Catch As Catch Can

by Joseph Heller

  “It’ll get cold.”

  “I don’t want anymore,” Max said.

  “Go finish your dinner, Max,” Peter said. “I’ll wait.”

  Max paused doubtfully. Then he followed her out. Peter heard them whispering and he was pleased. He slumped on the divan, thinking. Max looked better. He had gained weight and he actually looked younger. There was nothing he could say for the woman. She was plain, spinsterish. He guessed from the ink stains on Max’s arms that he was working. And he knew what he himself must do. He must force Max to return.

  He thumbed slowly through a magazine, studying the advertisements with contempt, until Max returned. Max came in slowly. He walked to the side of a chair and waited. Peter re mained silent. He held a pack of cigarettes out. Max shook his head. Peter took one and replaced the pack. He brushed the tobacco crumbs from the end and sighed. He lit the cigarette and smoked. Finally, Max spoke.

  “Let’s get to the point, Peter,” he said.

  “All right, Max,” Peter said. “We’ll get to the point. Sit down.” Max sat down. “Why did you stop writing?”

  Max answered slowly, choosing his words with care. “A lot of things happened while I was gone. I had a chance to look around and think. I had a lot of time to think. I changed my whole outlook, Peter, and I realized that you belonged to the past.”

  He stopped and Peter pursed his lips and pretended he was thinking. It was exactly what he had expected. “What are you doing now?” he asked.

  “I’m working,” Max replied. “I have a job with a printing firm.”

  “A union shop, I hope,” Peter said, joking. He waited until Max smiled, then, quickly, he said, “You know what you’ve done, Max? You’ve quit cold.”

  Max shifted uncomfortably.

  “You’ve become a simple proletariat, that’s what.”

  “I thought you liked the proletariat,” Max said defiantly.

  “I do. But I don’t like a coward.”

  “Coward? Why do you say that?”

  “Because you are. You’re leaving the fight. Your beliefs haven’t changed that much.”

  “They really haven’t changed at all,” Max said. “I’m tired of fighting, that’s all. I’ve done it all my life and now I want to rest. I want to take a little time off to enjoy life. I want to enjoy it as much as I can.”

  “That’s very nice,” Peter said, derisively. “That’s really very nice. How much enjoyment do you think you’d have if everyone felt that way?”

  “Everyone doesn’t feel that way.”

  “That’s another fine argument. You’re full of fine arguments, Max. You couldn’t live this way for long and you know it. You’re too intelligent to be satisfied. Now listen to me. Things are very bad and we need an experienced man like you. There’s a meeting this Monday. I’ll expect you.”

  “Leave me alone, Peter. Why can’t you leave me alone?”

  “It’s for your own good, Max. You’d better come back.”

  “I’m not coming back,” Max said. His thin, sharp face was determined.

  “Yes you are,” Peter said. “Max, I don’t want to have to threaten you.”

  “Then don’t.”

  “You’re not satisfied here. The neighborhood is dirty. You smell garbage in the hall. You don’t have so much.”

  “I have enough to be happy.”

  “Happy!” Peter exclaimed, with indignant anger. “Why the hell should you be happy? The whole world is miserable and you want to be happy. I’m not happy. Why the hell should you be?”

  “Yes, you are,” Max said. “You all are. Nobody forces you into what you’re doing. It makes you happy. You enjoy it.”

  Peter stood up quickly. “All right, Max,” he said quietly. “I tried to be nice but you wouldn’t let me. You can’t see. You’re blinded by a woman’s body and home-cooked meals and you can’t see. Well, I’m telling you what to do. You be at that meeting. If you’re not there, you’d better get the hell out of this place and go somewhere where I can’t find you, because I’m going to annoy the hell out of you.”

  “Peter, why don’t you leave me alone?”

  “I’m not going to. Now are you going to be there or not?”

  Max’s face sagged, and in a moment he looked old and tired, and very much defeated. “All right,” he said slowly. “I’ll be there.”

