Page^
Second. Place I
Austin comes to visit Joe, his
once best friend, after a wreck in
which Austin’s girlfriend was killed.
Joe, who was driving the car, suffers
a badly broken leg. As Austin seeks
understanding of the circumstances
surrounding the wreck, a violent non
stop battle ensues in which Joe and
Austin are both forced to confront
and are ultimately consumed by cer
tain dark truths the control their
lives.
AUSTIN: I had a dream the day I
found out about the wreck, that Mon
day. I had a dream. I slept so much
that day. Ms. Anderson called that
morning and tbld my parents, and
then my parents told me after we had
already eaten brunch together eggs
benedict and bacon and freshly
squeezed orange juice. The plates
were covered in egg juice and bacon
bits with little pieces of parsley off
to the side. I finished my second
glass of orange juice. It was sweet.
You could feel the little orange bits
going down. It was so sweet.
My mom tried to tell me, but
she opened her mouth and burst out
crying. I mean, tears all of a sudden
flew out of her eyes. Like you al
ways see in cartoons when people
cry. She looked at me and said,
“Austin,” and then opened her mouth
to say it, and she burst out crying.
My dad told me. He told me, “Aus
tin, there was an accident last night.
Susan is dead.’ Just like that. Such
a simple statement. Three words.
And what do they mean? “Susan is
dead.” What does that mean? Poof.
She’s gone? Like a genie, gone?
“Susan is dead.” I couldn t really
proved it in my mind, sitting at the
breakfast table, listening calmly as
my dad calmly explained the details
of the accident—I couldn t really
prove that she had ever existed as a
part of my life. It was like talking
about the death of a fictional charac
ter. I wasn’t really moved. Maybe it
was shock.
I slept a lot that day. I cried
some, too, but mostly I just slept. I
felt so exhausted every time I’d open
lambpa
The Bridge Over
The River
an excerpt of the play
by Travis Chamberlain
Feb. '98
my eyes that I’d just roll over and go
back to sleep. Early the next morn
ing, like four o’clock in the morning,
I finally woke up and didn’t go back
to sleep. And I remembered suddenly
a dream I had had at some point dur
ing the night.
jOE^^at do you think it means'.'
AUSTIN: (Suddenly defensive) I
don’t think it means any
thing. I don’t know why I
told you that. I didn’t want
to tell you that.
JOE: Why not?
AUSTIN: I wanted to keep it to my
self.
JOE: Do you think it’s tme.
(Austin has moved so that he is now AUSTIN: What?
Innkinp out the window. All room • , ^ , j
lights Le begun to fade so that only JOE: Tak^ » =0 m.les, bndges,
the light coming through the window c*" “'ss it.
remains creating a spotlight effect on I don’t want to talk about
Austift.)
I dreamed that I was on a
stage and I didn’t know what show I
was in or what part I was supposed
to be playing or anything. The the
ater was packed full, and everyone
was holding their breath ^I mean, lit
erally, I could hear them all holding
their breath together—waiting for me
to do something. (Beat.) But then
someone in the audience stood up and
called my name. I squinted out into
the blackness, trying to make out the
face of the speaker, but all I could
make out was a vague silhouette. She
called my name again and I realized
it was Susan. “Suzy!’ I said, Suzy,
is that you!” And the silhouette stand
ing up in the audience said, “Yes. I
said, “Suzy, I’m so glad to see you!
It’s been so long!” And she said,
“Yes.” I said, “Where do you live
now?” And the silhouette said. In
Heaven.” And I said, “In Heaven?
Where’s Heaven?” And she said,
“You just take a right at the stop light
and then go straight for 50 miles,
cross over some bridges, and it 11 be
on your left. You can’t miss it. And
then the curtain came down in front
of me and the audience was cheer
ing. (He smiles. Room lights return
to full.)
That’s all I remember.
(Beat.)
JOE: No, really. I’m serious. Do
you think it’s possible?
AUSTIN: (After a moment) I don’t
believe in Heaven. ... I don’t
believe in Heaven.
Susan’s not in Heaven be
cause I don’t believe in
Heaven.
JOE: But she did. What difference
does it make, anyway? You
can’t—
AUSTIN: “What difference does it
make?” It makes every bit
of difference.
JOE: And no difference at all.
There’s nothing you can do
about Susan’s death but go
on with your life.
AUSTIN: That is so selfish, Joe.
How can I just “go on’ with
my life? This shit isn’t that
easy. Could you just “go on”
with your life if your mom
was killed in a car wreck on
her way back from her birth
day party this evening?
JOE: Yes.
AUSTIN: I don’t think so, Joe.
Think about how dependent