Born In A Cage

PLAYWRIGHT’S NOTES

This story follows a year in the life of a family that could be any family, anywhere. Bill and Helen have two children, Claire and Mike and Claire is about to be married. Mike is in the last year of school and breeds budgies; the significance of the budgies lies in the parallel between their existence and Mike’s life.

Told in a series of monologues with a narrator setting each scene, the intent is to raise issues for discussion, but it does not attempt to answer questions or offer explanations.

Because this could be anybody’s story, character profiles have not been specifically set down but instead left for those reading the parts to define.

Bill: Father and a construction worker.

Helen: Mother and a housewife.

Claire: Sister and Mike’s confidant.

Sheila: Mike’s girlfriend.

Mike: The moody young man.

Ben: Mike’s school mate.

Narrator: Sets the scenes

The presentation of this story can be simple or as complex as creativity allows:

· Sitting in a circle and reading their parts.

· As if in some kind of therapy session.

· Told in between other activities, (Like a radio serial)

· Satellite scenes where the spotlight moves from one to the other (no narrator).

NARRATOR: It is January 26th. Bill sits astride a steel beam of a partially erected freeway, 50 metres above the city skyline. A breeze has dissipated the city smog and the view is far and wide. Bill tightens a bolt, admires the horizon then turns to his mate.

BILL: You know what we’re doing here ¾ we’re providing the means for the next generation to turn up the speed of its life a notch. Like my son Mike. I can’t keep up with him: always changing direction, like them budgies he breeds flitting from one side of the aviary to the other.

I had a budgie once, if only briefly—little blue one. I was four at the time but remember it like it was yesterday. It flew from the cage to the window, crashed into the curtain, and clung on. We called it Binkie. “Can it be mine? Can it be mine?” I nagged my mother until she said yes and set about teaching it to talk. “You’re my budgie now. Hello! Hello! Go on Binkie say hello!” Then my father appeared, wrapped his big fist around Binkie and took it back to its cage; but his big fist wouldn’t fit through the cage door and Binkie escaped and flew back to the curtain. I didn’t say anything, but I was glad.

We were living in an old terraced house and spent most of our time in the kitchen, even though the paint was peeling off the walls and when it rained the water seeped under the door. A large, black, cast iron fireplace dominated the room, and on bath night I'd sit in front of it in a tin bath which mum had to fill from pans she boiled in the fireplace. I didn’t like the tin bath.

In the corner on a shelf was a record player like big wooden box. I loved that record player and the one record I can remember. Every day I’d climb on a chair, flick the switch, stab the needle onto the record and sing my little four year old heart out. I love to go a wandering, along the mountain track, and as I go I love to sing - sing - sing. It needed a new needle! The needles came in a tin and looked just like brass nails. I’d undo a screw, pull out the blunt needle and replace it with a new, sharp one. And I always pricked my finger—because I always had to feel how sharp the needle was.

NARRATOR: It’s March 8th and Claire’s wedding day. Helen, Mike’s mum is in the loungeroom of her small, spotlessly clean house. She likes everything to be organised but Mike has gone missing. She walks to the window and looks out. There’s no sign of him and she begins to talk to the wedding car driver who sits patiently with black tea in a fine china cup.

HELEN: It’s all because I asked him to wear a suit. He’s not wearing no suit! he said. Why should he conform to some stupid old fashioned etiquette? I told him it wasn’t stupid, it was what you were supposed to do. Anyhow, I said, how would it look in the wedding photographs? He said it would look like we had conformed to something ridiculous just because that’s how it was always done. That it would demonstrate a total lack of individuality and we’d all look like cardboard cut outs. He’s too deep that boy.

He’ll turn up at the last minute and give me the sideways look, and the lazy smile. And his sister’s no help: said she wouldn’t care if he came in a boiler suit as long as he was there. I ask you. They’re as thick as thieves; talk to each other for hours on the telephone and then say they talked about nothing.

