Shorter, Faster, Funnier Page 9

  FRANK: You know, Nick, your friends ain’t so nice to me no more.

  NICK: What are you talking about?

  FRANK: I said your friends ain’t so nice to me no more.

  NICK: How’s that?

  FRANK: Nick, they laughin’ at me behind my back. They snicker every time I open my mouth.

  NICK: Aw … they just kidding you, Franky. They don’t mean nothing by it.

  FRANK: Nick. The last time I was there they asked me about my son? You remember?

  NICK: No. What about it?

  FRANK: They asked me how come he lives in San Francisco?

  NICK: So?

  FRANK: Nick. How come they know he lives in San Francisco? Huh? How much you tell them? Huh?

  NICK: Aw geez. Come off it, Frank, what’s the big deal, huh?

  FRANK: What’s the big deal? I tell you something … personal … a family secret … and you blab to your friends about it. What’s the big deal? Come on, Nick. You know I …

  NICK: All right, Frank, whatever you say. You got all the answers. I’m real sorry.

  FRANK: Thanks, Nick. I appreciate it. That’s all you got to say, huh?

  NICK: What do you want me to say? That you’re too thin-skinned, Frank. No wonder your son turned out like he did.

  FRANK: What?

  NICK: You heard me.

  FRANK: All right, so you came to insult me more. Are you finished?

  NICK: Yeah, I’m finished. How about you? Are you finished?

  FRANK: Yeah, I’m finished, Nick. Have a good night.

  (FRANK starts to close the door.)

  NICK: Listen. Frank. Maybe we … can …

  (FRANK has closed the door all the way.)

  FRANK: Son of a bitch.

  (More knocking at the door. FRANK goes back to his chair and sits down. There is more knocking at the door. NICK yells through the door.)

  NICK: Happy birthday, you son of a bitch!

  FRANK: What?

  NICK: I said … “Happy birthday, you son of a bitch!”

  (FRANK gets out of his chair and walks over and opens the door again. NICK holds out the blue box with a ribbon around it. Pause.)

  NICK: Like I said, I’m sorry, Frank.

  (Beat.)

  FRANK: Thanks, Nick.

  NICK: Don’t mention it. (Pause.)

  FRANK: Can I have my present now, Nick?

  NICK: Sure, Frank.

  (NICK hands the box to FRANK. FRANK holds it in his hand. Beat.)

  FRANK: What is it, Nick?

  NICK: You gotta open it, Frank.

  FRANK: Yeah, I know I just … What did ya get me, Metamucil?

  NICK: Na, Frank, come on, what d’ya think I am, huh? You gotta open it!

  (FRANK takes off the ribbon and opens the box. He takes out a singing bass.)

  FRANK: Thanks, Nick.

  NICK: It sings too, Frank.

  (NICK presses the button and the fish sings “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.”)

  FRANK: That’s a neat little trick, Nick.

  NICK: Isn’t it?

  FRANK: Where’d you get it?

  NICK: You can put it on your wall there.

  FRANK: Where’d you get it?

  (Beat.)

  NICK: Downtown. I got it downtown after we went fishing last week.

  FRANK: Oh?

  NICK: Happy birthday.

  FRANK: Thanks. (Beat.) Well, I’d ask you to sit down, but …

  NICK: Oh, don’t worry about it. I gotta go soon, anyway.

  FRANK: Oh … You gotta go.

  NICK: Yeah sorry. I got plans.

  FRANK: Huh … Plans with whom?

  NICK: Some of the guys.

  FRANK: Which guys?

  NICK: The guys … You know … Tony Boyd, Jimmy T Bone … the fellas.

  FRANK: Is that who you went fishing with?

  NICK: Yeah, that’s who I went fishing with.

  FRANK: Good. Did you have fun?

  NICK: Yeah, Frank. Yeah, we had … fun. Wish you’d been there. Everybody did. We ah … yeah we … missed you, man. (Beat.) What were you doing? Were you tied up with your lady friend?

