Reuben’s Folly

An Audiodrama in Four Parts

Scene I

[Reuben shifts his weight in the leather car seat while he waits for Matthew to return from the bank. Inside the cockpit of Matthew’s champagne 2003 Ford Taurus, the silence begins to bear down on Reuben’s mind. Rather than a lack of noise, it feels to him like a sort of pressure, pushing on his ear drums. He moves his right leg slightly forward after five minutes, deathly afraid of deep-vein thrombosis. As he does this, he hears the crinkling cellophane in the front pocket of his windbreaker. With a pale, clammy hand, he slowly reaches into the pocket. His bloodless fingernails have only just slipped in past the edge of the pocket zipper when Matthew comes out of the bank, tucking an envelope into the breast pocket of his coat. Reuben snatches his hand back from where it had been and hides it in the narrow carpeted gully between the passenger-side door and the edge of his seat. The driver-side door opens and a wave of ambient noise from the parking lot and the highway beyond comes crashing inward.]

MATTHEW: Alright [sighs], thanks for waiting. You ready to go?

REUBEN: Yes. Ready. Let’s head out.

MATTHEW: Where to? I was thinking the bowling alley, yeah?

REUBEN: [snaps out of a daze] Where? 

MATTHEW: Ten-Pin Theresa’s? 

REUBEN: Oh… yeah, sure. That sounds good. We can get some fries, pitcher of beer… roll some balls.

MATTHEW: [takes on a queer tone of voice] You said you hated french fries last weekend when we went.

[Reuben begins to breathe shakily]

REUBEN: Maybe I did, but you know how it is. Tastes come and go. Today, I really want a steaming, a greasy, a mountainous basket of french fries. I want to see a trickling avalanche of salt crystals and cajun spices cascading over crisped crags of rectilinear potato. And I want to crunch, I want to munch, Matthew. I want to wash it all down with a cold beer. And I want to bowl.   Is that too much to ask, Matthew?  Is that too much to ask?

MATTHEW: [in the most casual voice available] Hm, checks out to me! Let’s go bowling, buddy!

Scene II

[Reuben is sitting alone at a small round table by his and Matthew’s bowling lane. His hand is in the front pocket of his windbreaker again. Fondling something. Matthew is waiting by the ball return, contemplating how he is going to pick up his 7-10 split. Ten-Pin Theresa’s is sparsely populated. There is only one employee working today, a balding middle-aged man sporting a sagging paunch which hangs above a brown braided leather belt with a topaz buckle, spelling out the inexplicable words: “Liar’s Club.” The man has just sold Matthew and Reuben a mammoth basket of fries and a frothing pitcher of low-rent beer. Now he is standing behind Reuben’s and Matthew’s lane, propped up on a small yellowed patch of wall between the soda fountain and the shoe rental kiosk. His arms are crossed, bristling with coarse black hairs. He is staring into some intermediate depth before him. Matthew finally collects his ball and, before positioning himself at the aiming arrows on the blond wooden planks of the bowling lane, contorts his spine so as to lean backwards in a perilous tilting motion and snags a perfect fry from the peak of the french fry mountain, sopping with malt vinegar and twinkling with an even encrustation of salt. He drags the fry across his tongue before letting go of it and chewing. Then he squares up at the lane and, after a few seconds of setting up, fires the black bowling ball toward the pins. The ball disengages from his fingers at an impossible angle of nearly ninety degrees, slams into the gutter inches away from him and then launches into the air. At the height of the ball’s trajectory, it smashes into one of the low ceiling tiles above the lanes before landing several feet away.] 

MATTHEW: Welp! The floor here is clearly not level. So much for the spare… [he returns to the table where Reuben is sitting and worming his fingers around inside his windbreaker pocket; Matthew lifts the entire pitcher of beer to his mouth, splattering the floor with suds as he empties half of its contents into his throat; then he snatches a crushed handful of dripping fries and shovels them past his very white teeth]. Hey, Reuben, you haven’t touched a single fry, buddy. What was with all the tough talk back at the bank? 

REUBEN: [complacently mumbling] I have had a few fries… I… I’m just enjoying them one by one. That’s all. [Reuben’s writhing hand slides out and then back into his windbreaker pocket and he glances at the bathroom at the other end of the bowling alley]. I’m going to the bathroom, be back soon.

MATTHEW: Alright, whatever. Hey, I’m going to bowl your turn, okay? Have fun in there, slug.

