Podcast.
ULFIE: What are you two doing here? Haven’t you caused me enough problems? What are you doing to the cats?
MERCK: You never told me you WORKED here.
MANDOLIN: Ulfie, you’re doing it again. Remember what I told you? Deception is only self-deception.
ULFIE: Oh. You’re still into your Zen-Master phase. I don’t need your fake-philosophy sound bites.
MERCK: She’s done this to you, too?
ULFIE: Where are the cheetahs?
MERCK: I thought we were at the leopard cage. I don’t see any monkeys.
MANDOLIN: What did you ever see in her?
MERCK: What we do is not relevent to each other -- only to the frame. The frame keeps us inside. The frame relates us to each other.
MANDOLIN: Frame? Bars of a cage?
ULFIE: Outside the frame, spiritual transformation is possible.
MERCK: You’re wrong. It all goes on inside the frame.
ULFIE: What about those outside, looking in?
MERCK: Like us looking at the cats?
ULFIE: And the cats looking at us.
MERCK: That’s not the same. They can’t get out.
ULFIE: And we can?
MERCK: As soon as the artist thinks she or he is outside the frame -- well, it’s not art any more. Art is inside the frame, too.
ULFIE: Inside the cage?
MANDOLIN: You two don’t know what you’re talking about.
MERCK: If you’re such an artist, you go into the cage.
ULFIE: Hey. Don’t do that. Can’t you read the sign?
(Boethius and Dante pop up from behind the rocks.)
BOETHIUS: Surely she’s not going to come inside here.
DANTE: That’s great. Zoops inside AND outside.
BOETHIUS: (sighing) Well, I guess I’ll just be forced to maul her.
DANTE: Look. He’s got his gun.
BOETHIUS: Forget it. I’m having some fun with this Zoop. She’s been getting on my nerves.
DANTE: Boethius!
MANDOLIN: I’m going inside. I’m talking to them. I understand their pain better than they do --
ULFIE: Mandolin!
(Mandolin sticks arms through bars of cage. Boethius runs toward her, yowling and roaring.)
BOETHIUS: Yah, yah, yah! Does this scare you? I’m a pacifist, you know -- I’d never hurt you.
(runs forward)
All my rage is directed inward. That’s why my fur is so ratty.
MANDOLIN: Merck! Photograph me while they shred me and gouge out my eyes. It will be my final artistic statement.
ULFIE: I don’t want to have to do this! (raises gun) Get away from the cage! I’m going to have to tranq the cat.
(shoots tranquilizer gun -- hits Mandolin by mistake. Mandolin falls to ground, arm inside cage)
BOETHIUS: Damn it! You missed me! I was looking forward to being tranqued out for the afternoon!
MANDOLIN: I’m dying -- I’m dyyyyiiiiinnnng.
ULFIE: No you’re not. You’re going to be sedated for a few hours. I told you to move out of the way, didn’t I.
MERCK: Will she be okay?
ULFIE: Oh, just a little dazed for a while, that’s all. Probably shouldn’t drive.
MERCK: What are you going to do about the cats?
(They look at Boethius and Dante. The two cheetahs are sitting down, looking very dejected.)
BOETHIUS: Dante, what’s going to happen to us?
DANTE: I don’t know.
ULFIE: People torment the cats all the time. I don’t know why they do it. I guess they think it’s fun to see them get angry.
MERCK: It’s cruel.
ULFIE: The more “natural” the habitat, the more we can blind ourselves to our insensitivity and arrogance.
MERCK: Can we let them go? Give them their freedom.
ULFIE: Of course not.
MERCK: Are you going to have them put down? Killed?
ULFIE: No.
MERCK: Oh.
ULFIE: I’m going to give them bigger rocks to hide behind. Then I’m quitting.
MERCK: What are you going to do?
ULFIE: Will you marry me?
MERCK: I knew I wasn’t imagining things -- we DID have something together.
ULFIE: We always have --
MERCK: What about her? (gestures to Mandolin, who is seated on the ground, humming the theme to Andrew Lloyd Weber’s CATS, but it’s very offkey)
ULFIE: What do you want to do?
MERCK: Take her picture. (Takes her picture with a Polaroid. Places photo next to Mandolin). Well Mandolin. Here’s something for you. Hope you like it.
ULFIE: Let’s go -- I need to get rid of this tranquilizer gun.
MERCK: Wait. (Takes off sweater. Underneath is a baggy t-shirt which reads:)
Art
Real Life
ULFIE: Good idea. (Takes off Zoo Security t-shirt. Underneath is a different t-shirt with the following word on it.)
PEACE
MERCK: I love you, Ulfie.
ULFIE: I love you, Merck.
(They walk offstage.)
BOETHIUS: Did you see that?
DANTE: (wiping eyes) Yes.
BOETHIUS: What are you crying about?
DANTE: I always cry at weddings.
BOETHIUS: Oh, I know. We’re just a couple of old maids and we never get to do anything like that any more.
(Looks at Mandolin.)
You know, I feel sort of sorry for her.
DANTE: It’s all your fault. You should feel sorry.
BOETHIUS: Does she have a camera?
DANTE: Yeah, the other one left it there.
BOETHIUS: Why don’t we do her a favor. Let’s really give her something to photograph.
DANTE: What are you talking about?
BOETHIUS: Can you reach her hat?
DANTE: Ugggh. You want me to TOUCH that?
BOETHIUS: It’s fake fur, isn’t it?
DANTE: All the same, it looks real. (Extends paw through cage and grabs her fur hat.) You want me to get the fake fur bag, too?
BOETHIUS: Yes. Look at me. Just look at me. My fur is worse than ever -- even this fake fur is better.
DANTE: Will you stop? Mine is just as bad. What to you have in mind?
BOETHIUS: Put it on. (Dante puts on the hat) My don’t you look silly. Do you remember when we were both absolutely drop-dead beautiful? Throw me the bag. (Boethius draps it around her neck -- does some campy posing)
Now look. She’s waking up -- she’ll take a picture of us and she’ll be rich and famous.
DANTE: Are you sure?
BOETHIUS: Sure! Zoops love this dreck. Look at this.
DANTE: Look at this pose!
BOETHIUS: Aren’t we just the lovely pair!
(Mandolin staggers to her feet, gathers her belongings, clutches head -- finds hat missing. Looks in cage and shrieks.)
MANDOLIN: AARRGGH!!!!! HOW HIDEOUS!!!! What has happened?? What have you done? WHY ARE YOU WEARING THOSE THINGS? Who have you mauled????
(Runs shrieking offstage)
DANTE: Well. That was another failed attempt at art.
BOETHIUS: I give up. I don’t understand that Zoop at all. (walks toward rock) Well, I’m taking a nap. This has worn me out.
DANTE: Where’s breakfast?
(joins Boethius behind rock)
(Merck runs onstage -- obviously overjoyed -- holds up hand with ring on it)
MERCK: I knew I could trust my senses -- I knew he really cared! And now we’re married! What more can I ask of art? There is more to knowledge than the five senses. Knowledge is a simply a promise of more knowledge. It’s all in technique and not in the image. It’s how you see, not what you see.
And still. Action and perception. They go together.
Like mange and the perception of being caged.
Like being tranqed and fighting the realization we have to live somewhere in relation to a frame.
Like greeting cards and
(pauses. wipes eyes)
SADNESS.
I feel happy and yet, I feel -- sad?
(looks toward the rocks)
I miss you two leopards -- no -- CHEETAHS. I miss you. Do you miss Africa?
(pause)
Okay. I won’t ask things when I already know the answer. That’s cruel, too, isn’t it?
I just came back to tell you how beautiful you are.
(Pauses. Raises voice).
You’re beautiful! (turns to go offstage -- begins to run) I’ll be late -- but remember -- you’re beautiful. (offstage -- voice, echoing) And -- I love you!
The End.
Friday, September 30, 2005
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Endangered: A Play in One Act (Part II)
Podcast.
(Enter Mandolin. She is wiping her face with a handkerchief -- has obviously been weeping. She is wearing a huge t-shirt that has words stencilled on it:
ARTIST
DON’T ASK
DON’T TELL
She is lost in thought.)
MANDOLIN: My mother wasn’t any kind of role model at all.
(Boethius runs toward the bars of the cage, does a little flip, hits the ground and rolls on the ground hysterically.)
DANTE: (whispering) Boethius. Come on. Snap out of it.
(Boethius is still sniveling, weeping)
MERCK: Those leopards are starting to scare me. I wonder if they’re psychotic.
(Goes to EMERGENCY ONLY phone box at side of cage. Lifts up receiver.)
Hi. I want to report that the leopards have gone berserk. They’re about to maul something. One is acting crazy & I’m scared --
Thanks. But I don’t want to go to another exhibit. I came here today to look at the FABULOUS FELINES. I read about it in the paper.
Is this the way they act in their natural habitat?
(Boethius does a mock charge toward Merck)
Oh my God! (Hangs up phone and backs away from cage)
DANTE: BOETHIUS!!!! Get a grip!!!
BOETHIUS: Tranq me! Go ahead ! Tranq me! Existence is too painful!
MERCK: This leopard is acting weird. (to Boethius) Hey kitty, kitty -- calm down -- it’s going to be a beautiful day in the neighborhood.
MANDOLIN: My father left home before I was 3. I don’t remember him.
And now they talk to me about patriarchy, male-domination, oppression.
Everything’s so literal. Where did the concept of metaphor go? Doesn’t
anyone have the ability to think in figurative terms any more?
DANTE: (perking up -- has been listening) No! Of course not! You lost that privilege, honey, when you and your kind started killing off the endangered & calling it a “fashion statement”!!
MERCK: I’m going to call the zookeeper about this. They look dangerous. I wonder if they have rabies.
BOETHIUS: I used to be beautiful and now look at me! I try to say I’m happy I’m not someone’s coat, but really I don’t care. Sometimes I wish they had taken me down. At least it would be over -- this suffering ---
MANDOLIN: Now extinction is a good example. Extinction is more a state of mind than a reality, isn’t it. I mean, things are always dying, being born, dying --
(pause) even dying out.
It’s not healthy to think of extinction as literal. Only figuratively. As part of the great chain of being. Metamorphosis. Transformation.
BOETHIUS: I’m dead either way. Either they take me for my skin. Or they tear up my home and kill my family. Or I get the slow death of being here in this cage -- every day a humiliation.
MERCK: Here kitty -- HAPPY CAT -- can you say that? I’m a HAPPY CAT.
BOETHIUS: (skips around the cage) This is NOT Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood. No I CAN NOT pronounce “happy cat” -- are you happy with your fut hat? Can you say HAPPY HAT?
(yowls in a sing-song tone)
Happy happy HAPPY oh H A P P Y oh HAPPY -- Can you say happy HAG? Hee-hee-hee. (Laughs hysterically while prancing around the cage.) Happy HAG! I’m a hag, you’re a hag -- we’re all hags here!
DANTE: Boethius! CALM DOWN! You are going to bring bad things on us!
BOETHIUS: What do you mean -- “going to bring” -- isn’t this bad enough?? (Yowls)
MERCK: (looking at Mandolin) Mandolin? Is that you?
MANDOLIN: (startled) Merck? Is that you?
MERCK: What are you doing here?
MANDOLIN: Nothing.
MERCK: Nothing?
MANDOLIN: Well, not exactly. I thought this would be a good place to collect my thoughts. I’ve been kind of depressed lately.
MERCK: Look at those leopards.
(Boethius, who has been skipping and prancing around the cage turns and taunts Dante. Dante runs up and tries to restrain Boethius.)
MANDOLIN: They’re not leopards. They’re cheetahs.
MERCK: I think they’re psychotic. Or rabid.
MANDOLIN: They’re worked up about something, all right. Maybe they haven’t been fed.
MERCK: What have you been depressed about?
MANDOLIN: Thinking too much. Just that.
MERCK: Have you seen Ulfie?
MANDOLIN: What’s so real about an action? An action is only a gesture. A gesture is the cousin of the sign. All gestures are signs. They symbolize something else. So, it’s wrong to think about things literally.
MERCK: Like you literally seducing my fiancé?
MANDOLIN: Fiancé? He was a boyfriend.
MERCK: He would have married me.
MANDOLIN: Action. Gestures. Names. Labels.
MERCK: I had already planned our wedding. You wrecked my future.
MANDOLIN: Just because you give something a label, doesn’t make your designation correct.
MERCK: Quit trying to play mind games.
MANDOLIN: If you look at it that way, you’re missing the point.
MERCK: What point? That you just wanted to steal him away from me. Just for the sport of it. Once you knew you had him, you decided to throw him away. Right?
(Boethius and Dante are struggling with each other).
MANDOLIN: That entire episode was an extended metaphor -- a metonymy, if you will -- of the Wheel of Fortune.
MERCK: Vanna White?
MANDOLIN: You are Lady Philosophy, so you spin the wheel. Whatever comes up, you have to buy.
MERCK: I already did. I bought a big pain in the ass. (pauses) You.
MANDOLIN: I’m only speaking for your own good, Merck.
(pause)
Plus, I did you a favor. I liberated you from your captivity. Ulfie isn’t right for you.
MERCK: Don’t you think I know what’s good for me?
