In a pool of light an Old Man sits weakly, precariously, at a small, red, formica-topped table with chipped, rusting, tubular legs. Two chairs with torn, red, plastic coverings. Old Man in dirty white shirt, suspenders, dark trousers and ancient slippers. He stares straight ahead. Off, we hear the Young Man moving around a kitchen. When he enters, he is wearing half-mast trousers, red suspenders, polished Doc Martin boots and an immaculate, white shirt.
YOUNG MAN: (Off) D’ye want peas?
No response from Old Man who continues to stare, weak, wan and struggling to breathe.
YOUNG MAN: (Entering. Loudly.) I said, d’ye want peas.
OLD MAN: (Laboured intake of breath.) Where’s yer mother gone?
YOUNG MAN: Are ye worried?
OLD MAN: She knows not to leave me alone with you.
YOUNG MAN: Maybe she’s decided she wants ye dead too. (A beat. Loudly.) D’ye want peas?
OLD MAN: I won’t eat an’thin’ you gimme.
YOUNG MAN: Suit yerself. It’s not everyday I cook. (Exit to kitchen)
The old man tries to stand, succeeds, just about, looks around, frightened, considering a way out. A beat. Falls back into chair. Pause.
OLD MAN: I need to pee.
YOUNG MAN: (Off) Just pee yer pants like ye always do.
OLD MAN: I don’t want to pee me pants today.
YOUNG MAN: (Entering with plate of food: mashed potatoes, peas, ground beef, which he slides carelessly onto the table.) An’ why not today? Are ye goin’ on a date? Sex, is that it? There’s a ride in the works?!
OLD MAN: I haven’t peed me pants in two days. I’d like to keep them dry.
YOUNG MAN: I’m not carryin’ ye up them stairs, ye smelly fuck! The last time I did that the fumes nearly killed me.
OLD MAN: I don’t smell today.
YOUNG MAN: Like fuck ye don’t.
OLD MAN: Don’t talk to me like that.
YOUNG MAN: Like what?
OLD MAN: ‘Smelly fuck.’
YOUNG MAN: Ye are a smelly fuck. An’ if ye died this minute ye’d be doin’ us all a favor. (A beat) Includin’ yerself maybe.
OLD MAN: I’m peein’.
YOUNG MAN: Aw, Jesus Christ!
OLD MAN: I told ye.
YOUNG MAN: Ye told me ye didn’t want to pee yer pants today.
OLD MAN: It’s awful. I hate it.
YOUNG MAN: What?
OLD MAN: This… bein’ like this.
YOUNG MAN: I wish I had some fuckin’ poison or somethin’. Some rat shit, or weed or chemical or somethin’.
OLD MAN: Why?
YOUNG MAN: (Laughing) Why, he says? Why? Jesus! (Exasperated) Eat yer dinner.
The Old Man, bent over, stares into his dinner in disgust. He manoeuvers a little in discomfort because of his wet trousers.
OLD MAN: Me legs isn’t workin’ anymore.
YOUNG MAN: It’s more than yer legs isn’t workin’. Yer pisser isn’t workin’ an’ yer brain’s not far behind. Sooner the better. Save yerself a lot o’ trouble.
OLD MAN: What?
YOUNG MAN: Look, will I just hit ye over the head with a fryin’ pan or somethin’? Push ye down the stairs or cut yer wrists in the bath an’ make it look like suicide?
Pause.
OLD MAN: I don’t want to die.
YOUNG MAN: Well, that’s hard luck, coz the wind’s about to blow ye away any minute now. Your time has come old man, an’ all I’m sayin’ is…
OLD MAN: I’m gonna do a shit.
YOUNG MAN: Aw, for fucksake!
OLD MAN: Take me to the toilet.
The Young Man looks at him in disgust. The Old Man groans a little in pain, his bowels not quite working properly either. Perhaps a fart. The Young Man, thinking he has no option, goes to lift the Old Man, but withdraws instantly with the stench of the urine and the fart, coughing.
YOUNG MAN: I can’t. Honestly. I can’t take it… Jesus Christ, me eyes are waterin’ with the fumes. (Pause.) Will I ring the doctor?
OLD MAN: For what?
YOUNG MAN: I dunno. Ye’re lookin’ pretty bad to me.
OLD MAN: I’m dyin’.
YOUNG MAN: No such fuckin’ luck! You’ve been dyin’ for the last five years, an’ every day everyone around ye wishes ye dead, wishes ye’d just give us all a break, but no, on ye go regardless. It’s like ye want to torture us, it’s like ye want to make it hell for yer family so’s we’ll never forget ye.
OLD MAN: An’ me?
YOUNG MAN: An’ you wha’?
OLD MAN: I’m bein’ tortured. Me legs isn’t workin’.
YOUNG MAN: Fuck yer legs! Jesus, I can barely bear the sight o’ ye.
The Old Man stares. A couple of beats, then he falls into his dinner, face first. The Young Man looks at him. Waits. Sits and looks some more. Apprehensive. The Old Man is deathly still. The Young Man goes to him and raises his head by the hair. There is food stuck to his face: potato in his eyes, a few peas embedded in the potatoes. He looks dead. The Young Man lets the Old Man’s head fall back into the dinner, hoots for joy, exits to kitchen, and reenters almost immediately with a cordless telephone.
YOUNG MAN: (On phone) I think he’s gone… No, I didn’t call the doctor… He just fell into his dinner… Look, you just come home an’ see for yerself… (Phone off. The Old Man stirs.) Oh, fuck! (Enraged, then hopeless.) If you don’t die, old man, I’ll… Jesus… I’ll… Fuck, what the hell am I goin’ to do with ye?! Ye’ll destroy us all, ye will! Ye’ll wear us all out! What the hell are we goin’ to do?!
OLD MAN: (Lifts his head. Licks food off his lips) Nice peas. I’ve always had a thing for sweet garden peas.
Lights down.
The End.
Cool Root 