Keepsakes - Two researchers publishing a book about the Borden sisters, find themselves caught in a web of lies that reaches across time, while the aged Lizzie and Emma reunite in a struggle for sanity.
Rare Times Altogether - LettingGos of James Joyce and Daughter Lucia - (Co-authored with Ted Enik). Forced to abandon Lucia in a sanitarium, the enigmatic author comes to terms with his brilliant daughter's schizophrenia. FIRST PRIZE WINNER: Dallas's Playwrightts Theatre Inc., Plays for the 21st Century Competition 2003.
Life in the Age of Want - Novel. A comic odyssey of a man's search for love and peace of mind.
To Sleep She Alice Toklas Goes - (Co-authored with Ted Enik) One woman play. Asleep on the night before her eviction, 87 year-old Alice Toklas finds herself in a recurring dream, examining her life. FINALIST: San Francisco Playwrights Center, DramaRama Competition 2002.
Snoweating - Short Story. Against the backdrop of a severe New York City blizzard, a young woman unearth's one of her earliest memories, leading to the discovery of her latent strength.
Foxcodd - (Co-authored with Ted Enik). Farce. Magical Realism frustrates a candymaker's plans to break free of his stifling seaside community.
The Way-Good Neighborhood - Animated pilot for series. (Co-authored with Ted Enik). Comedy/fantasy. An urban Raggedy Ann and Andy for the 21st century.
The Hidden Alphabet - Novel. (In progress) Junior Senator, Morris Hunter of New Hampshire tries to keep his spotless political record from the biggest smudge of all when, under a pseudonym, he writes the most controversial children's book in history.
Copyright© 2000 Kip Rosser. Keepsakes. All rights reserved. No part of this manuscript may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission. |
CHARACTERS: Keepsakes is written to be performed by two women. Each woman portrays two different characters, one in each time period, paired as follows: Evangeline - Late '60's, the present Emma - Age 74, 1925 Bethany - Mid '60's. the present Lizzie - Age 65, 1925 IN THE PRESENT: Evangeline is vibrant, energetic and often viciously witty. An erudite New York City dweller, cosmopolitan in every sense. An irresistible whirlwind and a superb writer. Bethany is a studious and brilliant researcher, gentle and private. Active and pleasantly outgoing. Allows herself to be ruled by the natural rhythms of sunrise and sunset. IN 1925: Emma A woman in self-imposed exile. She lives in fear of the rapidly changing world, staying in her New Hampshire home, free of all reminders of her past. Still, inside her is the mind of a gifted strategist. Lizzie A woman whose courage and convictions will forever give the impression she is spoiled and pushy. Yet, it is her longings, dreams and worldly self-image that give her undeniable charm and poise. SETTING Locations shift back and forth seamlessly between the study in a rural Pennsylvania farmhouse IN THE PRESENT , and the parlor in a second floor apartment of a house in Newmarket, New Hampshire IN 1925. |
KEEPSAKES SYNOPSIS ACT ONE - IN THE PRESENT: BETHANY is barely able to tear herself away from taking notes in a Bible to answer her own doorbell. Her visitor is EVANGELINE - Bethany's closest friend and collaborator for over thirty years. Amid whistling teapots, phones calls and small talk, we learn that their latest book, an exposé about the lives of Lizzie and Emma Borden, is slated to be a bestseller. BETHANY unveils her latest surprise in the research: a recently unearthed journal written by Emma Borden. Their work is interrupted by a phone call from Bethany's latest lover. Soon, the two women come to realize that over the years their relationship has come to the point where they rarely discuss their private lives. Evangeline finishes Emma's journal entry and is anything but happy. Something is very wrong and Bethany has known it from the beginning. The journal entry contains a few short sentences that completely undermine the premise on which their upcoming bestseller is based. When Bethany tries to trivialize the seriousness of the situation, Evangeline erupts, unable to fathom her lifelong partner's motives. But Bethany has had the upper hand from the very beginning and she has one more surprise up her sleeve. IN 1925: EMMA is in deep meditation, reading her Bible. Her reverie is shattered when she answers her door to find her younger sister, LIZZIE. It has been thirty-three years since the infamous hatchet murders of their father and stepmother captivated the nation, and today is the first contact the sisters have had in twenty-one years. Lizzie hopes to gain forgiveness from Emma - the only other person that knows the truth. In the rudest of awakenings, Lizzie finds that Emma herself has no idea what Lizzie is talking about., leaving her to cope with a sister on the brink of a violent breakdown. Lizzie forces Emma to face a true account of the murders, sure that Emma always knows the truth and has in her possession physical proof, "keepsakes" of her part in the murders: a pair of ivory combs. Emma, terrified and destroyed, runs from the room. Lizzie unexpectedly happens upon Emma's journal. Unseen by Lizzie, Emma re-enters the parlor. Cradled in her arms is a large hatchet. ACT TWO- IN 1925: For the first time, we see Emma with the upper hand - and a completely changed person. Emma admits that she fully intends to kill Lizzie. Emma believes that she had a visitation years before and has made a lifelong covenant; the Holy Virgin has expunged all memory of the murders in exchange for total devotion. Desperate, appalled, Lizzie begs Emma to persuade the Virgin Mary to enter into another covenant . Emma lays out the cold-hearted terms. Lizzie struggles to follow Emma's council. They begin writing a new entry in Emma's journal, fashioned out of intricate lies and ingenious deceptions, telling the story of their reunion. Gleeful as schoolgirls, they marvel at how wonderful it would be when, someday, someone might unearth the journal, never dreaming that the lies they are writing will reach out from the past and destroy the bond between two friends more than seventy years later. IN THE PRESENT: Bethany steals into the room, advancing on her partner with a large, rusted hatchet, scaring Evangeline half to death. Ever the detective, Bethany is masterful at downplaying the journal and diverting attention to the hatchet. Evangeline suspects Bethany's true purpose: to suppress the journal. Bethany finally admits to lying thirty years before; she suppressed vital information that would have destroyed the premise for their first book. She thought that if she could persuade Evangeline to go along with her, guaranteeing their bestseller, that she could live with her past lie. Evangeline denounces Bethany's behavior and motives, terribly hurt that the trust she thought they'd always shared is now destroyed. Bethany unexpectedly fights back, exposing Evangeline's outrage as hypocrisy. In a knock-down drag-out argument, Evangeline is forced to admit to a life empty of all real passion and purpose with the exception of her lifelong partnership and work with Bethany. Now that it's been taken from her, Evangeline departs for good. A pleading Bethany is left alone to live with herself and contemplate the ruins of their relationship. |
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KEEPSAKES - EXCERPT EVANGELINE I know all that, I mean, how did we let it happen? We used to be as close as lovers, in a way? Jesus, let's get your stove going, get the salt and the butter so we can pop all this corn coming out of me. BETHANY You're not being corny at all. It's- I feel the same way. So- why don't we- no, oh god I just had a thought? why not- no, it's too... EVANGELINE She speaks and says nothing. Let it out, woman. BETHANY It's just wild ... oh, it would be something! Okay, okay: why don't you move out here and live with me? EVANGELINE Are you?? Wow, some day for surprises. You're serious? BETHANY (brightening.) Well? yeah! I -- EVANGELINE It's -- how long have you been cooking this up? BETHANY Since just now! Popped right into my head... wanna? (A pause as they look at one another in excited anticipation... both burst into excited girlish laughter.) EVANGELINE That would be phenomenal, pow, do it out of the blue! BETHANY What's stopping us? We could, we could, it would work -- EVANGELINE Impossible -- I mean I couldn't just -- BETHANY You could so just! EVANGELINE Yes, but it's not what you're used to, I wouldn't want to crowd you -- BETHANY Crowd?! In a house this huge even the dust gets tired traveling from one end to the other. EVANGELINE And privacy's got to be an issue, you know, living with someone else can be -- BETHANY We can live at opposite ends of the house, okay? And we phone each other. EVANGELINE And we, what, share the kitchen? BETHANY And we share the kitchen. Come on. You've can have the two guest rooms and the sewing room to set up any way you'd like. Master guest room's got a full bath, with a half bath down the hall. This house has been paid off for ten years. We could split the property taxes and electric and -- how much are you paying in rent right now? EVANGELINE Twelve hundred thirty-eight a month, plus utilities. Not bad. BETHANY Taxes here are about seven thousand. Electric, three hundred or so a month. Do the math on your place -- twelve hundred plus per month? That's up around fifteen thousand a year. Compare it with about ten thousand for this place, split two ways. We're both ahead! EVANGLINE I'd miss the city. BETHANY A quick hour and a half by train, bus or car, with me as your guaranteed companion to take in the town with. EVANGELINE Hold on, though. It's not the money, we both know that. If this were to happen... is it right for us? (Tense pause. A look of wild anticipation siezes them both, building until they burst out with a girlish scream and hug.) BETHANY Well? EVANGELINE I am most definitely in the process of being swayed. Wait. How about? Agh! I can't believe this? I feel like we should both be sure. How about we give it the weekend? Let's face it, the real question is: Can we stand one another, and for how long? BETHANY (mock business-like.) True, I've never liked you a bit. Fine, fair enough, we give it the weekend. So? let's start working. EVANGELINE No, come on, you see, see that? Already, you see how different we are? Ruled by diametrically opposed impulses. I'm relaxed about work and frantic about life, you're mellow as hell about life and a confirmed workaholic. Let's keep sharing like we were before! BETHANY Sure, why not? It was your turn to share. EVANGELINE Fab-yoo-lous! Ask away. BETHANY How many men have you been with? EVANGELINE We can't start by swapping recipes or something? You have to go for the brass ring? BETHANY I seem to recall you choosing the topic. EVANGELINE Touché. Once Brandan died, it took about three years to, I guess I'd call it, "compartmentalize" my whole married life with him. Arrange it all nicely in my head -- little cherry on top -- and set it aside. But in the last eighteen years, there have been only three or four. The last one, seven years ago. BETHANY You haven't made love with a man in seven years? EVANGELINE Pitiful, isn't it? In my more romantic moments I can blame it on Anthony. He was the last one. Twenty years younger than I. BETHANY Ohh, a cradle robber! EVANGELINE Just magnificent. Even when it ended, it ended