PEGGY. Alan, no!
ALAN. Come on, honey.
PEGGY. Alan, no.
ALAN. (Taking off her ski jacket. Puts on luggage.) Just five more minutes. Come on.
PEGGY. Alan, no. Please. (He pulls her into the living room. He R. of her—D. c.)
ALAN. But you said you were cold.
PEGGY. I am.
ALAN. (Embracing her.) I’ll start a fire. I’ll have your blood going up and down in no time.
PEGGY. Alan, I want to go upstairs and take a bath. I’ve got about an inch of the New York Thruway on me.
ALAN. Honey, you can’t go yet. We’ve got to have one last drink. To cap the perfect weekend.
PEGGY. It was four days.
ALAN. It’s not polite to count— Don’t you ever get tired of looking sensational?
PEGGY. Do you think I do?
ALAN. You just saw what happened at the ski jump. They were looking at you and jumping into the parking lot— Come here. (He bites her on the neck.)
PEGGY. (Giggles.) Why do you always do that?
ALAN. Do what?
PEGGY. Bite me on the neck.
ALAN. What’s the matter? You don’t think I’m a vampire, do you?
PEGGY. Gee, I never thought of that.
ALAN. If it’ll make you feel safer, I’ll chew on your ear lobe. (He does.)
PEGGY. (Giggles.) Kiss me.
ALAN. I’m not through with the hors d’oeuvres yet. (Nibbles—then he kisses her.)
PEGGY. (Sighs and sits on sofa.) Now I feel warm again.
ALAN. Good.
PEGGY. Thank you for the weekend, Alan. I had a wonderful time.
ALAN. Yeah, it was fun. (Crossing U. L. toward bar.)
PEGGY. Even though he didn’t show up.
ALAN. (Stops and turns.) Who?
PEGGY. Your friend from M.G.M.
ALAN. (Continuing to bar. Quickly.) Oh, Mr. Manheim. Yeah— Well, that’s show biz.
PEGGY. Did it say when he expects to be in New York again?
ALAN. Did what? (Picks up carton containing Scotch bottle.)
PEGGY. The telegram. From Hollywood.
ALAN. (Crosses D. L. by window.) Oh! Didn’t I tell you? Next week. Early part.
PEGGY. It’s kind of funny now that you think of it, isn’t it?
ALAN. What is?
PEGGY. Him wanting to meet me in a hotel.
ALAN. (Taking bottle out of carton.) It was a ski lodge.
PEGGY. Was it? Anyway, it was nice. I’ve never been to New Hampshire before.
ALAN. It was Vermont. (Putting down carton on sideboard.)
PEGGY. Oh. I’m terrible with names. I can’t imagine
COLD READING 2 - ALAN, PEGGY & BUDDY
ALAN. Not when you ask me like that.
PEGGY. Why don’t you come up in twenty minutes?
ALAN. Why don’t you come down in nineteen?
PEGGY. All right. ‘Bye, Alan.
ALAN. (Starts to embrace her.) ‘Bye, Connie.
PEGGY. Peggy! (She breaks from him.)
ALAN. What?
PEGGY. Peggy! That’s the third time this week end you called me Connie.
ALAN. I didn’t say Connie. I said, Honey!
PEGGY. Oh!
ALAN. Oh!
PEGGY. Sorry.
(ALAN opens door. She smiles and exits. He closes door. ALAN breathes a sigh of relief. Picks up suitcase and goes into bedroom u. L. as the DOORBELL rings.)
ALAN. (Offstage.) Come on in, it’s open.
(BUDDY BAKER, his younger brother, enters with a valise in hand. BUDDY is the complete opposite of ALAN. Reserved, unsure, shy.)
BUDDY. Hello, Alan— Are you busy? (Enters apartment and looks around—crosses D. R. to L. of V. R. C. chair.)
ALAN. (Offstage.) No, no. Come in, kid. (He re-enters.) What’s up? (Crossing to L. of BUDDY, ALAN sees suitcase.) What’s in there?
BUDDY. Pajamas, toothbrush, the works. (Puts suitcase down next to chair.)
ALAN. You’re kidding?
BUDDY. Nope.
ALAN. You mean you left? (BUDDY nods.) Permanently?
BUDDY. I took eight pairs of socks. For me that’s permanently.
ALAN. I don’t believe it. You can’t tell me you actually ran away from home.
BUDDY. Well, I cheated a little. I took a taxi. (Takes off coat and places it on suitcase.)
ALAN. You’re serious. You mean my baby brother finally broke out of prison?
