John Steinbeck’s Disappearing Act after Travels with Charley

Image of Elaine and John Steinbeck following JFK's inaugurationAbout six weeks after John Steinbeck returned to New York following his 1960 Travels With Charley road trip, he attended John F. Kennedy’s January 20 inauguration in Washington. Steinbeck, then 58, and his wife Elaine shared a limo ride that famously bitter-cold day with Kennedy adviser John Kenneth Galbraith, the celebrated economist, and Galbraith’s wife Catherine. The photo and video are from a documentary produced for an ABC Close Up TV program called Adventures on the New Frontier. In it the Steinbecks and the Galbraiths are seen praising Kennedy’s inauguration speech and making jokes. Although the Galbraiths went to the inaugural ball in Washington that night, the Steinbecks decided to stay warm and watch the affair on TV.

The Missing Last Chapter of Travels with Charley

John Steinbeck describes his and Elaine’s adventures in DC (although he fails to mention John Kenneth Galbraith) in “L’Envoi,” the short chapter he intended to be the ending of Travels with Charley. When the book was released, however, the last chapter—like the Steinbecks at the ball—was missing. It was finally published in 2002 by John Steinbeck’s biographer Jackson Benson and John Steinbeck scholar Susan Shillinglaw in America and Americans and Selected Nonfiction, more than 40 years after Travels with Charley.

How I Discovered the Truth about Travels with Charley

In 2012 I carefully compared Steinbeck’s travel narrative with his actual road trip in my own book, Dogging Steinbeck. Subtitled “How I went in search of John Steinbeck’s America, found my own America, and exposed the truth about Travels with Charley,” Dogging Steinbeck tells how I learned by reading Steinbeck’s own correspondence and his original “Charley” manuscript that his published account contains so many dramatizations, elaborations, and fabrications that it should no longer be considered a work of nonfiction, but fiction. For the latest edition of Travels With Charley, Penguin Group had Jay Parini amend his introduction to warn readers that the book was the work of a novelist and should not be taken literally.



A Mild Concussion: A Play in Two Acts by Steve Hauk

Major creators, whether in the arts or sciences, are often victims of their own creativity. Literary work is plagiarized, inventions are stolen. The creative force behind television, Philo Farnsworth, is one example of the latter. The computer age is no exception. Stories are legion of ideas stolen or plagiarized. In most cases the usurpers are not particularly creative but adept at business and gaining an edge, while the creators are often inept when it comes to the world of business, or simply not interested. There have been exceptions to this, Thomas Edison among them. This play is about a creative genius lacking the ruthlessness to rank profit over an idealistic outlook. In some ways he sets himself up for failure, which is no reason that he should be exploited. The play is very loosely based on something that really happened, but does not pretend in any way to be a history. As I write early in the directions, “all is in doubt.” Yet not quite all is. There is no doubt Ryan was brilliant and idealistic and that he was exploited and eventually destroyed. If it was in part through his own character flaws, it was as much through those who preyed on him for their own profit and glorification.

 

A Mild Concussion

The Rapid Rise and Long Fall
of an Idealistic Computer Genius

A play in two acts
by Steve Hauk

Copyright © 2014 by Steve Hauk. All rights reserved.

Characters:
RYAN, a computer scientist
DONNA, his wife
ROBIN, once worked for Ryan
JOHN PERSONS, a microcomputer entrepreneur
JIM, associate of Ryan’s
FIRST MAN, representing a giant company
SECOND MAN, the same
A YOUNG NURSE

Act One
The First Day

Music. Hard rock. Dancing. Sensual and menacing figures. All
figures except Ryan suggested by shadows. Ryan staggers, falls,
striking his head. He wears jeans, cowboy boots, a vest. This is a
memory play. A slight haze over everything, a surreal quality.
Nothing is absolutely real. Just glimmers of reality and the
perception of what might or might not have been. All is in doubt.

A siren. Figures _ shadows or silhouettes _ gather around Ryan’s
body. He struggles to his knees. Siren dies out. Figures back
away. Then the figure of a woman approaches; Ryan holds out
his hand, she takes it. He stands.

Blackout. Music stops. Lighting up to indicate the spare
representation of a living room, a few pieces of furniture, a small
bar. Ryan in a chair, his eyes closed. No longer wearing the vest.
The same woman sits by him, holds a damp cloth to his forehead.

Ryan is in his early fifties. He is slim, roughly handsome. Until a
year or two ago he was in fine physical condition, but since then
he has gone through particularly bad times and shows it _ some
darkness under his eyes _ which can still sparkle at times with a
high degree of intelligence and humor _ gauntness in his face,
and a slowness of movement brought on by the fall he has just
taken, and alcoholism.

She _ Robin _ is a woman in her early forties, attractive. She is
dressed for an evening out of respectable club and/or bar-hoping
_ but the night has dragged on excessively and punishingly and
she and her clothing show it.

On the periphery, in their own light and surrounded by shadow,
two men in suits, standing together; Jim and Donna, standing
together; John Persons, alone; the Nurse, alone.

A suspended window indicates darkness. The outside lighting will
move toward dawn at the end of the first act.

ROBIN (To audience): Ryan makes me think of a bird called
killdeer. He’s wounded _ in many ways _ and the Killdeer is a bird
which continually plays the wounded creature . . . This time,
though, Ryan is truly wounded, and that also eventually happens
to the killdeer . . . (Smiles.) Of course.

DONNA: I’m not surprised Ryan found a woman to take care of
him _ he was always good at that. God knows, I did it long
enough and helped him to achieve what he achieved. Isn’t that
what the first spouse always does? And then is thrown aside?
(Pause.) But he’s a gifted man . . . and sometimes I miss him,
especially his humor.

ROBIN: I hadn’t seen him for years, more than two decades.
Then, last night, I saw him on the floor of a local club, after a
terrible fall _ that’s what they think it might have been, a fall. It
could have been something else. There will probably be an
investigation. He opened his eyes, all these people around _
and recognized me! I couldn’t believe it. After all those years.

DONNA: Ryan died two days after the fall.

NURSE: He had been misdiagnosed . . . If they had brought me in
a little earlier . . . well, I take it back _ if the doctors missed it,
who’s to say I wouldn’t have, too . . . On the other hand, who’s to
say I would . . .

JIM: I had the feeling he was dead before he died . . . He gave
away so much in his life . . . it became a habit . . . and then he
gave away his life.

FIRST MAN IN SUIT: That’s meant for us _ his “giving away”
things.

SECOND MAN: Don’t believe it.

FIRST MAN: Slander, grounds for a lawsuit.

A moment, then they all look at Persons.

PERSONS: No comment _ for the moment. (Pause.)

Ryan opens his eyes. Robin removes cloth from
his forehead, looks at him.

ROBIN: Go slowly, please . . . you’re injured.

RYAN: No, I’m . . .

ROBIN (Just noticing): There’s blood, on the back of your head _
where you struck your head. Lift your head, please . . .

She raises his head, dabs at the blood with the
cloth.

RYAN (Pause): I drink . . . An everyday thing . . . What’s a
killdeer?

ROBIN: Oh . . . I thought you were . . .

RYAN: Out?

ROBIN: Yes . . .

RYAN: Well, I was . . . that doesn’t mean . . . (Studies her a
moment): I didn’t _ don’t know _ about this bird . . . Why is it
called a Killdeer?

ROBIN: That’s the sound it makes! `Killdeer! Killdeer!’ Especially
when it flies off after faking an injury.

RYAN (Pause): Why would it do that . . . what you just said _
fake an injury?

ROBIN: Well, it’s a silly bird _ a beautiful bird but a silly bird. It
makes it’s nest on the ground . . . in dunes . . . on a beach. So
very vulnerable, the nest and the eggs, and when they are born,
the chicks . . . If you approach the nest, the parents will limp off,
faking a broken wing or leg or whatever . . . lead you away from
the nest. Amazingly, it works. It would have to or the killdeer . . .
as a species . . . would be extinct.

RYAN: So not so silly.

ROBIN (A beat): No, I guess not completely silly _ when you think
about it. The ruse is clever, the silly part is making its nest on the
ground.

RYAN: Sounds like some people, doesn’t it? . . . Building on flood
plains, earthquake fault lines . . . you name it. . . . Anyway, I may
be silly but I’m not extinct _ yet.

ROBIN: You’re famous.

RYAN: You think so.

ROBN: Oh, sure, cover of Fortune, Time.

RYAN: People say that. I didn’t make Time . . . People imagine
that.

ROBIN: Well, Fortune, Newsweek?

RYAN (Pause): Maybe . . . It all blurs. Long time ago in any case.
(After a moment, looks toward window.) What time is it?

ROBIN: I don’t know . . . Wednesday, approaching dawn . . . very
early . . .

RYAN: This will sound stupid _ really dumb _ but the year? . . .
wait, I know _ 1995?

ROBIN (Smiles): You get an `A.’

RYAN (Thinks a moment, then with a sheepish smile) : I’m afraid I
don’t know the month.

ROBIN: July, late July.

RYAN (Pause.) I apologize for this because I know I should, but
. . . but I’m afraid I don’t know you.

ROBIN (Pause): I worked for you, a long time ago. (Pause.) My
name’s Robin.

RYAN: You worked for me _ the early days?

ROBIN: There were a lot of us; I was one of dozens. No reason
for you to remember me . . . I wasn’t one of the `geniuses’. . . But
you were encouraging. I was young, I didn’t know how rare that
would be _ encouragement. I’ve always appreciated the way you
treated me . . . the others.

RYAN: Thank you . . . I’m in my home? (Smiles.) I mean, it feels
familiar _ is it?

ROBIN (Nods): I drove you here, in your car. You gave me
directions . . . when you could.

RYAN: It was a long haul . . . difficult, I’m sure . . . sorry. Drunk
passenger, no street lights to speak of . . . People get lost trying
to find this place in the daytime . . . sober. (Pause.) So . . . what
happened?

ROBIN: You don’t remember anything?

Ryan starts to stand.

ROBIN: I wouldn’t . . .

RYAN: I need to . . . (He takes a few steps, shaky; she hovers
nearby, at first a hand on his arm.) So, I drank too much . . .

ROBIN: I’m sorry _ did you hear me when I said you struck your head?

RYAN (Somewhat forced blase’): I was drinking _ right? _ and
stumbled . . .

ROBIN: You were drinking, yes _ but add to that, you took a
nasty, heavy fall . . . I really can’t overemphasize . . . I heard the
thud across the room _ over loud music, loud talking . . . We all
did . . . Fifty, sixty people, some drunk . . . I saw you on the floor.
That’s when I recognized you. (Pause.) I really do think we should
get you to a hospital. (Pause.) Since we arrived here you’ve been
talking to people . . . people who are not here.

RYAN: Have I? . . . been doing that lately . . . Anyone in
particular?

ROBIN: Your wife, I mean your first wife . . . Donna . . . she
treated me well, too . . . your children . . . other voices . . .
(Pause.) You don’t remember anything before? . . . An ambulance
was called, you refused attention . . . said you’d be OK.

RYAN: I was with? . . .

ROBIN: You were alone as far as I could tell. (Pause.) Well, no
one claimed you. I just happened to be there. You recognized me
. . . (A beat; a little embarrassed.) . . . then. . . for a moment at
least . . . Held your hand out to me . . . I was surprised you’d
remember me . . .

RYAN: Did I say your name?

ROBIN: No. You didn’t know it . . . I brought you here, to your
home, at your request, since there didn’t seem to be anyone else.
I was happy to do it because . . . Well, you seemed very alone for
. . . (Pause.)

RYAN: For . . . ?

ROBIN: For who . . . whom you are . . . (Pause.) But now . . .

RYAN: Yes?

ROBIN: I don’t think you should have refused medical attention
. . . You should have let them . . . the paramedics . . . take you to
the hospital.

RYAN: Well, I don’t remember and I’m OK . . .

ROBIN: That’s what I thought at first . . . hoped . . . sober you up
_ everything’s fine . . . I’ve done it before _ not with you, other
guys . . . it’s well known you drink . . . but _ you see _ you’ve
been in and out of consciousness . . . several times . . . the last
few hours . . . So I think . . .

RYAN (Simply): It’s happened before.

ROBIN: Has it? . . . . Really?. . . Pass out, come back like that?
Really? . . . I need to tell you, this is the first time you’ve been . . .
conversant.

RYAN (Small smile): With you, you mean?

ROBIN (Also smiles): Right, you’ve been conversant with others,
but not me. (Pause.) And the police _ they’ve called. Several
times. They want to talk to you _ when you’re able.

RYAN (Pause, serious): What do the police want?

ROBIN: To know what happened, naturally . . . Stand still. (She
pushes the hair off his forehead.) I don’t know how you can see
and we don’t want you tripping . . . and because it was . . . violent
. . . your accident . . . and because of who you, who you are . . .

RYAN: Was, you mean, before it all went to hell . . . I’m not
anyone anymore . . . to speak of . . .

He looks at her a moment, attracted, but moves
away.

ROBIN : Where are you going?

RYAN: The bar _ something to hold onto . . . not to drink . . .

ROBIN: You’re talking about . . . it went to hell six, seven years
ago?

RYAN: Around. Little longer. I don’t remember a lot at the best of
times . . . lately . . . a kind of ongoing fog . . . And now . . .
(Pause.) Hey, are you a reporter? . . . (Smiles.) I was on my way
then . . . injured but not faking it, no kill . . . what do you call that
bird?

ROBIN: Killdeer. It’s called a killdeer. A precocial species _ as in
precocious _ chicks born with their eyes open, able to run in
minutes . . . from predators.

RYAN (A beat): No killdeer, not me . . . I get caught . . . Why do I
have a headache?

ROBIN: Well, that fall.

RYAN: Oh, right . . . slipped my mind, not a good sign.

ROBIN (Pause): It was _ what? _ fifteen, twenty years ago you
got the idea?

RYAN (Suspicious): How do you know this?

ROBIN (Smiles to reassure him): I followed your career _ in the
papers, the computer magazines. I’m sure thousands of people
know that.

RYAN: Sorry, you’re right, of course . . . Stupid of me. (Pause.)
I’ve been . . well, no reason, really, to care anymore, what gets
out . . .

ROBIN (Pause): Years later _ about the time you did it and
became famous _ I read a quote by you, “It will change the world
as we know it.” And it did and I thought . . .“I knew him once . . .”

RYAN (Looks at her a moment, smiles): “The computer world as
we know it.”

ROBIN: An operating system to tie all personal computers in the
world into . . . (Genuinely curious.) I’ve always wondered _ do you
mind if I ask? _ if I’d put a few thousand in at that time _ not that I
had it _ what would I be worth today? A million? Ten? Something
like that?

RYAN: But your life would have spiraled downward, Robin. You’d
be a major depression case with the rest of us. The industry is
littered with bodies _ and souls.

ROBIN: You changed the world.

RYAN (Politely correcting): The personal computer world.

ROBIN: Well, almost the same thing.

RYAN (Considers pouring a drink, pushing a glass around bar
surface): But not quite . . . No one remembers anyway.

ROBIN: I do _ was it exciting?

RYAN (A beat _ his natural, broad humor beginning to return,
turning away from the glass): Oh, sure _ most exciting moment in
my life, except the time I visited Niagara Falls. Anyway, your ten
million, that’s stretching it. That’s about what what’s his name
offered me for the whole company a year ago.

ROBIN: Who’s what’s his name?

RYAN: You know . . .

ROBIN: Who?

RYAN: What’s his name . . . (Indicates his head and trouble
thinking.) . . . Oh, boy . . . guess I did hit it pretty hard . . . guy with
the glasses and slicked down hair . . . Most depressing day in my
life, except the time I visited Philadelphia. I said _ this was very
late in the game, understand _ just last year if I recall _ heyday
over, bottom falling out, I fly to see him _ I say _

Lighting change. Robin gone. John Persons, older,
steps forward, in a rumpled gray suitcoat over a red V-neck
sweater. We will see him at various times at age twenty-two
or so, to his present age of forty-three or forty-four.
He wears rumpled slacks and a red V-neck sweater over a
white button-down; when he plays older he wears the gray
suitcoat he has on now; when younger, he does not wear the
suit coat. Persons is average looking, his hair slicked down
but not enough to hold down his natural cowlick; he wears
glasses and could probably lose a few pounds. He is a very
intense, difficult-to-ignore presence. He is pushy, combative,
quick on his feet.

RYAN: How can you offer so little after what you did _

PERSONS: What?

RYAN: You know . . .

PERSONS: No, I don’t. Is this why you wanted to see me, Ryan,
recriminations? . . . because I’m busy and _

Starts to leave.

RYAN: No, don’t go, John, please . . . We’re in trouble and _

PERSONS (Turning back to him; subtly aggressive): You arrive
unannounced . . . Do you think I can just drop every _ who’s in
trouble?

RYAN: The company and, and _

PERSONS: Sure it is. I know that. The industry knows that. Why
you’re here. Are you blaming us?

RYAN: Because _

PERSONS: Look!

RYAN: No, I don’t _

PERSONS: You want _ need _ to sell?

RYAN (Some pain): I can’t remember this _

PERSONS: What? Remember what?

Light dims on Persons as he takes a few
steps back. Robin back in light, moving
close to Ryan.

RYAN: _ remember this now. I don’t want to . . . not now . . . head
throbbing . . .

ROBIN: Remember what? . . . Are you OK?

RYAN (Smiles sheepishly, a beat): Sorry . . .

ROBIN: I’m calling the hospital . . .

RYAN: No, please _ get the hospital involved and the police will
follow for sure; this business, everyone hears everything . . . I
need to sort this out . . . come to some . . . resolution . . . He
called. Persons. Years ago. When I first met him. The first time.
No one’d heard of him.

ROBIN: Persons? Do you mean John Persons? Everyone in the
world has heard of John Persons.

RYAN: Not then. I was on all those covers before Persons . . .
The idea was still forming . . . coming together as a concept. I was
close . . . and excited. Floating, every day _ floating in this unreal
world of ecstatic anticipation. Everything was better . . . food . . .
sex . . . driving fast . . . flying! . . . I couldn’t wait to get back to the
tool shed and the computer and begin composing. I hadn’t been
so excited since the day . . . (Searching.)

ROBIN: You saw Niagara Falls?

