Reptiles of the Mind

CHARACTERS
BOY (young college student)
STORYTELLER (young Asian woman with a fairly heavy South Vietnamese accent)
GIRL (young college student)
NURSE (female)

SETTING

1970s, New England. A dorm room at a Catholic university, a clinic, and a college radio station. The set should be somewhat abstract so that there is no down time between scenes.)

(NOTE: This play can be performed for radio or stage. If performed for radio broadcast, some of the stage directions should be indicated through sound effects.)

SCENE ONE
(GIRL is sitting in her dorm room typing and listening to rock music at low volume.)

(A portion of a taped interview, which the GIRL does not hear, begins playing, and—as indicated in the script—parts of this interview are heard at different times throughout the play. The poor and “scratchy” quality of the tape recording equipment should indicate that the “interview” segments of the play have been already taped, and that—unlike the other parts of the play—they’re not “live.” This “scratchy” quality is especially important for radio productions of the play. For “live” performances: although the STORYTELLER’S voice is always on tape, consider having her stand in one corner of the stage and speak into a (live) microphone during the radio interviews; the BOY’S voice from the interviews must always remain on tape.)

STORYTELLER. (This line is virtually inaudible.) About six months after Communists overthrew the Republic Government of South Vietnam . . .
BOY. You’ll have to talk directly into the mike.
STORYTELLER. Sorry.
(We hear microphone being moved.)
BOY. Let’s try it again. So when did this happen?
STORYTELLER. (Clears throat.) About six months after the Communists overthrew Republic Government of South Vietnam . . .
BOY. And what happened again?
STORYTELLER. Late one night, at . . . at around three o’clock in morning, about six soldiers entered our house and told my father he had to go with them. Immediately . . . and he never came back.
BOY. And who was your father?
STORYTELLER. Well . . . he had been the, uh . . . the chief of a small . . . district of Saigon. And on this particular day, well, the day before, actually . . . about six months after they took my father . . . we heard he was living about twenty kilometers away in concentration camp, or what the Communists called . . . a “Re-education Camp.”
BOY. Good.
(Recording stops. Two knocks on the GIRL’S door.)
GIRL. Come in.
(BOY enters.)
BOY. The interview went great.
GIRL. What interview?
BOY. With that girl from Vietnam I was telling you about.
GIRL. I thought the radio station didn’t want you to do it.
BOY. They were afraid it might come out sounding like an anti-war piece . . . but it’s not turning out that way. Not at all. I knew it wouldn’t. I mean, the woman doesn’t come right out and say that the U.S. should have blown the Communists out of Southeast Asia, or that the Communists were destroying the country, or anything like that, but that’s why the interview’s going to be so effective. Because she doesn’t explain, or preach. She just talks about some personal experiences, which really show how awful things are over there because we pulled out.
GIRL. “Pulled out?” That’s a timely metaphor.
BOY. Well . . . you know what I mean.
GIRL. The war’s over.
BOY. But it shouldn’t be over. I mean, it should be over, but with the Communists wiped out . . .
(GIRL walks away.)
What’s the matter?
GIRL. Nothing.
BOY. (Pause.) It didn’t come yet?
GIRL. No.
BOY. It’ll come . . .
GIRL. And what if it doesn’t?
BOY. It will.
GIRL. And what if it doesn’t?
BOY. (Pause.) You can’t think that way.
GIRL. It’s been over a week.
BOY. Probably because of stress . . . You’ve been trying to finish your paper, you’ve got some exams coming up . . .
GIRL. But I wasn’t stressed until I missed it.
BOY. You didn’t miss it. It’s just late.
GIRL. You don’t know that.
BOY. It hasn’t even been a week yet.
GIRL. And what if it doesn’t come by next week?
BOY. It will.
GIRL. And what if it doesn’t?
BOY. Then it’ll probably come the week after. And if it doesn’t come within a few weeks . . . then we’ll take care of it over the summer.
GIRL. But I want to know now.
BOY. Why?
GIRL. Because I can’t stand prayin’ for my period every time I pull down my pants to go to the bathroom.
BOY. You just gotta concentrate on your school work.
GIRL. I’ve been trying to.
BOY. You’re not getting morning sickness, are you?
GIRL. Not yet.
BOY. And your stomach doesn’t feel any different?
GIRL. Maybe it’s not supposed to.
BOY. But do you feel pregnant?
GIRL. I don’t even know what that means.
BOY. Look, even if you are pregnant—which you’re not—but even if you are, there’s nothing making you feel that way except your imagination, because you’re associating being late with being pregnant. So if you could just tell yourself, until you believe it, that your period’s late because of school-related stress, and that it’s gonna come any day now, then you won’t be pregnant anymore, because you won’t be thinking that you’re pregnant. And since believing that will make you relax more, you actually will have your period.
GIRL. What if I have to have a baby?
BOY. You’re only eighteen years old.
GIRL. I’d have to quit college.
BOY. Look . . . have you ever seen anybody around here drop out of school and have a baby? It doesn’t happen. I mean, we’re not sixteen year-old Puerto Ricans living in the projects.
(He comforts her.) Everything’s gonna be fine. You just gotta start thinking positively, alright?
GIRL. I’ll try.
BOY. Let’s go for a walk.
GIRL. I’m tired.
BOY. That’s because you’re worrying too much.
GIRL. I’ve gotta go study for a chemistry test.
BOY. We’ll be back in fifteen minutes. C’mon.
(They exit.)

