Vertigo Park and Other Tall Tales (21 page)

I am His Majesty’s dog at Kew!

Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are YOU???

(
C
HRIST
grins, and the baby awakes and cries. Blackout.
)

Beckett:
Qui est là?

Interviewer:
Candygram!

Beckett:
Qu’est-ce que c’est?

Interviewer:
You don’t have to speak in French, Mr. Beckett. I’m an American.

Beckett:
I didn’t order any candy.

Interviewer:
And you aren’t getting any. Excuse me, it was drafty out in the corridor. Shall we sit down?

Beckett:
I don’t understand.

Interviewer:
SHALL I SPEAK MORE LOUDLY?

Beckett:
I don’t understand what you’re doing here.

Interviewer:
I’d say I’m a fan of your writing, but given its blasted-beyond-frippery starkness, that would be fatuous. I’d say I was a devotee except that sounds like I’d commit murder if you asked me to. Speaking of stark, this isn’t the most upholstered chair I ever sat in.

Beckett:
I’m very tired, and I’m not feeling well.

Interviewer:
May I observe something? You sound like one of your characters.

Beckett:
I will not be interviewed against my will.

Interviewer:
You’re crusty, Mr. Beckett, you’re a regular character. I’m Irish, too, you know. Well, Irish American. Anyway, my dad’s dad was Irish. My
mother’s family came from Yugoslavia. With my red hair everyone thinks I’m Irish, though, even though in the summer it’s more blond. Once this bum on the street who was drunk called me a Nazi rat. In a way it’s not a compliment but I figured he thought I was blond.

Beckett:
This cannot continue.

Interviewer:
See, there you go again! It sounds like something out of that play where they’re buried up to their necks in—wait a second, I guess it’s just one woman. There’s one with urns where they’re stuck in urns and they do the whole play twice and you mention Lipton tea, I figure you get a big kickback from Lipton every time they do that one, huh? I’m a playwright, too, I get obscure prizes too, and like you, I’m too far out for Broadway or movie deals. I had one play that was optioned for the movies but you can imagine how that turned out. You know all about mortal misery, huh?

Beckett:
I’m discovering more all the time.

Interviewer:
See, you’re worried that I’m some crazy student who has to write a thesis on you and wants to get some tidbit out of you he can milk into a stack of articles, and I don’t. You probably secretly laugh at everyone who tries to analyze your stuff for meaning, and don’t worry, I’m not going to do that. I don’t even think Godot is God; I think he’s anything that will provide an answer. Quick, yes or no?

Beckett:
I can’t oblige you, I have to see my doctor this morning.

Interviewer:
Oh, Sam, stop fishing, you look fine! May I call you Sam? I could call you Mister Beckett. Or Samuel. You know the old joke about the kid who says his name is Sam and the teacher says, What’s the
rest of it? and he says, Mule. Sam-mule, get it? An American kind of joke, I guess.

Beckett:
I have to see my doctor, you can’t stay.

Interviewer:
You have to get over this shyness, Mister Beckett, if as an impartial observer I can just offer my un-phony opinion. But maybe you like to surround yourself with flatterers, I don’t know.

Beckett:
Don’t you understand? I’m not feeling well.

Interviewer:
Okay, I’ll play along. You look fine, Mister Beckett, just fine! You know that joke about there being three stages of life, Youth, Middle Age, and Gee You Look Good?

Beckett:
I’ll call the concierge.

Interviewer:
I can always talk to him later, but I thought I’d talk to you first and then get what everyone really thinks of you behind your back after that. Though some coffee would be nice. Does the concierge serve coffee? We don’t have servants in America, or I don’t, at least, not that I begrudge you yours. At your age I think you’re entitled to some kind of help. What are you, like eighty-something?

Beckett:
Please stop.

Interviewer:
I keep forgetting about that show business ego of yours. Believe me, I’m on your side. You’re a survivor, and that rates any kind of didoes you want to pull, in my book. Oh, oops, sorry, this vase, you shouldn’t have put—

Beckett:
It’s nothing, forget it, please go.

Interviewer:
Ow, I cut myself on one of the pieces!

Beckett:
I’ll call the housekeeper.

Interviewer:
No, it isn’t really cut. I thought it was, but … it’s not.

Beckett:
Are you all right?

Interviewer:
Now, let’s not get this turned around! I’m asking the questions. It’s my interview of you, after all. What does it matter if I’m all right? Let’s leave me out of this! You’re the man of the hour here. I’ve always wanted to interview you, I pitched you at the last magazine I worked for,
Tiger Beat
; I don’t know if you’re familiar with it?

