Angels in America: A Gay Fantasia on National Themes: Revised and Complete Edition, Page 6

  PRIOR: Je t’aime.

  BELIZE: Je t’aime. Don’t go crazy on me, girlfriend, I already got enough crazy queens for one lifetime. For two. I can’t be bothering with dementia.

  PRIOR: I promise.

  BELIZE (Touching him with his forefinger; softly, doing E.T.): Ouch.

  PRIOR: Ouch. Indeed.

  BELIZE: Why’d they have to pick on you?

  And eat more, girlfriend, you really do look like shit.

  (He leaves.)

  PRIOR (A beat, then): He’s gone.

  Are you still—

  A VOICE: I can’t stay. I will return.

  PRIOR: Are you one of those “Follow me to the other side” voices?

  A VOICE: No. I am no nightbird. I am a messenger . . .

  PRIOR: You have a beautiful voice, it sounds . . . like a viola, like a perfectly tuned, tight string, balanced, the truth . . . Stay with me.

  A VOICE: Not now. Soon I will return, I will reveal myself to you; I am glorious, glorious; my heart, my countenance and my message. You must prepare.

  PRIOR (Afraid again): For what? I don’t want to—

  A VOICE: No death, no:

  A marvelous work and a wonder we undertake, an edifice awry we sink plumb and straighten, a great Lie we abolish, a great error correct, with the rule, sword and broom of Truth!

  PRIOR: What are you talking about, I—

  A VOICE: I am on my way; when I am manifest, our Work begins:

  Prepare for the parting of the air,

  The breath, the ascent,

  Glory to . . .

  Scene 6

  Several days later. Martin, a relentlessly upbeat official in the Reagan Administration’s Justice Department, is at a table with Roy and Joe in a fancy Manhattan restaurant.

  MARTIN: It’s a revolution in Washington, Joe. We have a new agenda and finally a real leader. They got back the Senate but we have the courts. By the nineties the Supreme Court will be block-solid Republican appointees, and the federal bench—Republican judges like land mines, everywhere, everywhere they turn. Affirmative action? Take it to court. Boom! Land mine. And we’ll get our way on just about everything: abortion, defense, Central America, family values, a live investment climate. We have the White House locked till the year 2000. And beyond. A permanent fix on the Oval Office? It’s possible. By ’92 we’ll get the Senate back, and in ten years the South is going to give us the House. It’s really the end of Liberalism. The end of New Deal Socialism. The end of ipso facto secular humanism. The dawning of a genuinely American political personality. Modeled on Ronald Wilson Reagan.

  JOE: It sounds great, Mr. Heller.

  MARTIN: Martin. And Justice is the hub. Especially since Ed Meese took over. He doesn’t specialize in Fine Points of the Law. He’s a flatfoot, a cop. He reminds me of Teddy Roosevelt.

  JOE: I can’t wait to meet him.

  MARTIN: Too bad, Joe, he’s been dead for sixty years!

  (There is a little awkwardness. Joe doesn’t respond.)

  MARTIN: Teddy Roosevelt. You said you wanted to . . . Little joke. It reminds me of the story about the—

  ROY (Smiling, but nasty): Aw shut the fuck up, Martin.

  (To Joe) You see that? Mr. Heller here is one of the mighty, Joseph, in D.C., he sitteth on the right hand of the man who sitteth on the right hand of The Man. And yet I can say “shut the fuck up” and he will take no offense. Loyalty.

  MARTIN: This man, Joe, is a Saint of the Right.

  JOE: I know, Mr. Heller, I—

  ROY: And you see what I mean, Martin? He’s special, right?

  MARTIN: Don’t embarrass him, Roy.

  ROY: Gravity, decency, smarts! His strength is as the strength of ten because his heart is pure! And he’s a Royboy, one hundred percent.

  MARTIN: We’re on the move, Joe. On the move.

  JOE: Mr. Heller, I—

  MARTIN: We can’t wait any longer for an answer.

  (Little pause.)

  JOE: Oh. Um, I—

  ROY: Joe’s a married man, Martin.

  MARTIN: Aha.

  ROY: With a wife. She doesn’t care to go to D.C., and so Joe cannot go. And keeps us dangling. We’ve seen that kind of thing before, haven’t we? These men and their wives.

  MARTIN: Oh yes. Beware.

  JOE: I really can’t discuss this under—

  MARTIN: Then don’t discuss. Say yes, Joe.

  ROY: Now.

  MARTIN: Say yes I will.

  ROY: Now.

