Piece of Prose Theatre
sometime in 1988

Performed by myself and Dan Janssen. I was M and opening monologue, he was N. I stood on the stage floor of B and he was on that balcony by the light booth.

(lights up) M: It was a bright, relatively cloudless day on the Haymarket. I was standing in front of the Pizza Hut watching the cabs, busses, and tourists trample by. Nothing out of the ordinary. I was trying to decide whether to go to Leicester Square to catch the Northern Line home or go around the corner to the Captain’s Cabin to argue about American pool rules. Then a very beautiful man walked past me. I don’t usually describe men as beautiful, but that’s what he was. Not pretty, I don’t mean that...He was tall, thin, and dirty, with long curly black hair. He hadn’t shaved and I smelled whiskey as he passed. Leather trousers and bikers boots, patches on his jacket from various police departments. He carried a Pig Nose amp and a battered guitar case. Something about his broad leather back said, "Follow me" and I couldn’t resist. His legs were strong and his stride long. He didn’t look left or right, just walked forward. He went into Picadilly Station and bought a 10p ticket.

"A busker," I thought. And was right. Down the escalator to the platforms I followed. He turned around once and I held my breath. I had the sensation I wanted to deny that I was following him, show him my ticket, and tell him that he meant nothing to me, that I wanted to be nothing like him, that in fact, I hated him. He smiled at me. His smile said, "You’re a liar."

I pretended to be lost, a tourist. Pretended not to know how to read the tube map so I had a reason to stand near him while he set up his guitar and amp. He sat in a corner, his case open with two pound in coin pre-set to encourage others. The place was wet and stank of urine. He began to play, his eyes half closed, his raw, rich voice filling the station, punctuated by the tinny strings.

He sang the Cowboy’s Lament. A long, sad ballad of a young cowboy dying of syphilis. He sang with love of dark pleasures and the pain of regret. People passing him on the way home from work, men in suits and dour ladies in heels dropped coins as the passed, but I was rooted. Transfixed. When he finished he looked up at me.

"Beautiful." I said.

N: I don’t do it for beauty. I do it because I like to eat.

M: Sorry.

N: Don’t be sorry. Put something in the case.

(M tosses a 5 pound note onto the stage.)

N: That’s daft.

M: No it was worth more, it was beautiful.

N: Yeah, well, thanks. You miss your train?

M: No. I wasn’t waiting for one.

N: (knowingly) Oh.

M: I mean, I heard you playing.

N: I saw you come down, before I started playing.

M: Oh.

N: Don’t get shaky--it happens to me all the time.

M: What?

N: Look, you’ve looked me over, heard me play, and paid for it. I’m not selling anything but the songs.

M: Oh! Oh, no, that’s not it at all! I just...I just found you interesting.

N: The feeling isn’t mutual, so fuck off.

M: Sorry. (returning to address the audience) I was terribly hurt. And embarrassed. I guess it showed. I turned to leave.

N: Hey, no hard feelings, all right? I’m just not bent, that’s all.

M: (still to audience) I didn’t turn around. I just stood there trying to decide whether to go back up or wait for the next train....or maybe go around the corner to hide and listen to him sing again...what the hell was I doing? This was wrong. I only wanted...I don’t know what I wanted.

N: Hey. You can have your fiver back if you want.

M: (still to audience) That’s what crushed me. I felt ridiculous. Guilty. Soiled. Wronged. Furious. Sad......I clenched my teeth and left the platform.

(lights out)