by Darius James
BUBBLES
Leaping lizards!
INT: Donald Goines Senior High—Corridor—Day
The corridor’s physical structure combines the utilitarian interiors of a public school building with the depressed exteriors of a ghetto slum. The mood is chaotic circus funk.
Tin whistles toot. Bass lines wa-wa. And students bark woof-woof-woof.
At the rear of the seemingly ceilingless corridor is a gun tower, enclosed by barbed wire, a cyclone fence, and a pack of slavering Doberman pinschers. Inside the gun tower, a GUNNER sits behind a brace of machine guns. The sign of the gun tower reads in punctured block letters:
The corridor’s column of lockers is a dazzle of wildstyle designs: multicolored sprays of Vaughn Bodé nymphs entangled inside gnarled, Escheresque girders who fellate duck-billed home boys with floating thought balloons of musical notations and fried chicken parts above their heads. Huge posters of Marcus Garvey, Malcolm X, and Bob Marley are wheat-pasted all along the hall. Black, red, and green sewer steam billows from a manhole cover sunk into the floor. The front end of a car with a drinking fountain built into its toothy chrome grill projects from a wall. Iron grates are pulled across the doors. Sections of the wall are crumbling, and bricks are strewn about the floor. Neon BAR, PAWN SHOP, JESUS SAVES, and HOT PORK CHOPS AND COLD BEER signs flash in distracting sequence.
Throngs of students congest the corridor smoking resinous Rasta spliffs; inhaling in brown paper bags sticky with airplane glue; snorting smack from tiny, waxed-paper sacks; drinking pints of Wild Irish Rose; sucking tubes of crack; fighting with razors; firing pistols; dry humping each other against lockers; hawking stolen goods; miscarrying half-formed fetuses; singing gospel; and wailing the blues.
A 200-pound BLACK MUSLIM, in a well-tailored suit and maroon bow tie, stands, like a ringmaster, in the center of the corridor’s confusion, with a bundle of newspapers under his arm. He holds up a copy of Muhammad Speaks, with a “Whitie the Devil” cartoon on its front cover: A horned Uncle Sam stabs a pious black minister in the ass with the prongs of a flaming trident. The cartoon is captioned, “Amerikkka is hell, nigger!”
200-POUND BLACK MUSLIM
Paper, brutha? Don’cho’ wan’ a paper? Whatsamatta? Whyte man stole y’mind ’n’ put a hole in yo’ soul? C’mon, brutha—do fo’ sef! Ah buys a bundle ever’ week! Ah jus’ luz doze cartoons! D’way dey be makin’ d’whyte man look lak d’debil ’n’ shit—y’know, wid dem horns, dat tail, ’n’ dem freakie feets—ah be laffin’ ’til my ass shake!
The Muslim bursts into laughter, his rotund ass shaking like a bowl of Jell-O.
Bottles, bricks, and Afro picks whiz past Bubbles’ head as she wanders through an assemblage of robotic POPLOCKERS. A HUMAN DRUM MACHINE belches to the beat.
200-POUND BLACK MUSLIM
Or how ’bout some Shabazz Bean Pie, brutha? It be good fo’ stabilizin’ yo’ blacktitude. Did you know, affa eatin’ a slice o’ bean pie, some bruthas have been known to fart all four sides of Brutha Miles’ Bitches Brew out dey butts? The stench be so foul and unholy, the Honorable Elijah Muhammad hisself awakes wide-eyed in his coffin!
The Gunner fires a spray of bullets into the crew of POPPERS, LOCKERS, and HEAD-SPINNERS. Blood spurts. Eyeballs fly. Heads explode. Jaws shatter. Intestines dangle. All in disgusting Dawn of the Dead detail.
SFX: Machine-gun fire from the soundtrack of the 1974 SLA shoot-out news footage.
The 200-pound Black Muslim is riddled with bullets from head to toe. Blood oozes from his wounds and down his suit. Half his face is ripped away. With ribbons of flesh flapping against exposed bone, the Muslim quakes with laughter. He then falls face forward to the floor. And farts. Loudly. The seat of his pants flutters in flatulent winds. A brown nuclear cloud hangs over him. He utters—
200-POUND BLACK MUSLIM
. . . bean pie, brutha.
