And whisper vows that come as feverish
As any I would make to get the hangman’s
Noose from off my neck. But I don’t know
What, exactly, I’m promising, something, just
Some way of being different, and if I can,
Then that will save the world…But I don’t know…
The nights don’t give me my rest like they should.
PURVIS: Are you describing a dream?
INT: Is this a dream?
In the daylight my blood feels watery.
All my vows and all my fine resolves
Dissolve into corruption.
I walk around the town and everything
Feels silent no matter how much noise we make,
Like we aren’t people, we haven’t been informed,
We’re walking around but we have no names.
I used to enjoy the moving picture shows,
But now I sit there in the crowd and I just
Smell my fellow Americans stinking and
I hear the breath ride in and out of their mouths
So loudly it mutes the spectacle.
Do you remember Frankenstein with Boris
Karloff?
PURVIS: Enervation, lassitude—
INT: I feel like fate has played me for a sucker,
Sold me a ticket printed on a cobweb—
Where’s the glorious circus? It’s dark. I hear the wind.
It was only a noise in a dream that woke me up.
There isn’t any Heaven. There isn’t any Hell.
I smell the ashtrays in the rooms…And then
I rise from bed. I go into the morning.
My children embrace me vaguely and politely,
My daughter comes to kiss me, and her face
And fingers smell like the puppy she’s been petting.
And in this world the spring is turning green
And I see how I’m beginning to disappoint
My son. Just as I disappointed my father.
What pleased me once no longer pleases me,
And the bright things pale in my sight,
And meanwhile, things that never could have failed—
My little daughter’s little hand, her kisses—
They give out. Give way. And now my daughter
Stands level with my shoulder, and she wears
Those peasant blouses, and her friends…are pretty.
And I go to see my father at his house.
He sits in a wicker chair beside a weeping
Willow and the chair is chipped and sets
Askew and he tips a little and his hands
Are tiny and his fly is down and his eyes
Are wet and red-rimmed; and the way they shine
While something works the corners of his mouth,
He looks as if he’s trying not to laugh
At something terrifying coming up
Behind me. “Dad,” I say, and he says, “What,
What is it?”—but the point is gone in saying,
Dad, I’m someone you might pride yourself
To call your son. For all the hope of reaching
Him who was my father, I might as well
Be speaking to his headstone. “Father, Father,
It’s raining on us both, on me and on
Your wicker chair beside the weeping willow.”
One afternoon when I was a child the sky
Blackened and bits of trash whirled up and around
And the rain ripped down like knives and at the window
Of the house my father held me in the crook
Of his arm, I was that small, and we both watched
That willow twisting till a lash of lightning
Tore a third of it away from the trunk
And pitched it across the yard—and, sir, no storm,
No wind, no dark, no violence
Could possibly have touched me in the fortress
Of my father’s arm…. O well…O well…Ah, shit. Ah, shit.
Mr. Purvis, I can stride right now
Right into that pasture right out there
And tickle fresh, warm milk from out the teats
Of the great-grandchildren of the very cows
Who gave us milk to pour on our Post Toasties!
…I mean when I was a child. When I was a child.
PURVIS:…Yes. The cows out there look very healthy…
INT:…I spoke too much. I always do. I always—
PURVIS: Let me tell you of the death of Baby Face.
…Remember, now, this bloodgush horrorshow
Unfolds within a splendid natural silence
Forty miles outside Chicago proper,
Near Baker Lake, where the mallard ducks
Had not yet left, though late November had come,
And they sailed on its glass…All right:
Two of my agents, Ryan and McDade,
Passing a Ford on the Northwest Highway, matched
Three numbers on its plates with those of Nelson’s,
Now America’s number one Most Wanted.
They quickly turned around, but so did Nelson,
Absolutely ready for a fight,
And when they crossed again, again he turned,
And chased them north, firing his tommy gun,
Chewing up their car, and they fired back,
Neither drawing blood as yet. With Nelson
Traveled his woman Helen and John Paul Chase,
A red-mouthed harlot and a no-good punk,
And now, as they fell behind, leaking
Water from a punctured radiator,
Two more agents in another car
Closed with Nelson’s Ford V-8—Sam Cowley
And Herman Hollis—Nelson chasing agents
And agents chasing Nelson—until Ryan
Sped away, quite unaware that help
Had come. As Nelson’s engine quit, he turned
Into the Northside Park in Barrington
And bumped to a halt. Helen ran for a drainage
Ditch and Chase and Nelson grabbed their guns
And ducked behind the Ford and fired at Sam
And Hollis as their car went by. The agents
Bailed, neither wounded, Hollis taking
Cover from his car and Cowley rolling
Into a second ditch, both firing back.
Now, Cowley headed our Chicago office,
And Hollis was with me at the Biograph
When we took Dillinger. Hollis was among
The men who actually shot and killed the varlet.
