Short Story -- A Play

SHORT STORY--a play
Characters: Joe Pancake
Director
People
Others
(Stage bare;; no props, nothing. Lights come up. Joe Pancake walks out onto stage and faces audience.)
Pancake: I’ve never done this before; never been in a play. I’m not an actor; I’m a short story character. (Looks to the wings.)
Director: (From the wings, encouragingly, in a loud whisper.) You’re doing fine. Don’t worry. Just be yourself.
Pancake: (Still looking to the wings.) But I don’t know how to do this. This is all new to me. I’m not even sure how to begin--how to "be myself" on the stage.
Director: Believe me, you’re doing fine. You’ve already begun. Just relax. Walk around a bit. Pick up something. Show some action. Dance. Sing. The audience can see you. Don’t look at me; look at the audience.
Pancake: I don’t want to dance. I don’t want to sing. Maybe later, but not now.
Director: Don’t speak to me. Speak to the audience. Look at them!
Pancake: But I don’t know what to do. (Looks at empty, bare stage.) There’s nothing here to pick up. (Another pause, as he looks at audience.) God, this is hard. (Pause again.) I think I like the short story better. As a genre.
Director: Don’t let them know that.
Pancake: Well then (facing the wings again), give me a hand. Give me a plot. A setting. A time. Tell me something, for hell’s sake. What’s going on? I know nothing. Where are we? (Looks around the stage; sees Big Emptiness.) Where are we? I could be anywhere. In fact, I could be anyone. Who am I?
Director: Jesus, Pancake. What’s got into you? You’re freaking out. Just do it! You’ve been in stories before; plays aren’t that different.
Pancake: Maybe not that different. But they are different.
Director: Look, I’m not here to argue with you. In fact, you shouldn’t be talking to me at all; you should be focused on your audience. And on yourself. Damn it, Pancake! You’re in a play. You’ve been in stories before. Make the transition. Take the leap. Take a chance.
Pancake: I know, I know. But . . .
Director: And stop talking to me. Stop looking at me. Those folks out there aren’t going to put up with this much longer.
Pancake: Ok. (Pause.) But where do I start? How do I start? Is anyone else going to be here with me? Or am I going to be doing this thing all by myself? Alone?
Director: Questions! Questions! (Pause. Calming down.) Do you want someone else?
Pancake: It might help.
Director: Who do you want?
Pancake: (Pause.) I don’t know. (Pause again.) I haven’t seen my kids in awhile. Columbus. Molly. I miss ‘em. Pause, as he looks around bare stage.) Or maybe I need somebody new altogether.
Director: Ok, ok. I’ll see what I can do. But I can’t promise you anything. It’s getting kind of late in the game to bring in a new character.
Pancake: Late in the game? I thought we’d only just begun. The play’s just started.
Director: Pancake, a lot goes into the production of a play--much more than just writing something down on a piece of paper. There’s auditions. Castings. Rehearsals. We can’t just grab anyone off the street.
Pancake: (Reflecting.) Did I audition for this? (Continues introspection.) I don’t recall auditioning. I can’t imagine volunteering for something like this.
Director: (Silent pause. Deliberate.) I’m just saying there are limits to what we can do on the stage.
Pancake: And fiction has no limits?
Director: Did I say that? (Pause.) Did I say that? Look, I said I’ll see what I can do. (Pauses again. Peeks out from behind curtain to auditorium.) But you’d better get started. Some folks are starting to leave.
Pancake: (Looking to audience.) I know; I know. (He looks around stage. Takes a few steps toward center stage. Faces audience. Does a little two-step to try to prevent any more restless patrons from leaving. Some folks return to their seats; others continue their flight. Pancake returns focus to Director.) But. . . how do I start? Give me a setting at least.
Director: You can’t create one?
Pancake: (Throwing hands up in the air.) Jesus!
Director: Come on. Get moving!
Pancake: (Exasperated) You know (shaking his head), I think I need a narrator.
Director: Ever heard of a soliloquy?
Pancake: Don’t insult me. (Pause. Looks at audience. Looks back to wings. A little discouraged now. Apologetically.) I’m just not a soliloquy type of guy. That’s all.
Director: Fine, fine. But I gotta go; I was supposed to be out there in the audience ten minutes ago. This ain’t no rehearsal.
Pancake: What?! You’re leaving?
Director: That’s right, pal. You’re on your own. (Exits.)
