COMPLETE TEXTS and EXCERPTS The complete text of The Bridging Hour (A letter from Clyde Fitch in France, posted April 6, 1904, six days before his death, received by his lover in America, three weeks after the funeral.) My dearest Eugene: For the past week, there has been a child in the house who is learning to play the violin. She is quite incompetent, and has been taking her lesson on the lawn, directly below my window, from noon to one o’clock. After several days of being an unwilling audience member, I explained to Monsieur Poquelin and to the child’s mother that as I write during the daylight hours and as I am in failing health, the screeching of bow upon strings grossly interferes with my ability to concentrate and makes impossible my chances of full recovery. After considerable pleading and cajoling, I convinced the mother to limit her child’s lesson to the hour that precedes dusk, which is also the hour that bridges my writing and my resting, an hour that I always pass, as you know, bathing and dressing for dinner. There are few things about this earth, my love, and our time on it, that I know for certain, but this is one: that to a man, alone in his room, at the end of a day of hard labor, as the sun sets, contemplating, as all men do at all times, the mysteries and the brevity of life, to this sort of man, there is nothing sadder, more profoundly melancholy, nothing more apt to bring to his eyes tears of genuine despair, and yet, I know neither how nor why, nothing more joyous, than the sound, through an open window, of a child inexpertly playing the violin. I have heard spring robins in New England and wild coyotes in New Mexico, I have heard rain upon rooftops and snow upon open fields, I have heard the clamor of Paris at midnight and of Broadway at 8:29, I have heard the mighty Caruso at La Scala, I have heard the great orchestra of Vienna, yet never have I heard a more achingly beautiful sound, notes that contain more of the stuff of life than those which, at this moment, float up through my window, up from the darkening lawn below, music born of an untalented child and her unforgiving instrument. I will never write anything as true and human. I fear I am ruined. I remain, forever and always, yours.

Excerpts from The Gold Standard COVER LETTER To Whom It May Concern: I am writing to request that your foundation provide funding for a new musical piece entitled “A Brief History of Money” - text by Ed Schmidt, music by Jed Distler, direction by Arnold Barkus. After you have perused the enclosed application form, go to your bank and withdraw, in unmarked twenty-dollar bills, enough money to cover the development and production costs of “A Brief History of Money.” Place the cash in a Macy’s shopping bag and leave the bag in the garbage can at the corner of Bleecker and Cornelia Streets. We hold, at this very moment, in a narrow, low-ceilinged, brick-walled cellar with less than ideal acoustics upwards of fifty hostages. They are nameless, faceless, unremarkable people, but if you do not give us the money, they will die. If you do not follow these instructions exactly, they will die. If the cash is traceable in any way, they will die. If you are followed, they will die. If you wear an electronic recording device, they will die. If you alert the authorities, they will die. If you choose to dismiss this letter as some sort of self-referential, post-modern trick, they will die. Their fate is in your hands. Don’t try any funny business. Mr. Schmidt has not had a play commercially produced in over nine years. Mr. Barkus directs films in France, and we all know what blockbusters the French make. About Mr. Distler’s career, the less said, the better. We are artists. We are desperate. Attached please find a complete script and score. THE RULES Here are the rules of our exchange. There are always rules. Without rules, there would be ... rulelessness. So: here are the rules. You will pay. I will play. You will sit quietly. I will play. You will listen attentively. I will play. You will not talk or whisper or rustle your program. I will play. You will not cough, you will not sneeze, you will not yawn, you will not assign my use of the second-person singular more thematic significance than it deserves. You will not laugh. I will play. When I finish, you will applaud. I will stand and bow. You will demand an encore. I will already be out the back door. Gather your things and exit onto the street, where you will catch a glimpse of me turning the corner, heading uptown. Follow me - discreetly - to a sidestreet hotel. Take the stairs to the 5th Floor. The key is under the doormat outside Room 52. Unlock the door and step inside. It’s not a big room; you’ll have to squeeze in. Pour yourself a drink from the mini-bar. Pretend I’m not there. Turn on the stereo system and select a CD. Barry White or Johnny Mathis. Or