Tricycles are not fast (Part 3)

(A single typewriter key: ding. Then silence. Then a train whistle, far away, apologetic.) Penguin (spoken, dry): We have a visitor. She arrived by… falling. Through the roof. Which is impressive. Because the roof is already rusted through. She fell through the hole she made. That is either physics or poetry. I haven't decided. Fliss (from under the tricycle, muffled): I didn't fall. I de-ascended. Rapidly. There's a difference. Penguin: There isn't. Fliss: There is if you say it with confidence. (Accordion inhales. Exhales. Does neither. Just sits there, scared.) Sssssera (uncoiling slowly, fur bristling, stuttering): H-h-h-h-h- (stops, slaps her own tail) Sssssstupid m-m-m-mouth. H-h-h-hello. I am Sssssera. The f-f-f-fur-s-s-s-snake. You can s-s-s-see the s-s-s-symbols on my f-f-f-f-fur. I d-d-d-don't know wh-wh-what they m-m-m-mean. S-s-s-someone once s-s-s-said they s-s-s-spell "butter." I d-d-d-don't tr-tr-trust that p-p-p-person. Penguin: Butter is a noble word. Sssssera: Butter is a s-s-s-slippery l-l-l-lie. (She laughs. It sounds like a small engine failing. Charming, somehow.) (Minimal piano. One key. Repeated. Like a raindrop with a grudge.) Fliss (crawling out from under the tricycle, holding a paintbrush): Listen. I fix zeppelins. Big ones. Floating ones. Full of gas and bad decisions. Every morning I climb inside a floating corpse and I say: "Good morning, darling. Don't explode." And the zeppelin says nothing. Because zeppelins don't talk. Except that one time in Hamburg. But we don't talk about Hamburg. Penguin: You told me about Hamburg. The talking zeppelin. It asked for a glass of water. Fliss: And I gave it one. And it said: "Thank you, that was very kind." And then it exploded anyway. That's when I decided. No more zeppelins. Only tricycles. Penguin: You are currently fixing a zeppelin engine. Fliss: (pause) I am painting a tricycle. The zeppelin is just… sitting there. Judging me. Let it judge. I have pink paint. It has hydrogen. We are not the same. (Overlap starts – both speaking at once, a word tsunami) Fliss: I w-w-w-want to p-p-p-paint every tricycle in the w-w-w-world— Sssssera (stammering faster now): R-r-r-red w-with g-g-g-gold sssssspokes— Fliss: No, pink. Pink is faster. Everyone knows pink is faster— Sssssera: P-p-p-pink is n-n-n-not f-f-f-faster, pink is l-l-l-louder— Penguin (cutting through, calm): You are both wrong. Tricycles are not fast. Tricycles are stable. There is a difference. Stability is the opposite of a zeppelin. A zeppelin is a lie that floats. A tricycle is a truth that stays on the ground. You are a mechanic who hates floating. You are a snake with fur. You are a penguin talking to both of you. We are all stable. Beautifully. Impossibly. Stable. (Silence. Long. Someone coughs. The typewriter dings for no reason.) (Cello enters. A single, warm note.) Sssssera (slowly, stuttering less, almost singing): The s-s-s-symbols on my f-f-f-fur… they ch-ch-change. L-l-l-last week they s-s-s-spelled "shoes." T-t-t-today they s-s-s-spell… nothing. J-j-j-just lines. L-l-l-lines that look l-l-l-like a tricycle. A p-p-p-pink one. Fliss (softly, sitting up): Show me. Sssssera (uncurling her belly): L-l-l-look. (The penguin leans in. Fliss touches the fur with her paint-stained finger. The symbols glow once.) Penguin (whisper): That's not a tricycle. That's a zeppelin. Fliss: No. That's a tricycle with dreams. A tricycle that wants to fly. That's the saddest thing I've ever seen. Sssssera: N-n-n-no. That's a f-f-f-flying tricycle. That's a f-f-f-flying tricycle that l-l-l-loves a zeppelin. And the z-z-z-zeppelin l-l-l-loves it back. But neither of them know how to sssssay it. S-s-s-so they j-j-j-just float. T-t-t-together. S-s-s-silent. Beautiful. (Pause. The accordion plays one wrong chord..) (Train whistle. Long. Melancholy.) Penguin (standing up, adjusting his gray bow tie): Tonight we counted the stars again. Number seven thousand and four. The one that looks like a cracked egg. Fliss: No. That was yesterday. Penguin: Every day is yesterday. That's the problem with counting. You never reach now. Sssssera (stuttering suddenly gone, just for one sentence): Now is the only star that matters. And it doesn't want to be counted. It wants to be painted. Pink. With gold spokes. And a small bell. Ding. (All three together, overlapping,) Fliss: I will paint a tricycle for every broken zeppelin— Penguin: And I will wear my gray bow tie until it turns into a moth— Sssssera: And I will st-st-st-stutter until the ssssymbols finally ssssay: Y-y-y-you are en-en-en-enough. J-j-j-just as you are. F-f-f-fur and all. Sssssss. (Silence.) Fliss (leaning against the penguin, paintbrush behind her ear): Tomorrow we fix the roof. Penguin: No. Fliss: No? Penguin: Tomorrow we let the stars fall through the hole. One by one. We catch them. And we paint them. Pink. Sssssera): T-h-e-y s-s-s-p-e-l-l "h-o-m-e." (She doesn't stutter. Not this time.)