Pancake: No! Wait! (Almost runs off stage. Gets to wings and stops. Stares into wings. Stares at audience. Looks down at feet. Begins walking about stage. Inspecting stage. Comes out to edge of stage, looks at audience. Says nothing. Walks about stage some more, in circles. Sits down at center stage, on floor. Looks heavenward (literally, to the ceiling–-el cielo); looks to wings; looks to audience. Stands. Comes out to edge of stage again. Looks at audience for a long time. Waits--as if waiting--for something: a question, a suggestion, an observation, anything. Something to get him started (as if he doesn’t yet know that he already has started). Takes three steps backwards. Looks to wings. Looks to audience.) OK. (Pause.) I’ll give it a shot. But be patient. (Pauses, to allow audience the opportunity to exercise patience. Hesitates, as if changing his mind on what he was going to say.) Maybe I’ll just tell you a little bit about myself. (Pause.) I’m not an actor. I’m a short story character. I might like to try my hand in a novel some day, but not yet. And definitely not drama. I prefer fiction as a genre. I like the written word, over the aural performance. Or the visual. The distinction might seem petty to some, but for me . . . (Looks to wings. Returns to audience. Takes deep breath; blows out air from lungs. Begins walking the stage again, the edges of the stage--side, back, side, front–-but never leaves stage entirely, nor visibility of audience. Finally, settles at front of stage [downstage center], peers out to audience, looking in earnest for Director. For direction. Starts to speak. Brushes hands together; a cleansing motion.) No, I don’t think I want to talk about myself. Or my theories on genre. (Moves to front of stage. Pauses. Brushes hands. Starts again.) OK. I’m ready now--I think. (Pauses.) I said I like the short story. But by that I mean, I like really short stories. Stories that are shorter than one page even. Short enough to be said in one breath. (Pause. Takes a breath. Looks about stage.) Maybe I’ll share one with you. The shortest one I know. It’s also the best one I know. (Looks around to find a seat. Finds none. Moves to front of stage. Sits down with legs over edge of stage. Close to audience. Waits several moments: for intimacy to settle throughout the auditorium.) OK. Here goes (Pause. Inhales.): "When he woke up, the dinosaur was still there." (Pause. Takes another breath. Waits for response. None. No laughter, no applause, no questions, no weeping. Nothing. Waits several moments more, then stands up and fires off, in rapid succession--and in a shout (which could easily be misinterpreted as anger)--three Very Important Questions):
What am I doing here?
How did I get here?
What should I do next?
(Walks about stage, not anticipating an answer. Then finally, shouts out one more of the Universal Questions, perhaps the biggest and most important question of all):
What can I have to eat?
(Finally, the audience applauds. Some, who had escaped to the lobby, peek their heads back into the auditorium to see what the hell’s going on; some return to their seats. Others don’t.)
Pancake: (Raising his eyebrows, seeing that he’s found something, something that has finally got the attention of at least some of the audience.) (Slowly. Comprehendingly. Voice rising and falling) Aaahhhhhhh. . . (Looks about stage, no longer for props, but for food, or, anyway, for something to eat.)
* * * * * * *
Slowly, audience begins to toss food onto stage: tomatoes--ripe tomatoes, rotten tomatoes; eggs--raw eggs, rotten eggs; bananas, banana peels; cucumbers, grapefruit, watermelon seeds, chicken breast, tofu, noodles; apples, corn, celery stalks; then canned goods, cereal boxes, waffle mix, syrup, cookies, plastic liter bottles of soda pop. Pancake has to dodge some of the heavier and, therefore, more dangerous objects. Stage begins to become filled with the food stuffs of an industrialized nation: processed food, frozen food, radiated food, dyed and enhanced and enriched and over-packaged food, artificial foods; bottled water, vitamin supplements, medicines, medications, ointments, contraceptives, glossy magazines, candy, a can opener.
Pancake might easily have been buried under the offerings, but, by continually maneuvering, he is able to manage the stage with a good deal of freedom, avoiding any serious injury. Is frequently struck, but–-again–-never seriously. And even seems, for the moment, to be pleased with the pandemonium, pleased to be sharing the stage with at least something. Rummaging through piles, Pancake begins picking up random objects, smelling and occasionally taking bites, nibbling and chewing and eventually swallowing. Picks up other items and tosses them into growing heaps–-piles--away from center stage; off stage entirely to wings, off stage entirely to audience.
A pig wanders onto stage, through rubbish, grunting and farting. Then a goat, then a chicken, then another pig, a dog. A cat. A knife is thrown onto stage. Pancake ignores knife, goes to goat, offers hand, which goat begins to lick. Electrons are exchanged (though very few in the audience know this; a special, though basic, knowledge of physics is required for this type of information).
Pancake, speaking slowly and hesitatingly, as if in doubt of his own words, says, "I think I’m beginning to see the advantages of drama." He pauses before continuing, "And of fiction."
People, clothed and otherwise, emerge–-rise up, it seems–-from out of the piles of food and stuff, and begin wandering over and through the non-existent maze, picking up scraps and eating. They begin talking in a language that no one in the audience can understand, though it is one of the familiar languages. It is inaudible because they are all speaking at the same time, and in whispers that rarely and barely carry beyond the stage.
Pancake, however, speaks in a voice that is just above that of the others. "Yes," he says. "Advantages," he says. He pauses and looks at his surroundings: the pigs, the people, the goat and the chicken and the dog and the rubbish. The cat. "And, of course," he says, "the disadvantages." He continues to survey the scene and the stage, and says, again louder than everyone else, but just loud enough for the first two rows to hear, "In other words, limitations." He reconsiders, tries again, "In other words, possibilities." And then, reflectively, as well as with a bit of feigned drama, "New ideas, like old ones, are already obsolete."
People continue eating; pigs too, and dog and chicken. Cat. Pancake feeds goat by hand; goat eats and then licks the hand of Pancake; Pancake pets goat on back of neck in circular motion with non-licked hand. Continues to feed, continues to lick, continues to stroke. Circular motion. Wish. Love. Hope. Then. Lights dim.
Curtain