Prologue

The scene is a section of a parlor car speeding toward New York, and not so very far from it when the curtain rises. We see only two chairs clearly; the ends of the car dissolve in shadows. On these less visible chairs are tossed vague overcoats and magazines; the racks above them are filled with baggage. There is a bag or two overhead; on the floor are quantities of Sunday newspapers, along with plenty of rotogravure sections, curling carelessly against the bottoms of the chairs. It is night, and the shades are down.

In the two vital chairs sit a boy and a girl. The name of the boy, as we presently find out, is Fred Stevens. The girl is Edna Baker. She sits with her back to him, and is absorbed in a magazine when the curtain goes up. The boy, who is not exactly a literary type, is a bit restless. He wriggles in his seat, sighs, peers discreetly at the girl, who pays no attention. With a bit too much of a flourish, as though he thus hoped to attract her attention, he whips out a time table and studies it. Consults his watch; swings and peers out of the window, hand cupped over eyes to exclude the light. Then he swings back, relaxes⁠—and looks toward the girl again. She swings her chair around for a second; peers down the aisle, but swings back without having permitted the boy to catch her eye. He rattles his newspaper a trifle obviously; indulges in a bit of bad whistling; hums a little. She swings around again; another look down the aisle. Fred girds up his courage to break the ice. The girl, who has the situation well in hand, gives sudden and demure attention to an imaginary spot on her dress. She chips at it with a fingernail.

Fred Diffidently extending his newspaper. Would you⁠—care to look at the paper?
Edna Ever so properly, in the manner of a young woman who never has been spoken to on a train before. Oh, thank you very much. I don’t think so, thank you. By turning away from him again she indicates that she is not encouraging a continuation of the interview.
Fred I thought maybe you might want to read.
Edna No, thank you. She gives him a small smile.
Fred Trying desperately to keep things going. We’re due in New York at ten-three.
Edna Yes, I know.
Fred You got on at Hudson, didn’t you?
Edna Yes.
Fred I seen you. A pause after this momentous remark. I been on ever since Schenectady.
Edna Really?
Fred That’s where I work. I mean, where I did work. At the GE.
Edna GE?
Fred General Electric. They call it the GE. That’s where their plant is, Schenectady.
Edna Feeling that it’s all right to help along. I’ve got a girlfriend from Schenectady.
Fred Is that so?
Edna She’s in New York now, or at least she was the last time I heard of her. Working at Saks’. Grace Crowell.
Fred I used to know a Mildred Crowell, but her name wasn’t Grace.
Edna Refusing to give in. This was Grace. I haven’t seen her for years, and I never did know her very well.
Fred Mildred Crowell’s brother was quite a billiard player. Three cushions. Eddie, his name was.
Edna That’s my name, too. Laughs. Of course it isn’t my real name. It’s just my nickname. My real name’s Edna.
Fred Oh! He comes back to vital matters. Eddie Crowell used to pretty near live on the billiard table. Then finally his health broke down and he went out West somewheres. I couldn’t tell you now if he’s dead or alive.
Edna It’s funny how we lose track of people. Some of the girls I used to go with, they still live there yet, but I never look any of them up, except Gertie Hutton. I guess it’s terrible of me not to, because if a person’s got good friends, they ought to keep them.
Fred I certainly got good ones. They showed that last night, at the banquet. He has finally managed to bring that up.
Edna Were you at a banquet?
Fred I had to be. It was me they give it for. I mean, I was the guest of honor.
Edna How exciting!
Fred It was a farewell testimonial on account of me going to New York. And then this afternoon ten or eleven of them come down to the station, and Ernie Butler had a hangover and bought me this seat in the parlor car; he said it would be a disgrace for me to ride in the day coach with this new bag. He indicates a shining yellow suitcase at his side.
Edna It’s a beautiful bag!
Fred They give it to me at the banquet. It’s got my initials. See? F. M. S. Frederick M. Stevens.
Edna What’s the M for?
Fred Martin.
Edna I like a man to have a middle name. Girls don’t usually have them. I’m just plain Edna.
Fred Pretty daring, for him. I wouldn’t say “plain.”
Edna You know how to make pretty speeches.
Fred I bet you’re used to them.
Edna There’s another one. I’m not so used to them that I don’t like to hear them, especially from people whom I think they’re sincere.
Fred I don’t say things unless I mean them.
Edna I’m glad of that.
Fred Talking about speeches, you ought to heard the speech Carl Williams, made when he give me this bag. At the banquet, I mean. I guess I blushed, the things he said about me. A lot more than I deserve.
Edna I bet they were sorry to see you go. You look like the kind of a man men would like. And girls, too.
Fred I don’t go around much with girls.
Edna I don’t go much with men, either.
Fred Neither do I. A pause; that subject’s cleaned up. It’s comfortable in here, ain’t it? Like being home. I never been in a parlor car before.
Edna My brother always insists on me riding in it. He says the day coach is generally dirty, for one thing⁠—and another thing, the men that ride in the day coach are the kind that try and make up to pretty girls. That sounds like I was throwing a bouquet at myself, but I’m just repeating what Dick said. That’s my brother’s name, Dick. I guess a brother always thinks their sister is good-looking.
