JANE: You know what, and the boy knew what you meant by it. Why did you want to hurt him with the implication that he was in a class with a common, a predatory transvestite?
TYE: Look Jane . . . You say you was brought up on high ground, good elevation, but you come in here, you bring in here and expose me to a little queer, and . . .
JANE: Does everyone with civilized behavior, good manners, seem to be a queer to you?
TYE: . . . Was it good manners the way he looked at me, Babe?
JANE [voice rising]: Was it good manners for you to stand in front of him rubbing your—groin the way you did?
TYE: I wanted you to notice his reaction.
JANE: He was just embarrassed.
TYE: You got a lot to learn about life in the Quarter.
JANE: I think that he’s a serious person that I can talk to, and I need some one to talk to!
[Pause]
TYE: You can’t talk to me huh?
JANE: With you working all night at a Bourbon Street strip-joint, and sleeping nearly all day? Involving yourself with all the underworld elements of this corrupt city . . .
TYE: ’Sthat all I do? Just that? I never pleasure you, Babe?
[Fade in piano blues. She draws a breath and moves as if half asleep behind Tye’s chair.]
JANE: Yes, you—pleasure me, Tye.
TYE: I try to do my best to, Babe. Sometimes I wonder why a girl—
JANE: Not a girl, Tye. A woman.
TYE: —How did—why did—you get yourself mixed up with me?
JANE: A sudden change of circumstances removed me from—how shall I put it so you’d understand?
TYE: Just—say.
JANE: What I’d thought was myself. So I quit my former connections, I came down here to—[She stops short.] Well, to make an adjustment to—[Pause.] We met by chance on Royal Street when a deluge of rain backed me into a doorway. Didn’t know you were behind me until you put your hand on my hip and I turned to say, “Stop that!” but didn’t because you were something I’d never encountered before—faintly innocent—boy’s eyes. Smiling. Said to myself, “Why not, with nothing to lose!” Of course you pleasure me, Tye!—I’d been alone so long . . .
[She touches his throat with trembling fingers. He leans sensually back against her. She runs her hand down his chest.]
Silk on silk is—lovely . . . regardless of the danger.
[As the light on this area dims, typing begins offstage. The dim-out is completed.]
SCENE FOUR
A lighted area represents Mrs. Wire’s kitchen, in which she is preparing a big pot of gumbo despite the hour, which is midnight. She could be mistaken for a witch from Macbeth in vaguely modern but not new costume.
The writer’s footsteps catch her attention. He appears at the edge of the light in all that remains of his wardrobe: riding boots and britches, a faded red flannel shirt.
MRS. WIRE: Who, who?—Aw, you, dressed up like a jockey in a donkey race!
WRITER:—My, uh, clothes are at the cleaners.
MRS. WIRE: Do they clean clothes at the pawnshop, yeah, I reckon they do clean clothes not redeemed. Oh. Don’t go upstairs. Your room is forfeited, too.
WRITER: . . . You mean I’m . . . ?
MRS. WIRE: A loser, boy. Possibly you could git a cot at the Salvation Army.
WRITER [averting his eyes]: May I sit down a moment?
MRS. WIRE: Why, for what?
WRITER: Eviction presents . . . a problem.
MRS. WIRE: I thought you was gittin’ on the WPA Writers’ Project? That’s what you tole me when I inquired about your prospects for employment, you said, “Oh, I’ve applied for work on the WPA for writers.”
WRITER: I couldn’t prove that my father was destitute, and the fact he contributes nothing to my support seemed—immaterial to them.
MRS. WIRE: Why’re you shifty-eyed? I never seen a more shifty-eyed boy.
WRITER: I, uh, have had a little eye trouble, lately.
MRS. WIRE: You’re gettin’ a cataract on your left eye, boy, face it!—Cataracts don’t usually hit at your age.
WRITER: I’ve noticed a lot of things have hit me—prematurely . . .
MRS. WIRE [stirring gumbo]: Hungry? I bet. I eat at irregular hours. I suddenly got a notion to cook up a gumbo, and when I do, the smell of it is an attraction, draws company in the kitchen. Oh ho—footsteps fast. Here comes the ladies.
WRITER: Mrs. Wire, those old ladies are starving, dying of malnutrition.
[Miss Carrie and Mary Maude appear at the edge of the lighted area with queer, high-pitched laughter or some bizarre relation to laughter.]
