the YOUNG MAN opens his mouth, nodding.
Sean He is! Writes them science and fiction stories!
Finn (dismayed) How's that?
Sean
You know; them shiny magazines with the green monsters chasing raw naked women over the Martian Hills on the covers!
Finn (pleased) So that's what he's up to!
the young man opens his mouth, but—
Sean He is also writing the fillum with the title Moby Dick.
Finn Is he?
the young man nods, defeated. He does not try to open his mouth any more.
Sean You know the story, about the Whale!
Finn
And Jonah hi his belly!
the young man No-Sean No, man. Ahab!
Finn
What?
the young man (getting it in fast) Ahab!
Finn
Who else is on the line, Sean?
Sean Himself!
Finn Ahab?
Sean Mr. Douglas, ya dimwit!
Hello, Mr. Douglas
The Young Man Now who’s this Ahab?
Sean Ahab is the captain that hunts the White Whale, man!
Finn
A fine story. Are ya there, Mr. Douglas? I said . . .
THE YOUNG MAN
Mr. Finn. Could you find Mike, the taxi driver, for me?
Finn
He's good as found.
There is a long silence. We watch and hear the mob at Finn's and finn himself catting off and away: "Mike, Mike!"
Sean It's a fine night, Mr. Douglas.
The Young Man (by rote) A bit warm for this time of year.
Sean (admiring the other's sense)
Just what / was thinking !
We see a man jog through the crowd, rear, and grab the phone.
Another Voice (breaking in) Hello, Mr. Douglas?
The Young Man Mike?
Another Voice No. He'll be here when he finishes his game of darts!
We see mike, rear, playing the game out.
The Young Man Never mind, just tell Mike—
We see mike forging toward the phone.
Another Voice Hold on, here comes the triumphant victor now!
The Young Man There's no—
Mike's Voice Mr. Douglas, congratulate me!
The Young Man Mike, is that you?
Mike's Voice Who else? And I won!
The Young Man Mike, can you drive me to Dublin, now?
Mike I'm halfway to the door!
There is a thud as, presumably, the phone is dropped at the other end. The crowd noises swell, the young man holds the receiver off and looks at it with bemusement, then addresses the audience again.
The Young Man
Halfway to the door. It is but thirty feet, I'd wager, from the bar of Heeber Finn's to the far side of the pub where the door, neglected, abhorrent, waits. Yet that thirty feet is best negotiated carefully, and may take all of one minute per foot. In other words, it may take Mike half an hour to go from the phone to the outside world and five minutes to drive the half-mile up the road to where I am waiting for him. Listen to them.
He holds out the phone, taking his hand off the earpiece so the noise swells.
Mike's on his way. He's halfway to the door, plus one foot.
And this is true. During all the above, in dim pantomime behind the rear scrim, we see mike turning in slow circles, moving his head here, there, touching this person, touching that, trying to finish a stout thrust in his hand, answering a jest with another, laughing at one man, scowling at a second, blinking at a third. The pantomime continues during the following speech.
Do you see how patient I am? Do I yell or threaten? I do not. I learned, early on, that Mike's "headin' for the door" was no nerve-shattering process for him. He must not affront the dignity of the men he moves among. He must admire, on his way out, the fine filigree of any argument being woven with great and breathless beauty at his elbow or behind his back. It is, for him, a gradual disengagement, a leaning of his bulk so his gravity is diplomatically shifted toward that far empty side of the public room where the door, shunned by all, stands neglected. On his way, a dozen conversational warps and woofs must be ticked, tied, and labeled so next morn, with hoarse cries of recognition, patterns may be seized, the shuttle thrown with no pause or hesitation.
the young man produces a long instructor's pointer or baton.
To give you an idea of Mike's debilitating journey across the pub, here, for instance—
He points to one of the men who, approached by mike now, breaks into a kind of jig or reel.
That's old Timulty, who will dance for any reason or no reason at all.
mike is appreciative of the jig and perhaps joins in a once-around.
the young man points to a second man ahead.
