ROSE: Well, I should say! Listen, darling, you know how to get to Third Avenue and Nineteenth Street, don’t you?
LEE: Sure, in ten minutes.
ROSE, taking a diamond bracelet from her bag: This is my diamond bracelet. She reaches into the bag and brings out a card. And this is Mr. Sanders’ card and the address. He’s expecting you; just give it to him, and he’ll give you a receipt.
LEE: Is he going to fix it?
ROSE: No, dear. It’s a pawnshop. Go. I’ll explain sometime.
LEE: Can’t I have an idea? What’s a pawnshop?
ROSE: Where you leave something temporarily and they lend you money on it, with interest. I’m going to leave it the rest of the month, till the market goes up again. I showed it to him on Friday, and we’re getting a nice loan on it.
LEE: But how do you get it back?
ROSE: You just pay back the loan plus interest. But things’ll pick up in a month or two. Go on, darling, and be careful! I’m so glad you bought that bike. . . . It’s gorgeous!
LEE, mounting his bike: Does Papa know?
ROSE: Yes, dear. Papa knows . . .
She starts out as Joey hurries on.
JOEY: Oh, hiya, Mrs. Baum.
ROSE: Hello, Joey. . . . Did you get thin?
JOEY: Me? He touches his stomach defensively. No, I’m okay. To Lee as well, as he takes an eight-by-ten photo out of an envelope: See what I just got?
Rose and Lee look at the photo.
ROSE, impressed: Where did you get that!
LEE: How’d you get it autographed?
JOEY: I just wrote to the White House.
LEE, running his finger over the signature: Boy . . . look at that, huh? “Herbert Hoover”!
ROSE: What a human thing for him to do! What did you write him?
JOEY: Just wished him success . . . you know, against the Depression.
ROSE, wondrously: Look at that! You’re going to end up a politician, Joey. She returns to studying the photo.
JOEY: I might. I like it a lot.
LEE: But what about dentistry?
JOEY: Well, either one.
ROSE: Get going, darling.
She exits, already preoccupied with the real problem. Lee mounts his bike.
LEE: You want to shoot some baskets later?
JOEY: What about now?
LEE, embarrassed: No . . . I’ve got something to do for my mother. Meet you on the court in an hour. He starts off.
JOEY, stopping him: Wait, I’ll go with you, let me on! He starts to mount the crossbar.
LEE: I can’t, Joey.
JOEY, sensing some forbidden area, surprised: Oh!
LEE: See you on the court.
Lee rides off. Joey examines the autograph and mouths silently, “Herbert Hoover . . . ” He shakes his head proudly and walks off.
ROBERTSON, from choral area: To me . . . it’s beginning to look like Germany in 1922, and I’m having real worries about the banks. There are times when I walk around with as much as twenty-five, thirty thousand dollars in my shoes.
Frank enters in a chauffeur’s uniform, a lap robe folded over his arm. Moe enters, stylishly dressed in a fur-collared overcoat, as though on a street.
FRANK: Morning, Mr. Baum. Got the car nice and warmed up for you this morning, sir. And I had the lap robe dry-cleaned.
MOE, showing Frank a bill: What is that, Frank?
FRANK: Oh. Looks like the garage bill.
MOE: What’s that about tires on there?
FRANK: Oh, yes, sir, this is the bill for the new tires last week.
MOE: And what happened to those tires we bought six weeks ago?
FRANK: Those weren’t very good, sir, they wore out quick—and I want to be the first to admit that!
MOE: But twenty dollars apiece and they last six weeks?
FRANK: That’s just what I’m telling you, sir—they were just no good. But these ones are going to be a whole lot better, though.
MOE: Tell you what, Frank . . .
FRANK: Yes, sir—what I mean, I’m giving you my personal guarantee on this set, Mr. Baum.
MOE: I never paid no attention to these things, but maybe you heard of the market crash? The whole thing practically floated into the ocean, y’know.
FRANK: Oh, yes, sir, I certainly heard about it.
MOE: I’m glad you heard about it, because I heard a lot about it. In fact, what you cleared from selling my tires over the last ten years . . .
FRANK: Oh, no, sir! Mr. Baum!
