Sonny Boy

(A living room.  DAMIEN is handcuffed to a chair.  PHIL enters and starts whittling.)

PHIL:  You want a drink?

DAMIEN:  Yes.

PHIL:  Water?

DAMIEN:  Water?  Screw you.

PHIL:  Water’s the best I can do for you, Damien.  I bought some bottled water at the store.  The one out of the tap is a goner, for now.  Probably cut the water supply just in case.

DAMIEN:  Who did?

PHIL:  The government?  How the hell should I know?

DAMIEN:  You don’t have your typical bottle of Scotch lying around?

PHIL:  Tossed it.  All of it.  Poured it out into the dirt.

DAMIEN:  Are you kidding me, man?

PHIL:  Don’t call me ‘man.’  I’m your father.  Call me Phil.

DAMIEN:  What’s the idea here, Phil?  What’s your endgame?

PHIL:  Pretty simple, actually.  You’re going to stay handcuffed to that chair until the comet hits.  I figure that means two to three solid days of no drinking.  Should be enough to wipe your system clean.  You’re young, after all.

DAMIEN:  Is this a joke?

PHIL:  Well, let’s see.  Try to get out of those handcuffs.

(DAMIEN thrashes.  He’s still chained to the chair.)

--Guess it’s no joke.

DAMIEN:  Are you really whittling right now?  Who the hell are you?  An Andy Griffith character?

PHIL:  You are going to get mean.  That’s part of the deal.

DAMIEN:  Do you even know what you’re doing?

PHIL:  Unless you’re on other stuff too.  In which case, you’re going to get a lot more than mean.

DAMIEN:  I could get seriously sick from you doing this, you know.  I could die.

PHIL:  Sonny boy, we’re all going to die.  It’s my job to make sure you don’t, but I can’t do that job so I gotta do another.  I’m going to make sure you die clean and pure as the day you were born.  Or close to it anyway.

DAMIEN:  Good luck, dude.

PHIL:  Don’t call me dude.  I’m not your dude.

DAMIEN:  Yeah, you’re not my anything.  You got that?  You and I aren’t anything.

PHIL:  If you’re referring to the fact that I was a bad father, that’s a matter of opinion.  Either way, being a drunk is no good.  And dying a drunk is even worse.  Maybe if you had your whole life ahead of you, you’d have time to get yourself straightened out, but it appears you don’t have that luxury so this is going to have to be a rushjob.

DAMIEN:  You’re the reason I drink.

PHIL:  That’s probably true.  You should take up a hobby.  Like kickboxing or stealing cars.

DAMIEN:  You know, nobody knows for sure when that comet’s coming.  It could be here in an hour.  I could die chained up to this chair.

PHIL:  Yes, you could.  But since you’re already chained to your addiction—

DAMIEN:  Oh Christ, Phil—

PHIL:  It’s all the same, Sonny Boy.  At the end of the day, everything you got tying you down is a chain.

DAMIEN:  Who turned you into a motivational speaker?  The Lord?

PHIL:  You know I don’t do church.

DAMIEN:  I should have known better than to come here.

PHIL:  You came because you’re broke and you needed money.  That’s how I knew you were really in trouble.  I know you hate me and I know how much pride you have because I’m the one you inherited it from.  If you’re so desperate, you’re taking my money you must really be bad off.

DAMIEN:  Sorry I thought you could help me.  Should have known better.

PHIL:  For somebody who hates me so much, you seem pretty hell-bent on making all the same choices I did.

DAMIEN:  You see me with a kid?

PHIL:  You saying Ali’s not pregnant?

(A beat.)

DAMIEN:  Who the hell told you?

PHIL:  Your mother.

DAMIEN:  Mom doesn’t talk to you.  She hates your guts.

PHIL:  Maybe she got a little desperate too.  Sometimes you have to fight fire with fire.

DAMIEN:  This is your fire?  Handcuffs?  Where did you even get these?

