3.Abraham’s bedroom has been made to look like a television studio.
INT. ABRAHAM’S BEDROOM
Don’t get confused—it’s not one of those television studios trying to pass itself off as a bedroom. You know the kind: where the set is made to look even more like a bedroom than an actual bedroom, and it’s real cute, and it tries to pass itself off as intimate, but really it’s the least intimate thing that could possibly exist. It’s actually a complete mockery of intimacy. For what’s more intimate than a bedroom and what’s less intimate than a television studio, am I right? A television studio is a public place of business. A bedroom is a fortress of solitude, where both your power and your unmaking lie. It is your place to become something truly ugly, or truly beautiful. A “beautiful” no one else will ever see. For part of the reason for that beauty’s existence is due to its privacy. Within that privacy lies purity. No, this bedroom has been made to look like an actual studio set. Well . . . as much as it possibly can with a modest budget and no real, actual, working equipment. Cardboard lines the perimeters. Four sides. Blocking all furniture from the camera, if there were a camera, which there isn’t. The desk has been cleared of the things that usually live on it. Behind the desk and next to the desk sit two chairs, which are flanked by cardboard cutouts of palm trees. Seated in one of these chairs and facing a nonexistent studio audience is our host, ABRAHAM AMSTERDAN (nine, Jewish). Abraham looks into the camera that is, along with the studio audience, very much not there.
ABRAHAM
Hello, Chicago. Hello, America. Hello, world. Welcome to the Abraham Amsterdam Show. I am, of course, your host, Abraham Amsterdam, and boy, do we have a show for you today. Oh boy, what a show. I mean there are shows and there are shows. And this show is probably the best show that’s on television right now—at least that’s what my first guest tells me. What can I say about this woman. Well, she gave birth to me. She also raised me. She was a teacher before she met my father, who she’s been married to for thirteen years. Always a real hoot to have her on. Please give a round of applause to the one, the only . . . Carol Bernstein Amsterdam, who just also happens to be . . . MY MOTHER! Carol, come on out!
Through a beaded curtain walks Carol Amsterdam (thirty-five, Jewish). She’s in a nightgown that has “President Mom” written diagonally across it. She kisses Abraham, very softly and tenderly, on the cheek. He’s embarrassed by it. Normally he would say something, but she is his guest and he has a show to do.
ABRAHAM
Hello, Carol, good to see you.
CAROL
Oh, please, Abraham, call me Mom.
She laughs.
ABRAHAM
Okay . . . Mom. It’s good to see you.
CAROL
It’s good to see you, too, Abey. It’s always good to see my baby boy.
She strokes his cheek affectionately. Actually, it’s not just affectionate, it’s oddly sexual. Not that she’s sexually getting off on it. It’s more that she’s not registering that this action and the way she’s doing it and the moment she’s deciding to do it could possibly come off as sexual. It’s something really only Jewish boys understand. There is a thing there. Of course anti-Semites will use this point as another example of the Jews’ inferiority, but this is not the case. It’s just a fact that deep down Jewish mothers kind of want their sons to be their husbands. A husband who is truly devoted to them in the way a son is. All of that aside, it’s also totally fucked up.
CAROL
Remember when I used to do this to you to help you fall asleep?
Abraham moves his face away. He would very much like to scream at her.
ABRAHAM
Come on, Mom.
CAROL
What? I can’t caress my son’s face? I can’t show my son love?
ABRAHAM
It’s just, we are on TV, Mom. America is watching.
CAROL
America is not going to judge a mother for loving her son.
ABRAHAM
They won’t judge you, Mom. You’re the guest. They never judge the guest. They judge the host.
CAROL
But there isn’t an audience. America isn’t really watching, Abraham.
ABRAHAM
MOM!!! You’re going to make me get depressed. Is that what you want?
CAROL
What? No, of course not.
ABRAHAM
I can feel myself sinking right now.
CAROL
Okay. Okay. Please let’s just pretend I didn’t touch your face, and let’s move on . . .
She looks into the “camera.”
CAROL
. . . with this amazing show. Hosted by my son, who is just so creative.
Abraham looks at the “camera.”
ABRAHAM
Sorry about that, folks. Mom, I guess the first question I have—I’m not going to waste time—I’m just going to go ahead and ask it because it’s really the thing America and the world are wondering about, and that question is . . . Am I going to go to hell when I die?
