Week 39, Day 267 - "To Wake, Perchance to..."

“To Wake, Perchance to…”

Written by Joe Janes

10/12/09

267 of 365

CAST

Harry, 50s

(Lights up on Harry walking out of his bathroom in pajamas and with a toothbrush in his mouth. He brushes his teeth a bit while considering the audience. He steps off, spits, rinses and returns. As he speaks, he gets dressed in clothes that are inexplicably strewn throughout the room without rhyme or reason or rhyming reason. In one corner of the stage are a pillow and a rumpled blanket)

HARRY

I used to sleep twelve hours a day. Twelve hours. Half of the day. Uninterrupted. People told me that was too much. Mainly my parents, but friends, too. “Harry, you sleep too much.” “Dude, you sleep too much.” My friends called me Harry. My parents called me Dude. To show they were hip. My friends and I could never plan anything in the morning unless I spent the night. And I was always late to school. As I got older, somewhere between graduating high school to graduating college, I went down to eight hours of sleep each night. A job job nailed it in place. Because, you know, eight hours. You’re supposed to do that. And I did. For a very long time. It’s respectable. Needed my eight hours. If I didn’t get it, fuck you and everyone around you. Eight hours of work, eight hours of sleep. Only fair. Tat for tit. That lasted till somewhere during the first wife. She needed ten hours of sleep, absolute darkness in the room and wore earplugs and a sleep mask. We didn’t have curtains, we had a blanket duct taped around the window. It was like sleeping in a sarcophagus. I was sleeping with the dead and not in any fun way. You open your eyes and it’s so dark and there’s nothing for your eyes to adjust to… it’s like you’ve gone blind. (He picks up a pair of dress slacks, sniffs the crotch to check for extreme funk, decides it’s okay and puts them on.) I couldn’t sleep like that. I went down to six hours in a split shift. Four hours, pee, then back for two hours. Sometimes I stayed up post-pee, surfed the net, did the dishes, drank coffee, but mostly I’d put in those two other hours. Do the time of six hours. One time, while surfing the net, I read that we spend one third of our lives asleep. I think it’s more, if you add in catnaps and just plain zoning out. Which makes me wonder, how do we know? (He finds a tie to put on, it is already knotted.) If that much of our lives is spent on sleep, how do we really know what’s awake? I’m not trying to be all woo-woo. It’s a serious inquiry (He says non-seriously.) I want to know why I love being asleep so much. Even though I don’t sleep as long as I used to, I’m good at it. It’s one of the few things I do really well. When my head hits the pillow, I get right to work. Roll up my sleeves and start sawing those logs. And I have great dreams. Wonderful dreams. Flying, rock star, sex. And none of that metaphor-turning-on-a-faucet-symbolic sex. I have sex. Steamy, rockin’, hip thrusting good stuff. Sans the nocturnal emissions. No fuss, no muss. (He finds a sports coat to put on.) And if that’s being awake, what the hell is this recurring nightmare I have of moving like a snail over asphalt crowded by other snails to a cubical cage in a barn full of cubicle cages where men and women in Italian lab coats carry clipboards and Blackberrys and give me tasks to complete in front of a screen and give me food and treats that come out of a machine when I press the right button? And then they make me crawl back home in a metal container that does not keep me fresh. Only to eat in a bigger, more comfortable cage, sit in front of another screen, and back to the business being horizontal and totally surrendering to the law of gravity. (He puts on his shoes. Stands, straightens out his clothes. Looks at his watch.) Right on time. (He crawls under the blanket, puts his head on the pillow and starts snoring. Lights fade.)

Week 37, Day 256 - "Des Moines"

“Des Moines”

Written by Joe Janes

10/01/09

255 of 365

CAST:

Kevin, 40s

(Lights up on a microphone and stand far stage left with a spotlight on it. We hear the sound of restless arena-sized crowd. Kevin, a man trying very hard not to be pudgy, but failing miserably comes out in a too tight t-shirt for Q-103.75. “Home of the Marmoset.” He carries a small inflated beach ball. He tosses it out to the crowd.)

