"Eulogy"

Written by Paul Rust

PAUL:

By the end of this monologue, I will be crying. (pause) By the end of this monologue, you will be crying. Everyone in this audience will be crying. (pause) This monologue is going to bring you to tears. Tears.

In the winter of 2000, my best friend Mike Brownmiller killed himself. He hung himself during his freshman year at the University of Northern Iowa. He didn’t leave a suicide note or make any "cry-for-helps," nothing like that. He just killed himself. I don’t know why. It was around finals. Maybe he was stressed out.

I, of course, came home from Iowa City to attend the funeral. It was a nice service. We were in the first week of December, so the church had all their Christmas lights up, shining bright. It was pretty.

Mike’s parents asked me to do the eulogy. It was probably because I was involved in theatre and speech, so I’d be comfortable speaking in front of a large audience. It also probably had to do with the fact that I was Mike’s best friend. I’d be able to say nice things… and reflect… and emote.

When it came time for me to give the eulogy, I stood up from the pew and took the podium. (stands up on table) And I read this speech. (pulls out a folded speech from pocket, unfolds it, begins reading from it) "Mike Brownmiller was my best friend. I’ve known him since we were 6. On my first day of school, I met him by the flagpole." (drops speech to the floor) And the speech continued, outlining the course of our friendship — our ups and downs, our highs and lows. My overall theme was that true friendship persists. And how yes, Mike was a true friend. A best friend.

And as I read this eulogy, it gradually occurred to me how composed I was. My hands weren’t shaking. My voice wasn’t cracking. I had complete composure. (beat) Was this right? Was this normal? I tried to remember all the past eulogies I had seen in my life and I realized that… yes, with every eulogy I’ve seen, the person giving it had a moment where they lost their composure. Either their lip would tremble or their voice would quaver or their throat would choke up. I remember my Aunt Pam, giving a eulogy about her brother and saying, "When I was little, Dan would always look out for me. When other kids picked on me, he… would… protect… me…" And she broke down in tears. She loved her brother so much that she couldn’t completely tell people… how much she loved him.

But here I was talking about my best friend, not batting an eye. And as I delivered the last few paragraphs of my eulogy, it became abundantly clear to me that I was not going to be losing my composure. I was not going to be crying. (beat) What did this say about me? Was I a monster? Was I a monster for not crying over my dead friend?

I decided I would make myself cry. I could do it. I could make myself cry. After all, I was talking about my best friend here — my best friend who killed himself. This was tragic stuff. So I tried to remember all the good times we had — all the good times we would never experience again - sledding behind the church, watching scary movies in my basement, driving at night. But none of that worked. I couldn’t cry.

I tried a different tactic. I recalled all the past moments when I had once cried in my life. You know, really, really painful shit that made me weep? (beat, speed of delivery increases) Like, "Oh, yeah. Uh, my cat Katie ran away when I was 5. That was sad, that was sad." Or, "In fifth grade, I didn’t get invited to that kid’s birthday party. That hurt my feelings." Or, "A couple weeks ago, I made out with that girl, we exchanged phone numbers, and she never called me. I cried then, I cried then." But nothing. Not one tear came from my eye.

I couldn’t understand it. I mean, when I acted in plays, I cried all the time. Why couldn’t I now? And then it hit me. Theatre was a form of art. Art makes me cry all the time. I forced myself to remember all those movies and t.v. shows and whatever else that made me weep - ET getting in that spaceship… Balki giving that dog he loved so much back to its’ rightful owner… that commercial where the kid with Down’s Syndrome has the perseverance to work at McDonald’s.

The last line of my eulogy was "All I know is I’m going to miss my friend," but instead, it came out, "All I know is… I’m going to miss… my…" I couldn’t finish. I was choked up. I was crying.

(stepping off the table) And everybody in that church cried, too. (nearing audience) Because they believed I was crying. They believed I was hurt. They believed I was a sensitive and caring individual. (stepping up the aisle)

(approaching an audience member, staring them in the face) Does that make you sad? Are you going to cry? Does my performance make you want to cry? (beat) Because you know, there’s the possibility that Mike Brownmiller never killed himself. There’s the possibility that Mike Brownmiller never existed. There’s the possibility that I only did this in a vain attempt to make you cry… (backing away from the audience member)… that I only did this in a vain attempt to make myself cry.

(walks back down onstage) Because lately… honestly… the only times I cry anymore is when I’m onstage. (beat) Friends tell me their lives are falling apart… and I stare forward. Old lovers tell me that I’ve hurt them… and I don’t pause to think.

When I’m with loved ones, I think of jokes, so I can smile. I think of porn, so I can cum. I think of E.T., so I can cry. I am empty. I am a monster.

(looks down at script) This script says that right now, I should be crying. (wipes dry eyes, looks at fingers, then out at audience) This isn’t working anymore.

• March 7, 2003 - No Shame Iowa City
  

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