Welles to B'Way

Welles to B'Way; Prisoners cast

by

John Skaife

 

I saw them come in, carrying their staves and clubs. They were four men, and they looked angry; they were growling and shouting too, in case we didn't get the point. One of them threw up his hand in a demand for silence. He shouted: "Before we proceed any further, hear me speak!" The other three guys called out: "Go ahead and speak then!"

The first guy asked them if they were ready to die fighting rather than die of hunger. His boys agreed loudly. Then the ringleader named names: He told his boys the villain in this thing was one Caius Marcius, and that if they iced him they could have all the corn they wanted. Then one of his boys objected, and the first guy pointed out that it was the greed of the ruling classes that had caused all the poor folks to starve. The other guy tried to say this Marcius (later he'll be known as Coriolanus) did a lot of good for the country, and the first guy objected that he (Marcius) only did it to impress his mother, which sounded like a pretty wacky explanation to me. They went back and forth for a bit, then a guy all in white came in. He said to them: "What work's, my countrymen, in hand? Where go you with bats and clubs?" The foursome was looking at him. Then he shouted: "Fuck! LINE!"

From where he was sitting in the middle of the commissary Orson shouted: "The matter! Speak I pray you!"

The guy in white asked: "What's that mean? What matter?"

Orson said: "You're asking them for the content of their complaint."

"Can't I just say: 'What's your problem?'"

Orson was walking up to the stage. "It doesn't work that way. You have to get the rhythm right, and you have to get the meaning right. If you do both these, your words will have a magnificent and transparent meaning."

"This is a lot of work."

"Yes, Mad Dog. Do you want to quit?"

"Hell, no. I want the good behaviour points."

"You're playing a good man. Menenius gets one of the most sublime passages: the fable of the belly."

"That bit makes sense to me." Mad Dog stepped forward. "There was a time when all the body's members rebelled against the belly, thus accused it‑"

"You must say 'accused' as two syllables."

"'Accuséd'?"

"Precisely. Otherwise the line doesn't scan."

"Right. Scansion."

Orson turned and left the stage. "Let's pick it up from there."

Mad Dog got back into position and said: "Uh, What work's, my countrymen, in hand? Where go you with bats and clubs? The matter? Speak, I pray you."

Sirens went off. Red lights flashed. We all stopped what we were doing, me with my stupid pliers in hand. After a minute a trusty came in with the instructions. We were to stay right where we were, all sixteen of the actors, Orson, and me.

Mad Dog, bank robber by trade and perennial convict by nature, called out: "What's the trouble?"

"Riot in block three."

"That's my block!"

"Sure is."

"I'm always missing the fun!"

Everyone laughed. Guys laugh at almost anything in prison, partly because they're mostly dim and bored.

I was there in Warden Jeff's office that fateful day a month or so before when Orson Welles came calling with his proposal. I was fixing the warden's air conditioner on a hot day. Orson was sweating badly, because he was fat, but he didn't seem to care to notice. We knew who he was, of course. We'd all seen Citizen Kane because it had been on TV all the time. But still it was something special to see him in 1971. Mostly we thought he'd died.

He told Warden Jeff: "In Europe, as you may well know, certain theatre directors such as Peter Brook and Jerzy Grotowski have been experimenting innovatively in the use of unorthodox staging practices. These ideas, along with my longstanding interest in illusion and play, have led me to believe that federal prisoners, so experienced in cunning and so habituated to guile, would make excellent actors. Plus I believe the rehabilitative qualities of collaboration would come to the fore here. I propose to take a certain number of your prisoners‑sixteen, carefully chosen or 'auditioned' to use the proper term‑and train them up the thespian arts‑possibly to take them all the way to Broadway, if I may be so bold as to prognosticate."

He was a talker, I'll say that (in my own normal non-thespian voice).

Warden Jeff was nearly tickled pink. "Your proposal is one that should be considered. Do you have an idea about what play you'd like to do?"

Orson smiled and winked. "Coriolanus."

"I remember reading that years ago. Shakespeare. But please, can you recount for me‑it was a long time ago‑what it's about?"

