EVELYN goes back into the kitchen. TIMOTHY checks his watch.

TIMOTHY:

Three-thirty, you bastards. (sighs ) Fun, fun, fun.

EDMUND enters from the front door, wearing a long, expensive-looking coat and a woolen hat. TIMOTHY turns, sees him, and starts laughing. EDMUND smiles and briefly glances around the restaurant with a “God, why am I here?” look on his face. He takes off his hat, hangs his coat on the rack, and walks over to TIMOTHY’s table.

TIMOTHY:

(singing )

Welcome back. You’re dreams were you’re ticket out. Welcome back…

EDMUND:

That’s it? I was expecting more of a fanfare.

TIMOTHY:

Ah, you see, I forgot my horn.

EDMUND:

How can the be? You’re always tooting it.

TIMOTHY:

(mock British accent )

Ah, a hit! A very palpable hit!

EDMUND:

Thank you, thank you.

TIMOTHY:

How have you been?

EDMUND:

How do you think I’ve been?

TIMOTHY:

That’s not a response.

EDMUND:

It’s not?

TIMOTHY:

Are we playing the question game here?

EDMUND:

Would you like to?

TIMOTHY:

I…oh, come on. Speak.

EDMUND:

I’ve been…floating, I guess, would be a way to put it.

TIMOTHY:

Pretentious ,I think, would be more precise. What? You’ve been out on a quiet spree, fighting vainly the old ennui?

EDMUND:

You’d get a kick out of that, right?

TIMOTHY:

Edmund.

EDMUND:

What?

TIMOTHY:

Come on. You…what?

EDMUND:

What?

TIMOTHY:

Edmund, I haven’t seen you in months, I rent out this whole place so we can have a nice romantic dinner and, what, you refuse to talk to me? Come on. How have you been?

EDMUND:

God, the same. Really. Dreading going back to school. Glad to be leaving the house. Same old scholastic purgatory I’m sure to be lingering in for what…seven more years?

TIMOTHY:

You’re fault for being an academic.

EDMUND:

Epidemic?

TIMOTHY:

What’s the difference? How’s your sister?

EDMUND:

You say that like you’re going to tell me she’s been peddling drugs or something.

TIMOTHY:

No, I just saw her the other day and I want to know and since your being so hush-hush about your own squalid little existence I figured hers might be more interesting.

EDMUND:

She’s seeing someone if that’s what you want to know.

TIMOTHY:

What, a man can’t ask another man how his sister is doing without sounding like he’s trying to morally corrupt her or something?

EDMUND:

No, he can’t. Not with your history

TIMOTHY:

Well, I’m sorry. Nevermind then. I just heard she was heavy into drugs, that’s all.

EDMUND:

She ain’t heavy, she’s my sister.

TIMOTHY:

Ha-ha.

EDMUND:

Well…you’re turn.

TIMOTHY:

How am I?

EDMUND:

Mm-hm.

TIMOTHY:

Just dandy. Floating would be another way to put it.

EDMUND:

Still…acting?

TIMOTHY:

Like what?

EDMUND:

Like an fool, apparently.

TIMOTHY:

Ah, see? I can be prickly too, you know. No fun for the one handling the inquiries, is it?

EDMUND:

Yes, yes.

TIMOTHY:

Yes, one more year until my degree in waiting tables and crippling poverty is completed. I invited you to my last play, you know.

EDMUND:

You did?

TIMOTHY:

Yes, I sent you an e-mail, I think. No, yes, yes, I did. You never responded.

EDMUND:

Were you heartbroken?

TIMOTHY:

Well, the show had to go on.

EDMUND:

What was it?

TIMOTHY:

Do you care?

EDMUND:

No.

TIMOTHY:

Mm-hm. Well, it was the Rape of Lucretia.

EDMUND:

Oh, yes. I did get that. I thought it was an ad for a pornographic site so I deleted it. So sorry.

TIMOTHY:

It’s fine. I’ve recovered. I’ll be performing in The Flying Dutchman next semester. So, if you’re in the mood for three hours of caterwauling with no intermission, feel free to stop by.

