THE INTRODUCTION TO LASZLO
A Hypothetical Exchange
Scott Chamberlin
LASZLO falls heavily under the pool table, followed (after a beat) by
the 13-ball, (after two more beats) the eight-ball, and (after three
excruciating beats) the cue-ball. Each lands squarely on his forehead.
LASZLO
Ow.
BILL
(off-camera)
Scratch, man, you scratched. And you lose.Big BILL and his two
groupies, SLIM and TIM, walk victoriously to various tables that hold
stacks of coins and bills. They take off their hats and slide the money
into them. Slim walks up to Bill, and in a smooth "gimme-five"
gesture slaps the money from his hat into Bill’s.
SLIM
(joyously)
Shit, man!
BILL
Shit!
Tim comes around the pool table to do the same, but he trips on
LASZLO just as his hat swings downward and misses Bill’s altogether.
The money hits the floor — the bills landing in a pile and the coins
rolling everywhere.
TIM
Shit!
Coins roll around LASZLO, who, from his position on the floor, sees
MONIQUE enter the bar. He gasps and slithers sideways, underneath the
table, to hide from her.
BILL
(off-camera)
Get all that money!
Under the table, LASZLO picks up coins. Slim comes within arm’s
reach and scowls at LASZLO, who offers him the coins. Slim grabs the
money, but, curiously out of character, returns a moment later and sets
LASZLO’s enormous martini glass near his head. LASZLO looks at Slim,
at the glass, at Slim, at the glass, and then nods his head in thanks.
He crosses his ankles and makes himself comfortable out of Monique’s
sight. The carpet is a rough, bleak texture.
BILL
(taking fistfuls of money)
Catch you cats later. I gotta split.
TIM
Cool.
SLIM
Shit, man!
BILL
Shit. Bye.
He exits.
Slim and Tim forget Bill immediately as Monique saunters cat-like
across the room, her own eyes fixed on LASZLO’s expensive shoes
sticking out underneath the pool table.
She is dressed in a long, fitted overcoat, beneath which a
fishnet-stockings-and-high-heels ensemble is visible — utterly clichÈ,
but very effective. Monique is the absolute center of attention, the
only thing moving in the room: relishing this, she walks with
exaggerated grace. But as she rounds the pool table, she slips on a
spilled drink and falls next to LASZLO. The camera follows her left
foot, which lands near the martini glass but does not knock it over.
After a long beat, the foot quite deliberately topples the glass so that
the martini mingles with LASZLO’s hair. LASZLO sighs.
MONIQUE
PathËtique!
Monique, disgusted, gets up and brushes her coat with her hands.
Without looking back at LASZLO, she walks across the room with
ridiculous grace, limping slightly, and exits. The dozen or so people in
the room crane their heads in order to watch her all the way out the
door, and for a moment everyone is completely still. After a beat, one
of them, ARTURO, gets up and helps LASZLO to his feet. (Arturo is
soft-spoken, and speaks so slowly that people think he is drugged. His
heavy eyelids seem to confirm this presumption.)
As they begin to converse, the other patrons lose interest and normal
bar-room activity resumes in the background. A bartender comes in with a
mop; a customer picks up the three escaped pool-balls and begins
preparing the table for a new game.
ARTURO
Man, sorry about all that. You know, uh — she doesn’t deserve you
anyway.LASZLO
(miserably)
Aw, man. That’s a joke.
ARTURO
She’s not right for you. She doesn’t even speak English.
LASZLO
She speaks French, German, Russian, Greek, and Romani.
ARTURO
Romani?
LASZLO
She’s a Gypsy.
ARTURO
Wow.
(Beat.)
ARTURO
If that’s a Gypsy, I wanna be one too.
LASZLO
(ironically)
Thanks for your help.
LASZLO crosses the room and picks up a smashed hat from the floor,
shakes liquid from it, and places it delicately on his wet head.
LASZLO
Anyway.
ARTURO
Anyway, you are a married man.
They take black umbrellas and long coats from a coat-rack, and walk
out of the room together. They enter a much larger room, an opulent,
long black-tie waiter tablecloth kind of restaurant. As they walk
through the place, LASZLO manages to get in the way of all waiters and
many of the patrons.
ARTURO
Besides. You said it yourself, she is allergic to animals and ... and
... doesn’t like to go outdoors, camping or hiking, and ...
LASZLO
She is a concert pianist, a social worker, wealthy, and a –Without
noticing it, they stumble into Monique and MYRNA (LASZLO’s wife), who
is red with fury.
