Bardic Night Backstage

a comedy for the stage in one act

Synopsis:

Here is a broad comedy of sophisticated wit set in the contemporary New England performing arts scene, written by a New England performing artist. We are backstage at a semi-professional variety show that has drawn a full house but now is dying, at the very worst small theater you can possibly imagine. Some interesting and amusing persons await their turns to entertain the groaning crowd. Race relations are given serious attention. Frank sexual language and behavior are employed because desire and reproduction are discussed. Some light profanity is present to be critiqued. The butts of jokes include religion of all sorts, sexuality, popular intoxicants, academic scholarship, the theater-going public, and the arts community. The plot is a love triangle.

Requirements:

Seven players; one female and two male leads; two female and two male supporting. African-American female lead requires some dance ability. Male lead requires some mime or oratorical ability. Three of the supporting roles concentrate on physical comedy, and one or two may have some direct audience interaction. There is a single simple set but it has a load of portable properties strewn about. Creative set designer is recommended. One spot light is recommended.

The scene:

The common room of a cheap rustic ski lodge has been hired for an annual event and arranged as if for amateur theatricals. All of our action takes place backstage so to speak, actually in the rather shadowy corner of an alcove behind the public free refreshment table, out of earshot from the makeshift stage (which we never see) but not far from some of the (unseen) audience in squeaky folding chairs. The wall behind our actors contains a (painted) dark snowy window and a seldom-used outside door to a hidden corner of the parking lot where discerning gentlemen can go to pee. It is a winter night outside, with about two feet of crusty snow and a little more falling. The parking lot is full of cars parked helter-skelter among huge heaps of ice which were left there by the snowplow driver's inexperienced brother during a recent blizzard. This little house is actually full tonight and so assorted winter garments are draped about in heaps on amusing types of incidental furniture. Our action all takes place in this one shadowy corner of an alcove, this magic spot which is de facto green room, dressing room, pastry stand and unattended hat-check dump, through which performers with assorted gear must climb. There are a few wooden restaurant chairs.

Stage designer's note:

In overall visual effect, center stage is like a high valley among hills. Perhaps it's even like the maw of a simmering Antarctic volcano. Bulky winter clothing and instrument cases and odd portable theatrical objects are heaped about. The Free Public Refreshment Table, littered with food packaging debris and paper cups, forms a rampart, so to speak, in these hills, perhaps stage right and perhaps positioned so that it can lead an actor standing there between down stage and center stage right. There must be some sort of hidden footstool or bench or other such which an actor center stage can mount to overlook this table. There must be a somewhat winding open path – let us say that it begins in our volcanic private valley at a point center stage left – and it shall be a narrow winding path just wide enough for two to act therein. Our Narrow Open Path leads (extreme left wing) to the entry of the center aisle (offstage left) and thence to whatever sort of makeshift proscenium (far offstage) that we care to imagine. Please endeavor to depict how questionable the producer's choice has been to hire these environs for a theater.

Producer's and director's note:

We wish to make the audience part of the act, to bring them backstage at the show. If it is somehow possible, your real audience should be actually onstage, probably crowded together down stage (facing upstage, of course) in many neat rows of poorly upholstered chairs, having dropped all of their valuable belongings at a fully satiated box office. Adjust the scenery as required. Perhaps the Audience Member should go sometimes to sit among them. Perhaps the Mistress Of Ceremonies should coach them (before the curtain rises) to make the "audience" sound effects that are herein noted. (How to cue them then, I do not know.) If there is sufficient time, your hams may break from the script to lure a few into unwritten parts, as Wit and Muse demand. If The Audience can be placed in remote-controlled swivel chairs, or if the whole set (with cast and scenery intact) can move about on cue in some disorienting manner, that might help as well. It might be staged in a corner of the lobby, as a budget-wise alternative, but that would put the audience facing backward. Use your discretion.

Our characters, in order of appearance:

Amelia "Pandora" Bopp:

(Leading lady.) A very self-assured young woman, twenty-five, of stunning classic noble African face and chocolate skin, a well-trained singer very cunning on stringed instruments who has chanced, one time, to dance quite nude at public rituals to greet a group of visiting kings. If you like the forthright artsy type, she is, no doubt, the sexiest thing on female legs, the kind that absolutely any sane human male (whatever proclivities he may have) wants to give him babies. She wears a baggy rainbow colored sweater and tight jeans and appropriate political buttons and ribbons. The sweater is short enough to always show her hips.

