Setting: a small, uncharted island somewhere off the coast of Australia
Time: now
Characters: me and my friends
Lighting: the sun
I walk onto the set from behind a bush, naked but painted with colorful berry juices.
Me:
This island life is so cool. What sun! Ah! Hey, pass me another ginger-fried palm heart, will you?
Paul (coming out from behind the bush, speaking in his light German accent):
We have no more ginger.
Me:
You’ve gotta’ be kidding! Before we left Paris, you said you’d figured out the best cultivation method for all our condiments.
Paul:
I forgot to bring the Spice Gardener’s Handbook.
Me:
What?
Paul:
Hey, you could help with the gardening, you know. It’s not so easy…
Me:
Wait a minute. We had a deal that you‘d take care of the spice garden, and I’d take care of insuring the health of the indigenous tree population
Paul:
Really? Well, these trees don’t look so lively to me.
Me:
What are you saying? Dan! Dan! What is Paul telling me? I don’t think I quite got it.
Dan (coming out of another bush):
Are you two at it again?
Me:
Do these trees look sick to you?
Dan:
Well, they are a little frazzled with the wind we’ve been having, and those three over there are kind of wobbly…
Paul:
You see.
Me:
I have no control over the wind… But they’re not wobbly. They’re firm, good trees.
I give one a good shake and the leaves all fall off.
Me:
Shit. We’re going to starve to death in a matter of days.
Dan:
Now don’t panic. We’ve got plenty of vegetables.
He pulls back the branches of a bush to reveal a cornucopia of luscious, fresh vegetables of every imaginable variety.
Paul:
That’s very impressive. I imagine you spent many days gardening.
From offstage we hear the sound of approaching laughter.
Dan:
Yes, I did.
Enter Mike who runs for Dan.
Mike:
Hey, sweetheart!
They kiss. Dan lounges comfortably in his arms.
Paul:
They’re so cute together.
Me:
Isn’t it a bit excessive? It’s like a heterosexual couple back in the world we abandoned for this multi-sexual paradise.
The laughter is moving closer.
Paul:
You are just jealous because they are able to make love freely while you have remained an American prude.
Me:
There’s that fucking word again. How many times do I have to tell you, this isn’t Paris anymore, and if I don’t feel like getting fucked up the butt every second of the day, I’m not being a “prude,” I’m just not in the mood. And anyway, I’m not jealous, it’s just that they seem rather stand-offish to me. I thought we’d end up in one big pile of intertwined flesh, feeding each other bananas or mangoes or something, and here we are, all paired off, having a bitchy domestic quarrel just like…
The others burst in from the bushes a few at a time, and continue entering in little clusters during the following lines. There is no pause in the dialogue, only a steady stream of language and motion.
Jeanne (in her French accent):
Oh, that was so much fun! It’s such a long time that I have not danced this way.
Ulrike (still writhing as if in a trance):
Come on! Keep dancing, Jeanne!
Jeanne:
I must rest a moment.
They go off under a palm tree and whisper German nothings into each others’ ears as Laura and Craig enter.
Laura:
I’m with her, let’s rest.
Craig (Thick Chicago accent):
Kem’ ahn’, Laur’. You don’t wanna’ sit here on the beach all day and get fat, do ‘ya? Let’s move a little.
Laura:
But Craig, my feet hurt after kicking that coconut all over the beach for two hours.
Craig:
Well, you made me leave my hockey sticks back in Chicago, so we gotta’ make do.
Laura:
But I don’t want to play hockey right now…
They move off together toward another tree, their voices fading away.
Derek:
This island orgy business isn’t what I thought it would be…
Me:
Hey, Derek, you’re not dead.
Derek:
Duh. I can’t even believe you said that. That’s like the stupidest line that anyone could put in a dream sequence.
Me:
But this isn’t a dream sequence. This is a multi-cultural, multi-sexual, tropical vegetarian, nudist island community sequence.
Dan:
There is no such thing as a tropical vegetarian is there?
Me:
That’s not the point.
Paul:
Maybe not, but you cannot expect us to have any respect for the English language if you place the modifying elements of each sentence in any order.
Me:
Okay, okay, Paul, I’m with you on this one. Now could you get me a coconut juice, honey, while I talk to my friend here who’s been dead for over a year? Thanks.
Derek:
I told you, I’m not dead, and, anyway, you haven’t been my friend for several years.
Me:
I was afraid we’d end up having this conversation.
Derek:
Let’s not. I just want to tell you how boring it is here in your little politically correct, safe sex island orgy. No one’s even fucking.
Me:
Well, none of my friends are really getting off on each other the way I thought they would. I figured once the taboos were lifted…
Malcolm (entering):
And just how did you expect that you might accomplish such a thing, boy?
Me:
Oh, what a charming surprise. English trash on my beach.
Dan:
That’s my cue to skee-daddle.
Derek:
Your ex-husband just said “skedaddle.” I thought we were fags.
