2nd Avenue Poetry: volume 3

KEVIN KILLIAN

THE HOUSE OF FORKS (1998)

(In the darkness one song is heard, The Righteous Brothers' "Unchained
Melody"–the lights go up slowly, the music dies down and stops as the phone
rings)

KEVIN KILLIAN (answering the phone). Qantu's House of Forks, Kevin
speaking. Qantu will be appearing at the Tanforan Mall on Friday at noon, no
autographs please, and no flash cameras, he will dispense advice from the spirit
world only. No pets. No heavy perfumes. Bring your own forks as seating is
limited.

[Enter ROGER.]

ROGER (speaking into walkie-talkie.) We've got a hot one here, Air Force One.
Grounds are secure. Roger. Over and out.

KEVIN KILLIAN. Who approaches Qantu's House of Forks?

ROGER. Treasury Department–U S Secret Service. My name's Roger. I've got
Mrs. Bush outside in the Chevy. Where do you want her?

KEVIN KILLIAN (sourly). Not at all, but my boss, Qantu, did say she could sit
over there in that chair.

ROGER (into walkie-talkie). We're gonna put her in a chair. Repeat, a chair.
Roger. It's about three feet tall, two feet deep. [To KEVIN.] How big is the seat?

KEVIN KILLIAN. I haven't the faintest, I'm not a modiste.

ROGER (eyeballing it). Say about four hands' worth. Think that'll do it–it's
gotta I guess. Okay, fetch Big Mama.

KEVIN KILLIAN (answers phone). Qantu's House of Forks, Kevin
speaking . . . WHO? No you must have the wrong number, there's no Madame
Sousatchka here, hang up and try again. This is who? Camille Paglia? I don't
care if it’s Polly wants a cracker, you've got the wrong number.

ROGER. Right this way, Mrs. Bush.

[Enter BARBARA BUSH,–grand entrance.]

BARBARA BUSH. That call's for me, young man. I'm Madame Sousatchka. I'm
here today at Qantu's House of Forks to begin my new, part-time, career as a
trance channeler. It's all very hush-hush, of course.

ROGER. And you're not to reveal a word of this, mind you. It was part of the
Loyalty Oath we had you sign.

KEVIN KILLIAN. I signed it, I guess. I don't remember. I'm a secretary not a
brain surgeon. In any case my loyalty is solely to Qantu and the 4-Pronged
Power.

BARBARA BUSH (on the phone). Yes, yes, this is Madame Sousatchka. How are
you, dear? So you want to consult my inner guide, terrific! I'll be here all day
today, and once a month thereafter for the entire term of the Presidency. Do you
live here in San Francisco? You know where Qantu's House of Forks used to be?

KEVIN KILLIAN. Is!–Not "used to be." Is!

BARBARA BUSH. I'm sorry dear, a little gnat was buzzing at my ear. Yes, at
Valencia between 18th and 19th. I'll be here, Miss Paglia, see you at tea time.

KEVIN KILLIAN. I'll never know why Qantu allowed you free office space, but
so be it. Obviously you or your government have some kind of vicious hold over
the world's most saintly man. However I'm not a gnat and I have some
important papers to FAX.

[Exit KEVIN KILLIAN.]

BARBARA BUSH. I used to sit there envying Nancy Reagan, the way she always
stole headlines consulting astrologers, and I swore that one day not only would I
consult some astrologers, I would become one myself–thereby eliminating the
middleman so to speak . . . so now I have my own spirit guide, the Empress
Farah of Iran, who does all my thinking for me, and what's more, nobody knows
who I really am.

ROGER. Is that what you wanted?

BARBARA BUSH. "What I wanted?" [Short bitter laugh]. I wouldn't know.
Let's ask Farah!

[Enter EMPRESS FARAH, Mrs. Bush's trance channel.]

EMPRESS FARAH. It's incredibly chic to be Farah . . . no more slumping 'round
the house grazing on Chicken McNuggets, no more sackcloth and no more
Barbaraisms . . . . Nancy's slim figure gave Barbara Bush the lie.

BARBARA BUSH (dreamily). That's right . . .

EMPRESS FARAH. In the case of Mrs. Bush, she resented the former First Lady
bitterly.

BARBARA BUSH (in a trance). We used to walk together–like Mutt and Jeff; she
with her copy of Petite Monthly, I with my copy of Radiance, the Magazine for Large
Women . . .

EMPRESS FARAH (like an analyst). Tell us how you felt about your relationship
with Nancy.

BARBARA BUSH. Oh, blue. As in–the color blue? I hated Nancy when she'd
hide herself behind one of my thighs. She made me feel like–animal suet.

EMPRESS FARAH. And you wanted to be a media event?

BARBARA BUSH. Yes–I wanted to become a media event, all on my own,
despite Nancy–without restrictions; and I've taken the brass ring in my teeth,
and done it now, with Farah!

ROGER (to EMPRESS). Are you really Empress Farah of Iran? But Farah isn't
even dead!

EMPRESS FARAH. Definitions don't faze the Empress; what in fact would?
Persepolis bows to a queen in khaki. And Barbara Bush is one of my desert
people now. Look at her, she likes it this way. What's Nancy Reagan got but
power red–her husband limps slowly toward Santa Beach sunset. If he doesn't
wink and tickle, then you're really in a pickle. Handmaidens fetch me my Salome
veils, I feel a chill coming on in my own little gadabout . . .

ROGER. Barbara–Mrs. Bush–wake up!

BARBARA BUSH. Well! How was I? Perfectly convincing?

ROGER. I still don't understand, were you Farah in a previous lifetime?

BARBARA BUSH (defiantly). Yes.

ROGER. But how? She's still alive as far as I know.

BARBARA BUSH. Perhaps I was she in her lifetime, who knows, dear
truthseeker? These things don't come to us in the dark, they're one of a
thousand–what? Points of light, in a timeless, seamless Sahara of love. Do you
like my new look? I've had a makeover, head to toe, to match my new, Frisco
kind of mindset.

EMPRESS FARAH. Oh God, how pretentious. Come out here, Billy, we have
plans to make to reunite the Shah and his homeland.

[Enter BILLY, spirit servant of EMPRESS FARAH.]

BILLY. Farah, this is going too far, don't you think?

EMPRESS FARAH. "Going too far"? Not in my lexicon. We are very angry
about the Gulf War.

BILLY. Sssshh, the walls have ears.

EMPRESS FARAH. Relax, Billy, we're in the fourth dimension. There's no one
to hear us, no one to spy on us. The two of us are shore birds in an estuary
doppelganger. We've attained the kind of freedom my people believe happens
only to Eva Peron. Limitless freedom, to speak, to sing. "Don't cry for me,
Argentina–"

BILLY. I've liked your singing but I don't see how you plan to bring world
revolution from within Mrs. Bush.

EMPRESS FARAH. It's not exactly a secret, only a plot point. We'll get out of
her way and return like two vengeful moguls.
I keep forgetting you're not dead, you've got this kind of hippie look about you.
My husband, the Shah, would have had you stripped naked and tied to a ram.
BILLY. It was on a day like this that I knew I'd fall in love.

[Exit FARAH and BILLY.]

BARBARA. I'm feeling up, I'm white, I'm a colorful chart. I've got spirits galore.

