27. Mysterieau Returns (July 2014)
Mysterieau – that borderline surrealist, that oddly intriguing raconteur, that all-laughter-barred comedian, that strangely lame magician – returned to the stage after pumping the well for some new-liquidity ideas. (This is the same character featured in the 29K-word novella Mysterieau of San Francisco.) No, it wasn’t the ghost of deceased-a-year-ago Tai; it was his 31-year-old, of similar physique and mindset, just-as-eccentric second cousin.
Quang had left the perfectly-perplexing purple outfit back in San Francisco, and thus decided to make his bluer-than-blue debut. It was a one-nighter in Carson City, Nevada at a tiny, third-rate casino that was once a gas station (and still smelled like it). The new hands-hidden-by-extra-long-suit-sleeves, high-flying-in-place, Halloween-skull-masked one took the low stage at 11:11 PM on a hot Thursday night in June of 1993, following a strange act that involved cactus ingestion. Think I’ll need to get a room. Seeing strings in the air now.
I was able to get a seat in a near-front-of-stage nook. I then clicked on my trusty analog audio recorder. What follows is the transcript of this Mysterieau replacement’s equally-as-odd-as-the-original, just-as-chaotic performance.
“Hello Carson. Hello there, Carson City. O Carson City, the capital city that no one east of the Mississippi ever guesses correctly. No one but me, that is. Yes, I knew Virginia City was not the capital of Nevada, nor Las Vegas or Reno. And, no, Virginia; there’s no Virginia City in the Old Dominion.”
[a 12-second pause with the sounds of beer bottles being set down on yellow-pine tables, chairs being repositioned, and several people talking loudly]
“Ahem. [clears throat] Hello one. Hello two. Hello three. Hello to all of yas. I’m Mysterieau. Mysterieau 2.0, actually. But, let’s not go into that. Let’s just stay right here for now.”
[a 10-second pause with someone in the audience belching]
“The name. What’s in a name, you are tempted to ask? Well, the name Mysterieau derives from that mysterious water-like fluid siphoned from the brains of the body-dead.” Oh, dear.
[no acknowledgment from the audience, just an uneasy six-second pause with continued loud chatter]
“Listen, could we bring it down to a dull roar in here? [the conversations begin to cease] Dank u. [‘Thank you’ in Dutch] Dank u wel. [‘Thank you very much’ in Dutch] That’s Dutch, ya know. I played Amsterdam last month. No, I think it was last week. Well, whenever it was, it was epik [sic] with a hard-azz k. You can be sure of that. Well, all the way until I ended up in a k-nal. [sic] I know, that’s what they all say. Anyway, how are we tonight? Already partially aroused? Your mentality, that is. This is a PG-13 act.”
[no reply from the audience, just an awkward eight-second pause with some whispering]
“Ah, that Gouda? Listen, I just got back from Holland. You know that place? [silence] Ok, the longer, more proper word is Nederland, or Netherlands. It houses Amsterdam. Let me tell ya, it was mega. Oranje [Dutch for orange] mania. Everyone and everything in orange, or oranje as they say between windmills. Ja. [Yes in Dutch] Orange shirts. Orange faces. Orange hair. Orange weed. Orange brownies. Orange mushrooms. Orange you glad you’re here?”
[a few groans from the audience, and then a nervous female’s stunted chuckle]
Neo-Mysterieau remained motionless and speechless for 11 over-dramatic seconds. [an unknown object hits the floor]
“Yes, it was all going swimmingly. Then, sure enough, I woke up in a canal with a tulip in my lapel. That was the zenith and nadir of the gig in a jist-shell. [sic] Anyway, it’s great to be back in the States, even if it is Nevada.”
[booing, then some laughter]
“Hey, I’m just halving a laugh, so that we can have another half-chortle later when the doldrums settle in. Please, don’t be so touchy. At least not yet. I’m jest [sic] jesting. We can have some smart fun tonight. We’re up to this. We can gain a shallowing in-depth perspective. Why, you ask under your bourbon-saturated breaths? Because I joust-lanced former Agent 69. Yeah, that old canker-cranker. Well, he’s in a ditch now and very quiet.” What in the world?
[a loud female sigh followed by three seconds of silence]
The masked one continued. “Listen, have I asked you to listen lately? [no reply] We’re going to have fun tonight, beginning right now! I’m going to retell a conversation that I overheard in Amsterdam’s Centraal Station on platform 5a. Open your years [sic] and close your traps.”
