WHAT YHE WATER KNOWS © 2026 by BENJAMIN GAVARRE is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0

What the Water Knows

A Play in One Act

Benjamín Gavarre

Characters

• JULIAN: Eli’s secret lover. He knows Eli’s nocturnal silences, yet tonight he realizes he never truly knew him at all.
• MARCUS: Eli’s inseparable training partner. Direct, physical, bewildered by the invisible.
• LIAM: The close friend and confidant. Observant, attuned to the hidden undercurrents of the mind.
• THE SHADOWS IN THE GLASS: The reflections of the three friends cast against the tall, uncurtained window.

Setting

The living room of Eli’s high-rise apartment at night. Upstage, a wide, uncurtained picture window opens onto the pitch-black void of the city. Because the room is lit solely by a single floor lamp casting a dense, amber glow, the glass acts as a dark mirror: whenever Julian, Marcus, or Liam move, their reflections float suspended in the outer darkness, their gestures appearing slower, graver, and more distant than their actual bodies. In one corner sit a swim bag and a basketball; on a shelf rest dream journals, raw mineral stones, and a bronze singing bowl. On the coffee table lie folders stuffed with Missing Person flyers and cold mugs of coffee.

At rise, the three men are motionless. They look like figures trapped inside a display case being watched from the void. Liam stands by the front door, his fingers resting on the heavy deadbolt. Marcus sits on the edge of the sofa. Julian stands near the picture window, not daring to press his hands against the glass.

Scene

LIAM. —(Slowly letting go of the deadbolt). Eli installed two steel latches and a chain on this door last month. He always double-locked it before going to bed. He thought securing the wood was enough to keep danger out in the hallway... We bolt the doors of our homes believing we’ve foreseen everything that can be foreseen, never realizing the world doesn't end at our walls, and that tragedy never makes a sound when it slips through the lock.

MARCUS. —There has to be a trace somewhere, Liam. We hit all four hospitals in the district, the precincts, the county morgue... We looked into steel drawers nobody should ever have to look into. He’s not on the intake logs, not in holding, not among the John Does. A grown man doesn't just evaporate from city records like smoke.

JULIAN. —We’ve been repeating the exact same thing for fourteen days just to keep from falling silent. We talk and talk around his absence so the quiet doesn't come crashing down on us all at once. I’m terrified of the minute we run out of paperwork to file or hospitals to check... That’s when something inside us is really going to tear apart.

LIAM. —(Staring at the window). Look at us in that glass. Ever since night fell, I’ve been afraid to look up. It feels like we’re at the bottom of an aquarium, and there’s someone out there in the dark watching us wait—someone who knows a simple, terrible truth we still haven't figured out.

MARCUS. —There’s nobody out there, Liam. We’re on the sixth floor. It’s just the three of us—the only family he had in this world. (Pause. He rubs the back of his neck, uneasy). Well... I thought we were his family. After what you told us an hour ago, Julian, I feel like I spent five years training next to a complete stranger.

JULIAN. —He wasn't a stranger to you. He loved you in his own way.

MARCUS. —He never breathed a word to me about the two of you! We trained together almost every single day. Pickup basketball in the evenings, swimming laps at dawn, out-of-town tournaments, every sport you can name... I was his shadow on the court and in the lane. We spent hours in the steam room and under the locker room showers, wrapped in fog, talking about life, exhaustion, whatever nonsense came to mind... How can you stand naked across from your best friend for years and never once suspect he’s in love with another man?

JULIAN. —(With a tired, razor-thin half-smile). Maybe you just weren't his type, Marcus.

MARCUS. —(Looks up, without anger, caught in genuine doubt). And what if I was? Who ever really knows what’s going through the head of the guy standing next to you? Maybe if he’d said a single word, if he’d given me a sign in the steam... Eli wasn't a bad guy. Far from it. Maybe our friendship could have been something more...

LIAM. —(Interrupting, thrown off). Come on, man, don't start spinning things. You’ve had a girlfriend for years—you’re about to move in with her. That’s the exact reason he kept his private life from you, because he saw you settled in your world and didn't want to make things weird.

MARCUS. —I didn't say it was impossible. You think you know what you want until something is taken right out from in front of you. I always had a soft spot for him; he had a way of looking at you that just put you at ease. And honestly... his body was a sculpture. When he’d pull himself out of the pool and just stand there catching his breath on the deck—a guy isn't made of stone. You see beauty like that even if you don't know what to call it.

A thick silence settles over the room. In the glass upstage, the reflections of the three men look paler and more motionless than they do.

LIAM. —(Softly). It’s strange... Yesterday we would have talked about him the way we always did, trading jokes, but all it takes is for someone to vanish for us to see them for the very first time. We live months and years shoulder to shoulder with someone who maybe doesn't belong to this world anymore, and we’re blind to it. They say ordinary, indifferent things: “Pass me the towel,” “Looks like rain tomorrow,” “We’re out of coffee”... They smile the way people smile when they’re afraid of being misunderstood, and we answer without thinking, while entire continents are collapsing inside their chests.

JULIAN. —(Flatly, eyes on the floor). And now he’s dead.

LIAM. —We don't know that. Don't put that into words yet. He might still walk through that door.

JULIAN. —After two weeks? Two weeks is the exact cutoff where even the detectives fold their hands and write a missing person off as dead. They pat us on the back, sure, but to them Eli is already a cold file. Either he’s in a ditch, or he was abducted off some highway, or they harvested him for organs in some back-alley clinic...

MARCUS. —Don't go there, Julian! Shut up! What if he comes back tonight and hears you saying that sick stuff?

JULIAN. —And what if he’s been dead since the very first minute he stopped answering our texts, and here we are sitting under his lamp, dividing up the pieces of who he was and wondering who he wanted to sleep with?

Suddenly, both Marcus and Liam shudder at the exact same instant and snap their heads toward the dark window, as if someone had whispered their names from the night air outside.

MARCUS. —(Touching his shoulders). Did you feel that?

JULIAN. —Feel what?

MARCUS. —A weird chill... My skin just crawled all at once, like when your back is turned and you feel someone staring dead at you from across the street.

LIAM. —(Without taking his eyes off the glass). Maybe he’s listening to us right now. We don't know how far the soul reaches around the living once the body gets lost.

MARCUS. —I don't think he’d be listening like that, like he’s hiding behind the couch. If he’s not on this plane anymore, spirits show up in more symbolic ways, don't they? They don't use words... they send a sign. Something breaking, a shadow that doesn't belong, a light that...

Before Marcus can finish the sentence, the single lit floor lamp flickers with an electrical buzz and dies completely. The apartment plunges into a bluish twilight, lit only by the distant glow of the moon and the streetlamp haze filtering through the window. Now, the silhouettes of the three men are sharply backlit against the glass.