RYAN (Gives her a funny look): Yes _ Niagara Falls! How can
anyone forget Niagara Falls? . . . I don’t know what’s going on
with my head. So one day I received a call from . . . (Searching.)

ROBIN: Persons.

RYAN: Yes _ Persons! He had been thinking of forming a
company _ inspired by mine! . . . That’s what he said . . . he was
in town. Could he drop by? Donna welcomes everyone. We
invited him to dinner, to spend the night. Persons was so young. I
was, back then? . . .

ROBIN: Twenty-nine, thirty?

RYAN: Thank you, about that _ almost decrepit. He was twenty-one,
-two, something like that . . . looked fifteen . . .

Lighting change. Robin backs away. Persons, appearing
much younger, minus suit coat, and Donna step forward.
She is dark, attractive, wears dark slacks and a white
blouse.

PERSONS: . . . kind of you to invite me . . .

RYAN: . . . sounded twelve.

PERSONS: I know it was sudden . . . but driving up the coast
. . . passing though . . . lovely house . . .

RYAN: Not much room . . . two small kids . . . I work in a tool
shed _

PERSONS: Well, we’re all struggling, aren’t we? . . . Looking for
our niche _

RYAN: _ and the payments . . .

PERSONS: _ pioneer days. I heard someone say that recently,
good description. We’re like (Indicating he and Ryan.) Lewis and
Clark . . . (Smiles.) Navigating upriver . . . against the current . . .
Anyway, money shouldn’t be a problem long for you . . . from
what I hear.

DONNA: What do you hear?

They both look at her.

RYAN: Drink, John?

PERSONS: Thank you, but I don’t drink . . . You do?

RYAN: Now and then. Sure.

PERSONS: I don’t disapprove, not at all. But surprising, someone
with your gifts . . . Something could happen to that talent, couldn’t
it? Isn’t that a concern . . . with genius, you don’t want to . . . rock
the boat, do you?. . .

RYAN (Uncomfortable): No. Well, I . . . maybe I do . . .

PERSONS: They say you’re working on an interesting operating
system . . . intriguing concept . . . bold application . . . almost
visionary . . .

RYAN: I wish. Right now I’m just at the point of, of _

DONNA: Shouldn’t we eat? . . . John? . . . Ryan?. . . (Pause.)
Hungry?

They look at her. Persons considers. Lighting change
as Donna and Persons step back, just Ryan and Robin.

RYAN: So he stays over. We talked and talked. He stayed up
late. Maybe the whole night. I got up to go to the john about _
well, like this hour, whatever that is _ and saw the light under his
door . . . I heard him on his computer, tip-tapping away. He left
early, before we woke . . . (Pause.) He left a thank you note . . .

Ryan unsteadily walks front, distracted.

ROBIN: He was typing?. . .

RYAN: Something . . . (Puzzles, smiles.) . . . The thank you note?
. . . At the time . . . at the time as I recall . . . I didn’t think anything
of it. Well, maybe that he was composing, being creative . . . Now
I know _ how wrong that was . . . His mind doesn’t work that way
. . . Instead, he . . . (Pause.) Sorry . . . But I envied him at that
moment, if that was what I was thinking about. Everything’s fuzzy
now, so can’t be sure of anything . . . that fall _ that’s what you
said, right, I took a fall? (Pause.) What I meant is, I can’t work at
night. Too bad. For me the night’s for other things. Why I get in
trouble _ for instance, last night _ (Smiles at her.) _ if we’re to
believe the rumors. (Pause.) I need to work on that . . . once I
clear my head. Once this . . . headache . . . goes away . . .
(Pause.) Donna wasn’t sure about him . . . reserved judgement.
Suspicious, as I recall . . . she has better instincts . . . than I . . .
He showed up several times over the next year or so . . . usually
unannounced . . . as I got closer to . . . to . . . (Can’t find the
word.)

ROBIN: `Composing’ ? _ Composing it?

RYAN: Yes! _ as it became more clear . . . clearer . . . as I began
to finally visualize it . . . (With difficulty.) . . . to conceptualize . . .
the program . . . he must have known, an instinct . . . But then I
think . . . (Depressed.) I’m sorry, what did I just say?

Light dimming. Persons approaching, wearing the
rumpled suit coat, older demeanor.

PERSONS: Are you blaming us?

RYAN: What?

PERSONS: Are you saying we stole from you? Because if that is
what you are saying _

RYAN: No, of course not. Did you?

ROBIN: What?

Lighting change as Persons steps back.

RYAN: Oh, thinking of something else. Not very well. Something
that happened more recently _ not clear what, but it nags at me
. . . Wondering _ just at this moment _ if I was pushed.

ROBIN: Your fall? . . . . Last night? . . . You said you didn’t
remember.

RYAN: Something’s come back . . . a glimmer . . . and feeling . . .
a soreness in my back, as if someone had shoved me. Perhaps
that precipitated the fall. Of course, I was so bombed, it wouldn’t
have taken much, much of a shove . . . I’ve dissipated badly . . .
muscle tone goes, balance follows . . . I think that’s the sequence
. . .

ROBIN: They said . . . (Pause.)

RYAN: Said . . . ?

ROBIN: . . . you knocked over a stool, falling. Perhaps that
accounts for _

RYAN: Who said?

ROBIN: Television news.

RYAN: Television? Television has it? (Looking off, looking back.)
And . . . what did television say again?

ROBIN: That you knocked over a stool _ when you fell.

RYAN: And so the soreness in my back . . . Sure. I guess . . . But
why did I fall?

Spot on Persons, in suit coat, as he comes forward
a few steps, chin out.

PERSONS: Are you blaming us, Ryan?

RYAN: What?

PERSONS: Are you saying we killed you? _ that is, rather,
caused your fall? . . . Because, Ryan, if that’s what you are
saying _

RYAN: No! Yes! Did you? (Pause, looks at Robin.) Did I just say
something? I did, didn’t I? It’s . . . I’m dizzy . . .

Persons steps back, spot off.

RYAN (Looking at audience, but to himself): John Steinbeck got a
call one day from his hometown _ Salinas . . . California . . . It’s,
it’s 1938, or around then and he’s in a little cottage twenty miles
away on the coast putting the finishing touches on “The Grapes
of Wrath.” A woman _ friend for years, high school classmate _
calls and says, “John, what’s this talk you think people are after
you because of what you’re writing? It’s not so! We all love you!
We’re having a picnic today in Salinas. Please come. We want to
see you, like the old days.” . . . So he went and it was great for
him _ a picnic in the sun . . . life rich, heady _ the promise of a
great novel . . . friends, warmth, wine . . . and then two cowboys
approach and one sticks a gun under his chin and says, “If you
write another fucking word about farm workers being exploited,
we’ll blow your fucking head off.” (Pause.) Well, they didn’t,
because all those people were there . . . otherwise . . . and
Steinbeck overcomes . . . the trauma . . . and writes for another
thirty years . . . but the gun stuck under his chin was real . . . it
could have gone off and we wouldn’t have. . . what? . . . “East of
Eden.” (Pause.) He thinks about such things. He knows himself
and he knows what he might do if he lives. He moves to the East
Coast _ to New York. He applies for and receives a license to . . .
naturally . . . own a gun. (Pause.)

Lighting change.

ROBIN (Coming forward, to audience): All kinds of stories came
out about what happened to Ryan that night . . . That a biker
brawl led to his death . . . He died from a heart attack . . . blow to
the head . . . suicide . . .

Lighting change.

RYAN: Slow suicide then . . . (Sexy smile.) Did we ever . . . Robin,
did we . . . ?

ROBIN (Smiles): You were faithful in those days . . . you looked
me up and down a time or two . . .

RYAN (Pause): Did I really ask what I think I just asked you or
am I . . .

ROBIN: You asked it.

RYAN (Smiles): But I didn’t try anything _ good and good. We
were close then . . . Donna and I . . . (Ryan temporarily loses his
balance, grabs a chair before Robin can get to him.) Fuck . . .
Ryan is temporarily in his own light.

RYAN: So he showed up a few months later . . . We’re all still
young . . . early 1974, maybe `73, somewhere in there. Right
decade, I’m sure. (Smiles, mocking himself.) Twentieth Century.
He . . . You know . . . (Frustrated.) . . . him! (Coming toward
Robin, searching _ before Robin can speak.) No! I’ll get it for
God’s sake! _ Persons! . . . John Persons. (Visibly relaxes.)
That’s it, you know . . . something eludes you, think of something
else . . . I used to advise my students to try it. That’s the way I
compose. Easy . . . not thinking directly of the problem . . .
Drifting, in a way . . .

A phone rings.

ROBIN: I’ll just be a moment, do not, Ryan . . . do not do anything
. . .

Lighting change. Persons, young, and Donna
approach as Robin moves off.

RYAN (Suddenly exuberant): . . . drifting, in a way . . . freeing the
mind! . . .

PERSONS (Eager): And then _ ?

RYAN: . . . I try, John, to let my subconscious kick in. Well, the
opposite of “try,” really . . . open the way for it is better . . . and
when it does _

PERSONS: When it does?

Donna turns away. Ryan and Persons, momentarily
sharing this world, do not notice.

RYAN: It’s like _ you know, John _ it’s so wonderful! It’s like _ it’s
what I imagine it’s like _ to compose music. It pours out, the
binaries becoming notes. And look _ when you look at it, isn’t the
computer keyboard like a piano? A chess board? Hell _ a lit up jet
control panel as you cross the country in the middle of the night
with the whole country sleeping below you . . . There’s a beauty
there, isn’t there? . . . Don’t you think . . . a kind of elegance?

PERSONS: Yes, yes, I think so, Ryan _ I know what you are
saying. I’ve felt this myself! . . . Those moments! . . .

RYAN: Or am I overstating it?

PERSONS: No, no, I don’t think so.

RYAN: I knew you’d understand, John.

PERSONS: Well, sure . . . it’s something . . . we both . . .

RYAN: We can talk.

PERSONS: Of course.

DONNA: How . . . how do you compose, John?

Lighting change, Persons and Donna
step back. Robin returns.

ROBIN: Well, that’s interesting _ now there’s a story that has you
falling off a ladder.

RYAN (A beat): What story?

ROBIN: A call just now about your fall last night.

RYAN: Oh, yes, the fall . . . I forget, but maybe that’s a blessing. I
thought the biker brawl story seemed . . . I mean, I ride, but . . .

ROBIN: But you were wearing a biker’s vest, Ryan . . . with
Harley-Davidson patches. I took it off you because there was
blood . . .

RYAN (Pause): Oh, well, sure, I wear that vest sometimes, but
would that cause a brawl? . . . (Shakes his head as if to clear it.)
Someone hit me, that’s what’s implied? Some biker? . . . And that
last one again _ ?

ROBIN: Falling off a ladder.

Ryan’s own light, dim, softly pulsing.

RYAN (Amused): Falling off a ladder in a `nightclub’? What would
I be doing on a ladder in a nightclub? Adjusting the lights?
(Grudgingly, smiles.) Well, I stick my nose in . . . Wait, you’ll see,
someday they’ll program lighting _ lighting “concerts,” on a disc,
gorgeous compositions of _ (Catches himself.) . . . All I
remember is _ all I remember is my head on the floor, looking up
at dancing bodies, thinking _ or maybe they were brawling bikers
looking like dancers _ I remember thinking, “Please do not step
on my head . . . Please, oh God, please do not let them kick me in
the head . . . I still have use for it . . . It has more to do . . . more to
. . . finish . . . ”

A silence. Lighting back to normal.

ROBIN: Do you?

RYAN: Have more to do . . . finish? Of course. (Trying to focus.)
People think you do something . . . you should be content with
that . . . even if that thing has been taken from you . . . Do you
think I want to spend the rest of my life . . . not doing what I was
meant to do? Not . . . testing myself?

ROBIN (Softly): Why did you go alone, Ryan?

RYAN: Go where?

ROBIN: The club . . the fall.

RYAN: Oh, the fall. Did I go alone? Did I? I don’t remember.

ROBIN: No one has come forward . . .

RYAN: To say they were with me? Then I guess I was alone.
What are you saying? I’m not popular? . . . That’s not news.
Word’s out I’m bad luck. The man who could have . . . could have
had it all . . . but let it slip through his fingers. (Pause, rubs his
forehead.) I did, didn’t I? . . . That’s what happened, isn’t it? . . . I
blew it. Made all the wrong moves.

ROBIN: I don’t know. I told you, I only know what I read . . .

RYAN: A lot of that _ this I do remember _ is bullshit. The stuff
with the suits, for instance _

ROBIN: Suits?

RYAN: Suits. The kind of people . . . I’m . . . I’ve always been . . .
uncomfortable with . . .

Lighting change. Donna and Jim step forward.

Jim is thirty-five, a straight-forward, uncomplicated
appearing person, casually dressed.

JIM: The “suits” are here, Ryan.

DONNA: They’ve taken a room in town.

JIM: They want to meet with you.

RYAN: The suits . . . Oh really, I can’t . . . You do it . . .

JIM: They want to talk to you. You’re the one they’ve come to see.

RYAN: I was about to leave for the track.

JIM: Look, Ryan . . . these are very powerful men. And this is an
important thing we are talking about, something we have been
working a long time to achieve . . .

DONNA: Jim’s right. It’s an opportunity that may not come around
again, Ryan. You should think about that.

JIM: The fruit of your genius, Ryan.

DONNA: They’ve come to us. That’s a point . . . Still, if you . . .

JIM (Glances at her, mildly disapproving): Not us to them. We
have the leverage at this point.

DONNA (Glances at him): That’s so, but it is Ryan’s creation.

JIM: But it’s for the taking now.

RYAN (Pause): We don’t need them. Money’s not a problem.
We’re doing fine. We’re growing.

JIM: Ryan, we’re talking more than fine _ we’re talking huge.
We’re talking the world _ the PC world. They can place our
operating system in every personal computer _

RYAN: _ In the world? Well, this is very exciting. As exciting as
the first time I saw _

DONNA (Cutting him off): Ryan, this is serious. Whatever
decision you make, I am with you. But I want you to think about it,
I don’t want regrets.

Donna waits. Ryan gives no sign of acknowledging
the gravity of the situation.

DONNA: Ryan?

RYAN: I’m sorry, Donna. I’m going to the track _ I’m going to take
the Lamborghini around the oval a few times.

DONNA: That is what you are going to do now _ race your
Lamborghini around the track?

Ryan nods.

DONNA (To Jim, who’s about to protest): No, let him be. (To
Ryan.) Do as you wish. I just hope this is what you really want.

She steps back. Jim looks after her, looks toward

Ryan, waits.

RYAN: I can think when I am behind the wheel. It . . . frees me up.
I thought she understood that.

Jim nods, shrugs, steps back.

Lighting change. Ryan and Robin.

ROBIN: Did you go racing that day?

RYAN: I think so.

ROBIN: Think so?

RYAN: The most traumatic episode in your life _ not dramatic,
traumatic _ do you remember everything? In the proper
sequence, scale . . . ? I’ve never been clear about that day . . . or
days. I wasn’t sure what had happened the day after it happened.
Time shifts . . . Events . . . incidents recede or become
exaggerated . . . What you imagine becomes real, and reality
becomes dreamlike . . . surreal . . .

Lighting change.

RYAN: . . . and you begin to doubt it.

DONNA (Not moving forward): Or, Ryan . . .

RYAN: Yes?

DONNA: Perhaps you simply don’t want to remember.

RYAN (Smiles): There’s that, too.

Lighting change.

ROBIN: What?

RYAN: Maybe I simply don’t want to remember.

ROBIN: And the fall _ ?

RYAN: Has nothing to do with my memory of that . . . those days
. . . (Frustrated.) I don’t think it does. (Pause.) I went racing _ no,
driving fast, racing myself. But the suits were there when I
returned. That part has been left out of the story. . . It’s a story
they love repeating. “The day he could have owned the world, he
drove around and around in circles” . . . It’s catchy _ even amuses
me _ and makes me look like an idiot . . . So of course they keep
it out there, keep it alive . . . Makes it seem I deserve what
happened to me . . . Justifies what they did . . . But I met with the
suits, that day or the next. Whenever the hell it was. I think I finally
realized it was a business _ as I drove around the track I realized
it was a business. It was as if the words were stenciled on the
windshield of the Lamborghini: It Is Business, Ryan. This is
Business.

ROBIN: What else could it have been?

RYAN: I’m not sure _ I had been a teacher, for a government
institution, what did I know about business? _ you teach, you
grade papers _ you hope you inspire and instill passion _ you get
your paycheck. Maybe I thought it was discovery . . . innovation
. . . education . . . fun! . . . those things . . . Things I would never
associate with what people call business. Anyway, it was new . . .
a new science; in a way an art, part mathematics part
composition, like music _ business hadn’t fully sunk its claws into
it . . . yet. It _ software, the concept of it _ was still . . . virgin . . .
territory. No one knew how to copyright it, protect it . . . No one
knew if you could copyright it. All I knew was suddenly I was
doing it _ and doing it well! And it was consuming me! (Pause.) As
I remember. (Pause.) If I remember. So we met . . .
Lighting change. Misty, shadowy. The two men in
suits approach. Their faces kept in shadow.

RYAN: There had been three suits. One had left _ to report back
to suit headquarters, I suppose. So we met _ and I knew it was
business. (To them.) You propose? I think you have a proposal
for me.

FIRST MAN: You’ve kept us waiting, you know.

RYAN (Uncomfortable, awkward, but trying to assert himself):
Sorry. I was involved in something . . . Tell me what’s on your
minds.

SECOND MAN: You know who we are and you kept us waiting
anyway.

FIRST MAN: We flew across the continent to meet with you.

SECOND MAN: In the company jet _ one of the company jets.

FIRST MAN: Don Hatcher had to return to the home office

RYAN: Don Hatcher? . . .

FIRST MAN: There were three of us. Now there are two.

SECOND MAN: Don’s reporting on what’s gone on here.

FIRST MAN: Which has been very little. The story is you brushed
us off to drive a car around a track.

RYAN (Smiles, more at ease _ “Who wouldn’t skip a meeting to
drive a Lamborghini?”): A Lamborghini, a red Lamborghini.

SECOND MAN: We heard that you like speed.

FIRST MAN: Is that a death wish kind of thing _ the love of
speed?

