Minstral Island, Scene 1 pt 1

[Pirate Prentice]

from pynch's lost work of 1958, delivered for your reading pleasure by
the friendly postmen of W.A.S.T.E. only two scenes were ever written--
the plot is a dystopic future where IBM has taken over the world and
the artists/stoners/perverts/misfits (you know, pynchon's usual gang)
are being reassigned work. sorry for the poop formatting--

love,
Roger in Mexico

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Characters: 
Hero 
Broad 
Tubetester 
Chicks 
Whore 
Sailmaker 
Gambler 
Bomber 

Scene 1 

Chorus on knees, hands up. 

BROAD: Hello (to others) How unusual.  They were expecting us. 
JAZZMAN: (still kneeling, stares at IBM group.  Closes eyes, snaps
fingers, kneels, rapt) Man... I dig.
HERO: (scratches head, struggles to feet, bewildered. Rest of chorus
staggers upright after awhile.  Meanwhile IBMers, esp. Broad, are
bustling around, taking notes, peering at various parts of the setting
from all kinds of weird angles)  Hey.
BROAD: (meanwhile) Stoplight.  Here would be best (indicating) of
course.  How utterly ridiculous.  Disgraceful, in fact.  No way to
control traffic.  Tube tester pinch that.
(TUBETESTER does so) 
HERO: I say 
BROAD: Have to widen this street, too.  Goodness.  The drainage here
must be terrible.
Catch buging (?), Chick #1 
CHICK #1: Right (punches card) 
HERO: Drainage is all right.  What I was going to say was – 
BROAD: And whatever that is (pointing to carney stand) it will have to
go.  Quaint, but totally useless.
HERO: (goes over, crouches down to her head level, peers at her
curiously.  Finally taps her on shoulder) Hey, lady.
BROAD: (jumps like she had been goosed) Of all the – 
HERO: (apologetic) Wait a minute.  All I want to know is, what in the
hell is going on here.
BROAD: (puzzled) Hell? (consults machine.  Giggles at result) My, how archaic. 
Tubetester, as I was saying, that object (points to booth) will have
to go.  Immediately.
No, about the gas and electric – 
HERO: Lady, you want a punch in the mouth?  Who are you, anyway? 
BROAD: Standard procedure, I suppose.  These roads are – (whirling on
Hero) What did you say?  Are you threatening me?
HERO: (grins bashfully) Yeah. 
BROAD: My good man, I will have you know (whips out credentials) that
I am Broad, regional coordinator for the federal committee on backward
areas.  I and my colleagues are here for your own good.  Any threat
against me is a threat against the government. (Turns angrily to
Tubetester)  Rip that – that anachronism down.  This moment.
HERO: (grabs her by shoulder, turns her around) Wait.  Wait a minute. 
Look.  (takes her hand very gently, turns it toward booth.  She
quivers, fascinated, her aplomb beginning to crack) That there
(speaking slowly as if to a mentally retarded child) what it is, is
where people, what they used to do, a long time ago, was throw these
lopsided baseballs at stuffed cats, was what they did, and if they
knocked off three they won, well maybe a fancy hat, or a kewpie doll
or a big teddy bear.
BROAD: (almost little girlish.  Meekly, anyway) What's a teddy bear. 
HERO: (lets go the head) My gawd. 
TUBETESTER: (sees whore, all that bit) You ah (keeps looking at Whore)
you want me to get rid of (anything: bit with eyebrows, scratch head –
something to show he is having disquieting thoughts about Whore) that
booth, whatever it is?
BROAD: (coming out of her trance) What?  Oh, no.  Later.  (Turns,
stares at HERO, puzzled) Who are you?
JAZZMAN: Man, who are you?  (Smiles vaguely) I dig. 
BROAD: (furious, maybe a little with herself) I demand that if you and
your __ friends are going to speak, you must use federaliz[ed?]
standardized English.
HERO: (a little indignant) Lady, this man is a musician.  What he does
is he makes sounds.  By himself.  No machine to help him.  He has
talent, which I guess is a word they had to omit from the language
when they standardized it, because that goddamn electronic gargoyle of
yours certainly has none (she gasps, shocked)  And me, well I'm sort
of a musician too.  A minstrel, minnesinger, folk singer, whatever you
want to call it, all of them obsolete words.  I write songs.  I play
them.  I sing them.  You and your machine put me and all these people
(waves arm) out of a job, is what you did.
BROAD: My good man, I did not— 
HERO: Quit calling me your good man.  I probably could be but I don't
think it'd be worth it (lascivious chuckles from his male buddies. 
She obviously does not understand)
BROAD: Well, I am not responsible for your unemployment.  At last
census (checks machine) there were 195, 293, 614 employed.  Happily
employed.  There is no reason except your own laziness for your not
having a job.
HERO: (shuffles, scratches armpit.  Bewildered.  Finally) Look, we're,
we're artists. Artisans.  There's no place for us in your social,
economic, political setup.  You've got Big Mother Machine to take care
of everything.  Feed you video tapes all day long of predigested "art"
to make you forget what goddamn automatons you've become. Compose
music that will serve as background for eating your standard
government meal or talking about what you've been told to think in the
government pamphlet 1537-B.  Or the ballet.  The cute little gimmick
they have with the electricity wired to the dancers' skulls, so that a
prepuncted [?] choreographic tape can control the movements without
them having to worry about it.  I hear the wires are so thin you can't
see them.  Is that right?
BROAD: (disturbed) Stop.  (scream from one of Chicks.  Uncle Chauncey
with big grin)
HERO: Uncle Chauncey.  Tsk, tsk. (can't help smiling) 
BROAD: Who is this individual? 
HERO: This is Uncle Chauncey.  He writes children's books.  Oh, not
for your kids.  Not about good little trains who stay on the tracks
and obey all the signals and grow up to be big powerful successful
locomotives.  Just— well, you ever heard of Winnie the Pooh? (no
response.  He shrugs) Like that, anyway.  And this is Gambler.  Best
damn deck stacker on the east coast.  Another (in margins: with a
computer to figure all the odds) lost art.  This is Sail maker.  No
machines to give her specs.  This is Bomb Maker.  He makes the most
beautiful bombs you'd ever want to see.  All in good fun, of course.
Lovely bombs, worthy of art.  Sets them off any damn time he pleases. 
And this is Whore.  She—well, pamphlet 1537-B sort of put her out of
business.  But an artist (he smiles, Whore smiles back) undeniably.
BROAD: (shock giving way to a glare which might almost be read as
jealous.  Suddenly all business again) Well. At any rate, I'm glad
that we've found you people in time.  In a week or so we'll be able to
run a battery of intelligence and aptitude tests on you and find out
where you'll be best fitted.  The tests have indicated that most
ex-musicians make excellent tape-punchers.  Something about working
the keys, I suppose.  Two weeks and this whole mess can be
straightened out.

---more soon---