From the Poet Laureate: A Play by Chris Joyce, Tee Knorr and Andi Schreiber

Me, Chris and a friend (of City L’s more than either of ours) Andi Schreiber were up in my room on the 3rd floor of the 340. Sitting on the floor, of an all-black room, with few lights on and writing a play, fueled by beer and contraband, by passing around a piece of paper(s) from person to person each of us writing dialogue for our self-described characters. I think the technique was necessitated by the volume of the rock n’ roll being played. Unfortunately the first page is missing. Neither Chris nor Andi made much sense and I, gratefully not writing too much, made even less sense. Looking at the handwriting I would estimate my BAC at .21 and Chris at .14 while Andi appears relatively sober at .07. It is important to note that while Chris and Andi, guests in my room, were fully dressed; I may not have been. I was decent in that, at the very least, I had sheets or something covering me. First, the surviving excerpts from the play:

(page 1 is missing)

(page 2)

MEDIUM (Chris Joyce, 340 resident Jan-Jun 1977): We were talking about the space between us all, when two people, contain themselves within a wall of illusion, they don’t seek the truth, are you one of them?

MS. A. BEST (Andi Schreiber, a guest one night during the first half of ‘77): We are caught in the time warp of 1985, trapped. Our leaders have all tricked us. We are mere robots, but you won’t see see it. Only I can – listen! Illusion may be better than truth – in some cases but not all. Who here is happy?Certainly not I. I had illusion of love with my former husband – I will see the signs of truth. Where am I now? Alone in this devastation, my children growing up knowing their father doesn’t care. Everyone is alone.

ARGUS (Tee Knorr, 340 resident): + hue dew hue think hue “r”? S’m S’rt of thithy fellow. Well, I will call Anita Bryant [Translation > and who do you think you are? Some sort of unintelligible fellow. Well, I will call Anita Bryant].

MEDIUM (Chris): But my dear children of the earth, while Anita is at anti-faggot rallies her husband Bill is humping some guy up the ass in the H-TRAIN! There’s trouble, trouble in the H-Train and I think it points to Meccah (sic).

(page 3)

Thunder (per Chris):

Scene (set by Chris): The Medium wakes up from talking in an unconscious delirium, which even mediums experience;

MEDIUM (Chris): Relate unto me now, Argus and My (sic) Best, and I will tell you your future. Together you two will eradicate loneliness by becoming one from two. The bond inherent shall not be sexual nor shared with anyone, yet it will provide you two as one a vehicle to your ultimate destination, where eventually you may split.

MS. A BEST (Andi): Mecca. But what is it, really?

(page 4)

MS. A BEST (Andi): I have converted. I look to Mecca 54 times daily and still I am not sure what it is. Yet I really get off on it – I really do. Yeah – sexually. You might say I climax from fantasizing I am having anal sex with Mecca – don’t you see, it proves the point – if what the medium says is true about Bill Bryant, we experienced the same intense feeling. Therefore his unisexual attitude is shown to be true, as according to the truth table.

ARGUS (Tee): (baffled) Why Alley Oop if not Tonto?

MEDIUM (Chris): Shut up you idiot.

MS. A BEST (Andi): I don’t give a goddamn shit. I’m horny and want laid.

End of Transcript

Apparently, Andi had been massaging my back for a period and must have had some effect on my situation and that fact did not go unnoticed by Chris. All of a sudden he grabbed the sheet that had been covering me and gave it a yank; exposing my male member at full mast. Andi recoiled in horror (contrary to her dialogue in the play) and retreated down the Stairway to Heaven to the second floor and then on to the outside. Upon reaching her car she seemed to gather up some things as Chris & I watched from the 3rd floor. Apparently in an attempt to vent her anger she packed up some trash in a bag and dumped it on our porch at which point Chris threw an empty beer can at her. The literary technique – communal play writing – was never used again.