3 Places by Jack Shamblin, Directed by Marion Schoevarte, Projections and Photos by Eva Mueller, Music by Rui Leitão

Performed at Without Author Festival C.E.M. at Teatro de Trindade Lisbon 2000, Here Theater Soho NY 2001, Dixon Place NY 2002, Windows On 42nd Street Festival NY 2002


Author's note

Each story begins with the announcement of the place and a sequence of movement. There are slide projections that fall on the body, occurring during each story. Everything in parenthesis is for the benefit of the performer and director, please disregard while reading the text out loud.

Oklahoma
Jack Shamblin
August 2000 ©


Waddling out of her swimsuit, she, fifteen years old, rests on the cool creek bed, shaded and hidden by the protective branches of a fallen tree. Leaving the water, he, fourteen, snaps out of his green and white baggy swimsuit, joins her in the cool damp hideout. His dick dances and thumps just bellow his belly. He slips his tongue into her mouth. Fingers slide into her, playing with her clitoris. Tongues tie. Faster fingers; mouth wraps down throat, lips and tongue together slide down to erect nipples. He sucks as his head rests on oscillating breasts. Faster fingers; she shivers, then pushes him away. Smiling, he takes his two fingers, lubed with wetness, pushes them one at a time into his ass, pulling, yanking his dick. He rides into ecstasy. Ecstasy by fingers, by her watching, by the cool damp earth that dirties his ass as he squats down. Hot, he cums. It flies out of him, to his shoulders, on his chest, on his forearm, a pool forming on his belly, a stream making its way down his hip; as he rests in the earth, enjoying the afterglow.

(Ruby:) "You are a strange one, Bradlee Stevenson."

She murmurs in his ear.

(Mama:) "Bradlee! Braaaaaadleeeeeeeeeee!"

(Bradlee:) "Mama."

He pushes into his swimsuit, Ruby clutches her one piece, jumps deeper into the hideout, but changes her mind, she leaps and explodes into the clandestine creek water.

(Ruby:) "Here we are! Aunt Jolene!"

Beads of water, reflecting the bright Oklahoma sun, ornate her hair.
Peeking out above the high creek bank is Jolene.

(Jolene:) "Ruby, where is Bradlee?"

(Bradlee:) "Here I am , Mama!"

(Jolene:) "What are you doing in the bushes?"

(Bradlee:) "I had to go pee!"

(Jolene:) "Should've peed in the water. There's chiggers in the bushes! Come carry these blackberries back to the car. I need your strength."

(Jolene:) "Ruby?"

(Ruby:) "Yes, Aunt Jolene."

(Jolene:) "Delmas Walker said that Bradlee was as pretty as a girl."

(Ruby:) "He's cute Aunt Jolene!"

(Jolene:) Yes, he's cute. But what did he mean by pretty?"

That night Jolene dreams of Bradlee flying in the ether. He is strong, his hair dazzling like an intricate Cherokee head-dress full of shapes, colors and patterns, turquoise triangles, red zigzags, orange octagons. His eyes are slithers of white moon crests floating in a wild blue. His arms stretched out, his hips narrow, his torso and shoulders wide, he navigates above the blue potato shaped mountains and serpentine waters of Eastern Oklahoma. He hungers for the rabbit running in the field. He swoops down with intense velocity, definite he reaches for the rabbit, the rabbit dodges left, then right, right, left, right, right. The taste of living flesh, right, right, the warm fur, left, left, the tight bouncing buttocks, the rabbit dodges right, left, left, brushing his face. Suddenly Jolene's vagina clutches her nightgown, she sharpens her teeth, clutching, she jolts out of bed, "Jolene?" She likes the softness of the carpet on her feet. Her nightgown flows as she runs to the porch. The boy in the sky is arched and ready to penetrate. The rabbit burrows into a fence row, built by the boy's father. He hovers, shielded by a dog-wood tree and a patch of briar rose. The boy drives downward, surrendering to desire, to instinct, to need, tuummmmmmmblinnnnng to the eaaaaaarth. The boy is silent, he sees blood, he can't move to taste it, he discovers his wrists, arms, limbs entangled in the cutting barbed wire of his father's fence. He looks east, catches the first glimmer of the sun rising, a red against the lavender of morning, the rabbit runs away. (Gasp, Jolene awakes.) An owl is caught in the fence.

The family in unison moves down across the cool wet grass of morning. They halt, mesmerized: an immense wing span, eyes, two harvest moons, striped feathers, a flying tiger. Equally, the owl
examines.

