Work Text:
The tale of Romeo and Juliet was a struggle for the ages. The Duke furrowed his brows as calm waves lightly shook the wood under his feet, the river asserting its presence, listening.
“Oh Romeo, Romeo! Wherefor’ are thou, Romeo?”, he gasped, reaching a dramatic hand outwards, as a disappointed sigh rang in his ears.
“Duke of Bilgewater, Duke of Bilgewater! Have you forgotten your name? Shameful this performance must be upon your blood. Your “Oh” is much too long- a short “O!”, “O, Romeo”, will do better. “Are thou? Are thou indeed- it is ART, comrade. Art. Recall this. These small things secure the bag, my fellow.”
The water beneath them rippled, and a senselessly placed gold bar leaned with the raft, falling to the depths of the river- much to the King’s dismay, who ordered the poor boy to go diving, an event which of its ruckus and violence occupied the whole of the afternoon.
So, late after the sun had fallen, the Duke ventured to the far corner of the craft, grasping a worn playbook and a dream. Moonlight reflected off the water, and for a moment, he became Juliet herself- young, gazing into the stars, in love for the first time.
Securing his hands behind his back, book dangling, the Duke cried, ever so softly, as if not to stir his companions: “O, Romeo, Romeo”
“O, Romeo, Romeo! Wherefor’ ART thou, Romeo? Deny thy father, refuse thy name;”
He paused to stare into the river.
“Or, if thou wil’ not… be but sworn! my love, and I’ll no longer be a Capulet.”
“Tis’ but thy name- that is my enemy;”
“...”
“Refuse thy name, she says? What half-witted spiel, refuse thy name? On such empty promises” the Duke spit, and continued, reciting lines, critiquing language, and he thought of his name, what was it, again? He couldn’t remember. Duke of Bilgewater, Prince of Nigeria, Johnny Johnson of Jacksonville, Illinois. Well, his first name? Not to precede, to call- but to own. He couldn’t recall.
“O’ serpent heart, hid with a flowe’rn face! Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave?”
The thin cloth concealing the mouth of the wigwam swayed as the wind picked up tempo.
“To have such undenying faith in a man so evil, why, the youth! Better she pack her things and leave, lest sh’ die of ridiculous pieties!”
Said so the Duke, yet his rough hands trembled- miles of goosebumps raised under flimsy cloth, and the decaying old book shook with every word, acting long forgotten. He could feel wrinkles forming under his skin, thoughtful mumbles forming loud whispers, distant snoring forming excruciating migraines, and he closed his eyes, and there he was.
Sixteen again, an old summer in southern Tennessee. Graces, how he had forgotten.
Slumped against some poor soul’s porch- hell if he knew whom, wheat sticking out of his teeth, toes sticking out of his shoes. How he got there, he reckoned he walked. How else to get somewhere, the Duke wouldn’t have known.
There was mighty trees in these parts, he supposed, gazing mindlessly into a blur of green, until his eye caught a brand-new utility pole– the works of which he was unfamiliar. Nailed into the wood strong and mighty, darn and high, was a pale show bill. Rising off his grass throne, the young Duke approached, muscles sore and curiosity piqued. On the top read “Romeo’s Rambunctious Raccoon Rodney” in curvy bold letters.
The cast list went as so:
Romeo Montague………………………Robb Rajiv Richmond Rockwell
Below it read:
“Come one, come all! Witness this fantastical interpretation of the beloved Shakespearan play, “Romeo and Juliet”! Find your laughs hearty, and your hearts full! Engage in our Romeo’s most inward thoughts from the helpful ears of Rodney the Raccoon! Will our friend Rodney be able to unite torn families and spare many’s lives? Come to the westmost schoolhouse on the night of the waning gibbous, and for the lowly price of $2 10 cents, witness a work so humorous and sought after it was stricken by prohibition in theaters across England!”
Well, a banished English play? Not that he had the slightest implications of the show’s substance, he figured he could spare ten cents for some entertainment on these lonesome evenings. So out the Duke went, expectations rather dull, but energy high, hiking up that path leading up to a schoolhouse of such great size, it may as well have housed Shakespeare himself.
It’twas more of a church, he thought, as he joined a cluster of locals, shoving through towering wooden doors. It were only dusk, now, so the inside was lighted sufficient, though the elevated, make-shift stage at the front was lined with lanterns, providing mighty overly sufficient brightness, though it mellowed as the sun set.
So, as the light dimmed, out walked from a back door such a magnificent man, his presence silenced the crowd. Though he looked almost middle-aged, he was handsome– wide eyes so bright and captivating, he looked almost younger; yet his high, sharp cheekbones warranted an air of maturity. High arched his brows, far curled a comical looking mustache, but those eyes- one could trust those eyes.
He wore an extravagant purple coat, which stayed stiff as the man extended his right arm to the crowd, keeping his left concealed. He announced in a deep, booming voice:
“It is I, Romeo! Wealth-ridden Romeo, though my heart lies further in my women then it does my money.”
