The stage is dimly lit. We can just see a grizzled man in his 40’s, MATTHEW, seated at a small cocktail table, hunched over a bottle of bourbon. He mutters.
Hey Everyone, this week I’m publishing part of a play that I’ve been working on for a year now. I know, I know, a year? Really? Well, yes. I write a lot. And rewriting is something I’m working on. And rewriting is hard. Anyway, this play is called Bourbon Tastes Like Shit, and if you haven’t already seen it, I posted a previous version of this scene online a while ago. It’s a category of postings that you can access in the right hand side button section. Feel free to comment and compare!
MATTHEW: …centuries. Shit. I should be writing this down for posterity or… …never want to see her again! I told her, I told her… You don’t make the rules. I make the rules. I make the rules… how long, how long, how long…
MATTHEW continues muttering. He raises his bottle and stares at it.
MATTHEW: To death and forgetting.
MATTHEW bursts into laughter. He takes a drink. His laughter dies down. He begins looking around himself. A puzzled expression creeps onto his face.
MATTHEW: You know what? I don’t even know where the fuck I am. How does that even happen? It’s so quiet. I wish someone was here. No I don’t. Yes I do.
Suddenly a light comes on upstage and we see LUKE, a slightly younger, cleaner looking man than MATTHEW. He is standing there holding a drink. He is looking at MATTHEW with a grin.
LUKE: Holy shit.
MATTHEW: Huh?
LUKE: Holy shit.
MATTHEW: Who the hell are you?
LUKE: Luke. You don’t remember me?
MATTHEW: No. I know you? How’d you get here?
LUKE: Sure you know me. And the sign said open.
MATTHEW: The sign?
LUKE: The sign on the door of the bar.
MATTHEW: Bar? Bar. That’s right. That’s right. We’re in a bar.
LUKE: You don’t remember me?
MATTHEW: No. Who are you?
LUKE makes his hand into the shape of a gun and points it as if afraid to squeeze the trigger.
MATTHEW: Luke!
LUKE: That’s me.
MATTHEW: Luke. Holy shit, man!
LUKE: You still remember that, huh?
LUKE repeats the hand/gun shape. They both start laughing hysterically.
MATTHEW: It’s been years, man.
LUKE: That was the funniest. That was the funniest shit, man.
MATTHEW: Holy fuck. I can’t believe I forgot about that. You were like…
MATTHEW imitates LUKE, except MATTHEW makes a small gun noise, like a squeak. The break into more laughter.
MATTHEW: Goddamn, I needed a good laugh. Goddamn, I really did.
LUKE: It’s good to see you too.
The laughter dies down. They look at each other for a moment, unsure of what to do.
MATTHEW: Well, sit down man.
LUKE: Thanks.
MATTHEW: So what are you doing here? I’ve never seen you here before.
LUKE: Well, I’m not exactly sure, I just… that’s weird, that’s so weird man, I’m not sure. I was just driving. But I was happy to find this place. I really needed a drink.
MATTHEW: You fucking said it.
LUKE: God I need a break. A clean break. Wait. Not a clean break. Never mind. I can’t believe I said that. I’m sorry, I’m feel a little….
MATTHEW: Loose? Light?
LUKE: Yeah, I don’t know, I guess this drink is stronger than I thought. Whatever. You come here a lot?
MATTHEW: Yeah. I practically live here.
LUKE: Must be a good bar.
MATTHEW: Well, it oughtta be, I own this place.
LUKE: Oh. It’s nice.
MATTHEW: Thanks.
Pause.
LUKE: So, what’s up man? How’s things goin’?
MATTHEW: Oh, uh, you know. You got older.
LUKE: Yeah, time’s a bitch.
MATTHEW: How’d you get so old?
LUKE: What?
MATTHEW: What?
LUKE: I… uh, guess I just got older.
Pause. MATTHEW just looks at LUKE. LUKE becomes uncomfortable.
LUKE: So… How are you? How’s things?
MATTHEW: Yeah, time’s a bitch man.
LUKE: Heh. Yeah. You know, you don’t look a day older.
MATTHEW: Yeah, I know. I took care of time.
MATTHEW makes his hand into the shape of a gun, then points it and confidently fires.’ MATTHEW begins laughing again. He looks at LUKE expecting him to join in the join. LUKE doesn’t.
LUKE: Right. So… how are—
MATTHEW: You got older though.
LUKE: Yeah. It happens to all of us.
MATTHEW: Not to me. I took care of time. Remember.
LUKE: Yeah, that’s getting old man. Get it?
MATTHEW: No.
LUKE: That joke is getting old. Just like… we’re getting older…
MATTHEW: Oh.
LUKE tries to laugh it off, but it sounds stunted and strange.
LUKE: Are you feeling okay, man? You seem a little…
MATTHEW: Why do you keep asking me that?
LUKE: I just want to know how you’re doing.
MATTHEW: What the fuck do you care?
LUKE: Uh…
MATTHEW: Oh, you think you’ll just ask me how I’m doing and I’ll tell you and everything is fine? Those aren’t the rules.
LUKE: Uh..
MATTHEW: Everything is fine? What if I say something fucked up? What if I say something like, ‘my wife is dying?’
LUKE: Whoa.
MATTHEW: What would you say then? What would we have accomplished by admitting that fact?
LUKE: You’re wife is dying?
MATTHEW: No, she isn’t, but she could be.
LUKE: Whoa.
MATTHEW: I don’t want to talk about it.
LUKE: I’m sorry.
MATTHEW: Yeah, it’s a touchy subject, you know, it’s hard to talk about it.
LUKE: It’s cool. We don’t have to—
MATTHEW: IT’S NOT COOL!
Pause.
MATTHEW: I’m sorry. My wife thinks I should talk about it with people, you know, so it becomes more of a reality, but I say fuck reality, you know. What did reality ever fucking do for me?
Pause.
LUKE: I’m sorry.
MATTHEW: Yeah, it’s terrible. I took care of time, but time…
MATTHEW repeats the hand/gun shape. He shoots his foot and begins laughing.
MATTHEW: Sometimes you just… (repeats shooting himself in the foot gesture) What can you do?
Pause.
LUKE: Hey, you can drink.
MATTHEW: Fucking-A. You can drink.
They raise their glasses.
MATTHEW: To death and forgetting.
They drink.
MATTHEW: To mud and diamonds.
They drink.
LUKE: To fucking!
MATTHEW: To fucking?
LUKE: Just fucking drink.
MATTHEW/LUKE: To fucking!
They drink.
LUKE: To forgetting about women!
Pause.
LUKE: I don’t know why I said that. Goddamn, this drink must be really hitting me. What you put in these drinks? Valium?
MATTHEW: Good ol’ American liquor and nothing more.
They drink and they laugh.
MATTHEW: God I love bourbon.
LUKE: Bourbon tastes like shit.
MATTHEW: Well, that’s why I drink it.
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