[Enter KEVIN KILLIAN.]

KEVIN KILLIAN. Are you two still here? Well, I guess a cat can look at a king,
and my boss, Qantu, is the King of the Spirits, while you, Mrs. Bush, are the cat
in the old brown sack. Did I hear the phone? I'm expecting my wife to call.

BARBARA BUSH. Wife? That's a good one. Kevin, I'm in kind of a tight spot.
My secret serviceman has to use the little boys' room, only he's too polite to say
so. Would you show him the way, that's a love.

ROGER. That's okay, I'm trained to hold it.

KEVIN KILLIAN (archly). That's okay, I'll hold it for you–[snarling]–you
disgusting piece of state scum.

[Exit KEVIN KILLIAN and ROGER.]

BARBARA BUSH. Now where's that Nancy now, I ask you? For eight long
years her fashions had me over a barrel. Now who's the Queen of Sheba, no Joan
Quigley for me, nothing but good old Emersonian look within! I am me, I am
here.

[Enter DODIE BELLAMY.]

DODIE. Hi, I'm Dodie Bellamy, author of Feminine Hijinx? I live nearby and my
husband works here, I have to see him.

BARBARA BUSH. Is he an officious little queer thing about five foot nine?

DODIE BELLAMY. I suppose he'd answer to that description. Tell me, have
you read any of my "Letters from Mina Harker," in which I, a girl from
Hammond Indiana, assume the voice of the heroine of Bram Stoker's novel
Dracula? Most people have. Especially most women. You know, from 11 to 26 I
had a lesbian relationship. [Pause.] I felt suffocated and trapped so I moved to
North Beach.–a bohemian region of San Francisco.

BARBARA BUSH. You interest me less and less, but your husband, if that's
what you call him, is in that tiny washroom back there with my handsome honor
guard.

DODIE BELLAMY. Why's my skin so clammy? I could be dribbling burrito
juice down chin and thighs, instead Mother Gray's lecturing me on my Anne-
Sexton lifestyle. There's something kind of male about me, that I could be so
stung by a big boss Bee. Maybe I should move to Vancouver, where people seem
more reserved in theory, sluttish in practice. Tell my husband I'll be back in an
hour.

[Exit DODIE BELLAMY.]

BARBARA BUSH. Excuse me, but I have social secretaries of my own, I am no
one's secretary. I came to San Francisco thinking I could rid myself of protocol,
now I find it invading from within. I'm looking forward to meeting Camille
Paglia, I hear she and I have similar views on date rape. [plucking at her outfit] –I
should ask Farah–how to wear black without picking up lint, it's so useless.

[Enter ROGER.]

ROGER. Mrs. Bush–Barbara–he's arrived! "Who?" Qantu!

BARBARA BUSH (to herself). Now remember, Bush girl, give it everything
you've got.

[Enter QANTU, with KEVIN KILLIAN.]

QANTU. If you come to a fork in the road, pick it up.

KEVIN KILLIAN (bowing down). The four-pronged power.

QANTU. Many people ask Qantu, "Why you have establish Qantu's House of
Forks." They do not see the wisdom that has lain, since the paleolithic, in every
drawer in everyone's kitchen.

BARBARA BUSH. Lovely to meet you, Mr. Qantu. I'd offer to shake your hands
but we psychics seem so distant and unapproachable, don't we? I often wonder
what ordinary mortals–you know–make of us!

KEVIN KILLIAN. But Qantu is no ordinary psychic unlike you! When I close
my eyes and ask Qantu for my inner direction, he always replies. That's the
four-pronged power,take it or leave it, grab the fork with both hands and give it
a go!

(phone rings)

Hello, Qantu's House of Forks. Yes, yes, and also Madame Sousatchka's
Globarama, World Affairs Council. You're who? Nancy Reagan? And you want
to consult Qantu, let me check his book. [Pause] You want Madame Sousatchka?
Oh, Mrs. Reagan, have I got some news for you!

BARBARA BUSH. I'll take it in my Oval Office. Roger, you stay here and make
nice.

[Exit BARBARA BUSH.]

ROGER. I've got one little question for you boys–"What is the nature of
Qantu's power?"

KEVIN KILLIAN. The nature of the power? You have to ask? You, with the
holster on your hip and your red button tip? You want proof? Ask Uri Geller!
You see him bend spoons, and kitchen tongs of titanium, and every other
cockamamie thing, but forks are a different kettle of fish for our Tel Aviv friend.
See that woman over there, that you call Barbara Bush? She's nothing but a fog
swirling around a skeleton!

ROGER. Don't be so sure of yourself, little man. That woman is our first lady,
and if that means nothing to you, you're almost alone in the Universe.

KEVIN KILLIAN. She's like every other Barbara I've ever known or met, a low,
earthbound spirit who hasn't discovered her forkuality.

QANTU. Except for Barbara Guest and Barbra Streisand, both of whom consult
Qantu for tips on writing poetry and making hit singles well into their fifties.
They too know the glory of the four-pronged power.

KEVIN KILLIAN. And I'm far from alone in the universe. Not only do I have
unique access to the 4-pronged power, but my boss, Qantu, is the exclusive
trance channel for the eternal spirit of the poet Sylvia Plath.

QANTU. Qantu says, here is the four-pronged power, heed me if you will.

KEVIN KILLIAN. Now hush up and listen good.

QANTU. Many people ask Qantu, "Where you come from? Why you speak
funny?" Qantu says, I was born on the banks of the Ganges in India over twenty
years ago. In fact, over eighty years ago. Why, I knew Mother Teresa when she
was still Child Teresa! Even in the days of the Raj my lanky black hair was the
jewel in my crown. Though many found me strange, I was held in high esteem,
treated with the same deference as the sacred cow. Together cow and I combed
the Ganges searching for life's meaning. And still I was a child looking for
Brahma.

One year later, in the fork of the Ganges Brahma appeared and begged me go to
San Francisco, open House of Forks. Qantu, he said, you are but a little lad today
with tiny fingers but in eighty years' time you will bring light to a dark planet.
"Yes, Brahma," I said, and sadly I kissed friend cow farewell and packed my rags
for next steamer leaving harbor.

I brought with me the holy fork he pressed into my hand, and began my mission
here in the city of the seven hills. Since then I have seen many changes—the
telephone, the motor car, the vote for women–all of which I invented here in
humble house of forks. From a pilgrim myself, I came to be known as the holy
man whom pilgrims seek. Barbara Stanwyck ask Qantu, "Me old now. Should
me listen to voice within and make Big Valley with Linda Evans and Thorn Birds
with Richard Chamberlain?" Qantu say yes, for you will be spreading the
message of the 4-pronged power. Great statesmen come to me, Qantu, invent
Zip Code they say. I say, "Okay!"

KEVIN KILLIAN. Qantu's also responsible for the common custom of eating
with forks.

QANTU. Yes, I said, forks are so beautiful, why should we not put them in our
mouths on a regular basis? And so they came to join the female spoon and the
masculine knife at the side of every plate in America. You Roger?

ROGER. That's my name.

QANTU (triumphantly). And I didn't even "know." I just guessed! And that
walkie-talkie you wear? I invented it. I, Qantu.