—and dies.
Unharmed, unbloodied, and, apparently, invulnerable, the oblivious Bubbles doesn’t even notice. Three grunting, pig-snouted POLICE OFFICERS blackjack a black-bereted student with a “RESURRECT HUEY!” button pinned to the lapel of his black leather jacket. A gush of his brain pulp flies by. Bubbles doesn’t notice this either.
A CHICKEN leaps from behind and lands on her shoulder. She cringes. The chicken squawks and drops to the floor. A lanky TEEN with a protruding Adam’s apple steps around Bubbles, following the chicken. He leans low to the floor with his hands shoved in his pockets, his elbows crooked and flapping. He has one eye open and the other eye closed.
SFX: Hard, metallic whir.
Bubbles’ ears perk to attention. The whir builds to a grating metal-grinding pitch. The sound sets Bubbles’ teeth on edge.
A ROLLER DERBY QUEEN skates behind Bubbles, circling around and around. On the front of the Roller Queen’s black, red, and green jersey, embroidered around a soft-sculpture relief of Aunt Jemima’s face in a waxing crescent moon, are the words:
AUNT JEMIMA’S FLAPJACK NINJA-KILLERS FROM HELL
A pair of crossed gold spatulas tattoo a breast thrusting through the jersey’s elastic opening. The Ninja Queen grins. Her nipple stiffens. The Ninja Queen rolls around and around. She appears and disappears. Her wheels slow to a stop. She and Bubbles stand nose to nose.
The Ninja Queen spits.
The worm of spit doesn’t squirm down Bubbles’ cheek. It sticks.
The Ninja Queen turns and rolls away. Bubbles stands in the corridor with the clot of mucus stuck to her cheek, fumbling for a tissue in her pockets. Finding none, she tries to finger it from her face. As she stares in disgust at the viscid slime on her fingertip, a firecracker snaps above her head.
Bubbles walks through a hail of bottles, bricks, and more Afro picks to a door marked “GIRLS.” The letters on the door have been slashed with a pen knife and the word “HOZE” has been carved in its place. She opens the door and walks in.
INT. Donald Goines Senior High—Girls’ lavatory—Day.
EIGHT FLAPJACK NINJA QUEENS—outfitted in shoulder and knee pads, roller skates, and one-breast jerseys—slouch against the back wall. Joints are passed and smoked.
FLAPJACK 0
. . . an apple in a baby’s fist, my ass! It look more like a gross green grub wif a marble in its mouf! I mean you shoulda heard dis nigga! He say “Ah knows d’ham hocks mus’ be hot, ’cause d’grits be bubblin’ in d’pot!” Da nigga’s eyes roll back in his head, his lashes start to flappin’, an’ da nigga screamed, “Good Gawd, girl! D’greens is greasy now!” An’ I thought, “Would you listen to dis no-dick country fool!”
FLAPJACK 00
Den why you give him some den?
FLAPJACK 0
Well, girl, you know how it—
As Bubbles walks into the lavatory, the Ninja Queens turn and greet her with icy stares. Bubbles pauses with her back pressed against the door.
Ignoring them, Bubbles walks to the row of porcelain sinks lining the right wall. Above the sinks, a horizontal mirror extends from one end of the wall to the other. In the mirror, she examines the stiff blob stuck to her silver disks.
FLAPJACK 25
I see Miss Ann’s come to use the can!
Bubbles watches the Ninja Queens’ reflection in the mirror.
FLAPJACK 6
She act like she don’t shit ’cause she can’t find paper soft enough to wipe her ass with.
FLAPJACK 0
I wonder if she know how?
FLAPJACK 6
Miss Ann—you know how to shit?
Bubbles’ mouth is a jittering black line. Watching the Ninja Queens’ reflection in the mirror, she cautiously reaches inside her jacket for the straight razor. Suddenly realizing this could prove quite fatal, especially to herself, she lets the razor slide back.
FLAPJACK 25
Looks like this girl could use a little toilet trainin’.
