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lunes, julio 20, 2026

THE SEXY FARMER (MONOLOGUE).

presents

THE SEXY FARMER

"More Stable Than Your Ex"

A Short Play / Stand-Up Monologue

By Gavarre Benjamin

CHARACTER:

BART: In his late 20s. Born and raised in Queens, NY. He currently works at a high-end educational animal sanctuary in Upstate New York that caters to wealthy city tourists. He is hyperactive, cynical, and highly expressive. He wears a faded Mets cap, a heavy hoodie, and carries a high-tech smartphone stabilizer (gimbal) like a shepherd's staff.

ACT I: THE ANCESTRY TRAINWRECK

(SETTING: A comedy club stage or black box theater. Dim, smoky blue lighting. A heavy, boom-bap 90s Brooklyn hip-hop beat plays. BART jogs onto the stage, nearly tripping over the microphone cord. He catches the stand with practiced agility—a physical slapstick save. He adjusts his cap, breathing heavily, looking out at the audience with an intense, wide-eyed stare.)

BART:
(Into the mic, fast-paced)
What is up, New York? Good to be back in the concrete jungle! Look, look at me. Take it all in. Yes, I am the guy from Queens who shovels goat manure for a living. Do not look at me with that judgmental Broadway face! Let’s be honest: the scent of organic sheep droppings is still a hundred times better than the 34th Street subway station in the middle of a July heatwave. It’s not even a competition!

(He brandishes his smartphone gimbal like a weapon, pointing it at the front row)

Everyone from outside the city has this delusional, cinematic fantasy about New York. My family back in Mexico City? Every time we FaceTime, their eyes light up and they ask: "Oh, Bartolo! Did you bump into John Travolta walking down Broadway?!" And I have to break their hearts! I tell them, "Listen, auntie, the closest thing we have to John Travolta on the streets today is a homeless guy in his underwear doing the Saturday Night Fever dance over a steaming manhole cover in Times Square." That’s our Hollywood magic!

But look at my face. You’re trying to figure out what I am, right? Am I Italian? Am I Scottish? For years, I thought I was the ultimate European hybrid. My dad’s side claimed we were pure Italian royalty from Sicily. My mom’s side swore we were fierce Scottish-Irish warriors. Growing up, I felt like a walking stereotype. I wanted to colonize a neighborhood but then immediately apologize for it while cooking a magnificent plate of pasta. I managed to disappoint both cultures simultaneously. I can’t drink whiskey, and I use store-bought marinara sauce. My ancestors are spinning in their graves so fast you could plug them into the grid and power Long Island!

(He stops, takes a deep breath, and deadpans)

Then, Christmas happened. My girlfriend bought me one of those DNA saliva kits. You know the ones. You spit into a plastic tube, mail it to a lab, and three weeks later a corporation shatters your entire identity. I thought the results would say: "50% Cannoli, 50% Haggis."

Bro. The pie chart of my bloodline looks like a United Nations general assembly meeting gone horribly wrong.

(He uses his hands to draw a chaotic pie chart in the air)

I am four percent Jewish. Six percent Arabic. Twelve percent Spanish. Two percent Cherokee Indian—because apparently every white family in America needs that two percent to feel spiritual. And then, the grand finale, the absolute climax of the lab report: twenty percent black. Specifically from Gabon. Central Africa!

(He looks at his hands, then at his face in an imaginary mirror)

Twenty percent! That is a significant chunk of a human being! I don’t even know how to process that. I went to the mirror, looked at my pale, anxious Queens face, and thought: "Wow. I am literally a walking geopolitical conflict. If I argue with myself, the security council has to get involved." I can’t even use any cultural slurs because I’d be hate-criming myself! But hey, at least it explains my rhythm. I can’t dance to save my life, but when I shovel that goat manure? There is a beautiful, primal, twenty-percent-Gabonese syncopation to my swing!

(He mimics shoveling dirt to a rhythmic hip-hop beat, hips swaying ridiculously, then stops abruptly)

ACT II: THE POP QUEEN AND THE URBAN CHOPPER

BART:
But look, the New York clichés do happen. A few weeks ago, I’m at a Dunkin’ Donuts on the Upper West Side. It’s three in the morning. The door opens, and the bell chimes. In walks this figure. Massive, oversized designer sunglasses. A feather boa that looked like it cost three months of my rent. A giant faux-fur coat.

She walks up to the counter dripping with an intense, heavy cloud of pure New York guilt. The kind of guilt only a Manhattanite who has been on a strict, ten-year keto-and-seltzer-water diet can experience. She was staring at those glazed donuts like she was contemplating a federal crime.

She leans over the counter, looks at the eighteen-year-old kid working the register, and in a raspy, hyper-whispered voice, she goes: "Give me two Boston Kreme... and if my nutritionist walks through that door, you don’t know me."

She slides her sunglasses down to check if they had sprinkles... and boom. It’s Madonna. The actual, literal Queen of Pop. Standing right next to me, sinning with trans fats in the dead of night. She hands the kid a hundred-dollar bill, whispers, "Keep the change, you saw nothing, bitch," puts the glasses back on, and vanishes into a sleek black Uber. That is New York! Nowhere else on earth do you see a global pop icon having a spiritual breakdown over a fried dough ring at three in the morning next to a raccoon chewing on a lottery ticket.

