Lights come up on the exterior of a small brick rowhouse, a charming city dwelling on a busy city block. Serious looking men and women walk quickly by the house, all with the fast gait of city people, all determined to a) get to their destination and b) ignore everything around them -- they all have iPod ear buds in their ears.
After a while, a tall man in a drab suit exits the row house. He is an older man, distinguished in his retro fashion and silver mane. He stands on his front stoop, surveying his surroundings, seeing what kind of day it is. He squints toward the cloudless sky. He smiles with his eyes closed, letting the bright rays of the sun warm his face.
He opens his eyes, turns to lock his front door, and heads down the stoop stairs toward the sidewalk. With a bright grin to meet the day, he steps onto the sidewalk, but immediately stops, feeling something under his foot.
He looks down and sees that he has stepped in dog poop. He angrily looks toward the sky.
Tall Man
Really? Dog poop? That's what you have
for me, Lord? What have I done to
deserve this kind of treatment? I attend
church every Sunday, I volunteer to read
the TV Guide to fat children, I give fifteen
percent of my income to the local soup kitchen,
and I'm a good and decent person. Why, God, oh why
do you treat me so poorly? What could be a
worse predicament than this, stuck here, with
animal feces attached to my favorite pair of loafers?
I'll tell you: there is no worse predicament; it was
a trick question! Well, not a trick, per se. It was more
of rhetorical device I deployed, asking a question
I already had an answer to. But you probably knew
that already, Lord. But, you know, now that I think
about it, sure, there are scores of situations that
are worse than having poop on your shoe, but God,
it's pretty fucking annoying. Now, Lord, I'll have to
go back inside and change into a different pair of
loafers, which will not only make me late for my
appointment, it will disrupt the perfect color harmony
I had with this outfit. See, Lord, this is my only pair
of loafers this particular shade of brown, which happens
to go perfectly with my current attire. Now, if I change
shoes, it won't look nearly as smart, then the wife
will start with that "Are you wearing those shoes
with that suit?" and I really don't want to get into it
with her today, Lord. I mean, she can really work
my nerves. That shrill voice and the neverending
sense of superiority. Christ, I wonder kind of pill a
person has to take to think they're so goddamn
infallible. But she's a good lady, Lord. She's been good
enough to put up with me all these years.
(pauses)
Well, I guess I've taken up enough of your time, God.
And I know there's a point to everything that you do,
but if you wouldn't mind, can you explain to me, just
this one time, how me stepping in a dog's excrement
fits into my big picture? Will it somehow help me
along my path? Is it a sign? Is it supposed to symbolize
something? What does this mean for me, Lord?
The man looks up at the sky, waiting, but God does not answer him. Dejected, he slowly walks back up the steps toward his house.
Exeunt.
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