by Kat Georges
VOICEOVER: In the blue corner, wearing gold, 170 pounds, defending the light heavyweight champion of paradise, Ladies and Gentlemen, The Dream Disconnector . . . The Man in the Booth! . . . Geno! Crowd cheers.
GENO: Hey—What’s going on? What’s happenin’! That’s me!
Enter REF.
GENO: ’S’up? ’S’up? Tell me—’S’up? Downs more punch.
VOICEOVER: Cutting off GENO. And in the red corner, wearing red, weighing 174—
ART: Cuts off VOICEOVER. I do my own intro. I’m a swindler, a pirate, a poet, and a whore. No one can stop me. I need to be stopped. No one can stop me. I need to be stopped. (Repeat.)
GENO: During ART’s speech, fearful. You hear what he’s saying? Stop him! Stop him! You gotta do something!
REF: Blows whistle. Two short blasts. Moves to center ring. Okay . . .You both know the rules . . . Let’s have . . . a clean fight. I mean . . . No low hits . . . no trouble . . . A knockdown means the man on his feet retreats until I give him the signal . . . Good luck, Geno. Good luck, Art.
GENO: You’re Art!
REF: Fight fair!
ART: I’m Art!
REF: Let’s go!
GENO: But—
ART: I’m Art . . .
GENO: —you look—
ART: I’m Art.
GENO: —normal. They said—
REF: Let’s go!
GENO: —you were—
ART: I’m Art.
GENO: —hip—they said—
ART: I’m Art.
REF: Time’s up—
GENO: —you were—
ART: I’m Art—
ART: Let’s go—
GENO: —cool—
REF: —ready?—
GENO: I can’t—
ART: Stop me. . .
GENO: —believe it—
REF: Start fighting!
GENO: What?
ART: I’m history. You’re dust.
GENO: Don’t let him hurt me!
REF: It’s all up to you.
MINA: From OFFSTAGE. Stop the fight! Stop the fight! Throw in white scarf.
SOUND: Bell rings. BLACKOUT.
END OF ROUND ONE
ROUND TWO
The Retrofied Forest
MINA: Arthur . . . Arthur . . . Arthur . . . Where are you? . . . Arthur?
LIGHTS up. SOUND of birds chirping at dawn.
MINA: Wandering, as if through a forest. Arthur? . . . Arthur? . . . Sinks on bench. Arthur. He left. He died. Who knows what happens? I spent years looking . . . I had to give up . . . the way widows do . . . you need to go on. . . . Sometimes . . . I see . . . an image of him . . . so detailed, so clear . . . I reach out . . . I feel heat . . . his cheek . . . I reach. . . . Something stops me from touching . . . a memory . . . a look . . . He never liked to be touched. . . . He knew hands . . . absolutely. . . . The way that they murder . . . caresses disguised with murmurs of love . . . how quickly . . . they slide down the throat of the victim . . . how quickly . . . the suffocation begins . . .
ART enters. Wanders through trees begins listening. Looks at his hands. Sneaks up behind MINA. Begins strangling her playfully.
ART: Guess who?
MINA: Caught up in dejection. Defends herself instinctively, without heart. Help.
ART: Climbing over bench to sit beside her. It’s me!
MINA: Arthur.
ART: Arthur’s too . . . retro. Call me Art.
MINA: I’m hallucinating . . .
ART: Don’t worry. . . . You look great. What brought you here?
MINA: I was invited. Fabi’s granddaughter Amber . . . Suddenly proud. Your great granddaughter . . . . plays didgeridoo in a technotrance band. . . .
ART: Oh, Jesus! What’s that?
MINA: It’s new! It’s important! It’s what the kids want!
ART: Don’t tell me it’s what that deejay was playing.
MINA: Geno’s her boyfriend. This is his club.
ART: That asshole gets all the dough?
MINA: Yes. He’s innovative. He’s rich. He’s sort of a legend.
ART: Who wants to be a legend?
MINA: You did.
Pause.
ART: Remember when you and I met? Long ago. We spent whole nights together on benches like this. Central Park—in the spring . . . talking till dawn. You read your poetry. . . .
MINA: You told stories. You were—
ART: You were red hot!
MINA: —the only intelligence I could converse with.
Pause.
ART: What’s that poem of yours . . . about pain?