(He does a physical gag: imitating Madonna’s glamorous, mysterious walk, but aggressively stuffing an imaginary donut into his mouth with absolute desperation).

That’s why I fled to the farm upstate. The city is too intense. But let me tell you, the actual biological hazard up there? It’s not the wildlife. It’s the Manhattan hipsters who come up for the weekend to "connect with the soil." They wear pristine Timberland boots that have never seen a speck of dust, and they think they’re shamans because they drank a matcha latte.

Last weekend, this guy steps out of a Tesla. He’s wearing transparent white linen pants—and let me tell you, you could see his entire "real estate portfolio" swinging through the fabric. It was aggressive. He walks up to me, swaying like he’s on mushrooms, and says:

(Imitates an insufferable, vocal-frying Williamsburg hipster)

"Hey, Bart... bro... your goats have like... such a grounding, organic frequency. I feel my throat chakra aligning with their udder. What else do you have roaming around here that’s... wild?"

(Returns to his normal voice, stepping back with an expression of pure disgust)

I had to look him dead in the eye and say, "Bro, my goats are here to make artisanal cheese that we sell back to your mother at Whole Foods for a three hundred percent markup. They are not here to fulfill your rustic-erotic weekend fantasies! Back away from the livestock!" My goat, Gary, has standards, alright? He doesn’t just align his frequency with anyone!

ACT III: THE BROWNIE MELTDOWN

BART:
But I don’t just shovel dirt. I am a curator of high-value lost items left behind by these wealthy idiots. Last month, I’m clearing the picnic area, and I find a gold chain in the grass. Massive. (Gestures to a huge chain around his neck) Pure Staten Island rapper bling. And right next to it? A pair of vintage 1980s four-wheel roller skates.

The story writes itself, right? Some finance bro tried to impress a girl from Bushwick by doing a retro trick, snapped his ankle on the first attempt, and told her: "Babe, take the chain to pay for the ambulance, but leave the skates, they’re a collector's item!"

But the real prize? Two days ago. I found a Ziploc baggie hidden in the bushes. Inside were these dark, dense, homemade chocolate brownies. They smelled like that legal dispensary weed—the kind that currently makes the entire borough of Manhattan smell like a skunk burning in a dumpster. I looked at the bag. I looked at the sky. I said, "Well, Bartolo... you’re twenty percent Gabonese, six percent Arabic, and four percent Jewish. Let’s see how this genetic cocktail handles the forbidden pastry."

I ate two of them.

(The stage lights shift drastically to a pulsing, surreal red and purple. BART’s posture changes. He grips the microphone stand, his eyes rolling back slightly as he enters a manic, climatic storytelling mode. His voice drops an octave, echoing with theatrical intensity).

Oh my god, New York. It wasn't a high. It was a prophetic, apocalyptic vision of our collective future.

I collapsed onto the barn floor, and my soul was ripped out of my body! I was flying over Manhattan, but it wasn't the city we know. It was the year 2045. The rent for my tiny studio apartment in Queens had risen to forty-five thousand dollars a week! To afford it, the landlord forced me to lease out the right side of my bed to a Wall Street AI robot that snored in binary code!

(He starts pacing frantically, sweating, yelling at the sky)

The buildings were so tall they were scraping the satellites out of orbit! The streets weren't filled with cars—they were filled with a massive, unstoppable stampede of human beings, all wearing dark clothing, all with glowing airpods fused into their ear canals, sprinting at supersonic speeds! Nobody was looking at each other!

I tried to cross Broadway, and a flock of delivery drones tried to decapitate me! I screamed, "Stop your capitalistic fury, you Amazon demons!" But they just dropped a package of organic beard oil on my head and kept flying!

Everyone was running on a giant, invisible treadmill! They were throwing wallets and diamond rings onto the pavement because if they stopped for three seconds to pick them up, their productivity score would drop, and the corporate algorithm would instantly vaporize their health insurance! It was a dystopian nightmare of pure anxiety and oat milk!

(The pulsing lights snap back to the normal blue comedy club lighting with a loud, theatrical slap sound effect. BART gasps for air, clutching his chest, completely exhausted).

I woke up on the barn floor. Drenched in sweat. Shaking. Terrified.

Do you know what the very first thing I did was? I crawled across the dirt, I found my favorite goat, Gary, and I wrapped my arms around his furry neck. I looked into his weird, horizontal pupil eyes, and I said: "Oh, Gary, my beautiful, unaligned friend... thank God we are here. Where the only danger is a thunderstorm, and where the highest piece of technology available... is a bag of stray hípster brownies."

Thank you, New York! You’ve been terrifying! Goodnight!

(The heavy hip-hop beat slams back on at maximum volume. BART slams the microphone into the stand—a mic drop—flashes a double peace sign, and runs off the stage with wide, comedic, high-stepping goat strides).

