Nick: I don’t wanna talk about alien–angels with you. We’re focusing on tactile, known things —
Gerome: Then imagine a black hole — it spits out a pill then it speaks to me —
Nick: Gerome —
Gerome: “This pill will make you like them for one day — one single day — before it tears your insides apart as it crushes you.” I’d take the pill.
Nick: Be like us for more than a day. Be like us for the whole weekend! We have an opportunity —
Gerome: To meet the woman genetically responsible for me.
Nick: Yes, of course, but maybe — maybe — you’re finding another way. There are survivors out there, no medication, walking around as if nothing ever happened.
Gerome closes the pill bottle and starts shaking it.
This could be relapse prevention — it could be relapse elimination — you and me and no antipsychotics.
Gerome stops shaking the pill bottle and shakes his head. He opens the bottle and takes a pill and puts it in his mouth. He stares at himself in the mirror.
Where are you?
Gerome: Right here. Talking to archangels and black holes.
Gerome spits the pill out and takes the cell from Nick. Gerome makes a swift, ritualized gesture that he has created to make the phone safe.
Number?
Nick hands Gerome a crumpled piece of paper. Gerome unfolds it and dials.
Captain’s log, stardate 45944.1: a momentous occasion —
Nick: Is it ringing?
Gerome nods.
Gerome: A Starfleet officer making his first cellular voice communication in centuries to seek out new —
Gerome freezes.
Nick: . . . Is it still ringing?
Gerome shakes his head vigorously. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Nick mouths, “Say hello.” Gerome shakes his head and holds the phone out to Nick.
(to cell) Hello? Is this Saski? Oh — this is — my name’s Nicholas Pinel — calling . . . I met you with my husband. About seventeen years ago. We adopted — ah . . . Yeah . . . Hi. We got your contact information from the agency. They said it would be okay if we contacted you and — um — we’re actually in Thunder Bay. We were gonna camp and then — anyway, we’re hoping, would you be willing toooo meet us? Gerome and I — my son and me? You don’t have to answer. You can think about it . . .
Nick nods, smiling at Gerome.
Great, that’s — you’re gonna make him real happy . . . Ah. Actually. My brother and his wife want you to come over. For food. Tomorrow — probably seven-thirty — um, hold on a sec —
Nick turns on the speakerphone. A young woman’s voice — Saski — fills the room.
Saski: (from cell) Nicholas? Are you there?
Nick: I put you on speaker.
Saski: (from cell) Is he with you?
Gerome shakes his head.
Nick: He’s already gone to bed.
Saski: (from cell) You called me. Incredible. I had decided you never would. But I’m in the middle —
Nick: Is this a bad time?
Saski: (from cell) I have to — yes — have to run. Tomorrow —
Nick: It’s short notice —
Saski: (from cell) Should be fine. What can I bring?
Nick: No —
Saski: (from cell) Allergies or dietary restrictions?
Nick looks at Gerome. Gerome shakes his head.
Nick: Gerome’s vegan.
Saski: (from cell) Noted. Text your brother’s address.
Nick: Okay, right — we’ll see ya —
Saski: (from cell) Nicholas? How is he? Is he well?
Nick: He’s doing great.
Saski: I’m looking forward to meeting him. Good night.
Gerome: (to cell, quietly) Bye.
Nick hangs up.
Thank you.
Nick: Uh-huh.
Gerome gives Nick the pill bottle.
Gerome: I’m not sure what I want my healed self to look like.
Reid enters. His shirt is open and he’s written “I’m with stupid” on his chest, with an arrow on his forehead pointing to one side.
Reid: Where’d she go? Where’s Marion?
Nick: Better cook us up another roast beast, Reidy boy. Company’s coming.
Reid: (calling off) Hey, Marion!
Reid exits.
Nick puts the pill bottle on the counter and a hand on Gerome.
Nick: It’s your choice, bud.
Nick hesitates for a moment, looking at the pill bottle. He exits.
Gerome picks up the pill bottle. He looks at himself in the mirror and pockets the pills.
Michael enters covered from head to toe in sports pads and wearing a helmet.
Michael: Precautionary measures, guy. I know you don’t wanna flip out.
Michael puts down a yogourt container and points at it.
His name’s Alexander, but he won’t respond when you call. He’s actually the red-belly kind — pretty like sought after or whatever if you’re into lizards of the water. Trial run. You wanna keep him, pill payment’s due in twenty-four hours . . . I’ll see you in there, I guess. Top bunk’s mine.
Michael kisses his fingers and gives Gerome two quick, gentle slaps on the cheek. Gerome stops brushing. Michael exits. Gerome brushes. He stops and peeks under the lid of the container. Blackout.
Scene Three
Early Saturday morning. The sounds of mild, hetero porn. Reid is at the dining table with his iPad. His shirt is open and he still has “I’m with stupid” on his chest. He’s drinking beer and has a few empties beside him. Gerome enters. He is fully dressed in his suit jacket and tie, complete with meat-stained pants. He is finishing one of Michael’s cans of cola. He is noticeably more animated than the night before.
