27 Wagons Full of Cotton and Other Plays (10 page)

H
ARPER:
Ain’t that terrible, though! What was the trouble?

M
R.
C
HARLIE:
Mortality, that was the trouble! Some people think that millions now living are never going to
die.
I don’t think that—I think it’s a misapprehension not borne out by the facts! We go like flies when we come to the end of the summer . . . And who is going to prevent it? (
He becomes depressed.
)
Who—is going—to prevent it! (
He nods gravely.
)
The road is changed. The shoe industry is changed. These times are—revolution! (
He rises and moves to the window.
)
I don’t like the way that it looks. You can take it from me—the world that I used to know—the world that this boy’s father used t’ know—the world we belonged to, us old time war-horses!—is slipping and sliding away from under our shoes. Who is going to prevent it? The ALL LEATHER slogan don’t sell shoes any more. The stuff that a shoe’s made of is not what’s going to sell it any more! No! STYLE! SMARTNESS! APPEARANCE! That’s what counts with the modern shoe-purchaser, Bob! But try an’ tell your style department that. Why, I remember the time when all I had to do was lay out my samples down there in the
lobby. Open up my order-book an’ write out orders until my fingers
ached!
A
sales-
talk
was not
necessary.
A store was a place where people sold merchandise and to sell merchandise the retail-dealer had to obtain it from the wholesale manufacturer, Bob! Where they get merchandise now I do not pretend to know. But it don’t look like they buy it from wholesale dealers! Out of the air—I guess it materializes! Or maybe stores don’t
sell
stuff any more! Maybe I’m living in a world of illusion! I recognize that possibility, too!

H
ARPER:
(
casually, removing the comic paper from his pocket
)
Yep—yep. You must have witnessed some changes.

M
R.
C
HARLIE:
Changes? A mild expression. Young man—I have witnessed—a REVOLUTION! (
Harper has opened his comic paper but Mr. Charlie doesn’t notice, for now his peroration is really addressed to himself.
)
Yes, a
revolution!
The atmosphere that I
breathe
is not the same! Ah, well—I’m an old war-horse. (
He opens his coat and lifts the multiple golden chains from his vest. An amazing number of watches rise into view. Softly, proudly he speaks.
)
Looky here, young fellow! You ever seen a man with this many watches? How did I
acquire
this many time-pieces? (
Harper has seen them before. He glances above the comic sheet with affected amazement.
)
At every one of the annual sales conventions of the Cosmopolitan Shoe Company in St. Louis a seventeen-jewel, solid-gold, Swiss-movement Hamilton watch is presented to the ranking salesman of the year! Fifteen of those watches have been awarded to me! I think that represents something! I think that’s
something
in the way of achievement! . . . Don’t
you?

H
ARPER:
Yes,
siree!
You bet I
do,
Mistuh Charlie! (
He chuckles at a remark in the comic sheet. Mr. Charlie sticks out his lips with a grunt of disgust and snatches the comic sheet from the young man’s hands.
)

M
R.
C
HARLIE:
Young man—I’m talkin’ to
you,
I’m talkin’ for
your
benefit.
And I expect the courtesy of your attention until I am through! I may be an old war-horse. I may have received—the last of my solid gold watches . . . But just the same—good manners are still a part of the road’s tradition. And part of the
South’s
tradition. Only a young peckerwood would look at the comics when old Charlie Colton is talking.

H
ARPER:
(
taking another drink
)
Excuse me, Charlie. I got a lot on my mind. I got some business to attend to directly.

