Bradbury, Ray - SSC 17
Page 11
The old man waits, not looking at her. He shuts his eyes. His mouth works for a long while. His head moves as if his nose were printing a single word on the air, invisible, before him. When he is done printing the word, he mouths it, silently. Then, eyes still shut, sitting up straight, in a loud clear voice he makes his announcement:
THE OLD MAN
Coffee!
The woman gasps and stiffens, she ceases work, but does not look at him. Eyes still shut, he goes on.
THE OLD MAN
Twist the key! Hissss! Bright red, yellow-letter can! Compressed air. Ssssst! Like a snake, a snake! Psssss!
The woman snaps her head about as if slapped, to stare in dreadful fascination at the old man’s moving tongue, his hands tumbling in pantomime on his lap.
THE OLD MAN
The odor, the scent, the smell, the aroma of rich dark wondrous Brazilian beans, fresh ground!
The woman leaps up, reeling as if gun-shot, steadying herself on the back of the bench. Her yarn ball falls to the ground. The old man, feeling her leap, opens his eyes. Perhaps he hopes to make her sit back now, just by talking her down.
THE OLD MAN
(sniffs)The first sniff.Ah,like the warm air rising off the dusky earth in hot summer twilight. Coffee. Coffee …
That does it. She breaks to run, remembers her yarn, turns, is afraid to reach for it.
THE OLD MAN
No, don’t… please …
She scrabbles for it. He hands it to her. She grabs it and bolts off.
THE OLD MAN
Please, I didn’t mean. You needn’t-(resigned)Gone.
Which indeed she is, clutching her goods, looking back at him as if he were insane.
The old man watches her out of sight, half-risen from the bench, his hand out to plead after her. Now, weighted with her desertion, he sinks to the bench again and remains, giving one great silent exhalation. Then, from the corner of his eyes, he sees the other bench. He sits up. He straightens his shoulders. He rises and with great unconcern, picking up pieces of paper and pocketing them or throwing them away as he chooses, approaches the other bench where the young man, not seeing him, has stopped drawing in the dust and has taken out some dried grass which he is rolling into a thin piece of old newsprint or toilet paper, making himself a poor imitation of a cigarette.
The old man watches, intrigued, standing just beyond the bench, until the young man finally finds a match on his person and lights the cigarette, leans back, squinting deliciously, blowing smoke. As the smoke dissolves in the air, the old man watches the patterns and says, as if this touched his memory unbeknownst:
THE OLD MAN
Chesterfields.
The young man, the cigarette clenched in his mouth, grips his knees with his hands.
THE OLD MAN
Raleighs. Lucky Strikes.
The old man, not really talking to anyone but himself, not putting on a performance for anyone, but just living in another day, another time, continues, sitting down now as if the young man weren’t really there, even though the young man is staring at him.
THE OLD MAN
Kents. Kools, Marlboros. Those were the names. Pall Malls. Old Golds. White, red, amber packs, grass green, sky blue, pure gold with the red slick small ribbon that ran around the top you pulled to zip away the crinkly cellophane like soft glass, and then the blue government tax stamp, and the tinfoil you saved in a big bright silver ball and sold to the junkman and
THE YOUNG MAN
(coldly)Shut up.
THE OLD MAN
(hasn’t heard)... buy them in drugstores, fountains, subways …
THE YOUNG MAN
Quiet!
The old man opens his eyes, surprised that someone has called. He looks to see the young man’s expression, his open and iritable mouth. He sizes up the situation.
THE OLD MAN
Gently…
THE YOUNG MAN
Gently, he says. Gently. He doesn’t even know where he is and gently …
THE OLD MAN
I’m in the park, in the city.
THE YOUNG MAN
What park? What city? Look up for a change instead of running around like a damn hound dog, your nose on the ground.
THE OLD MAN
I’m looking up.
THE YOUNG MAN
Whatta you see out there?
THE OLD MAN
Buildings…
THE YOUNG MAN
No, ruins!
THE OLD MAN
Streets…
THE YOUNG MAN
No, bomb craters.
THE OLD MAN
I’m sorry. It was such a nice friendly day-
THE YOUNG MAN
I’m no friend.
THE OLD MAN
We’re all friends now, or why live?
