Monologues (Men)

STEPHEN 1

(Stephen pounds on the door. And pounds, almost panting with rage.)

Open the Door!
Jesus Christ! Joe! Joe!

You son of a bitch, I know you’re in there. Open. Up. This goddamn door!

You’re in there with your little boyfriend. The one who just last year was an altar boy at St. Christopher’s. The one who started shaving last month. The one who is so dewy-eyed that he believes all the bullshit you give him. I swear to god, you coward, that if you don’t open up, I’m going to break this door down. I’ll smash the lock.

JOE! All of our neighbors in the entire Castro are listening to this little scene.

(to a neighbor next door) – Randy, I’m sorry I’ve disturbed you – please go back to the porno tapes you sit and watch in a stupor all night – well, then, call the police!

Joe! You asswipe! I’m breaking through this door! I’ll smash the glass!! Joe!

…He knows I won’t break down the door. I restored this door – it’s from the original house. 1897. It’s beautiful. Solid Oak.

STEPHEN 2

(Having contracted AIDS, Stephen becomes the Ghost of Stephen)

– Oh! How my sisters will cry. I could feel the virus entering my body. But I could not undo what had been done.

And for the next several years, I could feel the virus multiply with a ferocious beauty – replicating patterns that changed and mutated.

As the battle raged inside me, I had just enough time to think. I thought a lot about Ukiyo-E. The Floating World.

And while I was still strong enough, I would walk from my North Beach apartment to Japantown to study Sado – the Japanese Tea Ceremony.

I admired the bowl. I tried not to think. I contemplated the flowers. I tried not to think. I sipped the tea – I tried not to think.

And in the end, when the patterns of the virus dominated my blood as I struggled to breathe: I still remembered how blue Joe’s eyes were.

No matter my efforts: I died just another white boy in San Francisco, dressed in silk, writing haiku to the fog.

FATHER

(narrates for himself and his family)

And as the congregation rose to their feet
And shuffled through the hymnal,
Their father spied his love across the room.
“When oh when will I be able to talk to you again?
I must see you. I must see you.”
His beloved gave an imperceptible nod of her head,
Then quickly Sheila Jackson smiled at her daughter, hugging her.
A picture of the perfect mother.
The father looked at his wife and thought: O God help me.

And their mother Kate caught a glimpse
Of this perfect picture of her rival
Angelically singing beside Mr. Jackson
And their mother thought:
“Look at her hands, look at her neck.
Oh Christ, she looks ten years younger.”

And Claire, the littlest one whispered:
“What do we believe?
Is Christ the King? What’s Redeemer mean?
Does Christ Rise like Bread? What’s the feast of Stephen?”
“Later,” her mother groaned.
“But what do we believe?”
“Shh!” Her father said.