---
Teenaged NATHAN lies on his bed reading The Economist. Presently his MOTHER bursts through the door. She is meticulously dressed, unnervingly energetic and utterly terrifying.
NATHAN: Knock first, please.
MOTHER: Weren’t you just downstairs?
NATHAN: No.
MOTHER: I thought I saw you on the couch as I pulled into the driveway.
NATHAN: No, I’ve been here since you left.
MOTHER: Let me feel your heart.
She rushes over to him and places her hand on his chest. His body contracts in a gesture of profound discomfort as she focuses. Having made her diagnosis, she retreats.
MOTHER: Racing. You ran up here just now.
She looks at him sternly. He recoils with a mixture of fear and defiance. She kisses him on the forehead in the same stern manner; he winces.
MOTHER: (strangely dreamy) Why must you run away from me, sweet?
She lingers briefly, then pulls away and extracts a compact mirror from her purse, examining the damage to her lipstick. He disgustedly tries to rid his forehead of the gummy mess.
MOTHER: Come say hello to your Grummy.
NATHAN: I don’t want to say hello to Grummy.
MOTHER: She’s your grandmother and she loves you very much. (She definitively snaps her compact closed.)
NATHAN: She smells like fish.
MOTHER: Yes, well, I’ve started her on a fish diet.
NATHAN: Why does she need a fish diet?
MOTHER: She was ohm-deficient.
NATHAN: Ohms?
MOTHER: Yes, she didn’t have enough of them.
NATHAN: Ohms measure resistance in an electrical current.
MOTHER: Omegas, yes, she didn’t have nearly enough.
NATHAN: You mean Omega-3.
MOTHER: (condescending) Yes, Nathan, Omega-3.
NATHAN: Are you sure she needs the fish diet?
MOTHER: She’s my mother and I know what’s best for her.
She absently starts picking through his scattered belongings; Nathan tries to distract her before she delves into a full investigation.
NATHAN: Where’s Dad?
MOTHER: Oh, he’s out on his bicycle again.
NATHAN: But he’s been gone since 7 this morning.
MOTHER: Well, your father’s a solitary man and we have to respect that. (After a pause, she suddenly snaps out of her absent state and is visibly disgusted by what she sees.) Nathan, your room is filthy.
NATHAN: (defensive) It’s not that bad.
MOTHER: Don’t be ridiculous; your clothes are all over the floor. (She picks up a baby-blue polo shirt sadly.) And I spent so much time finding these for you. (She lays the shirt lovingly on his bed, looks around, and smiles assuredly.) I’ll just do a quick vacuum.
NATHAN: What? No!
MOTHER: (She exits to get the vacuum and raises her voice.) Cleanliness is a part of life, Nathan; you’ll have to get used to it sooner or later.
NATHAN: But I like my room this way!
MOTHER: (Dragging the vacuum into the room) Nonsense.
She dashes around the room, scooping up the detritus on the floor and piling it onto his bed; Nathan watches in revulsion.
NATHAN: I was adopted, wasn't I?
MOTHER: Nathan, I don’t know how many times I have to tell you.
NATHAN: I must have been adopted.
MOTHER: You're my own flesh and blood, my sweet.
NATHAN: Bullshit.
MOTHER: (whipping around and snarling) Language.
There is a tense beat in the wake of her terror before Mother resumes her business with particular vigor. Nathan gulps and speaks up.
NATHAN: (intimidated but intent) I want to see my birth certificate.She goes to her purse, which she has set by his bed. She picks out her wallet, peruses its folds and finally finds a small worn photo, which she hands to him.
MOTHER: (dismissively) I don’t know where it is.
NATHAN: Then there’s no proof.
MOTHER: Yes, there is.
NATHAN: What, then?
MOTHER: I had your father take a picture as you were crowning.
NATHAN: As I was what?
MOTHER: Here, sweetheart.
NATHAN: (looking at the picture distractedly) Mother, the fact still stands that, as far as I know, there is no legal evidence of – (Turning the photo a couple of times and peering in closely, he suddenly understands its content; his eyes widen in horror and he retches, ridding himself of the photo with dire urgency.) Jesus Christ, you keep that in your wallet?!
MOTHER: (plugging in the vacuum) Giving birth is a very special joy, Nathan.
NATHAN: (hysterical) What is wrong with you?!
MOTHER: (miffed) It’s a miracle of nature.
Nathan shudders and recovers from his nausea, breathing deeply.
NATHAN: (uncomfortable but determined) That could be anyone’s - vagina.
She turns on the vacuum, which is extraordinarily loud.
MOTHER: WHAT?
NATHAN: Goddamnit – THAT COULD BE ANYONE’S VAGINA.
MOTHER: (vacuuming) NO, YOU CAN SEE MY FACE IN THE CORNER.
NATHAN: WHAT? (He tentatively picks up the photo and looks carefully.) Oh. God. (He turns the photo over, looking ill again. He clears his throat.) BUT THAT COULD BE CHRISTINE BEING BORN.
MOTHER: WHAT??
NATHAN: (screaming) THAT COULD BE CHRISTINE’S HEAD!
MOTHER: NO, IT’S YOURS. (She turns off the vacuum.)
NATHAN: AM I JUST - (Realizing with some chagrin that he doesn’t have to yell anymore) Am I just supposed to believe that?
MOTHER: You don’t have to. That’s your birthmark… see? (She gestures to the picture.) Right in the middle of your scalp.
She almost smirks. He glares. Silence.
NATHAN: (bitterly) Fine.
She leers triumphantly and pats her son on the head.
MOTHER: I love you, sweet darling.
She collects her purse and walks out briskly, leaving the vacuum behind along with a spotless floor and a massive mess on his bed. Nathan is frozen in a furious rigor; suddenly he grabs a shoe from the pile on his bed and flings it at the door, slamming it shut. He breathes heavily with anger and then violently picks up his magazine, flipping through it quickly before throwing it away as well. He goes to his desk and tears it apart until he finds a pair of scissors, which he grabs along with a chunky Polaroid camera on his way out of the room.
He arrives in the dimly lit bathroom, holding the scissors dangerously in his hand. Breathing deeply, he looks in the mirror and considers his hair, which softly falls in his eyes. When his breathing relaxes, he calmly begins to cut it off, working slowly but mercilessly until only a patchy mess is left. His electric shaver reduces the hair to a military buzz, and then he finally takes a razor to his whole scalp until it gleams, bald and pale.
Stunned by his work, he puts the razor down and exchanges it with the camera, which he holds above his head. There is a flash and a mechanical groan as the camera captures the picture. He tugs on the white plastic, relinquishes the blank photograph and shakes it patiently. When the image has developed, he peers at it closely. After a sluggish moment of recognition, his face is slowly overtaken by a wide, manic smile.
No comments:
Post a Comment