The OrphanAGE, Vol. 1.04

First Lines

Mother died today. Or maybe yesterday; I can't be sure.” —Albert
Camus, The Stranger

We’re in it now! Both seasonally and in our national dumpster fire — time to pull on our snow galoshes and prepare to wade into the slush-n-muck.

I think we're finally getting a handle on this whole e-publishing racket, and this week we're leveling up! A play premiere!!! [if we play our cards right, we just may inveigle upon Tony to consider a pick-up performance... now, that'd be pretty sweet].

Digging through the archives, we stumbled upon images from our very first cover artist for our very first print issue. Unused then, this is a perfect time to show 'em some light of day [yes, for those only kinda paying attention while doomscrolling, the OrphanAGE is gearing up for round two of print]. Until then, snag your very own copy of edition #1 at Prospero's... before they're gone for good.

Did you catch our special edition? An OrphanAGE call to arms! Feel free to reshare the hell out of it (nudge, nudge, wink, wink... please, we're begging you).

In This Issue:

Play: Art or eat? Anthony Ladesich confronts the artist quandary in his short play, Burn Your Canoe

Painting: a Mexican two-fer by Dee Washer

Essay: Aliciana Slagenweit returns with The Milk Report

Peace,
Dante

Burn Your Canoe

A ten minute play by Anthony Ladesich

CAST:
Zoe: 35-years-old. Filmmaker.
Meg: 40-years-old. Mid-level, independent, Hollywood talent
agent.
Alex: 31-years-old. Mixologist/bartender.

SETTING: The Apothecary: A trendy West Hollywood bar.

TIME: Present day.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

LIGHTS UP ON: French, sixties pop-music oozes out of the house sound system. The atmosphere is quiet and chill. Meg sits alone at the bar. She downs her drink in one, and holds up a finger to the bartender, Alex, who approaches.

MEG: Alex, my darling, you’re a genius. Another... what’s it called again?
ALEX: I call it The Mother May I.
MEG: Okay mother, may I?
ALEX: Yes you may, girl. Yes. You. May.

Alex makes the drink. Zoe enters the bar midway through a phone call. Her voice too loud for the chill vibes. We only hear Zoe’s half of the conversation.

ZOE: I went through the footage earlier today. Everything looks incredible. I love that shot you got in the dining hall. That’s the opener for sure.

Meg hears the voice. She turns in Zoe’s direction. Zoe realizes she’s too loud.

ZOE (quieter): Yeah, the invoice came through and I just need a couple of weeks to get the money together — Yeah, I know, thanks Dave.

She approaches Meg as she finishes her call.

ZOE (to Alex): What’s she drinking?

Zoe takes a seat at the bar.

ALEX: Just a little something new I’ve been developing. It’s kind of a clever twist on a gin martini…
ZOE: Whiskey please, Alex. Three fingers of whatever’s cheap.
ALEX: Oh, she’s having a whiskey type day. I got you.

Alex grabs a bottle off the lowest shelf and pours.

ALEX: But Zoe... girl, you gotta stop drinkin’ this cheap shit.

He hands her the drink and exits to the other end of the bar.

MEG: So, how’d it go?
ZOE: You’re an asshole.
MEG: Ouch.
ZOE: You told him my documentary was a “true-crime" thing.
MEG: I told him it was about criminals. There’s a difference.
ZOE: Jesus, Meg! Don’t you ever get sick of “agent-speak?”
MEG: Never. It’s my bread and butter. Plus, it’s the only language those development-bros understand. So spill it, what happened?

Zoe takes a long pull on her whiskey.

ZOE: I don’t know, it started fine. Then, when I’m about five minutes into my pitch.
MEG: Was it the part where you say, “At it’s core the film is a story about connecting to the humanity of prison inmates who... yes, have done terrible things but…
MEG/ZOE (in unison): “Still deserve to be treated with basic human rights.”
ZOE: Yeah, that’s the spot. So, there I am, talking about the fragile nature of lost and broken souls when... DING! The guy’s fucking smart watch goes off.
MEG: Oof! Babe.
ZOE: I stop talking while he reads some epic fucking text. My rhythm’s killed, but I have no choice, so I just keep going. I clear my throat and start again. “Essentially, Brad, I center on a group of prisoners and use the menus for their last meals as a metaphor. It’s a reminder that they are still human beings.”
MEG: It’s such a great line.
ZOE: I agree, thank you.
MEG: So?
ZOE: So, he finally looks up from his watch and says, “It’s a cooking show.”
MEG: FUCK! OFF!
ZOE: ...
MEG: NO!
ZOE: Yes.

They both kill their drinks.

ZOE: So I say, “No, Brad, it’s not a fucking cooking show.” And then... DING!
MEG: The watch?
ZOE: The mother-fucking watch.

