The Rise of Working Singles, Sharks, and Onions

The "office environment" in the 21st century is a time bomb - full of testosterone and estrogen, and rats if it's an old building. The rise of working singles working round the clock - and those working near a clock - has turned some offices into "Singles Bars" with bouncers on the door, and the water you consume during "Happy Hour" gets charged to your credit card.

And let's not forget those who are married, and suffer transient global amnesia for five minutes while having sex with their secretary. Once their memory returns they recall they have a spouse. This can be particularly frightening if it happens during a board meeting; especially for fellow board members'. Where I used to work a lottery was held every week to guess who the CEO's next conquest would be. The last list I saw included females, males, and a vending machine on the 2nd floor.

My wife has suddenly elected to stop speaking. Pleading with her to watch "Persona" by Ingmar Bergman payed off big time. For months she hasn't uttered a word. She's currently watching "Jaws". I can tell she empathises with the Great White shark. She eats all the fish remains I throw at her. Our apartment's a mess - even the cat's left - but things are going according to plan. How will she react to the last scenes of the film when the shark's corpse sinks to the ocean floor? My wife doesn't know, but she's booked to go solo surfing in "Shark Alley" near Cape Town this weekend. I expect to fly home alone ...

I can no longer write, or say, the word, "right". My therapist says its psychological; a blockage. How she arrived at that diagnosis without inspecting the plumbing in my home beggars belief. My boss told me a few weeks ago, "You're fired." "Who? Me?" "I don't see anyone else in the room?" "But you're here?" He took a deep breath, "You're fired. F-I-R-E-D. Fired!"

It wasn't being fired that upset me - I half-expected that. I was making car doors in a solicitors office - it was the emphasis on "RIGHT". It's left me traumatised. On my early morning walk down Fifth Avenue a man with a string of onions around each ankle asked me how to get to Columbus Circle. I told him to go down Fifth Avenue, and turn up river at Central Park South. He immediately thought I was making fun of him. "Do you see a canoe, or a boat with an outboard motor anywhere? You should be ashamed of yourself."

As he stalked off, mumbling to himself, I shouted, "Keep turning left. Perhaps someone else can help you?". My heartbeat started playing a Brazilian samba, my hips and knees wanted to change places. The sweat from my brow made my eyes blurred as I hastily ventured home. I bumped into someone. I couldn't see who it was, but the voice was unmistakable. "Turn up river ... eh ...." I rubbed my eyes as he chased me down Fifth Avenue. As we ran I was attacked by flying onions for at least four blocks. After that, he either ran out of onions, or jumped under a crowd of tourists on a Big Onion Walking Tour.

Reflections: Sometimes when I sit, or stand, I feel the entire landscape - of which I am at the centre -becomes minimised, or eliminated. Only natural sounds and silence become of importance. Only then, do I truly feel free to evaluate, and understand my achievements, and place in nature. I try to adjust my expectations, and put aside my gender, past experiences. I am alone. But not for long. The landscape returns.

The Thin Man, Digestive Biscuits, and Pimples

The cottage is now silent, deserted, and rain falls silently through holes in the roof, delicately touching my shoes. I recall exceptional times, and the exceptional people to whom this ruin was once home.

I met Arthur for the first time at the grocery store. He was thin, and wore his clothes like an old, wire coat hanger. Though much older than me, we talked, wherever, and whenever, we met. In fact, he worked with my father. Arthur treated all women with courtesy - an old-fashioned trait, seemly, by some men today - and had an easy, relaxing disposition. He was full of commonsense, and not an inkling of bitterness permeated his body.

One day, Arthur, told me about the night he first met Ellen. I listened intently as we sat beside the sea; the glint of the sun playing with the soft waves. The taste of salt filled the air. Arthur's first recollection of Ellen was her kicking him in the face. It was during a dance - thirty or so years earlier - held in the local church hall. One of her feet caught his nose as she fell on the floor. After an abrupt silence they went outside, and successfully suppressed the bleeding. He recalled it was an unseasonably warm, and windless night.

Ellen looked at Arthur with her bright eyes.

'Would you like to go out?'

'We are out!'

'No. Silly. Would you like to go out on a date?'

'Well, I don't know? You just kicked me in the face. Maybe I'm wrong, but I think a relationship with you could lead to more violence down the line?'

'What weight are you? Seven stone? I'd take you for ten at least?'

'Ten what?'

'Ten stone, stupid! What weight do you think I am?'

