Peas, a very short play by Aidan Parkinson

In a pool of light an Old Man sits weakly, precariously, at a small, red, formica-topped table with chipped, rusting, tubular legs.  Two chairs with torn, red, plastic coverings.  Old Man in dirty white shirt, suspenders, dark trousers and ancient slippers.  He stares straight ahead.  Off, we hear the Young Man moving around a kitchen.  When he enters, he is wearing half-mast trousers, red suspenders, polished Doc Martin boots and an immaculate, white shirt.

YOUNG MAN:  (Off) D’ye want peas?

No response from Old Man who continues to stare, weak, wan and struggling to breathe.

YOUNG MAN:  (Entering.  Loudly.) I said, d’ye want peas.

OLD MAN:  (Laboured intake of breath.) Where’s yer mother gone?

YOUNG MAN:  Are ye worried?

OLD MAN:  She knows not to leave me alone with you.

YOUNG MAN:  Maybe she’s decided she wants ye dead too.  (A beat.  Loudly.) D’ye want peas?

OLD MAN:  I won’t eat an’thin’ you gimme.

YOUNG MAN:  Suit yerself.  It’s not everyday I cook.  (Exit to kitchen)

The old man tries to stand, succeeds, just about, looks around, frightened, considering a way out.  A beat.  Falls back into chair.  Pause.

OLD MAN:  I need to pee.

YOUNG MAN:  (Off) Just pee yer pants like ye always do.

OLD MAN:  I don’t want to pee me pants today.

YOUNG MAN:  (Entering with plate of food: mashed potatoes, peas, ground beef, which he slides carelessly onto the table.) An’ why not today? Are ye goin’ on a date?  Sex, is that it?  There’s a ride in the works?!

OLD MAN:  I haven’t peed me pants in two days.  I’d like to keep them dry.

YOUNG MAN:  I’m not carryin’ ye up them stairs, ye smelly fuck!  The last time I did that the fumes nearly killed me.

OLD MAN:  I don’t smell today.

YOUNG MAN:  Like fuck ye don’t.

OLD MAN:  Don’t talk to me like that.

YOUNG MAN:  Like what?

OLD MAN:  ‘Smelly fuck.’

YOUNG MAN:  Ye are a smelly fuck.  An’ if ye died this minute ye’d be doin’ us all a favor.  (A beat) Includin’ yerself maybe.

OLD MAN:  I’m peein’.

YOUNG MAN:  Aw, Jesus Christ!

OLD MAN:  I told ye.

YOUNG MAN:  Ye told me ye didn’t want to pee yer pants today.

OLD MAN:  It’s awful.  I hate it.

YOUNG MAN:  What?

OLD MAN:  This… bein’ like this.

YOUNG MAN:  I wish I had some fuckin’ poison or somethin’.  Some rat shit, or weed or chemical or somethin’.

OLD MAN:  Why?

YOUNG MAN:  (Laughing) Why, he says?  Why?  Jesus! (Exasperated) Eat yer dinner.

The Old Man, bent over, stares into his dinner in disgust.  He manoeuvers a little in discomfort because of his wet trousers.

OLD MAN:  Me legs isn’t workin’ anymore.

YOUNG MAN:  It’s more than yer legs isn’t workin’.  Yer pisser isn’t workin’ an’ yer brain’s not far behind.  Sooner the better.  Save yerself a lot o’ trouble.

OLD MAN:  What?

YOUNG MAN:  Look, will I just hit ye over the head with a fryin’ pan or somethin’?  Push ye down the stairs or cut yer wrists in the bath an’ make it look like suicide?

Pause.

OLD MAN:  I don’t want to die.

YOUNG MAN:  Well, that’s hard luck, coz the wind’s about to blow ye away any minute now.  Your time has come old man, an’ all I’m sayin’ is…

OLD MAN:  I’m gonna do a shit.

YOUNG MAN:  Aw, for fucksake!

OLD MAN:  Take me to the toilet.

The Young Man looks at him in disgust.  The Old Man groans a little in pain, his bowels not quite working properly either.  Perhaps a fart.  The Young Man, thinking he has no option, goes to lift the Old Man, but withdraws instantly with the stench of the urine and the fart, coughing.

YOUNG MAN:  I can’t.  Honestly.  I can’t take it… Jesus Christ, me eyes are waterin’ with the fumes.  (Pause.) Will I ring the doctor?

OLD MAN:  For what?

YOUNG MAN:  I dunno.  Ye’re lookin’ pretty bad to me.

OLD MAN:  I’m dyin’.

YOUNG MAN:  No such fuckin’ luck!  You’ve been dyin’ for the last five years, an’ every day everyone around ye wishes ye dead, wishes ye’d just give us all a break, but no, on ye go regardless.  It’s like ye want to torture us, it’s like ye want to make it hell for yer family so’s we’ll never forget ye.

OLD MAN:  An’ me?

YOUNG MAN:  An’ you wha’?

OLD MAN:  I’m bein’ tortured.  Me legs isn’t workin’.

YOUNG MAN:  Fuck yer legs!  Jesus, I can barely bear the sight o’ ye.

The Old Man stares.  A couple of beats, then he falls into his dinner, face first.  The Young Man looks at him.  Waits.  Sits and looks some more.  Apprehensive.  The Old Man is deathly still.  The Young Man goes to him and raises his head by the hair.  There is food stuck to his face: potato in his eyes, a few peas embedded in the potatoes.   He looks dead.  The Young Man lets the Old Man’s head fall back into the dinner, hoots for joy, exits to kitchen, and reenters almost immediately with a cordless telephone.

YOUNG MAN:  (On phone) I think he’s gone… No, I didn’t call the doctor… He just fell into his dinner… Look, you just come home an’ see for yerself… (Phone off.  The Old Man stirs.) Oh, fuck!  (Enraged, then hopeless.) If you don’t die, old man, I’ll… Jesus… I’ll… Fuck, what the hell am I goin’ to do with ye?!  Ye’ll destroy us all, ye will!  Ye’ll wear us all out!  What the hell are we goin’ to do?!

OLD MAN:  (Lifts his head.  Licks food off his lips) Nice peas.  I’ve always had a thing for sweet garden peas.

Lights down.

The End.

Hell’s Holy Agenda… an agitprop play I’d love to see performed at Occupy sites.

Salvador, lying flat on the stage, center, face down, arms and legs spread-eagled.  We hear her like she’s beside us, speaking intently, full of hope and aspiration.  When she moves it is clear she has many physical challenges.  When she speaks she has a strong foreign accent.

Donald, suspended above the stage, statuesque, up stage right.

George, suspended above the stage, statuesque, up stage left.

Salvador

To stand.  To have stood.  To say that I have stood.

To stand up for.

To have stood by those beloved of me.

To under-stand.

To be in good standing.  (A little audible laugh.)

To stand.  To have stood.  To say that I have stood.

Donald

Speak.  Go ahead.  Say what you want.  Free to speak.  We’re not untutored.

George

There are listeners.

Donald

So what.  Placid.  Well-behaved.

George

They might encourage her.

Donald

What?  By listening?

George

Well, yes… that she has been heard… might… inflame her… she might in moving, move…

Donald

You exaggerate.

George

Not really… in unity, strength, as the scum often rave.