RYAN (Smiling, offhand): Naw . . . if it was?

FIRST MAN: Well, then we’d have to think about it. (To Second
Man.) Wouldn’t we?

SECOND MAN: Would we? Why?

FIRST MAN: It would make a difference.

SECOND MAN: I don’t see that. Once an agreement is signed . . .

FIRST MAN: Oh, right.

RYAN (A beat): I’m sorry, you had a proposal . . .

The two men look at each other.

FIRST MAN: Right.

SECOND MAN: Righto.

FIRST MAN: We have developed a hell of a new personal
computer, if we do say so _ the _

SECOND MAN (Warning): Richard.

FIRST MAN: Well . . . model name’s not important.

Donna approaches. They look at her a moment.

SECOND MAN: Can do anything.

FIRST MAN: Or could _

SECOND MAN: _ if it had an operating software system. We
mean, a system worthy of its excellence.

FIRST MAN (Pause): What we have is, frankly . . . limited.
A general silence.

DONNA: So then it can’t do much?

Ryan smiles.

FIRST MAN (Irritated she’d have a question): What’s that?

DONNA: Your new computer, as is.

FIRST MAN (Clears throat, somewhat hostile): Well, sure _ that’s
the point. But it could.

SECOND MAN: If it had a superior operating system.

A general silence.

DONNA: A brain, you mean.

Ryan smiles.

FIRST MAN (A beat): Well . . .

SECOND MAN: You might call it that. Maybe nerve system’s
better.

DONNA: Otherwise it functions . . . well?. . .

FIRST MAN: The new computer?

SECOND MAN: Of course it does!

FIRST MAN: No problem there.

DONNA: Adds numbers, subtracts and multiplies, too, but can’t
communicate, you mean. Other than that . . .

SECOND MAN (Rattled, irritated): Look, the thing is: it’s all there,
except for _

FIRST MAN: _ you know.

SECOND MAN: And John Persons says you have one.

RYAN: John said that?

FIRST MAN: Yes.

SECOND MAN: He recommended you.

RYAN: John Persons?

FIRST MAN: Yes.

RYAN (A beat): John’s a friend.

Donna looks away.

FIRST MAN: Well . . .

SECOND MAN: If you say so.

RYAN (After a pause): So you talked to him _ John Persons _
first?

FIRST MAN (After looking at other man): Yes.

DONNA (Turning back quickly): Why didn’t you go with him?

FIRST MAN: With . . . ?

RYAN: Donna means with John’s operating system _ for your
new computer.

DONNA: If he has one. Does he?

SECOND MAN (A beat): Look, I don’t think we can talk about
that.

FIRST MAN: John wouldn’t like that.

SECOND MAN: We keep our dealings _ (Looks at other man.) _
what?

FIRST MAN: Compartmentalized.

SECOND MAN (Nodding): Compartmentalized.

FIRST MAN: It’s the ethical thing to do.

DONNA: He knows we have one.

FIRST MAN: That’s between you and him.

SECOND MAN: Not us.

DONNA: He knows about us, we don’t know about him.

FIRST MAN: Look _ (They’d rather not talk to her; pointedly to
Ryan): _ we’d really like to work something out. We’d like to do
business . . . (Again excluding Donna.) . . . with you.

SECOND MAN (Only to Ryan): There’s something here for both
sides.

RYAN: Which is _ (A flicker of anxiety _ and perhaps pain _
registers on his face.) . . . specifically?

SECOND MAN (Registers on this, a beat): Well . . . excuse me,
you’re OK?

RYAN: Yes.

SECOND MAN: You’re sure?

RYAN: Yes.

The two men exchange looks, making a mental
note of this. Donna has missed it, but realizing
she has missed something she moves protectively
to Ryan’s side.

DONNA: Ryan?

FIRST MAN (To Donna): Excuse me. (To Ryan after a glance at
his friend _ this has been rehearsed.) Before we proceed _

SECOND MAN: _ we need you to sign _

FIRST MAN: _ a nondisclosure agreement.

He pulls a folded paper from his suit coat
pocket.

SECOND MAN: It simply says this meeting _

FIRST MAN: _ never took place _

SECOND MAN: _ generally and, of course, as pertains to the
particulars.

A general silence. First Man taps the paper in the
palm of his other hand. Ryan, unsteady, and Donna
look at each other.

RYAN: We’re not here then.

FIRST MAN: That’s a good way of looking at it.

RYAN: If we’re not here, how can we sign it?

SECOND MAN (Shrugs _ “What can I say?”): That’s another way
of looking at it.

DONNA: What are the particulars we wouldn’t be disclosing?

FIRST MAN (To Ryan): Our business arrangement, naturally.

RYAN: So . . . our operating system . . . our software . . . (Falters,
takes a deep breath.) Sorry . . . in your computers?

FIRST MAN: Yes.

The two men exchange glances.

SECOND MAN: That’s it.

FIRST MAN: We don’t discuss it at this time . . . With people, the
press . . . Eventually it becomes known. When we’re protected.
Both sides.

RYAN: What kind of royalty are we . . . not talking about?

SECOND MAN (After a glance at Donna): How does _ would you
feel better about the disclosure _ about this agreement _ if I
whisper it? (Approaches Ryan, whispers in his ear, then backs
away.) How does that strike you?

RYAN (Pause): As . . . as not enough.

FIRST MAN: You realize we are talking several million computers
_ just to begin with! Take that number and multiply by _

DONNA (Impatiently, suddenly): He’s a mathematics genius, for
God’s sake. He figured the numbers _ tabulated them,
extrapolated them and square-rooted them _ the instant they
were out of your mouth. He doesn’t think about it _ it just
happens. Do you understand him at all? Do you?
A general silence; they shift uncomfortably.

RYAN (Pause): Donna . . . (A beat): We’re being dictated to, but
. . .

DONNA: Ryan, remember, it’s just money.

SECOND MAN: But?

RYAN (To Donna): Meaning?

DONNA: Don’t make money the determining factor _ whatever
you decide to do.

FIRST MAN: So, but?

RYAN: I’ll consider the offer, we’ll consider the offer _ if . . .

FIRST MAN: If?

RYAN: _ if you sign a nondisclosure agreement with us. (Pause.)
I think that’s fair.

SECOND MAN (A beat): It’s out of the question. We don’t sign
disclosure agreements of any kind, Ryan . . . It is Ryan, isn’t it?
. . . (A beat.) Because, Ryan, you don’t seem to understand us at
all.

FIRST MAN: If you’ll take a moment and look at this document,
you will see it states we are allowed unfettered _ (To Second
Man.) Is that the word? Yes, unfettered use of any information we
may wish to use, privately or publicly, on you and/or your
company.

SECOND MAN: And as you might understand, signing a
nondisclosure agreement with you would contradict the unfettered
provision.

First Man taps document on his hand as
others stand silent. Ryan and Donna look
at each other.

DONNA (Finally; British accent, to Ryan only, smiling): Lovely.

RYAN (Smiles and nods at her and them; British accent): Quite, I
say. . . (He staggers, stumbles forward, grabbing his chest _
stricken) I say! . . .

DONNA: Ryan!

Lighting change as Donna repeats Ryan’s name. Ryan
and Robin. Robin goes to Ryan’s assistance. Ryan takes
a moment to regain his balance and composure.

RYAN (Smiling sheepishly): Clumsy lately, but I think that’s what
happened . . .

ROBIN (Holding his arm): And just happened again _ which was?

RYAN: Irregular heartbeat.

ROBIN: Still?

RYAN: No _ just imagination . . . memory . . . (Moves away from
her.) No reason to stumble like that . . . then . . . I recovered in
moments . . . then, like now . . . I guess I was _ am _ being like
that shore bird of yours _ the, the _ ?

ROBIN: Killdeer. It’s _ they’re called _ killdeer.

RYAN: Right _ killdeer. Drawing the predators away, away from
the nest, pretending an injury, a broken wing or something _ isn’t
that what you said? (Smiles.) Scared me, that’s all. I didn’t know
what it was . . . then.

ROBIN: Your heart?

RYAN (Nods): That was the first time. Well, a few hours earlier,
on the track just a quick few beats, taking a curve in the red
Lamborghini . . . I dismissed it. Thought it had something to do
with the coming meeting with the suits. (Pause, laughs.) Thought
it was me composing _ da-da-da, da da. Binary rhythms, you
know. (Smiles, looking at her.) Or perhaps you don’t. Then, at the
suits meeting, I pretty well knew it was something else.

ROBIN: And that had something to do with your decision _ your
health?

RYAN: What decision?

ROBIN: Not to go with them.

RYAN: I didn’t go with them because a lump sum, for the rights to
my work into perpetuity, seemed like a raw deal. Maybe health
figures into perpetuity, I don’t know.

ROBIN: I thought they offered a royalties deal. Isn’t that what you
said?

RYAN: Did they? Did I? I don’t know. I don’t remember that . . .

ROBIN: You said a royalty on each computer, with the computers
numbering into the millions.

RYAN: No. I think . . . I think . . . Sorry, head’s throbbing a bit . . .
I think I asked for a limited royalty contract and they said “lump
sum, perpetuity. Plus, sign the disclosure.” If I indicated otherwise
. . . did I?

Robin nods.

RYAN: I don’t know, maybe that happened. (Pause.) Anyway,
whatever they offered _ we weren’t going to get by the disclosure
requirement.

ROBIN: So you said _

RYAN: “Sign my disclosure.” Another way of saying kiss my ass.
(A beat, small smile.) I’m afraid I’m not very good at this, am I?

Lighting change. Donna and Jim move forward
a bit.

DONNA: You’re not. We’re not. So take it, Ryan, take the deal.
Let’s be done with it before it destroys us.

RYAN (Looking front, not at them): That’s no deal.

DONNA: Don’t take it then. I don’t know. I don’t know what you
want. I just don’t know.

JIM: Donna, if he doesn’t . . .

RYAN: If I don’t?

JIM: You could _ we could _ be left out.

DONNA (Weary): Is that so bad?

JIM: But it all comes from _ it all stems from _ Ryan. Without him,
it isn’t. It is his creation. How can he be left out of that? That
doesn’t seem right to me.

DONNA: But it happens, doesn’t it? Isn’t that a pattern in the . . .
world?

Sudden lighting change. Ryan and Persons,
stepping forward, older.

PERSONS: So, I ask you again, why are you here? What do you
want? . . . Ryan, you must understand I’m busy.

RYAN: We have, John . . . John, we have a number of
stockholders . . . not wealthy . . . good, honest people . . . In
deep . . .

PERSONS: Yes?

RYAN: Who could be hurt . . . Deeply invested, close to life
savings tied up in the company . . . Some of them . . .

PERSONS: And? . . . That’s too bad but what does that have to
do with me _ and my company _ Ryan?

RYAN: I’m fine, myself and the rest of the board, we’re secure,
covered . . .

PERSONS: Same question applies. (Looks at wristwatch.) I’m
waiting, Ryan. (Pause, sighs loudly.) I assume, you fly a thousand
miles, you must have something on your mind. Something
important to say. (A beat.) Something difficult for you to say.
Ryan turns away, bites his lip.

PERSONS: You have trouble with this kind of thing, don’t you?
Some sort of hang-up, isn’t it? . . . (A beat; suddenly intensely
curious, moving toward Ryan): You flew yourself, as usual?
Ryan turns back.

RYAN: What does that have _ ?

PERSONS: Plenty! I thought something was missing. You usually
march in with your pilot’s helmet in the crook of your arm, scarf
thrown back, like some sort of World War II hero. Swashbuckling
. . . swaggering . . . big smile . . . But not today. (Pause, waits.)

RYAN: Right, John, I didn’t fly myself . . . but we were talking
about _

PERSONS: No, you didn’t. I’d heard that maybe . . . you weren’t
anymore . . . flying, I mean . . . for some reason . . . (A thoughtful
pause, then with extra animation, pacing, in a way stalking him.)
But, Ryan, you’re a famous flyboy! The flamboyant genius!

RYAN: John . . .

PERSONS: Wait: the devil-may-care pilot who jets himself across
the continent at the drop of a hat! . . . under a star-lit sky, reciting
poetry! . . . while the rest of us . . . the rest of us unbathed nerds
. . . the popular perception . . . we’re having trouble tying our shoe
laces . . . Isn’t this what I’ve read? . . . Is written? . . . You’re the
un-nerd of the computer world. You never fly commercial _ you
never let anyone fly for you _ unless . . . (Looks at him
differently, moves closer again, circles him.) . . . unless they took
away your pilot’s license. Did they? . . . Is that what happened,
Ryan? . . . What’s wrong? Were you stripped of your license?
Grounded, isn’t that what they call it? (A beat.) Something
happened. Are, are we looking at a drinking problem? . . . I hope
we are not looking at a serious drinking problem, Ryan . . .

RYAN (A beat): Do you, John?

PERSONS: Because we all know . . . have known for a long time
. . . that you have a propensity . . . A weakness toward . . .
(Pause.) . . . for . . . (Wants Ryan to say it.) Ryan? . . . (Pause.)
Well, you can’t say I didn’t warn you, years ago, can you? Do you
remember, Ryan _ that first night at your house? Talking about
your gift? The danger of abusing it? (A beat _ pointedly.) Donna
was there. Ask her, she’ll remember.

RYAN (A beat): Fuck off, John.

PERSONS (Pause, shrugs): Well.

Persons steps back, shaking his head.

Lighting change, Ryan and Robin.

RYAN (Smiles): I don’t think I said that. I wanted to. But I needed
him. Anyway, it was probably better that he thought I wasn’t flying
because of a drinking problem than a . . . a health problem. You
can kick the booze, or so they say. But if he knew I might be
about to kick off . . . well . . . and the odds of that seem to have
gone up considerably in the last few hours . . .

ROBIN: He was . . . for a long time you thought he was your
friend.

RYAN: By then _ and for some time _ I knew he wasn’t. But I had
for years _ admired and respected him. His fight . . . intensity . . .
tenacity . . . his . . . tunnel vision . . . (A beat.) That’s what kind of
genius I am. So the . . . where was I?

ROBIN: Persons, your friend.

RYAN: Before that.

ROBIN: The suits?

RYAN; So the suits, giving up on me, fly up to see John _ and
miracle of miracles, he suddenly has an operating system. One
that would work for them. I thought, “Wow, to come up with
something like that in twenty-four hours after years of trying, that’s
something.” (Pause.) That’s what I really thought . . . was blown
away. (A beat, somewhat unsure.) I mean, it’s not that farfetched.
Someone with John’s talent . . . It can happen, you know?
(Pause.) You know? . . .

Lighting change, Jim and Donna step forward. Ryan
pours a drink.

JIM (With urgency): They’ve made some kind of deal _ Persons
and the suits. That’s the word.

RYAN: The word? What word?

JIM: That is what they are saying, what is being said. Word gets
around quickly.

RYAN (Shrugs): Screw `the word.’ It’s really none of our
business. We have enough on our own plate.

He offers Jim a drink, who declines with an
impatient gesture.

JIM: Ryan, two days ago he sends the suits to us because he
doesn’t have an operating system. How can he have one now? It
doesn’t make sense.

RYAN (Looking off): As you say, he sent them to us. John was
doing us a favor. Otherwise, why would he do it?
He drinks.

JIM: Because he didn’t have anything. Because he needed us . . .
He would have wanted something eventually, a cut, a partnership,
a percentage of the licensing fee _ something. (A beat.) Ryan, he
knew he could talk you into something like that, no problem _ (A
beat, considers.) _ and in the long run get the better part of the
deal _ something for nothing is probably what he had in mind.

RYAN (Pause, flushes, deeply embarrassed): That’s what John
thought?

JIM: Yes. Of course he did. Is that a surprise? (Pause.) Face it,
Ryan: you’re an easy touch . . . not a . . . you’re not a
businessman . . .

RYAN: And? . . .

JIM: And?

RYAN: And I’m . . . naive?

JIM (Considers): . . . Let’s just say you’re not exactly
Machiavellian. (Pause.) Sure, you’re naive _ so was Othello. It’s
nothing to be ashamed of . . .

Ryan smiles, still embarrassed, makes a quick
little toast with his glass to Jim. Both look away.
There’s a general silence.

DONNA (Thoughtfully, softly, and to break the silence): Well, it
does happen.

JIM: What happens?

DONNA: They come up with their own program in a day . . . a
sudden inspiration. Some of Ryan’s best ideas have come
suddenly.

JIM: Yes, I understand that. But it doesn’t usually come packaged
and ready to go as an operating system. And if it did happen _ if
they were on the verge, close _ even if they saw it as a remote
possibility down the line – would they have sent the suits to us?
No, no way in hell.

Ryan moves off.

DONNA: So. Does it really matter?

RYAN: Donna’s right. We’re getting all the business we can
handle. (Drinks.) Jim, we’re in a million computers and still
growing. What’s the problem?

JIM: We can lose business, Ryan. As fast as companies pop up in
this business, they go away . . . disappear. No one has signed on
with us for forever. We don’t do perpetuity contracts, remember?
That’s someone else. Maybe we should.

DONNA: Whatever program they have, it won’t be better than
Ryan’s.

JIM: What if it’s just as good as Ryan’s, Donna? (Pause.) What if
it is Ryan’s?

RYAN: John wouldn’t do that. That’s not something John would
do.

JIM: Really? (A beat.) I don’t think there’s anything he wouldn’t do
. . . to come out on top. (Pause.) Look, I’m not saying . . . I mean,
I don’t know where they got it . . . it’s just, from what I hear . . . it’s
an awful lot like . . . and if you believe in unbelievable coincidence
. . . nearly incalculable odds . . . well, you’re the genius, I’m not
. . . (Pause.) I’m sorry, I’ve got to go, I’ve got family . . . (Starts to
go, stops.) Remember that, Ryan _ factor that in _ most of us
have family.

Jim steps back. Donna looks at Ryan, he
doesn’t look at her. Ryan sets his drink down,
moves back.

DONNA: Ryan, where are you going?

RYAN (Shrugs): I don’t know.

DONNA: It’s night _ you can’t go racing.

RYAN: No.

DONNA: Don’t fly . . . not tonight, Ryan, please. I’d worry . . . I
can’t . . .

