Tough Call

            (BRENDA is sitting at her desk.  JANA enters.)

JANA:  I want Tony in the bunker.

BRENDA:  Hello to you too.

JANA:  I love him and I want him in the bunker.

BRENDA:  First of all, there is no bunker.  Second of all, if there was—

JANA:  On the news they said there was—

BRENDA:  --And if there WAS, your boyfriend, who I hate, would be the last person I’d pull favors for as far as survival is concerned.

JANA:  I’m not joking about this.

BRENDA:  Neither am I.  Jana, those bunkers are private.  If we want in, we have to pay just like everybody else.

JANA:  So are we paying?

BRENDA:  Of course we’re paying.  I’m the Governor.  You’re the Governor’s daughter.  We’re not going to just hunker down in a wooden fort somewhere.  But if you think I’m putting up another fifty grand so that your boyfriend can come with us, you’re out of your mind.

JANA:  He’s not my boyfriend.  He’s my husband.  We were just married.

BRENDA:  If you were, then it wasn’t done properly because all the government offices are shut down.  So what did you do?  Have a little pagan ceremony in the forest with birds and chipmunks while some Goth girl named Tori blessed you and recited Wiccan poetry?  I’m sorry, sweetheart, but that doesn’t fly with me.

JANA:  If you don’t save him, I’ll never forgive you.

BRENDA:  It’s not like I’m not condemning him to death.  There’s no guarantee that he’ll die if he doesn’t go in the bunker and there’s no guarantee that we’ll live if we do.  This is all just guesswork.

JANA:  Then I’m staying out here.

BRENDA:  No, you’re not.

JANA:  Mom—

BRENDA:  I lied a second ago.  We stand a much better chance in the bunker than we do out here.

JANA:  So—

BRENDA:  It’s a CHANCE.  It’s not a certainty.  Just a chance.

JANA:  It’s still something.  It’s more than I can deny the love of my life.

BRENDA:  Sweetie, if your life was a line, the dot that represents the age you’re at now would be placed so far on the side of youth it would risk falling over the edge back into infancy.  That being said, I need you to grow up very fast and realize that I have better things to do than deal with your Romeo and Juliet bullshit right now.  I’m still in charge of this state.

JANA:  How are you going to run it from a bunker?

BRENDA:  Am I really about to inform my college-age daughter of a little thing called Skype?

JANA:  You’re going to govern by Skype?  Wow, I’m sure your constituents would love that.

BRENDA:  My constituents are a little busy right now filling up their bathtubs and duct taping their windows.  Nobody cares about me right now.  I exist only as a symbol, but I still plan on being a good one.

JANA:  Take Tony into the bunker with you and leave me out here.

BRENDA:  Who taught you how to negotiate?  You’re awful at it.

JANA:  I just want him to live.  That’s how much I love him.  I’m willing to commit the ultimate sacrifice.

BRENDA:  No, you’re asking ME to commit the ultimate sacrifice.  You dying out here isn’t any kind of sacrifice.  You’ll be dead.  I’ll be the one living with your boyfriend in enclosed quarters for who knows how long.  THAT would be the sacrifice.

JANA:  Please, Mom.

BRENDA:  Isn’t it funny that a genuine ‘please’ is what always makes parents falter in their resolve.  Hours and hours of begging and then the kid realizes that all they needed to say was a simple ‘Please.’

JANA:  Please.

BRENDA:  Honey, I spent my entire life making sure I could give you whatever you wanted, and I’ve done that, haven’t I?

JANA:  Mom—

BRENDA:  Haven’t I?

JANA:  …Yes.

BRENDA:  This is something I can’t give you.  And I’m sorry about that.  Really I am.  The truth is, I don’t really hate Tony, but I can’t save him.  I can’t save him or your best friend or my best friend or a lot of other really nice people that I would really, really like to save.  I just can’t.  And believe it or not, that’s killing me.  It’s killing me.  So please, I’m saying ‘Please,’ don’t make me feel any worse about this than I already do.

            (Pause.)

JANA:  When do we leave?

BRENDA:  Two hours.

JANA:  Can it be three?  I want to say good-bye and it might…I’d like another three.

BRENDA:  Two and a half.

JANA:  Four.

BRENDA:  Again, the negotiating is just—

JANA:  Four and I promise not to hate you for the rest of my life.

BRENDA:  Three and I’ll take my chances.

            (A beat.)

JANA:  Deal.

BRENDA:  Shake on it?

JANA:  Nobody shakes on it anymore.  It doesn’t hold up even if you do it.

BRENDA:  Maybe that’s why the world is ending.  Handshakes have become meaningless.

JANA:  Is it okay if I’m mad at you about this for a little while?  I mean, I don’t hate you, but I’m mad—maybe not even at you specifically, but I just need somebody to be mad at and you’re my mom so—

BRENDA:  It’s okay.  I can take it.

JANA:  Thank you.

BRENDA:  Go kiss your boyfriend good-bye.

JANA:  Okay.

            (She leaves.)

Oh, by the way sweetie, I could only get one spot in the bunker, and it’s yours.  So it looks like Tony and I will be spending some time together after all.

            (A beat.)

Good thing she didn’t shake my hand.  Then I’d really feel bad.

            (She sits back down, and tries not to cry.)