Firedamp by Frederic Colier
Characters: GUY, mid-forties, coal miner
RITCHIE, mid-thirties, coal miner
A Mining town. A barrack with a dormitory to accommodate miners who live far away from home. A door on the left. Two metal tube beds. A coat hanger. A metal closet with two padlocks. There is a window on the right, and it is closed
RITCHIE comes in first. He limps. He heads towards to bed near the window. He hangs his helmet.
He sits down on his bed. He fishes out an envelope from his pocket. He stares at the envelope. He lifts the blanket of the bed next to his and places the letter on the pillow. He covers the envelope with the blanket again.
He goes to the window and opens it. He takes deep breaths and stares at the starry night. In the distance, he recognizes someone. He moves back from the window. Too late, he waves back with restrained gestures at the person waving at him. He moves away from the window and gets into bed. He hides under the blankets and turns the lights off. Blackout.
GUY
is heard opening the barrack’s door, walking down the corridor.
GUY: (Off) – RITCH! . . . RITCH, Wait! (GUY walks in the room, carrying a six pack of beer.) Wait! Don’t go to sleep yet. Come on, get up! Don’t be mad at me. (He turns the lights back on. RITCHIE remains hidden under the blanket. GUY puts the beers on his bed.) It’s too early to go to sleep . . . Got us some beers . . . Here have one . . . (He grabs one, pops the top off, and hands it to RITCHIE. No response. Guy gulps half of it down.) Nice and cool. You should try one. They’re from Australia. Not bad at all. I thought we’d try something different for a change. Taste like Paradise, if you want to know, next to this dump. So what do you say? You know, I don’t understand what you’re up to. You don’t even seem to be listening . . . Lately, you’ve been rather absent-minded. I don’t recognize you. You wouldn’t want to have another accident, right? So what were you thinking about? . . . You don’t point your drill towards someone . . . Rule number one. You’re going to get lots of people pissed off with that. Me, I don’t care one way or another what you do. Got other things on my mind. I just want to make sure you’re safe . . . Here have one. I need to talk to you. (He hands him a bottle again. No response.) The whole day I’ve tried to talk to you. You’ve been avoided me. I don’t get it . . . We don’t talk enough you and I. We should talk more often. Sure, we talk. That’s true. But we say nothing to each other. Nothing important, anyway. We’ve known each other for a longtime, and yet, we’ve never become real buddies. And that’s got to change. Get over with the avoiding thing . . . There’s a distance like that between us . . . and I don’t like it. Here. I’ve got something that might make you feel better. (He puts a bottle near the bed and finishes his.) Hey, are you listening? Don’t pretend you’re sleeping. I know you’re not. I know you can hear me. (He waits.) Gosh, I can’t stand it when you behave this way.
Okay. Suit yourself. Still, you’re pushing a little. As always, it’s me who must give in. But, don’t worry, I don’t mind. It’s not because I always say yes, that I always give in, that I’m a sucker. On the contrary. It doesn’t cost me anything to always say yes. I’m not demanding. I’ve got a good temper. And if it makes the others happy then why not . . . All right, I’m pushing a little. I’m gabbed too much. Doesn’t bother you, right? Well, while I’m at it, I may as well empty my bag. Finish draining the seam, so to speak. I’ve been trying to have a conversation with you for a while now. You know, a conversation like real people do in films. I’m carrying all these things in my head, and they wear me out. There’re been times when I felt ready to share them. Other times I just forgot. Either I felt too exhausted or else for the lack of courage . . . Feels like having nasty drafts in your head, coming and going, and they’ve got nowhere to go. You’re breathing while choking at the same time. Funny sensation. There’re days, I can see you so clearly that I could talk for hours on end. Others, I’ve got so much dust in my mouth and eyes I can’t put one foot in front of the other without fearing I’m going to bang my head on a beam . . . Hey, are you listening? You aren’t dozing off, are you? Couldn’t you make a gesture? You know, just because I’ve never told you anything doesn’t mean that I don’t understand you. Deep down, we’re not that different. We’re in fact very much alike. Not on everything, but on most things. You think I don’t know how unhappy you are? It’s written all over your face. You don’t want to be here. It’s so obvious. You hate this job . . . That makes two of us. You can’t stand this damned fucking place. Well it makes me sick to wake up every morning, thinking I’ve got to go back down this … graveyard. I bet you couldn’t tell how sick I am. But you, your eyes, they betray you. There’s no life in them. I can see it each time we’re together, when we got out for a drink. You always answer with short sentences. You never look at me straight in the eyes when you talk to me . . . Maybe you believe you’re alone in this situation. Nobody understands you. Do you think it’s normal to spend all your weekends sleeping or flicking the pages of magazines? You get off work you rush to bed. As soon as you’ve got five minutes to yourself you doze off. Here, in the dorm, it’s not a problem. But in the galleries, it can cost you your life . . . You know what your problem is: you’re a dreamer. (He grabs another bottle, opens it. He stares at it.) This Australian shit doesn’t taste bad at all. You’ve got good taste, man. You were right about that.
