A Strategic Plan Read online

  JILL: Like what?

  ANDREW: I don’t know—the new database?

  JILL: Ohhh, fucking hell! / Ando! You know I hate the new fucking database.

  ANDREW: Jill. Don’t say that—Yes. Yes. It has to be updated with data.

  JILL: Your friggin’ database was installed by trolls who play Minecraft.

  ANDREW: We have got to pull it all together.

  JILL: Triggers me so much.

  SIMON: Triggers you?

  JILL: I don’t do data. / I work in the music industry. I am creative.

  SIMON: ‘Triggers me’… / that’s a new one. Might use it.

  ANDREW: Okay, okay. So what are you going to do for the rest of the day?

  JILL: Get a coffee—do some shit on Pro Tools.

  ANDREW: [to SIMON] I’m just gonna troubleshoot. Don’t go anywhere, I wanna talk to you about some pathways. Leo from Mushroom called and he cannot wait to get involved, fair dinkum—he / is ready to burst.

  SIMON: Leo? He’s great … Burst …? Sounds messy.

  ANDREW exits to work on the laptop. Music from JILL’s earbud.

  I like your hair like that …

  JILL: [re: the whiteboard] What’s this?

  SIMON: Oh-ah. Something new.

  SIMON takes the loose bud from JILL and places it in his own ear. JILL is uncomfortable. He listens with his eyes closed. He puts a foot on an amplifier. A high piercing sound—tinnitus—drags us into the next scene.

  SCENE THREE: TABLE OF CONTENTS

  ANDREW: [too loud] Is this a corridor?

  LEANNE: No. This is a fire escape. But. Good news? No fire. Not right now. Lucky us. Of course if there is a fire we are first in line. Half full, half empty—circuit is overcrowded, we grab any space we can—we booked this room weeks in advance.

  ANDREW: It’s not a room. / It’s a fire escape. I’m meeting my barrister in—a—?

  LEANNE: Today is all about being optimistic. Mr Perkins is on his way up.

  ANDREW: Does he know which fire escape to come to?

  LEANNE: Yes. Now. I must advise you to drop all reasonable expectations of everything.

  ANDREW: Oh. Okay.

  LEANNE: They will want to negotiate, but we don’t know what that will look like until we get the offer and this is what they do. They will try and play mind games. Get in your head. Make you think you’re guilty of something horrible. You’re a bully, a beast, a boss from hell. Our contention is that they were negligent. Structured your dismissal. You have options. You can settle on the steps or we can walk into court together and Mr Perkins will run your case. Let the magistrate decide who is in the ‘right’. Your decision—

  ANDREW: That sounds really—HBO, but I have no idea how to determine what the— I didn’t even know we were / doing this today.

  LEANNE: Somebody really should have told you. But I feel good, I get a good feeling.

  ANDREW: You get a good feeling?

  LEANNE: Your board are amateurs, aren’t they?

  ANDREW: They actually sold their own building.

  LEANNE: Who does that?

  ANDREW’s phone rings.

  ANDREW: How much is all this going to cost?

  LEANNE: What’s that? / No. This is no-win no-fee, that should have been explained. Of course there are running expenses, it’s rare you have to reimburse out of your own pocket.

  ANDREW: I don’t have a regular income right now. All of my gear is on Gumtree. I mean all of it. I am struggling to pay the rent, I need whatever I can get my hands on, okay?

  He answers the phone.

  Hello?

  Lights back up on Staccato.

  SIMON: Who is it?

  ANDREW: [to the phone] Fender, Maton and Gibson. With road cases … I’m not going lower than five grand … Fuck that, I can’t do that.

  He hangs up.

  LEANNE: Turn it off.

  ANDREW: I need the money.

  LEANNE: We are dealing with your future.

  JILL: Shanghai Susans.

  SIMON accidentally knocks the amplifier to the ground.

  SCENE FOUR: ORG REVIEW

  SIMON: I used to be an anarchist.

  Beat.

  Eat the rich.

  JILL: Holy shit.

  SIMON: Don’t worry. Get a new one. Plant and equipment. How do you like him? Be honest. What’s your verdict?

  JILL: He listens to Red Hot Chilli Peppers in his car.

  SIMON: Daggy. Right?

  JILL: There is more to life than ‘Blood Sugar Sex Magik’.