Reid: Shit Michael looks up on this thing.
Reid shoves the iPad in Gerome’s face.
Did you know what those were at thirteen?
Gerome: I don’t know what those are now.
Reid: Fucking right, man — neither do I.
Gerome: What are you doing?
Reid: It’s four a.m.
Gerome waits.
So. Not sleeping. Obviously.
Gerome: Michael’s snoring — my papa too —
Reid: Runs in the family. You get off easy not being related — remember that.
Gerome: May I have a beer, please?
Reid: Absolutely not. Have another pop. Or better yet, get yourself a glass of water.
Gerome exits. Reid goes back to his iPad. The porn starts playing again, accidentally.
Fuck!
Gerome: (off) Uncle, we should make this a “man’s hour.”
Reid: (calling off) What the hell’s that?
Gerome enters with another cola.
Gerome: Time for us guys.
Reid: (re: can of cola) That stuff’s gonna keep you up.
Gerome: And rot my brain. Or it would for most people. I’m immune.
Gerome sits at the table and stares at Reid.
Reid: Can I help you?
Gerome: Man’s hour. I’ll go first. Once I went to my psychoanalyst, he gave me a picture of a painting — this man’s head: totally hairless, pronounced bone. He’d most definitely undergone electric shock therapy six to eight billion times. The painting’s a town too, growing over his skin like a rash — fields for cheeks, church out of an eye socket. A self-portrait by a patient — one look, I thought, “Nutter.” Promised myself I’d be a more discrete nutjob.
Reid: You’re a chatty fucking Cathy before the sun comes up, huh?
Gerome: This is what man’s hour is all about. The next week the nutjob’s self-portrait’s in my forehead: popped up overnight like a whitehead. He wanted me to kill him — he said so himself. I wanted to kill him, so at least there was consensus. I went at him with a pair of toenail clippers. Snip, snip, snip. Gush. Oops. “There goes the neighbourhood, dear.” “That poor boy the gays are raising — he’s lost himself completely.�
�� Mantra number twenty-three: throw out your toenail clippers. Mantra number seven: don’t see their faces, don’t hear their voices. Make the choice not to. Uncle Reid?
Reid: No, “screw it” — that’s the new mantra. Don’t worry about the voices. And forget the shrink who told you to worry about the voices. Another place, another time — you’d be the damn shaman of this village — those voices would be our ancestor spirits or some spectral-ass shit.
Reid goes back to his iPad.
Shaman it, my man. Fuck, I hate solitaire.
Reid gets up and grabs his jacket.
Gerome: (speaking Klingon) Heghlu’meH QaQ jajvam —
Reid: What’d you say?
Gerome: “Man’s hour: freedom, the spirit soars.”
Reid: Was that . . . Klingon?
Gerome: I think I might be sugar drunk.
Reid: Go back to bed. You’ll be fine in the morning.
Gerome: Where are you going?
Reid: Booze run.
Gerome: I’ll drive.
Reid: Do you know how?
Gerome: You can teach me.
Reid: That’s your papa’s job.
Gerome: Are you a better driver?
Reid: Of course.
Gerome: I want you to teach me.
Reid: Not at four a.m.!
Gerome: More man time!
Reid: Go to bed. It’s me time now.
Gerome: You weren’t watching pornography when I came in, were you?
Reid: Oh, you little fucker — it’s called porn! Thanks for interrupting.
Gerome: I’m eighteen. Driving’s a useful skill.
Reid: You’re seventeen —
Gerome: Almost eighteen.
Reid: Learning how to sleep through the night’s a fucking useful skill too.
Gerome: Shaman wants to learn to drive, Uncle. Don’t hold me back.
Reid groans.
Reid: Find your papa’s key. Fucked if I’m teaching you on my car.
A shift. Nick’s car. Gerome is in the driver’s seat while Reid sits shotgun. Gerome looks at him.
Well . . . Turn it on.
Gerome: How?
Reid: Don’t be a ’tard. Turn on the goddamn car.
Gerome starts the car.
Gerome: I want to be cautious: most teenagers are accused of being rash.
Reid: Don’t let them call you names, shaman. You can go faster.
Gerome: We’re not moving yet.
Reid: Yeah. Go. Faster.
Gerome: What’s the speed limit?
Reid: It’s my fucking driveway — the speed limit’s whatever the hell I want it to be —
Gerome: Where are we going?
Reid: Twenty-four-hour beer vending machine at the Old Country Motel. Straight, and I’ll tell you when to turn. Move it, Gerome — speed up!
Gerome: This is basically fifty —
Reid: It’s forty-five. The speed limit’s sixty, no one goes under seventy, and the only good part about driving at four a.m. is the road’s yours, so own it.
