Home Delivery
The hardest thing usually to leave behind […] can loosely be called the conscience. — Norman Mclean
“I am your conscience,” wheezes the delivery man. “Ma’am, no matter where you go, where you hide, guilt will accompany you. Forever and ever.”
It’s Frank; we’re in the same Shakespeare play. Apparently the part has become the man.
I try to crack a smile and say a few words about yesterday’s performance. Then I sign for the package, and he leaves. I roll my eyes. Get a hold of yourself, old man, community theater doesn’t make you a real actor.
What’s the big deal anyway? Frank plays King Duncan; he delivers a few sentences in the first act and then conveniently gets assassinated at the beginning of the second. I, on the other hand, have to stick around as Lady Macbeth for all the five acts, with long arguments and painful monologues.
On top of that, I must go through three emotional states and, toward the end, commit suicide. Few realize Lady Macbeth’s greatest hurdle is to act convincingly that she sees blood stains on her hands. After each performance I spend half an hour scrubbing my paws. Then I toss and turn all night, can’t get a wink of sleep. Next day looking at tree canopies I see Birnam Wood on the march and fear for Macbeth, my chiropractor who keeps forgetting his lines.
Conscience. Guilt.
Suddenly I have an eerie feeling I won’t be able to look into Frank’s eyes ever again.
*****A short sketch of this article was published in 50 Word Stories on July 11, 2024.*****
