Angels in America (3 page)

JOE
: If this is a bad time—

ROY
:
Bad
time? This is a
good
time!
(Button)
Baby doll, get me— Oh fuck, wait.
(Button)
Hello? Yah. Sorry to keep you holding, Judge Hollins, I— Oh
Mrs
. Hollins, sorry dear, deep voice you got. Enjoying your visit?
(Hand over mouthpiece again; to Joe)
She sounds like a truck driver and he sounds like Kate Smith, very confusing. Nixon appointed him, all the geeks are Nixon appointees.
(To Mrs. Hollins)
Yeah, yeah right good so how many tickets dear?
Seven?
For what,
Cats, 42nd Street
, what? No you wouldn't like
La Cage
, trust me, I know. Oh for godsake. Hold.
(Hold button, button)
Baby doll, seven for
Cats
or something, anything hard to get, I don't give a fuck what and neither will they.
(Button; to Joe)
You see
La Cage
?

JOE
: No, I—

ROY
: Fabulous. Best thing on Broadway. Maybe ever.
(Button)
Who? Aw, Jesus H. Christ, Harry,
no
, Harry, Judge John Francis Grimes, Manhattan Family Court. Do I have to do every goddamn thing myself?
Touch
the bastard, Harry, and don't call me on this line again, I told you not to.

JOE
(Starting to get up)
: Roy, uh, should I wait outside or—

ROY
(To Joe)
: Oh sit.
(To Harry)
You hold. I pay you to hold fuck you Harry you jerk. Half-wit dick-brain.
(Hold button, then he looks at Joe. A beat, then:)

     
I see the universe, Joe, as a kind of sandstorm in outer space with winds of mega-hurricane velocity, but instead of grains of sand it's shards and splinters of glass. You ever feel that way? Ever have one of those days?

JOE
: I'm not sure I—

ROY
: So how's life in Appeals? How's the judge?

JOE
: He sends his best.

ROY
: He's a good man. Loyal. Not the brightest man on the bench, but he has manners. And a nice head of silver hair.

JOE
: He gives me a lot of responsibility.

ROY
: Yeah, like writing his decisions and signing his name.

JOE
: Well . . .

ROY
: He's a nice guy. And you cover admirably.

JOE
: Well, thanks, Roy, I—

ROY
(Button)
: Yah? Who is
this
? Well who the fuck are
you
Hold.
(Hold button)
Harry? Eighty-seven grand, something like that. Fuck him. Eat me. New Jersey, chain of porno film stores in, uh, Weehawken. That's—Harry, that's the beauty of the law.
(Hold button, button)
So, baby doll, what?
Cats?
Ugh
. (Button) Cats!
It's about cats. Singing cats, you'll love it. Eight o'clock, the theater's always at eight.
(Button)
Fucking tourists.
(He puts his finger on the button for the line on which Harry is holding; before pushing it, to Joe)
Oh live a little, Joe,
eat
something for Christ sake.

JOE
: Um, Roy, could you—

ROY
: What?
(Pushing the button; to Harry)
Hold a minute.
(Hold button, button)
Mrs. Soffer? Mrs.—
(Button, to Baby Doll)
God-fucking-damnit to hell, where is—
(Continue below:)

JOE
: Roy, I'd really appreciate it if—

ROY
(Continuous from above)
: Well she was here a minute ago, baby doll, see if—

(The phone starts making three different beeping sounds, all at once.)

ROY
(Smashing buttons)
: Jesus fuck this goddamn thing!
(Continue below:)

JOE
: I really wish you wouldn't—

ROY
(Continuous from above)
: Baby doll? Ring the
Post
get me Suzy see if—

(The phone starts whistling loudly.)

ROY
: CHRIST!

JOE
:
Roy
.

ROY
(Into receiver)
: Hold.
(Hold button; to Joe) What?

JOE
: Could you please not take the Lord's name in vain?

(Pause.)

JOE
: I'm sorry. But please. At least while I'm . . .

ROY
(Laughs, then)
: Right. Sorry. Fuck.

     
Only in America.
(Punches a button)
Baby doll, tell 'em all to fuck off. Tell 'em I died. You handle Mrs. Soffer. Tell her it's on the way. Tell her I'm schtupping the judge. I'll call her back. I
will
call her. I
know
how much I borrowed. She's got four hundred times that stuffed up her— Yeah, tell her I said that.

     
(Button. The phone is silent)

     
So Joe.

JOE
: I'm sorry Roy, I just—

ROY
: No no no no, principles count, I respect principles, I'm not religious but I like God and God likes me. Baptist, Catholic?

JOE
: Mormon.

ROY
: Mormon. Delectable. Absolutely. Only in America. So, Joe. Whattya think?

JOE
: It's . . . well . . .

ROY
: Crazy life.

JOE
: Chaotic.

ROY
: Well but God bless chaos. Right?

JOE
: Ummm . . .

ROY
: Huh. Mormons. I knew Mormons, in, um, Nevada.

JOE
: Utah, mostly.

ROY
: No, these Mormons were in Vegas.

     
So. So, how'd you like to go to Washington and work for the Justice Department?

JOE
: Sorry?

ROY
: How'd you like to go to Washington and work for the Justice Department? All I gotta do is pick up the phone, talk to Ed, and you're in.

