Scott MacLeod
    Theater & Performance Texts

This was performed at Media on March 18, 1987 but I don't recall who was in it or recall much about the performance at all. This was one of four plays in an online chapbook "Twentieth-Century Plays" published as "108:94" in 3rdness Press' series. They're out of Hermance GA.

INTO THE WILD BLUE YONDER


Four simple chairs facing the audience represent a car. DAD is driving, MOM is riding shotgun, JUNIOR sits behind DAD, and MAMA-SAN sits behind MOM. Everyone is facing forward towards the audience except MOM, who is staring out her side window. The NARRATOR enters and holds up a large ornate picture frame in front of the car.

NARRATOR:
A man drives a car across a lonely stretch of desert highway. His name is Dad, and he has packed up his family: Mom, Junior and Mama-San, and headed west in search of what we are all looking for. But a lot can happen on an empty road. He slowly exits.

MOM:
Look at all the calamities piling up!

DAD:
Marginal interest in events that do not repeat.

MOM:
Turning to DAD. Ducking the issue.

DAD:
Pressing the pedals. Putting my best foot forward.

MOM:
Some below-ground orbit pulls us.

DAD:
Destination is a roulette of the invalid.

MAMA-SAN:
Pass me a tomato!

DAD:
There’s a dent in the fender of things.

MAMA-SAN:
Ransack the abbreviations for one that will fit.

DAD:
My hands on the steering wheel, her neck in the mirror.

MOM:
The grain in the field turns to dust.

DAD:
The riverboat navigates the river, propelled more by the laws of history than by the laws of physics.

MOM:
The ocean behind us turns to sky, loses itself.

DAD:
We breeze through towns littered with golf clubs.

MOM:
We hear rumors and evaluate them.

DAD:
We skip like a stone across a swimming-pool nation, sneak like an analyst through the backyards of emotional suburbia.

MOM:
We are more than prepared for the more than perfect excitement.

DAD:
Returning to sensation like a deli-case on wheels.

MOM:
Reduced to coconut, the macaroon perjures itself.

DAD:
Hundreds of deer are killed by cars every winter on the Evanston grade. Tell me, how many people know that well enough to say it?

MOTORCYCLIST roars up alongside driver’s side of car.

MOTORCYCLIST:
Leans into window to yell at DAD. Hey weirdo beardo! Laughs. When you smell it, you’ll want to eat it!

MOTORCYCLIST roars away. Pause as the family stares after him.

MOM:
Some variables make this trip interesting.

MAMA-SAN:
Sure.

JUNIOR:
We pull into Omaha! Shit hits the fan! Duck!

MAMA-SAN:
Pass me an orange!

JUNIOR:
We meet rodeo barbers and trombone switch-hitters!

MAMA-SAN:
Pass me a napkin!

DAD:
The tension builds as the traffic begins to converge.

JUNIOR:
I adore and emulate a - a marzipan of conflicting - um - conflicting - uh -

MAMA-SAN:
Pass me a small-town parade and brand-new passport!

JUNIOR:
Ever louder and more animated. Pass me a paroxysm of paralyzed peanut butter!

MAMA-SAN:
Ever louder and more animated. Drowning tourists are elated by postcards depicting their tragedy!

JUNIOR:
Louder etc. The intellect confesses to the torture and degredation of the mind!

MAMA-SAN:
Leaning forward and pointing over DAD’s shoulder, screaming in his ear. South!

DAD:
North!

JUNIOR:
Standing up. I’m looking for a good place to be arrested from!

MAMA-SAN:
As previous. South! South! South!

DAD:
North! North! North!

MOM:
I think it’s sweet when families die together. She screams loudly and throws her arms up and forward, as if expecting a crash.

DAD hits the brakes and everyone leans slightly forward and freezes, as if they are about to crash into something. They hold their frozen positions through the final fade-out. The NARRATOR re-enters and again holds up the picture frame in front of the tableau vivant.

NARRATOR:
If a man steps out of an airplane flying southwest at 750 miles an hour while passing directly above Boston at an altitude of 30,000 feet, he will land in Manhattan. Thank you and good night.