MICHAEL PHELPS MICHAEL PHELPS MICHAEL PHELPS

1: Five, six, seven, nine...

2:--Wrong!

1: What?

2: We messed something up, something about the order; I don't remember.

1: Five... six... seven... nine... ten...thirteen...

2: NO!

Pause.

2: Boondoggle!

1: We'll be fine. Everything's in order.

2: No, it's not! We missed something...

1: Well, it's the order now!

I started writing this, and it started reminding me of the End of the World play, so I stopped.
I almost haven't written anything all summer--except for two letters to Cody, but it's summer, this is what I do-- so I was rusty. But the only way to get un-rusty is to write something, right? And that's also what I do, and that's what I love. So here goes a piece inspired by Facebook statuses and my den:

CLAIRE: Who's that in the corner?

(A tall lump is in the corner, covered in a tight cap and absently mouthing the lyrics to music streaming through earbuds.)

SISTER: Michael Phelps.

CLAIRE: Why is he here?

SISTER: He's waiting for a race.

CLAIRE: Okay...

MOM: Something might be wrong with the space-time continuum. Just letting you know. I had a little trouble cooking dinner tonight.

CLAIRE: Okay...

(A mustachio-ed young man in a Speedo and bling enters through the living room door entrance.)

CLAIRE: Dang, son. It's Mark Spitz.

(Michael Phelps looks up as if he's not paying attention, but he is. He's kind of intimidated by Mark Spitz, who has been known to not be happy about the possibility of his record being broken.)

SISTER: Doesn't he know that swimmers don't wear Speedos anymore?

CLAIRE: This is clearly Mark Spitz circa 1972 or 3, Boo. He won seven gold medals and he won them with facial hair.

MICHAEL PHELPS: (muttering) Aaron Piersol can't even do that. (mumble mumble mumble to iPod) Apple bottom jeans, boots with the fur...

(Bloody French people come through the backyard door, eating figs and peaches on their way in from my family's verdant pasture).

SISTER: It's the French! I thought we killed you last night!

ALAIN BERNARD: We're ze French. We will never die.

SISTER: I resent the obvious implied contempt.

ALAIN: What can I say? We have a reputation to uphold.

Obviously, I cannot write this. It has tons of conflict (I have visions of Zombie French and Mark Spitz beating Michael Phelps into a little bloody pulp, and of Michael frantically searching for a hiding place in my tiny house that will accommodate his wingspan) but I haven't really got to the plot yet, and I got bored with this.

But yeah. Everybody's Facebook status is referencing Michael Phelps. Who remembered Aleksandr today? I ask you.

P.S. I want to go on record as saying that I like France and the French. It would be real cool if they were zombies, but then Jordan and Joe and I would have to kill them... I don't know how I'll resolve this.