(a couple, a man and a woman, enter. the woman pushes a carriage, also using it to help her walk, as she has a slight limp)

MAN: It’s spring.

WOMAN: Isn’t it?

MAN: It’s like a new beginning.

WOMAN: Sort of.

MAN: Smell that raw air! (inhales)

WOMAN: (coughs)

MAN: It’s like a whole new world!

WOMAN: New...

MAN: Everywhere you look, (sings to the tune of “it’s beginning to look alot like Christmas”) It’s beginning to look a lot like springtime!

WOMAN: (catching on to the end of the sing-along too late) ...time.

MAN: Oh, Pickle, it’s just like fresh-fallen snow, except that it’s grass.

WOMAN: (smiles weakly) mmmmm.

MAN: This gentle hillside, gently rolling. Rolling for miles. Till the ends of the earth.

WOMAN: We’re in the park. (laboriously gets the baby out of the carriage, sets it on the ground. sits down herself, gritting her teeth.)

MAN: (ignoring her, continuing his experience) Covered in a plush stainless carpet of green grass. I say stainless, because when the rain comes, it washes away all of the muck and filth, and the carpet grows back greener and fresher than before. Like my beard. I shave it off and it’s baby soft for only four hours before it starts growing back thicker than before. But if I don’t shave my pores get blocked and my skin gets all sweaty and pasty. (inhales) But that air! Like aftershave! It gets so blue. The bluer it is, the better it is. Fresh. (inhales again)

WOMAN: (sharply inhales as she unbinds a filthy bandage from her leg. she has a terrible, infected wound. She tears up some grass and dirt, rubbing it on the wound.)

MAN: You know, Pickle, some men never get it as good as this. They live in the Outback and die in fires sparked by lightning because the ground is so dry and cracked.

WOMAN: Australia.

MAN: But here I am. Here I am with my young, beautiful family (scoops up baby and kisses it). Here we go, wheeee! (upon first indication that it’s going to be bounced, baby cries) Uh-oh, whoops! (pushes baby into woman’s arm, who isn’t able to finish attending to her wound) Looks like little Thomas is hungry!

WOMAN: Thomas. (takes off her shirt entirely and begins to breastfeed. while the baby feeds, she tries to stretch her arm out far enough to pick the grass out of her wound)

MAN: Those trees. Noble trees (salutes). They get hungry too. Sucking up that dirt. You eat up, boys. It’s like that Thoreau poem, “I don’t think I am ever ever going to see a poem that is as beautiful as the tree.”

WOMAN: Kilmer.

MAN: Got big arms, that tree. Tough. (flexes his bicep) Look at that, Pickle, you think I could take that big oak in a arm wrestling match?

WOMAN: (shrugs)

MAN: What? (looks at her for the first time in a while, notices her shirt off) Please, dear, I wish you would get one of those special shirts with the tit-doors.

WOMAN: He has to eat.

MAN: I just don’t want anyone to see! I don’t want them to think you’re a whore. But of course little Thomas has to eat. Thomas Phelps the Third. Like his grandfather. Tough. One day, he’s going to wrestle that same tree. They’re going to grow up together. The world is my son’s gym, Pickle. He’s going to have such a future.

WOMAN: Ow! (baby has bitten her) Little fucker (slaps him on the forehead with the back of her wrist. the baby cries. she rolls her eyes and tries to get him to feed again)

MAN: The potential of this world, Pickle! Everywhere you look, raw materials! That tree over there. Good old oak. You could build you a good roofbeam with that. Everyone needs a roof over their heads. Rain may be good and fresh every now and then, but you don’t want little Thomas catching cold now, do you?

WOMAN: Big house.

MAN: We’ll make Thomas here a big house.

WOMAN: Fence.

MAN: White picket fence. Big wonderful fresh lawn. I’ll mow it every day, cut it like a razor!

WOMAN: (has spotted a crumpled paper bag lying nearby. Gives up on the still crying baby and pushes it away, disinterested. She drags herself within reaching distance of the bag)

MAN: Nothing worse than a splotchy lawn. Like those pores getting blocked. Gotta keep it smooth. Neat. Weed-free.

WOMAN: (fishes inside of the bag, finds an empty malt liquor bottle. She unscrews it and tries to tries to salvage the last drops.)

MAN: Back to the earth. Work with my hands. Rake leaves.

WOMAN: (disgustedly tosses bottle offstage where it shatters. she wraps the paper bag around her wound and drags herself back to where the baby still cries)

MAN: (to imaginary neighbor) Yessir, Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Phelps the Second. This little guy’s the Third. Already tough as nails. (accidentally steps on baby’s arm as he paces; the baby wails) That’s a firm handshake you’ve got there, too, sir. Strong grip. And might I add I’m glad to meet a man who uses the same aftershave I do. (inhales) Just like the blue sky, you’ve got that right. Yessir, built the house myself. Did the design, too. Kilmer always wondered, why leave the pleasure of building your own house to others?

WOMAN: (has been rummaging through the carriage, which she’s knocked over) Thoreau.

MAN: That’s right, feed yourself body and mind. Yessir, played baseball in college, had to keep that arm strong. Here, look... (takes off his shirt)

WOMAN: College. (finds a bent cigarette. lights it, adjusts her paper bag bandage, and looks at the crying baby in annoyance)

MAN: Work my arms out every day. Tough fiber in there. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear to you that muscles are green instead of red. Like the inside of a tree. Water, sun, and dirt, yessir...

WOMAN: All the ingredients of honest living.

MAN: All the ingredients of honest living. We’re like cakes fresh out of the oven, seeing the world for the first time. We’re soft and spongy at first, but we get harder as we cool off. We work. Some people might call it getting-

WOMAN: Stale.

MAN: -stale, but I call it getting stronger, still growing. Here, feel this (offers flexed bicep to imaginary friend). Just like Thomas the First and now Thomas the Third. Raising that one good, raising him strong. Brought him out here today to fill his lungs with that pure raw spring air. (inhales) Right, Pickle? (looks at wife a second time)

WOMAN: (exhales)

MAN: (coughs) Now Pickle, you put that cigarette out right away. I don’t want you stunting little Thomas’s health. These are his growing years. I don’t want him to become retarded. He’s a Phelps.

WOMAN: (struggles to get herself up with only a tiny hint of defiance as man watches disapprovingly. she draws herself to her full height and the two stand, both shirtless, as the baby inbetween them on the ground continues to scream. she takes one last drag and flicks the cigarette onto the child, which bursts into flame. The man doesn’t seem to notice. They break into parental smiles) He’s strong.

MAN: And clean.

WOMAN: Like a cake.

MAN: It’s like a whole new world!

WOMAN: mmmmm

MAN: (singing as he takes her arm and leads her off) It’s beginning to look a lot like springtime...

M&WOMAN: (singing together) everywhere you go.......

(baby’s screaming stops. curtain.)