I typed up this monologue earlier today after remembering the inspiration a friend gave me a while ago, and I finally got the motivated creativity I need to haphazardly type this out on my laptop. There's not much to say about it, other than I have no plans to expand this into a full theatrical work (i.e., a play), but I'd still like to share it. In the original document there aren't any paragraphs, as it's meant to be read in script-style, but to prevent eye soreness I expanded it into a few paragraphs where I could manage.
[b]Father:[/b] Fuck. I’ve been standing here for the past twelve minutes like some kind of cripple whose wheelchair is stuck in the lock-position, jaw slacked and arms dangling at his sides helplessly. I’ve been standing here for the past twelve minutes, like I’m not completely sure where I am and I’ve forgotten entirely why I’m holding this quart of 1% percent milk and a bag of Skittles. I’ve been standing here for the past twelve minutes, looking at my son standing by the register, completely unaware that his father is staring right at him. My son, with his short blonde hair that he got from his bitch mother, his face pockmarked with acne scars from his pubescent years, standing fifteen feet from me, picking his nose while waiting for this run-down convenience store to close down for the night so he can go home and do whatever the hell it is kids do nowadays.
Fuck. I haven’t seen him in almost eighteen years. I think it’s his birthday tomorrow. My son is turning eighteen, and I won’t be there to give him his first cigarette. Hell, he probably already had his first cigarette. My son turned seventeen last year and I wasn’t there to tell him that seventeen is a bitch. My son turned sixteen the year before last and I wasn’t there to give him the keys to that damn Firebird after spending the six months before that trying to get that rust bucket to run. My son turned fifteen three years ago and I wasn’t there to teach him how to drive. His mom probably did. She was always an awful driver. God dammit, I’ve been here for fifteen minutes. They’re going to close soon. He’s just standing there, waiting for me, like Saint fucking Peter at the Pearly Gates.
Wait. He looked up at me. Does he know? No, he can’t know. Even if he did, he wouldn’t say anything to me. Not here, in this convenience store. Christ, I’ve got to do something. It’s eleven o’ clock. Well, let’s get this over with. I walk up to the counter, staring at the kid across from me whose scanning my quart of milk and my bag of skittles. I grab a pack of cigarettes off the shelf. Who the hell am I buying these for? I put them back. The kid looks at me. It feels like a train just crashed through the rotting walls of this crummy place and slammed into me like God’s fist.
He asks me if I’d like plastic or paper. I tell him paper. Might as well save the earth while my world falls apart. Wait, what the hell am I thinking? I should just carry them myself. I wasn’t there to give this kid a childhood, and now he’s bagging my groceries. For Christ’s sake, what kind of father am I? Wait. Why am I suddenly feeling compassion for this kid? I hardly know him. Maybe that’s why.
Debit or credit he asks. I pull out my coffee-stained wallet and pull out a grimy ten dollar bill. Where has this dollar bill been, I wonder. Where has this kid been? Has he had any opportunities to live the life he wants to? What kind of crazy stories from his misadventures with his friends does he have to tell his old man? Does he have a girlfriend? Christ, I hope he doesn’t make the same mistake I did. I hope he at least got his honor from his mom’s side of the family.
The kid asks me if I’m “collecting store points this evening, sir.” Now he’s calling me sir. No, I tell him sternly, like an owner talking down to a dog. Jesus. He doesn’t look as much like his mother as I thought he would. I wonder how she is. I haven’t seen her in so long. It’s not like we’d have much to talk about, except for this six-foot tall kid in front of me I co-created like some kind of indie film I forgot about nine months later. Is she married? Does she have more kids? Do they look like her? Do they look like him? Fuck, he’s almost done. Let’s just get out of here.
I take my receipt and start to walk away. He stops me, asking about some donation for some stupid local organization to help the homeless. The homeless are probably better off than me right now. I interrupt him, say sure dismissively, and give him twenty dollars. He thanks me, and shakes my hand. He’s got a firm grip. At least he got that from me. Well, now if he ever finds out he can’t say I never gave him anything.
I start walking out of the store, and I look down at my receipt. In pen across the signature line it says “Thanks, dad.”
could I use this?
no promises, but this is pretty awesome, it would go great in an actual screenplay.
[QUOTE=Potanis;33744559]could I use this?
no promises, but this is pretty awesome, it would go great in an actual screenplay.[/QUOTE]
While I appreciate the offer, a few friends and I were thinking about making a short film based on this. If things don't work out, though, I'll let you know.
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