Matinee at the Hygiene Theater

Take your seats as quickly, quietly, and cleanly as possible. Just file on in. It doesn’t matter what your ticket says. I’ll go over all the ground rules before the performance begins. There’s plenty of time. Thank you, thank you.

Welcome to the Hygiene Theater, where things only appear clean. Those big jugs of hand sanitizer at the end of the aisle are actually empty, providing the illusion of cleanliness. The bathroom has no water. The pipes froze a few weeks ago and burst. If you absolutely must use the facilities, just place your hands underneath the faucet and pantomime washing them. The closest gesture is that of a magician waving his hand underneath a levitating assistant.

We still have extra ponchos and safety goggles underneath your seats from the last time Gallagher paid us a visit. Boy was that an object lesson in hygiene. A lot of people might not realize it, but he soaks each watermelon overnight, and that’s after sharing a bed with the mysterious fruit for weeks. Anyone you have a partner on stage, trust is paramount. The last thing the watermelon expects is a mallet – and that’s the point. 

The show will be a compendium of one acts. Suds is the opener. A short piece lasting no more than forty minutes where the great Joe Pesci, famous for his extravagant use of obscenities in film, holds a bar of soap in his mouth for the duration. The length of the show varies depending on Joe’s mouth. I’ve seen him go for nearly an hour, while some nights, it’s five minutes and out. He’s a mercurial figure, to say the least. Before you get all annoyed, we don’t pay heed to spoilers here. It’s better knowing what to expect than to be surprised by a piece of watermelon rind to the retina. Pesci is considering taking the show on the road, playing every bathhouse and tile joint on the east coast. He's been quoted in the Daily Mail and other outlets saying what a relief it is not to have to remember his lines. 

The second show is called, My Korantine, about a Saudi Arabian prince praying daily for the pandemic to end. Hand washing takes on new meaning in a country where severance packages are a basket of severed hands. But at least they’re clean. 

The third show, Monsieur Nettoyer, follows Mr. Clean, now living in France (a wide beret covering his bald head). Clean, or Nettoyer, as Parisians call him, makes house calls to the unclean and uncouth, giving them more than scrubbing tips. He’s a bitter man, clean on the outside, filthy on the inside, angry at how his usefulness and importance has fallen as everyone suddenly cares about hygiene. It’s a dark play with a dark ending. 

Talking is fine as long as it’s kept at a rolling whisper. Remember to wear one of the comedy or tragedy masks for the duration of the performance. Take your shoes off, get comfortable and enjoy the shows.