Characters
Eli – an ineffectual aspiring intellectual.
Kerry – enjoys being irritated; Eli’s ideal flatmate.
These psychological sparring partners are in their twenties to forties. Their attire is casual.
Setting, Atmosphere
A horrible apartment, current times. Two squatters in limbo act out a complex loathe-hate relationship. A subset of chaos and flair, they have a highly functioning codependency. Their rapport displays the tightness of mutual antipathy.
The space has a table and two chairs. On the table are a computer, a pen and sheets of A4 paper, including printed-out copies of this text. Kerry has a lighter.
Eli is seated, using the keyboard. Sometimes he scribbles notes. Kerry enters and hovers near him militantly.
KERRY: Oh, there he is–Lord Bygone. Tap-tappity-tap. The tap dance of the royal crested tit. So what’s this stuff you’re typing?
ELI: “Need to know” basis, mate.
KERRY: Let’s say I need to.
ELI: (inhales sharply) Let’s not say that, Kerry.
KERRY: I get the jitters when you’re cagey, Eli. All this writing you’re doing–scrawling, scratching, clicking. You’re a hen with rabies. I had to get isolated with the ultimate shut-in, didn’t I? Here in our sordid bubble of pseudobabble.
ELI: (singing like David Byrne) Same as it never was…
KERRY: Sure is. Status quo, status zero.
ELI: Yeah, yeah. Just keep clear of me. Social distance, anti-social; take your pick, you carrier.
KERRY: I’d like to distance myself from you too.
Kerry grabs a printed-out script, reading it on the run. He jinks nimbly as Eli runs after him. They engage in a staccato chase, continuing their tiff. Through shrugs and evasive moves, Kerry fends off the other’s attempts to recover the sheets.
KERRY: ‘Picturesque’? You florid imitation of a man.
ELI: It’s ‘Pinteresque,’ as in ‘Harold.’
KERRY: Who?
ELI: Harold Pinter, the playwright.
KERRY: Of course. One of your obscure little heroes.
ELI: He’s about as obscure as Neil Simon.
KERRY: Uh? The singer?
Eli laughs explosively, a jeering sound. He abandons the chase and tries to resume a calm state. As Kerry reacts to this derision, he halts and stands at an angle from Eli, reading the sheets irately.
KERRY: Yeah, sure, I’m thick. All hail your intellect, Mother Superior. What’s this crud? “Dramatic…”
ELI: “Dramatis personae.”
KERRY: Uh?
ELI: The characters.
KERRY: So why the hell didn’t you just write that? And who’s this? “Eruera–misunderstood syntactic craftsman.” That’s you, is it, Eli? ‘Zat Hawaiian? Maori? You gave yourself an ethnic name?
ELI: It’s not me, as such.
KERRY: Oh, sure. It’s the other you–the cool one.
ELI: Exotic names get kudos with pseudo-intellectuals. Drama buffs like cultural realism.
KERRY: Artificial realism? Yeah, that’s you to a tee, you jumped up twit. Huh? What? ‘Jerry’? (Shuffles papers, hisses.) ‘Jerry’? The character description just says ‘Bastard.’
ELI: There you go. You want the pleb’s take on things? Couldn’t get any punchier, could it?
KERRY: (confrontationally) You’ve done a play about us?
ELI: That’s a paranoid interpretation, Kez
Kerry gives a dubious look. He quickly sorts through the papers and jabs at a segment.
KERRY: “Jerry: ‘Your script is based on our mutual purgatory.’ Eru: ‘You’re getting paranoid, Jez.’” (Aghast.) This is déjà vu in reverse. Are you psychic? How did you imagine this?
ELI: It’s called “knowing your characters.” I envisage how someone responds in a situation. That’s the guts of realistic conflict.
KERRY: This isn’t realistic. It’s some smart-arse pirating his mundane life, misrepresenting his flatmate. ‘The Poor and the Puerile.’ I could sue you.
ELI: Or revel in glory. Ah, come on. It’s not about you, just inspired by you. Be flattered.
KERRY: How come you’re typing in the living room, instead of that yeast culture you call your room? (An epiphany:) You wanted me to see this, didn’t you? To provoke me, to stir up material for you.