M
R.
C
HARLIE:
And directly you shall attend to it! I just want you to know what I think of this new world of yours! I’m not one of those that go howling about a Communist being stuck in the White House now! I don’t say that Washington’s been took over by Reds! I don’t say all of the wealth of the country is in the hands of the Jews! I like the Jews and I’m a friend to the niggers! I
do
say
this
—however. . . . The world I knew is gone—gone—gone with the wind! My pockets are full of watches which tell me that my time’s just about over! (
A look of great trouble and bewilderment appears on his massive face. The rather noble tone of his speech slackens into a senile complaint.
)
All of them—pigs that was slaughtered—carcasses dumped in the river! Farmers receivin’ payment
not
t’ grow wheat an’ corn an’
not
t’ plant cotton! All of these alphabet letters that’s sprung up all about me! Meaning—unknown—to men of my generation! The rudeness—the lack of respect—the newspapers full of strange items! The terrible—fast—dark—rush of events in the world! Toward what and where and why! . . . I don’t pretend to have any knowledge of now! I only say—and I say this very humbly—I don’t understand—what’s happened. . . . I’m one of them monsters you see reproduced in museums—out of the dark old ages—the giant
rep
-tiles, and the dino-whatever-you-call-ems. BUT—I
do
know
this!
And I state it without any shame! Initiative—self-reliance—independence of character! The old sterling qualities that distinguished one man
from another—the clay from the potters—the potters from the clay—are— (
kneading the air with his hands
)
How is it the old song goes? . . . Gone with the roses of
yesterday!
Yes—with the
wind!

H
ARPER:
(
whose boredom has increased by leaps and bounds
)
You old-timers make one mistake. You only read one side of the vital statistics.

M
R.
C
HARLIE:
(
stung
)
What do you mean by that?

H
ARPER:
In the papers they print people
dead
in one corner and people
born
in the next and usually
one
just about levels
off
with the
other.

M
R.
C
HARLIE:
Thank you for that information. I happen to be the godfather of several new infants in various points on the road. However, I think you have missed the whole point of what I was saying.

H
ARPER:
I don’t think so, Mr. Charlie.

M
R.
C
HARLIE:
Oh, yes, you have, young fellow. My point is this: the ALL-LEATHER slogan is not what sells any more—not in shoes and not in humanity, neither! The emphasis isn’t on quality. Production, production, yes! But out of inferior goods!
Ersatz
—that’s what they’re making ‘em out of!

H
ARPER:
(
getting up
)
That’s your opinion because you belong to the past.

M
R.
C
HARLIE:
(
furiously
)
A piece of impertinence, young man! I expect to be accorded a certain amount of respect by whippersnappers like you!

H
ARPER:
Hold on, Charlie.

M
R.
C
HARLIE:
I belong to—tradition. I am a
legend.
Known from one end of the Delta to the other. From the Peabody hotel in Memphis to Cat-Fish Row in Vicksburg. Mistuh Charlie—
Mistuh Charlie!
Who knows
you?
What do
you
represent? A line of goods of doubtful value, some kike concern in the East! Get out of my room! I’d rather play solitaire, than poker with men who’re no more solid characters than the
jacks in the deck! (
He opens the door for the young salesman who shrugs and steps out with alacrity. Then he slams the door shut and breathes heavily. The Negro enters with a pitcher of ice water.
)

N
EGRO:
(
grinning
)
What you shoutin’ about, Mistuh Charlie?

M
R.
C
HARLIE:
I lose my patience sometimes. Nigger—

N
EGRO:
Yes, suh?

M
R.
C
HARLIE:
You remember the way it used to be.

N
EGRO:
(
gently
)
Yes, suh.

M
R.
C
HARLIE:
I used to come in town like a conquering hero! Why, my God, nigger—they all but laid red carpets at my feet! Isn’t that so?

N
EGRO:
That’s so, Mistuh Charlie.

M
R.
C
HARLIE:
This room was like a
throne-
room.
My samples laid out over there on green velvet cloth! The ceiling-fan
going
—now
broken!
And over here—the wash-bowl an’ pitcher removed and the table-top
loaded
with
liquor!
In and out from the time I arrived till the time I left, the men of the road who knew me, to whom I stood for things commanding respect! Poker—continuous! Shouting, laughing—hilarity! Where have they all gone to?

N
EGRO:
(
solemnly nodding
)
The graveyard is crowded with folks we knew, Mistuh Charlie. It’s mighty late in the day!

M
R.
C
HARLIE:
Huh! (
He crosses to the window.
)
Nigguh, it ain’t even late in the day any more—(
He throws up the blind.
)
It’s NIGHT! (
The sface of the window is black.
)

N
EGRO:
(
softly, with a wise old smile
)
Yes, suh . . .
Night,
Mistuh Charlie!

