Please go ahead.įREEMAN: Fucking penguins. Because I said that I would, and I keep my word. She can listen to us read the damn phone book.įREEMAN: Christ, I hate penguins. I have a job, I was just leaving, I don’t have ten hours right now–maybe if you came back later–įREEMAN: My friend Tim here had a stroke less than two months ago.įREEMAN: You don’t have anywhere to be right now.įREEMAN: I just think that if you could find the time to recover from a stroke and put on a tuxedo and come to this apartment with me, she could maybe find the ten or eleven hours to sit down and listen to us read the phone book like she says she’s always wanted to.įREEMAN: I had to spend four months freezing to death in Antarctica murmuring reassuringly about how penguins fuck each other. Wouldn’t you pay for a ticket just to hear him read the phone book?”įREEMAN: Your old roommate agreed, by the way. I’d listen to him read the phone book.”ĬURRY: September twenty-first, 2012, after watching Bruce Almighty with your roommate when you were both sick: “Morgan Freeman’s voice gives me the shivers. WOMAN: I…I don’t know what you’re talking about…ĬURRY: May seventeenth, 2005, after leaving a midnight showing of March of the Penguins: “God, I’d listen to Morgan Freeman read the phone book.”įREEMAN: August fourth, 2009, after watching Rocky Horror Picture Show and Clue one in a row alone on your laptop, you said to yourself: “Tim Curry’s voice is pure sex. Most awfully better.įREEMAN glares at the woman, placing a protective arm around CURRY.
#ON THE STROKE OF MIDNIGHT CHRISTINA ROSSETTI FREE#
I’m thrilled you’re both here, of course.ĬURRY: I say, don’t mean to be rude, but it was an awful lot of work finding time that the both of us were free and in America.įREEMAN: Tim had a stroke in July, you know.ĬURRY: I’m much better now, really I am. WOMAN (finally able to speak): Oh, my God. I do love a cocoa now and then.įREEMAN: You do have milk, don’t you? I can’t drink cocoa made with water. If she has some milk we can make cocoa.ĬURRY: Oh, lovely. It’s about ten hours.įREEMAN: Eleven if we need a few bathroom breaks.įREEMAN: Longer if we take a break for lunch.įREEMAN: Just a few apples and some cheese.įREEMAN: Brought some cocoa, too. CURRY is grinning too.ĬURRY: We’ve been practicing for ages. All right, you tell her.įREEMAN: We’re here to read the phone book to you.įREEMAN reaches into a worn, leather pouch and pulls out a thick edition of the Yellow Pages, still wrapped in plastic. When we heard about how much it would mean to you, we couldn’t resist.įREEMAN: I want to tell her. They both sit on the WOMAN’S couch, taking little notice of her still-open laptop, which is currently blaring “Waterfalls,” or the crumbs.ĬURRY: You’ve said repeatedly to your friends and coworkers how much you wanted us to do this. I can’t–I can’t–what are the two of you doing here?įREEMAN crosses into her apartment, removing his top hat in a quietly dignified manner. ĬURRY (looking at threshold significantly): Erm, may we…? MORGAN opens his eyes and smiles.ĬURRY: Tim Curry. The WOMAN calms down enough to open the door.
TIM CURRY and MORGAN FREEMAN, both in formalwear, stand without. She runs up and peers through the keyhole. She is humming “Marry Me a Little” softly to herself, clashing with the music currently playing on her computer. The front of her shirt is covered in crumbs. A NONDESCRIPT WOMAN is sitting on her couch, listlessly clicking through Lisa “Left-Eye” YouTube tribute videos.
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