by Eric Lane
DORIS: Havin’ to move out here like he wanted to—away from civilization. “It’s the Palm Springs of the twenty-first century”—he’d tell me.
MARGE: Florida without the traffic.
DORIS: Oh, I hate it—how it builds up inside.
MARGE: Doris, you can’t let things build up inside.
DORIS: Asteroid after asteroid. God, I cringe when I hear the word.
MARGE: Now, Doris—
DORIS: All the times I’ve wanted to tell him … I should just tell him right now. While the anger’s fresh.
MARGE: Tell who?
DORIS: Lloyd. I should walk right up there—
MARGE: You wanna tell him now? What—with the explosion—
DORIS: Marge, it’s the last straw. I’m gonna march right up there and tell him—tell him straight to his face: “I’m leavin’.”
MARGE: You wouldn’t.
DORIS: Try me. I’d say to him—“Enough is enough, Lloyd, I’m outta here.” To his face—right between his eyes, that’s where I’d look. “I’m leavin’, Lloyd, and you can stay or you can leave with me.”
MARGE: To his face, you’d say that?
DORIS: I would. And then I’d pack a bag.
MARGE: A bag! … And—and leave? Just like that?
DORIS: I’d say—“Lloyd, you have the night to think about it.” And whether he comes with me or not, the next morning I’d take a train somewhere. Anywhere. Sayonara, Russia. Kiss my ass.
MARGE: But where would you go? Where’s there to go if it’s just you with Lloyd behind? Surely you wouldn’t—
DORIS: Paris. Milan. Iowa City. Anyplace where there’s people to look at. People to talk to. Where there’s life. This isn’t life, Marge. We are not living life.
MARGE: Maybe you should think about it, Doris. Let yourself cool off.
DORIS: It doesn’t have to be this way. You don’t have to hide to be safe anymore. What is safety, anyway? Who’s ever really safe?
MARGE: (Growing panicked.) To just leave like that—I mean, Doris, to just pack up and leave—
DORIS: I mean, they convince us to move out here with their crazy ideas that places like Park Avenue or Columbus Circle—where we’ve lived our whole lives—are gonna suddenly cave in on us—fall to pieces in the blink of an eye. So we pack up and come to Siberia, because it’s supposed to be safer. Because it’s a new time—a new age where you hafta seek out your safety, where you guard it like a watchdog. But ya know what? Ya know what I’m gonna tell Lloyd when he’s doing his crossword puzzle and sittin’ back in his La-Z-Boy? I’m gonna march right in there and tell him: “The biggest bitch of all is that no one’s safe.” It’s a riot—a God damn riot, ’cause even in the farthest most remote corner of the world where there may not be a big building to blow up or a plane to crash, you have to worry about asteroids—asteroids—asteroids coming down from outer space. It’s a joke, Marge. It’s all coming to one big joke.
MARGE: But leaving, Doris—leaving with no rhyme, no reason—
DORIS: And when I think back—when I think back to all the times when he sweet-talked me into moving here, sweet-talked me into the one part of the world where we could live to be a hundred—where they got new golf courses and all-you-can-eat buffets—
MARGE: Who would I talk to? Where would I get my lilies in the spring?
DORIS: Oh, you wait and see, Marge. ’Cause I’m gonna tell him. I’m gonna tell him and they’re gonna be able to hear me all the way in Severomorsk! ’Cause from now on, Marge, I’m makin’ the decisions. I’m tellin’ us where we go and what we do. I’m the one who is packin’ up and movin’ to where I think is safe—where I think is good. And this time he’s the one who’s gonna come with me. Or maybe he doesn’t. ’Cause this far along, it doesn’t even matter. It’s the principle of it, Marge. The principle.
(DORIS has grown intensely empowered. MARGE stands, shaking with terror. MARGE grabs her chest, a deep sigh, closing her eyes a moment, then opening them, as if back in reality, relieved.)
MARGE: You know … I believed it this time.
DORIS: Did you?
MARGE: It was different from all the others.
DORIS: Yeah?
MARGE: This time I felt it in my stomach. When you raised your voice like that, that’s right where it went. Right to my stomach.
DORIS: That’s what I’m going for. Precision.
MARGE: You think it’ll work?
DORIS: How do we know? Do I look like an expert?
MARGE: Then you should. While it’s fresh—before it gets dark.
DORIS: Yes.
(The two walk over to stage right, which now becomes lit, revealing two gravestones several feet apart. MARGE stands near one and DORIS the other. DORIS takes out wilting black flowers from her coat and sets them down by the grave.)
MARGE: Hard to believe it’s been this long.
DORIS: Three years. Who knew.
MARGE: I think about him most in the morning. When it’s quiet.
DORIS: Mornings are long.
MARGE: Time—is long.
(Moment.)
… You gonna do it?
DORIS: (Beat.) Do what? (Moment; sighs.) I don’t think so. Not—right now.
(MARGE takes DORIS’S arm.)
