AN AMERICAN FOLKTALE

©1996 by John Robinson Wheeler. All rights reserved.

 

ACT III.

 

Fade in on the studio lab dressed as an art gallery. Four paintings are displayed and lit, with space set aside for a fifth. Lippy, Forgery, and Mugsy are side-by-side, taking them in. One shows a cowboy in white, stepping on the head of a snake that is coiled around a Dakota Indian. The next is a nativity scene, only Mary is a dog and Jesus literally a sheep. The third is an abstract expression derivative of Munch's The Scream , and the last is two hands symbolizing a broken relationship, with his side displaying a gold chain and hers a broken bracelet. Della wanders in, and a few extras.

FORGERY:

What do you think of this one, Mr. Lipton? It's called "Manifest Destiny."

LIPPY:

A cowboy, stepping on a snake, coiled around a red indian. Hm. What do you think, Mugsy?

MUGSY:

I like it, boss.

LIPPY:

You do, eh?

MUGSY:

The composition is — what ya say, strong. Balanced. It's okay. I like it, sure.

 

He snorts and scratches himself. Lippy gestures with his unlit cigar.

LIPPY:

Yah, yah. I get it, yah. Manifest destiny. The cowboy is saving the indian from the snake. Yah, I like this one, yah.

MUGSY:

I think it's supposed to be ironic, boss.

LIPPY:

Shut up, Mugsy. Don't talk to me about irony, see? Two ex-wives, now I pay them more in alimony then I ever shelled out for them while we were married. That's irony. No, this is straight-up red, white, and blue. You can quote me on that.

MUGSY: (to Forgery) 

You heard the boss. Quote him.

FORGERY: (notepad at the ready)

Right, right. "This is straight up red, white..."

LIPPY:

What's next? (looking about) Where's the rest of them?

FORGERY:

The rest? There's only one missing.

LIPPY:

That's what I mean. It's not supposed to be one of those "statements," is it?

 

Mugsy contemplates the blank space.

FORGERY:

No, no. We did select five actual paintings.

LIPPY:

Well, where'd it go? It wasn't stolen, was it?

FORGERY:

I really don't know. It could have been, but I think the student just hasn't brought it in.

LIPPY:

It isn't that tall kid, is it? What's his name, Mugsy?

MUGSY:

John Brown, boss.

FORGERY:

John Brown? No sir, it's William Detroit.

LIPPY:

Detroit, eh? I know him. No, this — whatsisname, Brown — he came to see me, said he'd had a painting stolen.

FORGERY:

I don't know anything about it!

LIPPY:

You don't, eh? Mugsy, ask Mr. Forgery what he knows about it. I run a clean business, see? Poachers bring in cops. I don't need that kind of heat around here.

MUGSY: (advancing) 

Okay, what do you know about it?

FORGERY:

Nothing, nothing. I swear I'm not hiding anything. I really don't know anything about it!

 

Mugsy grabs him and gives him a good shake. Students and dignitaries file in, among them John Brown, Nadia, Mari, Sarah, and Anthony. Sarah and Anthony are no longer a couple. Everyone mills about freely.

LIPPY:

Cheez it, Mugsy. The guests are here.

FORGERY:

I swear I don't know.

LIPPY:

Shaddap, already. You're going to spook the crowd, see?

 

Lippy moves to the next painting and squints at it.

LIPPY:

What is this supposed to be? Looks to me like it's a mockery of the Nativity. What is it, Mugsy? Matthew 2:15 ?

MUGSY:

Luke 2:16 , boss. (Removing his hat.) "And they went with haste, and found Mary and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger." (He redons it.)

FORGERY:

Don't you like it? It's titled, "The Dog Mary."

LIPPY: (ducking) 

Woah! It's blasphemy!

MARI:

No, not. It is not.

FORGERY: (sweating)

A piece of some controversy is always good to have in a show.

LIPPY:

Is this yours?

MARI:

Yah — it's mine. May I tell you about it?

LIPPY:

Go on, sure. Yah.

