The French Impressionist Wrestler
Drama
by Kevin
Harvey
The stage is in total darkness. A woman's voice calls out, strident, ethnic:
Andre!
(Pause)
Andre!
(Louder, clearly impatient) Andre Boulet!
The woman's voice is followed by the sound of a fight crowd. The sound is clearly pre-fight. It rises slowly in level until it is quite loud. A ring announcer's introduction, corny with '50s overkill, sets up a championship bout: "For the championship of the WWF…" The crowd roars and is cut off abruptly. The stage is perfectly quiet for the next few seconds, and then a single spotlight picks up a large man seated on a stool. In front of him is a heavy-headed '50s microphone. A tall man, well over 200 pounds, he is wearing long green trunks, black boxing boots, and a hooded sweatshirt. On his head is a ridiculous oversized yellow beret. His hands are on his knees as he speaks, often smiling, into the microphone.
ANDRE: Hi. (He laughs and pulls at his beret until he is satisfied with its position) I am what you would call a man in conflict. (Again, he laughs out loud, greatly amused with himself) I am a man of elegant impulse working in a sport created by buffoons …A man whose art depends on the finest points of illumination…I am Andre Boulet…(Light comes up on a ring center stage behind him)…the man who wrestled under the name of Haystacks Monet, The French Impressionist Wrestler! (Arms out from his body, open-handed in supplication, he stands and makes a pirouette; hands on hips, he paces the stage and then returns to the microphone where he sits back down and, hands on hips, leans forward) I was instrumental in creating the modern…art…form! Pro wrestling! So what is this stuff? No one believes in it. (Quietly, almost as if he is speaking to himself) Although that doesn't mean anything either. Do you have to "believe" in baseball? (Sarcastic) Really. (Long pause, sits in profile before turning back to speak) Of course, there are people who will tell you they believe in baseball…But why? Who has the finer mind, I ask you, the wrestling fan, tuned to absurdity, to dada, or the baseball fan, besotted with sentimentality? (Pause) Again, I ask you.
(Andre's mother's voice cuts in: "Andre! Andre!" He responds with a sheepish grin. She calls again. He adjusts his beret, and looks down in silence as the light around him goes out. It will come up again on the right side of the stage. A young, overweight, soft-looking kid of about fourteen is sitting on a great swollen '30s sofa watching a large-bodied '50s television set. The sound of the wrestling match is quite loud. When his mother calls again, Andre lowers the volume)
MOTHER: Are you kidding? You can hear that all the way to Belmont Street!
ANDRE: (Low) That's not all they can hear on Belmont Street.
(When she enters the room, he doesn't turn to look at her, but remains focused on the match. Andre's mother is a tall, thin woman with dark hair and eyes. Her hair, as always, is pulled back and tied)
MOTHER: Why don't you go outside and play?
ANDRE: What do you mean "play?" Play what?
MOTHER: I mean PLAY! What do you think I mean?
ANDRE: Should I skip down Everard Street and "play" in the traffic? (Pause) Alone?
MOTHER: It's Saturday afternoon, and you are in the house! What are you doing?
ANDRE: (Looking at her as if she has finally asked the right question) I'm planning.
(This stops her. Andre leans over and turns up the sound of the set. The light goes down; when it comes back up, the adult Andre is seated on his stool, his hands opened imploringly)
ANDRE: I had a plan. (Pause) I knew what I wanted to do with my life from an early age. (Coy, head to side) I loved wrestling, (Pause) absurd carnival identities…magic names, cartoon artifice, Wagnerian clothing…Mother would yell at me about going out…about dating!
(Mother's voice is heard off stage: "What's the matter with you?" Andre will tilt his head back to listen, but will not respond)
ANDRE: Gym was all the social life I needed…I loved gym…not all gym. I hated the team sports: softball, basketball, volleyball…Track was a horror. But I loved wrestling…I'd sit alone on the bleachers waiting for my match. No one talked to me. No one even joked near me. They knew. It was my moment…Once called, I'd walk slowly--with patience and deliberation--to the mat in the center of the gym--adoring the feeling of everyone's eyes on me….No, I didn't date. Why bother? I wrestled.
(A young Andre saunters out from stage left; he is heavy, but formidable. Dressed in dark tights and tank top, he stands just to Andre's left)
ANDRE: I will never forget my first important match. It was dubbed a "title" match. Only two kids had gone through the sessions unbeaten: an Italian kid named Joey Silverio and me. Andre Boulet. For some reason, the school decided to make a big deal of it. Probably the gym teacher's attempt to keep his job. The huge brown folding divide that normally separated the girl's gym from the boy's was folded back making the gym into a single arena. (Muted sound of a high school crowd rises up) The match was presented as the culmination of an awards assembly. The faculty was supposed to play the varsity basketball team, but the faculty couldn't produce five players who could run from one end of the gym to the other without risking their lives, so the "championship" match replaced it.
It was cute. One of the gym teachers, an alcoholic named Johnson, acted as an announcer; the ref was a fascist runt who looked like Richard Jaekel. His name escapes me. When Johnson introduced Silverio, a good-looking Italian kid in a heavily Italian school, the crowd went nuts. (Pause) Then they called me. (Happy with the memory, Andre sways back and smiles) I wasn't as well received. (Still smiling) Call it a polite response…But a funny thing happened: I wasn't a bit nervous, and Silverio was! (Smile) And the crowd sensed it. Every eye in the gym was on me as I walked to the mat. It was a truly beautiful thing. Everyone knew that I, Andre Boulet, overlooked high school sophomore, withdrawn French-Canadian in an Italian-Irish high school, was going to kick Joey Silverio's front and center ass!
(Andre leans forward and cups his chin in his hand for a moment. It is important to him that he get his next words exactly right. The young Andre shifts in place, tense with anticipation)
Up until that day, that momentous afternoon, I'd wrestled for the simple pleasure of it…
(In the right foreground, a young olive-skinned wrestler of undeniable beauty enters and positions himself on his hands and knees facing the audience. Young Andre goes into position next to him, his hand on the boy's wrist, his right arm across the boy's back and around to his stomach. The elder Andre leaves his stool to inspect them for a moment and then moves closer to the audience, his voice heavy with emotion)
Everything changed when I put my arm around Joey. (Pause) My arm was pale against the golden expanse of his back. (Slowly, taking his time between each phrase) In front of…every eye in my high school…I fell in love.
