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 Category:  Romance Script
  Posted: October 29, 2016      Views: 320
Chapters:
1 1 2 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: A Parenthetical Enigma
The first half
"Act I: The Enigma Begins" by Jay Squires



                        
IMPORTANT NOTE: PLEASE READ:  This is a heavily revised version of "HARRY NEEDS A JOB." If you already read that first act (similarly divided into two parts as I've done here), please read this as a separate and distinct piece, which is ONLY congruent when read with the two acts that follow. Combined, you have a new 3 Act Play (Though divided into 6 or 7 parts so each is a more "comfortable" read. If you choose to read them all--and I hope you do—it would be most helpful to me if you read for congruity between the acts. Is there any place the plot flattens out or gets flabby?  MOST IMPORTANTLY FanStory’s EditNazi won’t print it as it’s shown before I push send. No matter how many times I adjust it, it just comes out whatever way the EditNazi wants.  If you read with that in mind, you will be able to understand it. I’m doing the best I can, folks.
 
Thanks
!
Cast of Characters
 
HARRY LOWERY: A young man, 23 years old. Hirsute, broken nose, otherwise attractive. Quite poor and his clothing are indicative of this. Wears heavy pea coat; stocking cap, stuffed in pocket when not worn.

MR. KINCADE: A man in his middle 40s. Well-dressed.

BETTY: A woman in her middle 30s. No speaking role. Only visible when her desk is illuminated.
 
MARSHALL: A man in is middle 30s. No speaking role. Only visible when his desk is illuminated.
 
ZACARIAH LOWERY: Harry Lowery’s father. In his middle to late forties. Dressed well, but not expensively. Like an older sailor on leave.
 
MAYREE: Attractive lady of indeterminate age. Might be between 16 and 21. She is emotionally damaged and seems regressed to about age 12. Lives with Harry.
 
*     *     * 
 
SETTING:  A New York City Department of Employment. A desk, Down Center, facing right; a straight-back chair in front of it, facing left. Behind that desk, Center Stage, an indeterminate number of similar “manned” desks, all but two of which may be props, being always in “near-total” shadow. The other two desks, a little to the right of the Center-Stage, are more in penumbra. Upstage, Right-Center to Right, a gallery, nearly full (gallery can be painted faces.) On wall behind gallery is device showing the number to be called. Exit door, just in front of gallery; Large picture window Up Center, to Upstage Right, showing continually blustery weather.
 
 
AT RISE: HARRY LOWERY in a chair in front of the Down Center stage desk. MR. KINCADE sits behind desk. On device behind gallery, the number shown is 123.
 










 
 
 
 
                        HARRY
Spiritually defective, Sir, I was born a gypsy with a limp.
 
                        MR. KINCADE
          (Looking up from paper on which he has pen poised)
What? With a what?
 
                        HARRY
Being Castilian Spanish on my mother’s side, I early longed for warm sands and siestas.
 
            (MR. KINCADE swivels around to look toward the two desks behind him. Desk areas become illuminated enough to see their two occupants                   BETTY and MARSHALL, looking toward him, showing humorous consternation. Goes back to penumbra as MR. KINCADE faces front. Shakes             his head in disbelief.)
 
                        HARRY [Continued.]
And my father… Father was always in the navy … somewhere.
 
                        MR. KINCADE
Now I got it! Stupid me! Betty, Marshall… you guys…
            (Laughs, swivels around again BETTY’S AND MARSHALL’S desks light up briefly, and the two look at him with expectation.)
But … it won’t be my birthday for another week. And my anniversary here was last month. So what is this?
            (They shake their heads, amused, as they go back into penumbra. MR. KINCADE turns back to HARRY.)
Okay… That’s okay… I don’t know what’s going on, but you just listen to me, Mr. Lowery; if I’m going to help you, you’ve got to help me.
 
                        HARRY
And I want to Indeed, I crave it. So, onward! 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
Certainly, I am! But you must remember, wherever our travels took us, Mother had always retained a fatal memory of Spain. And I was her Don.
 
                        MR. KINCADE
            (Smiling, quizzically.)
Don Quixote.
 
