The Magic Tower and Other One-Act Plays Read online

  FLOSSIE: Sure I do George! Oh, George! I’m so happy! Just think . . . a couple of grand . . . but how did you get all that? George, you didn’t . . . it wasn’t you? George. . . .

  THE GENTLEMAN [sharply]: Shut up! Don’t you worry ’bout that! Everything’s fixed up swell! There won’t be no trouble.

  FLOSSIE: Oh, I’m scared! George, you done it! You squealed. You sold out on the Patch. Oh, he’ll get you for this. Maybe that’s what he wants you for tonight, George. He’s got you on the spot.

  THE GENTLEMAN: He wouldn’t dare. He wouldn’t dare. I tell you, everything’s gonna be okay.

  MIKE [coming out of the door again]: Hi, Gent! Still waiting? Better come in and have a drink. Warm you up.

  THE GENTLEMAN: Thanks, Mike. I guess the Patch forgot about our little date. Say, if he shows up later, tell him for me I’ll see him in the morning. I’ll meet him over at the hangout. Willyuh, Mike?

  MIKE: Sure thing! Well—good luck, Gentleman! You, too, Flossie. A merry Christmas and a happy New Year, eh?

  FLOSSIE: You bet, Mike. The same to you.

  THE GENTLEMAN: Good night, Mike. Don’t forget. Tell the Patch I waited an hour. Tell him a Gentleman never breaks a date! Tell him that!

  MIKE [laughing]: Okay, Gentleman. I’ll be seein’ yuh. [He goes inside.]

  THE GENTLEMAN [sharply]: C’mon. This thing’s gone too far. What the hell does he think I am? One o’clock and he ain’t shown up yet. See? That shows you. If he thought he had anything on me he would’ve shown up. I tell you, Honey . . .

  FLOSSIE: Georgie! I’m scared. I’m scared to death. C’mon. Let’s go on up to my place and get warmed up.

  THE GENTLEMAN: Yeah. Let’s get drunk tonight up at your place, Honey. Tomorrow we’ll clear out of this dump. Florida, Honey. Yeah, that’s where the gentlemen go!

  [They start off, around the corner, clinging close together against the cold wind. A moment passes. Suddenly a heavy-set man steps from the Gay Life Cafe. He has a patch over one eye. Behind him appears Mike.]

  THE PATCH: Up to her place, huh! Well, they say three’s a crowd! Where does that moll hang out?

  MIKE: Two blocks down Cherokee, and one up Center Street. The number is 1375. Two flights up. Apartment C.

  THE PATCH: Thanks. Fifteen minutes walk. That’ll give ’em time to kiss each other goodbye.

  MIKE [anxiously]: What you mean, Patch? What’s up?

  THE PATCH: I’ve got something for the Gentleman, Mike. A little Christmas present for him and his moll.

  MIKE: You mean . . .

  THE PATCH: I mean it’s curtains for him, Mike! It’s curtains for the Gentleman!

  [Mike shrinks, horrified, back into dark doorway as the Patch starts slowly around the corner and the curtains close.]

  THE END

  IN OUR PROFESSION

  CHARACTERS

  ANNABELLE

  RICHARD

  PAUL

  Discovered: Bachelor’s apartment in large city. Tastefully furnished, lighted by single table-lamp. Rear door opens, attractive young woman emerges, followed in a few moments by a young man. She seats herself on sofa and looks at him solemnly as he lights their cigarettes.

  ANNABELLE: Would you be willing to marry me?

  RICHARD: No, of course not.

  ANNABELLE: Then what did you bring me here for?

  RICHARD: You came of your own accord.

  ANNABELLE: How can you be so—

  RICHARD: What?

  ANNABELLE: Brutal!

  RICHARD: Did you ever know a man that wasn’t?

  ANNABELLE: Oh, I guess not. —But I do keep hoping to meet one.

  RICHARD: I didn’t know an actress could be so naïve.

  ANNABELLE: Richard.

  RICHARD: Yes?

  ANNABELLE: Darling.

  RICHARD: Yes?

  ANNABELLE: Let’s be honest with each other. Let’s not play any games.

  RICHARD: That’s up to you.

  ANNABELLE: Do you think I’m dishonest?

  RICHARD: It’s all right. I never expect honesty of a woman in your profession.

  ANNABELLE: Why not?

  RICHARD: It’s the redeeming virtue of a bad amateur.

  ANNABELLE: You’re cynical. I wish you weren’t. It makes me feel as though I can’t touch you at all.