SCENE TWO
(BOY and GIRL are doing homework.)

(The recording plays.)
STORYTELLER. My brother and I wanted to try and see my father, to make sure he was all right. So we walked across the street to a motor-tricycle station.
BOY. Motor-tricycle?
STORYTELLER. My family, we used to drive Mercedes, three of them. But the Communists, they took all that . . . and our nineteen room house. And now everyone was traveling on motor-tricycles. Even busses and taxis were considered too, uh, rich, too luxury. But these motor-tricycles were very, uh, how you say . . . primitive. They were so small, you couldn’t even stand up in them, and even though the two benches—which face each other—are only a meter and a half long, they usually carry six adults, and maybe a child or two. And it was so cramped and low to ground you had to put your knees between your . . . your chest and, uh . . . How you say this?
BOY. This?
STORYTELLER. Put your hand a little lower. (STORYTELLER giggles.) I mean on yourself . . . You have very long fingers . . .
BOY. That’s your . . .
STORYTELLER. Yes . . .
BOY. Your . . . abdomen.
(Pause. STORYTELLER giggles.)
STORYTELLER. You like my abdomen?
BOY. Very much . . .
STORYTELLER. Abdomen . . .
BOY. Ah ha . . .
STORYTELLER. You had to put your knees between your chest and . . . your abdomen.
(STORYTELLER giggles. Recording is shut off. GIRL takes out a small paper bag.)
GIRL. I bought something for us today.
BOY. Really. (He sits on bed, kisses her.) I hope it’s a box of rubbers.
GIRL. Nope.
BOY. (Kissing her.) What is it?
GIRL. (Pause.) A pregnancy test kit.
BOY. I thought we were gonna wait.
GIRL. For what?
BOY. We were supposed to wait until after exams.
GIRL. I’m finished with my exams.
BOY. Well, I’m not.
GIRL. So don’t watch.
BOY. You think I don’t care?
GIRL. All I’ve gotta do is dip this in the urine . . .
BOY. I can’t believe that you’re doing this now.
GIRL. I vomited this morning.
BOY. Half the school’s got the flu.
GIRL. But I feel fine.
BOY. By tonight, you’ll probably have a fever.
GIRL. I have to go take my urine sample.
BOY. I don’t know why you’re doing this now.
GIRL. What, do you want me to be like your Aunt Roseann, and wait until I have a really bad stomachache, and water in my pants, and then go to the doctor’s, saying I don’t know what’s wrong, and then have the doctor inform me and the rest of my family—for the first time—that I’m having a baby?
BOY. We’ll do everything together—tests, whatever you want—as soon as exams are over.
GIRL. I can’t wait that long.
BOY. I’m going to the radio station to work on the tape.
GIRL. So you don’t want anything to do with this?
BOY. Of course I do.
GIRL. Then why are you leaving?
BOY. I just think we should wait a little while.
GIRL. Wait for what? Fall? When I’m walking around on a Catholic campus with a big belly and no
husband?
BOY. I don’t think either one of us is ready to get married.
GIRL. I don’t want to get married.
BOY. Look . . . you had your period about five weeks ago. Right now—if you’re even pregnant, which is doubtful—all you have inside of you is conception fluids. So we couldn’t do anything now . . . even if we wanted to. Anyway, you’ve . . . you’ve gotta wait seven or eight weeks, until the baby’s mature. So they don’t miss anything.
GIRL. What if my parents find out?
BOY. You don’t even know if you’re pregnant.
GIRL. If you’d just let me go to the bathroom, I’d know in about five minutes.
BOY. Look, I don’t know what we’re gonna do. I really don’t. But whatever it is, I’m gonna be there for you, all right? But because we have exams, I, uh . . . I really don’t think you should take the test right now. And knowing now, as opposed to a few weeks from now, won’t really change anything, except for maybe making us screw up our scholarships. So I really think it’d be better for both of us to wait.
GIRL. (Laughing.) I’m probably not even pregnant.
BOY. (Also laughing.) You just gotta relax.
GIRL. But could you imagine if I was pregnant, and I was going to get rid of it, and somebody in the dorm found out? Within a couple of hours the whole campus would know . . . Everybody would hate me.
BOY. Nobody’s gonna hate you—
GIRL. Everybody’s so righteous around here. Just the other day in philosophy class, we were talking about abortion, and date rape . . . and nobody even argued. They all agreed that abortion was murder and date rape doesn’t exist, it’s the girl’s fault. And Rachel Lorretti carried on for about ten minutes about how anyone who gets an abortion is disgusting, and immoral, and that they oughta be forced to spend the rest of their lives in prison, or get the electric chair. And everybody agreed with her. And these same people—who are always havin’ sex with somebody—wouldn’t even talk to me if they saw me going to class in a maternity dress.
BOY. That’s not going to happen.
GIRL. It’d be pretty stupid, wouldn’t it?
BOY. It wouldn’t make any sense.
GIRL. I’m such an idiot. I’m gonna go pee into the cup.
BOY. I thought you weren’t going to do that now.
GIRL. Just go back to the radio station, all right?
BOY. You should wait until next month.
GIRL. I’ll deal with it myself.
(GIRL walks away, closes the door.)

SCENE THREE
(GIRL is in an abortion clinic; NURSE works, attends to her.)

