Angels in America (20 page)

BELIZE
: Mr. Cohn. I'd rather suck the pus out of an abscess. I'd rather drink a subway toilet. I'd rather chew off my tongue and spit it in your leathery face. So thanks for the offer of conversation, but I'd rather not.

(Belize starts to exit, turning off the light as he does.)

ROY
: Oh forchristsake. Whatta I gotta do? Beg? I don't want to be alone.

(Belize stops.)

ROY
: Oh how I fucking
hate
hospitals, nurses, this waste of time and . . . wasting and weakness, I want to kill the—

     
'Course they can't kill this, can they?

(Belize says nothing.)

ROY
: No. It's too simple. It knows itself. It's harder to kill something if it knows what it is. Like pubic lice. You ever have pubic lice?

BELIZE
: That is none of your—

ROY
: I got some kind of super crabs from some kid once, it took twenty drenchings of Kwell and finally shaving to get rid of the little bastards.
Nothing
could kill them. And every time I had to itch I'd smile, because I learned to respect them, these unkillable crabs, because . . . I learned to identify. You know? Determined lowlife. Like me.

     
You've seen lots of guys with this.

(Little pause.)

BELIZE
: Lots.

ROY
: How do I look, comparatively?

BELIZE
: I'd say you're in trouble.

ROY
: I'm going to die. Soon.

     
That was a question.

BELIZE
: Probably. Probably so.

ROY
: Hah.

     
I appreciate the . . . the honesty, or whatever . . .

     
If I live I could sue you for emotional distress, the whole hospital, but . . .

     
I'm not prejudiced, I'm not a prejudiced man.

(Belize just looks at him.)

ROY
: These racist guys, simpletons, I never had any use for them—too rigid. You want to keep your eye on where the most powerful enemy really is. I save my hate for what counts.

BELIZE
: Well. And I think that's a good idea, a good thing to do, probably.

     
(Little pause. Then, with great effort and distaste:)

     
This didn't come from me and I
don't
like you but let me tell you a thing or two:

     
They have you down for radiation tomorrow for the sarcoma lesions, and you don't want to let them do that, because radiation will kill the T-cells and you don't have any you can afford to lose. So tell the doctor no thanks for the radiation. He won't want to listen. Persuade him. Or he'll kill you.

ROY
: You're just a fucking nurse. Why should I listen to you over my very qualified, very expensive WASP doctor?

BELIZE
: He's not queer. I am.

(Belize winks at Roy.)

ROY
: Don't wink at me.

     
You said “a thing or two.” So that's one.

BELIZE
: I don't know what strings you pulled to get in on the azidothymidine trials.

ROY
: I have my little ways.

BELIZE
: Uh-huh.

     
Watch out for the double blind. They'll want you to sign something that says they can give you M&Ms instead of the real drug. You'll die, but they'll get the kind of statistics they can publish in the
New England Journal of Medicine
. And you can't sue 'cause you signed. And if you don't sign, no pills. So if you have any strings left, pull them, because everyone's put through the double blind and with this, time's against you, you can't fuck around with placebos.

ROY
: You hate me.

BELIZE
: Yes.

ROY
: Why are you telling me this?

BELIZE
: I wish I knew.

(Pause.)

ROY
(Very nasty)
: You're a butterfingers spook faggot nurse. I think . . . you have little reason to want to help me.

BELIZE
: Consider it solidarity. One faggot to another.

(Belize snaps, turns, exits. Roy calls after him:)

ROY
: Any more of your lip, boy, and you'll be flipping Big Macs in East Hell before tomorrow night!

     
(He picks up his bedside phone)

     
And get me a real phone, with a hold button, I mean look at this, it's just one little line, now how am I supposed to perform basic bodily functions on
this?

     
(He lifts the receiver, clicks the hang-up button several times)

     
Yeah who is this, the operator? Give me an outside line. Well then dial for me. It's a medical emergency,
darling, dial the fucking number or I'll strangle myself with the phone cord.

     
202-733-8525.

     
(Little pause)

     
Martin Heller. Oh hi, Martin. Yeah I know what time it is, I couldn't sleep, I'm busy dying. Listen, Martin, this drug they got me on, azido-methatalo-molamoca-whatchamacallit. Yeah. AZT.

     
I want my own private stash, Martin. Of serious Honest-Abe medicine. That I control, here in the room with me. No placebos, I'm no good at tests, Martin, I'd rather cheat. So send me my pills with a get-well bouquet,
PRONTO
, or I'll ring up CBS and sing Mike Wallace a song:
(Sotto voce, with relish)
“The Ballad of Adorable Ollie North and His Secret Contra Slush Fund.”

