The Second Half of the Double Feature, page 28
SPRINGER: Two years now, thereabouts. But I’ll write another novel one of these days— if I can only get another idea.
DOVER: Brother Springer, why don’t you give up the idea of being a writer and get a job? I can get you an accounting job over in Clewiston. Quite a few people over there owe me some favors, and—
SPRINGER: (Adamantly) No, sir! (Shaking his head) I’m a writer, and even if I starve to death, I’ll never go back to accounting again! If I have to, I’ll wash dishes to get a meal maybe, but I’ll never enter the trap again!
DOVER: Good! You’re a gambler, and I had you sized up right from the very first! Now listen to me for a moment. When I sell the monastery, I’m going to enter the Soldier’s Home up in Washington, D.C. I’ll get free room, free board, laundry, and I also get to keep every cent of my retired pay. It’s a good life up there. I can take the train to New York on weekends to see the new Broadway shows, and I can spend many profitable months in the National Gallery and the Smithsonian. I intend to fritter away my time for the rest of my life. You many not have noticed it, Brother Springer, but I like to talk. And I like best of all to talk to old soldiers. We speak the same language, you see. There’s too much responsibility here for me, and it’s a lonely life.
Now, at the moment, I’m in a position to do you a favor; at no expense to myself, but a favor all the same. I am going to give you the opportunity to write full time, without any financial worries. Whether you ever write another line or not doesn’t make any difference to me, but you should have the opportunity. I like you, and I want to help you. How much money have you got?
SPRINGER: Not quite sixty bucks.
DOVER: Give me twenty dollars.
SPRINGER: I guess you didn’t understand me, your holiness. I’ve only got sixty bucks between me and nothing.
DOVER: I heard you the first time. Give me twenty dollars, and I’ll ordain you as the minister of the First Church of God’s Flock in Jacksonville. I’ll send you up there, and you can have the church.
SPRINGER: (With a dismayed little laugh) Why, I can’t do that—!
DOVER: You can also have this Bible. Free. It’s all in there, Brother Springer, everything you need to know about preaching. The church trustees in Jacksonville will pay you a few dollars every month, and you’ll have a free house to live in, right next to the church. You can write six days a week, and then preach a sermon on Sunday. If you’re too lazy to do that much, you’re too lazy to live!
SPRINGER: Oh, I wouldn’t mind that! But, I simply don’t know how to do it!
DOVER: (Suspiciously) Maybe I’ve got you wrong: Are you prejudiced against Negroes?
SPRINGER: (Indignantly) Of course not! I’m from Cleveland.
DOVER: The way you keep trying to back out, you sound like you’re prejudiced. The church in Jax is an all-Negro congregation, and if you really aren’t prejudiced, you should like the idea of preaching to them. . .
SPRINGER: (Picking up his bag and backing toward the door) You must think I’m ungrateful and all, after giving me breakfast and— I just don’t think I’d be capable of it, your holiness. . .
DOVER: (Shaking his head) Prejudice is a terrible thing, son, in this troubled world. Although we are equally distant from the sun, we all share in its warmth. There’s a thought to live by, Brother Springer.
SPRINGER: I’m not prejudiced, really I’m not. But I can’t make up my mind on something like this just like that! I’d need a little time, to think it over.
DOVER: Brother Springer, the time is always now. No important decision of any kind should ever be delayed. When the enemy out there is shooting at you, you’d better duck right now— and without waiting to think about it.
SPRINGER: But if I don’t think things out, how’ll I know whether I made the right decision or not?
DOVER: Every decision is right because you made it— and it will still be now after you’ve made it.
SPRINGER: That’s a little involved for me—
DOVER: We’re talking about religion, son, and religion is based on faith, not on logic. So by that simple reasoning alone, your decision to become a minister of the gospel is the most logical decision you could possibly make.
SPRINGER: But I don’t have any faith! I’m—I’m just a writer, a novelist, and deep down inside me, I—I guess I’m not a very good writer, either— (Suddenly) But I can be a good writer! I know I can! All I need is time, just a little time, some time to think—just a little freedom from money worries. A desk, a chair, a pencil, and time to think, and—
DOVER: Now you’re talking some sense, boy! One man’s reason is another man’s rationalization.
