All One! The Dr. Bronner’s Play

Author’s Note:

This play was commissioned by the Passage Theatre in Chicago, Illinois. It was developed without input or approval from the Dr. Bronner’s Company, and all representations of Emanuel Bronner and his family members herein are entirely fictional. This play was originally developed and co-conceived with Sammy Zeisel; it would not have been possible without him.

In performance, many of the personal monologues in this play will be replaced by original writing by members of the ensemble. The ensemble members may use the original monologues as inspiration for their own writing or depart from the original text entirely.

// indicates interruption.

Cast:

One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten

(The basement of a church. A blue kiddie pool in the center.

Preshow, the actors hang out—or those who want to hang out, hang out, I mean. They wear bathing suits tucked into shorts or skirts, or T-shirts with swim trunks, and maybe they’re barefoot, if they want to be. Casual. Maybe they jam on instruments and sing.

When it’s time to start, they look at each other. Still very casual.

Then suddenly, they change: they’re overcome with the holy word, all prophets, all Emma Thompson as the Angel in Angels in America.)

Ten: ALL-ONE!
One: Absolute Cleanliness is Godliness!
Two: Teach the Moral ABC that unites all mankind free.
Three: Instantly six billion strong and we’re
Six: ALL-ONE
Four: Listen Children Eternal Father Eternally One
Five: Balanced food for body-mind-soul-spirit is our medicine
Six: Full-truth our god, half-truth our enemy
Seven: Hard work our salvation
Eight: Unity our goal
Nine: Free speech our weapon
Three: ALL-ONE
Ten: Our soul!
One: Self-discipline the key to freedom, unity, love unites
Four: ALL-ONE
Two: Above! Exceptions eternally?
Three: Absolute NONE.
Four: So when your fellow man you measure,
Five: Take him at his best,
Six: With that lever, lift him higher,
Seven: Overlook the rest,
Eight: For we’re
Two: ALL-ONE
Nine: Or none.

(Beat.)

Ten: This is about soap.
Five: We’re here on this [Day of the week] in this basement in [Name
of City] to tell you a story about soap. I’m [Name].

(The performers rapid-fire introduce themselves, one after the other.)

Nine: So, like we said, all of us are here today together to tell you a
story about soap.
Ten: Or a story about a man who made soap.
One: Or a story about the life of a man who made soap.
Nine: Or a story about the life of a man who made soap and how his
life intersects with our lives.
Two: You know how sometimes you’re trying to tell a story, and you
think at first it’s pretty simple, but then as you’re telling it, it gets
bigger and bigger and bigger until you don’t even know where the
edges are? This is like that.
Three: So, the soap.
Four: What is it, what’s its deal, what are we working with
Five: A lot of you have probably seen this soap, right? Don’t respond.
Seven: So, this is
Six: Dr. Bronner’s 18-in-1 Pure-Castile Soap!

(The cast holds up their bottles of soap to show the camera, like in a 
terrible Zoom-based ad.)

Eight: “18-in-1? What does THAT mean?” I bet you’re asking! Still
don’t respond.
Nine: It means this soap has eighteen uses,
Ten: And tonight? We’re gonna perform all eighteen of them.
All: WOO!
One: In like an hour fifteen.
Two: Yep. This is gonna be nice and short.
Three: So let’s get started!
Four: Let’s start with the label.
Five: The label on Dr. Bronner’s soap is why I wanted to write about
it in the first place.
Six: Oh—sometimes, when we say “I,” we really mean “Beth,” who
wrote most of the play.
Seven: But sometimes when we say “I,” we really mean us.
Five: You’ll get it. Okay, so the label on Dr. Bronner’s soap is why I
(exaggerated wink) wanted to write about it in the first place.
six: No wink. We’ve talked about this.
Five: Sorry.
Eight: I first saw a bottle of Dr. Bronner’s soap in my cool cousin’s cool bathroom in his
cool New York apartment.
Nine: And when I saw the writing on the label, I was like “Wait—is
this allowed?”

(A projection of the label.)

Ten: The label is wild.
One: The label is pretty deranged.
Two: It reads like something you would find scrawled in a library book
and then you’d shut the library book.
Three: It reads like what you write when you’ve stayed up all night
railing Adderall to finish a paper, and in the moment you’re like
“I am a genius,” then you read it the next morning and realize it’s
gibberish.
Four: Not all of it is gibberish, though.
Five: But a lot of it is! Like here it says: “A fire, a mist, a planet, a crystal,
a cell, a jellyfish, a dinosaur, caves where cavemen dwell!”
Six: And there’s also tons of both half and full plagiarism. Some just
straight-up quotes from other people, and then some heavily edited
quotes by other people, which I think is probably worse than just
doing the full quote.
Seven: There’s the text of “The Impossible Dream,” that song from the
musical Man of La Mancha, on there, except some words are edited
to be more of a Bronner vibe.
Eight: Which, like, truly, how is that legal?
Nine: It’s written out like this:

(Someone gets out an instrument and they sing those two lines of the 
song that everyone knows, and then:)

All: TILL UNITED ALL ONE THE WHOLE HUMAN RACE IN
ASTRONOMY’S ETERNALLY TREMENDOUS ALL ONE GOD
FAITH WE ARE!
Ten: Regular!
Three: But in addition to all the plagiarism and poetry, the bottle
also has instructions for all eighteen-in-one uses of the magic soap.
Which are:
Four: Hit it!

(Suddenly someone has a guitar. They sing and point to the lyrics on the projector:)

All: WASHING YOUR FACE, BODY, HANDS, AND HAIR
BATHING, SHAVING, BRUSHING YOUR TEETH
WASHING FRUIT, AROMATHERAPY
WASHING DISHES, DOING LAUNDRY
MOPPING FLOORS, ALL-PURPOSE CLEANING
WASHING WINDOWS, SCRUBBING TOILETS
WASHING DOGS (WOOF WOOF)
CONTROLLING DUST MITES
KILLING ANTS AND APHIDS TOO
THOSE ARE 18 THINGS IT CAN DO
Eight: SO! If we’re gonna do all eighteen uses in seventy minutes,
we better get going!

