The Starving Artist and the Chimp (Part I)

Libretto for an Opera

OVERTURE

Chorus:

All of us are like the starving artist
All of us are like the chimpanzee
Both of them are slaves to humanity
All of us are slaves to humanity

ACT I

Talker, IAA, Ghost, Sheisty, Tapas, Francais are on stage. Each singer is at a desk, or in a cubicle, or at a table. Each singer is typing on a computer or a laptop before singing. The spotlight isolates each one as he or she is singing; the others are in darkness.

Talker:

I’ve started to write a story about
A starving artist and a chimpanzee
The artist has the idea that a chimp
Can help him escape from his poverty

How would my artist get the chimp?
Does he apply for a job at a zoo?
I’ve come to the Craigslist writing forum
For some suggestions on what I could do

IAA:

But what will happen when he gets the chimp?
I suggest they starve to death together
The chimp is a slave to humanity
And so is the artist – keep it short, though

Talker:

The chimp will make him rich but not for long
At the end there will be a disaster

IAA:

I think my version is better than yours
If you don’t write it then maybe I will
After all, there’s been more than one story
Written about a lady and her dog

Talker:

Please don’t think I don’t like your suggestion
I’m asking how the artist gets the chimp
I already have my story’s ending
I need some literary Tabasco

IAA:

The reader wants the chimp to go apeshit
Narrative tension requires tragedy
I did not mean to sound so defensive

VainlyJane:

Apeshit! Funny stuff! LMFAO!

Talker:

You’re right about adding the tragedy
A car hits the chimp, a cop could shoot him
We think that the chimp has met his demise
Then the audience gets a big surprise!

Sheisty:

I like IAA’s suggestions a lot
It would be ‘La Boheme’ meets Marx Brothers

Talker:

Comedy all the way, with feelings too
The chimp, a slave to humanity, yes
But this chimp is a slave up to a point
I can’t wait for the chimp revolution!

Tapas:

When I was a girl a chimp bit my friend
When she stuck her finger in Bobo’s cage
The authorities then took him away
Could your artist get his chimp in that way?

Talker:

What would you think of my starving artist
Kidnapping the chimp from a movie set
Where he just got a job as a painter?

Tapas:

I thought my friend was a complete moron.

Ghost:

The artist could be for animal rights
And break into a lab to free the chimps

Talker:

Yes! That is the answer to my question
That is how my artist will get the chimp!

Ghost:

I once had a chimp I taught to throw darts
I pasted the stock pages on a wall
Then bought shares in the companies she hit
And that is how I made my first million

VainlyJane:

Could the starving artist have a dead squirrel
And believe it is a live chimpanzee?
They could perform together for spare change
On a street corner … that would rock so hard!

Talker:

I’m not understanding how a dead squirrel
Could be passed off as a live chimpanzee

Ghost:

It has become cliché to use dead squirrels
To serve any literary purpose

VainlyJane:

Sorry, sorry, what a stupid mistake
I am an idiot! Sorry, sorry!

Ghost:

There is no need for self-flagellation
Just pick yourself up and write something new

MumbleMumble:

Dead squirrel as live chimp, I love the idea
Dead squirrel as live chimp, what a great idea

Sheisty
(Aria)

There was an old man, alone and so sad
In the apartment next door to my dad
When he was still in Pentagon City
The old man died and it wasn’t pretty

He had no family and he had no friends
No one knew that he had come to his end
His body was in a state of decay
The smell was the thing that gave it away

And his cockatoo, emitting loud shrieks
Trying to waken the man from his sleep
So building management opened the door
And found that the man was living no more



Your artist’s neighbor could be found deceased
And his chimp would scream, and his chimp would wail
The starving artist could befriend the beast
And that would be the first part of your tale

He had no family and he had no friends
No one knew that he had come to his end
His body was in a state of decay
The smell was the thing that gave it away

And his chimpanzee, emitting loud shrieks
Trying to waken the man from his sleep
So building management opened the door
And found that the man was living no more

That is how you can begin your story
The starving artist and the chimpanzee
Both of them are slaves to humanity
All of us are slaves to humanity

