| Author | Post |
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Tom
Member
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Posted: Fri Sep 21st, 2007 04:24 pm |
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Walk-Up
A Play in Eight Scenes
Cast
Frank, 55, partially paralyzed and confined to a wheelchair most of the time
Denny, 25, a young poet and ex-Marine
Rose, 67, Frank’s neighbor in the apartment building
Heather, 24, Denny’s wife
Scene one, Saturday afternoon
Unit set: The living room of an apartment, old-fashioned but neat, with some dark wood furniture rather too close together and antique porcelains in several cabinets. A door leads off to a bedroom. There is a kitchenette near the back. A window over the sink looks out partially on a brick wall, but there is a glimpse of sky available. FRANK is in his wheelchair at the table, sorting papers, listening to a talking book on a CD player. An oboe is playing from a floor above. The doorbell rings.
FRANK:
(Puzzled, because he hasn’t buzzed anyone in. He turns off the machine and rolls over to open the door.) Who is it?
DENNY:
Denny.
FRANK:
(Pause) Should I let you in?
(No answer. FRANK opens the door, undoing several locks. He is able to lift himself up from the wheelchair and can stand for about 15 seconds at a time when he needs to. DENNY enters with a manila folder in his hand. Their conversation at first proceeds very awkwardly.)
FRANK:
Who let you in downstairs?
DENNY:
Rose did. She was going out.
FRANK:
How long did her maternal interrogation take?
DENNY:
Not too long. I told her you were expecting me.
FRANK:
She probably believed that. Not quite a pernicious lie. Semi-pernicious. I would have been expecting you if I’d known you were coming . . . and if I was expecting you. Did she ply you with cookies?
DENNY:
Not this time. She was surprised to see me.
FRANK:
Startled, more likely. It’s been a long time. Two years. (He starts to say something, thinks better of it.) You’ll want some of that raspberry tea.
DENNY:
Just like always.
(DENNY hangs his cap on a rack almost without looking, he’s so familiar with the movement. FRANK starts maneuvering toward the microwave.)
FRANK:
I probably still have the same box of teabags. Caffeine-free. Don’t drink it myself.
DENNY:
(Seeing an easel with a canvas) Yes, thanks. You never did finish that painting.
FRANK:
You left and never did come back. I’m speaking now with a certain sense of gallantry, as if two years weren’t actually squandered in the meantime. (He prepares the table.)
DENNY:
I wanted to. I wanted to call, at least.
FRANK:
No, you didn’t want to, because as a matter of fact you didn’t.
(The oboe is still audible. DENNY has decided in advance that this rancor is necessary and he won’t let it bother him. He sits and places the manila folder on the table.)
DENNY:
This building always reminds me of something out of Langston Hughes.
FRANK:
It sounds like Hughes, sure enough. Usually does. What have you been writing? That has the smell of poetry.
DENNY:
A poem cycle. Sixty-two poems. I brought it—
FRANK:
Is it good?
DENNY:
Yes.
FRANK:
Is it yours?
DENNY:
As much as anything ever will be.
FRANK:
You’ll be 25 in a month. By now you should have something to say and a way to say it.
DENNY:
I’m just hoping it’s right.
FRANK:
Don’t tell me anything more about it. You’ll want my first impressions.
DENNY:
Absolutely. That’s why I brought it.
FRANK:
I don’t have any new poetry to show you. I stopped writing . . . a couple of years ago. Just so you know. You might have guessed.
DENNY:
No, I wouldn’t have guessed that. Not even one?
FRANK:
A few lines. Never in the mood.
DENNY:
When we used to read our things to each other—that was great.
FRANK:
Greatness is fleeting. Are you sure you want this tea? I can offer you a drink.
DENNY:
No, but thanks.
FRANK:
You don’t mind if I—(starts making a gin and tonic). What’s the title? The overall title.
DENNY:
Mirror on the Wall.
FRANK:
(Cunning) Self-reflective?
DENNY:
You got it.
FRANK:
More complacencies of the first-person lyric? That’s a very monotonous lingo now. You see poems like that all over the subways. Not to mention the slams.
DENNY:
You get out to slams?
FRANK:
One was all it took. I’m sure they’re all the same.
DENNY:
Each poem has a different voice, some monologues, some dialogues . . .
FRANK:
Browning stuck with monologues. Learn from the master.
DENNY:
. . . and several on how hard it is to communicate.
FRANK:
Words—can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em. How long are you in town for? World been treating you well?
DENNY:
Frank, it’s me.
FRANK:
Enough pleasant talk? Yes, it is you. Have you been waiting for me to blurt out something like, I’m glad to see you? Of course I am. That’s not something I want to say out loud, though. If I did say it, I might convince myself it’s true. I’m also not glad to see you, as if that matters. You’re sitting here in front of me and I’m making the best of it. So far, I’m doing a lot better job than I thought I would, seeing you in this room again . . . and I’ve thought about it a lot.