KEVIN

Are you ready to rock?... I said, are you ready to rock, Des Moines? This is Kevin Budake (boo-dacky) from Q-103.75, Home of the Marmoset. (We hear people “boo”) That’s right, Budake. I came here to Chick-Fil-A Arena to rock! Did you come here to rock? Good. Because there will be rock. And roll. There will also be rolling. We will leave here tonight having resoundingly, without question, rocked and rolled. Thunder Cheek will be out in just a minute. Before they do, the managers at the station and our sponsor, Spaghetti Warehouse and Self-Storage, wanted me to take the time to apologize for something I said on the air this morning. Sheila K., the news chick and I were doing some witty banter about the economy. Uh, let me just say that it was an accident. It wasn’t intentional. When I called Sheila a Jew, I was just joking. I didn’t know that she was really a Jew and would, therefore, find being called a Jew offensive. “K.” apparently stands for Kleinheimerstein. She probably would have found it funny if she weren’t a Jew. I find it quite hilarious when people call me a Jew. Call ne a Jew and I will giggle. Because I am not one. I’m really surprised Sheila’s a Jew. This is Des Moines. She’s probably the only one. Along with her family. And all those people that go to that synagogue building that I thought was for Mormons. So, boy, do I have matzo on my face. (With a Jewish accent) Oy vay, am I sorry or what? So, Sheila, I hope you accept my apology and I see you back at the station tomorrow, unless, it’s of course, some holiday I don’t know about. In which case, I’ll see you the next Jewish workday. (He looks offstage with a questioning look) Now, it’s time for Thunder Cheek…? (He looks offstage and shakes his head questioningly) Okay. One more thing. Now, when I tried to apologize on the air to Sheila by saying I was just monkeying around, I mean, come on. It was really harmless. I didn’t mean anything by that even though I am fully aware of Sheila’s African-American heritage, of which she should really, really be proud. And, hey, we’re Home of the Marmoset – a monkey. No one’s ever complained about that. Well, actually, I have. Who the hell’s ever heard of a marmoset? Particularly, a marmoset that rocks. Besides, I said I was the monkey, not Sheila. Curious George always-getting-into-trouble kind of monkeying around. Not that any of this is about anyone’s skin color, but because of Sheila’s particular pigmentation, I really didn’t expect her to be African American and Jewish American, too. Some people have accused me of being a racist and that hurts. It couldn’t be further from the truth. If you knew me, you would know better. I voted for Obama. A black man and a Muslim, which is like a Jew. So, I’m sorry, really, really sorry, if anyone was offended by my poor choice of words this morning. We cool? We cool? (He looks off stage pleadingly) We cool. Now, here all the way from San Francisco, the world’s first all-Asian heavy metal band, Thunder Chink…. Oh, shit.

(Blackout)

Week 35, Day 241 - “Ain't That Love"”

“Ain’t That Love”
Written by Joe Janes
“Ain’t That Love” written and composed by Ray Charles
9/16/09
241 of 365


CAST:
Whitehorn, 30s

(Lights up on a large man in a blue shirt and denim pants. He sits on the edge of a single bed. He is singing “Ain’t That Love” by Ray Charles. He sings very well.)

WHITEHORN

Now, baby when you sigh
I wanna sigh with you
When you cry
I wanna cry some, too

Now, ain't that love
Oh, ain't that love that I feel
In my heart for you

Welcome to the block. My name is Alexis Durango Whitehorn. People round here call me Whit. You can call me Whit. Welcome to the block. First timer?... Don’t sweat it too much… You scored in the cellmate lottery. I’m a good guy. Not gonna go through your things. Not gonna rub up against you in your sleep. I expect the same courtesy in return. Do not misinterpret my friendliness with a seduction. I don’t seduct. I am not a seducter. If I wanted you, we wouldn’t be talking right now. Well, I might be. You wouldn’t be able to. But you’ve got nothing to worry about. This ain’t much, but it’s my home. And I care about my home. But out there. Out there is where you’ve got to watch your back, and your front.

When your friends
Turn their back on you
I'll be here
Just to see you through

Now, ain't that love
Ain't that love
Ain't that love, ooohhh now
Ain't that love
That I feel in my heart for you

Out there, keep your game up. Lay low, stick to your business, do your work. Most of what we do here is kill time. And you know how that goes. Man gets bored, he do stupid things. Pick fights, grinds his hips up against things he shouldn’t. Makes noise. Keep busy. That’s the best thing I can tell you. Keep busy. Read. Write. Work out. What are you in for?... Armed robbery… You know, I ain’t never touched a gun. Never.

