Soul of a Whore and Purvis (7 page)

Like what if this life isn't really real?

DOC
: And what if we're like Simon, in a realm

We can't imagine, in a spastic coma—

STACY
: A hospital in some enchanted dream,

A magic hospital…A “spastic coma”?

DOC
: What life we truly live we'll never know.

The only hope we have is to assume

That what we see is where we are…

STACY
:                                                           Doctor,

Why does Simon jabber like a zoo?

DOC
: The human brain, the…May I know your name?

STACY
: Forgive me: Stacy Daley Morgan Blaine.

But I should drop the Blaine, as I'm divorced—

Again! But then, I didn't drop the Morgan—

DOC
: Now, isn't “Blaine”—? Now, Simon,
you're
a Blaine—

STACY
: Well, I was married to him, first. He gets around.

DOC
: In rather a tiny circle!

WILL
:                                  He's a sucker:

Snoring in the kingdom of the vegetables

He ain't a whole lot dumber than he was.

DOC
: I see, and, Stacy, that makes you the patient's—?

STACY
: Former wife and current sister-in-law.

I'm sure you know my sister, Jan—

DOC
:                                                           Of course.

A real Penelope!—

STACY
:                              And Will, our brother-in-law—

Jan's former brother-in-law, but now her current,

And currently my former brother-in-law.

DOC
: Pleased to meet you, Will. And, Stacy:
charmed

And
very
pleased.

STACY
:                               The feeling's…
mutual
…

SIMON
: I sound like I'm shrinking

STACY
:                                        —And! A “spastic coma”?

DOC
: The injury to Simon's synapses,

The anaerobic outrage to his brain,

The shock of oxygen starvation on

A mystery so frail as the electric

Pilgrimage an impulse undertakes

Along a route of stimulated nerves

Has induced in Simon Blaine a wild condition,

A hyperactive, vegetative state,

A chronic, spastic, comatose condition

Marked by baffling random episodes

Apparently the property of the dark

And chiefly somnolent prefrontal lobes:

Pseudo-verbal, faux-autistic, splashed

With flowery jets and startling and bright

Ejaculations with aphasic overtones.

STACY
: Overtones…and episodes…I see…

DOC
: He reads out almost epileptic when

We hook him to the EEG. And so…

STACY
: He has these fits.

DOC
:                                And so he has these fits.

—A rare and baffling form of coma.

JAN
:                                                            
Rare?

There's never been another coma like it!

STACY
: And nothing can be done?

DOC
:                                              A case like this,

We offer consolation. Never hope.

JAN
: But you're not
God.

DOC
:                                And I don't claim to be.

JAN
: But he's right there! Right
here
!—Simon!

Wife to Simon! What are you thinking, Simon—

I wish I could join him there. I struggle to get there.

But how do you struggle? I struggle with my heart,

My soul. I make an effort in my chest.

With my love, my force of love.—It's bullshit!

He's there and I'm here. What are you thinking?…

TELL ME! TELL ME! RE-TARD! WRETCH!
TELL ME!

DOC
: Nurse!

NURSE
:         Ma'am! No!

WILL
:                                Jan,
stop
it!

STACY
:                                                 Stop it, Jan!

[
A brief struggle.
]

Stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it! STOP!

…There are comas and there are comas, Jan.

This is one of those. The kind the very

Wisest doctors cannot comprehend.

So let's stop beating around the bush, OK?

Your husband isn't ever coming home.

This spastic coma person isn't Simon,

'Cause Simon's off in Coma-Simon-Land

Married to a Spastic Coma Girl.

He doesn't hear a single word we say.

He doesn't, and he didn't, and he won't.

So no more sex. Just learn to masturbate.

—O, well! I'm sorry! I don't make the rules!

WILL
: Will someone give this stupid bitch a shot

And put us all out of our misery?

STACY
: You wish you had your little death machine?

WILL
: You bet your plastic boobs.

DOC
:                                             Now—now—now—now—

STACY
:
You're
the reason I divorced him, Will—

When we were living in North Houston, Will—

I don't forget who introduced him to

Sylvester's Big-As-Texas Topless Lounge—

JAN
: I wouldn't be caught dead inside that place!

STACY
: You've always been a rotten influence—

JAN
: In there it's all black light and fuzzy dice!

DOC
: Ah, me!—it's difficult to make a point

In these surroundings. Why don't we adjourn—

WILL
: No. What procedure have you scheduled here?

DOC
: Excuse me. Was there something scheduled?

WILL
:                                                                        Yes!

I drove all night from Huntsville to attend—

To what were you referring, Jan? You claimed

Some bold experiment was taking place—

DOC
: Have we experiments on the agenda, Nurse?