(Owl:) "Ooohusual. Scent of petroooleum. Proooootrooosions. Rambunctious! Oooooh, hmmmmm."

The owl fixes on Bradlee.

(Owl:) "Silky, tuffs, red? Ooooh, eyes, blue oooh white ooooh black. Dangerous? Malicious? Delicate."

The owl and Bradlee amorously contract, to meet at night, to taste each other, to inverse between roles of hunter, prey, villain, ingenue.

Thud, thud, thud! Another man comes, he carries a cage and a gun. The owl, unsure of what to do in such a situation, looks back at Bradlee.

(Bradlee:) "Is he gonna kill it?"

(Dad:) "No, son."

(Bradlee:) "Will it die?"

The owl watches the shot coming towards her chest. Her instinct tells her that she is dying. Now, she doesn't feel like an owl, but like a delicate night moth, flapping, flap, flap. She is removed from the father's fence, spread out to awe the audience. The owl thinks of Bradlee, Bradlee thinks of the owl.


Lisbon
Jack Shamblin
August 2000 ©


She looks up and down. Her large teeth are jutting out. She's uncomfortable, she's laughing; the lawyer, o advogado, a communista. Her pupils reflect the lit candles in the cafe. She has the slight frame of a razor blade. She's Silvia's friend. Silvia, who has straight black hair that drapes and falls dangerously far from her small body, is smiling and raising her right eye brow, giving that eye the appearance of being larger and more knowledgeable than its mate. She admits to not liking men with hairy chests, backs, legs. She is hard to please.

(Silvia:) "No smelly men. No sweat. And between a man's legs must live a gift, if he has one that is. Otherwise, I prefer the company of women."

The lawyer guffaws against the high speed of conversation.

More friends are around, most are communists. Abbie, whose mother, a black African, has been lost in Angola for over twenty years, is round and golden. Round nose, mouth, breasts, belly, hips, ass, hands, fingers; an eloquent jumble of circles and hills, her English is flawless, she converses with the American. He wears a disco print shirt and orange leather motorcycle jacket. Silvia turns to Abbie.

(Silvia:) "Never trust a man with light eyes, blue eyes are deceptive."

He enjoys this idea of being deceptive, something other than he appears, which is after all a tourist. Blues is playing in the background. The tables are snugly placed, leaving a weaving pathway for the cute garçon. He's eighteen. His jeans are new and too tight. He rests with his elbows in the window to the kitchen. His ass is giggling, moving back and forth in front of the patrons who sit eye level. The lawyer.

(Lawyer:) "When I was a little girl we had lots of animals: dogs, cats, ducks, chickens. It was on a farm in Alentejo. I remember playing with a beautiful black puppy, then it occurred to me that I have never seen a black puppy. When I went to tell my mother, who was in the middle of killing a snake. . ."

(Silvia:) "In Alentejo women hate snakes."

Silvia sips from her cognac.

Sara slammed her foot down, squishing the brain out of the snake's cranium. A grin of victory lit up her gypsy brown face. She has conquered again in the land of Alentejo, a land that is arid and hot, with white houses and numerous olive groves.

(Silvia:) "In Alentejo women hate snakes."

Sipping from her cognac.

(Silvia:) "In the countryside, they never close the windows or doors so the house can have a breeze. Snakes would crawl into a mothers bed, sucking the breast, stealing the milk."

(Lawyer:) "My mother was quite vicious when killing a snake, and it was difficult to interrupt. When I went to tell her about the black puppy, words wouldn't come out. I tried to talk, but I couldn't make a sound. My mother took me to a bruxa, a witch, who made some magic, said some prayers, then I started talking. I told my mother about the black puppy. The witch and my mother became excited because the devil had visited her house. Satan loves to visit children as little black puppies! My mother got so scared, she refused to let me or my brothers and sisters near black dogs. Of course, now that I'm a comunista, I don't believe in such things."

Sara held her child on her hip, she looked out over the low rolling land. The sun was rising, the cock was crowing, a slight breeze, and in the distance her husband Rui approached. His face swollen, his white shirt torn, stained with blood and dirt, his knuckles, black, still bleeding. His beatings were getting worse, the cock was still crowing.

(The Lawyer:) "Renato! You made it! It's Renato's birthday! I told him he should come! Sit down! I'm so glad you could come."

Smooch, smooch, smooch. Silvia smiles and raises her eye brow.

(Silvia:) "In Portugal, the one having the birthday, buys all his friends a drink."