DENNY:
I would’ve come back—
FRANK:
No aphorisms. Don’t bother. It would take too much effort to reciprocate . . . or perhaps “retaliate” is what I mean. I’ve imagined this scene a thousand times in the strange, dark abyss of the night, and in those moonlit fantasies you always say much more interesting and capable things than you’re saying right now in real time. The imaginary you is considerably more witty, for example. No offense. The real you may not be down for the count, of course. The evening is young.
DENNY:
You helped me a lot back then.
FRANK:
That wasn’t my intention. I mean, that was only part of my intention.
DENNY:
It got complicated.
FRANK:
You wanted an omniscient teddy bear. I just wanted a friend.
DENNY:
Did I look up to you too much? I appreciated—
FRANK:
This is precisely the kind of talk I want to avoid . . . even though I’m the one who started it. Sorry.
DENNY:
I didn’t know what was happening then. I was out of it.
FRANK:
I doubt that you want to talk now either. Have you seen your mother yet?
DENNY:
Yes. Just got to town this afternoon.
FRANK:
Then you’ll be eating with her and I don’t need to ask you for supper. Besides, I’ve got a risqué garden party planned for later. (Bitter chuckle) Wild dancing and plunges into the pool—not the Olympic-sized heated pool, of course. The other one, with the 10-meter board.
DENNY:
The deep end?
FRANK:
As deep as possible.
DENNY:
I’d like to talk again sometime soon, not just about the poems.
FRANK:
I don’t think you want that. You don’t know what I might say, and besides, I don’t know what I might say.
DENNY:
What about tomorrow night?
FRANK:
Force my hand, and you might well be sorry. But I’ll be here. A stew of game, most likely roasted beef . . . or shall I kill the fatted spaghetti?
DENNY:
Sounds like one of your loaded questions. If I go for the fatted spaghetti, that makes me the prodigal son.
FRANK:
A prodigal is one who spends lavishly, without counting the cost. A prodigal holds nothing back.
DENNY:
Beef.
FRANK:
Fine. Beef for you, but since I’m out to pasture now I’ll just nibble on some hay. You can throw my good blanket on my lap . . . if my lap is still there.
DENNY:
Will you need more time than that to read the poems?
FRANK:
I won’t need more time than that.
DENNY:
Then, see you tomorrow.
FRANK:
Six-thirty. Happy hour at 6:15.
FRANK:
(After DENNY is out the door) Omniscient teddy bear. That was good. (He throws the manuscript across the room.)
Scene two, Sunday morning
ROSE knocks on the door.
ROSE:
Mr. Russo. It’s Rose. Mr. Russo. (FRANK opens the door.)
FRANK:
Good morning, Rose. (Sweetly but ironically) What a surprise.
ROSE:
I wanted to stop by last night when I got in from my sister’s but I figured you had yourself some company again. I think that Denny is the nicest young man. Smiles all the time. Here’s your Philly cheese from the store. I kept it in my refrigerator. (She sets the sack on the table.) He hasn’t come around for so long.
FRANK:
(Not paying attention) You can set it on the table.
ROSE:
(She has noticed the manila envelope, back on the table.) Did he leave this? He said he was leaving some of those poems he likes to write.
FRANK:
Yes.
ROSE:
(Hefting it, very admiringly) He wrote this all by himself?
FRANK:
If you wrote down all your recipes, it would be a lot thicker than that.
ROSE:
Oh, I don’t know about that. Anyway . . .
FRANK:
Writing is easy, if you don’t care whether it’s good or not.
ROSE:
I know some poems I like.
FRANK:
These have cussing in them.
ROSE:
I don’t believe you for a minute.
FRANK:
Terrible cussing. Dreadful cussing to wilt your soul. No Hallmark in there. Do you want me to quote some?
ROSE:
No, no, no.
FRANK:
Good, because I haven’t opened it yet.
ROSE:
Then how do you know about the cusswords?
FRANK:
Poets are just like human beings; they don’t change.
ROSE:
I’ll put this away. You don’t want it to sit out and get warm.
FRANK:
See those antacids on the counter? Could you open the bottle the rest of the way? I made it through the plastic but I couldn’t finagle enough leverage on the cap. You have to twist while you push and then stick your left leg out all at the same time. (Demonstrating) And whistle.
ROSE:
They sure enough don’t care about people opening up their bottles. Some of them have the plastic, then a lid, then a silver seal on the top, then cotton balls—a wonder you can find the pills. Mrs. DeSanto can’t even get the plastic off, with her eyes so bad and her arthritis. She’s not too well. They took her in again last Wednesday but she didn’t stay the night. Well, that’s done. Anyway, do you think you could fill out some papers for me again this afternoon?
FRANK:
Work on Sunday? I’ll do it if the good Lord won’t mind.
ROSE:
All you have to do is say yes. You don’t have to talk disrespectful. I know it’s a favor but I need the help. I can never figure out—
FRANK:
Come by around two. For the veterans this time, or the bank?
ROSE:
Well, Katie says she needs somebody to sign some papers for her to get a school loan. Somebody older has to fill it out.
FRANK:
Is she asking you to cosign on a loan?
