Death and Taxes, Page 3

  FLATTY

  Yes, nuance, unless she’s careful, or a socialist feminist.

  BIFF

  Everyone hates you Flatty.

  OTTOLINE

  Oops.

  FLATTY

  (Unphased, not missing a beat) And then there will be no nuance at all.

  ASPERA

  Does everyone hate you?

  FLATTY

  No, they don’t.

  ASPERA

  I live in London now, I’m out of the loop.

  FLATTY

  They don’t hate me, they envy me my money.

  ASPERA

  (To Happy) I wouldn’t really beat you up.

  FLATTY

  I could buy and sell the lot of you. Even you Happy and you write sitcoms. There. I’ve said it. I am wealthy. My plays have made me wealthy. I am richer than essayists, novelists, at least the respectable ones, and all poets ever. Envy is rather like hatred but as it’s more debilitating to its votaries and votaresses (because it’s so inherently undignified) it’s of less danger ultimately to its targets.

  BIFF

  I don’t envy your money. I envy your reviews.

  HAUTFLOTE

  I think we should dig now and bury Ding. This ground is patrolled. The night doesn’t last forever. Ding’s waiting.

  OTTOLINE

  (Softly, firmly) Ding’s dead.

  I love this place. It was worth two hundred and thirty-seven dollars and fifty cents to get here. Yes Flatty you can pay my way. Send me a check. Biff’s got a point. It’s the reviews, isn’t it. I’ve worked tirelessly for decades. Three at least. What I have done no one has ever done and no one does it nearly so well. But what I do is break the vessels because they never fit me right and I despise their elegance and I like the sound the breaking makes, it’s a new music. What I do is make mess apparent or make apparent messes, I cannot tell which myself I signal disenfranchisement, dysfunction, disinheritance well I am a black woman what do they expect it’s hard stuff but it’s life but I am perverse I do not want my stories straight up the narrative the narrative the miserable fucking narrative the universe is post-Cartesian post-Einsteinian it’s not at any rate what it’s post-to-be let’s throw some curve balls already who cares if they never cross the plate it’s hard too hard for folks to apprehend easy so I get no big money reviews and no box office and I’m broke, I’m fifty or sixty or maybe I’ve turned eighty, I collected the box at the Cafe Cinno yes I am THAT old, and poor but no matter, I have a great talent for poverty. Oblivion, on the other hand, scares me. Death. And this may shock you but (To Flatty) I ENVY you . . . your RENOWN. (Roaring) I DON’T WANT ANOTHER OBIE! I want a hit! I want to hit a home run! I WANT A MARQUEE! I’m too old to be ashamed of my hunger.

  BIFF

  O come to me short sweet (He blows a raspberry). There’s just no dignity. I am oppressed by theater critics.

  FLATTY

  I gave up on dignity years ago. I am prolific. That’s my revenge. If you want dignity you should marry a lighting designer.

  OTTOLINE

  Perhaps now we have worn out our terror, or at least winded it.

  HAUTFLOTE

  At darkest midnight December in the bleak midwinter athwart the crest of Abel’s Hill on Martha’s Vineyard six moderately inebriated playwrights stood shovels poised to inter—

  FLATTY

  Illegally.

  HAUTFLOTE

  . . . the earthly remains of a seventh.

  HAPPY

  Who might at least have agreed to the convenience of a cremation.

  HAUTFLOTE

  Being a creature of paper as well as of the fleeting moment Ding naturally had a horror of fire. I knew him best. For a long time now. I loved him.

  OTTOLINE

  We all did.

  HAUTFLOTE

  Yet not one of us dares break ground.

  HAPPY

  Wind perhaps, but never ground.

  ASPERA

  Wind for sure but not the Law. But is it the Law or what’s underground which immobilizes us? Incarceration or an excess of freedom? Enchainment or liberation? For who knows what dreams may come? Who knows what’s underneath? Who knows if anything is, if the shovel will strike stone, or pay dirt, or nothing whatsoever?

  BIFF

  It’s the Nothing stopping me. I can speak only for myself.

  FLATTY

  Bad thing in a playwright.

