by John Guare
He reaches through the bars to his father’s trousers, gets the keys out of the pocket, unlocks the lock, comes into the room and relocks the gate behind him, replaces the pants. He tiptoes past his father, who’s still snoring and mumbling: Pope Ronnie. Pope Ronnie. Pope Ronnie.
RONNIE opens the icebox door, careful not to let the light spill all over the floor. He takes out milk and bread.
The doorbell buzzes.
ARTIE groans.
RONNIE runs into his bedroom.
Somebody is knocking on the front door and buzzing quickly, quickly like little mosquito jabs.
ARTIE stirs. He unzips himself from his sleeping bag, runs to the door. He wears ski pajamas. A key fits into the front door. The door shakes. ARTIE undoes the six bolts that hold the door locked. He opens the door, dashes back to his bag, and zips himself in.
BUNNY FLINGUS throws open the door. The hall behind her is brilliantly lit. She is a pretty, pink, slightly plump, electric woman in her late thirties. She wears a fur-collared coat and plastic booties, and two Brownie cameras on cords clunking against a pair of binoculars.
At the moment she is freezing, uncomfortable, and furious.
She storms to the foot of the couch.
BUNNY: You know what your trouble is? You got no sense of history. You know that? Are you aware of that? Lock yourself up against history, get drowned by the whole tide of human events. Sleep it away in your bed. Your bag. Zip yourself in, Artie. The greatest tide in the history of the world is coming in today, so don’t get your feet wet.
ARTIE, picking up his glow-in-the-dark alarm: It’s quarter-to-five in the morning, Bunny—
BUNNY: Lucky for you I got a sense of history. She sits on the edge of the couch, picks up the newspaper on the floor. You finished last night’s? Oooo, it’s freezing out there. Breath’s coming out of everybody’s mouth like a balloon in a cartoon. She rips the paper into long shreds and stuffs it down into the plastic booties she wears.
People have been up for hours. Queens Boulevard—lined for blocks already! Steam coming out of everybody’s mouth! Cripples laid out in the streets in stretchers with ear muffs on over their bandages. Nuns—you never seen so many nuns in your life! Ordinary people like you and me in from New Jersey and Connecticut and there’s a lady even drove in from Ohio—Ohio!—just for today! She drove four of the most crippled people in Toledo. They’re stretched out in the gutter waiting for the sun to come out so they can start snapping pictures. I haven’t seen so many people, Artie, so excited since the premiere of Cleopatra. It’s that big. Breathe! There’s miracles in the air!
ARTIE: It’s soot, Bunny. Polluted air.
BUNNY: All these out-of-staters driving in with cameras and thermos bottles and you live right here and you’re all zipped in like a turtle. Miss Henshaw, the old lady who’s the check-out girl at the A & P who gyps everybody—her nephew is a cop and she’s saving us two divine places right by the curb. You’re not the only one with connections. But she can’t save them forever. Oh God, Artie, what a morning! You should see the stars!!! I know all the stars from the time I worked for that astronomer and you should see Orion—O’Ryan: the Irish constellation—I haven’t looked up and seen stars in years! I held my autograph book up and let Jupiter shine on it. Jupiter and Venus and Mars. They’re all out! You got to come see Orion. He’s the hunter and he’s pulling his arrow back so tight in the sky like a Connect-the-Dots picture made up of all these burning planets. If he ever lets that arrow go, he’ll shoot all the other stars out of the sky—what a welcome for the Pope!
And right now, the Pope is flying through that star-filled sky, bumping planets out of the way, and he’s asleep dreaming of the mobs waiting for him. When famous people go to sleep at night, it’s us they dream of, Artie. The famous ones—they’re the real people. We’re the creatures of their dreams. You’re the dream. I’m the dream. We have to be there for the Pope’s dream. Look at the light on the Empire State Building swirling around and around like a burglar’s torch looking all through the sky—Everybody’s waiting, Artie—everybody!
TIE, angry: What I want to know is who the hell is paying for this wop’s trip over here anyway—
BUNNY, shocked: Artie! She reaches through the bars to close the window. Ssshhh—they’ll hear you—
ARTIE: I don’t put my nickels and dimes in Sunday collections to pay for any dago holiday—flying over here with his robes and gee-gaws and bringing his buddies over when I can’t even afford a trip to Staten Island—
BUNNY, puzzled: What’s in Staten Island?
