by Eric Lane
SON: And these fire-hot lasers shoot out of the alien face’s eyes! (The face on the television explodes, and the TV goes static. DAN screams.) And we all scream and duck under our desks. (He puts the cover back over DAN’s head.) And everyone’s like “Ahhhhh!!!”
DAD: Ahhhhhhhhh!!! (Lifts up the meat dish cover and DAN is screaming AHHHHHHHHHH, covers him back up again.)
SON: And Mr. Teller’s like—
(MR. TELLER runs on from stage left to right.)
MR. TELLER: It’s an alien invasion!!! Run for your lives!
SON: But just as he gets to the classroom door, five aliens kick it down and slither into the room, pointing big bubble-shaped blasters at us. (Five aliens run onstage pointing blasters at DAD and SON.) And I don’t know where I get the courage, but I stand up and I say, “Don’t shoot. We are a peaceful homeroom!”
DAD: And then what?
SON: Then, Amber Carlson, who’s totally annoying and used to pick her nose and put the boogers behind her ears when we were in fifth grade—
DAD: Oh, I know Amber. Her parents belong to that weird religion, right?
SON: Right. So, Amber Carlson’s like—
AMBER: (Popping up from behind the table.) I knew it, they’ve finally come for us!
SON: Then she screams and faints. (AMBER screams, faints.) But, she’s holding her pink cell phone.
DAD: I thought you weren’t supposed to have your cell phones in class.
SON: Dad, we’re not supposed to have space aliens in class either.
DAD: Right. Continue.
SON: So, Amber Carlson drops her cell phone and it slides onto the floor, and lands right between the feet of the biggest baddest alien warrior. (SON takes the cell phone from his DAD’S belt, and slides it between the feet of one of the aliens.) And he looks down at Amber Carlson’s cell phone and says—
ALIEN WARRIOR: Eeezzzoo Boober spotch grob grob, norb!?
SON: Which was a special alien language, so we had to call in our librarian, Mrs. Malby, to translate.
(Sound of a school PA system.)
PA SYSTEM (MRS. MALBY): Mrs. Malby to Mr. Teller’s classroom. Mrs. Malby to Mr. Teller’s class. Thank you.
MRS. MALBY: (Running on, looking very scared, and very librariany. She is holding a large book entitled Cracking the Alien Dialect.) The alien says, “What is this? Some kind of earthling bomb?”
SON: So I say, “Tell him it IS a bomb, and if they don’t do what we ask, we’ll blow them back to whatever galaxy they came from.”
MRS. MALBY: Minnie Moozer Klobberstoch, Icky pursablooey grob grob—oh, what’s the word for galaxy!?!
SON: But the alien says—
ALIEN WARRIOR: BEELARG!!
SON: Which means—
MRS. MALBY: Silence!!
(The ALIEN WARRIOR picks up the cell phone, sniffs it, shakes it, starts to laugh.)
ALIEN WARRIOR: Ar Ar Ar! Eeezle noffle prob. (All the aliens laugh. Ar Ar Ar.)
SON: Then, I get an idea. I turn and yell to the class and to Mrs. Malby, “Quick, does anyone know Amber Carlson’s cell phone number?!” And the biggest Alien Warrior stops laughing and yells—
ALIEN WARRIOR: Beelarg, Norfleflunger! Beelarg.
SON: (To the ALIEN.) “No, I will not beelarg!” (To the classroom.) “Who knows Amber’s number?!?” And I start to get scared because Amber Carlson’s not very popular and I think maybe no one knows her number, but then, in the back of the classroom, one student stands up from underneath her desk.
(An attractive girl appears from behind the table. JENN GROUT.)
JENN GROUT: I do. I know Amber’s number. She’s my neighbor, and sometimes we carpool.
SON: It was Jenn Grout.
DAD: The Jenn Grout? The one you have the major crush on?
SON: How do you know I have a major crush on Jenn Grout?
DAD: You told me.
SON: I did?
DAD: I do listen, you know?
