JoeK
a monologue
(Light on a bar table from a class joint from the
late forties slowly rises, leaving it in a dark chiaroscuro. The
glass of bourbon glistens on the table. The table itself glistens
from the old drink spilled on the surface. A drunk sits at the
table looking ahead. He is dressed slovenly in his high class
shirt.)
JOE
So what do you expect? You should have seen me an hour or so ago. You expect me to keep it up with just you guys around? 'Fraid not, not this fool. So what did you come to see me for? Or why did you come, to see me? Oh, I know what you're thinking. Of course I know. I'm one of you aren't I? In the most basic, or is it base terms. I mean just look at your feet. Go ahead. Go ahead! Look! See? (showing his feet) See? I mean, face it, those two...things are there, I mean in the vast majority of us, I mean in the sense of you all understand feet, n'est-ce pas? And please don't make me make a stand about them cause they're fine where they are for the time being, aren't they? I kinda think so. Alright. Now, I hope you're not expecting too much of me. Are you? You are. And that's what I want to be, too much. So I guess...Put it this way, if you are expecting to get everything you expect to get, i.e. too much, then you better pay attention. Okay? Listen. Listen. Listen. Listen. Listen. Listening? I'm speaking figuratively. I mean I want you to pay attention cause I really am expecting myself to be too much so if its what you're after here from me then by all means I mean pay attention. But really what's to be expected anyway? Anything? Nothing. So...I hope you don't expect me to be too much even if I expect to be. Good.
After all is said and done....I mean, after all is...done. Or is it over done? Or is it done in? I don't know nor care. Okay. Let's say I'm in this bar. A sort of never-ending bar. An after hours bar. You know an after hours bar? A continuation of "bar" through the night until the morning light slaps the nighttime eyes. Go home! Not you. Not yet. No. Me. The after-hours bar I'm talking about I'm talking in. My bar. I call it my bar cause I own it. I enter into it safe and cozy like an e-z chair, you know? Anyway, its after hours, apres heure. What follows hours? After time like what time is it? Hours and minutes. And what follows? absence maybe? A rejection? No no too much work.
What I'm getting at is a continuation. There's no
stopping. Ever onward through an endless night of a dark bar.
Only electric light dimmed down low ever electric ever light ever
dimmed ever down ever low. And in that dimmed incandescence a
string slips along like a string floating from head to mouth on a
black river and back again. A continuation of the thinnest
substance. Floating thinly on smoky air which is the bar air
which is like the dark water. A thin consciousness moving through
the bar. Sitting here. Indefinitely. A string. Unraveling. Broken
threads. A thread. Barely. Continuing. A thread. Through smoke
and air and dimmed light. But tonight. Tonight within the jibber
jabber of incessancy, keeping the stranger across the table
company, sustaining the cultural terrain, a late night rock
scene's normalcy, Something happened. Not out in the streets, out
copping in the DMZ. In the beer smell and beer light of the bar,
an intruder appeared and vanished. And he left a magnesium flash,
an echo trembling through the gray mind at least until the sun
matches it. Like the sun it hit hardest behind the eyes. Or he
did. The Man. The great fat gargantuan presence. See him, I can
see him.