     
(He holds the phone away from his ear; Martin is screaming)

     
Oh you only
think
you know all I know.
I
don't even know what all I know. Half the time I just make it up, and it
still
turns out to be true! We learned that trick in the fifties. Tomorrow, you two-bit scumsucking shitheel flypaper insignificant dried-out little turd. A nice big box of drugs for Uncle Roy. Or there'll be seven different kinds of hell to pay.
(He slams the receiver down)

ACT TWO:

The Anti-Migratory Epistle

(For Sigrid)

January 1986

Scene 1

Three weeks after the end of Act One. Prior and Belize stand outside a dilapidated funeral parlor on the Lower East Side. They've just left the funeral of a mutual friend, a major New York City drag-and-style queen. Belize is in defiantly bright and beautiful clothing. Prior is dressed oddly, a long black coat over black shirt and pants, and a large, fringed, black scarf draped like a hood around his head, capped off with black sunglasses; the effect is disconcerting, vaguely suggesting adherence to a severe, albeit elegant, religious discipline
.

Belize has been deeply moved by the service they've just attended. Prior is closed off in some place as dark as the costume he's wearing
.

PRIOR
: It was tacky.

BELIZE
: It was divine.

     
He was one of the Great Glitter Queens. He couldn't be buried like a
civilian
. Trailing sequins and incense he came into the world, trailing sequins and incense he departed it. And good for him!

PRIOR
: I thought the twenty professional Sicilian mourners were a bit much.

     
A great queen; big fucking deal. That ludicrous spectacle in there, just a parody of the funeral of someone who
really
counted. We don't; faggots; we're just a bad dream the real world is having, and the real world's waking up. And he's
dead
.

(Little pause.)

BELIZE
(Concerned, irritated)
: Lately, sugar, you have gotten very strange. Lighten up already.

PRIOR
: Oh I
apologize
, it was only a for-God's-sake funeral, a cause for fucking
celebration
, sorry if I can't join in with the rest of you death-junkies, gloating about your survival in the face of that . . . of his ugly demise because unlike you I have nothing to gloat about. Never mind.

(Angry little pause.)

BELIZE
: And you
look
like Morticia Addams.

PRIOR
: Like the Wrath of God.

BELIZE
: Yes.

PRIOR
: That is the intended effect.

     
My eyes are fucked-up.

BELIZE
: Fucked-up how?

PRIOR
: Everything's . . . closing in. Weirdness on the periphery.

BELIZE
: Since when?

PRIOR
: For three weeks. Since the night when—
(He stops himself)

BELIZE
: Well what does the eye doctor say?

PRIOR
: I haven't been.

BELIZE
: Oh for God's sake.
Why?

PRIOR
: I was improving. Before.

     
Remember my wet dream.

BELIZE
: The angel?

PRIOR
: It wasn't a dream.

BELIZE
: 'Course it was.

PRIOR
: No. I don't think so. I think it really happened.

     
I'm a prophet.

BELIZE
: Say what?

PRIOR
: I've been given a prophecy. A Book. Not a
physical
book, or there was one but They took it back, but somehow there's still this Book. In me. A prophecy. It . . . really happened, I'm—almost completely sure of it.

     
(He looks at Belize)

     
Oh stop looking so . . .

BELIZE
: You're scaring me.

PRIOR
: It was after Louis left me. Every night I'd been having these horrible vivid dreams. And then . . .

(Little pause.)

BELIZE
: Then . . .?

PRIOR
: And then She arrived.

Scene 2

Three weeks earlier. The Angel and Prior in Prior's bedroom. The wrecked ceiling, Prior in bed, the Angel in the air
.

As the scene shifts, Prior changes out of his prophet garb and into his pajamas onstage. He does this quietly, deliberately, forcing himself back into memory, preparing to tell Belize his tale
.

At first, Belize watches from the street, but soon he's drawn into the bedroom
.

ANGEL
: Greetings, Prophet!

     
The Great Work Begins:

     
The Messenger has arrived.

PRIOR
(Terrified)
: Go away.

ANGEL
: Attend:

PRIOR
(Still terrified)
: Oh God there's a thing in the air, a thing, a thing.

ANGEL
: I I I I

     
Am the Bird of America, the Bald Eagle,

     
Continental Principality,

     
LUMEN PHOSPHOR FLUOR CANDLE!

     
I unfold my leaves, Bright steel,

     
In salutation open sharp before you:

     
Prior WALTER

     
Long-descended, well-prepared.

PRIOR
(Even more terrified)
: No, I'm not prepared, for anything, I have lots to do, I—

ANGEL
(With a gust of music)
: American Prophet tonight you become,

     
American Eye that pierceth Dark,

     
American Heart all Hot for Truth,

     
The True Great Vocalist, the Knowing Mind,

     
Tongue-of-the-Land, Seer-Head!

PRIOR
: Oh, shoo! You're scaring the shit out me, get the fuck out of my room. Please, oh please—