The Five Aspects of a Witch
Page 6
THE END
3. THE VERY MODEL OF A LOVING FAMILY
Count them: 1, 2, 3.
Goldilocks on the middle of the stage. Well, not the blonde girl. No. THREE BEDS, rather.
So let me start all over again: 1, 2, 3. THREE BEDS on the middle of the stage!
There’s one for the son, one for the mom and...well, you get it. One for the dad as well.
There aren’t any bowls of porridge. Nor are there any undersized chairs or humongous ones either.
Just three beds.
And there’s three people PEEKING underneath each one.
FATHER. (hollering from under the bed) That stink! That stink! That awful stink! It’s under here!
MOTHER. (hollering back) No, it’s right here. I think I see something moving.
FATHER. (...hollering) That doesn’t make any sense! If it’s moving, it’s not a corpse!
MOTHER. (and hollering...) So only dead things stink?
FATHER. The moment it stops thinking, it’s stinking!
SON. (standing up) PEE-YEW!
FATHER. Bring me a light!
MOTHER. But not before you let this rat get away.
SON. I don’t think there’s a rat. There isn’t any cheese.
The Father FREEZES in place. He’s having an epiphany.
FATHER. (standing up) Cheese.... Cheese.... But of course! Cheese!
SON. What about cheese?
FATHER. It smells like rancid, fetid, putrid, rubbery--
SON. Thesaurusy.
FATHER. --cheese!
SON. Hmm. Otherwise known as sour milk.
FATHER. Yes! Rancid, fetid, putrid, rotten curds. We must have dropped some cheese. It smells just like it. Yuck! All creamy and gnarly right up the nose!
MOTHER. Yuck, yuck, yuck!
The Mother SHRIEKS as she FLINGS something crusty and smelly at the Father.
He SHRIEKS as well and plays hot potato with it.
The Son catches the stinking object and confirms it’s a SOCK.
SON. It’s a sock!
MOTHER. (standing up) Wait, but is there something inside? I thought I saw it move. Check inside. But wait, boy! No! Drop it! It’s gross! It’s gross!
She STAMPS her legs up and down as though her feet are burning.
MOTHER (CONT’D). It’s gross!
But the Son presses it to his nose and smells it.
SON. Hmm.
He presses it to his nose again and takes a deeper whiff.
FATHER. ...well?!
SON. It’s awful. Absolutely rancid.
FATHER. Then get it away from your face!
MOTHER. My precious boy!
SON. But no.
He takes another deep whiff.
FATHER. Do you like it?
The Father looks incredulously at the Mother.
FATHER (CONT’D). Does he like it?
SON. It’s bad, but in the way it should be bad.
FATHER. What does that mean? Bad in the way it should be bad?
MOTHER. Oh, the fumes have warped his brains!
SON. I mean, this sock smells naturally smelly. Not like the stink in this house.
MOTHER. You’re implying the stink in this house is supernatural?
FATHER. Perhaps a ghost has come and taken a giant shhhh--
MOTHER. Shhh. Don’t say it.
FATHER. Why not?
MOTHER. You’ll upset the ghost.
FATHER. Well, I think we already have. Peee-yeeeew! What a horrible stink! A curse on this house! A curse!
MOTHER. (looking around) Has someone let a cat inside? Maybe one of us has stepped on some droppings.
All three of them check their feet.
SON. No.
MOTHER. No.
FATHER. Nuh-uh. Me either.
MOTHER. Sweetie? Check under the bed for me one more time, please. It seems to be coming from under there.
FATHER. Well, I TOLD you that! I TOLD you.
MOTHER. Yes, yes.... Perhaps you were right.
As the Father squats back down and presses his cheek against the floor, the Mother rushes over and conspires with the Son.
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MOTHER. Sweetheart, I think it’s your father. But I don’t have the heart to tell him. I just don’t.
SON. You want him to take a shower?
MOTHER. Yes. I think it’s necessary at this point. But what do we do? His pride will never recover. What do we do?
SON. Let’s just suggest we all take showers.
MOTHER. Isn’t that a little too obvious?
The Father pops his head up from under the bed.
FATHER. Son! Come over here! Come here, come here!
The Son rushes over.
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SON. What is it? Do you see it?
FATHER. Son, I swear to God your Mother’s head was steeped in a sewer.
SON. Huh? What do you mean?
