Finally, they come. Their wings beat fast as they land, blowing sand in my open eyes. Tears form, but I do not move. I lie still on the hot, sun baked dirt. I wait for the right moment.

I feel the first peck on my side, right underneath my ribs. The vulture’s beak slices through the skin and hooks it, tearing a hole as it pulls away. I know what it’s after, but I do not move. I think to myself that perhaps I am sweating. Perhaps my heart is beating so loudly that it will betray me, and the vultures will take flight. Foolish thoughts. There is no water in my body. My blood flows like syrup, and the vultures lick it up with their little pointed tongues.

Reassurance gnaws on my shoulder. There is not much meat there so this second bird moves closer to my head. It bites at my neck, right where the bitches like to kiss me because it makes me shudder. And do I move? Not a flinch.

And so comes the third bird. This one hops right in front of my face. Hunger growls from deep within me. My jaw tightens. I salivate. My eyes travel up bony talons to thick legs, to a meaty breast, to a juicy neck, and then there is the vulture’s head, haloed by the sun.

I am ready. I am ready to feast. My muscles tense. My mind numbs. My spirit roars, and just when I am just about to strike, I feel my eye being ripped from its socket.

I scream at the top of my lungs, and my voice goes as high as a bitch in birthing. I shoot out my left hand blindly and close around something soft and fleshy. I kick, and I flail, and I screech. Two birds take flight from me, and I yell out after them. Rolling over onto my back, I lie there panting. I feel something scratching my forearm, and when I turn to look, I see out of my good eye a vulture raking me with his talons. I bring it back and forth across my body, smacking it hard across the ground on either side. It makes some gargling sounds, and I laugh.

I let it go.  Laying there panting, I watch that bastard bird limp away. It hops high and flutters its wings, but one is broken, and it crashes down in a mess of dingy feathers. I laugh and crawl myself up onto my legs. I walk over to the bird and kick it. It squawks at me. It apologizes for trying to eat me, and I tell the bird that he is forgiven. I understand. He was hungry. It’s easy to get hungry in the desert. I get hungry too.

I say that there is no harm done. I feel my side and my neck. The wounds have grown shallow. I put my dirty fingers in my new eye and start to cry. Painful white light blurs slowly into focus, and I see a wounded vulture trying to take flight, now in new perspective. My hunger pangs in my stomach. I wrap my brown fingers around pink flesh, right above its breast and right below its skull. With two hands I pull the bird’s neck taut.

Finally, I feast.

A ten-minute play

CAST:

Sebastian Riverson, A 24 year old graduate student

Bill Harold, A 66 year old Episcopalian minister

Sheila, about 19 years old, a waitress

TIME: Summer of 2009

PLACE:  Madison, Wisconsin.

( At curtain, there is a small outdoor café with three or four tables positioned on a concrete floor.  SEBASTIAN sits at a table close to the house reading a number of papers spread out chaotically over the table.  More jut from his adjacent book bag.  After a few moments of this, BILL enters from stage left and stands in front of SEBASTIAN.  SEBASTIAN does not notice BILL at first.  BILL is not dressed in clergyman’s clothes, but in a flannel shirt, khaki pants, glasses and brown shoes.  SEBASTIAN wears a rumpled suit coat and jeans over wingtips)

BILL:

Ahem.

(SEBASTIAN looks up)

SEBASTIAN:

Oh, hi Bill.  I didn’t see you there.  Sit down.

BILL:

Thank you, Seb.

(BILL sits across from SEBASTIAN and untucks a cigar box from under his arm.  BILL and SEBASTIAN start setting up a chessboard)

SEBASTIAN:

How did the service go today?

BILL:

Good, good.  We spoke about Saint Francis.  Thought it would be relevant, considering your upcoming debate.

SEBASTIAN:

(Vaguely) Uh-huh.

BILL:

Who, of course, urged forgiveness and acceptance even to those who have done terrible things.

SEBASTIAN:

(setting up the pieces) Yeah.

BILL:

And who claimed that people who run for office in the state of Wisconsin should be nailed to a wall and beaten with their own badly-written speeches.

SEBASTIAN:

(Finishes the setup of the pieces) Yeah.

SEBASTIAN:

(Beat) Wait, what?

BILL:

(smugly) You’re sure you’ve got the wits to run for office?

SEBASTIAN:

Fuck, Bill.  I’ve had a long day, and that’s not funny.

BILL:

Uh-huh.  You wouldn’t know if I was lying to you about St. Francis on the best day of your life.  You’re not really much of a hagiographer.  And watch your language.

SEBASTIAN:

And you’re not much of a chess player, but here we are.  And watch your ego.

