Screaming Down the Highway: A One-Act Play about Crotch Rockets

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Setting: Driving down Route 10 in Whippany, NJ. A fleet of leathered-up motorcycle boys and girls pass our dinky RAV4. Some riders are on Harleys, some on Hondas (I believe), two on a bike and sidecar setup, and one on a Can-Am.

Tempest: OOOHH! Look – the forward trike. I want one of those. (approaching a traffic light) Roll down your window so I can shout a question to him!

Thunder: NO! There is NO way that am I rolling down my window so you can shout across me out of the car at a biker.

Te: You don’t want me picking up guys while sitting next to you?

Th: Pick up all the guys you want – especially if they’ll fix things and make us dinner. I just don’t need to be in the middle of a conversation that begins with a middle-aged woman shouting questions out of a Mom-mobile and ends with that 22-year-old kid and his friends blowing Harley smoke at me while they peel out.

Te: I just want to talk to the Trike Boy.

Th: Besides, you are not allowed to have one of those anyway.

Te: Why, because you think I’m not coordinated enough for a bike – not even a trike? Because you think I’m not a good enough driver for a motorcycle?

Th: Yes, to both of those, but the real reason is that my mother is still alive.

Te: Yeah….?

Th: I’m pretty sure the twice-daily phone calls to see if I’m okay would start immediately. Sorry – I have to wait until she dies.

Te: …And if you can’t have one, I can’t have one?  Is that it?

Th: *blink* You – riding a bike. Me – driving this car. Seriously?

Te: : Tee-hee!   HEY – WAIT A MINUTE!   Did you call me middle-aged?

Th: *blink* *blink*


Aug 10th, 2015

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