Here's Pat Nolan. A fierce outcaster of politics. A banger, a smasher and a shouter, to the wonderment of all.
Now that timulty has been gotten by, mike is confronted by nolan, who has two other men by their ties or lapels—that is, when he is not banging his own knee or smashing his fist into one palm. Now, as mike happens along, nolan sees him and, in pantomime, grabs out for him and starts bellowing on some vasty argument or other, mike is totally impressed, and nods, nods, nods.
the YOUNG man points farther on—one, two, three.
While up ahead waits O'Connell with his jokes.
We see o'connell laughing at his own stories, holding to someone's shoulder.
Purdy with his harmonica.
purdy is guzzling his harmonica as we see him swaying there.
And Kelleen with a brand-spanking-new poem he is just finishing ...
We see kelleen, using someone's back for a desk, scribbling furiously on a crumpled paper.
There! Mike's almost to the door. He's got the doorknob in his hand!
Which is true. We see it! Now, he—
At this instant, far across the pub, on the other side, a man waves and shouts in pantomime, mike turns, lets go the door, waves, and, to fast harp music, jogs back through the crowd to where it all started! the young man, dismayed, readjusts his face to the situation.
(Philosophically) Well . . . that's how it goes.
He ambles back to the telephone, picks it up, listens. So I do not yell, threaten, or rouse my blood.
He holds the phone out toward the audience so it can hear the tumult and the shouting inside the earpiece.
Who would hear me?
He hangs up. Silence. The pub lights go out. The pub vanishes.
While I'm waiting at the old house way out in the Irish wild, I take a little drink (Drinks), get into my coat and cap (Does so), and go out (Goes) into the night to look at the clear stars. Until at last, down through the night forest the nineteen-thirty-one Chevrolet comes thrashing, peat-turf-colored on top like Mike himself, and inside the old car—
Through the darkness from stage left comes mike, gliding on a car seat with an apparatus to hold the steering wheel. The car, no more than seat, steering wheel, doors, circles the stage. From it comes the gasping, choking sound of a very old vehicle indeed, mike and his framework auto stop dead-center stage. The engine, with a hiccup, strangles and dies.
Mike?
Mike (waving easily) None other!
the young man opens the car door. Ain't it a fine warm evenin'?
The Young Man (hesitates; rubs jaw) Mike . . . ? Have you ever visited Sicily or Spain? The south of France?
Mike No, sir.
The Young Man Paris, the north of France, even?
Mike
I guess you'd say the furthest south I've ever been is the Tip-perary shoreline, sir.
The Young Man I see.
He gets in. He looks at mike, breathes the air, exhales, slams the door.
Well . . . it's a fine warm evening, Mike.
Mike You hit it right on the head, sir!
We hear the motor roar, shadows and stars move on the scrim behind them, the men's bodies bounc
e a little.
The Young Man Mike, how've you been since?
Mike (wheeling the car slow and easy)
Ah, I got me health. Ain't that all-and-everything, with Lent comin' on tomorra?
The Young Man (muses) Lent. What will you give up for Lent, Mike?
Mike
I been turnin' it over. (Sucks the cigarette which hangs from his lip until his face glows cherry-red) And why not these terrible things ya see in me mouth?
The Young Man Cigarettes?
Mike
Dear as gold fillings and a dread congester of the lungs they be! Put it all down, add 'em up, and ya got a sick loss by the year's turnin', ya know. So ya'll not find these filthy creatures in me face again the whole time of Lent—and, who knows, after!
The Young Man Bravo!
Mike (suspicious at this outburst; glancing over) I see you don't smoke yourself.
The Young Man Forgive me.
Mike
For what! Bravo, says I to meself if I can wrestle the Devil's habit two falls out of three!
The Young Man Good luck, Mike.
Mike And do you know something? I'll need it!
We hear the motor roar. The stars over Ireland swirl this way and that behind the car moving in darkness. At this point, the young man quietly rises up and steps down from the car and addresses the audience.