MARGE: You wouldn’t really leave like that, would you, Doris?
DORIS: Nah.
MARGE: ’Cause I can’t grow lilies like you can. I never could. (Beat.) If I scrape off some cabbage from the ceiling, will you eat some?
DORIS: Maybe a little.
MARGE: The heat from the explosion’ll keep ’em warm.
DORIS: Tender.
(They begin walking offstage.)
MARGE: You know what got me this time, though? Is when you raised your voice like you did.
DORIS: When?
MARGE: When you started repeatin’ yourself like that.
DORIS: Uh-huh …
MARGE: I felt it, ya know? I felt it right here.
DORIS: Where?
MARGE: In my gut, you know? Where it all matters. Right in the middle …
(A slow fade as they walk offstage.)
END OF PLAY
BAR MITZVAH BOY
Samara Siskind
CAST OF CHARACTERS
SAMUEL: Thirteen, has just become a man.
STACIE: Twelve, just starting to like boys.
SETTING
A Bar Mitzvah reception.
Evening.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Bar Mitzvah Boy was first produced by City Theatre, Coral Gables, Florida, March 2007.
For Ian
Darkness. A sappy slow-dance song plays faintly in the background. We hear an angry voice in the darkness, followed by a slap.
STACIE: Hey!
(Lights rise on SAMUEL and STACIE facing each other on a dance floor. They are both dressed in fancy evening attire. SAMUEL clutches his sore face.)
SAMUEL: Oww! You hit me!
STACIE: Your hand was on my butt.
SAMUEL: My hand was nowhere near your butt!
STACIE: C’mon, Samuel, your hand was totally touching my butt!
SAMUEL: One—I wouldn’t touch your butt with a ten-foot pole. Two—Even if I did touch your butt, it’s no reason to resort to physical violence.
STACIE: Well, if your hand goes anywhere near my butt again, I’m cutting it off.
SAMUEL: Oh that’s nice. I’m sure they’ll let you off on the popular “he touched my butt” defense. Now can we just finish this dance already, please? Everyone’s watching.
(Beat. STACIE puts SAMUEL’S right arm high up on her waist, and takes his left hand in hers. They dance, rather awkwardly.)
My face is stinging. I can’t believe you hit me. It better not leave a mark.
STACIE: I didn’t hit you that hard. Don’t be a wuss.
SAMUEL: Don’t be a ruffian.
STACIE: Uh, ruffian?
SAMUEL: Savage, bully … barbarian.
STACIE: Oh you’re so sm
art. This is a party, not honors English. (Beat.) God, how long is this song?
SAMUEL: It just started.
STACIE: I’m only dancing with you because my mom made me.
SAMUEL: I’m only dancing with you for the photo op.
(SAMUEL smiles, posing for a photographer. Sound of a flash going off.)
STACIE: Just because it’s your birthday, doesn’t mean you’re better than everyone else.
SAMUEL: It’s not just my birthday, it’s my Bar Mitzvah.
STACIE: So?
SAMUEL: So?! (Proud.) I am a man today.
STACIE: Yeah, right.
SAMUEL: I am!
STACIE: I see no man before me. I see a dork in a beanie.
SAMUEL: It’s not a beanie. It’s a yarmulke. A religious head covering.
STACIE: Yeah, that makes it cooler.
SAMUEL: I’ll have you know, Bar Mitzvah literally translates to “son of commandment” and implies “responsible male.”
STACIE: Big whoop.
SAMUEL: Did you hear me read from the Torah?
STACIE: Yeah, and I’ve got news for you … the Torah is a snore-ah.
SAMUEL: You weren’t impressed?
STACIE: I was ready to hit the door-ah.
SAMUEL: Gee, thanks.
STACIE: On a scale of one to ten, I give it a four-ah.
SAMUEL: Okay, you didn’t like it. I get it.
(Beat. They continue dancing. STACIE scopes out the dance floor. SAMUEL is annoyed.)
Why did you even come? If you hate me so much.
STACIE: Hello? We’ve lived next door to each other since we were four, Samuel. My whole family’s here. We’ve had it marked on our calendar since August.
SAMUEL: You could’ve gotten out of it. You get out of everything else your parents want you to do.
STACIE: Well, maybe I didn’t want to get out of it.
SAMUEL: (Perking up.) Really? Why?
STACIE: No reason.
SAMUEL: There’s gotta be a reason. Tell me.
STACIE: Ow!! That’s my foot!
SAMUEL: Why’d you want to come, huh? Say it.
STACIE: God, Samuel, what’s the big deal?
SAMUEL: C’mon, Stacie, just give it up. Tell me.
STACIE: Okay, fine! You invited Kyle Fischer and Justin Flint.
(Beat. SAMUEL’S spirits plummet once again.)
SAMUEL: I didn’t invite them. Mom did. She’s in the PTA with Mrs. Fischer and did Habitat for Humanity or something with Justin’s mom.
STACIE: Do I look like I care? The point is they’re here.