  “That’s good, Max,” Peter said. His heavy face broke into a smile. Now that it was over, he was glad. He felt that everything was all right, that Max was back and they would be good friends again, that everything would be different now.

  Unnoticed by either of them, the woman came from the kitchen and moved toward the door. “Don’t do it, Max,” she said.

  The two men turned with surprise. The woman stopped before the door, her empty arms limp at her sides, her face fluid with emotion.

  “Sarah, go back in the kitchen,” Max said.

  “No,” she said, in a low, brittle voice. “I won’t let him do it.”

  Her tense face frightened Peter. She stood before him, pathetic and helpless, a small, unhappy woman about to cry, and suddenly, as he looked at her, he grew afraid. “Max, get her out of here.”

  Max looked at her for a few seconds. Then he turned back to Peter. “There’s your answer,” he said quietly. “I’m not coming back.”

  “All right,” Peter said. “You know what I’m gonna do.”

  Peter looked at the woman, then at Max. “All right,” he said. “You know what I’m gonna do.”

  “I know,” Max said. “There’s nothing I can do to stop you.”

  “No there isn’t.” Peter stepped toward the door and stopped. The woman barred his way.

  “I can stop you,” she said, and began crying.

  Peter stepped back, watching the tears grow in her eyes and tumble down her cheeks, the thin, shaking shoulders. “Max! Get her out of here.” She sobbed aloud and he retreated another step. “Get her out, Max.”

  “Go back in the kitchen,” Max said.

  “Don’t let him do it, Max,” she pleaded. She straightened, and for a moment she faced Peter defiantly, then, as though re alizing how futile it was, her body sagged and she moved slowly to the kitchen. In the doorway, she turned to speak. A loud sob choked her voice, and she fled into the kitchen. Peter stared after her, listening to her muffled sobs.

  “You made her cry,” Max said.

  Peter shifted his great weight with guilt. “I’m sorry,” he said, his eyes fixed on the doorway. “Does she always cry like that?”

  “I don’t know,” Max said. “I never saw her cry before.” He stepped to the side and faced Peter. “You can go now,” he said. “There’s no one in your way.”

  Peter kept looking toward the kitchen. The sobbing stopped, but he continued to stare, thinking. Then he turned slowly. “I won’t bother you, Max,” he said. Max didn’t move. “Do you understand, Max? I won’t bother you.”

  Relief came to Max’s face, and he smiled. “You mean that?”

  “Yes,” Peter said. “I mean that.” He moved to the door. “I’ll go now. I’m sorry I disturbed you. I don’t suppose we’ll see each other again. Good-bye, Max.”

  “Good-bye, Peter,” Max said. He waited impatiently, unsure of himself as long as Peter remained.

  Peter turned to go. He could see that Max wanted him to leave. In the doorway, he stopped, hesitated, and turned again.

  “Max,” he said. He spoke quickly, in a strange humble voice. “Do you think that maybe some night you could ask me over for dinner?”

  Max looked at him with surprise.

  “I could dress up,” Peter continued quickly. “I have a new suit and I would wear it, and we could be like old friends.”

  Max came forward, beaming with joy. “Of course, Peter. Why don’t you stay tonight?”

  Peter was about to agree. Then he looked at the kitchen and shook his head. “Not tonight, Max,” he said. “I have to keep an appointment. Sometime next week maybe.”

&n
bsp; “Any time at all,” Max said.

  “You call me up and invite me, eh Max?”

  “Sure, Peter. I’ll call you.”

  They shook hands without pressure, and Peter walked out and moved around to the top of the steps. His hand found the bannister and he started down slowly, feeling tired and perspiring already, and knowing sadly that he would never see Max again. He thought of the woman. He was sorry that he had made her cry. She was a plain woman and a complete stranger to him, but he knew he could very easily fall in love with just such a woman.

