THE CHARACTERS
SAROYAN...a man of 50.
SON...a boy of 10
THE SCENE
The stage represents a calm stretch of Pacific Ocean off shore of Malibu, California. It is a bright, hazy day—making it difficult to distinguish between sea and sky.
SAROYAN and his SON are seated in rowboat equipped with outboard engine. Saroyan wears polo shirt whose horizontal stripes give him a piratical appearance. A large mustache is obviously painted on his upper lip. His son wears a similar shirt and may or may not also sport a painted mustache. Both are discovered fishing with poles at curtain. The faint sound of an airplane passing overhead causes them to raise their faces and follow its flight.
SAROYAN: I haven't had a nibble since sunrise. How about you
SON: Same here pop—[Pause.] Didn't you write a story once about a father and a son fishing in the Pacific off the coast of Malibu?
SAROYAN: It's a possibility. I can't remember every one of the stories I've written.
SON: I'm pretty sure you did, pop. I have a list of every single story you wrote pinned up on my bed room bulletin board.
SAROYAN: Sounds like some kind of homework assignment!
SON: Nobody forced me to do it, pop. I promised myself to read every story you wrote —every last one of them. So I went down to the library and I made a list from the card catalogue. It's an amazingly long list.
SAROYAN: Quantity has always been my forte.
SON: I've already finished reading about 5 of them.
SAROYAN: Five whole books!
SON: They were mostly the shorter ones.
SAROYAN: Not a bad strategy for getting through a long list. Well? What did you think of them? Did you understand what I was trying to say?
SON: Sometimes yes, sometimes no—but most of the time yes.
SAROYAN: Did you like them? I mean, were they enjoyable to a person with your spaceage sophistication?
SON: That is hard to put in a nutshell, pop. They are pretty deep.
SAROYAN: Not the kind of stuff they show on the old TV tube, eh?
SON: My favorites, of course, are the ones about love.
SAROYAN: You're not confusing me with Erskine Caldwell or D. H. Lawrence, are you?
SON: I said "love," pop—not sex.
SAROYAN: Ah!
SON: You know—Love with a capital "L." The Love of Living. The kind of Love you felt for Fresno and the pomegranate trees and your father and your aunts and uncles and your pair of "Genuine Spanish pants" and the Indian who owned all those oil wells. That kind of love.
SAROYAN: Yes. The oldfashioned kind—definitely not primetime material nowadays. [Pause.]
SON: I have made my mind up, pop.
SAROYAN: [Aroused from revery.] What?
SON: I am going to follow in your footsteps and become a writer. I've already got the working title for my first short story. It will be called "My Father: The Great William Saroyan."
SAROYAN: I thought you wanted to be an astronaut?
SON: Nope. A writer. A great writer like you. Astronauts come and go, but great literature lasts forever—isn't that what you used to say?
SAROYAN: It seemed appropriate at the time—Say; is that a ship over there on the horizon?
SON: Looks more like a log, or a clump of kelp.
SAROYAN: You're sure it's not a submarine?
SON: No conning tower, pop.
SAROYAN: I thought they did away with conning towers—for the sake of hydrodynamic efficiency.
SON: It's a log alright—it has branches.
SAROYAN: Branches? That could be camouflage! You never know about these Russians. Very sneaky people The end justifies the means; and all that other righteous persiflage about dialectical materialism and social justice.
SON: [Having reeled in line to check hook.] You're not sorry you became a writer, are you pop?
SAROYAN: Are you?
SON: Me? Why should I have any regrets about being the son of the world's greatest living author?
SAROYAN: If I wasn't what I am we might be together in New York all of the time instead of only on your once a year courtordered visits to my Malibu bachelor's pad. Just supposing for instance, The Time of Your Life had never been written—or turned out to be a colossal flop—and my real claim to fame consisted of busing dishes at the Automat on Broadway? In that case I would be coming home to Brooklyn every night on the 6:15 for the kind of supper the Saroyan clan used to share in Fresno back in the good old days. Can you imagine that? A family reunion every night of the week! And when you and your buddies were downtown for the day you could drop in and say: "There's my pop removing dirty dishes from that table—performing a humble but absolutely essential public service." And I would come over and shoot the bull with you on company time. Or you might have something special you wanted to talk over with your old man—or maybe you just felt the need to be sociable. And, if I am not mistaken, busboy's sons are entitled to free pie ala mode at the Automat!
SON: Personally, I can take pie ala mode or I can leave it.
SAROYAN: The point is, I would be living on the same part of the planet with you.
SON: When I read your stories it's just as good as having you with me, pop.
SAROYAN: You read William Saroyan every day?
SON: Almost every day.
SAROYAN: Once a week?
SON: At least once a week. Sometimes twice. But I promise you solemnly pop, from now on I am going to do it religiously— on a daily basis.
SAROYAN: Like taking communion—or pills? Listen, suppose I told you I was thinking about playing first base for the Yankees next season? I used to be a pretty fair ballplayer, you know. Wouldn't you rather have a major league baseball player for a father than a Pulitzer Prizewinning playwright?
