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 Category:  Romance Script
  Posted: September 16, 2016      Views: 344
Chapters:
1 1 2 2 

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 JAY SQUIRES 
IN PRINT 






 ABOUT
JAY SQUIRES 

I AM an author, salesman, optimist, dreamer: May the four always cohabit & produce wondrous progeny. In the swirling pool of life, I'm an unflushable floater.

He is a top ranked author at the #4 position.

He is also an active reviewer and is holding the #37 spot on the top ranked reviewer list.

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Chapter 1 of the book Harry Needs a Job
Someone Only a Mother Would Hire
"Harry: In Search of a Father" by Jay Squires







NOTE: This is the first half of Act I from a revised re-posting of “Harry Needs a Job.” The second half of Act I will post in a few days, followed by the first and second half of never-before-posted Act II of a three act play in progress. Phew!  


 













HARRY: IN SEARCH OF A FATHER
 
CAST OF CHARACTERS 

HARRY LOWERY: A young man, desperately in need of a job. 
He wears a frayed sport shirt, faded 
jeans and sneakers. His hair is scruffy, 
his face weathered. A scar the shape of 
California is above his eye and his nose 
cants to one side. 

MR. KINCADE: A fifty-year-old interviewer for the 
Department of Employment. He wears a 
tailored suit, crisp white shirt and 
conservative tie. 

MARSHALL: One of the co-workers. He is a presence, 
reacting to MR. KINCADE'S questions and 
comments, but doesn't speak. 

BETTY: Also, one of the co-workers and a silent 
reactor. 

Gallery: People waiting for their interview. Could 
be a painted prop. 


SETTING 

A New York City employment agency. A desk sits center stage with a swivel chair behind it and a straight back chair to its side. The usual business accouterments are on the desk, including a large nameplate with ARTHUR KINCADE on it. Behind the desk are an indeterminate number of other "manned" desks, all but two of them always in complete shadow; those other two, more penumbral, are situated side-by-side, behind and a little to the right of KINCADE'S desk. Stage left, in shadow, a nearly full gallery of people await their names being called. On the wall behind the gallery, a door is "suggested" exiting outside by the occasional sound of blustery weather when it opens, followed by grumbling of people in the gallery. Alongside the "phantom" door a picture window reveals bitter cold weather outside. 

TIME 

Present day. 




ACT I 

SCENE 1 

SETTING: A New York City Department of 
Employment. A desk, center stage, 
with a straight-back chair to its 
side. To the rear of that desk, 
an indeterminate number of similar 
"Manned" desks, all but two of 
which may be props, since they are 
always in "near-total" shadow. 
The other two desks, a little to 
the right of the center-stage 
desk are more in penumbral. To 
the left of center-stage desk, a 
gallery, nearly full, stage left, 
running front to rear. Large 
picture window center-stage, rear, 
showing continually blustery 
weather. 

AT RISE: HARRY LOWERY in a chair beside the 
Center stage desk. MR. KINCADE 
sits behind desk. 

HARRY 
Spiritually defective, sir, I was born a gypsy with a limp. Being Castilian Spanish on my mother's side, I early longed for warm sands and siestas. 

(MR. KINCADE shakes his head in disbelief) 

HARRY 
My father? Father was always in the navy... somewhere. 

MR. KINCADE 
Okay... Okay... Listen to me, Mr. Lowery, if I'm going to help you, you'll have to help me. 

HARRY 
And I want to! Indeed! You see, I read early, sir. Before attending school I had already gathered words, raw or ripe and succulent... words which would prepare me, though I certainly didn't know it at that green age, for my first liberation. 

MR. KINCADE 
What! My God! You're really not going to let me help you, are you? 

HARRY 
Yes, but you must remember, wherever our travels took us, Mother had always retained a fatal memory of Spain. And, I was her Don Quixote. 

MR. KINCADE 
(Smiling) 
Don Quixote... 

HARRY 
And that was rich fodder for my vestigial spirit. 

MR. KINCADE 
So, he was wealthy, your father? 

