Reunion and Dark Pony Read online

  I told him I know who my daughter is.

  I told him, “Mister, I am one tough sonofabitch, but I'll be goddamned if I don't feel like I'm gonna bust out crying.”

  And I almost did.

  Scene IV

  BERNIE: You got a brother you never met, you know, a half-brother. Marty.

  My and Ruth's kid. Ruth, my second wife. You could call her your stepmother . . . if it made any sense.

  I know your mother had another daughter.

  CAROL: Barbara.

  BERNIE: I know.

  CAROL: We're very close.

  BERNIE: I don't doubt it.

  CAROL: We are.

  BERNIE: Marty. You'd like him.

  CAROL: How is he?

  BERNIE: I haven't seen him now in several years. He's say three years younger than you. He's a good kid.

  CAROL: What does he do?

  BERNIE: Do?

  The last time I heard—and this might of changed—nothing.

  CAROL: What was Ruth like?

  BERNIE: Like your mother, I'm sorry to say.

  Not that she wasn't a lovely woman.

  And not that your . . .

  CAROL: . . . It's okay.

  BERNIE: Anyway, we didn't get along too long. And your mother was not such a hotshot either, to get down to it.

  Ruth never understood me. I take it back, she understood me. When Marty was young. We got along.

  CAROL: And then?

  BERNIE: I left her. These things happen.

  But, Jesus, he was a fine little kid.

  Having kids, Carol, is something no one can describe.

  Having your own kids is . . . indescribable.

  I mean it.

  You were quite a little kid.

  We used to have a good time.

  Going to the zoo . . .

  Do you remember that? Do you remember what you used to say when I came home?

  Three years old?

  I'd come in the door.

  You'd say: “Hi there, Pop!”

  I don't know where you picked that up. I guess your mother used to coach you.

  Do you remember that?

  Do you remember going to the Science Museum?

  We used to be over there every week. See the locomotive . . .

  The steam engines, you remember that?

  You were a beautiful kid.

  You were everything to your mother and me.

  I still got the pictures.

  You want to see how cute you were? You wait here.

  Just sit there.

  You know who took those? Alex took those at his house . . .

  Fourth of July 1950. It was the first year he had his new house.

  You probably don't remember.

  Took them with his Brownie.

  You were crying for some reason, and I said, “Look at the camera, baby. . . .” I'll be goddamned if I know where those pictures are.

  CAROL: It's okay.

  BERNIE: They're around here somewhere.

  CAROL: It's okay, Bernie.

  BERNIE: But where can they be?

  I look at ‘em constantly. . . .

  You want some coffee?

  CAROL: No, thanks.

  BERNIE: You smoke too much.

  CAROL: I know it.

  BERNIE: Your husband smoke?

  CAROL: Yes.

  BERNIE: Does he tell you to cut down?

  CAROL: Yes.

  BERNIE: They're no good for you.

  CAROL: I know.

  BERNIE: He should set an example.

  CAROL: He's my husband, Bernie, not my father.

  BERNIE: I don't smoke.

  I gave it up.

  When I went on the wagon.

  Did I tell you I'm thinking about getting married again?

  CAROL: No.

  BERNIE: It's not definite. Not yet.

  I'm just thinking.

  Leslie. She works at the restaurant. Gerry met her.

  CAROL: Tell me about her.

  BERNIE: . . . She knows me. I know her.

  I respect her.

  She's a good worker, she knows my past.

  I think she loves me. She's about forty. . . .

  Was married once.

  It's like a habit.

  How would you, you know . . . feel if I got married again?

  Would that . . . do anything to you?

  I realize you don't have a long basis for comparison.

  CAROL: I think it would be good for you.

  BERNIE: You think that, huh?

  CAROL: Yes.

  BERNIE: Of course it wouldn't get in the way of our getting to know each other.

  CAROL: Why are you getting married again?

  BERNIE: . . . Companionship.

  Scene V

  BERNIE: But I'm a happy man now. And I don't use the term loosely.