  BIFF

  The horseleech hath two daughters. There’s a play in there, somewhere, of course. I used to say: it won’t come out. Fecal or something, expulsive metaphor. I was stuffed, full and withholding. In more generous times. Before the fear . . . of the Deficit, before the Balanced Budget became the final face of the Angel of the Apocalypse. Now instead I say: I’m not going to go there. A geographical metaphor. Why? I’m nearly forty is one explanation. “There” meaning . . . That bleachy bone land. Into that pit. That plot. To meet that deadline.

  OTTOLINE

  The play is due . . . ?

  BIFF

  Day after yesterday.

  HAPPY

  Rehearsals starting ... ?

  BIFF

  Started.

  ASPERA

  What, without a script?

  BIFF

  They’re improvising.

  (Everyone shudders.)

  FLATTY

  You shouldn’t be here! You should be home writing!

  BIFF

  Did I mention how much I hate you, Flatty.

  FLATTY

  Marry a lighting designer. It worked for me. Sobered me right up.

  HAPPY

  I never meant . . . This reverse transcription thing. I’ll work on it.

  ASPERA

  You do that.

  HAPPY

  I never meant to equate Hebrew and . . . It’s just the words: reverse transcription. Thinking about it. Something I can’t help doing. Writing began with the effort to record speech. All writing is an attempt to fix intangibles—thought, speech, what the eye observes—fixed on clay tablets, in stone, on paper. Writers capture. We playwrights on the other hand write or rather “wright” to set these free again. Not inscribing, not de-scribing but . . . ex-scribing (?) . . . “W-R-I-G-H-T,” that archaism, because it’s something earlier we do, cruder, something one does with one’s mitts, one’s paws. To claw words up . . . !

  (Happy falls to his knees besides Ding, and starts to dig with his hands.)

  HAPPY

  To startle words back into the air again, to . . . evanesce. It is . . . unwriting, to do it is to die, yes, but. A lively form of doom.

  ASPERA

  Ah, so now you are equating . . .

  HAPPY

  It’s not about equation. It’s about the transmutation of horror into meaning.

  ASPERA

  Doomed to fail.

  HAPPY

  Dirty work . . . (He shows his hands)

  ASPERA

  A mongrel business. This Un-earthing.

  HAUTFLOTE

  For which we Un-earthly are singularly fit. Now or never.

  BIFF

  I’m nearly forty. My back hurts.

  FLATTY

  Whose doesn’t? No dignity but in our labors.

  (They hoist their shovels.)

  ASPERA

  Good night old Ding. Rest easy baby. And flights of self-dramatizing hypochondriacal hypersensitive self-pitying paroxys-mical angels saddlebag you off to sleep.

  BIFF

  (Apostrophizing Ding’s corpse) Oh Dog Weary.

  HAUTFLOTE

  Many of these graves are cenotaphs, you know, empty tombs, honorifics. Sailors lost on whalers, lost at sea, no body ever found, air and memory interred instead. All other headstones in the graveyard peristalithic to these few empty tombs, whose ghostly drama utterly overwhelms The Real.

  (Hautflote waves his hand in the air, a downbeat. Ella Fitzgerald sings “Begin the Beguine.”)

  OTTOLINE

  Dig. Shove
l tips to earth.

  (They are.)

  OTTOLINE

  The smell of earth will rise to meet us. Our nostrils fill with dark brown, roots’ ends, decomposing warmth and manufactory, earthworm action. The loam.

  FLATTY

  I don’t want to go to jail. Doesn’t David Mamet live around here somewhere?

  OTTOLINE

  Push in.

  (They do.)

  THE END

  Hydriotaphia OR

  The Death of Dr. Browne

  An Epic Farce about Death

  and Primitive Capital

  Accumulation

  This play is dedicated

  to the memory of

  Dr. Max Deutscher

  1915–1980

  scar-tough & skinless,

  wrathful & wonderful . . .