ROGER. I guess I've always been a skeptic.

QANTU. Just as I–have always been wise beyond ordinary concept of wisdom,
or sanity. IQ test named after–I, Qantu! I try to go on game shows, win glory
for humble House of Forks, producers give me thumbs down, you too smart they
say. And it is so. Door One or Door Two? I know! Double Jeopardy? I know! I
go on "Stump the Stars," stump Betty White, Betty Ford, many more Bettys. I
know you skeptical, Secret Service man.

ROGER. I came to this job with expectations, and nothing but relish has met my
redoubts. I was born in Chicago in the shadow of Mercantile Loop. Cops in
ulster blues invited me to the tin shed in the Old Fed. Law enforcement was my
muse–I had no other but an empty holster and a teenager's dream of getting off
the South Side. Mom and Dad, grocers both, weighed my hopes in a scale of
their own, judged me soundly, slapped me with glue. I didn't want to break the
law, I wanted to devise it. Won me a free hitch in the FBI, itself a pleasure palace
of ballistics and crips. After four years at West Point, I was asked to the Treasury
to meet Mr. Morgenthal. "Son," he intoned. "You've been a bad, bad boy."

QANTU. He who hears not abjures the wrench.

KEVIN KILLIAN. That's the wrench in one's consciousness, so please, FBI, leave
me alone and let me tine in to Qantu. He's going into his trance now, and that
means Sylvia Plath.

ROGER (shrugs). Yes, sir. I suppose he's a citizen, I suppose he has rights.
Seems to me, though, that America's a lonely place and we should treat one
another like starlings.

[Lights dim while Sinead O'Connor sings "Nothing Compares 2 U"; QANTU sits
slumped in a chair. Enter SYLVIA PLATH, his spirit channel.]

SYLVIA PLATH.
If you wanted to be a surrealist you
would have to have a vocabulary
this is what I think
It is in my head. Nowhere else in
my body only upstairs like a trunk
in the attic.
And then they go up with flashlights
to open this trunk and this one woman
screams because there's a head in it

KEVIN KILLIAN. See, Sylvia's changed with the times. It's not just 1963 all over
again with Sylvia Plath. She's constantly up-to-date just like Paul Simon.

ROGER. And she looks so lifelike!

KEVIN KILLIAN. That's because she comes from Qantu, the way Athena once
burst from the forehead of Zeus, because, well, Qantu is, like, the Zeus of, well,
everything.

[Enter BARBARA BUSH.]

BARBARA BUSH. What's all this commotion–poetry? I want America to read
more, sure, but I meant, like John Updike and Mark Twain and what's her name,
who wrote Brewster Place! Roger, do me a favor and call Kennebunkport, have
my little brown ones sent here at once.

ROGER. Yes, Mrs. Bush.

[Exit ROGER.]

BARBARA BUSH (wisely). Amidst a passel of mijos a large gray woman looks
more maternal.

[SHE spots SYLVIA.]

Oh for goodness sake!

SYLVIA PLATH. So, Barbara, we meet again!

BARBARA BUSH. Is that really you?

SYLVIA PLATH (shrugging). It is. Although I expect you don't believe it.

BARBARA BUSH. Oh, I don't know about that . . . Haven't seen you in quite
awhile, Sylvia. In fact, not since our days at Smith College.

KEVIN KILLIAN. Smith's a little rich for my blood. I'll be FAX-ing as usual.

[Exit KEVIN KILLIAN.]

SYLVIA PLATH. You cut quite a dashing figure then, I recall. Cheerleader,
weren't you? Sorority Babs.

BARBARA BUSH. And you were this pathetic artiste if I remember correctly. A
grind. Always burrowing away in the library trying to outdo Adrienne Rich,
rhymes with "witch."

SYLVIA PLATH. Those were the days, Barbara. Now I'm dead, and you're the
First Lady. Well, well, well.

BARBARA BUSH (after a pause). Put your head in the oven, didn't you?

SYLVIA PLATH. Once or twice.

BARBARA BUSH. Yes, and I rule the United States. Funny how things work
out.

SYLVIA PLATH. You married that Yalie from the Skull and Bones.

BARBARA BUSH (with asperity). George Bush, yes.

SYLVIA PLATH. On the rebound?

BARBARA BUSH. I wouldn't call it that. We both have Graves' disease, and
that drew us together.

SYLVIA PLATH. Just as I thought: the rebound.

BARBARA BUSH. Even our spaniel, Millie, has Graves, we bark together for
hours on lawn and terrace. But I love George: it's not just a pity thing, it's more
like mercy. Sure, he can rain flame on Kuwait, but can he boil water? I can't
either, but he didn't marry me for my frying arm. Say girl–Ted left you, didn't
he?

SYLVIA PLATH. Ah, but he left you first, no? Sorority Girl, the center of
attention in her cashmere twinset and her frat rat whirl.

BARBARA BUSH. Gee, where's Ted? I don't see him anywhere! Isn't he Poet
Laureate of–England? And alive?

SYLVIA PLATH. Poor Babs–Round her neck, on a silver chain, she wore Ted
Hughes' ring. Sorority Queen, who couldn't make enough jokes about poor,
studious Sylvia, her flat chest, her hornrims. Sorority Babs, who didn't know
quite what hit her when mousy old Sylvia made off with her man Ted!

BARBARA BUSH (outraged). Bookworm, how could you have fooled us so! He
was mine, mine, Sylvia! The minute I met him I had him hooked! Little did I
know your poetic clutches were sunk into his neck like vampire's teeth.

SYLVIA PLATH. How I used to envy you–you and Ted, the golden couple of
Smith campus. Quite how much you'll never know. You and Ted, punting the
Charles River in a canoe. Barbara and Ted, jitterbugging the night away at frat
parties Mouse Sylvia wasn't "in" enough to attend! You and Ted, sipping sodas
through a straw. Well–I got my own back, didn't I? I–the Gina Gershon of the
poetry world?

BARBARA BUSH. That horrible message! That wretched Western Union!

SYLVIA PLATH. Let me laugh in flashback as I recreate my greatest triumph–
ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Tech crew, dim the lights to signify my journey through the
past.

[Enter YOUNG BARBARA BUSH, in flashback sequence. YOUNG BARBARA BUSH
in bed in her room at Smith College, covers pulled over her head.]

HOUSEMOTHER OF SMITH COLLEGE (offstage). Barbara! Barbara, wake up!
There's a telegram for you!

YOUNG BARBARA BUSH (talking in her sleep). Ted–Ted–no, Ted, don't,
please–not now–

(Awake)

Who's that?

[Enter HOUSEMOTHER OF SMITH COLLEGE.]

It's your housemother, dear, Mrs. Gladman, and Western Union's just brought
this telegram.

YOUNG BARBARA BUSH. Oh! Oh, read it to me–please?

HOUSEMOTHER OF SMITH COLLEGE (reproachfully). Now Barbara dear, you
really should learn how to read for yourself.

YOUNG BARBARA BUSH (defiant even then). Why? Everybody says, "Read!
Read! Read!" I say–What's the point? To be a bookworm–like that dismal
Sylvia? I laugh at reading. When Ted writes a poem–he reads it to me. I have
love! I don't need–[as though swallowing something foul]–Literacy!