Beckett:
No.

Interviewer:
They had never even heard of you, can you tie that? My editor-in-chief says to me, “You mean like a Whatever Happened To on that cute kid?” And I said to him, “Cute kid? Do you know what Samuel Beckett
looks
like?” Turns out he was thinking of
Scotty
Beckett! Do you know who that is?

Beckett:
No.

Interviewer:
Scotty Beckett was a child actor of the thirties and forties. He was in “Our Gang” for a while and he played the young Jolson in
The Jolson Story.
Everybody is always saying Larry Parks, Larry Parks whenever they talk about
The Jolson Story
, and they forget that Scotty Beckett is in it, too, at the beginning. And there’s
Thomas
à Becket, too. They did a play about him. That must confuse some people.

Beckett:
I beg of you, it’s so early—

Interviewer:
Yes, what’s this myth about writers working in the morning? I came early to make sure I caught you, but it is a little disillusioning to find you in your nightgown, though if you really are as old as you say you must need a lot of rest. Don’t think I’m criticizing, believe me, nobody likes your writing more than I do. We even did
Waiting for Godot
in my high school. Except our drama teacher said, No way, that we’d do
You Can’t Take It With You
again, and I had had just about enough, so we formed this
little splinter group to do wild stuff our drama teacher wouldn’t like. The problem was nobody else understood it, even the actors I got to do it, plus since we were unofficial we couldn’t advertise or have a budget, so it kind of petered out, even though we did do it eventually, except again, the audience was all people who were willing to stay after school to see it, whereas with
You Can’t Take It With You
everyone got out of class so of course they liked it. And this one kid who’s now a lawyer didn’t even memorize his lines, I could have killed him, reading his lines out of the book while we were doing it, and today he makes more than us playwrights. I played Lucky, which is modest since it’s a small part, but since I was also directing I wanted to keep my distance on it to make sure it was all kept stark and yet like vaudeville. I still remember the long speech of Lucky’s, which is a tribute to you as a poet because when I recited it at home everyone thought it was gibberish. Here, I’ll show you:
Given the existence as uttered forth in the public works of Puncher and Wattman of a personal God quaquaquaqua with white beard quaquaquaqua outside time without extension who from the heights of divine athambia divine aphasia loves us dearly with some exceptions for reasons unknown.

Beckett:
Stop, please, stop!

Interviewer:
Oh, are you playing Vladimir? Don’t jump the gun yet. —
fire the firmament that is to say blast hell to heaven so blue still and calm so calm

Beckett:
Please, I do know the speech, after all!

Interviewer:
guess it can be embarrassing to hear things you wrote thirty-five years ago read out loud. I used to write poems about the elves and fairies dancing around toadstools when I was in elementary school and if someone dragged them out now I would
have a cow! Anyway, in addition to directing and playing Lucky I also made the poster, which was very stark, all lower case letters, except the Magic Marker smeared but we pretended it stood for the messiness of human suffering. Our drama teacher rolled his eyes and said at least he understood
You Can’t Take It With You
and then he did it with two white kids playing Donald and Rheba and at the point where they’re supposed to say, “Ever notice how white folks always getting themselves in trouble?” he had them say, “Ever notice how city folks always getting themselves in trouble?” They were supposed to be hillbillies. We did
Twelve Angry Women
, too, because there weren’t enough boys interested in drama, they all said it was fruity. Is that a problem for you?

Beckett:
I can’t believe this is happening.

Interviewer:
Interesting. Like your characters, you have a terror of reality.

Beckett:
In this case.

Interviewer:
You’ve written several novels, too. What are they like?

Beckett:
I’m calling the police.

Interviewer:
Careful, the cassette recorder isn’t mine, I borrowed it!

Beckett:
(He does not speak.)

Interviewer:
You knew James Joyce. You did his typing and mail, I guess. Is there a simple explanation for
Finnegans Wake
, for people who know Joyce is great, but still? Remember,
simple.

Beckett:
(He does not speak.)

Interviewer:
You’re shaking a little. Shall I stand up and let you sit down?

Beckett:
I can’t go on like this.

Interviewer:
“That’s what you think!” Your writing is very apt, it’s fun to quote.

Beckett:
Please go.

Interviewer:
You want me to go?

Beckett:
Yes, please go.

Interviewer:
(He does not move.)