They pause.  Very still.  Silent.

Donald

But this is a land of individuals?

George

Yes.

Donald

Togetherness is for wimps.

George

Yes.

Donald

Would that she would leave us.

George

She is not going anywhere.

Again, a still, silent pause.  Salvador moves her right hand to the ground beside her right shoulder, elbow in the air.

George

Fuck, fuck, she moved.  We can’t have this.  Fuck.

Donald

Relax.  Humor her.  We can’t lose.  We have nothing to lose.

George

Humor her?  Fuck off.  I don’t humor the game.

Donald

Like this.  (To Salvador)  Let’s not be rash.  All is well as it stands.  You are at ease and fed.  The supplies get through.  Your children go to school.

George

Of sorts.

Donald

They read.  They write.

George

Not exactly.  Product names, ingredients, road signs.  Not exactly.  Can you imagine them reading widely?  It would muck up everything.

Donald

They read, they write and have all the opportunities the nation has to offer.

George

(Laughing in complicity with the propaganda.)  You crack me up, man.

Salvador puts her left hand on the ground beside her left shoulder.

Donald

My, my, aren’t we the vigorous little lassie this fine morning.  What have we been giving you to eat?  You must be exercising in your isolation.  Look at that for a pose.

George

Downright rebarbative, if you ask me.

Donald

What?

George

Muscle.  Vim and vigor.  Very unbecoming in a lady.

Donald

She is no lady.

George

Whore, then.  Slut.  Who cares.  Rag doll in a cage.

Donald

Arab?

George

Jew, actually.

Donald

Now.

George

And then… Christian, sometimes.

Donald

Who gives a fuck?  Zoroastrian, Hindu, Wasabi Chicketaw, some monkey waste of flesh from the bowels of Africa, some chop suey chick from the toenail of Ting Ling, who gives a fuck.  Lesser beings.

Salvador pushes on her hands, trying a push-up, trying a back-bend.  Her head rises, neck stretching, chin reaching.  We hear her effort.  She is in pain.  Donald and George watch antagonistically.  Salvador finally desists, unable to lift herself.

George

No harm in trying.

Donald

(Very angry)  Yes, there is.

George

I’m just humoring her.  Jeez!

Donald

Best there be no hint of effort.  I don’t like the disturbance on the air.  Best, quiescence.

George

That’s what I said.  Jeez!

Salvador, displaying all the signs of bruised, cut, perhaps even broken limbs, her elbows still in the air, bends her right leg, bringing the right knee out to the side.  An awkward, twisted effort gets her right leg under her body.  She lies panting from the effort.

Salvador

It is not much to ask.  To lift one’s head.  To look into the distance.  It is a gentle wish.

Donald and George laugh.

George

She’s pulling our leg.

Donald

No, just thick as a brick, dim as a fire fly.

George

Really.

Donald

Doesn’t have the goods.  Public school, what can I say?

George

Best that way…

Donald

Damn right.  (Scornfully.)  A gentle wish.  How can seeing far be gentle?  (To Salvador)  Seeing into the distance is naked aggression, bitch.  Even I know that.  You threaten our way of life, our freedom, the very fabric of our days.  A gentle fucking wish.

George

Right!  Fabric of our days, gentleness shmentleness

Donald

I knew this guy once.

George

Arab?

Donald

Jew, actually.

George

Now.

Donald

And then.

George

Christian, sometimes.  (Afterthought)  Woman, I presume.

Donald

Yes, occasionally.  Who cares.  Lesser being.  This guy.  He was in the dirt too.  (They laugh)  Fucking hilarious.  Ate dirt morning and night, no dignity, no shame, his women watching him brown-nosing his way through his days, for what, just to be alive at the end of the week, get his paycheck, drink, drug himself into oblivion so as not to see far, so as not to see anything, trying to dampen the last memory of his embarrassment.  He used to make gentle requests too, say things like, maybe I could have some time with my family (they laugh hysterically).  We tried to explain, how could we be the most powerful nation on earth, how can we remain as productive as we are if you have time with your family.  But he couldn’t get it.  They don’t get it.  This guy, anyway, this guy…

They are interrupted by a further movement from Salvador.  She is moving her bottom into the air and trying to straighten her left leg, her right leg still under her, her right ear on the ground.  When she is still, the dialogue goes on.

Donald (Continuing)

This guy got so low his family had to dig him out of the dirt every morning, he loved it, couldn’t get enough of it, pig with slops, hippo in the mud, wonder he ever got to work he crawled so slow, like some slug on a hill, some sloth on a branch.

They pause to look at Salvador.

Donald (Continuing)

This guy stood up once.  Actually did.  On his own two feet.  Saw the horizon.  Spoke of possibility, said, ‘This brightness and beauty can be shared by all.’

George

Shit, man, what did you do?

Donald

Well, I won’t describe it.  You’d have to be damn insensitive to put such cruel horrors into words.  Such expression is not fitting among civilized men.  Suffice it to say that he is no longer with us, that his atomic structure has been irreversibly altered, that his children ache.

Salvador moves – almost falling, swaying from pain – into a table pose, on hands and knees, back flat.  Slight pause.  Donald lowers to the ground quickly; decisively strikes Salvador a single blow that puts her back where she started.  Donald returns to his position.  Pause.

Donald

Arduous business.

George

Why can’t we be rid of her?

Donald

There are some limits on what we do.

They both laugh.

Salvador

I really don’t want to be angry or vengeful.  I’d prefer to forgive.

Donald and George look at each other and snigger.

The odd thing is though that it’ll probably be more painful for you to be forgiven.

George

What’s she blathering about.

Donald

Forgiveness.  Put a sock in it, for the love of fornication.

George

(Tittering)  That’s a good one, where did you get that?

Donald

I don’t know.  Thought I’d give cursing God a rest, seen as I believe in him and all that, seen as He’s on our side.  And anyway, I like fornication.

George

Put a sock in it, for the love of malnutrition.  Hah, that’s a good one too.  Four syllables.

Pause.

Donald

No it’s not.  What’s lovable about malnutrition?  Ho ho ho, I’m starving to death.  Look, spare ribs.  I mean if you said something like… for the love of frilly knickers, then you might have something, but…

George

Put a sock in it, for the love of tight pyjamas.

Pause.

Donald

I dunno.  Suppose.

Salvador curls into a fetal position.  Donald and George stare antagonistically.

Salvador

What way of life is that – the one you are protecting – that you need such force?

George

Don’t answer her.  It’s a trick question.

Salvador

I remember standing on a hill with my son watching the city shatter in the distance, rocket launchers and heavy artillery erasing the old ways.  You’re young, so you like to start from scratch, wherever you go.  You never build beside the old.  Where are your old people?  What do you do, shroud them in poverty and sickness, keep them out of sight.  There must have been old buildings around here at some point.  Where are the treasures around which you whisper in respect? How do you pay tribute to your gods?

George

Man, she has really slipped over the edge, too long on her knees.

Donald

You get that way after being isolated.  Looney tunes.  Loonley in loneness.  She’ll even start loving us after a while.  I knew her before, you see.  She wasn’t like this at all.  She was just an angry bitch with bad breath.  She needed to be tied down, liked it in fact, ugly frothing at the mouth, hoarse crying at the moon.

