Full of Fire #1
Part One
Bridgeport, Connecticut was a dumpster fire to begin with, but after the latest recession it sunk to new depths. Crime was up and so was unemployment. The local and state government, whose job it was to keep track of such numbers, gave up on Bridgeport and left its data out of their reports. It was unethical, for sure, but it was all they could do. It seemed as though the city’s residents still hadn’t gotten over the fact that the BF Goodrich Sponge Rubber Mattress Factory in Shelton, a small town twelve miles to the north, had burned down forty-seven years before. That was where people in Bridgeport worked.
Ever since, the residents had been glancing at the help wanted ads in newspapers and online. Some had found work and some hadn’t. No matter, everyone acted as though everything were fine. When passing someone on the sidewalk it was customary to ask, “Is everything incapapalated?” The other person was expected to respond, “Yes. And you?” To which the first person would reply, “Thanks so much for asking. Yes, indeed. Everything is incapapalated.” No one knew what incapapalated even meant; that was just how they spoke in Bridgeport.
While the residents were pretending that everything was fine, Bridgeport was on its last legs. Travelers avoided it entirely, as from a distance it was a scary sight. The truth is, that was nothing. One would have to venture to its locus to truly appreciate the decay. As the Connecticut Office of Tourism liked to say, “Bridgeport: The Further in You Go, the Worser it Gets.”
At the very center of the city there was one particular block in one particular neighborhood that was particularly decrepit. And on that block there was a structure inhabited by a white chubby, middle-aged couple that made the other structures look almost lavish. Al and Sue Preem were their names. They didn’t bother anyone and no one bothered them. In fact, no one knew they existed, until one night when the most unexpected thing happened: they had visitors. As Sue Preem was ironing her husband’s one pair of underwear in the living room, bursting through the unlocked front door was an hysterical woman, followed by her hapless husband.
“BAAAAALLSS!!!” the woman screamed.
“Can I help you?” Sue Preem replied, as shocked as she’d ever been in her entire life.
“I’m sorry,” said the husband. “She got laid off this morning.”
“We all got laid off this morning!” the woman continued. “The Dow hits a bagillion thousand and they lay off the entire fucking company. There were only three of us, but still.”
“I got laid off two weeks ago,” mumbled her husband.
Sue Preem had no idea what to do. This was a “situation,” and she had never dealt with a “situation” before. Besides, she had no idea who this woman was. So, she said the first thing that came into her mind. “So, is everything incapapalated?”
“No!! Everything is NOT incapapalated!!”
“Ok.”
“So, I’m suckin’ hind-tit, right?”
“Huh?”
“So, I go down to the unemployment office, figure Henry Harry fuckin’ Lipton will hook me up — think he hooks me up?”
“Uh . . . no?” replied Sue Preem, looking around frantically for someone to save her. Where the heck is Al when you need him? she thought.
Meanwhile, the woman was on a roll: “Turns out they’d just given him his fuckin’ pink slip … he got laid off …
“I got laid off,” repeated her husband. “Two weeks ago.”
“Henry Harry fuckin’ Lipton got laid off five minutes before I walked in. Of all people. BALLS!”
“I took a bottle of pills,” added the husband. “I was in a coma . . . I just woke up …”
“In fact, they gave everyone at the unemployment office a pink slip. It was only four people, but still.”
“Life’s not fair,” wept the husband. “I’m so depressed. I think I’m dying.”
“Only there’s no unemployment office. They’re movin’ it overseas. Mind if I have an orange? We have no money and no food. Virgil got laid off too.” The woman stormed toward a bowl of rotten oranges sitting on the kitchen counter, peeled one and bit into it violently. Juice ran down her chin. “Balls. Balls. Balls.”
Sue Preem’s mind was racing. She wasn’t sure if she should tell the woman to stay or to leave. She did want to know her name, though, but thought it impolite to ask. So, she opened her mouth and hoped for the best.
“My husband never beats me. That’s one of the things I love about him. He’s very gentle, very sensitive. Delicate. Like a petunia. Sometimes I wonder if he’s gay. Sometimes I wish he would beat me just so I would, you know, know . . . that he wasn’t, you know . . . gay. Gay men never beat their women! In any case, I’m very lucky to have a man like Al. He’s the object of every woman’s desires. He loves me. Truly. He calls me his bitch. Straight-up. He’s somewhere in the house right now. He’s going on the road. He’s the greatest soul singer of all time. I’m not fronting. He’s going to tour the world.”
“At least he’s got a fucking job,” the woman responded.
“I’m going with him. I’m one of his back-up singers. I’m ironing his underwear.”
Al wandered in wearing a wife-beater, a dark black wig, and a towel around his waist.
“How’s my pair of underwear?”
“Coming right up,” said Sue Preem.
To Be Continued …
© 2022 Patrick Ellsworth
inspired by play of same name
© 2004 Patrick Ellsworth
Commissioned and Produced by the Echo Theater Company, Los Angeles
Dedicated to Christine Estabrook
image credit: https://www.pexels.com/photo/flare-of-fire-on-wood-with-black-smokes-57461/
