DC Playwrights

A Memphis meditation on fame, fatalism, and the embarrassment of riches.

“i wasn’t going to tell you –“
“i already know,” said the squirrel.
“know what?” i asked.

“gore got the nobel.”
with consolation i remarked,
“only half a nobel,” i added.
“he deserved it, i guess,”
guessed the squirrel.

“but he’s already got a grammy,”
i groused.
“i thought it was an oscar,”
said the squirrel.
“you’re right.”

“who won the prize in physics?
that’s the only category i care about,”
asked the squirrel.

“mind if i take this?”
asks the squirrel.
“yes,” i say.
“it might be important.”
“are you saying having dinner with me
isn’t important?”

“now who are you texting?”
i ask.
“some people,” confesses the squirrel.
“why?”
“to find out what they're doing later,”
he adds.

“you’re the reason i hate cell phones
and the people that own them.”
“they’re very convenient,” says the squirrel.
“allows you to stay in touch with people,”
he explains.
“in case there’s an emergency.”

“scrambled eggs with brains,”
squirrel tells the waitress.
“you might want to get something else,”
i suggest.
“those are squirrel brains, you know.
and besides, i thought squirrels
were vegetarians.”

“but i like brains.
i find them attractive in squirrels,”
he explains.

“you might get jacob-creutzfeldt disease.”
“what’s that?” he asks.
“mad cow,” i tell him.
“just order the mediterranean omelet.”

squirrel calls the waitress over
and asks if the eggs contain squirrel brains.
“i’m jacob schmirnoff-intolerant,” he explains.

“hi, i’m a mexican,”
reads the button.
“i’m wearing it in solidarity,” i said.
“but you’re not mexican,”
remarked the squirrel.

“unless you live on a reservation
or own a casino –”

“like the arapaho
or donald trump?”
asked the squirrel.

“we’re all mexican,”
i continued.
“we all come from somewhere.”
“but you’re not mexican,”
repeated the squirrel.

once again,
squirrel failed to grasp
the ineffability of buttons.

after his third mojito,
second pilgrimage to the shell shack
and sleeveless t-shirt shoppe,
squirrel asked:
“how long have we been in florida?”

“two days,” i said.
“feels like two months,”
replied the squirrel.

“i guess that’s why retirees come here.”
i explained.
“when you only have about ten years left,
it’ll feel like fifty.”*

(*attribution: kitty giorgio)

a ten-day salute to sausage
announced the beer cup.
“the best fest is the wurstfest,”
mumbled the squirrel.

i never knew a rodent
could eat so much bratwurst.

after the third or fourth polka band
in das grosse zelt,
catching his breath between
the chicken dance and
gobbling down a wurst taco,
squirrel said,
“i think i'm ready to invade poland.”

squirrel put up signs
on the trees and poles in the park.
“have you seen my mind?”
the sign read.
“gray with gyrus and sulcus.
about the size of a walnut.”

“did you lose it
or simply misplace it?”
i asked sympathetically.

“are you asking in
cognitive ethological terms?”
queried the squirrel.
“no, comparative neurobiological,”
i replied.

“because if you’re merely
having trouble with spatial memory,
like trying to remember
where you left your keys –”
“or nuts,” interrupted the squirrel.

“i can’t fly this itinerary,”
said the squirrel.
“but it’s a direct flight,”
i told him.

“i just can’t fly from ronald reagan
to george bush.
i’ll get nauseous on the plane –
probably throw up.”

“maybe we can do a lay-over in atlanta,
but it’ll drive the cost up?” i said.
“i am not flying the route as is,”
sulked the squirrel.

six hundred dollars later,
we flew from jfk
to sam giancona international,
rented a car, and drove the rest of the way.

splayed out on a bathmat,
squirrel said,
“it’s called the prefiguration of the king.”

“i don’t see it.”
sure i saw the pills,
the sequined-covered bathrobe
hanging from the hook,
the half-eaten, deep-fried
peanut butter banana sandwich.

just then a diane arbus-looking art student
walked in and started talking
apertures, ev ranges,
and something about her af illuminator.

“sounds great,” i said,
“but you’re not gonna make
the squirrel look stupid, are you?”