THE TROUBLE BOX

A Play in Two Acts

CAST:

DICK (Dick is an idealistic young man who aspires, like Jeff, to be a writer. Dick cannot bring himself to write creatively, even though he is highly self-educated and gifted in many ways. He seems powerless to control his procrastination or his dual fear of success and failure. He is immature and unrealistic, especially in his understanding of and in his dealings with others.)

JEFF (Jeff is an aspiring young writer, who cannot bring himself to write creatively, except at his job, because he feels his writing could not measure up to the high standards set by one of his college professors, a woman who was an excellent teacher and a very good writer, but a very, very severe critic of her students' work.)

SCOT (Scot, the original occupant of the apartment now shared by all four of the young people, is a stockbroker. Ostensibly the four share expenses. Actually, Scot pays most of the rent, food, and other expenses for reasons that only he seems to understand.)

KAREN (Karen is a pretty, young woman who hopes to find fame and fortune as an actress. She has to work as a waitress while she tries to get acting parts, since she lacks

other skills. She shares Scot's bed, though both agree that their relationship is a matter of convenience, not love.)

SETTING

All of the action takes place in the living room of an apartment shared by four young people. The apartment was originally leased by Scot. Later, Jeff, Dick and Karen moved in. Exit to front entrance is stage right. On stage left is an exit into the kitchen and an exit to a hall leading to two bedrooms and a bath. The stage contains a divan, a table and four chairs, a TV, a table with a typewriter in it, a coffee table, two end tables, pictures, and miscellaneous other furnishings.

TIME: The near past

SYNOPSIS OF SCENES

ACT I Scene 1: Late afternoon, late summer

Scene 2: Late evening of the same day

Scene 3: The next afternoon

Scene 4: A Thursday in October

Scene 5: Later that same night

ACT II

Scene 1: Several weeks later

Scene 2: The next day

Scene 3: Several weeks later

Scene 4: A few days later

Scene 5: One week later

THE TROUBLE BOX

Act I - Scene 1

(DICK enters the apartment with a large, heavy box mostly of books and sets it down inside the door, wiping his brow and breathing heavily from the work of carrying the box from the subway to the apartment house and up the stairs.)

(SCOT, KAREN and JEFF react immediately when they see what DICK has brought into the apartment.)

KAREN: (With a mixture of anger and sarcasm.) Would you just look? Dick has just what we all need, another box of books. I think I'm going to be sick.

JEFF: (With some anger.) Dick, for crying out loud, we just agreed last week. No more books. We have books dribbling out of our gazoos now. We can't move around, we can't breathe, and we can't even have friends in, because of the books.

SCOT: (With calm concern.) Well, Dick, is this the test-the-old-side- for-a-hernia trick. Arnold Schwartzenegger couldn't carry that box up the stairs, let alone all the way from the subway.

(The three move over toward DICK and the box, drawn by curiosity in spite of their negative comments.)

DICK: (With great excitement and still very much out of breath from his recent heroic efforts.) Wait 'til you see what's in here. I know I promised; and, I really meant it. But, I couldn't pass this up. Just look at some of these books, and only twenty bucks.

(DICK reaches into the box and fishes out a large, handsome, book.)

DICK: (Nearly shouting.) Do you know what this is? I'll tell you; it is a first edition of Moby Dick, that's what it is. It's worth a small fortune, a thousand times what I paid for the whole box, maybe more. Who knows? I mean, we are talking Herman Melville!

(The OTHER THREE, obviously intrigued, take the book, form a little circle, and look at the book carefully and quietly, as DICK beams in triumph.)

DICK: (Still very excited.) There's more. Here is a first edition of The House of the Seven Gables. Melville, Hawthorn, Dickens, Tolstoy, and several more I didn't even have time to look at. I'll bet none of you have ever seen books the likes of these. Treasures. That's what they are. Valuable treasures, some of them, at least.

JEFF: (His interest obviously aroused.) This copy of Moby Dick sure looks genuine enough. If it is an original first edition, it might be worth quite a bit, at that. How? Where did you get these?

DICK: (Catches his breath and is somewhat calmer.) Estate sale. Somewhere down in Brooklyn. I sort of stumbled onto it; saw an ad in the paper for another sale; so I went down to the other sale, but saw this one first. The relatives were from upstate. They were in a hurry to get back. Seems like the old man who died didn't leave much. They said he never had a dime or a good job. Seems he worked as a night watchman in some office building. He lived in cheap rooming houses. Wore the same clothes for years. Mostly junk and dirt in the old man's apartment. It was a mess. I nosed around in the stuff until I saw this box. I only wanted the books, but they made me take the whole box. I don't know what's in the bottom. Notebooks, some small boxes, and some other junk. Once I saw a couple of the books, I gave them what they wanted. Twenty bucks. That's all I had on me. Twenty bucks for some real gems, I tell you. I tried to explain that the box was worth more than that; that I would go borrow some more money to give them. But, they were from out in the sticks. Poor themselves and uneducated, that's for sure. They were in a big hurry. Couldn't wait, they said. Twenty bucks they wanted; twenty bucks I gave them, finally, though I felt guilty giving them so little for such obvious treasures. I barely had enough money to get home.

SCOT: (Walks and puts his arm around Dick's shoulder.) Dick, you better settle down, or we'll be selling these at your estate sale. I know how important books are to you. And, it looks like you have finally hit a jackpot, like you always said you would. But you better take it easy. Come on, drink a can of soda or a cup of tea; take your coat off and ease up a bit.

DICK: (Pushing Scot away and waving his arms.) Settle down? No way, Scot. Look at this. This is Tolstoy's War and Peace. Not only that, it's a first English edition. Six volumes; the book is in six decorated volumes. Just look at the quality. Perfect. A cherry and it's Tolstoy, and another first edition. That old man, whoever he was, was some sort of collector. I mean, several of these books are prime stuff. Not only are these first editions, several of them just happen to have been written by some of the world's greatest writers!

KAREN: (Intrigued, by now.) Are you sure? I mean, it must be some kind of a trick or a mistake. Who ever heard of some poor old man with a fortune, I guess we're talking fortune here, in books. First editions, and all that. It's too weird, I say.

DICK: (A bit pompously.) Happens all the time. Just a month or so ago, some bum died, out in San Francisco, I think it was. They found a bunch of bank books, or cash, sewn in the lining of his jacket, something like that. He was wealthy, but he ate with the

bums at a soup kitchen.

JEFF: (With growing conviction.) They sure look real. It would be tough to fake something like first editions. Besides, who would do it and why? Dick is right; some people hide their wealth, wear rags, and live in the slums.

(JEFF reaches in the box, rummages around, and looks through the small boxes in the bottom of the big box. He holds one up and opens it. )

JEFF: Umm, these boxes are computer disk storage cases. They seem to be full of computer disks. There must be a hundred of them.

SCOT: Congratulations, buddy. It sure looks like you may have some valuable books. Of course, I don't know why we are talking as if you are rich, or anything like that.

KAREN: (Puzzled.) What do you mean? Maybe not rich, but he can sure pick up his share of the room and board, now, eh?

JEFF: (Leaves the box and moves toward Scot.) Yeah, Scot, just what do you mean? I don't relate.

SCOT: (Shrugging as if it should be obvious.) When has Dick ever sold any book, bargain or not, that was worth anything? He hoards books the way Karen hoards clothes. Me? I don't think he will ever be able to part with them, whether they are first editions or worthless. He would starve first, and so would we, for that matter.

JEFF: (Dejectedly.) I see what you mean. We'll be poorer. Now we will have to buy security locks--the whole security smear. Otherwise, someone will break in here and hock those things for booze and drugs. Life just becomes more complicated, not less so. Just wait and see.

KAREN: (Angry.) Cripes. I never thought of it. What about it, Dick, are Scot and Jeff right?

DICK: (Thoughtfully.) I don't know. That is, I'll have to find out. I mean get prices, market info. I haven't had time to think. I haven't even looked at all of the books, or this other stuff in the notebooks. I don't even know what ... or how much ... I have, yet. I didn't even know what was in the little boxes until Jeff looked at them just now.

JEFF: Yeah, well, go through each page of every book. Guy like that might have stashed hundred dollar bills in the pages; stuff like that. Who knows?

DICK: Thumbing the pages as if he might get them mussed, or dirty. Some of these look almost new. See how the old man wrapped them in newspapers and brown shopping sacks.

(DICK takes a carefully wrapped book from the box and holds it up for the others to see.)

DICK: Whatever, we do, we have to really be careful. I mean, we may be talking real money--real value--here, even if I never sell them.

KAREN: (Resigned to what she now sees as the true situation.) Value, maybe. Money? Never. Scot is right. We all should have seen it just like he did. Dick, you know you can't bear to part with a book, even crummy ones that no one else would have in the house.

DICK: I'm not saying I will or won't. But, this is different. Everything else has been nickels and dimes. This is dollars, maybe even thousands of dollars. It really is different. One thing is sure. There's no hurry. These things will get nothing but more valuable. Time is on our side.

SCOT: Whoa, whoa. (He holds up his hands as if to stop something coming toward him.) I don't think time or anything else is on our side. And, I don't think you mean that either, Dick. You bought them. We don't share everything around here even-steven, do we?

Karen? Jeff?

JEFF: Yeah, I guess this is different. We practically threw you out when you walked in with that box. I was ready to go to war with you because I knew whatever was in it was coming in our bedroom. Now, it's kind of intriguing. A mystery.

KAREN: (Half-heartedly.) What? I can't believe my ears. You guys are writing us out before Dick even makes up his mind, one way or the other. That isn't fair. We all chip in from what we make. How is this any different? I mean, Dick is a bookseller. Well, sort of a bookseller. Let's say I got a major part in a play and earned big bucks. You can't tell me I wouldn't have to spend the money I earned from the part in the play for rent and food.

SCOT: Different, Karen, very different. That's just money. Nickels and dimes, as Dick said. This is culture, history, a fortune. No, it isn't like he brought in a paycheck, or got a part in a play. This is special.

DICK: Thanks, Scot. You do more than any of us. Money, I mean. You carry me along when I can't pay. I'd think you would be the first to want to make me sell these, catch up what I owe, and do my part from now on.

SCOT: That's up to you. But, I don't see it and I certainly don't expect it. Look, none of us is here for the money. You and Jeff want to write. Karen wants to become famous. And me? I just like the flow, the vibes, and you three people. Books are your life, Dick, even if you aren't writing great stuff ...

KAREN: Or anything.

SCOT: ... right now. He may not be writing now. Maybe someday. Maybe you and Jeff both will write something really worthwhile.

JEFF: It better be soon. If we don't do something worthwhile soon, it will be too late for either of us. (With sudden, almost malevolent, conviction.) I'd do anything just to get off dead center and get something--anything--written and published. Anything! I mean it. (Jeff turns and walks away from the others; his head sags onto his chest.)

SCOT: (Turning to Dick.) It's up to you, Dick, but if it were me, I wouldn't even consider selling them. At least not now. Certainly not just so you could "catch up and contribute," as you put it. Like you said: Time is on your side. They won't do anything but get

more valuable.

KAREN: That's it, then. "Great Scot" has spoken.

(KAREN walks over to Scot and gives him a big hug.)

KAREN: (Affectionately.) I guess I shouldn't complain about how forgiving and understanding you are, Scot. At least you treat us all the same. I mean, you are nice to each of us. It's what we like most about you. Even when I bitch about it, I know you are

the "glue" which keeps us together. You, with your wonderful gift of humanity, are what makes it possible for each of us to keep working and hoping for the "big break."

JEFF: (Returning to the circle.) Karen is right, Scot. We all owe you the most. If you say it's okay for Dick to keep the books, then it is. It is your apartment. None of us pays as much as you do, or as regularly. Here, Dick, let me help you move that into our bedroom. We don't want anyone from the neighborhood dropping by and seeing this stuff. If certain ones did, they might slit our throats, just for these books. (JEFF and Dick lift the heavy box and go into one of the bedrooms).

KAREN (with her arm still around SCOT) and Scot watch. Scot and Karen shake their heads and begin to talk about DICK'S great find as the stage lights go out.)

ACT I - Scene 2

(As the stage lights are turned up, DICK and JEFF come out of the bedroom hall. Both have one of the brightly colored little boxes from DICK'S large box in their hands. KAREN and SCOT are sitting in the living room as the two come out of the bedroom.)