Fred I believe in a man sticking up for their sister, or any woman. I got no use for a man that don’t respect woman’s hood. Where would a man be if it wasn’t for their mothers and sisters and wives?
Edna Some men haven’t got wives.
Fred I haven’t got one myself⁠—yet. I ain’t been lucky enough to meet a woman who would be a good pal as well as a sweetheart. I want my wife to be like mother used to be.
Edna I love to have a man love their mother.
Fred I wished mine was still here. Like Carl Williams said in his speech last night⁠—if she was still here, maybe she would be a little proud of me.
Edna I’ll bet she would.
Fred He made quite a speech, all right. He said the boys expected me to make Irving Berlin jealous. I said I didn’t want to make nobody jealous, but I wanted to make my friends proud. I said my only regret in going to New York was on account of leaving so many good friends behind, and as soon as my songs begun to sell up in the hundred thousands, and my dreams came true, I would invite them all down to visit me on Broadway and show them the sights.
Edna A bit too eagerly. Is that what you are? A songwriter?
Fred Nods. Not the music part; just the words. Lyrics, they’re called.
Edna It must be wonderful to have a gift like that.
Fred That’s what Benny Davis called it⁠—a gift. I guess you’ve heard of him⁠—he’s turned out a hundred smash hits.
Edna I guess I must have.
Fred He wrote, “Oh, How I Miss You Tonight!” It was a song about how he missed his mother⁠—he called her his “Old Pal.”
Edna That’s sweet!
Fred Well, he happened to be playing in Schenectady in vaudeville, and I happened to meet him and I happened to show him some of my lyrics. And he said a man like I with the songwriting gift was a sucker not to go to New York, because that’s where they have the Mecca for a man if you got the songwriting gift. So he give me a letter to the Friars’ Club, asking them to give me a two weeks’ card, they call it. The Friars’ Club is where they have the Mecca for songwriters. And he give me a letter of introduction to Paul Sears, the composer. He wrote “Paprika.” You remember “Paprika”? He sings a strain of it. “Paprika, Paprika, the spice of my life⁠—”
Edna With quick concurrence. I think so.
Fred When you write a song like “Paprika” you don’t ever have to worry again. He’s one of the most successful composers there is, Paul Sears. I bet you I and he will turn out some hits together.
Edna Are you going to be partners with him?
Fred If he wants me to, and I guess he will when I show him Benny Davis’s letter. That’s the hard part, getting acquainted. I’d have broke away a long while ago only for my sister. I couldn’t leave her alone.
Edna Is she in Schenectady?
Fred Nods. She got married a week ago Saturday. A fella I been working with in the shipping department⁠—Bob Gifford.
Edna She’ll miss you just the same. I know how sisters feel, especially when their brother is like you or Dick.
Fred Well, anyway, she got married, and I give them a pair of bookends.
Edna She’ll love them!
Fred She always done everything for me⁠—I mean, cooked my meals and sewed things for me. Look! Dives for his bag and starts opening it. She made me a half a dozen shirts before I left. Different colors. Here’s one of the blue ones. I bet if you was to buy a shirt like that, you couldn’t buy a shirt like that under a dollar seventy-five.
Edna I’ll bet it would cost more than that.
Fred Marion can sew, all right. My mother used to say she was a born seamstress.
Edna I love to sew. Looks at the shirt. Has it got your monogram, your initials?
Fred No. She was going to put a F on the sleeve, but she was too busy.
Edna It’s too bad you’re not my brother and I’d embroider your whole initials.
Fred You don’t have to be a man’s sister to embroider their shirt.
Edna I don’t want you to misjudge me, Mr. Stevens. I’m not the kind of a girl that talks to strangers. My friends would die if they knew I was talking to a man whom I had not been properly introduced.
Fred You don’t need to be scared of me, girlie. I treat all women like they was my sister. Till I find out different.
Edna A girl alone in New York can’t be too careful, especially a girl in my position. You take at Dr. Quinn’s, where I work⁠—he’s one of the best dentists there is, and he has lots of men patients that would be only too glad to start a little flirtation. Why even Doctor himself was fresh, the first day I met him. It turned out he wasn’t really, but it seemed that way. He put his arm around my shoulders and I jumped away from him like he was a leopard or something, and I told him, I said, “Doctor, I guess I don’t care to work here after all.” Then he laughed and said forget it, that he was just testing me. He said he didn’t want an assistant who was inclined to flirt. And from that day he’s never made any advances, except once or twice.
Fred He’d keep his distance if I was around.
Edna I wish you could be.
Fred I got plenty of excuses for being there. I got a cavity as big as the Grand Canyon.
Edna Laughing a little harder than is necessary. You must forgive me laughing. Caroline used to tell me I had the keenest sense of humor of any person she ever met.
Fred First thing you know I’ll be in to see Dr. What’s-His-Name myself.
Edna He’ll fix it for you. He’s a wonderful dentist.
Fred If I come, it’ll probably be when he’s out to lunch.
Edna Then what would you come for?
Fred I’ll let you guess.
