Authors: David Mamet
Cross Patch
Cross Patch
Draw the latch
Sit by the fire and spin.
Mother Goose
Scene:
A
meeting hall
.
Characters:
Speakers on the dais, members of the audience.
Master of Ceremonies:
. . . and of the European Section?
Assistant:
. . . ten.
M.C.:
. . . and of the Home Section?
Assistant:
Two.
M.C.:
Two of the Home?
Assistant:
Yes.
M.C.:
Two. Yes. Aaaaaaand . . . Thank you
.
(
He addresses the hall.
)
Our Friends. Of the Green Division. Thank you. I would like to introduce Doctor William J. Pierce, who is known to you.
A . . . who needs no introduction, but I will avail myself of the honor of giving him one. First in the hearts of all those who deeply love freedom—first in the fearful estimation of those who
oppose
it. You have seen him on this stage, and you have seen him in the Nation's Press. And in its consciousness. As he . . . throughout the Years since the Second . . . a veteran of three wars; holding the reserve, as you know, he . . . prefers to be addressed by his medical title . . . the reserve rank of Brigadier General in the Armed Forces of the United States. May we meditate on that for a brief instant, as he has said, from his, as I am sure you have read,
Cross Patch—The View of a Free Man,
by William J. Pierce; which is, as he has said, why he prefers to present his public face as a
citizen,
rather than a soldier. A great soldier, who wrote: “Armed: what better word to signify . . . a sense of pride, a sense of Honor, of our Sacred Charge—if we look to the Knights of Old, what did it signify? That one was
pledged to stand
—that, in assuming arms—we pledge ourselves accountable for our
acts,
for our
beliefs,
and
to
all those in our charge . . . to
stand
. . . ’til
death
. . . at our posts . . . .”
“And what source of pride,” he writes, “ . . . it gave to me . . . in our posts through the years . . . numbering thirty years . . . to say, to paraphrase, to reverse that lovely phrase written to the Corinthians, to say: ‘what I am with you frightens me, what I am
for
you comforts me.’” My friends: William J. Pierce.
The audience applauds
.
William J. Pierce
moves to the podium.
Pierce:
Mr. Chairman. My friends. What must a man feel who has won the lottery?
In papers every day.
You see a man . . . a
working man.
Who's been awarded. Some gigantic sum. Millions of . . . This man's life is changed. To his wife, to his friends he says: “I'm as I was before—the things which gave me pleasure still will do. Those things I cherish will not be affected by this great fortune . . . .”
To himself he says, “How will I change?
Surely
this sign from God” —how can he see it otherwise? Singled from millions of men, his hope
alone
blest—surely he must, in his heart, see it as a proof of divine providence, of endorsement of that secret thought (we all have had it) “I am
blessed.
I am a special man.”
Let's stop a moment here.
On one extreme you see this thought expressed in Messianic Dreams, dreams of the demagogue—illusions of grandeur . . .
And on the bottom of the scale we see those (and we see them every day) oppressed, downtrodden,
devoid
of the most minimal modicum of Self-Esteem—slunk in the gutters, in the alleyways. Cowering in jobs they despise, weak, subservient, subserviated to their inability to
avow
their desires—to be Special. To be blest. To be
singled out for the good each of us knows is in his breast.
And so we have two aberrations of the norm: Delusions of Grandeur, and, on the other hand, a suicidal wish to be ignored, to be punished, for—finally—for harboring that same wish for a Divine Love.
The ordinary man—like ourselves, let us say, . . . one day content, the next day not; in some things talented, in some things dull; full of pride, full of hidden fears, feelings of . . .
Torn Every Day
between that part of him which says “There is a god—be humble, find a meaning in this life,” and “Go your way, get those things which can give you comfort, think of nothing, simply live and die.”
This man, like you and me, when his most hidden wish
is broadcast to the world, what does he do? When, yes, the heavy hand of Providence taps him and says, “You are the one—among all—those who have watched and prayed—you are . . . ” and frees the man from want. And from material anxiety, and sets him . . . as a City on a Hill—to those in whose midst he happily toiled, and in whose happy midst he never will again . . . . This man . . . abstracted from his home, translated to a pinnacle, assaulted by
greed
. . .
fear
. . .
greed
. . .
hatred
. . .
not
unlike the Christ, for was it his goodness they hated?
All
of them were good. They killed him for that he had been preferred . . . as that man who had won a contest and had wished to win. My parallel . . . (
Pause.
)
My friends. In this world. As molecules move, as pigeons on the lawn move, as the stars in
their
predestined sway . . . so in the affairs of our so imperfect striving breed, so we are governed by forces we cannot see. Nor
ever
understand. Endorsed by Providence—why? What
course
shall we take? Our holy land? To, messianically proclaim, “Yes. Yes. I am the . . . you have waited for the one!” Or, as the abject wretch, say, “Forget me, I will not hear the call.”
Our happy land.
What course shall we . . .
Blest by a Jealous God, or blest by Random Chance with Freedom. How shall we enjoy it?
Freed from Fears . . .
Single out, yes. We must acknowledge it . . . our lives
have
changed.
The Signal of the World—that shining city . . . we can never shrink out of the world's gaze, or quiet that gaze through force.
Where can we find humility? (
Pause.
)
The force of arms. An armed man, blest by God, with the strength of
will . . .
That is, with . . .
not
blind to the essence of this life, which is, that it is fleeting. With the will to say: “Not as a gambler, rather as a
priest
I consecrate those things . . . ”
Listen to me: . . . not, not to my
possession
. . . given to my
charge
. . . as
steward
of this life . . . of those great gifts, of the eternal gift of freedom . . .
I will
guard
that trust, as of another whom I love . . .
sans
bravery or show, or the desire of praise, but through my understanding of my place. Under God. With my fellow men.
