DORIS: Which Georgie?
SIDNEY: Georgie Krieger.
DORIS: You’re putting me with Georgie Krieger and you go out with Esther Ganz?
SIDNEY: It was only an example!
DORIS, with incredulous distaste: But Georgie Krieger! . . .
SIDNEY: Forget Georgie Krieger! Make it . . . all right, you pick somebody, then.
DORIS, stares, reviewing faces: Well . . . how about Morris?
SIDNEY, asking the heart-stopping question: What Morris? You mean Morris from . . .
DORIS: Yeah, Morris from the shoe store.
SIDNEY, glimpsing quite a different side of her: Really?
DORIS: Well, didn’t he go a year to City College?
SIDNEY: No, he did not, he went one semester—and he still walks around with a comb in his pocket. . . . I think maybe we just better wait.
DORIS: I don’t know, maybe it would be a good idea . . . at least till I’m a little older . . .
SIDNEY: No, we’ll wait, we’ll think it over.
DORIS: But you know . . .
SIDNEY, with high anxiety: We’ll think it over, hon! . . .
He goes to the piano, plays a progression. She comes to him, then runs her fingers through his hair.
DORIS: Play “Sittin’ Around”?
SIDNEY: It’s not any good.
DORIS: What do you mean, it’s your greatest! Please!
SIDNEY, sighs, sings:
You’ve got me
Sittin’ around
Just watching shadows
On the wall;
You’ve got me
Sittin’ around,
And all my hopes beyond recall;
I want to hear
The words of love,
I want to feel
Your lips on mine,
DORIS:
And know
The days and nights
There in your arms.
SIDNEY AND DORIS:
Instead I’m . . .
Sittin’ around
And all the world
Is passing by,
You’ve got me
Sittin’ around
Like I was only
Born to cry,
When will I know
The words of love,
Your lips on mine—
Instead of
Sittin’ around,
Sittin’ around,
Sittin’ around . . .
Fadeout. A large crowd emerges from darkness as a row of factory-type lights descend, illuminating rows of benches and scattered chairs. This is an emergency welfare office temporarily set up to handle the flood of desperate people. A Welfare Worker hands each applicant a sheet of paper and then wanders off.
MOE: I don’t understand this. I distinctly read in the paper that anybody wants to work can go direct to WPA and they fix you up with a job.
LEE: They changed it. You can only get a WPA job now if you get on relief first.
MOE, pointing toward the line: So this is not the WPA.
LEE: I told you, Pa, this is the relief office.
MOE: Like . . . welfare.
LEE: Look, if it embarrasses you—
MOE: Listen, if it has to be done it has to be done. Now let me go over it again—what do I say?
LEE: You refuse to let me live in the house. We don’t get along.
MOE: Why can’t you live at home?
LEE: If I can live at home, I don’t need relief. That’s the rule.
MOE: Okay. So I can’t stand the sight of you.
LEE: Right.
MOE: So you live with your friend in a rooming house.
LEE: Correct.
MOE: . . . They’re gonna believe that?
LEE: Why not? I left a few clothes over there.
MOE: All this for twenty-two dollars a week?
LEE, angering: What am I going to do? Even old-time newspapermen are out of work. . . . See, if I can get on the WPA Writers Project, at least I’d get experience if a real job comes along. I’ve explained this a dozen times, Pa, there’s nothing complicated.
MOE, unsatisfied: I’m just trying to get used to it. All right.
They embrace.
We shouldn’t look too friendly, huh?
LEE, laughs: That’s the idea!
MOE: I don’t like you, and you can’t stand the sight of me.
LEE: That’s it! He laughs.
MOE, to the air, with mock outrage: So he laughs.
They move into the crowd and find seats in front of Ryan, the supervisor, at a desk.
RYAN: Matthew R. Bush!
A very dignified man of forty-five rises, crosses, and follows Ryan out.
MOE: Looks like a butler.
LEE: Probably was.
MOE, shakes his head mournfully: Hmm!