'It's hard to say. It's getting dark, and the moon isn't bright tonight .... ?'

'Go on. Have a guess?'

'You're upsetting my blood pressure!'

'What's 7 times 2 divided by 7 times 2 multiplied by 14? Plus a stone, either way, of course.'

'Ten stone!'

'On the nose!'

'What's on my nose?'

'Not your nose!'

'Well, whose nose?'

''Nobody's nose!'

'I know that song.'

Ellen started to sing:

'Nobody nose the trouble I've seen
Nobody knows but Jesus
Nobody nose the trouble I've seen
Glory Hallelujah

Sometimes I'm up and sometimes I'm down
Yes lord, you know sometimes I'm almost to the ground O yes ...'


They sang two, or three, choruses together. Arthur sighed, but there was something about Ellen he liked. She made him feel good, with her boisterous laughing, nudging and winking. There would never be a dull moment with her around. They agreed to meet the following Saturday night. Spring turned to summer, and they tied the knot. Arthur got drunk after the wedding, and Ellen carried her husband over her shoulder back to their cottage. Arthur and Ellen; Seven stone and Eighteen stone; Laurel and Hardy, Skin and Bone.

When Ellen died, Arthur moved to England, and rented a small room from an elderly lady who once cleaned the local Mission Hall. It's cold, and dark, as I leave the ruins of the cottage. The rain plays tricks, and voices, and conversations, appear to flow from the cottage; forging their way into my mind, memory, the skin of my soul.

Reflections: Did you know the name ‘digestive’ originated due to the high content of baking soda used to aid food digestion? Neither did I until I sought an explanation from one of my teacher’s.

Miss Peters seemed to know a lot about biscuits. In fact, she informed me about the history of biscuits, including tube packaging and brand portfolios. During her account she became quite energised and passionate; eyes bulging and hands whirling in escalating loops. I thought she was deranged. Imagine knowing so much about the history of biscuits, and getting excited telling how generations’ have enjoyed eating them. A real nutcase. I bet she went home and scoffed digestives every night.

Someone told me Miss Peters exploded in class one day and all her pupils were covered in baking soda. For some reason - after the incident - there was a startling decline in pupil's attending the school with acne and pimples. I never found out who Acne and Pimples were? Probably got married? Who nose?

The Old Sock Trick, Sandals, and The Visitor

This morning while walking in the desert I was accosted by either a woman sporting a beard, a man wielding a beard, or a hedgehog on stilts. It happened so fast, I can't, in truth, be sure. As I had forgotten to bring a golf club, a fire extinguisher, a picture of my wife naked, or a pot of boiling water on my daily stroll, I had to think quick, or fast. I suddenly recalled David slayed Goliath with a simple slingshot. I took off my right sandal and threw it in the air, which amazingly distracted my assailant. Suddenly, his features softened. I took off my sock, filled it with five twenty dollar bills, and beat my assailant about the head. But to no affect.

Despairing of hitting his head continually with my sock, I asked if he had change of a twenty? He announced - with the aid of a late 19th-century speaking trumpet, that should have been present earlier - that he had a few nickels and quarters he would lend me. I thanked him, and we swapped our money. I then filled my sock with the coins. However, just as I was about to hit my assailant once again about the head, I was struck on the head by a flying sandal, and lost consciousness. When I awoke he was gone, and so was my sock. He left a note that read the complete works of Shakespeare, and said I owed him a nickel.

This afternoon an old friend dropped by to see me. We reminisced for a few minutes over several cups of coffee. I know it's more comfortable to sit on a chair; for a start it's cooler on one's posterior, but he didn't seem to mind. He told me about his fiancée, whom he described as possessing long legs, long white teeth, a long nose, a long memory, and enjoyed long conversations. In fact, everything he described about her started with the adjective "long".

As I watched his mouth move - first toward my knee, and then toward a light fitting - I was certain their engagement would be short. I think he guessed it was time to leave when I went upstairs and returned with pyjamas on. It was 4:30 in the afternoon. As he drove away I waved my nightcap in the air. It was the least I could do. I forgot to ask why he had no teeth, one eye, and had enquired if I had a tin bath with ice, cold water? People can be strange.

Reflections: I remember a knock on the front door that resonated through our whole house, and my mum talking to a softly spoken man. "Something has happened to your dad!’ she exclaimed with a worried gaze. As she ran into the hall she cried out, ‘Get your coat - we’re going to the hospital . . . Mr Dorment is giving us a lift . . . quick!’