ARTIE: Nothing! But I couldn’t even afford a nickel ferry-boat ride. I known you two months and can’t even afford a present for you—a ring—
BUNNY: I don’t need a ring—
ARTIE: At least a friendship ring—He reaches in his sleeping bag and gets out a cigarette and matches and an ashtray.
BUNNY, rubbing his head: I’d only lose it—
ARTIE, pulling away: And this guy’s flying over here—not tourist—oh no—
BUNNY, suspicious of his bitterness: Where’d you go last night?
ARTIE, back into his bag: You go see the Pope. Tell him hello for me.
BUNNY: You went to that amateur night, didn’t you—
ARTIE, signaling toward the other room: Shut up—she’s inside—
BUNNY: You went to the El Dorado Bar Amateur Night, didn’t you. I spent two months building you up to be something and you throw yourself away on that drivel—
ARTIE: They talked all the way through it—
BUNNY: Did you play them “Where’s the Devil in Evelyn?”?
ARTIE: They talked and walked around all through it—
BUNNY: I wish I’d been there with you. You know what I would’ve said to them?
To us: The first time I heard “Mairzy Doats” I realized I am listening to a classic. I picked off “Old Black Magic” and “I Could’ve Danced All Night” as classics the minute I heard them. She recites: “Where is the devil in Evelyn? What’s it doing in Angela’s eyes?” I didn’t work in Macy’s Music Department for nix. I know what I’m talking about.
To Artie: That song is a classic. You’ve written yourself a classic.
ARTIE: I even had to pay for my own beers.
BUNNY: Pearls before swine. Chalk it up to experience.
ARTIE: The blackboard’s getting kind of filled up. I’m too old to be a young talent.
BUNNY opens the window through the bars: Smell the bread—
ARTIE: Shut the window—it’s freezing and you’re letting all the dirt in—
BUNNY: Miss Henshaw’s saving us this divine place right by the cemetery so the Pope will have to slow down—
ARTIE: Nothing worse than cold dirt—
The other bedroom door opens and BANANAS SHAUGHNESSY, a sick woman in a nightgown, looks at them. They don’t see her.
BUNNY, ecstatically: And when he passes by in his limousine, I’ll call out, “Your Holiness, marry us—the hell with peace to the world—bring peace to us.” And he won’t hear me because bands will be playing and the whole city yelling, but he’ll see me because I been eyed by the best of them, and he’ll nod and I’ll grab your hand and say, “Marry us, Pope,” and he’ll wave his holy hand and all the emeralds and rubies on his fingers will send Yes beams. In a way, today’s my wedding day. I should have something white at my throat! Our whole life is beginning—my life—our life—and we’ll be married and go out to California and Billy will help you. You’ll be out there with the big shots—out where you belong—not in any amateur nights in bars on Queens Boulevard. Billy will get your songs in movies. It’s not too late to start. With me behind you! Oh, Artie, the El Dorado Bar will stick up a huge neon sign flashing onto Queens Boulevard in a couple of years flashing “Artie Shaughnessy Got Started Here.” And nobody’ll believe it. Oh, Artie, tables turn.
BANANAS closes the door.
ARTIE gets out of his bag. He sings thoughtfully:
Bridges a
re for burning
Tables are for turning—
He turns on all the lights. He pulls Bunny by the pudgy arm over to the kitchen.
ARTIE: I’ll go see the Pope—
BUNNY, hugging him: Oh, I love you!
ARTIE: I’ll come if—
BUNNY: You said you’ll come. That is tantamount to a promise.
ARTIE: I will if—
BUNNY: Tantamount. Tantamount. You hear that? I didn’t work in a law office for nix. I could sue you for breach.
ARTIE, seductively: Bunny?
BUNNY, near tears: I know what you’re going to say—
ARTIE, opening a ketchup bottle under her nose: Cook for me?
BUNNY, in a passionate heat: I knew it. I knew it.
ARTIE: Just breakfast.
BUNNY: You bend my arm and twist my heart but I got to be strong.
ARTIE: I’m not asking any ten-course dinner.