MARI: (stepping forward)

It is not blasphemy. I love the Lord. See how beautiful I make him?

MUGSY:

Just byoo tiful. Really.

MARI:

Yah, thanks.

LIPPY:

Why did you make Mary a dog?

MARI:

Because, when I was a little girl, I had a dog who was very — a very peaceful dog. Very loving. And we called her Mary, and I used my memory of her to draw the Virgin Mary. So that, it comes from me. She's my Mary. John Brown said we should do that, so I tried it, and I liked it.

FORGERY:

I don't remember him saying that. It was my idea, wasn't it? Wasn't it, Sarah.

SARAH: (sounding as if she's been recently crying)

No, I remember. He said it about my Anne Rice painting.

FORGERY:

I could have sworn that it was my idea.

LIPPY:

Nineteen years you've taught here, Chas. When have you ever had an idea like that? The kid does your job better than you do.

FORGERY:

I refuse to have my qualifications challenged, especially with a student who is near to failing my class. John Brown consistently refuses to play by the rules. He didn't even show up to make a pitch for this show.

LIPPY:

Liberty, Chas. The kid craves liberty.

FORGERY:

No one ever said he wasn't free to paint whatever he wants. But he has to do it from within the system.

LIPPY:

The system works for kids who need its structure to prosper.

FORGERY:

Everyone needs structure. We couldn't have a show like this without structure. The structure cannot be violated!

LIPPY:

What's gotten into you? Have you finally grown a backbone?

FORGERY:

John Brown is the enemy of this institution, therefore mine.

LIPPY:

Mugsy — there's the kid. Tell him I want to talk to him.

MUGSY:

Right, boss.

 

Mugsy accosts John Brown.

MUGSY:

John Brown? The boss would like some of your time.

 

Lippy smiles, gesturing an invitation.

LIPPY:

Mr. Brown — c'mere.

JOHN:

Yes?

LIPPY:

Any luck finding your missing painting?

JOHN:

I've asked around, but no one's heard tell of it.

LIPPY:

Mr. Forgery has a lead for you.

FORGERY:

Yes? Er, have you tried the lockers? You might have put it into the wrong one, accidentally.

JOHN:

It's possible, but I doubt it. I wasn't carrying it the last time I saw it.

FORGERY:

Well, it is possible.

LIPPY: (tight-lipped) 

Mugsy.

 

Lippy snaps and motions at Forgery.

MUGSY: (twisting Forgery's arm) 

The boss wants a name.

FORGERY:

Ow, ow, ow. William Detroit. Have you asked William Detroit? Ow!

LIPPY: (mulling) 

So, Detroit has it.

JOHN:

He does?

LIPPY:

Listen kid, John — I've been keeping my eye on you since you wrote "Liberty" on the board. Yah, that's right. I saw it. Well, you've been keeping your nose clean, and maybe you need a break. Detroit's a sour apple — he's lost a few screws, see? You, you don't fit in here. Anyone can see that. Yah. So, here's the deal I'm giving you. Put your best work up here tonight, and that will be your grand finalé, your sayonara to fancy art schools. Kid, you don't belong here, and you never will.

 

Lippy leads John away, by the shoulder.

LIPPY:

Let me tell it to you this way. We make apple cider here, and you're an orange. (sizing him up) More like a tan banana. You get my point. Get out of here, see? Get out there, live somewhere lousy, and start to be a real artist, for the love of Mary. (He casts an eye on "The Dog Mary" and crosses himself.) I'm not your friend, Mr. Brown, but maybe I will be one day if you get the hell out of here, now.

JOHN: (extending a hand) 

Thank you very much, Mr. Lipton.

LIPPY: (shaking it)

Likewise, likewise, yah. So, if you have something to slap up there, go and get it.

JOHN:

I'll be right back. 'Course, I lost my best one.

LIPPY:

Mugsy'll get it back for you. Won't you, Mugsy?

MUGSY:

Sure thing, boss.

JOHN exits.

LIPPY: (shaking his head)

Poor kid. He has no idea he has enemies.

 

William Detroit enters, holding a covered canvas.

