(Lights up. Lunchtime. The AUTHOR is at his desk, enjoying some home made delectables. MR. HOSIER, conversely, isn’t eating…for obvious reasons. Instead, he’s thinking, chuckling, leaning back in the chair near the coffee pot and philosophizing.)
MR. HOSIER: Nice job today.
AUTHOR: (swallowing) Thanks. It’s not often I can get that good of a lecture out of my ass.
MR. HOSIER: I always knew you’d be an improv teacher.
AUTHOR: You knew I’d be a teacher.
MR. HOSIER: In all reality, however, I was referring to your handling of the situation with Miss Lillian.
AUTHOR: Oh, that…it happens. (he continues eating)
MR. HOSIER: I never knew how to deal with the girls who had crushes on me.
(the AUTHOR nearly chokes.)
AUTHOR: Excuse me?!
MR. HOSIER: (knowingly) Ah, so that’s how you do it!
AUTHOR: (his lunch now forgotten) Do… what?!
MR. HOSIER: You just simply don’t realize it. You don’t even know it’s happening.
AUTHOR: No, no… she was just intimidated by the other students is all!
MR. HOSIER: She was intimidated, I’ll give you that…but only in class. Think of her out of class work.
AUTHOR: (non-committal) Good…
MR. HOSIER: Great. She wasn’t just going for an A here, chucklehead. No one who only wants an A will write something like (he rummages in a stack of papers for hers) “The cacaphony of cannon over Fort Sumter rang out as a bloody harbinger for four years of bloody conflict.” (he tosses the paper down) No one writes like that for a grade. They write like that, my little cherub, to impress.
AUTHOR: (flabbergasted) Impress…me?
MR. HOSIER: Yes indeed. Just a kid, just a silly kid. Apparently, still, so are you. (he grins)
AUTHOR: (indignant) We’re not allowed to call them kids. We call them students.
MR. HOSIER: Bah. When you’re my age, you’ll know they’re only kids.
AUTHOR: You’re like…thirty-two!
(a knock at the door.)
AUTHOR: Come in.
(the door opens, and a youth is uncerimoniously shunted in. This is DANNY, another walking stereotype of the high school world. Rough and tumble in all the right ways, the upper-middle-class oppression is all too apparent in his perfectly rebellious hair and clothes.)
AUTHOR: (deceptively chipper) Danny, come in. What brings you to my humble acadaemia?
DANNY: The Principal, that’s who.
AUTHOR: (still chipper) Well, that would be because you’re not coming to my classes…
DANNY: (ironically without respect) With all due respect, sir…fuck your classes!
AUTHOR: Oh, my, my, my…why would you want to FUCK my classes?
(his use of the f word, combined with his scholarly appearance, rocks Danny for a moment, the AUTHOR sees his opening and takes it)
AUTHOR: I could see why you might want to fuck certain aspects of my classes: Marie Antoinette, Nefertiti, Audrey Hepburn, cute things all…but why would you want to fuck the class? Like, everyone in the class, or just a few? I hope you don’t mean me, I don’t swing that way…
DANNY: Fuck you!
AUTHOR: (slamming his hand down on his desk) No, Daniel, you don’t listen! I don’t swing that way, you’ve got to listen! More importantly, however…you’ve got to show up!
(he begins walking about the room, hands behind his back)
You’re down in the art rooms again, aren’t you? Doing the rebellious thing, avoiding the “boring” classes, and immersing yourself in your “art” aren’t you? Sticking it to the man, breaking new ground, all of that good stuff, right? (he leans in close) Let me tell you something, Rembrandt…it’s no longer artistic and groundbreaking when you do what everyone else is doing!
(DANNY tries to protest, but the AUTHOR continues, unfettered)
AUTHOR: Look at you, Daniel. You look like you’ve stepped out of a John Hughes movie. You’re a parody, you’re a character. You’re not being an artist, you’re being what someone thinks an artist should be! You’re empty, you’re hollow, you’re just playing a part! You’re no more rebellious than the jocks, or the nerds, or the pimps or the sluts or the cheerleaders. You want to know some real artists, some real rebels, some real groundbreakers?
(DANNY nods dumbly. He’s quite taken aback by this new acidity)
AUTHOR: Come. to. my. class. Read Shakespeare, see Picasso, hear Beethoven! Know who came before, know who started it all, know who made it fashionable for you to call yourself an “artist.” Those who do not know their past are damned to repeat it, Daniel. And you, you don’t even have a past, ergo you have no future. You’re just some pictures you pulled off a screen… (he sits back down at his desk) and excuse me if I don’t call it “art.”
(DANNY slumps into the nearest chair, which MR. HOSIER has vacated, amazed.)
AUTHOR: Your class begins in five minutes. World History. Go get your things. (he adds the warmest of smiles) We’re starting the Renaissance today, I think you’ll like it.
(DANNY returns his smile, if a little wary, and leaves the classroom. MR. HOSIER walks over to the AUTHOR and places a hand on his shoulder.)
MR. HOSIER: Well done.
AUTHOR: (deeply emotional. he’s been waiting for that affirmation for years)