6
Improvisation
The other day I had a wild impulse to write about something, anything, without precisely knowing what. “Why plan?” I asked. “Why choose a worthy theme to write about? Why can’t I be free as a bird and fly into the endless blue without a compass?” Fine, I will have fun. What shall I write about?
Funny, although I have decided not to worry about structure, concept, and all the difficulties a writer has to face, I am stumped at the very beginning. I must start with a character. Okay, I shall start with a character and let him go wherever he wishes. What kind shall I choose? I don’t want any normal, everyday person. He should be someone I really don’t know.
It will be an experiment. A holiday, so to speak. He will be . . . let me see . . . I shouldn’t be too hasty. After all, I have to have some knowledge of the man with whom I want to go out for a lark. How about an artist? No. A flier? No, no. A banker? Of course not . . . A bum . . . a good-for-nothing pimp? But what shall I do with . . . wait a minute . . . I never knew a pimp. How can I set out with him? Wait a minute! I can question him. I will be his alter-ego and ask him such questions as only an alter-ego could ask . . . or answer.
I know a pimp must be an outlaw, a criminal, who has a crooked mind. His foresight has been damaged, or perhaps he never had any. But one thing is certain, this man must have a set of intimate characteristics possessed by no one else on this earth. In order to find out all about it, I have to become both him and his questioner who intends to live as a parasite himself. Let me show you what I have in mind:
Q. What do you think of your father, Victor?
A. He is an old drunkard with cauliflower ears, and I have no real witnesses that he is my old man.
Q. Let’s suppose that he is your father—do you love him? A. Not me. Any male animal can be a father. What’s so wonderful about that?
Q. Why don’t you love him?
A. Because I hate his guts. When I was in rompers, he used to kick me around and I still feel it in my head. He used to say to my old lady that I was as disgusting as a cockroach to him—and if she didn’t get rid of me he would step on me one day and squash my dirty little head to a pulp.
Q. You couldn’t remember that!
A. Maybe not, but it’s true.
Q. How about your mother?
A. Ugh! My mother! She was the most disgusting female I’ve ever seen. Udders like a cow, hanging on her like two big empty bags which were supposed to drive a man crazy. I don’t see how any man, including my drunken father, could go to bed with her. But somebody must have—because here I am!
Q. How about your sister?
A. She’s a brood cow too—no brains!
Q. It seems that you think a great deal of yourself.
A. I am one of a kind.
Q. What kind?
A. I’m smart—I’m not going to kill myself working in a factory.
Q. How about an office?
A. It’s no better. Day after day filled with the same routine.
Q. Did you ever try it?
A. Sure. It’s all right for a dirty foreigner, who don’t know any better.
Q. But my good man, how about all the Americans who work in such places?
A. They are stupid too; rich men don’t slave.
Q. Not all men are born rich.
A. I know that! But the ones who don’t work are. It was their dear old pappies who were the real McCoy. Born in the slums, they became the big-shot gangsters of their time, cutthroats who left a few cool million for their brats, who can afford to go around preaching honesty. They can go to hell.
Q. How old are you?
A. Thirty.
Q. How do you earn your living?
A. I do a little job here and there.
Q. What kind of a job?
A. I said “job.” The rest is my business.
Q. Okay, have it your way. Do you want to get married?
A. Why should I buy a cow when I can get milk for nothing?
Q. What do you think of women?
A. Lay ’em and leave ’em!
Q. How about other men? Do you trust them?
A. Many a time I’ve caught myself distrusting even myself.
Q. How come?
A. I make up my mind to do a certain thing, and at the last minute I get an idea that another way would be better.
Q. Was it?
A. Well, what I’m trying to say is that—if you can’t trust yourself, how in hell can you trust anyone else?
Q. Do you think you’re a genius?
A. I get along—don’t you worry about that!
Q. But I do worry. I’m going to write about you, and I really want to know who you are.
A. You’re inside me; you figure me out!
Q. Do you read books?
A. What for? They’re full of malarkey; too much gab. A boy and a girl do a lot of talking, then they go to bed. With me it’s different. I start out by going to bed with a broad, and after that there’s nothing to gab about.
