Third and Oak

Third and Oak was originally produced by Actors Theatre of Louisville in March 1978, under the direction of Jon Jory. The cast was as follows:

The Laundromat

Albert	Anne Pitoniak
Deedee	Dawn Didawick

The Pool Hall

Albert	Anne Pitoniak
Deedee	Dawn Didawick
Shooter	Joe Morton
Willie	John Hancock

Third and Oak: The Laundromat was presented in New York City in December 1979 as part of Ensemble Studio Theatre’s One-Act Marathon, Curt Dempster, Artistic Director. The production was directed by Kenneth Frankel. The cast was as follows:

Alberta	Regina David
Deedee	Dawn Didawick

In 1984 Third and Oak: The Laundromat was filmed for HBO by Robert Altman, starring Carol Burnett and Amy Madigan.

In 1989 Third and Oak: The Pool Hall starring James Earl Jones and Mario Van Peebles was filmed by Nederlander Television & Film and aired on General Motors Theatre. The Pool Hall was directed by Fielder Cook and was produced by Gladys Nederlander.

INTRODUCTION

These two plays are about the same thing: why we lie to protect ourselves when we could tell the truth and be saved. Not that the plays answer this question. Plays don’t answer questions, they simply preserve them, they pass them on.

And though each act is frequently performed by itself, I prefer that the two acts be seen together. Rather like the right foot following the left.

CHARACTERS

ALBERTA: a reserved woman in her late fifties.

DEEDEE: a restless twenty-year-old.

SHOOTER: a black disc jockey in his late twenties.

WILLIE: a black man in his late fifties.

TIME AND PLACE

The time is the late seventies. The two acts of this play take place in a laundromat and the pool hall next door, at the corner of Third and Oak, in the middle of the night.

 

Third and Oak

ACT I

THE LAUNDROMAT

Lights come up on a standard, dreary laundromat. There are tile floors, washers, dryers, laundry baskets on wheels, and coin-op vending machines for soaps, soft drinks, and candy bars. There is a bulletin board on which various notices are posted. There is a table for folding clothes, a low table covered with dirty ashtrays and some ugly chairs littered with magazines. A clock on the wall reads three o’clock and should continue to run throughout the show. One side of the laundromat will be used as a window looking out onto the street. The song “Stand By Your Man” is playing over the radio. The door to the attendant’s room is slightly ajar.

SHOOTER’S VOICE: (On the radio, over the final chords of the song.) And that’s all for tonight, night owls. This is your Number One Night Owl saying it’s three o’clock, all right, and time to rock your daddy to dreams of de-light. And mama, I’m comin’ home. And the rest of you night owls gonna have to make it through the rest of this night by yourself or with the help of your friends, if you know what I mean. And you know what I mean.

(The radio station goes dead, music replaced by an irritating static. Alberta opens the door tentatively, looks around and walks in. She has dressed carefully and her laundry basket exhibits the same care. She checks the top of a washer for dust or water before putting her purse and basket down. She takes off her coat and hat. She walks back to the door marked Attendant, and is startled briefly when she looks in.)

ALBERTA: Hello? (Steps back, seeing that the attendant is asleep.) Sleep? Is that how you do your job? Sleep? What they pay you to do, sleep? Listen, it’s fine with me. Better, in fact. I’m glad, actually. (She leans in and turns off the radio. She walks back toward the basket, talking to herself.) Do you want him out here talking to you? (Procrastinating.) You came to do your wash so do your wash. No, first… (She takes an index card out of her purse. She tacks it up on the bulletin board. We must see that it is very important to her.) There. Good. (She opens a washer lid and runs her fingers around the soap tray, taking out lint and depositing it in one of the coffee cans. As she does this, she accidentally knocks over her purse.) It’s okay. Nothing breakable. Clean it up, that’s all. You’ve been up this late before. Nothing the matter with you, just nerves…and gravity.

(Alberta bends down and begins to put the things back in her purse. She cannot see as Deedee backs in the door of the laundromat. Deedee is a wreck. She carries her clothes tied up in a man’s shirt. She trips over a wastebasket and falls on her laundry as it spills out of the shirt.)

DEEDEE: Well, poo-rats!

(Alberta stands up, startled, hesitates, then walks over to where Deedee is still sprawled on the floor.)

ALBERTA: Are you all right? (She is angry that Deedee is there at all, but polite nevertheless.)

DEEDEE: (Grudgingly.) Cute, huh?

ALBERTA: (Moving the wastebasket out of the way.) Probably a wet spot on the floor. (Goes back to her wash.)

DEEDEE: I already picked these clothes off the floor once tonight. (No response from Alberta.) We been in our apartment two years and Joe still ain’t found the closets. He thinks hangers are for when you lock your keys in your car. (Still no response, though she is expecting one.) I mean, he’s got this coat made of sheep’s fur or somethin’ and my mom came over one day and asked where did we get that fuzzy little rug. (She is increasingly nervous.) Joe works at the Ford plant. I asked him why they call it that. I said, “How often do you have to water a Ford plant?” It was just a little joke, but he didn’t think it was very funny.

ALBERTA: (Her good manners requiring her to say something.) They probably do have a sprinkler system.

DEEDEE: Shoulda saved my breath and just tripped over the coffee table. He’d laughed at that. (No response.) Well, (Brightly.) I guess it’s just you and me.

ALBERTA: Yes. (Makes a move to get back to her wash.)

DEEDEE: Guess not too many people suds their duds in the middle of the night.

ALBERTA: Suds their duds?

DEEDEE: I do mine at Mom’s. (She begins to put her clothes in two washers, imitating Alberta.) I mean, I take our stuff over to Mom’s. She got matching Maytags. She buys giant-size Cheer and we sit around and watch the soaps till the clothes come out. Suds the duds, that’s what she says. Well, more than that. She wrote it on a little card and sent it in to Cheer so they could use it on their TV ads.

ALBERTA: (Pleasantly.) Gives you a chance to talk, I guess. Visit.

DEEDEE: She says, “Just leave ’em, I’ll do ’em,” but that wouldn’t be right, so I stay. Course she don’t ever say how she likes seeing me, but she holds back, you know. I mean, there’s stuff you don’t have to say when it’s family.

ALBERTA: Is she out of town tonight?

DEEDEE: No, probably just asleep. (Alberta nods. She reads from the top of the washer.) Five cycle Turbomatic Deluxe. (Punching buttons.) Hot wash warm rinse, warm wash warm rinse, warm wash cold rinse, cold wash cold rinse, cold wash, delicate cycle. (Now lifts the lid of the washer.) What’s this? Add laundry aids.

ALBERTA: Your mother does your laundry.

DEEDEE: You don’t have a washer either, huh?

ALBERTA: (Too quickly.) It’s broken.

DEEDEE: Get your husband to fix it. (Looking at Alberta’s mound of shirts.) Got a heap of shirts, don’t he?

ALBERTA: It can’t be fixed.

DEEDEE: Where are your clothes?

ALBERTA: Mine are mostly hand wash.

DEEDEE: We just dump all our stuff in together.

ALBERTA: That’s nice.

DEEDEE: Joe can fix just about anything. He’s real good with his hands. (Relaxing some now.) I’ve been saying that since high school. (Laughs.) He makes trucks. God, I’d hate to see the truck I’d put together. (Now a nervous laugh.) He had to work the double shift tonight. (Going on quickly.) They do all kinds out there. Pickups, dump trucks…they got this joke, him and his buddies, about what rhymes with pickle truck, but I don’t know the end of it, you know, the punch line. Goes like… “I’ll come to get you baby in a pickle truck, I’ll tell you what I’m wantin’ is a— (Stops, but continues the beat with her foot or by snapping her fingers.) See, that’s the part I don’t know. The end. (Shrugs.)

ALBERTA: Overtime pays well, I imagine.

DEEDEE: It’s all-the-time, here lately. He says people are buyin’ more trucks ’cause farmers have to raise more cows ’cause we got a population explosion going on. Really crummy, you know? People I don’t even know having babies means Joe can’t come home at the right time. Don’t seem fair.

ALBERTA: Or true.

DEEDEE: Huh?

ALBERTA: The population explosion is over. The birthrate is very stable now.

DEEDEE: Oh.

ALBERTA: Still, it’s no fun to be in the house by yourself.

DEEDEE: See, we live right over there, on top of the Mexican restaurant. (Going over to the window.) That window with the blue light in it, that’s ours. It’s a bunch of blueberries on a stalk, only it’s a light. Joe gave it to me. He thinks blue is my favorite color.

ALBERTA: So the restaurant noise was bothering you.

DEEDEE: They got this bar that stays open till four. That’s how Joe picked the apartment. He hates to run out for beer late. He don’t mind running down. (Broadly.) Old Mexico Taco Tavern. Except Joe says it’s supposed to be Olé Mexico, like what they say in bullfights.

ALBERTA: Bullfights are disgusting.

DEEDEE: You’ve seen a real bullfight?

ALBERTA: We used to travel quite a bit.

DEEDEE: (Excited, curious, demanding.) Well, tell me about it.

ALBERTA: There’s not much to tell. The bull comes out and they kill it.

DEEDEE: What for? (Putting her clothes in the washer.)

ALBERTA: (Pleased at the question.) Fun. Doesn’t that sound like fun to you?

DEEDEE: (Encouraged.) Your husband works nights too?

ALBERTA: Herb is out of town. Did you mean to put that in there?

DEEDEE: (Peering into her washer.) Huh?

ALBERTA: Your whites will come out green.

DEEDEE: (Retrieving the shirt.) Joe wouldn’t like that. No sir. Be like when Mom’s washer chewed this hole in his bowling shirt. Whoo-ee! Was he hot. Kicked the chest of drawers, broke his toe. (No response from Alberta.) And the chest of drawers too. (No response.) Is Herb picky like that?

ALBERTA: Herb likes to look nice. (Reaches for her soap.)

DEEDEE: Hey! You forgot one. (Picking the remaining shirt out of Alberta’s basket.) See? (Opens it out, showing an awful stain.) Yuck! Looks like vomit.

ALBERTA: It’s my cabbage soup.

DEEDEE: Well, (Helping.) in it goes. (Opening one of Alberta’s washers.)

ALBERTA: No!

DEEDEE: The other one? (Reaching for the other washer.)

ALBERTA: (Taking the shirt away from her.) I don’t want to…it’s too…that stain will never… (Enforcing a calm now.) It needs to presoak. I forgot the Woolite.

DEEDEE: Sorry.

ALBERTA: That’s quite all right. (Folding the shirt carefully, putting it back in the basket. Wants Deedee to vanish.)

DEEDEE: One of those machines give soap?

(Alberta points to the correct one and Deedee walks over to it.)

DEEDEE: It takes nickels. I only got quarters.

ALBERTA: The attendant will give you change. (Pointing to the open attendant door, putting her own coins in her washers.)

DEEDEE: (Looking in the door.) He’s asleep.

ALBERTA: Ah.

DEEDEE: Be terrible to wake him up just for some old nickels. Do you have any change?

ALBERTA: No.

DEEDEE: Looks like he’s got a pocket full of money. Think it would wake him up if I stuck my hand in there? (Enjoys this idea.)

ALBERTA: (Feeling bad about not helping and also not wanting the attendant awake.) Twenty years ago, maybe. (Deedee laughs.) Here, I found some. (Deedee walks back, gives Alberta the quarters; she counts out the change.)

ALBERTA: That’s ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty.

DEEDEE: (Putting the nickels in the soap machine.) He shouldn’t be sleeping like that. Somebody could come in here and rob him. You don’t think he’s dead or anything, do you? I mean, I probably wouldn’t know it if I saw somebody dead.

ALBERTA: You’d know. (Starts her washers.)

DEEDEE: (Pushing in the coin trays, starting her washers.) Okay. Cheer up! (Laughs.) That’s what Mom always says, “Cheer Up” (Looks at Alberta.) Hey, my name is Deedee. Deedee Johnson.

ALBERTA: Nice to meet you.

DEEDEE: What’s yours?

ALBERTA: Alberta.

DEEDEE: Alberta what?

ALBERTA: (Reluctantly.) Alberta Johnson.

DEEDEE: Hey! We might be related. I mean, Herb and Joe could be cousins or something.

ALBERTA: I don’t think so.

DEEDEE: Yeah. I guess there’s lots of Johnsons.

ALBERTA: (Looking down at the magazine.) Yes.

DEEDEE: I’m botherin’ you, aren’t I? (Alberta smiles.) I’d talk to somebody else, but there ain’t nobody else. ’Cept Sleepy back there. I talk in my sleep sometimes, but him, he looks like he’s lucky to be breathin’ in his. (Awkward.) Sleep, I mean.

