ACT TWO
Darkness. All the interiors are gone. The entire set now consists of the brick wall and a huge surreal street that covers the entire stage.
The Angel is gone. The gold crown is still there.
Street lighting comes up but there’s something very different about this light. On this street, reality has been altered—and this new reality is reflected in the lighting.
We see a metal trash bin, overflowing with trash, and a fire hydrant covered in rosaries. There are several large mounds of rags on stage; underneath each mound is a sleeping homeless person.
Marisol is onstage exactly where she was at the end of Act One. She’s holding out her hands as if holding the Angel’s wings but they’re gone now; she holds air.
She looks around and notices that the street she’s now on is nothing like the street she remembers. She registers this weird difference and picks up the golf club, ready to defend herself.
She looks up to see the Angel, but she’s gone.
She thinks she hears a sound behind her. She swings the club. There’s nothing there. She tries to orient herself but she can’t tell north from south.
And even though it’s the dead of winter, it’s also much warmer than it was before. Startled, Marisol fans herself.
Bright sparkling lights streak across the sky like tracers or comets. The lights are followed by distant rumblings. Is that a thunderclap? Or an explosion? Marisol hits the ground. Then the lights stop. Silence.
The Woman With Furs enters. The Woman is prosperous: long fur coat and high heels—but there are subtle bruises and cuts on her face and it looks like there’s dried blood on her coat. She stands to the side, very, very still. She holds an open newspaper, but she stares past it, no emotion on her shell-shocked face.
Marisol looks at the Woman With Furs, hesitates, then goes to her.
MARISOL: Excuse me. Miss?
(No answer from the Woman With Furs, who doesn’t look at her.)
Where the hell are we?
(The Woman With Furs ignores her. Marisol gets closer.)
I’m—supposed to be on 180th Street. In the Bronx. There’s supposed to be a bodega right here. A public school there. They sold crack on that corner. It was cold this morning!
(The Woman With Furs speaks out to the air, as if in a trance.)
WOMAN WITH FURS: God help you, you get in my face.
(Marisol begins to examine the altered space with growing fear.)
MARISOL: No buildings. No streets. No cars. No noise. No cops. There are no subway tokens in my pocket!
WOMAN WITH FURS: I have no money.
MARISOL (Realizing): It’s what she said would happen, isn’t it? She said she’d drop her wings of peace . . . and I wouldn’t recognize the world . . .
WOMAN WITH FURS: Don’t you know where you are either? M
ARISOL (Trying to think it through): . . . I have to . . . I have to . . . reclaim what I know: I need June. Where’s June? Brooklyn. South. I gotta go south, find my friend, and restore her broken mind.
(Marisol tries to run away, hoping to find the subway to Brooklyn, but it’s impossible to find anything familiar in this radically altered landscape.)
WOMAN WITH FURS: I had tickets to Les Misérables. But I took a wrong turn. Followed bad advice. Ended up on this weird street.
(Marisol sees something in the distance that makes her freeze in her tracks.)
MARISOL (To herself): The Empire State Building? . . . what’s it doing over there? It’s supposed to be south. But that’s . . . north . . . I’m sure it is . . . isn’t it?
(In her panic, Marisol runs to the Woman With Furs and tries to grab her arm.)
You have to help me!
(The Woman With Furs instantly recoils from Marisol’s touch. She starts to wander away.)
WOMAN WITH FURS: I have to go. But I can’t find a cab. I can’t seem to find any transportation.
MARISOL: You’re not listening! There’s no transportation; forget that; the city’s gone. You have to help me. We have to go south together and protect each other.
(Marisol grabs the Woman With Furs’s arm roughly, trying to pull her offstage. The Woman With Furs seems to snap out of her trance and pull back. The Woman With Furs is suddenly shaking, tearful, like a caged animal.)
WOMAN WITH FURS: Oh God, I thought you were a nice person!
MARISOL (Grabbing the Woman): I am a nice person, but I’ve had some bad luck—
WOMAN WITH FURS (Struggling): Oh God, you’re hurting me—
MARISOL (Letting go): No, no, no, I’m okay; I don’t belong out here; I have a job in publishing; I’m middle-class—
WOMAN WITH FURS (Freaking out, pointing at golf club): Oh please don’t kill me like that barbarian killed Marisol Perez!
(Marisol lets the Woman With Furs go. The Woman With Furs is almost crying.)
MARISOL: I’m not what you think.
WOMAN WITH FURS: . . . Oh God, why did I have to buy that fucking hat?! God . . . God . . . why?
MARISOL: Please. June’s not used to the street, she’s an indoor animal, like a cat . . .
WOMAN WITH FURS: I bought a fucking hat on credit and everything disintegrated!
MARISOL: South. Protection.
(The Woman With Furs takes off her fur coat. Underneath, she wears ripped pajamas. We can see the bruises and cuts on her arms clearly.)
WOMAN WITH FURS: There is no protection. I just got out of hell. Last month, I was two hundred dollars over my credit card limit because I bought a hat on sale. And you know they’re cracking down on that kind of thing. I used to do it all the time. It didn’t matter. But now it matters. Midnight. The police came. Grabbed me out of bed, waving my credit statement in my face, my children screaming, they punched my husband in the stomach. I told them I was a lawyer! With a house in Cos Cob! And personal references a mile long! But they hauled me to this . . . huge windowless brick building in Brooklyn . . . where they tortured me . . . they . . .