To get away from his plea, BUNNY runs over to the piano, where his clothes are draped.
BUNNY: Just put your clothes on over the ski p.j.’s I bought you. It’s thirty-eight degrees and I don’t want you getting your pneumonia back—
ARTIE, holding up two eggs: Eggs, baby. Eggs right here.
BUNNY, holding out his jingling trousers: Rinse your mouth out to freshen up and come on let’s go?
ARTIE, seductively: You boil the eggs and pour lemon sauce over—
BUNNY, shaking the trousers at him: Hollandaise. I know hollandaise. She plops down with the weight of the temptation, glum. It’s really cold out, so dress warm—Look, I stuffed the New York Post in my booties—plastic just ain’t as warm as it used to be.
ARTIE: And you pour the hollandaise over the eggs on English muffins—and then you put the grilled ham on top—I’m making a scrapbook of all the foods you tell me you know how to cook and then I go through the magazines and cut out pictures of what it must look like. He gets the scrapbook. Look—veal parmagina—eggplant meringue.
BUNNY: I cooked that for me last night. It was so good I almost died.
ARTIE sings, as Bunny takes the book and looks through it with great despair:
If you cooked my words
Like they was veal
I’d say I love you
For every meal.
Take my words,
Garlic and oil them,
Butter and broil them,
Sauté and boil them—
Bunny, let me eat you!
He speaks: Cook for me?
BUNNY: Not till after we’re married.
ARTIE: You couldn’t give me a little sample right now?
BUNNY: I’m not that kind of girl. I’ll sleep with you anytime you want. Anywhere. In two months I’ve known you, did I refuse you once? Not once! You want me to climb in the bag with you now? Unzip it—go on—unzip it—Give your fingers a smack and I’m flat on my back. I’ll sew those words into a sampler for you in our new home in California. We’ll hang it right by the front door. Because, Artie, I’m a rotten lay and I know it and you know it and everybody knows it—
ARTIE: What do you mean? Everybody knows it—
BUNNY: I’m not good in bed. It’s no insult. I took that sex test in the Reader’s Digest two weeks ago and I scored twelve. Twelve, Artie! I ran out of that dentist office with tears gushing out of my face. But I face up to the truth about myself. So if I cooked for you now and said I won’t sleep with you till we’re married, you’d look forward to sleeping with me so much that by the time we did get to that motel near Hollywood, I’d be such a disappointment, you’d never forgive me. My cooking is the only thing I got to lure you on with and hold you with. Artie, we got to keep some magic for the honeymoon. It’s my first honeymoon and I want it to be so good, I’m aiming for two million calories. I want to cook for you so bad I walk by the A & P, I get all hot jabs of chili powder inside my thighs … but I can’t till we get those tickets to California safe in my purse, till Billy knows we’re coming, till I got that ring right on my cooking finger…. Don’t tempt me … I love you …
ARTIE, beaten: Two eggs easy over?
BUNNY shakes her head No: And I’m sorry last night went sour …
ARTIE sits down, depressed: They made me buy my own beers …
BANANAS, calling from the bedroom: Is it light? Is it daytime already?
ARTIE and BUNNY look at each other.
BUNNY. I’ll pour you cornflakes.
ARTIE, nervous: You better leave.
BUNNY, standing her ground: A nice bowlful?
ARTIE: I don’t want her to know yet.
BUNNY: It’ll be like a coming attraction.
ARTIE, pushing her into the kitchen: You’re a tease, Bunny, and that’s the worst thing to be. He puts on his green shirt and pants over his pajamas.
BANANAS comes out of the bedroom. She’s lived in her nightgown for the last six months. She’s in her early forties and has been crying for as long as she’s had her nightgown on. She walks uncertainly, as if hidden barriers lay scattered in her path.
BANANAS: Is it morning?
ARTIE, not knowing how to cope wth her: Go back to bed.
BANANAS: You’re dressed and it’s so dark. Did you get an emergency call? Did the lion have babies yet?
ARTIE, checking that the gate is locked: The lioness hasn’t dropped yet. The jaguar and the cheetah both still waiting. The birds still on their eggs.