(BILL sticks his tongue out at SEBASTIAN. The board is now set up.  SEBASTIAN is playing white, and BILL is playing black.  The two begin playing as they talk.  SEBASTIAN digs out a small chess clock from his book bag.  There is a pause as they make their first moves)

BILL:

(Slyly) Is that waitress still here?  The one that you like?

SEBASTIAN

Yes.  And no.

BILL:

What?

SEBASTIAN:

Yes, she still works here, no I’m not interested in Sheila.

BILL:

(slyly) Oh, no, of course not.  You have no interest in the waitress whose name you are so familiar with.

SEBASTIAN:

(sheepishly) She wears a name tag.

BILL:

(chuckles as he makes his next move) You young people and the games you insist on playing.  I don’t know why you can’t just be… (makes an obvious long move across the board) Direct.

SEBASTIAN:

(curses softly at the move) Crafty old man…  And anyway, she’s cute and everything but now’s not the time to look for a relationship.  The campaign is taking up all my time, and I only split up with–

BILL:

You split up with Sara six months ago, Seb.

SEBASTIAN:

(makes his next move carefully, cautiously, holding the piece above the board.  He speaks softly) Bess died two years ago, Bill, and you still wear a wedding ring.

(Bill sits up a little straighter.  He doesn’t allow concern to move across his face, but he slowly moves the hand with the ring on it into his pocket.  The two play in silence for a few moments, but are soon interrupted by the arrival of SHEILA.  She is wearing a turtleneck and jeans with a waitress’s apron over the front.  A large button reading “De Soto” is pinned to the front)

SHEILA:

Hello Pastor, Hi Seb.  What will it be today?

BILL:

Hi.  I’ll have lemonade, please.

SEBASTIAN:

(pointedly does not look up at her) Coffee, please.  Thanks.

(Sheila walks off with their orders and the two play on.)

BILL:

Is that why you don’t want to talk to her?  The De Soto button?

SEBASTIAN:

She can support whoever she wants.

SEBASTIAN:

(mocking) Even if who she supports happens to be a reactionary and a psychopath, who would sooner see the lower-third income bracket fall into abject poverty than question the apparently carpal-tunnel infested Invisible hand of the market.  Oh no, who am I to judge?

BILL:

Okay, I kind of thought so.  But there’s no need to be touchy.

SEBASTIAN:

Touchy?  Bill, the man has called me everything short of a traitor and smirks about it!  Just because I’m not running as a fucking Democrat or a motherfucking Republican he thinks I’m just there to be mocked, to be made fun of!

BILL:

(soothingly, the game temporarily forgotten) You don’t need to defend yourself to me, Seb.  I don’t think you’re a traitor or a revolutionary or whatever.  And can we take it easy on the blasphemies, just once, for me?

SEBASTIAN:

Right.  Sorry, Bill.

(They resume playing.  Quietly, Sheila comes back with the drinks and they nod to her, or to each other.  They each make a few moves, and look up at each other once in a while, as if wanting to talk. SEBASTIAN reaches for his pocket, suddenly, and pulls out a cell phone.  He looks at it for a moment, and then stands up.  He makes a move.)

SEBASTIAN:

Uh, I’ll be right back, Bill.  I have to take this call.  You go ahead and make your move.

BILL:

Sure thing, Seb.  I’ll be here.

(SEBASTIAN exits stage left, talking on his phone. Bill doesn’t make a move, but sits and contemplates the board for a while.  After a moment, SHEILA walks in carrying a coffee pitcher.)

SHEILA:

More coffee, Sebastian?  I thought that because of the debate that you might be—oh!

BILL:

He just went to answer a phone call, miss.  If you want, you can wait here with me until he gets back.

SHEILA:

Well, I don’t know.  I should get back to the other tables soon.

BILL:

Really?  It doesn’t seem very crowded today.

(In fact, the restaurant is deserted except for the two of them.  SHEILA shrugs her shoulders, sits down in the chair opposite BILL, and examines the chessboard.)

SHEILA:

You two almost always bring this chessboard with you, huh?

BILL:

Yeah, it’s kind of nice to have it there as a distraction, otherwise Seb and I and up killing each other over politics and religion. Laughs

SHEILA:

Laughs back. Ha-ha, yeah.  Sebastian certainly is focused on his campaign, even to the point of ignoring the people he cares—

(Long pause, and BILL looks uncomfortable.  Awkwardly, SHEILA attempts to recover her misplaced line about SEBASTIAN)

SHEILA:

I mean, even the people that he’s known for a long time.

BILL:

Yes, I know what you mean.

(Pause as the two sit on opposite sides of the chessboard.  SHEILA pours herself a cup of coffee while BILL fiddles with a queen.  BILL opens his mouth several times as if to speak, but doesn’t.  Finally, he shifts in his chair and turns directly to SHEILA)

BILL:

So, um, I hope you don’t mind me asking this, but, well, I was wondering.  You seem to get along so well with Sebastian and he with you, so I just wanted to know why you don’t support him for office?