(The recording plays again.)
STORYTELLER. After waiting several minutes for a vehicle, my brother and I got into a motor-tricycle—with four adult passengers. As the riders squeezed together to make space for one more person at the end of each bench, one of the passengers muttered something in Cambodian, complaining about the greed of the driver. But everyone became quiet as the vehicle started moving. My brother sat on the bench opposite mine. To his right were an elderly man with a brown metal lunchbox, a soldier, and a young woman about eighteen years old. She was a good-looking
girl . . .
BOY. Kind of like you?
STORYTELLER. (Giggling.) A little taller . . .
BOY. Okay.
STORYTELLER. And as we approached, uh, you know, where two streets cross . . .
BOY. An intersection?
STORYTELLER. And as we approached a busy intersection, the good-looking girl began talking to a little bit older lady sitting across from her, who I think was her sister. Although the older sister spoke quietly and, uh, politely, the tone of the good-looking girl’s voice, her expressions, seemed to . . . to announce to everyone that she was someone who did not belong on a motor-tricycle.
BOY. Well, you didn’t really belong on one either.
STORYTELLER. No, but it’s important not to show that. And the good-looking girl’s older sister kept reminding her to not annoy the others by talking too much. (Laughs.) Why is your hand on my abdomen?
(Recording stops.)
GIRL. How long is this going to take?
NURSE. You’ll be outta here by eleven, baby.
(The NURSE continues preparing the GIRL.)
GIRL. Good.
(The recording begins again, as the action between GIRL and NURSE continues.)
BOY. Do you want me to take it off?
STORYTELLER. No.
BOY. Then what happened?
STORYTELLER. Well, uh, suddenly the motor-tricycle jerked to a stop and an old man at the end of my bench hopped off. Then another man, he approached, paid the driver, quickly took the old man’s place, and the motor-tricycle, it . . . it started again, as horrible silence filled the passenger compartment . . . The new rider was a leper.
BOY. Good. Can you mention some more stuff about the Communists?
(The recording stops. NURSE rolls in equipment, gets it ready.)
GIRL. What’s that?
NURSE. We’re gonna take a sonogram.
GIRL. A what?
NURSE. A sonogram. It’s an ultrasound. So if you’ll just pull up your johnny coat . . .
GIRL. Isn’t that where you see a picture of the baby?
(NURSE attaches the apparatus.)
NURSE. Well, it’s not exactly a picture.
GIRL. But you could see the profile . . .
NURSE. Right.
GIRL. And you could hear the heart beating . . .
NURSE. It’ll be over in just a few more minutes.
GIRL. What?
NURSE. The ultrasound.
(The recording plays as action continues in clinic.)
STORYTELLER. Ummm . . . once the Communists took over the Southern part of Vietnam, they put former rural administrative officials on trial—for treason—and then quickly executed them. And they evicted all of the former government’s wounded soldiers from military hospitals. They also closed all public nursing homes, and no longer allowed hospitals to care for lepers. So there were now hundreds . . . thousands of lepers and old people begging for food and sleeping on sidewalks.
