PLAY: NICOLAS BILLON

{ judith }

 
            Judith takes a long drag on her cigarette. She savours the nicotine, then blows                            
                       out the smoke.

            She takes in the audience.
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Fuck the polar bears.

Fuck global warming, fuck the Kyoto protocol, fuck seals and whales and penguins, OK? Fuck greenhouse gases and fuck Greenland, for that matter, and fuck you if you're sitting there thinking, "Ever heard of cancer, bitch?"

            Takes another drag from her cigarette.

I don't really mean any of that.

Well, except for the part about the smoking.

Because if you think I don't see the contempt in your eyes, well, actually, it glows in the fucking dark.

Hey. Hey. I'm gonna let you in on a little secret.

We know it's bad for us.

Is that what drives you crazy? That we smoke even though we know it's killing us? Yeah, well, we've all eaten a doughnut and we've all had fast food and we've all had questionable unprotected sex. So let's consider before casting the first stone, OK?

            Takes another long drag.
            Scratches her head.

To answer your question: yes, I'm in a foul mood.

            Stands the cigarette up on its end and presents it to the audience.

This was my wedding gift to Jonathan: that I would stop smoking. His to me was to start drinking.

            Shakes her head.

The man wouldn't touch a drop of alcohol. God knows why. At first I thought, OK, ex-alcoholic... but no. It didn't bother me, to each his own, you know? But there's a point when you get tired of having a boyfriend who orders ginger ale every time you're out. So I made him promise me to start drinking -- just a little bit, you know, to loosen up. Alcohol, after all, is the fuel of spontaneous combustion, right?

            Takes a long drag from her cigarette.

Boom.

            Smiles.

On the plus side, having a boyfriend who doesn't drink means there's no argument about the designated driver. But. But. There is a significant lack, a significant absence, a significant dearth of something very important: drunk sex. Sure it can work if only I'm hammered, but let's say there's a certain abandon that comes when both partners are drunk.

Because what would happen is, we'd come home, I'd be three sheets, my hands are practically down his pants, I am, as they say, I am throwing myself at him, I am begging him to let me do certain things, I am implying in no uncertain terms that he can have his way with me, and he, he takes me by the wrists and says... "You are drunk."

This is what I get for marrying a scientist. Such keen observations! To point something out that, clearly, must have escaped my notice... It's a little bit like the non-smokers out there. I mean, thank you.

But I'm not about to be brushed off like that, OK, sure, we can play hard to get, and if I'm not exactly subtle when I'm sober, when I'm liquored up I make Andrew Dice Clay sound like a Sunday sermon. He's all, "OK, let's get you to sleep," blah di blah blah blah. I say, "Fuck! Me!" because I am not letting him off the hook, I am working my magic...

            Wiggles her fingers.

... and finally he relents, "OK, OK!" and he takes me up to the bedroom...

            Judith rolls her eyes.

... and I can't get my clothes off fast enough, he's fucking folding his pants, whatever, we get into bed and he...

            She laughs.

He... He goes down on me.

Now normally, I wouldn't object, but COME THE FUCK ON. I don't want to be romanced, I don't want to be wooed, I want to be fucked, OK?

            Judith sighs in exasperation.

I only tell this story to illustrate a point about Jonathan and I.

Which I've forgotten.

            Takes another long drag on her cigarette.

So this is how I punish him. My petty little revenge. He knows what I'm doing. He's got a fucking bloodhound's sense of smell.

            She takes a last drag on her cigarette then puts it out.

OK. I feel a little bit better.

The only time he tries, he attempts to communicate is to talk to me about ice. Ice. Or Greenland.

Who gives a shit?

            Moment.

I am being, as my sister would say, ungenerous at the moment. And I suppose, yes, there is some truth to that.

I have one memory about Greenland. My sister and I had a subscription to National Geographic -- it was our Dad's idea -- and one day, I guess I was about nine and my sister was about Tanya's age, thirteen-fourteen, an issue came in and on the cover was a picture of this mummified child they'd found in Greenland. We were terrified. Neither of us would even touch the damn magazine. I had fucking nightmares, OK? It was the creepiest thing I'd ever seen. My Dad was so upset he wrote to National Geographic and cancelled our subscription.

"Ugh!"

I'm sure that's why I want to be cremated. I don't ever want to look like that.

            She takes out another cigarette, but doesn't light it.