CURTAIN

Portrait of a Madonna

Respectfully dedicated to the talent and charm of Miss Lillian Gish.

CHARACTERS

M
ISS
L
UCRETIA
C
OLLINS.

T
HE
P
ORTER.

T
HE
E
LEVATOR
B
OY.

T
HE
D
OCTOR.

T
HE
N
URSE.

M
R.
A
BRAMS.

Portrait of a Madonna

S
CENE:
The living room of a moderate-priced city apartment. The furnishings are old-fashioned and everything is in a state of neglect and disorder. There is a door in the back wall to a bedroom, and on the right to the outside hall.

M
ISS
COLLINS:
Richard! (
The door bursts open and Miss Collins rushes out, distractedly. She is a middle-aged spinster, very slight and hunched of figure with a desiccated face that is flushed with excitement. Her hair is arranged in curls that would become a young girl and she wears a frilly negligee which might have come from an old hope chest of a period considerably earlier.
)
No, no, no, no! I don’t care if the whole church hears about it! (
She frenziedly snatches up the phone.
)
Manager, I’ve got to speak to the manager! Hurry, oh, please hurry, there’s a
man
—! (
wildly aside as if to an invisible figure
)
Lost all respect, absolutely no respect! . . . Mr. Abrams? (
in a tense hushed voice
)
I don’t want any reporters to hear about this but something awful has been going on upstairs. Yes, this is Miss Collins’ apartment on the top floor. I’ve refrained from making any complaint because of my connections with the church. I used to be assistant to the Sunday School superintendent and I once had the primary class. I helped them put on the Christmas pageant. I made the dress for the Virgin and Mother, made robes for the Wise Men. Yes, and now this has happened, I’m not responsible for it, but night after night after night this man has been coming into my apartment and—indulging his senses! Do you understand?

Not once but repeatedly, Mr. Abrams! I don’t know whether he comes in the door or the window or up the fire-escape or whether there’s some secret entrance they know about at the church, but he’s here now, in my bedroom, and I can’t force him to leave, I’ll have to have some assistance! No, he isn’t a thief, Mr. Abrams, he comes of a very fine family in Webb, Mississippi, but this woman has ruined his character, she’s destroyed his respect for ladies! Mr. Abrams? Mr. Abrams! Oh, goodness! (
She slams up the receiver and looks distractedly about for a moment; then rushes back into the bedroom.
)
Richard!
(
The door slams shut. After a few moments an old porter enters in drab gray cover-alls. He looks about with a sorrowfully humorous curiosity, then timidly calls.
)

P
ORTER:
Miss Collins? (
The elevator door slams open in hall and the Elevator Boy, wearing a uniform, comes in.
)

E
LEVATOR
B
OY:
Where is she?

P
ORTER:
Gone in ‘er bedroom.

E
LEVATOR
B
OY:
(
grinning
)
She got him in there with her?

P
ORTER:
Sounds like it. (
Miss Collins
‘
voice can be heard faintly protesting with the mysterious intruder.
)

E
LEVATOR
B
OY:
What’d Abrams tell yuh to do?

P
ORTER:
Stay here an’ keep a watch on ‘er till they git here.

E
LEVATOR
B
OY:
Jesus.

P
ORTER:
Close ‘at door.

E
LEVATOR
B
OY:
I gotta leave it open a little so I can hear the buzzer. Ain’t this place a holy sight though?

P
ORTER:
Don’t look like it’s had a good cleaning in fifteen or twenty years. I bet it ain’t either. Abrams’ll bust a blood-vessel when he takes a lookit them walls.

E
LEVATOR
B
OY:
How comes it’s in this condition?

P
ORTER:
She wouldn’t let no one in.

E
LEVATOR
B
OY:
Not even the paper-hangers?

P
ORTER:
Naw. Not even the plumbers. The plaster washed down in the bathroom underneath hers an’ she admitted her
plumbin’ had been stopped up. Mr. Abrams had to let the plumber in with this here pass-key when she went out for a while.

