DC Playwrights

"i can't feel my legs,"
said the squirrel.
"everything is getting dark.
i'm so cold."

"wake up, squirrel. you're dreaming."
"but it seemed so real –
like i was at the front.
what do you think it means?

"i don't know," i said.
"maybe you're longing for a simpler time."
"a kinder and gentler time?"
sighed the squirrel.

"yes," i smiled,
"when white men ruled the world
with an iron victrola."
"what?" the squirrel asked.

"a time when
all men were brothers,"
i continued,
"and settled their differences
like gentlemen
with mustard gas and flame throwers."

“did you just fart?” said the squirrel.
“no,” i said.
“well it wasn’t me,” he protested.
“there are only two of us in the car,”
i explained.
“it wasn’t me –
so it had to be you.”

i don’t know if it’s their diet
or their metabolism,
but you definitely don’t want to be in a car
with the windows rolled up
when a squirrel rips a left cheek sneak.

the stench is nothing like
the bouquet of last year’s beaujolais nouveau.
perhaps it’s more akin to a wheel of camembert
that's been left in the trunk for three or four days.

looking up from his book, squirrel said,
“good stuff that emily dickenson,”
“know her work?”
“yes,” i said.
“powerful imagery,”
added the squirrel.
“use of metaphor – profound.”
”yes,” i said.

“do you know the poem,
i heard a squirrel buzz when i died?”
“i think she wrote 'fly',” i said.
“really?” said the squirrel.
“pretty sure,” i said.
“i think 'squirrel' is a better image,
metaphorically,” replied the squirrel.
“'fly' makes better use of assonance,”
i explained, “goes with 'i' and 'died'.”

squirrel says he has the sunday blues.

“what’s that?” i ask.
he explains he gets depressed on sunday
when realizes that he has to go back to work on monday.

on monday he feels resentment
and refuses to work all day.

tuesday is pretty much the same
although the loathing starts to wane.

when wednesday rolls around,
he perks up a bit,
only because the week is half over.

on thursday he feels like he’s ready to start working;
however, he knows whatever he starts
he won’t be able to finish it in two days.

squirrel said i looked peaked.
“you need to go for a hike, get some air.”
i told him that i had to work all weekend.
“big deadline on monday.
very important client.”

squirrel insisted.
“let’s take a drive to the shenandoah,
15-mile hike, full pack
will do you some good.”

i told him that i had to work.
“yeah, i got it,” said the squirrel.
“big important spreadsheet.
gather ye nuts as ye may,” he added.
“look,” i said,
“not everyone can run up and down
tree trunks all day for a living.”

“is that a rhetorical question?” asked the squirrel.
“rhetorical?
like a question that really doesn’t need to be answered?”
i replied.
“then why asked it?,” questioned the squirrel.
i looked at the squirrel,
nodding unconsciously,
but not nodding.

“do you understand the question?” asked the squirrel.
“what question?” i replied.
“then why ask it?” said the squirrel.
“is that a rhetorical question?” i wondered aloud.

we stared at each other for some time –
waiting to speak, not wanting to speak,
not wanting to question the question.

on the way to the library of congress,
a tourist took the squirrel’s picture.
“he didn’t even ask,” said the squirrel.
“like some methed up paparazzi.
don’t they have squirrels back in omaha or san marcos
or wherever these people are from?” he added.

“same thing happened to me yesterday,”
i told the squirrel.
i was sitting on the steps of the national archives
and this family walked up.
the little girl said, “look, daddy, a homeless man.”

squirrel called me an infidel
when he saw me eating a bag of pork rinds
and drinking a glass of two percent milk.
as i sat in my cotton poly-blend boxers,
watching the best of the girls next door,
i asked “why you gotta be like that?”
squirrel said that skim milk was not halal,
“and don’t get me started on the pork rinds.”

“have you ever had a pork rind?” i asked.
“they’re delicious. try one.”
the squirrel refused.
i asked him,
“name one thing more delicious than pork rinds.”
the squirrel said, “ uhm … food?”

squirrel looked at me with angry bloodshot eyes.
“you going to church?” i asked.
“you actually believe in that superstitious hocus pocus crap?”
“i take that as a no.”

i continued getting dressed,
donning my surplice and mitre.
“have you seen my crozier?”
squirrel pretended to be asleep.

as i walked to the door
and put the keys to the kingdom in the lock,
squirrel yelled out,
“hey, can you call me when you’re done
to make sure i am awake?
i am supposed to meet hitch for brunch.”

squirrel pushed a stack of acorns
to the middle of the table and said, “call.”
“all i have is the jack of diamonds.”
“read ‘em and weep,” said the squirrel
and laid down three ladies and a pair of deuces.
“nice,” i said. “could you tell i was bluffing?”

“you’re always bluffing,” said the squirrel.
“am i bluffing now?” i asked.
“yes,” said the squirrel.
“am i bluffing now?” i asked.
“yes,” said the squirrel.
“now?”
“yes,” said the squirrel.
“now?”