  SIMON: Fur shuz.

  JILL: He tries to talk like a CEO. ‘Blue-sky, hit the ground running.’

  SIMON: Gimme the quick and dirty.

  JILL: What the fuck?

  SIMON: Does ‘Red Hot Chilli’ know what he’s talking about?

  JILL: His Annual Program is a drive-by shooting.

  SIMON: Okay. Is that good?

  JILL: Too many targets. Not enough resources—

  SIMON: / It’s too much work, is it? Yes. It looked wayyy too much work to me. Yup … Yup … Yup … Nope. I know … Yes … It is completely—‘over the top’ for a small outfit like ours … I was voted down. I tried to reason—

  JILL: If we actually do all the shit he’s written up—all the concerts—the—the workshops and classes—all the shit in that spreadsheet? I mean, it would be fucking amazing, but we would need like two full-time administrators, a coupla producers, a hundred volunteers and actual—artists on staff.

  SIMON: Artists on staff? Not going to happen.

  JILL: I know. Right? The whole thing is sooo fucking Cold Chisel—so—twentieth century.

  SIMON: Oh-ah. Hashtag awkward.

  JILL: Soooo derivative.

  SIMON: Hate that—

  JILL: He thinks he’s Michael fucking Gudinski, telling the funding bodies what he thinks they wanna hear. Our members don’t wanna do classes, they just wanna fuck shit up.

  SIMON: Right. Respect.

  JILL: If we don’t get the money there is no way we can deliver. And if we do get the money? I am totally joining a union.

  SIMON: / Hold your horses—unions are crippling this country.

  JILL: If he’s such a gun bass player, what is he doing in a shithole like this?

  SIMON: Yeah, well. He’s not going to be here forever.

  JILL: You just hired him—

  SIMON’s phone rings. It’s in his pocket.

  SIMON: Almost finished his probation.

  JILL: Andrew is on probation?

  SIMON: Everybody has a probationary period.

  JILL: Not me.

  SIMON: Special case. Are you actually serious about threatening to join a union? Because we would fall apart without you.

  JILL: I am serious about going on annual leave tomorrow night.

  SIMON: Do you and I need an offsite meeting?

  JILL: Are you gonna answer your pants?

  SIMON retrieves his phone.

  Beat.

  Sends it to message bank.

  SIMON: Just Jodie.

  JILL: Don’t wanna talk to your wife?

  SIMON: I’m—chillin’. In a meetin’. What are you doing for Christmas?

  Simon’s phone rings again. It’s the same number.

  JILL: Got tickets for Falls for New Year’s, I need an extra week off. Please?

  SIMON: You’re asking me?

  JILL: Come on. You’re The Man. Chairman of the board.

  SIMON: Colin is our—GM.

  JILL: Colin is in Thailand.

  SIMON: Already?

  JILL: I. Know. Don’t you think our general manager should be overseeing the brochures? I mean, what does he get paid for? Just do it.

  SIMON: Oh-ah. Why do you need an extra week?

  JILL: See my father. He’s sick. Probs terms.

  SIMON: Speak to Colin when he gets back from Phuket.

  JILL: Are you even listening / to me?

  SIMON: Don’t you have a portal here? We have a portal at my work.


  JILL: I just told you my dad is like dying.

  SIMON: So when are you going to Falls?

  JILL: Are you calling me a liar?

  SIMON: No. I’m not calling / you anything—

  JILL: What gives you the right to tell me how to run my life?

  SIMON: I’m not doing that—

  JILL: I have ninety hours of TIL owing and I am gonna take what is mine.

  SIMON grabs her wrist and offers her a present. It’s a small box. He opens the box and reveals a set of earrings. Silence.

  SIMON: You’re making me uncomfortable.

  Pause.

  What kind of a world are we living in when a middle-aged man cannot give a twenty-two-year-old girl a Christmas present …? I know you can’t afford to buy nice things. I know you’ve got nothing. You deserve a reward for Christmas.

  Pause.

  I’m sorry if kindness is out of fashion. I teach my kids to give instead of receive. What is wrong with being—nice?

  SIMON forces the box onto JILL as ANDREW jogs in. Beat.

  We were just talking about Falls.

  ANDREW: Boom! Jilly got tickets. Sold out in five hours.