Now when you walk
I wanna walk with you
When you talk
Wanna talk some, too

Now, ain't that love
Oh, ain't that love that I feel
In my heart for you

You know what I dream about? Riding a bicycle. I don’t even own a bicycle. Did when I was a kid. Used to hop on that bike and peddle my ass off. For miles. I guess, I don’t know. Seemed like miles. Something about that. Going somewhere on your own power, Feeling the wind against you, feeling the road under you. Poppin’ wheelies. I haven’t ridden a bike in ten years, but didn’t know how much I missed it until I was locked up in here. I miss riding. I miss taking myself somewhere with my own muscle.

If you ever
Ever need a friend
I'll be with you
Yes, until the end

Now, ain't that love
Ain't that love
Don't you know, baby don't you know, I
Ain't that love, baby that I feel
In my heart for you

I killed a dude. Just one. Real asshole. Know what I used? Started with my fists. But it’s amazing. As soon as you have it in your mind to kill someone, everything around you becomes a potential weapon. Lamp, lamp cord, Chair. That book you’re holding. A toy Godzilla. One of those hard rubber ones. Belonged to my wife’s ten year old, Howie. Just grabbed the tail and clubbed the fucker to death. Bashed his skull in with a toy. Bought Howie a new one, but Tricia says she threw it away. Didn’t want it around. No offense, but guns are for cowards. If you’re going to kill someone, the only fair way to do it is with your hands. And you get a lot of aggression out. After the, I don’t know, tenth swing, I didn’t care anymore. But he was fucked up pretty bad and I felt I needed to finish the job. I’m like that. Always finish what I start.

Baby, won't you let me hold your hand
I want to squeeze you as tight as I can
Baby, don't you need me by your side
To protect you and be your guide
Baby, I'm so in love with you
I'd do anything you tell me to

Now, ain't that love
Ain't that love
C'mon now, ain't that love, now
Ain't that love, baby that I feel
In my heart for you

Didn’t even know the dude. Some European fucker who was banging my wife. A client of hers. Sunglasses and a goatee. He was wearing sunglasses while sticking it to her. Who does that? I don’t even think blind people do that. So, here I am. Tight quarters, three squares a day, regular exercise and I have a new hobby. Reading. Just finished Huckleberry Finn. Good book. Just started Robinson Crusoe. The guards are okay. Treat them with respect and they cut you some slack. Treat them like shit and they’ll treat you worse.

You know what’s fucked up. I wasn’t even mad at my wife. I was mad at him. You don’t touch another man’s wife. Kyle from Argentina. He knew she was married and it didn’t stop him. That’s disrespectful. She wears her ring all the time. Still does. We’re still married. Like I said, I finish what I start.

All right, you need to stop flapping your jaws. I’m going to do some reading. Don’t be shy about using the toilet. You get used to it.

Oh, that I feel in my heart for you
Oh, that I feel in my heart for you
Oh, that I feel in my heart for you
Oh!

(Whitehorn lies down and starts reading and humming “Ain’t That Love” to himself as lights fade.)

Week 30, Day 206 - “An Operator Tries To Help Jim Croce Make A Call”

“An Operator Tries To Help Jim Croce Make A Call”
Written by Joe Janes
8/12/09
206 of 365

CAST
Charlie, 30s

(Lights up on Charlie, a casually dressed telephone operator wearing a headset and sitting before a computer terminal.)

CHARLIE (Into headset)

