At Home at the Zoo Read online

  You’re welcome.

  ANN (Objective now.)

  All these years and you never told me.

  PETER (A slight smile.)

  Ditto.

  ANN (Smiles; nods.)

  Touché.

  PETER

  There are things you don’t say if they don’t have anything to do with anything that’s ever going to happen again.

  ANN

  They’re not cautionary, you mean.

  PETER

  Yes … no.

  ANN (Smiles.)

  Yes … no.

  (Pause.)

  I am happy with you—with us. It’s me I sense I’m not happy with—not entirely. And I never know exactly what it is; something … other.

  PETER (Gentle.)

  And no one can help?

  ANN

  No. No one … this “something other.”

  PETER

  Almost anything?

  ANN (Tiny, sharp laugh.)

  You mean almost anyone? No; not at all. Something less, maybe. Maybe it’s just being secure; maybe that’s the killer. It’s not pain I want, or loss; it’s what I can’t imagine—but I imagine imagining.

  PETER (Smile.)

  It’s hopeless, then.

  ANN

  Yes. Isn’t that nice? If it can’t be helped why fret it?

  PETER (Pause.)

  Has this helped? All of this … has it helped?

  ANN (Rising.)

  Yes; a little.

  (Goes to him, looks at him in the face, smiles, slaps him hard. His mouth opens in astonishment; she kisses his cheek where she slapped him.)

  Did that hurt?

  PETER (Feels his cheek.)

  Yes.

  ANN (Bemused.)

  I’ve never done that, have I.

  PETER (Why?)

  No!

  ANN

  No; I’ve never wanted to, and I didn’t want to now—hurt you, I mean. Astonish you, I think. Yes: astonish you. Did that astonish you?

  PETER

  In that I’ve never imagined it? Yes.

  ANN

  Then that must be what I wanted—a little … disorder around here, a little … chaos.

  PETER

  And we don’t have that.

  ANN

  No. A little madness. Wouldn’t that be good?

  PETER (Rising to it.)

  How would we go about it?

  ANN

  About what?

  PETER

  The chaos! The madness!

  ANN

  How would we go about it?

  PETER (Growing enthusiasm.)

  Yes! What would happen!

  ANN (As if recalling.)

  You’d be reading; I’d come in, and the lights would start blinking, and the chandeliers would start swaying …

  PETER

  An earthquake!

  ANN

  No … a tornado! And we’d hear it coming—the roaring we’d never heard before but knew what it was!

  PETER

  And I’d go to the window, and there it was! Coming right at us!

  ANN

  And it would be terrifying and exciting, and it would sweep us all away, shatter the windows, rip the pictures from the walls…!

  PETER (Fully caught up.)

  … knock over the cages and the birds would fly out …

  ANN

  … and the cats would see that, and they would catch the parakeets and eat them! …

  PETER

  … and the girls would see this, and the girls would do—what?!—eat the cats?

  ANN

  Sure; fearful symmetry.

  PETER

  And what … and what do we do then … eat the girls?

  ANN (Gleefully abandoned.)

  Sure! Even more fearful!

  (Down now, both of them; laughter subsiding, fading into a silence.)

  PETER (Finally.)

  But who will eat us?

  ANN (Pause.)

  We do that ourselves. We eat ourselves—all up.

  PETER (Long pause.)

  Gobble gobble.

  ANN (Sad smile.)

  Gobble.

  (PETER laughs—harshly; abruptly; stops. Long pause; she rises, moves toward the kitchen. Don’t rush any of the remaining.)

  I think I’ll try doing the spinach again.

  (Pause.)

  Or maybe I won’t.

  (Pause.)

  What are you going to do? Read?

  PETER

  I don’t know. It’s a nice day; maybe I’ll go to the park—read there. Something readable.

  ANN

  Don’t be forever.

  PETER

  (Rises, moves toward the front door with the book.)

  No; no, I won’t.

  ANN (Pause.)

  I love you, you know.

