Boy in a Bubble Ages Out, Becomes Teen in a Terrarium

Bertha and Chet Burton knew their Trevor would be “the sickly kid.”  After a traumatic five years of coughs, sneezes, and wheezes, the dutiful parents realized something needed to change. Fearing doctors would prescribe medications that would render Trevor gay, godless, or Libertarian, Bertha and Chet looked high and low for alternatives. One evening, while watching the local classic TV station (WOWO—pronounced Whoa Whoa), Bertha saw a trailer for the ripped-straight-from-the-headlines melodrama, The Boy in the Plastic Bubble. Bertha believed it was a sign, an opportunity to save her hacking boy. 

    “I watched that movie as a kid,” Berta says, extinguishing her cigar in a custom ashtray she named Fusty. “I remembered Robbie Benson being in the bubble; that’s why I was excited to watch it again. But, it was John Travolta. I only like John Travolta in drag. But, if I hadn’t forced myself to watch it, my darling boy might’ve wheezed himself silly.”

    Chet took a job at a plastics factory so he could “secure” suitable materials. They built Trevor a bubble play area outside their Cudahy, Wisconsin home, shielding Trevor from harmful elements. When Trevor continued to have severe sinus infections, they made an air-filtering plastic dome for him. “Our house is over 100 years old,” Bertha says with a phlegmy cough. “Lots of dust.” Trevor spent his school days, 1st-8th grades, with his maternal grandparents. The homeschooling and special enclosure produced remarkable results. Then, his grandparents were arrested and jailed for drug trafficking, embezzlement, and insurrection. 

    “Unfortunately,” Bertha says ruefully, “the judge wouldn’t postpone the trial until Trevor completed high school. So, we had to send him to the high school.” Trevor was attending a public school for the first time in eight years. Would this be a traumatizing experience for the 14-year-old boy?

    “They called me Bubble Boy,” Trevor says, spritzing a button fern with distilled water. “That’s a nickname I could live without. I reclaimed the name. ‘If you don’t know my birth name, you can call me boy in the bubble.’” 

“That Trev’s one tough kid,” Bertha says. 

    “I think Trev’s socially retarded,” Chet says. Bertha nods sadly. The two adults stumble back to the living room.

    Trevor apologizes for his parents and eagerly gets back to his story.

    “People stopped calling me Bubble Boy!” Trevor tells me, a goofy, socially awkward smile on his face. He also noticed that he felt healthy at school, only to get sick again at home. The bubble remained available, but Trevor grew three inches since attending high school. He decided to dismantle the structure and begin living a bubbleless life. That worked for six weeks until flu season introduced a new strain, oddly referred to as the Scooby-Wu flu. 

    “Mom freaked out. She was sure the flu was going to be the end of me. My dad giggled about some ‘meddling kids.’ I had no idea what he was talking about. It was distressing.”

    To get his parents to “shut the eff up,” Trevor agreed to build a new structure. The teen’s specs included removing the bubble shape. “Terrariums are good for plants. Why not a human? And I’m a teen. AND, my name is Trevor.”

    When returning to school Monday, he will be known as Trevor Terrarium. Because, to Trevor, it sounds “so flippin’ punk.”

    Trevor surveys his new digs: spacious, clean, oxygen-rich. “It’s so rad.” Trevor sighs. It’s a victory for the teen in a terrarium. In the background, the Burtons cough, wheeze, and slur words, unaware of their son’s newfound happiness.

This is a play I wrote for Bunny Gumbo's Combat Theatre.  Here's how it worked. On May 31, 8 p.m., the eight playwrights sat with Jim Fletcher, artistic director, and picked a subject and location out of separate hats. This evening I picked police informant and utopia as my subject and location. That in hand, and on my mind, I went home and wrote a 15-minute play. I finished at about 4 a.m. I slept for 2.5 hours, got up and did another draft. I turned in the play at 9:30 a.m. The eight directors chose playwrights out of the hat (Dick Chudnow of Comedy Sportz, chose me). Then the actors were chosen and those lucky kids rehearsed all day. The eight plays were performed before a live auidence that night. After the show, we went through the entire process again. Eight new shows (mine dealt with The Weird Sisters at a cabaret) were performed Saturday night.

Here's the product of my Thursday night/Friday morning labor.

Enjoy.

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Bunny Gumbo

Know, Thank You

Subject: Police Informant, Location: Utopia

John Van Slyke

6/1/2012

Characters: Jimmy, Officer Liz Jones, Bobby, Big Kahuna

Know, Thank You by John Van Slyke

(JIMMY stands, playing with his phone. He looks out—we realize later he is looking at BIG KAHUNA, as opposed to the AUDIENCE)

(OFFICER JONES enters, on phone with earbuds . JIMMY immediately places his phone to his ear.)

