CLUTTERBUCKS – episode 1

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Clutterbucks started out as a sitcom, then I turned it into a novel (this is one of four), and now I have submitted it to Women at Plays as a one act play. Ever the optimist, I don’t want to show the story here in case it gets picked up! Fingers crossed!

Daphne rushes into the beautiful spring morning, she appears to be shedding feathers.
Business cards scatter everywhere in her wake – on the lawn, the driveway, the roof, a few are tucked into the blooms of early tulips, one in her collar, several have shimmied into the ground, others replace leaves on the red maple, and one can be seen in the beak of a bird flying overhead.
They say Daphne Buck, Personal Organizer.
Her business name is shortened due to a conflict of interest, but she’s a Clutterbuck, there’s no mistaking. It’s in the way she bursts and bustles from house to car, a haphazard blur. No matter how she tries, there’s always something awry – maybe a tag she didn’t remove, a sticker on the bottom of a shoe, a clash of colour, stray straps, safety pins, a stain she thought she’d successfully dabbed away – or the unfortunate result of her clothes never quite fitting. How a single blouse can be too long, too short, too small, and too large at once is a question that Daphne asks the universe daily. To add to the problem, Daphne is prone to loud colours, the clearance section, anything fringed, and layers. She’s been known to wear two entire outfits, preferring the feel of the inner garment but the look of the outer, and this is perhaps why Daphne’s skin seems thicker than yours and mine put together.
Even her car doesn’t fit, but she squeezes into it so regularly that she doesn’t think about it any more unless the struggle causes the brief surrender of her bladder, or the more permanent release of a button, snap, or safety pin. But she likes the style – it’s the not-so-new-anymore Beetle – and she was first in line when they came out. She choose the yellow which she had to wait six weeks for – it was totally worth it – she loves everything about this car, but eventually she has to get out, and every time it feels like she’s being born.
Today it’s warm and sunny with the bluest of skies and she looks up, takes a moment and smiles unless it’s a grimace, before hurling herself into the little car which goes surprisingly well this morning although there’s an exposed triangle of skirt caught in the door, the same colour as the little car that bings from the driveway and careens down the boulevard. 
Inside, Daphne is searching, with escalating frustration, for her phone. The search involves plucking business cards from her clothing, one behind her ear, a few in her hair. Finally she finds her phone in her purse. She pulls it out and swipes it, a half dozen business cards splash to the floor, but it’s not her phone at all – it’s the chocolate bar she got two-for-one yesterday and forgot about – a rare thing.
“Oh nuts,” she says, and the car pinballs around and bings back into the driveway. 
She exhales in preparation for her exit, braces herself and heaves, but instead of the usual struggle, she pops out of the car and staggers a little due to unrestricted velocity. She feels the slippery sheen on her new blouse and makes a mental note. 
When she gets to the front door of the cul-de-sac little bungalow, a skinny white arm shoots out, its fist connecting with Daphne’s chin before it opens and releases her phone. The hand belongs to Daphne’s mother, Harriet Clutterbuck.
“Thanks, Harriet,” Daphne says, catching it with one hand and rubbing her chin with the other.
The door slams shut and Daphne leans her forehead against it and whispers, “Have a good day, mom.” 
She slides back into the car, picks up the chocolate bar, unwraps it and takes a bite, locates a podcast on her phone, and careens down the street once more.

Hello folks, and welcome to Funny Business, your guide to making a living in the world of comedy – and remember, folks, I didn’t say a good living. I’m your host Cowboy Jim Dinner, and I want to share something special with you on today’s Tools of the Tirade. Those of you who know me have heard me talk about The Laugh Line Log. It’s an easy way for you to keep track of your good jokes and help make your not-so-good ones better. Honestly, folks, I don’t know how you can succeed without it. Only $29.99. Go to iwishidsaidthat.com and enter code tirade for your 10% discount, and start charting those reactions today! blah blah blah ...

Daphne drums the steering wheel as she drives, eating the chocolate one meaningful bite at a time until it’s suddenly gone. She glares at the wrapper as if it betrayed her in some way, pulls over, turns the podcast off, shoves the wrapper in the glove compartment, wipes the corners of her mouth, and makes a call.
