Reunion and Dark Pony Read online

  REUNION

  * * *

  DARK PONY

  WORKS BY DAVID MAMET PUBLISHED BY GROVE PRESS

  American Buffalo

  The Cherry Orchard (adapted from Anton Chekhov)

  Five Television Plays

  Glengarry Glen Ross

  Goldberg Street: Short Plays and Monologues

  Homicide

  House of Games: A Screenplay

  A Life in the Theatre

  Reunion and Dark Pony

  Sexual Perversity in Chicago and The Duck Variations

  The Shawl and Prairie du Chien

  Speed-the-Plow

  Things Change: A Screenplay (with Shel Silverstein)

  Three Children’s Plays

  Warm and Cold (with Donald Sultan)

  We’re No Angels

  The Woods, Lakeboat, Edmond

  REUNION

  * * *

  * * *

  DARK PONY

  Two Plays by

  DAVID MAMET

  Copyright © 1979 by David Mamet

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove Atlantic, 154 West 14th Street, New York, NY 10011 or [email protected].

  CAUTION: Professionals and amateurs are hereby warned that Reunion and Dark Pony are subject to a royalty. Each are fully protected under the copyright laws of the United States, Canada, United Kingdom, and all British Commonwealth countries, and all countries covered by the International Copyright Union, the Pan-American Copyright Convention, and the Universal Copyright Convention. All rights, including professional, amateur, motion picture, recitation, public reading, radio broadcasting, television, video or sound taping, all other forms of mechanical or electronic reproduction, such as information storage and retrieval systems and photocopying, and rights of translation into foreign languages, are strictly reserved.

  First-class professional, stock, and amateur applications for permission to perform it, and those other rights stated above, must be made in advance, before rehearsals begin, to the author’s agent: Ronald Gwiazda, Abrams Artists Agency, 275 Seventh Avenue, 26th floor, New York, NY 10001.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Mamet, David.

  Reunion; Dark Pony.

  I. Mamet, David. Dark Pony. 1979. II. Title: Reunion.

  PS3563.A4345R4 812’.5’4 79-2319

  eISBN: 978-0-8021-9146-5

  Cover design by John Gall

  Cover photograph by Brigitte Lacombe

  Grove Press an imprint of Grove Atlantic, 154 West 14th Street, 12th floor, New York, NY 10011

  Distributed by Publishers Group West

  www.groveatlantic.com

  Reunion

  Dark Pony

  REUNION

  Reunion was first produced by the St. Nicholas Theater Company, Chicago, Illinois, on January 9, 1976, with the following cast:

  BERNIE CARY Don Marston

  CAROL MINDLER Linda Kimbrough

  This production was directed by Cecil O'Neal.

  The Yale Repertory production of Reunion opened in New Haven, Connecticut, on October 14, 1977, with the following cast:

  BERNIE CARY Michael Higgins

  CAROL MINDLER Lindsay Crouse

  This production was directed by Walt Jones; set by Kate Edmunds; lighting by William Connor.

  The Characters

  CAROL MINDLER, twenty-four years old

  BERNIE CARY, her father

  The Scene

  Bernie's apartment.

  The Time

  Sunday afternoon in early March.

  Scene I

  BERNIE: I would of recognized you anywhere.

  It is you. Isn't it?

  Carol. Is that you?

  You haven't changed a bit.

  I would of recognized you anywhere. . . .

  This is a very important moment.

  But there's no reason why we should have it in the hall so let me take your coat. . . .

  I feel like a racehorse. You ever go to the track?

  Well, that's what I feel like.

  If I was still drinking, I'd offer you a drink.

  If I was still drinking, you probably wouldn't be here.

  That's all right.

  CAROL: Bernie . . .

  BERNIE: You're not going to call me Dad, or like that? . . .

  Thank God.

  So here we are.

  CAROL: Yes.

  BERNIE: So how you been?

  CAROL: Fine.

  BERNIE: Great.

  CAROL: You?

  BERNIE: Since the last time you saw me, mainly bad, lately good. You look wonderful.

  CAROL: You don't look so bad yourself. For an old man. You take good care of yourself.

  BERNIE: Well, I better. Who else is going to take care of me? . . .

  The VA, of course. They take pretty good care of me, I'm forced to admit.

  I still go to see them about three times a year for my back.

  They take good care of you in the hospital.

  The guys at A.A., I don't see them much anymore.

  Thank God. They took pretty good care of me.

  I hated those sonofabitches. . . .

  Frank over at the place. He took care of me for a while.

  Five there, ten here . . . he gave me a job. Knows the restaurant business like the back of his hand.

  I've been a very lucky guy.

  CAROL: You've got a lot of friends, Bernie.

  BERNIE: Always have.

  For some reason.

  You take pretty good care of yourself.

  CAROL: Got to.

  BERNIE: Yeah.

  CAROL: The A.A. are the ones who put us in touch with you.

  Gerry went.

