THE THING ABOUT PIPECLEANER PEOPLE
Content warning: physical violence or abuse
Fran’s basement.
A cheesy theme song is heard. Held to the camera are the words “Craft Cubby” written on a piece of cardboard. This lasts a moment, then the cardboard sign is discarded.
FRAN, 50s/60s, smiles into the camera.
FRAN
Well, hello there and welcome to Craft Cubby!
Beat. She wears a patchwork apron and headband made of acorns and neon feathers. Her hands rest at her crafting table.
Now, I say “expert,” but don’t let such an intimidating word throw you off. It’s my hope you consider me more of a friendly neighbor or that approachable aunt—maybe even your favorite high school art teacher—you know, the one you knew you could confide in about a pregnancy scare?
Cocktail party laugh. Beat.
Oh, how I look forward to our time together each week. And how nice that in between each professionally produced episode I have your emails to look forward to. Goodness, they’re like little sprinkles of crack cocaine to tide me over until the almost fatal overdose. As per usual, nothing brings me more comfort than taking a dip into the email bin to tickle my crafting bone. Makes me feel like Mister Rogers—except my viewers are actually allowed to hold scissors!
She thrusts her hand into a large bucket, pulling out a piece of paper.
Here we go. This one is from Doris all the way in Washington State.
(to camera)
Hi, Doris.
(reading)
“Dear Fran, where have you been? Are you dead? You haven’t posted a video in
weeks. Are the rumors true?”
Cocktail party laugh.
Oh, Doris. There’s no need for you or your hot glue gun to overheat with worry. While I’ve taken a little break from posting, rest assured my ticker is still ticking and my crafting hands are still twisting, turning and yearning. And hey, don’t we all deserve a little time off every now and then? Okay, since that one didn’t count, why don’t we do another one? Just dive on in here and leave it to the luck of the draw! Hope I cleaned the bucket out well enough so a vindictive lobster doesn’t have his way with my ring finger!
Cocktail party laugh. She retrieves another slip of paper from the bucket.
This one’s from Marlene in Sharon Springs.
(to camera)
Hi, Marlene.
(reading)
“Dear Fran, has something happened to you? It’s been months since you’ve posted a video. I sent you a picture of a life raft made from Fruit Loops and never got a response and normally you write back within—“
(crushing up the letter)
All righty then, I’m seeing a common theme here so why don’t we circle back to maybe why Fran, your crafting expert, has been absent at the end of the show and get to focus on more important things like the task at hand—you know, get down to
brass tacks—like, literally?
Cocktail party laugh.
Today on “Craft Cubby” we’re saddling in those velvet stirrups and mounting of the greatest crafting ponies of all time: pipe cleaner people. After all, let’s face it—don’t real people sometimes get you down? Aren’t there several hours in the day where
you wish you could shake some magic fairy dust and in no time that boss or disgruntled lady in front of you at the pharmacy would magically turn into pliable furry strings who only talk when you let them?
She unveils a serving tray topper to reveal tiny, various colored “people” made of pipe cleaners. Fran picks some up and begins speaking in their “voices.”
“Hi, Fran, how are you doing today?”
(as herself)
Why, I’m doing fine, my good pipe cleaner friend. How are you?
(as the voice)
“Just swell! Hey, listen, Fran, do I get a name?”
(herself)
Well, you might if I decide you get one.
(the voice)
“Oh, gee, when will that be? I’d so love a name!”
(herself)
When I say so.
(the voice)
“Can it be soon? Can it be now? Oh, please, Fran, I would so love to have a name!”
(herself)
You’ll get one when I say so, when I decide it’s time. You get a name, if you deserve a name, on my watch. I’m in charge here, I call the shots. Yo comprendo? Capiche? Understood?
Moment. She and the pipe cleaner exchange an intense stare—then smiles back the camera.
Gosh, crafting can be so dang therapeutic. I can’t tell you how many of the world’s problems I’ve solved down here in my crafting cubby. It may look like I’m all alone but me and my creations get a little noisy down here, don’t we, guys?
(arranging the pipe cleaners)
But that’s crafting for you—art imitating life imitating art imitating life. It’s a shame other people don’t have this sort of outlet—if they did, I think the world would be a more peaceful place—less violence and bloodshed and senseless massacres at
supercenters. Heck, when I’m crafting, I get so lost in time and space and figurines down here that I wind up making all kinds of noise and the neighbors are knocking at my front door with a concerned face to see if there’s a disturbance. “What disturbance? You mean the one these pony beads are about to have with this yarn ball?”
Cocktail party laugh. She picks up one of the pipe cleaners.
The thing about pipe cleaner people is it’s all in the twist. And no, I’m not talking about the dance move, I mean that relaxing moment when your hands just get lost in the turnaround.