WILLIAM:

I'm late, sorry, I'm late.

LIPPY:

Mr. Detroit. Mugsy's been expecting you.

MUGSY:

Let's have a talk outside.

 

Mugsy opens his jacket, revealing a gun.

WILLIAM:

Okay — okay. Let me hang my piece first.

ANTHONY:

Here, I'll do it.

LIPPY:

No need, Mr. Danucci. Mr. Detroit is no longer part of this show. The fifth spot has been given to John Brown.

FORGERY:

Over my dead body!

LIPPY:

Be careful what you wish for, Chas.

WILLIAM:

I don't understand. I have a painting here. I worked all night on it. I just finished it. John didn't even try out for this show!

LIPPY: (glancing at a pocket-watch) 

I'm afraid there was an intervention.

FORGERY:

No, I will not have it! John Brown is a demon and a liar! He mocks me — all year has he mocked me, and refused my advice, and did not accept my way into this show. And now, he is to show anyway? I refuse to be mocked! (He reels, as if from migraine headache.) How I hate him, beyond words, beyond thought, I hate.

LIPPY:

Mugsy!

 

Mugsy tries to grab Forgery, who twists and shrinks away. John enters.

LIPPY:

Get out of here, kid. It's not safe.

WILLIAM:

You have a lot of nerve, taking my place!

FORGERY:

Unhand me, my revenge is here. Pawn fells bishop!

WILLIAM:

You think you're so damned special!

 

William drops his canvas.

LIPPY:

Give me your gun, Mugsy!

 

Mugsy pulls Forgery into a one-arm headlock. At the same time, William lunges at John.

WILLIAM:

Don't you! Don't you! (He shoves John into a corner.) God's gift to fucking art school.

 

Anthony grabs William, street-fight style. John remains mute and unaggressive.

ANTHONY:

Hey, cool it, man.

WILLIAM:

Get the fuck off me!

 

Anthony and William begin to grapple, pushing into people and knocking "The Dog Mary" off the wall. Mugsy hands out his gun. (All of this happens very quickly, with actions overlapping.)

MUGSY:

Here, boss!

LIPPY:

Make tracks, kid.

 

John, confused, turns to leave, obeying.

FORGERY:

Now, it's time, now!

 

Just as Lippy grabs the gun, William pushes Anthony into Mugsy, freeing Forgery and knocking the gun away. Forgery is the first to grab it.

LIPPY:

Everybody, down!

FORGERY:

Good night, fair stripling birch!

 

He fires the gun four times, just as John is reaching the doorway. Mugsy throws himself in the way, catching three of the bullets and dropping dead. But John Brown, too, staggers, as Anthony wrings the gun free of Forgery's hands.

MARI:

He's been shot, he's been shot!

 

John slumps against the wall.

JOHN:

Am I shot? I don't feel anything. I think I'm fainting.

 

John Brown falls.

DELLA:

Assassin! What have you done?

 

Forgery bolts, escaping through the doorway.

DELLA: (shouting after him) 

What have you done?

DELLA exits, repeating.

 

Anthony hands the gun to Lippy and goes over to John. The general crowd exits, ushered by Lippy. William is staring at his hands.

WILLIAM:

I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Jesus, there's blood on my hands.

LIPPY: (to John)

Hang in there, kid. Don't let Mugsy have died in vain, you hear me? He was a good man with a family. (Removing his hat.) So long, Mugsy. If you see my mother, tell her hi for me. (He sniffs.) I'll call for an ambulance. Keep him awake and talking, understand?

LIPPY exits.

MARI:

John. John Brown. Can you hear me?

JOHN:

Yes. I'm awake.

ANTHONY:

How are you feeling?

JOHN: (attempting levity) 

Shot.

ANTHONY:

No, really. Keep talking. You got to stay awake, you know?

JOHN:

Awake. Okay. My side hurts, on my ribs. Left side. I guess I might be in shock, because it doesn't hurt that much.

ANTHONY:

It might have bounced off a rib. I've seen that happen before.

