Williamson 1

A Marvelous Adventure Into Some Deeply Excruciating Space

A Very Short Scene by Jeffrey Minakowski
(Scene opens on REBEKAH and GEOFFREY
sitting beside a large purple ocean. It is night. Both
are silent. The only sound comes from wind and the
soft movement of water. They're wearing tinfoil, she
a tinfoil dress and he a tinfoil suit. With a tie. They
face each other. With each line, they take steps
back.)
GEOFFREY
You know.
REBEKAH
I have.
GEOFFREY
When?
REBEKAH
Getting cold.
GEOFFREY
How?
REBEKAH
Your tie is crooked. Here, let me.
GEOFFREY
Do you love me?

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REBEKAH
Say, what's for dinner?
GEOFFREY
We're very apart.
REBEKAH
We were never together.
GEOFFREY
We were.
REBEKAH
Do you love me?
GEOFFREY
I wouldn't.
REBEKAH
You can't.
(Beat. GEOFFREY grabs his nose and falls
backward into the ocean. REBEKAH pulls a
notepad out of her pocket, Steve's from Blues
Clues, and a pen from behind her ear. She writes a
few lines and returns the notepad and pen to their
place. Then she grabs her nose and sits criss-cross
applesauce on the stage. BLACK OUT.)

Williamson 3

The first time I met Jeffrey Minakowski was through the letter, which I retrieved from
Firehouse Subs around 2:35 p.m. three months ago. There were two people on shift at Firehouse
Subs when I visited. They were both female. One was older, probably mid-thirties, with an upper
lip stud. She was smoking outside when I walked in, making the only other person in the
restaurant beside me a young girl at the register. She was looking down at her phone when I
walked in.
"Welcome to Firehouse." Her voice was robotic and stiff; even as the inflection turned
upward toward the ceiling, it just hovered there, telling me that I wasn't the first or even fiftieth
person she'd welcomed to Firehouse that day. I smiled politely and said thank-you. She had to be
thirteen. Her cheeks were round, probably highlighted by the boy cut she was sporting. I looked
down at her from across a basket full of melting chocolate chip cookies.
"Hi. I was hoping to talk to the manager."
"Oh." The girl stood on her tiptoes and craned her chin toward the window. "She's
sneaking right now."
"What?"
"Sorry, smoking. She calls it sneaking." I looked down at the girl's nametag.
"Thank you, Lori." I pulled a gaudy red chair from beneath a polka dot table right in front
of the cash register and sat. A piece of lettuce came off the chair and stuck to my palm. I tried
shaking it off for a little while and could feel Lori watching me. I reached for a napkin and
knocked a promotional sign off the table. PIPING HOT AND PILED HIGH FOR MAXIMUM
FLAVOR. The napkin holder was empty. Lori made a noise and disappeared under the counter
for a second before coming out with a crumpled up brown bag. She pulled napkins from it and
handed me one.
"Uh, here you go." She said with a happier voice than her face let on. And then, "I'm
sorry." And a second later, "She should be through in a second." And, looking over her shoulder
after walking a few steps away, "Want a cookie while you wait?" I did not. Sure. I stood and
straightened my shoulders as much as I could as I moved to the cash register. I hovered over a

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pale cookie with white chips in it. It was wrapped in saran wrap and had a Firehouse sticker
across the front. It was severely misshapen. Tragically, really.
"Oh, before you get that I should tell you that it's not white chocolate macadamia nut."
Her eyes were huge.
"How old are you?"
"I'm twenty-one."
"You look thirteen."
"Yeah."
"What kind of cookie is it then?"
She brushed a piece of lettuce off the shoulder of her shirt while she spoke. "Lemon
Cooler." I grabbed an oatmeal raisin cookie and sat down for a moment before the chime dinged
on the front door and the lip studded manager came through. She was a fast walker, which I
guess was due to her awesome geriatric sneakers. The girl was wearing scuffed ballet flats. I was
wearing black heels. Different strokes.
Lori pointed at me and told Sherrie I needed to speak to her. Sherrie halted, standing a
little too close, probably on purpose. She was overcompensating for her height, which was short.
She smelled like the Camels my old boss used to smoke, but it was lessened by perfume that
reminded me of the oatmeal raisin cookie sitting half unwrapped in front of me. There was a
piece of lettuce clinging to the top. Sherrie told me quickly that if I wanted a job I'd have to
apply online at Snag-A-Job. I told her I didn't want to apply. The thought of myself showing up
to apply to Firehouse Subs in black slacks and a blazer was a funny thought to me, and my
laughter was met with squinty eyes from Sherrie. More overcompensating. I told her what I was
there for, and that seemed to do the trick. She smiled, finally. Said this stunt was going to bring
in so many customers. Her lip ring jiggled while she spoke.
I left Firehouse unfortunately smelling like, well, lettuce. But the letter was in my hand,
in a flimsy white envelope, the seal broken jaggedly, Jeffrey's name written across the front in
blue ink. His prose was interesting, as they told me it'd be. As I read, I wasn't entirely certain it
wasn't written by someone from my creative writing courses in college. His voice was rich,

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sarcastic, accurate. I guess I should not have assumed it would be otherwise. At the risk of
making incorrect assumptions, you might have had the same issue. You might have felt that there
was the one Jeffrey who wrote the letter and the other Jeffrey who was sitting in the Riverbend
Maximum Security Institute while you read it. You might have noticed the tilt of his left ear
when he smiled and how it sort of seemed elfish. You might have liked it, even. Or loved it. At
any rate, I'm sorry to say that it never got easier. The longer I spent on the case, the more
distinctly separate they became, detaching at the fingers, the arms, the chests. They peeled apart
like a sticker from its plastic. Real Jeffrey existed in a realm that Criminal Jeffrey did not. I know
now, though, what I didnt then. I think. I dont know. I'm very sorry for this. You have to know
that.
One more thing from that day: as I drove away, I checked my reflection in the rearview.
Beneath my burgundy lips, highlighted ever so elegantly by the dark green of my eyes and the
dark brown of my hair, a piece of lettuce was clinging to my chin.