OFFICER

(Not looking at JIMMY) What do you have for me?

JIMMY

What do you want?

OFFICER

(Fast, through teeth) Don’t look at me!

JIMMY

(Turning away) Shit!

OFFICER

Hey, you wanted to meet face-to-face. Highly irregular these days. But you want it, I’m here to please. But that means we pretend to use the phones.

JIMMY

I know. Thank you.

OFFICER

You have to have something.

JIMMY

What’s it worth to you?

OFFICER

My admiration.

JIMMY

I was thinking of something more tangible.

OFFICER

Like?

JIMMY

A hug.

OFFICER

The big, utopian society gesture. A hug. You mean from me, right?

JIMMY

Yeah.

OFFICER

Yeah, I can make that happen.

JIMMY

Good. Now. You know the guy?

OFFICER

The guy with the…

JIMMY

That’s the one. Check my blog.

OFFICER

My signal is weak out here.

JIMMY

I’ll wait.

OFFICER

Okay, I got it.

JIMMY

Damn, that is slow.

OFFICER

This goes with the tweet, the letter, and the graffiti?

JIMMY

Put it together and what do you got?

OFFICER

Our man.

JIMMY

Here he comes.

OFFICER

Shit, Jimmy, you’re not supposed to be here.

JIMMY

I don’t know that? He’s early.

OFFICER

Really? Face-to-face meet, the subject walks in on us?

JIMMY

What are you saying, Officer Jones?

OFFICER

Just get over there.

JIMMY

Alright! (JIMMY attempts to hide while in plain view. It’s ridiculous)

OFFICER

Bobby Thumbs?

BOBBY

(Pointing thumbs at himself) That’s me.

OFFICER

I’d like to talk to you for a moment.

JIMMY

(Out) Watch this closely.

BOBBY

Is something up, officer?

OFFICER

As a matter of fact, there is.

BOBBY

Then how can I possibly be of help?

OFFICER

(Reaching in her pocket) I think you know.

BOBBY

I don’t think I do.

OFFICER

Then maybe this will help.

JIMMY

(Out) This should be the happiest part of my day.

OFFICER

(Pulling hand from pocket, throwing confetti at BOBBY) Congratulations, you’ve earned an individual social citation. Yea! You.

JIMMY

(Out) But, it all goes horribly wrong.

BOBBY

No, no, put the confetti away (trying to kick it away or cover it up some way). Sure I know I did something good for the drowning kids. But I can’t be singled out for that act. I just can’t let this get out. I can’t have a citation like this hanging over me.

JIMMY

(out) He saved two drowning kids. Why so wigged out?

OFFICER

I can make it go away.

BOBBY

You can?

OFFICER

Of course I can.

JIMMY

(Out) That’s not right, this isn’t right.

BIG KAHUNA

(Entering from the audience) Okay, stop your memory, Jimmy. You know, you weren’t supposed to be there.

JIMMY

Glad I was. This isn’t what I signed up for.

BK

(Moving toward stage) Jimmy, baby, things like this happen.

JIMMY

It’s not like it used to be.

BK

What is? Change is constant.

JIMMY

Even in a utopian society?

BK

You obviously don’t understand utopia. That’s okay. A lot of people don’t. After generations, people don’t have the same connection as there originally was—back in the day.

Y’know, some people only know utopia as a Todd Rundgren band. Most people don’t know who the hell Todd Rundgren is. I feel bad for the poor guy. But my point is, how can we expect people to truly understand what we represent. We’re an ideal. How can an ideal exist? It can’t! So when somebody doesn’t want to be singled out as a fine citizen, how can we force it upon them? Let’s be practical, okay?

JIMMY

This is making me feel worse.

BK

Don’t let it get to you. You’re good at your job. (Beat—referring to BOBBY and OFFICER) Do we still need these memory holograms here?

JIMMY

Oh. No, no. (JIMMY motions for the holograms of BOBBY and OFFICER to leave)

BK

(as BOBBY and OFFICER leave) It’s just that I’m talking to you, and I see this thing out of the corner of my eye. And I think they’re going to start talking to me. It’s freaking me out, y’know? Glory be.

Okay. I was saying. Yeah. You’re good at your job. You can find things out that others can’t. Whatever we need. And not get found out. That’s a gift. But. Jimmy. Times are changing. We just might need you to find out different things from now on.

JIMMY

Like what?

BK

That’s to be determined.

