The Beginning of the End

Robert is in his mid forties, sitting in a car; where the play is set, wearing a tweed suit. Afternoon.   

I found another seven last week. These ones hadn’t even had the decency to be hidden under the normal ones. It’s starting to show. I thought I could keep it hidden. But no. The grey hairs have prevailed over me. And to rub salt into the wound the wife came home from the supermarket on Saturday saying she’d bought me a present. She came into the living room and lowered her voice so as to stop people listening in, despite the fact we were the only two people in the house, and picked something out of her bag. ‘Just for Men.’ It had a ridiculously smiley man on the front with obvious dyed hair and some stupid slogan about beating that grey so you can look like some nobby twenty year old again. She said that she’d noticed some grey hairs cropping up and didn’t want me to get too embarrassed about them. I told her it was a lovely thought, took the dye upstairs and accidentally spilt the entire contents of the bottle on the bathroom floor. [Sighs] What’s the point in dyeing it anyway when it’s just gonna fall out. I swear the little shiny patch at the back of my head is just getting bigger. I’m almost at comb-over phase. Jesus.   
   
That was just the first juncture in my life which led to this. It all started spiralling from there… or maybe it had started way before that. Two months ago I took out a membership for my local gym. I don’t know what possessed me. I haven’t felt the need to work out since I was in my teens. And that was just to impress the hot blonde in my law class; who is now probably married with three children and stretch marks. But for some reason it hasn’t had any positive effect on my physique in the slightest. As soon as I get out of the gym I head straight to the KFC next door and order a big bucket of greasy chicken pieces to replenish the energy I just wasted making a twat out of myself in front of all the super fitness freaks who spend their whole lives in the gym. If anything my slightly wobbly belly has just got wobblier. Now how’s that for ironic?

I guess my life has been tumbling downhill for longer than I realised. When attempting to revamp it a bit and add a bit of youthful sparkle into it all I just ended up feeling ancient. Some of the “younger lads” from work somehow managed to badger me into going on a “lad’s night out” with them to prove I wasn’t an old fart. We went out at nine thirty; already past my bedtime, so not a good start to the evening, kicking it all off at a nightclub called Arena. It was awful. The music was atrocious, all repetitive drum beats and stupid noises; where were the epic guitar solos? I never realised music had gotten into such a sorry state. And the worst thing was I couldn’t stand the noise. Me. The man who spent most of his youth at a rock concert, getting his ear drums blown out by speakers twice his size, about two inches from his face. I found myself sitting in the cab on the way home ranting on about “the youth of today” and how they’re “more trouble than good” and all the rest of that nonsense. Once I realised the rubbish that was spurting out of my mouth I was disgusted at myself. What’s happened to me? I sound like my father. Worse: my Grandfather.

Robert shakes his head in a resigned manner. He pulls at his clothing while he speaks.

What the hell am I wearing? How could I possibly have thought this was a good outfit? I actually spent my good hard earned money on this suit. I made a special trip into town just to purchase it. Tweed. A matching two-piece tweed suit. In that horrible brown-green colour which looks distinctly like a pond which has been neglected for a number of years and so has grown a think layer of algae. It’s a horrible colour. What am I saying? It’s a horrible suit! Uncomfortable and itchy. I used to be so stylish. I was always kitted out in leather jackets and drainpipes. A right lady’s man. I would spend hours picking my outfit and styling my hair. That was back when I cared about my image. I guess that pretty much packed up and left me as soon as I stumbled down the aisle all those years ago. How can no-one have pointed all these things out to me? Had they just given up all hope? It’s tragic.

Robert pulls out a pair of leather driving gloves from his coat pocket and puts them on his hands. He puts a key in the ignition, but does not turn it, and holds on to the steering wheel.

Well I hope they’re happy with themselves, just look at what it’s led to. They should have knocked some sense into me weeks ago, back when I was still salvageable, and maybe it wouldn’t have ended up like this. I’m finally here. There’s no turning back now. It’s all over. I’m a forty-four year old man with greying hair and a shiny bald patch, wearing a tweed suit, and I just bought a brand new Porsche 911 Carrera 4 in arctic silver. Hello mid-life crisis.

Robert sighs, turns the key in the ignition and drives out of the forecourt.