THEY STOLE HEMINGWAY'S BRAIN! by Ron Peer (DR. KEPPLER enters and speaks to the audience) DR. KEPPLER In July of 1961, in beautiful Sun Valley, Idaho, a depressed and confused Ernest Hemingway put a shotgun in his mouth. He stuck his big toe through the trigger guard, jerked his foot, and blew off the top of his skull. The portion of Hemingway's brain responsible for autonomic functions splattered against a Picasso adorning the library wall. The attendants removing the body say the painting was vastly improved, which just goes to prove the truism: Everyone's a critic. The rest of Hemingway's brain remained virtually intact inside the ventilated skull. Messy, but intact. These remains were later removed from the Ketchum, Idaho morgue by a secret government agency. An agency whose mission was to freeze America's best and brightest. An agency which, one day, contacted me out of the blue. (The Doctor walks over to a table where a phone suddenly rings.) DR. KEPPLER Yes, this is Dr. Keppler. Yes, Dr. Irwin Keppler, of the Stanford Institute for Brain Research. Who? The USCCS. The United States Center for Cryogenic Studies? I'm afraid I've never heard of you gentlemen. Oh, you're secret. I guess that would explain it. What? No, I couldn't possibly go to Washington. I'm much too busy at the moment. What do you mean a man will be over in three seconds to pick me up? I tell you, I can't possibly go -- (Enter AGENT who slips a blindfold over Dr. Keppler's eyes and pushes him toward a different part of the stage. Dr. Keppler tries to pry away the blindfold, but the Agent slaps him.) AGENT No peeking! DR. KEPPLER Oww! (to audience) I was taken to the headquarters of this secret organization. (Enter KAREN, carrying a bucket. She removes Dr. Keppler's blindfold and shakes his hand.) KAREN Hello, Doctor. I'm very pleased to meet you. My name is Karen. I am in charge of the USCCS. DR. KEPPLER I'll have you know, young lady, that I do not condone kidnapping in any sense. Especially of myself. (removes a notebook) Your name is Karen? Karen what? KAREN I'm afraid I can't tell you that, Doctor. It's classified. However, there is someone I would like you to meet. (lifts the bucket so he can look in it) Dr. Irwin Keppler, may I introduce celebrated- author and Pulitzer-prize winner, Ernest Hemingway. DR. KEPPLER There's a brain in there! KAREN Doctor, please, where are your manners? DR. KEPPLER Oh, yes. How rude. (reaches into bucket to shake) Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hemingway. (to Karen) He's rather a cold fish, isn't he? KAREN He's frozen, Doctor. Cryogenics. It's what we do, remember? DR. KEPPLER Ah, yes. Very nice. May I go home now? KAREN Not just yet, Doctor. We need your expertise. DR. KEPPLER But why? KAREN Because you're going to help us bring Papa back to life. (Karen pushes Keppler into a chair.) KAREN Dr. Keppler, this organization has been in existence for forty years. Some of the country's finest minds have been put on ice for later retrieval: Walt Disney, of course, Albert Einstein, JFK, Robert Frost, Leonard Bernstein, Raymond Burr, etc. But until now we haven't had the technology to re-animate the dead. Your work with brain transplants has given us new hope. If we can put a resurrected brain into a functioning body, then an enormous obstacle has been overcome. We don't have to worry about re- animating a diseased body, only the vital element -- the brain! DR. KEPPLER But my experiments were with mice, for God's sake! Low- functioning, cheese-eating vermin! I don't know if the operation would succeed on human beings. They're far too complex. Though, I suppose, the procedure might work on lawyers... KAREN Just think of it, Doctor! An opportunity of a lifetime. If you succeed, you will be famous! Maybe even as famous as Mr. Hemingway here. DR. KEPPLER Famous? Me? What would I want with fame? I'm merely a scientist. (to himself) Famous? Dr. Irwin B. Keppler, Me? KAREN Maybe win the Nobel prize, Doctor. Maybe even make the cover of PEOPLE. (Keppler stares into the bucket. A change sweeps throughout his body. A mania. He quivers and smiles wickedly.) DR. KEPPLER Yes! Yes! Yes, I'll do it! As God is my witness, I shall make Hemingway write again! (He laughs frenziedly, totally out of control. Then he passes out. Karen shakes her head.) KAREN And they think writers are ego-maniacs! (Blackout. Keppler appears at a different part of the stage in a spotlight. He paces and mops his face with a handkerchief.) DR. KEPPLER I must admit, the USCCS had everything carefully