Doing Laundry

(A performer washes an article of their own clothes.)

Performer: There’s a weird irony in Dr. Bronner, who very literally
escaped from a mental hospital, making his fortune selling soap—
because like, I’m mentally ill, and whenever brain shit gets bad for
me, cleaning anything is the absolute FIRST thing to go. First my
laundry will start piling up until it can’t all fit in my hamper, and
I’ll start to really rewear pants, and eventually shirts and dresses.
Then my dishes will start to pile up. I’ll let the trash sit for day after
day into a week. Tumbleweeds of cat hair roll around my apartment
like if the wild west were also a Cathy cartoon. And then, if
it gets really bad, I stop cleaning myself. I won’t wash my hair for
two, three, four days; I won’t wash my face. It doesn’t feel good—I
love to be clean—but when I’m at the bottom of a well, it doesn’t
feel like I deserve to feel good. It feels like going out with my bangs
lacquered to my forehead with grease is just showing the world who
I really, truly am.

When I’m that depressed, everything in my life feels like showering:
something annoying and boring and uncomfortable that you have
to do over and over and over, ceaselessly, even though you don’t
want to and didn’t ask to be born. Never mind that it actually feels
really good to shower! Never mind that having hot water to shower
whenever you want is a luxury that my ancestors would actually
murder me for complaining about! Depression drains the color out
of everything. It makes every gift feel like a curse.

I feel embarrassed even admitting this stuff! I’m not the type of
white girl who’s really, really aggressive about how it’s actually much
better for you to never shower! I really wanna emphasize that I only
don’t bathe when I’m feeling really, really, quasisuicidally low.

That’s how personal being clean is, I think. That’s why every advice
columnist from now until 6020 will be answering questions about
how to tell your coworker that they smell bad once a month until
they die: because how clean you are, or how clean you seem to be,
represents something essential about you as a person in society.
Being clean indicates that you can care for yourself and for other
people. Not being clean enough can make it impossible for you to
be part of a community. Not being clean enough feels like one of
the deepest, most inescapable types of shame.

Washing Fruit

(five peeks into the room where four is sitting.)

Five: Hey, do you want a Cutie?
Four: Is that what you call them?
Five: Yeah, that’s like, the brand name.
Four: Don’t use the brand name! What is this, an ad?
Five: Okay, sorry, sorry, do you want a tangerine?
Four: Sure! Just lemme wash it.

(Four washes the tangerine in a bowl of water.)

Five: You know I never actually wash tangerines.
Four: Really? Why?
Five: I dunno, I just never thought I had to because you don’t eat the
peel.
Four: You . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . don’t?
Five: ……………. no.
Four: (very unconvincingly) Oh, yeah, right. Duh.
Five: Wait, have you been…… eating the peels on tangerines?
Four: OKAY, DONE WASHING, HERE YOU GO, DELICIOUS!!!!!!!!

Scrubbing Toilets

(The performers all play “Not it.” Whoever loses “Not it” gets the toilet 
scrub brush, says “I’ll be right back,” and leaves to go scrub the toilets. 
Everyone else high-fives.)

Ten: So: we could tell you about Emanuel Bronner, or he can tell you
himself, in his own words.

(We see a video clip of Bronner sitting shirtless in the lawn chair by the 
pool talking about his name, the potter’s field, the lack of rabbis, etc. 
When it’s over, we cut back to the cast:)

Two:  Excuse me, WHAT? WHAT did you say?
Three: You did what, with who? You buried your wife in a WHAT?
Four: That story is actually really representative of most stories Dr.
Bronner told: it’s a little bit true, a little bit exaggerated, and 100
percent completely buckwild.
Five: So, some of the facts of his life: just the facts.
Six: Dr. Bronner was born Emil Heilbronner in Heilbronn, Germany,
in 1908. His family were Orthodox Jewish soapmakers who ran
their own business.
Seven: Emil emigrated to the US when he was twenty-one. He stayed in
the family business—soapmaking—got married, and had three kids.
Eight: And changed his name from Heilbronner to Bronner because
of “all that Heil Hitler stuff.”
Nine: We’ll come back to that.

Washing Your Pets

(A performer washes an inflatable dog in the pool.)

Performer: I hear a lot of people present the fact that they like dogs
better than people as kind of a super-quirky Tinder-profile fact about
themselves. “I like dogs so much better than people.” “I only cry at
movies if the dog dies.” And I kind of used to judge people about saying
that—not only because it makes me crazy when people present
something as unusual that’s actually extremely usual, but because
it sounds kind of . . . sociopathic? Immature?

But I realized that it actually just means that it’s easier for people
to love beings that are purely good than ones that are both good
and evil. Which like . . . duh. Isn’t that what we all wish for, at least
sometimes? That the people we love the most had nothing evil in
them? Could never harm us on purpose?

Loving everything about a person—good and bad—feels like the
hardest, longest round of yardwork in the world. Loving a dog feels
like getting a present, over and over. Of course people like that more.

Killing Ants and Aphids

(A performer has a spray bottle labeled “ANT POISON VERY TOXIC DO NOT EAT.”)

Performer: Can somebody hold this for me?

(The performer gives the spray bottle to someone in the audience who volunteers.)

Okay, this isn’t ant poison, it’s just Bronner’s and water, but if you
spray that on ants or aphids, it’ll kill them dead. So if you see any
ants or aphids trying to get into the show for free, just spray them
with this, okay? Or let an usher know, I guess. Or you can be a
conscientious objector and let them live, it’s up to you.

