7 Days/7 Plays: "Fro-Yo."

Yogurt shop; one of those self-service yogurt shops that are all the rage nowadays. MATTHEW sits alone at a table, eating yogurt. CASHIER stands at the cash register, filing her long, dark red nails. Behind her are the yogurt machines. Girls A, B, and C enter. They are young, attractive, collegiate; the kind that always get their way. Always. MATTHEW watches the girls as they grab a cup and examine the yogurts. He is attracted to them. Girls A, B, and C fill their cups with yogurt, then commence eating their yogurt while CASHIER is turned. MATTHEW is bewildered. Girl A sticks the cup to her face. Girl B pulls out a spoon and eats hers. Girl C dumps her yogurt in her purse and pours more into her cup. They each get second, thirds, etc.

MATTHEW: Excuse me.

CASHIER ignores him. She is engrossed in her nails.

MATTHEW: Excuse me!

CASHIER looks up, annoyed.

MATTHEW: Do you not see what's going on here?

CASHIER turns around. The girls are pouring their yogurt.

CASHIER: It seems to me that these nice young ladies are getting some yogurt, sir. Do you have a problem with that?

MATTHEW: Yes, yes I do, when I came into this establishment and paid for my yogurt like an honest member of this society.

CASHIER: I'm sure they will pay for their yogurt. Will you pay for your yogurt, girls?

Girls A, B, and C are clearly taking more than they should. Yogurt is spilling out of Girl C's purse. They nod and smile.

MATTHEW: Are you blind?

CASHIER: Sir, I will ask you to please refrain from name calling.

MATTHEW: Look at her purse!

CASHIER: (looking at her purse) Oh no. Oh no, no, no. I do not think so.

MATTHEW: Thank you!

CASHIER: Is that the new Coach purse they came out with for the Fall catalogue? 

GIRL C: Yes! Isn't it so cute?

CASHIER: It's fabulou - 

MATTHEW: This is bullshit!

Girls A, B, and C, as well as CASHIER gasp.

CASHIER: Sir, I am going to have to ask you to calm down or else I will call the authorities.

MATTHEW: You listen to me, you. All of you. I work ten hours a day. I put in my time. I come here once a week to enjoy my sugar-free yogurt with three raspberries and four almonds. I pay the price for this yogurt. I sit here, eat, and go about my life. I am not going to sit here and stand for the dishonesty that these bitches are showing.

The Girls all begin crying at the word "bitches."

CASHIER: Okay! That is it! I have had it with your disrespect! I am calling the authorities and they will remove you from this store and you will never come back!

MATTHEW: Oh, I don't give a rat's ASS!

Two COPS enter the yogurt shop.

CASHIER: Oh thank God, you're here, Officers!

MATTHEW: You've got to be kidding me.

CASHIER: This man has assaulted myself and these three young ladies!

COP 1: Is this true, sir?

MATTHEW: Does it matter?

COP 2: (handcuffing MATTHEW) You have the right to remain silent - 

MATTHEW: Can I at least finish my yogurt?

EVERYONE EXCEPT MATTHEW: NO!

Lights out. End.

7 Days/7 Plays: "Torture."

October, 2010. A line of people extend from center stage. They stand on a thin, orange carpet. They all wear orange and black. Some push and shove. Some high five each other. Some cry. Commotion. A man in an old-timey conductor's uniform enters, pulling a Red Flyer wagon. He stops in front of the first person. He blows a whistle that hangs around his neck.

CONDUCTOR: All aboard!

The first person gets in the wagon. He screams and yells and throws his fists in the air as he is pulled offstage. CONDUCTOR reenters with the wagon. He stops in front of the next person in line.

CONDUCTOR: All aboard!

The second person gets in the wagon. She is crying tears of joy. She is pulled offstage. CONDUCTOR reenters, visibly tired and annoyed. He stops in front of the next person in line. He examines the growing line of people. It extends miles and miles and miles offstage. He sighs.

CONDUCTOR: (calling offstage) I think we're going to need a bigger wagon!

The crowd envelopes him. They chant and scream. Journey's "Don't Stop Believing" plays. The crowd sings along. Lights out. 

End.

The Ice Bowl.

            The snow had fallen heavy during the night. The roads and cars were buried under blankets of soft, white powder. Electrical lines had fallen. Front doors were forced to remain shut, but the windows could be opened just enough to remind us that fresh air was still a possibility.

            My father and I sat on opposite sides of his living room; I sat on the white, plastic fold out chair while responding to e-mails on my phone; my father sat in his green corduroy La-Z-Boy, staring at the empty, black flatscreen television. The room was quiet. It was Sunday.

            “Goddamn that snow,” said my father, his gruff voice breaking the silence between us. “Couldn’t happen yesterday? Where’s the phone?”

            “You called five minutes ago, Dad.”

            “Oh,” he said. He ran his fingernails through the indents in his armchair. “Think they know we’re playing Dallas today?”

            “We’re not playing Dallas, Dad. We’re playing Minnesota.”

             “What do you know? Dallas made the Championship!”

            I looked up from my phone. He rocked back and forth, nodding as he stared into the television screen.

“No, Dad.” I covered my face with my hands and sighed. “It’s Minnesota.”

“Dallas,” he said, his foot tapping against the brown shag carpet. “Where’s the phone?”

I got up from my chair and walked to my father. Next to him stood a small, dark-stained end table with a lamp and a pillbox with labels for each day of the week. The pillbox was empty and the pill bottles were full. It had been over a week since he took them last.

“Lombardi’s gonna lead us to ten titles, Son. You hear me? Twenty maybe!”

            “Maybe,” I replied. I dialed 911.

            “Goddamn that snow,” he said. “Couldn’t happen yesterday? Where’s the phone?”