Three Somebodies

by Kat Georges

  MINA: This music?

  ART: No, silly! The beating of my heart.

  MINA: Is that what we’re listening to? Call the hospital.

  ART: This is my song—the only song I can dance to.

  MINA: It’s . . . interesting.

  ART: It goes on forever.

  MINA: I’m already sweating.

  ART: Here, take off your coat. . . . Takes it off. Look at you. . . . You’re blushing.

  MINA: Embarrassed—a leftover habit.

  ART: You? Embarrassed? I can’t believe it! The Mina I knew was one tough broad.

  MINA: I . . . I came from a place where the weather changed quickly. . . . Even on hot days, I wore a coat . . . so the cold—if it came—wouldn’t affect me. I did not want to appear to be cold. A sudden drop in temperature makes coatless people savage; desperate for warmth they shiver and curse, steal, kill. I laughed at these fools, exposed as the brute I would never be. I despised the heat, and worshipped cold and night. It set me apart. I thought I was brilliant. I thought my coat was me. One tough broad. But it wasn’t. I never knew till you left how cold I could be.

  ART: Brrr . . .

  MINA: Do me a favor—hit me—right now. In the face, go ahead. I should be crying by now. And look—no tears! I want to feel something.

  ART: You hit me first. Come on—hard as you can. There’s no reason not to. We can’t feel pain anymore. Or joy, or love. But the habit’s still there. All the habits.

  MINA: Pinching herself. It’s not numb. It just doesn’t hurt like before. She hits ART. He smiles. I never did that to anyone. I didn’t think I could.

  ART: Okay, your turn. Hits MINA. She looks in the mirror.

  MINA: Not a scratch. Doesn’t hurt. Do it again!

  They hit each other in slow motion, each punch announced in slow motion speech, and responded to in exaggerated slow motion joy/tears/anger/shock.

  MINA: I feel so alive.

  ART: Just think what you missed all those years that you were.

  Punches her shoulder. They turn their backs to each other and touch hands lightly, then step away from each other.

  During fight, REF enters.

  End of song, REF whistles loudly. Grabs MINA and tries to handcuff her.

  REF: Just come along quietly and there won’t be trouble.

  ART: Hands off!

  REF: You can’t hurt me. You’re dead. You’re not real. You’re just a projection.

  ART: But you’re not! Hits REF. REF grabs head with both hands.

  REF: Hey! That hurt!

  MINA: Laughing. Did you like it?

  REF: I hate pain.

  MINA: Laughs. Pats REF’s shoulder. You’ll love it when you’re dead.

  REF: What’s it like to be dead? I mean—you seem to be having a good time.

  ART: You call this a good time? You should have seen me in the old days.

  MINA: Yeah, even our emotions are just projections. We don’t feel anything. Like you.

  REF: Most of the time I don’t feel very good. I put on an act. For the crowd. I don’t want to be like the crowd.

  ART: Then why do you stay here?

  REF: I don’t know. It’s easier to remain where you are. I get respect from all sides. Geno just told me I get to run my own VIP room—starting next Tuesday.

  ART: What does he get out of it?

  REF: Half the bar. And—oh, yeah—he wants me to arrest you guys.

  MINA: Why?

  REF: He thinks you’ll turn everyone against him.

  ART: What do you think?

  REF: I try not to.

  ART: Tell you what—I like you—let’s have some fun.

  REF: Warily. Okay . . .

  ART: Let’s get Geno!

  MINA: Yeah!

  ART: Now—handcuff us—God! Look at these things! All show—like everything else around here. Bring us to Geno. We’ll take care of the rest.

  REF: Why should I trust you?

  ART: Because I decided you should. Let’s go—where is he?

  REF: Handcuffing them. The Retrofied Forest.

  ART: I knew it! He’s so consistent.

  SOUND: Bell rings. BLACKOUT.

  END OF ROUND FOUR

  ROUND FIVE

  The Retrofied Forest

  GENO sits on bench in Retrofied Forest.

  GENO: Where are they? I got to stop them. Enter ART, handcuffed to MINA. GENO sees ART. Shudders, then regains composure seeing REF following behind them. It’s about time. . . . Here sit down.

  REF: I got them, boss! I got them!