  PETER (Pause.)

  Yes; I know. And I love you.

  ANN (Exiting.)

  Don’t take any wooden nickels.

  PETER

  (Registering, after she exits.)

  Don’t take any what? Ann?

  (But she is gone. He pauses, exits to hall to front door.)

  END OF ACT ONE

  ACT TWO

  THE ZOO STORY

  Central Park. There are two benches. As the curtain rises, PETER is seated on the downstage bench. He is reading a book. He stops reading, cleans his glasses, goes back to reading. JERRY enters.

  JERRY

  I’ve been to the zoo.

  (PETER doesn’t notice.)

  I said, I’ve been to the zoo. MISTER! I’VE BEEN TO THE ZOO!

  PETER

  Hm? … What? … I’m sorry, were you talking to me?

  JERRY

  I went to the zoo, and then I walked until I came here. Have I been walking north?

  PETER (Puzzled.)

  North? Why … I … I think so. Let me see.

  JERRY (Pointing past the audience.)

  Is that Fifth Avenue?

  PETER

  Why yes; yes, it is.

  JERRY

  And what is that cross street there; that one, to the right?

  PETER

  That? Oh, that’s Seventy-fourth Street.

  JERRY

  And the zoo is around Sixty-fifth Street; so, I’ve been walking north.

  PETER

  (Anxious to get back to his reading.)

  Yes; it would seem so.

  JERRY

  Good old north.

  PETER (Lightly, by reflex.)

  Ha, ha.

  JERRY (After a slight pause.)

  But not due north.

  PETER

  I … well, no, not due north; but, we … call it north. It’s northerly.

  JERRY

  (Watches as PETER, anxious to dismiss him, prepares his pipe.)

  Well, boy; you’re not going to get lung cancer, are you?

  PETER

  (Looks up, a little annoyed, then smiles.)

  No, sir. Not from this.

  JERRY

  No, sir. What you’ll probably get is cancer of the mouth, and then you’ll have to wear one of those things Freud wore after they took one whole side of his jaw away. What do they call those things?

  PETER (Uncomfortable.)

  A prosthesis?

  JERRY

  The very thing! A prosthesis. You’re an educated man, aren’t you? Are you a doctor?

  PETER

  Oh, no; no. I read about it somewhere; Time magazine, I think.

  (He turns to his book.)

  JERRY

  Well, Time magazine isn’t for blockheads.

  PETER

  No, I suppose not.

  JERRY (After a pause.)

  Boy, I’m glad that’s Fifth Avenue there.

  PETER (Vaguely.)

  Yes.

  JERRY

  I don’t like the west side of the park much.

  PETER

  Oh?

  (Then, slightly wary,
but interested.)

  Why?

  JERRY (Offhand.)

  I don’t know.

  PETER

  Oh.

  (He returns to his book.)

  JERRY

  (He stands for a few seconds, looking at PETER, who finally looks up again, puzzled.)

  Do you mind if we talk?

  PETER (Obviously minding.)

  Why … no, no.

  JERRY

  Yes, you do; you do.

  PETER

  (Puts his book down, his pipe away, and smiling.)

  No, really; I don’t mind.

  JERRY

  Yes you do.

  PETER (Finally decided.)

  No; I don’t mind at all, really.

  JERRY

  It’s … it’s a nice day.

  PETER (Stares unnecessarily at the sky.)

  Yes. Yes, it is; lovely.

  JERRY

  I’ve been to the zoo.

  PETER

  Yes, I think you said so … didn’t you?

  JERRY

  I bet you’ve got TV, huh?

  PETER

  Why, yes, we have two; one for the children.

  JERRY

  You’re married!

  PETER (With pleased emphasis.)

  Why, certainly.

  JERRY

  It isn’t a law, for God’s sake.

  PETER

  No … no, of course not.

  JERRY

  And you have a wife.

  PETER

  (Bewildered by the seeming lack of communication.)

  Yes!