While travelling in the car, Mr Dorment, a hefty, crimson faced gentleman - who looked capable of exploding at any minute - advised that my father had fallen at work, and swallowed both rows of false teeth. His stomach had been x-rayed, and he was out of danger. I couldn't make head nor tail of it, but I could tell my mum was worried. Her face was red and white, like bunting.

After a few days in hospital, the teeth left my dad’s body the natural way. He never speaks about it, and neither do his teeth. I hope they give the teeth a good cleaning? My dad definitely doesn't smile as much as he used to. I suppose that's to be expected. His bedside table has a glass of water for his teeth, and a fake silicone head on a pole for his wig, eyebrows, beard, and earrings.

The Human Condition, Indifference, and Evil

It's three or four o'clock in the morning and I am unable to sleep. I am in my father's home. My home, also, until I married. I feel engulfed by a void, a sense of emptiness, even though I abhor indifference. I'm not frightened; I'm numb. I can honestly say I am not anxious about myself. My despair, pain, and sorrow are directed toward my father. Also, toward my mother who died five years' earlier. What would she think?

I sense - not for the first time -the total indifference of the universe. I'm in "No Man's Land". I'm not ambiguous about my love for my father, who I know is lying awake in the next bedroom. Has he become another victim of indifference? Are we both looking into the same abyss? I love and care for my father. I know it is reciprocated..

From where I lie - in my old bedroom - through the darkness, I see the dim colour of the walls, the white of the ceiling, the flowery curtains. A world of fragrances and faint sounds: mainly ticking and chiming clocks, enter my senses. Random memories appear. I want to see my mother's face, so I get up quietly, and fetch a photograph from a sideboard downstairs in the living room. While the black and white photograph captures her in a stubborn mood, she is undeniably beautiful. The photograph seems to radiate her strength of will, intelligence, and humour, which, thankfully, she never lost.

This morning, my father's home, my late mother's home, my former home, my siblings' former home, represents a house of clay - Why? Trust and love make us all susceptible to hurt. My father, no longer feels safe and comfortable in his own home. Is it any wonder the church buildings in the area remain locked when not open for Sunday worship? In fact, the buildings resemble security-leaden fortresses, not places of worship.

As my father -who is eighty-five years old - and I eat breakfast, the trauma of yesterday's events are clearly etched on his pale face, his speech scarcely audible. We talk, and ask each other questions, to which there are no answers. Why? Who? When? My father is fearful they will return. Again, I try to allay his fears, though I, or no-one else, can guarantee it.

The perpetrators’ used a 'jemmy' (a small crow bar) to break the wood surrounding the side door of my father’s home to gain entry. My father and I had been out for something to eat, and to visit the local library. It happened between two and four on a sunny afternoon last week. Incredibly, no-one seen it happen. Each room, cupboard, cabinet, drawer, armchair, seat, had been overturned and ransacked. The thieves took cash, and other sentimental items. It is impossible to describe the scene. My late mother's clothes, and personal items, jewellery, did not escape their onslaught. So you will understand my family's predicament. Crime, while constantly in the spotlight, is one area of human endeavour where the perpetrators' largely go unpunished, or atone for their deeds.

We took photographs of the scenes of destruction and tried to settle our father, while upset ourselves. The police came and took a hazy statement from my father. Next, the forensic team. The police officers' didn't voice hope of catching the perpetrators', and had no information regarding the level of burglary in the area; priority, or possible, offenders; those known to handle stolen goods ... I could go on. Would it serve a purpose? No. I shiver with despair. I'm sure the burglars carried out some kind of reconnaissance prior to breaking into my father's home. Perhaps they called at the house? An elderly person living alone is an easy target.

Reflections: Throughout the world jails are full of people who feel no guilt for their crimes. You and I, hopefully, consider that delusional. In fact, some perpetrators relish their life of crime, and live with impunity. They sleep sound at night because they see no higher power than themselves. At the same time they have a great ability to lie to themselves, ignorant of their own faults, while they commit attacks of violence, and target vulnerable people.

What is evil? I can't answer that. All I know is that actions which are, by their consequences and nature destructive of life, are carried out by individuals who find it easy to blame others for their behaviour. They live in denial, and with little though for the well being of others'. I'm just thankful we are not all cut from the same cloth.

