WHO IS JARBUS FORQUIM?

A one-act monologue for one young woman performer by Cody Weathers

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STAGE DRESSING: Renee sits on a stool. To her left is a plaster dorian pillar with a single lily in a bud vase, a phone, a glass of water (whenever the performer needs it), letter opener, and four letters. Renee's blocking is at the performer's discretion except where indicated (e.g. "OPENS LETTER") Behind her is a screen onto which four backdrop slides (light source from stage rear) will be alternately projected per cues in her monologue. No attempt should be made to disguise the "slide projector" feel of the backdrops. The backdrops are:

POFF: Psychiatrist's Office

CONF: Confessional

PIER: A pier on a small lake

APTM: Apartment living room

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As the lights come up, we join Renee in the Psychiatrist's Office.

RENEE: I had this fish when I was a kid. I named him Jasper or some fucking thing. Yeah, Jasper. It was a long time ago, so bear with me. Yeah, fuck you too, Renee, I know, but it gets there, you know? Plus, I'd slaughter you in the sack, so just pipe down --Jesus, you're such a motormouth! So he's a fish. He's Jasper, Casper, Assper, something --doesn't matter, just think of him as the Everyfish, OK? But he's a goldfish --so original, but I'm a kid, what am I going to have, a stingray? Please! Think before you ask these questions! Goldfish equals Everyfish. But one day, I came home from school and he wasn't in his bowl. Now keep in mind, we didn't have a cat or a dog, because --yeah, I know-- then it wouldn't take a fucking correspondence-course private eye to crack the case. But he's GONE. Jasper's flown the coop. Leapt the bowl. Whatever. So I'm like, "Mom, Jasper ran away!"

And my mom put on her coat and got a flashlight --I don't know why she got a flashlight when it's like three in the afternoon, maybe she's got sympathetic Arctic Circle syndrome, I don't know-- but she gets her coat, gets the flashlight, has me put some water in my lunchbox thermos --you know the kind that clips inside?-- and we head out the door and start searching the gutters. My mom, she's like Detective Sergeant Mom, you know? She kept making me go over my story. "When did you see him last?" "Are you sure he was there this morning?" "Keep your eyes peeled, he probably didn't get very far." "Keep calling out!"

Fuck, we must have walked four miles. We were asking kids if they'd seen him, shining the flashlight on the grass, everything. We searched the shit out of our neighborhood. I was devastated. It's funny because really, I don't think I gave shit one about Jasper Casper Dasher and Blitzen until we started the old door-to-door. I mean, I was a kid, he was a fish, we just sort of shared a room. I fed him, but that was it. I didn't even exercise him. I mean, I don't know how exactly you would exercise a fish. Poke him with a pencil or something? But man, once he ran away, that was it. I totally loved that little guy. I just wanted to hug him and squeeze him and tell him how much I loved him and wanted him to never run away again. I wanted him to sleep in my bed with me that night. Maybe just at the foot, you know? I was sobbing my crabby little ass off, bawling "Jasper's been kidnapped! Jasper's dead! Woe is me!" My mom said, "Maybe he took the bus. He could be anywhere. He might be trying to call us --we'd better go home in case he calls." But he never did. I mean don't get me wrong here. I'm twenty-five. I've been around. I've fucked the lacrosse team, and I know how fish work. I am aware that they do not use the telephone or take the cross-town bus, OK?

But then maybe two weeks later, I get this postcard from Wyoming. It's Fort Steele on the front, and it's from Jasper. I mean NOW, I wish I knew where it was, but it kind of went like, "Dear Renee, I really regret how things ended. I wished I could have told you this face to face, but I was afraid that you might take it badly. I hope that this time has softened the emotion of this message. I just wanted to let you know that I'm OK and that soon I'll be starting a new life out West with friends. Please don't try to find me, though I always will remain.... your fish, Jasper." I mean, I'm eight fucking years old and I'm getting a pillow note from a fish. I showed it to my mom, and she frowned and said, "It looks like he took the bus after all. I'll put this in his file."

Right, so now fast forward, I get this letter last week out of nowhere. I mean fuck ME, I'm a cutie, you'd think I'd get a sonnet now and then from within the lovelorn wake of my womanly charms! But no! Bills, junk, coupons, collection notices for former tenants.... And this letter, so I'm all excited! I mean more than normal. I don't mind telling you I thought maybe it was from RJ because it was pretty fancy. I was getting a little wet, there! Then I open it [OPENS LETTER #1, Reads:]

"Dearest Renee,

How long has it been? Your fish is dead. One day, we'll have a talk about it. How's your love life? I'd have thought you'd be snatched up by now. Any babies I should know about?

