by Will Eno
Maybe a little frustrated with the audience’s response, or lack of response.
You’re looking at me like you’ve, like you’ve never even…
He sticks his tongue out a bit, and grabs it a couple times with his thumb and finger. He looks at his hand and then grabs his tongue a couple more times. He removes whatever was bothering him. Quietly, almost to himself:
Hair. Human.
Brief pause. He looks at us.
Back to the boy, then, the little mistake. He’s grown into a bigger mistake. Aching bones from the growth spurts, furious oily skin, shy to the point of not even really being there. He watched the parade of life go by. Drew some faulty conclusions. He said almost nothing. No one ever asked him what he was thinking, so he never really got into the habit.
Though it came later, anyway.
I sometimes like to think.
Though this wasn’t always the case.
(He stares, and mainly remains staring, lost in the feelings and images.) I’m thinking right now. Yeah. I am. We were the perfect height. Look at me think. We must have been so stunning. Will I be awake when I die? What luck, to be me, then, with her. The dirty nights, the magic days at the Laundromat. Sharing forks, taking our clothes off, afraid of nothing, we felt. (Returning his attention to the audience.) I disappeared in her and she, wondering where I went, left. It’s not clear what happened, exactly.
So you just try to…
Do you like magic? I do. I think. It’s fairly ambivalent, this love of mine.
Pause.
Once a moth was flying around my room. I was afraid. A yucky flapping moth. And me. It all had some effect, I’m sure. End of rumination. Thank you very much.
Now, I’m going to need, not a volunteer, but, a subject, from the audience. Don’t raise your hands shouting “Me, Me.” Though, certainly, I see your point. I’ll choose someone. We know who you are. It’d be good if the person were wearing light clothing. If he or she spoke a second language and liked a little violence, that’d be great. So, let’s see.
He is looking through the audience. The house lights come up (somewhat jerkily, as if the stage manager was not aware that any of this was going to happen), as he moves into the aisle, surveying the faces. He may move deep into the house. On some lines, he speaks directly to a particular person. He is relaxed and conversational, which, given the context, should heighten the sense of threat and menace.
I apologize for this, we all hate things like this. But in order for me to fully prove my point, to really ram the thing home, I need a subject. A volunteer, really. One of you watchers. One of you lovely pounding hearts. Now. Who, who, who.
Or, whom.
I sounded like an owl just then. Anyway. How about this recent weather. You know? What a day to be outside. Hi. I saw someone walking eight dogs today. All so pretty, so pedigreed, except for one ugly mutt, a runt, angry and diseased, less loved ergo less loveable. (He crouches a little, or kneels, to get a particular view of the stage.) This is good seat. I hope you’re paying attention. I am – because of my own pains – going to make someone else suffer, without proportion. Because this is your reality and not my dream, because I miss her leg around my neck, someone is going to pay. Nice. The leashes were all tangled.
I really apologize. But. So. Now. Our volunteer, our conscript. Anyone will do, but it has to be someone. (He moves down to stand in front of the audience.) Who of you deserves it most? I see you. Who shall join me? I see a couple people are game.
Long pause. He looks around at the faces one more time. Perhaps he is too afraid to go through with it, or, perhaps he has not found anyone worthy, and feels that he – no matter how seriously he’s being taken – is not being taken seriously enough.
You know what – skip it. (Earnestly.) Thank you, though.
Pause. He glances at his watch, thinks a bit. Begins to move back onto the stage. House lights down.
So…
Pause. A quiet but fraught moment. He commits to continuing.
So life for the little boy, now a little man, sped up and sped up. He was schooled, to no effect, and left home, saying only, “I’m going somewhere else now.” His mother wept, due to an unrelated malady. His father, who is still alive, God rest his soul, waved goodbye. And so, our young man, to a city. He got jobs. You may have seen him, something close enough. He’s the man waving the flag that says PARKING, next to a sign that says PARKING. He’s dressed as a telephone, handing out flyers concerning telephones. He’s picking up trash, eating in doorways, eyes down, an expressionless expression. He’s just like you, or, is you, or he isn’t and doesn’t like you. See the former child, hated by life, about my size, losing weight, working for shit pay, no real belongings other than a dictionary.