BUDDY. We planned it long enough, didn’t we?
ALAN. Yes, but every time I brought it up you said you weren’t ready. Why didn’t you say something to me?
BUDDY. When? You weren’t at work since Thursday.
ALAN. Hey, did Dad say anything? About my being gone?
BUDDY. Not at the office. But at home he’s been slamming doors. The chandelier in the foyer fell down. Where were you?
ALAN. (Crosses L. above coffee table.) Vermont.
BUDDY. Skiing?
ALAN. Only during the day. (Sits on sofa and lights cigarette.)
ALAN. No, no. I want you to see her first. (He crosses to door.) Ready for the thrill of your life? (He opens the door a crack as he says:) and my third wish, 0 Geni, is that when I open the door, the most beautiful girl in the world will be standing there. (He motions BUDDY to come out of bedroom. As he opens the door, there stands his FATHER, scowling disgustedly.) Dad!! (BUDDY enters and immediately goes back into bedroom closing door quietly behind him. FATHER steps in and looks at ALAN and nods disgustedly. He walks into the room D. R. of D. R. C. chair and L. below it. ALAN looks after him dismayed, and seems puzzled when he doesn’t see BUDDY. The FATHER examines the room. It is obvious he approves of nothing in the apartment. Meeting him i. C.) Gee, Dad—this is a— pleasant—surprise. (The FATHER looks at him as if to say “I’ll bet.”) How—how are you?
FATHER. How am I?— I’ll tell you sometime.— That’s how I am. (He continues his inspection. Crosses L. of ALAN to coffee table.)
ALAN. I’ve redecorated the place— How do you like it?
FATHER. Fancy— Very fancy— You must have some nice job. (Sniffs highball glass.)
ALAN. I just got in, Dad. I was about to call you.
FATHER. The phone company shouldn’t have to depend on your business.
ALAN. I wanted to explain what happened to me. Why I wasn’t in the last two days.
FATHER. (Crosses R. a step.) There’s nothing to explain.
ALAN. Yes, there is, Dad.
FATHER. Why? I understand. You work very hard two days a week and you need a five-day week end. That’s normal.
ALAN. Dad, I’m not going to lie. I was up in Vermont skiing. I intended to be back Sunday night, but I twisted my bad ankle again. I couldn’t drive. I thought it was broken.
FATHER. I’ll send you a get-well card.
ALAN. I’m sorry, Dad. I really am.
FATHER. You’re sorry. I can’t ask more than that.
ALAN. I’ll be in the office first thing in the morning.
FATHER. That’s good news. You know the address, don’t you?
ALAN. Yes, Dad. I know the address.
FATHER. See. I always said you were smart. So I’ll see you in the morning.
ALAN. Right! (He starts Upstage.)
FATHER. (Doesn’t move.) Oh, by the way— How’s the Meltzer account going?
ALAN. The Meltzer account? (He comes back R. of him.)
FATHER. From Atlantic City? The one you bragged about was all wrapped up?
ALAN. Oh—er—fine.
FATHER. Fine? I’m glad to hear that— Because he called today.
ALAN. (Surprised.) Oh? About an order?
FATHER. Yes. About an order.
ALAN. (A little skeptical.) Did—did we get one?
FATHER. Yes— We got one.
ALAN. How much?
FATHER. How much? Guess.
ALAN. Well, Dad, I—
FATHER. Guess! Guess how much we got from Meltzer.
ALAN. Nothing?
FATHER. Bingo! Right on the button! Bum! (Points to him sharply.)
ALAN. Dad, wait a minute—
FATHER. (Crossing to him. Each “Bum” is a sharp point.) Did you have a nice week end, bum? Do you know what it costs to go skiing for four days? Three thousand dollars a day? Bum!
ALAN. I tried to call him. I couldn’t get a line through.
FATHER. On skis you tried to call him? You should be in the Olympics.
ALAN. (Crossing i.. to phone.) I’ll call him right back. I’ll explain everything. (Sits sofa and picks up phone.)
FATHER. (Turns.) Where you gonna call him?
ALAN. In Atlantic City.
FATHER. Who’re you going to talk to? The Boardwalk? He’s here!
ALAN. In New York?
FATHER. In the Hotel Croyden. For two days he’s sitting waiting while you’re playing in the snow. (Imitates playing, a step D. R.)
ALAN. (Hangs up phone, crosses R. to FATHER.) Dad, I promise you. I won’t lose the account!
FATHER. Why? This would be the first one you ever lost? You want to see the list? You could ski— (Gestures.) down your cancellations.