REUBEN: [his voice shivering, either in delight or out of anxiety] Sure… g-go ahead. [Reuben stands up and walks swiftly towards the men’s room.] 

Scene III

[The men’s restroom is a mute, dimly lit room, its walls and floor furnished with grimy enamel tiles. Every few feet, there are gaping drainage grates screwed into the floor. The bathroom is fairly long and narrow. High up on the wall across from the stalls, there are squat windows laced through with safety wire. Orange light from the street lamps outside spills in through these windows and reaches into the stalls, which are otherwise entirely cloaked in darkness, as the single light bulb suspended above the sinks sheds no light on them. Reuben runs to the farthest stall and fiddles for a moment with the latch before finally letting himself in. He sits down on the toilet seat and rests the back of his head against the tile wall. His eyes are closed; his labored breathing eventually slows. The cellophane clutched to his stomach rasps as he pushes it back from a rugged crust of bread, which his fingers begin to caress.]

REUBEN: Unhh…

[He pulls the sandwich out of his pocket and holds it up to the scant sheet of light streaming through a crack in the stall door. Frayed bits of creamed chicken reflect a dull sheen.]

REUBEN: Oh, how I have longed to see you out in the open. I have traced the edges of your oat-strewn outline. I have gummed and gammed and soiled entire outfits, imagining your contents — your constitution, oh my one: the hazel-green raisins… mnfhh… the crumbled cerebelli of your ochre walnuts, uh-euah, the crunch! The striated strips of diced chicken breast unraveling on the moist carpet of my tongue… gweah… The deliquescent mayonnaise, dyed in the sooted tint of sprinkled paprika and freckled with thatches of oregano, sprigs of sweating cilantro, the finest, most invisible needles of dill, eauehy!…

[The bathroom door swings open on silent hinges. The lone employee walks in, his bald scalp shining under the bluish light over the sink. He stands absolutely still, his arms hanging at his sides. At first, he is utterly immobile, so taut and inert that, for a moment, his pallid skin blends in with the tarnished ceramic tiles that surround him. But then he tilts his head, and zeroes in on an urgent whispering voice from the stall at the far end of the bathroom. He approaches Reuben’s makeshift shrine with creeping steps that seem to take several minutes each.]

REUBEN: That tangy spritz of mustard, massaging my buds… oonfh!… Those embryonic manhole covers carrying their cargo of acid vinegar, known to mere mortals as sliced pickles… Thine vertebral discs of celery, crisp cool crescents to ease my fervent heat!… Your bursting vessels of mealy gall, the capers… Erruhhn… And who, I ask, could forget the chill, still, moonlit heart of you, seeping its rosey lifeblood into your very organs, that pediment, that reddish slab sliced oh so thick and pearled with condensation, the TO-MA-TOOOOooooohhh-hoh-hoh… [weeps and trembles, licking his lips; his voice takes on a new frenzied tone, as if he has just had a schizoid epiphany]. It was not clear to me until just now. I cannot wait. It has been too long. I cannot stop myself from consummating this union. Oh, what am I doing? What sumptuous beast slouches up to penetrate past the drawbridge of my teeth?! I…

[A monstrous gnashing and thrashing rings throughout the bathroom, reverberating off of the hard walls. Wet scraps can be heard impacting the floor. The employee is now standing just outside of the stall. If one were to stand directly next to him and observe his face, he would discern very little, for it is trembling so rapidly that nothing more than three vague blurs corresponding to the eyes and mouth can be seen by the human eye. Suddenly he braces his hands against the top of the stall door and wrenches it off of its hinges, thrusting it to the side. Soaked in the orange light beaming through the window at his back, the employee is a vibrating black silhouette. Yet his eyes appear to gleam with an internal grey light. Reuben gapes in the darkness, slathered in the disintegrating mess that was once a premium chicken salad sandwich. He has broken out of his revery and is now slumped against the chrome piping at the back of toilet, hyperventilating and doing his best to still his trembling body. The employee suddenly grips Reuben by the shoulders and begins to shake him so violently that he can hardly speak.]

REUBEN: How — did — y-you — find — me — here? I — I — I’m — sor — ry! I — just — couldn’t — couldn’t — couldn’t — con — trol — my — self! Please — no — no — NO — IT- HURTS — IT — HUR — RRR — RRR — RRR — RRTS!

[With a subdued whimper, Reuben loses consciousness, sparkling in the dun gloom with specks of his ravaged treasure.]

