THE HUNGERERS (1939) by William Saroyan A Short Play CAST THE WRITER THE YOUNG CAPITALIST THE GIRL THE OLD WOMAN THE STAGEHAND A small room on a side street in Manhattan. The room contains a table with an old-fashioned phonograph and a pile of records on it, a chair, and a couch. At the table, typing, is THE WRITER. It is four o’clock in the afternoon of a day of heavy summer rain, in September, 1937. YOUNG CAPITALIST enters the room. THE STAGEHAND moves a wall back to make room for him. THE WRITER goes on typing. THE STAGEHAND goes away. THE YOUNG CAPITALIST walks around. THE YOUNG CAPITALIST Would you care to subscribe to The Saturday Evening Post? THE WRITER Don’t bother me. THE YOUNG CAPITALIST (To himself) What’s he writing? (To THE WRITER) What are you writing? (No answer.) Do you mind if I listen to some music? It’s raining. THE WRITER Don’t bother me, I said. (THE YOUNG CAPITALIST goes to the phonograph, puts on a record, and the music begins: it is “Dein Ist Mein Ganzes Herz,” sung by Richard Tauber. As the music gets going, a sad-looking young Mexican GIRL comes in, THE STAGEHAND moves the walls back to make room for all three of them, and THE GIRL listens to the song, while THE YOUNG CAPITALIST watches her. She looks a good deal like a saint.) THE GIRL (Listening to the song) I know. I remember. THE YOUNG CAPITALIST My name is John. Can I sell you something? THE GIRL Be still. My name is Dolores. THE WRITER (Irritated) Listen. Will you please let me get some work done? (He turns suddenly and sees THE YOUNG CAPITALIST and THE GIRL. THE YOUNG CAPITALIST is a shabbily dressed boy of seventeen or eighteen. The Mexican GIRL is very beautiful.) What’s this? (To THE GIRL) Excuse me. Who are you? THE GIRL Dolores. THE WRITER All right. That’s fine. Now, will you two sit down somewhere quietly and talk or look at one another, or go away, or die, or something? I’ve got work to do. THE YOUNG CAPITALIST I will do anything but die. THE WRITER All right, then. First turn off that phonograph. If you insist, live; but don’t bother me any more. THE YOUNG CAPITALIST You are so easily bothered. What’s wrong with a little music? THE GIRL (To THE YOUNG CAPITALIST) Let’s go away. He wants to be alone. THE YOUNG CAPITALIST No, let’s stay. It’s raining outside. He said we could sit down and talk. THE WRITER (Going back to the typewriter) I don’t know where all these amazing people are coming from all the time. If I had money or something, it would be different. I’ve nothing to give them. (He turns to THE GIRL) Hey, you. Are you hungry? THE GIRL Yes. THE WRITER Just as I thought. Well, I’m sorry. I’ve got nothing I can give you. I’m hungry myself. Are you very hungry? THE GIRL I haven’t h ad anything to eat since yesterday. THE WRITER How about you, Sam? THE YOUNG CAPITALIST John, not Sam. I’m hungry too. THE WRITER All right, John. How long since you had anything to eat? THE YOUNG CAPITALIST I don’t remember. I know I had breakfast day before yesterday. I haven’t kept track. THE WRITER Do you feel drowsy or ill or anything? THE YOUNG CAPITALIST No, I don’t. I feel sort of alarmed, that’s all. Nobody seems to want to subscribe to The Saturday Evening Post. I hear a lot of talk about a war, and I understand the world’s shot to hell. What I’d like to know is, what’s it all going to come to? THE WRITER I see. You’ve got a good case of hunger fever. I don’t suppose you could go out into the street and mooch a quarter or so, could you? THE YOUNG CAPITALIST I’d be ashamed to be. THE WRITER Of course you would. Who wouldn’t? If you don’t beg, though, you’ll probably lose consciousness worrying about the world, and die in your sleep. Unless, of course, somebody does something for you. THE