Two weeks later, before the auditions, Orson told all the convicts just what the play was about. I was in my home cell, in block four, when he spoke to us after speaking to blocks one, two, and three.

"Coriolanus is an old story, drawn from Roman sources, about a warrior who is lauded, then betrayed, by the people of Rome. He gets his revenge by joining the enemy's forces and nearly sacking Rome. He makes Rome cry uncle, if you will. The Romans repent, Coriolanus returns, at the request of his beloved mother, and then he is slaughtered by the enemy in revenge. Yes, there's quite a bit of revenge in the play. I believe my actors will be, ah, rather familiar with that motivation and emotion."

Pincher Percy called out: "Will there be parts for us girls?"

Orson, a regular man of the world, said: "I have been asked that question three times today. Interesting. Yes, there are three crucial female roles. The maternal role, that of Volumnia, is crucial. Now, previous acting experience is not, of course, required. I am looking for diamonds in the rough."

Some new guy in the back, must have been a wag, yelled out: "This rough enough for you?" Some scuffle, unseen by me, took place, and the new guy screamed. We all laughed at this dénouement and then we settled down. (A sharp shout and a tender bludgeoning from Smitty the screw helped somewhat.)

Orson continued: "I want to get the auditions up and running as soon as possible. I have brought with me twenty mimeographs of the play-text for examination of rôles. Please sign the sheets in circulation to book your auditions, which will be taking place in the prison library starting tomorrow."

"What credit do we get from participating?" called someone.

Orson nodded, smiling. "A very quality question. Warden Jeff has instructed me to tell you that your participation would be counted as, so they say, good behaviour."

Murmur, murmur, murmur.

"I don't know all the details," continued Orson: "But I bet you all do."

We all broke up into our cliques and talked about the programme. My only talk as to all this was to say that, being the electrician, I would certainly not be wanted in front of the footlights but instead behind them, making sure they stayed on. Yeah, I figured I was a shoo-in for that role (not rôle), and I was right.

A couple days later I'd gathered enough information about the auditions to report it here. Forty men a day through three days went through the process. Orson and his assistant conducted the process from the librarian's lock-down cage, on wise advice of Warden Jeff, who'd told Orson that some of the men don't take too kindly to rejection, advice put pat on the third day when Sluggo Dawkins tore to shreds and pissed on four hundred dollars' worth of sci-fi novels.

Next day, the cast was announced.

Ø      CAIUS MARTIUS CORIOLANUS - Swede Bronowski, 2nd degree murder

Ø      MENENIUS AGRIPPA - Mad Dog Mandel, armed robbery

Ø      COMINIUS - David Malongo, mail fraud, tax fraud, theft[1]

Ø      TITUS LARTIUS - Driver Dundee, aggravated assault and sexual assault

Ø      VOLUMNIA - Martini Steve, grand theft auto

Ø      VIRGILIA - Donna Pete, impersonating federal officers

Ø      YOUNG MARTIUS - Sonny Boy McDonald, armed robbery and prostitution

Ø      VALERIA - Boa Trick, 2nd degree murder

Ø      SICINIUS VELETUS - Funk-Finger, mail fraud, tax fraud, theft[2]

Ø      JUNIUS BRUTUS - Don Don, narcotics trafficking

Ø      TULLUS AUFIDIUS - Stub Stubbins, transporting a minor across state lines

Ø      MINOR OFFICES AND SUPERNUMERARIES - Taco Gonzalez, Mumbles McCabe, Vegas Dave, Sparky

Surprisingly, the entire cast, all sixteen of them, managed to stay out of solitary and infirmary during rehearsals and performance. They were a peaceful bunch, serious-minded and dedicated, and none of them retaliated when they got called faggots by gen pop. (The faggots least of all.)

So the riot in cell block three came to an end, and the rehearsal went on. I sat to watch, cursorily drawing schematics for my big show piece which was to simulate or at least call to mind the bloody destruction of a town called Corioli (and that's from where this Coriolanus guy gets his name given to him by the emperor or whatever) and this destruction had to be some really big shoe. It was my big moment in the play. I wanted all the killers and rapists and sadists in the audience to be scared. How big a noise could I get? How much magnesium did my budget afford?

