A hospital room in New York City.
The decor makes every effort to be cheery: the walls are painted a pretty, soft pink, and there is a large and festive portrait of a somewhat yonic flower mounted over each of the two beds. Still, it is a hospital room, and the thick plastic blinds that hang in the windows and obscure the lovely late-afternoon sunlight—coupled with the occasional beeping emitted intermittently from the IV stands—remind us that this is a place where cheeriness is, for the most part, put on hold.
The room’s two beds are separated by a thick, plastic, pea-green curtain. The door to the room is on the SL side. The door to the bathroom is on the SR side; it is currently open, and we can see that the bathroom is large and handicap-accessible, complete with a sit-down shower. Each side of the room is equipped with a pitcher of water and a stack of Dixie cups. A TV hangs in front of each bed. There is a window in between the two beds, exposing the New York City skyline.
In the SL bed lies GEENA, a heavyset woman in her sixties who hasn’t paid attention to her personal appearance in about forty years. She is fast asleep; her face is scrunched up like a lemon—like she is worrying and fretting even in a state of deep unconsciousness.
In the SR bed lies MARCIE, a pale, painfully thin dyed-redhead in her late-fifties. She is also fast asleep. Her skeletal arm hangs off the side of the bed. She looks so slack and relaxed that we fear she may fall out of bed at any moment.
Both women are hooked up to an IV drip, and both wear nasal cannulas to administer oxygen. Next to each bed is a bedstand and a not-very-comfortable-looking chair for visitors.
In the chair next to MARCIE’s bed sits KARLA. She is a clearly intelligent, somewhat visibly-neurotic and quite charming woman in her early thirties, who at this moment seems a bit keyed up. She wears skinny jeans and sneakers and a colorful ironic sweater. She sips water from a Dixie cup and taps a red pen on a marble notebook that sits in her lap, covered with messy scrawl.
KARLA refers to her notes as she speaks to MARCIE, despite MARCIE’s being dead asleep.
KARLA
“I’ve been single for so long? I’ve started having sexual fantasies about my vibrator.”
MARCIE’s mouth hangs open; she snores. Some drool begins to seep out.
KARLA
(Re: the drool.)
Oh. Um.
KARLA looks around, spots a box of tissues on the bedstand.
She grabs a tissue and delicately wipes MARCIE’s mouth. Throws the tissue away.
KARLA
Now what do you think works better, “sexual fantasies” or “sex dreams”? Or “wet dreams”?
MARCIE emits a little groan in her sleep.
KARLA
I know. I actually think “wet dreams” is the funniest option, but I’m worried it might not get a laugh because girls don’t have wet dreams.
(Considers this.)
Per se.…
MARCIE emits a tiny, forceful snore.
KARLA
Yeah, fuck it. Wet dreams? You’re in.
(Crosses something out and scribbles in her notebook.)
And I have more stuff I could add on to it, too—like I could elaborate even more?
MARCIE emits a sort of shuddering, four-part, near-violent snore.
KARLA
KARLA reaches out and gives her mom’s arm a quick, somewhat awkward little rub. Then—she returns to her notes.
KARLA
Like I could—oh Idunno this is all just improv, but like I could be like: “Instead of a strong, chiseled, oiled-up man throwing open my bedroom door and raping me? I just have visions of like, my vibrator standing in the archway, backlit by silvery moonlight, sometimes wearing a fedora (sometimes not), and lovingly fucking me ’til sunrise.”
(Beat.)
What do you think of that? That was just improv.
MARCIE starts to snore lightly, almost rhythmically. KARLA begins to chew her cuticles, absently, as she peruses her notes.
KARLA
Maybe the rape part was a bit much.
KARLA continues to chew her cuticles as she starts to scribble in her notebook.
DON enters, quietly. He is an unassuming man in his late forties. His face is drawn, gray, pursed; he looks like he has been through the wringer both in life-in-general and also more acutely quite recently. He wears a corduroy jacket with big holes in both elbows and a pair of extremely depressing sweatpants.
He slips in silently and sits down next to GEENA’s bed. Looks at GEENA. His face fills with sadness. He reaches out and takes her hand, gives it a squeeze. Then, he leans back in his chair, reaches into his jacket pocket and removes a copy of The New Yorker. He reads.
On the other side of the curtain, KARLA starts to talk again, oblivious.
