THE MISADVENTURES OF CAP’N ASTROLABE.

 

THE MISADVENTURES OF CAP’N ASTROLABE

A Windy City Tenement Farce in Four Scenes

By Benjamin Gavarre

THE MISADVENTURES OF CAP’N ASTROLABE. © 2026 by BENJAMIN GAVARRE is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0

GAVARREUNAM@GMAIL.COM

 

Introduction: Asphalt Picaresque and the Metaphysics of the Cockroach

The Misadventures of Cap’n Astrolabe collides Golden Age Spanish picaresque, gritty storefront vaudeville, and the grotesque visual punch of 1970s underground comix (R. Crumb, American Splendor). Set in 1999 Chicago right at the dawn of gentrification, the farce unfolds beneath the monstrous "Viaduct Hump," where the sixty-five-year-old Maxwell Street junk peddler Cap’n Astrolabe—a former tugboat latrine-scrubber who calls himself "the Terror of the Ports"—battles debts, chest spasms, and his own spectral double ("The Hood") armed only with raw-egg hoodoo, baking soda, and shameless nerve. When neither Heaven nor Hell texts his prepaid Nokia back, Astrolabe reaches the ultimate cockroach epiphany: no gods or demons are pulling the strings, meaning every survival trick and romantic conquest he’s pulled off is 100% his own hustle.

Synopsis by Acts

• Act One (The Spell of the Raw Egg): Under the Viaduct Hump, Astrolabe gulps a raw egg with baking soda to ward off bad luck, triggering violent chest cramps and a blistering verbal duel with his nosy upstairs neighbor, Mrs. Slippers.
• Act Two (The Interrogation from Beyond): At the corner bodega, Astrolabe flashes a found fifty-dollar bill before being cornered by his sea-weedy ghostly double, The Hood, who demands his soul—prompting Astrolabe to rip up the infernal contract thinking it’s a cheap neighborhood shakedown.
• Act Three (Eggnog and Soap Bubbles): Believing himself saved by grace, Astrolabe sweet-talks Mrs. Slippers out of her hidden almond eggnog (breaking her cot in the process) and nearly scores a private bubble-bath rehearsal with bohemian diva Margot before chest pains knock him flat.
• Act Four (The Epiphany of the Cockroach): After surviving a fever-dream trial, Astrolabe realizes his "heart attack" is just trapped baking-soda gas and his ghost is merely his own fear; he steals The Hood’s lit pipe, puts the phantom to work pushing his shopping cart, and struts off into the sunset with both women on his arms.

Characters

• CAP’N ASTROLABE (Robert "Robbie" Hood, 65): Maxwell Street flea-market junk peddler, pathological liar, and former tugboat toilet-scrubber who claims to be "the Captain’s Right-Hand Man" and "the Terror of the Ports." He pushes a stolen Jewel-Osco cart, chases trans dockside sirens and neighborhood divas alike, and constantly fusses with an unlit pipe.
• MRS. SLIPPERS (Eudoxia, 68): Nosy upstairs busybody with a brassy South Side tenement rasp and a monumental, lopsided "crow’s-nest" beehive wig. She hears everything, charges for everything, and hides a bottle of spiked almond eggnog for gallant visitors.
• BIG RED PROCOPIO (65): Portly, ginger-haired owner of the Hope Dies Last Deli & Grill, forever clutching a plastic utility bucket while swatting roaches with a rolled-up newspaper. He feeds Astrolabe green-rimmed ham on credit and pines jealously for Margot.
• THE HOOD (Mr. Robert / "Robbie", 50–65): Astrolabe’s spectral double, visible and audible only to him. He dresses identically to the old sailor, but encrusted with blue-green lakeweed and barnacles, puffing a long, billowing pipe.
• MARGOT DE LA FONTAINE (50): Temperamental former storefront-theater diva who waits tables sporadically at Big Red’s deli after burning bridges with her old troupe. She is Astrolabe’s great crush and prepares her avant-garde comeback naked in a clawfoot tub of soap bubbles.
• "ROMEO" (Mentioned, never appears): Pathetic neighborhood shakedown artist on a squeaky bicycle, still trying to collect street tax for an outfit boss who got whacked years ago.

Setting The cobblestoned courtyard of a crumbling red-brick tenement between Pilsen and Wicker Park (Chicago, 1999), merging on Stage Left with the Formica counter of the Hope Dies Last bodega. Towering overhead like a frozen tsunami wave is the rusted steel and concrete arch of The Viaduct Hump, all rendered in the vibrant, gritty palette of a 1970s underground comic book.

ACT ONE: THE SPELL OF THE RAW EGG AND THE TERROR OF THE PORTS

SCENE 1

(As the streetlamp flickers on with an electric-blue spark, ASTROLABE enters pushing a stolen Jewel-Osco shopping cart with a bent wheel that screeches shamelessly. Tied inside the cart with clothesline are: an armless plastic mannequin, a fishing net, an empty birdcage, several moth-eaten feathered fedoras, two or three bug-eyed papier-mâché puppet heads, a pair of peeling pro-wrestling masks, colorful feather dusters, a dented brass astrolabe about to fall off… and whatever other junk he’s fished out of the alleys to resell. He whistles a slow, smoky Gulf Coast rhumba-blues. Spotting the audience, he slams the brakes on the cart, lets go of the handle, and ducks behind a stone pillar. He peeks out, dusts off his striped sailor shirt, tries unsuccessfully to light his pipe, and grabs the cart handle again.)

 

ASTROLABE: (To the audience, cutting off any criticism before it starts.) Me and my big mouth, yes sir—what’s the point of hiding if you already spotted me! Just feast your eyes on this four-wheeled vessel I commandeered from the Jewel-Osco parking lot… I mean, donated to me by the Merchant Marine for valor in combat! This net hanging off the mannequin right here is the very rigging I used to catch the black hammerhead shark alive, and this beauty right here (pulls out a dented brass wheel) is my presentation astrolabe: handed to me with a full brass band for fifty straight years of service aboard the training cutter… Because even if I look a little weather-beaten today, I was the Captain’s very own Right-Hand Man… and the Terror of the Ports! Yes, sir, the absolute Terror of the Ports, because every port I stepped into wearing my genuine seal-skin boots was a port where not a single gal was left without a sigh in her bosom… I know the secrets of the deep sea, which is why right here and now I’m gonna lay down my hoodoo spells against foul tides, the evil eye, love binds so a certain lady finally hands over her ticker… and the hexes of the sirens.

 

(From between the wrestling masks he pulls out a couple of raw chicken eggs, a tall glass prayer-candle jar half-full of questionable water, and a little yellow box of Arm & Hammer baking soda. He eyes the audience mysteriously.)

