(Lights up on a small town hall auditorium in Delaware. Summer 2007. Betsy sits on an uncomfortable stool. Next to her is a small table with a single glass of water. The room's hot lights are making her sweat. She has to shield her eyes from the lights when answering questions from the audience.)
BETSY: Frankly, having a bridge in Delaware named after you is not easy work. Especially in Delaware. Trust me. (Beat.) Good question! Firstly, I have to compete with both Ben Franklin and Walt Whitman for overall bridge popularity and bridge usage. How the Delaware River Port Authority landed on the three of us - I still don't know! (impersonating herself:) "Uh, hey Ben, lets get together and recite O Captain! My Captain! with the hopes that someone named WALT will write it down in a few decades and then maybe just - pretty pretty please - maybe in a few centuries, America will immortalize the moment by naming three bridges in a puny state after You, Me and - drumroll please - WALT! Together forever, the three musketeers! L - O - L" (Beat.) You know why I don't remember that? Why that's not in the history books? Because it never happened. No one asks your permission to name bridges after you once you're dead. That's one of the hardest parts of being dead. People reinvent you left and right. Throwing your name on bronze plaques in historical parks and museums. I have a friend who calls them mytheums. He's kindof a lame person, but he makes a good point. No one knows the real story. We barely know the real story. (Beat.) Good question! There are eight lanes and it spans almost eighty-five hundred feet. (She smiles.) Ben's bridge is only seventy-five hundred feet. But size doesn't matter right? (Another smile and a wink:) Wrong. (Awkward silence.) Ok! Thanks for your patience. I'm off to my next event. Enjoy the bridge. Have fun. Or whatever one says to a room full of people who paid to hear a talk about a bridge. (Beat.) Walt's a dorky name. Yeah. I'm outtie.
(She exits.)
BLACKOUT
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