ROSE:
She didn’t call it that. Anyhow, she needs somebody to sign something and her mother won’t do it—you can’t ever expect that woman to bother with things like that. Nobody better ask her anything because you know the answer already. She didn’t get that way from me raising her. I think one of these days she’s gonna run right out of chances with Katie. Young people only have so many times they’ll come running back. If they lose you, they pick up somebody else pretty soon. Course, she’s her mother, and that makes a difference. Sure was nice to see that boy Denny again. So glad to see him coming back in the building again. What’s he been doing for so long?
FRANK:
He was always free to come or not. He knew that. He just decided not to come for two years.
ROSE:
(Folding some towels and generally straightening things out.) You were mighty blue for a while back then. Mighty blue. You missed your walks, and it was a beautiful spring that year. Tulips lasted for weeks out front and I bet you never saw them even one time. (Realizing FRANK is very thoughtful.) Now don’t you go getting yourself wretched and down in the pits again. You ought to be glad he’s coming around. It’s good to see a young face around here. I know you two must have had some words or something. Sometimes it’s good to talk about things.
FRANK:
We didn’t have words; that was the problem. (ROSE waits for him to continue.) At least he hasn’t asked me to sign anything.
ROSE:
It never takes you any time to figure out what I ought to do with papers.
FRANK:
Don’t even think about cosigning on a loan. But show me the papers anyhow so I can make sure.
ROSE:
I’ll bring them down at two. Before that I could whip up some of my home-made yeast rolls for your dinner. What time you two planning on eating?
FRANK:
(Glancing—how did you know?—but then smiling resignedly.) Six-thirty.
ROSE:
You got three kinds of jelly in the frigerator, so that’ll do. And you got to use the real butter. My yeast rolls turn to trouble in your mouth if you try to put that yucky old margarine on them. Worse than motor oil.
FRANK:
I’ve got butter.
ROSE:
Where at? I didn’t see any real butter in there.
FRANK:
(Victoriously) Check the crisper.
ROSE:
(Not believing him) Anyway, I’ve got plenty, so I can bring some down if you need it.
FRANK:
I don’t need any butter.
ROSE:
(Leaving) You better be sure, because I can get you some. It won’t be any trouble.
FRANK:
The butter is taken care of.
ROSE:
So if I don’t sign those papers, then how will Katie find her money for school? She needs that school.
FRANK:
Maybe she can sell herself off to some husband in Romania.
ROSE:
My goodness, she wouldn’t do anything like that. (Realizing that he is pulling her leg.) Sometimes . . . .
(As soon as ROSE is out the door, FRANK wheels quickly over to the refrigerator, snaps the door open and is heard fumbling with the crisper. He slams the door.)
FRANK:
Shit!
Scene three, later that morning
FRANK is speaking on the phone.
Well, obviously you couldn’t call with her around. No, I don’t know what he wants. He didn’t say much.
I like a dramatic scene as much as anybody. Not like that, though. If he throws a fit I call the cops.
I kept all the pieces of the teapot; maybe I could leave them accidentally lying around where he’ll see them—just a little reminder. I could put the box under his manuscript.
No, this Mennonite woman had it out on her table at the Shipshewana flea market. The shape was right, the colors were right. Even the gilding was in perfect condition. I turned it over and the price tag said $25. “I’ll take $20 for that teapot,” she said. I didn't even try to talk her down any more. Just got out my wallet.
I didn’t need to research it. Yellow is the imperial color, and the style was 18th century. Made for the Emperor Chien Lung personally. Some Brit probably lifted it from the Winter Palace during a war. Stuff from there turns up every so often.
Know anybody else with a 250-year-old Chinese imperial teapot under his bed?
Well, it didn’t used to be in pieces.
Let me know about the day after that. Obviously I can’t come over to your place now.
Yeah.
Yeah.
Let me know what he says. See you soon.
Scene four, Sunday afternoon at two
ROSE knocks on the door. During the scene, she occasionally goes around to dust, tidy, straighten, etc.
ROSE:
Mr. Russo. It’s Rose. Mr. Russo. (FRANK opens the door.) I brought you some real butter, just in case. (She puts the butter in the refrigerator, mischievously checking the crisper. He pays little attention.)
FRANK:
I was right, Rose. I’ve read half the poems and they do have cussing—not as much as I thought. In fact, it’s a pretty good manuscript, but he still can’t tell the difference between i,t,s and i,t,apostrophe,s.
ROSE:
(Also not quite paying attention.) I knew he was smart.
FRANK:
I have a dilemma, Rose. I would hate to do this, but I may have to tell him the manuscript is a success. Nothing ruins a writer like success. So, do I tell a lie and proclaim that it’s bad, and merit his eternal anger, or do I tell him that it’s good, and thereby ruin him with pride and overconfidence, and merit his eternal anger?
ROSE:
(Not quite following) Oh, I don’t think you ought to tell him that. Anyway, you two have a lot of catching up to do.
FRANK:
How about this? I’ll tell him the book will be successful as long as he keeps it in the manila folder, but as soon it gets published it’s a failure. Nothing ruins a poem like publication.
