Ventriloquist - Michael Hahn Nuetzel

Digital/Vector
36" x 24" x 1"
 
Applause for the Puppeteer
by Leo Hines
​
We all are puppeteers,
Hiding behind our public demeanors,
To share our innermost feelings
With friends and foes or sometimes
The man in the mirror.
Lamb Chops and Howdy Dowdy,
Kermit the Frog and out-spoken Ms. Piggy
Are our kindred spirits on Life's revolving  bright stage.
 
 
Joe New Jersey
by James W. Harper
​
“I’m not crazy, you’re crazy.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you! I’m crazy to be sitting here with a brainless fool.” 
A few cackles echo off martini glasses. 
“Sam, you keep doing the same thing, expecting a new voice to come out of my head? Want me to sing a song?”
“No, Volley, no. I think the people have suffered enough.”
After polite applause, Sam the ventriloquist put away his puppet and ventured home. He heated up a few hot dogs and settled into a greenish couch to catch the last bit of Johnny Carson. The TV’s noise dampened the chortles of Atlantic City. 
That night, Sam dreamed a new dream. His 262-pound frame slimmed to 179, his hair returned, his right hand sported a red boxing glove. Gliding above the boardwalk, he commanded the clouds to change colors. With a flourish, he conducted the seagulls into a flying circle. Petite flowers spouted from his footprints. 
“All aboard for Chestnut Hill,” cried a loudspeaker, and Sam followed the voice to a garish train station. Throngs cheered as he performed a dance number worthy of Gene Kelly. 
Then the woman in the red dress appeared – her face hidden, her limbs long. She moved both rapidly and lugubriously, and Sam longed to save her from approaching thunderclouds. He snapped, but the clouds only thickened. He whistled, but no birds appeared on the wind. All colors drained and the station became silent. 
Now Sam stared at a black and white photograph. Between blurs of rushing passengers was a facial still life – was this Helen? – and he knew that she was gone. 
The next morning, Sam sauntered through a casino where he used to work, searching the gaudy atmosphere and listening to the “ching ching ching” of slot machines. He crossed paths with a familiar bartender.
“Hey Sam, you still cooking at the Caesar?” 
“Nah, doing shows at the Palisades. You?”
“Nothing much, just tipping ice at the Cardinal.”  
As the two men parted, Sam turned and saw a glamourous woman smoking from a long black cigarette holder. She eyed him briefly, then leaned into the blackjack table. 
“I don’t belong here,” he thought. 
That night, he tried out some new dialogue with Volley the dummy. The audience sparse, the spotlight bright – “what the hell,” he thought. 
“Volley, have you ever tried boxing?”
“Boxing? You know I can’t! My arms are made of cotton. But, I might like to try.”
“That’s the spirit Volley. Just imagine yourself in the ring with some other bozo.”
“I don’t have to imagine, take that!”
At that moment, Volley swung violently towards Sam and knocked both of them to the ground. It was so funny that five people laughed.  
But Sam didn’t hear them. He hit the stage with his temple, closed his eyes, and soon his left ear released an unblemished rivulet of blood.