Tim never repeats himself. Well, unless maybe the customer isn’t paying attention. And then he’ll add a joke, like, “Slightly less warm unclaimed Americano for Tom.” God, Tim is so cool. Like, why am I so timid. Like I know this Half-Caff Latte is for Matt—I’ve made it for him for like four months, most mornings. So, why can’t I just say that, “Half-Caff Latte for Matt. Half-Caff Latte for Matt.” Twice, with confidence. And like, Matt—that’s like a normal name. Don’t even get me started on the hard names. Like—are q’s supposed to sound like c’s or k’s? So hard to keep track. And like—apparently there’s more than one way to say and spell every name you thought you knew. Like, not “Matt”—because “Matt” is pretty self-explanatory—but like “Sonia.” Some people are like super specific, like it’s “So-ni-ah” or like “Son-ya.”
I don’t know. Or like if I spell something with a y instead of an ie, that like could ruin someone’s day. You know? It could end up on their Instagram as an FML. And I don’t want that.
I make sure to spell Carrie’s name right every time. I get upset when other people don’t. Sometimes they spell it, K-e-r-r-y or C-a-r-e-y. But like, Tim? He could spell her name with a Z and she’d still laugh at his jokes. I just know she would.
Steak vs. Bologna
Hannah Gansen
DENNIS, 40
DENNIS works in real estate, and is separated from his wife. He had moved from New York City to San Diego for about four months, but is now back in NYC for a bit to do some work for a client. In this scene, he in a whiskey bar, catching up with his friend Chad, 34, who is also in real estate.
DENNIS Everybody likes steak, right? Steak is great. But steak every day? Go home every night . . . and you’re having steak . . . After a while, you want something different. Anything! Hell, even bologna sounds good. And eh, why not? You’re drunk, you want something different, and shit . . . the bologna . . . it’s right there!! And nobody needs to know. If your friends find out, you just say, “Hey, I was drunk!”
Sure, it’s not something to be proud of . . . there’s a reason you order steak in a public restaurant and not bologna. But bologna, she’s got a pretty face, right? . . . In dim lighting? . . . right?
You’re okay with bologna, ’cause bologna KNOWS it’s bologna . . . but look out for spam. Spam THINKS it’s something special, all held up in a can . . . And when you open that can, you can’t just have a little spam. Spam will keep shoving her open can in your face, demanding you, “Eat me! Eat all of me! You opened me! If you didn’t want to eat all of me, then why did you open me in the first place?” And spams leave their empty cans behind so that steak will eventually find out. Then steak leaves you, and only then you realize that steak is rare AND well done.
So, best to just settle for a burger.
Potato salad on the side, though, instead of the fries.
Beef—It’s What’s for Dinner
Kate Ruppert
BEN, 34
BEN is breaking the fourth wall and just talking to no one in particular at the audience.—and with no particular motive. It could be because of the color red that reminded him of ketchup, or the Pharell hat that reminded him of the hipster waiter—who knows? . . . An aside, independent of the situation . . .
There are three thoughts going through BEN’s mind:
1.) I fucking hate having to cut my burger in half. The same goes for my any and all of sannys, but you didn’t ask about sannys, so that’s neither here nor there.
2.) I feel like the servers and/or chefs don’t really believe me when I say “rare” and they try to second-guess me by serving a medium damn hamburger.
C.) At this particular restaurant, and two times in a row, this chef—who was a friend of mine-ish and had chosen a particular bun for his burger and a sauce for its bun and the perfect onion slices for the perfectly manageably sized patty and all the stars having aligned—delivered to me a basically raw humble masterpiece because he understood me on a level that was clear . . . suddenly and somehow defining that burger as #1 in my up-until-that-very-moment unconscious ranking of burgers in my lifetime.
BEN They say it always happens when you least expect it. You find the one. And they’re right; that’s exactly how it happened.
If you think about it, we unknowingly rank and rate everything. We look for the best without actually making a pros-and-cons list, or pitting one against the other—it’s just an ongoing process of natural sussing out until we’ve arrived at a completely unconscious conclusion. Happens every day. Happened to me; I found the best one without looking for it, and without even knowing I wanted to find it, honestly. But when I saw it, I knew.