One night, picture it a winter night, one night in a park, walking off the day’s food poisoning, he came upon some vomit, vomited, and then collapsed. He wondered, as he shivered on the freezing ground, covered in stomach fluid, saliva, and bile, if there might be, you know, more to life than this. Nearby, a brightly-lit skating rink. He lay there, in the slush, listening to Christmas music and chirping elegies to reindeer and snow. The shivers of his childhood came, and then stopped. He got up and went over to the rink, leaned on the side. Families glided by. Couples. Call it the Christmas spirit, call it a coincidence, call it whatever you like, but, suddenly, in the bright light and beautiful music, he got sick and collapsed again.
That next day, at the city morgue, where he was painting the bathrooms, he saw a woman in a dark dress and black hat. He felt alive and high on the fumes. He watched her cry. She was perfect in her grief. A born widow, or orphan, a person of serious and recent loss. You can guess the rest, so I could leave it at that, but I’ll tell you. She didn’t see him, never would, and that was the end of that. I probably shouldn’t have even mentioned it. But it was a start.
Pause. He looks into the audience. Quietly:
You’re a nice-looking crowd. I see we have some couples here tonight. And on came the animals, two by two. Good for you. (Very brief pause.) Really, good for you.
Brief pause.
Anyway, a few seasons later, picture him sitting nowhere really, a nice day in terms of weather, reading his dictionary like a novel, scanning ahead to see if the story picks up. Remember, the man is the boy, from earlier. He is not really outfitted for this life, not properly clothed, not enough skin. He reads on, absently picking a scab on the side of his head, staring at the word “veneer.” Suddenly, like a beautiful dog at the wrong door, or, a gentle snow in the morning, or, no, just an unexpected natural thing, she appeared. She appears.
THOM looks off, toward a door, as if She has just walked in. He pauses. Looks elsewhere, then looks down and pauses, again, before continuing quietly with the following realization.
Sometimes you look off somewhere. There’s something you want to see. You expect this almost operatic moment to happen in your life, you expect something to appear. And all that’s there is what was there before. And you, looking. And what do you do? Maybe there was a raffle. Maybe we all won. Or, all lost, together. I’m speaking softly again. Because I want to be heard. Because I want to be gentle. To be, to my own self, untrue.
In a very small gesture, he shakes his head slowly; perhaps he can’t believe what his life has come to, how impossible his simple wants and needs seem.
Here she comes. The one everyone would agree was the one. Not the widow, not a widow, but close. A modesty, an understanding, a pain, a complication. A human being. Imagine a gazelle, a zebra, a giraffe. Now don’t imagine any more animals, and picture a woman. Another person. God, if you could see her. Imagine he is not afraid. Imagine he has feelings. Imagine he reaches in his pocket. “Pick a card,” he says. “There’s only one,” she says, demurely, womanlyly. “Yeah,” he says, in customary brevity, but surprising coherence. Anyone could see. Off they went. To Laundromats, chapels, and bathrooms, places you’ve heard of, been to yourself. The steps of museums. Hand in hand
in hand in hand. She would write him letters, one of which he would save. Love, period, full stop, probably. Unless you’re very happy or have a good imagination, you can’t imagine how happy they were. They were very close. Not fully there, but close. We hear the word love a lot, throw it around. Less and less maybe but still a lot. The word love. We mean all sorts of things. (Very brief pause. He is perhaps distracted by the revelation of his immense failure in life, in love, in his ability to understand.) I don’t know. It’s really…on this freezing…how anybody…or we were probably…damn it. (Brief pause.) He couldn’t see the story through. He did not love too much, nor too well, but with too much sweat, shit, and fear, with too many long words, too many commas. It seems. (Brief pause.) May every animal find its animal. Find some food, its fellow animal, a warm rock and somewhere dark to sleep.