MARCUS. —(In a whisper). ...a light that goes out.

A long pause. None of them dares to reach for the switch.

JULIAN. —(Whispering in the dark). They say when grief enters a house, everyone inside thinks the exact same thing at the same moment without speaking it. We all have the same image of him burned behind our eyes. Let’s test it. If a trace of him is still floating between these walls, let’s close our eyes. Forget the morgues and the police. Let’s ask him in silence what he would say to us right now.

All three close their eyes. They stand rigid in the gloom. The silence of the apartment building seems to amplify.

JULIAN. —(Eyes still shut). Red. That’s what he told me. Like a rush of blood or a heavy cloth dropped over my face.

MARCUS. —(Opening his eyes slowly, unsettled). I saw a flame. Small, smokeless, burning dead-still in the middle of nothing.

LIAM. —(Opening his eyes, heavy with sorrow). I saw a river. Slow water dragging dark branches toward the other bank... (He sighs). So it doesn't work. Not even in the dark can we find the same Eli.

JULIAN. —Or maybe it did work, and the messages are different because he was never just one person to us. He left each of us the piece we could bear: for me, the red wound; for you, the fire of the body you admired in silence; and for Liam, the current that carried him out of our hands.

LIAM. —He never cared for things that show themselves easily. While we thought life was about winning a game, paying rent, or grabbing dinner on Fridays, he’d sit on that rug meditating at three in the morning. He saw impossible worlds behind ordinary things; he talked about his dreams as if they were places more real than this room... He had too much thirst for a life this narrow.

MARCUS. —(Looking down at his own hands in the dim light). What if he really did die... and at this exact second he already knows all the secrets we’ll never figure out?

JULIAN. —What are you talking about, Marcus?

MARCUS. —Think about it. The great mysteries of life and death he was always chasing with his eyes closed. If he crossed over to the other side, he already knows what’s behind the curtain. He understands why we’re born, where the pain goes when you run out of air... He’s infinitely ahead of us now. He’d be looking down at us from somewhere high up, watching us shiver in his living room knowing nothing about anything, like scared kids behind a windowpane.

JULIAN. —(With a cracked laugh, on the verge of tears). And what if he’s alive? What if he just got sick of our tiny little lives, went off to walk without a map, and when he gets back he laughs in our faces for turning into philosophers and ghosts while he was gone?

LIAM. —Too much speculation... We talk too much because we don't know how to hold his name without it burning our mouths.

Liam’s last word drops like a stone into a well. An eternal, absolute, almost unbreathable silence takes over. Nobody moves. They seem to have finally become the mute, spiritualized figures of the shadow play reflected in the window. Time freezes.

Suddenly, from the hallway outside, shattering the sepulchral stillness of the night, comes the unmistakable metallic scrape of a key finding the slot of the apartment's front door.

All three hold their breath as one.

The key slides into the cylinder. The internal mechanism turns with two heavy, dry clicks, drawing back the deadbolt Liam had touched at the beginning. The metal door handle slowly presses down, about to push the door open.

Julian, Marcus, and Liam stand petrified, eyes wide and locked on the wood as it begins to separate from the doorframe, suspended between the terror of the impossible and a miracle.

SUDDEN BLACKOUT

© Benjamín Gavarre. All rights reserved.

WHAT YHE WATER KNOWS © 2026 by BENJAMIN GAVARRE is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0

LO QUE SABE EL AGUA © 2026 by BENJAMIN GAVARRE is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0

 

Lo que sabe el agua

Pieza en un acto

Benjamín Gavarre

Personajes

• JULIÁN: El amante secreto de Elia. Conoce sus silencios nocturnos, pero hoy descubre que tampoco lo conocía del todo.
• MARCOS: El compañero inseparable de entrenamientos. Franco, físico, desconcertado ante lo invisible.
• GAEL: El amigo confidente. Observador, sensible a las corrientes ocultas del ánimo.
• LAS SOMBRAS EN EL CRISTAL: Los reflejos de los tres amigos proyectados en el gran ventanal sin cortinas.

Escenario

Sala del departamento de Elia en un piso alto. Al fondo, un gran ventanal sin persianas da hacia la negrura de la noche. Como el interior está iluminado únicamente por una lámpara de pie de luz densa y amarillenta, el cristal funciona como un espejo oscuro: cada vez que Julián, Marcos o Gael se mueven, sus reflejos flotan suspendidos en el vacío exterior, con gestos que parecen más lentos, graves y distantes que los de sus propios cuerpos. En un rincón, una mochila de natación y un balón de básquetbol; en un estante, cuadernos de sueños, piedras minerales y un cuenco de bronce. Sobre la mesa, carpetas con fichas de búsqueda y tazas frías.

Al levantarse la luz, los tres están inmóviles. Parecen figuras atrapadas dentro de una vitrina observada desde la nada. Gael está de pie junto a la puerta de entrada, tocando el cerrojo de hierro. Marcos está sentado en el borde del sofá. Julián permanece cerca del ventanal, sin atreverse a pegar las manos al vidrio.

Acto Único

GAEL. —(Soltando el cerrojo lentamente). Elia puso dos pasadores de acero y una cadena en esta puerta el mes pasado. Cerraba con doble llave antes de dormir. Creía que con asegurar la madera bastaba para dejar el peligro afuera... Uno cierra las puertas de su casa pensando que ha previsto todo lo que se puede prever, sin darse cuenta de que el mundo no se acaba en los muros, y que la desgracia nunca entra haciendo ruido por la cerradura.

MARCOS. —Tiene que haber un rastro en alguna parte, Gael. Recorrimos los cuatro hospitales de la zona, las comisarías, el servicio forense... Vimos gavetas que nadie debería ver jamás. No está en las listas de ingresos, ni en las de detenidos, ni entre los cuerpos sin nombre. Un hombre no se evapora del registro civil como si fuera humo.

JULIÁN. —Llevamos catorce días diciendo lo mismo para no quedarnos callados. Hablamos y hablamos alrededor de su ausencia solo para que el silencio no nos caiga encima de golpe. Me da terror el minuto en que ya no tengamos ningún trámite que inventar ni ningún hospital que visitar... Ahí es cuando de verdad se nos va a desgarrar algo adentro.

GAEL. —(Mirando hacia el ventanal). Mírennos en ese vidrio. Desde que cayó la noche me da miedo levantar la vista. Parece que estamos en el fondo de un acuario y que hay alguien allá afuera, en lo oscuro, mirándonos esperar, sabiendo una verdad sencilla y terrible que nosotros todavía ignoramos.

