Not Most People:The Pornographist’S Tale: (A Play in Nine Acts)

Not Most People:

The Pornographist’s Tale

(A Play in Nine Acts)

Though natural and inevitable, death is the greatest obscenity.

Len Blanchard

AuthorHouse™ LLC

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© 2013 by Len Blanchard. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Published by AuthorHouse 07/08/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-7114-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-7113-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-7112-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013911663

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Contents

General Notes to the Director: Thomas appears in all the scenes of the play. Other players appear as noted. There are three distinct settings within the prison: the twin cells, the Visitors’ Center, and the corridor between these. The setting(s) relevant to each scene is/are noted preceding the list of players in that scene. The character referred to as Intercom is a voice only. This voice speaks in every scene set in the Visitors’ Center of the prison but is noted only in the first such scene, Act I-3.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

THE CAST

ACT I

SCENE 1

SCENE 2

SCENE 3

ACT II

SCENE 1

SCENE 2

ACT III

SCENE 1

SCENE 2

SCENE 3

ACT IV

SCENE 1

SCENE 2

SCENE 3

ACT V

SCENE 1

SCENE 2

SCENE 3

SCENE 4

ACT VI

SCENE 1

SCENE 2

SCENE 3

SCENE 4

ACT VII

SCENE 1

SCENE 2

SCENE 3

SCENE 4

ACT VIII

SCENE 1

SCENE 2

SCENE 3

SCENE 4

SCENE 5

ACT IX

SCENE 1

SCENE 2

SCENE 3

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Len Blanchard holds a B.A. degree in English from Washington and Lee University and a Ph.D. in English from Emory University where he was an NDEA Fellow. Employed for several years as a corporate and business writer in Dallas and Little Rock, he began writing seriously upon his relocation to Florida in 1990. Since 1999, he has taught as an adjunct instructor in the Department of Language and Literature at State College of Florida, Manatee-Sarasota. In 2001, Blanchard published through AuthorHouse An American Passion, an epic narrative poem on the life of Crazy Horse, the great and enigmatic war chief of the Oglala Lakota Sioux. He is also the author of hundreds of poems. A few of these poems celebrating the life of the beaches of the Florida coast were published in a collection entitled Provocations of the Birds and the Beach in 2005 by Bellowing Ark Press of Seattle. In 2012, Blanchard published through AuthorHouse a metaphysical drama entitled The First Day: Albert Camus meets Crazy Horse in the Kingdom and another collection of poems, People Matter: Sarasota Portraits and Others. His poems have appeared in numerous national magazines and journals, and he has been nominated on three occasions for a Pushcart Prize. A native of Connecticut, he is now at home in Bradenton, Florida.

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

I am grateful to Kenneth Anderson for the invaluable support he provided me during the completion of the manuscript for this play. A former student and now a collaborator and friend, Kenny consistently and reliably demonstrated the critical intelligence, moral courage and clear perception one hopes for in a poet and artist.

THE CAST

ACT I

SCENE 1

The setting for the following dialogue is a prison cell. The cell is barely furnished with a bed which resembles an army cot, one wooden straight-backed chair, and a simple wooden table measuring three-by-four feet. On the table is a metal container about the size of a fishing tackle box provided for the inmate’s valuables. A bare light bulb hangs from the center of the ceiling. This is the only light in the cell. A commode and an adjacent sink protrude from the back stone wall of the cell. High up in this wall, nearly abutting on the ceiling, is a window about a foot long and six inches wide. The two sides of this fifteen-feet-or-so deep cell are cement walls extending about waist high topped by a row of black iron bars set about three inches apart. On the right side of this cell as one faces it is a similar cell. The front of each of these twin cells is a barred wall about seven or eight feet wide containing a door which opens on a long, bare corridor. Both of the men speaking are middle-aged. Thomas, the inmate, is dressed in a gray jumpsuit with a white t-shirt, the regulation prison garb, and the priest is wearing a black suit with black shirt and a white clerical collar.

THOMAS: No, not even now, Father. Though I may have to spend the next fifteen years, for all I know the rest of my life, in this pen, I’ve no regrets for what I’ve done, for while I did it I was alive, alive as most men never are, can’t even understand.

PRIEST: But Thomas, what about the life to come? The life after death? Should this not be a concern?

THOMAS: Oh give me a break, Father! What do you really know about what happens to us when we die? How do you know anything happens at all? And in the mean time we’re living now, in a world we can see, feel and touch!

PRIEST: My faith assures me our souls don’t die, Thomas. They live eternally, either with the Lord, in Paradise, or in Hell, without him.

THOMAS: Yes, yes. So I’ve heard. With all due respect, Father, to me your faith is nothing but a fairy tale.

