DAN O’BRIEN  |  The Dear Boy

Characters:

James FLANAGAN     65
JAMES Doyle            17
RICHARD Purdy        37
ELISE Sanger           29

Time & Place:

Scene 1: After school, late December, 1990; Scarsdale Public
               High School, Scarsdale NY. Specifically, we’re in
               FLANAGAN’s office.

Scene 2: A party at a bar in the city, later that night.

Scene 3: An apartment (not ELISE's apartment), still later that night.

Scene 4: FLANAGAN’s office, early the next morning.

Notes:

(1) A slash “/” in the script indicates overlapping dialogue.

(2) Nonverbal “lines” in the script:

FLANAGAN
. . . ?

or

FLANAGAN
. . .

      should be played as beats; most often as pauses.

(3) Dialogue in quotes and parentheses, i.e. (“Yes.”) or (“No.”),       indicates a nonverbal response.

˜

The Dear Boy was written with the support of the University of the South (Sewanee) and the Tennessee Williams Fellowship in Playwriting

The play has received subsequent development with Atlantic Theater Company, Roundabout Theatre Company, Geva Theatre Center, and Primary Stages

The Dear Boy was produced by Second Stage Theatre, August 2005.

˜

1a.

(Tall, effete, brownsuited; cheeks like crabapples and the rest gray pallor so that he seems one almost always chapped by wind and rain and on winter days—like this—outright pneumonic; when he smiles he bares his Celtic teeth; when he speaks he drapes his weight on one leg back as an actor plays to the balcony, his eyes cast up, as if searching a high, dark shelf for something very small, very valuable, very lost.)

FLANAGAN
My dear boy.

What were you thinking?

You’re no James Joyce. You’re not even Will Faulkner. —You’re seventeen! Not a saint, though I know you think you are. I know your type: mother’s milk, father bereft, half-repressed literary tendencies—O yes, I know who you are . . . .

I am not a kind teacher . . . I’m not cruel, either. Am I a good teacher? I like to think so, on my good days, and we all have our good days—even you, my dear boy, though you’re not a very good student . . . Too shy to be a hooligan; not a clown though you can be quite sharp: my “brown suit would suit a mortician better”? —And what was that crack you made about the St. Paddy’s Day parade?, that I would be up front this year marching with the interlopers . . . ?

I understand: I accept: I take your disdain upon my back as a kind of penance, my cross to carry, a question wrought from God: What to do with the likes of you . . . .

The others don’t see it . . . They bring your name up whilst brightening their coffee with a dollop of cream: O yes, Jimmy Doyle—isn’t he sweet?

And darkly I reply, Pass the sugar, Ms. Kane . . . .

Because you see you lie—you do; you lie well, I’ll grant you that. —I know you didn’t read past the crime in Crime and Punishment, and yet you deserved every bit of that B minus—you did!—and that’s your talent, my boy! You have that most Irish of gifts, of being most convincing when least informed. And while I can’t fault you your arrogance—it’s the privilege of the young, that is, the ignorant—I’ve often wondered, in the cocoon of my commute, suspended in my car inside the Henry Hudson Bridge, or reading late at night in my apartment above the shoe factory—yes?; I often feel I want nothing more before I retire than to teach you a lesson.

But a lesson about what?

. . .

I could teach you how to write.

You are not ungifted as a writer.

You write as one speaks, though not as you speak yourself.

You seem to channel another voice, another person’s voice altogether, and this voice seems to be that of a middle-aged, overly chatty housewife. It’s a nifty trick, considering your prose speaks not of normal housewifely concerns, but rather darker things, things you’ve no business knowing . . . .

Is she your mother?, this voice? Never mind . . .

Our first assignment had been to write in the style of William Faulkner. My mistake. Because the story you wrote, that first story you gave me back in—September was it?, made no sense to me at all. In fact it struck me as alarmingly schizophrenic, at least latently so: windows were said to “breathe,” trees “watched” or “wept” or actually spoke, if I’m not mistaken, from time to time, in oracular fashion (there is no other word)—in italics, of course, thank you so very much.

Further, your main character, a young woman (of all things!) manifests an untoward fascination with feces, and in particular one steaming pile that flops out the backside of a nearby black carriage-horse, tethered to the bottom of your page one . . . .

My dear boy . . . Have you ever even seen a horse?

The time throughout, one almost needn’t note, is the present.

The incident with the feces is the only occurrence in this twenty-plus-page opus that might possibly be misconstrued as plot. And indeed the horse itself may not have been there at all, may have been an illusion, an equine specter haunting the streets of the young madgirl’s mind, as she wends her way to a clinic in “the city” for an “abortion,” by the way, though who can be sure of anything in the dark falling light of your
prose . . .

My dear boy this is not stream-of-consciousness but drowning.

Your sentences are overly long—some overspill a page; punctuation is perverse: parenthetical after (within!) parenthetical threaten to swallow sense—what sense there is—like a whale its own tail, like a snake eats itself unto abstraction, the words slithering and slippery and venomous—that’s the word, yes: your prose is poisoned, my boy, capable of poisoning, reading your words like digging in a graveyard at night . . .

. . .

—I gave you a B minus.

And without a single note of encouragement, your twenty-two single-spaced pages stark naked of notes, I dropped the B minus down to your desk as if the story itself might soil my hands.

You suffered silently, but I knew I’d stung your pride.

. . .

Or so I thought.

Until today.

Until I read this—your most recent retaliation:

A story meant to be told in the style of James Joyce—again, my mistake. —It’s longer than the first, thank you very much; but there had been a twist: “Write about a hero of yours” . . .

I return these twenty-six typewritten pages to you as you have given them to me: the margins, again, white and dumb. There is no grade this time. As I drop the other childrens’ stories down to desk—heartwarming tales of grandmothers blessed with endearingly wise dementia; precocious entertainments of eligible aunts, wily cousins, cigarsmoking coaches—I watch out the corner of my eye as you open your story to the very last page, only to discover there a single, scrawled, page-sprawling question mark.

(He makes the symbol in the air:)   ?

And beneath the symbol an invitation:

1b.

(Skin pale, translucent temples; scattershot of acne spoils the pallor; shoots of rough beard blemish sideburns and upper lip; severe Irish cheekbones—two, asymmetrical; punched up nose, tipped out ears, cowlicks unruly despite too much hair gel; skinny, embarrassed, heartbreaking if not aggravating; a varsity jacket—soccer—with white thread enstitched “Jim”:)

JAMES (knocks)

FLANAGAN (writing; not looking)

. . . James: Have a seat.

(Still writing and not looking.)

One moment, please; I’m just now at the end of something . . .

(JAMES strands himself at the window: blue winter light, sun low already.

FLANAGAN (Lays aside his pen.)

FLANAGAN (cont’d)

It’s good for them.

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN
The trees: if you cut the limbs in winter, they grow back better in the spring.
           
JAMES (as if impressed)
Wow.

FLANAGAN
I noticed that image—all over your story: trees with their limbs cut off.
I knew where you’d got it from.

JAMES
. . .

(As he stands close to the door.)

FLANAGAN (offering)

Sit down, please, James.  

(JAMES does sit; withdrawn, almost regal; he crosses his legs in the macho manner.)

FLANAGAN (cont'd)

(sits again, he pulls his chair beneath and neatly under)

I suppose you know why you’re here.

JAMES
You asked me to come.
           
FLANAGAN
. . .

JAMES
In my story. The question mark.

You told me to come —here—

FLANAGAN
Yes.

(Smiles; hides teeth.)

That’s true: I did ask you to come. To see me in my office.
And do you know why?

JAMES

(“No.”)

FLANAGAN
We have a problem here, don’t we James.

JAMES
Do we . . . ?

FLANAGAN
Don’t we?

JAMES
. . . What kind of problem?

FLANAGAN
What kind of problem . . .

JAMES
I don’t know if we have / a problem . . .

FLANAGAN
You don’t know . . .

JAMES
No. Not really.

FLANAGAN
—Do you enjoy class?

JAMES
This class?

FLANAGAN
Let’s start there / yes.

JAMES
Sure.

FLANAGAN
Why?

JAMES (shrugs)

I don’t know . . .
I like books. I like English. It’s my favorite language.

FLANAGAN
You like reading.

JAMES
Sure. 

FLANAGAN
And writing?

JAMES
Who doesn’t?

FLANAGAN (leaning in across desk)

Then why aren’t you happy here, my boy?

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN
You seem all right in class, in person; it’s in these stories you write I think I see someone who’s deeply, deeply disturbed . . .  

JAMES
. . . I’m not disturbed.

FLANAGAN
You’re not . . . ?

JAMES
I’m happy.

FLANAGAN (sits back)
. . . Do you have a girlfriend?, what’s her name? I’ve seen you with her: short hair, petite; quite striking. —Does she read your stories?

JAMES (shrugs)
Sometimes.

FLANAGAN
Does she like them . . . ?
She would have to like them, wouldn’t she, if she likes you . . .

(He smiles; hides teeth.)

JAMES (looks away)
. . .

FLANAGAN
Do you like me, James?

JAMES (a hesitation; a smile)
. . . What do you mean?

FLANAGAN
Do you like me; your teacher.

JAMES
Why wouldn’t I like you, Mr. Flanagan?

FLANAGAN
Because I don’t like your stories. Very much.

JAMES (a moment; he shrugs)
. . . They rejected Jesus too.

FLANAGAN
I beg your pardon?

JAMES
They rejected Jesus; in his home town.

FLANAGAN (sits forward across desk)
—And do you consider yourself Jesus in some way?

JAMES (shrugs)
Who doesn’t?

FLANAGAN
This—is fascinating. Do you think this town rejects / you—?
                                               
JAMES (strongly)
—I don’t know why you don’t like my stories, Mr. Flanagan.

Okay . . . ?

I don’t care . . .

FLANAGAN
That’s not what I asked, my boy . . .

(Tight smile; hides teeth.)

—And it’s not that I don’t like your stories. I do like them—I like what it is I think I see you’re trying to pull off. —It’s ambitious. —It’s precocious. But I can’t say I understand them. —And you do want me to understand you, don’t you? It’s important to you that I understand . . . ?

JAMES
I guess.

FLANAGAN
Then help me, James. Help me understand this your latest masterwork.

What’s it called / again?

JAMES
“Saint James.”

FLANAGAN
—Saint James! Of course! —That’s my name too, you know.

JAMES
“Saint—”?

FLANAGAN
“James,” yes . . . Aha ha. . . .

I understand you better than you think: both of us Irish, yes?, or Irish-American, God help us; both with our—artistic dispositions, living lives surrounded by gratuitous wealth—in a culture very different from one we can claim to understand, or appreciate. —It’s natural we’d feel put / upon.
                                               
JAMES
I’m not Irish.

FLANAGAN
You’re not?

JAMES
No.

FLANAGAN
I see . . .

Well it must be very difficult, then, with a name like “Doyle,” never being Irish; always correcting people . . .

JAMES (looks to window)
. . .

FLANAGAN
Is “Saint James” an autobiographical title, do you / think?

JAMES
It’s a church—

FLANAGAN
Is it now . . . ?

JAMES
—an Episcopal church I used to go to as a kid.

FLANAGAN (smiling darkly)
That long time ago . . . ?
                                                           
JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN
Are you Episcopal then, James?

JAMES (the window)
. . .

FLANAGAN
—What does that title mean then, do you suppose: “Saint / James”?

JAMES (shrugs)
I don’t know.

FLANAGAN
You don’t know what your own title means?

JAMES
Not really no.

FLANAGAN
You should know what your own title means.—You should know what you’re writing before you’ve written it down——else the world will tear you apart.

—Your intentions, you see?

JAMES (a minor explosion)
—Who cares about the fucking title? —I don’t care about the title . . .

FLANAGAN (cowed, momentarily)
. . . Who cares indeed . . .

