Brooklyn Boy Read online

  ERIC: My wife is expecting me; plus, I’ve got a flight early in the morning.

  ZIMMER: Where you going?

  ERIC: L.A.

  ZIMMER: L.A.?! Really? You going Hollywood, Ricky? Huh? You sell your book to the movies?

  ERIC: Actually, I did.

  ZIMMER: You did? You DID?! Mazel tov!

  ERIC: I guess.

  ZIMMER: We should celebrate!

  ERIC (Extends his hand in a gesture of farewell): Ira . . .?

  ZIMMER (Urgently): I got a million things I want to say to you! You know how many times I’d see some guy on the subway, walking, in the city—and swear it was you?

  ERIC: Really.

  ZIMMER: He’d come closer and my heart would beat faster and faster, so excited I was finally gonna get to talk to you again, then the guy would go by . . . and he’d look nothing like you.

  ERIC: Ira, I wish you all the best.

  ZIMMER: I can’t believe you’re doing this to me again.

  ERIC: Doing what?

  ZIMMER (Continuous): I try to get close to you and you push me away.

  ERIC: I’m not pushing you away; I have to go.

  ZIMMER: Did I do something to you?

  ERIC: What?

  ZIMMER: Something that made you stop wanting to be friends with me?

  ERIC: No! You didn’t do anything. We grew up, that’s all.

  ZIMMER: Everybody grows up.

  ERIC: People outgrow each other.

  ZIMMER: I didn’t outgrow you.

  ERIC: Ira . . .

  ZIMMER: How come I didn’t outgrow you? Huh? I always loved you.

  ERIC: Oh, God . . .

  ZIMMER: I did. Should I not have said that?

  ERIC: No.

  ZIMMER: You think that makes me queer or something?

  ERIC: No, of course not.

  ZIMMER: I loved you. Even when you decided I wasn’t cool enough for you anymore.

  ERIC: Ira . . .

  ZIMMER: You needed to impress your goyishe new Ivy League friends.

  ERIC: That is ridiculous.

  ZIMMER: The minute I heard you got into Columbia, I knew that was it.

  ERIC: That was what?

  ZIMMER: You were gone, you were outta here, and never coming back. I called you, left messages for you . . . You never had time for me!

  ERIC: I was busy with school!

  ZIMMER: So was I! But you were always so “vital.” No matter what I was doing, what you were doing was way more important. I was busy, too! Maybe it was only Brooklyn College, it wasn’t Columbia . . .

  ERIC: You could’ve tried for a place like Columbia!

  ZIMMER: No I couldn’t’ve! There was no way my parents could afford it!

  ERIC: What, you think my parents were rich? What is this fantasy you have of me? You were in that shoe store; you saw that apartment. They never had any money—I worked my ass off to get a scholarship! Otherwise I never would’ve gotten the hell out of here!

  ZIMMER: See, it never even occurred to me that I could do that! I thought that was for other people. I was smart! I had potential! Nobody ever pulled me aside and told me it was okay to go for it! Nobody! Nobody ever told me I could aspire to anything!

  ERIC: Nobody ever told me, either! I figured it out for myself.

  ZIMMER: How? How’d you do it? What is it, a gene? A chemical? What is it you were born with that I wasn’t? We were born three days apart!

  ERIC: I know.

  ZIMMER: Right here, right in this very hospital! Lived three blocks away. Saw each other every day, practically. Now look where you are and look where I am.

  ERIC: Where am I? I’m in a hospital cafeteria in Brooklyn—just like you—with a parent upstairs who’s dying. (Pause) Good-bye, Ira. Good luck with everything.

  ZIMMER: Hey, they got a nice little shul here, right in the lobby; I’m gonna dahven before I go home. Why don’t you come with me.

  ERIC: No, no, go. Do what you have to do.

  ZIMMER: It’s right here; right down the hall.

  ERIC (Over “. . . right down . . .”): No, thanks. Now I really have to go.

  ZIMMER: Ten minutes. We’ll say a little brucha for my mom and your dad.

  ERIC: No.

  ZIMMER: What, you’re a Rosh Hashanah Jew now, Ricky? Huh? You fast on Yom Kippur, that’s it for the year?

  ERIC: Actually, I don’t fast; I don’t do anything.

  ZIMMER (Over “. . . I don’t do anything.”): No? You don’t?

