Plants are the Worst 2

THE PERFORMER: (Enters up stage for the floorshow.  He sings a brief introductory song)

It’s so wonderful to be here tonight.

Yes it’s fan freakin’ Tas to be here tonight,

and see you all here with a smile on your face,

makes me think, this must be the place!

(The song ends. THE PERFORMER holds for applause.  The plants remain steadfast and stoic.)

 

Tough room. Tough room.

Some say plants make the worst audiences,

but they’re my favourite kind of audiences.

 

You know why plants make the best crowds? They’re tough at first but they really grow on you…when you’re dead.

But seriously, you wonder about people making all these stereotypes about plants being poor conversationalists. Don’t you?

 

I mean, where are you folks from tonight? Where you from?

Just visiting our fair city, or do you live here?

(THE PERFORMER holds the microphone out to the plants.)

Oh I see the little lady is shy.

I’d be shy too if I had such an imposing date as you

(THE PERFORMER pats the trees head to accentuate the plants medium size)

Oh, the strong silent type?

Tell me sir what do you do for a living?

Probably a doctor I’d guess to be in a classy swanky wanky joint like this, and with a little potted piece like this

(THE PERFORMER nudges THE PLANT)

Lemme Guess. You’re a Tree Surgeon. Probably get al the birds eh?

But seriously, for super serious,

I don’t care what you say about our friends in green,

really I don’t care at all,

and neither do they,

but plants make the best listeners.

I don’t care where you’re from – there is almost always a plant listening.

Am I right?

 

But plants are always real. I mean you’ve got your plastic plants, and they make pretty good listeners too, and they’re a fair sight more real thanAm I right folks? Of Course I’m right. Let’s give it up, and give a round of applause for this lovely plant couple down front. 

(Pause for applause)

 

Yep sir.

It don’t matter where you go.

There’s always a plant there,

just listening,

judging you smirking

and mocking you,

probably collecting all sorts of information on you.

 

Don’t get me wrong,

some of best friends are plants,

even some shrubs and trees,

bushes, lawns, what have you.

I don’t care.

If you’re good you’re good,

that’s what I say.

It doesn’t matter if you’re some egomaniac Co2 sucker,

and are too lazy to go for a walk,

and just sit around all day and all night,

barely moving at all,

whining on and on,

oh poor me,

I’m being deforested or burned,

or it’s too polluted,

or I have no where to live,

or there’s not enough water,

or what have you.

I mean — get down off the cross, we could use the wood.

No offence.

But I don’t care about all that.

Tolerance, humility and dedication to craft.

I couldn’t be where I am today with out living by those simple truths.

That’s what’s kept me rooted to the ground while I reach for the stars,

oh no offence.

 

Well plants aren’t easily offended,

until you really fuck it up,

then there all like just crying their leaves off,

just pissing them everywhere.

 

Like that’s real mature.

Imagine if I did that.

Every time I get my feelings hurt I could just shave off all my body hair and expect other people to clean it up.

 

I don’t go to the forest and leave my clothes everywhere.

Just because some fucking tree decided to crash through the roof and kill my grandmother while she slept!

 

There comes a time in everyone’s life when you have to stand up for what you believe, when you have to say in a loud and clear voice,

No Mr. Tree

stay out of my Grammy’s bed.

No. Mr. Tree stay out of my grandmother’s body.

I’m sure we’ve all had to say that at one time or another.

 

Anyway, I’ve been the performer, and you guys have been great.

(THE PERFORMER holds for applause, but the plants remain silent. He exits to the kitchen where he addresses THE CHEF)

Damn!  I need to go somewhere where people know what I’m doing up there.  I’ve got to play to a hipper audience.

I can’t play to a room full of provincial plants.

I’ve got to get to the capital, where I can be appreciated.

Did you hear that stuff I was doing out there tonight – it was cranking’ genius.  And did you see and hear what those plants did and said?

I know they can’t talk like you or me,

but they where snickering at me between their leaves,

mocking me with those little sticks they grow.

Damn Plants!  I contain the sensitivity of and artist,

surrounded by the course façade of a court jester.

But they can’t treat me like that!

I have feelings too, just like any other flora or fauna.

Plants.

Plants are the worst! (THE PERFORMER Exits)

 

(Enter THE WAITER)

THE WAITER:  Is there anything else I can interest in this evening?

No, nothing else?

Just the bill then?

Oh you’ll be staying for the dancing?

Of course.

( THE WAITER exits, disgusted)

(The lights dim, and there is a brief interlude.  The music becomes jazzier, and a disco ball appears.  THE GIGALO enters down centre through the restaurant’s front door. He is swingin’ and he gets a drink from the bar and leans against it seductively. THE GIGLO approaches THE PLANT’S table)

GIGLO:  Hey what’s shakin’. You wann dance?

(He swoops up the plant, and knocks the other plant off its chair.)

Oh sorry mate, you like you could use some water, why don’t you just stay right there and have a breather.

(The GIGLO takes the plant onto the dance floor where he proceeds to make a move on it …To be workshopped..

pluck it drug it fuck it photo it send it to friends damn bitch gave me splinters break plant heart Move on to next plant with out remorse pantomime …. Fade to black.)

Plants Are the Worst, Part 1.