“Avo? It’s me. Just getting to the Halliday Hills place. I’ll call you when I know what’s up. In about an hour.”
She pauses, looking from house to house, calculating.
“It’s Daphne! Who did you think it was? Number ninety-three Halliday Hills Road. Write it down. No. Now. Write it down now. I’ll wait. No. Ninety-three. That’s right. Halliday. H-a-l-l-i-d-a-y. Ninety-three! Wait for my call.”
Daphne shoves her phone into her purse where we see a Laugh Line Log.
Ninety-three is easy to spot. It’s the only house on lovely Halliday Hills Road that’s for sale.
Daphne parks opposite the house, gathers her things, notices there’s a dot of melted chocolate front and centre on her blouse, and reaches into the glove compartment where she fumbles through countless wrappers and locates a large and gaudy brooch which she employs to cover the dot, pricking her thumb in the process. She then reaches back into the glove compartment and fumbles for a second brooch, slightly smaller, which she pins directly below the first, to hide the single drop of blood that has slid darkly down the fabric.
She grabs the door handle – it clicks unlocked – but when she sees what’s happening on the lawn of 93 Halliday Hills Road, she slowly locks the door again with one hand, and covers her mouth with the other.
Daphne’s new client, Jane Twist, is on her knees wrestling with a very securely implanted FOR SALE sign upon which we see the smiling face and name of sales agent Karen Buck. 
Suddenly successful, Jane hurls the huge sign into the street where it lands in a splintered mess on the road beside Daphne’s car. Its trajectory is so enormously successful that Jane pauses for a moment, hands on hips, to appreciate both the achieved distance and speed. A single beat later the smaller OPEN HOUSE NEXT WEEKEND sign which she aims at the real estate agent – who is sprinting to her car sheltering her head and screaming – lands on Daphne’s windshield.
Jane hoots and runs wildly into the house. The real estate agent reaches her car safely, executes a screechy three-point-turn, and rolls down her window as she passes Daphne.
“She’s crazy, Daphne. Call it off!” she hollers and drives away.
Smiling wickedly, Jane marches out of the house and covers what remains of the sign with a big orange towel, marches back in the house, and slams the door.
“This should be interesting,” Daphne says, popping out of the car.
We all know somebody like Jane. It’s like she sauntered out of a sitcom into your living room. But she’s not the dim-witted neighbour or the silly mother or the strung-out friend. No. She’s a sophisticated, smart, witty, fierce, fit and stylish lady – who piles her hair into a beehive – which both becomes her and offers a place to hide her prized possession which at the moment is her credit card.
Jane doesn’t take shit from anybody. Not any more.
She is recently divorced from a man who left her, suddenly, which produced something other than the heartbreak you might expect: it produced a twinkling ray of hope.
The home at 93 Halliday Hills Road is a four bedroom, two storey brick affair built in the 50s, with a new roof, interlock driveway, new windows all round, and worth upwards of 1.5 million dollars. The grounds are unkempt as if the owners have been away for a few months. The mailbox bulges, the hedges are growing wildly uneven, nothing is in bloom but weeds, and the sludge in the fountain, on this beautiful spring day, smells like swamp.
Daphne is eager to see what’s inside. Her cousin Karen doesn’t often so highly recommend clients, so she hops up the steps to the porch where some packing, it seems, has begun. There’s stuff piled high as the railing on one side, and at the back of the pile, Daphne spots five or six broken FOR SALE signs stacked against the wall, bearing the grimacing faces of all the other agents who have given up.
On top of the pile is a single ice skate, the neck of a Fender guitar, three goldfish bowls, and a birdcage, inside of which is a small wooden box for which Daphne stealthily reaches. 
Inside, two little bird feet and a beak. 
The big living room window is directly in front of her and she notices with a start that the perpetrator is staring stonily at her, tail swinging.
Daphne turns to the door and rings the bell. Her well-trained eye is again distracted, this time by a triangle of fabric poking from another pile, which she reaches for and tugs until the label is revealed. Chanel. She smiles wickedly and says under her breath “come on come on come on!”
Three more rings do not produce an answer so she fumbles for her phone and looks up the number her real-estate agent cousin, Karen, sent yesterday along with the message this woman needs help and has tons of amazing stuff! Open house next weekend. I want 20% on this one.
