Scene 2 in a nutshell: Zachary, who almost misses his number being called, so lost in his own imaginings was he, comes down from the Gallery to sit in front of Mr. Kincade. Zachary’s mind (as shown through his unceasing words), seems to be going everywhere except the prospects of getting a job. Mr. Kincade is gobsmacked by it all and (with time effectively stopped) he leaves his desk and stands before the Gallery and sings a lament about how God must have misunderstood his prayer to be allowed to—for just one day—make a difference in another person’s life … and that was why He sent Zachary Odin Patiperro to him.

Act I, Scene 3

CAST OF CHARACTERS

MR. KINCADE: Manager of the NYCDoHD, a man in his late 40s. Dressed to the nines.
ZACHARY PATIPERRO: A young man, 23 years old. his blond hair uncut, a broken nose, a jagged one-inch scar on his forehead, otherwise attractive in a rugged way. He’s obviously poor and his clothing is indicative of this. Wears a heavy pea coat, and a stocking cap that he stuffs in his pocket when not worn.
BETTY: Co-assistant Manager. A woman in her middle 30s. Speaks little. Only visible when her desk is illuminated.
MARSHALL: Co-assistant Manager. A man in his middle 30s. Speaks little. Only visible when his desk is illuminated.
CHORUS: All the employees’ voices in unison.
GALLERY: A group of about twenty people, waiting for their numbers to be called. Some will have small parts. Some act as Chorus.

SETTING: The office of the New York City Department of Human Development (the NYCDoHD). A desk, Down Center, facing right; a straight-back chair in front of it, facing left. Downstage left (between Mr. Kincade’s desk and those of the other employees) a private office door. Center Stage, Right to Left, twin rows, five each, of similar “manned” desks (a chair in front of each, facing the desk), all in “near-total” shadow. Two of the desks in the center of the nearest row are occupied by Marshall and Betty. Upstage, Center to Right, a bleacher-like gallery, nearly full of extras. On the wall above the gallery is an oversized electrical device blinking the next number to be called. The office entrance/Exit door, Upstage Left. Just inside the door is a Take-a-Number Machine. A large picture window adjacent to the Exit, Upstage Right to Left (about half of it eclipsed by the gallery), shows continually blustery weather outside and occasionally silhouetted people walk past it on the sidewalk, trudging by, bent into the squall.

PLACE/TIME: New York City Department of Human Development, January 1930, the beginning of the Great Depression.

ZACHARY:
Some might say that God kept greasing me up before each of our matches. Of course, I’m not trying to search that vast mind for his motive, but judging from my condition at the end of one bout, he needed a worthier opponent for the next—not one who could be pinned the first five minutes into it.

MR. KINCADE:
(Seeped in sarcasm)
Sort of like the pig they grease up at carnivals for the kids to chase.

ZACHARY:
(Looking at his hands in his lap, and smiling)
Like that … Allow me a moment to finish my smile.
(Beat)
Yes … And there’s, yet another way of looking at it, I suppose. Let me have a go at it …
(struggling physically, painfully, to come up with the right words)
I think—ah, yes, that’s it! You see, Sir … Spiritually defective … I was born a gypsy with a limp.
 
MR. KINCADE:
A greased gypsy, you mean … and limping from one of your falls!

ZACHARY:
I know, right? But I think—judging from your tone—you want specifics. So … it all began for me on August third, nineteen aught seven. I was born in the coastal town of Alicante, in Spain.
(Offering MR. KINCADE an almost apologetic smile)
You might say that’s why, throughout my life, I longed for her warm sands and siestas.
 
[MR. KINCADE swivels around to stare directly at BETTY and MARSHALL, who for the moment seem to be ignoring their own clients, as they shake their heads at ZACHARY with humorous consternation. They return into shadow as MR. KINCADE swivels back.]
 
ZACHARY (Continues):
And my father… Father was always on a ship … somewhere.
 
MR. KINCADE:
(In a thunderous voice that draws everyone’s eyes to him, and shooting a forefinger into the air)
NOW! Now I got it! Stupid me! Betty, Marshall … all you guys…
(Laughs, swivels around again as BETTY AND MARSHALL’S desks light up briefly, and the two look at him with puzzled expectation.)
But, the only thing is … it won’t be my birthday for another week. And it’ll be nine months until my twentieth anniversary here at the NYCDoHD.
(Smiling, they lift their shoulders to their ears and hold out their palms … and then go back into shadow. MR. KINCADE turns back to ZACHARY.)
Okay… That’s okay… So, I don’t know what’s going on right now, but I’ll figure it out. Until then, I’ll let it run its course. And you, young man—you are good. I’ll give you that! You were well chosen for your role. Ah-ha! Yes, you are good!

ZACHARY:
(Puzzled)
I do try to be good, Sir. And I do so want to be now. In fact, I’m desperate to be good! So, I suppose …. I should … continue? …
(Beat):
I left us there … on the seashore of Alicante, where I—I—well, I started reading early, you see.
(Looking up, with a small smile)
Even before attending school, I was a gatherer of words. I had already gathered words … raw words, and-and-and ripe and succulent words … words which would prepare me—though I certainly didn’t know it at that green age—for my first liberation.
 
MR. KINCADE:
What! My God!
(Throws up his hands, as in total resignation)
Oh, hell. I’ll count this as my first break … go on, go on!

ZACHARY:
Certainly. Thank you. Mother’s parents could not accept a bastard for a son. So, with me in Mama’s arms, we left lovely Alicante. But you must remember, wherever our travels took us, Mother had always retained a fatal memory of Spain. And to her … well … I was her Don.
 
 MR. KINCADE:
 (Smiling, quizzically.)
Uh-huh! Sure! Her Don Quixote?
 
 ZACHARY:
Aye, and the Don was provided with unbearably rich fodder for his vestigial spirit.
 
MR. KINCADE:
Yeah! Oh, YEAH! This IS getting better and better. So you discovered your father was wealthy, did you?

ZACHARY:
Father? Wealthy? What? 
(With a sudden burst of laughter)
Oh! Ha! Fod-DER versus fa-THER… Bra-vo, Señor! A bon mot it would take a saint to resist, Sir!
(beat)
But it is deserving of an answer. So, I’ll try. As a child, I did so love my mother, but—oh, Lord!—how I venerated my father! And father—
 
 MR. KINCADE:
 (Dryly)
—was in the navy…
 
ZACHARY:
Well … while not literally the navy, Sir, he was always on a ship, on the sea, somewhere.
 
MR. KINCADE:
(With rising impatience.)
Well … I have tried. I do enjoy a good laugh now and again. The others could tell you … Betty? Marshall?… But assuming you are on the up-and-up, and this isn’t all a ruse to entertain me—then tell me … please tell me, Mr. Patiperro, how do you expect me to use any of this? Can you tell me how? My job is to find employment for deserving folks. Look around you! Look at the people up there, waiting for their numbers to be drawn. These are rough times. President Hoover’s calling this the Great Depression. So, how—pray-tell me … how is any of this—this—STUFF you’re telling me relevant?
 
ZACHARY:
Why … why, it’s relevant at the deepest level, Sir—at least, as long as you’re addressing the Don in me! Just listen: while other muchachos waited for their birthdays and Christmases and played ever toward the sunset as sheriffs, pounding the badlands on persistent ponies, I …
 (With a somewhat sad, subdued sigh)
Well … I was hunted down and captured by a different law.
 