magnificently. And I can make it his fault because he left me hungry. BETHANY For what? EVANGELINE The younger ones. I know, I am evil. Pure evil. But, I'm not ashamed. Fifteen, twenty, twenty- five years younger. No one but Anthony reflected my... my... inner life, the youth I still feel inside. BETHANY There are still plenty of men our own age. EVANGELINE Oh, please. Don't you find men our own age tiresome? I've yet to meet one who's not either hopelessly married to his past exploits, or mistaking his uneventful, sedentary existence for inner peace. Even the energetic old farts -- jogging and eating plenty of fiber -- their incessant good spirits make me feel as if I'm trapped on a stage with a game show host trying to win a new dishwasher. BETHANY Then, what are you hoping for? EVANGELINE Warmth, fascination. I'd like to feel I inspire a little awe again, you know? And he'd be a friend so close that nothing is held back. BETHANY Not to mention an industrial strength wildman in the old four-poster. EVANGELINE (passionate good nature) Yes, please, God! Once more before I die! BETHANY Calm down. If you're a good girl and finish your work, I'll have Paul come over for brunch on Sunday with another friend. There's David, he owns and operates a lovely little bed and breakfast just outside Pennsylvania Dutch country. EVANGELINE Quaint. BETHANY I think he's the nicest man I know. A saint. EVANGELINE And I like my saints quaint. BETHANY Oh, stop. Or there's Thomas; a local artist, very fine painter. Impressionist, mostly, from life. He does a lot of the Amish. David and Thomas. Those are your choices. EVANGELINE Ooh, will Evangeline's first torrid affair in seven years involve the saint or the painter? (BETHANY collects the service, the tin, shopping bag.) BETHANY Enough, enough. This can all be discussed later. For now, read. I'll take the phone off the hook and repair to the kitchen. I've had my fill of coffee and sin. You? EVANGELINE Please, take 'em away. Maybe just a bit more coffee. (EVANGELINE helps herself to coffee, then dives into the journal. BETHANY puts down the service and sits, studying EVANGELINE's reaction. After less than a page, EVANGELINE stops, curious about the material. She skips a few pages ahead to see what's written there, skims, then flips ahead a few dozen pages and reads for only a few seconds before becoming utterly bewildered.) BETHANY ... Well? What's your impression? EVANGELINE This is what you bumped a press-run for? A journal full of nothing but recipes and Biblical quotes? BETHANY (baiting.) Seems that way, doesn't it? But how well do you know your Bible? EVANGELINE I read toothpaste tubes more often. God, you love baiting me. You wouldn't be this excited unless you'd done some preliminaries. Give. (BETHANY retrieves the notes she was taking earlier.) BETHANY Good, you're interested. Because we'll have to interest everyone else enough to justify the delay in publication. I've barely had the chance to look the Bible quotes up yet. They'll have to be cross-referenced with their originals. The first one I checked is on page seventeen, just chose it at random. EVANGELINE Wait, I'm counting... seventeen single pages, or seventeen including each side? BETHANY Single pages. Here: Jesus is warning the Virgin Mary not to boss him around now that he's Savior. "For whosoever shall do the will of my Father which is in Heaven --" EVANGELINE "--in Heaven," right... "whosoever shall do the will of my Mother which is in Heaven, she is my sister, brother and father." BETHANY The quote is from Matthew, 12:50, and its correct reading is "for whosoever shall do the will of my father which is in Heaven, he is my brother, sister and mother." Emma has switched all the pronouns. The journal is full of things like this. EVANGELINE Though it may just mean she was a nutcase with nothing but nutcase method in her madness. BETHANY True enough. But -- (BETHANY takes the journal from EVANGELINE and searches for a section, with obvious pleasure.) -- there's no real need to wonder if we're on to something. Emma... lousy journal keeper, skipping date listings... I got so frustrated with the recipes and psycho-sermons, I finally went through very slowly page by page -- there. Are you ready for this? EVANGELINE (too sensible.) No. Can we drag it out a little longer? BETHANY Look. Out of nowhere, all the recipes and Bible quotes stop and for not one, not two, but twenty pages, she writes a real entry. April 9, 1925. EVANGELINE (skimming.) Christ, almighty! Lizzie came to visit Emma? BETHANY We are talking a meeting twenty-one years after Emma stopped living with Lizzie in 1904! EVANGELINE Lizzie would have been sixty five; Emma, seventy four. BETHANY So... worth postponing a press run for? EVANGELINE You have to ask? BETHANY Want anything else before you start? EVANGELINE Not a thing. BETHANY Then get on with it! You are holding a journal by written the sister of Lizzie Borden! (BETHANY exits with the coffee service. EVANGELINE opens the journal, takes a final sip of coffee and puts the cup down on an end table OUT OF VIEW. She drops her arms and the journal to her side OUT OF VIEW, hidden by the arm of the chair. Deep in thought, she rests her head back?) IN 1925: (EMMA is sitting in her easy chair, lost in thought. Her lips move slightly, silently mouthing words. A beat, then, she gently emerges from her reverie. Her unseen hands stir and come into view holding a black Bible with a gold cross embossed on the cover. EMMA marks her place with a gold ribbon. From her sweater pocket, she takes something and puts it in her mouth. THE DOORBELL RINGS, OFFSTAGE. It is not the two-tone chime in BETHANY's house, but a brash, ugly buzz. The sound violently startles EMMA. She sits perfectly still, in abject terror. EMMA forces herself to walk to the window, peeking from one side of the open curtain. Something out on the street confuses her. She goes out in the hallway, vanishes for a second, then reappears holding a tall, black phone, circa 1925. She clicks the hook several times.) EMMA (on phone.) Give me 2321, please? Hello? Hello, Annie? Annie, listen, someone is here. It is not the grocery boy's day to come, no one has ever come to this house for me, who is it? What do you mean? There is a strange car parked outside by the walk. I am sorry you are all soap and wet, but someone has let himself in and is coming up the stairs! This is your house and you should? no, no, oh, I am sorry, Annie, do not be angry with me, no please, I do not want you to be mad, I -- (EMMA hangs up the phone, almost in tears. A FIRM KNOCK ON THE DOOR, OFFSTAGE. EMMA composes herself and slowly disappears down the hall and out of sight to answer the door, offstage:) EMMA (offstage.) Who is it? (No response.) Who is it, please? (No response.) Well, just one minute.. (We hear a door unlocked and opened. EMMA gasps and reappears, framed in the archway, backing away. Her sister, LIZZIE, approaches. She is dressed in an elegant overcoat and hat. LIZZIE gazes at EMMA with pleasure and compassion. EMMA is overcome.) EMMA Lizzie, Lizzie, my heavenly days, my God... (The two women stand facing one another, unable to speak.) LIZZIE May I come in? Please? EMMA What am I thinking, my apologies. Come. let me get your coat and hat. (EMMA helps LIZZIE off with her coat.) EMMA I will just hang these up. Only be a moment. Will you sit? (EMMA exits. LIZZIE steps further into the room.) LIZZIE I think not. I've been sitting a long while in the auto. It feels good to stand. (EMMA enters.) EMMA You own an automobile? Well, of course you do. The latest thing, I suppose, certainly you would purchase one. LIZZIE My, yes. No comparison with a horse. EMMA I would not know, I -- LIZZIE You've never ridden in a car? Dear, you'd love it. You ought to buy one for yourself. I made this trip in four hours, compared to two full days by carriage. EMMA You drove yourself? LIZZIE Not at all. I hired a local boy to motor me up. He'll take me back home later on. (Awkward pause.) EMMA Lizzie, I do not know what I can say. I was convinced we would never see one another again. LIZZIE I couldn't let that happen. Not when all was said and done -- not to see you again. (LIZZIE holds out her hand. EMMA accepts it.) EMMA You are wearing father's ring. LIZZIE Always. EMMA So many years. I have always wished that I had something of his, too. LIZZIE Then, take it... here. I gave this to father on -- EMMA -- the day you graduated high school. I never knew him to take it off. LIZZIE (laughs long and low.) He never did. EMMA (laughing a little in spite of herself.) Oh, I know! You were terrible, pulling it off the corpse. LIZZIE Well, it had been mine first, anyway. I gave it to him out of love and respect and trust. When that trust was broken -- EMMA Here, please, I could not accept it, really. LIZZIE You have to. You're the only person I can trust. After twenty-odd years, we can't be apart anymore. EMMA Heavenly days, I am happy, I cannot go back to live in Fall River, not ever. And you know you could never be happy here. LIZZIE That's not what I mean -- living together. EMMA You said we cannot be apart. LIZZIE In here... LIZZIE places her hand on her heart. ... apart in here. You'll take the ring? (EMMA looks at the ring, then puts it on.) Thank you. Thank you, Emma. Now, I need something from my coat. Is it in the big closet by the phone table? EMMA I will show you where -- LIZZIE You'll do no such thing. It's a surprise. (LIZZIE exits.) EMMA A surprise? (EMMA takes something from her sweater pocket and puts it in her mouth. Feeling awkward, she sits in the easy chair. LIZZIE enters with a small object wrapped in tissue and hands it to EMMA.) LIZZIE Now, I couldn't very well appear on your doorstep unannounced after years of silence without a peace offering. EMMA Honestly -- (EMMA tears away the tissue, revealing a very small box. She opens it and removes a tiny gold charm.) My heavenly days. A tiny Bible. It is perfectly exquisite. LIZZIE I hoped you'd like it. If memory serves, there was a charm bracelet you had long ago. The daintiest thing. You might add this. EMMA That very bracelet is in a small keepsake box in my bedroom. Though, the clasp is broken off. LIZZIE Oh, no. EMMA Well... now I have all the more reason to get the bracelet fixed. But Lizzie, this is too much, I cannot take such a -- LIZZIE You certainly can. So many occasions, the holidays, your birthdays, and not a word between us. I'm so sorry we missed everything... what is it?... you look -- EMMA It... it is just that... well, you -- LIZZIE (a realization.) You don't trust this. I see it. EMMA I cannot tell if you are telling the truth. LIZZIE I'm not. EMMA How do I know if anything you are saying to me is-- LIZZIE You don't. EMMA This is not real, it does not seem real! I prayed for the day I would see you and all our misunderstandings would dissolve in the light of love. Now that you are here, I have no idea where to start or what you want. LIZZIE You can start by smiling. Then laugh like you laughed a minute ago. EMMA When? At what? LIZZIE You laughed as you recalled how I took my ring back. EMMA Did I? Then, I am sorry. It was disrespectful. Forgive me, Father. LIZZIE Father?! Father was on the dinner table! The whole show was laughable. Mr. and Mrs. Borden autopsied in their own dining room. That perverse maniac, Dr. Nolan, taking out their stomachs and tying them up like balloons. He might as well have been fixing a sink. The police, the doctors, tripping all over themselves. EMMA (distant.) And where was I? LIZZIE That's exactly how I felt! "Where am I?" Waves of people traipsing in and out of our home, examining every speck of dust, saving everything but the air, suffocating us in chaos -- Father and Abby's clothing balled up by the cellar washroom, their gutted remains on the table, the unearthly mess everywhere on the hottest day of the year... and the undertaker never comes! (She laughs, as if recalling a wonderfully funny joke.) By evening time, taking Father's ring back seemed like... I don't know... EMMA (admiring the ring on her finger.) The perfect ending to a perfect day? (LIZZIE and EMMA both laugh until it hurts.) EMMA Oh... oh... I cannot remember the last time I laughed like that. LIZZIE I told you. We laughed then and we can laugh now. (EMMA takes something from her sweater pockets and puts it in her mouth.) What is that? EMMA Hmm? LIZZIE You put something in your mouth. EMMA Sugar lump. Why? May I offer you one? back to top |
