Disclaimer: Estragon belongs to Samuel Beckett
Author's Note: This could maybe be considered a sequel to "A Shoe In For Godot" but it isn't really... well.. maybe. Also, unless you are familiar with "Waiting for Godot" ... and maybe "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead", parts of this may not make sense. If you're okay with that, read on.
...
"What exactly do you expect to gain from this?" Estragon asks me, waving his hand in the general direction of my computer. His gesture would be eloquent, if it weren't for the smudges of boot grease on both his face and hand.
"Oh come on, you mean you don't like me disturbing your fragile equilibrium?" I had to ask. "I mean, Beckett did just kind of leave you in that lurch. At least I might eventually give you boots that fit."
Estragon snorts disgustedly, "Really, the things you say. I'm referring to that other bloke you're messing with. You know, the one with the ears." He holds his smudged hands close to his head, doing what generations of campers know as either "Yoda" or "Spock" ears.
"So what! You know, if he has issues, I'm sure he's quite capable of dealing with me on his own. I mean, I'm not that intimidating, am I?"
"You have a keyboard, an imagination, and delusions of writing grandeur. Trust me, to any poor cannon character in your way, you are quite a nightmare. Really, their only hope is that you never actually strike." he replies as he returns to tugging on his boots.
"I think I liked you better when Beckett had you a little more clueless," I grumble.
"So what! It's your own fault, really, if I insult you... and if I seem a little less focused on one overwhelming task." I snort. I mean, he's still tugging on his boots! That's still focused on one task to me – if anything is. At the sound, he looked up and scowled, "Do you have something to say?" he asks, vaguely annoyed.
"Dude, you do realize that you're still stuck waiting for Godot, and I'm still stuck telling you every day that he'll surely come tomorrow, right?"
"Only because you choose to be the messenger," he replies – still tugging furiously to get his right boot off. "Besides, if that's the worst you do, then I suppose it isn't that bad. I mean, at least I have someone other than Vladimir to talk to when you're around."
"Great. I'm better company than Vladimir," I grumble. "You do realize that's just a wonderful way of raising someone's self esteem, don't you."
"Raise your self esteem? You, the egocentric author? The one who proudly spouts off the worst puns? Who encouraged her mother when she decided to name a horse with a PUN!" he howls, forgetting the boot temporarily.
"At least I have a life, Mr. Boots-don't-fit!" I say petulantly.
He, boots forgotten, smirks knowingly. "Ah, but this is existentialism at it's finest. How do you know you have a real life? How do you know that you aren't just another creation of the author's mind. A foil, a prop, a puppet!" Chuckling, he returns to his boot, leaning back against the ever present tree. After a while, he says, "You know, that was a rather skillful dodge. So, what do you get from this? From tormenting the creations of others minds?"
"I thought you were just implying that I'm just a figment of someone's mind, Mr. Smart-stuff." Godot, sometimes I feel like Estragon brings out the childishness in me.
"You're avoiding the question!" he crows. It would be more impressive if it weren't for the boot, I have to admit.
"Or am I?" I reply.
"Do you really think so?" Drat, he catches on quick.
"Where'd the point go?" I wonder.
"What point?" he responds.
"Your FACE!" I yell in frustration.
"Statement, one love for me," he states. I have to say it's ridiculously annoying to be beat in the question game by a work of fiction. However, the your face might have been worth it. Sometimes, I wish Rosencrantz and Guildenstern weren't dead. Then maybe someone would be able to defeat the wrong-shoe-sized-wonder.
"So, what do you hope to gain? And don't try the question game again. You know you always loose." He looks up from his boot at me. His smirk definitely reminds me of a cat with a cream mustache... and that grease smudge on his nose looks suspiciously like a canary feather.
"Fine... maybe I just enjoy the process, the imagination, dare say it, the conversations with you. Does that make you my muse?"
He starts in terror. "Dear Godot! I hope not." Estragon shudders. "That would be far too awkward to imagine."
"I didn't know your mind was so far descended into the gutter" I reply with a shudder about the same equivalent as my companion... he still is tugging frantically at the boot. "Hey, do you want a carrot?" I ask suddenly.
He looks up and holds his hand out imperiously. I place the carrot on his palm.
"Geez, would it kill you to say thanks?"
"I did the last time, and look what it got me stuck with. You," he snorts.
"Careful. If you go too far I might have to do something truly evil to you!" I brandish my laptop threateningly. He just smirks as he takes a bite out of his carrot, a temporary reprieve from the constant tugging.
"And what exactly would you do to me? Write an embarrassing story about me, kindergarten, and marbles? Write a strange work involving me and Vladimir? My friend, to do so convincingly you would need to know things. Like, what would be embarrassing in kindergarten. And well, for the strangeness, how do you propose to find out and record for realism?"
"I hate it when you're right," I sigh as I collapse to the ground and recline under the spreading branches of the tree. By now, he's back to tugging on the boot, carrot long forgotten. "Dude, if you ever want me to get you a pair of properly fitting shoes, you know you could just ask."
"I know, but that would ruin the purpose." A strange, sad, but peaceful expression crosses his features. "You know, this is all for a purpose."
"Yeah... I suppose." We sit there under the tree in companionable silence for a while. Eventually, life beckons and I rise unsteadily to my feet. "Well, friend, I guess it's time."
He nods, and waits for the ending phrase to all our conversations.
"Godot can't come today, but he'll surely come tomorrow."