THE ALFRED PROBLEM

A One-Act Comedy

Characters:

BRET: Early 40s. Loud, opinionated, and armed with just enough information to be dangerous. He approaches every argument like a closing statement in a murder trial.

PETER: Early 40s. Intelligent, sarcastic, and perpetually exhausted by Bret's inability to distinguish between facts and things he saw in movies.

Setting: The interior of a car. Night. Two men driving somewhere. The dashboard casts a dim blue glow across their faces. Streetlights periodically illuminate the cabin.

We do not know where they're going.

A low hum of tires against asphalt.

Bret drives. Peter sits in the passenger seat, looking at his phone.

A long silence.

BRET: You know who really got fucked?

PETER: Jesus Christ.

BRET: No.

PETER: Because historically speaking, he's a strong contender.

BRET: Alfred.

PETER: Alfred who?

BRET: Alfred fucking Pennyworth.

PETER: Batman's Alfred?

BRET: How many Alfreds do you know?

PETER: There's Alfred Hitchcock.

BRET: He's dead.

PETER: So's Alfred Pennyworth in some versions.

BRET: That's not the point.

PETER: Then what is the point?

BRET: The British healthcare system is a goddamn disgrace.

(Peter slowly lowers his phone.)

PETER: I'm sorry. What?

BRET: The British healthcare system. Total fucking disaster.

PETER: And your evidence is Batman's butler?

BRET: Not Batman's butler. Bruce Wayne's butler. Batman doesn't have a butler. Batman has Alfred.

PETER: That's the same person.

BRET: Different employment classification.

PETER: What the fuck are you talking about?

BRET: Think about Alfred's life.

PETER: I try not to.

BRET: The man serves in the British military. Years of service. Special forces, intelligence, all that shit. Risks his life for king and country.

PETER: Queen, probably.

BRET: What?

PETER: Depending on the continuity, he probably served under the Queen.

BRET: Fine. Queen and country. Whatever. The point is, this man dedicates his life to serving Britain. And what happens when he gets out?

PETER: He becomes a butler.

BRET: IN AMERICA!

PETER: Yes, Bret. Gotham City. Famously an American city.

BRET: EXACTLY!

(Bret slaps the steering wheel.)

BRET: The British government takes this highly trained military operative, a man who probably knows fourteen ways to kill someone with a teaspoon, and says, "Thank you for your service, Alfred. Best of luck polishing some rich American kid's silverware."

PETER: You don't think you're leaving out a few details?

BRET: What details?

PETER: Like the fact that Alfred works for a billionaire.

BRET: So?

PETER: So he's not exactly scrubbing toilets at a fucking Motel 6.

BRET: Doesn't matter. He's still a servant.

PETER: He's the most powerful servant in human history.

BRET: He's a butler.

PETER: He lives in a mansion with approximately eighty-seven bedrooms.

BRET: Not his mansion.

PETER: He has access to a private jet.

BRET: Not his jet.

PETER: A fleet of luxury cars.

BRET: Not his cars.

PETER: A secret underground military installation containing technology that would make the Pentagon shit itself.

BRET: NOT HIS BATCAVE!

(A beat.)

PETER: You seem very concerned about Alfred's property rights.

BRET: I'm concerned about veterans.

PETER: Fictional veterans.

BRET: Veterans are veterans, Peter.

PETER: That's a beautiful sentiment. Completely fucking meaningless, but beautiful.

(They drive in silence for a moment.)

PETER: Also, Alfred doesn't work there because he needs healthcare.

BRET: You don't know that.

PETER: Neither do you.

BRET: You think Bruce Wayne provides health insurance?

PETER: He's a billionaire.

BRET: That's not an answer.

PETER: He owns a hospital.

BRET: Does he?

PETER: Probably. Wayne Enterprises owns everything else.

BRET: See, that's the problem with America.

PETER: Oh, we're doing America now?

BRET: You gotta be a billionaire to get decent healthcare.

PETER: Thirty seconds ago, Britain was the problem.

BRET: They can both be the problem.

PETER: At least Britain has the NHS.

BRET: And look what happened to Alfred!

PETER: NOTHING HAPPENED TO ALFRED!

BRET: HE HAD TO LEAVE THE COUNTRY!

PETER: HE CHOSE TO WORK FOR THE WAYNES!

(Silence.)

BRET: That's what they want you to believe.

(Peter turns slowly toward him.)

PETER: Who?

BRET: The writers.

PETER: The writers?

BRET: DC Comics.

PETER: You think DC Comics is covering up the British government's mistreatment of military veterans?

BRET: I'm saying follow the money.

PETER: What money?

BRET: Exactly.

(Peter stares at him.)

PETER: You know what? I'm actually impressed.

BRET: Thank you.

PETER: No, I'm impressed that you managed to turn a fictional English butler into a multinational healthcare conspiracy.

