Jon is hanging out in my room: graytones at night.
I’m hanging out with mobsters. They don’t like my red boots; I play nonchalant anyway. The godfather has barefeet and I tell him how the red of his feet match my boots. This is a preshow appetizer party.
The play takes place in a restaurant. All the tables are cleared and it’s a large restaurant with a second story of tables lining the wall. I know the director; she resembles Sigourney Weaver and my sociology professor; I know some of the dancers. The audience is sparse. I’m taken by the music, or perhaps I’m jealous for attention, and seat myself in the middle stage in the middle of the room. The director tells me with vehemence I don’t belong in the play.
I go downstairs. There is no audience for this play but me. A mobster is acting. He’s on the phone with someone. The phone tells him to ship the jeweled chessboard he has. The mobster has a twinge of conscious; he doesn’t like its nefarious business. He smashes the board mildly over and over again into bits while he’s on the phone. There is some miscommunication; perhaps the board wasn’t worth so much anyway. Young women dance here as part of the play too.