MR. KINCADE:
A different law? A … different … law? You were captured by a different law?
 
ZACHARY:
Si, Señor. As an outcast, I sat, open book in lap, on a thousand divergent hillsides daily, numbering the grasses of Marseille, Berlin, Stalingrad, and even fair Dublin. Countless lands and odors swept beneath imagination’s feet before, out of a surfeit of richness, I grew weary of these wanderings at last, and left my mother—left home—primed and suffering for authentic experience—experience not found in books.
(Touching thumb-to-fingertips as though counting, eyes closed)
 At about … twenty, you might set it. Of course, you know how at twenty, the vicissitudes of life—
 
MR. KINCADE:
Oh, Jesus and Mother Mary! Vicissitudes?
 
 ZACHARY:
 Yes, the ups and downs of—of existence brought with them a sort of capriciousness. The universe, you see, even my thin sheet of it, was too vast a promise. How I would sweat and stifle under the dream of my total embrace with life! A short stint in each place was my victory. Certainly, a continual change of employment was imperative.
 
MR. KINCADE:
YES!
(Making a quick note on the application)
Ah-ha! Okay … Let me stop you there. So, there it is! So obvious, how could I have missed its coming? Job instability!
 
ZACHARY:
I suppose, Sir, by your defining system …
 
MR. KINCADE:
(Tapping the end of a sheaf of papers against the desk, setting the stack neatly lined up at its edge)
That would be my defining system—job instability. Would you expect anything less than that to be my defining system? Would you, Mr. Patiperro?
 
ZACHARY:
No … to be sure, I would not. You were born for your chair and desk, no? You mastered numbers first, and only later the alphabet. I’d wager, algebra was your glory. The geography of literature and art was your bane.

MR. KINCADE:
(Standing)
Mr. Patiperro, you’ll excuse me a moment.
(He motions, coldly, to MARSHALL and BETTY with his thumb pointing to his office door. The three enter the door, Downstage Left)

[Sitting alone, ZACHARY shoots quick glances first at the door they’d departed through, then at the Gallery, where people are whispering and nodding in his direction, and finally to the NYCDoHD employees who are also staring at him. He scratches his head, his lips moving in self-speech. Frowning down at his nails, he attempts to clean them with the forefinger of his other hand. He removes his stocking cap from his pocket and begins to wring it. Then he slaps his hat again and again into his palm, punctuating each slap with …]

ZACHARY:
Fool! … Fool! … Fool!
Now you’ve done it!
You’ve tested Mr. Kincade’s endurance!
With your ev-e-ry word, you’ve led him to conclude
That you’re a jester, a joker, a clown … a buffoon!

(Singing, plaintively)
Why? Why must my mouth keep churning out these words?
Uncensored, my brain keeps churning these words.
Why, oh why, must my words be so empty? 
As empty as the chirping of birds?

[From the GALLERY, a bird whistler begins a warbling cheerful birdsong that ends with ZACHARY’S next words]

ZACHARY (Continues):
(Spoken)
Yes! Yes! Like that!
Like the reckless and careless
splashing of gibber and nonsense …
Empty as the chirping of birds!
(He stands, staring at his number)
I’m not worthy of one-eighteen!
(Weaves his way through the employees and back to the gallery where he sits in the first row, but away from the others, and pulls his stocking cap onto his head)
Not worthy of one-eighteen!

GALLERY, WOMAN # 1:
No, you’re not! How dare you!

GALLERY, MAN # 1:
Who do you think you are, anyway?!

ZACHARY:
(Confused)
My name is Zachary Odin Patiper-r-o.

GALLERY, MAN #2:
(Standing, and with flamboyant mimicry)
Zakry … Holdin’ a Pot t’ Piss In.

[The gallery erupts in laughter while ZACHARY tries to smile, but his face soon twists into frowning self-contempt]

GALLERY, WOMAN # 1:
How dare you! Don’t you think we see you? Don’t you think we hear you over there wastin’ everyone’s time—everyone’s valuable time—with your fancy talk, with all your-your palaverin’ ’bout siestas an’ handwritin’ and-and- oh! and makin’ a joke out of the Lord!

GALLERY, MAN # 1:
What are you, an actor? Are you between roles? 

GALLERY, MAN # 2:
Bet that’s it! He’s just comin’ down here to practice. Then you’ll be goin’ back to your townhouse later. Livin’ the life o’ Riley, I’ll bet!

ZACHARY:
You have your reasons to hate me. But I assure you, the house I’ll be returning to is not unlike yours. No heat. For two days, no electricity. Just candles. In …
(looking up, counting to himself)
… In eleven days I shall be once again out on the Streets of New York. Perhaps … like some of you?

GALLERY, MAN # 3:
That’s it! That’s it! You said you’d be out on the streets again! Again! It’s true, people …. I knew he looked familiar. Six—seven months ago …? In the Bronx? You had a pretty little thing with you … and you really protected her. Isn’t that right?

ZACHARY:
Yes, Sir. And in eleven days I shall be looking for cardboard again to cover Mayree and me during the unforgiving darkness.

GALLERY, MAN # 2:
Then why? Why, Mister Pot to Piss in, do you make a mockery of—of all us struggling people? Why do you make a mockery of YOURSELF?!

ZACHARY:
(Closing his eyes with head bowed)
Lord help me, I don’t know. I AM what I AM. When I’m with you ... or, when I’m on the streets we are all crushed down by the same hopelessness. And I open my mouth and my words are hopeless and dark … and dying. And … I … don’t … Like … that … at all! But when my number was called … when I was sitting across from Mr. Kincade, it was like …
(struggling)
like a bright little diamond glint of hope rose in my throat. I opened my mouth and … 
(Shaking his head, and smiling with a note of apology)
I am what I am.

[ZACHARY gets to his feet, wanders to the window, and stands, following with his eyes a silhouetted person, bent into the weather, passing by. ZACHARY raises his hand in greeting. The other does the same. Turning away from the window, ZACHARY trudges back to the gallery and his eyes rove the faces]

ZACHARY (Continues):
(Singing)

[NOTE TO READER AND TO LYRICIST: This is reserved for the song that Zachary sings. I am trying to be careful not to sway the lyricist in any particular direction so that he/she will have complete creative freedom. For the reader, this note may feel like a gap in the dramatic action. For that, I apologize.]

[ZACHARY returns to his chair across from MR. KINCADE’S desk and waits, studying his nails. In due time, MR. KINCADE’S door opens, Downstage Left, and he returns to his desk, and Betty and Marshall return to theirs]

MR. KINCADE:
Okay, So, where were we? Oh, yes … let me see if I understand what you said earlier, Mr. Patiperro. I believe you were telling me that the person sitting in front of you, the-the-the man you are asking to find you a job …
 (Turns his own nameplate and reads from it)
 this Mr. Kincade—Oh! that’s me!—that Mr. Kincade’s soul is dry as crackers …. Is that what you were saying, Mr. Patiperro?
 
ZACHARY
No, no, no, Sir! I recant. Absolutely I do! I detect now your earlier resistance to the implied dryness. The use of your scintillating simile, “dry as crackers,” was proof a-plenty of that! Oh, yes! Now, there was a time, I reckon, you carried inside you the melody to which your soul hummed—huh?—a melody that was not anchored to the demands of your watch or calendar?
 