Okay, so backstory. I always order beef. I crave it pretty much all and every day. Allegedly, it’s because I have type O blood, and our people need red meat more than the others, but my craving is carnal. I cannot get enough. Usually, I’ll get a filet, but I wouldn’t do that at lunch, because I’m not an asshole. Anyway, I went to this place for an early lunch on a random Wednesday in a complete downpour with two people from the same walk of life who happened to be in town for different reasons. I ordered the burger. I actually almost lost my shit because it was listed last on the tiny menu, and once I read through the other seven items, I didn’t think they’d even have a burger. But, okay, so it was there, and I ordered it from our uber hipster waiter—who wasn’t really a hipster, he was too nice, but he was left-handed, which is another thing, I guess, that I unconsciously tabulate. . . . I get my shit “cooked” rare. And not just rare, but in the words of my friend Matt Adams, “just walk it through a warm room.” I’ll go into the burger itself in just a minute.
But first, cut to last night. In the middle of the day, something came up, and I needed to stay late at the office. And not because I had shit to do, but because I had to wait for someone else to take care of his shit, so I had to kill time. In the words of every successful airport business plan, the easiest way to kill time is to go to a bar. I needed my bar to serve food, though, and all I could think about was that burger, so I bribed a coworker with dinner. And, this was the catch: The chef at this particular restaurant is the brother of a girl I’ve slept with, and, maybe, am still dabbling in. He knows me, but not really, and as much as I wanted that fucking burger, I didn’t want him knowing I was there. Again. I told my coworker friend that it had to be a straight-up recon mission, like, Navy SEAL shit. We get in, and we get out. He cannot see me. I should mention the restaurant seats, maybe, forty people. Anyway, so we went. It was, easily, my seventh hamburger in as many days. And, I have to admit, that, when I ordered it, I ordered it as if the server had never had someone order a rare burger before. I wasn’t rude, but I kinda spoke slowly and raised my eyebrows, like, we’re on the same page, right? I feel bad; she was hot. Anyway. The burger comes to the table for the second time in less than five days, and my heart sped up, because I knew what I was in for. I’d not just been looking forward to it for the past four hours, but I’d been thinking about it since I had it the week before—which I’ve never done with a burger, I should have known my brain was working on something huge. When the plate landed on the table, it hit me so fast, I almost didn’t notice it: I realized I was engaged in a full-on hamburger-ranking contest that’d been going on for quite some time, and it all came to right here, right now, with this perfect hamburger, and immediately, this unconscious, natural sussing out flashed to the forefront of my mind like in a Jason Bourne movie where every moment of my life hurdles itself forward through the consciousness. Two thoughts beca—three thoughts—became clear: One: I hate having to cut my burger in half, which inevitably makes me feel like a pussy. I want to pick it up and consume the entire thing without worrying about getting it on my tie. Two: I guess I’ve constantly felt like the server and/or “chef” assumes I’ve misspoken, or like I don’t know what I really want in life, when I ask them to make it as rare as health code will allow, and I’ll be served a burger that
is too cooked, and you can’t unfire or unruin a piece of meat. Or C. And this was the catalyst for realizing ANY of these three things were even thoughts—the chef—no insult of air-quotes required—served me, for a second time in less than a week, a basically-raw beef patty in a seeming attempt to call my bluff. Well, challenge accepted, Genius, because, short of eating it out of a bowl with a spoon, that’s exactly the way I want it. And that’s when it all made sense. The burger was the size of one my dad used to throw on the grill, but it was definitely not something my dad would have taken off the grill. Bigger is not always better. This gem was more like oh-shit-I-can-just-pick-it-up-and-eat-it, but in an absolutely unattainable way for a civilian like myself. Like, it wasn’t some backyard BBQ burger, it was a fucking burger—you could tell by looking at it. The onions were slight, but not passive, and since they were there, I figured the chef had a reason, so I ate the fucking onions. And the lettuce on the bun was, not only fancy lettuce, but it was hand-snapped to fit perfectly without going over the sides of the bun—which is a pet peeve I also came to realize I had. Speaking of the bun. It was toasted, but not hard, so I could bite the fuck into it without thinking to myself, “this bun is pretty toasted,” instead of, “this hamburger is fucking insane.” You know?, it was approachable. Ain’t too many fourteen dollar burgers that are approachable, know what I mean? I could’ve had it on a date (with his sister or that hot server) and looked like a fucking champ, while still only needing one napkin—and it was a fucking cloth napkin, because it was also the classiest burger in this unconscious competition. I’m serious right now, even as I’m talking about it, I’m realizing even more shit that made it so perfect. And “made” in the past tense like I’ll never have it again . . . it’s like, an option all the time—do you know how happy that makes me? And, actually, you know what, I’m sorry, I can’t even talk about this anymore. I’m gonna do just that. I’ve gotta go see about a burger. . . .
