dan's story: a play

Dark stage; one spotlight; Dan Strogen sits on a chair, leaning forward. He looks up, pauses, then begins, still sitting.

I want to tell you a story. It’s my story. But it’s yours, too, if you’ll accept it. And by the end of the night, I think you will. And if not, well, that’s up to you, too. My name’s Dan – Daniel Mercer William Strogan. Soft “g.” I was born in 1950 in St. Anne’s Hospital in Cleveland, Ohio – October 29. It was a snowy day and I was a small baby. Put me in an incubator for a few days. Three, I think. My mother smoked. But most everyone did, back then. I suppose that might’ve had something to do with it, me being smallish.

I grew up in Euclid, Ohio, a blue-collar suburb east of Cleveland, hard by Lake Erie, which was a stinking, polluted mess, back then. My dad worked in a city garage. He fixed busses, and the trolleys before the put those in mothballs. I went to school in Euclid, Catholic school. Played some high school ball – football. I was a linebacker. Not big, not quick and not very fast. But I played hard. The coach liked that. Coach Dillon. He liked me.

I was an altar boy, too. And I collected baseball cards, but not like kids did in the ‘90s. We bought ‘em, then traded ‘em – the ones worth it, that is. Some of the others ended up in the spokes of our bikes, attached with clothespins. Made a neat sound. Like a motorcycle, we pretended. Doubles, mostly, those cards, like that. But some Yankees, too. Even Maris and Ford and Mantle. We grew up hating the Yankees.

I fell in love in high school, like most everyone else. Never had sex – intercourse, that is. I fooled around a bit. Felt awfully guilty about it, too. I’d spend an hour necking with Laurie Fillent in the Robert Hall’s parking lot on a Saturday night, trying to cop a feel, then’d rush home, change clothes and head to confession. “Father forgive me …” My mother had us kids pretty spooked about heaven and hell. Hell, especially. It wasn’t until later, after I’d graduated high school and went in the Army that I realized my mother had no clue, whatsoever, about hell. Wasn’t even close. It wasn’t her fault. It was just that she didn’t know. Her hell was a cartoon. Mine wasn’t. We’ll get to that.

Just so you know, too, before we get too far, I’ve invited a few other folks, here, tonight. They’ll jump in when the time’s right. I’ll introduce them. You’ll see. I think it’ll work out okay.

Anyway, I was pretty normal, I think, I suppose. I mean, some kids went off to college. More very year, it seemed. But lots of us didn’t, too. Those of us who didn’t mostly ended up getting drafted. Most all of us, those who were drafted, did some time in Vietnam. Some lucked out. Like Bobby Latin. He spent his entire two years working on a base newspaper in South Carolina. I bumped into him a short time back, told him I was going to do this, like I am, tonight, and he said he wanted to be here, too. He’s got some interesting stuff to say. He didn’t go but, even he … well, you’ll see.

Anyway, we can get started, here, in a moment. Billy Keene will be here in a second. He and I grew up together. I’ll introduce him. Before that, I guess it’d be best for me to tell you why I decided to do this. (PAUSE) On second thought, no, I won’t. I won’t.

Stage to black.