Howl (14 page)

The Good Place: A Play in One Act

[Roy Blount Jr.]

The stage is all green. Here and there, above, is a puffy white cloud. Soft, pleasant music plays. A man in a dark suit, MICHAEL, is lying flat on his back at center stage. He begins to stir, then sits up suddenly.

M
ICHAEL

Where am I? All I remember is—oh!

(wincing, noticing a lily in his hand)

But where…? Hey!

A mixed-breed, self-possessed dog,
SASHA,
enters, and starts licking his face.

Michael, delighted, pets Sasha.

M
ICHAEL

Hey, there, fella. Nice dog! Can this be…? It must be! I’m in heaven!

And there’s dogs!

S
ASHA

(stops licking)

Welcome.

M
ICHAEL

(jumping to his feet)

Talking
dogs!

S
ASHA

Yes, you and I can converse. But only during Orientation.

M
ICHAEL

“Converse.” I love it—and it makes sense, you know? Because maybe I wasn’t so good to people all the time—but that was mostly Wilson, my partner, who did the rough stuff…. But I was always nice to dogs.

S
ASHA

That’s why you’re here, Mike.

M
ICHAEL

I knew it! I always thought, there’s something in a dog’s eyes…if a person truly honors the eyes of a dog…You know my name, huh? Wow. But Michael. It’s Michael.

He looks around, blissfully.

I always wanted to talk to dogs. Tell me, what’s it like? Being, you know, a dog.

S
ASHA

Here, it’s cool. On earth, some complaints.

M
ICHAEL

Tell me about it. The things I had to do, to make a living! I guess I must’ve never seriously hurt anybody, though, all that much. Wilson, okay, Wilson was a thug. I would tell him, Wilson, you’ve got to clean up your act, that stuff you pull reflects on both of us—and sure enough, he got whacked. Me, though—well, I did too, get whacked, true, but…Hey, I just realized…

S
ASHA

For instance, when people go out, and leave us all day in little apartments—just take us out briefly “for a walk,” so we won’t soil their floors. On a leash, so we can be pulled away from checking out the smells. The SMELLS. That’s the sweetest part of outdoors, the smells. Duh. A walk to a person is a straight line, toward—who knows what? Not toward smells, that’s for sure.

M
ICHAEL

…I don’t have to worry about what I did anymore. I made it to the good place!

S
ASHA

Smells, people jerk us away from. Food, people linger over. If you could watch people eat through the eyes of a dog—it’s disgusting, all that slowwww chewing. People know we’re watching! People know we’re salivating! But they just draagggg it out, and talk, and nibble, and fiddle with…what are those things, spoons and things. But when people leave something lying around that
cries out
to be chewed on, and so, of course, we chew on it, we get yelled at. Shoes. How can people walk around in shoes, and not want to eat them?

M
ICHAEL

(looking around, not really listening)

Wow.

S
ASHA

And throwing a stick, like,
twice
? A dog can fetch a stick forever. And people want to throw it
twice
? Mike! Are you listening?

M
ICHAEL

Hmm? Oh, yeah. I guess people have more time up here, huh?

S
ASHA

They have forever.

M
ICHAEL

So I was essentially a good person. This is all just so…

S
ASHA

It takes some getting used to. People have to get over their earthly selves.

M
ICHAEL

(chuckling)

Oh, is that so? So tell me about yourself—what breed are you?

S
ASHA

I’ll answer that with a question. What breed are you?

M
ICHAEL

Oh…Scots-Irish on my father’s side, mostly, except his grandmother was of Dutch extraction. On my mother’s—

S
ASHA

You could say I’m a Cockapoogle-Labmation.

M
ICHAEL

That’s some mix.

S
ASHA

Inbreeding is no dog’s idea, Mike. My last puppies were with a Boston-spitzihuahua.

M
ICHAEL

Puppies? It’s Michael, by the way. Puppies. There’s, uh, sex in heaven?

S
ASHA

You’d prefer to play the harp?

