DADDY in The American Dream
by Joe Sichi
DADDY thinks he’s done. He’s accomplished what he set out to get done in business and has even managed to keep a wife financially happy, though not satisfied, but why should that be his job? DADDY wants nothing more than to come home from work, sit in his favourite chair, and wax away on the state of the world with everyone taking his opinion as edict, just as it should be taken as edict, as when you have been successful, you have no real need to worry about how anyone else feels about anything. DADDY doesn’t enjoy when he is forced to make decisions involving others, as those things should have already been decided when DADDY formed his worldview thirty years prior.
DADDY is daffy, and so am I. This is where theatre gets interesting for an actor. You end up finding which parts of a character are you and which are not, and you create a sort of makeshift superglue made of dust and honeycomb and salt, and when the conflict hits, you cry bitter, acrid tears. DADDY wants nothing more than to come home from work, put his feet up, and have someone bring him his Scotch, and so do I. Though I want to pour it myself, I’ve never been able to teach anyone how to pour it correctly, most probably due to my bombastic tone and the fact that my wife never made more than a feeble attempt. DADDY would be perfectly happy with a feeble attempt as long as she managed to slosh something in the glass without another long-winded story. There is a strong similarity between DADDY and I in there, and a small difference, which causes me to highlight the difference and claim, “I’m not DADDY!” But this is character creation; so meld, baby, meld.
DADDY wants his world to remain unchanged with someone fixing the small things as they break in their vast small things conspiracy against DADDY. He would be perfectly happy if this interloper MRS BARKER showed up to fix the plumbing in plumber’s overalls, as she would probably look quite nice in plumber’s overalls. DADDY would be perfectly happy if GRANDMA took her moaning down to the public park toilet, or something very much resembling a public park toilet, but it doesn’t really matter, a toilet far away. And if MOMMY took her stories to her women’s club and left it at, “How was your club meeting, dear? Oh, fine, fine. Oh, you’ve fixed your Scotch all by yourself. You must be proud.” DADDY can handle that level of sarcasm, and so can I. Though I do find women attractive in plumber’s overalls, I’d rather fix the pipes myself. And if someone is moaning in the toilet, I’ll probably just go outside, or anywhere I can to no longer hear, rather than wishing they would go to the johnny in the park. And if there is a decision to be made, then why the heck don’t you remember what I told you about this kind of thing, or something very much resembling this kind of thing, three decades ago? Meld, baby, meld.