seat.)

BIANCA. First up, Owners are complaining about the PARROT squawking.

CARMEN. (arriving back in the courtyard with her fake fur coat) Aw, C’mon. He’s not that loud. 

(She blows a kiss up at the PARROT.) 

Are you sweet boy?

PARROT. (PARROT bounces onto the fire escape.) 

Squawk! Squawk! Squawk!

SUSAN. I move we prohibit parrots from living in the building.

(PARROT flies around squawking and dive-bombing members of the board.)

PAUL. Is there a second?

SUSAN. Now you ask for a second? 

PAUL. Do I hear a second?

CARMEN. My PARROT is an Emotional Support Animal protected by the government. 

(To the PARROT) 

C’mere baby. 

(PARROT sits on Carmen’s shoulder.)

GREG. Carmen, you must recuse yourself from this discussion as a board member.

CARMEN. Ok, but my PARROT is an Emotional Support Animal.

(BARRY rolls his eyes. Greg and Marco stare at their phones.) 

NORA. Can we talk about the meeting room? Painting it aqua? How about teal?

PAUL. (Ignores NORA.) 

There’s a motion on the table. 

MARCO. What motion?

GREG. (elbows MARCO)  

The motion to kick the parrot out of the building. 

(Whispers to MARCO) 

Did you get the 50k? I Venmoed to you just before the meeting.

NORA. (Crosses her arms and legs, turns away, looks toward the audience) 

I thought the motion was to paint the meeting room turquoise. Or was it aqua?

MARCO. (whispers to GREG) 

Thanks, man. That new casino already wiped me out.

PAUL. (Looking around at the board members). 

Is there a second to the motion about the PARROT?

(No response. Everyone looks around but not at PAUL or each other, then look at their phones)

PAUL. Hearing none, the motion fails.

PARROT. Squawk! Squawk! Squawk!

SUSAN. (Jumps up)

Wait a minute, we didn’t even discuss it!

BARRY. The motion failed. End of. Let’s move on.

(Winks to CARMEN. Talks loud so the whole building can hear.) 

This is not going away, sister. We all hate that thing.

CARMEN. That’s not true. 

(Looking around the building) 

Who hates the PARROT? 

ALL. (muttering) Not Me. Not Me. 

BARRY. Let’s move on.

PAUL. Next item on the Agenda is recycling. BIANCA?

BIANCA. Okay, everyone wants recycling. We pay a recycling company $12,000 a year to come every Tuesday to pick up, and the blue bin is always empty. I propose we end the contract.

SUSAN. NO! I recycle all the time.

ALL. So do I! So do I!

BIANCA. Well, if everyone is recycling, why is the bin always empty?

BARRY. It’s that homeless guy who lives in the alley. He takes them plastic bottles and sells ‘em.

NORA. (Looking at Barry.) Are we going to paint the meeting room turquoise or what?

(BARRY puts his arm around NORA and whispers in her ear. NORA blushes and looks at her phone.)

PAUL. Is there a motion to end the recycling contract?

GREG. I move to end the contract. 

(GREG nudges MARCO)

MARCO. I second.

PAUL. All in favor?

ALL. Ay.

PARROT. Squawk! Squawk! Squawk!

CARMEN. I move we adjourn.

BARRY. (Standing in front of his chair, stretching, and doing squats.) 

What did we just vote on?

PAUL. We still have items on the agenda — the cable company upgrade, fixing the front sidewalk, and security cameras.

CARMEN. I still move to adjourn. 

BARRY. I second. 

(Winks at Carmen) 

Let’s go to your place and watch the game.

NORA. (Smiling, Looks up from her phone.) 

Did we vote to paint the meeting room yet?

PAUL. All in favor to adjourn?

ALL. Ay. Ay. Ay.

PARROT (On CARMEN’s shoulder as she walks off with BARRY) 

Squawk

(NORA walks off, smiling, staring at a fire escape.)

GREG. (Huddles with PAUL and MARCO, looks at PAUL) Let’s go to yours and decide on the rest of these contracts. My brother-in-law has a security company we can use for those cameras.

MARCO. My girlfriend is the bookkeeper at a cement company. I know the boss. They do sidewalks.

BIANCA. (Overhears and walks over) 

My dad can get us a deal from Comcast.

PAUL. Ok. Ok. Might as well. We’ll never get anywhere otherwise. (All four walk off together, chattering.)

(Onlookers in the courtyard amble off. Others linger in their windows, some smoking and looking at the sky. Someone waters a geranium and then stares at the sky. The man who fell into the bushes scrambles out of the branches and wobbles over to one of the chairs, hugging his bottle).

(NORA appears in the courtyard wearing a painter’s shirt with a bucket of aqua paint. She picks up the man’s hat and puts it on his head. He nods and takes a swig. She begins painting a fire escape as she hums “Blue Skies.” Onlookers look down at her and blissfully return to staring into the dark blue sky, humming along.)

END of Play

the Before Times

the Before Times

Is there life after covid-19? The latest reports say we’ll never be rid of it. Every week In the past two months at least two people I know have come down with the virus. All fully vaccinated.

When a friend recently revealed that she can’t remember what the shutdown was like. I reminded her she’s still working from home. Working remotely could be on the life-after-covid list if your definition of life-after isn’t back-to-normal. I recommended Elly Griffiths latest novel, “The Closed Room.” In that book, the protagonist, Ruth Galloway, receives a voicemail from a prime witness coughing up an urgent message to call her. When the call came in, Ruth was stocking up on toilet paper and cat food at the supermarket. By the time she returned the call, the witness had died of covid.

At the beginning, March 2020, dramatic shutdown rules came on too fast. As I sauntered toward an afternoon celebration at my neighborhood church, I waved to one of the pastors dashing toward the redline.

“Headed home! The church is shutting down,” he shouted.

“What? Everything? Even the exercise classes?”

“Everything. Starting tomorrow.”

I whispered the news to a circle of friends, as if it were a secret.

“All our classes will be on Zoom,” one said.

“What’s Zoom?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she said.

After covid, conversations are peppered with “before covid” and “before the pandemic.” My favorite, “in the Before Times” sounds like an era. The Before Times. There’s a definite marker.

Before covid I attended church and had spontaneous lunches with friends. During covid and now after covid, Sunday is a day like any other. No church. No ad hoc “let’s grab a bite”. Time, no longer marked by ticking off a schedule of events that includes travel, is measured by brushing my hair before I click on my Zoom square.

Indoor group amusements proliferated for a time until the phrase “super-spreader” caught fire. I felt immune for life after triple vaccinations and a mild case of covid. But these days I read my immunity has waned  and a new variant is out to get me.

At my first indoor group event post-shutdown, a lovely friend aimed her big red pursed lips at my cheek.

“Nooo! I can’t do that!” I said.

Partiers who had bragged incessantly on Zoom chats for the previous two years about mask-wearing, lining up for vaccinations and social distancing, embraced and kissed as if covid had been eradicated. In order to protect myself from this affectionate mob, I sat down. It worked for a while until latecomers greeted me with a drapey hug.

I left the party when I could no longer muster up the necessary social graces to keep friends at arms’ length.

At the Goodman Theater recently I had a slight panic attack when the usher said they no longer require vax cards, only masks. I didn’t fear catching the virus. I feared theater bosses were presuming vaccinations don’t matter. Or, don’t work.

Oh for the simple worries in the era of the Before Times!