LASZLO
(his face going white)
Myrna!
MYRNA
You bastard!
LASZLO
Myrna! But what is wrong, my sweet nothing? You, Monique! What did
you tell her? I swear, Myrna, whatever it is, it’s a lie!Myrna slaps
LASZLO with such force that he loses his footing and falls, landing with
his head underneath a table. Elegant diners spring from their chairs —
some horrified, some laughing at the flying figure of LASZLO. An
elegant, ELDERLY GENTLEMAN, is among the most amused.
ELDERLY GENTLEMAN
I say! A formidable blow!
He leans down gracefully, offers his hand to
LASZLO.
Elderly Gentleman
Even on the receiving end, it’s hard not to enjoy a good shot from
a woman, isn’t it?LASZLO takes his hand, but the Gentleman is weak,
and his pull sends LASZLO’s forehead into the table with a mighty
bonk.
NEARBY PATRON
(laughing since LASZLO’s fall)Bonk! Ha, ha!
ELDERLY GENTLEMAN
Terribly sorry, sir. Really, I insist...
LASZLO
(To no one in particular)
Ohhhhh. God damn your mothers.
LASZLO picks himself up and walks out the front door, onto a snowy,
blustering urban street. Arturo follows.
ARTURO
The sad thing is, this is a normal day for guys like us.
LASZLO
Tell me about it.
ARTURO
You really want to hear it?
LASZLO
Why would I ask you if I didn’t want to know?
ARTURO
Okay, I’ll tell you.LASZLO
Actually, it was a figure of speech — I don’t want to know. But
go ahead and tell me while we walk.LASZLO removes his hat and rubs his
head. As usual, Arturo speaks slowly and laboriously. He is endearing
and sincere, but not recommended for the impatient listener.
ARTURO
Okay, listen. So, earlier tonight, before I came to the bar —
LASZLO
My head is freezing.
ARTURO
It should be. That was a cold martini Monique kicked on your head.
Anyway, I’m at my desk —
LASZLO
An expensive martini. I lost $500 at pool, plus my
extraordinary Gypsy girlfriend, and my wife.
ARTURO
You can’t count your wife. You lost her years ago.
LASZLO
But at least I had her respect. Now I’ve even lost that.Arturo
looks at him, puzzled.
LASZLO
Okay, so I lost $500, a good martini, and one girlfriend. It’s not
a good night for a guy my age.They take several thoughtful steps in the
snow.
Arturo
Why was she mad, anyway. Your wife, I mean.
LASZLO
Myrna? Because Monique told her about us in public.
Several more footsteps in the snow.
LASZLO
So, what happened to you?
ARTURO
I was sitting at my desk —
LASZLO
My head is frozen.
He removes his hat and looks at Arturo.
ARTURO
My god, you’re right!Arturo knocks on LASZLO’s frozen hair.
LASZLO, satisfied with the confirmation, replaces his frozen hat. It
slides on perfectly.
ARTURO
Anyway, earlier tonight. It’s already dark and cold in my room. The
radiator can’t keep up; it’s not powerful enough.
LASZLO
(Slowly, cold, so cold)
Don’t talk about radiators.
ARTURO
And I’m sitting there, trying to write this schlock I call
literature. I used to call it literature, but now I don’t know what to
call it. These words.
LASZLO
(Slowly)
I see.
ARTURO
And I’m sitting there, and I look at my highball glass, full of
whiskey and ice. So I think, how fucking ironic! I’m as cold as hell
and, still, I put ice in my glass. Why?
LASZLO
(Slowly)
Tell me about it. It’s the story of my life.
ARTURO
But, see, it gets worse. So I’m looking through the brown liquid at
the things in my room — the lamp, the computer, the pen, the radiator
—
LASZLO (Slowly)
Fucking cold.
ARTURO
— and I think, is this my drink? I’m a writer, typing away, and
my companion is this glass of whiskey — a clichÈ. And it’s a
clichÈ so old that it’s a clichÈ to call it a clichÈ. So whose
glass is it? My father’s? Or Cheever’s? Fitzgerald’s? Poe’s?
Hemingway’s? And I go, Jesus, is this my typewriter? My hat and coat?
My lamp? My light? My heat? My cold? It’s the same fucking shit that
every hack writer since Shakespeare has had. So then I look at my hand,
even, pick up a pen and look at my own hand.
LASZLO
Brrrr.
ARTURO
Jesus, man. Are you okay? You look like you’re dying.
