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Weather Wars
Characters
George: mid-twenties to early thirties, a graduate student in business.
Lucy: mid-twenties to early thirties, a graduate student in political science.
Kenyatta: mid-twenties to early thirties, a graduate student in engineering.
Scene One
Three graduate students are in Ralph's Speakeasy, sipping drinks, playing a game of darts, and debating the merits of a movie entitled Weather Wars. In a corner stands a tall table with four stools; a small jukebox on a wall. On the rear wall is a bright dart board. The walls are black. When the curtains rise, Lucy and Kenyatta sit across from each other at the table; George is at the bar buying another round of drinks (perhaps the audience can see details of the bar area reflected in a mirror). George and Kenyatta arm wrestle for shots of tequila during the first act of Weather Wars; Lucy only drinks pink lemonade. Periodically, the three characters play an on-going dart game; George keeps the score.
Lucy and Kenyatta are gazing at George at the bar reflected in a mirror, from their vantage point.
If this keeps on, maybe I'll let you take me off his hands.
Don't say that.
So, you aren't interested, huh? That hurts my feelings, Kenyatta.
Illusions don't interest me. (Pause). Anyway, you two are almost one.
Look at the two of them.
They're friends, Lucy.
Do you believe her? (Pause) Grinning in his face. [End Page 109]
They're friends.
What's wrong with these Asian women?
I see your lips moving, but I don't believe what I'm hearing.
Some white guy smiles at her, and she's ready to drop to her knees.
You're sounding like Melissa.
I'd rather sound like a dyke than some see-through white girl whose alabaster skin never perspires.
Life's complicated.
Don't get all silly abstract with me, Kenyatta Nganga.
Well.
I'm a goddamn angel.
I know.
I'm a fucking angel.
I know. (Pause) I hear you.
He'd be dust by now if it weren't for me.
I know.
Do you also know how hard it is to save a man from himself? (Pause) That's the hardest job in the world.
You don't have to convince me, Lucy.
I'm the one who found him. (Pause) Pale as a ghost in that bathtub.
I hear you.
Blood everywhere. [End Page 110]
I hear you.
Dumb as a bowl of sour milk.
I hear you, Lucy.
Both wrists slashed. Just because they cut him from the damn football squad. (Pause). Why? Does it make any sense?
No.
When I brought him back he said he could read my mind.
You said this, but I don't know.
So close to death he could read my mind.
You don't have to tell me, Lucy.
I believed him.
Maybe you needed to.
I stayed at his side for months. All summer. And then I made promises. I made promises a fool wouldn't make. (Pause) I fell in love. I'm an angel.
Because you thought he could read your mind?
No. He could. (Pause) I'm the one who gave him back to himself.
Because you both went to the valley where—
Where the hyena earns its soul.
Are you laughing at me?
I'm finishing your sentences.
George returns to the table, holding two shots of tequila and a beer. He places the drinks on the table and positions himself on a stool, beside Lucy, smiling.
I come back, clutching this lifewater, can you guess what I'm thinking? [End Page 111]
No.
What?
I'm thinking—well, if I were the average, typical white dude walking in here, at this moment, seeing the two of you, cozy as two mint juleps, I'd say—if I saw the two of you sitting here—I'd say—
What?
Should I slap my hands over my ears?
I'd say, Hi, Romeo and Juliet.
Couldn't we just be friends?
Hardly.
But we are friends.
That's my point.
George kisses Lucy; a long, passionate kiss.
George, you're almost drunk.
Are you saying I can't hold my liquor?
Something like that.
He's still a big, tough linebacker.
Not anymore.
Are you two trying to piss me off?
We're just trying to faze our big poo bear.
George grabs a dart and makes the motion of throwing it at Kenyatta; Kenyatta ducks.
You fuck-face alien. [End Page 112]
Enough, George.
Enough?
Yeah. Enough.
Silence.
Were you two yakking about that damn stupid flick?
Yeah.
Maybe.
I still say it's too politically correct for my blood.
What does that mean?
You know what it means.
No. What does politically correct mean to George Stanley Morrison?
Politically correct means politically correct.
It means pretend.
Don't be a goose.
That's exactly what it means. Pretend.
Don't be silly.
Before the 60s, it was politically correct to march off to some war without a question. It was politically correct, if you were white, especially a white man, to step in front of any black person in line at a bank or post office.
Here you go again.
Not just blacks. (Pause) Indians. Chinese. Native—
Here she goes. [End Page 113]
Native Americans. Japanese. Latinos, too.
Here goes the Snow Queen.
And it was politically incorrect if that black person spoke up. In fact, he could find himself dangling from a politically correct rope.
Honey, I love you, but sometimes you have to ease up.
Politically correct means pretend, because at times it's the only thing that keeps us from each other's throat. It keeps us at least halfway civilized. (Pause) George, it would be absolutely politically incorrect for me to pick up this bottle of beer and bash you across the head. Because I know you forgot my lemonade on purpose.
I forgot because I forgot.
I told you I'm not helping you drink yourself under the table anymore.
Okay.
Okay.
Silence.
I hate Weather Wars.
You don't think it's true?
It's beneath fantasy.
It's a soft shoe on the topic.
Okay, it's getting a little warm now. (Pause) But this been going on since God made earth.
You're saying climate change is God's fault?
I didn't say that.
He's saying man's innocent.
I'm saying man's not always guilty of original sin. [End Page 114]
George, you love the word goose.
So?
Well, big boy, we're cooking our goose.
The seas are rising. And what about an ice floe floating around big as Delaware?
It ain't my fault.
Killer whales are now raising havoc in fresh water.
That's what killer whales do.
Where do you think all those forest fires come from?
Lightning, man.
Busy building our fancy pads in tinker boxes.
Don't get so emotional.
Who wants to bring babies into a world we've blasted and beaten into nothing but pity?
We need some science in this discussion. We need Professor Stephen Hawking here at this table.
What'd we say to Hawking?
I don't know what we'd say, but I know what I'd say. (Pause) I'd say, Professor Hawking, we seem to have a little problem here in elementary logic.
Ah, George, get off your high horse.
I'd say, Sir, here's our dilemma. We have this little illogical conceit regarding a very lowbrow flick called Weather Wars. Sir, here's the infantile plot. There are three countries—a triad—one's in Europe, one's in Asia, and the third is the good old US of A. They have consolidated their climate control expertise to make a machine called Quasimodo's Dynamo, and its job is to create drought in Africa to kill off people so the land can be stolen and revived. (Pause) Do you see why this flick is an insult to any normal thinking American, Professor Hawking? [End Page 115]
Kenyatta assumes a Stephen Hawking pose.
No, Mr. Morrison. Not exactly. You see, I also have my own problem sometimes regarding theorems. When I said Black Holes do not annihilate all traces of matter that falls into them forever, I was retracting a theory I held for almost three bloody decades.
Mr. Hawking and Mr. Morrison, you know, you are two boring blokes. (Pause) But I would like to know what Mr. Hawking thinks about the social history of Golliwogs on Uranus.
Sir, please excuse my friends. They're indeed two unmitigated nincompoops. (Pause). Professor Hawking, I do admire your great facility for statistical proportions. That life-size photo of Marilyn Monroe in your office is more than words.
Well, Mr. Morrison, to tell you the truth. Let's see. Hmmm.
George and Kenyatta crack up; Lucy doesn't laugh.
Professor Hawking, sir, I think we're in some hot water. LUCY: Don't let me dampen your sobriety.
George tries to kiss Lucy; she pulls away slightly.
Honey, please don't be like that. We're just funning.
I'm cutting you off.
Cutting me off? (Pause). Tequila or poontang?
Lucy springs to her feet.
Apologize! Apologize to me, George Stanley Morrison!
Silence.
Apologize, George. (Pause) George, apologize to Lucy.
Silence.
I'm sorry, Lucy. [End Page 116]
Lucy picks up a dart; she walks over and faces the board; she aims and then lets the dart fly.
That's better.
The three characters take turns throwing darts—in competitive silence.
Kenyatta, you're the engineer. You should be punching all kinda holes into that stupid movie plot.
All I can say is I believe there's plausibility.
It ain't even bad sci-fi.
George, are you rejecting the politics or logic of the technology?
I'm rejecting the whole hog.
I wish you'd surprise me.
I bet somewhere in this world—somewhere in America, in Europe or Asia, someone's at least daydreaming about altering climate and creating drought somewhere on our planet, so they can come back—can return to the scene of the crime.
Do you really believe humans are that evil?
