Acrobat v. Actor

The Actor, an English hunting jacket draped over his arm, steps over the timber fence and walks across the field toward the oak where the Acrobat sits. The Actor walks up and coughs and the Acrobat, sitting on a crate, facing the stand of trees in the distance, makes a perfunctory motion indicating awareness of a presence, but otherwise remains as he was. The Actor asks what the Acrobat is sitting on. A crate, says the Acrobat, filled with pears. There is a pause before the Actor asks, did you bring the pears? The Acrobat shakes his head. Where did you get the pears? Providence, says the Acrobat.

The Acrobat stands. He turns to face the Actor. There's a look, then a second look. I know your face, says the Acrobat. I know, says the Actor. You were in -, says the Acrobat. I was, says the Actor. You won -, says the Acrobat. I did, says the Actor. You -, says the Acrobat. I will, says the Actor. This goes on for some time, just like this, until the Actor suddenly throws down his hunting jacket, picks up the Acrobat's crate and dashes it against the side of the oak, an explosion of timber, ripe pears, timber, styrofoam packing material falling to rest on the ground under the canopy. I hate pears, says the Actor, and I hate acrobats. Let's select our weapons, suggests the Acrobat. Okay, says the Actor. The Actor decorates the pistol he choses with a red ribbon from his mistress. The Actor is an unabashed sentimentalist.

They take their places, 15 paces apart.

Let me take this last opportunity to say that as a man of artistic inclinations I myself completely understand the demands of craft and for this reason I am not in the least bit offended by your sudden outburst and the destruction of my property and I'll add that frankly I've grown sick of pears and doubt I will ever eat one again in my life.

The Actor is touched by the Acrobat's statement yet affects contempt. (Acting.)

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Accountant v. Acrobat

The Accountant stands in a field in a rural area outside the city where he works. The Acrobat stands there too. They both stand in an empty field and on a table - a well-crafted rosewood table, by the look of it made by Shakers - under the canopy of a solitary oak there rests two loaded pistols. The Acrobat is eating a pear and the Accountant takes the folded newspaper held under his arm and places it on the table.

How did we come to be here, the Accountant asks. The Acrobat shrugs and says he wonders the same but he's not a man predisposed to dwell on the origin of things but to train his body to meet the demands of the routine he's developed. He's a lithe one, hard-faced, affects an air of disillusionment, countered only by the passion with which he eats the pear. He states (unnecessarily) that it's a good pear, and the Accountant asks (even more unnecessarily), is it really, and the Acrobat nods and throws the core and the stem - the stem having detached from the core - at the trunk of the oak, where they bounce off, landing at the base, propped by a root of the oak.

I've studied this routine and think I understand it in its entirety and so if you don't mind let's get started, said the Acrobat, who was stretching.

The Accountant, a tall, doughy middle-aged man with a bulbous nose and large tortoise frame bifocal eyeglasses, in a white shirt with no tie and a pair of size 54 dark grey slacks, and black patent leather shoes his wife had found on sale at the outlet store not in their suburb but another just a bit further down the highway, says okay. Let's choose guns the Acrobat says. The Accountant and Acrobat stand over the table and, after inspecting both guns, chose their gun. Let's walk out to the field, the Acrobat says, and the Accountant says okay.

They walk out to the field, standing 15 paces from each other. Then the Accountants says it's still nagging him. What, says the Acrobat. Just the question before, says the Accountant. There doesn't seem much accounting for it. The Acrobat asks if this is an accounting joke, but the question is lost on the Accountant, who wasn't joking.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.