  I got a good job at the restaurant.

  I've stopped drinking. I'm putting a little money away.

  CAROL: I'm glad to hear it.

  BERNIE: Well, there's nothing wrong with it.

  For the first time in a long time I get a kick out of what I'm doing.

  I enjoy it at work. Everybody knows me. They respect me.

  I spend a lot of time walking. Just walking in the Common.

  After all this time. Not to cadge a drink. Or to get laid.

  Excuse me. . . .

  People always talk about going out to the country or getting back to nature and all the time I say, “Yeah, yeah,” and what does it mean?

  I see the logic of it, but it means nothing to me. Because my entire life I'm looking for a way around.

  Do you know what I mean?

  Like drinking, certainly, or with your mother, or my second wife. . . . Being in debt—there was never a reason for all that money trouble—and changing jobs all the time . . . so what does it get me but dumber and dumber, and I'm a cynic.

  But now . . .

  On the other hand, it's about time—I mean, I'm fifty-three years old. I've spent the majority of my life drinking and, when you come right down to it, being a hateful sonofabitch. . . .

  But you, married. Living well. You live well.

  A nice guy. A fine guy for a husband.

  Going to have . . . maybe . . . kids.

  You shouldn't let it bother you, but you have a lot of possibilities. Don't you feel that?

  CAROL: I do.

  BERNIE: Well, then. The rest is not very important.

  It's for the weaklings.

  No, really. And I like people as much as the next guy.

  It's for the sissies and the drinkers—which I was—who need it.

  Otherwise . . . What have you got to lose?

  Take a chance.

  You got to take your chance for happiness.

  You got to grab it.

  You got to know it and you got to want it.

  And you got to take it.

  Because all the possessions in the world can't take it for you.

  Do you know what I'm talking about? . . .

  It's a fucking jungle out there. And you got to learn the rules because nobody's going to learn them for you.

  You wanna drink? Go drink.

  You wanna do this? Pay the price.

  Always the price. Whatever it is.

  And you gotta know it and be prepared to pay it if you don't want it to pass you by.

  And if you don't know that, you gotta find it out, and that's all I know.

  Scene VI

  BERNIE: I don't care.

  1950, 1970. (Pause.)

  You know what I mean.

  What's on my mind now is getting to know you.

  And maybe getting married again.

  You look good. Jesus, you are a good-looking young woman.

  CAROL: I get it all from you.

  BERNIE: Aaah . . .

  CAROL: I used to think you were the handsomest man I ever saw.

  You used to look just like Tonto.

  BERNIE: T
onto?

  CAROL: The Indian. The Lone Ranger's friend.

  BERNIE: I know who Tonto is.

  CAROL: It was my secret. I was sure you were Tonto.

  I asked you once.

  You remember?

  BERNIE: No.

  CAROL: You said, “No, of course not.”

  I was very upset. I didn't know why you were lying to me.

  BERNIE: I'm sorry.

  CAROL: I was about four.

  I never told anyone.

  I thought that it was our secret. (Pause.)

  You wanted me to keep our secret. (Pause.)

  BERNIE: Thank you.

  CAROL: Bernie . . .

  BERNIE: What?

  CAROL: Bernie, you're wasted in the restaurant. Do you know that?

  BERNIE: I like it at the restaurant.

  I love it at the restaurant.

  It's where I work. Leslie works there.

  What do you mean?

  CAROL: I mean . . .

  BERNIE: I mean who do you think you're talking to?

  This is not Tonto the Indian but Butch Cary, ex-drunk.

  The only two worthwhile things I ever did in my life were work for the Phone Company and fire a machine gun, and I can't do either of them anymore, not that I feel sorry for myself, but I'm just telling you.

  I mean I am what I am and that's what happiness comes from . . . being just that. Don't you agree? . . . I mean you must remember that your mother was a very different sort of person from me. As is, I'm sure, the guy she married. And the way you're brought up, though all very well and good . . . is not basically my life, as fine as it may be and I hope it brings you a lot of happiness.