Jacob "Joe" Marley, Ph.D.:

(Leading man.) Untenured professor of ancient languages. A man of thirty-nine, divorced, rather desperate at his job prospects next year without another book, but nonetheless the man can talk. Although he scarcely sings four notes, he's gotten leading roles in amateur Gilbert and Sullivan. He sometimes really wows his classes at the college, and really likes it. He is wearing tweed from shoulder to toe, even his shoes and socks. This week he's horny.

The Old Philosopher:

(Second leading man.) He is, in fact, an old philosopher. Tonight he's dolled up in a Merlin robe outfit, but with a kind of fez in place of the pointed hat. This is amusing and yet a shade more dignified than a Bozo suit. He's working on a project and he's seriously looking for some help tonight.

The Celtic Plastic Artist:

(Supporting actor.) A sculptor, very male, who is so successful that he makes a living by doing good work. He's forty-five and often wild-eyed when he talks, or sometimes gives a silly grin. He's very very serious unless you understand his jokes. He's had his ups and downs and now he's up. He is considered dangerous. Tonight he's mainly here to hang out with some friends, and only plans to tread the boards as the price of free admission. He's bundled up in bulging padded winter clothes which he unzips.

Audience Member:

(Supporting actress, leading ham.) An uncouth loathsome person.

Mistress:

(Supporting actress, second leading ham.) She owns this annual show. Her money's in the till. Tonight she tends to either fret or bubble like champagne. She has a genuine magic wand with which she waves and points in a variety of gestures and keeps, when not in use, in her hair or about her bosom. She wears a stunning low-cut evening gown that sparkles. If she has long hair, perhaps some hair is draped revealingly upon her nearly naked breasts. Perhaps one nipple does peek out quite unintentionally.

Consort To The Mistress:

(Penultimate ham, male.) A man of regal manner got up in something like a pastel judicial or Masonic robe, if such a thing exists. (Perhaps it is a bare bones A. M. E. choir robe.) There is some obvious but tasteful jewelry. There is a very dignified touch of bright face paint in a pattern like a fine tattoo artist might devise. He speaks little but by his every move conveys the essence of a worthy king. He wears several magic wands about his person.

The Audience:

Played by the actual audience, offstage or down.

The play:

When the curtain rises:

Audience sounds; loud groans, squeaking chairs, applause that quickly tapers off into a single pair of hands. Lights rise dimly. In the center stage area we see Pandora spot-lit on one of the wooden chairs, trying hard to tune a small guitar. There is a large beer stein in reach. The light rises farther and we find that the figure beside her is J. Marley, Ph.D., fidgeting with a sheaf of papers.

Marley:
(Looks at watch.)
She said twenty minutes. Fifteen minutes left. Do you really want to do it? What's your name again? Sorry.

Pandora:
Call me Pandora. Pan-Dora. Honey, if I can't tune this damn guitar, I ain't doing shit. And I don't intend to fart.
(She reaches into her neckline and finds a gold medallion on a chain, which she puts into her mouth, and resumes work.)

Marley:
Please! I really need the backup. Ed and me, we had this thing wrapped up. We put it on tape in a studio. Now I've got to have a live performance.

Pandora:
What happened to old Ed?

Marley:
Cold feet, damn him. Tennis back, he says. Now what the hell is "tennis back"? And it's December.

Pandora:
Oh look here, sweetie, you just give your momma a kiss on the cheek for luck. Then everything will be all right.

Marley:
What? You're joking, right? Look, I'm committed to this thing. This is performance research. For the footnotes and appendix. My teaching job next year is on the line. We've got to rehearse, or something.

Pandora:
Rehearse! My lute strings broke. I better tune this damn guitar. This is all I've got here now except a teeny little gong about that big. A god-blessed Chinese gong that big. Baby, if you want to rehearse, go right ahead.

Marley:
Please, please, really. If you can't do it just tell me now.

Pandora:
Baby, I opened this gig tonight. You don't understand. But look, you and me have got to get things straight. This is a friendly crowd. What's that woman doing up there now?

Marley:
Reading poetry.

Pandora:
And they applaud for that. A hundred people paid to get into this drafty place and sit on those chairs, and they're applauding poetry. What else could you ask for? Are you getting paid for this?

Marley:
(Bitter laugh.)

Pandora:
So what are they going to do, fire you? They won't throw bottles.

