WIFE: EX—
MAN: Don’t put so much emphasis on EX. Remember that my retirement was premature and entirely of my own volition—as distinguished from yours . . .
WIFE: Are you implyin’ that I was a hustler, too?
MAN: In the case of a female, the term is hooker, not hustler, mein Herz.
[She swings the axe at him but he moves his wheelchair downstage with startling rapidity, thus escaping the blow.]
MAN: Wow. Did you push my chair, dear?
WIFE [raising the axe for another try]: Put the brakes on the chair, dear.
MAN [idly compositing a song of this line]:
Put the brakes on the chair, dear,
Put the brakes on the chair.
Put the brakes on the wheels of the chair
And I won’t need a comb to part my hair . . .
[He takes out a pocket comb and mirror and smooths back his gleaming pompadour.]
WIFE: Just you wait till I recover my breath . . . [She draws up a straight back chair and sits behind him, breathing like an old hound-dog, the axe resting in her lap.]
MAN: I was just looking through a page of recipes in this old issue of a ladies’ mag called Good Housekeeping. This is a recipe for those who are called weight-watchers. Might be of some interest to you.
WIFE: Implyin’ that I’m—?
MAN: To imply would be useless and the useless is virtually synonymous with the worthless.
WIFE: Now you’re onto a subject that’s relevant to yeself, Daddy-O, if ever a subject was.
MAN: Relevant? —Strange how I fail so consistently to follow your verbalized trains of thought . . .
WIFE: Man, have you made your peace with God?
MAN: —How do you spell that word?
WIFE: God is spelled just opposite to dog, and is capitalized, you shitzen!
MAN: It was the word peace I meant. A one-syllable noun in both cases. In one case it is virtually synonymous with accord or harmony. In the other case, it means part of, such as piece of, such as in the phrase “piece of ass” —I think the post-Vietnam kids sometimes say “piece of leg” —or is it “shot of leg,” they say?
WIFE: DO IT QUICK, NOW, FALL ON YOUR KNEES AND ASK THE HEAVENLY FATHER’S MERCY ON YOUR BLACK SOUL!
[She raises the axe in a final effort, but fails as the man wheels his chair suddenly about to face her.]
MAN: —Why, how do you do today, Madam. Is that little touch of menstrual depression plaguing you slightly again?
[She circles around, barking in frustration. Three loud knocks are heard.]
MAN: Lass, be ye deaf, like a stone? Somebody is breaking the door down in die Küche.
[The knocks are repeated, urgently.]
WIFE: Ja, there is a bit of a rap at the door! Expect me back sooner than later!
[The Man wheels his chair to a stack of gymnasium equipment. From beneath it, he removes a large sausage and takes a bite of it.]
MAN [facing the chair front]: Aye, there’s sorrow in a man’s life but there’s much of joy, too . . . Interpretation of experience never fails to discover elements of the beautiful as one discovers bits of a broken bottle catching sunlight in an otherwise sordid and ugly heap of rubbish. I do not deny that most of experience is a heap of rubbish, but I affirm, as I have always affirmed, there is somewhere hidden in this sordid heap of rubbish the translucent and hence lovely fragment of broken glass refracting the pure light of heaven as a mirror held to the eyes of Our Lady Immaculate. I have seen it with reverence and wonder in the eyes of the mad, innocent beings too fondly touched by the moon . . .
[The walls go through their transformation again as the three knocks are repeated once more. The lights come up on the wife in the Küche. The man and the Kirche go dark.]
wife [shouting through door into alley]: Catholic or Protestant?
FRÄULEIN [off stage]: Fräulein Haussmitzenschlogger!
WIFE: Fuck off. I don’t have no time to discuss mit you die intentions toward you of die Lutheran Minister of Staten, Verstehen Sie?
FRÄULEIN [off stage]: I got terrific news for you.
WIFE: I giff you vun minute to deliver this news provided you keep your mitts off mein coffee and crullers.
[A very old lady, the Fräulein—also known as “Hotsy”—enters. She is dressed like a groupie chick—short-cut Levis and a kind of sweat shirt decorated with cartoon characters and captions, etc.]
WIFE: Ach, so. You make a disastrous appearance—a disgrace to Protestantism. Watch it! Don’t reach for a cruller!
