The Magic Tower and Other One-Act Plays Read online

  DOROTHY: Why should I, why should you, why should anybody dislike petunias!

  YOUNG MAN: Our animosity and its resultant action is best explained by a poem I once composed on the subject of petunias—and similar flora. Would you like to hear it?

  DOROTHY: I suppose I should, if it’s relevant to the case.

  YOUNG MAN: Extremely relevant. It goes like this:

  [Light music is heard.]

  How grimly do petunias look

  on things not listed in the book

  For these dear creatures never move

  outside the academic groove.

  They mark with sharp and moral eye

  phenomena that pass them by

  And classify as good or evil

  mammoth whale or tiny weevil.

  They note with consummate disdain

  all that is masculine or plain

  They blush down to their tender roots

  when men pass by in working boots

  All honest language shocks them so

  they cringe to hear a rooster crow

  Of course they say that good clean fun’s

  permissible for every one

  But find that even Blindman’s Bluff

  is noisy and extremely rough

  AND—

  [In a stage whisper.] —Not quite innocent enough!

  What do you think of it?

  DOROTHY: Unfair! Completely unfair!

  YOUNG MAN [laughing]: To organized petunias?

  DOROTHY: Yes, and besides, I don’t think anyone has the right to impose his opinions in the form of footprints on other people’s petunias!

  YOUNG MAN [removing small package from pocket]: I’m prepared to make complete restitution.

  DOROTHY: What with?

  YOUNG MAN: With these.

  DOROTHY: What are they?

  YOUNG MAN: Seeds.

  DOROTHY: Seeds of what? Sedition?

  YOUNG MAN: No. Wild roses.

  DOROTHY: Wild? I couldn’t use them!

  YOUNG MAN: Why not, Miss Simple?

  DOROTHY: Flowers are like human beings. They can’t be allowed to grow wild. They have to be—

  YOUNG MAN: Regimented? Ahhh. I see. You’re a horticultural fascist!

  DOROTHY [with an indignant gasp]: I ought to call the policeman about those petunias!

  YOUNG MAN: Why don’t you, then?

  DOROTHY: Only because you made an honest confession.

  YOUNG MAN: That’s not why, Miss Simple.

  DOROTHY: No?

  YOUNG MAN: The actual reason is that you are fascinated.

  DOROTHY: AM I? Indeed!

  YOUNG MAN: Indeed you are, Miss Simple. In spite of your late unlamented petunias, you’re charmed, you’re intrigued—you’re frightened!

  DOROTHY: You’re very conceited!

  YOUNG MAN: Now, if you please, I’d like to ask you a question.

  DOROTHY: You may. But I may not answer.

  YOUNG MAN: You will if you can. But you probably won’t be able. The question is this: What do you make of it all?

  DOROTHY: I don’t understand—All what?

  YOUNG MAN: The world? The universe? And your position in it? This miraculous accident of being alive! [Soft music in the background.] Has it ever occurred to you how much the living are outnumbered by the dead? Their numerical superiority, Miss Simple, is so tremendous that you couldn’t possibly find a ratio with figures vast enough above the line, and small enough below to represent it.

  DOROTHY: You sound like you were trying to sell me something.

  YOUNG MAN: I am, I am, just wait!

  DOROTHY: I’m not in the market for—

  YOUNG MAN: Please! One minute of your infinitely valuable time!

  DOROTHY: All right. One minute.

  YOUNG MAN: Look!

  DOROTHY: At what?

  YOUNG MAN: Those little particles of dust in the shaft of April sunlight through that window.

  DOROTHY: What about them?

  YOUNG MAN: Just think. You might have been one of those instead of what you are. You might have been any one of those infinitesimal particles of dust. Or any one of millions and billions and trillions of other particles of mute, unconscious matter. Never capable of asking any questions. Never capable of giving any answers. Never capable of doing, thinking, feeling anything at all! But instead, dear lady, by the rarest and most improbable of accidents, you happened to be what you are. Miss Dorothy Simple from Boston! Beautiful. Human. Alive. Capable of thought and feeling and action. Now here comes the vital part of my question. What are you going to do about it, Miss Simple?

  DOROTHY [who is somewhat moved, in spite of her crushed petunias]: Well, goodness—gracious—sakes alive! I thought you came in here to buy some socks?

  YOUNG MAN: Yes, but I’ve got to sell you something first.

  DOROTHY: Sell me what?

  YOUNG MAN: A wonderful bill of goods.

