THENEWYORKER,NOVEMBER29, 2021 37
shouts & murmurs
LUCI GUTIÉRREZ
Int. Montessori preschool.
Logan: Put away your goddam child-
ish things and listen up, thumb-suckers!
What’s that hellacious racket?
Gerri: Shazaming it ... Dan Zanes,
“Father Goose.”
Logan: Is Raffi not good enough for
you callow fucking philistines? It’s no
secret that I’m retiring from preschool.
Which of you short-pantsed mama’s
boys thinks he can step into my size-4
Crocs?
Kendall: Respectfully, I have three
years of day care under my belt, I’m in-
timately familiar with our Lego and
Lincoln Log operations, I can finger-
paint like ... like fucking Picasso—
Roman: I think what my bed-wet-
ting brother is trying to say is that I
would clearly make the best leader,
owing to my impeccable motor skills.
Logan: Roman, do me a teeny-tiny
favor? Stick a fucking pacifier in your
drooling piehole.
Siobhan: Aren’t you overlooking
someone with, say, pigtails, a constantly
runny nose, and a backless onesie?
Logan: Siobhan, you don’t want this.
Dealing with that ballbuster Miss Clau-
dia at check-in, sweeping the room for
tree nuts, staying up till seven, eight at
night learning numbers ... It’s like a
bad skinned knee, sweetheart. Like a
bad fucking skinned knee.
Siobhan: Don’t you think I can de-
cide for myself? And what are numbers?
Logan: One, two, three, four, five, six,
seven, eight, nine, ten. That’s all of ’em.
Cousin Greg: Sir, if I may be so bold
as to not necessarily “pitch” you, but per-
haps make babbling sounds—
Logan: For fuck’s sake, Greg, go get
changed. You smell like a Diaper Genie
in a Soviet orphanage.
Cousin Greg: Of course—I can’t smell
myself, so thank you for alerting me to
my, uh, olfactory affront. (He exits, stum-
bles and falls twice.)
Logan: Jesus H. Christ, what is he,
four foot fucking eight? Is this a pre-
school or an Old MacDonald’s farm for
feckless, stammering Sasquatches?
(Opening credits, scored to xylophone.)
Ext. Waystar Royco-sponsored playground.
Kendall: Who do you think the old
boy’s gonna pick?
Roman: He’s looking for a comer who
sleeps with two night-lights and has the
social-emotional skills and testicular vol-
ume of a newborn, so I’d say you’re a lock.
Siobhan: Word around the sandbox
is it’s Connor.
Kendall: No, our half brother’s been
out all year with a sore throat. School
board would shit their “Frozen II”
underpants.
Roman: Is a half brother the same
thing as a cousin?
Cousin Greg: If that’s the case, then
by the reverse logic—if it, uh, pleases
the court—it would, ipso facto, mean
that I might be referred to as “Half
Brother Greg,” not “Cousin”—
Roman: Shut the fuck up, Greg, be-
fore we throw you off the jungle gym.
Cousin Greg: Might I suggest a less
physically painful—but still psychically
wounding—schoolyard humiliation in-
volving a wedgie?
Int. hallway. Logan walks with Hugo.
Logan: Get me a ring-around-the-
rosy with the recess committee! (He
clutches his stomach.)
Hugo: What’s wrong?
Logan: I’m fine, just a tummy ouchie.
We’ll fucking duck-duck-goose ’em.
We’ll go full ... fucking ... duck-duck-
goose!
Int. art room. Tom tentatively approaches
Siobhan with a construction-paper heart.
Tom: I made this for you.
Siobhan: Tom, that’s so ... sweet.
Tom: Did you ... make one for me?
Siobhan: Oh, honey, you know I’ve
been swamped looking for glue sticks
that aren’t dried up—
Tom: I get it. I was thinking, with the
D.O.E. on our ass for the cubby-room
scandal, we need a fall guy. Maybe I should
take the hit and go to public school.
Siobhan: No! Public school? With the
free lunches and the critical race the-
ory? You wouldn’t last a day. (Beat)
Hmm ... it is kind of Baby Einstein.
Tom: Ulp. Could I at least first move
to Scarsdale?
Siobhan: Bad optics.
Tom: Montclair? (She grimaces. He
sobs uncontrollably.)
Int. limo-bus.
Logan: I’ve chosen Connor. He has
maturity, killer instincts, and he knows
most of the alphabet. I don’t want any-
one leaking this to the parent Listserve—
not word fucking one!—or no more Go-
Gurt privileges. (He exits.)
Siobhan: Bastard. I’ve been learning
my ABCs, too.
Roman: Oh, really, Shiv? Is that what
you’re doing every afternoon? You’re not
just passing out on the nap rug with a
juice box in your mouth?
Siobhan: Fuck off, Rome. Aren’t
there some worms you should be
eating?
(Kendall gobbles a box of raisins.)
Roman: Whoa, buddy, that’s an in-
tense fructose rush there. Why don’t we
try a nice sippy cup of the old H 2 O?
Kendall: H e y, buddy? Thanks for the
concern, but I can handle my sugar.
(He tries to stare solemnly out the bus
window, but he’s too short.)
SUCCESSION, JR.
by teddy wayne