Sorry, Mr. Floyd. We keep getting disconnected from Mrs. Floyd. I think she’s hanging up- Hello? …Mr. Floyd? …Hello? (He shrugs and disconnects the call and pushes another button.) Information, Charlie speaking, city and state, please?...Los Angeles, California… (He types in the info)…Okay, how may I help you?......Sir, you having a number on a matchbook that’s old and faded - not very helpful… Is it a business or a residence?... Do you have an address or a name?...Raye? R-A-Y-E…No “e.” …Oh. …Do you have a last name?... No. I see. We’re talking Los Angeles here, Sir. I really want to help you, but there are millions of people in LA. Many of them, I’m sure, go by the name Ray. …Was Ray a celebrity? That might help narrow it down. Was it Ray Parker, Jr? Ray Romano?... Well, who is this guy?... ………Sir, if he’s your best old ex-friend and you don’t know his last name, then I can understand why he’s an ex-friend………You should know your friends well enough to know their last name. Just saying… …………Oh, it’s not him you want to talk to. …It’s your ex-girlfriend. …(Sucks air through is teeth) …Yah, that sucks. I feel really bad for you. What a dick. Are you sure it wasn’t Ray Romano?… Maybe the phone is listed under the lady’s name, what is it?...Her name, what is it?...There’s something in your eye? ………………………I’ll wait…………………Just take a deep breath, Sir…………………………I’m sure they’ll be happy to know you’re fine, but, to be honest, you don’t sound fine. ……Did you have some kind of head injury or something?... Look, I’m sorry, but I really can’t help you without more specific information. …………………Thanks for saying that……………………Sir, even if I could keep the dime, you hang on to it. I think you need it more than I do. Bye, now. (He hangs up) Put it towards some therapy or something…(Picks up a new call) Information, Charlie speaking- What? Oh. Thank God. Yes, I have that number, right here. Jenny, Jenny. 867-5309. Would you like me to connect you?

(Blackout)

In case you weren't aware of the song or would like to hear it, here's a cover of it by Strat2Caster...

Week 23, Day 160 - “The Things I Put In My Mouth”

“The Things I Put In My Mouth”
Written by Joe Janes
6/27/09
160 of 365

CAST
George, late 40s

(Lights up on George, an average middle-aged man wearing an orange construction vest, hard hat and holding a sign on a pole that says “SLOW DOWN.”)

GEORGE

My toothbrush…The occasional pen or pencil…my finger, you know, to get stuff out that shouldn’t be in there, little food bits… These are the things I still put in my mouth. The different types of food I put in there is starting to narrow down. Significantly. No gum, no candy. No more popcorn. That’s what the dentist said after my root canal. No more freakin’ popcorn. I love popcorn. Movie popcorn with lots of salt and butter flavoring…Kettle corn…caramel corn…Used to joke that I ate so much popcorn that my testicles were literally popcorn balls… I thought it was funny… No more apples, which surprised the hell out of me. That “apple a day” stuff is a load of hooey. My dentist said eating an apple is like giving your teeth an acid bath that wears down the enamel. And I like apples. Especially dipped in caramel. Dentist also said to quit drinking coffee. Because of the stains, right? Wrong. Because when I drink too much coffee, I grind my teeth and chew on the back of my tongue. That’s something else I’m not supposed to eat anymore. My tongue. Didn’t even know I was eating it. (A car goes by and he thrusts the sign at it) Oh, nothing fried, either. My regular doctor says my cholesterol is too high. No fried foods, cut down on the cheese and the ice cream. Bacon. Man, bacon. May as well be a strip of savory, smoky razor blades that I ram in my throat. “When you order bacon, George,” he says, “it’s a cry for help.” Look, I’m pushing 50. Not married, not seeing anybody. Don’t smoke. The only thing I put in my mouth that I get any enjoyment out of is food. Why can’t brussel sprouts be bad for you? Steamed brussel sprouts, look out, that stuff will kill ya’. It will bore you to death. If I order brussel sprouts, that’s me crying for help. When you’re growing up, your parents tell you what to eat and when to eat. Do a stint in the navy and they tell you what to eat and when to eat. I’ve had about fifteen, twenty years of eating what I want, when I want. I’m a grown-up, now, dammit. Cereal for dinner. Love it. Not that good-for-your-heart Cheerios crap. I’m talking Cap’n Crunch (he salutes) with Crunchberries. And a side of bacon. That is my Viagra. (A car goes by and he thrusts the sign at it) Guess I had a good run. Deep fried Twinkies are a little piece of magic. Deep-fried turkey, tasty and dangerous, but if food’s going to be dangerous I’d rather it be because it might burn me rather than it might get clogged in my colon. If it’s a case of it being some external physical threat, then I say, “Bring it on.” It’s a fair fight. One that I’ll win. I’ve taken down turducken, haggis and Rocky Mountain oysters – bull balls. For lunch, all the guys are ordering from some Kentucky Fried Fuck ’n’ fuck kind of place. I packed my lunch. Have to. I don’t dare order a plate of celery in front of these hose bags. I’d never hear the end of it. I also got some carrot strips. A peach. And a little baggy filled with Bac O’ Bits, which aren’t really bacon at all. Some soy shit with chemicals. Better for you, I guess. It’s like bacon trail mix. I miss bacon. I wish they made some kind of bacon patch, like those nicotine things. I’d put one right here on my arm. (A car goes by and he thrusts the sign at it) Slow the fuck down, asshole!... Sheesh, some people are in a real hurry to die.

