John Kinsella is the author of more than twenty books whose many prizes and awards include The Grace Leven Poetry Prize, the John Bray Award for Poetry from The Adelaide Festival, The Age Poetry Book of The Year Award, The Western Australian Premier's Prize for Poetry (twice), a Young Australian Creative Fellowship from the former PM of Australia, Paul Keating, and senior Fellowships from the Literature Board of The Australia Council. His POEMS 1980-1994 and volume of poetry THE HUNT (a Poetry Book Society Recommendation) were published in May 1998 by Bloodaxe in the UK and USA, THE UNDERTOW: NEW & SELECTED POEMS (Arc, U.K), VISITANTS (Bloodaxe, 1999), WHEATLANDS (with Dorothy Hewett in 2000), and THE HIERARCHY OF SHEEP (Bloodaxe/FACP, 2001). He is the editor of the international literary journal SALT, a Consultant Editor to WESTERLY (CSAL, University of Western Australia), Cambridge correspondent for OVERLAND, (Melbourne, Australia), International Editor of the American journal THE KENYON REVIEW, and a Fellow of Churchill College, Cambridge. A novel GENRE was published in 1997 (Fremantle Arts Centre Press) and GRAPPLING EROS in late 1998 (FACP). He co-edited (with Joseph Parisi) a double issue of Australian poetry for the American journal POETRY and more recently an Australian issue of THE LITERARY REVIEW. He is Professor of English at Kenyon College in the United States, a Fellow of Churchill College, Cambridge University, and Adjunct Professor to Edith Cowan University, Western Australia. His work has been or is being translated into many languages, including French, German, Chinese, and Dutch.

The Writings of John Kinsella |  His Homepage on the World Wide Web

Tracy Ryan was born and grew up in Perth, and has taught writing and literature at various universities, most recently at Curtin University in Western Australia. In the past few years she has also lived in Britain and the USA. She has published a novel, VAMP, and three volumes of poetry. A new volume of poetry, HOTHOUSE, and a new novel, JAZZ TANGO, will be published with Fremantle Arts Centre Press in 2002. An experimental work, BLOC-NOTES, is due out in the USA with POTES & POETS.

Steve Chinna teaches theatre and performance studies in the Department of English, University of Western Australia. He works with scripted plays, and devises, writes, and directs new works, often in collaboration with students. These new works have included: FROM DREAMS OF REASON, 1992; LOVE AND ADDICTION: THE DIARY OF A CURE, 1994; THE SHE-WOLF'S BLOODY NECKLACE, 1995; MISSIONARY POSITIONS, 1996; ENCOUNTERS WITH THE ALIEN (DARK HEARTS), 1998; and Kinsella/Ryan/Chinna, SMITH STREET (BETWEEN HEAVEN AND HELL), 2001.

SMITH STREET was first performed by Theatre Studies students at the Dolphin Theatre, the University of Western Australia, on 24 May, 2001, with the following cast.

ANGEL    Romy Kennedy
JACK    Justin Barrett
NARRATOR    Jenn Piper
MRS WALPURGIS    Annwen Griffiths
MR CLIPBOARD    Andrew Hunter-Christy
MAGISTRATE    Renita Almeida
CLIENT    Sharyl Sapari
COP 1    Kris Bowtell
COP 2    Emma Nicoletti
STREET PEOPLE et al
           Sharon Davis,
           Sara Fonck,
           Tammy Mulder,
           Yajna Ramasary

Directed by Steve Chinna
Stage management by Peter Evans
Lighting design by Aja Styles
Music devised and performed by Kris Bowtell and Emma Nicoletti
Production duties shared by Clarabelle Chaw, Clara Fletcher,
    and Monique Rampono

Programme Notes

Smith Street (Between Heaven and Hell) explores the lives and politics of local 'high' and 'low' life who intermingle in a space between heaven and hell — where naturalism moves to fantasy, prose to poetry, dialogue to song, and the distinctions between law makers and law breakers are destabilised.

When John Kinsella approached me late in 2000 regarding the production of a play he was writing — based around events in Perth concerning Smith Street, kerb-crawling clients, prostitutes, and political game-playing — he expressed the wish that it be first performed by students at the Dolphin Theatre at UWA in recognition of the long involvement in theatre production and performance by staff and students at this university. The play was written in collaboration with Tracy Ryan and its poetical nuances display the verbal gymnastics and strong visuality of the dialogue. I was given carte blanche to add material and direct it for performance without authorial intervention. It was clearly recognised by both John and Tracy that a script can only be a potential in terms of staging. I am grateful to them for the opportunity to present this work in performance, and to the efforts put into it by all concerned — especially the students of both cast and crew who have worked on this project with such enthusiasm — against study and work commitments that often made sustained rehearsal impossible.

CHARACTERS

ANGEL, a young prostitute
JACK, her pimp
NARRATOR, a butch dyke
MRS WALPURGIS, a Resident
MR CLIPBOARD, a Resident
MAGISTRATE
CLIENT
COP 1
COP 2
STREETPEOPLE / PROSTITUTES / TOURISTS / RESIDENTS
PARLIAMENTARY DELEGATION, ETC.

