The Museum of Subjective History

By Daniel Joyce

Daniel Joyce is this month’s winner of $512.50 for a story about politics and show business.

Bio: Daniel Joyce is a New Jersey-based writer from the Massachusetts area. He has a B.A. in English from the University of Massachusetts Amherst and has worked in the Footwear Industry for 10 Years. This is his first published work of fiction.

Without further ado, “The Museum of Subjective History” by Daniel Joyce.

I look at them. Take a deep breath. Count down from 3… 2…1…

            “It was hard for our family. We felt alone. Didn’t have anyone to turn to.” And then, wait for it, the tear I’ve rehearsed for the last three weeks falls. “But then King’s Pet Insurance took care of us when no one else would.”

            And then I’m out. I look at the camera. Richard, the casting director, has his hands together. Libby, the PA who contacted me three weeks ago, looks at him and then back at me.

            “Ok,” she says.

            “All right. That was good. I felt great,” I say. Richard still has hands together.

            “It was good David,” Libby says.

            “I can run it again.” Richard nods. I’ll take that.

            “I don’t know if you would be crying.”

            “Ok. Umm, I just thought, well, my dog died when I was a kid. So, I thought of that. And so…You know what, I don’t have to cry.”

            “Perfect. Your dog dies. You’re sad. But you have insurance! This time you’re happy! No crying. Ready on you.”

            Deep breath. I count up this time. 1, 2,3…

ACT 1. Slavery

I’ve got an hour bus ride back to work. Plenty of time to think about my face gracing the screens of key demographics. The Museum lets us schedule around our auditions. To make it up, I’ll work a double tomorrow. Could be worse. The Museum is not a bad credit on your IMDB page. My only claim to fame had been the original Pilot Episode of a certain popular show that airs Thursday Nights at Eight on GBN. (YEA THAT ONE) I was the original Garret. Test audiences gave it 4/5 Stars. When asked why they didn’t give it 5?

1.      I don’t like Garret

Q. Why don’t you like Garret?

A. I don’t like his face.

B. Is he supposed to be funny?

C. He’s kind of fake. You know what I mean?

D. All of the Above.

Well, it turned out all of the above. Since then, we do not talk about that show that airs prime time on GBN. And we certainly don’t talk about that Actor playing Garrett who just got cast as America’s next favorite Superhero.

            Currently, I’m playing Lewis to my co-actor Bryan Donahue’s Clark. We’re good together. Solid rhythm and can riff off each other when we need to. Problem is we rarely need to. Mostly we get School Teachers asking us questions as their students try to make sense of the world above the one in the palm of their hands. Occasionally we’ll get some feminist asking us where Sacajawea is, and we have to tell her that she’s in our Female Icon’s section. It’s easier than saying the Museum will only pay for two actors.

            No, the real juicy roles are the ones you love to hate and hate to love. Mostly Presidents and Dictators.

            Clinton draws a regular crowd that shows up with tomatoes to throw at him. The chants and taunts very rarely stay PG-13. (I’ve heard rumors he does night shoes and gets sexual objects thrown at him)

            Reagan has a Legionnaire Group on Monday, Student Activists screaming on Tuesday, Young Republicans on Wednesday, Thursday Open to the Public, and Friday is for the A More Profitable America Super Pac.

            And that’s how it generally goes. Sure, the Roosevelts do well. The Founding Fathers have seen an uptick recently with museum-goers coming to chew them out or thank them for things that never happened.

            But it’s the Richard Nixon’s of the Museum that make a killing. All he has to do is throw on some makeup, a fake nose, and say, “I’m not a Crook,” over and over, and he’s Jesus or the Devil himself.

            “How’d it go?” Bryan says in the dressing room.

            “You know. Just getting in the room is half the battle.” He nods and continues over the script for a pilot he’s auditioning for. It’s an unwritten rule that you don’t say which. Prevents conflict.

            “Slow out there,” he says. He has to talk louder. Helen Keller is reading a new manuscript out loud. Abby moonlights as an audiobook reader under the stage name Anne Sullivan. “You wanna run lines with me if there’s no one around?”

            He’s watching me read over the openings on the bulletin wall. The only prominent open role is Hitler. It’s been open since they fired the last guy. He was caught at a rally. He pleaded he was method acting but no one has seen him since.

