Exec Story 5 (VPCOMM)Melissa Buckley - VPCOMM
Posted on: March 25, 2017
*** The Tin Soldier is intended to be a humorous and entertaining look at issues and events at the University of Waterloo. As such articles should not be taken to represent real events or opinions, and they should not be associated with the University of Waterloo staff or administration in any way. Any similarities to real world events, people or corporations is purely coincidental – or non-coincidental but meant in an entirely joking manner.***
HOGARTH: But he’s not a pet, Mom. He’s a friend. You’re always saying I should have more friends come over, right? Well now I’ve got one. (selling it) You gotta admit I’m making sense here.
ANNIE: Hogarth, if there’s one thing we’ve learned from your many pets, it’s that claws and furniture do not mix.
HOGARTH: I know but–
ANNIE: No “buts.” We have got to rent a room this year if we’re going to make ends meet…
Nearby a Busybody perks up her ears, elbows her neighbor, and raises her eyebrows significantly.
ANNIE: (cont’d) …and no one wants to live in a place with shredded upholstery.
HOGARTH: You’ll never know he’s there. I’ll keep him in a cage–
ANNIE: -until you feel sorry for him and “set him free” in the house. Remember the raccoon, Hogarth? God, I remember the raccoon…
HOGARTH: Please, mom. At least look at him…
ANNIE: (softening) Alright, where is this guy…?
Hogarth grins and reaches down for his box… then notices there’s nothing inside it. The squirrel has escaped. Hogarth looks back at Annie, hiding his desperation.
HOGARTH: I… will go get him… okay?
Hogarth turns, his eyes darting around frantically. Finally he spies a FURRY TAIL disappearing under a four-person table with a single occupant, hidden behind a newspaper.
HOGARTH: Excuse me…? Excuse me…
No response. Behind the paper, smoke rises.
Still no response. Hogarth is getting exasperated.
HOGARTH: Sir…? Sir? Sir! EXCUSE ME, S–
Hogarth STOPS with sudden realization. He slowly pushes down the top of the paper, revealing that the person he’s talking to …
…is ASLEEP. A lit cigarette with an impossibly long ash dangles precariously from his lips. This is DEAN McCOPPEN. 35, sporting sunglasses, handsome in a rumpled sort of way. Unshaved, uncombed, unusual. A beatnik. Here. Hogarth’s heard of them, but this is the first one he’s seen up close. The beatnik’s head lolls…
…and his cigarette drops in his lap. He WAKES.
DEAN: I was snoring, right? Sorry, man. I’m just not a morning person…
HOGARTH: Please don’t move, sir. My pet’s under your table–don’t look–if you make a scene my mom won’t let me keep him.
DEAN: Don’t worry sonny, I’m cool as a cucumb- (SHRIEK OF PAIN)
He LEAPS up, HOLLERING, SLAPPING at his smoking pants.
… TO BE CONTINUED