SETTING

Should be in some way arranged into three distinct sections: Hell, Earth and Heaven. Smith Street winds through all three zones so that the characters can move back and forth between them. There is a conspicuous belltower. There is a peepshow which may simply be depicted by a banner bearing that name, possibly with a rainbow flag. There are blocks of flats, anonymous-looking, as well as a "Tuscan Splendour" in which Mrs Walpurgis lives. We can see into this house. There is a courtroom and the dilapidated interior of a squat.

CONTENTS

Act 1: Scene One | Scene Two | Scene Three | Scene Four

(The street. CLIENT is 'asleep' on stage — under the Belltower. TOURISTS enter to music.)

TOUR LEADER:  Welcome all to Smith Street
     Named after a famous thief
     A picturesque burlesque
     A risqué place of mischief.

     Now, stick together, please
     don't be wandering off
     the denizens are dangerous
     they're full of rancorous wrath.
     And that's the folk that live here —
     the citizens on the hill
     Don't worry about the street folk
     they can't hate enough to kill.

     Here we have a monument
     a monumental monument
     can anybody tell me
     who's responsible for building this?

CLIENT:  A priapic pile of phallic pride
     a memorial to those who've died
     an excremental pile of crap
     a symbol of great hubris.

(TOURISTS and CLIENT freeze. All others enter running and take up positions. They freeze and then move slowly like automatons. NARRATOR enters. MR CLIPBOARD traverses stage during the following.)

     not even shopping or baggage
     deflects them
     we all look the same in the dark

     they are two sides of the one appetite
     circling    closing
     as small boys
     do wheelies

     "you waiting for a lift miss?
     just checking"

     Smith Street: John Citizen, Jane Citizen
     and every in-between citizen
     everyman, everywoman,
     any woman.

(ALL exit, except ANGEL and NARRATOR.)

ANGEL:  You gotta get them before work.
     Lowers the tension levels for the day.

NARRATOR:  I've always meant to ask you
     where you come from.
     You just seemed to appear
     a few months back out of nowhere.

ANGEL:  Where do I come from? Who am I? Why am I here?
     A girl from the wrong side of the tracks?
     A farm girl lost in the city?
     An opportunist from St Kilda or the Cross?
     Who knows? What does it matter?
     I'm here and the birds are singing in Smith Street
     and the cops don't come out this early.

NARRATOR:  Not what I've heard.

ANGEL:  They're only barricading in the evenings.
     But I guess it won't be long.

NARRATOR:  I'm off to get some coffee.
     Catch you round.

ANGEL:  Yeah, later.

(ANGEL wanders back and forth between hell and heaven, as if waiting for something. After a couple of turns, she leans up against the belltower and begins to chant the following lines.)

NARRATOR:  Tell me about it!

ANGEL:  Sidling up and taking control
     or standing cow-eyed
     to draw me to their side.
     Then there are the crawlers, who pull you into their car
     before you've a chance to suss them out.
     One guy moved so fast he had me in there
     before I could shout,
     almost strangled me except I finally got out.
     That's when I took up Jack's offer
     to keep an eye on me
     though he takes half the earnings
     and charges me double for powder.
     Here he comes with that sarcastic leer
     wondering if there's any action.

(JACK enters.)

     I spin the name of the oldest game
     I give a flick don't give a fuck
     you turn a trick hand, hole, or suck
     I hold the bag you make a grab
     you're spellbound by my gift of gab.

     (Spoken)
     How's it going, Angel? Got some good gear
     coming in this evening, so look sharp.
     I like the morning when the air's clean.
     Though a bit of carbon monoxide
     goes with the territory! Look,
     we gotta watch out today,
     you know there's been some grumbling
     in the community,
     the Residents of the Precinct.
     They want your sort out of here.
     There's a lynch mob forming.
     I've heard a whisper from my contact
     that the wagons'll be pulling anyone
     working this street today. So if you see them,
     just keep walking,
     and turn into the Trinity
     where they can't touch you, okay?

ANGEL:  Okay.

JACK:  Whatever you do, don't carry any gear.
     I won't be far away, but I can't help you
     with the cops. And we can't afford hassles,
     'cause you still owe me for that last batch.
     Even if they lock you up,
     I'll get it out of you.

ANGEL:  I couldn't give a fuck.

JACK:  Oh, you will, bitch.
     You don't mess with me.
     you know that.

(ANGEL exits.)

     (sung)
     The sky turns green the nightbirds scream
     it tears my brain shatters the pane
     gives my pain an altered frame
     my name is Jack my name is Jack
     my name is Jack and I'll be back

(JACK exits. Light onto MRS WALPURGIS and MR CLIPBOARD.)

MR CLIPBOARD:  Not my fault

MRS WALPURGIS:  Crusts cut off

MR CLIPBOARD:  Not my fault

MRS WALPURGIS:  Ironed pleats

MR CLIPBOARD:  Not my fault

MRS WALPURGIS:  Best-dressed girl

MR CLIPBOARD:  Not my fault

MRS WALPURGIS:  Polished feet!

