Buzz: there’s something about distance the scientist starts to think about when he gets hit by a car under that bridge to the 215, five miles from where he should have gone to sleep. why are you even here?
The Scientist: well, stranger, there was that hypnotist. the one that we pretended for, you know, when he fell while we were “asleep.” but that was to help us stop smoking. cigars may make me think about having sex with chevy chase,
Buzz: but there’s something about rolling on and up and over and down a car,
The Scientist: screaming about fires and the co-worker’s daughter, that makes the scientist think about distance, like, how far he is from his past three inches from road rash, again.
Buzz: i wore a buzz lightyear costume on fridays and saturdays and…sundays, when i was young. my days to be a hero, even when i broke the wings and my ribs after leaping from the loft of my parents’ two story house. they moved woody down from the ceiling fan to the top shelf, and taught me about conviction.
The Scientist: when the scientist did the same without buzz and woody for that walking yellow man with the big glass eye, his doctor prescribed him concerta, or, “the truth pill.”
Both: but me, i, he, we, we had our days when we knew how to make all the girls feel safe. how to make that car’s lights turn on with our minds so we could have that space at the front of the line.
Buzz: it was quiet enough that…well, it was quiet. there was nothing to laugh about after her brother’s last words as he tried to jacknife his way to china from thirteen thousand feet while being chased the way down by a bed sheet. damn it if we tried.
The Scientist: i remember. i got heart palpitations after i didn’t see her the next day. then the quiet went away. i wanted to join the fbi, i wanted to be chris hansen,
Both: i wanted to paint your house blue, i wanted to have sex with you, i wanted the wires from this damn heart monitor to stop making me look like a suicide bomber.
The Scientist: i used to think a lot about how close i was to death. never coming at me like an endpoint on a graph,
Buzz: but more like a bell rang on that rusted copper clothesline in the sun to signal last call.
Both: do you remember when the doctor told me that i have D.I.D.?
Buzz: i mean, people left the elevator every time i called them robert instead of john, jessie instead of blue –
Both: you! your house should be blue because you are blue, because you are safe.
The Scientist: you have kids now or will soon, when the distance between two points converges into the now.
Buzz: the now. that thing that looks like a kid with his head that’s almost too big to fit into his buzz lightyear costume.
The Scientist: that thing that looks like road rash, alone under the 215.
Buzz: the now, when i decide to move to new hampshire with all the submarine-shaped buildings with the blue glass that makes the inside look like an ocean.
The Scientist: when, in three inches, i will become a part of something else again.