BRUCE: Sir, one thing you could help us with is office space. We’re presently in one small room, and at least one hundred people come in and out every day and . . . no one will rent to us because of what we do and who we are.
HIRAM: That’s illegal discrimination.
TOMMY: We believe we know that to be true, sir.
MICKEY: (Nervously speaking up.) Mr. Keebler, sir, it is not illegal to discriminate against homosexuals.
NED: We have been trying to see the mayor for fourteen months. It has taken us one year just to get this meeting with you and you are an hour and forty-five minutes late. Have you told the mayor there’s an epidemic going on?
HIRAM: I can’t tell him that!
NED: Why not?
HIRAM: Because it isn’t true.
BRUCE: Yes, sir, it is.
HIRAM: Who said so?
TOMMY: The government.
HIRAM: Which government? Our government?
NED: No! Russia’s government!
HIRAM: Since when?
MICKEY: The Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta declared it.
TOMMY: Seventeen months ago.
NED: How could you not know that?
HIRAM: Well, you can’t expect us to concern ourselves with every little outbreak those boys come up with. And could you please reduce the level of your hysteria?
NED: Certainly. San Francisco, LA, Miami, Boston, Chicago, Washington, Denver, Houston, Seattle, Dallas—all now report cases. It’s cropping up in Paris, London, Germany, Canada. But New York City, our home, the city you are pledged to protect, has over half of everything: half the one thousand cases, half the dead. Two hundred and fifty-six dead. And I know forty of them. And I don’t want to know any more. And you can’t not know any of this! Now—when can we see the mayor? Fourteen months is a long time to be out to lunch!
HIRAM: Now wait a minute!
NED: No, you wait a minute. We can’t. Time is not on our side. If you won’t take word to the mayor, what do we do? How do we get it to him? Hire a hunky hustler and send him up to Gracie Mansion with our plea tattooed on his cock?
HIRAM: The mayor is not gay!
TOMMY: Oh, come on, Blanche!
BRUCE: Tommy!
HIRAM: Now you listen to me! Of course we’re aware of those figures. And before you open your big mouth again, I would like to offer you a little piece of advice. Badmouthing the mayor is the best way I know to not get his attention.
NED: We’re not getting it now, so what have we got to lose?
BRUCE: Ned!
NED: Bruce, you just heard him. Hiram here just said they’re aware of the figures. And they’re still not doing anything. I was worried before that they were just stupid and blind. Great! Now we get to worry about them being repressive and downright dangerous.
BRUCE: Ned! I’m sorry, sir, but we’ve been under a great deal of strain.
NED: (To BRUCE.) Don’t you ever apologize for me again. (To HIRAM.) How dare you choose who will live and who will die!
HIRAM: Now, listen: don’t you think I want to help you? (Confidentially.) I have a friend who’s dying from this in VA Hospital right this very minute.
NED: Then why. . . ?
HIRAM: Because it’s tricky, can’t you see that? It’s very tricky.
NED: Tricky, shit! There are a million gay people in New York. A million and one, counting you. That’s a lot of votes. Our organization started with six men. We now have over six hundred active volunteers and a mailing list of ten thousand.
HIRAM: Six hundred? You think the mayor worries about six hundred? A fire goes out in a school furnace on the West Side between Seventy-second and Ninety-sixth streets, I get three thousand phone calls. In one day! You know what I’m talking about?
NED: Yes.
HIRAM: If so many of you are so upset about what’s happening, why do I only hear from this loudmouth?
NED: That’s a very good question.
HIRAM: Okay—there are half a million gay men in our area. Five hundred and nine cases doesn’t seem so high, considering how many of us—I mean, of you!—there are.
NED: This is bullshit!
BRUCE: Ned! Let me take it. Sir—
HIRAM: Hiram, please. You are?
BRUCE: I’m Bruce Niles. I’m the president.
HIRAM: You’re the president? What does that make Mr. Weeks here?
BRUCE: He’s one of the founders.
NED: But we work together jointly.
HIRAM: Oh, you do?
NED: Yes, we do.
HIRAM: Carry on, Mr. Niles.
BRUCE: Look, we realize things are tricky, but—
HIRAM: (Cutting him off.) Yes, it is. And the mayor feels there is no need to declare any kind of emergency. That only gets people excited. And we simply can’t give you office space. We’re not in the free-giveaway business.
