Tag Archives: fear

Bombardment, Episode 18: Five Feet Off the Ground, Heels Clickin’

Splattworks continues its presentation of Bombardment, a two-act drama by Steve Patterson. The author will attempt to post an installment each day, but, if events intercede, installments could arrive a day or so apart. So please be patient.

[EPISODE 18]

PLACID: You call it yours, they want it. They want these chairs and that pipe, that knife and this paper. Your bracelet, your necklace. They’ll rip it from you, never mind the cuts. That dress. Gone. They’ll steal the underwear right off your ass. And they want this space. That’s what they want most of all. The dry air. The heat. Feel it. Nice and warm. Not like outdoors. Warm in winter, cool in summer. What they dream of. Out there. Freezing. Faces breathing on the glass. Lips open. Teeth yellow. All you can see are eyes. Glowing. They see in the dark. Fly through the air. Breathe under water. They’ll do anything to get what you have.
CARMELITA: It’s not true.
PLACID: The hell you say.
CARMELITA: Not the poor. I know the poor. They’re too busy staying alive.
PLACID: That’s what they want you to think. They’re so vibrant! So alive! They make couture out of dishrags! Turn plate scraping’s into high cuisine! Give ’em two spoons and a empty oatmeal box, and you got an orchestra! And they love! How they love! Love, love, love all the time. In a way we’ll never know. In a way we can’t imagine! I’ve heard it all!

PLACID backs CARMELITA onto an armchair.

PLACID: I’ve heard it, and it’s a lie. Like all shows of respect are a lie. Yes, sir. No, sir. You know best, sir. I know because I’ve done it. Said it. Felt the cut. You say it because you have to. Because you don’t want your raise jerked. Your job jerked. Your life jerked. There’s a cord ‘round your neck, and all it takes is a tug, whoop, you’re five feet off the ground, heels clickin’. You want to know why? You really want to know why? Because at the heart of it, it’s gimme’. Gimme’ your house, gimme’ your job, gimme’ your position. Your leverage. Gimme’ one little thing, and I’ll take the rest. Because, babe, I’ll never be satisfied. The second I’m satisfied, the rest of them catch up. You’re lucky. You just wander past the outstretched hands, and wonder why everyone acts the way they do. I’ll tell you. We’re animals. All of us. Whether we’re rich or poor, whether we hide it or not. That’s all there is. And I like it. I’m good at it. It’s why I breathe, why I eat, why I get up in the morning. Gimme’, gimme’, gimme’!

PLACID kisses her savagely.

CARMELITA: Placid, that’s not it at all. We should open the doors.

PLACID: You’re crazy!
CARMELITA: Let those people in. It’s cold out there.
PLACID: They’d strip us out in five seconds!
CARMELITA: We can break it. Can’t you see? It’s a cycle. It goes on and on until someone puts a stop to it.
PLACID: Let someone else put a stop to it! I’m gonna’ live!
CARMELITA: How long can you live like that?
PLACID: I’m livin’ to be old and rich.

CARMELITA: Are you? You said it yourself: they’re all struggling to get in. You think you can keep them out forever?
PLACID: I’ll fight ‘em.
CARMELITA: Every single one, Placid? You’ll fight them all at once?
PLACID: If I have to.
CARMELITA: All the time? When you’re sick? When you’re sleeping? You want to be rich. You want to grow old. How will you fight them then? When your bones snap if you fall, and the fat hangs over your belt, and you can’t catch your breath? You’re fight every man Jack of them? Young guys? Guys as strong as you are now?

Like an old man, PLACID sags down in an armchair.

[To be continued]


Bombardment, Episode 14: Thoughts Traveling in Straight, Efficient Lines

Splattworks continues its presentation of Bombardment, a two-act drama by Steve Patterson. The author will attempt to post an installment each day, but, if events intercede, installments may occur a day or so apart. So please be patient.

