June Moon

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.

The scene is one of those Riverside Drive apartments, in a place called New York City. It is up in the neighborhood of One Hundred and Sixteenth Street, and once it was pretty good. It’s a bit run down now, and since people began moving to the East Side the neighborhood has become somewhat déclassé⁠—not more so, however, than Paul Sears, the tenant of this particular apartment.

We see the living-room, if you can call it living. There is a piano, because Paul Sears is a composer. The rest of the furniture is what you might imagine, or worse.

Paul, a commonplace-looking man in his middle thirties, is at the piano when the curtain rises. He is in his shirt sleeves and is alternately hitting a few discouraged keys and making probably meaningless notations on the music sheet in front of him. He lacks one finger of being a two-fingered piano player. He is laboriously going over the same phrase again and again. And if you had never even heard it once, it would be too often.

Lucille, his wife, comes on from the rear rooms of the apartment. A spare but still attractive woman, on whom three years of marriage with Paul Sears have left their mark. She looks around for something. Finds it. It turns out to be a copy of the Graphic. She drops listlessly into a chair and starts to read. Paul continues torturing the piano.

Lucille

Addressing herself more than Paul, as she scans her paper. What do you know about that! Myra Vale’s engaged!

Paul

I read it. Automobile man. Probably drives a truck.

Thanks. I guess I’m a little late. I got off the wrong subway station and there was an old woman there selling papers, and I stopped and talked to her because I knew she must be somebody’s mother.

Maxie

Who has never stopped playing. A fresh slant.

Fred

I was right too, because she told me she has six sons. I feel sorry for old women that has to earn their living.

Lucille

What do the boys do⁠—rent her the stand?

Fred

No, most of them are in a hospital and two of them had their foot cut off. She told me all about it and I give her a dollar.

Paul

You want to be careful in a place like New York. There’s all kinds of people waiting to take your money away from you.

Fred

It’s a great city, all right. Today I took the ferryboat over to Staten’s Island and back. He explains it to Lucille. It’s an island and you have to take a ferryboat. But I suppose you been there.

Lucille

I go there a lot⁠—just for the trip.

Fred

I seen the Goddest of Liberty, too⁠—I mean the statue. It cost a million dollars and weighs 225 ton.

Maxie

Gently. She ought to cut out sweets. He indulges in a fancy run.

Fred

A gesture in the direction of Maxie. He can play the piano!⁠ ⁠… And I seen some of the big ocean liner steamboats. I seen the President Harding just coming in from London or Europe or somewheres, and the other day I seen the Majestic tied up to the dock. She’s pretty near twicet as long as the President Harding and weighs 56,000 ton.

Imagine⁠—only going out one night a week and then just to a moving picture show! Down here it’s like as if every night was a special night⁠—there’s always new places to go to. Miss Fletcher⁠—she’s always locating new ones! We was in three last night! Wound up at half past seven this morning, in the Bucket of Blood! There’s a lively place! We was the last ones there. Paul and Lucille, they went home at seven, but I and Miss Fletcher stayed and she made the proprietor sell me six bottles of his gin. It’s real gin; what they call pro-war. You got to have good gin. It’s one of the things they put into what they call a Bronx cocktail.

Maxie

Is that so?

Fred

Didn’t you ever have one?

Maxie

I don’t drink. After I listen to songs all day I don’t want liquor. I just go home and take a general anesthetic.

Fred

I like Bronxes best. They’re nothing but gin and orange juice. I don’t know why they call it a Bronx.

Maxie

It’s great orange country, up there.

Fred

Anyway, I got a bargain⁠—six bottles for sixty bucks. I give Miss Fletcher three bottles for a present, because if it hadn’t been for her I wouldn’t have got them. She made the man do it. When you’re around with her you just can’t resist doing things.

Maxie

I know. That’s why I don’t carry a gun.

Fred

She’s a great sport, all right. She’d make a wonderful wife⁠—she’s such a good pal. I think a man’s wife ought to be their pal as well as their sweetheart.