AN AMERICAN FOLKTALE

©1996 by John Robinson Wheeler. All rights reserved.

 

ACT I.

 

A man in a loose suit ambles onstage freely, aware of the audience but not distracted by it. He pulls a barstool from behind some scenery in an offstage closet, making a tremendous clatter. A tennis ball rolls onstage. As the man enters, carrying the stool, he spies the ball and collects it. He bounces it a couple of times to test it, smiles, and pockets it as he walks upstage and places the stool. Simultaneously, a spotlight strikes him, simulating moonlight. The other lights slowly dim, recreating a purpled sunset. The man, obviously the STORYTELLER, sits atop the stool, absent-mindedly fishing out the tennis ball as he begins to weave his words:

STORYTELLER: (familiarly) 

Now, you folks have come here to hear a story. I'm just making that clear at the beginning so the scaredy-cats who think they're too grown up to hear a story can get up now. The rest of you — well, I guess there's still a spark of innocence in you, and that's always good news to know, isn't it? I remember my granddad was like that. He had a white beard and wore a hearing aid that he built for himself, but mostly he impressed you as a gentle, curious kid, walking around humming to himself.

 

He imitates the humming.

STORYTELLER:

He was talking about living another 25 years when he turned 75, but cancer got him before he made it to eighty. Some other time, I'll tell you all about him. He was a great, unknown American scientific engineer. There are lots of good stories — here's one. Granddad was working on a top secret project, and it turns out it was the first hydrogen bomb test. He always said he may have been the only human being to see liquid deuterium, because his job was to watch it flow through a pipe. Anyway, so they're ready to explode this radioactive monster on an island far, far from the United States mainland — as if there's anywhere on this planet Earth that's far enough away from a hydrogen bomb explosion — and down in the cool, clean waters near the beach there's this gigantic old clam. Must have been six thousand years old if it were a day, because the old fella was eight feet wide and must have weighed a ton. A ton of clam, just sitting there, its big old mouth sealed shut for centuries, keeping secrets since civilization was young, and they didn't know what to do with it so they set off the bomb anyway. My granddad's heart must have broken, thinking about that Methuselah of a mollusk getting vaporized into radioactive rain. "They should have moved that thing," he said, whenever he would remember it. It's funny how a story can make you feel sorry for a clam. The next story shouldn't make you feel sorry for anything — except maybe the price of admission.

 

He pauses and adjusts his comfort on the stool.

STORYTELLER:

Once, when men still felled trees for timber by hand and women did everything else — there was born a boy name of John Brown. He was a small fella most of his life, then when other boys stopped growing John Brown just kept on going. He still thought of himself as the small one of the family, and could fold up tighter than your auntie's handbag just to prove it to himself. John Brown never wanted to grow up, but life made him do it anyway. Later, he'd tell you he needed it, but it sure broke his heart at the time. First thing he did was — this always gets me — the rst thing he did was to throw away his teddy bear. See, somehow he'd got the notion in his head to the effect that (pause) that he thought he had to relinquish his childhood in order to earn adulthood. It was a crazy notion, but once he believed it, he courageously carried it out. John Brown was two months old when he got that teddy bear friend of his. It was as old as him — it had squashed fur, and re-and-reattached arms and legs, but his blue ribbon, (gesturing as if the bear is sitting on his knee) the one he wore as a bowtie, was as shiny as ever when John Brown slipped that little fellow into a clean plastic bag and took him outside and put him gently into the top of the garbage can and closed the lid. Can you imagine actually doing this? Fortunately, there was no pickup, and the bear was rescued. But for John Brown, that was it. Time to be an adult. Problem was, nothing had changed, except for tearing his heart apart. Things looked stormy for John Brown, and it was just then that he met Goliath. (pause)

(to the audience) Are you all still interested, or should I stop here?

