Angels in America: A Gay Fantasia on National Themes: Revised and Complete Edition
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(He looks at the coffin)
This woman. I did not know this woman. I cannot accurately describe her attributes, nor do justice to her dimensions. She was . . . Well, in the Bronx Home for Aged Hebrews are many like this, the old, and to many I speak but not to be frank with this one. She preferred silence. So I do not know her and yet I know her. She was . . . (He touches the coffin) . . . not a person but a whole kind of person, the ones who crossed the ocean, who brought with us to America the villages of Russia and Lithuania—and how we struggled, and how we fought, for the family, for the Jewish home, so that you would not grow up here, in this strange place, in the melting pot where nothing melted. Descendants of this immigrant woman, you do not grow up in America, you and your children and their children with the goyische names, you do not live in America, no such place exists. Your clay is the clay of some Litvak shtetl, your air the air of the steppes. Because she carried the old world on her back across the ocean, in a boat, and she put it down on Grand Concourse Avenue, or in Flatbush, and she worked that earth into your bones, and you pass it to your children, this ancient, ancient culture and home.
(Little pause)
You can never make that crossing that she made, for such Great Voyages in this world do not any more exist. But every day of your lives the miles that voyage between that place and this one you cross. Every day. You understand me? In you that journey is.
So . . .
She was the last of the Mohicans, this one was. Pretty soon . . . all the old will be dead.
Scene 2
Same day. Roy and Joe in Roy’s office. Roy at an impressive desk, bare except for a very elaborate phone system, rows and rows of flashing buttons that bleep and beep and whistle incessantly, making chaotic music underneath Roy’s conversations. Joe is sitting, waiting. Roy conducts business with great energy, impatience and sensual abandon: gesticulating, shouting, cajoling, crooning, playing the phone’s receiver, its hold button and the buttons for its numerous lines with virtuosity and love.
ROY (Hitting the hold button): Hold. (To Joe) I wish I was an octopus, a fucking octopus. Eight loving arms and all those suckers. Know what I mean?
JOE: No, I—
ROY (Gesturing to a deli platter of little sandwiches on his desk): You want lunch?
JOE: No, that’s OK really I just—
ROY (Hitting a button): Ailene? Roy Cohn. Now what kind of a greeting is—I thought we were friends, Ai— Look Mrs. Soffer you don’t have to get— You’re upset. You’re yelling. You’ll aggravate your condition, you shouldn’t yell, you’ll pop little blood vessels in your face if you yell— No that was a joke, Mrs. Soffer, I was joking—I already apologized sixteen times for that, Mrs. Soffer, you . . . (While she’s fulminating, Roy covers the mouthpiece with his hand and talks to Joe) This’ll take a minute, eat already, what is this tasty sandwich here it’s— (He takes a bite of a sandwich) Mmmmm, liver or some— Here. (He pitches the sandwich to Joe, who catches it and returns it to the platter. Back to Mrs. Soffer) Uh-huh, uh-huh . . . No, I already told you it wasn’t a vacation it was business, Mrs. Soffer, I have clients in Haiti, Mrs. Soffer, I—Listen, Ailene, YOU THINK I’M THE ONLY GODDAMN LAWYER IN HISTORY EVER MISSED A COURT DATE?! Don’t make such a big fucking— Hold. (He hits the hold button) You HAG!
JOE: If this is a bad time—
ROY: Bad time? This is a good time! (Button) Baby doll, get me— Oh fuck, wait. (Button) Hello? Yah. Sorry to keep you holding, Judge Hollins, I— Oh Mrs. Hollins, sorry dear, deep voice you got. Enjoying your visit? (Hand over mouthpiece again; to Joe) She sounds like a truck driver and he sounds like Kate Smith, very confusing. Nixon appointed him, all the geeks are Nixon appointees. (To Mrs. Hollins) Yeah, yeah right good so how many tickets dear? Seven? For what, Cats, 42nd Street, what? No you wouldn’t like La Cage, trust me, I know. Oh for godsake. Hold. (Hold button, button) Baby doll, seven for Cats or something, anything hard to get, I don’t give a fuck what and neither will they. (Button; to Joe) You see La Cage?
JOE: No, I—
ROY: Fabulous. Best thing on Broadway. Maybe ever. (Button) Who? Aw, Jesus H. Christ, Harry, no, Harry, Judge John Francis Grimes, Manhattan Family Court. Do I have to do every goddamn thing myself? Touch the bastard, Harry, and don’t call me on this line again, I told you not to.