MR. KINCADE
What!
(his eyes suddenly widen, and his mouth opens, as though just realizing he’d been wounded!)
What did you say? My—my soul hum-humming?!
(Then, loudly.)
STOP! You’d better ask yourself right now, Mr. PATIPERRO—right now! Ask yourself whether you really want me to find you a job.
 
ZACHARY
(Long pause, looking down at his hands.)
Just as I feared—I’ve made you angry with me.

END OF SCENE 3 [Brief curtain]

Act I, Scene 4

CAST OF CHARACTERS

MR. KINCADE: Manager of the NYCDoHD, a man in his late 40s. Dressed to the nines.
ZACHARY PATIPERRO: A young man, 23 years old. his blond hair uncut, a broken nose, a jagged one-inch scar on his forehead, otherwise attractive in a rugged way. He’s obviously poor and his clothing is indicative of this. Wears a heavy pea coat, and a stocking cap that he stuffs in his pocket when not worn.
BETTY: Co-assistant Manager. A woman in her middle 30s. Speaks little. Only visible when her desk is illuminated.
MARSHALL: Co-assistant Manager. A man in his middle 30s. Speaks little. Only visible when his desk is illuminated.
CHORUS: All the employees’ voices in unison.
GALLERY: A group of about twenty people, waiting for their numbers to be called. Some will have small parts. Some act as Chorus.

SETTING: The office of the New York City Department of Human Development (the NYCDoHD). A desk, Down Center, facing right; a straight-back chair in front of it, facing left. Center Stage, Right to Left, twin rows, five each, of similar “manned” desks (a chair in front of each, facing the desk), all in “near-total” shadow. Two of the desks in the center of the nearest row are occupied by Marshall and Betty. Downstage left, a private office door. Upstage, Center to Right, a bleacher-like gallery, nearly full of extras. On the wall above the gallery is an oversized electrical device blinking the next number to be called. The office entrance/Exit door, Upstage Left. Just inside the door is a Take-a-Number Machine. A large picture window adjacent to the Exit, Upstage Right to Left (about half of it eclipsed by the gallery), shows continually blustery weather outside, and occasionally, silhouetted people walk past it on the sidewalk, trudging by, bent into the squall.

PLACE/TIME: New York City Department of Human Development, January 1930, the beginning of the Great Depression.

~     ~     ~

[A SNIPPET FROM THE ENDING DIALOGUE OF PREVIOUS SCENE]

MR. KINCADE:
Mr. Patiperro, other than your wrestling matches with God, tell me a little about yourself.

ZACHARY:
But, don't you see ... it’s all been wrestling matches, Sir!
(Nodding, though, in concession)
However, I shall try. 

AND TO PROCEED ...

~     ~     ~

MR. KINCADE:
 I’m a very busy man, Mr. Patiperro.
 
ZACHARY:
 (Staring at hands.)
Yes, Sir …
 
MR. KINCADE:
(Sighing, fidgeting, then, speaking haltingly, with lowered voice)
I’m going to tell you something, okay?

ZACHARY:
Yes, Sir …

MR. KINCADE:
Fine. Twenty-some years ago, fresh out of college, I was given the opportunity of being the … ummm …
(casts a glance at BETTY and MARSHALL, who appear busy with their clients, then continues in an even more conspiratorial voice)
the historian for a confederacy of Indian tribes. The confederate chief, or medicine man … if that’s what they call themselves … had been given my name by my creative writing professor—
 
ZACHARY:
(Interrupting with enthusiasm) 
As I suspected! You’re a writer! Oh, Mister Kincade!
 
MR. KINCADE:
A writer … Hmmm. Well, so, we sat on their front porch swing. It was springtime.
(Beat)
If I accepted his offer, I would be taking my car. The chief—I’ll call him a chief—was widowed, you see. His teenage daughter would be traveling with us.
(Smiling a distant smile) 
She was so beautiful.
(then his smile evaporates when he realizes ZACHARY is keenly watching him)
That day, she was wearing a tan, beaded, buckskin skirt—and her hair … her hair was black-as-tar—
 
ZACHARY:
Black… as… tar! Yes! Yes!
(Repeating as though he were riding a bubble of inexpressible excitement)
Oh, yes!

MR. KINCADE:
Her hair—yes, it was pulled back into two braids. And just as Hollywood would envision it, she had a downy white feather tethered to the end of each.
 
ZACHARY:
You loved her.
 
MR. KINCADE:
Love! Ha! Love? What did I know of love? I wasn’t over twenty.

ZACHARY:
(Looking at his hand in his lap)
But you did.

MR. KINCADE:
(Tapping the tip of his pencil against the application)
Anyway ... everything fizzled out.
 
ZACHARY:
Because the Chief died? Or—or the confederation of Tribes bickered and dissolved? Those things happen .... But—
(His previous excitement draining from his face)
But please tell me it fizzled AFTER you left … in-in your car … with the-the- chief and his beautiful daughter.
 
MR. KINCADE:
I told you it fizzled out! I was young. Impressionable. They could easily have killed me, stolen my car, my money…. They could have left my body in a ditch alongside route sixty-six.

ZACHARY:
Scalped, no doubt ...
(Smiling until he realizes its impropriety, then looks down)
That sounds like something a mother might warn her son against.
(Catches MR. KINCADE'S eye and continues staring until the other breaks eye contact)
The chief and his daughter could have done all that. They could have, of course.
(Beat)
It will always be a question mark, won’t it?
 
MR. KINCADE:
Question mark; question mark…

[A long silence follows, uncomfortable for both. During this time, a NYCDoHD employee shakes hands with his client, who rises, a paper in his hand, and while he crosses to, and through the exit door (with the ensuing whoosh of weather), the number of the wall behind the gallery lights up. A woman in the gallery stands and makes her way to the empty chair.]

ZACHARY:
Mr. Kincade, I wonder … If twenty-some years of time could effectively be erased with—
(Snapping his fingers)
a snap of the fingers … will you now … a young man, sitting on that porch swing next to the chief, but looking past him to his daughter …
(Leaning towards Mr. Kincade, not taking his eyes off him)
this time, will you say YES, YES, YES! Mr. Kincade ... with your blood on fire, will you shrug off the accumulation of your mother’s fears like so much loose straw she’d heaped on your shoulders, and—and in the spirit of adventure will you shout out YES, YES, and again, YES?! I WILL go with you! I WILL be your historian! And to his daughter … will your eyes make similar bold, but silent promises and wait for her silent smile to return hers?

MR. KINCADE:
(Cocking his head, then slowly shaking it)
As you said, it will always be a question mark, young man.
(Beat)
Now … now … let’s see if we can put an answer to another question mark. And it won’t even involve the snapping of fingers. Is there a job in the great city of New York that you—you, Mr. Patiperro, are qualified for?
 
ZACHARY:
(After another searching pause)
I would like that, Sir.
 
MR. KINCADE:
(Turning the page on ZACHARY’S application, speaking dryly)
Aside from blah-blah-blah badlands on persistent ponies … and numbering blah-blah grasses on a thousand—what?—divergent hillsides? … can you tell me what, specifically, was your most recent employment?
 
ZACHARY:
Specifically?…
 
MR. KINCADE:
Si, Señor.
 
