Pre-play request: On this first of multiple scenes, I'm begging that you would suspend your disbelief as never before, and pretend that this play was already accepted for production and that YOU are the director who has, for the first time, gotten the script in his/ her hands. As the director, you must set up the stage with all the accouterments of production. You must know exactly where the Desks, the Gallery, and the gigantic Window through which the storm can be seen ... are. So much depends on visualizing it first, before you make your calls to secure the props. As the Director, Dear Reader, may I ask you to take a few extra minutes to thoroughly lock the Setting in your mind? If you feel any enjoyment in reading the scene, that will be largely the reason. Thank you— JS

ACT I, Scene 1

CAST OF CHARACTERS

MR. KINCADE: Manager of the NYCDoHD, a man in his late 40s. Dressed to the nines. One wonders if there is a hidden depth that he'd long ago sacrificed for the priorities of the day.
ZACHERY 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. 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 speaking parts.

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, being always 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: The metallic sound of a key turning. The entrance/exit opens to the WHOOOSH and bluster of weather. MR. KINCADE enters, closing and locking the door behind him. He shakes the snow from his hat, removes his overcoat, and gives it a shake. Then, as though just discovering he is being watched, he stares, overcoat and hat in hand, at his employees.

CHORUS:
(Voices of employees, in deep shadow)
Good Morning Mr. Kincade.

MR. KINCADE:
Good morning?! You say good morning?! And who am I? Mayor James J Walker, himself, who sneaked up and caught you in your unawares? Well ...
(Beat)
You'd best be keeping your eyes to your notes and studying those applications stacked in front of you. We've got work to do, people—lots of work! ... if we intend to keep the city afloat for one more day.

BETTY:
(Only she, of the employees, is illuminated)
Aw, Mr. Kincade, you know we're with you all the way. Are you having ... you know, a bad day, Sir?
(Back to shadow)

MR. KINCADE:
A bad day! Ooooh, nooooo, Betty. Nooooo … It was a wonderful beginning—my day was—like the unending string of every one of the other mornings for the past twenty-two years, three months, and seventeen days …
(He holds up his arms like a conductor, Then, in a sort of sing-speak, and with a flourish, he begins)
The ... a-larm woke me at SIX …
Not at seven … not at five …
(Slowly at first, then machine-gun fashion)
... but at six.
I … fried … my … 
bacon-drank-my-coffee
burnt-my-toast;

CHORUS:
(Fast on the heels of “toast”)
Oh … NO!

MR. KINCADE:
Yes! I … shined
my … shoes …
ate-my-bacon,
took-my-shower,
moved-my-bowels— 

CHORUS:
(In close harmony and syncopation)
He moved his bow-wow-wow-ELLS!

MR. KINCADE:
Took Friday’s suit from its hanger,
found my best power tie …
And why? I ask you why?

CHORUS:
(Starting low and rising higher at the end)
He asked us why? Why oh why oh why-eye-EYE-YEEEE!

MR. KINCADE:
Let me … tell … you … why.
(Beat)
Here ... at 
(Snaps to attention, as he parodies the title)
New York City's ... Department ... dedicated

CHORUS:
He says dedicated!

MR. KINCADE:
Yes! Dedicated to nothing less than the Resuscitation of Humanity's Workforce!

[The CHORUS erupts in laughter, then, seeing that MR. KINCADE is serious, they stop short and look sheepishly at him.]

MR. KINCADE (Continues)
The sooner you adopt that vision, the sooner we will, together, dig the city out of the economic sewer, and New York City will once again be the beacon of world prosperity!

MARSHALL:
(Illuminated as he speaks, then goes back into shadow)
Hear, hear!

MR. KINCADE:
We ...are ... the
(In a Sing-Speak Voice)
Impeccably attired ... 
soldiers ... fighting in the trenches;
our weapons are the 
people that we groom here ...
and align to fit a slot
in the rusting, farting, burping ...
Machine we call the City of New York.
(Beat)
Say it with pride, people!
We are the Saints—we are the Saviors
of the City of New York.

