by James Reston
Bet that ole sarge don’t live a year, Billy. Fuckin’ blow his own ass sky high.
RICHIE has covered CARLYLE. HE pats CARLYLE’s arm, and then straightens in order to return to his bed.
BILLY: Richie . . .!
BILLY’s hissing voice freezes RICHIE. HE stands, and then HE starts again to move, and BILLY’s voice comes again and RICHIE cannot move.
Richie . . . how come you gotta keep doin’ that stuff?
ROGER looks at BILLY, staring at RICHIE, who stands still as a stone over the sleeping CARLYLE.
How come?
ROGER: He dunno, man. Do you? You dunno, do you, Rich?
RICHIE: No.
CARLYLE (From deep in his sleep and grieving): It . . . was . . . so . . . pretty . . .!
RICHIE: No.
The lights are fading with the last soft notes of taps.
End of Act One
ACT TWO
Scene 1
Lights come up on the cadre room. It is late afternoon and BILLY is lying on his stomach, his head at the foot of the bed, his chin resting on his hands. HE wears gym shorts and sweat socks; his T-shirt lies on the bed and his sneakers are on the floor. ROGER is at his footlocker, taking out a pair of sweat socks. His sneakers and his basketball are on his bed. HE is wearing his khakis.
A silence passes, and then ROGER closes his footlocker and sits on his bed, where HE starts lacing his sneakers, holding them on his lap.
BILLY: Rog . . . you think I’m a busybody? In any way? (Silence. ROGER laces his sneakers) Roger?
ROGER: Huh? Uh-uh.
BILLY: Some people do. I mean, back home. (HE rolls slightly to look at ROGER) Or that I didn’t know how to behave. Sort of.
ROGER: It’s time we maybe get changed, don’t you think? (HE rises and goes to his locker. HE takes off his trousers, shoes and socks)
BILLY: Yeh. I guess. I don’t feel like it, though. I don’t feel good, don’t know why.
ROGER: Be good for you, man; be good for you. (Pulling on his gym shorts, HE returns to his bed, carrying his shoes and socks)
BILLY: Yeh. (HE sits up on the edge of his bed. ROGER, sitting, is bowed over, putting on his socks) I mean, a lot of people thought like I didn’t know how to behave in a simple way. You know? That I overcomplicated everything. I didn’t think so. Don’t think so. I just thought I was seein’ complications that were there but nobody else saw. (HE is struggling now to put on his T-shirt. HE seems weary, almost weak) I mean, Wisconsin’s a funny place. All those clear-eyed people sayin’ “Hello” and lookin’ you straight in the eye. Everybody’s good, you think, and happy and honest. And then there’s all of a sudden a neighbor who goes mad as a hatter. I had a neighbor who came out of his house one morning with axes in both hands. He started then attackin’ the cars that were driving up and down in front of his house. An’ we all knew why he did it, sorta. (HE pauses; HE thinks) It made me wanna be a priest. I wanted to be a priest then. I was sixteen. Priests could help people. Could take away what hurt ’em. I wanted that, I thought. Somethin’, huh?
ROGER: (HE has the basketball in his hands): Yeh. But everybody’s got feelin’s like that sometimes.
BILLY: I don’t know.
ROGER: You know, you oughta work on a little jump shot, my man. Get you some kinda fall-away jumper to go with that beauty of a hook. Make you tough out there.
BILLY: Can’t fuckin’ do it. Not my game. I mean, like that bar we go to. You think I could get a job there bartendin’, maybe? I could learn the ropes. (HE is watching ROGER, who has risen to walk to his locker) You think I could get a job there off-duty hours?
ROGER: (Pulling his locker open to display the pinup on the inside of the door): You don’t want no job. It’s that little black-haired waitress you wantin’ to know.
BILLY: No, man. Not really.
ROGER: It’s okay. She tough, man. (HE begins to remove his uniform shirt. HE will put on an O.D. T-shirt to go to the gym)
BILLY: I mean, not the way you’re sayin’ it, is all. Sure, there’s somethin’ about her. I don’t know what. I ain’t even spoke to her yet. But somethin’. I mean, what’s she doin’ there? When she’s dancin’, it’s like she knows somethin’. She’s degradin’ herself, I sometimes feel. You think she is?
ROGER: Man, you don’t even know the girl. She’s workin’.
BILLY: I’d like to talk to her. Tell her stuff. Find out about her. Sometimes I’m thinkin’ about her and it and I got a job there, I get to know her and she and I get to be real tight, man—close, you know. Maybe we screw, maybe we don’t. It’s nice . . . whatever.
ROGER: Sure. She a real fine-lookin’ chippy, Billy. Got nice cakes. Nice little titties.