. . . Let’s push on then, shall we? Let’s forget the title and discuss the story proper:

JAMES
Fine . . .

FLANAGAN
Fine. —What does it mean?

JAMES
—Jesus . . .

FLANAGAN
Hmn . . . ?

JAMES
—I don’t know.

FLANAGAN
—“You don’t know” or you don’t / care?

JAMES
—I wrote it, it came out of me, I had to say it—

FLANAGAN
—But what did you end up saying? That’s what I’m asking you here—what does your story say, about life?, about poor put-upon “James”?, about the other characters in your imagination . . . ?

JAMES
What did I end up “saying”?

FLANAGAN
—Exactly!

JAMES
—Who gives a shit?

FLANAGAN (sighs; he watches the boy intently)
. . .

JAMES
. . . Okay?

God . . .

FLANAGAN
I don’t mean to upset you, James

. . . Lord knows the last thing I want to do is to upset you here today . . .

I am a fair man. —Let’s take this one step—let’s back up a step then / shall we?

JAMES
Fine with / me.

FLANAGAN
Fine . . . What was the original assignment?

JAMES
—Write a story.

FLANAGAN
Yes, and—?

JAMES
In the style of “James Joyce.”

FLANAGAN
And:

JAMES
Write about a hero of yours.

FLANAGAN
—Why do you say it like that?

JAMES
Like what?

FLANAGAN
With a “sashay” in your voice . . .

JAMES
(shrugs; smiles)
. . .

FLANAGAN
—Do you believe in heroes?

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN
There are “heroes” ready to die for you now, liberating Kuwait—. You may very well be drafted in the spring—you may find yourself fighting for your country—then I promise you you will find out about heroes . . . !

(His pointing white finger quivers in the gloom . . . The room is growing dark.)

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN (pulling his finger back)
. . . And who have you chosen as the hero of your story, “Saint James”?

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN
You know I like to read these stories to my wife . . .

(He crosses his legs behind and beneath the desk.)

I like her to see what my students are up to. And I can tell you right now I would not dare show her this story—would not dare.

JAMES (the window, again)
. . .

FLANAGAN (almost gently)
My dear boy: whatever would make you write a story about me?

JAMES
. . .  

FLANAGAN
Hmn . . . ?

JAMES
It’s not you—

FLANAGAN
Is / it not?

JAMES
—in the story—I made that up: it’s fiction.

FLANAGAN (uncrossing his legs)
—But no, I don’t think that’s true: I think you’re hiding from that—behind—“fiction”—.

Do you have it with you please? Let’s look at it together.

(JAMES hesitates; then unzips the knapsack at his feet and withdraws a dirty, stapled cone of paper.

He drops it on the desk.

FLANAGAN slides it toward himself, uncurling the pages against the tabletop as he goes, hands trembling delicately . . . )

FLANAGAN (cont’d)
. . . “James”—

JAMES
What.

FLANAGAN
—your titular character—do you find that word amusing, Mr. Doyle?

JAMES (smirking still; he looks away) . . .
                       
FLANAGAN
—James is more a cipher than a boy, isn’t he?—more your Steve Dedalus, which is more Ulysses than Dubliners /any day—

JAMES
I’ve read Ulysses.

FLANAGAN
Have you?, that’s special.

(Thumbing through pages:)

Stephen—“James,” sorry—goes to Scarsdale Public High School . . . hates school . . . has an English teacher—this is rare—named “Mr. Flyswatter.”

(He looks up.)

JAMES
. . .

(Flanagan pretends to swat a fly upon his desk.

He smiles; hides teeth; looking back to story:)

FLANAGAN
. . . Flyswatter wears brown suits. Every day. “Like a mortician” . . .

(Up again:)

Morticians wear black, Mr. Doyle: the better to hide the blood, I think.

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN (rolls the story shut)
—Let’s stop playing games now, shall we?

JAMES
. . . I’m not playing a / game—

FLANAGAN
Who’s “Flyswatter” then? You whipped him up out of your what, your / imagination?

JAMES (shrugs)
Maybe.

FLANAGAN (reads)
“ . . . a pretentious accent, half-English, half-Irish, all Nothing . . . ”

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN
“ . . . the hands of a spinster and the eyes of a lecher . . . ”

JAMES (the window, again)
. . .

FLANAGAN
. . . ?

JAMES
It’s not you.

FLANAGAN
That’s a relief, my wife will be glad of it . . .

(Skimming again:)

. . . Teaches Honors English twelfth grade, Joyce Faulkner and Virginia Woolf . . . lives alone in a garret above a shoe factory in the Bronx—this is all quite funny, Mr. Doyle, very creative! —How Dickensian! —Have you ever even been to the Bronx, my boy . . . ?

—And what are these decomposing shoes on page one supposed to be a symbol of?, impotence? . . . Harms your case of lechery, I’d wager.

—Whatever could you find funny in what I’m saying?

JAMES
I’m not / laughing—

FLANAGAN (almost smiling too)
Yes you most certainly are—

JAMES
I’m just—

FLANAGAN
What:

JAMES
—nervous. I guess.

FLANAGAN
Good.

(He turns to a specific page:)

—And the worst part, Mr. Doyle . . . the worst thing you could have possibly said about me is right here in your story on page sixteen I believe into seventeen where you describe Mr. Flyswatter’s “internally treasured”—your phrase—memory of his dead uncle . . . The very same memory I shared with you and the class in a story of my own only a week ago today.  

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN
. . . Now you know, James, I like to complete these assignments in advance of the students. It gives me great sense of sympathy. Not all teachers would risk losing face so. But if I am going to ask my students to bare their souls, I shall bare mine first.

So when I thought to write about a hero, the first person I thought of was my uncle, who died in the Second World War, at the age of eighteen; and I hold this memory of him quite dear to me.—

And you have stolen that memory and put it in your story in the old and addled brain of “Mr. Flyswatter,” trumping up disgusting if not incestuous innuendo—

JAMES
It was in there already.

FLANAGAN
. . . ?

JAMES
The story you read in class: it had “innuendo” in it.

FLANAGAN
. . . My dear boy . . . I don’t pretend to understand what it is you think you’re saying—

JAMES
You went camping with your uncle. You were twelve, you fell asleep. When you woke up it was late and the moon was full and you looked down from the “dying fire to the water’s edge”—your sentence—and you saw him stripping off his clothes . . . The surface of the water was like a mirror. And he “slipped his body through.”

FLANAGAN
. . .

JAMES
I didn’t add anything to your story—

FLANAGAN (astonished; confused)
—That was a memory of his death—a premonition of it—!

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN
—Do you know anyone who’s died, Mr. Doyle . . . ?

JAMES
—I thought it was beautiful.

FLANAGAN
. . .

JAMES
That’s why I stole it . . .

FLANAGAN
. . . So you / admit—

JAMES
I took it, but—Flyswatter isn’t you: it’s a story.

FLANAGAN (recovering, somewhat)

. . . Let’s pretend then, for a moment, for the sake of argument—let’s say this story which will on page sixteen into seventeen devolve into something quite dark and then page twenty-five, I believe, is it?, darker still—let’s pretend for the time being that your story is as you say “just a story.” It has nothing whatever to do with either you or me.

JAMES
Fine.

FLANAGAN
Fine: plot.

JAMES
What?

FLANAGAN
—Exactly! —Where’s your plot, my boy? Throw theme out the window—what’s really going on here?

JAMES
I don’t know—

FLANAGAN
—The eternal rejoinder!

JAMES
—I can’t spew it out just like that—it’s complicated—

FLANAGAN
Life is complicated—!

JAMES
—Exactly—!

FLANAGAN
—You’re afraid of making sense? Are you? Don’t you want to be understood?  

JAMES
—I don’t care who gets it—okay? I don’t care if it “makes sense” to everyone in the entire fucking world—I’m not writing for them.

FLANAGAN
—Who’s “them”?, your readers? —There won’t be any readers, Saint James, until you start making sense . . . !

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN
So tell me: I want to know: what’s really going on here . . . ?

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN
—This follows this follows—

JAMES
No.

FLANAGAN
“No.”

Why not?

JAMES
I don’t want / to.

FLANAGAN
—You don’t want to or you don’t know how / to?

JAMES
I know how—

FLANAGAN
—Then why won’t you—?

JAMES
—I don’t even have to be here, you know—with the door closed—.

FLANAGAN
. . .

JAMES (the window)
. . .

FLANAGAN (suddenly quite gentle)
. . . I’m confused . . .

That’s all; I’m your reader, and you’ve got me wondering. And lost; lost and wandering in a darkness of your own making. And I need to know what all this darkness is for . . .

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN (waiting)
. . . ?

JAMES
. . . There’s this guy—

FLANAGAN
A boy: how old is he?

JAMES
Seventeen. He lives with his mother.

FLANAGAN
—Where’s his father?

JAMES
Gone.

FLANAGAN
Does he have a / father?

JAMES
He did at one time . . .

FLANAGAN
But not anymore . . . Is he dead?

JAMES
He could be.

And it’s winter—in the story—the beginning of winter, like now—and it reminds the boy of another winter when his father abused him.

FLANAGAN
. . .

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN
And the boy remembers this abuse—in the story? —He remembers it in graphic detail—?

JAMES
That’s the / idea . . .

FLANAGAN
—But, you see, this is where I get lost, James—this is precisely where I can go no further with you: I understand he has this memory—we all have these memories—but do we need to see them in such graphic detail . . . ?

JAMES
Who’s “we”?

FLANAGAN
The readers.

JAMES
I have readers now?

FLANAGAN
Why not?

JAMES
—Absolutely.

FLANAGAN
Absolutely / what?

JAMES
You need to see the memory in such graphic detail.

FLANAGAN
Why . . . ?

JAMES
It’s more honest that way.

FLANAGAN
My dear boy, do you know what “fiction” means . . . ?

(Smiles, failing to cover teeth:)

There are ugly things in life. No one will quarrel you that point: people—children are hurt . . .

But it is not the business of art to replicate the ugliness of life.

JAMES
Hold a mirror up to life.

FLANAGAN
. . .

JAMES
That’s Hamlet.

FLANAGAN
Thank you . . . But you should know that Shakespeare said a lot of stupid things. He’s like the Bible that way. —And the Devil can cite scripture for his own purpose.

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN
That’s Merchant of Venice.

Now: mirrors notwithstanding, this story, like all your stories, is a lie—wait, yes, you are lying, because you don’t yet know what it is you ought to be writing about! You’re borrowing other tragedies—other people’s suffering, out the newspaper, off TV—simply because, and I hope you don’t mind me saying but it’s painfully obvious to anyone who cares to see, that you don’t want to write about yourself because you have nothing yet to write about!

JAMES
—How do you know I don’t have anything to write about?

FLANAGAN
Well do you?

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN
Do you, James . . . ?

JAMES (the window)
. . .

FLANAGAN (slumps slowly back in his chair; sighs)
. . .

JAMES
. . . Can I turn a light on in / here?

FLANAGAN
No . . .

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN
. . . I find this time of day, this time of year . . . the shortest day of the year . . . it’s very sad, isn’t it . . .

—And beautiful . . . I find sad things quite beautiful, don’t you?
           
JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN
—So the boy lives with his mother—

JAMES
Forget it—

FLANAGAN
—it’s winter—

JAMES
I don’t want to talk about it / anymore—

FLANAGAN
No no no no please!—this boy remembers—the abuse at the hands of a father is remembered by “Saint James” in graphic detail—

(flipping through pages)

—Now where are we now?, in the story?

JAMES
I have soccer practice.

FLANAGAN
Soccer season’s over, Mr. Doyle, even I know that . . .

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN (flipping through pages, he murmurs)

. . . and by way of Howth Castle and Environs . . .

JAMES (quietly)
. . . What are you even talking about?

FLANAGAN
—we come to the climactic confrontation between Flanagan and James.

