40 Years of New Year's Eves

“Every man regards his own life as the New Year’s Eve of time.”

- Jean Paul Richter

Characters:

1 male. Un-named. Any age, so long as he portrays the transition from age 1 to age 40.

Note on the dialog:

The dialog includes the preceding numerals, for example “Nine. Dad, how come there’s another New Years Eve every year?”
_______________________________________________________

(announce) Forty years of New Year’s Eves!

1.   (Infant in mother’s arms, noisily nursing. Drops bottle.) Waaa Waaa Waaa (Finds bottle and resumes nursing.)

2.  Mama, Happa Noo Yoo! (baby kisses, nose rubbing, and giggles.) Happa Noo Yoo, Dada!

3.   (trying to say it correctly, from memory) Mommy and Daddy, Happy New Year Eve. (blow kisses) I love you very very much. (curtsies)

4.   Mom, watch! Mom! Dad! Watch me! (sings) Should old acquaintance be forgot, and never more to roam. Should old acquaintance, we forgot, (struggles to remember) and old lang zine! (end singing) Did you watch? Mom, did you see me? I’ll do it over again. Mom, watch!

5.   Dad, what’s mistletoe for? (starts to cry) I don’t want to kiss a girl!

6.   (playing with dolls) Happy New Year Eve to you, Barbie. You look so beautiful tonight in your long dress and high-heel-ded shoes. I want to kiss you on your boobies. Mwah! Why thank you, Ken. You look so handsome. You are the handsomest man in all the land. I want to kiss you on your pee pee. Mmm Ken…kiss kiss kiss.

7.  New Year resolution? (looks to either parent) What’s a resolution mean? (Listens until it  becomes clear. Starts to cry) But I don’t want to stop playing Barbies!

8.  (playing with different dolls) Help! G.I. Joe, save me from evil Spiderman before it’s too late! Help! Don’t worry, Stretch-Arm-Strong, I’ll save you! Oh thank you, G.I. Joe. You saved my life. Now I have to show you my thanks. Mmm G.I. Joe…kiss kiss kiss. Yeah, Stretch-Arm-Strong, I like when you do that. Hi, I’m Spiderman. I’m not really evil. Can I thank you too, G.I. Joe?

9.  Dad, how come there’s always another New Year's Eve every year? Isn’t every day the same? It’s lLike a birthday? Who’s birthday is it? The year’s birthday?? Oh. Is that why you always drink so much beer on New Year's Eve, like you do on my birthdays? I thought we were you was supposed to drink champagne on birthdays and New Year's? Then when will I be old enough?

10.  Finally, I am old enough to stay up late and watch New Years Eve on television. In New York City. But their clock in New York is ahead 2 hours from New Orleans, so it’s really only 10 o’clock here. But that’s ok. It’s still later than I ever stay up, and I get to watch the ball drop. Dad let me sip my first taste of beer. He said pretend it was the champagne of beers. Ugh. If champagne tastes like Budweiser, I hate it. I never want to get drunk.

11.  New Year’s resolution, I will never get stupid, falling down drunk like my dumb jerk dad, and then fight with my mom, and embarrass my son in front of all the neighbors. New Years Eve is supposed to be about starting over fresh. Not drowning disappointments in alcohol and acting all selfish, like an jackass. (looks out window) Terrific, now here comes the cops! Um..that cop looks kinda like G.I. Joe.

12.  After that whole mess last year with my dad and the cops, it’s nice of your parents to let me sleep over for New Years Eve. I don’t know why my dad has to get so drunk every year. Like it’s our job to make him happy. He’s not happy, so everybody around him has to be un-happy too. New Years is dumb. I hate New Years Eve. Oh wait, turn up the TV, here it comes! Four…three…two…one! Happy New Year! (surprised by a kiss) Max! Boys don’t kiss boys! (but likes it)

13.  (on the phone) Hey Max, what are you up to this fine New Years Eve? Nothing, me too. Yeah, my dad’s up to his usual. Mom’s all mad. Man, I really need a smoke. Well, just called to wish you Happy New Year Max. Wish I could come over there.

14.  New Years resolution. I resolve to never smoke another cigarette. I mean it, Max! You are a bad influence on me. REAL bad. I mean, you’re my best friend and all. But, you know... Smoking’s bad and gives you lung cancer. And you smell. All in my clothes and my hair. Teeth look brown. (testing Max’s reaction) And no girls ever want to kiss you on New Years Eve.