ALAN. I couldn’t get back in time, Dad. Skiing had nothing to do with it.
FATHER. (Crossing to L. to sofa.) I’m sorry. I forgot. I left out golf and sailing and sleeping and drinking and women. You’re terrific. (Turns to him.) If I was in the bum business I would want ten like you.
ALAN. (Step L. to C.) That’s not true. I put in plenty of time in the business.
FATHER. (A step R.) Two years. In six years you put in two years. I had my bookkeeper figure it out.
ALAN. Thank you.
FATHER. (Looks at him, turns.) My own son. I get more help from my competitors. (Starts to sit R. end sofa.)
ALAN. Well, why not? You treat me like one.
FATHER. (Jumping up, crosses R. to C.) I treat you? Do I wander in eleven o’clock in the morning? Do I take three hours for lunch—in night clubs? When are you there? (Crosses R. to him.)
ALAN. What do you mean, when?
FATHER. (Backs L. to C.) When? When? You take off legal holidays, Jewish holidays, Catholic holidays. Last year you took off Halloween.
ALAN. I was sick.
ALAN. (He crosses quickly to the door and opens it about an inch and says aloud:) And my third wish, 0 Geni, is that when I open my eyes, the most beautiful girl in the world will be standing there. (He opens door, turns and looks. CONNIE is standing there, holding an octagonal hat box. Crossing n. R. to 0. R. C. chair.) 0 Joy! My third wish has been granted. Enter, beautiful lady. (CONNIE enters. Puts purse on foyer table.)
CONNIE. (Crosses D. to C.) Well, I guess it’s safe as long as you’ve used up the other two wishes.
ALAN. (Crosses L. to her.) How are you, Connie?
CONNIE. Fine—now that I’m back.
ALAN. (He embraces her.) Mmm. How does a girl get to smell like that?
CONNIE. She washes occasionally. (Holding package between them.)
ALAN. Come here. I’ve been thinking about this moment for two whole weeks. (He tries to get closer.) Will you put down that package.
CONNIE. (She presents it to him.) After you open it.
ALAN. (He takes it.) What is it?
CONNIE. A present.
ALAN. For me? Why?
CONNIE. (She shrugs.) I like you! And I missed you.
ALAN. Well, I did too, but I didn’t get you a present.
CONNIE. Well, don’t get upset about it. I just like you six dollars and ninety-eight cents more than you like me. Open it. (Unbuttons jacket.)
ALAN. (He opens it and looks in box. He is overwhelmed.) Connie! My ski hat! (He takes it out of box.)
CONNIE. It’s like the one you lost, isn’t it?
ALAN. (He is really quite thrilled with it.) It’s the same thing. (He looks inside at the label.) It’s the identical one I bought in Switzerland. I’ve looked all over New York for this. (Puts box on L. fireplace chair.) Where did you ever get it?
CONNIE. In Montreal— (He puts hat on. She puts Jacket on R. end of sofa.)
ALAN. It even fits. How did you know my head size?
CONNIE. I’ve got an imprint on my neck.
ALAN. (Throws hat on sofa.) Connie, you’re wonderful. Only you would think of a thing like this.
CONNIE. (Turns to hat.) Well, I thought of a watch, but I could afford this better.
ALAN. Come here, you. (He takes her in his arms.)
CONNIE. (Coyly.) Ah, the payoff.
ALAN. Thank you very much. (He kisses her.)
CONNIE. You’re welcome—very much. (ALAN moves to embrace her. She backs away L.) Alan, relax.
ALAN. I’m not through thanking you yet.
CONNIE. (She crosses D. L. of sofa.) I’ve just come eight hundred miles in a prehistoric train and I’m tired, hungry and too weak to be chased around the sofa.
ALAN. (Crosses L. to CONNIE.) I’ll carry you. We’ll save lots of time and energy. (He moves after her.)
CONNIE. Alan, please don’t take advantage. I’ve got enough handicaps as it is.
ALAN. Like what?
CONNIE. (Wilting.) Like being on your side. (He grabs her and she swings down around R. of him.) No, Alan! It isn’t fair. You and me against me is not fair. What is it you’ve got?
ALAN. I don’t know. Am I terribly good-looking?
CONNIE. Oh, God, no. You’ve got just enough things wrong with your face to make you very attractive. It’s something else. Some strange power you have over me. (He tries to kiss her. She breaks and crosses n. of C.) But beware. The day I find out what it is, I’ll have a gypsy destroy the spell with a dead chicken.
ALAN. You little fool. Nothing can stop the Phantom Lover. (He starts after her.)