So Swede playing Coriolanus eventually came onto the stage and he called all the citizens of Rome ingrate scum.

I was writing in my notes what power the circuits available were though the common outlets on either side of the playing space when it suddenly became time for David Malongo (playing Cominius) to take some heat from Orson, in like a play inside a play inside a play. There's a scene where Cominius says stuff to Coriolanus who comes on after he did his big slaughter in Corioles. Malongo notes that Swede is bleeding badly, and:

"Cut! Cut! Stop!" This was Orson talking. Everyone stopped.

"Cominius!" yelled Orson. "What is wrong with you? Here's your partner-general, coming onstage, with blood all over himself! Open wounds! He's all slashed up! It's a major image in the play! And you're acting like he's some street-corner chiseller friend of yours!"

This cut Malongo quick. "You sayin' I associate with chiselers?"

Orson paused for effect. "Perhaps I am saying that you are a chiseler. A no-good low-down chiseler."

Malongo was shaking with rage. "You better watch it, buster."

"Really? I better watch it? I know your history. I know what you did with my Mr. Arkadin."

"What are you talking about?"

"Your gang conspired with the Italian Mafia to get Filmorsa to destroy my film."

"I had nothin' to do with that."

"I knew your name was familiar‑just not how familiar."

"So why did you give me this gig?"

Orson paused again. "Regardless of our unfortunate history, you are by nature quite a fine amateur actor‑being a confidence man. Not professional, of course; if you were more professional, you wouldn't be in prison, if you follow my logic."

"So I'm doin' okay?"

"I am trying to get a rise out of you. I'm trying to get you emotional. I forgive you for Arkadin; God only knows you aren't the first criminal to act against me. Let us continue! What do you see when Coriolanus comes onto the stage?"

"He's, like, covered with blood!"

"Can you imagine the horror?"

"He's all sliced and diced!"

"Go on!"

"He's the noblest Roman of them all, he's totally hep, and he's like the God of War himself! Like he should be dancin' on a big pile of skulls!"

"Now you've got it! Okay, so. Let's take it from the Swede's entrance. Cominius! Terror! Who's yonder?"

Malongo melted back in fear, like he was seeing the grim reaper and gasped: "Who's yonder, that does appear as he were flayed? O gods, he has the stamp of ... Martius!"

I took my sketches away and went down to the workshop. I had flashpots to fill (gunpowder in broken light bulbs) and big noises to create (which I had to look up in an old book).

Later at mess I heard some of the actors grousing about Malongo. Prisoners are very sheep-like when they're all in a group; anti-socials mix with other anti-socials very well; and they're especially good at ganging up on someone. So they were all cursing out Malongo and about how he was wasting everyone's time and how his part wasn't even that significant considering he's not even in the second half. Grumble, grumble, grumble; then that night, after lights out, 'unknown assailants' I suppose they're called went to Malongo's cell and did something to him. I want to leave it to your imagination.

Before next day's rehearsal I showed Orson my flashpots and I blew up (with the room darkened) three of them. They went WHOOMP and the flash was okay. I told him I was disappointed with the effect, but was there some way to amplify it?

Orson said: "It will be amplified, don't you worry."

I said: "How?"

He flourished his cape (he was always wearing this big black cape like he was a magician or something) as he literally twirled around and said: "It will be amplified ... by imagination!"

I waited for him to continue. The actors were coming in.

He said: "The audience will be enraptured by the production. They will not be seeing low-life criminals and murderers: they will be seeing ancient Romans brought to life. When they are brought to that pitch, everything they see will appear to be Rome, circa the third century before Christ was born. Your flashpots with be the explosion of Vesuvius in their eyes. You could rattle some cheap tin cans and they will hear the destruction of the great city of Corioles. Do not fear, my friend: you will have a great effect on your fellow convicted persons."