(The Woman With Furs cries. Marisol goes to her and covers her up with the fur coat. Marisol holds her.)
MARISOL: That can’t happen.
WOMAN WITH FURS: A lot of things can’t happen that are happening. Everyone I know’s had terrible luck this year. Losing condos. Careers cut in half. Ending up on the street. I thought I’d be immune. I thought I’d be safe.
MARISOL: This is going to sound crazy. But I think I know why this is happening.
(The Woman With Furs looks at Marisol, suddenly very afraid.)
WOMAN WITH FURS: No. No.
(The Woman With Furs tries to get away from Marisol. Marisol stops her.)
MARISOL: It’s angels, isn’t it? It’s the war.
WOMAN WITH FURS (Panicking): God is great! God is good! It didn’t happen! It didn’t happen! I dreamed it! I lied!
MARISOL: It did! It happened to me!
WOMAN WITH FURS: I’m not going to talk about this! You’re going to think I’m crazy too! You’re going to tell the Citibank MasterCard people where I am so they can pick me up and torture me some more!
MARISOL: I wouldn’t!
(The Woman With Furs grabs the golf club out of Marisol’s hand.)
WOMAN WITH FURS: I know what I’m going to do now. I’m going to turn you in. I’m going to tell the Citibank police you stole my plastic! They’ll like me for that. They’ll like me a lot. They’ll restore my banking privileges!
(The Woman With Furs starts swinging wildly at Marisol. Marisol dodges the Woman With Furs.)
MARISOL: I am not an animal! I am not a barbarian! I don’t fight at this level!
WOMAN WITH FURS (Swinging): Welcome to the new world order, babe!
(The Man With Scar Tissue enters in a wheelchair. He’s a homeless man in shredded, burnt rags. He wears a hood that covers his head and obscures his face. He wears sunglasses and gloves. His wheelchair is full of plastic garbage bags, clothes, books, newspapers, bottles, junk.)
SCAR TISSUE: It’s getting so bad, a guy can’t sleep under the stars anymore.
(The Woman With Furs sees the Man With Scar Tissue and stops swinging.)
WOMAN WITH FURS (Indicating Marisol): This brown piece of shit is mine! I’m going to turn her in! Not you!
SCAR TISSUE: I was sleeping under the constellations one night and my whole life changed, took seconds: I had a life—then bingo—I didn’t have a life . . . (He moves toward the Woman With Furs) . . . maybe you got it, huh? You got the thing I need . . .
WOMAN WITH FURS: Homelessness is against the law in this city. I’m going to have you two arrested! They’ll like that. I’ll get big points for that! I’ll be revitalized!
(The Woman With Furs runs off with the golf club.
Man With Scar Tissue looks at Marisol. He waves hello. She looks at him—wary, but grateful—and tries to smile. She’s instantly aware of his horrendous smell.)
MARISOL: She, she was trying to kill me . . . thank you . . .
SCAR TISSUE: Used to be able to sleep under the moon unmolested. Moon was a shield. Catching all the bad karma before it fell to earth. All those crater holes in the moon? Those ain’t rocks! That’s bad karma crashing to the moon’s surface!
MARISOL (Really shaken): She thinks I belong out here, but I don’t. I’m well educated . . . anyone can see that . . .
SCAR TISSUE: Now the moon’s gone. The shield’s been lifted. Shit falls on you randomly. Sleep outside, you’re fucked. That’s why I got this! Gonna yank the moon back!
(From inside his wheelchair, Scar Tissue pulls out a magnet. He aims his magnet to the sky and waits for the moon to appear.)
MARISOL: She’s crazy, that’s all! I have to go before she comes back.
(Marisol starts going back and forth, looking for south.)
SCAR TISSUE: Good thing I’m not planning to get married. What would a honeymoon be like now? Some stupid cardboard cut-out dangling out your hotel window? What kind of inspiration is that? How’s a guy supposed to get it up for that?
(Scar Tissue fondles himself, hoping to manufacture a hard-on, but nothing happens and he gives up.)
MARISOL (Noticing what he’s doing): I have to get to Brooklyn. I’m looking for my friend. She has red hair.
SCAR TISSUE: And did you know the moon carries the souls of dead people up to Heaven? Uh-huh. The new moon is dark and empty and gets filled with new glowing souls—until it’s a bright full moon—then it carries its silent burden to God . . .
MARISOL: Do you know which way is south?!
(Marisol continues to walk around and around the stage, looking hopelessly for any landmark that will tell her which way is south. Scar Tissue watches her, holding his magnet up.)
SCAR TISSUE: Give it up, princess. Time is crippled. Geography’s deformed. You’re permanently lost out here!
MARISOL: Bullshit. Even if God is senile, He still cares, He doesn’t play dice you know. I read that.
SCAR TISSUE: Shit, what century do you live in?
(Marisol keeps running around the stage.)
MARISOL: June and I had plans. Gonna live together. Survive together. I gotta get her fixed! I gotta get Lenny buried!
(Scar Tissue laughs and suddenly drops his magnet and jumps out of his wheelchair. He runs to Marisol, stopping her in her tracks. He looks at the shocked Marisol fully for the first time. He smiles, very pleased.)
