The Eclectics

The former hosts of KCRW’s Morning Becomes Eclectic are gathered for their weekly Sunday brunch at an upscale Westside bistro.  Schnabel, Douridas and Harcourt sit at a patio table, enjoying their meal.

 

                                                      SCHNABEL

                                       (putting down his champagne glass)

This is one of the best tomato-mushroom omelets

I’ve ever tasted.

 

                                                      HARCOURT

                                       (slumped in his seat, eyes closed in pain from

                                       a nasty gin martini hangover)

Eggh.

 

                                                      SCHNABEL

But I’m torn between whether this or the Black Forest

Omelet is my all-time favorite.

 

                                          DOURIDAS

                                       (leaning back and staring up at the awning)

The menu here is so eclectic.

 

Suddenly, BENTLEY runs in from the sidewalk.

 

                                                      BENTLEY

Guys, I’ve got a hot tip from underground progressive

house DJ Glass Electrode.  Crystal Beat Smack is being

held at gunpoint by a Guadalajaran drug trade posse.

 

Schnabel cocks his ear as a new song plays on the sound system.

 

                                                      SCHNABEL

What an intriguing fado.  The vocalist reminds me of

that great Guatemalan timbruja singer, Felicidad Conhuevos.

 

                                                      DOURIDAS

Raul Campos first turned me on to Crystal Beat Smack. 

Loose, organic beats pulsing under a haze of vocal distortion.

 

                                                      BENTLEY

Exactly.  If we don’t move now, we’re talking the loss

of a major electronica artist.  Guys, this is a job for the

Eclectics.

 

                                                      HARCOURT

                                       (mumbles)

McCartney cover.

 

Harcourt’s slumps forward, his head falling into his plate of beans-on-toast.

 

                                                      SCHNABEL

                        Guadalajara’s gorgeous this time of year.  I once spent a

                        memorable weekend there with a Latin jazz vibraphone player.

 

Douridas nonchalantly lifts Harcourt’s face out of the beans.

 

                              DOURIDAS
This café gets worse and worse.  This is three weeks in a

row some vagrant’s come in and crashed our brunch.

 

                              BENTLEY
Chris, that’s Harcourt.

 

                              DOURIDAS
Who?

 

                              BENTLEY
The Third Eclectic.

 

Douridas wipes some beans from Harcourt’s face with a napkin.

 

                                                      DOURIDAS

I didn’t sign off on him.

 

                                                      BENTLEY

You were in a haze.  Guys, we need to get moving.  Only

the Eclectics, with our combined knowledge of the musical

underground, can find Crystal Beat Smack before his

virtuoso knob-twirling fingers are sliced off by the

corredors.

 

                                                      SCHNABEL

If this mission involves violence, it’s entirely against my

ethical code.  Also if it involves staying up after eleven,

fast running, excessive perspiration, feedback, so-called

indie rock, unpleasant smells or anything that requires me

to raise my voice.

 

 

 

                                                      HARCOURT

               (wiping a bean from his nose)

Live, in-studio set.

 

                                                      BENTLEY

So this is going to be like all of our other missions?

I do all the work while you guys sit here and lounge.

 

Douridas perks up, ever so slightly, spotting a woman sitting down at a nearby table.

 

                                                      DOURIDAS

It’s Canadian neo-folk chanteuse Greta.  I’m going to ask

her to autograph my postcard.

 

Schnabel sips his champagne.

 

                                                      SCHNABEL

If only Wayne Shorter were here.

 

                                                      BENTLEY

I warn you.  The next time this happens, I’m ditching you

all and starting the Electronicas!

 

Bentley stalks off as Harcourt falls out of his seat.

I Will Order Ice Cream (A Short Play)

A desolate parking lot.  Two beat-up American cars are parked next to a Laundromat.

TIDI comes out of the Laundromat holding a huge basket of clothes and heads toward the larger car.  She’s overweight, wearing hip huggers and a loud print blouse.  She drops the basket on the ground and shouts back toward the Laundromat.

TIDI

Whites done dryin’?

HUPE

(off-stage)

Not yet.

Tidi takes a cigarette from her purse and lights up.

TIDI
(shouting)

You ‘member that scrawny little amputee monkey we saw at the zoo?  That sure was a pathetic specimen!  Eloise, she always did have a thing for monkeys.  Not that there was nothin’ bizarre about it.  She just loved to see ‘em, swinging tree to tree.  Watched those monkey shows on the cable almost every day. You foldin’ them undies yet?

HUPE
(off-stage)
Ain’t done yet.  In the dryer.

TIDI

(shouting)

Jesus and the Lord above, that is the slowest dryer in the whole darn laundrymat.  Why d’you always pick the slowest, Hupe?

Tidi takes a long drag on her cigarette.

TIDI
(shouting)
You were never no good at the laundry, that’s the Lord’s truth.  How many times did you ruin Hupe Jr.’s track outfit?  How many, Hupe?

HUPE

(off-stage)

I don’t know, Tidi.

TIDI

(shouting)

It was a blamed nuisance, and a cost!  That boy has enough troubles in this world, what with his skew-eye and short thumb, and you go and make his shorts pink as the day is long! What kind of a dad is that, Hupe?

BURNY, a fat, bald Scot, runs up to Tidi with a large butcher knife and stabs her in the right thigh three times.  Blood spurts out.  Tidi screams pathetically.  Burny runs off.

Tidi collapses and rolls into the gutter at the curb.

TIDI
(screaming)

Hupe!  Hupe!

HUPE

(off-stage)
No, they ain’t done dryin’ yet, Tidi!  Shut your trap!

TIDI
(screaming)

Help me, Hupe!

HUPE
(off-stage)
I’m doin’ what I can!

TIDI
Jesus, Lord almighty in that heaven.  What did I ever do to fall in a gutter, bleeding like a headless chicken?

Another geyser of blood spurts out.  The lights in the laundry flicker and slowly dim.

TIDI

I washed so many clothes in this laundrymat.  Washed ‘em til they was bare of thread and dim of color.  Lord, how many times did I watch them dryers spinning.  Around and around.  Then around some more.  It’s like some stupid chimp, chasing his own tail.  How much change . . . How much change . . .

(screaming)

 Hupe!

HUPE

(off-stage)

These undies ain’t even clean, Tidi.  What kinda shit-ass detergent did you buy this time?

TIDI

(weeping)

The undies ain’t even clean.  Ain’t even clean.

[BLACKOUT]