            “What do you think?” I say. “You going for it?”

            “And break up the dynamic duo? Why are you? You gotta let me know.”

            “I don’t know. I gotta do something here. But…You ever think there’s a line? I mean creatively. What you’ll do.”

            “No, but it’s not exactly Spielberg asking you to play the Fuhrer. Plus, his fans are worse than the ones screaming at you. Trust me.”

            “Yea, you’re probably right.”

            “I did hear something though. Abe is leaving.”

            “What? When?”

            “Announcement should be soon. He leaves for NYC next week. Landed the Kushner Play.”

            “Get the fuck out?” He nods and I take it in. Stage Name Thomas Ditullio has played Lincoln for seven years. Almost two terms. He had a cult of followers. Most over the age of 70. But still, they show out consistently. And consistence equals money.

            “So. What do you say? Read some lines with me? The frontier is empty out there.”

            News spread quick about Lincoln’s opening. No one had ever left the ranks of the Museum to play their character somewhere lucrative. Kid’s birthday party? Yes. Broadway? Never.

            Opening: The 16^th President of The United States of America. The great emancipator himself, Abraham Lincoln.

            As you may have heard, long-time Lincoln performer Thomas Ditullio will be performing the role he honed here in these very halls on Broadway! Make sure to congratulate Thomas! We are so excited for him!

            (Translation: What this role lacks in payment will be made up for in experience)

            Cont:

What we’re looking for: Someone who brings authenticity to the rule. Taking up the mantle of arguably the greatest president of all time requires respect for the past while at the same time connecting with a modern audience. We need someone who can provide viewers with everything they’ve come to know and love from Honest Abe and leave them with something new to tell their friends.

Think you’ve got what it takes? Email Jenn at casting@actinghistorymusuem.com.

“I can see the beard,” Bryan says.

“What? Oh.” He catches me off guard and I rub the flimsy layer that’s grown on my face since yesterday.

“So, you’re doing it?” I nod, assuring myself as much as him.

“Yea. I think so. It’ll be good practice anyway.”

“You’ll always be my Lewis. Remember that. Don’t forget the little people.”

“Lincoln wouldn’t,” I say and smile.

Bryan and I both work a double to make up for the last auditions we snuck off for. He came back from his Pilot audition lukewarm and said, “The show is about an amnesiac teacher who has to go back to high school. It’ll never get picked up anyway.”

I, on the other hand, was already deep in the throes of grief over the death of my (Lincoln’s) son, Willie. I was beginning to feel this man. His pain and sorrow. Yet I felt the hope of uniting everyone under one goal: my dreams.

The only thing I wasn’t feeling was what I saw in the mirror. I stood a meager 5’9” to Lincoln’s 6’4”.

Q. Why don’t you like Lincoln?

A. I don’t like his face. (He’s short)

B. Is he supposed to be funny? And short?

C. He’s kind of fake. You know what I mean? He’s short

D. All of the Above.

            “What are you doing?” Bryan says, peeking over my shoulder. I pull my script in tight.

            “Research. Getting into character.”

            “You want to run some lines by me?” I look at him. Really look at him and size him up. Friendship here is based entirely on one’s success relative to another. At the moment, we are exactly the same. If anything, I get the nod since I was at least selected for a hit TV show.

            “Blood spilled cannot be put back. I know this much to be true. I look out and see a country with a broken heart and I think, if I can’t fix my own, maybe I can fix our nation’s collective heart. Because that’s what it is. This is pain we all share now. We bury our dead together, and with it, our past. I’ve seen the tears of great men fall. Wives become widows, and mothers bury children. The same hands that point at each other can be used to lift one another up. Liberty is for every man and woman of this land. But it is not just born; it must be raised and protected. If we can’t move forward together, then God take us.”

            I look up and realize I’ve drawn an audience.

            “What was that?” Hellen Keller says. She’s joined by Martin Luther King and JFK, who’ve just returned from a smoke break.

            “Oh, just something I’ve been working on.”

            “Supposed to be Lincoln?” MLK says. His real name is Gary, and he’s been here as long as I have. I nod. “Not bad. Better than the shit Thomas came up with.”