SCAR TISSUE: You look pretty nice. You’re kinda cute, in fact. What do you think this all means, us two, a man and woman, bumping into each other like this?
MARISOL (Wary): I don’t know. But thank you for helping me. Maybe my luck hasn’t run out.
SCAR TISSUE (Laughs): Oh, don’t trust luck! Fastest way to die around here. Trust gunpowder. Trust plutonium. Don’t trust divine intervention or you’re fucked. My name is Elvis Presley, beautiful, what’s yours?
MARISOL (Wary): . . . Marisol Perez.
(Scar Tissue nearly jumps out of his rags.)
SCAR TISSUE: What?!! No! Your name can’t be that! Can’t be Marisol Perez!
MARISOL: It is. It has to be.
SCAR TISSUE: You’re confused! Or are the goddamn graves coughing up the dead?!
MARISOL: I’m not dead! That was her! I’m—me!
SCAR TISSUE: You can’t prove it!
MARISOL: I was born in the Bronx. But—but—I can’t remember the street!
SCAR TISSUE: A-ha! Dead!
MARISOL (A recitation, an effort): Born 1966—lived on East Tremont—then Taylor Avenue—Grand Concourse—Mami died—Fordham—English major—Phi Beta Kappa—I went into science publishing—I’m a head copywriter—I make good money—I work with words—I’m clean . . . (She holds her head and closes her eyes) I lived in the Bronx . . . I commuted light-years to this other planet called—Manhattan! I learned new vocabularies . . . wore weird native dress . . . mastered arcane rituals . . . and amputated neat sections of my psyche, my cultural heritage . . . yeah, clean easy amputations . . . with no pain expressed at all—none!—but so much pain kept inside I almost choked on it . . . so far deep inside my Manhattan bosses and Manhattan friends and my broken Bronx consciousness never even suspected . . .
(As Marisol recites facts, Scar Tissue starts going through his bag, pulling out old magazines and newspapers. He reads from the New York Post:)
SCAR TISSUE: “Memorial services for Marisol Perez were held this morning in Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. The estimated fifty thousand mourners included the Mayor of New York, the Bronx Borough President, the Guardian Angels, and the cast of the popular daytime soap opera As the World Turns . . . ”
MARISOL: She wasn’t me! I’m me! And I’m outta here!
(Marisol starts to run off—but is stopped as, far upstage, in the dark, a Nazi skinhead walks by, holding a can of gasoline, goosestepping ominously toward a sleeping homeless person. Marisol runs back and hides behind Scar Tissue’s wheelchair. The Skinhead doesn’t see them.
Scar Tissue sees the Skinhead and suddenly hides behind Marisol, shaking. He starts to whine and cry and moan. The homeless person runs off. The Skinhead exits, chasing the person. When the Skinhead is gone, Scar Tissue turns angrily to Marisol.)
SCAR TISSUE: Who are you for real and why do you attract so much trouble?! I hope you don’t let those Nazis come near me!
MARISOL: I don’t mean to—
(He grabs Marisol.)
SCAR TISSUE: What are you!? Are you protection? Are you benign? Or are you some kind of angel of death?
MARISOL: I’m a good person.
SCAR TISSUE: Then why don’t you do something about those Nazis?! They’re all over the place. I’m getting out of here—
(Scar Tissue tries to leave. Marisol stops him.)
MARISOL: Don’t leave me!
SCAR TISSUE: Why? You’re not alone, are you? You got your faith still intact. You still believe God is good. You still think you can glide through the world and not be part of it.
MARISOL: I’m not a Nazi!
SCAR TISSUE: I can’t trust you. Ever since the angels went into open revolt, you can’t trust your own mother . . . oops.
(Marisol looks at him.)
MARISOL: What did you say? You too? Did angels talk to you too?
SCAR TISSUE (Worried): No. Never mind. I don’t know a thing. Just talking out my ass.
MARISOL: You didn’t dream it—
SCAR TISSUE (Scared): I had enough punishment! I don’t wanna get in the middle of some celestial Vietnam! I don’t want any more angelic napalm dropped on me!
MARISOL: But I saw one too—I did—what do all these visitations mean?
(Marisol suddenly grabs Scar Tissue’s hands—and he screams, pulls away, and cowers on the ground like a beaten dog.)
SCAR TISSUE: NOT MY HANDS! Don’t touch my hands!
(Scar Tissue rips his gloves off. His hands are covered in burn scars. He blows on his boiling hands.)
MARISOL: Oh my God.
SCAR TISSUE (Nearly crying): Heaven erupts but who pays the price? The fucking innocent do . . . !
MARISOL: What happened to you?
SCAR TISSUE (Crying): I was an air-traffic controller, Marisol Perez. I had a life. Then I saw angels in the radar screen and I started to drink.
(Marisol gets closer to the whimpering Scar Tissue. She has yet to really see his face.
Marisol reaches out to him and pulls the hood back and removes his sunglasses. Scar Tissue’s face has been horribly burned. She tries not to gasp but she can’t help it.)
MARISOL: Ay Dios, ay Dios mio, ay Dios . . .
SCAR TISSUE: You’re looking for your friend . . . everyone here is looking for something . . . I’m looking for something too . . .
MARISOL: What is it? Maybe I can help?