ALBERTA: Would you like a magazine?

DEEDEE: No thanks. I brought a Dr. Pepper. (Alberta is amazed.) You can have it if you want.

ALBERTA: No thank you.

DEEDEE: Sleepy was one of the seven dwarfs. I can still name them all. I couldn’t tell you seven presidents of the United States, but I can say the dwarfs. (Very proud.) Sleepy, Grumpy, Sneezy, Dopey, Doc, and Bashful. (Suddenly very low.) That’s only six. Who’s the other one?

ALBERTA: (Willing to help.) You could name seven presidents.

DEEDEE: Oh no.

ALBERTA: Try it.

DEEDEE: Okay. (Takes a big breath.) There’s Carter, Nixon, Kennedy, Lincoln, Ben Franklin, George Washington…uh…

ALBERTA: Eleanor Roosevelt’s husband.

DEEDEE: Mr. Roosevelt.

ALBERTA: Mr. Roosevelt. That’s seven. Except Benjamin Franklin was never president.

DEEDEE: You’re a teacher or something, aren’t you?

ALBERTA: I was. Say Mr. Roosevelt again.

DEEDEE: Mr. Roosevelt.

ALBERTA: There. Teddy makes seven.

DEEDEE: Around here? (Alberta looks puzzled.) Or in the county schools?

ALBERTA: Ohio. Columbus.

DEEDEE: Great!

ALBERTA: Do you know Columbus?

DEEDEE: Not personally.

ALBERTA: Ah.

DEEDEE: I better be careful. No ain’ts or nuthin’.

ALBERTA: You can’t say anything I haven’t heard before.

DEEDEE: Want me to try?

ALBERTA: No.

DEEDEE: What does Herb do?

ALBERTA: (Too quickly.) Is Deedee short for something? Deirdre, Deborah?

DEEDEE: No. Just Deedee. The guys in high school always kidded me about my name. (Affecting a boy’s voice.) Hey, Deedee, is Deedee your name or your bra size?

ALBERTA: That wasn’t very nice of them.

DEEDEE: That ain’t the worst. Wanna hear the worst? (Alberta doesn’t respond.) Ricky Baker, Icky Ricky Baker and David Duvall said this one. They’d come up to the locker bank, David’s locker was right next to mine and Ricky’d say, “Hey, did you have a good time last night?” And David would say, “Yes. In Deedee.” Then they’d slap each other and laugh like idiots.

ALBERTA: You could’ve had your locker moved.

DEEDEE: I guess, but see, the basketball players always came down that hall at the end of school. Going to practice, you know.

ALBERTA: One of the basketball players I taught… (Begins to chuckle.)

DEEDEE: (Anxious to laugh with her.) Yeah?

ALBERTA: …thought Herbert Hoover invented the vacuum cleaner.

(Alberta waits for Deedee to laugh. When she doesn’t, Alberta steps back a few steps. Deedee is embarrassed.)

DEEDEE: Why did you quit…teaching.

ALBERTA: Age.

DEEDEE: You don’t look old enough to retire.

ALBERTA: Not my age. Theirs.

DEEDEE: Mine, you mean.

ALBERTA: Actually, Mother was very sick then.

DEEDEE: Is she still alive?

ALBERTA: No.

DEEDEE: I’m sorry.

ALBERTA: It was a blessing, really. There was quite a lot of pain at the end.

DEEDEE: For her maybe, but what about you?

ALBERTA: She was the one with the pain.

DEEDEE: Sounds like she was lucky to have you there, nursing her and all.

ALBERTA: I read her Wuthering Heights five times that year. I kept checking different ones out of the library, you know, Little Women, Pride and Prejudice, but each time she’d say, “No, I think I’d like to hear Wuthering Heights.” Just like she hadn’t heard it in fifty years. But each time, I’d read the last page and look up, and she’d say the same thing.

DEEDEE: What thing?

ALBERTA: She’d say, “I still don’t see it. They didn’t have to have all that trouble. All they had to do was find Heathcliff someplace to go every day. The man just needed a job. (Pause.) But maybe I missed something. Read it again.”

DEEDEE: My mom thinks Joe’s a bum.

(Somehow she thinks this is an appropriate response, and Alberta is jolted back to the present.)

DEEDEE: No really, she kept paying this guy that worked at Walgreen’s to come over and strip our wallpaper. She said, “Deedee, he’s gonna be manager of that drugstore someday.” Hell, the only reason he worked there was getting a discount on his pimple cream. She thought that would get me off Joe. No way. We’ve been married two years last month. Mom says this is the itch year.

ALBERTA: The itch year?

DEEDEE: When guys get the itch, you know, to fool around with other women. Stayin’ out late, comin’ in with stories about goin’ drinkin’ with the boys or workin’ overtime or…somethin’. Is that clock right?

ALBERTA: I think so.

DEEDEE: Bet Herb never did that, huh?

ALBERTA: Be unfaithful, you mean? (Deedee nods.) No.

DEEDEE: How can you be so sure like that? You keep him in the refrigerator?

ALBERTA: Well, I suppose he could have… (Doesn’t believe this for a minute.)

DEEDEE: Like right now, while he’s up in wherever he is…

ALBERTA: Akron. (Surprised at her need to say this.)

DEEDEE: Akron, he could be sittin’ at the bar in some all-night bowling alley polishin’ some big blonde’s ball.

ALBERTA: No.

DEEDEE: That’s real nice to trust him like that.

ALBERTA: Aren’t you afraid Joe will call you on his break and be worried about where you are?

DEEDEE: You got any kids?

ALBERTA: No.

DEEDEE: Didn’t you want some?

ALBERTA: Oh yes.

DEEDEE: Me too. Lots of ’em. But Joe says he’s not ready. Wants to be earning lots of money before we start our family.

ALBERTA: That’s why he works this double shift.

DEEDEE: Yeah. Only now he’s fixin’ up this ’64 Chevy he bought to drag race. Then when the race money starts comin’ in, we can have them kids. He’s really lookin’ forward to that—winnin’ a big race and havin’ me and the kids run out on the track and him smilin’ and grabbin’ up the baby and pourin’ beer all over us while the crowd is yellin’ and screamin’…

ALBERTA: So all his money goes into this car.

DEEDEE: Hey. I love it too. Sundays we go to the garage and work on it. (Gets a picture out of her wallet.) That devil painted there on the door, that cost two hundred dollars!

ALBERTA: You help him?

DEEDEE: He says it’s a real big help just havin’ me there watchin’.

ALBERTA: I never understood that, men wanting you to watch them do whatever it is…I mean…Well (Deciding to tell this story, a surprise both to her and to us.) every year at Thanksgiving, Herb would watch over me, washing the turkey, making the stuffing, stuffing the turkey. Made me nervous.

DEEDEE: You coulda told him to get lost. (Offers fabric softener.) Downy? (Alberta nods yes, accepting Deedee’s help, but is still nervous about it.)

ALBERTA: Actually, the last ten years or so, I sent him out for sage. For the dressing. He’d come in and sit down saying “Mmm boy was this ever going to be the best turkey yet” and rubbing his hands together and I’d push jars around in the cabinet and look all worried and say “Herb, I don’t think I have enough sage.” And he’d say, “Well, Bertie, my girl, I’ll just go to the store and get some.”

DEEDEE: (Jittery when someone else is talking.) I saw white pepper at the store last week. How do they do that?

ALBERTA: I don’t know.

DEEDEE: Is Dr. Pepper made out of pepper?

ALBERTA: I don’t know.

DEEDEE: And what did Herb do, that you had to watch, I mean.

ALBERTA: He gardened. I didn’t have to watch him plant the seeds or weed the plants or spray for pests or pick okra. But when the day came to turn over the soil, that was the day. Herb would rent a rototiller and bring out a lawn chair from the garage. He’d wipe it off and call in the kitchen window, “Alberta, it’s so pleasant out here in the sunshine.” And when he finished, he’d bring out this little wooden sign and drive it into the ground.

DEEDEE: What’d it say?

ALBERTA: Herb Garden. (Pauses.) He thought that was funny.

DEEDEE: Did you laugh?

ALBERTA: Every year.

DEEDEE: He’s not doing one anymore? (Walking to the window.)

ALBERTA: No.

DEEDEE: (Looks uneasy, still staring out the window.) Why not?

ALBERTA: What’s out there?

DEEDEE: Oh nothing.

ALBERTA: You looked like—

DEEDEE: Joe should be home soon. I turned out all the lights except the blueberries so I could tell if he comes in, you know, when he turns the lights on.

ALBERTA: When is the shift over?

DEEDEE: (Enforced cheer now.) Oh, not for a long time yet. I just thought…He might get through early, he said. And we could go have a beer. Course, he might stop off and bowl a few games first.

(Alberta gets up to check on her wash. Deedee walks to the bulletin board.)

DEEDEE: (Reading.) “Typing done, hourly or by the page. Cheer.” What on earth?

ALBERTA: Must be cheap. (Laughs a little.) It better be cheap.

DEEDEE: (Taking some notices down.) Most of this stuff is over already. Hey! Here’s one for Herb. “Gardening tools, never used. Rake, hoe, spade and towel.”

ALBERTA: Trowel.

DEEDEE: (Aggravated by the correction.) You got great eyes, Alberta. (Continues reading.) “459-4734. A. Johnson.” You think this A. Johnson is related to us? (Laughs.) No, that’s right, you said Herb wasn’t doing a garden anymore. No, I got it! This A. Johnson is you. And the reason Herb ain’t doin’ a garden is you’re selling his rakes. But this says “never used.” Alberta, you shouldn’t try to fool people like that. Washin’ up Herb’s hoe and selling it like it was new. Bad girl.

ALBERTA: Actually, that is me. I bought Herb some new tools for his birthday and then he…gave it up…gardening.

DEEDEE: Before his birthday?

ALBERTA: What?

DEEDEE: Did you have time to go buy him another present?

ALBERTA: Yes…well, no. I mean, he told me before his birthday, but I didn’t get a chance to get him anything else.

DEEDEE: He’s probably got everything anyhow.

ALBERTA: Just about.

DEEDEE: Didn’t he get his feelings hurt?

ALBERTA: No.

DEEDEE: Joe never likes the stuff I give him.

ALBERTA: Oh, I’m sure he does. He just doesn’t know how to tell you.

DEEDEE: No. He doesn’t. For our anniversary, I planned real far ahead for this one, I’m tellin’ you. I sent off my picture, not a whole body picture, just my face real close up, to this place in Massachusetts, and they painted, well I don’t know if they really painted, but somehow or other they put my face on this doll. It was unbelievable how it really looked like me. ’Bout this tall (Indicates about two feet.) with overalls and a checked shirt. I thought it was real cute, and I wrote this card sayin’ “From one livin’ doll to another. Let’s keep playin’ house till the day we die.”

ALBERTA: And he didn’t like it?

DEEDEE: He laughed so hard he fell over backward out of the chair and cracked his head open on the radiator. We had to take him to the emergency room.

ALBERTA: I’m sorry.

DEEDEE: We was sittin’ there waitin’ for him to get sewed up and this little kid comes in real sick and Joe he says to me, (Getting a candy bar out of her purse and taking a big anxious bite out of it.) I brought this doll along, see, I don’t know why, anyway Joe says to me…“Deedee, that little girl is so much sicker than me. Let’s give her this doll to make her feel better.” And they were takin’ her right on in to the doctors ’cause she looked pretty bad, and Joe rushes up and puts this doll in her arms.

ALBERTA: They let her keep it?

DEEDEE: Her mother said, “Thanks a lot.” Real sweet like they didn’t have much money to buy the kid dolls or something. It made Joe feel real good.

ALBERTA: But it was your present to him. It was your face on the doll.

DEEDEE: Yeah, (Pause.) but I figure it was his present as soon as I gave it to him, so if he wanted to give it away, that’s his business. But (Stops.) he didn’t like it. I could tell. (Walks to the window again.) They need to wash this window here.

ALBERTA: I gave Herb a fishing pole one year.

DEEDEE: (Not interested.) He fishes.

ALBERTA: No, but I thought he wanted to. He’d cut out a picture of this husky man standing in water practically up to his waist, fishing. I thought he left it out so I’d get the hint.

DEEDEE: But he didn’t?

ALBERTA: Oh, it was a hint all right. He wanted the hat.

DEEDEE: Right.

ALBERTA: (Seeing that Deedee is really getting upset.) Do you like the things Joe gives you?

DEEDEE: I’d like it if he came home, that’s what I’d like.