(Blackout)

Week 20, Day 140 - "Swimming for Non-swimmers"

“Swimming for Non-Swimmers”
Written by Joe Janes
6/7/09
140 of 365

CAST:
Skip, 30s
Bobby, 12

(Lights up on Camp Counselor Skip Johnson mid-thigh deep in water – um, perhaps he is standing off stage at the edge of the stage. He wears a white polo shirt, a whistle, ball cap and polyester shorts. )

SKIP

Hi! Camp Counselor Skip Johnson here with a swimming lesson for you non-swimmers. Water can be fun. But it’s no fun when someone dies because they didn’t know how to keep their nose above the water line. With the help of my assistant Bobby…Bobby!...Bobby! (He reaches down and pulls Bobby up out of the water. Bobby wears nose plugs, goggles, a snorkel, deflated water wings, big baggy swimming trunks and a white t-shirt.) There you are! Well, it looks like you could really use this week’s tip, Bobby. I’m going to teach Bobby a simple swimming technique called “dog paddling.” Just lie across my arms here… (Bobby does)… cup your hands and start paddling and kicking… Just like Fido would do if we threw him in the water… Very good, Bobby. Now, I’m going to let you go, just keep kicking and paddling… (Skip removes his hands and Bobby continues to paddle around in circles, barking like a little puppy)… Very good, Bobby! The barking isn’t really necessary to support the swimming process, but bark-on, if you like. .. You may be interested to know that “waiting 30 minutes after you eat before swimming” is a myth. In fact, the type of exercise you get from swimming, - long, smooth strokes - is very helpful to the digestive system. Many doctors recommend eating while you swim. My personal favorite is a big bowl of tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich…(It would be great if Skip were able to produce these things at this moment, at the very least, he could pull half a grilled cheese sandwich out of his pocket.) The next time we get together, we’ll go over a quick and easy emergency resuscitation technique I like to call, “Don’t forget to blow”… Right, Bobby?... Bobby? (Bobby has disappeared)… I’m Camp Counselor Skip Johnson saying, “Be wet, be safe!”…Bobby?...Marco!....Marco!...

(Lights fade)

Week Eight, Day 55 - “Happy Ending”

“Happy Ending”
Written by Joe Janes
3/14/09
55 of 365

CAST:
Miss Dugan, 30s

(Lights up on Miss Dugan, a young schoolteacher, seated in a small chair for children. She has a storybook in her hands. To her right and back is her desk.)