 

ASTROLABE: (To the audience.) Watch closely how high Gulf Coast hoodoo is worked—don't go thinking this is some Maxwell Street flea-market hocus-pocus… First, you rub the bad air right out of your aura with the egg… (He rubs the egg across his forehead and the back of his neck, grimacing in pain.) Oof, Lord have mercy, feel how it sucks up the neighbors’ envy! Now we crack a little porthole in the shell to peek into the Great Beyond… (He taps a tiny hole in the tip of the egg, presses it to his eye like a watchmaker’s monocle, and leaps backward.) Sweet Mother of Shipwrecks! It’s staring right back at me! A slit opened up inside the yolk and it’s baring a mouthful of teeth! Well, before it lunges for my jugular—down the hatch!

 

(He tips his head back toward the streetlamp, dumps the raw egg straight down his throat, gargles loudly, and swallows it whole. Instantly, a ferocious attack of hiccups racks his entire body.)

 

ASTROLABE: Hic! Oh, son of a gun, it was still wriggling! Hic! Caught right in the hatchway! (He fumbles blindly in the shopping cart and grabs the baking soda.) To calm the raging tide—white foam powder! (He dumps a fistful of baking soda into his mouth, takes a swig from the candle jar, and starts foaming white at the lips like a rabid dog while swishing it around. He swallows with a superhuman effort, throws his arms wide, trembling, and lets out a monumental sigh.) Ahhhhhh! (He clutches the left side of his chest with a fleeting grimace.) Oof… gave me a cramp right in the breastbone from sheer spiritual voltage…

SCENE 2

(A high second-floor window flies open with a bang. Out leans MRS. SLIPPERS with her crow’s-nest beehive wig tilted sideways, propping her elbows on the iron railing beside her galvanized washboard sink.)

 

MRS. SLIPPERS: Hey, Dry-Dock Popeye! Quit making a pigsty down there with that swamp voodoo—this is a respectable Chicago courtyard, not the bayou! Look at you, tracking bad juju all over the cobblestones and swilling Lord knows what kind of sinful rotgut till you’re hiccuping and foaming like you’re about to throw a fit… Get your tail upstairs and unclog my kitchen drain! You’ve had me up to my neck in greasy dishwater since Tuesday!

 

ASTROLABE: (Looking up at her without stopping as he packs his trinkets back into the cart.) Oh, Mrs. Slippers… lower your voice, for dark days are upon us! I just read terrible omens in the glass: the egg turned into a live alligator gar… a baby one, sure, but I swallowed it whole and that’s what gave me the hiccups… (Hic!) And I’m warning you right now, if the October rains keep coming, this whole block is gonna flood and you won't need your pipes fixed at all, because the river’s gonna crest right over the Viaduct Hump and turn this neighborhood back into Lake Michigan! Me, having served as the Captain’s Right-Hand Man on the cutter, I’ll just do the breaststroke and save myself—but what about you folks, who can’t even cross Western Avenue without getting flattened by a bus?

 

MRS. SLIPPERS: Captain’s Right-Hand Man my left buttock, Cap’n Astrolabe! Folks from down south already told the whole block that on that tugboat you never got past peeling potatoes in the bilge and poking out the crew’s toilets with a coat hanger—which is the only reason I’m calling you for my kitchen sink, 'cause it’s the only thing you hold a diploma in! Nothing but bad omens and hocus-pocus to worm out of honest work, when we never flood down here and the canal’s behind concrete walls… So park that stolen grocery cart full of decapitated doll heads and get up here to my sink, 'cause that’s the only thing overflowing its banks with yesterday’s chop suey!

 

ASTROLABE: (With supreme dignity, thumping his chest.) You don't know the first thing about naval ranks or anything else, madam! The only real bad omen around here is sitting right on top of your skull—that crooked crow’s nest you call a hairdo is enough to scare Lucifer’s own ghosts back into the pit every time you poke your head out. Still, ungrateful as you are, I’ll share a pinch of my spells against the foul October waters that try our patience and flood the alleys.

 

MRS. SLIPPERS: What spells are you gonna share when you don't know jack squat about magic! All you ever do is look for somebody to mooch off of… I already saw you wheedling another ham sub on credit out of Big Red Procopio and then hitting up that washed-up stage actress Margot for spare change. You do know the ham Big Red feeds you is the slimy green stuff from the bottom of the meat case, don't you? It’s a miracle you haven't croaked from the bellyaches that have you squealing like a stuck pig at three in the morning! Or are those love groans for acertain storefront diva who wouldn't spit on you if you were on fire? Hey, don't play deaf with me! Are you coming up to snake my drain or do I call "Romeo"?

 

ASTROLABE: (Barking out a mocking laugh.) "Romeo"? Ha! That miserable protection-racket punk has about as much Romeo in him as you have natural blonde roots! The man’s uglier than a blind mule’s backside before breakfast, pedaling around on a rusted bike that squeaks louder than my shopping cart… And just so you know: down on the docks they called me "the Terror of the Ports," and when it comes to prime ham, I get plenty of it from the gals down under the Cicero Avenue viaduct—not quite as meaty as the girls on the Galveston boardwalk, maybe, but twice as sturdy! Call your "Romeo" if you want—let’s see if he doesn't charge you street tax, snake your pipes, and take you for a spin on that rusty cot of yours that squeaks all night long, even if nobody else in the building has the nerve to mention it, ma'am!

 

MRS. SLIPPERS: (Cackling from the balcony.) Oh, sure, "the Terror of the Ports"! They only called you the Terror because the second you pulled off your boots the stench was so terrifying every woman in the tavern bolted for the fire exit, you delusional old goat—you don't even know what the word means! And those girls down on Cicero Avenue are gonna leave you walking bow-legged for a month, 'cause they’ll flip you over and give you what-for; let’s see how much your hoodoo charms help you when you find out they’re packing a bigger nightstick than a beat cop… Or maybe you’re already used to that, huh? Because down on the Gulf docks plenty of 'em come with a beak and a baritone voice too, and the whole neighborhood knows those are your favorite flavor, no matter how innocent you play… And my cot does not squeak—at least I’ve got a bed to sleep in, you bilge-water Popeye!

 

(She slams the wooden shutters closed with a dry bang: clack-clack-slam!)