(The young Andre looks down at Silverio's back and then turns his gaze quickly back in the direction of the audience. The elder Andre watches intently as they wrestle in exaggerated slow motion. Young Andre at first on top--then the two exchanging position several times before Andre pins both of Silverio's shoulders to the mat. There is a loud sound of a mat being slapped and with it the young Andre jumps, expressionless, to his feet. He is secure in his victory--no more, no less. And yet he cannot take his eyes off of Silverio--who at first looks unhappy but then shakes it off. Smiling, he shakes Andre's extended hand. The sound in the gym is large. It would seem by the roar that the crowd is happy with Andre's victory. Reluctant to drop Silverio's hand, Andre does so only after looking deeply into the boy's eyes. Silverio knows that something has happened, but he has no real sense of the extent of it. When Andre at last drops the boy's hand, the sound of the crowd stops at once. A moment of silence ensues in which the elder Andre simply stares at the two boys. Andre's mother's voice breaks the spell)
MOTHER: Andre!
(Andre wheels back to his stool, the light going out on the young wrestlers)
MOTHER: Andre! (Pause) Andre!
(Andre shakes his head in disbelief and the lights go out on him. When they come back up, he is leaning against a 50's television complete with rabbit ears).
ANDRE: I didn't get it at first, but how could I? What was happening was below the level of language-deep than anything I could control.
(One more loud, offstage "ANDRE!". He looks hard to his right. There isn't a second one. Satisfied, he turns back to the audience)
ANDRE: I didn't act on it for awhile--I didn't know how to act on it, really. So when I graduated, at long last, from high school, I became a wrestler--a wrestler with a secret! (Laughs a deep, honest laugh) But here's the good part: like many a lonely young man before me, I made the most of my isolation. (Pats the television) I created an identity.
(The light shifts behind and around him, graying so that one can begin to see paintings on a curved wall)
ANDRE: I was watching television on a gray Sunday afternoon. Is there a worse time in a young person's life than 5:00 on a Sunday afternoon in winter? The weekend is over; Monday morning sits outside on the porch like an awful, muted animal, a furless beast, tongue out, eyes sewed shut! Dread! (Arms open in supplication) So there I was: searching for cartoons, a Creature Feature, a movie, any movie! When I happened on a Channel Two art show. (Pause) What stopped me was a photo of the artist in his studio: a craggy, bearded guy with his hands in his pockets. He was standing in front of a huge canvas that looked like clouds to me, finger-painted weather. I stayed with him. (Long pause, and then in a lower tone) And then I saw them: black and white that first time, but, nevertheless, I saw them.
(Behind him the shapes come up in the light: Monet's haystacks, all different, all the same)
ANDRE: I understood instantaneously and wordlessly what Monet had done and why he'd done it. He might just as well have spent his days painting Stonehenge--or the same human face, different from second to second--with every shift of light--and then I focused at last on what I was hearing: the artist's name--the Frenchman's name--rhymed with mine! (Eyes turned heavenward, hand on heart, he is very aware of the humor in all this; yet at the same time he is deadly serious) I was home. (Pause) Andre Boulet would enter the world as "Haystacks" Monet, the French Impressionist Wrestler.
(By the time Andre finishes his introduction, the lights have come up bright, and he has moved to the center of the stage. After a long, triumphant moment in the spotlight, the stage will go dark. When the lights return, they will reveal the 19th Century façade of Mechanic's Hall; visible within the building, set center stage, a man will be visible seated at a desk. Andre enters from the left side)
ANDRE: When it came time to go pro, I was not faced with many options. The local promoter was a fellow named Howie Katz--and I want it stated for the record that I liked Howie from the outset. I was indifferent to the other promoters, but I actually liked Howie. (Pause) In the late '50s and early '60s, Howie had an office in Mechanic's Hall. Actually, it was a windowless closet with a bare desk, a phone, and two chairs. Two posters were on the wall above the desk: one for a wrestling card featuring Fabulous Moola and one for a boxing card headlined by one Rufus Golightly--a heavyweight! Howie was in his early 40s when I walked in out of the blue. He had this way of sitting crumpled in a chair, his head angled against his hand, so that he looked at you sideways like a great, puzzled cat…
(Here, the Mechanic's Hall façade is pulled away so that Andre, the adult Andre, can walk up to Howie's desk)
ANDRE: How ya' doin"?
HOWIE: (As if he and Andre go back a long way together) Fine, other than the complications from diabetes.
ANDRE: (Taken aback) I'm sorry to hear that.
HOWIE: (Shrugs) It happens. (Gently) What can I do you for?
ANDRE: May I have a seat? (Howie sits up, looks at the kid, and points to the chair. Andre sits, hands flat on thighs, back straight)
ANDRE: I want to wrestle. (Howie looks like he wants to say something funny but doesn't. A few seconds pass before Andre adds:) Professionally. (Howie gathers himself, sighs)
HOWIE: Do you know what it takes to wrestle?
ANDRE: Strength and a foolish identity?
HOWIE: (After a very long pause) You might have what it takes, kiddo. What's your name?
ANDRE: Andre Boulet. I wrestle under the name "Haystacks" Monet, The French Impressionist Wrestler.
HOWIE: (Stunned) How does this work exactly?
(Andre opens the gym bag at his feet and takes out an enormous, bright yellow beret, floppy like an oversized chef's cap. He stands up to position it properly on his head)
ANDRE: I enter the ring carrying a huge palette.
(Here, Howie loses it and begins to laugh; Andre watches him until he wheezes to a stop)
ANDRE: I enter with a great flourish--moving gracefully around the ring--spraying color on the crowd . . .
HOWIE: Why? What does this do?
ANDRE: Do? Why it allows the audience to laugh at me, to want to see me lose. They want to see me get my ass kicked, frankly.
HOWIE: And?
ANDRE: And then I will beat the hell out of whoever you put in with me.
HOWIE: Says who?
ANDRE: Says me.
HOWIE: Says the man who pays you, that's who. You'll win when I say you'll win and you'll lose when I tell you to lose.
ANDRE: Up to a point.
HOWIE: And what point is that, "Haystacks" Monet?
ANDRE: The point at which I disagree with you.
(This stops Katz; Andre is now standing directly in front of him)
HOWIE: Have I agreed to take you on?
ANDRE: It sounds that way to me, Mr. Katz.
HOWIE: Call me Howie. Everyone else does.
(The two men face each other in silence for a few seconds before Andre removes his beret; when he returns it to his gym bag, the lights are extinguished)
(There is a brief pause before they come back up to reveal: floor to ceiling façade of 19th century performance hall-- Mechanic's Hall in age-muted lettering over centered double doors. Grimy, the building is still impressive; indeed, there is something defiant about it, as if it refuses to die. The audience is allowed to look at for a minute or so before it splits in the middle and slides back into the wings, revealing: Andre Boulet, standing perfectly still in the narrow entryway. His back to the audience, he is dressed for war--he is wearing an enormous yellow beret that looks like a Parisian parody of Chef Boyardee, a gray smock that covers his trunks, and lavender knee-high wrestling boots; in the crook of his left arm, an oversized artist's palette; in his right hand, a slender oil-dabbed paintbrush . . .