            “You mean the Gettysburg address?” JFK says. “I don’t know Davey. Lincoln’s crowd is pretty conservative. Not politically—I mean—well you’ve seen them. They like what they like. Want what they want.”

            “Fuck that. The audience doesn’t know what they want until you give it to them.”

            “Like you would know? You stay on script more than Heller Keller.”

            “That’s what you think. When’s the last time you saw my show? Davey, I like it. If I thought they’d go for a black Lincoln, I’d give it a go myself.”

            “Thanks,” I say. The crowd slowly drifts until it’s just me and Bryan. “So. What do you think?”

            “I—Is this supposed to be post-emancipation proclamation?” I sink a little.

            “It’s not a specific Lincoln. More the idea of him.” He nods.

            “Well, if you’re committed to it, that’s what matters. But I think Kenned—I mean Stephen—is right. I just—I wouldn’t get your hopes up.” I smile.

            “I’ll always be your Lewis.” I’m good. But I think he can tell I’m acting.

            They’ve blocked out the last few afternoons for auditions and scheduled the exhibits accordingly. Hopefully, I haven’t messed up Bryan’s schedule too much. I wonder if he’ll stick around as Clark. As I arrive, I spot a few other hopefuls nervously listening to a familiar voice coming from the audition room.

            “I wonder…If I can’t mend my own broken heart…Perhaps it’s the nations, our collective heart I can heal…” an Abraham Lincoln says from the audition room. Not my Abe. An imposter.

            “That motherfucker,” I say, and the rest of the Lincolns look up at me.

            “Sounds good. Huh.”

“That’s me. Those are my lines!” I look through the window and there he is.

            “These same hands that seek to blame and accuse…They can be used to lift each other up. For Liberty is born, but only together, as one, can we raise it, protect it.”

            He takes off his hat and bows. All 6’2” of him.

            I’m hot. The room starts to spin. Someone grabs me and asks if I’m all right.

            It’s 1865. I’m at the theater, and John Wilkes Booth has just walked in. The guns there. I’ll I can do is watch my demise unfold.

            “Are you ok?”

            “Tell Mary I love her. I did the best I could.”

            “What?”

            “Davey? You ok?” I look up at him. This faux Abraham Lincoln. I created him, this simulacrum. He’s even got sideburns glued onto his jawline.

            “What did you do?”

            “What I had to. I can’t do it anymore. I’m sorry.”

            “You’re sorry,” I say and lunge for him, but a circle of Lincolns restrains me. Doesn’t matter. I’m just an actor. My anger isn’t real. He smiles and turns to leave.

            “Bryan,” I say. He stops. “Did they like it?”

            “Loved it,” he says. “I’ll see you around.”

ACT 2. Emancipation

            “Audition #114. Green, David,” Jenn, head of casting, says. They’ve got a camera recording everything. Derick Whitfield, the director of the museum, is here. Whitney Hill, the new Marketing Director, sits next to him.

            “Any questions about the part?” Jenn says. The other two look at me, but nothing relevant comes. “Do you know Richard and Whitney?”

            “Yes. I mean no. I know who they—you are I mean. Hi.” Richard smiles and nods and returns to his notes.

            “Abraham Lincoln,” Whitney says. “You a big fan?”

            “Of course.”

            “What’s your favorite policy?”

            “Umm, ending slavery.”

            “Sure,” she says. “Ok then. Let’s ugh, see your Lincoln. Ready when you are.” I nod and turn around. I breathe. One, two, three…

            “This country is broken…” I say, but I’m interrupted by the seconds ticking away on the clock. I hear every beat. “It’s got a broken heart. A broken…back. It’s ugh…. Spineless. And thieving.

            “I’ve been doing this a long time. I’ve seen the good, and I’ve seen the bad. I thought I knew what I was doing. I thought I had the answers. But it’s a different world out there. I’m sick. I’m tired. We all are. They want this, they want that. You try, and you compromise, and then no one is happy. But you know what? It’s a goddamn war out there. I’m done playing around. No more Mr. Nice Guy. Take it or leave it. I’m not playing the fool anymore.

            “You hear me!”

            Well, I’ve had worse auditions. They let me finish. To be honest I don’t think they knew when I had started or finished. Jenn looked at me like a schizoid street performer. I swear she reached for spare change. Richard didn’t look up or stop writing the whole time. And Whitney… She watched intently the whole time. A pro’s pro.

