“What are we doin’ here?” says Billy to Scuzzy. “I been taught and I been trained.
And I don’t need no more prelims, I am primed for the Big Big Game.”
“Well, son,” says the old man, sinkin’ the four, “why don’t you pick yourself out a cue?”
“Hey, Santa Claus,” Billy Markham snaps back, “wasn’t nobody talkin’ to you.
“Whoa, whoa,” Scuzzy says, pullin’ Billy aside . . . “if you look close, you will notice his cue is a lightning rod.
And he ain’t no Santa, and he ain’t Fat Daddy . . . you just insulted God.”
“Well, hey, excuse me, Lord,” says Bill. “I didn’t mean to be uncool,
But it sure can shake a fellah’s faith to find God hustling pool.”
“Well, where you expect to find me,” says God, “on a throne with cherubs around?
Hey, I do that six days and nights a week, but on the seventh day . . . I get down.
Besides I can’t believe you came in here just to bat the breeze around.”
“You’re right about that, Lord,” Billy says. “I come to take your crown.”
“Beg pardon, Lord,” says Scuzzy Sleezo. “I don’t mean no disrespect.
But when you’re dealing with my boy, don’t speak to him direct.
I’m his agent and representative and this kid is hotter than hot,
In his last match, he whipped the Devil, and now we’re lookin’ for a title shot.”
“Beat the Devil, you say?” laughs God. “Well, I take my hat off to him.
Let him hang up his mouth and pick out a cue and he’ll get the shot that’s due him.
Any game he names—any table he’s able—
Any price he can afford.”
“Straight pool for heaven,” says Billy Markham.
“Straight pool it is,” says the Lord.
Crack—Billy Markham wins the break and bust ’em cool and clean.
The five ball falls, he sinks the seven, and then devastates the thirteen.
He makes the nine, and he bags the eleven, and he puts the six away,
Then the three and the eight on a triple combination and he wins the game on a smooth masse.
He wins the next game, the next, and the next, and when he finally does miss,
He blows the dust off his hands, and his game score stands at 1376.
“Well, my turn at last,” says the Lord chalkin’ up.
“Son, you sure shoot a wicked stick.
I’ll need some luck to beat a run like that: that is without resorting to miracles or tricks.”
“Hey, trick and be damned,” Billy Markham laughs.
“Tonight I’m as hot as flame.
So I laugh at your tricks—and I sneer at your stick
And I take your name in vain.”
“Oooh,” goes the crowd that’s been gathering around.
“Oooh,” goes the rack boy in wonder.
“Oooh,” says Scuzzy Sleezo. “I think you just made a slight tactical blunder.”
“Oooh,” says God, “you shouldn’t have said that, son, you shouldn’t have said that at all!”
And his cue cracks out like a thunderbolt spittin’ a flamin’ ball.
It sinks everything on the table, then it zooms up off the green.
Through the dirty window with a crash of glass and into the wind like a woman’s scream.
Out of the pool hall, up through the skies,
The cue ball flames and swirls,
Bustin’ in and out of every pool game in the world.
It strikes on every table, it crashes every rack.
And every pool ball in creation comes rebounding back!
Back through the window, they tumble and crash,
Down through the ceiling they spin.
A million balls rain down on the table, and everyone goes in.
“Now, there,” says Scuzzy Sleezo, “is a shot you don’t see every day.
Lord, you should have an agent to handle your press, and build up the class of your play.
My partnership with this dirtbag here has come to a termination.
But God and Scuzzy Sleezo? Hey, that would be a combination.”
Meanwhile, the cue ball flyin’ back last, like a sputterin’ fizzlin’ rocket.
Goes weaving dizzily down the table
And—plunk!—falls right in the pocket.
“Scratch, you lose,” says Billy. “I thought you said you could shoot!”
“Scratch,” says Scuzzy Sleezo. “I told you my boy’d come through.”
“Scratch!” murmurs the crowd of hangers and hustlers.
“At last we have seen it all.”
“Scratch!” mutters the Lord. “I guess I put a little too much English on the ball.
Just another imperfection, I never get it quite on the button.
Tell you what, son, I’ll spot you three million balls and play you one more double or nothin’.”
“Double what?” says Billy Markham. “I already whipped you like a child.
And I won my seat in Heaven, now I’m gonna set it awhile.”
“Hit-and-run chickenshit,” sneers God. “You said you was the best.
Turns out you’re just a get-lucky-play-it-safe pussy like all the rest.”
“Whoa-whoa,” says Billy. “There’s somethin’ in that voice I know quite well.”
And he reaches out and yanks off God’s white beard—and there stands the Devil himself!
“You said you was God,” Billy Markham cries. “You conned me and hustled me, too!”
“I am God—sometimes—and sometimes I’m the Devil, good and bad, just like you.
I’m everything and everyone in perfect combination.
And everyone but you knows that there ain’t no separation.
[Sings.] I’m everything and everyone in perfect combination. And everyone but you knows . . .”
