Making a Difference

A comedy monologue from an up and coming rock star, (well, maybe not a real star, or even up and coming), which tells the story that God expects each one of us to make a difference for him, every day.

Cast Number: 1

Run-Time: 8

The Guitar Enthusiast

(A character rushes on stage, visibly excited and slightly out of breath.)

Character: Am I late? . . . . I’m not late, am I? No? Good, good!

I was just sick coming here—I was sure I was gonna be late! Don’t get the wrong idea, I don’t make a habit of being late. Not too likely—I mean, punctuality is my middle name . . . . . Well, not my middle name middle name—I mean, Charles is actually my middle name. Donald Charles Mercer, that’s me.

But, back to the punctuality thing . . . it’s like my mom always says— (mimicking mother’s voice)—“I don’t even one time want to see you show up late for anything, ever.” And over the years, it has been engraved on my mind—you just don’t go against my mom! Engraved on my mind, and, from time to time, as required in the opinion of my mom, engraved on other parts of my anatomy too, I gotta tell you!

(Pauses dramatically, then shifts tone.)

Reason I was late? See, I just got this new Fender Strat. (Pauses, looking from one person to another, gauging reactions.)

Fender . . . Strat . . . Guitar.

Well, I mean, not just a guitar. A guitar! I mean, calling a Fender Strat a guitar is like calling a Maserati a vehicle. This is not just zoom-zoom—this is vroooom-vrooooooom! A playin’ machine to die for!

(Mimes playing an air guitar, eyes closed, lost in the moment.)

Anyhow, about an hour ago, I was getting ready to come here, but I figured I had lots of time. So why not pick up the Strat and play a few hot licks? Man, what a playin’ machine!

Here I am, with my drop D tuning, just beltin’ them out—know what I mean? Thinking about filing down the pickup to take the buzz out of the low E. (Holds up hand, fingers up, palm out.) These fingers? Cut up bad from squeezin’ the strings. Wow—me, a shredder!

(Brief pause, shaking head in amusement.)

I have to tell you—my dad? He just doesn’t understand the heavy-duty guitars of today. To him, it doesn’t get any sweeter than the old Flying V guitar. I mean, he thinks drop D strings are spaghetti—to be eaten with sauce and a fork!

But then, to my dad, the ultimate in happenin’ music is like . . . Lawrence Welk unleashed!

(Shakes head, sighs.)

I mean, my dad—love him a lot—but not real up to speed on today’s guitaring, I gotta tell you!

(Suddenly snaps to attention, as if interrupted.)

Anyhow, here I am, just pressing the limits on hot music as we know it, when the phone rings . . .

And rings again. And again. Wonder to myself why Mom or Dad don’t pick up on a ringing phone. Then it hits me. They are both wearing the ear plugs they picked up at the Monster truck rally last week. They have mentioned that my music is getting much more sweet since they went to the truck rally.

Go figure! So I grab the phone, it’s the Andersons two doors down, something about the antique china in Mrs. Anderson’s cupboard is like disintegrating from the high notes I am sending out. Mr. Anderson, he strongly encourages me to turn down my amp. I ask him, which one? See I got this one amp amplifying my other amp. Mr. Anderson quickly, and quite firmly, encourages me to like just pull the plug on the whole system.

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