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DAN O'BRIEN | Key West
Act Three: East
NIALL
Let me get the ("lights")—
BRIGID
—Wow!
NIALL
Yeah.
BRIGID
Books . . . !
NIALL
I know. . . .
BRIGID
What is this? I mean—
NIALL
It’s my padded cell.
BRIGID
—Sorry?
NIALL
My studio.
BRIGID
Oh, it’s—
NIALL
It certainly is.
BRIGID
"Books"—!
I had no idea this
room was back here. . . .
NIALL
Really?
BRIGID
Out there you think it’s just a—
NIALL
Oh right . . .
BRIGID
—old bar, but in here it’s . . .
NIALL
Cluttered is what it is—
BRIGID
—intimate. —Do you sleep back here?
NIALL
No.
BRIGID
What’s the bed for then?
NIALL
Hm?
BRIGID
The bed:
NIALL
Oh, inspiration.
BRIGID
Ah. Ha ha.
NIALL
It’s just a room. —It’s an old house—the walls are made of shipwreck wood—the island used to live off shipwrecks—
BRIGID
Niall:
NIALL
I’m sorry, I just—.
I
don’t—.
I don’t know how
to act, exactly.
BRIGID
Do you mind if I ("sit")?
NIALL
No, help yourself. —Let me just ("clear away a space to sit")—
BRIGID
— What do you do here? in your studio? I mean, other than read. . . .
NIALL
Write.
BRIGID
What?
NIALL
No, I write.
BRIGID
—Really?
NIALL
Yeah.
BRIGID
What do you write?
NIALL
Poems.
BRIGID
You write poetry?
NIALL
I write poems.
Would you—?
BRIGID
—God, yes!
NIALL
No, I was offering to read you a poem.
BRIGID
Oh, I thought you were offering me a drink.
NIALL
—I could. I could get you a drink. Would you like—? —Do you drink?
BRIGID
Oh. —Yes: I drink.
NIALL
Right. Of course you do. —The usual?
BRIGID
Please.
NIALL
Right back—(exits)
BRIGID
(calling after)
—Know what, Niall? I think I’ll just have water!
NIALL
(pops his head in)
Sure?
BRIGID
Yeah.
NIALL
. . . Are you all right so?
BRIGID
I’m fine.
NIALL
Right back. (Gone again.)
(The bar is adjacent to the room, so we can just make out NIALL in shadow, getting her glass of water.
BRIGID, of course, can’t see him. She’s having a look at his books.
He pours himself a shot or two of something; knocks it back.)
BRIGID
(calling off)
—What about you?
NIALL
(off)
—What?
BRIGID
Are you all right?
NIALL
I’m a little light-headed . . . !
BRIGID
Me too . . . .
NIALL
—What?
BRIGID
I said I am too!
NIALL
It’s just not every day—! You know—?
BRIGID
I should hope not!
(He returns with a glass of water.)
NIALL
(spilling some)
Shit—
BRIGID
It’s all right—
NIALL
I’m sorry my hands—
BRIGID
Thanks.
(She takes the drink and in so doing takes his hands in hers, steadies them.)
BRIGID
What is it . . . ?
You said medication the
other night—is it AIDS?
NIALL
It’s epilepsy.
BRIGID
Epilepsy?
NIALL
—You thought I had AIDS?
BRIGID
I’m epileptic. —I was epileptic.
NIALL
—I know, it’s genetic.
BRIGID
Do you have seizures often?
NIALL
No, not unless I’m excited.
BRIGID
. . . Oh.
NIALL
(laughing)
—Ah!
BRIGID
Aha yes . . .
NIALL
That—or drinking heavily.
That’s 100% Key
West tap water, you know, at least 80% water. —Lead is a very underrated
mineral, I’ll have you know—
BRIGID
—Stop it, Niall. . . . Okay?
I’m still Brigid.
. . .
(He’s like a bird trapped in a room.