  GENO: Settle down! Security didn’t hurt you, I hope. I know things have been a little rough tonight. But—let’s try again, shall we? Welcome to my club! I’m Geno, and I just want to say—I’m so glad you’re here. (To MINA.) Amber showed me your poetry . . . fabulous . . . you use words so . . . well . . . I’m so honored to make your acquaintance tonight. (To ART.) And you, my good man . . . Little punch on the shoulder. Little man-to-man laugh. You son-of-a gun . . . I know all about you . . . you’re a legend . . . these kids are dying to see you. . . . This show’s a sell-out . . . and you know why? . . . The flyer—“ART REVEALS ALL.” What a thrill. The phone’s been ringing off the hook!

  ART: Believe me, the pleasure’s all mine. Winks at MINA.

  GENO: That’s right! What a guy! You’re beautiful, baby!

  MINA: This place is huge.

  ART: And so crowded. Why, I’ve never seen so many nice people before.

  GENO: Well—lemme tell you. Couple years ago I had a vision of sorts—of a new world—where people could just be themselves for a change. The way I figure, the people are darn sick and tired of being told what to do, how to dress, how to talk, etc., etc. You know what I’m saying. No—they weren’t stupid—they just needed an outlet. A place to begin, where their minds could be challenged without interference. Through music. Performances. Lectures. (To MINA.) Poetry. A place where the imagination was free to unfold. A place where reality wasn’t a problem. Can I create such a place? I said, “I can.” And now, after only two years, you can see the results. A cutting-edge cybersex hypnotic environment.

  ART: Can it stop time?

  GENO: Mock serious. Not yet . . . Laughs. But we’re working on it. We open Friday at eight and don’t shut down till midnight on Sunday. Half the crowd stays here all weekend . . . and yet? People complain the time just passed too quickly.

  MINA: What do they do all that time?

  GENO: They watch . . . or dance . . . or let their minds wander. It’s not an escape, it’s a new way of life.

  ART: Yeah—I saw your infomercial. You got a hell of a copywriter—who’d you use? A pro firm, or a cheap, hot new talent? What’s your take for this weekend—did you cover expenses? What’d they clip you for me? Were you able to grind them? This place is so clean—that must cost you a bundle. This new way of life is a fantastic idea! Must make you feel proud to be the guy in control. You got plans for expansion? Why bother closing? Once this thing catches on, they’ll beg you to stay open. And once they start begging—you can make them do anything. They’ll see you as a virtual fountain of hope. They’ll trust you, depend upon you for the answers. And as long as they pay—you’ll give them your answers. But you can’t give them what they want more than anything else. You can’t give them a way to stop time for themselves. And they’ll grow old, Geno, they’ll grow old for a cause. They’ll die for a cause—your cause, not theirs—and it won’t be enough—they’ll die screaming for more. More time! More time! I’ve heard it enough. But you can’t give them that—you can only subtract it by directing their minds to a repeating beat. Like the beat you march to yourself—money, power—as though time is illusion—a trifling concern. You don’t notice it slipping out of your hands. You don’t notice your hands. You don’t notice anything outside the beat because you’re afraid it might hurt. And believe me—it hurts—to give up your masters. It hurts. Till you decide it doesn’t hurt anymore. And you can’t decide that if you’re on
ly a slave.

  GENO: I’ve got tricks. New technology. There’s no need to die now. Look at yourselves. You’re living proof.

  MINA: We’re dead.

  GENO: No one can tell you apart from the others. You fit right in.

  ART: That’s what scares me the most. That’s why I’m here. Watch . . . Rushes over to MINA and punches her stomach.

  GENO: Hey! Stop that!

  MINA: Why? I don’t feel a thing.

  ART: Caresses her cheek. No reaction. She used to melt when I touched her. Now pleasure’s just an idea. It can’t be experienced, only described.

  GENO: So what? You’re dead. These people are living.

  ART: They’re living dead. And you are responsible.

  Begins to attack. REF rushes in.

  REF: Get him! Kill him!

  GENO: Help me! Falls flat on ground. Begin count.

  REF: Okay, guys, that’s enough for now. Let’s take him to the Control Room and get him cleaned up. Picks GENO up by the heels. Drags him offstage.

  GENO: I respected you!

  REF: You expect me to believe that?

  SOUND: Bell rings. BLACKOUT.

  END OF ROUND FIVE

  ROUND SIX

  Deejay Booth

  In the office. REF is putting bandages on GENO next to turntables. ART is on floor near punch table searching through bag. MINA is writing on back center wall. Muffled didgeridoo music is heard.