'Dance, Boy, Dance!' - A Play in One Act (Part One of Three)

CAST OF CHARACTERS

TESS: early 20's - a confident, vibrant and cocky female. She understands life has more to offer than her present existence.

JOHN: early 20’s - though well-dressed in a suit and tie he appears submissive and nervous. His conversation and actions display considerable unease.

ROSS:  mid 50's -  a part-time lecturer and unsuccessful writer. He possesses a dry, acerbic wit. His marital status is ambiguous even though he wears a wedding ring.

SCENE

The action is continuous and takes place in a bar.

TIME

Early afternoon. The present.

SYNOPSIS

When part-time barmaid TESS and a middle-aged customer ROSS are joined in the bar by JOHN, the divisions between fantasy and reality become vague. None of the characters remain untouched by the events that unfold on a quiet afternoon.
 

ACT ONE (Part One)

 

[TESS is behind the bar wiping the counter. ROSS (the only customer) is sitting on a bar stool. He lifts his glass - half-full of brandy - to enable TESS to wipe the counter.]
 
ROSS: The one thing that radically changes one's life is death and believe me I’ve experienced both. I died in New York last Tuesday and was boxed home by Friday. Here I am; a man devoured by life, reborn!

TESS:  Is that a fact?

ROSS: Facts are to play with when bored and you feel utterly useless. May I kiss you good night?

TESS:  It’s two o’clock in the afternoon.

ROSS: A pure technicality.

TESS:  How many times have you been married?

ROSS [softly]: I believe twice. My first wife died of old age ...

TESS: And the second?

ROSS: She lived ... I died.

[TESS laughs and continues working.]

ROSS: We should hit the road together. You can be Clyde and I’ll be Bonnie Rabbit. Of course, we'll be the focus of outrageous attention. They'll say we're both mad or one of us. Photographs will confirm it's me. [With a slight snigger.] At night I'll play your favourite songs on a piano. I don't believe you've heard me sing?

TESS:  I’ve heard you talk and I’m not sure what language it is?

[TESS and ROSS both smile.]

ROSS: The place is quite today. Must be a lot of people in their bathtubs ... perhaps to calm their nerves? Playing with their little boats. I get out the old tin tub once a week. I, however, require a heavenly creature  present to restore my soul, keep me in high spirits and to pass me a lovely warm towel.

TESS:  What exactly is your line of work?

ROSS: Let me get the chronology right ... For a short period I was Emma Bovary’s accountant. Then I read street, shop and advertising signs for a man in Paris who was hard of hearing. For four weeks I was a chestnut tree: one of many surrounding a square in Montparnesse. Presently, besides being a fruitless writer, I make cameo appearances in flourishing novels. [He finishes his drink.] The money’s not great ... [TESS laughs.] Which reminds me?

[TESS takes the glass; fills it with brandy, and places it in front of ROSS.]

ROSS: Cheers. [Takes a mouthful.] Marvellous. [Pause} My lungs have resumed full working order. As for the rest of my body ...? I await confirmation.

[TESS smiles and goes in to the storeroom behind the bar. JOHN enters, walking slowly and awkwardly towards the bar. He runs a hand through his hair and nods sheepishly at ROSS.]

ROSS: Have you brought news from the outside world?

JOHN [puzzled]: News? ...  uh ... what news?

ROSS: I’m starved for news. Is the world all right? [gestures towards the door.] I’m curious? Aren’t you? Isn’t everybody?

JOHN: Uh . . . what?

ROSS: Curious? About other people? What they do? What they say? Do they mean what they say? [Pause] Do I mean what I say? Am I acquainted with what I’m saying?

[During a brief silence ROSS takes a drink and looks at JOHN again.]

ROSS: You remind me of a zombie. An ex-wife, in fact. Why don’t you sit down? Let’s have a tête-à-tête. I’m all ears. That’s a figure of speech by the way, just in case you have poor eyesight.

[JOHN remains standing at the counter unsure what to do with his hands. He taps his fingers on the counter.]

JOHN: [timidly; an afterthought]: Uh . . . pardon?

ROSS: Deaf, too. [Feigned surprise] Probably genetic.

End of Act One (Part One)

Read Act One (Part Two)

Reflections: My neighour isn't pleased with my new garage. He says it takes up most of his living room and kitchen. He has no thought for anyone but himself. When I'm revving my car engine all I can smell is cooked food.

'Dance, Boy, Dance!' - A Play in One Act (Part Two of Three)

ACT ONE (Part Two)

JOHN: I’d rather stand ... If you don’t mind?

