Gruesome Playground Injuries; Animals Out of Paper; Bengal Tiger at the Baghdad Zoo

by Rajiv Joseph

  TOM: (squeezes hands over his ears) Go away. Just get outta here.

  GIRL: (Arabic) For twenty dollars we can have sex.

  B’ishreen dolar a-nam weyak.

  Ficky-fick! Ficky-fick!

  TOM: I’m not talking to you! Shut up!

  (points to his watch) Five minutes!

  KEV: (shows his hand) First, you have to crack and break the bone. Bones, actually. There’s a lot of them. On the proximal side, the scaphoid, lunate, triquetrum and pisiform. On the distal side, trapezoid, capitate, and hamate.

  I couldn’t fracture all of them. They’re hard. And I only partially shredded my volar radiocarpal ligament.

  These things keep us together, you know? I never knew about this stuff before. But now I do. I am understanding how things relate.

  Tom looks at his prosthetic hand. He looks at the girl, and then shifts away from both the girl and Kev, seemingly embarrassed of his hand.

  Kev gets up and starts to leave.

  KEV: I’m just saying, Tommy, think about the physiology of the wrist! We are put together so well! And that tiger tore off your hand in about two seconds! With just his mouth! How strong his jaws must be! How hungry he must have been! He just took it off and ate it.

  It’s amazing, how quickly you can lose a part of yourself.

  I am glad I met you because you are a true friend.

  Your friend, Kev.

  TOM: (jumping up, shouting) I’m not your friend! Leave me alone!

  The girl is startled.

  Kev exits, Musa enters, rushed.

  Musa looks sick, exhausted.

  TOM: What the fuck man?

  MUSA: I’m so sorry . . . I’m . . .

  TOM: Well, get the fuck in here!

  Okay. I’m sorry I shouted. Will you tell her I’m sorry I shouted?

  MUSA: Who is this girl?

  TOM: She’s a girl.

  MUSA: I can see that. Who is she?

  TOM: I just need you to translate.

  MUSA: You told me this was for . . .

  TOM: Never mind what I told you. Will you just translate?

  MUSA: Translate what?

  TOM: Tell her I’m sorry I shouted.

  MUSA: (Arabic) He is sorry he shouted.

  Hoo-e mita’siff ala syaha.

  Girl is not impressed.

  Musa looks at Tom. Tom looks back at both of them.

  TOM: Okay. Can we take care of this?

  MUSA: Take care of what? You told me we were conducting interviews.

  TOM: Just translate.

  MUSA: To her? To a girl? I’m not that kind of translator.

  TOM: What if I take this to your RSO? I give you a directive, you follow it, or they will kick your ass to the curb, Habib. Do your fucking job.

  (to Girl) Ficky-fick.

  GIRL: Ficky-fick.

  TOM: Yeah.

  (to Musa) Ficky-fick?

  MUSA: What are you talking about?

  GIRL: Yeah. Ficky-fick.

  TOM: So check it out.

  I been whacking off since I was eleven.

  Always with the right hand. Probably at least twice a day since I was eleven, always with the right hand.

  That’s a lot of whacking off.

  I didn’t think about it.

  My name’s Tom.

  GIRL: Ficky-fick.

  TOM: Yeah. Ficky-fick.

  It’s not the same with the left hand.

  I broke in my right hand after all those years of yanking it every day. It had the right shape.

  It was familiar to me.

  GIRL: Ficky-fick. Twenty dollar!

  TOM: Tell her.

  MUSA: Tell her what?

  TOM: What I just said. Tell her.

  MUSA: (to Girl; Arabic) He will pay you. But he is shy and wants to talk a little bit first.

  Rah yidfa’lich. Bess hoo-eh mistihee u-yreed yihchee shway-eh o-el.

  TOM: Did you tell her?

  MUSA: I did.

  TOM: Does she understand?

  MUSA: Probably not.

  I don’t understand.

  TOM: It’s because of the shape! And the angle. I don’t know! It’s just different.

  And I can’t get off. It’s as simple as that.

  MUSA: What exactly do you want me to tell her?

  TOM: Tell her that!

  MUSA: I did.

  TOM: So?

