Apr 14, 2019
[STATIC AND THE SOUND OF RADIO STATIONS BEING FLIPPED THROUGH- FADES AS NARRATOR BEGINS TO SPEAK]
Welcome to This Is Cheaper Than Therapy, I am The Narrator and you are not alone. This is a space to say the things you feel like you can’t, and to talk about the things you regret ever having said. This is a place for confessions. For warnings. For apologies and declarations. For pulling that internal monologue from clenched teeth and watching incisors fly across the room like shooting stars. For forgotten things, lost things, and those oh so quiet moments you think no one notices. I do, listeners; I notice them all. This Is Cheaper Than Therapy.
Tonight is the perfect weather to go dream walking, don't you think? There's a certain twinkle in the air. Come on, let's go take a look.
[DOOR OPENING] [FOOTSTEPS][LEAVES CRUNCHING] [SCREECH]
Oooh sounds like little Timmy Peterson is dreaming about dinosaurs again, that’s cute. [MURMUR] But what's over there- Yeah, there? [LEAVES CRUNCHING] Ah! It's an actress, that’s Naomi Tailor- she's just moved to New York of all places! Oh, they have the biggest dreams of all there! Let's step inside. [DOOR OPENING] Ah! Here we are.
[CIRCUS MUSIC BEGINS TO PLAY AND THE SOUND OF WAVES AT A FAR QUIETER VOLUME]
Well, she has very big dreams indeed. Great ships are sailing above through a ceiling of rolling waves; tentacles are reaching out and lapping at the space where the ocean meets the walls of a circus tent, fingering the faded red stripes. A stagehand has placed a bucket on the ground to catch the sea as it slowly drips onto the floor. We find our leading lady crouched behind a tower of chairs, gripping a large butterfly net. Her tongue placed between a pair of porcelain teeth, she concentrates, lifts the net and [BAM] closes it on a Shadow of a Doubt! Oh, well the Shadow has slipped beneath the net’s rim and it’s escaped her. It has run off to join the others; they’re slowing eating a pile of popcorn. The thieves. Oh well, better luck next time, I suppose.
[FIREWORKS- LOW VOLUME]
Now she is looking across the tent’s great expanse, past the lion’s pit and the cages of various animals, over the piles of props, and she is- well she’s smiling. Oh, it’s one of those dreams. The woman causing her to smile is leaning against a rickety wooden table, shuffling a deck of tarot cards and throwing one, every now and then, into the air; where they explode like fireworks. [FIREWORKS- LOW VOLUME] The figures on the cards dance in the falling sparks…She’s a romantic; the cards in her hands are bleeding and everything. Listeners, the actress and the fortune teller- they’re in love. It is with the trust we place in someone when we’re in love that Naomi, appearing before her, reaches out a long, thin hand and pulls a card from the middle of the deck.
[SNAP OF FINGERS] [SILENCE]
Everything has gone dark. Everything, it seems, has gone.
[PAUSE] [CLICK]
Ah! A stage light! Naomi is now in the middle of the lion’s den, thankfully lion-free, balancing on top of a medium blue ball with one leg tied behind her back. The chairs, which were previously stacked into a tower, are now spread out and filled with hundreds of mannequins, their cat-like eyes staring down at her. It’s an audition! All the actress has to do is be perfect and everyone will love her, if not- well…let’s not think about it…it’s better not to think about it. She opens her mouth and goes to sing- [CRASH] [SCUTTLING BEGINS] Oh, those pesky Shadows of a Doubt have knocked over the scorpion cages! The cages were placed on either side of the lion’s pit as these are feuding scorpions and our dear, dear actress, it seems, it caught in the middle. She looks out to the crowd but they all think it is part of the performance and her face, quite beautiful, falls in on itself. Listeners…this is… this is a very sorry scene indeed. The scorpions are making their way into the pit, both gangs steadily advancing. All it seems is lost - and in what must surely be her final act she begins, once again, to sing. [PAUSE] Now, I can’t broadcast said singing due to the stringent copyright laws which apply in dreams but know that it is the single most beautiful thing I’ve heard in all of my years. Naomi on tippy-toes sings as she prepares to feel the searing pain of a thousand pinchers biting her body as it fills with poison. Stings raised they rush around her feet and- [SCUTTLING STOPS] Oh. The scorpions, they’re- they’re linking their tails together, each tiny body grasping a former rival. The curves of their tails forming half a heart become whole when joined together by the power of song. [QUIET CLICKING] They are interlocking their claws with that of their partner and swaying. It’s- beautiful……. and haunting……and everything you would expect this moment to be. The actress is fine and looks out across the tent, silent crowd long forgotten. She smiles at the fortune teller and everything, everything, is perfect.
[DOOR OPENING] [CIRCUS MUSIC STOPS] [WAVES STOP]
Wasn’t that lovely? There’s nothing like a little dream walking to start off a night. I don't know about you but it always fills me with a certain kind of invigoration, it makes anything seem possible, you know. It's sad though how so many of you forget your dreams upon waking, you push them aside for more 'important' things; anxieties burrowing through their magic until they're reduced to nothing but a pile of dust. You could learn a lot from your dreams. Lord knows you have a lot to learn, listeners, so very, very much.
[CLICK OF DIAL TUNING]
Never fret! That’s what I’m here for! As a treat, we have a new segment on the show for you. Here at This Is Cheaper Than Therapy, we care, which is why we’ve decided that you need a helping hand.
[CLICK OF DIAL TUNING]
We are sick of seeing you clumsily paw your way through life, mistake after mistake fostering our resentment towards you, until all we can think of is “Ugh, this guy.” So, we’ve decided to make a suggestion box and asked everyone in the world how they think you can improve! Isn’t that fun? Tonight’s suggestion is from your reflection: Your reflection would like you to know that staring at them all the time makes them uncomfortable and is impolite. “Who stares at people?” They’ve written. “Someone RUDE, that’s who.” Ugh, get it together, buddy.