ROSS: Mind? I don’t have a mind. I lost mine a long time ago. [Pause] No, that’s not right. I hocked it to a pawnshop. It's still there in the window for all to see. 

[BESS returns from the storeroom and sees JOHN standing at the counter.]

ROSS: I’d like to buy my fresh young friend a drink. I've never seen anyone so clean. He has - what can I say? - the most extraordinary fluttering blue eyes. Here stands a sensitive, young man completely sound in body and soul. Naturally, I'm consumed with envy and despair. He reminds me why I keep a low profile.

BESS:  [to ROSS] And what’s the young man’s name? We haven’t been properly introduced.

ROSS: [to JOHN]: What did you say your name was?

JOHN: I ... er ... didn’t. [Pause] It’s ... John ... 

ROSS: The nice young man's name is John. 

BESS:  Well, John. What would you like to drink? [Quickly, with a smile and a raised hand.] Don’t tell me. Let me guess ... vodka?

JOHN: Not exactly ... I haven’t drunk vodka in a while. [nervously] It makes me woozy ...

BESS: [to ROSS] It makes him woozy [to JOHN] Lucky you. A little brandy, maybe. What do you say, Ross? [BESS doesn’t wait for an answer and goes to the back of the bar.] Two brandies coming up for the boys in the house. [BESS pours the drinks.]

ROSS: Isn’t she magnificent? Bess has been working here all summer and as a consequence I’ve turned into an alcoholic. She endures - daily - my whistling nose, racing pulse, motionless demeanour and incessant ramblings. My doctor believes I should share my bed with a woman. Anyone, but my wife. In the dark her wide open eyes would shrivel the most ardent of unearthly creatures.

[BESS sets the drinks on the counter in front of ROSS and JOHN and stands with her hands on her hips.]

ROSS: [lifts his glass to JOHN, then BESS]: Cheers, to one and all. [ROSS and JOHN drink.]

BESS:  We’re not usually honoured by distinguished suits in this establishment. [She stares at JOHN for a moment making him feel uneasy.] Are you static or do you move around?

JOHN: Well, yes ... no ... It depends ...

BESS:  Depends on what? Your girlfriend? Your wife? Your tailor? [With a feigned smile] The hole in the ozone layer?

JOHN: Depends on circumstances ... whether I feel welcome in a place, or not ... whether I’ve got money ... circumstances ...

ROSS [feigned lament]: Work is the most despised of all human activities. It should be outlawed. Anyone found working should be incarcerated. One's life should not be dependent on places, people, or gadgets. [Pause] Even the simple art of breathing can be a chore. All I require is a folding bed, a dash of hypocrisy and I'm luminous. Totally, luminous! Isn't it strange how some people are dying to live, and some are dying to die? My advice is to keep clear of all ideas and concepts. You will be ignorant, uncreative, boring, but your life will be less complicated.

[BESS and JOHN stare at ROSS who has resumed the centre of attraction he desires.]

ROSS: I believe it is time for two more brandies, please. Put my young friend’s drinks on my tab. I insist! Such a charming, sensitive stranger deserves a cordial welcome.

[BESS fills both glasses and leaves them on the counter in front of ROSS and JOHN. She continues cleaning the bar. BESS and JOHN periodically exchange glances.]

ROSS [to JOHN]: That really is a fine suit. Don’t be put of by my cheap clothes. Believe me, I have worst at home. Rooms, wardrobes, trunks, full of them. Ladies clothes, all my exes clothes. I must round them up - the clothes, not my exes! - and give them to a charity. [Mockingly] It’s finding time.

[ROSS takes a drink and looks at JOHN who is fumbling in his pocket. He wonders why JOHN is so nervous. When JOHN looks up he notices BESS is staring at him.]

BESS:  What do you want here?

JOHN: I wish ... I need to talk to you. [Pause] Somewhere quiet.

[ROSS sips his brandy and turns his head to watch and listen, intrigued.]

BESS:  What do you want to talk about?

JOHN: [quietly, without eye contact]: Me ... I mean you ...

BESS:  I don’t enjoy talking. I find conversation more engaging. More impressive, more rewarding. [Pause] Providing they are authentic as regards feelings and behaviour.

JOHN: What do you mean?

BESS [moves closer to JOHN; speaks softly]: A good conversation is like making love. Rich and glorious. [Pause] Full of sighs, whispers, intense pleasure.