Washing Dishes

(A performer washes dishes.)

Performer: There’ve been a bunch of studies—don’t ask me what
they are or if I’ve read them—that in straight couples, life improves,
on average, for men who get married and gets worse, on average, for
women who get married. And I sort of think that’s literally because
of washing the dishes. Washing the dishes absolutely sucks dick
even if you’re just washing your own—the tedium; the possibility of
getting your sleeves wet; having to touch gross little particles of old
caked-on eggs or ketchup or HUMMUS or whatever—but having
to wash the dishes for someone else? Someone else you’ve ASKED
to wash the dishes but who just “doesn’t notice” that the dishes are
piling up or “can’t remember” to put his million cups of water in
the sink or “isn’t bothered” by the fruit-fly infestation that starts if
you ignore the dishes for like a millisecond too long?

Misery is washing the dishes for someone who you know wouldn’t
wash them for you.

(But like, what do I know—my boyfriend does all our dishes.)

eight: So Doc B had settled in Milwaukee and was doing really well
for himself.
nine: But in 1941, a crisis: the death of both of his parents.
ten: In 1944, another crisis: the death of his wife.

Bronner at His First Wife’s Grave

Bronner: Hello.

This Is Your Husband, Emil Bronner, All-One-God-Faith,
Visiting Your Dead Body. For Your Birthday.
Happy Birthday. Your Thirty-Fifth. It Would Have Been.
Eh.
I Am Well. Working Hard.
But It’s Like The Famous Saying: “First They Ignore You, Then They
Laugh At You,
Then You Teach The Moral ABCs To Unite All Mankind Free And
Unite Spaceship Earth Behind The Teachings of Rabbi Hillel Jesus
Buddha Mohammed All-God-One-Faith!”
The Children Are Well. When I See Them. Good Boys And Girl.
Oh, And I Got Married Again. Anyway, Would You Like Me To Read
To You From This Tract I Wrote? Okay. (Loudly clearing his throat)
“ONE—”

One: By 1945 Doc B was an orphan and a widowed father of three
young children.
Two: So he did what anyone would do:
Nine: BURIED HIS WIFE, QUIT HIS JOB, ABANDONED HIS
CHILDREN, STARTED CALLING HIMSELF A DOCTOR, AND
BECAME A SERVANT OF GOD DEDICATED TO SAVING THE
SPACESHIP EARTH.
Three: Relatable!
Four: No, but in all seriousness it seems like the trauma of the deaths
of his loved ones radicalized him pretty seriously.
Five: So he left his daughter, Ellen, and his two sons, Jim and Ralph,
in foster care, and became a Searcher for Truth.

Washing Your Hands

(A performer washes their hands.)

Performer: Who here ALWAYS washes your hands after you use the
bathroom. Every SINGLE time.

Okay. Now I wash my hands—I promise I do—but sometimes,
growing up, until an embarrassingly high age that I’m not gonna say
(probablycollege), I didn’t! And I knew it was wrong, and I knew it
was gross, and I knew it meant that I could give myself pinkeye or
give somebody else a cold, and I still didn’t! And I think the literal
only reason is because everybody told me I had to wash my hands,
and as soon as someone tells me I HAVE to do something, I don’t
wanna fucking DO IT! Even if I wanted to do it! ESPECIALLY if I
want to do it!

Sometimes all I wanna do is what’s wrong, even if it’s bad for me.
Especially if it’s bad for me.

controlling dust mites

(A performer has a bottle that says “DUST MITE CONTROL SPRAY KIND OF TOXIC MAYBE EAT.”)

One: Does anyone know what dust mites are!?
Seven: Yeah, they’re little microscopic organisms that eat dead skin
and dust and stuff.
One: (very unconvincingly) Cool, yeah, I knew that. Already knew that.
So, okay, the website is very specific that Dr. Bronner’s is to be used
to kill ants and aphids but just to control dust mites, so if you see
any mites that are like hanging out, watching the show, just sort of
doing their thing, leave them alone, but if you see any that are out
of control, go crazy, okay?

Six: So, in 1946 Doc B moved to Chicago.
Ten: He moved to Hyde Park and would stand out on the street, preaching
about his new religion to anyone who would listen.
One: He was preaching the Moral ABCs that we know from the label:
Three: ALL ONE GOD FAITH FOR WE’RE ALL ONE OR NONE.
Two: At one point, he and this friend of his, Fred Walcher, decided
that if they wanted to get their global peace plan slash universal
religion the attention it deserved, they’d have to resort to desperate
measures.

Bronner Stages a Crucifixion

Fred: I went to the Sun-Times, the Telegraph, the Tribune,
Bronner: Nothing!?
Fred: They said I could submit it as a letter to the editor.
Bronner: Aaaaach!
Fred: Well, that would be something!
Bronner: Fred, are you crazy? Letters to the editor are for insignificant
ramblings of bored old men, not for a global peace plan that’s
going to change the course of history! We need the front page.
Fred: It’s so tough, though, because like, to be known, you have to get
the front page, but to get the front page, you have to be known . . .
Bronner: We need a stunt.
Fred: Yes! Drive a car backward.
Bronner: What?
Fred: Sit backward, drive the car with my butt.
Bronner: What? No.
Fred: (offended) Okay, just an idea,
Bronner: We need a publicity stunt that’s going to get us on the front
page of every paper in the city.
Fred: Publicity stunt, okay, got it.
Bronner: We just have to think.
Fred: Yes.

(Literally two seconds go by.)