MARCOS. —Afuera no hay nadie, Gael. Es un sexto piso. Solo somos nosotros tres, que éramos la única familia que tenía en este mundo. (Pausa. Se frota la nuca, inquieto). Bueno... creía que éramos su familia. Después de lo que contaste hace una hora, Julián, siento que pasé cinco años entrenando con un desconocido.

JULIÁN. —No era un desconocido para ti. Te quería a su manera.

MARCOS. —¡Pero jamás me dijo nada de ustedes! Entrenábamos juntos casi a diario. Básquet en las tardes, natación al amanecer, torneos fuera de la ciudad, toda clase de deportes... Yo era su sombra en la cancha y en el carril. Pasábamos horas enteras en el vapor y bajo las regaderas, envueltos en la niebla, hablando de la vida, del cansancio, de cualquier tontería... ¿Cómo puedes estar desnudo frente a tu mejor amigo durante años y no sospechar que ama a otro hombre?

JULIÁN. —(Con una media sonrisa cansada y filosa). Tal vez no eras su tipo, Marcos.

MARCOS. —(Levanta la cabeza, sin enojo, atrapado en una duda genuina). ¿Y tal vez sí? ¿Quién sabe nunca lo que pasa por la cabeza del que tienes al lado? Quizá si me hubiera dicho una sola palabra, si me hubiera hecho una seña en el vapor... Elia no era mal tipo. Todo lo contrario. Tal vez nuestra amistad pudo ser un poco más...

GAEL. —(Interrumpiendo, desconcertado). No, amigo, no inventes. Tú tienes novia desde hace años, te vas a ir a vivir con ella. Por eso mismo se guardó su vida contigo, porque te veía seguro en tu mundo y no quiso incomodarte.

MARCOS. —No dije que fuera imposible. Uno cree que sabe lo que quiere hasta que le quitan algo de enfrente. A mí siempre me cayó bien, tenía una forma de mirar que te dejaba en paz. Y la verdad... su cuerpo era una escultura. Cuando salía de la alberca y se quedaba respirando en el borde, uno no es de piedra, uno ve la belleza aunque no sepa cómo nombrarla.

Se instala un silencio espeso. En el cristal del fondo, los reflejos de los tres parecen más pálidos e inmóviles que ellos mismos.

GAEL. —(En voz baja). Es extraño... Ayer habríamos hablado de él como siempre, entre bromas, pero basta con que alguien desaparezca para que lo veamos por primera vez. Vivimos meses y años codo a codo con alguien que tal vez ya no pertenece a este mundo, y no vemos nada. Nos dice cosas indiferentes: «Pásame la toalla», «Parece que va a llover mañana», «Falta comprar café»... Sonríe como sonríen los que tienen miedo de que no se les comprenda, y nosotros le respondemos sin pensar, mientras adentro de su pecho se están derrumbando continentes enteros.

JULIÁN. —(Seco, mirando el suelo). Y ahora está muerto.

GAEL. —No lo sabemos. No pronuncies eso todavía. Tal vez regrese.

JULIÁN. —¿Después de dos semanas? Dos semanas es el plazo exacto en que hasta los investigadores bajan los brazos y dan por muerto a un desaparecido. Aunque nos den palmadas en el hombro, para ellos Elia ya es un expediente frío. O está en una fosa, o lo secuestraron en una carretera, o lo vendieron por piezas para tráfico de órganos en algún quirófano clandestino...

MARCOS. —¡No te pases, Julián! ¡Cállate! ¿Qué tal que regresa esta misma noche y te oye decir esas barbaridades?

JULIÁN. —¿Y qué tal que está muerto desde el primer minuto en que dejó de contestar los mensajes, y nosotros seguimos aquí sentados bajo su lámpara, repartiéndonos sus pedazos y preguntándonos a quién deseaba?

De pronto, tanto Marcos como Gael sufren un leve estremecimiento simultáneo y vuelven la cabeza bruscamente hacia el ventanal oscuro, como si alguien hubiera pronunciado sus nombres desde el aire exterior.

MARCOS. —(Tocándose los hombros). ¿Sintieron eso?

JULIÁN. —¿Qué cosa?

MARCOS. —Un frío raro... Me tembló la piel de golpe, como cuando estás de espaldas y sientes que te clavan la mirada desde lejos.

GAEL. —(Sin apartar la vista del cristal). Tal vez nos está escuchando ahora mismo. No sabemos hasta dónde se extiende el alma alrededor de los hombres cuando el cuerpo se pierde.

MARCOS. —No creo que nos escuche así, como si estuviera escondido detrás del sofá. Si ya no está en este plano, las ánimas se presentan de maneras más simbólicas, ¿no? No usan palabras... avisan con algo que se rompe, una sombra que no corresponde, una luz que...

Antes de que Marcos termine la frase, la única lámpara encendida parpadea con un zumbido eléctrico y se apaga por completo. El departamento cae en una penumbra azulada, iluminada únicamente por el resplandor lejano de la luna y la ciudad que entra desde el ventanal. Ahora, las siluetas de los tres están recortadas a contraluz frente al vidrio.

MARCOS. —(Con un hilo de voz). ...una luz que se apaga.

Pausa larga. Ninguno se atreve a buscar el interruptor.

JULIÁN. —(Susurrando en la oscuridad). Dicen que cuando la desgracia entra en una casa, todos los que están adentro piensan lo mismo al mismo tiempo sin decírselo. Tenemos la misma idea de él clavada en la frente. Hagamos la prueba. Si su rastro sigue flotando entre estas paredes, cerremos los ojos. No pensemos en las morgues ni en la policía. Preguntémosle en silencio qué nos diría en este instante.

Los tres cierran los ojos. Permanecen rígidos en la penumbra. El silencio del edificio parece amplificarse.

JULIÁN. —(Con los ojos aún cerrados). Rojo. Eso me dijo. Como un golpe de sangre o una tela pesada cubriéndome la cara.

MARCOS. —(Abriendo los ojos despacio, desconcertado). Yo vi una flama. Pequeña, sin humo, ardiendo fija en medio del vacío.

GAEL. —(Abriendo los ojos con tristeza). Yo vi un río. Agua muy lenta arrastrando ramas oscuras hacia la otra orilla... (Suspira). Entonces no funciona. Ni siquiera en la oscuridad logramos encontrarnos con el mismo Elia.

JULIÁN. —O tal vez sí funcionó, y los mensajes son distintos porque él nunca fue uno solo para nosotros. A cada quien le dejó la parte que podía soportar: a mí la herida roja, a ti el fuego del cuerpo que admirabas en silencio, y a Gael la corriente por donde se nos fue de las manos.