  REF: Okay, hold still . . .

  GENO: Ouch! Be careful!

  REF: Stop jerking your head all over the place.

  GENO: I’m not moving!

  REF: Almost finished. Don’t flinch.

  GENO: Cocksucker!

  REF: You’re one to talk! All done. Hmmm . . . I like it. Turns GENO to mirror. Whaddya think?

  GENO: Looking in mirror. Aggh! Looks away. Slowly looks back. Painful. Absolutely painful.

  REF: It’s a good look for you. Rugged. Street-wise. But hey—it’s your head. Live with it for a week—you don’t like it, come back—

  GENO: I’m ruined.

  REF: —follow-ups are always free.

  GENO: What will Amber say? Looks in mirror. I’m finished. Looks closer, not at wounds but at first signs of wrinkles around his eyes.

  REF: Oh my God—you been listening to her set? Awful. Sounds like your face.

  MINA: Listens to music. overlaps REF and GENO. Oh, I can’t get over this music! It’s just like . . . floating underground.

  ART: Have you seen my mouthpiece?

  MINA: Unaware. Listen to that music, Arthur. Can you believe that’s your great-granddaughter? I’ve never heard anything like it.

  ART: No response. Continues looking for mouthpiece. Frustrated not finding it. Vocalizes every thought about this. Dumps out athletic bag. Puts each article back in one at a time.

  GENO: She hasn’t slept for three days. I’m surprised she showed up.

  REF: Everyone shows up for the paying gigs. . . . What I always wonder is . . . what do they do in-between? Take you and Amber, for instance. What do you do when you’re not here? How do the two of you spend your evenings at home? Surely it’s not one continuous party. I’ll bet you do something fantastic. Tell me. I can’t imagine . . .

  GENO: We do . . . things . . . you know. . . evenings . . . like anyone else.

  REF: For example—who cooks?

  GENO: No one. We eat out.

  REF: Who cleans?

  GENO: The maid.

  REF: A maid! Frees you up from the drudgery of household chores. Gives you an edge—all that extra time. . . . So—let’s see—you don’t cook, you don’t clean—you’re home—you and Amber—together—what do you do?

  GENO: We relax.

  REF: You relax! Ahh—the leisurely life. Watch TV, play cards, maybe read a good book. And later—it’s bedtime—there’s lots to do there. I bet she’s a tiger with all her experience.

  GENO: She’s not bad.

  MINA: Arthur—you hear Amber? Such . . . ethereal music.

  ART: I know I brought it. Where the hell is it? Dumps bag out again.

  MINA: She’s on her last song now . . .

  REF: Not bad? So why are you always out cruising the streets? That’s where we met—remember—on the street? You knew Bryan already—my good buddy, Bryan—he was our common denominator—he introduced me to you as his friend—he said “friend”—and next thing you know, the three of us were very intimate. A full day of leisure. Then back home to Amber for an evening of relaxation. She must have been so happy to see you. She couldn’t have known—you’re a very discreet man. Very . . . discreet.

  GENO: Can we focus on Problem At Hand . . . ?

  REF: Oh yes . . . Trouble in Paradise. Pulls flask out of pocket. Sips. You want some of this?

  GENO takes flask. Drinks a sip. Chokes a little.

  REF: Easy, there, Geno. It’s not punch, you know.

  GENO Sips again without choking. Puts flask in pocket.

  REF: Give it back.

  GENO is confused, then surprised. Hands flask back grudgingly. Looks back into mirror.

  REF: Trouble in Paradise. Very many problems. Very few solutions.

  GENO: Very funny. Shit—I can’t go on stage like this.

  REF: Sure you can—scarification is sexy . . .

  GENO: Get away from me.

  REF: You never said that before.

  GENO: I didn’t need to . . . we were on the same team. If this guy could make you switch sides so easily, just think what he’ll do with this crowd—

  REF: I don’t play for nobody but myself. Not you, not him—

  GENO: He’s got you believing that crap? That’s it—he’s not going on stage.

  REF: You signed a contract.

  GENO: Let him sue me.

  REF: The crowd won’t buy it. I’ll spread rumors. You can’t hide.

  GENO: Please—help me one last time! I need you . . . OUCH!

  REF: Why suddenly all out of whack? Where’s that old disconnection? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were falling apart, Geno.

  MINA: (To ART.) Well, it’s over. You missed it.

