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Home | Opinion Exchange | Commentary

Dale Connelly: Bar Town, a play

If you're going to be an "actor," you'll need a script.

By DALE CONNELLY

Last update: May 10, 2008 - 5:42 PM

Some Minnesota bars have taken to calling themselves "theaters," freely reclassifying patrons as actors so they may legally smoke indoors. It only takes the wearing of an "actor" button, the bar owners say, to qualify anyone to portray a smoker in the "play." But is that really enough? ¶ Acting is work, hard work, and the hardest work actors do is to wrestle a great performance out of an uncooperative script. What script, you ask? The absence of a "book" with characters and a reasonable plot is the greatest weakness in the bar owners' case. It would help significantly if there was a prizewinning Liquor Theater text to draw on, and to hold up as proof that this, by God, is art! ¶ With apologies to Thornton Wilder, here is a contender. • • • NO CURTAIN. NO SCENERY. (Presently the STAGE MANAGER enters, hat on and a smoke in hand. He directs the barmaids to place baskets of popcorn and paper coasters on small tables downstage left and right. When the wide-screen TV has been muted, he speaks.)

STAGE MANAGER. This play takes place right here in our commercial liquor-serving establishment. We call it Bar Town. I'd better show you how our town lies. Up here ... (he motions to the bar itself) ... is Main Street. Way back by the bathrooms is the railroad station. ... Over yonder where Doris sells pulltabs is the school. The Presbyterian Church is under the wide-screen TV. The Methodists meet across from the pool table. The Catholic Church is next to the jukebox. They like the music loud, I guess. ... Lutherans here are thick as flies. Most don't go to a weekly meeting, though. No point, since they're together all the time anyway. ... Sometimes we get a Jew, a Unitarian and a Scientologist walking in together, but that sounds like the beginning of a joke, and our people don't care for humor, mostly. (He approaches a table and chairs downstage right, lights a cigarette, then waves it around with dramatic gestures, distributing a fragrant cloud that wafts over the audience.) One thing we DO like here in Bar Town is smoking. I reckon it's about the most popular activity, after drinking, which is No. 1, and breathing, which is a difficult but necessary thing, 'specially as the hour gets late and the air turns blue. ... Time to light up, everybody.

(All the players except EMILY ignite their cigarettes, cigars and pipes, en masse. The Stage Manager motions to a promotional cut-out propped up by the pay phone -- a swimsuit model in a Santa hat holding a glistening six-pack in front of a snorting Clydesdale.)

STAGE MANAGER. There's some scenery for those that need scenery. And here's young George Gibbs and Emily Webb, getting married, it appears.

(GEORGE GIBBS appears in formal wedding attire. He is smoking the last of his cigarette, and as he speaks he nervously crushes the butt in the palm of his hand.)

GEORGE. Why is everyone pushing me so? All I want to do is hang out and smoke with my friends. I'm not ready for any of this responsibility.

(BARMAIDS arrange the pews for the church in the center of the room. The CONGREGATION sits facing the back wall. The aisle of the church starts at the center of the back wall and comes toward the audience.)

STAGE MANAGER. There are a lot of things said about marriage, but never you mind. People were made to live two-by-two. That's true for just about everyone, smokers and nonsmokers alike. Some try to mix, but I wouldn't recommend it.

(MRS. WEBB, on her way to her place in the pews, turns to the audience, a Kleenex in one hand, a smoldering Lucky in the other.)

MRS. WEBB. I don't know why on earth I should be crying. It came over me this morning -- there's my Emily eating breakfast. Tonight's her wedding night. I suppose he'll want ... you know. A cigarette, afterwards. But she's never smoked! Ever! I suppose we should have said something ... but I never told her anything about it. ... There's something downright cruel about sending our girls out into marriage this way. I hope some of her girlfriends told her a thing or two. I went into it blind as a bat, myself.

(MR. WEBB and EMILY enter. Emily is wearing her wedding veil. They approach the altar, where GEORGE and the STAGE MANAGER wait.)

EMILY. I never felt so alone in my whole life.

MR. WEBB. I'm giving away my daughter, George. Do you think you can take care of her?

GEORGE. You bet. Got a light?

(GEORGE fumbles a fresh cig out of the pack in his vest pocket, and MR. WEBB obliges as EMILY looks on.)

EMILY. All I want is someone to love me.

GEORGE. I will, Emily. I feel like I'm burning for you right now.

(GEORGE and EMILY see that MR. WEBB has set George's sleeve on fire. They fall to the floor and roll, as they have been taught.)

STAGE MANAGER. From here on out it's all routine -- the home, the first child, the second child, the shortness of breath, the coughing, the hospital, the respirator, the crying and the flowers. Once in a thousand times it's interesting.

(BARMAIDS rearrange the set to present 12 chairs in neat rows facing the audience. These chairs hold the still-smoking dead, who deliver their lines without emotion.)

STAGE MANAGER. Now we have moved to a lovely spot atop a grassy hill overlooking Bar Town.

SIMON STIMSON. Who's that they're bringing up here now?

MRS. GIBBS. Why, I believe it's my daughter-in-law, Emily.

ONE OF THE DEAD. What was it she died of, Mr. Gibbs?

MRS. GIBBS. Melodrama, I hear.

(EMILY moves quietly between the chairs and softly lays a hand on MRS. GIBBS' shoulder.)

EMILY. Mother Gibbs.

MRS. GIBBS. Emily.

EMILY. I wish I felt at home here.

(SIMON STIMSON holds out his half-smoked cigarette.)

SIMON STIMSON. Here. Take a drag and relax.

EMILY. Oh, no, thank you, Mr. Stimson. I never took that up.

MRS. SOAMES. Irony. I forgot about that. Wasn't life awful? And wonderful!

EMILY. They don't see, do they, Mother Gibbs? The living, I mean.

MRS. GIBBS. No, dear, they don't.

EMILY. They miss it all. Everything. Why don't they look at each other, I mean really look?

SIMON STIMSON. It's the haze, I reckon.

(MRS. GIBBS fishes a Camel out of her purse.)

MRS. GIBBS. Shush, Simon. Give me a light.

STAGE MANAGER. Finally, the procession moves back down the hill, a considerable relief to the people up here, whose cigarettes glow like a constellation of stars in the falling darkness. ... Tomorrow is another day. Best get some sleep. Good night.

Dale Connelly is cohost of Minnesota Public Radio's "Morning Show," which airs weekday mornings on the Current, 89.3 FM.

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