The Unseen Hand Read online

  Acclaim for

  Sam Shepard

  “With the exception of David Mamet, no American playwright of his generation matches Mr. Shepard in the creation of characters that are immediately so accessible and so mysterious.”

  —The New York Times

  “One of our best and most challenging playwrights.… His plays are a form of exorcism: magical, sometimes surreal rituals that grapple with the demonic forces in the American landscape.”

  —Newsweek

  “One of the most original, prolific and gifted dramatists at work today.”

  —The New Yorker

  “Sam Shepard fulfills the role of professional playwright as a good ballet dancer or acrobat fulfills his role in performance … he always delivers, he executes feats of dexterity and technical difficulty that an untrained person could not, and makes them seem easy.”

  —Village Voice

  “The major talent of his generation … an original, a major force.… [Shepard] is a poet of the theater, shaping a new language out of broken words: an emotional seismograph registering the tremors which shake the substratum of human life.”

  —The Times (London)

  ALSO BY SAM SHEPARD

  Cruising Paradise

  Simpatico

  States of Shock, Far North, Silent Tongue

  A Lie of the Mind

  Fool for Love

  Paris, Texas

  Seven Plays

  Motel Chronicles

  Hawk Moon

  SAM SHEPARD

  The Unseen Hand

  Sam Shepard has written forty-five plays, eleven of which have won Obie Awards, and has appeared as an actor in sixteen films. In 1979 he was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for Drama for Buried Child, and in 1984 he gained an Oscar nomination for his performance in The Right Stuff. His screenplay for Paris, Texas won the Gold Palm Award at the 1984 Cannes Film Festival, and he wrote and directed the film Far North in 1988. Other plays by Shepard include Simpatico, Curse of the Starving Class, True West, Fool for Love, and A Lie of the Mind. In 1986 he was elected to the American Academy of Arts and Letters, and in 1992 he received the Gold Medal for Drama from the Academy. In 1994 he was inducted into the Theatre Hall of Fame.

  FIRST VINTAGE BOOKS EDITION, MAY 1996

  Copyright © 1972, 1981, 1986 by Sam Shepard

  Introduction copyright © 1986 by Sam Shepard

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Originally published in hardcover by Bobbs-Merrill, Indianapolis, in 1972, and in somewhat different form by Urizen, in 1981, and by Bantam Books, New York, in 1986.

  Copyright Notices

  The Unseen Hand copyright © 1972, 1981, 1986 by Sam Shepard

  The Rock Garden copyright © 1968, 1986 by Sam Shepard

  Chicago copyright © 1967, 1981, 1986 by Sam Shepard

  Icarus’s Mother copyright © 1967, 1981, 1986 by Sam Shepard

  4-H Club copyright © 1972, 1981, 1986 by Sam Shepard

  Fourteen Hundred Thousand copyright © 1967, 1981, 1986 by Sam Shepard

  Red Cross copyright © 1967, 1981, 1986 by Sam Shepard

  Cowboys #2 copyright © 1968, 1986 by Sam Shepard

  Forensic & the Navigators copyright © 1972, 1981, 1986 by Sam Shepard

  The Holy Ghostly copyright © 1972, 1981, 1986 by Sam Shepard

  Operation Sidewinder copyright © 1970, 1986 by Sam Shepard

  The Mad Dog Blues copyright © 1972, 1986 by Sam Shepard

  Back Bog Beast Bait copyright © 1972, 1981, 1986 by Sam Shepard

  Killer’s Head copyright © 1972, 1986 by Sam Shepard

  CAUTION: These plays are fully protected, in whole, in part, or in any form under the copyright laws of the United States of America, the British Empire including the Dominion of Canada, and all other countries of the copyright union, and are subject to royalty. All rights, including professional, amateur, motion picture, radio, television, recitation, and public reading, are strictly reserved. All inquiries for performance rights should be addressed to the author’s agent, Berman, Boals and Flynn, 225 Lafayette Street, Suite 1207, New York, NY 10012.

  this page constitutes an extension of this copyright page.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Shepard, Sam, 1943–

  The unseen hand and other plays / by Sam Shepard.