  Now. I’ll hold my breath till you do, I’m turning blue waiting . . .

  (Too loud) Now, goddamnit!

  MARTIN (Looking around): Roy, calm down, it’s not—

  ROY: Aw, fuck it.

  (Roy takes a letter from his jacket pocket, hands it to Joe.)

  ROY: Read. Came today.

  (Joe removes the letter from its envelope and reads. Then he looks up at Roy.)

  JOE: Roy. This is . . . Roy, this is terrible.

  ROY: You’re telling me.

  A letter from the New York State Bar Association, Martin.

  They’re gonna try and disbar me.

  MARTIN: Oh my.

  JOE: Why?

  ROY: Why, Martin?

  MARTIN: Revenge.

  ROY: The whole Establishment. Their little rules. Because I know no rules. Because I don’t see the Law as a dead and arbitrary collection of antiquated dictums, thou shall, thou shalt not, because, because I know the Law’s a pliable, breathing, sweating . . . organ, because, because—

  MARTIN: Because he borrowed half a million from one of his clients.

  ROY: Yeah, well, there’s that.

  MARTIN: And he forgot to return it.

  JOE: Roy, that’s . . . You borrowed money from a client?

  ROY: I’m deeply ashamed.

  (Little pause.)

  JOE: Roy, you know how much I admire you. Well I mean I know you have unorthodox ways, but I’m sure you only did what you thought at the time you needed to do. And I have faith that—

  ROY: Not so damp, please. I’ll deny it was a loan. She’s got no paperwork. Can’t prove a fucking thing.

  (Little pause. Martin studies the menu.

  Joe puts the letter back in its envelope and hands it to Roy.)

  JOE (A little stiff, formal): Roy I really appreciate your telling me this, and I’ll do whatever I can to help.

  ROY (Holding up a hand, then, carefully): I’ll tell you what you can do.

  I’m about to be tried, Joe, by a jury that is not a jury of my peers. The disbarment committee: genteel gentlemen Brahmin lawyers, country-club men. I offend them, to these men I’m what, Martin? Some sort of filthy little Jewish troll?

  MARTIN (With an embarrassed laugh): Oh well, I wouldn’t go so far as—

  ROY (Imitating the laugh): Oh well I would.

  Very fancy lawyers, these disbarment committee lawyers, fancy lawyers with fancy corporate clients and complicated cases. Antitrust suits. Deregulation. Environmental control. Complex cases like these need Justice Department cooperation like flowers need the sun. Wouldn’t you say that’s an accurate assessment, Martin?

  MARTIN: I’m not here, Roy. I’m not hearing any of this.

  ROY: No. Of course not.

  Without the light of the sun, Joe, these cases, and the fancy lawyers who represent them, will wither and die.

  A well-placed friend, someone in the Justice Department, say, can turn off the sun. Cast a deep shadow on my behalf. Make them shiver in the cold. If they overstep. They would fear that.

  (Pause.)

  JOE: Roy. I don’t understand.

  ROY: You do.

  (Pause.)

  JOE: You’re not asking me to—

  ROY: Sssshhhh. Careful.

  JOE (A beat, then): Even if I said yes to the job, it would be illegal to interfere. With the hearings. It’s unethical. No. I can’t.

  ROY: Un-ethical.

  Would you excuse us, Martin?

  MARTIN: Excuse you?


  ROY: Take a walk, Martin. For real.

  (Martin hesitates, then stands. He shoots Joe a quick “you just stepped in it” look, then leaves.)

  ROY: Un-ethical. Are you trying to embarrass me in front of my friend?

  JOE: Well it is unethical, I can’t—

  ROY: Boy, you are really something, what the fuck do you think this is, Sunday school?

  JOE: No, but Roy this is—

  ROY: This is—this is gastric juices churning, this is enzymes and acids, this is intestinal is what this is, bowel movement and blood-red meat! This stinks, this is politics, Joe, the game of being alive. And you think you’re . . . What? Above that? Above alive is what? Dead! In the clouds! You’re on earth, goddamnit! Plant a foot, stay a while.

  I’m sick. They smell I’m weak. They want blood this time. I must have eyes in Justice. In Justice you will protect me.

  JOE: Why can’t Mr. Heller—

  ROY: Grow up, Joe. The administration can’t get involved.

  JOE: But I’d be part of the administration. The same as him.

  ROY: Not the same. Martin’s Ed’s man. And Ed’s Reagan’s man. So Martin’s Reagan’s man.

  And you’re mine.

