Open Mic Night at Westminster Cemetery

  Lacy steps forward. The humble honesty in Edgar’s face is endearing. She feels as if she is seeing the real Edgar Allan Poe, not the frozen portrait on a book cover but an ordinary person who struggles, just like her, just like anyone else with writer’s block. She decides to follow her impulse and gives him a hug, which he receives with awkward surprise.

  LACY (to audience): See, even Edgar Allan Poe gets nervous. It’s natural. It doesn’t mean that you’re not good. It just means that you’re human.

  All laugh warmly. The atmosphere is gratifying, so different than when Mrs. Steele was present. Edgar smiles and whispers to Lacy to “kick things off.” She nods and smiles. She’s nervous, too. She closes her eyes and gets a beat going in her head and then her body rocks. She opens her eyes and nods at Billy to follow her lead.

  Billy is standing on the side of the makeshift stage, and her trusting friendliness sends a hot ripple of shame through him. He knows that if she ever discovers his treachery, his chances with her are over. But his desire to enjoy the night, to once again feel the thrill of performing, pushes away the shame. He replicates the beat she’s making with her body, one foot tapping out a rhythm on the stage, one hand adding syncopation with his stick on the roof of a crypt.

  Lacy responds with an affirming nod. She gives herself a few more seconds to get into it, telling herself to focus, and then the words tumble out.

  LACY:

  Focus on the rhythm.

  It’s a given that you’re gonna be nervous.

  Just serve this up, spit it out, you can talk.

  It’s about letting go, it’s not about the show.

  So no telling lies. No wasting time.

  No selling lines. No fake rhymes.

  It’s all about revealing when you step up to the mic.

  Let out your feelings, you’ve got the right.

  I’ll ’fess up. I’m scared for real.

  I’m a mess. Don’t tell me death’s no big deal.

  I’m pissed at my murderer, pissed at the world.

  (She picks up the scroll that Sam has left on the stone bench.)

  Pissed at these rules. Wish they’d stay curled

  in this goddamn scroll. We should bury it or tear it,

  Send it to hell in a fucking chariot.

  Lacy throws the scroll down, thrilled to let out some of these pent-up frustrations.

  The crowd is shocked by her directness, and a handful of Sleepers quickly race back to their graves, too frightened to witness what they think will be mass Suppression. But the majority of residents are entranced by Lacy’s opening. Her energy is infectious.

  LACY:

  We’re supposed to be restrained, composed, contained.

  If a lot tumbles out, people can’t abide the pain.

  They sing: “Hush, little baby. Don’t you cry.

  Hush and keep those eyes dry.”

  They build up a dam wall, a locked-tight door.

  But now we’re here, letting truth pour.

  We’re grabbing the moment. I feel like we stole it.

  You need a white lie sometimes to reach your goal.

  We’re not hurting a soul. We’re just giving each other

  a little something to hold. So . . .

  This is your story. Turn a new page.

  This is your mic. This is your stage.

  The rhythm continues. Lacy feels alive. Billy is ecstatic, too. Every molecule of his being has been longing to create this flow, an extension of his heart and body. He has been quiet for too long.

  The driving beat and the fluidity of Lacy’s words are gripping Edgar like a fever. He is longing to jump up and let a torrent of his own words out, but he pauses, caught up in the performer’s worst impulse: he is thinking too much, trying to calculate what he could say that would be impressive.

  It is Owen who walks up to the stage in two quick strides. He stands and faces the audience with determined sincerity. He has never done anything like this. He doesn’t know if it is even possible, but there is something inside him that has to come out.

  OWEN:

  Wake up every morning,

  shovel coal in the forge,

  pump the bellows,

  got to keep the fire stoked.

  From the furnace to the anvil,

  hammer and beat,

  pull and twist,

  pound and knead.

  At least the iron beneath me couldn’t feel.

  I worked hard in life.

  Couldn’t stop for a breath.

  But it was nothing compared

  to what I have to do in death.

