The Secret of Ventriloquism Read online

  MARGARET

  Oh yeah. I know, I know. Hundreds and thousands of hours, right?

  JOE

  Baby, that’s...

  (Pouts)

  Well, ok. You’re totally right.

  MARGARET

  Don’t do that baby shit. You manipulate me, Joseph, do you know that? This fucking passive aggressive, martyr bullshit. I know what you’re doing.

  REG

  What?

  MARGARET

  (Without missing a beat)

  You’re changing the fucking subject just like you always do. You’re trying to make me feel guilty when you’re to blame, but—you know what? It’s been three goddamn years now, Joe. Do you realize that? Three fucking years.

  REG

  Language! Language!

  (A tense pause)

  MARGARET

  Joseph Robert Snavely, so help me god, if you don’t stop correcting me like I’m a goddamned animal through that piece of shit doll of yours, I am going to pull its ugly fucking head off and throw it through the goddamned window. I mean it.

  JOE

  (Placing a protective right arm around Reggie’s torso)

  Fine, sweetie. I’m sorry. You know I’m not feeling well right now, and you know I’m not sleeping well. What I said about that airport last night, remember? It’ll all be ok soon, though. Mr. Vox said... I mean... I’ll get more ventriloquist gigs soon. It’s just that...

  MARGARET

  More “gigs?” And how much money do you bring home from those? Next to nothing, that’s how much. You’re not even making sense half the time anymore, Joe. All this crazy shit about your dreams and this what’s his name? Mr. Fox?

  JOE

  Vox.

  MARGARET

  Look, I think you need help, Joe. You’re like a fucking toddler—not a man. I’m sorry, but you’re just not pulling your weight around here, Joe, and you haven’t for a long goddamned time.

  REG

  (Eyelids suggestively half open, bushy eyebrows moving up and down)

  Aw, that’s not true, toots! Joey’s fulltime job is to make yer sexy tush happy, if you know what I mean! Rowr. Rowr.

  (Pause.)

  MARGARET

  (addressing REG)

  Joey’s fulltime job is to make my ‘sexy tush happy’? Well, ya know what, Reg old buddy old pal? Joey hasn’t been doing that job right for quite some time now either. If you know what I mean.

  (REG bursts into gales of hysterical laughter as JOE stares agape, speechless.)

  I can’t do this anymore, Joe. I’m sorry. You’d better leave.

  REG

  (screeching)

  WHO IS HE?

  MARGARET

  (shocked)

  What? Who’s who?

  REG

  The guy you’re... fucking.

  (Margaret is speechless. And guilty.)

  JOE

  (Formally)

  Well, well. Now I understand.

  (JOE pulls a battered fake-leather trunk from under the bed and carefully places REG and a few pieces of clothing inside it. He turns to MARGARET.)

  Be seeing you... Animal-dummy.

  (MARGARET and the bedroom set are pulled off, leaving an empty scrim behind JOE, holding his trunk. JOE addresses the transparent mirror in front of him.)

  And that, as they say, is that. I had been so confident—so cocksure—that I knew how to work my lady friend inside and out like the dummy she was (and is).

  REG

  (from inside the trunk)

  “Confidence” and “cock” ain’t never been your forte, Jo-Jo!

  JOE

  (pulling REG out of the trunk)

  Very funny. But as you may recall I did have complete control over Margaret at one time.

  REG

  Ha! But not as much as you thought you did, eh schmucko?

  JOE

  I probably just lost interest.

  REG

  Bullshit. ARGH-aret was pushing your levers and pulling your cords as much as you was pushing and pulling hers. You sure didn’t see the affair with that attorney coming, did you?

  JOE

  Too true, Reg. I’m so tired of playing animal-dummy games.

  MISTER VOX

  (voiceover)

  Static. It’s all static.

  REG

  REG

  Agh! Jesus, that scared the shit out of me!

  JOE

  As usual, though, Mr. Vox is correct. Aside from their literally sickening, behavioral infections, animal-dummies just have too many unknown levers and cords for even a master ventriloquist like me to find and pull.

