Best Monologues from the Best American Short Plays, Volume Three

by William W. Demastes

  Lawrence Thelen

  Ichabod Crane Tells All

  from

  The Best American Short Plays 2011–2012

  character

  ICHABOD CRANE

  scene

  A lecture on stage, 1840.

  synopsis

  In this comic one-man play, Ichabod Crane, at the very old age of seventy-two, gives a lecture concerning the events which led to his departure from the small town of Sleepy Hollow fifty years earlier.

  to the actor

  It’s worth noting that nearly everything Ichabod says about his time in Sleepy Hollow is a lie—devised over the years to make himself look better in his stories and justify his actions. He might even believe these lies to be true, forgetting long ago how the actual events played out. Despite what he says, the truth is: he was very much in love with Katrina Van Tassel, terribly jealous of Brom Bones, and scared to death of the Headless Horseman. Yet, over the years, he has created another reality to counter the stories that flowed forth following the events that suggested he was overly timid, a failed lover, or even insane. It would be invaluable to communicate some of this to the audience.

  [As the house lights dim, a spot light comes up on a lectern center stage. ICHABOD CRANE walks to the lectern and addresses the audience. ICHABOD is a spry, feisty, seventy-two-year-old man. He is tall, thin, lanky, and out of proportion—looking more like a Harlequin marionette whose head is too big for the rest of his body, and whose ears and nose are too big for his head. His arms and legs are longer than they should be and don’t always seem to move with the same goal in mind. He has gray hair and a sage, serious expression, which becomes almost sinister when he smiles. He is a blindly arrogant man who does a very poor job of masking his disdain for the ignorant and stupid people of the world. Yet he likes himself an awful lot.]

  ICHABOD CRANE Good evening. I’m Ichabod Crane, and it’s a pleasure to be here. I’ve been asked to give a lecture on the circumstances surrounding my time spent in that dreary little New York town of Sleepy Hollow, and the events that led to my departure—a story which seems to have become “legend” over the years. I appreciate the Library Association and the Town Council for asking me here so I can finally tell my side of the story; for many misrepresentations and rumors have been spread over the years—particularly by that most unscrupulous journalist Washington Irving—and other cynical writers who have grossly misinterpreted my character for years. Now, let me state from the outset that there was, and to the best of my knowledge, still is a Headless Horseman who roams the village of which I speak, and that he was in no way an apparition, a hoax, or a bit of indigestion as some have suggested.

  Several have said that my timidity, my belief in the supernatural, or my failed marriage proposal to Miss Katrina Van Tassel, led to a temporary insanity—a swelling of the brain twice the normal size—which led to hallucinations conjuring up this Horseman. Well, that’s simply preposterous! If my brain had swelled to such proportions, it would have exploded along the roadside like a shattered jack-o’-lantern.

  Let me start by going through each of those points with you one by one so there’s no misunderstanding. First of all, I am not a timid man. In fact, I’m quite gay, fun loving, and gleeful. I can be raucously funny at times. And I’m quite wonderful at a party, for I can speak to nearly anyone on nearly any subject even if the person to whom I’m speaking bores me to death. I’ve learned to conceal my disdain very well over the years. It’s all in the smile.

  [He smiles.]

  No one can be unhappy when they’re looking at this face. Secondly, as far as my belief in the unknown goes—the supernatural, superstition, coincidence, and all that—it is true I believe in such things, for I have experienced them firsthand—irrespective of that ridiculous Headless Horseman event. I have seen and heard things that no man has seen or heard. Yet, that doesn’t make me insane—as some have suggested—but rather exceedingly sane. More sane than any of you. What’s more, if anyone here tonight can prove to me in facts and figures that the supernatural does not exist, then let him speak now or forever hold his tongue. No! I am speaking now. You can speak later!

  [He regains his composure.]

