Harold Danes, 52, was well off. Ever since he made it big on the
Broadway scene in 1972 with his phenomenal dramatic musical titled
Enter, Mine Daisies, he knew no poverty.
Today, Harold was finishing up the last-minute touches on his latest
Broadway play, Jungle Fever, which is a rollicking romantic musical
about the love of a man and a woman in the jungle. And, these changes
really were last minute, because it was set to debut in less than a
week. (He's been doing this a lot over the last month ? which really
frustrated the cast.) Naturally, the play was to feature the shimmering
starlet Shirley O'Leary. She is in all of Harold's plays (and usually
nothing else).
Actually, everything wasn't great in the world of Harold Danes. In
fact, apart from his wealth and, in general, still having a job, there
wasn't anything good to speak of in Harold's life. Ever since his 1986
comedy Wanda, My Beautiful got such a scathing review in The New York
Press, Harold's plays have been nothing but lacking (and some might say
utterly ridiculous). And, poor Shirley O'Leary let Harold's negative
press go too much to heart.
Nevertheless, whether it is out of their undying fandom or in
response to recent film adaptations of his previous plays, Danes
continues to pack the theater. They come hoping that the living legend
might possibly be subject to a creative comeback. Unfortunately, for
more than twenty years, it never happened. His plays seem to get worse
and worse.
Harold's only live-in relative was his son, Steve. Steve was
currently not-enjoying his freshman year at the exclusive private
school, Johnson's Harmonious Academy. He didn't care very much about
his education, and he made that fact starkly obvious. So obvious that
it annoyed his teachers to death.
Steve had a trademark scowl. Indeed, he had very little room for any
other type of trademark, because scowling is pretty much all he did.
This scowl involved him opening his mouth halfway and, seemingly,
trying to roll his eyes to the back of his skull. Really, that scowl
was kind of freaky.
Sometimes, Steve might talk to somebody (in school or otherwise) but
not when it wasn't required. Talkativeness isn't a trait common among
students who aren't too stimulated about what's going on around
them.
Ever since Steve was a kid, his father hadn't a successful moment
(unless you count in 1994 when the film adaptation of perhaps his most
beloved play, Heathcliffe, My Tender received a few Academy Award
nominations), and Harold's frustration and unhappiness rubbed off on
his kid. Steve was never proud of his father ? nor was he particularly
ashamed of him. He didn't care about it.
At nearly midnight, Harold finally finished the last minute edits
(for the last time, maybe) on Jungle Fever. He lightly stroked the
(maybe) completed draft with his index finger. Hopefully the edits
helped it, he thought. He was pretty certain that the play wasn't good,
but maybe people would enjoy it. After all, it's about a romance in the
jungle. You can never go wrong with a romance in a jungle. ? No one
ever has ? that he was aware of.
It had always been a standing tradition in Harold's career to start
a new play before the current one had the chance to debut. But first,
Harold needed a drink. He brought his square bottle of stiff scotch
over to his well-polished mahogany dining room table. On it sat a brand
new yellow notepad, and neatly laid next to it was a ballpoint pen. He
stretched his shoulders and gazed at the blank notepad. For this new
play, Harold thought he would try writing something Shakespearean. He
always admired the work of old Shakespeare, and he always fantasized
writing a Shakespearean play. He wasn't too sure it was a good idea,
but nobody's ever tried that before that he was aware of, and he
thought that might be his new key to success.
There hasn't been a Shakespearean play worth remembering ever since
Shakespeare himself last had a go at it, and he thought the public
might be ready for a new one. As Harold continued to gaze at the blank
notepad, almost like magic, Shakespeare's smiling face appeared on
it.
"Have a crack at it, man," Shakespeare said encouragingly.
"And the people would like the play?" Harold asked rather sharply.
His forehead was lightly glazed with sweat. He always gets a bit antsy
whenever he starts a new play.
"Of course!" Shakespeare reassured. "My plays are brilliant! ? And
I'm sure that a play by you would be brilliant, as well, as long as it
sounds like me. However, remember that only The True Bard could write
that brilliant duel between Romeo and Tybalt! You see, unless you come
up with something as awesome as that, you'll never amount to me, but
I'm sure you'll at least come close ? Romeo was such a bastard, wasn't
he? He was my prototypical bastard! I have no idea why people of your
age consider Romeo to be some sort of great lover. He's not! Romeo is a
bastard. And Juliet is a slut!"