She tries to soothe him, to catch him.)
NIALL
—"Unassailable strength."
BRIGID
Sorry?
NIALL
That’s your name, in Irish. The mudder
tongue. —I looked it up the other day: "Unassailable strength," Brigid.
. . . Makes me think of
a ship at sea.
BRIGID
I don’t feel very strong.
NIALL
—Oh but you are!
You
would have to be, to be doing what you’re doing, what you’ve
done.
Does it feel different?
BRIGID
Does what feel . . . ?
NIALL
You know:
BRIGID
Oh.
NIALL
—Doesn’t it?
BRIGID
Yes. —Not really.
NIALL
You know, I had no idea? before, when I was talking to you—I had absolutely no fucking clue—
BRIGID
That I was your daughter?
NIALL
No that you’re dead! I suspected you
were my daughter—I suspected that the moment you came in, without
realizing it—I felt it, you know? —I recognized something.
. . .
But I never would’ve
guessed you were a ghost. You seemed so ("alive")—
BRIGID
—How could you know?
NIALL
It all makes sense. I mean, the clues. Looking back on the last few—
BRIGID
—You know what? It’s all right: Let’s not talk about it now, okay?
NIALL
What? Am I making you nervous?
BRIGID
A little bit.
NIALL
All right. I understand.
BRIGID
. . . .
NIALL
. . . What should we talk about?
BRIGID
I like this room.
NIALL
(smiles)
Liar . . .
BRIGID
I do—it’s your room—
NIALL
It’s too many books, I know—
BRIGID
Why are there no windows in here?
NIALL
—There is one.
BRIGID
Where?
NIALL
Behind the bookcase.
BRIGID
Which bookcase?
NIALL
That one there: philosophy. —No, psychology. —All the P’s, really.
BRIGID
Doesn’t do much good there, now does it?
NIALL
Sure. It comforts me, knowing it’s there—you
know, in case of I don’t know fire.
I find them a distraction.
BRIGID
Fires?
NIALL
No—
BRIGID
Books?
NIALL
—Windows.
BRIGID
Ah. Mmm.
NIALL
Yeah. —Ha ha!
BRIGID
—A distraction from your poetry?
NIALL
You really are the same, aren’t you?
BRIGID
. . . .
NIALL
I mean, as you were before. . . .
We
have this way of talking, you and I—like we’re the same mind, same
soul. . . .
Are you an angel?
BRIGID
No.
NIALL
Don’t be shy:
BRIGID
—I’m not an angel Niall—
NIALL
—Not yet!
BRIGID
—Not ever! It’s not like the movies: angels aren’t people.
NIALL
—They’ve no blood.
BRIGID
What?
NIALL
I remember that from school: "Dee angels,
dey do be having water in deir veins."
The
nuns taught me that.
BRIGID
Right. Well look, I’m not an angel:
I’m Brigid.
— Let’s
take this slower, okay?
NIALL
Whatever floats your boat. . . .
BRIGID
. . . Can I hear a poem?
NIALL
—Of mine?
BRIGID
Yeah.
NIALL
Ah no don’t think so.
BRIGID
But you just offered—
NIALL
I know but you see I’ve changed my mind.
BRIGID
Does it embarrass you? —I don’t mean to—
NIALL
We’ll do it later, okay?
BRIGID
. . . What do you write about, then? Is that all right to ask?
NIALL
Oh this and that, here and there. . . .
BRIGID
This is something you don’t like to talk about. . . .
NIALL
. . . Personal things. I write about—symbols,
from everyday life.
You wouldn’t find
it very interesting.
BRIGID
I think I would.
NIALL
No, you wouldn’t—.
BRIGID
We can talk about something else, if you’d rather.
NIALL
It’s just that I’ve never had anyone back here before, that’s all. . . .
BRIGID
. . . No one?
I find that hard to believe.
NIALL
It’s true.
BRIGID
. . . No lovers?—no friends?