Marley:
Well, answer this. Is she paying you?

Pandora:
I'm doing this for a particular favor. This is not, in fact, a free night for me. You don't think that I would work like this for free. Not for money neither.

Marley:
Seems like she ought to pay us something.

Pandora:
Look here, get your mind on business. We've got to get a few things straight.

Marley:
Right! Right!

Pandora:
You introduce me first, right at the start, and I take a bow.

Marley:
Oh. Okay. I won't forget.

Pandora:
Now, what on Earth are you doing? You're not wearing any feathers. No baseball glove. It's not a mime Chinese solo puppet act, is it? You're not a Sumo wrestler, are you? I've only got the teeny little gong.

Marley:
God forbid! I'm speaking Greek. It's a dramatic oration from Homer in the original tongue, with genuine pronunciation. It's exactly the same way Homer actually did it – it really is – and I'm going to make it into a book. Now I've only got to get the footnotes and appendix right.

Pandora:
Oh. Well, look, what kind of music do you want? My turtle's in the shop this week. You don't want "Greensleeves" do you?

Marley:
"Greensleeves"? No. Why?

Pandora:
Nothing. Well, see, my old last boyfriend just loved "Greensleeves", may he rot in Hell. What kind of music do you want?

Marley:
Well, what about that really? Not really "Greensleeves" unless you want too. Something that sounds like it might be ancient Celtic? That would actually fit. Same culture, really, see, when you're talking Homer. Take my word for it, it really is okay. Can you do it? Please? Very ethereal and yet dramatic.

Pandora:
Stonehenge music?

Marley:
Yes! Exactly! Stonehenge music! But with a six-string? Is this a six-string? It's not a ukulele!

Pandora:
Eight strings. And it's loud too. It's big enough for that room.

Marley:
Can you do ethereal spiritual dramatic Celtic magic stuff with it?

Pandora:
Honey, I have sat in with a lot of bands. I can do Stonehenge music with a stick on trash can lids. We got it knocked if these old strings stay up. And if they don't, I'll sit down stage and show my twat and sing and snap my fingers for the beat. But look here, do you know the hand signs?

Marley:
What? Hand signs? Do I look like a magician? What the fuck are hand signs?

Pandora:
(Laughing, gesturing.)
Up! See? That means I should play louder. Down! See? And I'll play softer. And this is hurry up. Just do it small so it won't show. And that's go slow. And that's stop. Okay? And if you glance at me and catch my eye, I'll know that you're going to signal something.

Marley:

Oh, by the gods! I can't remember that. I really can't.

Pandora:

Okay, honey, that's okay.
(A long drink from the stein.)
You just jabber and I'll strum along.

Brief interval:
There is a little space while she desperately tunes again, the gold chain dangling from her lips. He meanwhile mumbles at his papers, posturing melodramatically quite in the way that blind Homer really would, doing oratorical gestures with his free hand. This dumbshow actually should impress a viewer that our character has intensity and talent.

Pandora:
(Raises her hands in reverent supplication.)
Please please Momma, don't make me play that teeny little gong.
(She waits a moment, listening.)
Hey whats-your-name.

Marley:
Joe Marley, Esquire, at your service, Untenured Professor Of Peculiar Languages That No One Speaks.

Pandora:
You don't know my name anymore, do you? How you going to introduce me? Give me that paper, I'll write it down.

Entry:
Two new characters arrive, during more audience sounds with exactly the same unpleasant applause. The outside door bursts open to the darkness and we see flying snow. The Old Philosopher steps in. He beats his arms upon himself for warmth. The Celtic Artist immediately follows.

Philosopher:
(Breathing in his hands.)
Sweet Momma and Poppa, what a night to smoke. Good though.

Celt:
That stuff will stunt your growth.

Philosopher:
How are the rest rooms? I'll have to go again before I go on. She said I'm going last. Hey, I want to show you my new phallus.

Pandora and Marley:

(Both look up.)

Philosopher:
(Still to Celt.)

Cherry wood. Hangs up on a chain. Kind of Romano-Celtic.

(He feels around himself and finds a pocket, takes out an object that is, in fact, a sculptured upright human dick on a long dainty chain, including scrotum, larger than realistic average, similar to those found at Pompeii.)
See? It's simple and unique. It isn't finished. I want to sell them. Can I use your reproduction shop? Please? I'd need instruction. What do you think?
(Holds it hanging from its chain for The Celt to see.)