KARLA
I don’t know, I kinda don’t think there’s anything funnier than rape.
DON reacts, with horror.
A loud snore from MARCIE.
KARLA
Okay, well what if I just said something like …
(Reading from notes.)
“I’m in bed, dripping wet, waiting for my vibrator to come fuck me”?
On the other side of the curtain, DON is becoming increasingly aghast.
KARLA
Maybe that’s like—does that kinda take the teeth out of it, though? Am I being a pussy? Arghhh, I can never tell if I’m just resorting to being a big, gaping wide pussy.
On the other side of the curtain, DON thinks he is perhaps hallucinating.
KARLA scribbles in her notebook, then gets another idea.
KARLA
Or I could even work the rape element into it, but in like a different way—like I could say something like: “I love getting fucked by my vibrator ’cause I know it’ll never rape me.”
(Thinks.)
Or something like that.
On the other side of the curtain, DON has put his New Yorker down and is listening to KARLA with silent horror and fury.
KARLA continues, oblivious, to chew her cuticles, scribble, think, improvise. She laughs at something she just wrote down.
KARLA
How about—ha ha—how about: “I only rape myself with my vibrator when I’m really angry at myself”?
MARCIE snores.
KARLA
Too much?
KARLA chews a cuticle and scribbles.
DON’s face is, at this point, nearly crimson. He is shaking.
KARLA
Okay here’s a compromise: “I only play out my rape fantasies with my vibrator, ’cause I know it will always respect my safe word.”
(Thinks.)
(Scribbles.)
“It’s so fun to get raped by your vibrator, ’cause—
DON
(Quiet, but forceful.)
I’m sorry—I’m sorry?
KARLA’s eyes go wide. She panics. She had no idea DON was there. She chews her cuticles, fiercely.
A long, long, deadly beat. Then—
KARLA
(At a loss.)
… yes …?
DON
(Trying very hard to convey a tone of equanimity.)
Could you keep it down? Over there? / Could you—
KARLA
(Earnestly.)
I didn’t realize someone else was in here.
DON doesn’t say anything. He just rubs his temples, hard. Inhales, sharply. Then—
His cell phone suddenly VIBRATES, loudly. He takes it out of his pocket, reads something on it that is obviously displeasing to him, then puts the phone back in his pocket.
KARLA
(Really softly,)
I’ll be more quiet. Sorry.
KARLA returns to her notes, and MARCIE.
KARLA
(A whisper.)
“It’s so fun to get raped by your vibrator, ‘cause you don’t have to go to the police after, you can just—
(Thinks.)
No …
(Scribbles; thinks.)
“It’s so fun to get raped by your vibr—
DON
I’m sorry?!
The rest of their conversation is spoken in low tones—often heated—but still, always relatively measured whispers, so as not to wake GEENA and MARCIE.
DON
I’m SORRY—what / are you—
KARLA
I’m being quiet.
DON
That’s not … the point!
KARLA
Okay, well would you care to illuminate for me what you believe “the point” / to be …?
DON
The point is that you are not the only person in / this room.
KARLA
I told you I didn’t realize someone else was / in here …!
DON
You didn’t “realize” someone / else was “in here”?!
KARLA
No! I told you, I thought it was just me / and my—
DON
You didn’t “realize” there was a sixty-five-year-old woman fighting with every fiber of her being to combat a rapacious case of ovarian cancer in here? You didn’t / “realize” that?!
KARLA
Why are you talking to me / like this …?!
DON
Why am I “talking to / you” like—
KARLA
Why are you talking to me like I’m some kind of fucking / idiot?!
DON
Why are you acting / like some kind of—
KARLA
You told me to be quiet and that’s what I’m fucking / doing!
DON
Hey—language! / Language!
KARLA
What—“language”?! Are you my fucking / pre-school teacher?!
DON
We are in a hospital!
KARLA
I noticed!!
DON
There are ladies present!
KARLA
I’m a fucking lady!
DON
Oh, hah. / HAH!
KARLA
You don’t know! You don’t even know what I look like, ’cause you’re not man enough to pull aside this fucking curtain and come over here and belittle me / to my face!
DON
(Incensed.)
Oh that’s it. / That’s IT.
KARLA
That’s what? What are you / gonna do?
DON
I’m … getting a nurse!
