by James Reston
With the lights still low, a squalid sound from a kazoo is heard, which flows into a rendition of the “Fixin’ to Die Rag,” by Country Joe and the Fish. A few verses: to bring back the mood of Vietnam. While the music plays, door opens stage rear and the DOCTOR enters. Light pours in from the corridor, but the DOCTOR can’t find the light switch in the room. HE feels about in half-light, then steps outside again, to find the switch there. Fluorescent overhead light comes on, and the DOCTOR putters about, hurriedly, in the office. HE rearranges the patient’s chair. Takes several folders and a notepad out of his briefcase.
The DOCTOR studies one of the dossiers and then, after a beat, looks at his wristwatch. Takes out a cigarette, filter-holder, and match; puts cigarette into filter and filter in his mouth and lights the match. Holds the match and lets it burn without lighting the cigarette, while HE looks into the folder again. Puts match down, picks up pencil to make hurried notes in the dossier. Takes a small cassette recorder out of his briefcase, rummages for a cassette, checks its title, and puts it into recorder. Lights another match and this time lights the cigarette. Puts briefcase on floor beside the desk. Looks at watch, starts to make another note, takes a drag on cigarette.
Knock on door, and DALE JACKSON enters, escorted by HOSPITAL GUARD. D.J. wears “hospital blue denims” and slippers or soft shoes.
GUARD places paper forms, in triplicate, on DOCTOR’s desk, points brusquely to place for signature. Holds out a ball-point pen to DOCTOR. DOCTOR signs, glancing at D.J. GUARD tears off one sheet for DOCTOR, retains others, and holds out his hand to reclaim his pen. DOCTOR hands back pen, abstractedly, and GUARD (in full sergeant’s regalia) salutes him snappily. The DOCTOR looks at the GUARD as if HE were crazy. The GUARD still stands there, at attention. D.J. watches this. Finally, the doctor gets up halfway from his chair—a funny, inappropriate gesture—and waves at the man.
DOCTOR: You can leave us alone.
GUARD (Snappy salute): Yes, sir! I’ll report back for Sergeant Jackson on the hour, sir! (About face, marches off)
The DOCTOR and D.J. look at each other.
DOCTOR: Sergeant Jackson? (D.J. nods) Well, they seem to be keeping a pretty close eye on you.
D.J.: Where’s the other doctor?
DOCTOR (Settling back in his chair): Sit down, please.
D.J.: They keep changing doctors.
DOCTOR: Would you rather see the other doctor?
D.J.: No, man . . . it’s just that I have to keep telling the same story over and over again.
DOCTOR: Sometimes that’s the only way to set things straight.
D.J.: You’re not in the army, huh?
DOCTOR (Twinkle): How can you tell?
D.J.: Your salute is not of the snappiest.
DOCTOR: I came down from New York today. To see you.
D.J.: I must be a really bad case.
DOCTOR: You’re a complicated case.
D.J.: Like they say, a special case. I am a special case. Did you know that?
DOCTOR: They keep a pretty close eye on you now.
D.J.: I went AWOL twice. From this hospital.
DOCTOR: Oh?
D.J.: But they’ll never do anything to me.
DOCTOR: I understand.
D.J.: You understand, huh?
DOCTOR: I understand your situation.
D.J.: Yeah, well, mind telling me what it is?
DOCTOR: You don’t need me to tell you that.
D.J.: So what do I need you for?
DOCTOR: I don’t know—maybe I need you.
D.J.: That’s a new one. That’s one they haven’t tried yet.
DOCTOR: Oh?
D.J.: Every doctor has his own tricks.
DOCTOR: Oh?
D.J.: That’s one of yours.
DOCTOR: Oh? What’s that?
D.J.: When it’s your turn to talk, you get this look on your face—kind of like an old owl who’s been constipated for about five hundred years, you know, and you say (Imitation of DOCTOR’s face) “Oh?”
The DOCTOR laughs at this, a little, but HE is watching D.J. very closely. D.J. speaks with sudden anger.
Man, this is a farce! (HE turns away—as if to “go AWOL” or to charge to the door—but HE gets immediate control of himself. HE is depressed)
DOCTOR (Calmly): What should we do about it?
D.J.: Who’s this “we”?
DOCTOR: Who else is there?
D.J.: We just going to keep asking each other questions?
DOCTOR: I don’t know—what do you think?
D.J.: What do you think, man? Do you think?
DOCTOR: I listen.