ALIEN WARRIOR ONE: BEELARG, Norfleflungers!!!
SON: “Quick,” I yell to Jenn Grout, “dial Amber’s number.”
(JENN pulls out her cell phone and dials AMBER’S phone.)
SON: Hurry!
JENN GROUT: It’s ringing.
SON: All’s silent, and then …
(The cell phone in ALIEN WARRIOR’S hand rings … something poppy, something tweeny. ALIEN WARRIOR looks at his hand, puzzled.)
ALIEN WARRIOR: Blupp duh—?
SON: And then …
DAD: Yeah?
SON: … his face explodes!
(DAD grabs a handful of spaghetti from the bowl on the table, and throws it at ALIEN’S face. ALIEN writhes in pain and acts as if the spaghetti is his face melting. DAD continues doing this to the remaining four ALIENS, who all act as if their heads are exploding.)
And one by one all the aliens’ heads start popping like zits, and they sink to the ground in a slithering pile of their own head guts.
(He lifts up the meat dish cover.)
DAN: What’s happening?
SON: I don’t know!
(Replaces the meat dish cover.)
MRS. MALBY: The vibrations from the cell phone must be a frequency intolerable to alien eardrums.
JENN GROUT: You’re saving the day!!!
SON: Then, suddenly, there’s this rumbling, and it sounds like the cracking of ten thousand knuckles and the entire roof rips off of the school!
(SON and DAD grab the four corners of the tablecloth and fling it and all its contents off the table.)
And above us is the sound of ten million ceiling fans, and there hovering above our heads is a giant, rotating flying saucer.
(The table begins to lift off the ground—maybe SON and DAD lift it on their own. Under the table are a ton of lights and gadgets that look like the bottom of a spaceship. It continues to float up and up and up until everyone is huddled underneath it looking up in astonishment. The noise should be that of a huge aircraft taking off. Their hair blows; they have trouble staying on their feet.)
We look up in amazement, and Jenn Grout hugs me tight, and I can totally feel her boobs without even trying. And then all of a sudden, the spaceship disappears into the first-period sky with a loud BAMMM!!!
(A light flash! Loud boom/crack. When lights return, all have disappeared except for DAD and SON, who sit on the floor surrounded by remnants of alien invasion.)
And when we open our eyes, the roof is back on the school, and the TV is all in one piece and it’s like nothing ever happened? Except that Amber Carlson’s cell phone is mysteriously missing.
DAD: Wow.
SON: Yeah.
DAD: Well … I can’t wait to hear what happens tomorrow.
(They share a smile.)
END OF PLAY
PARTICLE BOARD
Elizabeth Meriwether
Particle Board was originally produced by Ars Nova, producers Kim Rosenstock and Jason Eagan. Shira Milikowsky directed the following cast:
HAROLD CRETTS Daniel Berson
SLY JONES Audrey Lynn-Weston
TRISHA FOME Kristin Slaysman
DAMARA Rebecca Henderson
DOCTOR Ben Correale
JAY Stephen Haskell
NOTE
We originally produced this play with two microphones set up on either side of the stage. SLY JONES spoke into one, and the other characters used the other and left the stage after they were done speaking. HAROLD was on a platform off to the side, away from the action. Everyone performed directly to the audience. Think one of those documentaries on PBS or the History Channel. Oh, yeah, every time HAROLD tells a joke he hits himself with a piece of wood and yells out, “Ow!” We used foam board so no one got hurt.
A man walks up to a microphone. Taps it a couple times.
HAROLD: This thing on?
(He laughs. And then hits himself on the head with a piece of wood.)
Ow. My wife came up to me the other day and she said, “Honey, is that a piece of wood in your hands?” An
d I said, “Wood you like to hold it?”
(He laughs. And then hits himself on the head with a piece of wood.)
Ow.
(SLY JONES, carrying notecards, enters on the other side of the stage. HAROLD freezes.)