(Regardless of what they say.) All right. So Goliath isn't what you think she is. She's a big one all right, a big machine made of middlemen. Goliath was a bureaucracy, and she ate the money of innocent children to survive. A bunch of suspicious types kept Goliath tended — Lippy the Loo, he kept the toilets clean. He was the Chairman, the big man, the Chief Executive. Lippy memorized names, so you always trusted him. There was Chicolini, who managed the stockroom. Della Foghorn, once a famous artist's lover and model, now teaching her craft to young students. And Mr. Forgery, who always wanted to play Hamlet, but all he ever memorized was the soliloquy. He'd never painted a stroke on a canvas, but he knew what he liked. For this they made him a tenured professor in the instruction of oil painting. See, Goliath was masquerading as an art school, but once you got inside her gilded gates, all you saw were her undisguised guts. Incoming students were inserted directly into the bowels and encouraged to swim upstream, where with luck they would be vomited out three years later onto dry land — the desert basin of southern California. At the same time, an effort was made to squeeze out refuse and flush it away before it could clog up the system. I told you Lippy was in charge of keeping the toilets clean. So, being in Goliath's pipeline was a matter of constant movement, whichever of the two directions you chose.

Well, John brown entered like a bad meal and left as a bad taste in Goliath's mouth. John provided the fodder for admission and climbed in. There they all were, blinking at each other like kids on the first assembly of summer camp.

 

The Storyteller stands and picks up the stool. Behind him, lights brighten on a small college classroom. Students are seated. MR. FORGERY shuffles in.

STORYTELLER:

And then Mr. Forgery shuffled on in.

STORYTELLER exits.

FORGERY: (somewhat wrongly) 

To be or not to be, that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler, in the mind, to suffer the slings, and the arrows — of out-rageous fortune. &tc. (He keeps going.)

 

JOHN BROWN is sitting in the back row of the seats, upstage, his back to the 'fourth wall.' A young man, WILLIAM DETROIT, nudges him at the elbow.

WILLIAM:

Am I missing something? What does this have to do with painting?

JOHN:

Well, it's art.

WILLIAM:

Not the way he's doing it. (extending a hand) William Detroit.

JOHN:

John Brown. Where are you from?

WILLIAM:

Usually people ask, "Are you from Detroit?"

JOHN:

I'm not like usual people.

WILLIAM:

Evidently! I'm from Iowa.

JOHN:

I know absolutely nothing about Iowa.

WILLIAM:

There's a shock. Most people can't find it on a map.

 

Forgery finishes the soliloquy and stares at the students.

WILLIAM:

Are we supposed to applaud now?

JOHN:

We're supposed to nod thoughtfully, contemplating the words. (He demonstrates.) Hmmmmmmm...

WILLIAM:

Ahh. (He does likewise.) Hmmmmmmm...

FORGERY:

You are all here to learn to be artists. Well, we can't teach you that. No one has ever been able to teach someone else how to make art, any more than one can teach creativity.

JOHN: (stiffly)

Of course you can!

FORGERY: (cont.)

You are either born to it or you aren't. Like Mozart.

WILLIAM:

First Shakespeare, now Mozart.

JOHN:

I'm sure he'll mention a painter soon.

WILLIAM:

I bet it's Leonardo DaVinci.

JOHN:

No, Michelangelo. Or one of the impressionists.

FORGERY: (cont.) 

What we are able to do is to teach you the craft, and how to use the tools. If you don't have the craft, you'll never be an artist. Most of you won't be artists anyway, and you should consider that now. Only once a century do we get a Picasso.

WILLIAM: (throwing up his hands) 

Picasso!

JOHN: (snapping his ngers)

I should have thought of him.

FORGERY: (cont.)

Even in the Renaissance, there was only one Rembrandt.

WILLIAM:

Darn.

JOHN:

Wait, what about DaVinci?

FORGERY: (cont.)

In movies, there was only one Charlie Chaplin.

JOHN:

Yes, but there was also a Buster Keaton.

WILLIAM:

Yeah, but did anyone teach him how to be Buster Keaton?

JOHN: (assertive) 

Fatty Arbuckle did.

WILLIAM:

You got me there.

JOHN: (afterthought) 

And his father, Joe Keaton.