Remember Nazi Germany?
Remember Somali?
Remember the soap and glue factories?
Remember the cave of skulls?
Remember Slobodan Milosevic?
Remember the devil comes on horseback?
You sound like my mother and father. (Pause) I grew up with this talk.
Your mom and dad are two of the loveliest people I ever met.
My mother turned you on to Howard Zinn, and ever since she's the high priestess of things to come. [End Page 117]
His mom's lovely. She looks forty-something.
But she doesn't want anybody to know she was Miss Homecoming Queen of the Good Old Days.
We didn't tell you about getting the four of them together—George's mom and dad, and my mom and dad—did we?
It's embarrassing.
Totally amusing.
Uncomfortable as dogs and cats in a tub of water.
That must've been when Nandini and me were going through the wringer.
Probably.
We had a little Sunday barbecue over at George's parents' house.
We—they live one town over from each other.
But that can feel like a thousand miles away.
Of course, my dad had to show he was the master-cock of the house. He had his apron on, and was calling the shots. He didn't dare play Jackie Wilson or Muddy Waters, but Dylan blasting across the backyard.
Of course, my dad only listens to Bach and Mozart. (Pause) Sometimes, in a tight squeeze, he might listen to a minute of Beethoven's early work, something like the Eroica Symphony, but nothing later, because he says Beethoven went deaf and lost his mind.
But dad's singing along with Dylan at the top of his voice, making outlandish toasts and getting plastered.
George sings a few phases from "The Masters of War."
Mom's sitting there, her knees locked together, trying to smile.
And my mother's going on and on about her days in the Peace Corp.
And your mom's ceremonial dance, cool as anything. [End Page 118]
Lucy shows a few movements of the dance.
Then this lovely woman had to come over and sit in my lap.
Lucy places a hand over George's mouth.
Blabbermouth.
George pulls Lucy's hand away.
We hadn't made love for three days.
Kenyatta, don't listen to George's X-rated mind.
But George wants me to listen.
You want to hear, don't you, Kenyatta?
Well.
And you don't even have to pay me to listen at the bedroom door.
Kenyatta punches George on the arm.
George, please.
Silence.
Kenyatta, I don't know why this woman came over and sat in my lap.
Love can do anything.
She's wearing these tight red shorts.
Don't listen to him.
Man, in no time I'm sporting one of those before-dawn boners. I'm about to explode because this lovely woman keeps moving around on my lap. And, I'm saying in my mind, Baby, please don't move. Yeah, hold it right there. Please don't make me embarrass myself. (Pause) Her father sits with a smirch on his mug. Like a wild boar brandishing his tusks, ready to charge. He's the walking definition of a puritan. [End Page 119]
But don't let dad fool you. He sits there like a moral king on his throne, but Playboy pinups are tacked up over his woodworking shop. (Pause) I wasn't thinking.
You can say that again. (Pause) Because there was some kinda strange dynamic going on I don't understand.
Ah, George, I don't know what you're trying to get at.
I'm sitting there praying I don't have to stand up. And my father says, George, would you fetch everyone another round of drinks?
He was only trying to be thoughtful.
It was the damn timing.
Mom's looking up at the sky, and dad's got the look of a knife in his eyes.
I said, "Why don't you fetch the drinks yourself?"
It was the tone in your voice, George. (Pause) I thought your dad was about to slap you.
If he had—
But your mom didn't miss a half beat.
Yeah. She's always been our in-between woman.
She just danced across the yard, into the house, and then danced back with the drinks.
And dad went back to murdering Dylan and burning the meat.
You should see his dad's LP collection.
They're two retrograde hippies.
Otis Redding. Sam Cooke. Jackie Wilson. Vintage Dylan.
What do you expect, huh?
Pink Floyd. Chuck Berry. Janis Joplin. Little Anthony and the Imperials. [End Page 120]
I was the only grown-up in that house.
If it's good—you name it, and George's dad got it. Stacks of the coolest vinyl.
Humongous. Obscene.
The Waitress (Clara) enters; Lucy looks her up and down.
Yeah. Absolutely obscene.
Another round for you guys?
Guys? (Pause) Not for me. I'm a woman.
Well.
George downs his drink and assumes an arm-wrestling position; Kenyatta follows suit. George overpowers Kenyatta. Kenyatta opens his wallet and places twenty dollars on the table.
One more round for the road.
One more, and then I'm out the door.
A pink lemonade for the woman.
I'll eat the worm.
What?
I'll eat the worm at the bottom of the bottle.
The waitress smiles; she tries to ignore George.
Can you believe this weather?
Springtime in mid-winter.
At least, they can't lie anymore about global warming.
Lucy stares into the waitress's eyes; the waitress exits; Lucy makes the motion of throwing a dart at her. [End Page 121]
Man, can I be your bodyguard? I think Clara's got eyes for you.
Can you believe this weather? Look at me. Oh. Gosh. I'm all dolled-up in next to nothing. (To Kenyatta) And, Kenyatta, I don't think you're Ms. Small-talk Clara's type.
If you were born with the boom of the A-bomb in your head, you'd be speaking pleasantries too.
That's World War II, and she's only about twenty-two.
Being Japanese and all—if you had been turned into a dog and almost bombed into oblivion, you'd be a kind soul, too. (Pause) You know what I'm trying to say?
Not really.
Anyway, she's Korean.
One or other, so what?
George, believe it or not—
Wait till they pry open those royal tombs in Japan.
Do you know something I don't?
Yeah.
She's just trying to be cordial.
She doesn't have to be cordial to me.
Please.
Let her be cordial to you.
Kenyatta rises slowly.
And, Kenyatta, you can take your seat.
Kenyatta sits down again.
The Snow Queen has spoken. [End Page 122]
I'm just going to the men's room, Lucy.
Okay. Go.
Kenyatta rises. George gazes up at the ceiling. Kenyatta exits.
Is it good?
What are you saying, Honey?
Is it good?
Please, Lucy.
You always tell me it's good. Do you also tell her it's good?
Please, Lucy.
That little whimper in the back of your throat, like the last note of some half song caught on the edge of eternity.
The Waitress approaches with the drinks. Lucy stares at her, smiling.
Sir, that'll be ten-seventy-nine, please.
George pays with the twenty-dollars Kenyatta left on the table; he gives her a dollar tip and pockets the change.
Is it good?
Huh?
That's just a joke.
You aren't laughing.
The waitress exits as Kenyatta enters.
Buddy, you just missed a preview of the next Hollywood blockbuster. KENYATTA (taking his seat): You two are engaged. You are a perfect couple. [End Page 123]
There's a little tremble in the air.
You're my best friends. (Pause). Anyway, I've already bought a nice, blue suit.
Kenyatta, there's just a little tremble in the air.
A blue suit, huh?
Midnight blue? Or blue at dusk?
Blue at dusk.
Good.
Suppose he'd said midnight blue or baby blue?
I would've said, Bad idea. A man his color can't just wear any shade of blue.
Kenyatta, is this damn woman for real? I've known her half of my life, and still everyday I see something different.
Well, I certainly wish I could see something different.
Oh, yeah? Well, wait till I'm decked out in my threads everyday, headed for the office.
Like a leopard changing his spots.
Yeah, you would think of a leopard, wouldn't you?
Huh?
Nothing.
Absolutely.
Wait till you meet my parents. They've been saying for over a year, Son, when do we get to meet your friend, Kenyatta? (Pause) I can see it now. I hope they don't talk you to death about the wilds of Kenya.
June nineteenth.
Silence. [End Page 124]
There's only one line in that movie that's halfway good. (Pause) What was that line?
Huh?
Weather Wars is a baby plot, but there's one sentence.
"Sooner or later we all must go down to the valley where the hyena earns its soul."
Lucy, darling, why must you know everything?
Because I do.
Mom would love that line.
It's a proverb.
If mom had seen Weather Wars, we'd still be in the middle of it. (Pause) Lucy, what's the name of that flick, the worse flick we ever seen?
Two Shakes To Never-Never Land.
No. No way. That's a damn good flick.
Mister Tree, the Bionic Dog.
No, no. The flick mom turned you on to.
That's a great movie.
What's the name of the flick I hate? LUCY: You hate the movie I love.
Yeah, yeah. What's the damn title? LUCY: You're the mind reader.
You know I'm no good with titles.
The Glass House. [End Page 125]
That's it! The Glass Fucking House!
Your mom has impeccable taste.
