Place: Grand Strand Frosty Ice Plant
Time: 2000

Cast:
Narrator
Cooterhead Biggums, owner of ice plant
Fineas Biggums, relative of Cooterhead
Fahrenheit
Reginald Foggbottom, political candidate
Arnie: Reggie’s assistant
Grown Lois Beetsman, town gossip
Young Lois Beetsman
Teacher
10 school kids
Peter Griss, high school senior, ice plant worker
Helen Tooters, D.A.R. leader and Sunday School chairman
Melony Faber, Peter’s sweetheart
Schoofer Warren, janitor
 

(The stage is split in half by a vertical wall. Dry ice smoke curls from beneath a large door on the right side of the stage, the entrance to an ice plant storage freezer chamber as the lights go up about a quarter as the curtain rises and action begins. After 20 seconds, the faint sound of The Tams “Be Young, Be Foolish, Be Happy,” become louder on the stage. On the left is a desk, a window on the back set facing the audience, a peach crate on the floor, a phone on the desk, a swivel chair behind the desk. The lights brighten a little as you hear footsteps off stage. The storage door is ajar, left open, leaking the smoke. From stage left, an older gentleman walks slowly, right hand in pocket, jingling keys, yawning. He sniffs around the office, checking the desk drawers, checking the phone messages, then noticing the door is open. There is a sign over the window, “Grand Strand Frosty Ice Factory.” The older gentleman has set his boom box down on the desk. A clock on the wall is set at 5:30 a.m.)

Schoofer Warren mumbling after 15 seconds onstage, opening drawers, shutting them:

Schoofer: “Nobody ever shuts down this place right anymore! They’re always leaving it to this old geezer to clean up their mess, durn it! Left this door open, rats! For 45 years I’ve been straightening up this cauldron of frost like an idiot, and what good does it do me? Can’t pay my deductible at MUSC! Wife’s sick with cancer! Nobody cares! All I have time to do is to get here before the crack of dawn and work my tail end off! Six sorry dollars an hour! How can you feed a household on that? I better not complain. Bossman might left me go.”

Schoofer continues sweeping, and the lights dim, as a spotlight illuminates the narrator pm the right side of the stage. Schoofer is a 55-60-ish man in pennyloafers, a white banlon shirt, khaki trousers, a gold watch, slicked back hair. He appears to be chewing tobacco and uses a spittoon. He has a limp.

On the right side of the stage in the ice locker, a light brightens to less than half its optimum, illuminating the narrator. Dressed in a tux, he is in his 30’s to 40’s and has sullen, darkened eyes, white pallor of the skin and a top hat. As he comes into light, you notice his arms are outstretched straight to the side, not moving until his head rises from staring down and he slowly drops them.
 

Narrator: “Welcome to South Carolina’s most unappreciated ice plant, Grand Strand Frosty Ice Plant, a semi-successful entrepreneurship which was founded in 1921 and has been producing the most deliciously wet, crystallized ice known to man. Oh, excuse me. Allow me to introduce myself. (Coughing from dust) My name is Fineas T. Biggums. With a silver dollar and a stroke of luck as wide as the Waccamaw River, I built this warehouse outside Murrells Inlet, many years ago when times were tight, the river was muddy a coffee and there was still rice growing around here.”

Schoofer turns down the radio, humming, doing a little dance step and continuing sweeping, straightening up furniture, books on a bookcase and dusting.

Narrator (checking his pocket watch): “That’s my main man, Schoofer Warren. He’s an alcoholic in the strictest Palmetto sense of the word. When the clock strikes 10 a.m., he’s already killed a green bottle of wine, and he is very intoxicated by the time your local television news stations have finished their 11 o’clock newscast with weather. Schoofer may be snoozing at that point, but he’s a good man, and he’s never been late for work in the 45 years he’s worked for minimum wage. He’s got a son who’s a doctor, and his wife, Hannah, is going to pass away last year from a stroke because of her cancer. They used to sleep on one of those queen-size sheets until they got separate beds in different bedrooms watching two different TV shows on two different sets. One watches the news on ABC, the other ‘Diagnosis Murder.’ They still use rabbit ears. But that’s so boring to you. All of you have come here tonight to find out what’s going to happen this evening, an occurrence which will change many lives here in Murrells Inlet. I don’t blame you. You’ve had a long day, punching a clock like old Schoofer here.”

Scoofer pulls out a red handkerchief, wiping his brow, pulling out a flask, taking a look in both directions, slyly, slowly, and pressing the metal to his lips quickly, turning the liquor container up fast for four long gulps. He belches very loudly, looking both ways before pocketing his treasure.

Schoofer: “Man that tastes good. Won’t be long before old leadbelly gets here, that tight old rooster. He’s tighter than a tick with his money. If it weren’t for my dollar coffee I sell here, I wouldn’t have any lunch money to order from Domino’s at lunch. My stomach’s killing me.”