WILLIAM:

Why in the world do you know that?

FORGERY: (cont.) 

In journalism, only one Ed Murrow. In Presidents, only one Abe Lincoln.

WILLIAM:

Most people don't know this, but there were actually two Abraham Lincolns.

 

John laughs, a bit too loudly. William feels slightly guilty.

WILLIAM:

Sorry.

FORGERY: (cont.) 

And so on. At best, maybe a few of you will be able to get some job in the arts, and one or two of you may make a living selling paintings. But none of you will be an artist. That being said, let me remind you that this semester you are all responsible for buying your own easel, smock, brushes, paints, palettes, paint thinner, charcoal, and paper.

 

The students write this down.

JOHN:

What a gyp. What happened to all the money we just gave them?

WILLIAM:

Did you notice how nicely the lawn is manicured? That kind of care is expensive.

FORGERY:

In addition, there is a mandatory "lab fee" for this class, for materials.

JOHN:

What materials?

WILLIAM:

Condoms and prostitutes for the professor.

FORGERY:

The school will provide you with a locker for a rental charge, and one canvas per student. If you want or need an additional canvas, they are available to purchase or borrow.

JOHN:

Borrow?

FORGERY:

All this is maintained by the Equipment Office, which is run by Mr. Alfredo Chicolini. I give him the floor to explain to you how the Office is run. Mr. Chicolini.

 

CHICOLINI enters. (As if played by Chico Marx,in costume and character.)

CHICOLINI:

Hey, that's alright. Everybody just calls me Chico (chick-o) . How are you all doing, eh? Not so good, hah? Well, she gets-a worse from here, believe me. Now I got three rules. The first rule is, nobody breaks-a my rules. Second rule — somebody breaks-a my rules, they get a pink slip. The pink slip, she's-a no good. Throw that away. My third rule — atsa secret rule. Nobody better break-a that one, because no one knows what it is. Okay? Now, at the Equipment Office, whatever you want, we got it. If you come to us, we give it to you. Brother, do we give it to you! Now first, you give us money. Then we ask you what you want. For us to listen to your answer, there's a fee. That's the answer fee. Then we see if we got it — there's a fee. That's the lookit-em-up fee. That's-a two fees. Atsa no good, so we give you another fee. That's three fees — now you got something! Almost a full house. So, now we give-a you what you told us. No charge. For that, there's a luxury tax — eight percent on whatever we give you for free. Okay, so now you got two days to bring it back, or there's a late fee. If it's one minute late, you better have rich grandparents. If it's two minutes late, you better have rich grand children , 'cause they're going to still be paying off the interest on the debt. Well, I got to go. If you have any questions, talk to the school, not me. They don't like me anyway.

 

Chicolini dashes off, somewhat furtively, with backward glances.

JOHN:

Who was he, again?

 

The lights sink as the Storyteller again takes center stage, on his stool.

STORYTELLER:

What you folks have just seen is what dramatists call the "exposition." I haven't the faintest idea what the Webster's dictionary definition is. I just know what it does for you all out there. It casually lets you know some facts and details and introduces the plot. In this case, you still know nothing about the main character, John Brown. His new friend William Detroit — he's from Iowa, or so he says. (pause) 

I just say that so that a few folks will spend the rest of the story judging William's actions with an acute suspicion that he's a liar, or hiding something. Suddenly, William might be the villain of the piece. Maybe in Act 2 he purposefully interrupts John Brown's pursuit of happiness. All that, just from lying about Iowa. Suppose he's from Kentucky, but he was born in Iowa. His father managed a pickle bottling plant. He could have taken over the bottling business, but William came west to make it as an artist, and the first thing he hears is, he'll never make it. He'll never be an artist, they can't teach him that, and he had to be born with it anyway. Now he's a little scared, young William — so he leans to the guy next to him and blows off some steam cracking jokes.

(He pauses and chuckles.) Two Abraham Lincolns...