ROSS [to BESS]: Remarkable! [Clapping; playful] If I could speak French I’d say ‘Bravo!’

BESS [briskly]: If you want a conversation with me, lose the suit, tie and shoes. I don’t converse with stockbrokers or accountants. I’ve encountered both and had to fake suicide once or twice to recapture my sanity.

End Of Act One (Part Two)

Act One (Part Three)

Reflections:  I've finally concluded I can't predict anything with any degree of accuracy. This includes my prediction that I can't predict anything with any degree of accuracy. Furthermore, I feel I've never tapped my full potential. This could be the reason, that wherever I travel, water leaks from my left armpit.

'Dance, Boy, Dance!' - A Play in One Act - (Part Three of Three)

ACT ONE (Part Three)

BESS [softly, to JOHN]: Come here.

JOHN [suspicious]: Why?

BESS:  For God’s sake, just come here!

[JOHN moves closer to the counter.]

BESS:  Give me your socks and shoes.

JOHN [incredulously]: You’re kidding me? [Silence] You’re making a fool of me? . . . I’m right? [He briefly stares at ROSS who also appears baffled.]

BESS [playfully]:  Don’t be anxious. I’m harmless ... really! [Pause] I’ll explain later, but you must trust me [Slowly] That is, if you want a conversation?

[JOHN shakes his head in disbelief, and takes off his shoes and socks. He picks them up and gives them to BESS. She places them under the counter.]

BESS:  Now your coat, shirt and tie.

ROSS [cheerful, but puzzled]: This is ... dare I say ... wonderfully bizarre, even decadent!

[JOHN takes off his coat, shirt and tie, and hands them to BESS. She places them - with the other items - under the counter.]

BESS:  Now your trousers!

JOHN [embarrassed]: Why ... are ... you teasing me?

BESS:  The trousers!

[JOHN and ROSS exchange glances. BESS motions to JOHN for his trousers. He finally removes his trousers and hands them to her. BESS gives a laugh. JOHN is left standing in his underwear.]

JOHN: What are you trying to prove?

BESS:  Do you still want a conversation? [Softly] Somewhere quiet?

JOHN: Yes, of course ... I do.

[Brief silence.]

BESS:  Do you like singing and dancing?

JOHN: Not particularly ...

BESS:  [Brightly.] I’d be obliged if you would sing and dance to a favourite song of mine. It’s called "I Wanna Be Loved By You." Marilyn Monroe style, of course.

[JOHN laughs uncomfortably, and stares at BESS.]

JOHN: You sure have it in for me.

BESS:  Whatever gave you that idea? 

[BESS and ROSS watch JOHN with interested stares. They all remain still waiting for something to happen. JOHN shakes his head in bewilderment and then starts to sing – softly at first, until he gets into his stride.]

JOHN [sings and dances, rather badly, naked, bar his underwear.]:

I wanna be loved by you, just you,
And nobody else but you,
I wanna be loved by you, alone!
Boop-boop-a-doop!

I wanna be kissed by you, just you,
Nobody else but you,
I wanna be kissed by you, alone!

Boop-boop, I couldn't aspire,
To anything higher,
Than, filled with desire,
To make you my own!
Boop-boop-a-doop, boop-boop-a-doop!

I wanna be loved by you, just you,
And nobody else but you,
I wanna be loved by you, alone!
Boop-boop-a-doop!’

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[While JOHN sings and dances, BESS watches from behind the counter, head resting on her hands. ROSS gazes in amazement, occasionally sipping brandy. The following interplay takes place between them.]

BESS:  He’s a cute singer.

ROSS: Not a bad dancer, either. The resemblance to Marilyn is uncanny.

BESS:  Never struck me as a "Y-front" man?!

ROSS: Such a dazzling performance. Good-looking in a smouldering kind of way.

BESS:  [to ROSS, quietly] I’m ringing the police.

ROSS: Surely not? [BESS disappears into the storeroom.] Oh, well.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ROSS [clapping loudly]: Bravo! Encore! [Pause] When you sang and danced I had tears in my eyes.

[A brief, uneasy pause.]

ROSS: Don’t you care who’s on the other side of the line? I imagine she may be calling the police.

JOHN:  Do you like Bess?

ROSS: How old are you?

JOHN: Twenty-four ...

