The Game of Life

                               The Game of Life        

It’s all fun and games until Hedy pulls the trigger and everyone realizes the gun isn’t just a prop because it certainly doesn’t sound like one and, besides, Lloyd hits the ground way too fast for it to be anything but suddenly and very real.

“Quit playing, Lloyd,” Hedy says, even though she’s pretty sure he’s not.

“Oh, boy,” Martin tells her, “you are so going to jail.”

“Lloyd?” Hedy says, then drops the gun which fires a second time when it hits the tiled floor.

“Jesus, Hedy!” Martin says, and Verni starts to scream.

“Screaming never helps,” Martin tells her, but Verni keeps going, screaming and crying, until Hedy joins in.

“Look at you both,” Martin says. “I mean, Lloyd’s the one got shot.”

“I can’t go to jail,” Hedy explains, sobbing. “I can’t take jail.”

From his prone position, Lloyd groans and his voice is oddly high-pitched.

“What’s he saying?” Verni asks.

Martin drops to his knees beside Lloyd’s head.

“Where you hit, Lloyd?” Martin says. “Can you talk?”

“Motherfucker!” Lloyd says.

“He’s talking,” Martin calls to Hedy and Verni, who then squat next to him.

“Why’d you go and shoot me, Hedy?” Lloyd asks.

“I didn’t ‘shoot’ you,” Hedy protests.

“You sure did,” Lloyd assures her.

“Where you hit, Lloyd,” Martin asks again. “Can you tell?”

“Shit yes I can tell,” Lloyd says. “Hurts like a motherfucker.”

“What hurts?” Martin says. “What hurts like a motherfucker?”

“My leg,” Lloyd says, and waves a hand at his dungareed right knee that’s oozing deep red blood onto the linoleum.

“You told us the gun came from the theater,” Hedy says, indignant. “That’s what you told us.”

“I’m calling 911,” Verni announces.

“That’s why I messed with it,” Hedy continues. “Because you said it was a prop.”

“Props,” Lloyd practically spits, “aren’t toys.”

“I’m calling them now,” Verni says.

“No,” Hedy tells her, and grabs for Verni’s phone. “Don’t involve the law.”

“What are you talking about?” Verni says.

“I can’t go to jail,” Hedy reminds her.

“It was an accident,” Verni says. “No one goes to jail for an accident.”

“Oh, yes they do,” Martin says. “Hedy is so going to jail.”

Hedy starts crying again.

“Motherfucker,” Lloyd says.

“I’ll visit you, Hedy,” Verni promises.

“No!” Hedy tells her. “I can fix this. I can fix his knee.”

“You’re not a doctor,” Martin snorts. “You’re not a nurse.”

“Give me your phone, Verni,” Hedy says. “I’ll look it up.”

“Look what up?” she asks.

“What to do when your kneecap gets shot.”

“Here’s what you do when your kneecap gets shot,” Martin tells Hedy. “You call an ambulance.”

“You call it now,” Lloyd insists, and raises his head to glare at Hedy.

“All right,” Hedy says. “All right. I’ll getting my phone.”

She reaches for the coat she’d left on Lloyd’s kitchen chair, and pulls her phone out of a front pocket. Lloyd lays his head back down and moans.

“’What’s my emergency’?” Hedy says into the phone. “Well, it’s not actually mine….It’s my friend’s emergency.”

“Unbelievable,” Martin mumbles, and looks at Lloyd, who squeezes his eyes shut.

“His knee’s shot,” Hedy continues, occasionally pausing to listen. “No, like actually shot. …With a gun he got at work….It’s not a gun for work, it’s a prop from the theater where he works.”

“Tell them to send the ambulance,” Martin interjects.

Hedy motions for him to be quiet.

“Yes, “ she says into the phone. “He’s alert….Oh, yes, he’s talking….Yes, he’s bleeding, but not a lot.”

“What do you mean, ‘not a lot?’” Lloyd says.

“Okay,” Hedy nods. “Okay, okay, thank you,” and then she looks up from the phone.

“Well?” Martin asks.

“They’re on the way,” Hedy tells him.

“How can they be on the way?” he says. “You didn’t even give them the address.”

“They can tell from the satellite where I’m calling from,” Hedy assures him.

“Well what are we supposed to do until they get here?” Verni asks. “What are we supposed to do with Lloyd?”

“They didn’t say…” Hedy hedges.

“Can’t you ask them?” Verni says.

“I guess,” Hedy tells her, “but I’ll have to call them back.”

“Wait a minute,” Martin says. “You mean to tell us you called 911 to say a man’s just been shot, and 911 let you get off the phone?”

Hedy looks over at Verni, then back at Martin.

“What are you implying?” Hedy says.

“You didn’t actually call them, did you?” Lloyd tells her, and sits up.

“You can sit?” Hedy asks.

“Oh I can sit,” Lloyd assures her.

“He can sit,” Martin agrees.

“I can stand too,” Lloyd adds, and springs to his feet despite the red puddle on the floor beneath him.

“Lloyd!” Hedy gasps.

“Don’t ‘Lloyd’ me,” he tells her. “First you shoot me. Then you’re willing to let me bleed out on the floor rather than get the help I need.”

“Just to save your own skin,” Martin adds.

“Only,” Verni clarifies, “she didn’t really shoot you, Lloyd.”

“That’s a technicality,” Lloyd says. “As far as Hedy was concerned, she shot me.”

“Wait,” Hedy offers, “I didn’t shoot you?”

“Do you think,” he asks her, “I’d bring a loaded weapon home from work and let you anywhere near it?”

“It’s a cap gun,” Verni offers.

“It is most certainly not a cap gun,” Lloyd disagrees. “It is a prop gun.”

“Either way,” Verni says.

“There’s a difference,” Lloyd insists.

“I don’t understand,” Hedy says.

“Clearly not,” Martin notes.

“Is this some kind of test?” Hedy asks.

“It’s the ultimate test,” Lloyd answers.

“The friendship test,” Martin adds,

“You all know I can’t go to jail…” Hedy starts.

“I’d go to jail to save you,” Lloyd tells her. “Or at least I would have before today.”

“You lied to me,” Hedy counters. “You tricked me. I mean, that wasn’t blood.”

“You lied to, too,” Verni reminds her. “You lied that you were calling 911.”

“Because I had to,” Hedy protests. “But you didn’t have to trick me.”

“We did, though,” Martin says. “We had to know how you’d play it.”

“Play what?”

“The game,” Martin tells her.

“What game?”

“I guess you could call it the ‘game of life,’ Martin clarifies.

“Life is not a game,” Hedy asserts.

“It sure is,” Lloyd says. “And friendship is the prize. You make whatever moves you have to in order to win it.”

“This isn’t one of your plays,” Hedy protests. “This isn’t a script we’re reading here.”

“If there’s anything I’ve learned working in theater,” Lloyd says, shaking a finger at Hedy, “it’s that life behind the curtain is no different than life in front of it. Everything is performance. And performance is everything.”

“We’re sorry, Hedy,” Verni says.

“You didn’t get the part,” Martin explains.

“You’re out,” Lloyd adds.

Hedy looks at them for brief moment, before grabbing her coat and heading for the door.

“Hit the lights on your way out,” Lloyd calls to her; and Hedy does.