YOUNG CAPITALIST I don’t want any charity. THE WRITER Of course not. Nobody wants charity. What do you want, sister? Love or charity? THE GIRL What? THE WRITER Nothing. Anybody can see you want love. THE YOUNG CAPITALIST I don’t know who you are, but your attitude is very vulgar. Are you a writer, or something? THE WRITER I was writing when you cam into this room. THE YOUNG CAPITALIST I thought maybe you were practicing typing so you could get a job in an office somewhere. I know a college graduate who got a job in a grocery store because he knew how to type. Every evening after work he used to type a few letters for the boss. THE WRITER I am a writer. THE YOUNG CAPITALIST You ought to be rich. THE WRITER Everything I’ve got is right here in this room. It’s been this way seven years now. Do you want to eat? THE YOUNG CAPITALIST Yes. THE WRITER (Putting cover on typewriter) All right. Take this machine to the apartment house across the street and sell it to somebody. I’d send you to town where you could hock it, but I haven’t a nickel for subway fare, and it’s too far to walk. This girl would probably die of hunger before you got back anyway. And so would you, most likely. THE YOUNG CAPITALIST No, I wouldn’t, and neither would she. Would you? THE GIRL I don’t know. I’ve been dreaming so long I don’t know what’s going on. I’d like to hear some more music. It makes me remember things that are more important than just not having -- THE WRITER (Puts on another record) All right. Music for you. (Hands typewriter to THE YOUNG CAPITALIST). Run across the street and start ringing doorbells. Get as much as you can for the machine. It cost sixty-five dollars five years ago. Sell it for five dollars if you can. If you can’t get five, get four; it you can’t get four, get three; if you can’t get three -- THE YOUNG CAPITALIST Get two. Suppose I can’t get one? THE WRITER Bring the God-damn thing back. We won’t take a penny less than a dollar for it. I’ve written some of the greatest unpublished stuff in the world on this little broken-down machine. THE YOUNG CAPITALIST I’ve never tried anything like this before. (To THE GIRL) Goodbye. THE GIRL Goodbye. THE WRITER Be careful crossing the street. Can you see all right? THE YOUNG CAPITALIST I can see fine. What shall I do if I get a lot of money? Five dollars or so? THE WRITER Go down to the grocer’s and get a lot of stuff. THE YOUNG CAPITALIST All right. I want you to know I’m deeply grateful to you. THE WRITER Never mind. I’m hungry. If I live, I’ll find time to go on writing. I’d like something to drink, if you get some money. I mean whisky or something like that. They have small bottles, from ten cents to thirty-five. Get a fifteen- or twenty-cent bottle. THE YOUNG CAPITALIST All right. Goodbye. THE WRITER and THE GIRL Goodbye. (They listen to the record for a moment; it is “The White Dove,” sung by Lawrence Tibbett) THE GIRL I love bread. Don’t you? THE WRITER Yes, I do. Are you fond of apples? THE GIRL Apples are lovely. Nothing is lovelier than apples. THE WRITER I’m very fond of grapes too. Grapes mean something. THE GIRL They do? I didn’t know that. What do they mean? THE WRITER Wine comes from grapes, and you know what wine means. THE GIRL I wish I did. What does wine mean? THE WRITER Wine means life, now and forever. Everlasting life. That’s what wine means. When you eat grapes, you feel how wonderful it is to be alive. THE GIRL Oh. Thank you. THE WRITER (Taking care of the phonograph) Where would you like to be? THE GIRL In the sun, I guess. THE WRITER You’re hungry, that’s all. Rain is lovelier than any other kind of weather. Rain is weeping, and to weep is to be cleansed. Shall I tell you a funny story? THE GIRL I can’t promise