BILLY: I think she’s smart, too. (ROGER starts laughing so hard HE almost falls into his locker) Oh, all I do is talk. “Yabba-yabba.” I mean, my mom and dad are really terrific people. How’d they ever end up with somebody so weird as me?
ROGER: (Moves to BILLY, jostles him): I’m tellin’ you, the gym and a little ball is what you need. Little exercise. Little bumpin’ into people. The soul is tellin’ you.
BILLY rises and goes to his locker, where HE starts putting on his sweat clothes.
BILLY: I mean, Roger, you remember how we met in P Company? Both of us brand-new. You started talkin’ to me. You just started talkin’ to me and you didn’t stop.
ROGER: (Hardly looking up): Yeh.
BILLY: Did you see somethin’ in me made you pick me?
ROGER: I was talkin’ to everybody, man. For that whole day. Two whole days. You was just the first one to talk back friendly. Though you didn’t say much, as I recall.
BILLY: The first white person, you mean. (Wearing his sweat pants. HE is now at his bed, putting on his sneakers)
ROGER: Yeh. I was tryin’ to come outa myself a little. Do like the fuckin’ headshrinker been tellin’ me to stop them fuckin’ headaches I was havin’, you know. Now let us do fifteen or twenty push-ups and get over to that gymnasium, like I been sayin’. Then we can take our civvies with us—we can shower and change at the gym. (HE crosses to BILLY, who flops down on his belly on the bed)
BILLY: I don’t know . . . I don’t know what it is I’m feelin’. Sick like.
ROGER forces BILLY up onto his feet and shoves him playfully downstage, where THEY both fall forward into the push-up position, side by side.
ROGER: Do ’em, trooper. Do ’em. Get it.
ROGER starts. BILLY joins in. After five, ROGER realizes that BILLY has his knees on the floor. THEY start again. This time, BILLY counts in double time. THEY start again. At about “seven,” RICHIE enters. Neither BILLY nor ROGER sees him. THEY keep going.
ROGER: and BILLY: . . . seven, eight, nine, ten . . .
RICHIE: No, no; no, no; no, no, no. That’s not it; that’s not it.
ROGER and BILLY (THEY keep going, yelling the numbers louder and louder): . . . eleven, twelve, thirteen . . .
RICHIE crosses to his locker and gets his bottle of cologne, and then returning to the center of the room to stare at them, HE stands there dabbing cologne on his face.
. . . fourteen, fifteen.
RICHIE: You’ll never get it like that. You’re so far apart and you’re both humping at the same time. And all that counting. It’s so unromantic.
ROGER: (Rising and moving to his bed to pick up the basketball): We was exercisin’, Richard. You heard a that?
RICHIE: Call it what you will, Roger.
With a flick of his wrist, ROGER tosses the basketball to BILLY.
Everybody has their own cute little pet names for it.
BILLY: Hey!
And BILLY tosses the ball at RICHIE, hitting him in the chest, sending the cologne bottle flying. RICHIE yelps, as BILLY retrieves the ball and, grabbing up his sweat jacket from the bed, heads for the door. ROGER, at his own locker, has taken out his suit bag of civilian clothes.
You missed.
RICHIE: Billy, Billy, Billy, please, please, the ruffian approach wil
l not work with me. It impresses me not even one tiny little bit. All you’ve done is spill my cologne. (HE bends to pick up the cologne from the floor)
BILLY: That was my aim.
ROGER: See you.
BILLY is passing RICHIE. Suddenly RICHIE sprays BILLY with cologne, some of it getting on ROGER, as ROGER and BILLY, groaning and cursing at RICHIE, rush out the door.
RICHIE: Try the more delicate approach next time, Bill. (Having crossed to the door, HE stands a moment, leaning against the frame. Then HE bounces to BILLY’s bed, sings “He’s just my Bill,” and squirts cologne on the pillow. At his locker, HE deposits the cologne, takes off his shirt, shoes and socks. Removing a hard-cover copy of Pauline Kael’s I Lost It at the Movies from the top shelf of the locker, HE bounds to the center of the room and tosses the book the rest of the way to the bed. Quite pleased with himself, HE fidgets, pats his stomach, then lowers himself into the push-up position, goes to his knees and stands up) Am I out of my fucking mind? Those two are crazy. I’m not crazy.
RICHIE pivots and strides to his locker. With an ashtray, a pack of matches and a pack of cigarettes, HE hurries to his bed and makes himself comfortable to read, his head propped up on a pillow. Settling himself, HE opens the book, finds his place, thinks a little, starts to read. For a moment HE lies there. And then CARLYLE steps into the room. HE comes through the doorway looking to his left and right. HE comes several steps into the room and looks at RICHIE. RICHIE sees him. THEY look at each other.
