Why . . . (Angrily.) Nothing is certain when you’re about.
In my opinion we were here.
That makes no difference.
You’re sure it was this evening?
That we were to wait.
He said Saturday. (Pause.) I think.
I must have made a note of it. (He fumbles in his pockets, bursting with miscellaneous rubbish.)
(very insidious). But what Saturday? And is it Saturday? Is it not rather Sunday? (Pause.) Or Monday? (Pause.) Or Friday?
It’s not possible!
What’ll we do?
If he came yesterday and we weren’t here you may be sure he won’t come again today.
Let’s go. Yes, let’s go.
My apologies to Sam Beckett. But he had it right about life. He also had it right that in the pathos, there is comedy.
We met with the plumber. We needed to take down the cabinet. When did he say he would come again? I thought you were supposed to call. No, I think we said two weeks. No, I think he said we should call this week. We still need to take down the dry wall. Yes. Let’s take down the dry wall. We can’t go camping if he comes. No. We need to make clear when he is coming.
Yes. This was a real conversation with Husband. Completely unintentionally parallel. Oh, Beckett. We hardly knew ye. But we know of what you write.
A first weekend in July, 2011. We wait for babies to be born, a brother to become a father, a father to become a grandfather (again, if he does not pass before), myself to be an aunt; the tomatoes to ripen, the sun to set and temperature to fall. A plumber who said he would come. We can not leave, we dare not leave. We do not leave. The waiting is all.