  I mean, you haven't even been to the restaurant, for chrissakes. . . .

  It's very clean and . . .

  CAROL: No, I'm sure it's . . . I only meant . . .

  BERNIE: I know what you meant.

  I know what you're talking about.

  But lookit, my life needn't be your life in any sense of the word, you know?

  I like it like I am, and if you find that the people you . . . go with, your friends and so on . . .

  CAROL: Don't be silly, Bernie.

  BERNIE: I'm not being silly.

  CAROL: Yes, you are, and that's the last I want to say about it.

  BERNIE: Okay, but . . .

  CAROL: So for chrissakes, knock it off, okay?

  Scene VII

  BERNIE: I gotta admit it. I knew you were coming over.

  I was scared.

  CAROL: Yes, me too.

  BERNIE: There's nothing wrong in that.

  CAROL: No.

  BERNIE: After all, what were we going to expect . . .

  Red Sails in the Sunset? . . .

  What do you do now? I mean . . .

  CAROL: I work for Gerry. At the Office.

  BERNIE: You're a secretary?

  CAROL: I'm just kind of . . . everything.

  BERNIE: It sounds great.

  CAROL: It actually has a lot of responsibility.

  BERNIE: As long as you like it, right?

  CAROL (Pause): Right.

  BERNIE: So quit. . . .

  Anyway, it's not the end of the world.

  CAROL: No. (Pause.) No. (Pause.) We're not . . . sleeping together much anymore.

  BERNIE: Oh.

  CAROL: And that's only part of it.

  BERNIE: What's the rest of it?

  (Pause.)

  Come on, let me tell you something. You know what my advice to you is?

  “Don't let it get you down.”

  CAROL: He's not such a great lover, anyway.

  BERNIE: He seems like a nice enough guy.

  CAROL: He's a lousy fuck.

  BERNIE: That doesn't mean he isn't a nice guy, Carol.

  CAROL: What do you know about it?

  BERNIE: Speaking as your father and as a guy with quite an experience of the world . . .

  CAROL: . . . whatever . . .

  BERNIE: . . . not a hell of a lot. But I'll tell you, he's genuinely fond of you. . . .

  That's got to count for something . . .

  Right?

  Scene VIII

  CAROL: You know—when I was young they used to talk about Broken Homes.

  Today, nothing. Everyone's divorced. Every kid on the block's got three sets of parents.

  But . . .

  It's got to have affected my marriage. . . .

  I came from a Broken Home.

  The most important institution in America.

  BERNIE: Life goes on. Your mother and me . . .

  CAROL: . . . Oh, yeah, life goes on. And no matter how much of an asshole you may be, or may have been, life goes on.

  Gerry's like that.

  BERNIE: I'm not going to lie to you. I felt guilt and remorse and every other goddamn thing. I missed you.

  What the hell.

  I was mad. I was mad at your mother. I was mad at you.

  I was mad at the fucking government that never treated me like anything but a little kid. . . . saving their ass with daylight precision bombing. . . .

  Everybody hates the VA.

  I mean, understand: I'm not asking you to understand me, Carol, because we've both been through enough.

  Am I right?

  Pause.

  CAROL: Gerry was in Korea.

  BERNIE: Yes? And what does he have to say about it?

  CAROL: Nothing.

  Scene IX

  BERNIE: Let me tell you a story.

  One time—this was strange—when I'm working for the Phone Company. I'm out on the Cape. Lineman.

  Repairs, on the street. I'm making out okay, what with that and my disability.

  Bought myself a new Buick.

  Beautiful sonofabitch. Used to drive into Boston and go out to Wonderland with Alex.

  He loved that car. I think he was secretly envious.

  And so I'm working out on the Cape. It's December thirtieth.

  I get invited to a New Year's party in Provincetown. I'm supposed to be working.

  So I call in sick. What the hell, I had a good work record.