MANDOLIN: We often don’t know what’s good for us. That’s why someone else has to take charge. Take care of us.
MERCK: Take away everything we care about?
MANDOLIN: All I know is that I am more attuned to the universe than most people -- most people are afraid to stop and look around them.
MERCK: Do you know how arrogant you sound? You like to patronize everyone else.
MANDOLIN: Me?
MERCK: Yeah. You. You say you’re an artist. But, you’re so cool, you pretend you’re some sort anti-artist. DON’T ASK, DON’T TELL. Hah!
MANDOLIN: I’m starting to hear a little hostility in your voice, Merck.
MERCK: (tauntingly) I’m starting to hear a little FEAR in your voice, Mandolin. (charges toward Mandolin. Mandolin jumps back).
MANDOLIN: Hey. Calm down. They’ll throw you out.
MERCK: Or lock me up in a cage??? For wanting to be an artist like you?
(tone changes -- speaks with resignation)
I wanted to take some pictures of the FABULOUS FELINES and make a series of greeting cards. But the cats have gone whacko. Plus they’re all mangy. Who wants to look at mangy wildlife for Christmas? It’s enough to turn your stomach.
MANDOLIN: Captivity of any sort is enough to make you sick.
MERCK: It’s all a state of mind, though. Right? That’s what you’ve been telling me.
MANDOLIN: That’s not the same.
MERCK: So if I say, hey, you’re a freak ‘cause you look so freaky & you think you’re cool but we all know you’re just making a cheap bid for attention -- and --
MANDOLIN: I’m hearing that you’re upset with me, Merck.
MERCK: Stop patronizing me! You “artist types” - you think you’re so cool. You can insult and trample anyone’s feelings, steal their boyfriends, ruin their future -- and then if anyone complains, you just say, “I have to have my freedom of speech!”
MANDOLIN: You’re twisting everything around. I’m more likely to be locked up like one of these cheetahs -- called crazy and put away -- or zombied out on Haldol or some high-powered tranquilizer that makes me stupid, but keeps me in my place.
(Boethius and Dante go back behind the rocks. They hide.)
MERCK: Look at the cats. They’re waiting to get us. They’re trying to trick us.
(Ulfie comes up carrying tranquilizer gun.)
ULFIE: Trouble here?
(As he approaches he recognizes Merck & Mandolin).
ULFIE: What are you two doing here? Haven’t you caused me enough problems? What are you doing to the cats?
MERCK: You never told me you WORKED here.
MANDOLIN: Ulfie, you’re doing it again. Remember what I told you? Deception is only self-deception.
ULFIE: Oh. You’re still into your Zen-Master phase. I don’t need your fake-philosophy sound bites.
MERCK: She’s done this to you, too?
ULFIE: Where are the cheetahs?
MERCK: I thought we were at the leopard cage. I don’t see any monkeys.
MANDOLIN: What did you ever see in her?
MERCK: What we do is not relevent to each other -- only to the frame. The frame keeps us inside. The frame relates us to each other.
MANDOLIN: Frame? Bars of a cage?
ULFIE: Outside the frame, spiritual transformation is possible.
MERCK: You’re wrong. It all goes on inside the frame.
ULFIE: What about those outside, looking in?
MERCK: Like us looking at the cats?
ULFIE: And the cats looking at us.
MERCK: That’s not the same. They can’t get out.
ULFIE: And we can?
MERCK: As soon as the artist thinks she or he is outside the frame -- well, it’s not art any more. Art is inside the frame, too.
ULFIE: Inside the cage?
MANDOLIN: You two don’t know what you’re talking about.
MERCK: If you’re such an artist, you go into the cage.
ULFIE: Hey. Don’t do that. Can’t you read the sign?
(Boethius and Dante pop up from behind the rocks.)
BOETHIUS: Surely she’s not going to come inside here.
DANTE: That’s great. Zoops inside AND outside.
BOETHIUS: (sighing) Well, I guess I’ll just be forced to maul her.
DANTE: Look. He’s got his gun.
BOETHIUS: Forget it. I’m having some fun with this Zoop. She’s been getting on my nerves.
DANTE: Boethius!
MANDOLIN: I’m going inside. I’m talking to them. I understand their pain better than they do --
ULFIE: Mandolin!
(Mandolin sticks arms through bars of cage. Boethius runs toward her, yowling and roaring.)
BOETHIUS: Yah, yah, yah! Does this scare you? I’m a pacifist, you know -- I’d never hurt you.
(runs forward)
All my rage is directed inward. That’s why my fur is so ratty.
MANDOLIN: Merck! Photograph me while they shred me and gouge out my eyes. It will be my final artistic statement.
ULFIE: I don’t want to have to do this! (raises gun) Get away from the cage! I’m going to have to tranq the cat.
(shoots tranquilizer gun -- hits Mandolin by mistake. Mandolin falls to ground, arm inside cage)
BOETHIUS: Damn it! You missed me! I was looking forward to being tranqued out for the afternoon!
MANDOLIN: I’m dying -- I’m dyyyyiiiiinnnng.
ULFIE: No you’re not. You’re going to be sedated for a few hours. I told you to move out of the way, didn’t I.
MERCK: Will she be okay?
ULFIE: Oh, just a little dazed for a while, that’s all. Probably shouldn’t drive.
MERCK: What are you going to do about the cats?
(They look at Boethius and Dante. The two cheetahs are sitting down, looking very dejected.)
BOETHIUS: Dante, what’s going to happen to us?
DANTE: I don’t know.
ULFIE: People torment the cats all the time. I don’t know why they do it. I guess they think it’s fun to see them get angry.
MERCK: It’s cruel.
ULFIE: The more “natural” the habitat, the more we can blind ourselves to our insensitivity and arrogance.
MERCK: Can we let them go? Give them their freedom.
ULFIE: Of course not.
MERCK: Are you going to have them put down? Killed?
ULFIE: No.
MERCK: Oh.
ULFIE: I’m going to give them bigger rocks to hide behind. Then I’m quitting.
MERCK: What are you going to do?
ULFIE: Will you marry me?
MERCK: I knew I wasn’t imagining things -- we DID have something together.
ULFIE: We always have --
MERCK: What about her? (gestures to Mandolin, who is seated on the ground, humming the theme to Andrew Lloyd Weber’s CATS, but it’s very offkey)
ULFIE: What do you want to do?
MERCK: Take her picture. (Takes her picture with a Polaroid. Places photo next to Mandolin). Well Mandolin. Here’s something for you. Hope you like it.
ULFIE: Let’s go -- I need to get rid of this tranquilizer gun.
MERCK: Wait. (Takes off sweater. Underneath is a baggy t-shirt which reads:)
Art
Real Life
ULFIE: Good idea. (Takes off Zoo Security t-shirt. Underneath is a different t-shirt with the following word on it.)
PEACE
MERCK: I love you, Ulfie.
ULFIE: I love you, Merck.
(They walk offstage.)
(Enter Mandolin. She is wiping her face with a handkerchief -- has obviously been weeping. She is wearing a huge t-shirt that has words stencilled on it:
ARTIST
DON’T ASK
DON’T TELL
She is lost in thought.)
MANDOLIN: My mother wasn’t any kind of role model at all.
(Boethius runs toward the bars of the cage, does a little flip, hits the ground and rolls on the ground hysterically.)
DANTE: (whispering) Boethius. Come on. Snap out of it.
(Boethius is still sniveling, weeping)
MERCK: Those leopards are starting to scare me. I wonder if they’re psychotic.
(Goes to EMERGENCY ONLY phone box at side of cage. Lifts up receiver.)
Hi. I want to report that the leopards have gone berserk. They’re about to maul something. One is acting crazy & I’m scared --
Thanks. But I don’t want to go to another exhibit. I came here today to look at the FABULOUS FELINES. I read about it in the paper.
Is this the way they act in their natural habitat?
(Boethius does a mock charge toward Merck)
Oh my God! (Hangs up phone and backs away from cage)
DANTE: BOETHIUS!!!! Get a grip!!!
BOETHIUS: Tranq me! Go ahead ! Tranq me! Existence is too painful!
MERCK: This leopard is acting weird. (to Boethius) Hey kitty, kitty -- calm down -- it’s going to be a beautiful day in the neighborhood.
MANDOLIN: My father left home before I was 3. I don’t remember him.
And now they talk to me about patriarchy, male-domination, oppression.
Everything’s so literal. Where did the concept of metaphor go? Doesn’t
anyone have the ability to think in figurative terms any more?
DANTE: (perking up -- has been listening) No! Of course not! You lost that privilege, honey, when you and your kind started killing off the endangered & calling it a “fashion statement”!!
MERCK: I’m going to call the zookeeper about this. They look dangerous. I wonder if they have rabies.
BOETHIUS: I used to be beautiful and now look at me! I try to say I’m happy I’m not someone’s coat, but really I don’t care. Sometimes I wish they had taken me down. At least it would be over -- this suffering ---
MANDOLIN: Now extinction is a good example. Extinction is more a state of mind than a reality, isn’t it. I mean, things are always dying, being born, dying --
(pause) even dying out.
It’s not healthy to think of extinction as literal. Only figuratively. As part of the great chain of being. Metamorphosis. Transformation.
BOETHIUS: I’m dead either way. Either they take me for my skin. Or they tear up my home and kill my family. Or I get the slow death of being here in this cage -- every day a humiliation.
MERCK: Here kitty -- HAPPY CAT -- can you say that? I’m a HAPPY CAT.
BOETHIUS: (skips around the cage) This is NOT Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood. No I CAN NOT pronounce “happy cat” -- are you happy with your fut hat? Can you say HAPPY HAT?
(yowls in a sing-song tone)
Happy happy HAPPY oh H A P P Y oh HAPPY -- Can you say happy HAG? Hee-hee-hee. (Laughs hysterically while prancing around the cage.) Happy HAG! I’m a hag, you’re a hag -- we’re all hags here!
DANTE: Boethius! CALM DOWN! You are going to bring bad things on us!
BOETHIUS: What do you mean -- “going to bring” -- isn’t this bad enough?? (Yowls)
MERCK: (looking at Mandolin) Mandolin? Is that you?
MANDOLIN: (startled) Merck? Is that you?
MERCK: What are you doing here?
MANDOLIN: Nothing.
MERCK: Nothing?
MANDOLIN: Well, not exactly. I thought this would be a good place to collect my thoughts. I’ve been kind of depressed lately.
MERCK: Look at those leopards.
(Boethius, who has been skipping and prancing around the cage turns and taunts Dante. Dante runs up and tries to restrain Boethius.)
MANDOLIN: They’re not leopards. They’re cheetahs.
MERCK: I think they’re psychotic. Or rabid.
MANDOLIN: They’re worked up about something, all right. Maybe they haven’t been fed.
MERCK: What have you been depressed about?
MANDOLIN: Thinking too much. Just that.
MERCK: Have you seen Ulfie?
MANDOLIN: What’s so real about an action? An action is only a gesture. A gesture is the cousin of the sign. All gestures are signs. They symbolize something else. So, it’s wrong to think about things literally.
MERCK: Like you literally seducing my fiancé?
MANDOLIN: Fiancé? He was a boyfriend.
MERCK: He would have married me.
MANDOLIN: Action. Gestures. Names. Labels.
MERCK: I had already planned our wedding. You wrecked my future.
MANDOLIN: Just because you give something a label, doesn’t make your designation correct.
MERCK: Quit trying to play mind games.
MANDOLIN: If you look at it that way, you’re missing the point.
MERCK: What point? That you just wanted to steal him away from me. Just for the sport of it. Once you knew you had him, you decided to throw him away. Right?
(Boethius and Dante are struggling with each other).
MANDOLIN: That entire episode was an extended metaphor -- a metonymy, if you will -- of the Wheel of Fortune.
MERCK: Vanna White?
MANDOLIN: You are Lady Philosophy, so you spin the wheel. Whatever comes up, you have to buy.
MERCK: I already did. I bought a big pain in the ass. (pauses) You.
MANDOLIN: I’m only speaking for your own good, Merck.
(pause)
Plus, I did you a favor. I liberated you from your captivity. Ulfie isn’t right for you.
MERCK: Don’t you think I know what’s good for me?
MANDOLIN: We often don’t know what’s good for us. That’s why someone else has to take charge. Take care of us.
MERCK: Take away everything we care about?
MANDOLIN: All I know is that I am more attuned to the universe than most people -- most people are afraid to stop and look around them.
MERCK: Do you know how arrogant you sound? You like to patronize everyone else.
MANDOLIN: Me?
MERCK: Yeah. You. You say you’re an artist. But, you’re so cool, you pretend you’re some sort anti-artist. DON’T ASK, DON’T TELL. Hah!
MANDOLIN: I’m starting to hear a little hostility in your voice, Merck.
MERCK: (tauntingly) I’m starting to hear a little FEAR in your voice, Mandolin. (charges toward Mandolin. Mandolin jumps back).
MANDOLIN: Hey. Calm down. They’ll throw you out.
MERCK: Or lock me up in a cage??? For wanting to be an artist like you?