 

ASTROLABE: (To the audience, shuddering with a nervous tic in his eye.) She just put the hex on me—did you see that?! Right out of that rat’s nest on her head, two black crow eyes shot out and flew straight down at me… And me, like an idiot, forgetting to wear my amulet against bitter old bats today! Plus slandering me over the sirens of Cicero Avenue… (In a roguish stage whisper to the audience.) So what if they wear a men’s size eleven and have linebacker shoulders, right? Out on the high seas and in dim lighting, a good sailor doesn't inspect the keel—he just hoists the sail and steers! Damn witch, next time "Romeo" pedals by on his squeaky little Schwinn I hope he charges her roof tax, because that old battle-axe just hit me with the curse of the black crow… and a lame one at that, which is the meanest son of a bitch in the flock! (He clutches his left arm and winces.) Ow, Lord… gave me another sharp yank right down the portside wing from sheer aggravation…

ACT TWO: THE "HOPE DIES LAST" CORNER DELI AND THE INTERROGATION FROM BEYOND

SCENE 1

(Warm, reddish light comes up on Stage Left, illuminating the counter of the corner bodega and grill, "Hope Dies Last." From a tinny radio speaker, Big Red plays a brassy Gulf Coast rhumba-blues while swatting cockroaches along the corners of the counter with dry whacks of a rolled-up newspaper, never letting go of his eternal plastic bucket with his other hand. ASTROLABE parks his shopping cart to one side and performs a bizarre ritual outside the shop before entering: he spins around throwing elaborate street-corner gang handshakes and finger-snaps at an invisible homie, doing it deadpan as mystic passes against restless spirits.)

 

BIG RED PROCOPIO: (Bringing the rolled-up newspaper down hard on the Formica.) Take that, you freeloading bastard, see if you keep eating on the house! They look like blood relatives of yours, Astro: the second they see me unscrew the lid on the pickled pig’s feet jar, they come crawling right up the floor drains. You gonna want your ham sub…? Did it sit okay last time? I can see that you, just like the roaches, survive anything… Today I’ve got some sun-baked Kaiser rolls I can let go for free; hard as shoe leather, sure, but I can nuke 'em in the microwave… just hope it doesn't stir up that stray-dog pee smell from the plate I heated up yesterday.

 

ASTROLABE: With the royal treatment you give me, Big Red, the day an evil spirit finally drags me off, it’s gonna feel like a vacation, believe me. But today I’m carrying real legal tender, Mr. Procopio. (He pulls out a crisp fifty-dollar bill and flashes it proudly.) Pour me an ice-cold forty; I barely made it up the Viaduct Hump pushing my cart today—my chest was whistling like a rusty tea kettle—but here I stand… Made fifty bucks posing as a figure model for some bed-and-breakfast hipsters who just moved into those converted lofts over on Milwaukee Avenue… said I looked "authentic and picturesque," like the grizzled old sea dog I was back when I was the Terror of the Ports. Too bad those gentrified yuppies are even tighter with a buck than you are, or I’d have charged 'em a hundred.

 

(BIG RED cracks open a forty-ounce bottle of malt liquor and pours a glass. ASTROLABE turns toward the audience, shielding his mouth with the back of his hand.)

 

ASTROLABE: (To the audience.) That whole story about the hipsters is pure bull, don't listen to me… I found the fifty-spot lying by the storm grate right when I came face-to-face with my double… the phantom sailor of the deep abyss. Brother, I can still feel the frost up my spine!

SCENE 2

(The background lighting shifts to a sickly, spectral green. BIG RED PROCOPIO ducks down behind the counter to restock his reach-in cooler and the lower shelves, completely out of sight of the courtyard. Walking in backward before spinning around sharply comes THE HOOD. He is dressed identically to ASTROLABE, except his entire outfit appears draped in blue-green kelp and zebra mussels, and his striped shirt bears woodcut motifs of the Mare Tenebrosum from ancient manuals. He holds another pipe, far longer and more extravagant, billowing thick smoke.)

 

THE HOOD: (Leaning an elbow on the counter right beside Astrolabe, grinning from ear to ear.) What’s shakin’, Old Compass? More devils loose on the streets than mortals tonight, ain't that right?

 

ASTROLABE: (Jumping so hard he nearly spills his glass.) Every last one of 'em sliding down the mainmast! (To the audience, pointing a trembling finger at him.) Look at him! Didn't I tell you I wasn't crazy?! The very demon sailor of the ocean floor! Barnacles are practically sprouting out of his collar, and that drunken-octopus smirk is frozen right onto his mug!

 

THE HOOD: Listen here… I know your type inside and out. Everywhere you go, you leave a trail of sour dishwater and vintage alley-pee. You sleep down in the Viaduct storm drains or come sneaking around here to crash on the floor of whoever’s foolish enough to let you in.

 

ASTROLABE: (Half terrified, half insulted.) I lay my head wherever I damn well please, and if I score a warm featherbed, that’s my own business—I’ve got my charms, they didn't call me the Terror of the Ports for nothing… Right here in this building, the great stage actress Margot de la Fontaine lets me graze in her pasture, and Big Red Procopio feeds me the finest delicacies, fresh every morning. Just look here: I earned fifty honest dollars today because I’m a first-class merchant.

 

THE HOOD: (Pulls out a mildewed ledger and scribbles in it.) Breach of trust, shameless pandering, impersonation of a naval officer—seeing as on that tugboat you never rose above scrubbing the bosun’s chamber pots—spreading syphilis and other venereal nostalgias among ladies of questionable anatomy… Just what size mattress did you say you perform these maneuvers on?

 

ASTROLABE: A little springy in the middle, I won't lie to you, and truth be told, Margot kicks like a mule in her sleep, so I always end up slipping out early to watch the sunrise from the top of the Viaduct Hump… (He looks at the audience and then at The Hood, softening his voice.) Have you ever seen it? You get the whole wide-open view facing east toward the lake, like they built that big concrete hump for no other reason than to watch the sun climb up through the trolley wires… And of course, come evening… the sunset is just as grand…

 

THE HOOD: (With a crooked, mocking smile.) Well, listen to the poet laureate of the gutter… So springy mattresses aren't quite to your liking. Me, I’d be a lot more worried about that stolen Jewel-Osco shopping cart full of contraband you left parked out there in the courtyard, you know? I just impounded it for multiple municipal code violations, and I’m only gonna charge you that fifty-dollar bill you claim to have on you so I don't have to tack any more counts onto your administrative rap sheet…

 

ASTROLABE: Hey, don't get greedy! That cart with my wrestling masks and my puppet heads is my livelihood, and you got no business saying I broke the law! I’ve always been a sailor sworn to duty, the Captain’s Right-Hand Man… And you, of all people, oughta know it, because you’re the spitting image of me: you are me and I am you! Except you’re a lowdown demon from the pit trying to twist my spirit and swipe the share of my soul that belongs to me!