     I had a friend... did she know me?
     She dressed so strange; what could she show me!

(STREETPEOPLE enter.)

MRS WALPURGIS:  Pull the shutters down

STREET PEOPLE:  Not my fault

MRS WALPURGIS:  Support a closing down

STREET PEOPLE:  Not my fault

MRS WALPURGIS:  Drive them off the street

STREET PEOPLE:  Not my fault

MRS WALPURGIS: The running feet

(STREETPEOPLE exit.)

MR CLIPBOARD:  Not my fault

MRS WALPURGIS:  Despise the deviant

MR CLIPBOARD:  Not my fault

MRS WALPURGIS:  A political expedient

(Blackout.)

(The Street. MRS WALPURGIS is leafletting on the street. NARRATOR is watching her.)

MRS WALPURGIS:  Do I know you?

NARRATOR:  Saw you in the local rag.
Your picture's everywhere.
The clean-up action plan.

MRS WALPURGIS:  I don't think...

NARRATOR:  Well, you know, I'm a resident too.
I sit here and mind my business
most of the day (points to peepshow)
and sometimes it does get busy.
I hate standing around
with nothing to do. They say
the devil makes work for idle hands.

(MRS WALPURGIS exits hurriedly.)

(NARRATOR withdraws. ANGEL enters. A CLIENT enters and falls into step with ANGEL.)

CLIENT:  How much?

ANGEL:  It's going to be a nice day
     wouldn't you say?

CLIENT:  I wouldn't know about that.
     Now how much? I haven't got
     much time to spare.

ANGEL:  You've got a nice voice. I like
     hearing you speak.

CLIENT:  I need relief.

ANGEL:  I understand. Relief
     is what I give. Fifty
     for a hand job, eighty
     for the tongue and lips.
     One-twenty for the whole bit.

(CLIENT takes calculator from pocket.)

CLIENT:  My boss is always
     saying something similar.
     I'd like her
     to relieve me
     but there's no chance
     of that...

ANGEL:  I'll be your boss.

CLIENT:  You're not dressed for it.

ANGEL:  Then close your eyes
     and I'll clothe myself
     in whatever you want.

CLIENT:  I can't wait.
     Time is of...

ANGEL:  the essence. Move on down
     the road. I'll catch you up.

(BOTH exit.)

(MRS WALPURGIS' house. Monologue of MRS WALPURGIS to a group of RESIDENTS who enter as ANGEL and CLIENT exit in previous scene.)

MRS WALPURGIS:  There's something in the static,
     in the dots on the television screen
     between channels, before the test
     pattern. And God speaks
     between the notes
     of Kenny G, I hear him,
     it's not a cliché.
     Christ was a handsome man
     and loved all his children.
     He redeemed that slut Mary,
     but I know she was the only one.
     Since my husband's death
     I've kept my body intact —
     it doesn't embarrass me
     to talk about it. I wear
     a bra to bed and my breasts
     are firm and sharp.

     They're all connected,
     these papers. A photo shoot
     for the community rag —
     a stepping stone
     to the holy grail.
     A moral paper, this is not
     a sacrilege. See, I think about
     every implication.

     In the beginning was the word.
     The state paper is dedicated
     to prising out evil
     in the public interest.
     It takes a stout heart.
     It sees the brilliant aura
     of our leader,
     his Christian spirit
     shining through
     every tough decision.
     It never lets them go.
     That harlot looking innocent
     on the front cover!
     It's not long before
     I replace her: from darkness
     to light. My dark hair
     is not a hindrance,
     it still has lustre.

(MR CLIPBOARD enters and gives each RESIDENT a 'plate' before exiting.)

RESIDENTS (they share these following lines — sung):
     Carbohydrates dampen ardour
     make your will and temper harder
     set your mind to stamp out evil
     every nook and every cranny
     squeaky clean and sharp and canny
     no more slut or handsome devil
     everything is on the level

MRS WALPURGIS:  No! It won't harm your ulcer, it's quite bland.

     Cooking keeps idle hands
     from temptation

     everyone in the area knows me,
     the butcher keeps the best cuts
     behind the counter, a signifier
     in any community

(RESIDENTS, with fixed smiles, giggle.)

 (RESIDENTS, with fixed smiles, giggle.)

     It is essential
     we set the standards —
     right down to what we eat,
     how we groom
     and deport ourselves.
     This is for the children
     I saw that slut Angel
     near the school
     the other day.
     Heading for Smith Street.
     She makes her way
     right past the playground —
     back from Oaken Park
     where she takes her clients.
     They let her place her mouth
     around their appendages
     without protection.

(RESIDENTS gasp.)

(RESIDENTS gasp.)

(RESIDENTS exit. ANGEL appears upstage behind MRS WALPURGIS. She is watching MRS WALPURGIS. She isn't spying, she's just there, hovering. She sees everything, but it's as if she stares right through MRS WALPURGIS, deep into the audience.)

     I can see
     they're all thinking
     my way. They just needed
     a spark. A leader.

(pause)

(laughs)

     Time to relax
     With serepax!