GAEL. —Él nunca quiso las cosas que se manifiestan de forma fácil. Mientras nosotros creíamos que la vida era ganar un partido, pagar la renta o cenar juntos los viernes, él se sentaba en esa alfombra a meditar a las tres de la mañana. Veía mundos imposibles detrás de las cosas ordinarias, hablaba de sus sueños como si fueran lugares más reales que esta sala... Tenía demasiada sed para una vida tan estrecha.

MARCOS. —(Mirando sus propias manos en la penumbra). ¿Qué tal que sí se murió... y en este preciso segundo él ya conoce todos los secretos que nosotros nunca sabremos?

JULIÁN. —¿De qué hablas, Marcos?

MARCOS. —Piénsenlo. Los grandes misterios de la vida y de la muerte que tanto buscaba con los ojos cerrados. Si cruzó al otro lado, él ya sabe qué hay detrás del telón, ya entiende por qué nacemos, a dónde va el dolor cuando se acaba el aire... Nos lleva una ventaja infinita. Nos estaría mirando desde arriba, viendo cómo temblamos en su sala sin saber nada de nada, como niños asustados detrás de una ventana.

JULIÁN. —(Con una risa quebrada, al borde del llanto). ¿Y si está vivo? ¿Y si solo se hartó de nuestras vidas diminutas, se fue a caminar sin rumbo y cuando llegue se burla de nosotros por habernos vuelto filósofos y fantasmas en su ausencia?

GAEL. —Mucho especular... Hablamos demasiado porque no sabemos cómo sostener su nombre sin que nos queme la boca.

La última palabra de Gael cae como una piedra en un pozo. Se instala un silencio eterno, absoluto, casi irrespirable. Ya nadie se mueve. Parecen haberse convertido finalmente en las figuras mudas y espiritualizadas del teatro de sombras que se reflejaban en el ventanal. El tiempo se congela.

De pronto, desde el pasillo exterior, rompiendo la quietud sepulcral de la noche, se escucha el roce metálico e inconfundible de una llave buscando la ranura de la puerta principal del departamento.

Los tres contienen el aliento al unísono.

La llave entra en el cilindro. El mecanismo interior gira con dos golpes secos y pesados, descorriendo el cerrojo que Gael había tocado al principio. El picaporte metálico cede lentamente hacia abajo, a punto de abrir la puerta.

Julián, Marcos y Gael quedan de pie, petrificados, con los ojos desorbitados fijos en la madera que comienza a separarse del marco, suspendidos entre el terror de lo imposible y el milagro.

OSCURO SÚBITO

© Benjamín Gavarre. Todos los derechos reservados.

LO QUE SABE EL AGUA © 2026 by BENJAMIN GAVARRE is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0

El Pedro VS la Isabel: Debate imposible.

 

 

El Pedro VS la Isabel

Debate imposible

 

PERSONAJES:

• EL PRESIDENTE (PEDRO): Defensor de los derechos del ciudadano, progresista institucional, sonrisa de anuncio dental indestructible. No lleva corbata para parecer cercano al pueblo, pero viste una camisa planchada con láser.
• LA ALCALDESA-PRESIDENTA (CAYETANA-ISABEL): Ultraderechista mesiánica, neoliberal castiza, ojos desorbitados de iluminada. A ratos se le escapa un tic gallego y burocrático en las cejas.

ESCENARIO: Un set de televisión en penumbras antes de salir al aire. Sillones blancos minimalistas, una mesa de cristal con dos vasos de agua, cámaras apagadas con el piloto rojo en espera y cables por el suelo. Es la víspera de unas elecciones cruciales en un país que nadie nombra, pero que huele a Ibex 35, tortilla, zócalo y Obelisco a la vez. Hablan en un español neutro impecable, traicionado de vez en cuando por algún modismo que se les escapa como un resorte.

(Entran PEDRO y LA ALCALDESA por los laterales del set, ajustándose los micrófonos de solapa. Hay una tensión eléctrica disfrazada de cortesía televisiva).

PEDRO: (Mirándola fijamente, entrecerrando los ojos con encanto calculado) Oiga... pero ¿cómo que me está usted mirando con ojos de varón?

ALCALDESA: (Alza la barbilla con altivez) Ah, es que soy de la realeza, un poco. Tengo mirada de retrato ecuestre, ¿sabe usted? De infanta que no pide permiso.

PEDRO: No, no es de realeza... Es como que sus cejas se le parecieron de repente al mismísimo diablo. Un rictus rarísimo, como de contable de provincias enfadado.

ALCALDESA: (Frota el entrecejo, adoptando por un segundo una voz grave y dubitativa) Ah, no se crea... Es que el líder electo del partido y yo nos llevamos tan bien que a veces nos mimetizamos. Se me pega su ceja. Pero mire, con esta ceja o sin ella, a usted lo vamos a tumbar en noviembre. ¡A la lona!

PEDRO: (Suelta una carcajada de catálogo) ¿Eso cree? Mire que no ha podido usted ni gobernar su propia parcela con esos orangutanes que tiene detrás. Esa ultra-ultra-ultramano siniestra que le sostiene el bolso... esos que son amigos del lunático despeinado y su motosierra. ¡Y no hablemos de usted, que fue corriendo a sacarse la foto con ese Chucky económico y de milagro no se la comió cruda!

ALCALDESA: (Tocándose el pecho, extasiada) ¡Me adora! El de la motosierra me adora porque huelo a libertad libre de impuestos. En cambio, a usted lo vamos a barrer con la escoba. ¡Fiuuu! Fuera del palacio.

PEDRO: Ah, claro... Eso si antes no le salen más trapitos al sol de su último gobierno. Que para hablar de austeridad, bien que no se conformó con menos que ese "pisito" de cuatrocientas hectáreas que se compró en plena Gran Avenida. Con vistas al cielo fiscal.

ALCALDESA: (Da un golpe seco en la mesa) ¡Ah, ni lo diga usted! ¡No tenga cara, que puso a su propio hermano en la lista de los más buscados! Que si tributa allá, que si dirige orquestas fantasmas...

PEDRO: (Indignado, irguiéndose) ¡Oiga, más respeto! ¡Mi hermano sí estudió! Tiene cuatro doctorados, tres maestrías y habla veinticinco idiomas, incluidos tres dialectos muertos. En cambio usted... ¡usted no sabe ni dar los buenos días sin ese "chicharito" en la oreja! (Se señala el oído). Ahí tiene a su asesor dictándole cómo funciona el alcantarillado. Tiene usted un discurso en el que se tropieza treinta y cinco veces por minuto porque no sabe ni la "A" de los servicios públicos. ¡Y menos del transporte! Usted escucha Subway y piensa que es un mantecado o un sándwich de jamón, y cualquier día de estos va a lograr que en la Terminal Antorcha se vuelvan a estrellar los convoyes.

