DOOR 1
(No answer.)
(A snowstorm from the previous week coats the ground.
The boy is nomadic.
The boy is hopeful. He carries with him the passion of a transient artist.
He is filled with desire.)
DOOR 2
(No soliciting sign.
The door is quiet.)
(One wagon filled with books
One stained Ramones shirt.
One grey corduroy jacket
A pair of loose and dirty jeans held up by a belt.)
DOOR 3
Hello sir.
How are you doing?
What do you want?
Would you be interested in any of these books?
(The boy points to a wagon filled with books.)
No.
…
Are you sure?
Yes, now please leave.
(The boy turns away and takes his wagon with him.)
(A square of white fence around the yard.
One TV turned on to a football game.
The boy has interrupted an American’s favorite pastime.
One annoyed neighbor.)
DOOR 4
(Stillness.)
(As the boy walks away, he sees a group of children in their snow pants and puffer coats
as they laugh and put a felt top hat onto a snowman’s head.
For a second the boy wants to join them.)
DOOR 5
(Nothing but the wind.)
(The boy is not actually a boy, of course.
It’s a metaphorical thing.
He is too young to be the man and too old to be the child.
It’s an arrested development.
If you must know the boy, he is around college age.
If you must know, it is his second year of college.)
DOOR 6
Hello?
Good day, ma’am.
Are you interested in buying some books?
Books on Jesus?
No.
Books on boxing.
Boxing?
Why on earth are you selling boxing books door-to-door?
Look, I don’t know.
I’m just trying to sell my books.
If your books were about Jesus, I would buy one.
I don’t want to write books about Jesus.
You wrote the book?
Yes.
Are you a boxer?
No.
Then how can you write a book on boxing?
My brother was a boxer.
(The boy lies; his brother was not a boxer.
His brother is dead.)
Hmm.
Well, I’m sorry, kid, I’m just not looking for a book on boxing right now.
Maybe if it was about God.
I get it.
Thank you for your time.
(One “Support our troops” sign.
One sign of a disagreeable presidential candidate.
One Jesus loving neighbor.)
DOOR 7
(Ugly dogs.
Dogs that bark.
One greyhound.
One Rottweiler.
Two Dobermans.
One basset hound with a droopy nose.
A sign that says NO TRESPASSING in red letters.
The boy listens.)
DOOR 8
(Silence again.)
(The boy doesn’t have to sell his books.
They aren’t his income or anything.
All he really needs is some sort of validation.
The boy has to piss.)
(The boy who moves quicker now.
A book that falls out of the wagon.
One boy who picks it up.)
DOOR 9
(Another door unopen.)
(The boy is self-published.
Not by choice of course; no one is self-published by choice.)
DOOR 10
(Nobody opens up.
(Six months of precious work.
It was, of course, like all books, written to appease an insatiable desire to feel interesting.)
DOOR 11
Hello?
Hi, are you interested in books?
Yeah, I like books, as long as it’s not about God or Jesus or anything like that.
No, it’s not about God or Jesus or anything.
Would you like to read a little, and maybe if you like it, you buy a copy?
Sure, why not?
(The man began to read the first page.)
SAUL, SAUL
CHAPTER 1
For thousands of years, human life has been based around the changing of the seasons, and our bodies still respond to those cues to hibernate in the winter. Our bodies slow down. It’s hard to honor that part of human nature when modern life is not based around that change.
He pressed up against his body, tightened into the clench. He looked down at his opponents’s feet, which were shuffling as if suspended in air. “Keep your eye on the fists Saul!” he could hear his coach yelling. His limbs were heavy. He heard static in his ears. It sounded like rain. Everything went very still, as if both fighters were frozen in time. Then came darkness.
When he came to, he was in a white room lying down. He saw a dark silhouette against the sterilized light. It was his coach, Benny.
“I lost?” Saul’s body shot up, and Benny put his hand on Saul’s chest, to ease him to an upright position.
“East kid. You got caught, I’m sorry.”
“How did he catch me?”
“Left hook, he leaned in and caught you right on the chin. I’m not even sure you saw it coming; your right eye was so swollen.”
“Was it bad?”
“It’s always bad when you lose. ”
“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” Saul’s eyes began to water.
“I know, kid. Me too. Me too.” Benny cradled Saul into his arms, as if he were a baby.
