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Angels In America - Chapter 3

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Okay. No, thanks. I got it from here. I can walk.
Thank you, guys.
Welcome home, doucet.
Call me if you get confused about which pill's when...
and stay quiet, rest your sad self.
Bye, pussums. Men are beasts.
Who are you?
-My name's Prior Walter. -My name is Prior Walter.
-I know that. -Explain.
You're alive, I'm not. We have the same name.
What do you want me to explain?
-A ghost. -An ancestor.
Not the Prior Walter, the Bayeux Tapestry Prior Walter?
Great-great grandson, fifth of the name.
I'm the 34th, I think.
Actually, the 32nd.
Not according to mother.
Then she's including the two bastards.
I say leave them out.
I say, no room for the bastards.
-These little things you swallow? -Pills.
For the pestilence. I, too.
Pestilence, you, too, what?
The pestilence in my day was much worse than it is now.
Whole villages of empty houses.
Look outdoors and you see Death walking in the morning...
as plain as I see you now.
You died of the plague.
The spotty monster. Like you, alone.
-I'm not alone. -You have no wife, no children.
-I'm gay. -Be gay.
Dance in your altogether for all I care. But why can't you have children?
Gay, homosexual. Not "bonny, blithe" and.... Never mind.
I had 12 when I died.
And I was three years younger than him.
God, another one!
Prior Walter.
Prior to you by some 17 others.
-He's counting the bastards. -Are we having a convention?
We've been sent to declare her fabulous incipience.
They do love a well-paved entrance with lots of heralds.
The messenger comes. Prepare the way.
The infinite descent, a breath in air.
We have been chosen, I suspect, because of the mortal affinities.
With a family as long-descended as the Walters...
there are bound to be a few carried off by the plague.
-The spotty monster. -Black Jack.
Mine came from the water pump. Half the city of London.
His, from fleas.
Yours, I understand...
from the lamentable consequences of venery.
Fleas on rats. Who'd have known?
Am I gonna die?
We are not allowed to discuss that.
But when you do, you won't have the ancestors to help you through it.
-You die alone. -I'm afraid.
So you should be. There isn't even a torch.
The path is dark, steep, and rocky.
Don't alarm him.
There's good news before there's bad.
You are a prophet.
Seer. Revelator.
-It's a great honor for the family. -He hasn't got a family.
I meant for the Walters, for the family in the larger sense.
Calm.
This is no brain fever.
Even now...
from the mirror-bright halls of heaven...
across the cold and lifeless...
infinity of space...
the Messenger comes...
trailing orbs of light...
fabulous, incipient.
So, Prophet, to you.
Prepare...
the infinite descent.
A breath, a feather.
Glory to....
Why has democracy succeeded in America?
Of course, by succeeded I mean comparatively, not literally...
not in the present. But what makes for the prospect...
of some sort of radical democracy spreading outward and growing up?
Why does the power that was once so carefully preserved...
at the top of the pyramid by the original framers of the Constitution...
seem drawn inexorably downward and outward...
in spite of the best effort of the Right to stop this?
It's the really hard thing about being Left in this country.
The Left can't help but trip over all these petrified little fetishes.
-Freedom. That's the worst. -And OJ.
Jeane Kirkpatrick, for God's sake, will go on and on about freedom.
What does that mean, the word "freedom, " when she talks about it?
Or human rights. You have Bush talking about human rights.
What are these people talking about?
They might as well be talking about the mating habits of Venusians.
I mean, these people don't begin to know what, ontologically...
freedom is, or human rights.
It's like they see these bourgeois property-based Rights of Man type rights...
but that is not enfranchisement, it's not democracy, it's not what's implicit...
what's potential, in the idea. It's not the idea with blood in it.
That's just liberalism. The worst kind of liberalism; bourgeois tolerance.
What I think what AIDS shows us is the limits of tolerance.
It's not enough to be tolerated.
When the shit hits the fan, you find out that tolerance is worth nothing.
Underneath all the tolerance is intense, passionate hatred.
Here you go.
-Don't you think that's true? -lt is.
Power's the object, not being tolerated. Fuck assimilation.
But in spite of all this, the thing about America...
is that we're different from every other nation...
in that, with people here of every race, we can't....
