Tahiti for George George was a dreadful place, and he quickly
discovered that it was far from where he needed to be. A better place
that George George subsequently wandered to (via TWA flight #442) was a
city called New York, whose inhabitants don't look so lost.
New York also contains a world-famous theatric organization called
Broadway, which would simply be an ideal setting to complete his
mysterious mission.
There was one Broadway Theater in particular that seemed to be
getting a lot of local press. (And that's not to mention that there was
a close to a bazillion posters around the city advertising the play in
that theater, featuring a rather attractive older woman wearing a
skimpy loincloth and seeming to deliver a sonata in the middle of a
rain forest). He decided to hang around that theater to learn what he
could learn. He was examining the flashing light bulbs around an
encased Jungle Fever poster. George George deduced that Jungle Fever
must be a worthwhile theatrical production if the humans felt so
inclined to place flashing light bulbs around one of its
advertisements.
George George still had on his Hawaiian garb except now it was all
torn up. The ends of his shirt were tattered, one of his khaki legs was
partially torn off at the groin, one of his shoelaces was missing, and
the side of his hat was permanently bent up. (An old woman's toy poodle
attacked George George during his very brief stay in Tahiti.) He began
to stare at the flashing bulbs. After awhile, all he could think about
was how neat they looked.
"So?" said the voice of a young boy. George George broke from his
gaze at the lights and turned around. A ten-year-old boy was staring up
at him. He seemed to be expecting something of George George.
"Yes?" George George responded looking confused.
"Well, I mean, most of you hobos do something," the boy said. "You
know, like play the harmonica or dance around to worn old phonographs
or make embarrassing drunk gurgling noises."
"I am no hobo," George George said, straightening out his
posture.
"Yeah, obviously," the boy said scanning George George's garb.
"Donald!" a woman screamed. She emerged from a small passing crowd
of slightly drunk college students who seemed to be rehearsing various
scenes from A Streetcar Named Desire. "Donald, you get away from that!"
She angrily grabbed the boy's hand and continued to scold him as we was
dragged out of George George's sight. Just then, the theater doors
slammed open and a swarm of well-dressed theatergoers gushed out. A
couple of older women stepped off to the side.
"Boy, that Harold Danes is a certified has-been," one of them said.
She was dressed in a rather unique emerald-green gown that exposed a
bit too much of her bosom than society would like to see from a woman
her age.
"I know it," the other woman responded, shaking her head pitifully.
She had on a ridiculous, oversized stole of some sort wrapped around
her neck so tightly that it was amazing that she didn't choke to
death.
"Oh! And that dialogue is awful!"
"I know! It's hard to believe that this was the same Harold Danes
that made us cry twenty years ago in that heartbreaking scene in
Sparrows to Doves when Sam McBride wrote a suicide note on a coupon for
orange juice."
"It's so disappointing to see these new plays of his. They simply
cannot measure up."
"It's like we're hoping to for something great out of Harold, but I
keep coming out of his latest plays feeling like I just watched an old
dog step closer to the crimson gates of death."
"I feel the same way, too. You would think that all the respect and
influence that Harold Danes has over the theater community--I mean,
whatever the guy does'll get premiered. So, he keeps on writing this
mediocre-to-awful stuff, and it'll play in theaters for at least three
months. In the meanwhile, the struggling artist--a brilliant playwright
who has a brilliant script tucked under his wing--he can't get it
premiered because the theaters are too busy with this repulsive Harold
Danes garbage!"
"You know he still makes money off of them. People keep on buying
the tickets." There was an unsettling break at this point in the
conversation.
"The same thing goes with Shirley O'Leary," the bosom-bearing woman
continued. "Oh, boy her acting abilities have gone up to the great land
of the fairies in the sky, and there's no chance that we'll be seeing
it again."
"She hasn't truly impressed me as an actress for a long, long time,"
the stole-wearing woman responded. She waved down a taxicab. It stopped
in front of them.
"Indeed. Even her singing has gotten worse. She used to be such a
talented cat. It's a shame that she threw it to the dogs." The bosom
lady opened the door of the taxicab and got in. The stole woman
followed and slammed the door shut. Part of the stole was hanging out
at the bottom of the door.
"Talented cat," George George uttered to himself as he scribbled
that phrase on his palm. He had been taking notes of that entire
conversation. Above that, he had also written down the words "Harold
Danes" and "influence."
Clenching that palm into a fist, he started walking down that
sidewalk. He felt that he was finally ready to begin work at dawn's
break. He would also, decidedly, have to do something about his
clothes.
