Toward the end of the play there is a scene that will press itself into the dark of Henry’s mind, exposed like light on film. Robbie, the Bowery king, rises from his throne as rain falls in a single sheet across the stage, and even though, moments earlier, it was crowded with people, now, somehow, there is only Robbie. He reaches out, hand skimming the curtain of rain, and it parts around his fingers, his wrist, his arm as he moves forward inch by inch until his whole body is beneath the wave. He tips his head back, the rain rinsing gold and glitter from his skin, flattening the perfect wave
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