JOE (Starting to get up): Roy, uh, should I wait outside or—
ROY (To Joe): Oh sit. (To Harry) You hold. I pay you to hold fuck you Harry you jerk. Half-wit dick-brain. (Hold button, then he looks at Joe. A beat, then:)
I see the universe, Joe, as a kind of sandstorm in outer space with winds of mega-hurricane velocity, but instead of grains of sand it’s shards and splinters of glass. You ever feel that way? Ever have one of those days?
JOE: I’m not sure I—
ROY: So how’s life in Appeals? How’s the judge?
JOE: He sends his best.
ROY: He’s a good man. Loyal. Not the brightest man on the bench, but he has manners. And a nice head of silver hair.
JOE: He gives me a lot of responsibility.
ROY: Yeah, like writing his decisions and signing his name.
JOE: Well . . .
ROY: He’s a nice guy. And you cover admirably.
JOE: Well, thanks, Roy, I—
ROY (Button): Yah? Who is this? Well who the fuck are you Hold. (Hold button) Harry? Eighty-seven grand, something like that. Fuck him. Eat me. New Jersey, chain of porno film stores in, uh, Weehawken. That’s—Harry, that’s the beauty of the law. (Hold button, button) So, baby doll, what? Cats? Ugh. (Button) Cats! It’s about cats. Singing cats, you’ll love it. Eight o’clock, the theater’s always at eight. (Button) Fucking tourists. (He puts his finger on the button for the line on which Harry is holding; before pushing it, to Joe) Oh live a little, Joe, eat something for Christ sake.
JOE: Um, Roy, could you—
ROY: What? (Pushing the button; to Harry) Hold a minute. (Hold button, button) Mrs. Soffer? Mrs.— (Button, to Baby Doll) God-fucking-damnit to hell, where is— (Continue below:)
JOE: Roy, I’d really appreciate it if—
ROY (Continuous from above): Well she was here a minute ago, baby doll, see if—
(The phone starts making three different beeping sounds, all at once.)
ROY (Smashing buttons): Jesus fuck this goddamn thing! (Continue below:)
JOE: I really wish you wouldn’t—
ROY (Continuous from above): Baby doll? Ring the Post get me Suzy see if—
(The phone starts whistling loudly.)
ROY: CHRIST!
JOE: Roy.
ROY (Into receiver): Hold. (Hold button; to Joe) What?
JOE: Could you please not take the Lord’s name in vain?
(Pause.)
JOE: I’m sorry. But please. At least while I’m . . .
ROY (Laughs, then): Right. Sorry. Fuck.
Only in America. (Punches a button) Baby doll, tell ’em all to fuck off. Tell ’em I died. You handle Mrs. Soffer. Tell her it’s on the way. Tell her I’m schtupping the judge. I’ll call her back. I will call her. I know how much I borrowed. She’s got four hundred times that stuffed up her— Yeah, tell her I said that.
(Button. The phone is silent)
So Joe.
JOE: I’m sorry Roy, I just—
ROY: No no no no, principles count, I respect principles, I’m not religious but I like God and God likes me. Baptist, Catholic?
JOE: Mormon.
ROY: Mormon. Delectable. Absolutely. Only in America. So, Joe. Whattya think?
JOE: It’s . . . well . . .
ROY: Crazy life.
JOE: Chaotic.
ROY: Well but God bless chaos. Right?
JOE: Ummm . . .
ROY: Huh. Mormons. I knew Mormons, in, um, Nevada.
JOE: Utah, mostly.
ROY: No, these Mormons were in Vegas.
So. So, how’d you like to go to Washington and work for the Justice Department?
JOE: Sorry?
JOE: In . . . what, exactly?
ROY: Associate Assistant Something Big. Internal Affairs, heart of the woods, something nice with clout.
JOE: Ed . . .?
ROY: Meese. The Attorney General.
JOE: Oh.
ROY: I just have to pick up the phone . . .
JOE: I have to think.
ROY: Of course.
(Pause)
It’s a great time to be in Washington, Joe.
JOE: Roy, it’s incredibly exciting.
ROY: And it would mean something to me. You understand?
(Little pause.)
JOE: I . . . can’t say how much I appreciate this Roy, I’m sort of . . . well, stunned, I mean . . . Thanks, Roy. But I have to give it some thought. I have to ask my wife.
