Sitting on the Dock of the Beige: A Two-Act Play

For my part, in truth, I would rather be old less long than be old before I am old. — Cicero

Earl Fowler

Act I

• Detective Rex Marlowe – Hard-boiled private eye with an Ovaltine addiction and a trench coat older than the internet.

• Doris – 47 years old, but vibes like she owns a ceramic rooster collection and yells at squirrels.

• Howard – A 52-year-old man with the energy of a retired accountant and the fashion sense of a sleepy ferret. Inhabited by the spirit of a 78-year-old librarian named Ethel.

[Interior – A dingy office with venetian blinds and a single buzzing ceiling fan. Rain slaps the windows like unpaid bills. Detective Marlowe sits behind a cluttered desk, sipping tepid Ovaltine from a chipped mug.]

[Enter Doris. She wears a crocheted shawl, orthopaedic clogs, and carries a tote bag that says “Live, Laugh, Laminate.”]

DORIS (whispering, glancing over her shoulder):

Are you … Detective Marlowe?

MARLOWE (leaning back, squinting):

Depends. Are you here about the missing parrot or the one about the guy who thinks he’s a potato?

DORIS:

Neither. I’m here about something … weirder.

It’s my friends, detective. They’re young. But they’re acting … old.

MARLOWE (raises obligatory eyebrow):

Define “old.”

DORIS (sitting, frantic):

They cancel plans because it’s “too late” — at 7:30. They get excited about new sponges. One of them owns a pill organizer — and it’s colour-coded!

MARLOWE (nods slowly):

Go on.

DORIS (emotional):

On Friday, I suggested karaoke. You know what they said?

“We’d rather stay in and play Scrabble.”

And then — then — they argued about fibre.

MARLOWE (grim):

That’s rough.

DORIS:

One guy brought his own teabag to a bar. His own TEABAG, Rex.

MARLOWE:

Seen it before. Back in ’14. Girl named Becca. Started knitting scarves in July. By October, she had a Costco card and an opinion on hummus textures. It never ends well.

DORIS:

Can you fix them?

MARLOWE (attempts to light cigarette with a match, misses, uses electric lighter):

No one fixes this kind of thing. Best I can do is find out why.

Tell me — any recent trauma? Burnout? Excessive exposure to British murder shows?

DORIS:

Well … they do love their Midsomer Murders. Rewatch episodes of Lewis and Vera. Never remember who the killer was until five minutes before the end. And one guy cancelled brunch to regrout his shower. Regrout, Rex.

MARLOWE (stands, grabs coat):

That’s it. We’re too late. They’ve crossed over.

They’re not young any more, kid.

They’ve … retired mentally.

DORIS (whispers):

You mean …

MARLOWE (serious):

They’re prematurely elderly. The beige years came early. And they like it.

DORIS (standing, distraught):

But what do I do?

MARLOWE:

You can’t save them. All you can do … is join them.

Here. (Hands her a thermos.)

It’s chicken noodle. Low sodium. You’ll need it where you’re going.

[Cue saxophone. Lights fade. The sound of a spoon clinking against ceramic echoes into darkness.]

Act II

[Interior – Same detective office. Slightly less dingy. There’s now a fern. Rain still falling, harder now. Nature’s white noise.]

[Doris enters briskly, wrapped in an even larger shawl. She sets down a slow cooker on the desk.]

DORIS:

Rex, we’ve got a situation.

MARLOWE (eyeing the crockpot):

If it’s soup again, we’re gonna need stronger crackers.

DORIS:

Worse. It’s Howard.

His slippers … are missing.

[Beat.]

MARLOWE:

… Slippers?

DORIS (grim):

Corduroy-lined, orthopaedic support, rubber soles. The Cadillac of indoor footwear. Gone without a trace.

MARLOWE (rubs temples):

Damn it, Doris. I told you this would happen. These people — they live on the edge. One minute it’s crosswords, next minute it’s chaos.

DORIS:

He says he left them under the ottoman. When he came back … all that was there was a single loose cough drop.

[Gasp.]

[Marlowe stands, slowly. Pulls a trench coat from a peg on the wall. Underneath is … a cardigan.]