15. (sigh)  Wish Max still lived in New Orleans. Sucks his family had to move to Memphis. Now I’m stuck  alone with my dumb family for another dumb New Years Eve. I should be out with my friends. Or a girlfriend, if I had one. (watches TV) Finally, here goes the ball. Four…three…two…one. (to no one) Happy New Year. Yeah. Whatever. Man, wish I had a smoke.

16.  (writing in journal) Dear Future Reader, I write this New Year’s Eve journal entry to keep a record of myself for future eyes. I am only 16 years old, but know I will not live beyond the age of 30. Or rather I should say, I don’t want to.

After the epic life I will lead, why would I wish to watch my body become decrepit and my brain go senile at the age of 30. I mean, after I win both the National Book Award and Nobel Laureate for Literature—at age 25—what more is left to look forward to than decrepitude, senility, slow monotonous decomposition, and then finally, the grave. No no no! I resolve to spare myself that intolerable fate! On the Eve of the New Year when I am 30, at the stroke of midnight, I will commit ritualistic hippaku. Just like my heroine, Cho-Cho-San, I will plunge the hari-kari dagger deep into my gut. Only first, Future Reader, first I must find my own Lieutenant Pinkerton. My true love. Un bel di vedremo!

17.   Hey. So your dad works with my dad? Michelle, right? Yeah, this party sucks, totally. New Year’s is for posers. I totally hate New Year’s Eve. Every year, the same crap. My dad gets super drunk, mom gets all mad, and then they fight. One year the cops came and…what? Mistletoe? (looks up) Oh right, mistletoe. (nervous) Who put that up there? Ha. Um, yeah totally, I kiss girls all the time! Who says I’m Gay? Your dad too? Well, that’s not true. Here, let us just step under this mistletoe right now, and I will show you who’s Gay. (kisses girl. Doesn’t like it.)

18.  (on the phone) Hi Michelle, I know it’s almost Midnight. Sorry to call you just before the ball drops. You can get back to the TV in a sec. Oh, my New Years is going ok. Sorry I couldn’t come over to your house.

Look, here’s the thing. You’ve been a great girlfriend this whole last year of high school. But…I wanna break up. Sorry, Michelle, sorry. Please  don’t cry. I know it’s New Years Eve. I feel like a total jerk. But we’re both 18 now, both moving on. Graduated from high school, going away to different colleges. I’m going to Tulane. You’re going to Loyola.

Virginity? Michelle, you know I am saving myself for my wedding night. I told you I am not Gay! I wish people would stop saying that! Look, I know you’re sad because I’m dumping you and all on New Year’s Eve. It’s a crap-tacular thing to do. Truly, I do have feelings for you, Michelle. We will always be good friends. But New Years is all about new beginnings, fresh starts. And this year, I’m ready to start fresh.

19.  Ah 19! My first New Year’s Eve as an adult, living in a dorm room, away from my crap-tacular family. Woo frickin’ hoo! So whad’ya say, Michael, how ‘bout you and I share this bottle of cheap-ola champagne, maybe light some candles? So what about the rules? What’s a few candles? It’s not like you and I are a fire hazard. Come on, Michael. It’s New Years Eve, we’re in college, we have champagne and candles. Why don’t we experiment a little…?

20.   (talking to self in hand mirror) Two entire decades of my life are over, and Middle Age soon approaches. This is a good time to take stock. On this 20^th New Year, this new beginning, I resolve to myself to be honest with myself about what I truly am. Who I truly am.

21.   (back against the wall of a crowded bar) My first New Year’s Eve inside a real Gay bar! Finally, I’m legal. Gay bars must card everybody. (take in the place) This is cool. Lights. Music. Kinda crowded. Lot of hot guys. Hi. Hot guys are staring at me. Hi. God, I feel like fresh meat tossed into the lion’s den.

Oh hi, yeah, Happy New Year’s to you too! No, I’m here alone. Sure, I love champagne. But I’d prefer a screw…driver! (giggles like a fool until surprised by a kiss!) Oh my god. I am totally getting kissed by a HOT guy on New Year’s Eve! His face is so CUTE! And his cock! I can totally feel his bulge through his jeans. Yup, I am going for it. Totally. Anything he wants, he can have it. I will give it all up. This guy is the perfect guy for me. We totally have got to become boyfriends!

22.  (sitting at the bar) No, I hate New Years. Last year on New Year’s Eve, at this very same bar in fact, I met this total dickhead. Totally. Yeah, we dated a few times. Mostly we just fucked. He fucked me. Gave me my first STD.  Scabies. Said he got ‘em from his cat! Scabies! What a dumb-ass dickhead. I rode the streetcar all the way downtown to the Parish STD clinic, got this prescription for Quell, and had to use this little nit-comb.

