Son of a Storyteller

“Now it’s on to Chicago,”
If only you could make it to the kitchen.
Where your great band awaits.  

ACT I 

Scene I 

(Two modestly dressed men sit on a bench in the center of an empty stage. It is raining)

Man One: Awful weather we’re having isn’t it old boy? 

Man Two: Such could be expected, I suppose.

Man One: It has rained on the stroke of 7 for three weeks in a row, without failing a single morning. A phenomenon I’m sure of it. Wouldn’t you agree? 

Man Two: A phenomenon. 

Man One: The scientists don’t know what to make of it; the religious men, though, have projected it as the beginning of the end! (he says dramatically while chuckling) Can you believe that? A spot of rain and suddenly they’re rounding up animals two by two. A little bit ridiculous, wouldn’t you agree?

Man Two: Ridiculous indeed. 

Man One: Is something troubling? Where are your words? 

Man Two: (shaking his head) The funeral. (he motions) See? (he pauses then exhales deeply) Poor, young lad. The boys down at the pub say he was not but 15. The son of a banker, they say. It’s quite a pity. A face of such youth has no place behind the paintings of death.  

Man One: Yes, though, I don’t suppose death has much say in the matter. A pity (he pauses) A beautifully adorned ceremony I would say. The gilded box, the crimson rose; the King of England should hope to have such a funeral (he says jokingly)

Man Two: I suppose he will. 

Man One: Oh, chin up! What sense is there in mourning a boy you’ve never met? He is dead, mate. A tragedy I will confess…though one that has passed. The old banker shall move on, (quickly) though possibly with a bottle in hand; move on nonetheless. The sun will rise again in the morning.

Man Two: (solemnly) To be greeted again by spouts of rain at the hour of seven, I’d suppose?

Man One: (pauses awkwardly, shaking off the question) Yes, well, it is about that time. 

Man Two: What time is that? 

Man One: About that time for me to wander home. Wouldn’t want my lady getting all riled up in these times. Good evening old boy. 

Man Two: Good evening. 

Scene II

(The Banker enters the center of the empty stage from the back wall. He walks drunkenly, without care for any single step. His hair is pulled wet, his eyes are bloodshot, his hand clasped firmly around a large alcoholic bottle. He has not cared to remove his long black overcoat which wetly covers the whitish shirt and black tie that awkwardly hang over his tall slender frame. He stops, center stage, tilts his chin upwards, and speaks)

The Banker: It is upon this very eve, my dear friends, that the world shall run thin. Oh, what company that shall witness my decent. (he drinks) I do say (pause) a fine collection. Saints and sinners. It is all the world has ever known. Saints and sinners. Perhaps the world has forgotten so. (he drinks, then focuses on the bottle as he speaks) Oh my dear friend, oh how long it has been. Those others that prayed to remove you from my presence, (he drinks) how naive those others are. Has not man yet discovered that such a twixted love cannot be separated? They speak afflictions on our hearts though I know it is a fallacy. (pause) You are my true love. You are my salvation, may we never grow apart. (he drinks, more deeply, then raises his eyes to the upper gallery) Who is he that sits above? Who is he casts his vision down upon me as though I am but a venomous snake of the earth? To hell with such a man! What man has not known such (he raises the bottle) a love? Perhaps as a schoolboy, enchanted with the fine golden hair of a feminine counterpart, (he waves his empty index finger towards the upper gallery, grinning) no mortal man can deny such an occurrence! (he sweeps the same hand over the audience) Or perhaps, in form, a longing cheek, pressed side-by a childish nose upon the baker’s glass, hoping to taste but one of his many delights, shall we discount such recollections? (he begins to stumble around the stage as he speaks with conviction, moving randomly towards different sections of the audience) Do your tired memories serve you poorly? Have they forgotten the flowing loves of youth? No, such love has not been forgotten but age-ed into full maturity of advance-ed form. (aggravated) The schoolgirl bartered for the whore, the baker’s sweets transposed into a bottle such as this (he thrusts the bottle upward) Take your condemnation to another. Though you may believe yourself to sit upon the very edges of the constellations (he drinks, exhales) you are no god. (he whispers) No, what is god? If such a creature could exist surely we have found it full in our hosts of love. (again gesturing with the bottle, returning to a speaking voice) I fear no such god, for if he so exists, as the priests have diligently portrayed, then I shall be saved from my “transgressions” (he laughs, his voice raises in intensity and speed) If god sits upon such a “mighty” throne then I pray he come and meet me here, and face me as a man! May he come to this very place and smite me if he should posses such a stomach! (he raises both arms and shouts loudly, though sarcastically toward the rafters) Come now, oh God! Come down as fire upon us all! (he waits for a long moment engulfed in the silence, laughs playfully and lowers his arms, then grows quite, he stands in the center of the stage with his feet together, one hand still fixed to the bottle next to his thigh, the other scratching his bowed head, he speaks quietly now in a pensive manner) No, (he pauses) no such god exists. (he drinks slowly, and the curtain falls)”