MRS. WIRE: Set back down there, boy. [Pause.] Why, Mizz Wayne an’ Miss Carrie, you girls still up at this hour!
MISS CARRIE: We heard you moving about and wondered if we could . . .
MARY MAUDE: Be of some assistance.
MRS. WIRE: Shoot, Mrs. Wayne, do you imagine that rusty ole saucepan of yours is invisible to me? Why, I know when I put this gumbo on the stove and lit the fire, it would smoke you ladies out of your locked room. What do you all do in that locked room so much?
MARY MAUDE: We keep ourselves occupied.
MISS CARRIE: We are compiling a cookbook which we hope to have published. A Creole cookbook, recipes we remember from our childhood.
MRS. WIRE: A recipe is a poor substitute for food.
MARY MAUDE [with a slight breathless pause]: We ought to go out more regularly for meals but our . . . our light bulbs have burned out, so we can’t distinguish night from day anymore. Only shadows come in.
MISS CARRIE: Sshh! [Pause.] Y’know, I turned down an invitation to dinner this evening at my cousin Mathilde Devereau Pathet’s in the Garden District.
MRS. WIRE: Objected to the menu?
MISS CARRIE: No, but you know, very rich people are so inconsiderate sometimes. With four limousines and drivers at their constant disposal, they wouldn’t send one to fetch me.
MRS. WIRE: Four? Limousines? Four drivers?
[A delicate, evanescent music steals in as the scene acquires a touch of the bizarre. At moments the players seem bewildered as if caught in a dream.]
MISS CARRIE: Oh, yes, four, four . . . spanking new Cadillacs with uniformed chauffeurs!
MRS. WIRE: Now, that’s very impressive.
MISS CARRIE: They call Mr. Pathet the “Southern Planter.”
MRS. WIRE: Has a plantation, in the Garden District?
MISS CARRIE [gasping]: Oh, no, no, no, no. He’s a mortician, most prominent mortician, buries all the best families in the parish.
MRS. WIRE: And poor relations, too? I hope.
MARY MAUDE: Miss Carrie goes into a family vault when she goes.
MRS. WIRE: When?
MARY MAUDE: Yes, above ground, has a vault reserved in . . .
MISS CARRIE: Let’s not speak of that! . . . now.
MRS. WIRE: Why not speak of that? You got to consider the advantage of this connection. Because of the expenses of “The Inevitable” someday soon, ’specially with your asthma? No light? And bad nutrition?
MISS CARRIE: The dampness of the old walls in the Quarter—you know how they hold damp. This city is actually eight feet below sea level. Niggers are buried under the ground, and their caskets fill immediately with water.
MRS. WIRE: But I reckon your family vault is above this nigger water level?
MISS CARRIE: Oh, yes, above water level, in fact, I’ll be on top of my great-great-uncle, Jean Pierre Devereau, the third.
[The writer laughs a bit, involuntarily. The ladies glare at him.]
Mrs. Wire, who is this . . . transient? Young man?
MARY MAUDE: We did understand that this was a guesthouse, not a . . . refuge for delinquents.
MISS CARRIE [turning her back on the writer]: They do set an exquisite table at the Pathets, with excellent food, but it’s not appetizing, you know, to be conducted on a tour of inspection of the business display room, you know, the latest model of caskets on dis
play, and that’s what René Pathet does, invariably escorts me, proud as a peacock, through the coffin display rooms before . . . we sit down to dinner. And all through dinner, he discusses his latest clients and . . . those expected shortly.
MRS. WIRE: Maybe he wants you to pick out your casket cause he’s noticed your asthma from damp walls in the Quarter.
MISS CARRIE: I do, of course, understand that business is business with him, a night and day occupation.
MRS. WIRE: You know, I always spit in a pot of gumbo to give it special flavor, like a bootblack spits on a shoe. [She pretends to spit in the pot. The crones try to laugh.] Now help yourself, fill your saucepan full, and I’ll loan you a couple of spoons, but let it cool a while, don’t blister your gums . . . [She hands them spoons.] . . . and Mrs. Wayne, I’ll be watching the mailbox for Buster’s army paycheck.
MARY MAUDE: That boy has never let me down, he’s the most devoted son a mother could hope for.
MRS. WIRE: Yais, if she had no hope.
MARY MAUDE: I got a postcard from him . . .