“Please, please,” says Billy Markham. “You ain’t that great a singer.
And I would like to get to Heaven before they stop serving dinner.”
“OK,” says God, scribblin’ somethin’ down. “Give this note to the angel on the wall.
And you sit up there and plunk your harp . . .”
“Hey, anybody wanna shoot some eight ball?”
So Billy walks out into the parkin’ lot with stardust in his eyes,
[Sings.]
“I got a seat in Heaven.”
And he sees a golden staircase stretchin’ up to paradise.
[Sings.]
“I got a seat in Heaven.”
And he grips the glittering balustrade, and he begins his grand ascent.
[Sings.]
“I got a . . .”
“Just a minute, good buddy,” yells Scuzzy Sleezo. “How about my 50 percent?
I helped you win the championship—and you wouldn’t do ole Scuzzy Wuzzy wrong,
And since the purse is a seat in Heaven, why, you just gotta take me along.”
“Just a minute,” says Billy Markham. “There’s something weird going on in this game.
All the voices that I’m hearin’ start to sound just the same.”
And he rips off Scuzzy Sleezo’s face and the Devil’s standing there.
“Good God,” yells Billy Markham, “are you—are you everywhere?”
“Yes, I am,” the Devil says. “And don’t look so damn surprised.
I thought you could smuggle me into Heaven wearing my Sleezy disguise.
’Course I could’ve walked in as Jehovah, but it just wouldn’t have been the same.
But you and your corny Dick Tracy bit—you had to go and ruin my fantasy game.
Go on, climb your golden staircase, enjoy your
paradise.
But don’t rip off your own face, Bill—or you might get a shockin’ surprise.
But I’ll be damned if I let you get to Heaven climbin’ that golden stairway.”
And he plucks out Billy Markham’s soul and tees it up, and—whack—drives it up the fairway.
And Billy floats out on a sea of light—on a snow white cloud he sails,
While vestal virgins comb his hair, and cherubs manicure his nails.
And up, up to glory, Billy Markham sails away,
And high, high above him,
He hears his own songs being played.
While down, down below hear Scuzzy Sleezo curse his name,
To the click-click-click of the pool balls
As God hustles another game.
BILLY MARKHAM’ S DESCENT
Billy Markham sits on an unwashed cloud, his hair is matted and mussed.
His dusty wings hang limp and grey and his harp strings have gone to rust.
With tremblin’ hands and tearstained cheeks, and a glazed look in his eyes,
He chews his nails and grinds his teeth, and stares across the skies.
But his thoughts are down in that nether world, in that burning fiery rain.
His thoughts are with his momma, how he longs to soothe her pain.
His thoughts are with his baby girl, how he’d love to ease her cryin’.
His thoughts are with his own true love, how he’d love to bust her spine.
So late that night, while the heavenly harps play “In the Sweet Bye and Bye,”
Billy reaches for the silken rope that hangs down from the sky.
He has stripped himself of his crown and robes.
He has clutched the silken cord:
As he swings himself down without a sound, so’s not to wake the Lord.
Down he winds through the perfumed air, down through the marshmallow clouds.
And he hangs for a while o’er the city roofs,
Lookin’ down at the scurryin’ crowds.
Then down, down, through a manhole, to a stench he knows quite well.
Through the sewers of the street, till he feels his feet touch the shit-mucked shores of Hell.
Then he scales the crusted rusted gates, and he throws a bone to Cerberus hounds.
And he swims the putrid river Styx, still down and farther down.
Down past the gluttons, the dealers and pimps, down past the murderers’ cage.
Down past the rock stars searching in vain for their names on the Rolling Stone page.
Down past the door of The Merchants of War, past the puritans slop-filled bin
Past the bigots’ hive, till at last he arrives, at the pit marked BLAMELESS SINS.
And he finds the vat where his momma boils: and he raises her gently from the deep.
And he finds the grate where his little girl bums: and he lifts her and soothes her and rocks her to sleep.
And he finds the pit where his sweetheart sleeps: and he spits on the fire where she lay.
And he curses her as a whore of Hell:
Curses and turns away.
“From this day on, I place my faith only in mother and child.
And never again shall I seek sweet salvation
In some bitch’s scum stained smile.”
Then back through the river he swims with them,
Back over the gate he climbs,
And over the white hot coals he leaps, with the Hellhounds barking close behind.
Then back up the silken rope he climbs, up through the suffering swarms.
Past the clutching hands and the pitiful screams with his two precious loves in his arms.
Just one more pull, just one more pull—then free forever from Hell.
Just one more pull then—“Hello, Billy!”—and there stands the Devil himself.
And now he’s wearing his crimson robes and his horns are buffered bright.
And blood oozes through his white-linen gloves and his skin glows red in the night.
And his tail coils like an oily snake and the hellfires blaze in his eyes.
On those craggy rocks, he stands and blocks the way to paradise.
“Well, my, my, my, what have we here in my domain of sin?
In all my years as Prince of the Dark, it’s the first case of anybody breaking m.