Daphne texts: Where are you Mrs. Twist? We were booked to start five minutes ago. I am at your door.
Jane is in her bedroom, lying on her bed between mounds of clothing. She groans as she types into her phone: So sorry to cancel! Something’s come up! Let’s reschedule! A week today works for me! Couldn’t be helped! Apologies! 
Daphne sighs. She’s heard it before: A week today is the Open House. Which is why I am at your door today. Let me in. 
“Fuck sakes,” Jane mutters.
She rolls off the bed revealing the second ice skate. Also in her room are the green, blue, and grey bins she dragged in from outside, a scatter of leaves at their feet from which several full-blown dandylions grow, two old tin garbage cans (previously occupied by Oscar?), piles of bulging green garbage bags, heaps of boxes, stacking containers all awry, a treadmill draped in clothing, markers, tape, rubber gloves, a heap of what look like tennis balls but upon closer inspection are paired beige socks, a pool-skimmer, a ceramic Christmas tree, a baton, a snorkel, a stack of Nancy Drews.
While she waits, Daphne drifts to the other end of the porch where several boxes are stacked. She bends slightly, expertly knocks a lid ajar with her knee and peers inside. She knows the colour of that box – it’s Tiffany blue – and she reaches into her purse and pulls out a pack of sticky red dots. She checks through the window, looks furtively over her shoulder, peels off a dot and sticks it on the side of the box. 
Finally, the door flies open revealing breathless Jane, newly lipsticked.
“Okay! You must be Daphne. I’m Jane. Nice to meet you. I’ve cancelled everything! Sorry about that! But I’m all yours now! Please, come in.”
Raisins fall on the doorstep between them and both Daphne and Jane look down, puzzled. 
Jane eyes Daphne as she walks past – the brooches, the strangely glowing blouse, the absurd running shoes, the bright yellow skirt – and she wonders if her real estate agent recommended the right professional organizer. She is not certain she is in good hands.
The doorbell rings.
“Just a moment,” Jane smiles, squeezing past her. “Won’t be a sec.”
She opens the door to a FedEx delivery man obviously familiar and happy to see Jane, who presses herself against him, pushes him out onto the porch and closes the door behind them. 
Daphne takes the opportunity to grab her Laugh Line Log and she writes, there’s a raisin for everything.
She steps into the living room which looks and smells like a jungle. There is a very cloudy fish tank in which three fish are frantically gesturing, mouthing HELP. 
Daphne walks gingerly around the room, her expert eye catching a few things of value, and she recognizes shapes in the china cabinet – is that a tangle of Hermès scarves? – and she can barely make out a sculpture someone mistakenly put in the fish tank, she swoops in for a closer look, whispers, “is it a Rodin?” to which the smallest fish nods yes.
She grabs her phone and takes a shot – she’ll research it when she gets home – the little fish smiles for the camera and then she takes a quick picture of the paperback that’s lying on the floor. The cover is torn, the pages shredded, the title barely legible: The Idiot’s Guide To Training Your Cat. 
The corners of the room seem zoned incoming, there are stacks of boxes, all new and unopened, from all kinds of stores, including one from grocerygateway.com which is seeping a little at the bottom and is the source – along with equal parts fish tank and cat – of the eau-de-jungle.  
But Daphne, in a kind of delighted shock, rubs her hands together with glee. 
Jane comes back inside with a box and quickly stacks it on top of the others. 
“Sorry about that,” she says quickly, steering Daphne away from the corner, “it couldn’t be helped.”
“First thing I tell people in your situation,” Daphne says, “is NO. MORE. SHOPPING.” 
She pauses, glances around the room, and adds doubtfully, “Open House in ONE WEEK? We better get right –”
Again, the doorbell rings and Jane slinks away, pushing the smiling delivery man, you’d swear it’s the same guy but in a different uniform, onto the porch. 
Daphne makes a call.
“Avo. Looks like I’ll need longer. This place is a goldmine. Five or  –”
“Daphne,” she shakes her head, “it’s Daphne, Avo. Wait for my call.”
Jane returns, sheepishly adding another box to incoming.
“We better get at it,” Daphne says, peeking into the adjoining kitchen with horror.
“I don’t know how we’re going to get this place in shape for an open house in one week. I don’t see it. I think you’re going to have to speak with your agent and put it off,” she glances around, “for a decade.”
