I see no popcorn in the audience, but they’re eating something. They’re always eating this and drinking that. They always bring their crying babies, even though things can turn dangerous. Secure in their manhood, the thespian-loving daddies are confident they can protect their brood from turns in the plot.
Instead of chatting among themselves, the audience members applaud a bit and actually look to the stage as I pull a .45 auto from my tunic and shoot B (Boy) in the chest seven times.
Even to me, the sound is incredible, and I was prepared for it. The audience goes numb, and now everyone looks at the stage, except the babies, who are looking into the deep blue sky, little arms twitching.
Though B’s immediate fall is convincing, I can see flashes of his bulletproof vest through rents in his jacket. The costume people need to do something about that next time.
From stage right, G (Girl), whom I could love, but not in this performance, runs to the fallen actor and bends over him, looking up to me in shock and sorrow.
G: You killed your own brother!
ME: No, I killed your lover. Since you don’t know the difference, I
think you should be next.
Aiming the pistol at her face, I pull the trigger, but the hammer clicks on an empty chamber. Dropping the gun, I look up from G as two cops run beside her, their pistols aimed at me. As they speak their lines, I turn and flee.
COP 1: Stop, murderer!
COP 2: Stop, or we’ll have to shoot you in the back as you deserve!
The cops begin shooting as I leave the stage in a rush. My gun was louder. In this performance, the stage is the balcony of the Palm Hotel; so, I rush to the end and down the stairs. That’s when the hooting begins from the audience. I continue running through the palms, the cops run behind, and the audience knows they’ll have to follow or lose the plot. I’m glad to hear their enthusiasm behind me.
“Come on, cops, shoot the bastard, right in the back.”
“Run, Me! Your brother was a whore-hopper and got what he deserved!”
It’s a good crowd, about a hundred (plus babies), but I don’t know how many are willing to follow. We can never be certain.
I continue running (not too fast; I don’t want to lose them) and stop beneath the lychee tree near the shed for the water pump. Stooping, I look out to the theatrical world, not to the approaching audience. They slow, waiting for the next scene. The semi-loud whispers from the audience do not bother me. Their enthusiasm is expected. They’ll need to participate if they want to survive.
“He lost the police.”
“Stupid cops. I could have found him with my eyes closed.”
When most of the stragglers have arrived, G approaches me, her timing spot on.
G: Why did it take you so long to decide? Now I’m finally yours.
ME: I’ll take it.
G and I come together and feign sexual intercourse with our clothes on. Her breath is really bad; I hope mine is better for her. But we don’t have to kiss much, just hump. We must be convincing, for the audience cheers salaciously. Some of the audience. Mothers tell their babies not to look. The babies don’t care, reaching for their bottles. Their only idea of romance is sucking a pacifier.
Breathing hard, we recline on the grass, embracing, as the two police officers warily walk by, peering around, not seeing us. I speak when they’re out of (theatrical) earshot.
ME: If they find us, we’ll both be shot.
G: I would have died for your brother, and he’s just a whore-hopper.
I have to stifle a smile to hear G’s ad-libbed line, one lifted from the audience. Seeing the cops leave, we rise together.
G: We’ll run for freedom!
ME: The New Land is across the desert.
G: We’ll be safe there.
ME: If we’re not shot first.
Holding hands, G and I begin running. From the audience comes a smattering of applause.
Though not far away, the police are looking in the wrong direction. Ignoring a snickering from the audience, the cops do not turn to the lychee tree when B climbs it. White makeup covers all of his exposed skin. The cops only look upward when he begins speaking.
B: You will listen to the future.
[The police officers turn to him in awe.]
B: I speak from limbo. In order to find eternal peace, I must convey
eternal truth. I say to you now that my murderers, two, flee
across the desert to the new land.
[The police officers turn to each other.]
COP 1: Let’s go now!
COP 2: We have to catch them before they arrive at the New Land.
COP 1: Yes, that’s out of our jurisdiction.
COP 2: We’ll find them and deliver justice first!
To a bit of applause, the cops run off behind us. While they were engaged in dialog, I had to sneak off behind the hotel for a leak. G gives me a look of jealousy when I return to her side, and we continue running. The audience considers what they saw of this part of the performance. Of course, it is.
Followed by the audience, we active players swiftly leave the hotel grounds and continue across the dry, adjacent prairie. No desert here, but low grass, hardy bushes, and swamp in the distance. Since no water scene is part of the play, we’ll stick to dry ground.
Soon, we stop running and continue walking; the police also slow. Though the “cops” don’t see us, their players do, and understand we won’t be running for hours. This is only play acting.
Glancing at the audience, I try to determine how many understand the trek and have given up. They won’t be asking for a refund. I can’t tell, but I do see the rest of the actors and the stagehands moving swiftly behind the audience to be ready at the next scene.
