Dialogue At Perko's

Look here, Jack:     You don't act natural. You have lost your laugh.     You haven't told me any stories. You     Just lie there half asleep. What's on your mind?     JACK     What time is it? Where is my watch?     FLORENCE          Your watch     Under your pillow! You don't think I'd take it.     Why, Jack, what talk for you.     JACK          Well, never mind,     Let's pack no ice.     FLORENCE         What's that?     JACK         No quarreling -     What is the time?     FLORENCE         Look over towards my dresser -     My clock says half-past eleven.     JACK          Listen to that -     That hurdy-gurdy's playing Holy Night,     And on this street.     FLORENCE         And why not on this street?     JACK     You may be right. It may as well be played     Where you live as in front of where I work,     Some twenty stories up. I think you're right.     FLORENCE     Say, Jack, what is the matter? Come! be gay.     Tell me some stories. Buy another bottle.     Just think you make a lot of money, Jack.     You're young and prominent. They all know you.     I hear your name all over town. I see     Your picture in the papers. What's the matter?     JACK     I've lost my job for one thing.     FLORENCE         You don't mean it!     JACK     They used me and then fired me, same as you.     If you don't make the money, out you go.     FLORENCE     Yes, out I go. But, there are other places.     JACK     On further down the street.     FLORENCE         Not yet a while.     JACK     Not yet for me, but still the question is     Whether to fight it out for up or down,     Or run from everything, be free.     FLORENCE     You can't do that.     JACK         Why not?     FLORENCE          No more than I.     Oh well perhaps, if a nice man came by     To marry me then I could get away.     It happens all the time. Last week in fact     Christ Perko married Rachel who lived here.     He's rich as cream.     JACK             What corresponds to marriage     To take me from slavery?     FLORENCE     Money is everything.     JACK          Yes, everything and nothing.     Christ Perko's rich, Christ Perko runs this house,     The madam merely acts as figure-head;     Keeps check upon the girls and on the wine.     She's just the editor, and yet I'd rather     Be editor than owner. I was editor.     My Perko was the owner of a pulp mill,     Incorporate through some multi-millionaires,     And all our lesser writers were the girls,     Like you and Rachel.     FLORENCE          But you know before     He married Rachel, he was lover to     The madam here.     JACK          The stories tally, for     The pulp mill took my first assistant editor     To wife by making him the editor.     And I was fired just as the madam here     Lost out with Perko.     FLORENCE          This is growing funny...     Ahem! I'll ask you something -     As if I were a youth and you a girl -     How were you ruined first?     JACK         The same as you:     You ran away from school. It was romance.     You thought you loved this flashy travelling man.     And I - I loved adventure, loved the truth.     I wanted to destroy the force called "They."     There is no "They" - we're all together here,     And everyone must live, Christ Perko too,     The pulp-mill, the policeman, magistrate,     The alderman, the precinct captain too,     And you the girls, myself the editor,     And all the lesser writers. Here we are     Thrown in one integrated lot. You see     There is no "They," except the terms, the thought     Which ramifies and vivifies the whole. ...     So I came to the city, went to work     Reporting for a paper. Having said     There is no "They" - I've freed myself to say     What bitter things I choose. For how they drive you,     And terrify you, mock you, ridicule you,     And call you cub and greenhorn, send you round     To courts and dirty places, make you risk     Your body and your life, and make you watch     The rules about your writing; what's tabooed,     What names are to be cursed or to be praised,     What interests, policies to be subserved,     And what to undermine. So I went through,     Until I had a desk, wrote editorials -     Now said I to myself, I'm free at last.     But no, my manager, your madam, mark you,     Kept eye on me, for he was under watch     Of some Christ Perko. So my manager     Blue penciled me when I touched certain subjects.     But, as he was a just man, loved me too.     He gave me things to write where he could let     My conscience have full scope, as you might live     In this house where you saw the man you loved,     And no one else, though living in this hell.     For I lived in a hell, who saw around me     Such lying, hatred, malice, prostitution.     And when this offer came to be an editor     Of a great magazine, I seemed to feel     My courage and my virtue given reward.     Now, I should pass on poems, and on stories,     Creations of free souls. It was not so.     The poems and the stories one could see     Were written to be sold, to please a taste,     Placate a prejudice, keep still alive     An era dying, ready for the tomb,     Already smelling. And that was not all.     Just as the madam here must make report     To Perko, so the magazine had to run     To suit the pulp mill. As the madam here,     Assistant to Christ Perko, must keep friends     With alderman, policemen, magistrates,     So I was just a wheel in a machine     To keep it running with such larger wheels,     And by them run, of policies, and politics     Of State and Nation. Here was I locked in     And given dope to keep me still lest I     Cry out and wake the copper-who's the copper     For such as I was? If he heard me cry     How could he raid the magazine? If he raided     Where was the court to take me and the rest -     That's it, where is the court?     FLORENCE          It seems to me     You're bad as I am.     JACK          I am worse than you:     I poison minds with thoughts they take as good.     I drug an era, make it foul or dull -     You only sicken bodies here and there.     But you know how it is. You have remorse,     You fight it down, hush it with sophistry.     You think about the world, about your fellows:     You see that everyone is selling self,     Little or much somehow. You feed your body,     Try to be hearty, take things as they come.     You take athletics, try to keep your strength,     As you hear music, laugh, drink wine, and smoke,     Are bathed and coifed to keep your beauty fresh.     And through it all the soul's and body's needs,     The pleasures, interests, passions of our life,     The cry that comes from somewhere: "Live, O Soul,     The time is passing," move and claim your strength.     Till you forget yourself, forget the boy     And man you were, forget the dreams you had,     The creed you wished to live by - yes, what's worse,     See dreams you had, grown tawdry, see your creed     Cracked through and crumbled like a falling house.     And then you say: What is the difference?     As you might ask what virtue is and why     Should woman keep it.          I have reached this place     Save for one truth I hold to, shall still hold to:     As long as I have breath: The man who sees not,     Or cares not for the Truth that keeps the world     From vast disintegration is a brute,     And marked for a brute's death - that is his hell.     'Twas loyalty to this truth that made me lose     My place as editor. For when they came     And tried to make me pass an article     To poison millions with, I said, "I won't,     I won't by God. I'll quit before I do."     And then they said, "You quit," and so I quit.     FLORENCE     And so you took to drink and came to me!     And that's the same as if I came to you     And used you as an editor. I am nothing     But just a poor reporter in this house -     But now I quit.     JACK          Where are you going, Florence?     FLORENCE     I'm going to a village or a farm     Where I'll get up at six instead of twelve,     Where I'll wear calico instead of silk,     And where there'll be no furnace in the house.     And where the carpet which has kept me here     And keeps you here as editor is not.     I'm going to economize my life     By freeing it of systems which grow rich     By using me, and for the privilege     Bestow these gaudy clothes and perfumed bed.     I hate you now, because I hate my life.     JACK     Wait! Wait a minute.     FLORENCE             Dinah, call a cab!