06-07-2014, 08:37 PM
You, in the back, tell us about yourself. Hello? You, in the back... Hello?
But no one's home. It's Tuesday, June 3rd, 2014. The scene opens in the basement of the First Baptist Church in Dorchester, Massachusetts. It's a small, warmly lit room with white walls and a smoky red carpet. Concrete pillars hold up the ceiling and are scattered throughout the room. Considering the meeting that happens to be taking place at the moment, all religious symbols have been removed, replaced with pictures of grassy knolls, rainbows, and other bits of secular imagery.
The middle of the room contains 20 less than stable wooden chairs, each filled with the butt of a recovering alcoholic. The average age of the participants looks to be late 30s to early 40s, but the range of personalities is incredibly varied. There's a Puerto Rican woman in her late 40s with cracked skin and a bald head, a young white man in his 20s in his Dunkin' Donuts uniform picking at his left nipple, and someone who looks like a child, in all honesty.
And then there's Tony Santos. Not a fan of crowds, Tony refused to take a chair when offered, and instead sat himself up against one of the concrete pillars in the back of the room. To this point in the meeting, Tony has refused to not only talk to any of the other participants, but to even acknowledge their existence with the slightest of glances. He instead can be seen playing with his near empty pack of Marlboro Black 100s, his yellow fingernails greatly contrasting against the white end of the cigarette filters.
Sir, did you hear me?
Oh, he heard her. He most definitely heard the woman running this meeting. Her name is... well, that's not important in the here and now.
Sir? Please tell the group a little bit about yourself.
Oh, that smile. That fucking smile. That tone. That god awful tone. He could picture the former just by hearing the latter. And fuck happiness. Yup, that's all Tony could think. Fuck happiness.
Santos: You wanna know about me, huh?
Tony looks up to see the leader of the meeting nodding her head, a modest smile planted on her face. Tony scowls at her.
Santos: Sullivan.
The woman's smile fades.
Oh, sir... you're supposed to tell us your last n...
Santos: It's my first fucking name. Sullivan... let's say my last name starts with a T. Yeah, we'll just leave it at that.
Tony plants a smile on his face, presses his right thumb against his right hand, and bends his fingers in at a 45-degree angle. His head rotates around the group, his wrist also rotating, as he gives his best impression of a newly crowned Miss America waving in appreciation to her adoring fans.
Santos: Hi everyone! My name is Sullivan! And guess what folks! I'm an alcoholic! A dirty, disgusting, piss stain on humanity. A man who, at the age of 26, has a liver that probably looks like a god damn prune.
Our host smiles uncomfortably as she clasps her hands in to her lap. This woman is a young, early 20s girl who likely has no experience in counseling or with alcoholism. Hell, from looking at her, she likely hasn't ever had a sip of alcohol in her short life. Rather, from looking at her conservative dress, tidy, brown hair rolled up in to a bun, and innocent smile, she's likely nothing more than a church volunteer and good Samaritan. How does some girl practically pulled off of the street get to lead a group of recovering alcoholics?
Because this is freaking Dorchester, Massachusetts.
Well, thank you...
Santos: No, no, hold up for a second here. What's your name, and how the hell did you get to be the leader of all these degenerates?
The woman points to the name tag over her left breast.
Sullivan, my name is Tiffany. I currently...
Tony raises his hand, letting out a yelp to cut her off.
Santos: Never mind... don't care. Here's what I do care about. Booze, and lots of it. It makes an otherwise mundane day interesting. It sure as hell beats sitting in a room with a bunch of idiots drinking fruit juice, talking about our issues with the one thing that actually resolves those issues, and patting each other on the back for being such sad pieces of waste that we can't have one drink without breaking our ankles falling so hard off of the wagon.
And here's another thing that I care about: not sitting in a god damn church that houses a bunch of other, desperate and helpless pieces of shit who need a crutch. Willfully ignorant shitbags who happily believe that talking to God isn't actually them talking to themselves in a fucking empty room. Shit, give them some booze... hell, tell them that God requires that they get piss drunk every 12 hours. They'll be too poor to fund the Christian cash cow, have too few brain cells to remember what a god is, and probably die of Cirrhosis soon thereafter.
Delusional fools. I'm digging through trash cans for a half-drank bottle of Magic Hat #9.
With that, Tony gets up, pulls a cigarette out of his pocket, and lights it. He walks through the opening to the stairwell and turns the corner, leaving everyone's sight.
Santos: Fifteen packs, motherfuckers!
The other participants sit quietly in the circle of chairs. They look at one another, then over at Tiffany. Dumbfounded, the folks in the room aren't sure exactly what to do next. The Puerto Rican woman has fallen asleep, and the kid with his Dunkin' Donuts uniform on just sits still, texting. Tiffany looks around the room, then clears her throat.
Tiffany: Thanks for coming, Sullivan! Everyone, please give our new friend Sullivan a hardy welcome!
The room roars in unison...
Welcome, Sullivan!
