Mark and James, both in their early 70s, sit in the same barstools they’ve occupied on football Sundays for thirty plus years. In this bar they talk to no one but each other and the bartender, a lanky fella that knows when one Miller High Life is empty, another should take its place.
Mark: Did it matter?
James: Did what matter?
Mark: What happened there, did it matter?
James: Everything matters.
Mark: Sure, everything matters, in the existential sense, everything matters, but does everything really matter?
James: I guess that’s a question of perspective, isn’t it?
Mark: Is it?
James: I think so.
Mark: Explain.
James: A man walks into a dark alleyway in the middle of the night. He sees a figure lurking in the shadows behind him.
Mark: Eerie.
James: Right?
Mark: Go on.
James. Thank you. (Beat) He sees this figure and knows he has no choice but physical altercation. This figure is set on menace, and diplomacy won’t dissolve the situation.
Mark: He has to fight the figure.
James: He does.
Mark: Does he?
James: He does!
Mark: Okay.
James: The figure emerges.
Mark: I’m frightened.
James: Fuck off.
Mark: Go on.
James. Thank you. (Beat) The figure emerges and it’s a drunken bum. Down on his luck, stinky hobo, hoping to rip this guy off for a few bucks so he can get a 40 of Old English from the corner. Man gives him a shove. Bum falls down. Situation handled.
Mark: Not very impressive.
James. No, it’s not.