E
LEVATOR
B
OY
: Holy Jeez. I wunner if she’s got money stashed around here. A lotta freaks do stick away big sums of money in ole mattresses an’ things.

P
ORTER:
She ain’t. She got a monthly pension check or something she always turned over to Mr. Abrams to dole it out to ‘er. She tole him that Southern ladies was never brought up to manage finanshul affairs. Lately the checks quit comin’.

E
LEVATOR
B
OY:
Yeah?

P
ORTER:
The pension give out or somethin’. Abrams says he got a contribution from the church to keep ‘er on here without ‘er knowin’ about it. She’s proud as a peacock’s tail in spite of ‘er awful appearance.

E
LEVATOR
B
OY:
Lissen to ‘er in there!

P
ORTER:
What’s she sayin’?

E
LEVATOR
B
OY:
Apologizin’ to him! For callin’ the
police!

P
ORTER:
She thinks police ‘re comin’?

M
ISS
COLLINS:
(
from bedroom
)
Stop it, it’s got to stop!

E
LEVATOR
B
OY:
Fightin’ to protect her honor again! What a commotion, no wunner folks are complainin’!

P
ORTER:
(
lighting his pipe
)
This here’ll be the last time.

E
LEVATOR
B
OY:
She’s goin’ out, huh?

P
ORTER:
(
blowing out the match
)
Tonight.

E
LEVATOR
B
OY:
Where’ll she go?

P
ORTER:
(
slowly moving to the old gramophone
)
She’ll go to the state asylum.

E
LEVATOR
B
OY:
Holy G!

P
ORTER:
Remember this ole number? (
He puts on a record of “I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles.”
)

E
LEVATOR
B
OY:
Naw. When did that come out?

P
ORTER:
Before your time, sonny boy. Machine needs oilin’.

(
He takes out small oil-can and applies oil about the crank and other parts of gramophone.
)

E
LEVATOR
B
OY:
How long is the old girl been here?

P
ORTER:
Abrams says she’s been livin’ here twenty-five, thirty years, since before he got to be manager even.

E
LEVATOR
B
OY:
Livin’ alone all that time?

P
ORTER:
She had an old mother died of an operation about fifteen years ago. Since then she ain’t gone out of the place ex-cep’ on Sundays to church or Friday nights to some kind of religious meeting.

E
LEVATOR
B
OY:
Got an awful lot of ol’ magazines piled aroun’ here.

P
ORTER:
She used to collect ‘em. She’d go out in back and fish ‘em out of the incinerator.

E
LEVATOR
B
OY:
What’n hell for?

P
ORTER:
Mr. Abrams says she used to cut out the Campbell soup kids. Them red-tomato-headed kewpie dolls that go with the soup advertisements. You seen ‘em, ain’tcha?

E
LEVATOR
B
OY:
Uh-huh.

P
ORTER:
She made a collection of ‘em. Filled a big lot of scrapbooks with them paper kiddies an’ took ‘em down to the Children’s Hospitals on Xmas Eve an’ Easter Sunday, exactly twicet a year. Sounds better, don’t it? (
referring to gramophone, which resumes its faint, wheedling music
)
Eliminated some a that crankin’ noise . . .

E
LEVATOR
B
OY:
I didn’t know that she’d been nuts
that
long.

P
ORTER:
Who’s nuts an’ who ain’t? If you ask me the world is populated with people that’s just as peculiar as she is.

E
LEVATOR
B
OY:
Hell. She don’t have brain
one.

P
ORTER:
There’s important people in Europe got less’n she’s got. Tonight they’re takin’ her off’ n’ lockin’ her up. They’d do a lot better to leave ‘er go an’ lock up some a them maniacs over there. She’s harmless; they ain’t. They kill millions of people an’ go scot free!

E
LEVATOR
B
OY:
An ole woman like her is disgusting, though, imaginin’ somebody’s raped her.

P
ORTER:
Pitiful, not disgusting. Watch out for them cigarette ashes.

E
LEVATOR
B
OY:
What’s uh diff'rence? So much dust you can’t see it. All a this here goes out in the morning, don’t it?

