Last Rights

The action takes place in a bathroom. The actor, an average looking man or woman wearing casual contemporary clothing, will be addressed from this point as ACTOR. Dependent upon the size of the stage and the budget, another room connected to the bathroom can be used. If the director wishes, touches such as chairs, lamps, etc. can populate the second room. The bathroom can contain a large tub (preferably a large, old claw-foot type), sink, toilet and medicine cabinet over the sink. Otherwise, the stage is bare with the exception of a toilet, with the lid closed, that ACTOR uses as a chair; if it is not possible to obtain a toilet, a simple chair will suffice. ACTOR  moves about the stage as ACTOR feels is natural. If the director chooses the more elaborately populated version, normal stage lighting is used; otherwise, the only lighting is from one or two spotlights that follow ACTOR  throughout the action. ACTOR is seated on the toilet as lights slowly come up.  ACTOR's head is bowed, hands in lap. When the lighting is fully up, ACTOR speaks to a character only ACTOR can see:

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     Just listen for a minute before you call the cops. I'm sorry about all the blood, but she thought this was best. I had some pills, but she shook her head and said that way was much too easy. She didn't want it to be easy. Most of all, she didn't want it to look easy.  Thank God for tile floors. It'll wait.

     No, leave her alone. She's not going anywhere. She'll wait, too. She looks just like she's sleeping, doesn't she? I've never seen her more ... peaceful. At ease. Look, look! She's even smiling! Can't you see? Look how the corners of her mouth turn up, just ever so slightly! I think she must be listening. I'll bet she'd really like to laugh right now. I know she would if she could see your face. See? There are little bubbles between her lips! Those are tiny, tiny baby laughs trying to escape. If you bent down and burst one, you'd hear an infant giggle, high and free and clear!

     Notice the exquisite artistry of the deed. Have you ever seen such grace, such natural beauty of line and form? I've stood staring for hours at Gauguin's imagination, and van Gogh's and  Michelangelo's, and countless others -- but I've never seen anything as wondrous as this! Have you? The police -- when they come -- should send their photos to the Louvre; or they could auction them at Christies. You could get a fortune for photos like this. I took some myself, but they're not for sale. I'm going to take the best one and blow it up into a poster and send it to you for your birthday. It's only right.

     Notice the perfect grace of her right arm, draped over the side of the tub with the middle finger almost, but not quite, touching the floor. Perfect! It's just perfect, I tell you! The way the blood snakes away from that finger and splits into tiny rivers flowing in the cracks of the tile reminds me of Dali. And over there is Jackson Pollock. You can see Picasso in her eyes -- and there's something very Warhol about her neck, the way it curves around the hard white porcelain edge of the tub.

     Her breasts are strictly modern, of course. No past master ever painted breasts like these -- such perfect, modern breasts! Only Vargas paints breasts like these -- meant for bathrooms, too, in the hands of hungry teenage boys with their pants around their ankles. The nipples look like skyscrapers looming over smooth, pink hills.

     See her toenails? She let me paint them for her, and she must have tried seven different shades of red before she was satisfied. They had to be just right, you see.

     No, no, we don't need a blanket! She wouldn't want a blanket, for God's sake! That's the whole point, don't you see? She wanted everyone to see her just like this! If I could get "Sixty Minutes"  in here with their cameras, she'd love it! She would want America to see her in her loveliest moment. She would want them to know her at her best. And this is her best, there's no doubt of that. It is her triumph!

     You forgot that today's her birthday, didn't you? Yeah, she knew you would. Twenty-three today. Forever twenty-three -- exactly. She timed it perfectly. She had me send off for a copy of her birth certificate so she could be sure about the time.It was very important to her. Six eighteen a.m.,  exactly. Twenty-three and not a second more. Now, that's style.

            She was afraid at first -- when she found out -- that she wouldn't be able to wait until her birthday. She was afraid she would start breaking out in sores, the way so many do. She didn't want to be seen like that, and she had me check her over, head to toes, two -- sometimes three -- times a day, to make sure she was still perfectly smooth and blemish-free. But she didn't have to worry, did she? Just look at her ! Not a mark -- except for the wrists, of course, but that was part of the plan. She wanted that graphic touch, to emphasize how her beauty has been spoiled and wasted. She wanted the world to know. She wanted them to see, and gasp, and peek between their fingers for another look. She wanted them to cry and drool over her beauty at the same time. She wanted them to want to be her for a moment. Most of all, she wanted you to see. Thank you so much for coming so quickly. I know how busy you must be.

     I drained the tub, of course, and refilled it with fresh, clean water so you could see all of her clearly. She said the blood on the floor would be enough and, perhaps, would seem a little "surrealistic." I think she was right, don't you?

     Over here, you can see the squiggly red imprints of my tennis shoes. That happened when I squatted next to her and filled all these test tubes with the blood that dripped from her middle finger. That was her idea, too. She wants me to send one to every senator and congressman in Washington -- with a picture of her and a copy of that news article that announced the budget cutbacks in federal support to find a cure. I got some great shots. If they airbrushed out the blood, they could print them in Playboy and put a staple in her belly and no one would ever know the difference.

     There are other things I could do with these test tubes, you know. I could rob banks with them. "Put all the money in this sack," I could say, "or you die!" I'd wave a tube in front of their noses, pull off the stopper, and maybe spill a few drops on the counter for dramatic effect.

     I could break into some hospital operating room all wide eyed and raving, with an open test tube in each hand, and slosh them over patients and doctors and nurses if I wanted to! I could demand a jumbo jet and four million dollars cash, and get 'em, too!

     I could even force you to sit down here on the closed lid of the toilet, and I could make you drink down each tube of her diseased blood for what you did to her, you son of a bitch!

     How about it? How about a little "Bloody Mary"? No, no! It's a "Virgin Mary" when there's no alcohol in it, isn't it? Ha, ha! That's good, that's perfect! How about a little "Virgin Mary" wake me up? You could sit on the edge of the tub and cradle her in your Christ-like arms in a grisly, reverse "Pieta." You were a god to her, you know. She trusted you implicitly. She gave you all that she had, all that she was. You gave her this, knowing all along, and then you just disappeared.

     Okay, you can call the cops now. Go ahead, I won't stop you. You can even tell them that I helped her if you want. But you may want to save that. You may want to hold off on that. I know you're the kind of guy who will hang on until it gets so bad that you just can't stand it anymore. And when you're finally all withered away and covered with sores and can't get out of bed and you're screaming with the pain, you may want to give me a call.

     I'll come if you do. I'll be honest: I really don't want to. But I'll come, because that was her last request. Even now, you bastard, she loves you. Even now. When you're ready, I'll come. Just give me a call. I'll be there. 

                                                                       BLACKOUT