  JERRY

  And you have children.

  PETER

  Yes; two.

  JERRY

  Boys?

  PETER

  No, girls … both girls.

  JERRY

  But you wanted boys.

  PETER

  Well … naturally, every man wants a son, but …

  JERRY (Lightly mocking.)

  But that’s the way the cookie crumbles?

  PETER (Annoyed.)

  I wasn’t going to say that.

  JERRY

  And you’re not going to have any more kids, are you?

  PETER (A bit distantly.)

  No. No more.

  (Then back, and irksome.)

  Why did you say that? How would you know about that?

  JERRY

  The way you cross your legs, perhaps; something in the voice. Or maybe I’m just guessing. Is it your wife?

  PETER (Furious.)

  That’s none of your business!

  (A silence.)

  Do you understand?

  (JERRY nods. PETER is quiet now.)

  Well, you’re right. We’ll have no more children.

  JERRY (Softly.)

  That is the way the cookie crumbles.

  PETER (Forgiving.)

  Yes … I guess so.

  JERRY

  Do you mind if I ask you questions?

  PETER

  Oh, not really.

  JERRY

  I’ll tell you why I do it; I don’t talk to many people—except to say like: Give me a beer, or where’s the john, or what time does the feature go on, or keep your hands to yourself, buddy. You know—things like that.

  PETER

  I must say I don’t …

  JERRY

  But every once in awhile I like to talk to somebody, really talk; like to get to know somebody, know all about him.

  PETER

  (Lightly laughing, still a little uncomfortable.)

  And am I the guinea pig for today?

  JERRY

  On a sun-drenched Sunday afternoon like this? Who better than a nice married man with two daughters and … uh … a dog?

  (PETER shakes his head.)

  No? Two dogs.

  (PETER shakes his head again.)

  Hm. No dogs?

  (PETER shakes his head, sadly.)

  Oh, that’s a shame. But you look like an animal man. CATS?

  (PETER nods his head, ruefully.)

  Cats! But, that can’t be your idea. No, sir. Your wife and daughters?

  (PETER nods his head.)

  Is there anything else I should know?

  PETER (He has to clear his throat.)

  There are … there are two parakeets. One … uh … one for each of my daughters.

  JERRY

  Birds.

  PETER

  My daughters keep them in a cage in their bedroom.

  JERRY

  Do they carry disease? The birds.

  PETER

  I don’t believe so.

  JERRY

  That’s too bad. If they did you could set them loose in the house and the cats could eat them and die, maybe.

  (PETER looks blank for a moment, then laughs.)

  And what else? What do you do to support your enormous household?

  PETER

  I … uh … I have an executive position with a … a small publishing house. We … uh … publish textbooks.

  JERRY

  That sounds nice; very nice. What do you make?

  PETER (Still cheerful.)

  Now look here!

  JERRY

  Oh, come on.

  PETER

  Well, I make around two hundred thousand a year, but I don’t carry more than forty dollars at any one time … in case you’re a … a holdup man … ha, ha, ha.

  JERRY (Ignoring the above.)

  Where do you live?

  (PETER is reluctant.)

  Oh, look; I’m not going to rob you, and I’m not going to kidnap your parakeets, your cats, or your daughters.

  PETER (Too loud.)

  I live between Lexington and Third Avenue, on Seventy-fourth Street.

  JERRY

  That wasn’t so hard, was it?

  PETER

  I didn’t mean to seem … ah … it’s that you don’t really carry on a conversation; you just ask questions. And I’m … I’m normally … uh … reticent. Why do you just stand there?

  JERRY

  I’ll start walking around in a little while, and maybe later I’ll sit down. Say, what’s the dividing line between upper-middle-middle-class and lower-upper-middle-class?

  PETER

  My dear fellow, I …

  JERRY

  Don’t my dear fellow me.

  PETER (Unhappily.)

  Was I patronizing? I believe I was; I’m sorry. But, you see, your question about the classes bewildered me.

