Performed by Margaret DuBé
A single spotlight comes up on the front of the stage. It wiggles a bit trying to focus on Rarky, who is standing at the front of the stage. The light stabilizes. RARKY is dressed in tight pants and a ratty pajamas top.RARKY: Yeah. I got pants. Man. Tight pants. man. Real tight pants. They just mold to my lower half. Tight bonds around my thighs. Long thin socks squeezing my calves. Two plywood boards making a sandwich of my pelvis. Yep, my pants feel good. They keep me in line, you know, 'cause I got to be able to fit into them. So I keep in shape. I lift. I jog. I swim. I aerobicise. I work hard. I make sweat pour from my pores in quantites that are not poor. I work hard. I exercise with my pants in mind. I wake up in the middle of the night. Naked. And I open my closet door that contains a full-length mirror. I look at my full length. I look and say, "Am I a healthy lookin' stud-muffin." I get my tight pants and get ready to put them on. I can't wear any underpants. There is no room. My pants fit me perfectly. They are adapted totally to my lower body. They are difficult to get on. I have to use a shoehorn to get my legs in. But once everything is in the right spot body-wise, in relationship to pants-wise, then the pants are locked into place and are as comfortable as if I were naked. Which I am, under my pants. I like my pants. They like me too. We are on the same level. My pants are my second skin. Skin over skin. But this is only temporary. Slowly, as I mature with age, the skin from my waist to my ankles will fall off leaving my bones, veins, cartilage, tendons, and ligaments all exposed. I will then put on my pants. My pants will soak up the liquid surrounding my loins, buttocks, and legs, thus becoming stuck. Permanently stuck. Like a skin. My first layer of skin. My pants.