Listen, Kenyatta, don't believe everything you hear. (Pause) The Glass House is about this couple that lives in this glass house on a hill, and the wife dismisses her Mexican servants and tells her husband they're buying two androids. (Pause) So, they buy Susie Q and Solid Gold Job that are programmed to serve, but also programmed to kill their owners.
The couple knows this?
Of course, at some unknown time.
That's the point. Money can buy anything.
But we already know, and we just sit there waiting for it to happen.
You make it sound so boring.
The Glass House is boring, Lucy.
That's one of your mom's favorite movies.
Well, it's still boring. (Pause) Even the sex is boring.
Sex?
It's socialistic.
How's sex socialistic?
No. What I mean is this. (Pause) I don't know what I mean.
The Glass House exposes the perverted rich.
The androids are more sexual than human beings.
I can't imagine a machine with some fake skin stretched over it sexy as a human.
Man, if you can't imagine it I can't explain it to you.
But you're a salesman. A wordsmith. [End Page 126]
If the androids had pores sex would've oozed outta 'em. Solid Gold Job is all buffed up and Susie Q has more curves than a baseball. (Pause) The owners—the husband and wife—they can't help but have sex with 'em, and that's when the androids kill 'em.
The Glass House shows what people think money can buy.
It's socialistic. That's why my mother loves The Glass House.
Lucy rises.
Do you think you two blokes are going to get bored if your soul sister goes off air for a moment?
Lucy exits. Kenyatta watches Lucy's exit.
George, you and Clara?
No, are you?
Have I changed colors?
See, you've been listening to Melissa Perkins. (Pause) She's just jealous. She wants all the odds in her favor.
You can square with me.
Lucy's curious.
Why?
You gonna bring out the cat-of-nine-tails?
I find myself defending you.
You gonna bring out the red-hot tongs?
I'm your friend.
Yeah. In my head, that's what the devil always says.
Well, it isn't my business but I was just wondering.
You wondering 'cause Lucy's wondering. [End Page 127]
I'm sorry. Forget it.
Silence.
Look, Lucy saw us on the corner of Fifth and Jefferson talking.
Okay.
Origami.
Huh?
We were standing there talking—talking about the art of origami.
Is that what you told Lucy?
Yeah.
No wonder she's curious.
That's God's truth.
I'd be curious, too.
Silence.
I ran into Nandini's brother yesterday at Starbucks.
So?
I asked him about Nandini.
That's your freedom of speech.
He said it was family business.
His freedom of speech.
You two were perfect together. (Pause) Never saying an unkind word. Never fussing.
Kenyatta attempts a smile. [End Page 128]
Only about the psychology of light.
Huh?
Sometimes, when I came from the lab at night, I'd look up at the apartment window and I'd see Nandini dressed only in her birthday suit, with all the lights on. (Pause) And once I told her that women couldn't comprehend the psychology of light.
Did she call you a chauvinist pig?
Not exactly.
Well, that's what the Snow Queen would've said.
I hurt her feelings. She began to cry, and I couldn't stop apologizing.
That's not fussing. (Pause) You could crawl back to Rachel.
Silence.
Let's go back to the origami.
I thought you'd forgotten that little detail.
Not on your life.
Kenyatta smiles, nodding his head.
It was one Saturday morning. I was coming around the corner, and I almost ran smack-dab into Clara. And she let out this little surprised yelp. (Pause) Somehow I already knew we'd run into each other, but didn't know she'd have all these little pale-white cranes dangling from a stick. Tiny, tiny. As we spoke, our breath moved 'em in the air. And I told her how I'd watch my mother fold bright pieces of paper into tiny wings, but I could never get it right. She'd show me over and over, but my hands were too big.
Lucy enters. She's laughing to herself.
I could never get it right.
God all mercy, are you owning up to not getting something right?
Yeah. My life. (Pause) Not till you said yes. [End Page 129]
That's the sweetest thing you said all week.
Lucy kisses George; she sits on the stool.
Life.
Life's good.
But I have to tell you this. (Laughing) This story about the dogs in the park this morning.
No, no. No dog-humping stories.
Shut up, George, and let Lucy tell us about man's best friend.
It's a silly story.
That's what we need. A real silly story from the horse's mouth.
I couldn't stop laughing.
Uh huh.
Today was a sunny day. Everybody had dogs out.
And you couldn't stop laughing.
They had them dressed up in coats, sweaters, and harlequin outfits.
What's funny about people loving their dogs?
It's an ad for our necrosis.
I wish I could have a dog. (Pause) Wait till we're married.
A dog's like a person.
It's loneliness.
I couldn't stop thinking of that New Yorker cartoon.
Maybe the dog's lonely. [End Page 130]
I couldn't stop laughing.
Maybe the dog's lonely for a human voice.
Maybe he's trained to be lonely.
Tears were rolling down my face.
Lonely for a voice, but not any voice.
People were looking at me as if I were crazy. (Pause) I kept trying to force the cartoon back into the recesses of my mind, but it kept popping into the foreground.
I hate choking on a laugh.
I just couldn't stop.
Especially when I don't want to laugh.
I was almost on the ground.
All because of a poor dog dressed in a jacket?
No. A poor dog dressed in a tutu.
All three are laughing.
No way.
In the cartoon, one dog is complaining to another dog, saying that he can't wait to grow up, so he can choose his own clothes.
So, the Snow Queen lost her cool in the middle of the park, huh? LUCY: It started off with the babies.
Now, that's dangerous.
Don't care how ugly a baby is, you can't laugh at that baby.
No, it didn't start with the babies. [End Page 131]
It did or it didn't.
No. I was sitting there reading a chapter of The Modern History of Iraq, half smiling about the sunlight on my skin, and then I looked up and saw this whole traffic jam.
How can that be? I only see cops on their ponies in the park.
A traffic jam of baby carriages. A whole procession of dark-skinned women pushing carriages with pink babies to and fro. (Pause) I felt embarrassed.
Sometimes, you're too sensitive, Lucy.
Please don't make it political.
All the nannies are black, brown, and yellow, and the babies pale as Poussin's nymph.
George slaps his hands over his ears.
His satyrs are a shade or two darker.
The babies lying back in their carriages like little empresses and emperors.
But Poussin's only playing with light. He wasn't thinking about the Aryan Brotherhood.
They're like Caesar in his chariot.
George uncovers his ears.
Babies are innocent.
Like Judas Iscariot.
If you can hold back time.
If? That's the biggest word in Webster's.
I remember something Nandini told me.
What?
Yeah, what? [End Page 132]
Something about a white boy and a black woman.
What did she say?
Damn.
What's that?
Damn. I can't remember.
Kenyatta, you can't keep up with George guzzling tequila.
See? (Pause) I knew Kenyatta's downfall was going to be my fault.
You pride your salesmanship.
But this is friendship.
Okay. Fair enough.
Maybe you can't say what's on the tip of your tongue because you don't want to think of Nandini.
I own my own thoughts. (Pause) I'm my own man.
Are you?
Free, black, and over twenty-one.
Yeah.
George and Kenyatta slap hands.
I just can't remember.
Lucy holds up eight fingers.
How many?
Nine.
Eight. [End Page 133]
I knew that, Kenyatta.
But.
Why do you always play the straight man?
Silence.
We are going to have lots of babies.
Are you planning on getting pregnant?
I'm planning on knocking you up every year.
Now, you sound like a real deal-maker.
You can't argue with nature.
Is that why you hate Weather Wars, the technological subversion of nature?
No. Because it's an undeniably stupid flick.
Would your mother take your side or ours?
What do you think?
I know.
I know you know, but what does he think? (Pointing at Kenyatta) I already said but you two weren't listening.
Kenyatta smiles.
Since your parents spent time on the Dark Continent and some of its ancient wisdom most likely seethed into their souls, your mom probably would take our enlightened position.
What are you talking about? You've been here so long you're almost as American as I am.
No. Never. [End Page 134]
Four years undergraduate, right? How long did you work at Sam's Club, before you came here to State?
You're our mind-reader-in-residence.
Two and a half years at Sam's Club.
Two years.
I almost said two. (Pause) And how long have you been here, almost three years?
No. Almost two.
Almost two? When's the last time you set foot in Kenya?
Three years ago. My first time. A year before I came to State.
Your first time?
Three years ago.
Wait, Professor Hawking, something here isn't jiving.
Where's the red-hot tongs?
Only three years ago?
Kenya is still in my dreams every night.
Do you want me to bring out the cat-o'-nine-tails?
I dreamt Kenya before I went there, and I'm still dreaming Kenya.
You dream every night?
I never dream anything American.
