ALLISON APPLEBAUM PLAYERS PROUDLY PRESENT: IN BETWEEN ALLISON APPLEBAUM, A MONOLOUGE WRITTEN BY, DIRECTED BY, AND STARRING ALLISON APPLEBAUM
(Curtain rises. Allison Applebaum, dressed in black, stands in the spotlight.)
ALLISON APPLEBAUM: There’s lotza lakes in Minnesota. All the lakes have docks and boat launches on the banks. My old man’s a chaplain at the local hospital.
There’s also lotza conservative families in Minnesota. Conservative families, fighting a loosing battle to instill the same conservative ideals in youths with progressive mores. I hate girls. I wear a bra. Dirty girls don’t wear bras.
When I was little, I had sleep-overs with the girls from my Sunday school. We watched the movie Jesus Christ Superstar. I thought the actor who played Jesus was hot.
When I grow up, I want to be on the pill.
When I was little, my brother told me to never, ever-ever under any circumstances open an umbrella in the house. If I did, it meant bad luck for the rest of my life. I had my eighth birthday party. Everyone was there in the living room watching me open my gifts. My grandparents, my parents, all my brothers, aunts, uncles, and cousins, everyone. One of my gifts was an umbrella. Everyone said, ‘Open it! Open it! Let’s see the design! Open the umbrella so we can see it!’ Then I said ‘umm.’ I was so nervous and scared and afraid that I didn’t want to open the umbrella.
Thank you.
(Allison Applebaum takes a bow. The curtain lowers.)
Allison Applebaum had purchased a bag filled with granola, dried oats, raisins and sliced almonds. She sat legs splayed open in a V with the bag nestled in her crotch. Reaching in, she grabbed a handful of the snack, shoved it in her mouth, and chewed. Crumbs fell on the packing blankets and sleeping bags covering the floor in Julien’s tent. He sat facing her, greatly perturbed by the granola specks she scattered all over his sanctuary.
“So this is it?” She said after a swallow.
“Yep.” Julien was hard at work drawing clothes on the girls in his pornographic magazines.
Noticing his absorption in the art project, Allison asked, “Why do you do that?”
“I can’t say. I guess I just think it’s kind of fun, Allison.”
“Don’t you want to see the girls naked? What if you want to jerk off?”
“Oh, about that.” He put down the marker and looked at her. “I’m glad you broached that subject. There’s an idea I have, and I want your input. You know about nocturnal emissions, right?”
“Wet dreams?”
“So I’m going to resume this experiment. I’m not going to get laid or jerk off for a while.”
“I don’t think you have to worry about that first one happening, Julien.”
“I’m going to keep a journal. Then, whenever I have a wet dream, I’m going to write down what happened in the dream as soon as I wake up. I’ll keep up with the experiment, and keep a running record of my dreams, then compare the data and try to decode a secret message my unconscious may be trying to tell me. The wet dream is the pivotal component. There must be something pretty important going on in my unconscious if it causes an orgasm while I’m sleeping.”
“You really think you’ll have more than one wet dream? Oh, I forgot, you’re a prude. And if you stop whacking it too, I’m sure you’ll build of gallons of high protein milkshakes.”
“The mechanics of human biology are a strange thing, Allison. Obviously I don’t want any kids right now. I probably don’t want any kids ever. Yet my body just keeps on making semen. It keeps on making semen even if I don’t want it to. My body just makes so much semen I have to dump it out in my sleep, just to whip up a fresh batch.”
“How do you think I feel? I don’t want any kids either. But my body makes a fresh egg every month. I dump that thing out like clockwork, and it’s a messy and miserable experience, not nearly as quick and fun as the male equivalent.”
“Oh yeah, I guess I forgot that about women. You make a good point, Allison.”
This is all happening on your television screen.
It opens up with the station identification. Block letters, superimposed over a live feed aerial view of downtown Sherwood Minnesota: ‘ALLISON APPLEBAUM BROADCASTING,’ then in smaller lettering under that: ‘All Allison Applebaum, all the time.’ Allison Applebaum announces in a voice over, “Thank you for tuning into Allison Applebaum Broadcasting, coming to you here on channel 3 out of our stations in Sherwood, Minnesota. Your 6 o’clock news with Allison Applebaum is next, followed by Allison Applebaum’s million dollar question at 7, so stay tuned.
