From the album, You May Love Them Too. Written and recorded in London, England, December 2007. As part of a final theatre assignment, the songs were created in response to the female characters from various theatre shows we had seen. Including Rafta, Rafta, The Merchant of Venice, The Five Wives of Maurice Pinder and this one, based off of my experience from Punchdrunk's Masque of the Red Death.
~Wasting Time in this Place~
So full of questions not knowing why I’ve come to this place
Try to keep my mind from judging, although I feel displaced
And now I find that the bubble’s been popped I’m so lost but
I keep on going and going without knowing why
Won’t you tell me why
I’m wasting time in this place
How I long for some breathing space
I’ve found no story in this space, just some boys, girls and a headcase
What was there, didn’t know what to find, Guess I’ll keep looking to the end of time
What I do find is that the freedom turns to pain starving for light again
I am frightened by this uncharted domain
Can’t they tell me why
I’m wasting time in this place
A life awaiting something worth creating
I keep wondering was this what I came for, an eccentric mishmash piece
I keep wishing that I’d been warned or, given a second chance
And I find that I’m far too reflective, I keep rejecting
Above, Kaitlyn Rietdyk as Ren, and Sonia Vaillant as Charlie.
Performed at George Luscombe Thetare, Snow-Week Festival, January 2009. Featuring Kate Abrams, Meaghan Burke, Lindsay Finnie, Kailey Gilchrist, Sonia Vaillant, and Kaitlyn Rietdyk.
Setting: In a female bathroom in the basement of a bar. There are four stalls, represented by four stools.
Scene Five (REN and CHARLIE aren’t there to use the stalls, leaves. There is silence.)
Ren So?
Charlie So…
(REN pulls CHARLIE’s hair back from her neck. She gestures to enter stall together; CHARLIE starts, but doesn’t seem into it. REN turns away)
Ren You took me in here.
Charlie I wanted to talk.
Ren So talk.
Charlie Ok I’m going to talk, I just… I’m trying to figure it out first. … Okay. Listen. My whole life - my whole sexual existence... God this is going to sound awful... I’ve been leading people on. It’s a habit I picked up and no one’s been able to slap it out of me. No matter woman, man… I just don’t see it. Well I do see it, but I don’t stop because I’m just too nice? Like, I don’t want them to get hurt? So I let it keep growing… until the affection is adoration or infatuation and so on. Um, by keeping the right distance, the person is so caught up in a friendly, loving idea of me, that I don’t have the heart to say “no”. I guess I can’t say “no”. I’ve been with so many people. So many people have been through me… I just don’t want to spoil their image of Charlie; I really want them to get that happiness they thought they wanted, but, I don’t want them. I just feel guilty, so I give them what they expect. It’s just a mere hour - 45 minutes of fun. I go home; they’re happy, I’m happy. I stay under the radar until it blows over, what they feel for me. (Silence is heavy) God. Sorry. Look, I’m sorry if that sounds, I dunno. But it’s who I am.
Ren Question.
Charlie Please.
Ren Aren’t you …
Charlie Breaking a lot of hearts?
Ren No, ashamed of being a soulless tramp--
Charlie Excuse me—what?
Ren You better be protecting yourself. Not only are you due for a psychological breakdown, but a venereal disease. How old are you?
Charlie 19.
Ren Uh huh, and you’ve slept with how many people? … No really, you can tell me.
Charlie 34.
Ren Hah! That’s almost twice your age. An accomplishment for—a barista at Starbucks, right?
Charlie Yes, that would be the issue.
Ren So you admit there’s a problem.
Charlie Well yes, I mean, I can’t go every day thinking ‘Charlie, you’re a Goddamn Whore’. ...Hah.
Ren Self-loathing really doesn’t suit you.
Charlie I’m not trying to be—
Ren Yes, you are. (Sees she’s being avoided) People are stronger than you think.
Charlie I thought you know, because you’re older…
Ren Because I’m older?
Charlie Well, because you’re older, you’d be looking for a serious relationship. And clearly, I’m not in for a serious relationship.
Ren Clearly.
Charlie Right, so… fuck. (she wants to leave) How about a drink?
Ren You know, Charlie, I did like you. I thought you were a great girl. A real spirit. Then I asked myself, what am I to you? Nothing really came to mind, so I moved on.
Charlie You moved on… so why are you still here?
