She asked me, “What do you do with your day?”
She didn’t ask me how was or how is your day. Or what I did the day before. She asked me what did I do with my day. That was the nice thing.
[Pause. The GIRLS begin drifting into the stage area. They have small heads and large dresses, which they occasionally twirl. They resemble flowers. They move quietly around the stage in a kind of slow-motion dance during the following speech.]
So what do I do with my day? I had to think about it. School takes a large bite out of my week, of course. I sit in classes for hours, mostly aware of how hot and itchy my face is under the mask. I get terrible rashes, and sometimes I’m afraid things are getting worse under there, in the damp and heat, in the dark where no one but I can see. The itching feels like skin disintegrating, my face slowly dissolving so that someday there won’t be a face at all, and I will have nothing left to support my mask and then where will I be?
Sometimes I am aware that the other children stare at me during class. Most are so used to my presence and the five different masks I wear to school that they pay little attention to me, but there are always a few who wait for the tiniest slip of the mask, like voyeurs waiting for the smallest revelation of flesh.
Occasionally I am aware of the subjects the teacher discusses, and try to remember them generally so that I can read up on them when I am at home in my room alone.
After school I walk the long way home and look for animals I have never seen before. Sometimes I find one, but most of the time not.
And of course I work on new masks every day. If I could, I would have a different one for each day of the year. I feel lucky that I have as many as I do.
I make up lists of things I would do if I only had the courage. Such as give each of my classmates their own mask and encourage them to wear them for a day.
I don’t always wear a mask in my own room. In my own room the room becomes a mask and I am the small face that lives and plays inside.
When I leave my room—for dinner, for play, for my chores—I wear a plain white mask with large eyeholes. That mask has no expression. My parents could stare at it all day long without knowing what I am thinking.
[THE MASK CHILD stands up, wearing the white mask with the large eyeholes. He is quite tall now, rock-star thin and angular. The GIRLS slowly gather around him, swaying back and forth.]
GIRLS (chorus): See him? You cannot really see him. But I bet he’s so. You know he has to be so. You know he must be so.
THE MASK CHILD: Real boy. You know I’m just a. Real boy. Just like all the. Others. This is the game, this is the play, this is the life.
GIRLS: Real boy! You know he’s such a real. Boy. Not like all these. Others. This is the game, this is the play, this is the life.
[THE MASK CHILD has raised himself to his full height. He towers over the GIRLS, and looks threatening, colored stage lights reflecting off his white mask: bright reds, blues. His clothing billows, wraps itself around the GIRLS, and turns red.]
THE MASK CHILD (louder): Real boy! Now you tell me that I’m a. Real boy! Where were you when I. Needed you. Needed someone to. Talk to. Where were you! Don’t you know that this is no game. Don’t you know that this is no life. This is the. Darkness. This is the. Nightmare. This is the dream, this is the terror, this is the death that hides under the mask.
[The GIRLS disappear completely under THE MASK CHILD’s voluminous red clothing. Fade out. After a pause, fade in the NARRATOR.]
NARRATOR: Details are sketchy, as they so often are with the embarrassing things that happen in a life. Certainly the parents were embarrassed—we have no record of what THE MASK CHILD felt about this event. None of the girls was seriously injured, but the boy’s parents were told their son could no longer attend the school.
They tried other schools, but word of such behavior has a tendency to spread. Not content to leave him to his own, troublesome, imaginings, they hired a tutor for their child.
This was perhaps the most successful relationship in THE MASK CHILD’s life, lasting into his twenties, until the tutor’s death.
[Lights up on the TUTOR and THE MASK CHILD in an academic setting.]
TUTOR: What are the numbers, child? What do they add up to, child? No matter the face you show, your numbers are lovely. Your numbers are always beautiful. What are the sums they show? Tell me, child. All you have to do is say. Them. All you have to do is close. Your eyes. And say the lovely numbers. You see with your eyes closed. All the pretty numbers.
THE MASK CHILD (growing throughout the following, and wearing a succession of progressively more mature masks): But what good are the. Numbers? I cannot even begin. To count the laughter. I cannot number. All their stares.
[He stands up and begins following the TUTOR around the stage. It seems a bit threatening, but we can’t be sure.]
TUTOR: Just listen and try. The counting. Just begin with one and two and go on until they calm. You. There is nothing wrong. With numbers. They are not here. To harm you. Just count all their lovely. Permutations. Let them add you away. From sadness. Just try to count all the lovely numbers. I promise you’ll be glad if you just try.
THE MASK CHILD (begins speaking counter to and underneath the TUTOR’s speech, eventually drowning out the TUTOR and shutting him up): I cannot count the times they stared. I cannot subtract all their. Shouting. These numbers do me. No good. This mathematics just creates more. Pain. Could you stop it with all these. Numbers? Could you calculate somewhere else? I get so tired of all your. Excuses. You cannot understand their. Calculations. You cannot figure all my pain!