MOE: Frank, lookin’ back over the last ten years, I never heard of that amount of tires in my whole life since I first come over from Europe a baby at the age of six. That is a lot of tires, Frank; so I tell ya what we’re gonna do now, you’re going to drive her over to the Pierce Arrow showroom and leave her there, and then come to my office and we’ll settle up.
FRANK: But how are you going to get around!
MOE: I’m a happy man in a taxi, Frank.
FRANK: Well, I’m sure going to be sorry to leave you people.
MOE: Everything comes to an end, Frank, it was great while it lasted. No hard feelings. He shakes Frank’s hand. Bye-bye.
FRANK: But what . . . what am I supposed to do now?
MOE: You got in-laws?
FRANK: But I never got along with them.
MOE: You should’ve. He hurries off, calling: Taxi!
FRANK, cap in hand, throws down lap robe and walks off aimlessly: Damn!
Irene enters with a pram filled with junk and sings a few lines of “’Tain’t Nobody’s Bizness,” unaccompanied. She picks up robe and admiringly inspects it. Then:
IRENE: You got fired, you walked away to nothing; no unemployment insurance, no Social Security—just the in-laws and fresh air. She tosses the robe in with her junk.
Fadeout.
ROSE: Still . . . it was very nice in a certain way. On our block in Brooklyn a lot of married children had to move back with the parents, and you heard babies crying in houses that didn’t have a baby in twenty years. But of course the doubling up could also drive you crazy . . .
With hardly a pause, she turns to Grandpa, who is arriving center with canes and hatboxes. He drops the whole load on the floor.
What are you doing?
GRANDPA, delivering a final verdict: There’s no room for these in my closet . . .
ROSE: For a few canes?
GRANDPA: And what about my hats? You shouldn’t have bought such a small house, Rose.
ROSE, of the canes: I’ll put them in the front-hall closet.
GRANDPA: No, people step on them. And where will I put my hats?
ROSE, trying not to explode: Papa, what do you want from me? We are doing what we can do!
GRANDPA: One bathroom for so many people is not right! You had three bathrooms in the apartment, and you used to look out the window, there was the whole New York. Here . . . listen to that street out there, it’s a Brooklyn cemetery. And this barber here is very bad—look what he did to me. He shows her.
ROSE: Why? It’s beautiful. She brushes some hairs straight. It’s just a little uneven . . .
GRANDPA, pushing her hand away: I don’t understand, Rose—why does he declare bankruptcy if he’s going to turn around and pay his debts?
ROSE: For his reputation.
GRANDPA: His reputation! He’ll have the reputation of a fool! The reason to go bankrupt is not to pay your debts!
ROSE, uncertain herself: He wanted to be honorable.
GRANDPA: But that’s the whole beauty of it! He should’ve asked me. When I went bankrupt I didn’t pay nobody!
ROSE, deciding: I’ve got to tell you something, Papa. From now on, I wish you . . .
GRANDPA, helping her fold a bed sheet: And you’ll have to talk to Lee—he throws himself ar
ound in his bed all night, wakes me up ten times, and he leaves his socks on the floor. . . . Two people in that bedroom is too much, Rose.
ROSE: I don’t want Moe to get aggravated, Papa.
He is reached, slightly glances at her.
He might try to start a new business, so he’s nervous, so please, don’t complain, Papa. Please?
GRANDPA: What did I say?
ROSE: Nothing. Suddenly she embraces him guiltily. Maybe I can find an umbrella stand someplace.
GRANDPA: I was reading about this Hitler . . .
ROSE: Who?
GRANDPA: . . . He’s chasing all the radicals out of Germany. He wouldn’t be so bad if he wasn’t against the Jews. But he won’t last six months. . . . The Germans are not fools. When I used to take Mama to Baden-Baden this time of year . . .
ROSE: How beautiful she was.
GRANDPA: . . . one time we were sitting on the train ready to leave for Berlin. And suddenly a man gallops up calling out my name. So I says, “Yes, that’s me!” And through the window he hands me my gold watch and chain: “You left it in your room, mein Herr.” Such a thing could only happen in Germany. This Hitler is finished.
ROSE, of the canes: Please. . . . Put them back in your closet, heh? He starts to object. I don’t want Moe to get mad, Papa! She cuts the rebellion short and loads him with his canes and hatboxes.
