by Rajiv Joseph
TIGER: What kind of twisted bastard creates a predator and then punishes him for preying?
TOM: I wish I hadn’t done that!
But it’s over now. I’m fucked up with guilt, what do you want me to do about it?
TIGER: (examining a topiary shrub) I have to become something else.
I renounce tigerhood.
I renounce myself.
KEV: We all have a psycho problem now, Tommy. Me and Tiger and you. And I’m gonna figure it out.
TIGER: If this is God’s garden. Maybe I need to become like these plants . . . twisting and distorting my natural shape into something more pleasing to Him.
KEV: He’s haunting me, and I’m haunting you . . .
There’s got to be some sort of relational algebraic equation that the three of us can factor into and solve our problem. Algebra was even invented here, you know? In Baghdad, by this dude, Abu Ja’far Muhammad ibn Musa al-Khwarizmi.
TOM: How do you know this?!
KEV: I know, right? I’m like a straight-up brainiac in the afterlife.
TIGER: You know what really bugs me? Where are the fucking Leos?
KEV: And algebra comes from the Arabic word al jebr which means “a reunion of broken parts.”
TIGER: Why aren’t they wandering around here, scared out of their stupid minds, contemplating their animal nature? How come it’s me? How come I’m always alone every step of the way?
TOM: I’m not a bad person.
KEV: Neither was I.
TIGER: I’m a fucking saint.
KEV: It’s not about being good or bad, Tommy.
TIGER: It feels like existence has become . . .
KEV: We’re all just . . .
TIGER & KEV: . . . Refracted.
Tiger and Kev look at each other.
KEV: (to Tiger) Jinx.
Sucka!
TIGER: Fuck off.
TOM: Kev, please, leave me alone.
KEV: We’re broken, man. You, me, Tiger. It’s like we fell through a prism that night at the zoo and each part of ourselves just started to separate.
Does your hand still tickle? Does it still itch?
It’s a phantom limb, Tommy. Just because it’s gone doesn’t mean it’s not there.
TIGER: I’ll become a plant, then. I’ll cut away all the pieces of me that offend the cosmos. I’ll escape my cruel nature.
Uday enters, looking at the topiary.
TIGER: But cruelty echoes all around me. Even in this ruined garden.
And so I wonder if there is any escape.
Hadia enters, looking around.
MUSA: Hadia . . .
Uday approaches her, smiling. Taking her, lovingly, showing her around, showing her the topiary.
Uday puts his arm around her and leads her away.
TIGER: And I wonder if I am just an echo, repeating and repeating and repeating . . .
The lights shift back into the room with only Tom and Musa.
MUSA: She was too young for you.
TOM: What?
MUSA: The girl. She was too young for you.
TOM: What are you talking about? She was a prostitute.
MUSA: She was too young.
TOM: I gave her money.
MUSA: I’m telling you, she was too young.
TOM: It was a hand-job.
MUSA: Listen to me. Listen to me.
TOM: What?
MUSA: Listen to me.
TOM: What? I’m listening!
MUSA: She was . . .
Too. Young.
TOM: Fine, she was too young.
Arrest me. What the fuck are you still doing here? You like watching in on this shit?
MUSA: You told me to be here. You told me this was official military business. Official business! Ficky-fick! This is not what I signed up for.
TOM: Well, why don’t you just leave then, Habib?
MUSA: You lost your hand in battle?
I know about your hand, Johnny.
Tom holds his hand, unconsciously self-conscious about it.
TOM: It got blown off.
MUSA: It got eaten.
TOM: How do you know that?
MUSA: Word gets around.
TOM: How?
Musa gets his bag.
MUSA: I knew your friend.
TOM: What friend?
MUSA: The boy who lost his mind. He said you were like his brother. He told me all about you.
Musa starts to leave.
TOM: Wait! Wait, Habib.
MUSA: What now?
TOM: You knew Kev?
MUSA: Yeah.
TOM: Did you see . . . Were you with him on that night raid?