  ERIC: The last time I was in temple was the day of our bar mitzvah.

  ZIMMER: Well, we’ll see about that . . . (Takes Eric’s arm) Come. Let’s get you back into the fold!

  ERIC (Pulls away brusquely; too harshly): NO!

  (Zimmer, taken aback, puts his hands up. Pause.)

  Look, Ira, I wish you all the best. I really do.

  ZIMMER: Uh-huh.

  ERIC (Starts to go): Take care.

  ZIMMER: Have fun in Hollywood.

  ERIC: Yeah, thanks.

  ZIMMER: See ya.

  (Eric waves, goes. A beat.)

  (Calls) Hey! Who’s gonna play me in the movie?!

  SCENE 3

  St. Mark’s Place

  That night. An apartment in the East Village. Eric has entered carrying a shopping bag; Nina is there. A pile of galleys is on the table and a box stuffed with books, CDs, LPs, is nearby.

  NINA: What’s the matter, you don’t believe in doorbells?

  ERIC: Sorry. Force of habit.

  (He pockets his keys, tries to kiss her but is rebuffed.)

  NINA: What happened? You said six.

  ERIC: Around six.

  NINA: 6:40 is not around six; 6:40 is almost seven.

  ERIC: I’m sorry. I stopped off at Szechuan Garden.

  NINA: Why?

  ERIC: To get us some food.

  NINA: Who said anything about food?

  ERIC (Coming further into the room): You rearranged.

  NINA: Rick? Who said anything about food?

  ERIC (Over “. . . about food?”): How come we never thought to put the table here? Looks good. (Unpacks take-out containers)

  NINA (Over “Looks good.”): What are you doing?

  ERIC: Sautéed string beans . . .

  NINA: Rick . . .

  ERIC: Steamed dumplings . . .

  NINA: What are you doing?

  ERIC (Bad accent): I bring you a feast.

  NINA: I don’t want a feast.

  ERIC: Mmm . . . The dumplings look especially succulent this evening.

  NINA: This may come as a shock to you but this is not a date. Do you realize that?

  ERIC: It’s beginning to dawn on me, yeah.

  NINA: If anything, it’s the opposite of a date.

  ERIC: An anti-date. Hey. Aren’t you hungry? I’m starving; I haven’t eaten anything all day.

  NINA: This is classic! It’s the story of our marriage: You were hungry, so we’re eating!

  ERIC: It was purely spontaneous; there was nothing diabolical about it.

  NINA: How do you know I haven’t already eaten?

  ERIC: Have you?

  NINA: That’s not the point. How do you know I don’t have dinner plans?

  ERIC: Do you?

  NINA: That’s not the point! Everything is always you, always what you want.

  ERIC (Innocently): Are you seeing someone?

  NINA (More incredulous than angry): None of your fucking business!

  ERIC (Hands up in surrender): Okay!

  NINA: Look, why don’t you just take your shit and go. (Meaning the box)

  ERIC (Winces): Is that nice?

  NINA: It’s my fault: I never should’ve said it was okay to stop by, I should’ve just mailed it.

  ERIC: Neen . . . come on . . .

  NINA: And I think you’d better give me your key.

  ERIC: Why?!

  NINA: I can’t have you waltzing in here like this . . .

  ERIC (Over “. . . like this . . .”): Come on . . . C
an we please call a truce? I thought we were going to try “civil” for a change. Can we do that? Can we at least try?

  (Long pause. Her anger abates; she shows him a stack of mail.)

  NINA: All this is yours, you know. (He nods) I thought you said you sent in your change-of-address card.

  ERIC: I did. I can’t help it if things fall through the cracks.

  NINA (Hefts the mail): Those are some cracks. (A beat. She flips through the mail) Your mail’s certainly gotten more interesting lately. It feels weightier. Books to review, invitations. All I get are bills. Bills and rejection letters. So, you were on the Today show?

  ERIC: Did you see it?

  NINA: No. The guy downstairs with the plucked eyebrows told me. He was thrilled.

  ERIC: Good. I’m glad the guy with the plucked eyebrows was thrilled. (A beat) How’ve you been?

  NINA: I’ve been great.

  ERIC: You look great.

  NINA: I feel great.

  ERIC: It actually hurts my pride a little how great you look.

  NINA: Why? I’m not supposed to look great?