MINA: Which one?
ART: You know—the one you wrote before we met? “I am the center of . . .”
MINA: . . . a circle of pain . . . Continues.
ART: That’s the one. How’s it go?
MINA: . . . exceeding its boundaries in every direction. . . . The business of the bland sun has no affair with me in my congested cosmos of agony. . . . Pain is no stronger than the resisting force pain calls up in me. The struggle is equal. . . . A moment being realization can—vitalized by cosmic initiation—furnish an adequate apology for the objective agglomeration of activities of a life . . . LIFE . . . a leap with nature into the essence . . . the was-is-ever-shall-be of cosmic reproductivity. Rises from the subconscious impression of a cat with blind kittens among her legs . . . same undulating life-stir . . . I am that cat. That same undulation of living . . . death . . . life . . . I am knowing . . . all about . . . unfolding. . . .
During poem, ART remains enraptured. Secretly draws with chalk on the bench “Art was Here.”
As MINA recites poem, GENO enters and begins sneaking around behind them. Taking notes. As she finishes, he is focusing camera. The whole time he talks to himself.
GENO: I can’t believe—that agent’s crazy! I ain’t paying a dime! To him or the techies! The catalog showed a hip freak! What do I get? A regular human being. I ain’t paying for this! I’ll get proof—I’ll sue them for every cent that they got! Hey, you two—SMILE!
ART: No pictures! Rises—advances to beat him up.
GENO: Look—I’m trying to focus! Sit down and shut up.
ART: (To MINA.) This guy says shut up? (To GENO.) Hey—is that what you said?
GENO: Security. To the Retrofied Forest. (To ART.) Don’t get so excited—it’s bad for your heart.
ART: My heart? (To MINA.) This guy’s looking out for my heart. (To GENO.) I love this guy! Hey—You’re beautiful, man! You think my heart’s bad—what about yours? You better hope it’s still ticking when I get through with you—
GENO: Security! Hurry! Get away from me or you’re dead!
ART: Ha! Did you forget? We’re already dead!
MINA: Dead? Are we dead?
GENO: Dead or alive, no fighting’s allowed. War is extinct. Conquered by love.
ART: Advances fists up. Let’s go, pal! Let’s talk about love!
Enter REF. GENO points at ART.
REF: Him again. . . . Okay . . . you both know the rules.
GENO: I told him one of the rules is we don’t allow fighting.
REF: How can you fight if no fighting’s allowed?
ART: By knowing Rule 1. All rules are invalid. Pulls out rule book, hands it to REF. See for yourself. Here’s the rulebook.
MINA: I don’t feel dead. Do I look dead? Pulls mirror out of her purse. Looks at it. Corrects her makeup.
REF: Thumbing through rulebook. Hmmm. . . . Let’s see. Rule 1.
ART: (To MINA.) You’re beautiful!
MINA: But I’m dead.
GENO: Back to camera. I got to stay focused . . .
REF: Steps between GENO/camera and ART/MINA. Here it is: Rule 1: All rules are invalid. He’s right, Geno!
ART grabs book back. Sneaks off stage.
GENO: Shut up! Pushing REF out of way. Okay, Say cheese! Hey! What happened? Where’d he go?
MINA: Turns to look. Reads “Art Was Here.” Runs OFFSTAGE after him. Arthur! Art! Wa
it for me!
GENO: (To REF.) Hurry up! Get them! Don’t let them mingle!
Exit REF.
SOUND: Bell rings. LIGHTS fade on GENO angrily erasing ART’s sign.
END OF ROUND TWO
ROUND THREE
Control Room
LIGHTS up. ART and MINA enter.
ART: We’ll be safer here. You can’t hide in a crowd.
Offstage GENO and REF are heard arguing. ART and MINA hide under turntable stand.
REF: They disappeared.
GENO: Shit! You didn’t find him?
REF: I looked everywhere.
Enter GENO and REF.
GENO: Why didn’t you stop him?
REF: He didn’t break any rules.
GENO: Give me that rulebook.
REF: He took it back.
GENO: You mean it was his? You fuckin’ idiot! I’m the one paying you! You don’t use his rulebook! Grabs REF. In here, we go by my rules!
REF: What rules? Where’s your rulebook?