ROSE:
I might as well tell you; people are already talking about complaining to the management if he moves in here again. Nobody cares about guests for a few days, but you having him stay here for a couple months was against the rules, and you remember I mentioned it then because I didn’t like it, except I figured you got your reasons and that was as far as I was going to go with it. I don’t butt in.
FRANK:
They didn’t waste any time. He certainly won’t be staying here, and by the way it’s none of their damn business.
ROSE:
That’s not what they’re saying, and I don’t mind taking their side, because you know the rules.
FRANK:
Denny needed a place; that decided it.
ROSE:
I can’t stand up for you this time. It’s just the rules—
FRANK:
Rules don’t matter.
ROSE:
Rules do matter, but you probably had a good reason.
FRANK:
There was a good reason.
ROSE:
You never told me about any good reason. I could’ve told the other folks. I’d help you out if I could, but I sure don’t know what I’d tell them now.
FRANK:
He had no place else to go.
ROSE:
Was he out on the street?
FRANK:
No, he had plenty of money.
ROSE:
Then how come a nice young man like that come around with no place to go? He had family.
FRANK:
I knew him since he was a kid. He called here one night. He’d been stationed down in Texas with the Marines and we chatted about this and that and finally he said, “Frank, do you know what I’ve been going through lately?” I didn’t. He said he just got out the psych ward at Bethesda, after three weeks of tests. I said I hoped they did something he could sue them for. He asked if I’d talked to his father recently. Well, his father had called a couple of weeks earlier but didn’t leave a message. So Denny told me how he was home on a visit and fooling around with his gun, except he called it his weapon. He got to talking tough about being a Marine, rah rah rah, and his father came up with the notion that he was dangerous, losing his grip, so he called the commandant and said his beloved son Denny was on his way back to the base saying peculiar things and going ape-shit with a gun. So the commandant hears the word “gun” and figures he’s got an international incident on his hands. He sends the MPs over to arrest him. No evidence. Just the word of his father. They parade him off in handcuffs with the rest of the unit watching. This is Denny’s version of the story, of course. By the time he gets up to Bethesda he’s about as pissed as any rational human being can possibly get. He’s screaming some choice Marine-talk at his father and the commandant and the Marines and God and the UN—not in that order—and by that time he probably did want to use his gun on a few select human beings. So they liberate him from his shoelaces and start a suicide watch. He absolutely refuses any drugs—good thing. After a few days he says he wants to go to confession because he’s so angry and hateful against his father, which is a sin, according to him, so they send in this priest. Denny talks his guts out: woe is me, blah, blah, blah, hate my father, very sorry—whatever Catholics say in there. A couple days later the doctors ask him some peculiar questions and it’s obvious that the priest gave them private information from the confession. Denny goes ballistic. Of course, without shoelaces he can’t strangle anybody, or himself, not that he wanted to. A couple more days, he gets savvy and starts playing along. More talk and tests—what do you see in this inkblot? I see peaceful doves who love the world. Finally they say, well, howdy do?, you’re just fine. If anybody’s crazy, it’s your father.
He goes back to the base, but everybody there knows he was in the loony bin and it had something to do with a gun, so bye, bye, Semper Fi. After a week, the poor guy is convinced everybody is out to get him—his father, the doctors, the commandant, the priest, the people in the office. He asks for two months leave to relax somewhere. Obviously he can’t go home with dear old Pappy, so he starts calling around to relatives, buddies from high school, people here in town—anybody. In the meantime his very businesslike and thorough father has called up every relation in the immediate world and all Denny’s friends, saying, poor Denny, he’s crazy, went off the deep end, dangerous, gun, Bethesda, no more shoelaces, etc. When Denny calls, they reply with a great deal of suspicious compassion, “Denny, how are you? No, really, how are you?” But, of course, “Don’t come near me, you terrorist.” Then he calls his old friend me. Blissfully ignorant, I talk to him like a human being. “Hi, Denny, great to hear from you.” He says he has to get away everybody. I had room here.
ROSE:
(Hesitantly) Seems like a real nice young man. Real friendly.
FRANK:
When he moved in I hardly recognized him. He just stared off into the distance or paced the floor. Seething with rage. He had reason.
ROSE:
Was he telling the truth about the doctors’ report?
FRANK:
At first I didn’t know, but I decided to trust him anyway. And they let him leave the hospital, so they didn’t think he was dangerous. Later he showed me the medical papers. The doctors said he was way too religious, but other than that he was fine. Also, every day he stayed here he was a little bit calmer. So he wasn’t crazy.
ROSE:
I remember he liked to have those candles burning all night long in the little glass cups.
FRANK:
He said they helped him pray, but I don’t know what he meant by that. He’d get up in the middle of the night and sneak around humming like a monk. Psalms, I suppose. He was having a lot of trouble sleeping—maybe staying up all night was what he called praying, I don’t know.
ROSE:
What did his father say about his living here?
FRANK:
I never told him. I did tell his mother—we were in the same class at North-Central. Besides, Denny had commanded me not to talk with his loving father, which was fine with me. Back to the point—he doesn’t need a place to stay now and I wouldn’t let him stay here if he did.
ROSE:
It’s not me you got to worry about, it’s the neighbors.