  RICHARD: That’s funny. I thought we were fairly close to each other.

  ANNABELLE: Physically, yes. But that’s not everything. Richard, I’m not like you. I can’t separate my emotions from my physical actions.

  RICHARD: Mmmm. Would you like to hear my new record of Kirsten Flagstad?

  ANNABELLE: No.

  RICHARD: How about Stravinsky’s Sacre du Printemps?

  ANNABELLE: No! I don’t want to hear any records! It’s funny, I’ve never known a man yet that didn’t turn on the radio or the Victrola or go to the bathroom when a woman tries to make him talk seriously about something!

  RICHARD: Listen, Kitty!

  ANNABELLE: Don’t call me Kitty!

  RICHARD: Catharine—

  ANNABELLE: Yes?

  RICHARD: How long have we known each other? Forty-eight hours! It’s absurd to suppose that anything really important has happened between us in such a short time.

  ANNABELLE: In our profession, Richard, people have to catch at things very quickly or they get away from us. Living on the road makes you accelerate all your emotions. Everything is speeded up. But that doesn’t always prevent it from being completely sincere.

  RICHARD: What are you leading up to?

  ANNABELLE: I’m simply telling you that I love you, Richard.

  RICHARD: Yes, of course you do.

  ANNABELLE: Oh, I know it doesn’t usually mean anything when an actress says that, especially when— When she’s the kind of a girl that you think I am. But the difference between girls of my sort and other girls is just a difference of experience, Richard. We’re the same underneath. We want the same thing. We have exactly the same ideals and desires and—oh, Richard, I know that you have dates with debutantes and rich men’s daughters—men of your sort always do—probably you’re going to marry one of them sooner or later. But she won’t make you as happy as I would, Richard. [He rises.] Where are you going? To the bathroom?

  RICHARD [raising the window]: We need some air. [The glare of acetylene torches is seen through lace curtains.]

  ANNABELLE: What makes that horrible blue light?

  RICHARD: Acetylene torches. They’re repairing the tracks.

  ANNABELLE: It’s hideous. It gets on my nerves. It reminds of the life that I’m leading. Loud, crazy, glaring, senseless, stupid! [She springs up and pulls down the shade.] Richard, the show leaves tomorrow. I can’t go on with the show. I’m sick of it. It’s like being tied to the tail of a run-away horse. One town and the next and the next. It’s been going on like that for nearly eight years, and oh, I’m so dreadfully tired of it. [Going to him suddenly.] Why don’t you cut me loose from it, Richard? Why don’t you catch me here in your arms and let me rest for a while?

  RICHARD: Excuse me. [He moves away.]

  ANNABELLE: What’s the matter? Have I bored you, Richard?

  RICHARD: Not at all. You gave a very convincing performance. [Touches his forehead.] I have a headache.

  ANNABELLE: Oh. Am I responsible for it?

  RICHARD: Yes. Would you mind fixing me some cracked ice.

  ANNABELLE: Not at all.

  RICHARD: There’s cubes in the Frigidaire.

  [She goes out slowly. He quickly seizes telephone and dials.]

  RICHARD: Paul? This is Richard. Come downstairs right away. I’ve got a girl down here and she’s gone serious on me. [Hangs up and quickly opens magazine as the girl re-enters.]

  RICHARD: They’ve got some damned nice photography in this thing.

  ANNABELLE [coldly]: Here’s your ice.

  RICHARD: Oh, thanks. Thanks, darling.

  ANNABELLE: Not at all. Who were you talking to?

  RIC
HARD: Talking to? Oh, a fellow upstairs just called. Paul Seabold. Works for the Morning Star. He’s going to drop down for a while.

  ANNABELLE: I suppose that’s my cue for an exit.

  RICHARD: Oh, no. No, stick around. I know you’d like Paul. He’s not like most reporters. He’s a very quiet, sincere sort of fellow.

  ANNABELLE: Sincere? Well, that would be nice for a change. But you really don’t have to shove me off on anyone else to get rid of me, Richard.

  RICHARD: Don’t be a damned fool.

  ANNABELLE: The phone didn’t ring. You called him. I even heard what you said.

  RICHARD [pause]: Sorry. Hope you aren’t offended.

  ANNABELLE: I’m used to being disappointed in people.

  RICHARD: I guess we all are. We should be.

  [The doorbell rings.]

  RICHARD [admitting Paul]: Hello. Annabelle, Paul.

  PAUL: How do you do?

  ANNABELLE [offering hand]: It was nice of you to come to Richard’s rescue so promptly.