Ultimately, what defines us here isn't race, but politics.
Not like any European country where there's an insurmountable fact...
of a kind of racial or ethnic monopoly or monolith.
Like, all Dutchmen, I mean, Dutch people, are Dutch.
And the Jews of Europe were never Europeans.
Just a small problem facing the monolith.
-Whereas, here in America-- -Race doesn't count.
No....
You can't be hearing that.
Look. Race, yes.
But ultimately, race here is a political question.
Racists just try to use race here as a tool in a political struggle.
It's not really about race. There are no angels in America.
No spiritual past, no racial past. There's only the political.
The shifting downwards and outwards of political power to the people.
Power to the people, amen. My goodness, look at the time.
You think this is racist or naive or something.
-It's certainly something. -What? I really....
I don't wanna speak from some position of privilege.
I'm sitting here thinking, "Eventually he's got to run out of steam"...
so I let you go on and on...
saying about seven or eight things that I find really offensive.
But I know you. I know that the guilt fueling this peculiar tirade...
is already swollen bigger than your hemorrhoids.
-I don't have hemorrhoids. -May I finish?
-So, finally-- -Prior told you.
-You promised. Prior's not a subject. -You brought him up.
-I brought up hemorrhoids. -It's indirect. Passive-aggressive.
Unlike banging me over the head saying that America has no race problem.
-Be fair. I never said that. -Not exactly, but close.
-You misinterpreted. -Stop interrupting.
-No, let me.... -What, talk?
You've been running your mouth nonstop since I got here.
Up the hill and down the hill, playing with your monolith.
You could've joined in.
It's an awesome spectacle, but I got better things to do with my time...
than to listen to this racist bullshit because I feel sorry--
-I am not a racist. -Come on.
-So maybe I am a racist. -I really hate that.
It's no fun picking on you, Louis, you're so guilty.
It's like throwing darts at a glob of Jell-O.
There are no satisfying hits, just quivering. The darts just blop in and vanish.
You know what I think? You hate me because I'm a Jew.
-I'm leaving. -It's true.
You have no basis....
Louis, it's good to know you haven't changed.
You're still an honorary citizen of the Twilight Zone.
And after your pale white polemics on behalf of racial insensitivity...
you have a lot of nerve calling me an anti-Semite. Now I really have to go.
-You called me "Lou the Jew." -That was a joke.
-I didn't think it was funny. -lt was three years ago.
You hate me because you hate black people.
I do not. But I do think most black people are anti-Semitic.
That's racist.
-Louis Farrakhan. -Ed Koch.
-Jesse Jackson. -Louis, that's pathetic.
You voted for Jesse Jackson. You sent checks to the Rainbow Coalition.
I'm ambivalent. The checks bounced.
All your checks bounce.
-You're ambivalent about everything. -What's that supposed to mean?
You may be dumber than shit, but I refuse to believe you can't figure it out. Try.
I was never ambivalent about Prior. I love him.
-I really do. -Nobody said different.
Love and ambivalence.
Real love isn't ambivalent.
I'd swear that's a line from my favorite best-selling paperback novel...
In Love with the Night Mysterious, except I don't think you've read it.
-I never read it. -You ought to...
instead of spending your life trying to get through Democracy in America.
It's about this white woman...
whose daddy owns a plantation in the Deep South...
in the years before the Civil War.
And her name is Margaret...
and she's in love with her daddy's number-one slave.
His name is Thaddeus.
She's married, but her white slave-owner husband has AlDS.
Antebellum lnsufficiently-Developed Sex organs.
So there's a lot of hot stuff going down...
when Margaret and Thaddeus can catch a spare torrid ten...
under the cotton-picking moon.
Then, of course, the Yankees come and set the slaves free.
The slaves string up old daddy and so on. Historical fiction.
Somewhere in there, I recall...
Margaret and Thaddeus find the time to discuss the nature of love.
Her face is reflecting the flames...
of the burning plantation.
You know, the way white people do.
And his black face is dark in the night.
And she says to him:
"Thaddeus, real love isn't ever ambivalent."
Looking good. What else?
Ankle's sore and swollen, but the leg's better.
The nausea's mostly gone with the little orange pills.
BM's pure liquid, but not bloody anymore, for now.
My eye doctor says everything's okay, for now.