ALBERTA: He’ll be back soon. You’ll probably see those lights go on as soon as your clothes are dry.

DEEDEE: Sure.

ALBERTA: People just can’t always be where we want them to be, when we want them to be there.

DEEDEE: Well, I don’t like it.

ALBERTA: You don’t have to like it. You just have to know it.

DEEDEE: (Defensive.) Wouldn’t you like for Herb to be home right now?

ALBERTA: I certainly would.

DEEDEE: ’Cause if they were both home where they should be, we wouldn’t have to be here in this crappy laundromat washin’ fuckin’ shirts in the middle of the night!

(Deedee kicks a dryer. Alberta is alarmed and disturbed at the use of the word “fuckin’.”)

DEEDEE: I’m sorry. You probably don’t use language like that, well, neither do I, very often, but I’m (Now doing it on purpose.) pissed as hell at that sunuvabitch.

(Alberta picks up a magazine, trying to withdraw completely. She is offended, but doesn’t want to appear self-righteous. Now, Shooter pushes open the front door. Deedee turns sharply and sees him. She storms back and sits down beside Alberta. Both women are somewhat alarmed at a black man entering this preserve so late at night. Shooter is poised and handsome. He is dressed neatly, but casually. He is carrying an army duffel bag full of clothes, a cue case, and a sack of tacos. He has a can of beer in one pocket. He moves toward a washer, sets down the duffel bag, opens the cap on the beer. He is aware that he has frightened them. This amuses him, but he understands it. Besides, he is so goddamned charming.)

SHOOTER: (Holding the taco sack so they can see it.) Would either of you two ladies care to join me in a taco?

ALBERTA: (Finally.) No thank you.

SHOOTER: (As though in an ad.) Freshly chopped lettuce, firm vine-ripened New Jersey beefsteak tomatoes, a-ged, shred-ded, ched-dar cheese, sweet slivers of Bermuda onion and Ole Mexico’s very own, very hot taco sauce.

DEEDEE: That’s just what they say on the radio.

SHOOTER: That’s because I’m the “they” who says it on the radio.

DEEDEE: You are?

SHOOTER: (Walking over.) Shooter Stevens. (Shakes her hand.)

ALBERTA: (As he shakes her hand.) Nice to meet you.

DEEDEE: You’re the Number One Night Owl?

SHOOTER: (As he said it at the beginning of the act.) …sayin’ it’s three o’clock, all right, and time to rock your daddy to dreams of de-light.

DEEDEE: You are! You really are! That’s fantastic! I always listen to you!

SHOOTER: (Walking back to his laundry.) Yeah?

DEEDEE: Always. Except when…I mean, when I get to pick, I pick you. I mean, your station. You’re on late.

SHOOTER: You got it.

DEEDEE: (To Alberta.) Terrific. (Disgusted with herself.) I’m telling him he’s on late. He knows he’s on late. He’s the one who’s on late. Big news, huh?

SHOOTER: You a reporter?

DEEDEE: (Pleased with the question.) Oh no. (Stands up, stretches.) Gotten so stiff sitting there. (Walks over.) Don’t you know what they put in those things?

SHOOTER: The tacos?

DEEDEE: Dog food.

SHOOTER: (Laughing.) Have to eat ’em anyway. Good business. I keep stoppin’ in over there, they keep running the ad. Gonna kill me.

DEEDEE: No kidding. We take our… (Quickly.) My garbage cans are right next to theirs and whatta theirs got in ’em all the time? Dog-food cans.

SHOOTER: (He smiles.) Maybe they have a dog.

ALBERTA: It could be someone else in the building.

SHOOTER: See?

DEEDEE: She didn’t mean they have a dog. She meant some old person in the building’s eatin’ dog food. It happens. A lot around here.

SHOOTER: (To Alberta.) You her mom?

ALBERTA: No.

DEEDEE: We just met in here. She’s Alberta Johnson. I’m Deedee Johnson.

ALBERTA: Shooter is an unusual name.

SHOOTER: (Nodding toward the pool hall next door.) I play some pool.

DEEDEE: (Pointing to the cue case.) What’s that?

SHOOTER: My cue.

DEEDEE: You any good?

SHOOTER: At what?

DEEDEE: At pool, dummy.

SHOOTER: (Putting his clothes in the washer.) I do okay.

DEEDEE: You must do better than okay or else why would you have your own cue?

SHOOTER: Willie says, Willie’s the guy who owns the place, Willie says pool cues are like women. You gotta have your own and you gotta treat her right.

DEEDEE: (Seeing a piece of clothing he’s dropped in.) Did you mean to put that in there?

SHOOTER: (Pulling it back out.) This?

DEEDEE: Your whites will come out green.

SHOOTER: (Dropping it back in the washer.) Uh-uh. It’s nylon.

ALBERTA: Your work sounds very interesting.

SHOOTER: Yes, it does.

DEEDEE: What’s your real name?

SHOOTER: G.W.

DEEDEE: That’s not a real name.

SHOOTER: I don’t like my real name.

DEEDEE: Come on…

SHOOTER: (Disgusted.) It’s Gary Wayne. Now do I look like Gary Wayne to you?

DEEDEE: (Laughs.) No.

SHOOTER: Mom’s from Indiana.

ALBERTA: From Gary or Fort Wayne?

DEEDEE: Alberta used to be a teacher.

SHOOTER: It coulda been worse. She coulda named me Clarksville.

(Deedee laughs.)

SHOOTER: Hey! Now why don’t the two of you come over and join us for a beer?

ALBERTA: No thank you.

SHOOTER: (Pouring in the soap.) It’s just Willie and me this time of night.

ALBERTA: No.

DEEDEE: (With a knowing look at Alberta.) And watch you play pool?

SHOOTER: Actually, what we were planning to do tonight was whip us up a big devil’s food cake and pour it in one of the pool tables to bake. Turn up the heat real high…watch it rise and then pour on the creamy fudge icing with lots of nuts.

DEEDEE: You’re nuts.

SHOOTER: Get real sick if we have to eat it all ourselves…

DEEDEE: I’ve never seen anybody play pool.

SHOOTER: The key to pool’s a… (Directly seductive now.) real smooth stroke… the feel of that stick in your hand…

DEEDEE: Feels good?

SHOOTER: You come on over, I’ll show you just how it’s done.

DEEDEE: Pool.

SHOOTER: Sure. (Smiles, then turns sharply and walks back to Alberta, depositing an empty soap box in the trash can.) Willie always keeps hot water. You could have a nice cup of tea.

ALBERTA: (A pointed look at Deedee.) No.

DEEDEE: Our wash is almost done. We have to—

SHOOTER: We’ll be there quite a while. Gets lonesome this late, you know.

DEEDEE: We know.

(And suddenly, everybody feels quite uncomfortable.)

SHOOTER: (To Alberta.) It was nice meeting you. Hope I didn’t interrupt your reading or anything.

DEEDEE: She used to be a teacher.

SHOOTER: That’s what you said. (Walking toward the door.) Right next door, now. Can’t miss it. (To Deedee.) Give you a piece of that fudge cake.

DEEDEE: Yeah, I’ll bet you would.

SHOOTER: (Closing the door.) Big piece.

(Alberta watches Deedee watch to see which direction Shooter takes.)

DEEDEE: (After a moment.) I thought we’d had it there for a minute, didn’t you? (Visibly cheered.) Coulda been a murderer, or a robber or a rapist, just as easy! (Increasingly excited.) We coulda been hostages by now!

ALBERTA: To have hostages you have to commit a hijacking. You do not hijack a laundromat.

DEEDEE: Depends how bad you need clean clothes.

ALBERTA: I didn’t like the things he said to you.

DEEDEE: He was just playin’.

ALBERTA: He was not playing.

DEEDEE: Well, what does it hurt? Just words.

ALBERTA: Not those words.

DEEDEE: You don’t miss a thing, do you?

ALBERTA: I’m not deaf.

DEEDEE: Just prejudiced.

ALBERTA: That’s not true.

DEEDEE: If that was a white DJ comin’ in here, you’d still be talkin’ to him, I bet. Seein’ if he knows your “old” favorites.

ALBERTA: If you don’t want to know what I think, you can stop talking to me.

DEEDEE: What you think is what’s wrong with the world. People don’t trust each other just because they’re some other color from them.

ALBERTA: And who was it who said he could be a murderer? That was you, Deedee. Would you have said that if he’d been white?

DEEDEE: It just makes you sick, doesn’t it. The thought of me and Shooter over there after you go home.

ALBERTA: It’s not my business.

DEEDEE: That’s for sure.

(Alberta goes back to reading her magazine. Deedee wanders around.)

DEEDEE: You don’t listen to him on the radio, but I do. And you know what he says after “rock your daddy to dreams of de-light”? He says, “And mama, I’m comin’ home.” Now, if he has a “mama” to go home to, what’s he doing washing his own clothes? So he don’t have a “mama,” and that means lonely. And he’s loaded, too. So if he’s got a wife, she’s got a washer, so don’t say maybe they don’t have a washer. Lonely.

ALBERTA: All right. He’s a nice young man who washes his own clothes and is “friendly” without regard to race, creed, or national origin.

DEEDEE: I mean, we’re both in here in the middle of the night and it don’t mean we’re on the make, does it?

ALBERTA: It’s perfectly respectable.

DEEDEE: You always do this when Herb is out of town?

ALBERTA: No.

DEEDEE: You don’t even live in this neighborhood, do you?

ALBERTA: No.

DEEDEE: Know how I knew that? That garden. There ain’t a garden for miles around here.

ALBERTA: You’ve been reading Sherlock Holmes.

DEEDEE: (Knows Alberta was insulting her.) So why did you come over here?

ALBERTA: (Knows she made a mistake.) I came for the same reason you did. To do my wash.

DEEDEE: In the middle of the night? Hah. It’s a big mystery, isn’t it? And you don’t want to tell me. Is some man meetin’ you here? Yeah, and you can’t have your meetin’ out where you live ’cause your friends might see you and give the word to old Herb when he gets back.

ALBERTA: No. (Pauses.) I’m sorry I said what I did. Go on over to the pool hall. I’ll put your clothes in the dryer.

DEEDEE: (Easily thrown off the track.) And let him think I’m all hot for him. No sir. Besides, Joe might come home.

ALBERTA: That’s right.

DEEDEE: Might just serve him right, though. Come in and see me drinkin’ beer and playin’ pool with Willie and Shooter. Joe hates black people. He says even when they’re dancin’ or playin’ ball, they’re thinkin’ about killin’. Yeah, that would teach him to run out on me. A little dose of his own medicine. Watch him gag on it.

ALBERTA: So he has run out on you.

DEEDEE: He’s workin’ the double shift.

ALBERTA: That’s what you said.

DEEDEE: And you don’t believe me. You think he just didn’t come home, is that it? You think I was over there waitin’ and waitin’ in my new nightgown and when the late show went off I turned on the radio and ate a whole pint of chocolate ice cream, and when the radio went off I couldn’t stand it anymore so I grabbed up all these clothes, dirty or not, and got outta there so he wouldn’t come in and find me cryin’. Well, (Firmly.) I wasn’t cryin’!

ALBERTA: (After a considerable pause.) I haven’t cried in forty years.

DEEDEE: Just happy I guess.

ALBERTA: (With a real desire to help now.) I had an Aunt Dora, who had a rabbit, Puffer, who died. I cried then. I cried for weeks.

DEEDEE: And it wasn’t even your rabbit.

ALBERTA: I loved Aunt Dora and she loved that rabbit. I’d go to visit and she’d tell me what Puffer had done that day. She claimed he told her stories, Goldilocks and the Three Hares, The Rabbit Who Ate New York. Then we’d go outside and drink lemonade while Puffer ate lettuce. She grew lettuce just for him. A whole backyard of it.

DEEDEE: Little cracked, huh?

ALBERTA: I helped her bury him. Tears were streaming down my face. “Bertie,” she said, “stop crying. He didn’t mean to go and leave us all alone and he’d feel bad if he knew he made us so miserable.” But in the next few weeks, Aunt Dora got quieter and quieter till finally she wasn’t talking at all and Mother put her in a nursing home.

DEEDEE: Where she died.

ALBERTA: Yes.

DEEDEE: Hey! Our wash is done. (Alberta seems not to hear her.) Look, I’ll do it. You go sit.

ALBERTA: (Disoriented.) No, I…

DEEDEE: Let me, really. I know this part. Mom says you can’t blow this part, so I do it. She still checks, though, finds some reason to go downstairs and check the heat I set. I don’t mind, really. Can’t be too careful.