George

Who does she think she is?

Donald

That’s what we’d all say.  “Who are you?”  “Where are you from?”  “Where do you think you are going?”

Salvador

And I’d say, I am the memory of ancient peoples: the rising air, the ground on which you stand, the canopy of the sky.  It’s true.  You must make powder of my bones.  Just being here, lying here, is a threat to your way of life, like the rising water threatens the marsupial on a branch.

Salvador rolls into a child’s pose, again in much pain, sitting on her ankles, her forehead on the ground, her hands by her ears.  Donald and George stare intently.

George

Should we… ?  Will she…?  She’s up to something.

Salvador

Peace.  That is what I’m up to.  I want to negotiate.

Donald

Did I miss something?  Did something happen while I was having a leak?  A debate, is that it?  Is that what this is?

No, no, no, no, no, this… is the endless dark, more or less, and the silence of the tomb, kinda sorta.  This is the dark and the silence with the odd complacent listener looking to be amused, here, by chance, or mistake, a way of getting out of the house, away from the TV, crying children.  But that’s it.  That’s the extent of it.  No debate.  No altercation.

Salvador rises into downward dog pose: hands flat on the ground, straight arms, straight back, bottom reaching into the air, legs straight, feet flat on the ground.

George

Don’t do that.  Tell her not to do that.  Why is she doing that?

Donald

Lost something down there?

George

She must have healed.  Look at those legs.

Donald

You had better be navel gazing, because I’m in no humor for black bitches talking shit about healing and potential.  Can you hear me?

George

She’s not black, she’s kind of dirt brown.

Donald

Who cares.  Bedouin mongrel from Los Angeles, Kabylie toilet cleaner from Cairo, knacker housewife from Westport.  Who gives a fuck.

George

Ask her what she is, go on, ask her.  Bet she says black.  Bet you ten, twenty, say, bet you twenty.

Salvador goes on her knees, panting and pained with the effort.  She returns to child’s pose.

George

Why can’t we rape her?

Donald

We’re not torturers.

George

(Loud whisper)  Yes, we are.

Donald

No, no, no, no, no, George. We’re Generals, aloof, above it all.

George

(Tantrum)  But I want to be able to do anything I want.

Salvador

He stood on his own two feet.

George

I could get information out of her.

Donald

We don’t need information.

Salvador

Even the hippo in the mud…

George

When’s the next war?

Salvador

…stands on his own two feet.  (She giggles to herself, thinking of the hippo’s four feet.)

Donald

What do you mean ‘the next war?’  There’s always war.

George

No, I mean the next big one.  The next really juicy one.

Donald

You mean the next Really Big One?

George

Yes, the next cataclysm.

Donald

Soon, soon.

Salvador goes back to a table pose for a rest.

George

I don’t like all this movement.  It’s pissing me off.

Donald

I’ll put an end to it soon.

George

Soon.  I’m having anxiety attacks just looking at her do that shit.  It’s ugly.  It’s not right.  Who does she think she is?

Salvador

There are listeners.

George

I said that.  I said that. Fuck

Salvador

My son reads aloud to me.  I can hear him wherever I am.

Donald

I’ll bet she’s Arab.

George

No, no, black Ethiopian Jew.

Donald

Ask her.

George

What are you, woman?

Salvador

I am… the rising air.

George

Race, bitch, race!  What slimey race do you have the misfortune to belong to?

Salvador rises, with extreme difficulty and in extreme pain, into downward dog position.

George

What are you doing, what is that?

Salvador

Look, spare ribs.

Donald

Naked aggression, remember, we will interpret your stance as naked aggression.

George

She could be a pygmy, for all we know.

Salvador pushes into the pose, lengthening her arms and back, pushing heels to the ground, straightening legs.  She groans.

George

What is that?  It’s ridiculous.  What’s she doing?

Donald

Into your hands, Lord… Allah akbar… I commend my spirit … Baruch ha shem… Holy, holy, holy, Lord, God of Hosts… Kadima…

Salvador

Whore, rag doll in a cage, your children go to school… (she giggles)

George

She’s fucking with us.  Laughing at us.

Donald

Shut up, shut up, it makes no difference.  She has chosen her path.

Salvador walks her hands back to her feet and hangs there.

George

This is awful.  Hasn’t she heard a word we’ve said?

Salvador

Let’s not be rash.  Lie low.  Stay still.  Keep the peace.

George

Ok, ok, that’s it.  She so much as moves another inch and I’ll…

Salvador suddenly stretches her arms straight out to either side, silencing George.

Salvador

Know this, that we are not unprepared to defend ourselves.  We have not confused a desire for peace with stupidity.

Salvador begins her slow rise into an open-armed stand.  It is a long, invigorating stretch that requires extreme effort.  There is a strained, breathless silence as she rises.

George

Come on, come on, let’s do this, what are you waiting for?

Donald

I want to see.

George

She’s going to stand, damn it.  If it gets known, and it will get known, it might as well be…

Donald

Yes, go on.

George

It might as well be war.

Donald

It’s just flesh to be disposed of.  Just death.  What difference does it make… life only an instant anyway, death the passage, what difference, same thing, too much made of it.

George

Look, fuck, she’s rising, she’ll be a hero, an inspiration to others, and you want to allow… are you fucking soft in the head?  Give the order and let’s do this.

Donald

I want to see what she sees, I want to know before I go.

Salvador is at this moment bringing her head back level to face the audience, dropping her arms to her side, standing naturally.  She stares into the distance.

Salvador

Ah, I love standing at this window.  You can see the river, and the grass in the field there.  It’s like long, silky hair.

George

God dang it, bitch, appreciating nature and domestic life, next step, government and learning.  I won’t have it, I’m telling you, I’ll take matters into my own hands.

Salvador

Morning light on my face after a long night.  The birds excited and squabbling and filling the air.

George

Oh, stop it, I can’t take it, what is all this domesticity, days-of-our-lives crap!

Salvador

The smell of rising bread from the oven.  Cool tiles under warm feet.  Then later in bed the sky streaked red and pink.  Storks clapping and settling, cool air drifting in from the sea.

George

Aaaaaaaaaaaaagh!!  Arab ho!  Hindu pygmy shrew!  Fat China girl with buck teeth and pigtails, stop it, stop it… give the order and let’s do this now, now, now…

Salvador

My son, Jason, you know, eight years old, arriving home from school with a story about a stag.  “It was huuuge, Mom, his horns, his antlers, they were this big, you could string the hammock up between them and he wouldn’t even notice you were there!”

Donald suddenly drops to the ground, followed by George.  The lights roll and switch, resembling, in shifting patterns, an air raid, a rock concert, a city in flames; the sound, in like manner echoing through history, a radio tuning in and out, Winston Churchill with his ‘never to go to war again’ speech, George Bush lying about weapons of mass destruction, Christopher Columbus talking about the gentleness of the Arawak peoples; more static, clipped comments about the weather, cooking, travel, philosophical insights – Bertrand Russell, the Dali Lama, a Carl Sagan comment about life on other worlds.  Fade to black followed by the real sounds of a barrage of rocket launchers and other heavy artillery.  More radio static.  Half finished sentences.  A comedian. Canned laughter.  Advertising.  A DJ.  Music.  Static.  As the sound fades, lights slowly come back up.  Donal, George and Salvador are suspended from the flies, suggesting an abattoir, a lynching, a Golgotha.  The three swing slightly.  Wind.  Vast emptiness.  Creaking.  Then Salvador speaks, her voice weakened and broken, but still achieving the same aspiring, hopeful tone as at opening.