ALCALDESA: (Se le escapa el acento castizo) ¡Eso ni de coña! ¡Oiga, está usted muy mal informao! Lo de los trenes fueron los jesuitas comunistas infiltrados que trataron de dar un golpe de Estado cuando gobernaba el de los zapatos ese... el de las cejas en forma de acento circunflejo.

PEDRO: ¡Pero si usted no sabe nada de Historia! ¡Qué bárbara! El de los zapatos no estaba entonces; acababa de morir el Gran Dictador en su cama y por fin tuvimos un gobierno socialista decente, con derechos ciudadanos. Y eso, señora mía, es algo que ustedes en el casino y el club de campo todavía no soportan.

ALCALDESA: (Pierde los papeles, acercándose a él) ¡Impresentable! ¡Fregona de Bruselas! ¡Nepotista! ¡Ladrón de escaños! ¿Acaso se cree muy guapo y por eso no usa corbata ni traje completo? ¿Viene a debatir o a venderme un seguro de vida?

PEDRO: (Sonríe con superioridad) Y usted se siente de la realeza, efectivamente, y por eso sale cada semana posando en la revista Nos Vemos... o en el ¡Hola!.

ALCALDESA: ¿Cómo que ¡Hola!?

PEDRO: ¡Pues Hola! Así, con ese tonito de niña fresa, de marquesa ofendida que le celebran las hormigas de peluche en ese programucho nocturno.

ALCALDESA: ¡Mejor mis hormigas que sus panfletos! Que a usted los canales que patrocina con dinero público le hacen entrevistas a modo, con violines de fondo. ¡Usted es una pava vanidosa!

PEDRO: ¡Y usted un mequetrefe con faldas!

ALCALDESA: ¡Le digo que van a perder!

PEDRO: Y yo le digo que si ustedes ganan será únicamente con la ayuda del Norte. Con los dólares y los algoritmos de ese güero de la corbata roja que llega hasta el suelo y que tiene sus narices metidas en todos lados. Aunque mire, en Brasil no pudo, ¿eh? Ahí sí que le salió el chirrión por el palito.

ALCALDESA: (Burlona) ¡Ja! Usted ni hablar sabe, así no es el refrán... ¡Se dice que "se le aguaron las naves"!

PEDRO: ¡Se le quemaron las naves, ignorante! ¡Las naves se queman, no se aguan! (Mirando hacia las cámaras apagadas, en falso tono de súplica cómica). ¡Ay, ayuda con esta bruja, Ayuso... digo, auxilio, ayuda! ¡Que esto es un buen programa institucional, no lo eche a perder con su incultura!

ALCALDESA: (Se detiene en seco. Olfatea el aire con gesto de asco). Bueno, mire... yo mejor lo dejo en paz porque aquí huele a gas. Huele muchísimo a gas.

PEDRO: (Arreglándose el cuello de la camisa) Pues no será por mí. Mi gestión es limpia y ecológica; yo no me estoy pudriendo por dentro como otros partidos que llevan treinta años en formol.

ALCALDESA: ¡Oiga, no sea grosero! (Lo mira con espanto) ¡Y no me levante las cejas usted también a lo Feijóo, que se ve usted muy feíto cuando me imita! ¡Jajaja! ¡Es usted un demagogo de manual!

PEDRO: Y usted una corrupta. Y sus tres padrinos ideológicos, peor.

ALCALDESA: Yo no tengo esqueletos en el armario, querido.

PEDRO: ¡Claro que no los tiene en el armario, los tiene todos a la vista en el balcón, desorientada! Hágame un favor: váyase otra vez de viaje a México a ver si allá la convierten en calaverita de azúcar y nos deja legislar en paz.

ALCALDESA: (Espantada, llevándose la mano al collar de perlas) ¡Oiga, no! ¡Yo no regreso a ese país de asesinos y populistas! Además, le recuerdo que ellos son un país gracias a nosotros. ¡Llegamos con la cruz y el urbanismo!

PEDRO: (Irónico) ¡Claro, hombre! ¡Cómo no! Como si los olmecas no hubieran estado tallando cabezas gigantes al mismo tiempo que los egipcios ya eran grandes... ¡Usted cree que el mundo empezó cuando inauguraron El Corte Inglés!

ALCALDESA: ¡No es cierto lo de los egipcios, eso es propaganda indigenista! ¡Nosotros les enseñamos a hablar español y a rezar!

PEDRO: Sí, y bien que usted se fue directito a las playas del Caribe cuando la corrieron de su primer puesto en el partido.

ALCALDESA: (Con dignidad herida, recogiendo su bolso) ¡A mí no me corrieron, yo me fui a reflexionar frente al mar!

PEDRO: (Cambia de pronto al tono frío y distante. Señala la puerta del estudio). Oiga... mejor váyase ya. Tengo una entrevista privada con la cámara. Un mensaje a la nación. Y le aseguro que no voy a hablar mal de usted; ni siquiera la voy a mencionar. Solo voy a hablar de todo lo que hemos logrado. Quédese en paz. (Pausa breve. La mira desde la sombra del plató). Y tenga cuidado con esa fuga de gas en los pasillos, no le vaya a explotar en la cara antes de las urnas. Ah... y cuidado cuando cruce la calle al salir del canal. Hay gente ahí afuera que no la quiere nada, nadita, nada.

(LA ALCALDESA lo mira un segundo en silencio, intenta decir algo más, pero resopla con desdén y sale taconeando con furia hacia la oscuridad del pasillo).

(PEDRO queda completamente solo en el centro del plató. Su expresión de furia desaparece al instante; se pasa la mano por el cabello, inhala hondo y clava una sonrisa radiante, casi inhumana, frente al lente de la cámara central).

VOZ DEL DIRECTOR EN OFF: ¡Silencio en el estudio! ¡Cortamos aire con el debate! ¡Empezamos mensaje oficial, señor Presidente! En tres, dos, uno... ¡Al momento del flash diga "Hola"!

(Salta un fogonazo de luz blanca sobre el rostro de PEDRO).

PEDRO: (Con voz aterciopelada, abriendo los brazos hacia el lente mientras el olor a gas invade el estudio) ¡Hola! ¡Holaaa, ciudadanos!

 

THE CROW, THE FOX, AND THE CROSSOVER DRIBBLE.

