You’re in the middle of a crowded foyer, making idle conversation with a steward of some sort, neck-deep in a three-piece, neatly pressed and pleated, clearly itching to chit-chat.
Silence
STEWARD. We run a tight ship, we do. Us of the crew, we pass through walls. We’re here and we’re there. We’re not solid matter, we’re movement and run on air.
We’re ran like a regiment, all fully in tune. ( Deep breath. ) Like deaf-mute dancers, we move without a word, never colliding, like the celestial dance of planets. Astronomers might calculate our position at any given moment, as every minute is accounted for with us. But of course there is no one watching us, for indeed we have little need for them. Much like the planets did dance before being watched, we can do our dance without being watched just the same.
Or at least ( Pause. ) most of the time. Rarely, and I do say of course, rarely, we do find ourselves in a tight spot. A tight present, a now ( looking left and right) more narrow than we’d have it . . . otherwise, if you catch my . . . ( breathily ) you-know.
Hell, I’ll come right out and say it : so there was a, er, slight . . . hiccup. There was some time that went unaccounted for.
Happens !
As in any perfect system, there may at one time or another be found a fault. ( Pause. ) A minor one to be sure, but nevertheless, undeniably a fault.
A fault, a teeny tiny—
Of course, wherever there’s a human element, one can find fault. And we can hardly help being human forever, now can we ?
Whispers
So we simply whisper among ourselves. We don’t want it to get out. Over something so small ? There’s really no need. On a need-to-know and no one needs to know. We don’t sell our own now do we ? It’s you next, know that !
It’s a simple thing really, best keep it that way, ( Finger to the lips. ) wouldn’t you say ?
Why complicate things and involve others, and start a whole new . . . thing, waste more time ? No no, we much rather keep it to ourselves, wrapped up and tidy, pass it on from one to the other. We need to stick together here, let it be clear.
And at the end of the day of course it’s nothing, nothing at all. At the end of the day it will all be wiped clean. Like it never happened. ( Pause. ) Not a thing at all.
But until then we have to figure something, as to keep it close and close the circle. Hold on, ( eyes darting ) speak of the—
Turn.
A HEAD emerges from the crowd.
HEAD. HI , EVERYTHING WELL ?
STEWARD. Yes yes, splendid Sir, just splendid . . .
HEAD. THAT ’ S WHAT I LIKE TO HEAR !
STEWARD ( under their breath, sardonic ). Do I know it.
( Then abruptly, chipper ) Ciao-ciao !
The HEAD disappears into the crowd.
The Fool
Return.
So it goes. You know it's not true per se, but still you play along. That’s how it is. We know very well what we’re doing, we all do, we really do, even ( gesturing vaguely ) they, but still, ( Pause. ) we’re doing it.
I guess you could say that perhaps these empty gestures only emphasise their very emptiness. To me it sure does in any case—and believe me, the irony is not lost on me. Invariably it does make me wish it was. It makes me long for what it suggests could be true, possible, what have you. ( Pause. ) But perhaps it can’t.
Who is to say ? We all need stories to tell ourselves. I suppose no one really believes themselves when they speak, do they ? We have to keep up appearances. To others, sure, and to ourselves doubly so. Otherwise . . . what’s left ?
Because really, as you can see, I ain’t nobody either. Never been. It's out of my hands. Only ever fulfilling a faceless role! We all have different hats, er, er, different masks for each situation. As if—
Turn, as if tapped on the shoulder.
A PATRON emerges from the crowd.
PATRON. ( Indistinct. )
STEWARD. Boy. Now, see, I wouldn’t know anything about that, you know ? Mm-mm. That’s another department, you can ask ( gesturing vaguely ) my colleagues over there. Unfortunately I’m neither equipped or authorised to help with that in any capacity, at all, whatsoever. But that bad, ha ? Well, tell you what—
PATRON. ( Indistinct. )
STEWARD ( as if with feeling ). Yeah . . . ( Pause, as if in thought, solemnly. Then abruptly ) Right !
Return.
And under that mask ? ( Pause. ) Yet another mask. ( Then downcast, as if stepping in it ) Shit . . .
The PATRON merges back into the crowd.
So you see what I mean ? You know, with all that goes on, at least to me it’s very-very clear, that the mask of the fool can be a most useful tool. That is, for those who know well how to play such a categorically unwieldy ( Pause. ) instrument.
A cunning and wise master ( Pause. ) musician is what it takes. Sure, sure . . . not like sending the dogs, nothing so base you know. Rather something hard to register, subtle.
You may imagine, less than human, with all its agency, none of the repercussions . . . even seemingly working against itself or whoever else there might be in tow. Someone you could hardly say of that if they work for so-and-so they are one of them, or any some such or other. A loose cannon, a free radical, indeterminate, forever instilling that feeling of or-are-they ? And that’s just it, that’s just the thing.
The Deaf Leading the Blind
And you know, it’s one thing if we’re like that, but—you’d think anyway—another entirely if they are.
Here, in a place like this, this happening is hardly imaginable for now. It’s not in my instruction either, naturally, for now. But you know it’s out there already, surely. Maybe it’s only a matter of time. Though of course, our benevolent rulers here are also just another department’s dog, and that one yet another’s. Still a stretch then . . . a far cry I suppose. But someone’s got to know something around here.
Dogs on dogs’ leads . . . hey, you’re not actually listening, are you ? No, right ? In one ear, right ? Atta boy.