P
ORTER:
Uh-huh.

E
LEVATOR
B
OY:
I think I’ll take a couple a those ole records as curiosities for my girl friend. She’s got a portable in ‘er bedroom, she says it’s better with music!

P
ORTER:
Leave ‘em alone. She’s still got ‘er property rights.

E
LEVATOR
B
OY:
Aw, she’s got all she wants with them dream-lovers of hers!

P
ORTER:
Hush up!
(
He makes a warning gesture as Miss Collins enters from bedroom. Her appearance is that of a ravaged woman. She leans exhaustedly in the doorway, hands clasped over her flat, virginal bosom.
)

M
ISS
COLLINS:
(
breathlessly
)
Oh, Richard—Richard . . .

P
ORTER:
(
coughing
)
Miss—Collins.

E
LEVATOR
B
OY:
Hello, Miss Collins.

M
ISS
COLLINS:
(
just noticing the men
)
Goodness! You’ve arrived already! Mother didn’t tell me you were here! (
Self-consciously she touches her ridiculous corkscrew curls with the faded pink ribbon tied through them. Her manner becomes that of a slightly coquettish but prim little Southern belle.
)
I must ask you gentlemen to excuse the terrible disorder.

P
ORTER:
That’s all right, Miss Collins.

M
ISS
COLLINS:
It’s the maid’s day off. Your No’thern girls receive such excellent domestic training, but in the South it was never considered essential for a girl to have anything but prettiness and charm! (
She laughs girlishly.
)
Please do sit down. Is it too close? Would you like a window open?

P
ORTER:
No, Miss Collins.

M
ISS
COLLINS:
(
advancing with delicate grace to the sofa
) Mother will bring in something cool after while. . . . Oh, my!

(
She touches her forehead.
)

P
ORTER:
(
kindly
)
Is anything wrong, Miss Collins?

M
ISS
COLLINS:
Oh, no, no, thank you, nothing! My head is a little bit heavy. I’m always a little bit—malarial—this time of year! (
She sways dizzily as she starts to sink down on the sofa.
)

P
ORTER:
(
helping her
)
Careful there, Miss Collins.

M
ISS
COLLINS:
(
vaguely
)
Yes, it is, I hadn’t noticed before. (
She peers at them near-sightedly with a hesitant smile.
)
You gentlemen have come from the church?

P
ORTER:
No, ma’am. I’m Nick, the porter, Miss Collins, and this boy here is Frank that runs the elevator.

M
ISS
COLLINS:
(
stiffening a little
)
Oh? . . . I don’t understand.

P
ORTER:
(
gently
)
Mr. Abrams just asked me to drop in here an’ see if you was getting along all right.

M
ISS
COLLINS:
Oh! Then he must have informed you of what’s been going on in here!

P
ORTER:
He mentioned some kind of—disturbance.

M
ISS
COLLINS:
Yes! Isn’t it outrageous? But it mustn’t go any further, you understand. I mean you mustn’t repeat it to other people.

P
ORTER:
No, I wouldn’t say nothing.

M
ISS
COLLINS:
Not a word of it, please!

E
LEVATOR
B
OY:
Is the man still here, Miss Collins?

M
ISS
COLLINS:
Oh, no. No, he’s gone now.

E
LEVATOR
B
OY:
How did he go, out the bedroom window, Miss Collins?

M
ISS
COLLINS:
(
vaguely
)
Yes. . . .

E
LEVATOR
B
OY:
I seen a guy that could do that once. He crawled straight up the side of the building. They called him The Human Fly! Gosh, that’s a wonderful publicity angle,

Miss Collins—"Beautiful Young Society Lady Raped by The Human Fly!”

P
ORTER:
(
nudging him sharply
)
Git back in your cracker box!

M
ISS
COLLINS:
Publicity? No! It would be so humiliating! Mr. Abrams surely hasn’t reported it to the papers!

P
ORTER:
No, ma’am. Don’t listen to this smarty pants.

M
ISS
COLLINS:
(
touching her curls
)
Will pictures be taken, you think? There’s one of him on the mantel.