PRIEST: But isn’t it wise to be prudent? In the possibility that what you call a fairy tale is fact, indeed, is the truth?

THOMAS: So that I don’t find myself in hellfire and brimstone, in agony, forever, you mean?

PRIEST: Well, yes, to put it crudely. I’d say there is no greater punishment than that of being condemned to eternal separation from the Almighty Creator, our loving Father, the author of all life. Such separation would be agony, for me.

THOMAS: You mean the same loving Father who created death?

PRIEST: After a moment’s hesitation, during which time he is obviously flustered, the priest responds. But he also created life, your life, Thomas. And as creatures born to sin, death is our natural, our fitting and proper end. Death is not evil.

THOMAS: Oh really? You really believe that? Forgive me once again, Father, but I think you’re missing something big here. Do you think for one minute that with no death you’d have a job?

PRIEST: Flustered yet again, the priest nevertheless composes himself sufficiently to ask, What do you mean?

THOMAS: I mean that the only reason people go to church and drop their offerings in the basket, and ask you to forgive their sins, and cry at funerals is because people know they’re going to die; they know death is real. And people generally don’t want to admit that, for all we really know, death is final. The end. Kaput!

As he speaks this last statement, Thomas makes a motion with his right hand and forefinger as if to slit his throat. Then, under the influence of his strong emotion, Thomas stands, turns around so that his back is now facing the priest, and leans his forehead against the cement rear wall of his cell.

PRIEST: But, Thomas, my son, as you yourself say, for all we know. Is there not, at least, the possibility of life eternal?

THOMAS: Thomas speaks without turning around. Have you ever been to Disneyland, Father? Or to Orlando?

PRIEST: Why, yes. I’ve taken several youth groups to Disneyland in past years. Just this past summer, I led a group of middle school children on a weekend trip. But why? Why do you ask?

THOMAS: Oh, I don’t know. Thomas rocks his forehead back-and-forth on the wall as he remains slouched over and not looking at his auditor. It just struck me. What if, let’s just say, all the power along the Pacific coast, from Seattle to San Diego, suddenly went out. For days. So that even the back-up generators eventually quit. With no end to the power failure in sight. What would happen to Disneyland then?

PRIEST: I don’t see the relevance, Thomas. I don’t see how Disneyland and eternity with the Lord are related.

THOMAS: With this, Thomas straightens abruptly and, standing erect, turns around to face the priest. Oh, come on, Peter! You mean to tell me you don’t have imagination sufficient to wonder whether your Heaven is nothing but a Disneyland in the sky?

PRIEST: The priest grows suddenly stern, even hostile, in manner. While we knew each other as high school kids, Thomas, I don’t think your familiarity is appropriate. And sin is a serious matter. Especially the kind of sin of which you are guilty. Profiting from the exploitation of young men! Engaging in a sexual relationship with a minor!

THOMAS: He was fucking seventeen, your highness! He wanted me. And I was fond of him. I still am. Very fond, as I hope he understands. And all these so-called exploited young men knew what they were doing and were willing, even happy to be doing it. You may call that sin. I, for one, don’t see it that way. And though you were a senior in high school when I was a sophomore some forty years ago, that hardly makes me your son or you my father.

PRIEST: Ignoring what he considers an insult, he continues, Many would agree with me that your actions were obscene. As your language is. Your obscene actions are, after all, the reason you’re occupying this cell in the first place.

THOMAS: Nothing is more obscene than death, your highness. And death is not of man’s devising. Certainly, I had no say in the matter. What, then, does that make of this god in whom you profess to have such faith? You, and billions of other scared and brain-washed sheep. And, for that matter, of this god’s laws? Am I supposed to tremble in fear of these laws which attempt to stifle the very life you say this god created? Is this god of yours a sadist? Does he enjoy setting humanity up? Tricking men into breaking his laws so he can have the pleasure of watching them burn in Hell for all eternity?

PRIEST: Obviously shaken by Thomas’ harangue, the priest says quietly, looking through the bars at the front of the cell into the quiet corridor beyond, God expects us to love one another, as he loves us.

THOMAS: You know, you make me almost want to puke. I can almost feel sorry for you, Peter. No loving father I know of would condemn his son—or his daughter—to an eternity of agony for breaking any law, let alone the laws I’m accused of having broken.

PRIEST: Even in school, Thomas, I was a senior when you were a sophomore. And at this time I am your spiritual advisor. I think it would be appropriate of you to address me accordingly.

THOMAS: You mean out of love? I should call you Father out of love? Because I love you? Or is it you who love me? You, the spiritual advisor advising me on the love of the great god who created death?

PRIEST: The priest now rises. It appears my visit today is over. There is nothing more to discuss.