JAMES
—You said Flanagan.

FLANAGAN
Did I? imagine that . . . I look down at the page in question: page twenty-five stoneface of text no paragraphs quotes one breathless interminable

(“sentence”; he breathes)—

I don’t understand a word of this.

JAMES
How many times have you read it?

FLANAGAN (exploding)
—You’re arrogant, you’re conceited, you hate your father terrifically—! It’s lovely, really . . . !

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN (calmly, eyes back in the page, as if posing a normal question)
Why does James kill his teacher, do you think?

JAMES
. . .

   FLANAGAN
On page twenty-five—no, twenty-six, here: he kills him with a gun, I presume—it’s / unclear.

JAMES
It’s a handgun.

FLANAGAN
. . . And where does he / get this—?

JAMES
It’s his father’s.

FLANAGAN
—His father’s around?

JAMES
Sometimes.

FLANAGAN
Why does his father have a gun?

JAMES
His father has lots of guns: because his father is a cop.

FLANAGAN
An Episcopal cop . . . ?

JAMES
. . .
                                               
FLANAGAN
And where does he keep this gun?—James:

When he comes to see his teacher in the office after school; does he keep the gun in his jacket . . . ?

JAMES
It’s in his bag. With his books.

FLANAGAN
. . .

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN
May I see it, please . . . ?

(JAMES hesitates, leans forward, unzips the bag at his feet, digs around, comes up with a handgun.

He lays it gently on the desk between them.)

FLANAGAN (cont’d.)

(rubbing his face)

. . .

(James sits back calmly, breathlessly, eyes on the gun.)

FLANAGAN (cont’d.)
. . . What are we going to do about this, James . . . ?

JAMES
. . . I don’t know . . .

FLANAGAN
You don’t—.

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN
. . . Would you like to kill me . . . ?

—I ask you that in all sincerity—

JAMES (shrugs)
Sure.

FLANAGAN
Why?

JAMES
Because you hate me. You hate all your students. Especially the boys.

(JAMES turns his gaze to the window.)

(FLANAGAN is speechless, shaken . . .

After a moment:)

JAMES (cont’d.)
I’ve got to go—

(He stands abruptly and reaches for the gun on the desk.

—But FLANAGAN is quicker: he takes the gun first.)

FLANAGAN (still seated)
I’m sorry I can’t let you have / that—

JAMES
It’s my father’s / gun—

FLANAGAN
—I can’t give it back to you / now, James—

JAMES
I promise / I won’t use it—

FLANAGAN (hugging the gun to himself)
—I’m sorry James but my hands are tied—!

(For a moment it looks like JAMES might cry.

Then as if he might try to wrest the gun from FLANAGAN.

But just as quickly he’s become disinterested . . .

He opens the office door.)

FLANAGAN (cont’d.)
. . . James?

(The boy turns around.)

FLANAGAN (cont’d.)

(changing his mind)

Will you turn the light on as you go . . . ?

(JAMES does so, as he exits.)

(FLANAGAN sits, breathing, gun in hand.)

2.

(Scarecrow thin, strawhaired and redbearded, bespectacled—his beard is much too neat; an Oxford-style, pinstriped shirt beneath maroon or red suspenders; his hands are small and childlike; when he speaks he belies the softest Southern drawl, his keen gray eyes in the audience almost always, ranging, merciless:)

RICHARD (shaking his head)

. . . Whatever were you thinking, James?

FLANAGAN (somewhere else entirely)
. . .

(A party at a bar in the city, a few hours later.

Music and conversation, though we can’t hear it.

A table behind the two standing men.)

RICHARD
. . . James?

FLANAGAN
. . . ?

RICHARD
Whatever could you possibly have been thinking . . . ?

FLANAGAN (tall glass of water with a large lemon slice)
About what, Richard?

RICHARD (gin and tonic, drinking liberally, one in each hand)
Charles.

FLANAGAN
What about Charles / exactly?

RICHARD
Couldn’t you tell when you hired him he’s a drug addict?

FLANAGAN (a hesitation)
He hasn’t had a problem in years, he’s a very gifted teacher—

RICHARD
Well he’s coked up tonight—that’s all I’m saying. Have you seen . . . ? Diane’s doing damage control like it’s 1978—hi there, Diane! Happy Chanukah, dear! —Love those shoes!

FLANAGAN (one hand in his suit jacket pocket; he lifts his glass to)
Diane.
                                   
RICHARD
It’s embarrassing; that’s all I’m saying . . .

FLANAGAN
I haven’t noticed anything / amiss—

RICHARD
He’s trapped; he can’t see it now but that’s how it is: suicide—a form of it, addiction. —You look faboo, Charles! —Sha-zah!

FLANAGAN (raises his glass; a nod to)
Chuck . . .

RICHARD (smiling through it all)
. . . I feel sorry for him . . . That’s all I’m saying . . .

FLANAGAN
. . .

RICHARD
—I feel sorry for all of them.

FLANAGAN
Whom, Richard . . . ?

RICHARD
The new ones, mainly . . . Elise . . . They have no idea what they’re really in for.

FLANAGAN
Who’s Elise?

RICHARD
You know Elise.  

FLANAGAN
No, I don’t think / I do.

RICHARD
You hired her, James.

FLANAGAN
Did I . . . ?

Well that doesn’t mean I know her, does it?

(A pretense of a chuckle.)

You don’t mean Ms. Sanger, do / you . . . ?

RICHARD
Where is she? She promised me she’d be here . . .

(His eyes survey the room; he sips from one of his two drinks.)

FLANAGAN
. . . Richard, I’d like to tell you something: something—happened to me / today—

RICHARD
Have you heard about Fritz . . . ?

FLANAGAN
Fritz.

RICHARD
DeLong. —Isn’t that the most perfect name . . . ? Liz says he used to be an underwear model.

(Smiles.)

Who knows, maybe I’ve bought his brand before; maybe I’m wearing him right now. —Evening, Fritz! Happy holidays, ’hon . . .

(His gaze follows wherever Fritz goes . . . )

FLANAGAN (the glass, the nod to)
Fritz.

RICHARD (smiling still)
. . . It’s so damned hypocritical, that’s all I’m saying . . .   
                                                           
FLANAGAN
Modeling underwear?

RICHARD (missing this)
We see each other every day, every God damned day for nine months out of every twelve, but we only ever really talk to each other—really talk to one another—honestly, out of school, like this, at a bar, in the city, like normal human people—what, once a year . . . ? Maybe? Tonight . . . ?

FLANAGAN
I suppose it’s somewhat hypocritical, Richard; that depends on your definition of hypocrisy—

RICHARD
Nobody cares! That’s all I’m saying: nobody ever really gives one good God damn shit about anyone else—not really—no matter how long we’ve worked together—nobody here really likes each other . . .

That’s a problem . . .

Don’t you think?

(He drinks.)

FLANAGAN
I like you, Richard.

RICHARD
Do you? That’s good.

FLANAGAN (slyly, kindly)
On occasion.

RICHARD
. . . Well thank you, James . . . Thank you.

(He looks at him.)

That surely means the world to me . . .

(He drinks some more. And starts in upon his second glass.)

FLANAGAN
Will you go to Sewanee for Christmas . . . ?

RICHARD
Can’t face it—the South, of course, but my parents in particular. —I know I should be grateful they’re still here, but . . .

FLANAGAN
. . .

RICHARD
—You know: they don’t even look at me with pity, or fear, like everyone else. They don’t even look at me . . .

They used to call him my “friend” . . . “How’s your friend’s health?” . . . I think they’re relieved they don’t have to ask anymore . . .

(He smiles; drinks.)

FLANAGAN (his water)
. . .

RICHARD
. . . And they’re both so God damned old it’s sick . . .

FLANAGAN
Will you be alone, then . . . ?

RICHARD (darkly)

Don’t worry about me, James, I’ll survive.

(Drinks.)  

FLANAGAN
Because you can come to my place, if you’d like. For Christmas Day.

RICHARD (astonished)
. . .

FLANAGAN
Would you like that?

RICHARD
James . . .

FLANAGAN
. . . ?

RICHARD
You’ve never invited me to your place / before . . .

FLANAGAN
—I know, but—

RICHARD
I didn’t even think you had a “place.” —Or if you did have a place I just sort of assumed you kept some kind of dark, oleaginous secret locked away in
there . . .

FLANAGAN
I don’t think I even know what that word means, “oleaginous” . . .

RICHARD
James! I’m surprised: it’s “oily”—slimy, to you. And don’t try changing the subject on me:

I’m flattered . . .
           
FLANAGAN
Just think about it, that’s all . . .

RICHARD
—Why?

Why this sudden, random act of kindness . . . ?

FLANAGAN
It’s a depressing time of year for everyone, Richard. —Why just this afternoon I had an experience with a student of mine—

RICHARD
James Doyle: I saw him go into your office . . .

FLANAGAN (continuing)
Yes; and—

RICHARD
Cute kid—very tortured look: just my type . . .

(He drinks.)

FLANAGAN
Yes. Well; I wouldn’t know anything about that but—he did something / quite shocking—

RICHARD (spilling some)
—I’m just so God damned sick of it all! —That’s all I’m saying, James . . .  

FLANAGAN (alarmed)
Sick of what, Richard . . . ?

RICHARD
—I want something to happen!

—You know?

—Ker-pow!

FLANAGAN
Like what . . . ?

RICHARD
Who cares!

(Drinks.)

. . . Somebody could do something besides get drunk and impersonate Truman Capote. Again. Mea culpa . . . That’d be a start . . .

FLANAGAN (his water)
. . .

RICHARD
—Somebody could start a fight—a real fight, with fisticuffs—over love . . .
           
FLANAGAN (frightened)
That would be / exciting . . .
           
RICHARD
Somebody could vomit.

FLANAGAN (alarmed, again)
—Vomit?, why?

RICHARD
Vomit’s always exciting at a faculty party; I don’t know why, but there it is . . .

FLANAGAN
Why would you want someone to vomit, Richard?

RICHARD (nastily)
—I was joking, James! —Christ you’re dense sometimes . . .

(Drinks.)

FLANAGAN (sips his water)
. . .

RICHARD
You’re in a very strange mood tonight . . .

FLANAGAN
I’m in a strange / mood . . . ?

RICHARD
I’ve been trying to provoke a response from you the past fifteen minutes.

FLANAGAN
Have you?

RICHARD
Yes; you don’t think I was talking just to hear myself talk, do you?

FLANAGAN
The thought had crossed my mind . . .

RICHARD (stung)
James—.

FLANAGAN
I’ve had a rather difficult day today, Richard . . . You see / that boy—

RICHARD
Is Charles guilting you? Is he putting pressure on you? —Christ Jesus, everything has to be a martyrdom with that man. —I’m the better teacher; I love to teach; I love children. He wants to be a novelist or some such bullshit . . . but—I’m committed, I give of myself, day in, day out—I’m the supervisor on five extracurricular activities this year—five!—including our nationally award-winning literary magazine, Idée Fixe, thank you very much. While he assists—assists, mind you—girls J.V. field hockey, and I think we both know where that’s all going to end up—.

FLANAGAN (sips)
. . .

RICHARD (some composure now)
. . . I’ve given my whole life to this school . . .

FLANAGAN
I know that, Richard . . .

RICHARD (looks at him)
—Do you?

FLANAGAN
. . .

RICHARD
That’s good . . .

(He drinks. Quieter:)

. . . It’s his wife, anyhow: she’s the one with the Ferdinand-and-Isabella Complex: Chair in English and a Chair in Spanish, push out all the Jews and Moors. —Well, she’s Jewish, but you know what I’m saying . . .

(His eyes:)

See those shoes?, red leather high-tops . . . ? Really? . . . She must’ve bought them special for the occasion. They make her look like a diabetic elf . . .

FLANAGAN
A what?