HARRY 
Ha! Fodder--father... A bon mot it would take a saint to resist, sir! But, it is deserving of an answer. I'll try. As a child I did so love my mother, but--oh!--how I venerated my father who-- 

MR. KINCADE 
(Dryly) 
--was in the navy... 

HARRY 
He was always on a ship on a sea, somewhere. 

MR. KINCADE 
(With rising impatience.) 
Tell me... Please tell me, Mr. Lowery, how I can use this? Can you tell me how? I find employment for deserving people. How's all that you're telling me relevant? 

HARRY 
Why... why, it's relevant to the deepest level, sir! Just listen: while other children waited for their Christmases and played ever toward the sunset as sheriffs pounding the badlands on persistent ponies, I... 
(Somewhat sadly subdued) 
well... I was hunted down and captured by a different law. 

MR. KINCADE 
A different law? A... different... law? You were captured by a different law? 

HARRY 
Si, Senor. As an outcast, I sat, open book in lap, on a thousand divergent hillsides daily, numbering the grasses of Marseille, Berlin, Stalingrad, Barcelona. Countless lands and odors swept beneath my feet before I grew tired of these wanderings at last, and left home, primed and suffering for the real experience. 
(Touching his fingertips as counting, eyes 
closed.) 
At about... twenty, you might set it. Of course, at twenty, the vicissitudes of existence-- 

MR. KINCADE 
Oh, come on, Mr. Lowery! Vicissitudes? 

HARRY 
Yes, vicissitudes of--of existence brought with it a sort of capriciousness. The universe, you see, even my thin sheet of it, was too vast a promise. How I would sweat and stifle under the thought of total embrace! A short stint in each place was my victory. Certainly, a continual change of employment was imperative. 

MR. KINCADE 
Ah-ha! so, there it is! So obvious, how could I have missed it? Job instability! 

HARRY 
I suppose, sir, by your defining system... 

MR. KINCADE 
(Tapping the end of a sheaf of papers against 
the desk, setting the stack neatly lined up at 
its edge.) 
That would be my defining system--job instability. Would you expect anything less than that being my defining system? Now, would you, Mr. Lowery? 

HARRY 
No... to be sure, I would not. You were born for your chair and desk, no? You mastered numbers first, and only later the alphabet. Algebra was your glory. The geography of literature and art were your bane. 

MR. KINCADE 
So, my soul has always been dry as crackers? Is that what you're saying, Mr. Lowery? 

HARRY 
No, no, no, sir! I recant. I recant! Just now I detected your early resistance to that dryness. The use of that scintillating simile, "dry as crackers," is proof aplenty of that! There was a time, I reckon, you carried inside you a melody your soul hummed to--huh?--a melody that was not anchored to the demands of your watch or calendar? 

MR. KINCADE 
You need to ask yourself, Mr. Lowery, if you really want a job. 

HARRY 
Ah... 
(Long pause, looking down at his hands.)  
(Fidgeting, then, speaking haltingly.) 
Twenty-some years ago, fresh out of college, I was given the opportunity of being the historian for a confederacy of Indian tribes. The confederate chief, or medicine man or... whatever he was, had been given my name by my creative writing professor-- 

MR. KINCADE
As I suspected! A writer! 

HARRY 
It was agreed I would be taking my car. The chief--I'll call him Chief--was widowed. His teenaged daughter would be traveling with us. She was beautiful. The first time I saw her she was wearing a tan, buckskin skirt and her black-as-tar hair was pulled back in two braids. And, just as in Hollywood, she had feathers tethered to each. 

MR. KINCADE 
You loved her. 

HARRY
Love! What did I know of love? I wasn't over twenty. 

(Mr. Kincade clicks his pen's retractor against a paper.) 

Besides, everything fizzled out, anyway. 

MR. KINCADE
But surely you went. 

HARRY
I told you it fizzled out! I was young. Impressionable. They could easily have killed me, stolen my car, money.... 

MR. KINCADE 
They could have, sure. It will always be a question mark, won't it? 

