Bus to Jupiter Version 2
ACT 1
Barstools and bottles. A man and woman sit on the barstools, next to each other but separated by about three feet.
LAUREN (playing a man): A man walks into a bar. His mom’s there, giving out free drinks. The man looks at her, and says,
ANDRE (playing a woman): “What is this, some kind of sick dream?”
LAUREN: And turns out, it was.
(turns to audience)
I can only have sex with my girlfriend after I smoke a cigarette.
(As he speaks, directs pointed notes to Andre)
And it has to be a Marlboro Red. Besides Camels, I think I am not mistaken in saying that the Marlboro Red is the most toxic thing you can smoke, embalming fluid and hard drugs excluded. (beat) This isn’t because of me. I don’t need the thing; she does--my girl Friday. A cigarette and some newspaper ink on my fingers. If we didn’t buy the newspaper she’ll try rubbing pencil lead on my hands. I think I’m going to get several kinds of cancer from this. It’s okay. I mean, it’s okay now, since I don’t have the cancers yet. I’m sure my attitude will change, someday, abruptly. Being young and relatively naïve, I can only say I think she’s worth it. You can tell me whatever you want, but I know the truth. I’ve been called. This girl is going to save the world.
ANDRE: (to audience) Hi. He’s right. I am going to save the world. First, you. My hair is naturally dark. I’m part Cherokee, but my heritage has been lost to me for years.
(Lauren rises from her stool and assumes a stereotypical “Indian” position; puts a feather in her hair)
My father was a bit player in Hollywood, and it turned me off from even the most remote pursuit of my heritage. My dad had this line,
LAUREN: “Many thanks to you”…
ANDRE: …in some shitty Western. After he lost his apartment in LA, he came back to the reservation, and got kicked out because he wouldn’t stay dry. He sat in dive bars outside the place, staying trashed and nobody knew who he was. He was in movies! (Lauren picks up a video box, crosses to Andre, begins to rip the tape out of the video. As he speaks, she winds the tape around his head like a headdress)
Shit movies, the *worst*, but what the fuck did they ever do? I was so ashamed of him. I am ashamed of him. I am so proud of him. He was the only person I ever loved. I don’t love my boyfriend as much; I don’t think I ever will. Nothing against him--and God, this has *nothing* to do with the Marlboro Reds, despite what he may have told you--but come on! You’re born with one man and one woman, and I’m all the woman I think I ever needed.
(Lauren puts her feather into Andre’s video headdress. She stands to the left of him; he sits crosslegged to watch her as she practices standing, raising her hand and repeating her Hollywood line, silently)
He had a stupid pipe he told me was from a real roadman, and I swear, I didn’t know the difference until I saw it in a reservation gift shop when I went to the funeral.
LAUREN: (defensively, outraged) That was a copy!
ANDRE: (stands, goes back to his stool and stands on it, pointing down at Lauren) In honor of this man, who I would have married and saved,
(Lauren stops practicing and becomes serious, looking at Andre, approaching with uncertainty, confused or pained)
not like my cunt mother, who left him for a nameless lesbian star of stage and screen, and no I’m not going to do that cough-name-cough shit. Starting over: In honor of my NDN dad, I am going to save the fuck out of you people. ‘We going to Jupiter, many thanks to me.’
(Andre looks at Lauren, then stands straight and repeats the line silently to the audience. Andre gets down from his stool and stands next to Lauren. Both face the audience)
I’m only 1/16 Cherokee.
(he holds up his forearm)
He was 1/8.
(he holds up his whole arm)
I couldn’t inherit his house; I mean, it was falling apart, but still. I’m a liar, and I’ll lie to you. I like the idea that I’m Cherokee. You know what I really am, mostly? Water. Just like you. No such thing as Cherokee water.
(Lauren frowns, puts her cheek against Andre’s cheek and her hand over his mouth. Andre tries to drink her hand. She stops being Andre’s father)
LAUREN: This girl, I told you. Didn’t I tell you? I’ve tried to touch bottom (she digs into Andre’s stomach with her hands) inside of her. You can’t. She’s never gone to Jupiter, though, so I don’t know about you people. I mean, goo-ood *luck*. You know she didn’t even invite me?
