An Artist A Woman And A Nobody

Last Night At The Improv. . .

“Which one am I?” Marlene asks.

“Well, which one do you think you are?”

“Oh, as if this were some fourth grade classroom, ‘How do you think you would feel, Marlene, if someone called you a nobody?’”

“Okay, you’re not the nobody,” I tell her. “I am.”

“That makes me the artist.”

“Stuff it, Rodney.” Marlene says, as she takes a drag on a cigarette that isn’t lit.

“Okay, Rodney is the artist,” I say. “Marlene, you are the woman and I am nobody.”

“Born for the part, you were,” Rodney says.

“Yeah,” Marlene stubs out the cigarette in Rodney’s hand, “Who died and made you nobody?”