Celt:
(Examines it closely.)
Hmm. Well. You like Picasso, don't you?

Pandora:
Where did you get that thing? Let me see.

Philosopher:
(Demonstrating the sculpture by holding the chain up high and dangling the thing before his face, he walks to her.)
You want one, little girl? I'd like to sell some of them, reproduced in weatherproof plastic resin. Various colors.

Pandora:
I don't believe I've heard that line before.

Marley:
Fellows, look here. Please. We're trying to rehearse.
(Checks his watch.)
Now I've only got to pray. That's all that's left for me and my career.

Philosopher:
Well then, shall we introduce ourselves?
(Silently shakes hands with Pandora first, then with Marley.)

Celt:
(To Philosopher.)
I guess I'll tell some jokes.
(To Marley and Pandora, deadpan in a mock belligerent manner, thumping his chest.)
I'm really very funny.

Philosopher:
(To Marley and Pandora, clearly quite amused.)
This guy drives me nuts.

(To Celt.)
Hey, why don't you do the one where sixteen Rabbis, four Baptist ministers, a Catholic bishop, one Texan, Bill Gates and an English bartender all walk onto an airplane with dead parrots on their heads? No parachutes.

Celt:
Okay. Thanks a lot. What are you doing? You're the closing act?

Pandora:
He's the freaking star. I heard about him. She thinks you're great. Some of the audience asked her personally, before they reserved their tickets, whether or not you'd be here.

Philosopher:
Yeah? What did she say?

Pandora:
Why is that thing so pointy on the end?

Philosopher:
Well, it's a guy thing really. That's supposed to be the way it feels sometimes. What do you think? Does it feel like that to you?

Pandora:
(Squirms.)

Marley:
Yes, but why is it tapered like that? What is it really?

Philosopher:
It's a dick.

Marley:
I can see that.

Celt:
It's not a fish, if that's what you're angling for.

Marley:
I think I'll go outside and scream.

Pandora:
I'll cover for you, baby.

Marley:
(Kneels and gives Pandora a long hard kiss full on the lips.)
I'm sorry. Sorry.

Pandora:
(Holds his hand.)
Oh baby, don't be sorry. You can kiss me again if you want, but only on the cheek. You're not my type, but let's be friends.

Marley:
Yes!

Philosopher:
Who's got a watch?

Celt:
Are you telling stories?

Philosopher:
Yeah, mainly "Whats-his-name and Whats-her-name, Children of Lear". You know the one, whatever it is.

Celt:
Oh, that's a great one.

Philosopher:
Classic.

Celt:
You don't make a living doing this, do you?

Philosopher:
Oh, if the details slip my mind, I'll do the magic act.

Entry:
Audience Member enters from the wing, from the audience area, massaging her backside energetically, carrying her folding chair. She peers about and goes to peruse the refreshment table.

Audience Member:
(Loudly.)
Is there any beer?

Pandora:
(Hides her stein.)

Philosopher:
(Steps onto the hidden stool that overlooks the table.)
Yes Ma'am. There is beer. Somewhere. But not here. There's no alcohol at all tonight. Sorry. Legal considerations.

Marley:
(To Member and Philosopher both.)
I've got a little private pocket here with a little bottle with some very smoky Scotch.

Philosopher:
Sir, you are a troublemaker.
(Steps down.)

Marley:
No shit. But mostly for myself. What am I doing? Where am I? Ed!

Audience Member:
Thanks, but I don't care for Scotch.

Entry:
The Mistress Of Ceremonies enters from the wing, from the center aisle. She is followed by The Consort, hurrying to stay behind her in some very dignified way. As she approaches up the Narrow Open Path, she gestures with her wand to command attention.

Mistress:
Five minutes. Five minutes till the introduction. Dear Doctor Marley, are you ready? Pandora, is he ready?

Pandora:
Does he have to speak in Greek? Can you liven up that poetry? I don't know if he can follow that.

Mistress:
(To Pandora.)
Darling, have you found an instrument to play? You are my rescue.

Pandora:
Can you get hold of a concert harp?

Mistress:
Dear, if that's what you need, I shall ask around. Five minutes!
(Dances off, The Consort lingering a moment more.)

The Consort:
(To the three performers, in the loudest possible whisper.)
Disaster!
(Hurries off, and yet with regal pomp.)

Marley:
(Finding no attentive face, he turns to the Member.)
Sir! Oh I'm sorry madam. Did you hear that? Where I normally go, I am the star.

