A very short play about the time I caught something.
The
Setting
Here I stand on a long, wind-swept jetty holding a fishing
rod over the choppy ocean. Patches of frothy foam meander with the sea’s
whimsical movements – occasionally slapping up against the jetty’s steadfast
poles. Some jellyfish bob along trying to find their niche in life – or perhaps
looking for somewhere to just sit and rest and untangle their tentacles for a
change. Squashed, sun-dried green prawns lie scattered around my feet. The rest
of the jetty is a giant join-the-dots marked out by the splatterings of
seagulls. Two kids run up and down the length of the jetty, yelling out to each
other and plotting simple games. A couple strolls by.
To my right, closer towards the elusive horizon stands an
eastern European man with a concentrated look and grey scraggly hair, probably
in his late 60s or a little older. He assiduously fishes while a half-smoked
cigarette dangles precariously from his thin lips. He’s bow-legged with light
brown baggy shorts hanging from his waist. The sun beats down on his bare upper
torso, but his skin is not burnt one bit. It is tough and olive. Before when I
was establishing my fishing spot, our eyes had met. He had looked at me with a
squinting eye and reviewed my presence through a slightly frowning forehead.
Act
1, Scene 1
Nothing happens.
Act
1, Scene 2
Nothing happens.
Act
1, Scene 3
I scratch my balls. Nothing else happens.
Act
2, Scene 1
Nothing happens.
Act
2, Scene 2
Nothing happens.
Act
2, Scene 3
I wriggle a bit as the itch returns. Nothing else happens.
Final
Act, Scene 1
I re-scratch my balls. Nothing else happens. But my face is
displaying a degree of relief.
Final
Act, Scene 2
Nothing happens.
Final
Act, Scene 3
As the itch persists I reel my line in. I prepare to head off
home. Uh-oh. Seems I’ve caught crabs and
can’t stop scratching.
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