Cloud Nine
Leah Mann
GERRY, 60s-80s
GERRY has just arrived in heaven. He’s wearing his hospital gown. He pats down his hair and tries to make himself more presentable.
GERRY [Looking around in awe.] Huh. Not too shabby. Fluffy clouds, blue sky, warm, breezy. And hey! No more pain.
[Does a little jig.]
Hot damn, look at that! No achy joints, no nausea, no needles in my arms! This heaven thing is pretty great. Course next to cancer, what isn’t? Talk about a low bar. Holy guacamole, that’s Pop Pop and Nana!
[Beat.]
I hope Mother’s not up here. That would have taken some deathbed repenting on her part.
[Beat.]
Hey . . . I wonder if Evelyn is here. I’ve been dreaming about that piece of cherry pie since my voice dropped. Oooh mama, there she is. Ask and ye shall receive. No mere earthly delights for me. Evelyn! It’s me! Gerry! Remember? Back from the old neighborhood. Wowza, don’t you look great? I just got here, new kid on the block so to speak. Maybe you can give me a tour, I can’t think of a better welcoming committee. God, you’re as gorgeous as I remember. Talk about an angel!
[Beat.]
God! Hello there, um, sir. Gerald Johnson here. Yes, sir. Didn’t mean to call you “sir.” Just an expression. Thank you, I’m delighted to be here. Yes, I will be more judicious summoning you in the future.
[Beat.]
Big man himself. That’s service! Gonna have to watch my language. Evelyn, honey, tell me about you. I read your obit a few years back. What a tragedy! You stay married to Bucky for forty years?! And of course you had that heart attack. I’m kidding around. I’m glad it was quick, though trust me—that’s the way to go.
[Beat.]
Me? I spent three years dying. Takes all the drama out of an exit. I said good-bye to my loved ones a dozen times before I finally did them the courtesy of kicking the bucket. The bills, the suffering, the bedsores . . . it was all very undignified.
[Beat.]
Not like you. You’re like a queen. So you just stand there looking beautiful and glowing with kindness and listen, because I’m gonna lay it out for you.
[Beat.]
Evelyn—I love you. I’ve loved you since the day I set eyes on you. I’ve been dreaming about you for years and now you’re here in the flesh and—well, now you’re here. Let me woo you. Let me shower you with the affection you deserve. I want to kiss every inch of you, worship every hair on your head, breathe every word you speak into my lungs to hold onto you forever. And I mean forever. This is it. This is eternity and I want it with you.
[Beat.]
I know you chose Bucky all those years ago and I respect that. I never understood it, the guy’s a chump and he never did treat you right, but that isn’t my business. We got a second chance and I’m not gonna pass it up. Don’t make the same mistake twice.
[Beat.]
Don’t say no. I’m not some pimply kid stealing cigarettes to impress you anymore—I’m a man who’s ready to fulfill you. I spent day after day, month after month, year after year with a good woman who never had my heart. I did my best to do right by her, but I have lived a shadow life. You, Evelyn, are my light, my vibrancy. You make my heart pound and my nerves ring out like delicately plucked lute strings. Let my death be the joyride my life never was. Ask me anything and I’ll shoot straight with you. My soul is yours, open for you to read. Let me love you. Let me lavish myself upon you. Ask the moon of me, and I’ll climb up from this cloud and drag it into heaven for you. Evelyn, you put me on cloud nine. What do you want? What is your greatest desire?
[Beat.]
Is that . . . is that Vinnie Pellegrino? That hotshot from the baseball team? Why’s he still so young? Car accident at twenty-four . . . ? Look at that head of hair! You could surf on those waves. Evelyn . . . honey . . . where you going? You’ve got to be kidding me . . . ! I love you! Jesus, he’s just a kid!
[Beat.]
Jesus. Hello sir, an honor. The whole family’s here, huh. Aw, it’s alright. I’m the chump who asked what her greatest desire was. Ask and ye shall receive.
