Alfredo Nightmare


The air is suffused with sex and romance. A woman in an apron pulls a baking sheet of marzipan from the oven and sets in on the counter to cool. I wrote this last weekend, but am for some dumb reason ([internet] problems at home) only posting it now.

WOMAN: I’ve got to sing this song for you. It’s Broadway Sexy Times for you.

[Buoyant string music accompanies her lilting speech.]

WOMAN: I’m buttered bread in love with you. I’m cartoon birds and bodies, too. I’m lapping at the shores of you. Let’s dance, let’s kiss, we’ll “rob the moon.”

[A CHORUS OF HIPSTERS enters from both sides of the stage, arranging themselves around and behind the WOMAN.]

CHORUS: We’ll wrap our tattooed arms round you.  Now your whole world is hugs

WOMAN: Ah! What comfort that might be, to kiss the face of the bumble-bee

CHORUS: I’ll call the very next day. I’ll rub lotions into your thighs! “Miscellaneous lotions” [The woman tries to eat a piece of the marzipan. It’s still too hot.]

WOMAN: I’ll lean over you as I turn off the beside lamp. My breast brushes against yours.

CHORUS: A synonym for ecstasy: Your breast against mine in extinguishing light!

WOMAN: We’ve adopted a dog together!

CHORUS: We’ve adopted a dog together!

WOMAN: We’ve adopted a dog together!

ALL: We’ve adopted a dog together!

WOMAN: When I strut down the street, you’re imagining me, running my errands in ecstasy!

CHORUS: In three short texts we’ve arranged to meet, later that night——at MoMA!

ALL: The cinema!

WOMAN: The cinema!

ALL: The cinema!

WOMAN: The cinema! [She takes a deep breath, trying to control herself.] Lunch! Who eats lunch!

CHORUS: You want lunch?

WOMAN: Who eats lunch?

CHORUS: Bitter herbs

WOMAN: This is my life! My heart, my face! Closets, my Mac! [Everyone feels bad for “the playwright”, as well as for the actors. The moment passes. Thirty-six people think, “Whatever.”] I’ll flirt with your friends and I’ll call you in tears. I’ll poison the air as you pound three quick beers!

ALL: Love! Spain! Europe! Rain!

[A critic enters. He begins singing but is tackled by the CHORUS. They roughly gag him with a white servillette.]

WOMAN: [near-wailing] Shut him up! Keep this fucking kitchen warm! And Wash My Oily Thongs!

CHORUS: The oily thong, the oily thong! Who will wash the oily thong?

[A single chorusmember steps forward for his big solo]


I wore boxers for years
After decades of briefs.
Now I’m fit as can be——
I work as an art handler.
Got a job upstate.
I only wear my oily thong.
To parties, on boats,
and at the café;
“Work parties.”

CHORUS: [Mournfully]

Alfredo on the floor
of the kitchen.
And Sauce under the doorjambzzz