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Rochambeau

2/23/2018

A little over a year ago I got involved with a Chicago theatrical group called BYOT (Bring Your Own Theater). The idea is simple: a group of folks get together, and inside of 24 hours put together about five short plays based on a theme. No one knows what the theme is until the night before then writers have about 12 hours to put something together leaving the performers 12 to rehearse before show time. The bonus is that anyone can sign up to take part. If you've never written, directed, acted -- this could be your first step into that world. In addition, it's just a wonderful time with some good people.

The first time I did this I wrote a one act called "Rochambeau". But things didn't end there. Thanks to the multi-faceted talents of all involved we were able to turn that play into a super low budget short film. I won't lie there were some unavoidable delays in production; subzero weather does not make it feasible to film outdoors, no matter how brief the experience may seem. However, I've been blessed to know a fantastic group of folks who helped me realize this piece.

Many of them can be found with a simple online search, but they hit the full spectrum of entertainment. From David Bowie tributes to fire breathing, theater, and Twitch TV (video game streaming) everyone involved here is doing something amazing. I encourage you to check them out. The following links can help get you started:

Twitch

Coffee and Whiskey Productions

And that's enough from me. I can't talk about the film without talking about the plot. Not wanting to spoil anything I'll let it speak for itself. However, I will say this, it's the kind of bizarre dark humor you can find here all the time. Enjoy!

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Why I Quit: Being a Cupid

2/15/2018

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The bus drove on oblivious of the man on its roof. Comb-over whipping in the wind, Simon aimed his veritable hand cannon at me. Seeing him, I jerked the steering wheel, and stomped the gas pedal. Scant inches to spare I maneuvered a small sedan between me and Simon. Regardless, he fired, startling the driver – bullets hitting a car will do that. She swerved. Her car ricocheted off mine then careened into the bus before she hit the brakes.

The bus shuddered. Simon slipped and fell. He caught himself, but the gun popped out of his hands. When it fell to the street below I saw finally an opportunity.

I sped ahead of the bus, cautious after the side swipe, slowed. Cutting in front of the transport, I set the cruise control then jammed the steering wheel in place by spearing an arrow into the dashboard. The car fished-tailed slightly, but I no longer cared about my own safety. I had a job to do.

Slinging on my crossbow, I climbed onto the roof of the sedan. The bus driver observing my – for lack of a better term – bizarre behavior, sped up to move away from me. However, as I anticipated, the space between us remained too tight. His initial instinct to speed up merely closed the gap between our respective vehicles. The chance remained slim, but I took it anyway.

Before the bus could veer into another lane, I lept onto the front windshield. Fingers grasping the lip of the window I noticed the terrified expression on the driver's face.

I shouted, "Don't worry. I'm a cupid." Then I pulled myself up onto the roof.

When Simon saw me he shook his head.

He said, "You just don't give up."

"You'll thank me when you're not dying alone."

"I don't love Becky Rutledge."

Aiming my crossbow I said, "Not yet, but you will."

I fired. He dodged the arrow. There's something about a pear-shaped man sidestepping a flying bolt that makes you wonder why the universe chose this moment to remind a couch potato he possessed an athletic potential previously untapped, especially as he charges forward screaming. Sighing, I braced for the impact.

He dove into me, and as we sailed off the bus I couldn't help feeling Simon didn't think this move through entirely. Yes, it occurred to me he might rather die than fall in love with Becky Rutledge, yet, I couldn't help feeling his irrational behavior undermined any hint of him thinking ahead. After all, it seemed irrational to me that folks so often feared falling in love with people they wouldn't normally choose. And I saw it all the time. In many ways, Cupids are second only to Grim Reapers (which I tried to join first, but the union is very strict on hiring policy; apparently, you can't enjoy the job).