Returning to his sweeping, he dances a jig to the continuing beach music, and continues.

Narrator: “He’s going to need female companionship in about 10 months. We all need that. Where was I? Oh yes. Your boss has been haranguing you all day, complaining about the small amount of windfall he gets from your work and how you take long lunches. If he says another word, you feel like stealing from the kitty to get your keep or mouthing off, not enough to get fired for, but enough to get a written warning. Warnings stink. It’s usually three, the trinity. Something religious about that number. Take your shoes off. Relax. Don’t worry about the smell. I have stinky feet too. You’ll like our town. You want to escape worse than the most dangerous criminal on Alcatraz. Everybody has stinky feet here, and nobody cares. One foot washes the other. The biggest news this year was the five car fatality on U.S. 17, bringing the year-end total of highway deaths to well over what the Protestant churches wanna have to pray over every Sunday. It’s still a small-town atmosphere here. You might see Mickey Spillane at Flo’s. The newspaper is full of lies. The only place to escape is the beach or underneath your bedsheet. Everybody knows everyone and some people know your business better than you do. You won’t find any video poker machines in here, no sir. My son is running a clean business. There’s nothing like the smell of that wet brown paper sack after Scoofer has filled it to the brim, flowing over with steaming, fresh ice. Nothing like fresh ice.”

Schoofer opens the door connecting the office with the ice cooler room’s entrance, jingling a large set of keys. He almost trips over a plank, uttering an incoherent curse which is indecipherable, and when he turns, he reaches up pulling a string, turning on a 40-watt lightbult dangling. He notices the open door, jumps and shuts it quickly with force. The stagelight is extinguished in the right side of the stage.

A car horn is heard offstage. Then the taped sound of a car gunning it loudly, three times, puttering, then the engine is killed. Car door slams. Foot stomps denote somebody’s coming up to the company door.

Cooterhead Biggums is dressed in a seersucker suit, dark tie, winged tie two-tone shoes and a straw hat, wide brim, an old-fashioned hat. He tosses it on a hat rack from a short distance after reaching to switch on the office light. He is in his 50s.

“Another day, another dollar. Man, 13 messages. That’s a record!” Coughing, Biggums spits in a spittoon, lighting up an herbal cigarette, hitting the recall button. He reaches in a drawer and pulls out a Confederate flag, putting it in a holder on his desk and saluting it.

“You have 13 messages, First Message!” (Male voice.)

“Hello? Hello?” (Female voice.) “Anybody there?”

Biggums laughs, coughing, turning through his Rolodex, sitting back, putting his feet up on the desk, hands behind his head.

“Cooterhead, this is Helen Tooters. We wanted you to make a contribution for the veterans’ gravestones out at Fountainhead Cemetery. Won’t be more than $100, if you can spare it? I know we hit you up last year. I’ll be down there about 9. Dig deep, like the Christian I know your maw raised you to be at First Baptist.”

“Second message, sent at 7 p.m. Friday.”

Biggums sits up, leaning toward the phone, ear close to the speaker, hand cupped to hear better. He adjusts his hearing aid and gets a tray of ice out of the fridge, cracking them into a large clear pitcher of ice tea, pouring himself a glass.

(A young man’s voice, 20s, or teens) “Cooter, I’m going to be a little late in the morning. Got a party in Cherry Grove, killer. Hope you got your invitation. I want a good gift now. Later.”

“That Peter Griss! Who am I going to get to chip the ice until he gets here? Durn it! He ain’t worth a cuss. Sorry Jasper! I can’t wait until he’s history. He’ll wish he never did it.”

“Third message, sent 8 p.m., Friday.”

“When are you coming home, honey? I have some collards cooking, your favorite. Bring home a gallon of sweet milk, the cheap brand, and maybe I’ll give you a foot rub. Bye.”

Biggums smiles, leans back, kicking feet up again, taking a drag.

“He’ll wish he’d never done it. Oh! What a life! Saving a bundle on taxes this year with a beach house write-off...the smell of freshly chipped ice, smells like money to me! I need to call my lawyer about this deed. Nobody appreciates management. I’m the one who has to worry about OSHA. I’m the one who has to worry about the stock market.”

“Four message, sent 9:10 p.m, Friday.”

“Willie Freighter here. I ought to get there Monday morning around 5 a.m. with the shipment. I’ll leave the pallet in the lefthand bay. Invoice will be in the top bag. Have a good holiday! 10-4. Over and out on the flip-flop.”

Biggums: “Good. We’re down to our last bundle. If there’s a rush, I don’t know what we’ll put the ice in.”