MUSA: Yeah.
TOM: Awright, look. This is . . . I don’t know if you’d know anything, but Kev . . . He had a gold gun. It was a gold-plated semiautomatic pistol. And he lost it.
MUSA: He had a gold gun.
TOM: Yeah, not that hard to remember, right?
MUSA: Yeah, I remember a gold gun.
TOM: You do.
MUSA: Not easy to forget.
TOM: Do you have it?
MUSA: Do I have a gold gun?
TOM: Yeah. Do you? Because it’s mine.
MUSA: The military is giving away gold guns now?
TOM: No, it was personal.
MUSA: It was your personal gold gun.
TOM: Yeah, it was.
MUSA: You must be very rich.
TOM: I was until I lost my gun. Do you have it?
MUSA: What if I did?
TOM: What if you did?
MUSA: Then what?
TOM: Do you have it or not?
MUSA: I do, in fact.
TOM: Well, Jesus, I mean . . . Let me have it!
MUSA: I’m sorry . . .
(laughs) Why would I give you the gun?
TOM: Why would . . . ? It’s mine! I’m not in the mood, okay? I got a headache and I’m stressed out so just give me my gun. It’s mine. I’m serious.
MUSA: No, you’re not serious.
TOM: I’m not? You want to test me?
MUSA: You don’t know what is serious.
You have no investment in this gun, it does not mean anything to you outside of the fact that it is gold. You’re looting so you have something, something to take home. I don’t care about what you have to take home, Johnny.
TOM: What the fuck are you talking about?
MUSA: What the fuck? What the fuck are you talking about, Johnny?
TOM: My name’s not Johnny!
MUSA: My name’s not Habib.
TOM: What’s your problem, man?
MUSA: You don’t listen.
TOM: You work for us! I could have you fired, how would you like that?
MUSA: And what would you say anyhow? That I stole your gold gun pilfered from the Hussein brothers’ stash? There are rules for you. For me, there are not rules. No rules, nothing. Anarchy, yes. Rules? No. So go fuck yourself, Johnny. My English is getting better every day. Maybe I go get a job at CNN.
TOM: You know what happens if they find a firearm on your person?
MUSA: How stupid do you think I am? That I’m going to just give it back?
We will work out a deal. You get me some things, I give you the gold gun.
TOM: Jesus. What do you want?
MUSA: Do we have a deal?
TOM: What do you want? I’m not going to make a deal unless I know what you want.
MUSA: But you’re willing to negotiate?
TOM: I’m willing to kick your fucking head in, Habib. What the fuck do you want?
Beat.
MUSA: I want weapons.
TOM: You want weapons.
MUSA: Guns, ammunition, and hand grenades.
And then I will give you the gold gun.
TOM: Oh, yeah, okay. Because I’m an arms dealer, Habib. I’ll get you a bunch of fucking weapons. Who do you think I am?
MUSA: You are a marine and you are a thief.
TOM: Yeah, and I get you weapons.
Then what? Next thing I know, you’re blowing us all away?
What am I, a jerk? You think I’m just going to supply some crazy terrorist with guns and shit?
MUSA: I’m not a terrorist.
TOM: Yeah, then what are you?
MUSA: I’m a gardener.
TOM: Don’t get metaphorical with me, prick. You’re all the fucking same.
MUSA: No! No, you don’t listen!
TOM: What?
MUSA: I’m a gardener! Do you understand? I’m not a terrorist! I’m not an arms dealer! I’m not a translator or “terp.”
I am a gardener!
TOM: Fine! So you’re a gardener! So what!?
MUSA: You don’t understand . . . you don’t understand . . .
TOM: What don’t I understand?
MUSA: I am an artist! I am an artist!
TOM: Yeah, okay, you’re an artist.
Gold gun. Where is it?
MUSA: And weapons?
TOM: I’m not getting you a bunch of fucking weapons, okay!?
MUSA: Then you’re not getting the gold gun! This is not complicated! Capitalism! Thank you! Now you want something for nothing?