  ERIC: No; you were supposed to languish, and look like shit. Like me.

  NINA: Why are you languishing?

  ERIC: Haven’t you heard? My wife is divorcing me.

  (He offers a dumpling; she waves off his offer. Pause.)

  NINA: How was Brooklyn?

  ERIC: Depressing.

  NINA: The borough or your father?

  ERIC: Both.

  NINA: How is he?

  ERIC: Not good.

  NINA: I’m sorry to hear that.

  ERIC (Over “. . . to hear that.”): He says this is it this time.

  NINA: Oh, he’s been saying that for years.

  ERIC: Yeah but it has a distinctly different ring to it this time.

  NINA: Poor Manny. I really have to call him.

  ERIC: That would be great.

  NINA (Nods, a beat): How’d he take it?

  ERIC (Sheepishly): Well . . . I didn’t actually . . .

  NINA: Rick! . . .

  ERIC: I’m sorry, I couldn’t do it.

  NINA (Over “. . . do it.”): You said you were finally going to tell him!

  ERIC (Over “. . . tell him!”): I know.

  NINA: What are you waiting for? You’re running out of time.

  ERIC: I didn’t see the point of giving him bad news.

  NINA: He’s your father, he deserves to know what’s going on in your life.

  ERIC (Over “. . . in your life.”): Yeah but what’s he supposed to do with information like this? (A beat) He asks about you all the time.

  NINA: And what do you tell him?

  ERIC: I tell him you’re busy. (She shakes her head) Call him, he would love to hear from you.

  NINA: And what am I supposed to do? Keep up the pretense that we’re still together?

  ERIC: Is that really too much to ask?

  NINA: It’s a lie. You’re asking me to lie.

  ERIC (Over “. . . to lie.”): I’m asking you to spare him one more blow. The man has no future, nothing to look forward to . . . Christ, he’s still holding out for a grandchild!

  (Silence. Refers to voluminous galleys.)

  What’s this?

  NINA (Takes the pile): Nothing, just some bullshit computer science text I’m proofing.

  ERIC: Are you writing?

  NINA (Defensively): Yes I’m writing. That’s what I do: I write.

  ERIC (Wearily): I know that’s what you do. How’s it going?

  NINA: It’s going. I don’t write autobiographically, you know, so I don’t have a bottomless well to draw from.

  ERIC: Ah, yes . . .

  NINA (Continuous): My writing requires a bit more invention. A bit more imagination.

  ERIC (Over “. . . imagination.”): That’s right, writing autobiographically isn’t really writing.

  NINA: What about you? What are you working on?

  ERIC: Nothing.

  NINA: Why?

  ERIC: No time. This goddamn tour.

  NINA: Where were you this week, Florida? (He nods) How was it?

  ERIC: Well, imagine my Aunt Rose, replicated thousands of times over.

  NINA (Laughs): Oh, God . . .

  ERIC: Uy, and the so-called “talks” at Jewish centers where all the alter cockers do all the talking! (She laughs) These are My People, apparently: ancient, displaced, Brooklyn Jews, all of them deaf.

  NINA (Laughs, then): You don’t have to do this, you know. You could just say no.

  ERIC: And forfeit my fifteen minutes? Are you kidding? I waited all my life to be this miserable.

  (She laughs. Pause.)

  It’s a best-seller, by the way.

  NINA: It is? (He nods) Really?

  ERIC: It’s official. This Sunday: I’m on The List.

  NINA (Moved to tears): Oh, Rick, that’s wonderful. Congratulations.

  ERIC (Over “Congratulations.”): Thanks . . . Thank you.

  NINA: You made it.

  ERIC: Yeah. I guess.

  NINA: God, look at me . . . (He touches her; she composes herself) What number?

  ERIC: Eleven.

  NINA: Respectable.

  ERIC: Or as my father said, “You mean there is an eleven?”

  NINA: How’d you find out?

  ERIC: Marian called, shouting into the phone—I was in the rec room of a condo development in Sunrise, Florida. It was surreal. I got off and instinctively called you.

  NINA: You did?

  ERIC (Shakes his head): I stopped. Thought I’d better get used to not having you to talk to.

  (Silence.)

  What are we doing?

  NINA: Rick.

  ERIC: I miss you. I can’t sleep without you.

  NINA (Over “I can’t . . .”): Oh, God . . .

  ERIC: Okay, so we tried separation . . .

