NIGHT SHIFT
By Benjamín Gavarre
© BENJAMÍN GAVARRE SILVA
Contact this address if you have produced it or wish to do so: gavarreunam@gmail.com
CHARACTERS
· DAN: Late 20s. An out-of-town student whose life is suspended in a parent-funded apartment. He wears a threadbare, off-white bathrobe that feels more like a hiding place than a garment.
· JONATHAN: Late 20s. A delivery rider. He carries the weight of the city on his shoulders. He is Dan’s contemporary, a face from the same hallways, now wearing a different skin.
(The hallway of an apartment building. A temperamental motion-sensor light cuts out every thirty seconds, forcing the characters into sudden, sharp movements to reclaim the light. DAN opens the door. He looks like he’s been sleeping for years. JONATHAN stands before him, holding a plain, unmarked box. A thick silence hangs between them).
JONATHAN: —Delivery for 402.
DAN: —(Stares at the box, then at Jonathan’s face. His eyes trace the familiar line of Jonathan's jaw). Yes. That’s me.
(The light cuts out. Total darkness. The sound of Jonathan’s heavy breathing fills the gap. Both men, in a reflexive, almost desperate movement, wave their arms in the dark to trigger the sensor. The light returns with a violent flicker).
DAN: —(In a whisper). I remember you. From the hallways. Near the back stairs.
JONATHAN: —(Looking down at his scuffed boots). I didn't expect the algorithm to drop me at your door, Dan. I didn’t know you lived in a place like this.
DAN: —My parents... they wanted me to have a quiet place to study. (He looks at the hallway, then back at Jonathan). But I don't study. I just wait. I remember how you used to look at me in the courtyard. You never said a word.
JONATHAN: —Words weren't the point. (He eyes Dan’s tattered robe). And now here you are. Still in your own world. While I’m out there, chasing timers.
DAN: —(Tightening the robe with a clumsy, nervous gesture). I got used to being alone. I don't know if the payment... the tip...
JONATHAN: —Keep the tip. I’m not here for the change in your pocket.
(Jonathan steps across the threshold. The scent of rain and asphalt clinging to him hits the stagnant air of the apartment. Dan retreats, yielding the way. Jonathan enters the foyer and sets the box on a dark wood cabinet. He peels off his delivery jacket and drops it over the box, a silent declaration that his shift has ended).
(From the back of the apartment, a moody jazz track begins to bleed through: a slow double bass and a saxophone that sounds like a sigh. The hallway light outside cuts out again. This time, no one moves. The interior is bathed in an electric blue glow).
DAN: —(Pointing toward the bedroom). If you walk through that door... you’re not the guy on the bike anymore. And I’m not the ghost in the bathrobe.
JONATHAN: —The GPS says I’ve already delivered the package, Dan. According to the world, I’m not even here.
(Jonathan walks toward the bedroom. Dan follows, his heart visible in the way his hands shake. They enter the room. The bed is a wreck of tangled sheets. Books are piled on the floor like ruins).
JONATHAN: —(Stopping at the foot of the bed). You’ve been hiding, haven’t you?
DAN: —I’m afraid that if I touch you, the morning will come too fast. My parents will call, the rent will be due, and you’ll be back on the street. I hate the sun. It shows how empty this place really is.
JONATHAN: —(Turning slowly. His face is caught in the blue shadow). Stop thinking about the morning. I’m the same guy from the courtyard. I still have that look in my eyes. The only difference is that now, I’m actually here.
(Jonathan reaches out and takes Dan by the lapel of his robe, pulling him in. Dan closes his eyes and leans into him, inhaling the scent of the city. Jonathan sits on the edge of the bed and begins to unlace his boots. The sound of the laces hitting the floor is rhythmic, final).
DAN: —(In a whisper). Promise me you won’t leave before the coffee is ready.
JONATHAN: —I can’t promise the coffee, Dan. I have to be back on the road at six. I can only promise the "now." The rest... the rest doesn't matter.
(Jonathan kicks off his boots. Dan sinks down beside him, clutching the moment before it dissolves. The saxophone hits a long, agonizing note as the last light from the hallway flickers and dies).
CURTAIN