RICHARD
Well look at her . . . !

FLANAGAN (he sips his water some more)
. . .

RICHARD (breathes heavily: a sigh)
. . .

FLANAGAN
. . . You’ve got nothing to worry about, Richard.

RICHARD (won’t look at him)
. . .  

FLANAGAN
I’ve made my decision . . .

RICHARD
Have you? That’s good . . .

FLANAGAN
You know how I feel about the situation.

RICHARD
So it’s a “situation” now . . . ?

FLANAGAN
I don’t like to keep secrets from you—

RICHARD
—And I’m grateful for that, James. —Grateful, for our many confidences over the years—

FLANAGAN
But I can’t announce anything until I’ve received approval from the Board.

RICHARD
. . . “The Board.”

FLANAGAN
The Board of / Education—

RICHARD
I know who the fucking “Board” is, James . . .

FLANAGAN
. . .

RICHARD
—You said it was a done deal: you said it was your / call entirely—

FLANAGAN
It is a done deal, but I don’t want to step on any toes—

RICHARD
—For Christ’s sake James step on a few toes!—for once in your careful little life!

(Recovers:)

Hi Liz, happy Kwanza. Is she Pakistani . . . ?

FLANAGAN
. . . I don’t see why you’re so angry / with me . . .

RICHARD
I’m not angry, James. I’m not. —Do I seem angry to you?
                                                           
FLANAGAN
. . .

RICHARD
You’re leaving . . . You’re leaving this—graveyard behind—

FLANAGAN (put off)
You think / our school is like a graveyard . . . ?

RICHARD (continuing)
—who cares what anybody thinks?

FLANAGAN (sips his water)
. . .

RICHARD
Make a statement of some kind . . . !

FLANAGAN (short)
Yes; I certainly should . . .

(He puts his hand in his suit jacket pocket . . . )

RICHARD (drinks)
. . .

FLANAGAN (his pocket)
Do you really find me too careful?

RICHARD (sighs)
. . . James—

FLANAGAN
Is that what you—? You said: I don’t step on any / toes—

RICHARD
I’m sorry I said anything about you—I can’t handle this / right now—

FLANAGAN
—You think I’ve been too careful—in my life—. You’ve always thought that about me—

RICHARD
—Let’s not talk about what I may or may not have always thought about you. —

Okay? —

Not everything’s about you, James . . .

Let’s just forget everything I said . . .

FLANAGAN (his water)

. . .

(Enter ELISE: young, petite, kinetic; a pretty round face and long black hair; a Jewess-hippie-intellectual in a shortish skirt, sexy high heels; some make-up, dramatic eyes, lightly perfumed; she carries a Manhattan in her small white hand:)

ELISE (an apology)
I’m late.

RICHARD
Does the father know?

ELISE (a joke?)
. . . ?

RICHARD
I’m joking: about your period.

ELISE
You’re just jealous I get them.

RICHARD (pleasantly)
Cow.

ELISE
Queen. —What time did you get here?

RICHARD
Darling, I’m always here . . .

(He drinks.)

ELISE
I had some trouble getting here.

(Smiles; eyes dart to FLANAGAN, and away.)

I always have trouble getting places. On time. —I took the wrong subway—

RICHARD
Don’t you know the subways by now?

ELISE
Yes . . .

—I mean, I know the subway to Grand Central like the back of my—fist, but—
                                                           
RICHARD
Hand.

ELISE
Sorry?, excuse me?, what?

RICHARD
The cliché involves the hand, my dear.

ELISE (for Flanagan; without looking)
—We have this thing; it’s a game: he says I use clichéd expressions too much . . .

RICHARD
You do.

ELISE
I meant—the “back of my fist” is not a cliché!

RICHARD
No, but you meant to say “hand.”

ELISE (he’s right)
Anyway, I ended up in Harlem.

RICHARD
—My God; when?

ELISE
Just now. Tonight.

RICHARD
O no dear you don’t want to end up there . . .

ELISE
They were really very helpful, though.

RICHARD
Who was, dear?

ELISE
. . . ?

RICHARD
Who was really very helpful to you?

ELISE
The African-Americans.

RICHARD
I know, it’s a mouthful to say, isn’t it . . .

ELISE
And this really very elderly African-American woman turned me right around on the platform and put me back on the downtown express:

“This ain’t yo’ stop,” she said.

Isn’t that amazing . . . ?

FLANAGAN
Quite.

ELISE
—In this day and age . . . ?

RICHARD
They’re just as afraid of you as you are of them, the African-Americans. Small Jewish-American girls frighten them most . . .

(She smiles briefly at FLANAGAN.)

RICHARD (cont’d.)
You two know each other, don’t you? . . .

No?

Elise, this is James / Flanagan—

ELISE
We know each other, Richard . . .

RICHARD
Are you certain . . . ?
           
FLANAGAN
—Yes; I believe I hired Ms. Sanger nearly six months ago.

ELISE
—Has it been that long . . . ?
                                   
RICHARD
—I know, doesn’t time just slay you?

FLANAGAN (gallant & stiff, he offers her his hand)
How do you do, Ms. Sanger?

(She takes it. With her other hand, she waves away his formality:)

ELISE
You can just call me “Elise.”

FLANAGAN (his hearing, perhaps)
. . . ?

ELISE
Elise! —I’m only twenty-nine . . .

FLANAGAN
Are you? Congratulations!
                       
ELISE
What for . . . ?

RICHARD
—That’s her age, James: she’s saying she’s too young for “Ms.”

FLANAGAN
O . . . Well you don’t look very much like a “Ms.” anyway, Ms. Sanger. —You’re much too fetching in that skirt!

(He laughs, lips tight.)

ELISE
Thank you—.

(To Richard:)

I think . . .

FLANAGAN (sips water, lifts eyebrows at his own humor)
. . . !

ELISE
. . . Where’s your tie, Mr. Flanagan?

FLANAGAN (hand to neck; another joke?)
O—my—? —It’s gone!

ELISE (smiling, charitably)
I’ve never seen you without one before . . .

FLANAGAN
I know, but you see: I took it off. I suppose you could say I felt like a change tonight—a change of—wardrobe!

RICHARD (drinks deeply; says softly)
. . . Good Christ . . .

ELISE
Well you look very handsome tonight without it, Mr. Flanagan.

FLANAGAN
—There’s no very good reason not to call me “James,” Ms. Sanger, is there?

ELISE
Okay:

(she smiles)

“James.” —And you can—call me Elise.

FLANAGAN
I know.

ELISE
—What do you know . . . ?

FLANAGAN
You’ve already instructed me as such, haven’t you—to call you “Elise,” Elise.

ELISE
Have I? —“instructed” you . . . ?

You’re very funny . . .

FLANAGAN
. . . Does that surprise you?

ELISE
Yes. It does.  
                       
RICHARD
. . . This is really very sweet, Elise: you’ve drawn him out of his shell.

ELISE
—Cliché.

RICHARD
Touché. —I was testing you / anyway . . .

FLANAGAN (butting in)
—Yes!, it certainly is silly, how “careful” I’ve been, always wearing my tie . . . around my neck . . . But have no fear, it’s not far off, my tie:

(he pats it)

—it’s right here in my suit jacket pocket . . . !

And I’ve still got my brown suit!

(Another joke?)

RICHARD (sighs; drinks)
. . .

ELISE (smiles, but looks to Richard again for help)
I’m sorry . . . I—don’t think I get that.

FLANAGAN
—I am still wearing my brown-on-brown

(a la the French:)

ensemble!

RICHARD
—He’s feeling very sorry for himself, that’s all . . .

FLANAGAN
I’m feeling very funny tonight, that’s all it is, Richard!—strange and funny and—anything could happen!

(Imagining castanets in his hands:)

—Cha-cha!

RICHARD (ignoring him; to Elise:)
You look sluttish tonight . . .

ELISE
And you look depressed; as usual . . .

RICHARD
It’s true . . . You know I’ve lost five pounds this month?

ELISE
. . .

RICHARD
It’s the stress . . .

ELISE (relieved)
—O; I know—all those papers: why do we make them write so much?

RICHARD
I don’t mind that; I like grading: it makes me feel smart. No, it’s the pressure—you know, change, in the department . . . I don’t handle change well . . .
                       
FLANAGAN
Yes, but he does like vomit!

RICHARD
. . .

ELISE (looks between them, almost laughing)
. . . Have I missed something between you / two?

FLANAGAN
He likes to see high school teachers vomit! —Cha-cha!

RICHARD
At parties . . .

FLANAGAN
—Yes, at parties!

RICHARD
. . . He’s angry with me about something, I don’t / know what—

FLANAGAN
I’m not angry, Dick! I’m really not!

ELISE
You’re not going to lose your job, Richard, if that’s what you’re worried about. Is that what you’re worried about?

RICHARD
I don’t know—what do you think I’m worried about, Elise?

ELISE
You’re tenured; you’re here for life.

—Isn’t that right, James?
                       
FLANAGAN
Right-o, Elise . . . !
           
ELISE
And besides, James isn’t retiring for another six months—

RICHARD
—Yes. But change must be in place . . . And as you well know, Elise, there are rumors floating about that the Chair of English may very well go to Charles. To Chuck. To Chaz. Because he is a married man. Because “the Board” likes their men hitched. —Or confirmed in their bachelorhood at least—right, James?

FLANAGAN (sips water)
. . .

ELISE
. . .

RICHARD (his second drink is empty now)
—Who’s ready for more?, I am . . .

ELISE
I’ll go—

RICHARD
No no I’m going—

(he takes her glass)

—you see?, I’m gone . . .

(He turns back:)

What are you having?

ELISE
Manhattan, please.

RICHARD
Of course you are—cliché!

(He’s gone.

A moment here of “What to say . . . ?”)

FLANAGAN (smiles; hides teeth)
. . .

ELISE
. . . Are you sure you don’t want a drink?
                                   
FLANAGAN
No thank you: I’m an alcoholic.

ELISE
. . . O.  

FLANAGAN
Thank you, though.

(Smiles; teeth.)

ELISE
Sorry.

FLANAGAN
—Why . . . ?

ELISE
I should’ve guessed.

FLANAGAN
Could you have . . . ?

ELISE
. . . ?

FLANAGAN
Could you have guessed that about me? That I’m alcoholic?

ELISE
. . . Well; you’re not drinking; you’re drinking a very large glass of water, with a rather large slice of lemon. I noticed. —I’m drunk myself—

(she laughs)

—a little, drunk—. —I had this party I had to go to, out in Brooklyn? It’s the last night of Chanukah / and—

FLANAGAN (interested)
Is it?

ELISE
Yes.

FLANAGAN (with great sincerity)
How wonderful for you!

ELISE (smiles)
. . . Really? You think so . . . ?

FLANAGAN
And what happens on this the very last night of Chanukah, Ms. Sanger?

ELISE
. . . I’m not sure I understand what you’re / asking me—

FLANAGAN
Is there something very special that’s meant to occur on this, the very last night of Chanukah, the Festival of Lights?

(Smiles tightly; waits for her answer:)

ELISE
. . . No. Not really.

FLANAGAN
Ah.

ELISE
—We light a candle. The last candle—of eight. —We can spin a dreidel if we want—are you making fun of me?

FLANAGAN
—No!

ELISE
I’m—. Okay. —You’re not making fun of me just a / little bit?  

FLANAGAN
—God, no! —I adore the Jewish people!

ELISE
. . .

(Another terrifically awkward moment passes here . . . )

FLANAGAN
Have you seen Diane’s sneakers? Diabetic elf.

ELISE (laughs—too loudly)
—Excuse me?

FLANAGAN
She looks like a pixie with diabetes. Don’t you think? Because she’s heavy.

ELISE
—That’s terrible!

FLANAGAN
Terrible but true . . .

ELISE
. . . I had no idea you were funny, Mr. Flanagan . . .