Malcolm:
He calls it “multi-sexual,” but I call it a bloody horror show. I haven’t had a decent night’s fuck since we arrived.
Me:
Look, why don’t the two of you go over under that tree and fist each other or something.
Derek:
Good idea.
They go off, hiding behind the last available palm, even while new groups of friends continue to arrive on the scene at an alarmingly escalating rate.
Me (to myself):
He was dead! I swear I got the phone call…
There are hundreds of people entering the scene now, trampling the hedges to make a place for themselves. Each one bears a number and a glowing, white smile. The booming voice of a gameshow host cuts off my voice with the aid of a reverberating loudspeaker.
Announcer:
That’s rrright, Don Bapst! This is your sex life. These are all the men you‘ve ever gone to bed with, lined up right here before your very eyes in the order in which you had them.
The grinning narrator steps onto the scene as the bushes and trees fall completely away through a complicated, high-tech theatrical device to reveal a vast, spot-lit stage. All my friends have managed to make instantaneous costume and makeup changes, and are standing at the edges of the stage (positively glittering!) in white sequined gowns and black sequined tuxedoes. They applaud politely as each former trick makes his entrance:
Announcer:
Number one. Darren!
Darren (in a particularly striking tuxedo):
You’re all naked, Don. Really. I never thought you’d let yourself go like that. Just look at that belly.
Me:
Hey, this is my multi-gender communal island.
Darren:
Oh come on, Don. Put your pants on.
Announcer:
Lovers number two and three. George and Warren.
They come onto the stage together, holding hands, briskly working the runway, knocking me off into the audience where my mother and father are sitting, sipping champagne, as the announcer continues rattling off the entries on his list.
Mom:
Donie, put some clothes on. (She hands me a pair of shorts from her handbag.) Your father and I are ashamed to see you like this. Here the Gay rights movement is peaking and you’re going off stark naked into the bushes with a bunch of hippie rejects…
Dad:
And on national television!
He’s hiding behind a long-brimmed fisherman’s cap, I notice as I slip on the shorts. On stage they’ve already paraded a good twenty of my tricks before the viewers. Each takes his place on a platform like a Miss America contestant, and each sports a variation of the black sequined tux. The announcer’s voice, still counting off the names, booms continuously throughout the following lines:
Mom:
You slept with him?
She points to number 17 or 18, I can’t be sure which. I open my mouth to respond then think better of it. I mount an enormous ladder, slouching with shame, to take my place in the seat of honor which is elevated up above the audience like a giant lifeguard tower. There’s a massive turnout for the event: all the teachers, priests, nuns, police, bosses, officials, guards, presidents…who ever occupied a position of authority (however far removed) in my life. Contrary to my initial fears, they show no disgust or aversion when they happen occasionally to glance up at me where I’m seated on my roasting pedestal. Instead, they roll their eyes, suppressing wide, violent yawns. Some study the designs on their programs, others fold them into fans, accordions, and intricate origami creatures in their laps. I want to get a look at one of these bits of paper, but I feel as if I shouldn’t budge with all these cameras and lights turned on me. I lean forward and whisper way down to my father who’s seated at the base of my chair/tower:
Me:
Pssst! Dad! Hey, Dad. Can you get me a program? Dad! DAD!!
Dad (jerking awake with a snort):
Huh?
Me:
A program. Can you get me a program?
Dad:
Huh, pilgrims? That’s another story, son.
Mom (annoyed that she’s been distracted from the show, as she seems to be the only interested member of the audience):
Not pilgrims, for chrissake, programs. He wants one of these programs. Go give him one.
Dad:
Well where am I gonna’…?
Mom:
Jesus! Just ask the usher over there.
Dad:
Fer’ cryin’ out loud. You’d think she was paying attention to this stupid show or something.
He taps the usher on the shoulder. It’s Box Chicken.
Dad:
Hey, aren’t you one of the characters in my son’s show?
Box Chicken (like he’s been caught):
Uh. Well, uh… (Then thinking fast:) Here, have a program.
Box chicken runs off, his wide, boxy body knocking into spectators seated along the aisles.
My grade school principal, Sister Edwardia:
Hey watch it, you good-for-nothing Box chicken.
Dad (to my mom):
Hey, I went to get Donie his program and I saw the strangest…
Mom:
I’m trying to watch the show!
Dad (Turning to mount the ladder to my chair. It has become enormous, like a ladder in a high-wire circus act. He mumbles under his breath):
Boy oh boy oh boy! I just wanted to let her know who I bumped into, and she gets all bent outa’ shape. Whew! These are some stairs. Oh, hello, Donie.
Me (taking the program ):
Thanks, Dad. What do you think of the show?