MRS. WIRE: A postcard can’t be cashed.
MARY MAUDE [diverting Mrs. Wire’s attention, she hopes, as Miss Carrie ladles out gumbo]: Of course, I wasn’t prepared for the circumstance that struck me when I discovered that Mr. Wayne had not kept up his insurance payments, that I was not prepared for, that it was lapsed.
MRS. WIRE [amused]: I bet you wasn’t prepared for a little surprise like that.
MARY MAUDE: No, not for that nor for the discovery that secretly for years he’d been providing cash and real estate to that little redheaded doxy he’d kept in Bay St. Louie.
MISS CARRIE: Owwwww!
[Mrs. Wire whirls about, and Miss Carrie is forced to swallow the scalding mouthful.]
MRS. WIRE: I bet that mouthful scorched your throat, Miss Carrie. Didn’t I tell you to wait?
MARY MAUDE: Carrie, give me that saucepan before you spill it, your hand’s so shaky. Thank you, Mrs. Wire. Carrie, thank Mrs. Wire for her being so concerned always about our—circumstances here. Now let’s go and see what can be done for that throat. [They move toward the stairs but do not exit.]
MRS. WIRE: Cut it, if all else fails.
[Something crashes on the stairs. All turn that way. Tye appears dimly, bearing two heavy cartons; he speaks to the writer, who is nearest to him.]
TYE: Hey, you, boy?
WRITER: —Me?
TYE: Yeh, yeh, you, I dropped one of these packages on th’ steps, so goddam dark I dropped it. And I’d appreciate it if you’d pick it up fo’ me an’ help me git it upstairs.
WRITER: I’ll be—glad to try to . . .
[Tye focuses dimly on Miss Carrie. He blinks several times in disbelief.]
TYE: Am I . . . in the right place?
MRS. WIRE [shouting]: Not in your present condition. Go on back out. Sleep it off in the gutter.
MISS CARRIE [to Mrs. Wire]: Tragic for such a nice-looking young man to return to his wife in that condition at night.
MRS. WIRE: Practically every night.
[Miss Carrie and Mary Maude exit.]
[Tye has almost miraculously managed to collect his dropped packages, and he staggers to stage right where the lower steps to the attic are dimly seen. The writer follows.]
TYE [stumbling back against the writer]: Can you make it? Can you make it, kid?
[They slowly mount the steps. The lighted kitchen is dimmed out. There is a brief pause. A soft light is cast on the attic hall.]
TYE: Now, kid, can you locate my room key in my pocket?
WRITER: Which, uh—pocket?
TYE: Pan’s pocket.
WRITER: Left pocket or—
TYE: —Head—spinnin’—money in hip pocket, key in—right— lef’ side. Shit—key befo’ I—fall . . .
[The writer’s hand starts to enter a pocket when Tye collapses, spilling the boxes on the floor and sprawling across them.]
WRITER: You’re right outside my cubbyhole. I suggest you rest in there before you—wake up your wife . . .
TYE: M’ole lady, she chews my ass off if I come home this ways . . . [He struggles heroically to near standing position as the writer guides him into his cubicle.] . . . This—bed?
[There is a soft, ghostly laugh from the adjoining cubicle. A match strikes briefly.]
WRITER: Swing your legs the other way, that way’s the pillow—would you, uh, like your wet shoes off?
TYE: Shoes? Yes, but nothin’ else. Once I—passed out on—Bourbon Street—late night—in a dark doorway—woke up—this guy, was takin’ liberties with me and I don’t go for that stuff—
WRITER: I don’t take advantages of that kind, I am—going back downstairs, if you’re comfortable now . . .
TYE: I said to this guy, “Okay, if you wanto blow me, you can pay me one hunnerd dollars—before, not after.”
[Tye’s voice dies out. Nightingale becomes visible, rising stealthily in his cubicle and slipping on a robe, as Tye begins to snore.
[The attic lights dim out. The lights on the kitchen come up as the writer re-enters.]
MRS. WIRE: Got that bum to bed? Set down, son. Ha! Notice I called you, son. Where do you go nights?
WRITER: Oh, I walk, I take long solitary walks. Sometimes I . . . I . . .
MRS. WIRE: Sometimes you what? You can say it’s none of my business, but I, well, I have a sort of a, well you could say I have a sort of a—maternal—concern. You see, I do have a son that I never see no more, but I worry about him so I reckon it’s natural for me to worry about you a little. And get things straight in my head about you—you’ve changed since you’ve been in this house. You know that?