(collecting himself) So, what do we know about John Brown? He likes to hear the truth, and he likes to speak his mind. John Brown is like all Americans in that respect, but he knew how to speak his mind with paints on a canvas, and he knew when a painting wasn't telling the truth. John Brown wasn't about to keep quiet about something like that, but the problem was that he didn't know how to do that and be polite at the same time. He's also like most Americans in that respect. (wistfully) God bless the impolite Americans. Someone's got to speak their damn minds once and a while to keep things in line. That's my opinion.

(noticing the audience) What do you say we shut me up for now and just let the story unfold?

 

The Storyteller exits. Lights come up on the same classroom. A youngwoman, SARAH, stands between two easels, on which aredisplayed two of her projects.

SARAH:

Okay. This one is titled, "Black Sabbath."

 

She points to the one on her right, a murky charcoal drawing of whatlooks like a vampire (in Lugosi cape) preying on a naked woman. The womanin the drawing looks something like Sarah.

SARAH:

I made it thinking about Anne Rice's books, which, like, are being made into movies and stuff, and like, I thought, like, "No one's tried to do paintings of them." So, this is my terrible attempt.

 

ANTHONY, an Italian boy, interjects.

ANTHONY:

No, it's good, it's cool, you know? It's like... (to Sarah, and to Mr. Forgery) Do you mind? It's like, you really got the darkness of that genre, you know? Like, when I heard the title, I could almost picture, you know, like a full moon — you know, a huge, round moon in there — but you didn't do that, you know? You just kept it dark. That's why I like it, you know? No big full moon, just the black.

SARAH:

Mmmnm. Actually, there was supposed to be a full moon in there, but I smudged it and tried to fix it by making it smaller, but I made it too small, and just drew over it. But, thanks, though.

FORGERY:

I think you could have used some red in there, for the blood. Maybe coming down her neck, onto her stomach.

SARAH:

Mmmwell, this scene isn't about blood. It's about sexual power.

 

NADIA, a woman in somewhat whorish clothes, speaksup.

NADIA:

Yeah, I see that. It's totally about that. What I like is that it's obviously you there, naked and dominated. And there's this, like — "Get the fuck away from me" look in your eyes, like you're all, "I'm not taking this bullshit any more."

SARAH:

It's not supposed to be me. Does it look like me?

all:

Sure — yeah, it does. (ad lib, briefly.)

SARAH:

Weird. Maybe it is me.

NADIA:

Definitely.

JOHN:

Who else would it be? Who were you thinking of?

SARAH:

I don't know — no one real, I guess.

JOHN:

Did the subject of the painting have any personal meaning for you? If not, why not? I see what you've drawn, but I don't see anything unique to you about it.

SARAH:

I'm sorry.

JOHN:

Don't be sorry, just think about these questions before you start. It's okay to have a neat idea — like taking an image from Anne Rice, or even making a comment about how her books keep being made into movies, however you feel about that — but then figure out what you in particular have to say about it. Suppose the woman is you — have you ever felt oppressed in that way? If so, by whom? Use your impressions of whoever did that to you to draw the vampire. It's obvious you know how to make an image on a canvas, but now try to make an image that means something to you. I hope you do that, because I'd like to see that.

FORGERY:

I disagree with that. I still think it could use some blood, but I think Sarah knew what she wanted to make and she made it well. I didn't have any trouble reading it for what it is, rather than what you say it doesn't have.

JOHN:

Whatever.

 

Forgery consults his class list as Sarah sits, taking her work with her.

FORGERY: (as if he hadn't just been talking tohim)

John Brown? Are you here? What have you got?

JOHN: (picking up two of his projects) 

Okay.

 

He sets the two pieces on the easels, with some help from Anthony. Theone on the left is oversized, and it is a collage of photographs insteadof an oil painting. The one on the right is a painting of two hands, liftedup and straining toward each other from the bottom left and right cornersof the canvas. One is a man's hand and the other is a woman's, though thedifference is subtle.

JOHN: (to Anthony) 

Thanks.

ANTHONY:

No problem, man.