 

THE HOOD: (Unfazed, tapping his long pipe.) Hah… Speaking of the impounded merchandise in that shopping cart, there are a few items in there that could land you in even hotter water… Underneath the Blue Demon mask, inspectors recovered three crow’s-nest beehive wigs reported stolen to the precinct detective by the slipper-wearing lady on the second floor.

 

ASTROLABE: I take zero responsibility for the old lady’s crow nests! Some Good Samaritan did her a public service and plucked 'em off the clothesline while she wasn't looking—and did the Lord’s work, too, though apparently the old bat owns a whole warehouse of 'em… (He feels a sudden choking tightness, clutches the collar of his shirt, and spins toward the counter.) Big Red! Pour me a double of that sandpaper moonshine of yours, quick, I feel my voice giving out! And that ain't the half of it—my feet just went numb, my hands are asleep, and I’m about to lose my… my gaiters!

 

(The instant ASTROLABE turns to call Big Red, THE HOOD slips like a shadow into the dark corner. BIG RED PROCOPIO rises from behind the counter holding a dusty gallon jug of cloudy moonshine, moving as if in a dream.)

 

BIG RED PROCOPIO: Tonight you’ve earned a shot of my private reserve for neo-mutants who can stomach my daily specials and outlive the cockroaches. Mazel tov, neighbor.

 

ASTROLABE: (Spins back around and sees empty air. His raised arm freezes. He stammers to the audience.) Holy black skulls of the ancient gris-gris! The double vanished into thin air! (He pats down his own body in sheer terror.) He must’ve crawled inside me through some unholy orifice! I ain't just me anymore, Big Red—I’m me with my double stuffed inside me!

 

BIG RED PROCOPIO: Oh, sure, Astrolabe… You haven't even taken a sip yet and you’re already seeing double…

 

ASTROLABE: (Starts swatting wildly at himself to shake off the ghost and accidentally catches Big Red with a couple of solid open-handed slaps.) What if I turn into a slab of lake bottom, a two-legged barnacle, a sewer crab?! All these years hiding out in Chicago behind the Viaduct Hump for nothing! The Hood from the deep abyss has got me, Big Red—I’m gonna die cursed, the bottom of the sea won't hold me, I’m gonna roast in the fires of Hell!

 

BIG RED PROCOPIO: (Terrified, shielding his head with his plastic bucket.) He’s finally lost his marbles for good! Don't you come around here no more—the free handouts and the drinks are over! You’re out of your mind and I want you out of my sight!

 

(BIG RED bolts into the back room without looking back and slams the door behind him. THE HOOD saunters casually out of the dark corner.)

 

THE HOOD: Looks like you just soiled your long johns, my lost little compass.

 

ASTROLABE: (Crossing himself frantically and throwing wild hoodoo hand signs.) I am not you, you are not me, you counterfeit devil, you AWOL soul from Purgatory! Who let you off the leash?! Crawl back to the abyss where you belong, demon!

 

THE HOOD: You still don't get it, do you… The pile-up of crooked stunts, tall tales, double-crosses, and disorderly conduct of every stripe has reached the end of the line… You can pay me in cash or you can work for me—that’s entirely up to you… (He holds out a yellow sheet of paper.) Look here: this contract says you agree to work for me in exchange for me not dragging you down to Hell; or else… if you don't sign, I’ll drag you to Hell anyway, whereas if you sign on the dotted line and kick up my cut every time I come around, you get to stay right here in this… charming establishment.

 

ASTROLABE: (Takes the yellow paper with trembling hands. Reads aloud.) "Mr. Robert Hood… Chief Treasurer in charge of collecting administrative infractions committed with malice aforethought and aggravated hustle… The undersigned must sign this slip of paper, or face fatal and demonic consequences…" (He perks up his ears, eyes the audience with streetwise cunning, and rips the yellow paper into a thousand pieces.) Ha! You think I was born yesterday?! I just put two and two together! You’re no spirit of the seven seas—you’re a two-bit flunky sent by "Romeo," that punk who’s uglier than a mule’s backside and goes around shaking down the neighborhood for street tax! Or are you freelancing on your own now to see who’s dumb enough to fall for it? Why don't you try shaking down Big Red, huh? Oh, I know why—because Big Red already pays protection to the new outfit bosses, and those guys don't even know you or "Romeo" exist, 'cause your old boss got whacked and left you clowns out in the cold! So now you’re prowling the alleys trying to hustle working folks out of twenty bucks—or fifty, like you just tried on me! Give me back my shopping cart and my property right now!

 

THE HOOD: (In a split second, his face transforms into a mask of ancient sorrow and infinite exhaustion; he speaks in a deep, bone-chilling voice.) You don't seem to understand me, ASTROLABE… THIS REFUSAL WILL HAVE CONSEQUENCES… You have spent your entire life calling on protective spirits to ward off bad omens; that string of dime-store spells you’ve been casting has kept you afloat until now, but everything carries a price, and we have decided to cut off your protection. You have crossed the line, and by tearing up this document, you have declared war on us—so brace yourself for what’s coming… Astrolabe… That battered tin gadget of yours won't do you a lick of good in the sea of calamities you’ve sailed yourself into all on your own, my dear double…

 

(THE HOOD vanishes in a puff of greenish smoke. The fifty-dollar bill on the counter has vanished with him.)

 

ASTROLABE: (Left alone, gasping for breath, staring at the shredded yellow paper on the floor. He speaks half to himself, half to the audience.) Too many spells…? There’s no such thing as too many spells… only as many as it takes to feel safe… Who am I supposed to call on now…? Maybe if I appeal to the powers upstairs… to the Good Lord Above, whom I’ve neglected so badly, to the Blessed Virgin, who forgives everything… I’ve beenwalking the borderlines of sin for a long time, and sure enough, sin always brings the bill to the table… (He looks up at the sky.) Dear Lord, hear me out, I’m your humblest servant, I’m practically as pure and innocent as the little lamb at the feet of Mother Mary! Pay attention to me, Lord, give me a sign… send down a little cherub! How about a text message…? Nothing…? (He pats his pockets frantically and turns to the audience in horror.) Oh, what a moron—my cell phone was sitting right inside the shopping cart with the rest of my stuff! Damn you to hell, you thieving Hood, you boosted my Nokia too! Now if the Good Lord calls me, how am I supposed to know He rang, and worse yet, how am I supposed to text Him back?! What if I leave the Almighty on read and He gets pissed off at me?! Ahhh, my stuff, where’s my stuff…!

 

(He runs out across the courtyard, clutching his chest.)