Biggums shuts the machine off. Lights extinguish on left side of the stage, going up slowly on the right side, illuminating Schoofer still sweeping near the freezer, coughing, scratching rear and jiggling the freezer locker door, jerking it hard to open it.

Schoofer: “That’s funny. That’s the second time this week that door’s messed up. Something must be wrong with it. Ain’t ever done that before. Must need a new lock. I’ll have to tell Mr. Big about it.”

Schoofer walks in the cooler, rubbing his hands together, putting on the large gloves and stretching his arms. Grabbing a two-handed grappler hook, he hooks a largeice block, painted white, and about three feet square, pulling it off a stack of two and dropping it on the floor with a sound effect off stage. He pulls a sharp ice pick from his belt, placing his left hand on the block and starting to chisel a straight line down the middle, carving it in half.

Schoofer: “Whooh! Must be zero in here today! Somebody messed with the thermostat again. If Mr. B sees that, he’ll flip his lid.”

The right stage light goes out, the left light getting brighter as Biggums is counting money, licking his thumbs, peeling off bills into a change box.

Biggums: “A hundred-fifty, two hundred....It’s been so slow this season. Durned tourists must be using the fridges. If that electric bill doesn’t go down this month, I’m going to have to shut down.”
 

Reginald Foggbottom enters waving a small American flag and handing out buttons. A supporter, dressed in a tie and coat, white athletic socks, carries a sign, “Elect Reggie!” Reggie has a Southern accent and a political consultant, Arnie, dressed in a WWF T-shirt of The Rock and jeans with boots and a suitcase.
 
 

Helen Tooters, head of the local chapter of the D.A.R., an elderly woman, enters as the bell on the door jingles. She’s dressed up like it’s Sunday, picking at her rear garments, tugging the shirt down and wiggling, popping her head back, like an aristocrat. There are six church members with her, all with Bibles and dressed up.

Helen: “Yoo-hoo! Anyone home? Well iron my shirt! If it ain’t the devil himself.”

Reginald: “Excuse me, you old hag. Do I know you? Aren’t you the wife of the former political party leader? I thought I smelled something.”

Helen: “Pardon me, but I don’t pass the time of day with independent candidates.”

Biggums: “You saw me on the second row last Sunday, Miss Tooters, and you know it, sure as my hunting dog can skin a tree. I’m an angel. You’ve got me all wrong. Why can’t you call me Cooterhead like everybody else, woman?”

Helen: “Mr. Luther Oscar Freeman Biggums III! I’ve known you since you were stealing hubcaps on the waterfront when you were 14 years old! How many grandchildren are you loafing off of now? They probably can’t stand you. You still got that blonde over in Horry County...or....”

Biggums: “Ah, how much do you want, rather, need, good Miss Tooters, you good-looking old broad? God bless you, ma’am! I am so happy to the Lord that you graced our doorway this fine sunny morning.”

Helen: “Give till it hurts, Luther. That’s it.”

Biggums pulls out his wallet, checking it for cash and finding one, so he writes out a check.

Helen (accepting the check and putting on her reading glasses to read it up close): “Two hundred dollars? Sakes alive! You feeling all right, son?”

Biggums: “I feel perfectly super, now if you can beat it, maybe we can get some business around here. I’ve got extra cash because my accident insurance just ran out and I have some premium money left over. I’m gonna re-up it next week. Have a ball! Save some sinners.”

Helen (sniffing a snoot, nose in the air, turning on her heel): “Well I never! That’s the last time you will see me in this den of iniquity, old man! I know what you used to sell out of that refrigerator years ago.” The church members sniff, turning noses heavenward.

Biggums: “You better hush woman, before you pull back a stump.”

The door slams before she can open the door for the crew to file out, Reginald pipes up, taking his hat off.

Reginald: “Farewell, Miss La-Dee-Dah! Hello all! I suppose you-uns have heard my commercials on the radio station. That’s the AM Myrtle Beach station. I done got $1,000 raised since I filed two weeks ago, and we’ve only got three months until the election. Who’s gonna vote for me?”

Biggums: “Not me, you carpetbagging scoundrel! How much do you owe me from that poker game last year?”

Reginald: “I wish you hadn’t brought that up. I believe you beat me with a full house. Was it a hundred?”

Biggums: Are you trying to roll me? It’s more like $200.”

Reginald: “You look like you’re serious? Are you sandbagging me? I’ll just take it off your campaign contribution, and we’ll call it even.”

Reggie laughs. Biggums is frowning, tapping the table, looking at the ceiling, rocking.

Reginald: “Now my platform includes annexing your cold establishment into the zoning district which I know you want to enter. How long have you been in this zone, Biggie?”

Biggums: “Ten durned years, you flatfoot. Who dresses you? Your grandmother? Wide ties went out in the 1970s. I bet you’ve got something to do when them developing the mess out of Myrtle Beach. Join the Sierra Club, mate! Got time for a quick game? Double or nothing.”