Scene IV

[Reuben regains consciousness lying in a clean white hospital bed. He blinks rapidly until the room comes into focus. He is cocooned in a nest of sensors, monitors, and chittering medical equipment. His pudgy face is pinched into an oxygen mask. Matthew is sitting at his bedside, continuously inserting one french fry after another into his large, bright mouth. He has brought the fry basket from the bowling alley. As Reuben begins to stir and look around, Matthew hurls the basket over his shoulder and grabs his friend’s hand.]

MATTHEW: Reuben, you lucky mutt! Can you even believe it? What on earth possessed you, coming unglued in the bathroom like that?

REUBEN: [slurring his speech] Eh, what? What… what happened to me… my… where is my sandwhich? Matthew? 

MATTHEW: Where is your sandwich? You mean the one you’ve been hiding from me all day? I’ll tell you where it is: it’s on the walls, it’s on the ceiling, it’s on the floor, it’s in your pores, it’s in your buttonholes, it’s in the teeth of your jacket zipper, you fat fuck. And you thought you could slip it by me… Hah!

REUBEN: But, Matthew, I-

MATTHEW: Can it, Reuben. Please. You knew what you were doing from the very beginning. All you had to do was tell me that you wanted a chicken salad sandwich. You didn’t have to lie, to deceive me. We didn’t even have to hang out today. All you had to say was, ‘Hey, Matthew, I think I’m going to stay home today and enjoy a supreme chicken salad sandwich by myself, all alone in my apartment, where nobody can see me.’ It would have been so easy, Reuben. The sun, moon, and stars would have swooned at the simplicity of it. But now this has happened…

REUBEN: Matthew, I… I’m sorry, what can I say? It’s just that sometimes, I… Well, I can’t get a hold of myself.

MATTHEW: It’s just not good enough this time, Reuben. I’m going to leave now. Good luck with… all this.

REUBEN: Wait!

[Matthew stops and turns around, drumming his fingers against the door jamb.]

MATTHEW: What? What could you possibly have to say? 

REUBEN: What about that man? The employee at the bowling alley? It’s giving me chills just thinking about what he must have done to me…

MATTHEW: What are you talking about? The bald guy? He’s the one who came to get me and told me about what you’d done. We both went in to check on you. You were lying on the ground, soaked in toilet water. Your sandwich was everywhere. There were particles of it hanging in the air like mist — a cloud of decimated chicken salad. It was sickening, Reuben. If it weren’t for that guy, you might not be here right now. 

REUBEN: But that can’t be- 

[A doctor enters the room carrying a sheaf of stapled documents, smiles at Matthew and pats him on the shoulder.] 

DOCTOR: Hey, fellas. I see Reuben here has come to. How are we feeling, Reuben? 

REUBEN: Doctor… Is everything okay? Am I hurt?

DOCTOR: Oh, nothing too worrying. You’ve sprained your ankles, fractured an elbow and mildly cracked one of your ribs. We are also treating you with corticosteroids and a regime of antibiotics to fight the bacteria in your lungs from all the food particulate you have breathed in. But you’ll be just fine. 

MATTHEW: Great. In that case, I’ve gotta jet and get back to the bowling alley. Got a 7-10 split waiting on me and a whole sierra of french-fries that, quite frankly aren’t going to eat themselves. Take care, doctor. And Reuben… get bent, you slimey fucking idiot. 

REUBEN: Matthew, wait! I’m sorry!

[The door slams closed behind Matthew. The doctor takes a few steps closer to Reuben and gives him a warm smile, shuffling the documents in his hands and shaking his head.]

REUBEN: I’m sorry you had to see that, doctor… I don’t know what’s gotten into him. Sure, I am not always the most honest of friends… Maybe I have a few obsessions that drive a wedge between me and the people for whom I care a great deal — a certain list of passions… but that doesn’t make me a bad person! I’m still a person!… Oh, crust… I don’t see how this day could get any worse.

DOCTOR: Well, actually, Reuben, I’m afraid I do have one more tiny crumb of bad news to tell you.

[Reuben slowly removes his oxygen mask and sits up in bed, his eyes growing wide in response to the doctor’s own bulging stare.]

REUBEN: What is it? Why do you look so pale, doctor? 

DOCTOR: [sighs] Well, you see, Reuben, due to certain extreme changes that were made to your body during your accident, I’m afraid that your life is going to be very different from here on out. 

REUBEN: [uneasy] Yes, yes? Please, doctor, just tell me!

DOCTOR: It’s like this, Reuben. You can eat whatever you want for the rest of your days. Except for chicken salad sandwiches.