JIMMY

I won’t be informing you about good things anymore? (Pause) I just become like any other informant in the outside world? (Pause) Then I don’t want this job.

BK

(smiling) You are placed in a job based on your abilities. Think of how many people in the outside world are in jobs they have no real aptitude for. They get into it because they think it’s marketable. But you really should have the talent. Here, Jimmy, you have a talent and we find the market for you. Ba-da-bing-ba-da-boo. (Beat) You should be happy about this.

JIMMY

I’m not! Not even with a job I’m suited for.

BK

Yeah, that seems so counterintuitive to me, I’m at a loss. Jimmy, thank you for bringing your concerns to me.

JIMMY

You don’t care about my concern.

BK

No, I do. I just won’t do anything about it. See, Jimmy, it’s about the why. Not wanting to be congratulated, to be singled out, that’s the what. Getting upset, that’s “how” you react. But. Get to the why of this situation…get to the why and you rule. (Beat) You’ll catch up to my line of thought, eventually. Because it’s for the greater good of our society to move beyond where we are and deal with the experience of our fellow citizens.

JIMMY

Even if it makes us a society of people unwilling to do good because we might get singled out and somehow feel…uncomfortable?

BK

Yup.

JIMMY

That’s wrong.

BK

That’s life. So, (Exiting) go back to the real Bobbies and Officer Joneses of your sector. And keep up the good work—don’t get caught doing it.

JIMMY

But, I’m unhappy. I’ll make mistakes.

BK

(Exiting) We’re a perfect society, not perfect people.

 (BOBBY enters.)

JIMMY

Hey, Bobby. How’s it going?

                                                                                    (BOBBY gives the thumbs up.)

JIMMY

So you got a social citation.

(BOBBY stops in his tracks, then charges at JIMMY)

BOBBY

Who told you that?!

JIMMY

Hey, hey, take it easy. Nobody told me.

BOBBY

Then how did you…no. Jimmy, you? An informant? How could you?

JIMMY

Because. It made me feel good. That was the personal satisfaction I got out of being a police informant. In utopia.

                                                                                    (OFFICER JONES, enters, listens)

JIMMY

I mean, my god, being able to snitch on someone for doing something good. What’s not to like? But, you take that feeling away from me, I’m just a stoolie, a tell tale, a…

BOBBY

Cheese eater.

OFFICER JONES

What the hell are you doing, Jimmy?

JIMMY

What, he fingered me.

BOBBY

I did what now?

OFFICER JONES

You made it easy for him.

BOBBY

Oh, you mean I pointed you out as an informant. That fingering.

JIMMY

You know cheese eater and you don’t know fingering?

BOBBY

No, I do. You just didn’t use it in the right context.

JIMMY

What are you talking about?

BOBBY

You’re the finger, I’m the fingered. You confused me.

OFFICER

You done now? (Beat) Good. So it comes to this, Jimmy.

JIMMY

It does.

OFFICER

You couldn’t leave well enough alone.

JIMMY

I couldn’t.

BOBBY

You’ll need to inform…

OFFICER

Jimmy already informed on himself.

JIMMY

You mean…I thought I was talking in confidence.

BOBBY

Oh, that’s good. Any conversation is information. There’s always need for information. You should know that, in your line of work.

OFFICER

C’mon, Jimmy, I’m taking you in.

JIMMY

What for? (Suddenly excited) For reassignment? I’ve always wanted to be a golf ball diver.

OFFICER

You don’t swim well enough.

JIMMY

How about a dentist?

OFFICER

That won’t happen. But there is something you can do that would keep you in your wheel house but keep you off the street.

JIMMY

Tell me! I’ve been waiting for this. Finally, I do have a say in my individual future.

OFFICER

You can teach—how to be a police informant.

BOBBY

Man, you are so lucky.

JIMMY

(Out) This isn’t how I imagined it.

OFFICER

How ’bout a hug?

(OFFICER and BOBBY hug JIMMY)

 (Lights out)

Writer's Block is a Myth

There is no such thing as writer's block. There are always ideas. Ideas lead to words. So there is no such thing as writer's block

But there is lack of focus. There is confusion that leads to lapses in clear thought.

And there is that painful gnawing at your brain that anything you put on screen will suck.

Which is worse than any so called blockage.

Blasted Snart

I'm reading a humor writing book. Here's a short piece I wrote months ago--before I knew what I was doing.

