Creative Comedy Project

Golden Years By Michael Delaney

AT RISE: In the kitchen/living room of a modern day home, GLORIA (60) watches television as the antiques show host speaks.

HOST: Now this has got a real bit of age to it.

(Gloria lifts her head, as if her interest is piqued.)

HOST: It’s obviously well-used, looking a little tired around the edges…

(Gloria looks sidelong at the audience)

HOST: ...and the legs might be a little frail and unsteady.

(Gloria tugs at the blanket on her legs.)

HOST: But the body is sturdy and everything's in fine working condition.

(Gloria switches the television off.)

GLORIA: So it comes to this. One minute, you’re living life in the fast lane, and the next you’re asking the bus driver to slow down.

(She stands and walks downstage.)

GLORIA: It creeps up on you, you know? Without noticing it, you’ve lost touch with the world. Everything changes so fast, and it’s all so confusing, and you’re…alone.


GLORIA: And there’s nothing to engage our minds. We spend the twilight hours of our twilight years with nobody to talk to and nothing on for us.


GLORIA: I started to go to bed at six in the evening and wake up at six in the morning. Come morning, everything looks much the same. Nothing changes. So when I woke at seven, I naturally assumed it was seven am…and took my pills for the second time in just over an hour.


GLORIA: So now I’m living here, with my daughter and grandchildren. I’m not alone, but I’m still lonely. If anything, I see them less now than I did before.

(Gloria walks back to her seat, but turns back with an afterthought.)

GLORIA: They say people who live by the coast rarely visit. Apparently, the same is true with grandparents.

(Gloria settles slowly into the chair, folds the blanket neatly over her leg, and reaches for the remote. As heavy metal blares upstairs, Gloria winces, and glowers at the ceiling.)

(Enter HARRY (18) upstage, in underpants, headbanging. He descends the stairs with erratic dance moves, gurning, and shredding air guitar.)

HARRY (singing): I'm inferno, girl, do you wanna be scorched?

(Gloria follows to the kitchen and watches him from the doorway.)

HARRY (cont’d): I'm eternal, girl, from the grindstone I'm forged.

(Blissfully unaware, Harry chucks bread into the toaster and gives his band tee a cursory look at the iron’s underside, then immediately pops his toast. The music stops.)

HARRY (disappointed): Ohhh.

(He turns and sees Gloria.)

HARRY: Argh!

(He remembers he's shirtless)


(Harry hides his nipples with his toast.)

GLORIA: Are you going to eat that, or make love to it?

(Harry empties the fruit bowl and uses it as a plate.)

HARRY: You really shouldn't say things like that, Gran.

GLORIA: And why not?

HARRY: Because you're, you know...


HARRY: I was gonna say 'seasoned'.

GLORIA: I'm a woman, Harry, not food. You seem to have the two confused.

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