we all fall down and just lay there, feeling around for the Dark Angel.
They let the bikes jail and stand over them, looking down at the imaginary wreckage.
THE YOUNG MAN looks from them to the bar.
THE YOUNG MAN Surely these men won’t—
CASEY
Oh, won’t they? Why, last year alone in all the Free State, no night passed some soul did not meet in fatal collision with another.
THE YOUNG MAN (aghast)
You mean to say over three hundred Irish bicyclists die every year, hitting each other?
THE OLD MAN bows his head as at the grave of a friend.
THE OLD MAN God’s truth and a pity!
HEEBER FINN eyes the “bodies.”
FINN I never ride my bike nights. I walk.
THE YOUNG MAN Why . . . let’s get them to a hospital, then, quick!
THE OLD MAN is mildly irritated at this interruption of their round-robin discussion.
THE OLD MAN One thing at a time, please. You was saying, Finn . . . ?
FINN
I walk!
CASEY But even walking, the damn bikes run you down!
THE OLD MAN True!
CASEY
Awheel, or afoot, some idiot’s always pantin’ up doom the other way, they’d sooner split you down the seam than wave hello!
THE YOUNG MAN (touching THE OLD MAN’S elbow) The victims here—
THE OLD MAN
One moment, lad. (Shakes head) Ah, the brave men I’ve seen ruined or half-ruined or worse, and headaches their lifetimes after.
He looks at the bicycles on the floor between them, and trembles, his eyelids shut.
You might almost think, mightn’t you, that human beings was not made to handle such delicate instruments of power.
THE YOUNG MAN (still dazed) Three hundred dead each year . . .
CASEY
And that don’t count the “walkin’ wounded” by the thousands every fortnight who, cursing, throw their bikes in the bog forever and take government pensions to salve their all-but-murdered bodies.
THE YOUNG MAN (nervously) I hate to bring it up but should we stand here just talking?
THE OLD MAN (wounded, as are the others) Just talking! We’re debating the problems and making the decisions! Look there, do ya see?
They look.
THE DOC, quite obviously enjoying his moment of power in center stage of the crowd, walks back and forth between the two creatures on the bar. The crowd looks after him from right to left. He is building his moment of suspense. He squints one eye, closes both, rubs his chin, scratches his ear.
THE MEN (restlessly) Ah …
THE DOC realizing he has gone almost too jar, feeling his audience begin to drift away, now snatches their attention back by straightening up and exhaling briskly.
THE DOC
Well, now!
The men quicken.
THE OLD MAN whispers to THE YOUNG MAN, grabbing his arm.
THE OLD MAN He’s ready for his pronouncement!
THE DOC, veteran of much medical play-acting, rocks on his feet, and points at the first “body.”
THE DOC This chap here—
The crowd leans toward the chap.
Bruises, lacerations, and agonizin’ backaches for two weeks run-nin’.
Everyone nods at the shame of it. THE DOC now turns to the other and makes his face grim. The men lean that way.
As for this one—
He pauses.
(In a dramatic whisper) Concussion.
ALL Concussion!
The quiet wind of their voices rises and falls in the silence.
THE DOC
He’ll survive if we run him quick now to Meynooth Clinic. Now then—whose car will volunteer?
The crowd looks at itself, then turns as a staring body toward THE YOUNG MAN. He feels the gentle shift as he is drawn from outside the ritual to its deep and innermost core. He looks about, thinking perhaps there may be another volunteer. Then he walks to the door, half opens it, and looks out.
THE YOUNG MAN {counting)
. . . twelve . . . fourteen . . . sixteen bicycles . . . and, two hundred yards down the road . . . one automobile . . . mine.
THE OLD MAN Praise God, that’s fortunate!
THE YOUNG MAN turns sheepishly. The crowd leans toward him. THE YOUNG MAN nods, once, THE DOC quickens with gratitude.
THE DOC
A volunteer!! Quick, lads, now, hustle this victim—gently—to our good friend’s vehicle. Take his keys. Drive the car up outside!
THE YOUNG MAN holds out the keys as someone runs by, seizing them. The men reach out to lift the body and freeze when THE YOUNG MAN clears his throat. All look to him. THE YOUNG MAN circles them with his hand, tips his cupped hand to his mouth, and nods at FINN. The men gasp.
CASEY He’s right, of course! It’s a cold night. One for the road!
HEEBER FINN Unes up the shot glasses lip to Up and sprinkles them all quickly with the passing bottle. Hands seize the glasses. One of the victims is taken off the bar and set in a chair, where, reviving, his face like a white cheese, he feels a glass put in his trembly hand.
THE OLD MAN Here, lad, now … tell us …
CASEY What happened, eh . . . ?eh?