Dad (taking a seat next to me on the increasingly huge chair. Down below, the audience is a blur of vague colors):
Well, I find it kind of boring, myself. I don’t really care what all of your ex-lovers look like. I mean, it’s okay that you slept with them and all, though I don’t personally agree that it’s right to have so many, but that doesn’t have anything to do with whether I love you or not or whether you’re gay or not. It’s just that I don’t see the point in having to go to bed with all those people and most of them so plain. You get what I’m saying? I mean, that number 62… or is it 63? I can’t see without my glasses… Well, he’s not too bad. Reminds me a bit of the actors from when I went to the movies in Hegwisch as a kid. But that one over there… Listen, you could’ve always called me for help if you needed to talk about it, Donie. I mean were you that down? And now with the celebrations for the Gay Liberation stuff going on, it’s kind of a shame to have all this to show for your past…
Me:
Did I miss something?
Dad:
Well, number 53 did a special juggling number…
Me:
No I mean, what’s this talk of Gay Liberation?
Dad:
Well, haven’t you been watching channel 2 news?
Me:
I’ve been on an uncharted island, Dad. We didn’t have satellite hook-up.
Dad:
I don’t blame you. With what they’re charging…
Me:
What Gay Liberation, Dad?
Dad:
Heh? Oh, well, they passed some law about Gay Marriages. I don’t know if it was just the Congress or what, but now they’re legal, though I don’t know all the details. Your mother would know all about that. She’s saved the articles from the Chicago Tribune.
Me:
And why this festival for me?
Dad:
Festival? What festival?
Me:
Well, what exactly are we watching?
Dad:
Well you know that! It’s your play or whatever you call the darn thing.
I look down at the program in my lap: “Posthumous Play: a musical comedy by Don Bapst”
Me:
No, this can’t be my writing! It’s not finished. It’s too long. It’s wordy, yet it moves nowhere. It’s, it’s… It’s a musical!!
I faint, falling right off the chair. Jewish Boy, Muslim Girl, Angry Fish, Hexagon Owl, Derek, Malcolm, and my parents are standing over me when I wake.
Mom:
Honey, are you okay?
Me:
Huh? Me? Sure. Fine, fine.
Angry Fish:
Well, you’ve got five minutes to curtain, sweetie, so get your precious little butt into that outfit and shake it out onto the runway… yestah’day!
The final scene is unendurable: a five hour music medley starring a hundred thousand drag queens–kicking their muscular, shaved legs furiously across the mile-long stage from beneath their simple yet striking black-on-white costumes, each one representing an unexpurgated page of the timeline of my life. They resemble dancing cigarette boxes of another era, but each glimmering getup is ornately hand-embroidered with meticulous details of the painstaking study which has been conducted over the course of my existence thanks to the aid of hundreds of computers and thousands of scientists working around the clock for over ten years. The resulting musical score, played with staggering precision and harmony by a colossal band featuring the masters of every known instrument (washboard to pipe organ, kazoo to bagpipes, dinner bell to synthesizer) resounds at new levels of metaphysical truth, stirring chords of emotion untapped previously in the history of humanity. The show’s sets consist of the world’s greatest human edifices–the Eiffel Tower, the Twin Towers, the Pyramids,… all the usuals–flown in brick by brick to stand proudly in staggered rows behind the ever-kicking “pages” who shine dazzlingly under the most complex system of computerized lasers, fireworks, mediaeval torches, choreographed fireflies, and digitally-filtered star and moonlight ever attempted in the history of the theater. At the end of one hour, the whole cast spills suddenly off the stage in a violent burst of climactic energy, plunging into the largest swimming pool ever constructed. The audience–composed of the entire population of the universe–is comfortably lowered below the surface of the earth on a tremendous electric platform to watch the epic water-ballet episode through a solid, clear-glass wall. I emerge in Barbarella attire in an enormous plastic bubble which bursts straight up out of the water and into the pale embers of the twilit sky as the audience is simultaneously raised on its platform, applauding madly in time with the cacophony of deliriously resounding instruments which have engulfed the entire planet in one incessant burst of crazed sexual vibe calling the whole of nature forward to collectively trample the stage in a writhing surge of channelled primal desire. The dancing pages, making one final 180° kick toward the heavens, find themselves assembled, suddenly, in such a way that the hieroglyphic science babble inscribed on their myriad chests congeal into one simple yet staggeringly forceful sentence which decodes once and for all the mystery of my existence, my life, my sexuality, my desire, my love, my rage, my reason for being, my chemical make up, my past, my present and my future. These simple words, in a language which transcends all cultural, physical, emotional, spiritual and metaphysical barriers, rise on the lips of all the performers and spectators in the same instant in which it is inscribed across the heavens with the converging light of the universe, ominously underscored by the music throbbing through the ground and straight up the spines of nature’s blessed beasts. And as the complex mysteries of my life are so neatly decoded through these magically elementary symbols, the mysteries of the entire known, unknown and merely suspected universes shed their shadows, becoming instantly evident to every being, living, dead or in limbo. For in my central role in this earthly, egocentric extravaganza, I am nothing more than the Everyman (Everything!) which is existence itself.