by Kerr, Jean;
After the show, most wives go out with their friends or go home to their peaceful apartments. I tag along to the office because we live in Larchmont and neither one of us wants to make the trip back alone. Obviously, if I were planning to influence my husband, my golden opportunity would come during the cab ride over to the office. The only trouble is that he immediately assumes the yogi-like silence and the glazed manner of a sandhog in a decompression chamber.
I used to think he was going into shock, but I have gradually gleaned that he is just trying to think of an opening sentence. I wouldn’t dream of breaking the cathedral hush that surrounds us. However, if there is one thing a cab driver does not seem to recognize, it is a cathedral hush. All the cab drivers we get at ten forty-five in the evening are sports, bon vivants, and raconteurs. One man the other night had a really tantalizing story about how he had to drive a burro to Riverdale. My only question is, where are all these gay blades during the six-o’clock rush hour in front of the Biltmore?
Once my husband is at his desk, he sets to work immediately, furiously consulting the dozens of penciled notes he makes during the show on intricately folded yellow paper. I glanced at the notes one evening and the first one said, “Why he shedelepp so often, especially in the speckeldiff?” I only hope he doesn’t lose them some night. They might be found, and how would he prove they’re not atomic secrets?
Anyway, while he’s working, I’m not idle. I sit at an empty desk and read back copies of The Hollywood Reporter and draw horses. Sometimes I chat with bright young copyboys, who, it would appear, are serious students of the theatre. The only difficulty is that they want to discuss Toller and Strindberg, whereas, at that hour of the morning, I want to discuss Lindsay and Crouse. Occasionally someone wants to know why Kafka’s The Trial is never done. Of course I have no figures here, but I have this feeling that it is done all the time. Maybe not.
Then, too, my husband sometimes consults me while he’s writing a review. A hoarse shout will come over the partition, “Hey, how do you spell desiccate?” But this is patently ridiculous. If I could spell desiccate I would long since have assumed my rightful place in the world of letters.
An interesting aspect of dramatic criticism is that an actor can remember his briefest notice well into senescence and long after he has forgotten his phone number and where he lives. Thus it is quite a common occurrence for a critic to meet a nice young thing at a party and have her say, “Oh, don’t you remember me? You saw me in The Squared Circle four years ago and you said I was ‘earnest, effortful, and inane.’” Well, that’s what makes cocktail parties so interesting.
On the other hand, most people who read more than one drama critic quickly forget who said what. We had an interesting demonstration of this last summer when we met a film actress who was chatting wisely and wittily about the theatre until she reached the subject of a certain musical comedy. Then she declared with some heat, “I don’t know what gets into Brooks Atkinson sometimes. Do you know what he said about that show?”
Whereupon she proceeded to recite from memory two paragraphs, word for word, semicolon for semicolon, of Walter’s review. After the brief hush that followed this recital, I murmured, “Did Brooks really say that? Well, there you are—even Homer nods,” the while my husband made little clicking sounds indicating that he was too shocked even to comment.
In common with the wives of other critics, I am so anxious to indicate that I in no way influence or attempt to influence my husband’s opinions that I rather overstate the case and perhaps give the impression that we never discuss the theatre at all—that our conversation is exclusively concerned with stories about our adorable children and the cute way they spilled Three-in-One oil all over the living-room rug, interspersed occasionally with highlights from the world of sport.
The fact is that we have many an intelligent discussion of the play coming home on the train, at which time I have a carbon copy of the review to read. A typical opening gambit in such a conversation would be: “Boy! If that was a haunting, luminous performance… !”
Don Brown’s body
After one of those evenings in the theater, an evening that happened to be devoted to a staged reading of Stephen Vincent Benét’s John Brown’s Body, I worked out my own little entertainment:
The curtain—if there is one—rises on a vast blue sky, relieved only by a chaste white balustrade in the foreground. A chorus of pretty girls and pretty boys is seated on folding chairs at one side. Before them, and menacingly near us, stand four lecterns on which scripts that no one will ever look at have been placed. The readers enter, with a dignity that will be theirs to the very end. The first reader begins, however, with a shy, boyish smile.
FIRST READER
In recent years there has been a marked revival of interest in the art of dramatic reading. We have dipped into the treasures of Charles Dickens, George Bernard Shaw, and Stephen Vincent Benét, among others. Yet there is an entire facet of our culture that has never been tapped. I am speaking now of that special genre known as detective fiction, where, as some authorities have pointed out, the interest has lately shifted from “who done it” to “wit what.” There has also been an increasing emphasis on violence and—the woman across the hall has an awfully good word for it—
He glances at a note in his hand
—sex.
As every schoolboy knows, many of these works were written not to be read, but to be inhaled. With this in mind, we offer you Don Brown’s Body—by Mickey Spillane.
WOMAN READER
Mike Hammer’s tune.
FIRST READER
I’m Mike Hammer. I don’t take slop from nobody. Like this guy. He ankles up to me on the street. He opens his big ugly yap, and says—
THIRD READER
Pardon me. Have you the correct time?