D.J.: No, man, I mean, what do you think? You got that folder there. My life is in there. I’m getting near the end of the line with this stuff. I mean, sometimes I feel like there’s not much time. You know? (HE has wandered over to the desk, where HE proceeds to thumb through the folders on his case. HE does this with a studied casualness)
DOCTOR: I’m aware of that.
D.J.: You some big-time specialist? (Suddenly suspicious)
DOCTOR: In a manner of speaking.
D.J.: What are you a specialist in?
DOCTOR: I do a lot of work with Vietnam veterans and their problems.
D.J.: Well I can see that, man. But what do you specialize in?
DOCTOR: I specialize in grief.
D.J. (Laughs, embarrassed): Shit. Come on.
DOCTOR (As if taking a leap): Impacted grief. That’s the . . . special area I work in.
D.J. (Digusted): I’m going to spend another hour in jive and riddles and double talk. Only it’s not even an hour, right? It’s, like, impacted.
DOCTOR: You know the word “impacted”?
D.J.: How dumb do you think I am?
DOCTOR: I don’t think you’re dumb at all. Matter of fact, the reverse. . . . (HE has opened the dossier to a sheet, from which HE reads aloud) “Subject is bright. His army G.T. rating is equivalent of 128 I.Q. In first interviews does not volunteer information. . . .” (Smiles to D.J., who allows himself a small smile of recognition in return, then continues reading) “He related he grew up in a Detroit ghetto and never knew his natural father. He sort of laughed when he said he was a ‘good boy’ and always did what was expected of him. Was an Explorer Scout and an altar boy. . . .”
D.J.: The other doctor talked a lot about depression.
DOCTOR What did he say about it?
D.J.: He said I had it.
DOCTOR Oh? And?
D.J.: He thought I oughta get rid of it. You know? (The DOCTOR reacts) Yeah, well he was the chief doctor here. The chief doctor for all the psychos in Valley Forge Army Hospital! See what I mean?
DOCTOR Valley Forge.
D.J.: Yeah. . . .
DOCTOR Why don’t you get rid of it?
D.J. (Animated): Sometimes that’s just what I want to do! Sometimes I want to throw it in their faces! (Recollecting himself) Now ain’t that stupid? Like, whose face?
DOCTOR (HE is keenly on the alert, but tries not to show it in the wrong way): What do you want to throw in their faces?
D.J.: What are we talking about?
DOCTOR What are you talking about?
D.J. stares at him, won’t or can’t say anything. The DOCTOR continues gently, precisely.
I was talking about depression. You said your doctor said you should try to get rid of it. I asked, simply, why don’t you get rid of it?
D.J. stares at him, still. D.J. is a man for whom it is painful to lose control. HE is held in, impassive.
You meant the medal, didn’t you, when you said, “throw it in their faces”?
D.J.: Well. That’s why you’re here, right? Because of the medal?
DOCTOR (Gentle, persistent): But I didn’t bring it up. You did.
D.J.: You asked me why I don’t get rid of it.
DOCTOR (Repeating): I was talking about depression.
D.J.: No. You meant the medal.
DOCTOR You meant the medal. I never menti
oned it. . . . Are you glad you have it?
D.J.: The depression?
DOCTOR: No. The medal.
D.J. (Laughs): Oh, man. . . . Oh, my. . . . Suppose I didn’t have that medal. . . . You wouldn’t be here, right? You wouldn’t know me from a hole in the wall. I mean, I would be invisible to you. Like a hundred thousand other dudes that got themselves sent over there to be shot at by a lot of little Chinamen hiding up in the trees. I mean, you’re some famous doctor, right? Because, you know, I’m a special case! Well I am, I am one big tidbit. I am what you call a “hot property” in this man’s army. Yes, sir! I am an authentic hero, a showpiece. One look at me, enlistments go up two hundred percent. . . . I am a credit to my race. Did you know that? I am an honor to the city of Detroit, to say nothing of the state of Michigan, of which I am the only living Medal of Honor winner! I am a feather in the cap of the army, a flower in the lapel of the military—I mean, I am quoting to you, man! That is what they say at banquets, given in my honor! Yes, sir! And look at me! Look at me!! (Pointing to himself in the clothing of a sick man, in an office of an army hospital)
DOCTOR: I’m here because you’re here.
D.J.: What?
DOCTOR: You ask, would I be here if you hadn’t been given that medal. But if you hadn’t been given that medal, you wouldn’t be here, either. If my grandmother had wheels she’d be a trolley car. You know, it’s a big if. . . .