ACT THREE: THE MIRACLE OF THE ALMOND EGGNOG AND THE VENUS OF THE BUBBLES

SCENE 1

(Bright, cheerful Sunday-comics morning light comes up. Sitting right in the middle of the courtyard is the stolen Jewel-Osco shopping cart with all of ASTROLABE’s belongings intact: the armless mannequin, the puppet heads, the wrestling masks, the feathered fedoras, and the empty birdcage. ASTROLABE enters, still pale with fright; spotting his cart, he leaps for joy, rushes over to hug the handlebar, and fishes his beat-up Nokia brick phone out from between the puppet heads.)

 

ASTROLABE: (To the audience, beaming.) Would you look at that! My flagship, completely intact! Here are my puppet heads, my Masked Marvel hood, my one-eyed blender, and my phone! (He checks the little green screen.) Not a single missed call from the Great Beyond! You see how the whole thing was just a nasty nightmare from gulping down that raw egg with the alligator-gar eyes? The baking soda short-circuited my brainpan and made me dream up that ghost named Robert! But those days are over! The Man Upstairs gave me a second chance, and starting right this minute I’m turning into a clean-living gentleman—no hoodoo, no tall tales, and no brawls… Well, maybe a tiny white lie here and there just to keep my style sharp, right? Because if a man tells the God’s honest truth all day long, nobody ever buys him a cold drink.

 

(The second-floor door opens and MRS. SLIPPERS comes down the exterior stairs into the courtyard. She is now wearing a different crow’s-nest beehive wig—canary yellow with purple streaks, looking like a birthday piñata, and sitting just as crooked as the black one. ASTROLABE plucks an old feathered fedora from his cart, sweeps it onto his head with flair, and executes a deep, courtly bow.)

 

ASTROLABE: Blessed be the sun that climbs over the Viaduct Hump to shine upon such splendor! A very good morning to you, Miss Eudoxia! Allow me to say, with all the respect of an old sea dog, that with that wig… I mean, with that radiant new bird-of-paradise coiffure, you look just like a French movie star.

 

MRS. SLIPPERS: (Stops dead on the stairs; first squints suspiciously, then puts a hand to her bosom and pats her yellow nest, suddenly bashful.) Why, Cap’n Astrolabe…! Whatever bit you this morning that you woke up so polite and not spitting white foam like a bullfrog? You’re practically making me blush, mister…

 

ASTROLABE: I woke up renewed by heavenly grace today, Mrs. Slippers… I mean, Miss Eudoxia. I’ve put bad omens behind me, and I come before you like a cavalier of old to beg your pardon for my coarse language yesterday—and to snake that kitchen drain of yours without charging you a red cent.

 

MRS. SLIPPERS: (Comes down the last few steps swaying her hips, thoroughly charmed.) Well, look at that turnaround… Now that’s how the Merchant Marine oughta act. Since you’re so willing and so gallant this morning, I certainly can’t put you to work on an empty stomach. Step inside my apartment for a minute and have a nice hot cup of chamomile tea before you tackle that sink.

 

ASTROLABE: (Stepping close to her with a roguish gleam in his eye and a honeyed voice.) Chamomile tea is for invalids with sour stomachs, my dear lady… And today I’m fit as a fiddle with full steam in the boilers. If you truly wish to offer me something worthy of your hospitality, why don't you pour us two little glasses of that rich, creamy almond eggnog you keep tucked away upstairs behind the porcelain soup tureen…

 

MRS. SLIPPERS: (Her eyes go wide and she gives him a flirtatious swat on the shoulder.) Lord have mercy! And how in the devil’s name do you know I’ve got that spiced eggnog hidden away when I haven't even offered a drop to the parish priest?! You’re giving me the shivers, you sneaky old warlock! Still, what the heck—what’s life for if not to treat yourself once in a while… Get on upstairs, my "Terror of the Ports," let’s see if you still remember how to navigate deep water!

 

ASTROLABE: (To the audience, winking broadly as he climbs the stairs behind her.) What did I tell you? Without casting a single spell! Just say something sweet about the rat’s nest on her head and she breaks out the holiday eggnog! Wish me luck, boys—I’m sailing into uncharted harbor without a life preserver!

 

(Both enter MRS. SLIPPERS’s upstairs apartment and the door shuts behind them.)

SCENE 2

(The courtyard remains empty for a few moments. Suddenly, from the second floor come festive giggles from MRS. SLIPPERS, the pop of a cork, and immediately afterward a furious, rhythmic, unhinged screeching of rusty bedsprings: squeak-clank-squeak-clank-CRACK!, followed by a triumphant shout from Astrolabe: "Land hoooo!" The upstairs door flies open and out stumbles ASTROLABE tying the clothesline rope of his trousers, his hair standing on end, his neck covered in bright red lipstick kisses, and sporting a yellow mustache of almond eggnog. He starts down the stairs strutting like a peacock, but halfway down he freezes dead in his tracks: his grin vanishes, his eyes bulge in terror, he clutches both hands to his chest, and doubles over as if harpooned.)

 

ASTROLABE: (Dragging himself down the last few steps, gasping heavily, whispering to the audience in a cold sweat.) Ohhh, sweet mother of pearl…! Hold on, hold on, the big one’s really hitting me now! (He clutches his left arm and his jaw, breathing with a hoarse whistle.) My whole portside flipper just locked up and it feels like Big Red Procopio parked his fat butt right on my chest, plastic bucket and all! Oh, Good Lord Above, don't do me dirty like this—I just started behaving myself and you’re already cutting off my oxygen supply?! What did Old Lady Slippers put in that eggnog, convent cyanide?! And the way that cot squeaked—sounded like a sugar-cane crusher, the woman nearly cracked my ribs in half! (He tries to straighten up, gulping air like a carp on a pier.) Easy, Astrolabe, easy, breathe deep—a sailor off the training cutter doesn't drown in the middle of a tenement courtyard…

 

(At that exact moment, MARGOT DE LA FONTAINE enters the courtyard wearing a billowing, extravagant tunic—like a Greek tragedy costume dug out of a Maxwell Street bargain bin—and a silk turban on her head. ASTROLABE, though ashen-faced and clutching his stiff left hand against his chest, makes a superhuman effort to puff out his chest and flash her a silent-movie Valentino smile.)

 

MARGOT: (Stopping in front of him with a sweeping theatrical gesture.) What do my eyes, so weary of everyday vulgarity, behold?! Cap’n Astrolabe! You look positively uncanny today… Your face is the color of volcanic ash and your lip is trembling like an autumn leaf in the gale, yet you wear a smile of absolute beatitude… Even if you reek of sacristy eggnog from ten paces away, one can see you have been touched by grace!