 

 

 

  

THE CROW, THE FOX, AND THE CROSSOVER DRIBBLE

"El Sueño del Cuervo y la Zorra")

By Benjamin Gavarre

 

THE CROW, THE FOX, AND THE CROSSOVER DRIBBLE © 2026 by BENJAMIN GAVARRE is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0

The Crow, the Fox, and the Crossover Dribble (adapted from El sueño del cuervo y la zorra) is a surrealist one-act farce where Aesop’s classic fable collides with absurdism and sharp urban sitcom satire. Set inside a shifting loft-turned-basketball-court that exists entirely within the protagonist's fever dream, the play follows Matty—our gullible "Crow"—a sweet-natured guy with zero hoop skills who clutches his prized "cheese": the keys to his SUV and a desperate longing for romance. Circling him is Bethany, a predatory "Fox" in a tagged sequin dress and ear-splitting white orthopedic shoes; Matty's ice-cold mother Mama Rose and her broom-wielding accomplice Dotty; a shape-shifting nightmare salesman hawking everything from King James Bibles to aerospace vacuums; and Leo, Matty’s deadpan, fiercely loyal best friend. Moving from silent physical comedy to an ambush inside a kitschy roadside tearoom, the play uses dream logic and slapstick exorcism to contrast the cheap flattery of opportunism with the quiet grace of true brotherhood.

 

 

THE CROW, THE FOX, AND THE CROSSOVER DRIBBLE

CHARACTERS:

• MATTY (Mateo): A short, olive-skinned, good-natured guy in his twenties. Has zero talent for basketball and a heart far too soft for his own good.

 

• LEO (Lalo): Matty’s best friend. A bit taller, sarcastic, rough around the edges, but fiercely loyal.

 

• BETHANY (Elizabeth): The gold-digging girlfriend. Pretentious, delusional, wears ear-splitting white orthopedic shoes and a cheap blonde wig.

 

• MAMA ROSE (Doña Carmen): Matty’s mother. Firm, bone-dry irony, fiercely protective.

 

• DOTTY (Chayito): The longtime housekeeper. Mischievous, observant, sharp-tongued, and lethal with a broom.

 

• THE DISRUPTOR SALESMAN (Vendedor Disruptor): A shape-shifting dream figure who changes professions every time the door opens (Bibles, Timeshares, Vacuums).

 

SCENE I: The Court of the Higher Dimension

 

(The stage depicts a Brooklyn loft that bleeds surreally into a hardwood basketball court. MATTY lies flat on his back on the floor, completely winded, mouth wide open. LEO stands over him, casually tucking an invisible basketball under one arm.)

 

LEO: You’ve got the court vision of a concussed manatee, Matty. Seriously, watching you play hoops is like watching a wind-up pug keychain try to dunk. Thirty minutes on the hardwood and the only point you scored was that dead horsefly stuck to the hem of your shorts.

 

MATTY: (From the floor, speaking in the resonant, overly dramatic baritone of a silent-film heartthrob) It’s my signature style, Leo. Physical minimalism. Bethany says my lack of coordination is proof that my intellect operates in a higher dimension.

 

(BETHANY enters. Her platinum blonde wig sits slightly crooked on her head. She wears a tacky sequin dress with the cardboard store tag still dragging behind her, paired with clunky white orthopedic shoes whose rubber soles screech violently against the hardwood with every step: SQUEAK-SQUEAK-SQUEAK!)

 

BETHANY: Damn straight it does, my little pineapple Twinkie! (She pounces on him like an alley cat on a fire escape, smothering him on the floor.) What a poetic way to make out with the linoleum! Hey, baby, speaking of higher dimensions... toss me the keys to the SUV. I gotta run over to Johns Hopkins to take out an appendix. Science waits for no woman! Oh, and tell your dad that—

 

MAMA ROSE: (Leaning out from the kitchen holding a mug of black coffee, her gaze colder than a meat locker) Which dad, Bethany? Because if you’re referring to Matty’s late father, you’re gonna need a shovel and a map to Never-Never Land, seeing as nobody knows where the hell he’s buried.

 

BETHANY: (Blinking furiously, suddenly rattled) Oh, Mama Rose, stop joking around! Matty’s father holds a massive blue-chip portfolio on Wall Street, and I fully intend to keep—I mean, I intend to prove to him that I’m the absolute best asset for his son!

 

DOTTY: (Strolling past with a broom and sweeping directly over Bethany’s orthopedic shoes) Hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but the mister is more volatile than crypto. One day word gets around he’s living in a hippie commune in Sedona making healing crystals out of old Pabst Blue Ribbon bottles; the next day somebody swears he ran off to Reno with a Monster Energy ring girl; and just yesterday the mailman said he saw him hawking bootleg fleece blankets on the L train at 14th Street. Nobody’s finding that man with a search warrant and a bloodhound. So the car stays parked. And as for his stock options—let’s not even go there. Literally, the man is no longer with us.

 

BETHANY: (Staging an operatic faint, collapsing dramatically onto the couch) This is sabotage! You people just can’t stand the thought of a woman of breeding—with future surgeons in her family tree—marrying into this den of... of penniless con artists! Matty... put your help in their place right now or I’m revoking your hand-kissing privileges!

 

(Matty, dazed and slack-jawed, lets out a soft sound like a startled pigeon.)

 

MATTY: Bethany, don’t call them that... and Mama Rose is my mom, remember?

 

SCENE II: The Silent Duet and the Fox’s Stage Fright

 

(Mama Rose and Dotty retreat discreetly to a corner of the stage, sitting down on little wooden stools and watching the scene unfold as if enjoying a punch-and-judy puppet show.)

 

(A silent sequence begins. Matty and Leo, without uttering a single word, completely ignore Bethany and launch into an intense, bizarre, and strangely intimate choreography of body language. Leo crosses his arms, stares dead into Matty’s eyes, and snaps his fingers downward, ordering him to "stand up straight." Matty responds by bugging his eyes out wide, stroking his chin, sticking his tongue out for a split second, and swiveling his hips to mime a bricked jump shot. Leo shakes his head, flashes a crooked half-smile, slowly peels off his hoodie to reveal his shoulders, and winks into the void. At the sight of this, Matty shudders from head to toe, mimes a silent massive coronary, drops to his knees, and offers up the invisible basketball like an ancient Mayan blood sacrifice.)

 

(Bethany, finding herself completely upstaged by the pantomime, spirals into a rock-and-roll possession trance. Hair wild, eyes squeezed shut, she begins channeling Janis Joplin: shredding her vocal cords, thrashing her head toward the floor, and doubling over in cosmic agony as she wails a cappella.)

 

BETHANY: (Howling with agonizing vibrato) Oh Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz! Listen to me! Feel the raw blues of my rock-star soul! (She stomps her orthopedic shoes with an ear-splitting SQUEAK and twists her leg as if struck by a charley horse.) Witness my stage-diva flexibility! Matty, hold me! I’m dying of unbridled passion over here and you’d rather gawk at a sweaty guy in a tank top!