to laugh. I’m so sad. THE WRITER I myself can’t promise to laugh. It’s a funny story, though. When I was ten years old, I went into the country one day and found a whole vineyard of beautiful purple grapes. I went from one vine to another looking at them, but not touching a single one. Then all of a sudden the farmer who owned the vineyard saw me and called me a thief. He chased me from the vineyard. THE GIRL Is that the story? THE WRITER Yes. THE GIRL (Begins to weep) I’m sorry. I told you I couldn’t promise to laugh. THE WRITER I wish I could cry once in a while. THE GIRL You can’t cry? THE WRITER No. THE GIRL (Cries more bitterly than ever) I can cry. THE WRITER I know you can. You’re one of the finest weepers I ever saw. I once read about a girl who cried for eleven years. Her lover was killed in a war. That’s why she cried. THE GIRL What happened? THE WRITER I don’t know. I guess she stopped crying. THE GIRL Is that all? THE WRITER Yes, I’m afraid so. THE GIRL (Bursts into fresh sobs) What’s the use to cry? THE WRITER I think it’s healthful in some way or another. I think it’s like being in love with somebody who doesn’t love you. It’s supposed to make you finer or something. THE GIRL I don’t believe it. THE WRITER Well, neither do I, exactly; but I once wrote that that’s what crying does. THE GIRL If you love somebody and she doesn’t love you, don’t you cry? THE WRITER No. THE GIRL You are very cruel. THE WRITER Cruel? Cruel to whom? THE GIRL To the girl. I love you. Why don’t you cry? THE WRITER I thought you loved him. THE GIRL Him? Who? THE WRITER The boy. John or Sam or whatever his name is. He loves you. THE GIRL How do you know? THE WRITER I am a writer. I saw him looking at you. He’s as hungry as you are, and he loves you because you are so lovely. You remind him of something he can’t remember. Grapes, or something. He’ll remember all of a sudden, and then he’ll tell you he loves you. THE GIRL I love you. THE WRITER That’s your imagination, and hunger. THE GIRL (Weeping) No. You are very cruel. You don’t love me. THE WRITER But I do. I love you very much. Shall I kiss you? THE GIRL No. You don’t love me. THE WRITER But I do. I’m as hungry as he. I’m hungrier. It’s only out of courtesy to him that I haven’t told you you are lovely. THE GIRL You are talking, that’s all. THE WRITER Don’t cry any more. Wait till you have had a little food. Do you see these pebbles? I have gathered them from the shores of the Pacific. I used to live in San Francisco. Each pebble is perfect. You are as lovely as each of these pebbles. THE GIRL You don’t love me. THE WRITER What I’m worrying about is the boy. Has he sold the typewriter, or hasn’t he? That’s the question. THE GIRL I hope he hasn’t. I hope he never sells it. I hope he steals it. I hope he never comes back. THE WRITER What are you saying? I’m dying of hunger, and so are you. What are you saying? THE GIRL If he comes back with food, I won’t eat. THE WRITER Oh. Oh, I see. Well, I will. THE GIRL You are very cruel. I will eat too. THE WRITER You’d be crazy not to. THE GIRL Why do you live here? Whey don’t you go somewhere where there’s more light? THE WRITER There’s light enough here. Do you see these pebbles? You are as lovely -- THE GIRL Why do you keep telling me that? THE WRITER These pebbles are the only things in this room that are mine, straight from God. You are as lovely as each of them. Look at them. What do you see? THE GIRL Nothing. THE WRITER My God, are you that hungry? THE GIRL Yes. THE WRITER I’m sorry. THE GIRL Why? THE WRITER Because I love you. THE GIRL Oh. THE WRITER It’s still raining. Perhaps he has fallen in the street. Are you still hungry? THE GIRL No. THE WRITER Neither am I. THE GIRL I love