[INSERT: TO ME, OR NOT TO ME... ACT I SCENE I :OUTSERT]

THE WORDERBOY

ACT I
SCENE I

(light arrives from a one thousand one hundred and seventy-seven trillion-mile journey through space)

[OPEN CURTAINS]

UNKNOWN MISSISSIPPI RIVERBANK TOWN, 1830

(a train whistles from the semi-distant depths of the background un-scenery as we merely faintly hear the subtly soft sustained machinery of its rhythmic clacks upon those tracks which parallel that regal rivered flow just beyond, from the flying eyed view of a crow)

CROW: (high flies the skies whilst silently scanning below)

(we find ourselves vantaged behind a man astand upon a wooden covered front house porch of the past, overlooking this pre-paved, unstirring, late morning neighborhood street which we behold over his brownish flannel shirted shoulder and beneath the wide brim of his Tyrolean hat (last owned by Andreas Hofer, if we believe him about that) - this space through which we peer from behind around him forms something of a C shaped scene frame into which enters a boy (aged twelve) in well-worked overalls, pensively pushing a wheelbarrow with apparent weighty heft from stage right (our left))

MAN: Say, boy, [GESTURE] what’s that in your wheelbarrow?

(the boy looks this way, stops pushing, looks back down to carefully lower its rear loop frame legs onto the ground from which we hear a subtly thuddly sound, then returns face usward)

BOY: Those are words, sir.

MAN: Words?

BOY: Yes sir, buncha words.

MAN: What are those made of, boy, wood, clay, metal? (he knew not to include “plastic” in his query, for there remained yet another 77 years before its invention, or discovery, however one opts to view such matters)

BOY: I think they’re just made from plain ol’ words is all.

MAN: Words made of words? What kind’a sense is that? Are you foolin’ on me here, boy?

BOY: No sir, I’m just tellin’ as best I know, which may not be anything or much, what with still bein’ a kid. I figure there’s probably other words in other places made of other stuff, but I’m pretty sure these here ain’t nothing but pure words, the purest I could find and pick, in fact.

MAN: But—how can words made only of words be tangible things which can fill a wheelbarrow? That just makes no sense at all!

BOY: Well, like I said, sir, I’m just a kid so there’s still lots of things to know that I ain’t got to, yet. I had you adults figured for knowin’ everything, seein’ as you’ve had all those years to learn it, and I’ve only had these measly few, thus far.

MAN: Boy, are you getting smart with me?

BOY: No sir, if I was smart, I’d know whatever it is you’re wanting. Well, I reckon I better get goin’, they’re all waitin’ on these words.

MAN: Who’s waitin’? Why would anybody be waitin’ on words?

BOY: There's a whole lot of folks waitin' on 'em, and I’ve already been gone a good long while on account of huntin’ up enough to fill this thing all the way. Well, guess I’ll be seein’ ya some other when, maybe some other where, and perhaps even some other who, you just never really know, no matter how much you do.

(the boy returns his grip into a stoutly squeeze tight, lifting the barrow up onto its wheel in his might, gives it a heave into motion again forward, toward an exit stage left (y/our right))

[FADE IN SOFT FLOW LUSH ORCHESTRA]

FEMALE CHORUS: The man remains astand in his place
spectacles resting on his nosey face
framing the scene moving at a snail’s pace
a moment containing all time and all space

Unlooked by the boy as he corners around
a word rattles free from the barrow’s word mound
tumbling to the ground
with an unheard-of sound

hmmmmmmm hmmmm hm hmmmmmmm
hmmm hmmm hm hmmmmmmm

(humming continues)

(the man lingers till all is clear before slinking over to see the word "NEAR", which he picks up, curiously rubs, then lifts closely to his ear)

[CLOSE CURTAINS]
[FADE OUT MUSIC/HUMMING]

[INSERT: LE GALÉRIEN (THE GALLEY SLAVE) ACT I SCENE I :OUTSERT]

There shall be words...