The letter projected on the screen is written in a sharp, uneven handwriting:
Dear Miss Gonda,
This letter is addressed to you, but I am writing it to myself.
I am writing and thinking that I am speaking to a woman who is the only justification for the existence of this earth, and who has the courage to want to be. A woman who does not assume a glory of greatness for a few hours, then return to the children-dinner-friends- football-and-God reality. A woman who seeks that glory in her every minute and her every step. A woman in whom life is not a curse, nor a bargain, but a hymn.
I want nothing except to know that such a woman exists. So I have written this, even though you may not bother to read it, or reading it, may not understand. I do not know what you are. I am writing to what you could have been.
Johhnie Dawes
... Main Street
Los Angeles, California
Lights go out, screen disappears, and stage reveals garret of JOHNNIE DAWES. It is a squalid, miserable room with a low, slanting ceiling, with dark walls showing beams under cracked plaster. The room is so bare that it gives the impression of being uninhabited, a strange, intangible impression of unreality. A narrow iron cot, at wall Right; a broken table, a few boxes for chairs. A narrow door opens diagonally in the Left upstage corner.
The entire wall Center is a long window checkered into small panes. It opens high over the skyline of Los Angeles. Behind the black shadows of skyscrapers, there is a first hint of pink in the dark sky. When the curtain rises, the stage is empty, dark. One barely distinguishes the room and sees only the faintly luminous panorama of the window. It dominates the stage, so that one forgets the room, and it seems as if the setting is only the city and the sky. (Throughout the scene, the sky lightens slowly, the pink band of dawn grows, rising.)
Steps are heard coming up the stairs. A quivering light shows in the cracks of the door. The door opens to admit KAY GONDA. Behind her, MRS. MONAGHAN, an old landlady, shuffles in, with a lighted candle in hand. She puts the candle down on the table, and stands panting as after a long climb, studying KAY GONDA with a suspicious curiosity.
MRS. MONAGHAN: Here ye are. This is it.
KAY GONDA: [Looking slowly over the room] Thank you.
MRS. MONAGHAN: And ye’re a relative of him, ye are?
KAY GONDA: No.
MRS. MONAGHAN: [Maliciously] Sure, and I was thinking that.
KAY GONDA: I have never seen him before.
MRS. MONAGHAN: Well, I’m after tellin’ ye he’s no good, that’s what he is, no good. It’s a born bum he is. No rent never. He can’t keep a job more’n two weeks.
KAY GONDA: When will he be back?
MRS. MONAGHAN: Any minute at all—or never, for all I know. He runs around all night, the good Lord only knows where. Just walks the streets like the bum he is, just walks. Comes back drunk like, only he’s not drunk, ’cause I know he don’t drink.
KAY GONDA: I will wait for him.
MRS. MONAGHAN: Suit yerself. [Looks at her shrewdly] Maybe ye got a job for him?
KAY GONDA: No. I have no job for him.
MRS. MONAGHAN: He’s got himself kicked out again, three days ago it was. He had a swell job bellhoppin’. Did it last? It did not. Same as the soda counter. Same as the waitin’ at Hamburger Looey’s. He’s no good, I’m tellin’ ye. I know him. Better’n ye do.
KAY GONDA: I do not know him at all.
MRS. MONAGHAN: And I can’t say I blame his bosses, either. He’s a strange one. Never a laugh, never a joke out of him.
[Confidentially] Ye know what Hamburger Looey said to me? He said, “Stuck up little snot,” said Hamburger Looey, “makes a regular guy feel creepy.”
KAY GONDA: So Hamburger Looey said that?
MRS. MONAGHAN: Faith and he did.
[Confidentially] And d’ye know? He’s been to college, that boy. Ye’d never believe it from the kind of jobs he can’t keep, but he has. What he learned there the good Lord only knows. It’s no good it done him. And . . .
[Stops, listening. Steps are heard rising up the stairs] That’s him now! Nobody else’d be shameless enough to come home at this hour of the night.
[At the door] Ye think it over. Maybe ye could do somethin’ for him.
[Exits]
[ JOHNNIE DAWES enters. He is a tall, slender boy in his late twenties; a gaunt face, prominent cheekbones, a hard mouth, clear, steady eyes. He sees KAY GONDA and stands still. They look at each other for a long moment]
JOHNNIE:
[Slowly, calmly, no astonishment and no question in his voice] Good evening,
Miss Gonda.