  FRANK: Yeah, we were ah … indisposed at the time.

  (NICK notices the chessboard.)

  NICK: You been playing chess with someone?

  FRANK: Yeah, I got a new friend. He, ah … plays with me over the phone.

  NICK: Sounds nice, Frank.

  FRANK: Yeah, it’s a lot of fun.

  (Pause.)

  NICK: Well … if you’re not doing anything later on … feel free to stop by … we gotta card game tonight.

  FRANK: Yeah, thanks, maybe I will.

  NICK: Yeah, you should. It would be good for you.

  FRANK: What does that mean?

  NICK: It doesn’t mean nothing, just … you know … we’d like to see you.

  FRANK: Yeah. Well … I’m supposed to talk to my son pretty soon … he’s …

  NICK: Not a problem. Maybe next time, Frank.

  FRANK: I wasn’t finished, Nick. What I’m saying is maybe I could be there around eight-thirty or so.

  NICK: Yeah we can deal you in late … I suppose.

  FRANK: Good.

  NICK: How is your son?

  FRANK: He’s doing okay … He’s got a new … friend … So, I guess he’s excited about that.

  NICK: Oh, a new friend, well that’s … nice.

  FRANK: Yeah.

  (Pause.)

  NICK: How’s his health? (Beat.)

  FRANK: Better. He’s doing better … Got a … new … medication or something … Yeah …

  NICK: Glad to hear it.

  FRANK: Yeah, I was too. (FRANK looks at his watch.) All right, well, I’ll see you a little later …

  NICK: You bet ya … See you at the game …

  (NICK turns to go and walks to the door to leave.)

  You’re a good father, Frank.

  FRANK: Thanks, Nick. You’re a good friend.

  NICK: Thanks. Happy birthday, you son of a bitch.

  (FRANK laughs and closes the door. He goes back to his chair and is about to sit down, but decides to get a glass of water. He walks over to the sink, gets a glass, and fills it with water, goes back to his chair, and picks up the phone and dials a long-distance number. He waits as the phone rings a few times until somebody picks it up.)

  FRANK: Michael? (Beat.) This a good time? (Beat.) Yeah, thanks. I’m doing great.

  (FRANK looks down at the chessboard.)

  Yeah, I got it last night. Beautiful … (Beat.) What? (Beat.) Yeah, I threw out the old one. (Beat.) How are you feeling? (Beat.) Good. (Beat.) Yeah, of course, I’m ready. (Beat.) Okay … Queen Knight … to Queen Bishop file … (Beat.) You got it? (Beat.) Good.

  (FRANK reaches to move the black pieces.)

  King Knight to King Bishop file.

  END OF PLAY

  FUNERAL PARLOR

  Christopher Durang

  ORIGINAL PRODUCTION

  Funeral Parlor was included in the TV special Carol, Carl, Whoopi and Robin, which originally aired February 10, 1987. Marcy Carsey and Tom Werner, executive producers. Stephanie Sills, Dick Clair, and Jenna McMahon, producers. Writing supervised by Dick Clair and Jenna McMahon. Directed by Harvey Korman and Roger Beatty. Written by Chris Durang, Jim Evering, Ken Welch, Mitzi Welch, Dick Clair, and Jenna McMahon. Musical material by Ken Welch and Mitzi Welch. The cast was as follows:

  SUSAN Carol Burnett

  MARCUS Robin Williams

  CHARACTERS

  SUSAN

  MARCUS

  Interior: A funeral parlor. Quiet, grave (sorry) setting. Perhaps a bit of casket shows. Certainly lots of flowers. Hushed atmosphere. SUSAN, the mourning widow, is dressed in black, with pearls. She is sedate, proper, formal. A few people are in line, offering their condolences, shaking her hand. She acknowledges them with a little nod and little smile, and a whispered “Thank you.” As we begin, at the end of the line to see SUSAN is a man named MARCUS. MARCUS is dress
ed in a nice suit, but it’s kind of a light color and his tie and shirt are kind of flowery, not really right for a funeral, but maybe he had to come straight from work (or Hawaii). Otherwise he looks appropriate enough. The person before MARCUS makes quiet sounds of condolences, and leaves. MARCUS reaches SUSAN. He is sincere and genuine, it’s just that he’s, well, odd.