Salvador

To fly.  To have flown.  To say that I have flown.

To fly in the face of.

To live on the wing.

On the wind.

To fly the coop. (A little audible laugh.)

To fly.  To have flown.  To say that I have flown.

Pause for good measure.  Lights down.

The end.

Queen of Swords (Excerpt), a full-length play optioned by Andrew’s Lane Theatre in Dublin but never produced.

Act I  Scene v.

The street.  Enter Jasper and Mustard, the former a heavy-set, tall man in a suit; the latter, this time, in addition to his previous attire, is wearing a kilt and an eccentrically colored denim jacket.  They are coming from an incredibly successful heist of heroin.  Three other huddled figures are sleeping in the street.

JASPER:  Who woulda thought the whole thing could be so…(Stuck for a word)

MUSTARD:  … magic!

JASPER:  What?

MUSTARD:  Magic, y’know, dynamite.

JASPER:  Right.  It couldn’t’ve been smoother, timed better, more secret.  The Gardai haven’t even sniffed our presence in Paris, let alone fucking Kilfenora.  I’m a genius is what I am, and d’you know what I deserve… I deserve a handsome re… re…

MUSTARD:  …reward?

JASPER:  What?

MUSTARD:  Reward.

JASPER:  No, recompense is what I was thinking, handsome recompense…

MUSTARD:  Same thing.

JASPER:  I deserve a handsome reward for my labours?

MUSTARD:  You are indeed on the crest of a wave my dear Jasper.

JASPER:  (Clipping Mustard in the ear.) Don’t you ‘my dear Jasper’ me!  Don’t you give me that shit.

MUSTARD:  Ok.  (A beat. He changes tack.) Fuck you Jasper, peabrain, this is just the calm before the storm.

JASPER:  What storm?

MUSTARD:  Oh, arrest, incarceration, buggery.

JASPER:  I’ve just moved £2million worth of heroin without anyone noticin’.

MUSTARD:  Most of the proceeds for the poor, but, I haven’t been paid yet.

JASPER:  Here.  (He hands him a sachet of heroin as payment.)

MUSTARD:  Never touch the stuff.

JASPER:  Bollox.  How much are you expectin’?

MUSTARD:  (Cagily) Are you invitin’ me to negotiate?

JASPER:  Negotiate!  Fuck, that’s what you do when the Judge is sending you down for 20 years.  Fucking negotiate.  You’ll get what you always get.  You’ll get your week’s wages and no more.

MUSTARD:  £1000!!  Ah, for fucksake Jasper, this is a special week.  I deserve a bonus.  I deserve £10,000 for the risks and crap I went through this week.  You can’t be serious.

Jasper is occupying himself handing out free sachets to the addicts lying in the street.

JASPER:  Ah, suffer the little children to come onto me.  Here, my dear man, take this, on me, no need to get up.  Best quality, just in from gay Paree, knock yourself out.

MUSTARD:  You can’t be serious Jasper?!  It’s important to keep your employees happy.  I deserve a handsome reward as you said yourself.

JASPER:  Fuck off.  Don’t annoy me.  You’re not my employee.  You’re my slave, camelshit, look at the state o’ you.  You do the dirty work, clean the toilets, you’re my sudden-impact man.  You’d be sucking dick in Mountjoy if it wasn’t for me.  How often have I saved your life?

MUSTARD:  Oh, not this again.

JASPER:  You owe me, I own you.

MUSTARD:  (After a couple of beats.) You saw the Indo yesterday, didn’t you?

JASPER:  No, I didn’t.  I’m a celebrity, how am I supposed to read everything they write about me?

MUSTARD:  This woman, Myra Deane, is getting kinda close to the bone.

JASPER:  Yeh, yeh, the writing’s already on the wall for her.  I sent the lads over earlier to pay her a visit.  She’s a good writer.  We’ll use her again.

MUSTARD:  She mentioned your mother in today’s article.

JASPER:  What did she say about me mother?

MUSTARD:  That she died in pain and poverty.

JASPER:  (A bit shocked and upset) Really?

MUSTARD:  She also had a few things to say about Ian Grimes.

JASPER:  (Very upset. Hissing.) What!?

Long pause.  Jasper is shocked and unnerved.  This is very serious.  His anger builds to the point where he grabs Mustard by the throat and chokes him in earnest.

JASPER:  Some fucker, some bollox, some cunt has betrayed me!  It wouldn’t be you would it?  No, you just want your wages, you just want… what the fuck do you want? (A beat) Nah, it’s not you. (He throws Mustard aside, who slides gasping into a corner.) You wouldn’t have the nerve for betrayal!  (Jasper kicks a couple of the deadbeats in the street.) How about all you meatballs?!  Was it one of yous?  Someone doing some whispering behind good king Jasper’s back?  Someone trying to take me down when I’m on a roll.  There’s no one knows about me and Ian Grimes.  (Pause.  He looks around.  Kicks the third figure.) What about you fuckface?  (The figure groans.) Aw, did I upset your sleep, did I interrupt a sweet dream?  (He kicks him hard) You wouldn’t be squeeling on me by any chance, would ya?  Ha?  Ha? Fucking drug addicts, you make me puke.  No will power.  Why can’t yis get yisr acts together?  (He throws him a sachet of heroin.) Hey, how about doing a little bit o’ detective work for me, eh?  Maybe you could find out who told Mizz Deane that I killed Ian Grimes.

MUSTARD:  It didn’t say you killed him.

JASPER:  It’s all the fuckin’ same!  The fact that our names were mentioned in the same mouthful means the damage is already … fuck!… when I get my hands on that stoolie I’ll… fuck… I’ll tear his tongue out through his throat.  I saw that in a film once.  Columbian necktie.  It was fuckin’ perfect.  It was fuckin’ sublime.

MUSTARD:  What would you know about perfection, about sublime.  You’re too pigfuckin’ ignorant to know anything about perfe…

JASPER:  Shut up, shut up, I’m tellin’ you, it was sublime.  There’s not enough fuckin’ violence in films.  You hear all this shit about there bein’ too much violence, too much bang-bang an’ thunk-thunk, it’s all crap.  There’s no violence at all on TV.  What?!  What?!  You think lettin’ off a jasus subfuckinmachinegun is violence, do you?   You think prancin’ around sweatin’ an’ showin’ off biceps is violence.  That’s not hurt, that’s not pain, that’s not violence, that’s choreography.  Rambo or Van Damme with their muscles and their tai kwan dooby shit!  That’s not violence.  You wanna see some violence, do you?  You wanna taste of the tree of blood an’ evil, eh?  Well, go see Ian Grimes’ family and see how they still suffer.  Endless loss.  Foreverache.  What fuckin’ TV show shows that?  Eh?  Eh?  That‘s violence.  (Raising his voice.) An’ let whoever squeeled on me be warned.  I will rain such hurt on you and yours that you’ll beg me to slaughter everyone you know.  Do I make myself clear?!  (He turns quickly and conspiratorially to Mustard.) She has to be silenced, what can we do?