EXEC
a tableau of joes
BIG JOE (dramatic except face)
The straps are too tight for me. I am not there. Not here. I am in front of it. A field of dreams scratched up by reality. It is behind me and within me. Gray matter. It is a violence up close. And in the distance is calm. There is great distance here. Great depth. Across a river. A day's distance to walk. Perhaps into the night. Perhaps the next morning. In the distance there behind me is sublime rest. A small town. Comfortable town, people, buildings, crowned by a spire. I strain my eyes to see it. To reach it. I look the opposite way and feel strained. Near is the surface tension holds me tense. Holds me tense. The straps hold me to the execution pole. The surface is the surface of thought, is the violence. The wind is savage. Cutting. The straps cut into me. Near the execution pole is echoed. The machinery of pleasure and war, business near me. Big in me. And my absence stands there. Dreams. Sees and is bound by what I see. Inside. Ignorance is attempted and has no sway. Go. Get out. Attempted bliss. Attempted innocence. Attempts to ignore make what I ignore bigger. Listen to my last breath, go.(gestures to LITTLE JOE to pick up bag)
JOE THE DREAMER (simultaneous with BIG JOE)
His tugs on the hand straps tighten them. And his face. His face is a grimace. He tugs. The wind rips up the sky with loose earth. He tugs. The pain tugs his face. He bends against the confinement. Ludicrous attempts. The wind rips the sky with loose earth. He grimaces. The wind rips his face. The operator opens the case to the keyboard launch with the finesse of a concert pianist. With one hand, the operation of the keyboard launch is a continuous flow and dexterity of a secretary. The other hand flicks out missives to Joe Dimaggio. Joe leans on his bat, his cane, his pole. Joe whips out the security device like a watch salesman on 42nd Street.(repeat last two "paragraphs.")His tugs on the hand straps. Try to loosen. Tighten. His face tightens. Grimace. He turns and walks to the case, lifts it. It's heavier than he thought. As he walks it swings the barest movement back and forth like a pendulum threatening to point straight down. Through a grimace the guns point, straws of death he must suck in.(repeat last line until end)
JOE DIMAGGIO (beginning when BIG JOE finishes)
Working and pleasure go hand in hand as we all know. We work to gain pleasure. We gain pleasure. A house. And in the house, pleasures. We can afford to go out. But others seek our pleasure. Don't let them get yours. Hold your pleasures fast with the latest in gadget technology. And it won't take much pleasure away. Yes it's safe, effective and affordable. While gaining pleasures outside the house, keep the pleasures intact inside. Don't let them at them. Keep the materials of work and pleasure and success of pleasure business inside. Don't let them at them.
LITTLE JOE (laughing, simultaneous with JOE DIMAGGIO)
Now let me get this straight, you want me to take your bag which is my bag and get the hell out of here. / I can see you're tied up. You are me at my end. / I will do well in my art, impresario, businessman of pleasure. / You are product oriented and sold the wrong product. / But my gosh you look or I will look quite dapper. scarf. Red rose above the heart. Now that's execution chic./ And how clever you are or I will be to wear that lovely dark velvet coat and wide pants. Protect your tender skin from the cold. / And the executioners can't see you tremble or the dampness down the leg. / And the matching velvet hat fits you like a tee. I mean it fits your dignity. I mean it will fit me. As it should when you sold product. Or me. When I do. (take the bag and walk) As it should....
CAFE LIFE
scene: In darkness images of pedestrians flash over a cafe. Large projections of walking figures, one and two at a time, against blackness for one minute. Street noise (honking, white noise of passing cars and pedestrians, indecipherable music). A spotlight encounters the Double. Silence. The Double is a figure covered with drug paraphernalia: the plunger of a syringe is his hat; a straw dangles from his snout like an elephant; a portion of a spoon is attached to his front torso; a joint is attached to his back; a wine glass flares out at the arm; etc. Lights rise full on the cafe. Amidst three or four figures whose heads are plaster life masks sits JOE. He stares baffled at his Double. The back of the cafe is an Edward Hopper like vision of a city block: bland, flat red walls with repeated details of windows, stoops, etc. The Double turns to face JOE.
JOE
Yeah? Yeah? What? What? What are you staring at? Why are you
staring at me? At me? Why me? What are you? Are you...No.
(silence. the plunger rises and falls) No. Look. It's obvious.
(the double nods its head) I'm here. Here alone. I occupy my own
space. I displace my own air. No one ever occupies the space
other then the space he alone occupies. (smoke rises from the
Double as the end of the joint turns red) Isn't that true? Face
it, in the lonely shell of flesh which contains that lonely space
in which the flesh occupies its own space, the space the flesh
occupies is the only space the flesh contains, the only space the
flesh can contain. Right? So who are, what are you? Are you...No.
I know.
(the double pushes the straw onto the spoon and snorts)
You remind me, only remind me. I am over here where my instrument
of speech resonates and I vibrate the air out to you, who is over
there where you are. You are a body length away. A physical
distance I can relate to as a space between me who relates it to
you and to you who I am relating to, or am attempting relations
except somehow I feel like I am talking to myself.
(silence. the double nods. the plunger rises and falls.)
No. No. No. I am not...No. I am not...No. Don't push. Don't push
me. I am unsteady even sitting. Don’t tempt. Can you? I am
not interested. You are ugly. Pathetic. Worthless. Worse.