(Deedee unloads the washers and carries the clothes to the dryers. Alberta walks to the window, seeming very far away.)

DEEDEE: (Setting the heat.) Regular for you guys, warm for permos and undies. Now Herb’s shirts and shorts get hot. Pants and socks get…

ALBERTA: Warm.

DEEDEE: What’s Herb got left to wear anyhow?

ALBERTA: His gray suit.

DEEDEE: (Laughs at how positive Alberta is about this.) What color tie?

ALBERTA: Red with a silver stripe through it.

DEEDEE: (Still merry.) Shirt?

ALBERTA: White.

DEEDEE: Shoes?

ALBERTA: (Quiet astonishment.) I don’t know.

DEEDEE: Well I’m glad. Thought you were seeing him all the way to Akron, X-ray eyes or something weird. Alberta…

ALBERTA: Yes? (Worried, turning around to face her now, afraid Deedee will know her secret.)

DEEDEE: You got any dimes?

ALBERTA: (Relieved.) Sure. (Walks to her purse.) How many do we need?

DEEDEE: Two each, I guess. Four dryers makes eight.

(As Alberta is getting them out of her wallet.)

DEEDEE: I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t been here. I didn’t think…before I…

ALBERTA: You’d have done just fine. Don’t forget Sleepy back there.

DEEDEE: I wish Mom were more like you.

ALBERTA: Stuck up?

DEEDEE: Smart. Nice to talk to.

ALBERTA: Thank you, but…

DEEDEE: No, really. You’ve been to Mexico and you’ve got a good man.

(Alberta takes off her glasses, still very upset.)

DEEDEE: Mom’s just got me and giant-size Cheer. And she don’t say two words while I’m there. Ever. I don’t blame her I guess.

ALBERTA: Well…

DEEDEE: Yeah.

ALBERTA: (Back in balance now.) But you’re young and pretty. You have a wonderful sense of humor.

DEEDEE: Uh-huh.

ALBERTA: And you’ll have those children someday.

DEEDEE: Yeah, I know. (Gloomily.) I have my whole life in front of me.

ALBERTA: You could get a job.

DEEDEE: Oh, I got one. This company in New Jersey, they send me envelopes and letters and lists of names and I write on the names and addresses and Dear Mr. Wilson or whatever at the top of the letter. I do have nice handwriting.

ALBERTA: I’m sure.

DEEDEE: I get so bored doing it. Sometimes I want to take a fat orange crayon and scribble (Making letters in the air.) EAT BEANS, FATSO, and then draw funny faces all over the letter.

ALBERTA: I’m sure the extra money comes in handy.

DEEDEE: Well, Joe don’t know I do it. I hide all the stuff before he comes home. And I keep the money at Mom’s. She borrows from it sometimes. She says that makes us even for the water for the washing machine. See, I can’t spend it or Joe will know I got it.

ALBERTA: He doesn’t want you to work.

DEEDEE: (Imitating Joe’s voice.) I’m the head of this house.

ALBERTA: He expects you to sit around all day?

DEEDEE: I guess. (With good-humored rage.) Oh, I can wash the floor if I want.

ALBERTA: You should tell him how you feel.

DEEDEE: He’d leave me.

ALBERTA: Maybe.

DEEDEE: (After a moment.) So what, right?

ALBERTA: I just meant, if you give him the chance to understand—

DEEDEE: But what would I say?

ALBERTA: You’d figure something out. I’m sure.

DEEDEE: I don’t want to start it. I don’t want to say I want a real job, ’cause then I’ll say the reason I want a real job is I gotta have something to think about besides when are you coming home and how long is it gonna be before you don’t come home at all. And he’ll say what do you mean don’t come home at all and I’ll have to tell him I know what you’re doing, I know you’re lying to me and going out on me and he’ll say what are you gonna do about it. You want a divorce? And I don’t want him to say that.

ALBERTA: Now…you don’t know—

DEEDEE: (Firmly.) I called the bowling alley and asked for him and the bartender said, “This Patsy? He’s on his way, honey.” I hope he falls in the sewer.

ALBERTA: Deedee!

DEEDEE: I hope he gets his shirt caught in his zipper. I hope he wore socks with holes in ’em. I hope his Right Guard gives out. I hope his baseball cap falls in the toilet. I hope she kills him. (Pushing one of the carts, hard.)

ALBERTA: Deedee!

DEEDEE: I do. Last night, I thought I’d surprise him and maybe we’d bowl a few games? Well, I was gettin’ my shoes and I saw them down at lane twelve, laughin’ and all. He had one of his hands rubbing her hair and the other one rubbing his bowling ball. Boy did I get out of there quick. I’ve seen her there before. She teaches at the Weight Control upstairs, so she’s probably not very strong but maybe she could poison him or something. She wears those pink leotards and even her hair looks thin. I hate him.

ALBERTA: I’m sure you don’t really.

DEEDEE: He’s mean and stupid. I thought he’d get over it, but he didn’t. Mean and stupid. And I ain’t all that smart, so if I know he’s dumb, he must really be dumb. I used to think he just acted mean and stupid. Now, I know he really is…

ALBERTA: …mean and stupid.

DEEDEE: Why am I telling you this? You don’t know nuthin’ about bein’ dumped.

ALBERTA: At least you have some money saved.

DEEDEE: For what?

ALBERTA: And your mother would let you stay with her till you got your own place.

DEEDEE: She’s the last person I’m tellin’.

ALBERTA: I’ll bet you’d like being a telephone operator.

DEEDEE: But how’s he gonna eat? The only time he ever even fried an egg, he flipped it over and it landed in the sink. It was the last egg, so he grabbed it up and ate it in one bite.

ALBERTA: One bite?

DEEDEE: I like how he comes in the door. Picks me up, swings me around in the air…

ALBERTA: (Incredulous.) He stuffed a whole egg in his mouth?

DEEDEE: You’re worse than Mom. (Angrily.) He’s gonna be a famous race car driver someday and I want to be there.

ALBERTA: To have him pour beer all over you.

DEEDEE: Yes, to have him pour beer all over me.

ALBERTA: (Checking the clothes in one of her dryers, knowing she has said too much.) He could have come in without turning on the lights. If you want to go check, I’ll watch your things here.

DEEDEE: You want to get rid of me, don’t you?

ALBERTA: I do not want to get rid of you.

DEEDEE: So why don’t you go home? Go get the Woolite for that yucky shirt you didn’t wash. You not only don’t want to talk to me, you didn’t even want me to touch that shirt. Herb’s shirt is too nice for me to even touch. Well, I may be a slob, but I’m clean.

ALBERTA: I didn’t want to wash it.

DEEDEE: That ain’t it at all. Herb is so wonderful. You love him so much. You wash his clothes just the right way. I could never drop his shirt in the washer the way you do it. The stain might not come out and he might say what did you do to my shirt and you might fight and that would mess up your little dream world where everything is always sweet and nobody ever gets mad and you just go around gardening and giving each other little pecky kisses all the time. Well, you’re either kidding yourself or lying to me. Nobody is so wonderful that somebody else can’t touch their shirt. You act like he’s a saint. Like he’s dead and now you worship the shirts he wore.

ALBERTA: What do I have to do to get you to leave me alone?

DEEDEE: (Feeling very bad.) He is dead, isn’t he?

ALBERTA: Yes.

DEEDEE: I’m so stupid.

ALBERTA: You…

DEEDEE: What? Tell me. Say something horrible.

ALBERTA: (Slowly, but not mean.) You just don’t know when to shut up.

DEEDEE: Worse than that. I don’t know how. (Hates what she has done.)

ALBERTA: But you are not dumb, child. And don’t let anybody tell you you are, okay? (Takes off her glasses and rubs her eyes.)

DEEDEE: I’m sorry, Mrs. Johnson, I really am sorry. You probably been plannin’ this night for a long time. Washin’ his things. And I barged in and spoiled it all.

ALBERTA: I’ve been avoiding it for a long time.

(Deedee feels terrible, she wants to ask questions, but is trying very hard, for once, to control her mouth.)

ALBERTA: Herb died last winter, the day before his birthday.

DEEDEE: When you got him the rakes.

ALBERTA: He was being nosy, like I told you before, in the kitchen. I was making his cake. So I asked him to take out the garbage. He said, “Can’t we wait till it’s old enough to walk?”

DEEDEE: How…

ALBERTA: I didn’t miss him till I put the cake in the oven. Guess I thought he was checking his seedbeds in the garage. I yelled out, “Herb, do you want butter cream or chocolate?” And then I saw him. Lying in the alley, covered in my cabbage soup. It was his heart.

DEEDEE: Did you call the…

ALBERTA: I picked up his head in my hand and held it while I cleaned up as much of the stuff as I could. A tuna can, coffee grounds, eggshells…

DEEDEE: (Carefully.) You knew he was dead, not just knocked out?

ALBERTA: He’d hit his head when he fell. He was bleeding in my hand. I knew I should get up, but the blood was still so warm.

DEEDEE: I’m so sorry.

ALBERTA: I don’t want you to be alone, that’s not what I meant before.

DEEDEE: Looks like I’m alone anyway.

ALBERTA: That’s what I meant.

DEEDEE: Sometimes I bring in a little stand-up mirror to the coffee table while I’m watching TV. It’s my face over there when I look, but it’s a face just the same.

ALBERTA: Being alone isn’t so awful. I mean, it’s awful, but it’s not that awful. There are hard things.

(The dryers stop. Deedee watches Alberta take a load of clothes from the dryer, holding them up to smell them.)

DEEDEE: I’d probably eat pork and beans for weeks.

ALBERTA: (Her back to Deedee.) I found our beachball when I cleaned out the basement. I can’t let the air out of it. It’s (Turning around now.) his breath in there. (Sees Deedee is upset.) Get your clothes out. They’ll wrinkle. That’s amazing about the shoes.

DEEDEE: The shoes?

ALBERTA: Remember I was telling you what Herb had on? Gray suit…

DEEDEE: …white shirt, red tie with a silver stripe through it…

ALBERTA: I hang onto the shirt he died in, and I don’t even know if he’s got shoes on in his coffin.

DEEDEE: Well, if he’s flyin’ around heaven, he probably don’t need ’em. (Pauses.) You bought him all black socks.

ALBERTA: It was his idea. He thought they’d be easier to match if they were all the same color.

DEEDEE: Is it?

ALBERTA: No. Now I have to match by length. They may be all black, but they don’t all shrink the same. I guess I don’t really have to match them now, though, do I? (Continues to match them.)

DEEDEE: I’d like to lose all Joe’s white ones. (Holding them up over the trash can, then thinking maybe it’s not such a good idea.)

ALBERTA: (Going back for her last load of clothes, looking toward the window.) Deedee…your lights are on. In your apartment. All the lights are on now.

DEEDEE: You sure?

ALBERTA: Come see.

(Deedee walks over to the window.)

DEEDEE: You’re right.

ALBERTA: Yes.

DEEDEE: So what do I do now?

ALBERTA: I don’t know.

DEEDEE: Should I rush right home? Ask Joe did he have a good time bowling a few games after his double shift? Listen to him brag about his score? His score he didn’t make in the games he didn’t bowl after the double shift he didn’t work? Well I don’t feel like it. I’m going next door. Play some pool. Make him miss me.

ALBERTA: You should go home before you forget how mad you are. You don’t have to put up with what he’s doing. You can if you want to, if you think you can’t make it without him, but you don’t have to.

DEEDEE: But what should I say? Joe, if you don’t stop going out on me, I’m not ever speaking to you again? That’s exactly what he wants.

ALBERTA: What you say isn’t that important. But there is something you have to remember while you say it.

DEEDEE: Which is?

ALBERTA: Your own face in the mirror is better company than a man who would eat a whole fried egg in one bite.

(Deedee laughs.)

ALBERTA: But it won’t be easy.

DEEDEE: (Cautiously.) Are you gonna wash that other shirt ever?

ALBERTA: The cabbage-soup shirt? No, I don’t think so.

DEEDEE: Yeah.

ALBERTA: (Loading up her basket.) Maybe, in a few months or next year sometime, I’ll be able to give these away. They’re nice things.

DEEDEE: People do need them. Hey! (Leaving her laundry and going to the bulletin board.) I told you there ain’t a garden for miles around here. You better hang onto these hoes. It’s gettin’ about time to turn over the soil, isn’t it?

ALBERTA: Another two weeks or so, yes it is. Well, (Taking the card.) that’s everything. I’ll just get my soap and…

DEEDEE: (Hesitantly.) Mrs. Johnson?

ALBERTA: Alberta.

DEEDEE: Alberta.

ALBERTA: Yes?