ROBERTSON, from choral area: I did a lot of walking back in those days, and the contrasts were startling. Along the West Side of Manhattan you had eight or ten of the world’s greatest ocean liners tied up—I recall the SS Manhattan, the Berengaria, the United States—most of them would never sail again. But at the same time they were putting up the Empire State Building, highest in the world. But with whole streets and avenues of empty stores who would ever rent space in it?
A baby held by Grace, a young woman in the back, cries. Moe turns to look, then stares ahead.
MOE: Lee, what’ll you do if they give you a pick-and-shovel job?
LEE: I’ll take it.
MOE: You’ll dig holes in the streets?
LEE: It’s no disgrace, Dad.
ROBERTSON: It was incredible to me how long it was lasting. I would never, never have believed we could not recover before this. The years were passing, a whole generation was withering in the best years of its life . . .
The people in the crowd start talking: Kapush, Slavonic, in his late sixties, with a moustache; Dugan, an Irishman; Irene, a middle-aged black woman; Toland, a cabbie.
KAPUSH, with ferocious frustration: What can you expect from a country that puts a frankfurter on the Supreme Court? Felix the Frankfurter. Look it up.
DUGAN, from another part of the room: Get back in the clock, ya cuckoo!
KAPUSH, turning his body around angrily to face Dugan and jarring Irene, sitting next to him: Who’s talkin’ to me!
IRENE: Hey, now, don’t mess with me, mister!
DUGAN: Tell him, tell him!
Ryan rushes in. He is pale, his vest is loaded with pens and pencils, and a sheaf of papers is in his hand. A tired man.
RYAN: We gonna have another riot, folks? Is that what we’re gonna have? Mr. Kapush, I told you three days running now, if you live in Bronx, you’ve got to apply in Bronx.
KAPUSH: It’s all right, I’ll wait.
RYAN, as he passes Dugan: Leave him alone, will you? He’s a little upset in his mind.
DUGAN: He’s a fascist. I seen him down Union Square plenty of times.
Irene slams her walking stick down on the table.
RYAN: Oh, Jesus . . . here we go again.
IRENE: Gettin’ on to ten o’clock, Mr. Ryan.
RYAN: I’ve done the best I can, Irene . . .
IRENE: That’s what the good Lord said when he made the jackass, but he decided to knuckle down and try harder. People been thrown out on the sidewalk, mattresses, pots and pans, and everything else they own. Right on A Hundred and Thirty-eighth Street. They goin’ back in their apartments today or we goin’ raise us some real hell.
RYAN: I’ve got no more appropriations for you till the first of the month, and that’s it, Irene.
IRENE: Mr. Ryan, you ain’t talkin’ to me, you talkin’ to Local Forty-five of the Workers Alliance, and you know what that mean.
DUGAN, laughs: Communist Party.
IRENE: That’s right, mister, and they don’t mess. So why don’t you get on your phone and call Washington. And while you’re at it, you can remind Mr. Roosevelt that I done swang One Hundred and Thirty-ninth Street for him in the last election, and if he want it swung again he better get crackin’!
RYAN: Holy Jesus.
He hurries away, but Lee tries to delay him.
LEE: I was told to bring my father.
RYAN: What?
LEE: Yesterday. You told me to—
RYAN: Get off my back, will ya? He hurries out.
DUGAN: This country’s gonna end up on the top of the trees throwin’ coconuts at each other.
MOE, quietly to Lee: I hope I can get out by eleven, I got an appointment with a buyer.
TOLAND, next to Moe with a Daily News open in his hands: Boy, oh, boy, looka this—Helen Hayes gonna put on forty pounds to play Victoria Regina.
MOE: Who’s that?
TOLAND: Queen of England.
MOE: She was so fat?
TOLAND: Victoria? Horse. I picked up Helen Hayes when I had my cab. Very small girl. And Adolphe Menjou once—he was small too. I even had Al Smith once, way back before he was governor. He was real small.
MOE: Maybe your cab was extra large.
TOLAND: What do you mean? I had a regular Ford.
MOE: You lost it?
TOLAND: What’re you gonna do? The town is walkin’. I paid five hundred dollars for a new Ford, including bumpers and a spare. But thank God, at least I got into the housing project. It’s nice and reasonable.