you. THE WRITER O.K. Forget it. THE GIRL I will love you forever. THE WRITER That’s a long time for a girl your age. How old are you? THE GIRL (Weeping) You’re making fun of me. I’m seventeen. THE WRITER I’m sorry. You’re lovely. THE YOUNG CAPITALIST (Comes back with the typewriter. His face is wet. He is smiling.) They don’t want your typewriter. THE WRITER Well, I guess we’ll have to figure out some other way to get a little money. THE YOUNG CAPITALIST They don’t want to subscribe to The Saturday Evening Post either. THE GIRL We will all die. I’m glad. THE YOUNG CAPITALIST Glad? THE GIRL Yes. THE WRITER (To THE YOUNG CAPITALIST) Don’t worry. We aren’t going to die. THE YOUNG CAPITALIST I’ a high-school graduate, and I went to college a year. THE WRITER (Takes the cover off the typewriter, puts the machine on the table again, puts a sheet of paper in the machine, and starts to type again. He speaks to THE GIRL) If I had fifty cents, what would you like, steak or chicken? THE GIRL I don’t want anything. THE YOUNG CAPITALIST If I had some money, what would you let me buy for you? THE GIRL I wouldn’t care for anything, thank you. THE YOUNG CAPITALIST What’s the matter? THE GIRL You are so stupid. THE WRITER (Jumping up - to THE GIRL) Do you see these pebbles? You’re not like these pebbles at all. (THE GIRL begins to weep again.) THE YOUNG CAPITALIST What’s the matter with her? THE WRITER She’s hungry. THE YOUNG CAPITALIST (To THE GIRL) What’s the mater with you? THE GIRL He insulted me. THE YOUNG CAPITALIST He did? What did he say? (To THE WRITER) Look here, it’s very kind of you to let us come in out of the rain, but you can’t insult any lady in my presence. THE WRITER Sit down. THE YOUNG CAPITALIST You can’t do it. THE WRITER Sit down. Play some music, or something. Can’t you see I’m trying to get some work done? (An OLD WOMAN with a sad smile on her childlike face comes in. THE STAGEHAND enlarges the room; takes the walls away.) THE OLD WOMAN May I stay here till the rain stops? THE WRITER (Without turning around) Of course you may. I have no food, though. THE OLD WOMAN (To THE YOUNG CAPITALIST) Is he your father? THE YOUNG CAPITALIST I should say not. THE GIRL Haven’t you any place to stay? THE OLD WOMAN No. THE GIRL Neither have I. THE WRITER All right. You can all stay here. If you’ll only be quiet a few minutes you can all stay here as long as you like. It’s not going to rain forever. When the rain stops, you can each go wherever you like. You’ll surely be able to find -- THE YOUNG CAPITALIST (To THE OLD WOMAN) Would you like to subscribe? THE OLD WOMAN To what? THE YOUNG CAPITALIST To The Saturday Evening Post. THE OLD WOMAN I should say not. THE WRITER (To THE YOUNG CAPITALIST) I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll subscribe. THE YOUNG CAPITALIST (Leaping to his feet) You will. There’s nothing to pay for six months. THE WRITER Six months? What do you get out of it? THE YOUNG CAPITALIST I don’t exactly get anything, at first. But if I’ve got some subscription forms filled out, I can get into the office and maybe somebody will lend me a half dollar or something. THE WRITER In that case I’ll subscribe eight or nine times, each time with a different name and address, of course. THE YOUNG CAPITALIST Thanks very much. Eight forms filled out will make a fine impression. What did a kindhearted guy like you want to go to work and insult a nice girl like her for? THE GIRL Who insulted who? THE YOUNG CAPITALIST You said he insulted you. THE GIRL Well, he didn’t. THE YOUNG CAPITALIST (Getting forms out of his pocket) Would you like to subscribe, too? THE GIRL Of course. Eight or nine times. THE YOUNG CAPITALIST I don’t know how to thank you. THE GIRL It’s