CAROL
Of course not, Abey.
ABRAHAM
Do you think I’m going to die young?
CAROL
No, Abraham. God forbid. Don’t say things like that.
ABRAHAM
Do you think I’m gay?
CAROL
Gay? Of course you’re not gay.
ABRAHAM
But what about how I told you my camp counselor Gary made me feel weird. Warm weird. Buzzy in my body.
CAROL
He’s just someone you admire, Abraham. And it’s okay to have gay feelings. It doesn’t mean you’re gay. When I was young, I kissed girls. I even had a girlfriend for a while. I tried it. It was fun, but then I realized that I was supposed to like boys more. And eventually I met your father. And he was my favorite boy I’d ever met. And then I had you, and then you became my favorite boy I’d ever met.
ABRAHAM
Sometimes I get thoughts that maybe I don’t love you. That I wish someone else was my mom. Do you think I really don’t love you?
CAROL
Those are just thoughts, Abraham. My brain thinks all kinds of thoughts all the time. Not all thoughts are how you really feel. Abraham, you know that I love your grandma. But, sometimes, when I was a girl I’d just pray for bad things to happen to her. Like that she’d fall down the stairs, or get electrocuted while turning off a broken light switch. That doesn’t mean I wanted those things to happen just because I prayed for them several times a day.
ABRAHAM
Mom, do you really think I’m not going to go to hell?
CAROL
Abraham, you already asked me this.
ABRAHAM
Well, I’m asking again.
CAROL
Well, like I said, of course not.
ABRAHAM
Is there a hell?
CAROL
There is, but we Jews call it something different.
ABRAHAM
What do we call it?
Carol looks into the nonexistent camera.
CAROL
Life.
Carol laughs way too hard at this. It’s almost manic.
ABRAHAM
Why did you just laugh like that?
CAROL
I don’t know.
ABRAHAM
I’ve never seen you laugh like that.
CAROL
Really? Oh, you must have.
ABRAHAM
Do you think your life is hell?
CAROL
No, of course not, I have a beautiful life. Is it perfect? Far from it. Do I get sick of it and want it to end fairly often? Of course! Am I surprised that the windows of our house don’t have bars on them and that the toilet isn’t located in my bedroom, like a jail cell, because my life is a prison? Can’t deny it. No, sir. I’d deny the Holocaust before I denied that. But a hell? Please! I’m blessed! I mean, look who my cellmate is. The most wonderful boy who was ever born. The light of my whole life, my greatest accomplishment. You, Abraham. You’re all I ever want to be around, anyway, so who cares if the rest of my life feels like it should be the life of someone else who deserves constant unhappiness.
Abraham stares off into space, mentally leaving the interview.
CAROL
Abraham? What’s wrong?
ABRAHAM
I don’t want to say.
CAROL
Abraham, please! I’m worried. Are you sinking?
ABRAHAM
When you were talking right now, I had that thought again. That I really do hate you. I don’t hate you, right?
CAROL
Of course you don’t. You love me the most, Abraham. You don’t love anyone as much as you love me.
ABRAHAM
Mom, is there something wrong with me?
CAROL
Honey, nothing is wrong with you.
ABRAHAM
Then why do I have these thoughts?
CAROL
Everyone has these thoughts.
ABRAHAM
Not Dad. I’ve told him about these thoughts and he just looks at me like I’m crazy.
CAROL
Abraham, your father is a coward. He can’t look at himself, so how can he understand anyone else? Your dad isn’t like us. He might even be against us. Nothing is wrong with you. You’re just like everyone else.
ABRAHAM
Then why don’t I have friends? Why don’t any of the other kids like me? Why do they all treat me like I’m different?
CAROL
You’re not different, Abraham. You’re special, and these stupid kids don’t know the difference. You remember what I told you about Steven Spielberg? When he was a child, everyone hated him. He’d get bullied and beat on constantly. Every single day the other kids would strip off little Steven Spielberg’s clothes the second he stepped foot on the school bus. As soon as he got on, off would go his shirt, then the pants, then the shoes, next the socks, and as soon as little Stevie Spielberg was down to his panties, all of the kids would take out their least-favorite item from their lunch bags and throw it at him. He’d be a mess. Peanut butter on his neck. Jelly on his arms. Slices of bologna all over his face. He didn’t even shower in the morning. Why bother? He knew he’d just have to do it again in the locker room. And now look at him. He’s basically the president of show business.
