QUINN: I don’t believe in giant business, or giant government, or giant anything. And the laugh is . . . no man has done more to make GE the giant it is today.
GRAHAM: Well, now! He laughs. I think this takes us off the financial section and onto the front page! But tell me, how does a man with your ideas rise so high in a great corporation like this? How did you get into GE?
QUINN: Well, it’s a long story, but I love to tell it. I started out studying law at night and working as a clerk in a factory that manufactured bulbs for auto headlights. Y’see, in those days they had forty or fifty makes of car and all different specifications for the lightbulbs. Now, say you got an order for five thousand lamps. The manufacturing process was not too accurate, so you had to make eight or nine thousand to come out with five thousand perfect ones. Result, though, was that we had hundreds of thousands of perfectly good lamps left over at the end of the year. So . . . one night on my own time I went through the records and did some simple calculations and came up with a new average. My figure showed that to get five thousand good bulbs we only had to make sixty-two hundred instead of eight thousand. Result was, that company saved a hundred and thirty thousand dollars in one year. So the boss and I became very friendly, and one day he says, “I’m selling out to General Electric,” but he couldn’t tell whether they’d be keeping me on. So he says to me, “Ted, tell you what we do. They’re coming out from Wall Street”—these bankers, y’see—“and I’m going to let you pick them up at the depot.” Figuring I’d be the first to meet them and might draw their attention and they’d rehire me, y’see. Well, I was just this hick-town kid, y’know, about to meet these great big juicy Wall Street bankers—I tell you, I hardly slept all night tryin’ to figure how to make an impression. And just toward dawn . . . it was during breakfast—and I suddenly thought of that wall. See, the factory had this brick wall a block long; no windows, two stories high, just a tremendous wall of bricks. And it went through my mind that one of them might ask me how many bricks were in that wall. ’Cause I could answer any question about the company except that. So I got over to the plant as quick as I could, multiplied the vertical and horizontal bricks, and got the number. Well . . . these three bankers arrive, and I get them into the boss’s limousine, and we ride. Nobody asks me anything! Three of them in those big fur-lined coats, and not one goddamn syllable. . . . Anyway we round the corner, and doesn’t one of them turn to me and say, “Mr. Quinn, how many bricks you suppose is in that wall!” And by God, I told him! Well, he wouldn’t believe it, got out and counted himself—and it broke the ice, y’see, and one thing and another they made me manager of the plant. And that’s how I got into GE.
GRAHAM, astonished: What are your plans? Will you join another company or . . .
QUINN: No. I’ve been tickling the idea I might set up an advisory service for small business. Say a fella has a concept, I could teach him how to develop and market it . . . ’cause I know all that, and maybe I could help—to the audience—to keep those individuals coming. Because with this terrible Depression you hear it everywhere now—an individual man is not worth a bag of peanuts. I don’t know the answers, Mr. Graham, but I sure as hell know the question: How do you keep everything that’s big from swallowing everything that’s small? ’Cause when that happens—God Almighty—it’s not going to be much fun!
GRAHAM: Well . . . thanks very much. Good day. Good day, Mr. Robertson. I must say . . . ! With a broken laugh and a shake of the head, he hurries out.
QUINN: He was not massively overwhelmed, was he?
ROBERTSON: He heard the gentle clip-clop of the horse and buggy coming down the road.
QUINN: All right, then, damn it, maybe what you ought to be looking into, Arthur, is horseshoes!
ROBERTSON: Well, you never did do things in a small way! This is unquestionably the world record for the shortest presidency in corporate history. He exits.
Alone, Quinn stares around in a moment of surprise and fright at what he’s actually done. Soft-shoe music steals up, and he insinuates himself into it, dancing in a kind of uncertain mood that changes to release and joy, and at the climax he sings the last lines of “My Baby Just Cares for Me.” As the lyrics end, the phone rings. He picks up the receiver, never losing the beat, and simply lets it drop, and dances off.
Rose comes downstage, staring front, a book in her hand.