DEEDEE: I’m really lonely.

ALBERTA: I know.

DEEDEE: How can you stand it?

ALBERTA: I can’t. (Pauses.) But I have to, just the same.

DEEDEE: How do I…how do you do that?

ALBERTA: I don’t know. You call me if you think of something. (Gives her a small kiss on the forehead.)

DEEDEE: I don’t have your number.

ALBERTA: (Backing away toward the door.) I really wanted to be alone tonight.

DEEDEE: I know.

ALBERTA: I’m glad you talked me out of it.

DEEDEE: Boy, you can count on me for that. Hey! Don’t go yet. I owe you some money.

ALBERTA: No. (Fondly.) Everybody deserves a free load now and then.

DEEDEE: (Trying to reach across the space to her.) Thank you.

ALBERTA: Now, I suggest you go wake up Sleepy back there and see if there’s something he needs to talk about.

DEEDEE: Tell you the truth, I’m ready for a little peace and quiet.

ALBERTA: Good night. (Leaves.)

DEEDEE: (Reaching for the Dr. Pepper she put on the washer early on.) Yeah, peace and quiet. (Pops the top on the Dr. Pepper.) Too bad it don’t come in cans. (Lights go down as she stands there looking out the window.)

END OF ACT I

 

ACT II

THE POOL HALL

The pool hall is small and seedy. Plastic beer ads cover the walls. Talc is kept in empty candy-bar boxes along the window sills. There is an old bar with sacks of potato chips and other snacks. Tacky ashtrays and calendars litter the room. There is one television set and one pool table. “The Star-Spangled Banner” is playing on the television as the lights come up.

Willie is wiping off the bar. As the song ends, he turns off the TV and opens a beer. He pulls out a racing form and sits down. He looks at the clock. Shooter enters, carrying a sack of tacos, his cue case, and a beer.

SHOOTER: (In greeting.) Willie.

WILLIE: (Not looking up from the form.) It’s the man from the radio.

SHOOTER: How’s it goin’?

WILLIE: Gets any busier I’ll have to stand up.

SHOOTER: Or at least look up.

WILLIE: (Looking up now.) Sondra just called.

SHOOTER: She knows when I get off.

WILLIE: She sure does.

SHOOTER: Where else would I be?

WILLIE: Somethin’ like that.

SHOOTER: Somebody did one helluva job teaching that girl to tell the time. Tells me the time to come home, tells me the time to eat, tells me the time to go to bed.

WILLIE: Well, I told her I’d send you on soon’s you finished your beer.

SHOOTER: (Indicating the racing form.) Got any winners tomorrow?

WILLIE: Till tomorrow, they’re all winners.

SHOOTER: Still betting those grays?

WILLIE: Yeah, the older I get, the more I love them gray horses.

SHOOTER: Trouble is, most of the ones you pick, gray isn’t so much their color as an indication of their age.

WILLIE: Yeah, that one horse, Dusty Days, he’s still runnin’ from the first time I bet on him. (Laughs.) ’Bout eight years now. I sit here and handicap ’em, he always comes out the winner. I can’t figure it out.

SHOOTER: It’s some other dude does the handicappin’, Willie. Back in the stable. Finds out which ones you’re layin’ your money on, then ties lead weights to their legs. That’s handicappin’, man.

WILLIE: You’re tellin’ me.

SHOOTER: George go home already?

WILLIE: Sick.

SHOOTER: Bad?

WILLIE: You know any that’s good? Doc says circulation.

SHOOTER: I thought I improved his circulation with that wheelchair I gave him.

WILLIE: Callin’ himself the stick-shift cripple. That was nice, boy. End of the world wouldn’t keep ol’ George from comin’ in here every night, but he sure does like havin’ that motor do the work. Last six months, he gets real tired, real quick.

SHOOTER: Sondra said he wouldn’t even know it was real leather, but I figured, what the hell, it’s only money.

WILLIE: Oh he knew. Said, “Willie, cows got it rough, don’t they? Folks lookin’ at ’em seein’ steak dinners and upholstery.” You shoulda seen him, George doin’ this dumb cow voice, “Hey, man, you don’t love me for what I am. You love me for what I’m gonna be—your suede leather shoes that walk you to get your all-beef cheeseburger which you pay for outta your genuine cowhide wallet.”

SHOOTER: This dude at the surgical supply says, “Who’s this for, son?” I started into this whole number like I had to explain, “Well, George, see, he’s Sondra’s father. Sondra, that’s my wife. But George, he’s also, well, my dad and George and this other man Willie, Willie he owns a pool hall, the three of them were real tight, and since Dad’s gone now, one helluva pool player, my dad, anyway, George and Willie are like, well, George is family about five ways, see?” And on and on like that till finally he was givin’ me this crazy look so I slapped down all those hundreds and said, “Hey, man, just give me the chair, okay?”

WILLIE: White boy in here the other night wouldn’t let me lift George up to the rail to shoot. Said he had to keep one wheel on the floor.

SHOOTER: Just letting anybody in here these days.

WILLIE: Yeah. Even DJs.

SHOOTER: Little kid called me up tonight, wanted to talk to the record player. I said it don’t talk, kid. He said, “No, man, you man, the record player.” Over the air he said that. (And he sets his cue case on the bar.)

WILLIE: The record player.

SHOOTER: Very funny.

WILLIE: Oh come on, boy, it don’t matter what you say over the air.

SHOOTER: Thanks.

WILLIE: Folks turn on the radio to hear the music, remember?

SHOOTER: (Opening the cue case.) I’ll try to keep that in mind.

WILLIE: (Closing the cue case.) You’re hidin’ out tonight, aren’t you? Well, you ain’t hidin’ here.

SHOOTER: (Getting his cue out of the case.) What you mean is you don’t want nobody else hidin’ in your hole. Well, the “hole” population looks pretty sparse to me.

WILLIE: Then what are you doin’ here? Run outta skinny white girls?

SHOOTER: What’s with you, man?

WILLIE: Go home, boy. Get outta my hall. Go home. See your wife.

SHOOTER: Ah, now we’re gettin’—

WILLIE: Yeah, we’re gettin’—

SHOOTER: (Looking for the felt brush.) Nowhere, man. I’ve had enough of this mother-hen shit.

WILLIE: Then quit playin’ rooster.

(A big laugh from Shooter.)

SHOOTER: Oh I’m so sorry. Did I interrupt your nap? Did I disturb your dust?

WILLIE: You’re sorry all right. Did I pay for you to be born? Did I scrape up what was left of your old man when he died? Now you go home when I tell you.

SHOOTER: I’m what’s left of my old man.

WILLIE: Yeah. (Unfortunately.)

SHOOTER: And I didn’t plan to be in Miami Beach when he died, it just happened. So, I’d have done it.

WILLIE: But you didn’t. I identified him. I carried him to the ambulance. I bought his buryin’ suit. I paid for his funeral.

SHOOTER: You got a plot out back for George when he goes? Way you tell it, those guys can’t even die without you.

WILLIE: Man in here the other night said you better not die without payin’ him his six thousand dollars you owe him. Said he’d come to hell to get it. Left you this note.

SHOOTER: (Crumpling up the note.) Least thanks to me, you won’t have to carry George. Just dig the hole, then wheel him outta here some night, bury him wheelchair and all.

WILLIE: You can have your chair back, boy. He don’t need your four-speed charity.

SHOOTER: Listen to you, giving away the cripple’s chair. And charity, my man, is building a ramp (Pointing to the door.) up to a pool hall.

WILLIE: (Pointing to the cue.) What you think you’re doin’ with that?

SHOOTER: (Swinging it around in a showy move.) Gonna pick my teeth.

WILLIE: Might as well, G.W., ’cause you sure as hell don’t know nothin’ else to do with it.

SHOOTER: Least I ain’t forgot what it’s for. (And he sets the cue ball on the head spot, taps it down to the foot rail so it rolls back to hit the tip of the cue in follow-through position.)

WILLIE: And I ain’t tryin’ to be somethin’ I ain’t.

SHOOTER: I’m his kid.

WILLIE: You got his name.

SHOOTER: Yes sir. I’ve got the prize-winning best of the Three Blind Mice. I’ve got ol’ Shooter’s name, I’ve got George’s only child, Sondra. And now I’ve got my own private pool palace.

WILLIE: Think so, huh?

SHOOTER: But not for long, right, Willie? You ain’t the only nigger got spies. Man down at the station owns a part of Baskin-Robbins told me the chain needs a downtown shop and they got their eye on this place. I hear Mr. Rum Raisin makes a nice offer.

WILLIE: You heard wrong. I ain’t sellin’.

SHOOTER: The hell you ain’t. Come on, Willie, all the old pool players go to Asbury Park to die. Pool player’s paradise. Big tournaments, best players coming through all the time. Then just eight miles up the Jersey coast you got the ponies running at Monmouth Park. And gambling in Atlantic City. Don’t blame you for goin’, Willie.

WILLIE: This place is a firetrap. Who’d want it?

SHOOTER: You might as well tell me, Willie, ’cause I got the picture already. Wake up about noon, spend a coupla hours with the racing form, then go for a swim, well, more like a walk in the pool. Then drive up to Monmouth, catch the daily double, collect your money and get back in time to see the hustlers do business down at Hopkins Billiards. Yes sir, racing, roulette and rack ’em up, boys, Willie’s retirin’ to Asbury Park. I hear they even got green felt carpet in the nursing homes.

WILLIE: I’d sell this place in a minute just to keep you outta here, get you home at night.

SHOOTER: This place, got your “friend” Shooter’s tracks all over the floor? This place, the only place your “friend” George got to go every night? You’d sell the only thing you got to show for your whole life just to keep me paying Sondra’s cleaning lady?

WILLIE: I sure would.

SHOOTER: (As he puts the balls on the table.) Married her to please Dad and George and now I gotta keep her ’cause of you?

WILLIE: Catch right on, don’t you.

SHOOTER: You’re talking crazy, man.

WILLIE: You talk crazy for a living. Man gets famous talking to the air.

SHOOTER: I’m not famous.

WILLIE: But you do talk to the air.

SHOOTER: And get paid for it.

WILLIE: Well, it ain’t improved your personality.

SHOOTER: When you are a personality, you don’t have to have a personality.

WILLIE: Good thing.

SHOOTER: What’s between Sondra and me is between Sondra and me. What do you care? She’s not your baby.

WILLIE: She’s George’s baby and that’s enough for me. And if Shooter was here—

SHOOTER: He’d be shootin’ pool and that’s all. ’Cause he knew—

WILLIE: ’Cause that’s all he could do. Never had a job in his life. I paid for you to be born.

SHOOTER: We know.

WILLIE: (Refuses to stop.) George paid the electric, and I paid the phone bill. George kept the grocery sendin’ ham hocks, and I bought his beer.

SHOOTER: So what’s that come to? I’m good for my old man’s bills. (Getting out his wallet.) You take MasterCharge?

WILLIE: It comes to more than you’ll ever have.

SHOOTER: I’m rich, remember?

WILLIE: Too bad you ain’t blond. I hear that’s a terrific combination.

SHOOTER: Couldn’t you take care of that for me, Willie? I mean, you’re takin’ care of George and takin’ care Sondra gets her new Lincoln every year.

WILLIE: Whatever she wants. (Then quickly.) Don’t you rack those balls, boy.

SHOOTER: Uh-uh. (Racking the balls.) What she wants, my man, is everything there is. Sable coats, suede chairs, a Cuisinart and a cook to run it, trips to wherever-it-is Hong Kong, five-hundred-dollar shoes, and fourteen carat-gold fingernails.

WILLIE: Just things, kid. Everybody needs some things. You, you could even do with a few things.

SHOOTER: I don’t need any things.

WILLIE: Your things are how you know it’s your house.

SHOOTER: Then my house…is one of her things. I bought myself a recliner…

WILLIE: Yeah?

SHOOTER: She gave it away. (Pauses.) Said it didn’t go with the rest of the “things” I paid for. Marrying her was like cosigning for the national debt.

WILLIE: Marrying her was what you did.

SHOOTER: Unfortunately.

WILLIE: And you are going to stay married to her or you are going to have to answer to me.

SHOOTER: Well, the answer is no.

WILLIE: And you are going to keep her happy or you are gonna stay outta my sight. You gonna grow up if it kills you. And don’t you think you can get away with one thing because I know every move you make. You screw a sheep and I’ll know it.

SHOOTER: Sure you will. What else you got to do?

WILLIE: You’re the one needs somethin’ else to do. Somethin’ else besides that gambling or dope or whatever you s’posed to owe that greasy white boy that six thousand dollars for. He shows up again, I’ll kill him.

