The Iceman Cometh Page #4

The rest

live on free lunch

and their old friend

Harry Hope,

who doesn't give a damn

what a man does

or doesn't do,

as long as he likes 'em.

That must be a tough life.

Don't waste your pity.

They manage to stay drunk

and keep their pipe dreams,

and that's all they ask

out of life.

It isn't often

that men attain

the true goal

of their heart's desire.

And that applies

to Harry himself.

He's so satisfied with life

that he hasn't set foot

out of this place

since his wife died

20 years ago.

He has no need

of the outside world.

Place does a fine trade from

the market across the street

and the dock workers.

So in spite

of Harry's thirst

and his generous heart,

he comes out even.

He never worries

about hard times,

as long as there's

friends from the old days

when he was a

jitney Tammany politician

and the friendly brewery

that tied him over.

Pat McGloin, his pal

sitting beside him,

was a police lieutenant

in the lush times of graft,

when everything went,

but he got too greedy.

And when the usual reform

investigation came along,

he was caught red handed

and thrown off the force.

Joe there ran a colored

gambling house, and,

was a hell of a sport.

(laughs)

Well, that completes

our family circle of inmates,

except for the two barkeeps

and their girls,

three ladies of the pavement

that room on the third floor.

I never wanna see

a whore again.

I mean, they always

get you in dutch.

Why omit me from your.

"Who's Who

in Dipsomania," Larry?

It's an unpardonable

slight...

that's generous, stranger.

I trust you're generous.

I was born in the purple,

the son... hmm,

but unfortunately not the heir

of the late world-famous.

Bill Oban,

king of the bucket shops.

A revolution deposed him,

he was sent into exile.

The fact,

not to mince matters,

(giggling)

they locked him in the can

and threw away the key.

Alas,

his was

an adventurous spirit

that pined in confinement...

and so he died!

That's tough luck.

Hmm, hmm.

Even in Harvard

I discovered my father was...

well known

by reputation.

Although that was

sometime before

the district attorney

gave him

so much

unwelcomed publicity.

Even as a freshman,

I was notorious.

I was accepted socially,

with all the warm

cordiality that, uh,

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,

who could've shown

a drunken Negress

dancing the can can

at high noon

on Brattle Street.

Harvard was my father's idea.

But I did make myself

a brilliant student!

A dirty trick

on my classmates...

inspired by revenge,

I fear.

And I, I, I was

a brilliant student

in Law School, too!

And my father

wanted a

lawyer in the family.

Oh, a thorough

knowledge of the law

close at hand

in the house,

to help him find

fresh ways to evade it.

But I discovered

a loophole in whiskey.

And so,

escaped his jurisdiction.

Speaking of whiskey,

sir, reminds me,

and I hope reminds you,

that when greeting a prince,

the customary salutation

is "What'll you have?"

Nix!

All you guys think

I'm made of dough!

Broke?

You haven't the thirsty look

of the impecunious.

I'd judge you

to be a plutocrat,

your pocket's stuffed

with ill-gotten gains.

Two or three dollars

at least.

Don't think we question

how you got it.

What do you mean

"How I got it"?

That's a laugh,

isn't it, Larry?

Him thinking me

a plutocrat?

When I've been in

the Movement all my life?

Ah, one of those,

eh?

Why don't you go away

and blow yourself up?

That's a good lad.

Hugo...

Hugo is the only

licensed preacher

of that gospel here.

Oh, dangerous

terrorist Hugo!

He'd as soon blow the collar

off a schooner of beer

as look at you.

Let us ignore this

useless youth, Larry,

And let us join in prayer

that Hickey,

the great salesman,

will soon arrive bringing

the blessed bourgeoisie

long green.

Would that Hickey

or Death would come, uh?

(laughs)

Meanwhile,

I will sing a song.

A beautiful old

New England folk ballad,

which I'd picked at Harvard

amid de debris of education.

Oh

Jack oh Jack

was a sailor lad

And he went to

a tavern for gin

And he rapped

and he rapped with a

(loud tapping)

But

Never a soul

seemed in

The origin of this

beautiful ditty

is veiled

in mystery, Larry.

There was a legend

bruited about

in Cambridge lavatories

that Waldo Emerson

composed it

during his uninformative period

as a minister

while he was trying

to write a sermon.

But my own view

is that it goes back

much further,

and Jonathan Edwards

is the author of both words

and the music.

Oh he

rapped and rapped

And he tapped

and tapped

Enough to wake the dead

'Till he heard

a damsel

(tapping)

On a window

Right over his head

Rocky!

Bejees,

can't you keep that

crazy bastard quiet?

And now the influence

of a good woman

enters our

mariner's lifeline.

Well, perhaps "good"

isn't the word,

but very, very kind.

"Oh

Come up" she cried

"my sailor lad"

And you

and I'll agree

And I'll show you

the prettiest

(tapping)

That ever you ever

did see

You see, Larry?

The lewd puritan touch,

obviously,

and it grows more marked

as we go on.

Oh, he puts his arms

Around her waist

And gazed in her bright

blue eyes

Piano?

What do you think

this dump is, a dump?

Give him a bum's

rush upstairs.

Lock him in his room.

Come on.

No, please, Rocky, I'll go crazy

up in that room alone!

It's haunted!

Please, Larry,

please!

Let me stay here,

I'll be quiet!

What the hell you

doin' to him, Rocky?

Leave him alone...

as long as he's quiet.

Thanks, Harry,

you're a good scout.

Booze.

Yeah,

can't trust nobody.

Leave it to that Dago

to keep order

and it's like bedlam

in a cathouse!

Singin' and everything.

And you, a big barfly,

you're a hell

of a help to me.

There ain't gonna be

no more drinks on the house

'till hell freezes over.

(laughing)

Good God.

Have I been drinking

at the same table

with a bloody Kaffir?

Hello, captain,

you comin' up for air?

(laughing)

A "Kaffir,"

who's he?

"Kaffir,"

that's a n*gger, Joe.

That's joke on him, Joe,

he don't know you.

He's still blind drunk.

A great mistake,

I missed him at The Battle

of Modder River.

With mine rifle

I shoot

damn fool Limey officers

by the dozen,

but him I miss.

(laughing)

Hey, wake up,

Cecil, you bloody fool.

Don't you know

your old friend Joe?

He's white, Joe is!

(laughing)

Oh, profound apologies,

Joseph, old chum.

Eyesight's a trifle

blurry, I'm afraid.

Whitest colored man

I ever knew.

Proud to call you

my friend.

Oh, I know

it's mistake, captain.

You here is a regular,

even if you

is a Limey.

(laughing)

But I don't stand for "n*gger"

from nobody.

In the old days,

somebody calls me a "n*gger"

he ends up in the hospital.

Me, in old days

in Transvaal,

I was so tough!

And strong!

I, I grab axle

of ox wagon,

with full load,

and lift like feather.

As for you,

my balmy Boer

that walks like a man,

I say it again,

It was a grave error

in our foreign policy

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