AN AMERICAN FOLKTALE

©1996 by John Robinson Wheeler. All rights reserved.

 

ACT II.

 

As the Storyteller finishes his story, the lights go black except for his customary spotlight. He waits for a moment, then holds up the whistle.

STORYTELLER:

I wasn't going to blow the whistle because I took so long with that story everyone got back, but I know some of you folks are just waiting for me to blow this whistle again. I've had people call me on that, before. "You promised you were going to blow the whistle again!" Much ado about nothing. You folks know that expression? It's a good one. If you learn it, you'll learn to label things with it. Once you label something, you've wrapped it in a neat, little package. Now you can take it or leave it. My advice is to leave it. Bunch of fuss, but nothing seems broke? Much ado about nothing? Forget it. Don't be part of it. It's just common sense. Common sense will tell you when something is much ado about nothing. Ask some old folks what's important, and what's just nothing. Best thing to do is, think like an old person but be a young person. John Brown is just where we left him.

 

The stage lights come up, dimly amber as before.

STORYTELLER:

I'll step out of the way for a while, and you all watch John Brown. See if you can figure out how he thinks.

STORYTELLER exits.

 

Onstage are Ambrose and John Brown, frozen in the last instant we saw them both, with Ambrose peering over his sunglasses. Lights are still dim. After a calculated pause, we hear the whistle blow, offstage. Immediately, lights spring to full white (as before) and time is set in motion for the characters.

AMBROSE:

...precisely. You are definitely gifted.

JOHN:

Thanks.

AMBROSE:

Tut-tut. You're supposed to be modest and deny all knowledge of your own talent.

JOHN:

Sorry. I am full of myself.

AMBROSE: (laughing) 

You take things too seriously. Other things, not enough. Have you called your mother, lately? How she must be worried! Why not call and tell her how it went today?

JOHN:

She'd only be disappointed in how it went today.

AMBROSE:

Your mother is an artist. This, I can tell.

JOHN:

She is. It's hard to please her.

AMBROSE:

These works you have here today. She'd disapprove?

JOHN:

I can't imagine either of them going over the fireplace, no.

AMBROSE:

I'll tell you what. Why don't you have them professionally framed? Send them to her as a gift — the first fruits of art school!

JOHN:

I don't think that would make her like them any better.

AMBROSE:

I know mothers. Trust me, I'm your advisor.

 

Ambrose begins to casually scratch his ear as he leans back, but snaps his hand away, suddenly. He gingerly taps the ear to make sure it is still attached.

AMBROSE:

Say, about that.

 

He leans forward, clearing his throat.

JOHN:

I already have a conference scheduled with Samuels. Should I tell him I decided to go with you? Or does he know about your assignment?

AMBROSE:

About that. I was just hoping out loud. I'm not actually your, ahem, official advisor. But I'd adore talking to you more. You're a boy I could really take under my wing.

 

Ambrose has a coughing fit, and he rises.

AMBROSE:

I should go. Apparently, it's time for me to take my medicine.

JOHN:

Are you okay? What's wrong with your arm?

AMBROSE:

Just a few stitches. It'll heal. Don't think twice about it. Come see me.

JOHN:

Where is your office?

AMBROSE:

Downstairs. You can't miss it.

AMBROSE exits, coughing.

 

A couple of students wander back in, Mari among them. She smiles at John.

JOHN:

I'm just slowly going mad.

MARI: (brightly) 

Wha?

JOHN:

What time is it? Is the break over already?

MARI:

About — one more minute.

JOHN:

I'm going to get a drink of water. Could you watch my things for me?

MARI:

Oh, mm-hm! Yah.

JOHN:

Thanks.

 

John exits. Mr. Forgery enters, and more students. William Detroit hustles in, holding a sketchpad.

WILLIAM:

I'm really sorry. I'm late. I'm sorry.

FORGERY:

Yes? Well, where were you? Have you got your projects to show?

WILLIAM:

No, that's why I'm late. I was working on them all last night, trying to get them ready, but I fell asleep without setting my alarm. Then I spent the last hour trying to at least finish one of them — but they looked terrible so I didn't bring them in. I brought my sketches, they can give you an idea what I was going for. Better than what I painted.

FORGERY:

So, do you have your projects or not?

WILLIAM:

Just some sketches, in pencil. I'm sorry. I just overslept.