Let me explain something to you. I'm a working actor, and that's no small feat. The "working" part. But take a good look at me and ask yourself, "Is this a Juliet?" and the answer is... No, of course not, I'm not pretty enough, you see? I am what is referred to as a character actor, which is the polite way of saying I'm technically proficient but I don't make teenage boys come in their pants. Fair. But I can be the best friend, I won't threaten anyone, yes? I can play the Shakespearean bawds. But my name will never go above the title.

Jonathan and I started dating when I was twenty-nine. And today, I might ask myself, "How did you ever fall for this man?" But back then, my thirties were just up ahead, looming on the horizon, louring... Two things happened: first, I realised that if I wanted more than half-hearted fuck friendships with other character actors, I needed to start looking for a relationship. And second -- ladies? -- my ovaries were aching in a vicious kind of way. I mean, by that point I was spending lots of time with my niece and nephew, and my sister kept telling me, "Children are wonderful, children will change your life," blah blah blah. So she introduces me to her husband's friend, Dr Jonathan Fahey, a leading expert in glaciology -- so says Google. And, OK, he's maybe not the guy I'd pick out in a line-up, but then again...

            Points at her own face.

And he's lovely, he's reliable, he's good with the twins, they love him, he wants a family, he's stable, everyone's like, "He's such a great guy," yadda yadda... So the sex isn't earth-shattering...

            Judith shrugs.

After all -- and I'm quoting him here — "hedonism is the purview of our twenties."

I mean... Purview?

There are days when I wonder what he saw in me. I think I was exotic. Artsy. Maybe the one thing we have in common is that we have no idea what the other one does for a living.

I marry him because I will finally have some stability in my life. We buy a house, fix it up, I start to 'nest'. I talk to my menstrual blood, I make promises: "It won't be long now."

And then, my sister and her husband are driving home one evening and they're about to go under an overpass when -- for absolutely no good reason -- a giant piece of the overpass cracks off and crushes them both.

Boom.

And it's tragic because -- well, yes, because they're dead -- but also because no one dies like that. That's how the Road Runner dies, OK? It's a fucking cartoon death. People don't die like that, right? Wrong.

            Judith lights the cigarette.

It's the coyote that dies. Not the Road Runner. The Road Runner always gets away...

Meep meep.

Of course we adopt Tanya and Thomas. Of course. Jonathan loves them, they love him, it's easy. Well, as easy as it can be under the circumstances. Overnight, we become parents to two pre-teens. We build a bunk bed in the baby room. And guess what? My ovaries are pissed. Maybe next year, says Jonathan. Maybe next year, I tell my period.

Yeah, well. We all know how that goes.
Then last year, Thomas drowns...

            Judith puts out her half-finished cigarette.

It's hard not to think, on some level, that this family is cursed. Because -- come on! What the fuck is that? That's a sick fucking sense of humour.

But maybe, maybe now we can think about having one of our own. Tanya's fourteen, so... So it's a possibility, it's an option. Right? Right. Only now "climate change" is important, I mean, you film one PowerPoint presentation and people get real worked up about it. And I'm not an idiot, I understand the problem. I get it. But when you're married to one of the world's leading glaciology experts... Icebergs are a big deal, glaciers are a big deal, Greenland is a big fucking deal, but the state of your wife's reproductive organs...?

Well.

He calls me, from whatever middle-of-fucking-nowhere armpit town he's staying in, and he tells me about this island he's discovered. And there's something in his voice -- excitement? I can't quite put my finger on it. And he says, "Judith, come visit. Bring Tanya and come see this place..."
            Judith puts up her index finger.

"Sweetheart, it's so beautiful, it's this beautiful barren landscape..."

I cry when he says that. Because that's me, he's just described me... and that something in his voice? It's love, paternal love, the love one gives to something one has birthed, but that love belongs TO ME. Me. Me. No one else. Not that toothless fucking skank whore Greenland, not her. It's not fair.
It's not. Fair.

            Judith lights a new cigarette.

He didn't have the... the decency? The delicacy? To consider, just... consider... naming it after me. Who the fuck am I, right?

Yeah.

            She takes a long drag from her cigarette.

So I call David. He's one of my ex-fuck-friend character actors, and I invite myself over. I like him because we have this game, he calls me his "little whore" and that's how he fucks me. And he never says "please", and he never says "thank you".

            Judith looks out, her expression impassive.

Nic Billon (nicolasbillon.com) writes for theatre, television, and film. His work has garnered over a dozen awards, including a Governor-General’s Award for Drama, a Canadian Screen Award, and a Writers Guild of Canada Screenwriting Award.
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Judith’s monologue is excerpted from the play Greenland and is part of the Governor-General Award-winning Fault Lines triptych published by Coach House Books. It is available here.