Bronner: I’VE GOT IT              Fred: Okay how about—
Fred: Oh—you go.
Bronner: Oh no, you can say—
Fred: No, please, after you.
Bronner: Are you sure? Let’s say them at the same time.
Fred: Yes! Great. Okay, one, two—
Bronner: Crucifixion.                Fred: Peaceful protest—what was
yours?
Bronner: Crucifixion! Someone crucified on the cross to represent
the Lamb of God, the great sacrifice needed for World Peace All
God One Faith!
Fred: Wow! Okay,
Bronner: It’s PERFECT!
Fred: Yeah, it’s—pretty good,
Bronner: First! We find the lumber,
Fred: Whoa whoa whoa, well, wait, I dunno if we’re at the “find the
lumber” stage yet,
Fred: We could sort of keep going, spitballing, just see how any //
Bronner: Find the lumber, assemble the cross,
Bronner: Make you a crown fred: other ideas strike us
of thorns,
Fred: Make me a what?
Bronner: For when you’re on the cross!
Fred: Me!? Why won’t we crucify you!?
Bronner: No, it would never work.
Fred: It was your idea!
Bronner: Exactly, so I have to focus on logistics, timing, speaking
to the press,
Fred: No—Emil, no. No. I’ve gone along with a lot of crazy stuff with
you, and I’ve never said anything about it. And we have had some
HORRIBLE double dates that I think could have been a big success
for me if you’d been able to just talk about the movies instead of all
the Spaceship Earth stuff. But I am not letting you crucify me on a
cross, I’m sorry! That’s crazy!
Bronner: Fred. Fred Fred Fred Fred. In this world, to get things done,
you need to be crazy! You need to go all the way! All One God Faith!
That’s the only thing that works. People say they want subtle things,
small things, but they don’t know what they want. You have to be
loud enough for them to hear you.
Fred: Well—won’t that upset people?
Bronner: Yes! And it should! People should be upset all the time!
And they will be—men will cry out—women will weep!
And wouldn’t it be nice to have a weeping Mary Magdalene of your
very own to dress your wounds and tend to your broken flesh.
Fred: I guess so . . .
Bronner: So?

(Fred thinks for a second, then spreads his arms wide.)

Fred: CRUCIFY ME, CAPTAIN!
Bronner: HUZZAH!
Fred: ALL RIGHT!
But—just checking—it’s not gonna be like a real crucifixion, right?
Bronner: No, it is.
Fred: Wait—

Two: The crucifixion . . . didn’t work. I mean it worked in the sense
that they did crucify a guy, but it didn’t get their global peace plan
the attention it deserved.
Three: Doc B was SUPER pissed that it didn’t make the front page.
Five: And shortly after that, his sister Lucia had him committed to the
Elgin State Mental Institution.
Six: Doc B had some very dark things to say about what happened in
Elgin State.
Nine: He said that they forced him to undergo electroshock treatments,
which he’d later claim is why he ended up going blind.
Two: He tried to escape multiple times, and then one day in 1947 when
his sister Lucia was visiting him, he stole some money out of her
purse and escaped through the bathroom window.
Tree: And then he moved to LA!
Five: So, when he got to LA, he was a recent escapee from a mental
institution with no money and no job who called himself doctor
despite being in absolutely no sense a doctor.

All-purpose Cleaning

(A performer addresses the audience.)

Performer: Dirty is sexy, obviously. BUT! Clean is sexy too!

Like of course dirtiness is sexy—Christina Aguilera named an album
after it! But clean asks to be defiled, which is hottttttt.

As a kid I thought that sexy car washes would be a waaaaaaay bigger
part of my life, and frankly I really looked forward to them, but I
never actually participated in one.

UNTIL NOW!!!!!!!

(A ride-on toy car is brought out onstage. Everyone really sexily washes the car and dances around as “Kiss” by Prince plays.)

Mopping

(A performer mops up the water that’s collected on the floor from the sexy car washing.)

Performer: This is for all the Virgos in the audience who were
worrying about us slipping—we got it, okay!?

The floors in here have never been cleaner.

Sometimes I’m tempted to buy the gentle all-natural cleaners that
come in compostable bottles, but I basically never do. I think cleaning
doesn’t feel satisfying to me unless I know I’m destroying something.

Six: So Doc B escaped out the bathroom window of Elgin State and
moved to LA.
Seven: For, again, no reason that we know! He didn’t know anyone
there!
Eight: And he pretty much settled back into his old routine: giving
speeches on the street about the Moral ABCs. Oh, and we should
say that he was married again by this point.
Nine: If the timeline on when and to whom and how many times
he was married seems vague to you, that’s because it is vague! His
second wife especially is basically a footnote of a footnote. There’s
said to be “no information” about her.
Bronner’s second wife: That’s riiiiiiiiiiight!

(She enters metaphorically or literally riding in on a unicycle or descending from a swing.)

Ten: Whoa, who are you?
Bronner’s second wife: (sung) I’m Theodore Bronner’s second wife.
You don’t know my name and you don’t know my life.
What did I look like, and what did I do?
We can’t find out—I’m wife number two.

I’m wife number two—what was I like?
Was I handy at sewing or riding a bike?
Was I devout, or did I not believe?
We’ll never know—so let’s keep this brief.

I’m one of a million women
Whose lives are lost to time.
When I think about the weight of that
It makes me want to die—
I mean like, die even MORE, because I’m already dead! Ha ha.

So you’re not going to learn my story,
But at least you heard me sing,
So maybe you can pretend that since this one stupid song is in
the play, the entire play was actually about me and not about the
man the play’s named after, like in another popular musical not naming
names HAMILTON,
And that would at least be something.
Wife Two!

One: So, he kept giving these speeches, and he started giving out little
freebies to try to get people to listen.
Two: He’d give out little packets of mineral salts and then little
containers of castile soap.
Three: He called it castile soap like the Castilian region in Spain,
to emphasize that the soap was made from olive oil and not from
spooky chemicals.