MARLOWE:

All right. Let’s move. We’re burning daylight and prune juice hour starts at four.

[Cut to: Howard’s Apartment – Spotlessly clean. Smells like menthol and fear. Howard sits, clutching a hot water bottle like a war widow clutching a … telegram.]

HOWARD (trembling):

Detective, thank God you’re here. … I did everything right. Slippers off at 6:15 sharp. Slid ’em under the ottoman like always. Went to make a decaf tea. More of a tisane, really. Cranberry-raspberry mix. Came back … slippers gone.

DORIS (with a shudder while launching into an aside about thermostat settings):

Anyone else find it cold in here? Feels at least two degrees off from “comfortable” to me. I’ve never seen Howard so off his game.

MARLOWE (crouching, inspecting the scene):

Hmm. No sign of struggle. No lint trail.

Only this … (holds up something)

DORIS:

What is it?

MARLOWE:

A Sudoku puzzle. Half-finished. Difficulty: Fiendish.

Someone was here. And they were comfortable being uncomfortable.

HOWARD (with a look of absolute horror):

You mean …

MARLOWE:

Yeah. We’re dealing with a rogue element. Someone in their sixties or, worst case, even their seventies or eighties not yet elderly in spirit. A youthful saboteur. A … Jogger.

DORIS (clutches pearls):

Dear God.

[Cut to: the park. Senior joggers everywhere. Marlowe and Doris sit on a bench, surveilling.]

MARLOWE (watching):

Just look at those poor devils. All that cardio. All that serotonin. No lumbar support.

DORIS:

How do we find the thief?

MARLOWE:

Simple.

We bait the trap.

[Later. A fake pair of slippers placed under a park bench. Marlowe and Doris hide behind a large shrubbery with binoculars and the thermos.]

[The thermos now has a label reading “Property of Doris.”]

[A jogger slows down. Notices the slippers. Bends down. Gingerly. Spritely, even.]

MARLOWE (whispers):

Now!

[They leap out. Doris throws an afghan like a net. Marlowe brandishes a heating pad.]

JOGGER (panicked):

Okay, okay! I took them! I needed them for an Instagram Reel!

They were aesthetic!

HOWARD (stepping into view, clutching his bathrobe):

You monster. And you look 50 if you’re a day. Shame on you!

JOGGER (gratified):

I’m 76.

[Back at the office. Order restored. Slippers returned. Slow cooker bubbling.]

MARLOWE (voiceover, sipping soup):

Another case closed.

Another misguided senior reminded of the dangers of messing with the prematurely elderly.

They may move slow — but cross ’em, and they’ll steamroll you with passive aggression and a casserole dish of vengeance.

DORIS (making a face):

Where’s that loud closing music coming from? The daycare on the other side of the park? You should complain to the authorities.

MARLOWE:

That reminds me, kid. Have you noticed any grocery store layout changes, minor joint pain or the evolving performance of your vacuum cleaner? Repotted any succulents lately? Reorganized the Tupperware lids under the sink? I’m all ears. But remember, you’re on the clock. I guess we all are.

DORIS (now fetchingly dressed, by the way, in sweatpants and a knitted shawl that screams seasonal affective disorder):

Where have you been all my life, big boy? You’re like a walking, talking Epsom salt bath. Howard has a functional, fleece-lined bathrobe to die for, but you … you knock the compression socks right off a gal’s feet. Still, Howard was so adorable that time I caught him comparing electric kettles in aisle 7 of Bed Bath & Beyond and muttering, “This one has a real nice pour.” Howard is also dependable, punctual and always carries Band-Aids and a bag of Werther’s Originals. How’s a gal to choose?

MARLOWE (cutting through the sexual tension with a voice rougher than the texture of a poorly crocheted doily, head nodding like a poppy just beyond the reach of the sprinkler during a late-autumn drought):

Is it just me or is this hummus a little too zesty?

[A hard candy falls to the floor as a Ken Burns documentary suddenly appears on the vintage Viking television machine in the corner.]

[Fade out to the gentle rustle of knitting needles.]