"Yeah," Harold said blankly, looking a bit dumbfounded at
Shakespeare's remarks.
"Oh! And that part I wrote in Hamlet at the end when everybody
died?" the elated Shakespeare continued. "Wasn't that awesome?"
"Yeah," Harold repeated. Frankly he was already getting irritated
with imaginary-Shakespeare.
"Well," Shakespeare continued, now trying to regain his composure.
"I suppose I should leave you to your new play. Remember, if one or
more characters in your play are total bastards, you'll do fine. And it
won't hurt to kill everybody at the end. Let me know when it premieres,
and I'll send one of my dominions out to see it. See ya!" Shakespeare's
figure mysteriously disappeared.
Harold, with some amount of rejuvenation from his vision of
Shakespeare, poured himself a half-shot of scotch and swallowed it all
down with a gulp. He stretched his shoulders again. Ballpoint pen in
hand, he was ready to create! ? To inspire! ? To write the greatest
Shakespearean play since Shakespeare!
Every Shakespearean play must have an inspired opening monologue.
Harold nervously closed his eyes and opened them again. He looked at
his feet. There were holes in his socks.
"You know, I really should take some time next week and buy myself
some new socks," Harold said to himself. "I just haven't had time."
Realizing that he let his mind wander, he shook his head and cleared
his thoughts. Harold huffed and told himself to concentrate. He opened
and closed his eyes nervously and began to write his new play's opening
monologue.
"I weareth thee, two socks, on mine two feet. There is only one of
thee per foot. With thee, o socks, I owe my life, for it is thee who
protecteth mine feet from scrapes, from blisters, and from pain that
mine shoe doeth viciously inflict.
However, there is nothing that protects thee from those
unmentionable acts just mentioned. Thee hath thinned and worn, over the
years, as I continued to wear thee. Thee hath continued to disintegrate
so that thee are no longer whole; holes doth make thee so.
I am bearing thee, two socks, but both of thee hath a hole. Upon my
left foot, my big toe and the two to follow are hideously exposed. Upon
my right, it is the wrinkly, bulbous heel. Though the holes are against
mine wishes -- for it is only natural to wish for feet that are
completely covered -- I certainly cannot blame thee. Thee gave a fight;
a trite fight of simple walking-rubbing against the heel of mine shoe
by will of mine foot, combating against mine sharp, ill-groomed
toenails, which sits the toes that doth stretched thee. 'Tis the feet
thee tries to protect, but they hath slain thee.
O socks, you have been ever so faithful to me. 'Tis as if God pooped
on thee that thou doest not hath cell-replacement like mine feet
possess.
O socks, with a hole so unholy, how do I ever repay thee? Perhaps I
should mount thee on mine wall, or perhaps I should continue to bear
thee to prove that thee are still faring fair. But what is the use, for
I cannot use thee if thou hath a hole, for it would put blisters on my
feet -- which is what thee is supposed to protect me against after
all.
Perhaps the fault of thy holes is mine, and it is not fate. Even
though it is written in the foul book of destiny that all socks should
eventually develop holes, perhaps I should hath chosen an alternate
shoe so that thee couldeth enjoyed increased longevity -- perhaps a
name-brand shoe, that would not have treated thee so foully.
Unfortunately, what is done is done. I should come to terms with
thee's expiring term, for thee should eventually departeth one day
eventually.
Shall a proper burial be put underway for thee in mine garbage can?
Or perhaps thee wouldst prefer a burial at sea, flushed down the
toilet?
Fare well, o socks! Thou were obliterated in thy prime, but I shall
remember thy courageous hearts, through endless miles of journey, and
endless gallons of Clorox Bleach. Goodbye my sweet princes! May you
rest in piece!"
Harold re-read what he had just written, laughed nervously, and
buried his face in his palm.
"Boy," he said to himself despairingly.
At that same moment Steve was in a rut of his own. Due tomorrow in
his biology class was a research paper. The biology teacher, Mr.
Lightholm, let his students choose which member of the animal kingdom
to report on. Most males in the class chose such animals as the grizzly
bear, the lion, or the wolf. Steve, on the other hand, decided to go
with the anteater, which he really knew nothing about.
He was sitting motionless in front of his computer screen, staring
blankly at the empty word processor document.