ZACHARY:
A question that deserves an answer without any elaboration or quibble. Sir, I was a mower of lawns.
 
MR. KINCADE:
Okay, then. Okay! A lawn mower.

ZACHARY:
In my new passion to be direct and non-elaborative, Mr. Kincade, I was a mower of lawns, or a pusher of a mower, so as not to be confused with the appliance behind which I pushed.
 
MR. KINCADE:
(Stares at his sheet a long moment. It is obvious that he is seething inside)
That you mowed—other people’s lawns—for pay?
 
ZACHARY:
Pithy, pertinent, accurate, Sir. Yes.
 
MR. KINCADE:
And when did you last mow lawns for pay, Mr. Patiperro?
 
ZACHARY:
(Considers this a moment)
Nine days ago, Sir.
 
MR. KINCADE:
Well … See? This is getting much easier … now that we are addressing specifics. And—I’m almost afraid to ask—but what was your reason for discontinuing … the mowing … of lawns … for pay?
 
ZACHARY:
The constable—
 
MR. KINCADE:
That would be … cop? Policeman?
 
ZACHARY:
The same—for the City of New York—and he impounded my means of employment.
 
MR. KINCADE:
Your lawn mower?
 
ZACHARY:
Indeed. I’d had it only a week—the prior one having been stolen from my stoop.
 
MR. KINCADE:
I’m sorry. And your question was, how can I get my mower back? By that, I mean the one the police impounded?
 
ZACHARY:
And the answer was … by paying the impound fee of a dollar a day and providing proof of licensing and insurance for the City of New York, the County of Bronx, Sir. I would then have heard my mower whirring merrily toward me down the hallway from the Impound Items room.
 
MR. KINCADE:
(Smiling despite himself)
I’m sure that would have been a sound for sore ears. But I’m going to assume you didn’t have the proof of licensing and insurance for the City of New York. Correct?

ZACHARY:
Nor the County of Bronx.

MR. KINCADE:
Tell me, Mr. Patiperro, before you mowed lawns for pay, what other employment did you have?
 
ZACHARY:
Before I mowed lawns for pay, Mr. Kincade, I was—a collector.
 
MR. KINCADE:
(Giving him the once-over)
A collector … Art? Antiques? Automobiles.
 
ZACHARY:
You’ve covered the ‘A’s admirably, Sir. I would suggest dropping down to the ‘B’s and ‘C’s. I was a collector of bottles and cans. The bottles I found, I returned for cash. The cans, and any collateral trash I came upon during my search for bottles, I properly disposed of as part of my civic responsibility.
 
MR. KINCADE:
(Dryly)
In the future, Mr. Patiperro, you might gain more initial respectability by calling yourself an environmentalist.
 
ZACHARY:
Indeed, I might, Sir. Point of fact, earning money while fulfilling my civic responsibility was not lost on my ethic. It actually buoyed my morale. Many times, I surprised myself by humming America the Beautiful. And using the ingenuity for which Americans are famous, it was from the proceeds of the bottles—from which I uncluttered the environs—that I purchased that first lawnmower.
 
MR. KINCADE:
Well… there is a certain quasi-connectivity—
 
ZACHARY:
(Smiling broadly)
Oh, I like that, Sir.
 
MR. KINCADE:
Yes … between being an environmentalist to being a landscape artist—
 
ZACHARY:
Here, you flatter me, Sir. I grant you, I was a budding environmentalist. However … I pushed a mower through grass. I have no illusions that I was an artist. I was a mower of lawns … for pay.
 
MR. KINCADE:
(Staring a long, unblinking moment)
But you were an entry-level environmentalist and a mower of lawns. Mr. Patiperro, if only we didn’t have these pesky vicissitudes—your lack of experience. No, Mr. Patiperro. I’ve actually enjoyed talking with you ... but no … I just don’t see how—
 
ZACHARY:
(His face mirroring his sense of what was coming)
But experience is a gainable commodity. Years and years of work are still in me. And I’m strong, Sir. Look…
(Flexing his bicep.)
Here, let me make a muscle. If you wait while I take off my
(Starts to remove his peacoat)
—oh, but it’s so cold!—But-but I can do it, though.

MR. KINCADE:
Don’t bother, Mr. Patiperro.

ZACHARY:
There must be something on the wharves for me.
 
MR. KINCADE:
No.
 
ZACHARY:
(Leaping to his feet, startling MR. KINCADE)
Ha! Of course! It’s my nose, isn’t it? You can’t keep your eyes off its eastern cant and the scar the shape of California above my eye. I’ll bet you have me cast in the role of a troublemaker, don’t you, Sir? A thug?
 
MR. KINCADE:
(Turning in his swivel chair to BETTY and MARSHALL. As he addresses them, their work areas are illuminated)
A thug? Betty? Marshall? Listen, will you? I may need you as witnesses. Tell me, would I call a client a thug?
(The two shake their heads)
 
ZACHARY:
I assure you, I’m not a thug, mis amigos. I beg you to please listen.
(With energetic pantomime.)
The scenario: A right cross flattened a very handsome Celtic nose. Then, when I dropped my guard, a left hook sent blood and cartilage spraying the corner post off which my head then rebounded. In merry old England, the venue. My take, five quid. To staunch the blood and suture the gash took six. But it wasn’t thuggery, Sirs and Madame. The rules of Queensbury blithely presided. Philip, the Duke of Edinburgh, quite a boxing fan, was ringside, I was told. That is, before he left to change his spattered shirt while I lay, taking the count.
 
MR. KINCADE:
(Smiling, as are his co-workers.)
It must have been quite an honor, though….
 
ZACHARY:
(Glances from one to the other, then smiling broadly, he salutes each and sits down)
To be sure it was an honor! Who wouldn’t be thrilled to be courted by the British aristocracy? To be one-and-twenty, and flattened by a burly Brit before a Duke. Indeed, a high honor!
 
MR. KINCADE:
(As BETTY and MARSHALL, sink back into the penumbra, MR. KINCADE seems to be struggling with his emotions)
No humiliation … No pain … Not even the aggravating itch of healing sutures ... No! All was an honor—a thrill …

[Here, stage lights fall full on MR. KINCADE but dim on ZACHARY, the EMPLOYEES, and GALERY so that ALL but MR. KINCADE are in a kind of twilight haze; as MR. KINCADE speaks and sings, they continue with their business at hand, unaware of him]

MR. KINCADE (Continues):
Why can’t you be rude, Mr. Patiperro? 
Why can’t your language be crude and your breath foul? 
Why can’t you make it easy for me to show you the door?

[Note to lyricists: Your lyrics should begin here]

[As the song ends, the lights return to as they were before]

MR. KINCADE (Continues):
(With a sigh of exhaustion and resignation)
So you were twenty-one when you baptized Duke Charles of Edinburgh.

ZACHARY:
(Smiling)
Yes, Sir.

MR. KINCADE:
Your application says you’re twenty-three. What was your experience between that baptismal bout and your several rounds as an environmentalist?