Jane flicks away a few articles of clothing and sits on the edge of the couch, puts her head in her hands, and heaves a big sigh.
“Listen. I think it’s pretty obvious after what you saw outside earlier that I don’t want to sell this house. I’ve lived here 32 years and I don’t want to move. It’s my dirty ass hus – it’s Matth – Jesus. This isn’t something I want to do! Karen convinced me to hire you, but I don’t want your help. I don’t want to lift a finger to help sell this place. I don’t want to move!”
“Okay, Jane. Be that as it may. That’s not my department. All I’m here for is to help you. And even if you don’t move? Even if you get your way? You need help. Look at this place,” she pauses. “Where’s my purse?  Where’d it go? It was right here!”
Jane peeks through her fingers and watches as Daphne searches for her purse. Can this woman help anybody get organized?
“First,” Daphne says, still searching, “I’ll tell you how we are going to approach this task.”
“Task?” Jane asks. “This is more than a task. Nothing’s been done in this place for years. Since we had to let the maid go. And this? This is the clean room. This is the organized room. This is the best room in the house. And the safest.”
As she speaks, a fish rolls over and floats to the top of the tank.
“Matth – I can’t even say his name. My husb – damn! – well he stopped almost every cent coming in. All I have is a measly allowance on one little credit card and –
The doorbell rings.
“– and I gotta use it all up, you see, before the end of the month because then everything stops. I won’t get another cent. I don’t know how he can do it, but he can, and he is, the miserable son-of-a –”
She leaves to answer the door, and returns a moment later with another box, “– bitch!”.
Before she launches it onto the incoming stack, she spots Daphne’s purse between the last arrival and the wall.
“Here! Your purse! Good thing. You never would have found it!”
Daphne grabs the bag and reaching inside, she pulls out the package of dots.
“Okay. Let’s get started. See these dots? You are going to put a dot on everything you want to get rid of. They’re permanent so you can’t change your mind. We’ll just kind of work on the top layer today, and when our time’s up, you tell me what charity you want to donate it to and I’ll have it all picked up within the hour, and we’ll  resume tomorrow for a further cull. And then again the next day –”
“Charity? Who said anything about charity. I’m going to sell this stuff.”
“No time for that and you’ll get a better, faster dollar for your house if you do it this way. Trust me. I’ve done it a million times.”
“What about consignment? Surely there’s – ”
“Listen. Jane. I am here to help you get rid of the junk that will stand in the way of you getting top dollar for your house. Your real estate agent and I have worked together many times and the results speak for themselves. You will sell faster and for more money. Better to start fresh with more cash and less baggage anyway. Karen said you’ll be renting for a while? Then you need to get rid of all this heavy old stuff. Do not hang on to the past. It’s ancient, heavy, cumbersome, and out of style. You look like the kind of woman who could use some minimalism in your life. Imagine a lovely new couch. Maybe a sheepskin throw. A nice lamp. Hardwood floors –”
“These floors are hardwood and that couch is from The Art Shoppe and we paid twelve thousand dollars for it. And that chandelier? It’s worth a fortune!”
“Not any more it’s not. And these old paintings, the vases in that cabinet, that box of whatever your grandmother’s grandmother used to wear as jewellery – you’ll make enough to replace them all – and with something modern and beautiful, like a dazzling piece from Tiffany’s instead of that big old pile of chains and stones.”
“That big old pile IS from Tiffany’s.”
“Yes. Well. Perhaps it is but the modern Tiffany pieces are much more suitable for a woman such as yourself.”
Daphne pauses to give the flattery a chance to sink in.
“Treat yourself to something classy. Anyway. Here. Take this sheet and start. Just the top layer like I said. Stay by my side and we’ll just kinda work outward from here.”
The first item in Daphne’s path is a footstool, its ancient embroidery torn to smithereens by several generations of cats.
“Oh. And wait,” Daphne reaches into her purse which is hanging securely around her neck. “These yellow dots are for garbage. Stuff nobody’s gonna want no matter what.”
Jane suddenly bursts into tears as Daphne hands her the yellow dots. She peels one off and places it on her own forehead, before she sits down and weeps.
“Okay Jane. C’mon. It can’t be that bad.”