| Copyright© 2003. Ted Enik and Kip Rosser. Rare Times Altogether - LettinGos of James Joyce and Daughter Lucia. All rights reserved. No part of this manuscript may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission.K |
| CHARACTERS: JAMES JOYCE, age 57 LUCIA JOYCE, age 32 ISETTING The plays maves back and forth between a parlor in Ivry Sanitorium outside Paris, and an unconscious landscape where the minds of James and Lucia meet. It is December, 1939. |
| RARE TIMES ALTOGETHER SYNOPSIS Rare Times Altogether imagines the final meeting between James Joyce and his adult daughter, Lucia. Diagnosed as an incurable schizophrenic, Lucia is secured in Paris's Ivry Sanatorium -- James and his wife Nora prepare to leave Paris for Trieste just before the Nazi occupation. The setting is the parlor of the Sanatorium. As James struggles to say his final goodbye, and while Lucia waits for the right moment to explain a crucial decision she has made, their subconscious minds periodically merge to create a realm of the eternal present referred to as "Where Minds Meet." Here, space and time lose coherence in a "Stream of Consciousness," allowing father and daughter to confront one another without inhibition as they sit, in reality, in the Sanatorium parlor. Part of the play's thesis is that Joyce's experiment with language, his "stream of consciousness" technique, was -- at least in part -- inspired by his daughter's attempts to express herself during schizophrenic episodes. As he takes down more and more of her words in his notebook, the currents of consciousness grow turbulent and Lucia gets her revenge. First, she tortures her father by reading aloud his erotic letters to wife Nora. Daughter then "becomes" Nora, arouses him with smutty words, then -- Lucia restored -- she accuses him of writing incestuous "what if's" into his books where the whole world could speculate about the nature of his love for her. Giving in to the surreal, Lucia puts Joyce on trial, finding him guilty of literary incest. But James trumps her by turning her sentence of castration (taking away his pen) into a romanticized vision of himself as great eunuch-bard. Lucia is left so humiliated and enraged that she tries to strangle him. James has repeatedly denied his daughter's illness, preferring instead to see her as a genius with artistic ability surpassing even his own. He clings to this illusion, even though it is clear that Lucia's mental state is steadily worsening. Lucia is demoralized when James boasts that if he possessed her dynamic genius, he could harness it and make it work for him. The last straw for the girl, she dares James to exchange minds with her, so that he may experience the world as she does. The trade completed, James is ecstatic as all avenues of the sensual world open to him simultaneously. At first Lucia is overjoyed by seeing the world as her father normally does: that everything now has a comparative simplicity and stolid dependability. But soon, Lucia cannot bear the numbing banality of a sane mind, and Joyce finds himself incapable of commanding the torrent of voices, images, and impulses that Lucia's mind ordinarily endures. At the point of a nervous breakdown, Lucia saves her father by giving him the same painful salt-water injections that she suffered years ago. When James "comes to," he is confronted by wife Nora (played by Lucia) who wisely refuses to allow him to disavow Lucia's insanity any longer. After much soul-searching, he agrees to have her committed. Oddly, this is a relief to the girl, diminished from living a flickering life in the shadow of her famous father. |
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RARE TIMES ALTOGETHER - EXCERPT
ACT ONE, Scene Five The Sanatorium (The lights recreate The Sanatorium. James paces, brooding. Lucia, very still, stares blankly.) JAMES I feel the working up to something. The first whiff of fuse smoke. (Lucia does not respond. James approaches her.) Will you tell me what you needed to tell me? Will you? Oh, Lucy please don't wall yourself in. What are you thinking? LUCIA ...Used to dance in the rain so openhearted... dance before the altarstone... sad sacrifice I am... where's my dance trophy, Da? (She retreats into silence. A beat.) JAMES And she the stone sinks away from me, though I know you can listen. Take your time in returning, girl. I'll cling to my sanity like a nest on a cliff's edge. (This moves her. Like an engine gaining speed, Lucia recovers by taking stock of her surroundings.) LUCIA Hard chair. Warm drapes. Window seat. Sit, sit. Don't sit. Clean floor. JAMES The Sanity Rosary. Say your beads, poor child. LUCIA Bookcase. Carpet. Blind man. Cane pencil. Hello, Father. Stop squinting. It wrinkles your face like a rectum. JAMES Hello m'darlin'. When you follow your upset inside, the waiting for you has my stomach wring itself out like a bloodsoaked handtowel. LUCIA I can't bear to add to your suffering, Babbo. But your doctor insists your plumbing is fine. The blood you pass is just the nerves, he says. JAMES (Milking it.) And the tooth extractions done to help me eyes? That pain's gone from crippling to mildly excruciating now. LUCIA Piccolo vecchio. Don't overplay it. (A beat.) JAMES Ah me. So... LUCIA So? JAMES So... will you ever open your heart to me? LUCIA Not quite yet. But I do have a secret to give you. I've done a bit of drawing. JAMES I'm so tickled, Lucia mia. We're all forgiven a stumble or two. But what counts is recovery. It's all in how we stage a recovery. Your Ma'll be delighted you're drawing again. (Lucia gives him a small drawing tablet. Squinting, James holds it close.) LUCIA It's a tracing of my hand. JAMES Yes. Just so. Lovely. LUCIA There you can see how big my hand is. JAMES It's a neatly executed contour sketch, dear. A simple strong hand. LUCIA Disembodied. Notice that the young skin has no wrinkles, no spider veins, no livermarks. JAMES Yes. It's an outline. A fine cartoon. LUCIA Age spots on the back of the hand portend death you know. JAMES That puts us average pissers past the age of forty in a fix, heh-heh. (Serious.) Oh sweetness, I adore this, your hand in mine. My heart is a fist with a "thank you" within. * * * * * * * * * * Scene Six Where Minds Meet (The lights grow weird, unsettling. Christmas Lights percolate faintly. James leads a younger Lucia to a chair and table holding art supplies. Once seated, Lucia lets her Father examine a homemade Christmas Card. A bucket, a ladle and a glass sit under the table.) LUCIA (Extremely anxious.) So, tell me what you think of my Christmas card? I worked in black and white like Aubrey Beardsley to keep the printing price low like you asked. JAMES Well I like that you can't tell what's here right off. Just as it begins to suggest Old Father Christmas, his three sets of teats points you in another direction altogether. On purpose I suppose. LUCIA I could do it for you over again -- touch-a-touch here and there, touch-a-touch -- till you hated it so I could till it's right and I'm right and It's over I'm over and... (James tries to make his distressed daughter sit. Rattling on, she tries to rise, and he seats her again. James puts the bucket, ladle, and glass on the table, then he fills the glass with a greenish liquid. Lucia is caught up short.) (Indicating the bucket.) What, are we moving again? JAMES Now if I tell you what it is you won't drink it. So I beg you not to ask me. LUCIA Smells like pee. JAMES Seems most things do with you. Trust your Babbo that taking a sip of this will help you feel serene. LUCIA Serene. (Dips a finger and tastes.) You expect me to drink seawater? (The lights become glaring, institutional. James becomes Doctor Maillard. Lucia's art supplies are now medical instruments. Doctor Maillard/James prepares a syringe.) DR. MAILLARD/JAMES Given the unpredictability and severity of your episodes Miss Joyce, your Father has given me permission to administer a series of jugular injections containing a highly concentrated seawater distillate. LUCIA You know, Dr. Maillard, you resemble my Father -- the eyes/nose area. Maybe not. What sea? DR.MAILLARD/JAMES Hmmm? LUCIA What sea has been concentrated? DR. MAILLARD/JAMES The Channel, I suppose. LUCIA Then Babbo can walk to London after all. He'll rescue the little fish of me drowning in the air for lack of opportunity. What's that? DR. MAILLARD/JAMES Gum rubber tubing. Bite down. (Lucia does so and Dr. Maillard/James empties the syringe into her neck. Instantly Lucia is racked with severe convulsions. She has to be held down in her chair. The lights grow comforting, familiar. James "comes to" to find himself cradling his limp daughter.) JAMES Oh my poor Lucy, I'm so sorry -- Thought you would benefit -- Never forgive myself -- All reports were so convincing -- Only two dozen treatments -- Injections I know -- Like into my eyes -- Each time home the same day -- Might be some help -- Shock to the system -- Lucia, understand -- Please, I needed you to be home -- I needed you... For my work. (Satisfied that she will sleep peacefully, James backs away from Lucia and melts into the shadows. A beat. Lucia abruptly opens her eyes. She strides to the window and looks out.) LUCIA My mistreatment was a triumph! Thank you, Da. Thank you. Though you will see only the pain of it, some wherewithin there is healing. (James steps forward from the shadows behind her. He is again taking down her words.) For under the tidal moon my womb has captured the uteral sea – the salt and the blood to become transparent flesh. Like a parchment. (Lucia removes a letter from her dress.) Here's another loveletter. I've quite a stack – these sweets of sin. (Reading.) "My Dreamery, Creamery Butter --" (James stashes the notebook and storms to her.) JAMES I'll thrash the mongrel! I'll geld him. Vivisect him, whosoever he is. LUCIA Now, don't be jealous. You'll always be the eye for my little apple. Whew! Feel the heat rising off this page? I've read it around, you know. To friends, colleagues -- yours mostly. JAMES Why do I feel like a duck down the sights? LUCIA Listen to this. (From this point on, their exchanges take on a half playful, half dangerous quality: innocent, silly, and sardonic.) (Reading.) "Ravished over you I lay, full lips full open, kissed your mouth. Yum. Young life, your lips that gave me pouting - JAMES Your doters