  ART: I heard it. She’s awful.

  MINA: What? Amber?

  ART: It stunk.

  MINA: You shouldn’t say that.

  ART: I did . . .

  GENO: Speaking to REF while looking at mirror. Do I look . . . different to you?

  REF: Come here. Let’s have a look-see. GENO slowly turns and walks over with some difficulty. Hmmm . . . REF examines GENO’s face—each eye, teeth, nose, ear, hair. Hmmm . . . a few bruises . . . cuts . . . other than that . . . nothing unusual . . .

  GENO: I feel old. You know, like, all of a sudden. I think my hair’s turning gray. I’m getting wrinkles.

  REF: It’s that pout. Try smiling.

  GENO attempts a weak smile.

  REF: That’s it. No pain. No pain.

  GENO: No pain. No p— Ouch! My mouth. Rushes back to the mirror. I must have a chipped tooth or something.

  REF: Crosses to mirror. Rubs GENO’s back. Poor baby. Poor, poor, little baby. What’s the matter—a few punches wipe out the dream? Or did they jar loose a memory you thought you’d disposed of? You’re setting a very bad example for the punch crowd. The show must go on! Get out there and fight. They’re waiting for you. Isn’t that why you’re here?

  MINA: What didn’t you like?

  ART: You already know. . . . Do I have to explain? Okay—let me tell you about Amber and her fellow musicians. . . . They played some songs with some unusual instruments—the notes were in tune; no one missed a beat. People will applaud. They’ll get paid. Even though nothing happened. Every song. Horrible. There was no growth. . . . For forty-five minutes they wasted water . . . wasted it on plastic houseplants to convince us they were real. Their tricks fooled some people, as tricks always do. These same people then fool others. The mirage expands . . . joy contracts. Look around—under the smiles? So much sorrow, caused by a million incarnations
of illusions that have nothing to do with the earth as it is . . .

  REF crosses to sit at ART’s feet, enraptured, like MINA.

  ART: . . . I could say I’ve been to another place where one night I heard a similar song . . . sitting on soil . . . under stars . . . I could say I cried in the soil . . . rolled in the soil . . . licked the soil . . . listened . . . to a song beyond the limits of language. I could say I remember this soil . . . but not before now . . .

  GENO, while ART is speaking, slowly sneaks away.

  REF: Did you hear that, Geno? Hey—he’s gone. Aw—good riddance. Who needs him? Lies down.

  ART: I do . . . I want to watch him hurt. Exits.

  SOUND: Bell rings. BLACKOUT.

  END OF ROUND SIX

  ROUND SEVEN

  Control Room

  REF: Still lying down. Why are you still here? Afraid of blood?

  MINA: The contemplation of ruins is a masculine specialty.

  REF: I hope Geno’s okay. I mean—he’s not a bad guy.

  MINA: Are you always going to back the underdog?

  REF: Who are you for?

  MINA: No one. I don’t care.

  REF: You must care about something.

  MINA: I used to. But—

  REF: What happened?

  MINA: Begins whispering, increases volume gradually. It’s not worth the effort. The eyes are too easy to close . . . I remember—last night or last year—a celebration . . . it was . . . a birthday, a birth, a day . . . something . . . important. We felt like children . . . we toasted the future—To Permanent Bliss—GULP!—AHH! We were infected. We gave our virus to anyone willing to spring for a round. . . . Drank free all night! . . . But . . . I had to leave . . . I needed something . . . I forgot. The cabs were full. . . . I walked . . . in the fog. Halfway home I stopped by this young tree. Planted by Friends of the Urban Forest! I don’t know why, but I suddenly felt nauseous. I threw up on the spot. Looking up, I saw that sign of hope dripping puke as a tree died of thirst. I laughed so hard my wisdom teeth woke up. My mouth became swollen with pain. Blood and bile don’t mix. They only trade places. The poison settles. You can’t sleep a wink. All that planning and suddenly hibernation’s out of the question. Asleep you need nothing . . . awake—forget it!—it’s all about hunger. You remember a picnic—fresh fish and bread . . . well, fish anyway—the bakers are on strike . . . you leave the cave for the river and get lost in the snow—driven by pain you continue . . . no turning back till spring . . . if you can hold on that long . . . I cannot help you. My mouth aches with infection of my own manufacture. I’m hungry and alive, filled with the pure white light of pain.