- LAS PESADILLAS DE CRISTÓBAL COLÓN
We open on an urban Caribbean plaza, the main square in a capital city. It is late morning. There are tourists toddling around with fanny packs and sunglasses, taking up each other's space, the sweat just beginning to seep out of them. A school group wearing the same t-shirt trudges woundedly through the burgeoning crowd on their way to a hostel with their luggage, the sun intruding rudely on their bedtime. It looks like they're returning home from war, and one of them trips on the curb, sprawled lifeless on the concrete until one of his buddies pulls him up and drags him along. We hear cars cruise by with Hispanic club music blasting through open windows.
There are two illegal vendors on opposite sides of the stage (upstage right and downstage left) with their spoils (souvenir keychains, old-fashioned ladies' fans, designer knock-off purses and shoes, other glittering kitsch) laid out on mildewed sheets and dusty tarps. Vendors' gazes shift with paranoia, as each is scoping for police. They signal to each other with arbitrary hand motions only they in the profession understand, and one points to a police officer in the stage-right wings.
That same bereted police officer emerges stage right and assumes a power stance, a modern rifle in his hands. As he walks on, he is being followed by a map-wielding sunburnt Belgian couple, who are asking in broken accented Spanish or English for directions to a silk factory that hasn't been in business since the end of the colonial state (early 20th century). The police officer is noticeably perturbed. He tries to explain in a few words, and, noting blank stares, turns his head and huffs. His sunglassed gaze turns to a copper statue of Christopher Columbus, which has just been carried onto the stage from stage left. He looks like a legitimate statue, but, after a second, he blinks.
The statue's lips move, and a high-pitched buzzing noise (produced by a mouth-held device) escapes for a half a moment. He remains still as a dweeby 16- or 17-year-old foreign girl steps close to take a picture, poking a selfie stick into the statue's face (obviously misusing the selfie stick) to capture a quick memory of Columbus' stoic expression.
Abruptly, the statue moves, seizing the selfie stick. The foreign girl jumps and screams as loud and as long as if the statue had clobbered her half to death with her own selfie stick. It is the only sound we hear, and it is sustained for as long as possible: Everyone is stopped and staring, and the police officer points gruffly at the statue and grunts, signaling to the statue to knock it off.
The statue bows facetiously at the police officer and turns spastically to the foreign girl, squeaking and chittering and buzzing as he hops spryly off his copper "pedestal" (really, it's just a spray-painted plywood box, and it wobbles when he jumps off). Things go back to normal for the rest of the square. The foreign girl is visibly uncomfortable as the statue puts his arm around her and holds the selfie stick the correct way to snap a picture of the two of them together (he needs to turn the phone around so that this works).
The foreign girl's parents, garbed in the uniforms of innocent tourists, close in on the duo, giggling and cooing in gibberish and taking their own pictures of the new couple.
Noting her parents' calm approach to this situation, the foreign girl loosens up a bit, gradually smiling for the camera and even hesitantly hovering her arm over her metallic boyfriend's back.
Having been buzzing and squeaking obnoxiously this whole time, the statue stops to squeeze and kiss the foreign girl on the cheek. The mother winces as this happens--this guy is ostensibly dirty and weird--but the foreign girl blushes, smiles, and places her hand over her brows, covering her eyes. She has a little bit of copper paint on her cheek and clothes.
The girl's father dons a nervous half-smile (he and the girl are obviously related) and offers the statue a bill from a few feet away (FOR SAFETY), bobbing his head graciously.
The foreign parents then drag their daughter away--they point at her younger brother, who is already walking away, immersed in whatever is going on on his phone and intolerant of the entire situation. He turns, rolls his eyes, and begrudgingly joins the family unit.
All exit except for the statue. Lights go down, and street lamps alight. The time lapse should last a few quick seconds.
His feet and knees aching, the statue rigidly pivots off his pedestal like the tin man before Dorothy oils him. The statue hocks the squeaker out of his mouth and stashes it in his back pocket, working his aching jaw up and down and making big-O little-o shapes alternatingly with his stiff lips.
A horn honks off stage right, and the statue holds up one finger to demand a minute, not even looking at the car, which waits, chugging and tittering. After packing, he runs stage right, “hops in,” and the car zooms off, its engine cracking and sputtering as it misfires.