END OF SCENE 4

Chapter 5
NYCDoHD Spells Jobs

By Jay Squires

Act I, Scene 5

CAST OF CHARACTERS

MR. KINCADE: Manager of the NYCDoHD, a man in his late 40s. Dressed to the nines.
ZACHARY PATIPERRO: A young man, 23 years old. his blond hair uncut, a broken nose, a jagged one-inch scar on his forehead, otherwise attractive in a rugged way. He’s obviously poor and his clothing is indicative of this. Wears a heavy pea coat, and a stocking cap that he stuffs in his pocket when not worn.
BETTY: Co-assistant Manager. A woman in her middle 30s. Speaks little. Only visible when her desk is illuminated.
MARSHALL: Co-assistant Manager. A man in his middle 30s. Speaks little. Only visible when his desk is illuminated.
CHORUS: All the employees’ voices in unison.
GALLERY: A group of about twenty people, waiting for their numbers to be called. Some will have small parts. Some act as Chorus.

SETTING: The office of the New York City Department of Human Development (the NYCDoHD). A desk, Down Center, facing right; a straight-back chair in front of it, facing left. Center Stage, Right to Left, twin rows, five each, of similar “manned” desks (a chair in front of each, facing the desk), all in “near-total” shadow. Two of the desks in the center of the nearest row are occupied by Marshall and Betty. Downstage left (between Mr. Kincade’s desk and those of the other employees) a private office door. Upstage, Center to Right, a bleacher-like gallery, nearly full of extras. On the wall above the gallery is an oversized electrical device blinking the next number to be called. The office entrance/Exit door, Upstage Left. Just inside the door is a Take-a-Number Machine. A large picture window adjacent to the Exit, Upstage Right to Left (about half of it eclipsed by the gallery), shows continually blustery weather outside and occasionally silhouetted people walk past it on the sidewalk, trudging by, bent into the squall.

PLACE/TIME: New York City Department of Human Development, January 1930, the beginning of the Great Depression.

[From the last line of the previous scene,
MR. KINCADE speaks]: 

"So you were twenty-one. Your application says you’re twenty-three. What was your experience between that bout and your several rounds as an environmentalist?"

ZACHARY:
Between twenty-one and twenty-three? How was I occupied?
 
MR. KINCADE:
Occupied?
(Chuckling)
Specifically, your employment experience.
 
ZACHARY
A gaucho on the Pampas—that for a start. A solitary gaucho in Argentina, I herded the fattest and laziest cattle that ever nibbled the lush grassland at the base of the Andes.
 
MR. KINCADE:
You might guess, Mr. Patiperro, there’s little demand for cowboys in the city.

ZACHARY:
No surprise there. Still, only on the open sea is there anything approaching the profound vastness and solitude one experiences on the Pampas. The Pampas was my sea. My sea—Father would understand that ... which might have explained his choices.
 
MR. KINCADE:
Your father again?!
(Then suddenly laughing)
Why do I put up with this?
(To his co-workers beside him)
Marshall, you and Betty—you would have shown him the door long ago.
 
[The co-workers’ work areas are just briefly illuminated, with MARSHALL and BETTY smiling, then go back into penumbra]
 
MR. KINCADE (Continues):
Have I lost my edge? Am I getting soft? Or …
(Massaging his temples, absently. Then, as to himself)
Or is there an inconceivable force drawing me to him … or him to me?

ZACHARY:
(Breathing in deeply from his nose, and smiling, as in reverie)
Or, could it be your mind’s direction had been distracted by a vagrant scent of salt in the air? I swear—I swear I caught it, Sir, as you were speaking just then, carried aloft by the faintest drift of a sea breeze. 
(Another breath and smile)
There it is again! Do you smell it?

MR. KINCADE:
Here?! Here in the Department of Human Development? If any vagrant scent snuck in here from outside, it would have been the stench of decaying fish drifting over the Chelsea piers off the Hudson.

ZACHARY:
Oooooh, it’s clear then … that salt scent must have been a gift from Father, meant only for my nostrils and drifting out from that moment when I declared the Pampas to be my sea—and how Father would understand that.
(Staring down at his hands in his lap, then looking up at MR. KINCADE with tears welling)
I know, Mr. Kincade … I know that I’ve erased any doubts in your mind that I’m daft! I know that! To you, I’m crazy as a loon. And it’s only out of the deep well of forgiveness in your soul that you haven’t sent me back out into the cold. 

MR. KINCADE:
(Obviously moved, speaking barely above a whisper)
Go on about … your father.

ZACHARY:
Father’s understanding of my time on the Pampas will be his legacy to me—someday—someday when I find him. 
(Beat)
And … when I paint for him the magnificent vastness of the Pampas, I’m certain he will only have to smile because he'll have already known, and he will know, at that moment, my understanding of the sea, and we both will know that our souls will have just then touched—my God!—will have touched at last—at long last—in that wordless, vastness inside each of us!
(His shoulders slump after this emotional orgasm, and he seems to sink into himself, his eyes closed.)

MR. KINCADE:
(Giving ZACHARY a moment)
That was beautiful, son.

ZACHARY:
(Jerking his head up)
Son?

MR. KINCADE:
That was beautiful.
(Beat)
But … no ... No … No … NO! Someday … Mr. Patiperro … Someday, when vastness is a-a-a tangible commodity that employers will pay wages for … 

ZACHARY:
I understand, Sir.

MR. KINCADE:
Do you? Do you understand?
(Beat)
If that unlikely event should happen somewhere down the road, I assure you, your name will be the first to pop into my mind. I promise you that, Mr. Patiperro. Until then …
 
ZACHARY:
I absolutely understand. We should remove the Pampas from consideration.
(Beat)
Shall I resume, then?

MR. KINCADE:
(Almost pleading)
Could there possibly—is it conceivable there could be more?

ZACHARY:
Oh, my! Yes, sir! I was a fisherman for one run off the islands of Galapagos. That for starters.
 
MR. KINCADE:
Why just … one … run?
 
ZACHARY:
Why? Well, because it was payment enough for my passage to Italy. It was spring, you see.
 
MR. KINCADE:
But that’s where we have the problem. I don’t see it! I don’t see it at all!
 
ZACHARY:
(A look of disbelief)
Spring—you must know! Consult your heart ... remember the front porch swing? Think of your Indian maiden. SPRINGTIME! The time of renewal? Of rebirth? My soul cried for Firenze—
 
MR. KINCADE:
Frenzy? What frenzy?
 
ZACHARY:
(Articulating the syllables and trilling the “r”.)
Fee-rren-zay … To the uninitiated, it is known as Florence. Capiche? In Firenze, the birthplace of the Renaissance, I apprenticed for a month in the very city where the feet of the great masters, many centuries before, had trod.
 
MR. KINCADE:
(Massaging his temples, sighing; sounding exhausted.)
So… what … was your employment … there?
 
 ZACHARY:
 I apprenticed as a creator of stained glass.

MR. KINCADE:
Stained glass. I can’t believe I’m going to ask. Why stained glass?
 
ZACHARY:
Surely it’s been your observation, Sir, that the art form most mirroring the individual artist’s soul seeks out that artist—rather than the artist seeking it—to give the art its life.
 
MR. KINCADE:
Well, well… how do you figure I missed that insight?!
 
ZACHARY:
(Staring at him a long moment, without blinking)
Excuse me for saying it, Sir, but if you’d had that insight when you were younger, the world would now own a comprehensive history of an Indian Confederacy. Who knows the impact that that history might have had on the world …?
(Beat)
And on you?

MR. KINCADE:
Are we back on that again?