Audience Member:
(Nods sympathetically.)

Pandora:
(To The Celt.)
What do you do again? Have you got any kind of guitar?

The Celt:
No, I am a carver. I make wooden sculptures that I reproduce in rubber, hard rubber, weatherproof plastic resin. Interesting and unique. My wife sells them. They come in different sizes and colors. Sometimes we do some of them in genuine antique bronze.

Philosopher:
Genuine antique bronze.

Pandora:
(To Philosopher.)
Merlin, what do you do? No instruments?

Philosopher:
Magic tricks of course. Therefore this lovely dress. I give people visions.
(He flourishes his hands in just the way as if he'd set himself to conjure something up, then mimes surprise as if a fluttering pigeon suddenly appears. He releases the invisible bird into the air.)
See the trick?

Pandora:
No, not yet.

Philosopher:
I tell stories. Old stories and new. Have you seen any of Professor Reverend Joseph Campbell's famous video tapes?

Pandora:
Uh. Yeah. Maybe. Yeah.

Philosopher:
It's nothing at all like that.

Celt:
Give her a real demonstration.

Philosopher:
(Taking up the challenge, he turns to the Audience Member.)
Sir! Oh I'm sorry, ma'am. Have you heard this story?

Audience Member:
What story?

Philosopher:
This one:
(He steps onto the hidden stool again. Sudden soft spotlight. He delivers the following speech with good dramatic tones and gestures.)
One time a long long time ago, at the very time when all the goddesses and gods had just then gone to sleep – and a long long sleep it would be, till the goddesses and gods awoke after many turning years and many many human lives were past – in that time, when they had just then gone to rest, in the island of Great Britain – in Greater Britain, a land crowded close with many spirits where the veil between the worlds is very thin – in that time that land was ruled by an almost-human family, and this ruling family were called "The Children Of Lear".

Audience Member:
(Brings folding chair as close as possible, sits down to listen.)

Philosopher:
(To Audience Member.)
Do you see?

Audience Member:
See what?

Philosopher:
The story.

Audience Member:
What's the rest of it?

Philosopher:
The rest? Let's see. Those children had some other children, and they had more, and eventually the goddesses and gods awoke, and that's the gist of the thing, I swear, down or up to the present time.

Audience Member:
So it's about babies?

Marley:
(To the world in general.)
For Christ sake!
(To Philosopher.)
For Christ sake, do you even know the rest? It's a hundred pages long. It's about a war.

Pandora:
(To Marley.)
Wars are about babies! What am I going to do with you?

Marley:
(Still to Philosopher.)
And tell me this, my learned friend, how do you spell "Lir"?

Philosopher:
I follow Shakespeare's spelling

Marley:
What!

Philosopher:
All right, good learned sir, for your sake, when I speak the word "Lir" tonight, I shall speak it only in the Mabinogion spelling. Yet still, in published works I shall refer to Shakespeare. Do you feel better?

Marley:
Somehow I do.
(Wanders away, looking faint.)
Where am I? Is this Oz? What am I going to do?

Pandora:
Do you have to speak in Greek?

Marley:
For Christ sake, it's all I've got. I can't do limericks. I can't whistle. I gave away my old harmonica. I can do the male lead part from "Good Ship Lollipop". That's it.

Philosopher:
Do you believe in Christ? Please tell me if you do.

Marley:
Christ? When I was a kid.

Philosopher:
(Goes to lay a hand on Marley's head.)
Then I speak to you as Christ would do. In the holy peace that he bestows, I speak to you. Be calm. Be prayerful. Attend your righteous duties. All the rest is in your father's hands.

Marley:
(Staggers to a chair and collapses with loud sobs.)

Philosopher:
(To Celt and Pandora.)
Ladies and gentlemen, we have a genuine case upon our hands. What shall we do?

Celt:
(Immediately hops over to Marley, behind his back, and begins to very powerfully massage Marley's shoulders and manhandle his torso.)
I'll straighten out the little critter. I won't break his neck.

Pandora:
(Races to the wing to spy at the audience, comes rushing back.)

Celt:
What's up?

Pandora:
Oh Momma, this is awful.

Audience Member:
(loudly)
What?

Pandora:
Herself is up there now. Herself. Herself. She's reading poetry right with the other one. And she dragged her sidekick up there too. They're taking parts.

Philosopher:
How long will that take?

