The curtains close significantly. The majestic deep red velvet of the wall of fabric towers like some proud revelation. From behind it, there is the sound of shoes, of hooves, of peg legs, of wheels, of skis, and the flapping of what can only be a pre-Wright Brothers self-propelled flight apparatus resembling a wood and wire pterodactyl. There is a cry from a flesh and blood pterodactyl. A choir of babies fails to sing Ave Maria, instead releasing a cacophony of gurgles and squeaks and early eighties hair metal classics. There is the sound of changing scenery: bulldozers and cranes and jackhammers. A deep monotone recites a monologue about maintaining your sex drive in lean economic conditions:
“Don’t let the lean economic conditions into your bedroom … your shag pad, your janitorial closet, your in law’s dining room … don’t mention hedge fund ROIs to your girlfriend … er, your partner … er, sex-accomplice … soot makes a wonderful lubricant …”
Jazz legend Diabetic Doug’s bloodcurdling tuba lets out a few belches. An alarm clock screams. There is no sound from a troupe of mimes miming life with ovarian cysts. Wolves howl at the moon. Explosions Morse Code Yeats. The tinkle of shattered glass falling to the ground relays the Shahaddah in binary. And a few last minute adjustments: the sound of sweeping brooms and the scurry of cockroach legs directing their glossy bodies to more commanding vantage points.
Intermission is over. The curtains slide open with an air of resentment.