M
ICHAEL

Sex in heaven! Hot dog! Sorry. You know, you remind me of a dog I had when I was a kid. I think I’ll call you—

S
ASHA

Sasha. My name is Sasha.

M
ICHAEL

Sorry, I wasn’t thinking. I’m not used to talking dogs.

S
ASHA

That’s why we have Orientation.

M
ICHAEL

(petting her on the back)

Which is really cute, by the way, for a dog—for you, I mean, to be my Orientater. But I was thinking, like speaking of sex. For instance. Or just generally meeting…people. Where do I go—

S
ASHA

Not there. The good place.

M
ICHAEL

(stops petting)

Excuse me?

S
ASHA

Base of each ear, and in between. More of a kneading action.

M
ICHAEL

Well lah-di-dah, Miss Sasha. Base of the ears, it is.

He addresses himself to that area. And chuckles as he follows her instructions.

S
ASHA

Mmm. Little farther back. Now both hands, both ears. A little harder. Not that hard. There, that’s pretty good. We can work on that. Now, Mike, the belly, light rubbing.

She rolls over on her back.

M
ICHAEL

You got it. But, it’s Michael.

He rubs her belly.

M
ICHAEL

You haven’t been missing any meals, I see. What do you eat up here?

S
ASHA

Squirrel.

M
ICHAEL

Oh! Somehow, I didn’t think…

S
ASHA

You expected ambrosia?

M
ICHAEL

I don’t know, I just—it’s not exactly heaven for the squirrels, huh?

S
ASHA

What a ridiculous notion.

M
ICHAEL

I guess. Enough rubbing?

S
ASHA

No.

M
ICHAEL

(rubbing some more)

Oh, yeah, you like that, don’t you? So. Where do I go from here?

S
ASHA

(standing)

You’re free to roam. Don’t worry, I smell you wherever.

M
ICHAEL

(chuckling, looking around)

That’s okay for you, but—I don’t see any buildings. I don’t even see any trees.

S
ASHA

Trees? Trees
would
be heaven for squirrels. I smell one now! Squirrel! Squirrel!

Sasha takes off running, barking.

M
ICHAEL

Hey, come back! Sasha! You come back here! Doggone that dog. Hey, there’s somebody…

(waving his arms)

Helloooo! Brother!

He blinks, taken aback by what he sees approaching, which
we
see suddenly: a vicious man, dressed in rags, bursting onstage, thrusting his face into Michael’s and growling.

M
ICHAEL

Get back! What is this? Wait a minute!
Wilson?

W
ILSON

(slowly circling)

Grrrrrrr…

M
ICHAEL

You’re
here? What kind of heaven—

Wilson jumps on Michael and starts pummeling him and trying to steal his suit.

M
ICHAEL

Help! Get off!

Sasha runs up.

S
ASHA

Quit that fighting! Willy! Mike! I had to stop chasing that wonderfully pungent squirrel to come over here and deal with you two. What do you think we’re going to eat, if you interfere with my work? Shame on you.

Wilson stops pummeling. He and Michael pick themselves up—Wilson looking guilty, Michael dusting himself off, looking dumbfounded.

M
ICHAEL

Git!

Wilson gits.

M
ICHAEL

Be thankful
you’re
not a stray.

M
ICHAEL

Look here, Sasha, you can’t talk to me like that. Enough of this “conversing” with, I’m sorry, but after all: a dog. Take me to somebody who can explain…Wh-whuh…what…kind…uhf…. Whuhf.

S
ASHA

Orientation’s over, Mike—don’t let me catch you fighting with that Willy again. And get your throwing arm warmed up, there’s a good fella.

M
ICHAEL

(struggling to speak)

Whuh-uh—Wuff. Woof.
Woof?

S
ASHA

(softening, rubbing herself against his leg)

Come on, boy, stop oozing fear, it throws off the scent of—

She sniffs. Turns.

Another squirrel! I’ve got to run!

She runs off.