  SIMON: Yes. She told me all about it.

  ANDREW: Hey! Great idea. Picture for Facebook! You on bass and Jill on drums. / Awesome—get on the drums and—

  SIMON: Oh! No, no, no. No!

  Beat.

  Jill’s juu-st running out the door. She’s sick.

  ANDREW: [to JILL] Are you okay?

  Pause.

  [To SIMON] Jill gets migraines.

  Silence.

  Pain management is very important, have you tried meditation?

  JILL: Don’t tell me what / to fucking do—

  ANDREW: I’m just … Okay.

  Pause.

  Seriously. If you’re sick, you may need to—lie down in a dark room.

  JILL: Did you fix the Photoshop?

  ANDREW: Trouble got shot.

  JILL: What did you do?

  ANDREW: Turned it off and on.

  JILL: Surrounded by genius.

  JILL exits.

  SIMON: Hard worker. But she puts up walls, you know?

  ANDREW: Did something happen in here?

  SIMON: What? No. Why? Why? Why are you forcing her to use Photoshop to design a brochure that nobody is going to read because you don’t even have the funding yet?

  ANDREW: Did she tell you I am forcing her? / Is this about the brochure? Is she pissed off with me about the brochure, Simon? We’ve got to get to the kids before school breaks up. We have to go out before Christmas.

  SIMON: My assistant uses InDesign for our internal newsletter and she is very arty. Okay. Question without notice. Migraine: Fact or fiction? I know people get migraines. But how many times a week? Has she seen her GP?

  ANDREW: Yeah, I told her to do / that.

  SIMON: Did she go?

  ANDREW: She’s her own person.

  SIMON: Disagree. She is our employee. Make her go to the doctor. You’re the boss. Get it documented. If she’s claiming sick leave —she needs medical certificates. Believe it or not, this is an actual workplace. Not a drop-in centre for manic depressives.

  ANDREW spots the newly broken amplifier.

  Jill smashed it. Temper tantrum.

  ANDREW: I’ll speak with her tomorrow—

  SIMON: Why are you trying to humiliate her?

  ANDREW: I’m not.

  SIMON: You are creating a culture of fear.

  ANDREW: Wait a second. We talked about culture of fear on the Planning Day. You remember? / I am setting ‘achievable’ standards.

  SIMON: How could I forget? Leo was great! Charismatic. Imagine if somebody like him was working here? Amazing.

  ANDREW: If Jill broke this / amplifier she has to—

  SIMON: ‘If’ …? It was a violent outburst.

  ANDREW: Okay. Let’s write up an incident report. What happened?

  SIMON: Nobody was injured—

  ANDREW: No. But what happened?

  Pause.

  I’ll check the security footage.

  SIMON: Send me the invoice. Move on.

  ANDREW: You’re going to pay for her bad temper?

  SIMON: Who told you to start printing up bloody brochures?

  ANDREW: Nobody / told me.

  SIMON: Well, why are you doing it? Are you on the pipe?

  ANDREW: We need our propaganda out there. We have to go into the school holidays with a bang! I’ve got Georgie and Tim from Inpress and NME running industry workshops, specifically for new bands. They are fucking amazing. They know publicity, business planning, they know contract negotiation and they are serious—social media gurus. Piston Biggie is doing five days on the decks.

  SIMON: Piston what ? / Is that a gang, is this even legal …? International?

  ANDREW: ‘DJing for Beginners and Intermediates’, an international fucking legend of club and dance and trance and how cool is this?

  SIMON: Sounds elitist.

  ANDREW: Big is doing us a massive solid on his daily rate, / usually impossible to pin down—we are reeling in the big names.

  SIMON: A solid? He’s doing a ‘solid’ …? Good God—

  ANDREW: We have to get the good news into the streets! Seriously. Nobody will enrol if they don’t know the program is happening. / Simon, trust me.

  SIMON: Just—be honest. Will we get the AusCo money? Yes or no?

  ANDREW: I don’t know.

  SIMON: This is starting to sound like a custard fuck.

  ANDREW: I think you mean: ‘cluster fuck’?

  SIMON: How much are we spending on the Big Solid Piston?

  ANDREW: You’ve lost me—

  SIMON: It sounds like you’re spending money we don’t have.

  ANDREW: It’s all in the application.