 

ASTROLABE: (In a strangled thread of a voice, propping himself up against the shopping cart so he doesn't keel over.) It’s… it’s the bliss of a purified spirit, my adored Margot… (He coughs and masks a stab of chest pain with a lopsided bow.) I’ve put all those old devil spells that kept me jinxed behind me… Today I am a man free of dark omens, ready for romance and the fine arts… (To the audience, in an agonized whisper.) I can’t feel my legs, boys, but in front of a lady, better dead than plain!

 

MARGOT: How marvelous to hear you speak like that, my grizzled Argonaut! Because this very day, true Art summons me once more. Tonight I have an intimate, revolutionary gala performance with an avant-garde theater collective over in a Wicker Park basement… Well, with the few members still speaking to me after I hurled the fire extinguisher at them on opening night. And I want you sitting in the very front row! At the climax of the piece, I emerge stark naked inside a clawfoot tub overflowing with soap bubbles, symbolizing the shipwreck of modernity.

 

ASTROLABE: (His eyes bug out of his skull; his heart gives another lurch that buckles his knees for a second, but he hauls himself upright by clinging to the armless mannequin.) By the nails of the Cross and the Captain’s whiskers! You… buck naked in a tub of soap bubbles in front of the whole crowd?! But Margot, light of my life, how can you expose yourself like that to the public, with all those perverts out there who don't know how to appreciate the fine curvature of your coastline?! I’m gonna have a stroke just picturing it! (And in fact, he very nearly is.)

 

MARGOT: (Loosing a crystalline, coquettish laugh.) Oh, Astrolabe, don't go getting jealous and bourgeois on me! The body is the actor’s temple… Besides, why act so scandalized? You already know me in all my splendor—remember that afternoon you told me yourself that I looked like Venus rising from the sea foam into the world?

 

ASTROLABE: (Gulping air in ragged gasps, eyes bloodshot with lust and oxygen deprivation.) The Venus of the Sea… rising out of the Ivory soap suds! Listen, my queen… seeing as we’re both so inspired today and I’m so spiritually purified… why don't we march straight up to your room right this second and you give me a private preview before the bathwater gets cold! I’ll scrub your back with my brand-new feather duster, and I swear on my mother’s grave today I’ll behave like a crowned prince…

 

MARGOT: (Looking him up and down with teasing affection.) Up to my room right now? Why, you’re three sheets to the wind, Cap’n Astrolabe—just look at how you’re swaying and how your chest is wheezing… In the state you’re in, soaked in liquor, if I let you into my bed I’ll only have to listen to you ramble for three straight hours again about the sirens of Cicero Avenue and the deep-sea marmots…

 

ASTROLABE: (Clinging to her arm, practically hanging off her to stay upright.) I swear I won't breathe half a word about the sea marmots today! Let’s go up to your room, my Venus—I feel my sand running out of the hourglass and I wanna touch the pearly gates even if it’s floating on my back! (To the audience, as he gently tugs her toward the stairs.) If the old ticker’s gonna blow a gasket, let it blow on the artist’s springy mattress and not out here on the cobblestones!

SCENE 3

(MARGOT laughs, delighted, and looks ready to give in and lead him upstairs, when at that exact instant BIG RED PROCOPIO storms out of the deli carrying his plastic bucket and a tin tray, beet-red with fury and jealousy.)

 

BIG RED PROCOPIO: Drop anchor right there, you walking shipwreck! Hey, Margot, watch who you’re tangling with! Can’t you see that dirty old hustler just crawled out of Mrs. Slippers’s bedroom with his mustache soaked in eggnog and eyes like a boiled carp?! And besides, what are you doing standing out here sweet-talking this freeloader when my sidewalk tables are thick with flies and you haven't waited a single customer all morning?! You know damn well when you’re not behind the counter I miss you so bad I burn the turnovers!

 

MARGOT: (Stopping and sighing, half flattered, half resigned.) Oh, Big Red, don't get your blood pressure up like that… Cap’n Astrolabe was just wishing me luck with my bubble bath tonight.

 

BIG RED PROCOPIO: Bubble bath my foot! Get your tail inside and clear those tables—I saved you a special roast-pork sub with extra provolone and an ice-cold apple soda. And leave this rusty-tub sailor out here to air out his hangover.

 

MARGOT: (Gives Astrolabe an affectionate pat on the cheek—which nearly knocks him flat on his back.) Duty and roast-pork subs call, my old sea wolf. Save all that fire to applaud me tonight… and drink a club soda with lime, because you’ve turned a very ugly shade of green.

 

(MARGOT exits on BIG RED PROCOPIO’s arm into the deli; Big Red shoots Astrolabe a triumphant, mocking grin over his shoulder before disappearing behind the counter. ASTROLABE is left completely alone in the middle of the courtyard. The light slowly begins to dim.)

 

ASTROLABE: (To the audience, slumping down onto the corner of his shopping cart, one hand pressed hard against his chest, breathing in ragged gasps.) She left me… Traded me in for the fat guy with the mop bucket and a roast-pork sub… (A third, excruciating stab of pain shoots down his left arm and up his neck; he squeezes his eyes shut.) Ahhh…! That wasn't the eggnog anymore… that was a broadside cannonball right below the waterline! Listen… tell me the truth, you folks watching me from down there in the dark… do you figure those prayers to the Good Lord and the Blessed Virgin really worked… or do they charge protection money up in Heaven too, and they just crossed my name off the roll…?

 

(ASTROLABE’s head drops heavily onto his chest while the shopping cart’s bent wheel creaks by itself in the gathering gloom.)

ACT FOUR: THE COURTYARD TRIAL AND THE EPIPHANY OF THE COCKROACH

SCENE 1

(The lighting snaps into an unreal, grotesque, comic-book nightmare glow, like the cover of a vintage Tales from the Crypt comic. A low, muffled drumroll rumbles. ASTROLABE wakes up inside his own fever dream in the center of the courtyard, surrounded by BIG RED PROCOPIO, MARGOT DE LA FONTAINE, and MRS. SLIPPERS, who loom over him with exaggerated, merciless expressions of high-court judges. Big Red wields his rolled-up newspaper and plastic bucket like the scales and gavel of justice; Mrs. Slippers wears two beehive wigs stacked one on top of the other; and Margot holds the armless plastic mannequin like a key prosecution witness.)

 

BIG RED PROCOPIO: Hear ye, hear ye! The Final Supreme Court of the Viaduct Hump Tenement is now in session against the defendant here present! He stands accused of pathological bullshitting, lifetime freeloading, and stealing from my walk-in cooler one whole leg of twenty-four-month aged Parma prosciutto imported straight from Italy! A ham so fine that not even I, the proprietor, ever got to taste a slice!