  He said they seemed like very nice people.

  BERNIE: Very contrite.

  You still go to church?

  CAROL: No. Nobody goes to church anymore. (Pause.)

  You still go to church?

  BERNIE: I never went to church. Since I was a kid.

  Easter.

  CAROL: We should both go

  Renew our faith.

  Gerry goes to church.

  BERNIE: Yeah? Does he mean it?

  CAROL: Who knows.

  BERNIE: He might mean it. You never know. . . .

  Some of ‘em mean it.

  Scene II

  BERNIE: Goddamn, it's good to see you.

  It's good to see you.

  CAROL: This apartment is very nice.

  BERNIE: I did it myself. Leslie, my friend, she helped. Quite a lot, actually . . . to put the place in the state it's in now.

  But the basic place . . . I furnished it.

  Fixed it up.

  Been here two years plus. . . .

  I'm glad you like it.

  CAROL: Our place is quite nice. You'll like it a lot. When you come see it. You have to come out. Very soon.

  I did it myself.

  It's so comfortable.

  It's a real home, you know?

  It's just five rooms.

  It gets a little cramped when the kids are t
here.

  Gerry's kids.

  They sleep in the living room. . . .

  They're good kids.

  Gerry has a study.

  We're very comfortable there.

  BERNIE: You got a doorman?

  CAROL: Yes. . . .

  The building's very safe.

  Lots of light and air.

  We're thinking of building a house. (Pause.)

  This place really is lovely, Bernie.

  BERNIE: What can I tell you.

  Scene III

  CAROL (sees bomber group picture): Are you in there?

  BERNIE: Yeah.

  CAROL: I'm going to pick you out.

  BERNIE: That's a long time ago.

  CAROL (indicates): There!

  BERNIE: That's me.

  I haven't changed, huh?

  CAROL: Bernie Cary. Army Air Corps.

  BERNIE: Butch. They called me Butch then.

  CAROL: Why?

  BERNIE: . . . I couldn't tell you to save my life.

  Those were strange times.

  CAROL: What's this?

  BERNIE: It's a medal.

  Sit down. Sit down. It's nothing.

  I fought. I did my bit.

  If you want to know about your father I was a tail gunner.

  I shot a machine gun. Big deal.

  They had a life expectancy of—you know what?—

  Three missions. Three.

  What the hell. You can get killed in a steel mill, right?

  But I'm no hero.

  They put you in a plane with a gun, it pays to shoot at the guys who are trying to kill you.

  Where's the courage in that. . . .

  But you didn't have to take anything.

  From nobody.

  That was all right.

  Anybody get wise—some wiseass Lieutenant— I say:

  “Shove it, Champ. I'm a fuckin’ tail gunner on a B-17,

  and I don't take no shit from some chicken Lieutenant.”

  And I didn't. From Anybody.

  So what does that make me.

  You would like England.

  CAROL: I've been there.

  BERNIE: You've been there? What? With your new husband?

  CAROL: With him and by myself.

  BERNIE: Where else you been?

  CAROL: Jamaica. Around the States.

  BERNIE: See America First, huh?

  I worked a year in San Francisco. In a body shop.

  CAROL: I've been in San Francisco.

  BERNIE: Some fine people in San Francisco.

  CAROL: Oh, yes.

  BERNIE: And a lot of assholes.

  CAROL: Lot of assholes all over.

  BERNIE: Aah, people are people, you know?

  Tell me about your new husband.

  CAROL: I want to know about you.

  BERNIE: And I want to know about you.

  So. Does he love you?

  I swear I'll kill the sonofabitch, so tell me the truth.

  CAROL: He loves me.

  BERNIE: And you love him?

  CAROL: Yes.

  BERNIE: So where's the story in that?

  CAROL: No story.

  Just the usual.

  BERNIE: So it's not “the usual” for nothing.

  These things work out. They work themselves out.

  Is he a good guy?

  CAROL: He's. . . .

  He's a good guy. I think he's frightened of women.

  BERNIE: He's frightened of you? . . .

  That's funny.

  But you know, never having been a man, you don't know—

  but a lot of men are frightened of women, let me tell you.

  Beautiful women especially can be frightening.

  There's no shame in that.

  He takes good care of you.

  CAROL: Yes.

  BERNIE: So what do you want?

  CAROL: I want to hear about you.

  BERNIE: What's to tell? You see it all here. Have a look.

  Fifty-three years old.

  Ex-alcoholic.

  Ex-this.

  Ex-that.

  Democrat.

  You smoke pot?

  CAROL: No. You?

  BERNIE: Nope.

  Tried it once. Don't like the taste.

  When I was a drunk I never drank anything but the best.

  Saw no reason to change my style of life simply because I happened to be an alcoholic.

  Taste. . . .

  Never bummed for change. Waste of time.

  Bill. Two bills, bounce a check.

  Respectable.

  If you're a drunk, you'd better be respectable. . . .