  PAUL [confused]: What?

  RICHARD: She heard.

  ANNABELLE: Yes, I’m an eavesdropper.

  PAUL: Oh!

  ANNABELLE: Don’t be so confused. It’s a pleasure to meet a man who’s still able to blush.

  PAUL [feeling his face]: Am I blushing?

  ANNABELLE: A little. I like you for it. I believe that Richard’s recommendation was true.

  PAUL: What did he say about me?

  ANNABELLE: He said that you were very quiet and sincere. But what he said about me wasn’t true. I wasn’t nearly as serious as Richard gave me credit for being. You see, I’m an actress.

  RICHARD [who has settled down on the sofa]: She’s in that new show at the American.

  PAUL: Oh, that new Behrman play?

  ANNABELLE: Yes. I have a small part.

  PAUL: You’re Annabelle that wore the leopard-skin coat at the artist’s reception!

  ANNABELLE: Right! I spoke two lines!

  PAUL: The cleverest lines in the play!

  ANNABELLE: Thanks! I appreciate your saying that so much! It’s a very small part but it’s strange how many people seem to remember it a long time afterwards. I met an old gentleman on the train last week and he said aren’t you Annabelle that wore the leopard-skin coat in a play I saw in New York last winter? I think it’s extraordinary that he should have remembered it all that time!

  PAUL: I don’t think it’s so extraordinary. I mean I would have remembered it quite easily myself. Have you acted in anything else?

  ANNABELLE: Loads of things.

  PAUL: Like it?

  ANNABELLE: Terribly. You meet so many different people. [She glances at Richard who has risen and goes out rear door.]

  PAUL: How much longer will you be in town?

  ANNABELLE: We’re leaving for Memphis tomorrow. And then New Orleans. And then— Oh, it’s like being tied to the tail of a run-away horse!

  PAUL: I wish you were playing a longer engagement here in St. Louis.

  ANNABELLE: Do you?

  PAUL: Yes.

  ANNABELLE: That’s sweet of you, Paul. [She touches his arm. She rises and goes over to window and raises the curtain.] Acetylene torches. They’re repairing the tracks.

  PAUL: Yes. I know. It makes a frightful noise.

  ANNABELLE: Hideous. It reminds me of the life that I’ve been leading. Loud and glaring and crazy and restless. One town and the next and the next. It’s been going on like that for nearly eight years, and, oh, I’m dreadfully tired of it, Paul! Excuse me. My nerves are on edge. I feel as though I were— [She touches her forehead]

  PAUL [going to her solicitously]: Annabelle!

  ANNABELLE: I’m sorry. Sometimes I get a little hysterical. Especially when I feel that I’m with somebody who’s able to understand.

  PAUL: I’ll get you a drink.

  ANNABELLE: No, don’t! Don’t leave me right now! I— [She smiles at him bravely.] I’ll be all right! Do you mind if I—if I rest on you for a while? [She leans against him.]

  PAUL: Annabelle, I—

  ANNABELLE: Don’t say anything. It’s funny how things happen. We were strangers five minutes ago. And now I— No, I mustn’t say anything!

  PAUL: Annabelle! What were you going to say?

  ANNABELLE: Nothing.

  PAUL: I want to know, Annabelle!

  ANNABELLE: Because I’m an actress people don’t think I’m sincere. Richard thinks I’m not. But he’s wrong. Terribly wrong. People in my profession have to catch at things very quickly. Show business forces you to lead such a transitory existence. Even your emotions are accelerated. Speeded up. But that doesn’t keep them from being completely sincere.

  PAUL: No, of course not.

  ANNABELLE: Paul—

  PAUL: Annabelle!

  ANNABELLE: Don’t let go of me: It’s all going by so terribly fast. I’m like a bird in a storm! Hold me, Paul! Don’t let me go!

  PAUL [after a pause]: I don’t want to let you go.

  ANNABELLE: You want to keep me?

  PAUL: Yes.

  ANNABELLE: Then take me as your wife.

  PAUL: Annabelle!

  ANNABELLE: I know!

  [She moves away from him and smiles.]

  That’s the most surprising proposal you’ve ever received from a woman!

  PAUL: It’s the first I’ve ever received. [He is rather stunned.]

  ANNABELLE: I’m beautiful and desirable. I’d make you a very good wife.

  PAUL: Annabelle, you’re—

  ANNABELLE: No. I’m completely serious.

  PAUL: But we’ve only just met a few minutes ago!