LASZLO
I don’t know.ARTURO
So, then, of course, I think, whose words are these? They’re not
mine; they’re just some borrowed stock phrases, some kind of recycled
oil that, uh.
LASZLO
(Slowly)
Oil. I don’t get it, man. I’m lost.LASZLO has been completely
reduced: he now huddles inside his overcoat, walks with short, labored
steps, and breathes heavily. His eyes are downcast and distant and he
speaks through his teeth.
ARTURO
My words, like recycled oil, in the crank-case, the engine of ... I
don’t know, the motor of my spirit, that churns out interpret ...
interpretation of ...LASZLO is not listening.
Arturo
I’ve lost track. I’m sorry. LASZLO, man, pull yourself together.
Your imminent death is really distracting.
LASZLO
Not funny.
ARTURO
(laughing brightly)
I’m sorry. You’re right.They turn together down an avenue, and
pass the open door of a bar. Several put-together men and women come out
of the bar and LASZLO and Arturo have to navigate through them. One of
them, a very large man, pauses to put on his coat; the effort quickly
becomes a struggle as an arm gets tangled somehow within. Now he tries
to extricate himself from the twisted garment, pulling with great force,
and finally sends his elbow straight for LASZLO’s forehead. But LASZLO,
in a surprising burst of energy, blocks the elbow with his own forearm
and then falls back against a brick wall.
LASZLO
(to Arturo)
That would have been the end of old LASZLO.
MAN
Pardon me, please. Terribly, terribly sorry.
LASZLO
(amicably, but through his teeth)
Of course.
The group leaves and LASZLO and Arturo are left alone in the cold
darkness. LASZLO stares at Arturo with empty eyes.
ARTURO
We’re going inside.LASZLO’s face is blank.
ARTURO
I’m taking you in there.
LASZLO
(blankly and emptily)
What good would that do?
ARTURO
(smiling)
Well... here. Take off your hat.
Arturo takes off LASZLO’s hat and hands him a comb.
ARTURO
Can you comb your hair a little bit?
LASZLO
Are you kidding?
Arturo feels LASZLO’s hair; it is still frozen.
ARTURO
God damn. Jesus, man, your face is turning blue.
LASZLO
(brightens)
Like the rest of me, man.
ARTURO
Okay, man. This is serious, come here a second.
He looks around to make sure no one is around, grabs LASZLO’s arm,
and drags him into a nearby darkened doorway. He lets him fall back
against the door so that he is in exactly the same position as before.
ARTURO
This is serious. Here.
LASZLO looks at Arturo in astonishment as Arturo reaches over and
begins to rub his head — almost violently, like an out-of-control,
passive-aggressive barber giving a furious shampoo. LASZLO’s head is
tossed back and forth and his face is contorted in every conceivable
configuration by the force of this strange massage, which has no sign of
tenderness but is nevertheless strangely intimate. After a minute or so,
Arturo stops.
LASZLO
Jesus! Shit!
ARTURO
Sorry, LASZLO, but I had to do it. It’s a trick I learned in the
army. Friction creates warmth, and now you feel better. Right?
LASZLO
Well, yeah. Physically, anyway. But I think I’m emotionally
scarred.He stands up straight, smiles and stretches his back slightly,
punches Arturo collegially in the shoulder. He is reinvigorated, but his
hair looks like a cross between a mop and a circus clown wig.
ARTURO
Works every time. Your brain thawed?
LASZLO
Yes.
ARTURO
Now try to comb your hair.
LASZLO
Okay.
He combs his disastrous mop until it looks almost normal again. As he
puts the comb down, several women and men pass by, looking young and
impressive. LASZLO could almost fit in.
ARTURO
Now you know what to do.
LASZLO
I guess I do.
Hat in hand, LASZLO enters the bar, swinging the door wide like a
conqueror. Arturo catches the door but he finds himself staring into
LASZLO’s face again.
LASZLO
Wait – will this solve your problem?
ARTURO
What problem?
LASZLO
I don't know, the problem with the whiskey glass.
ARTURO
(laughing)
I doubt it!
Arturo follows LASZLO through the door, and they enter a hip bar full
of fashionable people. But they are barely inside before a flying purse
hits LASZLO in the face, knocking him flat on his back. His hat lands
nearby.
LASZLO
(uninjured)
Shit, man!
ARTURO
Shit!
They smile, put themselves back together, and head into the crowd.
All the adventures of Arturo & LASZLO & Monique & Myrna
are registered ©2000-2002, and the not-so-intellectual property of
Scott Chamberlin.