 (She turns to exit upstage and starts, and screams, upon noticing ANGEL.)

MRS WALPURGIS:  A Grace Brothers special.

(To audience, as ANGEL exits.)

(MRS WALPURGIS exits.)

(The street. ANGEL and JACK enter.)

ANGEL:  That's because you won't touch me, Jack.

JACK:  You know it's the dirt, Angel.
     The dripping taps. The stoves
     left on when we've been spotting.

ANGEL:  In your dream I became something else?

JACK:  Yes, something else.

ANGEL:  What?

JACK:  I don't know really.
     A bird of some sort.
     A water bird. Picking
     at the carcass of a cow.
     Eating her insides out.

ANGEL:  That's your guilt
     for eating cows, Jack.

(ANGEL exits.)

     a Nissen hut of netting
     designed to keep the parrots out
     that trapped a pair of twenty-eights:
     vingt-huit, vingt-huit, vingt-huit,

(PROSTITUTES enter and form line. JACK 'works' his way among them.)

     at your sort — refined varieties
     in gardens that won't tolerate
     trampling, the "wandering about"
     roughing it on the edge

     of salinity, or in lingo,
     making a go of it,
     despite the gentrification,
     the naming, the lists

     bred from a new mathematics.
     A storm struck hard
     in the summer, and that's why
     the netting lifted. The parrots'

     panopticon of colours
     looking for an out —
     extra-spectra, safe in the open,
     the daylight, their language.

NARRATOR (emerging from her shop):
     Fancy words from a fancy man.
     Jack of all trades and master of none
     except Angel. Jack, be nimble, be quick,
     the tricks are few and far between
     they're cleaning up and driving out
     and what will you do to earn a crust
     when the Tuscan splendour's all there is
     and the girls go back to school?
     Who'll be your mainstay then?

JACK:  Always got a trick
     up my sleeve, darling,
     they're not going to get
     the better of me; actually,
     I've just tripped over
     a few dozen stereos --
     could be a few bucks
     in it for both of us...

NARRATOR:  Ah Jack, your deals are always
     such big deals! I've heard your talk before.

JACK:  And don't you love it —
     I'll get you on board
     one of these days. Shit!

(PROSTITUTES exit hurriedly.)

NARRATOR:  Yeah, it'd only be the hundredth time
     they've been up and down today. They reckon
     your game is a mug's game...

JACK:  Genetically modified organisms.
     Transgenic pigs. Always seen myself
     as the head of a nature cult —
     we could use some of your
     bondage stuff and make them
     feel at home. Look, it's
     a Mexican standoff. Mexicans
     make great cop movies.
     Something of the Cars
     that Ate Paris going
     on here as well.
     An Aussie flavour.
     Gee, I love the movies.

NARRATOR:  Don't go that often myself. Some of us
     got work to do. But there's a film fest
     coming up at the Rainbow Centre... not
     your cup of tea!

JACK:  Ah, the dialogics of fucking.
     Like my vocabulary, fancy, you say —
     useful for judges. Makes a difference
     if you've got cultural references
     at your fingertips. And a private
     school education. Singapore.
     I've got what you might call
     cachet. Mix it with street cred
     and I'm a star. Don't need to
     punch my girls around,
     they worship me. I'm a god.
 

NARRATOR:  I'm an atheist myself. No desire
     to get down on my knees.
     But hey, I hope you have a few thunderbolts
     up your sleeve — you might just need them.
     Those cops aren't exactly godfearing types.
     And speaking of things heavenly, there's
     your lady...

(NARRATOR exits.)

(ANGEL and CLIENT enter.)

(They fall into step.)

CLIENT:  At the end of the street.

(COPS enter.)

(CLIENT panics. Starts denying it.)

CLIENT (confused):  I'm not. I mean, yes...

COP 2:  Cut the crap.

JACK:  What's the problem, officer?

COP 2:  Piss off, or you'll go too.

(COPS walk ANGEL upstage. ALL freeze.)

(ALL exit.)

(Blackout.)

(The street. NARRATOR enters. ANGEL enters, with PROSTITUTES — like a bodyguard.)

ANGEL:  Oh yeah, a spell in the lock-up,
     a cavity search, and I'm a new woman.

NARRATOR:  Cavity search. Open season on any woman.
     She said love your cunt not lumber
     it around like hunger. Nobody else
     will, remember, forgotten how. Poor
     Miranda, no other treasure. Eye for a
     bargain, eye for an eye. You can let them
     in there, they won't find a thing. She said
     seize back the means, they try to
     privatise but you can put it out there. What
     does it have in common with a 747. What
     needst thou have more covering and
     so on. She said Lady,

NARRATOR, ANGEL, PROSTITUTES (together):
     love your cunt,

NARRATOR:  but Fred Nile is in touch with the beating
     heart of Australia and police
     can authorise a nurse or a doctor I assure
     you it has no nerve endings and on the
     screen, worn as the battered aperture
     of an old camera the dusk and "soft musk of her hollows"
     the doctor is awed before. Imaging such
     dilation. Stainless, like steel.