better yet, some of that New Music. That kind of half-classical, half-pet-shop-on-fire music. You know how that turns me on. Sit on the bed. It’s not a big bed; you’ll have to make room. Expose yourself. Forget to wear underwear. Play with yourself. I will sit quietly. Play with yourself. I will watch attentively. Play with yourself. I will think the analogy of performer and audience member to masturbator and voyeur a bit forced, but I will keep it to myself. Play with yourself. I will not laugh. Play with yourself. I will not talk or whisper or rustle my ... whatever. Handcuff me to the chair and blow softly in my ear. I will not cough or sneeze or yawn. Turn me over and spank me hard. I will not cry. Shove your big toe up my ass. I will realize that the analogy doesn’t hold. Play with yourself. I will watch. When you finish, I will close my eyes. You will find a roll of twenties under the television remote. Split it up evenly. I know it’s too much, but what the hell. When I open my eyes, you will be gone. You filthy whore. A DANCE CLASS IN QUEENS I’ve suffered for my art for the last forty-nine years. You only have to suffer for the next forty-nine minutes. The jobs I’ve worked, the sacrifices I’ve made, the humiliations I’ve endured. And all to bring just a little bit of joy into your vapid, useless lives. For eight hours a day, five days a week, I’ve done nothing but stare at computer screens. I composed music for soap opera love scenes, I counseled suicidal teens, I’ve broken into automated teller machines, I played a dance class in Queens. I packed crates of Greek sardines, Picked grapefruits, oranges, and tangerines, Harvested organic Guatemalan coffee beans, I worked a cart on 34th and 6th selling roasted pralines, I played a dance class in Queens. I served as Grand Marshall of the Village parade for three straight Halloweens, I mowed the grass on Donald Trump’s putting greens, I’ve sold junior high school kids amphetamines, I kicked field goals for the Michigan Wolverines, I inseminated three women by artificial means, I played a dance class in Queens. I made cold calls for Ralph Nader when he was running with the Greens, I rigged dozens of Ohio voting machines, In Tijuana, I sold tourists little bags of Mexican jumping beans, I was the dolly grip on a picture that opened on two hundred thousand screens ... “The Incredibles”! I went door-to-door selling mini-trampolines, Worked at a factory that packaged Lean Cuisines, Won a hundred bucks for eating twelve pounds of pork and beans, I was a human guinea pig for syphillis vaccines, I played a dance class in Queens. I’ve repaired hotel ice machines, Reenacted Civil War battles on village greens, Coached Miss Americas with their talent routines, I’ve operated on two dozen ulcerated spleens, I trafficked opium for Afghani mujahadeens, I was a roadie for the Smithereens, I backed up the Carpenters on tambourines, I played a dance class in Queens. I designed a line of Thomas Kincaid figurines, I sewed belt loops on Rocawear jeans, I was Special Forces in the United States Marines (Semper fi, motherfuckers!) I posed for pornographic magazines, Tended bar at a stripclub in the Phillipines, Managed the ladies’ footwear department at Filene’s, I was personal assistant to Martin, Charlie and three other Sheens, I played a dance class in the Bronx. Do you have any idea what that means? THE PROPHET OF PROFIT If money is fiction, then profit - ah, profit! - profit is a fact. Profit is the imbalance in every exchange. Profit is, by definition, inequity. Profit is the remainder, the difference, the leftovers. Profit is the apple seed, the avocado pit, the nut shell, the corn husk, the banana peel. Profit is no joke. Profit is the nausea and drowsiness and dizziness and restlessness and lethargy and mood swings and heartburn and weight gain and hair loss; the runny nose and watery eyes and ringing ears and cotton mouth and headaches and shoulder acne and skin rash and leg cramps and joint pain and muscle fatigue; the vomiting and constipation and flatulence and diarrhea and hot flashes and nipple discharge and penile disfunction; the fever and fainting and tremors; the insomnia and flashbacks and night sweats and memory loss. Profit is the side effect. Profit is the drop in the bucket. Profit is something, even if it’s next to nothing. Profit is the grounds at the bottom of the cup, the ring around the bathtub, the dust under the bed, the wet spot on the sheets, the dogshit on the sidewalk, the bum on the corner, the tip on the table. Profit is the dregs, the riffraff, the rabble, the scum. Profit is the cheat, the con, the take in give-and-take. Profit is the shrapnel, the spent shell, the unexploded mine, the severed limb, the blood stain, the stench, the soul, the chalk outline. Profit is what you think this evening is worth minus what I know it’s worth. Amen.

