THE BIRTHDAY An original comedy by Benjamín Gavarre

THE BIRTHDAY

An original comedy by Benjamín Gavarre

2025 Edition

CHARACTERS:

CROTALA: The sharp-tongued restaurant owner.

MARCUS THEO: Her nephew, a waiter with philosophical delusions.

EGIPCIACA: Crotala’s sister, ethereal and vain.

FATA: The ancient matriarch of the family.

PAUL and STEPHEN: Silent waiters.

SETTING:

A private room in a luxury restaurant. A banquet table set for five, elegant chairs, and a stylish chaise lounge tucked in the shadows.

ONE

(CROTALA presides over the empty table. She examines a fork with a magnifying glass. MARCUS THEO nervously adjusts a floral arrangement. The waiters, PAUL and STEPHEN, drift in and out like efficient ghosts.)

CROTALA: (Without looking at Marcus) Irritating. This constant pacing. You—Jamie, George... Peter and Paul.

(The waiters vanish.)

MARCUS THEO: I’m just trying to make sure everything is perfect. And their names aren't Jamie or George. They are—

CROTALA: Huey, Dewey, Louie. I don’t care. Did I arrive punctually at my own restaurant for nothing?

MARCUS THEO: Sometimes the concept one has of Time...

CROTALA: Oh, please! A waiter and a philosopher? Your grandmother invited me. She’s paying, I’m charging. Where are they?

MARCUS THEO: "Come with me to your house." That’s what she said when she invited you. It was funny. And disturbing.

CROTALA: Is it strictly necessary for you to say everything you think? Rhetorical question. Don't answer.

MARCUS THEO: I only wanted to highlight the semantic fact that—

CROTALA: Vodka! Ice-cold. Double. Now.

MARCUS THEO: (Dutifully) Right away.

(MARCUS runs out. CROTALA huffs. MARCUS returns in record time with the vodka.)

MARCUS THEO: Double vodka, sub-zero.

CROTALA: (Snatches it) You're late.

(CROTALA drinks. MARCUS pulls out his phone. Experimental, jarring jazz music begins to play. CROTALA glares at him. MARCUS, misinterpreting the look, turns the volume up.)

TWO

(EGIPCIACA enters, dazzling and ethereal. She stops in front of CROTALA. A standoff of glares.)

EGIPCIACA: Drinking already. And so early.

CROTALA: Viper.

EGIPCIACA: Your name is Crotala. You are the rattlesnake.

CROTALA: Descendant of lizards.

EGIPCIACA: Botulism with eyelashes.

CROTALA: You’re the one with botulism in your mouth. Collagen at your age? You look like a mummy from the Nile that just defrosted.

EGIPCIACA: (Sits majestically) It’s good to see you too. I don't think Mother will be long.

CROTALA: You think? She invited me to dinner at my own place of business. We should give senile dementia a medal.

EGIPCIACA: True.

CROTALA: What’s true? What?!

EGIPCIACA: Everything. Nothing. Who cares.

CROTALA: How old is she turning?

EGIPCIACA: Who?

CROTALA: Our mother, you idiot!

EGIPCIACA: Ah. Many. Everyone knows. It’s a... historical date.

CROTALA: You have no idea. (To Marcus) Do you?

MARCUS THEO: I... it’s a respectable figure. "Celebrating it is like celebrating the birth of the universe."

CROTALA: Shut up.

EGIPCIACA: The boy is right. She’s like the Earth Goddess. Ancient. Dusty.

CROTALA: Both of you, shut up.

(MARCUS goes back to his phone. He texts and smiles stupidly. He switches the music: frenetic, loud jazz. CROTALA covers her ears. EGIPCIACA begins to dance alone.)

CROTALA: (Screaming) What is that noise?! Turn it down!

MARCUS THEO: (Screaming louder, happily) It’s randomness! The unexpected installing itself in the world! We must embrace the chaos!

CROTALA: Embrace this! (She snatches the phone and cuts the music abruptly.) Useless!

EGIPCIACA: (Stops dancing) I liked it. Music is... the Mystery.

MARCUS THEO: Exactly, Auntie! The mystery that follows no logic.

CROTALA: Marcus Theo, your life is what follows no logic. Serve! Shut up! Vanish!

MARCUS THEO: I was only opening the door to deep understanding—

CROTALA: No one wants to walk through that door!

EGIPCIACA: Nephew, I don’t know what traumas you have with your mother, but you’ve ignored me. Martini. Dry. Cold. Now.

MARCUS THEO: Sorry, Auntie. (To Crotala) And for you, madam?

CROTALA: The usual. And don't call me madam.

(MARCUS exits. The sisters stare at each other. EGIPCIACA claims the chaise lounge.)

EGIPCIACA: (Reclining) Marcus Theo is right. You’re disconnected from your emotions.

CROTALA: He never said that. You’re deaf and crazy.

EGIPCIACA: Normalized violence. That’s what you practice.

CROTALA: I didn’t ask for therapy, thanks.

EGIPCIACA: Your life has no direction. You’re unstable.

CROTALA: (Laughs incredulously) Me? You are calling me unstable?

EGIPCIACA: I flow. You stagnate.

CROTALA: My dear...

EGIPCIACA: Don’t "my dear" me.

CROTALA: Sweetheart.

EGIPCIACA: Viper.

CROTALA: Low-born.

(MARCUS enters with drinks.)

MARCUS THEO: Did someone order extra tension?

THREE

(FATA enters. She walks with excruciating slowness, leaning on a cane. MARCUS rushes to greet her.)

FATA: (To no one in particular) Disrespectful. I had to call a cab. No one has compassion for an old woman.