FRANK:
Mind their own business.
ROSE:
Everybody has to keep the rules.
FRANK:
Damned rules, damned neighbors.
ROSE:
Anyhow, how many rolls you figure you two will eat?
FRANK:
Make a big batch, if you can. He won’t be coming back again and they’re good leftover. I’ll eat them my greedy old self.
ROSE:
Well, excuse me, but I surely hope he does come back. Is he staying?
FRANK:
I said I won’t let him!
ROSE:
I mean is he staying in town?
FRANK:
He’s staying with his mother. They divorced; dad moved to the West Coast.
ROSE:
Well, you’re not the only one he ever came to supper with. I may just invite him myself.
FRANK:
My dead body.
ROSE:
Anyhow, are you all set up for tonight?
FRANK:
I’ll be fine. Just fine.
ROSE:
(Leaving) Let me know if I can help. I’ll bring the rolls down at six-fifteen.
FRANK:
Fine.
(Rose exits.)
Scene five, Sunday night, seven-twenty
FRANK is working in the kitchen, standing in a wobbly fashion. He’s been drinking and continues throughout the scene. The buzzer sounds and he buzzes DENNY in, after looking at the clock. He wheels over and cracks the door open, then returns to his business. Goes to the fridge, starts making another drink. A symphony is playing in the background. A few moments later, DENNY enters and closes the door behind him. He neatly throws his cap on the hook.
FRANK:
You missed happy hour. In fact, you missed supper. I ate already.
DENNY:
Sorry. Fucking ran out of gas. Got lost when I tried to walk.
FRANK:
Fortunately, I didn’t miss anything. I started happy hour an hour early. Not early enough, though.
DENNY:
Gin and tonic?
FRANK:
Plenty more.
DENNY:
Hit me. . . . Smells good.
FRANK:
Miz Rose’s nutritious and fastidious yeast rolls. Or is it nutridious and fasticious? Anyhow, Miz Rose brought these down. Plenty.
DENNY:
Excellent.
FRANK:
Hand-made.
DENNY:
Very nice.
FRANK:
Always are.
DENNY:
I mean her—she’s nice.
FRANK:
Then you never met her evil twin; lives with her. They exchange places when you turn your head slightly askew.
DENNY:
Okay, okay.
FRANK:
Like bifocals. Just the slightest change of angle—
DENNY:
Okay, okay. Shit, you think you’re paying attention, then run out of gas.
FRANK:
The evil one has a hump; that’s how you can—
DENNY:
Remember the time we were driving back from that auction over in downtown Detroit and I ran us out of gas? I wasn’t paying any attention.
FRANK:
Neither one of us was paying attention. I was reading Wallace Stevens to you. Maybe we both dozed off.
DENNY:
I pulled over and you looked me straight in the eye. “Everybody makes mistakes.” You were so serious (laughing).
FRANK:
No, I was trying to be funny. You were beating your fists on the steering wheel at the time. I took that as unreasonable frustration and acted accordingly.
DENNY:
Then you said, “Denny, repeat after me: Everybody makes mistakes.” I wouldn’t say it. Then you looked at me like things weren’t funny anymore, so I said it: “Everybody makes mistakes.” Strange how something like that . . . .
FRANK:
If your goal is to live without making any mistakes, you’re making a big mistake. (Chuckling at his own joke.)
DENNY:
Not a very profound thought to jumpstart a philosophy of life.
FRANK:
Nothing like a philosophy of life to get you depressed.
DENNY:
I left my car and started walking, cause I didn’t think it was that far, then I got stuck in some industrial park that didn’t go through. Sat down for a while and kicked a couple pounds of gravel into the gutter.
FRANK:
Good. Drink this and you’ll be hugging a few gutters, not filling them with gravel.
DENNY:
Everybody makes mistakes.
FRANK:
Never let some proverb change your life.
DENNY:
If you believe it’s true it ought to change your life.
FRANK:
Believing it was true did change your life. Too bad. Now you regret mistakes you never used to regret. Your life therefore has more guilt. Assuming you still believe it. And assuming that it did change your life. You’re making progress. Maybe someday you’ll squirm free of your chrysalis . . . or something.
DENNY:
The thing was, you used my name. You called me Denny. You hardly ever did that. “Denny, repeat after me.”
FRANK:
We were just a mile from the exit. We could have abandoned the car and walked home. You could have, anyhow, dragging me behind you on a travois. Was there an emergency travois in the trunk?
DENNY:
I never thought that way before about making mistakes.
FRANK:
Funny phrase, “making” mistakes, as if it’s something creative. A mistake is something you can make. Maybe someday I’ll make a mistake, just for the novelty.
DENNY:
I feel like crap. Sorry about supper. What are you listening to?
FRANK:
A moment ago the student announcer—I can declare with confidence that it is a student announcer—proclaimed to the mildly attentive clientele that this is Symphony Number One by Dimitri ShosTACKovich. Can’t these morons check pronunciation? I should keep a list and publish it. You missed a good one last summer. Some idiot savant announced the upcoming selection as “Music for the Feast of Corpus Crispy.” I called him on the phone. I called the asshole up and screamed into the phone, didn’t even tell him my name, the first thing I said, (screaming) “CORPUS CRISPY?” He said, “Yeah, I knew as soon as I said it there was something wrong.” I decided to take that as an apology. I coached him and he said it properly when the symphony ended. Keep all the Catholics happy. And the Texans. And the highly familial Shostakoviches.