RYAN: No. I don’t fly if I’m not . . . right. You know I wouldn’t do
that.

DONNA: Then why don’t you stay?

Ryan hesitates, shrugs apologetically.

RYAN: I don’t know, I’m sorry.

Lighting change, Donna steps back. Ryan and
Robin.

RYAN: It was after that . . . a few days later, we realized Jim had
been right about Persons.

ROBIN: It’s like your program?

RYAN: It’s almost exactly mine, with a tweak here or there for
appearance’s sake . . . As Jim said, the odds are, well . . . say
. . . say someone takes “Hamlet” and changes the title to . . .
“Lars” . . . (He smiles.) . . . and moves the play from
Copenhagen to, say, Tuscaloosa . . . and Polonius becomes
Felonius . . . (A beat, but can’t resist: with a sly smile.) Portia a
. . . Lamborghini . . . That sort of thing . . . So blatant it’s kind of
funny. (Serious again.) The thing is, those tweaks . . . they’re not
harmless. They cause crashes . . . which cost money . . .
sometimes . . . could cost . . . lives . . . (Pause, he hesitates,
having difficulty with his balance; takes a deep breath.) . . . so
they sold my work _ now called something else, of course _ to the
suits, interesting that . . . I’ve never heard of selling anything that
belonged to someone else. I didn’t know you could do that. A neat
trick. (A beat, with a whimsical, sad smile.) In that area, it must be
admitted, they’re . . . innovative.

Lighting change and Jim takes a step forward.

JIM: There’s only one thing to do, Ryan: we have to take them to
court.

RYAN: I didn’t get into this to sue people, Jim. My God, it’s the
last thing I want to do with my life _ waste my time that way . . .
Besides, we don’t even know if we can.

JIM: Well, we have to do something or we go down. We
eventually get ground into the dirt. They’re taking over the
business overnight. Using what you created, they’re four times
our size . . . And they’re just not growing, they’re taking our
customers with them. (A beat.) It continues, we’re history _ a
footnote, one of dozens of little footnotes in this business that
come up with a good idea and are buried because of it. The
reward of innovation is destruction . . . But none of them had or
have your vision, Ryan _ and I hate to see you go their way.

RYAN (Really to himself, a slight note of panic): It’s about
education, Jim . . . Don’t you see that? It’s innovation . . .
communication . . . discovery. It’s supposed to be fun, like . . .
like music!

JIM: Music’s a business, Ryan! Get your head out of the . . . out
of wherever the fuck it is.

RYAN (Off somewhere): John and I spoke of that once. You
weren’t with the company then. He agreed with me, about the
beauty of it, the excitement of breaking new ground. I had this
idea _ a long time ago _ that we might work together someday,
create something magnificent.

JIM: Are you kidding _ you and John? Oh, for Christ’s sake,
Ryan _ he’s going to bury you! (Pause.) I think he already has.

(Pause.)

He steps back, Donna moves forward tentatively.

(Pause.)

DONNA: I think, Ryan, whatever’s going on with you and John
and the suits _ the whole business, actually _ it’s becoming
beside the point now, isn’t it? . . . I mean, you’re so far removed
. . . from me, now the kids . . . maybe there’s nothing left. (Pause.)
Or is . . . or is your creativity all we ever had in the first place?

(Pause.)

She remains. Ryan takes an unsteady few steps,
having trouble with his balance. He looks around
for Donna but can’t find her. He grabs a chair
for support, takes a few deep breaths. Looks at
Robin.

RYAN (Smiles, shaken): I’m remembering a little too much . . . It’s
(Indicating his head.) . . . the old noggin . . . it’s suddenly working
. . . but . . . all of a sudden I wish it wasn’t . . . don’t appreciate the
. . . clarity . . . not at . . . (Pause.) . . . Robin, could you give me a
ride to . . .

ROBIN: Sure. Wherever.

RYAN: To . . . Or maybe better, call an ambulance, please. I’ve
always wanted to ride in an ambulance _ (Smiles.) _ all that legal
speed, you know.

ROBIN (Briskly): OK.

She starts to move off quickly.

RYAN: Because this headache . . . is acting up a bit . . . And I
think you might be right _ (Pause.) _ I think I might be in some,
some trouble . . . (Smiles, waits.)

Light fades.

End of Act One

 

Act Two
The Final Day

 

In dim light, Ryan and a Nurse. He is in the chair, leaning back;
she has pulled up a chair to be nearby, pages through a
magazine. He is in different clothes, casual and comfortable, but
similar; he now wears the motorcycle vest with Harley-Davidson
patches. A strip of gauze on the back of his head. His eyes are
open. The Nurse is attractive and young.
On the periphery: Persons; Jim and Donna, together.
It is evening twilight; the act will advance into darkness.

RYAN (After a few moments): It’s like, it’s what I imagine it’s like
to compose music . . .

The Nurse smiles wanly, watches him from the
corner of her eye.

RYAN: . . . the binaries becoming notes . . . The notes appearing
out of nowhere. (Pause.) There’s a beauty there, isn’t there? A
kind of elegance?

Persons moves up a few strides.

PERSONS: Speaking to me, Ryan? . . . To anyone? . . . `A kind
of elegance’? Well, it’s neither here nor there anymore, if you ask
me . . . You’re dying and you know it. So why go on about the
beauty of composing programs? Once it was . . . acceptable . . .
tolerable . . . But now? . . . You might as well talk about building a
house or founding a business _ you’re not going to do either.
They make as much sense as composing a program. It’s futile.
(Pause.) You’re no longer in the game. Not a player. (Pause.)
You’re history _ if that . . . if you’re lucky . . . (Pause.) If I allow you
to be. (Pause.) History. (Pause.) Because, Ryan, the winner
writes the history. Everyone knows that. (Pause.)

RYAN (Not looking at him): Do they? . . .

PERSONS: Yes. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do _ I’ll think about it,
about you getting some credit, I mean . . . because I really don’t
think you should be forgotten . . . I feel a certain responsibility that
you’re . . . remembered . . . But . . . well . . . I will have to think
about it.

RYAN (Pause): Good of you, John.

PERSONS: I pick up on your tone, but you think about it, Ryan _
you haven’t been cooperative . . . I want to do what’s right, but
you don’t make it easy . . .

RYAN: No, I meant it _ good of you, considering . . . considering
all that . . . (Breaks off, adrift.)

PERSONS (A bit awkward): It’s . . . that’s OK . . . glad to consider
it.

He steps back. Lighting change.

RYAN (To Nurse, after a moment, refocusing, a friendly smile):
Hello.

NURSE: Hello.

RYAN: You’re? . . .

NURSE: Certainly not John. Or Donna or Jim. You’ve been calling
me John or Donna or Jim. And some other names, including your
children. You miss your children. (Pause.) I’m a nurse _ Helen.

RYAN: My nurse?

NURSE: Your nurse. We’ve already met by the way.

RYAN: Sorry . . .

The Nurse shrugs.

RYAN: There was someone earlier . . .

NURSE: A woman _ Robin.

RYAN: She won’t be coming back?

NURSE (A beat): I don’t know . . . she was very upset . . . felt she
let you down . . . nice lady.

RYAN: It’s that bad?

NURSE: Not so bad. But the doctors feel it’s a good idea for you
to be observed. Someone to keep an eye . . .

RYAN: Because I have . . . ?

NURSE: A mild concussion . . .

RYAN: That’s the diagnosis?

The Nurse nods.

RYAN: Which is better than . . . ?

NURSE: . . . than moderate or severe, of course . . . or any other
number of things that can happen when a person takes a hard
fall.

RYAN (Considers): Well . . . so . . . (Pause.) What are they
saying . . . ?

NURSE: Saying?

RYAN: In the papers . . . ?

NURSE: I’m not sure I understand . . .

RYAN: The papers, television, about . . . from what Robin had
said . . .

NURSE: About you? It might not be a good idea to . . . (He looks
at her, she considers.) Well, quite a lot. You create things, things
which I cannot begin to understand. You’re a very creative man,
perhaps a genius.

RYAN: About the other night, I mean . . . the fall.

NURSE (Considers again; a pause): There’s speculation, that’s
all.

RYAN: Speculation? . . .

NURSE (A beat): Well, perhaps suspicion.

Silence; she regrets having said this.

RYAN: Suspicion? . . .

NURSE: Well, most likely you fell . . . that’s the feeling . . . but
maybe pushed . . . (Pause.) That would be suspicious, of course
_ being pushed . . . But someone bumping into you . . .
accidentally . . . that seems more likely . . . that seems to be a
theory . . . and you drinking too much . . . You did, didn’t you? . . .
That is more than implied . . . (A beat.) And maybe something
else . . .

RYAN: Something else?

NURSE: In addition to the . . . to the drinking . . .

There is a silence.

RYAN: Stuff? . . . Using stuff? . . . That’s what they’re saying? . . .

NURSE: Look, I shouldn’t have said that, this isn’t something I
should be . . .

RYAN (Shrugs): It’s possible . . .

NURSE: Because your health is what matters.

RYAN: What else?

NURSE (A beat, sighs): What it comes down to . . . no one
knows, really . . . (Pause.) What I mean is . . . it’s been almost two
days now since the accident and no one’s come . . . coming
forward . . . about it . . . (A beat.) From what I’ve read and heard
. . .

RYAN: Well, that’s not surprising with me . . . lately. People have
careers to protect . . . Dangerous knowing me if you want to keep
your job, much less . . . advance . . . much less . . . (Pause.) . . .
much less . . . (Pause.) Have _ do you happen to know _ have the
police spoken to me? They wanted to speak to me _ that’s what
she . . . (Searches.) . . . Robin . . . said.

NURSE: Not to my knowledge. You don’t know?

RYAN: No. I think perhaps . . . I don’t think so . . . I’ve been to the
hospital? . . .

NURSE: Of course _ you know that. I just said _

RYAN: Do I know that? . . . I don’t know much . . . (Pause.) How
much time do I have?

NURSE: That’s an absurd question, especially for a `genius’ . . . If
there was any doubt about that, you’d still be in the hospital, for
sure.

RYAN: It’s just that . . . something’s happening . . . going on
. . . (Looks at her, smiles): You just sounded like my first wife _
Donna.

NURSE (Also smiles): How many have you had?

RYAN: You really want to know?

NURSE: Well, I was going to ask you to do the usual thing in
cases like this _ recite the alphabet, count to ten. You know,
every few hours or so. But if you want to count wives instead, that
would let you off lightly _ let me off lightly _ if you’ve had less than
ten.

RYAN (Thinks, smiles): I’ve . . . this is funny _ maybe a godsend
_ but I think I’ve lost count. You know, the . . . (Gestures to his
head.) . . . fall.

NURSE: Don’t worry. Typical concussion case . . . Are you
married now? The papers don’t say.

RYAN: I’m not sure . . .

NURSE (Laughs): Classic concussion case, for sure.

RYAN: I mean, I don’t know if it’s gone through _ this last . . .

(Searches for the word.)

NURSE: Divorce? . . .

RYAN (Bitterly): Yes . . . last I recall, was in the throes of . . .
a . . . (Searches for word.) . . . a . . . divorce.

NURSE (Smiles, strokes his forehead once, then takes her hand
away.) Please. Try to relax. Do it sitting up. Reasons of
observation. We don’t want you sleeping just yet. A precaution.
I’m the one observing. That’s part of my job.

RYAN: And waiting?

NURSE: I do a lot of that, too . . . (Ruefully.) That’s for sure . . .

RYAN (Pause): I feel . . . (Pause, moves a hand across his
eyes.)

Lighting change. The Nurse steps back.

NURSE (From a distance): Don’t drift off, please don’t close your
eyes.

RYAN: I suppose I should thank you, John.

NURSE: And please keep John out of it.
Persons steps forward, studies Ryan for a
few moments.

PERSONS: What’s that, Ryan ? _ I caught you drifting there a bit.
Thought we might have lost you _ I mean, you lost me. Your
imagination’s not what it used to be.

RYAN (Not looking at him): Do you mean . . . memory?

PERSONS: Almost the same thing, don’t you think?

RYAN (Smiles): Maybe . . .

PERSONS: The great ones _ they have . . . had . . . both. You
were one of those, but you’ve lost one . . . or another . . . I hope
not both . . . that could be the end.

RYAN: You said . . .

NURSE (Sounding far away, almost an echo): Eyes open, please!
. . . Thank you and keep them that way. I’ll get you . . . something
to drink . . .

She stands off.

PERSONS: She cares about you, Ryan. Another one falling for
you . . . amazing . . .

RYAN: I think you said . . . you said you’d see that I was
remembered.

PERSONS: Considering it . . . No commitment yet . . . No
promises . . . “Maybe’s” the best I can do for you now. (Pause.)
Or for anyone else, for that matter.

RYAN (Smiles, amused despite himself): John. You’re a kind of
mad dream, aren’t you? A sort of devastation?

PERSONS (Considers it, somewhat amused himself): I don’t
know, am I? Perhaps. (Moves around a bit, pauses, considers.)
Ryan, remember we both gave speeches once, a convention
somewhere . . . Miami or Boston or somewhere _ one of the stops
in the early days anyway, when it was all still so new . . . And you
looked out at all those faces, all those hopeful upturned faces with
their pasty complexions and big ideas, and you said, “There’s
room for all of us. There are opportunities for all of us in this
business. There’s so much we can do. We’re only at the
threshold. It’s just the beginning” . . . You were inspiring, I give
you that. My God, you made it sound like we were capable of
saving the world.

A silence. Ryan says nothing.

PERSONS: They loved you for that . . . those people . . . for
saying that they were going to be part of it . . . for giving them
hope. I’ve never had that, that ability to inspire, so I’ve had to be
. . . had to cultivate other talents. (Pause.) But I understood my
weaknesses . . . limitations . . . and did something about them,
whereas you . . . you didn’t. Simply didn’t bother. I guess you
thought the world would accommodate you, but it doesn’t work
that way.

A silence. Ryan says nothing.

PERSONS: Anyway, I followed you to the podium and, and what
did I say, Ryan? Do you recall? (Pause.) Ryan?

RYAN (Some head pain, looking down, pause): What I said,
John?

PERSONS (Irritated): Not what you said, Ryan _ we just went
over that. You’re not concentrating very well, are you? What I
said.

RYAN: Well . . . (Pause, looks up, off.) I think it was . . . it’s been
so long . . . was it something like, “Sorry, Ryan . . . there’s only
room for one in this business”?

PERSONS: Good. You can remember when you want to, can’t
you? And how did that crowd respond, Ryan? . . .

RYAN: I’m sorry, I _

PERSONS (A sudden anger and passion): It _ they _ laughed,
Ryan! I told them, I warned them _ and you. I put it out there. I
didn’t give them false hope like . . . Well, not that you did . . .
intentionally . . . I think you believed what you said . . . But . . . it’s
. . . what you told them . . . it was nowhere, Ryan. A dead end.
Time has proved me right. (Pause.) There was even press there,
for God’s sake. They laughed. All of them, including the press _
including you. Do you remember that? Because I sure do. (A
beat.) I told you _ all of you _ there was only room for one . . . for
me . . . I was proud of that _ proud of myself for being forthright
. . . honest about my intentions . . . and none of you took me
seriously.

RYAN: Now I remember _ you laughed when you said that, John
. . . You smiled.

PERSONS: And?

RYAN: That’s why they laughed.

PERSONS (Interested): What’s the point? They didn’t take me
seriously?

RYAN: Of course they took you seriously. They laughed because
you laughed. They feared you _ it was nervous laughter . . .
forced . . .

PERSONS: Did you laugh?

RYAN: Sure, but because I didn’t believe you. They were smarter
than me. I’ve always been stupid that way _ lie to me and I
believe you, tell the truth and . . . (Gestures.)

PERSONS (Irritated): You didn’t believe me? Christ, Ryan.

RYAN: How could I? I couldn’t _ still don’t _ see how anyone _ in
all seriousness _ could believe something that . . . that narrow
and confining _ I mean, room for only one in a field so vast, with
so much potential for good, with so much talent eager to
contribute. What kind of ego claims that? It would be a crime to
put that into one person’s, one company’s hands . . .

PERSONS: Nothing gets done your way, Ryan. . . . that’s
anarchy.

RYAN: Have you ever heard of “creative chaos”?

PERSONS (Impatiently): Whatever the process, usually just one
emerges. A dominant figure. Look at history . . . Besides, how
many of those so-called creative types that were in that audience
that day, Ryan _ how many do you think are still with us? . . . Not
many . . . You’re among the last.

RYAN: What do you mean by `still with us’?

PERSONS: Still in the field, of course.

RYAN: Still in the field? Screw the field _ some of them are dead,
John.

PERSONS: Yes, that may be.

RYAN: Died while young, John _ a few by their own hand . . .
hands.

PERSONS: Right.

RYAN: Disillusioned . . . depressed . . . betrayed . . . fucked over
. . .

PERSONS (Weary): It happens, Ryan, it happens.

Simultaneously, Nurse approaches with a glass
as Persons backs away and lighting changes.

PERSONS (His voice becoming distant): Are you blaming me for
them?

NURSE: Open your eyes, please.

PERSONS: Are you blaming me for you?

NURSE: Now!

PERSONS: Because if you are _ remember, Ryan, I’m the one
who decides . . .

NURSE: Drink this, please.

PERSONS: . . . and I don’t forget . . . I thought you understood
this . . . I thought you realized . . .

Persons is gone. Ryan drinks from glass, looks
at her. She waits a few moments.

NURSE: How do you feel?

RYAN: I feel a . . . a slight buzz. (He smiles at her.) That was
quick.

NURSE: Is it a good or a bad buzz? (Noticing his smile.) Oh _
right, it must be good.

RYAN: As good as I’ve felt in some time . . . Is it legal?

NURSE: You must be feeling very good. It will relax you. You can
sleep now, if you wish, but I will have to wake you now and then.
(She pushes the hair back off his forehead.) Just to check.
Nothing to worry about.

She leaves. Lighting change. A few moments of
silence.

JIM’S VOICE: Ryan, we can’t afford to delay any longer _ we
need to sell now.

RYAN: Sell? What do you mean?

Donna and Jim both move forward, Donna
somewhat reluctantly.

JIM: The bottom’s falling out. The company’s at fifty-million and
slipping. We have to do something about it _ soon.