The opening scene of Paradox Falls Tall Bob's Hill. In the distance, the town of Paradox, New York. In the pre-dawn darkness, only silhouettes are visible: the Adirondack Mountains; a dozen or so small buildings, including a steepled church, huddled together; a river and waterfalls that cut through the center of town; a lake between Tall Bob's Hill and Paradox; a few more houses and farms scattered across the countryside. The only light is a candle in a second-story window in town. On the hill, a small group of people, a dozen or so, stand in irregular rows facing the town. They are all formally dressed, but the fashions cover several eras. One woman in the group stands with her dog. Though we don't know it yet, we will later learn that these are the DEAD OF PARADOX. Among the group is a young man who wears a longbill red cap, red and black hunting jacket, old dungarees and hand-me-down shitkickers. We will later learn that he is NORRIS SHIMMERBURK. Silence. NORRIS SHIMMERBURK whistles a tune unself-consciously. After a few seconds, CALISTER WHITE, a very old woman dressed in black reaches the top of Tall Bob's Hill. She stares towards Paradox. CALISTER WHITE: To begin ... (Everyone except NORRIS SHIMMERBURK hears her.) ... somewhere in the middle. In medias res ad infinitum. DEAD: Who's that? DEAD: Calister White. DEAD: The poet? DEAD: She's the one pecks away at that typewriter day and night, writin' stories. About us. DEAD: You and me? DEAD: No, us. All of us. Paradox. DEAD: Oh. DEAD: Took over Eustice's newspaper after her old man, George White, passed away. DEAD: Good evening! DEAD: (A whisper) Morning. DEAD: Good morning! CALISTER WHITE: Listen. Nothing. The town of Paradox, New York, population 237, makes no noise while it sleeps. The mountains do not sing, the lake does not cry, the river does not laugh, the houses do not stir, the streets do not echo, the trees do not whisper and the fields do not sigh. DEAD: The silence of the tomb. CALISTER WHITE: Only time, the loudest sneak-thief of all, resounds as it passes, and passes by, runs and whirls and surges like the river and falls that roar through the center of town, but the people, every last lost one of them an ugly truth, the people of Paradox are deaf to its scream and crash and thunder. DEAD: Where are they all? CALISTER WHITE: All sleeping, sleeping, sleeping in the town, stied and stabled, dreaming of jumping moons and leaping fences. DEAD: Where's Butch Wheeler, the lamplighter, this time of morning? DEAD: Where's the poundmaster? Shouldn't he be out roundin' up strays? DEAD: Where's Barnabas Myrick, who opens the grist mill at Paradox Falls before dawn? CALISTER WHITE: There is no grist mill at Paradox Falls. DEAD: Where is it? CALISTER WHITE: Gone. DEAD: And the sawmills upriver? CALISTER WHITE: Washed away downriver. DEAD: The pulpwood pier and boom? CALISTER WHITE: Swept under. DEAD: Phineas Mitchell's brickyard above the clay banks? CALISTER WHITE: Went the way of Phineas Mitchell. DEAD: Were the Millerites right then? Did the world end in '31? CALISTER WHITE: No, it ended in '01. DEAD: What happened? CALISTER WHITE: A flood of Biblical proportions. Took everything with it, all but the beasts and creeping things and fowls of the air. DEAD: Where's the Methodist Church? CALISTER WHITE: Swept away when the river swelled. DEAD: Where's the Presbyterian? CALISTER WHITE: Burned and never rebuilt. DEAD: I memorized all the lovely hymns. Word for word. DEAD: And the fairgrounds? CALISTER WHITE: Overgrown and unused. DEAD: John Brown drove his cattle to the fair one summer. DEAD: And his niggers the next. DEAD: Horace Greeley was featured speaker when I was a boy. DEAD: Talked on "Soils and Fertilizers." A damned good talk it was, too. DEAD: Damned good. DEAD: Whitman's Well in the center of Paradox Park? DEAD: Where lovers waxed lovesick and solemnized their neverending devotion with a midnight sip of wellwater. DEAD: By the water of this well and with the stars as my witness, I ... CALISTER WHITE: Boarded and barricaded. The water was poisonous. (The dog barks.) DEAD: Good boy, Blackie, good boy. DEAD: Where's Chinese Bob, who picks ginseng on Garrett Mountain before sunrise and sells it overseas? CALISTER WHITE: As dead and gone as the ginseng on Garrett Mountain. DEAD: Where's Ives, the organist and bandmaster? CALISTER WHITE: Moved to Connecticut. DEAD: Did Diadorus Holcomb strike gold in California? CALISTER WHITE: Is corn still sixty-three a bushel? DEAD: Did Hezekiah's girl fall for that dock wallper over to Port Henry? I hope to Christ she didn't. DEAD: Did anyone beat my record in the jumpin' contests? DEAD: How tastes Joyce's johnny-cake? DEAD: Who farms the old Young place? DEAD: Where's the Opera House? CALISTER WHITE: Abandoned and razed. DEAD: I so enjoyed the travelling Chautauqua. DEAD: I was president of the Amateur Theatricals for three years. DEAD: My favorite was "Hazel Kirke." DEAD: I won second prize in the talent show of '92. DEAD: Were you the one danced an Irish jig? DEAD: No, I sang a song. DEAD: On second thought, I preferred "Rip Van Winkle, Legend of the Catskills." DEAD: What's the same in Paradox then? CALISTER