by David Mamet
Miller: Huh! (Pause.)
Dowd: None of you saw a wallet here?
Miller: No.
Sam: Jimmy . . . ?
Fox: No.
Jim: What?
Sam: You seen a wallet?
Jim: No. (Pause.)
Sam: I'm sorry, mister.
Jim: . . . What? I seen a wallet?
Sam: Yeah.
Jim: No. (Pause.)
Sam: I'm sorry, mister. (Pause.) You can look around. Ain't no one moved since you left.
Dowd: Could I talk to you? (Starts taking Sam aside.)
Sam: Uh?
Dowd: Please, one moment. (Takes him aside.)
Miller: Uh, buddy, can your friend finish me up?
Sam: Jim, you finish up that man. (Jim goes to do so.)
Dowd: Now, I had a lot of money, I just cashed a check, and . . .
Miller: I knew him back at C & D, you know?
Sam: Mister, I swear on my life . . .
Fox: Yeah?
Dowd: No, wait a second.
Miller: Oh yeah. Son of a bitch then . . .
Fox: Uh-huh.
Jim: You using the saddle soap on these?
Sam: Yes. I am.
Jim: Alright.
Miller: You'll finish off the bottoms with the brown . . . ?
Jim: Sure will.
Dowd: Listen to me; I'd hate to have to do anything about this.
Miller: I mean, you want to spend your time in office politics you're going to rise.
Sam: Do what you want, we didn't find your billfold here.
Fox: Uh-huh.
Dowd: It's not the money, do you understand?
Miller: You want to do it that way.
Fox: Yeah.
Sam: I understand it all. I just can't help you.
Dowd: I would hate to have to go and get the cops.
Sam: Mister, you trace your steps back. I don't know . . .
Miller: Where were you before you were here?
Dowd: Next door.
Miller (To Fox): . . . You want to brown-nose your way through life . . .
Dowd (To Sam): Look, look, I'll give you one-third of the money if I get the wallet back. (Pause.) With all the cards.
Miller: . . . If you're content to live your life like that. I told him one day, “I'm a maverick, Chari, I can't live life your way. I got to go out there. You don't have to go in the houses.”
Jim: How much was in it?
Fox: Yeah.
Dowd: Did you take it?
Miller: Huh?
Jim: No.
Dowd: Then what the fuck business do you have asking how much was in it?
Sam: You go an’ call your cops.
Miller: I mean if you want to get Byzantine . . .
Jim: I was just asking, sucker.
Dowd: You've got no business to know.
Jim: I don't?
Dowd: You absolutely don't.
Jim: Unless I took it.
Dowd: Uh-huh, yeah.
Jim: An’ then I know how much it was.
Dowd: That's right.
Jim: So what the fuck I'm asking for? You motherfucker, get out of this store.
Dowd: I don't want to come back here with the police . . .
Sam: You come back however you want. Now we don't have your money. If we had it, we would give it to you. (Pause. Dowd exits.) Oooeee! Now there's a fellow that was mad . . .
Jim: . . . Sonofabitch . . .
Sam: That sucker's mad . . .
Miller: I mean, if you want to brown-nose your way through life. It isn't worth it. Fuck it.
Jim: . . . Come in here like the viceroy of some place.
Fox: Yeah.
Sam: Sucker come in here yesterday . . .
Jim: Yeah . . .
Sam: Me an Bill here, he say, “Which one of you fellows going to give me a fine shine today?”
Miller: You're going to do that brown thing?
Jim: Yeah. I'll do her.
Miller: In fifty years who's going to know who went to Maui with the boss.
Sam: “Which one o’ you fellows going to give me a shoe-shine today!”
Jim: Hnuh!
Miller: . . . They wonder why the people walk.
Fox: Uh-huh.
Sam: “Get up,” Bill say, “You want your shoes shined you get up there.”
Miller: . . . Not one word of backing.
Fox: No.
Jim: He get up?
Sam: Yeah. He got up there.