MIKE
So I kicked him in the mouth and his teeth dropped all over the sidewalk like marbles. Like I say—I don’t take slop from nobody.
THIRD READER
Sally Dupre’s tune.
WOMAN READER
I know I’m just a broad, Mike. I’m a round-heeled babe with a dirty record. My type comes two thousand dollars a dozen. But I’m clean inside, Mike.
MIKE
I picked her up in Jimmy’s bar. She was lying there, so I picked her up. She was in pretty bad shape.
CHORUS
Chanting in unison
Sally Dupre, Sally Dupre,
Her eyes were neither black nor gray,
They were black and blue.
MIKE
I was on a case. When I’m on a case nobody or nothin’ takes my mind off it for a minute.
We went up to her place.
She lived on the St. Regis roof. Sooner or later some wise guy of a cop is gonna find her up there and make her come down. But tonight was ours. She opened her good eye. There was no mistaking that invitation. Her lips were like fresh ketchup on a white tablecloth. My heart was throbbing like a stubbed toe.
She was waiting for me, a hungry thing. Now there was nothing between us but us. I spoke:
“You were a member of the Carney gang at the time that One-Finger Matthews put the finger on Soft-Spot Sullivan, who was at that time going under the name of Samuel X. Sullivan and who knifed Maurie Magnusson in the back of the Easy-Way Garage. The Queen Mary docked at eleven forty-six on the twenty-third, and Joey Jacobson was found in an abandoned milk truck two years later. What do you know about Don Brown?”
Her eyes found mine. Down below, the great idiot city went its old familiar way: birth and death, love and lust, Martin and Lewis. A long time afterwards she spoke:
WOMAN READER
Don Who Brown?
MIKE
That took me back. The first time I saw Don Brown was in the locker room at the “Y.” He was in my locker.
CHORUS
Not in the good green fields, Don Brown.
Not in the loamy earth, Don Brown,
Under the spike
-eared corn—
But in a locker, a long green locker, a lonely long green locker
At the “Y.”
MIKE
He’d been dead about three weeks then, judging from the condition of my tennis racket. I reached for a butt. I was pretty cut up.
CHORUS
Ah, yes, Mike Hammer—ah, yes.
But you were not as cut up as Don Brown was cut up.
MIKE
Who’d be next, I wondered? I looked in the next locker. Bill Brown was in that one. One thing was clear. Somebody was going to have to clean out those lockers.
I went out to the street.
CHORUS
Tramp… tramp… tramp…
MIKE
I passed this kid sucking a lollipop. Don Brown dead, and him sucking a lollipop. I rammed it down his throat. I hate injustice.
I walked for hours.
CHORUS
Don Brown’s body lies a molderin’ at the “Y”—
WOMAN READER
Don Brown’s song.
THIRD READER
Wish you were here, wish you were here, wish you were here…
MIKE
I went back to the place I call home.
CHORUS
Tramp… tramp… tramp…
MIKE
The Hairy Arms, Apartment 3-D. I put the key in the lock. I opened the door. A gun smashed into my skull. Heavy boots ground into my spine. A pair of fists tore into my throat.
I saw something coming towards me. It was a fly swatter. This was no ordinary killer.
I knew then they were after me. And I knew one other thing, as they threw me over the third-floor railing: they were afraid of me.
I hit the second-floor landing.
I hit the first-floor landing.
I hit the cigar counter.
The girl behind the cigar counter looked up. There was no mistaking that invitation. She was naked beneath that reversible. She reversed the reversible. She was still naked. A long time later she spoke:
WOMAN READER
Bring me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses …
MIKE
I went to the office.
CHORUS
Tramp… tramp… tramp …
MIKE
My secretary, Josephine, was there. She looked up.
She was mad for me. I tried to be good to Josephine. I used to let her kiss my fingertips every once in a while. But now I carefully put my fingers in my pockets. Josephine would have to wait. There was only one thing on my mind these days.
“What’s new on the Don Brown case?”
JOSEPHINE
I checked this morning. He’s still there.
CHORUS
Nothing is changed, Don Brown. Nothing is changed.
But men are beginning to notice.
In the locker room at the “Y,” they’re beginning to notice.
It will grow stronger, Don Brown!
MIKE
We went outside.
CHORUS
Tramp… tramp… tramp …
MIKE
My heap was parked at the curb. I had a strong feeling it was wired. I asked Josephine to get in first. She put her foot on the starter.
Boy!
CHORUS
Come Josephine in my flying machine
As up we go, up we go …
MIKE
A long time afterward, she came down. I didn’t wait. I knew Josephine. She’d pull herself together.
The patrol wagon went by. I thought of Sally. I called her up.
“Sally?”
WOMAN READER
“Mike?”
MIKE
“I’m sweatin’ for you, Sally.”
WOMAN READER
“I’m clean inside, Mike.”
Both hang up.
MIKE
We could talk forever and never get it all said. I was still in the booth when the phone rang. On a hunch, I answered it. It was the killer. He laughed at me. That was all. Laughed at me.
