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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]
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