After "Waiting For Godot."
Two men, STEVE and HAROLD, both in their early twenties, and with long hair styles, are standing outside a small hair cutting salon on a sweltering August afternoon. The salon is closed. STEVE, after offering a cigarette to HAROLD—who waves it off—lights one himself and begins to pace.
STEVE: [Checking his watch.] I hate fucking Brooklyn. HAROLD: [Wipes his face with a balled-up handkerchief.] Brooklyn? I don’t know about Brooklyn. Brooklyn may not be as terrible as I thought it was. It’s hard to form an opinion when you’re rapidly losing consciousness. Jesus, it's like we're standing on sun here.
STEVE: [Looking away.] Brooklyn’s where you have to wait for this jerkoff.
HAROLD: [Rolls his neck.] This isn’t what you meant when you said he always keeps you waiting, is it? He doesn’t pull this every time you come here? [Feels his wrist.] Dude, my pulse is gone! [Holds his head with both hands.] And my memory—it’s gone too!
STEVE: All of it?
HAROLD: No. I think just last year.
STEVE: If it’s just last year then you can still remember last time you got laid. [Peers down block.] He’s never been this late before. He’s gotten much better at it. Shit, he ought to think about turning pro. [Looks at his watch again.] God, my WATCH is sweating.
HAROLD: [Calmed down. Wipes his face again.] I think they said last night that, factoring in wind-chill index with temperature-humidity thing, today would be hottest day in history of world.
STEVE: [Distracted.] If they did they got it right. [Looks up and down block.] It’s a goddamn hour. Where is this asshole?
HAROLD: Don’t quote me on that. Okay? I could be way off.
STEVE: [Shaking his head.] I wonder sometimes why I come here. I mean I probably should have mentioned something else:
STEVE: He can also fuckup. In fact, he can also fuckup in a major way. There was one fuckup that was actually beyond major, really spectacular—worthy of its own wing in Hall of Fuckups.
STEVE: HE loved what he did. He was proud of himself. He even took a Polaroid.
HAROLD: Yeah? I don’t remember...
STEVE: You don’t remember because you didn’t see me for a month. I cancelled all my public appearances.
HAROLD: Wait. That was...? It was that bad?
STEVE: Put it this way: I would definitely have gotten mucho action—if it’d been 1964 and I had a cockney accent.
HAROLD: You looked like a Beatle?
STEVE: Early Ringo Starr.
HAROLD: Okay. I’ve got a statement and then a question. The statement is: Yeah, when you were bugging me to give him a shot and finally getting me to make this trip—which I never wanted to do because nothing I've seen of his work for you has blown my skirts up past my ankles—YOU FUCKING PROBABLY SHOULD HAVE MENTIONED THAT! The question is—and I’m anxious to have your wisdom on this before it’s too late, while your brain scans are still registering occasional blips. Do you figure I can find my way back to Manhattan by myself? The “3” train, right? What is it—four blocks this way, then hang a left?
STEVE: Let’s give him a little while longer.
HAROLD: Why? Damn. I was expecting an acceptable level of mediocrity. I thought worst thing I had to worry about was getting wasted in a crossfire.
STEVE: Because speaking of “getting it right...”
HAROLD: You know barbershop in 86th Street subway station? It’s beginning to loom as a viable option.
STEVE: We’ll give him another fifteen minutes. Okay? [Looks at his watch.] Fifteen minutes. Exactly fifteen minutes. You can handle fifteen minutes, can’t you?
HAROLD: [Hugs himself and pretends to shiver.] My sweat just turned very cold. You ever hear of someone freezing to death in his own sweat?