“TWO FOR THE PRICE OF TWO”

Jason Cox

FADE IN.

INT: DINING ROOM. The only light comes from a single hanging lamp, suspended over the table. To the rear of the room is a bedroom door, decorated with a small metallic placard reading “DAY SLEEPER”. A small, outdated radio sits on a wall shelf, playing “Lazy River” by the Mills Brothers, very softly.

The table is cluttered with half-empty liquor bottles, trash, and conventional drug users’ paraphernalia: spoons, grinders, baby food jars, tin foil, matchbooks, and syringes.

To the right of the table sits DAD, dressed as typical 1950’s businessman, complete with fedora. He has his left sleeve rolled up, a tourniquet around his arm, and is calmly (though somewhat erratically) tapping the crook of his elbow with two fingers on his right hand. He is cheerful and in good spirits.

DAD:

Oh, come on now. I know you want it. C’mon out, you li’l rascal. (Etc.)

As bedroom door opens, an unnecessarily loud stereo blaring Nordic black metal is suddenly heard. JUNIOR walks out. He looks to be 18-19, dressed in traditional non-conformist fashion: black T-shirt, black jeans, badly cut hair, wispy moustache. He shuts the door, and the music goes silent (as though the room is completely soundproofed). He approaches DAD hesitantly, somewhat uncomfortably. DAD is still fumbling with his works.

JUNIOR (trying to be upbeat):

Hey, Dad.

DAD (very cheerful):

Hi, son!

Pause, as DAD tries to light matches under a spoon.

JUNIOR:

Um, Dad?

DAD (still cheerful, not exactly paying full attention):

Yes, son?

Slight pause.

JUNIOR:

This sketch sucks.

DAD finally stops trying to get the matches to light and looks up to JUNIOR.

DAD (comparatively serious):

What makes you say that, son?

JUNIOR (shuffles feet, stares at floor):

I….erm….I dunno. I mean, I….

DAD turns and puts a hand on JUNIOR’S shoulder.

DAD:

C’mon, Son, what’s wrong with it?

JUNIOR:

It’s just that… I dunno, it’s just not working.

DAD:

On what level, son?

JUNIOR:

I dunno, on every level. I mean… the way you dress, the way you’re talking…. I mean, the fact that you’re sort of a stereotypical breadwinner Husband from the 50’s, and the juxtaposition of you doing heroin…. I mean, what is it supposed to symbolize?

DAD (becoming just a tad gruff):

Now, Son…you know I don’t like to hear that from you. As long as you’re living under my roof, you will NOT assign symbolism to every little thing that you don’t immediately understand!

JUNIOR:

Yes, sir. But—

DAD picks up 1950’s brown wooden pipe, and cleans and packs it.

DAD (makes “quote fingers” where appropriate):

But nothing, Son. Listen. I understand what you’re thinking, but you’re going about it the wrong way. I realize I don’t fit the heroin-addict-archetype, but that must not necessarily mean that we’re dealing with trite symbolism! I’m sure Joe and Mrs. Average automatically assume that I must be some kind of “comment” on the decline of fatherhood in America, an “edgy” “commentary” on the naïve 1950’s ideal husband-slash-father, and as far as I’m concerned, I may just be all those things. But in a perfect world, son, these things may not only just be accepted at base level, as what they really are, they may also be extended to be a comment on the average American’s reaction to them!

JUNIOR:

Yeah, but isn’t that taking it a little too far? I mean, we have a decent setup, why can’t we just follow though on that concept? Wouldn’t….um….identifying with the average American’s need for familiarity be more…um…accepted?

DAD:

That’s true, son. That’s very unfortunately true. But your desire to be accepted must never outweigh the need…the responsibility to the human mentality…for progress! For example: as I’ve already said, I’m generally viewed as a) some kind of criticism of fatherhood in its decline, or b) juxtaposition for the sake of juxtaposition. Right?

SON:

Well…. yeah. But you are, aren’t—

DAD (silencing him with “just a minute” signal):

Wait, hang on.

DAD finally lights his brown pipe, but smokes from it as if it’s packed with (possibly laced) pot. He has a great deal of difficulty holding in his hit, which he finally coughs out spectacularly. In his short hacking fit, he gives JUNIOR the “go ahead” signal.

SON:

But, you are some kind of symbolic juxtaposition, aren’t you?

DAD:

Honestly, son, no, I’m not. Those are only values applied to me by the average viewers, who feel a need to validate what they’re seeing, even if they disagree with the message. What I am is an individual who has spent a lot of time thinking. And while recreational drug use will never be “healthy”, in the strictest sense of the word, I have considered all the possibilities involved, and with a complete understanding of the situation, have decided—as a rational, logical human being—to get fucked up, unhealthy as it may be.

JUNIOR:

Well, yeah. I can see that. But what I wanna know is—

DAD:

--“what is the meaning of all this”, that sort of thing?

JUNIOR (slightly unsure):

Yyyyyyeah, I guess so.

DAD:

The TRUE meaning, in this case, is that there is no meaning. This is not social commentary, this is not a satire, and this is NOT—I’m telling you, son, you MUST believe this—this is NOT SYMBOLISM. This is nothing more, nothing less, than a simple domestic scene, albeit one that differs from “average”. The fact that might be perceived as “unorthodox” by others only proves that it is not. Anyone who would apply symbolism to what is going on here is only looking for an easy way out! Do you understand, son?

JUNIOR (beginning to grasp concept):

Yeah, Dad, I think I do. Symbolism is a literary tool that…that diminishes the purity of pure imagery?

DAD (going back to his tourniquet):

Very good. Now could you get me a beer?

JUNIOR:

Aww, c’mon Dad, you know you get weird when you drink.

Long pause as DAD slowly looks up at JUNIOR.

DAD:

…“Get weird when I drink”? Why should that bother you, I’m shooting fucking HEROIN here!

JUNIOR:

No, Dad, that was the punchline. I was just getting out of the scene. It’s irony.

DAD:

Christ, you got a lot to learn. Don’t get me started on irony.

BLACKOUT.

Written by Jason Cox in the United States, September 25^th and 26^th 2002.