Bard & Bastard

A Play in Ten

[The set should resemble a rooftop. When lights come up we see 1 setting up a camera on a tripod downstage center. He spends a moment or two fixing the angle of the shot, before stepping back and delivering his first monologue]

1: You’re dying. You’re dying right now. And you don’t care. You’re just going to sit there for the next ten minutes, and lose your life in me. I’m not that special. Anything I have to say you can figure out for yourself, if you just cared. No one cares, though. But you’re going to sit there and pretend like you do. Who are you trying to impress? Or are you just being lazy. [Beat] But we’re here aren’t we. Might as well go through with it. My name…it doesn’t really matter what you call me. It’s not important. It’s not like you’ll be able to call me by it. I can tell you its Latin for happiness, though. I think it suits me. People tell me it suits me. I wish my name was something normal though. I wish it was Lee. I’ve always liked the name Lee. But I’m here. And I’m not Lee. I’m just…I’m me. And I only have one thing to tell you. Or ask. I think I should ask you. Why…Why do we laugh?

2: [Entering from unseen from the Right] We find something funny.

3: [Entering from unseen from the Left] You find this funny?

2: I’m sorry.

3: Do you. Find this. Funny.

2: [Beat] Define funny.

3: That’s what he’s asking isn’t he?

2: Maybe. But what is he asking? What are you asking?

1: I just…I don’t know. I don’t like the question very much. Could you answer the question?

2: Fine, fine. What were you asking?

3: This situation. Does it bring a chirp of happiness to your brain, a flutter to your heart, spasms to your diaphragm, or incomprehensible gibbering to your lips?

2: Funny. [Beat] Are you asking if this situation is humorous? Does it make me giggle? Would I laugh at it? No. Is it unfamiliar? Do I find the lack of congruity between expectation and reality disturbing? Maybe. Maybe this unsettles me, but maybe that can be funny too.

1: No, wait, that’s not what I meant to ask. Let me think of another way to ask what I mean.

3: This?

2: What.

3: I’m just wondering. You said this unsettles you. This what? This question? This place? The fact that you can’t seem to make a decision even when it’s staring you in the face?

2: Maybe.

3: Maybe fucking what?

2:Maybe this place unsettles me. Maybe your question does. Or maybe it’s just you.

3: [Innocently] I unsettle you.

1: [Suddenly] What’s the difference? Between what’s funny and…

2: What we laugh at?

1: —and what we laugh at. Yes. What’s the difference?

2: You mean why do we chuckle at one, yet fidget, squirm, and otherwise avert ourselves from the other? Personal taste, maybe.

3: Maybe. Maybe, maybe, maybe. You are so damn vague it’s unsettling. What the hell is with these questions anyways? In a few minutes none of it is going to matter.

1: It’s just…something happened today and…

3: [Mocking] And?

1: …I don’t know.

3: Shocking.

2: [Ignoring 3] What happened?

3: He doesn’t know.

1: I know. I just don’t know where to start from. It’s a funny story. But not the kind you laugh at. Except you’re going to. I know it.

3: Don’t go making promises you can’t keep.

2: Could you grow even the tiniest amount of empathy, or compassion? Not even that. Interest. Could you develop genuine interest in someone other than yourself? For five minutes, even?

3: Why not? None of this matters.

2: It does to me. It could to you. [To 2] Go ahead.

1: It’s not all that interesting, and really I just…I… [2 reassures 1 with a soft look]…My day started alright. I mean, it started like it always does, which is alright, but I was wishing something different would happen. Just…something extraordinary. Not like over the top extraordinary. Just, something not normal. Anything to break the mediocrity. Maybe a girl could smile at me, or maybe I could find twenty bucks on the ground. Or maybe a car could come around the corner and hit me. Just something. So I wandered out to downtown, so that if something was looking to happen to me, I’d be easier to find. I wandered through a few shops, but ended up sitting at a bench by one of the street corners. And I waited there. [Beat] But nothing happened. Nothing at all, and I waited all morning.

3: [Unable to control his mirth] Fucking hell.

2: Seriously? Seriously.

3: What? Come on, I’ve seen vegetables with more dignity.

1: You’re laughing. I knew you’d laugh. I shouldn’t have brought anything up, I just knew it.

2: No, no. Listen, don’t worry about the asshole. He’d find a way to get a kick out of the holocaust if he was bored enough. [To 1] Go ahead.

1: I don’t remember where I was going with this.

2: [Gently] Could you try to? I’d like to know how it ends.

3: I could tell you that.

2: It’s not time for that yet. Why don’t you listen? You never bother to listen.

3: He’s made up his mind. What is my listening going to do to change anything?

1: It could be different. [2 & 3 both turn to the forgotten 1] It could. What if I stopped. I could stop right now, I could…I could…

2: [Genuine] We’ve tried that. We have. Trying, it brought us here.