Four: In the ’40s and ’50s chemical detergents were brand new and
super popular, but Doc B believed very strongly and very vocally that
all those chemicals were terrible for both people and the environment.
And you know what?
Two: He was right.
Eight: He was right.
Ten: He was right!
Five: So he differentiated his soap by how natural and gentle it was.
Six: The first soap he’d give out as samples was a peppermint soap,
which he said he used when his children were little.
Seven: Which is a pretty fucking BOLD marketing strategy, considering
he was currently at that very moment continuing to neglect his
three kids!
Eight: Doc B’s kids were still in Wisconsin, bouncing around between
foster homes.
Nine: He’d visit them a few times a year.
Six: Because, as he said: “What is more important: uniting Spaceship
Earth or raising your own family?”

Dr. Bronner’s Kids Wait For Him to Pick Them Up From Foster Care

(Bronner’s middle child stares out the window, a sentinel, totally still 
and alert.
The youngest sibling approaches, holding one of those ball-on-paddle 
things.)

Youngest: What are you looking for.
Middle: Nothing.
Youngest: Okay.

(youngest bounces and bounces and bounces the ball-on-paddle thing while wandering around aimlessly.)

Middle: That sound is so annoying. Can you stop?
Youngest: No! It’s too fun!
Middle: No, it’s not.
Youngest: I mean yeah, it’s not as fun as pushing a hoop with a stick,
but what is?

(Middle grabs the paddle.)

Middle: Stop it.
Youngest: I’m telling Dad!

(Middle lets go of the paddle angrily.)

Youngest: Nice.
But I probably can’t tell Dad, anyway. Because we never see him.
Middle: Yes, we do.
Youngest: Not really.
Middle: We saw him twenty-seven days ago.
Youngest: That’s a lot of days.
Middle: We’re supposed to see him today!
Youngest: Really?
Middle: Yes. And he’s probably coming to get us and take us home.
Youngest: YAAAAAAAAY!

See, I knew you were looking for something, I always have such a
good radar about that type of thing.

When does he get here?
Middle: Should be any minute.
Youngest: Oooooh, we’re gonna see Dad! (Singsong) We’re gonna
seeeee Daaaad!

Okay, what should we pack: world’s funnest toy? Check. Clothes?
Check. Toothbrush? Not this time.

(The oldest has crept up behind them without their noticing.)

Oldest: He’s not coming. You know that, right?
Youngest: But he just said—
Oldest: He’s not. He was supposed to come last weekend, and the
weekend before that, and the weekend before that, and he didn’t.
Middle: He’s busy.
Youngest: Yeah! He’s busy.
Oldest: Doing what? He doesn’t have a job.
Middle: Yes, he does—
Oldest: “Uniting Spaceship Earth” is not a real job!
Middle: IT’S THE BIGGEST JOB THERE IS!
Oldest: It’s actually a made-up job, because he’s crazy.
Middle: Shut up.
Oldest: Remember when he told us he was invited to visit the United
Nations? He was in a mental hospital. In Elgin.
Middle: Who told you that.
Oldest: Ruth and Joseph.
Middle: They’re liars.
Oldest: They’re not.
Youngest: And their breath always smells like cabbage.
Oldest: Cabbage is really good for you. There’s a lot of fiber.
Youngest: Yeah, and you can tell by their breath.
Middle: Maybe he doesn’t want to come back because last time you
wouldn’t stop crying.
Oldest: That is NOT WHY!
Middle: Maybe it is!
Oldest: He’s probably never coming back. We’re probably going to live
with Ruth and Joseph forever, so you better get used to it.

(A silence. youngest starts bouncing his ball again. middle refuses to 
look at oldest. Finally oldest grabs the paddle from youngest, tears 
the ball off the string, and throws the paddle on the ground. youngest 
looks at her in horrified shock.)

Oldest: I was trying to HELP YOU!

(Oldest storms off. youngest stares at the ball, crestfallen. middle
picks up the paddle.)

Middle: Lemme see.
Youngest: It’s no use.
Middle: Dad will get you another one.
Youngest: But Ellie said—
Middle: Ellie doesn’t know what she’s talking about.

Look at me: Dad is a Great Man. And so that means he can’t be like
a regular dad—he can’t tie our shoes, or go for a bike ride, or come
see our soccer games, or tuck us in, but it doesn’t matter, because
he’s doing bigger things! Way bigger things! He’s fixing the world,
and saving all the people.

Youngest: Okay.
Middle: Wanna go play push the hoop with the stick?
Youngest: Okay.
Middle: And I bet by the time we’re done, Dad’ll be here.
Youngest: I can’t wait. His car always smells so good? Not like
cabbage at all.
Middle: Yeah.

(Middle puts his arm around youngest, and they go.
Oldest comes back after they’ve gone and realizes she’s missed them— she wanted to apologize.
Crestfallen, she looks out the window.)

Oldest: (to herself) I’m sorry.
Please.
Please.
Please.
Please.

Aromatherapy

(A performer asks the audience: “Does anyone have any problems in 
their life? Anyone?
Does anyone want one solved?”
If someone in the audience says yes: “Yes, okay, you! Hi. What’s your 
name?
Okay, great, [name]. What’s your problem, what’s going on?”
The audience member explains. The performer reacts with genuine shock.)

Okay, wait, that’s . . . crazy, because did you know we have
something to fix that?
Yeah. So, I have some lavender soap here for aromatherapy, and
one of the lesser known uses of lavender is actually [the performer
repeats back an exact solution for the audience member’s problem].
So, do you wanna take a smell? Ready? Breathe in . . . and out.
How do you feel, did that fix it?
[If the audience member says yes]: YES! Fantastic! So glad I could
help. You can have a seat.
[If the audience member says no]: Okay, well, that sounds like a
personal problem, so. Can’t help you there. Yeesh. Why don’t you sit
down. Yeah, thanks a lot for that.