My dentist says "yuck" when he sees my fuzzy tongue...
and now he wears little condoms on his thumb and forefinger...
and a mask. So what?
My dermatologist is in Hawaii...
and my mother....
Leave my mother out of it.
Which is usually where my mother is. Out of it.
My glands are like walnuts, my weight's holding steady for week two...
and a friend died two days ago of bird tuberculosis.
That scared me.
I didn't go to the funeral today because he was an lrish Catholic.
It's probably open casket and I'm afraid of something:
the bird TB, or seeing him, or....
So I guess I'm doing okay. Except for, of course, I'm going nuts.
-How bad is he? -You want the laundry list?
There's the weight problem and the shit problem...
and the morale problem.
And he thinks he's going crazy.
We ran the Toxoplasmosis series. There's no indication--
I know.
But I feel like something terrifying is on its way, you know?
Like a missile from outer space, and it's plummeting down towards the earth.
And I'm ground zero.
And I am generally known where I am known...
as one cool, collected queen.
And I am ruffled.
There's really nothing to worry about.
I think that....
-Excuse me? -Everything's fine.
I don't understand what--
Why are you doing that? Stop it.
-Stop what? -You were just....
Weren't you just speaking in Hebrew or something?
Hebrew?
No, I didn't speak in Hebrew.
Oh, no. Oh, God.
-Please, I think.... -Look, I'm sorry.
I have a waiting room full.
I think you're one of the lucky ones. You'll live for years, probably.
You're pretty healthy for someone with no immune system.
Are you seeing someone?
Loneliness is a danger. A therapist?
No, I don't need to see anyone.
-I just-- -Think about it.
You aren't going crazy. You're just under a lot of stress.
"Hebrew."
You're a nurse. Give me something. I don't know what to do anymore.
Last week at work, I screwed up the Xerox machine permanently...
and then I tripped on the subway steps. I fell and my glasses broke.
And I cut my forehead. Here, see?
So now I can't see much. And my forehead, it's like the mark of Cain.
Stupid, right? But it won't heal.
Every morning I see it and I think Biblical things.
Mark of Cain, Judas lscariot and his silver.
I miss him so much.
But then those sores and the smell, and where I thought it was going...
I could be sick, too. Maybe I'm sick. I don't know.
Belize, tell him I love him. Can you do that?
I've thought about it for a very long time...
and I still don't understand what love is.
-I'm dying. -He's dying.
You just wish you were.
Cheer up, Louis.
Look at that heavy sky out there.
Purple.
Boy, what kind of homosexual are you, anyway? That's not purple, Mary.
That color up there is mauve.
Snow.
Snow.
Ice. Mountains of ice. Where am l?
I feel better.
I do, I feel better.
There are ice crystals in my lungs, wonderful and sharp...
and the snow smells like cold, crushed peaches.
And there's something...
some current of blood in the wind.
How strange, it has that iron taste.
Ozone!
Where am l?
The kingdom of ice. Bottommost part of the world.
Antarctica? This is Antarctica?
Cold shelter for the shattered. No sorrow here. Tears freeze.
Boy!
Look at this, like, wow. I must have really snapped the tether.
Apparently.
That's great! I wanna stay here forever.
Set up camp and build things. Build a city, an enormous city.
I should build by a river. Where are the forests?
No timber here. Too cold.
No trees.
Details. I'm sick of details!
I'll plant them and grow them.
It'll be great, and I'm gonna make a new world here...
so that I never have to go home again.
As long as it lasts. Ice has a way of melting.
No. Forever.
I can have anything I want here.
Maybe even companionship.
Someone who has desire for me.
You, maybe.
It's against the bylaws of the lnternational Order of Travel Agents...
to get involved with clients.
Rules are rules. Anyway, I'm not the one you really want.
There isn't anyone?
Maybe an Eskimo who can ice-fish for food...
help me to build a nest for when the baby comes--
There are no Eskimo here, and you're not really pregnant. You made that up.
All of this is made up, so if the snow feels cold, I'm pregnant, right?
Here, I can be pregnant and I can have any kind of baby I want.
This is a retreat. A vacuum.
Its virtue is that it lacks everything.
Deep freeze for feelings. You can be numb and safe here.
That's what you came for.