ZACHARY:
In your deepest heart, sir, have you ever left it? What you may have only dimly perceived back then … was a niggling awareness of the incomplete seeking its divine wholeness. I have a hunch it’s the way we’re put together, yes? No?
(Pausing, as though awaiting an answer)
Strange. Yet in me, it was exquisitely expressed through the mosaic nature of stained glass. As unquenchably as the yang yens for its yin; as a hunk of beefsteak draws the swelling from a shiner and into itself, or a magnet tugs inexorably at its opposite pole; as Fido scrambles to a bitch in heat, his nostrils aquiver; or as synchronicity connects everything else when nothing else will—as in all those instances—I found myself drawn across the sea to Firenze, right up to number 12 Galileo Point Place, where answering my rap, the Master Tamburo, himself, opened the door. I was ushered there, I told him, to bring fragmentation into wholeness. He slowly nodded, with a profundity of knowing—for he perceived precisely what my soul hungered for and what his genius and the spirit of the medium would yield.
(Pauses, showing concern) 
Are you all right, Sir?
 
MR. KINCADE:
(Pinching the bony ridge of his nose.)
A touch of a headache. I’ll be okay. But something urges me to see this to the end. So … stained glass?
 
ZACHARY:
Glass, Sir, of such singular beauty, Master Tamburo assured me, it would soon put me on a first-name basis with the Pope himself.
 
MR. KINCADE:
Who could not be impressed, Mr. Patiperro? And you studied there how long?
 
ZACHARY:
One month.
 
MR. KINCADE:
You stayed only one month?
 
ZACHARY:
I did, Sir.
(Adding quickly)
But I would be there to this day had not Mother written that Father’s ship had docked in Cadiz. Naturally, I was off to Spain. You understand, of course, a son’s love for his father?

MR. KINCADE:
I’m guessing your father wasn’t there.

ZACHARY:
(Looking down a full ten seconds, then back.)
And so … I was off to Japan.
 
MR. KINCADE:
(Shaking his head slowly, bewildered)
To follow another sighting?
 
ZACHARY:
(After an audible sigh, and a slow shake of his head)
To seek peace.

END OF SCENE 5

Author Notes

[Note to reader: It's important for me to explain that the scene format is, at best, an artificial construct for the readers here on FanStory. The play, if performed, would be in roughly three scenes, and that would produce more of a feeling of continuity.] Thanks to Photo by Kristopher Roller on Unsplash

Chapter 6
NYCDoHD Spells Jobs, 6

By Jay Squires

Act I, Scene 6

CAST OF CHARACTERS:

MR. KINCADE: Manager of the NYCDoHD, a man in his late 40s. Dressed to the nines.
ZACHARY PATIPERRO: A young man, 23 years old. his blond hair uncut, a broken nose, a jagged one-inch scar on his forehead, otherwise attractive in a rugged way. He’s obviously poor and his clothing is indicative of this. Wears a heavy pea coat, and a stocking cap that he stuffs in his pocket when not worn.
BETTY: Co-assistant Manager. A woman in her middle 30s. Speaks little. Only visible when her desk is illuminated.
MARSHALL: Co-assistant Manager. A man in his middle 30s. Speaks little. Only visible when his desk is illuminated.
CHORUS: All the employees’ voices in unison.
GALLERY: A group of about twenty people, waiting for their numbers to be called. Some will have small parts. Some act as Chorus.

SETTING: The office of the New York City Department of Human Development (the NYCDoHD). A desk, Down Center, facing right; a straight-back chair in front of it, facing left. Center Stage, Right to Left, twin rows, five each, of similar “manned” desks (a chair in front of each, facing the desk), all in “near-total” shadow. Two of the desks in the center of the nearest row are occupied by Marshall and Betty. Downstage left (between Mr. Kincade’s desk and those of the other employees) a private office door. Upstage, Center to Right, a bleacher-like gallery, nearly full of extras. On the wall above the gallery is an oversized electrical device blinking the next number to be called. The office entrance/Exit door, Upstage Left. Just inside the door is a Take-a-Number Machine. A large picture window adjacent to the Exit, Upstage Right to Left (about half of it eclipsed by the gallery), shows continually blustery weather outside and occasionally silhouetted people walk past it on the sidewalk, trudging by, bent into the squall.

PLACE/TIME: New York City Department of Human Development, January 1930, the beginning of the Great Depression.

#   #   #

FINAL DIALOGUE FROM PREVIOUS SCENE (A few words modified in the interests of continuity)

ZACHARY:
I would be creating stained glass in Firenze, Italy to this day had not Mother written that Father’s ship had docked in Cadiz. Naturally, I was off to Spain. You understand, of course, a son’s love for his father?

MR. KINCADE:
I’m guessing your father wasn’t there.

ZACHARY:
(Looking down a full ten seconds, then back.)
And so … I was off to Japan.
 
MR. KINCADE:
(Shaking his head slowly, bewildered)
To follow another sighting?
 
ZACHARY:
(After an audible sigh, and a slow shake of his head)
To seek peace.

TO CONTINUE

ZACHARY:
(Long pause)
From sun-up until the waning hours of the night, often with but three hours sleep, I swept and scraped and scrubbed the stables of the Zen Monastery near Hiraizumi until the great Master deemed me humble enough to learn.
 
MR. KINCADE:
Quite a step down from rubbing elbows with the Pope!
 
 ZACHARY:
 Nothing is getting past you! You leave me no place to hide! You tapped into my hubris…
(Snapping finger)
… and in a trice! It took Master Tatazuno longer. When at last he did discover how calcified the corruption was that blanketed my essence, he expressed in his clipped, falsetto voice that I leave his serene presence and seek out my demons in the maelstrom of a metropolis, there to face them—there to defeat them.
 
MR. KINCADE:
(Clapping, then clasping his hands before him.)
At last! At last! So after that grand tour we end up right here in New York City. Mr. PATIPERRO needs to confront his demons. But first Mr. PATIPERRO needs to fortify himself to fight them. Mr. PATIPERRO needs food and lodging.
 
ZACHARY:
No, no… I have a flat, Sir—for a few more days. I need no lodging.
 
MR. KINCADE:
So Mr. PATIPERRO needs food. And to pay for his food and the rent on his flat, Mr. PATIPERRO needs a job. Is that a fair assessment?
 
ZACHARY:
A fine, balanced summary.
 
MR. KINCADE:
And you will need this job until—let’s see … until next spring or summer. You’ll continue to work until then, or until your father is sighted, which, of course, would draw you to him like a pound of beefsteak to a shiner. Is that … Oh, never mind. Let me just review my notes. I took good notes.
(Leafs through the papers he had earlier stacked.)
Let’s see, what are your job skills? Oh, here. You might be able to trudge your way through one or two tuna runs. Not much call, though, for that around here. How about making stained glass windows? Let me check my list here,
(Beat)
but … no, I’m afraid most of the churches in the city already are outfitted with them. I previously mentioned the lack of cowboys needed in the city, so I’m afraid that skill will remain unused. Let’s see, what else do we have here?
(Beat)
Oh, yes, it seems you clean a mean stable. What would I find that under? Maybe muckraking? No, no … nothing there. And—and that’s about it, isn’t it? Wait! But no—
(Smile of victory on his face.)
I don’t suppose you’d consider renewing your brief adventure as a prizefighter, would you?