And of all the daredevil darin’ dudes, well, who should the hero be?
But my old friend Billy Markham—who once made a punk out of me.
I heard you was in Heaven, Billy, humpin’ angels all day long,
What’s the matter—did God get sick to his stomach listening to your raunchy songs?
You made me the laughing stock of Hell, and the whole world laughed along with you.
Now here you come crashin’ my party again:
Now tell me, just who’s devilin’ who?
Now, I didn’t invite you down here, Bill, and nobody twisted your arm.
But you’re back down here on my turf now, down here where it’s cozy and warm.
So no more dice and no more games and no more jive stories to tell.
Just the Devil and a man with three souls in his hand dangling between Heaven and . . .
But, hey, what’s this? Only two? Only two souls you’ve set free?
You must have forgot and left one behind: now who could that third one be?
Could it be your own true love, the one with the sweet wet smile?
The one you curse with each bitter breath ’cause she played with the Devil awhile?·
You call yourself free? Tee-hee, tee-hee. Why you prudish judgmental schmuck.
You’d leave your sweet love burn in Hell for one harmless little suck.
What would you rather she had done, leaped in the boiling manure . . .
So’s you could keep your fantasy of someone sweet and pure?
She’s a woman, flesh and bone, and they do what they do what they do.
And right or wrong, she needs no curse from a hypocrite like you.
So she shall rule with me—Billy Markham’s love shall rule with me. She shall sit next to me on my throne.
And the whole world shall know—that the Devil’s heart has more tenderness than your own.
So get your ass back up that rope, climb back to your promised land.
And hold your illusions of momma and daughter tight in your sweatin’ hand.
But you’ll see, you’ll see, they’re as human as she and you’ll scream when you find it’s true.
But please—stay up there and scream to God—Hell’s gates are closed to you.”
And Billy Markham, clutching his loves, climbs upward toward the skies.
And is it the sharp night wind that brings the tears to Billy’s eyes?
Or is it the swirling sulfur smoke or the bright glare of the sun?
Or is it the sound of the wedding feast that the demons below have begun?
BILLY MARKHAM’ S WEDDING
The trumpets of Hell have sounded the word like a screeching clarion call.
The trumpets of Hell have sounded the word and the word will be heard by all.
The trumpets of Hell have sounded the word and it reaches the heavenly skies.
Come angels, come demons, come dancing dead, the Devil is taking a bride.
And out of the Pearly Gates they come in a file two by two.
For when the Devil takes a bride, there’s none that dare refuse.
And Jesus himself, he leads the way down through the starless night.
With the Mother Mary at his left side and Joseph on his right.
And then comes Adam and then comes Eve and the saints move close behind.
And all the gentle and all the good, in an endless column
they wind.
Down, down to the pits of Hell, down from the heavens they sift—
Like fallen stars to a blood-red sea, each bearing the Devil a gift.
The strong and the brave, the halt and the lame, the deaf and the blind and the dumb.
And last of all comes Billy Markham, cursing the night as he comes.
Hell’s halls are decked with ribbons of red and the feast has been prepared.
And the Devil and his bride sit side by side in skull-and-crossbone chairs.
And the Devil grins as his guests file in, for he is master now.
And one by one they enter his realm—and one by one they bow.
And the Devil whispers, “Thank you, friends,” and he swells his chest with pride.
“Come give me your blessings and place your gifts at the feet of my blushing bride.
Lucrezia Borgia has made the punch of strychnine, wine, and gin.
And Judas has set the supper table on hallowed, bloody linen.
The feast is a human barbecue, and the sauce is beriberi,
Chopped up by Lizzie Borden and cooked by Typhoid Mary.
Here’s some half-eaten apples from the Garden of Eden.
[Offers bucket.]
Here’s some tidbits from Donner Pass.
Here’s some fine old wine an acquaintance of mine
Made out of water, lemme fill your glass.
So you and you, drink of this crimson brew, we’re all brothers and sisters under the skin.
And take off your costumes of virtue and sin, and
Let the revels begin.”
And slowly and shyly they strip off their wings, and hide their halos away.
And they shyly touch hands—and begin to dance, as Hell’s band begins to play.
There is Nero madly fiddlin’ his fiddle, and Gabriel blowin’ his horn.
And Idi Amin is beatin’ his drum and Caligula’s bangin’ his gong.
Francis Scott Key plays piano and he’s there ’cause he wrote that song.
And the pipes of Pan lead the Devil’s band and everybody rocks along.
There’s Janis and Elvis and Jimi and Cass, singin’ them gimme some blues.
And Adolf Hitler and Joan of Arc start doin’ the boogaloo.
Lady Godiva jumps off her horse, and Kate Smith starts shakin’ her hips.
And the Marquis de Sade does a promenade laughin’ and crackin’ his whips.
Genghis Khan got a tutu on, and he’s doing a pirouette,
When out of the cake with a wiggle and shake comes a naked Marie Antionette.
Best Monologues from the Best American Short Plays, Volume Three Page 10
