Actor v. Advocate

It's early morning when the Actor wakes to the crack of a pistol, the sharp splintering of glass above him and glass showering his face. The Actor jumps to his feet. A stout man in black gown, wig, and white bow tie stands fifteen paces from the trunk of the oak. The man raises his pistol and cocks his pistol and fires again. This man is the Advocate. The Actor falls. The framed photograph, knocked from its center by the first bullet, bucks wildly from the second bullet and falls, landing at the base of the oak, propped by a root of the oak, beside two rotting pears lying adjacent to the Actor's face.

Stop, says the Actor. The Advocate advances. Do you know who I am? asks the Actor. I do, says the Advocate. The Actor frowns, shaking glass from his hair.

The Advocate picks up the framed photograph and nods and shows the Actor. The Actor's wife is shot between the eyes and the face of his mistress is missing, a smoking bullet hole. The Advocate drops the framed photograph in the Actor's lap. The Actor tosses the frame aside and stands.

The issue here, says the Actor, standing over the Advocate, is transgression of unspoken rules. You can't just come here and start shooting pistols at random. We're here for a duel. The Actor jabs the Advocate on the chest with his knuckle. And what's more that's my pistol with the red ribbon, he adds. The Advocate looks down and flips the pistol and holds the pistol by the barrel and carefully removes the red ribbon. The Actor takes the ribbon. The Advocate raises the pistol and then brings the butt down on the Actor's nose. The Actor falls.

The Advocate walks to the rosewood table and picks up the other pistol. He throws the other pistol at the Actor's feet then takes his place on the field. The Actor stands and takes the pistol and takes his place fifteen places away.

I should let you know, says the Actor, holding his bloody head back, pinching his bloody nose shut, that I've shot two men and a woman dead on this field.

Ball sack, says the Advocate.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Actor v. Administrator

The Actor stands leaning with his back against the oak, left foot crossed casually over the right, working on the crossword puzzle in the newspaper left by the Accountant with the silver ballpoint pen left by the Actuary. From nearby he hears excited breathing that rises seamlessly from the ambient noise of the field - chirping, trilling, the far-off sound of fieldwork.

The Actor blinks. He lowers the newspaper. He looks to the right.

The Administrator stands a pace away. She's heavyset, heavily made up, wearing heavy faux-leather boots and a heavy pink coat. She steps half a pace closer to the Actor.

You're -, says the Administrator. No, says the Actor. But -, she says. No, he says, I'm not. Not that I'm not flattered, the Actor adds, because I am flattered, and I get this all the time. I don't believe you, the Administrator says. It's true, the Actor says, I'm not him, I'm just an ordinary Actuary. It's uncanny, she says, looking him over. I'm flattered, he says.

Oh well, says the Administrator, you are shorter than he is. The Actor shrugs. And your nose is bigger, says the Administrator. The Actor shrugs. And your face lacks that unnameable quality which elicits an immediate rapport, an aesthetic and emotional connection with the audience, a distinction that transcends the banal yet suggests familiarity, a rare face upon which the pith of the human condition can be expressed, expressed with unflinching brutality, totality. The Actor shrugs.

The Administrator notices the framed photograph of the Actor's wife and passport photo of the Actor's mistress hanging at eye-level on the tree. What exactly does an Actuary do? asks the Administrator. Mind your own business, says the Actor.

Having run out of things to say, the Actor suggests a duel. The Actor takes his weapon and the Administrator takes the other weapon and they take the field, 15 paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Actor v. Actuary

The Actuary stands leaning with his back to the oak, left foot crossed casually over the right, working on the crossword puzzle in the newspaper left by the Accountant with a silver ballpoint pen. He's a slim, fit man in his early forties, with rectangular black framed glasses and graying temples, keen eyes and manicured hands. He wears a dark pinstripe suit, a blue Oxford shirt, a conservative striped tie tied in a half-Windsor knot. He stands waiting for the Actor to wake. Now with the Actor awake, he rounds the tree, hand outstretched.

The Actor and Actuary shake hands. The Actor introduces himself in a charitable way, the Actuary directly. The expectant pause after the introductions leave the Actuary uneasy. The Actor frowns. The Actuary asks if they had met previously. The Actor explains. The Actuary apologizes, explaining that he's more of a reader.

I don't watch television, explains the Actuary, though that's not to say I'm opposed to it. I'm not on television, I'm in film, says the Actor. The Actuary shrugs. The Actuary says his wife watches a television show about people that work in a hospital. I'm not on television, the Actor says.

The Actuary asks if the woman in the small framed photograph hanging at eye-level from the trunk of the oak is the Actor's wife. It is, says the Actor. The Actuary asks if the woman in the creased passport photo stuck into the lower right hand corner of the frame is the Actor's daughter. Mind your own business, says the Actor.

The Actor walks to the table where the pistols rest. Please choose your pistol, the Actor says. The Actuary walks and places the Accountant's newspaper on the table and spends several minutes inspecting the two weapons. Why does this pistol have a red ribbon tied to the barrel, the Actuary asks, holding the pistol. Because that's my pistol, says the Actor, who takes the pistol with the red ribbon from the Actuary's hand and walks to his place on the field. The Actuary takes the second pistol and joins the Actor, 15 paces away.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Acrobat v. Actor

The Actor, an English hunting jacket draped over his arm, steps over the timber fence and walks across the field toward the oak where the Acrobat sits. The Actor walks up and coughs and the Acrobat, sitting on a crate, facing the stand of trees in the distance, makes a perfunctory motion indicating awareness of a presence, but otherwise remains as he was. The Actor asks what the Acrobat is sitting on. A crate, says the Acrobat, filled with pears. There is a pause before the Actor asks, did you bring the pears? The Acrobat shakes his head. Where did you get the pears? Providence, says the Acrobat.

The Acrobat stands. He turns to face the Actor. There's a look, then a second look. I know your face, says the Acrobat. I know, says the Actor. You were in -, says the Acrobat. I was, says the Actor. You won -, says the Acrobat. I did, says the Actor. You -, says the Acrobat. I will, says the Actor. This goes on for some time, just like this, until the Actor suddenly throws down his hunting jacket, picks up the Acrobat's crate and dashes it against the side of the oak, an explosion of timber, ripe pears, timber, styrofoam packing material falling to rest on the ground under the canopy. I hate pears, says the Actor, and I hate acrobats. Let's select our weapons, suggests the Acrobat. Okay, says the Actor. The Actor decorates the pistol he choses with a red ribbon from his mistress. The Actor is an unabashed sentimentalist.

They take their places, 15 paces apart.

Let me take this last opportunity to say that as a man of artistic inclinations I myself completely understand the demands of craft and for this reason I am not in the least bit offended by your sudden outburst and the destruction of my property and I'll add that frankly I've grown sick of pears and doubt I will ever eat one again in my life.

The Actor is touched by the Acrobat's statement yet affects contempt. (Acting.)

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.