(twisting a pipe cleaner)
Mmmmmm. So relaxing. Like washing a dish, only you don’t have to get wet. Crafting can sure seem so small and harmless. But I think you can do a lot of damage with a glitter ball. Or a pom–pom. Or—a pipe cleaner.
(holding up a pipe cleaner)
See, in our short time together I’ve already made the outline for her dress. Yes, indeed–y, it’s important to give them a name, a gender, an identity. Otherwise, you just collect a pile of them and like a neglectful octomom, wind up giving the lactose intolerant one a bottle of milk.
(to the pipe cleaner)
Did you know that your name was Madeline?
(as the other voice)
“No, but I’m so glad. Madeline’s the most perfect name.”
(as herself)
A perfect name to go right along with a perfect life. Madeline Atkins – the toast of the town, driving that pink convertible and turning heads with her intoxicating perfume.
(the pipe cleaner)
“Stop it, Fran, you’re making me blush!”
(herself)
But you can’t blush, Madeline, you don’t have flesh. Anyway, I’m just telling the truth!
(the pipe cleaner)
“Are not.” Are, too. “Are not!”
(forcefully)
Are, too.
(Beat.)
“You’re just saying that because I’m the President of the tri–county Women’s Crafting Club.”
(Beat.)
Oh, that’s right, the tri–county Women’s— you mean the one you would never let me in? The tri–county Women’s Crafting Club I’d apply to year after year, nearly begging to be welcomed—like a rabid animal on the other side of the glass at a petting zoo. You always said my gingerbread houses were too lopsided—that my striped piece potholders not texturally sound. Is that the crafting club you’re talking about, Madeline? Is it? Is it?”
(Beat.)
“Yeah . . . that’s the one.”
Beat. Her eyes wander back to the pipe cleaner.
I often ran into Madeline at the supercenter on Tuesdays. That’s when they’d have the best sales for yarn in bulk and of course who else would be there but the two of us, all bright eyed and bushy tailed. We always kept it pleasant—you know, early morning hour womanly small talk. The last time we ran into each other—well, I remember it like it was yesterday. I sat in my car, finishing a chia seed shake and my favorite song from the blockbuster slapstick comedy motion picture “Nell”. I thought the coast was clear. Her pink Cadillac wasn’t anywhere to be found. I strolled on inside—past Alice, my favorite greeter.
She unveils a miniature supercenter made out of various materials, complete with shopping carts and aisles. Note: She utilizes the prototype as she re–enacts the story.
(holding up a pipe cleaner as Alice)
“You here for the special, Fran?”
(another pipe cleaner)
“Heck—do the Irish drink whiskey?”
(Beat; the pipe cleaners laugh)
“Why’d I even bother asking when I already know the answer! Have a good day, Fran!”
“Have a good day, Alice!”
She moves her pipe cleaner persona to a different area in the supercenter.
I grabbed my cart and wheeled right onto aisle six, smiling at a few fellow customers, saying hi to Val, who was giving out free samples of iced tea. How nice this will be, to shop so unencumbered. Before I even laid eyes on the yarn, I was grabbing piles of the buy–one–get–one–free neon poster board. I reached for another, nearly taking the last that was on the shelf, when I heard someone clear her throat—tap her nails on the edge of the plastic cart.
(as Madeline, the same voice as the pipe cleaner voice)
“You know, Fran, I hear they’re looking for volunteers at the nursing home. Who knows? Maybe you can show them how to make charm bracelets out of the stuff they can’t chew?”
Beat. The two pipe cleaners turn to one another.
“Madeline. I didn’t see you.”
“I parked in the back, they’re loading up my car with a special order. Hey, you don’t still use neon poster board, do you? That’s so last year.”
“Just—stocking up for a project.”
We stood there. She cleared her throat again. I slowly put a bundle back on the shelf.
“How’s everything—at the cr—crafting club, Madel—“
“Oh, couldn’t be better. You know us—a devoted bunch. Look out for an article in next week’s paper about our spring showcase. They came by and took a lovely picture.”
“I’ll—I’ll have to remember that.”
Sadly, she looks away. Beat.
“Well. I’m here for hydrangeas. I better—“
“Aisle 12.”
“Right.”
(Beat.)
“Thanks.”
Fran’s pipe cleaner walks away. Beat.
You ever find yourselves at a loss for words, viewers? Some of you might have no idea what I’m talking about and speak your mind all the dang time as easy as stitching a patchwork apron. But others might be more like me, where sometimes in a moment you feel so darn much—emotions coming up this way and that like little magenta rockets and it all gets caught in your throat and you just freeze. You just stand there, speechless, when in reality all you wanna do is grab her by the shoulders and look in her eyes and scream, “Why? What did I ever do to you? Don’t you know how lonely it is day after day with nothing more than a hot glue gun and chalkboard paint to keep you company? Don’t people deserve community, don’t they deserve to belong? Why are you the one with your perfect dress and your perfect smile and your perfect Cadillac who gets to decide who belongs and who doesn’t—who’s on one side of the glass and who’s on the other, clawing and banging and yelling and crying for someone to let them—“
She stares at the pipe cleaner in her hand. Beat.