QUIET SUBURBAN CARIBBEAN NEIGHBORHOOD: Untamed tropical greenery now coats stage right. The statue lumbers out of stage right with his pedestal under one arm and a fraying backpack slung across the other shoulder. He arm-chops and swats through a jungle backyard toward a small shanty house facade with a hint of tin roof. We hear sounds of acorns/seeds hitting the roof (he looks up briefly to acknowledge them and possibly try to catch one) and maybe even see them tumbling down the sides of the house.The statue yanks open a rusty screen door, which (per audio) creaks and snaps shut behind him, an aggressive maw. He is now on stage left, which is his sparse living room and kitchen.
The statue rips a large towel from the kitchen cupboard and walks off stage right. We hear the back door clapping shut, and a creaky wooden shower closet door opening. The lights fade off completely, and we hear a shower fizzling on. After a few seconds, the statue (now another actor with a similar build) arrives back on stage (spotlight on him only; everything else is still pitch), his body paint and clothing now completely mint-green. He looks at his arms and clothing and cries out in despair, but this isn’t the first time this has happened. He trudges crestfallenly into the kitchen and grabs a bag of chips out of the cupboard. Flipping on the radio (bachata station), he sits on his couch and screeches. All lights turn on, and we see the foreign girl from before dozing on the couch. We also see her mother and father in the kitchen holding a serious conversation without sound, and her brother in the front yard on his phone.
The statue surveys this situation, jaw dropped, getting more offended and frustrated by the second. The girl wakes up and smiles, wrapping her arms around the statue. The parents wave and coo.
This goes on for about fifteen seconds, and then--all of a sudden--the Belgian couple arrive from stage left with silk pajamas on and fluffy towels wrapped around their heads, as if they’re getting back from a spa day in the statue’s bathroom. Dumbfounded, the statue tries to confront them, but the foreign girl clings to him on the couch. The Belgian couple open the cupboards and take out armfuls of food and two giant handles of rum. They begin devouring the food and downing the rum.
THE FOLLOWING PARTY SCENE SHOULD TAKE AT LEAST FIVE MINUTES:
The statue wriggles away from the foreign girl and tries to escape stage left as more tourists file in from outside. Every tourist that comes in is carrying an armful of either seashells, surfboards, or kitsch from the vendors. Some are decked out in swimsuits, scuba gear, or ziplining gear. One person is dressed in a ripped-up shirt and cargo shorts, and drags in a dead and bloody shark on the end of a fishing pole. The Belgian couple tries to grab the statue to take a picture of him, pulling out their phones and dropping food. As they ask in broken Spanish for a photo, they spit chunks of food absolutely everywhere.
As the statue is about to exit stage right, he begins walking backwards, frantic. The group of American student travelers bombard him in their pajamas, asking nonverbally to take a picture, reaching out with phone-laden hands like zombies. More extras that we saw in the square are now taking items from everywhere in the statue’s house, and they’re standing around in the house with them, all acting as if they’re having a frat party, with all the talking and bad dancing and “chug! chug! down-it!”-ing and flirting and extreme PDA with strangers. Everybody is making the biggest mess possible, ripping any organized items apart, rubbing food and dirt on the furniture and walls, drawing and writing obscenities on the walls with markers and crayons, throwing things on the floor, eventually throwing up on the floor, etc.
Somebody changes the radio station to English or American dubstep, and all of the white people in the room start fist-pumping and everybody starts going crazy, e.g. moshing or bro-ing it up to the extreme, ramping their insufferable personalities up to five-hundred. A disco ball or chandelier drops into the living room out of nowhere and shatters. Partygoers pick up pieces and start belligerently tearing holes in the walls and furniture. The statue is being pushed and pulled and snapped into selfies everywhere. Somebody shoves the squeaker in his mouth, and it gets stuck in his throat, so every time he cries out or tries to scream, you only hear squeaking and buzzing. The statue is becoming increasingly distressed, and it looks like this is actually affecting his physical health. He staggers and cries for help, but no one responds. Instead, they continue dragging him around and taking selfies with him or demanding hospitality.
Daytime eventually approaches, and we start hearing the sounds of rain and thunder. The rain falls inside the shack, too, and the tourists are absolutely unable to tolerate it. They stampede out of the house, climbing over each other. As they clear out, we see the statue, sprawled on the floor, and the tourists come and take everything they can off of his person. Over him, a projector screen rolls down. The lights fade. A short film starts playing:
A Caribbean medical examiner and the second supervisor pore over the statue’s body, which is now
covered in rust. The medical apparatuses and computer technology is depressingly dated and musty- looking. David Byrne’s “Everybody’s Coming to My House” is playing quietly on a radio. The examiner looks at the camera and shakes his head at all of us. We pan out slowly.
The house lights come on.
Next act ain’t done yet.