JOHN:

This one is kind of a collage, an experiment in telling a story through sequential images. I took photographs of the television screen, and then I put them in an order where the first picture changes your impressions of the next, and so on.

FORGERY:

This is an oil painting class. What does it have to do with painting? Are the images about oil painting?

JOHN:

No. I'm just working out an idea. This is just kind of a sketch. I suppose I could paint it, or I still intend to, maybe — but there was no way to paint this many images in time.

FORGERY:

You could have chosen one or two images that you liked, and painted those, and we would have gotten the idea.

JOHN:

No you wouldn't. The whole point of this piece is the total effect on the viewer of the 112 images, in sequence — in this sequence. In a different order, they would mean something completely different. It's sort of a use of the Kuleshov effect — which was invented by a Soviet filmmaker doing montage editing experiments. You show some food, then a man, and you get the idea that he's hungry. Then you show a woman — now you assume he's metaphorically hungry for her. And so on.

FORGERY:

This is an oil painting class, not a film history class, and not a collage class. I think you still owe this class an oil painting, due next week, and it better be good.

JOHN:

What? How am I supposed to come up with something new that's good in one week? (to himself) Maybe I have something lying around that I could finish.

FORGERY:

This will be a lesson to you to check with me first before you bring in something from outside the course.

JOHN:

But I did ask you beforehand! Two weeks ago, I said I was working on a collage that would be too complicated to paint, and you said bringing in the sketch was okay.

FORGERY:

Well, I don't remember that. Maybe I thought you meant a charcoal sketch, like Sarah brought. Whatever the case, something is wrong because I didn't give you permission to bring that in. As far as I'm concerned, you get an 'F' for today's presentation, for failure to fulfill the assignment.

STORYTELLER: (entering, as the lights dim) 

Now, I'm no art critic, but I can see when a young man's got some new ideas he's dying to try out. Ol' John Brown, he thought for sure art school would be the place to try out new ideas, but brother, don't you believe it! Don't feel too sorry for him, though — it was life's way of making sure John Brown did that growing up he decided he was ready to do. See, if every one of his ideas had actually lit up the place, it would have gone to his head, and it would have swelled it up so big it'd ache every time a rainstorm blew in. What John Brown needed was a nice, fat slice of all-American humble pie. The greatest American Presidents we had — the two Abraham Lincolns — they were humble men, who led the nation in a humbling time. We could use a little more of that today. This is a digression, but I just remembered — Benjamin Franklin was also famous for being humble. It was always a virtue in his favor when working as a printer, a statesman, a diplomat... whatever. In his autobiography — and I commend it to you all, for warm reading on chilly nights — he talks about his own character candidly, and he explains that he considered himself to be awfully full of himself, a complete braggart, and no more genuinely humble than the man on the moon. However, he learned, after making a few failed attempts to truly become genial and humble, that all he needed was to simply give the appearance of geniality and humility, much as I'm doing for you folks right now. Out in the Bible belt, they'll tell you — most times, you don't even have to ask them, they'll just tell you — the only truly humble man ever to walk the earth was Jesus. Some people, they like to come up with counterexamples, and in this country they're all welcome to stand in a courtyard and shout them as loud as they can, or print it in a newspaper. They can do that, but it won't make them a darn bit more humble. John Brown, as you can see, was walking along that line. Let's see how he handles it.

STORYTELLER exits.

 

The lights come up again. No time has passed.

JOHN:

Wow. If you'll excuse me, I'm a little taken aback. I don't feel comfortable standing here anymore. Do you even want to see my other piece, or should I just save it till next week?

FORGERY:

If you've got a painting, we can talk about it. What do you think, class?

all:

Sure, let's talk about it. (General, tentative agreement.)

JOHN:

I'm going to sit down.

 

He sits on the stool, left there by the Storyteller.

FORGERY:

Okay. What have you got?