(The recording stops.)
GIRL. Does it look like a baby yet?
NURSE. It’s only about an inch and a half long.
GIRL. What does it look like?
NURSE. It’s best if you don’t see it. That’s why we keep the monitor turned away from you.
GIRL. And you can see its heart beating?
NURSE. (Smiles.) Not for much longer.
GIRL. (Pause.) I know it doesn’t really make any difference at this point, but is it a boy or a girl?
NURSE. It’s only ten weeks old.
GIRL. But can you tell what it is?
NURSE. We’ll be done in just a minute now.
GIRL. All right . . .
NURSE. I just have to check one more thing.
GIRL. (Pause.) I know this sounds crazy, but before you finish could you, uh . . . could you possibly print out a picture of the baby for me?
NURSE. No, I’m sorry, dear. We can’t do that here.
GIRL. Then maybe you can let me see the monitor for a minute.
NURSE. We don’t normally do that.
GIRL. But I’ve never seen one before.
NURSE. It would be better if you didn’t . . .
GIRL. I’m a big girl . . . I just want to see what it looks like.
NURSE. You really shouldn’t . . .
GIRL. Just for a couple of seconds . . . Please . . .
NURSE. (Pause.) You’ve got ten seconds.
(NURSE wheels around the monitor, showing GIRL the image.)
GIRL. That’s what’s inside of me?
NURSE. It’s only this big.
(NURSE holds her thumb and forefinger a couple of inches apart.)
GIRL. What are those numbers?
NURSE. That’s the heart rate. (Pause.) And I have to shut it off now, baby.
(NURSE turns the machine off.)
GIRL. He looks so cute.
NURSE. We’re going to move onto the next procedure, okay?
(NURSE turns off monitor.)
GIRL. Ummm . . . yeah . . .
NURSE. You’re going to go see Dr. Klein now.
GIRL. (Pause.) This is getting really difficult.
NURSE. You’re over half way there.
GIRL. I just don’t know if I’m ready for this.
NURSE. You’ve talked to a counselor, right?
GIRL. Yes. But we just talked. And she was really nice . . . And I could never tell my parents about being pregnant, or anyone else. And I’m not ready to support a baby. I can’t even support myself. And I planned on going to law school some day. And I want to fall in love, and get married, and travel, and go out with my friends. And there are just a million reasons why I can’t have a baby. And I talked about all of them with the counselor. And she just let me talk, and she listened. And she asked me about ten times if I was sure that this was what I wanted to do. And it was the only thing that made sense. And I’ve always felt very strongly that a woman should be able to decide if she wants to keep her baby. And I still believe that. But after actually seeing that there’s somebody inside of me . . . I . . . I don’t know if I can go through with this. It’s . . . it’s not too late to change my mind, is it?
NURSE. No. Not if that’s what you want to do. Would it help if you talked to a counselor again?
GIRL. Maybe I should just get it over with.
NURSE. Are you sure?
GIRL. Oh, I don’t know . . . What would I say to my parents? My boyfriend?

