Waiting for Samuel Beckett

“You wanna do something fun?”

“No.”

“You wanna do something fun?”

“NO.”

“Why not?”

“Because your idea of fun isn’t.”

“Isn’t what?”

“Isn’t fun.”

“C’mon.”

“No.”

“C’mon.”

“NO.”

“Really?”

“Really. Whenever we go out, I end up regretting it.”

“You don’t.”

“I do.”

“C’mon. Fun. Let’s go.”

“I don’t want to do anything fun with you because you have the boundaries of a rabid dog.”

“Thank you.”

“Your idea of fun is breaking things. Rules. Society norms. Girls’ hearts. Curfew. On more than one occasion, windows.”

“That’s not always true. Usually true, but not always true.”

“You remember last time?”

“Yes.”

“That was a nightmare.”

“That was fun.”

“That was pure hell.”

“That was pure fun. Hey . . . you know that wasn’t ALL my fault last time.”

“The fist fight or the car chase or the girl?”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“All of that. Not my fault.”

“How can you say that?”

“How can I say what—”

“How can you claim you weren’t at fault for any of it?!”

“Well, I’m not at fault for most of it . . .”

“How can you say that?”

“Easily. The words just came out of my mouth.”

“How can you think that?”

“Logical deductive reasoning. Try it sometime.”

“You were totally at fault. Including vomiting in that guy’s car.”

“Jaigermeister and Red Bull is terrible together.”

“You were ridiculous.”

“I was a victim of circumstance.”

“You walked into a bar, punched a guy, then stole his keys, his car, and his girlfriend.”

“Yeah, that was fun. And she was lovely. It was a shame I had to leave her in a Wal-Mart parking lot with her boyfriend’s car.”

“She called the police!”

“That’s because you were getting hysterical. We were getting along just fine before you brought up her boyfriend. She did give me her phone number . . .”

“We barely got away, you maniac. Her boyfriend showed up with the wrestling team—”

“But we did get away . . .”

“You need to get away from me.”

“You need to quit being so boring.”

“Boring is good. Boring people stay out of jail. Boring people live long enough to marry and pay taxes.”

“Boring is crippling. See? You’ve been sitting on your ass all day in front of your sad computer in this depressing little dorm room. Throw on a clean shirt. Actually, I’ll throw on one of your clean shirts. Mine smells like a middle school gymnasium.”

“Take that off.”

“Nope. Let’s go. You wanna do something fun.”

“No. Last time was the last time. And I think you are in need of some serious counseling. And while we’re at it, I will need you to quit eating my food and stealing all of my clean t-shirts.”

“I cannot promise any of that. Sometimes I’m going to just eat your Hot Pockets and wear your Abercrombie & Fitch stuff since it looks infinitely better on me.”

“You are a terrible person.”

“Terrible beats boring, my man. Let’s go out and have some fun!”

“Maybe if you took some personal responsibility and admitted you started that mess last time we went out, I would consider it.”

“Nope.”

“I was terrified the entire time! You smashed mailboxes with a baseball bat on the way home. Now, tell me again how none of that was your fault, either?”

“That particular incident was just—a spontaneous reaction to stimuli.”

“A reaction to stimuli? What exactly was the catalyst that drove you to smash them? Did they need smashing?”

“They did. Call it a scientific experiment.”

“Oh, please tell me. Explain the science behind decapitating mailboxes in a quiet college town. You do realize one of those mailboxes belonged to the Registrar.”

“Actually, his box was the one I was going for. We had a disagreement over my student fees this semester. Lab fees or something . . .”

“So what scientific theory were you proving, besides practicing your follow through?”

“Oh, it’s an age-old quest—what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object.”

“Vandalism?”

“Sure. Vandalism. Whatever you want to call empirical studies. I mean, that’s just science.”

“That’s just you being a jackass.”

“Look. The last time we went out, all of the events of the evening were not premeditated, so not all of it was my fault.”

“You are pathological. Probably clinically insane on some level.”

“No, I’m not. I assure you, I am quite sane.”

“Then you are a psychopath.”

“Most likely.”

“Impulsive. Remorseless. Emotionally cold.”

“Check, check, and check.”

“Why do I hang out with you?”

“Because I’m your roommate and I’m fun.”

“You are not fun. You are dangerous.”

“Same thing.”

“Admit you were at fault last time.”

“I will admit I made a few impulsive moves. In the future, I may choose differently, I agree. But that night? Not entirely my fault.”

“Assault and battery? Grand theft auto? Kidnapping?”

“Yeah, that was fun.”

“That was NOT fun. Fun isn’t racking up three felonies.”

“Fun is not staying home typing up a 1600 word essay for sociology class. That isn’t even a real major.”

“Either is Communication, but you are rocking it with your 2.0 GPA.”

“C’mon.”

“No.”

“You wanna have some fun. Let’s just go.”

“NO.”

“With your superior knowledge of human social behavior and patterns of social relationships, we can definitely meet some girls.”

“I’ve taken twelve credit hours of sociology, so maybe lower the bar. I’m just a college sophomore with $17.00 left until the end of the month. I doubt the girls will be lining up to talk about Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs.”

“$17.00 can go a long way to having a great time. I’ll add it to my bankroll, and we will get out of here and have some fun.”

“For a total of . . .”

“$17.00. I have nothing but a student meal plan card to last me until midterms . . . but I know where we can get some beer.”

“Don’t say the kegs behind the fraternity house.”

“The kegs behind the fraternity house.”

“They said they’d kill us if they found us back there again.”

“Only one way to find out . . . “

“All right. Let’s go have some fun.”