THOMAS: The guard hasn’t come to tell us your time with me is up. You mean, in other words, that you don’t want to discuss my sins and the love of your great god. You don’t give a damn how I feel, whether I want to continue discussing sin, and love.

PRIEST: You’re a very angry man, Thomas. I think you should be left alone awhile. Maybe after being alone awhile, you’ll reconsider your self-righteousness, your pride, your anger. Then, turning toward the door to the cell and staring down the hall, he calls, Guard!

THOMAS: What you mean, of course, is that maybe alone I will despair, and in my despair, and my loneliness, and my sorrow, I’ll see what you might call the light.

Guard #1 arrives and unlocks the door to the cell, allowing the priest to exit. He does so without ever turning to look at Thomas, and the guard locks the door again and disappears. Thomas collapses on the side of the bed. With his elbows resting on his legs and his chin cupped in his hand, he stares disconsolately at the bars separating his cell from the currently unoccupied cell adjacent to it, seeing nothing.

SCENE 2

As this scene opens, a boy of about seventeen is sitting in the chair in the cell adjacent to that in which Thomas is incarcerated. He is good-looking and physically fit, of medium build. Thomas has fallen asleep when he suddenly wakes as if startled. He sits up quickly, shaking his head.

THOMAS: I must have been dreaming…

KYLE: No, you weren’t dreaming.

THOMAS: Kyle! What are you doing here? How did you get in? I’m not allowed any visitors but for my spiritual advisor and my lawyer.

KYLE: Oh, they don’t know I’m here.

THOMAS: But what if the guard sees you? You’ll be in trouble.

KYLE: He won’t see me! Relax! Besides, I’m already in trouble. I can handle it.

THOMAS: What kind of trouble? You mean, over me?

KYLE: Well, yeah. I guess over you. Not that you’re to blame or anything, the boy adds hurriedly. I mean, I made it clear to my mother, to the cops, to anyone who asked that you didn’t force me to do anything I didn’t want to do. I told them, you know, that I love you.

THOMAS: Hearing this, the convict rises from his bed, walks over to the bars between himself and Kyle, and asks, Can I have a kiss?

KYLE: Without speaking, Kyle approaches the barred wall. He inserts his head into the narrow space between two of the black iron rods making up the barrier, and Thomas does the same. They manage to touch lips. Then Kyle steps back and says, I’d ask for a hug. Then, with an impish grin on his handsome, intelligent features, he adds, but it looks like that’s impossible just now.

THOMAS: My boy, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry!

KYLE: You can do either, but wouldn’t it be better to talk while we can? We can at least hold hands while we talk, right?

THOMAS: The convict grasps the boy’s hands in his and declares, Always so sensible, even now!

KYLE: You know, in some ways now isn’t so much different from before, is it? I mean, of course, you’re literally in a cage as you weren’t before the authorities did their dirty work, but even before, even now, aren’t we both in a cage, metaphorically I mean? Isn’t everyone, except most men are too stupid to realize it.

THOMAS: I’m the one who is supposed to be philosophical, young man. Not you. And I admit, it’s sometimes hard to be philosophical. Now is one of those times.

KYLE: But now is when you most have to be philosophical, Tom! And remember, the truth is always the truth, whether times are good—or bad, like they are now.

THOMAS: The man feels the boys suddenly clutch and squeeze his hands. You’re right, you’re right, Kyle. Of course I understand. It’s just that, since death is the truth and the world is a cage and we all have only so much time anyway, well, I enjoyed spending time as a relatively free man, with you.

KYLE: The boy looks earnestly into the man’s eyes, and says quietly, You know, I’m almost eighteen. I’ll be eighteen in less than a month.

THOMAS: Yeah, and then what?

KYLE: I mean, I won’t be what the law calls a minor any longer.

THOMAS: Yes? And just how is this relevant to me, now?

KYLE: Well, for one, I won’t have to visit you like this. You know, imaginatively. I can visit you like an adult. During the prison’s regular visiting hours.

THOMAS: But those visits don’t occur privately. There’ll be a glass window between us and we’ll be sitting in a communal area.

KYLE: So what are you saying, Tom? the boy asks, his voice beginning to rise. Should I not visit you? Don’t you want to see me?

THOMAS: Oh, no, no, no, no! That’s not it at all, dear boy. Tears begin to well-up in the man’s eyes and his grip on the boy’s hands grows tighter. I guess I was just regretting the loss of my freedom, of our freedom. Of course I want you to visit! But at least now, here, we have some privacy… as long as the guard minds his own business.

KYLE: Golly, Tom! Sometimes you are so silly! The guard won’t bother us because he can’t see me, and I can visit you as I am now any time you really want me to. I’m always ready, always willing. You oughta know that by this time. I didn’t cooperate with the idiots and goons who did this to you, who consigned you to this hole, did I?