MUSTARD:  We can pull her tongue through her throat an’ just forget about the stoolie.

JASPER:  Oh, that’s very clever, very intellectual indeed.  We kill her and the stoolie just goes on crappin’ stools!!  Anyway, you don’t have the nerve for that kind of movie star shit.  Can’t you be more helpful?  Didn’t I just say I was givin’ you a bonus, didn’t I?  Make a reasonable suggestion an’ there’ll be a few gs under your pillow on the morn.  C’mon Mustard me oul flower, don’t go sour on me now, I need you, I need your quick wits.  I need your style Mustard, where would I be without you?  (A Pause.  Mustard clearly can’t think of anything.  Jasper throws him aside again.) Thick as two short fuckin’ planks, that’s what you are.  Do I have to do everythin’ alone?  Do I?  Can I not depend on you to come up with the odd bright idea now an’ again.  Huh?  Huh?  Jesus, it’s like gettin’… it’s like … it’s like gettin’…

MUSTARD:  …blood from a stone?

JASPER:  Well, aren’t we a regular little cliché machine or wha’?

MUSTARD:  You’re such a prick.  If you’d just shut up for a minute I might be able to think straight.  (Long silence) What did you get the lads to do this mornin’?

JASPER:  Just scare her a bit.

MUSTARD:  What did they do?

JASPER:  They broke in, and wrote shit on her wall, stuff like…eh… Write no more… or…  y’know, stuff to tell her not to write any more.

MUSTARD:  That’s all you want, isn’t it?  To stop her writin’?  Ok.  I could pay her a visit, drive the nail home.  Let her know we’re serious.

JASPER:  Yes, very serious.

MUSTARD:  An’ if we have to get heavy we can always do something really sick, like cut her writin’ finger off or somethin’.

JASPER:  Oh, fuck!!  I didn’t want it to go this way.  She’s drivin’ me to it.  I didn’t want …  What are we goin’ to do?  An’ everythin’ was goin’ so well.  (He cries) I just want a healthy wealthy life with a bit of decision-makin’ power.  It’s not fair.  Some people get that handed on a plate to them.  But people’ve been fuckin’ with me since I was a kid.  You know when I was a kid the big boys used to rub jam sandwiches in my face an’ make me cry.  It was terrible.

MUSTARD:  We could get Leary’s gang to do a drive-by an’ pay them with a couple o’ pound o’ smack.

JASPER:  More violence.  Orphaned child an’ a lonely Dad.  It’s awful sad.  Isn’t there another way? (A beat) If we have to get shut of her we’ll need a good alibi.  Get workin’ on that immediately.  Have the two of us out of the country if possible.  We’ll decide on a date soon.

MUSTARD:   Yeh, I love alibis.  Plausible elsewheres.  How about skiin’ with Fritz in the Swiss Alps?

JASPER:  I don’t ski.

MUSTARD:  So?

JASPER:  How about ridin’ the arse off some Spanish birds in Ibiza?

MUSTARD:  But you don’t ride either.

JASPER:  Like fuck.

MUSTARD:  Ibiza’s good, yeh.  But, you know what we should try first?  We should just go to her editor, whatshisname…

JASPER:  O’ course, yeh, Harris, that softy fuck’ll do anythin’ we say.

MUSTARD:  We should just go to him an’ tell him not to publish her stuff anymore.

JASPER:  Brilliant.  You’re a genius,  (He starts kissing Mustard, who objects) y’know that.  I’d be lost without you.  Ah, c’mon, don’t be shy.  It’s them lips o’ yours, they’re an awful turn-on.  You can’t blame a man for feelin’ amorous with a looker like you steamin’ up the atmosphere.

MUSTARD:  Give over.

JASPER:  The original tongue an’ groove is right.

MUSTARD:  Piss off.

Blackout.

Waitin on the Ma, one of several plays written for bars and directed by John Quinn in the ’90s

A bar in Trinity College, Dublin.  Wild party.  Downstage centre, a table and chairs.  Cormac enters right, self-important, in academic cap and gown.  He strides across the stage acknowledging someone and exits left.  Joe saunters on after him, a critical eye, in dusty, paint-spattered workman’s jeans, boots and heavy check shirt, carrying a tool bag and a settling pint of stout.  He stops centre, calling out after Cormac.

JOE:   This’s where I said we’d be. (To himself.  Bitterly.) You’ll fuckin walk away from me like tha’ ok.

Pause, as he looks off bitterly after his graduating brother.  Joe puts pint on table and sits.  He searches his pocket, takes out some money, counts it:  he has enough.    He stretches pleasurably and makes himself comfortable.  He does some people watching, looking around the bar, obviously interested in the women. A nubile nymphet saunters by and he drools comically.  Reenter Cormac.

CORMAC:  Dreadful place this!

JOE:   (Still watching the girl.) Oh, I dunno abou’ tha’.

CORMAC:  You shouldn’t have said we’d meet Mother here.  The carpet is sticky with beer.  Everyone is smoking hash.  There’s a pair snogging over there and she’s got her hand down his trousers.

JOE:  My kind o’ place.  An’ Ma’ll be curious to see where you’ve spent the las’ four years.

CORMAC:  Nothing but engineers and Ag. students throwing orange peels and acting the prick.

JOE:  Will ye sit down for fucksake, ye’re like a bat in heat.  D’ye wana pint?

CORMAC:  Why didn’t you change your clothes?  Mother will be very upset.  You look like… like … a worker.

JOE:  That might have somethin’ to do with the fact tha’ I work, unlike the rest o’ the prancers around this kip.

CORMAC:  Let me see, I think I’ll have something sweet.  Get me a Sandyman port.

JOE:  I will in me arse.  That’s a bleedin’ Grannies’ drink.

CORMAC:  My God, you’re abysmal!  Can I not drink what I want?  Am I not allowed to do what I like around here?  I’m having an aperatif before I eat dinner, if that’s ok with you, is that acceptable? (Noticing a barman.) Garcon, donnez moi un vin de porto, s’il vous plait, merci.

JOE: (Mimicking) ‘I’m having an aperatif before I eat dinner, Garcon!’.  Where d’ye think ye bleedin’ well are?

CORMAC:  Le mec est francais.  The barman is a French exchange student and I am in Trinity College Dublin, one of the finest Universities in the world, from which I am about to graduate with first class honours.  This, in case you haven’t noticed, dear brother Joe, is a cultured  environment where many languages are spoken.

JOE:  Except my language! (Looking off. Pause.) Jasus!!  Looka the arse on yer one!  (Shouting after her.) Hey, young one, how’s yer belly for a lodger?  (To Cormac) I’d gimme right hand to get into her knickers.  D’ye see the one I’m talkin’ abou’ ?

CORMAC:  Now you listen to me.

JOE:  All those curves an’ me withou’ brakes, wha’?!

CORMAC:  You can’t be saying things like that here.

JOE:  Like wha’?

CORMAC:  Like ‘how’s yer belly for a lodger?’

JOE:  Ah, g’way! If they can speak Latin, which is a dead bleedin’ sandwich, then I can speak plain English, as in Viking Dublin anyway. (Taking Cormac’s mortar board.) Here, give’s a go o’ yer threads.