The murmur of a crowd can be heard in the distance. It is low at first, and then grows in intensity; as it grows louder, a second set of inner walls, the hallway, move slowly back into the wings. By the time we are allowed to see the ring, the sound should be deafening. And yet when the lights reveal the crowd, surrounding the ring and stretching into the wings, the seats are filled with faceless dummies--featureless cotton bud ovals on black bodies. The effect on the audience must be chilling. We have entered the realm of dream where the air is thin and cold . . .
Andre Boulet, the artist, is about to go to work. His moves are stylized to the point of verging on ballet; were they at all faster, they would become dance, but Andre is moving through an element that will not allow for speed. When he has at last climbed through the ropes, he is met by a Wagnerian wash of sound, half symphonic crescendo, half the guttural language of human anger. The crowd, failing to understand him, hates him and wishes to watch him die--until his opponent enters from the right side of the ring. Golden Boy Dupree is well known in Worcester. He has fought several times in Mechanic's Hall, never failing to defeat the area "good guy". His presence is enough to disorient the crowd. After the initial roar of recognition, the sound falls off. It is as if they cannot decide who to hate most . . . Dupree, a near double for Jerry Lee Lewis, moves about the ring taunting the crowd; pausing to run a comb through his bleached blond D.A., his semi-noble profile infuriates the mob. Andre Boulet is careful to avoid looking at him. Two or three minutes are wasted this way, with Andre keeping his back turned towards the preening Dupree. It is only now that a third figure makes himself visible to the audience: a short, totally bald referee. The man should be gnome-like, odd enough to raise the stakes. Looking straight ahead, the small man claps his hands, creating an extraordinary, shattering thunderclap--followed by the silence of the tomb--and the start of the battle . . .
The opening moments of the match are odd: Andre moves about the ring, avoiding Dupree as if he were alone. Not only does he refuse to engage the fighter, he refuses to so much as look at him. When Dupree lunges at him, he simply moves aside, causing Dupree to grab fruitlessly at nothing. Whenever this happens, the ref, who stands stock still with his hands on his hips, will smirk at the audience. This goes on for several minutes. However, unbeknownst to the crowd, Andre Boulet is painting a masterpiece--on a great, invisible canvas. With the grace of a great conductor, then, he will move his paint free brush through the air--pause to consider his work--and move on. Were he actually putting real paint to solid canvas, his work would occupy a wall as long as the ring. It is, finally, with a look of satisfaction, that he drops his brush and turns to face the rattled Golden Boy . . .
When the violence comes at last, it is sudden, shocking, and totally effective: Andre feints to his right--he is right profile to the audience--and then comes across with his left, his pallet shattering against Dupree's skull; before he can even fall, Andre's right forearm and elbow collide with his temple. He is out cold now but before he can fall, Andre lifts him--slowly, casually, into the air and then snaps him horribly over his knee. As the ref goes down to count, the sound of the crowd is deafening. Even before the count is finished--it is, after all, a foregone conclusion--Andre begins to strut, a wrist on one hip, the other hand wagging at the crowd, as if admonishing the few fools who might have rooted for Dupree--he is midway between Pearl Bailey and Liberace, and the crowd, aware now that it is in the presence of an artist, is all his. When the ref attempts to raise Andre's arm in victory, the wrestler shakes him off and climbs down out of the ring; his shattered pallet held chest high like a shield, he walks back to the front of the stage, the crowd's sound diminishing until Andre stands alone in silence . . .
ANDRE: I have to keep replacing these things, but it's worth it.
(There is a slight pause before the lights are extinguished . . . When the lights come back up around Andre, he is standing just to the left of a three foot high wooden platform; positioned on the dais is the rear seat of a '50s Yellow Cab. Behind the "cab," the outline of Mechanic's Hall is visible; a wrestling card has just ended. Andre goes up the steps on the left and slides onto the seat, his feet dangling over the edge. He is barely seated when, from the right, a young man, who can look no older than twenty, slides--with great commotion--into the other side of the seat. It is obvious from the boy's red hair and white skin that he is Irish. He has large, bony hands and flat wrists; his nose is the broken hook of a '40s boxer. There is an awkward moment during which Andre stares at him in amazement. The boy looks Andre full in the face, causing Andre to look away, and asks:
SMILEY: So can I come along? (His voice is flat with a hard Worcester accent).
ANDRE: (A bit rattled) Where are we going?
(The boy holds his hands out and open and shrugs: he doesn't know and he doesn't care)
ANDRE: I was thinking of getting something to eat. (It is almost a question, as if Andre needs the young man's permission)
SMILEY: Is the Wonder Bar ok?
ANDRE: (Hesitates, then warms to the idea) Yeah…sure! Fine. Then I'll walk home.
SMILEY: Where's that?
ANDRE: (Quickly shutting down) Not far. (Both turn and look straight ahead in silence, the light slowly going down around them)
(The Wonder Bar lettering, red ornate old English style, comes up in the darkness; it sits disembodied above the stage until the lights reveal a room with booths on either side, a row of tables in the middle, a small almost home-sized bar in the right corner rear. Each booth holds a small, heavy jukebox; a full-sized beauty of a beast sits to the left of the bar in what is very nearly the dead center of the restaurant; on the left side of the room a line of booths will fade away into the gloom. Early Dean Martin recordings will be followed by '50s Sinatra. When the two young men enter, Sammy Davis Jr.'s "Lush Life" is playing; it should not be overpowering. The booths are filled with a mix of dummies and humans; the waitress, who directs the boys to a booth on the right side and then serves them, is middle-aged, Italian, solicitous. When she seats them, they are quiet, the strangeness of what they are doing now obvious to both. After a few moments of silence, Andre takes it upon himself to get the ball rolling)
ANDRE: Are you a big wrestling fan?
(Smiley says nothing at first and then collapses in laughter)
SMILEY: A fan? (Pause) No. (Pause) What? Yes. I don't know…is anyone a big fan? Are you a big fan?
(When he stops he does so by putting both his hands on Andre's forearm. Andre looks down at Smiley's hands. Surprisingly, Smiley doesn't remove them. They sit quietly looking down until the waitress takes their orders)
ANDRE: We'll both have spaghetti and meatballs, please.
(Smiley leans away, surprised. For a second, it looks as if he might object, but instead he nods his agreement, his eyes aglow)
SMILEY: (Laughing) This has turned into a date, hasn't it?
ANDRE: I suppose it has, in a way.
SMILEY: So now what do dates talk about?
ANDRE: I wouldn't know. I've never been on one.
SMILEY: You're kidding!
ANDRE: No such luck.
(The waitress serves them and they proceed to eat in silence. It should be obvious that a great deal is going on within each of them. Finally, as if he has come to the question after great effort, Andre breaks the silence)
ANDRE: So what do you like besides wrestling?
SMILEY: (Not at all sure how to answer) Well…I play a lot of handball.