CARLYLE: Ain’t nobody here, man?
RICHIE: Hello, Carlyle. How are you today?
CARLYLE: Ain’t nobody here? (HE is nervous and angrily disappointed)
RICHIE: Who do you want?
CARLYLE: Where’s the black boy?
RICHIE: Roger? My God, why do you keep calling him that? Don’t you know his name yet? Roger. Roger. (HE thickens his voice at this, imitating someone very stupid. CARLYLE stares at him)
CARLYLE: Yeh. Where is he?
RICHIE: I am not his keeper, you know. I am not his private secretary, you know.
CARLYLE: I do not know. I do not know. That is why I am asking. I come to see him. You are here. I ask you. I don’t know. I mean, Carlyle made a fool outa himself comin’ in here the other night, talkin’ on and on like how he did. Lay on the floor. He remember. You remember? It all one hype, man; that all one hype. You know what I mean. That ain’t the real Carlyle was in here. This one here and now the real Carlyle. Who the real Richie?
RICHIE: Well . . . the real Richie . . . has gone home. To Manhattan. I, however, am about to read this book. (Which HE again starts to try to do)
CARLYLE: Oh. Shit. Jus’ you the only one here, then, huh?
RICHIE: So it would seem. (HE looks at the air and then under the bed as if to find someone) So it would seem. Did you hear about Martin?
CARLYLE: What happened to Martin? I ain’t seen him.
RICHIE: They are shipping him home. Someone told about what he did to himself. I don’t know who.
CARLYLE: Wasn’t me. Not me. I keep that secret.
RICHIE: I’m sure you did. (Rising, walking toward CARLYLE and the door, cigarette pack in hand) You want the cigarette? Or don’t you smoke? Or do you have to go right away? (Closing the door) There’s a chill sometimes coming down the hall, I don’t know from where. (Crossing back to his bed and climbing in) And I think I’ve got the start of a little cold. Did you want the cigarette?
CARLYLE is staring at him. Then HE examines the door and looks again at RICHIE. HE stares at RICHIE, thinking, and then HE walks toward him.
CARLYLE: You know what I bet? I been lookin’ at you real close. It just a way I got about me. And I bet if I was to hang my boy out in front of you, my big boy, man, you’d start wanting to touch him. Be beggin’ and talkin’ sweet to ole Carlyle. Am I right or wrong? (HE leans over RICHIE) What do you say?
RICHIE: Pardon?
CARLYLE: You heard me. Ohhh. I am so restless, I don’t even understand it. My big black boy is what I was talkin’ about. My thing, man; my rope, Jim. HEY, RICHIE! (And HE lunges, then moves his fingers through RICHIE’s hair) How long you been a punk? Can you hear me? Am I clear? Do I talk funny? (HE is leaning close) Can you smell the gin on my mouth?
RICHIE: I mean, if you really came looking for Roger, he and Billy are gone to the gymnasium. They were—
CARLYLE: No. (HE slides down on the bed, his arm placed over RICHIE’s legs) I got no athletic abilities. I got none. No moves. I don’t know. HEY, RICHIE! (Leaning close again) I just got this question I asked. I got no answer.
RICHIE: I don’t know . . . what . . . you mean.
CARLYLE: I heard me. I understood me. “How long you been a punk?” is the question I asked. Have you got a reply?
RICHIE (Confused, irritated, but fascinated): Not to that question.
CARLYLE: Who do if you don’t? I don’t. How’m I gonna? (Suddenly there is a whistling in the hall, as if someone might enter, footsteps approaching, and RICHIE leaps to his feet and scurries away toward the door, tucking in his undershirt as HE goes) Man, don’t you wanna talk to me? Don’t you wanna talk to ole Carlyle?
RICHIE: Not at the moment.
CARLYLE (HE is rising, starting after RICHIE, who stands nervously near ROGER’s bed): I want to talk to you, man; why don’t you want to talk to me? We can be friends. Talkin’ back and forth, sharin’ thoughts and bein’ happy.
RICHIE: I don’t think that’s what you want.
CARLYLE (HE is very near to RICHIE): What do I want?