Jarbus Forquim"

I mean, who the fuck is Jarbus Forquim? I'm sorry, but that's a name I'd fucking remember. And what's this love life shit, anyway? "Your fish is dead, how's your love life?" What's THAT all about? Fuck you, Charlie, Jarbus, whatever. Is that like jar of jam bus of innocent churchgoers? Or is it yar booss like "You are boobs?" I tried to remember back through all my romantic escapades, you know? But for all the noise I make, it's not like I can't count them on my fingers. Well if each finger is two, you know.... Plus, the lacrosse team is really just one guy. One collective asshole. And they had jerseys --I remember their names.

Dan Smolka, Eric Egelhoff, Chad Miller, Carl Walker, David Hart, and of course Joe. I was fifteen and Joe Lasseter was hung like a Christmas log. He was captain of Junior Varsity, and I'll tell you --he wasn't the first, but I really got all dreamy and thought he would just take me away. Clearly, he was going to be a big success. We'd have a little house in the country, and he'd be a lawyer or a doctor and wear aftershave and fill my uterus with sperm, beautiful sperm and babies. We'd have to make additions and renovate the barn and build a tree fort with a tire swing. He was going to love me forever, I could just taste it. So I fucked him. He was hanging around the field after practice, doing that dumb little drill they'd all do in the halls and shit where they cradle the ball in the stick and rotate the stick around for whatever fucking dumbass Batman reason you might seek any advantage from that shit. I just came up to him and I did the whole goo-goo thing. I mean, I was a little goo on the goo, ga on the ga for real anyway. His ass was a fine piece of steak, you know? But I knew how to let a boy know I liked him. We were standing there, talking, and I knew he didn't see me as just a girl. You know, that's always the deal when you're in high school and you're going after some guy and he's a little older, is you've got to figure out if he sees you as a child or not. You know now I'm twenty-five and I know that if I want to fuck some guy, I might as well just put it out there, you know? What the fuck? But then, I played it a little differently. We were talking and then it got late enough that I missed the bus, so I asked him to give me a ride home.

In the car, we were talking about Geometry. We were in the same class, which of course meant that he was a dumbass, goodbye Doctor Lasseter, but I didn't figure that out. He seemed sweet, and we were complaining. I think that people are sometimes at their closest when they're commiserating, you know? I knew I could get him. We got to my building, and I said some dumbshit thing like do you want a brownie and shit? He came up. My mom was working then, so I knew we had some time. We watched a little TV and started making out. I let him take off my shirt --I always let them take off my shirt, I think. I got into his pants. I was just going to stroke him off, you know? But he made the move once my hand was on his cock. He's like guiding me down and trying to get my jeans down. I mean, he didn't last very long, or anything. Maybe a minute. But it didn't bother me too much, you know? I really was totally into this little fantasy about getting married. I thought we were over the bridge. He took off after a couple more shows. I mean it's not like he came, zipped up and grabbed the remote or anything. We held hands and shit, but we didn't really say much. I was kind of off in the house in the country, you know?

And I guess we were kind of going out for a week or something. He invited me to go with him to this party. I know, you see where this is going, I'm so fucking transparent. Well tough shit, dickcheese 'cause I got the conch. So anyway, blah blah I had a little to drink but not too much, Joe took me back into this little kid's room with Knight Rider posters and shit on the walls, and he was fucking me, and I'm like whispering in my head "Mrs. Lasseter. Mrs. DOCTOR Lasseter." I mean, I don't want to be just this stereotypical golddigger smoking Victoria slims with the rock of Gibralter on her finger having a facial done at two in the afternoon. It wasn't important that he be a doctor or a lawyer. I just imagined him taking me away, you know? Taking care of me. I thought he would fall in love with me. I just thought that's what you got, you know? Then he's done. I mean, he didn't go down on me or anything, this is High School. Obviously now, it's just not optional. If you don't give me a little tongue action, I know you're not going to take your time, and you're fucking out the door. I am not a nickel-a-fuck barrel of lard in a prospecting town, you know? But "Mrs. Lasseter" was almost as thrilling as a clam job at the time, so I fucking endured. It's not like I'd never been eaten and didn't know what was on the menu, you know? So then he's done, and you know how these parties are. Someone else is looking around, and it's not like there are secret bedrooms behind the fridge. So Chad walks in, and he's like "Jesus Joe, isn't she a little young for you?" And Joe, he's like, "No, man, she's cool." "Shit, is she good?" You know, we've just been fucking on top of the blanket, I'm pretty much laid out to inspect, here. "Yeah, man, she's cool...." "Well, fuck." And so Chad's taking down his pants, and I'm looking at Joe, and he says, "It's all right. Chad's cool. You're cool with this, right?" And so I fucked them all, one by one, right there under David Hasselhoff's watchful eye.

But the thing is, even if it was one of them, I never told them about the Jasper, you know?