write those love letters, daughter? LUCIA They have exciting odors, been who knows where. JAMES From one of your lovers, you say? Which one? LUCIA Sam. JAMES Beckett! The termite! LUCIA And he's due here any moment to fall to his knees and propose to me finally. Was that a knock? The doorbell? My heart beats like both. JAMES Beckett won't be here today. Cork this silliness and put on that new frock I could afford you. We're off to the opera. LUCIA Impossible, Babbo. JAMES Let's go. LUCIA We can't. JAMES Why not! Your dalliance with Beckett's been over for ages. LUCIA Unlike you, my Sam doesn't keep a notebook. He can make it up full forehead. (Reading.) "Soft, warm, sticky gumjelly lips - JAMES Wait, now I know those words. The bastard's gone through Nora's papers! Rewrote my lovers' smut as his own to seduce me own daughter. Scutter! It's like feeding a birdbaby predigested scum. LUCIA Yum. There's more. (Reading.) "My Darling, brown JAMES Give it back - LUCIA Even thought of dropping a stack of them off at the Trinity College Archives. JAMES You didn't. LUCIA I haven't... (James tries to grab the letter back. Lucia is too fast.) I love the clever ways you close: "Love, your Questimation Mark. Sweets of Sincerely, Jeems Joke." JAMES Daughter, now stop. LUCIA (Accusatory.) Jakesy Jerms. Babby Tuckoo, Jismy Jim, Stephen the Dead, Crooked Jesus, Wandering Jew, Poldy Bloom - JAMES You're not too old to be struck. LUCIA Henry Flower, Jewman's Melt, Bloomaloom, Vinbad the Quailer and Linbad the Yailer - (James slaps Lucia firmly across the face: more insult than hurt.) LUCIA You slap me I slap Ma! Whose cheek stings whose stink flirts? I can read well between the legs of your lines, you know. It would be easy to hate you for what you've done. JAMES Which "what" have I done? LUCIA Slickery, slavvery, sexual rivalry 'tween me and Bloom and Nora and Molly and Milly and You. I caught you out. I caught you out-the-corner cyclopsing about: the peek-a-bath, the careful handling, the dangling flimsies. Since I saw you saw me into your pieces, I've got the right to demand you spread your chapters and quote your incestuous books! back to top |
| Copyright© 2000 Kip Rosser. Life In The Age of Want. All rights reserved. No part of this manuscript may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission. |
| The lure of yard sales is inexplicable. I find myself happily anxious each morning, perusing the classifieds of the daily paper in hopes of spotting the one household that hawks the most provocative array of treasures. Once this objective has been achieved, it's to that home I travel by car, bus, bike, or on foot. It satiates the traveler in me, appeases the guy who used to bounce restlessly over the globe. Where before it took country after country to provide inspiration, each of these unbridled celebrations of the bargain mystique is a self-enclosed world. Each sale is a shamelessly revealing family history. For the suburban anthropologist and avid student of human nature, a yard sale is an archaeological dig. It is an intimate diary of articles and possessions that documents changing tastes, childhood passage, pleasures, dislikes and mistakes in consumer judgment. "Yardsailors" (the givers of yard sales) are always easy to spot as they guard a money-filled cigar box or wander around, looking wistfully at their departing possessions. They hover over everything, occasionally rearranging an item or two, engaging visitors in conversation as they cheerfully attempt to ascribe value to that which they themselves no longer find valuable. Die-hard attendants (including me) arrive early. Most are only intent on unearthing and snatching up the most desirable find before anyone else has a chance. I, however, come before the advertised time to watch the final touches being put on the presentation and get the full effect before it is diminished. It's only at the opening of such events that the original and fundamentally unconscious artistry of the veteran yardsailor is readily observable. I advise all novice yard sale attendants to keep an open mind, remain receptive to the dynamics of this phenomenon. The purest aesthetic to be appreciated in the yard sale as an art form lies in the juxtaposition of typically incongruous objects relative to the specific environment and space they occupy. It is here, before the other browsers have disturbed the presentation, rummaged through everything or robbed the yard sale of an item in the act of purchasing it, here that the interpretive mysteries of the yardsailor's psyche are on full display. It's some of the weirdest shit you've ever seen! I've come to think of these works as archetypal material non sequiturs. Just within the past few weeks, the minds of ostensibly average American yardsailors have constructed the following assemblages: A black enamel tea cup holding six yellow balloons and six rock-hard prunes. A grimy, naked toddler doll with one arm missing, laid across a full set of rusting cutlery. A bizarre attempt to compile a complete creche from several old sets and other substitutions. The result was a black baby Jesus in a manger inhabited by a dog, a sheep and a plastic dolphin. Come to pay homage to the newborn king were five wise men, three of them headless, and a few olive drab army men creeping on their bellies toward the Savior's cradle. Another bit of Christmas cheer was a festive manufacturer?s box labelled "20 Count-Gold Balls - Distinctive Tree Adornaments" [sic]. The little cubicles for the ornaments were occupied by several monstrous looking fishing lures, a variety of stolen hotel soaps, actual dried turkey wishbones, a few complimentary airline bottles of scotch, and a small, dried blowfish. With the holiday season just around the corner, I seriously considered doing my tree with this deluxe assortment. A paperback copy of Dante's Inferno with a generic "ADMIT ONE" ticket used as a bookmark. A live, caged black rabbit gnawing on a blue candle. A coil of white clothesline tied to a red stiletto heel. The remainder of the shoe lay next to it, holding marbles. I could list many more. What was it that moved me? What did I see in these random arrangements that took me into myself? I sat in the evenings, rifling through clippings, looking at slides and photographs of exhibitions that only four months before were testaments to my own admittedly labored and cynical artistic endeavors. The memorabilia offered no solace. How could such sublime visual anomalies come from innocent yardsailors who were unaware of how they ordered their own junk? Their works fascinated me, inspired me and eventually consumed me. After months in hiding, I finally had an objective. I would harness the unconscious process that resulted in these same wonderful yard sale constructs, then return to the art world with one final exhibit. It would be a show born of the desire to create, like in my old painting days, and not one born of the desire to undermine art itself. For all of fifteen seconds it seemed these lofty aspirations could be realized. But I knew differently. I couldn't consciously go about trying to make such constructs. How to do it while denying the intent? Have my own yard sale and hope the ability would kick in? I'd have to set it up blindfolded and hope that by some fluke, something would guide me. Yard sales are my one source of enlightenment and despair. Go often enough and you'll find that yard sales, like bus stops and adult book shops, have their regulars. But the frequenters of other peoples' lawns and driveways are, for the most part, incommunicative. They arrive discreetly, keep to themselves. A nod of the head, a sincere but distant "good morning" is about all they can manage. Claiming the prize pickings is the primary goal but to a trained eye things are infinitely more complex. We early attendants are very much like a pride of lions. An elaborate and instinctive social order governs the yard sale. And no matter how far I drive, where I go, how early I arrive, there is one woman -- the dominant lioness -- for whom every lion, every cub and every scavenger steps aside. Her name is Bullhead Bertha. She is a mammoth jungle cat, six feet tall and six feet wide. Bertha attends every yard sale without fail, wearing gargantuan jeans, tee shirt and unlaced running shoes. The first time I saw her I couldn't stop my imagination; from behind she looked as if she had a bulldog in each pocket. She pulls up in her 1973 Oldsmobile and blocks the driveway. After extruding herself from the car, she humps up the lawn flanked by her four children. Searching through boxes and surveying the tables is beneath her station. In the center of the sale she stands, turning a slow three hundred and sixty degrees. She guzzles ice tea from a plastic half-gallon juice container while calmly issuing orders to her kids. "-that's it, Davey. Check out that first box there-Carey, hold those drapes up high, honey, so I can see. Nope, they're too short, I think-yeah, those two records, Merle! Put 'em by me, we'll get those. No, Becky, if they don't have the December '87 issue of Life Magazine you just move on to the towels-" The children dutifully go over every inch of the sale in about fifteen minutes. They solemnly lay all items earmarked for purchase like offerings at their mother's feet. Eventually, Bertha and I spoke. I don?t recall who initiated our first conversation, but after a few weeks of running into one another it became a standardized dialogue. Our talks varied only in length and sequence, but never in content. A typical chat ran something like: ME:Bertha, hey. Here first as usual. BERTHA:Always, guy. ME:How're the pickings? BERTHA:Not the worst I've seen, not the best I've seen. ME:Any amazing finds? BERTHA:Think I'd tell YOU? To the victor goes the spoils, know what I'm sayin? S'why I'm here first. What do you care? I never seen you buy anything far as I can tell, Guy. ME:I'm an observer. BERTHA:Takes all kinds, guy. You want something to observe, though, I tell you, just wait'll that Goodlakes woman's got her yard sale, end of October. That'll give you somethin' to observe. ME:Good stuff for sale? BERTHA:Stuff, nothin'. It's just her. ME:What about her? BERTHA:Oh, nothin' so much, really. That's as far as it ever went. Needless to say, my curiosity was always aroused to the fullest after these exchanges. Bertha was not one to elaborate at all. I had to console myself with the thought that I'd find out for myself just what was so amazing about the annual yard sale thrown by the Goodlakes woman. As the end of October drew near, the number of yard sales advertised in the papers increased. Out here, Halloween is the acknowledged marker for the close of yard sale season. Weather permitting, there would be a few die-hards braving the first two weeks of November, but the unwritten yardsailors' law dictates that Halloween be the time for one last big bash. The final surge of sales brought more people out; whether yardsailors or attendants, many of them were never heard of or seen before. At one sale I asked Bertha more about the Goodlakes woman and how to tell her ad apart from the plethora of yard sale plugs. She had no definite answer, no way of knowing for sure. She didn't remember the name of the town Goodlakes lived in, but she did remember it being "a hell of a long haul to get there." I couldn't help feeling that when it came to sharing information about