JOHN:

This is another bare idea — I just got this image stuck in my head, these two hands, dancing by themselves, kind of a digital ballet. I didn't know quite how to use it, so I decided to see what it looked like on its own, whether the starkness of it could make an impact. I've made about four versions of it — three of them were black and white washes, but I made this one in color. In this one, the right hand is a woman's hand — the model was a woman who's a neighbor of mine that I sort of have a crush on, so I was trying to capture some of that emotion in it. I call it, "Love."

 

There is a pause as everyone absorbs this.

FORGERY:

Well, who has a comment for John?

ANTHONY:

Hey, I do. D'you mind?

JOHN:

Lay it on me, man.

ANTHONY:

Okay. Cool — uhm. You have this vision, you know? I can see you have that. Like your other one, the collage, man, I dig that, too. You're like, on this quest. You're not there yet, but I see you going for it, and I admire that, I really do. I couldn't do that. (He shakes his head.) Ballsy move, man. Both of those. Ballsy move. Good luck , man.

JOHN: (a bit brighter) 

Hey, thanks. I appreciate it.

ANTHONY:

No, it's true, you know? The two hands. You know, maybe you could have put that together with the other one, the hands would be holding the pictures — something. I don't know. (He trails off.)

JOHN:

Maybe. I don't know. Partially, I brought this as an illustration of an unfinished idea — just two hands? What can you say with that? My solution was to say something about love. You thought of using them with the collage. It's a free idea. You can use it, if you want to.

NADIA:

I think the hands thing is kind of cool, but I feel like I've seen it before. It reminds me of Andy Warhol's movies, which are just these images, with nothing explained about them. I like how it's unexplained. If you hadn't said so, I wouldn't have known one was a woman's hand, but that's kind of cool that it is, because I thought they were both yours.

JOHN:

Well, the man's hand is definitely mine, no question there. But that's interesting what you said, because in the other versions they were both my hands. Maybe this is about connecting to my feminine side. Anyone else?

FORGERY:

What I don't like about it is the background. It's like you left the canvas half-unpainted.

JOHN:

Well, I did. The purpose was to isolate the hands, to draw only those into existence, because they were isolated as an idea in my head.

FORGERY:

Yes, but it looks terrible, doesn't it? (to the class) Doesn't it? What do you think, Sarah?

SARAH:

Maybe you could have made the background help tell a story, like made it about this couple that's breaking up, and show two halves — her world and his — with their hands in the foreground.

JOHN:

That's a great idea, why don't you do that? The hands are breaking up, not coming together. I hadn't seen it that way at all.

SARAH:

Uh, no thanks. I was offering you a suggestion.

JOHN:

I know, and you came up with a way to use my bare idea to tell a story that's unique to you, not something I would paint. It's your idea, go for it.

SARAH: (not understanding)

That's okay, all right?

JOHN:

Sorry, sorry. Is that it?

FORGERY:

Isn't William Detroit your partner? Where is he? He's due today too, isn't he?

JOHN:

To the best of my knowledge, he is.

FORGERY:

Well, where is he?

JOHN:

I am not in constant contact with him. I have no idea where he is. Usually, he's here.

FORGERY:

Okay. Well, then that's it for this week's presentations. We'll take a five-minute break, and then the Chairman will be here to talk to you. (issued as an order) Bye!

 

John starts to take down his art, but Anthony stops him, wanting to poreover the collage for a minute. Another young woman, a fresh-faced Japanesegirl, MARI, stops also to take it in. Forgery passesby.

JOHN:

So, do you want a completed oil or will a sketch do?

FORGERY:

Hum? Oh, forget it. Just be sure to bring in two paintings if I ask for two paintings. You're just wasting my time, your time, and the class's time otherwise. You understand?

JOHN:

I understand.

 

Forgery shuffles out. Anthony hands John the collage. Mari stands politelybehind Anthony.

ANTHONY:

This really is cool, man. Really.

JOHN:

Thanks, again. I sure do really — er, I really do appreciate it. (He clears his throat.)

ANTHONY: (conspiratorially)

I think the montage was a bit too much for this class — a little too far out, you know? And maybe if it'd been smaller, easier to take in. Thirty pictures instead of a hundred, you know?