Whoops, too much information, right? Ha. I’m a little drunk. Hell, it’s New Years Eve! They also made me take this blood test. Well they didn’t make me. I just thought it was a good idea, under the circumstances, you know? Everything checks out OK, totally! But God, I felt like I dodged a bullet. You can see why I am not too eager to repeat last New Year’s Eve.

So, you wanna leave here, maybe just hang out together at my place? I live nearby. Uh, sure, I have Beta-Max. Straight porn?! Uh, ok, if you bring one over. I only have Gay stuff. But really I was hoping we could just watch a romantic comedy, put up our feet, eat some popcorn, snuggle on the couch… Sure, we can stop by the video store on the way. (sigh) Ok, you pick out the video.

23.   (writing in journal) Dear Future Reader, finally, at the ripe age of 23, I have found True Love, my own Lieutenant Pinkerton, the man I have sought my whole long life. One year ago tonight, on New Year’s Eve, I met Mark, the man of my dreams. And I will never feel lonely again. Mark and I are soul-mates, even though we see each other only once every couple weeks or sometimes only once a month. Mark is a very busy man, a travelling salesman.

Midnight marks our one year anniversary. And although I drink alone tonight, I toast the anniversary for us both. After this blissful year, I have finally come to understand the meaning of “long-term relationship”, how love deepens over time. When we’re together, Mark and I can be truly honest with each other, really communicate. And he matches me passion for passion in the bedroom, on the couch, in the tub, or my favorite, the step-stool in the kitchen. With a love this strong, I know that Mark and I will always be together.

24.   (on the phone) Thanks for the invite, Michelle, but this year I think I’ll just stay home. Yeah,  a mellow New Year for me. That’s ok every now and then. No, I’m fine. Really. Ok, I do get a little bluesy around New Years Eve. It was our anniversary, after all. Yes, it has been six months, but I am not ready to move on yet. Yes!  I know Mark is married…to a woman. But if I have gained any wisdom in my 24 years on this Earth, it is that booty got its own logic.

And besides, you and I both know the grieving process lasts as long as the relationship did. You’re sweet. I never got over you too, Sugar. But really, Mark and I were together a year-and-a-half. Shut up, we were TOGETHER for a year and a half! You think I can just get over a long-term relationship like that overnight? We’ve only been broken up six months. I still have a whole year more of grieving ahead of me before I move on.

I am not being operatic! Well you can stop worrying about me, I am fine. I am not Cho-Cho San. I am not going to commit hari-kari. Alright, I promise! I resolve that I will not prank call Mark’s wife…again. Don’t judge me. Look, I will stay home and be a good boy and drink this bottle of champagne all by myself. Then this bottle of Jack Daniels. And maybe I’ll try to write something.

25.  (slurry drunk at the bar) This year I am treating myself like I deserve. That’s right, this year I am totally (trying to quit saying that word) only drinking the best! Champagne and Jack Daniels cocktails. (kick it back, then order another in a Frenchie accent) Mon ami, un autre Jacques Dani-el! My New Year’s resolution? (raises glass) I am totally going to stop saying totally!

26.  (talking to self in the mirror) Well, I did not win the National Book Award nor the Nobel Laureate for Literature last year. Nor did I meet the man of my dreams. Thought I did for like a minute, but no, that turned out to be a crock. And now I am 26! All I have left to look forward to is decrepitude, senility, and even more loneliness. Who’s gonna love me when I’m old? Shit. Fuck New Years.

27. My New Years resolution. I am totally (sick of always saying that word) going to cut back my smoking to a pack a day.

28.  (on the phone, drunk, smoking) Yes, I am drunk-n-dialing you at (check wall clock) 3am. But I just wanted to call you up, Michelle, and apologize for breaking up with you that crap-tacular way on New Years Eve. Shut up. You were a really really great girlfriend in high school and you have been my best friend every since and you didn’t (hic) deserve...  No, no I am fine. Just a bit tipsy, iz’all. It’s New frickin fuckin Years Eve! You’s s’posed to get bit tipsy! But look Michelle, I just wanna say I am sorry. And I love you. And uh…Happy New Year. (singing) Should old acquaintance be forgot…

29. (pacing, reasoning with self in the living room) Think this year it’s a good idea for me to try a sober New Years Eve, for a change. No drunky mess. No picking up strange guys in backroom bars. No late night drunk-n-dialing. No anxious expectations getting me all worked up, then letting me down. Geez, I do not have to kiss someone at midnight! That’s my whole problem. I get so worked up over a stupid kiss. Like I’ll be lonely my whole life if I don’t get that damn kiss. I’m lonely anyway. What’s a kiss got to do with it?