GRANDPA, muttering: Man don’t even know how to go bankrupt.
He exits. Lee appears on his bike—but dressed now for winter. He dismounts and parks the bike just as Rose lies back in the chair.
LEE: Ma! Guess what!
ROSE: What?
LEE: Remember I emptied my bank account for the bike?
ROSE: So?
LEE: The bank has just been closed by the government! It’s broke! There’s a whole mob of people in the street yelling where’s their money! They’ve got cops and everything! There is no more money in the bank!
ROSE: You’re a genius!
LEE: Imagine! . . . I could have lost my twelve dollars! . . . Wow!
ROSE: That’s wonderful. She removes a pearl choker.
LEE: Oh, Ma, wasn’t that Papa’s wedding present?
ROSE: I hate to, but . . .
LEE: What about Papa’s business! Can’t he . . .
ROSE: He put too much capital in the stock market, dear—it made more there than in his business. So now . . . it’s not there anymore.
A thief swiftly appears and rides off on the bike.
But we’ll be all right. Go. You can have a jelly sandwich when you come back.
Lee stuffs the pearls into his pants as he approaches where the bike was; he looks in all directions, his bones chilling. He runs in all directions and finally comes to a halt, breathless, stark horror in his face. As though sensing trouble, Rose walks over to him.
Where’s your bike?
He can’t speak.
They stole your bike?
He is immobile.
May he choke on his next meal. . . . Oh, my darling, my darling, what an awful thing.
He sobs once but holds it back. She, facing him, tries to smile.
So now you’re going to have to walk to the hockshop like everybody else. Come, have your jelly sandwich.
LEE: No, I’d like to see if I can trot there—it’d be good for my track. By the way, I’ve almost decided to go to Cornell, I think. Cornell or Brown.
ROSE, with an empty congratulatory exclamation: Oh! . . . Well, there’s still months to decide.
Rose and Lee join the company as they stand up to sing the Iowa Hymn, Verse 1: “We gather together to ask the Lord’s blessing, He chastens and hastens His will to make known: The wicked oppressing now cease from distressing, Sing praises to His name: He forgets not His own.” The hymn music continues under the following.
ROBERTSON: Till then, probably most people didn’t think of it as a system.
TAYLOR: It was more like nature.
MRS. TAYLOR: Like weather; had to expect bad weather, but it always got good again if you waited. And so we waited. And it didn’t change. She is watching Taylor as he adopts a mood of despair and slowly sits on his heels. And we waited some more and it never changed. You couldn’t hardly believe that the day would come when the land wouldn’t give. Land always gives. But there it lay, miles and miles of it, and there was us wanting to work it, and couldn’t. It was like a spell on Iowa. We was all there, and the land was there waitin’, and we wasn’t able to move. The hymn ends. Amen.
Brewster, followed by Farmers, comes front and calls to the crowd in the audience’s direction.
BREWSTER: Just sit tight, folks, be startin’ in a few minutes.
FARMER 1, hitting his heels together: Looks like snow up there.
FARMER 2, laughs: Even the weather ain’t workin’.
Low laughter in the crowd.
BREWSTER, heading over to Taylor: You be catchin’ cold sitting on the ground like that, won’t you, Henry?
TAYLOR: Tired out. Never slept a wink all night. Not a wink.
Mrs. Taylor appears carrying a big coffeepot, accompanied by Harriet, her fifteen-year-old daughter, who has a coffee mug hanging from each of her fingers.
MRS. TAYLOR: You’ll have to share the cups, but it’s something hot anyway.
BREWSTER: Oh, that smells good, lemme take that, ma’am.
She gives the coffeepot to Brewster and comes over to Taylor. Harriet hands out the cups.
MRS. TAYLOR, sotto voce, irritated and ashamed: You can’t be sitting on the ground like that, now come on! She starts him to his feet. It’s a auction—anybody’s got a right to come to a auction.
TAYLOR: There must be a thousand men along the road—they never told me they’d bring a thousand men!
MRS. TAYLOR: Well, I suppose that’s the way they do it.
TAYLOR: They got guns in those trucks!