Edna I’d rather you told me. I’m a bad guesser.
Fred I might come to see you. Would you let me?
Edna I’d love it, if you wanted to.
Fred I wouldn’t say so if I didn’t.
Edna You’ll forget all about it.
Fred No, I won’t. Your smile will always haunt me.
Edna I’ll bet you’re a wonderful songwriter. No wonder your friends gave you that big dinner.
Fred It certainly was quite a banquet. I bet some of my pals got a headache today, all right.
Edna I hope you haven’t got one.
Fred No. Liquor don’t afflict me like most people.
Edna I hardly ever touch it myself, only once in a great while, at a party.
Fred Girls ought to lay off it entirely.
Edna Quickly covering her slip. I never touch it.
Fred Take some of those women in Schenectady and they want to go out somewhere every night and guzzle. Married women, too.
Edna I don’t see how they can, with a home to take care of.
Fred Either they get all dressed up and drag their husband to a dance or a card party every night, or either they lay around the house in a wrapper.
Edna When I marry I’ll be just as careful of my appearance as I am now. I believe a husband appreciates a wife dressing up for him.
Fred Ever the practical soul. If it ain’t too expensive.
Edna The man I marry won’t have any complaints. I make practically all my own clothes. Caroline⁠—she’s the girl I used to live with⁠—she used to say I always looked like I had just stepped out of a bandbox, even if we were only sitting in our room. We hardly ever went out evenings; personally I prefer to stay home and read, or else just sit and dream. But still I always bathe and change my clothes even when I’m only going to cook dinner.
Fred I think I’ll take a room with a bathroom when I get to the hotel.
Edna Where are you going to stay?
Fred The Hotel Somerset. They got rooms with a bathroom right in the room, so you don’t have to go out of the room. And it’s close to the music publishing houses and the Friars’ Club⁠—any place I want to go, I can walk. Except to Paul Sears’ place. He probably lives in some swell apartment, or maybe a country place in Great Neck or Jamaica.
Edna A successful man like he wouldn’t live in Jamaica.
Fred Well, some place. I don’t know much about New York; I only been there once before, with Carl Williams. He’s the fella that made the speech last night. It was the first time he’s been away from home in the evening since he was married. He’s got a wife and baby now.
Edna So impulsively. Oh, I’m dying to have a baby! She catches herself. Heavens! I didn’t mean to say that. I love them so.
Fred It’s nothing against a woman to like babies. Carl’s wife certainly likes hers. She’s made him a nice home, too. He didn’t have to buy hardly anything in the way of furniture; her grandmother gave her a bedroom suit and she bought some herself with money she saved while she was working at Berger’s.
Edna She must be a good deal like myself. I could almost start housekeeping with the things I’ve got. I suppose I’m silly and old-fashioned, but I always thought a girl should bring her husband something besides herself. I even wouldn’t mind going on working after I was married, till my husband established himself.
Fred The girl I marry won’t never have to work. I don’t believe God ever meant for a woman to endure a life of druggery.
Edna Oh, Mr. Stevens, if only all men felt the same way!
Fred A look at his watch. My, it’s nine twenty-six already.
Edna It’s been a shorter trip than usual, for some reason.
Fred Trying to peer out the window. I wonder where we’re at now?
Edna Also peering. Pretty near Yonkers, I guess.
Fred If we was on the other side we could see the Hudson River.
Edna My, but it’s dark!
Fred There’s a moon out.
Edna Yes, I love it.
Fred June⁠—moon.
Edna What?
Fred I just said June moon.
Edna It isn’t June. It’s October.
Fred I know, but June and moon go together. They rhyme. I’m always thinking of words that rhyme, even when I ain’t working.
Edna That’d be a catchy name, “June Moon.” For a song, I mean.
Fred Yes, you could get other words to go with it. Spoon, and croon, and soon. Marry soon, or something.
Edna And macaroon.
Fred Yeah. I wish I had some. I’m hungry.
Edna I am, too, kind of. After a pause. Some day when that song is published and people are singing it everywhere, I’ll say to my friends, “I knew the man that wrote that. We were riding on a train and he looked out and saw the moon, and he thought of this song, and then the train got to New York and he never saw poor little me again.”
Fred You won’t be telling the truth, because I’m going to see you again.
Edna You say that now. But you’ll forget all about me.
Fred No, I won’t. Are you going right home when we get in?
Edna Why⁠—I intended to. She sits up, expectantly.
Fred I thought I’d go and get something to eat some place, only I wouldn’t know where to go if I didn’t have somebody with me that knowed where to go.
Edna I can tell you a place where I go once in a while, the Little Venice. Though most of the time I stay home and cook my own dinner, just because I love to cook.
Fred It’ll be a little late to cook tonight. I was wondering if you wouldn’t go along to this place, and maybe we could eat together.
Edna I’d love to.
Fred It ain’t a very expensive place, is it?
Edna Oh, no. The last time I went, there was two of us and we had hot roast beef sandwiches, and peas, and coffee, and it only came to a dollar-twenty.
Fred With vast relief. All right. I guess we can each afford sixty cents.
That winds up the Prologue.