THIS TOTALLY HAPPENED TO ME LIKE FIVE MINUTES AGO
A short play by Wolfman Dave, with visual aids for the benefit of future interpreters
(Hospital lobby, morning, modern day. ME is seated at his desk in the otherwise deserted entryway to the hospital. HER walks in, cellphone in hand, and approaches ME’s desk and stares blankly. ME stares back for a moment, then realizes that HER is not going to affect a greeting, so takes the initiative.)
ME
Good morning. What can I do for you?
HER
Do I sign in here?
ME
If you would, please.
(HER stands at the sign-in sheet on the left, glancing between it and the one on the right. Animatedly makes a “this-or-that” gesture with the pen.)
HER
What one do I use?
ME
They’re exactly the same.
HER
So the left one?
ME
…sure.
HER
Oh, no, it’s in Spanish!
ME
It’s actually trilingual. It’s in English, Spanish, and Armenian.
HER
Oh, I’ll just sign in on the Armenian one, then.
(ME blinks for a moment as HER shifts to the rightmost sign-in sheet, scribbling a signature in the first box and doing nothing else. Looks back at ME.)
HER (cont’d)
Is that it?
ME
Your name, the time, and the room number are all I need.
HER
Oh.
(HER stares at the sign-in sheet blankly.)
ME
(Helpfully)
In that order.
(HER continues to stare blankly. Finally, ME points directly on the paper.)
ME
Your name…
HER
Oh.
(HER scratches out the scribbled signature and squeezes an approximation of her name into the box. Puts the pen down as if finished with the process, then stares at ME again blankly.)
ME
…then the time…
(HER looks at the paper again, then looks everywhere in the room except at the clock on the wall and her own bared cellphone, then back at ME.)
HER
I don’t know what time it is.
ME
(Making a big deal of looking at her cellphone, really lingering on it to check the time, but she doesn’t take the hint. Stifles a sigh.)
Eight-thirty.
(HER writes in the time, and starts to set the pen down again.)
ME (cont'd)
(pointing at the third box)
…and the room number.
HER
Okay.
(HER writes in the first name of the patient she wants to see, then looks at me cautiously.)
ME
It’s the room number, ma’am.
HER
Oh. I don’t know the room. Can you find out?
ME
Sure. What’s the name?
HER
[NOTE: name altered from the actual life event to protect the ignorant.]
Jane.
ME
Jane what?
HER
Uh. I dunno.
ME
Well, I need a last name if I’m going to look them up. You sure you don’t know?
HER
No.
ME
(chancing it)
What is your relation to the patient, if I may ask?
HER
It’s my mom. Oh wait, I took it down in here, just a second…
(ME stifles a disdainful glare. HER remembers she has her phone in hand and pulls up a note. HER mechanically repeats what’s on the note.)
HER
White Memorial Medical Center. 1720 Cesar Chavez, Los Angeles. Room ###.
ME
Yeah, that’s… not here.
HER
What? Where am I?
ME
Glendale Adventist Medical Center.
HER
Where’s that?
ME
…in Glendale.
HER
Yeah, where is that?
(ME is genuinely stuck for an answer; stifles both facepalm and wise-ass remarks in lieu of stunned silence. HER picks up her phone again.)
HER
Jane? Where are you? …I thought you said it was the one a few miles from my house! …what?! Where are you? …oh. (Turns back to ME.) Where is Glendale Memorial from here?
ME
You mean WHITE Memorial? Didn’t you have the address?
HER
Oh.
(HER leaves in a hurry, yammering animatedly over the phone as she goes; another visitor, HIM, walks in as she walks out. All is quiet for a few moments as HIM approaches. ME sits, bewildered, moments before his head violently exploding. HIM takes no notice, signing in calmly.)
HIM
Check on a patient’s room for me real quick?
ME
(Bleeds.)
HIM
I’ll just ask upstairs.
(Curtain.)
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