(tone changes -- speaks with resignation)
I wanted to take some pictures of the FABULOUS FELINES and make a series of greeting cards. But the cats have gone whacko. Plus they’re all mangy. Who wants to look at mangy wildlife for Christmas? It’s enough to turn your stomach.
MANDOLIN: Captivity of any sort is enough to make you sick.
MERCK: It’s all a state of mind, though. Right? That’s what you’ve been telling me.
MANDOLIN: That’s not the same.
MERCK: So if I say, hey, you’re a freak ‘cause you look so freaky & you think you’re cool but we all know you’re just making a cheap bid for attention -- and --
MANDOLIN: I’m hearing that you’re upset with me, Merck.
MERCK: Stop patronizing me! You “artist types” - you think you’re so cool. You can insult and trample anyone’s feelings, steal their boyfriends, ruin their future -- and then if anyone complains, you just say, “I have to have my freedom of speech!”
MANDOLIN: You’re twisting everything around. I’m more likely to be locked up like one of these cheetahs -- called crazy and put away -- or zombied out on Haldol or some high-powered tranquilizer that makes me stupid, but keeps me in my place.
(Boethius and Dante go back behind the rocks. They hide.)
MERCK: Look at the cats. They’re waiting to get us. They’re trying to trick us.
(Ulfie comes up carrying tranquilizer gun.)
ULFIE: Trouble here?
(As he approaches he recognizes Merck & Mandolin).
ULFIE: What are you two doing here? Haven’t you caused me enough problems? What are you doing to the cats?
MERCK: You never told me you WORKED here.
MANDOLIN: Ulfie, you’re doing it again. Remember what I told you? Deception is only self-deception.
ULFIE: Oh. You’re still into your Zen-Master phase. I don’t need your fake-philosophy sound bites.
MERCK: She’s done this to you, too?
ULFIE: Where are the cheetahs?
MERCK: I thought we were at the leopard cage. I don’t see any monkeys.
MANDOLIN: What did you ever see in her?
MERCK: What we do is not relevent to each other -- only to the frame. The frame keeps us inside. The frame relates us to each other.
MANDOLIN: Frame? Bars of a cage?
ULFIE: Outside the frame, spiritual transformation is possible.
MERCK: You’re wrong. It all goes on inside the frame.
ULFIE: What about those outside, looking in?
MERCK: Like us looking at the cats?
ULFIE: And the cats looking at us.
MERCK: That’s not the same. They can’t get out.
ULFIE: And we can?
MERCK: As soon as the artist thinks she or he is outside the frame -- well, it’s not art any more. Art is inside the frame, too.
ULFIE: Inside the cage?
MANDOLIN: You two don’t know what you’re talking about.
MERCK: If you’re such an artist, you go into the cage.
ULFIE: Hey. Don’t do that. Can’t you read the sign?
(Boethius and Dante pop up from behind the rocks.)
BOETHIUS: Surely she’s not going to come inside here.
DANTE: That’s great. Zoops inside AND outside.
BOETHIUS: (sighing) Well, I guess I’ll just be forced to maul her.
DANTE: Look. He’s got his gun.
BOETHIUS: Forget it. I’m having some fun with this Zoop. She’s been getting on my nerves.
DANTE: Boethius!
MANDOLIN: I’m going inside. I’m talking to them. I understand their pain better than they do --
ULFIE: Mandolin!
(Mandolin sticks arms through bars of cage. Boethius runs toward her, yowling and roaring.)
BOETHIUS: Yah, yah, yah! Does this scare you? I’m a pacifist, you know -- I’d never hurt you.
(runs forward)
All my rage is directed inward. That’s why my fur is so ratty.
MANDOLIN: Merck! Photograph me while they shred me and gouge out my eyes. It will be my final artistic statement.
ULFIE: I don’t want to have to do this! (raises gun) Get away from the cage! I’m going to have to tranq the cat.
(shoots tranquilizer gun -- hits Mandolin by mistake. Mandolin falls to ground, arm inside cage)
BOETHIUS: Damn it! You missed me! I was looking forward to being tranqued out for the afternoon!
MANDOLIN: I’m dying -- I’m dyyyyiiiiinnnng.
ULFIE: No you’re not. You’re going to be sedated for a few hours. I told you to move out of the way, didn’t I.
MERCK: Will she be okay?
ULFIE: Oh, just a little dazed for a while, that’s all. Probably shouldn’t drive.
MERCK: What are you going to do about the cats?
(They look at Boethius and Dante. The two cheetahs are sitting down, looking very dejected.)
BOETHIUS: Dante, what’s going to happen to us?
DANTE: I don’t know.
ULFIE: People torment the cats all the time. I don’t know why they do it. I guess they think it’s fun to see them get angry.
MERCK: It’s cruel.
ULFIE: The more “natural” the habitat, the more we can blind ourselves to our insensitivity and arrogance.
MERCK: Can we let them go? Give them their freedom.
ULFIE: Of course not.
MERCK: Are you going to have them put down? Killed?
ULFIE: No.
MERCK: Oh.
ULFIE: I’m going to give them bigger rocks to hide behind. Then I’m quitting.
MERCK: What are you going to do?
ULFIE: Will you marry me?
MERCK: I knew I wasn’t imagining things -- we DID have something together.
ULFIE: We always have --
MERCK: What about her? (gestures to Mandolin, who is seated on the ground, humming the theme to Andrew Lloyd Weber’s CATS, but it’s very offkey)
ULFIE: What do you want to do?
MERCK: Take her picture. (Takes her picture with a Polaroid. Places photo next to Mandolin). Well Mandolin. Here’s something for you. Hope you like it.
ULFIE: Let’s go -- I need to get rid of this tranquilizer gun.
MERCK: Wait. (Takes off sweater. Underneath is a baggy t-shirt which reads:)
Art
Real Life
ULFIE: Good idea. (Takes off Zoo Security t-shirt. Underneath is a different t-shirt with the following word on it.)
PEACE
MERCK: I love you, Ulfie.
ULFIE: I love you, Merck.
(They walk offstage.)
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Endangered: A Play in One Act (Part I)
Podcast.
A play in one act (in three parts for the Fringe Journal)
first published in 1996 by Susan Smith Nash in catfishes and jackals (Potes and Poets Press), all rights reserved
Please register all performances in advance by contacting Susan Smith Nash at susan@beyondutopia.net. Also, please inquire about scholarships, grants, and prizes available for those who perform this play and provide information about the performance (reviews, photographs, copy of the program, etc.) Special incentives / prizes available to repertory groups using high school and undergraduate students. Please note that this play and others are collected in catfishes & jackals, published by potes & poets press, and available through Small Press Distribution. http://www.spdbooks.org/
The Players:
Dante: cheetah who has certain moth-eaten characteristics, either from friction or from nervous, incessant gnawing
Boethius: edgy, nervous cheetah with an even worse fur coat, lots of bald spots and mange
Merck: woman in her late 20s
Mandolin: woman in her early 20s
Ulfie: man in his early 30s, wears t-shirt with the following words stenciled on it:
ZOO
SECURITY
The Setting:
A cheetah cage at a zoo, one of the new "enviro-style" cage. A large sign hangs over the bars of the cheetah pen:
Zoos Without "Cages"
THANKS TO YOU,
OUR ZOO PATRONS
**** NEW ****
ENVIRO - STYLE LIVING QUARTERS
Then, across from that, another sign:
**** FABULOUS FELINES! ****
The cheetah pen consists of bars, two big rocks -- one on stage right, the other on stage left, a big tree trunk, and a big bucket with water. A painting of an African plain adorns the back wall of their pen. There are tall bars on the cage. On the outside of the cage is a bench and a sign: DO NOT PLACE BODY PARTS THROUGH THE RESTRAINTS.
Dante is crouched behind one rock; Boethius is crouched behind the other. Each is suffused in shadows. The audience can see them, but only vaguely. They are not visible to zoo patrons.
Ulfie walks by with tranquilizer gun in one hand, a rope in the other.
ULFIE: I’d better not have any trouble today, you hear? We’re not putting up with any more of this. You’re bad for business.
(Walks up to cheetah cage. Holds up tranquilizer gun.)
I don’t want to have to tranq you.
DANTE (shouting): I'M NOT COMING OUT!!! BOETHIUS, IT'S YOUR TURN!
BOETHIUS: Hey, Dante. Don't look at me -- I'm not coming out! -- it's your day! We already worked out the schedule.
ULFIE: Hey! Just keep it up, and you’re gonna get tranqed.
DANTE: NO!
BOETHIUS: You agreed. Just because the zoo didn't have many visitors yesterday doesn't change anything. It rained. What do you expect.
DANTE: I hate rain.
ULFIE: You two are bad for business.
BOETHIUS: Oh gag, it's despicable isn't it. Rain mats my fur.
DANTE: Honey, look at you. Nothing could make your fur any worse. Will you stop gnawing on it?
(Ulfie walks away. Looks back at cheetah cage and lets out a disgusted sound.)
ULFIE: I don’t know why we even bother. Everyone loves the dolphins and the monkeys. But you two -- you’re more trouble than you’re worth, if you ask me.
BOETHIUS: Thanks to my mange, I'm not some woman’s coat. Hah. A “leopard” coat.
DANTE: Yeah, they even get the name wrong. LEOPARD. What idiots. We're cheetahs.
BOETHIUS: Don't talk about this. This conversation is making me itch all over. (scratches self, gnaws on shoulder.) Honor is not the true good, nor is it the way to true happiness.
DANTE: Stop that! You'll only make it worse. (pauses.) And why are you quoting from The Consolation of Philosophy again?
BOETHIUS: Hey. Back off. It itches. And I want to. Okay?
(Boethius scrambles out from from his rock and pounces toward Dante. Dante jumps out in response. They tussle. Yowling ensues.)
DANTE & BOETHIUS (back and forth): Hey! It’s your turn, I tell you! It’s YOUR turn! I’m NOT going out. I’m not doing it! I’m tell you, you really bug me!
BOETHIUS (shouting): Why do the Good have to suffer?!?
DANTE: (half-yowling) Love. Love lost. Love searching. Love promising transformation—
(Sound of gates clanging offstage. Boethius and Dante stop their skirmish and run back to their rocks where they hide.)
DANTE: Look. They're coming in already. (Lifts up head and looks over the rock. Sees people, ducks down quickly.)
BOETHIUS: I told you, I'm NOT covering for you!
DANTE: Why don't we both refuse to go out? Both of us?
BOETHIUS: Won't work.
DANTE: Why not?
BOETHIUS: Don't you remember? We tried that already.
DANTE: Oh yeah.
BOETHIUS: Yeah, they tied our food up and hung it from the ceiling.
DANTE: And they thought they were so clever. That little strategy was sadistic is you ask me. My left front paw was messed up for a month after I took a dive jumping for it.
BOETHIUS: Yeah. And the stupid Zoops loved every minute.
DANTE: (titters hilariously) Zoops -- I love it when you call them that. Stupid Zoops.
BOETHIUS: Zoops. It's their own name for themselves. "Zoo Patrons" -- ZOOPS.
DANTE: (still tittering) Remember the time they left the gate open? hee-hee (titters) and when we'd push it open like we were going to escape --
BOETHIUS: Like we'd really want to -- like we really wanted the zoo-stapo to gun us down in cold blood.
DANTE: hee-hee -- that one hag wearing the leopard-skin coat (titters) she just about lost it when I pushed the gate open with my nose and looked her straight in her bloodsucking eyes.
BOETHIUS: haha -- yeah, she really snagged her pantyhose trying to get away. ooff -- that coat. aaargh. I'm itching again. (gnaws on other shoulder)
DANTE: (Hopefully) Did they leave the gate open?
BOETHIUS: No.
DANTE: (in hick accent) Then I aint-a goin' out there - no place, no way, no how. I ain't no gawl-dang clown.
BOETHIUS: Now you sound like a Zoop. aahh -- here comes one now.
(Merck enters. She looks despondent. Carries a large purse and a bright-colored scarf. She's wearing a large floppy hat, torn fishnet hose, flowing dress -- very Bohemian)
MERCK: I wonder if I'll see him here. He said he sometimes comes here -- likes to "commune with his unspoiled, primitive nature."
(walks toward the cheetah pen. puts down bag)
That's better. This is too heavy -- I should have known better than to bring it with me...
(reads sign.)
Fabulous Felines. Oh how nice. I love cats. Especially leopards like these.
DANTE: Leopards!
BOETHIUS: What do you expect? Another stupid Zoop.
MERCK: I miss him. I don't want to talk to him. I just want to see him -- that would be enough.
DANTE: Yeah a Zoop. With bad taste. Look at that hat. That scarf.
BOETHIUS: (prissily) That is truly appalling. Is she a gypsy or is she simply trying to wear her entire closet at once?
DANTE: Now don't be tacky. (peaks up over the rock) Is that a fur hat??? I'm going to be sick.
(Merck, who has seen Dante peaking over the rock, looks closely.)
MERCK: Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!
BOETHIUS: That makes me sick.
DANTE: (Lifts up from behind rock and shouts in a high-pitched voice at Merck) Here, bitchy, bitchy, bitchy!!!
MERCK: Oh, she's meowing. She must be hungry. Are you hungry, kitty?
BOETHIUS: How’d she know you were female?