THE END

A SHY, A CHAD & A ROXY

A SHY, A CHAD & A ROXY

An Absurdist Comedy in Two Acts

By Benjamin Gavarre

Bilingual edition

(ENGLISH/ESPAÑOL)

================================================================================

® BENJAMIN GAVARRE SILVA

gavarreunam@gmail.com

================================================================================

Genre: Absurdist Comedy / Satirical Farce.
Setting: Los Angeles, California.
Run Time: Short (Approx. 20 minutes).
Cast: 3 characters (2 M, 1 F).

================================================================================

CHARACTERS:

TOBY: The shy, soft-spoken delivery boy. He gets everything without the slightest effort. He carries heavy loads but possesses an involuntary, wild, and hypnotic magnetism for women.
CHAD: A narcissistic, wealthy, and validation-starved trust-fund playboy who fails miserably at absolutely everything he tries.
ROXY: Intense, seductive, and fierce. She changes her personality and social status like changing clothes; first appearing as a lady of the night and later as a high-society Beverly Hills socialite.

================================================================================================================================================

ACT I: THE GIFT OF SHYNESS

[SETTING]: The stage is completely bare.

1: The Heavy Burden of Shyness and the Latest iPhone

(Enter TOBY, carrying a massive burlap sack on his back that looks like it weighs a hundred pounds. He walks bent double, comically exaggerating the weight. Pillows are slipping out of the sack, and he quickly stuffs them back in on the sly, pretending no one notices. He stops dead, drops the sack with a loud, comically fake pre-recorded crash, and dramatically wipes his sweat).

(Enter CHAD, wearing an impeccable designer suit, dark sunglasses, and talking on a luxury smartphone. He walks with over-the-top confidence, striking poses like a male high-fashion magazine model. He stops in front of an imaginary mirror and vase, fixes his hair, and looks at Toby with deep disgust).

CHAD: (Into the phone) Yeah, so I just arrived at this sketchy neighborhood... Down... Downtown LA? Somewhere near Skid Row, I think... Seriously, this place needs an immediate air freshener. (Hangs up, pulls out a silk handkerchief, and wipes his own designer boots). Oh, please. Say what you want, but the people in this town have terrible taste. (To Toby) Hey, you, servant boy, clean my shoes… Or what? Do you think you're hot stuff just because you’re a cute little helper? You might be cute, but I want you to be my slave. Come on, boy, you’ll never be like me… You might be handsome, but you lack... initiative, worldliness, class! Everything I have in abundance.

(Against all odds, little Toby kneels to clean his boots... Chad, the arrogant jerk, pulls out a wad of cash and stuffs it into his new servant's sack).

CHAD: I like that you’re helpful… You’re going to follow me around all night… (Toby is about to say something, but Chad covers his mouth) Shh, shh, shut up and learn!

2: The Shady Wellness Spa and Prop Grapes

(Transition: The lighting changes drastically to deep red and neon tones, marking the entrance to a sketchy massage spa and "something more.")

(ROXY arrives at the front desk, dressed very sexily, swaying her hips in an exaggerated manner).

ROXY: (As if she had known Toby her whole life) Toby, honey, come on in...! We all know you around here because you’re so handsome. The boss ordered a VIP massage just for you; a delicious blend of honey, nectar, and sandalwood oils... Come in, Toby, step into our room of pleasure! (She spots Chad and her tone instantly changes to absolute disgust). Ah, you brought company… Sorry, big guy, we have nothing for you today. Try another day... Tuesdays might work.

CHAD: (Arrogant, completely ignoring Roxy. He adjusts his suit jacket and shoves Toby out of the way). Move it, slave! I’m the one with the black Amex, so I’m the one who deserves the massage. Not you. What do you mean Tuesday? You serve me right now or I’ll have this third-rate joint shut down. You don’t know who I am; I am Chad the Influencer, or Chad the Alpha Male, whichever you prefer… (Furious because Roxy is ignoring him, he takes it out on Toby and yanks a few hairs from his head).

TOBY: (Rubbing his head) Hey, man! That hurts, you idiot! You just pulled out three of my hairs!

(Roxy quickly darts in and out of the scene. In one of her entrances, she leaves a small table with a porcelain fruit bowl. Chad continues to block Toby's path).

CHAD: (Takes some fake grapes from the fruit bowl, bites one, and makes a face of pure disgust). Gross! Plastic! I want popcorn, cherries, something fitting my status... serrano ham, brie cheese… (Looking at Toby with sheer frustration). Toby… you’re just a shy, pathetic mover forced to carry that filthy sack. You probably eat beans, tortillas, and that kind of stuff… Tacos, ew… I was born to do absolutely nothing… I don’t work, you know… I just enjoy life, and I eat caviar, lasagna, salmon, truffles, live lobster… I don’t work, my life is divine… If I ever had to carry sacks—which is practically impossible, hahaha—they would be made of imported silk. You get pushed around because you’re a nobody, a loser from the… lower class. I am the one blessed with money and taste… I’m the one getting massaged with mango oils and raspberry cream. Of course!

(Chad notices that a couple of invisible women in the audience are smiling and blowing kisses to Toby. He loses his mind).

