[Note to the readers: Please read the Author's Notes below this scene. Thank you.]

Scene 1, in a nutshell: Mr. Kincade arrives at the office of the NYCDoHD and is greeted by the other employees. The playgoer/reader can see right away that Mr. Kincade takes his and his employee's jobs seriously, to the point (in both song and speech) that the city would collapse without the Department of Human Development's part in keeping a fresh supply of workers to keep the gears of government turning. And yet he has a deep need to make a real difference in one person's life and—so far that dream has evaded him.

Act I, Scene 2

CAST OF CHARACTERS

MR. KINCADE: Manager of the NYCDoHD, a man in his late 40s. Dressed to the nines. So very serious about his job mission! One wonders if there is a hidden depth that he'd long ago sacrificed for the priorities of the day.
ZACHARY PATIPERRO: So easy to love. 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. Wears a heavy pea coat, and a stocking cap that he stuffs in his pocket when not worn. His incessant autobiographical patter, however poetic and charming, makes one wonder about the fraying of the thread between his reality and complete emotional collapse.
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.

AT RISE: It is breath-seeing cold inside. Folks in the gallery are clustered together like baby birds in a nest. The chairs in front of the twin rows of desks are occupied with jobseekers and the NYCDoHD employees are poring over their papers. There is muffled conversation. MR. KINCADE, ready for his first candidate, looks up at the electrical device blinking 118.

MR. KINCADE:
Sorry about the cold, folks. We have reached our maximum allocation of heat for the City of New York. Gotta keep laughing folks. Otherwise, the tears would freeze on your cheeks. Shall we have a go at it, then?
(Beat)
Number one-eighteen.
(Significant pause while occupants of the gallery check their numbers.)
One-eighteen. Don’t be shy, people. Look at that little number you took from the machine. One-eighteen. 
(Beat)
One-eighteen … Going once. Going twice …

[From the midst of the cluster of people, a young man, clad in a black peacoat, and a stocking cap on his head, shoots to his feet, flustered, waving his ticket above him]

ZACHARY:
That’s me, Sir. I am number one-eighteen. I’m afraid your announcement caught my mind basking in warmer climes.

[Those in the gallery are cocking their heads at each other and at him, some chuckling]

MR. KINCADE:
But you’re with us now, right? Here in New York?

ZACHARY:
That I am, Sir.

MR.KINCADE:
Good. You’ve got the right place. The right state. The right city. Well … Won’t you join me?

ZACHARY:
I would love that sir.
(Scrambles to disengage himself from the clot of people who are pressed together because of the cold and manages to work his way to the floor, still clutching his ticket in one hand and a sheet of paper in the other. He threads his way through the twin rows of NYCDoHD desks, apologizing to the occupants, and he approaches MR. KINCADE)
My application is filled out and in order. Would you like to verify my ticket number, Sir?

MR. KINCADE:
I hardly think that’s necessary. Please, sit down.

ZACHARY:
(Removing his stocking cap, he thrusts it into his peacoat pocket, runs his fingers through his hair, and sits)
Thank you, Sir.

MR. KINCADE:
(Puzzling over ZACHARY’S application)
You have excellent handwriting, young man.

ZACHARY:
Oh, that … I was taught by a calligraphy master in England years ago. Though I’ve eliminated the excesses, the swirls, and loops, etcetera, it’s become a habit that’s been difficult to entirely suppress.

MR. KINCADE:
It’s quite legible, very—neat.
(Beat)
Now, your name … that’s interesting.

ZACHARY:
It is, Sir?

MR. KINCADE:
Yes. Would you mind pronouncing it for me?

ZACHARY:
Not at all. Zachary … Odin … Patiper-r-ro.
(Trilling the double R’s)

MR. KINCADE:
Ah, Patiperro. It’s Spanish, isn’t it? Then you’re from Cuba? Puerto Rico?

ZACHARY:
No, Sir.

MR. KINCADE:
Mexico ...

ZACHARY:
From Spain, Sir.

MR. KINCADE:
And yet there’s Odin right there in the middle …. That seems hardly Spanish. For their middle names, don’t the Spanish customarily use the surnames of the paternal forebearers?

ZACHARY:
Very perceptive, Sir. My father, though, is not Spanish—but Welsh.

MR. KINCADE:
A Welshman with the name Pati—Pati—?

ZACHARY:
Patiper-r-ro … That is my mother’s family name.

MR. KINCADE:
So, they—
(As with sudden realization)
Oh … I see … interesting. And still … such an unSpanish middle name. I keep coming back to—

ZACHARY:
Odin? Not a given name, I assure you. It’s rather a borrowed name.

MR. KINCADE:
Borrowed? So, your mother was familiar with its … with its Nordic—?

ZACHARY:
Norse, actually—you mean the legend? Oh, to be sure, Sir. The legend was familiar. Not to my Mother, though.
(Beat)
But to me ... that is, I chose it.

MR. KINCADE:
(Tapping the application with his finger, as though impatient)
So Odin is not your legal middle name? It's just tacked on?

ZACHARY:
No … Yes ...  Does it make a difference? I could easily have made it Ulysses. Or Jacob. I’ve always been fond of Jacob. If it makes a difference in finding a job, I would happily change my name. In a fly’s second, I would, Sir.

MR. KINCADE:
(without humor)
Ha-ha—a fly's second.

ZACHARY:
I would change it, Sir. I would!
(Looking toward the ceiling and smiling)
The Bible … you know, the Bible says that God had a job for Jacob, so he changed his name to Israel. So … for a job, I would swap Odin for another. Yes, Sir, I would …
(Cocking his head at MR. KINCADE ... who's been trading covert smiles with BETTY and MARSHALL)
Do you know, Sir, what Israel translates to in Hebrew?

