Actor v. Administrator

The Actor stands leaning with his back against the oak, left foot crossed casually over the right, working on the crossword puzzle in the newspaper left by the Accountant with the silver ballpoint pen left by the Actuary. From nearby he hears excited breathing that rises seamlessly from the ambient noise of the field - chirping, trilling, the far-off sound of fieldwork.

The Actor blinks. He lowers the newspaper. He looks to the right.

The Administrator stands a pace away. She's heavyset, heavily made up, wearing heavy faux-leather boots and a heavy pink coat. She steps half a pace closer to the Actor.

You're -, says the Administrator. No, says the Actor. But -, she says. No, he says, I'm not. Not that I'm not flattered, the Actor adds, because I am flattered, and I get this all the time. I don't believe you, the Administrator says. It's true, the Actor says, I'm not him, I'm just an ordinary Actuary. It's uncanny, she says, looking him over. I'm flattered, he says.

Oh well, says the Administrator, you are shorter than he is. The Actor shrugs. And your nose is bigger, says the Administrator. The Actor shrugs. And your face lacks that unnameable quality which elicits an immediate rapport, an aesthetic and emotional connection with the audience, a distinction that transcends the banal yet suggests familiarity, a rare face upon which the pith of the human condition can be expressed, expressed with unflinching brutality, totality. The Actor shrugs.

The Administrator notices the framed photograph of the Actor's wife and passport photo of the Actor's mistress hanging at eye-level on the tree. What exactly does an Actuary do? asks the Administrator. Mind your own business, says the Actor.

Having run out of things to say, the Actor suggests a duel. The Actor takes his weapon and the Administrator takes the other weapon and they take the field, 15 paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.