  p. cm.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-56091-9

  I. Title.

  PS3569.H394U5 1996

  812′.54–dc20 95-47723

  Random House Web address: http://www.randomhouse.com

  v3.1_r2

  to my son Jesse

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Introduction by Sam Shepard

  THE UNSEEN HAND

  THE ROCK GARDEN

  CHICAGO

  ICARUS’S MOTHER

  4-H CLUB

  FOURTEEN HUNDRED THOUSAND

  RED CROSS

  COWBOYS #2

  FORENSIC & THE NAVIGATORS

  THE HOLY GHOSTLY

  OPERATION SIDEWINDER

  THE MAD DOG BLUES

  BACK BOG BEAST BAIT

  KILLER’S HEAD

  Acknowledgements

  INTRODUCTION

  The strongest impressions I have now of these early plays are the specific times and places where they were written. The plays themselves seem to drift back to me as flimsy ghosts, in the same way a conversation with someone in the distant past is half-remembered. For me, these plays are inseparable from the experience of the time out of which they came. A series of impulsive chronicles representing a chaotic, subjective world. Basically, without apologizing, I can see now that I was learning how to write. I was breaking the ice with myself. Even though some of this work is slightly embarrassing to me now (twenty years later), it’s like objecting to a photograph that illuminates an aspect of the “real you” in a moment when you least expect the truth to be recorded. I can remember being dazed with writing, with the discovery of finding I actually had these worlds inside me. These voices. Shapes. Currents of language. Light. All the mysterious elements that cause anyone to make a journey.

  I wrote all the time. Everywhere. When I wasn’t writing, I was thinking about it or continuing to “write” in my head. I’d have six or seven ideas for plays rolling at once. I couldn’t write fast enough to keep up the flow of material running through me. Needless to say, I wasn’t very good company. At that time, a major critic from the New York Times commented that I wrote “disposable plays,” and in some sense he was probably right. But nothing mattered to me then except to get the stuff down on paper. The judgment of it seemed too far after the fact to make any difference.

  There was never a sense, in all this, of evolving a style or moving on to a bigger, longer, “more important” form. Each play had a distinct life of its own and seemed totally self-contained within its one-act structure. Partly, this had to do with the immediacy of the off-off-Broadway situation. Anybody could get his or her piece performed, almost any time. If there wasn’t a slot open at one of the cafe theaters or in the churches, you could at least pool together some actors and have a reading. You could go into full-scale rehearsals with nothing more than an idea or half a page of written text. It was a playwright’s heaven. Experimentation was the lifeblood not only of the playwright but also of actors, directors, and even of producers and critics. The concept of “audience” was diametrically opposed to the commercial marketplace. The only impulse was to make living, vital theater which spoke to the moment. And the moment, back then in the mid-sixties, was seething with a radical shift of the American psyche.

  Today, I don’t see how these plays make any real sense unless they’re put into perspective with that time.

  Sam Shepard

  New York,

  October 1985

  The Unseen Hand

  The Unseen Hand was first produced at the La Mama Experimental Theatre Club on Friday, December 26, 1969, with the following cast:

  BLUE MORPHAN: Beeson Carroll

  WILLIE (THE SPACE FREAK): Lee Kissman

  CISCO MORPHAN: Bernie Warkentin

  THE KID: Sticks Carlton

  SYCAMORE MORPHAN: Victor Eschbach

  The production was directed by Jeff Bleckner.

  SCENE

  Center stage is an old ’51 Chevrolet convertible, badly bashed and dented, no tires and the top torn to shreds. On the side of it is written “Kill Azusa” with red spray paint. All around is garbage, tin cans, cardboard boxes, Coca-Cola bottles and other junk. The stage is dark. Sound of a big diesel truck from a distance, then getting louder, then passing with a whoosh. As the sound passes across the stage the beam of the headlights cuts through the dark and passes across the Chevy. Silence. Soft blue moonlight comes up slowly as the sound of another truck repeats, as before, its headlights cutting through the dark. This should be a synchronized tape-light loop which repeats over and over throughout the play—the headlights sweeping past accompanied by the sound of a truck. The lights come up but maintain a full moon kind of light. The whooshing of the trucks and the passing lights keep up. A figure slowly emerges out of the back seat of the Chevy. His name is BLUE MORPHAN. He has a scraggly beard, black overcoat, blue jeans,
cowboy boots and hat and a bottle in his hand. He is slightly drunk and talks to an imaginary driver in the front seat.