KARLA
(Laughs, incredulous.)
You’re “getting a / nurse”?!
DON
I’m—getting a—hospital / administrator. I’m—
KARLA
(Cruelly mocking him.)
“I’m calling my mommy—I’m telling on / you!
DON
I’m sorry? / I’m SORRY?
KARLA
Oh, I don’t think you’re “sorry”—I think you, my friend, are the opposite / of sorry.
DON
It’s an expression. / Jesus!
KARLA
It’s an “expression” that little pansies use, ’cause when you say—
(Cruel imitation.)
“I’m sorry?” “I’m SORRY?”
(Back to her voice.)
—what you’re really saying is that you think I should be sorry. You say—
(Even crueller imitation.)
“I’m sorrry?! I’m SORRRY?!”
(Back to her voice.)
—as a passive aggressive attempt to control me / and tell me what to say—
DON
Oh / I know exactly where this is going …
KARLA
—because even though you don’t know me (I’m just a fucking plastic curtain to you), you can tell from the sound of my voice that I am a young woman—
DON
Yup! / Heeere we go.…
KARLA
—so in your terribly insecure / imagination—
DON
Are / you always like this? Do you have friends?
KARLA
—that signifies that you are in a position of power over me, an imagined fact that translates in your emasculated fantasy-brain to carte-blanche permission to fucking talk to me / any way you feel like, I guess, because—
DON
Dear / god what happened to you in your miserable childhood to make you become this person?!
KARLA
(Barreling through, ignoring of his interjections.)
—your terrifyingly immature subconscious tells you that THAT is the one way you can feel powerful when you are in the midst of the most castrating powerlessness of your life, wherein your mother is dying of cancer over there and you are completely powerless over THAT.
A beat. DON is stony-faced.
KARLA’s eyes betray perhaps a hint of contrition—a nagging fear that she may have crossed a line.
DON’s face gets kind strange—sort of pink, a little crinkly. Then—
DON
(Cold as ice.)
You’re a little bitch, you know that?
A beat. KARLA’s face turns crimson. She starts to shake—almost imperceptibly. Then—
KARLA
(Attempting a measured tone.)
Of course I “realized” there was a sixty-five-year-old woman fighting cancer in here—I just also “realized” that she was sleeping, as she has been all day, as my mother has been too, because they’re on a shitload of painkillers and they feel like fucking shit because they have fucking cancer, okay?
(Letting some emotion slip.)
And when you’re sleeping all day that means that you can’t hear what anyone else is saying, so I thought it wouldn’t hurt anyone if I practiced my new bits in here for my mom, okay? Because this is what we like doing, okay?
(Very impassioned.)
THIS. IS WHAT WE LIKE! DOING!!!
(Represses a little sob.)
When she’s awake …!
A beat. DON looks perhaps a bit chastened. Then—
DON
(Dripping with contempt.)
Your new “bits”?
KARLA
Yes.
DON
What are you talking about. What are “bits”? I actually literally have / no idea what bits are.
KARLA
Oh my god are you retarded? “Bits” is a term we use in comedy—I’m a stand-up comedian / for christ’s sake—
DON
I / don’t care!
KARLA
—and I’m trying to generate some new material because I haven’t had any new material in like six fucking months, so I’m like grasping at fucking straws here, okay, and I really don’t need you like breathing down my neck and trying to like edit me—
DON
I’m / not trying to edit you, I just want you to SHUT. UP!
KARLA
—when what I’m doing actually has nothing to fucking do with you, I’m just trying to like be creative and get some bonding time in with my mom!
DON
(An explosion—still in a harsh whisper.)
YOU CAN’T DO BOTH! You can’t both be creative and get “bonding time” in with your mom! I mean, what else do you want to do—get an herbal colonic while you’re at it?!
KARLA
What the fuck is wrong / with you?!
DON
(Pulling out all the stops in a vicious cross-fire.)
NO, what the—F—is wrong with YOU and your self-obsessed hipster ME GENERATION?! Your mom is in the hospital with cancer. Things are not looking good. Things are looking, in fact, pretty grim.
(Building to a whisper-scream.)
So GIVE UP THE COMEDY FOR A HOT SECOND. LET IT GO. PUT IT ON THE BACK BURNER. Oh, and here’s a radical idea: drop the VIBRATOR JOKES and FOCUS ON YOUR MOM!!!