After enough walking to tire even experienced professionals, a twist of the plot causes our troupe to ad-lib. Though G and I don’t blatantly turn behind, we do notice that one of our brethren playing a cop has twisted his ankle in a gopher hole and falls. Since G and I aren’t supposed to know of this, we continue, though we certainly pay attention to the improvised scenario.
COP 2: Damn, I busted my ankle!
[Cop 1 kneels beside him.]
COP 1: It’s probably just a sprain.
COP 2: How the hell would you know? You’re not a fuffing doctor.
COP 1: No, but Headquarters has sent one out to look at you.
[Cop 1 stands and faces the audience.]
COP 1: And here he or she comes now to render assistance.
[While Cop 2 moans, Cop 1 looks to the audience with
genuine expectation. Soon a woman runs to the cops
and begins her own improvisation.]
RN: I’m an RN. Let me look at him.
[The registered nurse from the audience examines the
injured ankle. Cop 2 groans loudly when she touches
him. Cop 1 looks peeved.]
RN: I think there’s a small fracture. Regardless, he won’t be walking
any farther.
[Cop 1 becomes too peeved for words.]
COP 1: I’ll have to put him out of his misery.
[Cop 1 draws his weapon and shoots Cop 2 in the
chest. The RN nearly has a heart attack to see the wound. Cop 1
begins groaning horrifically, but manages to speak.]
COP 2: Wounded twice in the same goddamn play? I’m calling my agent!
[Cop 1 directs his muzzle toward the RN’s forehead.]
COP 1: Drag him off and bury him. And I mean now.
After the slightest pause, the RN’s professionalism kicks in, aided by ad-libbed desperation. Grabbing Cop 2 by his shoulders, she grunts and groans louder than he does but manages to drag him away. Though his ankle is bearing too much weight, the pain in his chest masks it. The RN just wants to survive this scene.
G and I have never halted, but walk faster when Cop 1 proceeds behind us. G and I share a look. Though rendered into utter silence by the latest gunshot, the audience now begins murmuring. From the distance, the sound of an ambulance siren begins, drawing nearer.
ME: An air raid siren.
G: The war is going badly.
ME: But our people have plenty of fight left in them!
Since our play is actor-directed, I don’t seek help from our people behind the audience. But after walking until dusk, I look at the cop behind while speaking to G.
ME: This is a good place to rest for the night.
G: Yes, I see that the police force has halted for the evening.
Taking his cue, the cop stops walking and holsters his weapon.
I knew when to stop: we don’t have any stage lighting. And though it’s not dark enough to stop performing (because my actions can still be seen), I am famished, and face the audience.
ME: I see that local people loyal to our cause have brought victuals.
G: Without the support of average folk, our fight for freedom would
not succeed.
[The audience applauds itself.]
Pushing a small cart, a vendor from Sammich Master approaches us. As the cart arrives, I wonder what we, as actors, can do to ensure that we, as artists, achieve from the audience the appreciation its members give to themselves. After all, none of them are getting shot. But since changing human nature is not in the script, I retain my hunger.
SM: What’ll you have, folks?
ME: A cheese croissant. Make it a double. G?
G: Same. And bottle of carrot juice.
ME: I, also.
[The vendor hands us our order.]
SM: Here ya go. That’ll be a buck-two-eighty.
ME: Here’s my card, where’s your knuckle buster?
SM: Sorry, cash only, bud.
ME: Can’t you put this on my tab?
SM: No tabs in the desert. Cash only.
G: This is a prairie.
ME: Cash? You think I carry cash when I’m fleeing the authorities?
SM: No cash, no grub. I got a real job, mister. Your authorities aren’t.
G has to pay for it. That means I own her. I don’t know where in her costume she was keeping money. She and I just sit on our bumpers in the grass and eat our meals. I hope it doesn’t cause itching. Having taken their cue, most of the audience is also seated. Only now do I notice their picnic baskets. I wonder if local ordinances allow them alcoholic beverages during public entertainment. Booze is prohibited by the Actors’ Guild, but I think the carrot juice is fermented.
I haven’t heard a baby cry or a catcall since the last gunshot. Aware that during this lull in the play they should not be expecting much action, the audience remains seated, settling in as G and I embrace while reclining in the grass. I hope it won’t cause itching.
ME: Now we sleep together, and finally find peace in this day.
G: And if we never rise again, our last rest will be blissful.
Not the first lovely aahh comes from the audience. I do hear a yawn. Damn babies better stifle.
As soon as dark settles better than the audience, the stagehands approach the active actors with sleeping bags and a portable toilet. Ladies first for the loo. Waiting, the gent playing Cop 2 and I stand in line, no pushing. We do not try to hear her pee. While waiting, we brush our teeth, spitting in the prairie. Not too loud. Heroes in the warfare of love and betrayal don’t brush their teeth.
The three of us separate in individual sleeping bags not so near one another that we might hear gas during the night. We’ll have a busy day tomorrow, since the play’s climax arrives in the morning.