ROSE: Who would believe it? You look out the window in the middle of a fine October day, and there’s a dozen college graduates with advanced degrees playing ball in the street like children. And it gets harder and harder to remember when life seemed to have so much purpose, when you couldn’t wait for the morning!
Lee enters, takes a college catalogue off the prop table, and approaches her, turning the pages.
LEE: At Cornell there’s no tuition fee at all if you enroll in bacteriology.
ROSE: Free tuition!
LEE: Maybe they’re short of bacteriologists.
ROSE: Would you like that?
LEE, stares, tries to see himself as a bacteriologist, sighs: Bacteriology?
ROSE, wrinkling her nose: Must be awful. Is anything else free?
LEE: It’s the only one I’ve seen.
ROSE: I’ve got to finish this before tomorrow. I’m overdue fourteen cents on it.
LEE: What is it?
ROSE: Coronet by Manuel Komroff. It’s about this royal crown that gets stolen and lost and found again and lost again for generations. It’s supposed to be literature, but I don’t know, it’s very enjoyable. She goes back to her book.
LEE, closes the catalogue, looks at her: Ma?
ROSE, still reading: Hm?
LEE, gently breaking the ice: I guess it’s too late to apply for this year anyway. Don’t you think so?
ROSE, turns to him: I imagine so, dear . . . for this year.
LEE: Okay, Ma . . .
ROSE: I feel so terrible—all those years we were throwing money around, and now when you need it—
LEE, relieved, now that he knows: That’s okay. I think maybe I’ll try looking for a job. But I’m not sure whether to look under “Help Wanted, Male” or “Boy Wanted.”
ROSE: Boy! Their gazes meet. She sees his apprehension. Don’t be frightened, darling—you’re going to be wonderful! She hides her feeling in the book.
Fadeout. Light comes up on Fanny, standing on the first-level balcony. She calls to Sidney, who is playing the piano and singing “Once in a While.”
FANNY: Sidney?
He continues singing.
Sidney?
He continues singing.
Sidney?
He continues singing.
I have to talk to you, Sidney.
He continues singing.
Stop that for a minute!
SIDNEY, stops singing: Ma, look . . . it’s only July. If I was still in high school it would still be my summer vacation.
FANNY: And if I was the Queen of Rumania I would have free rent. You graduated, Sidney, this is not summer vacation.
SIDNEY: Mama, it’s useless to go to employment agencies—there’s grown men there, engineers, college graduates. They’re willing to take anything. If I could write one hit song like this, just one—we wouldn’t have to worry again. Let me have July, just July—see if I can do it. Because that man was serious—he’s a good friend of the waiter who works where Bing Crosby’s manager eats. He could give him any song I write, and if Crosby just sang it one time . . .
FANNY: I want to talk to you about Doris.
SIDNEY: What Doris?
FANNY: Doris! Doris from downstairs. I’ve been talking to her mother. She likes you, Sidney.
SIDNEY: Who?
FANNY: Her mother! Mrs. Gross. She’s crazy about you.
SIDNEY, not comprehending: Oh.
FANNY: She says all Doris does is talk about you.
SIDN
EY, worried: What is she talking about me for?
FANNY: No, nice things. She likes you.
SIDNEY, amused, laughs incredulously: Doris? She’s thirteen.
FANNY: She’ll be fourteen in December. Now listen to me.
SIDNEY: What, Ma?
FANNY: It’s all up to you, Sidney, I want you to make up your own mind. But Papa’s never going to get off his back again, and after Lucille’s wedding we can forget about her salary. Mrs. Gross says—being she’s a widow, y’know? And with her goiter and everything . . .
SIDNEY: What?
FANNY: If you like Doris—only if you like her—and you would agree to get married—when she’s eighteen, about, or seventeen, even—if you would agree to it now, we could have this apartment rent-free. Starting next month.
SIDNEY, impressed, even astounded: Forever?
FANNY: Of course. You would be the husband, it would be your house. You’d move downstairs, with that grand piano and the tile shower . . . I even think if you’d agree she’d throw in the three months’ back rent that we owe. I wouldn’t even be surprised you could take over the bakery.