Pandora:
(To Philosopher, out of the blue, in a challenging tone.)
Why don't you tell a tale of Africa?

Philosopher:
Africa! You honor me with such a bold commission. But surely there is no time.

Pandora:
I'll give you one to tell, a true one. I know it well and I shall show you the whole story. And I'll make the time too, right after this next set. Have you looked at those ugly faces in there? Where did those people come from?

Philosopher:
Mostly from European descent. I see your point. But I've got this other thing ready, see. I do have one tale of Africa already but I've never done it to an audience. And it's from a book, but a good book. A picture book. It's titled: "Portrait Of The Continent".

Pandora:
That might do. You don't need music, do you?

Philosopher:
But I cannot promise. The spirits move me anyway, and I have this other thing on hand.

Pandora:
The one about Great Britain?

Philosopher:
Yes. But I cannot promise.

Celt:
(Struggling with his patient.)
This guy's a Sumo wrestler. I can't get him loosened up. I don't want to break his neck.

Philosopher:
My dear and trusted friend, the show is dying. This is the Winter Queen's Yule Public Carnival Of The Arts, and the castle is besieged from within. These are the direst straits of dire extremity. The clamorous nether realms are here. What is a human life more or less? He is a man. Do what you must.

Celt:
(Bestows upon his patient a great heaving wrench.)

Marley:
(Leaps up from his chair as if there's been a lightening bolt, at once paces briskly about while waving all of his arms and legs.)
Odysseus! Poseidon! Zeus! I see it now! I see it now! Where is my Fair Persephone?
(He begins to chase Pandora about the center stage, leering madly, climbing over miscellaneous stuff whenever necessary, crashing through some instrument cases or other similar business.)

Pandora:
(Meanwhile the comic chase, laughing, always dancing away from him but with close calls.)
Eak! Eak! Eak! . . . Eak!

Marley:
(Collapsing on a hilltop rampart at last, arms beseeching.)
I want another kiss. I want your babies.

Pandora:
(Laughing, wagging her finger, swinging her hips in provocative graceful steps.)

Nobody takes my babies.

Celt:
(Coming to pick Marley up.)
Can you really move your arms and legs? It's not like when a frog's head gets chopped off, is it? When the frog still wiggles?

Marley:
(Climbing out of his physician's embrace to stagger on his own. Spotlight slowly rising while he painfully mounts onto the hidden footstool, then finally stands erect with arms open wide to Heaven and the world.)
A miracle. It is a miracle. By the gods, the storm clouds opened and I have been blessed. I see it all so clearly now. Verse eighty-three in volume six about Odysseus and Poseidon and Zeus, that's what had me worried. Now I'll throw away my script.
(Stands unsteadily in ecstasy a moment more, but then collapses into The Celt's arms again.)

Pandora:
(Spotlight swings to her. Having seen Marley's transformation, she raises her hands and listens again to the spirit as before. She nods. She then resumes her erotic dance. She entices round The Celt a moment first, but then decisively arrives at The Old Philosopher who is now, as if by chance, standing at the opening of The Narrow Way. She stops and lays her arms upon his shoulders.)
Baby, I need a kiss for luck.

The Old Philosopher:
(He kisses her and they embrace. They do not stop. Standing there in place, she draws him into the dance.)

The Consort:
(Rushes in from the wing, the center isle, his composure utterly snapped and yet his dignity intact. Perhaps he waves his wand about, but not too wantonly.)
Five minutes! Honest, people, five minutes. Are you ready?

Pandora:
(Looking up at last.)
Does he have to speak in Greek?

The Consort:
I don't care if he whips out a nose kazoo, just shove that gentleman on stage. Come in when you hear a shout. The show is dying. It is a valiant, unwilling, untimely death. It's like the funeral of a king. We can't go on without you.

Mistress:
(Rushes from the wing then halts and speaks to the world.) That poor woman up there. I can't make her stop. I've signaled till my arm dropped off. (She comes skipping rapidly along again, rather crashes by The Consort along The Way and lumbers into The Old Philosopher and Pandora, who are still embracing. She prizes them apart and takes their hands.) Darlings. You can tell me. Is the show in trouble?

Pandora:
Does he have to speak in Greek?

Celt:
I think he's ready. (He raises up his patient's arms like he would do a prize fighter's, and Marley dances in the proper way.)

Marley:
(Throwing shadow punches.) I could recite in Latin or Romanian.