DICK: Hey, you two, Jeff is going to take these disks down to his office and see if they are worth anything. If the disks are new, or if someone with the kind of computer they fit can use them, they may be worth a few bucks. Since I'm not going to sell any of

the books, at least for now, maybe I could get the twenty bucks I paid for the whole box back just by selling a few or, maybe, all of these.

JEFF: Yeah, if I can find out which computer these are for, maybe we could sell them. That is, unless the old man has the directions to the rest of his fortune on them ... sort of a computer treasure map, or something like that.

DICK: Not likely. I didn't find any hundred dollar bills between the few pages of the books I looked through and nothing but pages and pages of terse and disorganized notes in all of those notebooks. The old man must have thought he was some kind of a fiction writer as well as a book collector. But, if the notebooks are any clue, he just wrote down pages and pages of ideas. There isn't a complete story, or anything near that, in the whole lot.

JEFF: You must admit, though, that there were a lot of real good ideas here and there in those notebooks. Some of those storylines and excerpts you read to me sounded first-rate. Remember the one where the guy mistreats his wife? He's a real hard drinker and a gambler as well as a wife abuser?

DICK: No, I don't remember that one. There are so many, I haven't read most of them.

JEFF: Well, this mean old guy finally gets a ticket in a lottery. Only problem is, he has to spin a wheel to see how much he wins. The ticket just gets him on stage where the wheel is. The grand prize is several million bucks. But, the guy has a heart attack as he starts toward the wheel. So his wife, the one who has been abused all those years, steps over him, spins the wheel before anyone realizes the guy hasn't just fainted, but has died of a

heart attack. The brand new widow wins the jackpot and, lives a much better life with the money there and the husband gone. A great story idea, in my book. That was some old man, for a bum living in the slums. (SCOT takes the computer box from DICK,

opens it and pulls out one of the disks. KAREN looks on with obvious interest.)

SCOT: These are used. See, someone has labeled them by hand. That probably means that they must have something on them. They could be blank or whatever they had on them might have been destroyed, but these labels suggest they did have something on them at some time. You have to treat these things with kid gloves or the information goes "poof." Also, I'm not sure how long the information stays on them once you put it there.

DICK: Say, Scott, don't you have a friend who is a computer whiz of sorts. What's his name?

SCOT: You mean Yonick. Yeah, he is a whiz all right. Weird, too. But, he would know how to check these things out in a minute. I could line up something with him, I think. He likes puzzles and mysteries. He would really go for something like this.

JEFF: No need for that. I can just take them down to the office. I use the office composition computers all the time. Besides, we have a guy down there who really knows his stuff. We have printers, too. That way, if they aren't blank or ruined, I can print some of the stuff. Maybe there really is something more we can find out about this old man. His name, bank account numbers ... those sorts of things.

KAREN: (Tauntingly.) Dream on, you guys. So Dick got lucky and bought a few books. Maybe they are genuine, maybe not. Me? I think they are. At least I think several of them are. I also think that if they are real, this old man spent every penny he ever earned buying them. A few books worth some money, yes. Computer disks with bank account numbers or treasure maps that would lead to a fortune? No way.

DICK: I agree with you, Karen. But, it won't hurt to have Jeff or Scot check them out. At least we can sell them--or junk them--after we know. It is odd, when you think about it, to find modern computer disks among an old man's things.

JEFF: Right. The computers that use this particular style of disk haven't been out that long. Any of the decent computer systems that use these things still cost quite a bit of money. Besides, if the old man knew how to use these, where was the computer? Was

there a computer at the sale, Dick?

DICK: Not that I saw. There really wasn't a whole lot of anything there. Mostly junk, like I said. Anyone who bought a computer at a sale like that surely would have looked through the boxes and the other junk for disks. You can't run a computer without these,

can you?

SCOT: I'm sure you can't.

JEFF: I know you can't. That's what the computer does. It reads the stuff on these disks. They tell the computer what to do. Or, I guess what I mean is, they contain the programs, or whatever, so the computer can do things. Crunch numbers or word processing. We'll also have to find out what program the old man used to put the stuff on these disks.

SCOT: You got it. Each computer comes with some basic programs. But, to really do anything you need program disks and storage disks. These look like storage disks. That is, since they don't have printed titles--just these handwritten codes--they are probably blank or contain something the old man--or someone--did.

JEFF: I'll take the boxes to the office, see what I can find out, and let you know if there is anything to them, Dick. If I strike out, Scot can take a box to his computer genius weirdo friend and see what goes there.

DICK: Sounds good to me. That okay with you, Scot? First Jeff, since he goes to the office anyhow. If he can't find out, you can ask ... uh ... what's his name.

SCOT: Yonick. Suits me. (Scot turns to face Jeff.) Jeff, tell your friend to be careful. There are ways you can erase these things. That wouldn't be too swift. We'd wonder the rest of our lives what was on those dudes.

JEFF: Don't worry. Prescott won't do anything, and I mean anything, until he is sure. He's about the most cautious guy I know. Even when he is inside, it has to be calm or the wind has to be from just the right direction, or he won't even go to the bathroom.

SCOT: Very funny. Very funny, indeed. By the way, Dick, how many disks are there?

DICK: I haven't counted. There must be about ten of these plastic containers. I'd guess there are about ten disks in each box. About a hundred all together, I'd say. Why?

SCOT: Nothing special. (Holding up the disk.) It's just that I think each of these disks can hold a lot of information. About the equivalent of a short book, if I'm not mistaken. A hundred disks? Whew, that could be a lot of words, or numbers, or something.

KAREN: Don't be silly. Who ever heard of anyone, especially an old bum, writing a hundred books. That's just as silly as the idea that there are treasure maps or bank account numbers on those disks. You guys! Honestly. I just don't know.

SCOT: I didn't say a hundred books. I was just talking potential. Besides, most people don't fill the whole disk. They put some things on one disk and different things on another. My bet is they are mostly blank.

JEFF: Me, too. I mean how long have computers that use these disks been out? Not that long. How many old men do you know who can type, let alone work anything as modern as a computer? Whose computer would he use? The family said he worked at night, as

far as they knew. Dick didn't see a computer at the sale. Could a shabby old bum just walk in any office and use any computer he wanted to? Those disks have to be blank or something he picked out of a dumpster. Maybe some office dumped them. Got a new

computer, or something. This old bum is walking by and scarfs them up. He takes them home and stashes them away with the rest of his junk.

DICK: Sounds good to me. Only Jeff and Scott know how to use computers.. How could an old man know? A hundred disks? A good secretary probably wouldn't fill that many disks in a career ... well, practically a whole career.

KAREN: Now you are beginning to talk sense.

DICK: There is one thing, though ....

KAREN: Here we go again.

SCOT: What's that , Dick?

DICK: The labels.

JEFF: Labels? What's that got to do with anything.

DICK: They are in the old man's handwriting. At least, I think they are. I mean, I've been through some of his notebooks. He wrote in a certain style. Not neat. These labels are the same way. See. (The other three gather around DICK and examine one of the disks.)

DICK: I'll go get one of the notebooks. You'll see. (DICK hurries into the bedroom and comes back out with a large notebook in his hand. He opens the notebook and the four young people compare the handwriting.)

SCOT: The plot thickens. You are right about the handwriting. Whoever did the notebooks did the labels.

KAREN: What do you mean "whoever?"

SCOT: Elementary, my dear Karen, elementary. We have been assuming that the old man wrote these notebooks. We have no proof whatsoever for that assumption. A third party, someone completely different, could have written the notebooks and the labels.

DICK: I see what you mean.

JEFF: Yeah, maybe the old man found the whole lot. Better yet, maybe he stole everything, got too scared to try to hock the books, and kept the whole box of stuff hidden away.

KAREN: (Nodding in agreement.) Uhhh, that does seem to make some sense. I never did buy the idea of some old man starving himself just so he could own some rare books. Not everyone is as fanatical about books as our Dicky Boy. (She walks over and pats Dick

on the back. He winces and draws away from her.)

JEFF: I'll take them all to the office, look through the containers, pick out a few disks that look promising and see what is on them . Then, I'll check back with you as soon as I know something. Like I said, if there is anything of interest on these disks, I'll print it out so we can all read it. Okay?

DICK: Right on. I'll help you. Also, I want to count them all. See how many there really are. Maybe there is something to tell us what computer they were done on, or what program was used.

JEFF: That won't be hard to figure out, even if there isn't anything in that box to tell us. I'm already sure they fit one of the machines we have at the office. I'd bet money on it.

(The stage lights go out as DICK and JEFF leave the room. SCOT and KAREN sit on the couch.)

DICK: Hi, Jeff, I have been hoping you would get here. Any word on those computer disks? Or have you had time to try them yet?

JEFF: Oh, yeah, we tried them alright. Not all of them, of course. We looked through just a few of them, so far. Prescott knew just what to do, like I thought he would. 'Fraid the news isn't too great, pal. It's too early to know what's on all of them. But, what we found--here's the printout--is just the same sort of stuff that was in the notebooks. Brief, 'kinda' disjointed notes. Nothing very long. Nothing fleshed out. Just notes. See. Here's one you might remember. A famous writer is murdered while on a hunting trip. Turns out he isn't an author at all. He's a crook. A crippled friend in the town near where he is killed has been writing stuff and sending it to this guy for years. The crook becomes rich and famous and the real writer practically starves on the pittance of a dole the famous one has been sending back, all those years. Only trouble is, the poor writer finds out and "offs" the successful creep who has been robbing him. A deputy sheriff finally figures it all out, I guess. Good, but just a sketch, like I said.

( JEFF hands several sheets of paper to DICK. DICK look at them closely and for some time.)

DICK: Yeah, I see what you mean. These do look like some of the same stuff. Interesting but sketchy. Real sketchy. Guess that old man did a lot of thinking about writing, but not a lot of writing. Finished writing, I mean. Ideas are one thing; putting a whole story together is something else again. Filling in and polishing, rewriting, that's the hard part. I can sure speak to that. It's the story of my career as a wri ... as a non-writer.

JEFF: Me too. I got sheaves of stuff just like this lying around. Some of it is lost by now, I guess. Ideas for stories are the easy part. Completed projects are something else.

DICK: At least you finish things that you have to write down at work. I mean, you do actually finish things. I never seem to finish anything ... or even start much, either.

JEFF: Not what I really want to write, though. The stuff I write down there is hack work. Anyone could do it. I just happen to be the "hack of the moment," so to speak.

DICK: I have stuff all over the place, too. Notebooks? I have lots of notes. Some of them go clear back to when I was a kid. Juvenile stuff. Crummy poems. Little kid stories. I hang on to it, no matter how bad it is or when I wrote it. Some here, some still back home. Fragments. Junk, just like the old man.

JEFF: We make a great pair, or trio, actually, now that we have the old man's fragments to go with ours. Three of a kind. What a lousy hand old Lady Luck has dealt us, eh, buddy?

DICK: "Methinks our luck is not in our stars but in ourselves, Jeffius." We do it to us. It isn't luck, it's our lack of guts, of drive ... why ask me?

JEFF: "Et, Tu, Brutus." You stab me deeply. Me? I think it's luck, or brain chemistry. Maybe we just have the wrong mix of endorphins, or whatever the brain chemicals for writing great works are. (DICK lets out a rasping laugh at the thought that his brain chemicals could be the problem. DICK hold his head in his hands and gives it a shake.)

DICK: If I thought that, I'd go try everyone of these new designer drugs, (He starts 'popping' imaginary pills.) one by one, until I started to either get new ideas and carry them through to a finished book or article. Or, until I took out one of my great old ideas, my fragments, and finished it. Or died trying.

JEFF: (Sarcastically.) That might not be such a bad idea. You could do a real piece of creative research. Take a drug for a period of time. See what happens. Nothing? You just go on to the next drug. What a blast.

DICK: Even if I didn't kill myself with that junk, I still see one "really big" problem.

JEFF: Only one?

DICK: Le Money. Le Filthy Lucre. Mazuma. Moola.

JEFF: That sounds like four, to me.

DICK: Four names but only one problem. It would take a fortune to buy enough drugs to get me to finish a writing project.

JEFF: Yeah. You'd have to earn a fortune writing things in order to buy the drugs you need to write the things you need to sell. Sounds like an idea for a story, or a book. What a dilemma.