[TAPE WHIRR AND FEEDBACK]
We now go, to Cul-De-Sac Chapters:
There is a figure playing the number game. If you answer by the fifth ring they win. There is a figure, whose nails are catching on the edge of buttons in a phone booth; the pound key sticking and stubbornly jutting out and upwards, spit pooling on the concrete slab beneath their feet.
This is the game: they call, you answer.
They call and you get to the phone in time.
That is if you are the right you, they’re just pressing every possible combination of phone numbers in ascending order, after all. So far, they’re up to the prefix 72. Time seems to have more kinks in it lately, more edges to fall into. They’re not sure how long they have been standing there but they know they’re- very sorry. They never meant to leave your world so small. [DIAL TONE FADING IN] They know sometimes the days stretch out before you and they seem cavernous and gnaw at the coldness in the pit of your stomach; it wasn’t supposed to be like this. [DIAL TONE ENDING] The dial tone rings out. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. There is a figure playing the numbers game and all they want is to come home.
[CHIMES]
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[CHIMES]
Life, listeners, is hard. Life is the hardest thing you’ll ever do. You know, there are many beautiful things in the world. There are many beautiful things that you may not have the energy to appreciate or to feel anything towards at all.
But one good thing? One is enough. One is- good.
So think of one good thing that’s happened. Maybe you saw a bird, or you made a cup of soup, or there was a rock that fits perfectly into a small hole at the back of your home. One good thing. My one good thing is that my cat meowed at me tonight while I was reading the tea-leaves. Her tiny voice sounding like she too wanted to read about political affairs, and in that moment I felt unity. There is a quiet warmth that comes with not feeling alone. And it- it was nice. Sometimes one good thing is just the right amount.
Speaking of good things, we’ve almost reached the end of our time together and you know what that means: it’s time for confessions.
It’s time to unhinge the meat of your jaw, reach in with long hands, drag the words from the back of your twitching throat and throw them down on the table like a particularly underwhelming hand of poker. It’s time to let it all out. It’s time; to confess. As always, feel free to shout your own confessions into the night, we are after all in this together.
A man, let’s call him Henry, is sitting in his car, hands wrapped around the steering wheel as the radio sings out a sad little song and everything smells like rot. Henry goes down to the lake and throws a suitcase into the water. He doesn’t stay to watch the wet gurgles popping on the surface as it falls down, murky water flooding its insides. He drives home. The drive- not too long, not too short- is quiet. His hands maneuver his car with the practised familiarity of any bends or inclines. He doesn’t turn on the radio this time. Henry lays in his bed- their bed- his bed- it’s hard to transverse the landscape of ownership anymore, and he feels a waterlogged body slide in behind him.
“Hello, sweetheart.” He says. Hello, hello. Is that the best you’ve got? “You can’t keep doing this,” he says, “You’re not supposed to be here.”
The mattress squelches as they move against his back, rearranging lichen covered limbs. Rusted shirt buttons crumble between them. Great, now the sheets are wet, they’ll never dry in this weather; it’s been raining for days. It’s been raining a lot lately.
He wants to say “Every time you show up you just cause problems” but what comes out instead is “Stay. Jesus Christ, just stay. Just for tonight. I promise I won’t tell anyone.”
In the morning Henry wakes up, damp clothes wrapped over and around his back, covering him like a blanket. He turns to face the door and sees still evaporating footprints on the carpet leading towards the bed. This makes Henry smile. He slides his hand beneath the pillows and pulls out the clump of wet pulp and grit he has come to expect. Molluscs; two scallops and one snail, to be exact. Their bodies are ground into a paste, pieces of shell severing and jutting into a visceral mass. Gifts. Remnants. This does not make Henry smile. This is what you get when a romantic dies; an empty bed and a pound of flesh. Henry sighs, pushes his body out of the sheets and walks over to the wardrobe, the one they bought together. He pulls down the suitcase from the top shelf as he has done every morning for the past three months. They were always insistent on putting things back in their place. The blood stains never seem to wash out from the lining, no matter how saturated it gets.
Placing the suitcase on his bed- their bed- he folds the clothes and nestles them around the rocks inside; making sure the latch is closed he showers and dresses. By which I mean he stands in his bathroom as the idea of seeing the water roll off his skin sours his stomach like curdled milk. He walks back into the bedroom instead. It’s fine, he’s already gotten used to the smell. He changes into a T-shirt but it fits him all wrong, hanging loose off his shoulders. He fights for a very few long moments, not to cry. He hates this.
Henry picks up the suitcase and leaves his home -their home- in a car he thought he would have sold years ago. He drives out to the lake. He has made the drive many, many times before. His breaks squeak a little as he parks but that’s okay. He decides to turn on the radio, they always liked the radio, and wraps his hands around the steering wheel so they stop shaking. He will throw the suitcase into the lake in a minute, he thinks to himself, but he knows he’ll stay there until night. He always does. Rot drifts out through the vents and the radio sings out the first strings of a sad little song.
[TAPE WHIRR AND FEEDBACK]
From This Is Cheaper Than Therapy, tonight’s goodnight goes out to the man putting up lights for his daughter’s birthday. Goodnight.
[STATIC AND THE SOUND OF RADIO STATIONS BEING FLIPPED THROUGH]
This Is Cheaper Than Therapy is written and mixed by Eloise Archer, and edited by Paul Grealish who also voices The Narrator. Both are producers. Like the show? Follow us on Twitter @ThisIsCTT for transcripts, extras not in the show, and more. From both of us here at This Is Cheaper Than Therapy, it’s gonna be okay.
©Eloise Archer