KAY GONDA:
[She cannot take her eyes from him, and it is her voice that sounds astonished] Good evening.
JOHNNIE: Please sit down.
KAY GONDA: You do not want me to stay here.
JOHNNIE: You’re staying.
KAY GONDA: You have not asked me why I came.
JOHNNIE: You’re here.
[He sits down]
KAY GONDA:
[She approaches him suddenly, takes his face in her hands and raises it] What’s the matter, Johnnie?
JOHNNIE: Nothing—now.
KAY GONDA: You must not be so glad to see me.
JOHNNIE: I knew you’d come.
KAY GONDA:
[She walks away from him, falls wearily down on the cot. She looks at him and smiles; a smile that is not gay, not friendly] People say I am a great star, Johnnie.
JOHNNIE: Yes.
KAY GONDA: They say I have everything one can wish for.
JOHNNIE: Have you?
KAY GONDA: No. But how do you know it?
JOHNNIE: How do you know that I know it?
KAY GONDA: You are never afraid when you speak to people, are you, Johnnie?
JOHNNIE: Yes. I am very much afraid. Always. I don’t know what to say to them. But I’m not afraid—now.
KAY GONDA: I am a very bad woman, Johnnie. Everything you’ve heard about me is true. Everything—and more. I came to tell you that you must not think of me what you said in your letter.
JOHNNIE: You came to tell me that everything I said in my letter was true. Everything—and more.
KAY GONDA:
[With a harsh little laugh] You’re a fool! I’m not afraid of you. . . . Do you know that I get twenty thousand dollars a week?
JOHNNIE: Yes.
KAY GONDA: Do you know that I have fifty pairs of shoes and three butlers?
JOHNNIE: I suppose so.
KAY GONDA: Do you know that my pictures are shown in every town on earth?
JOHNNIE: Yes.
KAY GONDA:
[Furiously] Stop looking at me like that! . . . Do you know that people pay millions to see me? I don’t need your approval! I have plenty of worshipers! I mean a great deal to them!
JOHNNIE: You mean nothing at all to them. You know it.
KAY GONDA:
[Looking at him almost with hatred] I thought I knew it—an hour ago.
[Whirling upon him] Oh, why don’t you ask me for something?
JOHNNIE: What do you want me to ask you?
KAY GONDA: Why don’t you ask me to get you a job in the movies, for instance?
JOHNNIE: The only thing I could ask you, you have given to me already.
KAY GONDA:
[She looks at him, laughs harshly, speaks in a new voice, strange to her, an unnaturally common voice] Look, Johnnie, let’s stop kidding each other. I’ll tell you something. I’ve killed a man. It’s dangerous, hiding a murderess. Why don’t you throw me out?
[ He sits looking at her silently ]
No? That one won’t work? Well, then, look at me. I’m the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen. Don’t you want to sleep with me? Why don’t you? Right now. I won’t struggle.
[ He does not move ]
Not that? But listen: do you know that there’s a reward on my head? Why don’t you call the police and turn me over to them? You’d be set for life.
JOHNNIE:
[Softly] Are you as unhappy as that?
KAY GONDA:
[Walks to him, then falls on her knees at his feet] Help me, Johnnie!
JOHNNIE:
[Bends down to her, his hands on her shoulders, asks softly:] Why did you come here?
KAY GONDA: [Raising her head] Johnnie. If all of you who look at me on the screen hear the things I say and worship me for them—where do I hear them? Where can I hear them, so that I might go on? I want to see real, living, and in the hours of my own days, that glory I create as an illusion! I want it real! I want to know that there is someone, somewhere, who wants it, too! Or else what is the use of seeing it, and working, and burning oneself for an impossible vision? A spirit, too, needs fuel. It can run dry.
JOHNNIE: [He rises, leads her to the cot, makes her sit down, stands before her] I want to tell you only this: there are a few on earth who see you and understand. These few give life its meaning. The rest—well, the rest are what you see they are. You have a duty. To live. Just to remain on earth. To let them know you do and can exist. To fight, even a fight without hope. We can’t give up the earth to all those others.
KAY GONDA: [Looking at him, softly] Who are you, Johnnie?
JOHNNIE: [Astonished] I? . . . I’m—nothing.
KAY GONDA: Where do you come from?
JOHNNIE: I’ve had a home and parents somewhere. I don’t remember much about them . . . I don’t remember much about anything that’s ever happened to me. There’s not a day worth remembering.