ROY: Your wife. Of course.
JOE: But I really appreciate—
ROY: Of course. Talk to your wife.
Scene 3
Same day. Harper at home, alone, as she often is, listening to the radio. She speaks to the audience:
HARPER: People who are lonely, people left alone, sit talking nonsense to the air, imagining . . . beautiful systems dying, old fixed orders spiraling apart.
When you look at the ozone layer, from outside, from a spaceship, it looks like a pale blue halo, a gentle, shimmering aureole encircling the atmosphere encircling the earth. Thirty miles above our heads, a thin layer of three-atom oxygen molecules, product of photosynthesis, which explains the fussy vegetable preference for visible light, its rejection of darker rays and emanations. Danger from without. It’s a kind of gift, from God, the crowning touch to the creation of the world: guardian angels, hands linked, make a spherical net, a blue-green nesting orb, a shell of safety for life itself. But everywhere, things are collapsing, lies surfacing, systems of defense giving way.
This is why, Joe, this is why I shouldn’t be left alone.
(Little pause)
I’d like to go traveling. Leave you behind to worry. I’ll send postcards with strange stamps and tantalizing messages on the back: “Later maybe.” “Nevermore . . .”
(Mr. Lies, a travel agent, appears, carrying a briefcase.)
HARPER: Oh! You startled me!
MR. LIES: Cash, check or credit card?
HARPER: I remember you. You’re from Salt Lake. You sold us the plane tickets when we flew here. What are you doing in Brooklyn?
MR. LIES: You said you wanted to travel . . .
HARPER: And here you are. How thoughtful.
MR. LIES: Mr. Lies. Of the International Order of Travel Agents. We mobilize the globe, we set people adrift, we stir the populace and send nomads eddying across the planet. We are adepts of motion, acolytes of the flux. Cash, check or credit card. Name your destination.
HARPER: Antarctica, maybe. I want to see the hole in the ozone. I heard on the radio—
(He opens his briefcase. Inside it, there is a computer terminal.)
MR. LIES (His hands poised over the keyboard): I can arrange a guided tour. Now?
HARPER: Soon. Maybe soon. I’m not safe here you see. Things aren’t right with me. Weird stuff happens.
MR. LIES: Like?
HARPER: Well, like you, for instance. Just appearing. Or last week . . . well never mind.
People are like planets, you need a thick skin. Things get to me, Joe stays away and now . . . Well look. My dreams are talking back to me.
MR. LIES: It’s the price of rootlessness. Motion sickness. The only cure: to keep moving.
HARPER: I’m undecided. I feel . . . that something’s going to give. It’s 1985. Fifteen years till the third millennium. Maybe Christ will come again. Maybe seeds will be planted, maybe there’ll be harvests then, maybe early figs to eat, maybe new life, maybe fresh blood, maybe companionship and love and protection, safety from what’s outside, maybe the door will hold, or maybe . . . Maybe the troubles will come, and the end will come, and the sky will collapse and there will be terrible rains and showers of poison light, or maybe my life is really fine, maybe Joe loves me and I’m only crazy thinking otherwise, or maybe not, maybe it’s even worse than I know, maybe . . . I want to know, maybe I don’t. The suspense, Mr. Lies, it’s killing me.
MR. LIES: I suggest a vacation.
HARPER (Hearing something): That was the elevator. Oh God, I should fix myself up, I— You have to go, you shouldn’t be here, you aren’t even real.
MR. LIES: Call me when you decide.
HARPER: Go!
(Mr. Lies vanishes as Joe enters.)
JOE: Buddy?
Buddy? Sorry I’m late. I was just . . . out. Walking.
Are you mad?
HARPER: I got a little anxious.
JOE: Buddy kiss.
(They kiss.)
JOE: Nothing to get anxious about.
So. So how’d you like to move to Washington?
Scene 4
Same day. Louis and Prior sitting outside on a bench near an Upper West Side funeral home, both dressed in funereal finery; Prior is elegant, Louis is rumpled/negligent. The funeral service for Sarah Ironson has just concluded and Louis is about to leave for the cemetery.
LOUIS: My grandmother actually saw Emma Goldman speak. In Yiddish. But all Grandma could remember was that she spoke well and wore a hat.
What a weird service. That rabbi.
PRIOR: A definite find. Get his number when you go to the graveyard. I want him to bury me.