KARLA
(Whisper-screaming, too.)
I AM FOCUSING ON MY MOM. And she fucking LIKES VIBRATOR JOKES!!!
DON
(Darkly sardonic.)
Yeah. Seems like they’re really killing over there.
KARLA’s entire being seems to almost vibrate with white-hot rage.
KARLA
You know what? You don’t know anything about me OR my mom OR her fucking cancer / or—
DON
No, I don’t. / I don’t know anything about your mom.
KARLA
No. You don’t!
DON
You’re right! I don’t know your mom’s name. I don’t even know what your mom / looks like.
KARLA
No, you don’t. You don’t! / You don’t.
DON
She was just moved in to my mother’s room this morning! How could I know / anything about her?
KARLA
DON
(With saccharine-sweet irony.)
I don’t even know what your mom’s favorite color is, what her favorite scent is, what her favorite—
KARLA
Oh / you’re an asshole.
DON
—National Park is, what her favorite pet name is, her favorite sexual / position …
KARLA
You’re a fucking / sociopath!
DON
I don’t know any of these things, and it doesn’t matter—because I still know your mom. Do you know why? Do you know why?
KARLA
Go DIE.
DON
Because she’s in the gynecologic oncology unit. And I know, now, that those things about your mom that “make her who she is”? Those things don’t matter anymore.
DON’s cell phone vibrates. He takes it out and silences it.
DON
Because everything your mom is? Everything she likes? Everything she hates? Everything you love about her? Everything you hate? Everything she does that drives you crazy? Everything she says that gives you nightmares? Everything that you have spent the last ten years complaining about to your shrink?
His cell phone vibrates again—he takes it out and silences it, angrily.
DON
You will find yourself praying—praying, little girl—that she could do those things one more time. Because all your mom is now is cancer.
(He pants.)
(He catches his breath.)
You’ll see. You’ll see.
(Trying not to cry.)
That’s all she is now. You’ll see.
A beat. DON’s cell phone vibrates again—he takes it out and silences it with ferocious fury. Then—
KARLA
My mom’s never been sick a day in her life. This was just … a fluke. And they caught it early. So.
DON
Uh-huh.
KARLA
And she had a hysterectomy. So.
DON
Uh-huh.
KARLA
I mean it was just Stage 1! Endometrial.
(Beat.)
Papillary serous carcinoma. But still.
(Beat.)
She’s gonna be fine.
DON
Uh-huh.
KARLA
What do you mean, “UH-HUH”?
DON
Nothing.
(Beat.)
Just… “uh-huh.”
A beat. KARLA silently fumes. Then—
DON’s cell phone vibrates again. He takes it out of his pocket, looks at it, reads something on it that makes him nearly homicidal, and shoves it back in his pocket. Gets up and pours himself a Dixie cup of water. Sips it, furiously. Exhales, loudly.
Meanwhile, KARLA takes her hair out of a ponytail. Shakes it out. Puts it back in a low ponytail. Takes a sip of water from her Dixie cup. Looks at her mom. Then—furiously scribbles in her notebook.
KARLA
(Unintelligible mutter.)
DON
I’m sorry?
KARLA
(Very softly, nearly unintelligible.)
… you’re a fucking joke …
DON
(Truly didn’t hear her.)
I’m sorry?
KARLA
You’re a fucking joke? YOU’RE A FUCKING JOKE?
DON
Ah. Yes.
(Almost calmly—eerily so.)
I’m a “fucking joke.” Got it. How interesting. How well put. Well let me ask you this. Let me ask you this: if I am, indeed, as you say, a “fucking joke,” then let me ask you THIS:
And suddenly he whips over to the curtain and violently draws it aside. KARLA spins around, startled.
DON
(Right in her face.)
DOES IT LOOK LIKE I’M LAUGHING? DOES IT LOOK LIKE I’M—
KARLA throws her Dixie cup of water in DON’s face.
KARLA
YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW HOW TO LAUGH.
And without skipping a beat, DON throws his Dixie cup of water in KARLA’s face. Then—
Without skipping a beat, KARLA pantses DON—grabs his sweatpants by the waist and yanks them, forcefully, down to his ankles.
