No obligation to laugh

I was going to write today about obligation, but instead I’m going to be a meat proxy. I had Gemini generate a script for a comedy sketch that explores the topic of obligation. What if obligation wasn’t voluntary and unenforceable? Bonus points to anyone can pinpoint the comedy team this was patterned on.

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SCENE START

INT. POLICE INTERROGATION ROOM - DAY

A bleak, bare room. A harsh overhead fluorescent tube hums.

ARTHUR sits handcuffed to the metal table. He looks tired, bewildered, and is still wearing a light cagoule.

Across from him sit DETECTIVE INSPECTOR MILLER—sharp, weary, holding a thick manila folder—and DETECTIVE CONSTABLE HARRIS, who is quietly sharpening a pencil.

Miller slaps the folder down onto the metal table. A loud THUD.

MILLER

Interview commenced at fourteen hundred hours. Present: DI Miller, DC Harris, and Arthur Pendelton. Arthur, do you know why you’re here?

ARTHUR

No! I was in Sainsbury’s buying soup and two men in balaclavas threw me into an unmarked Astra!

MILLER

Let’s talk about Tuesday the fourth, Arthur. Three weeks ago.

ARTHUR

Tuesday the fourth?

MILLER

Caffè Nero on the high street. Eleven-fifteen in the morning. You’re standing at the till with a colleague. One Mark Reynolds. Ring any bells?

ARTHUR

Mark? Yes, we work together in accounts. We went for a break.

MILLER

And what happened at the till, Arthur?

ARTHUR

I… I reached for my coat pocket, but I’d left my wallet at my desk.

MILLER

(Leaning in)

Go on.

ARTHUR

And my phone was completely dead. So Mark bought my flat white.

MILLER

Mark bought your flat white. Harris, note that down. Flat white. Oat milk, Arthur?

ARTHUR

Just whole milk.

MILLER

Sickening. And how much was this flat white?

ARTHUR

Three pounds eighty.

MILLER

Three pounds eighty. A trivial sum, wouldn’t you say? Almost insulting to mention in the grand scheme of modern finance.

ARTHUR

Exactly! It’s nothing!

MILLER

And yet, Arthur… it’s been twenty-one days.

Arthur stares.

ARTHUR

I’m sorry?

MILLER

Three weeks, Arthur! Twenty-one whole sunrises have passed over this kingdom, and Mark Reynolds has not seen a single brass farthing of that three pounds eighty.

ARTHUR

Because Mark told me not to worry about it!

Miller laughs. A dry, hollow sound. Harris shakes his head in quiet disgust.

MILLER

“He told me not to worry about it.” Listen to him, Harris. He actually bought it.

HARRIS

Heartbreaking, sir. Pure amateur.

ARTHUR

He did! I literally said, “Let me bank transfer you,” and Mark waved his hand—he waved his hand in a circular, dismissive motion—and said, “Honestly mate, don’t worry about it, it’s only a coffee.”

MILLER

Arthur. Look at me. How old are you?

ARTHUR

Thirty-four.

MILLER

Thirty-four years old, and you think “don’t worry about it” means don’t worry about it? Are you a toddler? Have you sustained a head injury?

ARTHUR

What else could it possibly mean?!

MILLER

It means: I am offering you a polite, ceremonial escape hatch which you are strictly forbidden by English social law from actually taking!

ARTHUR

That doesn’t make any sense!

MILLER

It makes total sense! When someone says “don’t worry about it,” your only legal response is to violently insist on worrying about it! You say, “No, please, let me send it now.” Then he says, “Don’t be silly.” Then you say, “No, really, what’s your sort code?” Then he says, “Fine, just get the next one.” That is the social contract, Arthur! That is what separates us from the French!

ARTHUR

He told me not to worry about it, so I chose not to worry about it! To spare us both the tedious administrative faff of moving three pounds across the digital banking network!

HARRIS

(Stepping forward, deadpan)

You took the kindness, Arthur. You swallowed the kindness whole without chewing.

ARTHUR

It was a gift!

MILLER

It was a test! And you failed! What do you think Mark is doing right now, Arthur? Hm? Sitting at his desk, pretending to format an Excel sheet, whilst staring at the back of your head thinking: There he sits. The freeloading bastard. Sipping on my goodwill. Fat on my three pounds eighty.

ARTHUR

Mark doesn’t care! Mark is a very relaxed man!

MILLER

Nobody is that relaxed about four quid! If he dropped four quid in the street, he’d look back! He’d do the little pat-down! You think he just forgives four quid disappearing into your gullet?

ARTHUR

I offered to buy him a coffee yesterday!

Miller slams the table again.

MILLER

Ah! The clumsy, panicked counter-offer! Three weeks too late! “Can I get you a coffee, Mark?” You see what that looks like? That looks like guilt, Arthur. That looks like a man who knows he’s a tea-leaf.

ARTHUR

I was just being friendly!

MILLER

And what did Mark say?

ARTHUR

He said… he said he was cutting back on caffeine.

MILLER

Checkmate. You’re trapped. You can never repay him in coffee. The debt is eternal. It will hang between your desks like a dead crow until one of you dies or moves to Bristol.

ARTHUR

(Panicking now)

Can’t I just PayPal him four pounds right now?! I’ll put a funny reference so it’s not weird!

MILLER

(Coldly)

A funny reference? Like what? “Coffee debt :)” with a little smiley face?

ARTHUR

Yes!

MILLER

Too aggressive. It draws attention to the fact that you’ve been stewing on it for twenty days. It screams psychopathy.

ARTHUR

Then what should I have done?! What was I supposed to do?!

Miller sighs, looking at Arthur with genuine, weary pity.

MILLER

You should have bought a pastry, Arthur.

ARTHUR

A pastry?

MILLER

Next morning. Eight-forty-five. You walk in, you drop an almond croissant on his desk, you say, “Thanks for the coffee yesterday, mate,” and you walk away. Transaction resolved. No awkwardness. No banking apps. Just laminated pastry and mutual respect.

Arthur stares into the middle distance, shattered. The weight of his failure hits him.

ARTHUR

An almond croissant. God. It’s so obvious.

HARRIS

Or a pain au chocolat. Depending on his temperament.

ARTHUR

He likes pain au chocolat. He mentioned it in November.

MILLER

Well. Too late now, isn’t it? Take him down, Harris.

HARRIS

Cell three, sir?

MILLER

Cell three. Alongside the bloke who said “We must get a drink sometime” to an old school friend at a train station, and then didn’t immediately follow up with three possible dates.

ARTHUR

(Being dragged away)

Wait! Can I just give Mark four pound coins?! Loose in an envelope?!

MILLER

An envelope? What are you, the mafia? Lock him up.

BLACKOUT