  CLEVINGER’S TRIAL*

  A Play in One Act

  About the process of adapting the novel to a stage play, Mr. Heller has stated: “It was clear from the outset that large changes would have to be made. Much of the book would be eliminated or compressed. Many well-known episodes were excluded simply because they could not fit closely enough with the chosen themes of war, death, persecution, and repression. Some were discarded with relief; others were abandoned with reluctance. The trial of Clevinger was written and then taken out with regret for reasons of length rather than substance. The scene ran nearly twenty pages, too many for a secondary character whose basic function in the play is to come on stage as a trusting, idealistic young man and be slaughtered. As countless acting classes have discovered from the time the book was published, the chapter ‘plays beautifully,’ and I knew I would probably offer it soon as a one-act play, since most of the work of dramatizing it was already done.”

  What follows is the one-act playClevinger’s Trial, published here for the first time, based upon Chapter 8 of Joseph Heller’s novel Catch-22 and upon Section 8 of Official Army Regulations, which deals with lunacy.

  A table, some chairs, a small bench. A rifle rack, with one rifle standing, and one shovel.

  Clevinger enters from one side, carrying a cumbersome, antiquated rifle on his shoulder, pacing slowly as though on sentry duty. Yossarian enters from the other side.

  Yossarian

  What are you doing on sentry duty?

  Clevinger

  I’m not on sentry duty.

  (Clevinger turns and paces in the other direction. Yossarian walks along with him.)

  Yossarian

  Why are you walking back and forth with that rifle?

  Clevinger

  It’s a penalty tour. I got a hundred and fifty-seven hours of them.

  Yossarian

  For what?

  Clevinger

  I’m not sure.

  Yossarian

  Clevinger, I told you you’d get in trouble someday, always obeying orders.

  Clevinger

  It wasn’t that, Yossarian. One day I stumbled in formation, while we were practicing parading, and the next thing I knew I was up on trial.

  Yossarian

  For stumbling? That’s a serious crime.

  Clevinger

  I know I must deserve what I got, or they wouldn’t have punished me. I couldn’t be innocent, could I?

  Yossarian

  Clevinger, you’re a dope.

  Clevinger

  That’swhen it began. When you called me a dope.

  Yossarian

  I’m always calling you a dope.

  Clevinger

  I mean the time Lieutenant Scheisskopf called all the men together because we were all so unhappy with him. Remember?

  Yossarian

  Sure, I remember.

  (They move to the bench and sit down.)

  Clevinger

  I’m going to tell him, Yossarian. If he asks—

  Yossarian

  Clevinger, don’t be a dope.

  (Lieutenant Scheisskopf enters, wild and distraught, and speaks as though addressing a multitude of seated soldiers. He carries a sheet of paper to which he occasionally refers.)

  Scheisskopf

  Why me? (He paces about like a tragic actor.)

  Yossarian

  (Sotto voce)Why not?

  Scheisskopf

  Why must it be me, Lieutenant Scheisskopf, who has to have the unhappiest squadron of cadets on the whole air base? Do you know how it makes me feel to see you all so miserable? Do you know what other officers call me?

  Yossarian

  Shithead.

  Scheisskopf

  Is it any of my fault?

  Yossarian

  Yes.

  Clevinger

  I think it’s our duty to tell him.

  Yossarian

  I think it’s our duty to keep our mouths shut.

  Scheisskopf

  Do you know what the problem is? I know what the problem is. It’s your morale. You’ve got bad morale… very bad. I’ve been in the army a long time, fourteen months, and I have seen some bad morale in my time, but your morale is really terrible. You have the worst morale I have ever seen.

  Yossarian

  That’s true.

  Scheisskopf

  You’ve got no… (consults his paper)… esprit de corps.

  Clevinger

  That is true.

  Scheisskopf

  Don’t I do everything I can for you?

  Yossarian

  No.

  Scheisskopf

  Don’t I make you practice marching more than any other squadron so you’ll look better in the Sunday parades? And what happens?

  Yossarian

  We look worse.

  Scheisskopf

  You look worse. If you meet me halfway, don’t I always meet you more than halfway?

  Yossarian

  That may be why we never meet at all.