  MUSA: Even if what I told her made any sense, I’m not sure she understands what you want.

  GIRL: (Arabic) Does he have money with him?

  Inde floos weeyah?

  MUSA: (Arabic) He has money and he will pay you.

  Inde floos oo rah yidfa’lich.

  GIRL: (Arabic) For twenty dollars we can have sex.

  B’ishreen dolar a-nam weya.

  MUSA: (Arabic) He will give you what you want.

  Rah yidfa’lich ili treedee.

  TOM: What are you guys babbling about?

  MUSA: (Arabic) He has a problem with his hand.

  Hoo-eh inde mushkilleh b’eedeh.

  GIRL: (Arabic) What happened to him?

  Sh-sar bee?

  TOM: (angry) You know that’s very rude!

  I’m standing right here and you guys are fucking talking on and on like that! Especially since I just kind of revealed some personal stuff and everything.

  GIRL: (Arabic) What does he want to do?

  Shee-reed ysa-wee?

  MUSA: She wants to know what you want.

  TOM: What do I want?

  MUSA: Yes.

  TOM: I want her to stand behind me and whack me off with her right hand.

  Musa stares at Tom.

  TOM: Look I don’t care what you think about it, Habib, you’re here to translate. Translate. Save your fucking judgments for your own time.

  MUSA: I’m just trying to figure out how to say this in Arabic.

  TOM: Fucking tell her and then get out so I can do my business.

  Musa slowly explains to the girl in Arabic, using gestures to aid his description.

  MUSA: Okay . . .

  (Arabic) He wants you to stand behind him and reach around and use your hand on him so he has pleasure. He says he cannot do this anymore because he has lost his hand.

  Yireed-ich togfeen war-ah u-tmid-deen eedich al-eh hette twen-is-ee. Hoo-eh yigool inoo hoo-eh may-igder ysa-wee heechee il-nefseh ba’ad lee-en foo-ked eedeh.

  GIRL: (Arabic) For twenty dollars we can have sex.

  B’ishreen dolar a-nam weya

  MUSA: She said she will have sex with you for twenty dollars.

  TOM: I don’t want to have sex with her.

  I’ll pay her more. I’ll pay her thirty.

  MUSA: (Arabic) For thirty dollars he wants you to stand behind him and reach around and use your hand on him. It is important to him because he has no hand.

  B-tlatheen dolar yireedich togfeen war-ah u-tmid-deen eedich oo testa’mileeheh al-eh. Hathe shee muhimm il-eh lee-en hooeh ma inde eed.

  GIRL: (Arabic) What happened to his hand?

  Sh-sar b’eedeh?

  MUSA: She wants to know what happened to your hand.

  TOM: I lost it.

  MUSA: (Arabic) He lost it.

  Foo-ked-heh.

  GIRL: (Arabic) How?

  Shlone?

  MUSA: How?

  TOM: In battle. In fucking battle, okay? I’m fighting in a war here and I got my hand blowed off and now I can’t even jack off right. So tell her to get behind me and start me up. Now. Because I’m sick of this shit.

  MUSA: (Arabic) . . . war.

  . . . harrub.

  GIRL: (Arabic) Can I see his hand?

  Igder ashoof eedeh?

  MUSA: She wants to look at your hand.

  Tom looks at the girl.

  TOM: Why.

  MUSA: She wants to see it.

  Tom lifts and shows her his hand. She walks to him and looks at it.

  TOM: Top of the line.

  The girl holds Tom’s hand, tapping it, inspectin
g it. As she touches his hand, Tom looks at her. Something about her touch seems to affect him.

  TOM: It’s not that hard. All she needs to do is stand behind me and then I can show her. I can help her do what she needs to do. It’s easier than fucking. It’s easier than ficky-fick.

  GIRL: (Arabic) This is shiny!

  Hathee tilma’!

  TOM: What she say?

  MUSA: (Arabic) What?

  Shinoo?

  GIRL: (Arabic) This is shiny!

  Hathee tilma’!

  MUSA: (exasperated at Girl and Tom) She says your hand is shiny.

  TOM: (to Girl; loud, but not angry) Yeah, it’s shiny!

  MUSA: If you can show her what to do, why do you need me here?