It’s amazing how different your kids are even at the baby stage. Mike came easy, twenty minutes, one big push and there he was; no fuss no pain ¾ well, as much as dropping something the size of a bowling ball can be pain free. Nine pounds seven ounces of bouncing baby boy. Claire was clawing at me for ten hours to get out, and been complaining about it ever since. She never slept and was always cranky, while Mike was content with a feed, a poo and a good suck of his thumb. He’s like his father, that boy.

He does this to me time and again. He’ll stroll in as if nothing matters, and it won’t make any difference what I say. The moody young man. I tell him his surly look is just what they look for in Hollywood movies. He’ll be eighteen soon.

NARRATOR: It’s the 25th April. As Claire sits painting her toe nails, the phone rings and she ignores it. It keeps on ringing. She sighs with frustration, snatches up the handpiece, rests it on her shoulder and continues painting her nails...

CLAIRE:

Hello.

Mike, it’s you!

I did not. I answered it straight away.

No, I wasn’t, and don’t be so vulgar.

He’s at work if it’s anything to do with you, and it’s my day off.

Yes married life suits me fine.

It was great. The beaches were absolutely fabulous; and the water was so warm and clear.

Yes, I came out of the bedroom sometimes and that’s an old joke. I did lots of things if you must know. ¾ I rode an elephant even. I’ve never been so scared in all my life. It was all right till I got on top of it and it started to walk, then I began thinking about it going mad or something; stampeding down the road with me clinging to its ears and its big trunk trying to rap itself around me and drag me off.

I know! I know! Well, you know what I’m like. What did you once call me, a dyslexic thinker? Do it and then think afterwards. If I wasn’t like that I’d never do anything, would I? It was awesome, once I got off.

How are things with you?

You’re not always angry. We have some good laughs you and me.

What do you mean we used to? Just because I’m married doesn’t mean things will change between us ¾ except that you’ll become an uncle one day.

NO! NO! Not now. I meant one day in the future, ¾ uncle Mike.

NARRATOR: It’s 11:05 at night, August 6th, platform seven. The orange lights of the empty station pale Sheila’s complexion as she climbs into the last carriage carrying a shoulder bag. The train hisses, the carriage doors bang shut and the train moves away. A feral looking youth at the end of the carriage is intimidating and the can of hair spray in the bottom of her bag takes on a new purpose. The youth slumps into his seat as he doses, and his dreadlocks swing in unison with the rocking of the train. She stares at him and thinks of Mike.

SHEILA: It took me ages to get the courage to speak to you. I thought you were a cute rebel. I think that’s what attracted me. I think that’s what most people like about you, Mike. When we did eventually speak it was easy. I think I went on a bit, but you were real casual and it was as if we belonged together. It was at that moment I fell in love with you. But I don’t think it was the same for you. That’s not you, is it? ¾ Sort of keep your feelings inside.

I remember special moments in our relationship. Milestones, I suppose. Things like, after I’d been seeing you about three weeks, we were coming out of school and you took hold of my hand, in front of everyone. It was like you were telling everyone I was your girlfriend. Sort of official I suppose. We walked home like that and I didn’t want that walk to ever end.

Then again down by the lake with my dog Hutch. Can you remember? We were throwing sticks into the water and he was fetching them back. Then we threw a brick and he went for that as well. But the brick was to heavy and my stupid dog wouldn’t let go. We waited and waited but Hutch didn’t come up and you had to dive in and save him. I was so relieved I hugged you. Then I couldn’t help myself, I put my lips to yours and it was our first kiss. I reckon we kept our lips together for ten minutes.

And then that evening when we went skinny dipping. I don’t know why I suggested it in the first place, and that’s when I realised just how shy you are. But we did it. I’ve never felt so scared, so embarrassed and so excited all at the same time. I still get those same feelings when I think about it.