SHEILA:

Oh. (Pause) Well. (Pause) I guess I don’t have a reason, exactly.

BILL:

(Gently) Sheila, I’m not a member of Sebastian’s campaign.  I’m not an interrogator.  I’m a pastor, and you don’t have to be afraid of talking to me.

SHEILA:

(A little defensive) Well, it isn’t that I don’t like Sebastian, I do!  And it isn’t that I think he’s all wrong about what to do in Madison, because he isn’t!  I just… I… I don’t know.

BILL:

(After a pause) I know how hard it is to think about the faults of the people that you care about.

SHEILA:

Well, it’s like, have you ever met a really, really happy couple?  You know, the “hold doors open for each other and split the bill and make pet names for each other” sort of couple?

BILL:

(amused) Well, I can’t say I do, but I suppose I get the idea.

SHEILA:

Right, right.  Anyway.  You always kind of feel bitter towards them because, you know, you’re not part of their happy little world.  And that’s how I think Sebastian feels.  He can’t understand what it means to believe in something that isn’t politics, so he feels angry towards the people who do.  Like he can’t have his beliefs and someone else’s.  Like he has to choose.  (Pause).  Am I making sense?

BILL:

(Quite softly, and a little shakily) Yes.  Yes, I suppose so.

(The two sit for a while longer, and then SHEILA looks up suddenly and grabs her coffee and pot.  She smiles at BILL and walks away off stage right.  Sebastian soon enters from stage left and sits back down.)

SEBASTIAN:

What’d I miss?

BILL:

(As if awaking from a reverie) Hm?  Oh no.  No.  I haven’t made a move yet, that’s all.

SEBASTIAN:

(smirks) I give you all the time in the world, and you still can’t decide.  I’ll have you for sure this time, old man.

(The two play on for a little while longer, in silence, which quickly grows oppressive.  BILL looks up first).

BILL:

Is there something else the matter, Seb?

SEBASTIAN:

(After a pause, but the words come steadily) Yeah, there is. Every other speaker, politico or clergyman in this town has picked either me or De Soto to back in this election.  You’ve been the one that’s stayed quiet. Why is that?

(Bill remains silent.  It’s his turn but he doesn’t move).

BILL:

Well…  (pauses)

SEBASTIAN:

Well, what?  You owe me an answer!

BILL:

(nettled) Well, come on Seb!  You called politicians of faith “betrayers of our heritage”.  You said Tom Paine and James Madison, of all people, would be ashamed of us!  Those are strong words, Seb. (makes a move)

SEBASTIAN:

(reacts immediately to Bill’s move) Yeah, okay, I have tough rhetoric.  Sue me.  I have to make myself noticed.

BILL:

(getting a little more upset, counters the move from Seb) Noticed?  Seb, you can’t just dismiss the beliefs of thousands of citizens as irrelevant!

SEBASTIAN:

(getting worked up himself, now, he moves again) Can’t I?  People need to wake up to the harsh realities that are killing this city!  People need to think objectively about their problems, and what I’m telling them is that I can help them fix those problems!

BILL:

(quietly, but angrily) What you’re telling them is that there is no reason for their suffering.

SEBASTIAN:

When did this become about suffering?  Or meaning for that matter?

BILL:

You are the one that talks about oppression all the time, comrade.

SEBASTIAN:

Don’t make fun of me.  Hell’s bells, Bill, you know how much I’ve staked on this election!  You know what a disaster this city’s become!

BILL:

(after a pause) Yes.  I know.

SEBASTIAN:

Then how can you stay so damn quiet? How can you let me lose?

(Bill doesn’t have an answer.  They make a few more moves in silence.  Slowly, SEBASTIAN’S head sinks to the level of the pieces and he shakes it.)

SEBASTIAN:

Damn it to Hell, Bill, I’m gonna lose.

BILL:

(softly) You don’t know that for certain.

SEBASTIAN:

Bullshit.  Who do I have supporting me, huh?  A pack of radical students and a few professors that were too stoned to get sent to ‘Nam?  The local food co-op?  Campaigns don’t run on organic radishes for Christ’s sake.

BILL:

Seb, calm down.  And I told you to watch your mouth.  There could be children in this restaurant.

SEBASTIAN:

Oh God damn it Bill, stop trying to bully me with your piety.  My damn thesis is on the resurgence of socialism in America, not the inevitable defeat of the Godless commies by the good, Christian scions of the free market.  If I lose, what am I supposed to do?  What can I say?

(Bill doesn’t respond)

SEBASTIAN:

(pauses and makes a move) Bill, why won’t you endorse me?  You’re one of the U’s favorite lecturers, and if you had to pick someone in town that was a “pillar of society” you’d be a good choice.