FRÄULEIN: Can’t you see I’m eating for two?
WIFE: I can’t see that you’re eating for one in mein Küche.
[The Fräulein sobs and wails, wringing her hands. The wife regards her without much interest. Pause.]
WIFE: This disturbance has outlasted my patience. Now what in hell is it with you, dese lamentations, disturbing die peace of die Küche?
FRÄULEIN: Don’t make out like you can’t see I’m pregnant.
WIFE: All right. So you are pregnant. Tell it to the marines or any branch of the military service but not to me in mein Küche while I try to digest die crullers.
FRÄULEIN: Knocked up by your Papa who rapes me before and after church service and at choir practice back of the organ.
WIFE: Don’t talk dirty in here! Verstehen Sie? Now repeat what you tell me giving me details such as how old you are, maybe?
FRÄULEIN: Ninety-nine.
WIFE: Don’t admit it! You could pass for ninety-eight and three quarters with a few marbles missing in a dark room maybe. Here, have a cruller. [She stuffs a cruller in the Fräulein’s mouth. Pause.] So the Lutheran Minister fucks you behind the organ. Well. I see what you mean now about the terrific news. What does he charge you for it, how much? And have you got witnesses? You took the rabbit test? —Positive? —Ja?! Maybe the rabbit was pregnant, Hotsy, not you. Ha. Imagine mein Papa, die Lutheran Minister of Staten die island still with a fuck left in him!
FRÄULEIN: At me continual. His motto in life is ficken ist gesund.
WIFE: Come on, Hotsy, look on die bright side of things. You got laid, Ja? Let’s face it, Hotsy, a girl of your—I don’t wanna get personal mit you, but, Hotsy, you got it better than Mama. Offen die ferry ge-splashen like a big piece a fish food offen die ferry to Staten. So? Not to get personal, Hotsy— Hey, I didn’t offer no seconds on die crullers! Now mein husband he got a lot of time to sit and philosophize in die big room which diss descendant from die old kings of Ireland calls die Kirche. Now go in there for a vile und discussen diss piece of terrific news mit him. He is been waiting a long time for the sight and sound of you, Hotsy. Go on, don’t be afraid. He sits in a wheelchair like a throne in Ireland. Come Sie mit me. I interduce you together.
[The walls and lights switch back to the Kirche. The red warning light flashes. The man is doing various calisthenics. As the red light intensifies, he hops back into the wheelchair.]
WIFE [entering with the Fräulein]: Okay, now, King of Ireland, diss is die organist from the first, last, and only Lutheran church on Staten.
MAN: She comes to make peace with the Pope, huh?
WIFE: She’s got a non-secular problem, it looks like.
MAN: Name it, Babe.
[Pause.]
WIFE: —Vell, Hotsy, have you got lockjaw?
[The Fräulein peers closely at the man, gives him a wink and a lascivious sneer.]
MAN [shuddering]: —I am an invalid, Madam.
WIFE: Vell, nobody is perfeck, not even Hotsy, she’s pregnant, rabbit test positive, by mein Papa, the Lutheran Minister of Staten. Now talk that over together, philosophize on it while I go back to die Küche vere I expeck die young iceman to bring me some very hot ice.
[The wife exits. Pause.]
FRÄULEIN: Die pregnancy, is it notic
eable, mein Herr?
MAN: —Noticable, yes. Credible, no. —However—
[A pause.]
FRÄULEIN: If the conversation is done with—I give you head, a good blow job, personal, private, no talk of?
[The man smiles slowly and sadly.]
—Ja?
[Pause.]
Madam, you are a lost soul in a lost world . . .
BLACKOUT.
ACT TWO
The same day—the Kirche.
MAN: I find that the hours of me voluntary retirement have begun to be tedious to me. Could it be the confinement, also voluntary, the better for undisturbed meditation and for concentration on me memoirs. [He displays a notebook labeled “GREAT MEMOIRS.”]
WIFE [entering Kirche]: I see by the time-keeper daisy of day that it approaches the hour when die kinder return from die garten.
MAN: How delightful the prospect.
WIFE [taking a swig from the large jug of sourmash she has carried on]: Mmmmmm . . .