 

ASTROLABE: (Defending himself clumsily, appealing to the audience for backup and digging himself deeper with every word.) That is a lie the size of the Viaduct Hump, Your Honor! (To the audience.) You folks are my witnesses that there’s never been a scrap of imported prosciutto in that grease-trap deli! What I stuffed under my shirt that afternoon was half a pound of cheap bologna that was already turning green around the edges, and I washed it down with three beers on credit that I didn't pay for either because they were piss-warm!

 

MRS. SLIPPERS: (Leveling an accusing finger at him.) Silence, you shameless old reprobate! Confess how you boosted my three Sunday-best wigs off the clothesline, how you guzzled my entire bottle of spiced almond eggnog without offering me a chair, and how you caved in my orthopedic cot with a belly-flop at ten in the morning! And confess once and for all that on that tugboat out of New Orleans you were never any Captain’s Right-Hand Man, just the most useless bilge-rat in the galley!

 

ASTROLABE: I only took the wigs because I thought they were mop heads for swabbing the deck, Mrs. Slippers! And that cot collapsed on its own because you weigh more than a battleship anchor! And I most certainly was the Terror of the Ports! If you don't believe me, go ask that mermaid down on the Biloxi pier who stood six-foot-three, had a catfish mustache, and cleaned out my whole two-week pay envelope—Lord, how sweet she sang the blues!

 

MARGOT: (Dramatically, pointing at him in the center of the courtyard.) Out of his own mouth comes the confession! Beyond being a grocery-cart rustler, you were an incorrigible degenerate! You hollered filthy remarks at decent citizens walking down the sidewalk, made bedroom eyes at the neighbors’ wives, and, at the absolute summit of depravity… you kicked the stray puppies on the block!

 

ASTROLABE: (Jumping up in genuine, fiery indignation.) Hold everything—not that! Never in my life! (To the audience, deeply offended.) Say something, you folks! I may be a bologna thief, a rent dodger, and a high-seas bullshitter, but I would never lay a finger on a puppy! I always save the crust of my sub for the stray dogs! Now… if we’re talking about wandering hands… maybe with you, Margot, I did cop a solid dockside feel that night in the back row of the movie theater right before you spat in my eye… but kick a puppy? Never!

 

BIG RED PROCOPIO, MRS. SLIPPERS, AND MARGOT: (In chorus.) Aha, you heard the scoundrel! He confessed to the whole indictment! He grabs the ladies, busts the bedframes, and steals the bologna! Guilty! Guilty without appeal!

 

(At that moment, in a billow of greenish smoke, THE HOOD steps into the center of the courtyard and stands right beside Astrolabe. However, the three neighbors DO NOT see or hear The Hood: to them, there is only empty air next to the old man.)

 

THE HOOD: (Standing beside Astrolabe with a crooked, mocking half-smile.) Hold your horses… nobody’s hauling this prisoner off just yet, because his tab is still wide open with me.

 

ASTROLABE: (Pointing frantically at The Hood before the nightmare judges.) Look at him! There’s Robbie the Hood come to back me up! Ask him yourselves!

 

(The three neighbors stare in bewilderment at the empty space Astrolabe is pointing at.)

 

MRS. SLIPPERS: (Peering at the empty air.) Who in the world is this lunatic talking to? Who’s supposed to be standing there, or did another screw finally pop loose in his head?

 

MARGOT: (Gazing at the void beside Astrolabe.) It must be a phantom that only he can see in his fever!

 

BIG RED PROCOPIO: (Shaking his head.) Phantom my foot—he’s probably dreaming he’s got a twin brother just as mangy as he is! Look at him jawing at thin air like he’s looking in a mirror!

SCENE 2

(The figures of BIG RED PROCOPIO, MRS. SLIPPERS, and MARGOT fade out and vanish into the darkness. THE HOOD and ASTROLABE are left completely alone on stage beneath a stark white overhead spotlight.)

 

THE HOOD: You see that, Astrolabe… Not even inside your own dreams can anybody see me but you. And your whole life has been one long torment right down to the wire just for being pigheaded—just for refusing to sign the paper…

 

ASTROLABE: (Breathing hard, clutching his chest, but squaring up to him.) I run my own life, mister, hear me good… I don't need to sign any paper to know I do what I please… But while we’re at it, tell me one thing straight: how am I supposed to know whether you’re really a demon from the seven seas or just a cheap leg-breaker sent by "Romeo"? Or not even that—some poor slob who can’t even shake down a soul on the block anymore because nobody can see him or believe he could scare a skinny hen! And why is it that after I prayed so hard to the Good Lord and the Blessed Virgin, they didn't send me so much as a measly text message on my Nokia to get you off my back?!

 

THE HOOD: (Barks out a dry, almost pitying laugh and takes a long drag on his pipe.) Oh, Astrolabe… how can a man your age still be so naive? Are you still waiting for your prepaid Nokia to ring with a call from Heaven? Get it through your skull once and for all: nobody up there has enough rollover minutes to text you little smiling cherubs, and nobody down in Hell even knows you’re on the grid. Your raw-egg-and-baking-soda hoodoo doesn't scare a single fly off Big Red’s counter, and your eleventh-hour prayers just bounced right off the tin roof. There are no sea demons and no saints wiping out bar tabs, old man… You’ve had the answer the whole time, and you said it yourself earlier tonight: there’s no witchcraft here except your own fear. I am your double…

 

ASTROLABE: (Freezes for a second; suddenly his eyes go as wide as dinner plates and he turns to the audience, counting on his fingers.) Hold the phone a second…! Let me do the arithmetic here… Are you telling me that Satan never helped me out before, and the Man Upstairs had nothing to do with my streak of good luck this morning?

 

THE HOOD: Nothing whatsoever. You’re as alone as a stray mutt on the Viaduct Hump.

 

ASTROLABE: (To the audience, his face lighting up with roguish wonder.) Holy smokes! You mean to tell me that if there was no miracle from Heaven and no deal with the Devil… then the guy who had Old Lady Slippers blushing like a prom queen, the guy who drank her finest almond eggnog without paying a nickel, the guy who snapped three steel springs on her orthopedic cot at sixty-five years of age and still left Margot de la Fontaine sighing to invite him into her bubble bath… was me, myself, and I, with nothing but the pure gift of gab of a wily old hustler?! (He thumps his chest proudly, though he immediately winces from the twinge.) Hot damn, I’m a tougher son of a gun than I gave myself credit for!