CORMAC:  Gimme that!  It’s not a toy.

JOE:  Really?  Looks like somethin’ a baby might chew… or piss into. (He turns it upside-down, holding it in front of his thighs.)

CORMAC:  Give it to me Joe, I’m warning you.

JOE:  Aren’t you supposed to have some kinda coloured shit around yer shoulders?  (He sings.)  ‘Tie a yellow ribbon round me thick red neck…’  If ye don’t have the colours doesn’t that mean yer just a toilet cleaner, academicly speakin, Professor Ajax or Dr. Comet or somethin’?

CORMAC:  No, it doesn’t! Now give me the… 

Joe throws the cap to him carelessly. Cormac dusts it carefully.

CORMAC:  (Kind of cornered into the colloquialism.) Isn’t it your twist or what?

JOE:  (Pause.  Considering the meanness.) Yeh, it seems I’m doin the twist today, awrigh’!

CORMAC:  You offered me a drink.

JOE:  I am your humble distillary. (He bows.)

CORMAC:  You just bear with your brother’s-keeper role for the day, and Mother will be very pleased with you.  (He notices the barman with his port.) There’s my port.  And I think I’ll have a double whiskey as well.

After some hesitation Joe goes to get the drinks.

Exit stage right and reenter almost immediately.

Cormac takes out his Irish Times.

Once Joe is seated he takes out his newspaper,

The Sun, with a large-breasted, topless woman

on the cover.  Pause.

CORMAC:  Don’t you ever read anything that’s even vaguely… elevating?

JOE:  (Making a gesture with his elbow on his thigh and his clenched fist rising.) What could be more elevatin’ than tits like tha!!

CORMAC:  Books, I’m talking about.

JOE:  I read bukes.  Michael Crichton, Sydney Sheldon, that kind o’ shite.

CORMAC:  Shite is right.

JOE:  How would you know? All you ever read is Jane Austen.  So don’t talk to me about shit.  Readin’s goin outa fashion anyway.  (Joe takes a look at Cormac.) Look at the state o’ ye.  Ye’re like a bleedin’ crow.  (Distracted by a passing girl.) Here, youngone, get yer laughin gear round tha.  Beautiful lips.  Y’know what Cormac me oul flower, I think I’m goin to get meself one o’ these edjemicated birds before the night is ou’.

CORMAC:  They wouldn’t have you.

JOE:  (Confidently) We’ll see about that.  You haven’t seen me in action, have ye?  Women flock to my door.  Just the sight o’ me an’ they go into hysterics.  Y’know, like at a concert or somethin.

CORMAC:  The women here are more discriminating.  Not like the scrubbers you hang around with.

JOE:  The ugly ones are the best, ye see: they’ve no shame, y’know what I mean.  But I’m willing to give a model a try.  I’m into oral sex meself.  They love me long tongue.  Harold Robbins says that with three fingers and a sporty tongue he could rule the world.

CORMAC:  Sshh!  Not so loud.

JOE:  (Taunting) What are you into?  I bet ye’ve had a kinky time these last few years with all these experienced women.  What’s your cup o’ tea Cormac eh?  What turns you on?

CORMAC:  I’m afraid I’m into things you wouldn’t understand.

JOE:  ‘Scuse me!  (A beat) Like what?

CORMAC:  (A beat) It’s private.

JOE:  I’m sure it’s very excitin’. (A beat) I’d say you’re a flasher meself.  I’d say you’re a raincoat man ramblin’ the corridors o’ this asylum frightenin’ the little girls, like Quasimodo in rubber!!  I always knew you were sick’n’weird’n’twisted behind that mommy’s-boy smile!  I wouldn’t be surprised if you were into little boys!

CORMAC:  You’re wrong –  but more perceptive than you know.

JOE:  I’m never more perceptive than I know.  I don’t have to be educated to be sharp, y’know.  What did you study, anyway?  Histrionics and lawlessness, wasn’t that it?

CORMAC:  No, it wasn’t.  It was Philosophy and Literature.

JOE:  Flossofy… dental floss, floss, flossofy…  You’re into gum protection, isn’t that it?

CORMAC:  (False laugh) Ha, ha, ha!  Very funny.

JOE:  And Litterture!  As in litter.  Keep Dublin Dirty.  Bruscair go leor.  Litterture:  The study of people who litter the world with bad poetry.  Plenty o’ those fuckers around here.

CORMAC:  Y’know, there’s nothing sadder than someone who’s not funny, trying to be funny.

A beat.

JOE:  Mate o’ mine, John, we call him Dental Floss, he’s the only flossofer I know.  He reads bukes all the time too.

CORMAC:  Books, please.

JOE:  That’s what I said, bukes.

CORMAC:  Keep your voice down, will you.

JOE:  Eh, sure. (A beat) Am I embarrassin’ you?  Coz it’d suit me to fuck off outa here.  I didn’t want to come to your crappy graduation anyway. I’m only here to please the Ma … (Pause.) So, as I was sayin’, me an’ Dental Floss were havin’ a few scoops one night when in walks this guy we call the Communist, coz he has a big Red nose, see, so over he comes an’ sits down beside us.  So Dental Floss starts slaggin’ him about his nose sayin’, must be handy in the dark, light yer way home, no fear o’ you gettin’ lost, that kinda thing.  An’ the Communist said, ‘There’s no light in my life’. For once Dental Floss didn’t know what to say.  So I said, bein’ the nice guy I am an’ all tha’, ‘That must be flossophy.  John here tells me that you’re a flossopher?’  ‘Yes’, says he, ‘an’ if ye get me a double whiskey I’ll tell ye all about Socrates.’  No thanks, says I, there’s a few quid for a drink, but we’ve a Joe Maxi waitin’ outside, so… off we skedaddled like a light, into the light, leavin the Communist in the dark;  where all flossofers are and should be, ever after, Amen!!! What d’ye think? (A beat) I make these up as I go along y’know. (A beat) But what’s worse is you’re goin’ to be in the dark for years to come, amn’t I righ’?  Aren’t you goin’ to be here studyin for another ten years?  Ma’s mortified at the thought.

CORMAC:  She is not.  She’s very proud.  Not ten years.  I’ve won a scholarship.  So, over the next five or six years or so I could do a doctoral thesis in a subject of my choice.

JOE:   The question is what are ye goin’ to be when ye grow up?

CORMAC:  I’m going to be… great things.  I’m going to be a writer, traveller, poet.  I’m going to do things you don’t even know can be done.

JOE:  Oh, yeh?

CORMAC:  Yeh!

JOE:  What?  Like what?

CORMAC:  Like…like…like travel in cyberspace, like live till I’m a hundred and forty, like be transported by the finest of fine art and meet the artists and live and learn in many languages and countries!!!

JOE:  Fuckin giknah!

CORMAC:  That’s it.  That’s all you can do, abuse people, swear and attack and offend.  Jesus, am I glad I got outa of that house, away from you and your low self-esteem, and your clawing at me to keep me down.  Your just like everyone else in this damn country:  begrudgers who don’t have the generosity of spirit to praise or to encourage or to help their own.  Most of us end up wounded, wounded and beaten, clowns, hiding in some alcoholic haze to make sure we never fully realise what we’ve become.  (Pause.  Joe sucks his thumb, taking the mickey out of Cormac’s tirade.) D’ye wanna hear a poem?  D’ye wanna hear a poem I wrote for mother?