            So Simon and I floated what felt like forever, though was probably only a second or two, enough time to ponder this job in its entirety. I took the gig as a temp position. Like the IRS cupids tend to hire entire divisions around their main season. While the IRS hires around April, cupids obviously employ around Valentine's Day. All I knew when I took the job is that I'd be paid forty bucks an hour to chase people through the city, and shoot them with arrows. Particulars other than that didn't really matter to me.

The fact that the bolts are some kind of carbon and metaphysical composite -- I didn't entirely understand the science so won't try to explain things. Suffice it to say it's like shooting someone with a giant syringe that leaves no wound. If nothing else, the job offers fantastic medical benefits. A facet I soon appreciated since, as luck would have it, we landed on my car, still sloppily cruising in front of the bus.

I felt my spine crackle in a way that could not be good, though it did distract me for a moment from Simon rabbit punching my face. Reaching into the quiver strapped to my thigh I pulled out a bolt, and stabbed it into his side. His eyes went watery for a second then sparkled.

"Becky," he whispered wistfully, and fell back. Grabbing his shirt I tried to pull him back, but we both fell off the car. Fortunately not into the path of the oncoming bus, though didn't make our spill any less painful.

#

"Then for good measure you stabbed him another seventeen times," head Cupid, Gloria Fletcher, summarized the end of my report.

I nodded, "Yes, ma'am. I really wanted him to... love her."

Gloria cocked an eyebrow, "I'm sure."

"And if I may, I wouldn't call it 'stabbing.' Like they say in training, I think of it as a forceful prod."

She nodded, "Next time you feel the need to, uh, emphasize things, maybe don't hold them down on the pavement, prodding them repeatedly in public."

It felt like asking a lot, but I assured her I would do my best. Dismissed, I left the office longing for the comfort of a cold beer, and a handful of Oxy. Heading into the break room to grab some pills from a communal barrel, I ran into Floyd, my trainer.

The second he saw me he said, "Damn, you look fucked up."

"Good thing my heart is lighter than my looks."

"Whatever you say Surrey."

Smirking I said, "If I'm Surrey then does that make you Richard?"

"If I'm the third of anything, it's the man; I'm the third man."

I replied, "Well then Mr. Lime, is your view of the world still the same?"

"It is as constant as the northern star," Floyd said. We shared a laugh. This mixing of references helped us pass the time. The game here involved trying to trip up the other by sharing a reference to a film, or play in hopes the other would be forced to admit being unfamiliar with the source. Of course, all the while conversation is meant to go on fluidly. One couldn't simply make an oblique reference. In a way, it amounted to conversational chess, attempting to steer one another into a corner.

Pointing at my arm Floyd said, "That’s a nasty bit of road rash."

Glancing at it I shrugged, "Could be worse. Fell off a car doing about thirty. Managed to land on my target though, so he took the worst of it."

Sipping a cup of coffee -- likely more whiskey than java -- Floyd remarked, "Yesterday I got assigned this fellow in Elk Grove Village. Turns out there's a lady thinks they’re -- and I quote – 'destined to be together.’”

"Oh that's the worst," I said. Worse than the target running is that person always trying to block the arrow.

Leaning forward he invited me to feel the back of his head. I winced when my fingers touched the mound of a large goose egg.

Floyd chuckled, "Hit me with a brick. I never saw her coming."

"At least that's all she did," curious I added, "Who's he falling for?"

"Bill is in love with..." his expression implied the effort to squeeze the detail out of his brain, but eventually he managed, "Kevin? Ray?"

            "Is he bi?" I asked, hoping the woman wasn't completely delusional. Floyd shook his head. I sighed, "Well then she needs to move on."

"She can fuck a barbed wire dildo for all I care," Floyd said gingerly feelingt he back of his head..

Rummaging in the fridge I found a frosty beer. Not my preferred brand, but it would do. Washing down the Oxy I said, "Come on man, she's just crazy-lonely. There's a lot of folks like that."