Anyway, ( grabbing at the air in front of their face, as if to say : ) it doesn’t matter. It’s just the logical progression of things, as much as we try not to think of it that way, because it’s bad for morale and so on.
Everything is replaceable. You know, that thing about the industrial revolution. I exaggerate but you get what I mean. Everything is pulled apart, every part like any other part. Work is just a structured sequence of empty gestures, you’re both working hard and hardly working. Look-busy is busy. And the more things change, the more things are bound to stay the same.
What’s a job ? It’s only a job, I’ll get another. It’s not who I am. People ? Meaty fillings. Or is it the other way around ? Meat bags then ? Eyes and ears ! Full bladders !
Whichever way you take it, positions need to be filled. Who by, who cares. There’s always another. The you-know-who too, even especially I’d say.
It’s marionettes on marionettes on marionettes. At least we’re crawling in the muck, they’re just strung up in between, floating in fuck-all, with nothing to hold onto. The only requirement for entry is having the same strain of brain worms as the hiring manager. That’s so you can level real nice with them, so they know you have the same common sense as them.
And sure enough they slip and fall, of course they do. In fact it happens literally all the time, no kidding. They really don’t know a damned thing—but not in a good way. It’s hilarious, almost sad. Just dreadful, really. The revolving doors never stop spinning. Upstairs, downstairs, it’s all the same.
What I’m trying to say is there’s really no need to prey on anybody’s downfall. You’ll only call unwanted attention to yourself. And you’d best prepare to die in the harness while you’re at it. You’ll be making all this arduous, just arduous progress, and yet ( Pause. ) nothing will ever change.
It’s-it’s-it’s . . . whack-a-mole is what it is, rolling a boulder. There’s no winning as long as you’re playing, like a casino. You can’t kill them in a way that matters. The house always wins, why bother ! They just keep sprouting back up like, like, weeds, or fungus, disease. They’ll just come back but worse, stronger, stranger.
No, they should like you and forget you. Better keep the easy ones, and keep the big-big so-and-so’s up and away, out of sight and let them mind their business, and us ours.
Lies
It doesn’t take faith or piety to belong to a religion, the thing is to do it anyway, regardless of whatever else. We’re put on this Earth as knights of perfect virtue, but it’s our collective fate to then grow burdened and cynical, of infinite resignation.
Or else . . . quixotic.
You might think it’s just empty ceremony, a lie, white or otherwise, biding time. But if only ! If only words and deeds weren’t spells, binding us over time. Between memory and dream there is no here and now. We know, they know, but we all carry on anyway and by the end, there was nothing hiding behind it, nothing to uncover. There had in fact been no time.
We can be as dispassionate as we like, but it’ll come true. Irony will eat itself, and when all is said and done we’ll be what we professed never to become. Before long you’ll even be the dick in charge, charged to take charge. It’ll happen to you. You’ll belong, too. You’ll belong ( distantly ) to . . .
( As if snapping out of it ) But what else is there ? It had only ever been that, it had only even been able to be that. When you break it down it falls apart. At the heart, there’s nada. And I take no pleasure in telling you that the cure is to die. The only question left is why : why wait, or why even bother worrying.
Loose Screws
I’m so tired. The thing now is not to fall asleep. I’m a shadow of myself. I drag my foot, I walk on shaky legs like on stilts. I’m on loose screws, I'm rattling. I’m a creaky little crank. It appears instruments should be made to squeal and cry.
At times I’ll avert my eyes, get shy, knowing it’s all ears around here. I fear my common sense is turning awry, that my good sense is growing grotesque.
They’ll ask me “ Why are you smiling ? ” and I’ll answer “ I’m not smiling, ” because you can never know with these things and how they’ll go.
I’m misfiring, I mistake my lover in the faces of strangers, and when I blink I’m left to wonder who turned out the lights. Thinking someone isn’t playing the game straight. The rules keep changing whilst staying the same. Thinking someone must be lying around here, ( Pause. ) but of course—
People love talking to validate and justify themselves to others, to anyone, and in turn, to themselves again. I’d like to believe I don’t do that. I want to believe I only partake in the ritual begrudgingly—an alibi for my willingness to participate. It’s part and parcel, par for the course. I’m one of you, please accept me. But of course . . .
I can only laugh lock-jawed, through my teeth. I am the tragic hero the audience thinks a fool. It’s silly, it’s senseless—I am. Nobody would ever do that, be so stupid ! But of course ( Pause. Then deflated ) not.
The Knight's Move
To a healthy organism, murmurs, lapses, aberrations, only serve to strengthen it, embolden it, but to a weak or weakened one, they could spell disaster, perhaps even death. Only the depressed see the world for what it is, we need to delude ourselves.
A SECOND STEWARD emerges from the crowd, who deposits a small parcel into the first’s pocket.
Rehearsals always feel a little ( They exchange a glance. ) stilted, or silly even. That is, if you’re not used to them. I suppose because you can’t quite imagine how it’ll come together in the end. I suppose unlike . . . certain other things, this is a thing that does take a bit of faith.
And when the ship goes down, there will be no captains around.
The SECOND STEWARD disappears into the crowd.
Watch this : ( Clears throat. ) Welcome, how may I help you today ?
You begin to speak, but are immediately interrupted.
STEWARD ( looking at their bare wrist ). Unfortunately I must ask you to please consult ( gesturing vaguely ) one of my colleagues for any and all further furnishings. Now, please, you must excuse me.
The STEWARD disappears into the crowd.
Curtains.