Numbers
I have decided to work on a collection of character sketches in the form of monologue as a way to get some of these fragments out of my head here is one of hopefully many to come.
– Cheers
Monologue for a Woman – A woman sits on a dingy white couch in the middle of her sun-dried lawn, littered with belongings for sale. She looks at a small jewelry music box that plays a twinkling song in her hands before closing it.
My daddy gave me this box. He used to say, “Only the prettiest of things belong in a box with such sweet music”. He used to say a lot of things…Oh nothing particularly poetic or smart just things. Things that would make you laugh till your sides ached or things that made you think, daddy was always good with things. Like that white book there, right there by your foot, he gave me that book and said “Baby Girl when it comes down to it all you got is memories and pictures and it’s best to keep them all in one place.”
It’s a wedding album never been used still in plastic. two dollars. Or what about that box of toys over there? Have any kids? One toy for every apology my daddy ever gave me. A Barbie for a black eye, a dolly for a bruise. See that pair of roller skates I got those for nasty fall down the stairs in that house behind me, there’s a gouge in the drywall to prove it. The skates are ten dollars. Do you need something for your wife? There’s a nice box of china dishes my momma left behind 10 cents a piece. You see we didn’t need them after my she left there was no one to cook for. Or how about that bassist still in the box 25 dollars, my aunt sent that to me a few months back see no one told her I didn’t need it any more.
You see mister I know what kind of man you are, you are one of those who wear tan dockers to tuck in your polo shirts on the weekend. You are a man who puts on suits with power ties every weekday. You sit in your high-rise office in perfect manufactured 75 degree air crunching numbers and pushing paper from one side of your desk to the other. You sit there don’t you? Every morning at 9am drinking your from your designer ergonomic coffee mug making sure all those numbers fit into neat little columns. But what you men conveniently forget is all those little numbers mean something. Like the number 6 – the number of families that got foreclosed on, on this street. Or how about 7 – the number of people who are unemployed on this block, or 293579 the address of Mr and Mrs Lopez 2 diabetics who can’t afford their prescriptions so they only refill every other month. But as long as those numbers fit in the little columns and balance to zero you are doing your job.
And you wake up early every Sunday docker clad, to sift through yards like this full of things hoping to find some gem antique on a table full of tchotchkes to put in your home and brag how you got it for a steal. But I don’t think my authentic NBA collectible glasses from Chevron will appraise for that much better keep looking.
I know what you see, I have seen you drive by before. You see a poor girl sitting in her yard full of things and you stop your hybrid car and do your bit of philanthropy by taking my things for the change in your cup holder. But see Mister these things these are the last, next Sunday you wont see me out here. My number came up. 3 the number of days I have to move out of the only home I have ever known. 3 three days to say good-bye to a lifetime. 3 days to get rid of the things my mamma left. 3 days to sell all of the things my daddy gave me. Except for this box, memories and pictures that’s all I got left and this memory isn’t for sale.
incitingincidentwriting 