Big Carl
Kelly Moll
SHAWN, 40
SHAWN and his son, Ethan, age 8, are in their garage packing supplies for Ethan’s first big camping trip with his Boy Scout troop. Ethan is nervous about the trip and spending the night in the woods. SHAWN tells his son the story of his first big camping trip to reassure him.
SHAWN I loved camping as a kid. When I was eight, I was invited to go along with my friend, Pat, and his dad on a camping trip to the Boundary Waters in Northern Minnesota. Pat’s uncles and some other manly dudes were also going. I was so excited. Pat and I were the kind of kids that made exploring the woods by my house our full-time job. We would make up elaborate scenarios about survival in the woods. We regularly acted out the Rambo movies and painted our faces with camo paint and then covered our bodies in mud and tried to blend into the trees. It was all incredibly sophisticated. We would lie in wait for the enemy, who was usually my sister and her shrill nitwit friends, and then jump out and pretend to slit their throats with our plastic machetes. Charming.
I was a spaz about the woods. I would run home from school and throw my shit on the kitchen table and immediately go into Rambo mode, strapping on my makeshift survival tool belt and homemade weapons—complete with plastic machine gun bullets. I would be nearly panting as I dashed out the door with my sights set on the rendezvous point. My mom was usually shouting after me about some bullshit regarding spelling homework and I would shriek back in my squeaky voice, “MOM! I gotta go now! The enemy is approaching!!” She usually let me go without further protest and eventually she even let me have a BB gun, which immediately became my prized possession. “Hey, the kid seems to be obsessed with war games, I think a real gun is in order.” She was a good woman my mother. She really understood me.
So this particular trip to the Boundary W
aters had me pissing myself with excitement. The pretend jungle warfare was going to be so epic! Pat and I spent afternoons before the trip plotting on maps and crafting combat strategies. When we arrived at the campsite, four of Pat’s uncles were standing around the fire drinking beer and comparing who could crush their cans with more brute force. There was quite the alpha male hierarchy going on and the head dog was Pat’s oldest uncle named Carl. Carl was busy peacocking around the campsite, his magnificent beer gut glistening with a sheen of bug spray and sweat swelling over his belt. He loved barking orders at his younger brothers and delighted in calling them names like “numb nuts” and “dick bag.” I decided to steer clear of Big Carl, and quietly went about unpacking all of the sweet supplies and weaponry I had brought along. I’m pretty sure I didn’t bring a toothbrush, but by God I had a pretend snare trap made out of string and duct tape, among other essentials. In the center of the spread, I carefully laid out my shiny BB gun and stood back to admire my lot. Carl, who had been orchestrating an elaborate plan for roasting hot dogs, honed in on me then and lumbered over to inspect my stuff. He snorted and sneered as he called his brothers over, “Check this kid out! He’s gonna protect us all from the big bad wolf!” Had I known better expletives back then I would have told him to “fuck off,” but instead I offered a stern “shut up.” It seemed to do the trick for the moment.
I strapped my BB gun over my shoulder to help elevate my standing in the pack of sweaty hounds and tried to broaden my shoulders as I came up to stand at the fire. Carl was cooking something in a cast-iron skillet, and he shoved it in front of me and Pat while trying to stifle a cross between a soggy belch and a belly laugh and he says, “You guys ever eaten a horse cock before?” The uncles nearly fell to pieces howling at Carl’s hilarity. “Come on, you guys are tough, you gotta take a bite of this horse cock!” Okay, looking back, I clearly know that the member in the fry pan was some type of kielbasa, but at the time, it was all pretty upsetting. Pat and I exchanged nervous looks and his dad calling us over to the other side of the campsite saved us. He had set up some targets for us to shoot at. Now we’re talking. So I set up shop behind the line he had marked off, and Pat and I took turns aiming at the target and pretending that we were avoiding enemy fire. All of a sudden we hear a squeal followed by the greatest string of swear words my eight-year-old ears had ever heard: “What the motherfucker, son of a bitch, whore’s mother, ballsucker, shit, ass shit, fuck me, GODDAMMIT!” The realization, filled with both fear and victory, washed over me in slow motion. Big Carl had wandered off to take a piss and, in his inebriated wisdom, had decided to take care of business by the tree behind our target. My beautiful prized stallion of a BB gun had landed a bullet right in Big Carl’s upper ass cheek—really more of his lower back—but with his bacony build, it was hard to tell.
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