Most of Act I Ricky Ginsburg - April 2009

In order to accept the fact of nonverbal communication amongst species other than theatregoers and ushers, one must be able to envision life at a significantly less frenetic pace. Thus, to enter the mind of a large tree, for example, you have to take into account that while some trees live longer than humans, the average lifespan of say a pine tree is fifty years or the first exceptionally cold winter. Regardless of its decimal age (a purely Homo sapien construct) a year in tree history is very much the equivalent of a single day for one of us. Thus, the quirks, problems, and challenges we encounter daily require twelve months in the life of our friendly pine. Unfortunately, we only have use of this theatre for a few hours this evening, so we will have to accelerate the passage of time rather than have you grow roots.

The curtain rises on our impromptu forest setting with a pair of mature trees - Alba, an elegant Silver Fir, played by Sylvia Von Newmanburg and its neighbor, Phillipe Clouterhyde in the guise of Quercus, a stately Red Oak. Both are dressed in brown leotards and have faux leaf wigs that completely cover their faces. A mild New York winter has drifted into spring and both trees are extending their reach, both under and over the ground.

Quercus, his crown blown toward Alba by a gust of westerly marching wind, sighs as several of his branches become entangled once again in her pinecones. "They're going to cut you down soon."
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
"More sky for me."
"And for those disgusting naked branches." She rejoices momentarily as the wind relents and Quercus is sprung free. "Every time you touch me, I drop cones."
"Oh, and you think my nuts enjoy having those cones crash into them on the way down?"
Alba is pleased as a trio of squirrels (actually marionettes being moved on wires from above the stage) leap from his open branches to the shelter of her evergreen needles. "See? No one likes you."
"Right. That's why they live here and only visit you for the cheap treats."
"Are you calling me cheap?"
"Among other things."
"Look, if you kept your nuts in your pants instead of shaking them in every little girl's face who bought you a drink."
Phillipe lifts the chicken wire leaf cage off his head and drops it on the floor. "And if you weren't snorting coke with the narrator before every show, perhaps you wouldn't forget your lines so often."
"What I do with him is none of your business anymore." Sylvia sits down on the stage floor and pushes her headdress off behind her. Untying the knot in her hair, she lets the blond tresses fall to her shoulders. "If you're going to screw around, then so am I."
"You think I screwed that acne-inflicted teenage Barbie doll last night?"
She groans. "No, you were still drinking when I left the bar last night. I heard you go up to the roof at three o'clock this morning. Were you feeding the pigeons? I heard one of them that sounded quite pleased."
Kicking the wire basket of leaves over the edge of the stage, Philipe turns and points at her. "Yeah, well I didn't leave the pile of condom wrappers under the hammock."
Sylvia starts to retort, but wrinkles her nose and just shrugs and says nothing.
"Ah, so you don't deny it, then?"
"Maybe..."
"Maybe what? Maybe if you stop turning your nose into a Hoover Upright? Maybe if you remembered what sex was like when you were sober?"
"Maybe if you stopped acting like an asshole and got on with the play."
Phillipe squeezes the bridge of his nose, shaking his head slowly from side to side. "Are you kidding?"
"What?"
"This is a joke."
"I'm not laughing, so fill me in with the punch line."
"Trees talking? What's next, squirrels having sex? Birds playing gin rummy?" He sits down next to Sylvia on the stage and takes her hands. "We're so far off-Broadway that I can see corn growing in the balcony seats." Nodding toward the audience, Philipe imitates a Midwestern accent, "Whall... I guess the crop's gonna be ragged this year, maw. Christ, this audience exudes the excitement level of a field of wheat."
Silvia yanks her hands out of his and stands, taking a step back from him, banging into the scenery as she does.
"And look at this set." Phillipe slides around on the floor to where he's facing the painted canvas backdrop. "Was this constructed by Miss Funderburk's third grade class?"
"The whole play is supposed to be a fantasy." She bends down and retrieves her headdress.
"Your whole life is a freaking fantasy."
"Thanks to you, it's become more of a nightmare than a dream."
"I'm not the one who shovels magic dust up your nose."
She points offstage in the general direction of the narrator. "He said you'd like this one."
"You wrote this?"
"Uh-huh."
"For me?" Phillipe stands and cocks his head to one side. "With my affinity toward Rogers and Hammerstein, you thought I would enjoy this meaningless drivel? Sylvia, you've let the dope fry your rationality."
Sylvia's face bows toward the stage as tears well in her eyes.
"What part of his anatomy were you jerking when this epiphany occurred?"
Now wait a minute.
"No, you wait a minute, asshole. I've had enough of you and your casual comments. You're the one who's gotten her so wasted that she has a hard time remembering her name, much less this blathering dialog. We have a chance at fame, yet the way you drag her down, you're worse than a cement overcoat."
You know that's not true. Neither of you has what it takes to work on Broadway. That's why I can't get us out of the Corn Belt.
"Oh? And you do?"
I'm not saying...
"That's right. You're not saying anything anymore." Phillipe pulls a small derringer from his pocket and shoots the narrator... uhhh... You fu...
"You shot him!"
"So it says."
"You really shot him!"
"You're repeating yourself."
"But..."
"But nothing. This is over. Let's get out of here."
"But the play?"
"It's over. Screw the stupid trees. If they want to fight, give them pruning saws. Let's go get a drink."
"But the audience?"
"They'll figure it out eventually."