SHOOTER: It’s an investment, man.

WILLIE: The hell it is.

SHOOTER: Yeah. I’m buying a mountain, a great big mountain covered in pretty red flowers. None of your business.

WILLIE: You’re my business. You want somethin’ I can get for you, I’ll get it. Till then, I’m keepin’ you from makin’ the mistake of your life. You lose Sondra…she’s a real classy lady and you like the way she looks and you know it. She reminds you where you want to get to in this world. You lose her and you’re gonna lose it all. Then all you’ll have left is some lousy grams of cocaine and pictures of your daddy.

SHOOTER: And won’t you be happy then?

WILLIE: I will be happy—no, happy ain’t got nuthin’ to do with it. I will let you back in here when you stop messin’ around and stay where you belong. At home. With Sondra. Your wife.

SHOOTER: Till depth do us part.

WILLIE: Now that is all I have to say to you. Get outta my hall.

SHOOTER: I don’t believe you. I mean, did somebody make you Resident Caretaker and Marvelous Little Yard Man for the whole world?

WILLIE: If you don’t get outta my hall—

SHOOTER: What? Huh? (Taking his practice strokes.) What you gonna do, man? You gonna prune my hedge and trim the edges of my mile-long circular driveway? (Now gets up quickly, poses, in an old move of his father’s.) Give me a break! (And he gets in position just as quickly and breaks the racked balls with a powerful stroke.)

WILLIE: (Has to laugh.) Give me a break.

SHOOTER: (Pleased with his shot.) Yeah.

WILLIE: Shooter always said that.

SHOOTER: (After a moment.) Yeah. Give me a break.

WILLIE: Hadn’t been funny for years.

SHOOTER: He’s probably still sayin’ it. (And now he proceeds to run the balls in rotation.)

WILLIE: (Starting to clean up now.) Yeah. Beer’s probably hot in hell, but they got all the best pool players down there. Greenleaf, Hoppe…Shooter takin’ ’em all on, dollar a game and the loser runs up to heaven for the cold Falls City. (Laughs.) He was the best.

SHOOTER: Nobody even close.

WILLIE: One night he puts on this cowboy hat and glasses, wraps his left arm in a sling, rents a tux, figures to hop on down to South Side, Owensboro, pick up some fast cash. Borrows George’s car, gets the word about the shortstop* there, how much money he’s carrying, where he’ll be standin’ in the room—

SHOOTER: Who’s runnin’ that place now?

WILLIE: Lookin’ for some one-pocket, see? So he’s got on this rig. I swear he looks so strange, and walks in this joint and the bartender, swingin’ a pretzel around his finger and openin’ a beer, looks up, sees this bifocaled, broken-armed cowboy wearin’ a tux, and says, “Hey boys, it’s Shooter Stevens!” Like to died. He like to died. Got on all that crap and the first guy sees him says, “Hey boys, it’s Shooter Stevens! Trip the alarm, the robber has arrived.” (Shakes his head.) Nothin’, but nothin’ so goddamned sad as a pool player can’t get a game.

SHOOTER: (Referring to the fact that Willie won’t play with him.) Know what you mean.

WILLIE: But God, the thing he said the last night he…well…

SHOOTER: You can say it. You can say “the last night before the leap.” Before the final, flyin’ leap of his life.

WILLIE: Walked in. Right by a big money nine-ball goin’ over there. (Points.) Whistlin’. Not a good sign, whistlin’. Meant trouble when he was shootin’, but just walkin’ whistlin’, I didn’t worry, see?

SHOOTER: Wish you had, Willie.

WILLIE: Gets a Falls City and goes back to the nine-ball. Man with white shoes and his own stick, blue knitty pants says, “You in, buddy?” Man, I heard that word, “buddy,” and I knew it was all over. Shooter backs up to the cues there, picks a stick not even lookin’. Mr. White Shoes says, “You don’t even look?” Your ol’ man gives him the ugliest scariest straight-on stare you ever seen in your life and says, “Buddy, if you can’t play with any of ’em, you can’t play with any of ’em.” (He laughs.) Whole place cracked up.

SHOOTER: And sure enough that night…

WILLIE: He couldn’t play with any of ’em.

SHOOTER: Well, it had to be something else, Willie. My old man did not jump off of that bridge because of a lousy run here.

WILLIE: Sorry, boy. He did. He really did. Oh sure, maybe he knew he was losin’ it, shaky stroke, no games. Hell, George was even beatin’ him. So no, it wasn’t this one night, but it was this goddamn game and you can bet all your fancy DJ bucks on that.

SHOOTER: All right, then, since you know so much about my old man, why’d he pick that side? (He has been wanting to know the answer to this for a long time, but would prefer to have Willie think he has asked out of anger.)

WILLIE: Go for the salvage yard instead of the water?

SHOOTER: Why did he land on the ’56 Chevy?

WILLIE: I got a thought about it.

SHOOTER: Well, let’s hear it, Willie.

WILLIE: He was a helluva swimmer.

SHOOTER: Nice try, man.

WILLIE: I’m tellin’ you, boy, your old man was so stubborn, I mean, he didn’t want to give himself the slightest chance of pullin’ outta that dive alive. He’d never lived it down. George’d been on him somethin’ awful.

(Shooter takes a shot and misses. Willie laughs.)

SHOOTER: What’s so funny?

WILLIE: I’m sorry. See, they called me to come get him. One of the cops knew us. Got there, nice bright mornin’, spotted him soon’s I got outta the car. Been layin’ there all night, flat on his back, arms stretched out, legs hangin’ down over the windshield. That far away, I swear to God, he looked like he was gettin’ himself a suntan.

SHOOTER: Just what he always wanted.

WILLIE: Close up was different.

(Points but Shooter doesn’t see him.)

WILLIE: Needed a shorter bridge.

SHOOTER: That’s enough about it, okay?

WILLIE: I’m talkin’ your bridge, not his. (Starts to walk over.) Six inches, fingers to cue tip.

SHOOTER: You start playing again, I’ll start listening.

WILLIE: Shooter was the only game I had in this town. So he’s gone, so why bother?

SHOOTER: It’s your game, man.

WILLIE: It was his game. It killed him.

SHOOTER: You don’t keep in shape, he’ll be ashamed of you down at hell’s pool hall. Make you watch. “But I been waitin’ to play you, Shooter,” you’ll say, and he’ll say, “Willie, I’m real glad to see you and you look real good for an old man, but this is a serious game, you know?”

WILLIE: I’ll keep this place open, I’ll tell you to bend from the knees and stroke from the shoulder, but unless I get some all-fired good reason, like my life depended on it, I ain’t playin’.

SHOOTER: It’s gonna kill you to play with me?

WILLIE: You want a beer?

SHOOTER: You just couldn’t stand losin’ to me.

WILLIE: What I couldn’t stand, is a game that didn’t mean nothin’. Don’t take it personal, boy, but I went fifteen rounds with the champ, so I ain’t got nothin’ to prove to the challengers. Now do you want a beer or not?

SHOOTER: (Miscues.) No.

WILLIE: Boy.

SHOOTER: (Belligerent, expecting more advice.) Yeah?

WILLIE: What are you doing here?

(Shooter doesn’t answer. Willie turns away.)

SHOOTER: (Finally.) Workin’ on this bank shot.

WILLIE: (Louder.) Boy…

SHOOTER: (Stands up, leans on his stick.) What?

WILLIE: Look… (Then deciding not to go on with this.) Don’t lean on your… (Tired of this too.) Oh hell. Did you ever see him shoot with an umbrella?

SHOOTER: (Going back to his game.) No.

WILLIE: (Laughs.) He lost your crib one night before he figured it out.

SHOOTER: Huh?

WILLIE: Havin’ us a helluva storm, your old man comes in soaked, carryin’ his umbrella, still all folded up perfect. George busts out laughin’, says, “Why didn’t you use that thing? Shooter you the dumbest nigger.” And Shooter says, just like always, first thing popped into his head, says, “’Cause I’m runnin’ the rack with it, mother.” So George says, “Let’s see your green, man.” Well, Shooter didn’t have any, of course, so he says, “Bet the boy’s bed, buddy.” Now he goes real good for a while, but then he gets to the seven, and it’s plumb froze to the rail. He looks it over, checks the line, sets him a sweet rail bridge, pulls back to shoot. George waits for just the right moment and says, “Do de name Ruby Begonia ring a bell?”

SHOOTER: And Dad miscued.

WILLIE: Then he hit George upside of the head.

SHOOTER: Then George went over and got my crib.

WILLIE: Bet’s a bet, boy. Came draggin’ it back in here, said your mama said, “George I am so tired of seein’ your face carryin’ out my furniture.”

SHOOTER: Uh-huh.

WILLIE: So then Shooter has to learn how to shoot with that umbrella ’cause that’s the only way George will give the crib back. Run the rack you get it back. Run the rack, you get it back. Wonder old George didn’t die off of that bet. He could be awful mean, your daddy.

SHOOTER: The Three Blind Mice.

WILLIE: Well that’s what your mama thought all right.

SHOOTER: (Singing.) They all ran after the farmer’s wife.

WILLIE: You use a wafer on that tip?

SHOOTER: (Still singing.) She cut off their tails with a carving knife.

WILLIE: Need about five more pounds over your right foot.

SHOOTER: (Singing.) Did you ever see such a sight in your life as three blind mice.

WILLIE: God, your mama, that night down at the jail. (Laughing.) God almighty.

SHOOTER: I heard that story so many times. I don’t know anything like I know that story.

WILLIE: So do it.

SHOOTER: (As Mama did it, more music than narration.) See, I’m pregnant with you, boy, and paintin’ on your crib one night, while your daddy and George and Willie are busy beatin’ up on each other down at Willie’s pool hall.

WILLIE: (Loving this.) Yeah!

SHOOTER: And I pick up the phone and, Lord have mercy, it’s the police and they say they got three beat-up black men, all callin’ my name. And they said would I gather up some money and come relieve them of their prisoners. And they said, it’s gonna be dark when you get here, honey, ’cause the ’lectric’s knocked out and the stoves ain’t workin’, but we fed ’em Velveeta just to hold ’em till you get here, girl.

WILLIE: She took one look at us, drunk as shit, sittin’ on the floor, in the dark, eatin’ cheese. She said, “I drive myself all the way down here, I give them all my money, and what do I get?”

SHOOTER AND WILLIE: (As Mama said it.) The Three Blind Mice. (They laugh.)

WILLIE: Shooter turns on the radio on the way home and she says, “I ain’t through screamin’ at you yet, turn that thing off. And George, if you don’t stop bleedin’ on my Buick, you gonna walk!”

SHOOTER: It’s a wonder she didn’t drive him straight to the Red Cross, sayin’, “George here’s so anxious to give blood, he done started without you. Just catch a coupla pints and send him over to Willie’s when he dries up.”

WILLIE: (Beginning to recover from the laughing.) I’d like to see your mama again. Maybe she’ll come visit. She would’ve walked to China for your daddy. Nearly did a coupla times. But God, did she hate George.

SHOOTER: Remember George’s stick at the wedding?

WILLIE: And that big fudge cake sittin’ on the table here?

SHOOTER: Mom wanted the reception at the church.

WILLIE: Sure she did.

SHOOTER: Sondra wanted it at the Palm Room.

WILLIE: Not a bad place.

SHOOTER: Her mom wanted it at the Galt House.

(They both laugh.)

WILLIE: (Proudly.) But we had it…here.

SHOOTER: Got a great picture of Dad and George holdin’ their cues lookin’ down real serious at this what was always their table, but what is now a high-rise fudge cake, you pourin’ champagne on their heads.

WILLIE: Oh, Sondra was beautiful that day. She’s the best shot ol’ George ever made.

SHOOTER: She’s still beautiful, man. That’s not the problem.

WILLIE: She really wants a new Lincoln?

SHOOTER: Silver.

WILLIE: Used to look like the Lincoln dealership in front of this place.

SHOOTER: We can’t even go to Sears driving my BMW. Gotta arrive in her Linc.

WILLIE: (Proudly.) She just looks like money.

SHOOTER: Which is why I don’t have any.

WILLIE: George says they raised you to thirty grand.

SHOOTER: (Opening his sack of tacos.) Want a taco?

WILLIE: Says you can expect sixty maybe seventy in five years.

SHOOTER: And then what? You ever seen any old DJs man? You watch those records go around long enough, you start thinkin’ in circles, walkin’ in circles, talkin’ in circles. All I learned in five years is the names of eight hundred and ninety-two singing groups and how many people don’t have anybody to talk to late at night so they call up the “record player.”