The Young Man
Well, now! We're on our way! But I want to make a few points . . .
He reaches out and with one hand swings the car about so it points its hood and bumpers stage left. The car purrs happily on, mike at the wheel, smoking and humming to himself.
Look upon Mike. The most careful driver in all God's world, including any sane, small, quiet, butter-and-milk producing country you'd want to name. Mike, all innocence—a saint!— when compared to those drivers who switch on paranoia each time they fuse themselves to their bucket seats in Los Angeles, Mexico City, or Paris!
We hear various cars roar by, see flashes of light, hear honking of horns, mike philosophically watches the imaginary cars pass, waving them on with calm good nature.
Compare him to those blind men who, forsaking tin cups and white canes, but still wearing their Hollywood dark glasses, laugh insanely down the Via Veneto in Rome, shaking brake-drum linings like carnival serpentine out their race-car doors!
During the above we hear the approach of a carnival of cars, sput-sputs, hornets, wasps, swarms of big and little blasters and blowers, and mixed with it hilarious voices, shouting, many horns: picnic day at Indianapolis Speedway.
mike smiles at it all, blinking gently, driving along between the bogs. The voices, horns, motors avalanche away into silence.
THE YOUNG man circles the car, turning it till mike faces another way, before he continues the lecture.
But Mike, now . . . See his easy hands loving the wheel in a slow clocklike turning . . .
The car makes a vast, lovely swirl around a bend in the road— we can guess as much by the magical rotation of mike's arms.
Listen to his mist-breathing voice all night-quiet as he charms the road . . .
Mike (singing) "As I was walking Through Dublin City . . . Around the hour of twelve at night . . ."
The Young Man
... his foot a tenderly benevolent pat on the whispering accelerator . . .
Mike (singing softly) "I saw a maid, So fair was she . . ."
The Young Man . . . never a mile under thirty, never two miles over . . .
Mike (singing) ". . . combing her hair by candlelight."
the young man steps back into the car and settles himself, looking kindly on this older man.
The Young Man
Mike, Mike, and his steady boat gentling a mild sweet lake where all Time slumbers. Look: compare. And bind such a man to you with summer grasses, gift him with silver, shake his hand warmly at each journey's end.
Mike {reaching for the hand brake) Here we are! The Royal Hibernian Hotel!
The Young Man What a fine lilting name!
Mike (thinks on it) The Royal Hibernian Hotel! Sure, it falls right off the tongue!
THE YOUNG MAN climbs OUt.
The Young Man It does. See you tomorrow, Mike!
The car drives off into darkness.
Mike God willing!!
The car is gone, the young man turns and walks in a grand circle, vanishing for a moment behind a curtain but reappearing on the instant, checking his watch.
The Young Man
Now. Let twenty-three hours of sleep, breakfast, lunch, supper, late nightcap pass, and here I come again, another midnight . . .
He suits word to action, going in and coming out the door far stage right.
Out the door of that Georgian mansion, to tread down the steps to feel Braillewise in fog for the car which I know bulks there.
The stage has darkened during part of this speech, and in the dark, unseen by the audience, the car has returned, mike in it, to center stage. We hear the car faintly now. The lights are beginning to come up as the young man gropes forward.
Mike Ah, there you are, sir!
The Young Man Mike. (To the audience) I climb in. I give the door its slam.
He slams the door. And then . . .
The car gives a great spasming jerk, the young man grabs his hat, grabs the dashboard, grabs mike's knee.
Mike!
With a thunderous roar, the car is off, vibrating. The sound is furious. The black background behind the car rushes and flurries with lights and shadows; the car spins and turns.
Mike!
Mike (smiles benevolently) Yes, sir.
The Young Man Mike!
Mike Yes, sir!
The Young Man (staring) Sixty miles an hour, Mike.
Mike Seventy!
The Young Man Now it's seventy-five!
Mike Is it!
The Young Man Eighty
Mike (looks) So it is.
The Young Man Eighty-five! Can that be right?
Mike It is, it is.