[Renee opens the second letter, reads:]

"Dearest Renee,

You've been very bad. I can't say how disappointed I am in you. You used to be innocent, a little girl, but now it seems like you're emptying out your whole life and trying to fill it back up from up your cunt and up your ass. I think we need to talk.

Jarbus Forquim"

Forgive me father, for I have sinned, it has been four months since my last confession. Shit, that's a lie. Shit. Forgive me for my language, father. I am not a Catholic, but I saw this church, and I'm definitely in spiritual trouble, and confession has always always seemed like a great idea to me. I'm sorry for the content of the letter. I'm pretty pissed. Shit. Sorry, again father. I'm making a lot of rookie mistakes, here, aren't I.... You don't have to answer that. You don't have to talk. If you just want to sit back, that's cool. I mean if you're not allowed to listen to me because I'm not a Catholic, I don't know. I don't know the rules. I left you some donuts outside your box. It's totally cool with me if you want to just take a break while I talk, but I really just need to spit this out, you know? Anyway, I'm pretty peeved about this letter --I guess I'm a little freaked out that I don't know who's sending them. The postmark is from Florida, and I don't know anyone in Florida. Anyway, --hey, what do priests call a "cunt?"-- I've always hated that word, but women don't have a good one. They're all SO dirty or SO clinical, you know? I mean a dick --excuse me father, but I need to say these things to make my point, a little leniency?-- is a dick, maybe a cock's a little nastier. But you can say "dick" and not mean anything by it, you know? You're just shooting the shit --sorry father, that one was unnecessary-- you're just shooting the cheese, you know? I mean, sometimes I say clam, but I kind of feel like a Flapper when I do, you know. Like I should have a hip flask. Not that I have a hip flask, father, I'm a very responsible drinker. I think maybe we should call it "pimp." You know, because sometimes it makes some bad decisions for you. You could just say, "My pimp totally screwed me over last night." I'm sorry, I'm digressing and cursing. "Celestial Orifice." I read somewhere that that's what the church calls it. That's kind of cool, but it's lengthy for me, you know. I'll stick with pimp. Just so you know, it's tongue-in-cheek.

Anyway, I'm very angry with this situation with these anonymous letters, and I really feel like someone bad is watching me, and I'm kind of worried, but I'm wondering why they would do it. I mean this whole "innocence" thing kind of bothers me, you know. It's creepy, like some movie where some religious creep --sorry father, they're not linked, but you know the movies I'm talking about-- goes psycho and starts going after the sluts. Well, father, I'm worried because maybe I'm a slut. And I never really thought about it that way before, you know? You know, me and the pimp haven't always made the right choices, but I feel like mostly I've been doing the right thing. Well, maybe not, you know? I really do want to get married. I want to have kids. I want to love and honor someone, and I swear I'll be faithful to that man. I have been mostly monogamous. There have been a couple of incidents, but I was young, and I think I learned from them. Fuck. Shit. I'm so sorry, father. I think I've slipped up about ten times during this confession, and I promise I'll put ten bucks in the plate to make it square. But anyway, I thought I'd learned. I thought that me and the pimp had come to an agreement about the clientele, you know? I thought I was going in the right direction, you know? I thought I was serious about sex, and that it was all love, you know, but now, I'm reading this letter, and I'm not so sure I think that anymore. Maybe I am just empty. Maybe the pimp is really just being the pimp, you know? And it's true, I have taken it up the ass --checkbook's right here, father, don't you worry-- but it was just once, and I hated it. I knew I would.

Craig Jones had me up the ass. I mean, he DID go down on me, it wasn't like a prison job, or anything, and we knew enough to have the K/Y, but still. I didn't really want it, but he kept talking about it, and you know, he was pretty good to me, and I kind of wanted to give him what he wanted, you know? He had made all this noise about how there's all these nerve endings and doesn't it just feel great when you take a shit? It'll be like that, he said. Not that I really thought or think that it feels really great when I take a shit. I honestly can't say anything good about my anus. I mean, I have got a great ass, but obviously, they're not the same. I don't even know why a man would WANT to fuck a woman up the ass. I mean, I can understand gay men. It's a make-do situation. That's cool, but straight guys? You've got the old Celestial Orifice, but you'd rather fuck the donkey? I just don't get it. I mean, even with the enema, it's still disgusting. I think it's a power trip, personally. I mean, you can't actually WANT to stick your dick up someone's ass, but it's exciting because you MADE them take you up the ass. They didn't want you there. But there you WENT. It's like hopping the velvet rope on the White House tour and taking Chelsea Clinton up the butt in the China room. There is no doubt that you HAD her. Anyway, after the whole ass incident, Craig lost interest in me, and honestly, I didn't give a rat's ass.

[A WOLF enters stage right and crosses the stage in short order, exiting stage left. Renee stops her story and watches the wolf.]