He stands there—his skinny, sickly-white legs exposed—wearing terribly unflattering, billowy Tweety-Bird-patterned boxers.
A beat. Their eyes are locked. They are frozen, breathing heavily, alive. Then—
KARLA
Okay, I don’t even know what to say about those boxers? So I’m gonna start with the sweatpants.
(Takes them in.)
Those sweatpants are a hate crime.
DON doesn’t respond.
KARLA
What kind of a self-respecting middle-aged man wears fucking sweatpants.
He is utterly still. Says nothing.
KARLA
What kind of a narcissistic piece of shit wears a pair of Tweety Bird boxers under his fucking sweatpants to a hospital where his mother is DYING.
KARLA immediately looks a tinge contrite—but covers it well; maintains eye contact with DON, unflinching.
DON blinks—then finally bends down and pulls up his sweatpants.
DON
(Matter-of-fact.)
When your mother’s been dying for seven years, you sort of stop noticing what kind of boxers you’re wearing, okay?
He draws the curtain back. Sits in his chair. Rubs his temples. Hangs his head in his hands.
KARLA chews a cuticle. Starts to say something. Stops herself. A beat. Then—
KARLA
That still doesn’t explain the sweatpants.
DON can’t believe she’s still going.
Nothing explains those.
His face turns red—he looks utterly irate, like he really might explode. Then—
He looks down at his sweatpants … and starts to laugh.
KARLA listens. A beat. Then—
KARLA
Are you …
DON
You’re right.
(Giggles uncontrollably.)
They’re so … ugly …!
KARLA
They’re not that bad.…
DON
(Deeply examining his sweatpants.)
They’re seriously the ugliest things I’ve ever seen!
KARLA starts to laugh, now, too.
KARLA
I know I was just saying that to make you feel better they’re so ugly.
DON examines his pants closely.
DON
(Giggling like a little boy.)
Why did I … buy … these things …?!
KARLA
I don’t know!
DON
What was I thinking?!
KARLA
I think you weren’t!
DON
(Giggling hysterically.)
I think I wasn’t …!
(Giggling wanes.)
(Suddenly stops giggling.)
I think I wasn’t thinking.
DON sits in his chair, heavily—like a bag of bricks hitting the ground.
DON
(A huge, disastrous revelation.)
Oh … god. I wasn’t … thinking.
Suddenly, his face turns kind of pink, and kind of crinkles, again. And then …
He starts to cry. He tries very hard not to let KARLA hear.
KARLA
(Delicately.)
Are you—
DON
No!
KARLA
You don’t even know what I was gonna ask …
DON
(Wiping nose on sleeve.)
Yes I do—I’m not an idiot.
KARLA
I was gonna ask … are you …
(Fishing.)
… a Sagittarius? Because you seem like a Sagittarius.
DON
No you weren’t.
KARLA
I was gonna ask are you … gonna finish those fries? ’Cause they look really good!
DON
(Laughing a bit, in spite of himself.)
I’m not even eating fries …!
(Happy she made him laugh.)
I was gonna ask are you … afraid of heights?
DON
No.
KARLA
Are you superstitious?
DON
No.
KARLA
Are you a sweet or savory kind of person?
DON
Savory.
KARLA
Are you a Yankees or Mets fan?
DON
(A ridiculous question.)
METS!
KARLA
Jeez, okay. Are you a dog or cat person?
DON
(Another ridiculous question.)
DOG!
KARLA
Are you a Democrat?
DON
Yes.
KARLA
Are you a homeowner?
DON
Yes.
KARLA
Are you in love?
A beat. Then—
He emits a fantastically loud sob. And then another. He sobs. Can’t control it. Stops trying to hide the fact that he’s crying. Lets go of any attempt at manliness or dignity-retention, and sobs. Like a baby. Like the bereaved.
KARLA
Oh no. Oh no …! I’m sorry—I’m—
DON
My wife left me three months ago …!
(Sobs)
I don’t know what to do …!
(Weeps.)
I don’t know who I am, anymore …!
(Wails.)
I have nothing!
He sobs hysterically. It gets pretty loud. KARLA looks to see if MARCIE has been woken. She still sleeps.
DON sobs. Pulls at his hair.
DON
I have NOTHING!!!