You need to wake up. Shake yourself up. Like your accident. I get mad thinking about your accident. Do you think it’s normal you did nothing to get better. Are you happy now you’ve got a fucked-up leg? You could have saved your leg. All the pathetic reasons you used to give me: “How am I going to make it now, four months without working? Without pay? Who’s going to take care of my family during this time?” You had insurance like everyone else. Just say you didn’t feel like it. And then you even try to make me believe all this medical non-sense: “The surgery may fail, the risks of failure are very high. The bones may heal temporarily, and several months later I may start again limping.” Yeah, you were probably right. But the surgery may have also succeeded. Now it’s too late. You’re no longer going to heal . . . I get so mad thinking you’ve done that to yourself. Carelessness and stupidity if you want to know . . . There’s no use in continuing to bang your head on the wall like you’re doing. You’d better accept it or else talk to me about it. You’ve got no one to talk to. Let’s talk about your family. Your wife. And the way she treats you, and the way you let yourself be treated . . . No wonder you started drinking after the accident. I understand . . . although I don’t agree with it. She’s never happy the wife of yours. Always whining. Always complaining. Not enough of this, not enough of that. Raising hell over nothing. Making a fool of you in public. She humiliates you, tells you off in public, and you say nothing. She’s smart. Always picking the right. Always preferably with an audience around. She knows you won’t dare to fight back. That leaves scars. You always come across as jerk in public. A wife-beater, or a good-for-nothing. Then try to change people’s opinions . . . Fat chance. You really push yourself to the limits. Jesus! You’ve got to shake yourself up. You say nothing. You let her torture you, trample you, and wait until the storm dwindles. It breaks my heart to see my buddy treated this way. (He gets near the bed, wants to tap RITCHIE on the shoulder but changes his mind.) I know I can be blunt and ruthless. And I’m sorry if I am. But I’m doing you a favor. You’ve got to get a grip on yourself. Hey, you wouldn’t take sick pleasure in making yourself sad, in running around like a crazy bird . . . Remember the days when our folks took canaries down with them. You remind me of those damned birds, flapping your wings as you gasp for air deep deep down the pit . . . Tell me I’m wrong . . . Is it because of her? Your leg. Are you punishing yourself because you’re not happy with her? . . .
I’ve got to tell it’s not easy for me to talk to you this way. It gives me the shakes. I feel nervous. I’m not used to it. I’m doing it for friendship’s sake. We’ve got everything we need to be best friends. You can trust me. You can tell me anything you want. You have nothing to fear . . . You can admit it to me now. Your two kids. Now they’re there—and they are beautiful—they’re sort of in the way, right? I bet you didn’t really want them. I bet you you weren’t ready for them. She forced you into it, didn’t she? And you, like a moron, you followed her instructions. You know she doesn’t think much of you. She thinks you’re lazy . . . How do I know it? She told my wife. Try to get it out of her mind now that she’s drilled it in her head. And I’d bet in your face she still tells you how much she loves you. I know you’re neither weak nor lazy. I’m not gobbling any if it. I think we’re all the same. Some have more luck, others less. Some thrive in open air. Others must work in the bowel of the earth, breathing dust all day long to make a living. As simple as that . . . It’s too late to cry. If you go down the pit wearing a wedding dress, you can’t expect coming back out looking all nice and clean . . . no, you don’t. Anyway, all I’m trying to say is that your kids didn’t make things easier . . . They force you to work a little more each month for a little less . . . (He wants to say something but hesitates. He opens a new bottle.) If you don’t hurry there aren’t going to be any left for you.