            The next day, I bring a box to clear out my locker. I’m done playing Lewis with or without Bryan as Clark. Plus, I don’t think I can stomach watching him perform Lincoln for Elderly Political Action Committees.

            Everyone’s staring at me like a monkey out of his cage. This must be how Jesus felt on his way to be crucified.

            I gave you people everything!

            Then I see him. Bryan stares into his empty locker.

            “David,” Whitney says. “Let’s chat.”

            Her office is set up like she’s not supposed to be here long. She’s playing the part of the reckless leader passing through.

            “I love what you did with the character yesterday.”

            “Lincoln?”

            She’s sitting at her desk between two boxes of files. “How much do you think this place loses a month? Any guess?” I’m sure the answer is in those boxes, so I let her tell me. “More than they’re paying me to try an unfuck this place. A lot more.”

            “With all due respect, this place has had a loyal fanbase since 2009.”

            “Gate sales are down 20%.”

            “Please, I’ve been through a recession.”

            “Enough. What keeps this place afloat are donations. It’s a museum, David. Do you know how many museums are left in America? 8. Do you know how many there were in 2011? 112.”

            “This isn’t exactly confidence boosting.”

            “You were fired from—”

            “No!” I almost lose it.  “You’ve done your homework. Congrats.”

            “See! That’s what I’m looking for! It’s real, and I can feel it. Not that hallmark card bullshit that other guy came in with. What you did was relatable.”

            “What the fuck does that mean? Since we’re, ugh, putting everything on the table.”

            “No, by all means. Curse all you want. Just remember who you’re talking to. On stage I mean.”

            “So I curse and vent with a hat on? Have you seen the people that come here?”

            “I have. And they’re going to have company. Why do you think people come here?”

            “They love history. They come here…to feel part of it. Not just remember or read about it. They want to say, ‘Hey, look at the golden days.’ Some shit like that.”

            “No that’s it. But it’s not just to remember. There’s no such thing as a modern audience. They don’t just want to live in the past either. They want to take everything they love about the past and bring it with them to the future. Tell them they haven’t been lying to themselves. People are going to walk out of here, back to the drudgery of everyday life, with Abraham Fucking Lincoln by their side. You’ll solve all their problems.”

Back by Popular Demand, Abraham Lincoln in the Hall of Presidents

            Performed by David Green

Whitney had delivered. My name was in lights. Outside a history museum, but it’s a step.

            “David,” she says. “Show time.” I put on that famous stovepipe and look in the mirror; I look taller. Maybe he wasn’t really 6’5”. I mean, who really knows?

The Hall of Presidents:

            Kennedy sits with Jackie in the back of Continental, perpetually waving at museum goers. FDR addresses America in the wake of Pearl Harbor. Clinton speaks into a microphone swearing he didn’t do something we all know he did so his audience can haze him.

            And then…There’s my spot. Gettysburg recreated. It’s the biggest set in the hall.

One, two, three and…Scene:

            “Mary is truly one of the fiercest women this nation has ever seen. Yet she’s as kind-hearted and attentive as any husband could ask for.” I pause for the busload of Women from the Save Democracy Now lobby. They’re as young as 62. As old as Mary Todd Lincoln.

            “You know, there are whispers, that she was the true backbone of the Union.” I smile and bring a finger to my lips. They swoon, and this is how it goes for the first couple hours. Behind my passing audiences, Whitney looks stale under a painting of an obscenely large Hercules-esque George Washington. (Martin, who plays George at the other end of the hall, is at most 160 lbs)

            Then a field trip shows up. Middle school, maybe. 12-15-year-olds blend together after 30.

            “Good afternoon, President Lincoln!” their teacher says. He’s got a bow tie and the energy of the recently unemployed.

            “Good day to you, sir, and to all of you as well, ladies and gentlemen,” I say, controlling the oscillation of my voice. I spent the better part of last night researching the timber of Lincoln’s voice.

            “You don’t look like Lincoln,” one of them says with an air lacking the honor roll. “Lincoln’s supposed to be tall. You’re shorter than I am.” His friends—no, most of the class—laugh for him. I smile. “Take off the hat. You’re not fooling anyone.”