ANGEL:  They went close to something.
     I can feel it. You don't need
     nerve endings. I vomited
     in the morning.

NARRATOR:  Behold the handmaid of the world.

ANGEL:   Be it done to me according to the word.

(PROSTITUTES exit.)

ANGEL:  This street is ordered confusion.
     The high-rise flats mean the yuppies
     won't win out entirely — see,
     don't stereotype me.

(During following TWO PROSTITUTES cross stage and 'slash' ANGEL with  lipstick and exit. TWO OTHER PROSTITUTES cross stage and slap/smudge ANGEL'S face, and exit.)

NARRATOR:  Boldly going where no man has gone before!
     Do you know what I do with their leaflets?
     I wipe my arse with them.
     It's called recycling.
     Don't you worry, they won't stop
     at anything. They only tolerate me because
     I pay rates: prime location
     in the middle of town. But don't put it past them,
     they're into purgation.

ANGEL:  If I let them contain me
     and my cavities, they'd
     fill me anally and love it.
     I'm good for profit,
     and the mining industry
     likes that. It's just more gold
     to give away.

(JACK enters. NARRATOR withdraws and watches from a distance.)

JACK:  I'm nobody's man.

ANGEL:  You're a man's man.
     A blokey bloke.

JACK:  What are you implying?

ANGEL:  That you like your body.
     I know you work out.

JACK:  What's it to you?

ANGEL:  Words don't work for this.
     We provide for each other.

(ANGEL and JACK take up parodic tango drop position. ANGEL starts caressing JACK but this turns into a search inside his coat.)

ANGEL:  A provider. You are
     my programme.
     We counsel
     each other.

JACK:  But I don't need you, Angel.

(JACK drops ANGEL and moves away. NARRATOR crosses to help ANGEL.)

NARRATOR: Jack, the man with the plan.

JACK: Butt out of it.

(JACK and ANGEL exit. STREETPEOPLE enter.)

STREETPEOPLE:  (Shared lines, with reference to MRS WALPURGIS and MR CLIPBOARD.)

     There's that shit

     There's the vigilante clutch

     The god-blessed creep who runs this street

     The god-sucked geek who whacks his meat

     Who blocks her snatch

     Who ties his cock

     Put cling wrap round their private parts

     Pull up the sheets and sniff their farts

     Put shit upon the queens and tarts

     Take notes on those upon the street

     Live lives unblessed by joy and grief

     (Rhythm change)

     Live their lives in a ditch

     Upstanding cits

     Upstanding what?

     Upstanding shits

     Upstanding what?

     Upstanding...

ALL:  So high

     phallic monuments...

ALL:  So low

     to perverted...

ALL:  So down

     visions.

ALL:  Go down
 

(STREETPEOPLE 'go down' into a tangled and writhing heap on the stage and remain there as lights change into next scene.)

(In MRS WALPURGIS' house. MR CLIPBOARD and MRS WALPURGIS. STREETPEOPLE watching them.)

MR CLIPBOARD:  Street scum!

MRS WALPURGIS:  Where is there restraint?

MR CLIPBOARD:  Where is their restraint?

BOTH (chant):  We work
     We work
     We prosper
     We smirk

MR CLIPBOARD:  We take the moral high ground

MRS WALPURGIS: We see the scum around

     inhabiting the street
     their dopey drug-led feet

MR CLIPBOARD:  Their vacant smiling stares
     They haven't any cares

MRS WALPURGIS:  Where is there restraint?

MR CLIPBOARD:  Where is their restraint?

(MRS WALPURGIS and MR CLIPBOARD stroke and fondle their own bodies before and during the following song.)

MRS WALPURGIS:  Pervert!

MR CLIPBOARD:  Street scum!

(STREETPEOPLE laugh, make insulting gestures, and exit. Pause.)

MRS WALPURGIS:  I'm glad you're so committed,
     but we must remember
     this is not about us — it's about
     the community. Our daughters, especially.
     It's a fine line, Mr Clipboard, a fine line.
     I shudder to think. I try not to.
     I focus on what can be done.
     Faith without works is dead, that's what
     the apostle says.

MR CLIPBOARD:  I see myself as being
     in the vanguard, not a mere disciple.
     I want to set a good example,
     to be remembered for my works.

MRS WALPURGIS:  But works of course are not enough. As it says
     in Hebrews —

MR CLIPBOARD:  You photograph well, Mrs Walpurgis.
     There was another shot of you
     by the corner phone booth.
     Funny watching them
     try and huddle under
     the wind shelter now.
     Puts a bit of a damper on things.

MRS WALPURGIS:  Yes, well, those with nothing to hide
     have nothing to be afraid of. I've always kept
     an open house myself.

MR CLIPBOARD:  When we've sorted this problem out,
     we'll have to look to the Aboriginals
     that hang about. This stuff about
     tribal meeting places is so out-of-date.
     School kids play footy
     on that oval where they gather.
     Another lot we should move on quickly.
     Just watch the property prices go up!

MRS WALPURGIS:  You should read He wants us to Prosper,
     Mr Clipboard. The Lord
     likes abundance, you're a man
     after His own heart.