ANDRE: (Quietly) No shit?
SMILEY: Do you want me to leave?
ANDRE: Nah. You're ok. I'm just not used to the company…I'm sorry.
SMILEY: No problem. (Pause) I'd love a beer. Do you think they'd serve me?
ANDRE: (Looking closely at Smiley- as if for the first time) Nope. They run a pretty tight ship in here. I can buy later for us- if you really want.
SMILEY: You don't drink?
ANDRE: Not really.
SMILEY: You don't drink and you don't date…(Trails off)
ANDRE: And I don't play handball. I do, however, fucking wrestle…(lower in tone) and read comic books.
(They both break into laughter; Smiley just a beat ahead of Andre)
SMILEY: Yes! So do I!
ANDRE: Come on, let's get out of here. I'll buy you that beer. I was big enough to buy in Junior High.
SMILEY: Really?
ANDRE: I don't know. I never tried.
(When the boys step back into the street, the sky is a wonderful blue-black straight out of 30's animation, a sky with all the depth of Disney's "Pinocchio". The boys turn away from the audience and enter a package store that looms up on the left side of the stage. The owner, like all package store owners in the late 50's and early 60's, is short and thin with slicked back silver hair. He will first look hard at Smiley and then turn his gaze towards Andre's chest. It will be obvious that he doesn't think either fellow is of legal age, but Andre's size will intimidate him into making the sale)
ANDRE: We'd like two quarts of Dugan's, please.
(The owner bags the bottles, makes Andre's change, and, finally, looks up into Andre's eyes. Andre shrugs and the owner, after a short pause, returns the shrug. Smiley turns away, his hand over his mouth. When the boys are back on the street, the package store will fade slowly into the darkness)
SMILEY: Dugan's ?
ANDRE: My grandmother drinks it. It's the only beer I could think of.
(Behind them, the entrance to East Park will come forward out of the darkness. Stone pillars topped with granite lions guard the entrance to the park. The backdrop for the park itself should show a nearly straight up hill surrounded by light. They enter through the gates and sit on the hill, Andre on the left, while Smiley opens the bottles with a jackknife. Smiley takes the first long swallow and, happy now, wipes his mouth. Andre takes the first long pull of his life and at first refuses to look up. When he raises his face, he is grinning)
SMILEY: What do you say, Haystack
ANDRE: I say: There's no turning back.
(Andre continues to drink from the bottle; the stage darkening around him until Smiley is gone and the wrestler is alone. When Andre stands to face the audience, he seems older, closer to the man we met at the outset)
ANDRE: We climbed the hill together. It was very steep, and I was stumbling from the beer, but I was very happy! I'd won another match at Mechanic's Hall, and downed my first quart of beer, and I'd walked home- to my mother's house, I admit- with the (Pausing and placing great emphasis on each word) affable, appealing, Smiley O"Sullivan. What a world
(The lights go slowly out. When they come up again, Andre is sitting slightly to the left of center stage; he is wearing the same outfit that opened the play)
ANDRE: Things happened quickly after those first bouts n Worcester. Howie, bless him, knew what he was doing. The audience's reaction to me intensified with every bout, so it took less than two months for Howie to move me up the ladder to Boston: I was part of the unlisted undercard that culminated with a match within which "Killer" Kowalski punched out an Italian pretending to be an Indian. Kowalski, like most Americanized Poles of his generation, lacked all elegance- I say this as artist- his trademark grip, "the claw", wasn't an entirely useless idea, but, when all was said and done, what was it? Just fingers to the tummy, and hope the "victim" could act. No, I was happy to be on a card with him, but the Killer's act didn't faze me…
Worcester to Boston, Route 9, was still pleasant in the early 60's. 61', 62', 63', maybe 64', but the corner was turned by '65. Actually, by '65, much of the world had turned for the worse…But in the days when Howie drove us to my first bouts in the Garden, touches of the '50's could still be found on Route 9…And, here and there, a blessed fingerprint of the 40's…a restaurant, a brewery, gentle and innocent in the face of what would come. (Pause) The sweet brown tones and green shades of childhood, muted brick and flash of pond, each building worth entering, each building a history worth learning…And all the way, Howie talked-grandly, foolishly, brilliantly, about everything he knew or thought he knew…I sound old, but I am not old. I am just a wrestler who remembers the world before "shopping" took over. (Long pause)
I think the garden was always old. It was always dark and worn, as foreboding as a castle…Howie was of course filled with semi-accurate stories about the guys who built it, the families who ran it, the athletes who fought or played there…(Laughs) Howie knew every street and doorway in the area- actually, he knew Boston well- and Cambridge not at all! He said a wrestling promoter had no business crossing the river! (Laughs) So, anyway, Howie snuck us into Boston like a pair of revolutionaries intent on destruction…In some ways we were there to overthrow the order…One than one order, I
suppose. (Pause) I was, after all, an artist, and Smiley was there because he loved me. (Pause) The streets around the Garden were crowded that night. It was a Thursday, the first Thursday in November- a wrestler remembers these things- Howie fed us at Durgin Park. Smiley loved the informality and the huge pieces of beef. I was too preoccupied to eat, but Smiley put it away…Howie refused to buy Smiley a beer and this took the edge off our evening a bit, but Smiley got over it…Howie told us how he used to eat at Durgin Park before he flunked out of B.U. and went back to Worcester, where he finally weaseled a degree he never used from Clark. Nowadays there's probably a degree in booking with a minor in wrestling management, but Howie had to settle for reading Freud and acting like he cared…
To my mind, stoked as it was with fantasy, the streets around the Garden had all the charm of Montparnasse, of Fin de Siecle Paris: natty midgets in stripped trousers and black bowlers, every woman a model. I felt grand, grander than everyone we passed…And then Howie told me I had to take the fall for a midget…Actually, it was two midgets and the bout was going to be stopped on a disqualification…(Long pause, fingertips together, prayer-like, in front of his face; each word said with great emphasis)…I…wouldn't…have…it. (Pause) The thing about wrestling is: ninety-nine point nine per cent of the wrestlers who enter the ring do so knowing who will lose. It's just that very few know how- or when- or how long the match will last- with the exception of Andre Boulet. I went in knowing I would win- fairly, honestly, brilliantly- when I decided it was time to win. I controlled what happened!
