Trouble at the A&P

Trouble at the A&P

by | Dec 16, 2024 | Playwriting

Trouble at the A&P

AT RISE: Two women, Woman One and Woman Two, sit on a bench with a stark white wall behind them.

Woman One: I keep forgetting to forget. Do you ever forget things?

Woman Two: All the time.

Woman One: I get fixated. My therapist told me when I get fixated to take three deep breaths, then count from 10 to 1 in my head. Then turn my body to change my focus. Honestly though, it was so embarrassing when I was in the checkout line at the A&P and the cashier was haphazardly putting the produce on the scale—these fruits and vegetables are delicate! Then the bagger was putting my bananas in the same bag with my milk! I don’t think this was so much one of my obsessions, except for I’m obsessed with having my produce unbruised. I don’t think that’s such a bad thing. But the manager told me I can’t grab the aprons of the employees and admonish them. I tried to tell him that I have rights, too. And if I’m paying $2.99 per pound for bananas…

Woman Two: (Nodding in agreement)

Woman One: …I’m sure as heck not going to stand for them to be damaged at the hands of the employees. Don’t they teach respect for the groceries in their store training? Well anyway, the manager said I couldn’t shop there if I was going to behave like this. So I talked about it with my therapist, and this is what she told me to do, but it was humiliating. The cashier and the bagger were just staring at me. They couldn’t have been older than 20 years old. How could they possibly understand the nuances of personality? Honestly, I don’t know what they teach kids these days.

Woman Two: Well, good for you for trying to control yourself. I don’t like that manager of the A&P with his red apron,wire-rim glasses, and red hair. Does he think he’s better than us just because he towers over us in height?

Woman One: I’m with you on that. And anyway, who calls the police when someone is having a potential breakdown?The police don’t know how to handle it.

Woman Two: I hear you. So, are they charging you?

Woman One: No, of course not. I didn’t break the law.

Woman Two: Yeah, me neither. I only started crying when the bagger dropped the eggs, and they made such a mess, and then a little kid slipped on the gooey eggs and started crying. So I cried. When is it a crime to cry?

A police officer walks over to the two women.

Officer: Please, ladies. I want to apologize on behalf of the Pleasant Valley police station. We have detained the manager of the A&P. Apparently, he’s been pressing charges all week. And it’s against company policy to press fraudulent charges just for a $100 bonus. Apparently, he’s racked up $10,000 this month alone! You ladies are free to go.

What’s My Name?

What’s My Name?

by | Dec 16, 2024 | Playwriting

What’s My Name?

CHARACTERS:

Man: A 62-year-old man, dressed in a slightly rumpled suit, carrying a briefcase.

Agent: A clerk at a government office, efficient and friendly.

SETTING: A sterile, brightly lit office with a counter and a few chairs.

AT RISE: Man approaches the counter nervously. Agent looks up with a smile.

Man: Hi.

Agent: Hi, what’s your name?

Man: I’m Werjhbfkudvnjd

Man attempts to pronounce the name, but it’s a jumbled mess. Agent raises an eyebrow, trying to keep a straight face.

Agent: That’s quite a name.

Man: That’s why I’m here. I need a revision.

Agent: No, you don’t. You just need a name change.

Man: I can do that?

Agent: Of course, as long as you’re over 18, and I’m sure you are.

Man: Yes, I’m 62. I thought I needed to revise my entire life, and I thought that might take too long. It is quite a relief that I can just change my name.

Agent: That would definitely take a long time.

Man: This is such a relief. I can’t tell you how much trouble my name has given me.

Agent: I can imagine—it’s lacking vowels.

Man: Yes, people didn’t know what to call me growing up. I got teased a lot.

Agent: I can imagine. But how did you get a name like that?

Man: I was told that the clerk had narcolepsy and they fell asleep while typing my birth certificate.

Agent: Surely your parents could have amended it.

Man: Surely they could have, but they didn’t. They thought it was quirky. But I’m a patent inspector. I’m not quirky. It’s made it hard for me to get jobs. But I finally figured out that I could use a cover letter so that I could explain my name. That’s how I got my job.