30. (writing in journal) So according to another journal entry I wrote when I was 16, on the New Year’s Eve that I am 30, I am supposed to commit suicide, ritualistic hippaku, like Cho-Cha San from Madame Butterfly. I’m supposed to plunge a hari-kari dagger deep into my gut, because my true love has abandoned me. And the language I used when I was 16! Talk about operatic!

But no, don’t think I’ll be doing that after all. I want to live, damn it. Life can be operatic, for sure, but there’s still plenty of life left for me before I slide into decrepitude and senility. At age 40. Yeah, kinda liking this 30 thing. I mean, what’s 30 years old? Just one more decade. 30. That’s alright. 30 is not Middle Aged, except in Gay years. But I look great. My face is holding out. My ass is…(check ass) well, my face is holding out! Hmm, a New Year’s resolution…? I really should quit smoking two packs a day. Cigarettes gives you wrinkles.

31. Oh God, I want a cigarette so bad! I spent the entire last year trying to quit smoking, but after all the headaches and the constipation!, I still crave cigarettes! Plus I got fat! Why didn’t somebody tell me the food cravings would be so bad? Basically, I just built myself an igloo out of chocolate bars, and then for 6 months ate my way out. Fatty fatty Bumba-latty, who would kiss you on New Year’s Eve? Ugh. Think I’ll sit this one out, on my fat ass.

32.  (slurry drunk at the bar) My New Year’s resolution? No more boys under 30! They rush off when they’re finished with you, and they don’t like to kiss. How old are you? Do you like to kiss?

33.  Nobody to kiss me on New Year’s Eve. AGAIN. (sigh) Oh Hello! Hot Daddy at 5 o’clock. Fuh-ine! Hey, Happy Near Year, Handsome! Mitchell? Kiss me under the mistletoe, Mitchell. Just kidding. Not really. Ha. Oh yeah, I totally love New Year’s Eve too. Totally! The whole tradition. Champagne. Mistletoe. Kissing. But you know what I heard? Mistletoe is really a weed, an invasive weed that grabs ahold then strangles the life out of its host. Ha. (slow kiss) Ah, the New Year’s Eve kiss is just so magical. Like, we are destined to become husbands!

34. (on cell phone) Michelle, oh my god! Have I got a HOT boyfriend on New Year’s Eve! Finally! Woo fuckin’ Hoo! No need to worry anymore about who I’m gonna kiss at midnight. Nope, those pathetic, desperate, loser New Years are far behind me. Auld Lang Sine. (singing) And never more to roam! (speaking again) Michelle, we are true soul mates, Mitchell and I, husbands, and happier than I ever thought…hey, who’s that pretty boy Mitchell’s talking to over there? Seems I’ve seen them talking before. Hmmm..best go bust that up. It’s almost midnight. The ball is about to drop. Gotta-go-Honey-Happy-New-Year-love-ya-bye!

35.  Who breaks up with their boyfriend on New fucking Year fucking Eve, Mitchell?! I do not strangle you! Mistletoe? Ha Ha very funny, asshole. You’re leaving me for that rent-boy you met LAST New Year’s Eve, aren’t you? Did you bring some disease into this family? All you ever do is let me down! (Mitchell leaves) Mitchell, I’m sorry. Come back!

36. Fuck resolutions.

37.  (Sitting in lotus pose. Sigh.) I feel calmer already. This was an excellent idea. The best New Year’s Eve idea I have had yet. Zen meditation on New Year’s Eve, followed by Pranayama breath work and then chanting. And at the stroke of midnight? Nothing more than a little brass gong to mark the transition. No drunken craziness, no drama, no mess, no kiss. And no cigarettes! Just deep-breathing, letting go of all the crap-tacular, fucked-up stuff that happened to me this last year. So screw you, Mitchell. Ha.

What’s that, Sensei? Oh right, ok yes, clear my mind. No thoughts. (deep inhale and release) I am not thinking of you. Not thinking of you.

38. Hmmm…what about the Rawhide? God, am I really so desperate that I need to resort to that? The backroom at the Rawhide on New Year’s Eve? And then afterwards the self-loathing. And the panic! Ugh. Stay home! Don’t get drunk. I will not get drunk. (sigh) It’s been 2 years since I quit smoking, but I still want a god-damn cigarette. Shit, guess I’ll always have cravings. Maybe I should try to write something tonight.

39. I should write something tonight. Why would I even want to go out? Out again into that drunken melee, searching for easy love or just more risky, meaningless sex. I feel safer at home, away from the callous world. Alone, private, safe. Quiet. Tonight, I am resolved to write.