Both of them are slaves to humanity
All of us are slaves to humanity

In the beginning the starving artist
Is having some trouble paying his rent
He has an argument with his landlord
On other things his money has been spent

The next day the landlord comes to his end
Then the artist adopts the landlord’s chimp
The two of them struggle to survive
The chimp learns to paint to keep them alive

They become two successful performers
First, on street corners, soon they are famous
The chimp then begins to feel he’s been used
He rebels, he won’t paint, it’s outrageous

The chimp will rise up against the artist
There will be chaos, there will be chaos

Both of them are slaves to humanity
All of us are slaves to humanity

MumbleMumble:

I want to argue in favor of Jane
I do not think what she said was insane …
Let us suppose it’s not a dead squirrel
Let’s give the concept another whirl

It’s just a stuffed chimp, the chimp’s just a toy
He believes it’s alive, wait that’s not it:
He makes other people think it’s alive
And he paints with it – A toy chimp “puppet”

So have your artist get his chimp
By stealing it from Toys R Us.

Talker:

But the story is about a chimp who can paint
I don’t want to say your idea is not good
Is there a way a stuffed toy can paint?
If you can tell me how that would work …

MumbleMumble:

It’s just that now I’ve hit upon something
A story about a stuffed chimpanzee
And the artist, who begins to pretend
The mechanized toy chimp can write, you see

The chimp creates “automatic” texts,
Like Yeats and his wife with their Ouija board
The chimp makes a name as a prophet
The artist opens a psychic hotline

Then a cult forms to preach the chimp’s teachings
The artist starts making some real cash … for a while

Talker:

Everyone has been so helpful
I like all these ideas so much
I wish we could get together
We’d skip out on work for one day,
And have a big party instead
I’ve had such a great time with you all
Ah, but I fantasize …

I will let you all know when I’m finished
My book is based upon a true story
Of an artist I saw once, on a street corner
Holding the paintbrush was his chimpanzee

I thought of those paintings by elephants
And how people buy them for thousands of dollars
Will this chimp be famous? I said to myself
But the chimp did not look happy at all

He was slapping the brush against the easel so hard
I thought the painting was going to fall
Also the chimp had an ‘I’m-going-mad’-look
And a really cold stare coming out of his eyes

This was a chimp who needs some time off
This is one angry chimp, I said to myself
And one day he’ll say: enough is enough
There will be chaos, there will be chaos

Paste:

And now I have a news flash: “This Just In:”
A homeless man was helping Mayor Dodson
With baby-sitting for his chimpanzee
And the mayor’s housekeeper was not happy

“A good-for-nothing bum, if you ask me”
Mrs. Stape declared in a smug-toned voice
Mr. Pimpletone had the same view point
“We don’t want him here, if we have a choice”

But Tina TwoBottom was interested
She’s the one starring in “Back That Thing Up”
“Homeless guys are hot, this one I would date
If he’d take a bath, he’d drink from my cup”

The mayor’s opposition went for his throat
They called it a ploy for sympathy votes
Because their man was leading in the polls
They said the artist was just playing a role

Talker:

I have read your news flash inspiration
Not what I’m looking for but thanks the same

TripleDash

The starving artist finds a job
As a caretaker for a chimp
Owned by a mega-rich rock star
The artist runs away with the chimp
With the rock star in hot pursuit

Talker

I like that idea, that’s a great idea!

Chorus:

He likes that idea, that’s a great idea!
That’s a great idea, he likes that idea!

VainlyJane:

The chimp is in an apartment
The artist climbs the fire escape
They become friends through the window
He teaches the chimp to break free

Talker:

I do think that could work:
In a starved state of mind
The unshaven artist
Limps along a sidewalk
Then he smells sweet apples
Gazing upward he sees
An apple pie cooling
In a row-house window
“I think that pie’s for me!”
That’s what he tells himself
When he reaches for it
Whoa! A chimp grabs his wrist
“Woo-ha-ha-woo-ha-ha”
The chimp begins screaming
“Just let me go, I’ll go!
“Let go of me, you boob!”
He begs the chimpanzee
A woman’s voice replies:

Tapas:

“He’s not a boob, you know,
He’s my pet chimpanzee
And you, you’re just a thief
I will call the police!”

