breakdown 

​

CHARACTERS: 

​

READER – an everyman, hasn’t slept all night. 

FRANK O’HARA – a poet, beloved. 

​

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. 1983. 

​

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 

 

(The sun has begun to peek over the Atlantic Ocean, bathing the beach of Fire Island Pines 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.” 1

​

FRANK O’HARA 

Are they? 

​

READER 

“…a man who can’t stay down.” 

​

FRANK 

(He smiles to himself:) Such are the poetics of hyperbole. And the attention it garners. 

​

(The READER puts down the newspaper. The waves continue to lap the shore.) 

​

READER 

It’s been almost 20 years now… 1966 to 1983… 

​

FRANK 

Hm, already? … I don’t quite like math. 

(They continue sitting.)

 

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, a flash of headlights, and a ghastly thud. 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. 

​

(FRANK pretends to look around for a bottle, to his amusement.) 

​

READER 

(Impatient, reciting from memory:) 

“Now I am quietly waiting for 

the catastrophe of my personality 

to seem beautiful again, 

and interesting, and modern.” 2

​

(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 

So then, do you not find the irony in how…suspicious that now reads? 

​

FRANK 

Given what? 

 

READER 

Given your “catastrophe”. 

(FRANK doesn’t immediately entertain the question…) 

​

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 car 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.” 3 

​

READER 

You didn’t say that. That was— 

​

FRANK 

James Baldwin. I’m aware. 1964. 

​

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 

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. Especially in today’s…climate. 

​

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, all because those around you are more and more frequently being robbed of theirs. 

​

(The READER is stunned, unable to look at FRANK.) 

​

FRANK 

You do not need misfortune in life to be remembered in death. What you need is solely the fortune to live. And for that to be enough. And for that to not weigh you down in guilt. 

​

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 doesn’t try hiding anymore.) 

 

READER 

I’m tired. All the time. And for what? For what it’s worth, I don’t know. I can’t do anything but to sit here and watch! 

​

(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 

Too many boys are disappearing. Too many of my own are gone. Why must I then live to be alone? What is the purpose??

 

(FRANK inhales deeply, a reminder that he is present for the READER. The READER, through his tears, almost reflexively inhales with him.) 

​

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.” 4 

​

READER 

…You said that. 

​

FRANK 

(smiling:) I did. 

(The tide rolls…) 

​

FRANK 

Just keep right on. I like it. And you will never regret seeing another dawn when they could not. You see it for them. 

​

(The READER thinks for a moment…and then looks 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 lightly, 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 

Dawn. 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…) 

​

END OF PLAY 

 

 

1 William Zimmer, “ART; A TOUCH OF THE POET,” The New York Times, 1983 

2 Frank O’Hara, “Mayakovsky,” Meditations in an Emergency, 1957

3 James Baldwin, Television Narrative about his life, WNEW-TV, New York City, 1 June, 1964

4 Frank O’Hara, “A True Account of Talking to the Sun at Fire Island,” 1958