MRS. TAYLOR, frightened herself: Well, it’s too late to stop ’em now. So might as well go around and talk to people that come to help you.
CHARLEY, rushing on: Brewster! Where’s Brewster!
BREWSTER, stepping forward from the crowd: What’s up, Charley?
CHARLEY, pointing off: Judge Bradley! He’s gettin’ out of the car with the auctioneer!
Silence. All look to Brewster.
BREWSTER: Well . . . I don’t see what that changes. Turning to all: I guess we’re gonna do what we come here to do. That right?
The crowd quietly agrees: “Right,” “Stick to it, Larry,” “No use quittin’ now,” etc. Enter Judge Bradley, sixty, and Mr. Frank Howard, the auctioneer. The silence spreads.
JUDGE BRADLEY: Good morning, gentlemen. He looks around. There is no reply. I want to say a few words to you before Mr. Howard starts the auction. He walks up onto a raised platform. I have decided to come here personally this morning in order to emphasize the gravity of the situation that has developed in the state. We are on the verge of anarchy in Iowa, and that is not going to help anybody. Now, you are all property owners, so you—
BREWSTER: Used to be, Judge, used to be!
JUDGE BRADLEY: Brewster, I will not waste words; there are forty armed deputies out there. Slight pause. I would like to make only one point clear—I have levied a deficiency judgment on this farm. Mr. Taylor has failed to pay what he owes on his equipment and some of his cattle. A contract is sacred. The National Bank has the right to collect on its loans. Now then, Mr. Howard will begin the auction. But he has discretionary power to decline any unreasonable bid. I ask you again, obey the law. Once law and order go down, no man is safe. Mr. Howard?
MR. HOWARD, with a clipboard in hand, climbs onto the platform: Well, now, let’s see. We have here one John Deere tractor and combine, three years old, beautiful condition.
Three Bidders enter, and the crowd turns to look at
them with hostility as they come to a halt.
I ask for bids on the tractor and combine.
BREWSTER: Ten cents!
MR. HOWARD: I have ten cents. His finger raised, he points from man to man in the crowd. I have ten cents, I have ten cents . . .
He is pointing toward the Bidders, but they are looking around at the crowd in fear.
BIDDER 1: Five hundred.
JUDGE BRADLEY, calling: Sheriff, get over here and protect these men!
The Sheriff and four Deputies enter and edge their way in around the three Bidders. The deputies carry shotguns.
MR. HOWARD: Do I hear five hundred dollars? Do I hear five . . .
BIDDER 1: Five hundred!
MR. HOWARD: Do I hear six hundred?
BIDDER 2: Six hundred!
MR. HOWARD: Do I hear seven hundred?
BIDDER 3: Seven hundred!
Disciplined and quick, the Farmers grab the Deputies and disarm them; a shotgun goes off harmlessly.
JUDGE BRADLEY: Brewster! Great God, what are you doing!
Brewster has pinned the Judge’s arms behind him, and another man lowers a noose around his neck.
BREWSTER, to Deputies: You come any closer and we’re gonna string him up! You all get back on that road or we string up the Judge! So help me Christ, he goes up if any one of you deputies interferes with this auction! Now, let me just clear up one thing for you, Judge Bradley . . .
TAYLOR: Let him go, Brewster—I don’t care anymore, let them take it!
BREWSTER: Just sit tight, Henry, nobody’s takin’ anything. That is all over, Judge. Mr. Howard, just to save time, why don’t you take a bid on the whole place? Do that, please?
MR. HOWARD, turns to the crowd, his voice shaking: I . . . I’ll hear bids on . . . everything. Tractor and combine, pair of mules and wagon, twenty-six cows, eight heifers, farm and outbuildings, assorted tools . . . and so forth. Do I hear . . .
BREWSTER: One dollar.
MR. HOWARD, rapidly: I hear one dollar. One dollar, one dollar? . . . He looks around. Sold for one dollar.
BREWSTER, Handing him a dollar: Now, will you just sign that receipt, please?
Mr. Howard scribbles and hands him a receipt. Brewster leaps off the platform, goes to Taylor, and gives him the receipt.
Henry? Whyn’t you go along now and get to milkin’. Let’s go, boys.
The Penguin Arthur Miller Page 97