the Goodlakes yard sale, Bertha was not a generous soul. No one off the yard sale circuit (like the old guy at the post office or the local hardware store owner) had ever heard of the Goodlakes woman. With a single week to go before the close of October, I frequented only yard sales in far towns, an hour's drive or more away. They were sales in the remotest places, places so far off the beaten track that Bertha never once showed her face. I saw no one I knew and learned nothing more of the legendary Goodlakes yard sale. Though there was no good earthly reason for it, each waking hour became more hopeless. So much so that the spartan comforts of all the simple things I had come to depend on failed me all at once. I saw the aesthetic dynamics I so liberally ascribed to everything in general and to yard sales in particular, shred like some pathetic veil. Behind this flimsy veil was an incessant font of seething frustration and anger that I was keeping closest to my heart despite its destructive power. Self discovery has never been one of my favorite hobbies. Yet I found it impossible to refrain from scraping away the layers of pretense and the constructs of lies. Pretense and lies shielded me from my failure to live successfully outside the escapist domestic hole I'd dug for myself. I wanted nothing more to do with them. Things have now progressed to the point where I live with nothing but unceasing rage. Anything, even the most innocent occurence sets it off. If I wake in the morning and can't find matching socks, I'll tear the house apart, screaming and throwing things. I never come closer to finding the sock but the failed search is an excuse to bare this violent and exhausting anger. I am always left physically drained, lapsed into a leaden sluggishness that permits thought but no further emotion. I'm faced with the notion that I must be having a nervous breakdown, but I'm unable to be frightened for myself, unable to act. I stupidly refuse to relinquish the hurt, which seems to exist independent from my heart, and let tears come. This incredibly rabid anger is the only avenue of expression left open to me now, and near-catatonia is my only release. It was in the latter state that I decided to take a pleasant country drive last Wednesday morning. While in this dead frame of mind, the elements of the day broke down, registering only as component facts. Each fact came into contact with a newly formed core within me, a core that to this day is incapable of feeling anything. It is the one place where no judgment is passed, a place entirely open to all sights, sounds, feelings and ideas. It is a place of penultimate fairness toward all external stimuli because I am incapable of taking any action whatsoever. This fairness, it could be said, is arrived at through a wholly corrupt peace of mind, the byproduct of which is a vicious passive acceptance of everything. Driving a car under its influence was a new experience for me. It's only in retrospect that I'm able to analyze the drive. At the time, I registered nothing but the inchoate units of landscape. They occurred not as a whole, but as individual elements of a finished product too vast to take in. There was a tree. Another tree. Road. Motion. Hood of my car. Steering wheel. Other car. Other car. Guard rail. Fact. Motion. Grass. Fact. Other car. Sky. Fact. Fact. Fact. And so on. Though I can't be sure of the event's duration, here's what I've managed to piece together about the excursion. I must have been operating the car solely in my unconscious. At no time was I aware of anything but the separate facts as they came to me. I was traveling back roads the whole time. Traffic was light unless approaching populated areas such as the center of a small town. On one long stretch of rural asphalt, I probably should have been killed. A car in front of me rammed into a car in front of it that was hit broadside by the trailer of a jackknifing truck. There was no possible way to avoid collision. I don't recall having any reaction-time or needing any, for that matter. I'm positive my memory fails me here, but I can only report what I perceived at the time, even if I find it impossible to believe. Nothing at all registered then, though I'm reasonably sure that my car, with me inside, did not avoid the crash, but passed directly through it. I've dreamt of the incident on only one occasion. In sleep, the details of the experience I'd missed were intact. I still felt the vehicle and myself to be speeding headlong into the accident. Due to my near-catatonia, my foot could not step on the brakes. There was no opening to slip through, no way to veer off the path to destruction. Somehow, the inevitable crash never came. Instead, I experienced only a change in the air's density. If you've ever been up to your neck in water and attempted to run, you'll have some small notion of the intense feeling. Of course, it wasn't wet and there was no change in temperature. But it was as if the car and I were two independent bodies moving at the same speed, with determined effort, through water. What I saw as I crashed was an amalgam of surfaces and disparate cross-sections, all apparently permeable. The acute awareness of every substance was the most striking feature of the ordeal. First, I found myself entering the car directly in front of mine by way of the trunk, sensing the fine skins of cranberry red enamel shuffle between my dermal layers like playing cards. At mid torso level, the fibrous mesh of a spare radial tire and the stale space in the trunk pushed through me while my head remained outside the skidding car, sliced cleanly through at the neck until melding with the peculiarly gelatinous rear windshield. My chest cavity met spongy seat foam and the slightly resistant peel of upholstery, while my shoulder encountered first wire, then metal, magnets and fiberglass wadding only to be strained through the plastic perforations in the front of a stereo speaker. As I exited the car through the right rear passenger door, I caught sight of the driver bracing herself against the steering wheel with one hand while desperately trying to fasten her seat belt with the other. Traveling on, I grazed the truck's tail, spinning sideways through its trailer long enough to see that it held cartons of men's underpants. I emerged from it all, looking at my car and myself in relation to the wreck, spinning a full three hundred and sixty degrees until coming to rest. At that precise moment, my vision was either alarmingly acute or horribly distorted. The car looked normal enough, but my entire body was visible to me only as billions of single particles. Molecules, I thought. Any one particle was invisible to the naked eye. I saw them only as clusters of movement. More precisely, the rapid vibrations in each particle made its neighbor observable at the moment when the two occupied no common point of contact. The vibrations became less and less frequent and finally subsided altogether. My body, for lack of a better description, took shape again. All this I dreamt as a true reconstruction of the drive. My waking reluctance to accept it as such may be understandable, but it doesn't alter these facts: 1)There was a terrible accident. 2)I was definitely in it. My memory takes me no further into the episode. After emerging from the crash, driving the car was even more difficult. I came to, having been "reassembled" only to find that the recess where I felt nothing, the core where all was dead to me had been filled. This place, like an empty jar vaccuum-sealed for freshness, was violated. I was decompressing every denied emotion, every careful rationalization, everything I'd put myself through. The angers, sadnesses, snippets of obsessive thoughts, they all displaced the emptiness at once. I became a receptacle so dangerously overfilled that an explosion was imminent. In the force of the rush I inadvertently lost control of the car and went careening into the oncoming lane of traffic where I skidded off onto the shoulder, out of harm's way. Seemed like a good time to get out of the car and stretch a bit. An ice cold soda or beer would have been revitalizing but there was none. A modest picnic lunch would have been even better but I hadn't packed a thing to eat or drink. Even a stick of gum would have sufficed. I leaned through the passenger window and searched the glove compartment, exhuming a foil packet of turn-of-the-century tartar sauce. It would have to be the tartar sauce or nothing. Nothing was definitely more appealing. I stood around, scuffing my shoes noisily along the seam in the road where the sandy shoulder spilled onto the pavement. Rather than acknowledge or confront my unstable emotional state, I pondered questions of far reaching significance on the subject of tartar sauce. Who invented tartar sauce? Did someone intentionally set out to create it or was it arrived at by accident? Was the purpose of this lofty endeavor to find a tasty new condiment by perfecting an ambrosial blend of seemingly incompatible substances? And, having succeeded, why, in the bliss that must certainly have accompanied such a discovery, why would anyone name an already unattractive concoction like this after the cheesy pudding that accumulates on our teeth? Finally, why would any clear thinking person squeeze a packet of this goo onto a piece of fish? These fruitless ruminations proved a considerable aid in avoiding a head-on collision with my volatile state of mind. They also succeeded in keeping me from noticing, for who knows how long, that I had pulled off the road about fifty feet from a blind driveway. The scrubby bushes and trees made it invisible from where I stood. Every few minutes or so, a car or two coming in either direction would signal, turn and dissolve into the dense foliage. My first impulse was to hop back in my car and drive into the unknown. I ambled over to the mouth of the drive and peered up. I saw only a dirt road cutting through thick woods, canopied by the arching boughs of trees. It extended at least five hundred feet before taking a sharp turn to the right and continuing on. There was something so deliberate in the way the occasional cars signalled and turned that my curiosity got the best of me. I began walking up the dirt road, my feet crunching in the grit and gravel. Every so often, a car came back down the road past me and exited the driveway. Some cars held families, others held couples, others a solitary driver. I couldn't read their faces. They looked somewhat stripped, neutral; maybe content is a better description. I felt nothing but apprehension at the prospect of knocking on car windows and asking the people where they had come from to find out what attraction lay ahead of me. Once the traffic subsided, a recurring tone, like the chime of a doorbell, carried itself across the light breeze, stopping me from going any further. It was my little car alarm. I'd left my keys in the ignition and my door wide open. All I needed was for someone to drive off and leave me stuck in the boonies with no idea of where I was or how I'd gotten there. So, I hoofed it back to the car and decided to follow the dirt road to see what was out there in the woods. If it happened that this road was just a well traveled one and led nowhere, that was fine, too. I eased slowly up the road, shaking every nut and bolt in the car loose as I maneuvered poorly around the