Anything

Door: I must believe something of some sort of substance can be produced soon.

Chair: Yes. Well, I certainly hope so anyway. It must be or else all is lost, and the depression will never lift. And an unlifted depression... unlifted is not a word, is it? Well, isn't that a shame? Oh I guess it is not at all a shame... what is the point of mentioning the fact of its not being a word, however. I quit.

Door: Don't quit, please. I love you and I want the best for you. We have funny names, you know that?

Chair: I know not what you're saying.

Door: Well, my name is Door. Your name is Chair. Most odd. This is a pleasant house, is it not? We speak quite.... strangely. Ah yes. Yes we do. Quite. I love you, I hope you're certain of my word.

Chair: I hope someone else will come in this house soon.

Door: They sometimes do. I believe I saw Chest earlier. I believe he has become an alcoholic of sorts. Not that he actually drinks alcohol, that's why I said of sorts. I hope I'm not boring you.

Chair: Of course you are, but please don't worry about it. I wish to be God.

Door: Beautiful. Enter Hair.

(Hair enters.)

Hair: Greetings and saluatations. Well, I think I might be pregnant. I'll lose the baby no doubt, but I'm still excited. Interesting thing I open in a production of Camelot tomorrow night as Guenevere- I have not attended a single rehearsal nor have I read the script. I am thinking this might be a little embarrassing for me tomorrow night. I'm not sure what to do. I suppose I can just pray to God and hope He loves me as much as my Sunday school teachers told me He did. I am famished. No wonder I only weigh 60 pounds.

Door: Most strange. I have always thought you were morbidly obese. But, congratulations of the soon-to-be dead baby and the certain embarrassment you'll face tomorrow night. I love you, Hair. Please come to me and tell me you think I'm sexy.

Hair: My husband refuses to sleep with me anymore. I think he's gay or a bisexual or he's just impotent because he's not the father of the child. Let's play a little guessing game. Who is the father of my child.

Chair: By your even asking that question I want to slit my wrists. More morbid humor, thank you.

Hair: Oh, Door, I am trying to read a book. I don't read. I can't even spell my own name. I don't even know what my name is. I'm very New Age in that way. You know, I don't know where I am, who I am, what gender I am, who my parents are, who my friends are, or what is true or false. All that mumbo-jumbo and you know the list goes on because there is no such thing as a complete list, my darling. I'm going to put you to bed, Chair. Come along, baby.

Chair: Very well. You better sing to me from Pacific Overtures though.

Hair: Very well. I'll sing you "Someone in a Tree"

Chair: Only if you want to die. Sing to me "Send in the Clowns"

Hair: That's not from Pacific Overtures, you brat.

Chair: Sure it is. Now blow me and let's get up there and this song better be beautiful.

Hair: Very well. Door, I think you were a mistake and I'll be back soon.

Door: I love you, Hair.

Hair:  Blow me, Love.

(Hair and Chair exit. Door is left alone on the stage. Not for long, of course. Enter Frieda, a deformed woman although she has no visible deformity. Emotional deformity? Why not? Do whatever you want. I just wrote this nonsense.)

Frieda: I am deformed. I am in mourning for my life.

Door: I see. Well, sit down and I'll get you a sandwich then you'll feel a little better.

Frieda: Mourning, Door. Mourning. I'm clincally depressed. Very clinically depressed. I must be. There is no other answer. Where's your balcony? First though, yes, the sandwich.

Door: Roast beef fine?

Frieda: Oh, not roast beef. Now my mourning has become a bit greater.

Door: Pastrami then?

Frieda: Sure. Let's give it a try I cannot become any more despairful. Despairful isn't a word so now I have become full of more hopelessness. (Cries)

Door: Oh, don't cry. You're..... ummm.... I'll be back with your sandwich.

(Door exits. Hand enters.)

Hand: Hello, Frieda, you deformed porpoise. I'm not sure about you but I am sick of absurdist plays. I went to see a piece by a guy named Eric Burson today. What a hack. This guy.... he has no original ideas so he writes perfect nonsense. Random character after random character exits and enters, and they have these silly names, and they say inane things, and none of them are saying anything or doing anything. They're just kinda walking in and out, and none of them are really there.... they represent or symbvolize something, but what? Say for instance that my name was Hand...

Frieda: Your name is Hand.

Hand: How absurd but you're correct. I am.... well, then I must be depressed. I'll be a real eeyore of a character now. Have you realized none of his characters are happy or fulfilled and they all whine, whine, whine. Whine, man. Whine. Which, by the way, I would like some wine. Do you have any?