SCENE FOUR
(GIRL, visibly pregnant, feels her stomach. BOY is reading.)

(The recording plays again.)
STORYTELLER. The leper, he wore a filthy yellow t-shirt, a stained pair of U.S. Army fatigues. His thin, swollen hands were the color of a light purple bruise, nearly the same color as his, uh, his slightly darker, toothpick-size arms, which were covered with blackish and yellowish spots of various sizes. His fingers were bony stubs, red and yellowish stuff oozing out of the tips. His, uh . . . his swollen, purple and yellow toes were like his fingers, but even worse, and they hung over the edge of his sandals, which were made from a tire, and held on with pieces of old rubber tube and string. As the motor-tricycle started and went back onto the street, the leper, he rested his bony hands on his, his . . .
BOY. Abdomen?
STORYTELLER. Crotch.
(The recording stops. GIRL is feeling her stomach. She laughs. BOY looks up.)
BOY. What are you doing?
GIRL. I can’t believe how big I’m getting.
BOY. (Paranoid.) And you’re sure nobody’s noticed yet?
GIRL. Nobody’s said anything. I just keep telling everyone I had too much pizza and beer over the summer . . . And that I’ve gotta go on a diet.
BOY. I can’t believe we’re going through with this.
GIRL. It’s not exactly what I had in mind either.
BOY. You can still get an abortion.
GIRL. I can’t.
BOY. You’ve got about four more weeks.
GIRL. I haven’t even been to a doctor.
BOY. We know when your last period was . . . So you have about four more weeks until you reach six months.
GIRL. It doesn’t matter.
BOY. We’ve got the rest of our lives to have babies.
GIRL. How do we know we’d even want to . . .
BOY. I’d like to have a kid someday.
GIRL. You’re going to.
BOY. I mean, I’d like to have a kid that I plan on having.
GIRL. That’d be nice.
BOY. You’re really showing.
GIRL. I know . . . even through baggy sweaters. And I still haven’t cancelled that trip with Nicole and Sue to Ft. Lauderdale.
BOY. You oughta just go.
GIRL. And how am I going to hide my pregnancy on the beach, with a maternity bathing suit and three sweatshirts?
BOY. You could wear a bikini.
GIRL. Yeah, right.
BOY. You could . . . if you would just get an abortion before you put it on.
GIRL. (Upset.) I’m tired of talking about this.
BOY. But we’re gonna have to worry about this kid everyday, for the rest of our lives, if you don’t do something.
GIRL. I tried.
BOY. Maybe you should try one more time. Without looking at the ultrasound.
GIRL. I don’t want to have a baby.
BOY. And neither do I.
GIRL. We might not even want to see each other a couple of years from now. And I really don’t want to have a baby. And I don’t want to be pregnant. I don’t want to worry about what I’m going to do with a child . . . how I’m going to deal with this through the rest of the semester . . .
BOY. Well, if we both feel this way . . . then I can’t understand why it’s so difficult.
GIRL. I’m . . . I’m kind of attached to it.
BOY. It’s not even a person.
GIRL. I feel him moving inside of me. I feel him growing.
BOY. You’re too sentimental.
GIRL. But I can’t help it. I mean, I even feel protective, like a mother, which is the last thing I ever wanted to be, at least not until I was thirty. But, I don’t know. Just picture yourself with a two-year-old son. Who you’ve nurtured, and fed with a bottle . . . and then, well, you decide you’re gonna change that, so he doesn’t interfere with your life anymore . . . God, I’m starting to sound like Pat Robertson.
BOY. But you don’t have a child yet.
GIRL. I don’t want a child.
BOY. So you don’t have to have one.
GIRL. I’ll just give it up for adoption.
BOY. But then you might not be able to finish up the semester. You might never come back.
GIRL. Damn it.
BOY. This isn’t easy for me either.
GIRL. Then why do you keep pushing it?
BOY. What the hell else are we gonna do?
GIRL. But I can’t bring myself to do it.
BOY. But you can’t really bring yourself to have it either.
GIRL. Or to raise it. Or feed it. Take care of it . . .
BOY. I’d love to have a baby with you. I really would. And I’d like to be a father someday. But when I think of what we have now, and of everything we’d have to give up, and what we’d have to do to survive . . . it makes absolutely no goddamn sense.
GIRL. I know. And I wish I never even looked at that damn picture. We wouldn’t be talking about this right now . . . But I don’t want to have a baby . . . and I can’t get an abortion . . . and I don’t want anybody to know I’m pregnant . . . and I feel like . . . like just killing myself, I really do . . . But I can’t even do that.