I shrugged and figured, well, he's the big theatre guy and filmmaker, so I guess I can take his word for it. Citizen Kane, after all.

I went away to tinker some more but I returned to the commissary a couple hours later to see what was going on. They were working on scenes from the second half. Orson was sitting astride a backwards chair, and Funk-Finger (the treacherous tribune Sicinius Veletus, not in scene) was sitting close beside him ... and teasing Orson's hair, though Orson didn't seem to notice or mind. Something somewhere had changed, possibly overnight. (Orson was staying in a prison guestroom so's he wouldn't have to check in and out daily.)

Theatre people are different from you and me.

Up on the stage, Martini Steve was pretending to be carrying a hat in his hands, and saying: "And thus far having stretched it, here be with them, thy knee bussing the stones‑"

And Orson yelled out: "You have to buss the stones here, Volumnia!"

"What does that mean?" as the hat went limp in his hands.

"Buss means kiss."

"I gotta kiss the floor? Sister, I've done a lot of things, but‑"

"Just ... kneel. That's all it means."

Martini Steve did the speech all over, kneeling appropriately in front of the Swede, addressing his lines to the audience.

"There we are, that'll thrill them," said Orson. He turned and smiled to Funk-Finger, who fluttered his lashes and smiled in return.

"Fuckin' disgusting," said someone behind me. I turned. It was David Malongo speaking.

I rolled my eyes. "This is a prison, David. What do you expect?"

"Yeah, but this Welles asshole is a civilian. He doesn't gotta start with all this."

"Maybe it's a show-biz thing."

"Then I'm glad I'm a 'two-bit chiseller.'"

I looked him over, and remembered something. "Say, weren't you and Malongo thicker than thieves once upon a while?"

"That was a long time ago."

"You got sent up river together some clicks ago."

Malongo nodded. "Back in '49. We've been with different operations since then."

"Bad blood between you two?"

"Let's just say we got differing ideas of the good grift apples."

"What'd you do?"

Malongo stuffed himself up. "I went to Europe. Filmorsa." Then he swivelled his eyes weirdly, like he'd given away too much.

I looked up on the stage where Coriolanus (the Swede) was mincing around acting faggy and talking about how he'd woo the Romans and get the big prize which was a senatorship. Then he changes his mind saying there's no way he can pass. And then his mother Volumnia (Martini Steve) guilts him out sarcastically and the Swede gives in like a sucker. I laughed at the funny business they made of the pronunciation of the word 'mildly.' Of course it was a laugh because it was the first time in prison I'd ever even heard the word. And then the scene was at an end.

Funk-Finger minced away from Welles. Funk-Finger was needed onstage to play the part of Sicinius Veletus in the next scene. Malongo was nearly shaking with rage. I didn't like the looks of things so I amscrayed to my workshop.

Dress rehearsal came a week later. We were all excited. I had to fire off all my flashpots and rattle forth my electronic destruction noises. Everyone was wearing the sheet togas the girls in home ec had made. And make-up was ready with the fake blood for Coriolanus' big dramatic entrance.

We were all excited, yes, but we were all nervous. Orson could tell we were nervous, so he told us all about the time he put on a similar play.

"It happened not that long ago, so it seems, even though it was one of my first triumphs. It was a production of Shakespeare's Scottish play, as we thespians are superstitiously wont to call that particular tragedy. I was all of twenty years old.... So thin.... Well, there was a WPA department devoted to theatre with Negroes, and I took that play and set it in Haiti. There were four professionals in the cast, and the rest were amateurs. Thus I feel like I'm back there again, at the start of a new monumental project, alongside the bard himself, only this time using convicts in lieu of Negroes. Yes, both times using groups I would call disaffected and disenfranchised, I brought them something of what can naturally be called dignity. And where are we getting this dignity? It's because what we are doing here is not 'make believe.' It's not 'pretend.' What we are doing, rather, is holding up a mirror to nature‑human nature in particular. It is not illusion, and it is not false and not fake. It's all about how we feel forces giving us our destinies without our volition. It's about how we're all trapped. Coriolanus is trapped in his milieu. He has no choice. And that's why he has no soliloquies.... I'm on a tangent. Boys, this is more real than anything you've ever done in your lives. So, get up there and give it your all."