  (beat) I am saying, you ask me to accompany you here and that it is very important, but it seems you don’t need me really all that much.

  (beat) It’s just this crude act. It doesn’t need to be explained.

  TOM: I needed to explain it.

  MUSA: Do you have any aspirin?

  TOM: What?

  MUSA: I have headache. Do you have medicine?

  TOM: No.

  GIRL: (Arabic) Can this be removed?

  Hathee mumkin tinshal?

  MUSA: (Arabic) What?

  Shinoo?

  GIRL: (Arabic) Can his hand come off?

  Yigder ytulle’ eedeh?

  TOM: What?

  MUSA: She wants to know if it can come off. Your hand.

  TOM: What are you talking about?

  MUSA: She wants to know if you can remove the hand. If it is possible.

  TOM: (suddenly angry) Why?! What difference does it make?!

  MUSA: (also suddenly frustrated) I’m just translating!

  TOM: Well what the fuck!

  MUSA: It’s a simple question!

  TOM: What, can I take my hand off?

  MUSA: Yes! Simple question.

  TOM: I mean, I could. But I’m not gonna. Look would you just get out of here and let me . . .

  Tom looks over at the girl who is for some reason sni f fing his hand.

  TOM: Um, hello, excuse me.

  The girl laughs and goes to Musa, laughing.

  GIRL: (Arabic) His hand smells like milk.

  Reeh-et eedeh mithl il-haleeb.

  Musa laughs with her. As he laughs he sees something in the girl that changes him. He looks at her intently, but neither she nor Tom notices this.

  TOM: What?

  (beat; Musa watches Girl) What she say!

  MUSA: She says your hand smells like milk.

  Tom smells his hand.

  TOM: It does not.

  MUSA: She says it does.

  TOM: (yells at Girl, as if volume could translate) It doesn’t smell like milk!

  The girl shrugs. Musa laughs to himself.

  MUSA: (to Girl; Arabic) What’s your name?

  Entee shismich?

  GIRL: (Arabic) What’s my name? What’s your name? Why don’t I tell everyone what your name is around here?

  Shismee? Ente shismek? Laish ma-gool ismek il kul hel-nas?

  Musa chuckles at this.

  MUSA: Okay.

  TOM: What? What are you talking about, it doesn’t smell like milk.

  MUSA: No, it’s not that.

  TOM: Then what?

  MUSA: Nothing. I asked her what her name is.

  TOM: Her name? I don’t want to know her name, Habib.

  MUSA: Okay, fine, she wouldn’t tell me anyway.

  TOM: What the fuck does it matter?

  MUSA: (tired of this) It doesn’t. It doesn’t matter.

  She just . . .

  She reminds me of someone.

  She reminds me of someone I knew.

  TOM: Yeah? Well you remind me of terp, so why don’t you tell her what I want and then get the fuck outta here.

  GIRL: (Arabic) I want some water. Tell him I want some water.

  Areed shwayeh muy. Gul-leh areed shwayeh muy.

  MUSA: She wants some water.

  TOM: She . . . Wait, what the fuck are we even doing here? I bring her up here to do some business and . . .

  GIRL: (Arabic) I want some water.

  Areed shwayeh muy.

  TOM: Fine! Fine, water!

  Tom goes to a bag and takes out a canteen and gives it to her.

  She sits on the bed and drinks.

  Tom watches her and smells his hand.

  He goes to Musa and sticks out his hand.

  TOM: Smell this. Does this smell like milk?

  MUSA: I’m not smelling your hand, Johnny.

  TOM: Milk. My hand doesn’t smell like milk.

  Tom walks to the girl. He offers his fake hand to her, which she takes. With his good hand he tenderly touches her face.

  TOM: Ficky-fick.

  (beat) Ficky-fick with the hand.

  Musa sits and stares at the girl.

  The girl looks at Musa. The lights shift. Tom freezes as the girl becomes Hadia, Musa’s sister. Musa doesn’t see her, but senses her.

  HADIA: Musa . . . Musa . . .

  MUSA: Hadia . . .

  HADIA: Musa, when will you take me to your garden?

  MUSA: You’re not my sister.

  HADIA: Musa . . .

  MUSA: You’re not my sister.