Miller: I'm sorry . . .
Jim: . . . Sonofabitch.
Miller: . . . Buddy up to you at Christmas if you made the list . . .
Sam: “Which one you mens goan shine my nice sweet shoes today . . . “
Miller: He wants his picture with his arm around you in the Trades . . .
Jim: . . . Sonofabitch.
Miller: And if you didn't make the list that year, fuck you.
Fox: Uh-huh.
Miller: I'm glad that sucker's gone.
Jim (Of nothing in particular): Yessuh . . .
Miller: I'll live without him very well.
Sam: How late you stayin’ in?
Jim: How late you need me?
Sam: Can you stay ‘til six?
Miller: How is he looking?
Fox: Fine.
Jim: You need me?
Sam: Yeah.
Jim: Alright.
Miller: I'll bet he is.
Jim: You done.
Miller (Rising): What do I owe you?
Jim: Dollar.
Miller: . . . Gone to fucking Maui every goddamn month . . . how much?
Jim: One dollar. (Pause.)
Miller: A dollar for a shine?
Jim: Yessuh! (Pause.) Thass a spit shine!
(Pause. Miller digs in his pocket and starts to pay.)
Miller (To Sam): Did you find that guy's wallet?
Sam: Shit. No sir. You have a good day now.
Miller (Exiting, to Fox): Yeah. I heard you went down there . . .
Sam: How much he give you?
Jim: Twenny cent.
Sam: Sonofabitch . . .
(Pause. Jim goes back to work on uninhabited shoes.)
Jim: Yeah. They was down on Fifty-seven Street down there.
Sam: Who?
Jim: You know. Richard . . . everybody . . .
Sam: Uh-huh.
Jim: This stuff don't come off.
Sam: You use some Brillo on it?
Jim: That won't help.
Sam: No?
Jim: Uh-uh. (Pause.)
Sam: You try it.
Jim: I will.
Sam: Did you find that fellow's billfold?
Jim: Shit.
Sam: Well did you?
(Customer enters.)
Customer: Shoeshine.
Sam: You get up there! (Customer takes seat, picks up paper.) Yessuh. Thass right. Thass for you! (Starts on shoes. To Jim.) ‘Cause if you found that thing you best had tell me.
Jim: No, I didn't find nothin’.
Customer: What did you lose?
Sam: He lost his wallet somewhere in here.
Customer (Producing cigarette): Do you have a match?
Sam: Yessuh, I surely do. (Lights Customer‘s cigarette. Pause. To Jim.) ‘Cause you know if I found it I'd tell you.
Jim: I know you would.
Sam: You know I would.
Customer: I got a spot of paint or something on the toe.
Sam: Yessuh, I see it.
Jim: . . . Yeah, they was all down there drinkin’ . . .
Sam: Uh-huh. If them people come back here, you best tell the truth.
Jim: I tole the truth.
Sam: Uh-huh.
Jim: I tole the truth.
Sam: We gonna see.
Jim: Well man I tole you what the truth was, so you just think what you want.
Sam: I will.
Jim: How late you say you want me to stay today?
Sam: Thass up to you—I'm stayin’ to six.
&nb
sp; Jim: I'll stay too.
Sam: Yeah, you do what you want.
Jim: Shit.
Sam: Fine pair of shoes you got here.
Customer: Thank you.
Jim: I'm gettin’ to the red.
Sam: You call me ‘fore you do ‘em.
Jim: Yes I will. (To self.) . . . She said we fucked ‘em up . . .
Sam: Huh?
Jim: Yeah. I'm glad I wasn't here.
Sam: Well, don't you worry. She be back.
Jim: Uh-huh. (Pause.) How I know you didn't find it.
Sam: Shit, I found it man, how come I'm askin’ you?
Jim: Uh-huh.
Litko: A Dramatic Monologue
Litko: A Dramatic Monologue was written as a companion piece for The Duck Variations in its 1973 Chicago premiere at the Body Politic, and featured Jim Brett directed by David Mamet.