DANTE: I don’t know. She really can’t see you, you know.
BOETHIUS: Well, I like it here. Hiding behind the rock.
DANTE: She can’t understand you either.
BOETHIUS: Well, we had already established that.
DANTE: (lifts up again) Hey you -- you cat-killer. Why don’t you beg us to come out? Yeah. Beg me! I want to see you beg for it.
BOETHIUS: Where’d you learn that line? From your last boyfriend?
DANTE: Beg for it baby! Start acting like you want it!
BOETHIUS: (addresses audience -- points to Dante) This is one thing I hate about being locked up with her—
DANTE: (getting a little too carried away) Beg, I mean B E G, I mean BEEEHHGGG --
BOETHIUS: This cage a prison cell.
DANTE: (jumping up on rock, yowling and twisting around) Aren’t you just GLAD you’re alive! Rrrrroowwwrr!!
BOETHIUS: Will you stop? You’re making me sick. (jumps up onto other rock) All right! I’ll perform for the stupid Zoop. I just can’t stand to see you degrade yourself like this!
MERCK: (In baby-talk) Ahhh -- aren’t you an adorable kitty. What a strong, tough leopard you are!
BOETHIUS: (shouting) Are you Lady Philosophy? Are you here to lead me out of my misery? Have you come to me in my jail cell?
MERCK: My. What a loud roar.
DANTE: Calm down, Boethius -- they’re gonna tranq you if you’re not careful.
MERCK: You’re friend is so cute, too. Hi kitty.
BOETHIUS: I’m ugly -- rrrowwrr!!!
BOETHIUS: I have been imprisoned because I’m different. And I’m endangered. I’m an animal who thinks.
(pause)
They say my ideas are dangerous -- I’m an artist -- it shows in my coat. I’m not worth skinning. Look at me!
My art is in need of a flea bath.
Bald spots! I deserve it.
MERCK: Your eyes look so sad. (takes out camera)
BOETHIUS: Please don’t do that. Don’t take my picture.
MERCK: Oh. You have mange, don’t you.
BOETHIUS: Please. It’s embarrassing.
MERCK: Someone ought to report this zoo. (focuses, then snaps picture)
BOETHIUS: Nooooooo! (weeping, hysterical) Please, no. Why did you?
MERCK: Now I have a photograph!
BOETHIUS: Dante -- Dante -- where are you?
(Begins running in circles, yowling all the while.)
DANTE: (dejected) Where’s breakfast?
(end of Part I)
A play in one act (in three parts for the Fringe Journal)
first published in 1996 by Susan Smith Nash in catfishes and jackals (Potes and Poets Press), all rights reserved
Please register all performances in advance by contacting Susan Smith Nash at susan@beyondutopia.net. Also, please inquire about scholarships, grants, and prizes available for those who perform this play and provide information about the performance (reviews, photographs, copy of the program, etc.) Special incentives / prizes available to repertory groups using high school and undergraduate students. Please note that this play and others are collected in catfishes & jackals, published by potes & poets press, and available through Small Press Distribution. http://www.spdbooks.org/
The Players:
Dante: cheetah who has certain moth-eaten characteristics, either from friction or from nervous, incessant gnawing
Boethius: edgy, nervous cheetah with an even worse fur coat, lots of bald spots and mange
Merck: woman in her late 20s
Mandolin: woman in her early 20s
Ulfie: man in his early 30s, wears t-shirt with the following words stenciled on it:
ZOO
SECURITY
The Setting:
A cheetah cage at a zoo, one of the new "enviro-style" cage. A large sign hangs over the bars of the cheetah pen:
Zoos Without "Cages"
THANKS TO YOU,
OUR ZOO PATRONS
**** NEW ****
ENVIRO - STYLE LIVING QUARTERS
Then, across from that, another sign:
**** FABULOUS FELINES! ****
The cheetah pen consists of bars, two big rocks -- one on stage right, the other on stage left, a big tree trunk, and a big bucket with water. A painting of an African plain adorns the back wall of their pen. There are tall bars on the cage. On the outside of the cage is a bench and a sign: DO NOT PLACE BODY PARTS THROUGH THE RESTRAINTS.
Dante is crouched behind one rock; Boethius is crouched behind the other. Each is suffused in shadows. The audience can see them, but only vaguely. They are not visible to zoo patrons.
Ulfie walks by with tranquilizer gun in one hand, a rope in the other.
ULFIE: I’d better not have any trouble today, you hear? We’re not putting up with any more of this. You’re bad for business.
(Walks up to cheetah cage. Holds up tranquilizer gun.)
I don’t want to have to tranq you.
DANTE (shouting): I'M NOT COMING OUT!!! BOETHIUS, IT'S YOUR TURN!
BOETHIUS: Hey, Dante. Don't look at me -- I'm not coming out! -- it's your day! We already worked out the schedule.
ULFIE: Hey! Just keep it up, and you’re gonna get tranqed.
DANTE: NO!
BOETHIUS: You agreed. Just because the zoo didn't have many visitors yesterday doesn't change anything. It rained. What do you expect.
DANTE: I hate rain.
ULFIE: You two are bad for business.
BOETHIUS: Oh gag, it's despicable isn't it. Rain mats my fur.
DANTE: Honey, look at you. Nothing could make your fur any worse. Will you stop gnawing on it?
(Ulfie walks away. Looks back at cheetah cage and lets out a disgusted sound.)
ULFIE: I don’t know why we even bother. Everyone loves the dolphins and the monkeys. But you two -- you’re more trouble than you’re worth, if you ask me.
BOETHIUS: Thanks to my mange, I'm not some woman’s coat. Hah. A “leopard” coat.
DANTE: Yeah, they even get the name wrong. LEOPARD. What idiots. We're cheetahs.
BOETHIUS: Don't talk about this. This conversation is making me itch all over. (scratches self, gnaws on shoulder.) Honor is not the true good, nor is it the way to true happiness.
DANTE: Stop that! You'll only make it worse. (pauses.) And why are you quoting from The Consolation of Philosophy again?
BOETHIUS: Hey. Back off. It itches. And I want to. Okay?
(Boethius scrambles out from from his rock and pounces toward Dante. Dante jumps out in response. They tussle. Yowling ensues.)
DANTE & BOETHIUS (back and forth): Hey! It’s your turn, I tell you! It’s YOUR turn! I’m NOT going out. I’m not doing it! I’m tell you, you really bug me!
BOETHIUS (shouting): Why do the Good have to suffer?!?
DANTE: (half-yowling) Love. Love lost. Love searching. Love promising transformation—
(Sound of gates clanging offstage. Boethius and Dante stop their skirmish and run back to their rocks where they hide.)
DANTE: Look. They're coming in already. (Lifts up head and looks over the rock. Sees people, ducks down quickly.)
BOETHIUS: I told you, I'm NOT covering for you!
DANTE: Why don't we both refuse to go out? Both of us?
BOETHIUS: Won't work.
DANTE: Why not?
BOETHIUS: Don't you remember? We tried that already.
DANTE: Oh yeah.
BOETHIUS: Yeah, they tied our food up and hung it from the ceiling.
DANTE: And they thought they were so clever. That little strategy was sadistic is you ask me. My left front paw was messed up for a month after I took a dive jumping for it.
BOETHIUS: Yeah. And the stupid Zoops loved every minute.
DANTE: (titters hilariously) Zoops -- I love it when you call them that. Stupid Zoops.
BOETHIUS: Zoops. It's their own name for themselves. "Zoo Patrons" -- ZOOPS.
DANTE: (still tittering) Remember the time they left the gate open? hee-hee (titters) and when we'd push it open like we were going to escape --
BOETHIUS: Like we'd really want to -- like we really wanted the zoo-stapo to gun us down in cold blood.
DANTE: hee-hee -- that one hag wearing the leopard-skin coat (titters) she just about lost it when I pushed the gate open with my nose and looked her straight in her bloodsucking eyes.
BOETHIUS: haha -- yeah, she really snagged her pantyhose trying to get away. ooff -- that coat. aaargh. I'm itching again. (gnaws on other shoulder)
DANTE: (Hopefully) Did they leave the gate open?
BOETHIUS: No.
DANTE: (in hick accent) Then I aint-a goin' out there - no place, no way, no how. I ain't no gawl-dang clown.
BOETHIUS: Now you sound like a Zoop. aahh -- here comes one now.
(Merck enters. She looks despondent. Carries a large purse and a bright-colored scarf. She's wearing a large floppy hat, torn fishnet hose, flowing dress -- very Bohemian)
MERCK: I wonder if I'll see him here. He said he sometimes comes here -- likes to "commune with his unspoiled, primitive nature."
(walks toward the cheetah pen. puts down bag)
That's better. This is too heavy -- I should have known better than to bring it with me...
(reads sign.)
Fabulous Felines. Oh how nice. I love cats. Especially leopards like these.
DANTE: Leopards!
BOETHIUS: What do you expect? Another stupid Zoop.
MERCK: I miss him. I don't want to talk to him. I just want to see him -- that would be enough.
DANTE: Yeah a Zoop. With bad taste. Look at that hat. That scarf.
BOETHIUS: (prissily) That is truly appalling. Is she a gypsy or is she simply trying to wear her entire closet at once?
DANTE: Now don't be tacky. (peaks up over the rock) Is that a fur hat??? I'm going to be sick.
(Merck, who has seen Dante peaking over the rock, looks closely.)
MERCK: Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!
BOETHIUS: That makes me sick.
DANTE: (Lifts up from behind rock and shouts in a high-pitched voice at Merck) Here, bitchy, bitchy, bitchy!!!
MERCK: Oh, she's meowing. She must be hungry. Are you hungry, kitty?
BOETHIUS: How’d she know you were female?
DANTE: I don’t know. She really can’t see you, you know.
BOETHIUS: Well, I like it here. Hiding behind the rock.
DANTE: She can’t understand you either.
BOETHIUS: Well, we had already established that.
DANTE: (lifts up again) Hey you -- you cat-killer. Why don’t you beg us to come out? Yeah. Beg me! I want to see you beg for it.
BOETHIUS: Where’d you learn that line? From your last boyfriend?
DANTE: Beg for it baby! Start acting like you want it!
BOETHIUS: (addresses audience -- points to Dante) This is one thing I hate about being locked up with her—
DANTE: (getting a little too carried away) Beg, I mean B E G, I mean BEEEHHGGG --
BOETHIUS: This cage a prison cell.
DANTE: (jumping up on rock, yowling and twisting around) Aren’t you just GLAD you’re alive! Rrrrroowwwrr!!
BOETHIUS: Will you stop? You’re making me sick. (jumps up onto other rock) All right! I’ll perform for the stupid Zoop. I just can’t stand to see you degrade yourself like this!
MERCK: (In baby-talk) Ahhh -- aren’t you an adorable kitty. What a strong, tough leopard you are!
BOETHIUS: (shouting) Are you Lady Philosophy? Are you here to lead me out of my misery? Have you come to me in my jail cell?
MERCK: My. What a loud roar.
DANTE: Calm down, Boethius -- they’re gonna tranq you if you’re not careful.
MERCK: You’re friend is so cute, too. Hi kitty.
BOETHIUS: I’m ugly -- rrrowwrr!!!
BOETHIUS: I have been imprisoned because I’m different. And I’m endangered. I’m an animal who thinks.
(pause)
They say my ideas are dangerous -- I’m an artist -- it shows in my coat. I’m not worth skinning. Look at me!
My art is in need of a flea bath.
Bald spots! I deserve it.
MERCK: Your eyes look so sad. (takes out camera)
BOETHIUS: Please don’t do that. Don’t take my picture.
MERCK: Oh. You have mange, don’t you.
BOETHIUS: Please. It’s embarrassing.
MERCK: Someone ought to report this zoo. (focuses, then snaps picture)
BOETHIUS: Nooooooo! (weeping, hysterical) Please, no. Why did you?
MERCK: Now I have a photograph!
BOETHIUS: Dante -- Dante -- where are you?
(Begins running in circles, yowling all the while.)
DANTE: (dejected) Where’s breakfast?
(end of Part I)
Sunday, September 11, 2005
Return to Righteous City
Podcast.
The danger of the sickness was its contagion. For the first time, I realized it, but it was too late. My knees trembled involuntarily, my head filled with images I could not identify, and I felt my stomach sink. I leaned over to touch the grass at the side of my grandmother's grave, hoping it would snap me back into the here and now. My grandmother's headstone of red Tishomingo granite was exactly the same shade as the sky where the sun had just slipped over the horizon. The cemetery was on a bluff that reminded me of the Seven Sisters Overlook just a few miles to the west, Arbuckle Falls Creek.
For years, I had lived in fear of exposure and humiliation because of my seizure disorder. Since Marcus, since I was a teenager, I could not stand anyone to touch me, for fear of being catapulted into the trembling and buzzing of the seizure, or worse, into the terrible lacunae, the empty lakes of time into which my mind drowned itself while in a fugue state.
Stanton had found where his father had hidden Tara and the other precious jade artifacts smuggled from Laos. He also had known that his father had been driven mad by the loss and by fear that monks or others were pursuing him.
