EZRA from Partners by Dorothy Fortenberry

 Image source

Please support the playwright and publisher by purchasing a copy of the source material (play only, Humana Festival publication).

Role Description

Could work for either gender as a comedic or dramatic monologue, depending on tone, but overall would be a weak contender for a professional audition.

Full text with punctuation

EZRA: I met this woman today at the coffee shop. I went to this coffee shop in Park Slope to, I don’t know, sear into my brain with hot lasers why I never want to have children, and the only other solo person there was this woman, and we were chatting, and she asked what I did, and I said I was an inventive foods entrepreneur, and she said she was a poet and this moment passed, like this breath, and I could feel us both thinking so hard, but not saying, but thinking so hard: “How do you possibly make money? How are you here buying this tea latte and this pistachio macaroon when you are a poet? Do you have a patron in some archaic system of which I am unaware? Do you write poems for the Queen?” And I wanted to expand outward, to ask everybody from Flatbush Avenue to Prospect Park, “How are you doing it? How can I get to be a part of it, this magical economy where someone makes hand-stamped greeting cards and someone else makes hats of string. I mean, even if you bartered with each other, all you’d have at the end of the day is a card and a hat. Do you pay your landlord in jars of jam and bars of soap? How does this work? How, how, how, how, how?” But, you know, I just said I liked her legwarmers and then went away.

A level only

I met this woman today at the coffee shop. She said she was a poet. I could feel us both thinking so hard, “How do you possibly make money? How can I get to be a part of it? How does this work?” I just said I liked her legwarmers and then went away.

A & B

I met this woman today at the coffee shop. The only other solo person there was this woman, and she asked what I did, and she said she was a poet and this moment passed, and I could feel us both thinking so hard, but not saying, but thinking so hard: “How do you possibly make money? How are you here buying this tea latte and this pistachio macaroon when you are a poet?” And I wanted to expand outward, to ask everybody from Flatbush Avenue to Prospect Park, “How are you doing it? How can I get to be a part of it, this magical economy where someone makes hand-stamped greeting cards and someone else makes hats of string. Do you pay your landlord in jars of jam and bars of soap? How does this work? How, how, how, how, how?” But, you know, I just said I liked her legwarmers and then went away.

Memorization text for isolations

I met this woman today at the coffee shop I went to this coffee shop in Park Slope to I don’t know sear into my brain with hot lasers why I never want to have children and the only other solo person there was this woman and we were chatting and she asked what I did and I said I was an inventive foods entrepreneur and she said she was a poet and this moment passed like this breath and I could feel us both thinking so hard but not saying but thinking so hard how do you possibly make money how are you here buying this tea latte and this pistachio macaroon when you are a poet do you have a patron in some archaic system of which I am unaware do you write poems for the Queen and I wanted to expand outward to ask everybody from Flatbush Avenue to Prospect Park how are you doing it how can I get to be a part of it this magical economy where someone makes hand-stamped greeting cards and someone else makes hats of string I mean even if you bartered with each other all you’d have at the end of the day is a card and a hat do you pay your landlord in jars of jam and bars of soap how does this work how how how how how but you know I just said I liked her legwarmers and then went away