HARRY 
Question mark... question mark... 
(A long silence, uncomfortable for both.) 

MR. KINCADE
Let's see if we can put an answer to another question mark. Is there a job out there you are qualified for, Mr. Lowery? 

HARRY 
I would relish that, sir! 

MR. KINCADE 
Well... But according to my defining system, you suffer from a malady that we in this business call job instability. 

HARRY 
I can appreciate that, sir. But I was just a youngster. 

MR. KINCADE 
Yes, yes, yes, a youngster. I'll remember. I will remember that. But you're older now, aren't you? So... 

HARRY 
And wiser, sir, older and wiser. 

MR. KINCADE 
Still... we have these pesky vicissitudes--your lack of experience. It's just not as simple as-- 

HARRY 
But I am strong, sir. Years of work are still in me. Look... 
(Flexing his bicep.) 
Here, let me make a muscle. There must be something on the wharves for me. 

MR. KINCADE 
No. 

HARRY 
Or sanitation? Or carpentry... building things. I'd like that. Building things. Yes... 

MR. KINCADE 
No. And, no. 

HARRY 
(Leaping to his feet.) 
Ha! Of course! It's my nose, isn't it? You can't keep your eyes off its eastern cant and the scar the shape of California above my eye. You have me cast in the role of a troublemaker, don't you sir? A thug? 

MR. KINCADE 
(Turning in his swivel chair to his co-workers 
at the two desks behind him. As he addresses 
them, their work areas are slightly illuminated.) 
A thug? Betty? Marshall? Listen, will you? I may need you as witnesses. Tell me, would I call a client a thug? 

(The two shake their heads.) 

HARRY 
I assure you, I'm not a thug, mis amigos. I bow to the three of you and beg you to listen. 
(With energetic pantomime.) 
The scenario: A right cross flattened a very handsome nose. Then, when I dropped my guard, a left hook sent blood and cartilage spraying the corner post off which my head then rebounded. In merry old England, the venue. My take, five quid. To staunch the blood and suture the gash took six. But it wasn't thuggery, sirs and madame. The rules of Queensbury blithely presided. Prince Charles himself was ringside, I was told. That is, before he left to change his spattered shirt while I lay, taking the count. 

MR. KINCADE 
(Smiling, as are his co-workers.) 
It must have been quite an honor, though.... 

HARRY 
(Glances from one to the other, then smiling 
broadly, he salutes each and sits down.) 
To be sure it was an honor! Who wouldn't be thrilled to be courted by royalty? To be twenty-one and flattened by a burly Brit before his prince. Indeed, a high honor! 

MR. KINCADE 
(Back in control. Not smiling. His 
co-workers, no longer illuminated, have 
sunk back into the shadows.) 
So you were twenty-one. Your application says you're twenty-four. Between then and now? 

HARRY 
How was I occupied? 

MR. KINCADE 
Specifically, your employment. 

HARRY 
A gaucho on the Pampas--that for a start. A solitary gaucho in Argentina, I herded the fattest and laziest cattle that ever nibbled the lush grassland at the base of the Andes. 

MR. KINCADE 
You might guess, Mr. Lowery, there's little demand for cowboys in the city. 

HARRY 
No surprise there. Still, only on the open sea is there anything approaching the profound vastness and solitude one experiences on the Pampas. The Pampas was my sea. My sea... Father would understand that. Which might have explained his choices. 

MR. KINCADE 
Your father again! Why do I put up with this? 
(To his co-workers behind him) 
Marshall, you and Betty would have shown him the door already.
 
(ARTIFICIALLY TRUNCATED TO ACCOMMODATE FANSTORIANS’ NEED FOR BREVITY. PLEASE WATCH FOR PART II SOON.)
 
 

Recognized

The script continues with Progeny of a Generation of Gardenias. We will provide a link to it when you review this below.

Author Notes
This was formatted correctly for a paper script, not online. I hope you can look beyond the problems with the FanStory Editor and read it for content and style instead of format.

Thank you Gregory John for the use of your fine painting.
Pays one point and 2 member cents.

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