3: Just finish your fucking story and let’s get this over with.

[2 gives 3 a look of concern, before giving 1 a nod of approval]

1: I got hungry, and bored, while I was waiting. Really bored. So I got lunch from one of those taco stands. It wasn’t very good, it was just the first place I stopped at. But it was something to do while I waited. After a while, another hour, I decided to head home. So I took the subway, or I was going to anyways when something happened. When it found me. The thing I had been waiting for all day, maybe my entire life.

3: Something. It. The thing. He’s worse than you.

[2 is focused on the story]

1: This man, looked like a banker or maybe an accountant. He had this blazer with the patches on the elbows and a button up shirt underneath. Some pants that matched the blazer and this…stripey tie. Afterwards, I thought that maybe they were the nicest clothes he owned. Or maybe just the ones he felt comfortable in. He looked like he worked in an office, he wasn’t old. He wasn’t young either though. He could have been anybody. He could have just gotten back from Iraq or maybe he was a CEO. He could have been the manager at a Wendy’s…I don’t know. I just remember seeing him as I passed through the turnstile. He kept staring up at the clock, didn’t take his eyes off of it for a second. I could see the strain in his neck.

3: Who cares, get to the good part.

2: Would you—

1: I’m boring you though. It doesn’t matter about the details. I understand. The point is that after a few minutes, he moved onto the platform and then…well, he kind of hopped down onto the tracks and laid down. At first I didn’t know what to make of it.

2: He was trying to kill himself.

1: Well, the train wasn’t there yet, but…yeah, he was trying to kill himself.

3: And?

2: And?

3: People throw themselves in front of trains all the time. It happens every day.

1: See, the thing is though, his wife showed up.

3: Finally something interesting. [2 gives 3 a reproachful look] What? No one gives a shit about the everyday.

1: I think it was his wife. She was crying hysterically, pushing her way through the stiles and shoving through the crowd. She was waving something through the air, this piece of paper. I couldn’t see what was written on it, but she wielded it like a badge. Maybe she hoped the crowd would open up for her, or understand, or care.

3: [To 2] Imagine that, people caring.

1: But they were focused on the husband, most of the people didn’t even notice the woman until she was out on the platform, reaching out with the paper like it was one of those life ring things.

2: Preservers.

1: Preservers, yeah. Life preserver. That’s what she was trying to do anyways, she was trying to save him, to get him off the tracks. Waving that paper and blubbering and yelling and crying and just making this constant stream of high-pitched noise. Everyone else just…they just kind of watched. Like they had just paid 5 bucks to see a matinee. I’m sure some of them were scared that the train might come, and they didn’t want to be down there with him when it did. But a part of it…they just watched. Like it was TV.

2: Bastards.

3: Humans.

1: And then we heard it, all of us. We heard the train and saw the light coming around the corner. And this husband looks up for the first time and sees it. He sees what he’s doing, and then looks up and notices his wife there, and something snapped inside of him. He started scrambling up the platform and his wife was pulling him up and the train was getting louder and the light was growing across the walls and people were pressing closer to get a better view [Beat] and then it was over. The husband was back on the platform, his wife sobbing all over him, and people were applauding and clapping each other on the back as if they had done something to help. [Beat] And then the paper slipped out of the woman’s hands, and I could see it hit the ground.

2: What was on it?

1: I couldn’t see all of it. The only words I had time to read were at the bottom. “I’m sorry” That’s all I could see on it.

3: Suicide note.

1: The thing is the wife kind of looked down at it, and so did the husband and they had this moment…the husband was…

2: Regretful, maybe?

3: Embarrassed more like it.

2: Saved by Love?

3: Saved by Fear.

2: Rationality.

3: Stupidity.

1: It was like an emotional montage playing across his face. And he reached down for the note. I don’t know why, I mean if it was a suicide note—I think it was anyways—then why would you want to pick it up. Who cares? Right? And the wife went to grab it too, so they’re both reaching for this scrap of paper and they kind of bump heads. It was kind of funny. I laughed. I did. I laughed at the two of them. I kept laughing as the husband fell backwards onto the tracks and the train finally came in. I laughed the whole time. Why…Why the fuck did I laugh?

[Silence from 2]

3: It was funny. Wasn’t it? Isn’t that whole situation kind of hilarious in a fucked up way?

1: Someone died right in front of me and I just…like an idiot. Like an asshole.

2: You were safe.

3: What?

2: He was, wasn’t he? Weren’t you.

3: He laughed, because he was safe?

2: It wasn’t him on the tracks. Maybe you thought it could never be you down there on the tracks. Why would it? Human beings laugh as a sign of safety. It’s just a biological fact.

1: It was inhuman. I was inhuman.