  MARCUS: Susan, I’m so sorry. My deepest condolences.

  SUSAN: Yes, thank you …(??) (She doesn’t know who MARCUS is.)

  MARCUS: Marcus.

  SUSAN: (Still doesn’t know him, but is gracious.) Yes, Marcus. Thank you for coming.

  MARCUS: We’ll all miss him terribly.

  SUSAN: Yes. It’s a great loss.

  MARCUS: We’ll all miss him.

  SUSAN: Yes.

  MARCUS: You must feel terrible.

  SUSAN: Well … I don’t feel good. It was a terrible shock.

  MARCUS: Death is always a shock. You’re sitting home doing nothing, and then suddenly death goes “Boo!” and somebody falls down dead.

  SUSAN: Yes. (Looks around, hopes someone else will come over.)

  MARCUS: What were his last words? Were they “Boo”?

  SUSAN: What? “Boo”? No. He didn’t really have any last words.

  MARCUS: Did he make any last noises?

  SUSAN: Noises? What?

  MARCUS: Guttural sorts of noises? Or high-pitched-shrieking ones? (Makes high-pitched sounds.) Eeeeeeeek! Eeeeeeeeeek! Awooooga! Awoooooga!

  SUSAN: Just noises, I don’t know. They were lower than that. Don’t do that anymore.

  MARCUS: (Sympathetically.) Oh, Susan, you poor, poor thing. (Turns to someone who’s gotten in line behind him.) I wouldn’t wait if I were you, I’m going to be a while.

  (The person in line looks surprised but goes away; SUSAN looks alarmed.)

  All alone in the house now. Alone in the kitchen. Alone in the dining room. Alone in the living room—living room, that’s a mocking phrase now, isn’t it? Alone, alone, alone. All alone. Alone, alone, alone.

  SUSAN: Please don’t go on.

  MARCUS: Yes, but you have to mourn, Susan, to mourn. I always thought the Irish were right to do all that keening. Do you want to keen, Susan?

  SUSAN: Not really. Thank you anyway.

  MARCUS: How about singing a Negro spiritual?

  SUSAN: I don’t think so. (Looks about madly for people.)

  MARCUS: (Sings.) Swing low, sweet chariot, Comin’ for to carry me home …

  SUSAN: Thank you for coming.

  MARCUS: Don’t you want to sing?

  SUSAN: I don’t want to keen or sing. I’m an Episcopalian. I’ll cry quietly in my room later this evening. Now I must attend to the other mourners.

  MARCUS: Susan, you’re avoiding the sadness, I can’t let you do that.

  SUSAN: Please, please let me do that. It’s been a terrible day. I have to bury my husband.

  MARCUS: Is he in the casket? It’s a closed casket, he’s not actually in some other room, propped up in some stuffed chair or other, waiting there to startle someone, is he?

  SUSAN: Certainly not. Thank you so much for coming.

  MARCUS: That would give someone quite a fright. They’d be standing by this chair making conversation and then realize they were talking to him, only he was stark, stone dead! Ahahahahaha, that would be a good one!

  SUSAN: Yes, very good. (Calls.) Oh, David! (No luck.)

  MARCUS: I’m going to miss him too, you know.

  SUSAN: Ah, how nice. Or rather, how sad. Well, time heals everything.

  MARCUS: You’re not the only one with sorrow written on your forehead.

  SUSAN: What?