[a nine-second pause filled with the sound of a chair screeching on the concrete-slab floor]
“An American tourist, a white male in his mid-20s with brown hair, mustachioed and goateed, was talking to this raven-haired Romanian lass who was in her early 20s. At first I thought the dude was simply trying to pick her up. However, after a while, I realized that it was something très étrange [‘very strange’ in French] as they say in Marseille in May.”
[Neo-Mysterieau coughing]
“I sure picked a bad day to start snorting Comet®. Just joking. We’re cleaned of cleansers tonight. Congranulations. [sic] Ok, back to our overheard Amsterdam train-station conversation.”
[groans in the audience]
A nearby patron quietly asks, “Are you ready to leave now, Jane?”
Neo-Mysterieau then continued with his Amsterdam tale. “Ameridude [sic] says: ‘My coworker in the US uses hairspray on her armpits.’ And then Romanalass [sic] says: ‘Does she shave?’ Ameridude: ‘Not when it’s hot, humid and sticky; never in such frizzying [sic] weather.’ Romanalass: ‘Hot weather makes me sleepy and think of home.’ Ameridude: ‘Such a slow, sunny, lazy Monday. And, it’s not halfway yet.’ Romanalass: ‘Sunny enough for a bathing suit, but if I put it on, I know it would rain.’ Ameridude: ‘That’s mighty funny, honey, on National Nude Day.’ Romanalass: ‘What the hell! Why, you crazy American!’ Ameridude: ‘Forehead to soon meet wall. I’m sorry. Please re-mark my last remark.’ Romanalass: ‘It’s ok. Just hurry up with Friday. Did I tell you that I hate my job? That’s why I’m here, unexpectedly passing time with you.’ Ameridude: ‘Well, I’m ready for Friday, too. Do you think that Holland will win the World Cup?’ Romanalass: ‘That’s next year, you dunce!’ Ameridude: ‘Oh yeah, that’s right.’ Romanalass: ‘You got too high back there, didn’t you?’ Ameridude: ‘Back in the States, we have that Git ‘er done saying.’ Romanalass: ‘Get what done?’ Ameridude: ‘I forget now. Maybe that sweet sixteen.’ Romanalass: ‘That’s called the knockout round, fool. This is just like watching paint flake.’ Ameridude: ‘Everything dries up and blows away.’ Romanalass: ‘It’s life, man. And, I’m here on this train platform in Centraal Station talking to you.’ Ameridude: ‘Yeah, you’ve already said that. Hungry for some lunch? Maybe ManaMatzoBallinsome [sic] chicken noodle soup?’ Romanalass: ‘Never heard of that kind.’ Ameridude: ‘It’s made with the excessive ball sweat of the sous-chef.’ Romanalass: ‘Foul! That’s way out of line. Why do you Americans have to get so vulgar?’ Ameridude: ‘Ok, how about pull my finger and we go to a pasty nether region?’ Romana – ”
“Enough of this crap!” an annoyed, late-50-something, white businessman in a dark suit exclaimed from the third row. “This shit sucks! Only a demented stoner would find this verbal dung amusing.”
Mysterieau II looked up at the ceiling, and then back down to his note card. The recitation continued.
“Romanalass: ‘Nah, too boring. I’m hot and tired. Please stop with the mumbling dog face. It’s a serial loser.’ Ameridude: ‘As bad as Mysterieau Deux the other night?’ Romanalass: ‘Duh! Even when he was good, he was bad. And rude like you.’ Ameridude: ‘Ok, I’ll let you in on a secret: My life sucks. But, my friends saved me. And, a big thanks to my newfound god.’ Romanalass: ‘You’re one whacked-out yank. [chiefly British slang for an American] All I want is sleep, sleep, and more sleep. Where’s my bed? Can I lie against your chest? Nothing sexual intended.’ Ameridude: ‘Sure, I’ve paid my bills. I own this shirt. Rest your precious head, my train-waiting Euro damsel in heat distress.’ Romanalass: ‘You Americans need to learn that life is about sacrifices.’ Ameridude: ‘Can I pay in fifties?’ Romanalass: ‘Did you just cop a feel of my breast? You bastard!’ Ameridude: ‘Glisten, [sic] doll. I admit it: I drank too much last night and I got all smoked-up this morning in a coughing house [slang for a Dutch coffeehouse where marijuana is available] to mask the hangover. I saw you sitting alone on this railway platform. Trust me, my breath is usually not this bad; my words, not usually this coarse.’ Romanalass: ‘You kind of remind me of that artist … oh, what was his name? Wait, it’s coming to me … Galerie Parcouer!’ Ameridude: ‘Darn, I was so hoping for something other.’ Ok, folks, we’re only about 22% of the way through this. Plenty more to go.”