“Well it is that bad. It’s exactly that bad.”
Daphne presses a yellow dot on the footstool, looks at a very distressed Jane and says, “Let your clutter haunt someone else, Jane. Time to move on,” and quickly, before Jane looks up, she presses a red dot on the big square box full of Tiffany jewellery.
“I’ve got a hairdryer in the car. It should get that sticker off. I hope. Never had to remove one from an actual person before.”
Jane’s eyes suddenly dart to the grandfather clock against the wall – which her husband inherited from his Aunt Mildred – and newly determined, she stomps toward it and places a red sticker firmly on its face. 
“Take that, Auntie ’dred,” she says, turning to Daphne with a wicked smile. 
“Always hated her... and that thing!”
Daphne casually opens the face of the clock, reads the maker, and it’s her turn to smile wickedly.
“Yes,” she says, “everybody hates those old things.”
The clock makes a sudden protest chime.
“Oh fuck off, Mildred,” Jane says laughing.
The door to the basement has been opening one degree at a time all afternoon. Periodic yelling, sobbing, screeching, the grunting tugs of war, and every so often peals of laughter have informed the basement’s sole occupant that he’d better get packing.
“Why on earth didn’t you call me earlier?” he hears Daphne ask.
“I didn’t call you EVER. That was the real estate agent. The bitch,” his ]mother replies.
Finally, Jane and Daphne, both filthy and haggard, are in front of the door to the basement. Jane is barely recognizable, wearing several fur coats, reams of jewellery. In tears, she pleads, “No. Not the basement. Not today. No. No. I beg you. No,” but Daphne turns the knob, pushes the door open, and they creep down the stairs together.
A single window allows a dusty beam of pale light into the otherwise dark, very full basement. The light slides over oddly familiar shapes and it takes a second look, even a third, to distinguish the ear of a fox, antlers, a hoof, a snout, more hooves, an enormous flank, a large wing, a reptilian tail. There are a few benches across the back wall, piled high with pelts, and several tables, upon which some of the smaller specimens are stacked, all awry, beside several coat racks and hooks where snakeskins coil and hang. 
It appears that some attempt at order has recently been made – there are three or four mounds – perhaps the beginnings of garbage piles. 
Jane gingerly picks her way around the piles and Daphne follows in horrid fascination.
“I warned you about coming down here. Over there is my son’s room but these horrible things – these are Mat-Mat-Matthew’s. My hus–my ex–my ex hus–fuck. He thought he was a – a – oh what’s the word –”
“Caveman?”
Jane laughs. “Taxidermist. Wasn’t very good at it was he?” 
“No,” is all Daphne can muster as she looks from one mangled creature to another..
“This one looks like Prince Charles.”
“Yes. That’s one of the better ones.”
“You didn’t mention you had a son living here –” Daphne starts.
“There’s a light somewhere,” Jane says and Daphne watches hands stab toward the ceiling, searching for a cord.
Finally a light goes on and Daphne shuts her eyes. It’s more than she can bear.
“Oh my God. This is more than creepy –”
“I told you as much.”
Daphne can barely make out the forms of what she guesses are two lynx, lying across the pile on the table nearest her. They are much more professionally done than any of the others, but when she slowly approaches them, she sees that their eyes are open and following her.
She screams.
“Oh,” Jane says, “I know. They like to play dead those two. Just waiting for their turn I suppose.”
“We’re going to have to get someone else to do this. I can’t take it down here. Honestly, I don’t even know how you manage to stay upstairs with all this going on. I couldn’t – Oh! – I know who. I’ve got just the guy for this.” She makes a mental note to call Greybird, the city garbage collector, and architect of a new world. 
Beneath the window, she sees the back of a rocking chair, the only piece that might be worth anything in the entire basement, and she makes her way over – those spindles! that arched back! – until horrified, she realizes the chair is occupied. 
Fully expecting to see the mummified remains of Jane’s ex-husband, Daphne screams but the sound is obliterated by the long squeal of the chair as it turns, revealing Jane’s 22-year-old son James, who stares at Daphne.
“Who is Harriet?” he asks.
Daphne turns and scrambles up the stairs. The cats are on her tail, followed by Jane, who slams the door behind them, and pushes against it with all her might. 
