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The entangled story of a trio of lifelong gay friends on Staten Island during the final days of one.
(A Therapist’s Office)
IRA: The woman on the subway who keeps sneezing. I want to push her head into the glass. (A pause) The people who won’t get out of my way when I’m walking behind them. I picture myself with a baseball bat, swinging, knocking them over. They don’t fight back. They don’t dare. (A pause) The man walking towards me who won’t get out of my way. He expects ME to avoid HIM. I won’t. I picture the top of his bald head sticking out of the top of one of those old fashioned meat grinders, and I’m pushing down on his head with a wooden mallet while the ground-up curls of his face trickle out the front. (A pause) The teenage girl who mutters something about “fags” as I pass by. I’m holding a machete and I lop her head off cleanly at the neck… her head goes rolling into the middle of Victory Boulevard, the eyes picking up gravel. The cars skid to avoid hitting it, but crash into each other and explode, a tower of fire and smoke flies fifty feet into the air. (A pause) The man who insists on pushing into the train while I’m trying to get off, then curses me because I bump into him. I see him getting stuck as the doors close, he falls to the ground. I see him being dragged, screaming, along the platform as the train speeds out of the station, scratching a wide red stripe of blood and skin along the platform. (A pause) The woman with the stroller who moves too slow. The man who stops dead in front of me on the sidewalk, then turns and bumps into me as if I’m invisible. The trio of friends walking in a phalanx down the sidewalk who force me into the street because no one can get past them. The person who slowly weaves from side to side, not caring that I’m walking behind him, trying to get past. Those people with umbrellas who make no concession to anyone walking in their path. I see all of their bodies in a pile, blackened and burned, the smoke rising off them, their Reeboks melted to their feet, their hair singed to a solid clump on their heads, their tongues hanging out, charred and bloated with pus. (A pause) God, is forty-five minutes up already? Well, I DO feel better. See you next week.
GENRE: Drama
RUN TIME: Full-length, three acts, 2 hours
CAST: 7m/4f
SET: Multiple locations