The drinks are gulped. The second victim is hefted. The men head for the door, THE YOUNG MAN, amazed, watches them go, his drink in his hand.
THE OLD MAN Finish your drink, Mr. . . . ?
THE YOUNG MAN {faintly) McGuire.
THE OLD MAN By the saints, he is Irish!
THE YOUNG MAN looks—at the recovering victim, at the bar, the mirrors, the two bikes against the wall, the fog seeping in through the door, then, at last, at THE OLD MAN, and the depths of the drink in his hand.
THE YOUNG MAN {thoughtfully) No … I don’t think I am.
He swigs his drink and heads for the door with THE OLD MAN dogtrotting after. At the door he stops, for a voice is speaking behind him. He does not turn, but listens. Behind, over his shoulder, the recovered “victim” is sipping his drink and talking to two men bent earnestly to listen.
THE VICTIM {hoarsely, dramatically) Well . . . I’m on me way home, blithe as you please, see, and—
THE YOUNG MAN steps through the doors quickly. The pub lights go out. Outside, the fog-scrim appears, mist drifts in from either side. We hear voices off and away, and the approach of THE YOUNG MAN’S car, driven by someone. The car stops, just out of sight.
A VOICE There we are!
ANOTHER VOICE Now, easy, inside with the poor victim!
THE YOUNG MAN muses, with THE OLD MAN beside him, in the night.
THE YOUNG MAN
Old Man, do you ever have auto wrecks, collisions between people in cars?
THE OLD MAN {insulted)
Not in our town!! If you like that sort of thing, now (Nods scorn-jully east), Dublin’s the very place for it!
THE YOUNG MAN looks east, nods, moves toward his car offstage.
Look now, McGuire, a last bit of advice. You’ve driven little in Ireland, right?
THE YOUNG MAN nods.
Listen. Driving to Meynooth, fog and all, go fast! Raise a din!
THE YOUNG MAN In this fog? Why?
THE OLD MAN
Why, he asks! To scare the bicyclists off the path, and the cows! Both sides! If you drive slow, you’ll creep up on and do away with dozens before they know what took them off. Also—when another car approaches—douse your lights, pass each other, lights out, in safety. Them devil’s own lights have put out more eyes and demolished more innocents than all of seeing’s worth. Is it clear, now?
THE YOUNG MAN nods.
You got a cap? I see ya haven’t. So—
THE OLD MAN produces a tweed cap from his coat pocket.
THE OLD MAN Put this on! Bicycling, driving, or especially, walking, always wear a cap. It’ll save you the frightful migraines should you meet Kelly or Moran or some other hurtling full tilt the other way, full of fiery moss and hard-skulled from birth! So you see, there’s rules for pedestrians, too, in our country, and wear a cap, is Number One!
THE YOUNG MAN pulls the cap down and looks to THE OLD MAN for his approval, which he gets.
THE OLD MAN Well now, get along, lad.
THE YOUNG MAN Aren’t you riding with me?
THE OLD MAN Ah, no, I got the beast here, I must check on the mother.
He picks up his bike and slings a slatty leg over it and pulls his cap down.
THE OLD MAN
Well, sir, did you find what you came for? did you see the Irish, clear?
THE YOUNG MAN
I saw but didn’t see . . . lost one thing and found another . . . now, that’s gone, too. Tell me, how did you guess all this would happen tonight, here? How did you know?
THE OLD MAN
I didn’t! Some other night it would be some other thing! Like I said, anything could happen, and always does! That’s Ireland for you. And it’s waiting out there for you now, in the fog. Go find it!
THE YOUNG MAN runs off, stage right.
THE YOUNG MAN I will!
We hear the motor revved, offstage.
THE OLD MAN (shouting off) Remember what I said! Douse your lights!
The lights go off, stage right.
THE OLD MAN (shouting) Go fast!
Offstage, we hear the furious gunning of the motor.
THE OLD MAN Keep your cap on! Tight! (Yanks his own cap, hard)
THE YOUNG MAN (offstage) See you again!
THE OLD MAN God willing!
We hear the car roar off and away. The sound fades.
When it is gone, THE OLD MAN is alone on his bike. He prepares
himself, clears his throat, and sings going off, stage right.
THE OLD MAN “She wheeled her wheelbarrow . . .”
At which moment, a shadowy bicyclist (FINN) comes through the other way. They almost collide.
THE OLD MAN Damn! Watch where you’re going!
FINN Hell! Look what you’re doing!
THE OLD MAN Heeber Finn, it’s you!
FINN Old man, it’s you!
THE OLD MAN God Bless!
FINN
God Bless! (Takes up the song, sailing away) “She wheeled her wheelbarrow. . .”
THE OLD MAN (sings) “. . . through streets wide and narrow . .