He sobs a beat more. Then—
He tires out from sobbing. Stops pulling his hair. Wipes his nose on his sleeve. Looks at the space in front of him—his eyes glassy, his mind somewhere else. Then—
He looks at his mother, lying dead to the world in her hospital bed—her face still puckered fiercely like a sour lemon. He reaches for GEENA’s hand; takes her limp fingers in his, gives them a squeeze.
DON
(Tiny, dead voice.)
I have nothing.
He hangs his head in his hands. He looks like a portrait of misery.
A beat. Then—
Very slowly, and very softly, KARLA approaches the curtain and draws it aside. She looks at DON. His head still hangs in his hands.
Hey.
He looks up, surprised to see her there.
DON
Hey …
(Beat.)
KARLA
I’m sorry.
(Beat.)
DON
I’m sorry.
(Beat.)
I mean it this time.
KARLA takes a step toward him, and extends her hand.
KARLA
I’m Karla.
DON stands, and extends his hand.
DON
Don.
They shake hands.
DON
Wow …
KARLA
What?
DON
You have a really … firm I… handshake …
KARLA
Oh, I know—it’s something my mom always, like, drilled into us when we were kids.
DON
Really?
KARLA
Yeah, she would always be like: “A weak handshake is an invitation for someone to fuck you over.”
Whoa.
KARLA
I know.
DON
I mean, I think I agree with her, / but …
KARLA
I / know.
DON
I’ve just never heard it phrased quite that way.
KARLA
I know. She has a … well. Let’s just say that some of her parenting methods? Have been … unorthodox.
DON
(Shrugs.)
My mom used to bring me to her book club and point at the hors d’oeuvres and say: “Eat up, ’cause that’s your dinner!”
KARLA
If my sister and I refused to eat dinner? My mom would march into the other room and start packing a suitcase.
DON
My mom used to put me to sleep by telling me stories about all the men she’d pursued romantically before my dad.
KARLA
My mom used to put us to sleep by turning on “SV Squad.”
DON
You mean the show that’s all about sex crimes?
KARLA
(Grinning, nodding.)
YUP.
DON
That’s how she put you to sleep?
KARLA
We found it soothing!
You find “SV Squad” soothing?!
KARLA
Well, now we’ve graduated to “SV Ped,” but—
DON
What is “SV Ped”?!
KARLA
It specifically examines child-related sex crimes?
DON
Jesus … / christ.
KARLA
It’s a way better show. The performances are subtler. The writing is exemplary. The kids are really cute—until they get kidnapped and—
DON
Just stop.
KARLA
’K sorry.
DON
(Can’t wrap head aroung this.)
So now you fall asleep to “SV Ped”?!
KARLA
My mom does, like, every night. And I do sometimes.
DON
What about your sister?
Something shifts in KARLA. Her face falls, a bit. She becomes darker.
KARLA
Um.…
(Beat.)
No, she doesn’t.
(Beat.)
DON
Oh.
MARCIE
(A hoarse croak.)
She’s dead.
DON and KARLA look immediately at MARCIE, who appears to be still asleep. A beat. Then—
KARLA bursts out laughing.
KARLA
(Laughing uncontrollably.)
I’m sorry—I’m sorry …!
(Can’t stop laughing.)
I’m not laughing ’cause she’s dead—’cause she definitely is dead, and that’s definitely not funny, but that was just …
(Struggling to talk through laughing.)
… such good timing …!
DON looks over at MARCIE.
DON
Is she … still asleep …?
KARLA looks too.
KARLA
I think so …!
DON starts to laugh, now, too.
DON
That was so weird …!
KARLA
I know, right?!
(Imitating the croak.)
“She’s dead.”
They laugh.
DON
(Going even further with the croak-y imitation.)
“Sheee’s deeead.”
This cracks KARLA up. They take it even further.
| KARLA | DON |
| (Really going for it.) | (Really going for it.) |
| “Sheeeeeeeeeeee’s | “Sheeeeeeeeeeee’s |
| deeeeeeeeeeeeaaaad!!!” | deeeeeeeeeeeeaaaad!!!” |
They both totally crack up. A long beat of just laughing. Then—
DON
That was a good “bit” …!
(Beat.)
KARLA
Yeah, it was.
KARLA looks at DON and smiles. Her smile is full of sadness and gratitude, heartbreak and hope.
KARLA
It was a good bit. It was.
DON smiles at her, too.