KAY GONDA: You have no friends?
JOHNNIE: No.
KAY GONDA: You have no work?
JOHNNIE: Yes . . . No, I was fired three days ago. I forgot.
KAY GONDA: Where have you lived before?
JOHNNIE: Many places. I’ve lost count.
KAY GONDA: Do you hate people, Johnnie?
JOHNNIE: No. I never notice them.
KAY GONDA: What do you dream of?
JOHNNIE: Nothing. Of what account are dreams?
KAY GONDA: Of what account is life?
JOHNNIE: None. But who made it so?
KAY GONDA: Those who cannot dream.
JOHNNIE: No. Those who can only dream.
KAY GONDA: Are you very unhappy?
JOHNNIE: No. . . . I don’t think you should ask me these questions. You won’t get a decent answer from me to anything.
KAY GONDA: There was a great man once who said: “I love those that know not how to live today.”
JOHNNIE: [Quietly] I think I am a person who should never have been born. This is not a complaint. I am not afraid and I am not sorry. But I have often wanted to die. I have no desire to change the world—nor to take any part in it, as it is. I’ve never had the weapons which you have. I’ve never even found the desire to find weapons. I’d like to go, calmly and willingly.
KAY GONDA: I don’t want to hear you say that.
JOHNNIE: There has always been something holding me here. Something that had to come to me before I went. I want to know one living moment of that which is mine, not theirs. Not their dismal little pleasures. One moment of ecstasy, utter and absolute, a moment that must not be survived. . . . They’ve never given me a life. I’ve always hoped I would choose my death.
KAY GONDA: Don’t say that. I need you. I’m here. I’ll never let you go.
JOHNNIE:
[After a pause, looking at her in a strange new way, his voice dry, flat] You? You’re a murderess who’ll get caught someday and die on the gallows.
[ She looks at him, astonished. He walks to the window, stands looking out. Beyond the window it is now full daylight. The sun is about to rise. Rays of light spread like halos from behind the dark silhouettes of skyscrapers. ]
JOHNNIE:
[He asks suddenly, without turning to her:] You killed him?
KAY GONDA: We don’t have to talk about that, do we?
JOHNNIE:
[Without turning] I knew Granton Sayers. I worked for him once, as a caddy, at a golf club in Santa Barbara. A hard kind of man.
KAY GONDA: He was a very unhappy man, Johnnie.
JOHNNIE:
[Turning to her] Was anyone present?
KAY GONDA: Where?
JOHNNIE: When you killed him?
KAY GONDA: Do we have to discuss that?
JOHNNIE: It’s something I must know. Did anyone see you kill him?
KAY GONDA: No.
JOHNNIE: Have the police got anything on you?
KAY GONDA: No. Except what I could tell them. But I will not tell it to them. Nor to you. Not now. Don’t question me.
JOHNNIE: How much is the reward on your head?
KAY GONDA:
[After a pause, in a strange kind of voice] What did you say, Johnnie?
JOHNNIE:
[Evenly] I said, how much is the reward on your head?
[She stares at him] Never mind.
[He walks to the door, throws it open, calls:] Mrs. Monaghan! Come here!
KAY GONDA: What are you doing?
[He does not answer or look at her. MRS. MONAGHAN shuffles up the stairs and appears at the door]
MRS. MONAGHAN:
[Angrily] What d’ye want?
JOHNNIE: Mrs. Monaghan, listen carefully. Go downstairs to your phone. Call the police. Tell them to come here at once. Tell them that
Kay Gonda is here. You understand?
Kay Gonda. Now hurry.
MRS. MONAGHAN:
[Aghast] Yes, sir. . . .
[Exits hurriedly]
[ JOHNNIE closes the door, turns to KAY GONDA. She tries to dash for the door. The table is between them. He opens a drawer, pulls out a gun, points it at her ]
JOHNNIE: Stand still.
[She does not move. He backs to the door and locks it. She sags suddenly, still standing up]
KAY GONDA:
[Without looking at him, in a flat, lifeless voice] Put it away. I will not try to escape.
[He slips the gun into his pocket and stands leaning against the door. She sits down, her back turned to him]
JOHNNIE:
[Quietly] We have about three minutes left. I am thinking now that nothing has happened to us and nothing will happen. The world stopped a minute ago and in three minutes it will go on again. But this—this pause is ours. You’re here. I look at you. I’ve seen your eyes—and all the truth that man has ever sought.