FORGERY:

Do you want us to discuss your sketches? Or would you rather wait until next week and bring in the paintings?

 

John enters and sits.

WILLIAM:

I'll wait till next week. That would be so great. I'm really sorry about this.

FORGERY:

You had better have two paintings — paintings — when you come next week. All right?

WILLIAM:

Thank you. Thanks.

 

Forgery nods. William scooches into a seat next to John.

WILLIAM: (covertly) 

Boy did I squeak out of that one.

 

Sarah enters, talking to Anthony.

SARAH: (as she rounds the corner) 

So I'm all, like, "Hey, you total bitch!" (She sees everyone and blushes.) Oh my god! I thought the room was still empty. I'm sorry.

 

She and Anthony take seats next to each other. John turns back to William.

JOHN:

So, where were you?

WILLIAM:

I was trying to finish the paintings for today. I didn't even start them till this morning.

JOHN:

What! No wonder you didn't finish.

WILLIAM:

I thought I could fake something in an hour or two, but it didn't work. Both looked too obviously like I'd just tried to hurry some nonsense together, so I left them and figured I could bluff my way out of it at break-time.

JOHN:

I used to pull stuff like that in high school — but it worked back then.

WILLIAM:

So, did I miss anything vital? Any notes?

JOHN:

We looked at each other's paintings. That's it.

WILLIAM:

How'd yours go?

JOHN:

Forgery threatened to give me an 'F' because I brought in a collage.

WILLIAM:

Aw, man! It's a wonder he didn't have me shot dead on the spot.

 

William does a take, as if catching himself saying something gruesome.

WILLIAM:

Ooh, hey — that reminds me. Have you heard about Chicolini?

JOHN:

No. What about him?

WILLIAM:

He committed suicide.

JOHN:

What? Why? Well — I guess he must have been depressed.

WILLIAM:

I heard that he shot and killed his wife and daughter and then turned the gun on himself.

JOHN:

Really. He didn't strike me as the kind of guy who'd do that. But I suppose I would not expect that of anyone.

WILLIAM:

"He was a loner, kept to himself. Then, one day..."

JOHN:

Wow, that's really rough stuff.

WILLIAM:

Yeah.

 

The class is fully assembled, so Forgery stands at attention.

FORGERY:

Mr. Lipton will be here in a moment, but first I wanted to take a minute to discuss the formation of a new student group designed to promote student input into the program. A lot of students have been complaining that their voices aren't heard, so if you have something to say, you should go to the organizational meeting next Wednesday at 4 o'clock in the studio lab. Who from this class is interested?

 

There is a pause, long enough for John Brown to muster some courage.

JOHN:

I'll go.

FORGERY:

Anyone? How about you, Sarah?

JOHN:

I said, I'll go.

FORGERY:

I don't think it's really your thing. Why don't you let someone else join?

JOHN: (upset)  

Fine, whatever.

FORGERY:

Well, Sarah?

ANTHONY:

I'll do it, sure.

SARAH: (looking at Anthony) 

Okay.

ANTHONY:

Sarah and I will go.

FORGERY:

Wonderful. Ah, Mr. Lipton is here.

 

LIPPY, aka Mr. Lipton, enters. (He is actor Edward G. Robinson playing Al Capone, in fedora and overcoat, chomping a beauty of an unlit cigar.) Two thugs enter silently with him, lingering near the door with their hands folded.

LIPPY:

Yah, yah — how are ya? Yah.

 

Lippy begins shaking hands with everyone in the class.

LIPPY:

Mr. Porter. Mr. Havens. Ms. Greene. How are ya, nice to see ya. Mr. Danucci. Put 'er there, yah. Forgery! Good kids you got here. Real swell crowd. (He points to the back.) Mr. Detroit — didn't see ya there. Really swell.

FORGERY:

We are graced by your presence as always, Mr. Lipton.

LIPPY:

Don't kiss my ass in front of the kids, Chas. It's unbecoming, see? Makes us both look bad. Makes the school look bad. Don't do it again, see?

 

One of the thugs whispers something to Lippy.

 

LIPPY:

Is that right?

 

Lippy shoots a look at Forgery, who pales.

LIPPY:

Mugsy here says you've been warned before. Mugsy says the last time, I told you there'd be consequences, see? Consequences.

FORGERY:

Could we talk about this later?