“It was a good match, kid; you almost had him coming out of the fourth round. You made some mistakes. We regroup and we get better, like always.” But Saul knew that things were coming to an end. That he had lost his last three all by the way of knockout and that his career as a boxer wouldn’t last much longer. Benny and him weren’t the same. It didn’t feel like it did when they first met. The passion, the fire within Saul had been subdued. His record was now 7-3 . Saul knew that Benny was looking for someone new. He understood the way he looked at the other new boxers in the gym. He was truly and utterly defeated in that moment, and it was only just the beginning.
(The man took a long while to read and then took a long breath.)
I like it.
But it doesn’t really seem like my thing.
Can I ask what happens to the boxer?
He keeps losing.
That’s weird.
It’s supposed to be.
Nobody wants to read a book about a boxer who wins every match.
So why would anyone want to read a book about a boxer who loses every match?
Well, it’s about more than just boxing.
What kind of book is this?
It’s a boxing book, like I told you.
That’s not what I meant.
I guess.
It’s about brotherhood.
Does the boxer have a brother?
Yeah.
It’s complicated.
Everything is always complicated.
Look, I get it.
You don’t want the book.
Thanks for your time.
I didn’t say that I didn’t want to buy it.
Do you?
It’s just not the right book for me right now.
(When the boy was young, when he still had a brother that was alive, the pair would
lay in the grass of their front yard.
They would close their eyes.
They would pretend that they were birds.
Birds that could communicate telepathically.
Birds that were free to explore the world.)
(One unsuccessful sale.)
DOOR 12
(No soliciting sign.
Door 12 answers.)
Hello, si—
Did you read the sign?
Yes bu—
Then get the fuck off my property.
(One very angry neighbor)
DOOR 13
(Maybe the doorbell is broken.
The boy knocks this time.)
The doorbell is not broken because he hears it this time.)
(The boy has to pee very badly now.)
DOOR 14
Franky?
Lina?
Yo- you live here?
I’ve lived here for a few months, yeah.
How are you doing?
I’m okay, I think.
I heard about your brother.
I’m so sorry.
I didn’t know whether to reach out.
It’s okay.
I get it.
So, you’re living here?
I’m living with my boyfriend, yeah.
Oh.
It’s a nice house.
Good neighborhood.
Thank you.
What are you doing here?
…
With the wagon, I mean.
Oh.
I’m—I’m selling my books.
The one about the wine taster who intentionally blinds himself?
No, I could never finish that.
This one’s about a boxer, and I actually finished it this time.
A boxer?
Like a fighter.
I know what a boxer is, dummy.
What’s the story, I mean?
He just can’t seem to win a fight.
I mean, it’s about brotherhood.
He also has a twin brother who he doesn’t know about until like halfway into the novel who is also a boxer. Also, they have the same name.
What?
I’m so confused.
So there’s a boxer?
Yeah.
And the boxer keeps losing?
Uh-huh.
And the boxer finds out he has a twin brother?
Yeah.
And his twin brother is also a boxer?
Yeah.
And they both have the same name?
Yeah, that’s pretty much it.
Can I be honest?
Always.
That’s really fucking confusing.
Confusing, but undeniably Franky.
It’s better when you read the actual prose.
You get a lot of action around here?
I haven’t sold any today.
Well, it’s my first day selling them.
I can’t believe you finally finished a book.
How about I be your first customer?
Yeah.
That’s very nice of you.
Thank you.
I probably won’t read it.
Oh.
I thought you liked to read.
I do.
Then why won’t you read it?
I just don’t know if I can handle being inside your mind again.
Oh.
I’m sorry.
It’s just a lot.
(The boy silent for long while.)
Hey, maybe this is weird, but do you think we can get coffee?
(The boy blurts this out.
He knows she will say no.
He doesn’t know why, but he just knows.
He knows that it isn’t a coincidence that he has run into her.
That he knew he would see her.
He regrets asking her for coffee.)
I don’t know.
Why do we need to get coffee?
So we can catch up?
I don’t know, Franky.
What do we have to talk about?
I just miss you.
(The boy regrets saying this too.
The boy thinks he wants her back.
Though he knows this is irrational and that he doesn’t actually miss her.
He misses what they had.
But the boy does not really want her.
He just misses how his life used to be.
But he must stay focused.
He must sell his books.)
I miss you too.
But…
You should go.
I’m sorry.
(The boy turns to leave.
And door 14 begins to close.)
Wait.
Lina.
Yeah?
Can I use your bathroom?