            I look past him and the rest of the cretins and see Whitney nod.

            “And, ugh, young sir, how would you know that?” He laughs at me.

            “I read it.”

            “You? You can read? Good sir, don’t tell me that you taught this stable boy here to read? My goodness, and look at the state of you. You’re rounder than my horse’s ass?” Now his classmates laugh at him. I’ve got them.

            “Excuse me, are you allowed to talk like that?” the teacher says. Their eyes are gone. In their place are phones recording me and sending my act out into the new world.

            “Talk like what? Is this not America, sir? Do you know who you’re speaking to? I led the Union in preservation of this great society, and let me tell you, free speech is alive and well. And you’re supposed to be their teacher? Unless, should I call security and tell them there’s a pedophile chaperoning children around the Hall of Presidents? They know I only speak the truth.” His students laugh. Even the one I just humiliated.

            He ushers them away, grasping at his fleeing control.

            Abraham Lincoln, a 21st-century emancipator, is born.

            “I see your pain, ladies and gentlemen. I know you try and leave it at the door. You’ve come here for resolve. But Abe sees all. I know what it’s like out there. A man is no longer measured by the greatness of his actions. As president, every man and woman shall have an equal chance of prosperity no matter their stature.”

            Some days I come in with a speech written the night before. I do my research. Social Media. What’s trending. I start to improvise. And you know what? I’m good at it.

“You know what I did. I ended chattel slavery. But it did not end there. No it did not! I see slavery today of all kinds.

“Slave to your job!

“Slave to the Billionaire!

“And I will free you all! For that’s what I do. I brought freedom to this great land. They will have you believe that it started before me. But the real America. The one you know and love, started when we united this country as one and spread freedom North to South, for all men and women!”

And that’s how it goes. FDR is out of his Wheelchair and making threats to all nations that would oppose us. Lee Harvey Oswald’s magic bullet never comes, and JFK speaks out against the intelligence community from the grassy knoll. (You may even find him in the Hall of Historical Women on his lunch break) They’ve replaced poor Martin with a former pro wrestler who loves US Interventionism to play George Washington.

My group’s slightly smaller today. There’s less hostility. A week ago, I could have said something like, “Destiny is equal for any man who will reach out and take it,” and a fight would have broken out long before the cheers or boo’s hit me. I look around. Men in American Flag shirts. A few in Anarchy is Resistance. Some high schoolers skipping class with their phones out and their backs to me as they record themselves in front of Gettysburg.

“I say no to those who will strike up against us with no righteous cause or evidence. For they will seek to destroy with accusations of no merit. To engage with such nonsense is to lose the battle of both the will and the mind. For we will fight this war with the truth. Facts. They will not tell us what that is. Only god knows. And under God, we are all free men.”

“Abraham Lincoln will return in 30 Minutes,” the PA says, and the lights of Gettysburg dim.

I take a few pics and sign some autographs. Next to me, I can see Washington has his usual crowd. While it’s grown substantially, it still pales in comparison to mine. He didn’t steal any of my thunder. Dealey Plaza is empty. JKF’s sitting on the grassing knoll with a bottle of wine. Where the fuck is Whitney? That guy might have to go.

I start down the Hall. “Mr. Lincoln! Mr. Lincoln!”

“Sorry folks! Show’s closed. I’ll be back in thirty. And I take requests!” They pout but leave me be. I can’t go anywhere like this, so I head to the dressing room. Hellen Keller is in there and I say Hi, but she grins and looks down at her manuscript.

            I put the stovepipe in my locker and reveal my thinning hair. The beard only magnifies it.

            “Shit.” I look around. Someone’s left a baseball cap on the coat rack, and I take it.

            “What’s new?” I say.

            “Oh Mr. Lincoln, are you talking to me?” she says in a very politically incorrect Dixie accent.

            “Ha, very funny,” I say. “What are you working on?”

            “Oh, you know, just a dramatic reimaging.”

            “What, like, Hellen Keller breaks her silence?

            “Really? You think that would work?”

            “Look, I get it. But I’m bringing people in. And that helps everyone. I mean you don’t want to be here forever? You never know who might walk in here next.”