  BLUE: Say listen. Did we pass Cucamunga? Didn’t we already pass it up? Listen. This here is Azusa. We must a’ passed it up. Why don’t ya’ pull up on the embankment there and let me out? Come on now. Fair’s fair. I didn’t stab ya’ or nothin’. Nobody stole yer wallet, did they? OK. So let me out like I ask ya’. That’s it. Atta’ boy. OK. Good. If I had me any loose jingle I’d sure lay it on ya’ fer gas money but I’d like to get me a cup a’ coffee. You know how it is. Thanks, boy.

  (He slowly climbs out of the back seat onto the stage, then reaches into the back and pulls out a battered guitar with broken strings.)

  If ya’ ever happen through Duarte let me know. Gimme a buzz or something. Drop me a line. ’Course ya’ don’t got the address but that’s all right. Just ask ’em fer Blue Morphan. That’s me. Anyone. Just ask any old body fer old Blue. They’ll tell ya’.

  (He pulls out an old dusty suitcase held together with rope and sets it on the ground, then a rifle.)

  I ain’t been back there fer quite a spell now but they’ll be able to direct ya’ to the stables all right. Follow the old Union Pacific till ya’ come to Fish Creek. Don’t pick up no longhairs though. Now I warned ya’. OK. OK. Do what ya’ like but I warned ya’.

  (He pulls out a broken bicycle, a fishing rod, a lantern, an inner tube, some pipe, a bag full of bolts and other junk. He keeps taking more and more stuff out of the back seat and setting it down on the stage as he talks.)

  You been driving long enough by now to tell who to pick up and who to leave lay. But if they got their thumb out you better look ’em over twice. I know. I used to drive a Chevy myself. Good car. Thing is nowadays it ain’t so easy to tell the riff-raff from the gentry. Know what I mean. You can get tricked. They can fool ya’. All kinda’ fancy over-the-head talk and all along they’re workin’ for the government same as you. I mean you might not be. Like me fer instance. I’m a free agent. Used to be a time when I’d take an agency job. Go out and bring in a few bushwackers just for the dinero. Usually a little bonus throwed in. But nowadays ya’ gotta keep to yerself. They got nerve gas right now that can kill a man in thirty seconds. Yup. A drop a’ that on the back of a man’s hand and poof! Thirty seconds. That ain’t all. They got rabbit fever, parrot fever and other stuff stored up. Used to be, a man would have hisself a misunderstanding and go out and settle it with a six-gun. Now it’s all silent, secret. Everything moves like a fever. Don’t know when they’ll cut ya’ down and when they do ya’ don’t know who done it. Don’t mean to get ya’ riled though. Too nice a night fer that. Straight, clean highway all the way from here to Tuba City. Shouldn’t have no trouble. If yer hungry though there’s a Bob’s Big Boy right up the road a piece. I don’t know if ya’ go in fer double-decker cheeseburgers or not but – Listen, tell ya’ what, long as yer hungry I’ll jest come along with ya’ a ways and we’ll chow down together. Sure. Good idea. I ain’t ate since yesterday mornin’ anyhow. Just before ya’ picked me up.

  (He starts putting all the junk back into the car.)

  Sure is nice of ya’ to help me out this a way. Don’t come across many good old boys these days. Seems like they all got a chip on the shoulder or somethin’. You noticed that? The way they swagger around givin’ ya’ that look. Like ya’ weren’t no more than a road apple or somethin’ worse. If they’d a known me in my prime it might change their tune. Hadn’t a been fer the old hooch here I’d a been in history books by now. Probably am anyhow, under a different name. They never get the name straight. Don’t matter too much anyhow. Least it don’t hurt my feelings none. ’Course yer too young to remember the Morphan brothers probably. Cisco, Sycamore, and me, Blue. The three of us. ’Course we had us a few more. Not a gang exactly. Not like these teenage hot-rodders with their Mercurys and Hudson Hornets. Leastways we wasn’t no menace. The people loved us. The real people I’m talkin’ about. The people people. They helped us out in fact. And vica versa. We’d never go rampant on nobody. Say, you oughta’ get yer tires checked before ya’ go too much further. That left rear one looks a little spongy. Can’t be too careful when yer goin’ a distance. A car’s like a good horse. You take care a’ it and it takes care a’ you.

