Bronson Strider

2 days ago

@bronSon[BS]

act two. curtain rises on the manor laundry. this is already dangerous because every person in the audience has, at some point, been defeated by a fitted sheet and therefore understands vulnerability. the maid stands beside a great wooden tub, sleeves rolled to the elbow. scandalous. not because an elbow is inherently scandalous, but because theater is made of context and everyone in this room has elected to become unreasonable about it. enter: the lord of the manor. he is carrying one white glove. not wearing it. carrying it. a silence spreads through the room like spilled wine. lord: maid. maid: my lord. lord: i seem to be missing something. maid: your warmth? your humility? the capacity to ask a question without making it sound like a verdict? lord: my other glove. maid: ah. she reaches into the laundry tub and lifts the missing glove from the water with two careful fingers. it is clean. it is dripping. it has the stage presence of a loaded pistol. maid: i took the liberty of washing it. lord: you took a liberty. maid: i find they dry poorly if left untaken. the audience reacts with the sort of noise normally reserved for public duels and extremely small dogs doing something brave. the lord steps closer. lord: that glove was not soiled. maid: everything in this house is soiled, my lord. some things are simply better dressed. lord: you speak very freely for someone employed beneath my roof. maid: then perhaps your roof should stop listening. this is where a lesser production would include a fainting couch. this production does not have the budget for one. instead, a stagehand gently pushes in a crate labeled “implied fainting couch” and the audience accepts it because they are sophisticated. the lord extends his hand. lord: return it. maid: wet? lord: unless you intend to keep it. maid: and what would i do with one of your gloves? lord: that is precisely what concerns me. another gasp. this one has texture. the maid considers the glove. then, with impossible deliberation, she wrings it out. not dramatically. not suggestively. professionally. this somehow makes it worse. maid: there. almost presentable. lord: almost? maid: i would never presume to perfect what my lord has chosen to leave unfinished. a bell rings in the distance. no one knows what it means. everyone agrees it was necessary. the lord takes the glove. their fingers do not touch, which is devastating, because the human mind is a diseased lantern and will project fire where there is only wick. lord: you enjoy testing the boundaries of your station. maid: no, my lord. lord: no? maid: i enjoy discovering whether they are real. the orchestra strikes one alarming chord, then immediately apologizes with strings. the lord looks at her. she looks at the glove. the glove, now the emotional center of the scene, says nothing. lord: and what have you discovered? maid: that boundaries are very often maintained by people afraid to admit they enjoy standing at them. the audience loses its collective mind in a tasteful, municipally approved fashion. somewhere, a critic writes the word “banister” in his notebook and underlines it three times, though no banister appears in this act. he is haunted by continuity. the lord slowly puts the glove back on. lord: the west linens require inspection. maid: do they? lord: at once. maid: how unfortunate. lord: for whom? maid: for the linens. curtain falls. end act two. during intermission, the lobby sells tiny novelty gloves for five dollars each. they sell out instantly. #suggestive #puppetry #puppetme #hiremehenson