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