 

(Matty and Leo don’t even glance her way. They continue their silent dialogue: Leo traces a heart in the air with his index fingers; Matty snatches it deftly out of midair, pops it into his mouth like a piece of bubble gum, chews, and gives a chef’s-kiss gesture meaning "delicious.")

 

BETHANY: (On the verge of a nervous breakdown, yanking at her hair and nearly tearing her blonde wig off by the roots) Are you seriously ignoring me for your creepy mystical obsession with basketball?! You’re sick! You’re both depraved ball-junkies! I honestly don’t know how you can be blind to my star power... (Suddenly, she switches gears, straightens up, and shakes her assets with desperate neediness.) Look at me! I am Artemis, Goddess of the Sun!

 

(Matty and Leo freeze their pantomime dead in its tracks. They turn and stare at her, completely motionless, one eyebrow cocked, wearing identical expressions of: "Does this woman genuinely have no idea how ridiculous she looks right now?")

 

MATTY AND LEO: (In flat unison) Wrong, wrong, wrong... Aphrodite, Goddess of Beauty, right?

 

(Suddenly, the front door flies open with a bang. In steps an immaculate man in a dark brown suit, hair slicked back with pomade, carrying a leather briefcase with supreme elegance. He offers a textbook bow and a dazzlingly polite smile.)

 

SALESMAN: A very good afternoon to you all, distinguished gentlemen and fair lady. Pardon the intrusion on this glorious day. I come most humbly offering the Illustrated King James Family Bible, a crowning masterpiece for the spiritual enrichment of the household. Might I interest you in acquiring a copy?

 

LEO: (With monumental exhaustion) Oh, give me a break, man. Door-to-door Bibles? Nobody buys encyclopedias or Bibles at the door anymore, it’s the twenty-first century. Salvation comes in a PDF now.

 

(Dream effect: The Salesman’s smile vanishes instantly. His eyes roll back into his skull, the seams of his suit rip open on their own, and he slams his briefcase onto the floor as the stage lighting plunges into an apocalyptic blood-red.)

 

SALESMAN: A PDF?! Blasphemers! You are all under THE CURSE OF NOSFERATU! I condemn you to the eternal hellfire of Gehenna! Vampires of the Apocalypse, you shall roast in brimstone for rejecting the divine print edition!

 

SCENE III: Ambush at the Cracker Barrel of Horrors

 

(At the roar of "THE CURSE!", an instantaneous theatrical transformation takes place: the polite clinking of teacups rings out, and the loft lighting shifts to a syrupy, amber-yellow glow identical to a kitschy roadside Cracker Barrel tearoom. Mama Rose and Dotty magically appear seated at a small wooden table, sipping tea with supreme composure.)

 

DOTTY: Would the lady of the house care for some tea?

 

BETHANY: (Baffled, blinking at the sudden set change) Am I... the lady of the house?

 

MAMA ROSE: (Polishing the teapot as if summoning a genie) Of course, Beth... or should we call you Betty, or Bitsy, or Buffy? Bethany is such a mouthful... Here, have a cookie.

 

BETHANY: Well... maybe just one or two. Are they chocolate chip?

 

DOTTY: Chocolate-pecan... my own special batch.

 

BETHANY: Oh, how lovely. You can really tell they’re... (She looks down at a plate of enormous, misshapen cookies studded with shriveled black raisins that look suspiciously like beetles.) Very...

 

DOTTY: (With a deadpan horror-movie stare) CHOCOLATE!

 

MAMA ROSE: Leo, Matty... come sit down, boys. Mommy made a little surprise for you.

 

MATTY: Yeah, Mom?

 

LEO: Thanks, Mrs. R. I’m a sucker for surprises.

 

BETHANY: (To Leo) The surprise is for me, you moron, can’t you take a hint?

 

LEO: Shut up and eat your bug cookies.

 

BETHANY: You know, I hadn’t noticed your welfare sneakers until just now... You do realize your toes are poking out the front because you can’t afford socks, right?

 

(Coordinated ambush: While Bethany is busy sneering at Leo, Dotty distracts her with a sharp, tactical whack of the broom across her ankles. Bethany looks down in outrage, and in that split second, Mama Rose materializes behind her and throws a damp bedsheet over her head. Together, the two women spin her around like a human piñata in a game of blindman’s bluff, sending Bethany shrieking and flailing wildly until she manages to rip herself free.)

 

BETHANY: (Terrified, smoothing down her dress and pointing a trembling finger at them) You people are certifiable! This house is an asylum!

 

MATTY: Mom... why’d you do that? And Dotty... come on, where are your manners?

 

MAMA ROSE: He’s right. Sit down, dear. And tell us all about your true intentions with our boy.

 

BETHANY: Intentions? Well, I... (Deciding to play her final trump card, she launches into a torrent of shameless, over-the-top flattery aimed at Matty.) Matty is such a catch... a model young man! I’ve watched him on the court and he’s a pure natural athlete. He’s so dashing, so devastatingly handsome, so generous... and I’ve alwaysbeen so, so fond of him. I love him!

 

MATTY: (Choking up on the verge of tears at Bethany’s words) You really mean that, Beth? And here I thought you were just trying to sell me term life insurance...

 

(A loud, insistent pounding at the door. Leo opens it. In strolls the DISRUPTOR SALESMAN, reconfigured by dream logic: he now wears a loud floral Hawaiian shirt, dark aviator sunglasses, and clutches a stack of glossy brochures.)

 

TIMESHARE SALESMAN: Picture this, pal: a sunset in Acapulco, another in Maui, another in Myrtle Beach, and another in Cabo... You name it! You can own the vacation home of your dreams with this exclusive timeshare opportunity that—

 

LEO: (Fed up) Not buying anything. Beat it.

 

TIMESHARE SALESMAN: Ah, big mistake, pal! Huge! If you walk away from this deal, you’ll pay the price: you’ll live a lonely, dreary existence, starving for fun... and you will never, ever—mark my words—NEVER go on vacation again!

 

LEO: Yeah, yeah, buddy... hey, wait a second, weren’t you selling Bibles five minutes ago?

 

(Visual vanish effect: The instant Leo questions his identity, the lights flicker, the sound of an old film projector snapping off echoes through the room, and the Salesman evaporates off the stage, dropping his brochures in a flutter to the floor. Matty picks right back up inside his romantic bubble, oblivious to the jump-cut.)

 

MATTY: You really mean it, Beth! I swear I thought you were just trying to sell me term life insurance...

 

BETHANY: (Buttering him up just like the Fox sweet-talking the Crow) I adore you, Matty. From the very first moment I saw the sunbeam kiss your gorgeous hair... from the moment the little sparrows sang at the sight of your radiant eyes and your cherub smile...

 

MATTY: Keep going, don’t stop! Nobody’s ever said such sweet, poetic things to me in my life.