  MARCUS: I should say not. (Shows his forehead, previously covered with bangs; it has “sorrow” written on it.) Magic Marker. Doesn’t wash off. We’re going to miss him on the commuter train. We used to exchange morning pleasantries. “Nice morning,” or “Cold enough for you?” or “The train seems to be on time today for a change.”

  SUSAN: I see. Excuse me. I think the mortician is signaling me.

  MARCUS: You know, your husband was the only person on that whole damn train who was even willing to speak to me.

  SUSAN: (Very much at a loss.) How interesting.

  MARCUS: The other people would get panic in their eyes if I even started to walk in their direction, and they’d move away or pretend to be sleeping. But they didn’t fool me, I’m no dope. You can’t sleep standing up!

  SUSAN: (Trying to make small talk.) Well, if you’re tired enough maybe you can.

  MARCUS: Your husband, though, was always very friendly to me. Not like my father. Nowadays my father won’t even return my phone calls, I went to a séance and everything.

  SUSAN: What?

  MARCUS: Well he’s dead, but I have this medium friend who gave me this special 800 number that lets you call the dead. Maybe you’d like the number to try to reach your husband on the other side.

  SUSAN: I don’t think so. Well, que será, será. Ah me. La dee dah. Well, thank you so much for coming.

  MARCUS: (Warmly.) Well, you’re welcome. I just feel so terrible about your husband being gone, and I don’t know what I’m going to do on the train in the morning.

  SUSAN: Yes. Well—why don’t you read a book?

  MARCUS: That’s an idea. Do you have any suggestions?

  SUSAN: Oh my, I don’t know. The Thorn Birds, Great Expectations. Any book, I don’t care.

  MARCUS: My favorite book is Babar the Elephant.

  SUSAN: Yes, that is excellent.

  MARCUS: Have you read it?

  SUSAN: No, but I hear wonderful things. Ah me. My, my. Well, thank you for coming. Good-bye.

  MARCUS: (Surprised.) Are you leaving?

  SUSAN: (Losing her temper.) No, I’m not leaving. I want you to leave. You’re making me hysterical. Can’t you take a hint? When I say “Thank you for coming,” that’s code for “Go away now.” Don’t you understand that?

  MARCUS: (Terribly abashed, a bit hurt.) Oh. I’m sorry. I thought it just meant “Thank you for coming.” I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. I … Is there anything else you’ve said in code I haven’t understood?

  SUSAN: No. Nothing. I don’t think so.

  MARCUS: (Still a little thrown.) Oh good. (He looks very abashed and embarrassed.)

  SUSAN: It’s … just … well … (Feeling bad for him.) Oh dear, now I feel terribly guilty about having expressed my emotions.

  MARCUS: (Friendly again, thinking of her.) Oh don’t feel guilty about expressing emotions. That’s a good thing to do. You’ve had a terrible loss.

  SUSAN: (Somewhat seriously, realizing.) Yes, I have.

  MARCUS: Are you sure you don’t want to keen yet? I’m not Irish, but I think it’s a very appropriate thing to do at a wake.

  SUSAN: Oh I don’t know. Maybe another time.

  MARCUS: This would be the most likely time.

  SUSAN: Well, I don’t know. (A little interested.) What does keening sound like exactly?

  MARCUS: Oh, it’s real interesting. It’s sort of like this.

  (MARCUS makes an enormously strange, low, sustained moan-whine that goes up and down the scale. The rest of the people present come to a dead halt and stare.)

  SUSAN: (To crowd; slightly annoyed.) Please stop staring. Go back to your conversational buzz.

  (The crowd goes back to its hum.)

  MARCUS: Did I do something wrong again?

  SUSAN: Well, it was a very startling sound.

  MARCUS: It’s just like crying, but more dramatic. I love to cry. You loved your husband, didn’t you?

  SUSAN: (Genuine.) Yes.

  MARCUS: Well, then, don’t you want to keen just a little?

  SUSAN: Well, I see your point a little but … I don’t know that I really could.

  MARCUS: You could do it softer than I did.