no country for two sides of an internal monologue
no country for two sides of an internal monologue
a play-like thing by rishi mahesh
An old man sits inside the saloon, nursing a glass of milk. It’s rancid, three days old, but he nurses it anyway, because he likes the chunks. They give him something to chew on. He’s trying to get off of chewing tobacco, which he hears is bad for your teeth and such. So chunks it is. The other reason he likes to chew these little chunks of curdled milk is because it upsets his stomach, as it should, given that his digestive system loves him, and looks out for his well being. The upsetting of his stomach distracts him from how he feels inside: not that good these days.
Before drinking the spoiled milk, he already wanted to retch. He was already immobile, lacking appetite, due to matters in his personal life. But now, due to the milk, if someone asked him why he had that uncomfortable look on his face, he could answer in his gritty Southern drawl: “Woke up on the wrong side of a bad glass of milk. If you’re not careful, you might join me.” To which people usually reply that they have a refrigerator and regularly check the expiration dates of their perishable items and such.
A younger man bursts through the doors of the saloon, and draws a gun on the older man.
“Put down the damn milk,” the younger man sneers. The older man looks up at the barrel of his gun, unfazed. “Why don’t you pull the trigger on that iron vibrator and make me?”
The younger man pulls the trigger, and shoots the mug of expired milk. The chunks plop onto the floor with a resounding, “plop.” The old man stands up, unharmed, because if he had been harmed, the story would be too short. He snarls, “What’d you go and do that for?” Now I will switch to playwriting format:
YOUNG MAN: You been sitting in this damn saloon for three months now, insisting on drinking that damn curdled milk every day. No one else done used that damn bathroom in three months now because it’s become so damn wretched with your refuse. These people, these lovely small business owners are too damn nice to turn you away, but they’re losing business now! They gotta sell this damn place because ain’t nobody wanna visit a damn saloon where they can’t use no damn bathroom! This the only damn establishment with indoor damn plumbing this side of the Pacific damn Ocean.
OLD MAN: Don’t you understand! I’m hurtin’! You think I wanna be drinking this damn three day old milk?
He picks the chunk of solid milk off the ground and starts chewing on it.
OLD MAN: We all need our vices!
The young man walks up to the old man, opens his mouth, puts his arm in, and grabs the chunks of milk before he can swallow. He throws them back on the ground.
YOUNG MAN: I’m not letting your damn sorrows cost these damn fine citizens any more damn profits!
OLD MAN: I’m a paying customer! Just because I only pay once every three days, because that’s the period of time it takes the milk to curdle how I like it before drinking, and the other two days I’m mainly posted up, expelling and crying in their bathroom and such, that doesn’t mean they don’t think of me as part of the family!
He gestures to the couple behind the counter, who each give a noncommittal shrug and a bit of a whimper. The young man grabs him by the collar.
YOUNG MAN: This damn couple struggles with confrontation. That’s why I’m here. Their damn sweet hearts done beat hard for yours, as does mine, nobody wants to see you struggling. But damn, old man. Can’t damn see you waste away no more. Not that many vitamins in a damn cup of curdled milk these days. What with the regulations and all.
The old man grabs the gun out of the young man’s hand and turns it on him. The young man backs away.
OLD MAN: Now listen here. I don’t need nobody’s pity.
YOUNG MAN: Then why you asking for it, with your actions and such.
OLD MAN: I wish to be witnessed in my grief, not indulged, but not prevented. I want the space to drink my milk, no questions asked, and the courtesy to be exempt from offering my congratulations to anyone about anything during my period of sorrow. If my presence here be an inconvenience to the establishment, well that’s just fine, I’ll be on my way. But nobody gets to tell me how to deal with the demons- especially not those of my digestive track.
YOUNG MAN: You used to be the best damn Sharif this town had ever seen. No other Sharif could damn compare. A fellow I grew up with changed his damn name from Sharif to Ahmed because he didn’t wanna damn compete with you.
SHARIF (the same old man but now he has a name): Now that just ain’t necessary. Sharif is a fine name, no matter who else got it. He should be grateful for what he has-
YOUNG MAN: Now ain’t that damn sweet. When it comes to the damn plights of others you got nothing but damn sweet symphonies, yet when the plight comes damn home you bury your damn face in a glass of curdled damn milk.