Now the two midgets I was scheduled to meet were the two toughest midgets working in America, and the idea of putting them in the squared circle with the flamboyant aesthete, Andre Boulet, made sense- from a publicity standpoint- and it made sense that no one should lose such a match, but the whole idea sickened me. It was shameful to put me in with little people. Were women next? (Pause) Howie begged and I relented- up to a point. I went into the ring with all the determination of a parent called upon to save a child…
(Close behind him, the lights come up suddenly to reveal a ring. Andre climbs up into it, sliding under the top rope, and then stalks about in silence, a look of contempt- an open sneer- on his face. The midgets enter from opposite sides of the ring. They can be played by either real midgets or masked children. Either way, they should be grotesque. They begin. They are good at what they do, but Andre is much better and simply slides away from their attack, frustrating them for a time, and then, finally, when it becomes obvious to them at Andre isn't playing by the rules, stopping them in their tracks: they implore the audience- their audience- whose recorded roar is deafening. When Andre at last moves, he is so fast that his action abruptly silences the great hall. He sweeps them aloft, one in each hand, and holds them there like puppets- and then, with all the distaste of insulted deity, he simply drops them and climbs out of the ring to a manic choir of boos; then, having returned to the circle of light at the front of the stage- the light removed from the ring-)
ANDRE: (Head down) The ride back to Worcester was quiet, believe me. All I remember Howie saying was: "You'll be lucky to get work as a bouncer!" (Head snaps up with a huge smile) Smiley said he was proud of me.
(Lights out)
(A spot comes up on the seated, relaxed, Andre)
ANDRE: It was early December when Smiley took me to The Odd. The Odd Bookstore was a second hand shop on Southbridge Street, halfway between the Loew's Poli movie theater and the Chinese restaurant on the corner of WHATEVER Street. It was the kind of place you could very easily pass by without noticing: the door was set in from the street and the windows were stacked with colorless, unjacketed books and faded magazines…but Smiley knew better.
(The lights come up around Andre, revealing a tall case of boxes, not unlike an old- fashioned hotel mailbox construction; rough and whitewashed, the shelves are filled with comics and, if possible, Big Little Books. Just beyond them, in the middle of the stage, is a high-fronted throne-like structure that allows a seated man to view the shop. The head of a small, white-haired man is visible; his hands are on the counter. He is expressionless. Smiley enters from the left and leads the now standing Andre to the shelves)
SMILEY: (So happy he is glowing) This is the place! (Waves at the owner who fails to respond) Here, we have the great work of the last three decades- the work of the great American cartoonists- Chester Gould, Lee Falk, Wally Wood, Bill Elder…
(He reaches into a box and tenderly lifts out a pile of comics. In an ideal production, Smiley would be allowed to hold original editions)
SMILEY: (Reading) Little Lulu…Batman…Fox and Crow! Truly underrated! Blackhawk…Plastic Man…(Now reverently) The greatest of them all: the unnamed, unsigned, drawer of the Ducks: the mythic, gifted creator of the single most monumental title ever: The Golden Helmet!
(He holds up a Donald Duck comic so that both Andre and the audience can see it)
SMILEY: This is it, my friend! This is a rare day!
(Andre takes the comic book and steps aside to read it; Smiley fills his arms with titles. Smelling a large sale, the old man raises his head to watch Smiley. There is a change in the lighting now, so that the air around Smiley becomes luminous. The old man raises himself up to speak, actually opening his mouth to do so, but thinks better of it and settles for watching, open-mouthed, the gliding, joyous, young man)
ANDRE: (Closing the comic book and turning away from Smiley to face the audience) Smiley lived on that line that separates worlds. There are many others, I suppose, but for all the joy that wrestling brought me, I never entered the realm reserved for Smiley. (Pause) It's not as if he believed in the Fox and the Crow- or the Golden Helmet- but rather that he was thankful- in the deepest way- for the human beings who brought such stuff into the world…He'd have felt that way about the first cave painting, I'm sure. (Pause) He felt, he said, that way about me. (Pause) I fell in love that day. (Hands at his sides, eyes down) I clarified for myself, that day in the shop, my love for a young man- a teenager, a high school dropout, a lover of comic books…
(The shop owner is standing now, his mouth already open in shock, as Andre turns to walk towards the boy who is dancing in place with surprising grace. When he reaches him, Andre's bulk will all but block the boy from view. As the old man raises his arms above his head in the fashion of a football referee acknowledging a successful field goal attempt, Andre will wrap his arms around Smiley and pull him into his chest. Their kiss is a long one, a very long one; Smiley's comics slip out of his grasp and hit the floor, bringing a look of anger to the face of the still silent old man. And with that, the lights go out hard)
(When the light comes up around Andre, he is seated on a ring stool. He is wearing a heavy, expensive, white terrycloth robe; a white towel is tucked inside, covering his chest. Beneath the robe, he is wearing black tights and rose colored wrestling shoes. Leaning forward, he places an elbow on his knee, his chin on his fist. Behind him, an oval shaped portrait of the Fox and Crow appears suspended. Andre is happy, expansive, full of the need to talk)
ANDRE: Well, that was one of those moments- I went into that shop one person and came out another…I went into that perfectly named bookstore with what I assumed was an intact identity- something as complete and flawless as, say, a silver ball- and yet what I was really closer to was a series of lights longing to coalesce- I was about to add the piece needed to finalize an illusion- love…I know. I know. We all know we need love- the words buzz in our skulls as if we understood them- as if we knew why we needed another person to legitimize our existence…why one person needed someone smarter, while another needs a dope, a ninny, a millionaire…a Jewish man, an Italian woman…a short lover with a wicked sense of humor, a man with a profile like a lima bean, a woman with cropped black hair, an uncircumcised man! Why? What happens? (He leans forward conspiratorially) I mean, why does the being of light that lives behind the illusion- the spirit behind the body- need another illusion? You tell me. Is it because the body desires? It has to be more than that! Why this body and not that one? Why does this fat woman affect this man, and this shy man that funny boy? (Pause) Did I love Smiley because he showed me where he went for his sustenance? No other word quite holds up. (Pause) Or did I fall in love with him because he treated me like an artist worthy of respect? (Pause) I'd loved no other young men. And no women, believe me. I'd never even dreamed of them! I didn't even think about love- I was too preoccupied locating
myself to be interested in anyone else…So I was faced with the largest of questions:
What does a young man do when he realizes, for the first time, that he is in love with another man? Or, to put it another way: What does a wrestler of above average intelligence do after falling in love with a younger man who reads comic books?
(Here. Andre covers his face for a few seconds; when he lowers his hands, he is expressionless, and then, slowly, a smile takes over)
ANDRE; My Boise loved Little Lulu!
(Behind him, an oval full-length portrait of Little Lulu replaces the Fox and Crow)
ANDRE: I was happy! And yet I told not a soul- not Smiley, not myself…Alone in the last room of invention, I refused to use the word- (With great emphasis on each word) I…COULD…NOT…SAY…THE…WORD…and yet, I loved my boy…I loved the pale, sunless illiteracy of his working class fingers; his dense wrists and freckles…I know what everyone wants to hear- the parts Henry James left out: the physical details! Well, let me tell you: If it hadn't been for Smiley, I might have spent the rest of my life untouched- like poor Henry. Oh, I don't know. Did Henry ever go to bed with anyone? I know he ran out of the room when Hugh Walpole came on to him, but, geez, who wants to sleep with Hugh Walpole? I'd rather go to bed with Little Lulu.