SAMUEL: So, what? You’re dating them both?
STACIE: Samuel! Hello, I’m twelve.
SAMUEL: But you like them both.
STACIE: One of them likes me.
SAMUEL: Which one?
STACIE: I don’t know.
SAMUEL: (Confused.) If you don’t know which one likes you, how do you know if either of them like you?
STACIE: Jeez, Samuel, you’re like, clueless. (Beat.) One of them is my secret admirer.
SAMUEL: Your secret admirer.
STACIE: Valentine’s Day was last week, and I got a dozen pink carnations in my locker.
SAMUEL: And you think one of those dorkwads did it?!
STACIE: When I found the flowers in my locker they were at the lockers across the hall … looking at me, smiling.
SAMUEL: Oh, and that’s like, proof.
STACIE: Shut up.
SAMUEL: You shut up.
STACIE: At least I got something. What did you get for Valentine’s Day? Let me guess, a big heart-shaped cookie your mom made you.
SAMUEL: You’re so dumb. (Beat.) It was a Cupid.
STACIE: They’re looking over here. Oh my God, I’m gonna die. I am so gonna die.
SAMUEL: One—You’re not gonna die. And two—They’re not looking at you, they’re looking at my cousin Sharon. She’s seventeen, and a thirty-four double D.
STACIE: Go ask them which one did it.
SAMUEL: Which one did what?
STACIE: Put the flowers in my locker.
SAMUEL: What?! No! No way!
STACIE: C’mon, Samuel, please?!
SAMUEL: I’m not talking to those Neanderthals. Uh-uh.
STACIE: Why not?
SAMUEL: Because one—I’m not your messenger boy, and two—I am enjoying my dance.
STACIE: One—What is with the one and two everything? God. And two—You’re just jealous.
SAMUEL: Of who? Those guys? Please.
STACIE: YOUR HAND’S ON MY BUTT!!
SAMUEL: Sorry, it slipped!
STACIE: (Breaking free.) That’s it, Bar Mitzvah boy. Son of commandment or not, my dad is gonna kick your ass!
SAMUEL: (Holding on to her.) Wait! Wait. Stacie, I’m sorry. Look, if you leave me up here by myself Mom is gonna make me dance with my little sister. It’ll be more embarrassing than that life-size photo of me in the lobby. Please.
(A popular, upbeat song begins to play.)
STACIE: Fine, but only ’cause I like this song. (Beat.) Don’t touch me.
(They dance without touching, more awkwardly than the slow dance.)
You’re a really bad dancer.
SAMUEL: I’ve taken dance lessons at Arthur Murray since October.
STACIE: You should get your money back.
SAMUEL: They never got to fast tempo.
STACIE: Seriously, you look like Milton Smidel when he had that epileptic seizure during bio.
SAMUEL: Yeah, well, you’re no Fergie either.
STACIE: I’m sure Kyle and Justin would disagree.
SAMUEL: Kyle and Justin are a few brain cells shy of being mentally retarded.
STACIE: Samuel!
SAMUEL: Haven’t you heard the rumors? They like, still eat their boogers.
STACIE: Take it back!
SAMUEL: And they’re in love with each other.
STACIE: They are not!
SAMUEL: Look, they’re dancing together! See? (Waving.) Hi, guys! You look super!
STACIE: (Trying to cover his mouth.) Samuel, ssshhh!
SAMUEL: Like they could even figure out your locker combination, yeah, as if. How would they even know pink carnations are your favorite flower?!
(Beat. STACIE stops dancing.)
STACIE: How did you know pink carnations were my favorite flower?
(A few beats. The song changes to another slow one. STACIE puts SAMUEL’S hand on her waist. They start to slow dance again.)
It was you, wasn’t it? My secret admirer.
SAMUEL: No.
STACIE: Samuel.
SAMUEL: I mean, well … yeah. Kind of. (Beat.) Kyle and Justin saw me put them in there, hence the staring.
STACIE: Why?
SAMUEL: They thought they were trick flowers that were gonna squirt you in the face.
STACIE: No, I mean … why’d you do it?
SAMUEL: I dunno. It’s kind of obvious, don’t you think?
STACIE: But we haven’t … I’ve been so … (Beat.) I haven’t been very nice to you.
SAMUEL: Yeah, true dat.
STACIE: Well then, why?
(Beat.)
SAMUEL: When we were in third grade, Bobby Proctor wanted to fight me after school because I wouldn’t let him cheat off me. After he threw the first punch you stepped in and kicked him in the balls. He never touched me again after that.
STACIE: I don’t remember that.
SAMUEL: I never forgot it.
(A few beats.)
STACIE: Well, thank you. I mean, for the flowers.
SAMUEL: You’re welcome. (Beat.) Y’know … I know I’m not cool, or popular enough for you or anything. But I just wanted to do something nice to pay you back for that day and … well, ’cause you deserve it.
STACIE: (Smiling.) Who knew Samuel Rosenbaum could be so sweet?