  SIMON: Okay. I’m breathing. Don’t check the security footage because … the cameras don’t work. Okay?

  He draws a large ‘X’ on the board.

  They’re fakes form the two-dollar shop because we can’t afford proper security. This place is falling apart.

  He draws two more ‘Xs’.

  Supposed to be accessible. Elevator is a deathtrap. It will cost a minimum of three hundred grand just to bring this place up to code. If we don’t get the AusCo program money we will be—

  He writes ‘Custard’ under the Xs.

  ANDREW: ‘Triple X Custard’ …? What …? What are you writing about?

  SIMON: We will be— [Underlining ‘Custard’ frenetically] —custard fucked. What’s wrong with you? This bombsite is worth nothing but the land. We need to fix the elevator at a minimum. And this is all detailed in our—

  He writes: ‘(New) Strategic Plan’.

  Our—

  He writes: ‘Mission Statement’.

  is totally—

  He writes: ‘21C’.

  That’s management talk for ‘twenty-first / century’

  ANDREW: ‘Twenty-first century’, / yeah, I got that.

  SIMON: Good. We all agree together.

  ANDREW: Who is ‘we’?

  SIMON: Small working party. Reporting. To the board. They wanted to call it a ‘sub-committee’, but I’m already on one of those with the preselection, my diary would’ve been Auschwitz. So I pushed for ‘Working Party’.

  SIMON underlines ‘(New) Strategic Plan’.

  ANDREW: You’re talking about our core business. I should be at this party.

  SIMON: Really? I mean—blah—finances. / Boring. Yuk.

  ANDREW: Nah, nah, nah—I want to be in the room for this discussion.

  SIMON: Do you really want to sit in a room with me and Barb and Councillor Brokeback Mountain? Come on. Is this the cool group? A lawyer, a bookkeeper and an arrhythmic chest infection?

  ANDREW: You are talking about my Annual Program.

  SIMON: Your Annual Program is our property.

  ANDREW: I wrote the bloody thing. I set up all the artists and the teachers.<
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  SIMON: If you put it in an email it belongs to us. Doesn’t matter. Working party is focusing on—

  He writes: ‘Money’, and underlines it.

  Should’ve put that in caps. Doesn’t matter. ‘Money’ is ‘focus’ for all—

  He writes: ‘NFPs’.

  That’s not-for-profits.

  He underlines ‘NFPs’.

  We have to futureproof our organisation from future funding cuts in the future. Debt and deficit is killing us. We have no definite income beyond today. Fairy lights? They have a bucket usually.

  ANDREW: We have projected income. Workshops. Studio hire, box office, subscriptions, memberships, rooms for rent, special events and consultations.

  SIMON: That is a projected projection.

  ANDREW: You can’t compare our business to a household budget.

  SIMON: We—are a not-for-profit! And we are in a perilous position.

  ANDREW: We can still be agile! / There is going to be a huge—upswing.

  SIMON: Decisions have been made, Mr Gudinski. The working party has resolved that the best thing to do in the circumstances is—

  He writes: ‘Sell Staccato’.

  This building is on the market.

  ANDREW: You want to save Staccato by selling it?

  SIMON: Yes. We sell—and ensure longevity for the organisation.

  ANDREW: Where does the music go?

  SIMON tries to find space on the whiteboard—he ends up rubbing off half the writing that is up there and then writes ‘ONLINE’.

  In caps.

  SIMON: Totes caps.

  Pause.

  ANDREW: Okay. So—I’m not—I’m just—I’m just going to say this— okay?

  SIMON: Depends what it is, that you are / trying to say.

  ANDREW: What the fuck are you people thinking?! You hired me three months ago to run a music program / for young people.

  SIMON: Listen, Red Hot Chilli. We hired you to write the grant application.

  ANDREW: But now you’re selling our bloody building! So what is the point of the funding application?

  SIMON: This property is a deathtrap. It is our greatest liability. And I happen to think that young people deserve a little bit better than derelict, dangerous ex-government buildings, don’t you? Oh no, that’s right, you want to exterminate all the emerging artists in the world, don’t you? Look at these walls.

  ANDREW: / Living history. This is where the history is.

  SIMON: Crumbling. Teenage hieroglyphics. Abhorrent. Unintelligible—