Searching for Pat Conroy in Mexico
(a found play)
by Sparky Quagmire
I will bring mace. God dammit, I will use it.
I want to meet you down there.
All day, we're letting these cats walk around and CRAP in our houses!
And WE have to pick it up! That's not America! Friends, that's not even
I'm not even asking Bill. He doesn't have a fucking choice. He can spearhead
a dot.com company while eating a taco, snorting a line of coke and counting
the minutes before some guy named Juan takes him into a backroom to show
him first hand how the barrel of a third world gun feels against the side
of his pretty first world head.
Legally, I can cross into Mexico without travel documents via car as long
as it's within the first fifty miles or so from the border, I believe.
Enough talk already. This is a meeting of fire and oil, and I am burning
for Mexico the way a female screenwriter's arm catches on fire during
a New Years Eve fandango in Brooklyn.
(MARK shakes his head in disagreement.)
Not a single stolen radio in Mexico is playing Everclear, and there's
always a reason for one member of Mexico's Congress to throw a punch at
another member. It's fucking beautiful, man.
The Justice Department has my application for naturalization, but that
should take about ten to fourteen months, and then getting a passport,
and all that shit —
— fuck that. I will film a rap video in Mexico. I will open an insurance
firm. I will sell my mother down the river for a dollar. And I will never,
never, never hear another Goo-Goo Dolls' song again.
But I also understand that ALL I need is a green card and I'm fine. I'm
not sure about getting back into the States. Travel documents should take
three to six months, no?
I can only hope the kind Mexican republic leaves your bodies outside,
and remembers to tag your feet for identification purposes.
I'll check into it.
Check into it, you sexy mother fucker. Check your ass into it.