40. ENOUGH already! God, I HATE New Year’s Eve! Every fucking year, the same self-centered, self-created, self-inflicted distress. I’m 40! Time to stop doing this to myself. Stop the cycle! Go out or don’t go out. Kiss somebody or don’t kiss somebody. Kiss yourself, give yourself a big fat hug, then JUST LET IT GO!

(Break the 4^th wall) If New Year’s Eve has got to symbolize anything, instead of loneliness or selfishness or pettiness or addiction or craving, let New Years symbolize change. Transitioning from one place in life to a better place. From the cold of winter to the blossoming of Spring. Everybody deserves a fresh start.

This past year, I’ve been writing a lot, every day almost. Writing helps me figure stuff out. Like, a new year is really just a blank page. We get to write whatever we want on it. And this New Year’s Eve, my 40th, I’m starting a brand new story.

Quick fade out.

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Hamlet, for a Queer Aye

CHARACTERS

Hamlet, prince of Denmark, 20 to 35

Horatio, Hamlet’s best friend, 20 to 35

Fortinbras, prince of Norway, 20 to 35, a very large man

TIME

Medieval. 1200^th year of our Lord.

SETTING

Elsinore castle in Denmark, Throne room, scene of a bloody massacre. Dead bodies are imagined in specific locations. A chalice containing a single large pearl or gaudy ring is positioned prominently Downstage.

MATERIALS

Chalice

Large single white pearl or gaudy ring

Bloody sword

Bugle or horn

Hamlet V, ii

(HAMLET staggers on, bloody sword in hand)

HAMLET

O proud death,

That thou so many princes at a shot

So bloodily hast strook!

HORATIO

(enters smiling)

Aye, tis such a pity. Left standing here is only me

And you, Prince Hamlet, of late, king of Denmark. (kneels)

HAMLET

No, bosom friend, arise! Something is rotten in the state

of Denmark. Horatio, how comes it now to pass

That so many noble princes are dead?

(points to the imaginary dead, as Horatio indicates dislike for each of them)

Too-too-proud Laertes, who like you

was a brother unto me.

Claudius, uncle and would-be king.

And my own mother, gentle Gertrude…

HORATIO

(coughs into hand) Slattern!

HAMLET

What?

HORATIO

O nothing.

HAMLET

May God show mercy upon her soul.

And that old fool Polonius too?

HORATIO

Aye. Even Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead.

HAMLET

Who?

HORATIO

(gently takes sword from Hamlet) Shhhh…thinketh not upon it.

HAMLET

What, the fair Ophelia! Drown’d!

I lov’d Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers

Could not with all their quantity of love

Make up my sum.

HORATIO

Whatever.

HAMLET

Horatio, how comes it now that all this death

is visited upon Elsinore?

HORATIO

(beat) O, I killed them. Uh huh. I killed all of them. For you, bosom friend. (takes Hamlet’s hands) For us.

HAMLET

O horror! O treason! O Horatio!

I would not hear your enemy say so,

Nor shall you do my ear that violence

To make truster of your own report

Against yourself. Why sayest thou these infernal lies??

HORATIO

Lies? Hamlet, everybody knoweth that which we are

that which we have always been

inside the other’s heart. Bosom friend?

How now Hamlet, have you forgot me?

Forgot how gaily did we play as youth.

Forgot the romantic plays you once wrote for me,

Romeo and Horatio? Hamlet and Juliet?

Ah you always did love theater!

Forgot how we shared but a single bed

in our dorm room back at Wittenberg? College, Hamlet!

HAMLET

(chokes) Friend, I thought that we were…I mean…

Aye! like unto brothers! Unburdening the other’s load,

simply lending a hand.

HORATIO

(points sword at Hamlet)

O I see! So thou didst believe that merely because

my name rhymeth with felatio that I…

HAMLET

Horatio! Brother!

The dead people…?

HORATIO

O! Aye, I killed them all Hamlet.

Your slattern mother and treacherous uncle-father, 
I mean, how weird is that?

And that entire Polonius clan, scheming to wed the

hussy daughter onto the throne of Denmark!

Ophelia, O I am so fwagile. I am cwazy!

“They say the owl was a baker’s daughter.”

That wing-nut needed but the barest push to tumble

headlong into the brook .

And her brother, the noble Laertes? 
That Mary wanted you for herself!

But I don’t know why I killed Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

HAMLET

Who?

HORATIO

Nevermindeth. I killed them Hamlet. Sweet prince,

now made Denmark’s rightful king.