HOUSEMOTHER OF SMITH COLLEGE. Most Smith girls learn reading at some
point. You've been exhausting yourself down at the Malt Shop every night.
Barbara dear, we can't all be cunning little flibbertigibbets ninety per cent of the
time. Have you tried Dr. Seuss?

YOUNG BARBARA BUSH. All right, Mrs. Gladman, but I say, the system's at
fault. If they want to send me A's and B's and those other marks–or whatever–
they should call me up and tell me, like, what letter it is and what it stands for.
It's like, this is 1950 and the telephone’s been around for–yeeks–eons! Now
open that telegram, don't just stand there like a ninny. Ted's meeting me for
brunch with some of the new freshgirls–Ivana Trump, Margaret Atwood,
Nadine what's her face. The fun bunch. Gordimer.

HOUSEMOTHER OF SMITH COLLEGE (rips open the telegram; draws startled
breath). This one you'll have to read yourself, I'm afraid.

[She hands over telegram. Exit HOUSEMOTHER.]

BARBARA BUSH. Well–eventually I pieced it together, with the help of May
Sarton and some of the other grinds. That awful telegram.

SYLVIA PLATH. Dictated by me while sitting on Ted's face–"Bye-bye,
American whore!"

YOUNG BARBARA BUSH (telegram dangling from hand). "Bye-bye, American
who–" Oh, gee, I can't even say it.

SYLVIA PLATH. Signed, "Mr. and Mrs. Ted Hughes, Oxford, England!"

BARBARA BUSH. And even then I couldn't make out, who it was Ted had
married. Was this some kind of sorority prank, like when I set off that cherry
bomb in Sue Sontag's poodle muff?

YOUNG BARBARA BUSH. I thought it was me Ted loved.

BARBARA BUSH. I hadn't had any idea! I felt so embarrassed and stupid; it put
me into a boue funk.

YOUNG BARBARA BUSH. It couldn't be–Sylvia, could it?

BARBARA BUSH. Somebody said you'd gone missing from your rented room,
but it wasn't until the alumni news came out that I put two and two together and
made "four."

YOUNG BARBARA BUSH. Ted and–Sylvia?

BARBARA BUSH (to SYLVIA). Girl, why gnash my heart like that? What did I
ever do to you?

SYLVIA PLATH. Spite and revenge don't need reasons, do they, Barbara? I
made them my meat, like you your cherry pop.

YOUNG BARBARA BUSH. But I'm having Ted's baby.

BARBARA BUSH. I was having Ted's baby.

SYLVIA PLATH. Too bad! We laughed for days when you married George
Bush.

BARBARA BUSH. I had to marry someone! Have mercy!

YOUNG BARBARA BUSH. I was going to name him Neil–Neil Hughes. Mrs.
Gladman, pack my bags, I'm dropping out of Smith and joining the G.O.P.
Please don't pack my weekly reader, I won't need any alphabet, not where I'm
going. Just his formula, and my pearls.

[Exit YOUNG BARBARA BUSH.]

BARBARA BUSH. Bye younger self! As you grow up, and turn into me, be
kind. Stay down-to-earth! [To SYLVIA.] Torment me no longer, Sylvia, let me
be. There's room for both of us in this dreadful farce we call Life.

SYLVIA PLATH. I live in death, as you live in the Bush Administration. Have
mercy on yourself, Barbara, there'll be none for you this side of the grave.

[Enter EMPRESS FARAH and BILLY.]

EMPRESS FARAH. Billy, this can't go on! As long as Barbara Bush is consulting
Qantu, I cannot get through to Earth to make my message known. We must
break up this seance at once.

BILLY. How do you propose to do that?

EMPRESS FARAH. Go over his head! Qantu might have the wisdom of the
ages, but he can't hold the spirits of more than one person at a time. He'll grow
tired of Sylvia, just watch.

[shoos BILLY toward SYLVIA.]

That's it! That's the boy!

SYLVIA PLATH (to BARBARA). Your rage and your defeat will ring down
Heaven till Eternity's last chord–

(notices Billy's approach)

Yes? I didn't ask for any falafel delivery. Barbara? Can I put you on hold for a
minute?

[BILLY, fully in SYLVIA'S "space," grinds his foot onto the floor as though putting out
a burning cigarette.]

QANTU (develops splitting headache, clasps hands to head). Qantu feels weak and
headachey. He no feel good.

BARBARA BUSH. Wait! Wait! I command you in the name of the Armed
Services!

SYLVIA PLATH. I was talking to an old friend, Mister!

BILLY. It's okay, I'll make it up to you somehow. Maybe in caviar, maybe topaz.
American girl like dirty pictures? Hashish? I have a long tongue like a frog: any
appeal in tongue department? My broker says, "It's a bullish market, know
when to fold 'em, you could be the next Aly Khan, Billy." How'd ya do? Bill's
my name, of the secret Iranian police.

SYLVIA PLATH. Oh, I get it now. You're the new tenant in Madame
Sousatchka.

BILLY. And you know what's odd? I have loved you since the minute I met
you. I used to be a nondescript nothing without identity, without desire.

EMPRESS FARAH. Tell her you despise her. That's the way American poets
like it.

BILLY. I despise you.

SYLVIA PLATH. You interest me strangely.

EMPRESS FARAH. There!

SYLVIA PLATH. Tell you what–I have a hospital bed all to myself, come visit
my ward and I will inject you with ether and lanolin, chocolate and steam.
You'll blow up like a water balloon, and none of us will be the wiser.

EMPRESS FARAH. Tell her that her white body has the devil buzzing in it.

BILLY. Your white body has the devil buzzing in it. Like a hive of bees of Satan.

SYLVIA PLATH. I enjoy your frankness, can this marriage be saved? Billy! We
will write our names across the desert night in jets of blood. Don't fail me now.

BILLY. I'm panting. Tap me with H2O,

SYLVIA. It's just kind of a Romeo meets Juliet situation isn't it? You live in
Barbara Bush, and I in Qantu!

BARBARA BUSH (clutching her head). Come back, Sylvia, back I say! You and I
have unfinished business to conclude!

EMPRESS FARAH. Now begone, the both of you, and give Qantu a rest.

[Exit BILLY and SYLVIA PLATH.]

Tonight I emerge to dominate air traffic from Frisco to Teheran.

[Exit EMPRESS FARAH.]

BARBARA BUSH. What happened? I had the strangest dream! The strangest
dream! [Into walkie-talkie.] Air Force One–I need you. Roger! Roger!

[Enter ROGER and KEVIN KILLIAN]

KEVIN KILLIAN (seeing QANTU weak and broken). Nothing happened. You're a
fraud. There is only one Qantu and somehow you've enfeebled him. I call on all
here present to witness his shocking condition, he's a limp rag with a burn on his
head.

QANTU. Let me lie down on my bed of forks.

KEVIN KILLIAN. Excuse me, First Lady, and Roger too, this holy man must recharge
his forkestral acoustics.

[Enter CAMILLE PAGLIA.]

CAMILLE PAGLIA. Madame Sousatchka, please. I am Camille Paglia, the postfeminist.

KEVIN KILLIAN. This isn't a good time, can't you see my mystic's prostrate?