CONNIE. Alan, no! (Backs R. above D. R. c. chair.)
ALAN. (Stalking her R., L. of chair.) One kiss. If it leaves you cold, I’ll stop. But if it gets you all crazy, we play house rules.
CONNIE. (Moves R. so chair R. is between them.) Now, Alan, play fair.
ALAN. I’ll keep my hands behind my back. I’ll spot you a five-point lead, I’ll only be permitted to use my upper lip. (Steps up on chair.)
CONNIE. Alan, not now. Please. I haven’t got the strength to put up an interesting fight. I just wanted to see you before I fell into bed for the next week and a half.
Ai.AN. Okay. (He pecks her.) A rough tour, heh? (He gets down off chair.)
CONNIE. This was the roughest. (Sits on R. arm of chair.)
ALAN. (He laughs, sits n. R. c. chair.) You poor kid. When does the show go out again?
CONNIE. They leave in two weeks.
AIN. They? Not you?
CONNIE. (Smiles.) Not me.
ALAN. Why not?
CONNIE. I just suddenly decided to quit.
ALAN. Oh. Well, have you got another show lined up?
CONNIE. Well—it’s not just the show I quit. It’s the show business.
ALAN. (He looks at her.) Are you serious?
CONNIE. (She nods. She doesn’t want to make a big thing of it now.) I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. (Starts L.) Will you call me, darling? In the afternoon?
ALAN. (Crosses L. to C.) Wait a minute. I want to hear about this.
CONNIE. (At R. end of sofa.) There’s nothing to tell.
ALAN. Nothing to tell? You’re giving up your career and there’s nothing to tell?
CONNIE. (Sighs, laughs.) Oh, Alan, darling—what career?
ALAN. What do you mean, what career? You’re a singer, aren’t you?
CONNIE. Well, I wouldn’t invest in it.
ALAN. I don’t get it. Things are going so well for you— All those musicals you do.
CONNIE. (Sits sofa c.) They’re not musicals. They’re industrial shows. Two-hour commercials completely uninterrupted by entertainment.
ALAN. (Sits R of her and puts hat on table behind sofa.) I’m serious.
CONNIE. I’m dead serious. This past month we did a show for the Consolidated Meat Packers. Have you any idea what it’s like singing “Why Not Take All of Me” dressed as a sausage?
ALAN. (He smiles.) It sounds funny.
CONNIE. Maybe to you. But I’ve seen butchers sit there and cry.
ALAN. All right, so it’s not “My Fair Lady.” You don’t expect it to come easy, do you?
CONNIE. I don’t expect it to come at all. Not now. Alan— (Breaks L.) I’d work my throat to the bone if I thought I had a chance—or if I wanted it that much. But somehow lately I don’t care anymore— I guess it started when I met you. (Sits L. arm of sofa.)
ALAN. Honey, everyone gets discouraged. But you don’t suddenly throw away a promising career.
CONNIE. Promising? Even you once said I was a lousy singer.
ALAN. No, I didn’t. I said you had a lousy voice. There’s a big difference.
CONNIE. There is?
ALAN. Of course. You’ve got looks, personality. That’s all you need in the music business today. Hockey players are making albums.
At RISE: BUDDY is frantically pacing back and forth. BUDDY is about to have his first experience and here sits his mother. MRS. BAKER is a woman who has managed to find a little misery in the best of things. Sorrow and trouble are the only things that can make her happy. She was born in this country, dresses in fine fashion and in general her speech and appearance are definitely American. But she thinks old-world. Superstitions, beliefs, customs still cling to her. Or rather she clings to them. Because of this, we can’t take her hysterics too seriously. At rise BUDDY crosses R., then L.. then R. to her.
BUDDY. (L. of MOTHER.) Mom, are you feeling all right?
MOTHER. (Seated n. R. c. chair.) Darling, can I have a cold glass of water? I almost fainted on the subway.
BUDDY. Morn, what are you doing here?
MOTHER. I got such a dizzy spell. I never thought I’d get here.
BUDDY. Mom--—what did you want?
MOTHER. A glass of water, sweetheart.
BUDDY. No, I meant— (But maybe the water would be quicker. He rushes U. L. to the bar and pours a glass of water.)
MOTHER. I’ve got no luck. I never had any and I never will.
BUDDY. (Rushes back R. with glass.) Here, Mom.
MOTHER. (Takes a sip.) That just makes me nauseous. (He takes glass and puts it on fireplace bench L.) Let me catch my breath.
BUDDY. (Crosses D. to L. of her.) Maybe you need some fresh air, Mom. Outside?