PHIL:  A hooker.

DAMIEN:  Are you—

PHIL:  Or a stripped.  Or both.  I don’t know.  They’ve been sitting in my drawer.  I knew they’d come in handy one day.

DAMIEN:  Yeah, when you had to kidnap your son.

PHIL:  You looking forward to being a dad?

DAMIEN:  She told me yesterday.  I haven’t really had time to process it yet.

PHIL:  But when you first heard the news, what did you think?  Honestly.

DAMIEN:  I thought…I really want a drink.

PHIL:  Well now we got some honesty going on.

DAMIEN:  What does it matter now, Phil?  If I die a drunk or I die sober, who cares?  There isn’t going to be a baby.  I’m not going to be a dad—

PHIL:  We might still make it, you know.  This world.  People.  We still got a fighting chance.  If that comet goes one inch to the right—

DAMIEN:  Always the dreamer.

PHIL:  You gotta plan on living, kid.  Right up until you die, you gotta assume you’re gonna live.  And if you’re gonna live, you need to straighten the hell up.  Or out.  However you want it.

DAMIEN:  What did you think when you found out Mom was going to have me?

PHIL:  I thought…………..Boy.  I’m really going to screw this up.

DAMIEN:  Is that really what you thought?

PHIL:  Yup.  I know myself too well.  Just like I know you.  That’s why you’re tied to that chair.

DAMIEN:  You know I’m still going to hate you even if I’m sober, right?

PHIL:  You might hate me more.  Because then you won’t be a hypocrite.

DAMIEN:  I might never talk to you again.  I might not let you see my kid.

PHIL:  Considering the situation we find ourselves in, Sonny Boy, that might not be a bad idea.

DAMIEN:  What if my kid turns out like this?  Like you and me?  How we are now?

PHIL:  That scare you?

DAMIEN:  Hell yes, it scares me.  Look at us.

PHIL:  He’s got a chance.  Same as the rest of us.

DAMIEN:  Chances, chances, Phil.  I’d say we’re all out of chances.

PHIL:  See how you’re sitting in that chair?  See how a second just went by?  Then another one, then another one?  Those are chances, kid.  Every minute’s a chance.  Now, maybe I’m taking up a lot of your chances by keeping you here like this, but that’s me taking my chances.

DAMIEN:  I need a drink, Phil.

PHIL:  You’ll get over that.

DAMIEN:  Phil, this is too much, all right?  It’s all too much.  The baby, the comet, Ali, you—this is too much for me.  I can’t deal with it, okay?  I need to just—

PHIL:  What?  Check out?

DAMIEN:  Yes!

PHIL:  Not a chance.  We’re all careening towards this thing with our eyes open.  That’s the only way to go.  If you’re afraid, don’t blink.  If you’re terrified, hold your lids apart and force yourself to see it.  That’s the only way.

DAMIEN:  You’re just a crazy old man.

PHIL:  Yes, I am.  Last week, guys like me were on cardboard boxes in Times Square predicting the end of the world, now they’re on CNN narrating the whole thing while Diane Sawyer’s sitting in her bathtub with all her clothes on trying to remember where she left her keys.

DAMIEN:  What the hell are you talking about?

PHIL:  How the hell should I know?  I had to drink a bottle of Scotch just to work up the nerve to do all this.

DAMIEN:  You said—

PHIL:  The second bottle of Scotch went into the dirt, but the first went down my throat.

DAMIEN:  And you want me—

PHIL:  To be nothing like me?  You got that right.  That’s why we’re just going to sit here.  I figure when I’m sober, you will be too.

DAMIEN:  Then you’ll let me go?

PHIL:  Yeah.  (Slight pause.)  Yeah.

(A beat.)

--Then I’ll let you go.

(He keeps whittling.  DAMIEN closes his eyes.  Maybe PHIL whistles, and maybe he doesn’t.  Another second ticks by.)