I never dream of anything, anywhere, anytime.
You keep saying that, but I know you have to dream, Honey.
You can't exist, if you don't dream. [End Page 135]
I don't dream.
Your brain would implode if you didn't dream, Lucy.
I dream, but I'm always a little runt in my dreams.
That's you in your head
They're falsified.
That's better than rarefied.
Silence.
Wait. (To Kenyatta) How long have you spent in Kenya?
Almost a year.
You came here a baby?
No. I was born here.
Where?
In Buffalo.
Buffalo?
Buffalo, New York.
But you don't sound like Buffalo.
I sound like my mom and dad.
Okay. Now I understand.
You understand what?
I understand.
What? [End Page 136]
Insurance.
Huh?
A trump card.
What?
You American, but that ain't necessarily a trump card.
I am African.
You trying to buy a little insurance. (Pause) All you aliens want a trump card.
Say what you mean.
Even if you're Michael Jackson, you can't buy a real trump card.
Say what you mean.
You aliens sell your souls for fake trump cards.
But he's born here.
That's what I'm getting to.
Should I leave now?
You aliens can't risk being black Americans, can you?
That's a serious indictment, George.
It's true.
You're sounding political, and that surprises me.
I'm full of surprises.
You can say that again.
Kenyatta, George has just made a serious charge against you. [End Page 137]
What can I say?
Defend yourself.
Maybe he's right.
I wish you hadn't said that.
What do you want me to say?
I want you to jump up and slug me.
If I did that, you'd win.
I want you to try and kick me in the balls.
That'd please you, wouldn't it?
I'm not gonna let you try and take the high road.
High road or low road, I don't care.
This ain't about winning or losing. (Pause) I grew up in a house of hippies, and they never let me forget sit-ins and teach-ins in Mississippi and Alabama. (Pause) What do you think this country would be if Miss Rosa Parks had given up her seat on that bus? Where do you think any of you fuck-face immigrants would be, huh?
George, is that you or booze talking?
I'm saying what my mother would say.
What's the catch?
The catch is the truth.
You're right, Lucy. (Pause) There has to be a loophole somewhere.
Look, man, there's no glass in the meat. (He extends his hands). I'm not holding a weapon.
George, you're really a natural Scorpio. [End Page 138]
George smiles.
Well, Mister Jomo Kenyatta, since you can't risk being a black American, how's Kenya these bloody days, my African friend?
Kenyatta rises.
You don't have to get ugly, George.
It was just a little, innocent question.
Kenyatta sits.
To tell you the truth, Mr. Morrison, the goddamn natives are running amuck.
(Pause) They're text-messaging mayhem and dancing in the streets with bloody machetes.
Is the whole damn country corrupted from head to feet?
Something like that.
Supposed the British came back on the block?
But, you know, they invented the kickback at 10 Downing Street, Mr. Morrison.
Just another bad idea, Mr. Kenyatta.
Tonight, you're the master of bad ideas.
You could say that I'm just trying slip into my businessman skin.
You can't even save enough money to buy your own drinks.
But when it comes to the grand scheme of things, I do have a few foolproof ideas.
Let me in on one of those ideas, Mr. Morrison.
Yeah. You're right. (Pause) We just might work out something here.
Silence.
I'm ready, Mr. Morrison. [End Page 139]
But it depends on how good of an engineer you are.
He's probably a better engineer than you are a businessman.
Lucy, you see, now that's the problem with us.
You're the problem with us.
You don't have any faith in me.
You have too much faith—in yourself.
You're about to marry a genius, but you don't know it.
Okay, Mr. Einstein.
Lucy, this is between Kenyatta and me. (Pause) Women can't even comprehend the technology of light.
You chauvinist pig!
Kenyatta shrugs his shoulders.
Didn't I—?
Anything you do, George Stanley Morrison, I can do three times better.
But in the bed—
Anything!
But in the bed—
Every now and then, I just let you think you're Napoleon for a second.
You'll say anything to save face, Snow Queen.
I'm not just talking, George.
Silence.
Kenyatta, you'll have to be a damn good engineer to pull this baby off. [End Page 140]
What's the idea?
George glances in the direction of the bar; he lowers his voice. Kenyatta leans closer.
You see all these jokers running up and down the streets, exercising? Well, I have a damn good moneymaking scheme.
What's the catch, George?
Man, I don't know if I should let this golden goose outta the bag.
Can it be that good?
Look, there's all this talk about clean energy, right?
Right.
The politicians are busy lying, saying that the reason we are in the Middle East is because of the oil.
That's the true.
That's a biased point-of-view.
What's the idea, George?
See, this man knows when he's about to hear a great idea. (George glances toward the bar again.) Do you think you can design a treadmill that'll take up half a city block?
Maybe.
Since these jokers like to run so much—instead of doing a decent day's work—we can construct this juggernaut of a treadmill, and then sell 'em time slots to run on it, harness the energy, and then sell it back to 'em.
Are you serious?
Serious as a heart attack.
I don't think you're serious.
So, you don't think you can design this treadmill? [End Page 141]
I don't think you're serious.
Look, man, this is a moneymaker. (Pause) It gotta be expensive, or else they won't swallow the hook.
Is George serious?
He's serious.
You're damn right I'm serious. I'm dead serious. (Pause) You see, you fuck-face immigrants wouldn't know a real moneymaking deal if somebody opened up your head and poured it in.
George, you're really a goofball.
When I put my suit on, my white shirt and baby-blue tie, my black spit-shined Bostonians, and then put a smile on my face, I can sell the smell of fish to a loan shark.
You're going to be a very wealthy man someday.
Is that why you love me?
Because you're a crazy dreamer.
Did you hear that, Kenyatta?
You are crazy.
A crazy dreamer. (Pause) Can I sell you a few dreams?
I think he has his own dreams.
I bet they're just everyday dreams. Dreams off the bottom shelf.
I have dreams you wouldn't believe.
Try me.
Silence.
Try him, Kenyatta. [End Page 142]
Maybe George's right.
I don't want to be right.
Okay. (Pause) I've been having this dream since I was thirteen.
No, no. We don't need your wet dreams.
Kenyatta punches George on the arm.
You fuck-face immigrant, that hurts.
Silence.
Okay. (Pause) I can't stop dreaming about this lion. (Pause) In the dream, I'm always holding a pair of high-power binoculars. I'm standing in the dark, in the tall grass, and I can see the lion's eyes. They're golden. Beautiful. Deadly.
Forget the poetry, Kenyatta. Get to the meat and potatoes.
I'm an old man in the tall grass of a gamekeeper's park, and I'm gazing through the binoculars as a lion tracks me—tracks the old man. Pawprint for footprint. My eyes are young. Almost like a boy's.
The meat and potatoes, man.
I'm gazing at myself with the clearest eyes. Sometimes I'm stalking the lion, holding a bow and arrow at the ready. One step. Two steps. Three steps.
The meat and potatoes, man.
But sometimes the lion is backtracking me. One step. Two. Three.
I know this dream.
I stand there, holding the binoculars, gazing at the lion eating my heart. I feel betrayed by the night.
Lucy, it's the dream I told you.
It makes me happy to know you're not the only dream merchant in Ralph's Speakeasy tonight, George. [End Page 143]
It's almost the same dream.
When I went to Kenya, I spent most of that time in Kiambaa, in my dad's village, pouring a little water on the roots of my dreams.
But too much water can rot the roots of the tallest flower. KENYATTA (closes his eyes): When I stood in the doorway of that church where he stood as a boy, I was already dreaming my return to those mud huts and cornfields. (Pause) When I noticed the light glinting off the tin roof, I was already dreaming the rest of my life there. (Pause) Though the silence was almost four hundred years old, I knew I'd come back to the States for school and then return to the Rift Valley.
But would your dreams make you any money?
George.
Yeah.
Please.
Kenyatta opens his eyes.
I'd be stone-broke and happy. (Pause) Even with my eyes wide open, I can't stop seeing.
Get to the blood and guts. (Pause) You sound like my old man reading poetry to my mom, before they go at each other in the dark.
Shhhhh.
Now, I can only see kinfolk huddled in that church, begging for their lives, as their friends and neighbors throw dried corn stalks and mattresses into the doorways and light the flames.
Are you dreaming?
I hear people screaming in my head.
You aren't dreaming, are you?
They're burning babies. [End Page 144]
Lucy touches Kenyatta's face.
I'm sorry, Kenyatta.
The insides of my dreams rot in the streets. My dreams are already ashes.
What about your mom and dad?