MUGSY:

I could, ah, take 'im for a little, ah — what ya say, walk in the alley. Give his arm a little twist.

FORGERY:

Oh no, not my arm! (He clutches it protectively.) 

LIPPY:

Relax, ya sap. You don't even know how to paint with it, anyway. You can learn to type left-handed.

FORGERY:

Oh, please. I've been good.

LIPPY:

Forget it, Mugsy. Leave the crybaby alone.

MUGSY:

Right, boss.

LIPPY:

Hey you kids, forget you saw that, see?

ANTHONY:

How can we forget we saw that? We saw it, you know?

 

Lippy laughs and pats Anthony on the cheek.

LIPPY:

Hah, hah — you had me going, kid. You're all right. So, listen up, see? There's going to be some changes. Yah, changes, effective immediately. From now on, the equipment room will be run out of the main office, and all fees will be made payable directly to the school, see? We had been in discussions with Mr. Chicolini concerning the autonomy of the equipment office, but he had an accident and won't be working here any more. We all liked Chico, but I think business will definitely improve. Yah, improve. Now, what else was I going to say?

MUGSY:

The art show, boss.

LIPPY:

What's that? Yah, the art show. There's going to be an art show, see? This will be a public show, something for the folks, and a few friends of mine. It could be your big break! First, we'll be organizing a faculty committee to hear and review your ideas. You tell us what you plan to paint, see? Then we vote on the ones we like, and fund those projects, subject to certain deductions. Only five students from the school will be chosen, so come prepared with your best ideas. Yah. Don't hide your light under a bushel. Okay? Right, what else?

 

Lippy chomps on his cigar, and remembers before Mugsy can remind him.

LIPPY:

Oh, I got it. This campus is now smoke-free, in line with our new "friendly to our friends" policy. Yah. So, get back to work, see? I'm proud of all of you. Proud. Everyone, bow your heads.

 

Lippy exits, winking with a click of his tongue at Anthony. Forgery relaxes. Mugsy removes his hat, bows his head, and recites the Lord's Prayer. Mugsy and the other thug exit. The students wake up.

FORGERY:

What I'd like to do now, instead of looking at slides as scheduled, is to break up into small discussion groups. We'll talk about ideas for the art show with each other. Let's divide into three groups of four — Group A will meet in the lab, Group B will meet in the sculpture garden, and Group C will meet in the study center. Ten minutes, class.

 

Forgery makes a hasty exit, mopping his forehead. John Brown, the odd man out of thirteen students, is left alone when the dust settles. William is the last to leave, in a group with Mari, Sarah, and Anthony. John Brown stays put and gets out a sketchbook.

WILLIAM:

You want to come? We can make five in our group.

JOHN:

That's okay. I don't really find group discussions very helpful. Maybe I'll meet you after I come up with something.

WILLIAM:

Rebel! We'll be in the sculpture garden.

WILLIAM exits.

JOHN:

What to show, what to show? "To show or not to show" — that's the question. I always wonder, what happens if I just don't do what they say? Will my life as I know it come to an end? What if the art show is the wrong thing to do? Then the right thing to do would be to avoid it altogether. How would I know the difference? God, I was wrong — I am going mad with alarming alacrity.

 

Forgery enters, looking for his papers.

FORGERY:

What are you still doing here? Didn't you join a discussion group?

JOHN:

I decided I wanted to work on my ideas by myself for a little while.

FORGERY:

That's the purpose of the group. Look, are you alright? Do you have a problem?

JOHN:

Sure, I've got a hundred problems.

 

Forgery sits next to John.

FORGERY:

You know, the campus provides free counseling. You might want to see them. Tell me, is it a drug problem?

JOHN:

A drug problem? No, I wouldn't say so.

FORGERY:

If you're doing drugs, they can help.

JOHN:

That's not really my problem.

FORGERY:

Something is the matter, because you're sitting here instead of with the others. I mean, what are you doing?

JOHN:

I'm working on sketches for the art show.

FORGERY:

Those don't look like sketches.

JOHN: (flipping pages)  

Sure they are.

FORGERY:

Look, I can't sit here and drag it out of you. You obviously need some kind of help. You're just not playing the game. No one else has a problem following the rules. You're at art school, but you don't seem interested in being here or in doing the work. Just do the work, hm?