Frieda: I don't live here.

Hand: Who lives here anyway? It is a lovely place.

Frieda: I'm far too much into my mourning to dignify your silly question with so much as a smart alecky answer.

Hand: Oh, boy. Oh, boy. I should leave but I'm here and I'm not gonig to leave because listen to this.... my wife loved the play and said if I cannot appreciate the sort of art she enjoys I must leave and never come back. So, 50 years of marraige and 9 hateful, ungrateful kids and she says I better pack, pal. Pack. I hate her but I would like to be with someone..... even... well, not you, I'm in moruning too I don't need to be around a mournful person. Where is everyone?

Frieda: Oh killing themselves or pretending to be alive

Hand: Oh, beautiful. Just beautiful. I'm going to sit down now. I'll sit. (He does not sit.) Why am I not sitting? I said I was gonig to sit but I have not sat. I have problems. Well, let's think back to my childhood now.... what happened in my childhood that would cause me to say I'm gonig to sit and yet I would not sit. Well, this is a waste of good time where I could be kissing a woman. Frieda, let's kiss. I have nothing to lose and you're as good as it's going to get so let's go right now.

Frieda: I must go barf but I will return. Well, no, I won't.

(Frieda runs off exiting, and no, she really will not return.)

Hand: Am I the only one here?

(Door enters. He is wearing nothing but a speedo. He is carrying a glass of soda pop and sucking on a tootsie roll pop.)

Door: Hand, my boy, you're looking dashing.

Hand: You're looking disgusting. Are Chair and Hair here?

Door: Who are you talking about? Oh, them, I assume they are but they could have left for Vegas or NYC or Chicago. People like to go to those places to escape their problems or find new ones.

Hand: You're a cynic.

Door: You're a fat man.

Hand: I have always wanted to be a clown. Facepaint. Goofy voice. Suspenders. The whole thing, you know. But I was told I looked too much like a clown to ever be one.

Door: Well, you have made me feel better about myself. I thank you. I am not in mourning. I am perfectly happy. So, Hand, what should we do?

Hand: We could sing together.

Door: Enough with the singing. Do you know any card games?

Hand: No.

Door: I don't either. I was hoping you could teach me one.

Hand: I'm creeped out.

Door: As you should be. Shall I take off my speedo?

Hand: Ummm.....

Door: Never mind. Just joshing, silly. Feel my thighs though.

(Hand, not knowing what else to do, feels them.)

Door: I'm fit, dude. Fit.

Hand: Yeah. Yeah. You're.... Yeah. I liked it.

Door: Okay. Take this glass of soda. I'm going to choke if I continue to drink it and suck on this sucker. I've sucked on worse things though.

Hand: Jesus Christ.

Door: Ahh, Jesus, let us discuss his Resurrection

Hand: Let us discuss the inanity that is surrounding us instead

Door: Oh, shut up, boy. There is no inanity except for the inanity you create for yourself. Mmmhmmm I almost believe what I'm saying.

Hand: Did you kill Hair and Chair?

Door: It's doubtful. My Grandmother may have though. She likes killing people. I don't mind her doing it too much. I love you, Hand.

Hand: I'm leaving.

(Begins to exit.)

Door: (Rips his speedo off and throws it at Hand.) You may not leave.

Hand: I know. I'm in mourning. I'll stay.

Door: Good. Look, I'm naked. You should get naked too.

Hand: Do you really want me to?

Door: Don't make me puke. Sit down.

(Hand sits down.)

Hand: So, anyone else coming.

Door: Yes.

Hand: Oh. Who?

Door: Her!

(Her enters.)

Her: Hello, Door. You're looking naked. Who's the Hand fellow?

Door: I don't know him.

Hand: He's right. We don't. We can never know each other.

Her: Oh, are you guys existentialists or postmodernists or idiots or something?

Hand: Well I'm divorced and he's.... what are you, Door?

Door: My name's Door.

Her: Nice place. Whose is it?

Hand: No one knows.

Door: Probably the world's.

Her: Nice guy. Well let's do something. I'll sit down. But there's not a third chair. Ok, naked boy or handjob, get up and let the lady sit.

Hand: These are new times. Alleged men should not have to rise for alleged women. Anyway I have my doubts about your being a woman since I think you have a mustache.

Her: I'm going upstairs to sleep with Hair and Chair, and now me, Her.

(She exits.)

Door: You and me, Finger.

Hand: Hand.

Door: Okay, French fry.

Hand: Where's the curtain?

Door: Right...... ( 3 seconds of silence.) There!

(End. Curtain.)