MR CLIPBOARD:  Yes, Mrs Walpurgis,
     I like to be well fed.

MRS WALPURGIS:  Abundance! "The earth
     is the Lord's and the fulness thereof" —
     doesn't say anything about
     them now does it? Heaven helps those
     who

MR CLIPBOARD (chiming in with her):
     help themselves.

(SFX — bell sounds, lighting change)

(Near the belltower. JACK calls and COPS enter.)

JACK:  Hey boys! What do you think
     of the new belltower?
     A bit of a prick
     with a bunch of bells —
     must have been exposed
     to radiation at a young age.

COP 1:  You know us Jack,
     we won't take this crap.
     Shut it while your luck's in.

JACK:  Now, now, I'm your friend.
     You like my girls, they
     keep their mouths shut
     and make you spend spend spend!

COP 2:  This guy's getting to me.
     He's full of it.

JACK:  Just shootin' off my mouth...

(They rough him up.)

     COP 1:  Your friends in the press
     have had a sock put in it:
     one of ours
     is holding the reins now.
     And he's going to hang you high,
     Jack boy. A tongue-lashing
     with bite!
     Jack and the belltower.
     We should send him up there.

JACK:  And what? Chop it to the ground
     before I get down?

COP 2:  This sounds like blasphemy.
     The tower is a beacon for posterity.

JACK:  I sold a stereo
     and a car radio
     to a labourer
     who drank beer
     by the river
     after a hard day's work
     on the holy tower.
     He said that after a few
     it was true,
     as rumour has it,
     that no one could understand
     what the others were saying.

(JACK exits)

(Sound of a phone ringing. Or, COPS 'vibrate' before taking mobile phones from pockets. The two COPS speak in turns, as if automated.)

COP 2:  And you were walking home from work.

COP 1:  Well yes Ma'am, I'm sorry to have to say this,

COP 2:  and I don't mean it as an insult,

COP 1:  but it's likely he took you for... (pause)

COP 2:  Just because you were in the area.

COPS (together, as if chanting):  If you ring our hotline, we can have someone out there
     within five minutes to remove him.

(COPS exit.)

(Courtroom. NARRATOR, ANGEL, and JACK. SFX. Wind, hellfire, lighting effects. The following shouted as though on the deck of a ship during a storm.)

ANGEL:  I see a lot of things,
     but what binds me
     is stronger than
     the hippocratic oath.
     A lawyer must respect
     the confidentiality
     of his client. It's a contract.

NARRATOR:  Election promises are made,
     few are kept.

(PROSTITUTES enter with tables, CLIENT with chair. After placing they take up positions in 'court'.)

ANGEL:  Do you want me about, Jack?

JACK:  It's not that, it's just
     you score well for me.
     You keep us both happy.

ANGEL:  You're a romantic, Jack.

(MAGISTRATE enters, with COPS and MRS WALPURGIS and MR CLIPBOARD. SFX cease. ANGEL stands before MAGISTRATE)

ANGEL:  I didn't ask to be photographed.
     Those cameras
     are embarrassing my family.

MAGISTRATE:  You're embarrassing your family,
     let's get this right.

ANGEL:  You're making my problems
     their problems.

MAGISTRATE:  I see that you've been
     on the methadone programme before.

ANGEL:  'Done doesn't work for me.
     It's bad art.

MAGISTRATE:  It's bad art or jail.
     And you know the new law.
     It's just a matter of how much jail.
     You've confessed your guilt.

JACK (yelling out):  Mitigating circumstances!

MAGISTRATE:  Enough.

ANGEL (as if in tongues. SFX under):
      Up-flow spreads and hazes
     the spaces between buildings,
     the step of a mother and her child
     is loud behind me; it's you,
     in the accusative, the princess
     and the pea, the hoaxes
     performed brightly
     in peasant's garb. I'm
     central European. We are
     parallel notations. Script.
     The sounds between the notes.
     The dust collects
     in make-up during the summer months.
     Clients like the stiff-nippled cold.
     Inquisitor. Purple. The monochrome
     businesses that fuel, ad nauseam.
     The furies are contained
     neatly. A register. Signatures.
     Income tax.

(SFX cease.)

MAGISTRATE:  Enough from you.
     One more crack and that's it.

     (pause)

     Now, Angel, what's
     this gentleman
     talking about?

ANGEL:  I see things, your Honour,
     but it's not for me
     to say what I see.

MAGISTRATE:  Well, you're under oath
     and I expect the truth.

ANGEL:  I'm not sure
     if this is to do with truth,
     your Honour.
     But if you consider
     the court a gallery,
     we could hang pictures.

(PROSTITUTES giggle)

ANGEL:  What I see is nothing, really.
     People just think loudly.

MAGISTRATE:  If offered a jail sentence
     or a court order for rehabilitation
     which would you take?

JACK (yelling out):  Watch those preferences —
     they'll always be given
     to those who do you
     the most damage.

MAGISTRATE:  One more time, and that's it!
     Silence.

(ANGEL shifts across to MAGISTRATE. Wooing him/her.)

