Potlucky

In this comedic monologue from the play, “Potlucky”, Alfred, a socially awkward guy at a community potluck, has some thoughts.

ALFRED: So… um… I brought this. A can of cream corn. I know. It’s not homemade or creative or… edible without some extra steps. But, uh, here’s the thing. My oven is broken. And my stove. And my will to live. Also, I don’t really know anyone here. Like, at all. So, I thought, ‘What’s the most neutral, non-threatening thing I can bring that won’t make people look at me funny?’ And apparently… it’s cream corn? Except now I see everyone’s artisanal charcuterie boards and lavender-infused goat cheeses and I realize… I’ve made a mistake. A huge mistake.

I mean, what even is a potluck? It sounds nice on paper—‘Let’s all share!’—but it’s not about sharing, is it? It’s about judgment. It’s about thinly veiled competition masquerading as community. You can see it in their eyes—those side-long glances, the hushed whispers over the spinach artichoke dip. Whose is it? Did they make it? Is it organic?

Well, here’s a fun fact: the cream corn? It’s from a can! There. I said it. Judge away. Because not all of us are out here grinding our own heirloom grains into flour or fermenting our own kombucha. I live in a studio apartment. My fridge is the size of a shoebox. My spatula has bite marks on it because I had a bad week once, and no, I don’t want to talk about it.

And let’s talk about Susan. Oh, we all know Susan. She’s the one with the three-tiered dessert platter. Susan who brought homemade brioche rolls and served them in a basket lined with artisanal cloth napkins that probably belonged to her grandmother. Do you think she just… whipped those up? No. She has secrets. Dark secrets. I bet she has a sourdough starter that whispers ancient incantations at night.

And then there’s Keith. Keith brought a trout. A whole, roasted trout. Who does that? Was he fishing this morning? Did he scale it himself while reciting haikus about sustainability? I didn’t know we were doing a theme, Keith. If I’d known, I would’ve brought… I don’t know, a live lobster or a whole suckling pig to parade around like I’m some medieval lord at a banquet.

But it’s not just the food. Oh no. It’s the unspoken rules. Like… who serves first? How much do you take? Do you comment on the food? ‘Oh, this quiche is so… inventive.’ What does that even mean, Karen? You think I don’t know that’s code for ‘why does this taste like sadness?’

But you know what? This isn’t just about the potluck. Oh no. This is about all of us. About humanity. About civilization. The potluck is a metaphor, don’t you see? We’re all just showing up to life with whatever we could throw together, hoping no one notices the dents in the can or the fact that the label is peeling off.

And Susan, with her perfect brioche? She’s an illusion. A mirage. I bet if you scratch the surface, you’ll find she’s just as lost as the rest of us. And Keith? Keith with his trout? He’s hiding something. I don’t know what, but it’s there. Probably something about taxes or a secret second family.

And then there’s me. Standing here. Holding my can of cream corn like it’s a shield. Or a weapon. Or maybe just a sad little symbol of who I really am. And I’m realizing something.

I’m not leaving. Not yet. I’m going to stand here and own this moment. I’m going to put this can of cream corn on the table, front and center, and I’m going to watch them try to ignore it. But they won’t. Oh no. It’ll haunt them. The can of cream corn will be their undoing. It will sit there, in its aluminum glory, a silent reminder of their pretensions and insecurities.

And when the potluck collapses under the weight of its own absurdity—when Keith storms out because someone insulted his trout and Susan starts crying because her brioche was only second best—I’ll still be here. Holding my can.

Because, in the end, we’re all just cream corn, aren’t we? Messy. Processed. Maybe a little salty. But still trying. Still showing up. Still waiting to be noticed.

So, here’s to the cream corn. Long may it reign.

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