THE YOUNG MAN
Some friend. Look what you made me do. Ruined my smoke.(he brushes the cigarette “makings” off his pants, angrily)Who knows friends? Who had one? Back in 1970, maybe, sure-
THE OLD MAN
1970. You must have been a baby then. Why, they still had Butterfingers that year in bright yellow wrappers. Baby Ruths. Clark Bars in orange paper. Milky Ways … swallow a universe of stars, comets, meteors…(he unwraps an imaginary bar, bites it, chews)Nice…
THE YOUNG MAN
It was never nice. What’s wrong with you?
THE OLD MAN
I remember limes and lemons, that’s what’s wrong with me. Do you remember oranges?(picks one off the air)
THE YOUNG MAN
Damn right. Oranges. Hell. You calling me liar? You want me to feel bad? You nuts? Don’t you know the law? Yoo know I could turn you in, don’t you?
THE OLD MAN
I know, I know. The weather fooled me. It made me want to compare-
THE YOUNG MAN
Compare rumors, that’s what the police’d say, huh, eh? The special cops’d say “rumors,” you troublemaking bastard, you-
He seizes the old man’s lapels which rip so the young man has to grab a second handful, yelling down into his face.
THE YOUNG MAN
Why don’t I just blast the living Jesus out of you. I ain’t hurt no one in so long …
He shoves the old man, which gives him the idea to pummel, which in turn gives him the idea to punch and then rain blows upon the old man’s shoulders, arms, chest. The old man tries to fend off this rain of assault.
THE YOUNG MAN
Candies, damn it, smokes, damn you! Kents! Kools! Baby Ruths, Butterfingers! Kents Kools Butterfingers! Butterfingers!
The old man slips and falls to roll over, balling himself up, for the young man is starting to kick but stops now, for he is sobbing. The old man looks up, surprised, and takes his hands away from his face.
THE OLD MAN
Please…
The young man weeps louder, turning away.
THE OLD MAN
It’s my fault. I apologize. I didn’t want to make anyone cry. Don’t. We won’t be hungry forever.
Hie old man is sitting up as he talks.
THE OLD MAN
We’ll rebuild the cities. Listen. No crying. I just wanted people to think where are we going, what are we doing, what’ve we done? You weren’t hitting me, anyway. You meant to hit something else, the Time, huh, the way things are? But who can hit Time, hit the way things, are? I was handy. But look, I’m sitting up fine … I…
The young man has stopped crying during this and now breaks in.
THE YOUNG MAN
You … you can’t go around making people unhappy. I’ll find someone to fix you. I’ll find… someone!(exits)Someone!
THE OLD MAN
Wait! No, no!
But, still on his knees, he cannot pursue. The young man has run off, shouting. His shouting fades.
THE STRANGER
(nearby; quietly)Fool.
The old man, feeling his bones, looks around. The stranger, about 40, having entered during the brawl, has sto
od behind the farthest bench, in shadow, watching.
THE OLD MAN
Beg pardon?
STRANGER
I said: Fool.
THE OLD MAN
You were there, all the time, you saw, and did nothing?
STRANGER
What, fight one fool to save another? No.
He walks forward to help the old man to his feet, and brush him off.
STRANGER
No, I save my fighting for where it pays. Come on. You’re going with me.
THE OLD MAN
Where? Why?
STRANGER
Where? Home. Why? That scum’ll be back with the police any minute. I don’t want you stolen away, you’re a very precious commodity. I’ve heard of you for months, searched for you for days. Then just when I find you, good grief, you’re up to your famous tricks. What did you say made that boy mad?
THE OLD MAN
I said about oranges and lemons, candy, cigarettes. I was just getting ready to recollect wind-up toys, briar pipes and back scratchers, when he dropped the sky on me.
STRANGER
(handing over a handkerchief)I almost don’t blame him. I almost wanted to hit you, myself. There’s a siren! Double-time. Out of the park!
The old man, the bloodied handkerchief to his ruined mouth, allows himself to be led, but stops and bends.
THE OLD MAN
Wait! I can’t leave this behind. Very precious stone, very precious!
They both stare at it.
THE OLD MAN
(proudly)My tooth!
He tosses it in the air, grabs it in a tight fist, and together they hurry from the park, as the siren rises.