all right. Do you still feel hungry? THE YOUNG CAPITALIST Not as much as before. I think somebody will lend me a little money. I’ll pay them back too. (To THE OLD WOMAN) Would you care to subscribe? THE OLD WOMAN Of course. (THE WRITER, THE GIRL, and THE OLD WOMAN sign eight or nine subscription forms each and hand them to THE YOUNG CAPITALIST.) THE YOUNG CAPITALIST I feel better about everything. I don’t believe there’s any need to feel hopeless. THE WRITER Nor do I. THE GIRL Nor I. THE OLD WOMAN Nor I. THE YOUNG CAPITALIST I think everything is going to be all right. THE WRITER So do I. THE GIRL Is it raining any more? THE OLD WOMAN I don’t think so. THE YOUNG CAPITALIST Well, thank you. Thank you very much. Goodbye. EVERYBODY Goodbye. THE OLD WOMAN (To THE GIRL) Do you know him? THE GIRL No. THE WRITER (To THE OLD WOMAN) We’re in love. Out of hunger, of course, but love is love no matter what it’s out of. THE OLD WOMAN Then I’ll go. THE WRITER Don’t hurry. THE GIRL Please do. I don’t think I can last much longer. THE OLD WOMAN Goodbye. (She goes out. THE GIRL goes quickly to THE WRITER. THE OLD WOMAN returns.) I thought I ought to tell you. He’s dead, at the foot of the stairs. THE WRITER Who? THE OLD WOMAN The young man. Well, goodbye. (She falls down and dies.) THE WRITER Goodbye. THE GIRL Hello. THE WRITER Hello. (He embraces her. She dies.) THE OLD WOMAN I had no idea I was so close to death. Please forgive me. THE WRITER It’s all right. THE GIRL (Weeping) Do you love me? THE WRITER You’re as lovely as the pebbles. THE YOUNG CAPITALIST (Comes into the room) Did I leave anything here? THE WRITER I don’t think so, but you can look around. THE YOUNG CAPITALIST (Looks around the room. Suddenly he finds THE GIRL.) I knew I’d left something. Won’t you come with me? THE GIRL Please go away and die. THE YOUNG CAPITALIST All right. I’ll go, but I won’t die. I’ve got a great future ahead of me. THE GIRL Goodbye. THE OLD WOMAN Goodbye. Don’t forget to take your subscription forms with you. THE YOUNG CAPITALIST I won’t. (EVERYBODY but THE WRITER dies again. THE WRITER goes back to his work. THE STAGEHAND comes in.) THE STAGEHAND Anybody alive around here? THE WRITER I’m trying all the time. THE STAGEHAND Good luck to you. THE WRITER Thanks. THE STAGEHAND I’ll clear away these bodies. (He lifts THE OLD WOMAN off the floor, carries her out, and drops her. There is a strange sound. He carries out THE YOUNG CAPITALIST too. He comes back to get THE GIRL and finds her dead in the arms of THE WRITER, also dead.) They’re all dead now. That makes it easier. I wonder what he was writing? (He goes to the typewriter and takes the paper out of it and looks at it.) There’ s nothing on this page. (He looks at the other pages.) Nothing on this one either. Or this. They’re all empty. THE WRITER (Whispering to THE GIRL) How do you feel? THE GIRL I feel fine. How do you feel? THE WRITER I feel fine too. Do you remember anything? THE GIRL I remember pebbles and grapes. Do you remember anything? THE WRITER I remember you. THE GIRL Are you happy? THE WRITER Yes. Was there anywhere you wanted to go in particular? THE GIRL I always dreamed of getting to New York someday before I died. THE WRITER I went to New York once. I’ll tell you about it. THE STAGEHAND Well, I guess I’ll hear some music. (He puts on a record: “Orient Express.” The light grows dim. THE STAGEHAND dies.) THE WRITER New York is far away, even when you’re there. It is also bigger than anything, even when you look at it. It is also the darkest and most silent place in the world. (The scene grows pitch dark. The music ends.)In the winter the whole city is covered with snow, and everybody dies, just like in the summer. THE PLAY ENDS