WHITE: The river, the falls, the lake. Tall Bob's Hill and Garrett Mountain. The Adirondacks in the distance. (Pause. Silence.) DEAD: (Singing. Other female voices soon join in.) "My grandfather's clock was too large for the shelf, So it stood ninety years on the floor. It was taller by half than the old man himself, Though it weighed not a penny-weight more. It was bought on the morn of the day that he was born And was always his treasure and pride, But it stopped ... short ... never to go again When the old man died. Ninety years without slumbering, tick tick tick tick, His life-seconds numbering, tick tick tick tick ..." DEAD: (Over the end of "Grandfather's Clock." Other male voices soon join in.) "When winter it is over, And the ice-bound streams are free, We'll drive our logs to Paradox, And haste our girls to see, With plenty to drink and plenty to eat, Back to the world we'll go, We'll range the wild woods over, And once more a-lumberin' go, Once more a-lumberin' go, And we'll range the wild woods over, And once more a-lumberin' go." DEAD: (Over the end of "Once More A-Lumberin' Go.") "Our God, our help in ages past, Our hope for years to come. Our shelter from the stormy blast And our eternal home. Time, like an ever-rolling stream, Bears all its sons away. They fly forgotten as a dream Dies at the opening day." DEAD: (Over the end of "Our God, Our Help in Ages Past.") "John Brown's body lies a-moulderin' in the grave, John Brown's body lies a-moulderin' in the grave, John Brown's body lies a-moulderin' in the grave, But his soul goes marching on." (Over the end of "John Brown's Body," Charles Ives's "Variations on 'America'" blares from a distant organ. To the DEAD, it sounds like the devil's noise and it soon screeches to a halt.) DEAD: Some say it was his godforsaken music burned the church down. DEAD: Tell us what it's like now. DEAD: Is there still food and coffee? DEAD: Rocking and talking about diapers? DEAD: Sparrows and daisies? DEAD: Tall women, beautifully gowned? DEAD: Tell us what a day is like. DEAD: Tell us what today will be like. CALISTER WHITE: (She speaks with an unsettling, increasing anger.) Like tomorrow. And the day after, and the day after that. To this drove of circling beasts, every day is any day, and any day every. There. (A light in a distant window.) The bellman will wake first, scurry out the door and through Paradox Park, past the doctor's office, past the bank and feedstore and boardinghouse and barbershop, past Whitman's Well, boarded and barricaded, past the library and the funeral, past it all, unlock the gates of St. Jude, enter the church, open the belfry door, climb the slimsy spiral stairs, around and around and up, clutch the bellpull at the frayed end of a frayed rope, and wait. For the sun to peak Tall Bob's Hill. The two farmer's will tend to their babies ... DEAD: Only two? DEAD: Used to be pritnear fifty! CALISTER WHITE: ... and before the day inevitably ends, they'll cross paths and stop and stare and say nothing. At Foliot's Feedstore, pigs at the trouch will ruminate on the usual over and over and over. By the dawn's early light, the barber will run his flag up the barberpole, then tell cock-and-bull stories til the twilight's last gleaming to any man who's willing to listen and every man who isn't. On the boardinghouse porch, a pair of gaggled geese will honk below my window from cockcrow to shut. In the library, dog-eared William will play music to soothe the savage beast, who sleeps standing up, against a tree trunk or a fence post of the broad side of a barn, wherever his brutish body rests in motion, and the tune will remind him of something, or someone, but it won't remind him that in swinish sleep he pissed his pants an hour ago and doesn't even know it. (The sound of a distant train, approaching.) DEAD: D & H. DEAD: Delaware & Hudson. DEAD: Delay & Hesitate. CALISTER WHITE: Runs west in the morning, east in the evening, and doesn't stop either way. One more sound that falls on deaf ears. (The train roars through town.) At the southern fork of Paradox Lake, fathers and sons will cast their worms into barren beds that yield nothing in seedtime or harvest, cold or heat, summer or winter, day or night. And all day long the idiot paperboy, cross-eyed and crop-eared, will make his rounds with the postman's wife's husband two steps behind, a pair of side-ring circus elephants bound tail to trunk. The oceans could burn, the sun could freeze, the moon could fly, the mountains could fall and the world could end, but these beasts of habit to a man will rise and shine to their routines, their burdens and creature comforts, as if nothing has changed. Like a coffle of slave dogs on a long leash, they shuffle round and round, their banded heads bowed and their eyes fixed on the dirt below their shackled feet, for every day is any day, and any day every in Paradox, New York. I could shut my eyes and stop my ears and still know every bark and bray, every grunt and oink, every caterwaul and caracole, every moo and coo, every flutter and wriggle that passes for life in this pestilent farm town. (She spots someone approaching.) But in these moments before dawn, before