(BOTH break into laughter at that.)

JEFF: (Holds up the box of disks.) What do you want me to do with the disks as I finish looking through them? Bring 'em back or try to sell them.

DICK: (Very sober. Really down by the return to reality.) Oh, them. I had forgotten about the disks. Let's see ... bring them back, I guess. There are some really good ideas on them. I think I should keep them around, even if they do have the same scribblings on them as the notebooks. Maybe someday I'll go through the notebooks and borrow some of the old man's ideas. I guess he wouldn't mind, since he is dead.

JEFF: (Sadly. Mirroring Dick's sudden gloom.) Doesn't sound like a good idea to me. How could you develop someone else's ideas. I mean, it's hard enough for me to develop my own. I don't think...

DICK: I don't either, really. Just talking. If I can't write my own stuff, I sure couldn't write for the old man, dead or not.

JEFF: Yeah.

(Just then, KAREN and SCOT, open the front door of the apartment and come in.)

SCOT: Whoa. (He acts as if he is going to back out of the door and take Karen with him.) Sorry we came in. You guys look like you just buried your mothers. What's up.

DICK: Hi, Scot; hi, Karen. Jeff just brought the first printout from the old man's disks. Same stuff as in the notebooks. Just ideas, fragments. No treasure maps or bank account numbers, so far, just like you said, Karen.

JEFF: We were also analyzing our stars and our brain chemicals to see why we don't write the "Great American Novel."

DICK: Or anything from beginning to end.

KAREN: Stars? Brain chemicals? Sounds more to me like you have been into the liquor cabinet ... or something.

DICK: (Brightening.) Designer drugs, my dear. Haven't you heard. They are all the rage. (Dick begins to dole out imaginary pills to everyone.) One for passion. One for beeeautiful visions. And, one for creative writing. We plan to test them all.

SCOT: (Seriously.) I don't blame you for being disappointed. About the disks, I mean. After the good fortune with the first editions, I know you expected something really great from those disks.

DICK: Not really. Well, maybe something, yes. Nothing great, though.

KAREN: By the by, Dick, why haven't you looked into the value of the famous first editions, yet. Aren't you even a little bit curious about them? About how much they are worth? Stuff like that? I mean, really, I would have thought ....

JEFF: Yeah. I come home and find you sacked out on the couch reading a book. Not even one of your famous books. Just an ordinary book. What gives?

DICK: Plenty of time. I don't want to rush into it. Maybe they aren't worth as much as I thought. Most of them, at least. I have been thinking. I have worked around books a lot, you know. It's not like I'm completely ignorant.

KAREN: Cripes! I would have been down there the first thing. Knocking on the doors to get in. I'd want to know what those things are worth. So what? Maybe they aren't worth thousands, or even hundreds. They must be worth something.

SCOT: Dick's different, Karen. He moves in his own way. Besides, maybe checking them out would arouse suspicions.

KAREN and JEFF: (Together.) Suspicions?

SCOT: Yes, suspicions. Remember? We don't even know if the old man bought the books. He may have stolen them. Asking questions of booksellers about these particular books might tip off the cops. Cops have long memories when something like a first edition of Moby Dick is stolen. They go around to the book shops. They send out circulars. They alert the right people to be on the lookout for the loot. You might get caught, Dick.

DICK: It's not that. I know how to find out what the books are worth. I could do it and no one would be the wiser, except me. If I don't know what they are worth, I won't be tempted to think about selling them. Why torture myself? When I have enjoyed owning them--in ignorance--for a while, I'll find out what they are worth. Not before.

KAREN: Weird. I just don't understand that kind of thinking. What did Gray say? "Ignorance is bliss."

DICK: No. He did not say that. What he said was: "Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise." There is a difference. It is that very difference I choose to exercise.

SCOT: Hold off, Karen. (He walks over to Dick, in a confidential manner.) Look, Dick, I respect your point of view. However, don't you think you should make arrangements to store the books someplace really safe. This place could burn down. We could get

burgled. It happens all the time around here. We can't always be here.

DICK: Safe? What are you driving at?

SCOT: A bank. You know, a safety deposit box. Something like that. I have one. A lot of people store their valuables in safety deposit boxes. Of course, you would need a fairly large one, since there are a dozen books and since some of them are fairly large books. My box would probably hold them, at least the most valuable ones. They would be dry, protected and safe.

JEFF: I ... we would all feel a lot better if those books weren't in the apartment. Wouldn't we, Karen? Scot has made a good point, Dick. It sure makes sense to me.

DICK: Ummmm. Yeah, it does sound like a good idea. Bank vault. Safety deposit box. They sure would be safe. Do they charge you by the visit?

SCOT: Naw. By the year. They aren't cheap. Yet, they are cheap. A few dollars a year is a lot better than stolen or burned valuables with no prospect of ever seeing them again.

DICK: How often could I see them?

SCOT: Whenever you wanted to. As long as the bank was open, of course. Weekends and holidays would be out. So would nights. It's not like you would need them suddenly, is it? I mean, seeing your books is not like a drug habit where you just have to have it now, is it, Dick?

DICK: No, I suppose not. I don't even have a bank. Who needs a bank when they live like I do? Most banks throw people like me out. Like I was a bum. How would I get access to your deposit box. Don't the banks guard those things like the government guards the mint?

SCOT: No problem. We go to the bank together. You sign a card that gives you permission to use my box. We each have a key. We each have a list of the books with full information about each book. It is as simple as that. You have looked all of them over, haven't you?

DICK: Yes, I have a list. Not that I would need a list. I know what they are by heart: Herman Melville, "Moby Dick"; Charles Dickens, "David Copperfield"; Nathaniel Hawthorn, "The House of the Seven Gables"; Count Leo Tolstoy, "War and Peace"; Mark Twain, Samuel Langhorne Clemens, if you prefer, "Huckleberry Finn"; Fyodor Dostoyevsky, "Buried Alive"; Joseph Conrad, "Almayer's Folly"; Edgar Allan Poe, "Tales of Mystery & Imagination"; Rudyard Kipling, "The Phantom Rickshaw & Other Tales"; Anthony Trollop, "Ayala's Angel"; Wilkie Collins, "The Moonstone"; and, George Eliot, "Felix Holt". That's the lot, twelve in all. All first editions. There were several ordinary

books, to boot. They can stay here.

KAREN: Wow! That's impressive. No notes, or anything. Right off the top of his head, just as big as you please.

SCOT: Say, Dick, why are you home? Shouldn't you be at work?

DICK: Oh, that. I guess we were too busy talking about the books the notebooks, and the disks, yesterday; I forgot to tell you. I don't work there any more.

KAREN: Here we go again. Fired or quit, this time?

JEFF: When did this happen?

DICK: (Unconcerned.) Yesterday. Before I bought the books. I ... well ... I was reading this neat article in the New Yorker. This kinda cheap looking woman kept interrupting me. Asking dumb questions. I figured she was just some squirrel. Just in the store to get "off the streets for a while," if you know what I mean.

KAREN: So, what did you do? Throw her out, or something?

DICK: Mostly, I tried to ignore her ... I guess. Anyhow, old man Silverman happened to catch the last part of one of my put-offs. He blew his stack at me and treated her like a duchess, or something. Turns out she is a regular customer. Buys lots of books. Reads a lot. Between clients.

SCOT: Between clients.

DICK: Yeah, I was partly right. She's a call girl, according to Silverman. But, she always has dough. Always has lots of time to read. Maybe she reads while .... (KAREN turns quickly away and covers her ears.)

KAREN: Enough. I don't want to hear it.

JEFF: You haven't finished. Silverman wouldn't fire you just for that, would he? Did he?

DICK: Mostly. Not exactly. I gave him some lip. We got into it. He got pretty hot and so did I. He more or less threw me out.

SCOT: Did he pay you first? You had about a week's pay coming, didn't you?

DICK: No. I was in hock to him. I bought more books and magazines than my pay. That's why I'm not sorry he canned me. I would have been working there the rest of my life; getting in deeper and deeper. It was a losing proposition. He should have stopped the

credit, let me work off the debt, and then fired me. I told him so.

JEFF: Are you going to pay him what you owe him?

DICK: I suppose so. He tried to get me to pay before I left. "Can't get blood out of a turnip," I said. He was some kind of mad.

SCOT: How much are you into him for?

DICK: I don't know. Keeping accounts wasn't my job; buying books and magazines I wanted was. He didn't seem to know, either. His bookkeeper wasn't there at the time. (Shrugs.) Besides, it was his fault.

KAREN: Oh, sure, it's always "his," somebody else's fault, when our Dicky Boy gets the ax.

SCOT: How so? His fault?

DICK: He wouldn't let me borrow the books and magazines, read them, and then put them back on the shelves. That's what I wanted to do. You know me; no body takes better care of things like that than I do. It would have worked. I could have used them and returned them. Then, I could have sold them. He wouldn't stand for it; so, it's his fault that I'm in hock to him.

JEFF: Ha! When could you let go of a book, or a magazine, even after you have read them? You might just want to refer back to something you read ... might ... someday ....

DICK: I would have worked on that. I could have learned to return the magazines, at least.

KAREN: (She turns her back.) Yeah. And horses can learn to fly, too.

SCOT: Any other prospects? For a job, I mean.

DICK: Not that I am aware of. I'll get right on it. I have been too excited about the books and all.

JEFF: Humph! You sure didn't look excited when I got here. You were on the couch ... your favorite place in all the world, if you ask me ... reading some rather ordinary book ... your favorite pastime, I might add. In fact, you looked so normal, it didn't even occur to me that you should be anywhere else doing anything as unusual as working. Dumb old me.

DICK: (Defensively.) I read to get unexcited. To calm down. It's how I handle tension. (He turns to each.) You all know that. Reading is my relaxation ... my therapy. It' better than taking a bunch of pills.

SCOT: Let's drop it. And, let's get your books packed up and down to the bank, first thing in the morning. I'll take some time off work. It's too important to put off.

DICK: I guess you're right. After that, maybe I will be able to get my mind into job hunting ... someday. (The stage lights go out.)

Act I - Scene 4

(As the stage lights come on, DICK is lying on the couch. DICK is trying to read and watch TV at the same time. JEFF enters through the front door to the apartment.)

JEFF: Hi, Dick. Rough day, I see. Can't decide whether to read or watch TV. (Jeff sets down a large sack.)

DICK: Very funny. What's the news. (JEFF walks over and switches the TV off.)

JEFF: Here are the last of the disks. I skimmed through them just like I did with the other disks. Here are a couple of short printouts. Same story. Final verse.

(DICK takes the printout and tosses it down without even looking at it. JEFF sets several of the computer disk cartons on an end table near where DICK is lying.)

JEFF: That does it, buddy. A hundred disks. A hundred bits and fragments. Nothing much. Nothing finished. The old man had great ideas, I'll give him that. It's too bad he didn't, or couldn't, follow through. Maybe someone will be saying that about you and me, after we're dead and gone.

DICK: Maybe so. Probably. The best predictor of future behavior is past behavior. At least that's what my psychology prof used to say. In fact, the class could almost predict when he was going to say it. I guess if even the students can figure something like that out, that makes it so, doesn't it?

JEFF: I hope not. We might as well go to bed and never get up, if that's the case. Depressing, that's what it is. Psychology profs don't know everything, or even very much. Two of the psychology profs I had were really screwed up people. After seeing them, I

didn't have much faith in psychology. Wow, what a couple of creeps.

DICK: I know what you mean. But, mine weren't any worse than any of my other profs. I guess it comes with being a teacher. My old man used to say: "Those who can do; those who can't teach." I'm sure he read it somewhere. He sure wasn't smart enough to figure that out for himself.

JEFF: That sure wasn't the case with one of my English profs. Boy, could that woman write. And sell. She must have had money in banks all over that town. Brag. She sure laid it on. Lorded it over us, if you ask me. Intimidating. She'd bring in this magazine, or that. Show us her checks. Berate us for not doing better. She said she was trying to show us what could be done. What we could do, too.

DICK: Not me. I never had an English prof who could write well. They all wrote like they were lecturing. Pompous stuff. Stilted. That's why I couldn't get into my classes. "These people are going to evaluate my writing?" I used to ask myself. "No way!" I think that's one reason I don't write.