MOE: What do you pay?
TOLAND: Nineteen fifty a month. It sounds like a lot, but we got three nice rooms—providin’ I get a little help here. What’s your line?
MOE: I sell on commission right now. I used to have my own business.
TOLAND: Used-ta. Whoever you talk to, “I used-ta.” If they don’t do something, I tell ya, one of these days this used-ta be a country.
KAPUSH exploding: Ignorance, ignorance! People don’t know facts. Greatest public library system in the entire world and nobody goes in but Jews.
MOE, glancing at him: Ah-ha.
LEE: What’re you, Iroquois?
DUGAN: He’s a fascist. I seen him talking on Union Square.
IRENE: Solidarity, folks, black and white together, that’s what we gotta have. Join the Workers Alliance, ten cents a month, and you git yourself some solidarity.
KAPUSH: I challenge anybody to find the word democracy in the Constitution. This is a republic! Demos is the Greek word for mob.
DUGAN, imitating the bird: Cuckoo!
KAPUSH: Come to get my money and the bank is closed up! Four thousand dollars up the flue. Thirteen years in hardware, savin’ by the week.
DUGAN: Mental diarrhea.
KAPUSH: Mobocracy. Gimme, gimme, gimme, all they know.
DUGAN: So what’re you doing here?
KAPUSH: Roosevelt was sworn in on a Dutch Bible! Silence. Anybody know that? To Irene: Betcha didn’t know that, did you?
IRENE: You givin’ me a headache, mister . . .
KAPUSH: I got nothin’ against colored. Colored never took my store away. Here’s my bankbook, see that? Bank of the United States. See that? Four thousand six hundred and ten dollars and thirty-one cents, right? Who’s got that money? Savin’ thirteen years, by the week. Who’s got my money?
He has risen to his feet. His fury has turned the moment silent. Matthew Bush enters and sways. Ryan enters.
RYAN, calls: Arthur Clayton!
CLAYTON, starts toward Ryan from the crowd and indicates Bush: I think there’s something the matter with—
Bush collapses on the floor. For a moment no one moves. Then Irene goes to him, bends over him.
IRENE: Hey. Hey, mister.
Lee helps him up and sits him in the chair.
RYAN, calling: Myrna, call the ambulance!
Irene lightly slaps Bush’s cheeks.
LEE: You all right?
RYAN, looking around: Clayton?
CLAYTON: I’m Clayton.
RYAN, Clayton’s form in his hand: You’re not eligible for relief; you’ve got furniture and valuables, don’t you?
CLAYTON: But nothing I could realize anything on.
RYAN: Why not?
IRENE: This man’s starvin’, Mr. Ryan.
RYAN: What’re you, a medical doctor now, Irene? I called the ambulance! Now don’t start makin’ an issue, will you? To Clayton: Is this your address? Gramercy Park South?
CLAYTON, embarrassed: That doesn’t mean a thing. I haven’t really eaten in a few days, actually . . .
RYAN: Where do you get that kind of rent?
CLAYTON: I haven’t paid my rent in over eight months . . .
RYAN, starting away: Forget it, mister, you got valuables and furniture; you can’t—
CLAYTON: I’m very good at figures, I was in brokerage. I thought if I could get anything that required . . . say statistics . . .
IRENE: Grace? You got anything in that bottle?
Grace, in a rear row with a baby in her arms, reaches forward with a baby bottle that has an inch of milk at the bottom. She hands the bottle to Irene.
GRACE: Ain’t much left there . . .
IRENE, takes nipple off bottle: Okay, now, open your mouth, mister.
Bush gulps the milk.
There, look at that, see? Man’s starvin’!
MOE, stands, reaching into his pocket: Here . . . look . . . for God’s sake. He takes out change and picks out a dime. Why don’t you send down, get him a bottle of milk?
IRENE, calls toward a young woman in the back: Lucy?
LUCY, coming forward: Here I am, Irene.
IRENE: Go down the corner, bring back a bottle of milk.
Moe gives her the dime, and Lucy hurries out.
And a couple of straws, honey! You in bad shape, mister—why’d you wait so long to get on relief?