  DOROTHY: I’ll have to see it before I sign the order.

  YOUNG MAN: That’s impossible. I can’t display my samples in this shoppe.

  DOROTHY: Why not?

  YOUNG MAN: They’re much too precious. You have to make an appointment.

  DOROTHY [retreating]: Sorry. But I do all my business in here.

  YOUNG MAN: Too bad for you. —In fact, too bad for us both. Maybe you’ll change your mind?

  DOROTHY: I don’t think so.

  YOUNG MAN: Anyway, here’s my card.

  DOROTHY [reading it, bewildered]: —LIFE—INCORPORATED. [Looks up slowly.]

  YOUNG MAN: Yes. I represent that line.

  DOROTHY: I see. You’re a magazine salesman?

  YOUNG MAN: No. It isn’t printed matter.

  DOROTHY: But it’s matter, though?

  YOUNG MAN: Oh, yes, and it’s matter of tremendous importance, too. But it’s neglected by people. Because of their ignorance they’ve been buying cheap substitute products. And lately a rival concern has sprung up outside the country. This firm is known as DEATH, UNLIMITED. Their product comes in a package labelled WAR. They’re crowding us out with new aggressive methods of promotion. And one of their biggest sales points is EXCITEMENT. Why does it work so well? Because you little people surround your houses and also your hearts with rows of tiresome, trivial little things like petunias! If we could substitute wild roses there wouldn’t be wars! No, there’d be excitement enough in the world without having wars! That’s why we’ve started this petunia-crushing campaign, Miss Simple. Life, Incorporated, has come to the realization that we have to use the same aggressive methods of promotion used by DEATH, UNLIMITED over there! We’ve got to show people that the malignantly trivial little petunias of the world can be eliminated more cleanly, permanently and completely by LIFE, INCORPORATED than by DEATH, UNLIMITED! Now what do you say, Miss Simple? Won’t you try our product?

  DOROTHY [nervously]: Well, you see it’s like this—I do all my buying in Boston and—

  YOUNG MAN: What do you buy in Boston?

  DOROTHY: You can see for yourself. Look over the stock.

  YOUNG MAN [examining the shelves]: Thimbles—threads—ladies’ needlework—white gloves—

  DOROTHY: Notions. Odds and ends.

  YOUNG MAN: Odds and ends—of existence?

  DOROTHY: Yes, that’s it exactly.

  YOUNG MAN: What do you do after hours?

  DOROTHY: I carry on a lot of correspondence.

  YOUNG MAN: Who with?

  DOROTHY: With wholesale firms in Boston.

  YOUNG MAN: How do you sign your letters?

  DOROTHY: “Sincerely.” “As ever.” “Very truly yours.”

  YOUNG MAN: But never with love?

  DOROTHY: Love? To firms in Boston?

  YOUNG MAN: I guess not. I think you ought to enlarge your correspondence. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll meet you tonight on Highway No. 77!

  DOROTHY: Oh, no! I have my correspondence!

  YOUNG MAN: Delay your correspondence. Meet me there. We’ll have
a couple of beers at the Starlight Casino.

  DOROTHY [with frantic evasion]: But I don’t drink!

  YOUNG MAN: Then eat. Swiss cheese on rye. It doesn’t matter. Afterwards I’ll take you for a ride in an open car.

  DOROTHY: Where to?

  YOUNG MAN: To Cypress Hill.

  DOROTHY: Why, that’s the cemetery.

  YOUNG MAN: Yes, I know.

  DOROTHY: Why there?

  YOUNG MAN: Because dead people give the best advice.

  DOROTHY: Advice on what?

  YOUNG MAN: The problems of the living.

  DOROTHY: What advice do they give?

  YOUNG MAN: Just one word: Live!

  DOROTHY: Live?

  YOUNG MAN: Yes, live, live, live! It’s all they know, it’s the only word left in their vocabulary!

  DOROTHY: I don’t see how—?

  YOUNG MAN: I’ll tell you how. There’s one thing in Death’s favor. It’s a wonderful process of simplification. It rids the heart of all inconsequentials. For instance, it goes through the dictionary with an absolutely merciless blue pencil. Finally all that you’ve got left’s one page—and on that page one word!

  DOROTHY: The word you hear at night on Cypress Hill?

  YOUNG MAN: The word you hear at night on Cypress Hill!

  DOROTHY: Ohhh. Oh, oh!