  JERRY

  And when you’re bewildered you become patronizing?

  PETER

  I … I don’t express myself too well, sometimes.

  (He attempts a joke on himself.)

  I’m in publishing, not writing.

  JERRY (Amused, but not at the humor.)

  So be it. The truth is: I was being patronizing.

  PETER

  Oh, now; you needn’t say that.

  (It is at this point that JERRY may begin to move about the stage with slowly increasing determination and authority, but pacing himself, so that the long speech about the dog comes at the high point of the arc.)

  JERRY

  All right. Who are your favorite writers? Baudelaire and Stephen King?

  PETER (Wary.)

  Well, I like a great many writers; I have a considerable … catholicity of taste, if I may say so. Those two men are fine, each in his way.

  (Warming up.)

  Baudelaire, of course … uh … is by far the finer of the two, but Stephen King has a place … in our … uh … national …

  JERRY

  Skip it.

  PETER

  I … sorry.

  JERRY

  Do you know what I did before I went to the zoo today? I walked all the way up Fifth Avenue from Washington Square; all the way.

  PETER

  Oh; you live in Greenwich Village!

  (This seems to enlighten PETER.)

  JERRY

>   No, I don’t. I took the subway down to the Village so I could walk all the way up Fifth Avenue to the zoo. It’s one of those things a person has to do; sometimes a person has to go a very long distance out of his way to come back a short distance correctly.

  PETER (Almost pouting.)

  Oh, I thought you lived in Greenwich Village.

  JERRY

  What were you trying to do? Make sense out of things? Bring order? The old pigeonhole bit? Well, that’s easy; I’ll tell you. I live in a four-story brownstone rooming-house on the upper West Side between Columbus Avenue and Central Park West. I live on the top floor; rear; west. It’s a laughably small room, and one of my walls is made of beaverboard; this beaverboard separates my room from another laughably small room, so I assume that the two rooms were once one room, a small room, but not necessarily laughable. The room beyond my beaverboard wall is occupied by a black queen who always keeps his door open; well, not always, but always when he’s plucking his eyebrows, which he does with Buddhist concentration. This black queen has rotten teeth, which is rare, and he has a Japanese kimono, which is also pretty rare; and he wears his kimono to and from the john in the hall, which is pretty frequent. I mean, he goes to the john a lot. He never bothers me, and he never brings anyone up to his room. All he does is pluck his eyebrows, wear his kimono and go to the john. Now, the two front rooms on my floor are a little larger, I guess; but they’re pretty small, too. There’s a Puerto Rican family in one of them, a husband, a wife, and some kids; I don’t know how many. These people entertain a lot. And in the other front room, there’s somebody living there, but I don’t know who it is. I’ve never seen who it is. Never. Never ever.

  PETER (Embarrassed.)

  Why … why do you live there?

  JERRY (From a distance.)

  I don’t know.

  PETER

  It doesn’t sound like a very nice place … where you live.

  JERRY

  Well, no; it isn’t an apartment in the East Seventies. But, then again, I don’t have one wife, two daughters, two cats and two parakeets. What I do have, I have toilet articles, a few clothes, a hot plate that I’m not supposed to have, a can opener, one that works with a key, you know; a knife, two forks, and two spoons, one small, one large; three plates, a cup, a saucer, a drinking glass, two picture frames, both empty, eight or nine books, a pack of pornographic playing cards, regular deck, an old Western Union typewriter that prints nothing but capital letters, and a small strongbox without a lock which has in it … what? Rocks! Some rocks … sea-rounded rocks I picked up on the beach when I was a kid. Under which … weighed down … are some letters … please letters … please why don’t you do this, and please why don’t you do that letters. And when letters, too. When will you write? When will you come? When? These letters are from more recent years.

  PETER (Stares glumly at his shoes, then:)

  About those two empty picture frames …?

  JERRY

  I don’t see why they need any explanation at all. Isn’t it clear? I don’t have pictures of anyone to put in them.