A laugh-track-esque banter erupted within the crowd. It wasn’t that funny, it really wasn’t, yet something about the man’s corporate grin, that mean look of power in his eyes- it shook the young Duke to his very core, and forced out a chuckle that was so long due it sounded foreign coming from his throat.
Well, he revealed his left hand, and out showed a puppet- he must admit, it didn’t look much a raccoon. Budget was low, he s’pposed. When you have charisma like that, it don’t matter much your props.
The next fifteen minutes were so joke-book unbearable. There was no plot, no story to this critically acclaimed work- the puns were shuffled between the deep, booming voice of Romeo and the high, squeaky voice of Rodney the Raccoon. Romeo’s crude thoughts of Rosaline, his highly exaggerated distaste of the Women’s Rights Convention (The young Duke reckoned Romeo would have never heard of such a thing in the first place), Rodney’s criticism of his questionable choices– one not read of the Romeo and Juliet cinematic universe would think of Romeo a lying, cheating, womanizing scoundrel, how the man told it.
As it seemed that Romeo was running out of ammunition, the crowd began to sober up, getting quieter and quieter before turning to small boos and then big boos before resorting to the throwing of various fruits onto the stage.
The Duke, however, was frazzled- entranced. He didn’t say a word, nor utter a single boo. A strawberry thrown from a pew behind him, clearly by an inexperienced critic, hit the highest tuff of his dirty blonde hair– yet as it slid off his forehead and into his lap, the poor duke was unresponsive. First love, and a middle-aged man, at that, no– that wasn’t what this was. It was electrifying, inspiring, enticing– a dream, a vocation. A chase of self- indulgence after a high of entertainment, a crowd, an audience, a trick, a rug pull, trust, deception, wealth. These ideas formed and merged, resulting in an indescribable, manic feeling.
The only logical response to this indescribable, manic feeling was seeking out the wondrous man himself. So some time after the horrific spectacle was over, rows were empty, save a watermelon and a tomato, and the lanterns mostly ran dry. The duke tried to fix the sole of his boot over his toes as best as he could, and approached the shadow he felt at the end of that room, dark cloth hanging off the stage, coins clinking in rhythm, hitting the old wood one at a time.
“Boy, you seek consultation, is this what it is, now?”
Dim light from that lonesome lantern illuminated the old man’s features. His eyes were sharper now, compared to before.
“Sir, please sir, please teach me how to become a massive scumbag such as yourself”
The clink of coins halted, and the man’s expression stirred.
“That’s a mighty bold proposition you got, boy. A runaway like yourself, how can you have such pride?” His voice was stable, but there was a tone of annoyance, challenge.
“A runaway, sir, how do you mean? I don’t mean pride at all sir. I want to be rich.”
Well, if the man could tell his mother by his face, then the Duke was at a loss.
“You ain’t fooling nobody, you hear?”
“Sir, I’ve fooled plenty.”
“...”
“...”
The man flared up in boisterous laughter, slapping the wooden platform as hard as it seemed he could muster. “Plenty, you say? Plenty? That’s a laugh, alright! That’s a laugh, boy! Does a scoundrel like yourself have a name?”
“Well, I couldn’t say so, sir”
“Better that! Say, young men like you are hard to come by, that’s for damn sure. No place to come home from, certainly no place to escape from, you’ll latch to anybody you come across, won’t you? I’ll tell you what- I’ll take you under my wing, but for a price, boy. A pretty price. How much you got? Give it here, and i’ll meet you by the riverbank tomorrow’s dawn– I’ll make you a star for sure, boy.
That was a load of horse-radish, and the Duke known it, he known it by the pretty glimmer in the man’s eye, the wide grin under his mustache, and the stubble of his beard– yet when morning came he went down to the closest bank of the Tennessee river, twenty less dollars to his name. Heart rushing, eye twitching, short his left shoe, and it was barren– save the sparkling current and the dew-ridden wheatgrass.
He knew the man wouldn’t show, he done ‘new it, but for some reason his eyes watered, his head forced downwards, and he wiped away some strawberry juice from his forehead and wept. He wept for hours, and then he made a resolution to become the best damn scam artist the south had ever seen.
The best damn scam artist, he must be vain and rotten to the core. This the Duke decided, eyes opened, now, wrinkles pulsing. Romeo and Juliet- Collector’s Pocket Edition had dropped to the dark raft long ago. Whatever he hadn’t known before, he judged he knew now. Turning to the faded antique costume box fastened near the wigwam, he noted a magnificent dull purple sleeve sticking out the side, golden embroidery in all of its glory. It swayed in sync with the waves, howling and roaring and staring– down to the pit of the Duke’s stomach.
He rubbed his tired eyes and exclaimed– "Oh, Juliet would be such a fool! The victim of her poor lover's shallow emotions... well, if I were 'er, I would burn the place to the ground. No use wasting such good years, good years indeed. She had a life outside of that balcony, did she."
[sniffle]
"did she.."