                        HARRY
Aye, and the Don was rich fodder for my vestigial spirit.
 
                        MR. KINCADE
Your father’s wealth is immaterial.
 
                        HARRY
Father? Wealthy? What? Oh! Ha! Fodder—father… Bra-vo! A bon mot it would take a saint to resist, Sir! But it is deserving of an answer. So, I’ll try. As a child I did so love my mother, but—oh, Lord!—how I venerated my father who—
 
                        MR. KINCADE
            (Dryly)
—was in the navy…
 
                        HARRY
While not literally the navy, Sir, he was always on a ship on a sea, somewhere.
 
                        MR. KINCADE
            (With rising impatience.)
Tell me… Please tell me, Mr. Lowery, how do you expect me to use this? Can you tell me how? My job is to find employment for deserving people. So, how’s all this—this—stuff 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 weary of these wanderings at last, and left home, primed and suffering for the real experience.
            (Touching his fingertips as though counting, eyes closed.)
At about … twenty, you might set it. Of course, at twenty, the vicissitudes of existence—
 
                        MR. KINCADE
Oh, Jesus and Mother Mary! 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 dream of total embrace! A short stint in each place was my victory. Certainly, a continual change of employment was imperative.
 
                        MR. KINCADE
            (Making note on paper)
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? 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, let me see if I understand what you’re saying, Mr. Lowery. I believe you’re telling me the person sitting in front of you, the man you are asking to find you a job …
            (Turns his own name plate and reads from it)
this Mr. Kincade—wait, that’s me!—that my soul is dry as crackers …. Is that what you’re saying, Mr. Lowery?
 
                        HARRY
No, no, no, Sir! I recant. I absolutely do! I detect now 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 the melody to which your soul hummed—huh?—a melody that was not anchored to the demands of your watch or calendar?
 
                        MR. KINCADE
            (Loudly.)
Stop! You’d better ask yourself right now, Mr. Lowery—right now! Ask yourself whether you really want me to find you a job.
 
                        HARRY
            (Long pause, looking down at his hands.)
I’ve made you angry with me.
 
                        MR. KINCADE
I’m a very busy man, Mr. Lowery.
 
                        HARRY
            (Continuing to stare at hands.)
Yes, Sir…
 
                        MR. KINCADE
            (Sighing, fidgeting, then, speaking haltingly.)
I’m going to tell you something, Okay? 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—
 
                        HARRY
As I suspected! A writer!
 
                        MR. KINCADE
It was agreed I would be taking my car. The chief—I’ll call him a chief—was widowed. His teenaged daughter would be traveling with us. She was so beautiful. The first time I saw her she was wearing a tan, buckskin skirt—and her hair … her hair was black-as-tar—
 
                        HARRY
—Black… as… tar! Yes! Yes!
 
                        MR. KINCADE
Her hair was pulled back in two braids. And just as in Hollywood, she had feathers tethered to each.
 
                        HARRY
You loved her.
 
                        MR. KINCADE
Love! Ha! Love? What did I know of love? I wasn’t over twenty.
            (Clicking his pen’s retractor against a paper.)
Besides, everything fizzled out, anyway.
 
                        HARRY
But please tell me you went!
 
                        MR. KINCADE
I told you it fizzled out! I was young. Impressionable. They could easily have killed me, stolen my car, my money….
 
                        HARRY
They could have, to be sure. It will always be a question mark, won’t it?
 
                        MR. KINCADE
Question mark, question mark…
            (A long silence, uncomfortable for both.)
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
           (Turning the page on an apparent application before him, speaking dryly)
Aside from yada-yada badlands on persistent ponies … and numbering grasses on a thousand—what?—divergent hillsides, what, specifically, was your most recent employment?
 
                        HARRY
Ah, specificity.
 
                        MR. KINCADE
Si Senor.
 
                        HARRY
A question most fair, and deserving of an answer allowing no equivocation or quibble. Sir, I was a mower of lawns.
 
                        MR. KINCADE
Okay. Okay! A lawn mower.
                        HARRY
In my passion to be unequivocal, Mr. Kincade, I was a mower of lawns, or a pusher of a mower, so as not to be confused with the appliance behind which I pushed.
 
