The Plastic Fir

**THE PLASTIC FIR** **SCENE START** **INT. BEN'S LIVING ROOM - DAY** 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. DAVID > You know it’s April, right? Ben doesn’t turn. He keeps his eyes on the box. BEN > Close the door, David. You're letting the heat out. 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. DAVID > I’m serious. Why is the tree box out? BEN > I'm sorting. 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 > Sorting. David doesn't believe him. He looks around the room, his gaze landing on a cleared space in the corner by the window. BEN > Thought I’d check the lights. Before next year. Save time. DAVID > Dad, next year is eight months away. BEN > Time moves faster than you think. 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. DAVID > Here. Let me help you up. BEN >>(snapping) > I'm down here on purpose. 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. DAVID > You're putting it up. It’s not a question. BEN > Just to check the shape. The branches get flattened in the box. DAVID > It’s April the twelfth. BEN > I know the date, David. I still buy the paper. 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. DAVID > Is this about Mum? 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. DAVID > Dad. She doesn't know what month it is anyway. She won't know the difference. BEN >>(muttering) > That's not the point. DAVID > Then what is the point? Ben stops fluffing a branch. The plastic has scratched his wrist. He looks at the wire skeleton of the half-formed tree. BEN > The point is... the room looks empty without it. DAVID > It's been empty of a tree for sixteen months. BEN > It feels empty *today*. David rubs his face with both hands, the picture of exhaustion. DAVID > I brought you some soup. Squash. Helen made it. And I checked the guttering. It's clogged again. BEN > Don't go up the ladder in the rain, David. You'll slip. DAVID > Someone has to do it. Ben ignores him, pinching the wire tips of the branches, his thumbs stinging with pain. He works his way around the base. BEN > Do you remember the year we bought this? You were fourteen. You said fake trees were for people who had given up on life. David huffs a short, sharp laugh. DAVID > Did I say that? Sounds like a bratty thing to say. BEN > You sulked for three days because the box said 'Flame Retardant' and you thought that took the danger out of Christmas. DAVID >>(softer) > I was fourteen. I wanted everything to be dangerous. BEN > Well. Now you're checking guttering in the rain. Be careful what you wish for. 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. BEN >>(mumbled) > Thanks. David doesn’t move away. He stands close, looking at the plastic needles. DAVID > She asked for me today. By name. Ben looks up from the box. BEN > She did? DAVID > Yeah. When I came in. I popped my head into the bedroom. She said, 'David, did you finish your homework?' A knot tightens in Ben’s chest. BEN > That's good. She remembers you. DAVID > She thinks I'm twelve, Dad. BEN >>(firmly) > She remembers you. That's what matters. 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 > I remember this one. The bird. David reaches in and pulls out a clip-on robin. Its synthetic feathers are stiff and dusty. Its beak is missing. BEN > Your mother bought that at a craft fair... seventy-nine? Maybe eighty. She loved that bird. Said it looked cheeky. DAVID > It looks mangy. BEN > It's old. Things get mangy. DAVID > Dad... why are we doing this? Really? 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. BEN > Because she asked. David stiffens. DAVID > She asked for the tree? BEN > Last night. She woke up... confused. She looked at the corner—this corner—and she asked where the lights were. She said, 'Ben, the tree's gone out. Did a bulb blow?' The rain lashes against the window, harder now. DAVID > She was dreaming, Dad. BEN > She was awake. Her eyes were open. She was scared, David. She thought... she thought if the lights were out, it meant something bad. Like the party was over. Like everyone had gone home. >(beat) > I just want her to see it. When she wakes up later. I want her to look in here and see the lights. Just so she knows... we're not gone yet. David stares at his father. Then at the sad, half-assembled tree. The frustration drains out of his face, leaving only bone-deep weariness. DAVID > Okay. He grabs SECTION C—the top tip—and jams it onto the tree. It’s crooked. BEN > It's leaning. DAVID > It's fine. It adds character. 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. BEN > You're taller. David takes it. He stretches, placing it on the top branch. It flops forward. BEN > Fold the branch back. Double it over. 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. BEN > Lights. The worst part. He pulls a rat’s nest of green wire from the box. DAVID > Give it here. 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. BEN > You're getting old, David. David doesn’t look up from the knot. DAVID > Thanks, Dad. Feeling the spring vibes today, aren't we? BEN > I mean it. You look like your grandfather. DAVID > I wonder where I get the stubbornness from. The knot comes free. David stands, holding the long string of lights. DAVID > Start at the bottom? BEN > Always start at the bottom. 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. DAVID > I'll do it. He moves to push the heavy chair. BEN > Wait. David stops. Ben just stands there, looking at the dark tree. It looks like a skeleton. A joyful thing stripped of context. BEN > Do you think she'll really like it? Or will it just confuse her more? David looks at the tree, then at the closed bedroom door. DAVID > I don't know. Honestly? She might not even notice. Or she might ask why there are no presents. Or she might cry. BEN > She cries a lot these days. DAVID > Yeah. Ben looks down at the plug in his hand. The copper prongs are dull. BEN >>(a whisper) > Maybe we shouldn't. DAVID >>(gently) > We've done the work now. Might as well see if they work. 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.** **SCENE END**