The Executive and His Yes-Man
A modern comedic adaptation based on classical character types
By Benjamín Gavarre
© BENJAMÍN GAVARRE SILVA
Contact this address if you have produced it or wish to do so: gavarreunam@gmail.com
CHARACTERS:
- ARTHUR: A mid-level hedge fund executive. Sharp, slightly tight designer suit, oversized luxury watch, and dark sunglasses. Walks like Wall Street owes him money.
- JOHNNY: The ultimate sycophant. Carries Arthur's briefcases, multiple phones, and half-eaten takeout. Has the agility of a jester and the constant hunger of an intern.
(Times Square, New York City. The bustling sidewalk is packed with tourists and bright billboard lights. ARTHUR struts confidently. JOHNNY follows closely behind, juggling bags and an iPad).
ARTHUR: (Adjusting his cuffs) Johnny, make sure that quarterly presentation shines brighter than these neon signs above us. When the Board opens it, the sheer brilliance of my revenue metrics should blind them. Honestly, my own genius terrifies me sometimes; my MacBook is practically melting, desperate to type out another multi-million dollar strategy to crush the European markets. Where are you, Johnny?
JOHNNY: (Sprinting to catch up, breathless) Right here, boss! Right beside the titan of Wall Street, the Steve Jobs of asset management, the absolute apex predator of Midtown... Even Warren Buffett wouldn’t dare compare his portfolio to yours.
ARTHUR: Are you referring to when I single-handedly salvaged the firm during the offshore bond collapse? Back when the CEO was that arrogant Ivy League trust-fund kid?
JOHNNY: The very same! The one with the mahogany office whose entire administrative staff and risk analysts you hypnotized with nothing but your corporate eloquence—like a hurricane blowing away autumn leaves in Central Park.
ARTHUR: Bah, a minor detail. Child's play.
JOHNNY: A minor detail compared to the other financial miracles I could list... (To the audience, breaking the fourth wall with an ironic grin) ...none of which he has ever actually accomplished in his miserable life. If anyone in New York has ever met a more delusional, boastful fraud than this man, let me know so I can hand in my resignation. But hey, the free Michelin-star dinners he lets me expense on the corporate card are out of this world. (Turning back to Arthur, shifting to a worshipful tone) Truly magnificent, boss!
ARTHUR: (Checking his phone arrogantly) What’s that, Johnny?
JOHNNY: I was just reminiscing about Tokyo! When you went to the summit and, with a single macroeconomic counter-argument, broke the arm of Asia's biggest automotive CEO.
ARTHUR: His arm?
JOHNNY: His balance sheet, I meant!
ARTHUR: Well, I did pitch the data with a certain... edge.
JOHNNY: Edge? Boss, your pitch practically pierced through their venture capital, their risk management, and the literal financial backbone of the Swiss investors!
ARTHUR: Let us not dwell on my modesty right now.
JOHNNY: (Aside, to the audience) It’s not like I need him to repeat his lies, I know them by heart. My empty stomach is the only culprit keeping me tied to this egomaniac. My ears must suffer so my teeth can chew, and there's nothing to do but say "amen" to his fairy tales.
ARTHUR: Wait... what was I about to say?
JOHNNY: Ah, the closing bell! Yes, I know exactly what you mean, I remember it perfectly.
ARTHUR: Remember what?
JOHNNY: Whatever you’re about to invent next, boss.
ARTHUR: Do you have the...?
JOHNNY: The printed index projections and the fully charged iPad? Yes, sir, right here.
ARTHUR: Splendid. You practically read my mind.
JOHNNY: It is my absolute duty to anticipate your delusions... I mean, your visions, and smell your victories before they even happen.
ARTHUR: Tell me, do you have the exact count of my romantic conquests for this fiscal quarter?
JOHNNY: Yes, sir: one hundred and fifty high-profile clients in Soho, a hundred tech heiresses in Tribeca, thirty senior partners in the Upper East Side, and sixty interns who swooned at your feet during last week's casual Friday.
ARTHUR: And what is the grand total?
JOHNNY: Seven thousand women, boss.
ARTHUR: Precise. The math is undeniable.
JOHNNY: I didn’t even need an Excel spreadsheet to keep track, it’s etched in my mind.
ARTHUR: You have an exceptional corporate memory, Johnny.
JOHNNY: The complimentary executive buffets keep it sharp.
ARTHUR: As long as you maintain this unwavering loyalty, you shall never starve. You will always have a seat at the edge of my business dinners.