Q. So love is a very simple problem as far as you are concerned?
A. Yup.
Q. Do you ever think of your future?
A. What future? We live until we croak.
Q. What about your old age?
A. One of these days I’ll either be knifed or shot, and my old-age problems will be solved.
Q. Why should anyone want to kill you?
A. Well, there are a lot of married broads who are bored, and willing to experiment, and if their old man finds out she is horsing around—he is ready to shoot to kill.
Q. Do you think he is justified?
A. Of course not!
Q. How about decency and loyalty?
A. Oh, come off it . . .
Q. Of course you wouldn’t know—forget it. Aren’t you pimping for two girls?
A. Four.
Q. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?
A. Man! I didn’t force them into their work. They came to me for help.
Q. You are selling human flesh?
A. Selling? I’m just protecting them.
Q. From what?
A. From other pimps—guys who would rob them!
Q. Aren’t you?
A. I’m different. They give it to me. I’m just like a husband to them.
Q. Nice husband—live on prostitution!
A. Man! Just show me one goddamn man or woman who doesn’t sell himself or herself to someone. We’re all in the same boat. We’re all prostitutes, one way or another, as I see it.
Q. Do you believe in God?
A. Sure.
Q. Aren’t you ever afraid?
A. Why should I be? I’m just a small-timer—let the big bastards be afraid!
Q. You don’t give a damn what people think of you?
A. Man! You said a mouthful! (Silence) Now—do you know me any better?
Q. You are completely unscrupulous. You have no moral standards and no respect for anyone. I wonder how you, or any human being, can live like that?
A. I manage.
Q. I see you do; but still, you are an animal in human form. Any man who cannot think of any other human being but himself does not deserve the distinction of being called a man.
A. Okay—stop beefing. What’s the verdict? Can you use me in your story?
Q. I’m going to show you as an example of human degradation. You are a specimen of the lowest order, whose mind is ossified, and remains so. Are you insulted, Victor?
A. Hell, no. I take you as you are, Mister—you just don’t know any better. You’re a square, that’s all. You think your own goddamn way, you call him an animal! I dig you, Man, I sure do! You know why? ’Cause I’m broad-minded.
Q. Victor, I’m going to ask you a very important question, so be very careful before you answer. Do you think you can change? I mean, to become more human?
A. What do you mean “more” human? I am human!
Q. I think that I am wasting my time. Your type will never change. I’m sure I know you quite well by now. One more thing, though. Of course you’re having sexual relations with all of your four girls?
A. Of course. They’re my girls—wouldn’t you in my place?
Q. No comment, Victor, and no more questions.
A. Man! Don’t be afraid of me. I knew you wouldn’t . . . Hey! Hey. . . . What’s your rush? . . . Now why in hell did he have to bang that goddamn door so hard? I dig him, though—He’s just a poor brainless cockroach!
Now I have never met a pimp or any other kind of criminal in my whole life. Victor lives only in my imagination. I have only imagined that he would react as I think he should. But there are many other Victors, and I take it for granted that they too would act according to their own individual characteristics. But that is enough about Victor. Now I will merge this unscrupulous man with a woman. What kind of female could or would be willing to love such a man? At this moment that is a rhetorical question because I do not know her yet. I am looking for a woman who is his exact opposite. Since he is a crook, the best thing I can do is to find someone who has no conception of wickedness.
She should be an idealist, someone who is innocence incarnate; someone of unimpaired integrity. I have a name for her—Barbara Watson. Nothing special, just a name.
I see no reason for questioning this girl as I did Victor. She would be unable to say much if she is untouched by life, as I have imagined her to be. (Somewhere, deep in my memory, there is something stirring. I seem to remember knowing just such a girl but, as yet, I cannot recall where or when.)
