"The Quote-Makers"

Four men are sitting around a table. A notebook lays in front of each of them, with various sheets of loose paper, pens, pencils, and erasers scattered over the rest of the broad, wood table. George is shifting uncomfortably in his chair, and stands up to look out the window, to observe the naked plains before him.

“I don't fucking get this. What are we doing here anyway?” George asks irritably.

Kurt, calm, responds, “George, we go through this every year. We're on a deadline.”

“You say that every year too,” says George.

“Well either way, we have to come up with something,” Kurt says. “We've all done this a thousand times. Let's just give them something short, sweet, and poo-tee-weet, we're outta here.”

George glares at Kurt a moment but then sits back down and picks up a pen.

Oscar begins to whistle a cheerful tune.

Kurt poses in a thousand yard stare into the blank wall, while George starts scribbling frantically. His eyes grow wide and foam forms in the corner of his mouth.

Oscar stops whistling and looks at Kurt, still lost in thought. He nudges him, breaking his concentration and nods in George's direction. Kurt realizes what is happening, stands behind George to read the scrawl he's affixed to the page.

“'I want to live my next life backwards...'” Kurt begins to read aloud. “'You start out dead and get that...' no, no, no, George, stop, seriously, come on. I mean it's a fine idea, but we need a quote, something punchy. A one-liner.”

George puts down his pen. “'One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor,'” he responds.

“Oh why was I born with such contemporaries,” Oscar sighs.

“You gotta problem with my work there, O?” George asks.

“I just didn't think I was working with a Caribbean cruise ship director, that's all,” Oscar responds.

“Well I haven't heard anything out of your mouth in awhile, smart guy. What've you been working on?”

Oscar breaths in and turns his gaze toward the ceiling. “'Be yourself,'” he begins. “'Everyone else is already taken.'” A proud, smug smile forms on Oscar's face.

George's head rolls left on his shoulders the way a dog's does when it looks confused. “Jesus, O. I'd roll my eyes at that one but I fear they'd roll out of my freaking skull,” he says. “Seriously, if the first bastard who ever called you clever were in this room, I'd shoot the son of a gun.”

“'Shoot the son of a gun,'” Kurt repeats. “Is there something there?” He returns to his notepad repeating the phrase quietly to himself.

“There's nothing there, K. Let it go,” says George.

“'Let it go...'” Kurt repeats again.

“I said knock it off!” George erupts.

“My, my,” Oscar says. “We've hit a nerve, 'aven't we?”

“Piss. Off. Oscar,” George pouts.

“Oh, what a tough man,” Oscar says, slapping his palms to his cheeks. “I'm soooo scared.”

“We are what we pretend to be, George,” says Kurt. “So we must be careful about what we pretend to be.”

“Oh, is that something?” Oscar asks.

“No!” barks George.

The room goes quiet and Oscar taps his pencil to the table. “'Illusion is the first of all pleasures.'”

George sits back in his chair and reflects. Kurt and Oscar look at each other, surprised at this wave of calm.

“'If you try to fail, and succeed, which have you done?'” George asks.

Mr. C, who had fallen asleep in the corner, awakes with a snort. In a calm, even voice he begins: “'Life...is really simple...but we insist...on making it complicated.'”

George places a hand to his chin and strokes his white beard. “'Don't sweat the petty things and don't pet the sweaty things.'”

“'The journey...of a thousand miles...begins...with a single step,'” says Mr. C.

Kurt shrugs. “So it goes.”