The Voices Project 2015: Between Us

Australian Theatre for Young People

ATYP

• Publisher: Currency Press
• Year: 2015
• eBook ISBN: 9781925210392
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Drama
• Index: Literature

This is the 2015 instalment of the Voices Project-the overwhelmingly successful annual program of monologues developed by ATYP, written by young people, performed by young actors around the country, and seen by over a million people globally online. Featuring: The Baby Elephant Walk by Joel Burrows; Mahla Land by Tahlee Fereday; Two by Two by Sharni McDermott; Say, 'Yes' by Tom Mesker; Sure by Julia Patey; Leo and the Ant by Callan Purcell; Petrol Station by Kathleen Quéré; Night Shift by Caitlin Richardson; Jun/John by Disapol Savetsila; Accidents Happen by Fiona Spitzkowsky; Pink Hair by Amanda Yeo.

THE BABY ELEPHANT WALK

JOEL BURROWS

CALEB, a teenage boy, storms into his bedroom. He car-crashes his schoolbag onto the floor.

Fuck! Can they do anything right? The council is tearing it down, and it is absolute bullshit. They have got their giant cocking cranes and their small cunty dozers, and they’re just tearing it all down. They’re going to murder Fergus, the inflatable gorilla. They’re ripping down the miniature Harbour Bridge and replacing it all with a laundromat. A fucking laundromat! I can, literally, think of nothing more unpleasant. The only people having fun at laundromats are those old creepy dudes that offer to help out, just so they can touch your underwear. Is that what this council wants? To exchange family fun with cleaner pedophiles? Like seriously, what the fuck? What has happened to this town? I’m really sick of this council bullshit. I hate their show-pony ideas, and their stupid balding fat fucking faces, and I hate that when I talk about them, I sound exactly like my titty-littering bitch of a mum.

Beat. CALEB attempts to recompose himself.

And you know what is even more bullshit? Nobody gets that this is a big deal. Like yesterday, I get home from school, slam my lunch-box carcass onto the bench, and I just make a beeline straight towards the fridge. Me thinking that nobody’s home to hear me take some of cereal to my room, I project to my imaginary scribe:

CALEB changes his voice to become melodramatic, deeper and more like an upper-class gentleman.

‘Dear Councilmen, In relation to your recent decision to demolish the minigolf center: it’s a fucking travesty. Please consider another option or prepare to anal probe yourself. Sincerely, Caleb Anderson.’

CALEB reverts back to his normal voice.

But I wasn’t the only one home. Dad, my dad, was in the lounge room. You know, home from work early. And he looks up at me through a haze of paperwork. And I just stop cold. I stand in our hallway; I wait for him to say something. Because I’ve been a pretty shit person this week, like more than usual. He knows it; I know it. I’ve been a massive dick to Mum, like actively avoiding her, talking, eye contact, you name it. I’ve been haunting pleasant evenings with one-word answers and half-assed shrugs. And every time he’s asked me what is wrong, I’ve just said ‘minigolf’. And he’s just responded back like I was making a bad joke. So I just stand there, in the hallway, waiting for him to speak.

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t say a word. My dad just shakes his head. And then he gives me this really fucking queer look, like I’m not quite the child he ordered from the baby factory. It’s a special cocktail halfway between disappointment and judgmental frustration. The combination of his tired eyes and his shaking bottom lip just punches me in the fucking gut. It was as if he has the power to make the whole room mutter, ‘Caleb, just shut up. Minigolf isn’t a big deal and that is no excuse for your behaviour. Could you at least try growing up?’ Before he picked up his pen, and receded into the classroom inside his mind.

CALEB exhales or sighs.

Not a big deal. Not a big deal. Bullshit it’s a not big deal! What is wrong with this town? We’re losing mini! Golf! The last novelty sports centre in Wagga! Bowling is dead, laser tag is dead, rock climbing is dead. It’s all fucking going, going, gone. And everyone is acting like this is not a big deal! Like we’re not losing anything. Like I’m reacting like epilept Meg at Year Seven disco, or I’m high or something. That I’m the one being crazy.

But I’m not. I swear to fuck and back I’m not…

You know, you know what the minigolf is like? It’s like a song from your childhood. Okay imagine: Your mum is driving you down Baylis Street, to your minimum shit wage job. And you’re refusing to talk, just staring out at the powerlines, so she turns on the radio. And your favorite childhood song is on. Without realising you start to nod. You smile. You tap the tune on top of the dashboard; you may even hum along. And then you say, very slowly, muttered under your breath, ‘Man, I love this song’… But as soon as you utter that sentence, you’re so fucking wrong.

Because it’s a bad song. It’s a really bad song. It is a very, a bad bad bad song, that deep down you don’t even like. Honest to God shit. And you kind of know it. In the deepest socket of your soul, and in your milky bones. When you say, ‘Man, I love this song’, you’re just cutting yourself off before you really think it through.

And what you feel underneath that sentence is completely different. What you’re feeling is, ‘Man, I really miss being seven. I miss how the shapes and colours felt different, and magic. How this street used to be twelve feet higher, with imaginary cars being parked everywhere. I miss Yu-Gi-Oh and fish fingers. I miss playing minigolf with my dad every Sunday and not… and not knowing that my mum was going to cheat on him in ten years. I miss how my mind worked before I walked in on Daniel, my hockey coach, fingering her, my mum, across the lounge room floor… and how then she sat me down, and said, and said that she loved me, and that I was a good kid, but I couldn’t tell Dad, that I would not tell Dad, or it’ll ruin everything. That this would be our thing that we have to keep hidden. I miss feeling safe in my own house. I miss being able to look at my mum to my right, in our car, and without me shaking. I miss when stuff wasn’t a big deal, and I didn’t have to grow up, because right now I’m trying to grow up, I’m trying really hard...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Inaugural Resident Playwright’s Biography
• Secrets: Introduction by Tom Mesker
• Between Us
• Author Biographies
• Copyright Details