SPRINGER: All right, then, Abbot Dover. Ordain me!
DOVER: (Holds out his right hand) Give me the twenty dollars. (Dover puts the bill in his cassock pocket, opens the wardrobe and takes out a black suit, a shirt with a white, backward collar, and a large black cross on a chain.) I’ll throw in this ministerial garb, Brother Springer. Go ahead and shuck out of those Dade County duds. I want you to try on the suit for size.
SPRINGER: (Removes his pants and shirt, and pushes his arms into the black shirt with white backward collar the Abbot holds for him. Springer buttons the cuffs, and the Abbot buttons the collar in the back.) The shirt’s a little large, your holiness—
DOVER: And so are the pants, but that doesn’t make any difference. Try them on.
(As Springer puts on the black pants, Dover takes the belt from Springer’s yellow slacks and helps thread it through the belt loops on the new trousers.)
I’ll tell you what, Brother Springer. If you just bunch up all that extra material in the back, it won’t hardly show at all after you put your coat on.
SPRINGER: (He puts on the coat. The suit is four times too large for him.) How do I look?
(He looks anxiously at Dover.)
DOVER: Hmmm. Maybe you’d better roll the trousers up one or two turns, but the sleeves are just right.
(Dover folds the sleeves under to make them come out even. As Springer bends down to roll up the trousers, Dover backs away for a long, critical examination.)
To tell you the truth, Brother Springer, you look fine! I don’t think the trustees in Jax will say anything, but if anybody asks you why the pants are so loose, you just tell ‘em you’ve been fasting.
SPRINGER: (Shaking his head) It’s—it’s comfortable enough.
DOVER: It’s just a matter of getting used to it. Now wait a minute till I fix the altar.
(Dover puts a chair center, takes a dish towel from the rack above the hotplate, and drapes it over the chair. He places the Bible, the candelabra, and the cross and chain on this improvised altar. Dover then takes a voluminous floor-length white robe from the wardrobe and puts it on. The robe is covered with Zodiac signs, all painted in gold. Dover secures the robe around his waist with a red sash. He takes a red fez with a gold tassel out of a hatbox in the wardrobe and places it carefully on his head.)
Ordinarily, Brother Springer, we’d use the chapel out in back for the official ordination, but nowadays I’m using the chapel as a garage for my Buick convertible.
(He lights the six candles with his cigar lighter.)
This Florida sun’ll fade a paint job on a new car in no time at all—
SPRINGER: I understand. You don’t have to apologize.
DOVER: I’m not apologizing, I’m explaining. I just wanted you to know that everything here is done legal and aboveboard, whether we use the chapel or not.
SPRINGER: (Nodding apprehensively, licking his lips) Yes, sir—your holiness, I mean.
DOVER: (He takes his place behind the altar, beckons Springer forward, and says solemnly,) Kneel, son.
(Springer kneels. Dover bows his head, crosses himself, and then raises his arms, shoulder high. Dover looks up.)
God, I’ve got us a writer here, and he needs a place to be. He’s a good man and a gambler. In Your name, take him into Your heart and blood and give him Your love. He’ll make a good man for us, and he’ll spread Your teachings to Your flock up in Jacksonville. And they need a man like Brother Springer in Jax. And please, Lord, give him something besides a cotton string for a backbone. Amen.
(Dover drops his arms, places the chain with cross over the younger man’s neck. He puts his right hand on Springer’s shoulder.)
I ordain, John— what’s your middle name, boy?
SPRINGER: (Whispering) I don’t have one. I dropped my middle name when I became a writer.
DOVER: I’ll give you one, then. I ordain you as the Right Reverend John Deuteronomy Springer Pastor of the First Church of God’s Flock Church, Jacksonville, Florida, in the United States of America. And may God have mercy on your soul.
(Bends down to Springer)
Do you want to say a prayer, Reverend?
SPRINGER: (Whispering) I can’t think of one!
DOVER: That’s okay, it isn’t a requirement.
(Dover helps Springer to his feet, warmly shakes his hand.)
There, now, that wasn’t so tough, was it, Reverend Springer?