Crack shots both, firing from good cover,
They gave no quarter in this battle until,
Quite beyond my comprehension to this day,
Nelson simply stood up, steadying
His Thompson at his hip, and strode toward them,
Firing rapid bursts and cursing. Cowley
Hit him in the side, yet he kept coming.
He took another in the belly, still came on,
Rounded the car and slaughtered Hollis as
The agent ran for different cover, and,
Turning to Cowley—who’d been filling him
All the while with bullets—stood above him
There at the ditch’s edge and made his wife
A widow with the tommy gun. He then
Managed to get in the federal car and start it,
And then those bastards sped away and left
Two agents, good men both, dead in their wake.
Next morning, in a cemetery close
To Nelson’s hometown, Fox Grove, Illinois,
They found his naked corpse wrapped in a blanket.
The coroner counted seventeen bullet holes.
His name was Lester Joseph Gillis. He
Was one week shy of twenty-six years old.
INT: Seventeen, you—seventeen, you say.
PURVIS: No mere human could have lived beyond
The impact
of the first four or five.
I thought, Now that is what we’re up against:
Psychosis of a power to hold a man
Aright and marching like some—
INT: Lazarus!—
PURVIS: Indeed, some revenant, some Frankenstein—
INT: Old Boris Karloff!—or the Mummy—
PURVIS: Yes,
As the bullets fill him—
INT: Saint Sebastian martyred
By the arrows!—
PURVIS: Well, you get the point.
INT: I’m sorry. What a picture, though! Excuse.
PURVIS: His dead flesh animated by the lava
Of anti-authoritarian disrespect.
…I don’t care whose side that man was on,
In 1918 they’d have borne his coffin
Draped with glory through the streets of home.
INT: You shouldn’t say such things.
PURVIS: It’s all
A mystery.
INT: But never say it is.
PURVIS: I never shall again. You have my word.
INT: And you, sir, have a job.
PURVIS: I’ll strive in it.
BLACKOUT
Scene 5
January 1935: An office of the U.S. Division of Investigation, Chicago.
During the scene we sometimes hear the commotion of a nearby elevator.
HOOVER behind the desk, dressed in a business suit.
He makes faces and clenches his fists and wrings his hands, screams and laughs and weeps—all silently.
HOOVER [into intercom]:…Blanche.
BLANCHE’S VOICE: Yes, sir.
HOOVER: Is he still in the anteroom?
BLANCHE’S VOICE: Yes. Mr. Purvis is standing in the anteroom.
HOOVER: What is he doing now?
BLANCHE’S VOICE: He’s—standing in the anteroom.
HOOVER: Have you got him by the window? Left side?
BLANCHE’S VOICE: No, sir.
HOOVER: No, sir?
BLANCHE’S VOICE: I told him to stand by the window, but he moved.
HOOVER: All right. [On phone] Hello.
I wish to place a person-to-person call—
Excuse me. Later. I’ll—goodbye…[Into intercom] Now, Blanche,
Who is ascending? I hear someone ascending.
That whirring again. That whir and thunk. I hear it.
BLANCHE’S VOICE: They went to another floor.
HOOVER: Quite right. All right.
Goodbye. [On phone] Hello. Hello. Person-to-person, please,
To the Hoover residence in Washington, D.C.
Temple six eight seven seven eight.
O—Mr. Hoover for Mrs. Hoover. Sorry.
…Mother, how are you?…Mother, put your mouth
Nearer the mouthpiece; that’s why they call it that.
Mother, I miss you…It’s cold, the rivers are frozen.
This wind will whirl you around and slap your face.
…O, I love you too…O, I miss you sorely.
How are you doing?…How are you doing, Mother?
How are the cats?…How are the cats? The—
How does Snooky Snooker snuggle without me?
O, that’s sweet!…He’s precious. So are you.
…Mother, I want your prayers today, especially
Today. Go on your knees, dear Mother, and pray
That I find the strength to go about my work.
…I know you do, I know you do, but now
As much as ever, Mother…Thank you.
…There isn’t any danger, Mother. I’m just—
…O, O, no no no. The telephone—
The telephone can’t hurt you…No no no,
Chicago telephones are harmless, too.
…All right, but never fear. And pray for me.
All right, all right—hello? Hello?—Goodbye.
[Leaps to his feet.]
…What’s this, my man—a hooligan’s switchblade knife?
But I am a servant of the law. And yet
I hold this blade, how sharp, and to what purpose?
Huuuuh! Hrrrrrrh! Haah! Hhm-hhm! Hrrraaggghhh!
They said you had a lot of guts! Quite so!
Let me introduce you to your bowels.
Here’s the large, and here the small intestine.
My! What have you been eating?—Eat it again!
Hah-HAH hrrr-hrrr HLLL HLLL haaghr AAH.
How do you look in this year’s very latest
Fashionable scarf, the tripe-of-traitor
From deep in the interiors of you?
There! Now I’m the man who collared Purvis!
You’re trembling, trembling, let me snug your cravat.
