One-act

F.'s evening seemed to involve jumping from one setting for a one-act play to another. They all involved a few characters in sparesely furnished surroundings waiting. (As indeed all Western drama since the 50's has been just that: waiting for something; conflict leading to change. In this case (our case, one would imagine) the conflict is plain human impatience, and change may or may not come. Dramatic turns are little vignettes and resolutions are point of low energy. I generalize, but this is a neccessary evil if we are to talk of anything.) F's first place of dramatic importance was the little middle eastern food shop. His food was too spicy and he complained to himself about the spice's unpleasant effects on the sores juts inside his mouth. He saw a poster on the wall: it was the Buddha's birthday. That gave him pause and made him feel slightly ashamed. He decided to order another spicy shawarma and finish it. He walked on after he had finished and eventually reached his second destination: a metal fence in front of a cocenert hall. He leaned against this one, soliloquizing to himself (and to the sparse audience, of course). The only other character here is the savvy scalper who hit him up several times, trying to squereze a profit from him. F. wondered what mde him so forgettable. This act lasts for another twenty minutes. The lighting cues are off, but the transition from red to intense filter light in the only thing keeping the audience's attention at this point. Eventually, F.'s friend arrives and they enter the hall to listen to sea shanties and forget their troubles. They emerge, and in a postscript to the act heatedly discuss musical instruments: lutes, marimbas, accordions, wind chimes and what arrangements lend or do not lend themselves to those particular timbres. Exeunt. We find them in front of a brick wall in a garbage-strewn back alley, pretending to be intoxicated. They watch fireworks and toast their imaginary booze to the Buddha's birthday. They encounter a vagrant who gives the required nonsensical soliloquy, ellipsis and all, and moves on. In more dramatic turns, childhood friends come and go, actually intoxicated, singing patriotic songs. F. gets the last word, wondering if he can ever make the bricks of the alley shine with an inner light. The evening peters out.