Dead Man's Cell Phone (2 page)

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Authors: Sarah Ruhl

BOOK: Dead Man's Cell Phone
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scene one
An almost empty café.
A dead man, Gordon, sits on a chair with his back to us.
He doesn't look all that dead.
He looks—still.
At another table, a woman—Jean—sits, drinking coffee, and writing a thank-you letter.
She has an insular quality, as though she doesn't want to take up space.
An empty bowl of soup sits on her table.
She looks over at the man.
She stares back at her coffee.
She sips.
 
A cell phone rings.
It is coming from the dead man's table.
It rings and rings.
The caller hangs up and calls again.
Jean looks over at him.
She sighs. The phone keeps ringing.
 
 
JEAN
Excuse me—are you going to get that?
No answer from the man.
Would you mind answering your phone?
I'm sorry to bother you.
If you could just—turn your phone—
off
?
The cell phone rings again.
Jean gets out of her chair and walks over to the man.
Are you ill?
No answer.
Are you deaf?
No answer.
Oh, I'm sorry—
Jean signs in sign language:
Are you deaf?
 
No response.
The phone rings again.
All right.
Excuse me.
She reaches for the cell phone. She answers it.
Hello? No. This is—you don't know me.
 
(To the dead man)
Are you Gordon?
No answer.
(To the phone)
I don't know. Can I take a message? Hold on—I don't have anything to write with.
She sees a pen on the dead man's table.
(To the dead man)
Thank you.
 
(To the phone)
Go ahead.
She writes on a napkin.
How late can he call you?
The voice on the phone begins to sob.
I'm sorry. You sound upset. I'm not—
The caller hangs up.
Gordon?
She touches his shoulder.
Oh—
She holds a spoon under his nose to
see if he's still breathing.
 
The phone rings again.
She answers it.
Hello? No, he's not. Can I take a message?
A pause as the person on the other end makes a very long offer.
No, he doesn't want one. He already has one.
No, I don't want one.
I already have one.
Thank you, good-bye.
She hangs up.
She looks around for help.
Help.
She dials 911.
Hello?
I think that there is a dead man sitting next to me.
I don't know how he died.
I'm at a café.
I don't know.
Hold on.
She exits with the cell phone to look
at the name of the café and the address.
We just see the dead man and an empty stage.
She returns.
It's on the corner of Green and Goethe.
(Pronounced Go-thee)
Should I stay with him?
There seems to be no one working at this café.
How long?
Thank you.
She hangs up.
A pause.
She looks at him.
His cell phone rings again.
Hello? No, he's not.
I'm—answering his phone.
Does he have your phone number?
Pause while the woman on the phone says:
of course he has my phone number. I am his mother.
The enormity of her loss registers for Jean.
Oh . . . Yes, of course.
He'll—I'll leave him the message.
Have a—hope you have a—good day.
Good-bye.
She hangs up.
She breathes, to Gordon:
It was your mother.
She looks at Gordon's face.
It is transfigured, as though he was just looking at something he found eminently beautiful.
She touches his forehead.
Do you want me to keep talking until they get here?
Gordon, I'm Jean.
You don't know me.
But you're going to be just fine.
Well, actually—
Don't worry.
 
Are you still inside there?
How did you die so quietly?
I'll stay with you.
Gordon.
For as long as you need me.
I'll stay with you.
Gordon.
She holds his hand.
She keeps hold of it.
The sound of sirens, rain, and church.
scene two
A church.
A Mass is being sung in Latin.
Jean kneels down, wearing a dark blue raincoat.
Her cell phone rings.
She looks at it.
She hesitates.
She answers it.
She whispers.
 
JEAN
Hello?
No, he can't come to the phone right now.
On the line, inaudible to us,
a woman says, I know he's dead.
Oh, you do?
I'm sorry.
Then—why?
Okay, I'll meet you.
What will you be wearing?
A pause while the woman says:
I will be wearing a blue raincoat.
Really? That's strange.
I'll be wearing a blue raincoat, too.
I'll see you then. Good-bye.
Mass continues to be sung.
Jean kneels. She prays.
A spotlight on Jean.
Help me, God.
Help me to comfort his loved ones.
Help me to help the memory of Gordon live on in the minds and hearts of his loved ones.
I only knew him for a short time, God.
But I think that I loved him, in a way.
Dear God. I hope that Gordon is peaceful now.
The music stops.
A woman comes to a podium.
Mrs. Gottlieb begins her eulogy.
MRS. GOTTLIEB
I'm not sure what to say. There is, thank God, a vaulted ceiling here. I am relieved to find that there is stained glass and the sensation of height. Even though I am not a religious woman I am
glad there are still churches. Thank God there are still people who build churches for the rest of us so that when someone dies—or gets married—we have a place to—I could not put all of this—
(She thinks the word grief)—
in a low-ceilinged room—no—it requires height.
A cell phone rings in the back of the church. Jean turns to look.
Could someone please turn their fucking cell phone off. There are only one or two sacred places left in the world today. Where there is no ringing. The theater, the church, and the toilet. But some people actually answer their phones in the shitter these days. Some people really do so. How many of you do? Raise your hand if you've answered your cell phone while you were quietly urinating. Yes, I thought so. My God.
 