  1951 I lost my license. Fourteen citations for drunk driving in the month of December 1951.

  You were what? Four.

  I was living on the Cape.

  You and your mother were in Newton.

  CAROL: What were you doing?

  BERNIE: In 1951 I was in the Vet's Hospital awhile with my back.

  The rest of the time I was working for the Phone Company.

  Worked for the Phone Company ten years.

  I was seeing this girl in Boston.

  Your mother and I were split . . .

  I got that court order in 1951.

  You know . . .

  Did you know I wanted to see you?

  Did they tell you anything?

  I wanted to come see you, you know.

  I couldn't see you because of that court order.

  CAROL: I don't know. They told me . . . something.

  BERNIE (Pause): I was a mover for a year.

  Cross country.

  I missed my brother's funeral. Your Uncle Alex.

  You never met him. Did you ever meet Alex?

  CAROL: Yes.

  BERNIE: He's dead now. 1962.

  And his wife, Lorraine, won't talk to me since I missed his funeral.

  I'm sorry I missed it, too. But what the hell.

  Life goes on. And when he died I was out west someplace with American Van Lines and I didn't even know about it ‘til September. . . .

  You wanna hear a story?

  CAROL: Sure do.

  BERNIE: I'll tell you a story. So I'd been drunk at the time for several years and was walking down Tremont Street one evening around nine and here's this big van in front of a warehouse and the driver is ringing the bell in the shipping dock trying to get in (which he won't do, because they moved a couple of weeks ago and the warehouse is deserted. But he doesn't know that.)

  So I say, “Hey, you looking for Hub City Transport?” And he says yeah, and I tell him they're over in Lechmere. So he says “Where?” So I tell him I don't know the address but I can take him there. Which was, of course, a bunch of shit, but I figured maybe I could make a couple of bucks on the deal. And why not.

  So I ride over to Lechmere.

  I find the warehouse.

  You ever been to Lechmere?

  CAROL: Just passing through.

  BERNIE: Very depressing.

  So, anyway. He's in Lechmere to pick up a load. And he offers me ten bucks to help him load the van.

  So fine. Later we go across the street for a cup of coffee and he gives me this story. He just fired his partner, he likes the way I handle furniture, and do I want a job?

  Hey, what the hell.

  We finish the coffee and off we go.

  And for one year I didn't get home, never shaved, wore the same goddamn clothes, slept in the cab, made some money, spent some money, saw the country. Alex died, and I missed his funeral.

  Which, of course, is why Lorraine won't talk to me. Because I got back in September and I'm back a day or so and I go over to Alex's.

  Lorraine answers the door and I tell her, “Lorraine, tell your fat-ass husband to grab his coat because we are going to the track.” He loved the track.

  And she says: “If I ever catch you in my sight again, drunk or sober, I'm going to punch your fucking heart out.”

  Which were harsh
words for her.

  And to this day—she believed I was in town and drunk at the time of the funeral—not once have I seen or spoken to her in ten years. . . .

  And we were very close at one time.

  She was a good woman.

  Very loyal. . . .

  Alex fought in the war.

  What the hell. How's your mother?

  CAROL: Good.

  BERNIE: What about the guy she married?

  CAROL: Good.

  You know, he's a hell of a man.

  BERNIE: No! Don't doubt it for a second.

  I never met the sonofabitch, but I'd stake my life on it. . . .

  You got any kids?

  CAROL: No.

  BERNIE: Didn't think so. How long you been married?

  CAROL: Two years. Gerry's got two kids.

  BERNIE: You told me. How old?

  CAROL: Twelve and eight. Boys.

  BERNIE: How are they?

  CAROL: They're good boys.

  BERNIE: You like ‘em?

  CAROL: We get along.

  BERNIE: They like you?

  CAROL: You know how it is.

  BERNIE: Their other mother died?

  CAROL: Divorced.

  BERNIE: . . . I like him, Gerry. He seems like an all right guy.

  A thoughtful guy. . . .

  Jesus, he gave me a moment, though.

  I come into the restaurant and Frank—Frank's the owner—he says, “Bernie, there's a guy outside askin for Butch Cary.”

  Now, I haven't called myself Butch since I'm on the wagon, three years.

  I was called Butch from the days in the Air Corps, and all my old drunk partners know me as Butch. So. I figure it's some old acquaintance looking for a handout, or a bill collector. Because he called me Butch.

  So I peek out the kitchen door and there's this real nice-looking guy around forty—what am I telling you what he looks like—

  Anyway, it's obvious he's not a bill collector, and he's not looking for a handout, and I don't know him from Adam.

  So I get out of the kitchen—he probably told you this stuff—

  I still got my coat on ‘cause I just walked in the back door . . .

  I guess I looked kind of suspicious—who wouldn't—and I go over to him and he says, “Are you Butch Cary?”

  And I say, “Yeah, who are you?”

  He says, “I'm Gerry Mindler. I'm Carol's husband. Your daughter.”