Even if I find out all I want to know about this girl there will be a difficulty in bringing two such worlds-apart persons together. How will this be possible? How can a girl of nineteen or twenty be so innocent? How can she not have had contact with men? And if she has, how can she remain so completely naive, knowing nothing about human perversity? Perhaps she’s come from a far-away place where visitors are rare and long-remembered. I hesitate. I do not know anything about such a place and I do not want to do extensive research now. I prefer a girl from familiar surroundings.
A girl . . . from familiar surroundings.... I have just the girl I want! She is a former student of mine who is very vivid in my memory. She fits perfectly into the story and will help Barbara Watson come to life.
I know my student is the only child of a happily-married couple, but many details of her early life are from my imagination. Her father sold used cars in a small, quickly-growing Texas town. Barbara had developed a very serious case of rheumatic fever at the age of twelve. For long, miserable years she was confined to her bed. She finished her schooling from her bed (unfortunately, so far all this is quite true). The doctors and specialists told her disconsolate parents that the child would be lucky to live to be thirty-five years old. (In truth, she lived to be exactly thirty-five.)
Barbara overheard the doctor’s report. Her parents never knew this, so they were cheerful and confident in her presence, and promised her a long, happy life.
She read two or three books a day, many relating to natural phenomena and science. The doctors let her leave her bed when she was twenty. But a great tragedy—the death of both parents in an automobile accident—sent her back to bed with double pneumonia. Members of her church helped Barbara through her long and painful recuperation.
Her minister, Reverend Bert Hutchins, persuaded a mechanic who was a member of the congregation, and a friend of her father’s, to take over the used-car business and share it fifty-fifty with Barbara.
She had no relatives except a great-aunt who lived in New York City. (As you see, I need this New York locale to bring Barbara into close proximity to Victor, the pimp.)
She wrote to this great-aunt and asked if she might come and live with her. The old lady agreed. Barbara arrived in New York within a few days of receiving the letter. The aunt, whom she had never seen, was old, wrinkled, and as unpleasant and set in her ways as they come. She was a widow who ran a cheap rooming-house in Greenwich Village. She welcomed Barbara with as much feeling as she could command, and gave her a dark little room on the lower floor, near her own.
Although Barbara ate with her aunt, she spent most of her time alone, reading science books from the library or watching television.
One evening, while her aunt was away, a fuse blew out in Barbara’s section of the house. When she knocked on the door next to hers for assistance, a tall, blond, good-looking young man asked her what she wanted. (He was, of course, Victor the pimp.) Even though he decided she was not his dish, he went out and bought a fuse and soon the lights were on again. In appreciation Barbara invited him for coffee. He found her not only innocent, but disgustingly innocent about what most girls discover in their early teens.
But she too made a discovery. Victor, with all his poise and cheap witticisms, had never read a book in his life! They talked for several hours, and thereafter he came back day after day to hear Barbara’s exciting little lectures about the cosmos and the immense galaxies of stars. She explained the earth’s relationship to the sun as a life-giver, and the creator of all the other satellites, and the sun’s juxtaposition in the cosmos to the earth’s immediate family, The Milky Way.
Victor was astounded to hear so much knowledge coming from this naive girl with the shining, childlike face who sat quietly beside him.
Victor couldn’t explain it, but he became aware of a strange feeling of confusion. He had always prided himself on his quick mind, his ready tongue, his penetrating points and his invariable rightness. In his simple mind, everything was simple. But Barbara somehow made everything different. He began to doubt that he was the wisest man in the world. He felt ashamed, ignorant, with a disturbing desire to know more.
He loved to sit and listen to her quiet, wonderfully soothing voice. Once when she told him about light years, he asked in astonishment, “What in tarnation are they?” Barbara, with a silent joy, explained that light travels 186,000 miles per second and, by knowing this, you can figure out how far light travels in sixty seconds, in an hour, a day, a week, a month, or a year. Victor was spellbound.
On this same day, he went to the apartment of his four girlfriends and asked quite proudly what they knew about light years. The girls didn’t know a thing about them and cared less. But Betsy, the blonde girl, told him he was very smart, and Arah, the brunette, told him he should be a professor.
Barbara lived for Victor’s visits, but her great-aunt didn’t like the idea of their friendship. She warned Victor he had better let the girl alone, or else.