Reginald: “You sure you won’t sell me this fleabag water trap? You’re never going to pay off that mortgage. You know, one day the Democrats and Republicans are going to wise up to you and realize you are loyal to nobody.”
Biggums: “You know that’s paid. I ain’t gonna never sell this place. It’s in the family, and what’s more is that it’s a moneymaker. Accident-free for 20 years.”

Reginald: “Tell that to Joe Baker, your accountant downtown, dreamer. Look at this place. (Looking around, arms akimbo, raising to a V.) Paint’s peelin.’ Floor’s rotting. When was the last accident? Was that when you stabbed your index finger?”

Arnie: “You tell them, Reggie.” Slapping Reggie on the back as Reggie pops him with his hat on the head.

Biggums: “I didn’t mean to do that. That was when I was drinking. My wife has gotten me off that stuff. I never would have....”

Reginald: “Get that, Arnie?”

Arnie: “Yeah, Chief.”

Reginald: “What about you, Biggums?”

Biggums: “I’d vote for you absentee, if I could, Reggie. You can count on me. I’ll be in town that Tuesday. Hey, when’s the last time you gave us a donation at the Elks Lodge for the children’s fund?”

Reginald: “You old ripper! How much you need? I can spare $100. Have got any change? Can I write you a check?”

Biggums: “Bribes already, huh? What some people won’t do!”

Bell jingles. Pizza boys enters. Shorts, sunglasses, flip-flops, Myrtle Beach T-shirt.

Pizza boy: “Is there a Mr. Bigot here?”

Biggums: “That’s Biggums. Just lay it on the desk. How much do I owe you, son?”

Pizza boy: “First of all, my name’s not son. You’ve known me all my life, Mr. Biggums, and you can call me anything you want if it ain’t something bad.”

Boy stands for 30 seconds, tapping right fund, placing all weight on left, holding his hand out as Biggums pages Schoofer on the intercom for his morning meal. The boy coughs, three times, loudly the last time.

Biggums: “Do I look like I’m made of money? I don’t pay tips.”

Boy: “You’re a skinflint.”

Biggums: (Adjusting his hearing aid) “What did you say to me boy? You’re going to regret that! I gotta tip for you! Don’t play on U.S. 17!”

The boys exits, sticking the check in his bag, slamming the door.

Biggums: “When is that Griss gonna get here? I haven’t got all....”

Peter Griss, Biggums’ youngest employee, enters, dressed in overalls, a white T-shirt and hunting waders.

Peter: “Sorry boss! I didn’t mean to be that late. I thought the party was getting over at 2 p.m.”

Biggums: “Son. For the next 60-some years, you’re going to be saddled with a mortgage, rising weeds, a broken weedeater, a wife who will never get as old-looking as you do and who will probably outlive you and your life insurance policy. When you get married next week, we’re all going to laugh at you. At least I will. You’re a loser. No sense at all. Like a foaming yard dog. Why don’t you wise up and go to technical college instead of moving out West?”

Peter: “That’s not a bad idea. I’ll love Melony Faber until the day I drop dead, and there’s no two ways about it. You know that, chief! (pulling up his drooping overalls, turning to reveal a huge hole and red drawers beneath them in the back.)”

Biggums: “Why don’t you show some dignity, young man and pull your drawers up. I can almost see the crack of dawn! Nobody around an ice house wants to see a man’s fanny. It’s the last thing in the world I wanna see. We have to set some decorum around this office, and that just ain’t getting it. Did you go to the Monica Lewinsky School of Etiquette” or something?”

Peter: “No sir. Sorry sir. It won’t happen again. You been on the Internet again in the Methodist chat room?”

Pulling his straps up, they fall back down again as he shakes his head, dropping a sack full of school books on the desk.

Biggums: “Why don’t you go in there and chop some ice up? You and old slew foot can gab some, telling the Ghost of the Hermitage until you get bored. You mamma’s banana sandwich is going to taste good after you break a sweat and earn your keep. High school seniors...humbug!”

Biggums turns on the TV set, adjusting the rabbit ears, plugging in a tape showing a Tae Bo show infomercial. He sits back down, enthralled. VCR taped Judge Judy show could be played like it was live taped TV.

Biggums: “Ah! My favorite show. I can’t wait for Judge Judy, that sexy looking hot thang! I’d like to get on that show.”

All stage lights darken. When the lights come back up on both sides, Peter is chopping ice still with Schoofer on the right and Biggums has fallen asleep in his chair. His wall clock now reads noon. The door slams shut as Lois Beetsman, the town gossip, walks in, legs bowed, hands on hips with a long pocketbook strapped to her side. She wears a polka-dotted or rather cheap dress, ruge, heavy makeup, pearls on the wrist and neck, a hat with a feather and shiny shoes. She’s around 55 years of age.