ZACHARY:
I am a little out of shape, Sir. But yes, I—I can get in fighting trim… given a month’s time and the proper nourishment. Then, there’s the license. One needs to be licensed in New York to fight professionally.
 
MR. KINCADE:
All of which costs money, doesn’t it, Mr. PATIPERRO? Money for this and money for that. It seems it all boils down to money …. Mr. PATIPERRO needs money. Mr. PATIPERRO needs a job.
 
ZACHARY:
(Studying him with a wounded look)
But now, you’re mocking me … aren’t you, MR. KINCADE.

MR. KINCADE:
Jobs are tight, Mr. PATIPERRO, for people with your … job skills. That and your patchy history of what?—vocational longevity?
 
ZACHARY:
But I’m willing to do anything! And I’m determined to prove my staying power. I’ll agree to sign a long-term contract. And the employer can set the terms of it, in his own language. If I default on the contract, I’ll let them do with me what they will. They can toss me into prison, if they wish.

MR. KINCADE:
There are laws governing—

ZACHARY:
But I’ll sign a waiver … They can stand me up against the wall, un-blindfolded, and shoot me. It won’t matter. 

MR. KINCADE:
Mr. Patiperro!

ZACHARY:
It won’t matter because it won’t happen! And it won’t happen because I commit to them—body and soul—to staying. I put myself, voluntarily, between the teeth of their syllogistic vise. I shall enroll in their pension plan, their medical, their dental. I shall attend all the company functions—the picnics, the Christmas parties. I’ll—
 
MR. KINCADE:
I’m sure, Mr. PATIPERRO. But there’s nothing available. Please understand … there’s nothing.
 
ZACHARY:
There’s got to be something. I’ll do anything.
 
MR. KINCADE:
Nothing.
 
ZACHARY:
(Standing, in enthusiastic pantomime)
But listen, I can buck boxes, wrestle ropes, hoist, load, unload, sweep, scrape paint, skipper, sail. I am my father’s son, after all! The one thing you would appreciate about my father, Mr. Kincade. He was your model for vocational longevity! He was always on the sea—
 
MR. KINCADE:
Yes, yes I know … somewhere. Dock-work is always slow during this season.
 
ZACHARY:
Then, as a waiter … Let me show you my subtler charms. Candles lit with speed and finesse. Oh, if there were a banquet room here, I would race around it for you, and no candle on any table would extinguish. There’s no season for my brand of excellence. Setting and clearing tables, emptying ashtrays, lighting cigarettes, removing furs, shelving canes, hats, smiling, smiling, smiling, carting away refuse, waiting tables, ordering cocktails, suggesting wines, opening the bottles with a pop. Seating patrons with dignity and sophistication. Sir, if I had a tail I vow I could never stop wagging!
 
 MR. KINCADE:
Yes, I’m sure. However—
(Standing, extending his hand)

[Zachary slowly gets to his feet and stares down at the hand extended to him]

MR. KINCADE (Continues):
Please, Mr. Patiperro, don’t make this more difficult on me than it is now ….

END OF SCENE 6

Author Notes

To repeat what I mentioned before, the scenes here are, at best, artificial constructs for purposes of posting here. The final edited musical I hope to offer colleges for production will be shorter, with the song lyrics optimized for maximum dramatic appeal. For the Lyrics team, if you feel there is a spot in this scene for a song, please let me know, either in your review or by PM.

Chapter 7
The NYCDoHD Spells Jobs

By Jay Squires

To Final Curtain
(1600 wds)

 

[Note: CAST OF CHARACTERS and SETTING found in Author’s notes]

 

PLACE/TIME: New York City Department of Human Development, January 1930, the beginning of the Great Depression.

~          ~          ~

FINAL DIALOGUE FROM PREVIOUS SCENE (A few words modified in the interests of continuity)

MR. KINCADE:
Yes, I’m sure you’d be able to do all those things. However—
(Standing, extending his hand)

[Zachary slowly gets to his feet and stares down at the hand extended to him]

MR. KINCADE (Continues):
Please, Mr. Patiperro, don’t make this more difficult on me than it is already ….

~~TO CONTINUE~~

ZACHARY:
(Moaning, desperate, almost in tears)
Ohhhh. I’ll press my trousers; I’ll patch my jacket. I do have another shirt. And what? You’re looking at my shoes. These are only my walking shoes. I have others, many—well, another—another pair, polished and waiting.

[Zachary again stares down at the hand proffered him, then drops his chin to his chest]

MR. KINCADE:
Perhaps, perhaps something will come up next week.
(Sitting, trying to avoid looking at ZACHARY)
You may try again next week.
 
ZACHARY:
(Sinking back to his chair.)
I see …
 
MR. KINCADE:
Do you? Do you really?
(Beat)
Listen … I’m sorry …. Next week.
 
ZACHARY:
Will next week put food on tonight’s table?
 
MR. KINCADE:
(Making a sweeping gesture of the gallery)
Look at them! Everyone’s in the same boat. And—damn it!—I understand!
(The pitch of his voice rising so high that the other employees' heads turn)
The boat’s sinking, don’t you see?! … We’re all sinking!
 
ZACHARY:
Plea—
(Catching himself in mid-word and swallowing the rest of it.)
I see…
 
MR. KINCADE:
(Letting out a sigh that causes his shoulders to slump)
I confess … it would be so much easier to just sit and chat with you. There is something about you I like. I can’t put my finger on it. I—I even see a little bit of you in me when I was your age.
(Chuckling … then lowering his voice)
Would you believe that one time I almost rode from New York to Los Angeles on my bike?
 
ZACHARY:
Almost? Was it before … or after …?
 
MR. KINCADE:
Oh … after! Five, ten years after.
(Beat)
Everyone agreed it wouldn’t have been the smartest thing.

ZACHARY:
Everyone ...

MR. KINCADE:
Yes. And I agreed … Face it, I might have been hit by a car. You know? Or broken down in the desert. It would have been … foolish.
 
ZACHARY:
But then it’s always foolish.

[A long, uncomfortable pause ensues]
 
MR. KINCADE:
I really do wish I could help you. May God … and the State of New York … forgive me, but I … really … do like you, Mr. Patiperro.
 
ZACHARY:
(Tentatively.)
You could call me Zachary at least ….
 
MR. KINCADE:
Better to keep it at Mr. Patiperro. I wish there was something. I truly wish I could … Wait!
(His eyes enlarge with sudden realization as he begins to punch the air above his head like a winning prizefighter)
Wait, wait, wait! I forgot!
(Pulls file folder from the drawer, opens it, studying. He looks toward the gallery then back at ZACHARY, then begins in a confidential tone)
Yes, here it is. There is something. There is a job, but it might be only short-term. That would depend on you.

ZACHARY:
(Full voice)
Then, it won’t be short-term. You have my assurance. Thank you, Sir!
 
MR. KINCADE:
(Crossing lips with forefinger, then in a low voice)
No, no, please … Not too loudly … It’s not one of our regular listings. But there’s this rich fellow who loves to sit in the shadows and watch what his money will do. An odd kind of duck. Sometimes his motivation is unclear. What I know of him, though, he’s harmless—means well. So we’ll see. Here’s the deal.
(Begins rubbing his palms together)
The pay’s ten dollars a day. But there are conditions. You look confused, Mr. Patiperro. Let me explain. You are expected to earn ten dollars a day, starting from the very first day. No grace for a learning curve. The first day. If you ever earn less than that, you keep the amount you earned that day and you do not come back the next. Your job is over. If—if you earn more than the ten dollars, all you earn will be doubled. Earn fifteen and you get paid thirty, and you come back the following day under the same conditions. Sound fair?
 