Cut to a graphic of planet earth spinning. A brassy blast of horn arrangements play over a staccato rhythm that could either be a xylophone or a telegraph. Fade in on the news room. Allison Applebaum, wearing a white blouse and blue blazer, sits at the desk, straightening her papers.
“Good evening my American viewers. You’re tuned into Allison Applebaum Broadcasting. I’m your host, Allison Applebaum, and this is the 6 o’clock news.
“Our top story tonight concerns a seat reassignment in Sherwood High School. Educators affirm the move in third period History was needed to prevent further class disruptions. Controversy arose when the student in question, a Ms. Allison Applebaum, disagreed with the decision. She said in a statement released today, ‘Disruption in class? That’s a load of bullshit. I passed the mid-term with flying colors, and I’m holding down a B+ average. So Mr. Wilkes can lick my throbbing, slimy, clit.’ For more on this story, we go to Allison Applebaum, live on the scene at Sherwood High School. Allison? What’s going on out there?”
Cut to Allison Applebaum, standing and holding a microphone in front of the flagpole at Sherwood High School. “Yes, hello Allison. The mood here is still one of confusion after this morning’s events. What we’ve heard repeatedly from Ms. Applebaum and other eyewitnesses is the uproar started around 9:15 this morning. Mr. Wilkes, currently employed as a history teacher at Sherwood High School, gave a lecture on The Berlin Airlift and its effects on U.S./Soviet relations. It was at this time, our sources tell us, his lecture was interrupted when Ms. Applebaum began giggling and whispering with the boy seated next to her. At this point, Mr. Wilkes took action, unfairly, some have claimed. He forced her to trade seats with a Ms. Margaret Yang, relocating Applebaum to a desk in the front row. So far, the young man Ms. Applebaum whispered and giggled with, has not released to the press any official statement on the matter. We have contacted Mr. Wilkes on numerous occasions, but he’s declined to comment. Although the remainder of third period went without incident it is still unclear whether the seat reassignment will lessen class disruptions long term.”
Cut back to the news desk. Allison Applebaum takes a sip from her water glass, then resumes reporting. “Thank you Allison. That is certainly a story we’ll be following close over the weeks to come.” She pivots in her chair. “Now, for our extended forecast, we take things over to Allison Applebaum in our weather center. Please tell me you have some good news for us Allison. What lays ahead in our extended five-day forecast?”
Cut to the weather center. Blue-screened in behind an upright Allison Applebaum, an image of the greater Minnesota Wisconsin area, with just a knob of Lake Superior poking in. “So far, and over the next few days, everything should look good out there. Today and tomorrow, expect blue skies and clear conditions. On your daily commute you’ll be able to see for miles and miles. On Wednesday, a front pushing south from Canada will cool things off during the overnight hours, to remind everyone out there that April is still the cruelest. Later in the week, scattered showers, which is just what we need to bring in the May flowers. For your weekend, a 75 percent chance of raining and pouring. I’ll be keeping my fingers crossed here in the weather center, that the old man snoring won’t bump his head before he goes to bed, and he’ll be able to wake up in the morning. That should do it from our Sherwood studios weather center. I’m your weatherman Allison Applebaum, and you don’t need me to know which way the wind blows. Back to you at the news desk, Allison.”
Cut to the news desk. Allison pivots in her chair to face the camera. “Okay, Allison. Thank you for the musicality of our always accurate, sometimes poetic, channel 3 forecast. In just a few moments we’ll wrap things up in the news room, but first let me toss things over to the woman who always knows the score when it comes to local sports, Allison Applebaum. We go to her now live, at the Sherwood High track and field facility.”
