Rich Zeroth

Rich Zeroth pays his bills by day working at an online publishing company & pursues more creative endeavors on nights & weekends, e.g., stand-up comedy, blogging on the interwebs, and tweeting about owning a mismanaged zoo. His one-man show about faking sick 127 consecutive days of school in 5th grade, titled “Swollen Head”, won the 2005 ECNY (Emerging Comics of New York) Award for best one-person show, and is currently being adapted into a screenplay. He lives with his wife, daughter, and dog in Brooklyn, NY. A complete list of Rich's pieces on Revolving Floor can be found here.

Full Week
The Initiation of the Termination

INT. DINER – MORNING

LARRY (48, unkempt, wearing an old, beat up coat with mismatched hat and scarf) enters, quickly scans the room, and takes a seat in an empty booth. He lifts the menu in front of his face, engrossed.

FRANK (33, handsome and confident, wearing designer winter attire that’s two sizes too big) enters. He stands just inside the door, scanning the room, referring to an unfolded piece of paper. After a moment he notices LARRY and the empty seat across from him. He approached the booth, removes his jacket, and has just begun to slide into the seat when the WAITRESS approaches.

Comedy As Drama
From The Desk Of The I.C.C.I.
Assessment

Joshua Pashman, Coworker:

5:28 pm EST; Friday August 3, 2001

It had been a long week. We’d just implemented a brand new online inventory reservation system and it didn’t work for shit. Richard had sort of been in charge of the whole thing and was getting a lot of flack from sales and finance. Word had even spread to the big wigs in corporate. I remember asking him if he had any plans for the weekend and he said he would be drinking. I started to laugh a little but stopped when I saw the look on his face. It wasn’t about unwinding or having a good time. It was about getting to a state of inebriation

Regrets

If there was a bright side it was that he no longer worried about not getting any sleep. Not to say that peaceful slumber wasn’t needed. No, he had to be in the office in exactly 3 ½ hours to turn on the phones lest Bill Dwyer happen to call and get the automated ‘call us back during business hours’ recording. It’s just that once 5am rolls around the panic of facing the upcoming day in a zombie-like stupor subsides and in its place a calm wave of acceptance washes over. Of course whatever sliver of consciousness that had been fretting over the clock now congealed with the rest of his mind in firing off questions of the most crucial kind – the kind that needed to be addressed if he were to ever be the man he wanted – the kind that had kept him from sleeping in the first place.

Fiction