BRUCE: We don’t want it for free. We will pay for it.
HIRAM: I repeat, I think—that is, the mayor thinks you guys are overreacting.
NED: You tell that cocksucker that he’s a selfish, heartless son of a bitch!
HIRAM: You are now heading for real trouble! Do you think you can barge in here and call us names? (To MICKEY.) You are Michael I. Marcus. You hold an unsecured job with the City Department of Health. I’d watch my step if I were you. You got yourself quite a handful here. You might consider putting him in a cage in the zoo. That I think I can arrange with the mayor. I’d watch out for my friends here if I were you. The mayor won’t have it! (Exits.)
MICKEY: I don’t believe this just happened.
NED: Mickey, I’m on the Today Show tomorrow and I’m going to say the mayor is threatening your job if we don’t shut up.
MICKEY: The Today Show! You’re going to do what?!
BRUCE: You can’t do that!
NED: Of course I can: he just did.
BRUCE: God damn it, Ned!
NED: We’re being treated like shit. (He yells after them as they pick up their things and leave.) And we’re allowing it. And until we force them to treat us otherwise, we get exactly what we deserve. Politicians understand only one thing—pressure! You heard him—him and his three thousand West Side phone calls. We’re not yelling loud enough! Bruce, for a Green Beret, you’re an awful sissy! (He is all alone.)
Scene 10
EMMA’s office. FELIX sits on the examining table, wearing a white hospital gown. EMMA sits facing him.
FELIX: So it is . . . it.
EMMA: Yes.
FELIX: There’s not a little bit of doubt in your mind? You don’t want to call in Christiaan Barnard?
EMMA: I’m sorry. I still don’t know how to tell people. They don’t teach acting in medical school.
FELIX: Aren’t you worried about contagion? I mean, I assume I am about to become a leper.
EMMA: Well, I’m still here.
FELIX: Do you think they’ll find a cure before I. . . How strange that sounds when you say it out loud for the first time.
EMMA: We’re trying. But we’re poor. Uncle Sam is the only place these days that can afford the kind of research that’s needed, and so far we’ve not even had the courtesy of a reply from our numerous requests to him. You guys are still not making enough noise.
FELIX: That’s Ned’s department in our family. I’m not feeling too political at the moment.
EMMA: I’d like to try a treatment of several chemotherapies used together. It’s milder than others. You’re an early case.
FELIX: I assume that’s hopeful.
EMMA: It’s always better early.
FELIX: It also takes longer until you die.
EMMA: Yes. You can look at it that way.
FELIX: Do you want a second opinion?
EMMA: Feel free. But I’ll say this about my fellow hospitals, which I shouldn’t: you won’t get particularly good care anywhere, maybe not even here. At. . . I’ll call it Hospital A, you’ll come under a group of mad scientists, research fanatics, who will try almost anything
and if you die you die. You’ll rarely see the same doctor twice; you’ll just be a statistic for their computer—which they won’t share with anyone else, by the way; there’s not much sharing going on, never is—you’ll be a true guinea pig. At Hospital B, they decided they really didn’t want to get involved with this, it’s too messy, and they’re right, so you’ll be overlooked by the least informed of doctors. C is like the New York Times and our friends everywhere: square, righteous, superior, and embarrassed by this disease and this entire epidemic. D is Catholic. E is Jewish. F is . . . Why am I telling you this? I must be insane. But the situation is insane.
FELIX: I guess we better get started.
EMMA: We have. You’ll come to me once a week. There are going to be a lot of tests, a lot of blood tests, a lot of waiting. My secretary will give you a long list of dos and don’ts. Now, Felix, you understand your body no longer has any effective mechanism for fighting off anything?
FELIX: I’m going to be all right, you know.
EMMA: Good. That’s the right attitude.
FELIX: No, I’m going to be the one who kicks it. I’ve always been lucky.
EMMA: Good.
FELIX: I guess everyone says that. Well, I’m going to be the one. I wanted a job on the Times, I got it. I wanted Ned . . . Have I given it to Ned?
EMMA: I don’t know.
FELIX: Can he catch it from me now?
EMMA: We just don’t know.
FELIX: Did he give it to me?