RYAN: It’s amazing to be in trouble and be worth fifty million _ or
maybe it’d be more amazing the other way around.

JIM: Our reputation’s a bit shaky. Word’s out you’re not . . . you.
Next month at this time it could be forty. And the month after that
_

RYAN: Right . . .

JIM: Sinking ship . . . You forget, but there was a time we were
pushing a couple hundred million.

RYAN: I don’t forget. Those were the days . . . cover of . . . cover
of . . . (Pause.) . . . what? . . . something . . .

DONNA (Pause): But we’re fine, Ryan.

RYAN: Us. Financially . . . that’s what you mean.

They assent through silence.

RYAN: Well . . .

JIM: But there are others, Ryan, who aren’t, who are heavily
invested.

DONNA: Non-partners, people not on the board. But good people
who trusted us . . . believed in us . . .

JIM: Mortgages, college education funds, you know, tied up _
with _ in _ us . . . We can’t let those people lose everything.

DONNA: We can survive it, they can’t.

JIM: We should have sued when we could . . .

Donna gives him a look.

RYAN: Oh, right _ sue. I forgot about that. (Brightly hopeful.) Too
late?

JIM (Smiles ruefully, glances at Donna): Oh, yes, missed the
seven-year window some time ago. By six or seven years. Went
by like that. Papers sat on the lawyer’s desk. Sat and sat. He
didn’t know what to do _ out of his depth. And we, we weren’t
much better _ we sat and sat, did nothing.

DONNA: Jim . . .

RYAN: I said, screw them. I’ll come up with something new,
something even greater. There’s more where that came from, for
God’s sake.

DONNA: But there has been, Ryan . . . you’ve developed . . .
innovated . . . educational programs for kids, an encyclopedia of
the internet _

JIM (To Donna, interjecting): But nothing to top himself. Not the
next brilliant concept. That’s what he’s talking about and that
hasn’t happened. We had to have that. Well, we had it, but he _
we _ gave it away.

DONNA (Irritably): Nothing was given away. It was taken . . .
everyone knows that . . . the law wasn’t clear . . . You just said
as much . . . and Ryan’s not done, and it can’t be just on his
shoulders.

JIM (Shrugs): You usually get just one great concept, even the
`geniuses.’ Whitney the cotton gin, Franklin electricity, Morse the
code, Farnsworth the TV _

RYAN (Very dry, distant, ticking them off): Edison the telegraph
transmitter _ phonograph player _ incandescent lamp _ alkaline
battery _ talking movie pictures _ microphone . . . the, the
whatever he set his mind to . . .

A silence.

DONNA (Pause): You’ve been ill, Ryan . . . You’ve been sick.

JIM (To Donna): Which is why we need to get this done as soon
as possible . . . We can’t . . . sustain . . .

RYAN (Pause): And _ again _ you want me to . . . ?

JIM: Not want _ what we want is no longer . . . anything. It’s what
we need to do.

RYAN: Sell it? Sell the company now?

DONNA (A beat): There’s no choice, Ryan.

JIM: That or stand by and watch it die . . . better someone else
have it than that.

A silence. They both look at him.

RYAN: If that happens we get out OK, but the others _ the others,
they lose?

JIM: Right. If we could get, say, twenty-seven, hell, twenty-five
million, that would protect them, get them their money back. And
the buyer will be getting a wonderful deal . . . a steal, actually . . .
having the stability we lack.

RYAN: Selling a life’s work _ it would include everything we’ve
done, everything we have in development . . .

JIM: Everything? . . . I don’t know . . . we could hold back on
some of the latter, perhaps . . . Some of those . . . concepts . . .
that we’ve been working on that are . . . well . . . not quite there
yet . . . I mean, who’d know?

Ryan looks at him.

JIM (A beat): OK _ but you can’t give them those things that are
still in your head, that are not on paper. They don’t get that for
their lousy twenty-five million. Please don’t screw yourself again,
Ryan. You keep saying “screw them”, but you’re the one who
gets it. You screw yourself. Don’t give them what’s still up here _
that’s still yours.

RYAN (Pause): No . . . not that . . . they can’t have that . . . .
(Smiles, taps his head.) If it’s still there . . . big question.

A silence. They watch him, waiting.

RYAN (Catches himself): Oh, right _ business.

Lighting begins to change.

RYAN (A long pause): There’s . . . well, there’s only one person
I know who could write a check for . . . that amount . . . just
. . . like . . . that. Just . . . write . . . it. (Pause, he smiles slightly,
ruefully.)

A silence. They watch him as he looks down,
considers.

RYAN (Pause, shrugs): OK, that’s settled _ meeting’s concluded.

JIM: You never did like long meetings.

RYAN: Meetings period. (Pause.) OK, I’ll fly up and see him.

(Pause.)

DONNA (Pause): Don’t fly yourself, Ryan.

RYAN (Smiles): Don’t worry. Haven’t you heard? _ my pilot’s
license’s been revoked . . . health reasons . . .

The Nurse approaches, then waits in a separate
light. Donna exchanges a look with Jim, who hesitates,
then steps back.

DONNA: Ryan . . .

RYAN: Yes?

DONNA: The papers are going through . . . when you return, our
divorce should be final.

RYAN: Oh, right. (Pause.)

DONNA: I don’t think we’ll see each other again . . . (A beat.) Do
you? . . .

RYAN: No. Well, by chance . . .

DONNA: Take care of yourself . . .

RYAN (Pause): Thank you . . . you too . . .
Lighting change as Donna steps back.

NURSE (After a moment): Did you doze?

RYAN: No . . . (Begins to struggle to his feet.) I’m going to the
airport. I have to fly to _

NURSE: To the where? . . . The airport? (Smiles.) Oh, you’ve
been dozing, for sure.

RYAN: Oh, yes, I suppose . . . I thought I was . . . .

NURSE: Yes. I know _ going to the airport . . . not tonight you’re
not.

He stands cautiously.

NURSE: Steady . . .

RYAN: What are they saying?

NURSE: About what?

RYAN: There’s not been something more? . . .

NURSE (Pause, considers): They _ the radio _ say there’s going
to be a formal investigation.

RYAN: Of my death?

NURSE: Of the accident.

RYAN: It will come to the same thing . . . no? . . . accidental
death?

NURSE: No! . . . (Pause.) Let’s hope not, shall we?

Ryan falls to his knees.

NURSE (Going to him): But I think we do have a problem here.
She drops to one knee, tries to support him.

NURSE: Look at me.

RYAN (Trying to rise): I have to get to the airport. I’m a pilot, you
know.

NURSE: You’re a grounded pilot _ Isn’t that obvious to you?

RYAN: I have to see John . . . to sell the . . . people depending on
it . . .

NURSE (She tries to look into his eyes): You’ve seen John _ that
was years ago . . . John is a very powerful man now _ he would
not see you. I do not even think he is presently in the country. He
is done with you. Don’t waste your . . . strength on him. (She
snaps her fingers in front of his face.) Wake up! _ now! _ quit
dreaming!

RYAN (Small smile): `He wouldn’t see me?’ . . . I see you’ve been
doing your homework, Nurse Helen.

NURSE: But not my job. You distracted me . . . You’re good at
that . . .

RYAN: Like that bird . . . the . . .

NURSE: No talking about birds. (Takes his head in her hands.)
Your eyes are glassy. (Pause.) Tell me about that bird . . .

RYAN: I thought . . .

NURSE: I changed my mind . . . And look at me while you do it!
. . . What is it called?

RYAN: It’s called . . . called . . .

NURSE: Yes? It’s called?

RYAN: A . . . (Mild triumph.) . . . a . . . killdeer!

NURSE: And the killdeer is good at _ what? (Waits.) Distracting
people, isn’t it? . . . That’s what it does!

RYAN (Boyish smile): Yes _ predators. Throwing people off its
trail . . . faking injury . . .

NURSE: Just like you, right? . . . (Pause, still looking into his eyes
_ with deep concern.) Well, no more . . . No more killdeer. This is
very real . . . I’m going to make a phone call, Ryan. You will sit _
and wait _ understand?

RYAN: So I’m dying . . .

NURSE: No, you are not dying. But it’s not good. We need to get
you to . . . Look at me _ I want to see your eyes again! (Looks into
his eyes, a beat.) Maybe a mild hemorrhage . . . be quiet and sit
still.

RYAN (Smiles): First a mild concussion . . . and now . . . is there
such a thing as a mild hemorrhage? . . .

NURSE: It’s possible . . . for one to lead into the other . . . (She
brushes the hair back from his forehead, looks at him, pauses.)
Don’t stand. Let’s hope, shall we? That’s important. You’re better
off where you are . . . Don’t exert yourself _ we want to keep your
heart rate down. That’s important too. I’ll be back in a few
minutes.

RYAN: Another ambulance?

NURSE: Yes.

RYAN (Smiles): If you don’t mind, I’d rather not _ I didn’t like the
last ride.

NURSE: You’re not supposed to like it.

She goes, completely leaving the stage.
A radical lighting change, moody with a blue or green
tint. Persons steps forward into Ryan’s space, will
look “at” Ryan in this scene as if Ryan is standing,
at eye level. Ryan remains on the floor, looks straight
ahead.

RYAN: . . . Could be hurt, John . . . People deeply invested, life
savings tied up . . .

PERSONS: Sad, Ryan, sad sad, but what does that have to do
with? . . .

RYAN: I’m fine . . . rest of the board . . . all taken care of . . .

PERSONS: Question remains the same . . . (Looks at
wristwatch.) I assume, you fly this distance . . . you have
something . . . .

Ryan makes an effort to rise, can’t.

PERSONS (Said flatly, metalically): . . . . something difficult for
you to say . . . hang-up you have . . . Where’s the devil-may-care
. . . ? (Shaking his head, now ironically.) Grounded . . . abusing
your gifts . . . Someone like you, given that kind of genius, one in
a million _ hundred million _ and pfitt! (Shakes his head, starts
off.) Ask Donna . . . I warned you . . . Long time ago. You should
have listened. Look, I have people waiting . . .

RYAN: John! . . .

Persons hesitates.

RYAN: The company, John! Twenty-five million for the company _
to you. Worth almost double that . . . easy!

PERSONS (Stops, interested): Really? For everything? . . .

RYAN: Yes . . .

PERSONS: Everything . . . all patents . . . all projects in
development? . . .

RYAN makes an effort to rise, can’t.

RYAN (Frustrated, as he falls back onto his knees): Yes!

PERSONS (A beat, cocks his head): Projects you inaugurated?
. . . we can’t do it if it doesn’t include projects you _

RYAN: Yes! . . .

PERSONS: Holding nothing back?

Ryan doesn’t respond, stares straight ahead,
his eyes dull, glassy.

PERSONS: Of course _ not you. Not Ryan . . . Stupid of me . . . I
apologize for the remark. (Pause.) What about? _ what about, you
know, what’s still in your head? . . . (Pause.) Ryan?

Ryan doesn’t respond, stares straight ahead.

PERSONS (Smiles): No, I guess not. That would be asking a lot
. . . though there has to be a question of . . .

RYAN (Smiles, slowly): What’s left there, yes . . .

Persons nods. Ryan makes a weaker effort to stand.
Persons studies him dispassionately.

PERSONS: One thing I have to know, Ryan _ why would you
come to me with this opportunity?

RYAN: Because I think I finally understand business, John . . .
and . . . and you’re the person who can write the check . . .

PERSONS: Yes? And?

RYAN: And . . . (Pause.) . . . and I still . . . I don’t know . . . I still
had some kind of hope . . .

PERSONS: Well . . . (Studies him a moment.) I’ll tell you what,
Ryan, I’ll tell you _ I’d like to do it, I really would . . . but you’ve
weakened that company of yours considerably, and I can’t _ I am
responsible to other people, too, you know, just as you are _ and I
can’t justify . . . justify that kind of money on a company that’s
faltering . . . (Pause.) So I’ll tell you what I’ll do, out of respect for
our past friendship, our shared . . . tribulations _ I’ll write a check
right now (Pulls a pen and checkbook from his suit coat pocket),
this minute, for . . . say, twelve million dollars _ and the deal is
done.

A silence broken by the audible click of
Persons’ pen. He clicks it several times.
Ryan waits a moment then smiles.

PERSONS: Why are you smiling, Ryan?

RYAN (Pause): Because . . . because, John, you know what the
company’s worth _ and that I’m going to tell you . . . to go fuck
yourself.

PERSONS (Pause): I think you probably will . . . (Small smile.) . . .
did . . . and that’s . . . that’s unfortunate.

RYAN: You are making a bad business decision, John.

PERSONS: Perhaps.

RYAN (Taking a great effort): It will go to someone else _ a
competitor _ and that competitor will come after you like I wouldn’t
. . . should have, but didn’t.

PERSONS: Perhaps.

RYAN: And cost you money.

PERSONS: Maybe.

RYAN: Money, John.

PERSONS (Immovable): Right. I hear you, Ryan.

Ryan tries to rise.

RYAN (Pause, he tries to concentrate, then smiles): You know . . .
it’s kind of funny, John _ I think I just said I finally understood
business . . .

PERSONS: And?

RYAN: Well, if I do . . . well then I have to ask myself . . . why
would John Persons . . . a business genius . . . intentionally make
a bad business decision? . . . What does John Persons have to
gain by that? . . .

PERSONS (Pause): I guess, Ryan . . . (A beat.) I guess you’ll
never know.

A silence, then Persons clicks pen _ the sound
again heightened _ and replaces it and checkbook
in his suit coat pocket. Sound of a siren in
the distance. Ryan tilts his head in the direction
of the sound; Persons does not hear it.

PERSONS: But If you want to be remembered . . . (Light dimming
on him.) If you don’t want people to . . .

The stage begins to darken.

PERSONS: . . . don’t want people to forget . . . because, Ryan,
they do . . .

Persons steps back and watches with others.

Ryan tries to rise, but can’t.

RYAN (After a few moments): That’s something I . . . I don’t . . . I
simply . . . don’t . . . can’t . . . understand . . . what you would
have to gain by that . . .

The Nurse approaches tentatively. Ryan tries to rise
but can’t. The siren draws nearer then winds down as
the pulsating lights from the ambulance flash through
the room, at first with the rhythm of a heartbeat, then
steadily decreasing.

Ryan’s head drops slowly as his body folds into
itself, then remains still.

End of Play

Still More to Doubt than Do in John Steinbeck’s Salinas

Image of "Sang's Cafe" in Salinas, photograph by Jessie ChernetskySalinas on Highway 101 in Monterey County is a piece of prose, an almost-odor, an unheard sound, a shade of gray, a pause, a reaction, an amnesia, dreaming of someplace else. Salinas is the have’s and have not’s, wood and brick and river and filled-in slough, cracked pavement and seedy lots and cemeteries, concrete buildings and rotting houses, churches, taco shops, and homeless shelters, and big empty box stores, and doctors’ offices and lawyers. Its inhabitants are, as the man once said, “Rotarians, Republicans, growers and shopkeepers,” by which he meant Somebodies. When the man looked through another peephole he said, “Sinners and vigilantes and racists and hypocrites,” and meant the same thing.

Salinas from Highway 101 Before Reading John Steinbeck

The August afternoon was hot and sticky when I took the Salinas exit from Highway 101 with my oldest college friend, an economics professor and Episcopal priest and gourmet cook from New York visiting Los Gatos, my new home 60 miles north of Salinas. I was a recent Florida transplant, and it was my first trip south on Highway 101 to Steinbeck Country. We knew Steinbeck was born in Salinas, but we weren’t looking for Steinbeck’s ghost. We weren’t even interested in Salinas. We were searching for the perfect artichoke, and the pilgrimage to Castroville and Watsonville—the heart of Salinas Valley’s artichoke industry—takes you through Salinas if you follow Highway 101, the safest route for the uninitiated.

I didn’t know it then, but later I would make the Highway 101 trek south to Salinas every Sunday to play the historic Aeolian-Skinner organ at John Steinbeck’s childhood Episcopal church. Retired from my day job in Silicon Valley and immersed in John Steinbeck’s writing, I decided to discover something new about John Steinbeck’s life in Salinas whenever I was in town. After researching church and town records of John Steinbeck’s upbringing, visiting his home and burial place, and interviewing Salinas residents about their town’s most famous son, I’ve learned a lot and formed an opinion. John Steinbeck was right: there wasn’t much to do in Salinas when he was growing up, and that hasn’t changed. But there is a great deal to doubt in Salinas about the legend of John Steinbeck perpetuated by local interests.

John Steinbeck’s View: Always Something to Do in Salinas

    “Salinas was never a pretty town. It took a darkness from the swamps. The high gray fog hung over it and the ceaseless wind blew up the valley, cold and with a kind of desolate monotony. The mountains on both sides of the valley were beautiful, but Salinas was not and we knew it. Perhaps that is why a kind of violent assertiveness, an energy like the compensation for sin grew up in the town. The town motto, given by a reporter ahead of his time, was: ‘Salinas is.’ I don’t know what that means, but there is no doubt of its compelling tone.”
                —John Steinbeck, “Always Something to Do in Salinas”

John Steinbeck pondered the Salinas paradox wickedly in “Always Something to Do in Salinas,” a travel piece he wrote for Holiday magazine in 1955. By then Steinbeck had been a non-citizen of Salinas for 35 years—first as a college student at Stanford, later as a struggling writer in nearby Pacific Grove, finally as an international celebrity with homes in Manhattan and Long Island and instant recognition wherever he traveled. But John Steinbeck never forgot Salinas. And Salinas, I found, never forgot or forgave John Steinbeck for what he wrote about the town.

I learned for myself that, as Steinbeck joked, Salinas just is. But the Salinas that is isn’t the town I thought I was seeing when Allen and I passed through on our Highway 101 artichoke pilgrimage seven years ago. Normal Salinas weather is, as Steinbeck noted, not sunny, but high gray fog. Even in summer the gloom is damp and dark, enveloping Salinas like a shroud delivered from the angry sea. Robert Louis Stevenson, the first literary tourist who recorded what Salinas was before John Steinbeck described what Salinas is, compared the newly named Salinas City unfavorably with coastal Monterey, a Catholic enclave with European roots and old world ways. Stevenson, the son of a Scottish Presbyterian engineer, described Salinas City as an isolated Protestant village dredged from the Salinas River wetlands by sharp-elbowed Yankees, ex-Confederate Southerners, and ambitious immigrants who connived to make upstart Salinas—not established Monterey—the new county seat. Government and agriculture are still the main business of Salinas. Tourists still favor Monterey.