3: Don’t go giving the species too noble of a name.

2: Anyone could have been there, seen that, and laughed. That’s humanity. Sometimes we weep, sometimes we laugh, it’s all context and taste.

1: No, it’s more basic than that. If we laugh to show our safety, to reassure ourselves. I laughed…I laughed because it could have been me on the tracks. And it wasn’t.I laughed because it’s a joke. All of it. Life. We live for a few decades and for what? What’s all this pain, all this love, all this business, all of these accomplishments worth? What are we worth? We die. We leave it all behind. Friends, family, lovers. What’s it all worth?

2: We make a better world for those we leave behind.

3: Or a worse one. Hey, it’s an impact, alright?

1: But what’s the point. In a few decades after us things can revert, things can get worse or better without us. Humanity doesn’tjust build on itself, humanity is an ocean. Rising and falling, each crest bigger than the next, each valley lower than the one before. Eventually we’ll wipe ourselves off the earth and then, in a few million years everything will reset and repeat. What’s the goddamn point?

3: There isn’t one. There’s just life. There’s you, here and now, and…that’s it. We have no true effect on the world.

2: That’s bullshit.

3: Even if it is, what does it matter? He’s right. We’re a blue speck in an ocean of black. What do we matter? To whom do we matter?

2: God. Our friends. Our families.

3: A figment without a breath of life and a few corpses decaying to slow to realize it themselves.

1: [Through out this speech 1 takes closer and closer steps to the edge of the roof] It doesn’t matter…except…it’s kind of funny. The whole condition. Life is a big joke and death…death is the punchline. That’s why I laughed, because this man, this human being found the end of his joke on the tracks in front of me. I laughed because I understood what others are too afraid to…because they don’t want to admit the truth. So I only have one thing to tell you. Or ask. I should ask it. I’d like to ask you. To laugh. [1 steps off the roof]

[Lights fade and the camera is left as the only source of illumination on the stage. And then, it turns off]

Not so much a true story, as it is inspired by my life in Theater. I hope you enjoy reading it:

“Actors to places. Actors To Places.”

A spotlight comes up on the stage, as a girl dressed in pink sequins hits her mark and stands ready for her call to ‘Go’. Around her the stage is empty and quiet, but a soft hustle of feet and legs drifts through the darkness of the wings as the cast gather for their entrance cue. Three tap dancers wait eagerly to make their debut in one wing, while across the stage two more shuffle into another. Even the crew grows anxious to continue the rehearsal. Headsets are tightened over ears, stage managers call for quiet, and the fly captain takes his place at the rails. The tension in the theater grows to a climax as the Director is heard.

“Actors ready.”

There is a moment where the young girl on stage centers herself in her light, every muscle in her body tense and taut, waiting to explode into a routine of well-rehearsed shuffles and jumps. Then, the director’s voice resounds across the walls of the theater.

“Actors go.”

She begins her number. The clacking and clicking of tap shoes is joined by the booming voice of the girl on stage. She twirls, leaps, and steps in time with the music flashing a glimmer of pink across the stage.

“HOLD.”

Without warning or ceremony, a voice cries out with all the righteous wrath of God in the Old Testament. The theater grows dead and cold at the command of a single word. Actors stop in mid-entrance and slink back into their wings. A mixture of fear and annoyance plays across their faces. The young tapper on stage falters in mid step, before regaining her balance. She doesn’t allow her vexation to show. The spotlight is still upon her.

It has been a long night, a grind of infinite stopping and going. Throughout the theater there is a general slump as actors and crew sit, lean, and shamble among the wings. A swelling of chatter accompanies the slump.

“Why are we holding?” A tall, young man asks of his fellow tap dancers.

There is a grumble from the other two tappers as all three vacate the wings for seats among the fly rails. They do not know. The three dancers continue to whisper theories to one another, as the fly captain moves aside for the trio. Frustrated by the hold, the dancers are nonetheless happy for the break and the chance to gossip.

“If this rehearsal keeps up, then my legs are going to fall off,” The young man complains.

“If you’re complaining keeps up, my ears are gonna fall off,” The taller of the two girls replies.

“You know it’s probably her fault,” The shorter of the two girls replies.

The other two dancers follow the third’s gaze. On stage, the girl in pink continues to cast a nova of pink among the dark of the wings. The dancers watch her silhouette fidget in the spotlight for a moment before the shortest of the trio speaks again. She reminds the other two of the line the girl on stage keeps dropping.

“Gawd. I wish she’d just get it right already,” she continues, turning to her partners again.

The young man and the other girl tiredly nod in agreement. The three amuse themselves by absentmindedly running through a few steps from the upcoming tap number. The fly captain watches their mock performance before turning his attention to the assistant stage manager. She has wilted against the wall behind her and closed her eyes. It’s not apparent if she is trying to sleep or focusing intently on the constant string of hushed words buzzing from her headphones. She whispers for quiet as the symphony of voices, each fighting for dominance over the other, grow louder in her ear. The dancers giggle with each other and abandon their practice and begin their gossip anew.