HAMLET

But why, Horatio?

HORATIO

Because the king is law. Because as king,

you have the power to legalize same-sex union,

that forthwith two men in love may wed in nuptial bliss.

And about time too! We are nigh upon the year 1200!

And then, you and I will live as husband and… er…

as King and…Royal Consort!

Everyone who stood in our way…in your way…is dead.

HAMLET

But how comes it that noble Laertes is killed?

We did but duel in sport, and I but scratched his arm.

HORATIO

Unbated and envenomed was your blade.

Thou knowest that I prefer thy blade unbated.

HAMLET

(fades into a trance or the onset of seizure) O what a rogue and peasant slave am I…

HORATIO

O boy! Please, retreat not into soliloquy.

Enough of your endless self-analysis and internal dialog!  

To whom do you speak Hamlet? There is but you!

And I. Come back to me sweet prince, back to Elsinore,

And for once in your life maketh a God damn-ned decision!

HAMLET

But Horatio…what is the question?

HORATIO

To be…King and Royal Consort! That is the question!

(Hamlet is indecisive, but then roars and tries to attack Horatio, who defends himself with Hamlet’s own sword)

HAMLET

(Disgusted, Hamlet rejects Horatio and exits nauseated)
O, that this too too solid flesh would melt!

HORATIO

Try burning a faggot underneath you!

(military horn)

What warlike noise is this? (looks out window)

Ah ha! Prince Fortinbras of Norway,

with conquest come from Poland,

To th’ ambassadors of England gives this warlike volley.

FORTINBRAS

(runs onstage)

Where is this sight?

HORATIO

What is it you would see, Lord Fortinbras?

If aught of woe or wonder, cease your search.

(smitten with Fortinbras, who is a very large man) Whoa!

FORTINBRAS

O proud death,

That thou so many princes at a shot

So bloodily hast strook!

HORATIO

Yes, yes, yes. Hamlet said that already.

(admires Fortinbras)

Fortinbras, lend me an ear? A question.

If, say, the entire royal family of Denmark has died

Of carnal, bloody, unnatural acts,

Of accidental judgments, casual slaughters,

Of deaths put on by cunning and force’d cause,

Would not you be next in succession to the crown?

FORTINBRAS

I do have some rights of memory in this kingdom.

Have they died?

HORATIO

Aye, all save Hamlet. (flirts with Fortinbras)

Whereupon Fortinbras arrived, your soldiers flush with conquest,

standing without the gates of unprotected Elsinore.

If the entire royal family dies, heir to Norway

could also king of Denmark be.

FORTINBRAS

(shrugs off Horatio’s flirtation)

How can this to be accomplished when Hamlet still lives?

History would call Fortinbras an assassin.

HORATIO

History is written by those who live.

Give order that these bodies

High on a stage be placed to the view,

And let Me speak to th’ yet unknowing world

How these things came about. So shall you hear

How the “mad prince” of Denmark, known to be prone to bouts

Of Melancholia, did put on an antic disposition, (pantomimes “mad prince”)

causing death unto all these royal princes.

And how sadly, his own tragic death followed hard upon,

(offers Hamlet’s sword to Fortinbras)

by an unbated and envenomed blade.

And just in case, (wrestles chalice from dead Queen’s hand)

…Slattern…also by poisonous cup!

FORTINBRAS

(considers Hamlet’s sword like a cross)

Let us haste to hear more,

And call the noblest to the audience.

HORATIO

And how the handsome Prince Fortinbras, entered upon this tragic scene

But O! too late to prevent massacre. And therefore,

by hereditary right claimed you the throne of Denmark.

(kneels)

And how nobly did you reign. (arises)

Uh, with your loyal, Royal Consort beside you?

FORTINBRAS

(beat) For me, with sorrow I embrace my fortune. (strokes Horatio’s face, causing Horatio's knees to buckle)

Which now to claim (takes up Hamlet’s sword)

my vantage doth invite me. 
(Exits in same direction as Hamlet, but turning back, pantomimes that he intends to kill Horatio too when he is done, which Horatio does not see)

HORATIO

(Delighted, almost drinks from poison chalice, but stops himself. From chalice, fingers out the ring, examines it)

Ah, sweet prince, good night. (puts rings on finger)

And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.

(Exits with poison chalice, following after Fortinbras and Hamlet)

The End

Ought To Bees

I hate the Ought-to-bees! Church folk at Belle Chasse Baptist always talk about how I ought to be. Like, “You ought to be a better role model.” Half of them think I really am a role model! Like, they pray their kids turn out just like me and hold me up for an example. You know their kids hate me for that. Shuh! And other half? They call me a problem child in need of better home training. Whatever!