How you blush! Too much? O no, I mustn’t
Strangle you, no. No, you’re going to spend
Seven long days begging to be strangled!
HAAARGH HUUUH huh huh huh huh huh…
[Resumes his seat.]
…Send him in…Hhhhrrrr. Hrrrrhh. Hrrrh. Hrrrh. Hrrrh.
[MELVIN PURVIS enters.]
Here’s our man, “the man of the hour”! Sit.
PURVIS: Welcome to Chicago, sir.
HOOVER: Director.
PURVIS: Welcome to Chicago, Director.
HOOVER: Hoover.
Director Hoover.
PURVIS: Welcome to Chicago—
HOOVER: Title and name, Special Agent Purvis.
PURVIS: Welcome to Chi—
HOOVER: Thought I’d better see
Firsthand how things are done in the Windy City.
PURVIS: Well, you’re most—
HOOVER: The city of the big shoulders,
Hacker and stacker and mover of meats, O bold
Encaser of meats, Special Agent Purvis.
Special Agent Purvis: title—
PURVIS: and name,
Yes, sir—or, yes, Director Hoo—
HOOVER: Quite so.
Marvin, are you hungry? You look hungry.
PURVIS: I believe we’re going to lunch? Or am I wrong.
HOOVER: Hark! Our luncheon rises in its cage.
[To intercom] Is that for us, Blanche?—Lunch is on the way.
[Two box lunches arrive. Meanwhile:]
…Well. Quite a year. Quite a half-year—
Five months, more like, what hey? Three villains down.
Dillinger, Baby Face, and Pretty Boy.
PURVIS: I wouldn’t flatter them with monickers.
Or even names. Nor shrines. Nor histories.
Not even so much as markers on their graves.
HOOVER: What, then?
PURVIS: Urinals.
HOOVER: —Good, Midwestern milk:
Here’s to “the man who collared Dillinger”!
…But we aren’t cowboys, are we, sir? Or clowns?
We can’t be turning handsprings, courting headlines.
PURVIS: An officer charges foremost into the fray.
He can’t lead from behind.
HOOVER: What luscious ham!
—May I call you Marvin?
PURVIS: My name’s Melvin.
HOOVER: I see. Melvin. Melvin. Melvin’s rather…
Swiss cheese, mustard—milk all right?
PURVIS: Yes, Director Hoover.
HOOVER: Call me…
PURVIS: Edgar?…John?
HOOVER: Director Hoover will do.
[They address their meals. Neither actually succeeds in eating anything. Meanwhile:]
…What do you make of this Adolf Hitler fellow?
PURVIS: He seems a volatile ingredient.
HOOVER: Still and all, don’t you think he trains
His mind with clarity on all the truly
Modern problems? On the subjugation
Of growing populations, one might say
On swollen populations—one might say
Tumescent throbbing citizenries?
They must be kept in hand, but ever so gently.
We can’t accomplish this by de
adly force
Of arms. A zealous subtlety is wanted,
Vigilance, subtlety, creativity.
PURVIS: He strikes me as a dangerous maniac.
HOOVER:…Marvin—Melvin? Marvin? Marvin—Melvin,
Help me, please.
PURVIS: Of course, Director Hoover.
HOOVER: I’m composing a letter of termination.
PURVIS: Termination? Do you refer to a death?
HOOVER: I don’t. I mean the ending of employment.
…We moderns author a language suited to
Our work: the work of faceless entities.
The modern age boils slowly forward on
The inauspicious labors of a multitude,
Comings and goings, routes and dates and times,
Bits and pieces, instruments and engines,
A monstrous undergrowth of pipes and wires,
And, Marvin, what do you suppose prevents
The behemoth from strangling on itself?
Order: tables, lists, charts, graphs,
Indices, appendices,
Inventories, catalogues.
And who shall keep these treasures holy?
The men of the bureaus; we, the Bureaucrats!
We who stalk our shadows in the halls,
We who strum the blades of pages with
The ridges of our fingerprints. In battle
We unsheath the alphabet and drive deep
The Dewey decimal. Quite right—small stuff.
Yet we accomplish in the aggregate
What Hercules and Theseus would’ve—
Theseus married, as I think you know,
The queen of the Amazons. I shall never marry.
I am wife and husband to this work.
Bureaucrat. The word makes music.
I am having our branch redesignated:
No more “Division of Investigation.”
Is this a division?—Are we, then, dividers?
No! Bureau is the French for “desk”:
Our steed, our tank, our Howitzer.
Our battleship! Dreadnought! Gunboat! Bastard schooner!
“The Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
Yes. A bureau. We’ll be Bureaucrats!
PURVIS: Like Jason and the Argonauts.
HOOVER: Somewhat.
PURVIS: Hoover and the Bureaucrats.
HOOVER: Just so.
[He gathers both their meals together, and lunch is over.]
…I am holding in my mind the text
Of a lacerating letter to demand
The resignation of a renegade.