Waiting for God Knows
Message rec'd in a dark room on a sunny day, with foot marks in the light blue carpet. The message is printed in pure black ink on red paper, a tri-fold reflattening from being waved around too much. It now sits on a smooth, lightweight coffee table; an oaken plaque two ironing boards wide, an estate sale piece. A window with white blinds lays bands of light over a bed with one thin, light-blue cotton blanket. The silk edge of the blanket is frayed and torn but the cloth is taut; a pillow is beneath but placed in the very center of the mattress. Two old men are pacing with little physical regard for each other. Joseph is stern and calculating; he looks like Albert Einstein in a seafoam sleeveless undershirt and olive corduroy pants; he is barefoot. Gordon is scrawny with sparse long hair, clad in a black t-shirt, red suspenders connected to khaki shorts; black velcro sneakers, gray socks; he has a subtle habit of gently touching his head as if testing the durability of a papier mache sculpture.
Joseph: It is a lovely day, even through the dark yellow haze of a hangover.
Gordon: I need a day or two to wake up, myself.
Joseph: Find something to tell that girl, you know... she sent the letter?
Gordon: The tiger woman.
Joseph: No, moron, the–oh, well, she did have pictures of tigers somewhere... Maybe they were ocelets.
Gordon: They were most certainly not ocelots. Ocelets are younger, and they have crazy eyes, they... always leave you! [sobs]
Joseph: Shut up you goddamn nitwit. Take a memo for me.
[Gordon pulls out a marker and looks around. The most blank thing in the room is the lampshade, but instead he takes the phone book and opens it up]
Gordon: OK, gimme your dictatin's.
Joseph: All right, here we go... hm. Start here, with this: "Jamie, I am inspired by your reading in solitude-- I am going to sacrifice solitude for societal detachment when I leave for the cabin today, something you might know much more about... alienation, detachment from the game of this world, and sometimes it seems like it would be better to quit the game than be a bit player jammed into some apartment with all these drones and...[pauses]
Gordon: Clones?
Joseph: What?
Gordon: Drones and clones!
Joseph: I'm not writing a sea chanty, you senile old basket-weaver. I'm trying to make a point here.
Gordon: What is your point?
Joseph: I forget.
Gordon: Can I go home now?
Joseph: You are home. I'm visiting you.
Gordon: Maybe we should go pick up a pizza then, clear our heads.
Joseph: Pizza doesn't clear my head. Coffee in the morning, wine spritzers at night: that's what clears my head.
Gordon: You, sir, are a drunk. And thanks to your peer pressure, I've become one hell of a junkie. What's next for me, I don't know. I guess I don't know. And I guess that I just don't know, unless you could tell me maybe?
Joseph: I'll tell you one thing. I'll be playing the funeral march on your windpipe if you don't--
Gordon: What's this? [holds up ID card]
Joseph: That's the ID we stole from that girl.
Gordon: I don't remember doing that! The poor old dame. The poor little... is a pony a woman animal?
Joseph: What does it matter! With this little jimmy, we won't be needing to know anything.
Gordon: Oh yeah?
Joseph: That's right. I bet we could sell this thing in Asia, maybe as a tapestry.
Gordon: Genius! Or wait, what if we sold it to the highest bidding political party as an extra vote? Might tip the scales come February.
Joseph: Nothing happens in February, you imbecile.
Gordon: It shore is windy though, you gotta give me that!
Joseph: Besides, one vote doesn't make any difference. I was thinking we could trade it to some lowlife, maybe for some delicious opium.
Gordon: Ah! I forgot how much I love opium!
Joseph: The sacred... [pause] I can hear the neighbors talking.
Gordon: Is it about us?
Joseph: No, they're talking while we're talking.
Gordon: So? You're talking about them while they're talking about us.
Joseph: Are you scared of them?
Gordon: I am mildly a-feared of them on account of their violent activities in the street. They once clubbed a man down for picking up their newspaper, and on other occasions I have seen them whip bottles at the mailman as they sang some Jewish song.
[A knock at the door]
Joseph: I don't like the sound of that!
Gordon: What am I supposed to do with this memo?
Joseph: I believe there are places where they can be recycled.
Gordon: Some answer! Why the hell did I write all that nonsense down?
Joseph: Listen to me, Gordon. You will never taste the gold of the human God until you figure out why to do things for no reason.
Gordon: Yeah, but I was under mistaken apprehensions.
Joseph: None of your excuses, please! They give me peritonitis. I saw a man of distinction in you today, and I wanted to harness some of your energy without paying for it.
Gordon: Joseph, like your namesake you are a diabetic puppet-master. And just like the rest, you forget: People remember the puppets, only the puppets. No one cares who put on the show.
Joseph: [listening with head down, eyes closed; shakes head] I should have said "No" when the surgeon asked if you still needed to be stitched back up in the operating room.
Gordon: How did the surgeon come to be not operating on me for some time?
