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    Cannibals and Headhunters: A Stage Play
    Cannibals and Headhunters: A Stage Play
    Cannibals and Headhunters: A Stage Play
    Ebook127 pages1 hour

    Cannibals and Headhunters: A Stage Play

    By Gary Solomon

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    About this ebook

    Cannibals & Headhunters is a play about a psychologist’s decent into madness as he treats his patients.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBookBaby
    Release dateFeb 28, 2015
    ISBN9781483551678
    Cannibals and Headhunters: A Stage Play

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      Book preview

      Cannibals and Headhunters - Gary Solomon

      II

      CANNIBALS AND HEADHUNTERS

      ACT I

      (The stage lights are turned on gradually, but only to the point of a rather dull-lit stage. DR. ROSS, a man in his early to mid-forties, sits in a leather easy chair across from PAULINE, a woman in her mid-twenties. She is sitting on a leather couch, casually dressed in jeans and tee shirt. Slightly to the right of the easy chair and down stage facing the audience is an arm chair. There are no other props. On the periphery of the dimly lit area, overhead lights point down creating an image of other furniture; bookshelves, tables, lamps, etc. It appears that DR. ROSS and PAULINE are talking. DR. ROSS stands, walks down stage, and speaks to the audience. He is nicely dressed in slacks, dress shirt, and tie. He is confident and assertive. He speaks as if giving a class lecture.)

      DR. ROSS

      I am very glad you could make it. I believe you are in store for an unusual experience. At the very least you are in store for an experience one way or the other.

      My name is Philip Ross. My friends call me Phil, my wife calls me Philly, and my clients call me DR. ROSS. I have no preference as to what name people use as long as those who speak to me speak with respect. No more respect than any one of you would want, at least I would think so. I always try to do the same.

      I am a Psychotherapist. I was born in Los Angeles 44 years ago in 1947. I came from a typical, malfunctioning family of four; a father, a mother, and a sister, and of course myself. I suppose that goes without saying. Please excuse my ignorance.

      My father was a painter; a painter of houses that is. My sister, who I never really knew, lived down the hall from me in another house, or so that’s how it felt. My mother did what I assumed mothers do. She spent most of her time sitting in her chair, that was permanently molded to her body, having an ongoing affair with Father Time. My father never said much about her affair, except when the house got out of hand that is. Then he’d yell and scream. You wouldn’t believe the yelling and screaming. (Pause.) Well maybe you would. I’ll spare you all the words. Suffice it to say that there was not a neighbor two houses on either side of us that was unaware of my father’s wrath and my mother’s affair. I wonder today what they thought of us kids, if they thought of us at all. I don’t know, anyway…

      I was use to his yelling and screaming. He never yelled at me much, but he was on my sister like fly paper. Unbelievable. Sometimes I could feel the stickiness. The house was thick with him by the time he was through. She, my sister that is, could never do much right as far as he was concerned. He let her know as often as he could. (Pause.) He let us all know. No one could do much right for this man’s taste. He lived out his unhappiness on the world and we were his world.

      It seemed he never stopped yelling. Sometimes he would go into my sister’s room and yell at her for what felt like hours. It would stop after a while. He would usually come out of her room some time later, usually a while after he stopped yelling. My sister would stay in her room for an hour or so after he left. He usually didn’t yell at her for a couple of days after that and then it would all start up again. My mother would stay in the kitchen, like nothing was going on. It was not until many years later that I understood what was really happening in that room. (Pause.) My God, sometimes I think we humans should have to be licensed to be parents, do you know what I mean?

      I don’t speak to my father. I haven’t for years. I don’t even know where he lives or if he’s alive. I know my sister isn’t living, but I don’t know where she’s buried.

      (DR. ROSS looks back at PAULINE, his client. She is still talking. The audience cannot hear her. They can see her arms moving in expression to her non-verbal actions.)

      By the way, that’s Pauline. Under normal circumstances the client’s name would never be revealed. However, I have received a full release from every one of the clients you will be seeing, so don’t be concerned. I admire their courage. Those of you who have seen or are seeing someone such as myself can appreciate the kind of courage it takes to do what they’re doing. Put themselves on the line. Pour their guts out week after week in the hopes that life will get better some day.

      I’ll bet most of you think that people who come to see me are patients versus clients. Not so. Let me explain the difference between a patient and a client. If someone comes to my office to see me, they are clients. If they go to the hospital, like a psychiatric hospital, they are patients. For the most part, after they leave the hospital they’re clients. There are some therapists who always refer to them as patients. (Snicker.) Freud would have acknowledged that they have a bit of an ego problem. There is a level of superiority one holds over another human being when referring to them as patients. They’re clients, clean and simple. Clients.

      I knew by the age of eight that I wanted to do what Sigmund Freud did. I saw a movie where this guy, speaking in a thick German voice, says after listening to this other guy’s story, (Speaking in an exaggerated German accent.) It is apparent that your mother sent you mixed messages creating an identity crisis. She obviously did not love you. Your father abandoned you, even though he remained in the house. You are still traumatized by their inappropriateness. I believe I can help you.

      Jesus, I thought, how did he do that? All the guy told him was that he left work early three times that week and that he was having trouble sleeping. What can I tell you, I was young.

      I couldn’t tell you why then, but from that time forward I found myself watching every movie that had a therapist in it. While my friends were playing baseball and football I was watching movies about therapists, over and over and over again. I could play the role of the therapist, word for word. Did you see Streisand in the movie (Beat.) What was it? No, not Nuts. It was (Beat.). Although that was pretty good, wasn’t it? Not too realistic, but good. No, the one I’m thinking about is, ah yes, The Prince of Tides. Now I can tell you that’s just not the way it is. And her involvement with the brother, you know the one played by Nick Nolte, well, I’d have her license pulled for that little trick. That’s for damn sure. Anyway, I still watch all those movies whenever I get a chance.

      By the time I got ready to graduate from junior high I was wishing my name were something like Russo. You know, something with a little more pizzazz. It just seemed to me that (Punch.) one’s name should sound like (Punch.) one’s profession. For instance, I asked myself, Phil, what do you think of when you hear the name Washington? Basketball, right? How about Cataloni? Sure, loan sharking and drug dealing. Here’s one. Smith. Exactly, a couple having an affair checking into a motel. (Laughs to self.) So I thought Russo (Beat.) Philip Russo really had a ring to it. It was ridiculous, but

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