  YOUNG MAN: But no one hears it till they deal with me. I have a secret patented device that makes it audible to them. Something never processed by Du Pont. But nonetheless a marvelous invention. It’s absolutely weightless and transparent. It fits inside the ear. Your friends won’t even know you have it on. But this I guarantee: you’ll hear that word, that sound much like the long, sweet sound of leaves in motion!

  DOROTHY: Leaves?

  YOUNG MAN: Yes, willow leaves or leaves of cypresses or leaves of wind-blown grass! And afterwards you’ll never be the same. No, you’ll be changed forever!

  DOROTHY: In what way?

  YOUNG MAN: You’ll live, live, live!—And not behind petunias. How about it, Miss Simple? Dorothy? Is it a date? Tonight at half-past eight on No. 77?

  DOROTHY: Whereabouts on Highway No. 77?

  YOUNG MAN: By the wild plum tree—at the broken place in the long stone wall—where roots have cleft the rocks and made them crumble.

  DOROTHY: It sounds so far. It sounds—uncivilized.

  YOUNG MAN: It is uncivilized, but it isn’t far.

  DOROTHY: How would I get out there? What means of transportation?

  YOUNG MAN: Borrow your kid brother’s bike.

  DOROTHY: Tonight’s Scout meeting night; he wouldn’t let me.

  YOUNG MAN: Then walk, it wouldn’t kill you!

  DOROTHY: How do you know? It might. I come from Boston.

  YOUNG MAN: Listen, lady. Boston’s a state of mind that you’ll grow out of.

  DOROTHY: Not without some insulin shock treatments.

  YOUNG MAN: Stop evading! Will you or will you not?

  DOROTHY: I’ve got so much to do. I have to return some books to the public library.

  YOUNG MAN: Just one more time—will you or will you not?

  DOROTHY: I can’t give definite answers—I’m from Boston!

  YOUNG MAN: Just one more mention of Boston’s apt to be fatal! Well, Miss Simple? I can’t wait forever!

  DOROTHY: I guess I—might.

  YOUNG MAN: You guess you might?

  DOROTHY: I mean I guess I will.

  YOUNG MAN: You guess you will?

  DOROTHY: I mean I will—I will!

  YOUNG MAN: That’s better. —So long, Dorothy. [He grins and goes out, slamming door.]

  DOROTHY: Goodbye. [She stares dreamily into space for a moment. Mrs. Dull comes in.]

  MRS. DULL [sharply]: Miss Simple!

  DOROTHY: Oh! Excuse me. What do you want?

  MRS. DULL: I want a pair of wine-colored socks for my husband.

  DOROTHY: I’m terribly sorry but the only pair in stock has been reserved.

  MRS. DULL: Reserved for whom, Miss Simple?

  DOROTHY: A gentleman who represents this line. [Showing the card.]

  MRS. DULL: Life, Incorporated? Huh, I never heard of it.

  DOROTHY: Neither had I before. But now I have. And tomorrow the store will be closed for extensive alterations.

  MRS. DULL: Alterations of what kind, Miss Simple?

  DOROTHY: I’m going to knock out all four walls.

  MRS. DULL: Knock out—what—? Incredible!

  DOROTHY: Yes, to accommodate some brand-new merchandise. Things I never kept in stock before.

  MRS. DULL: What kind of things? Things in bottles, Miss Simple, or things in boxes?

  DOROTHY: Neither one nor the other, Mrs. Dull.

  MRS. DULL: But everything comes in bottles or in boxes.

  DOROTHY: Everything but Life, Incorporated.

  MRS. DULL: What does it come in, then?

  DOROTHY: I’m not sure yet. But I suspect it’s something unconfined, something wild and open as the sky is! —Also I’m going to change the name of the store. It isn’t going to be SIMPLE NOTIONS any more, it’s going to be TREMENDOUS INSPIRATIONS!

  MRS. DULL: Gracious! In that case you’ll certainly lose my custom.

  DOROTHY: I rather expected to.

  MRS. DULL: And you’re not sorry?

  DOROTHY: Not the least bit sorry. I think I caught a slight skin rash from dealing with your silver. Also you sniff too much. You ought to blow your nose. Or better still, you ought to trim it down. I’ve often wondered how you get your nose through traffic. [Mrs. Dull gasps, looks desperately about her, rushes out.] You forgot your groceries, Mrs. Dull! [Heaves them out the door. There is a loud impact and a sharp outcry. Music up.] Officer?—Officer!

  OFFICER: Did you say size eleven D, Miss Simple?