WILLIE: So quit.

SHOOTER: And do what?

WILLIE: You tell me.

SHOOTER: I don’t know.

WILLIE: There’s gotta be somethin’ you like to do.

SHOOTER: I like to play pool.

WILLIE: That’s not what I mean. Somethin’ else.

SHOOTER: There isn’t anything else.

WILLIE: Then you got a real problem, boy, ’cause pool just ain’t your game.

SHOOTER: I see.

WILLIE: I mean, you do okay, but I gotta tell you—

SHOOTER: (Quietly.) No you don’t.

WILLIE: Good. So tell me somethin’ else you like to do.

(And Willie’s helpful tone only intensifies Shooter’s realization.)

SHOOTER: (In complete emotional panic.) There isn’t anything else I like to do.

(Willie backs off stunned, but knows not to wait too long before he starts to talk again.)

WILLIE: There’s about a billion jobs in this world. You think there ain’t one or two might make you happy?

SHOOTER: (Angry now.) How am I supposed to know what makes me happy? And what difference does it make? You don’t work to be happy. You work to make money. Happy, my man…was one of the seven dwarfs.

WILLIE: Well, either you really do like what you do, in which case you can shut up bitchin’ about it, or you hate what you do so you quit.

SHOOTER: I don’t like it and I don’t hate it. It pays the bills.

WILLIE: Fryin’ fish would pay the bills.

SHOOTER: Not her bills.

WILLIE: I’m sick to death of you blaming her for spendin’ the money you make. You quit makin’ it, she’ll quit spendin’ it. She’d do anything for you, but you ain’t told her anything except don’t buy fur coats. So she’s doin’ what she can. Makin’ you look good, and makin’ your house look good. You quit work, she’ll make poor look good. So you shut up about you have to work to pay her bills. Her bills are all you got to show for your work… (Pauses.) best I can tell.

SHOOTER: (Stops shooting.) Well, I got something to tell you. (Calm but firm.) And I got the chain burns to prove it. I am a certified, wholly owned, shipped-to-the-plantation slave boy, property of…MasterCharge. (And he takes a bite of his taco now.)

WILLIE: You shouldn’t eat that crap.

SHOOTER: Girl next door says they’re made out of dog food.

WILLIE: White girl?

SHOOTER: Come on, man, I stopped in the laundromat next door, put my clothes in the wash, and this white girl talked to me, okay?

WILLIE: Makes me sick just to look at those tacos. But George eats so many of ’em, he starts speakin’ Spanish around midnight.

SHOOTER: I keep tellin’ Sondra to come see him.

WILLIE: She should. He’s her father. She should come in here some night and see him.

SHOOTER: I know. I told her.

WILLIE: Yeah? So tell her not to. Tell her this is the last place you want to see her sweet face. Look ugly mean. Hit the table. She’ll sneak right over soon’s you look the other way.

SHOOTER: Yeah. Like this other routine she’s got asking should I wear the green or should I wear the red. I say green, she puts on the red. I say red—

WILLIE: On go the green.

SHOOTER: I mean, why does she bother to ask?

WILLIE: It ain’t just her, boy. They all do it.

SHOOTER: Yeah, but why?

WILLIE: Well if I knew that, I’d be on Johnny Carson ’stead of runnin’ this place.

SHOOTER: Yeah.

WILLIE: You get Sondra down here to see George. He needs it, but he won’t ask for it, and he won’t get himself over to her…your place, ’cause he don’t feel…he hates that white rug.

SHOOTER: Who doesn’t?

WILLIE: I know she don’t feel safe comin’ down, and I don’t exactly blame her, it ain’t safe, and she is good about callin’, but you bring her down here, you hear?

SHOOTER: (Throwing away the taco sack.) Right.

(Willie watches him, perhaps begins to feel a little of Shooter’s pain. Suddenly, Willie shouts.)

WILLIE: Shooter! Shooter Stevens! (And now he lines up the balls.) Wipe the sweat outta your eyes and pay attention up here, man. The boy’s gonna try your favorite trick! Shooter! Hey!

(Shooter doesn’t understand at first, then sees that Willie is preparing one of his father’s old shots.)

SHOOTER: Come on…

WILLIE: I’ll set it up for you. You can do it.

SHOOTER: This ain’t my game, remember?

WILLIE: (Pointing out what should happen.) Cue ball here, hit top center, like a clean follow. No English. Hit the one about half-ball, it goes here… (Points to the middle left-hand pocket.) while the two is rotatin’ its way up there. (Points to the top right-hand pocket.) And, not to leave anybody out in the cold, the cue ball rolls across the table and drops the three in the middle. (Middle right-hand pocket.) And, don’t scratch.

SHOOTER: Of course.

WILLIE: (Reviewing.) One to here, two up there, three over there.

SHOOTER: Yeah. (Studying the shot.) Okay. I’m ready.

WILLIE: (As Shooter is about to shoot.) Now, what about kids?

SHOOTER: Christ! You got a shopping list for my life. Milk, bread, wife, kids…

WILLIE: Then read me your list. What do you want?

SHOOTER: Her exact words, Willie, about kids? Her exact words, “I’m gonna blow up like a whale? Not this body, baby. Uh-uh, honey.” I mean, if you could buy ’em, she’d have ’em, but she ain’t buyin’ havin’ ’em.

WILLIE: Probably thinks she’d have to raise it by herself.

SHOOTER: If she’d have a baby, I’d stay.

WILLIE: Does she know that?

SHOOTER: But how long am I supposed to wait? If she had the boy today, I’d be forty when he’s ten. He’s ready to go play ball and I’m workin’ up a sweat gettin’ outta my chair.

WILLIE: And what you’re doin’ now, goin’ out on her all over town, that’s supposed to convince her to have your boy for you?

SHOOTER: Whoever’s playing records in your head’s asleep at the deck, man. Got a broken one, goin’ around and around.

WILLIE: You shape up, you’ll get your boy.

SHOOTER: Wanna bet?

WILLIE: Wanna try?

SHOOTER: I want to try this shot, okay?

WILLIE: Keep your stick level.

SHOOTER: All right. One for the old man. (Shoots and misses.) Shit.

WILLIE: One to nothin’, favor of the ol’ man.

SHOOTER: He really could make this?

WILLIE: This shot bought you strained carrots, boy. Lotta folks thought he couldn’t make this shot. Lotta folks and lotta their money said he’d miss. But he never did.

SHOOTER: Then we’ll just give it another shot.

(And Shooter goes around, replacing the balls. Willie adjusts them so they’re in the right positions.)

WILLIE: (Trying another approach.) There’s nothin’ wrong, I mean, with you or Sondra? Doctor’s got all kinds of—

SHOOTER: No.

WILLIE: There’s tests.

SHOOTER: Look, Willie, she’s taking the pill, using a diaphragm, I have to wear a rubber. Keeps foam just in case, I mean, this lady does not want any kids, okay?

WILLIE: Then you gotta change her mind. George needs a grandbaby.

SHOOTER: Tell that to her. Have George tell that to her.

WILLIE: Shooter needs a grandbaby.

SHOOTER: Shooter is dead. (Now turning to face him.) Willie needs the grand-baby.

WILLIE: (As Shooter is ready to try the shot again.) You don’t have any children, it’s the end of the line for the Three Blind Mice.

SHOOTER: You’re talking to the wrong person, Willie. I want kids. But I’ll tell you something, Sondra could care less about the Three Blind Mice. Here we go. (Shoots and misses again.)

WILLIE: That’s two. Three and the ol’ man crosses you off his visitin’ list.

SHOOTER: Have your own kid. You got a coupla good shots left, huh?

WILLIE: I’m old, G.W.

SHOOTER: Ain’t a question of old. It’s a question of aim. Concentration. Bend from the hips, steady stroke, you know.

WILLIE: (Laughs.) I know.

SHOOTER: How long’s it been?

WILLIE: None of your damned business.

SHOOTER: That long, huh?

(Willie gets out his keys and walks to the door.)

SHOOTER: Okay. Here goes. Watch.

WILLIE: I’m watchin’.

SHOOTER: (As he misses again.) Shit.

WILLIE: That’s three.

(As Willie gets to the back door, it opens, and Deedee steps in carrying a stack of folded clothes.)

DEEDEE: Hello?

WILLIE: Laundry’s next door, miss.

DEEDEE: (Steps in, very uncomfortable.) Yeah, but I’m lookin’ for the pool hall.

WILLIE: We’re closed.

DEEDEE: Are you Willie?

WILLIE: (Grudgingly.) Yes.

DEEDEE: See? I got Shooter Stevens’s clothes. Shooter Stevens? He put ’em in over there and I figured since I didn’t really have—

WILLIE: Shooter Stevens? (Turning around to look at Shooter.) You got Shooter Stevens’s clothes?

DEEDEE: It’s his nickname.

WILLIE: Girl’s got your old man’s clothes, Gary Wayne. (Very bitter.) Shooter Stevens’s clothes.

SHOOTER: (Walking over.) Hey, thanks.

(Shooter takes the clothes from her. Deedee follows him into the room, then stops as though Willie had grabbed her.)

DEEDEE: I thought they were yours, oh well, guess it don’t matter now.

WILLIE: Nope. It don’t matter now.

SHOOTER: You didn’t have to bring me these.

DEEDEE: Your dad has nice stuff.

SHOOTER: They’re mine.

DEEDEE: Can I come in?

SHOOTER: Sure. I invited you, didn’t I?

DEEDEE: Don’t you just love the way they smell when they come out of the dryer?

SHOOTER: You thirsty?

DEEDEE: I put in a Cling-Free. That’s the smell. There any tacos left?

SHOOTER: (Walking toward the bar.) Sorry. Chips though.

WILLIE: Dollar a bag.

(Shooter stops. Willie shouldn’t have said that.)

DEEDEE: Mind if I look around?

WILLIE: Not much to see.

SHOOTER: Sure. I’ll set up so you can see how the game goes.

DEEDEE: (To Willie.) My name’s Deedee. (No response from Willie.) Hard to tell what year it is in here. (Picking up an ashtray.) Hey! I been there! (Reading from the ashtray.) See Rock City! (Then remembering.) It wasn’t much. Only thing I really wanted to see, we couldn’t stop for. On the way there, kept seein’ these signs…Giant Jungle Rat. Sure wish I coulda seen that Giant Jungle Rat.

WILLIE: (In Shooter’s direction.) Oh we got ’em come in here all the time.

SHOOTER: Really just old jungle mice.

DEEDEE: Shooter, are you hungry? There’s this pancake place down on Broadway…

WILLIE: His name is Gary Wayne.

SHOOTER: I always wondered if that place was any good. I haven’t had any pancakes since—

DEEDEE: You’d love it. They’re open all night too.

WILLIE: Oh, I thought the Board of Health closed it down.

SHOOTER: Now, first you have to break.

(Gets into position, Deedee comes over to watch.)

SHOOTER: Like this.

WILLIE: Or somethin’ like that. Stop by some day when we’re open, you’ll see what a real—

(Shooter gives her the cue, and gives Willie a fierce look.)

SHOOTER: This is a game of rotation. You have to hit the one ball first. Then every shot after that, you have to hit the lowest numbered ball on the table. You can sink other balls with the shot, but if you don’t hit the low ball first, the other balls come out and you lose your turn. (Now showing her how to stand.) Bend like this, let the cue just rest in your hand, somewhere around here, or so. Now…stand up a minute. (Showing her a beginner’s bridge.) Put your hand out on the table flat like this. Ease it up, like how an inchworm…

DEEDEE: (Doing it.) That?

SHOOTER: Perfect. Now curl your index finger and slip the cue through it. (Reaching around her to show her how it’s done.) Take some practice strokes. Eye on the ball.

DEEDEE: (Straightening up suddenly.) I got it! Your dad’s name was the same as yours.

SHOOTER: Yeah.

DEEDEE: Shooter.

WILLIE: No. Stevens.

SHOOTER: And he was one helluva pool player. (Trying to appease Willie.) Dad and Willie, here, and this other man, George—

WILLIE: The father of G.W.’s wife—

SHOOTER: Were real tight.

(Deedee gets back in position and takes practice strokes.)

DEEDEE: Friends.

SHOOTER: More like triplets. I ever needed anything, lunch money, rubbers, anything, didn’t matter which one I asked. Seemed like it all came out of the same pocket.

WILLIE: (Not to Deedee.) It did.

SHOOTER: Gave the same advice, wore the same clothes, drove the same cars, drank the same beer, ’bout the same age, called themselves the Three Blind Mice.