Now, they'll never go back.
But time can do anything. Look at me.
I always wondered why we stayed here.
Dreams.
Always saying, Someday. Someday. That's what they kept saying. Someday.
Your mom's Kikuyu, and you were born the peacemaker.
How did you guess that?
Sometimes two and two makes three.
They met at the university in Buffalo, and then begged and bribed the old gods to make a deal.
They were in love.
Now, they can't return. (Pause) I can't go back.
Never?
Never.
I'm disappointed.
Why?
Yeah. Why? [End Page 145]
I don't know. (Pause) I thought maybe after I've made a lot of money, that maybe all of us could just show up one day in Nairobi. Your mom and dad. My mom and dad. The three of us. Lucy's dad and mom. Everything paid for through my expense account.
You're already living high on the hog and haven't even graduated.
I have a shoe in.
Don't bet on that, George.
Why are you two hammering nails into my coffin?
We're just slipping a little reality into your nectar and ambrosia.
I was just thinking of my mom and dad over there. (Pause) Where they first fell in love.
See, George, you do care about them.
Of course. (Pause) But I don't care what you say. My old man is still a bum. He gets to go along because my mom still loves him to death.
Till death does its part.
Silence.
My old man's a loser.
Your dad isn't a loser.
Kenyatta, to tell you the honest, bone-headed truth, he's a natural-born loser.
That's a lie.
A loser.
He's a sweetheart.
Look, he's ashamed.
He's an artist. (Pause) A writer. [End Page 146]
Look, when I was about nine years old, one cold, white afternoon, I climbed up into the attic and found this old, mud-colored snap sack. It was just sitting there, begging to be opened. (Pause) Begging. Waiting. So, I opened it and found this whole treasure of things. (Pause) A hash pipe. Photos of my dad as an eighteen-year-old boy in his Army uniform. His dog tags. Photos of his Army buddies. Some who died over there. Photos of a Vietnamese woman. His medals. A whole treasure trove. I had a thousand questions in my head. On my tongue. (to Lucy) I couldn't read minds then. (to Kenyatta) I climbed down from the attic, with the snap sack. I took it over to my mom and dad, lost in themselves, kissing each other, sitting there facing the fireplace, gazing into the flames. (Pause) He jumped to his feet like a wild man and drew back his fist, ready to hit me. But my mom stepped between us. And when he slapped her, I punched him square in the gut.
That's a long time ago, George.
Now, you love each other.
We tolerate each other. (Pause) The loss of his early days was in that snap sack.
I can understand that.
He's ashamed of coming back alive. Some of his buddies died, and he's lucky he didn't. (Pause) Went into the Peace Corp. Went to Kenya, and then he fell in love.
At least, they're still in love. (Pause) Not like my mom and dad, always at each other's throats about money.
It's always about money.
Yeah. My old man never had a real job in his life.
You can't live in this country without money.
Soon the entire globe is going to be that way.
My mom's different.
She doesn't need money to live?
No, I'm not saying that.
Okay. [End Page 147]
She dances circles around my old man. (Pause) She's a nurse. One of the best. She can look at you and almost heal you with a look.
His dad's a novelist.
Only mom ever read his chicken scratch. He sits at the kitchen table, writing, every day from seven to four, and when he finishes what he calls a book, he assigns it a death sentence. He stashes it away in his old GI trunk. (Pause) If my mom wasn't a nurse and Grandpa Stanley didn't give us money through the years, we would've starved.
Was it really that bad, George?
Worse.
How was it worse?
I can't say.
Poo bear, how was it worse?
The bum wanted my mom to get rid of me.
Huh?
Are you sure?
He took her to a quack in an alley, but she couldn't go through with it.
How do you know that?
I know.
Did you guess?
I'm a mind reader.
But he loves you.
When I was nine, I overheard Aunt Sarah arguing with my mom about it.
George, you're probably mistaken. [End Page 148]
He's a loser. A bum kept from destitute by love. (Pause) Look, every time I see some homeless vet, I see him.
Your mom says he's a great writer.
She has to believe that.
But I know it isn't just love and pity.
Now, Grandpa Stanley, he's a great man. He's kept us alive.
He's conservative as a double-barrel shotgun.
George looks at Kenyatta.
I don't know your grandpa.
He's good as gold.
I don't know him.
A real good businessman.
He reminds me of my mom and dad. (Pause) He'd have a baby if he knew we were living together.
But his politics are sensible. Not emotional.
He's a damn button-wearing reactionary.
So?
He voted for death and destruction halfway around the world.
He voted for life here in America.
Death and destruction, George.
He's a good man. A good businessman. (Pause) No different than me.
But you're an Independent, George. [End Page 149]
He's no different than me.
You're halfway to hope.
I don't want to hear anything about hope.
Change.
I don't want to hear anything about change either.
Now, you're sounding like your grandpa Stanley.
I'm no different than him.
What do you mean?
Silence.
What do you mean, George?
Are you two trying to back me into a fucking corner?
I'm your friend.
I sleep in your bed.
Are you trying to fuck with my head?
No.
Yeah, George.
When a person walks into that little box—that little booth—that little safe haven—he's—she's alone. That's democracy. That's freedom. Your momma, your daddy, your lover, your dog, your cat, they're not there with you. You are alone.
You're naïve, Kenyatta.
You supposed to be alone.
But it doesn't mean that the whole clan hasn't followed you into the booth, holding up your trump card. [End Page 150]
If you really want to be alone, you can be alone.
Not necessarily.
GEORGE (to Lucy): You're wasting your vote. You have false hope on the brain.
I'd rather have false hope on the brain than blood on my hands.
I second that.
Of course, you would.
Now, don't take me for granted.
You always back a member of the tribe, right?
No. I'm a Dixiecrat. I'm Mister Filibuster.
I vote against my mom and dad.
Well, I vote with your mom and dad.
Silence.
Do you still have Saddam Hussein crawling out of his hole?
Slowly.
You aren't afraid you're going to make some people angry?
I keep telling myself that I'm a political scientist.
But why should you waste time on him?
Because he's a human being.
Was he?
Maybe you shouldn't think too hard about it.
Maybe you should choose another topic to research. [End Page 151]
I have my heart in this project.
Maybe it should be written chronologically.
I can see it all in my head. (Pause) I love my beginning. I have him in his hideout in Ad Dawr, in his spider hole, but I want to end with him swimming across the river to Syria in 1959.
That's a lifetime.
I have to know—to show what created him.
I know what created him.
Colonialism helped to create him.
His love for power.
British imperialism.
His love for Mercedes and gold-plated toilets.
I don't think it's that simple.
He's like any other two-bit tyrant. They trapped the rat in his rat hole. (Pause) God bless America.
Okay, Mister Mind Reader, could you please explain to me that photograph where Donald Rumsfeld is shaking Saddam Hussein's hand?
It doesn't exist.
George, I hate to poke a pin into your thought balloon.
A photo can lie.
Where do you think he got the idea for chemical and biological weapons?
Out of his own demented mind, that's where.
Have you been talking to Curve Ball? [End Page 152]
Curve Ball?
But you must know who Curve Ball is, George.
Well, I voted my conscience and I don't know a damn thing about Curve Ball.
Maybe your vote didn't count.
Are we playing a word game or something?
We just threw you another curve ball, and now it's strike two.
Didn't you notice I just knocked the fucking ball over the fence?
Everything you say proves why my research is so important. (Pause) All this death and destruction.
Honey, don't be so melodramatic. (Pause) If Grandpa Stanley voted for death and destruction, so did I.
No, you didn't.
If Grandpa Stanley voted for death and destruction, I also voted for death and destruction, Lucy.
You're lying. (Pause) You're trying to embarrass me. You're trying to hurt me, George.
Death and destruction, Lucy.
The Waitress enters.
Last call, folks.
Look, whether it's Death, Destruction, or Creationism, I have to rise and shine at daybreak.
You wimp! So early?
George assumes an arm-wrestling pose; Kenyatta follows suit, defeating George with ease.
One more shot for the trail. [End Page 153]
The waitress smiles, and then she exits.
George, it's almost midnight.
So?
Have you forgotten about Mrs. Dragon?
I haven't forgotten.
Now, when we first walked in here tonight, you heard him promise me, didn't you?
I stand by my promises.
I'm holding you at your word about Mrs. Dragon.
Kenyatta rises.
Well, Brother, don't walk down any dark alleys. And keep away from those skinheads.
The three hug. Kenyatta kisses Lucy on both cheeks—French style.