Highway 101: Escape Route from Salinas to High Culture

    “People wanted wealth and got it and sat on it and it seemed to me that when they had it, and had bought the best automobile and had taken the hated but necessary trip to Europe, they were disappointed and sad that it was over. There was nothing left but to make more money. Theater came to Monterey and even opera. Writers and painters and poets rioted in Carmel, but no of these things came to Salinas. For pure culture we had Chautauqua in the summer—William Jennings Bryan, Billy Sunday, The World of Art, with slides in a big tent with wooden benches. Everyone bought tickets for the whole course, but Billy Sunday in boxing gloves fighting the devil in the squared ring was easily the most popular.”
                —John Steinbeck, “Always Something to Do in Salinas”

According to the Salinas historian Robert Johnson, Salinas had 3,300 residents when John Steinbeck was born in 1902 at his parents’ home on upscale Central Avenue. Despite its modest size, Johnson says that Salinas boasted six or seven churches when the town was officially incorporated in 1874. The most prestigious house of worship in Salinas was always St. Paul’s, the Episcopal church chosen by John Steinbeck’s ambitious mother Olive when the family moved to town in 1900 or 1901. But the high-grade culture John Steinbeck said Olive craved for her children was in San Francisco, a serious schlep by horse, train, or Model-T before Highway 101 finally reached Salinas. San Francisco, not Salinas, was The City for young John Steinbeck, as it continues to be for high-minded Californians like Olive today.

Not that the Salinas churches didn’t have culture of a sort in Steinbeck’s time. St. Paul’s in particular was a social center for the Salinas upper crust, with Sunday services featuring organ music, choirs, soloists, and a string orchestra for special occasions. Local land money built an opera house, and a grant from Andrew Carnegie helped pay for a public library. Parks, pleasure gardens, and cemeteries abounded in and around Salinas for citizens in good standing. But the fading names I deciphered on the crumbling headstones at the Garden of Memories are defintely “whites-only,” and the handful of Japanese and Filipinos who managed to buy land kept to themselves. John Steinbeck’s description of the evangelist Billy Sunday boxing with the devil at a Salinas Chautauqua event suggests that Protestant frontier spectacle, like Salinas society, was viewed through the rose-colored glasses of race-and-class certitude.

Artists and writers of the period colonized Carmel, not Salinas. They included literary socialists like Jack London and Lincoln Steffens and poets as divergent in style and stature as George Sterling and Robinson Jeffers. The Pacific Grove-Carmel-Monterey cultural axis, not Salinas, was John Steinbeck’s future, and he didn’t fight the call. Like St. Paul’s Episcopal Church in East of Eden, Salinas was a place sensitive souls like John Steinbeck and his character Aron Trask fled from, not to. Years later, when Steinbeck was too important to ignore, a faction in Salinas tried to name a road in his honor. Steinbeck insisted on a bowling alley instead. He won the battle but lost the war. The public library in Salinas is now the John Steinbeck Library. The massive museum on Main Street is the National Steinbeck Center. A dozen businesses with no connection to members of John Steinbeck’s family—all of whom departed Salinas by death or by choice—dot lower Main Street and the strip malls between downtown Salinas and Highway 101. The St. Paul’s parsonage described in East of Eden is now a law office. The church where Steinbeck played, prayed, and acted out in as a boy was torn down for a parking lot, usually empty.

Steinbeck-Denial and the Name-Game in Salinas Today

    “We had excitements in Salinas besides revivals and circuses, and now and then a murder. And we must have had despair, too, as when a lonely man who lived in a tiny house on Castroville Street put both barrels of a shotgun in his mouth and pulled the trigger with his toes. That morning Andy was the first in the schoolyard, but when he arrived he had the most exciting article any Salinas kid had ever possessed. He had it in one of those little striped bags candy came in. He put it on the teacher’s desk as a present. That’s how much he loved her.
    “I remember how she opened the bag and shook out on her desk a human ear, but I don’t remember what happened thereafter. I have a memory block perhaps produced by violence. The teacher seemed to have an aversion for Andy after that and it broke his heart. He had given her the only ear he or any other kid was ever likely to possess.”   
                —John Steinbeck, “Always Something to Do in Salinas”

John Steinbeck’s ashes reside not far from the new St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, occupied the same year Steinbeck satirized Salinas for Holiday. The Garden of Memories cemetery was unlocked and unattended the Sunday I visited, and the John Steinbeck plaque was hard to miss. Visible by virtue of inappropriateness, a tacky sign extends a painted finger to the clutter of weeds, wilted flowers, and cracked pavement leading to the Hamilton family plot where John Steinbeck rests. Nearby, an incongruous military tank rests on its concrete laurels next to the Garden of Memories mausoleum, a paradox on a pedestal making a statement I don’t understand and doubt Steinbeck would approve if I did.

John Steinbeck hated war. Salinas appears to hold a more benign view. The historical society grounds in North Salinas feature a display of oddly obsolete and out-of-place military hardware, public anti-art unique in my California experience. The John Steinbeck museum on Main Street shares space with a pocket park honoring local veterans of the Bataan Death March. Is this another Salinas-persona paradox, or a problem best kept to myself? On the right, the Republican, Rotarian Salinians, destested by John Steinbeck, who stayed and prospered in war and peace. On the left, John Steinbeck: New Deal Democrat, Cold War critic, prophet without honor in Salinas until he died. What middle ground could ever marry such opposites? Perhaps that’s why Steinbeck abandoned his Salinas relationship: irreconcilable differences until death do us part.

The Salinians I asked about my problem avoided politics and talked about personalities. The identity of Salinas citizens Steinbeck is thought to have portrayed in his books is the preferred topic of conversation. Opinions are definite but don’t always agree. An ex-parishioner of St. Paul’s expressed her confidence that Steinbeck patterned his character Andy—the Salinas boy who taunts the Chinaman in Cannery Row—on her grandfather, a church and school contemporary of Steinbeck who stayed in Salinas and lived to a ripe old age. A local expert on Salinas history is equally certain this isn’t so. An informed source in Pacific Grove who interviewed the person in question maintains an open mind on the subject.

John Steinbeck’s Salinas: The Forgotten Violence of 1936

    “The General took a suite in the Geoffrey House, installed direct telephone lines to various stations, even had one group of telephones the were not connected to anything. He set armed guards over his suite and he put Salinas in a state of siege. He organized Vigilantes. Service-station operators, owners of small stores, clerks, bank tellers got out sporting rifles, shotguns, all the hundreds of weapons owned by small-town Americans who in the West at least, I guess, are the most heavily armed people in the world. I remember counting up and found that I had twelve firearms of various calibers and I was not one of the best equipped. In addition to the riflemen, squads drilled in the streets with baseball bats. Everyone was having a good time. Stores were closed and to move about town was to be challenged every block or so by viciously weaponed people one had gone to school with. . . .
    “Down at the lettuce sheds, the pickets began to get apprehensive. . . .
    “Then a particularly vigilant citizen made a frightening discovery and became a hero. He found that on one road leading into Salinas, red flags had been set up at intervals. It was no more than the General had anticipated. This was undoubtedly the route along which the Longshoremen were going to march. The General wired the governor to stand by to issue orders to the National Guard, but being a foxy politician himself, he had all of the red flags publicly burned on Main Street.”
                —John Steinbeck, “Always Something to Do in Salinas”
            
The epic suffering of the Joads in California enraged the state and alarmed the nation, as John Steinbeck intended when he wrote his masterpiece. But before sitting down to write The Grapes of Wrath in 1938, he composed an unpublished piece about Salinas he called L’Affaire Lettuceburg, a bitter indictment of the violence with which Salinas responded to the 1936 strike by produce packers from the Alisal, an area east of Highway 101 called Little Oklahoma. Warned by his wife Carol that he was writing too close to home and far beneath his capacity as an author, Steinbeck started over again, shifting his vision from Salinas to California’s Central Valley and completing The Grapes of Wrath 60 miles north of Salinas in Los Gatos. But he neither forgot nor forgave what happened in Salinas in 1936, returning to the episode in his piece for Holiday and holding it in his heart, according to his letters, with a indelible mortar of anger and pain. Yet no one living in Salinas today, or with parents living in Salinas at the time, was willing to talk with me about Salinas under martial law 80 years ago.

The burning of The Grapes of Wrath in Salinas in 1939 (and maybe in 1940 as well) is another story. Period photos and first-hand accounts are pretty convincing, and most Salinians I spoke with acknowledge their credibility. A recent book about the extreme reaction to The Grapes of Wrath throughout America both dates and locates the 1939 burning of the book in Salinas. I learned about the later burning from a taped interview with the late Dennis Murphy, the son of John Steinbeck’s church and school mate John Murphy and the author of The Sergeant, an under-appreciated novel that Dennis Murphy completed with John Steinbeck’s encouragement and scripted into a 1968 movie starring Rod Steiger. But this evidence failed to dissuade Salinas enthusiasts who are engaged in an effort disprove that The Grapes of Wrath was ever burned publicly in Salinas.

Highway 101: Today’s Salinas Exit, Yesterday’s Social Wall

    “All might have gone well if at about this time the Highway Commission had not complained that someone was stealing the survey markers for widening a highway, if a San Francisco newspaper had not investigated and found that the Longshoremen were working the docks as usual and if the Salinas housewives had not got on their high horse about not being able to buy groceries. The citizens reluctantly put away their guns, the owners granted a small pay raise and the General left town. I have always wondered what happened to him. He had qualities of genius. It was a long time before Salinians cared to discuss the episode. And now it is comfortably forgotten. Salinas is a very interesting town.”
               —John Steinbeck, “Always Something to Do in Salinas”
    
According to Robert Johnston’s history, following World War II Salinas city leaders tried to mend fences with the Okies east of Highway 101 in a top-down electoral campaign to incorporate the Alisal into Salinas. But the files of the period I found at St. Paul’s make me doubt the Salinas fathers’ motives as much as their methods. Richard Coombs, the young rector recruited from New York to build a new church for St. Paul’s, reminded his parishioners that they had sinned and fallen short by failing to extend the church’s ministry to the people of the Alisal when help was needed. By the time Coombs arrived in Salinas, the Episcopal bishop in San Francisco had mandated an Episcopal mission east of Highway 101 to fill the gap. Another mission was started in North Salinas, and a third was later established in Corral de Tierra, the setting of Steinbeck’s Pastures of Heaven. It’s called Good Shepherd; Steinbeck’s heavenly pasture is an upscale enclave of luxury homes, horse ranches, and golf-and-tennis clubs—precisely the future Steinbeck predicted for Corral de Tierra in 1932.

Incidentally, I was invited to speak recently to a Rotary meeting at a Corral de Tierra tennis club where a celebrity tournament was underway, a media circus that required the Rotary meeting to move to the club bar. I felt at home I suppose, but I could have been in Aspen or Boca Raton, other pastures where I’ve also enjoyed bar life among the affluent. This week I was back in Salinas to play for the Christmas Eve service at St. Paul’s. Arriving later than expected because of heavy Highway 101 traffic, I looked for a quick place to eat before the choir rehearsed at 8 p.m. Pulling into a tony restaurant near St. Paul’s, a favorite of the Sunday church crowd, I watched the Open sign in the window fade to black as lubricated patrons pushed past my car on their way to the parking lot. A straggler, a Salinas matron with a voice like a chain saw, clipped my bumper with her handbag. “Jesus!” she screamed, pounding my trunk. “You’re moving too fast. Now I think I’ll just a move little slower so you’ll be even later to wherever the hell you think you’re going!”

Mouthing a Merry Christmas, I turned toward the fast food place advertising Open Till 8 across the street. Inside, the young lady who took my sandwich order smiled and apologized for having to close early for Christmas, explaining that this was her first fast-food job and she knew people would still be hungry. I tipped her $10 for my five-dollar meal, and this time I meant it when I wished her Merry Christmas. I felt better about Salinas because of her, and I hope she finds something to do in Salinas and stays in John Steinbeck’s home town. But I have my doubts. And I’ve made my last late-night drive to foggy Salinas. Playing the organ at St. Paul’s has been wonderful and I’ll miss everyone. But I’ve gotten the best gift an outsider like me can expect from Salinas: John Steinbeck. No doubt at all about that. And John Steinbeck travels well.

“Sang’s Cafe” in Salinas, photograph by Jessie Chernetsky courtesy of the artist.

John Steinbeck and John Kennedy: Heroes of Hope Joined at the Funny Bone

Composite image of John Steinbeck and John KennedyAnyone alive at the time always remembered the day John Kennedy died. John Steinbeck and his wife Elaine were in Warsaw on a U.S. cultural mission and helped embassy personnel deal with a flood of well-wishers while grieving quietly, inwardly, through the long November night. Though the John Kennedy-John Steinbeck bond was never as close as Steinbeck’s friendship with Adlai Stevenson, the previous Democratic presidential nominee, Steinbeck admired Kennedy’s warmth, wit, and wonderful way with words. It was the respect of one wordsmith for another, and it led to Jackie Kennedy’s suggestion that John Steinbeck write John Kennedy’s official biography.

John Steinbeck: Stevenson in ’52, ’56, and ’60!

A staunch New Deal Democrat with small town Republican roots and a record of wartime advice and service to his hero Franklin Roosevelt, Steinbeck had little to say publicly about Harry Truman, FDR’s successor.  But he didn’t hold back when Eisenhower and Nixon emerged. He thought Ike was tongue-tied, under-informed, and unqualified to be president. How could anyone who mangled syntax and read westerns for entertainment possibly be fit for the White House? Nixon he deeply disliked and distrusted for reasons that proved prophetic. In the 1952 presidential election, Steinbeck supported Adlai Stevenson, but he didn’t meet Stevenson until the Democratic convention he covered as a special reporter in 1956.

Image of Adlai StevensonJackson Benson, John Steinbeck’s principal biographer, described the opening act of Steinbeck’s long-running friendship with Stevenson in The Adventures of John Steinbeck, Writer:

From the time of this meeting, the Steinbecks and Stevenson became close friends, visiting each other often in the years that followed. At the convention, Stevenson grabbed Steinbeck, pulled him into a little room, and said “Sit down. I need a drink.” The two sat talking for half an hour, John telling him of the humorous things he had heard on the floor. Every time he got up to go, Stevenson asked him to stay. It was the first time in days, Stevenson told him, that he had had a chance to relax.

John Steinbeck, who disliked funerals, attended Stevenson’s service in Ilinois in 1965. In 1960 he had hoped his friend would run again, this time against Dick (“I liked him better when he was a mug”) Nixon, adding his name to a list of celebrity authors and academics advocating for Stevenson over Kennedy, the Democrats’ rising star. But the charismatic young Senator from Massachusetts—the home state of Steinbeck’s paternal grandparents—swept the spring primaries and won the American presidency by a Chicago hair. Kennedy was Catholic, a writer, and a war hero, appealing qualities. The Steinbecks supported his campaign and were invited to his inauguration.

John Kennedy’s Inauguration and its Endless Invocations

John Kennedy once described Washington as combining Southern efficiency with Northern charm. He might have mentioned Southern humidity and Northern winters as well. The 1961 inauguration was marred by one of Washington’s worst snowstorms; while Kennedy’s acceptance speech warmed John Steinbeck’s heart, Elaine’s feet were freezing. In a section of the manuscript omitted from Travels with Charley when it was published, Steinbeck recorded the event with epic hilarity. (Given Kennedy’s constant back pain from disease and injury, Steinbeck’s reference to women’s “backache” seems especially ironic. Today we know more about Kennedy’s medical condition than anyone admitted at the time.)

I got us to our seats below the rostrum of the Capitol long before the ceremony—so long before that we nearly froze. Mark Twain defined women as lovely creatures with a backache. I wonder how he omitted the only other safe generality—goddesses with cold feet. A warm-footed woman would be a monstrosity. I think I was the only man who heard the inauguration while holding his wife’s feet in his lap, rubbing vigorously. With every sentence of the interminable prayers, I rubbed. And the prayers were interesting, if long. One sounded like general orders to the deity issued in a parade ground voice. One prayer brought God up to date on current events with a view to their revision. In the midst of one prayer, smoke issued from the lectern and I thought we had gone too far, but it turned out to be a short circuit.

Image of Elaine and John SteinbeckJohn Kennedy—a Catholic in the same way that John Steinbeck was an Episcopalian, nominal and not by choice—secretly agreed with Steinbeck about the endless prayers. Below the official text of the letter sent to the “distinguished artists who were kind enough to be in Washington,” Kennedy provided a handwritten critique of the episode for Steinbeck’s private enjoyment: “No President was ever prayed over with such fervor. Evidently they felt that the country or I needed it—probably both.” Two witty Johns joined at the funny bone, sharing the same artery to America’s master of irreverence, Mark Twain. As quoted in Steinbeck: A Life in Letters (edited by Elaine Steinbeck and Robert Wallsten), John Steinbeck enlarged on the tale, which grew in height over time:

I had never seen this ceremony. I found it very moving when they finally got through the prayers to it. As Elaine says, most ministers are hams but they haven’t learned the first rule of the theatre—how to get off. When [Cardinal] Cushing got to whumping it up I thought how I’d hate to be God and have him on my tail. The good Cushing didn’t ask, he instructed; and I bet he takes no nonsense from the Virgin Mary either nor from the fruit of her womb, Jesus.

Image of John Kennedy's inaugural addressBut the young president’s address was stirring, and Steinbeck was more than moved. He admired Kennedy’s speech like a writer, for style as much as substance. The reason for his respect became the punch line of a literary joke, delivered dead-pan to reporters looking for a scoop about Steinbeck. Benson’s biography explains that the author answered their questions about the Steinbecks’ visibility around Washington with the same kind of humor shown by Kennedy in private:

Since he was [at the inauguration] and receiving all this attention, Steinbeck was assumed by some in the press to be up for some job in the administration. When he was asked, on one occasion he said that he had been named Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, but he had not yet got his uniform fitted. To others, he replied that he was the new Secretary of Public Health and Morals and Consumer Education. When asked his reaction to the inaugural address, he said, for the television audiences, “Syntax, my lad. It has been restored to the highest place in the Republic.”