JOE:  No I don’t.  The last time I listened to one o’ your poems I got a brain tumour.

CORMAC: (Taking out a sheaf of papers) C’mon, I wrote this specially for today.  I want you to tell me if you think mother will like it…  OK?

JOE:  She probly won’t.  She probly won’t even understand it.

CORMAC:  Yes, she will.  Are you going to listen or what?  (Joe sighs heavily but Cormac persists.) OK, this is a lyric in honour of our mother on the day her eldest son graduated from college.  It’s entitled, The Pangs of Birth: (Pause.)

A dull heart in an aching time

is what the world bequeaths a mother…

JOE:  Ah, c’mon Cormac, give’s a break, ye’re not goin’ to torture me with this shite.   Why don’t ye just put it on a postcard;  there’s no need to be readin’ these things in public;  why can’t ye just keep it to yerself like wankin’ or pickin’ yer nose.

CORMAC:  (Hurt) How dare you!

JOE:  I’m sorry, but it’s just…  do other people like this stuff?

CORMAC:  Of course, they do.  I’ve read publicly at many a literary gathering.

JOE:  It’s just… it’s just… it makes me feel… it makes me feel  (He wants to say ‘sick’)… well…

CORMAC:  Of course it makes you feel.  That’s what poetry is supposed to do.  Now just listen once so that I’ll know whether Mam will like it or not. (Joe throws his eyes to heaven, feeling cornered.) OK, I’ll start again.  (Pause) The Pangs of Birth:  (Pause)

JOE:  (Distracted by a passing nymphet.) How’s it goin’ beautiful?  D’ye wanna hear some po’try? No?  Bye-bye, I’ll miss ye.  Me brother’s a sex fiend.

CORMAC: (Very hurt) Are you listening or what?

JOE:  (Noticing Cormac’s hurt) I’m all ears.

CORMAC:  Ok, here goes: (Pause.)

A dull heart in an aching time

is what the world bequeaths a mother,

She who brings forth wriggling life

bears the hurt of many wars…

JOE:  (Holding his hand to his mouth, as if to get sick.) I just can’t, I’m tellin’ ye, I just can’t take it…

CORMAC:  This is very rude of you.

JOE:  How many pages d’ye have there?

CORMAC:  Six.

JOE:  Jasus!  I’d be fatally brain-damaged before ye finished. Maybe ye could just read the funny bits to me.

CORMAC:  There aren’t any funny bits.

JOE:  G’way!!  Who would’ve guessed?  (Taking a joint from his pocket.) Maybe if we smoke this we’ll find it all funny.  Go on, have a toke o’ tha’, best apertif ye could wish for.  Give ye an appetite an’ all.

Cormac looks at the joint addictively. He has done very little joint-smoking.

CORMAC:  So you’re not going to listen to my poem?

JOE:  (Beginning to undress.) Maybe later.  First of all I have to change me clothes, then I want to get stoned, then, once I’m in me glad rags, I want to pick up one o’ these poutin’  flouzies – then, if the woman wants to hear it, and the Ma wants to hear it, you should have an audience for yer work, y’know what I mean, then maybe I’ll be on form for listenin’ to yer poem, awrigh’?

Cormac lights the joint.

CORMAC:  What are you doing?

Joe now has his shirt off.

JOE:  I got this tin o’ fruit this mornin’.  I just want to try it on.

CORMAC:  You’re not going to change here, are you?

JOE:  Why not?  Nobody’ll even notice.  Have a blow o’ tha’ joint an’ shut up outa tha’.

He reaches into his toolbag for the suit.  Cormac pulls deeply on joint.

JOE:  Couple o’ tokes now, it’s very strong.

Joe takes the suit from his bag.  It is sky blue or turquoise,

very bright and garish and expensive.

JOE:  (Holding up the suit.) What d’ye think?

CORMAC:  Where did you get that?  It’s absolutely vile.

JOE:  Steadman got it for me.

CORMAC:  Don’t tell Mam you were dealing with Steadman or she’ll have your life.

JOE:  G’way outa tha’!  Ma thinks Steadman is a nice fella coz he always has a suit on.  Ma always judges by appearances or hadn’t you noticed?

Cormac pulls hard and inhales deeply.

Joe takes a clean T-shirt from his bag.

JOE:  Steady as she goes.  I’m tellin’ ye it’s strong stuff.  We do want you to be standin’ durin’ the ceremony, y’know.

CORMAC:  I’ll be OK.  I don’t have to say anything, just walk up, get me degree and walk away.

Joe takes off his shoes.  Cormac offers Joe the joint.

JOE:  (Taking a light hit and looking closely at Cormac’s garb.) I wonder do they make this cap ‘n’ gown shit look purposely stupid.

Joe returns the joint.  Cormac pulls hard and hungrily as before.

CORMAC:  (Pulling) When you have that suit on…(Pulling) … we’ll see who looks stupid… (Pulling and holding it in )…

JOE:  You look like fuckin’ Dracula.

CORMAC:  (Holding then exhaling with a sigh.) And you’re going to look like Liberfuckinace.

Cormac takes another quick hit before he returns the joint to Joe.

JOE:  (Opening his trousers.) At least I’ll have a certain sex appeal.

Joe’s trousers fall around his ankles.  He takes a last light hit and puts the butt in             the ashtray.

CORMAC:  (With a more obvious Dublin accent.) Put on yer fuckin clothes outa tha’!  Everyone’s lookin at ye!

JOE:  No they’re not.  No one’s even noticin’.

CORMAC:  Get’s another drink, will ye?

JOE: (Putting on the suit trousers.) Wha’ d’ye want?

CORMAC:  Eh, I think I’ll have a …

He is distracted.  From now on he is often distracted and his short-term                         memory isn’t working the best either.

…  what was I sayin’?

JOE:  Ye were sayin that ye wanted somethin to drink, ye dozey fuck.

CORMAC:  Oh, yeh… eh, whiskey, uisce beatha for the Bachelor of Arts.

JOE:  (Throwing on the clean T-shirt.) Ye’re a wild whore, y’know tha’ Cormac?

CORMAC:  Ah, sure, why not?  I’m celebratin’.  Why wouldn’t I knock back a few Jemies an’ the day that’s in it.

JOE:  (Leaving to get the drinks.) Strange how you only sound workin’-class when ye’re stoned! (Exit)

CORMAC:  (Looking around mischievously) Hey, youngone, get yer laughin’ gear round tha’!  (He giggles gleefully.) Jays, I haven’t heard tha’ one in ages.  (Again mischievously) Hey, gorgeous, how’s yer belly for a lodger?! (He giggles again.  He sees Joe’s newspaper, picks it up and starts staring at the nude woman.) What could be more elevatin’ than tits like tha’?! (He laughs loudly.)

JOE:  (Entering with drinks, lemonade for himself, double whiskey for Cormac.) Havin’ fun are we?

CORMAC:  Yeh, yeh, Jays tha’ stuff’s great, where’d ye get it?

JOE:  Steadman.  Never let’s me down. (Putting on his suit jacket.  About the suit.) Here, d’ye think this’ll make the pussy meow round here?

