CAROL: [Batting her eyelashes] Oh, hi, Alonzo.
ALONZO: Hey Carol.
CAROL: Well? [Slaps a hand on her hip, “I’m a Little Teapot”–style]
CAROL: Hmmmm? [Sticks her tongue in her cheek; waggles eyebrows.]
ALONZO: Yes? [Feels waves of self-loathing wash over him. Imagines himself a tiny, wheelchair-bound, world-champion-level handicapped surfer, riding his custom longboard across a tsunami of self-indulgence and self-loathing and apathy and stress. A throng of family and friends stands on the beach, roaring their approval. Alonzo the tiny handicap surfer does not acknowledge their presence. His custom Speedos, emblazoned with the logo of his sponsor, the US Postal Service, bulge with authority. Alonzo has no genitals; his speedos are stuffed with USPS-issue beanbags.]
CAROL: Have you eaten?
ALONZO: All I do is eat. I have never not eaten. Hunger is as foreign to me as…. actual problems. I want to help you.
CAROL: You can help me by just relaxing, Alonzo! Nothing is that bad — not even this perceived lack of bad things that you feel is bad. You’re fine! Buy me a chicken Caesar salad, and FedEx your neuroses to Krakatoa
ALONZO: This is nice. Us. This. The breeze.
CAROL: Alonzo, the breeze died forty years ago. Is this some kind of sick joke????
ALONZO: Oh, my god, then that little girl we picked up at the bus depot…
ALONZO AND CAROL: [in unison]: … was a ghost!!!!!
[Enter RUFUS, MY NEW DOG. He wears an adorable little Bolo tie, and farts without shame. Finds half a roast-beef sandwich in the trash (CAROL couldn’t finish it; ALONZO pretending to be vegetarian) and swallows it in three bites, without chewing.]
RUFUS, MY NEW DOG: Hey what are you guys doing [farts]
CAROL: We’re going to go get lunch, and then see The Knickerbocker’s Robes
RUFUS: Is that a play or what
CAROL: Yes. It’s at the Mechanical Institute. It’s about shame, and agribusiness. It’s loosely based on one of these recent books about politics and food
RUFUS: [Drenched in sarcasm] Hey, that sounds fantastic. I wish one of you was legally blind, so I would be allowed into the theater as a seeing-eye dog. Shame that you’re both still sighted, and that I’ll have to stay home, downloading dog-porn on your laptop
CAROL: Rooooo-fuss, you know I don’t like you using my laptop!!!
ALONZO: Rufus, just use my laptop.
RUFUS: Your laptop bums me out. Whenever I open it, there’s always a craigslist ad on there, something you’ve posted, it makes me too sorry for you, I can’t handle it
ALONZO: Surely I don’t know what you’re–
CAROL: What did it say?
ALONZO: [To Carol] You’re listening to the dog now? It doesn’t say anything. He’s clearly going on craigslist trolling for lonely bitches in Dublin or Pleasanton, and he’s just saying this to get a rise–
RUFUS: Really? I don’t think I’d be that interested in “young multiethnic gay pioneers interested in smearing gooseberry jam across the pages of a high-school civics textbook while we flog each other with whole, deboned flounder…”
[The band, who have been standing in darkness until now stage left, begin jamming quietly. Throughout the entire preceding scene, however, their mics and guitars have been live — so occasionally, as the players naturally shift, cough softly, etc, there are little skronks and muffled amplified sounds. This first instrumental should be played softly — I’m thinking the earlier, mellower Yo La Tengo stuff?]