I went to Aisle 12 and collapsed on the floor, in between two hydrangeas so no one could see me. At just about that time—or shortly after that time, a very bad man in a black coat walked in through the front doors.
(via a pipe cleaner in the super center model)
He stood there, walking past a few aisles at first. Then he took out an assault rifle and began firing shots all around him. Bang, bang. Bang! Bang!
(Beat.)
See, the thing about guns is they don’t necessarily sound like guns—they sound more like a pop. And as I was sitting in between the two hydrangeas, all I could think of when I heard him fire those first rounds was, “Gee, there goes another rowdy teenager setting off fire crackers!” But then screaming followed, people around me ran. Customers were knocking over shelves just to find safety.
She represents this with several pipe cleaners in the supercenter prototype. Beat.
I remained, hidden behind the two hydrangeas. Madeleine was still in aisle six, probably trying to take cover in the yarn bin. People were just living their normal lives that day, like they do everyday until someone comes along to destroy
everything they’ve ever had.
She points to two pipe cleaner people in the super center dressing room.
Heck, we didn’t know it at the time, but there were even two star–crossed lovers in the dressing room having a heated midday romance. But the bad man in the black coat found them, too, leaving no stone unturned. Those two in the dressing room
must have loved each other an awful lot. When he fired his gun, one dove out in front of the other to save him. What heroes we can all be in such dire straits. What He–Men. Rawr.
(Beat.)
Once things began to die down, the coast seemingly clear—after that bad man took his last bullet and fired it into his head—
She holds up a pipe cleaner and then knocks it on the table flat.
—I emerged from the two hydrangeas, up from the rubble, peeking around to make sure the coast was clear. I began running for the door, of course, hell–bent to get the heck out of there, but I nearly tripped over several rolls of yarn on the way, thinking suddenly of Madeline. I tip toed to the crafting aisle and couldn’t believe my eyes—there she was, not standing tall and proud with her nose high in the air looking down on me, but sprawled out on the floor in a pool of her own blood.
“Madeline”—I asked her. “Are you there?”
Again—ensuing with the pipe cleaners.
I walked closer. She turned her head.
“H—help.”
Normally, that’s at the exact moment someone would have called for help. Normally, someone would run out and grab her, tie a scarf around her neck, close a wound with their bare hand—anything to keep her going. But I’ll admit it, viewers, I did none of those things. I crouched down to see her at eve level. And I stared.
Beat.
Her hand dropped. I reached out to take it in mine. Dang, I thought at the very least I should hold some part of her, see her through her final minutes. But somehow in reaching out to her, my hand moved backwards, going for a nearby colored yarn ball instead. Tragedy—it’s a tricky son–of–a–gun. Brings out the best and the worst in us. Don’t you think, viewers?
She unveils another part of the crafting table, revealing a large gravestone with “RIP” written on it. She places the Madeline pipe cleaner by the gravesite.
Beat—resuming with a smile.
Well, that’s all we have time for this week. I hope you learned a thing or two here on this special episode of Craft Cubby. Rest assured I’ll be back with some more tips, clips and fabric strips for your weekly viewing pleasure. And I suppose now would
be an appropriate time to explain to you why there’s been some radio silence these past two months, twelve days and six hours. Good news, really. Yes, it appears your crafting expert before you has been newly appointed the President of the tri–county Women’s Crafting Club. Forward motion comes in opportune surprises, don’t you think, viewers? I do. I really, really do.
(Beat.)
So please tune in next week, where we’ll be learning how to make bridal pendant necklaces out of seashells.
She places the topper tray over the supercenter. The cheesy music theme music back in full force.
Fran looks out, her head held high, her spine straight, beaming with pride, victorious.
A moment of this, the music still blaring, then—
She turns off the camera.
BLACKOUT.
About the Author
Drew Larimore‘s work as a playwright, screenwriter and librettist has been produced in the U.S. and internationally—aptly described as “hilarious and slightly devastating.” His work for the stage and screen has been highlighted in The New Yorker, Variety, The New York Times, Theatrius, This Week in New York, Instinct Magazine, Talkin’ Broadway, TheatreMania, Theatrely, Australian Stage, Aussie Theatre, Broadway Radio Show, Sirius XM, Playbill, and Theatre in the Now. He is based in Brooklyn—but leaves Brooklyn semi regularly when it gets on his nerves. www.drewlarimore.com