Though still restrained, THOM is more vulnerable and open than we have previously seen.
Where are we supposed to learn about things? What happens in the little spurt? In the little time we are, I guess, given?
Brief pause. From his breast pocket, he removes an old envelope, from which he removes an old letter.
Maybe this’ll explain.
He prepares to read the letter aloud. He looks at it for a few moments.
Nope.
Pause. He turns his back to the audience for a moment, as he figures out what to do next, and, if he has the courage to do it. THOM goes upstage to the folding chair. He brings it downstage and opens it up.
I just got this. From back there.
I don’t like magic, I’m no good at it, and I don’t like it, but I do do a little Disappearing Act. I’ll need another volunteer. Seriously, no kidding around, this time. (Steps into the audience. To a man in the front row.) Thank you. May I? You’ll do fine. Thank you.
THOM brings a man onstage from the audience. He leads him to the folding chair he has set up and has him stand next to it. THOM might also ask him to sit down in the chair, to make the person more comfortable so he doesn’t return to the audience.
The Disappearing Act. Here we go. (To man onstage.) Maybe you could just – no, this is fine. Now, close your eyes. You have to completely trust that I’m not going to – (He takes a few steps downstage, speaking as he moves, leaving the person behind him, upstage.) Do you know, she came back to me, sort of. I had the worst dream, the other night. I’ll spare you the details. And the main parts. But when I woke up, I went out for a walk.
I liked the weather. It was nice out, sort of raining. I could see myself in people’s dark windows. I stopped thinking and just let everything come. Let the words run. They came and went, disappeared. Like the things they stood for. Like they’re doing now.
My face was so swollen. I saw white clouds in the still puddles. Her pretty ankles, dresses she wore. I lay there. I lay everywhere, always looking up. I miss her so much. I miss my mom and dad. I miss how the dog’s fur felt in the winter on a school night. I do, I do. Help me, bees, help. I’m going somewhere else now. I was born in a brick building on a Wednesday afternoon. Was that really me, before, in the dark, trying to make the matches work, trying to get to sleep, holding on to an oven mitt? She said I love you. My eyes were closed, the sun being bright. I heard buzzing and said I love you. Creak, creak. He said to me, Sarah? Mary? Who did he think I was? Is anyone up here? Weeping mother, waving father, shivering dog, paper cut-out doll. I sniffed butterflies. I pissed on things. Oh, you. My poor face. We tried with him, we really did. This is my best friend. Who am I, now, and what difference does it make? Who was I then? I cut my hair half off. I bled in the night. I left home but I never did, but I didn’t stay. I wasn’t anywhere. Then I was in love. (Brief pause.) Now I’m here.
Pause.
You’re being very patient.
Wherever THOM has gone, it has taken something out of him. He makes some small efforts at getting himself back together: wipes his nose, rubs his eyes. Then speaks to the woman in the audience to whom he has earlier spoken.
We might have had something together. Wouldn’t that have been nice. Off go the animals, two by two. Love.
To the audience, simply, quietly.
I was lucky in it, once. I wanted to leave before I was left. She wanted it that way, or would, soon enough. Maybe. I never understood things. I was too confusing. I did everything in fear. In fear of fear. What was I so afraid of? I had promise. I don’t have anything anymore.
He moves upstage, gets a drink of water, and returns. A quick glance out to the audience without looking toward the man on stage.
(To man onstage.) I thought you would have left by now. What do you want? Not to disappear, I’m sure. Then, what? (He moves toward him, with the glass of water.) Shall I love you slowly and be true? Shall I stroke your cheek, gently, almost not at all, and bring you – (Very loudly, to scare him.) Boo! (THOM is somewhat surprised and frightened too.) Sorry. Have my glass of water. Your throat must be getting dry, from all the things you’ll never say.
THOM hands him the glass of water. To audience, again, humbly, gently.
Then there’s you. Don’t say anything. Don’t think anything. Just be yourself. Keep in mind how little time there is, how little time there always was. Then try to be brave. Try to be someone else. Someone better.