Though the dress rehearsal went well, Malongo couldn't help but be hostile to the whole endeavour. Apparently there had been some violence between him and Funk-Finger, and the former left the commissary at the end of his scenes, not waiting around for the end-of-show celebratory fruit punch spiked with sophisticated kitchen chemistry.

And so the show went on, one day later, at two in the afternoon. And wouldn't you know it? The murderers, rapists, and thieves drank it up. They quivered with fear and horror seeing Corioles destroyed, and they booed and hissed at mother Volumnia, though I think they were a bit unfair there. I think a lot of them had abandonment issues.

Orson, after the show, was magnanimous in his praise, with Funk-Finger standing winsomely beside him. He told us we had proven the criminological critics wrong. "All of you are diamonds in the rough. Our production‑your abilities to bring to life the language of sweet William‑deserves to be seen far and wide, and I hope to take you all to one of New York City's Broadway theatres, namely: The Majestic. All I have to do is make the proper arrangements and place the correct calls. In fact, I am owed favours from the Governor. I am off to meet with Warden Jeff to make the arrangements. So boys, get some rest, perfect your performances, and we will be leaving as soon as possible."

Off he went, with his cape tossing in the slipstream of his obesity.

We all thought: how could he lose? Of course we were headed for Broadway. We were top-notch. Had there ever been a Coriolanus like this one? Well, actually, we could only guess because none of us had even heard of the play three months before; but we were pretty certain ours was the best of all.

Orson soon came back. He said: "We're all set. The arrangement is set to go into operation in three days. We will all be performing before an elite audience in one week."

"Forget it," said someone. We turned. It was Malongo.

Orson was shocked. "My Cominius, what are you saying?"

"This all stinks. This is all some fuckin' hoax. We're low-life criminals, man. Let's say we had a good run, of one performance, and call it a day."

We all murmured murderously.

Orson reasoned: "What would make you change your mind?"

Malongo thought a moment, then said: "We're not earning enough. I'd want twice as many good-behaviour points for this."

We all murmured approvingly.

Orson smiled. "Let's go see what we can do. Come along, Funk-Finger. Let's see what we can do."

Malongo seethed. "You're taking him?"

Another smile. "He's a sweet talker."

"Well, I'm going too!"

"Very well."

The three of them went off to see Warden Jeff while the rest of us stood around grumbling and rationalizing why we should get paid better, then the trio returned to say we would all be receiving twice good-behaviour: all except for me, as I found out later when I went to gather with the cast in the visiting room.

There, Orson took me aside. He said: "Sorry‑but you can't come."

"What? Why not?"

"It's a unionized theatre. They have their own technicians."

My time with the theatre company was up. That was the end of me. So I stood there watching, and being consoled by the cast, as they went out the door to the parking lot. I watched from the window as they got onto a small bus. The bus drove away, got smaller and smaller, and became smoke.

It's said that as soon as they were out of sight the grifter who had been pretending to be Orson Welles threw off his stupid magician's cape and shouted: "It worked!"

Funk-Finger and Malongo high-fived.

The pretender told the actors: "Where does everyone want to be dropped off? My accomplices and me are heading to Chicago, we have a trunkful of outfits and disguises, help yourselves, you're free, go where you want."

So went the tale; all that's for certain is that the bus never got to New York City. Somewhere, somehow, they all vanished into the aether: the Swede, Mad Dog, Driver, Martini Steve, Donna and Sonny Boy and Boa Trick, Don Don and Stub, plus Taco and Mumbles and Vegas Dave and Sparky, and of course the Orson Welles imposter.

All gone, and I had been left behind. Why? Why did 'Orson' make up the story about the unionized theatre? If it was all a fiction, why wasn't I good enough?

I guess it was because there had to be someone left to tell the tale.

