Work Text:
Lights up on a fancy hotel ballroom. The room is filled with a mixture of well dressed New York cosmopolitans and gruff looking writers. Liquor is pouring, music is playing, and an air of celebration fills the room.
EUGENE O’NEILL, the toast of the evening, stands at the edge of the festivities, drinking whiskey from the bottle and watching people dance ostensibly in his honor.
HARRY WEINBERGER enters the room, a dark horse. His blue iridescent suit shines in the light of the crystal chandeliers. He takes a glass of champagne from a tray and quickly joins a lively conversation. He doesn’t notice EUGENE O’NEILL, whose face alights with wonder upon seeing HARRY enter the room.
PARTYGOER 1: A triumph, a triumph.
HARRY: The play, or the party?
They all laugh.
HARRY: But really, if I knew Irishmen could write like that, I’d have come uptown ages ago. Or if I knew they drank like this.
He raises his glass, and the other partygoers laugh and drink.
PARTYGOER 2: I heard the liquor comes from O’Neill’s friends in Atlantic City.
HARRY WEINBERGER is intrigued by the hint of something more to this mystery playwright.
HARRY: Oh?
PARTYGOER 1: Mr. Weinberger, have we scandalized you?
HARRY: Oh, no. It takes more than that to shock me.
EUGENE O’NEILL continues to watch HARRY WEINBERGER, slowly becoming more and more entranced by his charismatic nature. He wants to go up to him, but the idea of joining the festivities is unappealing. He finally decides that this mysterious man is worth the inconvenience. He tentatively begins to walk towards HARRY WEINBERGER.
HARRY: (cont) You spend time with socialists, you spend time in jail. You spend time in jail, you get in bed with some mobsters. (He scoffs) You want to talk about scandal––take a look at the reviews for The Straw.
PARTYGOER 3: That old play of Mr. O’Neill’s?
PARTYGOER 2: I thought the critics enjoyed it.
HARRY: I doubt anyone enjoyed it, but they did give it good reviews.
EUGENE O’NEILL joins the cluster.
EUGENE: Play wasn’t to your liking?
HARRY: This one was fine.
EUGENE: Fine?
HARRY: Fine. You hard of hearing?
EUGENE: But you didn’t like The Straw.
HARRY: Nobody did. That’s why they had to bribe the critics.
The PARTYGOERS, who recognize EUGENE O’NEILL, titter nervously. Neither man acknowledges them; their eyes are locked on each other. As they speak, they draw closer together.
EUGENE: I hadn’t heard that rumor.
HARRY: How else would that maudlin mess of a play make a dime in ticket sales?
EUGENE: Maybe people enjoy a story about fate and the significance of human hope.
HARRY: Sure, I would have loved to see that story instead of three acts about TB.
EUGENE O’NEILL and HARRY WEINBERGER stare at each other. They are standing very close to each other now. HARRY can smell the liquor on EUGENE’s breath.
HARRY: You been drinking spirits?
EUGENE: It’s a party.
HARRY: You drink champagne at a party.
EUGENE laughs.
EUGENE: Maybe you do. (takes a swig from his bottle, forcing HARRY to step back) Come find me if you want to drink like a man.
He wanders away. HARRY, bewitched, watches him go.
PARTYGOER 3: Mr. Weinberger, have you seen that new Jewish play at the Provicetown Players?
HARRY turns back to the group, forcing a smile, once again all charm.
HARRY WEINBERGER exits with the PARTYGOERS as EUGENE O’NEILL staggers in. The party transitions into an office, and a very hungover EUGENE O’NEILL slumps into his desk chair. He tips his hat over his eyes and tries to take a nap.
His nap plans are thwarted, though, by a knock at the door. EUGENE groans.
EUGENE: What?
HARRY: (from off) I don’t make it my business to shout through doors.
EUGENE: What?
HARRY: (shouting through the door) I don’t make it my business–– (beat) You sent me a letter, Mr. O’Neill.
EUGENE: Oh. (gets up, goes to the door) The lawyer.
HARRY: Yes, the–– (steps through the door, sees EUGENE) lawyer. It’s you.
EUGENE: It’s–– (clears his throat) Yes, it’s me.
EUGENE O’NEILL moves back to his desk. It’s about the size of a desk that would hold the weight of two men lying very close together.
HARRY WEINBERGER looks around for something to make conversation about.
HARRY: So why does a playwright need to rent an office?
EUGENE: I’ve got kids. They’re loud.
HARRY: Should have guessed.
EUGENE: Guessed what?
HARRY: Well––luck of the Irish, right?
EUGENE sits up at his desk and looks at HARRY dead on.
EUGENE: You mean in terms of lovemaking? (HARRY blinks at him) Did you mean that you should have guessed I had kids because the Irish are lucky when it comes to coitus?
HARRY WEINBERGER sets his jaw. He can play this game.
HARRY: (with a winning smile) I meant that children are a blessing. Blessings come with luck, don’t they?
EUGENE: I’m the wrong man to ask. Do you consider yourself blessed?
HARRY: I consider myself lucky, to get to stand across from the Eugene O’Neill. And…to offer him legal advice?
EUGENE: (deflating) Right.
HARRY pulls up a chair, gets down to business. His professionalism is objectively sexy.
HARRY: What’s the rub?
EUGENE: Punched someone I shouldn’t have.
HARRY: A lady or a cop?
EUGENE: A cop, Jesus. I don’t go around hitting women.
HARRY: You prefer to hit men, then?
EUGENE: I prefer the company of men, and sometimes that gets rowdy. You know how it is.
