The Anthem Sprinters and Other Antics, Ray Bradbury

Contents
The Great Collision of Monday Last
The First Night of Lent
A Clear View of an Irish Mist
The Anthem Sprinters
The Queen’s Own Evaders,

The Great Collision of Monday Last

To John Huston, who sent me after the White Whale;

To Nick,
the cab-driver of Kilcock, who helped me in my Search;

To Len and Beth Probst, who found me when I was lost;
and to Maggie, who brought me safely home.

Ray Bradbury

CHARACTERS

THE OLD MAN (MIKE)
THE YOUNG MAN (MC GUIRE)
HEEBER FINN
KELLY
FEENEY
QUINLAN
KILPATRICK
THE DOCTOR
PAT NOLAN
MR. PEEVEY
FLYNN
DONOVAN
CASEY

The curtain rises upon darkness. Later on, we will make out certain details, but now, in the dark, we hear someone whistling and singing, off away somewhere, an Irish ditty of some vintage or other; “Sweet Molly Malone” will do as well as any. The voice fades, then comes back, dies off into a kind of pumping gasp, and at last we see why, as onto the stage, wobbling badly, exhausted, pedals an old man on a bike. He more falls than gets off the damned thing in midstage and lets the beast lie there at his feet as he takes off his cap and wipes his brow, shaking his head.

THE OLD MAN Old Man, you’re not what you once was!
He puts away his handkerchief, puts on his cap, bends to heft the bike, is still too winded and lets it fall.
Ah, lie there, brute that you are!

He takes out a bottle and eyes it sadly. There is but one last fiery gulp in it. He downs it philosophically and holds it up to let the last tiny drop fall off on his tongue. As he is doing so, we hear a car approach, stage left. Its lights flash out in a beam to spot THE OLD MAN, who fends off the light with his free hand.
Enough of that, now!

The lights go off, the motor cuts, a door opens and slams, THE YOUNG MAN enters, stage left.
THE YOUNG MAN Is anything wrong?
THE OLD MAN (blinking, peering) You made a bund man of me is all. Who’s there? (Squints)
THE YOUNG MAN, uncertain, takes half a step.
THE YOUNG MAN Oh, you don’t know me—
THE OLD MAN That’s certain! (Squints) Is that an American voice I hear?
THE YOUNG MAN I just got ofi the boat—
THE OLD MAN He just got off the boat! He did indeed! Come closer!
THE YOUNG MAN approaches.
There! Me eyes are better. An American face to go with the American voice.
THE YOUNG MAN May I be of assistance . . . ?
THE OLD MAN holds the bottle up so it can drain its emptiness on the air.
THE OLD MAN
Well, there’s assistance and assistance. It came over me as I pumped up the hill, one or the other of us, me or this damned vehicle (He kicks the bike gently), is seventy years old.
THE YOUNG MAN Congratulations.
THE OLD MAN For what? Breathing? That’s a habit, not a virtue.
THE YOUNG MAN Let me give you a lift.
THE OLD MAN
No, a moment’s rest, thanks, and me and the beast will be on our way. We don’t know where we’re going, Sally and me—that’s the damn bike’s name—ye see, but we pick a road each day and give it a try.
THE YOUNG MAN, who has been watchful and warming to this, now says, with real affection:
THE YOUNG MAN Does your mother know you’re out?
THE OLD MAN (surprised)
Strange you say that! She does! Ninety-five she is, back there in the cot! Mother, I said, I’ll be gone the day; leave the whisky alone!
He laughs to himself, quietly. I never married, you know.
THE YOUNG MAN I’m sorry.
THE OLD MAN
First you congratulate me for being old and now you’re sorry I’ve no wife. It’s sure you don’t know Ireland. Being old and having no wives is one of our principal industries! You see, a man can’t marry without property. You bide your time till your mother and father are called Beyond. Then when their property’s yours, you look for a wife. It’s a waiting game. I’ll marry yet.
THE YOUNG MAN At seventy?
THE OLD MAN (ruffling)
I’d get twenty good years out of marriage with a fine woman, even this late, do you doubt it!
THE YOUNG MAN (impressed) I do not!
THE OLD MAN relaxes.
THE OLD MAN Now, what are you up to, in Ireland?
THE YOUNG MAN I’m looking for the Irish.
THE OLD MAN (surprised, pleased, then mystified) Ah, that’s difficult. They come, they throw shadows, they go. You got one standing before you, now!
THE YOUNG MAN (smiling) I know!
THE OLD MAN You be a writer, of course.
THE YOUNG MAN How did you guess!
THE OLD MAN (gestures)
The country’s overrun! There’s writers turning over rocks in Cork and writers fishing in dinghies off Dun Laoghaire and writers trudging through bogs at Kilashandra. The day will come, mark me, when they will be five writers for every human being in the world!
THE YOUNG MAN
Well, writer I am, and Irish I’m after. What shapes the Irish to their dooms, and runs them on their way?
THE OLD MAN eyes THE YOUNG MAN with not exactly suspicion, but . . .
THE OLD MAN
You’re in the country two hours and already you sound like an actor in the midst of the Abbey Theatre stage!
THE YOUNG MAN
Do I? Well, my family’s all from Ireland, fifty years ago. So I came to see their town, their land—their—
THE OLD MAN (wincing) Enough! I got the sense of your jabber! Come here!
THE YOUNG MAN steps closer, THE OLD MAN takes his shoulder.
All right now, you say you want to bag the Irish in his lair? find him out? write him down? I’ll take you to that place where you can spy on him unbeknownst! And where you’ll see an event that’s Irish as Irish can be—unseen before by outlander’s eyes, or if seen not believed, or if believed not understood!
THE YOUNG MAN (eagerly) An Event? a fair? a circus?
THE OLD MAIS
A sort of circus, you might say … an unusual circumstance, the meeting of Fates is better! Hurry on, man, or we’ll miss it!
THE OLD MAN starts to trot, with his bicycle.
THE YOUNG MAN My car—
THE OLD MAN Leave it there. It’s not far.
TO MUSIC: THE YOUNG MAN follows THE OLD MAN off into the wings, right. They reappear almost immediately, left, THE OLD MAN on the bike this time, pumping unsteadily along.
THE OLD MAN (pointing) Do you see those men there, walking on the road?
THE YOUNG MAN (running behind) Yes!
THE OLD MAN
That’s not quite the Irish!

