The Waynes Go For a Walk

(The outside of a theater.  THOMAS and MARTHA 
are arguing while their son BRUCE stands off 
to the side.)

MARTHA:  Where is the limo?

THOMAS:  Nick wasn’t feeling good, so I told 
him to go home.

MARTHA:  All right, so let’s call a taxi.

THOMAS:  It’s such a nice night.  Why don’t we walk?

MARTHA:  Through the worst part of Gotham City 
all the way back to the manor?  Have you lost your mind?

BRUCE:  My feet hurt!

MARTHA:  His feet hurt.

THOMAS:  He’s been standing up for three minutes. 

MARTHA:  He has weak feet.

THOMAS:  Which is exactly why a walk will do him good. 

BRUCE:  My left foot is bigger than my right foot.  
I told Alfred and he said I was developing slowly for my age. 

MARTHA:  We need to talk to Alfred about that.

THOMAS:  The man is British.  They’re conditioned to be blunt.

MARTHA:  We should get Bruce a nanny.

BRUCE:  I want Mary Poppins.

MARTHA:  Mary Poppins isn’t real, darling, 
we talked about this.

BRUCE:  Why is life always so disappointing?

THOMAS:  God, he’s so morbid sometimes.

MARTHA:  Maybe that’s because he lives in a gothic 
mansion built over a cave.

THOMAS:  Hey, we got a great deal because of that cave.

BRUCE:  My nose is running.  Can I wipe it 
on my sleeve?  I gave my handkerchief 
to a fire hydrant.  It seemed like a weird
thing to do at the time, but I forgot that
the city gives me the sniffles.

 THOMAS:  He needs to be exposed to the world.  We 
shelter him too much and, quite frankly, it’s making him 
rather odd.

MARTHA:  I don’t know what you’re talking about.

BRUCE:  Can I buy all the pickles in the city?

THOMAS and MARTHA:  No./Sure.

THOMAS:  The answer is 'No.'

BRUCE:  Because we can’t afford to?

MARTHA:  Great.  Now he thinks we’re poor.

THOMAS:  That’s not—it’s not that we can’t 
afford to, but—what would you do with all 
the pickles in Gotham City?

BRUCE:  Eat them?

THOMAS:  Why don’t you buy one pickle, eat it,
and then see if you want anymore?

 BRUCE:  Because then maybe they’ll all be gone.  
Haven't you heard of an endangered species?
Geez Dad, you don't know anything. I've
already driven five different kinds of kangaroo
out of existence.

THOMAS:  We’re going to have to have him 
committed when he gets older.  I should call
Arkham now and see if I can put a nice room
on hold.

MARTHA:  Don’t be cruel.

THOMAS:  I’m not being cruel.  He’s going to 
wind up falling in love with a cat if we're not
careful.

BRUCE:  Cats are pretty.  I want to marry one
named Selena.

THOMAS:  You see what I mean?

MARTHA:  Sending your son to a madhouse is
bad parenting, and so is walking ten miles back 
to our house through a part of town that looks 
like something out of a James Cagney movie.

THOMAS:  How bad could this neighborhood 
possibly be if they have an opera house that 
rich people like us frequent?

MARTHA:  That’s Gotham for you, Thomas, the
 bourgeois mix with the riff raff and the elite 
mingle with the sophisticates.

 THOMAS:  I think those were all synonyms.

BRUCE:  Am I a bourgeois?

THOMAS/MARTHA:  No./Yes.

BRUCE:  Can I have a penguin named Riff Raff?

THOMAS/MARTHA:  No./Yes.

BRUCE:  Are you two going to get a divorce?

THOMAS/MARTHA:  Maybe./Maybe.

BRUCE:  I’ll go with Alfred if that happens.
I respond well to his cold, British demeanor
and his subversive emotional manipulation.

THOMAS:  See?  He likes Alfred.

MARTHA:  We’re firing him when we get home.  

He’s been stealing from us anyway.

THOMAS:  Stealing what?

MARTHA:  A Fernet-Branca went missing recently.

BRUCE:  I took that.

MARTHA:  Bruce, why would you do such a thing?

BRUCE:  I wanted to fill up the moat in my castle
with the tears of orphans, but the Branca was
all I could find.

THOMAS:  We got him a castle?

MARTHA:  Just a small one in the backyard, 
a few acres back.  And it only has one tower.
It's practically an outhouse.

THOMAS:  Martha, we are spoiling him rotten, 
and it’s got to stop.  The boy needs fresh air 
and exercise and a nice walk through Gotham
 is just the ticket.