Audience Member:
(Turns to the Member Of The Audience.)
Sir, does he look fit to you?

Audience Member:
I've had enough of this.
(Stalks away, carrying her folding chair, and goes to peruse again the further end of the Free Refreshment Table.)

Mistress:
(Flutters off into the wing.)

The Consort:
(Now collapses into the same chair Marley had before, and The Celt commences work on him, pummeling briskly.)
That woman's trouble.

Celt:
(Holding up his new patient's arm, bending and twisting it.)
What, are you kidding? Have you met my wife?

Marley:
(To the world, pacing about.)
Four and one-half minutes. My book. My reputation. My career. All that I have ever done before turns on this coming moment.
(To Pandora.)
My dear, there is an evil lie that I have told you. My name was never Joe but Jacob. Jacob Marley. Yes, Jacob Marley like in "Ebineezer's Ghost". There. That's the worst and my conscience clear of it now. It was an uncle's name. I cannot stand to turn the TV on at Christmas.

Pandora:
My poor Jacob Marley, I don't mind. Whatever happens, it's okay. Even if they throw some bottles, I don't care. You go out and do your best. I know you're trying hard to do a righteous thing, you're trying hard to do the best you can, and I will do the very best I can to help. Now honey, never mind.
(She holds Marley by the shoulders to keep a little distance, stands on her toes and tenderly kisses his forehead. She stands back in surprise at herself, then presses against him and kisses his mouth. He is too surprised to respond. She breaks it off, pushes back out to arm's length.)
And introduce me first.

Marley:
(Breathless, to Philosopher.)
Sir, you are my elder. This work I'm doing, is it good?

Philosopher:
You are Homer's ghost! That is your noble fate tonight. Your life has led you here, and for good reason. To do your duty. All that you have seemed to be before has fallen by like dust and you are left here standing as the man who truly is "Yourself". Do what you must. Do what you will. There's just one thing.

Marley:
What's that?

Philosopher:
Do you really need to speak in Greek?

Exit of The Consort:
(We hear exactly the same ill-omened groans, squeaks and applause that quickly tapers to a single pair of hands. Hearing this, after a moment for it sink in, the Consort leaps up as if there's been another lightening bolt, miming that his startlement came from the direction of the audience. He races offstage into the wing. Offstage, he shouts.)
Hurry!

Pandora:
(Slaps Marley on the back to set him moving, follows him down the Open Way while still encouraging, but then when they almost reach the wing she takes a start. She looks at her hands and finds them empty.)
The gong! I need my teeny weenie gong! Where is that gong?
(Pushes Marley ahead till he's offstage.)
You go on honey, just go up there and talk English for awhile. I'll catch up. Don't introduce me yet. Don't do no limericks. Not even in Romanian.

Brief interval:
Pandora hurries to center stage. All search madly through the flotsam.

Marley:
(Dashes just in from the wing, pointing.)
I see it! I see it on the stage! It's the teeny weenie little round shiny thing.
(Straightens himself to make a dignified appearance, and steps off.)

Pandora:
It's on the stage? How in the world? Stonehenge music.
(Goes to Philosopher.)
I'll make a deal with you, old man. If I can do real Stonehenge music on that teeny Chinese gong, if I can make it turn out really good, if I can really do the real magic spell tonight, and also, too, if you really tell The True Tale Of Africa to these people here, then I will fuck you.
(She kisses him on the forehead and runs away.)

Celt:
Well. How about that?

Philosopher:
I don't believe I've heard that line before.

Celt:
But she went with him.

Philosopher:
He needs her worse.

Pandora:
(Rushes on again and arrives center stage, seizing Philosopher as if by his lapels.)
I haven't got a stick to bang it with. Give me your goddam stick.

Philosopher:
I haven't got a stick.

Pandora:
You've got a whomping big dick stick and I want it now.

Celt:
(Finds the sculptured phallus somewhere, hops quick to put it in her hand.)

Pandora:
(Winding up the trailing chain, runs off.)

Audience Member:
(Having watched the latest action with considerable startled interest, she picks up her folding chair and follows Pandora off to see the show.)

Celt:
(After a thoughtful pause, perhaps an elbow nudge.)
She's got your dick. She's going to beat it on a tin can lid. And he can watch.

Philosopher:
What time is it? I hope she does okay.

Lights, curtain.

The Audience:
Stand and applaud through several ovations.

Finis