And now I've told the tale, and you can be the judge. Was it not the greatest hoax ever? Probably not, since it's contained within the smallest hoax ever, namely, this story. I've never been to prison. It's actually 2017. It's all an invention. F for Fake.

---

[1] He was an old-style confidence man.

[2] He was a new-style confidence man.

Really

She called to me.

I put down the cat feces and went upstairs.

"You called, my darling?"

Her hair was wet with sweat. I quickly wiped her with a clean cloth. She said, "Is it day, or night?"

"It's almost ten. You've been asleep for two whole hours."

She coughed loudly. "I need my pills."

I looked at the clock. "Not for another six-and-a-half minutes, my sweet."

"Fine. How much have you smoked today?"

I hung my head. "Only half a pack."

"You'll never get sick that way!"

"I promise I will smoke like a chimney in the afternoon!"

"And how's you cirrhosis?"

"Very painful. I think it's working. My urine has clots in it. Oh, it's time for your pills." One-by-one she took her morning medicines, precisely as the doctors had prescribed.

Fifteen minutes later, we were done, though I saw no sign of improvement. She said, "Have you enough to drink?"

"I have a 26er of vodka for today; I'm a quarter of the way through."

"How's your thigh?"

"The wound is suppurating nicely. I think it's infected!"

She lay back. "I may sleep now."

"Good. Keep your strength up. I'll be in the next room, licking asbestos."

 

*

 

Late October

 

See Doctor Death prepare his instruments:

His yellow parka and his bathing suit,

His rubber gloves, his scalpels, and his stents,

His anvil and piano and his flute;

 

See him come along along the road,

Looking for a place we congregate,

Lugging on his back his heavy load,

Ready. Willing. Able. Operate!

 

His manners sometimes much to be desired,

For never does he ask a man to aaaaah,

Or ask if widows' pensions are acquired,

Or ask if murdering's against the law.

 

Statistically he visits most at dawn

(And numbers like to lie, to hide their guilt),

But yet he'll go for any denouement,

Wherever: under ground, or under quilt;

 

So get you set for medical attention.

Don't bother pencilling for an appointment

Or asking for a couple days' extension.

He's ready with his salves for your anointment.

 

And say your says and goodbyes to your stuff

You've spend so much in gathering together,

Because you cannot money-count enough

To change the constellations or the weather

 

He'll choose beneath to come to you, with all

His comfort and his cozy nonchalance;

So make him feel welcome at his call,

For you will only get to see him once.

 

*

 

It had been going on for quite some time before I even realized it was happening. My absolute aggregate numbers, I saw, were falling: I noticed the digits started with a 3 instead of a 4. I made a spreadsheet of my posts and I saw that, sure enough, they were selectively vanishing.

I searched for 'erasure' and 'deletion'. Everything pointed to one post. I looked at the post, which was a tasteful skit about dogs. In the comments (the only comment, actually) was:

 

This is terrific! So terrific that I am going to methodically delete all of your other posts. Face it, every one of them is inferior to this marvellous piece of literature. You'll thank me for it! - Peter Quince

 

I was upset for some time about this. How dare he! What gave him to right to delete my work?

Then I took a look through my work, and I saw there was a definite improvement overall. There is now a lot less stone-cold awfulness. This Peter Quince fellow is doing more than I ever did to improve the nature of my communications, by erasing!

I don't expect this post to last for long. Which is great!

 

*

 

The madman at the coffee shop took Bob into his confidence.

The madman had built a palace out of nothing, he told Bob proudly.

At the centre of his palace the madman said was the fact that his daughters were a couple cunts.

And this was why Norman Mailer hadn't been properly reviled until after he keeled over.

Bob nodded and said, "Well...." but the train bore down regardlessly.

The madman waved away the well and said he had diagrams of everything all squirrelled away.

It's perennial philosophy. Hinted at in religious texts. It's why they were kept.

The roots of the ancient wisdom trickle in its fruit your blood, the madman said.

Bob said, "In theory, yes...." gripped the salt shaker and rolled it on its octagon base.

That my daughters are cunts is why everyone was afraid of Norman Mailer.