MOTHER. Just let me sit a few minutes— (Rises.) Where’s Alan? (Crosses L. of C.)
BUDDY. (Crosses L., R. of her.) Out. On business. Do you feel any better?
MOTHER. (Turns to him.) When did I ever feel better?
BUDDY. Mom, I hope you understand, but I’ve got this appointment tonight.
MOTHER. Did you have dinner yet?
BUDDY. What? Dinner? Yes. Yes, I had a sandwich.
MOTHER. A sandwich? For supper? That’s how you start the minute you’re away?
BUDDY. I’m not hungry, Mom. You see, I’ve got this appointment—
MOTHER. What’d you have, one of those greasy hamburgers?
BUDDY. No. Roast beef. I had a big roast beef sand- with.
MOTHER. That’s not enough for you. Let me make you some eggs. (Starts D. L.)
BUDDY. (A step L.) I don’t want any eggs.
MOTHER. (Fingers I). L. counter.) Look at this place. Look at the dirt.
BUDDY. It’s all right, Mom.
MOTHER. (Turns to coffee table, looks down.) Sure. Boys. I’ll bet no one’s been in here to clean in a year.
BUDDY. (He might as well tell her.) Mom, will you listen to me? I’m—I’m—I’m expecting a girl here in a few minutes.
MOTHER. (Looking down as table.) To clean?
BUDDY. (Exasperated.) No, not to clean— She’s a friend of mine.
MOTHER. (Looks at him.) From our neighborhood?
BUDDY. (Steps Downstage.) No, you don’t know her. She’s—er—a gir1 I knew in school. We’re writing a story together.
MOTHER. (Starts R.) Then let me make you some appetizers.
BUDDY. (Stops her.) We don’t want any appetizers.
MOTHER. Buddy, I’ve got to talk to you about your father.
BUDDY. Can’t we do it tomorrow? She’s going to be here any second.
MOTHER. (A whimper.) What’s the matter? She’s more important than me?
BUDDY. (Placating.) Mom, no one’s more important than you.
MOTHER. (Cries.) How can you say that when you worry me like this? I know you. You won’t eat unless the food’s in front of you.
BUDDY. (Puzzled; breaks R. of C.) No one eats unless the food’s in front of them. Mom, MOTHER. (Starts Upstage; hurt.) You want me to go, I’ll go.
BUDDY. Mom, please don’t be hurt. I didn’t want to have this meeting. It came up unexpectedly. But I have to go through with it.
MOTHER. Buddy, your father’s going to be home in a few minutes. You should have heard him on the phone before about Alan. If the operator was listening, there’ll be a man there in the morning to rip it off the wall.
BUDDY. I can’t discuss this with you now.
MOTHER. No, but for girls you’ve got time. (Crosses D. .; sits R. c. chair; cries.)
BUDDY. (Crosses D., R. of C.) It’s not a girl. It’s—a— meeting. (Looks to door and back.) About a story we’re writing. It may go on till two o’clock in the morning.
MOTHER. Without appetizers?
BUDDY. We don’t need appetizers!
MOTHER. (Rises, crosses to him.) Wait’ll he reads that letter. Wait’ll he finds out you’re gone. Remember what he did when Alan left?
BUDDY. I know, Mom. He was very upset.
MOTHER. Upset? I’ll never forget it. He came home from work at three o’clock, went into his room, put on his pajamas and got into bed to die. Four days he stayed in bed. He just laid there waiting to die.
BUDDY. But he didn’t die, Mom. He put on weight.
MOTHER. Don’t think he wasn’t disappointed. He was plenty hurt by Alan leaving, believe me. He thought by now Alan would be married, have a grandchild. Who knows if he’ll ever get married? And now you.
BUDDY. Mom, please—
MOTHER. I know what he’s going to say tonight. He’ll blame it all on me. He’ll say I was too easy with the both of you. He’ll say, “because of you my sister Gussie has two grandchildren and all I’ve got is a bum—and a letter.” I know him.
BUDDY. Look, Mom. How about if I come home tomorrow night for dinner? And I’ll have a long talk with Dad about everything. Okay?
MOTHER. Tomorrow? By tomorrow he’ll be in bed again writing out his will. He’ll be on the phone saying good-bye to his family.
BUDDY. He won’t, Mom. He just gets very dramatic sometimes.
MOTHER. (Crosses R., sits D. R. c. chair.) Maybe I am too easy-going. Maybe if I were like some mothers— (BUDDY looks to door.) who forbid their children to do everything, I’d be better off today.