D.J.: Yeah, but I’m saying a different if. If a trolley car didn’t have wheels it still wouldn’t be nobody’s grandmother. It would just be a trolley car that couldn’t go nowhere. Am I right?
DOCTOR (After a pause): You’re right. . . . (Brisk again) Do you still have stomach pains?
D.J.: Yup.
DOCTOR: Nightmares?
D.J.: Yup.
DOCTOR: Same one?
D.J.: Yup.
DOCTOR (Reads from folder): “An anonymous soldier standing in front of him, the barrel of his AK-47 as big as a railroad tunnel, his finger on the trigger slowly pressing it.”
D.J.: That’s the one.
DOCTOR: Who is that anonymous soldier?
D.J.: You know who that is.
DOCTOR: No, I don’t.
D.J.: Ain’t you done your homework? (Pointing to folder)
DOCTOR: My memory is shaky. . . . Please?
D.J.: That’s the dude who should have killed me.
DOCTOR: “Should have”?
D.J.: Would have.
DOCTOR: What happened?
D.J.: He misfired.
DOCTOR: And?
D.J.: And that’s it.
DOCTOR: That’s what?
D.J.: That’s it, man. What do you want—a flag that pops out of his rifle and says “Bang”?
DOCTOR: They say you then beat him to death with the butt of your weapon. . . . In combat, near—Dakto.
D.J.: That’s what they say.
DOCTOR: That is what they say.
D.J.: So I have heard.
DOCTOR: What else have you heard?
D.J.: That I showed “conspicuous gallantry.”
DOCTOR: You’re quoting to me?
D.J.: That is what they say, at banquets given in my honor.
DOCTOR: It’s part of the citation. Is it not?
D.J. (Quoting; far-away look): Con-spicuous gallantry, above and beyond the call of duty. . . . (With Texas accent) “Ouah hearts and ouah hopes are turned to peace . . . as we assemble heah . . . in the East Room . . . this morning . . . “
DOCTOR: Lyndon B. Johnson?
D.J.: You got it.
DOCTOR: What did you feel?
D.J.: Nothing.
DOCTOR: But when he hung the medal around your neck, you were crying.
D.J.: See, you done your homework!
DOCTOR: Are you going to poke fun at me for the whole hour?
D.J.: Anything wrong with fun?
DOCTOR: Dale—
D.J.: D.J! People call me D.J. That’s in the folder, too.
DOCTOR: D.J.
D.J.: Yes, Doctor?
DOCTOR: Do you want to listen to me for a moment?
D.J.: You said you was the one to listen.
DOCTOR: I can’t listen if you won’t tell me anything!
D.J.: I am telling you, man! If I knew what to tell to make me feel better, I woulda done it a long time ago. I ain’t the doctor, I can’t cure myself. . . . (Pause) Except one way, maybe.
DOCTOR (Gently, after a beat): What are you thinking of, right now?
D.J.: Nothing.
DOCTOR: No image? Nothing in your head?
D.J.: It doesn’t have nothing to do with me.
DOCTOR: But you thought of it.
D.J.: It’s about other guys, in The Nam. Stories we used to hear.
DOCTOR: Yes?
D.J.: “Standing up in a firefight. . . .” (The DOCTOR waits) We used to hear this . . . combat story. I wasn’t in much combat, did you know that?
DOCTOR: Except for Dakto.
D.J.: Yeah. These guys, in their tenth or eleventh month—you know, we had to be there for 365 days on the button, right? Like, we got fed into one end of the computer and if we stayed lucky the computer would shit us back out again, one year later. These grunts—that’s what we called the infantry . . .
DOCTOR: I know.
D.J.: I was in a tank, myself.
DOCTOR: What happened to these grunts you heard about?
D.J.: Ten months in the jungle, their feet are rotting, they seen torture, burnings, people being skinned alive—stories they’re never going to tell no doctor, believe me. . . . Like, you never seen anything like that, right, so you can’t comprehend this. . . . (The DOCTOR starts to say something in rebuttal, but then waits) You never seen your best friend’s head blown right off his body so you can look right down in his neck-hole. You never seen somebody you loved, I’m telling you like I mean it, somebody you loved and you get there and it’s nothing but a black lump, smells like a charcoal dinner, and that’s your friend, right?—a black lump. You never seen anything like that, am I right?
DOCTOR (Quietly): If you say so.