Ren I see something in you, Charlie. You want to mould people into your romanticized idea of life. Romantic in the sense that there’s both this… idealized happiness—but also an inconstant state of tragedy.
Charlie Wow, that was really… poetic. Hurtful, true, but. poetic.
Ren You’re missing the point. You think in clichés, read horoscopes, searching out ‘beauty’ but not savouring it. You see the world through art, and a very narrowed view of it. And anything you don’t understand, you don’t like. You seek to change it, to your idea of perfection and ‘normal’. That’s why you’re okay with fucking and chucking so many people—because who cares what they feel after, right?
Charlie …
Ren When we met a few weeks ago, I liked you. Sure. But I really did ask myself—and don’t be flattered, I ask myself this of every girl I like: What am I to you? All I could come up with was that you thought I was some lonely, ugly dyke wanting someone, anyone to fill the void that is my life. Poor country girl with no straight friends, doomed to be gay and lonely.
Charlie (Moves towards Ren) I don’t think that you’re ugly… you’re really, cute.
Ren Don’t.
Charlie No, really. You’re beautiful.
Ren(Pushes her away) You’re pathetic.
Charlie Ren?
Ren Why, why should I Charlie? You’re a waste of time. Destructive. Ugly.
(CHARLIE is hurt. REN sees this and pushes the subject. Advances on CHARLIE, pushing her towards the counter)
Ren You’re fake.
Charlie Ren, Please.
Ren What you don’t like to hear the truth, slut?
Charlie I don’t deserve this.
Ren (Shift) Good, that’s good.
Charlie What?
Ren You’re fucking better than this. Walk away.
Charlie What are you… I thought... Why did you bring me here tonight?
Ren You tell me.
Charlie Why did you want to come if you didn’t like me?
Ren Why did you come if you didn’t like me?
Charlie I like you. I do. Well I don’t know right now, but I did.
Ren How Charlie.
Charlie I don’t know. I don’t know. You were sweet and kind, and maybe I thought you’d be an answer to what I’ve been looking for…
Ren Hah. User.
Charlie Yes, okay. Yes. I used you. I’m sorry. I use everybody I’m a shit-for-nothing piece of shit, I’m sorry I dragged you into this, sorry I thought I could trust you, I’m so fucking stupid, why the fuck—
Ren Because you know you’re beautiful, but you can’t see it. You’re better than this.
(REN slowly makes for the door)
Charlie Fuck. Wait. You can’t just—can I have a hug? Please?
(CHARLIE hugs REN, who doesn’t hug back)
Charlie I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
Ren I need a drink.
(REN exits. CHARLIE is defeated; she decides she is going to get very fucking drunk.)
ONE ACT PLAY Selected scene from Get a Life! (2009)
Submitted for the Toronto Fringe 24 Hour Playwriting contest, July 2009. Contestants were given 24 hours to write a script which included four things. This year they happened to be: a pas-de-deux, a border dispute, third base, and the phrase “the economy is the secret police of your desires”. Sonja and Reggie are two eccentric people of any age. Former lovers and roommates. After their break-up, they are forced to ‘stay together for the grow-op’ that resides in the backroom of their abode.
(Scene Two)
Sonja I’m hungry.
Reggie That makes two of us, however, you will find that by resigning from complaining about it, I am the stronger being.
Sonja Ugh, there’s nothing to eat on my side.
Reggie Well there’s none on my side neither.
Sonja Either.
Reggie Either?
Sonja ‘Nothing to eat on my side either’
Reggie Sonja, I never would have thought that you of all people would forget that grammar correction is not allowed after…
Sonja It’s only 3:00…
Reggie Four PM. You haven’t changed your clocks yet.
Sonja Oh SHIT!
Reggie (‘Language’ is always said without skipping a beat) Language; besides, it’s not with ee-ther, it’s eye-ther.
Sonja Oh shut up, I’m so hungryyy.
Reggie I think that little slip up calls for my grocery run. Here is my list—
Sonja Oh no. I’m not doing this. Every time I run your groceries for you, you make an exceedingly long list, which is always longer than mine; I end up hauling a shit-ton of groceries—
Reggie Language.
Sonja —I end up hurting my back, which you know takes days to heal, and ugh. I want to make a new rule.
Reggie So would I.
Sonja What?