  DOROTHY: Never mind that now, that’s all been settled.

  OFFICER: Amicably? Out of court, you mean?

  DOROTHY: Amicably and out of court. The saboteur has made full restitution and the case is dropped. Now what I want to ask of you is this: how do I get out to No. 77?

  OFFICER: Highway No. 77? That road’s abandoned.

  DOROTHY: Not by me. Where is it?

  OFFICER: It’s in an awful condition, it’s overgrown by brambles!

  DOROTHY: I don’t care! Where is it?

  OFFICER: They say the rain has loosened half the stones. Also the wind has taken liberties with it. The moon at night makes such confusing shadows people lose their way, go dangerous places, do outrageous things!

  DOROTHY: Things such as what?

  OFFICER: Oh—senseless acrobatics, cartwheels in mid-air, unheard of songs they sing, distil the midnight vapors into wine—do pagan dances!

  DOROTHY: Marvelous! How do I get there?

  OFFICER: I warn you, Miss Simple, once you go that way you can’t come back to Primanproper, Massachusetts!

  DOROTHY: Who wants to come back here? Not I! Never was anyone a more willing candidate for expatriation than I am tonight! All I want to know is where it is— Is it north, south, or east or west of town?

  OFFICER: That’s just it, ma’am. It’s in all four directions.

  DOROTHY: Then I don’t suppose that I could possibly miss it.

  OFFICER: Hardly possible, if you want to find it. Is that all?

  DOROTHY: Yes, sir, that’s all. —Thanks very much. —Good-bye! [Music up. Dorothy softly.] Good-bye forever!

  MOONY’S KID DON’T CRY

  Moony’s Kid Don’t Cry was performed at Straight Wharf Theatre, Nantucket, Massachusetts, opening on September 3, 1946. It was directed and designed by Albert Penalosa. The cast was as follows:

  MOONY, a workingman Albert Penalosa

  JANE, his wife Rita Gam

  MOONY’s KID, a non-speaking part

  Scene: Kitchen of a cheap three-room flat in the industrial section of a large American city. Stove and sink are eloquent of slovenly housekeeping. A wash-line, stretched across one corner of the room, is hung with diapers an
d blue work-shirts. Above the stove is nailed a placard, KEEP SMILING. The kitchen table supports a small artificial Christmas tree. By far the most striking and attractive article in the room is a brand-new hobby-horse that stands stage center. There is something very gallant, almost exciting, about this new toy. It is chestnut brown, with a long flowing mane, fine golden nostrils and scarlet upcurled lips. It looks like the very spirit of unlimited freedom and fearless assault.

  As the curtain opens, the stage is dark except for a faint bluish light through the window- and door-panes. Offstage in the next room are heard smothered groans and creaking bedsprings.

  JANE [offstage]: Quit that floppin’ around. It keeps me awake.

  MOONY: Think I’m gettin’ any sleep, do you?!

  [Sound of more rattling.]

  JANE: Quiet! You’ll wake the kid up.

  MOONY: The kid, the kid! What’s more important, him sleeping or me? Who brings home the paycheck, me or the kid? [Pause.]

  JANE: I’ll get up an’ fix you a cup of hot milk. That’ll quiet you down maybe.

  [Moony grumbles incoherently. Jane pads softly onstage, into the kitchen. She is amazingly slight, like a tiny mandarin, enveloped in the ruins of a once gorgeously-flowered Japanese silk kimono. As she prepares the hot milk for Moony, she pads about the kitchen in a pair of men’s felt bedroom slippers, which she has a hard time keeping on her small feet. She squeezes the kimono tight about her chest, and shivers. Coughs once or twice, glances irritably at the alarm clock on window-sill, which says nearly four o’clock in the morning. Jane is still young, but her pretty, small-featured face has a yellowish, unhealthy look. Her temples and nostrils are greased with Vick’s Vap-o-Rub and her dark hair is tousled.]

  JANE [strident whisper]: What for? I’ll bring yer milk in. [Sound: scraping of furniture and heavy footsteps.] That’s it, be sure you wake the kid up—clumsy ox!

  [Moony appears in the doorway, a strongly-built young workingman about twenty-five years old. He blinks his eyes and scowls irritably as he draws on his flannel shirt and stuffs it under the belt of his corduroy pants.]

  It’s that beer-drinkin’. Makes gas on yer stomach an’ keeps yuh from sleepin’.

  MOONY: Aw, I had two glasses right after dinner.