Be quick.
(The boy picks up his wagon and lifts it up as to bring it inside.)
What are you doing?
Well.
I can’t just leave my books out here.
What if someone takes them?
I don’t think anyone’s gonna steal your books.
DOOR 15
The boys knocks echo back to him.
(He leaves quickly.)
(Often, the boy lingers hoping someone will answer but this time he does not linger.
After his interaction with Lina he is on edge.
He thinks about his own brother.
How everyone must know what happened to him by now.)
DOOR 16
(No answer.)
(Across the street, kids build a snowman.
They are different kids than before.
But they all look the same.
This time the snowman is bigger than the previous one.
One snowman.
No top hat this time.)
DOOR 17
(Wind chimes.
No answer.)
(One dead brother.
One ex girlfriend.
One wagon filled with books he won’t sell.)
DOOR 17.5
(The boy is not sure if this is even a house.
Maybe it is a shed?
Maybe it is a garage?
Maybe it is something else?
He stared at the door, inches away from the placid white screen.
The boy turns to leave, but to his right is a ladder that he had not noticed.
The boy is drawn to the ladder.
The ladder is inviting.
The boy must be limber.
His hand is on the ladder.
The boy feels its oldness.
He looks up.
He sees darkness.
He begins to climb the ladder.
putting his hands above him, one after the other.
He almost falls off.
The boy is not as limber as he thought he was.
But ultimately the boy is capable of hoisting himself up.
He makes his way to the top, clunkily and filled with a cat’s curiosity.
He finds himself in a dimly lit room.
The room is small, and it is cramped.
Stacks upon stacks of books configure the wall on each side of a small room.
In the middle of the room is a sign, marked with cursive letters that are elusive to the boy.
He knows cursive but not well, and not well enough to understand the elegant calligraphy of the cardboard sign that is before him.
He thinks the sign reads, take a book, leave a book, but he is not sure.
The boy skims through the books around him.
The boy is surprised that these stacks have not fallen over, that his movements, lacking in grace, have not caused the stacks to tumble.
He recognizes authors, Salinger, Tolstoy, Faulkner, Bronte, but the boy only knows these names in an abstract sense.
He is not well-read.
He has not studied.
He finds Love In the Time of Cholera, a book that he does know but that he has also not read.
It was Lina’s favorite.
She called it the “most romantic book ever written”.
The boy thinks of times when she read to him.
How tender her voice was.
How she licked her fingers to turn the page.
He never really listened to her read.
Not really.
The words sounded of another language.
Her tongue like a god’s.
It was a golden dialect.
The boy licked his index finger and turns to the first page.
It is not the first page of the prologue or the first chapter but the page with the other authors talking about how awesome and interesting the book is.
“ The Garcimarquesian voice we have come to understand from the other fiction has matured, found, and developed new resources, been brought to a height where it can at once be romantic and familiar, opalescent and pure, able to praise and curse, laugh and cry, fabulate and sing, and when called upon, take off and soar. ”
The boy thinks about his own writing.
Did he even know why he wrote the damn thing?
Is it for his dead brother?
Is it to make something interesting out of his damage?
Was it to impress his ex-girlfriend?
The boy wanted the answers to those questions to be no.
Regardless, his book was not a beautiful one.
It does not have opalescence or purity.
His book does not take off and soar.
It, like him, is not subtle.
It is not lively.
The boy is not envious of the praise.
He is not self-loathing.
There is something within him.
Something hard to name, but something that the boy knows feels bad.
The boy climbs down the ladder, almost falling off once again.
He sees his books in the wagon; it looks like he is selling Girl Scout cookies the way the books are tightly packed into the wagon.
He walks down and picks up his book.
He looks at the cover.
A piece of art his friend Casey had designed.
It was a painting of two finches.
The brushstrokes are thin and loose.
There is a sense of momentum in the piece.
One finch is high above, surrounded by the grey sky.
The other finch is much lower and smaller and falling from grace.
The lower finch, its wings are broken, contorted upright.
The birds are supposed to represent the brotherhood in the novel.
They are supposed to represent Saul and his brother, who is also named Saul and who is also a boxer.
The main Saul, our Saul, he is the one who loses.
Over and over and over again.
He leaves his book at the doorstep of door 17.5)
DOOR 18
…
Oh, uh, hello, are your parents home?
…
If your parents are home, can I talk to them?
…
…
…
How do you feel about boxing?
