June Moon

at the Globe. He used to have to carry her in. Paul She never took a drink when I knew her. Lucille I can vouch for that. Paul Jumping up from the piano. This is the last time I’ll work with Fagan! I rewrite two whole bars of the melody for him, and when I ask him to change one word of his lyric, he squawks. He’s got it “as a rose in June,” and I want him to make it “as roses in June.” Listen⁠—here’s his way he plays and sings: “As a rose in June.” And here’s the way I want it: “As roses in June.” All the difference in the world. Lucille Wearily. It sounds just the same to me. Paul My way gives me a triplet and makes it twice as effective! Listen! Starts hitting the same old notes. Lucille Oh, isn’t that enough? Paul stops. Must I sit around all night listening to that? Paul Why don’t you go out? You could go out if you want to. Lucille Who with? Paul You could go out with Eileen. You and her could go somewhere. Lucille You know she’s got a date with Hart. I suppose you want me trailing along. Paul Well, I explained to you I can’t go no place, with this fella coming up. I told you a dozen times. Lucille I don’t expect you to take me anywhere, except maybe for a walk around the block. That’s free. Paul I don’t enjoy laying around here no more than you do. I’m not a nun. Lucille That’s the first I’ve heard about it. Paul You wait till this number gets over. We’ll go everywhere then. Lucille Tiredly. Oh, sure! Paul You haven’t heard it played yet. It’ll be another “Paprika.” Did I tell you what Dave Stamper said about it? Lucille Quickly. Yes! Paul Just as though she’d said “No.” He said it was another “Paprika.” You wait till you hear it played. Dave Stamper says it’s sure fire. Back to his “playing” again. Lucille The silliest thing in the world to me is a man trying to be a composer when he can’t even play “Chopsticks.” Paul I can play as good as I need to. I can play as good as Berlin, and he’s turned out twice as many hits as anybody. Lucille He knows what people want. He appeals to the women. Paul It ruins a composer to play the piano too good. They depend on fancy harmony and tempo, instead of pretty melodies. Lucille Giving up. All right. Paul His eye drawn to the newspaper. Did you read that thing from that Boston paper about Pretty Polly? They say Gershwin hasn’t given them one tune. He’s pretty pleased about it, too. Ten years from now, nobody’ll know there was a Gershwin. He won’t live. Lucille At least he won’t starve to death. Paul It was me that was responsible for Gershwin getting his start. I brought him and Georgie White together. Lucille Simply not listening. Why can’t you see this man in the daytime instead of asking him up here? Paul Because I don’t want him to come in the office yet, that’s why. I’m keeping him under cover till I get rid of Fagan. Lucille If there’s one thing that’ll round out my day, it’s entertaining a lyric-writer. Paul This fella ain’t like the rest of them. He’s got a fresh slant. Take fellas like Fagan, that’s been around Broadway all their life, and all their lyrics sound just alike. If Fagan gave me a new idea, I’d drop dead. But this fella’s got a fresh slant. Lucille Fagan would drop even deader if you gave him a new tune. Paul I gave him “Paprika,” didn’t I? Lucille That’s so long ago I don’t see how you remember it. Paul Old man Goebel remembers it, and so does Hart. They made enough money out of it. Lucille The eternal wife. Everybody makes money but you. Paul Yes, they do! There’s plenty fellas around the club that’s just as flat as I am. Lucille Ever so brightly. That makes everything all right. Paul I’ll tell you who’s got money, if you want to know, and that’s Stevens. Lucille Who? Paul This lyric-writer, Stevens. He’s got money. Lucille A lot of good that’ll do me. Paul He’s a nice kid, too. His eye falls on his watch. If Eileen’s got a date with Hart, why don’t she keep it? It’s half past eight. Lucille Don’t you worry about that. Paul What about him and her, anyway? If she’s engaged to him, aren’t they ever going to get married? Lucille You’ll know as soon as there’s anything to know. Paul He’ll wriggle off the hook some way. If you ask me he’s getting tired of her already. Lucille With sudden interest. What makes you think so? Paul Just the luck I’m running in. If I ever marry again, it’ll be a woman without a sister. Lucille She don’t cost you much, and she’s company for me. Paul What’s the matter with her getting a job somewheres? The telephone rings. Lucille Yeah. You ought to be able to place her, with your influence. Paul

At the telephone. Hello.⁠ ⁠… Oh, hello, Maxie!

There enters, from the rear rooms, Eileen. She has been drawn by the ring of the telephone, and comes on eagerly, expectantly. She is a young woman in her late twenties, and has plenty of good old-fashioned sex appeal. But with it she is a bit hard, a trifle worldly. She wears a good-looking and rather revealing negligee, and is carrying what seems to be an evening dress, on which she has been sewing, or trying to sew. She stops short as she senses that the phone call is not for her; relaxes. From her mouth comes a cloud of cigarette smoke. Paul, of course, has kept right on with his phone conversation.

Sure⁠—going to be here all evening.⁠ ⁠… All right.⁠ ⁠… Fine! He hangs up; turns to Lucille. Maxie’s coming over. Wait till you hear him play it⁠—a gesture toward his music⁠—then you’ll see!

Eileen