Respect the delicate ecology of your delusions.
You mean like no Eskimo in Antarctica?
Correcto. Ice and snow, no Eskimo.
Even hallucinations have laws.
Then who's that?
An Eskimo.
An Antarctic Eskimo.
Fisher of the polar deep.
I'm gonna like this place. It's my own National Geographic special.
I think I felt her kicking.
Maybe I'll give birth to a baby covered with thick white fur...
and that way she won't be cold.
My breasts will be full of hot cocoa so that she doesn't get chilly...
and if it gets really cold, she'll have a pouch I can crawl into.
Like a marsupial. And we'll mend together.
That's what we'll do. We'll mend.
Excuse me.
I said, excuse me.
Can you tell me where I am?
Is this Brooklyn?
Do you know a Pineapple Street?
Or is there some train or bus that l....
I'm lost.
I just arrived from Salt Lake City.
Utah?
And I took the bus that I was told to take and I got off.
It was the very last stop, so I had to get off.
And I asked the driver, was this Brooklyn? And he nodded yes.
But he was from one of those foreign countries...
where they think it's good manners to nod...
even if you have no idea what you're nodding at.
In truth, I think he spoke no English at all.
Which I think would make him ineligible for employment on public transportation...
the public being English-speaking.
Mostly. Do you speak English?
I was supposed to be met at the airport by my son.
And he didn't show.
And I don't wait more than three and three-quarters hours for anyone.
So I should have been more patient, I guess.
-But is this-- -Bronx.
Is that the Bronx?
How in the name of heaven did I get to the Bronx, when that--
Slurp.
Will you stop that disgusting slurping...
you disgusting, slurping, feeding animal.
Feeding yourself.
What would it matter to you or anyone if you just stopped feeding...
and died!
Can you just tell me--
Why was the Kosciuszko Bridge...
named after a Polack?
-I don't know what you're talking about. -That was a joke.
What's the punch line?
-I don't know. -For Pete's sake.
-ls there anyone who can tell me-- -Stand further off, you fat loathsome whore!
You can't have any more of this soup. Slurp, you animal.
I know you'll pee it all away, and where will you do that?
Behind what bush? It's fucking cold out here, and l....
That's right...
'cause it was supposed to have been a tunnel.
Not very funny.
Have you read the Prophecies of Nostradamus?
-Who? -Some guy I went out with once somewhere.
Nostradamus. Prophet. Outcast.
-Eyes, like, scary shit-- -Shut up!
Please stop jabbering for one minute...
and pull your wits together and tell me how to get to Brooklyn.
Because you know, and you'll tell me, because there's no else to tell me...
and I'm cold and I'm wet...
and I'm very, very angry.
So I'm sorry that you're psychotic, but just make an effort.
Pull yourself together and take a deep breath.
Do it!
Good. Now exhale.
Good. Now tell me how to get to Brooklyn.
Don't know. Never been, I'm sorry.
You want some soup?
Manhattan? Do you....
I don't suppose you know the address of the Mormon Visitor's Center.
65th and Broadway.
-How do you know that? -Go there all the time.
Free movies. It's boring, but you can stay all day.
-How can I get there? -Take the D train.
It's the next block. Make a right.
-Thank you. -Yeah.
In the new century...
I think we will all be insane.
I can't go to Washington.
The answer's no. I'm sorry.
Oh, well. Apologies.
I don't see that there's anyone asking for apologies.
-I'm sorry, Roy. -Oh, well, apologies.
My wife is missing.
My mother's coming from Salt Lake to help look, I guess.
I'm supposed to be at the airport picking her up now, but....
I just spent two days in a hospital, Roy, with a bleeding ulcer.
I was spitting up blood.
Blood?
-Look, I'm very busy here-- -It's just a job.
A job?
A job? Washington?
Dumb Utah Mormon hick shit.
-Roy-- -Washington?
When Washington called me, I was younger than you.
You think I said, "Oh, fuck, no, I can't go.
"l got two fingers up my asshole and a little moral nosebleed to boot"?
When Washington calls you, my pretty young punk friend, you go...
or you can go fuck yourself sideways...
'cause the train has pulled out of the station and you're out!
Nowhere. Out in the cold. Fuck you, Mary Jane. Get out of here!