Joseph: Apparently the fumes coming off your liver were making him queasy. So he would come out for air every couple of minutes. And how he insulted me for knowing you–some pretty barbed remarks that doctor made about my intelligence.
Gordon: I’m just glad he took out that extra kidney I had been lugging around my whole life. “I have two?” I remember asking. I cried all day, it was the first time in my life I ever had two of anything...
Joseph: Didn’t you have two wives for a while when you worked on the Strait of Malacca?
Gordon: Oh yeah, yes. Anyway, I probably would have died from having so many kidneys if I never had that dream with the pair of Italian circus idiots who told me to get X-rayed–
[Another knock at the door. Joseph and Gordon climb under the coffee table and wait]
Gordon: I hate it here in Jamaica.
Joseph: I hate it where we actually are in Des Moines, Iowa.
Gordon: We should move.
Joseph: Wait until these assailants move on to the next house full of senile cripples.
Gordon: But that's my house!
Joseph: This is your house, Gordon. I told you, I'm visiting you.
Gordon: Well, go away already! You brought bandits to my good home! They were hypnotized on the streets by your flashy jewelry, now they're going to break in and... when they see that I don't even have silverware, they'll club me on the head for sure... you know I couldn't live through a clubbing on the head.
Joseph: Let's just sit here and write some more memos until they go away. How should we end this first one?
Gordon: "Give me rustic toast." And then you could put your name at the bottom, so she knows who's asking for it.
Joseph: While that is a good idea, I think I will keep my desires secret for now.
Gordon: How about, "As you get up and put this letter in your freezer, remember to pile on the good times, and sell the rest to Sony Limited Corporation so you can afford certain seasonings."
Joseph: Wow, that was pretty good. It says a lot without being critical of other people based on their ethnicity. It needs a single word at the end, though. A sharp word, like a noise word.
Gordon: Like "Beep!"?
Joseph: Kind of, but no...
Gordon: "Woof!"
Joseph: "Honk!" No, that wouldn't work here.
Gordon: "Ching!"
Joseph: Oooh, that's perfect! I can't believe it. I cannot believe you have acted in a way that was not wholly and unabashedly incompetent.
Gordon: I didn't make that up, though, I just stole it.
Joseph: [pause] Well, still. Good is good.
Gordon: And thank Him for the food, right?
Joseph: You are so senile, I could just cry.
Gordon: I never realized how filthy it is underneath this table.
Joseph: Let's go pick up a pizza, and move away.
Gordon: Will they ever hear from us again?
Joseph: Oh, I doubt it.
THE END
Message rec'd in a dark room on a sunny day, with foot marks in the light blue carpet. The message is printed in pure black ink on red paper, a tri-fold reflattening from being waved around too much. It now sits on a smooth, lightweight coffee table; an oaken plaque two ironing boards wide, an estate sale piece. A window with white blinds lays bands of light over a bed with one thin, light-blue cotton blanket. The silk edge of the blanket is frayed and torn but the cloth is taut; a pillow is beneath but placed in the very center of the mattress. Two old men are pacing with little physical regard for each other. Joseph is stern and calculating; he looks like Albert Einstein in a seafoam sleeveless undershirt and olive corduroy pants; he is barefoot. Gordon is scrawny with sparse long hair, clad in a black t-shirt, red suspenders connected to khaki shorts; black velcro sneakers, gray socks; he has a subtle habit of gently touching his head as if testing the durability of a papier mache sculpture.
Joseph: It is a lovely day, even through the dark yellow haze of a hangover.
Gordon: I need a day or two to wake up, myself.
Joseph: Find something to tell that girl, you know... she sent the letter?
Gordon: The tiger woman.
Joseph: No, moron, the–oh, well, she did have pictures of tigers somewhere... Maybe they were ocelets.
Gordon: They were most certainly not ocelots. Ocelets are younger, and they have crazy eyes, they... always leave you! [sobs]
Joseph: Shut up you goddamn nitwit. Take a memo for me.
[Gordon pulls out a marker and looks around. The most blank thing in the room is the lampshade, but instead he takes the phone book and opens it up]
Gordon: OK, gimme your dictatin's.
Joseph: All right, here we go... hm. Start here, with this: "Jamie, I am inspired by your reading in solitude-- I am going to sacrifice solitude for societal detachment when I leave for the cabin today, something you might know much more about... alienation, detachment from the game of this world, and sometimes it seems like it would be better to quit the game than be a bit player jammed into some apartment with all these drones and...[pauses]
Gordon: Clones?
Joseph: What?
Gordon: Drones and clones!
Joseph: I'm not writing a sea chanty, you senile old basket-weaver. I'm trying to make a point here.
Gordon: What is your point?
Joseph: I forget.
Gordon: Can I go home now?
Joseph: You are home. I'm visiting you.
Gordon: Maybe we should go pick up a pizza then, clear our heads.
Joseph: Pizza doesn't clear my head. Coffee in the morning, wine spritzers at night: that's what clears my head.