MISS DUGAN

Does everyone have their juice and cookies? Yes? Yes... Good. Everyone have a seat on your mat and we’ll have story time. Would you like me to tell you a story? Yes? Yes? ... Good. This is the story of “The Fairy Princess”… Once upon a time, there was a fairy princess… She lived in a castle with her mother, but they were all alone. She hoped one day to meet the handsome prince who lived in a bigger castle on the hill… (Her cell phone rings. She looks at the ID.) I am so sorry children, but Miss Dugan has to get this. It’s a very important telephone call… (She answers) Hello?... Yes. This is Marilyn Dugan…You have the results?… You’re sure?...Really? 100%?...I don’t think there’s a reason to go to a thousand percent; I understand that you are certain…Okay, then… Yes, indeedee, congratulations…thank you. (She hangs up and is quiet for a moment)… Oh, my, Miss Dugan forgot her juice…Can’t do story time without my juice…my potato juice…(She goes back to her desk, opens the bottom drawer, and pours vodka into a coffee cup. She takes a replenishing sip. Pours more vodka into the cup and returns to her seat.) Enjoy life while you can, kids, while you’re in those single digits… (She takes out a pack of cigarettes and lights up) Now, kids, what I am doing is bad. Smoking is bad, right? Don’t let me catch any of you smoking. It’s especially bad for mommies. Anybody have a little sister or little brother? Did your mommy get a really big fat belly? When mommies are fat is when smoking is really bad for them. Potato juice, too, but you know, everything in moderation. I still have some time before it does any serious damage… Ha, it’s vodka that got me into this mess. You’re not going to find the answer to life’s problem at the bottom of a juice box, Melvin…Miss Dugan met a prince, boys and girls… (sarcastically) a real Prince… Want to know what his name is? Yes? Yes...His name is Rick. What kind of name is Rick for a prince? Prince Rick. Can you think of any words that rhyme with Rick? …Crick... Chick. Like baby chick… Brick…Kick…Trick’s a good one…Prick… all very good boys and girls. All very good. Thick… there’s another one. You remember how Cinderella lost her glass slipper? Well, one time, Prince Rick lost his latex slipper…But he was very “slick” in making me, his gullible wannabe princess, believe that everything would be all right just as long as he pulled his pumpkin carriage out of the enchanted garage in time… And the very next day, Rick stopped calling…”Dick” – that’s another one. Miss Dugan doesn’t see Rick again until a week later when she sees him probing the esophagus of some bar slut’s throat with his tongue in a booth in the back of the Bennigan’s Miss Dugan sometimes goes to after school. I wonder if it’s a boy or a girl …Oh, sorry, where’s my mind? (She stomps out the cigarette on the floor). Let’s finish the story…(She starts flipping through the pages) Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit, more bullshit, and they live happily ever after. Bullshit. Now, drink your juice.

(She sips her vodka. Blackout)

Week Eight, Day 51 - “The Day The Earth Stood By Waiting, Hoping”

“The Day The Earth Stood By Waiting, Hoping”
Written by Joe Janes
3/10/09
51 of 365

CAST:
Gat
Konar

(In the dark, a spaceship lands on stage. Lights rise as the door to the spaceship lowers. Gat, a giant metallic robot, comes out and stands to the side of the door. Konar, a humanoid alien in a space suit comes out and stands just downstage of Gat. He removes his helmet showing he’s a pleasant looking fellow.)

KONAR

People of Earth, I am Konar from the star system Zoonaughk several galaxies from here. You are not alone in the universe. We have received your many space probes, heard your signals, and detected your listening and observation devices. We know that you have been continuously watching and listening to the skies for over fifty earth years. I have a message for you. Please listen closely. You need to stop. Enough is enough. Take the hint. We’re busy. We have a lot on our plate. We are a highly evolved species. Some might say we are a little out of your league. Besides, let’s be honest, you have a lot of issues you need to work out. Pollution, economics, government, and this thing you have for frying all manner of food. You’re clearly not ready to be in a relationship with us. We can’t help but think you are only interested in us because you want us to “rescue” you. We worked hard for our speed-of-light travel, non-evasive medical techniques and our culture that nurtures and empowers the individual. We don’t need someone leeching off us. Been there, done that, thank you Moon of Nyberg. We won’t be making that mistake, again. Oh, and could you please stop cluttering up the universe with your radio and television transmissions? Don’t you have anything better to do with your time, like – NOT KILL EACH OTHER. I don’t mean to be cold, but the truth is, you’re loud, out of shape and you smell funny. Oh, what, now you’re going to cry? Great. My robot, Gat, and I are going to leave now.
Get your act together, Earth, and, who knows, in another millennium, or two, if you haven’t destroyed the place, maybe we’ll be back.

(Konar and Gat begin to exit. A gunshot is heard. Konar and Gat duck.)

KONAR (continuing)

Real mature, Earth! Real mature!

(They quickly exit. Lights fade.)

Week Six, Day Forty-One - “This Is My Art”

“This Is My Art”
Written by Joe Janes
2/28/09
41 of 365

CAST
Yahnkin, 50s, Australian

(We hear slow building light classical music, sort of like the theme from 2001, but, please God, not that! As the music builds, light comes up center stage revealing Yahnkin. He is playing the music on a keyboard with his right hand. He wears a hands free microphone on his head. He is naked except for a pair of tight black spandex shorts and a cape. His left arm is shrouded under the cape. When the music reaches its peak it stops cold and he dramatically raises his left arm revealing a fish fin.)