  Finally, as far as Miss Van Tassel goes, it wasn’t a failed marriage proposal at all. How do these rumors get started? I never had any intention of proposing marriage to the girl. It’s true that she was enamored with me, and that we spent nearly every weekend together while I was in town, and that many assumed I would propose to her—but the whole thing is one big misunderstanding. In the end—and let me be perfectly clear about this—it was I who rejected her, not vice versa. I have not been rejected by a woman one time in my life. Ultimately, you see, Miss Van Tassel was not my type of woman. Her table manners, for example, were atrocious. I once spent a whole evening with her during which she had a pea stuck between two teeth the entire time.

  And for those of you who might believe that my real interest in the girl lay not with her, but with her father’s well-stocked bank accounts, that too is false. True, it would have been nice not to have to confine myself to a classroom for fifty years teaching retched little monsters the basics of modern-day survival just to earn a living. But I couldn’t bear the thought of returning home each evening after a long day’s work to that sour expression with which she often greeted me. Not even for a sizable inheritance. Everyone has their limits, and Katrina Van Tassel was mine.

  [He takes a moment to gather his thoughts.]

  Let me start at the beginning. One day back in 1790, as a young lad of twenty-two, I came across a posting in the local newspaper for a schoolmaster. I’d had no formal training for such a position, but I’m naturally bright—as I’m sure you can tell—and had self-taught myself most everything a person needs to be successful in life. I’ve always been very well read, having gone through Milton and Shakespeare and even the Bible—a ghastly piece of propaganda which, surprisingly, turned out to be quite useful in the classroom when it came to questions I didn’t want to answer: “Where is the universe, Mr. Crane?”—“Read your Bible!” “Why is my uncle also my father?”—“Read your Bible!” “Where does snot come from?” Well, some questions even the Bible can’t answer.

  Let me, if I may, interject here my teaching philosophy for those teachers in the audience who will no doubt want to emulate me. First of all, don’t give the little brats an inch or they’ll walk all over you. Children must have discipline. Discipline and boundaries.

  They must know what they can do and what they can’t do. Otherwise, they’ll waste all their time—and yours—testing the boundaries and not thriving within the established structure. Now, the best way to organize this structure, I have found, is around pain. When they do what you want, you say, “good Johnny,” or “good Sally.” But if they are wrong, or bad, or disgusting, pain will rectify the situation immediately. If they miss a math problem, for instance, a wrap on the knuckles with a ruler will suffice. For more grievous acts such as spitting or smoking, I’ve found a good smack across the face will instantly change that behavior. And on it goes from there. It should be noted that, to date, none of my students have ever died in the classroom. I’m simply doing a parent’s job. Why anyone in the world would want to have children in the first place is beyond me—but as long as they’re around, it seemed like educating them would be a sensible way to make a living.

  At any rate, I answered the newspaper ad because it seemed like a good time to leave Connecticut, where I was born and raised. I had been working as a stock room manager at Anderson’s Livestock, Lumber and Feed Store for six months, and had quite a good relationship with Mr. Anderson and his daughter, Sonia, who naturally acquired a crush on me. But the dust and the hay played havoc with my sinus, and manual labor was of no interest to me whatsoever. I’ve always been far more interested in using my brain than any other part of my body. And when I explained this to Sonia, her goodwill towards me
went elsewhere—and, consequently, so did I.

  Luckily for me, the very next day I received a letter from Baltus Van Tassel, head of the Sleepy Hollow school board and father of the aforementioned Katrina Van Tassel—the girl with the pea in her teeth. The letter included a one-year school master’s contract—commencing at two dollars a week—and a one-way stagecoach ticket to get there. What a horrid way to travel—my bony little bum was sore for a week. Nevertheless, I accepted the position immediately; not because I needed the job, but because I was horrified at the thought of so many uneducated New Yorkers being set loose on society.

  When I arrived in Sleepy Hollow it was clear the town desperately needed me. The previous schoolmaster had failed miserably as far as I could tell. The boys were working in the fields getting their hands abhorrently muddy, and the girls were learning cooking and cleaning from their mothers. They clearly had no desire to better themselves. So I took it upon myself to do that for them.