  REG

  Ugh. Who has time for all that?

  JOE

  Who indeed, Reg? Even nonhuman animals (so like their human counterparts) can be influenced by factors outside of a lone ventriloquist’s control. And that lack of control can lead to the ventriloquist being manipulated in spite of his best efforts. Dummies dumbly pulling a ventriloquist’s cords? Unacceptable.

  REG

  Yeah! Fuck that! We need to pull up stakes and get the hell outta here.

  JOE

  Spot on, Reg.

  (picking up pen and paper and writing)

  STEP 11. “Remove yourself from animal-dummies.”

  (turning to audience)

  Surround yourself with the non-sentient variety.

  SCENE 5

  (THE FACTORY. JOE sits, slumped and dissipated looking—a once snazzy performer’s suit dingy and stained. His hair is longer and unkempt, and he has a short, grizzled beard. REG sits unanimated upon JOE’S knee.)

  JOE

  (Addressing the audience through the mirror, which now is outlined with the suggestion of light bulbs)

  Some time ago, after my animal-dummy lady friend took off with her animal-dummy boss, I moved into this derelict paper mill. It’s known simply as “The Factory.” I discovered it hidden away in the city’s municipal park. I own it now, or I might as well. At Mr. Vox’s nocturnal suggestion, I put a few things together and made it happen. This is not the ventriloquist apprentice’s concern. Some animal-dummies come and go—a talkative contractor I paid to make some essential repairs to the leaking Factory roof, a surly grocery deliveryman. Even an old homeless rummy who attempts to break into the Factory now and then just to keep me on my toes. They all serve their function and leave. Through means I won’t discuss I make enough money to get by in what passes for the outside world. Enough to satisfy my basic needs anyway. Yes, again, these methods often make one very uncomfortable indeed, but we must recall that the road to Greater Ventriloquism is not a simple one. I made this choice, and you made this choice, my pupils: now we must all stick to it! Follow my lead. Listen to your dream-instructor, keep your moral qualms to yourself and toughen up. I once believed my little cottage and my two animal-dummies (the dog and the lady friend) were my life’s foundation. How ridiculous. Here I am living in this ramshackle mill house without comfort, without communication contraptions and with little security. Those comforts make you lazy; those devices distract you; that security dulls your senses. And you’ll need all your power and concentration to finish the difficult—at times excruciating—work ahead.

  (picking up a battered copy of a homemade book)

  Remember STEP 1 in “20 Simple Steps to Ventriloquism?” “How to hold your mouth”? “Always practice in front of a mirror.” Any lesser ventriloquist knows that. But I’ve recently come to appreciate the hidden truth behind this mirror-work for the aspiring Greater Ventriloquist. Reggie, remember when I warned you to stop looking at the mirror if you began to see a kind of black fog in it?

  REG

  (coming to life)

  What? What? Uh, I think so.

  JOE

  Well, we’re not only ready to stop avoiding this effect—we’re ready to exacerbate it for our own purposes.

  (addressing audience)

  If you’re anything like me, success will bring you and your craft rewar
ds you can’t imagine. Yes, our ventriloquist practice has been hindered in a myriad of ways over the years, whether via an overly demanding lady friend or an incessantly ringing phone (or other alarming, infernal communication devices). They distract you from your practice with screeching deadlines. You’ve never before had the essential components (absence of comfort, distraction and security) that you’ve needed all this time to move beyond the trivial illusions of lesser ventriloquism into the exciting, at times even startling world of Greater Ventriloquism. At last you’re ready.

  (Thick black fog begins filling the stage, spilling out into the auditorium. The huge shadow of MISTER VOX looms behind and above JOE and REG.)

  REG

  Uh, who the hell are you talking to, Jo-Jo?

  JOE

  Never mind.