More than I ever suspected it seemed. I've worked jobs where people attempted to bribe me, and I won't lie, I've accepted many of those offers. However, in this gig it didn't feel right. I'll let a thief into a gated community, sure, but taking bribes to stitch heartstrings felt wrong. Still, a day didn't go by where I wouldn't receive some kind of solicitation, from the subtle to the obvious:

"What price is love, eh?" to; "Give her to me, and you can fuck her anytime you want. Or me. What are you into? We'll make it happen."

People are willing to go to incredible limits not to be alone.

Floyd said, "I hear ya buddy, but the heart wants what it wants..."

He trailed off waiting for me to respond, "Not what it's told."

One of many training slogan instructors offered to help us wrap our minds around what we did. This one supposedly applied to more than arrow dodgers and bolt blockers. It hypothetically reminded trainees there isn't a choice only the illusion of one. It bugged me then, but I wasn't being paid to debate the possibility of free will, so my poverty consented to the not wholly appetizing task of deciding for others.

#

The next day I went to collect my assignments. Lowell, my handler, passed me a sheet covered in names. Lowell lived behind his desk in the same way an agoraphobic is likely to be trapped in a house. His expression became one of almost certain panic whenever he left the safe confines of his work space. The bank of computer screens on his desk connected him to the outside world, and I have never met a person less inclined to human interaction.

Making only the briefest eye contact, he handed me a sheet saying, “Twelve couples. Then take tomorrow off.”

“Why?” I said, “Twelve is no big deal.”

“You’ve got a black arrow,” he said. His gaze flickered at me, his expression showing the nervous apprehension that I might linger to discuss this turn of events.

From what I knew about the system, a bank of super computers collected data about everyone. In the past this used to be done by field agents, hence the prevailing distrust of cupids in most circles. The old days resulted in more frequent errors: targets bonded despite being obvious mismatches. The results of an equation are only as accurate as the numbers put in, and observational data often meant a certain degree of guessed at figures. However, in the modern era, thanks to social media, the percentage of errors dropped dramatically.

Think of it like the NSA gathering data in order to run your online dating profile. When they feel they’ve found a match with the highest percentage of probable success, a cupid’s arrow gets shot in your chest, bonding you for life to whomever the equations chose. However, black arrows are another matter entirely. They indicated a high probability of a bad romance. What exactly that entailed varied, but someone would be heart scarred by the situation. Black arrows often bonded sweet people to abusive nightmares, one-sided loves, cheaters, psychos, etc.

I said, “I’ve never gotten a black arrow.”

“Then you’re lucky,” Lowell said gruffly.

I almost felt like staying just to make him sweat, but I said, “The heart wants what it wants…”

“That’s what they say.”

#

Perched on a rooftop overlooking a Polish smorgasbord I waited. The cold felt mild. A stretch of subzero days made thirty feel balmy. I watched a couple stroll along the sidewalk. They walked hand in hand jokingly regretting having overeaten.

One said to the other, “I just want to flop on the couch, and slip into a food coma.”
“Long as I can lie with you, sounds good to me.”

I smiled. They kissed. I wondered if they started with a cupid’s bolt. Some folks still try to hunt love down on their own. Auditioning for sex has never been my strong suit, probably because I refer to dating as auditioning for sex. However, I’ve never really been one to sit around waiting for an arrow.

Before going out I asked Floyd about black arrows. He thought a hard minute before saying, “All I know is they aren’t guaranteed to last. I’ve done dozens, maybe a hundred of ‘em, and that’s what I always remind myself. It doesn’t have to last.”

His answer didn’t help me feel better. Impermanence of any kind implied that no arrow meant forever. In a way, that should’ve comforted me: what I did became less permanent. However, it made it seem pointless. This job started to feel like emotional fascism.

Prompted by an email from Lowell, Gloria caught me before I headed out.

She said, “Hey, you know what the real myth about love is?”

“What?” I asked not sure I wanted to know.

“That it’s always for the best. Sometimes it’s glue keeping us from moving.”