SON: Suppose I told you that I was going back to New York and write a hit play this winter?
SAROYAN: A hit play about what?
SON: About the Pacific Ocean—and—a fish. A stubborn old fish who won't let anyone catch him, not even if their lives depended on it.
SAROYAN: That sounds like a pretty good scenario. Does it have a happy ending or a sad one? Broadway is strictly interested in upbeat endings this season I am told.
SON: That is the nice part about this play, pop. If we catch the fish and eat him we are happy. If we don't, he is happy.
SAROYAN: Sounds to me like you are plotting the perfect crime—dramaturgically speaking. [Pause as SON reels his line in again with negative result.]
SON: I think his name should be Morty—that has a fishy sound to it, don't you think?
SAROYAN: Hmm?
SON: I was asking what you thought about calling my fish Morty.
SAROYAN: Sorry. I was daydreaming about a T-bone steak named Dwight.[Pause, during which
SON continues fishing while SAROYAN dozes.]
SON: It's amazing!
SAROYAN: [Startled, he sits upright and looks seaward.] What's amazing?
SON: The way my brain is just bursting with ideas! Just now I got another inspiration for a story concerning a dog named Harold who's in love with a canary called Esmeralda! I can think up things like that without the slightest difficulty! Is that the way it is with all great writers like you, pop?
SAROYAN: It used to be. There were always 30 or 40 projects brewing in my head. In those days I thought of my skull as a sort of satchel which only had to be opened and its contents of literary masterpieces would unpack itself like so much haberdashery.
SON: Believe it or not, pop, that's exactly how I've always seen this business of becoming a great writer! It's simply a matter of unpacking your imagination and—before you know it—you are rich and famous.
SAROYAN: It can be simpler than that in some cases. Even in diapers I had the feeling I was rich and famous. As a matter of fact, from the moment he was conceived, William Saroyan's fame and fortune was a fait accompli. Did you know my birth registered a 6 point 8 on the Richter scale?
SON: You can't keep a monumental event like that a secret! Nevertheless, you do have to manifest all your Godgiven talent in a way that lets the world know how great you really are.
SAROYAN: That does seem to be the case.
SON: I just want everyone on this planet to know and love me the way they know and love you.
SAROYAN: There is only one person on this planet who knows me and loves me—and that is you, son.
SON: There is no need to be modest with me, pop. I read an article in Time Magazine about you and the man who wrote it said what he loved the most about you was the "absolute indominatability of your optimism"—and that is what made you the greatest of all writers, living or dead.
SAROYAN: The only problem with that article, son, is it was written by yours truly. It was entitled: "Bill Saroyan Still Loves The World, But Does The World Still Love Bill Saroyan?"
SON: I don't believe it, pop. You're saying that because you don't think I can live up to your reputation.
SAROYAN: I am only trying to tell you that maybe life is just as enjoyable if you drive a truck or deliver the mail; because when you are a writer you sometimes hurt people; even if you don't intend to—including yourself. It can be quite a hazardous occupation; especially when you open up the old satchel only to find it is full of unwashed laundry—or even worse, that it is empty. That's when you start shopping around in the real world for inspiration and—well, that's another story.
SON: Was it the war, pop? Is that when life started to go a little sour for you?
SAROYAN: What do you know about Bill Saroyan and World War II?
SON: Only what the critics have been saying about your post-Auschwitz/Hiroshima output.
SAROYAN: Which is what?
SON: That it is not quite up to your prewar standards.
SAROYAN: Well, it isn't easy writing prewar stories in a postwar world.
SON: Why don't you go back to Fresno and start all over again?
SAROYAN: Don't you know what Thomas Wolfe said about—[Distracted by sight of plane overhead.] Maybe we should try to signal that plane?
SON: [Looking skyward.] He must be at least 15,000 feet, pop.
SAROYAN: [Lowering arm he was about to wave.] Of course he is. It was just another of your old man's impractical ideas. [Pause.]
SON: So, why don't you?
SAROYAN: Why don't I what?
SON: Return to Fresno as an exercise in Proustian autoregenesis?
SAROYAN: [Angrily.] Didn't I just tell you, for Christ's sake! The past is dead! Auschwitz turned out to be only a stone's throw away from Fresno. It would take a resurrection, not some "exercise in Proustian autoregenesis," for me to recapture the world the way it was in my youth. [Regaining sense of humor.] No. I am telling you: all Bill Saroyan needs is a couple of seasons with the Yankees.
SON: Even the Yankees aren't what they once were.
SAROYAN: Maybe cynicism is a Saroyan family trait after all!
SON: I've got a better idea. Why don't you write a story about how a great writer like you makes a comeback with the Yankees?
SAROYAN: Now you are talking like a true Saroyan! How do you think such a story should go?