JEFF: Me? I think I don't write because my teachers, especially that one lady professor, were too good. They convinced my that I never could measure up to their standards. I sure didn't in their classes, I can tell you. I would really put everything I had into an assignment. Back it came, all red penciled from beginning to end, not to mention the sarcastic comments in the overall evaluations.

DICK: Yeah. Well maybe that's what fed their egos. You know, marking students' papers down. Saying nasty things. I didn't give my profs that chance. I figured my stuff, if I had written it, would have been too good for them. I mean, who wants to write for a bunch of ninnies. Am I right?

JEFF: Heavy. To change the subject, I'm sure glad you and Scot took the first editions to the bank the other day.

DICK: (Uncertain.) Yeah.

JEFF: That was a load off my mind. It should make you feel better, too. Scot was right, you know. About getting robbed, having a fire. Stuff like that. Those books are where they belong. Safe and dry. Burglar and fire proof.

DICK: I suppose so. Still, I don't like having them out of my sight. I might want to look at them. Touch them. Show them to someone I trust.

JEFF: No way. At least not here. You want to show them, take whoever it is down to the bank. Show them the books at the bank and then lock the books up again. A lot of people would rip you off the first chance they got. Look and steal. Believe me, I know.

DICK: Maybe so. I just think that most of our friends, our real friends, wouldn't do that to us, to me. Most people are basically honest. (Becoming emotional.) It's only a small percent that do things like that. I don't care what the problem is: theft, murder, rape, cheating. It's always just a small percent.

JEFF: Sure. Sure. But since you don't know who that small percent is, and since there is no way you ever can know, you have to protect yourself from everyone, just so you cover that small percent, too. See what I mean?

DICK: (Upset.) No! I can't live like that. I'd rather trust someone until they rip me off. Then, I might even give them a second chance if they apologized. Seemed really sorry for doing it. Even promised not to do it again. Nobody's perfect. You have to trust people in life. Otherwise, it's like a jungle.

JEFF: Ha! Maybe you think it's not a jungle. Dog eat dog. Kill or be killed. You got a lot to learn, Dick. I hope you don't let it destroy you when you find out you really can't trust anyone. Not even me.

DICK: (Puzzled.) You? Can't trust you. Don't be silly. We've lived here months, together. You pay more of your way here than I do. I'm the one you can't rely on. Or, rather, I'm the one you can rely on. You can rely on me to get fired from a job, once I get one. You can rely on me to sponge on the rent and groceries. If it weren't for Scot and you, I'd be on the street, begging for my meals. Standing in some soup kitchen line. You guys are my friends. My best friends.

(DICK exits into the kitchen just as the front door of the apartment opens and KAREN enters. KAREN seems to be in a great hurry.)

JEFF: Hey, Karen, what are you doing home? Where's Scot? Isn't he with you?

KAREN: (Somewhat out of breath.) No. Scot is working late. He couldn't leave the office. Something to do with a big drop in the market. Wall Street went crazy. I didn't quite get all of it. Neither of us had time to discuss it, anyhow.

JEFF: I did hear something about it. Not as bad as l929. But, pretty bad from what I heard. Do you think Scot was involved? Could he have been in the market and personally hurt? Or, just his office?

KAREN: (Impatiently.) We didn't discuss it. He's in the market; he must have lost some. Look, Jeff, you'll have to excuse me. I'm, really in a hurry. You could help, if you will.

JEFF: Help? Sure. Just say the word.

(DICK walks back in from the kitchen just as KAREN blurts out.)

KAREN: The word is, I am moving out. I have to get some my things together and get them downstairs. The cab is waiting.

DICK: Wheeew. That's hot news. Moving? Where are you going?

KAREN: I can't take time to explain. I have to be at the new place as quickly as I can. Rehearsals start at 6:00 p. m. sharp. Mike doesn't like to be held up.

DICK and JEFF: (In unison.) Rehearsals? Mike?

DICK: Who is Mike? I haven't heard you mention him before.

KAREN: (Talking fast.) He's a director. Off Broadway. He's doing a play. He came around the restaurant. I served him a few times. We got to talking. I asked him to keep me in mind, if he did a play and if there was a part. He even auditioned me a couple of times.

(KAREN exits into the bedroom and Jeff and DICK hear the sounds of packing.)

JEFF: That's the first I have heard of this Mike character.

DICK: Me, too.

JEFF: She never mentioned those auditions around here that I remember.

DICK: That's for sure. Strange. Normally she would have talked about anything that important for days.

JEFF: Something odd here, if you ask me.

(KAREN comes out of the bedroom with a suitcase. She sets it down and points to it.)

KAREN: Carry this down to the cab for me, will you, Dick. Jeff, can you get the other suitcases. Lucky I never had much stuff, except clothes of course. Most of it, I'll have to pick up later. Scot will pack it for me. I just jammed what I absolutely need into the suitcases for now.

JEFF: Jam? I guess. This must be the fastest packing job on record. Does Scot know you are moving?

KAREN: (She looks away from the two.) Sort of. I mean, he always said we weren't bound into this thing. He knew I would, someday, if it meant furthering my career. This is a big step for me, even if it is off-Broadway. It's still a good part and a great play. And Mike, Mike is something veerry special. You'll see, when you meet him.

DICK: When we meet him? Are you bringing him here?

KAREN: Of course not, silly. I mean when you come to the play. To opening night. At the party after the play. You and Jeff and Scot will be invited. I'll introduce you then. Be sure to talk Scot into coming. He'll resist at first, I guess. You two can bring him around, I have confidence.

JEFF: Certainly sounds like you do have that. Confidence, I mean. When is the play to open? Soon?

KAREN: Too early to tell. Mike is just renting the stage at this little theater. He doesn't actually have the backing yet. That's why we are rehearsing, so he can show some of the "moneymen" how good the play and the cast are. You'll see. He'll get the money. We will open.

(KAREN moves toward the bedroom.)

KAREN: Come on, Dick, are you going to help or not? Don't just stand there gaping. It isn't the end of the world. Scot and I were just ... it was a convenience thing for both of us.

DICK: I don't like it. I don't think you have told Scot. Nothing would keep him at the office if you had. His work is never that pressing. He has said so himself.

KAREN: It is today. The market really tumbled. He was really upset about it. I didn't want to upset him even more. You can tell him that. I spared him this news, 'cause I could tell he didn't need it, too.

DICK: So! You didn't tell him. Just like that you are moving out and Scot doesn't even know about it. I can't believe it. I can't believe even our selfish little Karen would do a thing like that.

KAREN: Oh, grow up, Dick. That's what life is all about. Looking out for Number One. You've said that yourself, when you lost a job, or something.

JEFF: This is pretty heavy, Karen. Moving out without telling Scot. Moving out when he has a disaster at the office to deal with, too. It doesn't seem right to me, either. And, I really believe in serving Number One.

KAREN: I can't stand here talking. We'll have to moralize about it some other time. Help me, or don't. Either way I have to be out of here fast

(She disappears toward the bedroom. Jeff and Dick follow her.)

(Both DICK and JEFF emerge with a suitcase and carry them out the front door. KAREN follows with a box and the suitcase she had brought out earlier. ALL THREE return, KAREN for one last, small overnight case and for her handbag.)

KAREN: Well, this is the last of it for now. Like I said, I'll come back later for the rest. The necessaries are loaded. Bye, you two.

( KAREN kisses BOTH quickly on the cheek and gives BOTH a hug.)

KAREN: It's been great, in spite of our differences. I will miss both of you. But, little Karen has to look to her career. It's no more than anyone would do.

(KAREN leaves as both mumble their good-byes.)

DICK: Whew! That was sure fast. Talk about a whirlwind. That woman can sure move when she sets her mind to it.

JEFF: It's no different with me. I could be out of here nearly as fast. I don't have as much stuff as she does, not by a long shot. In fact, it's something I have been thinking about. No,

not just thinking about, planning. With Karen gone, it might be a good time to do it.

DICK: Whoa, whoa. My head is spinning as it is. Don't lay that on me, too. I need a little time. Scot has some sort of emergency at the office, Karen comes storming in here and leaves like a whirlwind. Right away you talk about leaving. Spare me.

JEFF: None of these arrangements last long. You know that, Dick. Karen was right. She and Scot were together for convenience. It is not like they were in love. Sure, they slept together and they got along pretty well. But, it was never supposed to be a lifetime thing.

DICK: Who says they weren't in love. What is love, anyway? Is it something other than living together, enjoying each other, and getting on well? Don't ask me. I've never been in a situation like they had. I just don't think it should end like this, love or no love. She had an obligation to tell Scot. To talk about it with him.

JEFF: Sure. Sure she did. I agree. But she also has an obligation to Karen. It sounds to me like this Mike and her have had something going for some time. She as much as admitted it when she said she had been to his apartment for auditions. Auditions, my eye. Well, maybe they were, in a way. That's often the way things do happen in life. First you perform in bed; then, you perform on the stage.

DICK: It isn't fair. It's not fair to Scot to have Karen doing that behind his back. What's he going to think when he comes home? Why do we have to tell him?

JEFF: We have to tell him because we are here and Karen isn't. It's as simple as that. It's us or no one. He's no dummy. He has known all along that Karen would do anything to get a part in a play. This can't be all that much of a surprise for him. Like Karen said: They both knew this was a short-term arrangement.

DICK: I still think it will go hard with him. Karen should have given him time to get used to the idea, instead of laying it on him in such a sudden, shocking way.

JEFF: Look, Dick, when a person gets killed in a wreck, does the family have advance warning? Are they given a chance to get used to the idea that the dead person isn't going to be around?

DICK: That's different. Death is just part of life.

JEFF: So are sudden partings, Dick. Karen's sudden departure is just as much a part of life as sudden death. Scot will adjust. He will because he doesn't have any choice in the matter. Karen took any choice he might have had with her when she went out that door. He'll adjust. So will we. Maybe we will help him adjust, maybe not. Maybe we will make things worse for him. Just our being here might be worse. If he was alone he could hide the fact that she left him for someone else, it seems. Or, at the very least, for a part in a play.

DICK: I've got to think. I'm going to go lay down and read. That will calm me down so I can think all of this through, later.

JEFF: You do that. But you can't run away from the stark reality that Karen is gone and we are here. And, it will be up to us to tell Scot, no matter how little or how much Karen's leaving and our telling him about it hurts. Me? I think he will take it right in stride. He may even be relieved. She was pretty demanding and bossy at times. Temperamental, too, like most aspiring actresses. Sometimes I think that's all they do: Act. Day in and day out, just so they keep in practice.

(DICK exits into the bedroom without responding as the stage light go out.)

Act I - Scene 5

(SCOT comes in the front door of the apartment as the stage lights come on. The living room is empty. He takes his coat off very slowly, heaves a big sigh, and slumps down on the sofa.)

SCOT: (To himself.) What a day. I sure hope I never see another one like this one. I can't understand how anything as seemingly rational as the stock market should be can go crazy, like it did today. Insanity. You mix greed and fear in the right, correction, in the wrong way and whamo. Insanity run amok. Uhhh. I wonder if anyone is here. Not that I want to see anyone right now.

WhatfI need is food and rest, with no questions and no hassles. Karen must be at that play tryout she mentioned on the phone. Late she said. Maybe most of the night. I hope she gets the part. She needs some luck. It would help her self-image. How can I think of her after what I did today. If--really when-- Dick finds out he will surely try to kill me. Such is life. The market may go up or down, but life goes on and on. At least, I hope that's true. I guess jumping out of windows is "out the window," these days. Pills are less painful; less certain, too, which is probably why they are the instrument of choice.

Often as not, people don't really want to die. They try suicide as a

statement, as an attempt to communicate.

JEFF: (Calling from the bedroom.) Scot, is that you out there talking? Who's with you?

(JEFF walks out from the bedroom area. He is in pajamas and a robe.)

SCOT: Hi, Jeff. Just talking to myself. You couldn't, not even in your wildest nightmares, know what kind of a day I have had. I was just musing to myself about the ups and downs of markets and of life.

JEFF: I'm sorry to hear that you had a bad day. I heard a little about it earlier in the day and saw the late news, of course. Was it as bad as the news reports?