EGIPCIACA: I called you ten times, Mother.

FATA: You know I never answer. Where is my seat? I want a drink.

CROTALA: Marcus, help her.

FATA: (Swats Marcus away) I can do it myself!

(FATA takes an eternity to sit in the center chair, where Crotala was. She settles in like a queen.)

CROTALA: I was sitting there.

FATA: (Ignores her) Drink!

CROTALA: Marcus, attend to the birthday girl.

MARCUS THEO: Whisky, Grandma?

FATA: (Narrows her eyes) Who is this very tall boy?

CROTALA: It’s your grandson, for God’s sake! Put your glasses on.

FATA: (Puts them on. Scans him) Ah. Yes. You’re covered in pimples. And very tall.

MARCUS THEO: Thanks, Grandma.

EGIPCIACA: The martini, boy! I’m parched!

(MARCUS makes a magical gesture and the waiters appear instantly with the drinks. They serve.)

EGIPCIACA: Thank you, Marcus. It's a sign of good breeding to be grateful. (She looks at Crotala.)

CROTALA: He’s just doing his job.

FOUR

(A tense silence. A dysfunctional family portrait.)

CROTALA: I’d like to say something of no importance.

EGIPCIACA: I’m sure it is.

CROTALA: Mother, these silk flowers—

FATA: They are better than real ones. They don’t die. Like us.

EGIPCIACA: A great truth.

CROTALA: (Ignoring her) Mother, you always do this.

FATA: You should put out real silverware. I don’t have a fork.

CROTALA: Of course you do! I was sitting there and—

EGIPCIACA: Ah, so that’s the tantrum. They took your fork.

CROTALA: It’s not the fork! It’s the principle!

FATA: You’re always angry. You look like a witch.

EGIPCIACA: The Wicked Witch of the West. Hahaha.

CROTALA: (Hysterical laughter) Hahahaha.

FATA: Good. At least you’re laughing.

FIVE

(MARCUS enters triumphantly, followed by waiters with covered trays.)

MARCUS THEO: Dinner is served! Prosciutto, minestrone, smoked veal...

FATA: I don’t want anything.

MARCUS THEO: What?

EGIPCIACA: Me neither. Zero appetite.

FATA: Marcus, sit here, next to me.

MARCUS THEO: But Grandma, I’m working... the dinner... the effort...

CROTALA: Just sit down! If the Queen doesn’t eat, no one eats.

FATA: I only want wine. And my favorite grandson.

(MARCUS, defeated, sits by Fata. The waiters remove the untouched food and serve wine compulsively.)

MARCUS THEO: (To Crotala) Aren't you going to say anything? You always have something to say!

CROTALA: (Livid) No. Not today.

SIX

FATA: I have news. Soon, someone in this family is going to die.

MARCUS THEO: Kaboom!

CROTALA: Are you talking about yourself?

EGIPCIACA: Shhh. It’s in the subtext.

FATA: Money brings benefits. But power does not get along with old age and ambiguous sexuality.

MARCUS THEO: Huh?

CROTALA: Mother, what on earth are you talking about?

EGIPCIACA: Subtext! Who are you leaving it to? Me?

FATA: No. To no one. I don't plan on dying just yet.

CROTALA: (Clutches her chest dramatically) It can’t be... I feel...

EGIPCIACA: What do you feel?

CROTALA: Tingling. My face is going numb. Marcus, a doctor! I’m having a heart attack!

MARCUS THEO: (Doesn't move) It’s just another one of your shows. It always passes.

CROTALA: Call him or you're fired!

MARCUS THEO: Do it! It would be a relief to stop being your slave.

FATA: (Screams) If I leave anything to anyone, it will be to Egipciaca!

CROTALA: (Straightens up instantly, cured) Oh. Imagine that.

EGIPCIACA: Thanks, Mommy!

CROTALA: Marcus, cancel the doctor. I’m radiant. Serve more wine!

FATA: Marcus Theo, come closer. I will tell you the Great Truth. Life is uncertain, mysterious, and brief.

CROTALA: (Sarcastic) What a revelation.

MARCUS THEO: (Excited) Yes! We forge our own destiny! Randomness imposes itself and—!

CROTALA: Enough cheap philosophy! I want cake!

FATA: Yes! Cake! It’s my birthday! I want a whole cake all to myself.

MARCUS THEO: A whole cake for Grandma! Now!

(Marcus and the waiters rush to the kitchen.)

CROTALA: (To Egipciaca, fake smile) How wonderful that she’s leaving it to you, little sister.

EGIPCIACA: (An equally fake smile) Thanks, sweetheart. How wonderful that you didn't die.

SEVEN

(MARCUS and the waiters enter in a solemn procession with a cake and three candles.)

MARCUS THEO: Habemus cake!

CROTALA: Make a wish, Mother. Quickly.

FATA: (Closes her eyes for a second. Opens them.) Done. (She blows out the candles. Weak applause.)

EGIPCIACA: What did you wish for?

FATA: It’s a mystery.

MARCUS THEO: Music, maestro! Las Mañanitas!

FATA: No! I hate Las Mañanitas!

MARCUS THEO: "Happy Birthday" then!

FATA: Even worse! I want silence!

EGIPCIACA: Mañanitas, Mañanitas!

CROTALA: Press play, Marcus!

FATA: I said no!

(Everyone speaks at once, the volume rises to the maximum.)

MARCUS THEO: AND ONE, AND TWO, AND—!

(The song "Las Mañanitas" blasts at full volume. Everyone is FROZEN in a snapshot of smiles and ceremonial toasts.)

SUDDEN BLACKOUT.

THE END