by Steve Denheyer
[A dark stage. The only source of light is from a giant projector screen, at the back, which is white. A man walks out. He is only a silouette, until the screen blanks, and a spotlight opens on him.]
Narrator: [Lights a cigarette.] I've been committing suicide with these things for five years now. Most people choose a sensible method of self-destruction. I choose a slow, stupid way. It's my nature. [Takes a long drag.] Listen: I don't hate myself. I hate what I am. Which is human. I hate humanity, I've made a career out of hating humanity. I write plays about it. Watch:
["The Subway" (a painting by George Tooker) fills the screen. There is a bench, with two men in greatcoats sitting on it. One is reading a newspaper. The move and shift a little. This goes on for a while. The the lights dim and the spotlight opens on the Narrator again.]
Narrator: That was my first play. Only one scene, but it doesn't matter, because the rest of the play is the same. An hour-long play about two guys sitting on a bench not talking to each other. It was a hit. The critics raved about it. I can't remember what I called it. I remember the script though. Boy, was that an exercise in nihilistic stupidity. To pass this shit off as a play, I had to script every movement of the characters, down to the rythem of their breathing. I made a lot of money of that play. Everybody loved it, which goes to show you what a stupid bunch of plebs people are.
["Voice of Fire" on the screen.]
Ah-ha! Now here's a masterpiece. Throughout my career of fucking people over, I still have yet to top this one. I heard the Canadian government paid millions of dollars for this little piece of work. I'd like to meet the artist, so I could shake his hand. Then I would shoot him in the head. This latter is nothing personal. I want to shoot everyone in the head. That's how much I hate humans. Fucking weasels.
[Spotlight closes. Lights up. A man wrapped from head to foot in chains walks out.]
Chain Man: Ho! What light I don. I am the foresaken, and the amber rose of telecommunications look down my bosom. Look westward! I am cow.
[Another man, dressed in a leather catsuit, crawls onto the stage.]
Chain Man: Ah! Bufrick! I see that you have yet to visist the sage.
Leather Man: Oh-ho! I think you have stumbled upon the correct series of colloquial expressions to describe my plight. Not adequately, but can anything be such?
[Both men look up philosophically.]
Chain Man: What light the moon gives! How are we ever to shephard these poor, stupid creatures to their safety? Why should not the dragon punch us like some laser? Even to ask such question defines the limit at which my Corvette will run.
[He collapses.
The backlights dim, and the spotlight open on the narrator, who has a piece of paper in his hand. The play still goes on in the background, but you can't hear what the actors are saying.]
Narrator: Let me read some reviews for what you just watched. "Not since the greats, Ionesco and Beckett..." Ah-ha! There's something. Ionesco and Beckett. Stoppard, Camus, Dali, Worhol. Et cetera. Et cetera. I wonder if they're as pleased with the interpretation of their plays as I am with mine.
"Not since the greats. Ionesco and Beckett, has there been a play of such magnitude and social signifigance. The angst of the characters is suitably juxtaposed against the backdrop of a war-ravaged Europe."
Say, is this man's meanderings beginning to sound a little like my own?
"A wonderful piece! The intensity of the performances lends a vibrant life to the impersonality of the set."
"Beautifully written, well performed, wonderfully directed."
"A great insight into the confusion and horror of the human experience."
"Peacy just peachy."
"The Roller-fucking-coaster ride of the fucking summer!"
[The Narrator chases the actors from the stage.]
Here's one I particularily like. It reads, in capital letters, "COMPLETE SHIT." I found it while I was visiting my parents in a little farming community down south. It was in a local paper. The funny thing about this is that is took some stupid, inbred hick from nowhere to see through my facade.
[The Narrator pauses for a few seconds. He begins to speak, but stops. He pauses again, for a long time.]
There was only one time in my life that I took my profession seriously. For six horrible months I actually struggled with a piece, actually tried to say something. You see, my hobby is keeping ants. I have a few as pets in glass cages. Ants were the ones who were meant to evolve. Not humans. They are such beautiful creatures, ants. So logical. Precise. Like little computers. They're the race of choice in this Universe. The only play of mine which I ever took seriously was called "The Race."
[A picture of an atomic blast on the screen.]
It was about ants, and how happy they were when humans destroyed themselves with nuclear weapons. It was a flop. [Lights a cigarette.] All the critics thought it was a pathetic attempt at a cry of nuclear disarmament, instead of nuclear detonation. Stupid fucking shits.
[The Narrator sits, and smokes, for a while.]
I want to die onstage. It will be my final, great play. One performance only. I will tell the audience how wrong they were about me. How my plays meant nothing. How dumb and fake they are. Then I will hang myself, to their boos and jeers.
[The sillouette of a hanged man on the screen. The Narrator looks at it with satisfaction. He is just about to leave, when he turns back to the audience.]
Fuck you.
[Exit.]