FATHER. Her hair stinks. Go on and take a sniff. Be subtle about it, though. It stinks, it stinks, it stinks. Her tresses are foul. And when she talks, it’s all cabbages.
SON. What do you suggest we do?
FATHER. We have to tell her.
SON. But it’ll hurt her feelings.
FATHER. Well, good. Then she’ll be too embarrassed to let it happen again. This is the worst thing that’s happened to this family.
SON. I don’t think it’s Mother.
FATHER. Well then it’s you! Get away, get away! You smell of chunky farts!
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The Father scurries away from the Son. The Mother, in turn, scurries away from the Father.
All three form a triangle on stage--each point as far from the other as possible.
SON. Hey!
The Son takes a deep breath. As deep as he can breathe without busting a nostril. His breath is so deep, in fact, it ARCHES his back and brings him to the tippy tops of his toes.
SON (CONT’D). It doesn’t smell anymore!
MOTHER. Hey! He’s right!
FATHER. Because he’s far, far away.
MOTHER. What do you mean?
FATHER. We can’t smell your son anymore. And of course he can’t
smell himself either.
MOTHER. You would suspect your own son?
FATHER. I would suspect the evidence.
SON. I think it’s something else. Here, let’s try an experiment. Everyone plug their nose.
Everyone plugs their nose.
FATHER. (nasally) Oh, yes. This is a genius idea, Son! We’ll just stay like this forever.
MOTHER. (nasally) Be quiet! Give him a chance. This might work.
FATHER. (nasally) This might work?! Oh! You’ve always supported him in
every single stupid decision he’s ever made! That’s why he’s so STINKING big but still smells like shhh--
SON. (nasally) Shhhh. Don’t say it.
FATHER. (nasally) Don’t say what? I’m talking to YOU, not some ghost! Take a shhhh--
SON. (nasally) Shhh. Everybody come closer.
They all apprehensively scoot towards the middle.
Right where the beds are.
SON (CONT’D). (nasally) Now everybody, unplug your nose!
All three stop pinching their noses. They each take a masochistic inhalation.
All three nearly die.
FATHER. Oh! Why would you suggest that?!
MOTHER. (gagging)Give him a chance! Give him a chance!
SON. Here’s my theory: it’s the holy spirit.
FATHER. That’s blasphemy.
SON. No, listen. The closer the three of us come, the stronger the smell gets.
FATHER. The closer YOU come to us, rather....
MOTHER. We’ll test it! You two stay over there.
The Mother scurries to the other side of the room.
While they are distracted, something MOVES ABOUT under the Son’s bedsheets.
FATHER. Oh!
SON. SEE? Do you sm
ell that? That fresh air? I had forgotten there was a pine forest right outside our house! What smell! What glorious, mountainous smell!
FATHER. Then it was your mother...! I knew it!
SON. No! That’s not true. It’s not true. Don’t blame her. MOTHER! Come over here.
The Mother scurries on back towards them.
Something MOVES ABOUT again.
FATHER. Oh Christ!
SON. Oh! It gets worse every time.
MOTHER. It was me?!
SON. No! Father! Hurry! Before it kills us! Rush over to the other side of the room!
The Father does as he is told.
Again--SOMETHING MOVES!!! (A giant rat?)
MOTHER. Oh! It was your father!
FATHER. It was YOU!
SON. It’s all three of us together! Whenever we come close, we produce that smell. I don’t know why. I don’t understand it. But it’s true!
MOTHER. Then what do we do?
FATHER. Who moves out?
MOTHER. You would rather split the family?
FATHER. I would rather live!
SON. We’ll just...get used to it.
FATHER. Get used to it?
MOTHER. Yes.... Get used to it. Because we love each other. That’s why. That’s what we’re going to have to do.
FATHER. Well...I suppose...! Oh! Fine! Maybe we’ll scoot the beds a little farther apart.
SON. Who knows? Perhaps we’ll come to like it.
All three approach their beds.
SON (CONT’D). Goodnight, Father.
FATHER. ...Goodnight, son.
MOTHER. Goodnight, you two! Sleep as sleep can best.
Before sitting on his bed, the Son pulls down his cover. To his GREAT SHOCK, a LITTLE GIRL springs up from underneath. She looks positively mischievous and smelly.
Certain she’ll be...eaten? But why? Who would touch such a ragged thing?
Well for whatever scrambled reason, the girl makes like a rotten egg and splits.
She RUNS OFF in a hurry before anyone can say anything more.
THE END