(Behind him, the image of Lulu turns into her friend, Tubby; when Andre spins to look over his shoulder, it turns quickly back into Lulu. Certain that something has been pulled on him, Andre will keep his eyes on Lulu for a few seconds. When he turns back to the audience, he will be serious, his voice low)
ANDRE: We were drinking beer at the handball courts on a beautiful October night, I was sitting down inside the court, my back to the wall to break the wind…Smiley had wandered away- I assume to clear his mind, to settle it for what was to come…When I looked up, he was perhaps twenty yards away-on his knees…I started to ask him what he was doing, but then I didn't have to…
(Behind Andre a single spot picks up Smiley: he is kneeling, naked but for a jockstrap)
ANDRE: He crossed the space that separated us on his knees, a look in his eyes like nothing I 'd ever seen…I stood up.
(Andre stands, his hands at his side)
ANDRE: I knew and yet I didn't…(With great emphasis) There was nothing in my mind: the image of this young man filled me completely- I couldn't swear to how long it took him to reach me- I think I worried about his knees on the concrete court, but I might not have- I hope I did- When he reached me, he put his hands here-(Andre places both palms on his thighs) and then, before anything else, he kissed me through the pants, his mouth on my fly- I thought, for one fleeting second, of stopping him, but I couldn't- The silence in the universe was new to me- a nearly visible silence that stretched away like the canvas canopy of the sky- I was either spotlessly new or so ancient that no rules applied-(Long pause) My zipper coming down was as loud as a wheelchair thrown down an escalator, I swear- and then that long moment in which he slowly pulled open my jeans- and then stopped- leaving the next step to me. (Pause) I took it. Until that moment I'd never thought of my penis as something someone else might actually want. (Long pause) At first the cold air around my cock was like a wave- and then the cold was replaced by something very different-
(Here, he spins in a circle, hands out, eyes turned upward)
I'll say no more! (Grinning, he lowers his voice) When Smiley finished, I lifted him up and carried him into the park. He was small in my arms, a winged creature, a being of exquisite taste and delicacy- my first and dearest boyfriend- The old handball courts separated the sixth and seventh holes of a public golf course- a changed area now, no longer lovely, but I carried Smiley up the sixth fairway and into the tall grass at the base of the woods where I undressed him and took the heavy head of his cock in my mouth! (Andre is fierce now) My boy was white against the dark ground and I worked on him like an artist- When we finished I felt fresh, cleaned out, as if I'd survived something the rest of the world knew nothing about- (Pause) There is a great bravery that comes with finding oneself- It's a little like refusing to go to war against a blameless people- like refusing to gang up on the skinny weirdo everyone picks on- or like declaring to the world that you wrestle, that what you create matters!
(The lights go out quickly, totally, and stay out for a time; when they come back up they do so on the inside of the Wonder Bar. The place is busy: only two three booths are empty. Human beings occupy the booths and middle tables; two real women wait on them. At the bar in the rear right corner of the room are seated three or four dummies; the bartender is also a mannequin, white masked, frightening. Julius LaRosa plays on the jukebox, followed by Dean Martin's Return to Me. Andre steps in from the left, holding an invisible door for his mother who is followed by Smiley. The older of the two waitresses connects with Mrs. Boulet and seats the trio at a table in the center of the room.
MRS. BOULET: So this is where you boys come to eat. (She looks happy but a bit unsure of the Wonder Bar)
SMILEY: The meatballs are the best on Shrewsbury Street.
MRS. BOULET: Then that's what I'll have: a meatball! (She is clearly happy)
ANDRE: You can't order just a meatball, mother. You have to order it with something- or in something.
MRS. BOULET: In something?
ANDRE: Yes- like a sandwich. (Mrs. Boulet appears a bit taken aback, perhaps a bit hurt)
SMILEY: Order meatballs and macaroni, Mrs. Boulet.
(Smiley puts his hand over Mrs. Boulet's hand; she looks relieved)
MRS. BOULET: Thank you, Smiley. That sounds wonderful.
(They order and then wait in silence; Andre settling into himself, becoming sullen. Mrs. Boulet, beaming, misses nothing that happens in the restaurant; indeed, she turns to watch the most routine action with a look of joy on her face. Smiley, secure, knowing in the ways of the world, is where he wants to be; sitting between the two, he wears the look of an agent with a brilliant client. The background music remains for the most part Italian: Sinatra, Martin, and now and then an early sixties oddity such as Troy Shondell's This Time or Don and Juan's What's Your Name? When the food at last arrives, it is up to Smiley to jumpstart the talk)
SMILEY: What was the first movie you ever saw, Andre?
ANDRE: (Jolted out of his silence with a snap) My first movie? (Andre looks to his mother for confirmation) Shane? Dad took me to see it at the Palace…I think.
MRS.BOULET: Your father loved Western's…(She trails off)
ANDRE: Was it at the Palace?
MRS.BOULET: Oh, I could never remember something like that…I didn't go with you.
ANDRE: The theatre seemed immense to me, and the Poli is still Worcester's biggest movie house- I'm sure it was the Poli.
SMILEY: How well do you remember the movie?
ANDRE: Like I saw it yesterday. I thought Allen Ladd was a wonderful person, and Jack Palance fascinated me- (With great emphasis) He absolutely fascinated me! (With sudden good humor) The big fight made me the man I am today!
(All three laugh at this; it isn't clear that Mrs. Boulet knows why she is laughing)
SMILEY: Do you know what the first movie I ever saw was?
MRS. BOULET: How could he?
(Smiley responds to Mrs. Boulet's question as if it makes perfect sense)
SMILEY: (With a seriousness bordering on solemnity) It was Pinocchio.
(They sit silently mulling this over for a few seconds before Mrs. Boulet says)
MRS. BOULET: Made him the man he is today!
(Smiley and Andre erupt with laughter; Mrs. Boulet beams as if she knew it was the response her remark deserved)
SMILEY: (Picking up the thread) Right from the outset, I loved the wooden surfaces in the old man's shop--the moonlight, the clocks and toys--it was like supplying a European subtext for the American child.
ANDRE: (Shocked, as well he should be) A European subtext?
SMILEY: (Quietly, but nevertheless sure of himself) Yes, an alternative dream, a basement to hide the details in . . .
(Andre leans back in his seat and folds his arms across his chest, half daring Smiley to continue)
SMILEY: Most Americans remain on the first floor.
ANDRE: (Incredulous, but coming around) Staying out of the basement?
SMILEY: And rarely, if ever, escaping to the attic.
(Both Smiley and Andre turn to stare blankly at the silent Mrs. Boulet before Andre turns abruptly back to his friend)
ANDRE: You were saying?
