Dearest Ann,

You’ll be glad to hear that the cold is abating and that I’ll soon be free of my homely prison. Of course, I’ve been visiting the bar. It’s the one place where I won’t be accosted with someone’s theatrical ideas, no matter how intriguing. I simply don’t have the energy to think of anything but my own writing, and you. I admit hypocrisy for being as vocal about you as my friends have their ideas. I can’t help it. Everyone should have the honor of meeting you, and if they cannot meet you, then hear about you, at least.

I met a fellow named Ray who said he met you. He mentioned a strange thing called coffee soda, a Manhattan Special, I think, which is found in Little Italy. I haven’t been. Oh, speaking of food, a man whose full name I can’t spell, I just think of him as “Ko,” keeps giving me an excess of fruit. He gave me a fruit basket to give to you. It’s in my house, presently, but I will have Bar deliver it if you can’t be here soon. I would rather you come here.

If by chance you do visit and I am asleep, just wake me up. I couldn’t think of any better wake-up call than you, if you don’t mind me being sentimental. But aren’t we always sentimental? That’s part of our charm. It’s our particular flavor of sentimentality and I don’t want to taste another.

I hope this day has seen you well.

Yours,
J.D.

New Yorkers have been known to celebrate New Year's in Times Square. For some New Yorkers, however, Times Square is the home of bad memories, and chose to celebrate the New Year elsewhere. For other New Yorkers, celebrating New Year's "elsewhere" is an indication of wealth and high status, in particular if New Year's is celebrated in a hotel in Park Avenue. Though Jack Driscoll certainly has wealth and high status, he is not celebrating New Year's in Park Avenue for display. Rather, Times Square has been the cause of curious twitches in his left eye, and he would rather not spend an celebratory evening without control of his reflexes. It would be most unbecoming in front of Ann Darrow.

Luckily, one of the swankier parties being thrown will not be populated by those who Mr. Driscoll refers to as "vapid self-serving morons." There is a small community of serious writers, directors, actors and otherwise passionate devotees to the art of theater and storytelling who have just enough money combined to buy a building on this street if they so desired. Interspersed with these wealthy people are participants in and admirers of the craft who are not quite as rich, but who are equally, if not more, passionate. Though Jack's preference is to be with everyone else in Times Square on New Year's, he sometimes makes an exception for this party.

Besides the obvious benefit of the removed location, this year this party has another advantage: no one will ask silly questions about dead apes.

It's shaping up to be a pretty good New Year's Eve.

He might have known on the Venture what he wanted, and it wasn’t just a fling with the pretty girl in the film star’s clothing. The suddenness of this realization and its subsequent abortion left him confused about its validity. Desires and decisions like the ones he had were valid if they grew. So said society. His had not grown, not slowly, at least; they had sprung up and clouded his vision. When he saw her, he saw also the unreasonable desires and the hasty decisions his mind had made for him without consulting time. He made little effort to reject them, in fact he soon found himself acting on them in a secret way. That became “Cry Havoc,” and its effectiveness in making the thoughts in his head a reality was minimal, perhaps because Skull Island happened so soon after.

The relationship ended, and the thoughts lost direction. He grew used to the idea of uncertainty. Perhaps that was a good cautionary measure, but it began to interfere in the way he thought and hoped in a relationship, always aware that it could end, always aware that the woman might lose interest or die the next day. Thus, when the inspiration behind “Cry Havoc” reentered his life as a romantic partner and not as a person he merely spoke with, there was confusion. The desire returned. The decisions did not. The decisions had been buried beneath uncertainty. He might have known what he wanted, but was slow to decide upon it. Everything was uncertain, anyway. She might change her mind. He might push her away. One of them might die. He didn’t know and preferred to wait. Waiting, however, relied heavily on how certain he was she would stay.

Perhaps what he needed was a kick in the pants and a routine headbutting by a clue-by-four.

Jack Driscoll [jackdriscoll]
Silvia Broome [silvia_broome]
Eva Duarte [argentine_rose]
James Wilson [wilsons_musings]
Toulouse-Lautrec [viceriddengnome]

The Alhambra is losing a hoard of customers tonight.

A steady stream began to pour out unexpectedly into Times Square, colliding with startled passersby who had been troubled by the load roars coming from the Alhambra. Those who had not been in the interior of the Alhambra could merely read the shining marquee atop the theater. Simple reason told them things had gone awry with the eighth wonder of the world. Those blessed with that simple kind of reason ran alongside the fleeing masses of bejeweled ladies and tuxedoed men, blending into a classless throng of terror.