I'll give you a call tomorrow.
Wait. Wait. I almost let you escape without paying the devil's bookkeeper.
(George counts up the points of the dart game). Kenyatta, you're four in the hole. And, Lucy, you're five in the hole.
Kenyatta gives George a five-dollar bill, and George gives Kenyatta a dollar in change.
I'll pay up later.
Are you sure you want to risk giving your body and soul to the devil's bookkeeper?
Good night. Now, you can do everything I can't. Kenyatta exists. Silence.
Kenyatta's a little happier these days. [End Page 154]
But he's still in love with Nandini.
Did he say that?
Kenyatta reenters.
I remember.
Are your ears burning?
Sticks and stones may break—
I know I have charisma and charm, but—
I remember what Nandini said.
Man, can't you forget about your fairy queen of heartache?
George, please.
There's this professor in comp. lit. (Pause) Professor Sarah Bradstreet. An Amazon. About six-one, with blonde hair and Nordic eyes. (Pause) Her hair always looks like the wind's blowing through it, as if she's clinging to some icy crag in the middle of nowhere, even when she's indoors, sitting at the dining table, eating crabcakes and sipping shandygaff.
Forget the poetry.
Nandini was in Bradstreet's seminar. That's how I know her. (Pause) I heard she had to fire her babysitter last spring—a Dominican woman. I don't exactly remember. Maybe she's Haitian, Trinidadian, or Indian. But whoever she is, the woman was fired because she was teaching Professor Bradstreet's son to hate—to relate badly to black people. Especially black men.
How?
That's absolutely crazy.
I told you these immigrants can't be trusted.
George, please. [End Page 155]
They're trying too hard to be—
Okay. I'm gone.
Kenyatta exits; The Waitress enters with a shot of Tequila.
Where's the worm?
Sir, to tell you the truth—the worm's lethal.
George smiles; he pays her.
Clara, you can call me George.
George, I don't think you're ready for the worm.
George gives the Waitress a tip; she exits.
George, she's a live one.
A fast learner.
I'm almost beginning to like her.
Lucy, of course, you would. She's becoming a mistress of the double-entendre.
Silence.
So, that's what Kenyatta told you, huh?
What?
That he's still in love with Nandini.
He didn't have to say it.
At least, now, he doesn't walk out of the room if someone says her name.
He's almost back together.
I still can't believe Nandini couldn't stand up to her family. [End Page 156]
They kidnapped her.
I doubt that.
They told her that her grandfather was dying in Bombay.
It isn't Bombay anymore. It's Mumbai. At least—
Bombay or Mumbai, we're still talking about how Kenyatta got the short end of the stick.
You sound like a British colonialist.
Yeah, but if Kenyatta was the son of a British colonialist, I don't think we'd be having this discussion, Lucy.
Neither would we be having this discussion if Kenyatta were you. (Pause) Think about that.
Nandini's family is holding her against her will. And I call that kidnap.
Kenyatta was going to go over there, but I told him that wasn't wise.
I don't know.
Well, he could go back to Rachel.
If he went back crawling to her, he'd be forever in the doghouse.
He could forget his pride.
But sometimes pride's all a man has.
Since you're the love merchant these days, I suppose you've given him your best advice.
That's risky business. With love, the best advice is no advice.
But that's what a friend's for.
I wouldn't take my own advice. (Pause) Let me play you something. [End Page 157]
Who?
The Velvet Ride.
I never heard of him.
You never heard of her. (Pause) If my old man didn't teach me anything else, he taught me something about music.
George flips through selections on the wall-mounted jukebox; he puts money into the machine and punches a selection. "When You Can Breathe For Me" plays. The singer's voice is young and girlish; the overall sound is a melodic rock and roll.
"When You Can Breathe For Me":
Papa,When you can breathe for meYou can tell meWho to lovePut me on the right trackI'm almost in springtime Please bring my baby back
Momma,When you can breathe for meYou can tell meWho to loveI'm standing stillBut I'm on the moveNo, you can't break my will By breaking my heartIn the heat of summertime
BrotherAnd sister,When you can breathe for me I may be able to seeYour point-of-viewLike a burning flowerIn Autumn's clear blueOf this midnight hour
Dear Friends,When you can breathe for meYou can tell meHow to feelWith a rose in my hairAnd what's the big dealWith Pan's double dare [End Page 158] When you can breathe for meIn the dead of winterYou can tell meWho to love (repeat)
The song ends. The stage goes black.
Scene Two
A spotlight slowly comes up on Kenyatta, standing on the edge of the stage; he's dressed in his blue suit; he holds a pair of binoculars, peering through them periodically. He faces the audience and speaks.
My birth was like parting the sea.
Do they still sleep together? Do the two of them kiss till they're breathless? Do they still just break down in the middle of making love, with a question trembling on their lips? How could she not love him? How could he not love her?
If tribal conflict lives in our house, I would see it. I don't think they can hide that from me.
Sometimes, you know, I try not to think certain thoughts. I close my eyes, and I try to force good thoughts up. Thoughts that don't leave bloody footprints on the grass. Naked and trembling thoughts.
But sometimes I'm in the high grass just before the lion leaps. I can't move. I lie there like some small, nameless animal watching a jackal tear out its entrails. I feel the weight of the lion's paw on my chest. I am gazing into those golden eyes.
Sometimes it seems I'm dreaming with my eyes open. (Pause) You know, I'm troubled by what George said. Insurance, huh? Trump card, huh? When I'm here, I try hard to be African. When I was in Kenya, I tried hard to be American. Imprisoned in what others think. Is that who I am? Is that—is that who Nandini is? When I first saw her, I saw Africa. I didn't see Asia. (Pause) I still love her. What must I do to stop loving her?
I think Nandini only desired me because of Rachel. I think she was competing with Rachel's blonde hair and blue eyes. (Pause) Now I know why she didn't fight her family. But Rachel fought her old man every step of the way—everything he stood for. And she won. (Pause) And I lost her.
Maybe they can't touch each other anymore. Maybe he's sleeping on the sofa, and she's sleeping in their bed. Maybe he's afraid of talking in his sleep, of betraying his dreams. Maybe we create an atmosphere that excuses the evils we wish to do to each other. Maybe every time she touches a butcher knife, as she trims the fat off the chicken or beef, she becomes afraid of her thoughts. Afraid that she no longer can trust her hands with a knife around him anymore. Maybe all the old tribal allegiances sour the milk in the breast.
I have only seen them fight once. Only once. It was a silly fight. Almost childish. They were barbecuing in the backyard—chicken and ribs—and he wanted to pour beer over the meat to season it, but she kept saying No. They kept going back and forth, so when she stepped into the house for a moment he doused the meat with beer. She called him an [End Page 159] idiot, a Boer who had no class. He called her a lousy cook, with no imagination. She poured beer over his head. He shoved her and she fell to the ground. He started laughing, and she jumped to her feet and began beating him with her fists. His nose was bleeding. She fell to her knees and started speaking words I didn't understand. Her voice was scared. It sounded like a prayer.
Do I really know them? Of course, at times, it seems I don't even know my own mind. (Pause) Maybe they only smile at each other when I'm visiting. For my sake. (The spotlight on Kenyatta begin to fade) But when I'm not around, I believe they dig their nails into each other. (Pause) One's a Luo. And the other's a Kikuyu. Young men are sharpening their machetes on the pavement. (Pause) Did you hear me? Young men are sharpening their machetes on the pavement.
Sooner or later you have to go down to the valley where the hyena earns its soul.
The stage goes black.
A spotlight comes up on Lucy; she sits at a small desk, wearing a nightgown; she's in deep thought, attempting to write a single paragraph on her research regarding Saddam Hussein.
Another spotlight comes up on George sitting on the edge of a twin bed in boxer shorts, sipping a beer.
Why are we fighting, Lucy?
I'm not fighting.
Really?
I'm trying to work.
You're different tonight. We're different tonight.
Maybe it's because you always have to be the opposite of me.
We used to be full of kisses.
We were dreamers.
Silence.
I'm sorry about the man in Austria.
It's the politics of your heart you should be sorry about, George.
I'm sorry about the man in Austria. [End Page 160]
Maybe you can't help yourself. (Pause) Maybe it doesn't have anything to do with that guy in Austria.
I'm sorry—
See? (Pause) Now I'm saying the guy in Austria, the man in Austria, when I damn well know he's Josef Fritzl.
I'm sorry. Okay?