JOHNNY: God bless you, boss! And what about that penthouse party in the Hamptons? Where, if the bartender hadn't interrupted you, you would have swept five hundred international supermodels off their feet in a single night?
ARTHUR: Well, yes... but since they were mostly low-tier social media influencers, I spared them the trouble and decided not to give them my Instagram handle.
JOHNNY: (Aside) Right! A junior analyst blocked him for spamming her inbox. (To Arthur) Exactly! Why should I tell you what all of Manhattan already knows? That you, Arthur, are a unique specimen in the financial district—unmatched in monetary bravery, sporting a posture straight out of a discount catalog, and a legend on Tinder. Women are dying to meet you. All women are dying for you and your great, your huge, your fabulous... tool. Like those two who yesterday pulled me by the sack outside the Starbucks. Just like those two pulling at my coat outside the gourmet coffee shop yesterday.
ARTHUR: (Stopping dead in his tracks, fascinated) Really? What did they say? They praised my tool?
JOHNNY: They asked me, "Oh my god, is that Brad Pitt?" Look What a great package he has! And I said, "No, ladies, but it’s his billionaire brother." Then one of them sighed and said, "Look at that stride! Look how his hair gel catches the light. I envy whoever gets to stand next to him."
ARTHUR: (Adjusting his collar) Did they truly say that? What a heavy cross it is to be so agonizingly handsome and successful.
JOHNNY: It’s a tragedy, boss. Women at the office won't leave me alone, begging for your direct extension, leaving me absolutely no time to finish my own spreadsheets.
(ARTHUR pulls an artisanal chocolate ice cream bar out of a luxury wrapper he just bought. He begins to eat it with immense satisfaction. JOHNNY stares at it, visibly salivating).
JOHNNY: Hey, boss... speaking of benefits... can I get a bite? Mind sharing a tiny piece of that ice cream?
ARTHUR: (Stops walking. His arrogant smirk turns into a cold, sharp glare) Look, Johnny. Cut the act.
JOHNNY: (Nervous) What do you mean, boss?
ARTHUR: I’ve been listening to you. I know exactly who you’re talking to every time you turn around. I’ve watched you spend the last three blocks mocking me behind my back, gesturing to strangers on the sidewalk. Do you think I'm stupid? You mutter complaints about me under your breath, yet you beg for a handout every time I buy a burger, a slice of pizza, or an ice cream bar. What is wrong with you? I invited you to my Manhattan apartment once to watch the playoffs, and you haven’t left the dog bed I lent you in the living room since! You literally moved into my place!
JOHNNY: (Trying to laugh it off) Well, your retriever's orthopedic mattress is incredibly good for my lower back, boss! And besides... I inflate your ego all day! I paint a picture of you bringing European models to your four-hundred-square-foot studio! I make your life sound idyllic!
ARTHUR: It’s a luxury micro-condo, you parasite! And you are a shameless flatterer living off my expense reports and my delusions. You're fired! Get out of my sight!
(ARTHUR snatches his briefcase back with fury. JOHNNY, panicked, takes a clumsy step backward off the curb, stumbling straight into the street just as a yellow NYC taxi comes speeding around the corner, blasting its horn: HONK!!!).
JOHNNY: Oh my god! The cab!
(JOHNNY freezes in place. ARTHUR, purely out of instinct, shoots his arm out, grabs JOHNNY by the collar of his jacket, and yanks him violently back onto the sidewalk. The yellow taxi zooms past, missing them by inches).
JOHNNY: (Shaking like a leaf, checking his limbs) You... you saved me? Boss! You risked your flawless, high-net-worth life for a humble assistant! You do have a heart of gold! You're a true hero, a white knight of the corporate ladder!
ARTHUR: (Instantly recovering his composure, brushing a speck of dust off his lapel, and taking a lick of his ice cream) Don't flatter yourself, Johnny. I didn't save you out of kindness.
JOHNNY: Then why?
ARTHUR: Because New York is a ruthless city. And if a man is going to be a pompous, arrogant braggart in this town... he absolutely needs a sycophant standing by to provide the echo. Who else is going to validate my fabrications if you get flattened by a taxi? Keep walking.
JOHNNY: (Smiling at the audience, deeply relieved) Right away, captain! That pull was incredible, by the way. At least ten thousand Newtons of force! Not even Hercules, boss... Not even Hercules!
JOHNNY: But seriously... can I get a lick of that ice cream now?
(They fade into the crowded sidewalk as the curtain falls).
