Scene from a hospital room.
(With apologies to the Fireball.)
SCENE: A hospital room.
THE CD SINGLE, quinquagenarian and pale, sits on a bed, attached to a bewildering array of chattering and beeping monitors: pulse, temperature, accounts receivable. The old boy may be barely breathing. He appears to be watching VH1.
A MUSIC EXECUTIVE knocks tentatively at the not-quite-closed door, and enters, followed closely by a rambunctious CHILD, who is thumbing madly away at a small cellphone.
EXECUTIVE: Heyyyy. How ya doin’, pal. They feedin’ you OK?
SINGLE: [Switching off “I Love the 80s” as he rolls slowly to face the newcomers.] Hi. No, not really. Actually, they—
EXECUTIVE: Great, great, glad to hear it. Listen, I brought someone who I really think can cheer you up.
SINGLE: Oh? [Coughing slightly, he sits up.] Is it…is it the pee-to-pee people? [Indicating the flowers across the room.] It’s so nice when they come by, they make me feel—
EXECUTIVE: [Explosively.] What? NO! You KNOW how I feel—uh, ahem. What I mean to say is, I’ve brought someone who can cheer both of us up.
SINGLE: Uh, OK…
EXECUTIVE: It’s my friend here, Ringtone!
The EXECUTIVE grabs the CHILD a little too roughly by the shoulder and thrusts him toward the bed. RINGTONE nearly looks up.
RINGTONE: ’Sup.
SINGLE: [Eyeing RINGTONE quizzically, then softening.] Hi there, little guy. What’s your name?
RINGTONE: Ring.
EXECUTIVE: [Eagerly.] Eh, Single, whaddya think? He looks just like you!
SINGLE: Except shorter.
EXECUTIVE: Yeah, great! You guys are gonna get along perfectly. From now on, you’ll be hanging out together, everywhere you go: malls, big-box stores, Starb—
RINGTONE: [Screwing up his face, eyes still locked on his text message.] Lame.
SINGLE: I don’t really see the point.
EXECUTIVE: [Darkening.] What? Why not? What’s not to get? He’s hot right now. He’ll prop you right up. You can be cool again.
SINGLE: He’s not hot, he’s convenient. People can just, you know, tap-tap-tap with their thumbs or whatever, and they’ve got him. You put him in a box with me, now people have to, what, download us to their phones or something?
EXECUTIVE: Sure. It’s easy. You hook up your data cable to the blue teeth on your dongle and it’s all, click, click, sync. Presto. It’s so easy even iTunes can do it. [He shudders slightly at the mention.]
SINGLE: I don’t think it’s quite that sim—
EXECUTIVE: Look. I honestly don’t care what you think. Nobody cares what you think. You are dying. DY–ING. Nobody wants you, nobody cares.
SINGLE: But the pee-to—
EXECUTIVE: Those—those “people”—are morons. Morons and thieves. And we tried to cut their thieving hands off, but then everybody got all upset, “boo hoo rootkits,” blah blah BLAH. I still don’t really understand what happened there. But we’ve got to try something else, and I’m thinking, if they won’t pay money for you, they’ll pay money for him, and I can start moving some friggin’ product again.
SINGLE: Won’t they just be able to get him for free too?
RINGTONE: [Looking up suddenly.] Free?
EXECUTIVE: Oh, hell.
SINGLE: That’s right, kid. They’re out there, people who really love you, not just because you’re easy, but because they like your sound. And they’ll share you with their friends.
EXECUTIVE: I AM NOT HEARING THIS!
RINGTONE: Sweet.
Turning on the spot, RINGTONE exits briskly. Several beats, filled only with the silent sneer of the EXECUTIVE, pass.
EXECUTIVE: You are a damned fool.
SINGLE: Yeah, OK. [He turns the TV back on.]