It is so hard being the Pastor’s daughter. Like, it’s hard just to make friends my own age. Take Shane Guidry. I mean, we are friends. I just wish we could be better friends. Shane Guidry is smart, like me. At Christian school, we’re both way ahead of everybody else in our workbooks. And Shane's always neat. He keeps his shoes as clean as his Bible. But even though we’re friends, still, he’s kinda stand-offish.

Or take that Vardimin Huckabee. Puh-lease! I trust Vardimin Huckabee about as far as I can throw him. And that ain’t far. Ok, there was this one time I thought we might date, but that was a whole year ago! I was twelve! No uh-uh, not anymore. Vardimin’s mean. He always did play too rough. Like this one time, when we was all seven-years-old—that was our first year at Christian school—Vardimin Huckabee put sand inside my panties. Boy, was my mama mad! Everybody was in trouble with Mama that day. Even my daddy was in trouble. And he’s the Pastor! Oh, Mama was all shouting about “boys need better male role models!” So whatever was going on between Vardimin and Shane, I know it’s rough. And I just think, well, Shane has had enough rough in his lifetime already.

I mean, I already know the truth about Shane, despite all my protestations to Daddy, Mama, or anybody else at Belle Chasse Baptist. Oh I can still hear Sister Charlotte Purtell—she’s my mama’s best friend—teasing me, "A pastor’s daughter ought to be selective about whom she chooses for her first beau," she says. "How ‘bout that cute little Brother Shane?” She looked at the other church women and laughed. “I hear tell he’s a faerie nice guy!" Sister Charlotte’s sense of humor really sets my teeth on edge. She always teases me like that, boyfriend jokes, in front of other church women whenever Mama's not in earshot. 'Sides, there's nobody at Belle Chasse Baptist I want for a first beau.

So I nurtured my suspicion about Shane and Vardimin all last semester at Christian school. And then, when it was time for Spring term crawfish boil, I confronted him. I don’t know where I got the gall, maybe it was adrenaline, but I dragged Shane into the church side-yard where I could ask him privately about what was up with Vardimin. “Are y'all sexual?”

Shane denied it, vehemently, but eventually he broke down, all harried by my persistance. I get that complaint a lot. But finally, Shane confided the truth to me. “Don’t tell your daddy!” he begs, all panic-stricken. Like, why would I tell my daddy?

So I don’t know, maybe it was adrenaline, but I just asked him outright, “Shane, does your father ever beat you up?” I mean, Shane always seems so scared, like he winces whenever church men shout "Amen!" too loud. But my friend would not even answer that question at all. Clamped shut his jaw. I stood by and watched the vision in Shane Guidry's hazel-green eyes turn inside. I tapped his shoulder. “Bubba, what is it?”

Well once I got at home, I decided to talk to my daddy, the Pastor, anyhow. I changed out from my good Sunday jumper my mama made me, and put on a boy’s tank top and culottes. Daddy doesn’t like me to wear tank tops; but Mama says it’s ok because I haven’t developed my boobies yet. 

Then I tip-toed into Daddy’s private retreat, his sanctuary, his home office in the tool shed. I felt just like Queen Esther, fearfully entering the court of King Ahasereus in order to save my people. I guess it was adrenaline. Cuz with the same gall I had confronted Shane about his father, I now beseeched my own father to intercede on Shane’s behalf.

Daddy was leaning sideways in his office chair, the one with the missing wheel. His big head cocked to the side listening to me in disbelief like I was Balaam’s talking donkey. And when I finished talking, Daddy just shook his big head slowly side-to-side. “That Shane Guidry,” he says, “sure is one confused young fella.”

But I blurted out in Shane’s defense, "You would be confused too if your father hid behind the door when you got home from Christian school and surprised you with a weight lifting belt!"

Daddy sat bolt upright, despite his leaning chair. “Now Sharon Rose Buchanan,” he tells me, “Brother Guidry is just more strict as a parent than me or Mama. Some parents use corporal punishment to teach their kids right behavior. That is their prerogative. But you and your brother Bobby, y'all never get spanked. Mama and me don’t believe in corporal punishment. So of course you think spanking is abuse.”

Prerogative? Shuh! I knew better than that. “A weight lifting belt?! I know what that’s called!” I was just besides myself, trying not to cry. “Daddy, I’m scared for my friend. Can’t you do nothing?” 

“Like what could I do?,” he says. Daddy seemed harried by my persistence too. 

