B’MORE 

by Thomas Paul Kalb

Characters:

JAMES  42 years old.  Dark circles under his eyes.  He should always speak loudly (as to a person who is hard of hearing).

THOMAS  75 years old.

Setting:  The bedroom is a box inside of the stage area--visible walls left and right, but no back wall, and a low ceiling (no more than seven feet high).   A portable commode chair sits beside the bed, and there is a small table (with books, magazines, alarm clock) on the same side of bed.  Outside of this “box” there are no props at all.  It’s even better if the “mechanics” of the stage area can be seen, the more cluttered the better--but nothing added, just the real state of the place.  When JAMES and THOMAS leave the bedroom they will just stand outside of the box.  They will not mime actions to go along with what they are saying or supposedly doing off-stage.

THOMAS:  [Lying in bed.  Newspaper open in front of--and thus hiding--his face.  He throws it down as he says]  Enough!  Goddamned country isn’t just going to the dogs, it’s a fucking chew toy.  I’m moving to Ireland.  [He swings his legs over the side of the bed, reaches for the rail of the portable commode chair, begins to try to leverage himself to his feet.]

JAMES: [Enters after fifteen seconds, drying hands on his pants.] What’s up, Papa?  You okay?  You need to go to the bathroom?  Did you call me?

THOMAS:  James Matthew, I’m moving to Ireland.  Do you want to come with me or not?

JAMES:  Well, sure.  Where?

THOMAS:  I think we need to go back to Baltimore.

JAMES:  That was a beautiful place.  But it was so small.  You sure you don’t want to go someplace a little bigger?  Someplace that has more than one store?

THOMAS:  I don’t need more than one store.  As long as they sell cigarettes.  I’m going to start smoking again.  I told you when I turned 70 I was going to start smoking again, didn’t I?

JAMES:  You did.

THOMAS:  Might as well enjoy yourself once you’re that goddamned old.  

JAMES:  You always did love smoking.

THOMAS:  How old am I now?

JAMES: [Hesitates for a beat, as if he is thinking about lying.]  You’re one month away from being 75, Papa. 

THOMAS:  75?  Where the hell are my cigarettes?  [Begins lifting things off of the table--books, magazines, alarm clock.]

JAMES:  You quit smoking twenty years ago, so you haven’t got any, Papa.  [He moves to take the table’s contents from THOMAS.]  Why don’t you lie back down?  Do you have to go to the bathroom?

THOMAS:  No, I need to smoke a cigarette.  Are you going to get me some, or do I have to do it myself?

JAMES:  I’ll tell you what, you lie down and be still, and I’ll get you a pack of cigarettes.  Okay?

THOMAS:  You going to get them right now?

JAMES:  No, I’m not going to leave you alone.  I’ll call Jess.  She’s going to be leaving work in a minute, and she can stop on her way home and get you a pack.  Okay?

THOMAS:  Menthol.  Pall Mall menthol.  

JAMES:  I remember.

THOMAS:  You’re not bullshitting me, are you?

JAMES: No.  Now let’s get you back into bed.  [Helps THOMAS to lift his legs back onto the bed, then covers him with the blankets.]

JAMES:  Okay?  You want anything?  I was going to finish doing the dishes and then come in and sit with you.  

THOMAS:  [Sniffs.]  What do I smell?

JAMES:  One Pot Shabbat.  Does it smell good to you?

THOMAS:  Sure.  [Pause.]  Shabbat?

JAMES:  [Laughing.]  Yeah.  It’s kosher.  Jess got the recipe from somebody at work.

THOMAS:  [Closes his eyes and tries to turn away from JAMES.  Begins to cry, very quietly.]

JAMES:  [Immediately goes and sits on the bed, reaches for THOMAS’s hands.]  Papa?  What’s the matter?

THOMAS:  [Crying.]

JAMES:  What happened, Papa?  

THOMAS:  [After a protracted period of crying, then several deep breaths.]  I just never . . . .  I’m sorry, Jimmy.  I’m sorry you have to do this.  I know--

JAMES:  Papa.  I want to take care of you, okay?  This is what I want to do.

THOMAS:  If I’d known it was going to take me so long to die . . . .  I’d . . . .   When Mary took care of our Mom, it took everything out of her.  She was so tired, she couldn’t even leave the house, and I never thought--

JAMES:  Papa, you’re getting upset over nothing.  I--  

[The cell phone in JAMES’s pocket begins to ring.]

THOMAS:  [When JAMES doesn’t answer it, says:]  Go on, answer it.  I’m fine.  Please.

JAMES:  Okay.  Let me see who it is.   [Takes phone from his pocket.]  Jess.  It’ll just take a second.  Hello?  Yeah, hi, Jess.  Just talking to my dad.  Sure.

THOMAS:  Don’t forget to ask her to pick up a pack of cigarettes for me.

JAMES:  [Laughing.]  Did you hear that?  Okay.  Right.  He wants a pack of Pall Mall menthols.  

THOMAS:  And a lighter.