NIALL
Not in a very long time—not a soul. . . .
BRIGID
Well thank you. I’m honored.
NIALL
—No I’m honored—I’m the
one who’s being honored here tonight! (Laughs.)
Really, I had no idea
you were dead . . . !
BRIGID
I’d no idea you were a poet!
NIALL
You don’t say!
BRIGID
I do, I do say! —I would’ve thought you were "too tall" for a poet.
NIALL
Oh, ha ha!
BRIGID
It makes perfect sense, though: Your attention to—your faith in words.
NIALL
. . . Okay.
BRIGID
What:
NIALL
I’ll give you a poem now.
(He goes to a desk drawer, pulls out a messy cardboard folder.
He flips through loose pages, selects one for a reason.
He hands it to her.)
NIALL (cont’d.)
Read it to yourself.
(She takes it from him, reads it slowly.
He’s nervous, moves about the room; he won’t look at her, won’t sit down.
When she’s finished reading she hands it back to him.)
BRIGID
Thank you.
NIALL
. . . You don’t like it.
BRIGID
I do—I’m not sure I understand it.
NIALL
What’s to understand? it’s a poem.
(He puts it back in the folder, replaces folder in the drawer, shuts the drawer hard.)
BRIGID
Sorry Niall—
NIALL
Did it scare you? is that why?
BRIGID
. . . .
NIALL
—Did the poem frighten you?
BRIGID
A little.
What does it mean? —Explain
it to me: all that imagery—
NIALL
—Why do you have to ask so many questions?
BRIGID
. . . ?
NIALL
If you don’t mind me asking: If you’re dead—if one is dead—I should think one should just know certain things.
BRIGID
I’m not omniscient, if that’s what you mean.
NIALL
You’re not.
BRIGID
No.
NIALL
Not even the slightest bit?
BRIGID
No.
NIALL
That’s too bad. . . .
Can you perform miracles?
BRIGID
I don’t think so.
NIALL
Have you tried?
BRIGID
No.
NIALL
—You have got to be kidding me!
BRIGID
—I’m not a saint, Niall!
NIALL
Miracles would be the first thing I’d try!
(He pushes glass of water toward her.)
NIALL (cont’d.)
Go on:
BRIGID
I’m not Jesus Christ, Niall. . . .
NIALL
(smiles, takes water back)
. . . I know you’re not. . . .
BRIGID
. . . .
NIALL
—Can you fly? can you travel great distances? is time and space just a metaphor to you?
BRIGID
I don’t think so—
NIALL
How do you travel so?
BRIGID
I walk. All ghosts walk. That’s why we never get far from where we’ve died.
NIALL
—But you did. You got far.
BRIGID
I suppose.
NIALL
—Why?
BRIGID
I had someone special to visit. Someone very important who was far away.
NIALL
—You had a mission.
BRIGID
You could say that—
NIALL
But you’re not through with your mission, now are you. . . .
BRIGID
I don’t know. . . .
Why are you smiling like
that?
NIALL
—Do you walk through walls?
BRIGID
No.
NIALL
Have you tried?
BRIGID
—No, and I’m not planning any time soon.
NIALL
—Will you not try anything fun at all at all?
BRIGID
—I can not walk through walls!
NIALL
— How do you know if you haven’t bloody well tried!
BRIGID
(laughing)
All right.
NIALL
(laughing too)
Good!
(She gets up, composes herself:)
BRIGID
Here goes:
(—and walks into the wall—or more precisely, a bookcase.)
BRIGID (cont’d.)
Fuck.
NIALL
Damn.
BRIGID
Shit.
NIALL
Are you hurt?
BRIGID
Now—see? (Rubbing her nose:) I’ve gone and hurt myself.
NIALL
(rubbing her nose too)
Poor girl . . .
BRIGID
(laughing)
Poor nose . . .
NIALL
(laughing too)
Poor nose, poor soul—is there nothing special about you at all?