EDUMND:

If I were ever in the mood for that, I would simply attend another one of my family’s Christmas parties and frankly, my eardrums are still recovering from last week’s.

TIMOTHY:

Oh God. A fate worse than Wagner.

EDMUND:

If that’s possible.

TIMOTHY:

How was your Christmas? Made out like a bandit, I assume.

EDMUND:

Unfortunately, all I got was my two front teeth.

TIMOTHY:

All you wanted, right?

EDMUND:

Even so…

TIMOTHY:

What was last year? A weekend trip to a spa?

EDMUND:

Oh, yes.

TIMOTHY:

Was there a happy ending?

EDMUND:

More like a twist ending, if I remember correctly.

TIMOTHY:

Ah, painful.

EDMUND:

Skilled hands she did not possess.

TIMOTHY:

Well, it still beat my Encyclopedia.

EDMUND:

Still unopened, I imagine.

TIMOTHY:

(Pepe Le Pue)

But of course.

EDMUND:

All that knowledge left undiscovered.

TIMOTHY:

I was thinking of putting it under my pillow and letting it seep into my subconscious while dreaming.

EDMUND:

A typically lazy solution.

TIMOTHY:

I am, if nothing else, consistent in my ways.

EDMUND:

A consistent disappointment. Cheers to that. That is, if we had something to cheer with. Where’s the waitress?

TIMOTHY:

I gave her an incredibly complex order so it will probably be awhile. Do you think they still let you smoke in here?

EDUND:

Yes, I believe this is one of the last bastions for the nicotine-addled…why, do you smoke now?

TIMOTHY:

Yes.

TIMOTHY takes out a cigarette, lights it, and starts to smoke.

 

EDMUND:

I never thought I’d live to see the day.

TIMOTHY:

What?

EDMUND:

Nothing.

TIMOTHY:

What?

EDMUND:

Nothing. I’m…surprised, that’s all.

TIMOTHY:

And why is that?

EDMUND:

I just…didn’t picture you as someone who would smoke. I don’t know. I have to reevaluate my entire idea of who you are as a person now.

TIMOTHY:

Oh, please.

EDMUND:

May I ask why?

TIMOTHY:

Must I explain?

EDMUND:

You must. You must.

TIMOTHY:

Fine, fine. Well…look at me. I have no great culture, no history, no teams I support, no religion I adhere to, no past persecutions of my people besides being thrown to the lions a couple of thousand years ago and no one takes that seriously, anyways. I mean, nothing, in that sense, you know?

EDMUND:

A man without a country.

TIMOTHY:

Well, no. But, yes. With this, I’m instantly part of a greater community. I can now say to other fellow smokers “Do you have a light? Mm, thanks. God, can you believe what they charge for a pack these days? Isn’t it horrible trying to quit these things?” We share an affliction. It’s quite nice, actually.

EDMUND:

I guess that’s a very silly way of looking at it.

TIMOTHY:

Besides, it’s just so terribly romantic, isn’t it? Just substitute this horrible little town with Paris and this horrible little restaurant with a dilapidated sea-side bistro and, voila, instant tortured artist.

EDMUND:

You would have to substitute sophistry with artistry before you came to that conclusion.

TIMOTHY:

Ah, but if done well, sophistry is artistry.

EDMUND:

And I’m sure you’re going to make that you’re life’s pursuit.

TIMOTHY:

Just you wait.

 

EDMUND:

Mm. Well, I spoke to Albert. He said that he should be coming…I guess soon. Which could mean hours for that poor sod.

TIMOTHY:

By that time we’ll have probably just placed our orders. What about Charlie?

EDMUND:

I don’t know. Just you and me ‘til then, I guess. God, how awful.

TIMOTHY:

I mean, this is painful enough already.

EDMUND:

Worthless hack.

TIMOTHY:

Bourgeois philistine.

 

EDMUND:

(laughs ) Thanks, friend.

TIMOTHY:

Your welcome.

A pause

EDMUND:

So, any plans for the new year?