  And it's New Year's Eve day and I'm getting ready to drive to Provincetown.

  Put a hundred bucks in my wallet and I go to Mitchell's—that's the tavern in Falmouth I used to hang out at—and there's this Italian kid shooting pool. About twenty. I don't know . . . Steve, something like that.

  So I offer him twenty bucks to drive out to Provincetown with me, stay in the car, and drive me home New Year's Day.

  So fine. We get up to Provincetown, I go over to Kenny's house . . . Kenny Hill. You would of liked him I think. He would have liked you, I can tell you that. Had an eye for younger women. Who could blame him.

  And so we had a hell of a party.

  That's one thing Kenny knew how to do is throw a party.

  But the point is not the party but the next morning.

  So the next morning I get up off the couch or wherever I was and put on my coat and go out to the car to invite this kid Steve in for a cup of coffee or something.

  So there's the Buick but the kid is gone. Nowhere to be found. Vanished. Along with my flashlight, which I don't find out til I rack the car up near Truro. (Pause.) But hold on. (He thinks for a moment.)

  I think he took my flashlight. . . . (Pause.)

  So I go back in the house. Get myself together, and I figure I'd better start back to Falmouth. I'm hung over as a sonofabitch. I say good-bye to my friends, grab a bottle, and into the car.

  It's snowing up a storm. I can hardly see anyway. I'm weaving all over the road. Next thing I know I'm asleep. And the following thing I'm wrapped around a telephone pole.

  So I get out. Knocked the pole clean over; the hood of the Buick is wrenched to shit. I go to get out the flashlight to try to get a look at the engine, and the flashlight's gone.

  There's no help for it, so I get back in and go to sleep.

  Next thing I know here comes a Black and White. T
he cop wakes me up, I happen to know him from around Falmouth, and I convince him that it's all an accident, and I give him a drink and he drives me home and promises to call the garage. So you should be careful who you're calling a pig.

  Any case, I no sooner get in bed than ten seconds later, Wham! The telephone rings and it's Jim Daugherty, the supervisor for the Cape.

  “How are you feeling?” he asks.

  “Like a big piece of cow shit,” I tell him.

  “You gotta come in today,” he says.

  “Jim,” I tell him, “I'm sick, it's New Year's, get someone else.”

  “Everybody else is drunk,” he says. “I'm the only one here, and some asshole knocked down a pole near Truro.”

  . . . So I tell him my car won't start. He says he's coming over in the truck to get me.

  So I make some coffee and he comes and we go over to Truro to fix the pole.

  He's cursing the whole way:

  “Jagoff” this and “Asshole” that . . .

  And what with the overtime and holiday pay and the twenty Jim slipped me for coming along I made about ninety bucks for one afternoon. And Jim was so mad, he did most of the work himself and I spent most of the time in the cab drinking.

  Scene X

  BERNIE: But I can't work for the Phone Company anymore.

  When they finally pulled my license, that was it. I hit a cop car. Actually it sounds more exciting than it was. It was an unmarked car. He was parked anyway. Only time I ever got a ticket in Boston. A heartbreaker.

  Anyway, I lost my license and that was it. I got fired and they meant it.

  Jim Daugherty went down to Boston to talk to ‘em.

  No Dice.

  He even wrote a letter to the Board of Trustees for me.

  The Board of Trustees of the Phone Company.

  No good.

  He said if I got fired he was going to quit, too.

  . . . He didn't, though. . . .

  But he would've. . . .

  Broke him up, too. Best goddamn lineman on the Cape.

  Eight years, best record.

  We were very close. . . .

  Canned. Like that. Pension, benefits, seniority.

  Shot. . . .

  It was probably for the best.

  But I'll be goddamned if I can see how.

  I used to drink a bit on the job. But who didn't?

  Jim knew that. Nobody cared.

  If it hadn't showed up in the accident report, I'd be working today.

  What the hell.

  CAROL: How long till you can get your license back?