Plus One
CHARACTERS:
J. J. 32, New Yorker.
DAD 74, Floridian.
The play takes place on the screen of a laptop.
GRAPHIC: April 21, 2020
Graphic fades.
In the lower third of the screen, a frame featuring
GRAPHIC: US COVID-related deaths: 37,321
The number increases continuously throughout.
FACETIME WINDOW appears featuring
MANHATTAN LIVING ROOM.
J. J. waits for his call to be answered.
A second FaceTime window opens to reveal
FLORIDA LIVING ROOM.
Dad looks into the camera with a big smile.
DAD: Hey! There you are. Haven’t heard from you in a while. I called, but—
J. J.: Yeah, things have been crazy, you know. How are you? Staying safe? Staying home?
DAD: I go on walks with Roscoe but there’s no one around. They stopped letting renters in so now the
place is pretty empty. I’ve been watching the news a lot. New York looks like a ghost town.
J. J.: The restaurant closed. We were doing
takeout for a while but even that stopped.
I don’t think we’re going to open back up.
DAD: I’m sorry.
J. J.: How’s Bryan? You talk to him?
DAD: Oh, sure. He’s all hunkered down. They
have to homeschool Max so they’re
getting a little stir crazy. (He lifts a plate of
food into the screen.) Just had some conch
fritters from Elmo’s.
J. J.: Nice.
DAD: Thought you’d appreciate that. How are
you holding up?
J. J.: I haven’t been sleeping. Not that it matters. It’s like time doesn’t exist in a pandemic, right? But,
I’ve been getting a lot done. Organizing. Painting. Writing. Clearing out closets. I found,
remember that picture of you and me in Paris from the summer after my senior year? I found that.
I thought it was lost.
DAD: Show me your painting. I wanna see.
J. J.: There’s nothing worth looking at.
DAD: Then send me your writing.
J. J.: I haven’t really finished anything. It’s tough to focus, you know?
DAD: Yeah.
A moment of silence.
J. J.: Dad, I’m scared shitless.
DAD: I know. Should I be worried?
J. J.: No. No-no-no-no. Hey, I was thinking about coming down there. Riding the pandemic out in
Key Largo.
DAD: Is New York letting people leave?
J. J.: Letting? Yeah, we can do whatever we want. I just have to be safe.
DAD: That’s a long way for you.
J. J.: It’s a twenty-four hour straight shot. I’ve done it before.
DAD: What about work?
J. J.: I told you, the restaurant closed.
DAD: I don’t know if it’s a good idea.
J. J.: Why not?
DAD: J. J., I’m seventy-four. I have COPD. It doesn’t get any riskier than that.
J. J.: You just got takeout from Elmo’s. How is that not risky?
DAD: I didn’t go out to get it. And all the containers were disinfected right away. I’m very, very careful.
J. J.: Look, I haven't left my apartment in two weeks. No deliveries or anything. So I for sure don’t have
it. I think if I just got in my car and drove all night I could get there no problem. I feel like I could
power through easy. I mapped it all and figured out where the gas stations are based on my
expected mileage. I’ll bring food and wear gloves when I fill up. I have a few masks and bandanas
and I’ll pee on the side of the road.
DAD: I mean—
A child is heard in the background; a woman yells for the kid to be quiet.
Dad and J. J. say nothing for a moment.
J. J.: You said he was home. Bryan lives in Atlanta.
DAD: I said he was homeschooling. They came down a week ago.
J. J.: And you’ve been like swimming and whatever with Max?
DAD: I have.
J. J.: How long are they staying?
DAD: I’m not sure.
J. J.: So, what? Like forever?
DAD: No. Not forever. Just, you know.
J. J.: Why did you lie to me?
DAD: I didn’t lie. I just didn’t mention he’s here. Why aren’t you taking your meds?
J. J.: Can’t I just come down? I really need to be around people.
DAD: We can keep talking. We’ll FaceTime every day. We should be doing that anyway.
J. J.: You know what I mean.
DAD: I do. And you know why I can’t have you here. Not with Max.
J. J.: It was nine years ago. I got a little excited. I’m fine.
DAD: J. J.—
J. J.: WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO? Just sit here in my coffin? I’m your son, too, you know.
DAD: I know.
Silence.
DAD: Is there someone up there you can—
J. J.: Okay, Dad. I gotta go.
DAD: No, stay on. Let’s talk.
J. J.: I have to finish this painting. It’s a version of the picture of us in Paris only it’s the 1800s. Like a
different time. Van Gogh or whatever. When things were different. You know? You know what I’m
talking about?
DAD: I do.
J. J.: Yeah, okay.
DAD: Hey, J. J.—
J. J.: I gotta go, Dad. I have a lot to do. So much.
DAD: J. J., don’t—
Call ends. J. J.’s screen disappears.
MAX: (off) Pop-pop!
DAD: Be right there!
Dad lingers for a moment.
He leaves the call. His frame disappears.
The running tally hits 39,995 and stops for a moment.
It clicks once more to land on 39,996.
Blackout.
JOE NELMS
In addition to Plus One, Joe Nelms is the author of the plays Burning House (Best Play Finalist, 2020 Winterfest) and What Norman Saw, as well as the novels The Last Time I Died and Formerly Fingerman (both Simon & Schuster). He lives in what is left of New York City with his wife and daughter. More of his work can be seen at ByJoeNelms.com.