SCENE FIVE
(GIRL, now eight months pregnant, is in labor; its intensity builds.)

(The recording resumes playing.)
STORYTELLER. Although everybody kept glancing at the leper, nobody dared say anything, and they tried to hide their, uh . . . their uncomfortableness. But the good-looking girl, whose expression said that the leper was horrible and had no right to be among people, moved her head down and away from the leper and covered her mouth and nose with her handkerchief. Her older sister, who dared not speak, kept trying to tell her with her eyes to regain composure. And then the motor-tricycle came to a sudden stop, and from behind her handkerchief, the good-looking girl said to her sister, “Let’s get out of here, quickly.” And as she stepped onto the sidewalk, she turned towards the leper and looked at him with disgust as she angrily threw her handkerchief to the ground and started spitting. I saw the leper’s enraged face turn red . . . and then white, as he quickly rubbed his bony hands along the tops of his thighs.
(The recording stops. BOY knocks twice, enters. The GIRL’S labor quickly intensifies.)
GIRL. I think I’m in labor.
BOY. It’s probably just false again.
GIRL. No . . . no . . . this is different.
BOY. Just relax.
GIRL. Oh, my God.
BOY. Just stay calm.
GIRL. What are we gonna do?
BOY. Ummm . . . are you sure it’s not just another—
GIRL. I’m havin’ the baby, damn it.
(GIRL’s labor pains continue.)
BOY. Let’s go to the . . .
GIRL. What . . .
BOY. We can’t go to the hospital.
GIRL. Maybe we should.
BOY. We’ve already made a decision.
GIRL. (Pause.) Let me go to the bathroom.
BOY. Somebody’ll see you.
GIRL. Do you know how to deliver a baby?
BOY. Jesus . . .
GIRL. Do something.
BOY. Let me go get a towel.
GIRL. What the hell good is a towel going to do?
BOY. (Pause.) I don’t know.
GIRL. Ohhh . . . ohhhhhhh . . . I’m . . . I’m having the baby . . . It’s coming out . . .
BOY. I’ve got a towel.
GIRL. Oh, my God . . . Oh, my God . . .
BOY. Be quiet.
GIRL. I can’t . . . (BOY covers GIRL’s head with the towel.) Take the damn towel off my face.
BOY. I’ll turn on the stereo.
(He turns on stereo. The recording of the STORYELLER plays. STORYTELLER is slightly louder than before. GIRL’S responses to labor pain intensify as BOY looks for something.)
STORYTELLER. And as the good-looking girl walked down the sidewalk, towards another motor-tricycle, the leper suddenly grabbed her from behind, threw her onto the sidewalk, and then jumped on top of her, repeatedly biting her cheeks. The girl, she screamed for help . . .
GIRL. Here it comes . . . I said, get the towel off of my face.
BOY. Don’t look.
STORYTELLER. But no one even dared come close.
GIRL. Oh, my God . . . oh, Jesus Christ . . .