I said, “And that’s for the best?”

She shrugged, “Maybe. Why’s it always got to be a good thing?”

“Because it’s love.”

She snorted in disdainful surprise, “Never expected that from you. I thought you’d end up one of the old dogs like me, or Floyd – the ones who know better.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” I said, not at all sorry to.

Gloria nodded, “I’ve still got hope for you.”

Lights in the smorgasbord started to wink out. Red curtains got pulled shut. The wait staff trickled out, a few mingling out front to smoke and chit-chat about the evening. Spotting my target among them I loaded a bolt. I took aim.

I thought, “It’ll end. Doesn’t matter why, it won’t last.”

I tried not to think of a black eye, broken jaw, battered bloody bruised – I fired.

From below:

“Ow!”

“Damn, are you okay?”

“Holy shit that’s a cupid’s arrow!”

“Someone’s about to fall in love.”

“Awww lucky.”

“If you only knew,” I said. The next morning I went into the break room. Floyd glanced at me. The look on my face said it all. He gave me a tight bear hug.

Whispering in my ear he said, “Not everyone can do it.”

“I can do it,” I said, “I just hate living with it.”

I filled my pockets with pills from the barrel – one pocket to sell, the other to consume – then marched into Gloria’s office to inform her, “I quit.”

“Damn shame.” She shook her head, “If you ever get the nerve, there’ll be a job here for you.”

“Thanks?” I said, not sure I meant it until days later. Leaving the building I stepped onto the sidewalk. Taking a deep breath I lit a cigarette. As I exhaled that first cloud an arrow hit me in the stomach.

Looking at it I said, “I really hope someone’s just trying to kill me.”

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A Rose by Any Other Name... Cookies & Cream

2/14/2018

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A little abstract art for Valentine's Day... I seriously don't feel a need to elaborate anymore than that. Hope you're having a good day!

Okay... so Valentine's has a few clichéd standbys when it comes to "romantic" gifts. The usual are flowers, and some kind of sweet, a sort of "sweets to the sweet" (never mind that this line is from a funeral scene in Hamlet, spoken by Queen Gertrude as she drops flowers into Ophelia's grave). The ol' heart-shaped box of chocolate and bouquet of roses are so standardized buying them is almost a joke. Thinking along those lines I put together these two pictures: "A Rose by Any Other Name..." and "Cookies & Cream". The latter came into being because I didn't want to go a strictly traditional route. I don't venture that way in my own romantic dalliances, so wouldn't in my art -- simple explanation.
Anyway, enough of my rambling. Enjoy!

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That's Entertainment

2/9/2018

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Most people, no one I know, can survive a cavernous neck wound. He'd bleed to death soon (well as much as he can die). Yet, he sat placidly. His smile seemed to be the stuff of legends, an infectious grin causing the audience to not only mirror it, but inspired some to giggle uncomfortably, chuckle then laugh out loud; and once the whole room resounded with laughter he slumped over dead. On this occasion it took less time than I expected.

Shaking my head, "Sonuvabitch couldn't hold on one more minute?"

"Yeah, well I knew he wouldn't." The stagehand beside me gestured, "Pay up."

Handing him a fiver, "You earned it."

            As the clown crew cleaned up the stage, carting the corpse away in a polka dot wheelbarrow, I emerged from behind the red curtain. Donning my trademark top hat, I addressed the audience, "Wasn't that something ladies and gentlemen? But that particular act is far from over. You have merely witness part one of the performance."

            The lights lowered on cue, and I continued, "For a brief while the man you have all seen die, Professor Lazarus, shall remain dead. However! Before the night is through, he will return."
Skeptical murmurs filled the room. The disbelief seemed like an echo from previous nights. Only those few who've seen the act before knew better.

