BELOW SEA LEVEL
Gregg becomes nervous on stage. He's afraid of the people; so many brains to remember this gaffe ...
As he sits he is trying to think, but it's cascading down his leg. The levy's broken. There's no stopping it now: best to ignore the situation entirely.
I'll start off with a few questions, he says, and lifts his feet, before I open it up to the audience...
A janitor takes that as his cue and enters stage left to mop the floor. People don slickers and stand on top of their seats. Someone opens an umbrella.
Gregg thinks: One minute the crowd is willing to bear you on their back like a camel. The next minute they have no more willingness; the hump turns hollow and parched and sore.
The janitor continues pushing the mess off stage, but the levels are rising. I need back up, he screams, firing off on all cylinders. These folks are doomed. Just look at them.
But Gregg has always been looking at them - every since he was a child - gasping for air as they inflate their coats into temporary floatation devices.
Shall I go down with the ship? Gregg says into the mic.
It's the least you can do, the janitor says, and paddles away with his mop.
There goes his Starbuck, Gregg thinks. Ah, and there goes the videographer, holding the camera above his head like an infantry rifle, doing everything he can to tarnish my legacy.
If only Gregg had a time machine... How he wishes to have been born just a few generations earlier, when rumor and myth prevailed; during the days of F. Scott Fitzgerald puking at the cinema.
Gregg closes his eyes, swims toward center stage, and pinches his nose to embrace the inevitable, but suddenly remembers a piece of advice:
He pictures the audience naked, his worst idea yet.