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Voices From the Workshops: Eric Morgan

December 9, 2011 | Dawn | Comments (0)

Monologue by Eric Morgan

I started with the letter “B” because “A” was too obvious, standing out right in front, showing off. I'm reading all the biographies of people with the last name starting with “B”. I have to go all round the library because Mr. Dewey and his decimals do not think like I think.

Bismarck, Otto von, was the first one I read. He had a mustache like my dog Sandy, a miniature Schnauzer. Sandy and my dad went to live on a farm near a town in the country. My mom told me the name of the town. I can't find it on any map. I haven't found the right map yet. But I will. One day.

Osama bin laden. Pearl Buck. Budha.

My dad looks exactly like me except he is forty-two years old and is a man. Maybe you've met him? He had a mustache, but he might not any more. People's looks can change a lot in three years, you know. Even grown-ups.

I come here a lot. Grade six is an important year. Iʼm going to a new school next year. I came here after I got my new braces on, when it felt like someone had kicked me in the mouth. I came here and read. It was better than tylenol.

Tony Blair. Sarah Bernhardt. Popes Benedicts X through XVI. Those are Roman numerals. I know all the Roman numerals, even the big ones. They made letters into numbers.

I come here a lot when my momʼs friend Todd comes over to our house. That's when my mom reminds me of all the homework I have.

Johann Sebastian Bach. Ludwig von Bethoven. Joan Baez.

Todd comes over to help her move the furniture in her bedroom. He doesn't do a very good job because when I come home the furniture is all still in exactly the same place as before, so it is all just a giant waste of time. My mom says he gets the job done.

Marlon Brando. Jeff Bridgs. Lloyd Bridges.

Her bedroom gets smokey when they move furniture. Todd says he has bad allergies. His eyes turn red, he laughs and eats chips. My mom has caught his allergies too. The smoke smells sour. My mom says it is the humidifier. But the humidifier is in the basement. I know
because I put it there, between the Christmas tree and the rowing machine because these things all have black metal parts.

Barbara Bush. George Bush. George W. Bush.

I like that it is a reference library. Nothing goes missing. No one goes missing. Everything is in its place. I like it here. No one shouts. No one yells at you, “Thank f__king Jesus Christ you're f__king going away next year to that shitty special school.”

I like it here. I have to go home now. I like it here. I don't want to go home ever.



This monologue is reprinted with permission from the author. It was performed at the Toronto Reference Library as part of David Young's Writer-in-Residence workshop program, on November 30, 2011.


Playwright David Young will be blogging in this space from October - November, 2011 as Toronto Reference Library's Playwright-in-Residence.