Shakespeare's Second Act

Shakespeare’s Second Act

Hark! I hath risen.

The year is but young: Two thousand the twenty-third, by modern count, and aye, I am living in it. Verily you ask how this transpired, so anon I’ll bid thee listen.

In a word: witchcraft. I am familiar with such (toil and trouble, yea), yet never outside the realm of theater. Dead for centuries, until I heareth a voice calling me backeth. The voice of Jan.

Jan is a witch—though only by night. By day, the lady tells me, she worketh at the “DMV,” though she shan’t tell me the nature of it. Jan liveth in the Uniteth States, in the province of New Hampshire. I tell her yea, I recall the Hampshire of mother England, yet she sayeth, and I quoteth, “Yeah, but this one’s different.”

Different, aye. These Uniteth States be far different than my dear old England. Metal boxes zoometh past at speeds unknown, blaring pulsing and discordant music. Jan’s dwelling be not one floor, but two, with a third beneath the earth, yet she informeth me this is not unusual. She watcheth a box of moving pictures and calleth it “TV,” though she seemeth to thinkith it normal.

In sum, these Uniteth States must be ruled by magic, perhaps spells cast by witches like Jan. And so, th’ref’re, I must adapteth to mine presenteth circumstances. Acc’rding to Jan, now be the perfect time for mine “New Year’s Resolutions.” And so I shalt state them anon.

1. Loseth Weighteth

I am but corpselike, having been so recently a corpse, yet Jan assureth me this be the resolution of most Americans. “Don’t worry,” she whispereth to me, standing so close I can smelleth cherries on her breath, “everybody gives up by Valentine’s.”

2. Thanketh Jan

The lady has, of course, sprungeth me from mine grave, a feat that shall not go unrecognized. I must pondereth the proper thanks. I expect I shall ventureth to the nearest city, the New London to this New Hampshire, and purchase from a peddler some valuable wears. A hanky, methinks, or perhaps a new plow for her oxen. Why not new oxen entirely?

Alas, I have no coin and see no oxen on Jan’s property. And, I confess, I fear to leaveth the confines of her home. Perhaps a homemade gift is the rub—which bringeth me to mine next item.

3. Write

This be tricky, since mine fingers are skeletal and atrophied. Jan believeth dexterity shall return, but in the meantime, writing shall be a bother. Also, no quill ‘n’ ink in this country, nay, but instead items called “pens” made by someone named “BIC.” (Such a silly name. And in all capitals? Why, I must ask?)

Jan calleth “typing” a solution, which is apparently done on a “comput’r.” She introduceth me to “Mavis Beacon,” a lady who apparently liveth inside this “comput’r,” a sleek clamshell with a glowing canvas and clacking keys. Letters are written upon said keys, and one must push them, clack by clack, to maketh words appear upon the glowing canvas. Jan calleth it a “screen.”

All this is strange to me. I write now upon the “screen” of this “computer” under the watchful eyes of this Madame Beacon, mine fingerjoints creaking, mine knuckles swelling. I might asketh Jan to “type” the rest.

Yet what to type? These resolutions of the new year two-thousand the twenty-third be a start, though surely Will’s return to stage must be coming, soon as he recovers his strength. When I asketh Jan of today’s popular tales, she made mention of her favorite, a “film” (another moving picture, I take it) called “Top Gun.”

There are apparently two such: The original and a sequel, the latter having taken to stage (or screen?) this past year. The star of said film be one Sir Thomas Cruise of Hollywood. The way Jan speaketh of him, he must be the Burbage of his day.

Jan is fond of Sir Cruise, so mucheth so that she compeleth me to watcheth him. “You’ll just love him.” And she offereth me a stick of her beloved cherry chew: “gum,” she calls it.

I accepted both the invitation and the “gum,” swallowing the latter after three careful bites. After the lady explaineth never to swallow this substance, we proceedeth to the films.