DENNY:
Can I get some stew?
FRANK:
It’s still on the stove.
DENNY:
Is this a clean bowl?
FRANK:
I’ll get one. You can put the napkins out. Paper napkins. It’s got tomatoes. It’s goo-oood. Whoa, out of napkins. Why didn’t I notice that before, when I ran out of napkins?
DENNY:
Missed having your stew.
FRANK:
No, you didn’t. You didn’t miss it at all.
DENNY:
You made that point yesterday. Are you going to keep at it? I’d just like to know.
FRANK:
I suppose I’ll keep making it until you go to confession. Are you standing up to me? Disagreeing with me? You never used to do that. Growing up?
DENNY:
No, I haven’t grown up. (Chuckling)
FRANK:
Grown-ups does what they wants. Part of the definition. Job one. Here’s the napkins. I guess somebody put them over here.
DENNY:
You took me in, and then I ran off one afternoon and didn’t come back. It’s a fact.
FRANK:
Two facts. Oh, no regrets. No blood, no foul. Is that part of your philosophy of life too?
DENNY:
No. Just a fact. I mean the leaving, not the regrets.
FRANK:
You left without any warning, any explanation. Where does that fit in? The salt’s over there, unless you’ve repented of that too. When will you get tired of me fussing at you and pop me in the mouth?
DENNY:
There’s nothing I’d like more. I’d prefer to shoot you, except that I bruised my trigger finger on the detonator as I was blowing up the County-City Building, just before I came over here. You must have heard the explosion.
FRANK:
Hadn’t heard. Very grown-up, I must say.
DENNY:
That’s why it was such a bitch running out of gas.
FRANK:
I can imagine. Quite an embarrassment, with all those squad cars in hot pursuit.
DENNY:
Seemed like the whole world was after me. Helicopters, searchlights. It should be on the news right about now. Later there’s the special report about me toppling the government.
FRANK:
Governments—can’t live with ‘em; can’t live without ‘em. I keep my eye on the government by way of my trusty TV. It has spying devices. They watch me; I watch them. Evens the playing field.
DENNY:
Too bad you don’t have a TV.
FRANK:
Too bad, too bad.
DENNY:
The First Symphony by Dimitri ShosTAKovich is on after the news. David Letterman is guest-conducting.
FRANK:
David who?
DENNY:
Blessed are the pure of heart.
FRANK:
Tomorrow night is the last time I have available to see you, Denny.
DENNY:
Ah. . . . Well, I suppose that’s understandable. Reason why?
FRANK:
This time you will be leaving town with an explanation, except it’s my explanation instead of yours, since you never had one.
DENNY:
Don’t I get a chance to explain? It would only take a few days.
FRANK:
I’ve already thought of all your explanations—two years go by pretty slow—and none of them makes any sense. Trust me.
DENNY:
If I won’t get a chance to explain, why should I come back tomorrow night?
FRANK:
Fatted spaghetti!
DENNY:
Not much interest in that.
FRANK:
Actually, no fatted spaghetti. I’m hosting a small poetry slam. An intimate poetry slam. Eight o’clock. The idea flew at me today out of a bottle just after happy hour ratcheted itself up to the intensity of a solitary roar.
DENNY:
Is this an invitation?
FRANK:
You against me. Your manuscript is on the table—I only read the first half. Any of those will be fine. Or any others. I’ll ask Rose to be the judge, which means I’ll win, because she likes me better. I feed anchovies to her evil twin.
DENNY:
You said you didn’t have any new pieces.
FRANK:
I have a few.
DENNY:
I thought you weren’t writing any more.
FRANK:
I lied. I said that to make you feel guilty.
DENNY:
Why would I feel guilty about that?
FRANK:
Never mind.
DENNY:
Sounds like a good idea. As long as we get to comment on each other’s poems, like we used to.
FRANK:
Open mike. Open comments. Open door. Open, Sesame.
DENNY:
I’d like to invite someone.
FRANK:
Who?
DENNY:
Heather.
FRANK:
Never heard of her.
DENNY:
She’s my wife.
FRANK:
Ever leave her?
DENNY:
What kind of a sick question is that?
FRANK:
Sorry, just the first thing that sprang into my mind. Actually, I’m not sorry. It’s my fault for not asking about what you’ve been doing since the day you left so quirkily in the middle of the day without a forwarding address or a backward look. Or a goodbye.
DENNY:
I thought that if I started to explain why I was leaving you’d talk me out of it.
FRANK:
Something in that, my boy.
DENNY:
I would have been a fake to stay.
FRANK:
Aren’t we all fakes? I think poets are. Most of them, anyhow. Some of them. Maybe none of them.
DENNY:
Will you listen or not?
FRANK:
Free country.
