Numbers in the Air (first draft)


[Scene 1] –Interior, inner city, early twentieth century run-down brick building. Empty except for one patron, a young man whose dirty yet clean shaven face makes it look like he is ambivalent about his appearance. He’s slumped over on a stool, conscious, but barely. The lighting is dim; there is a clock on the back wall with frozen hands. There is also what must used to have been a small wooden bar along the back wall, but it looks empty of alcohol with apparently no one tending it. The young man, Patrick, straightens up and starts to hum vaguely.

Patrick- Ahh, the early afternoon light creeps in through rust covered bars behind ancient stained glass, but it’s not the rich man’s or religious kind. What are these shadows that form the shapes of Argive spears on a broken linoleum floor? Are they symbols? Revelations? Prophecies of imminent violence?

Patrick starts to look around the room slowly at first, but then begins to twirl in circles on his stool. His uncle walks in from behind the bar and leans against it, staring beyond Patrick in a tired, expressionless manner. 

Arnold- It’s your imagination.

Patrick- Everything is imagined Arnie-

Arnold- How about you give me some respect for once or I’ll throw you out of here and send you back to your reptile of a mother.

Patrick feigns getting up and leaving by zipping up his dirty bag.

Patrick- Alright, fine. Kick out your only customer Arnie. Your own flesh and blood!

Patrick laughs to himself. Arnold remains stoic, takes out two shot glasses, and pours a brownish liquid in them from an un-labelled bottle. The two stare at each other for a few seconds.

Arnold- Patrick, do you realize what’s going on out there?

They both simultaneously take shots. Patrick retains his light-hearted humor, but with a genuine, passionate intensity. Arnold is weary, and it’s obvious that the two have had this conversation many times before.

Patrick- I can handle myself on the streets uncle, you know that.

Arnold- No, I mean beyond the streets.

Patrick- What do you know about the outside world? We’ve been disconnected for months.

Arnold- Why do you think there’ve been no travelers through here? We’re cut off, and not just digitally. You have to be more careful Patrick. You hear me? Don’t associate yourself with them anymore.

Patrick- You act like you’re my father or something when we’re practically the same age. Besides, if it wasn’t for them, this place would’ve been burnt to the ground along with most of the other buildings on this block.

Arnold- Your friends can’t protect you forever. The riots might be over, but it’s still dangerous out there.

Patrick- You call those riots? That was revolution, uncle, and if you’re so disillusioned as to believe that we can’t create something better out of it, then what’s the point of going on and living at all anyway?

Arnold shakes his head and pours two more shots. They drink.

Arnold- The same as it ever was. This isn’t a post-anything situation Patrick. The government will be back. We’re just quarantined, and when the time comes everything that you and your friends have built will… Oh, it’s no use.

Patrick- You’re right Arnie. No use in pessimism when the world as you know it has changed irreparably, and for the better.

Arnold- Right. All that Krokodil makes this city such a better place.

Patrick gives Arnold a knowing smirk. 

Patrick- I better get going, let me get a smoke and a shot before I start patrol. When I get to the river I’ll let Bran know you need help with fixing this floor.

The uncle provides his nephew with what he asked for, then sits down and takes out a small, torn book, but looks up right before Patrick exits.

Arnold- Watch out for the fiends.

End of first scene.

About Sean William Lynch
Sean William Lynch is a poet from New Jersey who was born in 1992. Lynch's first book of poems "the city of your mind" was published in 2013 by Whirlwind Press. Frank Sherlock, the poet laureate of Philadelphia, called Lynch's debut poetry book "visionary." CA Conrad claimed that the book was "marvelous!" S.W. Lynch's writing has been featured in numerous publications online and in print, including Milkfist, Poetry Quarterly, and Tincture Journal.

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