Reggie Well it seems that your swearing has increased dramatically in the last day or so, and I would like to capitalise on it. So here’s what I propose: you can have your rule about my lists, say, five items maximum per shopping run. But that means we also agree that every time you swear… you owe me… $20.
Sonja One, that’s completely unfair. And two, that’s stupid, we communally grow marijuana for money. We have the same cut, the same pay. You never go out of the house or spend money on anything, why do you need more money?
Reggie Principle. And maybe I’m saving for something.
Sonja What, a TV?
Reggie No.
Sonja More chalk?
Reggie No.
Sonja Video games?
Reggie Must you reduce my life to three activities? I do plenty of things while you’re not around.
Sonja Oh really, like what?
Reggie I happen to be building something.
Sonja Doesn’t building require effort, and a remote amount of muscle strength?
Reggie I work out.
Sonja You work out, when, with what?
Reggie I usually get a good sweat going in Warcraft.
Sonja Okay, cross some items off, you only get five.
Reggie So we’re making those two rules?
Sonja Fuck no.
Reggie Language. OK, I’ll make that three jars of pickles then.
Sonja Ughhhh!
They look at each other, extend fists and do quick rounds of rock, paper, scissors. Sonja cries out each time she loses the three of five games.
Reggie Victory!
Sonja Fuck! Oh dammit. (Hands him $20) You’re just picking on me because I look hot today.
"A BLAZING, AMBIGUOUS REPRESENTATIVE FOR CANADA: AN ANALYSIS OF GEORGE F. WALKER’S WRITING STYLE AND INVALUABLE CONTRIBUTION TO ALTERNATIVE CANADIAN THEATRE" by Blair Kay, 2008 photo courtesy of CBC
(Abstract)
In 1971, he was a taxi cab driver in Toronto. He had never studied theatre, nor had he been involved in a professional theatre production. One day he happened to stumble across a sign from Factory Theatre Lab, advertising for new play submissions. So, he did. George F. Walker submitted his first written play, The Prince of Naples, which got his foot firmly into Factory’s door. Now thirty-seven years later, Walker is considered one of Canada’s most prominent playwrights of alternative theatre. With his own canon of just under thirty plays written in the last three and a half decades, all of which were nurtured out of Factory Theatre (Lab) in Toronto, as well as several that have been produced across the country, not to mention in the United States and Europe, Walker has contributed a great deal to Canadian theatre and to representing Canada on the world stage. Walker is unique as both a writer and director, and through an exploration of his creative process, this paper hopes to present the ways in which his contributions to Canadian theatre have shaped the Canadian theatrical collective, as well as literary and performance discourses.
Walker’s writing style and subject matter have evolved over his twenty-six year playwriting career. His first two plays, The Prince of Naples and Ambush at Tether’s End, have been described as ”absurdist”, and criticized for simply mirroring the themes and structures of Ionesco and Beckett, rather than bringing anything new or unique to the Canadian stage (Haff 75). However, Walker’s fifth play, Beyond Mozambique, illustrates his “progression towards themes of more widespread interest”, and is the first hint at his defined style (Johnston 38). Walker’s first few plays were merely his starting point; after a two-year hiatus from theatre in 1974-76, Walker returned with Ramona and the White Slaves, which marked his directorial debut, and the first of many plays that highlight his adaptive, inclusive style, which was more accessible to general audiences and mainstream theatres (39).
Written in 1974, at a time when people around the country were searching for the Canadian national identity, Beyond Mozambique includes themes and characters whose actions ultimately question ideas of Canadian post-coloniality and iconography. For example, the comic relief in the play is provided by the character Corporal Lance, a disgraced RCMP officer. Walker takes the reputed Candian icons - the institution that is the Royal Canadian Mounted Police Force, and its icon, the mountie - and subtly mocks them, although by means a very human character. Chris Johnson asserts in his article, “George F Walker: B-Movies and Beyond the Absurd”, the comic mountie “is a good example of Walker’s growing ability to manipulate audience expectation” (16). Beyond Mozambique’s mountie cannot understand “what is happening in the sophisticated world” of the play and is plagued by the petty fact that he has nothing formal to wear but his “scarlets” (16). Johnson attests that this “quintessentially Canadian joke . . . makes possible the uniquely Canadian pleasure of being self-deprecatory and self congratulatory simultaneously” (16). By satirizing the Canadian icon (the mountie), Walker both critiques and celebrates Canadian notions of pride, begging the predominantly middle class audience to question these notions.