this patch of the world circles and creaks into place to be called a day in the year of our Lord, before the sun mercilessly rises on this carcass face-forward to heaven and teeming with vermin, before the bells of St. Jude ring in another day exactly like the one that passed and the one to follow, an old man, Lester Plumb, general practitioner, bound for God knows where, approaches this patchwork square of stones, the Old Burial Ground, a potter's field of unmowed grass and uprooted flowers and untended weeds, the town's buried past, more than stones because they're less stone, a power gained by what's been lost, bits of stonedust chipped away, indentations, depressions, cold-chiselled grooves, engraved testaments to what was, to who was, to what no longer is, faces and deeds and lives remembered, but only so long as there are rememberers, rememberers who too are sentenced to become the remembered and then forgotten, their brief tales more briefly told in traces of dust, stone-hollows, lists of letters and numbers and words of air, of not-stone, and then, once they too are gone, the rememberers, no longer kept in mind or learned by heart, the stones, long before the elements smooth them clean, become stones again, mere stones, with chips and notches that spell and mean absolutely nothing. (LESTER PLUMB, the old man, appears. He wears a dark suit that looks no different than the day he bought it twenty years ago, heavy black shoes, a starched and pressed white shirt, a necktie, and a simple black hat. He carries a worn, black leather doctor's bag.) And so, sensing someone near, the stones dust themselves off and speak. DEAD: Ezekial Bessboro. "Whatever withdraws us from the power of our senses, whatever makes the past, the distant or the future predominate over the present, advances us in the dignity of thinking beings." DEAD: Burchard Abner. "There is no sweeter thing, nor fate more blessed than to sleep. Here, world, I pass you like an orange to a child. I can no more with you. Do what you will." DEAD: Priscilla Tilbury. "I've tried the world, and found it good." DEAD: Frosty Sawyer. "Out of love, out of memory, for a boy who never turned to his own affairs when a fellow needed a hand." DEAD: Elizabeth Reefy. "The dear, the dear, oh the lovely dear." DEAD: Lewis Milford. "Whatsoever God does not know and sanction, that thing is heresy, worthless for knowing and wicked to consider." DEAD: Joel Thornton. "Safe in the stars above." DEAD: Gwendolyn Wales. "Drowned." DEAD: Paterson Cumming. "I believe it is time for us to set our face homeward." DEAD: Lanford Driver. "Thy life was beauty, truth, goodness and love." DEAD: Willimina Budvine. "O crux! Ave spes unica!" CALISTER WHITE: But the old man, since he is not the one dead, does not hear. (LESTER PLUMB and NORRIS SHIMMERBURK turn and see each other. They stare - confused, unsure - for several seconds. Then, the young man turns and runs past the doctor. The doctor watches him go, then walks off.) We will not stir for you, Lester Plumb. We will not worship at your blistered feet. You're not a doctor, you're a veterinarian. Your patients are sheep and swine. DEAD: Where's the pamphlet I wrote, "100 Years of Paradox: A Brief Historical Account"? CALISTER WHITE: Behind glass, under lock and key. DEAD: Does no one read it? CALISTER WHITE: No one. DEAD: Does no one remember me? CALISTER WHITE: I do. DEAD: And Tony Tip, the liveryman. He's alive. Don't he remember? CALISTER WHITE: Only when he doesn't forget. DEAD: You know as well as I do that the living don't stay interested in us dead people for very long. As soon as we're buried, they lose hold of the dead ... DEAD: ... and the ambitions we had ... DEAD: ... and the pleasures we had ... DEAD: ... and the things we suffered ... DEAD: ... and the people we loved. DEAD: They get snatched away from death - that's the way I put it - snatched away. (Pause. Silence.) DEAD: What year is it? CALISTER WHITE: Nineteen hundred and sixty-two. DEAD: I've been dead a long time. DEAD: What's the weather out? CALISTER WHITE: Cold. DEAD: Cold winter, eh? DEAD: When'd the lake freeze over? CALISTER WHITE: First week in December. DEAD: That ain't so cold. DEAD: I made it through the year of "Eighteen Hundred and Froze to Death." DEAD: When'd the ice break on Paradox Lake? CALISTER WHITE: It didn't. Yet. DEAD: Is today a Thursday? I always liked a Thursday. CALISTER WHITE: No, it's a Monday. The fifteenth of May. DEAD: Middle a May and the lake still froze? DEAD: Cold enough for ya, is it? DEAD: That's some cold! DEAD: I guess. (Pause. Silence.) DEAD: Calister White? CALISTER WHITE: Yes. DEAD: The stories you pecked away at on that old typewriter ... what're they about? CALISTER WHITE: Paradox. DEAD: So Archie Agnes was right. DEAD: He always had a funny feelin' you were writin' stories. DEAD: A big fat booka stories about us. 