Where was I? A reading from Charles Dickens'
Tale of Two Cities
. A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other . . . No more can I turn the leaves of this dear book . . . that the book should shut . . . for ever . . . when I had read but a page ... My friend is dead, my neighbor is dead, my love, the darling of my soul—
Jean's cell phone rings. She fumbles for it and shuts it off. Mrs. Gottlieb looks up and sees the audience.
Well.
Look at this great big sea of people wearing dark colors. It used to be you saw someone wearing black and you knew their beloved had died. Now everyone wears black all the time. We are in a state of perpetual mourning. But for what?
Where was I? Gordon.
 
Well. I've forgotten my point. Let's have a hymn. Father?
A hymn.
Preferably “You'll Never Walk Alone.”
The singing begins.
 
Jean's cell phone rings.
Jean sneaks out, covering the phone.
You'll never walk alone. That's right. Because you'll always have a machine in your pants that might ring. Oh, Gordon.
Mrs. Gottlieb sings.
scene three
A café.
Film noir music.
The Other Woman waiting in a blue raincoat.
Jean enters in a blue raincoat.
 
JEAN
Hello.
 
OTHER WOMAN
Hello.
Thank you for meeting me.
 
JEAN
Not at all.
 
OTHER WOMAN
We like the same clothes.
JEAN
Yes.
 
OTHER WOMAN
I suppose that's not surprising, given the circumstances.
 
JEAN
I don't know what you mean.
 
OTHER WOMAN
You don't need to pretend.
 
JEAN
I know.
 
OTHER WOMAN
Gordon has good taste. You're pretty.
 
JEAN
I'm not—
 
OTHER WOMAN
Don't be modest. I like it when a woman knows she's beautiful. Women nowadays—they don't know how to walk into a room. A beautiful woman should walk into a room thinking: I am beautiful and I know how to walk in these shoes. There's so little glamour in the world these days. It makes daily life such a bore. Women are responsible for enlivening dull places like train stations. There is hardly any pleasure in waiting for a train anymore. The women just—walk in. Horrible shoes. No confidence. Bad posture.
The Other Woman looks at Jean's posture.
Jean sits up straighter.
A woman should be able to take out her compact and put lipstick on her lips with absolute confidence. No apology.
The Other Woman takes out lipstick and puts it on her lips, slowly.
Jean is riveted.
JEAN
I've always been embarrassed to put lipstick on in public.
 
OTHER WOMAN
That's crap. Here—you have beautiful lips.
She hands Jean the lipstick.
JEAN
No—that's—
 
OTHER WOMAN
I don't have a cold.
 
JEAN
It's not the germs. It's—
 
OTHER WOMAN
Put it on. Take your time. Enjoy yourself.
Jean puts on some lipstick.
That was disappointing. Oh, well.
JEAN
I'm very sorry about Gordon. You must be—his friend?
 
OTHER WOMAN
Gordon didn't tell you much, did he?
 
JEAN
No.
 
OTHER WOMAN
Gordon could be quiet.
 
JEAN
Yes. He was quiet.
 
OTHER WOMAN
He must have respected you. He was quiet with women he respected. Otherwise he had a very loud laugh. Haw, haw, haw! You could hear him a mile away.
She remembers Gordon.
You must wonder why I wanted to meet with you.
 
JEAN
Yes.
 
OTHER WOMAN
You were with Gordon the day he died.
 
JEAN
Yes.
OTHER WOMAN
Gordon and I—we were—well—
You know.
(She thinks the word—lovers)
And so—I wanted to know . . .
this is going to sound sentimental . . .
I wanted to know his last words.
 
JEAN
That's not sentimental.
 
OTHER WOMAN
I hate sentiment.
 
JEAN
I don't think that's sentimental. Really, I don't.
 
OTHER WOMAN
So. His last words.
 
JEAN
Gordon mentioned you before he died. Well, he more than mentioned you. He said: tell her that I love her. And then he turned his face away and died.
 
OTHER WOMAN
He said that he loved me.
 
JEAN
Yes.
 
OTHER WOMAN
I waited for such a long time.
And the words—delivered through another woman.
What a shit.
The Other Woman looks away.
She wipes a tear away.
JEAN
It's not like that. Gordon said that he had loved many women in his life, but when he met you, everything changed. He said that other women seemed like clocks compared to you—other women just—measured time—broke the day up—but that you—you stopped time. He said you—stopped time—just by walking into a room.
 

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