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The Anaesthesiologist |
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{A. sits in chair, legs wide open, bent over in concentration. She stops when she sees him, stands very still, chews a leaf, focuses on its grit between her teeth.} Leaves litter and decay in fermented bunches. Light punches through the canopy. She walks along her path through the forest. The anesthesiologist lounges like pan on a fallen tree. {A. reads random passage from Moby Dick.} A. (plaintive, but with conviction, but to no one in particular, like he's practicing his lines. She continues to watch, like watching a train wreck): oh my wild watery loneliness, but you like me, don't you? You do, right? Moss grows like fur over a fallen tree. She watches the moss move. It begins to slowly, noiselessly creep onto the anesthesiologist's arm. He fails to notice. A. (getting more excited): They really like me at the hospital, you know, i'm very popular, one of the nurses thinks i look like david bowie. Moss now covers both his arms in thick, nappy fur. A. (extremely excited): i'm ziggy stardust, i'm a hardrocker, i'm one tough bitch. (plays air guitar, rocks out.) Moss grows over his leg and half way up his torso, but he still does not notice. {The Anaesthesiologist runs around like he's on stage in London, galloping.} A: So strapping and sleek! Moss takes over his head. A.: i want him in his tight pants, i want to rip his pants off! {A. shouts this like he's drowning, water up to his mouth, like he's struggling to shout these words before water overtakes him. Lights go out as he continues to run around stage.} |
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