deep chuck holes and eroded ravines. Several cars passed me, making their way back to the main road, cars I'd seen pulling into the drive earlier. That made me reasonably certain of something worth seeing up ahead. After a few hundred feet I veered sharply to the right, putting me at the base of a steep hill. Erosion, traffic and neglect had definitely taken a cruel toll on the road. To avoid a gouge at least two feet deep, I straddled the banks of two parallel ravines, occasionally pulling the right side of the car into the dense undergrowth off the road. Unfortunately, anything other than vegetation was obscured. I hit a boulder with the right wheel and heard the obnoxious clang of a hub cap as it fell to the ground. Close inspection revealed a good portion of the ornament to be concave where it should have been convex. As a result, it would no longer fit securely over the wheel. If I put the thing on and waited a few seconds, it popped off of its own accord. I tossed it in the back seat and continued on. When confronted with still more bumps and ditches to dodge, I chose to ride the edge of a high ditch on the left while trying to miss as many holes as possible on the right. The steep slant served to drop me right into a wide chasm, causing the side of the car to get stuck. A long strip of chrome trim tore off of the rear right door, extended out in a vague spiral shape, wriggling like a lobster's antenna, scraping and catching on rubble and small plants. I tore it off and tossed it in the back seat with the hub cap. Next to go was the exhaust system - muffler, tail pipe and a long snake of pipe running almost the entire length of the car. What I hit, I don't know; the noise was an unearthly symphonic wail followed by a hollow clank. In the act of surveying the damage I found a nine-inch steel spike lying near the gutted muffler assembly. Everything joined the detritus in the back seat. Though lost on me in the waking state, the irony of the situation was more than apparent during the same dream in which the car accident was reenacted. To have come untouched through a crash of such magnitude only to have my car fall apart piece by piece on a bumpy dirt road struck me as so funny that I laughed in my sleep for the remainder of the night. I even woke up laughing. No, it's no good, I can't say with any conviction whether I was in an accident or not. Another five minutes of driving along the treacherous course without a clue that anything was waiting for me up ahead had me convinced that the best plan of action was to turn back. My instincts are usually reliable, but I chose to ignore them. The road took a sharp turn to the left and the woods immediately closed in around the car. The arched ceiling of trees was obscured as grapevines, thick juniper and stifling mountains of poison ivy left me with only a narrow tunnel to pass through. The first sign of life was a sign. It was nailed to a tree, old and bleached gray; three slats banged together in years past bearing the whitewashed words: JODY'S JUNGLE Below it was another sign made out of brand new corrugated cardboard: YARD SALE Just after passing the sign, my car parted a low hanging veil of grapevines. From there the woods receded, opening out as if showing respect for the rolling lawns I now found myself in. The driveway was paved, winding gently up to an old farmstead at the crest of the hill. Fifteen to twenty cars were parked along the grass. Families and friends walked the grounds. Six golden retrievers welcomed me, ushering my car up the drive. Each of the dogs vied for my attention, their tails wagging, each hoping to be the first to receive a pat when I opened the door. I pulled the car over and stepped out into a sea of canine affection. "Out early, I see," a husky voice commented from behind me. Bullhead Bertha positioned herself in the driveway surrounded by her brood. She peered into my rear window, looking at the pieces of my car. "Looks like you've already made a good haul. Always thought this car of yours could use a little fixing up." "What about you, Bertha? Looks to me like you're leaving empty-handed. That's not like you." "Oh, the kids each got a little something. Sale's got only toys and I got no use for toys. Great toys, no mistake, but I myself got no use for toys." Bertha's kids held identical yellow objects, but I couldn't tell what they were. They held the toys in cupped hands giving me the strong impression of secrecy - not wanting me to see their little treasures. "Yeah, got 'em each the exact same toy so there'd be no fights. 'Course, being brothers and sisters and what-not, you know, each wants what the other's got. Wouldn't you know? Ain't even got to the car yet and already they been in a fight over which one's whose. Have to write their names on 'em soon as we get home." She chugged what must have been a quart of iced tea from her pitcher, finishing it off. "Just toys, really?" I asked. "Jeeze, Stu. I thought I told you all about this sale, didn't I? All the Goodlakes woman ever has is toys. Overstock or failed items mostly, from a store she runs. Great for the kids, but you and me, hell, you and me don't come here for the toys. You'll probably have to wait a while to talk to her now. About ten or eleven folks ahead of you, I'd guess. I'm on my way out. Got here first, had my say, she had her say. I let the kids roam around, play with the dogs, ate a lazy picnic lunch, now I'm on my way. I see you brought nothing to eat. You look like hell, too. You got to get in the spirit of this thing, Stu!" "Get in what spirit of what thing?" Bertha busted a gut laughing. She walked toward her car with the kids, just howling and shaking her head. "What spirit, ha! Thought I told you about the Goodlakes woman. Spirit, Stu! The spirit! Done me a world of good." I'd never seen Bertha so talkative, ebullient, so alive. At other yard sales she never reminded me of anything but an aloof lioness. Now she was more of a gigantic matriarchal orangutan, alarmingly simian, wild, and joyful. Curiosity was the only feeling Bertha's opaque remarks could normally elicit, but a terrible sense of frustration fed into all the other noxious emotions I'd thus far succeeded in containing. The air changed, moved in thick currents. My eyes continued to see out even as they turned inward; I was edging back to the place I'd been while driving. Nothing could have felt more wrong, yet there was no way to prevent my slipping away. The grassy yard full of browsing people and energetic children became an inventory of disparate objects. What was a simple white farmhouse fell apart and was lost to me. The heady, untamed wildflowers sprawling through the ancient stone foundation of a ruined barn presented themselves as parcels of color that merely existed; each parcel inhabited a piece of physical space, eradicating the jumble of thriving plant life. I kept myself moving, walking through the yard sale like a dumb stone with legs, feeling myself trying to stay above and outside the dead place that was drawing me in. But its lure, the apartness it promised had me sliding toward it backwards on my belly as if I was a kid on a playground slide. Still, somehow my body saw what my eyes could not and urged me to remain at the surface of all things by rediscovering a trusted foothold: the yard sale aesthetic. Clear thoughts were instantaneous. I surfaced, happy to reassemble the world through the tensions and nuances in the objectified placement of the sale items. I headed straight for the tables and boxes. One look and I knew I was a goner. back to top |
| Copyright© 2001 Ted Enik and Kip Rosser. To Sleep She Alice Toklas Goes. All rights reserved. No part of this manuscript may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission. |
| CHARACTERS: ALICE B. TOKLAS - the late Gertrude Stein's devoted companion. A zealous historian and mythmaker. Eighty-seven years old; durable, caustic, delightful. ISETTING ACT I - September, 1964. An apartment at 15 rue Christine, Paris. ACT II - September, 1964. An apartment at 16 rue de la Convention, Paris.. |
| TO SLEEP SHE ALICE TOKLAS GOES SYNOPSIS Moonlight traces the details of a small, modestly appointed bedroom. A book-sized Picasso painting hangs uneasily between a crucifix and a portrait of Saint Theresa. The room appears uninhabited, the bed unmade. Then, from beneath the jumble of covers comes movement and a gentle snore. The sleeper sits up. Yawning, bird-like, she stands, eases into lounge slippers, then looks intently at the bed -- at herself still asleep! A moment later, the body in bed rolls over, settling back into slumber. Having seen the sleeper move, the diminutive woman observes that for one more night at least, she is still alive. So begins the recurring dream of Alice B. Toklas. It is September, 1964 -- the night before 87-year old Alice will be evicted from her famous Paris apartment at Rue Christine. Frail, near destitute, she remains a woman of fierce intelligence, acerbic wit, with a charming and maddeningly inflated sense of herself and her place in the world. Alice notices, as she does in every night's dream, a crowd gathered in her bedroom -- her parents and siblings, her girlhood chums, writers, artists, supporters and detractors, the critical and worshipful -- all phantoms coming and going as they please. Some, she engages in nostalgic conversation, others demand her ear, still others -- strangely silent -- are unable to make themselves understood. Night after night, one person is conspicuously absent: her lifelong companion, Gertrude Stein. While Alice is resigned to this disappointment being a dictate of the dream, she continues to hope that Gertrude will appear. Alice knows this familiar dream is not meant to be a trial, nor testimonial. In fact, there seems to be no agenda at all -- a plague with no purpose. But tonight that will change. Tonight, in the same way she dealt with unsatisfactory events in her waking life, Alice resolves to seize control. Above all else, she is determined to unmask the anonymous author of harassing letters she received during the three years prior to Gertrude's death. In them, the writer offers a venomous indictment of Alice and Gertrude's relationship: each letter adopting a single metaphor to describe what the author purports to be Alice's obsessive control over Gertrude. While pursuing this goal, Alice lays open her life and times: her childhood, her "marriage" to Gertrude Stein, two world wars, and the celebrated "Paris in the '20s." Primarily, it is Alice's relationship with Gertrude which is explored: their uncompromising love, their tastes, biases, morals, and even intimate "secrets" are revealed as Alice tries to deduce which dreamtime guest penned the disturbing letters. Ultimately she is forced to reassess her own rather rigid beliefs and severe actions in a chastening light. |