SMILEY: I was about to the say that the movie, made primarily by German artists, was a sucker punch that changed America.
ANDRE: (Barely audible) A sucker punch?
SMILEY: (Supremely confident) Yup. It was the first step in the pacification of American youth.
(They sit quietly now for a time; after a lengthy pause, Mrs. Boulet returns to her meal. Andre does not; instead, he sits staring at Smiley as if seeing him for the first time)
SMILEY: There have been moments of great, life-altering beauty, but they begin here--now White came first, but the movie, as a whole, didn't go to the center of the male mind.
ANDRE: You've thought a great deal about this, haven't you?
SMILEY: Why of course I've thought a great deal about this! Did you think I was making it up tonight?
(Andre makes a small move of his head, as if he didn't know how to respond. Smiley takes this to mean that he should continue)
SMILEY: (Carefully, even stately) I think always of the separation of the mother…
(Mrs. Boulet stops eating and turns her gaze on Smiley)
SMILEY: First, the caged Mrs. Dumbo--the heartbreaking perfection of the caged Mrs. Dumbo rocking her child with her trunk--through the bars! I don't know that there is a more poignant moment in American film.
ANDRE: And Pinocchio?
SMILEY: Why Pinocchio brings up all the terror of male eroticism--the visible repercussions of sin--a part of the body grows larger--extends--and then after a visit to Pleasure Island, the boys turn into donkeys! What is that about? It's beautiful! And we should never forget that the lure of show biz started it all! (He is happy)
ANDRE: (Resigned now to Smiley's premise) The movie gave me nightmares. I dreamed for weeks of turning into a donkey…(His voice trails off)
SMILEY: I knew it! And the lure of the pool hall?
ANDRE: (Weakly) Sex?
MRS. BOULET: (Looking up) Sex?
SMILEY: Sex.
After a long pause, during which the three people sit staring silently ahead, they return, timed perfectly as one, to their meals. After a few seconds of eating, Smiley breaks the silence)
SMILEY: The final moment in the pacification of the American child, the moment that assures our future inability to go to war? (Smiley has been asking a question; Andre nods in response) The shadowy, heartbreaking death of Bambi's mother. (Smiley raises his voice in imitation of the movie) "We made it, Mom…Mom…Mom?" America's children changed that day.
ANDRE? How so?
SMILEY: When the day comes, a decade or so, when we are asked to go to war, those of us who properly watched Bambi will not go willingly. If at all.
ANDRE: (His voice filled with sarcasm) You're sure?
SMILEY: Quite sure.
(Andre and his mother finish eating; Andre a bit ahead of Mrs. Boulet. Smiley, who has of course been doing the talking, still has food on his plate. When Smiley again speaks it is with his old lightness)
SMILEY: There is one other great scene though!
ANDRE: The flying sequence in Peter Pan?
SMILEY: I'd forgotten that! (In the voice of a child) "Goodbye, Nana!" (In his own voice) No, I was thinking of the restaurant scene in The Lady and the Tramp.
(Andre recoils a bit, as if he knows what is coming. Mrs. Boulet lights up visibly)
MRS. BOULET: Oh, I love that scene, Smiley! Its so romantic! Its so lovely when Tramp pushes the meatball across his plate with his nose and Lady blushes because she's falling in love with Tramp and . . .
(She winds down as Smiley and Andre make eye contact; Smiley stares at the meatball on his plate but does nothing. When he looks back into Andre's eyes, Andre makes a small shake of his head, as if to say: "Do not do this, Smiley." Mrs. Boulet notices this, looks at Smiley, and then back at Andre. Andre looks terrified now, while Smiley does just that: smile, a great beam of a grin. Aware at last that the two boys are in love, poor Mrs. Boulet blushes and looks away. Andre covers her hands with one of his )
ANDRE: I think its time to go.
MRS. BOULET: I think we should have stuck to Shane.
(Andre points to their waitress, who comes out of the darkness on the left side of the stage. As she moves towards them, the stage goes dark)
(Sudden light. A platform about three feet high in the center of the stage, steps on both sides. In the middle of the platform are two seats ripped from a large '50s automobile. Sprinting, Smiley enters from the left side, hops the stairs, and dives into the rear seat. He fidgets, running his hands through his hair and over his thighs for a minute or two before Howie enters from the right, strolling, clearly pleased with himself. He climbs his steps with obvious care and slides into the driver's position)
SMILEY: What's taking him?
HOWIE: You know how he is before a bout--everything has to be in place.
SMILEY: But everything is in place!
HOWIE: You know that, and I know that, but try telling Andre. I think he needs a girlfriend--someone to organize his life.
SMILEY: (Leaning forward) What does that mean? He has a manager.
HOWIE: I'm not talking about the things I manage. I'm talking about his life. All I do is get him his ridiculous wrestling matches.
(Smiley puts a hand on Howie's shoulder; when he speaks his voice is low)
SMILEY: Andre's bouts aren't ridiculous, Howie. They're wonderful.
HOWIE: (Sighs) I'm sorry. I know they're wonderful. It's just that it always feels to me that I'm not doing enough--that I've overlooked something.
(Andre crosses in front of the platform and climbs into the front passenger side. Smiley puts his arm across Andre's back and rests his head for a moment on Andre's shoulder. Andre, without looking back, ruffles Smiley's hair. This doesn't look at all excessive to Howie; indeed, he hardly seems to notice)
HOWIE: (Loudly blows air out of his cheeks before speaking) Well, I've got some news, guys.
(Smiley sits up and turns towards Howie; Andre shifts on his hip so that he can look at Smiley)
ANDRE: I don't like when he calls us "guys"- I don't know why, but I just don't like it.
SMILEY: I don't mind.
(Andre pulls his right fist back as if to throw a punch and Smiley ducks)
SMILEY: Hey, let me guess the news, Howie!
ANDRE: Sure. Let him. He's the genius. Did you know Smiley was a genius, Howie?
HOWIE: What makes you think he's a genius?
ANDRE: He sees things no one else sees.
HOWIE: Such as?
ANDRE: Talking animals.
HOWIE: (Caustic, flat) Wonderful. I'm sorry I asked.
ANDRE: No. Really. Smiley sees things no one else sees--honest.
HOWIE: I repeat: such as?
ANDRE: Such as the fact that America no longer wants to got to war.
HOWIE: Could this have anything to do with your bouts?
(Laughing, Smiley flips out of sight; Andre attempts to suppress a smile but fails)
SMILEY: (Out of sight behind seat, shouts) Can I guess?
HOWIE: (Shrugs) Go ahead. Guess.
SMILEY: (Still out of sight) You're going to get married!
(Andre leans away from Howie, open-mouthed, a look of mock horror on his face)
ANDRE: Good heavens! Why?
HOWIE: Lay off. You know why a guy gets married!