BUDDY. No, Mom. You’re the best mother I ever had— (Crosses R. to her.) Do you feel any better?
MOTHER. How do I know? I feel too sick to tell.
BUDDY. Really, a good night’s sleep and you’ll feel ‘wonderful. Take something before you go to bed. Some warm milk.
MOTHER. (Cries.) Who buys milk now that you’re not there?
BUDDY. (L. of her.) Then buy some.
MOTHER. Maybe I’ll be better off if I take a hot bath.
BUDDY. That’s the girl.
MOTHER. (Front.) I’ll probably pass out right in the tub.
BUDDY. No, you won’t. Why do you get so emotional all the time?
MOTHER. I don’t look for it, believe me, darling. (Pats Is face.)
BUDDY. Morn, everything’s going to be all right? (He half lifts her to her feet. MOTHER crosses L. in front of him to C.) Sleep tight. (He kisses her forehead.)
MOTHER. I feel better knowing at least you’ll be there tomorrow.
BUDDY. For dinner. I promise. (He starts Upstage.)
MOTHER. (A turn up and back, she stops.) What’ll I make?
BUDDY. (Coming down to her.) What?
MOTHER. For dinner? What do you want to eat?
BUDDY. Anything. I don’t care. Good night, Morn. (Gestures to door.)
MOTHER. I want to make something you like now that you’re not home.
BUDDY. I like everything. Roast beef, okay?
BUDDY. Mom, wait— (Into phone.) Hello, Allen— I don’t know. I can’t make head or tail out of her— Where are you?— No, she didn’t get here yet— Lousy, that’s how I feel— I already had a drink. It doesn’t help— Hey, wait a minute. Who am I again?— Oscar Wolheim?— Manheim! Oscar Manheim— Oh, boy! Look, Alan. I changed my mind. I can’t go through with it. I’m going out. Yes, now. Well— I’ll leave her a note from you— I’m sorry. Good-bye. (He hangs up.) That’s it. I’ll leave her a note. That’s all. (He quickly starts to search for a pencil and paper. He crosses U. R. of sofa, looks sofa table, crosses L. to bar counter, then looks in the shelves under u. L. cabinet and takes out container with two dozen pencils, lie crosses to table behind sofa and finds piece of paper. He sits sofa and starts to write and repeats aloud.) “Dear Peggy— More bad news— Oscar— (Momentarily forgets name.) —Manheim—is— dead!— Love— Alan.” (He puts down pencil, then crosses to door. Reads letter again. As lie bends down to leave it under door, the DOORBELL rings, he gasps. The BELL rings again. He throws up his hands in despair and then opens door. PEGGY stands there, ravishingly dressed. She looks utterly fantastic.)
PEGGY. Hi. I’m Peggy Evans, (She walks in, crosses D. L. He closes door.) I’m not disturbing you or anything, am I?
BUDDY. (He looks at her, overwhelmed by her pulchritude, follows her D. R., L of D. R. C. chair.) No—not at all. (He is in a state of semi-shock.)
PEGGY. (Sitting on sofa, R. end.) Alan said you wanted to meet me. I hope you forgive the way I look. I’ve been in a car all day—I must be a mess.
BUDDY. No— You look—very neat. (He tears up the note and puts the pieces in his pocket.)
PEGGY. Thanks. Coming from you, that’s something. (She crosses to him.) It’s a shame you couldn’t get up to the ski lodge.
BUDDY. (Backs away a step; frightened.) What ski lodge?
PEGGY. In New Hampshire. Or Vermont. I’m not very good at names. In fact, I’m afraid I’ve forgotten yours.
BUDDY. Oh— It’s—Manheim.
PEGGY. That’s right. Mr. Manheim.
BUDDY. Jack Man—Helm.
PEGGY. Yes, I remember the “Jack.”
BUDDY. (A take.) Oh? Won’t you sit down? (Indicating R. C. chair.)
PEGGY. Thank you. (Crosses L. and sits on sofa; he looks frightened.) I understand you had some problem at the studio.
BUDDY. Oh, yes—we did.
PEGGY. What was it? (She takes a cigarette and lights it.)
BUDDY. It was—er— (Stymied, then he sees flame.) Er—we had a—fire. (Crosses L. to C.)
PEGGY. Who?
BUDDY. I beg your pardon?
PEGGY. Who did you have to fire?
BUDDY. No, no. A fire. Part of the studio burned down.
PEGGY. Oh? Was anyone hurt?
BUDDY. No—just a few extras— Say, would you like a drink?
PEGGY. Ooooh, like a transfusion. I don’t mind admitting it, but I’m nervous.