Blackout … or swirling shadows as a door, or several doors come down out of darkness, a table and some chairs slide in, and suddenly a seedy and ill-kempt apartment has swarmed to steady itself and fall into focus about the old man. He stands looking at the table and chair as if not knowing what to do with them. The stranger gives him a hint.
STRANGER
Sit down.
THE OLD MAN
Yes. Thank you.
STRANGER
There’s food.
THE OLD MAN
Food? I don’t know. My mouth-
STRANGER
Wine, then, until your mouth feels better. Dear?
His wife, standing near, remembers the wine bottle and the single glass in her hand, pours, hands it to the old man.
THE OLD MAN
Wine? I can’t believe it. Aren’t you having any?
STRANGER
(laughing)We have only one glass. We’ll have to share our toast. No, you first.
The old man sips, eyes shut.
THE OLD MAN
Wine. Wine. Incredible. To you, kind lady, kind sir.
He sips, and passes the glass to the woman, who drinks timidly and passes it to her husband who also drinks.
STRANGER
To all of us. To other years. To old men who talk too much. To pummelings, beatings, and lost teeth.
The wife drops a plate on the table, at this.
STRANGER
Relax. No one followed us. Set the table, put out the food.
She brings dishes and food to the table. The old man watches her, fascinated.
STRANGER
Old man, the beating, how did it happen? Why do you behave like a saint panting after martyrdom? You’re famous, you know. Everyone’s heard of you. Many would like to meet you. Myself, first, I want to know what makes you tick. Well?
But the old man is counting as the woman puts the food out on the plate with a fork.
THE OLD MAN
17, 18, 19 strands of spaghetti. 25, 26, 27, 28, 29 green peas.(glances up)Forgive me. But I shall pray over these like a fine rosary! 19 strings of spaghetti, 29 peas, and-no-one meat ball! What a still life. How fine!
The others pull up their chairs.
THE OLD MAN
But, madame, you have only 28 peas, and you, sir, 27! It’s not fair I have 29.
THE WIFE
You are the guest.
THE OLD MAN
So I am, and most grateful.
He touches the peas with a fork, gingerly, reminiscently.
THE OLD MAN
29 peas. Remember, remember. A motion picture I saw as a child. A comedian in the film-do you know the word “comedian”? A funny man to make you laugh-this comedian met a lunatic in a midnight haunted house in this film and-
The stranger and his wife have laughed, tentatively, quietly.
THE OLD MAN
(abashed)I’m sorry, that’s not the joke yet.(clears his throat, squints to remember)The lunatic sat the comedian down to an empty table, no knives, no forks, no food! “Dinner is served!” he cried. Afraid of murder, the comedian fell in with the make-believe. “Great!” he cried, pretending to chew steak, vegetables, dessert. He bit into nothings. “Fine!” He swallowed air. “Wonderful?”(pause)You may laugh now. Eh…
But the husband and wife, grown still, only look at their sparsely strewn plates. The old man, disquieted at what he has done with the tale, tries to carry it on, cheer them up.
THE OLD MAN
The comedian, thinking to impress the madman, exclaimed, “And these spiced peaches! Superb!” “Peaches?” screamed the madman, and drew a pistol. “I served no peaches. You must be nuts!” And shot the comedian in the behind.
The old man laughs in a kind of half-gasped quiet laughter, at the same time picking up and weighing one pea on his fork. He is about to put it in his mouth when-Bam! a terrible ramming knock once, pause, once twice, on the slatty door!
POLICEMAN
(outside)Special police!
In one flowing motion the lights shift, and move toward dusk, the old man rises, automatically taking his plate and fork with him, the wife moves toward the spotlighted door on stage right, the husband steers the old man toward a wall at midstage and as the wife touches the front door, a panel opens in the wall and the old man steps through as the wife opens the front door and the panel slides shut hiding the old man. The panel is scrim, and, illumined from behind, we can see the old man standing abandoned, the plate in one hand, the fork in the other.
As the special policeman steps through the door, the lighting changes even more, getting darker, except where he stands. The husband and wife, moving off, stand far over on stage left, as if not wishing to be anywhere near the policeman. They move into dark, as it were, so he cannot search their faces too carefully as they talk. The policeman probes about with a flashlight.