-Look, just let me-- -What, explain?
Ephemera! Explain.
-You broke my heart, explain that. -I love you, Roy.
There's so much that I want to be.
What you see in me....
I wanna be a participant in the world.
In your world, Roy. I wanna be capable of that.
I've tried, really, I have. But I can't do this.
Not because I don't believe in you, but because I believe in you so much.
And what you stand for at heart. The order, the decency.
I would give anything to protect you, but there are laws I can't break.
It's too ingrained, it's not me.
There's enough damage I've already done.
Maybe you're right. Maybe I'm dead.
You're not dead, boy, you're a sissy.
You love me, that's moving. I'm moved. It's nice to be loved.
I warned you about her, didn't l, Joe?
You don't listen to me. Why? Because you say:
"Roy. He's smart, he's a friend...
"but, Roy, well, you know, he isn't nice."
And you wanna be nice, right? A nice, nice man.
You know what my greatest accomplishment was, Joe?
In my life, what I am able to look back on and be most proud of?
And I have helped make presidents and unmake them.
And mayors, and more goddamn judges than anyone in New York City ever...
and several million dollars tax-free.
And you know what means the most to me?
You ever hear of Ethel Rosenberg, Joe?
-Yeah, I guess, yes. -Yeah, you've heard of Ethel Rosenberg.
Maybe even read about her in the history books.
If it wasn't for me, Joe, Ethel Rosenberg would be alive today...
writing some personal advice column for Ms. Magazine. She isn't.
Because during the trial, Joe...
I was on the phone every day talking with the judge.
Every day, doing what I do best.
Talking on the telephone.
Making sure that that timid yid nebbish on the bench...
did his duty to America, to history.
That sweet, unprepossessing woman...
two kids, boo-hoo-hoo...
reminded us all of our little Jewish mamas, she came this close to getting life.
I pleaded till I wept to put her in the chair. Me, I did that.
I'd have fucking pulled the switch myself if they let me. Why?
Because I fucking hate traitors.
Because I fucking hate Communists.
Was it legal? Fuck legal!
Am I a nice man? Fuck nice!
They say terrible things about me in The Nation. Fuck The Nation!
You wanna be nice? Or you wanna be effective?
You wanna make the law or subject to it?
Choose! Your wife chose.
A week from today, she'll be back.
She knows how to get what she wants. Maybe I'll send her to Washington.
-I don't believe you. -Gospel.
You can't possibly mean what you're saying.
You were Assistant United States Attorney on the Rosenberg case.
Ex parte communication with the judge during the trial...
would be censurable, at least, probably conspiracy.
In a case that resulted in execution, it's....
What? Murder?
You're not well, is all.
What do you mean, I'm not well? Who's not well?
-You said-- -I did? I said what?
-You have cancer. -No, I don't.
-You told me you were dying. -What the fuck are you talking about, Joe?
I never said that. I'm in perfect health.
There's not a goddamn thing wrong with me.
Shake.
It's okay that you hurt me...
because I love you, baby Joe.
That's why I'm so rough on you.
Prodigal son.
The world is gonna wipe its dirty hands all over you.
-lt already has, Roy. -Get out.
I'll always be here waiting for you. And what did you want from me?
What was all this? What do you want?
Treacherous, ungrateful--
Transgress a little, Joseph.
So many laws. Find one you can break.
Andy, get in here!
Who the fuck are you? The new nurse?
Fuck. Ethel.
You don't look so good, Roy.
Ethel, I don't feel so good.
And you've lost a lot of weight. That suits you.
You were heavy back then. Zaftig, mit hips.
I haven't been that heavy since 1960.
We were all heavier back then before the body thing started.
Now I look like a skeleton. They stare.
The shit's really hit the fan, Roy?
The fun's just started.
What is this, Ethel, Halloween? You trying to scare me?
You're wasting your time...
'cause I'm scarier than you are any day of the week.
So, beat it, Ethel. Boo!
Better dead than Red.
Somebody trying to shake me up?
From the throne of God in heaven to the belly of hell...
you can all fuck yourselves.
You can go jump in the lake...
because I am not afraid of you!
Or death!
Or hell!
Or anything!
I'll be seeing you soon, Roy.
-Julius sends his regards. -Yeah?