SCOT: Not as bad as l929 and maybe not as bad as 1987, so far, thank heaven. But, it was bad enough. Worse than anything I thought I would ever see. Worse than anything I ever want to see again. Madness. Sheer fear and greed driven madness. I can't describe the chaos to you. Wouldn't want to. Mostly, I want to forget it. The regulations and rules they

have were supposed to make it impossible for anything this bad to happen. It just got out of hand, rules or no rules. Where money, greed and fear meet, you can forget the rules on a day like today.

JEFF: Did Karen call you at the office?

SCOT: Yeah, she called early in the afternoon. She didn't make much sense. Said she was going to try out for a part in a play. Mentioned about knowing the director. I couldn't talk with her. It was during the worst part of the market drop. I was trying to talk on three phones at once.

JEFF: Did she tell you anything? How long she would be gone? Anything at all?

SCOT: Naw. She was vague. Said it might be late, real late. Not to worry. Not to stay up. She didn't need to say that. I'm heading for the sack as soon as I get a little food on the old

tummy. I'll die as soon as I hit the bed, if I can make it that far.

JEFF: What's on tap for tomorrow? Anything special? Are you going into the office?

SCOT: Are you kidding? I'll be out of here at daybreak. Gone all day. Back at least as late tomorrow, no matter what that crazy market does tomorrow.

JEFF: Maybe you will leave before Karen gets back. She said she was going to be gone quite a while.

SCOT: Quite a while. What do you mean?

JEFF: Well, I hate to lay this on you after all that has already happened to you today. But, Karen came whirling in here late in the afternoon, loaded some of her stuff in a cab, and left. She said you would understand. That she would see all of us at the opening of this play she is trying out for, provided it gets financial backing.

(SCOT stares closely at JEFF for a long time.)

SCOT: Loaded her stuff in a cab? Gone? She moved out? Where? Why? She sure didn't say anything like that when she called, not that I could have listened.

JEFF: She rationalized it, of course. She said she had this great opportunity to get a part in the play. But, they would be rehearsing night and day. The cast would be living together. Yeah, that's it; the cast would be living together. The time was so short before they were to put on a performance for the big money dudes that she, the whole cast, would be staying, like together. You know how those theater people are. Crazier than your stock market. Up all night, sleep half the day. She didn't want to upset the routine

around here.

(SCOT furrows his brow, looks at JEFF once more and lets out another long, long sigh.)

SCOT: If you say so, Jeff. Me? I think she is probably sleeping with some producer or director. Hoping to get a measly little part in some crummy play that probably never will open, even off-Broadway. She deserves better than that. I wish she had leveled with me. I could have provided perspective, encouragement for her to wait for something better. For better odds.

(SCOT heaves himself up from the couch and heads for the kitchen.)

SCOT: Where's Dick?

JEFF: (Coughing.) Uhhh, he's sort of asleep. He didn't know how you might take all of this. He thinks it's all very unfair, Karen leaving and all.

SCOT: Good, old Dick. Always the innocent. I did a terrible thing to Dick today, Jeff.

(Scot heaves another great sigh.)

SCOT: Had to do it, though. I just couldn't help it. Can't talk about it now. I've got to eat, Jeff. Then, I'm going to hit the sack.

JEFF: (Shaken.) Nothing you have done to Dick could be half as bad as what I have done--am doing--to him. I ... never mind. I sure can't talk about it either, especially not now; not with you.

(The two look briefly at each other then away, somewhat awkwardly and uncomfortably.)

SCOT: Thanks for trying to soften the blow about Karen. But, it doesn't wash. Not even theater people live in one big family rehearsal group. They would all kill each other long before the opening night. Think about it. It's true. Look what just one aspiring actress did around here.

( SCOT turns toward the kitchen and beckons JEFF to follow him.)

SCOT: Help me in the kitchen, Jeff, I might fall asleep before the food gets to my mouth. We can talk some more tomorrow night, if they let me come home from the office, that is. Soon as I can, I have to talk with Dick, but not tonight. Poor Karen. Poor Dick. Poor me. I guess this just wasn't our day, Jeff. Let's get my stomach some food so I can get a little sleep. I'll need to be at my best tomorrow, no matter what.

(THEY exit into the kitchen as the curtain closes for the end of Act I.)

INTERMISSION.

Act II - Scene 1

(As the curtain opens, JEFF is coming into the apartment. DICK is lying on the couch reading a book.)

JEFF: 'lo, buddy, what's doing today? Any great news?

DICK: I wouldn't know. I haven't had the radio or the TV on today. I'm trying to get through this great sci-fi book.

JEFF: Ah, yes, sci-fi. Alas, sci-fi, I knew it well.

(JEFF proceeds into the bedroom as DICK continues on with his reading. After a couple of minutes, JEFF reenters.)

JEFF: It's happened, Dick, I'm going to move out at the end of the month.

(DICK sits bolt upright and stares in disbelief at JEFF.)

JEFF: Yes siree, buddy boy. Jeff the Drifter is 'gonna' drift on out of this place. He's heading for greener pastures.

DICK: Why? What's so bad about this place? You can't beat the rent, especially when Scot pays it whether we contribute to it or not. Same for the groceries.

JEFF: Not any more. At least, that's what I think. I think Scot has fallen on economic hard times. I doubt if he can keep up his end much longer, let alone ours.

DICK: I don't believe it. Scot still has the same job. That must mean he has the same salary. What's so changed?

JEFF: Economics, pal, economics. Since the market went down, Scot's customers have fled to other kinds of investments. Bonds, things like that. Scot's office is a specialty house. It doesn't handle bond investing and the stock end of the business is way,

way off. His commissions may be zilch.

DICK: Scot worked on commissions?

JEFF: Basically, yes. Most of his income, if not all of it, came from commissions on sales. No customers, no sales. No sales, no commissions. Simple, eh? Not only that, most of the brokerage houses are cutting back on staff, now, just like they did after the '29 crash and some of the smaller ones. Thousands were laid off in the months following '29 and during the 2000 down market. It's bound to happen again. Even those on commissions were fired. A bit like the old guillotine game the French used to play.

DICK: But Scot hasn't said a word about being laid off, or about being in a money bind either, for that matter. What makes you so sure?

JEFF: Scot? When did he ever talk finances with us? Personal or any other kind? Answer me that.

DICK: Never, I guess, now that you mention it. I just assumed he didn't want to brag while you and me and Karen were on tough times, which was most of the time.

(DICK thinks for a minute.)

DICK: Wait! He doesn't seem to be hurting. He still brings home the groceries, complete with the expensive items he likes so well. He must be paying the rent, we're still here.

JEFF: Here today. You'd be the last to know. You almost never think about money, yours or anyone else's, either, for that matter. I think you believe thinking about money is dirty--

worse than thinking about sex.

DICK: I never said thinking about sex was dirty.

JEFF: That's not the point. The point is this, you wouldn't notice whether Scot was preoccupied about money or not. It simply would never occur to you.

DICK: I suppose you are right. I wouldn't. I live in the apartment. I eat the food. I use the heat and the lights. Just like I did at home. I just assumed they would always be there and paid for by you and Scot, when I didn't have any money.

JEFF: Well, you better think again. I'm seeking new quarters for several reasons, not the least of which is that I think we are all going to be seeking new quarters.

DICK: I don't see the logic. You haven't always been able to swing your part of the rent here. Most of the time you did. But, not always. How can you afford to go out on your own?

JEFF: I didn't exactly say "on my own."

DICK: Oh, I see. No, I don't see. What do you mean?

JEFF: Look, Dick, you might as well know. I have gotten a promotion at work. Moreover, there is a girl I have known for some time. She wants me ... we have decided to share her place, and the rent. It's a one bedroom, so it won't be anymore than I was paying here, even though it is in a classier neighborhood.

DICK: That will really put a pinch on Scot. If you leave, I mean. I still haven't found a job and I sure don't have any money laying around.

JEFF: Money, no. Assets, yes. You do have assets, Dick. Valuable assets. Assets worth thousands of dollars. (Sarcastically.) Remember those books you bought? The ones you and Scot took to the bank? You do remember them, don't you? You may just have to

use some of those valuable assets.

DICK: (Shaken.) Never! Some of them I would never sell. Some of the others I might sell, but they are only worth a few hundred dollars a piece.

JEFF: So, you finally got around to finding out what those books are worth, eh?

DICK: Sure. It was no big deal. Easy as pie. A little looking here. A little looking there. It wasn't much of a job, really. Of course, the information is just estimates. You never know what a book will sell for until you try to sell it and find the buyer. That's the key; just the right person for just the right book.

JEFF: It's the same with anything else, buddy. Cars. Houses. Stock. Ask Scot how stocks are priced. He'll give you an education, and it will be a whole lot cheaper for you than his was when the market went down, if I'm any judge of what he went through. Level with me, Dick, how much are those books worth, in round numbers? Let's see there were twelve of them, right? Come on, Dick, tell me.

DICK: If you must know, twenty thousand dollars, in round numbers, as you say. Maybe more, if I sold them slowly. Didn't get in a hurry. Advertised them carefully. Moby Dick, about $10,000; Conrad's Almayer's Folly, probably $2,300; Huckleberry Finn, maybe $2,000; David Copperfield, $1,500; Tolstoy's War and Peace, surprisingly, only about $1,000; Poe's Tales of Mystery & Imagination, about $1,000, too; a couple at about $750; two more at $500; and, the last two, perhaps less than that. Twenty thousand, give or take, for the whole lot.

JEFF: Whew (whistles). That isn't exactly chicken feed, you know. That's some kind of profit on five bucks.

DICK: So what. I'm not going to sell those books. I'll get a job. I'll help Scot handle the rent and the other expenses. If I pull my share of the load, we can make it. I know we can. Scot won't get fired, you'll see.

JEFF: I hope you're right about Scot and his job. But I think you are dead wrong about you getting a job and pulling your share.

DICK: I'll show you.

JEFF: Listen a minute. How do you spend your day, your typical day I mean.

DICK: Pretty much like I want to. If I want to work, I'm sure I can.

JEFF: I don't agree. I think you spend your day like you have to. Here's what I mean. I have never known anyone, and I mean anyone, who is such an absolute slave to routine. You get up about the same time every day. You shave, shower, brush your teeth in exacting, I mean exacting, ways. You dress and you go out and buy a paper. Then, you come back here and read the paper while you are eating a small breakfast and drinking a few cups of tea--never coffee--special tea.

DICK: I need the caffeine in the tea to get my system going. I'm not worth anything until the caffeine starts to act. Coffee makes me sick to my stomach, so it has to be tea. As to the paper, every one should keep up with the news. It's an important part of being a citizen, of being informed.

JEFF: I'm not arguing. I'm just pointing out. You have never kept a job unless that job started sometime after noon. Never!

DICK: I never gave it much thought. I never wanted to take morning classes in college either. If I did, if I had to, I seldom went to class. Of course that went for most of the afternoon classes, too. I wasn't into going to class.

JEFF: Bingo! You aren't into doing anything except your thing. You aren't into any routine except your routine. It isn't only here, or recently. These are patterns you fixed a long time ago. In your case, at least as far as your daily routine is concerned, the very best predictor of future behavior is past behavior.

DICK: (Starting to get upset.) Ummm, I suppose you are right. I always looked on it as my freedom. My right to do what I want to do. I never thought of it as a form of slavery.

JEFF: It is, though. Just like your aversion to writing. You are a slave to that. And your reading, we haven't even mentioned that. There you are like a drug addict. If you don't read several hours a day, I can sense the tension building. It's like you need a fix.

DICK: Wait a minute, so are you. You are just as much a slave to your aversion to writing as I am. You have said so yourself, many times.

JEFF: (Calmly and with a note of superiority.) Not any more. I have written a couple of things. One has already been accepted. A good price, too. I figured it was now or never. My whole attitude about writing has changed. That's why I got the promotion. That's why DeDe and I decided to share her place. I'm a changed man. Well, beginning to change, at least.

DICK: (Stunned.) Wow, Jeff! I haven't noticed any difference. When did you do all of this changing. I haven't seen you doing any writing here at the apartment ... that is, not any more than you ever did.

JEFF: Notice? You got to be kidding. You are so wrapped up in yourself and your little routines, you aren't even aware most people exist, even those you live with. Besides, I didn't do the writing here. I did it at the office.

DICK: What you are saying about me is not fair. You are my friend. So is Scot. Karen was sort of a friend when she lived here, even though she gave me a hard time about not pulling my share. We are all friends.