SHARIF: Bet you think that’s an astute observation- like the battle between the objective and subjective in the unforgiving cage match of the human spirit isn’t constantly in a deadlock tie. The head and the heart are two beasts in the ring, one’s got big punches and the other a swift kick. Don’t you pretend you know who’s always gotta win the fight. Wager that bet the same way every hour of the evening and you’ll be outta chips by the time the sun sets.
YOUNG MAN: What would you tell that damn young man who cast his damn name away, if you saw him in a damn bar burying his damn history at the bottom of a damn curdled glass of milk?
SHARIF: I’d say you do what you gotta do to honor your sadness. They might tell you that someday you’re gonna pick yourself up and walk around town proud to be lacking indigestion, but ain’t no use that’s gonna do you right now. Right now, all you gots that glass of milk. All you got is a pit in your stomach, and it’s gotta be fed, and whatever you gotta do to feed it, you do now. I understand, I got that pit too, but I got years on my side. I know how to feed it better than I used to. I don’t give it a glass of whisky or a pinch of oregano no more. Now I let my brunch bubble with a sick and twisted glass of milk. You want my young friend to take a walk outside and smell the roses, and I concede that might be possible some day. But sometimes, a sadness is sacred. Sometimes you gotta honor it, not shove it away. Sometimes, the sight of a day that the sadness leaves you is worse to consider than the feeling itself. The smell of those roses might be your vice, as forced lactose intolerance is mine.
The young man walks closer to the old man, who cocks the gun. He approaches until it’s sticking him in the chest. He then bends down, picks up a chunk of milk off the floor, and chews on it.
YOUNG MAN: Not as bad as I damn thought. I’ll leave you to the damn rest.
He turns around, and begins to walk out of the saloon.
SHARIF: Won’t you be needing your gun?
YOUNG MAN: No I do not. Gives me damn intrusive thoughts, if I’m being damn honest.
SHARIF: Well we wanna avoid those, now don’t we. Much worse than a glass of curdled milk.
YOUNG MAN: Much worse.
The young man walks out the door. The old man watches him leave, then takes out a briefcase, and sets it on the table. He nods towards the owners of the saloon, and begins to walk out. Standing in the doorway, he looks at an engraving on the gun. It reads: “ Property of Sharif Ahmed.”
He throws the gun in the trash can. He doesn’t need the intrusive thoughts, and the gesture is more important to him than disposing of the gun in a safe and responsible manner. Do not dispose of your guns like Sharif did. He nods one more time to the owners of the saloon, and carries on his way.
The couple who own the saloon let out a huge sigh of relief. One of them hustles to the saloon door and locks it.
AUNTIE ANNE: I’ve been telling you for years that saloons are out- all sorts of riff raff coming on by. We gotta become a wine bar.
UNCLE ANNE: I know you’re right, I’ve been microwaving the damn grape juice reserves, what else do you want from me!
Uncle Anne takes out a mop and starts cleaning up the curdled milk on the ground.
AUNTIE ANNE: What’s in that there suitcase he left?
UNCLE ANNE: Don’t know. Should we call the local Sharif to open it?
AUNTIE ANNE: Both Sharifs were just in here!
Uncle Anne opens the suitcase. Inside is 5 trillion dollars in quarters.
UNCLE ANNE: I can’t believe what my eyes are seeing! Looks to me, the California State fair gumball guessing champion, like we got about 5 trillion dollars in quarters in this here briefcase!
AUNTIE ANNE: Are you kidding me! He left enough to pay off the other ⅔ of his bar tab, and all the repairs to our bathroom.
UNCLE ANNE: And after all that, we still have about 2 trillion dollars to fund our dream! We don’t need to be a saloon, or a wine bar!
AUNTIE ANNE: That’s damn right! We can follow our dreams now! To start a bank that can provide capital to tech startups right here in Sharif Valley.
UNCLE ANNE: We’ll call it the Sharif Valley Bank, and nothing bad will ever happen to it, especially not 300 years later in the year 2023. That’s right, it’s been 1723 this whole time.
AUNTIE ANNE: I won’t think about that too hard, Uncle Anne.
Uncle Anne and Auntie Anne embrace, and start banging it out right on the table, amongst the curdled milk and 5 trillion dollars in quarters.