TUTOR: Child, you are not the first to stumble in his calculations. You are not the first who has felt this. Pain. Calm down and look at your. Numbers. Please count them. Slowly. It is all we have to keep ourselves. Sane.
THE MASK CHILD (swaying, dancing as the TUTOR fades away): So it’s one and three, and four who loves seven and more. My ten and my twenty have been lost in all the subtractions that count themselves lucky to be out the door. So please leave all your digits at home. My heart is no longer good at figuring. My poor brain can no longer do the math. What you see is all subtracted. What you see is in a negative state. Just leave me with my solitary. Number. Just leave me with my one.
[THE MASK CHILD settles onto a bench in the middle of the stage, his head down. The lights change to day, to night, to day again. The BOYS and GIRLS appear on stage, all wearing masks. They form one CHORUS, their speech alternating and overlapping with that of THE MASK CHILD. You have a lot of flexibility as to how many times to repeat the speeches until the next one begins. The idea is to create waves of conversation, song, sound. Find the mix that sounds the best.]
THE MASK CHILD (Toward the end of this speech the CHORUS’ first speech begins. Again, throughout this scene overlap these speeches until it seems appropriate to begin the next one): Real boy. I go to sleep and I’m. A real boy. With dreams just like all the. Others. Playing games just as if I. Belong there. Singing songs just as if I can. Feel them.
CHORUS: Time to work now. No time for all these games. When we were children we played games. Now we have jobs and all these duties. And no time for all these games.
THE MASK CHILD: What is this? Why do all of you wear masks? I can see you in your masks. Are you mocking me? Is that why all of you wear your masks? I look at you and I see so many masks.
CHORUS: We have jobs now! There is no time to be so. Foolish. There is no time to be so. Different. You should be so. Happy! That now we all are wearing masks. We’re your brothers and sisters in our masks!
THE MASK CHILD: That’s not at all what I ever. Wanted! The mask was just what I. Needed. And not what I ever wanted. You all look so foolish in your masks. Now the whole world’s wearing masks.
CHORUS: Isn’t it time you finally. Grew up? Isn’t it time we all were. Grown up? It’s so much easier wearing masks. We all look better wearing masks.
THE MASK CHILD (lying down on the bench, growing sleepy. The
CHORUS begins to fade into the shadows): It’s nothing I ever. Wanted. I just needed someone. To talk to. Now the whole world’s wearing masks. I can’t see their hearts for all these masks.
CHORUS (softly, in the shadows): Can’t you see we’re wearing masks? Growing up demands a mask.
[The NARRATOR drifts quietly on stage as the chorus departs.]
NARRATOR: As I said before, we have evolved. We are a better race now. Grown-up, civilized folk are so much more accepting than they used to be. We have learned to value the person behind the mask, far more than the mask itself.
Did I tell you we have learned? Oh, certainly, certainly we have. Life would be almost intolerable if we hadn’t.
THE MASK CHILD disappeared some time after the TUTOR’s death. Some say he passed away from exposure. Others say he simply blended in with every other mask. They say his parents went looking for him. They say his parents never found him.
[Fade out the NARRATOR. The PARENTS come back on stage. They find THE MASK CHILD sleeping on the bench.]
PARENTS: Just look at him! Didn’t we say he would not understand? Just a boy, he cannot understand. How could he know how people are? How could he know what must be done?
[They go to THE MASK CHILD and begin tampering with his mask.]
He always wanted to be. A real boy. How could he know what must be done?
[They remove the mask and toss it away. There is no head underneath it.]
In the night, when no one is listening, where no one can hear.
[They begin removing his clothing/drape. Again there is nothing underneath.]
PARENTS: In the night, dear child, in the night. We always wanted. A real boy.
[They toss the drape completely aside. There is no MASK CHILD. Fade to black.]
SHUFFLE
A Fiction in 54 Cards
Read The Rules of the Game. You don’t have to follow them, but you should at least know what they are. And everybody should learn How to Play.
The Rules of the Game
1) Lives are understood to be finite, but we’re always surprised when they end. Stories are discrete and self-contained and we look forward to the appropriate finale. Pick ten cards. Or pick twelve. This is your story. Accept the order of your deal or determine for yourself what comes first, what comes last, in this narrative of John.
2) We seek balance in our lives. Sometimes we achieve it, sometimes not. But at least in our fiction we can tamper with the scales. Pick three cards from each of the four suits to tell John’s tale.
3) Or perhaps you don’t want the responsibility of the story; you want to surrender to the lack of control you know you don’t have any way. So for you we’ve numbered the cards, 1-54, to make it easier for you to reach some kind of order. We’ve tried to oblige you, tried to find some arrangement that at least makes some sense to us. Pure illusion, of course, for out of the collection and recollection of moments we’ve learned that you can conclude anything about a life. But, still, we’re willing to humor you this conceit of a beginning, a middle, and an end.