SCAR TISSUE: I’m looking for my lost skin. Have you seen my lost skin? It was once very pretty. We were very close. I was really attached to it.
(Scar Tissue runs to the trash bin and starts looking through it.)
MARISOL: I haven’t seen anything like that.
SCAR TISSUE: It’s got to be somewhere . . . it must be looking for me . . . it must be lonely too, don’t you think . . . ? M
ARISOL: Look, I’m sorry I bothered you, I’m, I’m going to go now...
(Scar Tissue looks at Marisol.)
SCAR TISSUE: I was just sleeping under the stars. It was another night when I couldn’t find shelter. The places I went to, I got beat up. They took my clothes. Urinated in my mouth. Fucking blankets they gave me were laced with DDT. I said Fuck It, I took my shit outside and went up to some dickhead park in the Bronx . . .
MARISOL (Remembering): Van Cortlandt Park?
SCAR TISSUE: . . . just to be near some shriveled trees and alone and away from the massive noise, just for a little nap . . . my eyes closed . . . I vaguely remember the sound of goose-stepping teenagers from Staten Island with a can of gasoline, shouting orders in German . . .
(Marisol walks away from Scar Tissue.)
MARISOL: June’s waiting for me . . .
SCAR TISSUE: A flash of light. I exploded outward. My bubbling skin divorced my suffering nerves and ran away, looking for some coolness, some paradise, some other body to embrace! (Laughs bitterly) Now I smell like barbecue! I could have eaten myself! I could have charged money for pieces of my broiled meat!
MARISOL: Please stop. I get the picture.
(Scar Tissue stops, looks at Marisol sadly. He motions to her that he needs help. She helps him with his gloves, sunglasses, hood.)
SCAR TISSUE: The angel was Japanese. Dressed in armor. Dressed in iron. Dressed to endure the fire of war. She had a scimitar.
MARISOL (Can’t believe it; wanting to): She?
SCAR TISSUE: Kissed me. I almost exploded. I kept hearing Jimi Hendrix in my middle ear as those lips, like two brands, nearly melted me. She was radiant. Raw.
MARISOL AND SCAR TISSUE: Fulgent.
SCAR TISSUE: She told me when angels are bored at night, they write your nightmares. She said the highest among the angels carry God’s throne on their backs for eternity, singing, “Glory, glory, glory!” But her message was terrible and after she kissed me . . .
MARISOL AND SCAR TISSUE: . . . I spit at her.
SCAR TISSUE: Was that the right thing to do, Marisol?
MARISOL: I thought it was . . . but I don’t know.
(Marisol looks gently at Scar Tissue. She kisses him softly. He smiles and pats her on the head like a puppy. He goes to his wheelchair and pulls out an old bottle of Kentucky bourbon. He smiles and offers the bottle to Marisol.
Marisol drinks greedily. Scar Tissue applauds her. She smiles as the hot liquid burns down her throat. She laughs long and loud: in this barren landscape, it’s a beautiful sound.
As they both laugh, Scar Tissue motions that they should embrace. Marisol holds her breath and embraces him.)
SCAR TISSUE (Hopeful): So? Feelin’ horny? Can I hope?
(Marisol quickly lets him go, and gives him back his bottle.)
MARISOL: Let’s not push it, okay Elvis?
(Scar Tissue laughs. He goes to his wheelchair and prepares to hit the road again.)
SCAR TISSUE: Word on the street is, water no longer seeks its own level, there are fourteen inches to the foot, six days in the week, seven planets in the solar system, and the French are polite. I also hear the sun rises in the north and sets in the south. I think I saw the sun setting over there . . . instinct tells me south is over there . . .
(Marisol turns to face south.)
MARISOL: Thank you.
(The Skinhead crosses the stage again, with the can of gasoline, chasing the frightened homeless person. Marisol and Scar Tissue hit the ground.
The homeless person falls. The Skinhead pours the gasoline on the homeless person and lights a match. There’s a scream as the homeless person burns to death. Marisol covers her ears so she can’t hear.
The Skinhead exits. Marisol and Scar Tissue quickly get up. Marisol tries to run to the burnt homeless person. Scar Tissue stops her.)
SCAR TISSUE: No! There’s nothing you can do! Don’t even look!
MARISOL: Oh my God . . .
SCAR TISSUE: I gotta get outta here. Look—if you see some extra skin laying around somewhere . . . pick it up for me, okay? I’ll be exceedingly grateful. Bye.
(Scar Tissue gets back into his wheelchair.)
MARISOL: Why don’t we stay together—protect each other?
SCAR TISSUE: There is no protection. That Nazi is after me. He works for TRW. If I stay . . . you’re gonna have torturers and death squads all over you.
(Marisol goes toward him.)
MARISOL: I’m not afraid—
SCAR TISSUE: No, I said! Get away from me! Just get away from me!! Are you fucking CRAZY OR WHAT? Just—just if you see my skin, beautiful . . . have some good sex with it and tell it to come home quick. (He’s gone. From offstage:) I’ll always love you, Marisol!
(Marisol is alone. More odd streaking lights rake the sky. Marisol hits the ground again, looking up, hoping that the barrage will end.)
MARISOL (To herself): South—that way—I’ll go south that way, where the sun sets, to look for June until I hit Miami—then—I’ll know I passed her.