JEFF: Paugh! Friendship for you is a place to stay and something to eat. A place to read and a place to sleep. That's how you define friendship. And, oh, yes, someone to listen to you wax eloquently on your latest reading fad, when your eyes are too tired to see the page of a book or magazine. Don't tell me about you and friendship. You are selfish, completely wrapped up in D-I-C-K. Period.

DICK: (Exasperated.) That's not fair ...

JEFF: You already said that. Fair or not, it's the way I see it. It's one of the reasons I am bailing out. If push comes to shove, and I'm sure it will come to that if Scot gets fired or if his income drops off the deep end--which I think it already has-- you'll be about as much help as a two-year-old. That's my opinion. Take it or leave it. Prove me wrong. Break your habits. Get and keep a job. Work a full day, every day. Support yourself and Scot, too, if he loses his income. Do that and I'll believe you. Words are cheap, Dick. You are good at words, at least at spoken words. Deeds, buddy boy, they are what count. Deeds are what divide the men from the boys, the doers from the ne'er-do-wells. The writers from the dilettantes. You and I were just that, dilettantes. We talked about writing, but we really didn't do any of it. You are one of the best self-educated guys I have ever known, Dick. You have a wide-ranging knowledge-from reading, I mean. You certainly have prepared yourself, in that respect to be a writer. You could also be a great critic. I have

seldom known anyone who could read a piece, understand the essence of the thing, and critique it the way you can. You'd be a good editor, too. You can spot a misused word, phrase or sentence with the best of them. You also grasp lapses in writing logic. Just the kind of things that make for a good editor. But, where has all of your knowledge and potential gotten you? You have said it yourself, nowhere! It will be the same when it comes down to getting and holding a job. No way, no how, no when, nowhere! A talker, not a doer--a dilettante. Just like I was. I have heard it all before from you. "This time I am going to get a job and hold it. Or, this time I am going to sit down and write until I have finished this or that great story-line, "you have said, time and time again. Who do you think you are kidding? Not me. The best predictor of future behavior is past

behavior, remember?

DICK: You said you didn't believe that about our behavior. That you couldn't believe it. That we should both climb in our graves and pull the dirt in, if that were true.

JEFF: Actually, I said we should go to bed and stay there until we die ....

DICK: It amounts to the same thing. You say you have changed. You sure are talking different. I never had a clue that you felt the way you do. You never hinted ....

JEFF: Hinted? Never hinted? Giving you a hint is like putting a pinch of salt in a swimming pool and expecting the whole pool to taste like the ocean. You don't even take orders, let alone hints.

DICK: (Very upset.) See. See what I mean. All at once you are the high and mighty and I am the nobody. The dunce. Where do you get off putting me down? We were about the same, you said. Both locked into the non-writing syndrome.

JEFF: You said it all when you said "were." Now, you still are and I have broken free. I'm beginning to feel like a person. Like an adult. Like I can write and edit with the best of them. And, you know what, I can. I have. I am.

DICK: Oh, God, I can't take this. First Karen leaves. Then the market crashes. Now you tell me you are leaving and that Scot will lose his job and has already lost most of his income. I don't deserve this. We don't deserve this. It was great here. Scot and Karen had a good thing going. You and I could talk about things. In fact, I can't ever remember knowing anyone I could talk with like we did. It was great. Our talks stimulated my

interest. Made me think about things. Made me curious to read things you had read, or were reading. Our talks expanded my mind, my horizons.

JEFF: Our talks. You are hooked on our talks just like you are hooked on your morning paper and your tea. You enjoy talking, especially talking about things that you say you want to write about. You talk but you don't write. I've seen the pleasure you get out of

talk, talk, talk. I even mentioned it: "Don't talk about it, write about it," I said, as you were waxing eloquently on some topic or other. But, you wouldn't write it out. Talk is cheap; the labor of writing it out is dear, costly in terms of time, effort, and organization.

DICK: (Glumly.) So, even our conversations bothered you. Now, you say it's over. Just like that. You are moving in with ... what's her name?

JEFF: DeDe. You've met her. She was at Hal's party several months ago.

DICK: (Thoughtfully.) Yeah, I kind of remember her. I think I even tried to talk to her. Not much happened.

JEFF: So she said. You didn't try to talk with her. You talked at her. She couldn't get a word in edgewise. You were on one of your usual reading kicks. You were really into some new idea. She told me, alright. She listened a while and then escaped as soon as she could. You can be pretty dense, single-minded and insensitive to others, you know.

DICK: I never knew that. You never told me. You always seemed to enjoy out talks. Was that just another put-on?

JEFF: No. I did enjoy our talks, because I could get a word in. Most of the time, at least. If you were too wound up, I would just jump in, throw you off stride with some outlandish comment. Break your rhythm. Then, you would have to listen while you were

repairing your nice, tight, tidy little thought systems. In short, I could hold my own with you. Most can't. Most wouldn't want to. They could care less what you read or what you think.

DICK: I don't see how that can be true. I have people I talk to. Scot. Scot listens to me. He joins in. There are others.

JEFF: Scot is a sounding board. He knows how to ask questions that spur you on. He gets a kick out of it, I guess. Others? You name one, one who is just your friend and who talks with you. When you go out, correction, when we drag you away from your books, it is to our friends, or to something we have planned. Mostly Scot's doing. He is the socialite, here. Except to look for books to buy or borrow, I sometimes wonder if you would ever leave this place. Oh, except to buy your morning paper, of course.

DICK: (With a combination of sadness and anger.) You sure know how to hurt someone. I mean, if you are going to leave at the end of the month, you could leave as a friend. I don't know why you have to lay all of this stuff about me on me, now that you are leaving. What good does it do? Does it make it easier for you to leave? Does it help your conscience?

JEFF: (Guardedly.) What about my conscience? Why should it be hurting?

DICK: I don't know. You tell me. I guess it makes it easier to leave Scot and me behind, and maybe in trouble, if you put me down like you have. Like I'm lazy. A slave to my habits. A ne'er do well. If I am all that, and a bore, too, you can leave without feeling guilty, with a clear conscience. I don't know. I'm just trying to understand why you are leaving and why you have said all these things about me. Negative things. If I'm so bad, why did you put up with me all of these months?

JEFF: I didn't say you were all bad. I was just trying to get you to think about some things. To see some things from some perspective other than yours. I wouldn't have stayed, no matter how convenient it was, if it was all bad. You must believe that. But, you must also believe that the world you have built between your ears is not a very good model of the real world. You are not living in a real world inside your head. That should be clear to you, now that our little space is breaking apart. Reality is coming home to roost for you, just like it did for the stock market when it crashed. You have been dreaming too long. It is time you woke up. Grew up. Began to live, responsibly.

DICK: I am responsible. I don't drink. I don't smoke. I don't commit crimes. The world would be a pretty happy place, if more people acted like I do.

JEFF: Happy? You got to be kidding. The world would be bankrupt. Very little would get done. Who would print your morning paper, if everyone followed your routine? Who would milk the cows, manufacture the cars, sell the goods? Happy my elbow. The world

would come to a screeching stop, blam. A hundred ten million people get up and go to work in the morning, every weekday morning. Scot, for instance. Several million go to school, most of them in the morning. Most of them go to classes, they don't ditch them. Happy? You are less realistic and more irresponsible than I thought. Come down to what is the bottom line for you, what would people read, if everyone was blocked on writing the way you are? Tell me that. Happy?

DICK: (Really angry.) Ummm. There you go again. Putting me down at the bottom with the whale manure. Maybe I don't work, but I don't do a lot of bad things, either. I don't think I am as bad as you say. There wouldn't be a need for prisons, or for armies, either. I don't produce much garbage or other pollution. I don't litter the parks or the streets.

JEFF: Bad? No you are not bad. You are a true innocent. You couldn't sin if you wanted to, or had to. On the other hand, a lot of us sinners do make contributions. We get things done, things that need to be done, even while sinning along the way. It's not enough to be good, a person needs to be productive too, Dick. To make things, do things, accomplish something. Just letting the world go by isn't good enough. It isn't what life is all about. You have to reach out, grab opportunities, commit some crimes, if necessary. That's the way life is. It isn't sitting around on the couch reading. Or sitting around talking about things. It's working and doing. Look, Dick, I have to leave for a while. DeDe and I have some things we need to do. I'm meeting her. I'll be back late tonight. See you then. Think about some of the things I have said. Try to relate to them in a positive way. I meant them to be constructive. To give you something to think about. To shake you loose from your dream. To get you to think more realistically about what is likely to happen to you, if you

don't become more worldly. More concerned with your life. They may not have sounded like it--not all of them, anyhow. They were intended to be constructive comments.

(JEFF turns and hurries out the door. DICK stares after him with a perplexed look on his face as the stage lights go out.)

Act II - Scene 2

(As the action begins, SCOT enters a dark apartment

from the front door and turns on the light. SCOT finds

DICK sitting on the couch.)

SCOT: Hey, Dick, I thought the place was deserted. What's the

idea sitting here in the dark like that? The light bill is paid,

at least for now. What gives?

DICK: Hi, Scot. I thought you'd never get home. I have been

waiting for most of the afternoon. I guess I was too wrapped up

in my thoughts to turn on the lights.

SCOT: Ohh, you've been to the bank, haven't you?

DICK: Yes, I have. What is this, Scot, some sort of joke.

SCOT: What is what?

DICK: Let me read it. I found it in your safety deposit box

instead of my books. First, I read; then, you tell me how you

could pull such a joke on me.

SCOT: Here, let me read it. You seem to upset to read anything.

"The undersigned hereby acknowledges that he has temporarily

borrowed the following twelve books from Dick Predler for

the purpose of using said books as collateral on a stock purchase:

"Do you want me to read the titles, Dick?

DICK: (Jumping up.) No, Scot, I want you to tell me that it is

one of your little jokes, one of the cruelest, sneakiest, little

jokes you have ever pulled off on anyone, especially me.

SCOT: (Seriously.) Wish I could, Dick. It's no joke. When the

market crashed, I was caught with some stocks on margin. The

stock value went down and the company demanded more money. I

didn't have any more money. I was desperate. No one would lend me

a dime that day, with the market in such chaos. I thought I would

be wiped out. Lose everything. In fact, I almost did. Then I thought

of the books. I knew a guy who would loan his grandmother to a

barbarian for those books, even just to have them for a few days

until I got squared around. Of course, he would hope that I

couldn't get squared around, so he could keep them.

DICK: (Tense and tightlipped.) Go on, Scot.

SCOT: That's about it. I went to the bank, got the books, hocked

them, met my margin call and avoided losing everything I have

worked for in the market.

DICK: (Shouting.) How could you? How could you steal my books and

use them to pay a gambling debt?

SCOT: Whoa. It wasn't a gambling debt and I didn't use the books

to pay anything. I just borrowed some money using the books as

collateral.

DICK: (Nearing panic.) It's gambling as far as I am concerned.

You made a bet on the market and lost. Then, you used the most

valuable, the most precious things I have ever owned--or wanted

to own--to bail yourself out of trouble.

SCOT: (Trying to calm Dick.) I am sorry you feel that way. Yes, I

did take a risk in the market. Not a big risk, I thought at the time.

Turned out I was wrong. We all must take risks in life, Dick.

Even getting up in the morning is a risk.

DICK: Not with my books! We don't take risks with my books.

What a filthy thing to do. Gambling is bad enough. You have to

compound that with the even bigger sin. I trusted you. I put those

books in your safety deposit box for security. Remember?

So they would be safe from burglars and safe from fire. I didn't

put them there so you could gamble them away on some

stock market deal.

SCOT: Try to settle down a bit, Dick. The books are not lost.

They are still yours. It's not like they are stolen or burned. They

are in good hands. The bank is holding them, as trustee, for the

guy I borrowed the money from. We'll ... I'll get them back for

you. It will take a little time. Meanwhile, you can see them.

Rest assured, they are safe and you will get them back.

DICK: How? When? Why haven't you gotten them back before now?

The crash was some time ago. I read where the market is back up.

Shouldn't you have the books back? When does Mr. Greed, whoever

he is who loaned you the money, get to keep them, if you don't

pay up? I need to know the truth. Do you realize what you have

done? You have destroyed my collection. Frittered it away. I'm

about to go nuts.

SCOT: Dick, you are losing control. Take it easy. Sit down and

calm down. Once more. The books are in safe hands. You have not

lost them. You will get them back, and soon. A little patience and trust.