| ACT ONE (September, 1964. Rue Christine, Paris. Moonlight floods a small room, crowded with a bed, nightstand, and a Louis XIV chair with embroidered upholstery and small cushion. On the wall, a tiny Picasso painting hangs between a crucifix and a miniature of Saint Thérèse. All other furnishings have been packed in wooden crates. The room appears uninhabited. Lights creep up. From beneath the jumble of bedclothes comes a gentle snore. Then, the sleeper abruptly sits up, bewildered, upset:) ALICE Wha!? Whas? terrrrbull... Terrible waste of lemons -- Their zest you mix with shaved ice! Hmmm? Yes... What? Urrgh... (ALICE is no bigger than a little girl; her tiny feet not quite reaching the floor. Yawning, bird-like, she stands, eases into slippers, and looks intently at the bed -- at SLEEPING ALICE.) Must check. See if she still breathes. (Touching the SLEEPING ALICE. Disappointed:) Alive as ever. I was hoping tonight, at last, you'd make an angel of me. (SLEEPING ALICE rolls over, settling deeper into slumber.) What is left of us, Alice? We're older than Old is old, with milky eyes, tinny ears. Isn't it time we retrieve our gloves and leave the party? I move we entertain kicking the bucket -- in the wee hours. Say, three a.m.? My schedule's open, we'll do death. Ugh! Your stomach just growl, old woman? Very chic. And now you giggle, you lump! There, again! A mannish laugh, a contralto, baritone... Who...? (She turns to address the audience. Special lighting suggests a milling crowd in silhouette.) ...Please, no, not this same dream again. Dear God! Let me at least appear gracious -- (With false congeniality:) Hello-o-o! Quelle surprise! Everyone I've ever met in my entire life. Here again, tenth night in a row. And of course, you ignore me... again. This is my recurring dream, I can say anything, however rude, and no one will care a Flying Walenda. You! Matisse. What if I were to say you're a stinky painter? And your wife has a face like a horse; comme un cheval...? And he's oblivious. Were I awake, taking tea with you -- and you weren't by now dead, there is that -- you'd turn on your heel and huff away. Which, is what you did when I actually said your wife had a face like a horse. Even though I meant it as a compliment. About here in this dream, I normally ask the inevitable: "Has Anybody Seen My Gal?" Why is it that among this gallery of the living and dead, I've never seen my Gertrude? I'd endure you all, you impertinent spooks, if Baby would only come. Even in a cat-nap two half-seconds long. Eighteen years she's been gone, and I have not dreamt of her once. Not once! Must be a dreamer's curse of some sort. (Sings wistfully.) "Give me a kiss to build a dream on..." Oop! I recognize this! Here's the routine: I sing. My perfect unmusicality manages to catch Alan Stein's eye -- there he is. He pulls a face, turns to his wife, Roubina, and complains that my last Picasso rightfully belongs to them -- through blood -- ever since Gertrude died. And like clockwork, Roubina is off. (To ROUBINA.) Don't wag your finger at me, you Armenian turnip. You won't make it more than two steps before -- (Gasp!). Right here she always bangs elbows with the always off-balance Zelda Fitzgerald, who dumps her drink onto Señor Salvador Dali who becomes a pomegranate, bursting ants down the back of Djuna Barnes's backless dress, who wails and frightens her little dog with the caviar-breath who jumps from her lap and makes a beeline for my Louis Quatorze chair. (She stomps her foot.) Shoo! And the finale, from here... (She gestures toward SLEEPING ALICE, who, right on cue, rips off a loud snore.) Merde! It is the same dream. It's eerie being right all the time. Since I'm to be put out onto the street in the morning, I pray to God -- who snubs me of late -- that you, plural, and this tedious dream won't discover my new address. Or hadn't you heard? Oh yes, I'm to be officially evicted. At my impressionable age. One morning last innocent spring, after a serving of humorless eggs, the bailiff served me an eviction notice. Small matter I was convalescing, bedridden from a broken hip, and blind as French justice. Burning mad, I returned his serve and told him, "I, sir, was born in 1877. If I leave this apartment it will be to be buried in Père Lachaise alongside Miss Stein." So, like anyone backed against a wall, I ignored the apocalyptic and went on holiday. To Rome. Thought myself darn clever for slipping the concierge a bottle of cognac to let no one know that I was out of town. You see, under French law -- oh, how j'aime the French legal system, no rental may remain uninhabited for more than a quarter-year. The harridan landlady took advantage of my absence, and sued for possession of this unsung landmark. I want you all to know, it was Gertrude's niece-in-law, the dreadful Roubina who let her know about me traveling. (To ROUBINA.) There is a table in Hell reserved just for you. Near the Ladies Only with the stopped-up toilet.. And as of tomorrow I will inhabit a little white enamel breadbox somewhere in the shadow of the Eiffel tower. I've heard this sort of thing keeps one young... (Smart-mouthed.) ...keeps one young what?[meaning: "keeps" a young companion?] Not even in a dream will Roubina Stein get my painting. Swine, you already have a house full of them, a warehouse. And I happen to know you've never once taken a dust cloth to a single one. I always say you cannot tell what a picture really is until you dust it daily. It then does something to you that only looking can never do. Though being an observer can have its advantages. Museum guards are superb at it -- observing -- and housekeepers, and gardeners. They note our warts, and remain invisible. I saw this, growing up. And, where other girls wished themselves princesses and divas, I saw the advantage in playing the wallflower. I came to prefer it: to placing myself in the background. I find it allows me to penetrate the sham that rolls in thick as fog during social intercourse. Gertrude used to call me her lighthouse, I have a silver charm of one somewhere... "You are the beacon," she would say, "shining into a person so that when you do, only that person's essence is seen." That was how Gertrude put it. For myself, I say "if you're an idiot, you'll let me know. Instantly." And many of you did. Years ago. Still do -- still idiots, if this dream is anything to judge by. Nothing. Blank stares from all of you. I feel queer as a silver spoon among garden trowels. Is that how I used to make you people feel? Out of place? Good. No wonder Picasso called me The Limoges Vulture. Oh, you did, Pablo, you most certainly did! Flatterer. And I'm keenly aware most of you never warmed to me. What can I say? Acquired taste. Like... like... well, like me, Dammit! Brrrr. How night air does bite the old lady -- oooh-h-h. Give me the warm bedclothes. Shove over, you log. (She approaches the bed, stops short. Special lighting suggests a gradually increasing rain of paper items [in silhouette] pelting ALICE.) Wait, stop. All of you now bombard me with pieces of paper. The dream's end is beginning already. I've never understood this part -- billets doux, bills of sale, calling cards, endless paper burying me till I wake. Well, this time I'd rather not until someone lets me know why. Why this dream, again and again? (She grabs a blanket and, snapping it before her, tries to ward off the attack.) Stop it, hear me? Stop. Bastards. This dream is mine. Arreter! (The rain of paper stops abruptly.) Well. Obedience. Refreshing. I might have guessed. In my waking life I never tolerate such harassment. Well, Jeez Wheez. Here's a sensation I've not felt for years. What is it? Nimbleness... limberness? Lack of Arthritis-ness? Yes! And where have my damned cataracts gone? I've got used to seeing the world through a greasy oven window. And my ears! Suddenly clear as crystal now. I can hear every catty whisper. Myself, if I can't say something nice about someone, I speak right up. And, oh my God, I'd never resort to using letters. Writing anonymous wicked monstrous sadistic letters. Aha. With a mention of the letters the natives grow silent. I know one among you is guilty. The author of six mad-dog epistles of hate. They arrived over the three years before Baby died, all beginning with, "Dear Malignant Alice, a word about you and Gertrude." That's it! Before I wake -- or, God have me -- before this heart stops, I will know who wrote those letters. Hahaha. Thank you, Pablo. Of course, you?d confess -- guilty or no. You'd admit to painting by numbers if it would keep you in the headlines. So, having rounded up the suspects... (She goes to the night stand and rifles the drawer. Her blanket falls to the floor.) Where the hell...? They're not here. What in the world could've... Alice, you twitterbrain. You packed the damn things! Did I? Well, there's only one box they could be in. (She takes a step toward the crates and notices her dropped blanket.) (Gasp!) Oh, my Christmas! (She snatches it up, in shock: it has become a giant letter -- printing on one side.) My subconscious must've taken the wheel. Letter on a blanket -- damn dream logic. "Dear Malignant Alice, a word about you and Gertrude. How insipidly royal: living in the Empress Christine's old apartment. How contrived: the American King and Queen, at 5 Rue Christine." And here's where the author gets mean. You've taken His Majesty, Gertrude, from her kingdom of salons and shut her away in a cruel tower. Clever of you to create the illusion of freedom with beautiful wallpaper; doves in flight against the open sky. Her writing's gone all dreamy and stupid: reads like a lovestruck cow, a toddling brat. So be proud, Alice, that you've uncreated her. The King is dead. Long live the dead King." (A beat.) Saucy. (She lays the blanket carefully on the bed.) So. Does the composer of this... thing! want to own up? Whoever you are, I will say this: your prose is a horror. Thorny Wilder's letters were beautifully composed. Sherwood Anderson's were basic-friendly, and Hemingway's were... well, not worth shooting oneself over. Though, Ernest might get a charge out of hating me on paper. I wonder... But you got one fact straight: the wallpaper was sublime. And you completely understand the damaging potential of a letter. This one cut deep. Somehow I can't treat this letter like the bundle of love notes Baby hid from me for decades. Written by May Bookstaver, the first woman she was genuinely... interested in. I promptly reduced them to ashes. There's occasionally some history that shouldn't make it into books. (She nudges the blanket with her foot.) And this little lulu will certainly not be included. Anywhere. You know, having read it over, I really can't fathom how this "King Gertrude" letter hurt me at all. Our little nest a prison? Home here was free and colorful as market day in Marakesh. As for shutting her away in a cruel tower, the whole of Paris beat a cattle-path to our door at 7 rue de Fleurus the moment we moved in. Ours aside, Paris was an absolute hive of salons, "salon" being the French for artsy ego-wrestling. Neither my invention nor hers, the salons were the concoction of Miss Stein's brother, Leo. Really an excuse to appoint himself Sun in a solar-system of far more scintillating planets. Of course, the salon I most treasure... Well, not so much a salon, more of a Stein family gathering, was the one where I first saw Gertrude. The second principle character in this Passion Play wherein Alice Babbette, played by me, meets my darling Mount Fatooski, played by Miss Stein, was Miss Harriet Levy. My best girlhood chum and traveling companion. Lounging right there. That's her. (To Harriet.) Don't let me interrupt your catnap. Can't blame you, you've heard me embellish the "Girls' Arrival in Paris" story umpteen times. It was September 1907, Hotel Magellan, near the avenue du Bois de Boulogne. We flung our grips on the beds and before I could so much as loosen