(The streaking lights stop. Marisol gets up. She takes a step. Then another step. With each step, the lights change as if she were entering a new part of the city or time has suddenly jumped forward.
She finds some homeless person’s old coat and puts it on.)
I’m getting dirty . . . and my clothes smell bad . . . I’m getting dirty and my clothes smell bad . . . my fucking stomach’s grumbling . . .
(Marisol runs up to the metal trash bin. She ducks behind it. She takes a piss. She finishes and comes out from behind the trash bin, relieved. Grabbing her empty stomach, Marisol tries to think through her predicament. To the gold crown:)
Okay, I just wanna go home. I just wanna live with June—want my boring nine-to-five back—my two-weeks-out-of-the-year vacation—my intellectual detachment—my ability to read about the misery of the world and not lose a moment out of my busy day. To believe you really knew what you were doing, God—please—if the sun would just come up! (Beat. To herself:) But what if the sun doesn’t come up? And this is it? It’s the deadline. I’m against the wall. I’m at the rim of the apocalypse . . .
(Marisol looks up. To the angel:)
Blessed guardian angel! Maybe you were right. God has stopped looking. We can’t live life as if nothing’s changed. To live in the sweet past. To look backwards for our instructions. We have to reach up, beyond the debris, past the future, spit in the eye of the sun, make a fist, and say no, and say no, and say no, and say . . . (Beat. Doubts. To herself:) . . . no, what if she’s wrong?
(She hurriedly gets on her knees to pray. Vicious, to the crown:)
Dear God, All-Powerful, All-Beautiful, what do I do now? How do I get out of this? Do I have to make a deal? Arrange payment and bail myself out? What about it!? I’ll do anything! I’ll spy for you. I’ll steal for you. I’ll decipher strange angelic codes and mine harbors and develop germ bombs and poison the angelic food supply. DEAR GOD, WHO DO I HAVE TO BETRAY TO GET OUT OF THIS FUCKING MESS?!
(It starts to snow lightly. Marisol can’t believe it. She holds out her hand.)
Snow? It’s eighty degrees!
(We hear the sound of bombs, heavy artillery, very close. Marisol is suddenly, violently, gripped by hunger pains. She grabs her stomach.)
Oh God!
(Marisol scrambles to the trash bin and starts burrowing into it like an animal searching for food. She finally finds a paper bag. She tears it open. She finds a bunch of moldy French fries. She closes her eyes and prepares to eat them.)
LENNY’S VOICE: Marisol you don’t want to eat that!
(Marisol throws the food down.)
MARISOL (To herself): Lenny?
(Lenny comes in pushing a battered baby carriage full of junk. Lenny is nine months pregnant: huge belly, swollen breasts. Marisol is stunned by the transformation.)
Holy shit.
LENNY: Don’t eat anything in that pile, Marisol. It’s lethal.
MARISOL: You’re alive and you’re . . . bloated—
LENNY: Man who owned the restaurant on the other side of that wall put rat poison in the trash to discourage the homeless from picking through the pile. God bless the child that’s got his own, huh? It’s nice to see you again, Marisol.
(It stops snowing. Staring at his stomach, Marisol goes over to Lenny.)
MARISOL (Amazed): I thought I killed you.
LENNY: Almost. But I forgive you. I forgive my sister, too.
MARISOL: You’ve seen her?
LENNY: I haven’t seen her, sorry. Hey, you want food? I have a little food. I’ll prepare you some secret edible food.
(Marisol goes to Lenny, wide-eyed.)
MARISOL: Okay . . . but . . . Lenny . . . you’re immense . . .
(Marisol helps Lenny sit. He motions for her to sit next to him.)
LENNY: I’m fucking enormous. Got the worst hemorrhoids. The smell of Chinese food makes me puke my guts.
MARISOL (Embarrassed): I just don’t know . . . what to think about this . . . and what would June say . . . ?
LENNY (Chuckles): I have something you’re gonna like, Marisol. Took me great pains to get. Lots of weaseling around the black market, greasing palms, you know, giving blow jobs—the things a parent will do for their fetus!—until I got it . . .
(Lenny produces a bag. In the bag, Lenny reveals a scrawny little apple wrapped lovingly in layer after layer of delicate colored paper. Marisol can’t believe what she sees.)
MARISOL: That’s an apple. But that’s extinct.
LENNY: Only if you believe the networks. Powers that be got the very last tree. It’s in the Pentagon. In the center of the five-sided beast.
(Lenny bites the apple, relishing its flavor. He pats his stomach approvingly. Marisol hungrily watches him eat.)
I was on a terrible diet ’til I got knocked up. Eating cigarette butts, old milk cartons, cat food, raw shoelaces, roach motels. It’s nice to be able to give my baby a few essential vitamins.
MARISOL: You’re really gonna be a mother?
LENNY: Baby’s been kicking. It’s got great aim. Always going for my bladder. I’m pissing every five minutes.
MARISOL (Tentative): Can I feel?
(Marisol puts her hand on Lenny’s belly. She feels movement and pulls her hand away.)
LENNY: It’s impossible to sleep. Lying on my back, I’m crushed. On my side, I can’t breathe. The baby’s heartbeat keeps me up at night. The beating is dreadful. Sounds like a bomb. I know when it goes, it’s gonna go BIG.