ROSS: Twenty-four beats fifty-four every time. Unless, of course the female feasts on power, prestige and capital, and craves a different face and body enhancements for each new holiday season  [Pause] And I thought I’d seen it all. [With a smile] You’re jealous. You want her heart on a silver platter. Admirable and natural. [Pause; sniggers] I believe you should get dressed.

[A brief silence. BESS returns from the storeroom and approaches JOHN. Bess is carrying a bag with JOHN’s clothing and shoes.]

BESS [To JOHN]: How do you feel?

ROSS: Fine. And you?

BESS:  Awash with tenderness and passion.

ROSS: Was ... Am I silly, foolish ...?

BESS:  Do you really want an answer?

ROSS: No. Anyway, I’ve finished hedging my bets. "Maybe" and "perhaps" no longer exist in my vocabulary.

BESS: What do you want to talk about?

JOHN: You.

BESS:  Why?

JOHN: It involves me.

BESS:  In what possible way?

JOHN: I’m asking you to marry me.

[An uncomfortable pause.]

JOHN: Well?

BESS:  Yes!

JOHN: Louder!

BESS:  YES! {They kiss.] YES!

[The trio smile.]

BESS:  Goodbye Ross. I'm hitting the road.

ROSS: So I see. Good luck my young friends.

[BESS, carrying the bag of clothes, and JOHN in his underwear, exit embracing each other, in joyous mood. The sound of a police siren draws near. ROSS is left sitting at the bar on his own.]

ROSS [smiling and cheerful]: If any of you know cause or just impediment ... [Lifts his brandy glass, and turns to audience.] Bottoms Up!

CURTAIN

Reflections:  My late father-in law, Charlie, could easily recall a certain time, the train carriage, the railway station, the young lady's eyes, her half-smile as she stood on the platform. He had encountered the young lady on the train. Forty years had passed since then. They had not spoken on the journey. But he had noticed her face which glowed like the sky welcoming the sun. When she stood on the platform and gazed at him on the train as it pulled out of the station that moment entered the depths of his memory to resurface periodically throughout his lifetime.

There was no good reason to get off the train. But what if he had? Would she have stood and talked to him or walked away? Would his life have changed irrevocable? Does it matter? It mattered to him. The fact remains he regretted not decanting from the train. One should not confuse success with happiness in relations with the opposite sex. They are different. When someone takes a genuine interest in you it is invigorating, comforting, sustenance for a tired ego. It is always, however, too late to start being young again.

Passion, Watchful Observer, and Parrot Disease

What age does one have to be to form a passion that will endure a life time?

During the primeval darkness of puberty I began an ebullient love affair with reading, music, humour, television, and discovering erogenous zones (not necessarily in that order, or frequency) - mainly, drama, film, and anything involving an armpit. Language and music seemed to delve deep into my soul; fire my emotions. Though still childish for my age, and with a restricted ability to understand the rules of grammar, and vocabulary, I soldiered on. Then I discovered melody, harmony, rhythm, phrasing, imagination - not only in music -but in folk tales, novels, poetry, and arm-wrestling. I read voraciously, but the story was overly optimistic, so I opted for "Anne of Green Gables". The one thing in life I've never regretted.

In this new era of my life, I have morphed into a watchful observer. When I'm not at home - shopping, or visiting someone I've never met before in hospital - I hold a wood effect country birch venetian blind in front of my face. I've been arrested five times as a "Peeping Tom". Am I to be pilloried the rest of my life for boring a hole in my shutters, just because Lady Godiva's hair was cut too short, prior to riding into town on her horse? I demand justice! I demand brown sauce on my burger! Do I sound irrational; erratic; crazed? If not, you're on the same medication as me. Try meditation, or standing naked among cattle lying in the meadow in winter. However, watch out for the swishing of tails.

I took my dog, Tanya, to the vet today. The vet's diagnosis was worrying. She said Tanya had Parrot Disease, aka Parrot Fever, Pigeon Fancier's Lung! When I said I couldn't understand how a dog could catch this disease my dog said, "Who's a pretty boy then? Who's a pretty boy? Go on ... tell me. Who's a pretty boy, then?" I cracked, and was in such a state, I drove home without a car. It was a mistake to buy Tanya her own tape recorder, and let her sleep in the kitchen. There's no food left in the fridge, and she has left the iron on again.

This afternoon I sat down, and wrote an email to one of my friends in Oxford, England.