HARRY: I don’t know a fella in the city who hasn’t gotten physical with the wrong man. So you hit a cop. Did he deserve it?
EUGENE: He did. Will that help in court?
HARRY: No, but it’ll make me chuckle to think about. Alright, walk me through what happened. Tell me every little detail.
EUGENE O’NEILL waves a hand.
EUGENE: I will guide you like a bride on her wedding night.
HARRY: And how many brides have you had? (EUGENE sours, and HARRY senses he has misstepped) Metaphorical brides, that is. Lawyers.
EUGENE: That’s not a metaphor.
HARRY: Sure it is. Said one thing, meant a different thing.
EUGENE: That’s your criteria for a metaphor––?
HARRY: Okay, I get it, you’re very literary. Tell me how you punched a pig.
A blink in time.
EUGENE: So we’re outside the bar––
EUGENE O’NEILL opens a desk drawer and produces two bottles of liquor. He shows them to HARRY WEINBERGER, who shakes his head.
EUGENE O’NEILL shrugs, picks a bottle, and brings out a shot glass from a different desk drawer. He pours himself a shot, drinks it. Pours himself another, drinks it.
EUGENE: ––and Johnny Fisheyes says to me––
A blink in time.
EUGENE: And then I hit him.
HARRY WEINBERGER whoops.
HARRY: Bastard had it coming.
EUGENE: He did.
EUGENE O’NEILL does another shot.
HARRY: But you shouldn’t have given it to him.
EUGENE: You would have taken it on the chin?
HARRY: Better lose face in front of a two-bit cop than a hundred-dollar judge.
EUGENE: It’s a matter of dignity.
HARRY: A drunken fight is dignified?
EUGENE fills the shot glass and shoves it toward HARRY WEINBERGER.
EUGENE: Would you like to find out?
HARRY WEINBERGER shakes his head.
HARRY: I’d like to spend a night in your mind, Mr. O’Neill.
He reaches for the shot glass, and his fingers brush EUGENE O’NEILL’s.
Their eyes lock.
The scene shifts again, as we move through time and space to The Hell Hole a few weeks later. HARRY and EUGENE are at a small, intimate table together, tucked away in the corner.
HARRY is drinking a beer; EUGENE has a beer going, but he also has a bottle of whiskey and a shot glass, just in case.
HARRY: I’m telling you, Eugene, you’ve got to go see this play.
EUGENE: Is it any good?
HARRY: Would I recommend it if it wasn’t?
EUGENE: Sure. You’ve got bad taste.
HARRY: I do not.
EUGENE: Your idea of a compelling read is the Budget and Accounting Act.
HARRY: Hey, that’s an important goddamn law.
EUGENE takes a shot.
EUGENE: Tell me about this play.
HARRY: Well, it was performed in Yiddish all over Europe, but they’ve got an English translation now, and they’re selling out every night downtown.
EUGENE: Don’t tell me about ticket sales, tell me about the play.
HARRY: It’s about a girl who falls in love with a whore.
EUGENE frowns.
EUGENE: A male whore?
HARRY: No.
EUGENE: Interesting.
They sip their drinks.
HARRY: I’d go see it again. If you wanted to split the cab fare, that is.
EUGENE: Sure. Sure.
HARRY: Yeah?
EUGENE: A play that’s got you hooked––this I got to see.
HARRY: You won’t regret it. And the leading man, Rudolph Schildkraut––he’s just brilliant.
EUGENE: Good performer?
HARRY: Fantastic performer. Oozes charisma. And he’s the director, too; the one who kept the play going and tickets selling. He was telling me––
EUGENE: You’ve met?
HARRY: Oh, yeah. I took him out for drinks after I saw the play.
EUGENE: Where?
HARRY: Uh, here. (EUGENE frowns into his glass.) You don’t own The Hell Hole, Eugene.
EUGENE: ‘Course not. I just didn’t think––well, it’s just not really in your neighborhood as much as it is mine, so I’m not sure why you would have reason to come here without me.
HARRY: You’ve shown me a good time here, so I thought I’d do the same for Rudolph.
EUGENE: You’re on a first name basis with the brilliant director?
HARRY: Since when are you such a stickler for propriety?
EUGENE: Since you stopped being one, I guess.
HARRY: It’s indecent to have friends?
EUGENE: Are you friends with him?
HARRY: Don’t try to cross examine me, Eugene. You won’t win.
They stare at each other. Tension thrums in the small distance between them.
EUGENE: Let’s see the play, then. I’d like to see this Rudolph in action.
The table is pushed away, and their chairs are pushed together. It is the following night, and they are watching The God of Vengeance.
RIFKELE and MANKE enter, “onstage.” As they dance together in the rain, HARRY and EUGENE’s knees touch. Neither of them moves.
The play ends, and HARRY and EUGENE rise for a standing ovation.
They leave the theater and find it has started to rain.
EUGENE: Well, what do you know? Art imitates life.
HARRY: It’s really coming down. Should we go back inside, try to wait it out?
EUGENE: Why not have some fun? Enjoy the spring rain, get soaked down to our skin.
HARRY shakes his head.
HARRY: You never can just be practical, can you?
EUGENE: That’s what I have you for. Did you want to wait for Schildkraut by the stage door?
HARRY: Do you want to meet him?
EUGENE: Do you want me to meet him?
HARRY: You’re impossible.
EUGENE: I’ve been called worse. (offers a hand) Run in the rain with me?
HARRY takes his hand.
Rain Scene Music plays.