SLY JONES: Harold Cretts was this country’s first and foremost Particle Board comedian. Some consider him the founding father of the Particle Board shtick. “Shtick” is a Jewish word meaning something that Jews think is funny. And Christians pretend to think is funny. Particle Board is of course the cheap wood invented during World War Two when supplies were hard to come by, it’s manufactured out of wood chips of all different kinds of trees and stuck together with resin. Which comes from the Latin, To Rez. Or to hold from behind while crying.
HAROLD: If you ask me what war I fought in, I’d say it was “Wood War Two.”
(HAROLD hits himself with the wood and yells out “Ow!”)
SLY JONES: Much like Particle Board, Harold Cretts was himself made up of wood chips. If wood chips were a metaphor for being born in Brooklyn in 1935 and being Jewish. When asked how Particle Board comedy was born, Harold Cretts replied, “I had a piece of wood in my hand and then I hit myself with it.” Always quick with words, Harold never ceased to charm anyone he came across—children, women, and a tiny Gay named Fantastic Jack. Jack ignored his fourth official warning and one restraining order to run up and give Harold a hug at the 1957 World Series. Harold smacked the boy in the face with his Particle Board and sent him to the hospital with a surface wound, where it was revealed that his name was not Fantastic Jack but rather Robert Duvall. Robert would of course grow up to be Robert Duvall, star of Tender Mercies and Secondhand Lions. When asked, Duvall claimed to have no recollection of his days as Fantastic Jack, the tiny Gay. This is just one in a series of strange and wonderful anecdotes that happened to Harold as he traveled around the world with his wood, talking to people of all colors and shapes. Sometimes those shapes were even fat people.
HAROLD: So my wife asks me if she looks fat in those pants, and I say, “No honey, but my wood looks fat in your pants!”
(HAROLD hits himself in the head with the wood, and yells out “Ow!”)
SLY JONES: One funny story is that Harold spent an uncomfortable elevator ride with Walter Cronkite where neither of them said a word. The incident is chronicled in his well-loved memoir, Oh, My Wood!
HAROLD: I got on the elevator and I turned around and there was Walter Cronkite. At the end of the elevator ride, I got out of the elevator and walked to my car.
SLY JONES: Candor. Integrity. American. Cantankerous. Hilarious. Average. Complicated. Sexy. Wet. Exorcist. Not mean. Clinically insane. All these words have been used to describe Harold Cretts. Whatever he was, the women went nuts, citing most often that it was his use of the Particle Board that first caught their eye.
(TRISHA FOME enters and speaks out.)
TRISHA: Oh, I remember the sound of it hitting his head. If I had to write it down, I’d probably spell it S-L-P-A-T, Slpat. Joke. Slpat. It looked really painful. And I remember there was a little bruise forming at his hairline, and you know by the end of the night I’m pretty sure there was a lot of blood coming down his face. It was hilarious. I remember that night I wasn’t wearing socks and, ooo, I felt just like Myrna Loy. I went up to Harold after the show and asked him if I could touch his wood—and then oh gosh, I was so young, I just started blushing—it was probably the pink wine and the late hour but Harold took me in his arms and French-kissed me. He gave me oral herpes that I’ve had my whole life. When it flares up, my husband always laughs and says, “Looks like Harold’s back.” It’s funny he calls my herpes a name. My husband is almost as funny as Harold Cretts. But he’s not.
SLY JONES: What was it about the wood?
TRISHA: I don’t know. It’s just funny when people hit themselves. Especially handsome men like Harold. That’s really funny.
(TRISHA FOME exits.)
SLY JONES: The women came and went but few stayed. Once a few did stay, literally. Harold is often credited with inventing the “foursome,” which to weaker men would just seem like a bad idea. For many women, what first drew them in was often what eventually made them leave—you guessed it.
(DAMARA FATELLI enters.)
DAMARA: I said, “Harold, let’s go to bed and make a baby.” And he starts crying. And I’m like: “What’s wrong?” And he’s like: “Nothing.” And then maybe I’d put on some stiletto heels and walk on his face. And it was like that for five years.