  (WILLIE, the space freak, enters. He is young and dressed in super future clothes, badly worn and torn. Orange tights, pointed shoes, a vinyl vest with a black shirt that comes up like a hood over the back of his head. His skin is badly burned and blistered with red open sores. His head is shaved and there is a black handprint burned into the top of his skull At moments he goes into convulsive fits, his whole body shaking. He staggers on stage. BLUE sees him and stops his babble. They stare at each other for a moment.)

  I suppose yer lookin’ fer a handout or somethin’.

  (WILLIE just stares, exhausted, his sides heaving. BLUE climbs back into the back seat and disappears. His voice can still be heard.)

  That’s the trouble with you kids. Always lookin’ fer a handout. There ain’t nothin’ romantic about panhandlin’, sonny. Ye’ ain’t gonna’ run across the holy grail thataway. Anyhow ya’ come to the wrong place. This here is Azusa, not New York City.

  (BLUE’s head pops up from the back seat. He looks at WILLIE still standing there, panting.)

  “A,” “Z,” “U,” “S,” “A.” “Everything from ‘A’ to ‘Z’ in the USA.” Azusa. If yer thinking on robbin’ me a’ my worldly possessions yon can take a look for yerself. I been livin’ in this Chevy for twenty years now and I ain’t come across no diamond rings yet.

  (He disappears back down in the back seat.)

  ’Course if ya’ just wanna’ rest that’s a different story. It’s a free highway. Yer welcome to stay a spell. The driver’s seat’s mighty comfortable once ya’ get used to the springs.

  WILLIE: You Blue Morphan?

  (A pause as BLUE slowly rises, his head coming into view.)

  BLUE: What’d you call me?

  WILLIE: Is your name Blue Morphan?

  BLUE: Look, sonny, nobody knows my name or where I been or where I’m goin’. Now you better trot along.

  (He sinks back down.)

  WILLIE: I’ve traveled through two galaxies to see you. At least you could hear me out.

  (BLUE’s head comes back into view.)

  BLUE: You been hittin’ the juice or somethin’? What’s yer name, boy?

  WILLIE: They call me Willie.

  BLUE: Who’s they?

  WILLIE: The High Commission.

  BLUE: What’re ya’ shakin for? It’s a warm night. Here. Have a swig a’ this. It’ll put a tingle in ya’.

  (He offers WILLIE the bottle.)

  WILLIE: No thanks.

  BLUE: What, Apple Jack ain’t good enough for ya’, huh? Suppose you run in fancy circles or somethin’. Just a second, just a second.

  (He climbs out of the back seat and goes around to the trunk and opens it. He starts rummaging through junk in the trunk as WILLIE stands there shaking.)

  Got a couple a’ Navajo blankets here in the back somewheres. Keep ’em special fer when the wind comes up. Sometimes it blows in off the San Joaquin and gets a bit nippy. Ah, here ya’ go. This oughta’ do it.

  (He pulls out a dusty Indian blanket from the trunk and takes it over to WILLIE.)

  Here ya’ go. Here. Well, take it.

  (He offers the blanket to WILLIE, but WILLIE just stares at him, shaking and trembling.)

  You sure got yerself a case a’ the DTs there, boy. Here. Wrap this around ya’. Come on now.

  (BLUE wraps the blanket around WILLIE’s shoulders, then notices the handprint on his head.)

  What’s that ya’ got on yer head there? Some new fashion or somethin’?

  WILLIE: The brand.

  BLUE: Like they do with steers, ya’ mean? Who done it to ya’?

  WILLIE: The Sorcerers of the High Commission. It’s why I’ve come.