  Scheisskopf

  I can tell you this. How sharper than… (glances at paper) … a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless group of men like you in my command.

  Yossarian

  Not bad.

  Clevinger

  It will make it easier if we tell him.

  Yossarian

  Don’t be stupid, stupid.

  Scheisskopf

  Let’s bring it all out into the open, man to man.

  Isn’t there one person in the whole lot of you with the guts to speak the… (glances at paper) … truth?

  (Clevinger puts his arm up. Yossarian jerks it down.)

  Clevinger

  I’m going to tell him.

  Yossarian

  Keep still, idiot.

  Clevinger

  You don’t know what you’re talking about.

  Yossarian

  I know enough to keep still, idiot.

  Scheisskopf

  I want someone to tell me. If any of it is my fault,

  I want to be told.

  Clevinger

  He wants someone to tell him.

  (Clevinger puts his arm up. Yossarian jerks it down.)

  Yossarian

  He wants everyone to keep still, idiot.

  Clevinger

  Didn’t you just hear him?

  Yossarian

  I heard him. I heard him say very loudly and very distinctly that he wants every one of us to keep our mouths shut if we know what’s good for us.

  Scheisskopf

  I won’t punish you.

  Clevinger

  He says he won’t punish me.

  Yossarian

  He’ll castrate you.

  Scheisskopf

  I swear I won’t punish you. I’ll be grateful to the man who tells me the truth.

  Yossarian

  He’ll hate you. To his dying day he’ll hate you.

  Clevinger

  You’re wrong.

  Yossarian

  You’re a dope.

  Scheisskopf

  My office door is always open. (He exits.)

  Clevinger

  I’m going to tell him.

  (Clevinger hurries out after him. He stumbles on the way. Yossarian exits in the opposite direction. Clevinger is brought back in immediately, a prisoner of Scheisskopf and Major Metcalf. The colonel and a stenographer enter from the other side and take places behind the d
esk.)

  Colonel

  Okay, let’s move it along. Major Metcalf ? Who’s next?

  Metcalf

  Clevinger, sir.

  Colonel

  What’s the charge against him?

  Metcalf

  Guilty.

  Colonel

  Good. What’s the verdict?

  Metcalf

  Telling the truth.

  Colonel

  That’s terrible. Any evidence?

  Metcalf

  He went to college, listens to classical music, likes foreign movies, asks questions, disagrees—

  Colonel

  I know the type. Bring the insubordinate son-ofa-bitch in.

  Metcalf

  He’s here.

  Colonel

  Good. We can save valuable time when there’s a war going on. Which one of you two insubordinate son-of-a-bitches is the criminal?

  Scheisskopf

  (Quickly)He is, sir. I’m Scheisskopf.

  Clevinger

  That’s not entirely true, sir.

  Colonel

  That he’s Scheisskopf?

  Clevinger

  That I’m a criminal. I’ve only been accused, sir, and I’m innocent until proven guilty. All I did was stumble in formation and…

  Colonel

  Who says so?

  Clevinger

  Everyone, sir. The Bill of Rights, the Declaration of Independence, the common law, the Military Code of Justice, the—

  Colonel

  You believe all that crap?

  Clevinger

  Yes, sir. I’m a free citizen in a free country, and I have certain rights guaranteed to me by—

  Colonel

  You’re nothing of the kind. You’re a prisoner in my dock. So go stand there in my dock and keep your stupid, young, insolent mouth shut.

  Clevinger

  Where’s the dock?

  Colonel

  Metcalf, where’s my dock?

  Metcalf

  I’m not sure, sir. What’s a dock?

  Scheisskopf

  It’s where a ship comes in.

  Metcalf

  What ship?

  Colonel

  The ship that’s going to carry one of you people away to the Solomon Islands to bury bodies if we don’t get moving fast enough. In sixty days you’ve got to be rough enough and tough enough to fight Billy Petrolle, and you think it’s a big, fat joke, don’t you?

  Clevinger

  No, sir. I don’t think it’s a big, fat joke.

  Metcalf