(Lauren slumps down in her chair, wipes white paint under her eyes)
ANDRE: (stepping to center stage, pulling on a tapestry-like cape, pacing agitatedly) I learned this from a priest in California once: rub your hands together, really fast.
(he grabs an audience member’s hands and rubs them, then presses them to the sides of his neck, breathing deeply) Do it so like your palms are really hot. Okay, stop.
(demonstrating)
Hold them up, face your palms, and pull them together and apart, really small movements, okay? And don’t let them touch. You feel it? Like a magnet?
(leaning forward, whispering)
We’re getting to Jupiter on that, so keep that in mind.
(walks to Lauren, swipes some paint from her eyes. She laughs crazily and stretches tightly prostrate)
Can I ask you if he seems okay? He seemed okay before.
(swaggers to her barstool, stretches like Elizabeth Berkely in Showgirls and drinks from a bottle of water. She grabs a bag of tapes and picks one out, fiddling with it)
I have 10 confessions to make before we can leave. It’s part of the process. I have psychic blocks, you know? Okay.
(she walks to a tape player, then turns back to the audience) Every confession has its own music. They have to, don’t they? If they were your confessions, you’d want music, too. And if I fuck up, these are the last 10 songs of your life. Enjoy.
(she presses play, and we’re in….)
…ACT 2
Narrator enters with a medium cardboard box, which he lays down on the floor in front of him.
NARR: JUPITER! (on the first chord of the last movement of Camille Saint-Saens’ 3rd Symphony) Planet, oh BOY, Planet! (he twirls a joyous twirl and leaps a little bit, like an excited dog) JUPITER (every time he says Jupiter, he should say it with pride and his chest should swell a bit) is a gas giant, number one, and that is not to be confused with anyone’s mother, at least not while we can be blamed for the suggestion. It is the famed red planet, the giant sandstorm, the eye, the RED SPOT! (he reaches into his breast pocket and removes a tattered square of paper which he unfolds to reveal a large black dot) Not to be confused with the BLACK SPOT (he shrieks, then turns the paper over to reveal a large red dot on the other side), or maybe just this once. Let me tell you (he says, reaching into an interior pocket to remove an enormous red newspaper in which he finds some real estate listings), the market for sandwiches is HUGE! (he throws the paper violently around his head, to the ground, screaming ‘huge’--he takes out a cell phone, flips it open, and without dialing or waiting, screams:) THANKS FOR THE TIP, EUGENE! (and snaps the phone shut again, bites it, opens it again and yells:) You DICK! (then slams it and jams it back in his pocket) Number three: and this is always the one they miss at the planetarium: number three: you cannot land on Jupiter. You cannot! BeCAUSE, Jupiter is without end! No bottom! No land! (he steps close to the edge of the stage and teeters, whispering) You want to know the truth about the Bermuda Triangle? Here. It. Is. Pilots fly, fly along, peaceful, everything is blue and pleasant, and they are lulled to turn, upside, down, and they fly like that, in just that manner, until their plane dips slightly into the sea, and then more, and they continue to fly along, but under the water! They can do this, of course, because of major advances in aerodynamics--not every old oxcart can disappear you in the Bermuda Triangle. This truth is also the truth about Jupiter. (he steps back and becomes as a magician, gesturing to his box) Behold, a cheap representation of the grand illusions of Jupiter! (he leans down, puts a hand into the box) A box which seems to have a bottom! A planet which seems to have a core! (he dips his arm further into the box) A box which appears to defy logic! A planet which cannot be fathomed! (he dips down to his shoulder, and looks directly, calmly, at the audience) A box without end. The truth about Jupiter. We cannot land. We will go straight through, forever. Within Jupiter, WE have no end!
MARTIAN BAGGAGE HOLD, INDETERMINATE TIME.
Martian Employee holds a baggage claim tag which is tied to the neck of an individual who was extremely well-dressed 10 years ago but hasn’t been able to change clothing since. This individual is the Martian Baggage. This should suggest a slave market.
EMP: (He is shuffling around, looking aimlessly for nothing. He may check his watch. He may adjust his uniform, which is a shabby tie and vest. He is a retail employee, far undervalued and bored) B55990-3.