STORYTELLER. The girl managed to stand, but she couldn’t escape. The leper kept biting her face
and neck.
(A baby cries, although the audience cannot see it.)
BOY. Where’s the plastic bag?
GIRL. I don’t know.
BOY. Where’s the bag, goddamn it?
GIRL. Is it a boy or a girl?
BOY. Does it really matter?
(The baby continues to cry.)
STORYTELLER. Blood ran down her cheeks, her blouse.
BOY. Let me see it.
STORYTELLER. And while rapidly biting her face and her neck, like a starving dog digging into his kill, the leper rubbed the oozing stubs of his purple hands into her wounds . . .
BOY. Where’s the plastic bag?
GIRL. Let me look at it.
BOY. No.
GIRL. Just for a second.
(Baby cries louder.)
STORYTELLER. And then the passenger soldier drew his gun from his holster, aimed it at the leper, and ordered him to stop.
BOY. Where the hell’s the bag?
(The baby’s crying becomes louder.)
STORYTELLER. But the leper continued his vicious biting of the girl while rubbing his bony red stubs into her more and more bloody skin.
BOY. Where’s the plastic bag, goddamn it!
GIRL. Let me see my baby.
BOY. We gotta find the plastic bag before somebody hears it. (He sees the bag.) You’re laying on it.
GIRL. No.
BOY. Let go of the bag, goddamn it. Let go of it.
(BOY takes the bag. Baby cries more loudly. BOY takes baby, which audience still cannot see, and then, while kneeling on the floor and behind the bed, he brings the plastic bag down towards the baby.)
STORYTELLER. And then the soldier carefully aimed his pistol and shot the leper in the chest, and the leper fell backwards onto the sidewalk . . . (The baby’s crying stops.) Dark red blood quickly covered his yellow shirt, his purple hands.
GIRL. (Crying.) My baby . . . my baby . . .
BOY. (Pause.) I . . . I think it’s a still birth.
GIRL. Let me see him.
(Pause. BOY gives her the baby, who is wrapped in a towel; the audience does not actually see the baby; it is indicated by the shape of the wrapped towel. GIRL becomes unconscious after the STORYTELLER says “bloody body.”)
STORYTELLER. The girl, who seemed to have fainted, also fell down. Right on top of the leper’s bloody body, the right side of her face pressing against his chest.
BOY. Sally . . . Sally . . .
STORYTELLER. How was that?
BOY. (On tape.) Great.
BOY. Sally . . . wake up.
STORYTELLER. Now put your hands on my ab-do-men.
(Sounds of BOY and STORYTELLER kissing. We hear giggles.)
BOY. (On tape.) But what did the Communists end up doing to your father?
STORYTELLER. Put them a little lower.
BOY. (On tape.) Okay . . .
BOY. Sally, wake up. Sally . . .
(We hear giggles on the tape, sounds of a passionate couple about to make love.)
STORYTELLER. Now turn off the tape.
(The recording stops. BLACKOUT.)

END OF PLAY

Rick Mitchell