Martial Chan

Chan McClintol keeps bursting into song in the morning, which she hates. It drives her roommates nuts, not least of all because they can’t help but join in, and by the time the dust and choreography have settled they’ve all missed the bus. So of course they call a house meeting.


(sings Jacob Benoit, a well-groomed baritone who’s working two jobs and trying to save enough money to open his own Cajun restaurant in memory of his dead mother)

Though in other ways you’re divine
This morning routine is not sublime

(Adelpha McKibbons takes a verse. She’s an alto, alone in the city for the first time and desperately lonely for the large family of social outcasts that adopted her years ago. The neighbor across the alleyway keeps singing accidental mournful duets with her late at night, but they haven’t started dating yet even though everyone knows they will, sooner or later.)

Ever since I’ve moved here
Wracked with guilt
Consumed by fear
You’ve always been my friend
My confidante, my support
But these antics have to end

Chan glowers at all of them. She doesn’t do any damn singing– out of pure stubbornness, since she has a perfectly lovely soprano — but can’t help herself from dancing her frustration. Then they’re all up and around the room in an orgy of twirls, leaps and syncopation, on the furniture, in and out of closets, up the walls and ceilings. In the end nothing gets resolved, though she takes to wearing a ball gag in the mornings, which at least keeps the singing down.

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