Eli shrugs. Kerry jabs at the sheets and paces about, reading occasionally.
KERRY: So what’s the skinny on this Pistol dude?
ELI: Pinter.
KERRY: Yuh-huh, Captain Clever. Pinter. What’s Harold’s angle?
ELI: He was a kitchen sinker.
KERRY: Kitchen…?
ELI: The angry young men of the stage. They turned out gritty studies of common types mired in the drudgery of their pitiful existences.
KERRY: He’d be a laugh at a party, then.
ELI: It’s all very spare and dry. The truth is in the subtext.
KERRY: And what happens in these things?
ELI: Not a lot. That’s kind of the idea.
KERRY: Stories about nothing? Seinfeld minus giggles?
ELI: They rant about trifling crap. Lots of pauses. You have to intuit the meaning.
Pause. Kerry becomes stationary.
KERRY: Huh?
ELI: (sneering) You’re right. It’s a story vacuum. His dramas hinged on, oh, often a couple of nasty little men in, oh, a nasty little room, being… nasty to each other.
Pause.
KERRY: So… us, pretty much.
ELI: Pretty much, yep.
Pause.
KERRY: Right. In summary…
ELI: Yes?
KERRY: It’s two hideous bungholes…
ELI: Yes.
KERRY: … munting on about nothing…
ELI: Yes.
KERRY: … and nothing happens.
ELI: Correct.
Pause.
KERRY: Never know how to take you, pal.
ELI: Like cod liver oil–you just have to, Kerry. I might be a cure for your social disease, my one-man contagion.
Kerry shakes his head and snorts. Confused, he resumes pacing. Still carrying the script, he takes the sheet of jottings from the table, holds it up and agitates it at his nemesis.
KERRY: Have you transcribed all these notes yet?
Eli shakes his head. Kerry jumps about, swinging the papers as if he is using a fan.
KERRY: Okay, let’s make something happen in this scene. Let’s set this play on fire, get the script burning. Yo. (Takes a lighter from his pocket and holds it near the papers.) Ah, chaos. The antagonist makes a futile protest at the depiction of him in a story. A moment of action in a tedious play about nobodies doing nothing. Mmmm, can the audience take it?
ELI: Oh, dear.
KERRY: What? “Oh, dear” what?
Kerry quits darting around. Eli moves to him and reads through the papers cursorily, showing him a segment to recite. Kerry reads the tract.
KERRY: “Jerry prances about like a total munter, flailing and leaping. Jerry: ‘Ha, look at me. I’m doing something interesting.’” (Crestfallen) “‘You’re so keen to copy our mindless reality, you’ll put this argument in your stupid play, you muppet.’”
Kerry gives Eli the sheets. They both sit. Kerry mutes his anger; he sulks resignedly. Eli makes use of the keyboard and occasionally scribbles as their exchange continues.
ELI: Take heart. A lot of people are such nonentities that they can’t even be used in fiction. They’re isolated by their natures. The real pandemic is drabness.
KERRY: (quietly, reflectively) Maybe if you’re adapted as a character in some stage thing, it means that you must… have character.
ELI: (impressed) There you are, sport. Your heart’s got the shape for this gig. You’d enjoy a dash of drama.
KERRY: So who’s gonna perform this? Those pretentious butt flutes you mince about with in cafes?
ELI: Can we stick that on our calling card?
KERRY: “Pretentious butt flutes”? Ha. It’s yours. (Sighs. Thoughtfully) Could I be in it?
ELI: Act in this play? You’re having me on.
KERRY: Nup. You’ll do it, anyway, whatever I say, so I might as well take some control over it. What? You think I can’t act as, like, me?
ELI: It’s not easy to portray yourself. Muhammad Ali was useless. Someone might be colourful, but that doesn’t mean they can… be themselves.
KERRY: (intentionally ‘acting’) Hi, I’m Kerry. (Shakes his head.) Nup. I’m self-conscious all of a sudden.
ELI: Loosen the sphincter. Let it flow.