  This job is my hell.

  It’s been like a cage

  forcing me into

  a monster I hate.

  You’re all afraid of every step I take.

  He turns and looks out at Clarissa. She is sitting in her simple dress with the girlish bow, giving him her whole attention.

  OWEN:

  Then something came

  to smooth the rough.

  A smile from you.

  That was enough

  to get me through

  the long, long days.

  You went out of your way

  to see me, to greet me.

  I couldn’t believe

  that you bothered to care.

  But I’d rise and

  you were there.

  I learned from you

  what kindness can do.

  I had no mother, no father,

  no teacher but the smith

  whose lessons were whipped

  into my back.

  Don’t do this. Don’t do that.

  Don’t expect a damn thing

  but sweat and smoke and ash.

  But that can’t be all there is.

  I know it isn’t true

  Because there’s you.

  Owen beams. He looks out at Clarissa, who rises and rushes to the stage as the audience claps. Her young round face is full of emotion. She is so happy to be receiving this love from Owen—and in public. But there is something on her mind. She speaks.

  CLARISSA: I’m not an angel, not at all. I’ve had this weight on my chest . . .

  (She gathers herself and steps up to the mic and sings.)

  I had a group of friends, if you can call them that.

  I never quite fit in although I tried.

  I looked up to them. I don’t know why.

  They seemed to rule the world.

  They seemed to hold the key.

  I wanted them to notice me.

  I was awkward but I wasn’t the worst.

  There was a pecking order from last to first.

  A boy named Stephen, the smallest and skinniest,

  was always the brunt of jokes.

  I needled him to keep him in place.

  I told myself he’d do the same.

  One December day on our way home from school

  we stopped at the pond by the old Price house.

  It was cold. The pond had a layer of ice.

  All those friends were there.

  They were playing a game called Bet or Beware.

  They needed someone to make up a dare.

  I stepped up to look big in their eyes.

  I told Stephen he had to walk on the ice.

  As soon as I said it, I knew it was wrong.

  But I started chanting and they went along.

  I pushed him out. He tried to resist.

  We all laughed as he fell and slid.

  And I felt like a queen, like I had real power.

  Then they pushed me out too.

  A betrayal. A foul move

  to prove that I could never rise above

  my place.

  I can still hear their laughter.

  A slap in the face.

  The ice groaned. Then I felt the crack.

  I had already fallen onto my back,

  and I remember how pretty the blue sky seemed

  as I felt the ice shift apart beneath me.


  Stephen went first; I could see him go.

  Then the blue sky closed its eyes, and I sank below.

  (Turns to Owen, ashamed.)

  Now you know.

  If I could do it again

  I’d wake every day,

  make it my goal

  to be the one

  to lift up someone else’s soul.

  Clarissa finishes and takes a breath. Owen takes her in his arms and she starts to cry. Even though it was hard to confess all that, Lacy can tell Clarissa feels better. The audience responds with sympathy. Together Owen and Clarissa return to sit together in the audience.

  From way in the back of the cemetery, a Sleeper rises. It is old Gabriel Barr who was buried with his tin whistle. Inspired, he walks forward, finally playing a tune that has been haunting him ever since he died. The melody lifts them all and makes them want to cry.

  Scene 6: Sam Below

  It has been at least seventy-five years since Sam has been in the catacombs. When his mother first died, he often descended into the church’s moldy bowels to get away from her, making the excuse that he needed the quiet to memorize the rules for his job, although he disliked the atmosphere. The souls buried there, the original wealthy patrons of the church, were blue-blooded snobs who refused to mingle with the “Dirt Folk”—their name for those buried in the yard. Nine in total, the patrons tended to congregate in the main cellar chamber, gossiping and bickering. The exception was Hiram Chesterton, who preferred sleeping and yet had the habit of sleepwalking. Sam often sat in the passageway between the large and small rooms; and many a time, the sudden appearance of the old man walking toward him, staring at him with unseeing eyes, made the ethereal ether in Sam’s veins run cold.

