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A monologue from the play by Lynne Alvarez
Nyin
[He stands near the skeleton of his horse, Frijol, holding a gun.] I tell you, Frijol. It’s a good thing you’re dead.
You’re free of all this craziness. Drink, girls, love, tears, rage. And for what? Sh*t. One boy a maniac waving a pistol over a girl he can’t find;
another chasing after a girl he can’t catch. Now I have to worry about—let’s see— [He counts his fingers.]
Three people, four counting Chelo, who’ll have a stroke when she sees all this. And that boy is wild. He’s crying like it’s ripped out of his heart. Ay, what torture it is to be young.
If I were young again I couldn’t live through it. Thank God Chelo and I are in our quiet years. Chelo’s sturdy as a rock. And look at you and me. You’re a bag of bones and I’m a sack. Ah well. [He begins to clean up]
How many days did we walk down these roads, you and me, with the sun beating on our backs like a live flame? I never thought those days would end. And you, my friend, never thought at all.
It was enough to be together with dust in our mouths taking one step and then another. Doing one thing and then another. I’d brush you, you’d spill my coffee over. If I felt bad, you knew it.
You’d push me with your nose until I walked into a fence and laughed. I tell you—that’s how things should be.Nothing is above the love of a man for his horse—so much is below.
And then, then, I betrayed you, my simple trusting friend. I led you like a lamb to slaughter—except you were a horse. I miss you, Frijol. But you’re damn lucky—getting old isn’t a bag of tricks either.
The door closes. The tomb yawns open.
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