my corset, Harriet said, "Let's drop in on the Steins." And we rat-a-tat-tat. And the door flies open. And we're kissed on both cheeks by Sarah: "m?wah, m?wah", which makes moi... uncomfortable, frankly. Shy wallflower that I am. Harriet and I are bustled into an airy parlor, where Gertrude's brothers -- Leo and Michael -- are on all-fours searching for a popped vest button. All the while they're arguing the merits of psychoanalyzing paintings. Sarah stops the silly debate cold by chucking a big white chrysanthemum at them -- an act void of Freudian symbolism to my mind. But it hits Leo square in the face. Poof! Countless petals caught in his golden beard. And I think, "What generous, spark-throwing personalities." There I was just another lost button on the Persian rug with this grand imposing place looming over me and paintings paintings everywhere. Cezannes, Renoirs, Matisses, Picassos, Gauguins -- on all the walls right up to the ceiling. So strange I instinctively look away. (Sighs.) Gertrude... She sat on the far side of the room, apart from the horseplay, and flashed me a peek at the missing button, cupped in her hand. A better word is "palmed." With the smallest royal sort of gesture, she motioned me over. I obeyed. And sat where she patted, on the seat of an enormous armchair right beside hers. Gertrude struck me, first off, as not being of the same family. They: prim, conventionally dressed. She: a radiant presence burned gold by the Tuscan sun. Miss Stein inhabited a most unladylike corduroy suit. Chestnut brown, matched her hair. Which was actually long. Done up on her head like a twist of bread dough. It hadn?t been coiffed à la Caesar yet. She was unabashedly... large, is the only way to put it. With the most delicate hands, dimpled like a newborn's. Her head, beautifully sculpted. Molded, you see, as if by the thumbs, no sharp angles. Gray eyes, quicksilver, the glint of blazing inner life. And where most people change expressions rapidly, she maintained the knowing smile of a Buddha. She spoke the least but laughed most often -- laughter deep and sonorous, so heartfelt. Contagious as... birds. You've seen it, how one starts, then they all fly off in a great whoosh. What else...? Oooh! The brooch. A huge, peach-coral brooch bobbing at her throat, which I playfully imagined was the true source of that cavernous laugh. She fingered the button, visible only to us, and spoke obliquely to her brothers. "Brothers," she told them, "all brothers are All Men even in our changing age never thinking of thinking it is sisters that discover some tender buttons they unbuttoned can't." She said exactly that. That instant, I hear... How can I?... Her presence, her statement so deliberate. An expression so precise--absolute confidence in her own meaning, deepening, reverberating, I hear... bells! Really. An all-out, dizzying chorus of bells. This, my heart, is the ring of recognized genius. Need I say, Gertrude became much more to me? Well, I will. Once in life, I hope you will fully love a person. Come to treasure her as... Idea. Love the very idea of her. Surrounding her with such love will do much to accomplish that person. Complete her. Completely. (Self-effacing.) Boy! Listen to me. Sounds good as bad Tennessee Williams. We were at that first meeting, the conversation leap-frogging from Fashion to Art to The Cosmos to why there is Boston. Naturally, as newcomers, Harriet and I were bumps on a log, chit-chat bounding over our heads. Until I happened to mention we'd survived the recent San Francisco earthquake in which our homes were almost destroyed. Well you'd think we got naked, such overwhelming interest! And once we'd given our cursory accounts, we were made to go over it again, in every Armegedd-ish detail. We enjoyed ballooning celebrity in the weeks to come. The saga, as most sagas will, grew more perilous with each retelling, I'm afraid, until Harriet became Nervous-Nellie. "Oh, Alice," she'd wail, "we'll have to keep adding and adding to the tale just to maintain our social standing!" I suggested the next time we tell it, our houses collapse on us, leaving only our sticking-out-feet, like the movie of the witch, and the Oz, and the pygmies, you know. Throughout Sarah Stein's gray, "why bother" dinner, Gertrude and Leo traded barbed comments, indiscreet asides. Common knowledge they shared a flat, were constant companions. To his scant credit, it was Leo groomed Gertrude's eye for art; the feuding really started as their opinions diverged. Even this early in Gertrude's career, her writing promised something utterly original; reinventing syntax and disavowing narrative. While Leo, fierce intellectual and unemployable aesthete, was a terribly worldly, terribly charming... bum. He was best equipped to argue, to pooh-pooh. Especially Gertrude's efforts. But she was no slouch at returning a serve. Their volleys that evening were fireballs. Everyone else at table seemed used to their behavior, wouldn't have blinked if they dueled with the celery. By the time we said our "bon soirs," Leo had maniacally fiddled his beard into tiny frustration-knots. Gertrude wouldn't go near him. Enough about Leo. He was an absolute horror and an -- (Caught up short.) Wonder of wonders... Didn't see you at first. Suits you, Leo, hiding behind your betters. Unthinkable, you writing my poison pen letters. If nothing else, you could be relied on to insult me to my face. Just go. Go on. Plague someone else's sleep. You were always such a raging spoilsport. (A sigh.) Good riddance. Only person I ever knew who could skulk sitting down. (A beat. Seeing the crowd anew:) Now that I think of it, I could happily do without most of you. It's high time I thin the herd. Since dream-logic prevents my simply willing the letter writer from stepping forward... (She covers her eyes.) ... maybe it will let me send away everyone my heart knows is innocent. Away-y-y! (She dismisses the crowd with a wave of her hand. In response, a breeze rustles the curtains. She looks up, sees them billowing.) You might have taken the door. How many are we now? Five, ten, twenty... ish? Much less, anyway. (She rushes to the window, examines the curtains where a scrawled second letter is now visible.) My God. It's like finding fresh blood after coughing. "Dear Malignant Alice, a word about you and Gertrude: We all dress up. This is Paris, after all. Acceptable peacock behavior. Pity clothing rarely defines us, exposes the true soul. Gertrude is the exception as always -- despite you forever at her side like a mismatched accessory. The more layers she wears, the less she conceals of her undistorted Self. Not so with Alice, no. You dress like a gypsy, a crimson señorita. So much packaging, telling us nothing. To reveal your essence, I would wrap you in sackcloth, coarse and difficult to clean. I will not explain this further." (A beat.) Testy. No explanation necessary. Let's see... Costume, appearances. Who was concerned with appearances? Just about everyone I ever knew. Well, the whole tirade smacks of envy, I'd say. No! No! The writer wants to replace me. I?m thinking Mabel Dodge. Now, there's a gal who wore very little and concealed even less. (She spots MABEL in the crowd.) Yes, Mabel. It would be just like you to resort to anonymous pettiness when what you really wanted was my head on a pike. Figuratively. Well, let me show the rest of you -- plain and simple -- how to sum someone up so she stays summed up. The woman changed partners like she was square-dancing in Vaseline. Men, women, didn't matter. While Gertrude and I misbehaved discreetly, everyone else passed each other round like bowls of mixed nuts. And you, Mabel ever-able, were the most carnally... enterprising person I'd ever seen. 1912 or so, at your villa. Picture an Italian villa: olive trees, toe-mah-toe-sauce sunset -- you know. Then Mabel appears: so statuesque, so icey-lovely, flouncing down marble steps in gauzy Mata Hari togs with a turban. Gertrude was hard at work writing a verse portrait of you. One among dozens of others. Now, whenever Baby worked on these, she grew warmer and warmer toward her subject. No more flirtatious than a nuzzling cat. But I saw very clearly how you were more than willing to misinterpret Baby's warming. The looks that ignited between the two of you -- well, I pronounced that friendship dead, no discussion. Gertrude was then, and would always be forever mine. No letter from you could possibly drive a wedge between Baby and me. But that really wasn't your intent. I alone was the letter's target, with the talk of dress up, love of costume; all to ridicule my appearance. I know my sunken pebble-eyes accentuate a nose that, well, it goes without saying -- then goes a deal more. I was born with a cyst, just here, between my eyebrows. Mr. Picasso said once -- in company, I might add -- that it made me look like a unicorn. Tactless charm, Pablito. Growing up, there was no one made much of these things. With our garden teas and sheltered by my wise mother's smiles, I was made the princess. Though, it was only a matter of time... I was about seventeen, on an innocent walk, when someone said it, said the word: "ugly." It wheeled me right around. There stood two young men, whose occupation, I suppose, was to rooster around the tobacconist's, sizing up any girl unlucky enough to stroll by. That word, "ugly," used so matter-of-factly. I felt a wounding certainty: that here was how others saw me. How many people ever revise their first impressions? Anyone? While the insult didn?t scuttle my confidence entirely -- I was made of stronger stuff than that -- I did grow my bangs over my forehead, pulled hat brims low to cover the cyst, and my wardrobe took a compensating turn for the flamboyant. I Cleopatra-lined my eyes, trained my hands to be delicate and expressive, said very little so as to lend an air of mystery -- I worked with what I had. Baby and I delighted in crafting our appearances, so much so that my youthful wound was able to heal. People never failed to comment. Gertrude was a Buddha, a dark Aztec figure. I was a bird, a Joan of Arc. Oh, Mabel. Can anyone who's so exquisite, so handsome, ever fully grasp her power? How a "looker" can have anything she wants. But to win Gertrude would take more than your steamy Tinkerbell routine. back to top |
| Copyright© 2001 Kip Rosser. Snoweating. All rights reserved. No part of this manuscript may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission. |
| Manhattan was crippled. The worst blizzard in a decade had hit, turning the usual chaos into a sprawling numbed maze of ice, snow and people with short tempers. It seemed as if the entire city might collapse under the weight of winter. At rush hour, those who were forced to come out of hibernation trickled determinedly into the streets. But for most of the day no one ventured to walk this beast of a city. That was Manhattan; a groggy beast trying to shake the whole fierce season from its craggy coat. No good. The most it could manage was a pathetic shudder, like the last throes of a polar bear hit with a tranquilizing dart. She was tired of hearing the incessant reports on radio and television, "worst winter in a decade...whole tri-state area hit hardest...three families frozen to death in unheated homes...most businesses closed...not enough man or plow power to clear anything but the smallest portions of the city at any one |