  (Little pause. He holds up the letter)

  This will never be. Understand me?

  (He tears up the letter)

  I’m gonna be a lawyer, Joe, I’m gonna be a lawyer, Joe, I’m gonna be a goddamn motherfucking legally licensed member of the bar lawyer, just like my daddy was, till my last bitter day on earth, Joseph, until the day I die.

  (Martin returns.)

  ROY: Ah, Martin’s back.

  MARTIN: So are we agreed?

  ROY: Joe?

  (Little pause.)

  JOE: I will think about it.

  (To Roy) I will.

  ROY (A beat, then, contemplatively): Huh.

  MARTIN: It’s the fear of what comes after the doing that makes the doing hard to do.

  ROY: Amen.

  MARTIN: But you can almost always live with the consequences.

  Scene 7

  That afternoon. On the granite steps outside the Hall of Justice, Brooklyn. It is cold and sunny. A Sabrett wagon is selling hot dogs. Louis, in a shabby overcoat, is sitting on the steps contemplatively eating one. Joe enters with three hot dogs and a can of Coke.

  JOE: Can I . . .?

  LOUIS: Oh sure. Sure. Crazy cold sun.

  JOE (Sitting): Have to make the best of it.

  How’s your friend?

  LOUIS: My . . .? Oh. He’s worse. My friend is worse.

  JOE: I’m sorry.

  LOUIS: Yeah, well. Thanks for asking. It’s nice. You’re nice. I can’t believe you voted for Reagan.

  JOE: I hope he gets better.

  LOUIS: Reagan?

  JOE: Your friend.

  LOUIS: He won’t. Neither will Reagan.

  JOE: Let’s not talk politics, OK?

  LOUIS (Pointing to Joe’s lunch): You’re eating three of those?

  JOE: Well . . . I’m . . . hungry.

  LOUIS: They’re really terrible for you. Full of rat poo and beetle legs and wood shavings ’n’ shit.

  JOE: Huh.

  LOUIS: And . . . um . . . irridium, I think. Something toxic.

  JOE: You’re eating one.

  LOUIS: Yeah, well, the shape, I can’t help myself, plus I’m trying to commit suicide, what’s your excuse?

  JOE: I don’t have an excuse. I just have Pepto-Bismol.

  (Joe takes a bottle of Pepto-Bismol and chugs it. Louis shudders audibly.)

  JOE: Yeah I know but then I wash it down with Coke.

  (He does this. Louis mimes barfing in Joe’s lap. Joe pushes Louis’s head away.)

  JOE: Are you always like this?

  LOUIS: I’ve been worrying a lot about his kids.

  JOE: Whose?

  LOUIS: Reagan’s. Maureen and Mike and little orphan Patti and Miss Ron Reagan, Jr., the you-should-pardon-the-expression heterosexual.

  JOE: Ron Reagan, Jr. is not— You shouldn’t just make these assumptions about people. How do you know? About him? What he is? You don’t know.

  LOUIS (Doing Tallulah Bankhead): Well darling he never sucked my cock but—

  JOE: Look, if you’re going to get vulgar—

  LOUIS: No no really, I mean, what’s it like to be the child of the Zeitgeist? To have the American Animus as your dad? It’s not really a family, the Reagans, I read People, there aren’t any connections there, no love, they don’t ever even speak to each other except through their agents. So what’s it like to be Reagan’s kid? Enquiring minds want to know.

  JOE: You can’t believe everything you—

  LOUIS: But . . .

  I think we all know what that’s like. Nowadays. No connections. No responsibilities. All of us . . . falling through the cracks that separate what we owe to our selves and . . . and what we owe to love.

  JOE (A beat, then): You just . . . Whatever you feel like saying or doing, you don’t care, you just . . . do it.

  LOUIS (Catching at something in Joe’s tone): Do what?

  JOE: It. Whatever. Whatever it is you want to do.

  LOUIS (A beat; then, quietly challenging): Are you trying to tell me something?

  (Little pause, sexual. They look at each other, then Joe looks away.)

  JOE: No, I’m just observing that you—

  LOUIS (Nodding, letting him off the hook): Impulsive.

  JOE: Yes, I mean it must be scary, you—

  LOUIS: Land of the free, home of the brave, call me irresponsible.

  JOE: It’s kind of terrifying.

  LOUIS (Shrugging): Yeah, well, freedom is. Heartless, too.

  JOE: Oh you’re not heartless.

  (Little pause. Louis stops smiling.)

  LOUIS: You don’t know.