(He smiles painfully, lips tight.)

ELISE (she smiles back at him)
. . .
           
FLANAGAN (his eyebrows, again; sips his water)
. . .

ELISE
Would you like to sit / down?

FLANAGAN
—No.

ELISE
O—

FLANAGAN
—I’d rather not, you see.  

ELISE
That’s / fine . . .

FLANAGAN
—I’ve been sitting all day, you see . . .

ELISE
I see.

FLANAGAN
—But you may, of course—sit—if you’d prefer . . .

ELISE
. . . I do prefer. Thanks.

(She sits. A moment; then:)

FLANAGAN
And now, I think I will join you . . .

(He sits too.)

(She smiles a bit confusedly at him.)

(He smiles and hides his teeth.)

(She kicks off one of her heels, absentmindedly; begins jangling her foot beneath the table . . . )

ELISE
I wasn’t going to come tonight . . .

FLANAGAN
—Why on earth not?

ELISE
Didn’t think I’d have much “fun,” I guess. I mean—can I tell you this? I don’t think that I really belong here . . . with these people. You know? And none of them really like me very much. They resent me somehow. I don’t know why . . . Even Richard doesn’t like me—he likes to make fun of me. He’s my friend, but—.

Look at them all . . . They’re all such incredible losers . . . And I mean that in the kindest way possible . . . Trying to talk, drinking a lot—some of them even think they can dance; which they can’t . . . Poor souls . . . It’s all so unbearably sad . . .

. . They all have that rusty, dusty, musty-dirty-earth-thing going on—don’t they?—that look they get . . . ? I don’t know what—“geraniums”—that’s what they’re like . . . yeah . . .

(She smiles to herself.)

. . . Teachers are like really very old geraniums . . . —And it’s not so much that whole dirt-thing because that would be far too “outside,” far too healthy a connotation, but—: Teachers are like plants that have not been watered in a very long time . . . —And you know how they get, these house plants, that have not been watered: they slowly, inexorably, die. —They desiccate and they die. —But for a long time they still look alive. Until you touch them, and then

(a crumbling sound)

—ffssssssssst . . .

FLANAGAN (he waters himself: i.e., sips)
. . .

ELISE
I wasn’t talking about you, you know.

FLANAGAN (as if with nonchalance)
. . . Do you know that a student tried to shoot me today?

(She puts her shoe back on.)

ELISE
You’re joking.  

FLANAGAN
No: a student tried to shoot me, with a handgun. —He wanted to anyway: he didn’t fire the gun / obviously.

ELISE
O my God—

(laughs, covers mouth)

—I’m sorry.

FLANAGAN
—Yes, it’s surprising, isn’t it?—at our school . . .

`ELISE
—Did you call the police?

FLANAGAN
Of course not.

ELISE
Why not?

FLANAGAN
—I don’t want to get him in trouble, I suppose—.

ELISE
He had a gun, James—he brought a gun to school—

FLANAGAN
In his rucksack, yes.

ELISE
In his what?

FLANAGAN
Rucksack.

ELISE
Did he take it out of this “rucksack” of his?

FLANAGAN
Of course he did; that’s how I knew he / had it.

ELISE
—And he pointed it at you.

FLANAGAN
He placed it on the table between us . . .

He was testing me somehow . . .
 
ELISE
And then what happened?

FLANAGAN
He told me—he said he thought I hated him. —That I hated all my students. —Which is of course patently untrue . . .

ELISE
. . .

FLANAGAN
And then he looked as if he might cry . . .

—And then he left.

ELISE
My God . . .

FLANAGAN
Indeed.

ELISE
Why doesn’t stuff like that happen to me?

FLANAGAN
—I beg your pardon?

ELISE
You know?

FLANAGAN (an offended tone)
Ms. Sanger:

ELISE
I know, but you know what I’m / saying . . .

FLANAGAN
—I hardly think / you should—

ELISE
I know but—it’s exciting, right? 

—Who is it?

FLANAGAN
I don’t think I should be telling you / this . . .

ELISE
—What if I have him in one of my classes?

FLANAGAN
He’s a senior.

ELISE
So?

FLANAGAN
If you don’t have him now you won’t have / him ever—

ELISE
—How do I know I don’t have / him now?

FLANAGAN
—You can’t have him now because he’s mine!
                                                           
ELISE
. . .

FLANAGAN
—He’s my student . . .

ELISE
. . . You can’t let him get away with it . . . It’s a call for—a cry—. I mean, he could shoot someone else. He could shoot himself.

FLANAGAN
O no he won’t do that.

ELISE
—Why not?
                                                           
FLANAGAN
Because I have the gun.

(He smiles, a bit wildly, shows teeth.)

(She smiles too.)

(He leans in conspiratorially:)

FLANAGAN (cont’d.) 
. . . With me, right now; right here in my suit jacket pocket . . .

(He pats his pocket proudly; whispers:)

. . . wrapped inside my tie.

ELISE
. . .

(She reaches her hand out slowly, touches the gun through his suit jacket pocket . . .

A moment, then:)

ELISE (cont’d.)
. . . How old are you, Mr. Flanagan?

FLANAGAN
Fifty-nine.

(She smiles; continues to watch him closely; brazenly.

He meets her gaze, her smile; he obstructs her view of his mouth.)

ELISE
Do you want to go someplace else with me?

(RICHARD returns.)

RICHARD
Manhattan for the Manhattanite—

ELISE (getting up)
You can keep it: I’m going—

RICHARD
You just got here—

ELISE
I know.

RICHARD
—Are you going too?

FLANAGAN (standing also; bewildered)
It looks that way, now doesn’t it . . . ?

—Is everything all right with you?

RICHARD
Of course . . . Why wouldn’t everything be all right, James? Is there a reason why something should be not all right / with me. . . ?

FLANAGAN
—We’ll talk on Monday, okay?

RICHARD
Monday’s Christmas Eve, James.

FLANAGAN
We’ll talk after Christmas—we’ll talk in the new / year.

RICHARD (quieter; pulling him aside)
I wanted to talk to you tonight. —I needed to talk to you—.

ELISE
I’m going to go get my coat . . .

(She’s gone.)

RICHARD
She’s a slut. She’s my friend but—her boyfriend dumped her last summer. He was sleeping with a friend of theirs, and ever since she’s been on some kind of rampage.

FLANAGAN
Richard—

RICHARD
She fucked Charles and Fritz—not at the same time but both in the very first month of school. It’s pathetic. —I’m not your fairy godmother, James, but if I were you I’d wear a condom. —Assuming you get that far.

FLANAGAN (quietly)
For Christ’s sake / Richard—

RICHARD
You surprise me, James . . . really, you do; I wouldn’t think she’d be your
type . . .

FLANAGAN
—Is this about Charles? About the / Chair?

RICHARD (explodes)
—I don’t know yes maybe it is about the fucking Chair—!

FLANAGAN
All right / calm down—      

RICHARD
—You can tell me, James. I’m not a child: everyone’s talking. —I just heard Diane at the bar telling Liz they’ve been talking to Charles. Is that true?
           
FLANAGAN
. . .

RICHARD
We don’t have to dance around it all night; we can tell each other what’s really going on: if they don’t want me they don’t want me—they don’t want me, do they?

FLANAGAN
No.
           
RICHARD
. . .

FLANAGAN
They do not want you, Richard. They do not want to give you the Chair.

RICHARD
Why?

FLANAGAN
You know why . . .

RICHARD
I know but I want to hear you say it.

FLANAGAN
They’re worried about the children.
           
RICHARD
. . .

FLANAGAN
Their concern is that / the children—

RICHARD
—I’m not contagious—

FLANAGAN
You know what it is I’m trying / to say—

RICHARD
—So I’m a pedophile now, too?

FLANAGAN
They’re worried that the children might become—confused. —That it would be an obstacle to / their learning—

RICHARD
—I don’t make a secret of it now, James—I’m teaching now—

FLANAGAN
That’s right: you have tenure.

RICHARD
. . .

FLANAGAN
. . . Richard . . . Things were different when you weren’t talking about it so much . . .

RICHARD
People were dying—people are /dying—

FLANAGAN
I understand about / all that—
                                   
RICHARD
—You’ll talk to them, right? You’ll convince them.

FLANAGAN
. . .

RICHARD
Unless you feel the same way.

(As ELISE returns with her coat:)

FLANAGAN
Let me help you on with that, Elise . . .

(He does.)

RICHARD
—Everyone!

(Clapping hands.)

—Everyone, listen up: Dick Purdy here in the Anguish Department. Mr. Flanagan and I would like to make a brief announcement. —Actually, I’m the one making the announcement, as you can see, because it’s about our dear old Mr. Flanagan: he has a few problems with me. Always has. There are certain things he does not like about me, does not approve of entirely—and I think it’s time we get this prejudice out in the open before the shit really hits the fan which it will once I sue. Which I will most certainly do. Once James—sorry, “the Board,” gives the Chair of the department to our colleague here, Charles. —You’ve got something on your nose, Chuck—there, it’s gone: —Mr. Charles Komisky, ladies and gentlemen!, our new Chair of the English Department . . . Instead of me . . . Though I have been here twice as long, and I care deeply about our students, their minds—and literature—not to mention Idée Fixe—thank you, thank you. —And why will Charles get the Chair? For no reason other than he is a straight white male and I am most emphatically not. Straight. As you all know. As some of you disapprove of. Or fear. Or claim not to “understand” . . . Which is all very hypocritical given how many of our greatest writers have been gay, straight and all flavors in between: consider Moby-Dick. —But we must protect the children! says Mr. Flanagan, our patron saint of innocence. —We must save the children!—from confusion! They are not to understand the dark, oleaginous world of men; which means “slimy”; —whereas I dissent. And this is how I will teach them next year when Mr. Flanagan is gone, even though I will not be the Chair and I don’t care if it gets me fired—there but for the grace of tenure go I—I will teach the children everything there is to know about life! Because they need to know. Whether they want to know or not. I will let them see for themselves that I, for example, am a homosexual, as they’ve long known. And I will let them know what it’s like to be a homosexual, in this day and age, to be prejudiced against, to watch your friends and your loved ones—.

And Charles here the Chair will let them know what it’s like to be addicted to a controlled substance. Namely cocaine. And married to a shrewish megalomaniac with disconcertingly boyish features. For example. —And Fritz, Fritz DeLong, wherever you are, and if that is your real name, you can tell them what it was like to be an underwear model during the halcyon days of the early- to mid-1980s. —And Liz here will clue us all in on how it feels to be racially ambiguous—right, Liz?

And Mr. Flanagan . . .

What can our dear old Mr. Flanagan teach us all about life? I know he’s leaving—right now—with Ms. Sanger—do y’all know Ms. Sanger?—say hello, Elise; now say goodbye. —But were he to stay on another year: what does Mr. Flanagan know about life? What has he learned from his sixty-five years on this earth? Well I don’t know about you but I know a thing or two about him, and I don’t know if any of you are going to believe this—it’s incredible—

(With his free hand, and from out his suit jacket, FLANAGAN has removed the gun:)  

FLANAGAN
Richard:

(RICHARD turns to see the gun drawn shakily in his face.)

FLANAGAN (cont’d.)
Not another word.

(Dark.) 

3a.

(In darkness, climbing stairs, giddy and out of breath:)  

ELISE
I can’t believe what you did—!

FLANAGAN
I know but it felt so good—!

ELISE
—Did you see his face?
           
FLANAGAN
I’ve never seen him at a loss for words; I didn’t think it possible—

ELISE
Everything stopped! Everyone just shut up!

FLANAGAN
We really should keep these guns in the classroom, don’t you think?

ELISE
—Is it loaded?

FLANAGAN
You know, I haven’t even / checked—

ELISE
—Don’t look now!

(He cries out:)

FLANAGAN
— !

ELISE
Are you all right . . . ?