(They’re too close; she pulls away.)
BRIGID
. . . I liked your poem.
NIALL
. . . Did you now?
BRIGID
Yes. I don’t care if I don’t understand
it: I liked it anyway.
I like poems in general.
NIALL
Who’s your favorite?
BRIGID
Gertrude Stern—
NIALL
Stein—
BRIGID
All the dykes. —Do you publish?
NIALL
Sometimes.
BRIGID
Where? Maybe I’ve read something of yours.
NIALL
Not likely.
BRIGID
You’d be surprised.
NIALL
I use a pseudonym.
BRIGID
Like what:
NIALL
I use more than one.
BRIGID
That seems overly cautious. . . .
NIALL
—I don’t want to get my ego involved.
BRIGID
Is this another ’60’s sentiment?
NIALL
I like to think of it as a medieval sentiment: Before people started defacing art with their signatures.
BRIGID
. . . Is that what you do for a living, poetry?
NIALL
Yes, I’m a very wealthy poet. . . .
BRIGID
There’s no need to get sarcastic.
NIALL
—Oh, I thought you were the one being sarcastic here!
BRIGID
So you don’t make any money off poetry?
NIALL
No, not one bleeding cent. . . .
BRIGID
And what about drugs?
NIALL
—What about the fucking drugs!
BRIGID
—Do you have any?
NIALL
. . . .
BRIGID
. . . Pot, or something? We could smoke it—you know, to relax.
NIALL
. . . You want to?
BRIGID
Yeah. . . .
NIALL
. . . You want to smoke?
BRIGID
If you have any. . . .
NIALL
I’ve got—I don’t have marijuana. I’ve got Ecstasy.
BRIGID
. . . .
NIALL
You’ve done it, right? Kids love Ecstasy—the non-religious kind—the secular synthetic little ecstatic pill—
BRIGID
All right—
NIALL
Would you like some?
BRIGID
(hesitation)
Yeah.
NIALL
. . . Right back.
(He exits the room, back to the bar again.
He kneels and opens the strongbox.
Rummaging about:)
NIALL (cont’d)
It’s here somewhere. . . . I keep some for guests, like. . . .
BRIGID
Can I dim the lights . . . ? (She does.)
NIALL
There she is. . . .
(He withdraws a cigar box from inside:
Inside the box: A ziplock bag with a few tablets.
He closes and locks safe.
He removes the mortar and pestle from the wall shelf.
He returns to BRIGID, hands her the bag.)
NIALL (cont’d.)
Bottoms up.
(She opens the ziplock bag.)
NIALL (cont’d.)
—Hold it, let’s grind it up first:
It’ll enter the bloodstream faster. . . .
You’ve done this
before, right?
BRIGID
Yeah—.
NIALL
—Do you want to do it that way? You want to ("snort it")?
BRIGID
Okay.
(He drops a few tablets in the pestle, begins to grind it down.
He lays it out; rolls up a bill and hands it to her.)
NIALL
Ladies first:
(She does it, but with difficulty.)
NIALL (cont’d.)
—Are you all right?
BRIGID
(coughing)
—yes—
NIALL
You sure?
BRIGID
("Yes.")
(She sits at the edge of the bed.)
NIALL
Here: drink some.
(She does.)
NIALL (cont’d.)
Maybe it’s not fine enough. . . .
(He snorts it.)
NIALL (cont’d.)
—No, it’s fine.
(Sits on the bed beside her.)
NIALL (cont’d.)
It won’t be long. . . . You’ll see. . . . Just wait . . . it’ll feel like heat, at first—
BRIGID
I know.
NIALL
—rhythmic, in your chest . . . rolling, like waves . . . like you’re mad in love . . . like you see someone you love walking down the street. . . . Walking towards you. It’ll make you feel better. . . .
BRIGID
. . . .
(A long pause here while they wait for the drug.
After a while:)
NIALL
This has turned into a really extraordinary evening, hasn’t it?