'Bout all of us. DEAD: Do they have twists at the end? I love a story with a twist at the end. DEAD: Are they true? The stories about us? CALISTER WHITE: Yes. DEAD: Are they ... are they any good? CALISTER WHITE: I don't know. DEAD: Time will tell. CALISTER WHITE: YEs. Time will tell. DEAD: What'll happen to them? DEAD: Will people read them? DEAD: Or will they end up with my pamphlet, "100 Years of Paradox: A Brief Historical Account," by Mr. Ezekial Bessboro? Forgotten ... DEAD: ... unread ... DEAD: ... behind glass, under lock and key. CALISTER WHITE: I don't know. DEAD: Time will tell. CALISTER WHITE: Yes. Time will tell. DEAD: Nearly sunup. (The sky is beginning to show some streaks of light in the East, behind the hill, and they all take notice.) DEAD: Nearly. DEAD: So the town bellman ... CALISTER WHITE: Virge Folio the Fifth, fifty-two years old ... DEAD: ... been Paradox town bellman since he turned twenty-one ... CALISTER WHITE: ... who has scurried out the door and through Paradox Park, past the doctor's office, past the bank and feedstore and boardinghouse and barbershop, past Whitman's Well, boarded and barricaded, past the library and the funeral home, past it all ... DEAD: His old man, Virge Foliot the Fourth, was town bellman when he turned twenty-one ... CALISTER WHITE: ... unlocked the gates of St. Jude, entered the church ... DEAD: ... and so was his father and his father and his father ... CALISTER WHITE: ... opened the belfry door ... DEAD: ... all the Virge Foliot's right down the line. CALISTER WHITE: ... climbed the slimsy spiral stairs ... DEAD: ... around and around and up ... CALISTER WHITE: ... clutched the bellpull at the frayed end of a frayed rope ... DEAD: ... and waited ... DEAD: ... and waited ... CALISTER WHITE: ... and waited, for the sun to peak Tall Bob's Hill ... (The sun peaks Tall Bob's Hill.) ... tugs with all his might to mark another day, just like his father and his father and his father ... ALL THE DEAD: ... all the Virge Foliots right down the line. CALISTER WHITE: And life begins anew in Paradox, where every day is any, and any day every. (The sun rises on Paradox, New York, and, in the distance, the bells of St. Jude ring and ring and ring. End Scene 1

The complete text of 34 Scenes in the Life of Morton V. CAST: Morton V. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart George Herman "Babe" Ruth Lights rise to reveal MORTON alone. The stage is bare, except for a small table to MORTON's right, a telephone that sits on top of the table, and a door to MORTON's left. MORTON: (After a very long pause.) Scene one. (Long pause.) BLACKOUT. LIGHTS UP. MORTON: (On the phone) Vivian ? ... Vivian? ... Listen to me, Vivian. I can't let you do this ... No, I can't. Not again ... No, Vivian, I'm not coming with you ... No, I'm staying here ... But ... Where are you, Vivian? ... At the airport? ... All right, Vivian. OK ... Go ahead ... Vivian? I'm beginning to break into a cold sweat, Vivian. It's very cold. I'm freezing, Vivian ... Vivian? ... I'll miss you ... Vivian? ... Will you ever come home? (Pause.) BLACKOUT. LIGHTS UP. MORTON: Never again. Never. Never again for as long as I live. (The telephone rings once. MORTON lifts the receiver to his ear.) BLACKOUT. LIGHTS UP. MORTON: (After a long pause.) Well ... maybe once more. (Pause.) BLACKOUT. LIGHTS UP. MORTON: But this is the last time. After this, never again. No, sir. Uh uh. (Pause.) BLACKOUT. LIGHTS UP. MORTON hums the first movement of Mozart's "Eine Kleine Nachtmusik" and moves his arms as if he is conducting an orchestra. MORTON: Beautiful. Mozart, am I right? Mmmmm, heavenly. (The telephone rings once. MORTON lifts the receiver to his ear.) BLACKOUT. LIGHTS UP. MORTON: So I say, "Vivian, Central America? I know the weather is beautiful, but do you know what they have in Central America? Central Americans! Millions of them!" And she says, "You don't understand, Morton. You just don't understand." So I ask her, "What are you, Vivian? What do you think you are, a nun? You are my wife. You were not born for this, Vivian. These tasks are better left to the Catholics. They have an excuse. They still believe in guilt." (Three loud, quick knocks on the door. MORTON looks towards the sound.) BLACKOUT. LIGHTS UP. A small envelope, suspended from above, hangs slightly above eye-level, just to MORTON's left. MORTON looks at it. MORTON: (After a long pause.) Interesting. (Long pause.) BLACKOUT. LIGHTS UP. WOLFGANG stands several steps in front of MORTON. WOLFGANG conducts while MORTON hums the second movement of "Eine Kleine Nachtmusik." MORTON: Wolfgang. (WOLFGANG stops conducting.) The violins, Wolfgang. The violins are too strong. (WOLFGANG conducts, MORTON hums.) Wolfgang. (WOLFGANG stops conducting.) The cellos, Wolfgang. The cellos are too weak. (WOLFGANG conducts, MORTON hums.) Wolfgang. (WOLFGANG stops conducting.) The violas, Wolfgang. Where are the violas? Add some violas, Wolfgang. (WOLFGANG conducts, MORTON hums. After several seconds.) Wolfgang. (WOLFGANG stops conducting.) Better, Wolfgang. Not great, but better. BLACKOUT. LIGHTS UP. MORTON holds a letter. MORTON: "Dead Morton. You were right. The weather is beautiful. You'd love it here. It's sunny and warm. Not a cloud in the sky. Love, Vivian." BLACKOUT. LIGHTS UP. BABE stands several steps in front of MORTON. BABE swings a baseball bat. MORTON watches. MORTON Babe. You're not snapping your hips through, Babe. Snap your hips through. (BABE