In the canyons we shook,
we shivered and we took,
the songs from the prodigal’s heart.

In the mountains we bled,
turning down the rocks red,
the colors from our fathers’ mistakes.

On the dirt roads we drove,
searching for that canyon cove,
where the fire danced us poems all night long.

The darkness was all flat,
and we were never turning back,
when suddenly the fires all turned blue.

In the valley we crumbled,
past all the blessings tumbled,
to die forever in the arms of the thorns.

But the bushes all burned bright,
‘twas a frightening disguise,
for the devil or the Lord to seem to take.

In the trenches we were raised,
from the darkness of our graves,
and suddenly we’d forgotten every cave.

 

(Just the stomp of a foot and a clap. 
And a medium man’s voice inside an old, white church)

Now read: 

________________________

I been stretching skin over these bones,
for far too long,
Been watching the stars go out,
for far too long,
I been racing motored cars,
for far too long,

Oh when oh when,
will my goodnight come?

I’ve been painting childish pictures,
for far too long,
Been searching through my pages,
for far too long,
And I’ve been writing limericks,
for far too long,

Oh when, oh when,
will my goodnight come?

Mmmm when oh, when,
will my goodnight come?

Because the day isn’t light,
The day isn’t right,
If you’re not by my side. 

No the night ain’t so bright,
The night ain’t got no brights,
without you by my side. 

I been throwing out my letters from day to day,
for far too long,
And I been searching through your pages,
for far too long,
Oh, I been looking at, the telegraphs,
for far too long,
for to damn long.

Oh when, oh when,
will my goodnight come?

Oh when, oh when,
does your “goodnight” come?

Now I’m a man with a soul that’s been written too many times,
and maybe I’m a man whose just worn out all his pretty lines,
but i’m still just sitting here,
staring at a flea,
betting that the flea might have some better luck to leave,
some better luck, some better luck, some better luck than me. 

Now I’ve been looking at your face,
for far too long,
I’ve been staring at you graces,
for far too long,
I’ve been holding something back,
for far too long

Oh when, oh when,
will my goodnight come?

Mmmm when, oh when,
will my goodnight come?

It already came the day that you were the day with the day and the other days,
oh it came today and this day and that day,
and now I see all along I see, I see what you were,
doing to me.

Oh today,
just today,


my goodnight came.

Oh today, yes damnit today,
my goodnight came.  

From a hilltop she witnessed,
the pillaging of my village,
from an airplane she spotted,
the crashing of my walls,
from the rooftops she shouted,
she shouted in silent whispers,
“My dear friend, oh my dear friend,
what has happened to your God?”  

I remember a stapler from my childhood church. 

One hall, a sand volleyball court, and a stapler. 

Scene: A poorly arranged man from the cardboard.

Man: City don’t sound like it used to, no it don’t. Used to be quieter. Prettier things to see. Used to sound a lot more like the truth. Now it just sounds like the devil. 

(A streetlight flickered, and went out)

Shit don’t work no more either.

(He chuckled)

There’s a bar on the corner. You been there? 

(There was no response, there was no one else to respond)

I’m sure you have. It’s a shit-hole, but I grew up with the owner. He knows me. I know him. That’s important these days. That people know you. Their establishment may not be much, but they know who you are.  Guy like me, I know a lot of people. Pass by the same folks day in and day out. I can tell you the exact time of day Arthur Miller turns towards the Lake from Clark to Ontario. 

