(Lights up on your stereotypical thread store circa the 1770's. There are spools of every color. All shapes and sizes are literally inundating the small storeroom.)
BETSY: I said red you traitor. This is firebrick.
THREAD SALESMAN: Firebrick? What's firebrick?
BETSY: I said red you traitor. This is firebrick.
THREAD SALESMAN: Firebrick? What's firebrick?
BETSY: Cute.
THREAD SALESMAN: Look, it's as red as any Brit's coat.
BETSY: Your bifocals need a washing.
THREAD SALESMAN: Well your manners need a polishing.
BETSY: Say that again.
THREAD SALESMAN: Your manners. I said they need a polishing.
BETSY: If I had the time of day, I'd do it...
THREAD SALESMAN: Polish your manners?
BETSY: Polish my - NO! Open a thread store that actually prides itself on knowing something about thread.
THREAD SALESMAN: My thread store knows Everything about thread.
BETSY: You are just - just like the rest of them. All fools.
THREAD SALESMAN: People travel for hours to buy my thread. Some even for days.
BETSY: (under her breath:) Polish my manners... (and then with a sudden and volatile shift:) Show me red!
(Pause.)
THREAD SALESMAN: Look at the time, we have to close now and I -
BETSY: (With a newfound surge of evil:) Show. Me. Red.
THREAD SALESMAN: I think - I think it's best if you leave... the time - the spools - oh, and I have to, the seamstress down the road needs her... uh, her -
BETSY: Red. Show it show it. (Beat.) I said Show it!
THREAD SALESMAN: (scared for his life:) The Heavens...
(BETSY picks up the firebrick thread and tosses it in her colonial satchel; she does not pay for it.)
BETSY: (quietly, directly:) This will not do, sir. I will not forget you.
THREAD SALESMAN: Leave me witch!
BETSY: I'm already gone.
BLACKOUT
THREAD SALESMAN: Look, it's as red as any Brit's coat.
BETSY: Your bifocals need a washing.
THREAD SALESMAN: Well your manners need a polishing.
BETSY: Say that again.
THREAD SALESMAN: Your manners. I said they need a polishing.
BETSY: If I had the time of day, I'd do it...
THREAD SALESMAN: Polish your manners?
BETSY: Polish my - NO! Open a thread store that actually prides itself on knowing something about thread.
THREAD SALESMAN: My thread store knows Everything about thread.
BETSY: You are just - just like the rest of them. All fools.
THREAD SALESMAN: People travel for hours to buy my thread. Some even for days.
BETSY: (under her breath:) Polish my manners... (and then with a sudden and volatile shift:) Show me red!
(Pause.)
THREAD SALESMAN: Look at the time, we have to close now and I -
BETSY: (With a newfound surge of evil:) Show. Me. Red.
THREAD SALESMAN: I think - I think it's best if you leave... the time - the spools - oh, and I have to, the seamstress down the road needs her... uh, her -
BETSY: Red. Show it show it. (Beat.) I said Show it!
THREAD SALESMAN: (scared for his life:) The Heavens...
(BETSY picks up the firebrick thread and tosses it in her colonial satchel; she does not pay for it.)
BETSY: (quietly, directly:) This will not do, sir. I will not forget you.
THREAD SALESMAN: Leave me witch!
BETSY: I'm already gone.
BLACKOUT