TO MUSIC: They vanish offstage right and reappear, left, THE YOUNG MAN still jogging after the old one on the bike.
(Pointing) Do you see all them young fellows on their bikes pumping uphill?
THE YOUNG MAN (breathless) Yes!
THE OLD MAN That’s almost the Irish.
TO MUSIC: They vanish stage right, then reappear, left, THE OLD MAN seated on the crossbars of the bike, THE YOUNG MAN pumping.
(Pointing) Do you see that sign, now?
THE YOUNG MAN (gasping) Yes!
THE OLD MAN Hold everything! Stop!
The bike wobbles and collapses. Both leap off barely in time. THE OLD MAN points dramatically.
That’s the Irish!
A door has slid out of the wings, right. A sign has come down out of the flies, THE YOUNG MAN reads it aloud.
THE YOUNG MAN Heeber Finn’s. (His face takes fire) Why . . . it’s a pub!
THE OLD MAN (all innocence)
By God, now, I think you’re right! (He runs to the pub door) Come meet my family!
THE YOUNG MAN Family? You said you weren’t married!
THE OLD MAN
I’m not! But a man, seventy or no, has got to have a family. Right? Well!
THE OLD MAN rams the double wicket doors, plunges through. At this instant the scrim goes from front to back lighting. Instantaneously we see the inside of Heeber Finn’s pub, the men at the bar, and Finn himself working the spigots. Once the lighting is established, the scrim can go up out of the way. At the sound of the doors flung back, the men at the bar jerk.
It’s me, boys!
HEEBER FINN, behind the bar, sighs.
FINN Mike! Ya gave us a start!
ANOTHER MAN We thought it was—a crisis!
THE OLD MAN is pleased with the savor of that word.
THE OLD MAN Well, maybe it is! This is my friend!
He points to THE YOUNG MAN. NOW he points to the others.
. . . and these, you might say, are what I use for a family . . .
THE YOUNG MAN is touched by this fancy, and nods to all. The men murmur in friendly fashion, nodding.
FINN
Has your friend a crisis, then, Mike?
THE OLD MAN sobers dramatically.
THE OLD MAN He’s come to see the Irish, clear!
FINN pours from a bottle.
FINN See it or drink it?
THE YOUNG MAN A—bit of both.
FINN Well spoke. To your health.
He shoves the glass across the counter, winking, THE OLD MAN leans, peering, toward the door.
THE OLD MAN
Fine! it’s dark early. Ah, that lovely mist! Now, peel an eye, Young Man. There’s great events preparing themselves out in that fog, of all kinds and sorts even / can’t tell you; right, boys?
The men assent, THE YOUNG MAN drinks, gasps.
THE YOUNG MAN {peering) What should I look for?
THE OLD MAN
Let nothing pass unquestioned! (Turns) Give ’em another, Finn, to focus his eyes.
FINN pours, THE YOUNG MAN wisely lets it lie. THE OLD MAN trots to the door, half opening same to let in a wisp of fog, which he fingers.
Will you look? Why, you could wear the dainty stuff about your neck! A fine night. Anything could happen! and always does!
He inhales the fog, the lovely dark, smiles at the aroma, lets the doors shimmy shut, and comes back to the bar to sip his drink.
Mind, now, maybe