Script: The Plastic Fir

THE PLASTIC FIR

A room drowning in grey light. Rain HAMMERS the siding and streaks the windows, blurring the outside world into a watercolor mess.

The room is cluttered. Stacks of yellowing newspapers. A coffee table buried under mail. A plate with toast crumbs from yesterday.

In the center of it all, BEN (70s), knuckles swollen, kneels with painful stiffness on the floor. Before him sits a frayed cardboard box. The tape is brittle, peeling like dead skin. On its side, in generous, looping black marker: XMAS - LIVING ROOM.

The front door is open, a damp draft curling around Ben’s ankles.

DAVID (50), his son, stands in the doorway, smelling of wet wool and rain. His heavy work boots are dark with moisture.

Ben doesn’t turn. He keeps his eyes on the box.

David steps inside. The door CLICKS shut. His footsteps are heavy on the old floorboards. He stops at the edge of the carpet, hesitant to enter the clutter.

A lie. Ben reaches into the box. He pulls out a metal cross—the tree stand. The green paint is chipped, revealing rusted steel underneath. It’s cold in his hand.

David doesn't believe him. He looks around the room, his gaze landing on a cleared space in the corner by the window.

Ben leans forward to fit the stand together. His left knee POPS—a sharp, ugly sound like a snapping branch. A jolt of pain shoots up his thigh. He grits his teeth, forcing air through his nose, refusing to make a sound.

David sees the wince. He steps forward.

Ben slots the bottom pole of the tree into the stand. It wobbles. He fumbles with the three eye-bolts, his arthritic fingers struggling.

David lets out a long, ragged SIGH. He takes off his damp jacket and throws it over an armchair thick with cat hair, though the cat’s been gone for years.

It’s not a question.

Ben wrestles SECTION A—the widest tier—from the box. A cloud of dust and stale plastic air puffs out. He COUGHS, tasting grit.

David turns away, looks out the window at the grey street. Pink cherry blossoms turn to brown sludge on the wet pavement.

Ben doesn’t answer. He jams Section A into the base. It takes his full weight to get it to CLICK into place. He fumbles with the hinged branches, pulling them down. They CREAK, stiff and reluctant.

Ben stops fluffing a branch. The plastic has scratched his wrist. He looks at the wire skeleton of the half-formed tree.

David rubs his face with both hands, the picture of exhaustion.

Ben ignores him, pinching the wire tips of the branches, his thumbs stinging with pain. He works his way around the base.

David huffs a short, sharp laugh.

Ben finishes the bottom tier. It looks pathetic. Sparse. You can see the metal pole right through the middle.

He reaches for SECTION B. He lifts it, his arm trembling, the rotator cuff protesting. The metal tube wavers.

David steps in without a word. He takes the section from Ben’s hands. His hands are warm, strong. He slots it into place. CLICK.

David doesn’t move away. He stands close, looking at the plastic needles.

Ben looks up from the box.

A knot tightens in Ben’s chest.

Ben turns to a shoebox reinforced with duct tape. He lifts the lid. Inside, nestled in shredded tissue paper, are old glass baubles. He picks up a red one, fragile as an eggshell, its paint chipped.

David reaches in and pulls out a clip-on robin. Its synthetic feathers are stiff and dusty. Its beak is missing.

Ben takes the bird from him. He uses both hands to pinch the stiff clip open and attaches it to a branch. It lists to the side, too heavy for the wire.

David stiffens.

The rain lashes against the window, harder now.

David stares at his father. Then at the sad, half-assembled tree. The frustration drains out of his face, leaving only bone-deep weariness.

He grabs SECTION C—the top tip—and jams it onto the tree. It’s crooked.

They work in silence. No music. No sherry. Just the sound of their breathing and the CRINKLE of plastic branches. Ben hangs the red balls. David hangs the wooden soldiers.

Ben finds a plastic silver star. He holds it out.

David takes it. He stretches, placing it on the top branch. It flops forward.

David adjusts it. The star stays upright. Mostly. He steps back, wiping glitter from his hands onto his jeans.

The tree looks terrible. A dusty, crooked thing standing in the gloom of a rainy April afternoon.

He pulls a rat’s nest of green wire from the box.

David sits on the arm of the sofa and patiently starts picking at the knot. His thick, mechanic’s fingers, grease under the nails, work with a practiced calm.

Ben watches him. A sudden, sharp pang of recognition.

David doesn’t look up from the knot.

The knot comes free. David stands, holding the long string of lights.

They wind the lights, a clumsy dance around the tree and the cluttered room. When they finish, Ben holds the plug. The wall socket is behind the big armchair.

He moves to push the heavy chair.

David stops. Ben just stands there, looking at the dark tree. It looks like a skeleton. A joyful thing stripped of context.

David looks at the tree, then at the closed bedroom door.

Ben looks down at the plug in his hand. The copper prongs are dull.

Ben nods slowly. He walks to the wall and kneels, his joints screaming in protest. He reaches behind the chair, his hand finding the socket.

He holds the plug, hovering it over the holes.

He looks back at David, who watches him, waiting.

Ben takes a breath. The air tastes of dust and rain. His hand is steady as he pushes the plug forward.

FADE TO BLACK.