Shaving

(A performer shaves.)

Performer: The first time I shaved I was too nervous to tell my mom
that I wanted to, so I just went for it without asking for instructions,
and I shaved my legs absolutely dry. No soap, no water, just
my mom’s old pink Bic razor scraping up and down the sides of my
little ten-year-old legs.

I did it because I saw Rheanna Wannamaker get teased on the bus
for having hairy legs, and I was already a ten-year-old with B-cup
breasts, so I couldn’t add one more source of teasing to the picture.

After I shaved I wrote my mom a sincere, apologetic note on a piece
of lined loose-leaf paper and left it for her on her pillow. She was
cool with it, which was shocking to me, and she inspected my legs
for razor burn, but there wasn’t any. She was stunned. I felt super
proud, and my legs felt super smooth. It was a beautiful first stutter
step into adulthood.

Washing Your Hair

(A performer washes their hair.)

Performer: I have a hot take! Washing your hair sucks!
It’s hard to get the water the right temp. You’re vulnerable to attacks
from intruders or murderers. You can’t READ or GO ON YOUR
PHONE, so you have to be ALONE WITH YOUR THOUGHTS!?!?
And then, as soon as you’re done showering, you either have to
walk around like a dingdong with a freezing-cold wet head and
water getting your shirt wet, or you have to blow-dry your hair,
which is actual military-grade torture. WASHING YOUR HAIR?
NO THANKS!

But you know what’s good? Having someone else wash your hair
for you. That’s the ultimate luxury. Someone else washing your hair
for you is like someone cooking for you or rubbing your shoulders:
either the most comforting and familial, or super super erotic. Or
both.

Two: By the 1960s Doc B’s soap business was big enough that he needed
some help with it.
Three: So he called up his oldest son, his middle child, and was like
“Hey man, long time no see, would you like to help me make a
bunch of money?” And his son was like:
Middle: (on the phone) Will going into business with you prove to me
that you actually love me and thereby erase the enormous trauma
of my abandonment?
Bronner: (on the phone) Vhat?
Middle: (on the phone) I’LL DO IT!
Four: Doc B’s main focus wasn’t branding or profit margins or really
on turning a profit at all. He was completely focused on getting his
Moral ABCs out there.
Fve: So he had his son type up a bunch of his thoughts and put them
on the label of the soap itself.
Six: That way, nobody could escape the Moral ABCs, even if they
wanted to.
Seven: His son thought that covering the bottles of soap in Doc B’s
teachings was a terrible idea.
Two: But Doc B thought that if he focused on the message—on his
teachings—he’d connect with people.
Three: And you know what?
One: He was right!
Two: He was right.
Three: He was right.
Four: He was so fanatical about getting his message out there that
he put his phone number on every bottle of soap and then put a
phone in every room of his house so he could talk to people about
the Moral ABCs all day long.
Five: And also, by the ’60s his eyesight had started to go, so talking on
the phone was easier for him than going out and giving speeches.
Six: His sons said that he was constantly sabotaging his own business
because he wouldn’t sell to people who wouldn’t listen to him talk!
Seven: But because it was the ’60s and everybody was all about Peace
and Love and The Age of Aquarius and uh, like, fringe . . . vests—
sorry, the only things I know about the ’60s are from productions
of Hair—people, especially young people, really connected with his
methods and his Moral ABCs.
Nine: They loved that Dr. Bronner’s was all-natural, so they could use
it on their big . . . peace sign . . . necklaces? I’m sorry, I was born
in 1991.
One: He went from selling soap out of his garage to buying a factory
in Escondido, California, and employing a bunch of people.
Two: He prided himself on treating his employees well—he was a
huge advocate of Compassionate Capitalism, which to me is a scam.
Six: Debate: Was Doc B a Scammer?
Seven: (buzzing in; maybe now suddenly wearing a tie or a blazer) No!
Doc B was not a scammer. He was completely, single-mindedly
obsessed with his principles to the point of turning away money!
Eight: (buzzing in) Yes! Doc B was a scammer! I’m sorry, nobody gets
rich by accident! That’s pretend.
Seven: (buzzing in) No, Doc B was not a scammer, because he actually
practiced what he preached in so many ways! Free health care for
all his employees; a five-to-one executive salary cap; all organic,
ethically sourced products; aiming for zero waste production;
advocating for animal rights; tons and tons of charity work—sorry I’m
out of breath—in terms of American businesses, that’s basically as
good as it gets!

Eight: (buzzing in) I mean yes, all of that can be true, but capitalism
is capitalism, no matter how compassionate you’re claiming to be,
and capitalism is the biggest scam there is.

Brushing Your Teeth

(A performer gets out a toothbrush and tube of toothpaste.)

Performer: I have a bone to pick with one of the eighteen uses: yes,
you CAN use Dr. Bronner’s to brush your teeth, but it will, in my
personal opinion, taste like you’ve just poured soap in your mouth!
Which you HAVE! So we are NOT gonna brush our teeth with Dr.
Bronner’s tonight, folks! You can go home and do that on your own
time. We’re only doing seventeen of the uses, baby, and THAT’S
what I like to call Subverting Audience Expectations!

Washing Your Face

Performer: When I was a teenager, there was this ad for, I think,
Neutrogena, which is probably the exact opposite of Dr. Bronner’s,
that played CONSTANTLY, with Hayden Panettiere, where she’d be
washing her face with whatever incredibly drying, formaldehyde
packed pink soap they were pushing on teens and tweens, and they’d
show her just throwing a tidal wave of water in her face like this:

(The speaker gets blasted in the face by a tidal wave of water from the pool.)

And I always thought it looked so cool, and fun, and like, hot, so
then I’d try to do it, but then my mom would scream at me about
getting the sink too wet. So. That’s how I learned about truth in
advertising.