  NINA: Please don’t start.

  ERIC (Continuous): We gave it a couple of months; it isn’t working.

  NINA: For you maybe.

  ERIC: This is The Good Part! You’re bailing out on The Good Part?! We can finally live like grown-ups!

  NINA: Rick . . .

  ERIC (Continuous): We’ve never been “us” with money before. Don’t you want to see what that’s like?

  NINA: Go home.

  ERIC: What are you doing tomorrow?

  NINA: Why?

  ERIC: I fly to L.A. in the morning. Why don’t you come with me?

  NINA: Why would I do that?

  ERIC: So we can talk.

  NINA: What is this? (Meaning this conversation)

  ERIC: I mean really talk.

  NINA: Six hours in an airplane talking about our relationship, I’d rather die.

  ERIC: We’ll hang out for a few days. They’re putting me up in one of those ridiculous new hotels. It’ll be fun.

  NINA: Shlepping along on your book tour is not my idea of fun.

  ERIC: Why must you see it as shlepping along?

  NINA: You know how it is: I become totally irrelevant.

  ERIC: No you don’t.

  NINA (Over “. . . you don’t.”): It happened with The Aerie! And that was nothing compared to this.

  ERIC: It won’t be like that, I promise.

  NINA (Over “. . . I promise.”): Of course it’ll be like that. You have no idea what it’s like having to stand there, smiling like an idiot, hoping someone makes eye contact with you. It’s demoralizing.

  ERIC (Over “It’s demoralizing.”): I always make a point of introducing you to everyone! I tell everybody what a wonderful writer you are!

  NINA: Yes and I hate it when you do that! It makes me feel like a fucking charity case when you do that!

  ERIC: I’m sorry! Jesus!

  NINA: Everyone knows I haven’t had a story published in six years. Who do you think you’re fooling?

  ERIC (Over “Who do . . .”): Nobody cares. That’s all in your head.

  NINA: All in my head? Come on, six years? And it ha
sn’t occurred to you I might not be any good?

  (He doesn’t respond. Pause.)

  I wish I could’ve been a different sort of partner for you, Rick, I really do.

  ERIC (Over “. . . I really do.”): What are you talking about?

  NINA: You’d’ve been much better off with an adoring little wifey-type.

  ERIC: No I wouldn’t have.

  NINA (Continuous): But that’s not who I am. I’m way too selfish and competitive.

  ERIC: Yes and that’s what I’ve always loved about you.

  NINA: I don’t know how you put up with me as long as you did. The contagion of failure should’ve been overwhelming. Between the miscarriages and the rejection letters…

  ERIC: We can look into adoption again.

  NINA: No no no. You still don’t get it.

  ERIC (Over “You still . . .”): We can really afford it now.

  NINA: I don’t want a baby. I wanted a baby. Our baby. I’m over it. My maternal instinct is dead. I’ve done all the mourning I can possibly do. Now I want my life back. (Pause) We let that farce go on way too long. Infertility was my full-time job. What the hell, I needed a real job, anyway, right, Rick?

  ERIC: We were trying to conceive.

  NINA (Vulnerably): Why didn’t you say it was okay to stop?!

  ERIC: What?

  NINA: You never said it. I needed to hear you say it. That’s all I needed to hear.

  ERIC: Sweetie . . .

  (He holds her.)

  NINA (Notices the time): Oh, shit, you’ve really got to go now.

  ERIC: Wait.

  NINA: Please, Rick. I have someone coming.

  ERIC (A beat; wounded): Oh.

  NINA: I’m sorry. I know this is awkward; I didn’t want this to happen.

  ERIC: Uh-huh. (Starts cleaning up)

  NINA: You were forty minutes late; if you were here when you said you were going to be here.

  ERIC (Over “. . . you were going to . . .”): You’re right; no, you’re absolutely right.

  NINA: I’m sorry. (Meaning the food) Leave it; I’ll do it.

  ERIC: Save it. There’s plenty for lunch.

  NINA: Well then you take it.

  ERIC: No no, you, I won’t get to eat it; I’ll be in L.A.

  NINA: Oh, right. Okay. Thanks.

  (He bends to lift the box.)

  Carry it from the bottom, it’s pretty heavy.

  ERIC (Over “. . . it’s pretty heavy.”; amused by the weight): Jesus, what the hell have you got in here?