A Voice Like Rats' Feet

The seats fill, socially distanced.

Everyone has been given half a peach.

T S Eliot has gone behind a curtain, and emerged wearing Arthur's black cloak.

Terence and Baby Pierre have remained by the gate, with the empty peach box, and Arthur.

They can only see the stage sideways.

Can we have a seat? asks Terence.

If you're quiet, says Arthur. You can sit at the back.

Terence and Baby Pierre sneak to the back row and climb onto a chair. There's room for both of them.

Baby Pierre's headband (minus one light bulb) is flashing.

Turn it off, says Terence.

It doesn't turn off, says Baby Pierre. And what does it matter? We're at the back.

I can see it, says Terence.

Get used to it, says Baby Pierre.

T S Eliot waits for perfect silence.

Perfect silence, except for loud music and hilarious laughter from other shows nearby. 

We are the hollow men, leaning together, says T S Eliot, in a voice like rats' feet over broken glass in the cellar.

You left out some words, shouts someone in the front row.

T S Eliot holds one hand up, and speaks in his own voice.

Between the idea and the reality, falls the Shadow.

Yes, shut up, says the person to one side of the person who called out. It's not interactive.

Everything's interactive, says the first person. 

Are you the person who asked if you were supposed to eat the half peach? asks T S Eliot.

Yes, says the first person. And you didn't answer.

Show of hands, says T S Eliot. Who ate their half peach?

Several audience members put their hand up.

Brave people, that would eat a peach with no known provenance in these times of uncertainty, says T S Eliot. Come and join me on stage.

The first person stands up.

You did not put your hand up, says T S Eliot.

But I took a bite, says the first person. And something buzzed out of it, so I ditched it.

I hope it wasn't a fruit fly, says one of the others who stood up.

Now falls the Shadow, says T S Eliot.

Ha ha! laughs someone who didn't eat their half peach and is feeling relieved and self righteous.

You laugh, says T S Eliot. Why?

I recognise the quote, says the person who laughed, looking sheepish.

Do you know any more of it? asks T S Eliot.

Between the something and the something, says the laugher. Not really.

Between the desire and the spasm, says someone else, who has read T S Eliot's complete works, including his cat poems.

Everyone giggles.

What's a spasm? whispers Terence.

Like when you really want something, whispers Baby Pierre. So bad that you're busting. And you go spaz. 

Now Terence gets it. He often goes spaz.