JAMES:  And a lighter.   Riiiiight--I think so.  Kind of counting on it.  Uh-huh.  One Pot Shabbat.  Yep.  Okay.  See you in twenty minutes.  Love you.  Bye.

THOMAS:  Do you remember that sailor in O’Casey’s in Baltimore?  

JAMES:  [Brief hesitation]  Yeah, I thought you were going to get into a fight.

THOMAS:  I did, too.   But he was giving Aileen a hard time.  So I wanted to get him outside and away from her.  But I just ended up smoking a cigarette with him.  

JAMES:  He was really drunk.  You know, Clonakilty was nice, too.  And there were more stores there, remember?  Even a music store.  And a book store.

THOMAS:  Yeah.  

JAMES:  And Dublin and Belfast . . . you remember all the bookstores we saw there?

THOMAS:  They’re too big.  No, I think it has to be Baltimore.  I like the strange, semi-symmetry of it. Born in Baltimore, Maryland, died in Baltimore, Ireland.

JAMES:  You’ve got a few years left in you.  Grandma lived to be 83, right?

THOMAS:  [Silent for a moment, then speaks, sounding very distant.]  One time she turned to me and said, “I feel like I’m made of sand.  And the ocean waves are washing me away.”

[A long silence.]

THOMAS:  No.  She was gone before she hit 83.

[A timer goes off in the kitchen.  JAMES rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand and stands up from the bed.]

JAMES:  That’s our chicken, Papa.  Okay if I run and pull it out of the oven?

THOMAS:  Sure, I’ll be here when you get back.

[JAMES exits.]

THOMAS:   “. . . cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”  [Long pause.]  Fuck Teddy Roosevelt.

JAMES:  [Enters, wiping his hands on his pants.]  What’d you say, Papa?

THOMAS:  I said, Fuck Teddy Roosevelt.

JAMES:  Oh.  Timid souls?

THOMAS:  What would he know about it?  What the hell would he know about the way normal people live?

JAMES:  [He says this in a way that lets you know these aren’t his own words.]  Not a goddamned thing, Papa.  [Pause.]  You hungry?  Jess will be home in about ten minutes, but if you’re hungry, we can go ahead and start.

THOMAS:  No, of course not.                                                                           

JAMES:  Let me just take a quick peek at it, then I’ll come in and sit with you until she gets home, okay?

THOMAS:  Sure.  [JAMES leaves the room.  Thomas raises his voice] You know, if I’d stayed married to Clare, she would have taken care of me.

JAMES:  [From off-stage]  What’d you say, Papa?

THOMAS:  Nothing.  Sorry, just thinking out loud.  [Silent for a moment, then speaking in a normal tone of voice] She was only eight years older than you, you know.

JAMES:  Hang on, Papa, I’ll be right there.

THOMAS:  I actually thought that would be okay.  That it would work.  Stupid. Idiot. But goddamn, I loved that girl.

JAMES:  [A little flustered, as if he hadn’t finished what he was doing]  I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you.  Were you talking about Clare?

THOMAS:  [Nods his head.]

JAMES:  It’s been a long time.

THOMAS:  I was 52 when she left me.  So what’s that . . . twenty three years?  

JAMES:  I’m surprised you still think about her.  

THOMAS:  Yeah?  Ha.  I think about her every day, Jimmy.  Every goddamned day.  Used to think of her every morning when I made a cup of coffee.  She told me that if I put my sugar and Coffee-mate into the cup before I poured the coffee that I wouldn’t have to stir it.  A barista trick, I guess.  She was a barista then.  Or maybe it’s just something women know.  They seem to know a lot of things that men aren’t privy to.  Or is it just me?  Maybe everybody knows that. Did you know that?

JAMES:  I like stirring my coffee.  But I’m sorry that it still hurts you to think about her.  I’m sorry that you still think about her.

THOMAS:  Would you stop thinking about Jessica if something happened between you two?  Or if something happened to her?

JAMES:  Of course not.  She--

THOMAS:  Is the love of your life?  Your soul mate?  Your true love?

JAMES:  Yeah, I guess I get that.  But . . . I hate to think that after all these  years you’re still in pain because of her.

THOMAS:  [Silent for a long pause.]  You remember when we walked into Baltimore from the Rathmore House, down that narrow little road?

JAMES: [A brief pause] Oh, yeah.  That was a pretty scary walk, really.  That road was barely wide enough for one car, and it was two way traffic.  And there was all that undergrowth right off the road, so you had to walk in the road itself.  And all the curves.  Good thing not many cars came down it, huh?

THOMAS:  Do you remember how when we got to the turn they’d painted B MORE on the road itself, with an arrow pointing to the west . . . it was just before you got to Casey’s Hotel.

JAMES:  Wow, how do you remember all of that?  

THOMAS:  You don’t remember the B MORE?

JAMES:  No, sorry.

THOMAS: We took a picture of it.

JAMES:  Oh, I believe you.  I’m just impressed that you remember that.  It was a long time ago.

THOMAS:  There might have been an apostrophe after the B.  It was eighteen years ago.  

JAMES:  Wow.