CORMAC:  No, but it’ll set the dogs barkin.

JOE:  What d’ye mean?

CORMAC:  What do I mean? (A beat) What d’ye mean what do I mean?

JOE:  Ye said me tin o’ fruit’ll set the dogs barkin.

Long pause.  Cormac doesn’t know where he is.  He stares blankly.

Ah, forget it.  Drink yer whiskey an’ think o’ the glory o’ the hour.

Cormac drinks half his whiskey in a gulp.

JOE: (contd.)  (He stands, thinking he sees the Ma.) Here she is.  (Cormac stands and brushes himself down. Pause.  Joe looks again.) No, it’s not her.  There’s a good few Ma’s in here.  An’ most o’ them look comfy enough.

CORMAC:   (Looking around self-consciously.) Is anyone watchin’ me?

JOE:  Yeh, there’s all these women at the bar, laughin an’ lookin at ye.

Cormac looks around at the bar.  Sees no one looking at him.

CORMAC:  Fuck off you!

JOE:  (A take of the snake from the Jungle Book) Trust in me…  Trust in me…

CORMAC:   (Lifting his glass.) Maybe I shouldn’t have got stoned.  (He drinks.)

JOE:  Maybe ye shouldn’t be drinkin’ whiskey.  Maybe ye shouldn’ta come to this bar.  Maybe ye shouldn’ta told Ma what day graduation was on.  Maybe ye shouldn’ta come to college in the first place.

Cormac drinks the rest of his whiskey.  He sits back, big effort to be dignified.

JOE:  You’re lookin great Cormac, y’know tha’, ye’d never know ye were stoned and drunk.

CORMAC:  Shut up!  Shut up!

JOE:  All ye need now is a woman with her hand down yer pants and ye’d think ye were god.

CORMAC:  I don’t want Ma to know that I’ve been smoking, ok?

JOE:  Mum’s the word.  Now, d’you know any o’ the talent in here?  (They both look around.)

CORMAC:  (A lie) Some!

JOE:  Well, how abou’ introducin’ me?

CORMAC:  What?

JOE:  How abou’ introducin’ one o’ these women y’know?

CORMAC:  Yeh, sure.  (He giggles) In that get-up.  I’m thinking twice about continuin’ to sit with ye.

JOE:  Oh, are ye now?

CORMAC:  Yeh,  I have a reputation to live up to around here.

JOE:  An’ wha’ reputation is tha’?

CORMAC:  Well, I’m seen as the latter-day existentialist lover.  A kind of tragic, adorable outsider with a tremendous appetite for life and love.

JOE:  So the pimple on yer dick doesn’t bother them.

CORMAC:  What pimple?

JOE:  Or the way yer always scratchin yer hole.

CORMAC:  I don’t scra…

JOE:  Or yer little soft pot-belly an’ white skinny excuse for a body.

CORMAC:  And you expect  me to introduce you to the women I know.  They’d have you for dessert little brother.  Macho men are not in vogue at the moment.  (Thinking he sees his mother.  Panicky) Is this her now?  (They both stand and look off stage for a couple of seconds.) Nope.  (They sit.) Get’s another drink, will ye.

Cormac yawns and has already begun to slur his words.  Exit Joe to get him             another double whiskey. Cormac loosens his tie and pulls at the gown as it is             becoming uncomfortable.  He scratches his hemorrhoids surreptitiously.

Reenter Joe.  Cormac reaches immediately and unsteadily for his drink.

CORMAC:  (Quoting ‘Waiting for Godot’) ‘Will night never come?’

JOE:  Sorry?

CORMAC:  ‘Nothing happens, nobody comes, nobody goes, it’s awful.’ (Pause as Joe looks at him suspiciously.  Now, ‘Endgame’.) ‘You’re on earth you fool, there’s no cure for that’

JOE:  Wha’ on earth are you talkin abou’?

CORMAC:  (‘Godot’ again.) ‘A question!  Who?  What?  A moment ago you were calling me Sir, in fear and trembling.  Now you’re asking me questions.  No good will come of this.’

JOE:  (Cynically.  Not really caring.) Are you ok?

A beat.

CORMAC:  I’m sick of waiting.

JOE:  I like waitin’ meself.  Gives me a chance to look around, read a rag, relax, have a drink..

CORMAC:  (‘Endgame’)  ‘All life long the same inanities’.

JOE:  Ah, here!

CORMAC:  (‘Godot’) ‘That’s the idea, let’s make a little conversation.’

JOE:  (Looking at Cormac quizically) Y’know, you must be one of the biggest pricks under the sun.

CORMAC:  Thank you. (He reaches unsteadily for his drink and downs it.) Let’s go.

JOE:  We can’t.

CORMAC:  Why not?

JOE:  We’re waitin on the Ma.

CORMAC:  (‘I caught you’.) Ah!

JOE:  Don’t ye remember what day it is?

Pause.

CORMAC:  No.  (Pause.) What day is it?

JOE:  It’s your graduation day and we’re waitin’ on the Ma so tha’ we can all go to the ceremony together, then off to dinner with the rest of the family.

Cormac nods in acknowledgment.  He delivers the following in a bitter,             slurring, drunken stupor.

CORMAC:  Y’know, the shite I’ve had to put up with in this dump!  The minute I’d open me mouth, they’d look at me as if I was from Mars, in a lecture theatre, ye know wha’ I mean, everyone’d look at me as if I were some kind of sociological phenomenon.  (Joe mimicks these last two words mutely. Then, in a grand accent.) ‘Oh, cool, a proletarian in our midst.’  But I showed them.  Half o’ those fucking crapartists failed their finals while I came out on top.

Cormac reaches for his glass and drinks the last drop.

Joe is impassive as he speaks.

I didn’t even know there were social classes until I came to this kip.  Ireland’s a mess.  Y’know what the Irish Catholic ruling class did after Independence?  They just took everything British, the legal system, the education system, and above all the class system and plonked it on top of Irish society without even thinking what the consequences might be.  (He slugs at the empty glass, then stares blankly.)

JOE:  (With a cynical ring.) An’ what were the consequences Cormac?

CORMAC:  Well, the result is that Ireland is about as Irish as Yorkshire and as independent as a Navajo Reservation.  Most of this country is just like a reservation where people are ‘kept’, given the sop of social welfare, and educated just enough to be a reserve labour force for Europe and America…

JOE:  Is tha’ righ’ Cormac.

CORMAC:  That’s right.

Long Pause.

CORMAC:  What was I sayin?

JOE:  Ye were sayin tha’ yer girlfriend likes to do it on the kitchen table.

CORMAC:  Really?…  Get’s another whiskey, will ye, I’m just gettin a nice buzz on now.

Joe exits dutifully to get another drink.

CORMAC:  (‘Endgame’ again.) ‘Finished, it’s finished, nearly finished, it must be nearly finished. (Pause) Grain upon grain, one by one, and one day, suddenly, there’s a heap, the impossible heap.  (Pause) I can’t be punished any more.’

He sags, unconscious, in his chair.  Reenter Joe.

JOE:  Well, well, what a surprise.  (With an index finger, he nudges Cormac, who slides to the ground.  He looks up and sees his mother in the distance.  He waves and calls out.) Ma!  Ma!  Over here.

Lights down.

The End.