…
Joe Frazier?
Mike Tyson?
You ever heard of Muhammad Ali?
…
Okay, I’ll come back another day.
When your parents are here.
…
Stay safe, kid.
And don’t open the door unless it’s your parents.
You should know that.
DOOR 19
(Another door that fails to open.
The world seems empty.)
(Are more and more people not answering their doors?
Do they know he is trying to sell them books?
Are neighbors calling each other, warning each other of the boy?
Do they think the boy is scary?
Do they think the boy is boring?
Do they know what happened to his brother?)
DOOR 20
Dry grass. Shitty lawn.
Hello, are you interes—
Leave your shoes at the door.
Huh.
Shoes at the door.
Oh, um, are you Japanese?
What?
Are you Japanese?
Baby, I’m black.
Is that some sort of a joke or something?
No.
In Japan, they leave their shoes at the door.
What’s your name baby?
Franky.
Come inside, Franky baby.
What?
What are you selling?
Solar panels, vacuums, or Jesus?
(She is holding a cigarette.)
Books.
Books?
(The boy and the woman walk through a small hallway and into an empty kitchen.
They sat down on two wooden chairs.
The table is clean.)
How much for all your books?
All of them?
You want to buy all of my books?
How much for all of them?
Well, I have around maybe a hundred copies on the wagon.
(The boy is certain it is only around half that number, but he must appear concrete.
He must appear strong.
He must appear whole.)
So maybe $500?
I will buy all your books.
But why do you want them?
I’ll make your day if you let me touch you.
You want to touch me?
I touch anyone who comes in here.
The vacuum sellers with shitty goatees, the skinny blond Tupperware guy—I’ve even done a Mormon.
I don’t understand.
Why do you want my books?
(The woman put her hand on his crotch.)
I want to buy your books.
(The woman moved her hand to his and ushered him to a room lit by a warm lamp.)
You’ll buy all of them?
Of course, baby.
That’s what I said.
Okay.
(The woman began to unbutton his pants.
The cigarette is half gone now.)
What are you—what are you doing?
Shhh.
Don’t speak.
I’ll buy your books.
(The woman’s hand went over his mouth, but he did not resist.
The boy did not understand entirely what was happening.
The boy had never had sex.
With Lina, the boy had tried but always got too nervous to perform in the way he thought he should.
Surprisingly, as stressful as it was, the boy was not nervous.
This time the boy could perform.
The woman entered into the boy.
He knew whatever he was doing, as bad as it felt, would result in the purchase of his books.
It didn’t take long for the boy to finish.
She got up callously.
His dick flopped onto the right side of his pelvis.
Wet, and whimpered.
The woman tossed five crumpled bills at the boy.
The boy does not see her as she throws the bills and places her cigarette into the ashtray on the dresser by the door.
The boy is looking down.
He shivers, like you do after you pee.)
Keep your books, baby.
(The boy is still sitting upright.
He lay back down into the squeaky bed.
No one is there to put their hand on his back and ease him into the fetal position.)
(The boy thought about Joe Frazier.
About how no one could’ve beaten Ali but him.
About how he was undersized, didn’t have the reach or the speed or the power, and had nothing on Ali physically.
He was smarter than Ali.
That’s why he won.
Ali had remarkably slow head movement in the middle game; it was his quickness on his feet that made him good, that outside shuffle that gave him the edge over his opponents.
Joe Frazier knew this and out-pointed Ali for the entire fight after the first two rounds
For nearly ten rounds straight, Joe Frazier outboxed the greatest boxer in the history of the sport.
And even if Frazier lost to Ali twice after that, it didn’t mean anything.
He thinks about Joe Frazier for a long time.
He thinks of the underdog.
He thinks of his brother.
He thinks of survival.
It is so important to survive.)
(One sex working boy.
One self-published boy.
One boy who loved boxing.)
YARD 1
(The boy.
The boy grits his teeth when he sees him
One carrot nose.
Two coal eyes.
Two sticks for arms
A snowman in the yard.)
(One boy.
One boxer.
One brother.
The snowman.)
(A body shot with his left and another from his right.
A tight jab. He held his guard high, shifting his feet like a boxer.
His hands felt light, and the cold from the ice felt refreshing.
He bobbed and weaved imaginary punches.
With a right hook he took off the snowman’s head.
Then he moved to the body once again, chunks off the body flying.
He was winning.
Finally, the boy was winning.)