CAMILLE PAGLIA. If women had prostates, we'd still be living in grass huts,
pouring mud into river water and balancing pots on our heads, like lifesize
Emily Carrs. Instead we belong to the Sandra Bernhard generation and culture
means what we want it to mean.

KEVIN KILLIAN. Let me pass, please.

QANTU. Qantu say, get the fork out of the way . . .

BARBARA BUSH (shocked). There's no reason to be rude.

[Exit QANTU, hobbling, with KEVIN KILLIAN.]

CAMILLE PAGLIA. Actually, there's quite a good reason to be rude–it links us
to the primordial ooze from which all sexes emerged at the hip. We're this weird
race of swamp things who need our abuse as regularly as sugar in tea. I came to
you to ask you to abolish your literacy program, we don't need books any more,
let Garth Brooks and Jodie Foster do our thinking for us. And I, like you, want
to diss Miss Plath. She was the two things I abhor, a mother and a poet. Banish
books, and replace Sylvia, in the pantheon of femiconia, with date-rape
decapitate goddess Jayne (The Girl Can't Help It) Mansfield. When her head
sailed through the air on that hot Southern night I knew–she was the reason
Swinburne wrote "Faustine."

ROGER. Barbara–Mrs. Bush–this can't go on. You've made yourself
vulnerable to all kinds of unruly relations.

BARBARA BUSH. Miss Paglia, your proposals sound sensible, and let's do
lunch at Spago, once the race is over. You will be my own Atalanta. But now I
have the biggest crisis of my life, looming ahead like Miss Mansfield's
headlamps.

(Winningly)

Postpone it?

CAMILLE PAGLIA (admiringly). Done! It's a date! I didn't know what to
expect, but I'm glad to say that Smith College or no, you're not so far from the
slime yourself, Barbara Bush.

[Exit CAMILLE PAGLIA.]

ROGER (drops to one knee). Mrs. Bush–Barbara–Let me take you away from all
this. You deserve the R & R only a government man can give.

BARBARA BUSH. Why thank you, Roger! But I must say, "No." "No" to life,
"No" to love. For me there shall only be the lonely glory of my life as Mrs.
George Bush.

ROGER. I never really thought of you as a woman. In my mind I saw you as a
gray matriarch with bubbly eyes and a big neck, a Kentucky Derby of the senses.
When I told Mom and Dad I was working with you, I couldn't understand their
oohs and aahs. Four years have passed, and soon you'll be hitting the campaign
trail with the practiced swing of Tiger Woods. And you've grown on me like
edelweiss. So bless my heimat forever–when you're near a rod comes up in the
steel box of my heart. I'm vivid on purpose.

BARBARA BUSH. Maybe if I were a different kind of woman I'd take you up on
your offer. But I'm three times your age, Roger.

(lifts him to his feet)

I have dogs older than you. Now let's go off to my appointment–I see that
dreadful Bellamy woman coming this way.

[Exit ROGER and BARBARA BUSH; enter DODIE BELLAMY.]

DODIE BELLAMY. Hi, I'm Dodie. When I married a bisexual I went in with my
eyes open. As though it were a door or trance. But how was I to know he’d
transfer all his love and affection to a quack? A man with forked tongue so old
and wobbly he makes Rose Kennedy look like–someone young and sexually
potent? I wanted to play Cicciolina to his Jeff Koons. But now I feel kind of
deprived—not a person, only a void in someone's Martini. I'd give a dollar to be
able to say I had other strings to my bow, but–

[Dodie hears knock at door]

Why's my skin so porous? Come in!

[Enter NICK HUGHES. Dodie is transfixed and the music plays–"Rush Rush" by
Paula Abdul)

NICK HUGHES (a young man with forks for hands). I have crawled on forks and
knees from London to San Francisco to meet Qantu. He can't live forever, and
thanks to my birth defect I'm in a good position to be the new him. I've gone
him one better in that department!

DODIE BELLAMY (speculatively). Well, you're cuter–I mean, younger. I like
your glasses, they're like jelly jars I could put up my fruit in. And that fresh
complexion reminds me of–mmm, Harvest by Neil Young. What's your name?

NICK HUGHES. Nick Hughes.

DODIE BELLAMY. That name sounds so familiar. [Eyes widening] Wasn't that
the name of Sylvia Plath's little son? The one who lay in his crib sleeping while
Sylvia poured on the gas?

NICK HUGHES. And when I awoke my mother was dead and I had no more
fingers, just tiny salad forks. As I've matured into manhood, I've watched my
forks grow bigger and harder.

DODIE BELLAMY. Well, I feel for you. Tell me, do those fork fingers of yours
hurt when inserted between the thighs of a wet melting ooze of lava like–

MINA HARKER (same actress). –my alter ego, Mina Harker! When I, Mina,
assume control from Dodie, I look back at her mortal flesh and scream with
delight! As Dr. Van Helsing once said, there's only two things that make life
worth living, and one is the feeling that you're actually depriving someone out of
something worth having.

NICK HUGHES. I just came to see Qantu, but if you could be my stepping stone,
my ladder of success I'd be glad to answer your questions at the Burger Joint.

DODIE BELLAMY. I'm a vegan, but that's okay, I like to see a man rip apart a
jumbo. Are you ambitious, Nick Hughes, as ambitious as I?

NICK HUGHES. I represent the new Brit, cunning, silent and exiled. I have my
Dad's savage calculation, as well as the blond good looks of my American Mom.
I guess you could call it "ambition," but in London we call it "gorm." Do they
have that over here? Maybe they do, and maybe you’re my soul mate, chippy.

DODIE BELLAMY. OK–it's a wrap, as we say in San Francisco. It's because I
like your brass [she touches his forks], and the danger of your silver pattern. Yes,
let's sail on into the chilly night air and after awhile, toast me over the fire like a
marshmallow, shall we?

[Exit NICK HUGHES and DODIE BELLAMY. Enter SYLVIA PLATH.]

SYLVIA PLATH. I thought I heard the wind call my name–so I stepped out of
Qantu’s body for the first time, on my own as an astro. Was that the wind—or
was it my son? Or is there a difference? What is a "person," after all? The
described describer of what it knows by virtue of experience? Standing here on
stage by myself I'm the bee-keeper's daughter again, a flirt with a pink candy
heart on her sleeve. But the men I loved destroyed me, so I died. My way of
saying Tally-ho to the foxes and horses of gender pollution. Here the person has
no opposite.

What a day I've had! In the morning a checkered face from my past. Now as
night falls I hear the wind of my son. Daddy, I went to sleep that night with the
cold hissing coal gas kissing my tonsils. When I woke to death I said, "There's
something I forgot to remember." It was sonny boy asleep in his crib. Now by
some narrative chance he's back within distance. Oh Daddy, give him the
strength you forced on me, and let him join me here in Hell's Theater. If Nick
will die then we both can be happy. I'll polish his flatware, teach him the Greek
and Ronsard I've learned from the shades.

[Enter BILLY.]

BILLY. Oh, there you are, American girl.

SYLVIA PLATH (wearily). Weaving my Ursuline web of disgust.

BILLY. Let me make a confession to you. In some Urdu we'll both understand.