Still, that’s tough . . . I’m almost certain when you met her, never in a million years had you planned to marry her and get her pregnant. It happened just like that, right? On its own, like a firedamp. Can’t smell it coming and before you know it. Bang! The whole shebang. It’s even too late before you’ve got time to blink. I wouldn’t be surprised if you had other plans in mind. That you didn’t see it that way: pitch dark like the bottom of a pit, with only your helmet’s tiny light to light up your path? The silly shadows you make on the walls, don’t make you laugh for long. Oh brother, how I understand you. Especially when the lack of air makes you woozy and the heat suffocates you the entire day. How much I understand you. I didn’t see my life this way either. You see, I can admit it without shame. Between friends you’ve got nothing to hide.
Okay, it’s true. You’ve got the right to ask me what the hell I’m doing here then. And you’d be right asking me. The way I see it is there’re things I can control. I can control what I say, what I do, my actions. But when it comes to work, money, and life, I’m just like you. I don’t get to make the decisions. Things just happen. You and me are both suckers. In the same pit looking for the golden seam . . . The carrot on the stick. There aren’t any gold seam. Not here anyway. Once you get that, you get all the rest. The wheel of fortune never spins in the right direction. (He grabs another beer, reads the label.) Our job is to make it go the right way.
If I had my say, I would have liked to travel. Big trips. All over the world. I’d visit places no one thinks about. Imagine all those beers out there that we don’t even think of. All those places. Surely can’t be worse than this shit hole . . . You should try your beer it’s getting warm . . . Talking about traveling, I’ve been carrying this little project in my head. I’ve mentioned it to you a couple of times. You probably forgot. Or you thought I was kidding. Trying to impress you. I wasn’t. I was very serious. It’s like a suitcase I’ve been carrying in my head. There isn’t a corner in the galleries where it hasn’t been. Just to tell you how long it’s been . . . The good thing about waiting is that it gives you the time to perfect your project. Today I feels completely ready to share with you . . . The time to open the suitcase has come. It’s way too heavy for me to keep on carrying around—alone. You know where I’m getting at. Why I spent the whole day running after you. It wasn’t to lecture you. But to share my project with you. If something happened to you it would ruin the whole thing . . . (Pause) because my project includes you. You bet if I kept an eye on you. See how deceiving things can be . . . So I’ve been wondering . . . (Pause) Why you and I don’t go to Australia together? Huh? For real? It’d be such a great idea. There’s nothing left for us to do here, apart from continuing to fill our lungs with coal. I can’t spit anymore without spitting black dust. The damn thing even comes out through my eyes. In my tears, every morning when I wake up. In Australia, the sky is blue. I know I’ve done my homework. It wouldn’t take much to get there. Six months of hard work, doing shit loads of overtime, and we should even have enough to buy a small parcel of land. In the desert. Over there, there’re tons of gold and diamond mines. The land is riddled with them. And the land is worth nothing. No one wants it because it’s in the middle of nowhere. Isn’t it whacko? We won’t need to buy thousands and thousands of acres. We start with small lot. I reckon a hundred acres be enough. For one thing, we’ll have a better chance to become rich. If we stay here, ten more years and we’re through. They’ll retire us, with a handshake and a nice smile . . . For real. Just thinking about starting a new life, I feel like I’m twenty again.
Do you remember the young Burney? I read the letters he sent his father. Old Burney can’t . . .
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