DICK: (With intense anger.) Patience? Trust? It seems to me I

have misplaced too much trust already. I was a fool to ever let

those books out of my sight. I knew better. Remember? I wanted

them here. Here where I could see them and touch them.

SCOT: And so you shall. I'll set up an appointment with Silverman

and the bank. You'll see. They are safe and ready to be returned,

just as soon as the market goes up a little more.

DICK: (Frantically.) Silverman! Oh, my God! Not Silverman. You

don't know that man. He would rob his grandmother. I have seem

him in operation. When he buys, he is a shark. He drives the

price down and rips the poor seller to shreds. When he sells, he

is tenacious. He hangs on his price like a bulldog. He'll never

let go of those books. He'll hide them and say they were lost, or

stolen. You don't know Silverman. I do.

SCOT: Calm down, Dick. I'm not trained in the law for nothing.

Besides, like I said, Silverman doesn't have the books. Not in

person. The bank does. Our bank. The firm's bank. They are acting

as trustee. Silverman couldn't get his hands on the books if he

wanted to. That is, not before the due date on the note.

DICK: I can't wait. I have to see those books. Call the bank and

let's go down there, now. I don't believe you. I can't take your

word on it. Not now. Not after what you have done. No one would

do that, that I could ever trust. Hock books for a stock deal.

It's too gross.

SCOT: We can't go to the bank. It's nearly six o'clock. The bank

has been closed for hours. It won't open until mid-morning.

(Pleading.) Dick, we've lived together for months now. I have

trusted you with everything I own. Why can't you believe me and

trust me, just until in the morning.

DICK: Because you took books, not just any books, mind you, my

books, first editions, and you pawned them. Books are ... well,

you just don't do that with books. Not in my value system. You

know how I feel about those books.

SCOT: I do. I do. But, there was no other way, Dick. Try to see

the thing from my point. I was about to lose everything I had

worked for and believed in. I needed the money, fast. There

seemed only one avenue left. I had tried everything, every

one, I could think of. Sure, I knew you wouldn't approve.

That's why I did it without asking. After all, it isn't as if I

had never done you any favors.

DICK: Money. What you have done for me was just money. These are

books.

SCOT: Books aren't holy, Dick. They aren't God. Books are books.

DICK: (With great force.) Never! Books are the greatest thing in

the world. They are ... everything worthwhile.

SCOT: No, Dick. I don't believe that and neither do you. At

least you have not said that when you were rational. People.

People are the greatest thing in the world for you. You have

said that over and over. Well, I am people and I needed your

help, your books, at least. What about our friendship?

DICK: You talk friendship. Does a friend steal behind your back?

Does he sneak off with your life? Not to my way of thinking. You

set me up for this. You had it figured out even before I put those books in your trust.

SCOT: No! (He pounds a clenched fist into the palm of the other

hand.) I did not. It never entered my mind. How could it? I thought

the market would go up forever. I thought I would be rich. That

I would scoff at the measly few thousand you could get for those

books. Planned it? This has unbalanced your mind, Dick. (Pleading,

again.) Listen to what you are saying. This is me, Scot. Your friend,

not some sneak thief in the night. I did leave a legal note. An IOU.

And, I will return the books in the same condition as when I

borrowed them.

DICK: What happens if the market doesn't go up far enough? How

do you get them back then?

SCOT: I have been working on some alternate financing. If the

market stays flat, or if it goes down a bit, I think I can pull

in enough to cover the loan on the books.

DICK: If? Think? Do you hear what you are saying? You're talking

like a gambling junkie.

SCOT: Listen to the bright side for just a moment, Dick. The

market has recovered almost enough. I'll accelerate the processes

on the loan; I can pledge future income, that sort of thing. Now

that you know that the books are gone, I'll just speed up the

process. (Scot moves to console Dick.) Actually, I'm glad you

found out. I'm not the sort who likes to do things the way

circumstances forced me to do this. You know that, Dick.

(DICK turns abruptly and disappears into his bedroom as the

stage lights go out.)

Act II - Scene 3

(As the stage lights are turned on, DICK is dialing a number

on the telephone.)

DICK: Hello, is Jeff there? Thank you, I'll wait.

(DICK nervously thumbs through a magazine he has been

holding in hand, as he waits.)

DICK: Jeff? This is Dick. Listen I just ran across the latest

issue of The New Yorker. One of the old man's short stories

is in it. (Pause.)

DICK: Of course I'm sure. I recognize it from one of the brief

sets of notes. From one of the notebooks. (Pause.)

DICK: There can't be any mistaking it. I dug the notebook out.

Sure, the information in the notebook is sketchy. But, the names

of the characters are the same. The plot, the story-line, it all

matches. (Pause.)

DICK: This story was written by a Jerry Jordan. Do you know a

Jerry Jordan? Well, I know a Jeff Jensen, and I smell a rat. (Pause.)

DICK: Maybe that was the old man's name. I don't think so. I

have been thinking. I buy that box of books, you find the

computer disks in there, and you take the disks to the office.

Then, you say the disks contain the same kind of stuff in the

notebooks. Later, bingo, all of a sudden you move out and say you

are writing as never before. You mention placing a couple of

articles. You never show me the articles. You didn't tell me who

bought them. As I said, "I smell a R-A-T! (Pause.)

DICK: Maybe that is a good idea. Maybe you should come over

here. Maybe we should have a talk. Maybe you can set my mind at

ease, prove the old man submitted this story and got it accepted

just before he died. And, again, maybe you can't. The New Yorker

editors will know who they bought the story from.(Pause.)

DICK: I'll be here alright. I'll have the old man's notes. I'll have the

exact information in the article and in the notes underlined. You'll

see. Oh, and Jeff, bring a good explanation with you. A really

good explanation. Like the truth!

(DICK slams the receiver down. He disappears into his bedroom and

returns with one of the old man's notebooks, sets down and begins

to work hard: First he refers to the notebook, then to the article.

Back and forth. He is hard at work when SCOT enters.)

SCOT: Hi, Dick, what are you up to?

DICK: You may not be the only friend who has stuck it to me,

lately.

SCOT: I wouldn't put it just like that. What do you mean?

DICK: I think Jeff got into the act, too. The latest New Yorker

just hit the magazine racks today. Naturally, I decided to

browse through it. Guess what I found?

SCOT: Beats me; but, whatever it was sure has you worked up.

Must be something like the confessions of a book thief.

DICK: Very funny, Scot, very funny. It's one of the old man's

short stories.

SCOT: Whew! That is something. Now that you know his name, you

can find out something about him. Who he was ....

DICK: Not so fast. I said it was one of the old man's stories; I

did not say the credit line was in the old man's name. The credit

lists one Jerry Jordan. It goes on to say that Jerry Jordan is

a pen name for an author who, for private reasons, can not reveal

his true identity and name at this time.

SCOT: I still don't see ....

DICK: Don't see! You are usually the first to see these things,

Elementary, you say. Now it's my turn. It's elementary that Jerry

Jordan and Jeff Jensen are pretty similar names. It's elementary

that Jeff ....

(The doorbell rings. SCOT goes to the door and lets in a

breathless JEFF.)

SCOT: Ah, Jeff, Dick was just going through an interesting scenario.

You are just in time to fill in the conjecture with facts.

JEFF: (Sheepishly.) Hi, Scot; hi, Dick. I did what you suggested,

Dick. I brought the truth. First, I need to relax a bit and sit down.

It will take a while.

DICK: By all means, sit. Relax. I can't wait to hear the "truth.

"The truth according to Saint Jeffrey, while Saint Scot listens.

(The THREE sit down facing each other. A few moments pass.

The THREE look at one another. Tension in the room seems to grow.)

JEFF: Yes, well, the disks weren't just filled with a few scribbles,

after all. They were all there. The stories from the notebooks,

I mean. Fully written. Sixty-two of them. Finely crafted. Several

of them--most of them, in fact--were very, very good. Polished.

That old man, whoever he was, knew how to write. He had

mastered the craft of short story writing as few writers ever have.

SCOT: Whew. How could a poor old man do it?

JEFF: Money isn't what counts in writing; it's talent and hard

work that pay off. The old man had the talent and he worked out a

way to find the time to write. And, write he did. Small masterpieces.

DICK: Why did he use a computer when his notes are in his hand

writing? Where did he get the computer to work on?

JEFF: That's easy. It's in one of his stories. The old man worked

as a night watchman in one of the big office buildings. His job

didn't take much time. Just a round or two to check on things

through the night. The rest of the time he borrowed the

computers in one of the offices. He was an excellent typist.

He learned typing in business school, years ago. He could

write as he typed. And, of course, the computer word

processing program meant that he could edit the stories

time and again, anytime he wanted to.

DICK: (Showing great interest.) Brilliant. What a wonderful way

to earn a living and, at the same time, to have the great freedom

needed for writing.

SCOT: Exciting! But, where do you come in, Jeff, and Jerry Jordan.

JEFF: When I checked out the first disk, I realized there was a

fortune in stories, on the disks, even if each disk contained only one

or, at most a few good, salable stories. I copied all of the disks

on to new disks, erased the originals and typed some of the notes

on to each of the old man's disks. Just enough to convince you

and ... what's his name, Scot? ... your computer whiz friend that

I was telling the truth, if you checked the disks.

DICK: (Angrily.) You rat! You stole those stories from me just

like Scot stole my books.

JEFF: (Looking back and forth from Scot to Dick in great surprise

and consternation.) Scot stole your books? I don't believe it.

DICK: Well, he did, practically.

(SCOT moves between DICK and JEFF.)

SCOT: Don't believe him, Jeff. I borrowed them for a short period

of time to use for collateral. When the market went down, it was

that or lose everything. The bank has them, they are safe as can

be, and I'll get them back real soon.

DICK: (Getting angry.) Hah! Words. The two guys I thought were

my best friends in all the world. One hocks my books for a gambling

debt, the other steals a bunch of short stories that rightfully belong

to me. I bought that box and all that was in it. Those books and

those stories all belong to me!

JEFF: (Relieved by what Scot has said.) At least I'm guilty. I admit

it fully. I was going to tell you. It was beginning to get to me. I

couldn't have lived with myself much longer. I just couldn't

figure out exactly how to break the news to you. To tell you

without things getting all balled up, just like they have.

SCOT: (Sincerely.) Nor could I live with myself, if I thought for

a moment that I could never get your books back, Dick. We aren't

as bad as you seem to paint us. I just wish you could remember

the good days. What friends we were. What friends we are, still.

DICK: (Bleakly.) Tell me about those good old days, before I

brought that box of trouble home. Tell me how great it was before

Karen left. Before you pawned my books and before Jeff stole the

stories. What a complete fool I have been. What a patsy ... used

by my two best friends.

JEFF: (Getting angry.) Now wait a minute. I was going to own up

to it. Make it right. I swear I was. I certainly knew that you read

The New Yorker, that you would find out about the article. In fact,

I don't know why I did it; I knew it wouldn't work. I didn't know

that they would like the story as much as they did and put it in

super-fast time. But, before I even did it, I knew it wouldn't

work. I just ... I just ... I don't know. I needed something ... I

thought I would have more time to work it all out ... with you.

(JEFF'S voice trails away to a faint whisper. He hangs his head in shame.)

SCOT: You'll get your books back, Dick, just you wait and see.

JEFF: And, I'll see to it that you get all of the stories back ... printed

nicely and everything ... and that you get credit for the two I have

sold ... somehow.

DICK: Meanwhile, Scot, you still have your precious stocks

and I don't have my books. Jeff, you have your promotion,

due in no small part to the "New You." Isn't that what you

said? "I'm writing, now. I'm in control," you said. Yuck.

You two make me sick.

(DICK runs from the apartment and slams the door his way

out. JEFF starts after him but is stopped by SCOT.)

SCOT: Let him go. He needs some time alone. He'll be back.

We have the two things he wants more than anything else in

the world. I have, or will have, his books. You have all those

disks with the stories on them--and the money from the two

you have sold. We don't need to chase him. You go on home.

After he has walked off his anger at us and his disillusionment,

he'll come home.

JEFF: You know best. You have my home and office phone numbers.

Call me as soon as we can all get together to straighten out this mess.