[loud booing, and then the sounds of many footsteps as Mysterieau Nouveau is silent for nine seconds]
“Ok, ok, I’ll stop! I’ll halt the overheard train-station dialogue. Message received loud and clear. Though, such a converstation [sic] it was and will forever be. Hey, must coin them when you can. It’s what someone said. A living someone, that is. Now a haunter [sic] of gatherers. Ghastly pocket change for a sparse delusional fantasy. Procured on the cheap. Skewered in the deep. Woah, I don’t want all of you to leave. Well, not at once. It’s bad form. And, it could be dangerous. Sure, it’s highly insulting. Not to me, but to the proprietor. He’s not a bad bald guy. He has a nice wife, son and daughter. We all met for drinks backstage. Beforehand. He made this one-star-casino-suspiciously-attached-to-a-two-star-hotel what it is today. With his bare hands. Under the roulette wheel. Before he had an aversion to gloves, it would seem. And, really, I don’t want anyone to die from a stampede to the exit door. We’ve already been named in more than enough lawsuits as it is. There’s a word for your feeling, but the required letters have since escaped from my roaming [sic] alphabet.”
[some tapping sounds, and then a female whistles during the 12-second pause]
“We’ve now reached the post-monotony phase of the show where people start smiling again. Yes, imagine that. It really does happen. And, why is that all of you ask after a longwinded, torturous, going-nowhere-fast, barely honed harangue of a monologue?” [silence]
[the sound of Mysterieau le Second walking back and forth on the creaking wooden stage, and then he stamps a foot down hard]
“Why, it’s about money! Money, money, money. Do I have your fiscal attention now? [still silence] Oh yes, we are going to send someone home tonight with a mighty wad of cash. Maybe more than one. Maybe all … [counting of the audience begins] 35 of you! Yeah, you are liking this performance now. Am I right?” [near total silence]
Then a lone faint “Yes’” is uttered by a female in the back.
“So, you’re just a drug-addled con artist,” an Asian man in a white T-shirt shouted from the 4th row. “Folks, this is just a grade-C hustle. Hold onto your wallets and purses.”
However, Mysterieau the 2nd was unfazed. He just nodded to the heckler and continued.
“Now, can we all agree that there are 366 calendar dates on which a person could be born on this oblate spheroid called Earth, including Leap Day, February 29th? [silence for three seconds then some murmuring] Ok, I’ll take that as a covert ‘Yes’ vote. Now, do you think that anyone in this room shares your birthday? [no reply] I know, you guys and gals don’t want to show off your brilliance. Well, I’m going to pass around some blank, white, anyone’s-business cards. If you would be so kind as to write your birthday on one side and your first name and last name initial on the back that would be most insightful.”
New Mysterieau then hands a white, middle-aged, blue-hatted lady a stack of said cards. She then takes one and commences the pass-around. Fifty-seven seconds later everyone has a card and is scribbling down what he has asked for.
Suddenly, a portly, gray-to-white-haired, cowboy-hatted Caucasian man in jeans yells, “Hold on tight, everyone; this is that birthday-paradox sham. With the 35 of us here, he has an eight-in-ten chance of taking our money.”
Mysterieau2 then replies, “Well then, kind sire, [sic] you can bet the reverse.”
“You’re on!” the cowboy fires back. “A thousand bucks says that at least two people in here have the same birthday. I’ve seen this before.”
Mysterieau version 2 then lays out the 35 white business cards on a card table in front of the stage, birthday sides up.
The cowboy is surprised to see that none of the birthdates match. He becomes enraged. “You rigged this! You’re a charlatan! Another mendacious mountebank!” Mountebank?
Mysterieau2, seemingly unruffled by the outburst, just says, “Security, kindly escort this boor to the great outdoors.”
A rotund, gray-uniformed Mexican security guard then removes the man from the room.
Neo-Mysterieau then claps his gloved hands together. “Now, anyone up for a shell game?”