I was no longer a man, I was an ugly thing. I wanted to get his skull between my hands and crack it like a cantaloupe. I wanted to scramble that face like a plate of eggs. I wanted to work him over till his blood ran the color of coffee. That’s when it came to me: I hadn’t had any breakfast.
I was going into Longchamp’s when this tomato waltzes by. She was a tomato surprise. A round white face with yellow hair poured over it like chicken gravy on mashed potatoes. Her raccoon coat was tight in all the right places.
I watched her as she disappeared into a doorway. She shut the door. There was no mistaking that invitation.
I followed her in. Inside it was inky darkness. I groped my way across the room. Her lips were warm. Her nose was warm. She barked.
I spoke.
“Down, dammit, down!”
I went back to my place, good old 3-D. I no sooner opened the door than they were at me again. This time I was ready. I smashed my eye into his fist, I forced my ribs into his boot, and the first thing he knew I was flat on my back in the hall. He was standing above me now. He spoke.
THIRD READER
Look, buddy. You do this every night. This is not your apartment. You’re in 3-D. This is 3-A.
MIKE
After that, everything was like a nightmare. I was sitting in this bar with Sally.
“What’ll you have?”
WOMAN READER
“Straight Clorox.” I’m clean inside, Mike.
MIKE
Then I was in this strange room with this strange blonde.
How did I get here? What kind of a girl was she?
CHORUS
Tramp… tramp… tramp …
MIKE
Then I was in another strange room with another strange blonde. She had just stepped from the tub. There she was as God made her, a mess.
Our eyes were riveted together. I took a step towards her. I took another. I fell over the coffee table.
The next thing I knew they had me surrounded. Blondes, brunettes, redheads…
THIRD READER
There was no mistaking that invitation.
WOMAN READER
Mike Hammer was a man in a million.
Mike Hammer had the strength of ten.
Mike Hammer spoke.
MIKE
No, girls—no!
CHORUS
Astonished and exultant
“Glory, glory, hallelujah!…”
With a swell in the music, the lights fade.
Toujours tristesse
After reading “A CERTAIN SMILE” by Francoise Sagan: I was waiting for Banal. I was feeling rather bored. It was a summer day like any other, except for the hail. I crossed the street.
Suddenly I was wildly happy. I had an overwhelming intuition that one day I would be dead. These large eyes, this bony child’s body would be consigned to the sweet earth. Everything spoke of it: the lonely cooing of a solitary pigeon overhead, the stately bong bong bong of the cathedral chimes, the loud horn of the motorbus that grazed my thigh.
I slipped into the café, but Banal was late. I was pleased to notice that that simple fact annoyed me.
Banal and I were classmates. Our eyes had met, our bodies had met, and then someone introduced us. Now he was my property, and I knew every inch of that brown body the way you know your own driveway.
A stranger across the booth spoke.
“Monique, what are you staring at, silly girl?”
It was Banal. Curious that I hadn’t recognized him. Suddenly I knew why. A revolting look of cheerfulness had twisted and distorted those clear young features until he seemed actually to be smiling.
I couldn’t look. I turned my head, but his voice followed me, humbly and at a distance like a spaniel.
“Monique, why did you skip class? We were studying the Critique of Pure Reason. It was interesting, but I think Kant offers a false dichotomy. The only viable solution is to provide a synthesis in which experience is impregnated wit
h rationality and reason is ordained to empirical data.”
How like Banal to say the obvious. Sometimes as I sat and listened to Banal and his companions trade flippancies, I could feel the boredom grow and swell within me almost as if I had swallowed a beach ball.
Why must we chatter fruitlessly and endlessly about philosophy and politics? I confess that I am only interested in questions that touch the heart of another human being—“Who are you sleeping with?”; “What do you take for quick relief from acid indigestion?”
Banal’s voice droned on like a chorus of cicadas on a hot day until finally there was a statement I couldn’t ignore.
“Monique, I want you to meet my grandfather, Anatole. My rich grandfather.”
A slight, stooped man came toward me. He was no longer middle-aged, but I liked that. I was so tired of these eager boys of fifty. His hair, which was greenish white, might have been unpleasant had there been more of it. As he smiled gently, showing his small, even, ecru teeth, I thought, ‘Ah, he’s the type that’s mad for little girls.’ In fact, hadn’t I read that he’d had some trouble with the police?
But now, as his dull eyes looked directly into mine and I noticed him idly striking a match on the tablecloth, I realized with a sudden stab of joy that finally I had met a man who was as bored as I was.
And yet, I reminded myself firmly as my heart slid back to earth, this won’t last. It can’t last. He won’t always be this bored.
Now Banal was speaking, in his infantile way.
“Do you know Monique has never seen the sea?”
Then a woman spoke, Anatole’s wife. She was sitting beside him but I hadn’t noticed her because she was wearing a brown dress and blended into the back of the booth. Her voice was warm, like a caress.
“Why, that’s awful that this poor child has never seen the sea. Anatole, darling, you must take her to our little château by the ocean. I won’t be able to come because I’m redecorating the town house. But there is plenty of food in the frigidaire, and Monique will be able to see the ocean from the bedroom. Here are the keys.”
