death, memory

THEY SAID I KILLED A GIRL

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[A sixty-year-old man with messy hair and bags under his eyes. He seems slightly deranged.] 

“They said I killed a girl… But I didn’t remember doing it.

Someone had strangled her near the river and dumped her body in the water. A family on a picnic found it floating downstream later that day.

The police came home looking for me at midnight; they took me to the station, they questioned me about the girl, who, yes, I had seen that day because we had a date… we had met online.

I told the detectives I left her at a café two hours after I met her because I got a call for a job… I used to be a plumber.

The police asked more questions and took lots of samples. And a few hours later, I stopped being a free man for the next twenty-four years.

During the trial, I couldn’t believe the evidence the police had found. My fingerprints around her neck, my DNA at the crime scene, her skin under my fingernails…

And, like I said, I didn’t remember killing her. I still don’t.

Why shouldn’t you believe me? … After all, what would be the point of lying? I already paid for the crime!

Anyway, I was going crazy during the trial. The more evidence the plaintiff put forward, the more obvious it became that I was guilty, even to myself.

I ended up accepting it. I had killed her and, somehow, forgotten all about it. It’s happened before. A kind of selective amnesia triggered by deep feelings of guilt… at least that’s what the prison shrink said.

I changed my plea to guilty. According to my lawyer – who was an ass by the way – that strategy saved me from a life sentence.

I was thirty-five when I got locked up. I’m almost sixty now. I got out yesterday.

The first thing I did was to visit the place where they found the girl’s body.

I did it because my biggest fear, the heaviest load I carried while in prison, was not knowing for certain if I had done it. What if everyone was lying? What if it was a conspiracy?

I needed to know.

And I was hoping that place would help me unearth some buried memories, force me to remember. Because I still wanted to believe I’m not a murderer, that despite all the evidence, I couldn’t have killed that girl…

But nothing happened when I got there. I still couldn’t remember a thing.

Well, something actually happened, something that surprised me because I had never felt it before.

I felt like killing someone.

So I waited  until eventually this woman came jogging by. It was easy to strangle her. She wasn’t very strong. There was no one around. I dumped her body in the river and then came here… I’m waiting for the police to arrive now.

I have a good defense this go ‘round. After all those years paying for something I don’t remember doing, I needed to do it. I had to know how it feels to kill someone… and make sure I remembered it this time.”

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 Copyright Abel Gonzalez 2016

ethics

POSTER CHILD

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[A sixty years old man in a suit and horn-rimmed glasses. He’s soft-spoken and with elegant manners.]

“Two years ago, we put together an investigative report on female castration in Ethiopia. As the magazine’s Editor-in-Chief, I had to choose the cover from at least two hundred photos taken during the actual ablation of two young girls.

Most of the photos were so gory that we couldn’t use them without being accused of exploitation. So I decided to focus on the faces of the two girls.

One of them was just average-looking, with a sheepish stare and a mouth drawn in a flat line. But the other was rather beautiful, with black eyes that were full of defiance,  meeting the lens with such ferocity that, in one particular instance, yielded an astonishing portrait.

Sure, both girls had gone through the same horrible mutilation, but I knew the photo of the pretty girl would attract more people … and awaken their empathy.

It seems obvious, right?

But then doubt crept into my mind.

Because I also knew that the casual reader wouldn’t see that pretty girl as a victim of this barbaric and humiliating act. He would instead see resistance in her eyes, the possibility of an impending rebellion… and conclude there’s nothing else to be done, to protest or act against.

So who was the perfect choice?

None. I’m aware that my job is not to faithfully represent the world by depicting reality. My job is to fictionalize it, transform it into a more compelling narrative… that may or may not inspire action.

So, yes, I obsessed with this predicament for a split second… but I ended up making the obvious choice, the photo of the pretty girl.

And, well…

As expected, the piece was a hit. Female castration became the hot-button issue of the moment; celebrities joined in the condemnation; steps were taken towards eradicating the practice in Ethiopia. Some foundation even located our cover girl and set her up with psychological counseling to help her deal with the trauma.

And although I’m proud of what we accomplished, I often think about the other girl.

And I question my decision each time I do.”

Are you an actor or director interested in using this monologue? Contact us in ABOUT MONOLOGY!

 Copyright Abel Gonzalez 2016

Hollywood, irony, old age

OLD MODELS

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[A handsome, twenty-something-year-old man with the perfect 5 o’clock shadow. He gives off an air of aloofness while seeming overly concerned with himself.]

“I’m an actor…  but I make my living as a valet in a fancy Hollywood restaurant.

I know… I’m a walking cliché. 

Anyway, we get all types pulling up to the curb… the ones who always complain, the ones who never tip, the trophy wives in their SUVs, the  midlife crisis douches in their flashy cars.

But there’s one group in particular that I find very interesting. It’s always an older person, not terribly old… late fifties, early sixties… and they never look their age… tall, lean, elegant; you can tell they were very attractive when they were younger, a lot of them still are.

The weird part is they all drive cars from the seventies and eighties, and mostly Mercedes-Benz. But no normal Mercedes; they’ve got limited editions or high-end models with all the bells and whistles from the time, vanity plates, custom paint jobs… the works.

I could never put my finger on why they drove around what were practically collector’s cars or how they got them in the first place. 

Until the other day this older woman came to the restaurant in her ’79 Mercedes convertible. A beauty, her and the car. 

When I got behind the wheel to park it, I noticed a leather folder on the passenger seat. I couldn’t help but to take a peek.

It was the lady’s modeling portfolio from when she was younger. I wasn’t surprised… she had the look.

But then I realized the photos were the answer to the mystery.

All those attractive grandparents were models or actors back in the day. They must have hit it big in their early twenties and burned through their paychecks buying luxurious cars, thinking success would last forever.

I felt bad for the pretty old lady, for all of them… obsolete. Out of place and time, chewed up and spit out by Hollywood.

That thought scared the shit out of me…

So much so I’m no longer buying that Porsche when I get my big break.“

Are you an actor or director interested in using this monologue? Contact us in ABOUT MONOLOGY!

 Copyright Abel Gonzalez 2016