Not only does Walker add a play hybrid with celebration-scepticism to the Canadian theatrical canon (a play which can be seen as representative of our ambiguous political and national identity), but his works contribute to an academic discourse on Canadian post-colonialism. A significant amount of critical and academic analysis has been written on Walker and his plays. An entire volume of the critical and scholarly collection, Critical Perspectives on Canadian Theatre in English has been published on George F. Walker; the fact that such a collection exists highlights the playwright-director’s impact on the practical and academic world of theatre.
. . .
In the Canadian post-colonial perspective, Walker’s contributions to building Canadian drama are important. His works present and help recognize a Canadian national identity: his plays incorporate the universal, are adaptable and ambiguous, and feature passionate yet subdued characters, who are able to stand up (or scream) for what the believe in, although not causing too much of a fuss outside of their locale (perhaps a motel). The plays are not specifically political, as they avoid attacking specific institutions, but represent the disenfranchised population of Canadians. Yet his themes and characters are universal, and postmodern: the plays can be read as “deconstructing [the] notion of bourgeois morality, through social injustice”, and can be applied cross-culturally (Maufort “A Passage to Belgium” 20). By critiquing forms and themes of the middle class, in a way that is accessible to that class, Walker is the subversive alternative Canadian writer, yet still marketable to the larger ‘legitimate’ Toronto theatres, and abroad. Presenting these ideas on stage begs the audience to question their (possibly privileged) positions in society; and although Walker may not want social change, he at least suggests talking about it. Whether studying or writing criticism on, reading or watching his plays, those passionate about preserving and building Canadian theatre should take a cue from Walker’s down-to-earth insight on the creative process: “the essential truth of theatre is trust and collaboration” (Wallace “Looking” 53).
WORKS CITED
Corbeil, Carole. “A Conversation with George Walker”. Critical Perspectives on Canadian Theatre in English. Vol 5. Ed. Harry Lane. Toronto: Playwrights Canada Press, 2006. 114-126.
Haff, Stephen. “Slashing the Pleasantly Vague: George F. Walker and the Word”. Ibid. 75-84.
Johnson, Chris. “George F. Walker: B-Movies Beyond the Absurd”. Ibid. 8-23.
Johnston, Denis W. “George F. Walker: Liberal Idealism and the ‘Power Plays’”. Ibid. 37-50.
Maufort, Marc. “A Passage to Belgium: George F. Walker’s ‘Problem Child’ in Brussels’. Canadian Theatre Review. 105. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2001. 20-23.
___________. “‘Some Kind of Transition Place Between Heaven and Hell’: George Walker’s Aesthetics of Hybridity in Heaven”. Critical Perspectives on Canadian Theatre in English. Vol 5. Ed. Harry Lane. Toronto: Playwrights Canada Press, 2006. 177-186.
Parisien, Aurèle. “Taking a Walker on the French Side”. Canadian Theatre Review. 105. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2000. 28- 32.
Wallace, Robert. “From ‘George F Walker’ in The Work: Conversations with English-Canadian Playwrights”. Critical Perspectives on Canadian Theatre in English. Vol 5. Ed. Harry Lane. Toronto: Playwrights Canada Press, 2006. 24-32.
___________. “Looking for the Light: A Conversation with George F. Walker”. Ibid. 51-60.
(For THST*3850, Canadian Drama and Theatre, for Patricia Flood, December 2008)
Marcus was a baker. Marcus made pies in his own bakery that had been passed on to him by his father. All the kids in the neighbourhood loved Marcus because his pies were the sweetest and warmest they had ever tasted; better than anyone’s mother could even attempt making. He lived with his dog in the apartment above the bakery. He’d wake up every morning at four o’clock and would begin kneading dough until the sun began to rise and fill the bakery windows. Marcus was kind, and would deliver dinner or dessert pies personally if he could manage the walk after the day was done and the floors had been swept. That was the kind of man Marcus Von Blume was.
Ever since Marcus was a child, he admired his father for being a baker. Before he went to school every morning, and had eaten his breakfast, he would watch his father remove the pies from the searing hot oven. He knew the changing of seasons and months by what pies were being made: savoury meats in winter, tart cherry or rhubarb in spring and summer, and his favourite, spiced pumpkin in fall. His mother also helped out in the bakery. But this truly was Marcus' bakery, ever since he was tall enough to reach the oven door.