Already prepared for skeptics, I said, "There are those who won't believe such a feat could be achieved. The rational, logical, scientific mind -- and this is a modern age of reason -- insists the dead are dead. Once that state of being is reached there is no condition afterward, save for decay. And I admit to having shared that misconception. Yet, I swear." Taking off my hat, and holding it over my heart, "Professor Lazarus is dead, yet he shall live again… which is why he chose his rather apt stage name."

A few soft chuckles, though I didn't expect much. Mirth in the midst of morbidity is a difficult thing to attain, depending on those in attendance. Despite the macabre nature of our troupe's particular vaudeville, even the darkest humorists find actual death hard to make light of. No, instead I pricked an ear waiting for the sound of Robert, this evening's plant.

Right on schedule he shouted, "Then he's not really dead."

Returning my hat like a king his crown, I glared out at the crowd, "I will not be accused of such chicanery. If you do not believe he is really dead, well sir, I encourage you, and any who suspect as much to go into the lobby during the intermission. Inspect the corpse. Verify the presence of death however you like, so long as it isn't lewd."

Another ripple of laughter, appreciated, though again, not expected in any great volume. However, everything on stage is for a purpose, "Speaking of lewdness, on to our next act. Straight from the palace of Versailles, circa 1786, a woman from a different time entirely; we, the Circus ex Inferno, present to you the marvelous, mind bending burlesque of Mademoiselle Michelle La Morte."

The band began playing a giddy jazz number. Then, applause filling the air, I slipped back behind the curtain, receding from the stage as the marvelous Michelle took ownership of it. The sequins of her sheer gown sparkled like stars, magnificent seductive constellations of an erotic Zodiac known only to the mystical courtesans of lost Atlantis. I caught but a glimpse, though I knew it so well.

            Hints of her lilac perfume drifted back stage while her lithe figure danced. I could imagine the rapt attention of the audience, transfixed by her hypnotic gyrations. However, I didn't have time to dwell on such thoughts.
The business of the Circus demanded my attention.

Instructing the clowns to deposit Professor Lazarus in the lobby, I told Psycho Zepo, "Don't stab him again. I know it assures them he's dead, but he hates the unexpected wounds."

Psycho Zepo responded, "Yeah, but it's like a bit. I go to prick him a li'l then I trip, and oops, the knife is in his heart."
Not wanting to argue with a demented Weary Willie knockoff, I held up my hands in surrender. "Then you deal with the Professor when he complains. I'll aim him straight at your door."

Psycho Zepo shrugged, "Fine. I ain't scared of him."

"You should be," I said, "He can't die."

After that I made certain the bartender possessed enough spirits for the intermission cocktail rush as well as inspecting box office receipts quickly to know how the night would turn out. It's a circus, but it's also a job; we need the money, whether we like it or not. And all this needed to be accomplished in the few minutes Mademoiselle Michelle took to perform.

I returned back stage, just as she concluded, floating naked above the spellbound audience. She drifted up to a trapdoor in the ceiling, where she ascended to the roof for her after show absinthe and cigarette. The night fell into routine then: a fire dancer on fire, the quantum entangled twins singing, Louis Snow's telekinetic cats... until finally came the moment for Professor Lazarus to return.

Psycho Zepo, having cut Lazarus’s throat earlier, got tasked with positioning him on stage in a chair. Eying a pocket watch, I stood next to Professor Lazarus. Right on time the neck wound started growing together, meat rippling like waves as he healed. His eyes popped open wide, and he jumped up gasping.

He staggered a step or two then vomited some superfluous poetic gibberish about the magnificence of heaven. The truth is he rarely sees anything, though he once drunkenly told me, “Sometimes I hear a cacophony of screams. I’ll feel a bitter coldness, and in the distance see six flaming eyes. Honestly, I don’t think I’m entirely dead when I die. I’m just hanging in the void between worlds.”

But that story doesn’t sell as many tickets as one might think. So we lie. That’s entertainment.

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Rochambeau

Why I Quit: Being a Cupid

A Rose by Any Other Name... Cookies & Cream

That's Entertainment

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