  After a few decades, the catacombs became too depressing, and he opted to remain in the cemetery, where he would crawl on top of the Watson crypt and block out his mother’s voice.

  Now, as Sam walks down the crumbling steps toward the main crypt room, following Dr. Hosler and his mother, he is sure he is sinking to the lowest point of his afterlife. The pale, bitter biddies and codgers who look up with surprise at their arrival make him feel worse.

  DR. HOSLER: Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sure you know Gertrude Parsons Steele. She has been chosen as the recipient of the first annual Exemplary Service Award.

  Standing between the doctor and Sam, Mrs. Steele puffs up like a peacock. The patrons are aflutter, whispering their surprise to each other, looking as faded and flat as a collection of old paper dolls.

  DR. HOSLER: We are descending to the subchamber for the ceremony. You are welcome to join us.

  The subchamber was chosen, Sam guesses, because it will provide the most insulation from aboveground noise. As they continue spiraling downward, now with the others tottering along, the sadness in Sam curdles into anger. Over the decades, he has tried to prove that his beliefs don’t align with his mother’s. He has had nothing but kind words for Virginia, Sarah, Maria, the Spindley sisters, and even Cumberland Poltroon. True, he never offered outright friendship to Owen, but he never mocked him or said anything unkind to him. As for Billy—well, Sam couldn’t be expected to befriend every soul. Yet despite the years of effort on his part, the entire company is now rejecting him, deeming him to be untrustworthy.

  Perhaps he should confirm their worst suspicions: wait until the bacchanalia above has most likely begun and then pull back the proverbial curtain for Mrs. Steele to see.

  They reach the deepest chamber, Dr. Hosler talking loudly the whole way to mask any noise from above, when Sam is seized by the impulse to go back alone. He makes a pretense of searching through his satchel, then he turns to Dr. Hosler and his mother and whispers.

  SAM: I must have dropped my pencil in the passage. I’ll go fetch it and be right back.

  He is gone before the doctor or his mother can protest.

  Something in the boy’s manner sets Dr. Hosler on edge. Sam has always been a sensitive young man, and perhaps their exclusion of him was a mistake, Dr. Hosler thinks. But the assembled group is waiting. Dr. Hosler cannot afford to deal with Sam.

  For his part, Sam races up through the catacombs, heart pounding.

  [If you recall, dear Reader, we left the open mic when old Gabriel Barr, the tin whistler, was playing his heart out. I must take a few moments now to catch you up.

  While we were in the catacombs with Sam, Billy was moved to go onstage next. A better drummer than poet, he still delivered a surprisingly moving piece about his regret in never telling his mother how much he loved her.

  Effie and Neffie followed with a humorous song about how much they enjoy their friendship even though they have had “a million tiffs.”]

  Now, as Sam readies himself to step out of the catacomb portal, Effie and Neffie are exuberantly singing their final chorus. It is an upbeat, catchy refrain, and Lacy sees the potential for audience participation.

  LACY: One more time!

  Lacy joins the two old women onstage to lead the audience in singing, and Billy jumps in to make a foursome.

  [Dear Reader, I do not know if you have ever been in the situation of looking upon a party to which you were not invited. While there are more serious tribulations one can endure—tongue splinters, bayonet piercings, locust infestations, to name a few—gazing upon a sea of smiling revelers whose smiles are not meant for your eyes and hearing the strains of a melody that is not meant for your ears will induce a wave of self-pity that is undeniably agonizing.]

  Here is what our poor Sam is faced with when he opens the door and peers out: Billy and Lacy onstage singing together. Of course, Effie and Neffie are there, too, but Sam doesn’t notice them. Sam sees his beloved with his rival celebrating la joie de vivre . . . or rather la joie d’après vivre. The point is la joie. That is the picture Sam sees when he opens the door. Heartbreaking.