Agent: But what did people call you?

Man: Werjhbfkudvnjd

Agent: Didn’t you have a nickname?

Man: I never thought about it. What could be a nickname for Werj—

Agent: (Interrupting) I get it, I get it. Okay. So what do you have in mind?

Man: I can pick any name?

Agent: Sure, it’s your name.

Man: Wow. Okay. I’d like to name myself… Oh, this is so exciting… Normal.

Agent looks confused.

Agent: Do you mean Norman?

Man: No! Normal. That’s my name. I love it. Thanks for your help!

Man beams and exits, leaving Agent shaking their head in amusement.

BLACKOUT

The Dull Women’s Club

The Dull Women’s Club

by | Dec 8, 2024 | Playwriting

The Dull Women’s Club

Welcome to The Dull Women’s Club, where the ordinary takes center stage. A short comedic scene that finds joy and camaraderie in life’s smallest details.

Setting: A meeting room in a church basement. There are mismatched chairs arranged in a circle and a small table off to the side, set up for snacks. Four women—Elsa, Mary, Beverly, and Francine—are seated in the circle. Each has a basket under her chair. The room has an old clock on the wall that ticks audibly, adding to the quiet absurdity of the atmosphere.

At Rise: The women are seated in the circle. Elsa sits upright with a notepad in hand, ready to lead the meeting. Mary adjusts her sweater, Beverly twirls her wedding ring absentmindedly, and Francine quietly looks at her basket. The air is calm, almost too calm.

ELSA
(Claps her hands once for attention.)
Hi, everyone. Welcome back to our weekly club! It’s good to see you. Thanks for coming. Let’s get started. We’ll go around in a circle.
(She looks at Mary with a warm, expectant smile.)
Mary, you go first. Tell us, what was the highlight of your week?

MARY
(Clears her throat, leans forward slightly, and clasps her hands in her lap.)
Thank you, Elsa. For me, Wednesday was my best day this week. I was able to organize my sock drawer.
(She lights up, her hands gesturing enthusiastically.)
I think it’s my favorite activity! There are so many ways to organize socks. In fact, this is my Wednesday ritual.

(The other women nod politely, leaning in slightly, as if this is riveting.)

This time, I organized by color. I’m not sure this is the most efficient way—unless you know all your socks by heart, but this I do know.
(Counts on her fingers dramatically.)
I have 13 pairs of pink socks! Some are pale pink, like a baby’s bottom.
(Pauses for comedic timing.)
Some are fuchsia—like a rashy baby’s bottom.
(Giggles at her own joke and waves her hand dismissively.)
Oh, me! I do crack myself up.

(The women chuckle politely. Elsa writes something down in her notebook.)

Oh, baby bottoms—they really do come in a range of colors, don’t they?
(Mary’s voice drifts into reflective thought before she snaps back to attention.)
Anyway, back to the socks. I arranged them by shade first. They come in all lengths and types, too! Some are ankle socks, some are compression—I never get dizzy wearing those fuckers!
(The women gasp lightly but smile, clearly amused by her outburst.)
Some are wool, because I do get cold toes come November. And some are patterned.
(Pauses dramatically.)
My favorite pink socks with a pattern are the ones with our Lord Jesus Christ’s face printed all over them. I always feel like I do more good deeds when I wear those socks.

ELSA
(Nods with approval and a kind smile.)
Thanks, Mary. It’s time to move on to Beverly.
(Turns to Beverly.)
Beverly, tell us about your most exciting experience this week.

BEVERLY
(Shifts in her seat, placing her hands neatly on her knees.)
Thank you, Elsa. Well, for me, it was this morning when I organized my fridge.
(Leans in conspiratorially.)
I like to organize my carrots by size. But the question is: is it by length or thickness?

(The women murmur in fascination, nodding as if this is a deep existential question.)