BUDDY. You’re nervous? What would you like?
PEGGY. What are you having?
BUDDY. (This one is easy. He tosses it off grandly.) Oh— Scotch and ginger ale.
PEGGY. Oh, that’s cute. I mean what are you really having?
BUDDY. (Embarrassed.) I don’t know. What are you having?
PEGGY. Grand Marnier.
BUDDY. Grandma who?
PEGGY. Grand Marnier. It’s French. You know, a Liquor.
BUDDY. Oh— (He crosses u. L. to bar and looks for it. lie picks up a Scotch bottle.) No, I don’t see any.
PEGGY. Oh, Scotch’ll be fine. (BUDDY pours drinks.) I suppose you’ve heard it before, but you look awfully young for a producer.
BUDDY. (Crossing L. of her.) Oh, do I?
PEGGY. To look at you I’d say you were only about 26, but I bet I’m way off.
BUDDY. Oh, way off. (Hands her drink and sits L. of her.) Well, here we are.
PERRY. What should we drink to?
BUDDY. Anything you like.
PEGGY. Let’s make a silent toast.
BUDDY. Okay.
(They both close their eyes, take a beat. She opens hers, nudges him, he opens his eyes, clink glasses and drink. He makes a face at the straight whiskey.)
PEGGY. (Makes herself comfortable, puts down glass and snuffs out cigarette.) Well, now—down to business.
BUDDY. (A take.) Huh?
PEGGY. I suppose you want to know what I’ve done.
BUDDY. (Stalling.) Not necessarily.
PEGGY. I’ll be perfectly frank with you. I’ve never been in a picture before.
BUDDY. Is that so?
PEGGY. But I’m not totally inexperienced.
BUDDY. (Straight.) So Alan told me.
PEGGY. Last summer when I was on the coast I did an “Untouchables.”
BUDDY. No kidding?
PEGGY. I was a dead body. They fished me out of the river.
BUDDY. I think I saw that.
PEGGY. Lots of people did. I got loads of work from it. But it’s not what I really want to do. That’s why I’m taking acting class. With Felix Ungar. He lives in this building. Right under this apartment. In fact that’s how I met Alan. (She puts her hand on his knee.) I rang the wrong bell one night.
BUDDY. (He looks down at his knee and laughs almost hysterically.) How about that?
PEGGY. And look how it turned out. Through a silly mistake, I’m being auditioned by one of the biggest producers— (Taking hand off knee.) in the business. Life is funny, isn’t it?
BUDDY. (Puts drink down and rises, crossing R.) Hysterical. (Crosses R. of c.)
PEGGY. (Rises, crosses below coffee table.) Well, is there anything you’d like me to do?
BUDDY. (Turns quickly.) What?
PEGGY. Oh, I appreciate that. Thanks an awful lot, Mr. Manheim.
(She kisses him and exits through the kitchen door. He starts R. to make sure she has gone. He looks at his jacket, unbuttons it, takes it off, throws it into bedroom and closes door. He runs Downstage, grabs the two glasses from coffee table and crosses L. and puts them on bar. He starts R., stops, looks at glasses. Picks one up and examines it for lipstick, takes out his handkerchief, wipes lipstick off, puts glass on bar. As he wipes his own mouth wit/i handkerchief, DOORBELL rings. He frantically tries to jam handkerchief into pocket and can’t. DOORBELL rings again. Panicky, he throws handkerchief out window L. He grabs a large book from Upstage bookshelf, opens it, goes to door, book in hand, composes himself as if he had been reading all evening and opens door. There stands his FATHER, with the letter in his hand.)
BUDDY. Hello, Dad. (The FATHER walks in, holds up the letter to BUDDY’S face, to indicate he got it, then he walks into the apartment. BUDDY follows n. R. C., L. of him.) Are you all right, Dad? Is anything wrong? (The FATHER stares ahead speechless. He has taken letter out of envelope and now holds it in front of BUDDY’S face.) I—I didn’t think you’d be coming down tonight. I was going to have a long talk with you in the morning—at the plant—and then I told mother I’d be home for dinner tomorrow—so you and I could sit down and talk some more—and I could explain how I— Dad, you’re angry, aren’t you.
FATHER. Me? Angry. Why should I be angry?
BUDDY. About the letter.
FATHER. (Looks at him.) What letter?
BUDDY. This letter. The letter I wrote you.
FATHER. No, no. You didn’t write this letter. Someone I don’t know wrote this letter. Not you. You, I know. This person I never met.