YAHNKIN

The evolution of man – and woo-man. When man first crawled from the ocean he did so on all four fins. The further he moved from the surf, the more his fins became obsolete. They fell from his – and her – body and were replaced by fleshy hands and feet. Feet, which are just long hands with nubby fingers. But was evolution the right choice? If man – and woo-man – had to do it all over again, would they make the same choice? I am Yahnkin. I am an artist. I call this performance piece “First Hand.” Last year in Helsinki, a top team of well-paid surgeons removed my left arm and replaced it with the ventral fin of a whale. It cost millions of dollars. The expense was underwritten by three major universities, one not as major university and Pepsi. I did this so I could experience, first hand, what it was like for our ancestors when they were finned.

(Yahnkin steps over to a small table with various props on it.)

What was it like for the first man – or woo-man – to drink for refreshment?

(He tries to grab a can of Pepsi with his fin. He is unable to and ends up knocking the can on the ground. He mewls like an animal in frustration.)

What was it like to groom one’s self?

(He reaches for a hairbrush and tries to pick it up. He is unable to. He tries to comb his hair with his fin and cries while doing so.)

My biggest question was how did man – or woo-man – move beyond the daily needs of function and learn to express love through touch.

(He approaches a woman in the audience.)

Please stand. (Whether she stands or not, he sincerely says…) Thank you. What was it like for a finned being to caress the cheek of a lover? (He does so while sighing.) …What was it like to playfully tickle? (He does so while saying “Goochie-coo.”)... What was it like to strike another in a fit of rage (He rears his fin over his head as if about to hit her. He regains control and calms himself down.) I promised the doctors that I would never use my fin in anger.

(He walks back to his original position at the keyboard and strikes a sustaining note.)

We lost our fins to evolution. We should reclaim them. Reclaim them in the name of revolution! I am Yahnkin.

(He takes a deep bow, regardless of the response. He then looks at the watch on his human arm.)

I still have another 45 minutes left in my performance. I will spend the rest of the time standing here and you may come up and touch my fin.

(He stands and waits in silence. If someone does, great. If no one does, even better. After a long, painful lull...)

I will now retire to my dressing room, which is the men’s bathroom on the third floor. Please knock before entering if you need to use it. I am Yahnkin!

(He exits with a flourish. Lights out.)

Week Two, Day Eight - "Pushing the Envelope"

Pushing the Envelope
Written by Joe Janes
1/26/09
8 of 365

CAST:
Trey Vanbetheysen III, late 30s - early 40s


(Lights up on Trey. A thin, pale man in dark clothing. A black mock turtleneck and a dark tweed sports coat. He sits at a small table with a cup of Starbucks coffee. He is speaking to someone in the direction of the audience. There is more than just a slight sir of superiority about him.)

TREY

You want to know about my life in the theatre. Well, what shall I tell you? Currently, Trey Vanbetheysen III’s plate is full and overflowing. The food on my plate is messy, expressive and busy. But I love it. Relish it. Wouldn’t trade any of it. There are theater people in Ethiopia who don’t get to do half of what I do. The biggest leg of mutton I’m trying to gobble up is a dramatic play I wrote and will direct starring one John Malkovich. A brilliant story masterfully woven. It really pushes the envelope. My intention is to push the envelope. In fact, it’s titled, Pushing the Envelope. It’s about a Depression-era Italian immigrant farmer with no arms. He must get an envelope to the post office to be stamped and mailed. As he struggles pushing the envelope along a dirt road and to the city with his nose, he reveals the mystery and pathos and sheer brute angst that is his life through a series of gripping monologues. What does the envelope contain? Is it a check for the bank to keep his farm from being foreclosed? Is it a love letter to his wife in Rome begging her to come to small town Midwest America? Is it his last will and testament as we discover he his dying from a terminal disease? We are led to believe it is the RSVP to a wedding invitation. His own daughter’s wedding. His dream is to give her away, but he cannot because he has no arms, you see. The stuff guts are wrenched from. It’s not a tearjerker; it’s a tear gusher. Tears will gush from their ducts and flow like a burst damn from audience to stage. In the end, after three engrossing hours – the first hour, completely silent, by the way - he finally arrives at the post office, knees bloodied, nose and chin shredded by dirt and stone, only to discover it’s a national holiday and the post office is closed. Columbus Day. Who was also Italian. Oh, delicious irony. His son will never get that college tuition and will end up a struggling farmer like his father. Oh. Could you not tell anyone that last part? I didn’t ruin it for you, I promise. It’s all in how the story is told any way. It’s like Shakespeare. You know how they’re all going to end, but you enjoy the journey just the same.

