Good to Be Alive

Scene 2

(DORIS CUNNINGHAM stands alone on a dark stage, holding a prescription bottle of pills in one hand. She appears to be deep in thought. )

1.4 LIE STILL, LITTLE BOTTLE  

DORIS

(Snapping her fingers in rhythm.)

LIE STILL, LITTLE BOTTLE, AND SHAKE MY SHAKY HAND

BLACK COFFEE'S NOT ENOUGH FOR ME, I NEED A BETTER FRIEND

ONE PILL AT THE BOTTOM IS SINGING MY FAVORITE SONG

I KNOW I MUST INVESTIGATE

I HOPE THAT I CAN SING ALONG

"THERE'S NO TIME FOR METAPHORS," CRIED THE LITTLE PILL TO ME

HE SAID, "LIFE IS A PLACEBO MASQUERADING AS A SIMILE."

WELL, I KNEW THAT PILL WAS LYING

TOO GREGARIOUS, TOO NICE

BUT AS HE WALKED I HAD TO SING THIS TWICE

LIE STILL, LITTLE BOTTLE

DON'T TWIST, IT AIN'T TWISTIN' TIME

WITH EVERY MOVE YOU MAKE YOU JUST DISINTEGRATE MY EVER-TROUBLED MIND

(The lights come up to reveal DORIS CUNNINGHAM's self-proclaimed office, on the second floor of a well-kept home in New Dorp. All is dark, except for the pale light of a rainy day that comes in through the windows. The decor is utilitarian, Spartan. The floor is bare. The door has a window, on which has been painted JACKIE TRAIN, PRIVATE along with the image of an enormous, staring eye.

It is clear that DORIS takes her work very seriously: a desk is strewn with case files. There is an ink blotter, and an iconic sort of lamp: "Where were you on Wednesday night?"

DORIS sits down at her desk and snaps on the lamp. During the final verse she opens the bottle of pills, removes the last pill, and holds it in her hand. She drops the bottle on her desk in resignation.)

LIE STILL, LITTLE BOTTLE, AND SHAKE MY SHAKY HAND

BLACK COFFEE'S NOT ENOUGH FOR ME, I NEED A BETTER FRIEND

ONE PILL AT THE BOTTOM IS SINGING MY FAVORITE SONG

I KNOW I MUST INVESTIGATE

I HOPE THAT I CAN SING ALONG

LIE STILL, LITTLE BOTTLE

LIE STILL

LIE STILL, LITTLE BOTTLE

LIE STILL

LIE STILL

(She pops the pill into her mouth and washes it down with a slug of coffee.)

LIE STILL

DORIS

(Narrating)

Dawn came late on Wednesday. Rain on top of rain. Gray skies pressing in close over the gray city. Pigeons huddled under the eaves, waiting for more bad news. As for me, I was moving slowly. The news was slow, sure, but I was conserving energy. I had just downed my last depressant, and knew that any moment I'd find myself staring at the next step down into the moldy basement of intrigue in which I had belatedly found myself.

In the forty-three hours that had elapsed since I crawled out of an abandoned refrigerator in the shallows on the Manhattan side of the East River, I had thought that I had finally managed to give Mischief Night's men the slip. I had allowed myself to consider the possibility of survival. Forget about revenge. Forget about justice. Skip town, head out west. Get clean, for real this time. Buy out stock in a fabric store somewhere in Minnesota or Iowa and settle down. Marry some attractive widower. Step-grandkids. Some sort of trendy dog breed, like a labradoodle.