Ffff. Ffff. Eeearr. A word without definition. “Fear.” Nothing to be afraid of. Beautiful. Right? So the little boy, somewhat hilariously, was never able – (Very loudly, a final howl, not very clearly enunciated:) Boo! (Again, THOM is surprised, even scared by this “Boo.” Maybe it’s the death throe of his former cruel self?) Sorry again. Why do I do that? Enough. I have to go. You have to go. Maybe someone is waiting. Please be someone waiting. I’m done with this. Important things will happen, now. I promise. Be stable, be stable, be stable, be stable.
Brief pause. THOM moves toward the man onstage, stands and stares at him, as if challenging him to act, to respond. THOM softens in his stance, and, pats the man tenderly but awkwardly on the elbow. THOM moves a few steps downstage to speak to the audience.
I know this wasn’t much, but, let it be enough. Do. (Spoken normally and quietly.) Boo. (Brief pause.) Isn’t it great to be alive?
Lights down, with perhaps the last fading light on the volunteer before all go to black.
End.
Stage Properties
A match, a piece of paper, a watch, an unlightable cigarette, a chair, a handkerchief, a wrinkled envelope containing a wrinkled letter, a pitcher of water, a water glass, perhaps a small table. Maybe Thom has stashed a can of soda with a straw in it, somewhere on the stage, in order to have a quick drink while he’s making a point or staring at the audience.
General production notes
Everything about the production should be as simple as possible, with all of the work and attention being concentrated on the actor and his performance. There is a humility about theatre and life, in the script; it should be there in the production, too. Gratuitous light or sound effects, or scenery, would disable this humility and confuse the play, making the overall experience less forceful. Though subtle lighting effects, it should be said, can be used to great effect. Though these lighting effects should be, as with most other production choices, almost unnoticeable, felt more than seen.
General performance notes
The actor should, of course, be so comfortable and familiar with the script that the words come out of him as if they are his own, as if he is making them up as he goes along. It is mainly feeling, rather than thought, that is behind the words: fear, anxiety, heartache, desire, love, hate. There are a lot of “switch-backs” and changes-of-direction in the script. He thinks and feels quickly and changes his mind often; we all do. All directions that Thom might go in are true, each direction comes out of a real feeling and a real need to move in that particular direction at that particular time. Thom feels and believes almost everything he says, at the moment that he says it. Sometimes, the feeling changes-- simple as that. Though there are many parts of play th
at are meant to be humorous, for the most part, Thom is unaware or unconcerned that what he is saying might be found funny. He is serious, he is trying. He is, to use a dangerous word, sincere-- sincere in his disgust, sincere in his sympathy; sincere in his desire to make a connection with the audience, and, sincere in his frustration when he cannot. People feel a lot of things, a lot of things at the same time, sometimes opposing things at the same time. The actor should honor this, honor the largeness, the complicatedness, of human beings, and find a way to play it all as simply and truly as possible. Thom has suffered all of the pains and hurt that he describes the boy in the story suffering, and so he is wounded, and so he will tell the boy’s story with real authority. This authority should give the performance, along with naturalness and ease, a somewhat heightened and somewhat cold and formal style of delivery. This, Thom’s repression of his feelings, his refusal to show everything that is inside of him, will create a tension. Thom is hardened, angry, and perhaps he is going to inflict some of the pain he knows onto the audience. But not just for the sake of being cruel. All that he has suffered has made him sensitive, in some secret part of himself, to others’ suffering, to the suffering in the Universe. He wants to make his life mean something, to turn the ruination of his life into a salvation, into something noble, for himself and for the audience. It is recommended that at some point, later in rehearsals, the actor begins to work with an audience. Thom needs something from them, as they do from him, and, he has something he wants to give them, and these things will become clearer when Thom is confronted with an audience, and an audience is confronted with Thom.
There should be a manic energy to the performance, so that we are never really sure which way Thom is going to go. Though this manic energy should be covered by a layer of intense and severe (often cold) formality.