No, no, no, no. …You’re not in theater, are you? He can’t just carry the envelope in his mouth. Don’t you see? It’s all monologues. He needs to speak. Plus, it’s called Pushing the Envelope, not Mouthing the Envelope. I suppose he could carry it for the first hour, but then it wouldn’t be a whole hour. Probably best just to leave art to the artists.

PTE will put me firmly on the map. My forte, what I have a reputation for, is musicals based on tragedy. 9/11, Bhopol, Chernobyl, Katrina. I wrote Titanic – The Musical, but not the one that you may have heard of. Mine was an improvement on that one. I saw it and said to myself, “Trey, this is shit. You can do better. And I did.” My first act ends with a stirring emotional upheaval via a duet between the iceberg and the hole in the boat. (sings) We weren’t meant to be/But how can we resist/Steel and ice at sea/We should not exist!...A twist of fate/ A twist of steel/A destined date/The captain’s wheel - spi-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-ns out of control… Too Andrew Lloyd Webber? I get that a lot. Hell, I’ll take the comparison. Puts me in good company.

You may have heard about one I wrote and almost starred in about Johnstown – the great flood of 1889, called Merrily We Drown. It was optioned and workshopped for Off Off (off) Broadway. Ultimately, the investors didn’t have faith that we could effectively pull off the title song and closing number, the grand finale. All the townfolk and a few of their horses, underwater, dead, singing and synchronized swimming while being swept away in a funnel. Esther Williams meets Our Town meets The Wizard of Oz meets an equestrian show. Brilliant. Some day. Some day.

My longest running production here in Chicago was a remount of a musical extravaganza I created in college. Myself and a few of my gang o’ thieves remounted it here in the old Zebra Crossing space. A time travelling sci-fi musical murder mystery starring Anne Frank called Panic in the Attic. It’s one of the few tragic-based musicals in my cannon that has a happy ending. Anne escapes from the Nazis in her time machine and lands in America in the 80’s, changes her name to Winona Ryder and falls in love with Christian Slater. They live happily ever after. Sorry, I get a little choked up when I think about PITA.

Pushing the Envelope? Well, baring any complications, we hope to go into production in the fall. Right now, we’re waiting for Mr. Malkovich to get back to us on the script. I have it on good authority that the play is in his mailbox at the Steppenwolf and he is aware of its existence. Confidentially, I’ve heard he can be a handful to direct, but I’m not worried. I’m not afraid to direct via iron fisting. I’m not afraid of Sir John Malkovich. I once told Dustin Hoffman I thought his work was shit…I call it as I see it. He ignored me. Or didn’t hear me. It was a crowded room. Music playing.

So, you see, with the demands of my theatrical life, I need a flexible schedule. Your health insurance is also very attractive to me. And, I’m not sucking up to you here; I really do enjoy your coffee. Lord knows how many thousands of dollars a year I have given to your fine corporation. Least you could do is throw me a little bone of employment. You’d never have to worry about me running out of black mock turtleneck shirts.

(He gets up and readies to leave.)

Well, do let me know. I have other people who have expressed interest in my services. Oh, and – this is in no way a bribe, you have very striking eyes - if you are interested in theater, I could get you up on the stage in one of my productions. You won’t even have to audition. (confidentially leans in) Malkovich will need an understudy.

(Lights fade)

MOUSTACHE-A-THON UPDATE!

Thank you Beata and Jenny for contributing to the cause. I still need to raise $880 to reach my goal of $1,000. All the money goes to 826-CHI, an educational non-profit. Any amount you can donate is welcome and will make a difference. You can support the cause by sponsoring my and my 'stash Zed by clicking HERE. Thanks.