(MAGISTRATE has moved to be near ANGEL Intimately.)

(ALL repeat 'amateur' several times, descending into sotto voce.)

ANGEL:  Sometimes I feel like the whole street
     is flowing through my body.
     I can hear the sweet words,
     the arguments, television sets.

MAGISTRATE:  Sometimes I get that feeling up here.
     The river flows through me.
     I sail at twilight.
     The cormorants hunch
     on the pylons and jetties.
     The landfill brings an intensity
     to what's left. I don't
     know what I mean, but preservation
     is a decision. The night heron
     lives in colonies. I see
     a lone heron stalking.
     I see one near the old brewery.
     Birds alive in the darkness.
     Is this what you're saying?

(pause)

(pause)

(MAGISTRATE moves back behind table.)

(ALL gasp. For some it's too long, for others, it is not long enough.)

(ALL sigh, some with relief — some with exasperation.)

NARRATOR:  Could it be
     politicians' promises?

(ALL express surprise, then exit other than PROSTITUTES.)

     The street plays the game

     It always looks the same

     It stretches to the north
     and the south

     It is so very strange
     it's hard to rearrange

     I stand here with my hands and my mouth

     With my hands and my mouth.

     (rhythm change)

     I left home
     my mother beat me

     I left home
     my father fucked me

     I left home
     and hit the street

     How romantic!

(Rhythm change. CLIENT enters. PROSTITUTES share lines.)

PROSTITUTES:  Where's the hit?

     Where's the store?

CLIENT:  Where's the man?

PROSTITUTES:  I'm waiting ...

     Where's the hand?

     I'm waiting ...

     Where's the mouth?

     I'm waiting ...

     And, where's the hole?

     So coy!

(PROSTITUTES seize CLIENT and lift him up.)

JACK (voice off):  Who wants out?

(PROSTITUTES exit, carrying CLIENT.)

(The street. ANGEL enters.)

(NARRATOR enters.)

(They dance a tango.)

NARRATOR:  The city is a body.
     The body eats itself.

(The tango stops.)

ANGEL:  Or a spiritual story,
     a transcendental tale,
     a dialogue of humours.
     Plants with special properties
     that might heal or comfort
     lungs, stomach, heart,
     left behind in the rush
     for synthetics. Out there — diminished —
     the hakea, dryandra, grevillea,
      names stripped of their growth,
     a place in language. They grow on the roadsides,
     in the parks, in the streets.
     Full of fluid I let them fill
     the spaces I save for myself.
     They can't understand this.
     It's not to do with anything good
     or bad, it's just the case that is.
     The parks and the gardens —

NARRATOR:  and the universities
     are our Walden Ponds:
     out there, discovering
     the limits and satisfactions
     of the body.

ANGEL:  Solitary.

NARRATOR:  Thinking about community.
     We are all parents and children
     of this hybridised body.

(NARRATOR and ANGEL exit — with lingering eyelines to each other. PARLIAMENTARY DELEGATION enters and does 'song and dance' routine to following:)

     We're a parliamentary delegation
     sent here to spy out deviation
     To regulate what's right and wrong
     To lock some up
     move others along
     to clear the riffraff off the street
     put  bombs beneath their feet

     We're a parliamentary delegation
     sent here to spy out deviation
     We're sent by the powers that be
     to root out filth
     to set you free
     to cleanse and clean and clear the streets
     Keep naughty business between the sheets.

(Repeat of first two lines before marching off without sound, other than 'fascist' footfalls.)

(In MRS WALPURGIS's house. COPS, MR CLIPBOARD, and MRS WALPURGIS.)

COP 2:  Zealous. Very zealous.

COP 1:  You're not going
     to help the case
     by being too enthusiastic.
     Fortunately the newspaper
     isn't interested
     in the family's complaints.

COP 2:  Doesn't sell newspapers.

MRS WALPURGIS:  We mustn't criticise
     Mr Clipboard,
     he's on the front line.
     Friendly fire
     it's called. This is a war,
     make no mistake,
     and all wars
     have collateral
     damage.

     Look down this street.
     I've seen gangs of youth
     with spray cans
     in broad daylight
     putting their marks
     on the bright wash
     of architect-designed
     houses. How are we going to
     attract the professionals
     if that keeps up?

     And I've seen her
     chatting with them
     and handing out cigarettes —
     a crime in itself,
     tobacco to minors.
     She should be locked
     up for that anyway.

MR CLIPBOARD:  The word. Graffiti. Signatures.

COP 1:  What's he on about?

MRS WALPURGIS:  Shell shock. He's under stress.
     We need to support him.

COP 2:  I was shot at once.
     The guy who tried to plug me
     was a doctor. Had put a bullet
     in his wife in a blind rage.

MR CLIPBOARD (dreamily):
     She talks to me while I take down numbers.
     Sometimes I feel like she's family.

MRS WALPURGIS:  Come on Mr Clipboard,
     it's time you were
     getting back to your post.

MR CLIPBOARD:  Yes, there's a lot of cars,
     a lot of number plates.
     a lot of numbers
     to be taken down.
     Recorded.