Renato settles into a tiny chair next to the lawyer. He is plump and rocks back and forth to fit in. He has plump glasses, plump cheeks and a plump tongue that orders the cute garçon for another round. The American asks for more superstitions.

(Lawyer:) "In my family, we have a cloth from a very old suit, made by a witch, a bruxa. You see, in Alentejo, where Silvia and I are from, we have many strange things. During a full moon, my great grandfather, would go out at night, and come back in the morning with his clothes filthy, his arms, knuckle, bruised, covered with blood."

Rui reclined on the floor in a corner of his house. Sara baptized his swollen wounds with olive oil and herbs. He watched her crossing herself and praying. He saw her black eyes, her thick brow, her heavy eye lashes, and her fear.

At first he enjoyed the pleasure of his new strength and speed. He would hit the ground with muscles and bones, propelling himself into a Dionysian rhythm, gallop, gallop, gallop, wind and music blew around him, there was a white heat in his belly, his teeth were big and biting, his nostrils stretched and sucked the air as he ran, the crazy speed of new living. He was manic, out of control, crashing, exploding, against his homeland.

The lawyer is neighing.

(Lawyer:) "During the night, my great grandfather would turn into a horse. The horse was mad, galloping, crashing into everything. My great grand mother was afraid that people would shoot him or that he would die from his own beatings. So, she went to a witch, a bruxa."

Sara with the baby on her hip took the arduous walk up the steep hill to the witch's house. At the gate she met o Monstro.

O Monstro, a Elefante, was once a prosperous merchant in Evora, the city with a temple of Diana. He had a wife with light eyes and three strong sons. He was anticipating a gentle death amongst cool white sheets and the belabored mourning of his family. At fifty, he noticed a strange boil on his face. Within a week, the boil was multiplying, the skin transforming. By the end of the month, his face had tripled in size, as though he were wearing a large hideous mask. His wife was unable to look at him and retreated to the spas in the northwest of Portugal. His sons seized control of his business and sent their father to the witch on the hill. The witch, an indiscriminate age between 60 and 200, smiled on his ugliness, revealing all her teeth in place. She would care for him, keep him company, drug him, ease his pain. She couldn't reverse his infliction, but she contained it to his face.

Sara kept polite, by looking past him to the door of the house. She knocked and called out.

(Sara:) "Bruxa com os dentes perfeitos!"

Witch with the perfect teeth.

(Sara:) "Meu marido transforma se o cavalo durante noite a lua cheia! Está a morrer!"

(Witch: Laughing) "A filha! Let him die, he'll enjoy paradise and freedom from the heat of our burning sun!"

Sara began sobbing, she dropped to the ground with her child, the two of them bellowed, an anguished choir. The witch opened the door, ushered them into her kitchen. She gave them bread and water and absorbed their tears into a fine dark cloth. Sara fell into a deep sleep, the child began nursing, the witch slyly questioned.

(Witch:) "Is he tall?"

(Sara:) "As tall as a door."

(Witch:) "Is he fat?"

(Sara:) "No, he is thin like a branch from the olive tree."

As she slept, the witch stitched a handmaid suit from the dark, tear-stained cloth.

(Lawyer:) "The witch said as long, as a stitch of that suit remained in the family, no one would ever transform into a horse again." (Laughs.)

The cute garçon is moving rapidly and stacking the chairs. The candles are replaced by blinding florescence in the ceiling. The group sits huddled, slow to move. The cafe is closed. They down the last drops of their drinks. Coats are labored to put on. The cold night awaits them. They move into the medieval streets of Barrio Alto. They wait at the corner for part of the group to buy cigarettes. They make a circle, cold , joined elbow to elbow, moving clockwise then counter. A fat middle aged prostitute wearing black net stockings and a mini-skirt hisses at the men. Her eyes belonging to Maria Callas singing opera, she's drunk. They laugh.

New York
Jack Shamblin
August 2000 ©


A young man goes to a basement brownstone off of Central Park West, through a gate, into a cage, a shell. The client, a gentleman, sixty-two, greets him. The young man enters and is impressed by a shimmering bronze bust of a small boy.

(Client:)"Before I die, I want to cover this apartment with as many objects as I can buy. Would you like a drink, vodka, juice, soda?"

(Prostitute:) "I brought water."

(Client:) "Don't be so nervous."

(Prostitute:) "Well, you know, I don't know you."

(Client:) "I'm a pussy-cat."

