16: Tennessee
- population:
- 6,214,888
- households:
- 2,232,905
- housing units:
- 2,724,729
- square miles:
- 41,217
- characters:
- 6
- paragraphs:
- 22
- graphemes:
- 2,725
- narrator:
- 3rd person
Fluorescent lights illuminate a dingy kitchen. Tom is sitting at a folding table, typing on an old PC with his back to the foyer. The doorway abutting the table is boarded up. Cigarette butts spill from a Bakelite ashtray onto the tabletop, next to a bottle of bourbon and a single glass.
TOM. (Typing) … like a carnival magician, it seems real, but it isn’t. (Pause) It appears to be true, but. Uh. Shit. (He deletes his last sentence and starts again) Like an illusionist, who … (A door closes softly and Francis walks in dressed in an Arby’s uniform)
FRANCIS. (Coughs) You smoke too much.
TOM. Who are you, my mother? (He resumes typing, muttering too softly to be heard. Francis passes behind him into another room)
TOM. My play is really coming along. Thanks for asking. (He lights a cigarette and stares at the screen)
The muffled sound of a slamming door comes through the boarded-up doorway, followed by the tumbling of children running to meet their mother. She speaks with them for a few minutes before they run outside and the door slams again.
FRANCIS. (Returning to the kitchen in casual dress) Much better. Now, what do you want for dinner?
TOM. I don’t care.
FRANCIS. I know.
Francis opens the fridge, removes a couple Styrofoam takeout containers, spoons some leftover food onto a plate, and puts the plate into the microwave. It whirs for a few minutes, then beeps. Francis takes the plate out, sits down next to Tom, and starts to eat.
TOM. That smells like garbage. (He takes a drink)
FRANCIS. Oh? Did you want some?
TOM. Fuck you.
FRANCIS. Fascinating. Where ever did you learn the art of conversation?
Francis continues eating in silence. Tom pours himself another drink and lights another cigarette. Somewhere, music is playing. A woman’s voice begins to sing along.
TOM. Listen to her. Singing that goddamn song again. Dolling herself up for another goddamn gentleman caller.
FRANCIS. (Resting a hand on Tom’s shoulder) Tom, he’s her fiancé. (Running the other hand through his hair) You need to let Laura go.
TOM. Don’t touch me. (He stands suddenly and pushes Francis backward. The chair clatters to the floor) You freak. You mutant. Don’t you fucking touch me. (He raises his fist and steps forward) I left my job at the lab to be a writer, Laura left me for that asshole, and I can’t write worth a damn. Every day I hear my kids come home, but I can’t see them. Now all I have is you. And look what kind of woman you turned out to be.
FRANCIS. You never wanted me, Tom. (Standing slowly) You just wanted to get back at her. And you knew what you were getting into. (Francis turns to go) Now you don’t have anyone.
Francis walks to the door and opens it. In the driveway two young boys are playing, their laughter rings about the kitchen for a moment, then the door closes and they recede into the background again.
TOM. (Staring at the boarded-up doorway) We had it, Laura and me. The American Dream. The Nuclear Family. Now look what happened. What good is half a house in Oak Ridge? What’s left after you split an atom? Ashes. (He sits down). Ashes. Shadows on a wall.
The music starts up again in the other room. Laura begins to sing, and Tom puts his head in his hands. Smoke drifts up from the end of his cigarette, dappled by the last light of the golden hour passing through the curtains.
TOM. (Typing) … like a carnival magician, it seems real, but it isn’t. (Pause) It appears to be true, but. Uh. Shit. (He deletes his last sentence and starts again) Like an illusionist, who … (A door closes softly and Francis walks in dressed in an Arby’s uniform)
FRANCIS. (Coughs) You smoke too much.
TOM. Who are you, my mother? (He resumes typing, muttering too softly to be heard. Francis passes behind him into another room)
TOM. My play is really coming along. Thanks for asking. (He lights a cigarette and stares at the screen)
The muffled sound of a slamming door comes through the boarded-up doorway, followed by the tumbling of children running to meet their mother. She speaks with them for a few minutes before they run outside and the door slams again.
FRANCIS. (Returning to the kitchen in casual dress) Much better. Now, what do you want for dinner?
TOM. I don’t care.
FRANCIS. I know.
Francis opens the fridge, removes a couple Styrofoam takeout containers, spoons some leftover food onto a plate, and puts the plate into the microwave. It whirs for a few minutes, then beeps. Francis takes the plate out, sits down next to Tom, and starts to eat.
TOM. That smells like garbage. (He takes a drink)
FRANCIS. Oh? Did you want some?
TOM. Fuck you.
FRANCIS. Fascinating. Where ever did you learn the art of conversation?
Francis continues eating in silence. Tom pours himself another drink and lights another cigarette. Somewhere, music is playing. A woman’s voice begins to sing along.
TOM. Listen to her. Singing that goddamn song again. Dolling herself up for another goddamn gentleman caller.
FRANCIS. (Resting a hand on Tom’s shoulder) Tom, he’s her fiancé. (Running the other hand through his hair) You need to let Laura go.
TOM. Don’t touch me. (He stands suddenly and pushes Francis backward. The chair clatters to the floor) You freak. You mutant. Don’t you fucking touch me. (He raises his fist and steps forward) I left my job at the lab to be a writer, Laura left me for that asshole, and I can’t write worth a damn. Every day I hear my kids come home, but I can’t see them. Now all I have is you. And look what kind of woman you turned out to be.
FRANCIS. You never wanted me, Tom. (Standing slowly) You just wanted to get back at her. And you knew what you were getting into. (Francis turns to go) Now you don’t have anyone.
Francis walks to the door and opens it. In the driveway two young boys are playing, their laughter rings about the kitchen for a moment, then the door closes and they recede into the background again.
TOM. (Staring at the boarded-up doorway) We had it, Laura and me. The American Dream. The Nuclear Family. Now look what happened. What good is half a house in Oak Ridge? What’s left after you split an atom? Ashes. (He sits down). Ashes. Shadows on a wall.
The music starts up again in the other room. Laura begins to sing, and Tom puts his head in his hands. Smoke drifts up from the end of his cigarette, dappled by the last light of the golden hour passing through the curtains.
April 19, 2010