DENNY:
Okay, at first I wandered. I never went back to the Marines—too much dirt in my personnel file by then. But honorable discharge. Just paperwork. I never had to see anybody. Glad to get rid of me. Couple weeks after I left here, I started working out serious again. Found a good trainer in Valdosta. Lived on the money I saved from the military, wrote some poems, a couple of kids’ stories, got to know some people in the bars. I looked good, kept my hair short; they like that down there. One night I was walking past a vacant lot and see this tent revival. I come in at the back for a while and nothing seemed to be happening, but the preacher talked as if something was about to happen. He was asking whether anybody in the audience had the Confidence. The Confidence of faith. You could have faith, but then you could also have the Confidence of faith. The sure thing, I guess he meant. Nobody else was going up, so I figured I would. There were only about 50, 75 people there, mostly women, and everybody started singing. So I head up the aisle and talk to this guy who’s standing there and he asks if I want to testify. I say I guess so. I step up on stage and the preacher comes over all excited and is asking me these questions about the Confidence, and I say I’ve got it. And I look real good, from working out, pretty good tan from running, and when he gives me the mike I can see these women shift in their seats, singing with their eyes on me. So I put my shoulders back and I waited for the hymn to stop, and these women were looking at every move I made. When I was in the service I did some bodybuilding competitions just for the hell of it, so I went into a few positions, not all the way, just slightly, twisting at the waist, raising my shoulders, looking good, and these women just ate it up. Then the preacher started leading me on with these loud questions and pretty much all I had to do was answer yes, but when I did I’d stick my chin up a little, right? Stare out over the audience with a serious face. I was impressive—this good-looking young guy with old-time religion. Well, I was a good Catholic, I really believed in God, right, so what was the problem? One time when the preacher was asking me a question I winked at him—not so the audience could see, but just to let him know he and I were in on it together, on the show. That we were brothers. His eyes went kind of sick then. He looked over at the usher and then he pushed me off to the side of the stage, and the usher led me down and off to the back in some little counseling area. Then it was like I came to, like I’d been a different person up on stage and something had taken me over—pride or something. Something that wasn’t really me was trying to use me. I busted down crying because I didn’t know who I was or what it was I did. The wink made him figure I didn’t believe in God, that I was faking, but I really did believe, but if I did why was I behaving that way? It didn’t make any sense. Like somehow my belief in God made me a sinner. But I do believe. I wasn’t lying. So for weeks I was thinking all this shit, like who am I and why did I do that, and am I faking it, but I know I’m not. I started going back to church every day.
FRANK:
And then along comes Heather.
DENNY:
One of these days you won’t be clever enough to figure out everything. She was there in the tent that night, and I showed up at her church one Sunday about a month later. She recognized me.
FRANK:
And the rest is mystery.
DENNY:
Yeah. Yeah.
FRANK:
The coming of the Muse.
DENNY:
Okay. Okay. I was just trying to explain.
FRANK:
Is she beautiful?
DENNY:
She’s gorgeous. She’s intelligent. It was instant. One day I realized that she loved me too, but for no reason. For nothing I’d ever done or ever was. She just . . . . It’s the greatest thing that ever happened to me.
FRANK:
Glad to hear it. See that cardboard box on the counter, under your manuscript? Could you open it up for me? There’s something I want you to see.
Scene six, Monday morning
ROSE and FRANK are in the apartment. She putters around occasionally, cleaning, straightening, etc.
ROSE:
Remember, I can’t pick up groceries this week; my sister made her hair appointment for tomorrow and she’s my only ride over there.
FRANK:
Still going out this Friday?
ROSE:
Not this week. Too much to do. Always got too much going on.
FRANK:
I can go shopping in the wheelchairmobile on Thursday. Tonight still okay for the poetry, right? I appreciate you coming down.
ROSE:
You really think it will help Denny out? I sure don’t feel right about setting myself up as judge.
FRANK:
I’m setting you up as judge. All you need to do is give your impressions, what strikes you about the poems. If you like one poem more than another one, give it more points.
ROSE:
I’ve listened to some poems at church, and I don’t like them. Sometimes the pastor lets folks read them on Wednesday night, if they’re good Christian poems. Sound like hymns, mostly. Say the same thing all the time. Too much rhyme. Dee-doody-doody-doo. I like something different. Not that I complain.
FRANK:
You’ll like Denny’s poems—but remember, you can’t like his more than mine. You have to live with me the rest of your life, or the rest of my life.
ROSE:
Why can’t you just be nice to that boy?
FRANK:
I was nice to that boy.
ROSE:
You know what I mean. He wants to live his own life.
FRANK:
He is living his own life.
ROSE:
He’s trying to be nice to you.
FRANK:
About time.
ROSE:
And you’re mad at him.
FRANK:
Not mad. Not mad at all.
ROSE:
Don’t count the cost—that’s what the pastor says.
FRANK:
And what cost is that?
ROSE:
What it cost you to take him in.
FRANK:
Didn’t cost anything. I decided to let him move in. After that I didn’t care what it cost. You mean food money? He chipped in.
ROSE:
You know I don’t mean that.
FRANK:
You can’t imagine how confused he was. Frantic.