Santos: Morons.
The scene fades to black.
But no one's home. It's Tuesday, June 3rd, 2014. The scene opens in the basement of the First Baptist Church in Dorchester, Massachusetts. It's a small, warmly lit room with white walls and a smoky red carpet. Concrete pillars hold up the ceiling and are scattered throughout the room. Considering the meeting that happens to be taking place at the moment, all religious symbols have been removed, replaced with pictures of grassy knolls, rainbows, and other bits of secular imagery.
The middle of the room contains 20 less than stable wooden chairs, each filled with the butt of a recovering alcoholic. The average age of the participants looks to be late 30s to early 40s, but the range of personalities is incredibly varied. There's a Puerto Rican woman in her late 40s with cracked skin and a bald head, a young white man in his 20s in his Dunkin' Donuts uniform picking at his left nipple, and someone who looks like a child, in all honesty.
And then there's Tony Santos. Not a fan of crowds, Tony refused to take a chair when offered, and instead sat himself up against one of the concrete pillars in the back of the room. To this point in the meeting, Tony has refused to not only talk to any of the other participants, but to even acknowledge their existence with the slightest of glances. He instead can be seen playing with his near empty pack of Marlboro Black 100s, his yellow fingernails greatly contrasting against the white end of the cigarette filters.
Sir, did you hear me?
Oh, he heard her. He most definitely heard the woman running this meeting. Her name is... well, that's not important in the here and now.
Sir? Please tell the group a little bit about yourself.
Oh, that smile. That fucking smile. That tone. That god awful tone. He could picture the former just by hearing the latter. And fuck happiness. Yup, that's all Tony could think. Fuck happiness.
Santos: You wanna know about me, huh?
Tony looks up to see the leader of the meeting nodding her head, a modest smile planted on her face. Tony scowls at her.
Santos: Sullivan.
The woman's smile fades.
Oh, sir... you're supposed to tell us your last n...
Santos: It's my first fucking name. Sullivan... let's say my last name starts with a T. Yeah, we'll just leave it at that.
Tony plants a smile on his face, presses his right thumb against his right hand, and bends his fingers in at a 45-degree angle. His head rotates around the group, his wrist also rotating, as he gives his best impression of a newly crowned Miss America waving in appreciation to her adoring fans.
Santos: Hi everyone! My name is Sullivan! And guess what folks! I'm an alcoholic! A dirty, disgusting, piss stain on humanity. A man who, at the age of 26, has a liver that probably looks like a god damn prune.
Our host smiles uncomfortably as she clasps her hands in to her lap. This woman is a young, early 20s girl who likely has no experience in counseling or with alcoholism. Hell, from looking at her, she likely hasn't ever had a sip of alcohol in her short life. Rather, from looking at her conservative dress, tidy, brown hair rolled up in to a bun, and innocent smile, she's likely nothing more than a church volunteer and good Samaritan. How does some girl practically pulled off of the street get to lead a group of recovering alcoholics?
Because this is freaking Dorchester, Massachusetts.
Well, thank you...
Santos: No, no, hold up for a second here. What's your name, and how the hell did you get to be the leader of all these degenerates?
The woman points to the name tag over her left breast.
Sullivan, my name is Tiffany. I currently...
Tony raises his hand, letting out a yelp to cut her off.
Santos: Never mind... don't care. Here's what I do care about. Booze, and lots of it. It makes an otherwise mundane day interesting. It sure as hell beats sitting in a room with a bunch of idiots drinking fruit juice, talking about our issues with the one thing that actually resolves those issues, and patting each other on the back for being such sad pieces of waste that we can't have one drink without breaking our ankles falling so hard off of the wagon.
And here's another thing that I care about: not sitting in a god damn church that houses a bunch of other, desperate and helpless pieces of shit who need a crutch. Willfully ignorant shitbags who happily believe that talking to God isn't actually them talking to themselves in a fucking empty room. Shit, give them some booze... hell, tell them that God requires that they get piss drunk every 12 hours. They'll be too poor to fund the Christian cash cow, have too few brain cells to remember what a god is, and probably die of Cirrhosis soon thereafter.
Delusional fools. I'm digging through trash cans for a half-drank bottle of Magic Hat #9.
With that, Tony gets up, pulls a cigarette out of his pocket, and lights it. He walks through the opening to the stairwell and turns the corner, leaving everyone's sight.
Santos: Fifteen packs, motherfuckers!
The other participants sit quietly in the circle of chairs. They look at one another, then over at Tiffany. Dumbfounded, the folks in the room aren't sure exactly what to do next. The Puerto Rican woman has fallen asleep, and the kid with his Dunkin' Donuts uniform on just sits still, texting. Tiffany looks around the room, then clears her throat.
Tiffany: Thanks for coming, Sullivan! Everyone, please give our new friend Sullivan a hardy welcome!
The room roars in unison...
Welcome, Sullivan!
Santos: Morons.
The scene fades to black.