GENO: I don’t need one. You know why?
REF: No. Sits at punch table, rolling cigarettes.
GENO: I’ll tell you. It’s in the punch. My rulebook! It’s all in this punch. My special punch. They drink it all night. . . . ’Cause they know the punch makes them feel good. That’s all they want. Look at their faces. All smiles. All love. They dance. They watch. They follow the rules . . . thinking, like you, that there are none.
REF: “Do whatever you want.” That’s your motto, right?
GENO: Isn’t it great? What a concept! A little punch and—boom!—you’re set free. You don’t really do anything—but at least you know no one will stop you.
REF: I could stop them. But you won’t let me interfere. Why am I here?
GENO: Without your uniform it wouldn’t be fun. Take a thief. Does a thief rob a bank just for money? No! The real thrill, the whole kick, is getting away with it. If we just told everyone here “Do whatever you want?”—would they enjoy themselves? No! They’d be bored. They need a guard, a watchdog, an institution to conquer. They see you—a uniform—they don’t get hassled—that’s it!—they think they controlled you. Love power! Tell your friends. Bring ’em next week. Pack the place. Pretty soon, it’s a movement. A rebellion. The next revolution. Thanks to you—
REF: I get it, I get it. So how come tonight—all of a sudden—you screaming at me to keep people in line?
GENO: Tonight’s different. This Art? He’s not drinking the punch. He doesn’t want to feel good. He’s a crack in the illusion. As our maintenance specialist—you gotta stop him.
REF: Maintenance specialist? You mean—like a janitor? A garbage collector?
GENO: Stop whining—without me you’d still be working the streets.
REF: You think this is better?
GENO: Stay focused. We gotta problem at hand. I need you, tonight . . . to get rid of the trash.
REF: What—You want me—to kill them?
GENO: They’re already dead.
REF: I didn’t do it! It wasn’t me!
GENO: I’m not blaming you. Calm down and listen. These guys aren’t alive. They’ve been dead thirty years. They’re Virtual Resurrections. First time on the West Coast. London clubs got the idea three years ago. It’s old hat to them now—but here, it’s just starting.
REF: I don’t get it.
GENO: We’re in on the ground floor of the next big thing! Virtual Resurrection! The concept’s so simple! They developed a way to bring people back to life. Not really alive—they’re just 3-D projections—but they look real, they sound real—what more do you want? They got 2,000 names so far . . . some really cool people—Jimi, Janis, Picasso, Elvis. I was all hot for Hendrix till I looked at the price tag—you wouldn’t believe what they get for the stars. It’s in the eight figure range—I was shocked, let me tell you. I can’t take that risk. Not yet anyway. I ran through the whole list, and wouldn’t you know. Only one name’s in our price range. Art. I say, “Who the hell’s Art?” They get me his agent. Shows me some clippings, says kids go nuts. Kept saying, “Wait till you see his punch,” I think yeah—punch—sure, great! All I know is he’s cheap. So I book him, no problem, you know—everything’s cool. Then, last week, like, Amber checks out the flyer—she goes, “Wow!”—I’m like, “What—did we spell your name wrong?”—she’s like, “No way!”—I’m like, “Calm down”—she’s like, “Art! Art!”—you know why?—turns out he’s her long lost great granddad. I think, Cool, I did something right for a change. But is it enough? No! Not for Amber! She goes, she says, “You gotta get Mina!” I go, “Who’s Mina?” She goes, “Mina Loy.” I go, “Myrna Loy—what? the actress?” And she goes, “No, Mina—my great grandmother—you know—the poet.” I say, “Poet?—like on MTV?” She goes yeah. I go, “Bay shrimp”—that’s what I call her—I say, “Bay shrimp, I can barely afford Art. Do you know what it costs?” I start talking hard figures, and she gets all like crying—she’s just comin’ down off the E, I figure—give her a day. But the next day it’s worse. The bitch won’t let up! Says she’s callin’ the cops to check out the punch. She screaming and screaming. What could I do? I work out a deal to make Amber happy. Great. And what do I get? A little less cash and a nightmare in paradise.
REF: Less cash my ass! I’ve never seen it so packed!
GENO: That’s the problem. If this mob listens to these two, they’ll all turn at once.
REF: No one will listen to them. They’re too normal looking.