Gerome: Okay, what else? Teach me more.
Reid: What the fuck? Whataya want from me? Drive.
Gerome: This is it?
Reid: You’re driving. You’re doing it. Keep doing it.
Gerome: How do I turn?
Reid: You turn —
Gerome begins to turn and Reid grabs the wheel.
Not now! At a cross street, asswipe.
Gerome: How do I brake?
Reid: You —
Gerome slams on the brakes and they both jolt forwards.
Yep, you got it. Turn right up here.
Gerome: This is super — you are such a good teacher.
Reid: Best uncle ever, riding shotgun — turn, the motel. Turn! What the fuck? You missed it!
Gerome: Look how fast I’m going now! Pretty good, huh?
Reid: Do a uey and take me back to my beer machine.
Gerome rolls down the window and lets out a howl.
Okay, stop the car —
Gerome speeds up so fast Reid is thrown back.
That’s not the brake!
Gerome: Do you know any Klingon? “Jajvam” roughly translated is “today” —
Reid: You need to slow down!
Gerome: “MeH QaQ,” that’s “is a good day” —
Reid: Are you losing it on me right now?
Gerome: Want to see my impression of myself obliterating?
Reid: No — What?
Gerome takes his hands from the steering wheel, covers his eye, and screams.
Reid grabs the wheel.
Don’t ever, ever take your hands off the wheel!
Gerome takes the wheel back.
Gerome: That’s the first thing you actually taught me!
Reid: Why are you looking at me? Look at the road!
Gerome: You know what my favourite Star Trek moment ever is?
Reid sees something ahead and grabs for the wheel.
Reid: No, watch out!
Gerome sees it too.
Gerome: Oh shit.
A blinding flash — and then blackout.
Scene Four
The sound of porn picks up where it left off as the lights shift. It’s later Saturday morning. Michael is eating a bowl of cereal and watching the iPad. Marion enters.
Marion grabs the iPad and struggles to stop the video.
Marion: Michael! What did we say about watching your father’s movies? This is coming right out of your screen time allowance, young man.
Michael: My body’s going through changes, Reeon — I have questions.
Nick enters from upstairs.
Marion: Turn off the smut and ask me, I’m happy to answer anything.
Michael moves closer to the iPad.
Michael: Okay —
Michael grabs the iPad, presses play again, and shoves it in Marion’s face.
Can I have $12.99 for a subscription?
Marion covers her eyes.
Marion: Don’t!
Michael keeps going.
Michael: New videos in your inbox every day of the week!
Michael exits with the porn playing as he goes. Marion sees Nick.
Marion: I’m not his mother — what am I supposed to do?
Nick: Um . . . Can I make coffee?
Marion grabs an envelope.
Marion: You sit. Before you open it — normally there’d be more — how much has Reid told you?
Nick: Nothing — we don’t talk.
Marion: We gave them another fifteen thousand — oh my god, that’s a queasy feeling, isn’t it? That’s forty-five thousand in all — on me, on this —
Marion puts a hand on her belly.
This time around they’ve given us a twenty-five percent chance of fertilization, and they’ve assured us that they’re being conservative with that estimate —
Marion holds out the envelope.
All that’s my excuse for this being so light. But I bet it’s still better than a bar cowboy.
Nick doesn’t take it.
This is how we help you. Let us help you.
Nick: I didn’t even know you were trying.
Marion puts the envelope on the table.
Marion: Oh, stop, don’t worry about me.
Marion sits. A slight pause.
I don’t know what I’ll do if it doesn’t work this time.
Nick: Adoption?
Marion: Oh, I think it’s so great that you and Toby did. Why not, right? But for me, you know, ah . . . Yeah, you understand.
Marion stands again.
Coffeeeee! And oh! Oh! I forgot to tell you, Nicky. You have to stay till Monday.
Marion exits to the kitchen.
Nick: (calling off) Why?
Marion: (off) It’s Michael’s school play!
Nick: (calling off) Oh — sure.
Marion: (off) Really?
Nick: (calling off) No.
Marion enters with two coffees and hands one to Nick.
; Marion: They’re doing a theatrical version of Paradise Lost by Sir Johnny Milton and Ms. Blueberry, a remarkable grade eight teacher — her class is so advanced. I’m the props mistress — golden snakes and apples, evergreen halos — that’s the kind of look we’re going for. And and and! The kids are all making their own costumes! I want it to be a complete surprise. I’m not letting Michael show me his before the big day.
Nick: Who’s he playing?
Marion: Paradise — title role.
Nick: I didn’t realize Paradise was an actual character.
Marion: He and Lost are the narrators.
(calling off) Michael! Bring your script! We’ll do a little show for your uncle!
Reid enters from upstairs. His nose is bloody and covered with a crudely applied bandage.
Reid: Where’s coffee?
Marion lets out three short, piercing screams, one after the other.
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