NARRATOR: It’s five minutes to midnight at the other end of the track. Mike waits alone on the well lit platform of a small suburban railway station. It's cold, the air is clouded with a miserable mist and he feels sorry for himself. Shoving his hands into his jacket pockets and rounding his shoulders, he looks up at the surveillance camera. It stares back at him from its position high on the light pole.

MIKE: Who you looking at? You sinister, beady eyed monster. Waiting to dob me in if I graffiti me name on the wall, I’ll bet. I do a lovely Zak with a spray can! Wanna see it? No. You’re not the type to appreciate fine art, are you?

You don’t say much, you and your beady eye. I’m waiting for my Sheila if you must know. I wish I hadn’t shouted at her. I didn’t mean it. Yes I did, and I’m not sorry for meaning it; but I wish I’d kept my big mouth shut. Sometimes ¾ most times she gets me so angry. I reckon there should be a school subject in understanding women. They’d never be short of students, I know that much.

I wonder why we call ‘em Sheila’s. I’m all right ‘cause my Sheila’s called Sheila, if that’s any business of yours.

What sort of existence is that, hanging up there day and night staring at people? You’d call it a public service. I call it perving. You’re a pervert. I wonder how often you get a moon face? I do a lovely moon face, wanna see it? Should I drop me daks and... no, you’re too straight laced. You wouldn’t appreciate the fine art in it.

Just look at how that railway line goes to a point; a focal point on the horizon. That’s where she is, my Sheila, right there on that focal point. Maybe I should run the other way, along the track to the focal point on that horizon. We could be focal points apart. She makes me ache inside. I wonder if I could get tablets for it. They used to give soldiers tablets, in the war, to stop ‘em thinking about women. I read that in a book. I wonder if they’ve got any left.

NARRATOR: It’s late at night on November 11th. Ben sits alone in his bedroom. He fiddles with a pen-knife and begins to talk to his dog. It looks up at him with sad eyes.

BEN: My very first memory of Mike was when we were about three. He walked into this paddock and got lost. He couldn’t find his way out. He walked around and around in a circle, holding his baby rug against his face, crying and shouting for his dad. He was so small he couldn’t see over the long grass. But what I remember most is how tightly he wrapped his arms around his dad’s neck when he found him.

We had some good times with his dad. He taught us how to fix our bikes and we used to borrow his tools. He used to kick the footy with us and help us set up the tent when we wanted to sleep in the garden. I remember once we built a cubby and slept in that. In the middle of the night a gust of wind blew it over and we screamed. Mike’s dad came racing out in his jocks and his big beer belly bouncing. When we saw him we started to laugh and we couldn’t stop. At first his dad was angry but then he started to laugh too and helped us put up the tent. We slept in that for the rest of the night—his dad as well.

When we were ten Mike bought me this pen-knife for my birthday and his mum got a boyfriend and his dad had to move out. Mike took it hard.

At high school he started getting into trouble and we didn’t knock about like we used to. He never took drugs or anything like that. He reckoned that was stupid. He said it was the same with cigarettes. Once you stared you couldn’t stop and then you were under someone else’s control.

He was pretty good at his schoolwork; took his learning real serious and couldn’t understand why the teachers wouldn’t leave him alone. You see he didn’t like anyone telling him what to do and he’d argue with the teachers and deliberately not do what they told him. He got suspended just after his sister got married.

BEN: He was going with Sheila. She chased him for a long time before he took an interest in her. Then they knocked about for ages and she was the only one he seemed to care about. But they had a big argument and she dumped him, and he took that bad too.

A couple of weeks ago it was the school camp but he didn’t go, ‘cause he was suspended. It was funny… when we came back he was real happy. I guess, on his own, he must have really done some serious thinking about himself. We knocked about for the afternoon and he asked me about what we did. He laughed and it was like when we fixed our bikes and when the cubby fell down. It was just like when we were kids. It was cool.

Earlier tonight, I was coming home from a mate’s place and there were all these flashing lights and sirens at the railway station. I found out it was Mike. He’d laid on the train track and put a blanket over his face and… the train ran him over.

End.