Experimentation with diaologue. Brief scene setting precedes it. Essentially a monoluge which is hopefully interesting and gives a sense of character.
Andy’s cafe. A green fronted place with reasonably priced grub. Mick Wolowitz sits at a table in the corner of the room across from his friend Paul. Paul seems disengaged, Mick doesn’t care they’ve hardly made eye contact since they sat down. Eyes dart; food to paper to window to tea to food to paper to window to tea. Mick talks as if no one’s listening.
“It’s like everyone’s got somewhere to be. All these people gotta place to go and they ain’t gonna let shit get in their way. I doubt they’ve ever left the house without a destination. And it may sound foolish, walking round with nowhere to go, but how will you ever get to know this town, ever get to know the people if you don’t lift your head amongst them. I mean when was the last time you took a walk and made eye contact with someone, intentionally, and smiled or nodded or, god forbid, said hello. We’re so fucking afraid of each other; it just doesn’t happen. Everyone needs purpose in their life to feel safe ergo everyone has a destination. I bet the closest you come to a brief human connection in your daily movement is when you pretend to be looking at the road behind you so you can stare at that girl’s ass. It’s fucking pathetic and I’m no better, I’m just as much a zombie as the rest of us; I only ever smile back never to y’know? Unless I really think about it, unless I’m in “just got laid” kinda mood, it don’t happen. You know why it don’t happen? Cause I know people won’t understand, I know they’ll look away, kick at their heels, spit venom at me through their pupils and get the hell away. Ironic that I walk around pissed off most the time refusing to make contact with people because they walk around doing the same.
There are only two instances in which you open up to a stranger, that’s when a situation requires it...
You’re at work, you need to get the new Ralph Lauren sweaters in the window for winter, but Janine has already filled the men’s wear window with the new Hugo Boss selection. So you gotta go talk to this girl Janine and find out what you’re gonna do about the window before your bitter, fifty year old, I’m still young “Just call me Al” boss; Alan, gets wind of the problem and sticks it up both of ya. So you talk to Janine, you try to connect with her and you solve the problem for your mutual benefit. But even then it’s not a real connection. It’s just an awkward social contract; where every word you speak might as well be a turd coming out of your mouth. And although you’re smiling and pretending to listen you’re thinking only two things “why the fuck do all lines of men’s clothing have some douche bags name on them?” and “this bitch’s face really isn’t all that, but if she pulled me aside and tried it on I wouldn’t say no.” One thought of bored curiosity and one of base sexual desire. The tragedy of this little altercation is that this is the closest thing you’ve had to a human connection all day long.
...or when the social conditions expect it.
You’re at this club that sits between the burned down amusement arcade and the alley where that girl got raped. Every five minutes you’re dashing outside for a fag cause this place is a real shit hole. You look at your watch and back inside at your buddy Paul. The sad lonely expression on his face draws you back inside hook, line and sinker. The cigarette breaks become less and less, the pints consumed become more and more. Before you know it you’re talking to this girl who you met when you accidently went into the wrong bathroom. You’re trying to pick your words carefully cause this chick’s getting hotter by the drink. But really there’s only two thoughts in your head; “What do I say to get this girl to fuck me?” and “what douche bags name do I have on my underwear?”. This closest you come to a human connection aside from Janine is Chelsea. The girl who let you stick it in it on the lime scale tiled floor of the club bathroom. Where you pulled so hard against the floor to get yourself off you had tile grout stuck under your finger nails for a week. Dirty finger nails and a lump on your head from where you head butted the toilet seat; the closest you’ve come to a human encounter in months.
Yeah ... no one just stops anymore, tries to take it in, tries to strike up a conversation on the bus, it just doesn’t happen. You wanna here the most hilarious part? I don’t even know if that human connection bullshit I’ve been banging on about is even real. I’ve never felt it and I can blame society, I can blame people all I want. But truly I have no clue what it is, if it even is at all. Just an idea I liked I guess. Came up with it one morning a year ago after I got fired at work, I walked out, nowhere to go and jack all tod o. So I just sat down and looked around for a while.
But don’t get me wrong, I ain’t complaining, I’m just telling it how I see it. I’m sixty two. I have the same conversation with my wife Janine every day. “Good Morning...No thanks I’m trying to quit...coffee for me please...probably seeing Paul later...no don’t change the fucking channel I’m watching this...” Same conversation every morning, same lazy wank mid –afternoon, in between just scratching the lump on my head and watching TV. Most days are the same. Well what do you expect? I ain’t got anywhere to be have I?”
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