Allison stands holding her microphone with the track and its 100 meter mark in the background. “Thank you Allison. As we all know, track season is upon us, and with the district finals meet only weeks away, the competition is really heating up. The darling this season seems to be Allison Applebaum, a 15 year old sophomore from Sherwood Hi --”
“Pardon me, Allison. I’m going to have to interrupt.” Cut back to the news desk. Allison crooks her head and presses the ear piece further in to receive instructions from the control room. After regaining composure, she straightens up and addresses the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, it has just been brought to my attention that civilization as we know it is nearing its end. For more on this as it unfolds, we go to Allison Applebaum live on the scene. Allison, what can you tell us about what’s happening out there?”
Allison stands holding her microphone. Behind her flashes a montage of images of death and destruction. Bombs fall and explode on patchwork towns. Mushroom clouds swell thousands of feet into the sky. Skyscrapers billowing black smoke burn and crumble. Bridges collapse. Angry mobs overtake men in riot gear. Men with covered faces toss emaciated corpses in a heap.
“Yes, Allison.” She yells into her microphone, attempting to stay on her feet against the gale force wind. “Reports coming in are unreliable, but as you can see behind me, complete chaos has broken out. Right --”
The image on your television screen brakes to color bars and beep tone.
In spite of her thick calves and creases in her thighs, Allison Applebaum carried her voluptuousness with an entrancing sway of the hips. She stood by a bonfire in a backyard at night. Yeah, Allison would give herself that pat-on-the-back. She was voluptuous, and she did carry that voluptuousness with an entrancing sway of the hips. Ricky stayed in the basement, passing a joint around with a group of his friends from the National Forensic League while they stood against the wall and watched four juniors play doubles beer pong.
Sparks from the bonfire floated skyward. Allison watched them rise and dissipate into the night. Three other girls stood at the fireside. Allison didn’t like girls and she especially didn’t like those three girls. Displaying her can do attitude, Allison fed a few limbs to the flames. She looked past the yard to the wooded lot beyond. Across the tree line, fireflies blinked on and off in a peculiar, choreographed, semaphore. She stood at the fireside admiring the night, because she felt custom dictated she admire the night. Isn’t that what people normally did after such occasions? Admire the night?
Ricky’s shoes swished through the damp grass.
Allison poked the bonfire with a stick.
“Allison?”
“Yeah?”
“I hoped to find you out here. You ran off.”
It was too dim to see, but the end result of what she’d done to Ricky and how his body reacted was barely visible as a damp blot, about the size of a quarter, in the fabric over his pants zipper.
“I don’t know what time you want to leave,” he said. “I’m up to stay for a while. That is, if you want to.” He put his hands in his pockets and stared at the grass. “What I mean is, whenever you want to go, I can give you a ride home.”
It was a Friday night. Some guy, one of Ricky’s friend’s parents were out of town. So the guy decided to have a party and bonfire at his house. Ricky invited Allison to come along with him.
They had started talking in the basement while four other kids played doubles beer pong. Allison said stuff that caused Ricky to laugh and blush, so she decided to make out with him. The four juniors playing doubles beer pong looked away from their game to cat-call and comment. Allison pulled Ricky into a storage closet for more privacy.
They kissed some more. Allison, since she now considered herself an expert in the area, put her hands down Ricky’s pants.
He stopped kissing her and whispered, “Whoa.”
“What is it?” She whispered back.
“I, ah . . . I, umm . . . I just didn’t expect this all to happen so fast.”
SHEESH! Since when did suburban high schoolers get so pure? Did Allison miss the memo? She hadn’t even done anything to him yet. “This is kind of bad,” she said, “but there’s something I want to do to you that might be fun.”
“Allison,” Ricky panted out through his heavy breathing. “You don’t have to do anything to me that you don’t want to do.”
DUH! “I can’t say what I want to do, so you guess.”
“I have all kinds of guesses. Trust me, I do. But I can’t work up the nerve to say them.”
Ricky wasn’t any fun. He wasn’t playing along. So Allison cut the verbal foreplay short. She got on her knees, unbuttoned and unzipped Ricky’s pants, then pulled his boxer shorts beneath his scrotum.