Character: Litko
Litko: (At rise Litko is discovered addressing the audience. Litko speaks.) Do we understand each other?
His demeanor and, in fact, his line ("Do we understand each other?") go far in helping to create a bond between Litko and his audience. Unbutton coat. Litko speaks: Let us dispense with formality, and get down to theatrical cliches.
The audience smiles appreciatively at his candid behavior.
Thanks, gang. Pause.
“I wonder if they realize the technical proficiency and purely traditional dramatic training necessary to establish the actor's comfort in a setting ostensibly devoid of qualities.” Paper, mister?
“You can't go out there, Litko,” he says to the audience. “Billy Brenneer and the Lazy 1’ boys'll cut you down like a muskrat.” Many members of the audience wonder if they really know what a muskrat is. Litko assures them it is not important. “It is not important.” That's easy for him to say.
A pause (or silence) ensues, broken only by sporadic coughing and the line “broken only by sporadic coughing and the line.”
It becomes obvious to both parties to the theatrical event, that a crux has been reached. Progression of some sort is clearly indicated.
A new character seems unlikely.
Introduction of further vocabulary is certainly within the limits of accepted tradition.
The appearance of a goofy prop or two . . . (don't hold your breath).
The re-occurrence of World War One . . . ?
Police brutality?
The news that some wild animal has escaped from a nearby zoo, and is believed hiding right here in this theater! (I'm spelling that “E,” “R.”) (At this point I shall go and look—or pretend to look—you're grownups, judge for yourselves—at several places around the stage where this alleged animal might hide.) (But Litko does not move.) Which might just raise a question as to the responsibility of the dramatic artist to his audience. (What sophistry!) I will now deliver myself of the following: one of a number of previously prepared and memorized speeches:
“I love you. I have always loved you. I shall love you as long as there courses in my veins-and, to be realistic, in your veins—blood.” Let us recapitulate. (Why? because it feels so good.) A while ago a person unknown to you . . .
“Of course,” Litko allows, “some of you,” addressing the audience directly—what high style!—"do know this person,” indicating himself, “in another guise, or in different guises. But,” he says, “I sincerely hope,” leaving for the audience to decide for itself or themselves the veracity of the aforementioned hope, and whether the said hope is that of the character (that is to say, the playwright) or of the actor; and, if of the actor, of him truly, or but under the somewhat—let us face the facts—extenuating circumstances in which we now find him, and, just a bit further, if we really got the time for this diversion . . .
“I sincerely hope . . . “ or, from another tack:
“In response to a tacit yet undeniable inquiry into the sincerity of my hope . . . “ and
“As to the current employment of that which, believe me, can be taken as my true capacity for sincerity . . . “ let us leave no stone unturned, though: “For those who desire the identity of him the sincerity of whose hope has, of late, so clearly manifest itself, let me reply.” (No one indicates a reluctance to let him reply.)
Litko confronts his audience: “Hi, gang.”
Some, apparently, would appreciate a reply. Or do not care. Or are asleep.
Is a show of hands indicated? (In certain circumstances, yes.)
Why, then, does Litko not reply?
Has he been “struck dumb"?
Shall he lapse into song? Or dance? Or mixed-media? Or some more purely visual form of art? Has he the training? Has he the inclination? Has he the time? Is God dead? (No, I know, that's nothing to joke about.) This is no life for a grown man, Litko says, on the verge of great frenzy. (Emotion is freeing to look at, but tiresome to indulge in.) “A funny thing happened to me,” Litko says, humor dripping from each word and gesture.
“Really now, seriously, folks, I have the sorry task of informing you that—yes, you guessed it—the theater is dead” (Oh no.)
“—innocence, your eight-year-old foster child, Scooter, along with a busload of his classmates enroute to the zoo, Beethoven, LaFollette, and countless other individuals and institutions of varying worth.” (All of this, of course, having taken place over a period of years, and astonishing only in the aggregate.)