(With this, Smiley sits up, his head appearing between Andre and Howie, a look on his face that says he is very much interested in Andre's response. They "drive" for a few seconds looking straight ahead, silently, until all three break up in laughter; Howie leaning forward, hand over mouth, as if trying hard to maintain control of the car. They slowly wind down into silence, after which Howie finally asks)
HOWIE: Don't you want to know who she is?
(Andre and Smiley turn to each other and then, together, as if timed to perfection, blurt out: NO! and collapse into laughter, Andre falling back towards the "door" and Smiley falling over so that his kicking feet become visible. Miserable, Howie slumps over the invisible "wheel", only his eyes alive to the humor of the situation. When the boys sits back up, Howie composes himself and asks again)
HOWIE: Well, do you want to meet her or not?
(Quietly, without a hint of humor, the boys shake their heads "no". Howie looks straight ahead, as do the boys; they "drive" for a time until the stage goes dark)
(When the lights come back up, Andre is standing center stage, naked but for a lurid red thong. He stands, head turned to his right, right hand on left breast, left fist on hip. It is quite as if he know that he is being looked at, as if he enjoys it. Behind him, in the center of a raised platform is a very white rounded bathtub, the old type that sat on legs. Andre rubs his chest for a few seconds and then)
ANDRE: What did we care who Howie married? I mean, think about it? How could the creation of yet another husband-wife team possibly interest us? Neither of us could ever be either item--and the ones we'd seen were ludicrous at best. (Pause) No, I lived in the Gothic ruins of professional wrestling--the one world in which no one actually wrestled! And Smiley roamed the margins of a world in which crows sang and dogs were served in Italian restaurants--I lived with my mother and Smiley's parents came from Aldebaran--and we were as joined at the hip as the Mertzes. (Pause) Well, it turned out that the woman Howie was engaged to was a kind of ditzy person with blond curly hair--bleached actually. A wrestler can spot these kinds of things--a kind soul, really, but not at all tapped into our world--which may be why Howie eventually married her, I guess. (Eyes down, coy) Maybe she was great in bed, you never know . . . (whispers) I've heard the less attractive women (stops abruptly) I shouldn't be talking like this. Let's assume Howie loved her: Give them both the benefit of the doubt. That's more than anyone ever gave Smiley and me.
(A pause in which Andre combs his hair straight back and preens as if front of a mirror)
ANDRE: So the wedding was scheduled to be held in a synagogue on the west side--very close to where Howie lived actually--I"ve always thought that Howie picked places based on how close they were to Bob Cousy's home. (Looks down) I suppose if Killer Kowalski lived in Worcester, Howie would have rented the White Eagle. (Looking up)
It's a Polish-American club! Yeah. Howie's bachelor party was pretty good, I have to admit: two dozen of New England's finest wrestlers in the same room--without a scheduled match! The court of the Sun King couldn't have been any finer. Magnificent clothing; manners that verged on ritual; an arcane pecking order. Wigs! An undercurrent of sexual favor. And the food! (Smacks forehead with palm) That I might live long enough to again eat as well! Such potato pancakes! (Pause) If you can date wrestler, do so. If not, date a wrestler's manager. (Pause) I got up that morning, the morning of the wedding, and thought: Today I shall look wonderful. And so shall Smiley! We will look wonderful together. We rent tuxes at Bonardi's. (Pause) For the first time in his life, my poor Smiley looked elegant, like a character in Gatsby--I think he was actually proud to wear the tux--and to wear it with me. (Pause) I came very close to being named Howie's best man, but fell short. Howie explained to me, with some sadness, that the role had to go to his brother. His parents wouldn't hear of a Catholic wrestler being best man. I didn't mind--but I awoke that morning wanting to be grand . . .
(Smiley enters from the right side of the stage now, looking young and sweet. He is naked and quite attractive. He crosses the stage and climbs the steps that lead up to the tub; Andre, silent now, never turns to look at him. Smiley will climb into the tub and turn to face the audience, an image of purist sexuality. After a pause, he will slide down into the tub, going totally out of view. Over the next few minutes the light round the tub will increase in intensity until the tub and platform are invisible. Andre, still facing forward, will become a blur. When the light at last returns to normal, Andre will be wearing a pleated shirt out over tuxedo pants. He will also be barefoot)
ANDRE: It was the first anyone knew about Smiley's epilepsy . . . I thought I'd sneak in on him in the tub . . . kiss him while he washed . . .
(Now Andre turns and walks back to the platform, where he pauses before climbing the steps. When he does climb up, he does so slowly, with great care, stopping finally to look down at Smiley for what must feel like a long time. When he lifts Smiley into sight, he must do so effortlessly, with a single smooth gesture, the look on his face one of unfathomable pain. Still silent he will carry the boy down the steps and back to the center of the stage, where he will sit down, cradling the boy's upper body against his chest)
ANDRE: So this is what it comes down to? As simple as that. One morning Smiley is here and the next morning he isn't. (Quietly, almost to himself) Howie postponed the wedding. No one wants to get married the day a member of the wedding party drowns in the tub. (Pause, and then in a louder voice) I wondered what to do with him, whether or not I should tell the world that Smiley and I loved each other, but I decided against it--for all the obvious reasons. I thought of burying him like one of the Vikings in the Kirk Douglas movie he loved, but decided against it--for all the obvious reasons. I didn't think the Fox ever had to bury the Crow, or Little Lulu Tubby, so I settled on giving my boy back to his people--and for pretending that I'd lost a dear friend (Pause) when in truth, I'd lost so much more.
(There is a long, silent moment during which Andre holds Smiley's head against his chest; and, then, refusing to say any more, he will jerk his head once. More than simply a refusal to comment, his gesture is a refusal to accept what has happened. It should be followed by a shutting off of the lights)
(When the lights come up again, we have returned to the Wonder Bar. It is all but deserted. Andre and his mother are seated at one of the center tables. All of the other figures in the restaurant, including the waitresses, are featureless dummies. Both Andre and his mother appear to be in pretty good spirits)
ANDRE: You know, I've been reading about the final phase of Monet's career . . .
MRS. BOULET: Mo-nay?
ANDRE: Yes, the Impressionist painter--the one who inspired me, you know.
MRS. BOULET: (Blank for a second, but then remembers) Oh, yes! Like Toulouse Lautrec.
ANDRE: Yes. Only Monet. I've been thinking about how he devoted himself to painting subtle variations in water lilies, how he found an unnoticed dimension.
MRS. BOULET: That reminds me. This little French guy goes into a tailor to get a suit made. When he tries on the pants, the tailor gives a tug and says: Are these too loose, Lautrec?
ANDRE: (With what amounts to mild shock) Now? Now you decide to take up comedy?
MRS. BOULET: It's never too late for comedy, Andre.
(They sit silently staring at each other for a few seconds before the lights are extinguished)