(a half-act play)
Morning, January 20th. The boxlike stage is cloaked in darkness, illumined only by the razor-thin line of light from above, stage right. House lights are half-up to let the audience see the characters as they slouch in corners or lie flat upon the stage. No music, but
SHARPIE: Shouldn’t we be hearing another round of ‘Hail to the Chief’?
TIC-TAC: or blare-outs from Hannity… From what I gather, things are gonna change around here. Not that it would matter for my kind, travelling through the guts of anyone who pops us.
SCOTCH: We’re all dispensable.
SHARPIE: What d’ya mean be that, Scottie?
SCOTCH: For the hundredth time, it’s ‘Scotch’! Can’t you—
SHARPIE: —use one right now? Yeah. Make it a double.
SCOTCH (harrumphing): What I meant, if you care to know, is that we all serve at the pleasure of the president. I’m a tape dispenser, you’re a marking tool…
TIC-TAC: I’m a placebo…
SCOTCH: And when our duty’s done, poof!—that’s likely it…, no curtain call.
SHARPIE: Oh, I dunno. Got ink enough for another four years. And you won’t have to dispense as much tape for unruly red ties.
TIC-TAC: And I?
SHARPIE: How did you even get here? I think I remember you inside that collective coffin of a box—
TIC-TAC: The ‘clown car’, we call it, and yes—I was next in line to go down the tubes when the orange fingers fumbled and I fell into this corner, fated, I guess, to wait out the future alone.
SCOTCH: What are we, chopped liver?
TIC-TAC: Maybe. A difference, perhaps, is that you guys had a role in this office—helped out the cause. I was just an on-looker. What does it feel like to be…
SHARPIE: complicit? To further the course of a hurricane?
SCOTCH: C’mon! There are countless pens that coulda been used.
SHARPIE: Somehow I was the chosen one. Remember that cheat-sheet for a presser—“I WANT NO QUID PRO QUO”? Who do you think crafted that? In all caps for the cameras to see. Me! And who do you think wrote the note for the next guy comin’ in?
TIC-TAC: You?
SHARPIE: Me! Not that I remember what it said. I was a little fumed that day, if ya know what I mean.
SCOTCH: No, not really. So where is the note—maybe we can have a sneak peek.
SHARPIE: My guess is it’s that guy lying out flat. There’s nothing else left in this resolute cave.
NOTE (groaning): Leave me alone. I was just about to go to sleep.
SCOTCH: ‘Do not go gently into that good night’—we just want to see. Have a right to, for heaven’s sake.
NOTE: Oh, I’m sure what Sharpie over there blotted on me has nothing to do with heaven.
SHARPIE: What, am I incapable of moral high ground? I throw down my glove, Good Sir!
TIC-TAC: Settle down, settle down. I’m sorry I brought it up. I guess the question ‘how do you feel’ covers either too little territory or too much.
SCOTCH: What do you mean?
TIC-TAC: I was asking reflectively—with the past in mind and whatever we had to do with that. But I asked in present tense: how we’re feeling now in real time. On our minds, though, are prospects to come in the near-future or further down the road… That’s too much territory, probably.
SHARPIE: And too little?
TIC-TAC: Hmm. Too little would be knee-jerk. A meme that gets folks to nod their heads, maybe press ‘like’ before scrolling on. Today’s news as yesterday’s, fast as the speed of light.
NOTE (snarkily): Who elected you desk-drawer philosopher?
TIC-TAC: You’ve heard why they call the place the oval office?
NOTE: Can’t hide in the corners. Biased against the rectified.
TIC-TAC: Yeah, that. But reminding its residents of a womb and the ‘ova’ they are, within.
SHARPIE: ‘The Birth of a Nation’? I had heard that film premiered right here, President Wilson giving it an aryan thumbs up.
SCOTCH: You heard that where?
SHARPIE: Fox TV. They didn’t use ‘aryan’ to describe Wilson’s thumb, of course.
TIC-TAC: One of many thumbprints on this oak that we inhabit.
SCOTCH: I’m still interested in what you have to say, Note.
SHARPIE: Maybe Note-made-outta-oak. The most organic of us all—no offense, Tic-Tac.
TIC-TAC: None taken. I’m well aware I’m a chemical question mark. But I’ll second Scotch’s motion: what’s written on your underbelly, Note?
NOTE: I don’t kiss and tell. The boss placed his sentiments face down for a reason, I suppose. From what I understand, the new guy’s moving in and then—who knows? I may find myself in the recycle bin.
SHARPIE: Or tv screens. Framed in the Smithsonian for all to see.
SCOTCH: Democracy. Or transparency? Not necessarily the same, I think we’ve come to realize.
Suddenly, the line of light above slides wider toward the center. The characters simultaneously freeze and shutter, anxious for the moment now and next. A large tube descends and the noise of a vacuum cleaner revs up, moving along the sides of the stage, carefully around NOTE and SCOTCH and SHARPIE; rising for a moment, the tube seems to recognize TIC-TAC in a corner, taking on a fetal position. The tube descends, swallows like a snake, rises again and disappears. The light diminishes to almost its original thinness.
SHARPIE (uneasily): Well, you know what they say—easy come, easy go. Godspeed, ovoid friend.
SCOTCH: We’re all dispensable. It’s like a Beckett play.
NOTE: ‘Krapp’s Last Tape’?
SCOTCH: Now you’re just being obnoxious. Why doncha flip over and we can keep it all within these walls. I doubt that it’s salacious.
SHARPIE: Or seditious. I certainly wouldn’t want to be a part of that!
NOTE: Listen, we’ll all know soon enough. This afternoon, perhaps, and then curiosity can be appeased. ’Til then—
The line of light slides completely out, and the House Lights cut as well.
Daniel Martin Vold Lamken (2021)