JOHN:

I will think about it.

ANTHONY:

Hey, all right, man. I'm Anthony Danucci, right? You know that — what am I saying? I'll check you later, okay? Maybe we can get a beer, hang out some night?

JOHN:

Sure, I'd like that.

ANTHONY:

Seeya, John.

ANTHONY exits.

 

John takes the two works back to his seat. Mari accosts him from behind.She speaks with an accent.

MARI:

Hello, John? How are you? My name is Mari.

JOHN:

Hi.

MARI:

I just wanted to tell you I liked your paintings very much. Well, your painting and — what did you call it? "Montage?"

JOHN:

"Collage," really.

MARI:

Ah, "collage." I thought you were saying about movies, and called it something — montage. (differently) Mon-tage?

JOHN:

Montage. It's originally a French word.

MARI:

Yah, yah. Hey, so — I see you around, okay?

JOHN:

I hope so. Sure.

MARI:

Bye.

MARI exits.

 

There is a soft tapping, a gentle rap-rap-rapping at the chamber door. AMBROSE pokes his head in.

AMBROSE:

Hello?

JOHN:

Hey.

AMBROSE:

John Brown. Are you John Brown?

JOHN:

Yes.

AMBROSE:

My name is Erich Ambrose. How are you? May I speak to you for one moment?

JOHN:

I guess.

AMBROSE:

I'm your advisor.

JOHN:

I didn't know I was assigned to an advisor automatically.

AMBROSE:

You have it just backwards. Advisors are assigned to students, not students to advisors.

JOHN:

I was planning to go to Samuels.

AMBROSE:

Well, I think Samuels' loss is my gain. I saw your work from the hallway. Very interesting, very surprising. I haven't seen new ideas in here in a generation. I can spot a light a mile away. Your light is on, John Brown.

JOHN:

Is that why you're wearing sunglasses?

AMBROSE:

Precisely, my boy. (He glances out over them.) Precisely...

 

Thwonk! Ambrose is hit in the head with the Storyteller's tennis balland snarls in response. The lights dim, turning amber, and John Brown seemsto freeze in time. The Storyteller and Ambrose seem posed for symbolic combat,like chess pieces. (Spotlights, red for Ambrose, cyan for Storyteller,glide with them.)

AMBROSE:

What the blazes? Who threw that? What did you throw? Was that a bug? It got in my hair!

STORYTELLER:

I threw it, and it's just a tennis ball.

AMBROSE:

Oh, it's you, Stephen. (He picks up the ball.) I thought it was one of those Texas-sized locusts.

STORYTELLER:

They make an awful chatter when they climb inside your ears, don't they?

 

Ambrose clutches his head, reliving some kind of torment.

AMBROSE:

Gah, what a bother that was! And you, eating manna on a silver plate — with tea!

STORYTELLER:

I paid my dues, Ambrose. Everyone has to pay their dues.

AMBROSE:

You and your Protestant New England values. Feh and be damned, the lot of you.

STORYTELLER:

Oh, Ambrose.

AMBROSE:

Bastard!

STORYTELLER: (gazing upward) 

Oh dear...

 

Suddenly, one of Ambrose's arms falls off, landing with a plop.

AMBROSE:

Goddammit, my arm. (He picks it up.) All right, all right. I'm sorry. What the devil do you want anyway?

STORYTELLER:

I'm here to tell you to leave that boy alone.

AMBROSE:

What, that little rascal? I wasn't going to do anything to him, despite what you think.

 

Ambrose nervously scratches his ear, and it falls off.

AMBROSE:

Ahh! My ear! First the arm, now the ear. I refuse to be mocked! Ulp! (He clutches his knee.) Not the leg! Not — the — leg...!

 

This predicament forces Ambrose into a kneeling position. Pretendingnot to be humbled by even this, he uses the opportunity to retrieve hisear, which he polishes on his chest.

STORYTELLER:

All right, Ambrose. Knight takes knight. Begone with you. Ambrose?

