MAN in his early 20s wakes up in antiseptic hotel room resembling the erzatz environment at the end of “2001” that the aliens created as a reference frame for the poor unsuspecting astronaut they’re were about to turn into a space fetus.
The MAN is lying in bed in a business suit. Fully clothed, except for a lack of shoes and socks. The lights are on, but he’s out-out-out. Asleep.
He hears a faint hint of a young girl’s giggle.
Then he wakes up with a start.
Looks around.
MAN: (British accent) Hello?
MAN: (British accent) Hello?
No answer.
He gets up, starts padding around the hotel room.
MAN
Hello? Come out, come out, where ever you are.
Nothing.
He walks around, starting to wake up.
Enters oversized bathroom.
Looks at the mirror.
Sees his own reflection.
And a crazy-eyed 14-year-old girl on the other side.
MAN
Hi.
GIRL
Low. (she giggles)
MAN
OK, guys. I don’t wanna play.
GIRL
He doesn’t want to play.
MAN
Seriously.
GIRL
OK.
MAN studies mirror. His reflection is there. She’s there too. Fucking weird.
MAN
I’m here.
GIRL
You’re there.
MAN
My reflection is …But you’re …
He pushes out his right hand. His mirror image extends its left hand, reaching out to where she’s standing. The GIRL (in the mirror space) gets out of the way.
The MAN suspects this is a prank by his business colleagues.
MAN
Brilliant. (speaking to unseen audience) OK, Jack. You’ve had your fun, all right?
GIRL
Jack’s not here.
MAN
Right, right. How’s it done? Skullspace? Interpolated imagery? A happy little alkaloid in my tea? Or is this just – how do I put it – just a bloody dream?
GIRL
Merrily, merrily. Parity, parity. (giggles) Or parody.
MAN
Come again?
GIRL
Ssaggnikool eth hguorht m’I. Contrariwise. I’m through the lookingglass. You’re not.
MAN
Yeah, OK.
GIRL
I’m in the mirror, slowboy.
MAN
Don’t wanna play. I said that, right?
GIRL
Want. You don’t. Yes. You said. Self-representation of motive is often unreliable. Luidically speaking.
MAN
You’re out of your bleeding mind.
GIRL
We’re all mad here. (giggles – then extends gesturing hand through mirror to his side) Come on in.
MAN
Ah, what the hell.
He crawls up on the bathroom counter, goes through the mirror, comes over to her side.
It’s a perfectly normal hotel bathroom. Flopped.
He looks at the other side of the mirror.
At an empty bathroom.
MAN: Beautiful. OK. Now what?
GIRL: I’m sorry.
MAN: For what?
She coldcocks him with a vicious left hook.
MAN wakes up in the same motel room – though everything has been reversed as in a mirror.
He looks at the clock on the nightstand and notices it’s bass-ackward.
MAN
Beautiful.
He looks at the mirror over the bureau and sees the GIRL.
MAN
Hello love.
GIRL
Goodbye happiness. Les jeu sons faites.
MAN
No.
He gets up, tries the door. It won’t budge. He kicks the shit out of the door. No effect. Opens window. Cityscape outside.
MAN
Virtual, of course. Stupid question.
She giggles.
MAN
Here’s another one. Can I get out?
GIRL
Out is in.
MAN
Meaning “no.” I’m fucking stuck here. Here is … skullspace or realspace?
GIRL.
51°25' N, 33°32' E.
MAN
The latitude and longitude of …
GIRL
An abandoned missile silo.
MAN
Fully shielded?
She nods.
MAN
No one knows I’m …
GIRL
Mother doesn’t know.
MAN
Yes, of course.
GIRL
I’m sorry.
MAN
Let me out. Please?
GIRL
I’m really sorry.
MAN
“Rilly.” Vally girl lingo. SoCal, right? Or you loaded it? You never know these days. Real, or not.
GIRL
I’m really sorry.
MAN
What is this, some kind of sex thing?
GIRL
No.
