A monologue from the play by Robert O’ Hara
ADLEAN (thirties – forties)
Barbara… I remember how you use to come in and… tickle my feet in the morning. You knew I never liked getting up for school so you said you’d wake me up with a laugh.
And I know sometimes I’d bust you in the jaw with a shoe… but the ticklin’ grew on me and I started to expect it…
Well Barbara… I need my little tickle alarm clock back in my life. I would like to leave this earth knowing that you had gotten your life back together…
put your self together in a whole different way without all those drugs and drink. It makes me very sad to have to be riding through downtown with my grandkids
and see you standing on the street comer after having sh*tted on yourself. That one time I stopped… it broke my heart to see you.
But you should know I have not stopped many many many times Barbara. The time you were riding on the front of that old man’s Hoveround wheelchair.
In the middle of the street. The time you were chasing down some wimmen with a hot glue gun and no draws on your ass.
Ass just in the air. In the middle of the street. I said to myself. “Is that my sister Barbara? In the middle of the gatdamn street?”…
I don’t stop anymore. For the sake of my grandkids I don’t stop. But Zippity Boom you have to stop. You need help, Barbara.
We’ve found a place that can help you. We will be here to support you when you return. Barbara, will you please take this gift we are giving you.
We love you. Will you please go to rehab, Barbara? Will you please take this help from those nice people up there in Alaska?