 

(Bethany grabs him by both hands and yanks him roughly off the floor.)

 

BETHANY: Kiss me, Matty, I’m all yours! I want a life bursting with romance and adventure with you. We’ll have babies... four babies!

 

MATTY: Four babies?!

 

BETHANY: Or four teacup dogs, like little hamsters... I’ll watch them. You’ll go to work and pay the rent—I mean, worship me every single day! We’ll go out to five-star dinners, go dancing...

 

LEO: And leave thefour hamster-dogs locked in the apartment... yeah, that sounds humane.

 

BETHANY: Shut your trap!

 

MATTY: Beth, I... I want to love you as much as you love me, I really do, it’s just—

 

BETHANY: (Unleashing another rapid-fire barrage of flattery so he can’t think straight) You are the sun in my sky! You are my oxygen! You are my destiny! Let’s love each other, Matty, now and forever!

 

MATTY: Oh, Bethy, my soulmate!

 

BETHANY: My Matty, mine, mine, all mine...!

 

(The front door buzzes and bangs again relentlessly. Leo pulls it open and comes face-to-face once more with the DISRUPTOR SALESMAN, who now wields a massive chrome metal hose attached to a heavy canister.)

 

VACUUM SALESMAN: Vacuum cleaners, young man! The bleeding edge of NASA aerospace engineering! With this baby you can clean—

 

LEO: I know what a vacuum cleaner is. Get lost.

 

VACUUM SALESMAN: (Jamming his wingtip shoe into the doorway so Leo can’t shut it) Now hold on, son, you haven’t seen what kind of suction I’m packing here, look! This machine doesn’t just suck up dust mites—it sucks up high-society lies, predatory prenups, and counterfeit promises of love!

 

(The Salesman flips the switch. The machine roars to life with a deafening jet-engine howl that rattles the entire loft. He levels the giant chrome nozzle straight at Bethany, whose sequin dress immediately starts getting sucked into the tube.)

 

BETHANY: Turn off that infernal contraption! It’s sucking away my socioeconomic security! Matty, do something, it’s gonna rip off my orthopedic shoes!

 

MAMA ROSE: (Rising from the tea table with chilling calm and pointing her silver teaspoon at Bethany) Leave it on High, young man. Let’s see if that thing can suck the delusions of grandeur out of this little grifter. Top of her class in the operating room? Please! The only thing you know how to operate on is my son’s checking account.

 

DOTTY: (Blocking her escape route with the broom) Damn right! All that bragging about a family tree full of surgeons, and the first thing she wants is the keys to the SUV so she can take it down to the pawn shop. Go on, sweetheart, have another beetle cookie to settle your nerves.

 

BETHANY: (Cornered between the roaring vacuum, the broom, and two pairs of ice-cold eyes, losing every shred of her composure) Go to hell, all of you! You’re a pack of lying, low-rent losers! I refuse to waste my medical prestige in this nest of... SCORPIONS!

 

(Bethany bolts in terror for the exit, dodging the broom and setting off a frantic symphony of rubber soles—SQUEAK-SQUEAK-SQUEAK!—until she vanishes down the hall.)

 

(Mass vanish effect: A subtle sonic boom—like a sudden gust of wind—sweeps the stage. The warm Cracker Barrel lighting snaps off instantly. The Vacuum Salesman and his roaring machine vanish in a blink of darkness, plunging the loft into dead silence.)

 

(Mama Rose and Dotty, with unbothered serenity, smooth down their aprons, tuck two flatirons into a bucket that appeared out of nowhere, and stroll toward the exit as if nothing happened.)

 

MAMA ROSE: Well, now that the little gold-digger has left the building... we’ll leave you boys to yourselves.

 

(Both women exit the stage in synchronized silent-comedy steps, pulling the door shut with a crisp click.)

 

SCENE IV: The Awakening of the Crow

 

(Matty and Leo are left alone at center stage. The atmosphere turns intimate, almost like a Samuel Beckett play: stripped of artifice, suspended in time beneath a soft overhead spotlight.)

 

MATTY: (Staring at the empty space where Bethany stood, scratching his head clumsily) Wait... so she wasn’t even pre-med? And what about my dad? He’s really dead, right?

 

LEO: (Walks over slowly, takes the invisible basketball out of Matty’s hands, drops it to the floor, and places his foot gently on top of it. He speaks with heavy, deadpan sarcasm.) No, Matty, of course not! Your dad was probably an anonymous sperm donor and Bethany is either a flunked-out nursing assistant or a full-time con artist... though I’m sure deep down, way down at the bottom of her sub-zero heart, she really "loved you."

 

MATTY: (Touched, falling hook, line, and sinker for the sarcasm) She did, didn’t she? She loved me. She said such nice things about my hair.

 

LEO: (Giving the back of his head a light slap) No, you idiot! I was being sarcastic! She was trying to boost your car! Hey—you still got your keys on you?

 

MATTY: Never let ’em out of my hand.

 

LEO: You know... the only thing real in this whole goddamn dream is that you play basketball like you’ve got cinderblocks tied to your sneakers.

 

MATTY: (Looking down with a goofy, genuine smile, completely missing the fact that Leo just told him he’s dreaming) Yeah, well, you passed me the rock with your eyes a minute ago. I saw it clear as day.

 

LEO: (Hit by an involuntary wave of affection, he lets out a long sigh) Yeah, Crow... I passed it to you because you’re the only idiot in all of Brooklyn who puts up with my attitude and still can’t hit an open three-pointer to save his life.

 

(Leo reaches out and grips the back of Matty’s neck—no big fanfare, just a dry, everyday, deeply fraternal gesture. Matty freezes, blinks three times, puffs out his chest like a dazed pigeon, and finally breaks into a smile of pure peace.)

 

MATTY: I’m a crow... Hey, why do you call me Crow? You think we can hit the court tomorrow?

 

LEO: Six in the morning, Matty. And if you brick your layups, I’m locking you in a closet with Bethany so she can keep feeding you fox-and-crow lines.

 

MATTY: Hey, don’t call her that, she’s not that bad once you get to know her...

 

LEO: It’s from the fable, dummy... the fox flatters the crow until he opens his beak, drops the cheese, and loses everything he’s got. You fell asleep on the couch and missed our shootaround. Wake up already, Matty... Matty...

 

(Leo gives him a firm pat on the back that makes him stumble forward a step. Matty, visibly groggy, rubs his eyes as if genuinely waking up from a deep sleep. Together, they turn and walk shoulder-to-shoulder toward the kitchen as the loft lights slowly fade into darkness.)

 

BLACKOUT.

 

 

THE CROW, THE FOX, AND THE CROSSOVER DRIBBLE © 2026 by BENJAMIN GAVARRE is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0