MARISOL (Frightened, unsure): Something’s moving in there . . . L
ENNY: When it’s in a good mood it does back flips and my fucking kidneys end up in my throat. Did I tell you about my hemorrhoids? Here, eat.
(Lenny gives Marisol the apple. She bites into it—chews—then quickly spits it all out. Livid, Lenny takes the apple away from Marisol.)
Don’t waste my FOOD, you dumb shit!
(Lenny starts picking up the bits of half-chewed apple spit out by Marisol and eats them greedily. Marisol continues to spit.)
MARISOL (Angry): It’s just salt inside there . . . just salt . . . L
ENNY: My baby’s trying to build a brain! My baby needs all the minerals it can get!
MARISOL: It’s not an apple! It’s not food!
LENNY: Get outta here if you’re gonna be ungrateful! My baby and I don’t need you! (He devours the apple and tries to keep from crying) There isn’t a single food group in the world that isn’t pure salt anymore! Where the fuck have you been?! (He holds his stomach for comfort)
MARISOL: This is your old bullshit, Lenny. That’s a fucking pumpkin you got under your clothes. A big bundle of deceit and sexual CONFUSION. You’re trying to dislodge me. Finally push me over the edge. Contradict all I know so I won’t be able to say my own name.
(Marisol angrily pushes Lenny and he topples over, holding his stomach.)
LENNY: There isn’t much food left in the PENTAGON, you know!
MARISOL: Oh, give me a break. When the sun comes up in the morning, all this will be gone! The city will come back! People will go back to work. You’ll be a myth. A folktale. (Bitter) Maybe you should stop pretending you’re pregnant and find a job.
LENNY: How can you say that when this is your baby?!
MARISOL: It’s not my baby!
LENNY: For days and days all I did was think about you and think about you and the more I thought about you, the bigger I got! Of course it’s yours!
MARISOL: I don’t know what you’re saying!
LENNY: I shouldda had a fucking abortion . . .
MARISOL (Trying not to lose control): I think you’re a freak, Lenny. I’m supposed to know that men don’t have babies. But I don’t know that anymore, do I? If you’re really pregnant, then we have to start at the beginning, don’t we? Well I’m not ready to do that!
(Lenny gets to his feet, indignant.)
LENNY: I’m no freak. Every man should have this experience. There’d be fewer wars. This is power. This is energy. I guard my expanding womb greedily. I worship my new organs . . . the violent bloodstream sending food and oxygen . . . back and forth . . . between two hearts. One body. Two surging hearts! That’s a revolution!
(He starts off. He stops in his tracks. He drops everything. He grabs his stomach. Pain knocks out his breathing.)
MARISOL: Now what is it?
LENNY: Oh shit . . . I think it’s time. I think this is it.
MARISOL: Get outta here.
(Lenny’s pants are suddenly wet.)
LENNY: My water’s burst. Oh God, it can’t be now . . .
MARISOL: I’m telling you to stop this!
LENNY (Panicking): I’m not ready. Feel my breasts! They’re empty! I can’t let this baby be born yet! What if my body can’t make enough milk to feed my baby?!
(Lenny shrieks with pain, falls to his knees. Marisol helps him lie down. She kneels beside him.)
MARISOL: Okay, Lenny, breathe—breathe—breathe—
LENNY (Incredible pain): I’m breathing, you ASSHOLE, I’m breathing!
MARISOL: Breathe more!
LENNY: Jesus and I thought war was hell!
MARISOL: Oh my God—oh Jesus . . .
LENNY: If I pull off this birth thing, it’ll be a miracle!
MARISOL: . . . Angel of God please help him!
(Marisol quickly covers Lenny’s abdomen with her coat. Lenny starts the final stage of labor. He bears down.
Lenny lets out a final, cataclysmic scream.
The baby is born. Marisol “catches” the baby.
Marisol holds the silent baby in the coat, wrapping it tight. She examines the baby. Lenny’s huge stomach has disappeared. He breathes hard. Short silence.
Lenny sits up slowly, wiping sweat from his face, happy the ordeal is over. All Lenny wants to do is hold his child. Marisol stands up holding the baby, looking at it a long time, a troubled look on her face.
Lenny holds out his arms for the baby. Marisol looks at Lenny and shakes her head, sadly, no. Lenny looks at Marisol, all hope drained from his face.)
LENNY: Dead?
MARISOL: I’m sorry.
(Marisol nods yes and wraps the baby tighter.
Marisol gives Lenny his baby. Lenny takes the bundle, kisses it, holds back tears. Marisol looks at him.)
LENNY: C’mon. There’s something we have to do now.
(Holding the baby, Lenny starts to walk around and around the stage. Marisol follows.
They come to the downstage corner where the rosary-covered fire hydrant is. Special lighting on this area. Marisol looks down and notices little crucifixes scratched into the sidewalk in rows.
Dazzling, frenetic lights rip the air above Marisol and Lenny.)
Do you know where you are, Marisol?
(Marisol shakes her head no.)
You’re in Brooklyn.
MARISOL (Empty): Wow. I finally made it. I’m here.
LENNY: Everybody comes to this street eventually.
MARISOL: Why?
LENNY: People are buried here. It looks like a sidewalk. But it’s not. It’s a tomb.