SYLVIA PLATH. Your words of love were Plathological lies. I was the pawn in
your game of world parcheesi.

BILLY (surprised). Who told?

SYLVIA PLATH. I always could tell when a man spoke truly. Death did not rob
me of that divination. I knew you were false the moment I saw you step out of
Barbara Bush's body like a bride stepping out of her teddy. And yet I let you
take me to Kuwait City and beyond, where burning planes throw light fuselage
over disordered history. All my life I let men suck me down, and now, far into
my death I feel the same demented longings.

BILLY. Beg pardon?

SYLVIA PLATH. Okay, we had a date, one date, and I let myself get carried
away.

BILLY. But Sylvia, I've changed! I'm no longer that little foreign boy you saw
and came and conquered. Now I am twenty, a man among men. I've broken
free of DFrah's gold chain. Today I came to see the wisdom of Qantu, the
Western holy man, he who say, "Pick up the fork in the road when it come to
you."

SYLVIA PLATH (wearily). "When you come to it." Alas, Billy, for this dead poet
there's no society. I have met my destiny and you live in her body, as I live in
Qantu's. Tonight my son showed up for the first time since my death in London
almost thirty years ago. He will be the next Qantu and then–what of me? What
becomes of a spirit when her channel dries up, the rich delta choked with sand?
For years I took satisfaction in my poetry. Knowing that hundreds of high school
juniors took me to heart and jumped out of dorm windows clutching my books
gave me a little brittle chuckle. I even sat through the whole movie of The Bell Jar
once, with Eddie Albert and Eva Gabor as Otto and Aurelia. My heart did dance
in triumph. But now I feel double death draw near in spades–If my son Nick
Hughes has not forgiven me who will? [Confidentially:] Tell me something,
Billy, I know you live in Barbara Bush: when I'm not around, is she ever critical
of me?

BILLY (embarrassed). Critical? Of you?

SYLVIA PLATH. You know–put me in the pan? Fry me a little?

BILLY. "Well, yes," he said. "She does sometimes," he said embarrassed. He
cleared his throat and looking shyly at her shoes continued: "I think she resents
you for a long-ago love affair that went badly for her."

SYLVIA PLATH. I wouldn't have done it but–she laughed at me. Made me feel
ugly.

BILLY. I must speak quickly, for I like you have leaped from the clothed body of
another.

[Enter EMPRESS FARAH.]

EMPRESS FARAH. Billy! Yoo-hoo, Billy!

BILLY. I must speak quickly, for I like you have only one death to live.

SYLVIA PLATH. Too late! Too late for me, too late for you!

[Exit SYLVIA PLATH.]

EMPRESS FARAH. Billy, I bought a little boy from the market at Kabir. Faintly I
wriggled my nose and a line of bearers plucked him from his mother's breast. I
threw her a fig–You were mine for a straw. In my best imperious voice I said to
you, "Wanta be my eunuch?" and you shook your bony head this way, that way,
a stubborn No in thunder. "Very well," said I, and fed you sherbet till you grew
fatter. In this way an Empress buys her son. OK then.
We are on the threshold of a new day for Iran. The return of the Shah and the
death of the author. Let's get cracking! Tonight at midnight is the big seance
that will divide the West into a kind of–well–an "East West" and a "West
West." Or maybe a "South West" and a "North West." You decide, Billy.
Faithful market boy, decide for your empress!
BILLY. But Farah, I don't want to divide the West. I'm like a virgin–in love for
the very first time.

EMPRESS FARAH (furiously). With Sylvia Plath? You will do as you're told,
with or without your testicles like grapes. Tonight at midnight! (More reasonably)
That's around 3:30 our time.

[Enter KEVIN KILLIAN.]

KEVIN KILLIAN (thinking he's alone). I'm so worried about Qantu. What will
happen if he dies? The whole House of Forks will collapse, that's what, and you,
Kevin, will be out of a job! [Notices other spirits around] Gee, I feel a draft, like I'm
moving between invisible doors and forks. I must run down to the Terminator
Store and purchase me some Pest-Be-Gone.

[EMPRESS FARAH AND BILLY disperse,
as DODIE BELLAMY enters.]

DODIE BELLAMY. Oh, hi.

KEVIN KILLIAN. Hi, Dodie. Qantu says you have a new love interest. This is
just like an episode of Santa Barbara.

DODIE BELLAMY. Yes–he's from England.

KEVIN KILLIAN. Oh! Well, maybe it's more like Days of our Lives, they always
feature those British proles. But what's he like?

DODIE BELLAMY (shyly). Well, he's really good-looking and very polite, his
glasses are thick and black as expresso–I could eat off his complexion, and so
forth, description, but he has this one little defect, I guess you'd say–he has
forks for hands.

KEVIN KILLIAN. That must rule out bowling dates. What's his name–Freddie
Krueger?

(when she fails to laugh:)

Ha, ha.

DODIE BELLAMY (with more confidence). No–Nick Hughes. He's wined and
tined me all over town. Oh, Kevin, he brings out my rebellious streak. When he
looks at me with those cold round eyes I feel punctuated; ready to do the wild
things I write about–like wear a little cloche hat, maybe with a full 50's crinoline
skirt. He took me to the Carnelian Room, and over a Mai Tai or two he told me
one day all this–this Herb-Caen-haunted city–will be mine.

KEVIN KILLIAN. He'll break your heart! I'm warning you!

DODIE BELLAMY (stepping closer). Yes, but we need a favor. Kevin, can you
use your influence with Qantu and persuade him to retire? Then Nick would be
the new Qantu.

KEVIN KILLIAN. How can you ask me to betray the vows I made to my job?
Don't you believe in the feudal system? See, Dodie, I have a core of steel that
allows me to flirt with belief. But what about Nick? Does he have a core of steel,
I doubt it.

DODIE BELLAMY. But his hands are steel–he's like a little refrigerator magnet
I put up to help me remember my selfhood. When we go through Airport
Security he's stopped every ten feet. And he's dedicated, Kevin! He's no
dilettante, he's serious.

KEVIN KILLIAN. Know how to make him laugh on a Monday?

DODIE BELLAMY. No, how?

KEVIN KILLIAN. Tell him a joke on Friday. Now, Dodie, go behind that screen
where I know Nick is waiting. Tell him I said I'll think about it. But I'm warning
you, he'll break your heart in two 2's. Meanwhile I must tend to the one, the
only, original Qantu. It's time for his nightly fork-cast.

[Exit KEVIN KILLIAN.]

DODIE BELLAMY. Why this apprehensive squiggle? Might it mean the
"person" in me? I look at my palms, and here's my future staring back.

[Enter CAMILLE PAGLIA.]

CAMILLE PAGLIA. I've had my fortune told, I'm feeling ten pounds thinner.

DODIE BELLAMY. I read your book and I was wondering, whatever happened
to Emily Dickinson? Did she find the man with forks she needed?

CAMILLE PAGLIA. I've moved on to James Ellroy and found him wanting in
the slime department. He doesn't eat enough wheat, it shows up in his syntax.

DODIE BELLAMY. Did you ever have to make up your mind about a boy you
loved–or was it love or amusement? Tell me, Miss Paglia, does a person
become more or less sure of herself as I, really only a girl, grow towards
cronehood and maturity? Or when a girl throws herself onto forks do they
puncture her illusions?