Syntax—high praise for any politician, and music to Steinbeck’s ears after the painful atonality of the Eisenhower era.

Kennedy’s Assassination and Steinbeck’s Refusal

Following the inauguration John Steinbeck and John Kennedy met several times, and Steinbeck was later selected to receive the Medal of Freedom—an honor the President would not live to bestow. In the spring of 1963, the author and his wife accepted the invitation to travel behind the Iron Curtain as cultural emissaries for the high-culture administration where a francophone First Lady set a sophisticated European tone. Remarkably, in retrospect, Steinbeck insisted that another writer accompany them: Edward Albee, the young creator of the biting Broadway stage hit, Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? Albee was acerbic, audacious, and gay; his sharp-edged play lacerated marital monogamy and introduced audiences to vocabulary formerly reserved for the drill field. Hard to believe today, but Steinbeck’s demand was granted and the trip to the Soviet bloc took place as planned, Albee (below) included.

Image of Edward AlbeeThe Steinbecks had reached Poland when they heard the news from America on November 22. Jay Parini quotes Elaine’s version in John Steinbeck: A Biography:

“That was a day none of us would ever forget,” says Elaine. “John and I had just gotten back to Warsaw when the news broke on the radio that John Kennedy had been shot in Dallas. The first report was that he was wounded, and we were horrified. Then we heard he was dead. It was so moving what happened: the Poles all surrounded us and hugged us, saying how sorry they were to hear this terrible, terrible news [and we] needed time to mourn. We called the State Department, and they suggested that we go to Vienna for a few days. There was a funeral service for Kennedy at the cathedral there. It was a memorable and moving day.”

Cutting short their itinerary, the Steinbecks returned to Washington for debriefing by the State Department over three days in late December, precisely five years before Steinbeck would die in New York at the age of 66. The Steinbecks’ letter of sympathy to Jackie Kennedy, written a few days earlier, received a surprising response from the former First Lady. Benson explains:

In the meantime, [Mrs. Kennedy] wanted someone to write a definitive biography of her husband, and she had thought Steinbeck the writer most suitable. She got in touch with mutual friends and made some inquiries and then wrote the Steinbecks to come see her in Washington. When John and Elaine called on her, they could see that, although she had herself under control, she was still obviously in a state of shock. She talked to them about the kind of book she had in mind and very openly and movingly about the President and about her relationship to him. At one point Elaine began to cry, and Mrs. Kennedy said, “Please, Elaine, if you must cry, go to the bathroom and pull yourself together. I can’t bear it now, and I’ll go to pieces.” Their visit stretched into a stay of several hours, as every time they started to leave, Mrs. Kennedy would beg them to stay—“I’ve nothing in the world to do.”

Image of Jackie Kennedy as First LadyAfter careful consideration and more meetings, John Steinbeck declined Mrs. Kennedy’s suggestion that he write her husband’s book. As Benson observes, “what he had in mind does not seem to have been an orthodox biography.” Steinbeck never produced his planned autobiography either, and for much the same reason. Writing to his college friend Carlton Sheffield a few days before the February meeting with Mrs. Kennedy, Steinbeck said that if he ever wrote his own life story he wanted to make it a “real one”—“since after a passage of time I don’t know what happened and what I made up, it would be nearer the truth to set both down.” As Benson suggests, the novelist “never found solutions to the problems of form presented” by factual biography. In April he gave Mrs. Kennedy his answer—not now: “One day I do hope to write what we spoke of—how this man who was the best of his people, by his life and death gave the best back to them for their own.”

John Steinbeck’s Arthur and John Kennedy’s Camelot

Steinbeck didn’t invent the Camelot trope for the Kennedy years, but as a serious student of Arthurian literature he could use it convincingly. When read today, the letter he wrote Mrs. Kennedy after their initial meeting about her husband’s book is—in its poetry, power, and prescience—better than “an orthodox biography” could ever be:

The 15th century and our own have so much in common—loss of authority, loss of gods, loss of heroes, and loss of lovely pride. When such a hopeless muddled need occurs, it does seem to me that the hungry hearts of men distill their best and truest essence, and that essence becomes a man, and that man a hero so that all men can be reassured that such things are possible. The fact that all of these words—hero, myth, pride, even victory, have been muddled and sicklied by the confusion and permission of the times only describes the times. . . .

Steinbeck wrote the closing moral trilogy of his career—The Winter of Our Discontent, Travels with Charley, America and Americans—in the reflected light of Kennedy’s Camelot and the sudden shadow that fell across America following his death. I wonder. Has it occurred to others that John Steinbeck died so soon after the abdication of his friend Lyndon Johnson and the election of Richard Nixon in 1968? Death spared Steinbeck the Watergate scandal, Reaganism, and the retrograde racism of today’s insurgent Tea Party. Surely he would have detested and denounced each, not merely for mendacity, but also for lacking any trace of Kennedy’s intellect, warmth, or wit.

The quality of educated humor went out of the body politic with the death of John Kennedy, and I think Steinbeck knew it as it was happening. His most memorable epitaph for the elegant president who joked with him, Twain-like, about priests and public prayers appears near the end of the letter just quoted. Fifty years after John Kennedy’s assassination, John Steinbeck’s words of comfort to the slain president’s widow still thrill with hope for the return of an American Camelot:

At our best we live by legend. And when our belief gets pale and weak, there comes a man out of our need who puts on the shining armor and everyone living reflects a little of that light, yes, and stores some up against the time when he has gone. . . .

.

Image of Barack Obama and Ted Kennedy

“At Least It’s Me”: Steinbeck’s Nobel Speech Still Inspires Writers Today

As any good writer knows, the intended audience shapes the message even before a word touches the paper or emerges on the computer screen. When the entire world is the audience, as John Steinbeck discovered when he won the Nobel Prize in 1962, the writer’s task is particularly challenging.

The Nobel Prize “is a monster in some ways,” Steinbeck wrote shortly after learning he had won the honor for literature. “I have always been afraid of it. Now I must handle it.”

Handle it he did, taking the recognition of his art and reshaping it to share his vision of the writer’s obligations to the world. What remains today is more than a historical document addressing the hair-trigger tension between Cold War super-powers. It is a call to each of us to continue to embrace literature as a reflection of humankind’s threatened condition, what Steinbeck calls “our greatest hazard and our only hope.”

The pages of Steinbeck’s Nobel speech are well marked in my copy of The Portable Steinbeck, and the writer’s words resonate as deeply today as they did when they were delivered before an international audience in Sweden on December 8, 1962. As an occasional speech writer myself, I recommend Steinbeck’s relatively brief comments as a model of form, content, and tone.

Like Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address a century earlier, Steinbeck’s Nobel speech is the creation of an enlightened mind informed by a profoundly moral imagination:

Such is the prestige of the Nobel award and of this place where I stand that I am impelled, not to squeak like a grateful and apologetic mouse, but to roar like a lion out of pride in my profession and in the great and good men who have practiced it through the ages.

Literature was not promulgated by a pale and emasculated critical priesthood singing their litanies in empty churches – nor is it a game for the cloistered elect, the tinhorn mendicants of low calorie despair.

Literature is as old as speech. It grew out of human need for it, and it has not changed except to become more needed.

The skalds, the bards, the writers are not separate and exclusive. From the beginning, their functions, their duties, their responsibilities have been decreed by our species.
The present universal fear has been the result of a forward surge in our knowledge and manipulation of certain dangerous factors in the physical world. It is true that other phases of understanding have not yet caught up with this great step, but there is no reason to presume that they cannot or will not draw abreast. Indeed it is a part of the writer’s responsibility to make sure that they do.

With humanity’s long proud history of standing firm against natural enemies, sometimes in the face of almost certain defeat and extinction, we would be cowardly and stupid to leave the field on the eve of our greatest potential victory.

Steinbeck’s literary fingerprint is particularly discernible in his description of Alfred Nobel at the end of his address:

Nobel saw some of the cruel and bloody misuses of his inventions. He may even have foreseen the end result of his probing – access to ultimate violence – to final destruction. Some say that he became cynical, but I do not believe this. I think he strove to invent a control, a safety valve. I think he found it finally only in the human mind and the human spirit. To me, his thinking is clearly indicated in the categories of these awards.

They are offered for increased and continuing knowledge of man and of his world – for understanding and communication, which are the functions of literature. And they are offered for demonstrations of the capacity for peace – the culmination of all the others.

For writers like Alice Munro, this year’s Nobel Prize winner in literature, as well as for simple scribblers like me, there is an instructive back story to Steinbeck’s speech worth remembering in any era. As the biographer Jackson Benson notes in The Adventures of John Steinbeck, Writer, Steinbeck understood that “the English sentence is just as difficult to write as it ever was,” even when the effort is linked to a well-deserved honor for literary merit. Just do your best, Steinbeck would still advise us.

“I wrote the damned speech at least 20 times,” Steinbeck wrote his college friend Carlton Sheffield shortly before leaving with his wife Elaine for Stockholm 51 years ago. “I, being a foreigner in Sweden, tried to make it suave and diplomatic and it was a bunch of crap. Last night I got mad and wrote exactly what I wanted to say. I don’t know whether or not it’s good but at least it’s me.”

My Journey West to the Dark Side of Steinbeck Country

Albert Bierstadt's painting California Coast shownFor this my Miata was made. A man, a towel, a mug, and rag top down. She may have struggled driving over the silt and rocks of the Monument Valley trail. She may have sneezed from the exhaust fumes of flatbeds and semi-trucks. But now my little car was in road rally heaven. This is what she was made for. Her adrenalin was up. Tight on the turns. Anyone can speed up on the straightaway. I love accelerating on curves. It is the story of my life. By the way, in case you haven’t heard, Convertible Top Down is mandatory on the California coast. Citizens approved this rule in one of their incessant ballot-box initiatives. Proposition 42, I do believe—but who else other than Californians is counting?

It had taken hours to drive up Route 1 from the Ventura Highway to Steinbeck Country north of Santa Barbara, wending, weaving, winding along the switch-back curves along the Pacific Coast, some with guard rails, some without. Then Moro Bay. Seal Point with hundreds of seals lolling about on their backs and bellies, tossing sand over themselves with their fat flippers. A few miles beyond, the overweight ostentation of Hearst Castle, built high above the surrounding countryside, trying mightily to look impressive. No, the seals are impressive. The expanse of the Pacific is impressive. Your castle is gaudy.

Americans don’t need guillotines; we have the American Dream.

Hey, buddy, somebody should tell you: This is America. We don’t have castles. We don’t buy into barons, lords, and sultans. Wealthy citizens might try to re-create Europe’s feudal system, but we peasants have a way of rising up and kicking out aristocrats. Americans don’t need guillotines; we have the American Dream.

The jagged coastline of California is always the winner in a beauty contest between nature and humankind. Green grass and lush vegetation crouch up against cliffs and rocks below. Curling waves of cobalt blue crash in bright, white spray. Streaks of aquamarine signal changing currents and temperatures. Big Creek Bridge. The 1932 Bixby Bridge. Then Big Sur with its towering trees and hairpin turns. An elven glen—a place of sprites, hikers, and Zen spiritual seekers. John Steinbeck once wrote this to Adlai Stevenson: “Having too many things they spend their hours and money on the couch searching for a soul.”

‘Having too many things they spend their hours and money on the couch searching for a soul.’

North of Carmel, at Monterey, a right turn to Salinas, my final destination.

Albert Bierstadt's painting Seal Rocks shownFrom Colorado Shepherd to Salinas Priest

Father James Ezell, the rector of St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, drove up to greet me as I loitered in front of the National Steinbeck Center. Steinbeck once suggested a bowling alley if the people of his home town insisted on putting his name on a building. I followed Jim in my car to the current rectory of St. Paul’s, where I would spend the night.

As a boy John Steinbeck served as an acolyte at St. Paul’s when the church was located downtown, on a corner now occupied by an empty parking lot. The St. Paul’s rectory described in East of Eden still exists; today it serves as a law office. They say that Cesar Chavez, champion of the United Farm Workers, held meetings at St. Paul’s with the support of the church’s rector in 1970. Wealthy growers left the church as a result. Some churches want their ministers to be mascots. Or marionettes. But it doesn’t, or shouldn’t, work that way. The moment a pastor worries about losing his or her position is the time that pastor deserves to lose his or her position.

Some churches want their ministers to be mascots. Or marionettes. But it doesn’t, or shouldn’t, work that way.

Oh, I can’t really call the current rector of St. Paul’s “Father Ezell.” He’s Spiff. He’s Jim. He’s been my friend since junior high school. We first met near Detroit on my family’s cross country drive in our old Dodge Motor Home. Our mothers had been cheerleaders together at Westfield High, and my brother remembers seeing a photograph of the prettiest girl he ever saw—Jim’s sister Kathy—at their house. He wanted to meet her, but she was away at tennis camp. He ended up marrying her anyway. Jim, who was a hood with rolled up T-shirt sleeves and a cigarette pack in high school, once worked as a shepherd in Colorado before finishing Alfred College, where he met his wife Lynn.

Later the priesthood beckoned. His first parish was in Asheville, North Carolina, followed by decades working as a chaplain, teacher of Christian education and social studies, and boarding home master to 64 boys in Brisbane, Australia, who come in from the bush for their schooling. The children of parents with ranches requiring two days to cross by motorcycle, their only educational alternative was short-wave radio. A far cry from Steinbeck’s ranchers, a close, clubby group.

Albert Bierstadt's painting California Spring shownLife East of Eden in Steinbeck’s Paradise

Steinbeck’s Salinas Valley is located between the Santa Lucia Mountains and the Gabilan Range, named for the hawks that soar among the hills, predators on the prowl around Fremont Peak. With some justice it’s called the Salad Bowl of the world. Its rich alluvial soil produces most of the lettuce used in the salads we eat. Plus strawberries, potatoes, grapes, and more.

The town of Salinas was already an agricultural center when John Steinbeck was grew up there. Today visitors can take an East of Eden walking tour, following Kate’s path to the bank to the corner of Castroville (now Market) and Main streets where she deposits the earnings from the bordello she owns. Steinbeck wasn’t always welcomed home after he left Salinas, where copies of The Grapes of Wrath—the book that exposed the plight of migrant workers a generation before Cesar Chavez—were burned in the street.  Steinbeck’s was the disturbed and disturbing sadness of someone who knew how to see. Learn to look, he urged readers. Just observe. Shove aside presumptions and preconceptions. Steinbeck called it “non-teleological thinking,” and not everyone in Salinas understood.

Steinbeck called it ‘non-teleological thinking,’ and not everyone in Salinas understood.

Twelve miles south of Salinas, down the valley, is Soledad, a name that translates as both solitude and loneliness. It is the setting of Steinbeck’s novella Of Mice and Men. George and Lennie are ranch hands wandering from work to work, hanging on to the shards of their dream about a little piece of land of their own and rabbits for Lennie. Brawn coupled with ignorance spells sorrow. Lennie kills Curly’s wife because her panic frightens him. George does what he must to protect the friend he promised he would look after from being lynched by Curley’s gang. Trapped men. Imprisoned men. Lonely men.

Spiff reminds me that Soledad today is famous as the home of Soledad prison. The prison on one side, agriculture on the other. Families following their jailbird sons, husbands, and boyfriends have led to a recent increase in gang violence throughout the valley. The day after I left Salinas for San Francisco, police and federal agents in an action called Operation Knockout arrested 37 members of the Norteno drug gang in a neighborhood near the rectory of suburban St. Paul’s.

While waiting for Jim to meet me outside the National Steinbeck Center on my first day in Salinas, I watched an elderly man poke his walking stick into a trash bin. He wore a turquoise cap, a blue and white windbreaker, and grey slacks. Rummaging through the garbage, he pulled out a plastic bottle, dumped the remnants of the soda, squashed it with his sneaker, and stuck it into his plastic bag. He moved on, harvesting from other bins located along Main Street. If you don’t have a job and gather enough bottles and plastic, you can make a few bucks from recycling.

If you don’t have a job and gather enough bottles and plastic, you can make a few bucks from recycling.

Following dinner with Jim, Lynn, and their daughter at Clint Eastwood’s Restaurant in Carmel-by-the Sea—and a decent night’s sleep—I awoke to my first rain in 3,000 miles on the road. Before Jim dropped me off at the Center and drove back to his offices to prepare for a funeral, he took me to meet his friend the Methodist pastor. In partnership with local Roman Catholic and Greek Orthodox churches, the Methodists and Episcopalians of Salinas operate a drop-in center for hundreds of homeless men, women, and children. That day these folk waited inside, out of the rain, for the free lunch the churches provide daily. They were going to have enchilada casserole.

The homeless of Salinas could also change their wet clothes for dry garments from the clothing ministry. The Methodist church library, which once featured religious books read by few, now serves as a food pantry where canned goods line the bookshelves. Tillich and Barth made way for Heinz and Old El Paso sauce. Counseling services are also provided, along with volunteers who simply listen to these homeless souls tell their stories. A listening ministry. Homelessness, too, means isolation, loneliness, no one to talk with. A van pulled into the cramped church parking area. Clinica de Salud. This was dentist week. Salinas churches also participate in the I-Help ministry, rounding up the homeless in vans and bringing them to area churches for a safe, warm night off the streets.

Albert Bierstadt's painting Above the Golden Gate shownThe Truth of Grapes of Wrath Marches On

This is the California where the story told in The Grapes of Wrath ends. Between 300,000 and 500,000 Dust Bowl migrants, Steinbeck’s “Harvest Gypsies,” left ruined farms in towns like Sallisaw, Oklahoma, drove the Route 66 exodus trail, and huddled together in caravans of the desperate and disillusioned, hoping to reap the abundance of California as laborers for hire. Back home they suffered from bad agricultural practices, sustained drought, and financial indebtedness. They arrived in California to experience hostile police, apocalyptic floods, and even deeper debt.

One diary of a worker on display at the National Steinbeck Center reads: April 21. Work began today. The price was raised to .30 per hamper. Made 14 hampers which made us $4.20. April 22. Something different. Rain. Rained all day. Couldn’t do anything but stay in tent and read.