I've fallen in love again. This time with a human being! She's beauty personified, wealthy, and fluent in German. I know what you're thinking? I can't speak German. But I'm besotted! I know! I know! Even when the sun shines at its brightest, the rain runs down her face, and her voice is sometimes lofty. I've made an appointment with a doctor to diagnose her condition. However, believe me, she is like no other. She's learning me how to "Goose-Step" to "Achy Breaky Heart" by Billy Ray Cyrus.

I know this may sound simply-minded, however, every time I mention Gabriel Daniel Fahrenheit, she gets hot under the collar. Any ideas?

Reflections: The time will come when everything one does will be just a memory, including one's notion of paradise.

My Evergreen Plant, Relatives, & The Blog Tag

I'll get straight to it. I've a depressed evergreen plant on my hands - O.K., it's picked up some bad vibes from me from across the room - the leaves have turned Caramel Brown; which just happens to be the name of an old girlfriend. Everything I look at reminds me of her, especially her photographs. I used to call her, 'CB', for short. She called me, 'Loser.'

Anyway, my evergreen plant is starting to get up later each day, demanding coffee and the newspaper. Also, it habitually complains about the cold weather, and says our home is full of seal-hunters' dressed as egg white. It's worse at night. It's scared of the dark, and has to sleep in my room. The funny thing is - I purchased the plant to brighten up my life.

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When I was young I used to detest when uncles came to visit our home, sometimes with their irritating wives. Some were fat, bearded, spoke in loud voices, smelt of whiskey, and smoked cigars - the men weren't much better. Once, the combination of smells was overbearing. I had to hold my breath, or die. However, I held it too long, and passed out. When I came round a red-faced, plump woman said, "Look at my finger - yes, just as I thought. One of your eyes isn't moving . . ." I wet myself, and lost consciousness, again. From that moment onward, my life has moved unhindered between explosive joy, boundless terror, and hysterical laughter. I do believe I've wet myself again. Life has its ups and downs, and I need new underwear.

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Blog Tag, as initiated by Frieda Babbley. The following is not for the faint of heart, or mind.

List 1: Things I've always wanted to do

1. Ride an elephant to work and get my manager to pore through the dung for his monthly pay check;
2. Master vertical take-off, and landing, without an aircraft;
3. Wear a veiled hat to my optician's, and talk hysterically about my deteriorating eyesight;
4. To lie between Cécile De France, and Audrey Tautou, for one night in a large bed in a Paris hotel, eating grapes, drinking champagne - both ladies laughing, smiling, and conversing with me in French and English (I can't speak French, who cares?);
5. Wade up to my knees in the sea with my wife under the sparkling stars - the upshot, my wife has to walk on her hands throughout our stroll;
6. Learn the mysterious art of ventriloquism: then perhaps have someone to converse with;
7. Turn the tables on all the "bullies" I have encountered in my life - at school, during my career, socially, out on the street, etc. You know what I mean. All to parade through the city, each with a placard around their neck stating "I am a Bully";
8. Take my grand-daughter, Aimee, to Central Park, NY, to sit on the sculpture of "Alice in Wonderland" - something, everyone should do irrespective of age, or disposition.

List 2: Foods I love

1. The paintings of Francis Bacon - grilled;
2. Butter, only if pale blue;
3. Day lilies - only at night;
4. Fiddler crab - breaks my heart to eat them especially after they've performed a violin sonata;
5. My doctor said I should eat more fibre. I'm currently eating the hull of a boat. A guy told me that was " fibre-glass". So what? I'm starting to enjoy the taste, though a tad salty;
6. Runner beans when I can catch them;
7. Anything from the "Hellenistic Age" - great with home-made pitta bread;
8. Plays by Luigi Pirandello. So far I've consumed ten copies of " Six Characters in search of an Author". I recommend a good, second-hand copy with a stir-fry.

List 3: Things I love

1. Driving my jet-ski through the streets of my town;
2. Skipping without a rope;
3. Throwing turnips at my wife, and children, packed with explosives;
4. Works by Andy Warhol completed before 1927;
5. Sailing of Norway, and shouting " Here Boy!" at dogfish;
6. Running over people with my car who sport badges saying, "Frodo Lives";
7. Looking at the Earth from the Moon;
8. Laughter, beats the sound of crying any hour of the day.

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 Reflections: The modern era is often referred to as the 'Information Age,' not the 'Knowledge Age'. I do not find this strange. Why? Because information does not directly translate into knowledge. It must be processed, accessed, absorbed, comprehended, integrated. Knowing is not understanding. Furthermore, there is no simple answer to any question worth asking.