“What can we salvage of this carnage?” Litko asks, imaginary tears coursing down his all-too-real cheeks, “Hope for the future? The odd wristwatch?”
(Wait a second, please.)
“How old are you, Trigger?”
(While my imaginary horse is counting, folks, and in the final seconds of our time together here I'd like to say, on behalf of myself, the author, the director, our wonderful stagehands-seriously, don't they do a great job?—our house crew, their families, and the many, many men and women who provide them with the services and goods so necessary for the support of life: keep your peeker up.)
Anybody out there from Kankakee!?
In Old Vermont
Characters: Roger, Maud
Roger: Do you remember when we were in Vermont that time?
Maud: Of course.
Roger: Do you remember that?
Maud: Yes. (Pause.) The sky.
Roger: The sky. Yes.
Maud: Cold. The cold. The evenings. Sitting.
Roger: “Old, old, old New England.”
Maud: Fire.
Roger: The fire. Oh, yes.
Maud: I like the mornings. Do you know why?
Roger: Why?
Maud: It will become warm.
Also, in the evenings. When the sun goes down. In afternoons.
In winter. When the sun goes down.
It becomes warm. In afternoon. The sun shines.
All the snow is bright.
The cold protects us.
It can warm us.
In the winter.
In the snow.
Like skating on the ice.
The shock comes.
With the fissure. Falling. (Pause.)
For moments.
For one moment. When you know that you are cold. (Pause.)
Then it seeps in.
When the cold comes it is warm.
As if you'd wet the bed.
The rabbits turn. They turn to white.
I like it in the winter. For we . . . For we are protected. (Pause.)
You hear?
THEN WE ARE ALONE!
IN A VACATION HOME. WE'RE WAITING!
FOR THE WHAT? THE SPIRIT.
Indians could come. Where would we hide? Where would we go then? We'd not made provisions. It is much too late.
We could have cut a cellar in the ground or made a secret room between the logs, or in the roof.
A deep, deep cellar down. Beneath the rug. They'd never find it!
Do not tell me that. Not if you tamped it down. Not if you tamped the dirt down. Trampled it and fit the logs in. Covered with a
n Oriental rug in red.
They'd stomp, they'd stomp, they'd all try to search out our hiding place.
But they could not. They couldn't find it.
So don't tell me that.
If we had built it. If we'd built it. If we'd took the time. But no!
The shock of when they come.
The tommyhawk.
The genitals hacked off.
The cold and roasting flesh.
Your own hands severed and your eyes like boils.
Like fevered boils, like ponds. Like flying geese.
Our screams mean nothing.
Far above the summer scene.
The hot. The sickly heat.
The fire. Burning down.
The wings.
The flapping of the windowshade:
The upturned lamp.
A candle guttered.
Someone finds a bag of salt.
That they had overturned.
(A long pause.)
In old Vermont.
All Men Are Whores: An Inquiry
All Men Are Whores was first presented in February, 1977 at the Yale Cabaret with the following cast directed by David Mamet: Patti LuPone, Kevin Kline, and Sam Tsoutsovas.
Characters: Sam, Kevin, Patti
One
Sam: Our concept of time is predicated upon our understanding of death.
Time passes solely because death ends time. Our understanding of death is arrived at, in the main, because of the nature of sexual reproduction.
Organisms which reproduce through fission do not “die.”
The stream of life, the continuation of the germ plasm, is unbroken.
Clearly.
Just as it is in the case of man.
But much less apparently so in our case. For we are sentient.
We are conscious of ourselves, and conscious of the schism in our sexuality.
And so we perceive time. (Pause.) And so we will do anything for some affection.
Two
Kevin: I saw her in the Art Institute four years ago. I saw her from the back, her neck, she sat up. Near the Oriental art. The horses. She faced down away from me her hair was dark, she had a cotton suit on.
I looked at her a long time at her back. I thought that if you walk away from her you'll always wish you had (I knew that I would think about her).