SPRINGER: (Wiping his wet forehead) Well, it was pretty tough for a moment— that part about the prayer. I almost panicked. If you’d only told me about the prayer before the ceremony, I could’ve written one and then read it off.
DOVER: Dismiss the thought. A mere technicality.
(Dover crosses to desk, sits down and fills in a mimeographed form. He beckons to Springer.)
Just sign here, on the dotted line. This is your official ordination certificate as a minister, so be sure you don’t lose it.
(Springer signs the paper, folds it, and puts it into his wallet.)
Now, Reverend, be sure you use that middle name up in Jax. Deuteronomy is a mighty fine name for a minister, and it’s officially yours, just like my middle name is Cardinal. The first thing you do when you get to Jax is report to Dr. Fred Jensen.
SPRINGER: Doctor who?
DOVER: Fred Jensen. He’s in the telephone book, and he’s the head of the board of trustees for our Jax church. You’ll get a warm welcome, I assure you. Dr. Jensen’s written me several times lately asking for a new pastor—and you’ll fit in fine.
SPRINGER: All right.
(Springer packs his bag with his sport shirt and slacks.)
Right now, I’m still a little nervous about everything, Abbot Dover, but I’m a writer; and I ought to be able to write as good a sermon as anybody else. I’ve got the Bible here, and I can throw in some quotations from D. H. Lawrence and Kafka from time to time—
DOVER: Stick to the Bible at first, and add Kafka later.
(Springer puts the Bible into the bag and locks it.)
Just put your trust in the Lord, and you’ll be all right.
SPRINGER: Thanks.
(The two men shake hands.)
Thanks for everything, your holiness.
DOVER: Go with God.
(Exit Springer. Dover turns to the altar and blows out the candles. He removes his fez, his red sash, and his white ceremonial robe, throwing the apparel carelessly on his bunk. Suddenly, Springer reenters, bursting angrily through the screen door.)
SPRINGER: (Loudly) How many men have you ordained and sent to the church in Jax? For all I know, you’ve sent a dozen different men up there! How do I know?
DOVER: You don’t! But good for you, Reverend Springer! Healthy skepticism makes for good preaching. Don’t worry, boy, everything’s on the up and up. Go with God.
SPRINGER: (Sullenly) All right. I don’t know. And I have to trust you. But I’m telling you right now— if this is some kind of a con game, I’m going to come back down here and kick the hell out of you!
DOVER: Why, you were a godsend, Reverend. Thanks to you, I’m able now to close out the books on my last church. Go on up to your church, and put your faith where it belongs— with the Lord.
SPRINGER: (Grinning) Thanks, Abbot. I’ll drop you a line one of these days, and let you know how I’m making out.
DOVER: You do that. Soldier’s Home, Washington 25, D.C. I’ll be glad to hear from you. Any time.
(The two men shake hands again. Springer turns toward the door, and Dover picks up his .22 rifle from the card table. Dover shoots from the hip, and Springer falls forward and is still.)
Well, Lord— (Dover looks up) I’ve saved and integrated another one for you. Don’t forget the old Sarge now, when the roll is called up yonder.
(Dover takes a large roll of bills form his pocket beneath his cassock, takes the twenty-dollar bill out of his cassock pocket and adds it to the roll. He turns to the card table and slowly counts the money, twenty at a time, just under his breath, as the curtain falls.)
High Priest of California: A Play in Three Acts
PLACE:
San Francisco
TIME:
Winter, 1953
CAST OF CHARACTERS:
Blackie Victor
Alyce Victor
Russell Haxby
Stanley Sinkiewicz
Ruthie Mansfield
Police Officer
ACT I
SCENE: The living room in Alyce Victor’s San Francisco apartment, on the second floor, overlooking the bay and part of the city.
TIME: Two a.m., Sunday morning.
ACT II
SCENE: Same as Act I.
TIME: Two p.m., the following afternoon.
ACT III
SCENE 1: Same as Act 1.
TIME: Two a.m. One week later.
SCENE 2: Same as Act 1.
TIME: Two p.m. One week later.