BRIGID
It’s almost morning.
NIALL
No!
BRIGID
—It is!
NIALL
This room gets a lovely sunrise. . . . You’ll see. I’m not sure how it’s managed, but somehow the light gets through. . . .
(She laughs. He laughs with her.)
NIALL (cont’d.)
. . . Whenever I heard voices in the past,
I never replied. That, I thought, would invite a world of trouble.
. . . In the Old Testament, God calls his chosen in the middle of the
night and the brave ones answer: "Here I am."
So
. . . here I am, Brigid. . . .
Do you have something
to tell me?
BRIGID
Like what?
NIALL
The truth?
BRIGID
. . . I don’t think I can do that. . . .
NIALL
Why not?
BRIGID
You can’t handle the truth. . . .
(She laughs; but he doesn’t this time.)
NIALL
—I could. . . . Believe me—if
you knew me, Brigid, you’d know I could handle the
truth . . . .
BRIGID
. . . .
NIALL
All right: be coy. . . .
D’you feel it? Rolling,
like waves . . .
BRIGID
Yes . . .
NIALL
How about I ask you a few yes-or-no questions, so:
BRIGID
All right:
NIALL
Was Jesus Christ a virgin birth?
BRIGID
Yes.
NIALL
—Really?
BRIGID
Yes.
NIALL
—You sure?
BRIGID
Positive: it was a miracle.
NIALL
So Christianity’s the right religion? —I mean, you’re not going to give me one of those "every religion has a grain of truth" explanations.
BRIGID
Every religion does have a grain of truth, but—
NIALL
Oh, Jesus H. Christ—!
(He covers his mouth.)
BRIGID
It’s all right.
NIALL
Is it . . . ?
BRIGID
I told you, I’m not God
NIALL
I know you’re not. . . . (Smiles.)
So Christ was crucified?
Christ rose again?
BRIGID
Yes. And yes.
NIALL
And will He come again?
BRIGID
Of course.
NIALL
Has He come again already? Is He here on Earth right now?
BRIGID
I don’t know, what do you think?
NIALL
I think this information’s bound to piss a lot of people off.
BRIGID
Well it sucks to be them.
NIALL
. . . You must’ve really been something, when you were alive. . . . Were you funny?
BRIGID
I don’t know. I’m like I am now, I guess. . . .
NIALL
I bet people loved you. Were you popular?
BRIGID
"Popular"? In school?
NIALL
Did the boys like you?—or the girls?
BRIGID
A few—liked me well enough.
NIALL
You’re beautiful. . . .
BRIGID
No I’m not.
NIALL
Oh no . . . that’s a huge sin: to be
beautiful and think you’re not.
What did you want to be
when you grew up?
BRIGID
Besides a priest?
NIALL
Besides a priestperson.
BRIGID
I don’t know, nothing. —I would’ve ended up like you, I guess.
NIALL
. . . .
BRIGID
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it ("like that") . . .
NIALL
I disappoint you. —I would have to, as a father. . . .
BRIGID
. . . .
NIALL
It must have been difficult, never knowing . . .
BRIGID
It was a comfort most of the time. No matter
how bad things were, and they were bad most of the time, I always knew
there was a reason. There had to be a reason, you know? . . . I had
that fantasy that all kids have, I guess, that their parents aren’t
their parents—and I fixated on my father. I would fantasize,
going to bed at night, that you or someone like you—my real
father—was out there. Somewhere. And if I could just hold
on and be patient enough, if I could wait and listen and look—for
clues—maybe one day I’d find you. . . .
Or
you’d find me. . . .
I
thought I was crazy. I didn’t have any proof—.
I
used to wonder if you’d forgotten me. Because if you knew how
much pain I was in—you’d come and save me. Right? —But
you never came—why? Didn’t you care? And if you didn’t
care—if my own father didn’t care about his own daughter—what
was I, then?