Seven: By the ’80s Doc B was finally forced to slow down.
Eight: He’d gone completely blind, and then he was diagnosed with
Parkinson’s, so he agreed to turn over the business to his two sons.
Nine: In spite of everything, they ended up running the family business.
Ten: But his oldest child—his daughter, Ellen—died in the late ’80s
after struggling with mental illness for most of her life. It feels like
she’s a footnote of a footnote in her own family history.
One: His sons said that Parkinson’s was in some ways a gift to him and
to them because it really mellowed him out.
Two: And, this may not surprise you, his son Jim was actually much
better at running the business than he was. So revenue kept growing
and growing throughout the ’80s and ’90s.
Three: And then, in 1998, Emanuel Bronner died.

(Everyone takes a breath.)

Four: There are pictures of him from the end of his life, surrounded by
his family, hanging out by the pool, where he looks almost normal.
He could be any eccentric grandpa.
Five: Except that I’m sure as soon as the picture was done being taken,
he was back to screaming about Uniting Spaceship Earth.
Six: When I saw that bottle of Dr. Bronner’s soap for the first time in my
cousin’s bathroom, the extremity was what stuck with me. The way
it seemed like no matter how big the bottle was, there would never
be enough room for his Moral ABCs. It almost felt like you were
watching him write it as you read it. And that intensity continued
over his entire life. How can you stay so single-mindedly obsessed
with something for an entire lifetime? What happened?
Seven: We left something out. At the beginning.
Four: You know how sometimes you’re trying to tell a story, and you
think at first it’s pretty simple, but then as you’re telling it, it gets
bigger and bigger and bigger until you don’t even know where the
edges are? This is like that.
Five: When Doc B was a young man in Germany in the 1920s, the
Nazis were coming to power.
Six: Doc B thought that Hitler and the Nazi party were an imminent
danger, so in 1929 he came to the US.
Seven: But his parents wouldn’t join him.
Eight: They fought about it a lot.

Dr. Bronner Tries To Save His Parents

(Bronner sits at the dinner table with his mother and father, mid-argument.)

Bronner: You’re not HEARING ME.
Father: How could I not hear you? All you do is scream at the top
of your lungs!
Bronner: I scream? You’re the loudest person I’ve ever met!
Father: I AM NOT!
Bronner: YOU ARE SO!
Mother: (clapping and yelling very loudly to stop them) AH!

I want one. Nice. Dinner. Where we talk about nice. Normal.
Dinner things. Instead of You Know Who and You Know What and God
Knows What Else.

I want you to talk about what happened at school today, or which
customer has a cold, or how your brother is an idiot, or I want you
to be quiet.

(Beat.)

Bronner: If you’d let me do what I wanted in the first place instead
of twiddling our thumbs
Father: Oh yes, bombing government buildings, that was a very smart
idea, yes, Emil, you’re a political genius,
Bronner: Then I’d be in jail but Hitler // would be dead and everyone
else would be fine!
Mother: (covering her ears) Ach.
Father: Right, bombing, bombing and punching and uprisings, those
always work, those never cause any problems,
Bronner: That could have stopped this all from happening.
Mother: I’m getting a drink. You’re driving me to drink!
Father: Because who needs persuasive argument, who needs to persuade
when you have (making a fist) this, right? That’s all you need!
Bronner: You can’t persuade people who don’t think you’re human.
Father: Oh, so we should prove them right by acting like animals?
Bronner: Defending ourselves! Defending our dignity!
Father: I’ve been alive a lot longer than you and I’ve studied history,
and what I’ve learned, Emil, is that violence begets violence. Hatred
begets hatred. You can’t fix anarchy with more anarchy. Reason.
We need reason.
Bronner: They are beyond reason!
Father: You sound just like them!
Bronner: They are a tank rolling toward us—they’re an inferno, and
you can’t stop a fire by asking it nicely. You have to put it out.
Father: All you kids sound just like those pamphlets you read.
Bronner: Good, that’s a compliment.
Father: I assure you it’s not.
Mother: All right, are we done here? No more You Know Who?
Bronner: How can you say you’re taking this seriously when you
can’t even say his name!?
Mother: I guess not.
Father: Franziska, our son is a radical. We’ve raised a little anarchist.
Mother: Oooo, how chic!
Bronner: What is it going to take for you to take this seriously!?
Who’s going to have to die!?
Father: Don’t you talk to her like that! I don’t know who you are anymore.

(He gets up.)

Mother: Bert—!
Father: Lost my appetite.

(He goes. 
Little beat.)

Mother: Drama, drama, drama with you two!
Bronner: I didn’t mean to—
Mother: I know you didn’t, sweetie. You’re too alike! That’s why you
can’t see each other.
Bronner: Mama.
Helene and Luise and I will help you move.
Mother: Noooo no no,
Bronner: We will, we’ll help, // you can move in with us,
Mother: Uh uh. No.
Bronner: It’ll be an adventure—America!—movie stars,
Mother: American women all talk like this:

(She does a really weird impression that’s sort of gesturing at Katherine 
Hepburn or another starlet of the time but is ultimately just nothing.)