BUDDY. Dad, don’t you think it would be better if we waited until tomorrow, when we’re both—calmer? I meant to have a long talk with you about this.
FATHER. Talk? What’s there to talk about? (He still holds up letter.) It’s signed, sealed and delivered. The Declaration of Independence. What’s there to talk about?
BUDDY. Dad, I think you’re too upset now to discuss this logically.
FATHER. Oh, I expected it. (Puts letter in envelope; crosses R. below D. R. C. chair.) You hang around your brother long enough, it was bound to happen. So what’s the windup. My sister Gussie has two grandchildren and I have a bum and a letter.
BUDDY. (Crosses p to him.) Dad, this didn’t suddenly happen. I tried to explain how I felt the other night. But you wouldn’t listen.
FATHER. I wouldn’t listen! (He starts to sit and jumps up.) Don’t try and tell me I wouldn’t listen. That’s all I did was listen. (Crosses L. of BUDDY to sofa.)
BUDDY. (Turns.) But every time I would start to say something, you would walk out of the room.
FATHER. (Crossing to L. of C.) If you showed me a little respect, then maybe I would listen.
BUDDY. Dad, you’re not making any sense.
FATHER. (Turns to him.) I’m not making sense? Very nice. Very nice talk to a father.
BUDDY. What do you want me to say?
FATHER. (Crosses R. to him.) I want to hear from your own lips—nicely—why such a young boy can’t live at home with his parents.
BUDDY. Young boy?
FATHER. (Holding up a warning finger.) Nicely!
BUDDY. Dad, I’m twenty-one.
FATHER. (Non-committal; turns front.) You’re twenty- one.
BUDDY. You say it as if you don’t believe me. I was twenty-one yesterday, wasn’t I?
FATHER. (Shrugs.) Whatever you say.
BUDDY. What do you mean whatever I say?
FATHER. (Finger up again.) Nicely!
BUDDY. All right. I say I was twenty-one. That’s old enough to make your own decisions in life. When you were twenty-one, you were already married, weren’t you?
FATHER. You were there?
BUDDY. No, I wasn’t there. You told me yourself.
FATHER. Those days were altogether different. (Crosses away L. of sofa.) I was working when I was eleven years old. (Turns to him.) I didn’t go to camp.
BUDDY. What’s camp got to do with all this?
FATHER. (Threatening.) I’ll walk right out of here!
BUDDY. All right, Dad. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but your answers never match my questions.
FATHER. (Crossing above and R. of sofa and of BUDDY.) Oh, that too? I don’t talk fancy enough for you like your brother and his show business friends.
BUDDY. (Turns L) That’s what I mean. Who said anything about show business?
FATHER. (R. of c.) Well, that’s where he is all day, isn’t he? Backstage at some burlesque house.
BUDDY. They haven’t had burlesque in New York in twenty years.
FATHER. He hasn’t put in a day’s work in twenty years. (Crosses D. R. of C.) And now I suppose I can expect that of you.
Cold Reading 8 Father - Mother
FATHER. Oh, they’re hiding them in the bedroom now. What’s the matter, the kitchen’s being painted? (He crosses to bedroom and opens door. He looks in.) Very nice. Very nice for a mother. (BUDDY crosses and sits on sofa arm R.)
MOTHER. (From Offstage.) What do you want?
FATHER. What is she doing in there?
MOTHER. (Offstage.) She’s drinking Alka-Seltzer.
FATHER. (Crossing D. below coffee table. Turns away.) I thought I’d find her in here.
MOTHER. (She comes out with a glass in her hand. Crossing n. C.) Where else should I be? They’re still my children.
FATHER. She should be home. I’m still her husband.
MOTHER. Not when you treat your own children the way you do.
FATHER. This is something I will not discuss in front of strangers.
MOTHER. They’re your sons.
FATHER. They’re your sons! They’re my strangers! (Crossing R. C.) Is she coming home?
MOTHER. She’s home. This is where she lives now.
FATHER. This is where she lives? With bums?
MOTHER. That’s right. So that makes me a bum too. All right? Now you’re happy? Now you’ve got three bums.
ALAN. (Rises.) Dad, can I say something?
FATHER. (Front.) Who’s he talking to? I’m not even here.
BUDDY. (Crossing D. L. of FATHER.) Can I say something?
FATHER. Write it in a play. I’ll be there opening night.
(BUDDY drifts U. L. of R. c. chair.)
ALAN. (Crosses to FATHER.) All right, Dad, please calm down. Will you talk to me for one minute?
FATHER. (Crossing L. below coffee table.) Is she coming?