ROSE:
I bet you helped him good. Fussed over him all the time. Did you change his diaper when he—
FRANK:
He needed it. You’d think somebody old enough for the Marines would know how to turn off a faucet.
ROSE:
Do you figure he owes you something? What does he owe you?
FRANK:
Nothing.
ROSE:
You want him to thank you?
FRANK:
If he feels like thanking me.
ROSE:
But you don’t expect him to.
FRANK:
No.
ROSE:
Then what do you want him to do?
FRANK:
I don’t want him to do anything.
ROSE:
You’re not acting that way.
FRANK:
I’m not acting any way.
ROSE:
You set a trap for him with that teapot. You should have thrown that old thing out.
FRANK:
Shock treatment. But I perceive he has laid his head upon your motherly bosom.
ROSE:
My door is always open. He stopped by after he left here.
FRANK:
If your rates are good I might stop by myself. I suppose you talked about me.
ROSE:
He wants to get along again. Be friends.
FRANK:
What’s stopping him?
ROSE:
You sitting there with your scraggly old neck stuck out.
FRANK:
Friendship means equality. He doesn’t want that. Maybe he wants to repent instead.
ROSE:
What’s he got to repent of?
FRANK:
I could think of a few things.
ROSE:
I know you could. I mean, well, that’s not any of your business. Except— Everybody— You talk different from anybody else I know. Sometimes I don’t even know what—
FRANK:
Not a letter, not a call. Two years. He could have been dead. Not just me—he never called his mother either.
ROSE:
Youngsters are supposed to take from you. They take your blood when they come, and they take your heart when they go.
FRANK:
He was always free to leave.
ROSE:
And he left. Good for him. That’s how it ought to be.
FRANK:
So, him clearing out one afternoon—while I was taking a walk—that’s how it ought to be? Not a word?
ROSE:
I’m just saying, that’s the way everybody feels when their kids go off.
FRANK:
I’m not his papa!
ROSE:
I know what it feels like. I know just what it feels like.
FRANK:
If he wants to be friends with anybody, he could start by being friends with his mother.
ROSE:
That’s another thing, he’s sorry for that. He’s making up with her, too. Which reminds me, if he didn’t even call his mother for two years, why would he call you?
FRANK:
Who would have thought?
ROSE:
Thought what?
FRANK:
That I could ever do such a decent job. A dose of encouragement one day, a casual insight the next day. Never raised my voice. Paid attention to every word, the slightest nuances, factored in his reactions day by day. Took some gambles and won. We talked every night, for hours—nothing we couldn’t talk about—sometimes I could guess what he was going to say.
ROSE:
Mercy, and he lived to tell the story?
FRANK:
He loved it.
ROSE:
Then I guess he was crazy after all. Both of you, talking each other to death. Two of a kind.
FRANK:
Mainly I tried to convince him that his father made an honest mistake when he alerted the commandant.
ROSE:
Did he believe you?
FRANK:
No. I can’t say that I believed it myself, but that’s what had to be said.
ROSE:
What was—
FRANK:
Sometimes he thought I was plotting with his father secretly, that I was reporting on him. He thought everybody was against him, never called any of his friends again. Never tried to defend himself or explain what had happened. Maybe he was trying to ruin his life the rest of the way just to make his father more guilty. One night he got a little scary, challenged me to admit that I’d been talking to his father. I swore I hadn’t. He didn’t believe me. Finally I swore if I was lying that my perfidious soul would burn in hell for all eternity. That shut him up for a while, but I don’t know if he actually believed me.
ROSE:
He was sure upside down.
FRANK:
Yes he was. Isn’t it obvious to you? (Ironically) God brought us together.
ROSE:
You know, I hope to live to see the day you have something nice to say about God.
FRANK:
The much-beloved Lord and I are not on speaking terms.
ROSE:
Suits both of you just fine, I guess. Not that it’s any of—
FRANK:
Besides, when a person talks about God the point is not just to be nice. A fellow named Dante—that’s his first name, you wouldn’t believe his last name—once wrote a long poem just about hell, very religious. Not very nice. If I thought God existed, I wouldn’t have sworn my soul into hell for lying.
ROSE:
You mean you lied to that boy?
FRANK:
No, I didn’t lie. I never spoke to his father, but even if I had I wouldn’t be afraid of going to hell.
ROSE:
We might as well stop right here. Or keep the Lord out of it. I learned my lesson with you.
FRANK:
Rose, what would you give for me to be a churchgoer? Do you pray for it?
ROSE:
I don’t pray for that. I won’t pray for it because it’s the Lord’s doing, not mine. It’s not for me to give and take. Don’t you get me in a discussion about the Lord.
FRANK:
Don’t you pray for all the bad people?
ROSE:
I pray for people. Doesn’t matter to me whether they’re good or bad.
FRANK:
I’m a bad person. Atheist. Don’t you pray especially hard for me? Love thy neighbor.
ROSE:
You’re not a bad person. You’re a sinner. Just because you’re a sinner doesn’t mean you’re a bad person.
FRANK:
Oho, I thought sinners were a | | |