  ANNABELLE: What of it? Why be conventional? I want to quit the show. I want to get married. If I don’t I’ll—!

  PAUL: You’ll what?

  ANNABELLE [averting her face]: I’ll probably kill myself.

  PAUL: No. [Goes to the window.] Annabelle, it’s—

  ANNABELLE: Incredible. Yes. But I thought you newspapermen were used to incredible things. They happen all the time. You probably write half a dozen stories a day about things you would have sworn couldn’t happen!

  PAUL: Yes, but—

  ANNABELLE: Paul. [She kisses him.] Isn’t that what you want from a woman?

  PAUL: Yes, but—

  ANNABELLE: Please believe me. I need you terribly, Paul.

  [They embrace. Richard enters with cocktail shaker and glasses.]

  RICHARD: Oh. I see you’ve gotten pretty well acquainted.

  ANNABELLE: Richard—

  RICHARD: Yes?

  ANNABELLE: Paul and I are going to be married!

  RICHARD: What? [Looks at Paul.]

  PAUL [dazed]: Yes. It’s one of the incredible things that only happens in newspaper stories.

  RICHARD: Well—well! Annabelle, I left the sandwiches in the kitchen.

  ANNABELLE: Oh, no, I’m not that stupid. If you have any objections you can make them in my presence!

  RICHARD: Objections? Hell, no! It’s swell, it’s marvelous, it’s— [He looks at Paul.] Colossal! You get the sandwiches, Paul!

  ANNABELLE: We’ll get them together.

  RICHARD: Great. I guess this calls for a bit of a celebration!

  [Paul and Annabelle go out the rear door. Richard goes quickly to the phone.]

  Ernest? This is Richard. Come on upstairs right away. [Curtains begin to close.] Paul and I have a woman up here and she’s gone serious on us! Hurry!!

  CURTAIN

  EVERY TWENTY MINUTES

  A SATIRE

  Every Twenty Minutes was first performed on March 23, 2011 at the Southern Rep Theatre, New Orleans, as part of the Tennessee Williams/New Orleans Literary Festival’s centennial tribute to Williams. It was directed by Aimée Hayes; the set design was by Ashley Sehorn; the costume design was by Laura Sirkin-Brown; the sound design was by Mike Harkins; the props were designed by Sarah Zoghbi; and the lighting design was by Joan Long. The cast, in order of appearance, was as follows:

/>   A WOMAN Lara Grice

  A MAN Sean Glazebrook

  Scene: the corner of a fashionable city apartment with a radio, chair, sofa, and cellaret with floor lamp. A man and a woman of about forty have just returned from a late party. The man is glancing through the paper and drinking a hi-ball. The woman is smoking.

  WOMAN: They say that every twenty minutes somebody in America kills himself.

  MAN: Who says?

  WOMAN: The newspapers.

  MAN: How the hell do they know!

  WOMAN: They’ve got statistics.

  MAN: My God, they’ve statistics for everything, haven’t they! [He turns a page.]

  WOMAN: That’s rather often don’t you think? For people to be killing themselves?

  MAN: No. Not often enough really when you think of the number and kinds of people there are.

  WOMAN [turning away]: You’re such a cynic, George.

  MAN [lightly]: Oh, no, just a realist.

  WOMAN: Call it what you wish, I think you’re a very cold-blooded proposition.

  MAN: I belong to a cold-blooded generation. The generation of fish. We sink or swim and nobody gives a damn which. [He takes another drink.]

  WOMAN: Thank God I was born with a set of decent emotions!

  MAN: Emotions are troublesome things.

  WOMAN: Without them life is just a set of automatic reflexes.

  MAN: What’s wrong with that? Damned convenient I think! Saves one a lot of needless stewing. Have a drink?

  WOMAN: No, thank you. I’ve had my quota tonight.

  MAN: I can’t say they’ve done you much good.

  WOMAN: I’m still conscious, if that’s what you mean.

  MAN: Yes. That’s what I mean. [He turns the radio on.]

  WOMAN [clasping her head]: Please leave it off!

  MAN: Why?

  WOMAN: I’ve got a headache.

  MAN: Take an aspirin.

  WOMAN: It isn’t that kind of a headache. [She sinks onto the couch.]

  MAN: What kind is it, then?

  WOMAN: The kind that goes on and on and never stops.

  MAN: May I suggest a remedy?

  WOMAN: Yes, if you only would.

  MAN: You’ll find my revolver in the left-hand drawer of the chifferobe. Results guaranteed.