M
ICHEAL

Woof! Woof! Ah-oooooooooo.

Curtain

Untitled

[Gary Baseman]

This Dog’s Life

[J. P. Lacrampe]

W
E EXPRESSLY TOLD
Emily, “No.” “Absolutely not.” “We’re not mature enough.” “We’re too poor.” “Never home.” “Completely irresponsible.” “Barely able to care for ourselves.” “No way.”

The next day there he was—tiny and freckled and whimpering in a cardboard box in our clapboard kitchen, six weeks old: a beautiful Dalmatian puppy. A Nerf ball with eyes and a tail.

Seven of us—five boys and two girls—lived in largely self-imposed squalor in a five-bedroom house in Tempe, Arizona—the host-town of Arizona State University. The house itself was not bad: three large-size bedrooms and two smaller ones. In back, it had a screen-window solarium, the screens long since shredded from misuse. And a kidney-shaped swimming pool, which, during our short tenure, had turned an unfortunate and hesitating shade of lime-green. The place was trashed.

Individually, the seven of us may not have been slobs, but, as a collective, our house was an atrocity—an unkempt monument to filth. Weeks of grunge-caked dishes towered in Pisa-ian leans on our kitchen counter. Bags and boxes of fast food scuttled the floors. Half-empty beer bottles patrolled the furniture, unclaimed.

So, it wasn’t so much the
place,
as it was
us
—our gross negligence and irresponsibility. Our major concern with this being, that if we have trouble taking care of a large, stationary, and inanimate object, what sort of chance do we stand with a delicate and eclectically mobile puppy?

Collectively, of course, we caved. We caved the way anyone does when confronted by a soft ball of fluff and snivels—immediately and absolutely. We peered into that cardboard box, and our snarls of protest miraculously ceased. “Just
look
at him!” we said. “Isn’t he adorable?” A twenty-year-old’s version of “Oh, can’t we
pleeease
keep him?”

And suddenly—collectively—we were dog owners.

So, the seven residents of 2012 South Kachina congregated in referendum to name our newest and least bipedal member. From the corner store, elder Duncan purchased a 30-pack of Milwaukee’s Best—the beer to act as the group’s chief facilitator—and, with all of us huddled around the cardboard box, our meeting was called to order.

The suggestions immediately poured forth: “Benito?” No. “Hatchet?” No. “Charlie Rose [the TV was on]?” No. “Leftwich?” No. “Lothar?” No. “Lewis-Meriwether?” Ehn.

More beer; more suggestions: “Whatadog?” “Vache?” “Doctor T?” “Whistle?” “Her Majesty’s Secret Service?” “My Liege?” “Dexedrine [Terrence was ADHD]?” “Lord Nelson?” “Doglodyte?” “Yip-Yap?” “Worry?” “The Hydrant?” “Robot?” “
Ro
bot?”

And there he was—Robot.

Our
little Robot.

Sure, objections were voiced; words like “potty-trained” evoked in a cautionary, questioning manner. For it was unanimously decided that we’d enough shit in our house without any need for the more literal form. Cleanliness was already a hot-button issue for some (albeit, purely in its vocal form), and the addition of a puppy seemed a lot like trying to clean a dirty window with a dirtier rag—cute, but counterproductive.

Yet, one look at our puppy’s blazingly white-and-black-spotted coat and it was hard to imagine Robot as being anything
but
clean. He seemed immaculate. Radioactive, even. Plus, there were our impromptu housekeeping solutions: “We could train him to be some sort of canine-maid.” “Or teach him to chew a stick and push him around like a Swiffer.”

Our little cleaning Robot.

The fears of messiness were misplaced. And, in subsequent months, while the seven of us remained completely smitten with Robot—shamelessly parading him around ASU’s campus or at parties—it was becoming clear that
he
wanted out of the entire situation. As Robot outgrew his puppy-box, I think he became disillusioned over the fact that the cardboard-kennel he was to leave behind comprised the house’s cleanest spot. Our dog, it seemed, appreciated a different sort of lifestyle than the one he had been unluckily borne into. Robot, funny enough, liked clean carpet. And fresh smells. And the calm of quiet solitude. He was sort of like Jack Lemmon in a fancy fur coat—completely exasperated to be cohabitating with seven Walter Matthaus.