Talker:

He implores her not to
“Please don’t do that miss!
Please just let me explain!”
You can see where this goes
The artist gets his chimp
And he falls in love, too

IAA:

Let’s all write stories of artists and chimps

/IAA:
|
|Artists and chimps in all of our stories
|
|Francais:
\We’ll all write stories of artists and chimps

/IAA:
|
|Both of them are slaves to humanity
|
|Francais:
|
|Chimps and artists in all of our stories
|
|Tapas:
\Let’s all write stories of chimps and artists

/IAA:
|
|All of us are slaves to humanity
|
|Francais:
|
|Both of them are slaves to humanity
|
|Tapas:
|
|Artists and chimps in all of our stories
|
|Sheisty:
|
\Let’s all write stories of artists and chimps

/IAA:
|
|All of us are slaves to humanity
|
|All others:
|
\We’ll all write stories, we’ll all write stories

/Tapas:
|
|About the starving artist and the chimp
|
|All others:
|
\We’ll all write stories, we’ll all write stories

IAA:

I had tickets for Terry Gross last night
I couldn’t go so I gave them away
But I heard it was a pretty good show

Sheisty:

I think I’ll post my story on Monday

/IAA:
|
|All of us are slaves to humanity
|
|All others:
|
\We’ll all write stories, we’ll all write stories

The Bishop Moves Diagonally

What happened to you, that boy whose sister
Gave him a chess set when he was six
Born in America, during the Holocaust
What a strange game you would play, Bobby Fischer

Your mother was Jewish, her husband Hans, German
He was suspected of Communist sympathies
He could not come here so you never knew him
Your real father was a Hungarian Jew, Paul

When you learned the bishop moves diagonally
You said: “All I want to do, ever, is play chess.”
New York in the fifties, what an amazing place
Boom times and beatniks, a world of possibilities

Mom left you alone with your sister in Brooklyn
And moved to England, across the Atlantic
While you were playing your pawns and rooks
Did you feel that she had abandoned you?

Soon you were named the world’s youngest grand master
The shiniest star in your strange galaxy
To its formulas and strategies you would bring
Your burning talent and something beyond

A Jewish agency arranged my adoption
Just a few miles away from where you were
Spending your days perfecting your play
And learning to see things that others could not

You were losing a game to Robert Byrne
But with a few moves you made a comeback
For a checkmate so stunning that they said
You were like Rembrandt, or Brahms, or Shakespeare

We moved to L.A. and my dad’s friend Maurice
Came from New York and gave me a chess set
And showed me that the bishop moves diagonally
I taught my dad and we’d play together

You lost to the Soviets, your game went badly
Even so, you accused them of cheating
And dropped out of championships for five years
Until the rules were changed to your liking

My dad and mom took me to San Diego
We crossed the border to shop in Tijuana
We bought a cheap steel-stringed guitar
And a big, beautiful wooden chess set

Soviet missiles were aimed at my neighborhood
Targeting Lockheed, Rocketdyne and Hughes
We kept hearing we could die any day
And we believed it because it was true

One morning in ’71 the earthquake hit
Shaking so hard that our pool splashed half empty
For a few seconds I thought the bombs had all fallen
And it was the end of everyone and everything

Later that year my dad bought me tickets
To see Led Zeppelin at the Forum in Inglewood
So I heard the song, “Stairway to Heaven”
The first time the band ever played it in public

The concert opened with “Immigrant Song”
A driving guitar riff and pounding drums
“We come from the land of the ice and snow”
Then “Dazed and Confused” with a violin bow



Soon you would take the role of our champion
Against the Soviets, like David faced Goliath
With no armor, naked, just a slingshot
You had no missiles, but would play Boris Spassky

An arena of rock fans would cheer Jimmy Page
When he played the guitar lines for “Whole Lotta Love”
While all around the world, not thousands but millions
Were rooting for you, Bobby, millions and millions

So you went to the land of the ice and snow
You complained about noise, you were surly, impatient
But your game was so bold, so new and so strong
Even Spassky applauded one of your checkmates



That was about when I stopped seeing my friends
I was tired of them, they didn’t like me much either
I’d stay home Friday nights and set up the pieces
To play two or three quiet games with my dad