BRET: It's not a conspiracy. It's economics.

PETER: It's Batman.

BRET: Batman is economics.

PETER: What?

BRET: Think about it. Billionaire dresses up like a bat, beats the shit out of poor people instead of funding social programs.

PETER: Bruce Wayne funds social programs.

BRET: Does he?

PETER: YES!

BRET: Then why is Gotham still such a shithole?

(Peter opens his mouth. Stops.)

PETER: That's actually a fair question.

BRET: THANK YOU!

PETER: Don't get excited. A broken clock is right twice a day.

BRET: And you know what else?

PETER: I'm begging you not to tell me.

BRET: Alfred should unionize.

(Peter closes his eyes.)

PETER: There it is.

BRET: Seriously. The man does everything. Cooks, cleans, maintains the mansion, patches bullet wounds, operates military-grade computers, provides psychological counseling, raises an orphaned child, and occasionally fights international terrorists.

PETER: That's a pretty impressive résumé.

BRET: And what's his title?

PETER: Butler.

BRET: FUCKING BUTLER!

PETER: What would you call him?

BRET: Chief Operating Officer.

(Peter considers this.)

PETER: Of Wayne Manor?

BRET: Of Batman.

PETER: You can't be the COO of a person.

BRET: Sure you can. Celebrities have managers.

PETER: Batman isn't a celebrity.

BRET: He has merchandise!

PETER: Fair.

BRET: Alfred's basically running the entire operation. Bruce Wayne goes out every night dressed like a flying rodent, gets stabbed by a clown, comes home at four in the morning, and Alfred has to stitch him up.

PETER: That's true.

BRET: You think Alfred gets overtime?

PETER: Probably not.

BRET: Workers' compensation?

PETER: Doubtful.

BRET: Dental?

PETER: Bret, he's British.

(A beat.)

BRET: That's fucked up.

PETER: I know. I'm sorry.

(They both laugh.)

(A pause. Peter looks out the window.)

PETER: You know what bothers me more than Alfred's benefits package?

BRET: What?

PETER: The Joker.

BRET: What about him?

PETER: That motherfucker has escaped from Arkham Asylum approximately nine hundred times.

BRET: So?

PETER: So at some point, somebody has to ask whether Arkham's security department is qualified to operate a fucking revolving door.

BRET: It's a mental hospital.

PETER: Exactly! And the patients keep escaping!

BRET: Maybe they don't have enough funding.

PETER: Bruce Wayne could fund it.

BRET: Maybe he does.

PETER: Then he should ask for a refund.

(Bret nods thoughtfully.)

BRET: You know what Arkham needs?

PETER: Please don't say Alfred.

BRET: Alfred.

PETER: Goddammit.

BRET: That man could run the whole place.

PETER: He's already running Batman.

BRET: See? That's why he needs a union.

(A long silence.)

(Peter looks at the dashboard clock.)

PETER: How much longer?

BRET: About twenty minutes.

PETER: Good.

(Another pause.)

PETER: You know Alfred isn't real, right?

BRET: Neither is the American dream, but people still argue about that shit.

(Peter turns toward Bret.)

PETER: That was almost profound.

BRET: I have my moments.

(Silence.)

PETER: By the way, Alfred wasn't just some random guy who immigrated to America looking for work.

BRET: What do you mean?

PETER: He had connections to the Wayne family. Depending on the version, his father worked for them. In some versions, Alfred was an actor. In others, he had military and intelligence experience. His backstory changes.

BRET: So?

PETER: So your entire argument is based on a fictional character whose biography has been rewritten about fifty times.

(Bret thinks about this.)

BRET: You know what that tells me?

PETER: I'm terrified to ask.

BRET: Even the writers can't figure out his pension.

(Peter stares forward.)

(A very long silence.)

PETER: Pull over.

BRET: What?

PETER: Pull the fuck over.

BRET: We're on the highway.

PETER: I don't care. I'll walk.

(Bret starts laughing.)

BRET: You know I'm right.

PETER: You're not right. You're aggressively incorrect.

BRET: That's still a kind of correct.

PETER: No, it isn't!

(Bret continues laughing.)

(Peter looks out the window.)

PETER: I swear to God, when we get there, you're not allowed to talk.

BRET: Fine.

(A pause.)

BRET: But I'm bringing up the Alfred thing.

PETER: You absolutely are not.

BRET: It's relevant.

PETER: IT IS NOT RELEVANT!

(Bret grins.)

BRET: We'll see.

(The sound of tires against asphalt grows louder.)

(The dashboard clock changes from 9:41 to 9:42.)

(Peter looks at the road ahead.)

PETER: You brought the paperwork, right?

(Bret's smile disappears.)

(A beat.)

BRET: What paperwork?

(BLACKOUT.)

END SCENE