Alex returns with a Mother May I for Meg. Then picks up the cheap whiskey bottle for Zoe.

ZOE: Then, I start to really go off on him. “It’s a fucking documentary film. A FILM that I think, has the ability to change the national conversation around prisoner dignity. And blah, blah, blah, blah, blah…”

He puts the cheap whiskey back down and then reaches to the top shelf for the good stuff.

ZOE: And then he stops me in mid-sentence and says
(beat)
“I love it. I’m in.”
MEG: What?! You sold it in the room? You fucking SOLD! IT! IN! THE! ROOM!
ZOE: Does anything about this --(she gestures at herself) indicate that I sold it in the room?

Alex shakes his head.

ALEX (under breath): Not even a little bit.

He pours the expensive whiskey for Zoe then leaves the fancy bottle in front of her as he exits moves to the other end of the bar.

MEG: Wait, what? I’m so confused.
ZOE: So was I, because this asshole goes on to mansplain my own pitch back to me but this time as a reality series.
MEG: Reality?
ZOE: He classed it up and called it a docu-series... but yeah. He just kept going on and on about ways to use AI to aid production. And then, to top it off, he says,“we’ll get a hot celebrity like Matty Matheson to be the host and at the end of each episode Matty’ll go into the kitchen and teach us how to cook a prisoner’s last meal.”
MEG: Oh my god. He didn’t?
ZOE: He did. I walked out. He was a prick.
MEG: I mean... they’re all pricks, Zoe. Pricks with money that you desperately need. Which reminds me. I got a call...
ZOE: NO!
MEG: What?
ZOE: Absolutely not.
MEG: I didn’t even tell you the offer...
ZOE: No more commercials, Meg. I can’t do it any more.
MEG: Zoe… babe, you’re out of money. Which means that your film is...
ZOE: Out of money. Yeah, I’m well aware.
MEG: You do know that I only get paid when you get paid, right? Plus, if you don’t take this gig, you’re gonna burn your last bridge in that world.
ZOE: Burn it. I don’t care. My heart’s not in that world.
MEG: Bitch, you need a job. And, I need you to have a job. The only reason I don't drop you as a client is because we’re friends. If you wanna stay in the movie business you’ve only got a couple of options left. And the other one’s tearing tickets in the Cineplex at The Grove.
ZOE: That’s just mean.
MEG: I’m just being honest.
ZOE: I’ve spent the last ten years struggling and trying to make something... anything half as meaningful as my first film. Do you know how that feels? I don’t talk about it, Meg, but I hurt inside, everyday.
(beat)
I won the fucking Grand Jury Prize at Sundance when I was twenty-five. I shouldn't just be making mayonnaise commercials. If I have to go back into that world it’s gonna... hollow me out to the core of my soul.
MEG: You’re being melodramatic?
ZOE: ...
MEG: ...
ZOE: You remember Dana Harris?
MEG: The actress, right? The one that does the Russian accent?
ZOE: No, that Dana is white. I’m talking about Dana Harris.
MEG: Oh, yeah, Dana Harris, sure. She’s very talented.
ZOE: She’s incredible, so, I cast her in that spot I did last fall.
MEG: The telecom thing?
ZOE: Yeah. It was the worst shoot of my life.
MEG: What are you talking about? The client was happy.
ZOE: The client was the only one who was happy.
MEG: I don’t follow?

Zoe slowly finishes her drink then takes the bottle and pours herself another.

ZOE: The shoot was going well. We had a great location, great crew and Dana was absolutely killing it. Her last take on the wide shot was so good that I didn't think anything of just calling cut and moving-on into the closer coverage.
(beat)
Then, the A.D. comes running over and whispers in my ear. The client “had a note.” So, I told the crew to hold the work and went over to the table. They’re all huddled around a sad little copywriter who’s furiously tap, tap, taping away like crazy on a little MacBook. I clear my throat and they all look up. I say, “what’d you guys think? She’s amazing right? I’m ready to move on.” Then, this creative director leans back in her chair and tells me that Dana, apparently wasn't “urban enough.”
(beat)
They wanted to change her line of dialog from “pardon me” to “say what?”
MEG: Say what?
ZOE: Yeah, but more like,“say whaaaaaaaaaaaat?”
MEG: ...
ZOE: ...
MEG: Jesus. That... that’s pretty bad.

Zoe finishes the rest of her drink and collects her thoughts.