CHAD: Stop it! Can anyone tell me why they are blowing kisses to you and completely ignoring me? Hey, look at me! Look at MEEEE!

TOBY: It's just... you walk like you have a selfie stick shoved up your...

CHAD: (Offended, pulls a broomstick out of nowhere that was hidden behind his back and throws it to the ground in a rage). Enough! You’re just a simple, shy helper. You might be handsome, but I’m the one with the cash, the sports car, and the swagger!

3: Corner Love and Displaced Discounts for the Shy

(They exit the Spa without getting any massage. The lighting changes to a dark street corner under a red neon streetlamp).

(Toby stands next to Chad like a loyal servant, carrying his heavy sack and waiting for orders. Chad approaches ROXY—who is now working as a lady of the night—posing like a cheesy reality TV star).

CHAD: Oh, Venus of Hollywood, sexy nymph of the dark nights! Would you grant me a kiss from those lips that taste like heaven?

ROXY: (Adjusts her skirt with deep contempt). A kiss? You smell like expensive cologne mixed with stale garlic, gym sweat, and pure desperation... Nobody asks for kisses here, playboy. But if that’s what you want, it’ll cost you the VIP overnight rate.

(TOBY bursts out laughing at the rejection and falls to the ground, legs kicking up in the air with pure joy).

ROXY: (Watching Toby’s movements with sudden desire). Hmm... but I’ll charge your friend with the sack way less. He’s hot, and with his legs up like that, you can tell he’s got... a lot of agility.

CHAD: Oh, please! He’s not my friend, he’s my servant… Sure, he’s agile, but he’s so shy he can barely speak!

ROXY: Ah, I give discounts to the shy guys. What’s up, handsome? Come on, I’ll charge you pocket change, but you cover the Uber and the hotel...

CHAD: (Leaning on the broomstick from the floor as if it were a golf club, striking a Greek statue pose). Oh, clueless maiden! I am the king of the crypto wallet! You don’t know what you’re missing... I’ll pay for the whole night right now and take you in an Uber Black to the best hotel in Beverly Hills.

ROXY: Alright, fine... but on one condition: the shy guy comes too, and he gets to watch us work.

CHAD: (Swallowing his pride). Sure... There’s always room for a beautiful lady in a luxury ride, babe. Move it, slave! Grab your bag, we’re taking you with us more out of pity than because you’re pretty.

ACT II: THE MYSTERY OF THE BIRTHMARK

[SETTING]: The stage is now decorated with a gold-patterned folding screen that wobbles dangerously every time anyone walks near it.

4: The Wholesale District Aristocracy

(Roxy has removed her lady-of-the-night outfit; she is now a high-society socialite dressed in an elegant, bright red satin gown. She fans herself furiously. In a corner, TOBY is shaking uncontrollably. Tied tightly to a chair with a thick rope is CHAD, looking completely humiliated).

ROXY: (Floats regally across the stage, circling Toby like a lioness stalking her prey. She stops in front of him and lifts his chin with her fan). Oh, Shy Boy, look at me! Your silence is not shyness... it’s the mystery of great men. Tell me, Toby... confess what your heart is hiding. I know you are dying of love for me. Can't you imagine us together, parading through the grand halls of high society?

TOBY: (Blinks rapidly, flattered for a second. He adjusts his shirt collar and tries to sound like a smooth charmer, though his voice comes out high-pitched). Well... y-yes... I... I d-don't do too b-bad at parties... At my cousin’s wedding, I danced the "Line Dance" without missing a single step... Well, it’s not ballroom dancing, but it counts...

ROXY: (Exaggerating the romance, taking his hands). I knew it! You shall be my king. I will take you to the most exclusive dinners in Beverly Hills. You will eat caviar from silver platters and champagne-glazed quail. I will surround you with important people: movie producers, plastic surgeons, corrupt politicians! Everyone will applaud your gentlemanly poise. Come on, say it! Say you dream of kissing my satin lips under the Paris moon!

TOBY: (Stares at her. His smile completely vanishes. He starts breaking out in a cold sweat, looking utterly disgusted and desperate). C-caviar? But... those are raw fish eggs... and raw seafood gives me t-terrible heartburn! And... and those important people... why would they even l-look at me? M-ma'am... your f-face is way too close... your b-breath smells like imported cigars and caesar salad... I... I'm having a l-lower-middle-class panic attack! Get away! This just got way too grotesque!

CHAD: (Trying to break free, yelling from the chair). He’s a total redneck, Roxy! A peasant who prefers street food! Free me instead, I actually speak French and know how to use a salad fork!

ROXY: (Ignores Chad completely. Shifts from seduction to mystical suspicion, narrowing her eyes). Your rejection... that utter contempt for exotic food... That anxiety belongs to old money! Your stuttering makes me think you are the long-lost son of a Lithuanian billionaire, who forced you to carry bags in the LA Wholesale District just to learn the value of hard work. Confess... I know you have blue blood!

TOBY: (Shaking even harder and scratching his neck). M-m-ma'am... I... I d-don't know if my d-dad is a billionaire... All I know is that you are p-pinching my stomach with your giant acrylic nails with sparkly rhinestones.

