A Night Out

Teak thought a play might help to clear his mind. Sunday night--four days after his meeting with Dallow in the park--he visited Lethe's newest virtual playhouse. Showing was a work-in-progress by Geri Munin entitled "The Feast of Heroes". This would be his third Munin play. The previous winter, he had attended a one-act thriller, "Myself," and a one-woman tour-de-force, "The U-Bahn," in which Ms. Munin had also starred. Both had left their mark. The rhythm of her work, particularly under her own direction, affected him the way classical music was said to affect children: bringing order to unconscious turmoil, improving logic and recall. If nothing else, he could watch other people's lives fall apart for a change. Even an hour's respite from his own crumbling world would do him good.

He found a seat toward the back. The place was filling rapidly, last-minute patrons funneling in. A nice theatre. Bit on the smallish side. Vaulted ceiling. Ornate, gold trim. Red velvet curtains and valances. All of it implied. Darkness swallowed up the details. A design intended to trasnport you not only out of RL, but also out of VR, if only for the space of a performance.

"Good evening, all."

An elderly man had taken the stage. He looked like a used-bookstore owner, Teak thought, in his fuzzy cardigan, undershirt and cords, bi-focals hanging from a beaded chain around his neck. His eyes sparkled. He seemed to be under a spell, or maybe the influence of a mild hallucinogenic. Genuine enthusiasm! Teak realized. Once the crowd had settled, the old man went on.

"Hello. My name is...not important." He paused for the requisite bubbling of laughter to pass, beaming, hands clasped behind his back. "What is important is the name of the young woman responsible for the marvelous play we're about to see tonight. Her name is Geri Munin."

Unbridled applause from the audience. The old man nodded through it approvingly. Teak, forgetting himself, drifted in and out of the introduction, catching fragments of admiration and gushing praise.

"Anyway," the old man said finally. "I'll shut up now. Here, for you to enjoy--and I promise you will-- 'The Feast of Heroes'."

He genuflected out of sight. The curtains rose. A man and woman, in their early-thirties, sat facing eact other at a kitchen table, left center. His head was down, fingers wrapped around a coffee mug. She watched him, hands folded in her lap. The house was roughly sketched out: a countertop and sink behind them; a free-standing door, center back; a sofa, coffee-table and empty bookshelf, up right, arranged to suggest the boundaries of a separate living-room.

WOMAN	Aren't you going to say anything?
MAN	What more can I say? I've told you everything. It's up to you to decide whether or not you believe it.
WOMAN:	I do believe you. I know what happened. I already knew. Del told me. Richard told me. Everyone knew what was going on but me.
MAN:	I'm sorry.
WOMAN:	You're not. But that's the least of my concerns. I want to know what happens next.
MAN:	It's not up to me.
WOMAN:	It is!
MAN:	Oh, come off it.
WOMAN:	For Christ's sake, listen to yourself! You're hopeless! If this is the last problem we ever have to face together--and trust me, I think I've reached my limit this time--can't you at least take responsibility for what you've done, make some kind of attempt at reconciliation? You owe him that much. God, after all he's done for you, for both of us, over the years..
MAN	. (shrugs): I'm tired.
WOMAN:	You're tired?
MAN:	Why don't you just have Teak come and straighten everything out?
WOMAN	(caught off-guard): Teak?
MAN:	Yes. You remember Teak, don't you?
WOMAN:	That was really uncalled for.
MAN :	(turning to the audience, looking directly at Teak): Help us out, would you?

:Teak looks around. The audience is gone. When he looks back at the stage, Man and Woman are staring at him.

MAN:	Nothing to share, Mr Teak?
WOMAN:	I tried to keep you out of this. But since you're here, you might as well tell us what's been going on.
MAN:	Yes. Do tell
TEAK	(remarkably even): Fairn has been taken care of, as planned.
MAN:	We know about him. Good riddance, I say. An aspiring meddler. Just the type to draw attention, fuck things up.
TEAK:	I agree. It was a necessary step.
MAN:	I understand he was dealt with ruthlessly, rather stylishly, by our new toy?
TEAK:	It was a mess.
MAN	(giggling): Good.
WOMAN:	But there were unforseen consequences?
TEAK:	Fairn's gear, all of his records, are gone.
MAN:	In the hands of our boy?
TEAK:	A safe assumption.
MAN:	Who is missing himself?
TEAK:	I'm afraid so.
WOMAN:	And the doctor?
MAN:	Pieter Frenk.
TEAK:	Also unnacounted for, at the moment.
MAN:	Well, well...
TEAK:	Dallow is out looking for them as we speak. He will find them.
WOMAN:	You sound a little too sure of yourself.
TEAK:	Dallow does what he is told. He tends towards ruthlessness himself. He's loyal and very determined to see things turn out our way.
MAN:	Our way is the only way.
WOMAN:	Don't fail us a second time...

The woman seated next to Teak laughed. In an instant the crowd had returned. Onstage, the woman had taken the man's coffee mug. He was sitting back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, gazing at her through slitted eyes. Offstage a telephone rang.

WOMAN:	I'll get that.
MAN:	I certainly wasn't about to.

The woman beside him laughed again, looking up to gauge Teak's reaction. He didn't seem to have one. His face was as calm as a cemetary statue's, but inside he was railing, pounding the walls of this windowless prison he had created for himself.

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