JOE
: In . . . what, exactly?

ROY
: Associate Assistant Something Big. Internal Affairs, heart of the woods, something nice with clout.

JOE
: Ed . . .?

ROY
: Meese. The Attorney General.

JOE
: Oh.

ROY
: I just have to pick up the phone . . .

JOE
: I have to think.

ROY
: Of course.

     
(Pause)

     
It's a great time to be in Washington, Joe.

JOE
: Roy, it's incredibly exciting.

ROY
: And it would mean something to me. You understand?

(Little pause.)

JOE
: I . . . can't say how much I appreciate this Roy, I'm sort of . . . well, stunned, I mean . . . Thanks, Roy. But I have to give it some thought. I have to ask my wife.

ROY
: Your wife. Of course.

JOE
: But I really appreciate—

ROY
: Of course. Talk to your wife.

Scene 3

Same day. Harper at home, alone, as she often is, listening to the radio. She speaks to the audience:

HARPER
: People who are lonely, people left alone, sit talking nonsense to the air, imagining . . . beautiful systems dying, old fixed orders spiraling apart.

     
When you look at the ozone layer, from outside, from a spaceship, it looks like a pale blue halo, a gentle, shimmering aureole encircling the atmosphere encircling the earth. Thirty miles above our heads, a thin layer of three-atom oxygen molecules, product of photosynthesis, which explains the fussy vegetable preference for visible light, its rejection of darker rays and emanations. Danger from without. It's a kind of gift, from God, the crowning touch to the creation of the world: guardian angels, hands linked, make a spherical net, a blue-green nesting orb, a shell of safety for life itself. But everywhere, things are collapsing, lies surfacing, systems of defense giving way.

     
This is why, Joe, this is why I shouldn't be left alone.

     
(Little pause)

     
I'd like to go traveling. Leave you behind to worry. I'll send postcards with strange stamps and tantalizing messages on the back: “Later maybe.” “Nevermore . . .”

(Mr. Lies, a travel agent, appears, carrying a briefcase.)

HARPER
: Oh! You startled me!

MR. LIES
: Cash, check or credit card?

HARPER
: I remember you. You're from Salt Lake. You sold us the plane tickets when we flew here. What are you doing in Brooklyn?

MR. LIES
: You said you wanted to travel . . .

HARPER
: And here you are. How thoughtful.

MR. LIES
: Mr. Lies. Of the International Order of Travel Agents. We mobilize the globe, we set people adrift, we stir the populace and send nomads eddying across the planet. We are adepts of motion, acolytes of the flux. Cash, check or credit card. Name your destination.

HARPER
: Antarctica, maybe. I want to see the hole in the ozone. I heard on the radio—

(He opens his briefcase. Inside it, there is a computer terminal.)

MR. LIES
(His hands poised over the keyboard)
: I can arrange a guided tour. Now?

HARPER
: Soon. Maybe soon. I'm not safe here you see. Things aren't right with me. Weird stuff happens.

MR. LIES
: Like?

HARPER
: Well, like you, for instance. Just appearing. Or last week . . . well never mind.

     
People are like planets, you need a thick skin. Things get to me, Joe stays away and now . . . Well look. My dreams are talking back to me.

MR. LIES
: It's the price of rootlessness. Motion sickness. The only cure: to keep moving.

HARPER
: I'm undecided. I feel . . . that something's going to give. It's 1985. Fifteen years till the third millennium. Maybe Christ will come again. Maybe seeds will be planted, maybe there'll be harvests then, maybe early figs to eat, maybe new life, maybe fresh blood, maybe companionship and love and protection, safety from what's outside, maybe the door will hold, or maybe . . . Maybe the troubles will come, and the end will come, and the sky will collapse and there will be terrible rains and showers of poison light, or maybe my life is really fine, maybe Joe loves me and I'm only crazy thinking otherwise, or maybe not, maybe it's even worse than I know, maybe . . . I want to know, maybe I don't. The suspense, Mr. Lies, it's killing me.

MR. LIES
: I suggest a vacation.

HARPER
(Hearing something)
: That was the elevator. Oh God, I should fix myself up, I— You have to go, you shouldn't be here, you aren't even real.

MR. LIES
: Call me when you decide.

HARPER
: Go!

(Mr. Lies vanishes as Joe enters.)

JOE
: Buddy?

     
Buddy? Sorry I'm late. I was just . . . out. Walking.

     
Are you mad?

HARPER
: I got a little anxious.

JOE
: Buddy kiss.

(They kiss.)

JOE
: Nothing to get anxious about.

     
So. So how'd you like to move to Washington?

Scene 4

Same day. Louis and Prior sitting outside on a bench near an Upper West Side funeral home, both dressed in funereal finery; Prior is elegant, Louis is rumpled/negligent. The funeral service for Sarah Ironson has just concluded and Louis is about to leave for the cemetery
.

LOUIS
: My grandmother actually saw Emma Goldman speak. In Yiddish. But all Grandma could remember was that she spoke well and wore a hat.

     
What a weird service. That rabbi.

PRIOR
: A definite find. Get his number when you go to the graveyard. I want him to bury me.

LOUIS
: Better head out there. Everyone gets to put dirt on the coffin once it's lowered in.