ROXY: (Falls dramatically to her knees, clasping her hands together). I knew it! Show me the heraldic proof of your noble birth! You must have a star-shaped birthmark... Or a cross, a cross, double cross, devil leave and angels boss!

TOBY: Help, Chad! This woman has completely lost her mind... I do have a birthmark on my butt, but it looks exactly like my dad's, and he’s just a baker!

5: Revelations of Noble Birth and a Paper Storm

CHAD: (With an epic, exaggerated yank, snaps the ropes instantly. He rips open his designer shirt, showing his chest with tragic pride). Liar! Blind woman! I am the one with the star-shaped birthmark! Look at it, it’s flawless, like the North Star! Look closely, Lady Roxy! I am the billionaire, I am the playboy, I am a direct descendant of European aristocrats!

(Roxy freezes in her kneeling pose. Her face transitions from mystical devotion to absolute coldness. Chad's "triumphant act" fails completely. She rises slowly, brushing off her red satin skirt with utter contempt).

ROXY: (In a flat, dry tone). You have a star on your chest... and you are a total snob, a wannabe, a royal pain in the neck; an arrogant jerk, you annoy me. Gross. It doesn’t matter, Toby; even if you’re the baker’s son and don’t have a dime, I want you. Let’s go inside so you can show me that birthmark on your butt!

TOBY: (Panicking completely, shivering). N-no, m-ma'am... it's j-just... my birthmark i-itch-ches a lot, and when it i-itches, I... I... get kind of horny...

ROXY: (Screaming toward the wings). Chad! Bring a bucket of ice water to cool down my Toby’s burning fever! Because tonight, I’m getting my man no matter what!

(Chad, heartbroken and furious at losing yet again to the servant, runs behind the folding screen, grabs a blue mop bucket, and throws a massive wave of blue confetti and metallic cellophane strips over both of them).

CHAD: Taste my ice-cold water, you hobo! And you too, your highness!

6: The Flight of the Heir and the New Designer Slave

TOBY: (Suffering a total shyness meltdown from the "bath"). Aaaaah! Can’t stand it! (Overcome with panic, Toby grabs his massive hundred-pound burlap sack, tosses it over his shoulder with surprising agility, but at the last second decides to slam it onto the floor... Liberated, he dashes off the stage at full speed). Heeeelp!

ROXY: (Staring at the empty space, dumbfounded. She slowly turns toward Chad, her face flushed with rage). What have you done, you jerk? You scared off my shy boy! You ruined my night and left me hanging!

CHAD: (Bragging, fixing his shirt collar). You’re welcome, babe. I saved you from a peasant. Now, let's hit the road, the night is still young... and you and I...

ROXY: (Snatches the broomstick that Chad threw on the floor in the first act and raises it like a whip). You and I? What you are going to do is pay for my psychological damage! (She whacks him across the legs with the broom). Move it!

CHAD: (Hopping in pain). Ow! My Gucci pants!

ROXY: (Points toward the direction where Toby fled, where the "heavy" sack was conveniently left behind on the floor). Pick up that bag my golden dream left behind and walk! If you wanted action tonight, you’re my new heavy-lifting cargo slave! Move it, giddy up, discount playboy!

CHAD: (Bent double, whining and trying to dodge the broom strikes while struggling to lift the heavy bag). Help! This was not in the seduction manual! Ow, my mango oils! Oh, wretched meeee!

(Roxy chases Chad off the stage with broom strikes while he whines dramatically).

THE END

Un Tímido, Un Chad y Una Roxy

El encanto irresistible de Huguito el Tímido

Una comedia del absurdo en dos actos

Por: [Benjamín Gavarre]

® BENJAMIN GAVARRE SILVA

bengavarre@gmail.com

Género: Comedia del absurdo / Farsa satírica.
Duración: Corta (Aprox. 15-20 minutos).
Elenco: 3 personajes (2 hombres, 1 mujer).

---------------------------->>> Sinopsis <<<----------------------------

Chad es un "mirrey" adinerado, narcisista y desesperado por atención que fracasa rotundamente en todo lo que intenta. Hugo es su criado: un cargador extremadamente tímido, callado y arrastra para todos lados un costal mugroso. Contra toda lógica, Hugo posee un atractivo involuntario, salvaje e hipnótico que desata las pasiones de Roxy, una intensa mujer de la noche convertida en dama de alta sociedad. Entre masajes sospechosos, uvas de utilería, escobazos y un misterioso lunar, esta obra demuestra que el dinero no compra el "pegue"... y que el manual de seducción casi nunca funciona.

Una comedia del absurdo en dos actos

---------------------------->>> Personajes <<<----------------------------

HUGO: El criado tímido. Consigue todo sin el menor esfuerzo. Carga bultos pesados, pero posee un imán involuntario, salvaje e hipnótico para las mujeres.
CHAD: Un playboy narcisista, adinerado, presumido y desesperado por atención, que fracasa rotundamente en absolutamente todo lo que intenta.
ROXY: Intensa, seductora y de armas tomar. Cambia de personalidad y estatus social como quien cambia de ropa; primero como mujer de la noche y luego como dama de la alta sociedad.

