Scene: Chip’s room.


Chip: Would you like a drink? I have some Korker Koola.

Snip: Don’t you mean Coca Cola?

Chip: If I’d meant Coca Cola I’d have said Coca Cola. I mean Korker Koola.

Snip: OK, I’ll have some. I’m a little peckish. Do you have any banoonas?

Chip: Don’t you mean bananas?

Snip: If I’d meant bananas I’d have said bananas. I meant banoonas.

Chip: What’s a banoona when it’s at home?

Snip: Banoonas don’t have homes.

[Jean-Paul Sartre emerges from the closet, wearing a fedora and a long gray raincoat.]

Sartre:  C’est vrai;  banoonas have no homes;  and neither do we;  for we have no center, no definitive identity, and therefore no essentially appropriate or self-confirming location in the universe.  Arguably our only persistent “residence” is in language alone, though that would have to be conceived as a mobile domicile, a car that constantly needs new pneus.

[Sartre returns into closet and shuts the closet door.]

Snip: Who was that?

Chip: What day is it?

Snip: Saturday.

Chip: I think you must mean Sartreday. It was Jean Paul Sartre. It’s his day.

Snip: Oh. That’s almost interesting. Shall we watch “Throne of Games”?

Chip: No. I hate game shows.

[Jean-Paul Sartre emerges from the closet, wearing a tutu and a look of weary resignation.]

Sartre:  Il faut jouer jusqu’au fin.

[Sartre moves rhythmically to the front door.]

Chip:  Where are you off to, Jean-Paul?

Sartre:  My ballet class.  Au revoir.    [Exit Sartre]

Snip:  He didn’t look too excited about ballet.

Chip:  He prefers jitterbug — or jeeterbague, as he calls it — but there’s no jitterbug class in the area.

Snip:  Ah.  What if today were Friday, who would be in your closet?

[Chip’s cell phone sounds.]

Chip: Hello?  …    Siggy?!  Where were you yesterday? …. {A pause; Chip listening.} ….. Oh, right. Yeah. OK. I’ll see you next week. Bye.

Snip: Was that who I think it was?

Chip: Who do you think it was?

Snip: Sigmund Freud.

Chip: Are you mad? What would Sigmund Freud be doing calling me?

Snip: Well, I just thought…. you know…. Freud, Freuday, Friday……

Chip: Oh no…. it doesn’t work like that. Fridays my cleaning lady Miranda del Castañar comes around, and she needs to get in the closet for all the cleaning stuff. And she wouldn’t  like anyone to be in there. It would upset her. She’s very easily upset. You should’ve been here the week she changed her schedule at the last minute and turned up without warning at 8 o’clock on Weddingsday. I don’t know who got the biggest fright, her or…

[He is interrupted once more by the cell phone]

Chip:  Hello?  Miranda?  Yes, I missed you yesterday.  Oh — your daughter’s birthday?  I see.  Quite all right.  But — today?  I don’t know, Miranda — you might have to deal with the French philosopher.  Jean-Paul, remember?  …   I know, I know.  Being, nothingness — the question is, who will launder the sheets?  …  How about this:  come over now, and I’ll get Merleau-Ponty to keep Jean-Paul at the bistro till at least six o’clock.  Si?  Bueno!

[A loud rapping on the front door.  Snip opens it.  The visitor is Eugene Ionesco.]

Ionesco:  Bonjour.  I felt in the mood for some Korker Koola.

Snip: This isn’t a café or a shop. Go away.

[Ionesco leaves, muttering to himself….. only the words “dreams” and “anguish” can be distinguished.]

Chip: Who was that?

Snip: Don’t know. Don’t care. Ever since that chap came out of the closet I’ve felt life slipping away from me. I don’t know what it means any more. I think I’ll go home.

Chip: OK. Au revoir. Remember: there is only one day left, and it’s always starting over. It’s given to us at dawn and taken away at dusk. But having said that, I hope to see you for our usual board game night on Monopolyday.





© Mark Halliday & Martin Stannard, 2015
Illustration Nick Victor






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