TRUCK DRIVER, a man of indeterminate middle age, handling a large vehicle
JUSTIN, a 3-year-old on a scooter with flowing red curly hair
JUSTIN’S MOM, chromosomally linked to Justin
AUTUMN, an exasperated yet easily charmed 35-year-old blogger (nonspeaking role)
Time and Place
New York City, a busy street. The present. A beautiful March afternoon.
Lights up. Truck Driver is waiting curbside for a delivery. Autumn is walking down the street with a swing in her step because it’s gorgeous outside. Justin and Justin’s Mom trail Autumn by a few steps.
Truck Driver: Leaning out window of truck. Hey.
Autumn visibly stiffens, ancestral oppression of woman-as-object spreading across her face.
Truck Driver: Hey, kid.
Autumn quickens her pace, ignoring the truck driver, silently cursing spring as the time when street harassers come out of the woodwork. Writes mental notes for upcoming blog post.
Truck Driver: You’ve got cool hair, kid.
Justin’s Mom: Justin, did you hear that man? He said you have cool hair.
Justin: I don’t have cool hair. Cool hair is pink hair.