JOHN:

I do plenty of work, but not what the school teaches. Why shouldn't I be able to learn what I want to learn? I came in having drawn and painted my whole life, and I have my own ways that don't fit into the system the school has for making art.

FORGERY:

Are you something special, is that it? Are you Mozart?

JOHN: (slowly) 

Maybe I am, yes.

FORGERY:

Even Mozart went to music school.

JOHN: (puzzled) 

I don't think he did, did he?

FORGERY:

Of course he did. (He rises.) I've got to go. Promise me you'll go to the counseling center. Hmm?

JOHN:

I might, maybe.

FORGERY:

You're only hurting yourself. Play the game or quit. Don't hold up yourself or anyone else. All right? Let me know what you decide to do.

FORGERY exits.

JOHN:

Well, that was laughably unhelpful. "Play the game! No one else has a problem." They should! (He begins to collect his things.)  "Your light is on." Am I the only one who cares?

 

John stands and makes ready to leave.

JOHN:

To show, or not to show.

 

John Brown writes the word "Liberty" on the board in large, shouting letters. After regarding it for a moment, he exits. The Storyteller is already on the scene, moving into a spotlight, as the stage lights black out, as at the end of an Act.

STORYTELLER:

You folks are welcome to applaud. That was officially the end of Act I.

 

He encourages applause by putting his own hands together.

STORYTELLER:

Now, I'm going to stall for a minute while they reset the stage for Act II.

 

Stagehands begin redressing the set, as quietly as possible.

STORYTELLER:

I had the opportunity during the last break to talk with some of you folks out there, and I was surprised to hear that a few gentle people weren't having a good time because they were upset about some of the language they've heard in the story. One young woman even went home. I'm really sorry to hear this, because all we want to do is tell the truth, and the truth is, sometimes people you meet, even young kids like John Brown, use what I like to call the sailor's brogue. I hope the rest of you, while still not too grown up to sit down and hear a story, are mature, even-tempered folk who can hear a bit of cussin' without fainting, scowling, or snickering. I just wanted to make that clear, because if you can't, the next scene is apt to leave quite an impression on you. Gentlewomen and gentlemen, I give you — the studio lab.

STORYTELLER exits.

 

Lights up on a painting studio. The students are in a semi-circle, holding newsprint pads. DELLA FOGHORN, looking something of a muscular, tightly-packed old biddy, thunders into the room in a loose robe and pants. She paces, studying everyone's faces. Then, she takes hers tand on a low modeling platform.

DELLA: (swinging a fist in the air, with ferocity) 

CUNT!!!

 

All of the students are shocked. John Brown, also shocked, laughs.

DELLA:

What are you, four years old? Cunt, cunt, cunt! Let me hear you say it, you little fuckers!

 

Everyone blushes and snickers.

DELLA:

What's wrong with you? You're the worst class I've ever had! How are you going to draw a cunt if you can't even say the word? Would you prefer the word, "vagina?" A cunt is a cunt. Say it!

WILLIAM:

Cunt!

DELLA:

You weren't calling me that, were you? (She chuckles.)   What are you afraid of? Any other body parts you can't handle?

 

She pulls off her pants, introducing the threat that she might peel off the rest at any moment.

DELLA:

Relax, I'm just showing you my legs.

WILLIAM:

You have great legs.

DELLA: (wistfully)  

Oh no, it was my mother who had beautiful legs. She was a dancer in Europe, long ago. (Snapping out of it.) Okay, you cowards. This is a sketching and modeling class. Who wants to come up here? The ones who volunteer first are always the ones who are really serious about their career. Come up and strip to your underwear. Learn what it's like to be an artist's model.

WILLIAM:

Are you excluded from the exercise if you're not wearing underwear?

DELLA: (aghast)  

It's just dirty when men don't wear underwear. Don't you think? Just dirty. If that's the case, or you're just ashamed of your bodies — I hope none of you are. I'm not ashamed of mine! (She opens her robe and pats her stomach.) Now, get up here, someone, before I throw all of you out.

ANTHONY:

I'll go. I'll do it, sure.

 

Anthony stands. Della takes a seat.

DELLA:

See? There's always a serious first volunteer.

ANTHONY:

So, what did you want me to do? Strip?

DELLA:

No, there's too many who are too goddamn shy to take their pants off. Just take off one thing you're wearing and hold it out and talk about it while everyone sketches you. I'll tell you when to stop.