You kept saying I heard the story wrong. (Pause) But I knew Josef Fritzl held his daughter, Elisabeth, in a fallout shelter and raped her for over 24 years, and when Melissa told me the story—
Do you want me to get on my knees?
You just couldn't believe it happened in Austria.
I'm on my knees.
You go off to Vienna for two weeks, have a fling with some farm girl a few days, become addicted to Wagner overnight, and the sun never sets on Austria.
I'm on my knees.
You couldn't stop talking about their neatly trimmed hedges.
I'm on my stupid knees.
But you didn't say anything about monsters lurking behind the hedges.
That's five years ago. (Pause) Anyway, Wagner's German.
I'm just reminding you—
I'm sorry. Okay?
No, it isn't okay.
George rises from his kneeling position. [End Page 161]
Come to bed.
It isn't okay, George.
I feel like this is about something else, but I don't know what it is.
Maybe it's about your perspective. About who you are.
Please.
About who I'll never be.
Why are we still arguing about the man in Austria?
You just don't get it, do you?
Okay, Josef Fritzl's a monster. He was fucking his daughter and leaving their babies on the doorstep, and nobody asked any questions, and the whole damn town must be a lunatic asylum. Is that what you want me to say, Lucy?
It's a beginning.
What do you want to say to me, huh?
Silence.
If Josef Fritzl had been in Harlem or the Southside of Chicago—
But Austria—
But Austria is a white, European country, right? Is that what you were going to say, George?
There you go again, painting me into that corner.
Every time you open your mouth you paint yourself into that corner.
Say what you want to say. (Pause) What do you want to say to me, Lucy? LUCY: I'm saying what I want to say, but you aren't listening.
I'm listening. [End Page 162]
You're the mind reader.
I'm listening.
I know you. Finally, I know you.
I know what you're going to say.
Okay, Mister Mind Reader, what was I thinking?
You were getting ready to say—to say Hitler was Austrian.
Not exactly.
Everything's so political. You're ready to say something about Hitler's baby pictures.
Not exactly.
I know how you think.
I wish you could read my mind.
I want you to be Lucy. Why are you so serious these days?
Why don't you tell me, Mister Know-It-All.
You used to have sunlight and laughter in your voice.
Silence.
Are you coming to bed, Lucy?
Are you still drinking yourself stupid? Are you hungry for some poontang, George?!
Shhhh! Don't!
Your words.
It doesn't become you.
Silence. [End Page 163]
I told you not to interrupt me.
Come and give me a kiss.
George, don't.
I'm lonely as a loon.
I'm trying to get this paragraph down.
Just one little stupid kiss.
I'm trying to raise Saddam out of his spider hole.
Just one little stupid kiss.
You know, sometimes there's only a word or an idea between you and a revelation.
I have a revelation for you, Snow Queen.
Could you bite your tongue till your mouth fills with blood?
Saddam's already dead and gone.
Not to me, he isn't.
He's like a hunk of honeycomb buried in the ground. (Pause) And all I need is just a little kiss to keep me here on earth.
I just have to get some words down on paper. (Pause) And then I'll know. I'll know if I'm going to leave tonight or tomorrow.
I condemn you.
Condemn yourself.
Snow Queen, I find you guilty. (Pause) You saved me, and now you're responsible.
You betrayed me by letting me think you're someone you're not.
I'm the same as I've always been. [End Page 164]
I know, and that breaks my heart.
You're responsible. You saved me.
George, tonight, you drained all the responsibility out of me.
If you save a stray cat, you're responsible for every bird it kills.
Don't try and guilt-trip me.
You're my angel.
Because you want me in bed to show you where your heart is.
You know I love you. (Pause) I love you more than anything or anyone in this world. (Pause) It was the booze talking. Never again.
Silence.
Once, you seemed almost normal.
I'm like everyone else here at State.
You're against all the things I believe in.
I'm not bowing to you, Snow Queen.
Why you wait so long to reveal your true colors?
I'm always myself.
Maybe it's my fault.
Snow Queen, if there's global warming you're drowning in your own salty ice water.
Maybe I tried to see something in you that's not there.
I'm always myself.
Maybe I'm like Kenyatta. Half lost in what could be. [End Page 165]
I love you.
I gave myself to you.
Ourselves to each other.
You're going to make a good businessman or politician. (Pause) You know what to reveal and what to conceal. You know when to reveal and when to keep your mouth shut.
I let you into my heart, didn't I?
You're exactly like your Grandpa Stanley.
I can't help that.
A chip off the old block.
Silence.
You saved me, and now you're responsible.
That doesn't work anymore, George.
Oh, yeah?
Not after tonight.
What's so different about tonight?
I'm different.
I'm the same.
And that's the problem.
Why can't I make you laugh anymore? LUCY: You're not funny.
I used to be funny.
I don't want to laugh. [End Page 166]
Grandpa Stanley gave me a quarter every time I made him laugh.
I don't trust laughter anymore.
You're trying to make yourself into a sourpuss, but I know the real Lucy Shadwell.
George does a version of the Funky Chicken dance; Lucy's shield almost cracks, but she's able to contain herself.
You're wasting your time and talent on me, George.
Come to bed, and then I'll give you something to laugh about.
There's a lot of competition these days.
Not with what I'm putting down, Snow Queen.
Now death and destruction's everywhere. There's a comedy club on every corner.
Silence.
You're angry with me about Clara?
No.
Are you sure?
You want me to be?
Nothing between us.
Maybe I should read The Ugly American again.
Melissa Perkins, please stop talking.
We've taught Asians what art and music to see and hear. (Pause) We have taught them whom to hate and whom to love.
George slaps his hands over his ears.
Melissa, I can't hear you. [End Page 167]
Now, yes-men gaze at the world through our eyes.
Melissa Perkins, I can't hear you.
As we change, they crawl into our old skin, recouping our old stupid habits.
Nothing.
Some are ghosts of our old selves.
Nada.
We can now depend on them to vote the way we think.
Absolutely nada.
We've colonized their hearts.
I hear absolutely nothing.
If I were an art thief, I'd steal the palest portraits and sell them in Japan and China in dim rooms of deceit for the highest prices.
George uncovers his ears.
You talking about Clara?
No. I'm talking to myself.
Maybe you should forget Saddam and dwell on this new obsession.
Lucy gives George a thoughtful look.
Silence.
You want a corpse on your hands?
If you're alive tomorrow morning, with the two red birds in that lilac bush outside the bedroom window, and I'm still here, then I'll answer your question.
You're a cruel woman, Snow Queen. I don't know if I should marry you.
Silence. [End Page 168]
Before I can say—can discern what made Saddam a tyrant, a delusional despot, I must raise him from that hole in the ground, prostrated before a glimpse of his own image there in his tomb before he's on the gallows. But before I can do that, I must take him back to the womb, back to the pulsing blood of his beginning there in Tikrit. Back to when only his mother and father called his name.
I'm not going to disturb you anymore.
LUCY (continuing to read): I wonder if he was a cute baby. As a boy, did he torture dogs and cats? Did he dissect frogs? Did he pin butterflies to squares of cork? (Pause) When one looks at a baby can one see a saint or tyrant? When do we know if we're kissing the cheeks of Hitler, Catherine the Great, Hussein, or Torquemada?
Your obsession with that butcher is immoral.
If I'm to earn the salt in my bread as a political scientist, I must pose the hardest questions, right?
Why do you have this obsession with dictators?
Don't be melodramatic.
First, it was Fidel Castro.
He doesn't challenge me anymore. (Pause) Anyway, we all know why that experiment failed.
I don't.
We have invested heavily in its failure.
You gotta make everything so hard.
I need to ask tough questions.
Is it gonna take you forever to answer them?
Look, George, you only have to put on a suit, paint a smile on your mug and talk some hogwash, and then wait for the day you can pocket all that cold cash.
You got more questions for yourself?
No. [End Page 169]
Good. (Pause) I'm off strike. You ready to help me repot Mrs. Dragon?
That's your job. I told you not to get drunk.
I know how to hold my liquor.
We'll see.
An angel is dancing on my chest.
I hope Mrs. Dragon doesn't grab you and wrestle you to the floor.
And then you coming to bed?
George unfolds a newspaper and spreads it on the floor; he exits; he returns pulling a small wagon that holds a large cactus, soil, and potting implements.
No idle hands.
George, you see.
I live in the devil's workshop.
That's your main problem.
But I work with my mind too.
The master of procrastination speaks.
Come to bed, and then I'll show you how well I work with my hands.
You shouldn't even use sex and alcohol in the same sentence.
How did you become a saint overnight?