GENO: That’s why they’re dangerous. Their ideas are weird, not their appearance. They aren’t freaks. They don’t look like performers. Take the old man—no big hair, no fetishes, no scars, no tattoos—he’s perfectly normal. And the broad—hell, I tell you—she’s Amber in ten years. Same eyes, same nose—without all the piercings. These two fit in—that’s why they’re dangerous. They aren’t about tricks. They’re regular people. Anyone could do what they do. If the crowd bites—Jesus!—we’re history—we’re dust—the feel-good mirage will instantly shatter—by the end of the night we’ll both be looking for work.
REF: I could use a new job—where I get some respect. Even a garbage collector deserves some respect.
GENO: Respect? You think I don’t respect you? We’ve been together—how long? Couple of years? Remember when we first started—in the back room on King Street—stapling flyers on street poles, calling friends, borrowing turntables? We struggled and why? It wasn’t the money! It was the dream! From the very beginning you were always there—on time. You were dependable. You never once let me down. I could count on you. I got nothing but respect for you, baby. You’re not an employee. You’re a real honest-to-god Friend. Sniffles. Okay—I was gonna surprise you. But I can’t keep it secret. Why not tell you right now? I’ve got plans for you. Big plans. A VIP room. You run it—we split the bar down the middle. You’ll have total control. A room of your own. We’ll start—next Tuesday—it’s a real opportunity. What do you think?
REF: You’re lying.
GENO: Friends don’t lie to each other.
REF: You’re not bullshitting me?
GENO: Do you think I would do that? After all we’ve been through?
REF: I’ll be in charge? I can do what I want?
GENO: For as long as you want to.
REF: When I was a kid, I used to dream about having my own room. I always had to share—with my sisters—you know?—we had a big family—I was the middle kid. I didn’t have a choice. And then—later?—there were roommates or lovers—I don’t know—someone telling me what to do . . .
GENO: Kid—you help me with my dream, I’ll help you with yours. Security. The punch. Are you in?
REF: I’m floored. VOICEOVER counts like a knockout. On five, REF gets up. A room of my own? I could smoke there and everything. I’ll clean the whole house for that. Exits. Smacking fist into hand.
GENO: Laughs. Oh—hey! Check the Forest. People always try to go back where they came from.
SOUND:
Bell rings.
ART peeks out from under table as GENO exits. Fade LIGHTS.
END OF ROUND THREE
ROUND FOUR
Control Room
ART helps MINA get out from under table.
MINA: Finally. Sneezes. I thought he’d never stop talking.
ART: What does Amber see in him?
MINA: Money.
ART: A gold digger—I knew it. Beats working for a living.
MINA: She likes to be comfortable. Why be a starving artist if you don’t have to? Nothing’s wrong with having a warm bed to sleep in.
ART: Comfort tempts people to disappear. Warm beds are another story. Remember? Let’s go get a room—like we did in the old days?
MINA: There’s not enough time. You gotta be on stage in twenty minutes.
ART: Let them wait. Better yet cancel the show.
MINA: We can’t. It’s the only reason we’re here.
ART: Who cares why we’re here? All I know is I’m going crazy for you.
MINA: I’m hot for you too. But . . .
ART: Let’s go!
MINA: No . . . it’s not safe.
ART: The world hasn’t changed.
MINA: It’s the fear . . . I remember . . .
ART: Stop worrying!
MINA: What about money? I don’t have a dime.
ART: These kids are loaded. I’ll pick a few pockets.
MINA: But these are nice people. They came to see you.
ART: You’re right. They’re so nice they’re dying to help us. Why pick their pockets? We’ll just mention we’re horny and broke and like magic, they’ll suggest a hotel, hand us two hundred bucks and say, “Have fun!” Nice people. You can tell just by looking!
MINA: Stop being so cynical.
ART: You don’t approve? Don’t worry. For you, baby—I’ll be—the cutest little optimist you ever did see. Smiles. Is this smile okay, honey? I have to breathe now. Do you want me to use my right lung or my left?
MINA: Cuts him off. All right . . . you win. Let’s get a room.
ART: No. You’d be frustrated. Pretends to play a record. Let’s dance.
ART dances with MINA. SOUND cue: Unrhythmic noises and beats.
ART: Sounds great, doesn’t it?