The triangle, the square, the pentagon: everything fits properly inside a single circle.

Humanity's culture contains both these facts, this must be admitted openly.

And each individual arranges these facts in ways according to personality, or is the cause of personality.

And I have my own culture said the madman as he picked up the pepper shaker menacingly.

 

*

 

Calculated Fantasia on Five Seconds of "How Can You Be in Two Places at Once When You're Not Anywhere at All"

 

Dan came home. Had it been another rough day?

"Has it been another rough day?" I asked.

He took off his cap and dropped it on the table. "I honestly don't know."

I sat beside him and rubbed his shoulders. "We could try something else."

"I spent three years training."

"That's nothing, you're young."

"I never liked it."

"It can all change."

"There's nothing wrong with the guys!"

I continued dinner. "Are they still making you nervous?"

"I'll say! We had a call to surround a meth lab. We were all out there, doing our surrounding. Then I thought: I don't trust these cops. But I was one of them!"

"Maybe everyone takes time to adjust to their roles. Give it time!"

"I'm afraid of the people I work with. Isn't that the sign of being an impostor?"

Dinner was done. I put it out. "Maybe the other cops are afraid of cops too."

Dan said, "I see no signs of that."

I sighed. "Then maybe you should turn in your badge."

He laughed. "And I'll burn my uniform!"

 

*

 

Camping in the Minefield

 

"It's an undiscovered gem." Pat showed me the brochure's map again.

"I know where I'm going," I said.

"The site map we pick up at the gate."

"Good, good."

At the gate we got the site map showing where the mines were known to be. A line showed the paths we could take to safely get to the campsites. Our campsite was campsite 19.

"Keep between the red posts and the green posts," we were told. "Take care, and enjoy your stay."

With our tent, pots, and food we snaked our way in solitude through the minefield. Campsite 19 was a rocky spot between three spruce trees.

Pat said, "Look. There's not a soul in sight!"

There was only enough time to set up and eat before it got dark.

In the morning we took a look around. Not far from our campsite we saw a crater with some blackened shredded nylon around it.

"That must have been one unhappy camper," laughed Pat.

We cooked up a fish.

In the distance a dog barked. "I hope it's on a leash," I said.

Later, Pat said, "You enjoying this?"

I said, "It's too much like ordinary life."

 

*

 

Don jumped out of bed at dawn. "Hang on!" He darted to the door. "Who is it?" "Police! Open up!"

Two guys in police uniforms stood there. "You have to come down to the station with us."

"What for?"

"You're under arrest."

"Who put you up to this?"

"You're under arrest."

"Can I get dressed?"

"No."

"I'm naked."

"We'll give you a blanket."

The two guys in police uniforms dragged Don to the vehicle that looked like a police car. They shoved him in the back seat and threw a blanket over him.

He said, "Quite the show you give."

"Yeah, enjoy the show."

They drove to a building that looked like quite like a police station.

Men and women in official-looking outfits milled about inside looking busy. Don stood in front of a cage and inside the cage a man looking like Mr. In-Charge asked Don a lot of questions.

Don was put into a cell with bars. He wrapped his hands around the bars. They weren't plastic.

"I gotta hand it to your stage manager!" he shouted.

Next morning he stood before a woman in a black robe. She said, "You're getting the death penalty."

Don said, "Really."

 

*

 

Bunyan Bite Bullet

 

1.

I dreamed about a man who one afternoon happened by chance upon an old girlfriend by the name of Julie Kerr. He had not seen her in thirty years and she did not appear to have aged a day.

In a park at dusk he was talking to someone. He kept talking although he was well aware he had to go meet Julie Kerr at her house. He talked and he couldn't stop. Thankfully the person he was talking with went away. It was almost night by then.

He proceeded across one street and down another. Her house was there. He went inside. It smelled exactly as it had smelled thirty years before. Julie's mother at first did not know anyone named Julie, at second said she was away, at third said she was indisposed, and at fourth called up the stairs for Julie.

Julie came downstairs like a best friend. They touched. It had been a long time but they didn't act that way. Things were as they once were. Everything was warm.