A one-act play by Rob Adams, Part 1.

THE CHARACTERS

The Plants

The Waiter

The Performer

The Gigolo

The Chef

PRODUCTION NOTES: All three speaking characters can be played by one or three different people.  The Plants should be real plants.

SCENE ONE

 MUSIC- SONG OF THE BABY WHALE –The exterior of a small but elegant bistro.  The sky is streaked with the final reds and purples of a winter sunset, and in the air a faint and lyrical piano can be heard, reminiscent of times gone by.  Down stage centre there is a perceived front entrance to the restaurant defined by two medium sized plants in pots on either side of the imaginary door, through which the entirety of the of the bistro’s interior is revealed.  Inside there is a small table with two chairs, a small stage, and to stage right the kitchen.  In the kitchen, sitting in a chair, is the chef (a dummy/ mannequin)

(THE WAITER enters, busying himself with the final details before opening.  When things are set, the waiter checks his pocket watch, opens the doors down centre, and immediately he greets the plants like they are old friends)

WAITER: (To THE PLANTS, as he sees them to their table and seats the two plants in the two chairs.) Ahh, Madame et Monsieur, how lovely it is to see you both again,

and may I say Madame you are looking remarkably ravishing this evening. Are those some new leaves?

With all due respect to you Monsieur, of course. Your are very lucky to be dining with such a lovely… but of course we make our own luck sometimes eh?

And how is business for you these days my old friend? (THE WAITER pauses for a response.) Oh, here it has been very slow.  The end of the world is apparently going to be very bad for fine dining.  But what can we do?

We carry on as best we can.  What do I know of such grand economics, and geo-political gestalt, eh?

I am merely a small restaurant man, a humble small man, who would gladly spend his last two rubbing coins to buy only the most choice ingredients for the joy of his customers soufflé.

What can a poor old garcon like me do, but pay homage to our most beatific and benevolent patrons, eh? (THE WAITER gestures for a tip, but none is forthcoming.)  Anyway, I’ll let our most esteemed chef know of your arrival, and we’ll see what something special he has for you our most faithful of customers.

(THE WAITER exits to the kitchen, where we can see him talking to THE CHEF.)  Those Puton plants are back. (To the audience) Plants make the worst tippers. (Back to THE CHEF) Eh? What do they want eat?  I don’t know.  They’ll probably sit on one bottle of water between them. The cheap bastards.  They show up early, leave late, sit on one bottle of water all night.

Just watch the plant bitch will tell me no ice’, like I am some sort of stupid monkey, who was once tarded, then de-tarded, and then re-tarded once again! But maybe they’re ok.  Who am I to talk such merde of the plants when they are not even here to defend themselves?

Maybe they want some compost, or even some manure.  Though they look well feed, unlike you and me. Eh my old friend? Ok, ok. That plant bitch with here shiny new leaves. Fronding them around under my very Nose.

(THE WAITER, listens to the CHEF) I’ll tell them, but I wouldn’t expect much.  Plants have the worst taste. (THE WAITER picks up a wine list and menu, and returns to the dining room and the THE PLANTS.)

Care to take a look at the wine list tonight Monsieur? No. And on this evening’s Board de Fair, we have a remarkable brook trout almandine, line caught out of the crystal pure waters of the mountain streams found on our chef’s own estate…

oh, yes of course sir, a simple water, An excellent and Spartan choice for these trying times.  And for you Madame? A water as well? Perhaps I could tempt you with some blood and bone, or per chance a sample of our finest Merde de Pollo? No just the water. Of course. And no ice. Of course.

(THE WAITER smiles broadly, and exits to the kitchen, his smile dropping as he sees THE CHEF.)

They want puton blah blah water, water only, How are we supposed to earn a crust when our best customers order nothing? (Mimicking)  Open a restaurant that caters to plants, you said.  We could finally be happy, you said. Oh I’ll get the water, don’t get up. (To the audience) I have to do everything around here. (THE WAITER returns to the dinning room.) Here we have a beautiful Water du Tap, no ice, for your pleasure only. Please enjoy.

And the entertainment will be starting toot suit.  I’ll check back to see if you’re interested in coffee, dessert, or perhaps even a cheeky cognac, eh? Eh?eh? (THE WAITER exits in disgust.)

(The lights dim, and there is a brief interlude)

A Poem to Robert and Patti

Robert Mapplethorpe:

         You stole poster art by William Blake.

         You felt guilty and weird.

         Maybe threatened by laws, known and unknown, by rules not prited or not worth the ink,

         you shredded the art and spiraled it down the toilet.

         I found this out later, when I read your lover’s book

         And feel in love with you like she did – it was a good book.

 

But when I was innocent, I stole a book my first year of high school.

         I stole Robert’s work, a big yellow book of black and white photographs

from the Bowman Library and destroyed it hard on.

Did he make all his pictures look like himself?

         A bouquet of cockrings

         and braided armpit hair?

         Was there shame in beauty?

         What did your art transmit to me through confused sex

a cumulous ambition for expression, to be art…whatever fire that is?

 

Patti: I knew your face

         your high contrast naked breasts

         your boyish body before I knew you wrote or were an icon.

You turned

         me on, but I refuted your threatening power.

 

I avoid Art – but I am conpulsed,

         beat after beat.