Not Not Not Jane’s by Bailey Williams

I haven’t seen Not Not Jane’s. I was lucky enough to sit in on a rehearsal a few weeks ago before
leaving on a poorly-timed vacation, so it’s not like I haven’t not seen it. But it’s also true that I
have no idea what you just watched, over there on the other side of the world. Is the fart drill still
in? What about the porno-with-no-sex? Does George still rappel down from the ceiling, holding
a rare diamond from his heist job, which perfectly catches the light and acts as a beacon for
Brian to escape the hole, and then they all prepare to leave forever, watched by an unknown
mutant using surveillance equipment, just like at the end of Matt’s favorite movie, The Hills
Have Eyes 2?

Wait, is that not the ending? Surely it’s an ending, somewhere out there in another universe… I
think we can all agree that with a few crucial changes, Not Not Jane’s could end exactly as I
described. That’s the thing about potential; at the beginning of a new endeavor, a new
relationship, you can do anything. It’s through our choices— or more accurately, capitulations to
the ravenous machine of industry— that this potential deteriorates. What happened? How did we
end up here? And how do we imagine a way forward?

The plays begins at the site of so much American potential: a business meeting. The titular Jane
meets a beleaguered Theresa, who distributes grant money from “Matt’s Fund.” Jane has applied
to open a site for free communal chairs and the money is hers, as long as she also sells coffee and
runs it out of her own bedroom. “The cost of following your dreams!” Jane agrees readily. This
important business is frequently interrupted by Jane’s mother, Cheryl, who is concerned about
her son (and Jane’s brother), Brian, who is out back digging an enormous hole and cannot be
coaxed out. Not even with pancakes, or a net with a hundred dollars in it!

It’s a big problem, but Jane is busy and not only with the communal chairs cafe. She’s on a date
with the guileless Malcolm, who over the course of the play moves in, become her fiancé, and
plans for a child (named “Sherlock Peepee Racecar”), all before they share a single “kiss on the
lips.” There’s also professional pivoter George, an actor/deliveryman/builder/dog groomer/
bellhop/bar back/water-slide-tester-but-without-the-water, and Mark, a literal con man with high
connections in low places (he can talk to Satan). These are all characters living in a purgatory of
their own creation, circling the drain as they helpfully (and heartbreakingly) acquiesce to
whatever is most “convenient.” They chalk up any difficulties—from having the city bus that hit
you parked in your living room to forgoing gallbladder surgery by order of your boss to turning
your personal bedroom into a corporate cafe sponsored by not not Nike— to the cost of being
alive. They’re not okay but they’re not not okay.

And in the middle of all this “word jazz” and sight gags, it’s perfectly understandable if at first,
like me, you do not catch the “mother wound” at the heart of Not Not Jane’s. Brian’s in a hole,
sure, but there’s soup-out-of-thin-air! Malcolm unpacks a steering wheel, it’s not like every other
time with Brian, this time he’s gone for real, and there are plans for one stamp card and a brand relunch! The play churns, a door closes only to reopen seconds later, all whiplash hilarity, until
you, and Jane, realize that everything is wrong because one specific thing is wrong: Brian.

There’s something about losing someone that makes you believe in alternate universes. It simply
feels too unbelievable, absurd even, that all of life conspired to enact a series of events that led to
the loss of one particular person, your person. All of that person’s potential for their whole wide
life can’t just disappear like that! It contradicts sense, it’s against the science of energy. That
potential has to go somewhere.

The play backs itself into a corner, all potential eradicated, and inverts through the magic of not.
If language can make a world, it can undo it too, and we find ourselves back in a space of
possibility. Theresa’s actually a vet, George got the part, there’s a porno-WITH-sex, and there’s
chairs! And if there’s chairs, then maybe the door could open one more time, just a crack, enough
for Brian to walk in, sit down, and rest. We could begin again, with the same word we started.
Hi.