 

Anthony whips off his shirt. He is lean and muscular. He is wearing a thin gold chain around his neck.

ANTHONY:

Maybe I should have just taken off my gold chain, you know?

 

He looks at Della, who is waiting for him to keep talking. Everyone begins drawing.

ANTHONY:

Okay, this is my shirt, you know? I mean, I don't remember when I got it, you know? I don't remember when I washed it last, either, you know? (He sniffs it.) 

DELLA:

Don't clown around. Stand still and just tell us about the shirt.

ANTHONY:

Okay, right. Uhm — it used to be one of my favorites, but it's faded now, and smaller. I think I got it from my brother, Mikey. He used to wear it playing basketball, then somehow I got it. I remember I wore it when I was painting something in the garage — you know, 'long time ago — and I got this blop of paint right there on the sleeve, and I was really upset, you know, that maybe my brother would whale on me, you know, for getting paint on his favorite shirt. I'd just gotten it from him.

DELLA:

Stop! That was perfect, thank you. Brave boy.

ANTHONY:

Okay. Thanks. It was kind of fun, you know?

 

He replaces the shirt and sits. Sarah shows him her sketch, and he smirks.

DELLA:

Who's next? Come on, come on. I swear to you, I have never had a class like this!

 

A few hands go up, including William's and Sarah's. Della calls on Sarah.

DELLA:

You — up! What's your name again? Sarah?

SARAH:

Yes. With an 'H.'

DELLA:

Okay, start talking.

 

Sarah takes a bracelet off her wrist, shyly glancing at Anthony, who strikes a macho pose as a defense against what's coming.

SARAH:

This is my new favorite bracelet of all time. I was given it last night by Anthony.

 

She points at him. He folds his legs, masculinely.

SARAH:

We were having a special night, really special for me, and he gave this to me. It means a lot to me, and I don't ever want to take it off and um — (she notices she has it off)  And I think it's 'cause I love him.

 

She returns quickly to her seat. Everyone lowers their pads. Anthony throws his arm around Sarah's shoulders as she slips her hand through the bracelet.

DELLA:

No, no, no! I told you to stay up there until I tell you to stop.

SARAH: (to Anthony) 

I'm sorry, I promised you I'd never take it off!

ANTHONY:

Hey, it's okay.

SARAH: (sad)  

You kept your chain on, though.

ANTHONY:

It's okay, it's okay.

DELLA:

You two — Capulet and Montague, cut it out. I refuse to be upstaged in my own classroom by your young-lover melodrama.

 

Sarah seems to be crying.

ANTHONY:

May we be excused, ma'am?

DELLA:

Ma'am? Where'd you learn to call an old broad like me ma'am? Take five. Scram. Beat it. Ow-diddle-ee-ow-out!

ANTHONY:

Okay, okay, take it easy, you know? It's a big day for her. Don't be making fun of her, all right?

DELLA:

I'm not making fun of her. I'm not making fun of anyone, am I? Please leave if you're going to, so maybe the rest of these limp-dick Harrys can actually learn something, for God's sake.

ANTHONY:

All right, I'll be back. Watch my stuff, someone. Thanks.

 

He shepherds Sarah out. Della paces, her robe billowing open and shut, suspensefully.

DELLA:

You are all a damned wreck. We can get two more in before the break if we make it snappy. Who's got the balls?

WILLIAM:

One. I've got one ball.

DELLA:

What are you, a human deformity?

WILLIAM:

No, it was a joke. I was just kidding.

DELLA:

Of course you were. Are you coming up, One-nut , or not?

WILLIAM:

I'm coming, I'm coming.

DELLA: (slyly) 

Not with only one nut, you're not!

 

Laughter boils to a rich froth, at William's expense, serving him right for making the joke in the first place. He foolishly takes the platform-stage anyway.

DELLA:

I'm sorry, dear boy. You walked right into that one.

WILLIAM: (as if joking, but betraying a bad spirit) 

I take back what I said about your legs.

DELLA: (stung)  

It was my mother's legs, not mine. She had such grace. (She freezes her hand, as if becoming sculpture, into a poise of graceful beauty.)   She was so lovely.

WILLIAM:

So, should I start?

DELLA:

Whenever you like.