BAG: (He is ADD, but in slow motion. He cannot focus. He moves in tics and twitches, also very slow. He seems cold, afraid, small, and tortured, but also genuinely unaware of his surroundings, save for tiny moments of clarity) They’re not here.
EMP: B55990-3.
BAG: They’re not here. (He tries to step up into the air, fails)
EMP: They’re never here. B55590-3.
BAG: (snatching the tag, he double checks the number. This may be the only thing that matters to him) That’s not my number.
EMP: (takes the tag gently back, not touching BAG) What does it matter, if they’re not here?
BAG: (referencing the audience) They’re not staying here. You should just give them the tour so we can get on with it.
EMP: (sighing, under his breath) Get on, get on.
BAG: (to audience, spitefully) There’s no tour. I’m the whole museum.
EMP: This is Martian Baggage Claim. This space debris--
BAG: --apt metaphor--
EMP: --is my unclaimed. I switch off shifts with 2 other guys who commute from Neptune. We get about 10 bags a day. Basically, what we do here is try to get this claimed. We do that in the way you see here. It’s a complete waste, because nobody checks baggage here, and nobody picks it up. Your baggage, for example, doesn’t come through here. It’s still on your bus. The baggage we get is basically floaters, drifters, stuff that got lost. (he tugs on the tag, jerking BAG grudgingly but kindly) You go ahead and tell ‘em your thing.
BAG: (said as if he has said it one million times before) I was working on the space shuttle. I slipped. Something went wrong with my tether. I drifted away. I watched the shuttle get small and far away before I could even think about it. I started thinking about how they were going to come and get me, or about where I was going to end up, stop. It took me a really long time to realize that I was never going to stop. I think by then I had passed the moon. When I got that idea in my head, it took over my whole life. It was instant, I was instantly alone, forever. I know you can’t relate to this; I’ve never met anyone who could. Even here. Nobody talks to anyone else! This fucking place, you know? Jerry’s a good guy, but he gets to leave. He doesn’t know.
EMP: I’m in a Polka Band. I know about polka. You wouldn’t think, would you?
BAG: (interrupting) The Mars nets got me; I guess a lot of bags drift this way. I got pulled in, and they tagged me.
EMP: It’s a community service program. It makes jobs.
BAG: To be honest, I’d rather still be drifting.
EMP: You know you would have died a long time ago.
BAG: I’d rather be dead and drifting. It’s the only thing I do, morning to night to morning, and really, it’s dishonest to be here. To me! I’m a closeted drifter, I feel schizophrenic. I was medicated for that, when I wasn’t a bag, and I’ll tell you it was a dream and a cake-walk compared to this.
EMP: They get stuck like this. Don’t have no direction.
BAG: Any direction. Pick one. Throw me out!
EMP: No can do, buddy.
BAG: (to the audience, desperate) Look, I know you can’t understand me, but I have to try. I am going to be here, forever. I am going to sit in those chairs, forever, wake up on them, forever. Those vending machines, they’re going to be there forever. I’m going to drift through here like a ball of dust. Jerry’s going to leave! What am I going to do when Jerry leaves? Is time going to condense when it starts to get really long? How many years is that? Do you know how long long really is? Tell me the end of the story! I don’t have anything to look forward to! They don’t even have good food in here! Not that I could eat, but the smell…
EMP: I bring coffee when I can. Most of the guys don’t do that.
BAG: I don’t know if I’m moving or stopped.
EMP: You’re right here with me.
BAG: They don’t let you touch me.
EMP: I didn’t make that rule, buddy.
BAG: At least if I knew if I were moving, I could be moving towards something. Did you know I can see the structure of time now?
EMP: (to audience) They all say this part; all of them. (to BAG) That’s how we know it’s time to move on, right? Let’s go.
BAG: It’s just a little figure-eight train track. It’s a stupid little figure-eight train track with stupid little trains going around and around! Not going anywhere. Not anywhere. You can’t get anywhere through time.
EMP: (to audience) See you. Enjoy your trip. (He turns away from the audience, repeating the number from the beginning) B55990-3…
BAG: (to audience) It’s something else you’re traveling on. (BAG points fiercely and angrily at the audience for emphasis) Don’t! Get! Off!