· ---------------------------->>> ACTO I <<<----------------------------

EL DON DE LA TIMIDEZ

[ESCENOGRAFÍA]: El escenario está completamente desnudo.

1: La pesada carga de la timidez y el celular de última generación

(Entra HUGO cargando a la espalda un saco enorme de yute o de nixtamal que parece pesar cincuenta kilos. Camina doblado por la mitad, exagerando el peso de forma cómica. Del saco se salen almohadas y él las mete rápidamente con disimulo, como si nadie se diera cuenta. Se detiene en seco, deja caer el saco con un estruendo sordo (Una grabación obvia y cómica) y se limpia el sudor dramáticamente).

(Entra CHAD, vestido con un traje de diseñador impecable, lentes oscuros y hablando por un teléfono celular lujosísimo. Camina con exceso de seguridad, haciendo poses de modelo de revista de alta moda masculina. Se detiene ante un espejo y un florero imaginarios, se acomoda el cabello y mira a Hugo con profundo desprecio).

CHAD: (Al teléfono) Sí, fíjate que ya llegué al barrio bajo... Bondo… Bondo… algo… Sí, JITO… por Mich, chim, algo como Tehuacán… De verdad, el ambiente aquí necesita un aromatizante urgente. (Cuelga, saca un pañuelo de seda y limpia sus propios zapatos, unas botas). Ay, por favor. Di lo que quieras, pero la gente de este pueblo tiene un gusto pésimo. (A Hugo) Oye, tú, criado, límpiame los zapatos… ¿O qué? ¿Te crees mucho porque eres una monada de criado? Serás muy mono, pero quiero que seas mi esclavo. Ándale, criado, nunca serás como yo… Estarás muy guapo, pero te falta... iniciativa, mundo, ¡clase! Lo que a mí me sobra.

(Contra toda predicción Huguito se baja a limpiarle las botas… El majadero de Chad saca un fajo de billetes y se los mete en el saco a su desde ahora nuevo Criado) … Me gusta que seas servicial… Vas a seguirme toda la noche… (Hugo va a decir algo, pero Chad le tapa la boca) Sht, sht, ¡calla y aprende!

2: El Spa sospechoso y las uvas de utilería

(Transición: La iluminación cambia drásticamente a tonos rojizos y neón, marcando la entrada a un sospechoso Spa de masajes "y algo más").

(Al recibidor llega ROXY, vestida de forma muy sexy, moviendo las caderas de manera exagerada).

ROXY: (Como si conociera a Hugo de toda la vida) ¡Huguito, pasa, pasa…! Te conocemos porque eres muy guapo y la Señora te ha mandado preparar un masaje exclusivo; una delicia de mieles, néctar y aceites de sándalo... ¡Pasa, pasa, Huguito, entra a nuestra habitación del placer! (Ve a Chad y cambia el tono a uno de total desprecio). Ah, viniste acompañado… Lo siento, grandulón, no tenemos nada para usted hoy. Venga otro día... los martes puede ser.

CHAD: (Arrogante, ignorando por completo a Roxy. Se acomoda el saco del traje y aparta a Hugo de un empujón). ¡Quítate, esclavo! Yo soy el que va a pagar, así que yo sí me merezco el masaje. Tú no. ¿Cómo que el martes? A mí me atienden ahora o les mando cerrar su congal de cuarta. No saben quién soy yo; soy el mirrey Chad, o Chad el Mirrey, como quieran… (Furioso porque Roxy no lo pela, se desquita y le arranca unos pelos a Hugo).

HUGO: (Frotándose la cabeza) ¡Oye, te pasas mi rey! ¡Me arrancaste tres pelos, tarado!

(Roxy entra y sale de escena rápidamente. En una de sus entradas, deja una mesita con un frutero de porcelana. Chad le sigue impidiendo el paso a Hugo).

CHAD: (Toma unas uvas de adorno del frutero, les da un mordisco y hace muecas de asco total). ¡Qué asco! Quiero palomitas, cerezas, algo de mi clase... jamón serrano, queso brie… (Mirando a Hugo con frustración). Hugo… tú eres solo un tímido cargador obligado a llevar ese costal mugroso. Tú seguramente comes frijoles, tortillas y esas cosas… Tacos, fuchi… Yo nací para no hacer nada… No trabajo, sabes… Solo disfruto, y como caviar, lasaña, salmón, trufas, langosta viva… No trabajo, mi vida es divina… Si yo llegara a cargar costales alguna vez —cosa que es prácticamente imposible, jajajaja—, serían de seda importada. A ti te dan azotes por retrasado, porque eres un esclavo, porque eres un marginal de la clase… marginal. Yo soy aquel bendecido por el dinero y el buen gusto… A mí me van a dar masajitos con aceites de mango y crema de frambuesa. ¡Faltaría más!

(Chad nota que un par de mujeres invisibles en el público le sonríen y le tiran besos a Hugo. Se desespera).

CHAD: ¡Detente! ¿Se puede saber por qué te tiran besos a ti y a mí me ignoran? ¡Oigan, no lo vean a él, mírenme a mííí!

HUGO: Es que... caminas como si tuvieras un palo atravesado...