Blasted Snart

For a short, skinny, bespectacled kid, the school playground created two realities. One involved the opportunity to break free of the brainy kid label and let loose on the four-square and tetherball courts. The other reality involved embarrassment, ridicule and possible bodily harm. I preferred the former of the two realities. The problem was, while enjoying the fleeting euphoria of the first reality, experience told me the second wasn’t far behind. Part of it, I knew, was of my own making. While I was generally quiet and well-mannered, I had a bit of the devil in me. The devil typically affixed itself to my mouth, granting me a loose tongue and powerful lungs, like stereo speakers turned to eleven, eager to propel whatever ridiculous thing came to mind did a freefall to my larynx and sprang forth between my jawbones. Sometimes with the tongue, came a fist to the face. But I was funny.

It was a warm spring weekday. I was watching friends and enemies play a game of softball. In years past I had often joined in the pick-up softball games but in middle school I began enjoying tetherball. This particular day there was a long hot lunch line and I arrived at the tetherball court too late to help start a round robin tournament. Instead I watched from a distance while two kids rarely on the court took turns hurling the ball at each others’ heads and groins to the amusement of no one but themselves. I stood on the third base side of the softball diamond, waiting for something interesting to happen.

With the changing weather many kids were getting colds and then passing it on to other kids through sloppy kisses. In my case my skinny physique and perpetually inflamed sinuses made me a prime target for a virus and bacteria. No sloppy kisses needed.

I stood, sniffed, and tried to digest. I stifled a couple of sneezes but was feeling the buildup. I have always been a loud sneezer. I take after my mother. All of five foot flat, my mother is the loudest sneezer on the planet. People don’t flinch when she sneezes, they dive for cover. Car alarms are set off. Airplanes are forced into holding patterns. I come in a close second. While I waited for the choo-es to catch up with my ahhs, more people were gathering around the softball field, cheering friends on, calling all others dickshines.

It was time for the release. I didn’t have a tissue to catch any meddling mucus but I did have long sleeves. So I let the sneeze fly.

As my sneeze blasted, causing eardrums to burst open that instant, a lower, fuller sound broke through my opposite end. I farted. I farted and sneezed simultaneously . I snarted. For an instant I willed myself into believing the sneeze sound overpowered the fart. But seeing my fellow students gasp, yell, scream, run in the opposite direction, I was pushed into the latter of the playground realities.  I looked around with a who-did-that expression on my face. But the blood had already rushed to my head, turning my pasty face a deep red.

The points began. Then the giggles. There was no escaping it. When I took a step to the right, all the students—near and far—hopped, stepped, jumped to the right. When I went left, they went left. The circle around me grew larger but it was still a circle.

The combination of the blood rush, sinus decongestants, and gas smell was overwhelming. The next thing I remember, I was in class, enduring the judgmental stares and hushed gossiping the rest of the day.

That night I had time to consider what had happened. My body got in the way and I lost whatever credibility I had. In an instant. My tongue had been my weapon of choice. Now, it was my butt. Not my choice. Blasted snart.

But I realized I had a way to repair the damage. Instead of using my tongue to lash out, I would burrow inward, judge my faults, my idiotic actions, and ridiculous blunders—all with a wink and a smirk. The era of self-deprecation began.   And while the bullying didn’t stop on the short, skinny, bespectacled kid, the fists to the face stopped. The playground remained an arena of embarrassment, I could laugh about it. And make others laugh, too.

Six Words

I found Smith Mag's Six-Word Memoir while searching for writer sites. I go to it every so often, add a six-word memoir, and check out some of the others. I find it stirs the imagination and challenges me to be precise.

Here are some of the favorites I have written:

• Asked chiropractor for my attitude adjustment.
• "This-too-shall-pass." Doesn't. I finally caught on.
• My history degree: a quaint artifact.
• Sister became adult first. I'm older.
• Truck hit me. I bounced back.
• I can never quite finish my
• Killed time. Surrendered to authorities. Willingly.
• My body runs free of gluten.

Doritos Super Bowl Challenge

I was asst. director to Rob Hubbard for this commercial entered into the Doritos video contest. It was a blast to shoot. The resulting commercial is titled "Slumber Spies" and can be found on the Crash the Super Bowl site. http://www.crashthesuperbowl.com/#/gallery?video=14310

My Kind of Fame

Twelve years ago I had a dream that I was Bernie Taupin. When I woke up, I wasn't sure why I would have a dream I was Bernie Taupin.

Then, with sleep still in my eyes, I realized, Bernie Taupin is my idol. Not in the conventional sense. Sure he's written great lyrics throughout his 40-plus year partnership with Elton John. But what really interested me in him is his fame. He's wealthy, well respected, but not physically recognized. Imagine Elton John walking into a crowded room without being recognized. You can't. But Bernie?

That's my kind of fame.