MARISOL: For who?
LENNY: For babies. Angelitos.
(Lenny removes a slab of sidewalk concrete and starts digging up the dirt beneath it. There’s a tiny wooden box there.)
The city provides these coffins. There are numbers on them. The city knows how we live.
(Lenny gently places the baby’s body in the box.)
These are babies born on the street. Little girls of the twilight hours who never felt warm blankets around their bodies. Never drank their mothers’ holy milk. Little boys born with coke in their blood. This is where babies who die on the street are taken to rest. You never heard of it?
MARISOL: Never.
(Lenny puts the box in the ground and covers it up with dirt.)
LENNY: Everyone who sleeps and begs in the open air knows this address. We come with flowers, with crucifixes, with offerings. The wind plays organ music. Hard concrete turns into gentle moss so the babies can decompose in grace. We all come here sooner or later to pay respects to the most fragile of the street people.
(Lenny replaces the concrete slab and scratches the name of the child into the concrete. He says a prayer. If there are other homeless people onstage, they pick up the prayer and repeat it softly underneath Lenny.)
Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.
Bless the bed that I lie on.
Four corners to my bed.
Four angels ’round my head.
One to watch and one to pray.
And two to bear your soul away.
(Lenny kisses the ground.)
’Night, little Marisol.
(Lenny lies on the ground and falls asleep. Exhausted, Marisol looks at the tiny cemetery. She reads the names scratched into the sidewalk.)
MARISOL: Fermin Rivera . . . born March 14, died March 16 . . . Jose Amengual . . . born August 2, died August 2 . . . Delfina Perez . . . born December 23, died January 6 . . . Jonathan Sand . . . born July 1, died July 29 . . . Wilfredo Terron . . . dates unknown . . . no name . . . no name . . . no name . . .
(Marisol can’t read anymore. She sits in the middle of the child cemetery, exhausted, not able to think, feel, or react anymore. For all she knows, this could be the end of the world.
Marisol lies on the street, in Lenny’s arms, and falls asleep.
Upstage there’s the sound of marching feet. The Skinhead enters and marches toward the sleeping Marisol and Lenny and stops. Only as the light comes up on the Skinhead do we realize it’s June.)
JUNE (To herself, indicating Marisol): Look at this goddamn thing, this waste, this fucking parasite. God, I’m so sick of it. Sick of the eyesore. Sick of the diseases. Sick of the drugs. Sick of the homelessness. Sick of the border babies. Sick of the dark skin. Sick of that compassion thing! That’s where it all started! When they put in that fucking compassion thing! (Furious) I mean, why can’t they just go AWAY? I mean, okay, if you people want to kill yourselves, fine, do it: kill yourselves with your crack and your incest and your promiscuity and your homo anal intercourse . . . just leave me to take care of myself and my own. Leave me to my gardens. I’m good in my gardens. I’m good on my acres of green grass. God distributes green grass in just the right way! Take care of your own. Take care of your family. If everybody did that . . . I swear on my gold Citibank MasterCard . . . there wouldn’t be any problems, anywhere, in the next millennium . . .
(June looks down at Marisol. She unscrews the can of gasoline and starts pouring gasoline on Marisol and Lenny. Marisol wakes up. June strikes a match. Marisol jumps at June, grabbing her.)
MARISOL: Cut that shit out you fucking Nazi!
(June tries to throw the match on Marisol.)
JUNE: Stay still so I can burn you!
(Marisol grabs June and tries to push her away from Lenny. They’re face-to-face for the first time.)
What a day I’m having, huh?
MARISOL (Startled): . . . June?
JUNE: I started out burning hobos and ended up torching half the city! The entire Upper West Side up in ashes!
MARISOL (Overjoyed): Oh God, I found you.
JUNE: You got anything for me?!
MARISOL: I thought Lenny killed you—
JUNE: You got nothing for me? Get outta my way, asshole!
MARISOL: Don’t you remember me?
JUNE: You should see what I did! It’s fire on a massive scale! Buildings melted all down! Consumed! Ashes of those evaporated dreams are all over the fucking place!
MARISOL: June—it’s Marisol . . .
(Marisol throws both arms around June, embraces her tightly, and kisses her. June tries to escape.)
JUNE: We could be picked up real fast by the police . . . they’ve built great big facilities for us . . . ’cause our numbers are swelling . . .
(Marisol tries to hold June. June resists. But the prolonged and violent contact with Marisol’s body has started to awaken June’s memory. She begins to sound a little like her old self.)
But they won’t take me! I have a strategy now! I burn bag people! The troop likes that!
MARISOL: No more! That’s not you!
(Marisol throws the can of gasoline into the trash bin. She grabs June’s hand and pulls June toward Lenny. June resists.)
JUNE: The Citicorp building was a great place to hide. A man would pull your teeth for free in Port Authority—
MARISOL: Lenny’s right here . . .
JUNE: I hear the water in the Central Park reservoir is salty ’cause angels are falling outta the sky, Marisol . . .
MARISOL (Astonished): You said my name. You said Marisol.
(Marisol joyfully embraces June and kisses her. That pushes June over the edge and she collapses. Marisol catches her and lays her gently on the ground. Marisol sits with June’s head on her lap. This time June does not resist.)