CHAD: (Ofendido, saca de la nada un palo de escoba que estaba oculto en su espalda y lo avienta al piso con furia). ¡Suficiente! Tú eres un simple criado tímido. Serás muy guapo, pero yo soy el del dinero, el del carro deportivo, el del desparpajo.

3: Amor de la esquina y tarifas con descuento para tímidos

(Salen del Spa sin obtener ningún masaje. La iluminación cambia a un farol nocturno con luz roja).

(Hugo está al lado de Chad como si fuera su esclavo, cargando su costal y esperando órdenes. Chad se acerca con pose de galán de telenovela a ROXY, que ahora ejerce como mujer de la noche).

CHAD: ¡Oh, Venus de Milo, ninfa sexy de las noches oscuras! ¿Me concederías un beso de tu boca que sabe a gloria?

ROXY: (Se acomoda la falda con desprecio). ¿Un beso? Hueles a perfume caro mezclado con ajo rancio, a sudor de gimnasio y a desesperación... Nadie pide besos aquí, playboy. Pero si eso quieres, te cuesta lo de una noche entera y tarifa VIP.

(HUGO se muere de risa ante el rechazo y se cae al suelo con las piernas hacia arriba, pataleando de puro gusto).

ROXY: (Mirando los movimientos de Hugo con deseo). Oye... pero a tu amigo el del costal le cobro menos. Es sexy, y con sus patas para arriba se ve que tiene mucha... agilidad.

CHAD: ¡Por favor! No es mi amigo, es mi criado… Sí, es ágil, ¡pero es un tímido que no sabe ni hablar!

ROXY: Ah, a los tímidos les hago descuento. ¿Qué tal, mi tímido? Vamos, te cobro poco, pero tú pagas el taxi y el hotel...

CHAD: (Apoyándose en el palo de escoba del piso como si fuera un bastón de golf, adoptando una pose de estatua griega). ¡Oh, manceba despistada! ¡Yo soy el rey de la billetera! No sabes de lo que te pierdes... Te pago la noche completa ahorita mismo y te llevo en un Uber Black al mejor hotel de la zona.

ROXY: Va, qué pues... pero con una condición: que también vaya el tímido y que nos vea trabajar.

CHAD: (Tragándose el orgullo). Claro... Siempre hay espacio para una bella dama en un transporte de lujo, preciosa. ¡Ándale, esclavo! Recoge tu costal, que te llevamos más por lástima que por guapo.

---------------------------->>> ACTO II <<<----------------------------

EL MISTERIO DEL LUNAR

El escenario ahora tiene un biombo con estampados dorados que se tambalea peligrosamente cada vez que alguien pasa cerca.

4: La aristocracia de la Central de Abastos

(Roxy se ha quitado el disfraz de mujer de la noche; ahora es una dama de alta sociedad vestida con un elegante vestido de satén rojo brillante. Se abanica con furia. En una esquina, HUGO tiembla exageradamente. En una silla, atado firmemente con una gruesa cuerda, está CHAD, completamente humillado).

ROXY: (Avanza flotando de forma regia, rodeando a Hugo como una leona a su presa. Se detiene frente a él y le levanta la barbilla con el abanico). ¡Oh, Tímido, mírame! Tu silencio no es timidez... es el misterio de los grandes hombres. Dime, Huguito... confiesa lo que tu pecho calla. Sé que mueres de amor por mí. ¿No te imaginas los dos juntos, paseando por los grandes salones de la alta sociedad?

HUGO: (Pestañea rápido, halagado por un segundo. Se acomoda el cuello de la camisa e intenta poner voz de galán, aunque le sale aguda). Bueno... s-sí... yo... yo n-no c-canto tan mal las rancheras... En los quince años de mi prima canté y bailé el "Payaso de Rodeo" sin equivocarme... Bueno esa no es ranchera, pero aplica…

ROXY: (Exagerando el romance, tomándole las manos). ¡Lo sabía! Serás mi rey. Te llevaré a las cenas más exclusivas de Beverly Hills. Comerás caviar en platos de plata y codornices al champán. Te rodearé de gente importante: productores de cine, cirujanos plásticos, ¡políticos corruptos! Todos aplaudirán tu porte de caballero. ¡Vamos, dilo! Di que sueñas con besar mis labios de satén bajo la luna de París.

HUGO: (La mira fijamente. Su sonrisa se desvanece. Empieza a sudar frío y a poner cara de asco y desespero total). ¿C-caviar? P-pero... eso son huevos de pescado crudo... ¡y a mí me da agruras el marisco! Y... y esa gente importante... ¿p-por qué me verían a mí? S-señora... s-su cara está muy cerca... s-su aliento huele a puro importado y a ensalada césar... Me... ¡me está dando un ataque de pánico de clase media baja! ¡Quítese! ¡Esto ya se puso muy grotesco!

CHAD: (Tratando de zafarse, gritando desde la silla). ¡Es un naco, Roxy! ¡Un marginal que prefiere los tacos de suadero! ¡Suéltame a mí, que yo sí hablo francés y sé usar el tenedor de ensalada!