That's my little secret.
Silence.
My old man never taught me how to hit a lick at a snake.
Your hands are linked to your brain. [End Page 170]
You know what I'd love getting my hands on now?
George works intently.
I can't hear you, George.
George yells.
You know what I'd love getting my hands on now?
George, you know, there's a reason for everything.
George pricks his finger with a cactus thorn.
Shit!
Mrs. Dragon loves biting a drunk.
I'm still standing on my own goddamn feet.
Barely. I hope she eats you alive.
When I was fifteen I'd drink my old man under the table.
There's a reason for everything. Do you know why Mrs. Dragon has her thorns?
To get the saint's attention. (Pause) She's better than me.
If she didn't have seeds and blooms, she wouldn't have thorns.
Damn, I learn something new every day. (Pause) So, now, I understand why the little fat echidna has its quills.
If you don't watch out, you'll be a genius by daybreak.
George brushes the dirt off his hands, surveying his work.
Are you ready to come to bed?
Not exactly.
I don't like this little game we're playing. [End Page 171]
This isn't a game, George.
I want to touch you.
Touch yourself.
I can almost taste you.
Taste yourself.
I need to feel you moving underneath me.
If this is a game, then we're like the Aztecs.
Huh?
If this is a game, we're playing for our lives.
Stop talking poetry and come to bed.
Silence.
I bet that somewhere there must be a baby photograph of Saddam in one of those little gold frames.
I'm not begging anymore.
Is he smiling at the camera? Or, is he crying, afraid of the popping flashbulbs?
This is my last warning.
As you squint at the photograph, do you see a tyrant or a terrorist? Does he look like other babies, or is there something different about him?
Lucy, I'm hurting for you. (Pause) I haven't had blueballs this bad since I was sixteen.
That's not my problem, George Stanley Morrison.
Why are you trying to torture me?
George throws the beer can against a wall; he charges over to face Lucy. [End Page 172]
Death and destruction, George. You voted for death and destruction, and now this is a holy war.
I voted my conscience.
A holy war. You hear me? A holy war.
My conscience, you hear me?
The Sunni Triangle. Abu Ghraib. (Pause) You're a bugger of corpses.
You don't sound like yourself.
I should've posed in that bathroom beside your corpse, with a big smile on my face. (Pause) Could somebody please shoot my photo? (Lucy assumes a fake smile).
But you were screaming so much you woke the dead.
Necrophilia.
Huh?
Tier 1A. Tier 1B. (Pause) Military Intelligence.
What's wrong with you?
What's right with me. Finally.
You haven't been yourself all week.
I finally see the light. (Pause) I'm looking into the eyes of a bugger of corpses.
I'm one, little, tiny vote.
I multiply you, I divide you, I add you up, and all I get is death and destruction.
You're beyond reasoning.
If I only multiplied you one hundred times, you'd still be standing here in your skin, facing God, George Stanley Morrison. (Pause) This is a holy war.
George takes off his boxer shorts; he stands nude, facing Lucy. [End Page 173]
I'm changing the rules! This is now my game!
But I'm not dancing your moves anymore.
We're almost married.
Lucy removes the engagement ring and hands it to George.
Here.
No.
Here. George, please take your grandmother's engagement ring back.
George takes the ring back.
Fuck this ring!
George tosses the ring across the room.
George.
We don't need a ring.
George, I can't.
We don't need a wedding. (Pause) Come to bed.
No, George.
I said come to bed.
I don't love you anymore.
I haven't forgotten what you said at the bar. (Pause) Napoleon, huh? LUCY: Forget what I said.
I can't.
A part of me still loves you.
After tonight, all of you gonna love me forever. [End Page 174]
No, George.
I need to hear laughter in your voice.
That's a long time ago.
I wanna hear the laughter I heard three weeks ago.
A lifetime and a blue moon.
Only a little laughter.
A long time ago.
I remember the first time we made love. I still had the salt of sweat on my skin, after I intercepted that pass in the last minute of the game and ran back that seventy-nine yard touchdown. My body still remembers. All the hoorahs. They lifted me up on their shoulders.
A long time ago. A blue moon.
Later that night, as we walked along the beach, my heart was in my mouth. I was following you. I knew what was about to happen. I was scared. Darkness was trembling on the water. The surf was whispering. The sand was breathing light.
A blue moon ago, George.
We made love to the rhythm of the waves. And then we just lay there, locked in each other's arms, just gazing up at the sky. Your skin lit the night. Listen to me. Snow Queen, you got me saying poetry. (George grabs Lucy, attempting to hold her in his embrace).
No, George!
I gotta return to the language of prose. To the language of law and business. Contracts and statistics.
Forget it, George.
Come to bed. I have something to show you.
No, George!
Lucy tries to escape George's grip; he rips her nightgown; he pulls her toward the bed. [End Page 175]
I'm hungry for you.
I can't!
I'm hurting for you.
Don't do this, George.
The language of law and high finances.
Please don't make me hate you.
The language of secret documents.
I don't want to hate you, George.
The language of ancestral ghosts and debts.
Please don't!
Napoleon, huh?
You sentimental thug!
Okay, Josephine.
You bastard.
I have something to show you, Josephine.
George pulls Lucy toward the bed; they are stopped like dancers in a silent tussle. Lucy breaks George's grip; he grabs her again.
Snow Queen, I have something to show you.
Not anymore, George.
Curve Ball, huh? (Pause) Well, this is a curve ball, too.
Lucy slaps George; he laughs.
You Neanderthal! [End Page 176]
I'm gonna show you my slider. My inside pitch.
Go to hell!
You ready for my hesitation pitch?
Lucy slaps George again; he slaps her back.
I'm pregnant! You fucking bastard! I have your baby inside me!
George is stunned.
You lying!
I wish I were lying!
George panics; he pulls up a chair for Lucy.
Sit down. A real baby? Is he a boy? Sit down. Is she a girl? LUCY: You're the mind reader.
Huh?
I can't.
Can I get you some ice cream?
I can't.
Can I get you a pickle?
I'm sorry, George.
Sorry? I'm happy. (Pause) I'm so happy I don't know what to do.
Pull yourself together, George.
A baby with fingernails, toenails and hair?
Lucy assumes a stern presence.
I'm only three weeks. [End Page 177]
It takes nine months, right? (Pause) That's no time.
I can't, George.
I have to call home. I have to tell mom she's a grandmother.
Don't.
I wish I wasn't drunk. Why did you have to let this golden goose out of the bag when I'm halfway under the table?
These days, you're always halfway under the table.
Let's be kind. Let's be kind to each other.
Okay. (Pause) I'm going to be kind to you.
We're going to be kind.
As kind as I possibly can be.
Yeah.
Under the circumstance.
Under the circumstance.
I don't want you to panic, to do anything foolish.
I'm calm as still waters.
I don't want you to get angry.
I'm happy.
It isn't anything against you.
It isn't anything against you—against me.
I wish I could, but I just can't.
What are you trying to say, Lucy? [End Page 178]
You're the mind reader, George.
Huh?
When you went to the other side and came back you could read minds.
You're strong too.
I thought I was strong.
When we run those three miles along the river, you're just two or three steps behind me.
But I'm not this strong.
You're like a she-wolf.
George releases a howl; he backs away from Lucy.
I spent two weeks trying to fall in love with you again.
Give us another week.
I can't.
A few more days.
Please read my mind, George.
You saved me, and now you're in my debt.
I'm not an angel anymore.
Please don't kill me.
I'm not a fucking angel anymore, George.
George tries to shield his nakedness with his hands.
Please don't kill me, Snow Queen.
George backs away, as if physically wounded.
THE END [End Page 179]
Yusef Komunyakaa, a native of Bogalusa, Louisiana, is Distinguished Senior Poet and Global Professor at New York University. After he served as a soldier and a US Army correspondent in Vietnam (1969–1970), he studied at the University of Colorado and later received his MFA degree in creative writing from the University of California in Irvine. His books of poetry include Taboo, Dien Cai Dau, Neon Vernacular, for which he received the Pulitzer Prize, Talking Dirty to the Gods, Warhorses, The Chameleon Couch, The Emperor of Water Clocks, and Everyday Mojo Songs of Earth, forthcoming from FSG in 2020. His honors include the William Faulkner Prize (Université Rennes, France), the Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize, and the 2011 Wallace Stevens Award. His plays, performance art, and libretti have been performed internationally and include Saturnalia, Wakonda's Dream, Testimony, and Gilgamesh. He teaches at New York University.