BUSH: Well . . . I just don’t like the idea, you know.
IRENE: Yeah, I know—you a real bourgeoisie. Let me tell you something—
BUSH: I’m a chemist.
IRENE: I believe it, too—you so educated you sooner die than say brother. Now lemme tell you people. Addressing the crowd: Time has come to say brother. My husband pass away and leave me with three small children. No money, no work—I’s about ready to stick my head in the cookin’ stove. Then the city marshal come and take my chest of drawers, bed, and table, and leave me sittin’ on a old orange crate in the middle of the room. And it come over me, mister, come over me to get mean. And I got real mean. Go down in the street and start yellin’ and howlin’ like a real mean woman. And the people crowd around the marshal truck, and ’fore you know it that marshal turn himself around and go on back downtown empty-handed. And that’s when I see it. I see the solidarity, and I start to preach it up and down. ’Cause I got me a stick, and when I start poundin’ time with this stick, a whole lot of people starts to march, keepin’ time. We shall not be moved, yeah, we shall in no wise be disturbed. Some days I goes to court with my briefcase, raise hell with the judges. Ever time I goes into court the cops commence to holler, “Here comes that old lawyer woman!” But all I got in here is some old newspaper and a bag of cayenne pepper. Case any cop start musclin’ me around—that hot pepper, that’s hot cayenne pepper. And if the judge happen to be Catholic I got my rosary layin’ in there, and I kind of let that crucifix hang out so’s they think I’m Catholic too. She draws a rosary out of her bag and lets it hang over the side.
LUCY, enters with milk: Irene!
IRENE: Give it here, Lucy. Now drink it slow, mister. Slow, slow . . .
Bush is drinking in sips. People now go back into themselves, read papers, stare ahead.
RYAN: Lee Baum!
LEE, hurries to Moe: Here! Okay, Dad, let’s go.
Lee and Moe go to Ryan’s desk.
RYAN: This your father?
MOE: Yes.
RYAN, to Moe: Where’s he living now?
LEE: I don’t live at home because—
RYAN: Let him answer. Where’s he living, Mr. Baum?
MOE: Well, he . . . he rents a room someplace.
RYAN: You gonna sit there and tell me you won’t let him in the house?
MOE, with great difficulty: I won’t let him in, no.
RYAN: You mean you’re the kind of man, if he rang the bell and you opened the door and saw him, you wouldn’t let him inside?
MOE: Well, naturally, if he just wants to come in the house—
LEE: I don’t want to live there—
RYAN: I don’t care what you want, fella. To Moe: You will let him into the house, right?
MOE, stiffening: . . . I can’t stand the sight of him.
RYAN: Why? I saw you both sitting here talking together the last two hours.
MOE: We weren’t talking. . . . We were arguing, fighting! . . .
RYAN: Fighting about what?
MOE, despite himself; growing indignant: Who can remember? We were fighting, we’re always fighting! . . .
RYAN: Look, Mr. Baum . . . you’re employed, aren’t you?
MOE: I’m employed? Sure I’m employed. Here. He holds up the folded Times. See? Read it yourself. R. H. Macy, right? Ladies’ full-length slip, genuine Japanese silk, hand-embroidered with lace top and trimmings, two ninety-eight. My boss makes four cents on these, I make a tenth of a cent. That’s how I’m employed!
RYAN: You’ll let him in the house. He starts to move.
MOE: I will not let him in the house! He . . . he don’t believe in anything!
Lee and Ryan look at Moe in surprise. Moe himself is caught off balance by his genuine outburst and rushes out. Ryan glances at Lee, stamps a requisition form, and hands it to him, convinced. Ryan exits.
Lee moves slowly, staring at the form. The welfare clients exit, the row of overhead lights flies out.
Lights come up on Robertson.
ROBERTSON: Then and now, you have to wonder what really held it all together, and maybe it was simply the Future: the people were still not ready to give it up. Like a God, it was always worshiped among us, and they could not yet turn their backs on it. Maybe it’s that simple. Because from any objective viewpoint, I don’t understand why it held.
The Penguin Arthur Miller Page 101