Send this to Julius.
You really are a very sick man.
He doesn't hear you, I guess.
We should send for an ambulance.
Buttons.
Such things they got now. What's the number, Roy?
911.
It sings.
Yes, you should please send an ambulance...
to the home of Mr. Roy Cohn, the famous lawyer.
What's the address, Roy?
251...
East 87th.
No apartment number. He's got the whole building.
My name?
Ethel Greenglass Rosenberg.
R-O-S-E-N-B-E-R-G.
No, not a relation, an old friend.
They said a minute.
I got all the time in the world.
-You're immortal. -I'm immortal, Ethel.
I have forced my way into history.
I ain't never gonna die!
History is about to crack wide open.
Millennium approaches.
Tonight's the night. Aren't you excited?
-Tonight she arrives. -Right through the roof.
Lumen! Phosphor!
-Phosphor! -Fluor!
Candle!
An unending billowing of scarlet.
Look. Garlic. A mirror.
Holy water. A crucifix.
Fuck off! Get the fuck out of my room! Go!
Hard as a hickory knob, I bet.
We all tumesce when they approach.
We wax full, like moons.
-Dance. -Dance?
Stand up, damn it, give us your hand, dance.
Listen.
Delightful sounds.
Care for a dance?
Please leave me alone. Please just let me sleep.
He wants someone familiar. A partner who knows his steps.
Close your eyes. Imagine.
I don't....
Close your eyes.
And now open them!
Dance with me.
I can't. My leg.
It hurts at night.
Are you a ghost, Lou?
No, just spectral.
Lost to myself.
And sitting all day on cold park benches, wishing I could be with you.
Dance with me, babe.
Now I see why he's got no children.
He's a sodomite.
Be quiet, you medieval gnome.
-Let them dance. -I'm not interfering. Done my bit.
Hooray, the messenger's come.
Now I'm blowing off. I don't like it here.
The 20th century.
Oh, dear.
The world's got so terribly, terribly old.
Prepare!
Don't come in here. Don't come in!
No.
My name is Prior Walter.
I am the scion...
of an ancient line.
Abandoned? No.
No, my....
My name is Prior and I live here...
and now....
And in the dark, in the dark, the recording angel...
opens its hundred eyes and snaps the spine of the book of life.
Hush.
I'm talking nonsense.
No more mad scene.
Hush.
Do you know the story of Lazarus?
Lazarus?
-I can't remember what happens, exactly. -I don't....
He was dead, Lazarus...
and Jesus breathed life into him. He brought him back from death.
-Come here often? -No.
Yes.
Back from the dead. You believe that really happened?
I don't know anymore what I believe.
I mean, this is quite a coincidence, us meeting.
I followed you.
From work. I followed you here.
You followed me?
You probably saw me in the washroom that day and thought, "There's a sweet guy...
-"sensitive, cries for friends in trouble." -Yes.
-Thought maybe I'll cry for you. -Yes.
Well, I fooled you. Crocodile tears.
Nothing.
-What are you doing? Don't do that. -No, I'm sorry.
I think if you touch me, your hand might fall off or something.
Worse things have happened to people who've touched me.
Please.
Oh, boy. Look, can l....
I want to touch you.
Can I just touch you...
here?
I'm going to hell for doing this.
Big deal. You think it could be any worse than New York City?
Come on.
-Where? -Home with me.
-This makes no sense. I don't know you. -Likewise.
Yeah, and what you do know about me, you don't like.
-The Republican stuff? -Yeah, well, for starters.
I don't not like that. I hate that.
Then why on earth should I go to your place....
Strange bedfellows. I don't know.
I never made it with one of the damned before.
I would really rather not have to spend tonight alone.
-I'm a pretty terrible person, Louis. -Lou.
No, I really, really am.
I don't think I deserve being loved.
There, you see, we already have a lot in common.
That sound.
What is that, like birds or something?
Like a really big bird?
I'm frightened. No.
No fear. Find the anger.
My blood is clean, my brain is fine. I can handle pressure!
I am a gay man, and I am used to pressure, to trouble!
I am tough and strong and....
Oh, my goodness.
All right.
I'm hot.
I must have a fever.
Greetings, prophet.
The great work begins.
The messenger has arrived.
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