SCENE 3

(The lighting snaps abruptly back to the natural warm afternoon light of the tenement courtyard. It is no longer a dream: MRS. SLIPPERS, BIG RED PROCOPIO, and MARGOT DE LA FONTAINE enter the courtyard in "reality," going about their usual afternoon business. THE HOOD remains standing beside Astrolabe, completely invisible to the three neighbors. ASTROLABE, still pale from his spell on the stairs but with his eyes blazing from his discovery, grins broadly at them all.)

 

ASTROLABE: (Gesturing with shameless swagger toward the empty space where The Hood stands.) Glad you folks stepped outside, neighbors! Step right up and let me introduce you in the flesh to my business partner, Robbie the Hood…

 

(The three neighbors stop in their tracks, staring at him in silence, reacting variously as Astrolabe gestures grandly at the empty air beside his shopping cart.)

 

MRS. SLIPPERS: (Crossing herself, half spooked.) A ghost?! Sweet Jesus preserve us! There’s nobody standing next to you, Cap’n Astrolabe—quit trying to give decent folks the creeps…

 

BIG RED PROCOPIO: (Letting out an incredulous sigh.) Oh, great, another one of your tall tales… What are you babbling about, "Robbie the Hood"? Don't mix things up, man: Robin Hood was that outlaw from the old days who stole from the rich and gave to the poor… like Jesse James or Pretty Boy Floyd…

 

MARGOT: (Stepping closer to Astrolabe with theatrical curiosity.) Though how curious: the Robin Hood of the old ballads was a free rover who answered to no king, just like you claim to be, Astrolabe… "Robert of the Hood"… Say, neighbor, now that I see you looking so philosophical… do you actually have a real name of your own? Or has the nickname "Astrolabe" swallowed up your whole being until you forgot what you were christened?

 

ASTROLABE: (Blinks; looks at Margot, then looks at the audience and scratches his head.) My real name…? Well, sure, of course I had a name before I signed on as a cabin boy to peel potatoes… (His voice turns wistful, half comic and half tender.) Oh, now it comes back to me… I remember my mama coming out onto the back porch with a house slipper in her hand, hollering down into the yard: "Get over here right now, you little devil! Spawn of Satan, put that down! Robbie, run down to the corner for a loaf of bread! Robert, don't be so clumsy, you drop everything you touch…!" (He smiles, recognizing himself.) Ah… yeah… That was my name… Robert… Robbie… Little Robbie…

 

THE HOOD: (Stepping in close to deliver the coup de grâce, in a solemn, sepulchral voice.) You see, Little Robbie? That clumsy kid everybody kicked around the block was you… and this broken-down, penniless old wreck with nowhere to drop dead is me. Your time in this world is up; that heart attack already hit you on the stairs, you’ve got nobody left to pray to, so just let your knees buckle and let’s go rest in the dirt…

 

(ASTROLABE clutches his hand to his chest, his knees buckle, and he looks about to fall backward, dead on the spot, into the arms of The Hood as the neighbors gasp in horror. But halfway to the cobblestones, he stops dead in his tracks, cracks one eye open toward the audience, and snaps upright with furious energy.)

 

ASTROLABE: Rest in the dirt my ass! You can climb into that hole all by yourself, you freeloading phantom! (He plants himself squarely in front of The Hood, while the neighbors stare dumbfounded as he yells at empty air.) Maybe they pushed Little Robbie around when he went for the bread, and maybe they had him scrubbing toilets on that tugboat down on the Gulf, yes sir! But neither mute saints nor pirate devils can fold Cap’n Astrolabe! (He grabs the jar of baking-soda water sitting in his cart, takes a big swig, and lets loose a colossal, echoing, earth-shattering belch that rattles the courtyard windows; he thumps his chest, completely relieved, and takes a deep breath.) Ahhhh! It was nothing but trapped gas the whole time—heart attack my left foot!

 

(With a lightning-fast swipe, ASTROLABE snatches the long, smoking pipe right out of THE HOOD’s hand, takes a deep drag, and for the first time in the entire play, blows a massive, triumphant cloud of real smoke into the air.)

 

ASTROLABE: (To the audience, puffing smoke like a tugboat smokestack.) It lit! Look how she lit without spells or prayers! Big Red Procopio called it right: I’m just like the cockroaches in his corner deli! You can whack me with the Sunday paper, feed me green ham, throw the curse of the lame crow at my head, and right when you think I’ve kicked the bucket, I come waltzing back up the storm drain with plenty of lead left in my pencil! (He turns to glare at The Hood, who stands shrunken and pipeless, and points firmly at the handlebar of the shopping cart.) And as for you, Robbie the Hood—seeing as you’re my double and nobody else can see you, start earning your room and board and push my shopping cart, because around here I’m the Captain’s Right-Hand Man!

 

(THE HOOD, thoroughly out-hustled and defeated by the sheer nerve of his other half, droops his shoulders and steps behind the Jewel-Osco cart to push it. To the eyes of MRS. SLIPPERS, BIG RED PROCOPIO, and MARGOT, the shopping cart begins rolling across the courtyard cobblestones all by itself, its bent wheel screeching proudly.)

 

MRS. SLIPPERS: (Shrieking in amazement.) Sweet Mother of Mercy! The grocery cart is walking by itself! Cap’n Astrolabe really did have the high hoodoo all along—and he’s still got enough steam left for another glass of almond eggnog!

 

MARGOT: (Clapping in ecstatic rapture.) Sublime! Pure avant-garde invisible theater! Come with me, my grizzled sea wolf—tonight you’re going to pour the soap suds into my clawfoot tub with your very own hands!

 

BIG RED PROCOPIO: (Dropping his rolled-up newspaper, defeated.) I swear to God, you could pour boiling motor oil on this old bastard and he still wouldn't croak… Come on inside and get your ham sub, you mangy Astro, before I change my mind!

 

ASTROLABE: (Takes Margot de la Fontaine on one arm and Mrs. Slippers on the other, puffing grand clouds of smoke from his new pipe while The Hood pushes the shopping cart behind them toward the slope of the Viaduct Hump. Before exiting, he pauses and winks at the audience.) You see that, kids? No prayers to Heaven and no contracts with Hell: just the pure hustle of a threadbare old sea dog. Catch you at sunset, right up top on the Viaduct Hump… Now clear the gangway, 'cause here comes the Terror of the Ports!

 

(All exit to the festive blare of a brassy Gulf Coast rhumba-blues as the streetlamp overhead flashes in comic-book neon colors. Fast blackout.)

 

 

THE MISADVENTURES OF CAP’N ASTROLABE. © 2026 by BENJAMIN GAVARRE is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0