Lois: “Now you didn’t hear this from me, Mr. Biggums, but.....”

Biggums: “I don’t want to hear it, Lois! I’ve already heard. Preacher Wyndam had an interview at another church. I know it. Bessie Sanford told me at the Rotary meeting.”

Lois (fumbling around in her pocketbook): “No. That’s not it, you silly twit! I just heard the latest on widow Parkins. She’s got bladder cancer. Rupert Messer’s wife told me last night at the D.A.R. meeting.”

Biggums (standing, picking his trouser’s rear, sitting back down): “You don’t say. Lois, you hear gossip quicker than a flea passes a vapor. What are you wanting today? I haven’t got time for your diarrhea of the mouth today. Whazzup?”

Lois: “Nothing, you boring waste of human flesh! If you didn’t have that good wife of your’s taking care of you, you wouldn’t last the week. Are you still checking your blood pressure?”

Biggums (pointing at the door): “I need to now unless you don’t leave this office. I have work to do.”

Lois: “You ain’t working. You’re on that computer, messing around with that X-rated sinful trash on the Internet, I know! Soon as I leave here, you’re going to be chatting with some 400-pound truck driver from Wazoo City, Mississippi. You better be at church Sunday morning. You should have eaten breakfast this morning. You look pale. That’s what you get when you don’t eat eggs.”

Biggums: “Don’t gossip about me around this lowdown town! I ain’t never eaten an egg in my life, woman! Anything that comes out of a chicken’s rear end, I don’t want to have nothing to do with! I don’t need you preaching at me. Why don’t you go out to Alice’s grave and walk around until you get plumb dizzy?”

Lois: “I’ll leave you with this one, killjoy. Why are the wisemen like firemen?”

Biggums: “Pass. I have no idea. You’ve got me. How come?”

Lois: “They just came from afar...get it?” She laughs, cackling, hand over mouth, bending over. Biggums stare at her, angry, lips pursed, pulling out a paddleball, whacking it.

Reggie shakes his head.

Reggie: “Man alive! You oughta throw her in the cooler, man.”

Biggums: “Sugarfoot, did you know that hypothermia usually starts when your body’s temp gets lower than 96 degrees Fahrenheit? (Sneezes.)

Reggie: “Bless you. No, can’t say I did.”

Biggums: “That’s not funny. You remember what happened to that couple hiking on the Appalachian Trail near Asheville, North Carolina last winter?”

Reggie (sitting down): “Yeah. Stiff. I’d hate to go like that.”

Biggums: “It’s not bad, believe me. I’ve read up on it. You know something’s up when your heartbeat starts messing up with an irregular pattern. The brain is your thermostat, like a Carrier unit on your shoulders. Your spinal cord, nerves, endocrine system, your skin and even your muscles and blood vessels receive these radio transmissions from it with reactions to cold. Shivering is good because it hikes your surface heat by 500 percent.”

Reggie: “Warms you up, huh?”

Biggums: “Sort of. Watch out when your speech starts slurring though or your breathing gets shallow. You get a weak pulse and low blood pressure.”

Reggie: “Sounds like the way I felt during the political debates were televised. I get that way at the IMAX Theatre.”

Biggums: “Your get confused, sleepy. A blanket can help, but for gosh sakes, don’t rub the skin. That’s the last thing you want to do.”

Reggie: “Why?”

Biggums: “It’s a common error when a person rescuing somebody reaches them. It can make it worse. When your body’s temp gets lower than 90, that’s when it’s time to worry, and when it gets to between 80 and 90, there may be lasting damage. It’s curtains if you get under 80. You can’t depend on the old hypothalamus anymore.”

Reggie: “The what?”

Biggums: “Dummy. It’s the part of the brain that regulates the temperature Your muscle glycogen burns off, and the shivering finally stops. It’s Katy-bar-the-door then. They usually ball up like the Rev. Jim Bakker in a fetal position to save heat. The CO2 and lactic builds up in the muscles, and the blood flow gets slower with your muscles getting rigid.”

Reggie: “Reckon you’re getting pale by then?”

Biggums: “Yeah, your pupils dilate. It’s a metabolic slide. Cardiac arrhythmia. Your tissue is starts to freeze inside your cells where ice crystals form. Fluids are freezing with more salts coming into the cell, hence a propensity for rupture with blisters. That’s why it’s bad to rub somebody because you may damage cells, and if the ice melts, more salts damage the membranes. Ice, same stuff you use in iced tea. The last death on earth you’d ever want to choose would be by fire, and by the good Lord’s grace, the best one would be, now notice I mean the least painful, would be by freezing to death.”

Reggie: “You’re mad. I’d never want to freeze to death. No way!”