“I know, I know” she says gently to a hysterical Daphne. “Doesn’t he just give you the creeps?”
The doorbell rings. Jane flashes an awkward smile at Daphne. 
“You’ll be okay?” she asks, and rushes to answer it. 
Daphne looks blankly out the window, stunned. Why on earth would James ask about her mother?  
Jane ditches the package before she comes back out to the hallway, nods toward the cats who are huddled together further down the hall and says, “Maybe we can get rid of those freaks, too.”
“What? What freaks?” 
“Those two,” she points at the cats, both of whom are now playing dead. “Rig and Mortis.”
“So let’s get this done,” Daphne walks into the living room. “I gotta go. What charity would you like me to call?”
“No. No. I’ll call.”
“No you won’t. Don’t think I haven’t seen your attempts to peel off the red stickers. I told you they were permanent. And I know your pockets are full. Probably you have things in your armpits and your mouth, even, look at yourself.”
Jane is wearing a dozen necklaces, two coats, opera gloves, a hat, and an eye patch. The yellow sticker is still firmly on her forehead.
“And anyway it’s in the contract. Everything goes to charity and I stay until the last item is on the truck. I have been in this profession long enough to –”
“Oh God. Must it happen so quickly? I can’t take it.”
“It’s better faster.”
“You sound like my husb –. My EX. My ex-hus–My esk–damn –”
The basement door opens.
“Here comes Kreskin,” Daphne says.
Jane laughs. 
The fish see Kreskin and swim toward him frantically mouthing help. Together they wave an SOS banner.
  Kreskin does not fit into any category and no label can be applied to him in character, intellect, or appearance. He is Gandi, David Bowie and Nietzsche. He is Anne Sexton, Patti Smith and Gloria Steinem. He is Scout, Boo Radley and Atticus. His mind and spirit are liberated, he is curious, and creative in a boiling-over kind of way. 
He has a great love of reading and writing, as does his mother, but while Jane writes amusing little nothings in a blog, Kreskin writes for his generation, and for literary agent Vanessa Long, and he does it in a basement full of horror beneath the footsteps of a mother who would rather not have him underfoot. 
He is tired, his fingers are inky, and his back curved beneath the weight of the world. He has one more week in which to finish the final draft of his novel if they’re going to make the deadline for this years Giller.
There is a guitar slung over his shoulder and when he sits down it snuggles into position and he begins to play. 
Jane and Daphne, side by side on the couch, both lovelorn, move a little closer together and listen, both of them with their eyes closed.
“That was lovely,” Daphne says with a sigh. “So lovely.”
“Yes,” Jane says. “Very nice. I didn’t know you could play that well.”
Kreskin notices the state of the fish tank, and with his guitar still clinging to his chest, he rushes and kneels in front of it.
“Sorry guys. I didn’t know.”
He leans closer to the tank. 
“Okay. Right away,” he says. “Hang in there you guys. I’ll get food,” he pauses, listening. “You’re kidding. She what? Where?”
He reaches under the tank where the cleaning apparatus is heaped, and picks up a cardboard container of French’s Fried Onions, and turns to Jane. 
“You been feeding them this? 
Finally Daphne can wait no longer – she’s been holding it all day – and on her way to the washroom, she slaps a red dot on one of three guitar cases she passes in the hallway.
To her surprise, the washroom is clean. 
“Not that one, Daphne, “ Jane hollers. “Toilet hasn’t worked in years. Use the one at the end of the hall.” 
Kreskin hums The Little Mermaid as he cleans the tank. Jane peels the last red dot from her sheet and wanders over to him. Already, the tank sparkles and is teeming with life, the fish leaping, the plants bursting with health. 
“Okay,” Daphne says, returning to the living room. “Need to know your charity. I gotta make that call –”
“You’re very welcome,” Kreskin says to the tank, and on his way to the basement door, he crosses paths with Daphne and adds,  “Nice meeting you Miss Clutterbuck.”
Daphne is again surprised – how on earth does he know her name –she is speechless, a rare thing, but gives Jane a secret smile when she sees the red dot on Kreskin’s back as he slips downstairs.
Jane leaps up, rushes over and closes the door, presses herself against it.
“Okay,” she says turning to Daphne. “Let’s sell this place. I need a one bedroom with no basement. Call the Salvation Army.”