[EPISODE 14]

CARMELITA: What am I worried about? We got all this stuff! Got a hacksaw and a tire iron and a hi-res panel screen and a convertible and a wet bar and a garlic press and a Lear Jet and all of David Bowie’s records. Got Classics comics and Cliff Notes. Got a flutter in my left anterior ventricle, so I get to take these purple and white pills that make me feel nice and everybody treats me gentle. Got government bonds and municipal bonds and junk bonds, the whole collection. IRA, ERA, MIA, CIA, PCP, EI, EI, O. Let’s do something! For God’s sake, let’s do anything! Let’s. . .go somewhere, see something, get into trouble, save ourselves, make love, make war, make extended negotiations leading to partition of our shared territory, wait twenty years, and reunify amid much fanfare! Let’s do something, do something, do something! Wall Street sucks! Wall Street sucks! (Screams.)
PLACID: The market’s shaky.

CARMELITA repeatedly stabs the air with the knife. Takes off her shoes, places them side-by-side on the table, and stabs the knife into the table so it stands between the toes of the pumps.

CARMELITA: Die, die, die, beast!

CARMELITA picks up CORNO’s pipe.

CARMELITA: Maybe I should take up the pipe. What do you think? A woman smoking a pipe, that’s rare. A mark of distinction. Women acting like men, stretching boundaries of freedom. Suit. Bowler and arm garters. Yass, yass. I think I feel different already. Forceful. Controlled. Thoughts travel in straight, efficient lines. Not muddled up with curves and loops. Why, there’s so much I can do with this pipe. Conduct a meeting. Declare closure. Shred documents. Paint out faces. Rearrange atoms. Nullify time. Why, there’s nothing I can’t do with this pipe. Nothing except. . .things I would have no interest in doing anyway. You there! Bend over and grab those ankles!

[To be continued]


Our Sarah

Well. Isn’t she just a spunky, down-to-earth, snowbilly attack dog from hell?

Also, just from personal experience with similar types: she’s completely batshit crazy.

Good luck.


Blogging with Ghosts

So it’s no news to regular splattworks readers that I’m co-producing Dead of Winter, three ghost stories written for the stage, with Portland’s The Bluestockings (we open February 1st, run through February 23rd, blah blah blah). But as kind of a fun rehearsal night off/group activity/weird adventure, I’m booked to stay Friday night at Portland’s notoriously haunted White Eagle Tavern, which has been lovingly restored as a hotel, and the cast and crew are going to drop by as my guests. We’ll tell some ghost stories, maybe watch the classic 1964, black and white version of The Haunting. And, of course, drink. Good times…we hope.

But, since the Eagle is set up with wireless Internet, we’re also hoping to blog live from the site, so, if you’re curious, check in with this blog starting around 9:00 PM tomorrow, and see what, if anything, happens. (That is, of course, assuming the equipment doesn’t suddenly cease to function for unexplainable reasons.) My suspicion is that we’ll have some fun and ghosts will be scarce, but I suppose you never know. This isn’t a public event–it’s a private party–but the blog is a way for those outside the cast and crew to vicariously join the festivities. So log on, turn the lights down, put on Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor, and come along for the ride.

For the record, the story has it that the upstairs, where I’ll be, ahem, sleeping, is haunted by Rose, a prostitute who was murdered on the premises, and Sam, an alcoholic handyman sort of “adopted” by the original tavern owners and who spent most of his life, between and sometimes during binges, on-site. Sam also occasionally pulls a prank or two on the ground floor, but most of the spirits there are in bottles. There’s also a malevolent presence in the Eagle’s basement, but that’s off-limits to guests, and, having once visited it in the company of McMenamin’s resident historian, I can say I have absolutely no interest whatsoever in ever going down there again…if you get my drift. I don’t really know whether or not I believe in ghosts, but, having gone down there, I do believe I don’t want to go there again. Seriously.

My ancestors may be Irish, where ghosts come with the property deed, but some basements you just don’t want to mess with….

Finally, it’s worth noting that something strange seems to be in air this winter: Dead of Winter will be the third Portland production in a month’s time that has to do with ghosts, the other two being Third Rail Repertory’s Shining City and Theatre Vertigo’s Where’s My Money? (Both worth seeing.) And we’re all working independently of each other and didn’t really know about each other’s show’s paranormal aspects until the shows went up. How…odd.