And so, our beloved Robot would barricade himself in Emily’s relatively clean and quiet room—exiting only for matters of food and business. It was largely a self-imposed exile that we all hoped would soon end. We all hoped that our little Robo would grow to accept us; grow to enjoy the pros
and
cons of commune-style living—the joys of not doing the dishes until Flag Day.

Robot had his own plans.

His first attempts at escape were primitive, simple. A door left ajar, a window slid open too far and Robot was
vamoose
in a black-speckled and furry flash—his tongue waving “Ciao” as he sprinted from the malt-sour smell and garbage-strewn linoleum of our house into the sweet, crisp air of Arizona’s winter.

And, suddenly, there we were: pouring onto the streets—on bike, in car, on skateboard—scanning the flower beds of neighbors’ lawns, screaming ourselves hoarse: “ROBOT?”

“Here, boy!” “
ROBOT,
come back!”

A fleet of half-drunk collegians in an ear-crunching search for robots.

“No, ma’am—
our
Robot.”

When Robot finally had the seven of us trained to shut tight our doors and windows, he began taking more ambitious measures—namely, revenge. And it should be noted that Robot’s appreciation for life’s finer things shined through even his vengeance. He ruthlessly—and exclusively—pursued our wallets, expensive leather shoes, orthodontic retainers, and once the green card of a Canadian friend. Our morale’s low point came when Terrence discovered a batch of “puppy truffles” meticulously arranged as his pillow’s centerpiece.

But Robot’s sabotage was largely a thing covert—sort of an underground resistance. In front of us, he remained his cute, lovable self—playfully launching himself about the room, howling in tune to Louis Armstrong records, and occasionally deigning to allow some casual petting. Beneath this friendly surface, however, our Robotty was systematically trying to tear apart the fabric of our lives as though it were an expensive leather couch—which, to his dismay, we did
not
have.

When we refused to buckle to his revenge tactics, Robot turned the broad breadth of his attention once again to escape. Tunneling in our backyard was an arduous process—the dusty desert soil flaking away piece by tiny piece. But Robot was a dog undeterred. A hard worker. And while we laughed in carefree whimsy from the shallow end of the pool, Robot was busy at the house’s flank, moving earth. Building his channels of escape, into the simmering Arizona spring.

Again, the serenity of the neighborhood would shatter under our shouts: “ROBOT?” “Where are you, ROBOT?” “ROBO, here, boy!” Our voices cracking with the promise that
this
time we’d do better.

“What in the hell are you kids looking for?” “Our dog.” “Well, what’s its name?” “Robot.” “
Ro
bot?” “Robot.”

Optimism forces me to search for the positive in this situation. We eventually located Robot’s tunnels—collapsed and filled them. But I’d like to think that we all found some measure of compromise in the last months of our senior year. Collectively, we were beginning to outgrow the romance of squalor—in no small way thanks to Robot’s integrity and spirit. Sometimes, in the moment, it’s tough to see who’s helping you and how. And it’s especially tough when, at that moment, you’re drinking beer poolside in Arizona’s endless summer.

Robot’s final—and successful—escape occurred just after graduation day. Emily’s mother generously assumed custody as the seven of us disbanded across the country. Robot happily traveled to Mrs. Lyons’s clean abode, stashed away in the silvery tranquillity of Longmont, Colorado; to a loving, quiet household with a serene and sweet-smelling garden. To a place you’d be crazy to run away from.

My only hope is that Robot (who now goes by Charlie Rose) misses me about half as much as I miss him. And that he forgives us all for being far more the puppy.

Ciao, friend.

[
Our dogs tugboat us home.—Dan Liebert
]