Bronner: What is that!?
Mother: (a little embarrassed) That’s how they talk!
Bronner: Milwaukee, where we’re going, is practically little Germany.
Good German food—
Mother: And who will run the store, hm?
Bronner: Who cares about the store!?
Mother: (sharply) The store is our history.
And what about our employees, what happens to them if we leave?
Bronner: They should leave too.
Mother: Emil, listen to me. You’ll see in your life, as you get older—
things go up, and up, and up, and then they go back down. Like
waves. Right now, the wave is going up, but it’ll come down again.
Bronner: It’s coming down on us.
Mother: I know this is scary for you. We’re worried, too. But these
people—no matter what they say, they’re our neighbors. We know
our neighbors.
Ten: By 1930 the Nazi Party won a majority of seats in German
Parliament.
One: And by 1938 both of Doc B’s sisters joined him in America.
Two: But their parents wouldn’t leave.
Four: The Heilbronner business suffered, as all Jewish businesses
did: it was boycotted, overtaxed, and eventually forcibly sold to an
Aryan owner.
Five: By 1941 his parents finally agreed to come to the US. His sister
in New York got them the papers they’d need.
Six: But they never got to use them.
Seven: They were deported to Auschwitz and Theresienstadt
three months later and murdered in those camps.
Eight: Just before they were deported they sent Doc B a letter—
Nine: A three-word letter—
Ten: That just said
Two: You Were Right.
Four: You Were Right.
Nine: You Were Right.
Ten: When I think about this, my mind gets stuck—it spirals.
One: How could someone whose family was murdered by Nazis spend
the rest of his life preaching unity? How could you ever want to
unite with anyone after that happened?
Two: But on the other hand, how could you not get obsessed with that?
The way the Nazis divided people into categories was what allowed
them to kill all those people.
Three: But how can you unite with people who want to kill you? How
is that fair? Nazis deserve to be punished.
Four: But the systems that we make to punish people always end up
punishing vulnerable people the most.
Five: And my mind goes around and around and around like that—
intractable—like two fists.
Six: Sometimes when I’m on the train and I’m in a weird mood, I play
this game where I look at every person around me and I imagine
them as a baby. And even though this isn’t true for everyone—even
though I know every single baby doesn’t get lucky enough to be
treated this way—I remind myself that every single person on the
train was at one point the most important being in the world to
someone. Was the brightest hope, the most shining love, the reason
to wake up in the morning. I picture that man in a kiddie pool at
his grandma’s feet, splashing, and his grandma beaming at him,
leaning down to coo, taking a picture. I imagine that woman over
there waking up in her crib, and her dad coming in and seeing her,
and his eyes lighting up, and him saying “Good morning!,” picking
her up. Playing this game is the only way I can get my head right a
lot of the time. Because I think that game is the truth.

Bronner At His First Wife’s Grave, Again

Bronner: Hello.
It Is Me, Emanuel Theodore Bronner, All-One-God-Faith.
Your Husband.
Or—
Well.
I Suppose You Are Still My Wife Even Though I’m Someone Else’s
Husband.
Ah.
Doesn’t Seem Quite Fair, But. Be That As It May.

I’m Visiting—
I’m Visiting You.
For Your Birthday.

Happy Birthday.
You Would Be Old, Now,
So Old, It’s Hard To Picture You.
A Grandmother.

I Have Something To Confess.
I’m Not Just Here For Your Birthday.
It’s Also Ellen—
Our Daughter, Ellen. She’s.
She’s Not Well.

She Actually Hasn’t Been Well For A Long Time.
Some . . . Weakness In Her.
Some Lack.
And I’ve Always Thought She Needed You—
Needed A Mother—

And I, You Know, I Did My Best. Did The Best I Could—
But I Was Busy. Very Busy!
Most Men Only Care About Their Children And Look Where That
Gets Us!
The Whole Earth—The Whole Earth!—Everything On It!
Plants, Bugs, Trees, Stars, Men And Women, All Of Those Are My
Children!
Should Be All Of Our Children!
That Is What The Rabbis Jesus Mohammed Hillel Teach Us But
Only I Seemed To Listen!”
Everyone Else Just Turns Away—Their Own Homes—Their Own
Families—
And Look Where We Are!
Look Where We Are!

Ah.
I Wish You Would Say Something Back.
You Were Talkative On Earth, But All These Years,
Nothing.

All Right. Enough. All-God-One-Faith.
Oh And. Happy Birthday.
I Thought We Could Continue Your Yearly Birthday Tradition Of
Me Reading To You From A Tract I Wrote.
(Clearing his throat very loudly) “ONE—”

Ten: I don’t wanna end this like one of those plays that are programmed
places like . . . I dunno, I don’t wanna say the name of a real theatre,
so let’s say like the “Goodman Theatre,” where what you’re supposed
to take away from the play is like: “Abortion: Is It Good, Or Is It
Bad? I Think You’ll Find It’s A Little Of Both.”
Two: But that’s actually the truth: that we all are, that everyone is, a
little bit of both.
Nine: But it’s hard to hold onto.
I can’t get a handle on Doc B.
He’s too big for me—everything, like,
The tragedy and the ecstasy and the half-truths and the full lies and
the fake crucifixion and the accent, the whole thing—
Any time I thought I could come to some conclusion, he slipped
out from under me—
I can’t get my arms around him.
Although I can’t get my arms around anyone, actually.
Because that’s what you think you’re doing when you start writing
plays, like,
If you’re a lonely little only child who always says the wrong thing,
lying on the carpet in her bedroom for hours at a time making up
the conversations you wish you were actually having,
Of course you want to be a playwright.
If you can make up the right words that hit people in the right way,
that means you’ve Made A Person, like a little God, and pinned them
under glass.
But every voice you give to someone else is just your voice. //
You think you’re looking through a microscope but you’re actually
looking in a mirror.

You think you’ve painted someone’s portrait but you’ve actually just
erased them.

(An actor starts speaking part of a scene or monologue they performed. 
Then another. Then another.
As each actor starts speaking, they get into the pool. One by one by one, 
each actor pours some water onto themselves, all bathing alone, together.
One performer begins to sing “The Impossible Dream”—the real version, 
the aching version, not the Dr. Bronner version.
Everyone’s voices grow and grow and overlap.
When the performer finishes “The Impossible Dream,” the voices stop. 
The cast breathes together.
They look at each other. 
They blow soap bubbles. 
The bubbles pop.)

(END OF PLAY.)

Read more from Issue 17.2.