W.C.Fields

Except For You Charlotte

By P.l.Carrico

Setting: A Sanitarium on Christmas Morning


W.C. Fields Legendary comedian. Belly swollen due to internal hemorrhaging. Hooked to an IV

Charlotte: Nurse and Lover.

John Berrymore: Dashing interpreter of Shakespeare and life long friend of Fields.

WC: (on the phone) Yes Elmer. I agree Elmer. True, true. Yes Elmer. Yes. Elmer, I agree. Yes Elmer. Yes. Merry Christmas to you too Elmer. Good by Elmer.
(Hangs up) That was Elmer.

(Charlotte awaits more, Fields fidgets)

WC: Dear, could you fetch for me my pumice. I am in dire need of my pumice. It’s in my shaving purse... over there. Yes.

(Charlotte turns to fetch item, WC produces a long cigar from a bed pan and struggles to light it. It is still wrapped. With his back turned he tries to continue to distract Charlotte)

WC: Perhaps my pumice is beneath my mirror. The item which reflects and lies... (Notices Charlottes stern glare). Oh. Oh. Oh yes. No smoking. No smoking at my age. Or any age. For when there’s smoke, there’s fire. And where there’s fire there’s a man struggling to keep warm. Did you hear that? Why yes, it’s a struggle in the hall. Yes indeed. Charlotte my love, it could be an intruder. Or an escapee. An invalid may have become confused and wandered into the hall to die, where upon he discovered an intruder. There in hatching a vile plan to break in and compromise my virginity.

(Charlotte is un distracted as WC takes a bottle from his bed pan. Rambling on he attempts to pour it in the IV, but to no avail due to the shakes. Charlotte finally aids him. The alcohol begins to calm him. He sits, rambling)

WC: That had better not be salt peter you slipping in that there life line. You see too, I told you I could quit drinking, didn’t I? It was easy. I’ve done it a thousand times.

(Charlotte places a bible on his lap. He opens it absent mindedly and is suddenly shocked by the contents)

WC: That was a dirty trick.

ENTER John Barrymore
(WC again looks shocked)

JB: W.C! Merry Christmas! You look great?

WC: Get out with that cheer. Haven’t you heard I’m ill? In my condition and merry word could be the death of me.

JB: Merry Christmas you old fool.

WC: Is it Christmas? I knew something was wrong.

JB: I brought a bottle.

(WC leaps to take it before Charlotte can)

WC: There could be prohibitionists about.

JB: I could dream of leaving you in this dreadful place alone on Christmas.

WC: Stop swearing. What’s wrong with this place. I decorated it myself. It’s the product of fifty years success. Why if my father could see me now. He would sit right beside and say, in a loving tone, William my boy. My plum, my sweet chickadee? Why did you beat my brains in with a shovel? He’d say. Because dear dad, although I was a much younger man than you at the time, I thought it prudent and compassionate for a man to have his son hold the shovel instead of some angry stranger. I forgive you son, he’d say, and we’d collapse into a loving embrace.

JB: What are you talking about?

WC: Pay attention. Quit getting lost and making me back track. A man of your intelligence should only be told something once. So at the tender age of nine I did my father the great favor of beating with a shovel. It was all down hill from there. Rock bottom came much latter. Rock bottom California. Suburb of Burbank. Any town with ‘bank’ in it’s name can’t be any good. Reeks of boredom. Not in here though. Just reeks. Pour a little of that distilled rain water in my bag, will you.

JB: What?

WC: We can have the nurse do it. Charlotte my love. Will you join us in a drink?

(Charlotte drinks mightily from the bottle, puts a splash in his IV, then retreats to a corner to cry)

JB: You gatta take it easy...

WC: Take it easy? Why of course, I never take it another way. I’ll be around to bounce your granddaughter on my knee...

JB: You hate children

WC: Not true! I love them. Especially little girls... aged 18. Now watch this. A new stage show. A come back for the Great Mahatma Fields. I will start with an impression.

(WC puff his cigar and blows the smoke upward as to make a gently rising cloud).

WC: Hiroshima. Wait wait. I got another impression. Watch.

(He again puffs smoke up)

WC: Nagasaki

JB: Morbid (Stands in disgust)

WC: (Puffs again) Philadelphia... with any luck.

JB: There could be good to come of nuclear war, I agree...

WC: (Puffs again... causing him to cough violently) W.C. Fields.

(Silence)

JB: Prince Theater. Philadelphia. Another show. More Shakespeare. Throngs of people, pouring out into the street. Cold night.. .bitter wind. I was in the lobby. Very lonely place, as you know, the after party. There’s no way to communicate, when your an actor, that doesn’t sound like a line someone else wrote for you. God I was drunk. I was drinking brandy quite heavily and I needed a lavatory bad. But I couldn’t get through the crowd. I turned back towards the stage door, found a stair well, but a couple were engaged in petting, so I went up the stairs. I found what I thought was a closet and began to relieve myself. Looking up, I noticed it was the projection booth. Very weird. The most relief I’ve ever gotten from a stage performance, right there. Hollow profession.

WC: Yes it is.

JB: A bible? Your reading a bible?

WC: Looking for loop holes.

JB: Did you find any? Why would you be worried about hell anyhow? You brought laughter to so many.

WC: Ah ha! There in resides the conflict and my paved road to Philadelphia... or worse.
Loop hole numero uno. Laughter is abominable to God. It’s revolting. You think god has a sense of humor? Laughter is sinful weakness, on that fact I agree with women. When we laugh, we always laugh at. At. It is a form of scorn. They laughed at Jesus on his Donkey entering Jerusalem. And they’d laugh at him today on Hollywood Bvd. If a nun were to be flattened by a piano while walking down Fifth avenue, we’d stifle our giggles as we mopped up the gore, teeth, blood... then in a moment of silent horror at the funeral, some one would start to giggle, causing us all to break out into hysterics. Damn laughter.

JB: Please...

WC: Laughter. Damn it. Laughter is a god damn abomination! It is! A joke I tell.... (Weakening, ragging) about beating my fathers brains in a with a shovel. It happened. It’s not funny. It’s dreadful. It haunts me. It happens in my head everyday. All the horror and fear of a homeless Philadelphia winter. It’s always there. Always. Laughter is like drink, a means to distract. Here’s a punch line. Here’s a joke. Loneliness. (Charlotte guides him to his bed).

JB: You need rest.

WC: Damn right I do. It’s Christmas. A day to celebrate the calm resurrection, or death or what ever the fuck happened to Jesus on this day seven hundred... thousand... (Delirious) And I wont have any more lights on...

JB: W.C. I’ll come back soon.

WC: Get the hell out. All of you. Every one. All of you. You all are after your own spotlight. Trying to sabotage each other. It’s disgusting. You all would stab each other in the back if you could. All of you. I hate everyone of you. (Charlotte struggles to contain WC)

JB: Give WC my best when he wakes up.

WC: Everyone of you thinks if you can just trip the next guy a little bit, then help him get up... you’ll look so damn good. All of you out of this stage. This theater. Get out. You all are bloodthirsty basterds. Everyone of you. Go back to your comfortable blood stained lives.

JB: There is no one here.

WC: (Breaks free of Charlotte and grabs the bottle JB has been carrying) God damn the whole world and every person on it.

(WC takes a mighty drink from the bottle which has been replaced with stage blood. His rage is displaced by weakness. He staggers then slowly and gruesomely vomits blood down his white sanatorium gown. Charlotte guides him to his bed. He breaths heavily and appears to die)

WC: Except for you, Charlotte.

FADE

“I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead” By Warren Zevon plays.