D.J.: Well, look at you, man! Look at you, sitting there in your . . . suit!
DOCTOR: What’s wrong with my suit?
D.J.: Ain’t nothing wrong with your suit! . . . It’s the man wearing the suit. That’s what we are talking about!
DOCTOR: You were telling me a story. (HE feels some satisfaction here—that D.J.’s feelings are beginning to pour out, even if obliquely—but tries not to show it)
D.J.: A story?
DOCTOR (Looking at words HE has jotted down): About grunts . . . “standing up in a firefight.”
D.J. (Puzzled that HE was recalling this): Oh. Yeah. So, they been through all these things, and they stayed alive so for, they kept their weapons clean, kept their heads down under cover, and then in the middle of a big firefight with 50-caliber rounds, tracers, all kinds of shit flying all over the place, they’ll just stand up.
DOCTOR: They stand up?
D.J.: Yes, start firing into the trees, screaming at the enemy to come out and fight. . . . Maybe not screaming. Just standing straight up.
DOCTOR: And? (Writing)
D.J.: Get their heads blown off.
DOCTOR: Every time?
D.J.: Oh, man—guaranteed! You know how long you last standing up that way?
DOCTOR: A few seconds?
D.J.: You’re a bright fella.
DOCTOR: So, why did they stand up?
D.J. (Retreating again): Yeah, why?
DOCTOR: Why do you think they stand up?
D.J.: I don’t know. You’re the doctor. You tell me.
DOCTOR: What made you think of it just now?
D.J.: I don’t know.
DOCTOR: What do you feel about it?
D.J.: Nothing.
DOCTOR: Nothing. . . . (Silence, fir a moment. HE gets up, restless, takes a step or two—looks at D.J., who sits, immobilized) D.J., I am going to tell you a few things. Right aw
ay.
D.J. (Perking up): You’re breaking the rules, Doc.
DOCTOR: So be it—sometimes there is nothing else to do.
D.J.: I mean, how do you know I won’t report you to your superior?
DOCTOR (Smiling): My superior?
D.J.: Don’t shrinks have superiors? There must be a Shrink Headquarters somewhere. Probably in New York.
DOCTOR: Probably.
D.J.: So, I’ll report that you did all the talking and made me—a psycho—take notes on everything you said. Here, man—(HE sits down in the DOCTOR’s place at desk, takes pad and pen, sets himself to write) I’m ready. Tell me, how do you feel now that you’re going to get busted into the ranks, emptying bedpans and suchlike? . . . Oh?
DOCTOR (HE leans forward, to make his words take hold): You see what’s happening: we are playing games with each other. Because that’s easy for you, and you are good at it. You could fill this hour, the week, the month that way until it really is too late! Do you understand that?
D.J.: Do you?
DOCTOR: How dumb do you think I am?
D.J. (Trace of a smile): I ain’t decided yet. I don’t have a folder on you with your scores in it.
DOCTOR: Yes. You’re a very witty man, very quick—as long as the things we touch on don’t really matter to you. But when they do, you go numb. You claim to feel nothing. Do you recognize what I’m saying?
D.J. (Dull): I don’t know.
DOCTOR: Even your voice goes flat. Can you hear the sound of your own voice?
D.J. (Flat): I don’t know.
DOCTOR: Do you see that?
D.J.: What?
DOCTOR: I merely mentioned the fact that you go numb—and you did! What do you think about that?
D.J.: Nothing.
DOCTOR: Nothing! You think nothing about the fact that you just go one-hundred-percent numb, like a stone, in response to everything that matters most in your own life? (HE surreptitiously glances at his watch. THEY are well into the hour)
D.J.: Well, now I am going to tell you something, man! (Breaks out as if HE had been cornered) I don’t know why I’m in this hospital! I don’t know why I’m in this room!
DOCTOR: Then why don’t you leave it? We’re not getting anywhere.
D.J. (Mocking): You mean I don’t have to stay here till my hour’s up?
DOCTOR: No. I’m not your Commanding Officer. So, go.
D.J. does start to go. But HE stops on the way to the door to return to the DOCTOR’s: desk. There, D.J. picks up the various folders and drops them into the wastebasket. HE does the same thing, pointedly, with the DOCTOR’s pen. D.J. stares at the DOCTOR for a moment, then walks to the door, opens it, and steps out into the corridor. The DOCTOR watches him, then heaves a sigh, leans on the desk to think about what has happened. But D.J. appears again at the door.