swings.) Babe. You're dropping your hands, Babe. Don't drop your hands. (BABE swings.) Babe. You're not keeping your eye on the ball, Babe. Keep your eye on the ball. (BABE gives MORTON the finger.) Babe. I don't like your attitude, Babe. BLACKOUT. LIGHTS UP. MORTON: (After a long pause.) Dear Morton. You were right. (The telephone rings once. MORTON lifts the receiver to his ear.) BLACKOUT. LIGHTS UP. MORTON: So I say, "Wolfgang, Central America? I know the weather is beautiful, but do you know what they have in Central America? Central Americans! Billions of them!" And he says, "You don't understand, Morton. You just don't understand." So I ask, "What are you, Wolfgang? What do you think you are, a guerilla? You are a musician. You are an artist, not a revolutionary. Revolution is better left to the Central Americans." BLACKOUT. LIGHTS UP. MORTON: (After a long pause.) Never again. (Long pause.) BLACKOUT. LIGHTS UP. MORTON: (After a pause.) Famous last words. (Pause.) BLACKOUT. LIGHTS UP. BABE stands several steps in front of MORTON. BABE swings and watches the flight of the ball, as if he has just hit a home run. MORTON: Babe. (MORTON takes a baseball from his pocket and holds it up.) Strike three, Babe. BLACKOUT. LIGHTS UP. MORTON hums the third movement of "Eine Kleine Nachtmusik" and moves his arms as if conducting an orchestra. MORTON: The violins. Am I right? And the ... cellos? Yes. The cellos. And ... the violas. It's all wrong. Cacophonous. Am I right? Yes. I think so. (Pause.) Dear Morton. You are right. (Three loud, quick knocks on the door. MORTON looks towards the sound.) BLACKOUT. LIGHTS UP. A large envelope, suspended from above, hangs slightly above eye-level, just to MORTON's left. MORTON: (After a long pause.) Once again. (Pause.) BLACKOUT. LIGHTS UP. BABE stands several steps in front of MORTON. MORTON: Babe. It's Vivian, Babe. And Wolfgang. Both of them. I want you on the next flight to Central America, Babe. Do you understand? (BABE nods.) Good. And Babe? (Pause.) Buy yourself a new suit, Babe. It's too hot for baseball uniforms in Central America. (The telephone rings once. MORTON lifts the receiver to his ear.) BLACKOUT. LIGHTS UP. MORTON holds a letter. MORTON: "Dear Morton. You were right. It's hotter than hell. Central Americans all over the place. Zillions of them! Love, Babe." (Pause.) BLACKOUT. LIGHTS UP. MORTON: (After a long pause.) I suspect there is more to this than meets the eye. (Three loud, quick knocks on the door. MORTON looks towards the sound.) BLACKOUT. LIGHTS UP. An even larger envelope, suspended from above, hangs slightly above eye-level, just to MORTON's left. MORTON: (After a pause.) There seems to be some sort of pattern emerging. (Long pause.) BLACKOUT. LIGHTS UP. MORTON: (After a pause.) I wish one of them would come back. It's lonely like this. Alone. (Long pause.) BLACKOUT. LIGHTS UP. MORTON holds a letter. MORTON: "Dear Morton. It's freezing cold. No sign of her yet. Still looking. Sincerely, Wolfgang. P.S. Not a Central American in sight." (Pause.) BLACKOUT. LIGHTS UP. MORTON holds the large envelope and considers it. MORTON: Postmarked Alaska. That's odd. (The telephone rings once. MORTON lifts the receiver to his ear.) BLACKOUT. LIGHTS UP. MORTON; So I say, "No, Wolfgang. Central America." And he says, "Are you sure?" So I say, "Yes, Wolfgang. I'm sure." And he says, "That must explain the absence of Central Americans." So I say, "That's right, Wolfgang. Central America." And he says, "That must explain the snow and ice." So I say, "Wolfgang? I miss you, Wolfgang. Please come home." (The telephone rings once. MORTON lifts the receiver to his ear.) BLACKOUT. LIGHTS UP. MORTON: So I say, "Come home, Babe. I've figured everything out." And he says, "Thank you, Morton. It's so hot down here. I'm sweating bullets." So I say, "Babe? You're welcome, Babe." (Pause.) BLACKOUT. LIGHTS UP. MORTON: (After a long pause.) I'm beginning to feel much better. (The telephone rings once. MORTON lifts the receiver to his ear.) BLACKOUT. LIGHTS UP. BABE and WOLFGANG stand several steps in front of MORTON. MORTON: So I say, "That's correct, Operator. The call has been transferred." And she says, "You don't understand, Morton. The weather is beautiful. You'd love it here. It's sunny and warm. Not a cloud in the sky. Eighty-five degrees and no humidity. The sky is blue and water is even bluer. And the vegetation, Morton. The vegetation is beautiful. Oranges and bananas and coconuts and mangoes. Mangoes, Morton, mangoes. Ripe and round and delicious. You see, Morton? You don't understand. You just don't understand." So I say, "Oh, yes, I do. The call has been transferred." And she says, "Transferred? To whom?" So I say, "To Babe Ruth, 'The Sultan of Swat,' who, with an effortless swing of his bat, sends baseballs soaring out of ballparks in perfect arcs, hits them so truly and so beautifully that they burst through the earth's atmosphere and join the planets above in endless revolution." And she says, "You don't understand, Morton. You just don't understand." So I say, "To Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, who, with the precise combinations of musical notes, breathes