MICHAEL and MARCO are gathered in a small white room, sitting on opposite sides of a Scrabble board. Michael is explaining something with his hands.
You put the lime in the coconut and take the bowl up.
That's really not funny. Just cause I'm black doesn't mean I know how to do that. I'm French, not Haitian.
How's your head?
Still hurts. Why did I fall in from the ceiling?
Cause there's no door. Your move.
I told you, I can't make a word with all consonants.
There's an "A" on the board already. You could put down "art."
Marco stares at him for a long time.
Why did you just say "art?"
Cause you can't turn away from art. This whole room is an art sculpture with paintings abound.
It's all white.
Now who's being racist?
No, I'm serious. There are no paintings here. I thought heaven was supposed to encompass your own idea of beauty. Where are the photographs of women in their New York flats? Where are the Parisian streets as interpreted by Monet? Where are the hills of rolling grass and the endless seashore?
There is art in simplicity too.
No there isn't! These are blank walls. Dress it up with all the fancy lighting and architecture, but it's still the same bare walls.
Don't you think there are other ways of viewing it? Besides, you're not in heaven. This is purgatory.
What?! Why am I here?
You tell me. I stole my best friends paintings and claimed they were mine. But I told everyone the truth before I died.
That didn't pardon you?
No, the paintings were still so-so, and he didn't get much work afterwards.
Merde.
Hey, you're not the one sharing a bunk bed with Andy Warhol. (whispers) He pees.
Marco gets up. He tries to scale the walls and climb out, but to no avail.
I find that most people who come through purgatory are here cause they don't believe but want to.
I believe in God. And I believe in the afterlife, otherwise I wouldn't be here.
Andy Warhol enters the room, looking very sleepy.
Michael, if you're going out, bring home a can of soup.
Alright Andy. Did you go to the bathroom before you go to bed?
What is this, Chelsea? There's no toilet! (he looks at Marco) Your friend's cute. What's his name?
My name's Marco, and I'm not gay.
I'm not either. Jeez, don't get all defensive. Oh look, you have all "R"s and "T"s. You could spell "art", you know.
Why do you people keep talking about art?
Well, aren't you an artist?
No, I'm not. My son is.
I am.
What kind of art does your son do?
Modern garbage. He paints squares and splatters paint all over the canvases.
You know, just cause it doesn't move you doesn't mean it's not art. Art is created with the heart, not with the mind. When I paint, I don't think about all the other works of art that I like, cause I didn't make those. They don't mean to me what they meant to the artist.
This coming from a man who paid people to paint for him.
Andy waves his finger at Michael's letters.
And oh look, you have enough letters to spell "go fuck yourself."
Your son's art means a lot to him.
Marco bows into a "thinking man" position. Months pass in an instant.
I understand now
Imagine that, and it only took you 5 months.
Whe.... I was only thinking for a few seconds.
Marco gets up and walks to the front of the stage.
The last thing I said to my son was that he wasn't an artist. I wanted a secure life for him. Jean! Je comprends maintenant, et je suis désolé! (he turns back to Michael and Andy) I just told him I understand now, and I'm sorry.
We speak French.
(a little late) I speak French.
I may not see the public value in his work, but I see the passion he put into it. The same passion I put into deporting smugglers at the customs department.
(to Andy) He had one of those motivational pictures in his office.
Andy nods.
I wanted to tell my son that I always loved him. I was only looking out for his financial security, with me being sick. I just wanted to scare him into taking care of himself. But I'd rather he be happy, even if it means he has to struggle.
Suddenly, Marco notices a door that was not there before.
There's a door here...
Huh, how bout that?
Marco opens it up and gasps.
It's... my son's portrait of me.
Andy leans over.
Wow, pretty nice. But... he does know you're black, right?
It looks like there's something missing.
Guess you better get in there and fix it.
Thanks... God.
No problem.
Marco exits through the door.