Friday, January 21, 2011

Bob - The Outtakes - a series

Periodically, as I work towards it's glorious debut, I'd like to share some of the remnants of BOB that have been left in old word documents, never to see the light of day.

There are literally hundreds of pages of material not in the play, some of which is awful and some of which is nice. AND this process is forcing me to look back at my starting point and see if there are any nuggets back there I should think about.

Today, meet Deborah, the prototype version of the first person Bob meets in a rest stop.

(A flashlight pops onto BOB’s face.
BOB has been covered in a tarp or blanket.
A canteen of water is poured on his lips.
We here other figures in the distance
BOB sputters)

(BOB chokes and manages to get some of the drink down, coughing)

There you go. Down the hatch. Gurgle gurgle.

(BOB suddenly develops a ravenous thirst and begins to guzzle the bottle)

Shebam! There’s the desire for survival poppin through. Seize back on that life now little guy.

(BOB gasps for air after drinking)

Where am I? What’s going-

(BOB vomits)

OK, I think that’s good. Vomit is a good sign! As is consciousness. As is your lack of full body shaking you were doing a few hours back.

Now I’m not a doctor but I would suggest jumping into calisthenics there, buddy. Your body’s easing back into function.

Where am I?

Rest Stop. Near Lebanon. Missouri, I think. I know where the rest stops are better than the where the towns are.

How’d I get here?

Well, I was driving my rig, having one of my usual arguments on the CB about the meaning of life, death and whatnot. I was articulating a point to LumberBoy and Vixen’N’Dixon about how absolutely completely incredibly tiny tiny tiny we are compared to the size of the universe with some emphatic steering when I almost ran you over your crumpled semi-nude self on the side of the Interstate.

Now, I may believe that we as individuals are small and insignificant and that when we die our “soul” turns to nothing as the electricity drains from our brain, but that doesn’t make me a non-compassionate person.

Thank you.

Now as for how you got to the side of the road, sans the clothes, alone, on the cusp of death, you’ll have to fill me in on that part of the story.

My mother told me she stole me from a bathroom, then she died, then I cremated her, then I got arrested, then freed, then someone stole my shirt and pants, then I decided I needed to get out of Chicago.

That’d make we want to leave town too.

God Speed, Deborah


Post a Comment

<< Home