MR. KINCADE:
No. No, I don’t … and I think we’ve drifted a little off course.

ZACHARY:
Drifting off course … That’s a nautical allusion I’ve been told I can be guilty of, Sir.

MR. KINCADE:
(Again, casting a smile over his shoulder, then directing it back to ZACHARY)
Have you, now? People have … actually … told you that?

ZACHARY:
On occasion, Sir.
(Clears his throat)
On a number of occasions …

MR. KINCADE:
I see ….

[Standing, without another word, MR. KINCADE walks between the rows of employee seats, an abstracted look on his face. The employees are attending animatedly to their job-hunters. No one is watching him. ZACHARY is picking at a nail, his lips moving as though talking to himself. MR. KINCADE crosses to the window, staring out at the storm. Two people enter, take a number, and seat themselves in the gallery. MR. KINCADE follows them with his eyes, and after a moment, with his feet, as he stands, unnoticed, before the gallery. He studies them a long pensive moment, then turns to face the direction of his employees.]

MR. KINCADE (Continues):
Sometimes ... Oh, Lordy … Sometimes …
(Then singing in Negro Spiritual fashion)
Sometimes ah wish … ah was a churchgoin’ man
A Bible totin’ man … with a GUTFUL o’ passion

[Someone in the gallery shouts “Amen!” and then goes back to talking with his neighbor]

MR. KINCADE (continues singing):
(right on the heels of the other)
A man whose INNARDS is SCORCHED
with the fires o’ believin’ …

[Another, in the gallery, shouts,“Glow-ree to the fires, brother!” and in the same fashion retreats to the shared-heat comfort of talking with his neighbor]

MR. KINCADE (continues singing):
Oh … I wish … ah was a churchgoin’ man …
’Cause if I was a churchgoin’ man
I’d know the LORD would have the world
In the palm o’ his hand—
Have all the world’s children's
Their cares an’ their grievin’ 
(Studying his palm)
In the palm o’ his mighty hand—
(With profound tenderness)
And He'd still ...
still take the time for a chat with his friend.

[MR. KINCADE takes a few steps toward his desk, then stops, looks up and raises his hands in mock supplication. Then, in a speaking voice, still looking up, a smile playing at the corners of his lips ...]

MR. KINCADE (continues but in a speaking voice):
Were ya listenin’ to me, Lord? Did ya hear me, Lord, when I asked … for just one day—just ... one ... day to FEEL I … AM … ALIVE?! Did ya, Lord?
(Beat)
Or had the last of the heat from the coals of my believin' gone out? When I begged—at least it felt like I was begging … someone!—when I begged for the chance to make a difference in just one person’s life … did my pleading come to you as … Oh, I don’t know … as from a fading phone signal from earth?
(Smiling, but tinged with bitterness)
Or did it come at the time ... of the changing of shifts?
(Chuckling)
Was that it? When the Father hands the phone to the Son? Did ya, Jeee-zus, take my prayer out of context? Did ya think I wanted THIS SPECIAL day to lift me clean out of the—the doldrums of monotony and predictability? Did ya misread my message, Jeee-zus? Did ya think what I needed was a detour from sameness—entertainment? Is this the answer to my prayer?
(Shaking his head)
For my SPECIAL DAY, you sent me …
(With a flourish)
Zachary … Odin … Patiperro?

[He releases an enormous sigh, and shaking his head, he works his way between the rows of Employees, attending to their job-seekers, and to his desk. He stares across it to ZACHARY who is studying something on the portion of his peacoat that he has stretched between his fingers]

MR. KINCADE (Continues):
To answer your question—

ZACHARY:
(As though ambushed)
Oh! Oh! Me? I’m sorry, Sir. I must have been wool-gathering. 
(Trying to recover)
Now, there is a job I’ve never had. I’ve never shepherded sheep.

MR. KINCADE:
So, in answer to your earlier question, your middle name will have no bearing on your employment opportunities. So there’s no reason to change …
(Again glancing over his shoulder to BETTY and MARSHALL with a slight smile)
Odin to …
(Scanning his notes on the application)
… to Ulysses or Jacob … or, let’s see, even Israel.
(He sniffs, fidgets in his chair, then puffs out a sigh)
Okay, I’ll bite.
(Winks in the direction of the other two.)
Um … What is the meaning of Israel in Hebrew?

ZACHARY:
(Exuberantly)
Oh, yes! You see, in Hebrew, Israel is written with a “Y” replacing the “I” at the beginning, and with an apostrophe separating the “a” and the “e” at the end. So, Ysra means he wrestles with … and El refers to God. So, it's Ysra'El.
(His excitement is transformed of a sudden into a kind of inner reflection)
When one is forged by life to be a wrestler, then … who—I mean, what more exalted personage—could one wish for as one's opponent?

MR. KINCADE:
You believe … deeply … in that, don’t you, Mr. Patiperro?

ZACHARY:
(Puzzled)
Well, of course, Sir! Don’t you?

MR. KINCADE:
Let's just say, I’ve been tested. There were times … back when I was a child.

ZACHARY:
Oh, but I  believe! Despite the fact that I’ve never been a worthy opponent. Oh, yes, I’ve lost every single match! Even those—most especially those—in which I thought I was ahead on points!

MR. KINCADE:
Are you Jewish, Mr. Patiperro?

ZACHARY:
No, sir. Not on my Mother’s side.

MR. KINCADE:
Well …?

ZACHARY:
I’ve never found my father to ask. He’s always been on the sea, somewhere. But the Bible tells us as the grains of sand in the desert can’t be numbered, so have the children of the Nation of Israel spread. So … yes, he might be ... Jewish.

MR. KINCADE:
I suppose. Well … we should proceed.
(Beat)
Mr. Patiperro, other than your wrestling matches, 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. 

END OF SCENE 2