Bradbury, Ray - SSC 10 (4 page)

The Young Man
{thoughtfully)
No
...
I don't think I am.

He swigs his drink and heads for the door with
the old man
dogtrotting after. At the door he stops, for a
voice is speaking
behind him. He does
not turn, but listens. Behind, over his
shoulder, the recovered "victim" is sipping his drink and
talking to two men bent earnestly to listen.

The Victim
{hoarsely,
dramatically)
Well . . . I'm on me
way home, blithe as you please, see, and—

the young man
steps
through the doors quickly. The pub lights
go out. Outside, the fog-scrim appears, mist drifts in from either
side. We hear voices off and away, and the
approach of
the
young man's
car,
driven by someone. The car stops, just out of
sight.

A
Voice
There we are!

Another Voice
Now,
easy, inside with the poor victim!

the young man
muses,
with
the
old man
beside him, in the
night.

The Young Man

Old
Man, do you ever have auto wrecks, collisions between peo
ple in
cars?

The Old Man
{insulted)

Not
in our town!! If you like
that
sort of thing, now
(Nods scorn-
jully
east),
Dublin
's the very place for it!

the young man
looks
east, nods,
moves
toward his car offstage.

Look
now, McGuire, a last bit of advice. You've driven little in
Ireland
, right?

THE YOUNG MAN
nods.

Listen.
Driving to
Meynooth
, fog and all, go fast! Raise a
din!

The Young Man
In this fog?
Why?

The Old Man

Why,
he asks! To scare the bicyclists off the path,
and
the cows!
Both sides! If you drive
slow
,
you'll creep up on and do away
with
dozens before they know what took them off. Also—when
another car approaches—douse your lights, pass
each other,
lights out, in safety.
Them devil's own lights have put out more
eyes and demolished more innocents than all of
seeing's
worth.
Is it clear, now?

THE YOUNG MAN
nods.

You
got a cap? I see
ya
haven't. So—

the old man
produces
a tweed cap from his coat pocket.

The Old Man
Put this on! Bicycling, driving, or
especially, walking,
always
wear
a
cap. It'll save you the frightful migraines should you meet Kelly or Moran or
some other hurtling full tilt the other way,
full of fiery moss and hard-skulled from birth! So you see,
there's
rules
for pedestrians, too, in our country, and
wear
a cap,
is
Number One!

the young man
pulls
the cap down and looks to
the old man
for
his approval, which he gets.

The Old Man
Well now, get along, lad.

The Young Man
Aren't
you riding with me?

The Old Man
Ah,
no, I got the beast here, I must check on the mother.

He picks up his bike and slings a
slatty
leg
over it and pulls his
cap down.

The Old Man

Well,
sir, did you find what you came for?
did
you see the
Irish,
clear?

The Young Man

I
saw but didn't see . . . lost one thing and found another . . .
now,
that's
gone, too. Tell me, how did you
guess all this would
happen tonight,
here? How did you know?

The Old Man

I
didn't! Some other night it would be some other thing! Like
I said, anything could happen, and always does!
That's
Ireland
for you. And it's waiting out there for you now,
in the fog. Go
find it!

the young man
runs off, stage right.

The Young Man
I
will!

We hear the motor revved, offstage.

The Old Man
(shouting
off)
Remember what I said! Douse
your lights!

The lights go off, stage right.

The Old Man
(shouting)
Go fast!

Offstage, we hear the furious gunning of the motor.

The Old Man
Keep
your cap on! Tight! (
Yanks his own cap, hard)

The Young Man
(offstage)
See
you again!

The Old Man
God
willing!

We hear the car roar off and away. The sound fades.

When it is gone,
the old man
is
alone on his bike. He prepares

himself
, clears his throat, and sings going off, stage
right.

The Old Man
"She
wheeled her wheelbarrow . . ."

At which moment, a shadowy bicyclist
(finn)
comes through
the other way.
They almost collide.

The Old Man
Damn!
Watch where you're going!

Finn
Hell! Look
what you're doing!

The Old Man
Heeber
Finn, it's you!

Finn
Old man,
it's you!

The Old Man
God
Bless!

Finn

God
Bless!
(Takes up the song, sailing away)
"She wheeled her wheelbarrow. . ."

The Old Man
(sings)
". . . through streets wide
and narrow . . ."