BANANAS: Are you leaving to get away from me? Tell me? The truth? You hate me. You hate my looks—my face—my clothes—you hate me. You wish I was fatter so there’d be more of me to hate. You hate me. Don’t say that! You love me. I know you love me. You love me. Well, I don’t love you. How does that grab you? She is shaking violently.
ARTIE takes pills from the piano and holds her, forcing the pills in her mouth. He’s accepted this as one of the natural facts of his life. There is no violence in the action. Her body shakes. The spasms stop. She’s quiet for a long time. He walks over to the kitchen. BUNNY
BANANAS: For once could you let my emotions come out? If I laugh, you give me a pill. If I cry, you give me a pill … no more pills … I’m quiet now….
ARTIE comes out of the kitchen and pours two pills into his hand. He doesn’t like to do this.
BANANAS smiles: No! No more—look at me—I’m a peaceful forest, but I can feel all the animals have gone back into hiding and now I’m very quiet. All the wild animals have gone back into hiding. But once—once let me have an emotion? Let the animals come out? I don’t like being still, Artie. It makes me afraid …
Brightly: How are you this morning? Sleep well? You were out late last night. I heard you come in and moved over in the bed. Go back to bed and rest. It’s still early … come back to bed …
ARTIE, finishing dressing: The Pope is coming today and I’m going to see him.
BANANAS: The Pope is coming here?
ARTIE: Yes, he’s coming here. We’re going to kick off our shoes and have a few beers and kick the piano around. Gently, as if to a child: The Pope is talking to the UN about Vietnam. He’s coming over to stop the war so Ronnie won’t have to go to Vietnam.
BANANAS: Three weeks he’s been gone. How can twenty-one days be a hundred years?
ARTIE, to the audience: This woman doesn’t understand. My kid is charmed. He gets greetings to go to basic training for Vietnam and the Pope does something never done before. He flies out of Italy for the first time ever to stop the war. Ronnie’ll be home before you can say Jake Rabinowitz. Ronnie—what a kid—a charmed life …
BANANAS: I can’t go out of the house … my fingernails are all different lengths. I couldn’t leave the house…. Look—I cut this one just yesterday and look how long it is already … but this one … I cut it months ago right down to the quick and it hasn’t moved that much. I don’t understand that…. I couldn’t see the Pope. I’d embarrass him. My nails are all different. I can feel them growing … they’re connected to my veins and heart and pulling my insides out my fingers.
She is getting hysterical.
ARTIE forces pills down her mouth. She’s quiet. She smiles at him. Artie’s exhausted, upset. He paces up and down in front of her, loathing her.
ARTIE: The Pope takes one look at you standing on Queens Boulevard, he’ll make the biggest U-turn you ever saw right back to Rome. Angry: I dreamed last night Ronnie was the Pope and he came today and all the streets were lined with everybody waiting to meet him—and I felt like Joseph P. Kennedy, only bigger, because the Pope is a bigger draw than any President. And it was raining everywhere but on him and when he saw you and me on Queens Boulevard, he stopped his glass limo and I stepped into the bubble, but you didn’t. He wouldn’t take you.
BANANAS: He would take me!
ARTIE, triumphant: Your own son denied you. Slammed the door in your face and you had open-toe shoes on and the water ran in the heels and out the toes like two Rin Tin Tins taking a leak—and Ronnie and I drove off to the UN and the war in Vietnam stopped and he took me back to Rome and canonized me—made me a Saint of the Church and in charge of writing all the hymns for the Church. A hymn couldn’t be played unless it was mine and the whole congregation sang “Where Is the Devil in Evelyn?” but they made it sound like monks singing it—You weren’t invited, Bananas. Ronnie loved only me…. He finds himself in front of the kitchen. He smiles at Bunny. What a dream … it’s awful to have to wake up. For my dreams, I need a passport and shots. I travel the whole world.
BUNNY, whispering: I dreamed once I met Abraham Lincoln.
ARTIE: Did you like him?
BUNNY: He was all right. She opens a jar of pickles and begins eating them.
BANANAS sees Bunny’s fur coat by Ronnie’s room. She opens the front door and throws the coat into the hall. She closes the door behind her.
BANANAS: You know what I dream? I dream I’m just waking up and I roam around the house all day crying because of the way my life turned out. And then I do wake up and what do I do? Roam around the house all day crying about the way my life turned out.