TIMOTHY:

What, this weekend, or do you mean the entire year? If it’s the year, I can’t tell you. If it’s this weekend, I plan to be curled up by the fireplace with my girlfriend, Lola, discussing the metaphysical wonders of Dick Clark’s face and wishing doomsday on the riotous ball-watchers below.

EDMUND:

Your girlfriend?

TIMOTHY:

I’m lying, of course.

EDMUND:

I was going to say…

TIMOTHY:

God, are you kidding me? The last time I saw female reproductive organs was the nude exhibit at the Whitney last summer. I lunged for one of them and almost chipped a tooth.

EDMUND:

So no plans?

TIMOTHY:

At the moment, no.

EDMUND:

You know, they say whatever you’re doing on New Year’s Eve, you’re bound to repeat for the rest of the following year.

TIMOTHY:

Well, last New Year’s, I had my tongue down the throat of fat Holly Perkins, occasionally coming up for air and to belt out a verse from Aude Lang Syne. And if memory serves me, I have only done that four other times in the past twelve months.

EDMUND:

You know, if…

TIMOTHY:

Or was it five?

EDMUND:

You know, if your having…mating difficulties, I know a few terribly lonely, masochistic girls who would certainly be up for an emotion-free and most likely damaging relationship with a strapping young lad such as yourself.

TIMOTHY:

Do you really?

EDMUND:

Oh, yes. Quite a few, actually.

TIMOTHY:

Well, then why aren’t you pursuing them? Or are you just saving up your virility for when you actually are a surgeon and you’ll be having to beat them off with a stick?

EDMUND:

I, sadly enough, am with someone at the moment so it’s not exactly a possibility for me.

TIMOTHY:

Are you really?

EDMUND:

Yes.

TIMOTHY:

Still?

EDMUND:

Yes…

TIMOTHY:

But…

EDMUND:

I know, I thought…

TIMOTHY:

Ah, you see? You thought. A horrible idea in any relationship. No good will ever come of it. You must throw yourself back into an amoeba mentality and just do whatever you can to stay alive.

EDMUND:

I see.

TIMOTHY:

You think and, what, you end up doubting your capacity for love, your need for freedom, you start to see little vocal tics and psychical imperfections that were never there before, sex starts to feel like a wet diaper…

EDMUND:

Are we talking about you and Susan here?

TIMOTHY:

Please, don’t say that name aloud in my presence. I’ll start feeling all queasy again.

EDMUND:

Still aren’t speaking to her?

TIMOTHY:

No, thank God. It will be seven months to the day next week, since I retrieved my testicles from her icy grip and stormed out of that dragons lair and I don’t want start having flashbacks or seizures as I might injure myself, so please.

EDMUND:

Well, at least I feel better about my current state of affairs. Or lack thereof.

TIMOTHY:

So you’re together but aren’t really together, is that it?

EDMUND:

She says she wants me to see other girls while she’s away and “enjoy myself”, she says, and then she goes and tells me that she only wants me and no one else. She’s to be the good and faithful wife while I’m supposed to be the humping, heinous husband, and I’m not supposed to feel guilty about that? I shouldn’t I suppose, but I can’t help it. It’s awful.

TIMOTHY:

Why don’t you just end it?

EDMUND:

Well, then you know how it goes. All those fawning little nymphets that seem to prance around me everywhere I turn will suddenly disappear the moment I become available to them. Better I simply flirt and enjoy them as an aesthetic pleasure then lose them entirely when they see that I no longer am unattainable, right?

TIMOTHY:

You could have her killed.

EDMUND:

And that would help my guilt how? Besides her ghost would haunt me in my bed, turn me into a toad or something, mid-coitus.

TIMOTHY:

That could be a problem.

EDMUND:

Yes, so, you see? You take them and I’ll enjoy it vicariously when you come to me the morning after, tussled-haired and reeking of sex and spouting off about the wonders of tantric love-making.

TIMOTHY:

That’s very generous of you, Edmund. I’ll be sure to get on that.

EDMUND:

Yes. So, anyways, I was going to ask you if you’d like to come to my family’s party at the Plaza. My perpetually plastered aunt Carol will be there, along with other sad drunken adults so it’s sure to be entertaining.