ZOE: I had to go back out onto that set and face Dana. I was standing there, frozen. She could tell by the look on my face what was happening. I started to tell her that there was a note from the client
(a choked up beat)
And then... she took mercy on me. She said “yeah I could hear ‘em over there.”
MEG: Oh, Zoe.
ZOE: Fuck me, right? I shoulda called those agency-fucks on their bullshit.
MEG: I don’t know how to break this to you, babe, but that’s just the business.
ZOE: That’s the advertising business. I am talking about my life’s work here, and you’re sitting there just talking about...work. I’m talking about, capital “A”, art and you’re talking about slingin’ cellphone plans.
MEG: Whoa… Zoe, at this point, I just want you to stay afloat. To pay your mortgage.
ZOE: Meg, I know how this business works. If you keep putting me up for these agency gigs, no one’s every going to take me or my film seriously. I have to… (she searches for the phrase) ... burn my canoe.
MEG: Burn your canoe?

Zoe pours another shot. She swirls, sniffs then sips. For the first time she savors it. She raises the glass to Alex, at the end of the bar. He tips an invisible hat in her direction.

ZOE: I caught a really interesting documentary the other night. It was about two neighboring tribes of first nations people back in the late 1700’s. They lived across a lake from each other. They’d been at war for ages. It was fascinating because before the final conflict, one tribe’s warriors paddled across the lake to the opposite side and when they got there... they burned their canoes on the shore before going into battle.
MEG: Why would they burn their canoes?
ZOE: To eliminate any means of retreat. It’s genius if you think about it. They knew that if they were going to win the battle... win the war... they had to have no other option but to fight.
MEG: What are you saying?
ZOE: ...
MEG: ...
ZOE: If I know that I can just paddle my ass back to safety anytime there’s a hint of struggle, I’ll never finish my film. I have to burn my canoe. It’s time. The only path for me is forward.

Zoe stands.

ZOE: Meg, I love you. You are my best friend.

She savors the last of the whiskey then delicately sets down the empty glass.

ZOE: And, you’re fired.

She kisses Meg on the forehead and walks to the door.

MEG: Zoe?

Zoe opens the door and never looks back. She exits. Meg is stunned. Alone. She raises her hand to get Alex’s attention. Alex returns.

MEG: Mother, May I

BLACKOUT

©Anthony Ladesich

Women Together Women Alone

Art by Dee Washer

This collection of works in acrylic paint and mixed media continues an ongoing fascination that has colored years of Dee's work: how women come together, are drawn together, turn to each other, inversely regrouping in solitary individualness.

More of Dee's work can be seen in Vol. I of The Orphan·age available at Prospero's Bookstore in Kansas City or at her website.

The Milk Report

Aliciana Slagenweit

It’s 6:30 on a mid January morning, and I’m outside drinking coffee in a cami, skin
exposed to a winter that forgot its role, replying to emails about the milk report I was forced to submit yesterday.

Milk (noun): Basic necessity. Childhood staple. Symbol of care, nourishment, and the social contract. It says we do not let children go without.

Also, apparently, a luxury item.

The private equity firm that purchased my school can no longer afford milk from our distributor because the distributor and their dairy supplier were also recently purchased by private equity. Capital eating capital, a snake so busy consuming itself it forgot that children get thirsty.

Irony (noun): I do not think private equity understands this irony. Or perhaps they do, and have simply decided it is cheaper not to.

Instead, we are invited to innovate.

Innovation (noun): A word used when responsibility has been outsourced but optimism is still required.

All Heads of School are asked to brainstorm “side hustles.”

That phrase alone suggests a podcast mic and a Patagonia vest. One example suggested: renting out our classrooms at night or on the weekends. The money would not go directly to our school, but it would make our P&Ls look better.

P&L (noun): A document that tells you how healthy something looks while ignoring whether it is alive.

I reply, politely, with the kind of measured tone you learn after years of working with children and administrators and men who call themselves 'disruptors': So you’d like me to become a landlord on the weekends… for free?

What I mean is this: You’d like me to offer the spaces where children learn to read, regulate their emotions as Airbnb inventory? You’d like me to manage the additional wear and tear on materials already older than most of the executives making these decisions? You’d like me to explain to teachers why their classrooms smell different on Monday mornings? You’d like me to do all of this on my personal time all for the benefit your spreadsheet!?

I do not think private equity understands how this sounds.

Actually, I think they understand perfectly well and are simply fluent in a language where absurdity is normal and exploitation is framed as opportunity.

Side hustle (noun): a thing you are asked to do when someone else buys an asset they cannot pay for and convinces you to cover their cost with your labor.

Hell (noun): a photo of right here right now sitting beside this dictionary entry.

Still, the morning is quiet. The coffee is doing its job. I am too preoccupied with milk to hold the full weight of a warming planet, so I let myself enjoy it while it lasts, patiently waiting for private equity to restore free childcare when the men in suits finally clock that teachers with babies are producing milk for free…

We are in hell.

Anyway,
Aliciana