TOM: What do you want with a bunch of weapons anyway?
MUSA: What do you think I have to my name? A stupid job with U.S. Military? And what about when you all leave? What will I have then?
I’ll have a bunch of guns and bullets I can sell because that will be the only thing worth anything. Is that so crazy?
TOM: Yeah, it’s crazy.
MUSA: I am tired, do you understand?!
I am tired of making the same mistake over and over and over again.
I always work for the wrong people.
I always serve the tyrants.
Not anymore.
I am tired of being made a fool.
Tom walks away from Musa, rubbing his eyes, exhausted.
MUSA: It’s a simple deal.
What you want and what I want.
Isn’t this how the world is supposed to work?
A long beat between them.
TOM: (not looking at him; still rubbing his eyes) She wasn’t that young.
MUSA: Do we have a deal?
Scene 2.
A bombed-out building, half-standing, in the middle of the desert, south of Baghdad. The middle of the night. The place is ghostly, ethereal, haunted. Kev appears, as if he’s been wandering in the desert.
Kev speaks in Arabic.
KEV: (Arabic) I am lost in the desert.
Anee tayeh bil sahra’.
God, I am lost in the desert and I am calling out to you in prayer. Because I have never before prayed, I am praying to you in a different language because the very strangeness of it makes me feel like perhaps you would understand.
Ulleh, anee tayeh bil sahra’ oo da ed’eelek, anee b’oomree me di’ait gebul, bess hisse da ed’eelek bgair lugeh. A’roof hathe shee ghereeb bess emelee inoo tigder tiftehimnee.
(he holds his severed hand high above his head, as if to offer it to God) Take my hand, heal my severed body, take me from the desert. Let my mind find peace.
Ukhuth eedee, ishfee gissmee ilmitgetta’, ikhithnee min il-sahraa’. Khelee bal-ee yirtahh.
A beat. Kev realizes nothing is happening and lowers his hand, looks at it, and then looks skyward, a little defeated now.
KEV: (English) Or not.
Maybe I should say a Hail Mary?
I know how it works, Man. You’re not gonna come down and explain everything to me.
But I figure You’re out there, somewhere.
I never expected to know so much. I never knew there was so much to know. And the very fact that I’m around? The very fact that I’m learning all these things? I gotta figure there’s something going on a little more important than just haunting Tommy.
So what happens now, God? What happens now that I’m intelligent and aware and sensitive to the universe?
TIGER: I’ll tell you what happens: God leans down just close enough and whispers into your ear: Go fuck yourself.
And then He’s gone.
Tiger holds some small, indistinguishable bloody carcass, his face is covered in blood.
KEV: Thought you gave up killing animals.
TIGER: I was hungry. Sue me. What’s He gonna do? Punish me more? I dare Him. I dare Him to come down and tell me what a bad tiger I am.
Look, I tried. For a good two to three hours I was a vegetarian.
But guess what? Vegetables taste like shit.
We’re just stuck here, son. Mastodons in the tar pit of life-after-death. And I’m tired, and I’m not a saint, I’m just the biggest predatory cat in the entire fucking world. So I’m gonna kill something, and I’m gonna eat it and I’m gonna wave this bloody carcass in God’s face and tell him, You knew I was a tiger when You made me, motherfucker.
KEV: I wasn’t talking to you.
TIGER: Ha. You were praying, huh?
Well, you raise your voice and I’m the only one who hears it.
What if I’m God. Did you ever think about that?
KEV: God ain’t a tiger.
TIGER: Maybe He is. Maybe I’m Him. Maybe Him’s Me.
KEV: Prove it.
TIGER: Go fuck yourself.
KEV: Can You give me one little sign to let me know that my voice is being heard by You? Then I can haunt You through prayer! I could haunt You, God!
(beat) Your friend, Kev.
Scene 3.
The same place, the bombed-out building, half-standing, in the middle of the desert, south of Baghdad. However, there is daylight, the place is less ghostly.