Yet, Stanton had deliberately withheld Tara from his father. Would that cruel refusal provide him the kind of satisfying closure that revenge fantasies seem to promise?
Did the fact that Stanton deduced where it was, and then seduced me with the idea of a treasure hunt, prove a dedicated, unwavering love for me? Or, did it reveal a delight in playing my weaknesses, a thrill of knowing that you have a secret hold over another?
How was Stanton able to divine the degree to which I would identify with his tragic, troubled father? How could he have known how deeply I understood the man who was plagued with post-traumatic stress disorder, bullied daily by the voice of a god as yet unknown to humanity, but a harsh one who proclaimed him his first adherent in a doomsday cult of one?
I thought of Dad, laboring away in his basement, where equipment flickered, sizzled, and printers connected to sensors and computers produced charts and graphs. I could smell fresh-brewed coffee; I could hear my mother's soft voice blend with the voice of my grandmother: "She has such a pretty face, such pretty blue eyes."
With a great effort, I placed the flowers I had brought with me on the side of my grandmother's grave, then stood up. More unwanted and unrecognizable images flashed inside my mind's eye. Where could I go to heal? Where could I seek refuge? Would I awaken from yet another fugue state, possessed yet again, bruised, manipulated, torn, the very life taken from me? Did I even care any more?
A camouflage-painted two-way radio crackled from a bamboo hut on stilts somewhere in Laos. Mosquitoes whined, monks in saffron robes chanted the heart sutra. My head was filled with radio static and chanting. Somewhere quiet, soothing voices spoke to me.
I would be safe as long as I followed the voices.
The danger of the sickness was its contagion. For the first time, I realized it, but it was too late. My knees trembled involuntarily, my head filled with images I could not identify, and I felt my stomach sink. I leaned over to touch the grass at the side of my grandmother's grave, hoping it would snap me back into the here and now. My grandmother's headstone of red Tishomingo granite was exactly the same shade as the sky where the sun had just slipped over the horizon. The cemetery was on a bluff that reminded me of the Seven Sisters Overlook just a few miles to the west, Arbuckle Falls Creek.
For years, I had lived in fear of exposure and humiliation because of my seizure disorder. Since Marcus, since I was a teenager, I could not stand anyone to touch me, for fear of being catapulted into the trembling and buzzing of the seizure, or worse, into the terrible lacunae, the empty lakes of time into which my mind drowned itself while in a fugue state.
Stanton had found where his father had hidden Tara and the other precious jade artifacts smuggled from Laos. He also had known that his father had been driven mad by the loss and by fear that monks or others were pursuing him.
Yet, Stanton had deliberately withheld Tara from his father. Would that cruel refusal provide him the kind of satisfying closure that revenge fantasies seem to promise?
Did the fact that Stanton deduced where it was, and then seduced me with the idea of a treasure hunt, prove a dedicated, unwavering love for me? Or, did it reveal a delight in playing my weaknesses, a thrill of knowing that you have a secret hold over another?
How was Stanton able to divine the degree to which I would identify with his tragic, troubled father? How could he have known how deeply I understood the man who was plagued with post-traumatic stress disorder, bullied daily by the voice of a god as yet unknown to humanity, but a harsh one who proclaimed him his first adherent in a doomsday cult of one?
I thought of Dad, laboring away in his basement, where equipment flickered, sizzled, and printers connected to sensors and computers produced charts and graphs. I could smell fresh-brewed coffee; I could hear my mother's soft voice blend with the voice of my grandmother: "She has such a pretty face, such pretty blue eyes."
With a great effort, I placed the flowers I had brought with me on the side of my grandmother's grave, then stood up. More unwanted and unrecognizable images flashed inside my mind's eye. Where could I go to heal? Where could I seek refuge? Would I awaken from yet another fugue state, possessed yet again, bruised, manipulated, torn, the very life taken from me? Did I even care any more?
A camouflage-painted two-way radio crackled from a bamboo hut on stilts somewhere in Laos. Mosquitoes whined, monks in saffron robes chanted the heart sutra. My head was filled with radio static and chanting. Somewhere quiet, soothing voices spoke to me.
I would be safe as long as I followed the voices.
The Forgotten Soldier
Podcast.
Captain Harville lovingly wrapped the jade statue in strips of thin cotton fabric he had purchased at the market in Ventienne. The thin hand-dyed batik was being to put a use he had never expected. Before, they were useful curtains, now they were dramatically-hued swaddling cloths for a goddess who glowed with pastel iridescence, even when light faded from the room. The jade was unlike anything he had ever seen, reflected Harville. The hundred or so pebble-sized carvings that illustrated the power of Tara to take away worry, pain, and despair were also of iridescent, multi-colored pastel jade, but they did not have the same intensity of the primary sculpture, a little more than a foot in height, with exquisite intricacy. Simultaneously the Green Tara, with all her gifts of fertility and bounteousness, and the Pale Tara of infinite compassion and protection, this goddess radiated goodness, light, and forgiveness.
The radio in the corner of the bamboo hut on stilts he called his base camp had been quiet for several weeks now. It emitted the occasional crackle, but Harville knew that it was inoperable and that he had no way to communicate with his command unless he openly defied orders and went to Ventienne.
It did not matter. Harville was in no rush to communicate with his command. He knew that by this time he had entered the bureaucratic limbo of officially MIA (Missing In Action), and that it would be annoyingly complicated to get himself off that list. He knew other pilots who had, after miraculously reappearing, been moved off the MIA list and to the Casualty list, rather than back to Active Duty.
With a jolt, images of his buddy Brecker intruded: Brecker, smiling and embracing his wife after graduating from officer candidate school; Brecker, drinking a beer with him in Saigon; Brecker, thin and focused, analyzing flight plans; Brecker, the side of his neck torn off, his ear and pieces of skull missing, still speaking, still entreating Harville to keep going. Harville jabbed the end of the pointed stick he was using in his task into his thigh. The pain would force out the intrusive thoughts.
Mosquitoes whined around the netting that made a pale shrouded cone in the middle of his room. To escape them, he sat under the netting and wrapped each piece of carved jade before putting them carefully in a teak box he had saved.
Harville startled at the piercing cries of a newborn baby. The cries were in the room with him, and he heard a nurse congratulating him while soothing the mother. "He's got some powerful lungs there," resonated a male voice. The cries became more piercing. "Your son, sir. He's beautiful. He has your eyes," said someone in the room with him. Harville felt his eyes fill with tears. Tears from a quiet cloudburst splattered against his hands, then, as suddenly as they had appeared, disappeared.
In his loving hands, Tara's firm, jade flesh became soft, supple, responsive. She inclined herself slowly toward him. Casting shadows on the walls like Bali shadow puppets, Harville saw his Tara come alive on the woven bamboo panels of his hut. Her arms moving gracefully, she beckoned him to come with him, to follow him into the shadow. Suddenly sick with the sweet-pungent scent of burning opium that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere, Harville doubled over, extending his arm out to touch the shadow of Tara on the wall.
His fingers graced the fringes of the shadow, and as he did so, a sharp shock entered him. Flashes of light exploded in his head, like fireworks in the same iridescent hues of the jade statue. Closing his eyes, he felt his mind go into an unmapped territory, a place of madness and healing, of hurt and succor, of thirst and of eternal, quenching springs.
He was now truly lost.
Captain Harville lovingly wrapped the jade statue in strips of thin cotton fabric he had purchased at the market in Ventienne. The thin hand-dyed batik was being to put a use he had never expected. Before, they were useful curtains, now they were dramatically-hued swaddling cloths for a goddess who glowed with pastel iridescence, even when light faded from the room. The jade was unlike anything he had ever seen, reflected Harville. The hundred or so pebble-sized carvings that illustrated the power of Tara to take away worry, pain, and despair were also of iridescent, multi-colored pastel jade, but they did not have the same intensity of the primary sculpture, a little more than a foot in height, with exquisite intricacy. Simultaneously the Green Tara, with all her gifts of fertility and bounteousness, and the Pale Tara of infinite compassion and protection, this goddess radiated goodness, light, and forgiveness.
The radio in the corner of the bamboo hut on stilts he called his base camp had been quiet for several weeks now. It emitted the occasional crackle, but Harville knew that it was inoperable and that he had no way to communicate with his command unless he openly defied orders and went to Ventienne.
It did not matter. Harville was in no rush to communicate with his command. He knew that by this time he had entered the bureaucratic limbo of officially MIA (Missing In Action), and that it would be annoyingly complicated to get himself off that list. He knew other pilots who had, after miraculously reappearing, been moved off the MIA list and to the Casualty list, rather than back to Active Duty.
With a jolt, images of his buddy Brecker intruded: Brecker, smiling and embracing his wife after graduating from officer candidate school; Brecker, drinking a beer with him in Saigon; Brecker, thin and focused, analyzing flight plans; Brecker, the side of his neck torn off, his ear and pieces of skull missing, still speaking, still entreating Harville to keep going. Harville jabbed the end of the pointed stick he was using in his task into his thigh. The pain would force out the intrusive thoughts.
Mosquitoes whined around the netting that made a pale shrouded cone in the middle of his room. To escape them, he sat under the netting and wrapped each piece of carved jade before putting them carefully in a teak box he had saved.
Harville startled at the piercing cries of a newborn baby. The cries were in the room with him, and he heard a nurse congratulating him while soothing the mother. "He's got some powerful lungs there," resonated a male voice. The cries became more piercing. "Your son, sir. He's beautiful. He has your eyes," said someone in the room with him. Harville felt his eyes fill with tears. Tears from a quiet cloudburst splattered against his hands, then, as suddenly as they had appeared, disappeared.
In his loving hands, Tara's firm, jade flesh became soft, supple, responsive. She inclined herself slowly toward him. Casting shadows on the walls like Bali shadow puppets, Harville saw his Tara come alive on the woven bamboo panels of his hut. Her arms moving gracefully, she beckoned him to come with him, to follow him into the shadow. Suddenly sick with the sweet-pungent scent of burning opium that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere, Harville doubled over, extending his arm out to touch the shadow of Tara on the wall.
His fingers graced the fringes of the shadow, and as he did so, a sharp shock entered him. Flashes of light exploded in his head, like fireworks in the same iridescent hues of the jade statue. Closing his eyes, he felt his mind go into an unmapped territory, a place of madness and healing, of hurt and succor, of thirst and of eternal, quenching springs.
He was now truly lost.
Postcards from a Dream
Podcast.
"Stay back, Ophelia!" Dad's voice was echoed and amplified by the gray-blue walls of the cave which I realized was the entrance to a never-developed mine. I could tell by his voice that he had found something. Perhaps it was the cache of coins and jewelry hidden by the notorious Captain Endes-Wicker and Miss Rosamund MacLean, also known as the "Pink Lady Bandits." Displaced when their homes were burned to the ground during the Civil War, they moved west where they found it convenient to thieve from the thieves who regularly robbed settlers on the California Trail as they passed through this remote part of northern Arizona and southern Utah.
"What is it?"
"Don't come in. It's bad. You won't like it," said Dad.
It was too late. Curiosity had already gotten the best of me, and I was fast on Dad's heels. If he had found the treasure, I wanted to see it.
"Don't worry, Dad. You can trust me. I won't break or disturb any artifacts." The air in the small cave was cool, and the rough-hewn walls had a blue-green sheen as the sun's rays hit the limestone matrix, interspersed with azurite, malachite, chysacolla, along with chalcopyrite, which flashed a glittery metallic color.
"What kind of treasure? Where is it?" From where I stood, I could see Dad leaning over a wooden crate of some kind, and what appeared to be a broken chair.
"I'm not sure if it is what we had hoped to find. But, someone definitely was here, and, from the looks of it, it wasn't very pleasant," said Dad. "Brace yourself, Ophelia. It's ugly."
My head immediately filled with ghastly images of bones, knives, manacles, implements of torture from the Spanish Inquisition. An "Iron Lady" for the Pink Ladies?
"Really?" I asked, leaning forward, trying to make my way around a large rock.
"Really, Ophelia. You needn't sound so ghoulish," admonished Dad. "But you have to remember these were not calm places or times."
Crawling over the rock, I felt ashamed of my curiosity, and of the fact that I half-hoped to find something shocking. What confronted me gave me pause, and I wasn't quite sure how to react. In the crate were dishes, cups, cutlery, and neatly stacked mason jars with rusty lids. A pile of old blankets and what appeared to be what used to be a mattress until the chipmunks, squirrels, and mice liberated the stuffing from it for their own constructions. A tobacco tin lay open, empty. Then I saw what made Dad ask me to hang back. It lay next to a crumpled, half-chewed up wool blanket.
"Are those what I think they are?" I asked, in a gagged, choked voice.
"It depends on what you think they are," said Dad. His voice had deepened, and it was no longer so harsh.
"Oh no. They can't be. Is that human hair? Scalps??" I asked. To my annoyance, I could feel myself growing tingly, my hearing muffled, and a strange buzzing and twitching. I was starting to go into the dissociative state I had learned accompanied a seizure.
"These are a couple of old fur collars." Dad's voice was calm and I could hear humor coming back. I could feel my stomach begin to untwist itself.
"Yes? What? How?" I struggled with my body.
"It totally had me fooled. From a distance, they look bad."