Getting older and greyer, Marcus still loved the early hours and his customers who he greeted with a smile, no matter how hot the bakery got when the sun was high over the store and customers came in for their slice of pie at lunch. He did find it hard however, to cope with the traffic, the endless honking of car horns from overworked business men. Even the various young teenagers who he had bring his groceries every few days, Marcus had to dole out more and more generous tips. Even with the incentive, a scoffing young lad would show up late, if at all, and act ungrateful for the work and hard-earned money he had been given. The neighbourhood had changed from a quaint red-bricked street on the west end of downtown to a sleek sky-high hub for suits and young entrepreneurs. The von Blume bakery remained one of the few hints of the neighbourhood's former glory.
Marcus’ shop was neat. Behind the counter were all the shelves that were stocked full daily, except for the ones near the front which had the day’s specials and would usually sell out the fastest. The von Blume bakery used to make all sorts of baked goods, but since his father passed on and his mother got too old to do near anything other than sit in her day chair, his selection of inventory decreased. Instead of breads, cakes, muffins and rolls, Marcus focused on what he did best, what he loved: pies. He figured to stop baking bread wasn’t so bad for the neighbourhood, as a new bakery had just opened up two stores down on the opposite side of the street—nice folks that Marcus liked just fine.
To the right of the counter was the entrance to the bakery, where there were two stone ovens side by each, a counter with a window over it that looked out into the small garden that was quaintly unkempt. On the wall opposite the window beside the counter was a large chalkboard that showed prices and a smaller one that Marcus kept track of the number of specialty pies he sold. The ticks and tallies had faded because recently, no one seemed to ask for anything special done to their pie. Marcus loved filling out people’s orders for their special pies: heart-shaped for lovers, numbered for birthdays, even coloured crust for some of the more adventurous customers. But these days no one expressed the desire for Marcus to make any specialty pie.
* * * *
Chuck was a womanizer, for the lack of a better word. He got whatever he wanted. It wasn’t because of looks, for the forty-something man was getting old, and lacked the bone structure for a pretty face. Chuck was plump, but he was rich. Ever since his parents died and left him penniless at the age of fourteen, Charles Eugene Manning made it his ambition to make money. When he heard the news of his parents’ death, he took the thirty cents he had in his pocket and bought an ice cream from the corner store. The sun had been hot that day and the ice cream began to melt all over his hands. Charles got the idea for a bowl-shaped ice cream cone, changed his name to Chuck and made millions off his idea. Chuck had a knack for getting what he wanted. It was the way he talked, the way he commanded a room the minute he stepped in. He was tall, and wore suits that wore him with blazer buttons that were never done up.
One night, Chuck was fed up with the bar he had gone to the night previous, having been unsatisfied with the selection of adequate tail. He went to a place that was just around the corner from his flat, which he had never bothered going into because the lines were always too long to get in, and Chuck didn’t have the patience to stand in line, or the desire to pay a doorman fifty bucks just for pussy. On this Wednesday night though, the line was desolate. He thought he’d take a peek in and see what the joint had to offer. Within seconds, he caught the sight of a pair of legs by the bar and sauntered over to dangle the bait. He slid his arm under hers to grab the parasol beside her drink, and as she looked over to who had done this, he put it in her hair.
“There. Beautiful. Now how about we go to Hawaii?”
“I’d love to but I’ve got work tomorrow.” she smiled.
“Well then, let’s settle for my place.” Chuck’s charm worked instantly, passed off as hilarious through her slightly drunken fog, and without even buying her a drink. He whisked her away from her barstool to the door, and within a few minutes he’d have her, legs spread on his mattress.
As the sun rose upon the bakery, Chuck awoke to the smell of sizzling sausage and Sunnyside eggs. He sauntered nakedly into the kitchen with a morning repeat in mind. She sensed his presence, and not particularly wanting to taste him again, began to talk about breakfast and her love for cooking and baking. Chuck was disappointed that she wasn’t as naked as he was, but was intrigued with a girl that could serve up a good meal. He asked her what her favourite thing to make was, to which she responded “pies”.Chuck almost lost interest, wishing she had said steak or pot roast, but thought that if he listened to her intently with a sultry eye, she would want him on the kitchen floor.