BRUCE:  If you come stay at my castle, you have
to admit that life is nothing but a trick of the mind
created for the amusement of a sinister cosmic
force unbeknownst to those of us who choose
to engage in its whims and fancies.  Plus, you can't
use the letter 'p.'  If you want a popsicle, you have
to say 'fancy ice-stick.'

THOMAS:  That is...a lot.

MARTHA:  Thomas, I am wearing enough jewels 
to decorate the Romanoff’s and you want me to
 just stroll down the street like a sitting duck?

BRUCE:  How can a duck sit and stroll at the same time?

THOMAS:  Nobody’s going to bother you, Martha, 
as long as you don’t bother them.

MARTHA:  What does that mean?

THOMAS:  It means keep to yourself and you’ll be fine.

MARTHA:  Are you suggesting that people who are 
robbed and murdered weren’t keeping to themselves?

THOMAS:  I’m saying the trick is to blend in.

BRUCE:  Dad, look, I took my shirt off and drew a
pentagram on my tummy!

MARTHA:  Something tells me we’re not going to be 
very successful at that.

THOMAS:  We’ll walk briskly.

BRUCE:  What does briskly mean?

THOMAS:  Does he still have that tutor?

MARTHA:  No.

THOMAS:  Why?

BRUCE:  She kept calling me creepy.

THOMAS:  So you fired her?

MARTHA:  No, she quit.

THOMAS:  Why did she quit? 

MARTHA:  Because he’s creepy, I suppose.  
Apparently she only wants to tutor stupid
happy children whose third grade art project
doesn't involve a Viking funeral.  Good riddance, 
that’s what I say.

BRUCE:  She wouldn’t let me eat my tests after
 I was done taking them.

MARTHA:  Sounds like a tyrant to me.  
You’re better off.

THOMAS:  We’d better get a move on, 
it’s getting late.

MARTHA:  Please, let’s just hail a cab, Thomas.

BRUCE:  I can do it!  I just have to roll up my pants 
so I can stick my leg out like they do in all the
scary movies about hitchhiking serial killers.

MARTHA:  No!  Leave your pants alone.  It’s bad 
enough your shirt is off.  What is that scar from?

BRUCE:  I challenged a coyote to a first-blood
match.  She won.

THOMAS:  Let’s just try walking home this once.  
We might enjoy it.  It might become a nice 
family tradition.

MARTHA:  Or we could both die and Alfred 
would end up raising our son.

BRUCE:  Would he teach me to be a ninja?

THOMAS:  With your hand-eye coordination?  
I doubt it.

BRUCE:  Probably for the best. I don't believe
in having a code of personal ethics. Eisenhower
said 'Morality is tyranny of the mind.'

THOMAS:  No, he didn't.

BRUCE:  Sssh, my lies comfort me in the night.

MARTHA:  Thomas, I’m tired.

THOMAS:  So am I, but a walk will give us 
a second wind.

MARTHA:  Or I’ll collapse on the sidewalk and 
wild dogs will devour me. 

THOMAS:  We don’t have wild dogs in Gotham, 
Martha.  Sadistic killers and murderous anarchists,
 sure, but the wild dogs have been gone for weeks.

MARTHA:  Thomas, why is this so important to you?

THOMAS:  Because I’m the richest man in this city 
and I know nothing about it.  I go from my office to
 a limo to the manor back in a limo to an opera or a 
theater and I never see anything past the tinted windows.  
I want to live here, Martha, really live here, and maybe, 
just maybe, start to change things for the better.  But 
first I have to get a good look at the place.  Is that all 
right with you?

                 (A beat.)

MARTHA:  One time?

THOMAS:  Just one time.  Just this once.  I promise.

MARTHA:  All right, fine.  I suppose it won’t kill me.

BRUCE:  Don’t worry, Mom, I’ll protect you and 
your VERY EXPENSIVE JEWELRY.

MARTHA:  Bruce, why are you being so loud?

BRUCE:  I thought you were supposed to let people 
know when you’re wearing something of value?

MARTHA:  Only at fundraisers and award shows, darling.

BRUCE:  Ohhh.

THOMAS:  What a nice night.  The weather is beautiful.

MARTHA:  It’s raining.

THOMAS:  Yes, but usually it’s pouring rain.  At least this is 
a light rain.

BRUCE:  Can’t you just imagine Mother’s lovely necklace 
falling into a puddle by the gutter as her lifeless body
drops alongside it?

MARTHA:  That’s a dreary thing to say, Bruce.

BRUCE:  Sorry, Mother.  I guess I’m a dreary sort of person.

MARTHA:  Well, don’t worry, you’ll grow out of it.

                The End