THOMAS:  Twenty-five years ago, eighteen years ago.  Your mom and I were divorced when I was 43, so that was what . . . thirty-two years ago.  You were born . . . forty-two years ago.  God damn, are you really forty-two years old?

JAMES:  [Laughs]  I am, Papa.  I--

THOMAS:  See, though, that’s it.  It’s like you look back . . . and you see the mountain peaks, you know?  That’s what you remember.  Maybe some of climbing the mountain.  But probably not coming down the other side.  Because that was just easy, downhill.  You know what I mean?

JAMES:  Sure, Papa.

THOMAS:  B MORE.  Or B [he makes an apostrophe in the air with his right forefinger] MORE.  They didn’t even have enough room to write the whole name in that skinny little road, ha ha.  And we only walked into town what . . . maybe 3 times?  But that stayed with me.  “Be more!”  How many cities . . . towns . . . encourage you to expand your life, your consciousness    . . . hell, your fucking waistline . . . every single day?

JAMES:  [Laughs.]  We always meant to go back, didn’t we?  

THOMAS:  But we never got around to it.  You know what?  That’s what happens.  The Meaning To-s become the Never Got Around To-s, and then you realize you're an old man who doesn’t smoke who’s lying in bed most of the day and waiting to die.

JAMES:  [Taken aback.]  Papa!

THOMAS:  Come on, no lipstick for the pig in the room, Jimmy.                                                            

JAMES:  [Turns his head at a sound off-stage.]  Oh, that’s Jessica at the door.  [Wipes his eyes with the back of his hand.]  

THOMAS:  Go say hello.  I promise I won’t die before you get back.

JAMES:  Papa . . . . 

THOMAS:  Just trying to lighten the mood.  Sorry.  Go kiss your wife.

JAMES:  Okay.  I’ll be back in a minute.

[James exits, stands outside of the bedroom.]

THOMAS:  Fuck it.  Time to go smoke a cigarette on the Baltimore wharf.  [He swings his legs out of bed and onto the floor, reaches for the railing of the commode chair and pulls himself to a standing position.  He lets go of the chair, takes a halting step, then another.  It’s as if he is walking on a tightrope.]

THOMAS:  B MORE, here I come.  [He takes another step, reaches for and grasps the door frame.  He draws a deep breath, then lurches through the doorway.  Stops outside the doorway, straightens, then walks to stand next to JAMES.  They do not acknowledge each other in any way.]

JAMES: [Calls into the room] Papa?  [Enters the bedroom.]  Papa?  [Desperately] Papa!  [James looks left and right, then drops to the floor and looks under the bed.  THOMAS slowly re-enters the room.]

THOMAS;  What are you doing?

JAMES:  Oh my God, Papa.   Where did you go?

THOMAS:  To your computer.  I was going to buy a plane ticket to Baltimore.

JAMES:  What?

THOMAS:  But I don’t know where my credit card is.  Do you?

JAMES:  What?

THOMAS:  Or can I use yours?  Jimmy?

JAMES:  Papa . . . you scared the shit out of me.  I can’t even remember the last time you got out of bed.  How could you even stand up, much less walk?                                                                                                                                          

THOMAS:  Really?  Hmpf.  [Pause.]  So you thought I was under the bed?

JAMES:  I don’t know, I didn’t know where else you could be.  

THOMAS:  I could have been taken up to heaven in a fiery chariot.

JAMES:  It’s not funny, Papa.  I was really worried.

THOMAS:  I’m sorry.  But it is kind of funny.  I mean . . . under the bed?

JAMES:  No, it’s . . . .  Okay.  I guess it is a little bit funny.

THOMAS:  What happened to Jessica?

JAMES:  It wasn’t her.  Must have been the mailman.  She’ll be home in a minute.

THOMAS:  Male man.

JAMES:  You hungry?  You want to go ahead and eat?

THOMAS:  No, let’s wait.  

JAMES:  Okay.

THOMAS:  But let’s all eat at the table tonight.

JAMES:  What?  Really?

THOMAS:  Sure.  Why not?

JAMES:  Papa . . . you haven’t eaten at the table in at least a year.  We always come in here with tv trays.

THOMAS:  There’s no tv.

JAMES:  Seriously.

THOMAS:  Well, I’m up now, aren’t I?

JAMES:  Okay.  Okay.  Here, you sit down for a minute . . . [he guides Thomas back to the bed and helps him to sit down] . . . and I’ll set the table.  Be back in like five minutes.  Okay?

THOMAS:  Okay, sounds good.  Why don’t you put some music on?

JAMES:  Okay.  Anything particular?

THOMAS:  Yeah, put your album on.

JAMES:  No, let’s listen to something else.  

THOMAS:  You asked what I wanted to hear.

JAMES:  I haven’t even played it in years.  And it’s not “my” album.  I played fiddle on it.  Twenty years ago. 

THOMAS:   See if you can find it.

JAMES:  [Shrugs, sighs.]  Okay.  [Leaves bedroom.]

THOMAS:  Oh.  Damn.  [He touches his hand to his temple and grimaces.]  Damn!

[Curtain.]