(She reaches out, with her hand, to steady him in the dark . . . )

FLANAGAN
I’m fine; I fell—I almost fell . . .

(If we could see, we’d see him pull away from her.)

FLANAGAN (cont’d.)
. . . Is it always so dark inside your building?

ELISE (the sound of keys; she’s disappointed)
It’s not my building . . .

(She opens the door; light grows:)

3b.

(Books everywhere, as if the walls are made of books.

A kitchen table, two chairs.

FLANAGAN heads straight for the books in the downstage “wall,” head held horizontal to read the titles off the spines.)

ELISE
The people that live here are writers.

FLANAGAN
Are they? Where do they teach.

ELISE
They don’t; they’re poets. —They’re both poets, believe it or not . . .

FLANAGAN
How romantic . . .

(She spills her keys across the tabletop.)

ELISE
. . . Do you want a drink?

FLANAGAN (looks up)
. . . ?

ELISE
Sorry. I forgot.  

FLANAGAN
—No actually I would.

I tell people I’m an alcoholic, you see, because it seems to put their minds at ease. —They expect it of me, somehow . . . —While the truth is I simply prefer not to.

(He tries to laugh.)

Except on very special occasions.

ELISE
Is this a very special occasion . . . ?

FLANAGAN (trying for suave)
We shall see. —Won’t we.

 (She smiles—a little—moves to a cabinet or shelf.)

ELISE
Wine?, or Scotch?

FLANAGAN
Please.

ELISE
Which; both?

FLANAGAN
A glass of wine would be fine . . .

—A bottle of wine would be divine . . . !

ELISE
. . . I don’t think I have a full bottle . . .

FLANAGAN
I’m just being—humorous—.

Let me see here . . .

(He studies the titles of the books.

She uncorks an already opened bottle of cheap Merlot, pours it into two shallow glasses.)

ELISE (bringing his glass to him)
. . . I don’t have any clean wine glasses . . .

(He takes it. She watches him awhile.)  

ELISE (cont’d.) (as if disappointed)
. . . You weren’t going to kill him, were you . . .  

FLANAGAN
Whom?

ELISE
Richard. He deserves it, you know . . .

FLANAGAN
No; of course / I wasn’t—

ELISE
You pulled a gun on him.

FLANAGAN
I wanted to frighten him, that’s all—to shut him up.

ELISE
Why?

FLANAGAN (the books, again)
. . .

ELISE (flirtatiously)
You’re going to get in trouble . . . You’ve done a very bad thing, Mr. Flanagan . . .

(She smiles.)

You can not pull a gun in public and then just walk away. There’ll be hell to pay come Monday.

FLANAGAN
Monday’s Christmas Eve.

ELISE
You could be arrested.

FLANAGAN
—Let them do their worst / to me!

ELISE
They might look for you here, you know . . .

FLANAGAN (trying for playful)
Will they? Tonight?

ELISE
Maybe.

FLANAGAN
Do they know where we are?

ELISE
It’s not hard to figure out.
 
FLANAGAN
—Do they know where you live?

ELISE
That’s not hard to figure out either . . .

(He contemplates his drink.)

FLANAGAN
Then we must hurry up, Ms. Sanger. Mustn’t we.

ELISE (smiling)
Hurry up with what exactly, James . . . ?

FLANAGAN
. . .

(He returns his attention to the books.

She watches him some more.)

ELISE
. . . See anything you like?

FLANAGAN
. . . ?

ELISE
Books.

FLANAGAN
—No: I’m afraid I’m not a fan of most modern literature. Word-salad.

ELISE (entertained, perhaps)
Word what . . . ?

FLANAGAN
That’s what it’s like for me: art for art’s sake—like a salad, made of words.

ELISE
As opposed to . . . ?

FLANAGAN
—How do you mean?

ELISE
Art for what’s sake then—?

FLANAGAN
—O, for God’s sake, I suppose.

(Smiles tightly.)

For the sake of humanity . . .

(He raises his glass:)

Sláinte!

(Pronounced “Slan-cha.”)

ELISE
Excuse me?

FLANAGAN
Irish. Gaelic. —“Cheers”—bottoms up!
           
(She raises her glass, too.)

ELISE (approximating)
Sláinte!

FLANAGAN
Indeed . . .

(They drink. He clears his throat.

He returns to the books; so she sits down . . .

She kicks off her heels, places a bare foot up on the corner of the table . . .  

He notices.)

FLANAGAN (cont’d.)
. . . It’s remarkable, really, to see so many books inside one room . . .

ELISE
They’re everywhere. Every wall-space is covered: the bathroom, bedroom—I’ll show you—

FLANAGAN
—No, thank you.

(He glances at her foot again.)

—But thank you. This is fine for me now . . .

(The books again; he sips furtively at his wine.)

ELISE
. . . They had them instead of children . . .

FLANAGAN
O yes I can see that—

ELISE
Instead of braces or bicycles or college: they bought books.

I like that, I think . . .

I don’t know if either one of them had a problem with fertility or what—
                       
FLANAGAN
You speak of them as if they’re dead.

(He looks up at her.)  

ELISE
Well it feels that way, doesn’t it?

When I moved in here, at the end of summer, I had this feeling like they were here, always—with me . . . You know? . . . Like ghosts.

FLANAGAN (mild alarm)
Ghosts?

ELISE
Don’t worry: they’re in Paris. As far as anyone knows . . .

I mean, isn’t that perfect . . . ?

They send me these postcards once in a while. They’re friends of my parents . . .

—But: it was like I had broken into their apartment, you know?, while they were gone, and I was pretending to be them; both of them . . .

. . . It was a very confusing time for me last summer.

FLANAGAN
I imagine it was / that . . .
           
ELISE
I kept having this one recurring dream, a nightmare, where they’d come home unannounced.

 FLANAGAN
You’re paying rent here, aren’t you?

ELISE
. . . ?

FLANAGAN
—You’re paying rent on this place?

 ELISE
Of course I’m paying / rent—

 FLANAGAN
Then you have nothing to be ashamed of, my girl.

ELISE (short)
—Who was saying anything about shame?

FLANAGAN
. . . I’m sorry . . . I misunderstood . . .

ELISE (she’s playing with her keys)
. . .

FLANAGAN (head bends to books again)
. . .

(She gets up: pours herself more wine.)

ELISE (a challenge)
I thought you said you were fifty-nine.

FLANAGAN (head up)
Did I?

ELISE
Before: Richard—he said / you’re—

FLANAGAN
—O. You see, I lied about that too . . .

ELISE
. . . Why?

FLANAGAN (shrugs)
Vanity, I suppose . . .

ELISE
You don’t strike me as very vain, Mr. Flanagan . . .

FLANAGAN
You’d be surprised, Elise.

(Smiles: teeth.)

—And I don’t feel sixty-five.

ELISE
You don’t act sixty-five . . .

FLANAGAN
Don’t I . . . ?

ELISE
(“No,”) you’re not old enough to retire, I don’t think . . .

FLANAGAN
Amn’t I?
           
ELISE (smiles; perhaps charmed)
—What is that?

FLANAGAN
What.

ELISE
That word: “Amn’t”—?

FLANAGAN
“Amn’t,” yes—

ELISE
Is that really a word?

FLANAGAN
It’s a contraction, actually—

ELISE (sitting again)
—Are you English?, or Irish? —I never could figure that one out . . .

FLANAGAN
I’m neither. —I’m American.

ELISE
All right: but where are you from?

FLANAGAN
The Bronx.

ELISE
As in Bronx, New York . . . ?

FLANAGAN
I live in Manhattan now . . . But I grew up in the Bronx. —I was Irish, from Ireland, as a boy.

ELISE
And you never outgrew the accent?

FLANAGAN
I should hope not!

ELISE
. . . It’s almost more English than Irish . . . More an English-public-school-kind-of—Eton, or—“Harrow,” is it . . . ?

FLANAGAN
Pretentious, you mean.
           
ELISE
. . .

FLANAGAN
You think I speak in a less than truthful manner?

ELISE
I don’t know if it has anything to do with being “truthful,” James . . .
 
FLANAGAN (back to the books)
. . .

ELISE
. . . Are you married?

FLANAGAN
No, no, no . . .

ELISE
—The students think you are.

FLANAGAN
That’s because I tell them I am so.

ELISE
Why do you lie to them?

FLANAGAN (straightening up)
It’s a performance, isn’t it? You’re playing a part. Most teachers are villains, or they are clowns: both are the teachers without talent; their appeal is wholly low-brow.

But those of us who are burdened with more—sophisticated tastes: we create subtler personas, full of shadow and light, mystery, and more often than not a wife.

ELISE
. . .

FLANAGAN
No one really trusts a male teacher anyhow, Ms. Sanger. Much less a bachelor.

ELISE
Why do you think that is?

FLANAGAN
You’re very curious about me tonight, aren’t you?

(She smiles, as if shyly. He drinks the rest of his wine, sets it down upon her table.)

FLANAGAN (cont’d.)
. . . And you?

(With great courage, effort:)

Are you—seeing someone . . . at the present time?
           
ELISE (a long exhalation)
. . . I was . . . For a long time: six years. —Not married though, thank God . . .

We broke up. —It was mutual. —We outgrew each other. —We changed. I love him dearly, but—will you listen to me?

FLANAGAN
. . . ?

ELISE
—I’m so fucking full of clichés! It’s like a fucking first language—I know absolutely nothing about life . . . !
           
                        FLANAGAN
I think you know a great deal. That’s why I hired you.

ELISE
—I’m not talking about literature, James . . .

FLANAGAN
. . . Would you like some more wine?

(He takes her glass; careful not to touch her hand. 

She watches him as he pours.)

ELISE
. . . How do you do it?

FLANAGAN
How do I do what . . . ?

ELISE
You teach: and you love it. And when you don’t love it you at least feel
proud. You’ve got a martyr’s pride . . .

Because I’ll tell you something: I’m good at it. Teaching. The kids love me—and I can’t stand them. —I hate them—the kids—I hate “kids” . . . And the children at that school can all eat shit for all I care: I mean, this attitude they have—? They look down on you as a matter of course, as if it’s somehow polite of them to condescend to talk to you, because you don’t live there—you can’t afford to! —So I constantly feel this need to shock them, you know? To break them of their smug little complacencies—about life. I flirt with the boys; I wear low-cut blouses, leather minis. I’m a bitch to the girls; I confront them with symbolic gang-rape in Lord of the Flies—and they are shocked! —Thank God something shocks them!, for a moment, for a few days, they’re confused, and violated . . . Why would she do this to us? What’s Miss Sanger trying to say . . . ?

But they get used to it, don’t they . . .

They’ve started to laugh at me already: “O, that’s Miss Sanger”—they don’t use the word Ms., it’s like their mouths are congenitally incapable of forming the sounds required—“That’s our Miss Sanger for you: it’s because she’s so young . . . ”

Don’t get me wrong: it’s me: I’m an artist—a novelist; by nature. That’s what I wanted to be in the first place, when I got out—of college. I went to Brown? I wrote a novel as my senior thesis. It’s not that good: too long—it’s trite—Richard read it; he had lots of notes . . . It’s not organic just yet, let’s just put it that way; but it’s a start . . . It’s about a place, in case you’re wondering, very much like Brown: there’s a murder, yadda yadda yadda . . . I haven’t given up on it just yet.

. . . But once you grow up, and by “up” I mean twenty-six, -seven, you find you’ve got to pay your rent, right? You’ve got to get health insurance. You have got to get a life, so—wake up! You know? Get married!, have kids quick before your ovaries dry up like a, like what? . . . fruit is so—fuck! . . . Anyway: and then you’ve got to find time to be inspired and isn’t that just about the most depressing thing you’ve ever heard . . . ?

FLANAGAN
You’re not a teacher.

ELISE
. . .

FLANAGAN
That’s simply not who you are.