WRITER: Yes, I know that.
MRS. WIRE: This I’ll tell you, when you first come to my door, I swear I seen and I recognized a young gentleman in you—shy. Shaky, but . . .
WRITER: Panicky! Yes! Gentleman? My folks say so. I wonder.
[The light narrows and focuses on the writer alone; the speech becomes an interior reflection.]
I’ve noticed I do have some troublesome little scruples in my nature that may cause difficulties in my . . . [He rises and rests his foot on the chair.] . . . negotiated—truce with—life. Oh—there’s a price for things, that’s something I’ve learned in the Vieux Carré. For everything that you purchase in this marketplace you pay out of here! [He thumps his chest.] And the cash which is the stuff you use in your work can be overdrawn, depleted, like a reservoir going dry in a long season of drought . . .
[The scene is resumed on a realistic level with a change in the lighting.]
MRS. WIRE [passing a bowl of gumbo to the writer]: Here, son, have some gumbo. Let it cool a while. I just pretended to spit in it, you know.
WRITER: I know.
MRS. WIRE: I make the best gumbo, I do the best Creole cookin’ in Louisiana. It’s God’s truth, and now I’ll tell you what I’m plannin’ to do while your gumbo’s coolin’. I’ll tell you because it involves a way you could pay your room and board here.
WRITER: Oh?
MRS. WIRE: Uh huh, I’m plannin’ to open a lunchroom.
WRITER: On the premises? Here?
MRS. WIRE: On the premises, in my bedroom, which I’m gonna convert into a small dinin’ room. So I’m gonna git printed up some bus’ness cards. At twelve noon ev’ry day except Sundays you can hit the streets with these little bus’ness cards announcin’ that lunch is bein’ served for twenty-five cents, a cheaper lunch than you could git in a greasy spoon on Chartres . . . and no better cooking in the Garden District or the Vieux Carré.
WRITER: Meals for a quarter in the Quarter.
MRS. WIRE: Hey! That’s the slogan! I’ll print it on those cards that you’ll pass out.
WRITER [dreamily]: Wonderful gumbo.
MRS. WIRE: Why this “Meals for a quarter in the Quarter” is going to put me back in the black, yeah! Boy! . . . [She throws him the key to his attic rooms. The lights dim out briefly.]
TYE’S VOICE: Hey! Whatcha
doin’? Git yuh fuckin’ hands off me!
[The writer appears dimly in the attic hall outside his room. He stops.]
NIGHTINGALE’S VOICE: I thought that I was visiting a friend.
TYE’S VOICE: ’Sthat how you visit a friend, unzippin’ his pants an’ pullin’ out his dick?
NIGHTINGALE’S VOICE: I assure you it was a mistake of—identity . . .
TYE [becoming visible on the side of the bed in the writer’s cubicle]: This ain’t my room. Where is my ole lady? Hey, hey, Jane!
WRITER: You collapsed in the hall outside your door so I helped you in here.
TYE: Both of you git this straight. No goddam faggot messes with me, never! For less’n a hundred dollars!
[Jane becomes visible in the hall before this line.]
A hunnerd dollars, yes, maybe, but not a dime less.
NIGHTINGALE [emerging from the cubicle in his robe]: I am afraid that you have priced yourself out of the market.
JANE: Tye, come out of there.
TYE: I been interfered with ’cause you’d locked me out.
WRITER: Miss, uh, Sparks, I didn’t touch your friend except to, to . . . offer him my bed till you let him in.
JANE: Tye, stand up—if you can stand! Stand. Walk.
[Tye stumbles against her, and she cries out as she is pushed against the wall.]
TYE’S VOICE: Locked out, bolted outa my room, to be—molested.
JANE: I heard you name a price, with you everything has a price. Thanks, good night.
[During this exchange Nightingale in his purple robe has leaned, smoking with a somewhat sardonic look, against the partition between the two cubicles. The writer reappears.]
NIGHTINGALE: Back so quick?—Tant pis . . .
WRITER: I think if I were you, I’d go in your own room and get to bed.
[The writer enters his cubicle. Nightingale’s face slowly turns to a mask of sorrow past expression. There is music. Nightingale puts out his cigarette and enters his cubicle.