SIDNEY: The bakery! For God’s sake, Mama, I’m a composer!
FANNY: Now listen to me . . .
Doris enters and sits on the floor weaving a cat’s cradle of string.
SIDNEY: But how can I be a baker!
FANNY: Sidney, dear, did you ever once look at that girl?
SIDNEY: Why should I look at her!
FANNY, taking him to the “window”: Because she’s a beauty. I wouldn’t have mentioned it otherwise. Look. Look at that nose. Look at her hands. You see those beautiful little white hands? You don’t find hands like that everywhere.
SIDNEY: But Ma, listen—if you just leave me alone for July, and if I write one hit song . . . I know I can do it, Mama.
FANNY: Okay. Sidney, we’re behind a hundred and eighty dollars. August first we’re out on the street. So write a hit, dear. I only hope that four, five years from now you don’t accidentally run into Doris Gross somewhere and fall in love with her—after we all died from exposure!
SIDNEY: But Ma, even if I agreed—supposing next year or the year after I meet some other girl and I really like her . . .
FANNY: All right, and supposing you marry that girl and a year after you meet another girl you like better—what are you going to do, get married every year? . . . But I only wanted you to know the situation. I’ll close the door, everything’ll be quiet. Write a big hit, Sidney! She exits.
Sidney begins to sing “Once in a While”; Doris echoes him timorously. They trade a few lines, Sidney hesitant and surprised. Then:
DORIS, fully confident, ending the song: “. . . nearest your heart.”
SIDNEY, sits on his heels beside her as she weaves the string: Gee, you’re really terrific at that, Doris.
He stands, she stands, and they shyly walk off together as he slips his hand into hers.
ROBERTSON, from choral area: I guess the most shocking thing is what I see from the window of my Riverside Drive apartment. It’s Calcutta on the Hudson, thousands of people living in cardboard boxes right next to that beautiful drive. It is like an army encampment down the length of Manhattan Island. At night you see their campfires flickering, and some nights I go down and walk among them. Remarkable, the humor they still have, but of course people still blame themselves rather than the government. But there’s never been a society that hasn’t had a clock running on it, and you can’t help wondering—how long? How long will they stand for this? So now Roosevelt’s got in I’m thinking—boy, he’d better move. He’d better move fast. . . . And you can’t help it; first thing every night when I get home, I go to the window and look down at those fires, the flames reflecting off the river through the night.
Lights come up on Moe and Rose. Moe, in a business suit and hat, is just giving her a peck.
ROSE: Goodbye, darling. This is going to be a good day—I know it!
MOE, without much conviction: I think you’re right. G’bye. He walks, gradually comes to a halt. Much uncertainty and tension as he glances back toward his house and then looks down to think.
Lee enters, and Rose gives him a farewell kiss. He wears a mackinaw. She hands him a lunch bag.
ROSE: Don’t squeeze it, I put in some cookies. . . . And listen—it doesn’t mean you can never go to college.
LEE: Oh, I don’t mind, Ma. Anyway, I like it around machines. I’m lucky I got the job!
ROSE: All the years we had so much, and now when you need it—
LEE, cutting her off: See ya!
He leaves her; she exits. He walks and is startled by Moe standing there.
I thought you left a long time ago!
MOE: I’ll walk you a way.
He doesn’t bother explaining, simply walks beside Lee, but at a much slower pace than Lee took before. Lee feels his unusual tension but can only glance over at him with growing apprehension and puzzlement. Finally Moe speaks.
Good job?
LEE: It’s okay. I couldn’t believe they picked me!
MOE, nodding: Good.
They walk on in silence, weaving all over the stage, the tension growing as Lee keeps glancing at Moe, who continuously stares down and ahead as they proceed. At last Moe halts and takes a deep breath.
How much money’ve you got, Lee?
LEE, completely taken aback: . . . money have I got?
MOE, indicating Lee’s pockets: I mean right now.
LEE: Oh! Well, about . . . he takes out change. . . . thirty-five cents. I’m okay.