I looked at them and could feel myself coming back to the presence.
"Ick," I said. "The mice got to them. Is that a coat next to the blankets?"
"Yes. Do you want to take a closer look?" asked Dad. "The dishes are basic but in pretty good condition. I think they're old, but probably 1890s rather than 1870s. Someone must have holed up here for part of a summer or fall."
I moved closer. It was easy to see how Dad had mistaken the gnawed scraps of fur for scalps and the idea made me smile. I would enjoy teasing Dad about this on the long drive back home. I knelt next to the wooden crate and started to lift out the dishes and to look at them carefully. In the meantime, I was watchful for spiders or scorpions.
Between two plates I found a small New Testament, but no evidence of individual ownership. It reminded me of looking through the contents of a box of merchandise, and not the contents of one's temporary home. Then, removing the last plate, I encountered a small packet of postcards, clearly Victorian. Although they were faded, they were in surprisingly good condition and the colors were still vibrant.
"Dad, look. Postcards from Marrakesh," I said.
"I went there once," responded Dad, wistfully.
"You did?" That statement temporarily distracted me, then I returned to the half-dozen postcards that depicted a magical, Moorish fantasy of minarets, intricate tile, fountains, arched doorways, veiled women.
"Dreams of Marrakesh," I read. "This is amazing. Look, there are several scenes. Here's the Kasbah. Also Medina, Riyadh, Mosques, Al-Moor-Avid Palace," I said.
"I really found North Africa to be interesting. I used to feel sorry for the dockworkers, though. The French were hard on them," mused Dad.
"Can we take the entire crate? It's not very big," I asked, as I began to replace the plates.
"Let's be sure to put it in the back, just in case there are spiders or scorpions we haven't found," said Dad. "Then we'll go by a U-Haul store and get proper packaging for the drive home."
"Sounds great." I leafed through the postcards again and wondered how a person intrigued by Marrakesh would find himself or herself in northern Arizona on the Kaibab monocline, north of the North Rim of the Grand Canyon.
The drive back to the hotel went quickly, and my mind joined that of the former tenant of the Blue Cave, lost in dreams of Marrakesh.
"Stay back, Ophelia!" Dad's voice was echoed and amplified by the gray-blue walls of the cave which I realized was the entrance to a never-developed mine. I could tell by his voice that he had found something. Perhaps it was the cache of coins and jewelry hidden by the notorious Captain Endes-Wicker and Miss Rosamund MacLean, also known as the "Pink Lady Bandits." Displaced when their homes were burned to the ground during the Civil War, they moved west where they found it convenient to thieve from the thieves who regularly robbed settlers on the California Trail as they passed through this remote part of northern Arizona and southern Utah.
"What is it?"
"Don't come in. It's bad. You won't like it," said Dad.
It was too late. Curiosity had already gotten the best of me, and I was fast on Dad's heels. If he had found the treasure, I wanted to see it.
"Don't worry, Dad. You can trust me. I won't break or disturb any artifacts." The air in the small cave was cool, and the rough-hewn walls had a blue-green sheen as the sun's rays hit the limestone matrix, interspersed with azurite, malachite, chysacolla, along with chalcopyrite, which flashed a glittery metallic color.
"What kind of treasure? Where is it?" From where I stood, I could see Dad leaning over a wooden crate of some kind, and what appeared to be a broken chair.
"I'm not sure if it is what we had hoped to find. But, someone definitely was here, and, from the looks of it, it wasn't very pleasant," said Dad. "Brace yourself, Ophelia. It's ugly."
My head immediately filled with ghastly images of bones, knives, manacles, implements of torture from the Spanish Inquisition. An "Iron Lady" for the Pink Ladies?
"Really?" I asked, leaning forward, trying to make my way around a large rock.
"Really, Ophelia. You needn't sound so ghoulish," admonished Dad. "But you have to remember these were not calm places or times."
Crawling over the rock, I felt ashamed of my curiosity, and of the fact that I half-hoped to find something shocking. What confronted me gave me pause, and I wasn't quite sure how to react. In the crate were dishes, cups, cutlery, and neatly stacked mason jars with rusty lids. A pile of old blankets and what appeared to be what used to be a mattress until the chipmunks, squirrels, and mice liberated the stuffing from it for their own constructions. A tobacco tin lay open, empty. Then I saw what made Dad ask me to hang back. It lay next to a crumpled, half-chewed up wool blanket.
"Are those what I think they are?" I asked, in a gagged, choked voice.
"It depends on what you think they are," said Dad. His voice had deepened, and it was no longer so harsh.
"Oh no. They can't be. Is that human hair? Scalps??" I asked. To my annoyance, I could feel myself growing tingly, my hearing muffled, and a strange buzzing and twitching. I was starting to go into the dissociative state I had learned accompanied a seizure.
"These are a couple of old fur collars." Dad's voice was calm and I could hear humor coming back. I could feel my stomach begin to untwist itself.
"Yes? What? How?" I struggled with my body.
"It totally had me fooled. From a distance, they look bad."
I looked at them and could feel myself coming back to the presence.
"Ick," I said. "The mice got to them. Is that a coat next to the blankets?"
"Yes. Do you want to take a closer look?" asked Dad. "The dishes are basic but in pretty good condition. I think they're old, but probably 1890s rather than 1870s. Someone must have holed up here for part of a summer or fall."
I moved closer. It was easy to see how Dad had mistaken the gnawed scraps of fur for scalps and the idea made me smile. I would enjoy teasing Dad about this on the long drive back home. I knelt next to the wooden crate and started to lift out the dishes and to look at them carefully. In the meantime, I was watchful for spiders or scorpions.
Between two plates I found a small New Testament, but no evidence of individual ownership. It reminded me of looking through the contents of a box of merchandise, and not the contents of one's temporary home. Then, removing the last plate, I encountered a small packet of postcards, clearly Victorian. Although they were faded, they were in surprisingly good condition and the colors were still vibrant.
"Dad, look. Postcards from Marrakesh," I said.
"I went there once," responded Dad, wistfully.
"You did?" That statement temporarily distracted me, then I returned to the half-dozen postcards that depicted a magical, Moorish fantasy of minarets, intricate tile, fountains, arched doorways, veiled women.
"Dreams of Marrakesh," I read. "This is amazing. Look, there are several scenes. Here's the Kasbah. Also Medina, Riyadh, Mosques, Al-Moor-Avid Palace," I said.
"I really found North Africa to be interesting. I used to feel sorry for the dockworkers, though. The French were hard on them," mused Dad.
"Can we take the entire crate? It's not very big," I asked, as I began to replace the plates.
"Let's be sure to put it in the back, just in case there are spiders or scorpions we haven't found," said Dad. "Then we'll go by a U-Haul store and get proper packaging for the drive home."
"Sounds great." I leafed through the postcards again and wondered how a person intrigued by Marrakesh would find himself or herself in northern Arizona on the Kaibab monocline, north of the North Rim of the Grand Canyon.
The drive back to the hotel went quickly, and my mind joined that of the former tenant of the Blue Cave, lost in dreams of Marrakesh.
Saturday, September 10, 2005
Runway to Oblivion
Podcast.
It was long past midnight, and the shrieks, grunts, croaks, and howls coming from the mangrove swamp made me shudder. We stood on a narrow and I wondered how, between the mosquitoes, snakes, and alligators, I could help Stanton do the work he was here to do. The full moon illuminated the gravel road we had driven on, but the airstrip itself looked like an infinitely deep pond, or a portal to another dimension. "They want me to watch a landing and to see how it's affecting the airstrip," said Stanton. "My guess that each landing, or even touch-and-go, makes it crumble. They didn't drain the swamp. They didn't bother to build up the roadbed, either. Now, it's like a thin skin of asphalt on top of a sponge."
"Can't you do this during the day?" I asked.
"They don't fly during the day." Stanton walked over to an electrical box, opened it, and flipped a switch. A long array of foot-high blue lights suddenly extended out in front of us, dreamlike and surreal.
"Have you ever seen fireworks displays from above?" I asked. Stanton was leaning over what appeared to be loose wires. I continued, even though he did not seem to be paying attention. "It's the most amazing thing. They almost look like neon splashes made by neon pebbles being dropped into an electric lake. I saw it in Chicago one Fourth of July and in towns along the edge of Lake Michigan. We took off right when the displays were beginning. It was unforgettable."
In the blue glow, Stanton's eyes glittered as he turned sharply and looked at me.
"That's what I thought the first time I saw a firefight at night," said Stanton. "Especially the mortars, but also the tracers. It wasn't easy to appreciate it when you were in it, but from a distance, all I could think of was how it looked like a Fourth of July fireworks show."
In the dim illumination of the airstrip, I could see that the surface of the asphalt was, in fact, crumbling. In other places, it had what appeared to be mud cracks.
"How large are the planes? Are they heavy?" I asked.
"Lots of Piper Commanches, but I like the Piper Meridian. Beautiful plane. Good range, comes in at around at 2,200 pounds, but of course, the force on the runway depends on the velocity and angle of impact," said Stanton.
"No jets?" I asked.
Stanton looked at me and laughed. "Come on. You are joking aren't you?"
"Yeah, I guess so." I hoped what I thought was a tree limb on the edge of the runway was not a huge snake. Alligators were a real danger, too.
"Why small planes? Why not helicopters? Even old gunships?"
"Gunships? Have you ever seen one? They're big and heavy. No one wants to waste the weight on crazy old cannons," said Stanton. "The Bells are okay - the 200 series - but they're slow, noisy and expensive. No payload, either."
"What kind of payload are you talking about?" I asked. "The obvious thing would be drugs, right? Narcotraficantes?"
"Not usually. Not here. Other cargo, other people. They carry documents and information, not drugs. That's why the airstrip does not have to be long. But, sometimes they are bringing in things. But, I'm only here to recommend how, when, and where to resurface. I try to know as little as possible about what my clients do."
Stanton looked at me and down at the runway.
"Are you going to just stand there and step on that snake?" he asked.
"Ack! It was a snake. I thought maybe a tree limb," I said. I scampered quickly toward Stanton. I tripped on a chunk of asphalt runway. Stanton caught as I fell forward. His arms were strong, and the linen of his loose-fitting white shirt felt soft and warm. He pulled me to him and I felt his lips press against mine. My pulse raced.
Slowly he released me. "Too bad there's work to do out here." He stroked my arm gently, then pulled up my arm for a closer look. "You are being devoured by mosquitoes."
"Yes, I know. The sooner we finish, the better. It won't be long. I'll just make observations, then we'll go." For the first time, I heard the engine of a small plane.
"Why do you do this?" I asked.
"Why did you go to South America?" responded Stanton.
"I needed to prove something to myself," I said. "Plus, I didn't really care whether or not I made it back. I couldn't see any future for myself."
"Looks like we're two of a kind," said Stanton, a bit too lightly. He took out night vision goggles and looked up. "These are useless for this. No depth perception. But, I can get a sense of how they're doing on their approach."
I looked down at the airstrip. It was rough, and I imagined that any landing would kick up a spray of gravel-sized chunks of asphalt.
"Not good. They're too low and fast. It's going to grind."
"They're going to miss the approach?" I asked.
"No. The landing will be okay. It's just going to be unbelievably hard on the surface. It's going to stick and then grind."
Stanton was right. It was a hard landing, fast and low. Instead of bouncing, though, they stuck the landing because the left wheel dug in and ground down the runway. Stanton took a number of shots with his camera. Then, pulled me to him.
"Let's get out of here. We don't need to be here when they deplane. Not necessarily safe to know."
Stanton's Tonga Green Range Rover was still cool inside, the engine still warm. Stanton started it up and we left quickly. At the other end of the runway, I could see shadowy figures and vehicles moving about.
"Time to move," he said, as he drove the vehicle quickly but without turning on the headlamps. Once out of the mangrove swamp and on a local road, Stanton turned on the lights.
"You're going with me, aren't you?" he asked.
"Anywhere," I said.
He leaned toward me, put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me toward him. I knew then that our futures were intertwined. I could have resisted, but I did not. Instead, I felt the core of my being catapult itself into a yet-unknown trajectory, taking off from the airstrip we had just left behind us, a runway to oblivion.
It was long past midnight, and the shrieks, grunts, croaks, and howls coming from the mangrove swamp made me shudder. We stood on a narrow and I wondered how, between the mosquitoes, snakes, and alligators, I could help Stanton do the work he was here to do. The full moon illuminated the gravel road we had driven on, but the airstrip itself looked like an infinitely deep pond, or a portal to another dimension. "They want me to watch a landing and to see how it's affecting the airstrip," said Stanton. "My guess that each landing, or even touch-and-go, makes it crumble. They didn't drain the swamp. They didn't bother to build up the roadbed, either. Now, it's like a thin skin of asphalt on top of a sponge."
"Can't you do this during the day?" I asked.
"They don't fly during the day." Stanton walked over to an electrical box, opened it, and flipped a switch. A long array of foot-high blue lights suddenly extended out in front of us, dreamlike and surreal.