            “You know, you might just get your wish,” she says. “Excuse me, I’ve got a group of Girl Scouts who want to learn how a blind and deaf woman learned to read.”

            “Awesome. Great. Keep up the great work. I smell an Oscar.”

            I’ve got fifteen minutes before showtime and stroll down the hall. JFK is now asleep on the knoll and a few teenagers go through his pockets.

            “Hey cut the shit! Get out of here!” They look and curse me before running off.

            Across from Dealey Plaza, a man in glasses flies a kite through an inanimate wind. What the fuck is this? I mingle into the crowd.

            “The Entrepreneurial spirit does not wait for you!” The man yells over the wind. “You go out and harness it!” Lightning cracks and runs down the kite. “And that my friends, was the dawn of the electrical revolution!”

            “What the hell? Benjamin Franklin wasn’t a president,” I say loud enough for half a dozen people.

            “Ugh, yea he was,” a man says and looks back. “He’s on the 100-dollar bill. Dumbass.”

            “Jesus Christ. Are you people serious?”

            I continue down the hall and find more popular uprisings. Genghis Khan is giving a lecture on War and Peace.

            I sneak a peek at someone’s brochure: Welcome to the Hall of Revolutionary Figures. Slowly, I’m pulled away. A voice. I don’t recognize it, but I know it. There’s a crowd gathered at the end of the hall. Not quite as big as mine. But I think I know where some of my regulars went.

            “It’s simply a matter of what you want versus what you need. You can hear what you want. Or hear what you need. Do you want to find your destiny? Or have it given to you?” His voice is calm. The way he annunciates lends credibility to the idea that he is talking directly to you. I push forward into the crowd. There’s no stage. His voice carries over them and through them. What the fuck is this nonsense? He’s standing amongst them.

            “Because I’ll tell you: There are those that will seek to hand you what is rightfully yours. They will shape it. Patent it. Mold it for their sake. Your destiny will come with monthly payments.”

            The crowd opens, and there he is: Bryan. He grins and the mustache that I know for a fact is fake wriggles like the worm he is. Then I see the sign: John Wilkes Booth.

            “Ah, Mr. Lincoln. How kind of you to join us. We all know how busy you must be. We were just discussing Personal Liberty and Freedom, weren’t we gentlemen. Perhaps you’d like to give us your thoughts on securing freedom at, how did you put it, ‘Any and all cost?’”

            “Show’s over folks,” I say.

            “Why?” he says. “I’m sure you’ll be able to find a way to make a buck off of us. We’re looking at the face of Neo-Liberal Capitalism, right boys?

ACT 3. The People vs Abraham Lincoln

             “This is fucking ridiculous Whitney.” I burst into her office and try to catch her off guard. “What are you playing at?”

            “Calm down David,” she says. Whitney’s cool. Her office hasn’t changed one bit and neither has her demeanor.

            “This is blasphemous. I mean sacrilegious. Having a man like that.”

            “A man like that? What do you mean? Are you talking about Bryan?”

            “It’s supposed to be the Hall of Presidents and you have that snake play the man that shot me.”

            “David. This is a history museum. You’re playing a historical figure. He’s playing a historical figure. Got it?”

            “He’s an assassin.” She looks at her phone.

            “‘Revolutionary: involving or causing a complete or dramatic change.’ Sounds like both characters to me.”

            “Characters? These are real people.”

            “No, they’re not. You’re an actor playing a part.”

            “It’s my job to bring that person to life for my audience.” She grins and stands up.

            “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

            “They want something real. And only I can give it to them.”

            “David. You’re as authentic as an algorithm. Have you listened to yourself out there? Really, I mean we have the tapes. You say same the same shit over and over again.”

            They wanted a leader. I gave them someone to relate to. They wanted a hero. I gave them someone to root for. They wanted something different. I spun this museum like a top and it landed on its head.

            I listen to Whitney’s “tapes.” I gave these people exactly what they wanted. What they needed, and they left me for a third-rate actor that should be selling infomercials before any self-respecting museum patron is awake.

            I arrive the next day and the marquee has two names: Abraham Lincoln and John Wilkes Boothe.

Now showing all day! Two American Figures Intertwined by Politics and Pitied by the Fates! Hear them now like never before! Two Men! One Country! One Future! You decide!