It didn’t take very long. She wrapped her lips around the peen, then slid her mouth a few inches down the shaft. No sooner had she retracted back to his bulb, Ricky orgasmed an over abundant load. It shot out from the corners of Allison’s mouth. It dripped down the length of Ricky’s penis.
She stood up giggling. Bashful Ricky tucked away his appendage, then zipped and buttoned up. Allison wiped her lips with the back of her hand, then leaned in to kiss him. He turned away.
Ricky’s load had been so over abundant, it began to soak through the fabric of his underwear and pants. He spent some time panting while Allison studied him through narrowed eyes. “Now, Allison, if you’d like, I’d be ready and willing to return the favor.”
She pushed him away. Return the favor? How arrogant. Besides, it was obvious to Allison, Ricky wouldn’t know what he was doing. He wouldn’t even know where to start.
That was the arguably momentous event that lead to Allison and Ricky standing next to a bonfire as he offered her a ride home whenever she wanted to leave. Allison didn’t want to go home. She didn’t want to stay at the party either. Most of all, she couldn’t stand to look at, or talk to, Ricky one moment longer.
“I’m not sure what your plans are,” he said. I mean, I have a speech and debate tournament at Cumberland, but if you want to hang out at night. Or maybe we could even meet up on Sunday afternoon.”
“Why on earth,” asked Allison in all seriousness, “would I want to do anything like that?”
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Track practice had just let out. Allison Applebaum sat in the grass behind the bleachers, changing out of her spikes into a pair of sandals. Her limbs felt loose and limber and good. A milky sky above tickled her eyes. Clouds and their silver linings daubed over the vast blue in a captivating pageant only possible in Midwest spring afternoons.
In the area of track and field, it seemed Allison Applebaum could do no wrong. Her sense of entitlement now bordered on megalomania. She’d run just four heats, and in all events had left her competition so far in the dust, that Allison looked down on her teammates as embarrassments. For most of the practice, Allison loafed around and picked dandelions. She wove the stems into a circle, and wore it like a crown atop her head.
Glancing up, she saw her sad looking boy Julien walk out of the library. He sat on the bench and shuffled some books in his backpack. Allison rocketed up and ran to him. Once again, even in sandals, her peak physical fitness allowed her to sprint across the parking lot and arrive in front of Julien without suffering any shortness of breath.
“Hiya, kiddo.”
“At the library again? Don’t you have a life?”
“Said the pot to all the kettles. You spend your time after school running in circles.”
“Ugh, don’t remind me. Heading back to the tent for a little,” with her curled palm at her crotch, she pretended to stroke an invisible penis, “relaxation?”
“No, actually. I’m working on a project with someone, and we stopped here for some research materials.”
“Hmm, interesting,” Allison cooed with her trademark mock enthusiasm. “Oh my god. I have to tell you what happened this weekend.” She grabbed his wrist. “Do you know that guy Ricky?”
“No.”
She leaned closer. Their forearms were touching. “Well, he invited me to this party on Friday night.”
Allison was interrupted when a beautiful redhead walked out of the library and said, “Thanks for waiting Julien. I forgot I had that fine, and they wouldn’t let me check anything else out until I paid it.”
“No problem, it’s okay, Melinda. I was just talking to my friend Allison here while I waited.”
In an animal instinct beyond Allison’s civilized control, her eyes widened and her face went white as she sized up the willowy wisp of a fire crotch in front of her, presently putting library books in a satchel. The first thing Allison wanted to know: who the fuck did this bitch think she was, wearing loafers, a skirt over her white leggings, and that ridiculous granny sweater. And those glasses, that was just too much. Those indie-rock-slut glasses, the kind with thick black frames. She probably kept them on while sucking off boys in stretchy jeans, with an Elliot Smith album playing in the background. They probably weren’t even prescription lenses. They were probably fake.
“Allison, this is my friend, Melinda. We’re working on an art project together.”
“Yeah, hello Allison.” Melinda smiled. “It’s nice to meet you officially. We’re in the same history class together, Mr. Wilkes, third period.”
“If you say so, Big Red. I never noticed. An art project? What? Do you guys like, cry and cut yourselves, then write poetry about it?”