"Have you ever seen fireworks displays from above?" I asked. Stanton was leaning over what appeared to be loose wires. I continued, even though he did not seem to be paying attention. "It's the most amazing thing. They almost look like neon splashes made by neon pebbles being dropped into an electric lake. I saw it in Chicago one Fourth of July and in towns along the edge of Lake Michigan. We took off right when the displays were beginning. It was unforgettable."
In the blue glow, Stanton's eyes glittered as he turned sharply and looked at me.
"That's what I thought the first time I saw a firefight at night," said Stanton. "Especially the mortars, but also the tracers. It wasn't easy to appreciate it when you were in it, but from a distance, all I could think of was how it looked like a Fourth of July fireworks show."
In the dim illumination of the airstrip, I could see that the surface of the asphalt was, in fact, crumbling. In other places, it had what appeared to be mud cracks.
"How large are the planes? Are they heavy?" I asked.
"Lots of Piper Commanches, but I like the Piper Meridian. Beautiful plane. Good range, comes in at around at 2,200 pounds, but of course, the force on the runway depends on the velocity and angle of impact," said Stanton.
"No jets?" I asked.
Stanton looked at me and laughed. "Come on. You are joking aren't you?"
"Yeah, I guess so." I hoped what I thought was a tree limb on the edge of the runway was not a huge snake. Alligators were a real danger, too.
"Why small planes? Why not helicopters? Even old gunships?"
"Gunships? Have you ever seen one? They're big and heavy. No one wants to waste the weight on crazy old cannons," said Stanton. "The Bells are okay - the 200 series - but they're slow, noisy and expensive. No payload, either."
"What kind of payload are you talking about?" I asked. "The obvious thing would be drugs, right? Narcotraficantes?"
"Not usually. Not here. Other cargo, other people. They carry documents and information, not drugs. That's why the airstrip does not have to be long. But, sometimes they are bringing in things. But, I'm only here to recommend how, when, and where to resurface. I try to know as little as possible about what my clients do."
Stanton looked at me and down at the runway.
"Are you going to just stand there and step on that snake?" he asked.
"Ack! It was a snake. I thought maybe a tree limb," I said. I scampered quickly toward Stanton. I tripped on a chunk of asphalt runway. Stanton caught as I fell forward. His arms were strong, and the linen of his loose-fitting white shirt felt soft and warm. He pulled me to him and I felt his lips press against mine. My pulse raced.
Slowly he released me. "Too bad there's work to do out here." He stroked my arm gently, then pulled up my arm for a closer look. "You are being devoured by mosquitoes."
"Yes, I know. The sooner we finish, the better. It won't be long. I'll just make observations, then we'll go." For the first time, I heard the engine of a small plane.
"Why do you do this?" I asked.
"Why did you go to South America?" responded Stanton.
"I needed to prove something to myself," I said. "Plus, I didn't really care whether or not I made it back. I couldn't see any future for myself."
"Looks like we're two of a kind," said Stanton, a bit too lightly. He took out night vision goggles and looked up. "These are useless for this. No depth perception. But, I can get a sense of how they're doing on their approach."
I looked down at the airstrip. It was rough, and I imagined that any landing would kick up a spray of gravel-sized chunks of asphalt.
"Not good. They're too low and fast. It's going to grind."
"They're going to miss the approach?" I asked.
"No. The landing will be okay. It's just going to be unbelievably hard on the surface. It's going to stick and then grind."
Stanton was right. It was a hard landing, fast and low. Instead of bouncing, though, they stuck the landing because the left wheel dug in and ground down the runway. Stanton took a number of shots with his camera. Then, pulled me to him.
"Let's get out of here. We don't need to be here when they deplane. Not necessarily safe to know."
Stanton's Tonga Green Range Rover was still cool inside, the engine still warm. Stanton started it up and we left quickly. At the other end of the runway, I could see shadowy figures and vehicles moving about.
"Time to move," he said, as he drove the vehicle quickly but without turning on the headlamps. Once out of the mangrove swamp and on a local road, Stanton turned on the lights.
"You're going with me, aren't you?" he asked.
"Anywhere," I said.
He leaned toward me, put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me toward him. I knew then that our futures were intertwined. I could have resisted, but I did not. Instead, I felt the core of my being catapult itself into a yet-unknown trajectory, taking off from the airstrip we had just left behind us, a runway to oblivion.
Friday, September 09, 2005
Dark Angel
Podcast.
"Unsightly heretics, beswiggered and swaggered, Stand and Deliver!" The man's voice was shrill and war-torn. We spoke on the phone, but it felt as though he were in the room with me. I shivered. It was an invitation to a shared hallucination. "Sir. Don't you remember me?" I asked the man on the other end of the phone. "I was a visitor a few weeks ago. I came to see you. I married Stanton."
I didn't add that I had divorced him shortly thereafter, without Stanton's knowledge. When he was served the papers, he had not been too happy. Perhaps it didn't matter. The divorce could be set aside, and we could return to our previous state, despite the time elapsed, the searching, the pain. Suffering had its place.
"Ah, yes, you're the missy I placed on ironic feathers, and the girl-child with thanksgiving and a wet, slappy towel."
"Yes, sir." The light in the foyer where I was placing the call was flickering. Outside, a tremendous storm surged. I was a mile away from The Oasis, but we were under a tornado warning, and I was afraid to go outside in the slashing rain and wind, hail, and downed lines. It was, in fact, not too smart to be on the telephone. People had been electrocuted this way.
"You know about Jeoffry, don't you?" asked the voice. It was hesitant, suspicious.
"Yes, sir."
"Don't patronize me!" the shrill voice again.
"Sir. Your cat," I said, slowly and clearly into the phone. "Your cat, Jeoffry, 'a mixture of gravity and waggery,' correct?"
"Ah, yes. You do remember," said the voice on the phone.
"Dear little girl, don't forget to do one thing," said the voice.
"Sir, I'm not a little girl. I married your son."
"Irrelevant! Don't forget to pet the cat, stroke the fur until it crackles bright. It and only it will suffice."
"Yes, sir. Permission to ask why, sir?" I made my voice a clear and unemotional as possible.
"HaHA! Electricity, of course!" At that very moment, a burst of light illuminated the night sky like a flare, and something snapped in my ear like a percussion cap.
"Yes, sir. Jeoffry again."
"No. No and no and no. The science is for the Smart," growled the voice. "He counteracts the Devil, who is death, by brisking about the life."
"As in Christopher, sir."
"Of course." I heard a choking sound, like a grown man trying to hold back then gagging on tears.
"She has never forgiven me," he said. There was a long pause. I could hear small cracking noises, as though someone were breaking small sticks.
"She's back," I said. "She has returned to tell you that all is forgiven."
I looked at the shoebox-sized wooden container I balanced on my lap, and, sliding back the lid, I contemplated the thick golden lining and pouch. Inside, she lay, catching every possible beam of light and reflecting it back, magnified. It was the statue of Tara, carved of multi-hued jade somewhere in Laos. Was Tara a goddess? A Boddhisattva? An angel? A trick of light, electricity, and the imagination?
"Stroke the cat, get the sizzle back," said the voice. "Don't lie to me!"
"Life is more than electricity, sir." Lightning ripped the sky, thunder cracked and roared, and the walls shook. I was not sure I believed my own words.
There was a pause. When the voice came back on line, it was no longer shrill, not longer in the grips of a psychotic break. It was smooth, calm, rational.
"You've found Tara?"
"I'll be there after the storm breaks, sir." I paused and looked at my watch. "Count on thirty minutes."
Soon, the hostage would be delivered.
But, in its place, another would be taken. I thought of the vows I would take again soon.
My heart fluttered, my heart felt strangely light at the thought. Captivity was the purest, rarest, and possibly most dear form of intimacy.
"Unsightly heretics, beswiggered and swaggered, Stand and Deliver!" The man's voice was shrill and war-torn. We spoke on the phone, but it felt as though he were in the room with me. I shivered. It was an invitation to a shared hallucination. "Sir. Don't you remember me?" I asked the man on the other end of the phone. "I was a visitor a few weeks ago. I came to see you. I married Stanton."
I didn't add that I had divorced him shortly thereafter, without Stanton's knowledge. When he was served the papers, he had not been too happy. Perhaps it didn't matter. The divorce could be set aside, and we could return to our previous state, despite the time elapsed, the searching, the pain. Suffering had its place.
"Ah, yes, you're the missy I placed on ironic feathers, and the girl-child with thanksgiving and a wet, slappy towel."
"Yes, sir." The light in the foyer where I was placing the call was flickering. Outside, a tremendous storm surged. I was a mile away from The Oasis, but we were under a tornado warning, and I was afraid to go outside in the slashing rain and wind, hail, and downed lines. It was, in fact, not too smart to be on the telephone. People had been electrocuted this way.
"You know about Jeoffry, don't you?" asked the voice. It was hesitant, suspicious.
"Yes, sir."
"Don't patronize me!" the shrill voice again.
"Sir. Your cat," I said, slowly and clearly into the phone. "Your cat, Jeoffry, 'a mixture of gravity and waggery,' correct?"
"Ah, yes. You do remember," said the voice on the phone.
"Dear little girl, don't forget to do one thing," said the voice.
"Sir, I'm not a little girl. I married your son."
"Irrelevant! Don't forget to pet the cat, stroke the fur until it crackles bright. It and only it will suffice."
"Yes, sir. Permission to ask why, sir?" I made my voice a clear and unemotional as possible.
"HaHA! Electricity, of course!" At that very moment, a burst of light illuminated the night sky like a flare, and something snapped in my ear like a percussion cap.
"Yes, sir. Jeoffry again."
"No. No and no and no. The science is for the Smart," growled the voice. "He counteracts the Devil, who is death, by brisking about the life."
"As in Christopher, sir."
"Of course." I heard a choking sound, like a grown man trying to hold back then gagging on tears.
"She has never forgiven me," he said. There was a long pause. I could hear small cracking noises, as though someone were breaking small sticks.
"She's back," I said. "She has returned to tell you that all is forgiven."
I looked at the shoebox-sized wooden container I balanced on my lap, and, sliding back the lid, I contemplated the thick golden lining and pouch. Inside, she lay, catching every possible beam of light and reflecting it back, magnified. It was the statue of Tara, carved of multi-hued jade somewhere in Laos. Was Tara a goddess? A Boddhisattva? An angel? A trick of light, electricity, and the imagination?
"Stroke the cat, get the sizzle back," said the voice. "Don't lie to me!"
"Life is more than electricity, sir." Lightning ripped the sky, thunder cracked and roared, and the walls shook. I was not sure I believed my own words.
There was a pause. When the voice came back on line, it was no longer shrill, not longer in the grips of a psychotic break. It was smooth, calm, rational.
"You've found Tara?"
"I'll be there after the storm breaks, sir." I paused and looked at my watch. "Count on thirty minutes."
Soon, the hostage would be delivered.
But, in its place, another would be taken. I thought of the vows I would take again soon.
My heart fluttered, my heart felt strangely light at the thought. Captivity was the purest, rarest, and possibly most dear form of intimacy.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
The Goddess' Fugue
Podcast.
At the tip of Baja California, where the Pacific Ocean curves around to meet the Sea of Cortez, Col. Harville read the text of a telex he had transcribed onto an index card: "To understand the curse of God's Hostage, you must pass under the arches of San Lucas del Cabo." Harville could not remember whether or not the telex had ever existed or if it had been simply a dream. Too much time had passed, and the physical telex message was nowhere to be found. The day was hot, but the breeze merely warm. Harville sat on the balcony of an old hotel overlooking the water. In the distance, a whale surfaced.
The day before, Harville had hired a van which also doubled as a taxi. There were no small ones in this part of Baja California. So, he was stuck with a 12-passenger van with room for luggage, with "Taxi Gremio" stenciled in gold gothic lettering against a dark crimson field. Inside, the van smelled vaguely of Lysol and strongly of jasmine-scented air freshener.
He drove around the peninsula, not sure of what he was searching for, but driving nonetheless. At a beachside palm-frond hut, he ate scallops and langostino, while haggling over the price of a boat.
Someone stood at the end of a pier. Harville watched the fishing boats going out to catch whatever they could find. The sport fishermen were seeking marlin, or something equally showy to mount on a wall.
The image of the smoothly carved jade Tara he had fallen in love with never wavered in his head. She was a glowing presence - a shimmering, radiant presence - the point of light that gave him the courage to will his heart to continue beating, even when the omnipresent and overwhelming sense of loss and despair had caused so many others to simply give up the fight.
Ambiguity, anxiety, doubt, despair - the words clattered in his head like the Pachinko balls he saw in Tokyo on his leave on his way back from Laos to the U.S. Yes, they clattered with a sharp, empty noise, meaningless without the actual texture of the experiences he had suffered, the tastes, smells, touch of jungle, stone temples, infinitely smooth jade.
The night, with windows open to the warm, dark breezes, a storm somewhere in the Pacific brewed magic for those who loved the crash and spray of sheets of water reduced to buckets and fistfuls of water, or even for those who preferred their water served up fine, in droplets like the tears of a goddess who sees the suffering of her beloved people, and then realizes that even she, with her supernal powers, cannot change the laws of cause and effect and the destiny some call karma.
