THE OLD MAN IN THE BED

By Jonathan Harris

(A dark stage. We hear a very slow, intermittent drip of water. On the third drip a light slowly comes up on an old man, lying in a crisply maintained bed. There is a pool of water downstage from him. It may not be noticed at first. He wakes slowly and speaks.)

OLD MAN

A touch of sanity is hardly what is needed. Too much will never be enough. It's out of control now. Maybe it always was. Had I known how little would actually be attained, perhaps, I wouldn't have bothered. But what would I have done instead? Everything once important is useless in retrospect, and all deemed senseless before, now seems...well...the masks off, the shoulders down, the mindless judge that keeps score within, all lose their power when facing the ceiling. All haunt the idle like flies in summer. Circling. Not sure where they are. Certain only in their need to circle the irritated. A connection. A connection must be made or else they'll be right. Wouldn't want that. Anything but that.

The life does not flash before the eyes. Not for the idle. It plods and circles. I keep coming back to the button. Why is there no button? If I were where I think I should be there would be a way to communicate with what's out there. To call it when I need it. What if there's an emergency? What if I have to pee? It's just odd and that's all. What happens when I sleep? Is that when I eat? Is that when they feed me? I should have pills here or something.

(Sizeable pause)

I tire of this. God, how I tire of this. The old man in the bed who never relieves himself. Nothing passes through here. Yet, still, somehow, I feed.

(Pause)

There's always the puddle. Never forget the puddle.

(He looks to puddle downstage)

It's bigger. Everyday it's a little bigger. Soon it'll reach me and that's when I'll know. That's when I'll see. It doesn't matter anymore how it got there. It's all I got. And each day, each moment, maybe, it's come closer. So I come closer too. Each day. Each moment.

I am reflected light that shines in no particular way. For no set of eyes I've seen. Nothing to judge me by. But I will not allow myself to equate life with hell. Too obvious. I prefer instead to harbor hope, safely hidden away from the unseen eyes that watch me. And where there are eyes there are, often, ears...

(This is a new thought to him)

Hello?

(Nothing)

Hello, I'm hungry?

(Nothing)

I want to get up...

(Laughter. The old man suddenly sits straight up. Terrified.)

WHERE'S MY BUTTON?!