EMMA: Only one out of a hundred adults infected with the polio virus gets it; virtually everybody infected with rabies dies. One person has a cold, hepatitis—sometimes the partner catches it, sometimes not. I don’t think we’ll ever know why.
FELIX: No more making love?
EMMA: Right.
FELIX: Some gay doctors are saying it’s okay if you use rubbers.
EMMA: I know they are.
FELIX: Can we kiss?
EMMA: I don’t know.
FELIX: (After a long pause.) I want my mother.
EMMA: Where is she?
FELIX: She’s dead. We never got along anyway.
EMMA: I’m going to do my damnedest, Felix. (She starts to leave.)
FELIX: Hey, Doc . . . I’ll bet you say that to all the boys.
Scene 11
A small, crowded office. Many phones are ringing. TOMMY is on two at once; MICKEY, going crazy, is on another, trying to understand and hear in the din; and GRADY, a volunteer, also on a phone, is trying to pass papers and information to either.
MICKEY: Hello. Just a moment. It’s another theory call. Okay, go ahead. Uranus . . . ? (Writing it down.)
GRADY: Whose asshole you talking about, Mickey?
MICKEY: Grady!
TOMMY: (To GRADY.) I thought your friend, little Vinnie, was going to show up today.
MICKEY: He had to go to the gym.
MICKEY: (Reading into the phone what be’s written.) “Mystical electromagnetic fields ruled by the planet Uranus?” Yes, well, we’ll certainly keep that in mind. Thank you for calling and sharing that with us.
GRADY: Harry’s in a pay phone at the post office.
MICKEY: Get a number, we’ll call him back.
GRADY: (Into phone.) Give me the number, I’ll call you back.
TOMMY: (Into one phone.) Philip, can you hold on? (Into second phone.) Graciella, you tell Señor Hiram I’ve been holding for diez minutos and he called me. Sí, sí! (Into first phone.) You know where St. Vincent’s is? You get your ass there fast! I’ll send you a crisis counselor later today. I know you’re scared, honey, but just get there.
(GRADY hands MICKEY Harry’s number. TOMMY has hung up one phone.)
MICKEY: Well, call him back!
(BRUCE comes in, dressed as from the office, with his attaché case.)
TOMMY: Mickey, do we have a crisis counselor we can send to St. V’s around six o’clock?
MICKEY: (Consulting a chart on a wall.) No.
TOMMY: Shit. (To BRUCE.) Hi, Bossman.
BRUCE: (Answering a ringing phone.) Hello. How ya doin’! (To the room.) It’s Kessler in San Francisco.
GRADY: (Into his phone.) Louder, Harry! It’s a madhouse. None of the volunteers showed up.
MICKEY: (Busying himself with paperwork.) Mystical?!
GRADY: (On his phone.) Oh, dear.
BRUCE: (On his.) No kidding.
GRADY: Oh, dear!
TOMMY: (Picking up a ringing phone.) Ned’s not here yet.
BRUCE: (To the room.) San Francisco’s mayor is giving four million dollars to their organization. (Into phone.) Well, we still haven’t met our mayor. We met with his assistant about four months ago.
TOMMY: (To BRUCE.) Hiram called three days ago and left a message he found some money for us. Try and get him back.
MICKEY: We need to train some more crisis counselors.
GRADY: What about me, Mick?
TOMMY: (Standing up.) Okay, get this! The Times is finally writing a big story. Twenty months after the epidemic has been declared, the Times is finally writing a big story. Word is that Craig Claiborne took someone high up out to lunch and told them they really had to write something, anything.
MICKEY: Who’s writing it?
TOMMY: Some lady in Baltimore.
MICKEY: Makes sense. (His phone rings.) Hello.
GRADY: (Still on his phone.) Oh, dear.
TOMMY: Grady, darling, what the fuck are you oh-dearing about?
GRADY: (Dropping his bombshell to Bruce.) Bruce—Harry says the post office won’t accept our mailing.
BRUCE: What! (Into phone.) Got to go. (Slams phone down and grabs GRADY’S.) Harry, what’s the problem?
MICKEY: (Into his phone.) That’s awful.
BRUCE: (Into his phone.) They can’t do that to us!
TOMMY: (Who hadn’t heard GRADY.) What is it now?
GRADY: Harry went to the post office with the fifty-seven cartons of our new Newsletters—
TOMMY: Sugar, I sent him there!