They vanish, pumping, but to reappear, wave, pass, and go off in
darkness, alternating lines of song, vanishing at last as the
mist and dark take over:

Heeber
Finn
". . . singing cockles . . ."

The Old Man
".
. . and mussels . . ."

Heeber
Finn
". . . alive!
. . ."

The Old Man
". . . alive!
. . ."

Both Together
".
. .
Ohhhh
! . . ."

By this time the curtain has hushed down on the mist and the
play is at. . .

THE
  
END

CHARACTERS

THE
 
YOUNG
 
MAN
  
(
DOUGLAS
)

MIKE
  
(THE
  
OLD
 
MAN
)

HEEBER
  
FINN

TIMULTY

NOLAN
O'CONNELL

PURDY

KELLEEN

SEAN
  
(TELEPHONE
  
OPERATOR)

Curtain up on darkness.

the young man
strolls
along in the dark to a single spotlight
where he stands debating with himself, hands in pockets, head down.

Off somewhere, a harp begins to play a few bars of "Mollie
Malone" or some such ditty.

the
young man
raises his hands.

The Young Man

Please.
No harp. That will only muddy the waters and stop us
from thinking clear about
Ireland
.

The harp rushes to the end of the next few bars, as if to get it all
in, then ceases,
the young man
nods, not surprised at this maneuver, and continues, looking out at the
audience.

Does
anyone understand the Irish?

No.

Will
anyone
ever
understand them in all of time?

No.

Can
there be some system or method to size and sort them,
tincture their ganglions so we can slide them
under a microscope
and see what makes
them dance?
{Shakes his head)

No
history can date them, no psychiatrist's couch
lure
them,
no song explain them. And yet,
as others tried, now so must I.

Did
I ever know one solitary Irish fellow well?

I
did.
His name?
Mike.

mike
sticks
his head out of the wings, left.

Mike
Ya
called, sir?

The Young Man
In
a moment, Mike—

Mike
Take all the time in the world!

mike's
head
vanishes.

The Young Man
I
knew Mike for two hundred consecutive nights—

Mike's Voice
(offstage)
Two-hundred-o/
jc
/

The Young Man

—two-hundred-one
consecutive nights of one fall, winter, and
early spring when I went to
Ireland
to write a film. I lived in
Dublin
, and every day when I finished ten new fresh
pages of script, I would hire a taxi out to
Kilcock
,
show my director my
work, and at
midnight
go back to
Dublin
. How?
By hiring the
only taxi for miles around.
So, every night I'd call the village
exchange.

He picks up a telephone. And perhaps to one side, now, spot
lighted, we can see
sean, the telephone
operator,
bent over
the village switchboard.

Sean
Are
ya
there?

The Young Man
Hello,
would you—

Sean
Ah, it's
you,
Mr. Douglas.

The Young Man
Who's
this?

Sean
Why, Sean, of course!

The Young Man
Sean?

Sean

The
wife's got the
uneasies
.
I
took over
the
village ex-change
for tonight.

The Young Man
Good . .
.

Sean
A fine night.

The Young Man
It is.

Sean
It must be up to
at
least
fifty
degrees
on
the
damn
thermometer.

The Young Man
All of that.

Sean
Warm for this time
of
year.

The Young
Man
I always said
,
Dublin
is the Riviera of
Ireland.

Sean

Did
ya
, now? I must remember
to
tell the wife. I
suppose
Heeber
Finn's is where you're calling?

The
Young Man
If you don't mind, Sean.

Sean
Mind! I'll put
ya
through
like a bolt of lightning!

There
is
a hissing
crackle. From the phone now pours a veritable
millrace
of voices,
laughter, tinkling bottles, toasts, brags, and
general multitude
of
hilarity. In the background, through
a
scrim,
we
see
Finn's,
and the crowd there at the bar,
the young
man
listens, fascinated.

(At last)
I
have reason to believe you are through to
Heeber
Finn's,
sir.

The Young Man
(listening)
I don't doubt it, Sean.

We see
finn,
behind the bar, maneuvering
drinks and the phone.

Finn's Voice
(shouting)
Heeber
Finn here! Who's on the other end!

Sean

Heeber
, it's
himself
from the big house!

the young man
starts
to speak but is cut across.

Finn
Mr. Douglas, is it?

Sean
The same!

Finn

Always
glad to hear from Mr. Douglas.

the young man
starts
to speak, but
—

Sean
Did you
know he was a writer?

