A Plate of Shitty Spaghetti [2010]

The Report

  A young married couple with a toddler is seated in a booth at a popular Italian restaurant.  The toddler is on the left, inside, with his mother.  The father is seated on the right.  Their booth is center stage.  It is a Friday evening, and the restaurant is moderately busy.  There is a party of six persons (five males, one female, all elderly) seated in the booth to the right of the couple, while a party of two (a teenage couple, sitting across from one another, obviously on a first date) occupies the booth to the left.  There are several unoccupied tables scattered throughout the relatively small room, and to the far right, at a table against the wall, a kitchen worker sits, wrapping silverware.  There are dozens of framed photographs and paintings, as well as some strange, rather bulky artifacts, hanging from the walls.  A waiter and a waitress come and go from time to time.  The music of Al Martino plays softly in the background, and conversation is at a pleasant, barely audible level.

  Suddenly, at the table of the young married couple, after a cell-phone rings, a voice begins to rise.  The father, obviously being scolded, nervously fumbles with his cell-phone, and then tucks it into his jacket pocket.  The mother becomes very animated, and continues to berate the father, inquiring about the cell-phone.  The father quietly begs the mother to settle down, but to no avail.  At this point, both of the other parties in the room are beginning to show signs of irritation, and the kitchen worker gets up and leaves the room.  Then, the toddler starts screaming in an extremely high pitch, and all the other occupants of the room cringe in further disgust.  The mother rises from the table, snatches the toddler into her arms, makes some sort of parting comment to the father, and then exits the room.  The waiter, perhaps sensing the end of the altercation, enters to present the bill to the father.  He pays it, checks his cell-phone, and then leaves.  The occupants of the room breathe a collective sigh of relief.

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The Dramatization

  "This was nice," said Mirah, as she wiped the pasta sauce from the mouth of her son, Logan.  She continued: "We haven't been out like this since that night with Dan and Audra.  What was the name of that place?"

"Castaldi's," said Ben, seeming a little distracted.

Mirah continued to clean and groom Logan, who was being strangely patient with her.  And then, when he was neat and presentable, she took a small Batman toy from her purse and presented it to him, and he sat quietly, playing with it.

"What's wrong?" said Mirah.

Ben replied: "Oh, nothing.  I guess I'm just thinking about work.  Monday's the deadline for that Washington thing, and I don't know if I'm prepared."  After a brief pause, he continued: "Where's the waiter?"

"I haven't seen him in, like, ten minutes," said Mirah, glancing over to make sure Logan was o.k.  He was.
  
Suddenly, a cell-phone rang, and Ben fumbled to remove it from his jacket pocket.  He checked the number, and pressed the "silence" button.  His face began to blush.

Mirah inquired, with a somewhat harsh tone: "What the heck was that?  I certainly hope that wasn't 'you-know-who’.”

          Ben nervously fiddled with his phone, saying nothing, and refusing to make eye-contact with hIs wife.

"It was, wasn't it?" said Mirah, with anger rising in her voice.  "I thought you said that shit was over."

"Don't swear in front of the baby," Ben said sheepishly, still avoiding eye-contact.

"What the fuck?" screamed Mirah, as the action of the room came to a screeching halt.  "Don't get phone calls from the bitch you're fucking!  That shit's a lot worse for the baby than my language, you asshole."

Ben resumed his silence, staring at his half-eaten plate of pasta.  He gently slipped his cell-phone back into his jacket pocket, and then pretended to check his other pockets for some mystery item.

Mirah continued, barely restraining herself: "You've got a lot of nerve, Ben.  I really thought we were through with this crap.  Did you ever stop seeing her?"

There was no answer.

"Don't just sit there and ignore me," said Mirah, her voice beginning to tremble.  "What the fuck, Ben?  Really?"

Again, there was no answer.

The other people in the room were a mixture of annoyed and curious, and mostly remained quiet in order to hear everything.  The teenagers in the booth to the left were giggling.  Little Logan started to fidget and grow impatient.

"So this is it?" asked Mirah.  "This is how it ends?  Over a plate of shitty spaghetti, in front of a roomful of fucking strangers?  And, in front of our son, no less?  You're a real piece of work."

Mirah began to quickly pack her things into her bag, including the Batman toy, which she snatched from the hands of Logan.  In turn, Logan began to cry, loudly.

Mirah continued sarcastically, choking back tears: " I hope you're real happy, Ben.  And, I hope she's happy with your herpes."  Mirah raised her voice, addressing the room: "That's right, I said herpes, you nosy motherfuckers!"

Mirah swiftly rose from her seat, grabbed her purse, and snatched little Logan by the arm. The child let out an ear-piercing wail.

"Look what you've done to him," said Mirah, frantically confronting Ben.

Ben looked up slowly, and finally made eye contact with Mirah.  However, he said nothing.

After a few seconds, Mirah blurted out: "Fuck you, then!"

With Logan in her arms, Mirah ran from the room, leaving Ben behind to contemplate the moment. 

After approximately a minute, the waiter finally appeared, bringing the check, which Ben immediately paid.  After failing to leave a tip, Ben stood, looked around the room, and again removed his cell-phone from his pocket.  He dialed a few digits, and then stopped, staring at the display.  Then, in an action that looked suspiciously like relief, he sighed, and finished dialing the number.  A voice was heard to answer.

          Ben replied: "Yeah, it's me.  I'm gonna need a ride."