4) You will notice that each card bears a different design, as if assembled from dozens of different decks. This is because uniformity is some comforting illusion, and not a natural order at all. We’ve provided numbers and names for suits, but honor if you will the differences in each moment. It will make your game last.
The Cards
1. philosophies
A strange thing, John thought, that we appear to live our lives in a line, moment by moment, and yet our memory of its significance is all a shuffle, key moments taken from here and there, and not necessarily chronologically. Hard to say what card might find its way to the top—it might well be a matter of chance or temporary circumstance. Only a few people seemed to have the ability to order the deck the way they wanted. You could not change the actual cards themselves, the specific events; but to change how you felt about them? Perhaps all that was required was another shuffle, a new deal.
2. dreams
Before John’s uncle lost his life, he lost the names of things. His car became a comb, his bed a guitar. “I have to get into my guitar now,” he would say. “I am suddenly very tired.” The next morning he might tell anyone who would listen, “I had an interesting sing last night. Many windows happened. Where is my flowerbed? I miss it so much!” And then he would cry. His children were upset when he lost their names and referred to them as cups and spoons and rabbits. His daughter wanted to know if her father still loved her if he did not know her name. John worried the same would happen to him. Perhaps that was why John told her, “He tells me he loves you all the time, it’s just that as he nears the end of his life everything reminds him of you.”
3. behaviors
It had become terribly important to John that he track down every lover and friend from his past. It was not simply a matter of tying up loose ends, but of establishing those ends in the first place. “Do you remember who I am?” he might begin a conversation, and wait anxiously for the answer. The comings and goings of people through one another’s lives, possibilities taken and opportunities denied—these were the things that obsessed him. If memory could not be verified and anchored, how could he be sure he’d lived the life he’d thought he had?
4. philosophies
John read that one theory of the brain was that a single memory might be stored in multiple parts, much like a hologram. So parts of a brain could be reshuffled without destroying the integrity of that memory. Every card in the deck might vary slightly from every other card, while still containing the essentials of every other card. The variations might be extremely slight—differences in lighting, tone, or mood, but essential for all that. All together, the deck represented all the complex feelings and attitudes attached to a particular memory. But if you somehow managed to draw one card at a time, you could feel positive or hopeful or angry or depressed about a particular memory. Perhaps good mental health was simply knowing how to draw and play the best card.
5. events
When John was eleven years old, a far less auspicious age than ten, he was beaten up almost daily by a slightly older boy named Frankie Williams. It was the last great encounter of his life with personal violence, and although his exasperated mother called it “fighting,” there was no fight to it. It was a beating, pure and simple, ending only when sufficient blood had greased Frankie’s fist.
It was the blood that Frankie wanted to see, the only potion capable of releasing him from the violence he endured at home, and John unaccountably realized this almost immediately, and so allowed this to happen, even looked forward to it, because it was the strongest, most fantastic thing he could imagine, becoming, in fact, the most imaginative thing he was ever to do with his physical self.
6. events
Adolescence was pain, the first hint that disappointment lay beyond the brilliant fields of childhood. When he reached his teen years John developed an odd walk. The doctors didn’t know why—they suspected it was “emotional.” All he knew was that suddenly his body did not care for gravity, and the surfaces of the world seemed to demand some gait or stance other than his own. Even the furniture went wrong—beds and chairs seemed made for different spines. It was such a disappointment. He had come so close to normalcy only to see it slip away.
He eventually recovered from this condition, developing a kind of amnesia, the knowledge of his ailment briefly recovered here and there when the world went bad.
7. dreams
When he was twenty years old John stopped dating for more than three years. The precipitant was the last in a string of breakups, this with a young woman who said she could not stand that he could not tell her exactly why he loved her so much. “I just do,” he said. After the breakup he was driving his car down a darkened lane, glanced away for a second, then back again, to see the rear end of a truck suddenly filling his windshield. He jerked the wheel to the left, narrowly avoiding a terrible and no-doubt fatal collision. But part of him had continued straight on throu
gh the truck and out the other side. It was a mental accident, a psychic crash, and he felt sure it would happen again and again the rest of his life.
8. philosophies
Odd how in any life one event might come to the top and color and transform all others: an unexpected death, a windfall, a chance meeting, an injury, a song sung with a particular kind of feeling. Accident and happenstance, but once it occurred you could never look at the total accumulation of your life in exactly the same way again.
9. events
After a night of bar hopping and late-night driving through anonymous housing developments, John parked on a side street to walk and puke and clear his head. After an hour of this he discovered he could not find his car. He wandered the dark streets searching, but after a time he became more fascinated by the subtle differences among the houses in the development, how each family created its individual look. A different porch light fixture, a differently colored door, lawn furniture in front of one, bright curtains in a window. “We’re all the same here, but different,” they seemed to declare. He never found his car, opting to take the bus home instead. He never returned to retrieve it.
Onion Songs Page 22