I really do get flustered.
(Glances around the room for empathy.)
So I asked Google Voice to pick for me. Today, it said length!
(Sits back triumphantly.)
I have to say, in the future, I might separate my carrots into two groupings because thick carrots and slim ones don’t seem to marry well.

ELSA
(Leaning forward with genuine interest.)
Thank you, Beverly. That’s fascinating.
(Turns to Francine.)
Now, Francine, tell us about your exciting week.

FRANCINE
(Straightens her posture, her hands smoothing her skirt nervously.)
Yes, well, I cleaned the grout in between each tile.
(Pauses for effect.)
I counted 500 tiles! It took me all day. Heavens!

(The women gasp in admiration. Elsa claps softly, her face lighting up with delight.)

ELSA
(Warmly.)
Wonderful. Thank you, Francine.
(Glances at her watch.)
Now it’s time for snacks. Let’s pull out our baskets and put them on the share table. I wonder what tasty treats we have today!

(The women cheerfully reach under their chairs, pulling out their baskets. They carry their carefully packed snacks to the table and arrange them neatly—peanut butter crackers, cheese sticks, skinny carrots, and buttermilk biscuits. The women exchange pleased glances as they settle back in their seats.)

(They nibble their snacks in contented silence, occasionally murmuring words of praise like “delightful” or “so crunchy.” The old clock ticks loudly in the background, adding an oddly solemn rhythm to the lighthearted scene.)

(Lights slowly dim as the women continue to enjoy their mundane, blissful moment together.)

BLACKOUT



Battling Your Demons: A Tale of Overcoming Depression

Battling Your Demons: A Tale of Overcoming Depression

by | Nov 24, 2024 | Writing

Battling Your Demons: A Tale of Overcoming Depression

My life! What has it become? How can one have enthusiasm when they’re depressed? Enthusiastically depressed? Oxymoron much? But that’s just it; I can’t change my underlying temperament just because I’ve lost the will to live. Yes! I’ve given up! I’ve tried for so long, but I keep stubbing my toes on the obstacles.

I’ve tried climbing my broken ladder, but, honestly, it’s hard when every other rung is missing, and, well, I’m afraid of heights. I have so many fears, you know! Yes, they’re quite stifling. I find it’s best to stay in one spot, lest something were to happen if I were to move, but then who is to say this spot is safe? I could be a bull’s-eye target. Who is watching? I can’t live like this, though; it’s paralyzing. Can you imagine being enthusiastically emotionally paralyzed?

It’s not easy. I was looking for a reset button. Is it somewhere in my subconscious, or is there an actual button, yet to be discovered? What if it’s on my roof? What if it’s buried in the backyard? I’ve done all the things one is supposed to do when depressed. I’ve watched videos and read books about subconscious blocks. But when I meditate, I only see darkness in a frame of bright colors. The darkness is stuck between the colorful frame. Shitty, right?

If it isn’t obvious, the darkness is the depression trapped within the colorful enthusiasm. You might be asking yourself now, can’t the colorful frame quash out the darkness? It seems so easy, but alas, it hasn’t worked for me. I’ve tried journaling, and my journal loves the superlatives. It doesn’t matter what I do, the darkness pervades. I’m going to sit here now and plan the most stupendous, outrageous self-inflicted killing; it will be grand—my biggest act yet—and yet, the final act.

Suddenly, the room spins, and a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair and an angular nose shadowing a thin mustache appears. This man is wearing a scarf that says, “Deviling is my day job.” This is quite exciting; I’ve never seen such a sight. His short hair is waving from the breeze left over from the room spin.

“Who are you?” I ask with delight. Maybe my prayers have been answered.

“Hi there, I am Tom.”

“Hi, Tom,” I say as I sit on the edge of my sofa.

“There’s been a mixup here,” he says, then mutters to himself, “this can’t keep happening, I’m going to have to talk to Dom about this.”

“A mixup?” I say with zeal.

“Is your name Dixie of 123 Any Street?” he asks. He cocks his head to one side and looks at his palm; he has handwritten notes on it.