“Actually, Allison,” Julien said, “this is still in the early stages and we’re trying to keep a low profile.”
Melinda added, “We don’t want to jinx anything.”
‘We’re?’ ‘We?’ Since when did little Miss Strawberry Shortcake feel enough ownership over Julien to address his relation to her with the collective ‘We?’ Allison was just as incensed with him. How long had that duplicitous man-whore been running around, playing patty-cake with fox-cunt and working on secret art projects without once mentioning a word of it to Allison. “Did you tell her about your wet dreams project, Julien?”
Melinda, a little confused and rightfully defensive, cocked her head and asked, “Wet dreams?”
“Nah, Allison. That’s my own deal, not collaborative. There’ve been no results yet, but I’ll say the experiment continues. Thanks in large part to a will power that I didn’t know I had.”
“So, like, what, Julien? Do you take her back to your tent? Do you show her your porn?” She looked to Melinda. “I’ve been in his tent. I’ve seen his porn. We pretty much hang out everyday. He tells me everything. And I mean ev-ery-thing. Isn’t that right, Julien?”
“That’s right, Allison. You are pretty much like my closet confidant. I think though, Melinda and I better head off. We’ve got to read up on what those who’ve come before us have done, and how we just might be able to build off it. What do you say, Melinda?”
“Sounds good, Julien.”
Allison rolled her eyes at the sheer pretentiousness of those two.
Then Melinda had the arrogance to bestow a shred of pity when she turned and said to the soon to be marooned Allison Applebaum, “I like that dandelion tiara you made. It looks real pretty in your hair, Allison.”
The speech and debate tournament hosted by Cumberland High School had not gone at all as expected for Ricky. As a junior who’d started competing in Solo Dramatic Interp freshman year, he’d accumulated a respectable amount of points in the National Forensic League. Based off of comments and judge scorings (he regularly placed in the top three of his rounds) he had hit his stride over the past Saturdays, and was on track to make state competitions. Ricky’s piece came from Tracy Letts play Bug. Ricky was proud of himself. He thought he was being very clever and edgy for choosing material that so openly dealt with sex, addiction, and paranoia.
The Cumberland tournament, one Ricky went into with such confidence, proved to be a total disaster. Adding insult to injury, his coach sat in on the rounds, and was ready to disperse the brutally honest notes on all of Ricky’s uncharacteristic flop performances.
What made Ricky such a sharp actor was the flawless and subtle changes in his facial expressions when switching characters. That quick-change ability was gone in all three rounds at Cumberland. His countenance throughout the performances was a doughy and confused blur of indistinct emotions. In preparation for tournaments, Ricky poured through linguistics and dialogue guides, and thought he could pull off the nuances of an Oklahoma drawl like a native speaker. Yet, his vocal chords failed him that Saturday at Cumberland. He spoke with the canned, tinny southern accent of a hick stock character.
A plaguing absent-mindedness that caused him to forget his lines was the biggest disgrace for Ricky. A one point, he even broke character and muttered, “Wait a minute, I messed up. I’m going to have to back up and do that part again.” Yes, it had been a bad day for Ricky, who thought he’d developed his craft enough to be immune to such low amateur bumbles. By the time it was over, he wanted to sleep for 20 years, and forget the day had ever happened.
As they loaded on the bus, the coach, who meant to comfort Ricky, but only made him feel worse, asked, “I don’t know what happened today. It was like someone sucked the life out of you up there.”
Allison Applebaum had purchased six ripe plums in a plastic shopping bag. With her legs splayed in a figure four, the bag nestled in her knee pit. She brought a plum to her mouth and took a bite. Purple juice dribbled down her chin. A few drops fell on the packing blankets and sleeping bags covering the floor of Julien’s tent. He sat facing her, greatly perturbed by the plum juice she was dripping in his sanctuary.
“So remind me again.” She paused for a swallow. “Who was that ginger slit with you outside the library?”
“I told you, her name is Melinda.” He was absorbed in researching from his pile of library books on Modern Art. There was another new addition in his tent. In the corner, beside the literature and pornographic magazines and markers, sat a file folder with a stack of loose photographs on top.