We began with the first and concludeth with the second, sharing a bowl of “popping corn” after the “cherry gum.” We watched from Jan’s “loveseat,” and by the endeth of four hours of whooshing booms and thunderous music, mine senses were eroded, as like stones in the bed of the Thames.

Yet verily I hads’t mine inspiration. Just as I based mine Most Excellent and Lamentable Tragedie of Romeo and Juliet upon Ovid’s Pyramus and Thisbe, I mean to pen a new epic version of this Top Gun. Shall I describe it to thee?

The scene: Fair Verona (Jan tells me such a city bears this name in the province of Wisconsin). At a school for aspiring playwrights, our leading man (we’ll calleth him Maverickio) seeketh to write the most excellent tragedy. He be senteth to “Topeth Pen,” a school in fair Verona (Wisconsin), wherein pupils learn to become playwrights and “Green Bay Packers fans” (Jan insisteth I add that last bit, though I know not what it means).

At Topeth Pen, Maverickio meeteth his rival—we’ll call him Icemanio—and there they perform stunts of writing which grow increasingly dangerous and more spectacular. In the climax of the fifth act, Maverickio and Icemanio admit their love for each other, and the god Hymen descends in a “P-51 Mustang,” marrying them on the spot.

Alas, Jan bid me never publish this play, neither to stage nor folio. Why, you ask? She claimeth mine writing tactics might be considereth “copyright infringement,” which mighteth result in Sir Cruise and his lawyers “suing” me for “all I’m worth.”

Alas, I am worth nothing in these Uniteth States, since I have neither troupe nor stage, nor even so much as a “screen” to write upon (Mavis Beacon hath vanished, Jan sayeth because “the program crashed,” whatever yond means).

It seems originals are my lot, then, as like mine Midsummer Night’s Dream, written so long ago. While I beseech the muse for inspiration, let us continue with mine resolutions.

4. Tryeth “Dating”

“Dating” is the term used in the Uniteth States for courting. Jan sayeth citizens trust an “app” called “Tinder,” which is some sort of world within their metal bricks, which they call “phones,” which everyone seemeth to worship.

Alas, this “Tinder” vexes me. I know not how it works, nor what “DTF?” meaneth, so instead, I inspecteth Jan’s“DVDs” (shiny disks which are, according to the lady, “so retro”). And hark! I found my wife’s name on the back of one DVD’s playbill.

Jan telleth me this is an actress from these Uniteth States who useth mine wife’s name. This modern-day Hathaway appeareth in such films as Les Misérables, The Dark Knight Rises, and The Princess Diaries 2: Royal Engagement. If she be unmarri’d (“single,” as Jan puts it), perhaps I shall propose marriage. Jan assureth me Anne is married, and she maketh an odd face whenever I mention “dating.” She even seemed reluctant to showeth me the vexing “Tinder.” I know not what it all means.

5. Get a “Makeover”

Jan hath a friend named Shirley. Shirley also worketh at the DMV, is also a witch, and apparently, according to Jan, Shirley also specializith in “makeovers.” A “makeover”, as I understand it, be a magical transformation that leaves one unrecognizable, like when Viola becomes Cesario in Twelfth Night.

Perhaps I shall have better luck “dating” if I resemble men of the age, so I have requested a “makeover” from Shirley. Jan seemeth oddly opposed to this. She sayeth I “look cute as I am,” now that mine complexion hath improved and mine body regained mass. She giveth me the oddest look, also, one which seemeth familiar, yet I cannot name.

Yet Shirley liketh not mine visage. She telleth me most men of the age avoid baldness atop the scalp with long hair on the sides. She calleth it a “borderline mullet” and sayeth that American Anne Hathaway would “call me an uggo,” hence the need of a makeover. Despite Jan’s kind words, I shall be proceedeth.

6. Watcheth “Top Gun” Again

It truly was entertaining.

