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Philip Matthew Magcalas Vanilla Cappuccino By Philip Matthew Magcalas Copyright © 1998, All Rights Reserved Author's Note: I really would like some input on this monologue. If you have any comments, please send them to osric__xvii@hotmail.com If this monologue is performed, royalties are not needed but proper credit is!!!! (c: Thank you very much. Some say there's someone out there for everyone. Others say the only people who believe that are losers who haven't found anyone. I don't think so. I think there's someone out there for everyone; maybe even a couple someones for the lucky ones - not necessarily the deserving ones, just the lucky ones. I'm not that lucky; I think there's only one out there for me. Right now she's in Europe - my age - in some little coffee shop discussing Sartre with some arrogant college theatre student while sipping on a vanilla cappuccino - she knows more than he does...he knows that. As he pushes his wire-rim glasses up and wisps aside a few strands of greasy hair, she pulls a smart little biting quip on him...she knows it too. She smiles and he frowns and embarrassingly excuses himself and she takes a sip of her cappuccino and smiles slightly and sits back. It was funny, that little quip, it was really funny, I know that. But she speaks French, and I don't know French. But that's alright because I'm not ever going to get to know her; and she's the only one...like I said, I'm not that lucky. I'm gonna graduate from high school. We're gonna graduate from high school. During my third year, actually the summer right after my third year of higher learning at the University of Nevada, I'm going to visit New York By myself. She'll be visiting, too. We'll be at the Guggenheim at the same time, still unknowing of each other. I'll be admiring a Cezanne as she passes right behind me. We won't see each other. A couple days later, we'll both be at the same showing of Rent. Cats isn't showing anymore. I'll be front row mezzanine. She'll be main floor, row i. Afterwards, on the way out, we'll bump into each other. She'll drop her purse and I'll lean over to help and say something to the effect of, -shit. Sorry.- a cd fell out. Rachmaninoff. I love Rachmaninoff. She'll smile slightly and laugh and says something to the effect of, -that's alright, I don't really have anything else to do with my time.- I laugh a little too; not because of what she said, but rather half because she laughs and half because she looks kinda funny with the wind whipping her soft, long, brown hair across her face. I would've laughed at what she was saying, but she speaks French and I don't know French. She gives me a "thank you" smile and I give her a "you're welcome" wave...as we part company. We both graduate at our respective times, relative to our individual studies. She marries this nice American kid and they move to the U.S. She has a job in a small business and acts in small, but wonderful plays in a little downtown theatre. She rarely has speaking roles, but is pretty happy as a regular cast member. He works for a huge business and gets paid a lot for a not too stressful job. He's nice; a little on the slow side when it comes to certain decisions, but nice. And damn if he isn't good looking. I get a job as your stereotypical cubicle drone in some again-stereotypical faceless corporation. They live with their twins in a nice house - very "suburbs." They're almost perfect. Almost. I live with my books in a one room flat downtown. I go on leading my life and lose track of old family and friends. I don't get any new ones. I drive a beat up old Lumina for twenty some years, in an unhappy, unfulfilled life I stumble through. One day, as my car is not cooperating with my key, a guy in ragged clothing aims a gun at me and demands my money. I give it to him. His hand trembles as he takes it. It's quite a bit- I was going to the bank. He's about my age, forty-eight, but he's in better shape than me. He's kinda inexperienced at this and seems to have the ease at doing this that some desperate fourteen year old would. His gun goes off accidentally and I lose again; first the car stalling, then the money, then third strike - I'm out. In a way, he really was like some desperate fourteen year old. He's just a little down on his luck; made some bad decisions and lost his job a while back. This is after his kids had left and lost touch, due to a small fight with some wrong wording. He has to take care of his wife and his self, somehow in their small, cold apartment, so you really can't blame him. He buys some food and brings it back to share with his wife, a quite loyal woman who's always content with what she gets. He says something to the effect of, -sorry I took so long.- it's night. She doesn't know what he did to get the money for the food. She smiles slightly and says something to the effect of, -that's alright, I don't really have anything else to do with my time - at least, I think that's what she says...but she speaks French. And I don't know French. Philip Matthew Magcalas can be contacted at osric__xvii@hotmail.com |