(MR CLIPBOARD exits.)

COP 1:  His observations don't add up.
     Doesn't work as data.

MRS WALPURGIS:  He is a powerful symbol.
     A neighbourhood icon.
     In the vanguard.
     A martyr.

(COPS exit.)

(MRS WALPURGIS exits.)

(Interior of squat. NARRATOR, JACK, and ANGEL. As NARRATOR begins speaking, ANGEL goes into labour and eventually gives birth.)

JACK:  Look! The head's appearing
     out of Angel's darkness.
     It's like the night
     is unfurling.
     The sun's up
     and it's midnight.
     Why is she screaming!?

NARRATOR:  It's a different kind of opening.
     She needs a place to bring it up.

JACK:  We'll tear down the wire,
     we'll dig the garden.
     We'll polish the kitchen tiles.
     Repair the verandah.
     We'll stake a claim,
     we'll open our doors,
     we'll make community.
     My brothers
     will be godfathers.
     The sisters will be godmothers.
     The displaced will wander by
     and bless their child
     in their own language.
     The state won't have enough money
     to evict us. We'll invite
     the newspaper
     for the baby photos.
     We'll sing our lungs out.

MAGISTRATE (entering):  This is justice!
     We'll sing
     as if our lives
     depend on it!

(ALL enter during following.)

ALL (singing, first to the tune of "Ding Dong Bell", and then to the tune of Monty Python's "Every Sperm is Sacred". During this, ANGEL walks downstage with 'baby/bundle'.):

     Big dong bell
     Pussy's in the cell
     We put in her in
     Then we'll let her out

     What a naughty boy was that
     To try to win our vote like that
     Clean the streets by changing laws
     And promise us a sunset clause...

     Every womb is sacred
     Every womb the State
     If a womb gets wayward
     Court can legislate

     (Repeat) Every womb...

 (ALL except NARRATOR exit — singing.)

(The street.)

(NARRATOR exits. COPS enter and seize CLIENT as he enters. COPS pull a mailbag over CLIENT and COP 1 lifts him onto shoulder in 'fireman's lift'.)

COP 2:  Let's send a baby photo
     to the paper. The child of angel.
     An archangel.

COP 1:  You've got to have
     a sense of humour
     in this job.
     Did you notice the light
     when we went up to search that place
     last night? The city lights.
     As if night was alive,
     without pollution.

COP 2:  All light is pollution.

COP 1:  I was brought up C of E.
     I don't need to pretend
     this kid's not mine.

COP 2:  And I a Baptist.
     I positively
     deny it.

(COP 1 puts down CLIENT.)

COP 2:  I used an enlargement method
     from the back of a magazine
     and it left me an object
     of ridicule in the change rooms.

COP 1:  I change on my own,
     avoid the change rooms.

COP 2:  I've always wanted a child.
     Maybe this one will do.

COP 1:  Ditto. But the brass
     might suspect
     conspiracy. Say
     it's one of theirs.

COP 2:  Well, if it's got
     teeth and gold fillings
     we'll know for sure.

(COP 1 picks up CLIENT and exits.)

(COP 2 exits. NARRATOR and JACK enter.)

JACK:  It was always showing, O my purveyor
     of eye candy and abjection,
     just because I keep my fluids
     locked in their tubes
     and chambers, people don't
     see it. I've got an idea, no more
     of this sentimental shit.
     This baby of Angel's
     is my ticket out of here.
     I've met this man
     high up in the law, shall we say,
     who'll pay anything — he can work
     it; there'll be no legal comeback.
     His wife's barren. She
     draws babies on her stomach.
     She puts plastic toys
     into her cavity.
     Angel is blasted.
     She can't look after a child.
     She sold it to me
     before it popped
     into her belly.

(JACK starts, as ANGEL appears, as if from above, in a blue light, like an apparition of the Virgin.)

(The blue light flickers into a scratchy video image of ANGEL across the backdrop.)

NARRATOR (pleading):  What do you see?

ANGEL:  Reporters and policeman and doctors
     and nurses and health inspectors.
     Councillors with hell problems
     behind closed doors. I see in
     and look on past. I see the blood
     on my hands, pollution
     where I walk. A red bird
     sits where my heart is: my heart
     is reliable because the red bird
     always sits there, bobbing slightly.

JACK:  Rehabilitation. Parole.

(JACK exits.)

NARRATOR:  Where will you go?

ANGEL:  A flight into Egypt,
     a midnight flit.
     Help me.

(MAGISTRATE enters with 'baby' and places it in ANGEL'S arms. NARRATOR moves toward ANGEL — the three forming a group together, with ANGEL in the centre.)

(ANGEL, MAGISTRATE, and NARRATOR exit. PROSTITUTES enter and form line. JACK enters and 'picks' them up as he crosses. PROSTITUTES follow JACK off stage. CLIENT enters, sees everyone has gone. He takes up starting position under Belltower. Lights fade on him.)

Mudlark
William Slaughter, Editor
Department of English & Foreign Languages
University of North Florida
Jacksonville, Florida 32224-2645

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