(He looked at his bare wrist gingerly)

Well I don’t suppose I could tell you the exact time, but I could get you there to witness the sight of it. Not much of a difference I don’t suppose. 

(He stood up, brushed himself off, then combed his snagged beard with his fingers for a few moments. He pulled his hand from his chin and held it directly in front of his face, as though holding the back of the head of a impending kiss. His middle and first finger slowly crossed)

Things like that erase you know? 

(What the hell was he talking about?)

Just wipe away a lot that shouldn’t have been. I’ve seen a lot. My God, I’ve seen a lot.

(What the hell has he seen?)

Hope I don’t offend you with that. That name just hasn’t had no place of reverence in my life for quite some time. Not since back then, at least. Don’t really know if that’s His fault or mine, but me and my buddy down at the bar have been talking about that for awhile, I think that sort of thing helps.

(He pulled a string out from his outer coat’s pocket. It was a long string. Poor, old man. Homeless with a string)

Used to wear this right there around my wrist, but it’s been broken off for a few years now.

(There were still clear sun-tan lines from where the string had been tightly wrapped multiple times around his aged wrists. He must not have had a good sense of time)

Don’t know how to get rid of those there. A lot of reminders I didn’t tell myself to remember, but sure enough here they are. Sun just won’t take those bastards away. 

(He spit, then rubbed the saliva into the pavement with his holed, black shoes. What a rude man. Crazy, old man. Crossing his fingers to erase things and tying string around his body for reminders. He held the ignorance of a fool)

You a fighting man?

(Who the hell was he talking to?)

Probably not.

(He chuckled)

Ain’t got many of those these days. Just a bunch of stupid kids running like the devil hasn’t already tied the damn rope around their neck. Slack will run out soon enough. Sure as hell. Happened to me. Got the scars to prove it. 

(He lifted up his shirt and pointed to a scar above his ribs)

See that there?

(Who the hell was he talking to?) 

It’s where the rope ran out. Guess the rope must have snapped on the count of the fact I made it into the river just like that Peyton Farquhar fellow. Standing here to prove it. I was one of the lucky ones, skipped out on the noose, you could say. Still think about it though. See it sometimes when I’m sleeping. Don’t know why the rope didn’t catch me right round the neck and snatch me clean into oblivion. I deserved it, heaven knows. I was a dirty son of a bitch. Smoking and drinking. All that. Guess lady luck came by with her damn knife.  

(His chuckle, a cackle)

Boring old stories from a man whose just seen too much.

(What the hell has he seen?)

Seen a different city. One without all the buildings. Well, I suppose the buildings were all there. Just couldn’t see them like you do now. Not that you couldn’t see the damn things, they just didn’t have no meaning to what you was seeing. Like a kid looking in a candy shop. The boy doesn’t see the shelfs, just the goods. We’re always seeing what we want. We got a lot of people real interested in the sidewalks these days. 

(A gust of wind chilled)

Just a city with a lot of freezing to do. That’s what we got on our hands here. Don’t know why the river doesn’t freeze. I never understood that. It’s damn near 12 below zero and that river keeps on flowing; but that wind. Oh, damn that wind. Trying to ice out the devil from this place. Trying to keep him from rushing in and snatching up all his Jobs, some of them without that kind of faith. That wind keeps me moving, moving with my head down and my collar up. I got a lot of pavement to inspect. I got a lot of memories to pretend I’m still living.

(What the hell was he talking about?)

____________________________________________________________

Bring me questions. 

No street cornered man,
has heard what I’ve whispered,
for if he had,
oh if he had,
he would not have said,
all the things he says,
about the circumstance,
of you and all your friends.

The buildings are all crumbling,
I’ve seen them through my lens,
the sound is calling,
calling monarchs down,
down from their wretched thrones,
oh, the sound is calling,
calling monarchs down,
down from their wretched thrones.

I was born in a pile of silver,
I was born to change the world,
I was born in a pile of shit,
I was born to be swallowed whole.

The knife spins freely and cuts and cuts,
the table as it spins,
The bar is dry the tender gone,
smoking far too many cigarettes,
he puffs and puffs and blows them down,
the three men on the fence,
he puffs and puffs and blows them out,
the candles in the road. 

The candles,
in the road.
The candles,
in the road.

They’ll lead me here,
They’ll lead me there,
7 candles in the road.