SLY JONES: Why did you stay, Damara?
DAMARA: There was something about him. Kinda made you feel like a warm buttered roll. After all the other schmucks who made me feel like chop suey. And I don’t say that lightly. I dated a lot of Chinese. Great in bed. They don’t call it soy sauce for nothing. They really nailed me like I was a railroad track. Are you going to have to bleep that out because it was racist?
SLY JONES: How was Harold in bed?
DAMARA: Well there was a lot of crying, like I said, but there was also a lot of joy. Joy mostly in the form of crying. But I knew he loved me. He liked it when I stayed really still, you know really quiet and still and stiff.
SLY JONES: Like a piece of wood?
(DAMARA takes a moment to think, reflect, then:)
DAMARA: (Softly.) Oh God.
(Another beat.)
Thank you.
SLY JONES: What some might call inspiration, others called an obsession, an addiction. Wood addiction or “waddiction” can be crippling, even fatal. Harold hit rock bottom on American Bandstand with Dick Clark.
(HAROLD is a broken man.)
HAROLD: So Dick, Dick, you won’t believe what my wife … my wife … she said, “Harold, (incoherent mumbling) …” And I said … I said … (incoherent mumbling) … I said … (incoherent mumbling) … “You’re a bitch …”
(HAROLD hits himself over and over with the wood, then holds it to himself.)
(Softly, crazy.) “Bandstand, Bandstand …”
(HAROLD beats an imagined Dick Clark away with his wood.)
Get away Dick, no, no, get away, I’m dancing, I’m dancing with my wood—I’M DANCING, DICK, I’M DANCING …
(DOCTOR enters.)
DOCTOR: Harold came to my facility the first time he tried to live without his wood. It only lasted a couple days. I suggested inpatient care, and that he needed to spend a good thirty days. At that point his hands were barely recognizable with so many splinters and his head was badly bruised and scarred. I guess he hit a rough patch in his career, and he thought if he hit his head harder and harder it would make his jokes funnier. It didn’t. But he meant a lot to a lot of people. He was like a rock-and-roll star for my daughter, she just jumped around the whole time he was on with Johnny Carson. I didn’t care much one way or another but I guess I liked the part where he hit himself. I didn’t have the heart to tell my daughter that he’d come in for rehab years later. It was a sorry sight. It’s not how I would have wanted to spend my life, you know, hitting myself with wood, but then you know, I don’t think comedy is funny. And as I said, he was out of there after about three days. We tried to talk him out of leaving, but he just sat there quietly. I could see it in his eyes. He couldn’t live without it and you know what, I don’t think he wanted to. I think he left the rehab center and went right to a hardware store. It had to be Particle Board, the cheap stuff. He was down to nickels and dimes at that point. Must have told them he was building a tree house. No one knew he was digging his grave.
SLY JONES: “A Side Splitter.” That was the headline in the New York Post. It is still unknown how Harold bought the saw, some people think the FBI gave it to him because they just wanted him to die so they could stop following him. It remains unclear if he was aiming to saw the wood in half or himself, regardless, it didn’t end up being the wood. And the man who had worked so hard at keeping the world from seeing his insides finally showed us everything. Conspiracy theories abound. Some claim that vital organs were
missing and that Real Harold Cretts took some of Fake Dead Harold Cretts and went to Vancouver and worked as a librarian. But that just doesn’t make any fucking sense. Some say that Harold Cretts was a Jewish leprechaun—in Yiddish lore, a tekl-mentch. They say he is now living inside a tree in California and he will come back out in fifty-five years when someone bakes a magic Jewish cookie, called the cookie-le. One Michigan teenager claims that he is the reborn Harold Cretts.
(JAY FEDDO enters.)
And this teenager is obviously a jerk.
JAY: I just think he’s really funny.
SLY JONES: I hate you.
(JAY opens a Diet Coke and drinks it.)
Harold Cretts meant many things to many people. Some of those people were fat. Some of those fat people were nice. Some were once tiny Gay boys. Like me.