Jack Driscoll and Mary Anne Bell, the last to leave the auditorium, manage to catch up with the rest, exiting the Alhambra seconds before Kong breaks through the roof onto the marquee itself, smashing it easily and bounding onto the street below.

Those who haven’t panicked yet are panicking now. It’s not a casual occurrence, seeing an angry, giant ape descend on New York City, and it’s rather not something worth watching. Running from, though? Oh, yes.

Times Square is now what they call a “hotbed of terror.”

The dinner, provided by Jack’s friend, smells delicious and looks questionable. That’s what one must expect with gourmet food, though Jack, knowing this, can’t help but make a face at it as he glances from the door to the table.

He’s not pacing the living room. He’s not anxious. Not at all.

But where’s Mary Anne?

There isn't much to his flat. A short hallway leads into the living room, behind which is a kitchen and another hallway leading to Jack's bedroom. Jack's furniture, alas, is stuck in the 70's. Thankfully he's chosen muted colors instead of garish orange hues, but they could due for a good update. The entertainment center, interestingly enough, is pure 90's, as is the computer that sits behind the couch. A bar divides the living room from the kitchen, and it is on this that Pinot sleeps soundly.

The corridors were silent and empty as he walked to the library. These days he walked with his shirt on. No one to impress with it off, and the one person he did want to impress was avoiding him. So he walked to the library, fully clothed and physically unimpressive, to learn new and exciting information about plant life on Mars.

A strong aroma of peaches surrounded the area surrounding the library. This did not strike him as odd. Perhaps something had happened that required an aromatic masking agent. The smell was pleasant, at the very least. He turned the knob and opened the door.

What he saw as not the library, but a long and wide stone room covered in dust. In front of him was a tall, thin mirror. He walked forward, cutting line through the thick carpet of dust. Images became visible in the mirror as he drew closer, growing more solid with every step. He stopped abruptly as he came within arm’s reach of the mirror He saw himself in the mirror, and a woman with two children. His, of course. And the woman was Satine.

“It’s what you want,” said no one’s voice.

“It’s an illusion,” said he, but his hand reached out to the glass in spite of his doubt. One of the children extended a hand. Their fingers connected, though he could only feel glass. He knew then the voice was right: he wanted this to be real, he wanted to feel flesh instead of glass, he wanted to know that smile on her face came from true love and not because he wished it there. Unless his luck changed, he was stuck with the mirror.

He woke up soon after, feeling confused and disgusted that his dream self tried to do something stupid like walking into the mirror, feeling sad because even his dreams were taunting him with things he wanted but could never have.

THE FEDERAL THEATER PRESENTS:
A NEW WORK BY JACK DRISCOLL
"CRY HAVOC!"
a COMEDY

Where's Jack? Who knows. Backstairs arguing, giving a prep talk, or just listening. Wherever he is, he's not in the lobby. Yet.

Jack Driscoll wrote the following on May 17, Milliways Bar-time, in his room in Milliways:

( Read more... )

---

Afterwards he went back to bed.

It's a jazz club, sadly lacking in alcohol. Jack Driscoll sits in a large booth with a collection of colleagues, all debating whether an artist should suffer for his art.

"This world is full of sorrow to begin with. Being in touch with your own sorrow brings you closer to the truth of the world."

"I agree."

"Don't you have your own opinion?"

"I do, and when I have something original to share I'll speak my mind."

"What do you say, Jack?"

Jack folds his hands and states flatly, "I think it's crap."

Everyone stares. Jack shrugs.

"If you're going to do anything for your art, live for it. Suffering is only part of living; the rest of it involves being happy and angry and nothing at all. Focus on one thing and you miss out on all the others."

"Yes, but, wouldn't you say that--"

Bacon!






Where? In the diners of New York City, not in the house of Driscoll. There is, however coffee brewing in the kitchen, where a man in pajamas is reading a book. Squinting at it, too.

He may be considering going to one of those diners with his house guest.

The time is mid November, 1933. The weather is cold, crisp, an appetizer slightly less similar to the main course itself. Jack Driscoll is in his music room polishing something stringed and wooden. It is not his guitar, which is leaning against the piano. It's a violin, perhaps Jack's best-kept secret. He doesn't expect any visitors tonight, which makes this evening a great time for playing. Sure, his maid is still here, but of all the things Jack deems worthy of hiding from her, a musical talent is not one of them. And, anyway, she wouldn't mind a little music while she worked, would she?