They made a date to go see a movie in the morning. He would return at dawn next day.

Everything went dark.

 

*

 

Bunyan Bite Bullet

 

2.

The dream went on.

At dawn the man who happened by chance upon Julie Kerr walked to her house. A light went out inside and Julie came out of the house. She was dressed in dark blue. She was still acting like a best friend. She got into a car in the driveway and he got in the passenger seat.

They drove down to the main road unobstructed. It was like they were the only two in the world.

Nonetheless they took a wrong turn and found themselves within sight of the movie theatre but there was a rocky field in between. The man got out of the car and together they slowly guided the car across the field. The field had seemingly come out of nowhere.

Julie parked the car. The sun was coming up. The parking lot was empty. They went in the theatre entrance. A lot of people were in the place.

They were clinging together like oak and vine. They didn't know what was playing. Fortunately they ran into a couple they somehow knew: Jim and Ann. This bothered the man briefly.

Jim and the man went up a long escalator together.

 

*

 

Bunyan Bite Bullet

 

3.

The dream went on, at the top of the long escalator, where two more escalators led up from this floor, to higher and higher floors, and theatres where the films were obviously more violently sexual. The man (who'd happened to chance upon his old love Julie Kerr) and Jim stopped to see a very long queue at one of the entrances. Through telepathy or another means the man discovered the essence (though not the name) of the film this queue was interested in seeing. The film was about Orson Welles directing a production of Coriolanus in a prison.

It was culturally appealing.

Jim had in hand three tickets for this showing. He told the man to go back down, send up Julie and Ann, and purchase himself a ticket.

The man went down the escalator. Julie touched him tenderly. He wanted to be alone with her in the dark once more, like old times. Julie and Ann went up the escalator. Julie looked very appealing from behind and the man entered a hazy reverie with physical manifestations.

Snapping out of it, he looked around. People were buying tickets from machines. He looked for a cash register.

 

*

 

Bunyan Bite Bullet

 

4.

The dream went on, with an erection.

The man desperately in love with Julie Kerr after all these years saw a cash register, but there was no-one behind it. He had to get a ticket. He heard laughter that was certainly coming from some employees. He turned, and saw them. They were wearing red and white caps. He went over to them.

"Can I buy a ticket?"

"Sure, from one of those machines."

"I only have cash."

"We don't do cash this early in the morning."

"I have to get into the theatre. People are waiting for me."

The employees continued laughing.

A different employee said, "Don't we have some of those W.B. passes lying around?"

Another employee said, "I think so."

The man asked, "What's a W.B. pass?"

"They get you in."

"You can get in with a W.B. pass."

"Easily, with a W.B. pass."

The man asked, "What's W.B. stand for?"

They were still laughing.

"We don't know."

Another employee said, "And we don't know where they are."

"It's too early to tell."

The man said, "Please look."

Another employee said, "Look where?"

There my dream of the man who loved Julie Kerr ended.

 

*

 

Housewife

 

You like my pool? Tis seven metres deep,

With sides so blackly slick a leap

Will leave you seeing but the starry sky:

I took its inspiration from her eye.

Come with me down my tree-lined avenue,

With apples red and cherries ripe to view:

Imagine you the sweetness in their slips!

It's from my inner image of her lips.

You see I've cut my porch in blonde bamboo

With subtle jointures in a darker hue;

Of course I'm here referring to her hair

That flatly down her back she likes to wear.

Examine now the lintel and the doors

Which doubly offer entrance to my floors;

Note how they're all upholstered in a plush

Pink leatherette that's sleek and lush:

They represent her labia generous

That's over-archéd with her veneris.

Come in. Five dozen rooms you'll find,

Each faculty of body and of mind

In metaphor presented here to scale;

All fixtures meaningful down to each nail.

Now come with me and let us both descend

A score of steps so you can comprehend

My meaning clear, where I'll to you recall

The purpose of my modern Taj Mahal:

For I have placed, as centre of my art:

Beneath a crystal dome, her happy heart.