JUNE (Weak, rubbing her head): I can’t understand these nightmares I’m having . . .
(Marisol holds June. June and Lenny quietly start to cry.)
MARISOL: We survived. We survived, June.
(Marisol looks around her—at her two crippled, sobbing friends—at the distorted world—all too aware of the graveyard that has become the site of their reunion.)
For what? To do what?
(Marisol looks up at the crown—a long, still moment.)
Fuck you. Just fuck you!
(Loud machine-gun fire rips the air. Marisol hits the ground and covers June and Lenny with her body.)
June, Lenny . . . don’t you guys worry . . . I have a clear vision for us. I know what I want to do.
(The machine-gun firing stops. Marisol kisses her friends.)
Listen to me. We’re going to find the angels. And I’m going to ask them to touch your foreheads. To press their angelic fingers into your temples. Fire your minds with instant light. Blow up your bad dreams. And resurrect you.
(Marisol looks up at the crown.)
And then we’re going to join them. Then we’re going to fight with the angels.
(Marisol helps June and Lenny to their feet. June and Lenny see each other and embrace.)
LENNY (To June): I’m sorry for everything I did . . .
JUNE (To Lenny, kissing him): I’m sorry, too, Lenny . . .
(As Marisol takes their hands to start their new journey, the Woman With Furs enters, unseen, behind them. She is completely still. She is holding an Uzi.)
MARISOL: What a time to be alive, huh? On one hand, we’re nothing. We’re dirt. On the other hand, we’re the reason the universe was made.
(The Woman With Furs loads the Uzi. Bombs are heard.)
JUNE: What’s that noise?
MARISOL: Right now, thousands upon millions of angels are dying on our behalf. Isn’t that amazing? The silver cities of Heaven are burning for us. Attacks and counterattacks are ruining galaxies. The ripped-up planets are making travel impossible. And triumphant angels are taking over the television stations. All for us. All for me.
(The Woman With Furs points the Uzi at Marisol, June, and Lenny.)
WOMAN WITH FURS: Sorry, Marisol. We don’t need revolution here. We can’t have upheaval at the drop of a hat. No demonstrations here! No putting up pamphlets! No shoving daisies into the rifles of militiamen! No stopping tanks by standing in their way!
(Marisol turns to look at the Woman With Furs.)
MARISOL: . . . Unless you want to join us—?
WOMAN WITH FURS: Traitors! Credit risks!
(Marisol goes to the Woman With Furs and the Woman With Furs blasts Marisol, pumping hundreds of rounds into her. She dies instantly and falls to the ground. The Woman With Furs exits.
There’s a blackout.
Suddenly, the stage is bathed in strange light. We hear the strange, indecipherable sounds of the angelic war.
June and Lenny kneel where Marisol has fallen. Marisol is standing apart, alone, in her own light. Marisol’s voice is slightly amplified:)
MARISOL: I’m killed instantly. Little blazing lead meteors enter my body. My blood cells ride those bullets into outer space. My soul surges up the oceans of the Milky Way at the speed of light. At the moment of death, I see the invisible war.
(Beautiful music.
The stage goes black, except for a light on Marisol.)
Thousands of years of fighting pass in an instant. New and terrible forms of warfare, monstrous weapons, and unimagined strains of terror are created and destroyed in billionths of a second. Galaxies spring from a single drop of angel’s sweat while hundreds of armies fight and die on the fingertips of children in the Bronx.
(Light upstage reveals the Angel. She’s dressed in a filthy, tattered uniform: the war has ravaged her. She also has huge magnificent wings: her wings of war. She’s got an Uzi machine gun.
The Angel fires her Uzi into the air, at the invisible legions of God’s loyal warriors. The terrible sounds of war.
The angelic vision lasts only seconds. The stage once again goes to black. A spotlight on Marisol.)
Three hundred million million beautiful angels die in the first charge of the Final Battle. The oceans are salty with rebel blood. Angels drop like lightning from the dying sky. The rebels are in full retreat. There’s chaos. There’s blood and fire and ambulances and Heaven’s soldiers scream and fight and die in beautiful, beautiful light. It looks like the revolution is doomed . . .
(Light upstage reveals a single homeless person angrily throwing rocks at the sky. The homeless person is joined by Lenny and June.)
. . . then, as if one body, one mind, the innocent of the earth take to the streets with anything they can find—rocks, sticks, screams—and aim their displeasure at the senile sky and fire into the tattered wind on the side of the angels . . . billions of poor, of homeless, of peaceful, of silent, of angry . . . fighting and fighting as no species has ever fought before. Inspired by the earthly noise, the rebels advance!
(A small moon appears in the sky, far, far away.)
New ideas rip the Heavens. New powers are created. New miracles are signed into law. It’s the first day of the new history . . .
(There’s a few seconds of tremendous noise as the war hits its climax.
Then silence.
The Angel appears next to Marisol, wingless, unarmed, holding the gold crown in her hands. The Angel holds the crown out to the audience as Marisol looks at her.)
Oh God. What light. What possibilities. What hope.
(The Angel kisses Marisol.
Bright, bright light begins to shine directly into the audience’s eyes—for several seconds—and Marisol, the Angel, June, Lenny, and the homeless people seem to be turned into light. Then, all seem to disappear in the wild light of the new millennium—blackout.)