MAN
Christ. It’s not –
GIRL
Torture, from Latin root, tortu, to twist. No, it’s not like those cruelfun vids, no. Sorry! Bad girl implying don’t-hurt-me cowardly badness is you. Fear is a natural response. Badness is me. Yeah, rilly. His heart is beating too fast, tell him? OK. I’m not going to –
MAN
Hurt me physically.
GIRL giggles and claps her hands. Then realizes her faux pas.
GIRL
I’m sorry.
MAN
Stop saying that.
GIRL
I can’t stop. Sorry.
MAN
You’re mad.
GIRL
As a hatter. “Hatta.” Character in “Alice in Wonderland,” victim of methyl mercury poisoning resulting. Not I. Victim of self? Yes. I’m a human 5.0 you know. You know what that means?
MAN
Five times smarter than the average Joe from the stupid ages.
GIRL claps, then stops, noticing the look on his face.
GIRL
But?
MAN
But … unstable.
GIRL
Side effects include disassociation, obsessive ideation, blahblah. It’s bad for you. Bad, bad, bad. That’s why it’s against the law. I know.
MAN
You know a lot of things.
GIRL
I know what you’re thinking.
MAN
No you don’t.
GIRL
I’m a “brainjane.” It’s a very insulting term.
MAN
I didn’t say it.
GIRL
I wouldn’t.
MAN
Please let me out.
GIRL
No. Sorry! Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry! Bad girl. Bad. But. No.
MAN
Why am I here?
GIRL
Here, you’re an ear. Here.
MAN
Clear as mud.
GIRL
Midas had ass’s ears.
MAN
Did he now?
GIRL
Greek mythology. Midas, the king with the golden touch.
MAN
I thought that was Goldfinger.
GIRL
I hate musicians.
MAN
You hate …?
GIRL
Behind the muzak, OK? The story they don’t tell you.
MAN
I’m all ears.
She laughs raucously
GIRL
OK, OK. It’s like? Pan was satyr but wiser, ha. You know? The goat-god guy with the pipes. Pan challenged Apollo.
MAN
Mr. Wisegod with the lyre.
GIRL
Right. So, anyway. Pan challenged Apollo to a contest. Battle of the bands! Pan plays the pipes but maybe Apollo’s the better lyre.
MAN
Ha-ha.
GIRL
Pan played. Apollo played. Midas was the judge. One of many.
MAN
A minority opinion.
GIRL
You loaded the story.
MAN
Mum read it to me.
GIRL
What’d she …
MAN
Knowing what was good for them, the other judges put their lot in for Apollo. Good King Midas sided with Pan. And Apollo, despite his reputation for rationality, rewarded him with donkey’s ears. He tried to hide it with a hat. (smiling) But only your barber knows for sure, right?
GIRL
The barber knew.
MAN
The barber knew. (pause – starting to get it) What do you know?
GIRL
The barber dug a hole in the ground. He whispered the story.
MAN
I know, I know.
GIRL
The hole filled in. The grasses grew. And then they spoke. ‘Midas has asss ears. Midas has ass’s ears.’ The grasses told on Midas.
MAN
To the wind. I know.
GIRL
The wind whispered and whispered it.
MAN
(more and more apprehensive)
I know. What a quaint little story. The talking wind.
GIRL
Very much like the u-bi-quitous newzysphere of today. Dontcha think?
MAN
You know … I really don’t want to think about it.
GIRL
The wind told everybody. Everybody knew.
MAN
What do you know?
GIRL
I’m sorry.
MAN
Jesus Christ.
He figures it out. She sees that he has. In her weird, detached way of speaking, she refers to him in the second person.
GIRL
He figures it out. Down here – pfft – I can say anything. Up there? I can talk to a hole in the ground. If I think it? If it’s in my body language? The wind will whisper and whisper and whisper. Everyone will know. Mother will know. Pfft. I won’t be anymore. Tabula rasa. Wiped. I’m sorry.
She’s crying. He sees her in the mirror, her eyes welling up with tears. He knows where the tears come from. Guilt at what she’s going to do to him. What she has to do to him—namely tell him something that’s going to destroy him.
Yet he’s curious.
MAN
What – no. I don’t want to know.
GIRL
(crying)
I have to tell somebody.
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