  No room and board was provided with the position, so I was taken in by the families of those I taught—I rotated weekly from house to house. Needless to say, some accommodations were worse than others. One home, for example—that of the Mullet family—was particularly gruesome. I was provided with a flea-infested cot in a dank and dirty cellar—no closet, no bureau, not even a mirror with which to perform my ablutions. Hell, everyone deserves a mirror. And my meals consisted of soup. Every day another soup: cabbage soup, parsnip soup, boiled celery soup—God forbid they should toss me a bit of meat once in a while. I’m not a glutton, but I’ve always had a healthy appetite. I swear I lost five pounds the week I stayed with the Mullets. Needless to say, I never went back there again.

  By contrast, there was the home of Darius Vanderhoff. Now, the boy, Darius, was a lost cause—a true dirt clod—but his mother provided me with the heartiest meals I received during my tenure. Lamb stew, chicken and dumplings, pot roast. Gravy has always been one of my favorite indulgences, and Mrs. Vanderhoff knew her way around a smooth sauce. What’s more, I was provided a bed in their kitchen, where many a night a second supper was to be found amid the cupboards and icebox. Mrs. Vanderhoff chalked up the lost food to a mother raccoon she had seen seeking nibbles for her young. Not wanting to spoil her feeling of goodwill toward animals, I continued to let her believe such a wild story. Through a fine bit of finagling, I was able to reside at the Vanderhoff’s home on four separate occasions. I tried for a fifth but their bankruptcy prevented it. Clearly, the nicest home I was privy to was that of the aforementioned Baltus Van Tassel—father of the daughter with the pea?—who was clearly the wealthiest man in town. There I was given my own private room—with a mirror—and three filling, though flavorless, meals a day. Mrs. Van Tassel was not what you might refer to as a gourmet. Still, I never went hungry. Their youngest daughter, Mildred, was one of my students—and upon my first stay Mildred introduced me to her older sister, Katrina, a bouncy young woman of eighteen. It was obvious that Katrina was taken with me immediately. I saw it coming but there was nothing I could do to prevent it. I say this with all due modesty. She fawned over me the same way a squirrel fawns over a nut.

  And I must say I liked it very much. So, I indulged her infatuation by staying at their home as often as possible, and visiting her on weekends as well. And each time I stayed I received more attention from her than the previous visit. Which only stands to reason; we were getting to know one another better with each passing day. As one would expect, a romance developed.

  [He smiles grandly, showing he is quite proud of this feat.]

  Or, at least, that’s what I let her believe. I let her indulge her fantasy with me though I was not smitten with her at all. Oh, yes, she was beautiful, with a slim, tight little body, and a sensual, erotic smile, and all the money in the world. But she really wasn’t my type. And the stories that state that my lip quivered whenever she came near me, or that I had to sit down every time she took my arm are blatantly false!

  I was soon to discover, however, that there was another man interested in Katrina—Abraham Van Brunt, also known as Brom Bones. I assume he acquired the nickname because of his large, unwieldy physical resemblance to a pachyderm. Nonetheless, Miss Van Tassel had apparently had a previous, albeit short, courtship with the large fellow; and although I know not the reason for their separation, it was clear she had no interest in resuming the courtship with him once I came along. In fact, often in his presence, she would dote on me even more than usual—presumably to show him what a better catch I was, or to keep his feelings for her at bay.

  Now, that’s not to say they were complete enemies. I did happen upon them once in the pantry where he was apparently helping her brush her hair, for it was all mussed when I stumbled upon them. And though I would have been a far better choice than he to tend her coif—knowing the intricacies of personal style and hygiene better than most—I held no jealousy whatsoever; for he was simultaneously a braggart and a bore—a seemingly incomprehensible combination that he embodied with ease. He would often bend the ear of any poor soul who happened to be near with tales of his superior and outlandish life. His favorite story being the night he outran the famous Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow by crossing St. Amsterdam’s Bridge in the nick of time just before he’d been forced into battle with him. Apparently the Horseman, for whatever reason, can’t seem to cross St. Amsterdam’s Bridge and so Brom claimed victory over the poor, helpless spirit.