ZACHARY:
You’re sure of the man?

MR. KINCADE:
He—he’s a bit odd, I grant you. But no … I’m … sure of him. He is a low-profile type, though. Wealthy people often are. He set up a sort of escrow account, and your money will be paid daily out of … this office. 

ZACHARY:
I’ll come to you every day?

MR. KINCADE:
If you meet the conditions—yes.

ZACHARY:
Ask for you. I come here and ask for you?

MR. KINCADE:
Well … no … of course, I’ll likely be busy, but one of us—I assure you, we’ll recognize you when you come in—we’ll pick up the cash and write you a check for twice its amount.
(Beat)
You seem confused.

ZACHARY:
Well, it is rather odd. Bringing you the cash I earn, then receive a check, instead, for double.

MR. KINCADE:
For escrow reasons. And for Internal Revenue accountability.
(Beat)
But you do understand the conditions?

ZACHARY:
They’re complicated, but seem more than fair, Sir. What is it, exactly, that I will do?
 
MR. KINCADE:
Beg.
 
ZACHARY:
Bag? Bag! You say bag. I can bag, Sir. Within a week I can be among the best—and after two… I’ll be far and away the king of baggers. My movements will be a blur before the customer’s eyes—
 
MR. KINCADE:
Mr. Patiperro—
 
ZACHARY:
I—I will finesse a dozen eggs, or—or any other perishables, into the bag with the care that a new mother would deposit her precious child into its cushioned crib. I will keep the most harried and impatient customers entertained as they wait—by—by juggling melons and apples, throwing in a bunch of carrots for good measure, and without dropping or bruising a single—
 
MR. KINCADE:
Beg, Mr. Patiperro. Beg.
 
ZACHARY:
Beg, Sir?
 
MR. KINCADE:
Yes. The conditions are that you can offer nothing in exchange for the money you receive. Not offer washed windows, not pencils, not juggled fruit, nor walking one’s dogs; not even reciting poetry or entertaining them with your varied and colorful personal history. In short, you must impress upon their sensibilities that you are hungry. That you are chilled to the bone and need warm clothing. That Mr. Patiperro most desperately needs their money.
 
ZACHARY:
This is a joke—isn’t it a joke?
(Pause and then suddenly.)
Wait! Ah, now I understand. You are testing my gullibility, my naiveté. There are jobs, I’m sure, where one is required to have a solid grounding in reality, to instantly see when the wool is being pulled over one’s eyes. Espionage, for example. I would make an excellent spy, no?
 
MR. KINCADE:
I assure you, it is not a joke. It’s not a test.
 
ZACHARY:
Well … Well … You can’t expect me to do that. There must be some other—

MR. KINCADE:
Not another thing, Mr. Patiperro. Just that. I have just scraped the bottom.
 
ZACHARY:
I couldn’t possibly—
 
MR. KINCADE:
(Standing)
Then I can’t help you.
 
ZACHARY:
You can’t expect one to beg.
 
MR. KINCADE:
Then, you’ll have to try back next week. Who knows … we may have something by then.
 
ZACHARY:
(Subdued.)
Next week …
 
MR. KINCADE:
(Covertly pulling out his wallet, speaking in a low tone)
I want to give you a few dollars, Mr. Patiperro. Just to tide you over ’til next week.
 
ZACHARY:
Allow me to sweep your floors for it, Sir.

MR. KINCADE:
Our janitor does that, Mr. Patiperro. The union, you know.
 
ZACHARY:
Wash your windows?
 
MR. KINCADE:
Afraid not. The same thing.
 
ZACHARY:
Anything?
 
MR. KINCADE:
No.
(Extending a ten-dollar bill to him)
Please, Mr.—
(Beat)
 Please, Zachary, we’ll call it a loan.

ZACHARY:
(Smiling)
The bard says, “Neither a borrower nor a lender be.” Ours would be two sins, Sir, with one act.
 
MR. KINCADE:
If Shakespeare were divine … But damn it, man! He was never in New York City during the winter—
 
ZACHARY:
(Reflective, subdued)
The flesh-ripping winter …

MR. KINCADE:
There’s a time for poetry, ZACHARY, and a time for reality. Just take the money. Here, take it, please.
 
ZACHARY:
(Standing, shoves his empty hands into his pockets. Smiles again.)
What time next week?
 
MR. KINCADE:
(Releasing a frustrated breath)
Ten o’clock. I’m personally setting the appointment. No number next time.
 
 ZACHARY:
 Good day, then, Sir.
 
MR. KINCADE:
Goodbye, Zachary.

[They shake hands. ZACHARY removes the stocking cap from his rear pocket and pulls it onto his head. Everyone’s eyes in the gallery are on him as he crosses to the exit. The weather roars as he opens the door. MR. KINCADE follows behind him and stands, some distance away, staring at the door. In a moment, he crosses to the window and stands watching ZACHARY walk the length of the window, bending into the wind, his hands stuffed in his pockets. MR. KINCADE watches this, stays a long moment staring at the now vacant window, slowly pivots, and returns to his desk. He looks up at the gallery]

MR. KINCADE (Continues):
Number one-thirty-three. Make sure you have your completed application and a picture I.D.
(Waits impatiently.)
Come on, people … This isn’t rocket science. Look at the little slip there in your hand. One … three … three … We don’t have all day.

CURTAIN

Author Notes

CAST OF CHARACTERS: MR. KINCADE: Manager of the NYCDoHD, a man in his late 40s. Dressed to the nines. ZACHARY PATIPERRO: A young man, 23 years old. his blond hair uncut, a broken nose, a jagged one-inch scar on his forehead, otherwise attractive in a rugged way. He's obviously poor and his clothing is indicative of this. Wears a heavy pea coat, and a stocking cap that he stuffs in his pocket when not worn. BETTY: Co-assistant Manager. A woman in her middle 30s. Speaks little. Only visible when her desk is illuminated. MARSHALL: Co-assistant Manager. A man in his middle 30s. Speaks little. Only visible when his desk is illuminated. CHORUS: All the employees' voices in unison. GALLERY: A group of about twenty people, waiting for their numbers to be called. Some will have small parts. Some act as Chorus. SETTING: The office of the New York City Department of Human Development (the NYCDoHD). A desk, Down Center, facing right; a straight-back chair in front of it, facing left. Center Stage, Right to Left, twin rows, five each, of similar "manned" desks (a chair in front of each, facing the desk), all in "near-total" shadow. Two of the desks in the center of the nearest row are occupied by Marshall and Betty. Downstage left (between Mr. Kincade's desk and those of the other employees) a private office door. Upstage, Center to Right, a bleacher-like gallery, nearly full of extras. On the wall above the gallery is an oversized electrical device blinking the next number to be called. The office entrance/Exit door, Upstage Left. Just inside the door is a Take-a-Number Machine. A large picture window adjacent to the Exit, Upstage Right to Left (about half of it eclipsed by the gallery), shows continually blustery weather outside and occasionally silhouetted people walk past it on the sidewalk, trudging by, bent into the squall.

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