I double-checked my pocket calendar. Today was April 20. Seventy-five years ago this destitute diarist was filling hampers for .30 cents. Tomorrow I’ll be taking my daughter and her boyfriend out to an expensive dinner in downtown San Francisco. I’ll use my credit card.

April 20. Later I heard the news on the radio about the explosion on the Deepwater Horizon drilling rig off the coast of Louisiana. Eco-disaster. Another Steinbeck theme.

Sallisaw comes from the French word for salt, named for the salt deposits along the streams used by settlers and buffalo hunters to preserve their meat. Salinas also means salt. Salt preserves. Salt brings out flavor. Salt can also heal. Salt is the reason our tears sting.

While I was touring the National Steinbeck Center on my second visit—excited by the touch of a kindred spirit when I recognized Rocinante, the vehicle Steinbeck used to drive America in Travels with Charley—I glanced out the glass entranceway and saw through the drizzle the same fellow in the same clothes harvesting from the same trash bins I’d seen when I arrived in Salinas. Steinbeck would have found it ironic that while I was touring a wing of the museum named for him, local Rotarians arrived for lunch and a program provided by the facility.

Perhaps the Rotarians with their 4-Way Test took time to view the exhibit of photographs in the center’s side hall. I did. It consisted of pictures from around the world—from Vietnam, Haiti, Iraq, Columbia, and beyond—showing victims of war. The display included stories and quotations from the subjects of the photographs. One image depicted an elderly woman, her skin stretched, punctured, and distorted from war wounds. Her body bore the divots of callused causes. Her caption read: My body took the brunt of the bullets but my family was hit hardest. . . . my grandchildren go to bed hungry and crying.

I felt like crying.

Albert Bierstadt's painting Sunet in the Yosemite shownThe Way Is Open, the Choice Is Ours

Timshel. Steinbeck’s version of a Hebrew word meaning Thou mayest. The way is open. The choice is ours. The word Steinbeck thought was the most important word in the world.

The Grapes of Wrath begins with a drought and ends in a flood. Steinbeck based his fictional flood on a real event that occurred in Visalia, California, 100 miles north of Bakersfield in California’s Central Valley. In the novel what is left of the Joad family huddles together in a rain-soaked barn. They have lost everything except each other. Their grandchild has died and their children go to bed hungry. The Joads’ plight continues today in the sufferings of the grandmother in the photograph, the homeless in the church vans, and the old man in the cap and windbreaker on Main Street, Salinas. Timshel.

The paintings of Albert Bierstadt, shown here, provide visual counterpoint that John Steinbeck would have appreciated. Like Steinbeck, the great Hudson River-Rocky Mountasin School painter was a prolific artist of German heritage who found inspiration in the sublimity of California’s coast and mountains. He died on on February 18, 1902. Steinbeck was born nine days later.

 

A Most Pointed Fetish: John Steinbeck on Pencils

John Steinbeck shown with images of pencilsJohn Steinbeck always had a good word for the pencil.

Among modern authors, Steinbeck probably best understood the intimate dynamic between the writer and that reliable, albeit low-tech, tool of the trade. The author of The Grapes of Wrath could look at his favored Blackwing itself and see instead a lightning rod.

“It occurs to me,” he wrote a generation ago, “that everyone likes or wants to be an eccentric and this is my eccentricity, my pencil trifling.” At the same time, though, the habitual tinkerer with things mechanical knew his was no mere crotchet, insisting that “just the pure luxury of long beautiful pencils charges me with energy and invention.” For John Steinbeck, there was no better tool for writing. As he explains to editor Pascal Covici in Journal of a Novel: The East of Eden Letters: “I am ready and the words are beginning to well up and come crawling down my pencil and drip on the paper. And I am filled with excitement as though this were a real birth.”

The author of ‘The Grapes of Wrath’ could look at his favored Blackwing itself and see instead a lightning rod.

These letters, written as Steinbeck drafted “the story of my country and the story of me,” contain an embedded paean to the pencil and its singular role in the author’s manner of creation. No better example of this love affair with lead-and-wood is his letter of March 22, 1951. “And now, Pat, I am going into the fourth chapter,” he writes. “You know, I just looked up and saw how different my handwriting is from day to day. I think I am writing much faster today than I did yesterday. This gives a sharpness to the letter. And also I have found a new kind of pencil—the best I have ever had. Of course it costs three times as much too but it is black and soft but doesn’t break off. I think I will always use these. They are called Blackwings and they really glide over the paper. And brother, they have some gliding to do before I am finished. Now to the work.”

‘You know, I just looked up and saw how different my handwriting is from day to day. I think I am writing much faster today than I did yesterday. This gives a sharpness to the letter. And also I have found a new kind of pencil—the best I have ever had.’

Given the worldwide embrace of John Steinbeck’s work over recent decades, it is reasonable to conclude that the Nobel Prize winner has done as much for the pencil’s reputation as Mark Twain did for the cigar’s popularity in an earlier era.

Consider this 2009 entry from the online site Palimpsest: “During his life he wrote 16 novels, eight works of non-fiction, one short-story collection, two film scripts and thousands of letters. He did use the typewriter at some point but his pencils remained his preferred writing instruments. His right ring finger had a great callus—‘sometimes very rough . . . other times . . . shiny as glass’ from using the pencil for hours on end. . . . The use of the electric sharpener was part of the daily routine…as he started the day with 24 sharpened pencils which needed sharpening again and again before the day was through. The electric sharpener must have worked full-time especially during the process of writing East of Eden, for which he used some 300 pencils.”

It is reasonable to conclude that the Nobel Prize winner has done as much for the pencil’s reputation as Mark Twain did for the cigar’s popularity in an earlier era.

Even today the Center for Steinbeck Studies at San Jose State University pays unintentional homage to the author’s favorite writing instrument. On its homepage the center proudly notes “its non-circulating archive” of “items . . . unique, rare, or hard to replace.” Accordingly, it advises visiting scholars: “Pencils, not pens, must be used in taking notes.”

Archival best practices aside, is there a contemporary lesson to draw from John Steinbeck’s pencil fetish?  Most certainly. Good writing, at its core, arises from the solitary, single-minded dedication to bringing forth the sharp words, the best words, words that etch readers’ consciousness with the force of inevitability. No fallback on the latest apps, no handy distractions from IM—just the age-old wrestling for one’s right words in one’s true voice. The simple pencil, it seems, is the perfect equipment for that kind of contest.

When he was completing his East of Eden draft, Steinbeck observed that writing “is a very silly business at best. There is a certain ridiculousness about putting down a picture of life. And add to the joke—one must withdraw for a time from life in order to set down that picture.”

Good writing, at its core, arises from the solitary, single-minded dedication to bringing forth the sharp words, the best words, words that etch readers’ consciousness with the force of inevitability.

As John Steinbeck might say, it all comes down to the writer and his pencil.

Then again, Steinbeck might well repeat something he also wrote to Covici: “You know I am really stupid. For years I have looked for the perfect pencil. I have found very good ones but never the perfect one. And all the time it was not the pencils but me.”

.

Autumn Is Steinbeck Country

Joseph McKenna shown at computer pondering Travels with CharleyAs I sit at my computer, a single sentence from Travels with Charley perfectly frames autumn in my mind: “It isn’t only color but a glowing, as though the leaves gobbled the light of the autumn sun and then released it slowly.”

Over the years I’ve marveled at Steinbeck’s description of autumn light, as well as other lyrical and poignant passages of Travels with Charley in Search of America. Words, Steinbeck writes, “should be wind or water or thunder.” So it’s no surprise that this particular book, written in the autumn of the author’s life, is a wonderfully colorful and welcome recasting of our seasonal landscape. Travels with Charley is the compline of an exceptional American wordsmith.

Without question, autumn is Steinbeck Country.

It isn’t only color but a glowing, as though the leaves gobbled the light of the autumn sun and then released it slowly.

The moment I sense the season sidestepping toward center stage, I fetch my copy of Steinbeck’s travelogue and hitch a ride. Mine is an irresistible ritual that goes back more than a few autumns; the trip never gets old, which speaks well of our country and its core character and says much about the enduring influence of Steinbeck himself. As The Saturday Review noted in 1962, Travels with Charley is “a book to be read slowly for its savor, and one which, like Thoreau, will be quoted and measured by our own experience”:

“When I was very young and the urge to be someplace else was on me, I was assured by mature people that maturity would cure this itch. When years described me as mature, the remedy prescribed was middle age. In middle age I was assured greater age would calm my fever and now that I am fifty-eight perhaps senility will do the job. Nothing has worked. Four hoarse blasts of a ships’s whistle still raise the hair on my neck and set my feet to tapping. The sound of a jet, an engine warming up, even the clopping of shod hooves on pavement brings on the ancient shudder, the dry mouth and vacant eye, the hot palms and the churn of stomach high up under the rib cage. In other words, once a bum always a bum. I fear this disease incurable. I set this matter down not to instruct others but to inform myself.”

When I was very young and the urge to be someplace else was on me, I was assured by mature people that maturity would cure this itch.

And so begin my travels, again, with Steinbeck and Charles le Chien, “a very big poodle, of a color called bleu.”  Once more I relish the notion of keeping company with such knights of the road, even if only vicariously. I suspect I have not been alone with my two peripatetic companions these many decades. Admitting guilt to having “at best a faulty, warpy reservoir” of a memory, the mature and celebrated author decided to visit his nation afresh in 1960. The journey covered almost 10,000 miles and aimed to ferret out “the small diagnostic truths which are the foundations of the larger truth.” For today’s aspiring and established writers alike, there can be no better standard of integrity than that set by the ailing author of The Grapes of Wrath and East of Eden:

“I stayed as much as possible on secondary roads where there was much to see and hear and smell, and avoided the great wide traffic slashes which promote the self by fostering daydreams. I drove this wide eventless way called U.S. 90 which bypassed Buffalo and Erie to Madison, Ohio, and then found the equally wide fast U.S. 20 past Cleveland and Toledo, and so on into Michigan.”

I stayed as much as possible on secondary roads where there was much to see and hear and smell.

Folks ask why Travels with Charley remains my favorite book. To read it carefully, I respond, is to learn—and relearn—that the so-called American character has not been transformed wholesale by faster fast food or personal high-tech hardware, only disguised. Midway, Steinbeck talks aloud to Charley and makes my point with conviction:

“In the eating places along the roads the food has been clean, tasteless, colorless, and of a complete sameness. It is almost as though the customers had no interest in what they ate as long as it had no character to embarrass them….We’ve listened to local radio all across the country. And apart from a few reportings of football games, the mental fare has been as generalized, as packaged, and as undistinguished as the food.”

In the eating places along the roads the food has been clean, tasteless, colorless, and of a complete sameness.

During this analysis Steinbeck acknowledges that he has to use his foot to keep Charley awake. Unlike my own unimpressed canine companion, I eagerly take in Steinbeck’s every word and observation:

“In the bathroom two water tumblers were sealed in cellophane sacks with the words: ‘These glasses are sterilized for your protection.’ Across the toilet seat a strip of paper bore the message: “This seat has been sterilized with ultraviolet light for your protection.” Everyone was protecting me and it was horrible.”

“It is possible, even probable, to be told a truth about a place, to accept it, to know it and at the same time not to know anything about it.”

“They refused seconds and I insisted. And the division of thirds was put on the basis that there wasn’t enough to save. And with the few divided drops of that third there came into Rocinante a triumphant human magic that can bless a house, or a truck for that matter– nine people gathered in complete silence and the nine parts making a whole as surely as my arms and legs are a part of me, separate and inseparable.”

It is possible, even probable, to be told a truth about a place, to accept it, to know it and at the same time not to know anything about it.

At the risk of revealing my bias for the author and his book, I am not surprised that Travels with Charley was and remains a commercial publishing success. Nor am I overly concerned with recent reports that Steinbeck took liberties with fact in a book categorized as non-fiction. As Steinbeck biographer Jay Parini noted in Steinbeck’s defense, “I have always assumed that to some degree it’s a work of fiction. Steinbeck was a fiction writer, and here he’s shaping events, massaging them. He probably wasn’t using a tape recorder. But I still feel there’s an authenticity there. Does this shake my faith in the book? Quite the opposite. I would say hooray for Steinbeck. If you want to get at the spirit of something, sometimes it’s important to use the techniques of a fiction writer.”

Be it resolved, therefore, that Steinbeck never claimed to be recreating the Congressional Record: his is just one man’s astute perceptions of his country, and his country-to-be.

Holly, Joseph McKenna's beagle, shown before reliving Travels with CharleyFor this scribbler, Travels with Charley has been a lucky charm and a writing model. In 1989, a Penton Publishing executive who was handling the final phase of my job interview process at Industry Week magazine asked me to tell him about my favorite book. Within a week I was passing my fellow Steinbeckian on the corporate floor. Two years ago Travels with Charley was my inspiration for an article I wrote about regular turnpike shuttles between Cleveland and Pittsburgh. The hook of this human-interest feature was our family’s loud and loveable Beagle, Holly, aka The Duchess of Hollingsworth.

Upon her arrival on Route 22 in Pennsylvania, Holly prepares for days of adulation lavished upon her by family and strangers alike. As Steinbeck relates in his tales,“many conversations en route began with ‘What degree of a dog is that?” In 2011 America, the Duchess of Hollingsworth cocks her head at all she meets and elicits,‘”My, what a sweet dog! Do you live around here?”

“No, we’re just visiting from Cleveland,” Carol explains. “We’re here to visit family. Aren’t we, Holly?”

The typical response goes something like this: “So you’re part of the Browns’ Dawg Pound, eh? You’re a real cutie. Enjoy your visit, Holly.”

And the ancient animosity between Cleveland and Pittsburgh is momentarily forgotten.

Many conversations en route began with ‘What degree of a dog is that?’

For readers everywhere, Travels with Charley is a keystone of what another Steinbeck biographer, Jackson Benson, has called the moral trilogy comprised by Travels with Charley, The Winter of Our Discontent, and America and Americans. From his three-book literary bully pulpit in the 1960s, Steinbeck warned that “it is historically true that a nation whose people take out more than they put in will collapse and disappear.” Steinbeck could have written that just this morning.

It is historically true that a nation whose people take out more than they put in will collapse and disappear.

Here’s a final, timely observation shared by Charley’s owner with this reader in the early autumn of 2013:

“In the beginning of this record I tried to explore the nature of journeys, how they are things in themselves. . . .  I speculated with a kind of wonder on the strength of the individuality of journeys and stopped on the postulate that people don’t take trips—trips take people. That discussion, however, did not go into the life span of journeys. This seems to be variable and unpredictable. Who has not known a journey to be over and dead before the traveler returns? The reverse is also true: many a trip continues long after movement in time and space has ceased.”

Michael Meyer and the Bridge Between Literary Criticism and the Bible

Michael Meyer TV image discussing literary criticismAs a Baptist minister in England for 40 years, my attachment to Steinbeck came rather later in life. Over time, literature (particularly drama) became increasingly important in my ministry, to my writing and preaching on the Bible, and in my development of Bible study tools. Steinbeck finally clicked for me in the late 1990s when I read The Grapes of Wrath. My interest in the author ultimately led to writing literary criticism and forming friendships with American scholars. Among them was the late Michael Meyer, whose death in 2011 deeply saddened the international Steinbeck community.

A Bridge Between Bible Study Tools and Literary Criticism

Beyond Steinbeck’s numerous references to religion in The Grapes of Wrath, the book’s biblical and theological themes struck me as revealing much about the author’s life and character. In no way was he irreligious, I thought, and in many respects I found him running very close to Christianity as I understood it—though he might not thank me for saying so.

Knowing that the corpus of literary criticism about Steinbeck (like Bible study tools) is immense, I was only too aware of the hazards of digging in my spade as a writer in such well-trodden territory. My first ventures in Steinbeck literary criticism were occasional articles such as “Rumour of God” and “Steinbeck’s View of God.” The longer I thought about the gap that exists between literary criticism and biblical studies, however, the more clearly I realised that Steinbeck represents rich but neglected territory for biblical scholars, preachers, and publishers of Bible study tools. Unfortunately, my initial attempts to introduce these sources to Steinbeck met with little response. I also realised that much of the literary criticism produced on Steinbeck was equally neglectful of developments in biblical studies. Could Steinbeck become a bridge between the worlds of literary criticism, biblical scholarship, and Bible study tools? I thought so.

Thanks to my son (whose job at the time conveniently took him to California), I had the opportunity to do some digging on my own in Steinbeck’s native soil. Meeting Susan Shillinglaw at San Jose State University and her colleagues in Steinbeck’s home town of Salinas led me to write my first article for the American journal Steinbeck Studies, “Did Steinbeck Know Wheeler Robinson?,” as well to an invitation to present my paper “Did Steinbeck Have a Suffering Servant?” as part of the Steinbeck Centennial Conference held at Hofstra University.

Meeting Michael Meyer, a Master of Literary Criticism

Among the Steinbeck scholars I met at Hofstra in 2002 was Michael Meyer, a professor at DePaul University and an acknowledged master of Steinbeck literary criticism. We shared a taxi from the airport to the campus, and he asked about my background. When I told him that my major interest was biblical studies, particularly the Old Testament, he said that he was a student of the Old Testament as well, and a bond was struck.

In due course Mike asked me to contribute to a new collection of literary criticism he was preparing on The Grapes of Wrath. This invitation led to my article “Biblical Wilderness in The Grapes of Wrath,” later published in The Grapes of Wrath: A Re-consideration. Then, following a brief walk in the byways for a similar contribution to Mike’s collection of literary criticism on Harper Lee—To Kill a Mocking Bird: New Essays—Mike invited me to contribute to a collection of literary criticism on East of Eden. Recently published as East of Eden: New and Recent Essays, the anthology includes my article “A Steinbeck Midrash on Genesis 4: 7.” Mike’s untimely death interrupted the process of publication, which was completed by Henry Veggian of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. When Mike died, I was nine-tenths of my way through another article of literary criticism that Mike had requested on the subject of Steinbeck and Morte d’Arthur.

Thanks to Mike, the bridge between the formerly alien territories of literary criticism and biblical scholarship, theology, and Bible study tools seems firmer than before. Mike was more than a master of Steinbeck literary criticism. He was also a fine editor, warm friend, and encourager of those—like me—who feel increasingly comfortable in both worlds.