MAN: —An enigmatic remark.
[Observing the man’s inattention, the wife snatches up the jug of sour mash and takes such a giant swallow that it spills down her chops.]
WIFE: Wow!
[The wife staggers backwards against the organ, which resounds with a base chord.]
MAN: Madam, if ye have to break wind, would ye be so good as not to break it in church.
WIFE: MARK! MY! WORD! [On the loud “WORD” She sets the jug back down.] Iffen die kinder bringen not home report cards from Yale.
MAN: —Yale, did ye say?
WIFE: That’s what I said, nomenclature of Eli by which I mean not Wallach. Iffen, for emphasis I repeat, iffen die kinder return not this day from their seminar in physics—
MAN: Ah, laxatives they study.
WIFE: PHYSICS! Like Eisenstein’s theory of rich and poor relations and curvature of die space age.
MAN: I still am confused about the academic pursuits of our loved ones, Madam. However—
[There is a terrific clamor offstage and shrieks of childish frolicking.]
MAN: —this familiar assault upon my eardrums informs me that our treasures may soon clear up my confusion and possibly even your own. HA! HARK! —the patter of little feet.
[The children—die Kinder—approach like cattle stampeding. The red warning light flickers wildly. Two tall adolescents of opposite gender rush into the room. They are dressed as kindergarten students, a tiny sashed frock on the daughter, who has blonde pigtails, and a scanty sailor suit on the son.]
MAN: Well, as I live and breathe, Madam, it does indeed appear that die kinder have rounded out another triumphant day at kindergarten. Does it not so appear to you, Madam?
WIFE: It don’t appear to me as much as it sounds.
[Die Kinder are frolicking noisily about.]
MAN: High spirits, though natural in childhood, are not entirely suitable to this place of worship, die Kirche. [He shouts]: Cool it, a little Kool Aid with cyanide à la Jonesville, kinder!
[They freeze in motion, but continue to grin and simper.]
WIFE [portentously]: If I be not mistooked completely, dis vas die final day at die school on which on which is presented report cards. So? Vere iss die cards of report?
SON: She’s got it.
DAUGHTER: He’s got it.
WIFE: Neidder of youse got it, it’s dropt on die floor. [She snatches it up and removes paper from the envelope.] —This is possible to see but not to believe!
MAN: Hold me not in suspense. What incredible bit of advisement was contained in the envelope, Madam?
WIFE: EXPELLED! —From kindergarten im himmel achtung mit!
MAN [without apparent dismay]: Expelled, did ye say, after fifteen years’ attendance? Ah, well . . .
[The Kinder continue to grin and simper.]
It’s wearing on toward supper-time and I would guess by the faint urinary aroma that wafted in here with die kinder that the entree is kidneys sautéed in wine sauce. Ah-ha, there’s a dish to salivate the chops of an Egyptian pharaoh turned to parchment and dust for a good ten thousand years. Kinder, your Mom is still reeling from the bit of school news. [He smiles and shrugs.] But my personal feeling is that a bit of a setback in the groves of Academe is no swooning matter, Madam. This is a world of many and varied vocations, not all of them best prepared for by such a protracted loitering in a room furnished with tiny chairs and tables all cluttered with alphabets and frames of colored beads on which you are first instructed the important business of counting. Well, now, you— [He is addressing the daughter] how many fingers is daddy holding up, huh? [He elevates one finger.]
DAUGHTER: One’s no fun.
[The Kinder giggle and exchange ribald whispers.]
MAN [raising two fingers]: How many fingers now, boy?
SON: Two?
DAUGHTER: Three!
SON: Four!
DAUGHTER: FIVE!
MAN: Ha, that’s me lass, always increase the number! But! —never less than a hundred an hour will do for the favors of such a flower as you! Ach-ten-shun! Line up and face your parents.
[The Kinder line up and face the man and the wife.]
WIFE: Make it singular.
MAN: Singular in die sense of unusual and bizarre?
WIFE: Singular in die sense of single: a single parent. I have just disowned them.
[The Kinder return to frolicking.]
MAN: This grave declaration doesn’t appear to have depressed die kinder very noticeably, Madam. What are they up to, what is this antic behavior?