ROXY: (Ignora a Chad por completo. Pasa de la seducción a la sospecha mística. Entorna los ojos). Tu rechazo... ese desprecio por la comida exótica... ¡Esa angustia es de gente con billete! Tu tartamudeo me hace pensar que eres el hijo perdido de un archimillonario de Lituania, que te puso a cargar bultos en la Central de Abastos para que aprendieras el valor del trabajo. Confiesa... ¡sé que eres de sangre azul!

HUGO: (Temblando aún más fuerte y rascándose el cuello). S-s-señora... yo... yo n-no s-sé si mi p-padre es millonario... Solo sé que me está p-pellizcando la panza con sus uñotas de gel con puntos brillantes.

ROXY: (Se arrodilla dramáticamente ante él, juntando las manos). ¡Lo sabía! ¡Muestra la prueba de tu noble nacimiento! Debes tener un lunar en forma de estrella... ¡O en forma de cruz, cruz, que se vaya el diablo y que venga Jesús!

HUGO: ¡Auxilio, Chad! Esta mujer se ha vuelto loca... Yo tengo un lunar en las pompis, ¡pero es igual al de mi padre el panadero!

5: Revelaciones de la Noble cuna y una tormenta de papel

CHAD: (Dando un tirón épico y exagerado, rompe las cuerdas de golpe. Se abre la camisa de diseñador mostrando el pecho con orgullo trágico). ¡Falsa! ¡Ciega! ¡Yo soy el que tiene el lunar en forma de estrella! ¡Mírala, es perfecta, como la estrella de Belén! ¡Míralo bien, Doña Roxy! ¡Yo soy el millonario, yo soy el playboy, yo soy descendiente de aristócratas españoles!

(ROXY se queda petrificada en su pose arrodillada. Su rostro pasa de la devoción mística a una frialdad absoluta. El “acto triunfal” de Chad no funciona. Se levanta lentamente, sacudiéndose las faldas de satén rojo con un desprecio total).

ROXY: (Con tono seco y plano). Tú tienes una estrella en el pecho... y eres un gachupín, gachupatas, chúpame las patas; tipo sangrón, me caes gordo, por pesado. Qué horror. No importa, Hugo; aunque seas hijo del panadero y no tengas un centavo, yo te quiero a ti. ¡Vamos adentro a que me enseñes ese lunar de las pompis!

HUGO: (Entrando en pánico absoluto, tiritando). N-no, s-señora... Es Es s-solo... que mi lunar p-pica mucho y cuando p-pica, yo... yo... me pongo horny

ROXY: (Grita hacia las bambalinas). ¡Chad! ¡Trae un cubo de agua fría para bajarle la ardiente calentura a mi Huguito! ¡Que hoy corono porque corono!

(CHAD, despechado y furioso por perder otra vez ante el criado, corre tras el biombo, toma un cubo azul de fregar y les arroja a los dos un enorme chorro de confeti azul y tiras de papel celofán).

CHAD: ¡Toma tu agua helada, muerto de hambre, y tú también, Maruja!

6: La huida del heredero y el nuevo esclavo de marca

HUGO: (Sufriendo el colapso definitivo de timidez por el "baño"). ¡Aaaaah! ¡La p-p-pasión de Teresa… Digo: la pasión me endereza! ¡No lo soporto, ahhhh! (Presa del pánico, Hugo agarra su enorme costal de yute de cincuenta kilos, se lo echa al hombro con una agilidad sorprendente, pero en ultimo momento decide arrojarlo al piso… Sale liberado corriendo del escenario a toda velocidad). ¡Auxilioooo!

ROXY: (Mirando el espacio vacío, estupefacta. Luego se gira lentamente hacia Chad con el rostro lleno de furia). ¿Qué has hecho, desgraciado? ¡Me espantaste al tímido! ¡Me echaste a perder la noche y me dejaste con las ganas!

CHAD: (Presumiendo, acomodándose el cuello de la camisa). De nada, preciosa. Te salvé de un plebeyo. Ahora sí, nos vamos, la noche todavía es joven… y tú y yo...

ROXY: (Le arrebata el palo de escoba que Chad tiró en el primer acto y lo levanta como si fuera un látigo). ¿Tú y yo? ¡Tú lo que vas a hacer es pagarme el daño psicológico! (Le da un escobazo en las piernas). ¡Órale!

CHAD: (Saltando del dolor). ¡Ay! ¡Mi pantalón Gucci!

ROXY: (Señala hacia la dirección por la que huyó Hugo, donde convenientemente quedó el “pesado” costal tirado). ¡Carga ese costal que dejó mi sueño dorado y camina! ¡Si querías acción esta noche, vas a ser mi nuevo esclavo cargador de bultos! ¡Moviéndose, arre, playboy de pacotilla!

CHAD: (Doblado por la mitad, chillando y tratando de esquivar los escobazos mientras intenta levantar el bulto). ¡Auxilio! ¡Esto no venía en el manual de seducción! ¡Ay, mis aceites de mango! ¡Ay, miserable de míiii!

(Roxy lo saca a escobazos del escenario mientras Chad lloriquea dramáticamente).

FIN