SON: [Brief pause to think.] It's the 7th game of the World Series. The Yanks are behind by a run in the bottom of the 9th inning and this former Great Writer comes to the plate. The count goes to 3 and 2. The fans are going crazy—including the Great Writer's son and exwife who are sitting in the stands. The pressbox is crowded with sportswriters and literary critics. The tension is really unbelievable. [Pause.]
SAROYAN: And? What happens?
SON: He fans.
SAROYAN: He fans?
SON: I has to be that way.
SAROYAN: Then what? We cut to the shower room where the Great Writer blows his brains out?
SON: No, pop—he gives up baseball and goes back to writing again.
SAROYAN: [Laughs, tousles SON's hair.] You crafty sonofagun!
SON: You think I might have a future then?
SAROYAN: A future? Of course you have a future!
SON: All we have to do is get ourselves back to Malibu.
SAROYAN: Right.
SON: Which way is Malibu, pop?
SAROYAN: It must be—I think it was—somewhere over there—in that direction.A longish pause.
SON: You got any bright ideas pop?
SAROYAN: I'm afraid not.
SON: I don't mean literary ideas—
SAROYAN: I know what you mean! [Pause.] Sorry. But that's one thing you should know about writers. In general they make lousy boy scouts. Damnit! We should never have come out here without a compass and cans of water and spare fuel and emergency flares. It was an act of criminal negligence! It was suicidal!
SON: It doesn't matter. Someone is bound to miss us and send the Coast Guard out for a "dramatic rescue."
SAROYAN: Who is going to miss me? We could be out here for a month of Sundays and nobody would wonder what had become of Bill Saroyan. The only people interested in my welfare are the folks at the Bureau of Internal Revenue. From their point of view it wouldn't be a bad investment to send the entire U.S. Navy on a search for me. I think I owe them a couple of million bucks. The light has been fading to create a dusk effect.
SON: The sun's going down.
SAROYAN: With all this smog it's difficult to tell sometimes. [Pause.] But you are right. It is getting dark.
SON: Maybe—
SAROYAN: Maybe what?
SON: Maybe it's time to think about saying a prayer. [Pause.] Pop?
SAROYAN: I heard you the first time.
SON: I'm getting pretty thirsty. How about you?
SAROYAN: It might not be a bad idea if you did start praying, son.
SON: He will listen to you, pop. I wouldn't be surprised if he was waiting all this time for you to say something to him.
SAROYAN: Well—I'll give it a try. [Pause.] I seem to be a little rusty. [Clears throat.] Dear God, this is William Saroyan, to whom you've been a very generous provider—up to now that is.
SON: Please Pop—this is no time for being ironic!
SAROYAN: [In 'prayerful' mode.] Being who you are you must know what's in my heart right now. The boy has suffered an awful lot because of me already, and now this latest mistake of mine threatens to turn our farcical relationship into a genuine tragedy. Is that to be his fate? Don't let my pessimism mislead you. I still love life—not just the old one but the one that is here and now with its ICBMs and IRSs and all of those other initials spelling out your still inscrutable master plan. Like all of the other times in my life even this one is sacred simply because it is mine. I understand that. I am only asking that my son be permitted to have the time of his life. To know it and feel it—the good and the bad; to be rich and famous and then be washedup and owe his government a couple of million in backtaxes. I think he is man enough to make something out of it all. So please, just give him this one chance to survive and old Bill Saroyan'll admit he's been dead wrong about everything lately. I guess, as one creator to another, I am begging you for a happy ending to a story I began about as sadly as any story can start. [Pause.]
SON: Shouldn't you add an "amen?"
SAROYAN: Amen.
SON: [Goes to SAROYAN, who embraces him.] That wasn't too bad, pop. You sounded as if you really knew him.
SAROYAN: Yes. I had the same feeling.
SON: It's going to be cold again tonight, isn't it.
SAROYAN: These Southern California nights can be cruel.
SON: It wouldn't be quite so bad if we had some sandwiches and blankets—
SAROYAN: No.
SON: It's still possible we might catch a fish—
SAROYAN: We haven't had any bait on our hooks since yesterday afternoon, son!
SON: God will find a way—
SAROYAN: Are you going to sleep?
SON: I can't help it—It is quite dark now.
SAROYAN: I have something important to tell you.
SON: What is it?
SAROYAN: I received an answer to that prayer.
SON: I told you God was on our side. What did he say?
SAROYAN: He said—he said tonight—tonight we are going to die.
SON: Oh.
SAROYAN: I argued that he was making a mistake—a tremendous mistake! I said it was a very cockeyed thing for him to do. I got good and angry with him.
SON: You got angry at God?
SAROYAN: I pleaded the case as persuasively as I could that you should not have to suffer for the sins of your father. But it seems he has heard that argument before.
SON: It doesn't matter, pop. Nothing matters when we are this close. Just hold me in your arms and tell me a story about when you were a boy in Fresno.
SAROYAN: [After pause.] One morning when I was just about your age—I got up before daybreak. All night long I hadn't been able to sleep, tossing in my bed with thoughts of the earth and the sheer strangeness of being alive—
End of Play