Where’s Frank?

You told him to leave.

Right. I don’t remember.  Ain’t that funny? I don’t even remember my name.

Meg. Your name is Meg.

I know that. Just kidding. But one of these days I won’t. Someday, I’ll forget everything.  My name. Where I come from. Why I’m here. I mean, how I got here. In this place.

Yeah. I suppose.

Where’s Frank?

Probably ran into the city. Probably sleeping in some other crack house. Maybe behind a dumpster. Could be still awake. Running around town on the subway. Going back and forth on the 6. Who knows. It’s Frank. He might show up. He might not.

I remember now. I told him to bring me back something.

What?

Anything. I’m starting to feel sick. Need something to calm me down. Make me feel better. 

You never feel better. Not really. Junk gets in you. You don’t feel anything, period. At least I don’t. I haven’t felt anything in years.

Yeah. Me neither.

You’re still young.

How old am I?

You’re young.

OK. I’m twenty-something. I think. Never had a birthday party.

Ben rubs his thumb and pointer finger together. You know what that is? he asked. Meg looks at him, puzzled. That’s the world’s smallest violin. Playing just for you. What do you want? A medal? He looks at her. Listen. All of us are broken. We’re the land of misfit toys. We’ve been broke for quite some time. Since we were kids, Ben said. You got nothing. I got nothing. Frank never has anything. And yet, we’re still alive.

I don’t understand a word you just said. Tiny violins. Land of misfit toys. Broken since childhood.

Think about it. We all left home early. Ran away from something to something. Wound up here. And this is where we’ll stay.

I guess.

Go make some money for us. Go on now. Bring something home. Don’t be a Frank.