life into dead instruments, creates a perfect balance of rhythm, melody and harmony, blends them so truly and so beautifully that the sounds sail towards the stars in heaven for ever and ever in perfect tune." And she says, "No, Morton. You're wrong. It's a lie." So I say, "Not at all. I'm right. It's the truth." (Pause.) BLACKOUT. LIGHTS UP. BABE and WOLFGANG stand several steps in front of MORTON. MORTON: Babe. (Pause.) Welcome home, Babe. BABE: It's nice to be home, Morton. MORTON: Wolfgang. (Pause.) Welcome home, Wolfgang. WOLFGANG: It's nice to be home, Morton. MORTON: I missed you. I couldn't live without you. (The telephone rings once. MORTON does not lift the receiver to his ear. The telephone rings again. MORTON does not lift the receiver to his ear. The telephone rings several more times. MORTON does not lift the receiver to his ear.) BLACKOUT. LIGHTS UP. BABE and WOLFGANG stand several steps in front of MORTON. MORTON lifts the receiver to his ear. Pause as he listens. He smiles. He takes the receiver away from his ear and holds it at arm's length. He drops the receiver, allowing it to dangle, unconnected. MORTON: Our line is busy. For good. (Long pause.) BLACKOUT. LIGHTS UP. BABE and WOLFGANG stand several steps in front of MORTON. The telephone receiver still dangles. MORTON: (After a long pause.) Never again. (Three loud, quick knocks on the door. MORTON does not look towards the sound. Three more knocks. MORTON does not look towards the sound. Three more knocks. MORTON does not look towards the sound.) BLACKOUT. LIGHTS UP. BABE and WOLFGANG stand several steps in front of MORTON. The telephone receiver still dangles. An enormous envelope, suspended from above and addressed to MORTON, hangs slightly above eye-level and behind MORTON. MORTON: (After a very long pause.) Never, ever again. VERY SLOW FADE TO BLACK. LIGHTS UP. BABE and WOLFGANG stand several steps in front of MORTON. The telephone receiver still dangles. The enormous envelope still hangs behind MORTON. WOLFGANG conducts; we can hear the fourth movement of "Eine Kleine Nachtmusik" very faintly at first, then louder and louder. BABE waits for a pitch and swings; we hear the crack of the bat and the roar of the crowd. BABE and MORTON watch the flight of the ball. It soars high and far, circles the earth, and, as it returns from behind them, MORTON thrusts his hand high in the air, straining to catch BABE's home run. MORTON: Babe! (MORTON holds the ball up to BABE.) A home run, Babe! A home run! (WOLFGANG's music continues to grow louder and louder. BABE swings again. We hear the crack of the bat, the roar of the crowd. BABE watches the flight of the ball. MORTON moves his arms up and down, conducting WOLFGANG's music with him. The music is now loud and getting louder still.) Wolfgang! (WOLFGANG, his arms still conducting, turns his head to MORTON.) Beautiful, Wolfgang! Absolutely beautiful! (WOLFGANG turns back, continues to conduct. BABE swings again. BABE watches the flight of the ball. WOLFGANG conducts furiously. MORTON alternately, almost frantically, watches BABE's home runs and conducts WOLFGANG's music. Finally, MORTON moves for the first time and rushes to join BABE and WOLFGANG. He screams ecstatically, but we cannot hear him, for the music is far too loud. He realizes that he cannot be heard, and, as the music grows even louder, he screams again, suddenly terrified and desperate.) SIMULTANEOUSLY: MUSIC OFF, LIGHT OUT. The End.

The opening scene of The Walter Winchell Show (In the dark, the sound of two feet tapdancing the rhythm of "Give My Regards to Broadway." A light rises on WALDA WINCHELL.) WALDA: My father was born in Harlem at the turn of the century, a poor, anonymous Jew. (Lights up on the tapdancer, VAUDEVILLE WINCHELL - 18, in knickers, white shirt, tie, newsboy's cap.) At the age of twelve, he left home to make his name as a singer and dancer on the vaudeville stage. (Lights up on NEWSPAPER WINCHELL - 30, in a dark-blue suit, light-blue shirt, red tie, alligator-skin shoes, gray Cavanaugh snap-brim fedora - who joins the dance.) By the time I was born, in 1927, he was writing a daily newspaper column that was read by everyone on Broadway. (Lights up on RADIO WINCHELL - 45, dressed identically - who joins the dance.) When I turned eighteen, his column was syndicated in a thousand papers from Maine to Alaska and his Sunday-night radio broadcast had a nationwide audience of fifty million. My father was the most famous man in America. (Lights up on TELEVISION WINCHELL - 60, dressed identically - who joins the dance.) When I was twenty-five, he hosted his own television program. It was ranked number one hundred and eleven. (Lights up on WALTER WINCHELL - 74, dressed identically, who joins the dance.) When I was forty-five, my father died. (The dance stops.) I was the only person at his funeral. 5 WINCHELLS: (Singing and dancing.) "Give my regards to Broadway, Remember me to Herald Square. Tell all the gang at Forty-second Street That I will soon be there. Whisper of how I'm yearning To mingle with the old-time throng. Give my regards to old Broadway, And say that I'll be there ere long!" (Wow finish. Curtains close.)