Turn Out To Knead

Slice 1:
Next door: VitaMen. Bobby 34; Frank tense and tired. Bobby is missing his left hand.

BOBBY
Come on, Frank. You kidding me? Slice me.

FRANK
$2.50.

BOBBY
You close in 10, so who cares, yeah?

FRANK
I care. $2.50.

BOBBY
Hey Frank, Frank: Knock, knock. …. Knock, knock?

FRANK
Not in the mood for joking around, Bobby.

BOBBY
Knock, knock. Knock, knock. I’ll keep knocking till you let me in, Frank. Knock, knock. Knock, knock. Knock, knock. Knock, knock.

FRANK
Who’s there?

BOBBY
Duck.

FRANK
Not the duck, Bobby. I’m not doing the duck.

BOBBY
It’s your all-time favorite. Come on, Frank, lighten up, don’t got to be this way. I knock you; you knock me. Knock, knock.

FRANK
( . . . ) Who’s there?

BOBBY
Duck.

FRANK
Duck who?

(Bobby swats Frank on the head—hard enough.)

BOBBY
Ah, man, I told you to duck!

(Bobby finds this hilarious; Frank is not amused.)

BOBBY
Now you do me. Payback, a little reciprocity. Give it to me good. I know you want to, Frank.

FRANK
Not how things work any more, you know that.

BOBBY
How about that slice?

FRANK
Still $2.50.

BOBBY
Told you, I forgot my wallet. Come back with it tomorrow. You don’t think I’m good for it?

FRANK
( . . . )

BOBBY
You gotta let some things go, Frank. Give a little.

FRANK
Don’t insult me, I’ve given plenty.

BOBBY
So what’s one more slice?

FRANK
A slice, a watch, a job—it’s all the same to you; I give, you take.

BOBBY
The watch, the job. All ancient history, Frank. Time marches forward, in a straight line.

FRANK
Seems like it goes in circles with you, Bobby.

BOBBY
One slice? Please, Frank, haven’t eaten since yesterday.

FRANK
We agreed. You wouldn’t come here when you’re like this.

BOBBY
Then I’d never see you, Frank. And I miss you, and I’m starving. Really starving. Come on, Frank, one slice then I’m gone, out of your life. Poof the Magic Dragon, all it takes: one slice.

FRANK
$2.50 is all I’m saying.

BOBBY
Yeah, that’s funny. Cause I hear a whole lot more. $2.50. All he’s saying. You believe this, guy? My own father.

FRANK
Like a father. Not your father, like a father.

BOBBY
What are you running for Senate? Like father, like son, isn’t that the truth, eh, chicha? (out, to someone unseen)
Yeah, chicha bonita, I’m talking to you, don’t look at your phone like you don’t hear. Take them buds out of your pretty, pretty ears and talk to me.

FRANK
Bobby—

BOBBY
Leave it Frank, I’m making friends here. What you doing all by yourself tonight, pretty thing? You move into that fancy glass building down the block?

FRANK
Bobby, the customer—

BOBBY
I see the customer, Frank, and my God, how they keep changing—everything keeps going up, up, upscale! Just like the block. What we got next door now, Frank? VitaMen?

FRANK
It’s a specialty vitamin shop for men.

BOBBY
VitaMEN! That’s why we got the likes of chicha here. All put together with her shiny things and yoga posture, out looking for some VitaMen! Damn. And at closing on a Tuesday. Hey chica, you know what used to be next door? And I’m not talking about Pancho Villa Taquería, that was Frank’s pet project—he come up with that name all by himself, trying to help a couple new kids on the block. Frank’s always helping out the kids.

FRANK
Can you let it go for once—

BOBBY
I’ll let the whole world go for a slice, Frank. Slice me, and WHOOSH! It’s all gone.

FRANK
You know the price for a slice.

BOBBY
Price of a slice, yeah, yeah. Anyway chicha, back before Pancho Villa Taquería—I’m talking back in the day—you know what was sitting where your VitaMen sits today? Hey chicha, I’m asking you a question!

FRANK
Leave her alone, Bobby.

BOBBY
Chicha Ponchita can talk for herself, Frank. She’s a modern girl: tough, taut, tatted. Nothing like what used to be, God, best looking thing we had in here was Lizzie. Lizardly Lizzie—
(Frank pokes Bobby with a…)
Ow. Jesus, Frank, put the bat down.

FRANK
Don’t start trash talking, Lizzie, she doesn’t deserve that.

BOBBY
What are you going to do, Frank? Call her up, warn her? “Hey Lizzie, Bobby’s on bended knee, trash-talking you.”

FRANK
Stop it, now. And stop messing with my customers.

BOBBY
Or what, you’ll whack me upside the head with that? (. . .) Go ahead, Frank, take your best swing. I’m a slow curve, hanging right over the plate. Knock me out of the park. Do it! Swing, batter-batter, swing! (. . .) And the curve-ball freezes him folks! Tally another strike-out for Frank. Another broken promise, another disappointing day at the park.

FRANK
( . . . ) Sorry for the trouble, Miss. Can I get you a refill on the Coke?

BOBBY
Refill of Coke? You’re not running a soda shop. Keep in step, Frank, get some booze in here.

FRANK
I don’t need that kind of trouble.

BOBBY
That kind of trouble is all I need, right Ponchita Bonita? Get ourselves a bottle, get the party going, tie me up in your garlic knots—

FRANK
Bobby, the customers.

BOBBY
Frank, the slice.

FRANK
$2.50.

BOBBY
I don’t got my wallet.

FRANK
I don’t care.

BOBBY
That’s not true, Frank. All you do is care. You’re a care-package tied up in string. All those homeless guys we used to feed—“manna from Franken”—made your eyes pool up, all blood-shot from the long hours, the heat in the kitchen. But no matter how much blood in those pools, every Tuesday after closing, you’d let em in: a sit down meal. Flatware. Plates. “Dignity for the forgotten.” And here I am, five minutes to close, Tuesday, and you won’t even give me “the gift of a slice”?

FRANK
$2.50, Bobby.

BOBBY
What happened to the gift of a slice, Frank?

FRANK
Taken away when it’s abused.

BOBBY
But the gift, Frank. Gift changes everything. We are only as much as we give, right Frank?

Lights.