  (Back to audience)

  You—like me—should now have a more or less isolated and silent (if unsafe) place to work. Yes, you—like me—should now be rid of all non-essential connections to the animal-dummy world and its maddening contraptions. Now there’s just you and your dummy and your instructor—your very own Mr. Vox. And your work. Your transition from lesser to Greater Ventriloquism begins now.

  REG

  Uh, I don’t think I wanna learn venkirilikism.

  JOE

  (ignoring REG)

  My own transition began in the Factory’s creaking control room situated above the service bins—a rather tall, dilapidated space with walls on three sides. I’ve installed a large mirror here. It’s of the sort favored by actors and their ilk to assist in applying makeup and donning costumes. Of course, any larger than average mirror will do for you and your J.S. ventriloquist doll.

  REG

  Hey! I ain’t no doll! I’m a dummy, dummy!

  JOE

  (ignoring REG)

  As long as the reflection of two more or less human heads (one adult sized, one child sized) sitting side by side can be seen reflected in it. Heed the nocturnal advice of your own master instructor on the particulars. In my case, Mr. Vox led me to this truly rare and excellent room I’ve just described.

  (SOUND: airplane passing over)

  Here it’s easy to forget the occasional rumbling and roaring of the outside world. Speaking of which, one element that is more of an annoyance than anything is the occasional sound of a low flying plane outside and above this building. No practice space is without its flaws. One special note: whatever mirror you choose for your work should be located in a space almost completely devoid of any natural light. Mr. Vox’s choice in my case was superb. There are few architectural structures that can be made more lightless than the control room of a well-constructed paper mill. Of course, you must have some form of light for your work, but it must be quite dim. I favor a tiny lamp bulb wrapped in a dark blue gel of the sort used for dressing backstage between scenes. If procuring this kind of light is beyond your means, you may use a nightlight covered in duct tape. The illumination must be sparse enough so that you can just barely see yourself and your dummy in the mirror. Prepare your space and allow your eyes a few minutes to adjust, giving you and your own J.S. ventriloquist doll time to settle in.

  REG

  Hello! No dolls here! Only dummies!

  JOE

  (ignoring REG)

  Ventriloquists talk to themselves. It’s a fact—an inescapable side effect of all those thousands of practice sessions staring at yourself in a mirror. All those thousands of hours spent manufacturing a pretend relationship with a doll. But Mr. Vox has stripped me of these delusions of dummy-identity. In the words of Mr. Vox himself, it is a trifle. And I know it’s high time to dispense with these sentimental trappings and get down to real work.

  (The animated REG goes slack as JOE tosses the dummy to the ground.)

  Which brings us to the inevitable: you are completely on your own from here on out. It’s every ventriloquist for himself I’m afraid. I don’t need you anymore. That’s right, friend—I’m showing you the door. I doubt you’ve had the kind of success I’ve had. And even if you tried to apply the steps to come hundreds, thousands or even millions of times, I’m afraid you would ultimately meet with failure.

  (Lifting his battered book up)

  Believe me, these twenty simple steps just aren’t for you. Besides, I’ve found I don’t care for the idea of competition in the world of Greater Ventriloquism, and I hope for your sake that you never cross my path or my mind in the exciting days to come. Not that you have any more substance or function to me than this dummy. Yes, so long, my pupils. What was to be a guide for the general (if small) aspiring ventriloquist population has now become a self-help book on Greater Ventriloquism. And, of course, by “self” I mean me. No more dummies at all.

  SCENE 6

  (THE FACTORY, some weeks later. JOE sits in front of the mirror in worse shape. Shaggy-headed and filthy. REG remains where JOE tossed him in SCENE 5. The black fog is still thick and MR. VOX’s silhouette hulks hugely behind JOE.)

  JOE

  (JOE’s mouth drops open when he speaks and closes when he’s silent, but his lips never move when he talks, nor will they again.)

  It’s mirror-work time. Your name is Joseph Robert Snavely, and you live in the Factory. Hello, handsome. Not looking so great, though, are you? Too much practice; precious little time for personal hygiene.

  MR. VOX

  A trifle.