Shit, Doc. I don't know if it's the carpet, but I'm definitely not well.

[Renee opens the third letter, reads it silently, folds it, and puts it back in the envelope]

Well, lake, it's just you and me again. I've been thinking a lot about what I want to do with my life. Sounds like a fucking romance novel, well how about I say that one of my goals is to find Joe Lasseter and slit his dickpie open end-to-end with a sewing needle like a fucking Frankenstuff hot fucking dog? Not quite so Danielle Steele, eh? I knew you'd get the joke, lake. I'm kind of wondering what's going to happen to me. I'm twenty-five, and I've got no life. I know, I'm such an independent film, but you're just a lake --you probably like Weekend At Bernie's. Yeah, so do I, it's true. There's an ocean in that film, you know. Sometimes I wonder if Jasper just came here. He's probaby a big fat worm-muncher by now. Worm-muncher. That is an excellent insult! I like cock-gobbler, but I must confess that it's just not mine. Worm-muncher.... Anyway, if Jasper's in there, I hope he's happy. Mom, too. Anyway, I'm twenty-five. I need to shape up. Closest thing I have to a real relationship is with this fuckface, Forquim. He seems to know everything. I mean, not like the square root of 472 or who's going to win the Superbowl. He just seems to know what's happening to me. I don't like it. Where's my prince, lake? Wasn't there a prince in the deal when I got dumped by the fish? Is there no justice? I want my prince and a bowl of ice cream --chop-chop! I want the dream, lake.

[Suddenly distracted by something behind her]

Yeah, fuck you, ground control! What's the matter, you never talk to the lake?! I'll cram that wheedly little headset right up your nose and tie your string-bean dick in a knot if you don't jog on! Prick....

Anyway, I want my sugar-coated Joe Lasseter dream. I still want to be swept away, and I'm beginning to think the pimp just wants an oil change every 3000 miles. Where's that prince, lake?

Sometimes I wonder what ever happened to RJ. Randall James Hutton. Mrs. Hutton. Mrs. DOCTOR Hutton. Oh, who am I kidding, he wouldn't have been a doctor, either, but like I said, the doctor's not important. Man, I swear if he came along again, I would not let him go without me. I really fucked up, you know? Maybe he's this Forquim. I kind of hope not, because --well, Jarbus Charlie Rudolph the fuckin' dead-ass bitch reindeer is really creeping me out. But at the same time, I really miss RJ. Everyone's supposed to have the one that got away and get over it, but you know, I already lost a fish. Why can't they come back? I really just made a mistake. I mean, it's college, I'm --as we know-- kind of a slut, and I don't know. I don't know why I wasn't more excited, you know? I mean, we're dating. He's lappin' the oysters, and not half-bad. He's not trying to tunnel my lower intestine. He's smart. He's funny. And I knew that he really did love me. I don't know, somehow at the time, I remember just fixating on how he didn't KNOW me. How it was fake. It would die. It was all a big lie. He'd change his mind when he figured out the truth. I'm so fucking nonchalant, I know! I remember just thinking that it couldn't last. I don't know. Somehow, it just didn't look like love to me. So he flunks out and he says that he'll stay in town and wait for me to finish school if I just tell him that I want to stick it out. And I freaked. I said this was too serious. I couldn't hold him there. I told him to go back to Texas. Bang. I might as well have had him up the ass. I mean, I remember his face. I probably could've made it right before he left. I KNOW I could've. But just like Jasper, it wasn't until he left that I knew I wanted him. I knew HE was my prince. I was too embarassed, though. I didn't fight for him, you know? I wrote him a letter like a year later, but he never wrote back. I don't even know where he is.

[Renee opens the fourth and final letter. Reads:]

"Dearest Renee,

I'm finally coming to town. I hope to swing by, so we can talk about some things. You know, the truth is that nobody loves you. I'm sorry, but that's how it is. You know that I'm not just full of shit. I'm going to come by and take you out soon, so get yourself a nice dress and we'll forget the past.

Much love,

Jarbus Forquim"

[phone rings and rings. Renee doesn't answer it. She starts to cry. After twenty rings, the phone stops. Renee continues crying, but more subdued. About one minute later, there is a gentle knocking sound, not urgent, but relentless and slow.]

I'm not ready. Go away.

[A genderless silhouette steps behind the projection screen, the shadow on the door. The knocking has not ceased.]

I'm not ready! Go the fuck away!

[Knocking continues]

I'm not going anywhere with you!

[Knocking continues]

Get the fuck out of here! I mean it!

[Knocking continues]

Where's my mother?! Get the fuck away from me!

[Knocking ceases. Lights snap off immediately. Renee's (clearly Renee's) pre-recorded voice, with an eerie backwards reverb comes over the house PA]

VOICE: Come on. It's time to go.