The Start of a Play Called “Maltzeit”
Last thing in my Drafts that I intended to finish
Tom, a young man in his early thirties — medium build, shy demeanor, with a pensive look on his face — stands waiting in the lobby of a prestigious private German bank. He’s dressed in a baby blue button-dress shirt and dark gray dress slacks. The lobby has one black leather couch near a large window, where his black backpack lay. He is looking out the window at the large Euro sign near the European Central Bank.
TOM
Every time. What the hell am I doing? (utters under his breath)
(looks down, then stares out the window)
Michael comes through the lobby door, a smile widening on his face. He’s very tall and has a full head of wavy brown hair, attractive-looking, baby-faced and clean-shaven, with a slight pot belly. He’s wearing a pearl blue dress shirt and dark gray dress slacks.
MICHAEL
I’m sorry. The U7 train isn’t my favorite. (Initiates a handshake) How are we this morning?
TOM
Good morning, Michael.
They shake hands. Michael puts his hand on Tom’s shoulder to let him walk ahead. They start toward the reception area, which is just a small, boutique-like white desk, a blonde stereotypical stoic-faced woman behind it; beyond her are the elevators, with the door to the stairs in the corner to the right.
MICHAEL
So … you’ll be working with Ian, from New Zealand. He started last month. He’s been learning German like you, although he’s been here nearly eight years. (laughs) You’ll sit with him this morning, be up to speed in no time.
TOM
Okay. Back in the States, I did do some editing for friends and whatnot. Ya know, college papers and stuff.
(Michael holds the door open to the stairs.)
MICHAEL
You’ll do fine. Chemistry, Tom. Frau Berner, the boss, is schwierig, as the Germans say. The other women are absolute sweethearts, though. What’s most important is that we can all sing and dance and work at the same time. (chuckles)
TOM
I’m afraid I only know how to whistle while I work.
MICHAEL
Ah, you’ll want to save the corniness for the annual Christmas party. Speaking of which, I’ve brought you on to do another form of saving — the research department, and its reputation, one word at a time. I like to think of us as superheros, with the glasses on, and a window on our computer that should stay open at all times to make accessible our greatest asset: the online thesaurus.
TOM
Of course. I know it well. I used to write stories, and thought that using big words would make me sound, well, more literary.
(He sings:)
Like reticent for shy
Or recalcitrant for wild
I would use peevish for mean
Or palliate for screen.
I could write down a word,
And although I hadn’t heard,
Of the synonym I chose,
To enhance my terrible prose,
I would use it anyway,
See the reason didn’t matter,
Because I was so completely enamored,
By my new online friend, the thesaurus,
Oh it didn’t end.
A sentence here, I’d find a new word,
A comma there, I’d find a new word,
On my mind,
And before I would look it up, look up,
A paragraph there,
I would look up a word,
A comma, a question mark, an ellipsis, a hyphen,
I would look up a word,
And in between I would siphon,
The thoughts from my head,
And then onto the page,
I would look up a word,
No, none of it mattered,
And before I knew it,
The time had come,
Fourteen synonyms per paragraph, a crime,
Oh, I couldn’t know the reason,
It was just there for me
Like the seasons
That come every year,
For better or worse, early or late,
I found my answers to date,
On my online thesaurus.
MICHAEL
I see, Tom. Well, then. I hope you brought your notebook this morning.
To Be Continued …