She wished he would stop looking at her while she talked about her culinary endeavours, so she mentioned her life-long dream of creating an E-shaped pie.
Chuck had never heard of a letter-shaped pie, or any pie that was shaped other than the regular old O. He began to imagine this E-shaped pie, and dollar signs filled his eyes. He saw birthday boys and girls lining up for their letter, whole table spreads with words spelt by letter-shaped pies. He would find someone to open a shop that would have a bright sign in front and the many Filipino ladies making the authentic German pies in the back. Today he would walk into town and find a bakery that would want to be bought out by Chuck’s money.
* * * *
It was a slow Thursday for Marcus and the bakery. He had a few customers that morning, but nothing substantial. At about four o’clock Marcus greeted a new customer. He entered taking the place in, but in a different way than most of the mothers and old ladies that entered the shop did. Marcus smiled and greeted the man, who introduced himself as Chuck.
Chuck was never one for formalities, so he got right down to business. He introduced the idea of letter-shaped pies and asked Marcus to bake him an E-shaped pie for the next day, while walking towards the door. Marcus was more than happy to, and jotted down the man’s name from a pile of scrap paper beside the cash register. Marcus wished the man a good day, and began to plan out the letter E.
Too excited to tend to anything else, Marcus spent the rest of the day sketching the letter E on a pad of paper by the cash register, and plotting out the specifications in his head while sweeping up before the end of the day. That night he would close up the store but stay in the back room to work on this specialty pie through the night.
* * * *
Chuck went home satisfied that he’d found his bakery so quickly. He ate a sausage before bed and slept very heavily, forgetting to close the blinds so that in the morning he was awakened by blinding sunlight before his alarm at seven o’clock. Tired but unable to fall back asleep, he decided he’d walk back to the bakery. He’d see the quality of the E-shaped pie for him self and Chuck figured, show the baker that he truly cared about purchasing the bakery.
* * * *
Marcus had worked into the night, making numerous versions of the E-shaped pie, since it had been so long since a specialty pie had been made in his bakery. By seven thirty, he had forgotten to open the windows and unlock the door in unloading the rest of the day’s baked goods, and a customer had arrived. It was Chuck at the door, with a large briefcase. He greeted Marcus with a too-broad smile and asked how lucky Marcus was feeling today as he plopped his briefcase onto the register counter. Marcus was confused, and instead of questions rushed to retrieve Chuck’s specialty pie, while reminding himself to chalk up another tally on the smaller chalkboard. When Marcus returned, Chuck was shuffling papers and a pen was laid beside his open briefcase.
Chuck was straight with Marcus. He offered him two hundred thousand dollars for the bakery, and forty thousand a year for Marcus to be the head baker at Chuck’s Extraordinary Pies. Marcus’ old eyes reflected in disbelief as Chuck began selling the profits to be had from letter-shaped pies. To seal the deal, Chuck drew the neon sign on scrap paper, and he hoped the blank look the old man gave him was awe. Chuck asked Marcus again how lucky he felt that morning, and extended his hand to Marcus, once more offering to join Chuck’s team of extraordinary pie professionals.
Marcus stared at Chuck’s transparent smile, and thought of his father. He thought of his childhood, and how the bakery had already begun to lose popularity, how he was unable to produce as many goods as his father had, how his mother was immobilized in the garden day after day, how the chalk had faded, and tears collected in the corners of his eyes. He saw this man before him, offering money and success. He saw the weathered, floured hands before him, and for the first time he felt old. He left the smiling man with the extended hand and retreated to the ovens in the back room. He looked at the various pies sitting across the messy and floured counter, and saw a black handle underneath a spilled bag of apples.
Chuck didn’t know where the old man went, but figured he had gone to calculate how much he would make joining Chuck. He smiled to himself about how much more was to be made with old fools that didn’t know the retail value of their own stores.
Marcus returned thinking of the delivery boy that would be late, about the raging traffic that would soon start and not stop until the sun set, and extended his hand with a knife to Chuck, who laughed back at him awkwardly. Marcus asked Chuck to leave his store, and that he should know folk like him weren’t welcome in a family store. Chuck left quickly without the E-shaped pie, and Marcus sat in his mother’s place in the garden, content he had made a stand against the world that turned its back on the tradition and the value of a dollar.