ABRAHAM
Where did you hear this Spielberg story?
CAROL
It’s just one of those stories you hear around. The thing is, you’re just like him, Abraham. You’re a genius who no one liked as a kid. But you still are a kid, so you still have to deal with it. Just be who you are and love who you are. Only, maybe don’t be too strange. If you act too strange then you actually might push the good people away. You don’t want to push everyone away. Spielberg pushed the bad people away. He wasn’t too weird. He knew when to cut the weirdness off, so even though he was not liked as a kid, he was liked as an adult. Besides, Abraham, you’re not as weird as you think you are. To be honest, I think you force it a bit sometimes.
ABRAHAM
I don’t know. I don’t think I force it.
CAROL
You do. Trust me. You force the weirdness.
ABRAHAM
Maybe I am that weird. Maybe that’s just how people are always going to think about me.
CAROL
Stop it. You know, you really should talk to Dr. Heshel about this. Why don’t you talk to him about these things? What am I paying the money for?
ABRAHAM
I do.
CAROL
No, you don’t. You just talk about movies. Every time I pick you up, you tell me that you talked about movies the whole time. You want to be a film critic? Go and do that. Please. That’ll pay money rather than cost money. Okay, I only have time for one more question. I gotta go make dinner.
ABRAHAM
What are we having?
CAROL
Baked chicken.
ABRAHAM
Baked chicken?! No! Why?
CAROL
It’s been marinating all day. Since when don’t you like my baked chicken?
ABRAHAM
Since always. I hate it. Every time you make it I ask you not to make it anymore. You don’t remember things I tell you. Why don’t you listen to me?
CAROL
Not listen to you? All I do is listen. My second job is listening to you, Abraham.
ABRAHAM
Well, is something wrong with your memory, then?
CAROL
Nothing is wrong with my memory, Abraham. I’m probably just stuck in a fantasy world where I have a son and a husband who don’t completely take me for granted. Who appreciate me. Whose love and affection doesn’t come at a price of a chain around my neck. I can’t believe this. I come on this fake show. I pretend to be a guest and that there’s an audience and it’s being filmed, and what thanks do I get, besides being reminded that no one gives TWO SHITS ABOUT ME!!!
Carol starts crying. It’s a hard cry.
CAROL
Oh, how I wish I could be free. Free like the freest bird flying south for the winter to something much warmer. Much brighter. Where the sun will warm my wings, and I can do anything. Whenever, wherever, and whatever. Free. Free like a bird! How dare you, Abraham?! How dare you suffocate me like this! You’re a pillow over my face, Abraham! I’m going to make dinner. Eat it if you want! Or don’t. Starve to death for all I care!
ABRAHAM
Mom, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, okay?
CAROL
I give you nothing but love. I waste my time being a guest on your fake stupid show, and this is what I get? A son who insults my cooking, and tells me he thinks he hates me, and makes me worried.
ABRAHAM
Why are you worried?
CAROL
I’m worried that you’re going insane. It’s in our blood, Abey. Madness is in our blood!
She puts her wet face in her hands. Abraham puts his hand on her shoulder.
ABRAHAM
Mom, I’m okay. I promise. I love you.
Carol hears this. She takes six deep breaths to compose herself. She looks up at her son.
CAROL
I love you, too, Abey. And I want you to really think about something. That maybe you should go on medication. Think about it. It could really help you. We could even go on it together.
ABRAHAM
I don’t know, Mom.
CAROL
Please, Abey!!! Promise me you’ll at least think about it. I think it could be good for you. For us.
ABRAHAM
Okay, Mom, I’ll think about it.
CAROL
Okay. Good. Well, let’s wrap this up. I have to go finish cooking my food that you hate.
ABRAHAM
I don’t hate your food. I’m sorry I said that.
CAROL
It’s okay. Let’s just wrap this up, honey.
Abraham looks into the camera that isn’t there.
ABRAHAM
Carol Amsterdam, everyone. Well, that’s our show. Thanks for tuning in. This is Abraham Amsterdam saying good night, Chicago!
Carol stands up. Walks to the beaded curtain. Before she walks through the beaded curtain she stops and looks at Abraham.
CAROL
Maybe there is a hell.
Carol exits.
Abraham sits in his chair, silent. He starts to cry.