JOHN:

It's supposed to help if you put pressure on the bleeding.

ANTHONY:

Someone get me a towel or something.

 

Mari grabs the covering from William's painting, which is revealed to be rather a perverse, nude self-portrait. She looks at him, hesitating.

MARI:

Is it okay if I take this?

WILLIAM: (slowly nodding) 

Yeah.

 

Mari hands it to Anthony, who folds one corner and presses it to the wound. John spasms from the pain.

JOHN:

Owwww, ah! Now I feel it. Ah! Now I feel shot.

ANTHONY:

Sorry. Little sensitive?

JOHN: (groaning)

I'll say.

ANTHONY:

What do you want me to do? We got to stop the bleeding.

JOHN:

I don't know, I don't know.

MARI:

Here — let me try it. I'll try to be careful. (She presses softly. John murmurs.) How is that?

JOHN:

You can go a little harder. Ungh. Okay. That's about bearable. It's enough to help. Thank you.

MARI:

It's okay.

 

She smiles and touches his forehead, gently.

JOHN:

This is kind of scary.

ANTHONY:

Hey, that's okay. You're toughing it out, you know? Just keep talking.

JOHN:

Keep talking. What is there to say at a time like this? (He pauses, exhaling.) You know what's funny, I keep thinking of ideas for making a painting out of this.

 

John gestures, seeing it in the air.

JOHN:

Me here, Mugsy over there, kind of a fish-eye distortion. Some red in there, for the blood. Maybe coming down my neck, onto my stomach. (He laughs, then stops because of the pain.) I'm sorry. That's not funny. The guy shoots me and now I'm making fun of him. I guess I have a right to do at least that. (pause) I feel hot. Is that good or bad?

 

The wail of sirens is heard.

ANTHONY:

Hang in there, man.

 

Della enters, looking pained.

DELLA:

The villain has hanged himself.

 

The sirens grow louder and louder. William curls into the opposite corner of the room, burying his head.

 

Fade out. The sirens diminish. There is darkness and silence for a long moment. Lights come up on the Storyteller, pacing forward across the now-empty stage.

STORYTELLER:

Most people, if they find they have a few yucks in the first half of a story, figure the last act will award a tremendous explosion of laughter. In life, this usually is not the case. Youth, even middle age, can be a time of great buoyancy, full of rich moments. But the last, old age, is a time of many aches and sorrows. Then, our lights go out.

 

The lights go out. He continues.

STORYTELLER:

Why do we refuse the darkness, the pentasesquicentennial slumber ere awaking to our judgment? Our final judgment!

 

Lights illumine a podium, an exaggerated monolith, in fearful green.

STORYTELLER:

The gavel hangs, ready to crash! The books are opened, our stories are read. "Justice! What does justice require? There must be justice!" they cry. 'Round about their heads, a hundred eyes — each has seen all of what we have done in this world. And they cry, with eagle's beaks they cry for justice! You await, shivering with torment.

 

An icy blue light haunts over the room, cooling everything.

STORYTELLER:

Pins and needles poke your flesh — you still have flesh! It might simply be a dream, and it is!

 

Warm amber lights, up.

STORYTELLER:

You slowly open your eyes, and you are where you should be, and no one is judging your crimes, your little crimes against man. We are all guilty criminals in small ways. If only I had a diamond for every small crime I've done. I would have enough to match, one for one, the starry sky's kisses, and enough left over to buy a universe of my very own. And lots of folks are dead-set worse than I am. You might even say, I'm one of the good ones. If you liked my story, and you really understood what I meant it to mean, then you shall clap and say, "Author! Author!" — but I shall be no less guilty. Good night, folks. Thank you for your time.

 

Storyteller bows. Lights out. Curtain call, if desired.

 

Chilled lemonade should be served in the lobby, free but accepting of donations. Old people should be escorted to comfortable furniture and entertained in conversation. Let simmer for a half-hour, then encourage everyone to go home or, lacking one, to the safest shelter that can be found or arranged. Close and lock the building, and exeunt omnes .

 

END OF ACT III.