In the morning, I awake to the sound of crying babies. Tykes are not the most appreciative audience. I feel the same about them. I wonder if I can improvise some narcolepsy? Sitting on my sleeping bag, I see a cart from Beauty Breakfast approaching. Behind the audience, members of our loyal troupe are picketing Sammich Master. Our colleague formerly portraying Cop 1, despite a cast on his ankle and bandages across his chest, manages to carry a sign, though he stands still. What a trouper. I don’t see the RN who failed to bury him, but that instruction was only play acting.
After visiting the loo (last in line this time), I order breakfast. Cop 2 has already received his order, chewing his oatmeal bar as he walks to his position, stage right. G and I have settled on our separate sleeping bags, eating from paper plates, when the lightning strikes. My plate goes flying into the air, perhaps seeking the cloudy source of that sharp sound, but no. The sound was a bullet that penetrated my scrambled egg. Then comes the opening dialogue of this scene.
COP 2: Surrender, murderer and whore, and you might live to stand
trial!
G and I continue the scene with physical acting. Dropping our breakfast, we jump and run, stage left. Bullets strike the ground near our feet, but neither of our characters catches lead.
After running and dodging bullets for much of the morning, we finally stop, initiated by G’s physical action of confrontation. Turning, she slowly points a commanding finger at Cop 2, who is not far behind. G is slow in her actions in order to allow the remaining audience to catch up with the plot. We still have a good crowd.
G: There is my brother’s murderer!
[G points to me. My response is to step behind a knee-high
bush. The sophisticated audience understands that I am not
seen by Cop 2, who arrives.]
COP 2: Where? When I find him, I shall take him into custody.
G: There!
COP 2: If he resists, he will not receive his day in court.
ME: I am not resisting, your honor.
Cop 2 has changed his costume accordingly, now wearing a judge’s robe and wig. The audience murmurs. Babies suck their pacifiers. If not, they’ll be sucking intubation tubes. Cop 1 swings his picket sign at Sammich Master. The nearest audience members view this scene, but consider it faux.
Having received a stool from a low-flying stagehand, Cop 2 sits, rapping the seat between his legs with a gavel. (It’s really a mallet.)
JUDGE: This court will now adjourn. Bailiff, seat the jury.
[Stagehands walk through the audience, shoving
down shoulders.]
JUDGE: Defendant?
ME: For my first witness, I call Mr. B.
[Cop 1, despite his injuries, has changed into the
suit and tie of the plaintiff’s attorney.]
PLAINTIFF: Your honor, I object!
JUDGE: What, sir, is your objection?
PLAINTIFF: Your honor, it is well established that Mr. B has in fact been
murdered.
JUDGE: And how do you consider this matter to have been verified
within the view of this court?
PLAINTIFF: Because this trial is about his murder.
JUDGE: Objection overruled. Proceed, Defendant.
[As B steps near, wearing white makeup on all of his visible
skin, I face him.]
ME: Mr. B, what was your professional position before dying?
B: I was an operative for the government of our exalted New
Land.
[Audience murmurs; babies suck.]
ME: Very well, and what was the cause of your death?
B: Upon confronting a spy from that nation opposing our New
Land, I was murdered by that individual.
PLAINTIFF: Objection, Your Honor! How are we to believe the word of a
non-living entity?
B: Because I speak from Limbo, and people between Heaven
and Hell only speak the truth, or never leave nothingness.
JUDGE: Overruled. Continue, Defendant.
ME: And what, Mr. B, is the truth?
B: The truth I speak is that YOU were my killer!
[B points demonstratively toward Plaintiff/Cop 2. Audience
exults; babies suck]
JUDGE: Bailiff, sequester the jury.
The break in the play does not occur quite as anticipated, for as Bailiff turns to the audience, the lot of them rise to their feet and holler “Guilty!” en masse.
JUDGE: The court hereby accepts the verdict of the jury, and I
thank them personally for their service.
[Audience applauds itself.]
JUDGE Very well, the sentencing hearing shall now commence.
Proceed, Bailiff.
[As Bailiff turns to the audience, the lot of them expel a
single, shared expression.]
AUDIENCE: Death!
[Turning to Cop 2, I remove his own pistol from my tunic
and shoot him in the forehead. The audience exults,
including the babies.]
JUDGE: Very well, sentence executed, curtains close.
[Judge bangs on the top of his stool seat with the gavel
(which is really a mallet).]
Smiling grandly, G, B, Cop 1, and Me take our bow. The applause is generous. In the background, the RN reenters the scene, proceeding to Cop 2. This time, her prop is a shovel.
—
H. C. Turk is a self-taught writer, sound artist, and visual artist living in Florida. His fiction has been published by Villard, Tor, and The Chicago Review. His sound pieces have appeared on numerous web-sites and radio programs.