“No, I’m Trixie of 123 Any Place,” I say, emphasizing the word place.

“Oh yes, that’s what I was afraid of. It seems there’s been a mixup. Dom really needs to improve his handwriting. We’ve been controlling the wrong person. I don’t have a Trixie of 123 Any Place on my list. This was definitely for Dixie of 123 Any Street. Sorry for the mixup.” And Tom snaps his fingers and disappears.

I look around and see the sun is shining, the flowers are blooming, and the internal joy that will not relent is beaming within me.

A Joyless Search

A Joyless Search

by | Nov 24, 2024 | Playwriting

A Joyless Search

SETTING: A cluttered living room. The furniture is slightly askew, cushions are out of place, and books lie open on the coffee table. A step stool is in the corner. All the lights are on, casting a bright glow over the chaos.

TIME: June 2025

AT RISE: PENELOPE stands on the step stool, peeking behind the bookcase. ROGER is on his hands and knees, looking under the couch. He scoots across the floor, lifts the cushions one by one, and peers behind them. PENELOPE moves the stool to the window and climbs again, peeking behind the curtains. ROGER moves to the coffee table, flipping through books and lifting knickknacks. PENELOPE walks over to ROGER, lifts the back of his shirt, and ruffles his hair.

PENELOPE

(Frustrated) Can you see her?

ROGER

(Stopping, earnest) No, I can’t.

PENELOPE

(Sighing) I can’t either.

ROGER

(Flustered, a little out of breath) I’m looking everywhere. There’s no sign of her.

PENELOPE

(Stepping back, shouting) Joy! Joy! Where are you? Come out, Joy. Come back to us!

ROGER nods in agreement, searching half-heartedly now.

PENELOPE

(Sadly, looking at ROGER) I can’t find Joy anywhere. Maybe she really is gone.

ROGER

(Putting an arm around her) She might be. There may never be joy in our lives again.

PENELOPE

(Looking down, shaking her head) I can’t imagine we’ll never see Joy again. This is too much. This is so sad.

ROGER

(Slowly nodding) Yes. It’s joyless. We are without Joy. There is no Joy here.

PENELOPE

(Resolute) We can’t just accept this, Roger. I can’t stand not having any joy in my life.

ROGER

(Sighing) I know. But we have to face facts. Joy is not here. Joy is gone. Forever.

PENELOPE starts fixing the cushions on the couch. She sits down heavily. ROGER follows suit, fixing the cushions beside her. He sits next to her and puts a hand on her knee.

PENELOPE

(Speaking softly, staring into the distance) I can’t imagine. We must have joy in our lives. What are we going to do without Joy?

ROGER

(Shrugging, looking at her) I don’t know.

PENELOPE looks up at ROGER, then slowly turns to face him. She takes his hand.

PENELOPE

(Musing) Maybe… maybe we should find more ways to bring joy into our lives. Let’s go to the bedroom. Let’s have sex. Let’s try to make a baby. We can name the baby Joy. That way, we’ll bring Joy back into our lives.

ROGER

(Smiling) Why go to the bedroom? We can make Joy right here on the couch.

PENELOPE

(Laughing, playfully hitting him) Oh, Roger, you sly fox. You know I could never do that. No, we’ll make a new Joy in the bedroom.

ROGER

(Smiling mischievously) What if she comes back?

PENELOPE

(Resolute) We need to face facts. The old Joy is gone. All we have now is the chance to make our own.

ROGER

(Chuckling) It’s a good idea, Penelope. But what if the baby is a boy? We can’t have Joy then.

PENELOPE

(Shaking her head) Don’t be silly, ROGER. Joy is not gendered. Joy can be a girl, boy, intersex, or non-binary. It doesn’t matter. We will bring Joy back to us no matter what.

ROGER

(Hugging her tightly) You’re right. It doesn’t matter what Joy looks like. We just need Joy back.

PENELOPE

(Smiling, standing up, and taking his hand) Come on. Let’s go.

They exit hand in hand, leaving the messy room behind.

BLACKOUT