by GIANFRANCO LENTINI

“The Sun woke me this morning loud
and clear, saying ‘Hey! I’ve been
trying to wake you up for fifteen
minutes. Don’t be so rude…'”

—Frank O’Hara

CHARACTERS:
READER—an everyman, hasn’t slept all night.
FRANK O’HARA—a ghost of a poet, gone too soon.

SETTING:
The beach on Fire Island Pines, Fire Island, New York.
Just off of where the boardwalks of Crown Walk and Ocean Walk intersect.

TIME:
Summer at dawn.

The sun has begun to peek over the Atlantic Ocean, bathing the beach in a pale pink glow, growing more vibrant and orange by the minute.

Sitting on the beach, feet in the sand, are a READER and FRANK O’HARA. They sit peacefully. FRANK faces the tide. The READER slowly pages through yesterday’s edition of The New York Times.

The READER eventually surfaces from the page.

READER

They’re calling you “a catalytic figure.”

FRANK O’HARA

Are they?

READER

Who had “hundreds of friends and lovers throughout his life.”

FRANK

Such are the poetics of hyperbole.

He smiles to himself. The READER puts down the newspaper. The waves continue to lap the shore. The men watch.

READER

Did you know?

FRANK

Know?

READER

That you’d be remembered this way, when you stepped out?

FRANK

In front of the—?

The sunrise’s glow is briefly distorted by the sound of breaking tires and a flash of headlights, but then all returns to normal. The READER’s silence affirms FRANK’s question.

FRANK

Every artist hopes to be remembered.

Pause.

FRANK

But let’s leave the catalytic nature of romanticizing tragedy to the page. Hm?

Pause.

FRANK

Instead, I would like a Coke.

READER
(impatient, reciting from memory)

“Now I am quietly waiting for the catastrophe of my personality to seem beautiful again, and interesting, and modern.”

FRANK doesn’t react. Instead, he continues watching the tide.

The READER grows discontent.

READER

Are you not the man who wrote that into existence? Are you not Frank O’Hara?

FRANK

I am.

READER

Well?

FRANK

Well, it feels as if you may be searching within my work—and within the momentary spotlight of my remembrance—for an intention, perhaps even a prophecy, to my…to my departure…and I don’t think that’s wise.

READER

But were you not already hurting when it happened?

FRANK

Of course. Of course I was. I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t hurting. Emotionally or otherwise. How else would I have been inspired to feel? To write? To create?

READER

So you had no plan—no intention—of putting yourself in front of that jeep that night?

FRANK lets his mind roll over with the tide.

FRANK
(Reciting)

“You think your pain and your heartbreak are unprecedented in the history of the world, but then you read.”

READER

You didn’t say that. That was—

FRANK

James Baldwin. I’m aware. 1963.

READER

So, then?

FRANK

So, then, you—you percussive, well-versed reader—should also know you are more than your pain. You are smarter than your pain. You are, in fact, not your pain.

READER

But we’re talking about you.

FRANK

Are we?

The READER grows uncomfortable.

FRANK

You understand how universal it is to hurt, to weather emotion, to be alive. And you are wiser than the deceptive thoughts telling you how impractical it may feel to remain alive.

READER

You don’t know me.

FRANK

No, but I know ideations when I hear them.

FRANK finally looks the READER deep in his eyes.

FRANK

Do not allow your theories—of what I did or did not do or say or write—to justify the act that you’ve been silently considering…all because you believe I took the easy route.

The READER is stunned, unable to look at FRANK.

FRANK

You don’t need misfortune in life to be remembered in death. What you need is solely the fortune to live. And for that to be enough.

READER

But sometimes…

FRANK

Go on.

The READER tries to hide tears.

READER

It’s all just unbearable. This obligation to be…present…human…here…alive.

The READER looks about as if a solution—or escape—to his pain might lie around them. He stares helplessly down the endless stretch of beach. Nothing.

READER

I’m tired. All the time. And for what? For what it’s worth, I don’t know.

FRANK
(gently, reciting)

“If you don’t appear at all one day they think you’re lazy or dead. Just keep right on, I like it.”

READER

You said that.

FRANK
(smiling)

I did.

The READER thinks for a moment…and then looks curiously at FRANK.

READER

Do you think I would have known any of your words had you not—

FRANK

Died before my time? Truly, I have been wondering that myself.

FRANK laughs, which comforts the READER. They then eventually come to a peaceful silence together.

FRANK

One day you’ll know what it’s worth, both the pain and the pleasure. But your day of knowing is not today. Find comfort in that. And allow that to allow you to be here.

FRANK stands up. The READER looks up at him.

FRANK

Sunrise. I have to go.

READER

But we just met.

FRANK

Perhaps. But now you need some sleep. You deserve it. Oh, and don’t forget that.

FRANK points, and the READER turns to grab the newspaper off the sand.

When he turns back, FRANK is gone.

The READER looks back at the water. He sits for a moment longer. Then he folds the newspaper, stands up, brushes off the sand, and returns to the boardwalk.

We listen to the tide for a moment longer.

Ω

Gianfranco Lentini (he/him) is a NYC-based queer playwright, teacher, and First Generation Italian American. His work has been developed and produced from North Carolina to Toronto, as well as published by Apricity Magazine, The Coachella Review, Mini Plays Review, and Molecule Literary Magazine. He is currently an Adjunct Professor at NYU Tisch, a Wendy Wasserstein Project Representative for TDF, and a proud Member of the Dramatists Guild of America. You can learn more at heygianfranco.com.