ELISE
That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me in a very long time . . .

FLANAGAN
. . .

(She smiles up at him as she drinks deeply of her wine . . . He moves himself to the bookcase again.)

FLANAGAN (cont’d.)
—Once. —For a long time when I was young I had that certain ambition of which you speak. I gave myself one year—I was younger than you; and after months and months of sitting at my desk in a state of complete and utter constipation—artistic constipation—I suddenly realized: I had no talent. For looking at myself. I find it boring.

ELISE
And frightening.

FLANAGAN
—No: boring. —Indulgent; I’m not unique.

ELISE
You are. Everyone’s unique if you’re patient enough.

FLANAGAN
You say that because you’re young.

One of life’s great tragedies, Ms. Sanger, is to grow old and realize that while everyone is indeed an individual, no one is unique.

ELISE
I don’t know if I believe that . . .

FLANAGAN (he shrugs)
You don’t have to: it’s true.

You’ll see . . .

ELISE
What did you write about when you were young?

FLANAGAN
Nothing worth reading, I can assure you—

ELISE
Tell me:

FLANAGAN
I wanted to be the next James Joyce. Or Will Faulkner. —No, Joyce: the Irish-American Joyce of Scarsdale! . . . That was my privatemost ambition . . . When I first came here to teach—I was twenty-three years old—I was obsessed with that place; this town: Scarsdale . . . There were not so many Jews then. —It was Episcopal: a blue-blood town. This was ’49 into ’50—Joyce was still quite shocking then—and I wanted to write a novel like Ulysses, but instead of Leo Bloom one day in Dublin, it would be—well, me: one day in Scarsdale . . . And all our young James Flanagan need do all day was exactly what I did:

Take the seven-fourteen local from Grand Central, empty as it would be in the morning, as it always was, the armies of suburban businessmen in their gray flannel suits, drab trenchcoats and black wool hats waiting up north on their southbound platforms, gazing down along the tracks, into the city . . . —Uptown to Harlem we’d ride, to 125th Street and farther still, up, into the Bronx, and Melrose, Tremont, Fordham, Botanical Gardens . . . The cars fill up with blacks and hispanics—women mostly: nurses, cooks, maids—all the way to Fleetwood, and Bronxville; where the train begins to empty out again: maids and cooks and nurses; the odd merchants and clerks off in the middle-class burgs of Tuckahoe and Crestwood . . . And up farther still till we reached Scarsdale . . . Bright, clear, sun-filled Scarsdale . . . Where I disembark neck-deep in a rabble of hired hands . . . They look at me strangely, almost as if with pity; if I drop something they call out their name for me: Sugar, you dropped yo’ scarf! . . . And across the platform the late men wait for their late train . . . reading the Times, the latest Cheever in The New Yorker, scratching a line or two of original poetry in the margins of their day books . . .

The walk from the station—you know it too: up over East Parkway, down Spencer Place, past the delicatessen where I buy my second cup from the ex-con behind the counter; a packet of cigarettes—I smoked in those days; —and up higher still, up out of the village past the old homes in their crescent-shaped lanes—homes built by the city-rich over a hundred years ago, for the wives and children to escape the immigrants and typhus from the horse dung in the summer in the city . . . There has been a murder in that house: someone killed his wife with a hammer while she slept. In that house there has been a child’s death, by illness or by accident; adultery in that house; bankruptcy, alcoholism, drug-addiction . . . A starvation of affection . . . That house is haunted. That one is empty now. —But that one there is happy. That one is full of children . . .

. . . Up the hill and round the bend at the soccer fields, up over that stagnant brook past those black willow trees, perpetually pruned . . . I climb the stairs to my office in high heartbeat just to write it all down . . .

(With pride:)

Instead I’d prepare my lesson.

(A moment.

He drinks.

He turns to look at the books again.)

FLANAGAN
Tell me of their poetry, Ms. Sanger.

ELISE
My poetry?

FLANAGAN (turning)
—You write poetry?

ELISE
Not anymore. —I thought, when you said—your head was / turned.

FLANAGAN
I meant the poets who live here. —They that haunt you, Elise. What’s their poetry like:

ELISE
I don’t know how to describe it . . . Sort of like a—word salad?

FLANAGAN
Ah.

(Smiles tight.)

ELISE
Yes—

(she smiles too)

and morbid, too. —I don’t like it very much . . .

FLANAGAN
I don’t either . . .

ELISE
—I think you would, actually.
                                               
FLANAGAN
—Do you find me morbid, Ms. Sanger?

ELISE
Well, I’d say you’re very serious sometimes, Mr. Flanagan.

FLANAGAN
Yes, but not morbid; not depressive. —I think to have a surfeit of self-pity is a grave, grave sin. —I have great capacity for lightness and mirth.

ELISE (smiles)
“Mirth”?—are you sure . . . ?

FLANAGAN
Yes; you might even say that I am lightsome.

ELISE
I would not say that—I don’t think I even know what that word really means . . .

FLANAGAN
—It means exactly what it says: I have great light inside of me.

ELISE (she’s still smiling)
. . .
           
FLANAGAN
As do you . . .

(He smiles in return, showing his teeth.

She sips her wine.)

ELISE (a secret)
. . . I found some letters in a box. Would you like to see them?

FLANAGAN
. . .

ELISE
They’re love letters the poets wrote each other years ago, when they were young. —Sexual letters, some of them . . .

(Mock disdain:)

Filthy stuff, really.

FLANAGAN
. . . In what way filthy?

ELISE (shrugs)
The usual . . .

(She smiles:)

And a few not so usual . . .

FLANAGAN
. . .

ELISE
. . . They’re sweet. —And kind of heartbreaking, too. —People do the most disgusting things to each other when they’re in love . . .

FLANAGAN
I wouldn’t know about that.

ELISE
O come on James—

  FLANAGAN
I wouldn’t . . . !

I suppose you’d find me rather prudish, if you knew me, when it comes to that sort of thing . . .

ELISE
What sort of thing?

FLANAGAN
—Sex things.

ELISE
There . . . Was that so hard to say, Saint James?

FLANAGAN
. . . What did you call me?

ELISE
. . . ?

FLANAGAN
“Saint James”—?

ELISE
Everyone calls you that: the teachers—. I thought you / knew—

FLANAGAN
No . . .  

ELISE
—I was teasing.

FLANAGAN
Were you? Why?

ELISE
Why was I teasing / you . . . ?

FLANAGAN
—Why do they call me by that name?

ELISE
It’s the way you carry yourself: your hands . . . The way you walk down the hallway: “Saint James.”

FLANAGAN (quiet, at first)
O . . .

(Barks:)

Ha!

ELISE (she laughs too)
. . . You’re not mad?

FLANAGAN
No . . . I may in fact be “mad”—that is, a little off-kilter tonight, Ms. Sanger—but you’re right. —You are absolutely right! Road to Calvary, that’s how I’ve been . . .

(She watches him, closely.

He drinks some more—finishing off his glass.)

FLANAGAN (cont’d.)
Bring me those letters, please; I’d like to read them now.

ELISE
Really?

FLANAGAN
Why shouldn’t I . . . ?

ELISE
—You seem—

FLANAGAN
What:

ELISE
—nervous.

FLANAGAN
I am not / nervous—!

ELISE
You are! —You’re afraid they’ll be too sexy.

FLANAGAN
—Too what?

ELISE
Sexy! pissy! / filthy!

FLANAGAN
—Is that what you think I’m / afraid of?

ELISE
—You are afraid! I can tell from here!

FLANAGAN
My dear girl I can assure you I care less what those letters have to say on the subject of “sex.”

ELISE
. . .

FLANAGAN
. . . I’m curious, that’s all.

ELISE
In one letter she says she wants to make love to him with another woman . . .

FLANAGAN
. . .

ELISE
—You see?—you are / afraid!

FLANAGAN
—It’s a question of taste, my girl! —Morality is a question of taste! . . . And so I simply do not care to speak lightly of that sort of thing. —It’s simply an opinion of mine: I think we all might be a great deal better off were we all a bit more repressed. Shame is a wonderful tool—for good. And I’m talking about the
world here: think of all we might be avoiding, right now, as a culture: —and I know it’s not very popular these days, or for the past twenty-, thirty-odd years—but: there’d be no AIDS, yes?, fewer undesired pregnancies, divorces, molestations. What I’m saying is simply how I feel: “repression” has got a bad rap since Freud. And that’s one very big reason why I won’t read anything written after the First World War.

—My God, we’re obsessed with deviance!—a Godless culture running around with its head and pants cut off. The papers, on TV: you see a new story every day—about priests—. Did you know, last month, the priest from my parish was accused of molesting a young man—a boy, really, seminary, years ago; and this kindly old man walked down to the river—just last month this all came out, in the press, you can read it—and he threw himself into the water—.

—Right into the filthy waves . . . !
. . .
And that boy today who came into my office—he’d been abused.
—I’m sure of it now . . .

 ELISE
. . .

FLANAGAN (gentler; an apology, perhaps)
—And I’m not saying people should never have sex—they should. And it does not have to be a dreary affair; it can be quite beautiful, Elise . . . —Because a little repression goes a long way in making it that much more rewarding when one finally does give in—.
                                               
ELISE
. . .

FLANAGAN (to the books)
I said I know it’s not / popular . . .

ELISE
—Do you really feel that way?

FLANAGAN
About sex?

ELISE
About life.
                         
FLANAGAN (quietly)
. . . You think I’m an old maid . . .

ELISE (smiles)
. . . A what . . . ?

FLANAGAN
An uptight, dried-up old—it’s all right if you think that about me. I think that way about myself / sometimes . . .  

ELISE
I don’t think any bad way about you, James . . .
Why don’t you sit down now; okay?

(A moment.

Then he does sit down: lowers himself discreetly into the chair opposite.

He keeps the suit jacket on.)

ELISE (cont’d.)
. . . Take your jacket off now, please . . .

FLANAGAN
. . . Shall I?

ELISE
Yes. You shall:

(He takes his suit jacket off.

—And, turning, drapes it over the shoulders of the chair.

The gun clunks ominously in the suit jacket pocket.

She flinches.

He smiles, takes greater care . . . . . .

Long pause here as he arranges himself torturously without his suit jacket on . . .  

ELISE watches: he’s wearing a light brown shirt . . .

She reaches out to him—to remove a thread?

He kisses her. Awkwardly. Forcefully.  

. . .

She pulls back.)

FLANAGAN
. . . ?

(She kisses him now. Gentler.

They begin to caress each other; awkwardly.

After a moment or two:)

ELISE
. . . You don’t remember me, do you.

FLANAGAN
. . . From when?

ELISE
Scarsdale. Sorry.

FLANAGAN
. . .

ELISE
I grew up there. —My parents still live there.

(With a sigh, as if disappointed:)

Both of them, still married . . .

FLANAGAN (he pulls away farther)
. . .

ELISE
You don’t remember me, I know you don’t.

FLANAGAN
—Did I have you as a student?

ELISE
(“Yes.”)

FLANAGAN
—When?

ELISE
I don’t know—eleven, twelve years / ago . . .

FLANAGAN
Why wasn’t—? Why wouldn’t you tell me this before . . . ?

ELISE
—When before?

FLANAGAN
—When I interviewed you, last summer—

ELISE
I lied on / my résumé—

FLANAGAN
—at any time in the last six months—. Why didn’t you tell me so tonight?

ELISE
—I just did tell you—. —Does it matter?

FLANAGAN
Of course it matters—! Obviously it / matters—

ELISE
Why?
I mean, there’s a lot I haven’t told you—about me. —You hardly know me—.

FLANAGAN
—Does Richard know?
                       
ELISE
I don’t know. I think so.

FLANAGAN
You think—?

ELISE
Do you remember this poem I wrote?

(He looks at her, full in the face.)