planned out. A live body was needed in order to plant Hemingway's brain in it. Such body was found at a local neurological institute. The victim of smoke inhalation, the patient was diagnosed as brain dead, yet the autonomic functions continued to operate. From a clinical standpoint, it was the ideal body in which to place Hemingway's revived brain. Healthy, young, and trim. There was only one small drawback. Certainly it would have no bearing my job, but Hemingway might not be too keen on it. But, damnit, this was science! This was history in the making! It had to be done! I bifurcated the comatose patient's brain, and removed the inactive motor area. I placed Hemingway's brain into the skull and grafted the parietal and temporal lobes together, making sure to minimize damage to the angular gyrus. I then connected the nerve tissues of the corpus collosum. It was a tedious and difficult procedure, requiring many hours of surgery, and every ounce of my skill. (Lights up. A body lies on a table, covered in a sheet. Keppler puts his handkerchief away and walks over to the body and to Karen, who is standing alongside it. They hunch over the body.) KAREN He's coming around! Good lord, Doctor, you've done it! You've done it! (She hugs Keppler, who is clearly embarrassed.) DR. KEPPLER It was nothing. Really. (The body begins to sit up. It is that of a woman, whom we will call, for lack of a better name, HEMINGWAY.) HEMINGWAY Jesus Christ. Where am I? My head is splitting. I need a drink. Mary! Get me a drink! Mary!!! (looks at Keppler and Karen) Who the fuck are you? KAREN My name is Karen and this is Dr. Keppler, Mr. Hemingway. We've been waiting for this moment for quite some time. HEMINGWAY Then call me Papa. Where's the john? Gotta piss. (Gets off the table, stretches and yawns. He/she looks down at his/her chest, peers down the neckline of his/her hospital gown.) HEMINGWAY Hey! I've got tits! Tits like white elephants! (feels himself) Hey, where's my dick?!? Where the hell's my dick?!? Ah, I must be having that bad dream again. The one where I think I'm Gertrude Stein. DR. KEPPLER It's no dream, Mr. Hemingway. HEMINGWAY You mean I am Gertrude Stein? (slaps himself hard) Wake up, blubberpuss, wake up! (slaps himself again) Mary, where's that drink? Mary! Mary! DR. KEPPLER Mr. Hemingway, the year is 1993. You've been asleep for thirty years. HEMINGWAY Sure. And my name is Fidel Castro. Where's Mary? Have you two seen my wife? KAREN Your wife is dead, Mr. Hemingway. She died a couple of years ago. HEMINGWAY Liar! Just yesterday she helped me dress a couple of elks. We were up on the clean well-lighted ridge. I dropped an eight-pointer with my .303 and Mary bagged a buck from 200 yards. That woman is one damn fine shot, a damn fine shot! Think I'll keep her. (pushing them aside) Get out of my way! Mary! Mary! Where the hell are you? (Hemingway exits.) KAREN Hmm, the adjustment process may take longer than we anticipated. (Lights down. Keppler moves into a spotlight.) DR. KEPPLER Karen's comment proved prescient. Hemingway refused to believe he had been out of commission for 30 years and that he was occupying a new form. We gave him hundreds of books and magazines to bring him up to date. He devoured them like popcorn. He was particularly fascinated with materials about his suicide. He clipped articles and pasted them to the walls. He said he could recall the heft of the shotgun and the cold metal of the barrel against his tongue, then the searing momentary pain as his palate exploded. He even recalled his spirit floating up over the body and away. That recollection more than anything else convinced him of who he really was. It propelled him to re-read all his works. Some he proclaimed, in typical Hemingway style, "shit" and others, "good." Sometimes he laughed and said, "Somebody paid me to publish this? What is this fucking fascination with Africa anyway?" Then one day, the thing Karen and I dreamed of -- hoped for -- occurred. Hemingway asked for a typewriter. (Lights up. Hemingway stands at a lectern, typing. Karen and Keppler watch.) KAREN This is fantastic! Just think, Doctor. A new literary work by Hemingway and we get to observe the act of creation. DR. KEPPLER Why is he standing? KAREN Hemingway always wrote standing up. 250 words a day. Then he'd knock off for the day to fish or slaughter a defenseless animal. DR. KEPPLER You sound like you don't approve. KAREN Of course I don't approve of butchering animals for sport. It's not civilized. DR. KEPPLER It's a primal act, Karen. But