The best way to reach the whole world, Mother Teresa says, is to “start with the person nearest you.” And the best way to start is to find out who they are.
Chris, a zealously imperfect young Jesus-follower, watches 12:00 appear on his monitor. He jumps up, rips a microwave meal from his backpack, and reads the instructions aloud: “’Obsessive Compulsive Gourmet. Remove from box, poke holes at half inch intervals in counter-clockwise pattern. Microwave for 143 seconds, remove plastic, stir vigorously for 5 ½ seconds, then replace plastic in exactly the same position it occupied before.’ Jeez!” He shouts, then looks up. “Sorry, Lord. Does that count as cussing?
Heather, a relentlessly hopeful non-believer in the next cubicle, says, “No.”
“Hey, Heather,” Chris tells the wall.
“Hey, Chris,” the wall replies. Heather’s head floats into view. “Is that Obsessive Compulsive Gourmet? Those are great. I’ve got Grungy Man Beastloaf. Wanna swap?”
Chris takes the package from her and reads the directions: “’Heat until package disintegrates. Eat remainder.’ Cool. I’ll swap.”
“So, Chris,” Heather fishes, “it’s Friday and I’m having some humans over for a little, you know, weekend sock-hop. It’s great. We get pretty insane. You’ve never been, so I thought you might wanna—”
Panicking, Chris flashes back to his beer-pong days. “Oh, uh, well, I mean, hmmm…” His eyes glaze over as he imagines Heather’s “sock hop”: The golden calf orgy scene from C. B. DeMille’s The Ten Commandments. In Cinemascope.
“Chris? Chris?” Heather’s voice snaps him out of it.
“Hey, that reminds me,” says Chris, “We’re having Fellowship Night at my place on Wednesday. It’s a lot of fun. We study the Bible and, you know, get kind of crazy. Want to come?”
It’s Heather’s turn to panic. “Oh, uh, well, I mean, hmmm…” She envisions Chris’s “Fellowship Night”: the monks from Monty Python and the Holy Grail chanting while hitting themselves in the faces with boards. In SpamScope.
“Oh, hi, sorry, Chris,” Heather says to her skittishly hopeful fellow-cubicle-ee.
“So?” they ask in nervous unison.
“Um, sure, I’ll come,” they reply in sync.
“You will?” they say in unison. “Great!”
Then they chuckle. In unison
“Holy crap…” Heather mutters to herself.
“Holy Spirit…” Chris mutters to himself.
“What have I gotten myself into?” they say in unison
Drama Teams: To download the script version of Cubicles, click here.