KERRY: (more confidently) Hey, man, the name’s Jerry. (Stands and takes papers from the table. Recites again.) ‘You never do any housework around here. If I didn’t make an effort, this place’d be even more of a cesspit.’ (Shrugging) Ha. I’m an actor. It’s easy.
Eli nods and applauds. Kerry struts about, reciting animatedly. Eli starts to take on a manner of quiet acceptance. From now on, his responses convey a degree of approval.
KERRY: “Jerry: ‘I can write this script more truthfully than you.’ Jerry gestures Eru to vacate the seat. Eru obliges. Jerry types furiously. A smirk mutates Eru’s face as his flatmate is consumed with gusto.” Then Jerry says… (Reads silently, laughs.) Say what? Seriously, dude? The dialogue’s unnatural. Cough up your thesaurus. It’ll constipate you.
ELI: Fair call. The verbosity is obstructing the purity of the text. Sharp critique, Kez.
KERRY: Uh? Really? You’re actually listening to me? Lockdown is a lockup with your ego, usually. (Laughing) Okay, I’ll ride the tide.
Eli becomes generous, encouraging. He stands up and signals at Kerry to take the seat. After a moment of uncertainty, Kerry does so.
ELI: This look suits you. Right, then,… have at it.
Kerry looks at Eli questioningly. A smile from the pseudo-mentor sparks Kerry into action. He types quickly. Eli sits near him on the other chair.
KERRY: Okay, you’ve gotta make some of this turgid stuff more relatable. It’s too la-dee-da. And you’ve turned Jerry to a talking lump of gum, even though he’s exactly the foil that Eru needs to keep his smugness to a dull roar.
ELI: Mm hmm. Valid thoughts.
KERRY: (idly) How come you’re indulging me? Suddenly you’ve got me sitting here, redrafting this. Are you humouring me, Svengali?
ELI: The story has to evolve, alongside its stunted characters.
KERRY: (knowingly) Y’think?
ELI: The early draft was tailored for a journal, for–
KERRY: Ah, the one you talked about. Um, that lit rag?
ELI: That’s it… ish.
KERRY: (a light bulb moment) Hey, I get it. You didn’t make the cut, did you? They thought it was all a bit too “Check me out–I live in my intestines.”
ELI: (subdued) You might say.
KERRY: A tad too enigmatic for your own good, Eli? Huh? Your pointy head’s burst your thought bubble ’cause you’ve gone stir crazy here in our dormant social bubble. Crash and burn, Oscar Milde. (Chortles.) Yeah, that’s when you got all bummed out and got stuck into abstinence.
ELI: Absinthe.
KERRY: You started going on about Mary Shelley, and being promiscuous.
ELI: Prometheus.
KERRY: They simply didn’t get your talent, eh? You and your smarty-pants title and your self-deluders all self-involved in a play about a play about a play. This is so true to character. Talk about an unappreciated visionary. (Gangsta accent) You da shiz.
Eli laughs openly. He has an aura of completeness. They seem at ease; a logical order has been established.
ELI: It’s not over. It’ll purr once I’ve had a script doctor give it the booster.
Eli reaches out to Kerry, pretends to give him an injection, then reclines again. Kerry mimes the removal of his imaginary halo, flinging it at Eli.
KERRY: ‘Zat so?
ELI: Maybe it needs a prosaic mindset, to smooth out my cerebral excesses. (Giggling) Look at you fly. You’re on a creative high.
Smiling, Eli stretches. Kerry gives Eli a matching smile.
KERRY: Y’think you’d be any good at, like, being yourself?
ELI: Oh, I reckon I’ll spare us all from those horrors. The character’s too complex. I’ll get some other snotty poser to take that role.
Kerry makes a comical pretense of being flabbergasted, shaking his head and collapsing into his folded arms on the table. In a display of empathy, Eli claps Kerry on the shoulder and mimics the ghostwriter’s implosion. They meld into quiet convulsions of mirth against each other.
Out
*
Gregory Dally has had poetry, fiction, scripts and other material published in various journals, including Antipodes, Meniscus, Popshot Quarterly and Spellbinder Quarterly.
New Critique 