7. Leaveth Jan’s Dwelling

Mine host is kind, but can I remain cooped forevermore? The Will of the past had a will of his own, and nay, he’d never hide at home. He’d be off to the Globe to debut his latest masterwork.

Yet lo, I feeleth like an actor without his lines. If I departeth, where would I go? What would I do? Such questions haunt me. Mine Anne is dead, and the American Hathaway wants me not, even after Shirley’s makeover (I now seeth a stranger in the looking glass, sporting a “fedora” and “Hipster glasses”). What am I to do?

8. Writeth Something New

As mentioneth in Resolution the Third, mine pen has gone flaccid from disuse. It’s time I wet it and see what flows.

…Alas, ‘tis nothing but doggerel. Mine words are clumsy and ineffectual, my scenes drab and lifeless. Mine friends Ben and Kit would be laughing, should they read them, and not with mirth.

This hath been so for days. It’s time I tryeth a new tack.

9. Rewriteth Something Old

If I cannot write from nothing, I shall rewrite from memory. Jan telleth me mine play Cardenio hath been lost to time. I shall rewrite it from memory. Surely the mere act of writing, even a play already written, shall inspire mine mind to offer further bounty. Pray excuse me whilst I re-create.

10. Pity Myself

Alas, mine labor is lost. The plan did not work. Not in the slightest. Cardenio remains lost, even to its creator.

Aye, I wrote. Amend that—I tried to write. Yet were Cervantes to read it, he would’ve thought me a hack. I found no verve in my characters, no faculty to mine language. Though I recalled the sequence of events, mine work remained as lifeless as I was a few days ago.

An aside to the audience: Perhaps old Will will not continue in this fashion. The results have been, shall we say, impotent. Instead, perhaps he will instead seek new employment, as a “McDonald’s cashier” or a “substitute English teacher” (I’ve gleaned these are jobs of the age from my conversations with Jan). If they be less depressing than mine recent attempts at writing, then I shall accept them humbly.

But who am I without words and pen? What is Will without his stage? Is he even Shakespeare anymore, or is he simply anonymous, a once-great name turned cold by time?

It is with these thoughts I endure this new year, two-thousand the twenty-third, feeling like a lost man.

11. Enjoyeth the Year to Cometh

Jan came to me last night. I believe she heard me weeping. She sat down beside me on my bed, and betwixt us lay my failed attempts. I tried hiding them at first, ashamed as I was of their impotence, yet Jan saw them before they could be stowed.

I considered taking them back, yet I did not. Instead, I watched her read my writing. Her brown eyes glided line by line, and truth be unto it, I thought they might narrow in pain.

Instead, those eyes kept reading. And reading. She glanceth up and asketh, “Why do you write?”

A fine question. I could not recall anyone posing it to me, not in my first life, nor this one. I pondered, pondered, and the best I could answereth was, “I wanted to thank you.”

I suspecteth she meant her question in a grander sense, but at yond moment, that was the truth. Just as I vowed in Resolution the Second, I wanted to thank Jan for giving me life. And a play, I’d always thought, was the best form of thanks.

“If only I could do it better,” I continued. “Yet mine wit’s as thick as a Tewkesbury mustard, and—”

Jan kissed me. ‘Twas the first kiss I’d shared in centuries, the first since mine Anne; poor Anne, whom I’d never loved half so well as she deserved. I’d shared many kisses, with my Dark Lady, my Fair Youth, others still. Yet never had I tasted such passion, such caring on another’s lips. Perhaps it was just the “cherry gum” Jan was always chewing—but nay, I think not.

I think ‘twas love.

When we parted, I asked, “Is that why thou hath brought me backeth?”

And my lady smiled and said, “No, Willy. It’s because the world needs writers. This year, and every year to come.”

Willy. I liketh the sound of that.

And so I set outside the house, my lady’s hand in mine, and together, we set off into this year two-thousand the twenty-third. I suspecteth it shall be a good one.

At any rateth, it shan’t be worse than the plague years.