Spassky left before the tournament ended
No longer respectful, he phoned in his forfeit
And that’s when you became the world champion
The greatest player in the history of chess

You gave $61,000 to a Pasadena church
Jesus would come back in ’75, they said
But he didn’t so you walked out on them
You should have asked for your money back, Bobby

Three years after your triumph in Iceland
You were living alone in an acquaintance’s basement
They say she was your only friend in the world
A little old lady from Pasadena

One day the cops thought that you were burglar
You were arrested then you claimed they abused you
You wrote a 14-page pamphlet and called it
“I Was Tortured in the Pasadena Jailhouse”

I didn’t know you were there then, so close
Just a few miles from me down the freeway
I wouldn’t have visited you, though, Bobby
I had lost interest in you and your game

I don’t think my father ever really knew
How much I loved playing chess with him
Those Friday nights when I was fourteen and fifteen
Enjoying his quiet company, his kindness

You refused a challenge from Karpov
So they took away your title of champion
I was in college, working nights at a porn theater
I’d sit in the stairway, reading Mishima and Ibsen

I finished my studies in Paris and got a job there,
Kasparov beat Karpov in a weird tournament
They played the same game over and over!
You were invisible, a penniless hermit

In French, the king is le roi, the queen is la reine
But the bishop is not l’eveque. The bishop is
Le fou – the fool, or literally: crazy
Is that because the bishop moves diagonally?

I flew from France for my father’s funeral
It was my worst day, Dad, and not just because
We would never play chess again
I never thanked you for all you had done for me

I moved back to L.A. to take care of my mom
The Soviet Union was signed into oblivion
With the stroke of a pen that Gorbachev borrowed
From an American who was standing next to him

Slobo was doing his ethnic cleansing
I was visiting Paris and I was told
A Yugoslav friend went to look for his mom there
And to this day I don’t know if he found her.

You didn’t care, Bobby, you played there anyway
You beat Spassky again and won three million dollars
But you lost your country and was stripped of your passport
You placed the blame on a Jewish conspiracy

Then Kasparov faced the Big Blue computer
In a chess match designed to determine
If a computer could outmatch a champion
A machine cannot love and a machine cannot hate

You were drifting from country to country
They say you were in Germany and Hungary
Were you looking for the fathers you never knew,
The communist husband, the Jewish lover?

One winter morning I buried mom next to dad
The porn place I’d worked at turned into a theater
They staged “The Doll’s House” there one weekend
The dream was a world or the world was a dream?

Your mother and sister had died, Bobby Fischer
And you could not come home to tell them goodbye
But you would not sit quietly and play random chess
There was still something more that you needed to say

Arabs crashed planes into twin towers
Across the river from where you grew up
Just down the street from Washington Square
Where you were perfecting your game when you were young

How could you rejoice over the blood,
The severed limbs, people burning and falling?
They were not chess pieces, Bobby Fischer,
Not pawns, not knights. How could you think that?

Your words were brought to us across the Pacific
Manila radio let you describe your approval
As crowds crossed the bridge back to your old Brooklyn
Fleeing the chaos that delighted you so

Later, eight months in a Japanese jail
While the U.S. tried to bring you back to stand trial
But then you were granted refuge in Reykjavik
You went back to the land of the ice and snow

Into the mist you would fade, matching moves
With your wife – she was a chessmaster, too
Could you enjoy the midnight sun with her?
Or did you think it was another Jewish plot?

I went to New York six months after 9/11
And spent a spring morning at Ground Zero
The next day the woman in charge of adoption files
Had just left her office and I still haven’t called her

New York at a new century’s dawn
What an amazing place, a world of the wonderful
“The Graduate” on Broadway, the ballet at Lincoln Center
And the Darger exhibit at the Folk Art Museum

Five years later, Led Zeppelin played Wembley
A million people were bidding for tickets
To hear what I’d heard back in ’71
You were dying in the land of the ice and snow

Bobby Fischer, you could have stopped
And rebuilt all of your ruins
At the end, could you see the missing piece?
The bishop moves diagonally.

Dad, even if you were still alive
You might be too old for chess
Still, I wish we could have kept playing
Those Friday night games forever