  HADIA: Of course I am . . . of course I am your sister.

  MUSA: You’re not . . .

  You’re . . .

  You’re not my sister.

  HADIA: I want to see your garden, Musa. When will you take me to see it?

  MUSA: I won’t. I won’t take you to see it.

  HADIA: But you’ve told me about it. All the beautiful animals. All the green.

  All that green you’ve told me about.

  MUSA: It’s not green anymore.

  HADIA: Take me to see it.

  MUSA: No.

  HADIA: Why won’t you take me?

  MUSA: It’s not a place for you to see.

  HADIA: It sounds so beautiful.

  MUSA: (filled with regret and sadness) Hadia, I’m . . . I’m so . . .

  (Arabic) Hadia, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It is my fault. Everything is my fault.

  Hadia, ani mit’essif. Ani mit’essif. Hi soochi. Kul-leh soochi.

  HADIA: Tell me about it.

  MUSA: You’ve never seen anything like it.

  HADIA: Why can’t I see them?

  She touches his face and he looks at her for the first time.

  HADIA: Why can’t I see the animals?

  MUSA: Sometimes they run off.

  HADIA: They’re plants!

  MUSA: Sometimes they fly off, to the moon.

  HADIA: (Arabic) Take me seriously!

  Ani da ahchee bjiddieh!

  MUSA: I am taking you seriously.

  HADIA: Can’t I come and see?

  (Arabic) Musa, may I come and see your beautiful garden? Please, may I come and see it.

  Musa, egder ejee ashoof hadeektek il-hilweh, reja’en, egder ejee ashoofheh

  MUSA: Hadia . . . Hadia . . .

  (sadly, as if defeated) Yes. Yes. You may come to my garden . . .

  (he lowers his head in shame; Arabic) Hadia, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It is my fault. Everything is my fault.

  Hadia, ani mit’essif. Ani mit’essif. Hi soochi. Kul-leh soochi.

  The lights suddenly shift back to the original scene. Tom faces upstage and the girl stands behind him, whacking him off. She has a bored look on her face. Musa snaps out of it, sees what’s going on, and quickly runs out of the room.

  The girl continues. Tom yells out and hits the wall very hard three times. The girl stops and walks away from him with money in her hand. She exits. Tom leans against the wall.

  Kev enters.

  KEV: Dear Tommy,

  How are you. I am fine. I am glad that you finally got some pussy. Pussy rocks. It’s too bad that to get off you have to have the chick stand beside you and yank it, but that is psychological. Don’t worry. One of these days you’ll figu
re out how to rub one off southpaw.

  TOM: (yells) Go away!

  KEV: Dear Tommy,

  How are you. I am fine.

  TOM: I didn’t kill you, okay? I didn’t kill you. You offed yourself and I didn’t have any fucking thing to do with it.

  The garden of topiary emerges. Tiger wanders through it.

  KEV: It’s not about whacking off, Tommy.

  You’re not confronting the issue here.

  TOM: Shut up.

  KEV: You feel incomplete without your hand. You feel like you’re never going to be you again. And so you think, “Oh, okay, I’ll come back to Iraq and find my gold, and then I’ll be able to whack off again.” But things don’t work out like that.

  Look at me. I thought I’d be in heaven by now, but I’m not. I don’t know where I am. I’m just a reverberation of what I used to be.

  TIGER: It’s like God’s revenge, you know? He’s got us chasing our own tails here.

  KEV: (to Tiger) I don’t got a tail.

  (to Tom) Look, Tommy, I’m sorry I’m bothering you, but you’re the only person who can hear me, besides the tiger, and he just keeps bugging me about epistemology and original sin, which is annoying as fuck.

  TIGER: At first it’s pretty cool: the limitless fruit of knowledge hanging low in your path. Then you realize it’s the only thing to eat around here.

  KEV: (to Tom) I know I annoyed you when I was alive, too. But you were cool, not like those other guys.

  You were my patron saint around here, Tommy.

  Until you were a total prick and walked out on me at the hospital.

  I needed you, you know? But you were all like, “That’s your psycho problem not mine . . . ”

  TOM: I didn’t know you were gonna kill yourself! I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry!