FARROW: What
are
you talking about?
MICK WATTS: I’m talking about nothing—and that goes for everything.
FARROW: You could stand a drink once in a while, couldn’t you? You look thirsty to me.
MICK WATTS: I don’t know a thing about Kay Gonda. Never heard of her. . . . Kay Gonda. It’s a funny name, isn’t it? I went to confession once, long ago—and they talked about the redemption of all sins. It’s useless to yell “Kay Gonda” and to think that all your sins are washed away. Just pay two bits in the balcony—and come out pure as snow.
[
The others exchange glances and shrug hopelessly
]
FARROW: On second thought, Mick, I won’t offer you another drink. You’d better have something to eat.
MICK WATTS: I’m not hungry. I stopped being hungry many years ago. But she is.
FARROW: Who?
MICK WATTS: Kay Gonda.
FARROW: [
Eagerly
] Any idea where she’s having her next meal?
MICK WATTS: In heaven. [FARROW
shakes his head helplessly
] In a blue heaven with white lilies. Very white lilies. Only she’ll never find it.
FARROW: I don’t understand you, Mick.
MICK WATTS: [
Looking at him slowly for the first time
] You don’t understand? She doesn’t either. Only it’s no use. It’s no use trying to unravel, because if you try, you end up with more dirt on your hands than you care to wipe off. There are not enough towels in the world to wipe it off. Not enough towels. That’s the trouble.
SALZER: [
Impatiently
] Look here, Watts, you must know something. You’d better play ball with us. Remember, you’ve been fired from every newspaper on both coasts—
MICK WATTS:—and from many others in between.
SALZER:—so that if anything should happen to Gonda, you won’t have a job here unless you help us now and . . .
MICK WATTS: [
His voice emotionless
] Do you think I’d want to stay with the lousy bunch of you if it weren’t for her?
McNITT: Jesus, it beats me what they all see in that bitch!
[MICK WATTS
turns and looks at
McNITT
fixedly, ominously
]
SALZER: [
Placatingly
] Now, now, Mick, he doesn’t mean it, he’s kidding, he’s—
[MICK WATTS
rises slowly, deliberately, walks up to
McNITT
without hurry, then strikes him flat on the face, a blow that sends him sprawling on the floor.
FARROW
rushes to help the stunned
McNITT
.
MICK WATTS
stands motionless, with perfect indifference, his arms limp
]
McNITT: [
Raising his head slowly
] The damn . . .
FARROW: [
Restraining him
] Discipline, Bill, discipline, control your . . .
[
The door is flung open as
CLAIRE PEEMOLLER
rushes in breathlessly
]
CLAIRE: She’s coming! She’s coming!
FARROW: Who?!
CLAIRE: Kay Gonda! I just saw her car turning the corner!
SALZER: [
Looking at his wristwatch
] By God! It’s five o’clock! Can you beat that!
FARROW: I knew she would! I knew it! [
Rushes to intercom, shouts:
] Miss Drake! Bring in the contract!
CLAIRE: [
Tugging at
FARROW
’s sleeve
] Tony, you won’t tell her what I said, will you, Tony? I’ve always been her best friend! I’ll do anything to please her! I’ve always . . .
SALZER: [
Grabbing a telephone
] Get the publicity department! Quick!
McNITT: [
Rushing to
MICK WATTS] I was only kidding, Mick! You know I was only kidding. No hard feelings, eh, pal?
[MICK WATTS
does not move or look at him.
WATTS
is the only one motionless amid the frantic activity
]
SALZER: [
Shouting into the phone
] Hello, Meagley? . . . Call all the papers! Reserve the front pages! Tell you later! [
Hangs up
]
[MISS DRAKE
enters, carrying a batch of legal documents
]
FARROW: [
At his desk
] Put it right here, Miss Drake! Thank you! [
Steps are heard approaching
] Smile, all of you! Smile! Don’t let her think that we thought for a minute that she . . .
[
Everyone obeys, save
MICK WATTS
, all eyes turned to the door. The door opens.
MISS TERRENCE
enters and steps on the threshold. She is a prim, ugly little shrimp of a woman
]
MISS TERRENCE: Is Miss Gonda here?
[
A moan rises from the others
]
SALZER: Oh, God!
MISS TERRENCE: [
Looking at the stunned group
] Well, what is the matter?
CLAIRE: [
Choking
] Did you . . . did
you
drive up in Miss Gonda’s car?
MISS TERRENCE: [
With hurt dignity
] Why, certainly. Miss Gonda had an appointment here at five o’clock, and I thought it a secretary’s duty to come and tell Mr. Farrow that it looks as if Miss Gonda will not be able to keep it.
FARROW: [
Dully
] So it does.
MISS TERRENCE: There is also something rather peculiar I wanted to check on. Has anyone from the studio been at Miss Gonda’s home last night?
FARROW: [
Perking up
] No. Why, Miss Terrence?
MISS TERRENCE: This is
most
peculiar.
SALZER:
What
is?
MISS TERRENCE: I’m sure I can’t understand it. I’ve questioned the servants, but they have not taken them.
FARROW: Taken what?
MISS TERRENCE: If no one else took them, then Miss Gonda must have been back at home late last night.
FARROW: [
Eagerly
] Why, Miss Terrence?
MISS TERRENCE: Because I saw them on her desk yesterday after she left for Santa Barbara. And when I entered her room this morning, they were gone.
FARROW: What was gone?
MISS TERRENCE: Six letters from among Miss Gonda’s fan mail.
[
A great sigh of disappointment rises from all
]
SALZER: Aw, nuts!
McNITT: And I thought it was something!
[MICK WATTS
bursts out laughing suddenly, for no apparent reason
]
FARROW: [
Angrily
] What are you laughing at?
MICK WATTS: [
Quietly
] Kay Gonda.
McNITT: Oh, throw the drunken fool out!
MICK WATTS: [
Without looking at anyone
] A great quest. The quest of the hopeless. Why do we hope? Why do we seek it, when we’d be luckier if we didn’t think that it could exist? Why does she? Why does she have to be hurt? [
Whirls suddenly upon the others with ferocious hatred
] God damn you all! [
Rushes out, slamming the door
]
CURTAIN
Act I
SCENE 1
When the curtain rises, a motion-picture screen is disclosed and a letter is flashed on the screen, unrolling slowly. It is written in a neat, precise, respectable handwriting:
Dear Miss Gonda,
I am not a regular movie fan, but I have never missed a picture of yours. There is something about you which I can’t give a name to, something I had and lost, but I feel as if you’re keeping it for me, for all of us. I had it long ago, when I was very young. You know how it is: when you’re very young, there’s something ahead of you, so big that you’re afraid of it, but you wait for it and you’re so happy waiting. Then the years pass and it never comes. And then you find, one day, that you’re not waiting any longer. It seems foolish, because you didn’t even know what it was you were waiting for. I look at myself and I don’t know. But when I look at you—I do.
And if ever, by some miracle, you were to enter my life, I’d drop everything, and follow you, and gladly lay down my life for you, because, you see, I’m still a human being.
Very truly yours,
George S. Perkins
. . . S. Hoover Street
Los Angeles, California
When the letter ends, all lights go out, and when they come on again, the screen has disappeared and the stage reveals the living room of
GEORGE S. PERKINS
.
It is a room such as thousands of other rooms in thousands of other homes whose owners have a respectable little income and a respectable little character.
Center back, a wide glass door opening on the street. Door into the rest of the house in wall Left.
When the curtain rises, it is evening. The street outside is dark.
MRS. PERKINS
stands in the middle of the room, tense, erect, indignant, watching with smoldering emotion the entrance door where
GEORGE S. PERKINS
is seen outside turning the key in the lock.
MRS. PERKINS
looks like a dried-out bird of prey that has never been young.
GEORGE S. PERKINS
is short, blond, heavy, helpless, and over forty. He is whistling a gay tune as he enters. He is in a very cheerful mood.
MRS. PERKINS: [
Without moving, ominously
] You’re late.
PERKINS: [
Cheerfully
] Well, dovey, I have a good excuse for being late.
MRS. PERKINS: [
Speaking very fast
] I have no doubt about that. But listen to me, George Perkins, you’ll have to do something about Junior. That boy of yours got D again in arithmetic. If a father don’t take the proper interest in his children, what can you expect from a boy who . . .
PERKINS: Aw, honeybunch, we’ll excuse the kid for once—just to celebrate.
MRS. PERKINS: Celebrate what?
PERKINS: How would you like to be Mrs. Assistant Manager of the Daffodil Canning Company?
MRS. PERKINS: I would like it very much. Not that I have any hopes of ever being.
PERKINS: Well, dovey, you are. As of today.
MRS. PERKINS: [
Noncommittally
] Oh. [
Calls into house
] Mama! Come here!
[MRS. SHLY
waddles in from door Left. She is fat and looks chronically dissatisfied with the whole world.
MRS. PERKINS
speaks, half-boasting, half-bitter
]
Mama, Georgie’s got a promotion.
MRS. SHLY: [
Dryly
] Well, we’ve waited for it long enough.
PERKINS: But you don’t understand. I’ve been made
Assistant Manager
—[
Looks for the effect on her face, finds none, adds lamely
]—of the Daffodil Canning Company.
MRS. SHLY: Well?
PERKINS: [
Spreading his hands helplessly
] Well . . .
MRS. SHLY: All I gotta say is it’s a fine way to start off on your promotion, coming home at such an hour, keeping us waiting with dinner and . . .
PERKINS: Oh, I . . .
MRS. SHLY: Oh, we ate all right, don’t you worry! Never seen a man that cared two hoops about his family, not two hoops!
PERKINS: I’m sorry. I had dinner with the boss. I should’ve phoned, only I couldn’t keep him waiting, you know, the boss asking me to dinner, in person.
MRS. PERKINS: And here I was waiting for you, I had something to tell you, a nice surprise for you, and . . .
MRS. SHLY: Don’t you tell him, Rosie. Don’t you tell him now. Serves him right.
PERKINS: But I figured you’d understand. I figured you’d be happy—[
Corrects his presumption hastily
]—well,
glad
that I’ve been made—
MRS. PERKINS:—Assistant Manager! Lord, do we have to hear it for the rest of our lives?
PERKINS: [
Softly
] Rosie, it’s twenty years I’ve waited for it.
MRS. SHLY: That, my boy, is nothing to brag about!
PERKINS: It’s a long time, twenty years. One gets sort of tired. But now we can take it easy . . . light . . . [
With sudden eagerness
] . . . you know,
light . . .
[
Coming down to earth, apologetically
] . . . easy, I mean.
MRS. SHLY: Listen to him! How much you got, Mr. Rockafeller?
PERKINS: [
With quiet pride
] One hundred and sixty-five dollars.
MRS. PERKINS: A
week
?
PERKINS: Yes, dovey, a week. Every single week.
MRS. SHLY: [
Impressed
] Well! [
Gruffly
] Well, what’re you standing there for? Sit down. You must be all tired out.
PERKINS: [
Removing his coat
] Mind if I slip my coat off? Sort of stuffy tonight.
MRS. PERKINS: I’ll fetch your bathrobe. Don’t you go catching a cold. [
Exits Left
]
MRS. SHLY: We gotta think it over careful. There’s lots a man can do with one-sixty-five a week. Not that there ain’t some men what get around two hundred. Still, one-sixty-five ain’t to be sneezed at.
PERKINS: I’ve been thinking . . .
MRS. PERKINS: [
Returning with a flashy striped flannel bathrobe
] Now put it on like a good boy, nice and comfy.
PERKINS: [
Obeying
] Thanks. . . . Dovey, I was sort of planning . . . I’ve been thinking of it for a long time, nights, you know . . . making plans . . .
MRS. PERKINS: Plans? But your wife’s not let in on it?
PERKINS: Oh, it was only sort of like dreaming . . . I wanted to . . .
[
There is a thunderous crash upstairs, the violent scuffle of a battle and a child’s shrill scream
]
BOY’S VOICE: [
Offstage
] No, ya don’t! No, ya don’t! Ya dirty snot!
GIRL’S VOICE: Ma-a-a!
BOY’S VOICE: I’ll learn ya! I’ll . . .
GIRL’S VOICE: Ma-a! He bit me on the pratt!
MRS. PERKINS: [
Throws the door Left open, yells upstairs
] Keep quiet up there and march straight to bed, or I’ll beat the living Jesus out of the both of you! [
Slams the door. The noise upstairs subsides to thin whimpers
] For the life of me, I don’t see why of all the children in the world I had to get these!