The young man goes down a black, iron stairwell, as a sailor going deep into a ship's hull. He arrives in a luxurious den, filled with leather and fur. The client takes a seat and is swallowed by a monstrous dark leather sea. His belly , swollen not fat, bobs out, his eyes protrude resisting submergence, his legs and arms, mere femurs and tentacles drifting. The young man strips, discarding clothes, revealing his skin's secretes. He rocks, back, forth, naked, taller, stronger, more beautiful. The client, covered in a light blue monotony, masturbates, rubbing the thin fabric of his trousers. He grabs the small outline of his cock and pulls. He never undresses. He smokes cocaine out of a glass bubbled pipe. He cums, once, then twice, then three times.

(Client:) "That's the fourth! You are perfect, perfectly shaped legs and thighs, the body is perfect, your cock is a work of art. Your eyes sparkle! What would you say your body is on a scale from one to ten?. . .Oh, come on say you're a ten!"

(Prostitute:) "Ok, I'm a ten. . ."

(Client:) "Will you suck my cock?"

The young man sits. He has been performing as on a stage, from a distance, and the client's cock is never made visible. It contains itself in the trousers where it would delicately change the fabric to a deeper blue, marking the place where it defecates cum.

(Prostitute:)"No!"

(Client:) "No? You can't say not. That's part of the deal, no?! All the other guys suck my cock. Why don't you want to suck my cock?"

(Prostitute:) "Can I ask you a question?"

(Client:) "Of course."

(Prostitute:) "Are you sick? I just assumed you were sick?"

(Client:) "Do I look like I've got. . .?!"

(Prostitute:) "Well, you never took your clothes off."

(Client:) "No wonder, you don't want to suck my cock if you think I've got. . . Jeesus, maybe I smoke too much of this stuff. Well, I ask a honest person an honest person and I get an honest answer. Dorian Gray, I am not. But, I sure as hell don't look like an. . .Get out from under that light, my boy, you look fifty!"

The young man bellies down on a furry rug, placating with his ass, perusing with his, asshole.

(Client:) "What would I get if I offered you a thousand dollars? Come on what would you give me for a thousand dollars? Wipe that smirk off your face? A thousand bucks is a lot of money, I would have to get rid of my other boys. They aren't going to like that. For that kind of money, what would I get?"

(Prostitute) "I could bring other guys over and you could watch us having sex."

(Client:) "I'm going to pay you a thousand dollars so you can have sex with someone else? Come on, what do I get? "

Impulse of acquisition; Mother's name was Lois, an established family, no money. Edgar, father, had millions from the railroad. He spent his weekend's having cocktail parities in his apartment in the city, while Lois lounged in Connecticut gardens. The transaction produced a child, a beautiful sweet faced cherub with curly lochs. The image imprisoned in the bronze bust.

(Client:) "What would I get? At least a blow job, that's for sure."

Bantering, pretending, cooing, slithering; the act is exhausting.

(Prostitute:)"Can you get the baby oil?"

The client, like a child, jumps. A clear plastic drop cloth ceremoniously is laid.

The young man clamors on top. (Actor pulls out a bottle of baby oil and pours it on top of himself.) He covers himself in the oil, anointing the forehead, massaging the chest, sliding past the belly, phallus, thighs. Intoxicating. Spilling from high, the oil gets caught in his eye-lashes and rolls down like thick, heavy tears.

(Client:) "Oh, baby, you don't know what you're doing to me. No, you do know, oh baby, you are the best, a once in a lifetime moment. I've waited my life to see you. I've waited my whole life for this moment. Oh! Yes!"

He cums again without once removing his cock from his trousers.

(Prostitute) "The shower?"

(Client:) "Yes, upstairs, let me get it ready for you."

Travels up the spiral stairwell, past exotic masks, abstract sculptures, morphing rubies and sapphire, there is steam, candlelight. The young man finds the soap and water welcoming, the oil thick, he lathers thoroughly. . . Again the client cums.

(Client:) "That's a record!"

He gloats, reveals his cock for the first time, takes a cloth to wash it, appearing almost broken, sliced away, gone from memory. The young man dries quickly, finds his clothes, takes a bow, pulling up his trousers, zipping, hooking.

(Client) "You're not so good-lookin' . . . Come on, can't you take a joke?"

(Prostitute:) "I can, except when it's about me."

Hand a fist of money. Hand on the shoulder, a game of friends, separation. Walk quickly, past laughter, perfume, suits, poodles, collies, yellow cabs, music, phone booths. Stop. Blackness. Breathe. Feel the width in pocket, cash. Hold thickness. Go to a candlelit restaurant. The waiter, "Sir?" Order without looking at the cost.