[and this] Christopher Olszewski

CHRISO a scene [The stage is empty except for a large washer and dryer set down-center. Both are covered in beer bottles.] [Professor Barry Freedland's nerves are a mess. Earlier in the day he had been put off when, having instead to stand by while his students yelled at imaginary children and tortured themselves, Chris, who was supposed to be keeping him company was out cavorting with another member of the art department. Now he stands, well-dressed, in front of a small crowd of twenty or so. He tries to speak, but all that comes out are small, red hearts, dripping in his lunch.] Barry: Excuse me. [clears throat] I'm pleased to introduce my friend Chris Olszewski. [Barry wipes his mouth and shakes the traces of his gushing from his good shoes.] [A low rumbling begins to separate itself from the din of the auditorium. The sound seems to come from above and grows steadily louder. Suddenly, as the noise peaks, a forest green Jeep Grande Cherokee explodes down through the ceiling, crashes nose-first onto the stage, falls forward, and lies upside down, the wheels still spinning and white smoke pouring out of the radiator. After several minutes a body begins to struggle from the wreckage. It is artist Chris Olszewski. While he untangles himself we see that he is dressed casually in a giant ceramic shell and a pair of jeans. He is covered in blood.] Chris: [unfazed and yelling] Hey fuckers! Let's get something straight right now! Art is about three things: money, weed and tomahawks. Money first because if you don't have the money you can't buy the weed and if you don't have money or weed, you don't have anything to protect with a fuckin' tomahawk. [pause, pacing around] Now I'm sure you all can find some weed on your own. You don't need me for that. And you might think that because I'm a Native American that I've got loads a' tomahawks just lying around. Well, lemme tell ya, if you come over to my house, you're going to find diet Pepsi in my fridge and my wife yelling at me to make some money- so I'm here to talk about money. [A student in the audience raises his hand.] Chris: Yeah, go ahead chief. Student: [standing] Could you use a gun? Chris: What? Student: Could you use a gun to protect your shit? [sits] Chris: Listen buddy, you can do whatever the fuck you want, okay? Alright... Do you think we can just hold all the goddamn questions? Could we try that shit? I'm trying to tell you how to make some money and you're already worried about how you're going to spend it. [short pause] Hey! Tonto! [points at the same student] Yeah. Stand back up. [At this point a fist, bleeding, punches through the center of Chris's eggshell chest, opens and whips a Chinese thrown star at the student.] Chris: Try to catch this. [Just as the words leave his mouth the star flies through the student's hand severing it at the wrist. The student screams as he is covered in a gyser of blood. He remains standing.] Chris: Calm down. Just look at your hand. [The student glances apprehensively at his nub only to find the hand returned and in a tight fist. The blood has disappeared.] Chris: Alright, Sitting Bull, go ahead, open it up. [The student opens his clenched hand to reveal a fresh, twenty-dollar bill. He sits with a look of astonishment on his face.] Chris: Lesson number one: stars are actually money. You just have to work 'em hard enough. So get yourself some stars. [pause] Thing is... stars don't come easy, and twenty bucks doesn't buy a whole lot of weed when there's bills to pay. So you gotta do other things... [Chris makes his way over to the washer and dryer, takes a beer bottle and shatters it on the side of the washer.] Chris:...patriotic things. [He bangs on the top of the dryer with his fist still holding the broken bottle neck.] Chris: Lookaat! [He whips the door of the dryer open and out rush a stampede of Great Plains buffalo with toothpicks for legs. Chris stabs one of the smaller ones with the broken bottle, removing a plug of meat and fur. The other buffalo continue to run aimlessly around the auditorium.] Chris: Ya see this shit? This is what artists call material, Jack. Now when a canvas and a hunk of wild meat like this get together, God willing, with a few drinks in 'em and some soft music, they make what's called a painting. And you can sell a painting. [pause] For money. [pause] For weed. [pause]Ya see where I'm going with this? [A student in the audience raises her hand.] Chris: [squeezing his brow] Yeah, Interrupts-My-Shit, what's you're question? Student: Yes. Hi there. I was just wondering. What if that painting doesn't sell? Chris: Well, God forbid! You know what you do when that happens? [mocking] In a big emergency? Show the slides! [The lights drop and Barry flips on a projector. Shown on the back wall of the stage is a slide of a small brick house.] Chris: Next. [The second shows Chris approaching the house. He is dressed in tweed suit pants and a jacket that barely covers the eggshell.] Chris: Yup. [In the next he can be see holding up a pink slip of paper. The next shows what looks like an argument between Chris and the homeowner.] Chris: Yeah. Yeah. Past this. Just keep going. [The slides advance showing quick glimpses of mild violence.] Chris: Stop here. [The slide shows Chris leaning forward his arms spanning the the doorway of the house, looking out, while in the foreground is piled with children's toys, heaps of clothes, boxes overflowing, lamps, a mattress.] Chris: Oh, one more I think. [The final slide shows Chris standing the the foreground, his arms crossed and smiling. Behind him, in white paint above the door reads: # 287 For Sale by Not Guilty.] Chris: Detroit real estate is what happens. Any questions? No? Well, remember liberty kids. Liberty. Audience members: ¡Olé!