(Willie does not appreciate Shooter giving away this information. That name was something they called themselves, not something they would let anybody else call them.)

DEEDEE: (A little bored by this information.) This place we did stop in, on that trip where we didn’t stop in to see the Giant Jungle Rat, this place, Pete’s, had this three-headed mouse in a jar. It was dead, though. A freak. (Now concentrating on the table.) I’m ready. (She shoots and miscues.) What happened?

SHOOTER: Aim for the middle of the ball. Loosen up your finger a little.

DEEDEE: They said it had, I mean, they, the heads…only had one heart. That’s what killed them, it, the mouse.

SHOOTER: Yeah.

(And Deedee tries to shoot on her own now, Shooter backing off a little to watch.)

DEEDEE: How does this end, this rotation?

WILLIE: I could turn out the lights.

SHOOTER: First person to get sixty-one points wins the game.

DEEDEE: Could be real soon, huh?

SHOOTER: What kind of pancakes do you like?

DEEDEE: Strawberry, with whipped cream.

SHOOTER: I’ll just call and have them save us some. Wouldn’t want them running out before we get there.

DEEDEE: (Handing him the cue.) Here. You get the rest of them, okay?

WILLIE: Her mother’s probably worried about her, G.W.

DEEDEE: It must feel real good to like somethin’ this much.

(And Shooter is putting on a real show now, getting all the balls in as quickly as possible.)

DEEDEE: Mom likes TV.

SHOOTER: Yeah?

DEEDEE: Joe loves his ’56 Chevy.

WILLIE: (In Shooter’s direction.) Joe loves his ’56 Chevy.

DEEDEE: I must love somethin’.

WILLIE: Miss…

SHOOTER: (Indicating, somehow, himself.) Giant Jungle Rats?

WILLIE: Deedee…that’s your name, Deedee?

DEEDEE: Yes.

WILLIE: Go home.

SHOOTER: Willie!

WILLIE: The pool hall is closed. And Gary Wayne has a wife to go home to, and I’m gonna see that he gets there. Now go home.

DEEDEE: No, see, we’re gonna—

WILLIE: Good night.

(Deedee looks at Shooter as if asking whether she should go or not. Shooter looks at Willie, then back to Deedee. This is an awkward moment, to say the least. Finally, Shooter shrugs his shoulders.)

SHOOTER: It’s his hall.

DEEDEE: Yeah.

SHOOTER: Need a cab?

DEEDEE: (As she walks to the door.) I just live across the street.

SHOOTER: I’ll watch you out the window.

DEEDEE: That’s us. (Pointing.) See those blueberries in the window? It’s a light. They’re a light. I mean, I like blue, it’s not my favorite color, but I like it a lot, and somebody gave it to me for, well, if the other lights were out, then you could see it real good, no, not it, them, no, it, the light better, the vines on it and everything. (She’s really chattering here.) I can’t ever, well, I have to hunt all over town to find blue bulbs. I tried painting one blue, but something in the paint, I guess, made the bulb break. No, it didn’t break, but it got these little holes all over the… (Smacks herself to stop talking.) Don’t you ever shut up, Deedee? (Embarrassed laugh.) Mom says I could find somethin’ to say to a head of cabbage.

SHOOTER: You got a cabbage at home to talk to?

DEEDEE: Yeah. I do. (She laughs.) ’Night.

SHOOTER: (Stepping back in, door still open.) Thanks again for the laundry. Good night.

(Shooter closes the door, but he is still watching her. He yells at Willie, who is returning the pool cue to its place on the wall.)

SHOOTER: (Fiercely.) Just who do you think you are, man?

WILLIE: Messed up your plans, huh, boy?

SHOOTER: I can make them again, you know.

WILLIE: Not in here.

SHOOTER: It’s a free country.

WILLIE: Not in here.

SHOOTER: And who knows, if she’d stayed here a little longer, you might have even picked up a cue and played with me. Anything, you’d have done just about anything to keep me from sharing a stack of strawberry pancakes with a dumb little blonde who talks to cabbages. I mean, you tell me why it is I am not allowed to talk to other people in this world without you standing there like Moses heaving your stone-tablet ten commandments down on my head. You do this to Dad? That your deal with him? I’ll pay your bills, you do what I say? And when he couldn’t make your trick shots anymore, he had to jump off that bridge because he never found anything else satisfying in his life ’cause you already done it all for him. Is that the real story?

WILLIE: Shooter was my friend. And I don’t see that you got any friends, so you don’t know nothin’ about friends, so you shut up.

SHOOTER: He was my father and I’ll say whatever I want. And I’ll call myself Shooter if I want. And I’ll dump Sondra if I want and I’ll screw white women if I want.

WILLIE: (Very cold.) Go to hell.

SHOOTER: I mean, what gives you the right to run my life?

WILLIE: I’ll tell you what it is, you little—

SHOOTER: (Boiling.) The Gospel According to Willie:

Thou shalt not call thyself by thy father’s name because it is a holy name.

Thou shalt not try to play thy father’s game because it is a holy game.

Thou shalt not give thy father-in-law George a motorized wheelchair because I, Willie, am the giver of all good things.

Thou shalt not make thy living at a radio station.

Thou shalt not refuse thy wife a new Lincoln or any other damn fool thing she wants.

Thou shalt not go home at night except that thou go straight home.

Thou shalt not talk to any other women.

Thou shalt especially not talk to white women.

WILLIE: Eight.

SHOOTER: Thou shalt not get old enough to make thy own decisions.

WILLIE: (Almost a dare.) Nine?

SHOOTER: (Particularly intense.) That’s all of your gospel, Willie. The last two are mine. The last two are for you. Thou shalt not forsake, desert, skip out on, run away from, break promises to, or leave behind to die…thy friends.

WILLIE: (Truly confused.) What?

SHOOTER: What do you mean “What?” Thou shalt not sell this pool hall!

WILLIE: I told you—

(But Shooter can’t stop now. He’s been wanting to deliver this lecture ever since he got here tonight. This is why he came here.)

SHOOTER: Don’t you know what it’s going to do to George when you split for New Jersey? It’s going to kill him. Where’s he got to go? Nowhere. What’s he got to do? Nothing. Who does he care about in the world? Nobody…except you. And you’re selling this place, and too cheap at that, so you can go live it up at Asbury Park. (Now as if Willie were saying it.) Well, George, old friend, I hate to leave you like this, in the wheelchair and all, but listen, you call me up sometime and we’ll talk about the good old days.

WILLIE: (Calmly.) George…

SHOOTER: George will understand? George will not understand! Only two of the Three Blind Mice left as it is, and Willie wants to sell the hole. And you were giving me that shit about Sondra. Do your duty, keep your promises. Hang in there with those commitments, G.W., and all the time, you’re deciding whether to pack your black shoes and wondering if they got Senior Citizens swimming pools.

WILLIE: Are you through?

SHOOTER: No. All my life I watched Dad and George depend on you. And maybe you got a rest coming, but you can’t do it yet. If you leave now, while he’s sick, then all that friends talk was just talk, and all those friends stories must be made up, and all that you-be-good-to-Sondra because-she’s-my-friend-George’s-little-girl lecture is nothing but lies, because if you leave him all alone, you are not his friend and you never were.

WILLIE: My friend, George…

SHOOTER: Your “friend,” George…

WILLIE: My…friend…George…is…dying.

SHOOTER: No.

WILLIE: Yes. And I am not going to Asbury Park. I am going to stay here and watch my friend George die.

SHOOTER: You said sick.

WILLIE: Yeah I said sick. Why didn’t you go home when I first told you to, boy?

SHOOTER: (More gentle now.) I didn’t want to.

WILLIE: (Wearily.) Would you go home now?

SHOOTER: No. (Walks behind the bar.) Beer?

WILLIE: Yeah.

(And Shooter opens two beers, puts one in front of Willie.)

WILLIE: And a bag of chips. (As Shooter gets one.) Uh-uh. The one at the top.

SHOOTER: (Reaching for it.) This one?

WILLIE: Yeah. (Taking the bag and looking at it.) We been watchin’ this bag, me and George. (Pauses.) We figure it’s about a year old now.

SHOOTER: How long does he have?

WILLIE: Six months, maybe.

SHOOTER: That’s not much.

WILLIE: Nope.

SHOOTER: Hospital?

WILLIE: Friday. They said he’d be more comfortable.

SHOOTER: That bad.

WILLIE: Right.

SHOOTER: And this place…selling this place…is going to pay for it.

WILLIE: Just about. (Pause.) If he really drags his feet, it might take my car, too. (Then standing up.) Shit, the pool hall on the mall’s gettin’ all the business anyway. Got pinball machines and air hockey.

SHOOTER: (With contempt.) Pink felt tables and a ladies’ john.

WILLIE: (Laughs.) Real clean.

SHOOTER: Safe.

WILLIE: Then there’s the jukebox, here. Don’t exactly draw the crowd, you know.

SHOOTER: Huh?

WILLIE: Day George got his first wheelchair, hit him pretty hard, you know. I thought I told you this.

(Shooter shakes his head no.)

WILLIE: Had me stop by Vine Records, buy all his favorites, coupla Chubby Checkers, lotta Tennessee Ernie Ford, Christ!

(Shooter laughs.)

WILLIE: Filled up the jukebox with ’em. Left on the labels, up top here, like they were, just changed the records. Now, see, no matter what somebody picks out, they get one of George’s oldies but goodies. Makes people mad. Makes me mad. Got lousy taste in music, George. Likes real crap, you know. (Pats the machine.) Isn’t all that bad, though. Funny sometimes. People punchin’ up Aretha Franklin, gettin’ Pat Boone.

SHOOTER: Pat Boone?

WILLIE: I told you he was sick.

SHOOTER: Know what he told me the day we got married?

WILLIE: Little fatherly advice?

SHOOTER: He said, “Boy, there’s somethin’ you got to know about women. (Conspiratorial tone.) You want ’em to act nice, you want to stay outta trouble with ’em, you want ’em to love you forever?” (Now in his own voice.) “Yeah,” I’m sayin’, “yeah, George, how do I do that?” And he says, “Well, when you get undressed at night…you got to hang up your clothes.”

WILLIE: Goddamn him.

SHOOTER: Sondra must’ve guessed. She said George was smelling funny and that’s why she wouldn’t come see him.

WILLIE: She’s just scared of it.

SHOOTER: Aren’t you?

WILLIE: George ain’t got a smell on him I ain’t smelled. (Shooter laughs.) She just don’t want to know about it.

SHOOTER: Maybe.

WILLIE: She’s afraid she’ll be with him when it happens. He’ll say somethin’ smart like, “If you’ll excuse me, girl, I gotta be goin’.” Close his eyes and split. Go. Die.

SHOOTER: Maybe. (Gentler about her now.) And maybe she’s just a selfish, silly girl who started buying grown-up clothes but never grew into them.

WILLIE: She’ll get there.

SHOOTER: I could help, with George.

WILLIE: Save it.

SHOOTER: For you?

WILLIE: I want a table, set right next to my casket, so right after “Don’t he look nice,” I’ll hear “Little nine-ball?” I mean, if I gotta lay there dyin’ for a beer, least I can have a game to watch. Boys cussin’ and carryin’ on, balls flyin’ off the table, crushin’ carnations in my wreath I’m wearin’ says “Bartender.”

SHOOTER: If that’s the way you want it.

WILLIE: You know what I want. I want you and Sondra—

SHOOTER: Yeah, I know.

WILLIE: Right.

SHOOTER: I heard you, okay?

WILLIE: So?

SHOOTER: So what?

WILLIE: So are we gonna play or not?

(Willies offer is so unexpected, it triggers an overwhelming emotional response in both of them. They embrace, acknowledging at last their desperate need, their mutual loss, and their pure and lasting love for each other.)

SHOOTER: Oh man.

WILLIE: Thought you were too old to hug me, didn’t you.

SHOOTER: (Fondly.) Just get off my neck and chalk your cue. Nine-ball. Dollar a game.

WILLIE: You’re on, buddy.

(Shooter gets out the balls and racks them in silence as Willie gets his cue and chalks it. Willie takes his practice, then looks up at Shooter.)

WILLIE: I got to see this dollar, boy.

SHOOTER: Give me a break. (And he slaps his dollar down on the table.)

WILLIE: What did you say? (And he stands up, assumes old Shooter’s pose.)

WILLIE AND SHOOTER: (As Shooter would have said it.) Give me a break.

(And Willie breaks the balls with a powerful shot and the lights come down immediately. We hear the beginning of ad-lib exchanges as the game starts.)

THE END

*The shortstop is the best local player, the hustler’s target.