Ruth. Why hello, Joel.
Joel. Ruth ... do you know if my New Yorker has come in or any of my subscriptions for that matter?
Ruth. Well, the day’s mail hasn’t come in.
Joel. That’s what I love about Alaska. It’ll demean reliable institutions such as the United State Postal Service into packets of Jello.
Ruth. It should have been in this morning, but I haven’t seen Maggie.
Joel. O’Connell? Leave it to O’Connell. What did she do? Did she see the package for me and decided to refuse to fly the mail in out of a deranged obsession to make my life miserable?
Ruth. Are you expecting a package as well?
Joel. Yes, I’m expecting a new set of titanium golf clubs to come in. They’ll cut my handicap down a good four strokes.
Ruth. Golf clubs? I never enjoyed the sport. It seems so peaceful on television, but I’ve witnessed my son toss his clubs through his Lincoln Continental one time. I could never support such a violent sport.
Joel. Oh, but that’s the beauty of the sport. Golf is requires a whole lot of passion.
[Ed dashes into the store out of breath]
Ruth. Ed, what’s gotten in to you? Well, come on Ed. Catch your breath and tell us what happened.
Ed. Hi, Ruth. Hi, Dr. Fleischman. It’s Maggie. Her plane crashed somewhere in the mountains.
End.
Mayday Mayday