As the night entered the phase when the stars were like grains of sand scattered on the vast beach head of the sky, the incessant pounding of surf resonated with deeper tones and the length of each interlude was like a three-note cantus - roll, CRASH, splatter - roll, CRASH, splatter. The water dissolved and became fire, with mortars or cannons. What should have been soothing slowly turned into something that unsettled him to the core, even after he shut the windows in desperation.
He tried to block out the noise, but soon realized that his beloved Tara was the only presence that could bring him out alive.
Harville knew that the time to cross under the arches had to be at night. The sparkling stars a million eyes to witness those who dared to approach the water's edge despite warnings that surf would sweep people away to a certain death. Rip tides were strong.
The boat he had purchased from a young guy from Todos Santos was easier to manage than he had expected. He was fully prepared to use the small boat coxswain skills he had acquired at a special skills school. The surf churned and crashed as he approached the rocks, and then the arches that glowed reddish pink or ruddy brown in the daylight hours.
When Harville returned to shore, he heard the voice of God telling him to go to the Oasis and to wait.
In his mind's eye, Tara's light flickered and died.
The voice of God was all-consuming. It demanded rapt and undivided attention.
Harville obeyed. After all, he understood now. He was God's Hostage.
At the tip of Baja California, where the Pacific Ocean curves around to meet the Sea of Cortez, Col. Harville read the text of a telex he had transcribed onto an index card: "To understand the curse of God's Hostage, you must pass under the arches of San Lucas del Cabo." Harville could not remember whether or not the telex had ever existed or if it had been simply a dream. Too much time had passed, and the physical telex message was nowhere to be found. The day was hot, but the breeze merely warm. Harville sat on the balcony of an old hotel overlooking the water. In the distance, a whale surfaced.
The day before, Harville had hired a van which also doubled as a taxi. There were no small ones in this part of Baja California. So, he was stuck with a 12-passenger van with room for luggage, with "Taxi Gremio" stenciled in gold gothic lettering against a dark crimson field. Inside, the van smelled vaguely of Lysol and strongly of jasmine-scented air freshener.
He drove around the peninsula, not sure of what he was searching for, but driving nonetheless. At a beachside palm-frond hut, he ate scallops and langostino, while haggling over the price of a boat.
Someone stood at the end of a pier. Harville watched the fishing boats going out to catch whatever they could find. The sport fishermen were seeking marlin, or something equally showy to mount on a wall.
The image of the smoothly carved jade Tara he had fallen in love with never wavered in his head. She was a glowing presence - a shimmering, radiant presence - the point of light that gave him the courage to will his heart to continue beating, even when the omnipresent and overwhelming sense of loss and despair had caused so many others to simply give up the fight.
Ambiguity, anxiety, doubt, despair - the words clattered in his head like the Pachinko balls he saw in Tokyo on his leave on his way back from Laos to the U.S. Yes, they clattered with a sharp, empty noise, meaningless without the actual texture of the experiences he had suffered, the tastes, smells, touch of jungle, stone temples, infinitely smooth jade.
The night, with windows open to the warm, dark breezes, a storm somewhere in the Pacific brewed magic for those who loved the crash and spray of sheets of water reduced to buckets and fistfuls of water, or even for those who preferred their water served up fine, in droplets like the tears of a goddess who sees the suffering of her beloved people, and then realizes that even she, with her supernal powers, cannot change the laws of cause and effect and the destiny some call karma.
As the night entered the phase when the stars were like grains of sand scattered on the vast beach head of the sky, the incessant pounding of surf resonated with deeper tones and the length of each interlude was like a three-note cantus - roll, CRASH, splatter - roll, CRASH, splatter. The water dissolved and became fire, with mortars or cannons. What should have been soothing slowly turned into something that unsettled him to the core, even after he shut the windows in desperation.
He tried to block out the noise, but soon realized that his beloved Tara was the only presence that could bring him out alive.
Harville knew that the time to cross under the arches had to be at night. The sparkling stars a million eyes to witness those who dared to approach the water's edge despite warnings that surf would sweep people away to a certain death. Rip tides were strong.
The boat he had purchased from a young guy from Todos Santos was easier to manage than he had expected. He was fully prepared to use the small boat coxswain skills he had acquired at a special skills school. The surf churned and crashed as he approached the rocks, and then the arches that glowed reddish pink or ruddy brown in the daylight hours.
When Harville returned to shore, he heard the voice of God telling him to go to the Oasis and to wait.
In his mind's eye, Tara's light flickered and died.
The voice of God was all-consuming. It demanded rapt and undivided attention.
Harville obeyed. After all, he understood now. He was God's Hostage.
Monday, September 05, 2005
The Lucky Stiff Mine and Smelter, Or, the Consequences of Invading Paraguay
Podcast.
"I think - rather, I know - I escaped with my life," I said to Dad. It was the first time I actually admitted it. "I didn't have a plan except to market industrial equipment and chemicals. Little did I know I would be considered something weird - a spy or something -- especially after I doing market research."
"Asking questions, you mean," commented Dad. We were driving in his specially equipped Suburban and the frequency analyzer and other geophysical equipment clicked and hummed in a way I had come to consider comforting. The leather seats felt cool against the deep bruises that, two weeks later, still twinged.
"The worst part was when someone came up with the dumb idea that security contractors from Texas were in the country to pave the way for border countries to invade Paraguay and take over the supposedly oil-rich Chaco," I said.
"I thought they already fought one war of that, and there was no oil after all," said Dad.
"True enough. But, sometimes the truth doesn't matter. After all, there's oil to the south in Argentina, and oil and gas to the west in Bolivia," I said.
"It always amazes me how much political hay one can make by bandying about a ridiculous lie. Why would Argentina and Bolivia want to invade Paraguay at this moment in time?" pondered Dad.
As we made our way across the Nevada desert toward Tonopah, I looked at the mesquite, the thorny locust bushes, and saw a pair of lizards scamper away. This landscape echoed the Chaco, except in scale. The Chaco was wilder and more exotic, where everything was sharper, thornier, and more venomous. I remembered the grasshoppers that were easily as long as my hand. I took photos, knowing that no one would possibly believe me without evidence.
"Dad, I'm not political. I have no idea. I can't understand why anyone would even begin to contemplate invasion. People can make deals with each other, can't they? If they're talking about wanting to feed Brazil's insatiable hunger for energy, well, it seems easy enough for the governments to come up with some sort of agreement," I said.
"You've got a point. But, if someone can get someone important to believe the rumor mill, it could help advance someone's hidden agenda," pointed out Dad.
"I hate politics," I said. "It gives me a stomachache to think of this stuff."
"Yes, and your head in the sand approach is what caused you to play right into their hands. You asked questions, did what you considered to be very focused market research for your product lines, and you had absolutely no idea of how you'd be interpreted," said Dad.
"Give me some credit," I said.
"You've had a hard life, Ophelia," said Dad. "But not in a way that anyone would understand. It has not made you street smart. If anything, the things you study make you more vulnerable. Let's take your interest in Spanish literature."
"Ha," I had to laugh. "Sure. My Spanish vocabulary is impeccable. That is, if you're from 16th-century Spain and you love the Siglo de Oro theater."
"You probably sounded like an actor butchering Shakespeare," laughed Dad.
"Hey, that's not funny," I smiled. I frowned as I remembered the sound of footsteps on cobbled streets, the sound of AR-15s going "locked and loaded."
"Don't forget the Ambassador's little questionnaire and the statistics he wanted me to gather," I said. My bruises ached again. "What a nightmare. Why couldn't he ask the questions himself?"
We drove the next 50 or so miles in silence. The trip had involved a detour through Las Vegas, and a trek down the Extraterrestrial Highway, where I had spent a few days working on a survey with my brother. Tonopah was north, and the wind whipped the Suburban as we went through a narrow valley.
I took a deep breath.
"So, Dad. To make a long story short, I'm ready to give up that line of work."
"I thought you already did," said Dad, a bit suspiciously, I thought.
"Hmm, right." Organ pipe cactus and Joshua trees became larger as we ascended a pediment into a ragged end of a piece of the Basin and Range geological province. We were going to investigate the old Lucky Stiff mine and smelter to see if Dad's equipment could detect any undiscovered extensions of the veins of gold or mineralization. It also could help determine if there were commercial quantities of minerals left behind, previously considered unrecoverable.
"I'm ready to try the exploration business again. I'd like to continue to do research on historical mines and properties, like the Lucky Stiff."
"That's what I thought," said Dad. "I'm glad you're still wanting to do that. There is much more potential in this than what you were doing before."
"Well, I'm sorry about what I've put you and Mother through," I said. While I felt a sense of relief that I had escaped with only bruises, nightmares, and intrusive images of violence and gore, I knew that I was unable to fully divorce myself what it was that drove me to such business in the first place. And, to make things worse, I had a feeling Dad would take a dim view of Stanton, if the moment ever presented itself that I would introduce him.
A cold chill washed over me, and I watched goose bumps rise up on my arms as I thought of Stanton and the way he kissed me in South Florida.
"I think - rather, I know - I escaped with my life," I said to Dad. It was the first time I actually admitted it. "I didn't have a plan except to market industrial equipment and chemicals. Little did I know I would be considered something weird - a spy or something -- especially after I doing market research."
"Asking questions, you mean," commented Dad. We were driving in his specially equipped Suburban and the frequency analyzer and other geophysical equipment clicked and hummed in a way I had come to consider comforting. The leather seats felt cool against the deep bruises that, two weeks later, still twinged.
"The worst part was when someone came up with the dumb idea that security contractors from Texas were in the country to pave the way for border countries to invade Paraguay and take over the supposedly oil-rich Chaco," I said.
"I thought they already fought one war of that, and there was no oil after all," said Dad.
"True enough. But, sometimes the truth doesn't matter. After all, there's oil to the south in Argentina, and oil and gas to the west in Bolivia," I said.
"It always amazes me how much political hay one can make by bandying about a ridiculous lie. Why would Argentina and Bolivia want to invade Paraguay at this moment in time?" pondered Dad.
As we made our way across the Nevada desert toward Tonopah, I looked at the mesquite, the thorny locust bushes, and saw a pair of lizards scamper away. This landscape echoed the Chaco, except in scale. The Chaco was wilder and more exotic, where everything was sharper, thornier, and more venomous. I remembered the grasshoppers that were easily as long as my hand. I took photos, knowing that no one would possibly believe me without evidence.
"Dad, I'm not political. I have no idea. I can't understand why anyone would even begin to contemplate invasion. People can make deals with each other, can't they? If they're talking about wanting to feed Brazil's insatiable hunger for energy, well, it seems easy enough for the governments to come up with some sort of agreement," I said.
"You've got a point. But, if someone can get someone important to believe the rumor mill, it could help advance someone's hidden agenda," pointed out Dad.
"I hate politics," I said. "It gives me a stomachache to think of this stuff."
"Yes, and your head in the sand approach is what caused you to play right into their hands. You asked questions, did what you considered to be very focused market research for your product lines, and you had absolutely no idea of how you'd be interpreted," said Dad.
"Give me some credit," I said.
"You've had a hard life, Ophelia," said Dad. "But not in a way that anyone would understand. It has not made you street smart. If anything, the things you study make you more vulnerable. Let's take your interest in Spanish literature."
"Ha," I had to laugh. "Sure. My Spanish vocabulary is impeccable. That is, if you're from 16th-century Spain and you love the Siglo de Oro theater."
"You probably sounded like an actor butchering Shakespeare," laughed Dad.
"Hey, that's not funny," I smiled. I frowned as I remembered the sound of footsteps on cobbled streets, the sound of AR-15s going "locked and loaded."
"Don't forget the Ambassador's little questionnaire and the statistics he wanted me to gather," I said. My bruises ached again. "What a nightmare. Why couldn't he ask the questions himself?"
We drove the next 50 or so miles in silence. The trip had involved a detour through Las Vegas, and a trek down the Extraterrestrial Highway, where I had spent a few days working on a survey with my brother. Tonopah was north, and the wind whipped the Suburban as we went through a narrow valley.
I took a deep breath.
"So, Dad. To make a long story short, I'm ready to give up that line of work."
"I thought you already did," said Dad, a bit suspiciously, I thought.
"Hmm, right." Organ pipe cactus and Joshua trees became larger as we ascended a pediment into a ragged end of a piece of the Basin and Range geological province. We were going to investigate the old Lucky Stiff mine and smelter to see if Dad's equipment could detect any undiscovered extensions of the veins of gold or mineralization. It also could help determine if there were commercial quantities of minerals left behind, previously considered unrecoverable.
"I'm ready to try the exploration business again. I'd like to continue to do research on historical mines and properties, like the Lucky Stiff."
"That's what I thought," said Dad. "I'm glad you're still wanting to do that. There is much more potential in this than what you were doing before."
"Well, I'm sorry about what I've put you and Mother through," I said. While I felt a sense of relief that I had escaped with only bruises, nightmares, and intrusive images of violence and gore, I knew that I was unable to fully divorce myself what it was that drove me to such business in the first place. And, to make things worse, I had a feeling Dad would take a dim view of Stanton, if the moment ever presented itself that I would introduce him.
A cold chill washed over me, and I watched goose bumps rise up on my arms as I thought of Stanton and the way he kissed me in South Florida.
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