 Across the stage, a stagehand and a man dressed in a sailor’s costume mingle in a mix of conversation and play fighting. They haphazardly box through the wings, content to take their frustrations with the evening out on each other. It is not violence which drives their sparring, though, but a relaxed boredom.

Someone’s voice carries over the headset and suddenly the dissonance is replaced by calm. The assistant stage manager flounders to right herself without accidentally slipping the device from her ears. Both wings grow silent as a lone figure heads to the stage. His steady course incites a new wave of dread through the theater. The fly captain quickly takes position by the closest line-set, pulling the slack from his gloves and flexing his arms in anticipation. The three tap-dancers cease their whispering, rushing to their entrance cue. And the stagehand and sailor end their match a round early. The figure reaches the center of the stage and halts for a moment, his shadow the young girl and imposing itself across the stage. It is a monstrous thing that hovers between the left and right wings. The shadow arcs across the left side of the stage, as its owner turns to the right. He is the technical director of the theater, the man behind the set’s construction and lighting. He is the true master of the theater on this night. His stride and the swing of his arms betray the raw power concealed within his legs and arms. His long hair and goatee give him a rugged look that speaks to the hours he has already sacrificed to this play. He is not a tyrant, nor a man who acts without reason, but tonight every actor and crewman knows that he is not a man of pleasant or flowering words. Someone is responsible for the hold, and this man strides across the stage with the sole duty of bringing the error to light and correction.

Before he disappears into the darkened wings, he stops in front of the stagehand. He speaks a few quiet words to the young man. Then they travel further into the gloom until they are lost to all but themselves. The three tap-dancers each begin to trade words of incrimination and relief. The assistant stage manager relaxes back against her wall, and the fly captain takes a seat among the sea of ropes and pulleys. They are safe and only a little sorry for the stagehand exchanging words with the technical designer in a darkened room offstage.

“At least it wasn’t me again,” the fly captain says aloud.

But no one hears him. The crew and cast watch as the technical director reappears from the shadows. He exits the stage and returns to his control booth overlooking his kingdom. No one turns to see the stagehand return to his station. Even the sailor ignores the young man as he shuffles back into the wings. The cast take their places once more. The crew adjust headset, check costumes, and replace props.

“Actors to places,” the voice of the director commands again.

Muscles are coiled and tightened. Breathes are held. The actors check each other over in the wings, and the dancer in pink follows her spotlight back to center stage.

“Ready, for go. Actors ready for go.”

 The company prepares itself for the announcement of two, simple words. The director calls them.

“Actor’s go.”

My name is Wik. Just Wik. I was born in the woods. And that is all I know of my origins. Humble, right? Well, there is a story to be told there, but it’s not quite time for that. You may be wondering what you’re reading. Well, it’s bound in leather, filled with vellum, and has scribbling in it. Most people call it a book. To be specific, it’s a journal. To be more specifically specific, it’s my journal. And to go into further specifics would require the use of grammar I’m not quite sure exists. But to foreshadow the contents herein, this journal is the account of my destiny and possibly my death. But, again, we’ll get to that. First, the beginning…

23^rd Day of the Bloom

When I woke to find myself still in the dungeon, I began to panic. I had been somewhat impressed with myself up to that point. When I had first discovered my imprisonment in the small room, which stank with the stale air of human refuse, I had barely gagged. When jolts of discomfort rushed through my pinned and nearly bloodless arms, I only thrashed a little at my shackles. And even when what I had assumed to be a decaying corpse in the corner sat up and began singing, I managed to hum a verse between sobs. I barely despaired at all. Best yet, the strain of keeping my mentality from collapsing completely had left me physically drained. Sleep, blissful and blessed, came easily to me in the darkness. I dreamed of oceans, green and full of life, and I dreamed of their silent depths. I dreamed of a place both morbid and beautiful, where neither stars nor fire shined. The graveyard of the deep, the bottom of the world, the kingdom of the forgotten and the unknown. I drifted through the murky realm of leviathans as large as the world was old, until one of the demons opened itself to the darkness and swallowed me whole. I woke with the dull snap of the monster’s jaws pounding in my ears. Half-dreaming, I expected to find myself in the belly of an impossible beast, a creature whose soul was ignorant to the idea of hope and the basics of human kindness. I stared into the dark, transfixed by the flicker of a torch. Its weak light caught the shine of metal and a row of bars danced into existence. With each sputter of the torch the bars flashed like teeth before me, smiling and grinning against the grime and the dark. That was about the time I began to panic in earnest.

(to be continued)