 

William fidgets a moment, then drops his pants, embarrassing everyone in the room. He is wearing small briefs.

WILLIAM: (starting to realize his error) 

I should have taken my shoes off, first.

 

He stands there, stiffly, his pants around his ankles. He looks to Della for support, but she offers only a steely gaze in return. He decides to take off his shoes.

WILLIAM:

Uhm — uhm.

 

Della glances at a timepiece. Everyone waits with their sketchpads. William finally gets his trousers off and holds them in a bunch.

WILLIAM:

These are my pants, as I'm sure all of you can tell. They're blue, and there's a button, and a zipper, and some pockets. (He pauses, looks at Della.) I also don't remember when I got them, but I know that I washed them this weekend. Nothing special ever happened to me while wearing them, probably because I don't have a life. I was thinking about getting one. (He pauses again.) And, that's it. I guess.

DELLA: (showing mercy) 

All right, that's enough. You can go back to your seat now.

 

William pulls his pants back on and collects his shoes. John can't quite look him in the eye at first, but does so in a gesture of support. William looks quite humbled.

DELLA:

One last one before we break? John Brown, you're up.

JOHN:

Me?

DELLA:

It's a hard act to follow, I know.

 

There is some nervously-released laughter.

DELLA:

Come on.

JOHN: (a bit stage-frightened)  

I'll try.

 

John paces up onto the platform and considers his options. He decides to remove his wristwatch.

DELLA: (kindly) 

Go on.

JOHN:

This is my watch. It's lost its original band, but it's built like a tank. That's what a repairman said, once. It's got a digital display, and I keep it on my right wrist instead of my left one, just to be different. Originally, I had a reason to switch, and just never went back. Maybe it's because I like to pretend I'm left-handed. My dad is left-handed, and I always thought it would be neat. I think this watch will outlive me, and I hope maybe my grandson will inherit it, if I have one. The light doesn't work anymore, and — that's it.

 

John looks at Della, who looks back, rapt. John lowers his head and returns to his seat.

DELLA: (disappointed) 

I said, stay up there until I tell you to stop.

JOHN:

I can go back up again, sorry.

DELLA:

No, no — never mind. Time for a break. See you in ten minutes.

NADIA:

Could I go first after the break?

DELLA:

Remind me when we start and you may.

 

Everyone exits except John and Mari. Mari stands, as if to leave.

MARI:

Are you coming?

JOHN:

I figured someone should stay and keep an eye on Anthony's stuff.

MARI:

Oh — right.

 

She sits, smiling at John, who seems slightly wound up in himself.

MARI:

So — how are you?

JOHN:

I'm okay. Just brooding, I guess.

MARI:

What?

JOHN:

Just brooding, I guess.

MARI: (unclear)  

"Brooding" — huh?

JOHN: (translating) 

Being introspective, thinking about myself. (He imitates Rodin's "Thinker.") You know?

MARI:

Ah! I see, yah. "Brooding." So, what are you brooding about?

JOHN:

Just life in general, I guess.

MARI:

Ah. So — how is your project for the art show going?

JOHN:

It's not going very well. I don't have any good ideas.

MARI:

No — you have very good ideas. I like your ideas very much. Very good.

JOHN:

Thanks. The school doesn't like them.

MARI:

Oh, hmmm. Yah. Yah, that's too bad. I see you — (she searches for the English word)  Struggling? Struggling, all the time. When I get like that, I always pray. I say, "Let God just love me a little more today. Love me a little more." And, then it's fine.

JOHN:

Maybe I should try that.

MARI: (earnestly) 

You should, you should. Well, I'm going to go get something to drink. You want something?

JOHN:

I'm fine, thanks.

MARI:

Okay, well, I see you in a few minutes, okay? Bye.

JOHN:

Bye.

MARI exits.

 

John stands and walks up on the platform.

JOHN:

God, please love me a little more. Or a lot more. Whatever you want, as long as it is on the positive side. I'm just a nervous wreck down here. I haven't drawn in weeks, I'm out of ideas. People are taking advantage of me. And I am at my wit's end concerning the art show.

AMBROSE: (appearing suddenly) 

Don't let me interrupt.

 

John hops off the platform, his privacy infiltrated.

JOHN:

I can pick it up later.

AMBROSE:

You're having a problem with the art show?

JOHN:

I have no ideas to pitch, and one week left before the committee review. I am tempted to just let it be.