  Scene 7: The Open Mic Continues

  At this point, we know what Sam does not: if he were to step out of his hiding place and declare his feelings for Lacy, she would stop everything and welcome him into her heart. Such an easy step when one knows the outcome, but the problem with life is that we have to live it without the benefit of a single crystal ball. Without knowing the certainty of the future, a simple action, such as opening a door, takes courage, and courage is what goes running back into the farthest corner when your confidence is low. And so Sam stays in the dark, his hand on the door, wanting to turn away but unable to stop watching.

  Lacy is missing Sam and perplexed by his absence. She’d like to find him, but the spotlight is on her, and things are going far better than she expected, and so the show goes on. Effie and Neffie finish their song and Lacy steps to the mic.

  LACY: Thank you! Let’s hear it again for the Spindley sisters.

  While the audience applauds, and Effie and Neffie return to their seats in the audience, Lacy looks at Edgar to see if he wants to be next.

  Edgar is leaning against the Watson crypt, running his fingers nervously through his hair. He has been trying to decide what to perform and keeps changing the topic.

  Awkward silence.

  Lacy knows someone out there wants to get up, but no one is moving at the moment, so she takes the mic, signaling to Billy to get another beat going.

  LACY:

  From your seat to this stage might seem like a journey

  that’s too hard and risky to take.

  But I know you’re all tired of keeping it in.

  You’ve been walking in silence day after day.

  We can’t let archaic authorities win.

  Let’s say what we need to say.

  Who made the rules? Who made the ruler?

  This afterlife state couldn’t be crueler.

  Who crafted this trap? Who does it serve and

  who gives her the strikes? You know she deserves them.

  She gestures toward Mrs. Steele’s tombstone and the crowd reacts. They are growing rowdier. Raven, unable to contain himself any longer, flies to
the stage, landing on the faux Greek head of a nearby statue, and engages in a series of rhythmic vocalizations that are known today as “beatboxing.” The crowd loves it. Over the layered rhythms, Lacy keeps going.

  LACY:

  The Golden Rule I could live with, remember?

  Just do unto others, yeah, watch your temper.

  But why can’t you scream when you need to scream?

  Hell, we should be pissed if we’re stuck and can’t leave.

  The Watsons and Smythes stand and cheer. Lacy smiles and continues.

  LACY:

  My rules would be simple and fair. Don’t judge

  the way I look. News flash: I don’t care

  who you think I should be.

  Strike one if you’re judging based on assumptions.

  Society built on old views doesn’t function

  the way that it should, with kindness and love.

  Sarah stands and applauds.

  LACY:

  Strike two if you slam me straight in the face

  with an insult. Bad manners. That hater crap sucks.

  Can’t say something nice? Then shut the fuck up.

  Effie and Neffie cover their ears, but they are giggling and nodding their heads to the rhythm. Agnes Watson stands again and shouts, “Amen.”

  LACY:

  Strike three if you spend your time searching for sin

  in your neighbors instead of looking within

  yourself ’cause you’re not immune to faults.

  How about actively wanting to see us all

  fall? That’s called being malicious.

  If that’s not a sin, I don’t know what is.

  So let me shout. Let me scream. Let me blaze. Let me steam.

  Let me cry. Let me fall. Love will burn through it all.

  Let me face my fear and rage. All the demons in the dark.

  Let me sing with my soul and my strangely still-beating heart.

  The hum of energy from Lacy and the crowd is pulsing. Lacy is experiencing a high that she never thought possible. She looks out, wanting to share it with Sam.

  From his hiding place, Sam watches in awe. He hasn’t ever seen anything like it. He is more in love with Lacy and more despondent than ever.

  Edgar, too, is struck—not with romantic love for Lacy—with the vivacity of the event. In his day, he was known for his performances full of carefully rehearsed drama; indeed, the ladies would swoon over him. But this is different, raw and authentic. He takes a tentative step toward the stage, but Sarah passes him with quick strides.