Tuesday, January 27, 2009

Two Minutes Flat

Two Minute Play – Number Three


Black

Digital clock numbers appear as if projected – it is 3:25 am. Tight spot light gradually comes up illuminating a Kitchen-Aid mixer on a counter– enough light spills over that we can see the silhouette of a man sitting at a breakfast bar on the other side of this kitchen – He is wearing boxers a t-shirt and slippers – he is eating a bowl of cereal – the box and an old fashioned glass milk bottle are on the counter near him.

We hear an older woman’s accented voice:

Voice: Don’t be expecting anybody to be doing the right thing, okay? ‘Cause ninety nine percent of the time it ain’t gonna happen. Okay, those adages - all of them - they’re a crock. You go home with the one that brought ya to the dance. Yeah – unless they think they can get a little bit ahead by leaving you in the dust. Get it? There’s a whole bunch a folks out there that got no problem climbing over your back to get a better whiff of the cheese. But I ain’t tellin’ you nothing am I – when ya gonna do somethin’?

Man: I am doing something, I’m eating a bowl of cereal then I am going back to bed. Give it a rest.

Voice: Whatever

Outside a dog starts barking – the barks rouse the dog in the next yard and then the next until the barks fade away as the noise get handed down. Thirty seconds or so from start to finish.

Voice: How’s that pointing out that the emperor has no clothes going for ya? Everybody all gasp at once? Everybody appreciate your effort? What about the folks that agreed with you – you know the ones that just couldn’t afford to be public about it – whatever that means – how’s that going for you? Working good? People don’t want to know - they don’t want to know – they say they want to know – but they don’t – they don’t want think that much. People. Ha, but do you ever listen to me?

Man: Why would I listen to you? You’re a mixer, you never leave the counter.

Voice: Oh nice, you’re gonna drag that up – like that has any bearing on what I’m telling you. Fine.

Man: Fine

Voice: Whatever.

Lights fade to black.

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