The car turns in a great thunder of shadowy light, in huge river-ings of hill and meadow thrown on the backdrop.
the young man leaps out and watches the car with mike bent over the wheel gripping it hard, his smile a leer.
It is, it was, indeed! There went Mike and me with him! Ninety full miles an hour! From the blazing mouth of the cannon we bounced, skidded, cast ourselves in full stoning ricochet down the paths, over the bogs, through the trees! I felt all Ireland's grass put down its ears when we, with a yell, jumped over a rise!
Mike Ninety-five! Do you see that! Ninety-five!
The car whirls, rushes.
The Young Man Mike, I thought—Mike!
mike puffs his cigarette feverishly. Pink light comes and goes on his creased face.
Mike was changed as if the Adversary himself had squeezed and molded and fired him with a dark hand. There he was, whirling the wheel roundabout, over-around, here we frenzied under trestles, there knocked crossroad signs spinning like weathercocks! I studied Mike's fine face. A fine face no longer!
He moves close. The motor sounds die away so we can hear better, study better. The car still rocks and turns slightly this way and that while the young man philosophizes, standing beside it, perhaps pointing in at mike's face with a flashlight.
The wisdom drained from it. The eyes, neither gentle nor philosophical. The mouth neither tolerant nor at peace. It was a face-washed raw, a scalded peeled potato.
Thunder up for a moment. Flashing lights, mike leans avidly forward. The thunder fades, the young man is back in the car now.
Mike (loud, raucous) Well, how you been since, sir!
The Young Man Mike, your voice! It's changed!
Mike Changed?!
The Young Man (to the audience)
A clarion, a trumpet, all iron and brassy tin! Gone the warm fire. Gone the gentle grass. (To mike now) Mike, has a dire thing come into your life, a sickness, a sorrow, a sore affliction?
Mike (
amazed, loud) Now why would you think that?
The Young Man (touches the car) And, Mike, is this the same car you drove last night?
Mike None other!
The Young Man (to the audience)
But it was changed, too. This car, this crusty old beggar that had been content to stroll along, careful of its breath and bones, now thundered toward Hell as if to warm itself at some special blaze there.
the young man scans mike now, carefully. Hold on, I got it! Mike! It's the first night of Lent!
Mike It is, sir.
The Young Man
Well, then, remembering your Lenten promise, why's that cigarette in your mouth?
mike casts his eyes down on the smoke jiggling on his lip and shrugs.
Mike Ah—I give up the ither.
There is a long moment during which the young man stares.
The Young Man The other?
Mike (nodding wisely) The ither.
THE young MAN pulls as far back in his seat as possible to look at mike. Suddenly he reaches forward and twists the key in the ignition. With a great squealing, mike brings the car to a halt, surprised but not angry.
Why, will you tell me, did you do that? In silence, the two sit there.
The Young Man Mike, for two hundred nights we have ridden together.
Mike True.
The Young Man
And each night as I came from my employer's house I drank, at the door, a fiery douse of Scotch or bourbon "against the chill."
Mike A reasonable precaution.
The Young Man
Then I walked out to this cab where sat a man, yourself, who, during all the long winter evening's wait for me to phone for your services, had lived in Heeber Finn's pub.
Mike You might say, it's me office!
The Young Man (slaps his own brow) Fool!
Mike Who is?
The Young Man lam!
Mike And why?
The Young Man
Because, Mike, because there in Heeber Finn's while you waited, you took onto yourself—a mellowness. And that mellowness distilled itself down in a slow rain that damped your smoldering nerves. It colored your cheeks, warmed your eyes soft, lowered your voice to a husking mist, and spread in your chest to slow your heart to a gentle jog-trot.
Mike Ah, I wish the Guinness family could hear you!
The Young Man
It loosened your hands on the wheel and sat you with grace and ease as you gentled us through fogs and mists that kept us and Dublin apart. And all the while, Mike, the liquor / drank stopped me from ever detecting the scent of any spirits on your breath.
Bradbury, Ray - SSC 10 Page 3