AMBROSE: (favoring his good ear) 

What?

STORYTELLER: (with volume) 

Time for you to go.

AMBROSE:

Okay, okay, okay. Time, everything with you is time.

STORYTELLER:

Do you want me to bind and gag you? Make tracks.

AMBROSE: (as if leaving on vacation) 

All right, let's see. Am I forgetting anything? I got my arm, I got my ear, I got my — oh, here — this is yours. (He drops the tennis ball.) Okay, I'm all set, I guess. Give the kid my best. Whoo! Just kidding there, just a little bon mot. Well!

AMBROSE exits.

STORYTELLER:

I'm glad you folks got to see that spectacle, just so as you don't start thinking you all have to be afraid of old Ambrose. On the other hand, you shouldn't underestimate his craftiness. John Brown's still too innocent to suspect someone of flat-out telling lies to him. You folks seen Pinocchio ? That sly fox just leads him away, into a whole lot of trouble, as soon as he's off on his own to school for the first time. What happens to John Brown is not unlike that, but folktales are folktales, and that's the way they come — from what's happened to folks, pure and simple. And Ambrose — I suppose it wouldn't be an American folktale without the devil being in it someplace, just causing a whole lot of trouble where he's got no business being. Strictly speaking, it isn't my job to keep him clear of John Brown, so don't go expecting me to jump in and save him every time Ambrose makes him stub his toe. Besides, John Brown is on his own, so to speak, for the present time.

 

Chicolini enters, looking lost.

CHICOLINI:

Psst. Hey, Mister.

STORYTELLER: (to the audience) 

One moment. Yes, Mr. Chicolini?

CHICOLINI:

Hey, they told me to nd you. They say, itsa my time. I laugh, I say, you can't-a fool me. It's a joke, right? It's-a no joke. So I say, okay — now what? They say, come to you. So I come to you.

STORYTELLER:

Right through there (opposite stage exit) and up.

CHICOLINI:

Up? Hey, that sounds pretty good, hah? Up, she's-a better than going down, right?

STORYTELLER:

It is much better to go up than down.

CHICOLINI: (smiling, crossing) 

Thanks, Mister. (He sees the audience.) Hey, how are you folks out there? Can they see me?

STORYTELLER:

They can hear you, too.

CHICOLINI:

Oh, hey — I get it. You're telling them the story. It's-a pretty good so far. I like the part with me in it best.

STORYTELLER:

Your place in dramatic history is assured, Mr. Chicolini.

CHICOLINI:

Ay! I just remembered something. I had a big scene coming up — where I roll a crap game to give out equipment. Yeah, that was my big scene. What happened?

STORYTELLER: (glancing at a pocket-watch)

I'm afraid there was an intervention.

CHICOLINI:

Well, I guess that's-a the way it goes. Easy come, easy go, hah? (He laughs gently.) Okay, okay, time to go. I just want to take one last look. (to audience, after a moment) You folks sure are ne people. God bless you. All right, I'm out of here. Up, right? Whew!

CHICOLINI exits.

STORYTELLER:

Listen, folks. It feels to me like you all could take a break right now, and I myself could go for a tall, cool glass of honey-sweetened iced tea — with maybe a gentle drop of vermouth for spice (he winks) . So, let's take five here, and we'll un-pause when you get back. The end of the first act isn't actually for another couple of minutes, but we can cruise straight into Act II without a break, how about that? All right.

 

He produces a whistle and retreats downstage.

STORYTELLER:

This is the official intermission whistle. I'll blow it now, then I'll blow it again in a few minutes so you know we're starting. I'll try and stall so everyone can get back. Okay, ready?

 

He blows the whistle and the house goes black. Storyteller exits. After a second or two, raise house lights for intermission. If possible, provide tall, cool glasses of honey-sweetened iced tea in the lobby.

END OF ACT I.

 

INTERMISSION:

The Storyteller arrives early and begins to tell a story to the few folks still there. It should be about a fteen-to-eighteen minute story, so that everyone is back in their seats by the end of it.

 

Act II