Parasitic. I
am. No. I am not. I am no plunger. I am not a syringe. I am not a
needle and its hole and the vein and the soft dizziness of
forgetting who I am. Cause I am, if I am the displacement and
that's all at least I am that. But I am more. Not you. More.
(the double raise the straw/spout in the air like an elephant,
snorting like one as well)
I am, I am, I am the work I am doing. OH, I am going to corner
the market, make a big splash, trample the competition, push the
product in view of the height of the higher echelon, I am going
to write classics, perfect gems, I am going to be a BIG success.
A BIG BIG BIG success. I
am. I am. I am. I am. I got to. I should. I have to be...I better
be...I can't seem to...I try to but I...I...I
(the double writhes, displaying its wears, glowing, smoking)
I CAN'T DO IT DAMN IT. STOP IT. I CAN'T STAND IT. I GOT TO BUT I
CAN'T. I KEEP SCREWING IT. UP. SCREWING UP. I CAN'T. I
GOTTO...HAVE A...NOOOOOOOOOO.
(silence. the double is calm. the plunger rises and falls gently.
JOE sighs.)
I'll tell you what I see. I'll tell you what I see when I look at
you. I see...I don't want to think about it. I...So bent.
the double offers a drink)
I'd like to straighten up. I want to normalize. An even keel. You
know.
(the double nods and offers a drink)
The state of no mind. The perfect numb. Numb hands. Numb stare.
Numb skull. You know. But it just makes me sick.
(the double turns away)
Wait.
(the double turns back)
But it just makes it worse.
(the double turns away)
Wait.
(the double turns back)
Wait. I hate you. When I see you I see the city. Splashes of
noise you try to avoid like a dirty puddle but it covers you. It
covers those early morning, sunshine, gonna get it done, I'm up
for it clothes and makes them instantly dismal. And when I look
at you I see a bunch of people like me all covered and no smiles.
The look of the city. Uggh. Looking like...uggh. Another day
another spent dollar. And when I look at you I see those eyes.
Eyes of my fellow dirt stained beings. The
glaze in them. Curtained off to protect them from flashes of the
city, the glare of filth. The film. The glaze. I gotta match
them. Continue to match them. I am no fool. In the city you need
the protection. (the double produces smoke and the joint lights
red)
Only the naive few can do without. Too dumb to know any better.
To dumb to know the scum of the city is attacking you every
moment. You gotta take a swallow of smoke or if not, a drink, or
if possible an injection so you can be...nothing...instead of
trying to be so much...trying to be
what you should be. You know.
(the double nods and the plunger rises and falls)
But its not like I'm some joy riding kid out for the kicks or to
be cool. I dabble. Occasional. Well, sometimes...I...sometimes...
I...have a few. Maybe more. I forget. I have a few and I forget.
And
I guess I take my cushions daily. The morning I wake up and there
on the party mirror sits the powder and I look at myself and all
is blurry and I take the straw so I can restore my self and place
it on the mirror and take it up and the day begins the same as
the night ended and I put some away for the office bathroom
and...I forget. And a drink or two at lunch is better than a
sandwich to put me into the working mood for the rest of the day.
And I slowly feel the body sag. And I need a pick me up. But it
doesn't. I'm down. I stay down. For the count. I can't count. How
many days. I remember a day when I didn't and feel proud as I
lean into the mirror. Anytime could be that day. Not today. Not
today. Can't make today the day cause...I can't. That's what I
see when I look at you. I see the city and it offers me relief
and I need relief from it. Not the city. It. I need relief from
it. Not the city. You. Not the city which is my home and has my
home and my work and my life inside. I need relief from the
damage you do in the cause of relief. I need my hands and body
and mind restored. Not an alien restorative, but inside. The
inside fed by a fork not a straw at the nose or a needle in the
hollow of the arm. A glass of water is enough, or juice,
protecting me from ill health. The protective cover found in a
glass of booze is ill. A fuzz which has drowned me, my mind and
body.
(the double is edging away)
Don't go. Don't go. I need you.
(the double turns back and edges up to JOE)
I can't live without you standing there before me.
(the double displays its wares demonstratively)
I got to watch you close, all of your temptation, so you don't
slip one by me when I'm not concentrating. Come. I embrace you.
(as JOE opens his arms to embrace the double, BLACKOUT.)
(In the darkness the images of pedestrians flash by. The sounds of the city are at full volume. The sounds fade to silence.)