Musa enters, hot, dusty. The sound of a jeep idling, and then the sound stops.
Tom enters.
MUSA: This is wrong. This is wrong!
TOM: Would you shut up!
MUSA: We need to leave!
TOM: I said we’d be fine.
MUSA: Fine? This is the middle of the desert! If the sun goes down, we won’t find our way back to the road!
TOM: Would you relax? This is it.
MUSA: This is what? There’s nothing here.
TOM: It got bombed.
MUSA: So where are the guns?
TOM: Just wait, okay? Just calm down.
MUSA: You brought me all the way out to the middle of nowhere? Where are the weapons?
TOM: Don’t get pushy, Habib. Relax.
MUSA: No weapons? Then we have to leave. Right now.
Tom gets in Musa’s face.
TOM: We’re not leaving until I say we leave.
A strange woman in a tattered black shroud hobbles on to the stage. Her face cannot be seen. She has stumps for hands.
Tom and Musa see her. They both step back and shudder, but Tom knows who she is.
TOM: (to Woman)
El-salamu-aleikum.
WOMAN: U-aleikum el-Salaam.
MUSA: What’s happened to her?
TOM: She’s a leper.
There were a bunch of them living here.
It was a leper colony.
Habib, ask her what happened.
Musa looks at Tom, at the woman, back at the jeep. He sighs.
MUSA: (Arabic) What happened here?
Hi sh-sar ihna?
WOMAN: (Arabic) A bomb.
Kumbuleh.
MUSA: A bomb.
TOM: Yeah, we know that. Where are the others? Where are her . . . you know, her fellow lepers.
MUSA: (Arabic) Where are the others who live here?
Weyn bukeeyet il-nas il-sakneen ihna?
WOMAN: (Arabic) They died.
Matou.
MUSA: They died.
TOM: She’s all alone?
MUSA: Yes.
TOM: Ask her where my bag is.
MUSA: Your bag?
TOM: Yeah.
Musa starts to translate but then stops.
MUSA: (to Tom) What type of bag?
TOM: What do you mean.
MUSA: You said bag.
TOM: Yeah, my
bag! Ask her where it is.
MUSA: What kind! Big bag? Little bag? Luggage?
TOM: A bag! A fucking bag! Just fucking translate!
MUSA: There are different words for different bags!
TOM: Just translate!
MUSA: (frustrated; Arabic) This man says he left a bag here. Do you know where his bag is?
Hathe el-rijal yigool tirrek chees ihna, tu’ruffeen weyn cheesseh?
WOMAN: (Arabic) What bag?
Ya chees?
MUSA: What bag?
TOM: I left a bag here, and I told them I was coming back and they told me they’d keep it and now I’m back and I’m not coming back again! Ask her where the fucking bag is Habib, or we’re going to have a problem!
WOMAN: (Arabic, calmly) There is no bag. There is nothing here.
Makoo ay chees. Makoo shee ihna.
TOM: (to Musa) What she say?
MUSA: She doesn’t know a bag.
The whole place has been destroyed. She’s living in the rubble.
She doesn’t have anything.
She doesn’t have your bag.
WOMAN: (Arabic) Do you want some water?
Treed shwayeh muy?
TOM: What now?
MUSA: She wants to know if you want some water.
TOM: (losing his shit) I want my fucking toilet seat!
The woman goes back into the ruin.
TOM: What . . . where’s she . . . Where are you going?! Hey!
Tom rushes to the ruin and peers in after her.
TOM: What the fuck man, this is making me nuts, I swear to God . . .
MUSA: We need to leave. The sun is going down.
TOM: We can leave when I get my toilet seat.
MUSA: What toilet seat!? We came here for my weapons.
TOM: Habib, seriously? You really think I brought you out here to get weapons? I needed a terp. I need to get my toilet seat.
MUSA: So where are the weapons?
TOM: There are no weapons! Wake up!
MUSA: You lied to me . . .
TOM: Hey, call her. Tell her to come back.