WIFE: Fidgeting, diddling, and whispering remarks that they’ve picked up in the alleys of SoHo.
MAN: Ah-ha, libidinous, be ye? Well, turn it to profit. —Which one of ’em is the boy?
SON: I, Sir.
MAN: Got any hair on you yet?
WIFE: Be ye blind? It’s hangin’ down to his shoulders.
MAN: And his apparel is boyish, but transvestisim’s a common symptom of a society in an advanced state of decadence. However, Madam, I wasn’t referring to the hair on his head but to the hair which is pubic, meant to be public only when professionally exposed. Now, boy. Retire to the vestry for divestment.
[The man indicates an area upstage of the Red Blind. The son stares bewildered. The man hauls him behind the blinds. Then he backs the wheelchair into view.]
MAN: Proceed with divestment! Get with it, drop your pants. —Hmmm. Not badly hung and just beginning to sprout a bit of blond fluff. SoHo, as it should be. Now make a half turn so I can assess the posterior attractions. —Ahh, there’s your fortune, me laddie, waste it not in SoHo. Reserve it for uptown gentlemen who can afford to indulge the tastes of Tiberius without concern for the price.
[The wife imitates the outcry of Dame Judith Anderson before she bursts out of the double-doors at the top of Medea. The son, half-dressed, runs to the man for protection.]
MAN: Disregard your mother’s interpolation. Heed only your Papa, the pro in your new profession. Head uptown, if ye know downtown from up. This world is geographic, and monetarily so. So. Get out of SoHo. Proceed with all possible haste to the public rooms of posh hotels overlooking the Central Park of Manhattan from the South or East side only. But into the park, wander not. Gang bangs in the bushes would reduce your price and prestige, not to mention your. . . .
[The wife repeats the outcry of Medea.]
MAN [ignoring her]: Lubricate well, but howl, howl, howl as if in insufferable pain. Shout out, I’m gonna tell Papa what you done to me UNLESS—
SON [as he finishes dressing]: Unless what, Papa?
MAN: He lavishes on you the whole contents of his wallet, and if this be not sufficient, advise him to draw out monies secured in the strong-box of the security vault in the lobby.
SON: Wow.
MAN:
Yes, wow.
[The son starts to rush off.]
MAN: Hold your horses. You’re not dismissed from the Kirche. I’ve yet to instruct your sister. Madam, what is the name of the female child?
WIFE: You must be jokin’. I hope to God he is jokin’.
MAN: Joking about a serious matter such as the given name of my daughter?
WIFE: Jokin’ about not knowin’ the name of the child.
DAUGHTER: Daddy, my name is—
WIFE: Don’t tell him. If he don’t know it, then leave him in blissful ignorance of it, Gretchen.
MAN: Ah, yes, Gretchen, Gretchen. Well, now, Gretchen. I’m drawing a little map for you. The geographical lay-out of the territory between this point in SoHo and a park in the Village called Washington Square, at which point you will get on a Fifth Avenue bus heading uptown.
WIFE: Die kinder understand nothing.
MAN [drawing a map]: Disregard the usual asperities and disparagements of you mother. Now. Like I say. Hop in this Fifth Avenue bus, enquire of the conductor if it be heading uptown. He will reply that it is. Now choose your seat carefully. Be sure that you share it with some gentlemen well-advanced in years. [To the wife.] Does she understand my instructions?
WIFE: Yeh, yeh, yeh, after fifteen years in kindygarten expelled, how could she fail to understand every syllable spoken!
MAN: I think this Gretchen has been provided with instinct and intuition that more than compensate for deficiencies in the department of intellect, Madam. Gretchen, what did Daddy just tell you to do?
DAUGHTER [glibly]: To follow the map to Washington Square where I will get onto a Fifth Avenue bus headed uptown and on which I will share a seat with a gentleman well along in years. And I will do what, then?
MAN: Absolutely perfect, see, Madam? —You will snuggle up closer and closer to the elderly gent, meanwhile applying to his left knee a bit of pressure with your right knee, and then this gent of advanced years, if he remains still living, will make some jocular observation such as, “What are you up to, Young Lady?”
The Traveling Companion & Other Plays Page 13