LOUIS: Better head out there. Everyone gets to put dirt on the coffin once it’s lowered in.
PRIOR: Oooh. Cemetery fun. Don’t want to miss that.
LOUIS: It’s an old Jewish custom to express love. Here, Grandma, have a shovelful. Latecomers run the risk of finding the grave completely filled.
She was pretty crazy. She was up there in that home for ten years, talking to herself. I never visited. She looked too much like my mother.
PRIOR (Hugs him): Poor Louis. I’m sorry your grandma is dead.
LOUIS: Tiny little coffin, huh?
Sorry I didn’t introduce you to— I always get so closety at these family things.
PRIOR: Butch. You get butch. (Imitating) “Hi, Cousin Doris, you don’t remember me I’m Lou, Rachel’s boy.” Lou, not Louis, because if you say Louis they’ll hear the sibilant S.
LOUIS: I don’t have a—
PRIOR: I don’t blame you, hiding. Bloodlines. Jewish curses are the worst. I personally would dissolve if anyone ever looked me in the eye and said “Feh.” Fortunately WASPs don’t say “Feh.” Oh and by the way, darling, Cousin Doris is a dyke.
LOUIS: No.
Really?
PRIOR: You don’t notice anything. If I hadn’t spent the last four years fellating you I’d swear you were straight.
LOUIS: You’re in a pissy mood. Cat still missing?
(Little pause.)
PRIOR: Not a furball in sight. It’s your fault.
LOUIS: It is?
PRIOR: I warned you, Louis. Names are important. Call an animal Little Sheba and you can’t expect it to stick around. Besides, it’s a dog’s name.
LOUIS: I wanted a dog in the first place, not a cat. He sprayed my books.
PRIOR: He was a female cat.
LOUIS: Cats are stupid, high-strung predators. Babylonians sealed them up in bricks. Dogs have brains.
PRIOR: Cats have intuition.
LOUIS: A sharp dog is as smart as a really dull two-year-old child.
PRIOR: Cats know when something’s wrong.
LOUIS: Only if you stop feeding them.
PRIOR: They know. That’s why Sheba left, because she knew.
LOUIS: Knew what?
(Pause.)
PRIOR: I did my best Shirley Booth this morning, floppy slippers, housecoat, curlers, can of Little Friskies: “Come back, Little Sheba, come back . . .” To no avail. Le chat, elle ne re
viendra jamais, jamais . . .
(He removes his jacket, rolls up his sleeve, shows Louis a dark purple spot on the underside of his arm near the shoulder.)
PRIOR: See.
LOUIS: That’s just a burst blood vessel.
PRIOR: Not according to the best medical authorities.
LOUIS: What?
(Pause)
Tell me.
PRIOR: K.S., baby. Lesion number one. Lookit. The wine-dark kiss of the angel of death.
LOUIS (Very softly, holding Prior’s arm): Oh please . . .
PRIOR: I’m a lesionnaire. The Foreign Lesion. The American Lesion. Lesionnaire’s disease.
LOUIS: Stop.
PRIOR: My troubles are lesion.
LOUIS: Will you stop.
PRIOR: Don’t you think I’m handling this well?
I’m going to die.
LOUIS: Bullshit.
PRIOR: Let go of my arm.
LOUIS: No.
PRIOR: Let go.
LOUIS (Grabbing Prior, embracing him ferociously): No.
PRIOR: I can’t find a way to spare you, baby. No wall like the wall of hard scientific fact. K.S. Wham. Bang your head on that.
LOUIS: Fuck you. (Letting go) Fuck you fuck you fuck you.
PRIOR: Now that’s what I like to hear. A mature reaction.
Let’s go see if the cat’s come home.
Louis?
LOUIS: When did you find this?
PRIOR: I couldn’t tell you.
LOUIS: Why?
PRIOR: I was scared, Lou.
LOUIS: Of what?
PRIOR: That you’ll leave me.
LOUIS: Oh.
(Little pause.)
PRIOR: Bad timing, funeral and all, but I figured as long as we’re on the subject of death.
LOUIS: I have to go bury my grandma.
PRIOR: Lou?
(Pause)
Then you’ll come home?
LOUIS: Then I’ll come home.
Scene 5
Same day. Split scene: Joe and Harper at home, as before; Louis at the cemetery after his family has gone, lingering behind, staring down at Sarah Ironson’s coffin in her open grave.