Ludus Scholae Delendus Est
Most schools produce nice, safe, performances —”How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying”, “Big”, and “Annie” – you know those performances where you get a nice song, a dance, heart-warming characters, and a nice ending where you come out smiling.
Vivienne Francis was not like that at all. In fact, she lived and breathed the theatre; the type of high school girl that viewed Sartre’s “No Exit” as a light performance (Hell, for her, was not other people, but a poor and predictable storyline). And in this vein, after the brilliant performance – an earth shattering, seismic performance of Vivienne’s own play “The Fall of Carthage”, one of those moments unknown to the world, but shared among the lives of mere high school students- that Vivienne held a post-performance slaughter at Ricky’s Diner, a watering hole for the young with ten mozzarella sticks for five dollars, and overflowing, never-ending soda.
“Die, you Carthaginian scum!” Tony yelled drowning a French fry in ketchup. The ketchup hit the table, as though the fry, like a dagger, had truly stabbed the mortal Carthaginian enemy before him.
“En garde!” his opponent, Sal, yelled back, sticking his mozzarella stick into his marinara sauce. “Just because you disemboweled me on stage doesn’t mean you’ll kill me for real, you Roman bastard,”
“First one to get a strike loses!” Tony responded.
The two nodded, leapt onto the floor, got into the stances they learned in their fencing class, and began to duel. Tony was flailing his arms, Sal dodged the attacks, and the battle went unabated as the other students laughed in merriment, soda overflowing.
Becky, being the odd one out drinking coffee, rubbed her temples, looking decades older than she had an hour earlier. She sipped it with love, as she looked at her friend, Karen, across the other seat.
“Why aren’t you talking, Becky?” Karen said laughing, “Frog in your throat…”
Becky struggled to speak, coming out hoarse.
“What was that?” Karen said, cuffing her ears, “Can’t hear you!”
Becky smirked, annoyed but amused, at Karen’s brazen attitude. “I had to play ‘The Old Man’ and speak Phoenician,” Becky said. Vivienne, the queen of the night – literally and figuratively – sat amongst her friends.
“Greek,” Vivienne corrected from the head of the table. Her voice was calm, still carrying the authority of the stage.
“Whatever!” Becky said, continuing her coffee, “I have no idea what I said, except it sounded garbled…”
Another student came up. “Vivienne?” he asked.
“Yes?” Vivienne responded.
“I know you were the writer and director, but did that Roman really have to pull out my bubblegum intestines right after my entire monologue? I finally got the lines correct, and she just came in, yanked my shirt, and the Bubble Yum was everywhere.”
“It was supposed to be pathos,” Vivienne smirked, “It was so beautiful seeing it from the audience in rehearsals. Did you hear the audience gasp?”
“It’s up!” a student cried. “Our play is up!”
A phone appeared.
It was live…
The Play
The lights rose…a set of the Roman Senate appeared. Students dressed in white togas circled a lone Roman senator. His head looked up, he stuck his finger towards the audience declaring Carthage—the festering wound of the world—would no longer cast its shadow on the Roman Republic.
The scene changed.
A set of Carthage appeared. The “Roman soldiers” advanced with a battering ram – edged forward by the stage crew- then they pushed ahead, and a loud crash was heard, and the lights went out.
Intermission
“Skip ahead! Skip ahead!” cried a student
And the video was advanced.
The Play
The students began fighting again.
Fake blood.
Fake arms.
The Bubble Yum intestines…
Then came the centerpiece.
Vivienne stepped forward. She was Hasdrubal’s wife, the last Queen of Carthage, her face streaked with grime, her expression stripped of irony. She dragged two students, acting as her children toward the staged fires while the audience shifted, realizing too late what kind of play this was.
The actor playing Hasdrubal knelt before the actor playing Scipio.
Vivienne held out her arm, and with a booming voice, so contrary to her normally timid nature, shouted, screamed:
“Wretch! Traitor, most effeminate of men. This fire will entomb me and my children. Will you decorate a Roman triumph?” Vivienne trembled as she spoke, perfectly encapsulating the woman she was portraying.
And with a flash, the fake dagger came out, the actors playing her children were killed, and they threw themselves into the fake flames.
The room fell silent.
***
And like the audience in the auditorium who viewed it first-hand, the students, especially Vivienne stood there in awe of their accomplishment.
It was a week later when the review came out:
“While no one can deny The Fall of Carthage was ambitious, witnessing the fall does not require being physically present for it. Exposure to excessive neon blood resulted in the unfortunate necessity of replacing this reviewer’s dress. Five stars for Vivienne’s terrifying performance; zero stars for the dry-cleaning bill.”