                        MR. KINCADE
               (Stares at his sheet a long moment. One gets the impression from his mien that he is seething.)
That you mowed—other people’s lawns—for pay?
 
                        HARRY
Pithy, pertinent, accurate, Sir. Yes.
 
                        MR. KINCADE
And when did you last mow lawns for pay, Mr. Lowery?
 
                        HARRY
            (Considers this a moment)
Three days ago, Sir.
 
                        MR. KINCADE
Well … See? This is getting much easier … now that we are addressing specifics. And—I’m almost afraid to ask—but what was your reason for discontinuing mowing of lawns for pay?
 
                        HARRY
The constable—
 
                        MR. KINCADE
That would be … cop? Policeman?
 
                        HARRY
The same—for the City of New York— and he impounded my means of employment.
 
                        MR. KINCADE
Your lawn mower?
 
                        HARRY
Indeed. I’d had it only a week. The one prior having been stolen from my stoop.
 
                        MR. KINCADE
I’m sorry. And how can you get your mower back? By that, I mean the one the Police impounded.
 
                        HARRY
Retrieving the stolen one would be as easy. By paying the impounds fee of ten dollars a day and providing proof of licensing and insurance for the City of New York, the County of Bronx, Sir, I would then hear my mower whirring toward me down the hallway from the Impound Items room.
 
                        MR. KINCADE
            (Smiling despite himself)
I’m sure that would be a sound for sore ears. Tell me, Mr. Lowery, before you mowed lawns for pay, what other employment did you have?
 
                        HARRY
Before I mowed lawns for pay, Mr. Kincade, I was—a collector.
 
                        MR. KINCADE
            (Giving him the once-over)
A collector … Art? Antiques? Automobiles.
 
                        HARRY
You’ve covered the ‘A’s admirably, Sir. I would suggest dropping down to the ‘B’s and ‘C’s. I was a collector of bottles and cans—though the cans were aluminum, which starts with an ‘A’.
 
                        MR. KINCADE
            (Dryly)
In the future, Mr. Lowery, you might gain yourself more initial respectability by calling yourself an Environmentalist.
 
                        HARRY
Indeed, I might, Sir. Point of fact, earning money while fulfilling my civic responsibility was not lost to my ethic. It positively buoyed up my morale. Many were the times I surprised myself humming “America the Beautiful.” And using the ingenuity for which Americans are famous, it was from the proceeds of the bottles and cans—from which I uncluttered the environs—that I purchased that first lawnmower.
 
                        MR. KINCADE
 
Well… though there is a quasi-connectivity—
 
                        HARRY
            (Smiling broadly)
Quasi-connectivity—I like that, Sir.
 
                        MR. KINCADE
Yes … between being an environmentalist to being a landscape artist—
 
                        HARRY
Here you flatter me, Sir. I pushed a mower through grass. I have no illusions of being an artist. I was a mower of lawns … for pay.
 
                        MR. KINCADE
            (Staring a long, unblinking moment)
An entry level environmentalist and a mower of lawns. Mr. Lowery, if we didn’t have these pesky vicissitudes—your lack of experience. I just don’t see how—
 
                        HARRY
But experience is a gainable commodity. Years and years of work are still in me. And I am strong, Sir. 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 think 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-worker at the two desks behind him. As he addresses them, their work areas are 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 ask you to please listen.
            (With energetic pantomime.)
The scenario: A right cross flattened a very handsome Celtic 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 one-and-twenty, 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 penumbra.)
 
                        MR. KINCADE [Continued.]
So you were twenty-one. Your application says you’re twenty-three. What was your experience between that bout and your several rounds as an environmentalist?
 
 
 
 
END OF 1ST HALF OF ACT I

Recognized

The script continues with Act I: The Enigma Begins (2). We will provide a link to it when you review this below.

Author Notes
Your art work is so perfect to fit the theme of my Play. Thank you Cleo 85!
Pays one point and 2 member cents. Artwork by cleo85 at FanArtReview.com

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