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.
Cool Root 