AMBROSE:

My dear John Brown, I won't hear of it. I — (He starts to enter, but can't.) May I come in?

JOHN:

Of course.

AMBROSE: (charging in)  

Thank you! You must win that art show!

JOHN:

I am not interested in winning the art show.

AMBROSE:

Ah, you blister me with such talk. Right on the tuckus, too. (searching himself)  Where is my ointment?

JOHN:

I guess I could pitch an idea, and see where it flies.

AMBROSE:

Absolutely you should! Absolutely. Why, you will win hands down. This, I could arrange.

JOHN:

Are you on the judging panel?

AMBROSE:

I am the very corner of the foundation.

 

Ambrose swats at an invisible insect, slapping himself hard on the arm.

AMBROSE:

Ow! Blazes!

JOHN:

Do your stitches hurt?

AMBROSE:

No, but they itch like the devil. Oho! Haha hah! Private joke. (John's attention begins to wander.) Listen, I'm not too busy. Why don't you make me your advisor, and then I can, shall we say, start to write your career?

JOHN:

By winning the art show.

AMBROSE:

Precisely, precisely. You'd be an absolutely priceless apprentice. I'd put the world under the spell of your brush. (John is not falling for it.)  Look, look — I'm advising a friend of yours already, William Detroit. He'll vouch for me. I've already gotten him started in a nude modeling career.

JOHN:

I think we were all a witness to the fruits of that advice today.

AMBROSE: (laughing into his fist)  

Wasn't that a scream, when he dropped his pants? You wouldn't believe how open to suggestion he's become.

JOHN:

You told him to drop his pants?

AMBROSE:

I whispered it into his ear once or twice, you might say. See what I mean? Most people, you could holler that into their head and they'd not even budge in that direction. But him, hey — almost too easy. Not like you, John. So, how about it?

JOHN:

You wouldn't make me a nude model?

AMBROSE:

I will find  you nude models. The cutest and nudest California and Nevada have to offer.

JOHN:

Hmm!

AMBROSE: (seizing the interest)  

First thing, I'll fly in some from Las Vegas. Let me tell you, sirloin steak isn't the only cheap meat in Vegas.

JOHN:

On second thought, never mind.

AMBROSE: (roaring) 

What? Wait one minute! Time! Time out!

 

Lights fade amber dim. John Brown freezes. Ambrose prowls.

AMBROSE:

I've caught you! Pawn takes rook. Oh, how delicious. Come on out!

 

Storyteller enters, removing his hat.

STORYTELLER:

Here I am, Ambrose.

AMBROSE:

I've caught you. You turned his mind. I've caught you!

STORYTELLER:

Why must you still speak like a child, Ambrose? How can you still be spoiled?

AMBROSE:

I am what I am, Stephen.

STORYTELLER: (replacing his hat)  

I am to be elsewhere at this time. If you'll excuse me.

AMBROSE:

Je vous excuse.

STORYTELLER:

I'll see you folks at the end of the story, I promise.

STORYTELLER exits.

AMBROSE:

Wait — to whom did you speak? I see no one but my own shadow. I can guess. I feel their eyes on me. My words, do they vibrate their ears? Very well. I shall speak my peace. My name is Ambrose, the most beautiful of the first-born angels. I stood next to the very throne of Christ, in an age long past. With quiver and dart, they displaced me, the hoary hordes of heaven, and my racked and ruined body landed here, at the beginning of time. Only my will, that thing of cobalt-iron, that unbreakable rampart, holds me together against the ravages of immortality in a fragile, fleshen frame. My anger for all mankind, esteemed in beauty, poetry, thought, and grace above even me, when my princity was glory that glowed as a molten sun, my anger is wreaked in riot, wreaked in pestilences, wreaked in disease, rots that stink in the summer heat, spewing a fragrance to offend the nostrils of the Lord Father. And He seeks to offend me, by parading this boy in my sight, within my carvèd palace gates, and permits me not to blemish him. How I hate him, hate beyond words, beyond thought, I hate! Hate is the smoldering coal oven in which I smelt and forge the leaden daggerette that shall fell, with a pass, the stripling birch God dared sow in my garden brown, him — John Brown!

AMBROSE exits.

 

Fade out.

END OF ACT II.

 

FIVE-MINUTE INTERMISSION.

 

Act III