Biggums: “You know that there is ice on the moon? They didn’t just decide on using 32 degrees for the freezing point of water and 212 degrees for the water you pop your Celestial Seasonings into. The thermometer was created by using an equal salt and ice mix for zero degrees and 100 degrees was going to be your normal body temp. See? There was a little mix-up in the scientific guesswork, so later the smart guys and gals moved it to 98.6.”

Reggie (scratching his head): “Don’t say? You always keep that air conditioning on so high? You could hang meat in here.” The lights on the left side of the stage go out, and the right side’s go up. Melony is knocking at the ice locker door and her boyfriend, Peter, inside opens it up as she steps in, hugging him. She’s dressed in a short skirt, white socks and black shoes with a low-cut top.

Melony: “It’s cold in here like in our attic. I’m scared. I don’t like this place.”

Peter: “I’m so glad you came. Hey, it’s perfectly safe. You haven’t got anything to be worried about. This is like my second home. It’s like a winter wonderland. Remember that snow last year when the beach was covered?”

Melony: “Yeah. I went down to Pawleys Island and took some pictures. It melted pretty quick. Can we go to Shoney’s tonight?”

Peter: “Ryan’s Steakhouse sounds good to me. I know. That was the quickest snow I’ve ever seen. My mamma and daddy built a snowman with me and my little brother.”

Melony: “Did Billy help? He’s too little to throw a snowball.”

Peter: “Yeah. Wanna wear my coat? I gotta do some work while we’re in here. It’s almost 5 o’clock, and everybody will be leaving soon.”

Melony: “Thanks. Mmmm! That’s warm. Feels a little better. This reminds me of the Georgetown boardwalk on my birthday last December.”

Peter (returns to chipping ice with the ice pick): “Yeah. Didn’t think we’d come this far, did ya? I saved a lot of money for that rock.”

Melony: “It’s so beautiful. Doris gave me a really hard time, comparing it to her’s. She got her’s from a second-hand store.”

Peter: “That’s better than nothing. At least it wasn’t hot.”

Melony: “I bet it was. I love this ring. Remember what you said to me that night?”

(Pulling out his wallet, he retrieves a wrinked piece of paper.)

Peter: “Sure do.”

Melony: “You still have it? I’ll be switched. I told my friends you probably lost it.”

Peter: “Your skin is velvet, my heart is entwined with your warmth, as we make a journey through time, I make this request with all my love to you. I hope you’ll never forget this moment, your warm hand in mind, a squeeze, a kiss, the day we met at The Pavilion.”

Melony: “That’s so sweet. I love you.” (Big hug, short kiss, back to chopping ice.) Do you ever wonder what it would be like to never have been born?”

Peter: “What? You’re kidding, right? Whazzup? What’s the matter with you? Is the cold getting to you?”

Melony: “What if we had never met? We wouldn’t be getting married. All that money we’ve put down, the tickets to Disney World, the down payment on a trailer. And, you know....” (He looks up at her, continues chopping)

Peter: “That’s crazy talk. You must believe in that stuff, what is it? Pre...procrastination.”

Melony: “Predestination. Yeah. We were meant for each other. It was a match made in
heaven.”

Peter: “That’s right. That’s the way I feel about it.”

Melony: “Then why don’t you promise me we’ll go to church at my church?”

Peter: “We’ve talked about that, honey. You know I watch the game with the guys on Sundays. We’ll end up going to church one day. I get claustrophobic in church. That’s why I don’t go to funerals.”

Melony: “I always told my mamma I’d go back to church when I got married and had a child. Things don’t always work out the way you thought they would when you were little.”

Peter: “Ain’t that the truth! Has you mamma been after you again? She hates me, I know it. That DUI did it last year.”

Melony (sniffing): “Have you been drinking today? I thought I smelled something on you.”

Peter: “No. (long pause) Well, me and Doug had a snort on the way over here.”

Melony: “Liquor or beer? Smells like liquor. You know how much I hate you doing that.”

Peter: “Ah, well, (stammering), it was bourbon.”

Melony (shaking her head): “I hope you’re not drinking on the day we get married. I’ll never forgive you. You know, they say you can’t change who you get married to. I daydream of us, and I can’t shake the feeling you’ll be an alcoholic glued to the TV tube with a bowl of popcorn in your lap while I’m ironing your clothes, being a slave.”

Peter: “Love slave, sweetie. Love slave. I’m thinking about giving up drinking. I could save a lot of money. If I could just quit smoking....” (stops chopping, looks up into space, continues chopping)

The door swings back and forth, left open before they entered. Sounds effects with high wind.

Melony: “Will you ever go to church with me?”