[Her head falls down on her arms]
There are no other men on earth right now. Just you and I. There’s nothing but a world in which you live. To breathe for once that air, to move in it, to hear my own voice on waves that touch no ugliness, no pain . . . I’ve never known gratitude. But now, of all the words I’d like to say to you, I’ll say just three: I thank you. When you leave, remember I have thanked you. Remember—no matter what may happen in this room. . . .
[She buries her head in her arms. He stands silently, his head thrown back, his eyes closed]
[ Hurried steps are heard rising up the stairs. JOHNNIE and KAY GONDA do not move. There is a violent knock at the door. JOHNNIE turns, unlocks the door, and opens it. A police CAPTAIN enters, followed by two POLICEMEN. KAY GONDA rises, facing them ]
CAPTAIN: Jesus Christ!
[They stare at her, aghast]
POLICEMAN: And I thought it was another crank calling!
CAPTAIN:
Miss Gonda, I’m sure glad to see you. We’ve been driven crazy with . . .
KAY GONDA: Take me away from here. Anywhere you wish.
CAPTAIN:
[Making a step toward her] Well, we have no . . .
JOHNNIE:
[In a quiet voice which is such an implacable command that all turn to him] Stay away from her.
[The CAPTAIN stops. JOHNNIE motions to a POLICEMAN and points to the table]
Sit down. Take a pencil and paper.
[The POLICEMAN looks at the CAPTAIN, who nods, baffled. The POLICEMAN obeys]
JOHNNIE: Now write this:
[Dictates slowly, his voice precise, emotionless]
I, John Dawes, confess that on the night of May third, willfully and with premeditation, I killed Granton Sayers of Santa Barbara, California.
[ KAY GONDA takes a deep breath, which is almost a gasp ]
I have been absent from my home for the last three nights, as my landlady, Mrs. Sheila Monaghan, can testify. She can further testify that I was dismissed from my job at the Alhambra Hotel on May third.
[ KAY GONDA starts laughing suddenly. It is the lightest, happiest laughter in the world ]
I had worked for Granton Sayers a year ago, at the Greendale Golf Club of Santa Barbara. Being jobless and broke, I went to Granton Sayers on the evening of May third, determined to extort money from him through blackmail, under threat of divulging certain information I possessed.
He refused my demands even at the point of a gun. I shot him. I disposed of the gun by throwing it into the ocean on my way back from Santa Barbara. I was alone in committing this crime. No other person was or is to be implicated.
[Adds] Have you got it all? Give it to me.
[ The POLICEMAN hands the confession to him. JOHNNIE signs it ]
CAPTAIN:
[He cannot quite collect his wits] Miss Gonda, what have you got to say about this?
KAY GONDA:
[Hysterically] Don’t ask me! Not now! Don’t speak to me!
JOHNNIE:
[Hands the confession to the CAPTAIN] You will please let
Miss Gonda depart now.
CAPTAIN: Wait a minute, my boy. Not so fast. There’s a lot of explaining you have to do yet. How did you get into the Sayers house? How did you leave it?
JOHNNIE: I have told you all I’m going to tell.
CAPTAIN: What time was it when you did the shooting? And what is
Miss Gonda doing here?
JOHNNIE: You know all you have to know. You know enough not to implicate
Miss Gonda. You have my confession.
CAPTAIN: Sure. But you’ll have to prove it.
JOHNNIE: It will stand—even if I do not choose to prove it. Particularly if I am not here to prove it.
CAPTAIN: Gonna be tough, eh? Well, you’ll talk at headquarters, all right. Come on, boys.
KAY GONDA:
[Stepping forward] Wait! You must listen to me now. I have a statement to make. I . . .
JOHNNIE:
[Steps back, pulls the gun out of his pocket, covering the group] Stand still, all of you.
[To KAY GONDA] Don’t move. Don’t say a word.
KAY GONDA: Johnnie! You don’t know what you’re doing! Wait, my dearest! Put that gun down.
JOHNNIE:
[Without lowering the gun, smiles at her] I heard it. Thank you.
KAY GONDA: I’ll tell you everything! You don’t know! I’m safe!
JOHNNIE: I know you’re safe. You will be. Step back. Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt anyone.
[She obeys] I want you all to look at me. Years from now you can tell your grandchildren about it. You are looking at something you will never see again and they will never see—a man who is perfectly happy!
[ Points the gun at himself, fires, falls ]
CURTAIN
