Writers (5 page)

(They
drink.)

BOGART

So, John,
what's
the score with
Mr.
Croves?

HUSTON

He's
a Kraut.
He's
Traven.

BOGART

Yeah?
Why the
cover?

HUSTON

Maybe
we'll
find out.
He's
gonna be on the shoot with
us.

BOGART

Oh, that'll be
peachy.
What if he
doesn't
like what he sees?

HUSTON

I
can't
keep him
away.
It's
in his
contract.

BOGART

Jack
Warner's
a fool to allow
it.

HUSTON

Don't
worry,
Figueroa will handle him. And if he
can't,
I'll flash
my pistola.

BOGART

Ann Sheridan just pulled
in.

HUSTON

Where'd
they put
her?

BOGART

Here, in the Reforma. Across the hall from
me.

HUSTON
picks up the half-full bottle
of
tequila
and heads for the
door.

HUSTON

Let's
go welcome
her.

BOGART

She never used to be that kind of girl,
John.

HUSTON

How
long since
you've
seen
her?

BOGART

A couple of
years.

HUSTON

Well,
Bogey,
a
lot
can
happen
to
change
a
person
in
a
couple
of years.

BOGART

Just
let
me
get
out
of
there
before
you
start
waving
your
pistola around.

HUSTON
opens
the
door
and
Bogart
exits.
Before
Huston
follows suit, something catches his eye:
TRAVEN/CROVES's
pith
helmet, left
on
the
chair.
HUSTON
goes
over,
picks
it
up
and
places
the helmet on his head. He goes
out.

END

 

 

IXION
IN
EXILE

 

 

CAST OF
CHARACTERS

A
lbert Camus
,
French writer, forty-six years old, author of
The
Stranger,
well-known
for
his
essay
opposing
capital
punishment

P
ixie
,
a young
prostitute

SETTING

A
hotel
room
in
New
York
City,
Summer
1959
.

 

 

PIXIE
is sitting on the edge of the
bed, putting on her stockings. Other than
that, she is naked.
CAMUS
is lying on the
bed, also nude, smoking a
cigarette.

PIXIE

I
could,
I'd
pull
the
fuckin'
switch
myself.
Way
that
man
treated
me deserves be electrified
twice.

CAMUS

Yes,
Pixie, I understand how you feel. But it is the state that is
the machinery carrying out the
sentence.

PIXIE

You
mean
it's
okay I do it, then? Leave the state
out?

CAMUS

No, Pixie. If in the heat of passion such a crime is committed, if in the course, say, of being beaten and in fear of losing one's life, in self-defense a murder is committed, or if it occurs after a long history of such abuse, even psychological abuse, a legitimate case can be made to justify the act. But the state has no right to act as executioner.

PIXIE

(continues getting
dressed)

I
be
happy
scorch
that
motherfucker.
I
be
happy
whoever
do
it, long as Dorsey be
dead.

CAMUS

It's
tonight
he's
being
executed?

PIXIE

Tonight
at
midnight.

(She
looks
at
a
clock
on
a
bedside
table.)

Thirty-two
minutes
from
now.
You
ready
again?
Give
you
a
blowjob twenty
extra.

CAMUS

No,
merci, Pixie. I am quite
satisfied.

(He lights another cigarette from the old one.)

PIXIE
is finished dressing. She stops at
the door and looks over at
CAMUS
.

PIXIE

You
a
nice man, Mister
Cam-yoo.
All
Frenchmen
ain't
so
nice,
you
know.

CAMUS

Thank
you,
Pixie.
I
will
remember
you
with
affection.

PIXIE

Bye
now.
Be careful while you in New
York.
Be rough you not
pay attention.

CAMUS

I will. Good
night.

PIXIE
leaves.
CAMUS
smokes, then
gets up, looks in the mirror over
dresser.

CAMUS

(to his reflection in the
mirror)

Who are you to tell anyone how to think or feel about anything? You lie to yourself all the time, not only to others. This is why you write your novels and essays, hiding behind Proust's dictum that literature is the finest kind of lying. You cannot stop lying. For you, it is what makes living tolerable. You are foolish to presume to understand Pixie. To attempt to reason with someone you do not understand is not merely arrogant but absurd. This is the disease of Sartre. To go on lying is your only choice, so better to be good at it.