  JOE

  Mr. Vox is right—as usual. You can hardly feel the needle in your neck.

  MR. VOX

  You had another odd dream last night, didn’t you?

  JOE

  Yes, Mr. Vox.

  (The FACTORY set splits apart, revealing the COTTAGE BEDROOM again. REG rises and starts crawling on the ground. MARGARET is lowered from the fly gallery above. JOE and MARGARET and REG go through the motions that MR. VOX describes.)

  MR. VOX

  You dreamed that you and your ex-lady friend were together again. You were pretending your dummy was a child—your child. You were babbling at it and coddling it. Static.

  JOE

  Yes, Mr. Vox.

  (A moving couch enters from upstage with a stuffed dog upon it, and JOE, MARGARET and REG seat themselves. The scene shifts to a racetrack, which resembles the NIGHT AIRPORT outside. Lights flash around the characters, indicating they are traveling speedily along on their moving couch.)

  MR. VOX

  You seemed to feel again without the need for analysis or calculation. In the dream, you and Margaret (yes, beautiful Margaret) and your dummy, Reggie, and that good old, perfectly obedient dog of yours were all riding on a moving couch at stupendous speeds around a racetrack at night. Dear Reg was upon your knee and dear Margaret and dear cur were cuddled up on either side of you on the couch as it moved around at terrific speeds. The racetrack was lit with the fluorescent and sodium blur of stadium lights. Or was it the entrance to an airport?

  JOE

  I don’t know, Mr. Vox.

  MR. VOX

  The sensation of intense speed made your stomach twist. It kept you pinned in your place as you and the dog and Margaret and Reggie all squealed and laughed in delight.

  JOE

  (giggling)

  Maybe I shouldn’t a had that last bottle, cuz I’m feelin’ a little plastered.

  REG

  (head spinning completely backwards to look up at JOE.)

  A little plastered? More like you had a wax and shine job, dummy boy! Yuk yuk yuk!

  MR. VOX

  Then the scene shifted to the inside of your snug, little cottage.

  (REG is placed down on the floor and JOE and MARGARET silently mimic conversation.)

  You began chatting with gorgeous Margaret, who was beaming at you with new respect and—you suspected—a growing physical attraction.

  (REG begins trying to pull himself up on his feet.)

  After a minute or two of stimulating conversation, you looked up just in time to see Reggie taking its first baby steps—slatted mouth
open and big blue, glass eyes shifting back and forth as if with wonder and excitement—stumbling towards you like a one-year-old infant might. And you imagined you felt a great affection towards it, didn’t you? You opened your arms to the toddling dummy, and Reggie fell into them and buried its head in your chest. You even felt tears welling in your eyes. But when you looked back at Margaret—a proud grin fixed upon your face—you were surprised that your lady friend’s eyes were wide with horror and disbelief.

  MARGARET

  Oh, holy fuck. You must be making it move with your mind.

  JOE

  Language.

  MR. VOX

  ...you said. Feeling unperturbed, you looked down at the dummy, holding it out from your body, being careful not to physically touch its controls.

  JOE

  Let’s see if this works.

  (REG rises into the air and his head begins to spin, slowly at first, and then picking up pace.)

  MR. VOX

  And you willed the dummy’s head to spin. And you willed its eyes to move. And then you started trying to make the dummy stop moving, but you couldn’t, could you?

  JOE

  No, Mr. Vox.

  (Characters and set change as described below.)

  MR. VOX

  Its head was spinning around now at an unnatural speed, and its eyes were rolling around with an equal frenzy. And you could feel the little cottage beginning to change as well, windows and walls breathing in and out—floor buckling. And—in an instant—the cottage was gone; the dog was gone; and the dummy was gone. You were in a void containing only you and Margaret, now possessed with obvious panic and horror. As if Margaret was in the midst of its own nightmare and you were the hub of that nightmare. Its left arm was twitching, its head shifting back and forth. And you stared back at your convulsing, crying ex-lady friend—still feeling completely calm and devoid of any emotion you could name.