CAMILLE PAGLIA. Let's look at Nefertiti. Was she a man? Or her modern
equivalent, Elizabeth Hurley. Now, there's a woman! I picture a crash, a
careless gesture, the head of my beloved Estee Lauder queen sailing through the
air like a modern Nefertiti or Jayne Mansfield. Say, Dodie, I'm getting hungry–
are there any snacks at this soiree?

DODIE BELLAMY (mechanically). All the nearby restaurants sent over big trays
of food, it seems everyone wants to help Small Press Traffic.

CAMILLE PAGLIA. Well, that's good, isn't it? I mean–"post-bad"?

DODIE BELLAMY. But who will help a woman decide if she should overthrow
Qantu?

CAMILLE PAGLIA. Madame Sousatchka says, talk to your hand. "I've had my
fortune told, I'm feeling ten pounds thinner. And now that I'm so bold, I'm off
to have some dinner."

[Exit CAMILLE PAGLIA.]

DODIE BELLAMY. Once again I study my palm. Here the epistemological
nightmare of the solipsistic self breaks down, and the essentialist yearning after
truth and origin is discarded in favor of–

[Enter QANTU, weak and weary.]

QANTU (desperately thirsty). Thirsty! Throat parch!

DODIE BELLAMY. Why, Qantu! I'm Dodie: we've met before. But before, you
were relatively hale and hearty, and now you're in a tottering state. Gee, Qantu,
it won't be long before you wear out like an old pair of pantyhose. Gee, or even
sometimes you know how a new pair of pantyhose just kind of wears out?

QANTU (desperately thirsty). Water!

DODIE BELLAMY. I'm not a canteen, my dear. Say–here's a riddle from the
time of the Sphinx! What in youth walks on four prongs, in middle age on two
prongs, and in old age just lies on its stomach and goes to Heaven?

QANTU. Water!

DODIE BELLAMY. Why, sure, but ask yourself, is water going to do anything? I
don't think you're going to make it till midnight, do you? Why not do the
graceful thing, give up the throne to a fresh heir? He'd be so grateful and so
would—Mina!

QANTU. Please, a glass of water, or Gatorade–which I invented, by the way–I
call on my spirits to revive me–I'm feeble–wobbly–weak. My ancient hair
turns like a thousand corkscrews from fear to technique. Speak, spirits of the
vasty deep, bid me to live like Shakespeare!

[Enter SYLVIA PLATH.]

SYLVIA PLATH. I've been summoned by Qantu, I suppose.

DODIE BELLAMY. Sylvia Plath! Can I have your autograph–for Kevin, of
course? For I'm far above these signs of inscription. And yet I've loved your
writing since I was a little girl. And now I'm in love with your son, what
symmetry! Give us both a break. You owe him something for that coal-gasslash-
crib-slash-baby hands-slash-fork incident, don't you think? As for you,
Qantu, Nick has agreed that if you die long enough for him to become the new
Qantu, he will feature you prominently in his lucrative trance states. In effect,
you will become the new Sylvia Plath.

SYLVIA PLATH. Then what will become of me?

[Enter NICK HUGHES.]

NICK HUGHES. Mother–after so many years you're here and not looking any
older.

SYLVIA. Yes–

NICK HUGHES (acidly). –And you have regular hands!

SYLVIA PLATH (ignoring his insulting implications). Why, Nick, how nice. I've
wanted, over the years, to ask you to forgive me for that hapless household
incident. It was London's coldest winter ever, and Ted had left our home for the
ducal domain of the Transylvanian countess, who also killed herself, and then
moved onto the Empress Farah of Iran. And there I was cutting coupons out of
the Globe and Mail to buy us nappies. What choice had I, tell me? I looked in
the vagina of my burlap purse and saw one shilling left.

DODIE BELLAMY (checking her wristwatch). Speaking of "left," I really do have
to leave this verse drama pronto. I have an important appointment in the fitting
room of the Gap. See, I came from Hammond where no one shops, all they do is
mope. I came West to become a poet and to hunt down labels. Nick, hope
everything works out. I'll be the very first to know.

[Enter KEVIN KILLIAN.]

Oh hi Kevin, if you get home please don't forget to feed Blanche and Stanley.

[Exit DODIE BELLAMY.]

NICK HUGHES. Qantu, I have crawled from London on forks and knees to ask
you to die like a man. Pass on the four-pronged power to me, don't be a pill.

QANTU. Qantu–no pill . . . He thirsty. Chairs–four legs—Qantu invent.
Now in every home and office–in San Francisco. Four-pronged power live on.

KEVIN KILLIAN. Stop tormenting Qantu. I have loved him since I was a small
boy in the streets of Smithtown. Now that I'm a man I shall defend my right to
do so till he die. Now it's almost time for the midnight seance, and I see this
whole narrative collapsing. Miss Plath, wash your family linen elsewhere, this is
the House of Forks not a laundromat.

SYLVIA PLATH. Qantu, I'm sorry, but I'm casting my vote with my son and this
other woman. I agree to step behind the line, if you will too. Contingent of
course on what Barbara Bush has up her sleeve.

[Enter BARBARA BUSH and ROGER]

BARBARA BUSH. Well, I see that we're all here, even [sneers at SYLVIA PLATH]
the oven cleaner.

ROGER (low aside). Again, I beg you, Barbara, don't tax your strength in this
dangerous way. Leave the spirits to the South American novelists. Like it or not,
we are gringos and shouldn't be meddling with los fantasmas. Come with me and
I'll build you a house of love higher than Kennebunkport and much more
melodious, in Miami, where my parents were born and will greet you with leis.
Not the Hawaiian kind either, a much more respectful type of garland.

BARBARA BUSH (coughing: first sign of Graves' disease acting up). You don't
understand—I had a dream and I mean to re-dream it. As for your propositions,
I will let Farah speak for me as she does it so well and she does it so often. [Goes
into a trance, summoning her spirit channels..]

[Enter BILLY and EMPRESS FARAH.]

EMPRESS FARAH. I have come here like a powerful force to destroy what's left
of history. Smell me, feed on me, I am the Great Sensory Empress of the Will.
Billy, my ghazals if you please.

BILLY. For love of her I cannot countenance your imposition. Get your own
fucking ghazals. "My place is with Sylvia," he mumbled. She left a pubic hair
on the Coke can of my heart.

EMPRESS FARAH (eyes blazing). False, wanton lad! How I wish I had neutered
you then, in the market at Kabir. I would have worn your manhood like the
fabled Ophir emeralds, round my neck and adorn my bosom!

BARBARA BUSH (squirming with the tension of her 2 spirit voices). My sockets are
burning! Inside my head a foolish love-sick boy is defying Farah. They're
aggravating my Graves disease–are they trying to spite me?

ROGER. Shall I shoot them?

KEVIN KILLIAN. They're already dead! [Afterthought.] Aren't they?

NICK HUGHES (bored and disdainful). No you twit. Don't you remember,
they're alive and just confused.

BARBARA BUSH. Oh, God, my thyroid is bulging!

ROGER. Stop or I'll shoot!

[shoots EMPRESS and BILLY.]