GRADY: Well, they’re not going anywhere.
BRUCE: (To TOMMY.) The post office won’t accept them because we just used our initials.
TOMMY: So what?
BRUCE: In order to get tax-exemption we have to use our full name.
TOMMY: There is a certain amount of irony in all this, though not right now.
GRADY: He’s double-parked and his volunteers had to go home.
TOMMY: Grady, dear, would you go help him out?
GRADY: No.
TOMMY and MICKEY: Grady!
GRADY: No! Why do I always have to do the garbage stuff?
MICKEY: Grady!
GRADY: Give me the phone. (Into phone.) Hold on, Harry, I’m coming to help you. (To TOMMY.) Give me cab fare.
TOMMY: Ride the rail, boy.
BRUCE: (Into the phone.) Harry, someone’s coming. (Whispering to TOMMY.) What’s his name?
TOMMY and MICKEY: Grady.
(GRADY exits.)
BRUCE: (Into phone.) Harry, bring them back. I want to fight this further somewhere. I’m sorry, I know it’s a schlepp.
TOMMY: So this means we either pay full rate or embarrass their mailmen. Sorry, honey, I couldn’t resist. (Into phone.) Graciella! (To the room.) How do you say “I’ve been holding twenty minutes” in Spanish? (Into phone.) City Hall is an equal-opportunity employer, doesn’t that mean you all have to learn English? (He hangs up.)
MICKEY: (Hanging up.) That was Atlanta. They’re reporting thirty cases a week now nationally.
BRUCE: Thirty?
TOMMY: The CDC are filthy liars. What’s wrong with those boys? We log forty cases a week in this office alone.
BRUCE: Forty?
TOMMY: Forty.
MICKEY: Thirty.
BRUCE: (Trying to decide how to enter this on the wall chart.) So that’s thirty nationally, forty in this office alone.
TOMMY: You heard what I said. (Dialing, then into phone.) Hi. Pick up for us, will you, dears? We need a little rest. Th
ank you. (Hangs up.)
(There is a long moment of silence, strange now without the ringing phones. TOMMY lights a cigarette and sits back. MICKEY tries to concentrate on some paperwork. BRUCE is at the wall entering figures on charts.)
BRUCE: Mickey. . . aren’t you supposed to be in Rio?
MICKEY: Where’s Ned?
TOMMY: He should be here by now.
BRUCE: I don’t want to see him.
MICKEY: I need to talk to him. I don’t want to lose my job because Ned doesn’t like sex very much. He’s coming on like Jesus Christ, as if he never took a lover himself.
BRUCE: Rio. Why aren’t you in Rio?
MICKEY: I was in Rio. I’m tired. I need a rest.
BRUCE: We’re all exhausted.
TOMMY: You’re the president; you can’t have a rest.
MICKEY: I work all day for the city writing stuff on breast-feeding versus formula and how to stay calm if you have herpes and I work all night on our Newsletter and my health columns for the Native and I can’t take it anymore. Now this. . .
TOMMY: Take it slowly.
BRUCE: Now what?
MICKEY: I was in Rio, Gregory and I are in Rio, we just got there, day before yesterday, I get a phone call, from Hiram’s office.
BRUCE: In Rio?
MICKEY: I’m told to be at a meeting at his office right away, this morning.
BRUCE: What kind of meeting? Why didn’t you call me and I could have checked it out?
MICKEY: Because, unfortunately, you are not my boss.
BRUCE: What kind of meeting?
MICKEY: I don’t know. I get to City Hall, he keeps me waiting forever; finally the Commissioner comes, my boss, and he said I hope you had a nice vacation, and went inside, into Hiram’s office; and I waited some more, and the Commissioner comes out and says, Hiram doesn’t want to see you anymore. I said, please, sir, then why did he make me come all the way back from Rio? He said, your vacation isn’t over? I said, no sir, I was just there one day. I wanted to scream I haven’t slept in two days, you dumb fuck! but I didn’t. What I said was, sir, does this mean I’m fired? And the Commissioner said, no, I don’t think he means that, and he left.
(NED enters, unnoticed.)
MICKEY: Ned’s article in the Native attacking Hiram came out last week. I love sex! I worship men! I don’t think Ned does. I don’t think Ned likes himself. I—
The Normal Heart and The Destiny of Me: Two Plays Page 8