scene1

Lights up on an apartment. A door leads off stage left, this is the front door. Slightly upstage of the front door is the kitchen. Up center stage is a white door. Right of the kitchen is a full length mirror. Down right of the mirror is a sesk and desk chair. To the rear and right of the desk is a the living room. A window looks off stage right. Thomas , a rather defeated looking character, is sitting at the desk, writing. After lights come up, he begins to speak.

Thomas:
I am a writer. An award winning author actually. I wirte novels, short stories, and even a few poems. I've won every literary award that matters. New York Times Bestseller, three times, Pulitzer Prize, Oprah's Book of the Month Club....FOUR TIMES....and last but certainly not least, the crown of achievement, the Nobel Prize for Literature. I am an award winning author...who hasn't written a damn thing in three years. Three years sitting here, at this desk, waiting. Nothing. In all this time, I hae come to a single possible conclusion. I'm out. I'm done, finished. I've given everything I have to have to give to the world. And this bothers me. Not because I can't write anymore, that doesn't bother me. I mean I've accomplished everything I could ever want to accomplish. No, what bothers me is that I believe everyone dies at a specific moment. When they have nothing left to give to the world, people die. So it's easy to see why I'm troubled. If I have nothing left to give, nothing left to do, why aren't I dead yet? So I've got this stand-off in my head. If I'm still here it means there's something else for me to do, more for me to give. But what if I'm not thinking of it because in my own paranoid I believe I have one thing left and that once I write it I'll die? Freaky, huh? And stupid too, I know. But something recently occured to me. A person's life consists of two things: what they give to the world, and what the world has to give them. There are two sides to everything. So maybe I am out, but the world still has something to give me. Yes, that's it, God owes me something. That has to be it, otherwise I'll just shrivel up and die...

(Knock at the door)

Thomas:
Right in the middle of my pointless thinking...

(Opens door to see Gabriel, a bright, happy looking man full of energy and optimism, holding a slice of pizza, which he thrusts into Thomas's face as the door opens)

Gabe:
(mouth full) Dude, you gotta try this.

Thomas:
That's disgusting.

Gabe:
I'm serious dude, best freakin pizza I ever had.

Tom:
Let me get you a plate, you'll make a mess.

Gabe:
Does that mean I'm allowed in?

Tom:
Not until you have a plate for that. (Goes to kitchen looking for plate.)

Gabe:
No need man. (Shoves the rest of pizza slice in his mouth, and stands proud of his achievment, like a child.)

Tom:
Of course, what was I thinking? (Pause) Well? Get your ass in here.

Gabe:
I was waiting for an invitation. (walks in)

Tom:
So what brings you over here?

Gabe:
Well, I just got off work, it's a Friday, and since you have no life I knew you'd be here. So I decided to drop by as I often do and annoy you until you decided to get off your lazy butt out of the house.

Tom:
Always assuming I have nothing else to do.

Gabe:
Because you don't! God knows you could never work again in your life and be fine. If I were you I'd be going out every night and...

Tom:
(interrupts) As a matter of fact I was doing something!

Gabe:
Really?

Tom:
Yes, really. And you inerrupted me.

Gabe:
So what were you doing, Tommy?

Tom:
I was thinking...Gabee.

Gabe:
Gabee?

Tom:
I couldn't think of any other way to make fun of the name Gabriel.

Gabe:
Calling you Tommy isn't making fun of your name.

Tom:
Tom or Thomas, dude.

Gabe:
Ok, ok. So what were you thinking of?

Tom:
Pointless shit. You know me.

Gabe:
You weren't getting all mopey again were you?

Tom:
No, no. Just trying to think of a new idea for a novel.

Gabe:
You taking up the pen again?

Tom:
I'm trying. It's hard to create when you have no muse...

Gabe:
I knew it! You're getting all mopey again. Thinking of her, aren't you? (Almost like scolding a child.)

Tom:
Well, now that you bring it up...

Gabe:
That's your problem, man. You need another muse, something to occupy your mind.
Thomas, I, Gabriel, shall be your muse! (Stands on desk and poses)

Tom:
(laughing) You're such an ass.

Gabe:
Seriously though, you need to get out. (Sits on desk) Three years, sitting here in your apartment by yourself, brooding over the same thing, not working; that can't be healthy.

Tom:
I don't brood over Christine. Sure I think about her, but I don't brood.

Gabe:
Good, so let's go out. We'll have fun. Let the city be your muse! (Gestures grandly out the window)

Tom:
Alright, let me go get my coat. (wanders off stage)

Gabe:
(Looking at white door) You know, Tom, in the three years you've lived here, I don't know what's behind that door.

Tom:
(offstage) You mean the white door?

Gabe:
Yeah. What's back there?

Tom:
(Emerging from backstage) Hell if I know.

Gabe:
What? You don't know all the rooms in your own home?

Tom:
No. I mean, I've never opened that door. Ever.

Gabe:
Why??

Tom:
It keeps the place interesting, you know? The unknown, its what keeps life exciting. Its the mystery, wondering what it could be. Keeps me alive, man.

Gabe:
Have any ideas of what it is?

Tom:
Well, I looked at the size of the adjacent rooms and stuff in proportion to the rest of the apartment, and, well, it could be anything. Except a bathroom, I know I only have two of those.

Gabe:
Sweet! It could be like a whole other bedroom, or maybe even a game room!

Tom:
Eh, it's probably a closet, You ready to go?

Gabe:
Yeah, ;et's go. But promise me if you ever decide to open that door you tell me first.

Tom:
Sure, whatever. (They exit)