Okay, now they're dead. Good riddance to those enemies of freedom. I
remember when Hinckley tried to kill Reagan, I wanted to put my pistol in his
mouth and blow out his insides. He did it for Jodie and I did it for you.

BARBARA BUSH. What happened? I feel hollow and drained, as if after the
birth of one of my puppies. Light-headed, for the first time in weeks. Roger?
Roger, did you tell me that you loved me?

ROGER. No, but–

KEVIN KILLIAN. I guess this spells out the end of your psychic experiment,
Mrs. Bush. You were never a serious rival to Qantu. And now you’ve really
come a cropper with the deaths of your two spirit voices. Roger, take Mrs. Bush
to Maine or wherever you please, just don’t spoil Qantu's last moments on earth
with her whining.

QANTU. I'm weak–wobbly–feeble. (To audience) If you believe in Qantu,
clap your hands. (After applause) That's nice. But I die anyway. I am so very
sick. [He dies.]

EMPRESS FARAH. Now that I'm dead I'm more alive than before.

BARBARA BUSH. But without my mouth to use, you will have no voice. Sorry,
dear, just chalk it up to the whims of a dilettante.

BILLY. Sylvia, don't let the fates separate us!

EMPRESS FARAH. Tell her you want her, tell her you need her.

BILLY. I want you, I need you.

EMPRESS FARAH. Her streams of pearls, her tiny moss-covered mansion. It's
our only chance to free Pahlevi.

BILLY. Your streams of pearls, your moss-colored mandibles.

BARBARA BUSH (firmly). There are two sets of lips I want zipped right now!

[Exit BILLY and EMPRESS FARAH, sadly.]

SYLVIA PLATH. Alas, Billy! Too late for me! Too late for you! I relinquish you,
and my place in the spirit world, to take a back seat to Qantu, and to my guilt
about what happened to Nick in the sixties. As for you, Barbara, this side of the
grave I have no more regrets.

[Exit SYLVIA PLATH.]

QANTU. Have I come through?

KEVIN KILLIAN. No, you're alive!

NICK HUGHES and QANTU. No, I am dead and speaking through Nick
Hughes' mouth. Farewell earthly vanity, hello paradise of forks. Kevin, you
have been the faithful servant to Qantu, try to get some sleep. Nick Hughes is
the new master of San Francisco's House of Forks.

[Enter DODIE BELLAMY.]

DODIE BELLAMY (sizing up situation). Well, what is everybody looking so
down about? This is great news! Didn't they used to say this in I Claudius,
Caesar is dead, long live whoever? You know, they're having a sale at Double
Rainbow, want to have an ice cream party to celebrate? Or I guess maybe some
cake–something you'd eat with a fork? Would be appropriate? Get it?

BARBARA BUSH. Ah, Dodie, Dodie, Dodie–you're speaking to a broken First
Lady. You young people enjoy your fun, I'm bushed.

QANTU and NICK HUGHES. Qantu says, now is the power, the power that lies
within. It has lain in every kitchen drawer, undisturbed, since the Paleolithic.

DODIE BELLAMY. I guess that means, Yes to Cake? [Inspired] "Yes" to Life?
"Yes" to world Peace? "Yes" to Love?

ROGER. I hope someone had a video camera. I'd like to star in my own
Zapruder Report.

BARBARA BUSH (to DODIE). How can I return to George and Millie when I’ve
had my own empress and slave right inside my ectoplasm? And soon the press
will get wind of this, flies to honey in a post-modern literary arts organization. I
live in the glare of remorse and publicity, my every move a broom that sweeps
the world.

DODIE BELLAMY. Well, how do you get to be First Lady, anyhow? You make
it sound so attractive!

BARBARA BUSH (regretfully). On my back, like a Japanese beetle.

DODIE BELLAMY (fascinated). You must have seen a hundred faces looming
over yours.

BARBARA BUSH. But none of them as charming as this one. [Chucks Roger’s
chin] I guess I've come to the fork in the road I have to pick up.

DODIE BELLAMY. Okay, I'm off for the cake. Anybody want anything?

KEVIN KILLIAN. Dodie, could you get me some Tab?

DODIE BELLAMY. Of course. Bye, Nick! I mean–Qantu Junior!

[Exit DODIE BELLAMY.]

BARBARA BUSH. Kevin, in the past we've had our sexual differences. But I
make it a point never to hold a grudge. Roger is taking me away to a new life,
far from the humdrum Beltway and boroughs. I'd shake hands with you but that
wouldn't be fair now, would it?

KEVIN KILLIAN. Oh, who cares about "fair," just get out of here, and take your
henchman with you. Go on now, scat! Shoo, shoo!

BARBARA BUSH. Don't "scat" me, don't "shoo" me, I'm not a barnyard chicken
and I go at my own pace. Come, Roger, I can tell we've outstayed our welcome.

ROGER. You'll regret having talked to Barbara like that. I'll see to it with my .38.

[Exit BARBARA BUSH and ROGER exit.]

KEVIN KILLIAN. Yeah, get out of here, both of you. You brought on Qantu's
death between you. What a bleak October! Oh, I know there's a new Qantu–

NICK HUGHES and QANTU. Yes, there is. Nick Hughes is the new Qantu.

KEVIN KILLIAN (irritated). I said I know there's a new Qantu, but what
happened to my ideals? I came to San Francisco in 1980 and maybe that was my
mistake. Straightaway I met the man who seemed to embody the "light that
moves the sun and the other stars." I used to watch him pick up a fork and
handle it like a wand. His supple fingers light and blue like cotton candy. For
hours I'd sit and watch, for hours I'd stand and FAX the four-pronged power to
every corner of what's actually a very square planet.

NICK HUGHES and QANTU. The four-pronged power. Qantu says, "When
you come to a fork in the road,"–

KEVIN KILLIAN. He made me want to scream and jerk.

NICK HUGHES and QANTU. "–Pick it up."

KEVIN KILLIAN. He gave me forklift where other men gave me uplift. When I
was with him I felt like Marlo Thomas, that I had fur coats I could only wear in
my closet. Thanks to him I became careless in taste, careless in dress. I used to
swim in the Adriatic dreaming of tuning forks, forked lightning, foreclosure.
Dallas was the sacred show, as it took place at Southfork, but even Dallas was
cancelled and so was Qantu.

NICK HUGHES and QANTU. No, you are wrong, I am still Qantu.

KEVIN KILLIAN. He had four mighty prongs of power, assembled my way.
Here I stand on this desolate stage in front of what might be the original black
curtain Cornell Woolrich wrote about in 1943. And what about that midnight
seance all the characters were talking about, like I'm a character? Huh?

NICK HUGHES and QANTU. When you come to a fork in the road–

KEVIN KILLIAN. Pick it up, I know! Pick it up!

NICK HUGHES and QANTU. –Pick it up.

EMPRESS FARAH (backstage). Tell her you love her.

BILLY. I love you!

EMPRESS FARAH. Tell her she's dead.

BILLY. You're dead!
(Music swells up and lights dies down–"Unchained Melody," by the Righteous
Brothers")

CASTS of PREVIOUS PRODUCTIONS–way back when

SAN FRANCISCO

LOS ANGELES

VANCOUVER