TIMOTHY:

I don’t know. Thank you, I mean, but, I haven’t gone to a single party this entire break and I wouldn’t want to ruin my streak now.

EDMUND:

What have you been doing?

TIMOTHY:

Oh, well, were do I begin? Let’s see…yes…um, absolutely nothing.

EDMUND:

Nothing?

TIMOTHY:

Nothing. I’ve been completely useless these past two weeks. It’s horrible, I know.

EDMUND:

But, what about Christmas, come on. Happy. Fun. Yay Jesus!

TIMOTHY:

I’m old, it’s depressing, I know. Nothing’s fun.

EDMUND:

Don’t be one of those young people who say that they’re old before their time, trying to seem world-weary and attractive to girls. It won’t work on me.

TIMOTHY:

Well, I’ll tell you, I cannot wait to be old and senile and bitter. Then I’ll be happy.

EDMUND:

What are you talking about?

TIMOTHY:

I mean, when I’ve done everything that I’m going to do. When there is nothing left to do but to do nothing. You’ve done everything. Doing nothing is the only thing you can do so at least I won’t feel like there’s something I should be doing and end up realizing that I’m doing nothing .

EDMUND:

You’ve actually done nothing these two weeks?

TIMOTHY:

Well…I tried writing a bit, actually.

EDMUND:

What? The great American novel, epic poetry, Penthouse Forum?

TIMOTHY:

I don’t want to say.

EDMUND:

Oh, come on.

TIMOTHY:

Must I?

EDMUND:

You must. You must.

TIMOTHY:

God, I…I started writing my memoirs.

EDMUND:

Well, at least that’s not indulgent or anything.

TIMOTHY:

Trust me, I know.

EDMUND:

Your memoirs? What would you write about? You do nothing.

TIMOTHY:

I have a very nice first paragraph and…yes, well, that’s pretty much it.

EDMUND:

Well, I guess it’s something.

TIMOTHY:

Yes, a doodle of the artist as a young man.

EDMUND:

Mm-hm.

TIMOTHY:

It’s a start, right? I’ll simply make up some torrid affairs, run-ins with the law, a few illegitimate children peppered across the country…

EDMUND:

Now, is that something you would want?

TIMOTHY:

Well, God, no, but it would make for a hell of a…

EDMUND:

No, I mean, children.

TIMOTHY:

Children? What do you mean?

EDMUND:

I don’t know, I’ve been thinking about it a great deal for some reason…children, that is.

TIMOTHY:

Edmund…you’re not thinking of priesthood are you?

EDMUND:

Oh, funny. Funny. No, I…I mean the whole concept of having children…I can’t imagine why anyone would want to have them, that’s all.

TIMOTHY:

Well, you know…fill an ever growing void in your marriage, live through their success, dress them up in funny costumes and make a sideshow out of them. You know, the usual reasons.

EDMUND:

It seems, the state we’re all in now, I mean, the world, that is, why anyone would force anyone else into it. It seems almost cruel in a way, I mean, doesn’t it?

TIMOTHY:

Well, I certainly was forced into it. I was two weeks late and had to be cut out, screaming by brains out the whole time.

EDMUND:

Really?

TIMOTHY:

Yes. I wonder if I missed out on something that you’re supposed to get coming out the proper way. If there was a coating you received, or a film that was shown that’s supposed to help you make sense of what you’re about to see.

EDMUND:
Well, just speaking from my own experience, I don’t think you missed anything.

TIMOTHY:

Well, that makes me feel better. I am lucky, though. If I ever need to slay a Scottish king, I’ll have no problems.

EDMUND:

Yes, I suppose. It’s just strange though, thinking about it.(pause ) Sorry, I didn’t mean to get reflective there.

TIMOTHY:

No, it’s alright. I’m depressed and you’re regretting being born. I’d say we’re both in fine shape.

EDMUND:

Yes, I suppose.

Chris Parlon is a student at Berklee. This scene is from a play written for the Playwriting Workshop.