SCOT: He'll come back. He won't say much. He'll mope around

for a couple of days, avoiding me and not speaking. We'll start

talking again. When it gets to that, you can come over and we can

work it all out to his satisfaction. Bank on it.

(JEFF exits as the lights go out.)

Act II - Scene 4

(As the state lights are turned on, SCOT, KAREN, and JEFF

enter the apartment through the front door. They have been

to a party and are in a gala mood. The old camaraderie is fully

restored.)

SCOT: Ummm, dark in here. Wait 'til I turn on some lights.

Old Dick must be out someplace. Still moping, no doubt.

My news will cheer him up when he gets home. What a

market! What a killing!

JEFF: Yeah, you give him his books and I throw in the

disks and the printouts of all those lovely stories. If that

doesn't bring him around, nothing will.

KAREN: You two better do that before I start moving

my stuff back in. I'm not sure he will view my return as

being quite the equal of your news.

SCOT: Sure he will. In his own way he has missed you as

much as I have. For different reasons, to be sure, but just as much.

JEFF: I hope he's up to having me move back in, too. With

DeDe leaving town, I don't think I want to stay in that apartment

all by myself. Besides, it makes sense for us to get back together,

all of us, now that everything has worked itself out with the

books, and soon will with the old man's stories. We had a good

relationship going here, and it can be that way again. Only this

time we can become a team.

SCOT: Right on!

(SCOT and KAREN begin to hug and kiss, just as DICK

stumbles from his bedroom.)

DICK: Wha's all 'e rack' ou' here?

(All THREE turn in surprise as DICK stumbles into the room

from the bedroom hall.)

SCOT: Ah, there you are. Awfully early for you to be in bed.

Looks like you were deeply asleep. Sorry if we disturbed you.

We have been, er, doing the town. Good news. Great market

rally. Your books are safe and sound

DICK: Boo'? Sa'e? Pills ... too' ... pills. Slee'.

(DICK stands near the doorway to the bedroom, swaying.)

KAREN: Ohhhh, he's done himself in with drugs.

SCOT: Nonsense. Dick wouldn't take an aspirin for a headache.

JEFF: He looks awfully groggy, to me. We better check to

make sure. Were there any drugs around.

KAREN: I left a bottle of my sleeping pills in the medicine

cabinet when I left--on rather short notice.

SCOT: Yeah, I just left them in there, hoping you'd be back.

Let's go see.

(SCOT and JEFF run into the bathroom while KAREN stands

in the middle of the room wringing her hands. DICK continues

to sway uncertainly as SCOT and JEFF return from the bathroom.)

SCOT: The bottle was on the floor and there is no sign of the pills.

He must have taken them.

JEFF: How many pills were in the bottle, Karen?

KAREN: I don't know. I hadn't used it or looked in it for

weeks before I left. Quite a few, I think. Maybe, lots.

(The THREE gather around DICK.)

SCOT: Listen to me, Dick, did you swallow the pills?

DICK: Boo'? Okay? Pil'? Yes. Swallow.

JEFF: All of them?

DICK: (Vaguely.) Al'? All pill? Yesss. Boo' safe?

KAREN: We've got to make him vomit. Mustard water.

That's it. Mustard water. It'll make him toss his cookies.

I'll get some.

(KAREN heads for the kitchen.)

DICK: Alre'd' did. Throw up. All pill.

SCOT: You mean you barfed already.

DICK: Yeah. Take. Throw up. All.

SCOT: How long after you took them?

DICK: How lon'?

JEFF: Yes. How long were the pills on your stomach before

you brought them back up.

DICK: Dunno. Soo'.

(KAREN returns with a glass of horrible looking liquid.)

KAREN: Here, Dick, drink this. It will help you.

DICK: No than'. My stoma' bad shape alr'dy from barf' slee'ing

SCOT: Listen, Dick, this is important. How long, after you

took the pills, was it before you vomited and got them out

of your stomach?

JEFF: Come on, Dick, we need to know.

DICK: (Looks vaguely from Scot to Jeff and back again.) Not lon'.

I thin'. Stuck finger throa' an' up came. Still in the toil', I thin'.

JEFF: Quick. Let's go see what's in the john. Maybe that will tell

us something.

(JEFF and SCOT hurry off stage toward the bathroom.)

KAREN: Here, Dick, drink this anyhow. It will clear out anything

that might still be down there in your stomach.

DICK: Uggghhh! No than'. Hor'ble. You can't make drin'. Loo' bad.

KAREN: Too bad those pills didn't look this bad to you.

We wouldn't be having this problem.

DICK: No pro'lem. I got rid of the', before slee', I thin'.

KAREN: You think. We need to be real sure. I'm going to

get some coffee going. Even if you got them right out you are

going to need some coffee.

DICK: No coffee; you know tha'. Tea on'y. No coffee.

KAREN: You'll love it, if it saves your life. You'd even love

mustard after this. If you would drink this and if it saved your

life, you'd love it. Believe me, I know.

DICK: Rather die. Look gas'ly.

KAREN: Close your eyes, then. That shouldn't be such a problem;

they are half shut now. I'll be right back.

(JEFF and SCOT re-enter from the bathroom as KAREN leaves.

DICK stands in the center of the room, still looking vaguely around.

But, he does seem to be perking up some.)

SCOT: There was evidence of a lot of pills in the stool. No way to

tell much, though, since the stuff had been in the water.

JEFF: Come on, Dick, let's start walking around. The fact that you

are able to stand, says a lot. I think we can walk this off. Walking and

a lot of coffee, that's what they do in the movies and on TV for an

overdose of sleeping pills.

DICK: Tea. On'y tea.

SCOT: I'll go help Karen. You keep him moving, Jeff. Call me

anything changes with him.

DICK: Nothin' wrong. Slee'y. I feel pre'y good. Better all time.

Jus' li'l groggy. Feel good.

(SCOT heads for the kitchen and JEFF and DICK begin to walk

around the living room as the stage lights are turned off.)

Act Two - Scene 5

(KAREN, SCOT, JEFF, and DICK are in the living room of the

apartment as the lights are turned on. Order has been restored

and ALL FOUR seem to be in a good mood.)

SCOT: So, you see, Dick, when the market surged--like I knew

it would, all along--I immediately sold my stock, paid old man

Silverman, got your books from the bank, and returned them to the

safety deposit box. You saw them for yourself. No damage. None

missing. Back to square one.

KAREN: I always knew you could do it, Scot. It sure took some

guts, but it did pay off.

JEFF: And, Dick, since you and I have the disks and the printouts

of the stories on the disks, and since you have agreed to let me

work with you, we can begin the job of editing some of the very

best of the old man's short stories into a book. We can begin

anytime you are ready. I think it will be an important book. We

very likely can get permission to include the New Yorker story

and the other story I sold in the volume.

DICK: There are a lot more good stories on those disks than we

can ever put in one book. We'll keep on trying to get stories published

in the very best magazines. The money we get from them can help us

live while we get the book together and published. All of that

experience, getting articles placed, editing the short stories into

a book, working with editors and publishers, should give us

to move some of our own ideas along, either individually or as

a writing team.

KAREN: Now that I am going to enroll in computer word processing

school, I can type manuscripts for you two, as part of my homework

assignments for the classes I'll be taking.

SCOT: Meanwhile, I'll launch my search for the old man. I'll start with

the coroner's office, since we have no clue who the relatives were or

where they lived. You'd think there would be at least one useful bit

of information in that infernal trouble box. But, no. Not a clue.

It's almost as if the old man had all of this planned out.

Remaining anonymous, I mean.

DICK: I think so too. For whatever reason, near as we can tell,

he never attempted to get any of his stories published in his

lifetime. He probably knew his relatives well enough to know

they wouldn't understand or appreciate what was in the box. I

think he was banking on someone making use of the stuff, even

stealing the stuff and publishing it under their own name.

JEFF: Like I thought I could, before my conscience got to me.

DICK: Somehow, for some deep reason, the old man just could not

accept himself as a writer to be published during his lifetime. Or

anytime under his own name. It's kind of scary, this business of

putting your name to a work and letting all sorts of people see it,

analyze it, pick it apart. I sure can empathize with the old man,

whoever he was. My whole writing career has been one of fear:

Fear I might write something only to have it rejected or accepted

and then vilified by the critics. On the other side of the coin, I

was always afraid I might write something, have it accepted,

and then become a celebrity. That scared me as much as the

prospect of failure.

JEFF: I can sure relate to both of those fears. Writing is a

hazardous duty profession.

KAREN: The way you two talk, I wonder how anyone ever writes

anything and puts it out for publication.

SCOT: I'd rather make anonymous decisions on the stock market.

You get picked apart there, sometimes. But, your mistakes are

hidden from nearly everyone. Only the clients you have misguided

know about your failures and they aren't too keen on spreading

the word around when you've goofed; makes them look bad, too.

JEFF: It's going to be tough finding out who the old man was. We

don't know where he lived, or when he died. He may have died

weeks or months before the sale.

SCOT: I don't think so. Estate matters don't take long when it

looks like the dead person is poor. Whish. The courts process

things right through. Besides, maybe the relatives didn't even

wait for a legal right to sell the stuff.

JEFF: Sounds reasonable. The old man dies. The apartment manager

contacts the relatives. They come down, bury the old man, sell the stuff

and hurry back to ... to 'wherever.' He may have died just a few days

before you bought the box, Dick.

SCOT: That's what I think, too. We can work the dates out pretty

closely. Then, it will just be a matter of some 'grunt' work and a

little luck. Piece of cake, really. The old man probably hadn't

been dead more than a few days when Dick bought the books.

Lots of people died in New York in the time period I'll be focusing

on, but not too many will fit the old man's profile.

DICK: I seem to remember something about that; how long he had

been dead, I mean. I believe they mentioned that they had just had

the funeral. Scot you can do it, I know you can. You'll find out who

the old man was. Jeff and I will edit and sell his stuff, using his name

as author and ours as editors. Once we get it all published and the

family paid their share of the royalties, Jeff and I can begin to write

our own "great" works: Stories, books, literary criticism; you name it.

KAREN: That's the spirit, Dick. I haven't heard you talk like that, ever.

It sounds good.

SCOT: It does sound great, doesn't it? I have been thinking about

all of this: Dick's attempt at suicide, Karen's leaving, Jeff's taking

the stories, and my using the books for collateral. They all seem

related somehow. (He gestures to the group to hold any comments.)

Not how you might think. I mean, we all needed to grow up, to

mature, to accept responsibility. (Scot wipes his eyes.) I'm not

saying this very well. What I mean is, I think we all resisted becoming

adults. But, we all took a big risk and--at the same time--tried to

remain immature. So, something dramatic was needed. Karen left,

Jeff took the stories, I hocked the books and Dick ... (Scot turns

o Dick.) Dick if you'll pardon me for saying so, you had the most

growing up to do. You took the greatest--the ultimate--risk. I think

we all came through as more mature people. (He turns away in

frustration at not having said exactly what he wanted to.)

DICK: Things sure have worked out wonderfully well. Here

we are, all back together. Our friendship is even stronger, and

more meaningful now than it was before. Jeff and I have enough

work to keep us busy for a long, long time. And, it will bring us

some measure of money and reputation. Karen, your career will

surely start to prosper soon. If it doesn't it won't be for lack of

trying or talent. Even if it doesn't prosper, you will have a really

good, modern set of skills to fall back on. I mean, computers

are in. The stock market seems destined to make you some

money now, Scot. Especially since you have full equity in your

stocks and a firm hold on your job. At one time I was sorry I

ever laid eyes on that box full of trouble. Now? I'm sure that

it was all meant to be.

SCOT: I don't know whether it was meant to be, or not. But, it

all worked out well. (He turns back to Dick.) Royalties to the

family? Money and fame for each of us. That sure sounds like

"Dick the Moralist, the Idealist and the Optimist," all with a

heavy dash of realism, to me. I agree with you about the box,

Dick. It wasn't such a box full of trouble after all. It brought

us back together, closer than we were before. It has made us a

team, instead of just four people living under the same roof. We

owe a great deal to that old man, whoever he was, and to his

trouble box.

DICK: As Browning said (more or less): "God's in his heaven;

all's right with the world." This calls for a drink. I'm going to

put the pot on. Come to think of it; do any of you think this

could be written up as a play?

JEFF: Maybe so.

DICK: Anyone else for a cup of tea?

(The curtain closes.)

END OF THE PLAY.