THOMAS: No, you didn’t. You were an inspiration to me, you know that, right?

KYLE: Ah, come on! Me? A kid? I was just being honest. I was just being true to me, to who I am. And to you, of course, because I love you. Kyle speaks with self-deprecation, but he is moved nonetheless by the man’s declaration.

THOMAS: You may not realize it, good man, but you’re some amazing kid. And I worry about you some, even now, mired though I am in my own misery.

KYLE: What do you worry about me, for? Ain’t I always taken care of myself? Some of the guys accused me of playing you for some sort of sugar daddy, but you know I wasn’t… not that I wasn’t grateful for your generosity. He smiles, an impish grin lighting up his features.

THOMAS: No, not that. That was one of the qualities about you that made it possible for me to take you seriously, to love you. Your independent spirit, I mean. But if you’re going to be able to take care of yourself you have to have a job. You’re going to have bills to pay, especially if your mother kicks you out of the house, which I’m sure she will if she finds you visiting me in prison. And what about your education? Are you going to graduate from high school?

KYLE: Nah, I won’t be graduating with my class.

THOMAS: In concern, the man asks, Why not?

KYLE: It’s no big deal, Tom! Don’t go gettin’ all worried. It’s just that, well, you know how kids can be, how people can be.

THOMAS: Yeah, I know, but tell me anyway. Does this have something to do with me, with us?

KYLE: Well, yeah. People read the newspapers, and man, you were big time news there for a while… I can still see the headlines: Local Entrepreneur Charged with Assaulting Minors; Thomas Wright’s Web Site Called Obscene; Local Boy Admits to Love Affair with Sex Offender.

THOMAS: But your name was never mentioned in those reports because you were a minor. And I’m sure your mother didn’t let the neighbors know her son was the anonymous boy!

KYLE: Inquiring minds have a way of figuring things out, Tom, and even school kids have inquiring minds when it comes to matters sexual. Besides, we’d been spotted together a few times, and some kids put two and two together. And I’m not a liar. Nor was I apologizing for anything.

THOMAS: I see… so walking the halls and sitting in the classrooms of Hall High became intolerable.

KYLE: Yeah, that’s a nice way to sum it up. It’s kind of hard to study, to concentrate, when people openly call you fag boy and fudge-packer and queer bird. Or simply turn away from you, or stare at you and snicker. Or lean their heads together in the cafeteria, or the classroom, whispering, staring at you and laughing.

THOMAS: I’m sorry. And, of course, I’m proud of you.

KYLE: Ah, it’s nothing, the boy says, shrugging his shoulders. What are you going to do? Human nature is human nature.

THOMAS: And it’s pretty damn ugly sometimes.

KYLE: But that’s just the way it is. Some people love. Most people hate.

THOMAS: In their ignorance and fear. So what are you doing now? Does your mother know? he asks, returning abruptly to the original subject of discussion.

KYLE: Yeah, she knows. But she’s not too upset, as long as I keep myself occupied, as she says, in a productive way. My mom’s really big on productivity, the boy comments in a mildly sarcastic tone.

THOMAS: That’s not such a bad trait, son.

KYLE: I know.

THOMAS: So you are productive? Are you still working at the market?

KYLE: Yes, only now I’m working pretty much full time. And I’ve just gotten a raise, my third since I started working there when I was sixteen. My management has now trained me to work the registers, but my primary responsibility is still the produce. I like that better than dealing with the public at the checkout counter.

THOMAS: Do you ever get any grief about, you know, being the anonymous boy?

KYLE: No, not much. Every once in a while I’ll see someone whispering and pointing at me, usually some school chick with a friend, or her mother, but I just ignore that. It’s easy when you’re working.

THOMAS: Did you ever think the chick might be pointing at you because you’re attractive? I suspect you’re a babe magnet, my boy, whether or not you know it, the man adds in a teasing tone.

KYLE: At a moment like this, that’s not funny, Tom.

THOMAS: I know. And I’m sorry, the man adds as he briefly hangs his head. Then, looking up again and directly into Kyle’s bright eyes, he asks, But you don’t want to make a career out of the grocery market, do you?

KYLE: No, the work is pretty boring, actually. I’m planning on taking the GED and then enrolling in some college nearby. But we’ve got more immediate concerns, don’t we?

THOMAS: We do? Like what?

KYLE: Like getting you out of here as soon as possible. I’d rather not wait fifteen years to sleep with you again.

THOMAS: Laughing out loud, the man exclaims, And just how do you plan to do that?

KYLE: I’ve been saving some money for a while now. This is one reason I want to keep on living with my mother, as long as I can. Renting a place would be a big expense. Then, once I’m eighteen, I want to hire a