that's the appeal for a man like Hemingway. It's a throwback to an earlier age. When man was a savage instinctual beast constantly fighting for survival in a world where death lurked around the next corner. It's about man confronting his deepest secret fears. (Hemingway jerks his hand and examines it.) HEMINGWAY Dammit to hell! Broke a nail! (moves toward Karen) Karen, you got any nail glue? I -- (Hemingway doubles over clutching his stomach. He moans.) DR. KEPPLER What's wrong, Papa? HEMINGWAY Don't know. Pain in the gut. Sharp. Cutting. (He moans again as another wave hits him.) KAREN Uh oh. Does it ache and churn? HEMINGWAY Yes. KAREN Like somebody's twisting your lower stomach into knots? HEMINGWAY Goddammit, yes! Yes! KAREN I was afraid this might happen. DR. KEPPLER Afraid what might happen? KAREN Menstrual cramps. HEMINGWAY What?!? KAREN You occupy the body of a young woman now. You're subject to the same 28-day cycle that 52% of the population is. (with an acerbic smile) Welcome to femininity, Papa. HEMINGWAY Bullshit! Not having no fucking period! I'm Ernest Miller Heming -- (groans) Heming -- Shit ... (He/she groans again, bends double and quickly shuffles offstage.) KAREN (calling after him/her) The medicine cabinet! Second shelf! Tampax! (Blackout. Keppler in spotlight.) DR. KEPPLER From then on a change overtook Hemingway. I found him the next day in the garden weeping uncontrollably. When I asked him was wrong, he looked at me, fat tears coursing his cheeks. "Never knew it felt like this. The bleeding. The pain. The hormones. It's a fucking bitch." "I see," I said. I didn't know what else to say. I felt uncomfortable watching the great writer cry. (Hemingway enters.) HEMINGWAY It's like this, Doc: All my books are shit. Total shit. How could I have pretended to write about mankind when I never truly understand half the population. I never knew what made women tick. I assumed they were all irrational bitches intent on draining the life-force out of men. How ridiculous. I couldn't have been further from the truth. DR. KEPPLER Well, I don't know, Papa. I was married once and my wife was a -- HEMINGWAY See? If a wimp egghead like you can't understand the intricacies and complexities of the female of the species, what chance did I have? DR. KEPPLER Wimp egghead? I'll have you know I -- HEMINGWAY Give it a rest, Doc. Nobody gives a shit about your phallocentric opinion anyway. (Hemingway exits.) DR. KEPPLER I realized then that I would probably never read any new Nick Adams stories or find out what ultimately happened to Jake Barnes or if Santiago ever went fishing again. I sensed Hemingway was turning his writing in a new direction. (Hemingway enters, arm around Karen. Hemingway slams a heavy manuscript into Keppler's chest.) HEMINGWAY Here you go, Doc. Read it and weep. DR. KEPPLER (reading title) "Women Without Men: Feminist Theology in the World of Masculine Secularism." KAREN (adoringly) It's brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. HEMINGWAY Thank you, honey. (kisses her) Let's go. You know I want to pick up the new Rosemary Ruether book. (They start to walk off arm in arm.) DR. KEPPLER Karen! Wait! What about the project? KAREN Project? What project? DR. KEPPLER The Cryogenic Brain Transference and Personality Retrieval Project! KAREN Oh that. Forget it. I'm in love. I quit. (Karen and Hemingway exit. Lights down. Spot on Keppler.) DR. KEPPLER Well, I guess you know the rest. "Ernestine" Hemingway's book became a bestseller and he did the talk show circuit. Passed himself off as second cousin to the "real" Hemingway. No doubt you saw the news clip where he punched Geraldo in the nose for making a sexist remark. Me, I attempted to get my old job back at Stanford but I ran into a snag. It seems the government hadn't arranged a leave of absence for me as Karen claimed. Instead, they reported me dead. My identity had been erased from computers everywhere. I no longer officially existed. I had no place to go. So I came back to the USCCS and decided to write my memoirs. (Keppler moves to the typewriter on the podium. He types. The lights begin to fade slowly.) I'm in charge of a new project now. Similar to the Hemingway project, but scaled down. Less risky. I think that's where I went wrong before. I'm putting Pat Nixon's brain into the body of a chimp. A female chimp. This time I'm not taking any chances. The only dick this monkey will have known in is the one that used to run the White House ... (Keppler continues to type as the lights fade to black.) THE END