NURSE
: Not from now till three p.m.—No, sir!

JAN
: 'Cause all
you
know to do is grab his pecker!

Experiments won't save him! He needs faith!

You
saw the pictures on TV,
you
watched

The faces of those red-hot, burning people—

Like faces in a painting, witnessing

Their resurrection in a revelation,

Riding escalators toward the flames

Like souls ascending toward Atomic Heaven—

STACY
: Or Hell! Pockets of Hell! Of Hell!—I mean,

Subterranean shopping center fires

Are breaking out all over God's green earth.

It's punishment for something—
you
know what:

Divorce, and dope, and gambling; lesbians,

Teenage sexpot prostitution rings,

Child-molester grandmas,
Mar
di Gras—

WILL
: What the hell full name is Stacy short for?

STACY
: It's not. I'm only Stacy,
ma chérie
!

WILL
: And
now
what? What are
these
fools up to

Out the window here? Will someone promise me

My family is not a party to

This further nonsense in the parking lot?

Here we have a maniac with a cross,

I mean it's big, this sucker's big enough

To mount a dolphin on, he's standing there

Beside it like he's posing for a photo—

Looking stupid, I don't have to add—

And, am I psychic? Why am I so
sure

That these two
other
maniacs are coming
here
?

JAN
: That's William Jennings Bryan Jenks, the healer.

WILL
: A heeler. What is that? A person?

JAN
:                                                      Yes,

A healer is a person.

WILL
:                                    There are dogs

Called blue heelers—fact my neighbor has one.

Had one, I should say. It's dead. It drowned.

MASHA
and
BILL JENKS
enter, both in quite conservative garb,

MASHA
in gray,
BJ
in black.
BJ
'
s hair has grown out; he wears it swept back in a shining pompadour.

BILL JENKS
: Where's this drowning victim?

…This is the man who drowned?

STACY
: Nobody drowned him. He was in a fire.

BILL JENKS
: Is this a burn unit?

NURSE
:                                      Perpetual Care.

He wasn't burned.

BILL JENKS
:                      The fire didn't burn him?

STACY
: More like he suffocated in the smoke,

Which you could almost say the fire drowned him—

WILL
: Coincidence, here—I was telling how

My neighbor's dog got drowned last Sunday morning.

Nobody home, he went and jumped right in

The swimming pool and couldn't clamber out.

Hung on—hung on—hung on till noon, almost—

Gave up; went under; drowned.

BILL JENKS
:                                          How do they know?

WILL
: They don't. I do. I let it drown. I watched,

Sipping a Bloody Mary on a Sunday morn.

The rest of God's creation was at church.

Sunday morning; drinking alone: I love it.

I don't like heelers.

WILL
and
BJ
stand, each facing the other, as in a mirror.

BILL JENKS
:                          Are you copying me?

WILL
: Are you copying me?

BILL JENKS
:                          Cut it out.

WILL
:                                                    Cut it out.

BILL JENKS
: All I have to do is remain silent.

…Well, aren't you going to copy that?

WILL
: Aren't you going to copy that?

BILL JENKS
:                                        You win.

WILL
: You lose.

MASHA
:            Brother, we're in danger.

WILL
:                                                        Will Blaine…

BILL JENKS
: Bill Jenks.

STACY
:                      Well!
Bill
and
Will
! Could be

You guys are twins! Twins torn apart at birth—

SIMON
: Watch me jack off with my solar flare

STACY
: Simon Blaine, hush! You've got company!

MASHA
: The lesser demons bow to something here.

Satan's pouring honey down my spine.

BILL JENKS
: Satan can't be everywhere at once,

And right now he's in Hollywood or Vegas.

WILL
: Who publishes the diabolical

Itinerary? There a cable channel?

BILL JENKS
: He gravitates toward Sodom and Gomorrah.

WILL
: Really.

BILL JENKS
: Sure. The old boy craves a little

Action same as everybody else.

WILL
: Was it
Twenty-Twenty
? Or
Sixty Minutes
?

I thought they made a worldwide fool of you.

—OK, it's rude of me to say so, sorry—

What'd you call your outfit there in Dallas,

Church of the Holy Sacred Bank Account?

Ripped of your congregation, shot a guy,

Landed up in Huntsville, where I work:

I bet I've seen you, out there in the fields

Hacking with a hoe (—excuse me, ma'am!),

Slaving away with black-eyed Susans winkin'

And stinkin' like a Dallas trollop (—'scuse me!);

Suspected dealer, quantity cocaine—

BILL JENKS
: O yeah, I shot a man. He didn't die.

I get the chance again—who knows?

WILL
: You'd think a guy would sense his status!—Yeah,

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