Gordon: You, sir, are a drunk. And thanks to your peer pressure, I've become one hell of a junkie. What's next for me, I don't know. I guess I don't know. And I guess that I just don't know, unless you could tell me maybe?
Joseph: I'll tell you one thing. I'll be playing the funeral march on your windpipe if you don't--
Gordon: What's this? [holds up ID card]
Joseph: That's the ID we stole from that girl.
Gordon: I don't remember doing that! The poor old dame. The poor little... is a pony a woman animal?
Joseph: What does it matter! With this little jimmy, we won't be needing to know anything.
Gordon: Oh yeah?
Joseph: That's right. I bet we could sell this thing in Asia, maybe as a tapestry.
Gordon: Genius! Or wait, what if we sold it to the highest bidding political party as an extra vote? Might tip the scales come February.
Joseph: Nothing happens in February, you imbecile.
Gordon: It shore is windy though, you gotta give me that!
Joseph: Besides, one vote doesn't make any difference. I was thinking we could trade it to some lowlife, maybe for some delicious opium.
Gordon: Ah! I forgot how much I love opium!
Joseph: The sacred... [pause] I can hear the neighbors talking.
Gordon: Is it about us?
Joseph: No, they're talking while we're talking.
Gordon: So? You're talking about them while they're talking about us.
Joseph: Are you scared of them?
Gordon: I am mildly a-feared of them on account of their violent activities in the street. They once clubbed a man down for picking up their newspaper, and on other occasions I have seen them whip bottles at the mailman as they sang some Jewish song.
[A knock at the door]
Joseph: I don't like the sound of that!
Gordon: What am I supposed to do with this memo?
Joseph: I believe there are places where they can be recycled.
Gordon: Some answer! Why the hell did I write all that nonsense down?
Joseph: Listen to me, Gordon. You will never taste the gold of the human God until you figure out why to do things for no reason.
Gordon: Yeah, but I was under mistaken apprehensions.
Joseph: None of your excuses, please! They give me peritonitis. I saw a man of distinction in you today, and I wanted to harness some of your energy without paying for it.
Gordon: Joseph, like your namesake you are a diabetic puppet-master. And just like the rest, you forget: People remember the puppets, only the puppets. No one cares who put on the show.
Joseph: [listening with head down, eyes closed; shakes head] I should have said "No" when the surgeon asked if you still needed to be stitched back up in the operating room.
Gordon: How did the surgeon come to be not operating on me for some time?
Joseph: Apparently the fumes coming off your liver were making him queasy. So he would come out for air every couple of minutes. And how he insulted me for knowing you–some pretty barbed remarks that doctor made about my intelligence.
Gordon: I’m just glad he took out that extra kidney I had been lugging around my whole life. “I have two?” I remember asking. I cried all day, it was the first time in my life I ever had two of anything...
Joseph: Didn’t you have two wives for a while when you worked on the Strait of Malacca?
Gordon: Oh yeah, yes. Anyway, I probably would have died from having so many kidneys if I never had that dream with the pair of Italian circus idiots who told me to get X-rayed–
[Another knock at the door. Joseph and Gordon climb under the coffee table and wait]
Gordon: I hate it here in Jamaica.
Joseph: I hate it where we actually are in Des Moines, Iowa.
Gordon: We should move.
Joseph: Wait until these assailants move on to the next house full of senile cripples.
Gordon: But that's my house!
Joseph: This is your house, Gordon. I told you, I'm visiting you.
Gordon: Well, go away already! You brought bandits to my good home! They were hypnotized on the streets by your flashy jewelry, now they're going to break in and... when they see that I don't even have silverware, they'll club me on the head for sure... you know I couldn't live through a clubbing on the head.
Joseph: Let's just sit here and write some more memos until they go away. How should we end this first one?
Gordon: "Give me rustic toast." And then you could put your name at the bottom, so she knows who's asking for it.
Joseph: While that is a good idea, I think I will keep my desires secret for now.
Gordon: How about, "As you get up and put this letter in your freezer, remember to pile on the good times, and sell the rest to Sony Limited Corporation so you can afford certain seasonings."
Joseph: Wow, that was pretty good. It says a lot without being critical of other people based on their ethnicity. It needs a single word at the end, though. A sharp word, like a noise word.
Gordon: Like "Beep!"?
Joseph: Kind of, but no...
Gordon: "Woof!"
Joseph: "Honk!" No, that wouldn't work here.
Gordon: "Ching!"
Joseph: Oooh, that's perfect! I can't believe it. I cannot believe you have acted in a way that was not wholly and unabashedly incompetent.
Gordon: I didn't make that up, though, I just stole it.
Joseph: [pause] Well, still. Good is good.
Gordon: And thank Him for the food, right?
Joseph: You are so senile, I could just cry.
Gordon: I never realized how filthy it is underneath this table.
Joseph: Let's go pick up a pizza, and move away.
Gordon: Will they ever hear from us again?
Joseph: Oh, I doubt it.
THE END