RICHIE: I mean, to talk to me. (As if repulsed, HE crosses away. But it is hard to tell if the move is genuine or coy)
CARLYLE: What am I doin’? I am talkin’. DON’T YOU TELL ME I AIN’T TALKIN’ WHEN I AM TALKIN’! COURSE I AM. Bendin’ over backwards. (And pressing his hands against himself in his anger, HE has touched the grease on his shirt, the filth of his clothing, and this ignites the anger) Do you know they still got me in that goddamn P Company? That goddamn transient company. It like they think I ain’t got no notion what a home is. No nose for no home—like I ain’t never had no home. I had a home. IT LIKE THEY THINK THERE AIN’T NO PLACE FOR ME IN THIS MOTHER ARMY BUT K.P. ALL SUDSY AND WRINKLED AND SWEATIN’. EVERY DAY SINCE I GOT TO THIS SHIT HOUSE, MISTER! HOW MANY TIMES YOU BEEN ON K.P.? WHEN’S THE LAST TIME YOU PULLED K.P.? (HE has roared down to where RICHIE had moved, the rage possessing him)
RICHIE: I’m E.D.
CARLYLE: You E.D.? You E.D.? You Edie, are you? I didn’t ask you what you friends call you, I asked you when’s the last time you had K.P.?
RICHIE (Edging toward his bed. HE will go there, get and light a cigarette): E.D. is “Exempt from Duty.”
CARLYLE (Moving after RICHIE): You ain’t got no duties? What shit you talkin’ about? Everybody in this fuckin’ army got duties. That what the fuckin’ army all about. You ain’t got no duties, who got ’em?
RICHIE: Because of my job, Carlyle. I have a very special job. And my friends don’t call me Edie. (Big smile) They call me Irene.
CARLYLE: That mean what you sayin’ is you kiss ass for somebody, don’t it? Good for you. (Seemingly relaxed and gentle. HE settles down on RICHIE’s bed. HE seems playful and charming) You know the other night I was sleepin’ there. You know.
RICHIE: Yes.
CARLYLE (Gleefully, enormously pleased): You remember that? How come you remember that? You sweet.
RICHIE: We don’t have people sleeping on our floor that often, Carlyle.
CARLYLE: But the way you crawl over in the night, gimme a big kiss on my joint. That nice.
RICHIE (Shocked. HE blinks): What?
CARLYLE: Or did I dream that?
RICHIE (Laughing in spite of himself): My God, you’re outrageous!
CARLYLE: Maybe you dreamed it.
RICHIE: What . . .? No. I don’t know.
CARLYLE: Maybe you did it, then; you didn’t dream it.
RICHIE: How come you talk so much?
CARLYLE: I don’t talk, man, who’s gonna talk? YOU? (HE is laughing and amused, but there is an anger near the surface now, an ugliness) That bore me to death. I don’t like nobody’s voice but my own. I am so pretty. Don’t like nobody else face. (And then viciously, HE spits out at RICHIE) You goddamn face ugly fuckin’ queer punk!
And RICHIE jumps in confusion.
RICHIE: What’s the matter with you?
CARLYLE: You goddamn ugly punk face. YOU UGLY!
RICHIE: Nice mouth.
CARLYLE: That’s right. That’s right. And you got a weird mouth. Like to suck joints.
RICHIE storms to his locker, throwing the book inside. HE pivots, grabbing a towel, marching toward the door.
Hey, you gonna jus’ walk out on me? Where you goin’? You c’mon back. Hear?
RICHIE: That’s my bed, for chrissake. (HE lunges into the hall)
CARLYLE: You’d best. (Lying there. HE makes himself comfortable. HE takes a pint bottle from his back pocket) You come back, Richie, I tell you a good joke. Make you laugh, make you cry. (HE takes a big drink) That’s right. Ole Frank and Jesse, they got the stagecoach stopped, all the peoples lined up—Frank say, “All right, peoples, we gonna rape all the men and rob all the women.” Jesse say, “Frank, no, no—that ain’t it—we gonna . . . .” And this one little man yell real loud, “You shut up, Jesse; Frank knows what he’s doin’.”
Loudly. HE laughs and laughs. BILLY enters. Startled at the sight of CARLYLE there in RICHIE’s bed. BILLY falters, as CARLYLE gestures toward him)
Hey, man . . .! Hey, you know, they send me over to that Vietnam, I be cool, ’cause I been dodgin’ bullets and shit since I been old enough to get on pussy make it happy to know me. I can get on, I can do my job.
BILLY looks weary and depressed. Languidly HE crosses to his bed. HE still wears his sweat clothes. CARLYLE studies him, then stares at the ceiling.
Yeh. I was just layin’ here thinkin’ that and you come in and out it come, words to say my feelin’. That my problem. That the black man’s problem altogether. You ever considered that? Too much feelin’. He too close to everything. He is, man; too close to his blood, to his body. It ain’t that he don’t have no good mind, but he BELIEVE in his body. Is . . . that Richie the only punk in this room, or is there more?