Finn
(awed)
I
did
not!

the
YOUNG MAN
opens his mouth, nodding.

Sean
He is!
Writes them science and fiction stories!

Finn
(dismayed)
How's
that?

Sean

You
know; them shiny magazines with the green monsters chas
ing raw naked women over the Martian Hills on the
covers!

Finn
(pleased)
So
that's
what he's up to!

the young man
opens
his mouth, but
—

Sean
He is
also writing the
fillum
with the title
Moby Dick.

Finn
Is he?

the young man
nods, defeated.
He does not try to open his
mouth any more.

Sean
You
know the story, about the Whale!

Finn

And
Jonah hi his belly!

the young man
No-
Sean
No,
man.
Ahab!

Finn

What?

the young man
(getting
it in fast)
Ahab!

Finn

Who
else is on the line, Sean?

Sean
Himself!

Finn
Ahab?

Sean
Mr.
Douglas,
ya
dimwit!

Hello, Mr.
Douglas

The Young
Man
 
Now
who’s this Ahab?

Sean
Ahab is
the captain that hunts the White Whale, man!

Finn

A fine story.
Are
ya
there, Mr. Douglas? I said . . .

THE
 
YOUNG
 
MAN

Mr.
Finn. Could you find Mike, the taxi driver, for me?

Finn

He's
good as found.

There is a long silence. We watch and hear the mob at Finn's
and
finn
himself
catting
off and away:
"Mike, Mike!"

Sean
It's a
fine night, Mr. Douglas.

The Young Man
(by
rote)
A
bit warm for this time of year.

Sean
(admiring
the other's sense
)
Just what / was thinking
!

We see a man jog through the crowd, rear, and grab the phone.

Another Voice
(breaking
in)
Hello, Mr. Douglas?

The Young Man
Mike?

Another Voice
No.
He'll be here when he finishes his game of darts!

We see
mike,
rear, playing the game
out.

The Young Man
Never
mind, just tell Mike—

We see
mike
forging toward the
phone.

Another Voice
Hold
on, here
comes
the triumphant victor now!

The Young Man
There's
no—

Mike's Voice
Mr.
Douglas, congratulate me!

The Young Man
Mike,
is that you?

Mike's Voice
Who
else? And I won!

The Young Man
Mike,
can you drive me to
Dublin
,
now?

Mike
I'm halfway to the door!

There is a thud as, presumably, the phone is dropped at the other end.
The crowd noises swell,
the young man
holds
the receiver off and looks at it with bemusement, then addresses the audience
again.

The Young Man

Halfway to the door.
It is but thirty feet, I'd wager, from the bar of
Heeber
Finn's to the far side of the pub where the door,
neg
lected, abhorrent, waits. Yet
that
thirty feet is best negotiated
carefully, and may take all of one minute per foot.
In other
words, it may take Mike half
an hour to go from the phone to the outside world and five minutes to drive the
half-mile up the road
to where I am
waiting for him. Listen to them.

He holds out the phone, taking his hand off the earpiece so the
noise swells.

Mike's
on his way. He's halfway to the door, plus one foot.

And this is true. During all the above, in dim pantomime behind the rear
scrim, we see
mike
turning in slow circles,
moving his
head here, there, touching
this person, touching that, trying to
finish a stout thrust in his hand,
answering a jest with another,
laughing at
one man, scowling at a second, blinking at a third. The pantomime continues
during the following speech.

Do
you see how patient I am? Do I yell or threaten? I do not.
I learned, early on, that Mike's "
headin
' for the door" was no
nerve-shattering process for him. He must not
affront the dignity
of the men he
moves among. He must admire, on his way out,
the fine filigree of any argument being woven with great and
breathless beauty at his elbow or behind his back.
It is, for him,
a gradual
disengagement, a leaning of his bulk so his gravity is
diplomatically shifted toward that far empty side
of the public room where the door, shunned by all, stands neglected. On his
way, a dozen conversational warps and woofs must be
ticked,
tied, and labeled so next
morn, with hoarse cries of recognition,
patterns may be seized, the shuttle thrown with no pause or
hesitation.

the young man
produces
a long instructor's pointer or baton.

To
give you an idea of Mike's debilitating journey across the
pub, here, for instance—

He points to one of the men
who,
approached by
mike
now,
breaks
into a kind of jig or reel.