Peter: “You know I ain’t never gone to church, honey.” Long silence. “It ain’t that I don’t believe in the good Lord, you know. My mamma and daddy just never took me. All I remember about Sunday mornin’s was daddy waking up at noon, getting sick, and mamma yelling all day long, making me do chores.”

Melony: “You know it’s a sin to work on the Sabbath. Aren’t you afraid of going to hell?”

Peter: “We learned the good old Southern work ethic real quick in my house. I did the lawn and drove the tractor during harvest and planting season. Daddy worked at the steel mill, and mamma worked for minimum wage at the dollar store. They worked real hard too. We were tired on Sundays. I’ll go with you some day.”

Melony: “I’ll still love you. It ain’t like you’ll drop dead or anything. It won’t kill you to go. It’ll be something we can do together, you and me and....”

Suddenly, the wind blows harder, louder, and the freezer door slams. They both are still, looking at each other, then at the door.

Peter: “Durn! That scared the daylights out of me! Didn’t you close it? That door’s been messed up!” (Jams ice pick into ice, walks to the door, examining it.)

Melony: “No! What do you mean, messed up?”

He goes to the door, grabs the cylinder-shaped round metal handle which is attached flat at the end of a three-foot long metal rod coming out of the door’s handle area. Jiggling it, and pushing it in to open the door, it breaks and falls to the floor, clanging. Both are shivering, standing still, mouths agape.

Peter: “Good gosh! That’s the way out of here! It broke! Right in my hand! I didn’t mean to do it! What’ll we do now?”

Melony: “You’re scaring me! Don’t fool with me! There’s got to be a way to open that door.” Her arms wrap around her, hugging herself, twisting from one side to another, kicking the floor. He’s throwing his weight into the door to no avail. Five times, last time, falling to the floor, holding his face in his gloves.

Peter: “Quick! What time is it?”

Melony: “Six-thirty.” He pounds on the door, yelling.

Peter: “HELP! HELP! Is there anybody out there? HELP!” She joins him, pounding, crying. They finally embrace on the floor.

Melony: “What will we do now?”

Peter: “Everybody’s gone home. It’s payday. Everybody books early to hit the bank on time. It closes at 6 o’clock. We’re in bad shape, honey.”

Melony: “Won’t it unlock? We gotta try everything.”

Peter: “I’ve been after them to fix this durned door all year. I had a funny feeling about it.”

Melony: “Well, somebody will be coming by tomorrow morning.” Long pause. He looks away, kicking the floor. “WON’T THEY?” (Louder, whimpering.)
Peter: “There’s nobody coming here until Monday morning.” (Long pause.)

Melony: “What?!” She starts pounding the door, screaming for help. He turns his back to her.

After she gives up pounding, they sit down against a block of ice.

Melony: “We’ll make it till Monday, honey. Don’t worry. I’ll keep you warm.”

Peter: “Ah, well, there’s only one coat in here. I’m already getting cold. I’ve never worked in here for more than an hour. Bossman says he can’t afford us getting sick and paying us for getting the flu.”

Lights go out. Lights go up on the left side of the stage with a spotlight on the clock. It reads 1. Lights extinguish, come back up and it reads 6. A loud fan goes on in the freezer.

Peter: “Did you sleep?” Melony: “A little. Thanks for waking me up every hour. That exercise got my blood
moving.”

Peter: “I think I’m getting frostbite.”

Melony: “Oh no! Let me rub you, hold on.”

Peter (pulling back): “NO! That’s the last thing you need to do. Bossman told us one time that....”

Melony: “What did he tell you?”

Peter: “You don’t want to know.”

Melony: “We’re going to make it to Monday morning, aren’t we? I’m hungry. That Baby Ruth was all I had.”

Peter: “Well, do you know any good prayers?”

Melony: “I’ve never seen you pray. If you pray with me, I will.”

Both get on their knees, holding each other, trembling.

Peter: “Dear God, please forgive us our sins. I know we don’t deserve your loving grace, but we need your help desperately. Please be with us and comfort us and help us remember the words that brought us grace, ‘Our Father, who are in....”

She punches him.

Melony: “Come on! You know how it goes.”

In unison, they say the verse and by the last of The Lord’s Prayer, he’s crying.

Melony: “Honey, I’ve never seen you cry! It’s gonna be all right! Don’t worry. The Lord’s gonna be with us. Now look at me in the eye. I want to you to accept the Lord Jesus Christ as your Lord and savior. Say it.”

Peter (stammering): “I accept Jesus as my savior, dear God. Forgive me for stealing from the cash register. Forgive me for calling Scotland on the Bossman’s cellular phone until the battery ran out. Forgive me for never going to church. Please forgive me of my sings. Amen. Just don’t fall asleep again, honey. That’s what the Bossman told us. Don’t fall asleep, whatever you do.”

Melony: “How come?”

