So Nice of You to Call.

6/16/15

So Nice of You to Call.

Philip Roth lite: all the angst, with half the lewdness, half the humor and less  than half of the talent.

Playlet in 6 short scenes for two actors, mother and son with cameo appearances by the father and non speaking role for the aunt.

Mom: What a nice surprise to hear from you.

Son: Mom, I call you every day.

M: Every way? What do you mean?

S: Every day, Mom. I call you every day.

M: Wait a minute. Let me turn down the television.

S: (drumming fingers impatiently)

M: I'm back. Did I tell you I've been sketching? Were you saying something? What were you saying about every way? Tell me again.

S: I call you every day.

M: I can't make it out. Hold on while I get my hearing aids.

S: (drumming has turned into a rap beat)

M: I can't find my hearing aids.

S: Did you look in your pockets?

M: Lockets? I don't wear Lockets. I haven't seen my hearing aids all day. When are you coming over?

S: Tuesday.

M: When?

S: (fairly shouting) Tuesday.

M: I think I need new hearing aides. Aren't there better hearing aides? Can't you find out?

S: (To himself) the doctors say no hearing aides will fix the degeneration in her hearing abilities and there is no therapy or medicine which will help. They also say not all of the problem is her hearing. Mom, I'll buy you a new pair. We have to get a way for you not to keep losing things. They are expensive. (To himself) I should not have said that. Now she'll feel guilty. It's not her fault she is forgetful and has lost most of her hearing. I need to be a better, more caring son.

M: Did you say something?

S: Never-mind.

M: I've been sketching.

S: That's good.

M: I love sketching. You have to find something you love. Sketching is my pass-time. I wish we could do something with all my sketches. I've made over 900 this year. Can you sell them?

S: (To himself) I've looked into starting a business for her in four different ways - it's a full-time job and then there's the entrepreneurial risk. Why am I so ambivalent? Do I not want to help my mother? Don't we need more money to pay her aid? Why don't I put her on Medicaid? We'd save a fortune. I've completed all the paperwork. But she loves Juvy - an aid who she could not have on Medicaid. Catching himself...

Wow, mom, nine hundred... that's a lot of sketches.

M: I love to sketch. I want everyone to see my artwork.  Juvy is such a doll. She keeps buying me sketch books. Can't we do something with my scribbles? Did I tell you Juvy  keeps buying me sketch books?

S: You should go shopping with her.

M: Juvy gets me everything I need.

Do you remember when you kept me waiting in that restaurant? The manager was so nice, he went looking all over for you.

S: (grinding his teeth) (To himself) He told me I had greatly upset my mother when I was a few minutes late. She has no concept that people who work are sometimes delayed a few minutes in traffic... Five years ago and I still have to hear about this. Does she relish my feeling guilty? Is that her motivation for retelling this story all the time? It's my fault for buying into her guilt trip.

M: When are you coming over?

S: (with great patience) Tuesday.

M: When?

S: (stretching it out) Tueees-daaay?

M: I can't wait to see you. Thanks for calling.

S: ok you're welcome.

M: I love you.

S: I love you too mom.

Scene two

Fifty years earlier

in a station wagon driven by the aunt who although loved to drive resented being the family chauffeur.

S: Mom, what's for dinner?

M: I just bought a new mop.

S: (not louder, but with more urgency) Mom, what's for dinner?

M: Did you say something? Did I tell you about the painting I'm working on? Oh and I found that mop in a store downtown. Did I tell you I needed a new mop. Dad said I could buy the best mop. Isn't he generous?!

S: (despairing of ever being heard) Yes mom; dad is very generous.

Scene three

Seven years earlier

M: (holding infant son in her arms.) Looky: here is my painting. See the red wine bottle. See the wicker basket.

(Father unlocks the front door)

S: cries.

Scene four

A week earlier.

under the kitchen table.

S: goo goo.

M: (We hear keys in the door.)  (Mother hiding son) (Father opens the front door. Enters dining room which adjoins kitchen)

S: cries.

F: (trying to be a good teacher, but thinly hiding his embarrassment bordering on humiliation and consequent rage.) (to son) Boys don't cry. (Angry) (to wife) What's he doing under the table?

M: (stutters unable to speak in the face of his anger and Oedipal jealousy.)

F: There is something wrong with you that you don't talk. You need more of that electro convulsive shock therapy. Goddammit I can't live with a woman who won't talk. It is amazing you were able to say yes when I proposed. (Goes to fridge, takes a beer, makes a great effort to be calm. Then quietly but self consciously storms out of room to put ballgame on radio while he showers. Is he getting rid of smells of the golf course or of another woman - or both?)

Scene 5

The present. Last week.

M: You never visit.

S: I see you at least once a week.

M: You only stay a minute. Do you want some of my paintings?

S: (Trying to be in the moment which he finds difficult because they always have the same conversation. His mother is always asking, always needy, always smiling with her guilt inflicting hurt just below the surface.) Mom, maybe next time.

M: You always say next time.

S: I have no place to put more of your art. My house is crowded. (To himself: My wife never throws anything out either. I'm drowning in her art and drowning in my wife's old newspaper collections, her old clothes which don't fit, her shoes, her boxes of old bills and papers, piles making our bedroom practically unlivable. She says she doesn't like it either... all the stuff she puts in our son's room when he is away - and behind the couch, in front of the book cases, on the shelves making it hard for me to use my books... (Coming back to be present with his mother.) Mom, I have dozens of your pieces. In the kitchen, in the bathroom, in the bedroom, in the hallways, in my son's room, in the file cabinet. (To himself: your stuff is practically coming out of my ears.)

M: (She hears perfectly when she wants to hear.) My house is crowded too. I have a closet full of your stuff. I have been asking you to take it for years. When are you going to take away the last of dad's artwork? And get rid of his papers and clothes. Oh I loved him so much.

S:( struggles mightily to suppress a nervous laugh.)

M: Did I say something funny? (Not waiting for a reply.) So when will I see you?

S: Tuesday.

M: Spend longer with me.

S: OK I have an idea. I'll practice violin here if that is ok with you. Then we can have dinner together once a week.

M: Of course. I'd love it.

Scene 6

The following Tuesday. 

(Son is practicing violin after paying her bills.)

M: Do you take lessons?

S: (Recovering from the interruption, putting on a good face.) Once in a while. (Goes back to scales only to be. Interrupted.)

M: How often?

S: Once a month.

M: Are you making any progress?

S: (to himself) How could I let my mother's desire to see me more often make me forget she hates the violin- even when played well?! Not that I'm in any danger of doing that.

Mom, I won't practice here anymore.

M: (hurt, guilty) Am I disturbing you? I won't say anything. I was just trying to be helpful.  (Pleading, seeing the result of her criticism.) I want you to be here. I want you to be happy!  (Then compulsively) do you still see that therapist? It's not normal for people to go to therapy for so many years.

S: It's ok mom. I'll see you next week.

M: I love you.

S: Good bye mom.