“So, what’cha reading about over there?”
“Modern Art. More specifically, artists whose work relates to their bodies in some way.”
“Like what?”
“Just now I’m reading about this woman who wrote messages on little strips of paper. Then she’d roll it up and stick it in her vagina, just to pull it out again in front of an audience and read the message.”
“Would you go for that kind of girl, Julien?”
“She’s dead. Died young. Probably from drugs or an O.D. or something like that.”
“Maybe an infection from all that paper up her cooch.”
“That’s my girl, Allison. Keeping it classy in Sherwood as our own insightful art historian.”
Allison was known as a compulsive snapshot-taker. Like many point and click fiends in the early era of social networking, she got a voyeuristic thrill from looking at pictures without asking permission first that other people had taken. She grabbed the stack of photographs and began to flip through them. The trespass went unnoticed by Julien, still absorbed in his reading.
The images were exclusively of Julien and Melinda. Although the photographs captured the two in natural poses, they had the staged stiffness of a camera set to its timer and mounted on a tripod. Julien and Melinda seated at a table. Julien and Melinda sitting under a tree. Julien and Melinda in the tent. The very same tent Allison now sat in with Julien.
“These are all boring,” she said, continuing to flip through the stack.
That got Julien’s attention. “Allison, who said you could look at those? Where’d you even find them?” He reached towards her in protest and spoke with irritated urgency.
“Relax. They were sitting on this folder. I mean, seriously, not a single shot of her V or her boobies or your penis. What are you two, like, Amish?”
“Stop looking at those. Put them back on the folder, and don’t look in there either.”
“Lighten up, Julien. It can’t be a big secret if the stuff’s just sitting out here.” Of course, after he told her not to, Allison made up her mind to look in the folder immediately. What she found were several sheets of paper. In the center of each page, a maroon and brown smudge, shellacked with crust and a few looped strands of tiny red hairs.
Julien hung his head and sighed. “Just close the folder, Allison. Forget you ever saw its contents, and let’s move on.”
“What is this, Julien? Is this . . . What I think it might be? Are those . . . Pubic hairs?”
“Okay. Fine. You win. That’s the project Melinda and I are working on. Everyday while she’d on her period, we take a picture together, and I give her a piece of paper. Then she makes an imprint between her legs. You figured it out. The cat’s out of the bag.”
“You mean, the pussy is, in this case.” Allison was really enjoying herself upon this newfound discovery. “This is fucking disgusting. She smears it all over the paper, and you just have it in a folder in here? Does she do it in front of you? Or, do you, like, help? Like shoving in a tampax while she’s spread eagle on her back?”
“Pearls before swine. Once again Allison, you choose to view the project through a cynical lens of your own depravity. That’s special handmade paper, you know. Its pulp comes from the black forest, and the same bleaching process has been used for hundreds of years. My cousin sent it to me from Vienna, not that you could appreciate something like that.”
“If this paper is so special, why did you let Pippy Longstocking smear it into a menstrual juice Rorschach test?”
“It’s probably a waste of time explaining it to you, but because of your troglodyte knee-jerk reaction, I will anyways. We’re trying to make a statement about the complex and mysterious sexual dynamic between men and women. We’re all human, right? Still, even in our advanced age of science and medicine, the fundamental differences between men and women, the function and designs of our bodies, are so vast, we can never truly understand what our opposite sex experiences. Yet our species keeps plugging away. Cities get built, babies get made, and we’ve been going on like this for thousands of years.”
“I like your wet dreams diary better.”
“To be honest with you, Allison, the whole thing was actually Melinda’s idea. She thought the project needed a male presence, and asked me to help. Although I suggested using that rare handmade paper. That was my contribution. Like you, but for different reasons, I have my reservations about the project. I never went in for art that tries to overtly shock in order to make a statement. I think her motivation for the project is still unclear, even to her. But that’s the point, right? To raise questions? Start and dialogue?”
“Yeah right. You probably just want to put your P in her V.”
“No everyone is like you, Allison. Melinda and I are just friends. Any romantic relationship would only undermine the integrity of our collabora