ELISE (cont’d.)
The assignment had been to write a poem about someone you loved, and then lost. —“Loved and lost.” And you wrote about your uncle—how he died in World War Two. —And I wrote this poem about my brother: my younger brother had died a few years before that. An accident . . . I couldn’t write about it yet—well, or honestly. So I made a kind of free-verse rhyming thing, about a crow. And snow. —Those two words rhymed a lot . . . And how the crow flew from a high branch to the snow on the dead grass, then up again, into the sky . . .

You called it trite . . .

You gave it back to me, in class: “Heartfelt,” you said, “but trite.” I had to go home and look that word up in my parents’ dictionary just to find out what you meant about me . . .

FLANAGAN
. . .

ELISE
—And then you asked Brian Sloan to stand up and read his poem. —Do you remember Brian Sloan? He’s a plastic surgeon now; married, two kids. —And, anyhow, in heroic couplets he’d written this really very treacly poem about a grandmother who’d suffered a stroke . . . “Poignant,” you said, to the class, “and true.”

What I remember most about Brian was how he used to tease you in class; and you used to tease him right back. To flirt. The rest of us thought there was something somehow weirdly, vaguely sexual going on—we never said that, out loud, but we felt it . . . And then one day, later, after all that business with the poetry, I came to class early and you and Brian were there, discussing To The Lighthouse; and Brian was sitting on his desk, with his legs up under him. Like this, you know, like he used to—in a really very childlike position—almost feminine, really. —And you also were sitting on your desk! In exactly the same way!—You didn’t think his poem was any better than mine; you liked him more. You wanted to be his friend. You were a boy.

FLANAGAN (shaken)
. . .  

ELISE
Do you remember that—?

(He kisses her again—aggressively. After a moment of shock, surprise, she begins to kiss him back.

They continue kissing, groping. He gets his hand up under her shirt. Fondles her, hands shaking terrifically . . .

She takes one of his hands and places it on her thigh, under her skirt. His hand moves higher.

She unbuttons his shirt . . . His pants . . . Her hand goes into his pants.

A moment. . . .

They both have stopped kissing. . .

He stands:)

FLANAGAN
I really should be going.

ELISE
James—

FLANAGAN
I have to get all the way uptown / and—
           
ELISE
Sit down, James, it’s all right—
                                               
                                                            FLANAGAN
—No—no, I do not think it is all right, Elise—you see, because: I do not think I should have come here in the first place—

(In throwing his coat over his shoulders, throwing his arms through his coatsleeves:

The gun spills out across the floor.

They both flinch: will it fire?

He bends to pick it up.

He holds the gun for a moment—too long.

He looks at the gun in his hand . . . )

FLANAGAN (cont’d.)
. . . Did you really think I was a pedophile? . . . Is that what you really thought of me?

ELISE
No; I didn’t / mean that—

FLANAGAN
You said that: —“all the children”—all the children thought this thing of me /

(an explosion:)

—a disgusting thing about me—!

ELISE
. . .

FLANAGAN   (holding the gun, still; quiet again)
Are you angry . . . ?

Is that why you asked me to leave that bar with you—because you are still angry that I did not understand an adolescent poem . . . ?

ELISE
. . .

FLANAGAN
Because I was under a false impression here, Ms. Sanger—it’s not your fault.

(He smiles, lips tight.)

Tonight, when Richard was about to say something in front of all those people that I did not want him to say—do you know what it was he was going to say? About me? He was going to say something true . . . He’s the one living person who knows this one true thing about me . . . He knows what is true without knowing the reason for it; —and somehow I feel I ought to tell it to you now. Both what is true, and why. —Or perhaps I should save that for another day . . . when we both know each other better. —Because I like you, Ms. Sanger, I do . . . Elise . . . What a great adventure it has been simply for me to be here with you tonight. To stand here in your presence, in a beautiful young girl’s apartment, in someone else’s apartment that is also your apartment, browsing through books and talking—enjoying such wonderful conversation, even when we have felt compelled to discuss quite serious or morbid things. I have never been with a woman. In all my adult life. I have never been on intimate terms with a single other human being in all my sixty-five years. Because of one incident in my youth.

How cliché, you might say, Ms. Sanger . . .  

. . .

I am sorry I did not understand your poem.

(She stands still, not knowing what to do.

She holds out her hand—for his hand, or for the gun, perhaps.

After a while, he takes the gun and replaces it gently in his pocket.)

4.
           (Next morning.

FLANAGAN stands at his desk, dressed as he’s been all night; he’s put his tie back on.

Sunlight grows in the window, all throughout the scene.

He takes the gun from his pocket, lays it gently down upon the desk, beside James’ story . . .

He sits down.

He stares at both the story and the gun . . .

After a while:)

FLANAGAN
I know you’re there.

(JAMES appears in the doorway, out-of-sorts.)

JAMES
I saw your car in the teacher’s lot . . .

FLANAGAN
Were you waiting for me?

Why?

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN
It’s Saturday, James—

JAMES
Can I come in?

FLANAGAN
Of course you may, my boy . . .

(JAMES comes in, but remains standing near the door.

FLANAGAN leaves the gun right where it is.)

JAMES
Why didn’t you call the police?

FLANAGAN
. . . ?

JAMES
Last night—

FLANAGAN
I don’t remember. I still might. I’ll have to, won’t I?

JAMES
—Why didn’t you do it in the first place?

FLANAGAN
I don’t know. —I suppose I wanted to give you another chance.

JAMES
A chance for what . . . ?

FLANAGAN
. . .

JAMES
—Can I sit down?

(He does.)

JAMES (cont’d.)
Look: if my father finds out the gun’s gone he’s going to kill me—
           
FLANAGAN
—You told me all this / yesterday—
           
JAMES (strongly)
—Why do you always just assume you know everything about everyone . . . ?

FLANAGAN (covering the gun with his hand)
. . .

 JAMES
You don’t know everything . . . !

FLANAGAN
. . .

JAMES (pleading, suddenly)
—Can I have it back now?, please? I’m sorry. I promise I won’t hurt you. You can keep the bullets. I get confused. Let’s just forget everything that I said and I’ll put it back where it belongs, and nobody will ever know it was / gone—
           
FLANAGAN
—Why do you want it back?
           
JAMES
I told you: my father—

FLANAGAN
Forget all that, James, forget about your father: you wanted to kill me yesterday.

JAMES
No, I didn’t . . .

FLANAGAN
“Mr. Flyswatter”—I was cruel / to you—

JAMES
I didn’t want to kill you—

FLANAGAN
—That was what, then—to frighten me? It worked.

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN
—Were you going to use it on someone else?, at school—

JAMES (laughs)
No—

FLANAGAN
Your family?

JAMES
—I don’t want to murder anyone!

FLANAGAN
Don’t you want to tell me something, James?

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN
—You want to tell me—. If you don’t want to kill me you want to tell me—

JAMES
Nothing.

FLANAGAN
You don’t want to tell me / anything—

JAMES
No. —I don’t know—

FLANAGAN
You don’t know what’s wrong with you, or you don’t know if you want to tell me?

JAMES
—You’re not my fucking psychiatrist—!

FLANAGAN
—O, I know that—I am well aware that I am not your “fucking psychiatrist”—I’m not trained for any of this—.

Let’s call your / parents now—

JAMES
—The fuck do you care?

FLANAGAN
All right:

JAMES (standing)
—You let me leave here yesterday and you did not think twice—. Call the police if you think I’m a danger to myself.

FLANAGAN
Are you a danger to yourself?

JAMES (the window)
. . .

FLANAGAN
James?

JAMES
I could do it other ways if I wanted—.

I could eat a bottle of aspirin.

(He gestures out the window:)

I could hang myself on one of those fucking cut-up trees—.

FLANAGAN
—Is that what you want to do? Do you want to harm yourself?

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN
James:

JAMES
. . . Sometimes.

FLANAGAN
Good:

JAMES
What?

FLANAGAN
Why:

JAMES
—Why what?

FLANAGAN
Why do you want to kill yourself?

JAMES (he laughs)
. . .

FLANAGAN
Do you know . . . ?

JAMES
I know—

 FLANAGAN
—Is your life so terrible . . . ?

JAMES
—Why do you say it like that?

FLANAGAN
Like what?

JAMES
—I can’t take it anymore . . .

Okay?

FLANAGAN
—You’re going to have to be a bit more specific than that, James. —What exactly “can’t you take”?

JAMES
Everything—

FLANAGAN
“Everything”?

JAMES
—Life—

FLANAGAN
Life? You can’t take “life” anymore—?

JAMES          
—Why are you laughing at me?

FLANAGAN
I’m not—I’m simply—. You’re going to have to be patient with me on this one because, frankly, this is where I begin to lose sympathy for you; this is precisely when I begin to become quite angry with you, if you’ll forgive me. —If you’re going to kill yourself, if you’re not going to give yourself at least the opportunity to let life prove to you that you are wrong, that life has something to offer—that there are people out there in this world who will love you, to some degree, in some way, one day—then you ought to know why.

So tell me:

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN (quietly, very gently)
Tell me, James . . . You’re in pain . . . I will listen to you now . . .

(The boy begins to cry, almost soundlessly.)

FLANAGAN (cont’d.)
. . . Listen: what you said to me, yesterday—. About my story . . . and your story; when you made reference to mine—. —I want you to know that you were right. You were absolutely right about me . . .
           
JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN
James: has your father interfered with you before?

JAMES (looking up)
. . . ?

FLANAGAN
Has he abused you—? Has anyone abused / you—?

JAMES (short laugh)
—I’ve never been molested.

FLANAGAN
. . .

JAMES
That’s your story.

FLANAGAN (slumps slowly back in his chair)
. . .

JAMES (wiping his eyes)
. . .

(FLANAGAN watches JAMES for a long time.

Slowly, he pushes the gun across the desk.)

FLANAGAN
You can have it back now. It’s yours. Take it home to your father. Or kill yourself. Don’t do it here.

JAMES (eyes the gun)
. . .

(He makes the slightest move for it—sitting forward in his chair.)

FLANAGAN
Or you can pick up that story instead.

(His fingers lightly brush the pages on the desk.)

. . . I was re-reading it when you came in: it’s not bad. It’s good. I was wrong yesterday; it shows potential . . .

And it would be a shame, in my opinion, after forty-two years of teaching, to see you splatter the brains that could write these words all over the walls of this room. Or any room, for that matter.

JAMES
. . . It’s shit.

            FLANAGAN
—It’s not shit—it’s your story—!

(He pushes it across the desk.)

Pick it up and read it out loud and I will show you exactly where I see such promise . . .

JAMES (wipes his eyes; nose)
. . .

FLANAGAN
Go on:

            (The boy reaches . . .

            For an instant it looks like he might choose the gun.

            He picks the story up instead.)

FLANAGAN (cont’d.)
When you are ready, my boy:

JAMES (coughs; wipes nose)
. . . “Saint James: Portrait of a Hero,” by—me.

(A fragile laugh is shared.)

JAMES (cont’d.)
“At the station the sun is angry. The wet tiles of the train station roof gleam and chortle in the morning sun. The snow shrieks and the crows taunt him. James walks through this sea of commuters, these fat men like beetles in their dark wool coats. Watch where you’re going! somebody shouts, and James thinks, They crucified Jesus, too . . . He lives near the station, in the slums of this rich town. His mother lies in bed late into the morning. His father—where is his father? . . . James packs his bag, slips into the morning rush and walks through this sea of people who know nothing about him, nothing of his life or of each other, on his way to school and the sun at least loves his heart—”

FLANAGAN
—There.       

JAMES
. . . ?

FLANAGAN
That’s good, isn’t it? . . . That’s very good: “The sun at least loves his heart.”

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN
You may continue, dear boy.

            (As lights fade:)

JAMES
“At the classroom, Flyswatter stands, tall, effete, brownsuited . . . ”

 END OF PLAY