The telephone rings.
CAMUS
answers
it.

CAMUS

Hello.

(pause)

No,
he
is
not
here.
He
never
was,
he
does
not
exist.
My
name
is
Dorsey,
will I
do?

END

 

 

ALGREN'S
INFERNO

 

 

CAST OF
CHARACTERS

Nelson Algren
,
writer, author of
The Man with the Golden Arm
. He is forty-six years old, having the night before finished writing his novel,
A Walk on the Wild Side
.

Dolores Lonesome Sound
,
fifty-two years old, part
African American, part Native American, formerly a drug addict and
alcoholic, now pastor of
God's
Paradise, a storefront church on
West
Madison Street, the
city's
Skid
Row.

SETTING

Chicago,
1955
. Algren and Dolores Lonesome Sound are
standing on
West
Madison in front of
God's
Paradise.
It
is late on a
winter afternoon; the sky darkens steadily as the pair
converse.

 

 

NELSON

Dolores, you
don't
mind, I hope, that I took the title for my
new novel from something you said in one of your
sermons.

DOLORES

No,
child, 'course not. What was it I
said?

NELSON

You were talking about your flock, taking in folks who'd been walking on the wild side and were now ready to enter God's Paradise.

DOLORES

Oh, yes.
Yes,
Nelson, these are the ones got down so low no
place left for
'em
to go other than in the dirt. People like myself, the
way I
used
to
be,
not
yet
gone
but
forgotten
by
everyone
'cept
the
Lord.
You
go
on
use
the
words
do
they
serve
a
good
purpose.
Got
any loose behavior in it?

NELSON

Not really.
Only drinkin', druggin', whorin', fightin', in order
to show how without a helping hand individuals come
apart.

DOLORES

Adrift and bereft.
How
do you get those frightened souls down
on paper?

NELSON

Pastor Lonesome Sound, I write about what I see, what most
novelists ignore, writers who pick at scabs so small
they're
not worth a whisper. I hear my characters crying in my
sleep.

DOLORES

You
are a righteous man, Nelson, and you own all the
words.

NELSON

Righteous,
perhaps,
but
never
sanctimonious.
I
don't
hide
from
the
horror.

DOLORES

No
place to hide.
You
remember Mister Roland
Walks
Behind Himself, part Pottawotomi like me? He die night before
last.

NELSON

Sure, I used to shoot pool with him at
Benzinger's.

DOLORES

Couple hoodlums jackrolled him, he fought back and one of
'em
cracked open his skull, left him bleed to death in Losers Alley. Officer Muller tol' me this mornin'. Was Miss Twisty discover
the
body
takin'
a trick back
there.

NELSON

That's
what gets me, Dolores, my writing about all the sadness
and bad behavior
doesn't
really do any good.
It
doesn't
change the way
people
treat
each
other
or
move
the
powers
that
be
to
improve
lives of the have-nots. At least you give
'em
a bowl of tomato
soup.

DOLORES

And a friend in Jesus.
You
a good writer,
Nelson?

NELSON

Some
of
the
deep
thinkers
back
East
used
to
think
I
was
pretty good. Nowadays they
can't
seem to make use of me, so
I'm
sliding off the
map.

DOLORES

Most
everyone
'roun'
here
never
been
on
no
map,
no
direction home
and
no
home
to
go
to
even
they
got
the
bus
fare.
You
want
to come inside, get warm with some soup?

NELSON

No,
thank you, Dolores, but my poker cronies are throwing me
a little party to celebrate my finishing my
novel.

DOLORES

God's
Paradise is for one an' all, Nelson, believers and
unbelievers both.
You
take care
now.

DOLORES
turns and goes inside
God's
Paradise.
The stage is now in almost
total darkness.
NELSON
lights a
cigarette.

NELSON

In
New
Orleans,
I
met
a
whore
who
had
tattooed
between
her
belly button and her pussy the words,
“Abandon
all hope, ye who enter
here.”
She
told
me
she
had
a
degree
in
European
literature
from
the University of
Texas.

The
stage
goes
dark.
The
last
light
we
see
is from the tip of
NELSON
's
cigarette.

END