I faked a smile, holding back my tears. “You’re the Pastor," I said. "You influence people. You could talk to Brother Guidry?” Underneath my fake smile though, I prayed Daddy would see the real distress I felt for my friend. I wanted him to pull me by the waist into a hug like when I was a little girl.

But he didn’t do that. Daddy didn’t hug me. He just thought for a while. “I tell you what," he finally says, "here’s what I will do. I will write a Bible study for this Wednesday night, explore the topic of corporal punishment, using scripture.”

I wailed. "Spare the rod?!"

“Yes!” Daddy says, definitely harried. “But other scripture too, like provoke not thy child to wrath. I will debate the topic of corporal punishment from the pulpit, both sides, with scripture. Try to set some reasonable boundaries.”

I winced at my own gall. “Will you mention the weight lifting belt?” Even Mama knows to back down when Daddy has that look in his eyes, like King Ahasereus, or Moses.

Through tight jaws and clenched teeth, my father just says to me, “I will be very, very clear, my dear." And then, he turned me around by my shoulders, pointed me out the exit of the tool shed, and swatted my butt.

Shuh!

Well I’m thirteen now. And maybe I don’t always know how things ought to be. And maybe I never will become the best role model in the land. But I do know one thing for sure, that's how to be a good friend. And right about now, I think Shane Guidry sure could use a friend.

The Final .2 Miles

This is a newer draft of a poem I began during National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) in April. You can see an earlier draft in the blog entries below. This poem still needs work, but it's approaching what I intend:

The Final .2 Miles

The modern marathon is more than 26 miles long.

It is 26.2, to be precise. The .2 added

because a young queen wanted to greet the runners 

of the first modern marathon at the ornate gates of Buckingham palace.

Flash-forward 50 years. Hawaii, 
inside the chain-link fence enclosing Moana Loa shopping center.

where 26 thousand anxious runners are lining up in the pre-morning dark of pre-morning, 
hopping in place or rolling shoulders 

under the tendrils of falling sky flowers, the opening ceremonial fireworks.

Speeches I do not hear, crunching my first handful of Cheerios.

At the mile 6 marker, I am holding steady,

happy in my selection of moisture-wicking socks.

My feet fall into that familiar rhythm that I recognize from training.

When all of a suddenly, that shoeless Ethiopian who soon will win the race,

is already returnsing in the opposite direction, already at the mile 20 marker (for him)

grinning as he passes, his bare feet flapping on the sticky blacktop.

But Yet for me, yet, are two times over Diamond Head, our only hill, 
a volcano really, and then an the eternal stretch of featureless sky and Pali Highway and sky.

Porta-potty stops, more water and , more Cheerios.

Beide the Pali Highway, Llocal Hawaiians cheer us on., handing us banana halves and cups.

Someone hands me half of a banana.

In my imagination, I throw a giant rubber band around a faster runner 

up ahead, herding his momentum with my mind, 

to pull me forward on the confidence of his stride.


Hours later, my turn finally arrives to pass that mile 20 marker for myself,

Momentary elation and relief are swallowed by the realization 
of not jut 6 more miles to run, but 6.2.

of 6.2 miles yet to go. And then at mile 26, still another .2 miles!

But everything I had apportioned out to sustain me over 26 miles,

is used up already, good intentions long-since gone, 
both water bottles empty. All my Cheerios are consumed.

Physical stamina? Depleted; and I run solely on emotional energy now, 
and that too wanes. My stomach, painfully bloated, sloshes with its own acids.

In my imagination, I throw a giant rubber band around a faster runner 
up ahead, herding his momentum with my mind, 

to pull me forward on the confidence of his stride.

But the rubber band, or my imagination, stretched beyond the limit, 
snaps. And I am hurtled backward by impact with The Wall.
My left IT band is tearing away from the knee.

What fuel is left that I can use?

A whisper, the slightest suggestion inside me: Rage? 
Oh right. Raging against the dying of the light!

So many times in my life before, rage has served me well. 

Can rage carry me now, over what feels like 
the final .2 miles of life?

Because I am finishing this race! I have traveled too far--
600 miles in training and then 2 separate jets!
I endured the headaches and Plantar Fasciitis,

low blood sugar depressions, and the body certainty 
that long distance goals are really short distance goals 
when taken daily, one step, and then the next. 

Yes, rage! Even if I drag my bloody stump 

across that line, I will finish strong. I am a Finisher.

Although, I have not finished yet. I still earn 
every painful step of those final .2 miles 

before I will be greeted at the scrolling gate of an eternally ancient queen.

The marathon extends beyond my reach. But I know that sometimes

just maintaining forward momentum has got to be enough.