  Finish your weenie.

  (Louis pats Joe on the knee, stands and starts to leave.)

  JOE: Um . . .

  (Louis turns, looks at him. Joe searches for something to say; then, mostly avoiding looking at Louis:)

  JOE: Yesterday was Sunday but I’ve been a little unfocused recently and I thought it was Monday. So I came here like I was going to work. And the whole place was empty. And at first I couldn’t figure out why, and I had this moment of incredible . . . fear and also . . . It just flashed through my mind: the whole Hall of Justice, it’s empty, it’s deserted, it’s gone out of business. Forever. The people that make it run have up and abandoned it.

  LOUIS (Looking at the building): Creepy.

  JOE: Well yes but. I felt that I was going to scream. Not because it was creepy, but because the emptiness felt so fast.

  And . . . well, good. A . . . happy scream.

  I just wondered what a thing it would be . . . if overnight everything you owe anything to, justice, or love, had really gone away. Free.

  It would be . . . heartless terror. Yes. Terrible, and . . .

  Very great. To shed your skin, every old skin, one by one and then walk away, unencumbered, into the morning.

  (Pause. He looks at the building, then down)

  I can’t go in there today.

  LOUIS: Then don’t.

  JOE: I can’t go in, I need . . .

  (He looks for what he needs. He takes a swig of Pepto-Bismol)

  I can’t be this anymore. I need . . . a change, I should just . . .

  LOUIS: Want some company? For whatever?

  (A possibility of sex still hangs in the air.)

  LOUIS: Sometimes, even if it scares you to death, you have to be willing to break the law. Know what I mean?

  (Little pause.)

  JOE: Yes.

  LOUIS (A beat, then): I moved out. I moved out on my . . .

  (Little pause; Louis looks down. The sexual possibility disappears.)

  LOUIS: I haven’t been sleeping well.

  JOE: Me neither.

  (Louis licks his napkin and goes up to Joe. He dabs at Joe’s upper lip.)

&nb
sp; LOUIS: Antacid moustache.

  (Louis starts to walk away, then stops and stares at the courthouse. Not looking at Joe:)

  LOUIS: Maybe the court won’t convene. Ever again. Maybe we are free. To do whatever.

  Children of the new morning, criminal minds. Selfish and greedy and loveless and blind. Reagan’s children.

  (Looking at Joe) You’re scared. So am I. Everybody is in the land of the free.

  (Louis turns and leaves. As he’s exiting:)

  LOUIS: God help us all.

  Scene 8

  Late that night. Joe at a payphone calling Hannah at home in Salt Lake City. Joe’s a little drunk.

  JOE: Mom?

  HANNAH: Joe?

  JOE: Hi.

  HANNAH: You’re calling from the street. It’s . . . it must be four in the morning. What’s happened?

  JOE: Nothing, nothing, I—

  HANNAH: It’s Harper. Is Harper—

  Joe?

  Joe?

  JOE: Yeah, hi. No, Harper’s fine. Well, no, she’s . . . (He finds this slightly funny) not fine.

  (With a grin) How are you, Mom?

  HANNAH: What’s happened?

  JOE: I just wanted to talk to you. I, uh, wanted to try something out on you.

  HANNAH: Joe, you haven’t— Have you been drinking, Joe?

  JOE (A bigger grin): Yes, ma’am. I’m drunk.

  HANNAH: That isn’t like you.

  JOE: No. I mean— (Again, finding this a little funny) Who’s to say?

  HANNAH: Why are you out on the street at four A.M.? In that crazy city. It’s dangerous.

  JOE: Actually, Mom, I’m not on the street. I’m near the boathouse in the park.

  HANNAH: What park?

  JOE: Central Park.

  HANNAH: CENTRAL PARK! Oh my Lord. What on earth are you doing in Central Park at this time of night? Are you—

  (Very stern) Joe, I think you ought to go home right now. Call me from home.

  (Little pause.)

  HANNAH: Joe?

  JOE: I come here to watch, Mom. Sometimes. Just to watch.

  HANNAH: Watch what? What’s there to watch at four in the—

  JOE: Mom, did Dad love me?

  HANNAH: What?

  JOE: Did he?

  HANNAH: You ought to go home and call from there.

  JOE: Answer.

  HANNAH: Oh now really. This is maudlin. I don’t like this conversation.

  JOE: Yeah, well, it gets worse from here on.

  (Pause.)

  HANNAH: Joe?

  JOE: Mom. Momma. I’m a homosexual, Momma.