Peter: “It may be the last time we sleep. You fall asleep and don’t wake up.” Long silence. She cries quietly, pushing him away.

Melony: “You know how I told you I went to the doctor last week?”

Peter: “Yeah. So what? Your stomach was hurting, ulcers.”

Melony: “That’s not why I went. I’ve been meaning to tell you. I just couldn’t get up the nerve.”

Peter: “Tell me what? I’m getting sleepy. Let me put my head inside your jacket.” He goes to sleep as she pats his head, running her fingers through his hair.

Melony: “I can’t tell you, my love. You don’t want to know. You shouldn’t know such things. Nobody should know such horror, especially on a day like this.”

She starts singing one stanza of “Amazing Grace.” Lights go out. Stage left lights in office raise last time, reading 7 p.m. Lights rise on right side. They are both asleep, holding each other.

A figure is illuminated behind them, walking into the audience view from the dark behind them. He is dressed in 1700s garb, black shoes, long white socks, a ruffled shirt and a white fright wig with rosy cheeks. He’s holding something behind his back which you can’t see. Music plays, Dimitri Shostakovich.

Fahrenheit: “Good morning, my sweets. I apologize for failing to appear sooner, but I had a ball to attend. Of course, I invented that circular contraption on your wall. I was born in 1686, May 14th, to be exact. You can call me Gabe. Danny Boy. At your service. Gabriel Daniel Fahrenheit. I passed away in 1736 after a most glorious life, far from the Hard Rock Cafe, Calabash or the Sunset Lodge. I created the alcohol thermometer in 1709 and the mercury one in 1714 about five years later, but in 1724, I figured out the temperature scale you studied in science class during grade school. You know where the Pope is from? That’s my home country too, Poland. I was born in Gdansk and studied, traveling and finally settling in sin city, Amsterdam where I made scientific instruments. Cleaning mercury became easier after I developed a procedure to clean mercury so it wouldn’t stick to the tube. 32 degrees for freezing, or 0 Centigrade, and 212 for boiling, or 100 degrees Centigrade. Slick, huh? You can sleep. I won’t take it personally. September 16 is a special day for me. It was in 1736 the day I passed on in The Hague in the Netherlands.”

He pulls from behind him a large thermometer.

Both are snoring.

“Sleep tight, dearies. You’ll dream of the past while we will tend to the future. Be not afraid for where you tread, many have trod before you. It’s not a lonesome road. There, see in the distance, the light? Don’t be afraid! Clutch tightly to your memories, the ones of your loved ones. The warmth of sleep cloaks your young sensibilities, your frail immature thoughts and weaknesses. At the gate you will drop your worldly possessions and enter the beyond, the afterlife. It’s where we all go in the end with no pretensions about debt, honor, sin, obligation, shortcomings or the ilk. Sleep tight, my dears. The kingdom of God is before you. I’m a man of science, but I can still pray. Forget your existentialism, children. Go to sleep, my precious ones.”

Darkness on the stage as the curtain falls. Ten school age children bring desks or chairs to mid-stage, and a teacher sets a podium up to stage left as they face her. Bright stage lights and the house lights come on as one child on the back row is snoring loudly, muttering. The teacher is mouthing silent words as the girl’s voice rings out.

Girl on back row: “Degrees, minus body heat, ice picks, I’m cold! HELP!” She shrieks at the top of her lungs, as the teacher is mouthing silent words to the children, and her voice cuts through the shriek.

Teacher: “Lois! Lois! Wake up, Lois!” The teacher runs to the child, shaking her, rubbing her head to calm the girl.

Teacher: “What’s the matter, Lois? Bad dream? Were you sleeping? I think we should call your mother to pick you up. You feel awfully cold.”

Lois: “It was a nightmare, Miss Clark! I’ll never sleep in class again! This was the worst dream I have ever had.”

Boy: “Lois, Lois, pocket full of poets!” Taunts are deflected as Lois wipes tears away with her sleeve.

Teacher: “CLASS! Let’s get back to our lesson. Page 78. This is from your textbook in preparation for the test Friday. I want all of your to fare well on this examination, now because it will be a factor in our final report cards which will come out next week.”

Girl: “Ms. Herbert, I’ll read! I’ll read!”

Teacher: (Wiping off an imaginary chalkboard, adjusting her glasses.) “We’ll read the second chapter on our own silently, but first someone tell me why they like the subject of science.”

Boy: “I enjoy it because you are such a good teacher, Miss Clark.” Class laughs in unison, some slapping legs, some clapping.

Teacher: “Henry, what have I told you about kissing up to the teacher? Turn to the first page of this lesson. We’re going to finish up the story of what famous scientist now, class? Let’s all say his name together. One-two....”

Class: Broken unison. “FAHRENHEIT!”

Teacher: “Bless you!”
 

THE END