So Barbara went to his room, to tell her eager student about the discoveries and insights she had accumulated through her long illness. Victor was especially impressed with the constellations and the relationship of the moon to the tides of the ocean.
One day her great-aunt heard their voices and burst into Victor’s room. She gave him a good thrashing with her cane and called him names that were strange and ugly in Barbara’s ears. However, this attack didn’t end their friendship. He invited her to the apartment of his four girlfriends. She happily accepted and he was delighted as he watched the girls listening to her stories of the majesty of the universe and the smallness of the atom. Arah, surprisingly enough, asked very sensible questions and Barbara answered them eagerly, with the devotion of a dedicated crusader. She had no conception of the girls’ work, nor their first amusement at someone wrapped up in science to the exclusion of being a woman.
After a few visits to the apartment, Barbara noticed their little group began to grow. She became the Socrates of this strange group. To keep up with their questions, she went to the public libraries and museums, and read furiously to satisfy their growing interests.
After a while Barbara noticed that one girl or another would disappear into a back room with a strange man and then would hurry back, as if nothing had happened, eager to listen to the subject being discussed.
She asked Victor about it. Were they displeased with her talk, were they bored, or had she said something unpleasant to offend them? Victor was shocked by her unbelievable naiveté. Curious, he began to question her about her past, and slowly Barbara told him all about herself and her parents’ violent death.
He was deeply shocked. Perhaps for the first time in his flippant life he felt real pity for a person. To him she was not a woman but a personality, who had given him something he had never dreamt about—a new world.
Sex was a cheap commodity in Victor’s life. Therefore he respected Barbara without realizing it. Many times he was abashed by her and often he didn’t know how to talk or behave in her presence.
Having heard her story and observed her frail appearance, he was sure she would die at thirty-five if not before. He didn’t believe in angels but, to him, she was something out of this world, disturbing and unusual.
It was difficult to tell Barbara about the girls’ profession. Victor had noticed, however, that when they went to the back room with a male visitor, they returned hastily, hurrying their unwilling guests in order to listen to the phenomena of creation.
The girls especially liked to hear about rain and snow, or the breathtaking production of a rainbow. Barbara warned them she was only an amateur in the field of science, and advised reading books from the library. However, they preferred to listen.
Victor was touched by Barbara’s kindness. One day he began to make love to her. She pushed him away, and actually he was more relieved than offended. But he felt he owed something to this strange creature and decided to do something (he had no idea what, but something terribly big) for her. He wanted to show his appreciation for her kindness. If he had had the money, he would have taken her away to regain her health. He wanted to beat the ultimatum of the specialists who had decided she couldn’t live past thirty-five. He would give her Life, instead of mink coats and jewelry! He was exhilarated by his glorious thoughts.
He decided he would get money for Barbara. He wasn’t sure how, but he knew he’d have to be very careful lest she be disappointed and angry with him should she find out about his plans.
From sheer pity, he made many tentative, slight advances toward her. She appreciated his kindness, she told him, but she couldn’t believe he wanted her that way. He was hurt, then insistent. He did want her! At last she let him make love to her. It was the first time in his young life that he couldn’t function as a man. This failure had a catastrophic effect on Victor’s future life.
I had better stop the improvisation right here. I have reread the story and I am impressed that instinctively I have orchestrated the characters.
What did my improvisation prove? It proved, to me at least, that in any type of writing characters must be interdependent.
Without orchestration, the story or play will be colorless. Without unity of opposition, no story or play can exist at all.
I would compare a well-built story or play to a healthy person whose internal organs function smoothly, effortlessly. Improvisation would lead to exciting situations because you are working without any restraints. It is really fun. It should be fun. By the way, creation should never be a hard labor anyway. But play.
Victor’s failure to function as a normal man foreshadows great change in his life. It is a foretaste of age, even impotence. His ambition will be fertilized by fear of ridicule. The story should focus on his ambition to build some kind of prestige, be it honorable or dishonorable. The turmoil in him is the agony of planning how to be important, even among the lowest.