CHORUS:
(Snapping to attention and singing)
New York, New YOOORK!

MR. KINCADE:
(In a fine, melodious voice he sings as though it’s a love song)
Ohhh ... we … were … bred to be the movers, autocrats, and even saints
O’er the cities unused minions … unpressed leisured … disengaged … 

MARSHALL:
(Only he, of the employees, is illuminated as he speaks to BETTY in a subdued voice)
Look at him, Betty … such a saintly man, scouring his vocabulary for the least offensive word …

BETTY:
(Illuminated as she speaks, and MARSHALL goes into darkness)
Poor dear … that filthy word his lips won’t let him form …

CHORUS:
(Sung suddenly, with gusto)
They’re UN-EM-PLOYED!
(Then rapid-fire) 
Not inactive, under-needed, on-the-bench …
not resting, unapplied, or unengaged:
what they are is what they are and that is this …
(Sung again with gusto and close harmony)
THEY … are … UN … em … PLOYED!

[At this moment, a man can be seen through the window, rapping on the door, pointing at his watch, then hugging himself in the cold. Others around him are behaving the same]

MR. KINCADE:
(Not acknowledging the man, he frowns down at his suit, pulls his tie from inside his vest, and gives it a careless toss over his shoulder; he looks defeated. Then, in his speaking voice:)
Why can't we see the writing on the walls? Why are we dressed as we are? People … why? We should be in coveralls and scuffed work boots, each of us with a toolbox. For we are laborers, truly laborers, for the City of New York. Without us … businesses would languish. Bakeries would close their doors … their bread, their pies, their cookies going stale on their shelves. Bouquets would wilt in the florist shops. The bears on Wall Street would be wrestling with the bulls. Without us filing down the great gear teeth of the city, replacing worn belts, and sagging springs ... why, the cogs of the city would freeze. People, the wheels would not turn! Do you understand that? The wheels simply would not turn! The lights of this sprawling city would be snuffed out. We are the movers ... of the workers ... of the City of New York. And … I, for one … am … EXHAUSTED from the sameness and of the futility of it all! 
(Releasing a large exhale worthy of Atlas, holding the world on his shoulders)
Once! Just once I want to feel I … am … alive! Just for once to leave the gears and cogs, the belts and springs, to the sainted rest of you. Forgive me, but today, I need to feel that I, Bartholomew Johnathon Kincade, can make a difference in just ONE PERSON’S LIFE!

[There is another rap on the window. The same man is pointing to his watch. MR. KINCADE unlatches the door and opens it to the horrendous sound of the weather as 20 or so people file past him, picking a paper number and making their way, grumbling, to the gallery. MR. KINCADE follows them with his eyes. Then he looks back wearily at his fellow workers.]

MR. KINCADE:
BUT I CAN'T!
(Singing, plaintively, as he moves slowly, from upstage, threading himself through the two rows of desks, and to his own)
Because … I … work … for the City of New York ….
Directing manned and womaned traffic
down the thoroughfares and alleys
to the fac-to-ries and flower shops
the restaurants and wharves ...
(Beat)
I am the heart!

CHORUS:
(Following on the heels of the other)
He is the HEART!
(like a kettle-drum’s beat)
Boom-boom-boom

MR. KINCADE:
I … am … the … heart

CHORUS:
Boom-boom-boom

MR. KINCADE:
that pumps the blood

CHORUS:
Boom-boom-boom

MR KINCADE:
to … the … muscles 
and … the … sinews
of the City of New York …
of the sprawling, muddied jewel
called the City of New York.
(bowing his head)

CHORUS:
(Singing with gusto)
He is working for the City of New York!
(Finishing with a resounding, harmonious flourish on the last word)
New … York, New … YOOOORK!

[The stage goes to darkness, except for the device on the wall that blinks “121”]

END OF SCENE ONE