ACT I
SCENE: The living room of Alyce Victor’s apartment in San Francisco. The “wall” facing the audience is a huge window overlooking part of the city, the bay, and a section of the Golden Gate Bridge. A double doorway with practical sliding doors, upstage left, leads to a hallway (a telephone on a small table is visible when the doors are open), the stairway down to the ground floor, and to the rest of the apartment. The doors are painted a peculiar shade of yellow-white. Against the wall, stage right, is a radio-phonograph console with two stereo speakers. On top of this cabinet is a small (17”) portable TV set. The room is furnished with moderately good taste; unfortunately Alyce Victor, a course-taker in adult education classes, has scattered the evidence of this activity—ceramic ashtrays, watercolors, needlework, and pottery—throughout the room. Side by side above the imitation fireplace, upstage center, are two framed reproductions: Van Gogh’s “L’Arlesienne,” and “The End of the Trail.”
As the curtain rises Blackie Victor is discovered seated in a red womb chair facing the television set. The set is on, but there is no picture. Blackie Victor, a man in his early fifties, looks much older: his hair is almost white, and there are deep lines in his forehead. His chin is on his chest, his eyes are closed, and his long arms dangle over the chair. He wears an old black bathrobe; faded yellow felt letters on the back spell out:
BLACKIE
VICTOR.
A car stops in the street below. Blackie shakes his head, goes to the window and looks down. A car door slams. He exits, closing the door behind him. His bare feet are heard shuffling down the hallway. Below, the front door is audibly closed.
A moment later, Alyce Victor and Russell Haxby enter. Alyce is 29 (actually). She wears a tailored suit, and beneath her tailored figure, a girdle and “chafies.” Alyce walks swiftly most of the time, and the "swish-swish” sound of her “chafies” are audible enough for Russell Haxby to become acutely aware of the sound. Russell Haxby, thirtyish, wears a topcoat and a plain but expensive business suit. He carries a gray fedora. Haxby has a tendency to listen to the sound of his own voice. Russell strips off his topcoat, drapes it over a chair, and puts his hat on top of the coat. As he crosses directly to the “window,” Alyce softly closes the double doors.
ALYCE: (Brightly) Well, how do you like my view?
RUSSELL: I like the red neon horse. On a night like this he rides without the support of the building, just hanging up there. And the lights on the bridge are like radioactive Crackerjacks. (He points) Come and look.
ALYCE: I’ve seen it. How about some coffee?
RUSSELL: A view like this must add twenty-five bucks a month to your rent—
ALYCE: Forty—according to my neighbor next door. Shall I make some coffee?
RUSSELL: D’you have any bourbon? With a little water.
ALYCE: I’m sorry, but I haven’t got any whiskey at all. I think there’s some wine, though. Would you like a glass of wine?
RUSSELL: What kind?
ALYCE: Muscatel, I believe.
RUSSELL: (Shudders) Never mind. I’ll settle for coffee. Half a cup, the rest hot water.
(Exit Alyce, leaving one door open. Russell examines the room, shaking his head at the pair of pictures above the mantel. He goes to record player, kneels, hauls a stack of records out of the cabinet, and glances briefly at each title as he drops the record on the floor.)
Hey! D’you mind if I play some music?
ALYCE: (Off) Of course not! But not too loud; it’s awfully late.
RUSSELL: Why not? Music should be heard to be believed. Here’s one.
ALYCE: (Off) What’s that?
RUSSELL: It looks like all pop stuff, for Christ’s sake.
ALYCE: I’ll be there in just a second.
(Russell puts on a symphonic-popular arrangement, all instrumental, of “How High the Moon.” Crosses to “window,” lights a cigarette, and looks out. Enter Alyce with coffeepot, cups, etc on tray. She places tray on a coffee table, and plugs in the cord to a socket near the base of a standing lamp.)
I couldn’t hear you very well from the kitchen, Mr Haxby.
RUSSELL: (Shrugs) I was just wondering how many cars each day go in and out of Marin County both ways across the Golden Gate. And about how many of them I sold, and if I sold them all—every damned one of them—how much my commission would be . . .
ALYCE: Oh! Is that what you do? Sell automobiles?
RUSSELL: (Shaking his head) I don’t sell them; I give them away! Used cars, not new ones. One year old to one turn of the century. I’ve never sold a new car and I don’t believe I could. I’m the tin-can pander of Van Ness Avenue.