So I went looking for
you—everything I did wrong, and I did a lot of things wrong, was my way
of trying to find you. I thought—without thinking—if I just fucked
up bad enough, you’d come and punish me. Or we’d meet in a ditch
somewhere, under a bridge or in jail, and you’d be just as screwed up as
I was, but it wouldn’t matter because we’d be together, finally,
and I could punish you. . .
(She’s crying softly.
After a moment.)
BRIGID (cont’d.)
Did you ever love me at all?
(He kisses her gently on the forehead.)
NIALL
I can help you.
(He gets up, begins pacing the room.)
NIALL (cont’d.)
It’s within my power to help you.
BRIGID
What do you mean?
NIALL
I’ve never done it before. . . .
BRIGID
Done what before . . . ?
NIALL
You’re going to have trouble believing
this. But I want you to keep an open mind and an open heart—.
Do you promise you won’t
be frightened?
BRIGID
. . . I promise.
NIALL
. . . All my life I knew I was destined for
great things. I didn’t know what. Or how. I didn’t know
what my calling would be. So I waited. I wanted to keep myself open—to
callings. I wandered and looked and listened. People thought I was
a "freak" or a "loser," but I knew I was just waiting,
biding my time.
One
day—I was living here in Key West already, I was in my thirties—I’m
out in my boat, waiting for a delivery, and I’m looking out over
the waves, into the west, daydreaming. . . . The sunlight bouncing
on the waves like a heartbeat, like a brilliant conversation. . . .
Pulsing . . . And I fell in the water. I was having a seizure—and
I drowned in the water. I was dead.
I
came-to in the coral reef at night. Who knows how much time had passed?
All about me the beautiful things of the deep: dark fish and the black
sand and the murky moon above me and weeds—and I realize: I’m
breathing water! Like a fish! Like a fetus—water in and out of
my lungs, water for blood—!
I
start to rise, against my will—I wanted to stay where I was—but
I’m floating up to the boat, and I climb in, and I choke on air.
I cough it up, all of it, vomit up the sea, and in that instant I’m
born again. . . .
.
. . Now all this happened for a reason. And it was not obvious to me
at the time like you think it should be—in movies or books. No
voice out of the clouds said to me: "This is who you are." But—.
Gradually,
as I went about my daily life, I began to recognize myself: driving
in a car, sitting in a bar: do you know who this is? sitting right
beside you, madam?
It’s Jesus Christ, madam. Pleased to make your acquaintance.
BRIGID
. . . .
NIALL
. . . You’re the first person I’ve
told.
.
. . It feels wonderful to tell the truth, doesn’t it?
I’ve been hiding
it. Hiding from it, because of what it might mean. . . . But now here you are.
And you’ve come to me for a reason, to tell me it’s true.
BRIGID
. . . .
NIALL
—But you’ve also come for a reason I don’t think even you understand:
(She moves away from him.)
NIALL (cont’d.)
—Hey, don’t be frightened, okay? —Are
you? it’s okay. I’m not—. I’m still Niall.
. . .
Don’t
you see how happy you’ve made me?
I
can help you!
I
can give you back your life—I can resurrect you.
And
when you’re alive again you can take my car and all my money
out there in my safe—take it, it’s yours—I don’t
need it anymore—because you’re my daughter, Bridge, and
it’s your due. . . . And you can drive away from here and live
and start over someplace new and never end up like me.
Okay?
Is
it a deal?
—Come here:
(He raises his hands up, then lays his palms upon her face.)
NIALL (cont’d.)
I do love you, Bridge. . . .
(He begins to have a seizure.
She holds him for some time, on the bed, until his seizure subsides.
She lays him out. Waits.
After a long time, she gets up, picks up his keys, exits the room. . . .
Dim lights up in the bar:
We see her open the strongbox, take his money. . . .
She exits the bar. Car starting, driving away.
By now we should see that it’s coming on dawn.
It’s still raining.
NIALL begins to wake up.)