My blessing is a charge and my arms are a sign: (the bearing of arms) that I do
accept
that charge . . . as did the Knights of Old . . . I find that intersection of the pommel and the hilt
significant
. . . that cross . . . (
Pause.
)
I will take it up. I will protect that which was given to my keeping . . . with my life. So help me God. And so find happiness. Thank you.
Pierce sits amidst applause. The
M.C.
rises
.
M.C.:
And now a . . . (
Aside
.) Did we do the . . . ?
Assistant
(
Aside
): Yes.
M.C.
(
To the hall
): A Friend of our Friends, a friend of
ours,
and,
in
this time, a man who, as the Gen'ral said, is not afraid to make allegiance known: Joe Brown.
Amidst applause
Joe Brown
goes to the podium, assembles his notes.
Joe:
Thank you. Thank you all. Esteemed hosts, Brothers, Pals . . . I am reminded of a guy in Europe, a ballplayer as it happens. In the War, he's in Pigalle in Paris. He sees this hooker. A gorgeous . . . piece of ass . . . legs up to . . .
young,
alright? The . . . goes up to her—three words of French—he goes, “Combien?” She answers him, this rapid stream, he don't know what she, “blagadelablahbegela . . . ” He says, “Lentement! Lentement!” . . . and she says, “Oui!” But I'll try to be brief.
Nineteen-nineteen Arnold Rothstein, “A.R.” to his friends, Hotel Ansonia, New York. Dad was in, I believe, the Rag Trade . . . many of them
were
. . . son of a
devout
man, son . . . of course, a disappointment to him. Saw the movie? Bit the father says “kaddish,” his son is dead? A dead son. Not that bad, but almost . . . (
Pause
.)
A
multi
-millionaire, I'm talking nineteen-ten, nineteen-fifteen, in there, no, or small income tax.
Here's the thing:
Comiskey,
as we know, perhaps the finest team ever seen in professional baseball; what's the average? Six, five or six thousand bucks a year he's paying to men who, they went
elsewhere
could start at three times that. Ballplayers getting twice that, mediocre men, easily, he's starving them.
Days of the Reserve Clause. Means you work for me or you don't work. Virtual indentureship. The men were riled. Eddie Cicotte, Shoeless Joe Jackson, legends in their time.
Men up against the . . . wives, et cetera . . .
up
against the wall. National Pastime. On the one hand, everything for show, nothing for the . . . but nothing for the Boys.
Team riled, unhappy . . . tried an abortive strike, which didn't . . . Rothstein comes to them. Our largest Gambler. “Put it in the Tank,” he goes. “You lay down for the Cincinnati Reds . . . ”
Someone brings him water
.
Thank you . . .
The . . . what is this?
Waterbearer: Water.
Joe:
Thank you. Rothstein. “You throw the Series and you'll never have to work ag . . . ” (
Drinks water
.) Now. Okay. The time the series comes about it's seven-to-five Sox, six-to-five and
pick
‘em, even money, seven-to-five Reds,
eight-
to-five Reds. The word is, Cincinnati players calling out the Sox: “Is it true that you threw the game?” The rest is history.
Now: whence this seemingly new concept of advocacy for athletes? You might say nineteen-nineteen Blacksocks. You might say . . . in that same year, the Actors Union, faced with a . . .
another
strike. That same year. You . . . faced with a trans . . . faced with a transitional, I think we might say . . . between, on the one, concepts of
serfdom
. . . (let's not balk at . . . ) the idea that a man may indenture others, may, in effect, own that work; and, on the other hand, let's say, a Socialist State eschewing property entire . . . where . . . the work of the individual . . . we understand . . . what have . . . ? What have we . . . ? Between the . . . ? Between the two: A Free Market. Which, al . . . ? redounds to the benefit of . . . ? Well:
The Blacksocks said what? Abso . . . ? Ridden by guilt, nonetheless . . .
The in . . .
But could not: Chuck Comiskey (field bears his name today) “I . . . I'm the owner. They belong to me. I'll pay ‘em what I want. That's what I'll pay ‘em.” (
Pause
.)
What I would like you for
tomorrow
to:
Rationalize the . . . so we do not say, because I know that this is . . . many of you do. Others have spoken here about avoiding zero-sum.
“I win/you lose,” strategic, though, in speaking for your man, from time to time, we
must
. . . aaaand, we know, from, as an
exercise,
your:
At
the strike,
during
the strike, given intransigent behavior on the owners . . . with
Rothstein,
and with the Grand Jury: to represent
cogently, concisely,
as
Churchill
said: “Muster your arguments upon one side of a sheet of paper.” To determine.
One: what it is that my client wants. And, again, to employ, as we heard yesterday, the Method of Parameter . . .
Two: how do I Get It?
Or, ‘f you will: tactics and strategy.
Now: also: for each one of you . . . and I'd like a paper . . .
During the strike, the proposed strike, and, after the
scandal,
to present and defend Comiskey's position as the owner of the club.
A
questioner on the floor raises his hand
.
Yes.
Questioner:
Was the club wholly owned?
Joe:
Wholly owned by Comiskey. Yes.
Another Questioner.
Questioner II:
How long should the paper be?
Joe:
You're representing a man. How long should your fight be? (
Pause.
)
The Romans had a law, the name of which now escapes me, and you've heard of it before, that the test, the prime
test of
negligence
in
agency
was this: put as a question to a reasonable man, eh? Did the agent prosecute his client's interests
better
than he would have acted for his own. The name of that law was?
Man in hall:
Lex agencia.
Joe:
Thank you. Mr. Sloan . . . ?
Joe
retires to his seat, another man takes his place at the podium.
Sloan
(
Pause
): When we get home we will find things have changed. At once, at once things change and our
view
of them alters. So that a Static State is an illusion.