MOE: . . . Could I have a quarter? . . . So I can get downtown.
LEE, pauses an instant, astonished: Oh, sure, Pa! He quickly searches his pockets again.
MOE: You got your lunch—I’ll need a hotdog later.
LEE, handing him a quarter: It’s okay. I have a dollar in my drawer. . . . Should I . . . He starts to go back.
MOE: No, don’t go back. He proceeds to walk again. Don’t, ah . . . mention it, heh?
LEE: Oh, no!
MOE: She worries.
LEE: I know. To audience: We went down to the subway together, and it was hard to look at one another. So we pretended that nothing had happened. They come to a halt and sit, as though on a subway. But something had. . . . It was like I’d started to support my father! And why that should have made me feel so happy, I don’t know, but it did! And to cheer him up I began to talk, and before I knew it I was inventing a fantastic future! I said I’d be going to college in no more than a year, at most two; and that I’d straighten out my mind and become an A student; and then I’d not only get a job on a newspaper, but I’d have my own column, no less! By the time we got to Forty-second Street, the Depression was practically over! He laughs. And in a funny way it was—He touches his breast—in here . . . even though I knew we had a long bad time ahead of us. And so, like most people, I waited with that crazy kind of expectation that comes when there is no hope, waited for the dream to come back from wherever it had gone to hide.
A voice from the theatre sings the end of “In New York City, You Really Got to Know Your Line,” or similar song.
END OF ACT ONE
ACT TWO
Rose, at the piano, has her hands suspended over the keyboard as the band pianist plays. She starts singing “He Loves and She Loves,” then breaks off.
ROSE: But this piano is not leaving this house. Jewelry, yes, but nobody hocks this dear, darling piano. She “plays” and sings more of the song. The crazy ideas people get. Mr. Warsaw on our block, to make a little money he started a racetrack in his kitchen, with cockroaches. Keeps them in matchboxes with their names written on—Alvin, Murray, Irving . . . They bet nickels, dimes. She picks up some sheet music. Oh, what a show, that Funny Face. She sings the opening of a song like “’SWonderful.” The years go by and you
don’t get to see a show and Brooklyn drifts further and further into the Atlantic; Manhattan becomes a foreign country, and a year can go by without ever going there. She sings more of “’SWonderful.” Wherever you look there’s a contest; Kellogg’s, Post Toasties, win five thousand, win ten thousand. I guess I ought to try, but the winners are always in Indiana somehow. I only pray to God our health holds up, because one filling and you’ve got to lower the thermostat for a month. Sing! She sings the opening of “Do-Do-Do What You Done-Done-Done Before.” I must go to the library—I must start taking out some good books again; I must stop getting so stupid. I don’t see anything, I don’t hear anything except money, money, money . . . She “plays” Schumann. Fadeout.
ROBERTSON, from choral area: Looking back, of course, you can see there were two sides to it—with the banks foreclosing right and left, I picked up some first-class properties for a song. I made more money in the thirties than ever before, or since. But I knew a generation was coming of age who would never feel this sense of opportunity.
LEE: After a lot of jobs and saving, I did get to the university, and it was a quiet island in the stream. Two pairs of socks and a shirt, plus a good shirt and a mackinaw, and maybe a part-time job in the library, and you could live like a king and never see cash. So there was a distinct reluctance to graduate into that world out there . . . where you knew nobody wanted you.
Joe, Ralph, and Rudy gather in graduation caps and gowns.
Joey! Is it possible?
JOE: What?
LEE: You’re a dentist!
RALPH: Well, I hope things are better when you get out, Lee.
LEE: You decide what to do?
RALPH: There’s supposed to be a small aircraft plant still working in Louisville . . .
LEE: Too bad you picked propellers for a specialty.
RALPH: Oh, they’ll make airplanes again—soon as there’s a war.
LEE: How could there be another war?
JOE: Long as there’s capitalism, baby.
RALPH: There’ll always be war, y’know, according to the Bible. But if not, I’ll probably go into the ministry.
The Penguin Arthur Miller Page 99