  Production History

  Hydriotaphia or The Death of Doctor Browne received its first production in June 1987 at HOME for Contemporary Theater and Art in New York City. It was produced by Heat & Light Co., Inc. It was directed by the author and assisted directed by Michael Mayer. Lights were designed by Steven Rosen, costumes were by Priscilla Stampa, sets were by committee and exigency and Lesley Kushner. The music was by Mel Marvin. And the cast was as follows:

  SIR THOMAS BROWNE Stephen Spinella

  HIS SOUL Maria Makis

  DAME DOROTHY BROWNE Roberta Levine

  BABBO Priscilla Stampa

  MACCABEE Peter Guttmacher

  DR. EMIL SCHADENFREUDE Ümit Celebi

  DR. LEVITICUS DOGWATER Lee Grober

  LEONARD PUMPKIN Tim White

  THE ABBESS OF X Alexandra Rambusch

  DOÑA ESTRELITA Carmalita Fuentes

  SARAH Cheryl Thornton

  MARY Kimberly T. Flynn

  RUTH Camryn Manheim

  DEATH Sam Calandrino

  Hydriotaphia or The Death of Doctor Browne was produced by the Graduate Acting Program of NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts in April 1997. The director was Michael Wilson; sets were designed by Michael Lapthorn, costumes were by Theresa Squire, the lighting design was by Lap-Chi Chu, sound design was by Darron L. West, the composer was Mel Marvin and the stage manager was Stacy P. Hughes. The cast was as follows:

  SIR THOMAS BROWNE Jason Butler Harner

  HIS SOUL Jeff Whitty

  DAME DOROTHY BROWNE Anita Dashiell

  BABBO Angel Desai

  MACCABEE Christian Lincoln

  DR. EMIL SCHADENFREUDE Matthew Miller

  DR. LEVITICUS DOGWATER Sam Catlin

  LEONARD PUMPKIN Tom Butler

  THE ABBESS OF X Michael Hyatt

  DOÑA ESTRELITA Teri Lamm

  SARAH Christina Apathy

  MARY Dionne Lea

  RUTH Christopher Kelly

  DEATH John Eddins

  In 1998, Hydriotaphia or The Death of Dr. Browne received a co-production by the Alley Theatre in Houston, Texas (Gregory Boyd, Artistic Director; Paul R. Tetreault, Managing Director), and Berkeley Repertory Theatre in California (Tony Taccone, Artistic Director; Susan Medak, Managing Director). In April of that year the play opened at the Alley with Michael Wilson as director; Jeff Cowie was scenic and projection designer, David C. Woolard was costume designer, Michael Lincoln was the lighting designer, Joe Pino was sound designer, original music was composed by Mel Marvin and the stage manager was Kristin Fox. The cast was as follows:

  SIR THOMAS BROWNE Jonathan Hadary

  HIS SOUL Jenny Bacon

  DAME DOROTHY BROWNE Shelley Williams

  BABBO Bettye Fitzpatrick

  MACCABEE Alex Allen Morris

  DR. EMIL SCHADENFREUDE John Feltch

  DR. LEVITICUS DOGWATER Charles Dean

  LEONARD PUMPKIN Kyle Fabel

  THE ABBESS OF X Sharon Lockwood

  DOÑA ESTRELITA Annalee Jefferies

  SARAH Delia MacDougall

  MARY Moya Furlow

  RUTH Louise Chegwidden

  DEATH Paul Hope

  In September 1998 the production moved to Berkeley Repertory Theatre (Tony Taccone, Artistic Director; Susan Medak, Managing Director). Michael Wilson was production supervisor, Ethan McSweeny was the director. Scenic and projection designer was Jeff Cowie, costumes were by David C. Woolard, lighting design was by Peter Maradudin, sound design was by Matthew Spiro, original music was composed by Mel Marvin, the production stage manager was Michael Suenkel and the stage manager was Juliet N. Pokorny. The cast was as follows:

  SIR THOMAS BROWNE Jonathan Hadary

  HIS SOUL Anika Noni Rose

  DAME DOROTHY BROWNE Shelley Williams

  BABBO Sloane Shelton

  MACCABEE Rod Gnapp

  DR. EMIL SCHADENFREUDE Charles Dean

  DR. LEVITICUS DOGWATER J. R. Horne

  LEONARD PUMPKIN Hamish Linklater

  THE ABBESS OF X Sharon Lockwood

  DOÑA ESTRELITA Wilma Bonet

  SARAH Delia MacDougall

  MARY Moya Furlow

  RUTH Louise Chegwidden

  DEATH Paul Hope

  Thanks to Michael Mayer for waking the play from its long sleep, and to Zelda Fichandler for approving its first production in eleven years. Michael Wilson got it back on its feet and found its soul again. The NYU cast was magnificent, the Berkeley Rep cast was beyond heroic; the original cast performs the play nightly in my heart of hearts. I am very grateful to Stephen Spinella, Jason Butler Harner and Jonathan Hadary, my three Brownes, for their glorious incarnations of the nasty bloated logorrheic old bugger. The staff at Berkeley Rep saved my life, and are the Platonic ideal of a theater staff. Amy Potozkin and Susie Medak graciously endured a lot of anxious phumphing from me, and Michael Suenkel, the stage manager, made the impossible seem a routine matter of little regard.

  More than anyone else, my deepest thanks, and much love, go to Tony Taccone, who has been over the years a great friend, in every regard a true gentleman of the theater, and a rare hand with a rubber chicken.

  Sir Thomas Browne and the Restoration

  The number of the dead long exceedeth all that shall live. The night of time far surpasseth the day, and who knows when was the Aequinox? Every houre addes unto that current Arithmetique, which scarce stands one moment. And since death must be the Lucina of life, and even Pagans could doubt whether thus to live, were to dye. Since our longest Sunne sets at right decensions, and makes but winter arches, and therefore it cannot be long before we lie down in darkness, and have our light in ashes. Since the brother of death daily haunts us with dying memento’s, and time that grows old it self, bids us hope no long duration: Diuturnity is a dream and a folly of expectation.

  Darknesse and light divide the course of time, and oblivion shares with memory a great part even of our living beings; we slightly remember our felicities, and the smartest stroaks of affliction leave but short smart upon us. Sense endureth no extremities, and sorrows destroy us or themselves. To weep into stones are fables. Afflictions induce callosities, miseries are slippery, or fall like snow upon us, which notwithstanding is no unhappy stupidity. To be ignorant of evils to come, and forget-full of evils past, is a mercifull provision in nature, whereby we digest the mixture of our few and evil dayes, and our delivered senses not lapsing into cutting remembrances, our sorrows are not kept raw by the edge of repetitions.

  [from “Hydriotaphia or Urne-Buriall”

  —SIR THOMAS BROWNE

  SIR THOMAS BROWNE (1605-1682) was a writer of prodigious genius, coiner of an English-language prose style of such voluptuous baroquosity it melts the straight lines and right angles of the Euclidean universe, stretches every assumption of Cartesian logic, and achieves, by means of a remorselessly tortured syntax, something dialectically poised between Rigorous Reason and Ecstatic Delirium; aiming at science and philosophy, his essays achieve vision and poetry instead. Browne’s style influenced writers from De Quincey to Melville, and I believe his ornate jeweled swooniness can be discerned as influence in the works of such contemporaries as Michael Ondaatje an
d Edmund White.

  Browne may have been a thoroughly lovely human being; this play is not intended as a portrait of the historical man, any more than it is an accurate portrait of late-mid-seventeenth-century England. If anything, this is a play about the treachery of words, about writing—probably it’s better that I let you decide what it’s about.

  Primitive capital accumulation is a term of Karl Marx’s and Friedrich Engels’s, making reference to the ugly and vital process whereby a nation that is entering the capitalist phase of economic and social relations dislocates its rural populations in the course of a violent land grab by aristocratic and entrepreneurial classes intent on accumulating, by any means necessary, the material resources that provide the bases for mercantile, manufacturing and speculatory fortunes. From the devastation consequent upon such officially sanctioned piracy, an impoverished urban and factory workforce emerges, desperate for wages. Primitive capital accumulation is the nakedly brutal manner in which money was grubbed from people and land, before the camouflaging, cosmeticization, banalization and normalization of such mayhem, before we learned new words for it, like Modernization, Progress, Industrialization—before the invention of Spin.