(Bill doesn’t respond)

SEBASTIAN:

People are asking me questions.  “Why can’t you even get Pastor Harold to help you?  How can it be that even he won’t support you?”

(Bill remains silent, and unmoving.  He hasn’t taken his hand out of his pocket.)

SEBASTIAN:

God damn you, Bill Harold, say something!  Stop punishing me!

BILL:

I can’t do it!

SEBASTIAN:

(long pause) Why?

BILL:

Because…  (he makes a slow, careful move) Because if you beat DeSoto, it’s an admission that all of the problems here, all the drugs and the deaths and the misery, it’s all just people torturing people.  There’s no reason or purpose to any of it.

SEBASTIAN:

(awkwardly) Bill, it is just people hurting people.

BILL:

(defiantly) No.  I don’t believe that.  I can’t believe that.  And neither will your voters, Sebastian.  They need to believe that there is a meaning behind the madness.

(Long pause as Seb holds a knight over the board)

BILL:

I need to believe that.

SEBASTIAN:

(with force) I didn’t kill Mom, Bill.  And neither did you.  It was a fucking road accident.  You don’t need to go looking for reason and justice in this.  You don’t need to sacrifice me to your religion.

(He sets down the knight)

BILL:

(dryly) You could of taken my queen just there.

SEBASTIAN:

Yeah, I know.

BILL:

(Pause) Why didn’t you?

SEBASTIAN:

Why didn’t you hit me earlier?  You know my defense is awful, you could have rolled over me with a blitzkrieg fifteen turns ago.

BILL:

Well, I didn’t because– (pauses for some time)

SEBASTIAN:

Because?

BILL:

(softly) Because it’s more important to make your friends happy than to teach them a lesson.  More important to help them than to punish them, even if you think they’re wrong.

SEBASTIAN:

Oh.

(Pause as the two make a move each)

SEBASTIAN:

I’m not your enemy, Bill.

BILL:

I know.

SEBASTIAN:

I’m not God’s enemy, either, Bill.

BILL:

I know that too, Seb.

(Long pause as the two stare at the board)

BILL:

Do you think the Badger Herald will let a non-student publish?  I mean, it is a UW newspaper and I graduated a long time ago.  But it seems a fitting place to write an editorial.

SEBASTIAN:

Yeah, I think they’ll be okay with it.

BILL:

Good.  That’s good.  I’ll call their office tonight.

(SEBASTIAN looks at his cell phone)

SEBASTIAN:

I gotta go, Bill.  I have to meet a volunteer for the pamphlet drives, or something.

BILL:

That’s okay, Seb.  It was nice to see you.

(BILL makes a final move and smirks at SEBASTIAN)

BILL:

It was nice beating you, too.

SEBASTIAN:

(grumbling good-naturedly) Yeah, well, you won’t be so lucky next time.  Lucky old man, that’s all you are.

BILL:

And you’re just a foul mouthed little punk.SEBASTIAN:

Fogy.

BILL:

Whippersnapper.

(They smile at each other.  SEBASTIAN puts some money on the table as BILL gathers up the pieces.  SEBASTIAN takes his papers and his chess clock)

SEBASTIAN:

Bye, Dad.

BILL:

Take care, Sport.

(SEBASTIAN exits stage right.  BILL sits sipping his drink for a while, and SHEILA passes by.)

SHEILA:

Can I help you with anything else, pastor?

BILL:

Hm?  Oh, no thank you, miss—Sheila.

(SHEILA starts to walk away, but BILL suddenly sits up and calls her back)

BILL:

Actually, Sheila, there is one thing.  Next time that my son comes in here, would you talk to him?  He likes you but he’s a little shy.

SHEILA:

You mean Sebastian?  He likes me?

BILL:

Yes, he’s the one.  Just a nice word or two would really lift his spirits.  He’s been a little blue lately, and I worry about him.

(SHEILA smiles and nods to BILL and then bustles off.  BILL finishes his drink but doesn’t leave the restaurant.  After a moment, he takes his hand out of his pocket and slips the wedding ring off his finger.  He looks at it for a second, then sets it down, and spins it on the chessboard.)

(Lights down).

END OF PLAY

when we reenact st. sebastian

i will thrust a score of arrows

and caress your black licorice hair.

syrupy mouths will waltz whilst

secretly canonizing one another,

one-two-three, one-two-three until

the rich buttercream dawn cries

“gentlemen, last call for drinks.”

sweat and sunshine will be to us

as olive oil to the bathers of rome:

we will wash ‘til smooth and slick,

our bodies hot gold on the anvil

of some hapless blind blacksmith.

wearily, i’ll grab the shafts and pluck

the arrows out, mopping blood

with doilies and sweet coconut,

famished for your resurrection.