Searchlight greets the audience like a hot yellow hand: love and law partners, Catholic girls in mustard uniform, their chaperones curling Playbills to binoculars. When illumination finds a politician in your section the audience jeers at tall water, FEMA, Army Corps of Engineers. Malice is your second attitude. What you first notice is that Condi looks dead on you.
Not just the way all women share a rue lip in public. She has your fat hooded eyes, sparse brows. Your kinks, hydroxide straight; hers, a placid bayou. Right there on Condi your mother's cellophane throat, Vicks and varicose slicked. Inside Condi is there a trying Alzheimer’s heart? When the audience boos, are they booing your mother?
The emerald curtain peels for a Scandinavian village set. You can’t read her face in the black, but you pray she’s joyed. This scene: crude men lashing women with small halibut. Laughter troubles the chest, a convulsed ward hurling sound and wind to keep you hysteric. Condi is a similar lung-pillaged city, as the women fetch grown fish to fight back.