FLAPJACK 42
Yeah! Funky entertainment—steamin’ hot!
FLAPJACK 25
&nbs
p; Drag her hunkie ass over here and let’s get on with it!
The Ninja Queens separate into two groups. Four skate to the middle of the lavatory. The remainder roll to the row of sinks.
Flapjack 13 rolls to Bubbles and grabs her by the braids, yanking her around. Bubbles shoves her across the floor. Rolling backward, Flapjack 13 falls on her ass.
BUBBLES
Get your filthy monkey paws off of me!
Flapjack 13 heaves herself off the floor with a gleeful bloodlust in her eyes.
FLAPJACK 13
Miss Ann wants to jump baad! G’on widja pale, assless self, Miss Ann. Jump!
With a deft Ali shuffle on her roller skates, Flapjack 13 spins her fists, giving Bubbles a push. Bubbles pushes back.
BUBBLES
I said keep your fucking monkey paws off of me!
Flapjack 13 stops. Frowns. Pouts.
FLAPJACK 13
Who you callin’ “monkey,” hunkie?
BUBBLES
Who you callin’ “hunkie,” monkey?
FLAPJACK 13
You! BITCH!
Grinning, Bubbles squints in defiance. She boldly walks up to Flapjack 13. The two girls stand tit to tit.
BUBBLES
Felch me.
The Ninja Queens goad them on in the background.
FLAPJACK NINJA QUEENS
(o.s.)
Whoooo-ooooo! That’s nasty! Tonja, you gon’ take that offa whyte girl?!
Flapjack 13’s eyebrow cocks in confusion.
FLAPJACK 13
What “ ‘felchin’ ”?
BUBBLES
A verb! Y’dumb, corn-bread-crunchin’ coon!
The remark churns fears, frustrations, and animosities that Flapjack 13 cannot name nor Bubbles understand. She slaps Bubbles across the face, streaking her hand with the clot of snot. The rope of snot finally drops.
FLAPJACK 13
Corn bread good! Tonja like corn bread! And pig tails, too! Like dat funky singa say, It make Tonja happy!
FLAPJACK 25
(o.s.)
You talk about Tonja’s corn bread and pigtails, it’s just like you talkin’ about Tonja mama!
FLAPJACK 13
Don’t you talk about my mama!
Bubbles’ eyes are round with disbelief. She backs away.
BUBBLES
Oh, shit! This steroid-swollen he-bitch is about to go berserk! (Help!)
Flapjack 13 swings her arms in blind fury, charges like an angry bull, and stumbles over her roller skates. She hits the floor.
FLAPJACK 13
Umph!
As she gets up, Bubbles jumps on her back and rides her like a rodeo bronco-buster.
The gang of Ninja Queens tosses lit matches at Bubbles as she lurches on the enraged Flapjack 13’s padded shoulders.
FLAPJACK NINJA QUEENS
Kill that bitch! Kick the whyte out her ass! Where’s the lighter fluid? Let’s set that bitch on fire!
Flapjack 13’s back bucks up and down. Bubbles pulls her hair, gouges her eyes, and bites her nose. Choking her in a headlock, Bubbles leans over and bites her exposed black breast.
BUBBLES
Chomp!
FLAPJACK 13
(screaming)
D’biddie bit m’tittie!
Flapjack 13 swings her shoulders back and forth like a set of tavern doors. As she attempts to flip Bubbles to the floor, jerking her back in a downward swoop, Flapjack 13 falls to the floor herself. Bubbles lands in a tangle on top of her, scissoring the Ninja Queen’s head between her thighs. The Ninja Queen bites Bubbles in the V of her Spandex crotch. Blond hairs sprout from the tear.
In disgust, Flapjack 25 shoves Bubbles off of Flapjack 13. She points to the middle of the floor.
FLAPJACK 25
(o.s.)
Enough of this bullshit. Drag her hunkie ass over there.
Six Ninja Queens drag Bubbles across the tiles by the braids of her hair. Flapjack 25 watches with her fists propped on her hips. Flapjack 13 whimpers in a corner, massaging her bruised breast. The Ninja Queens form a half circle around Bubbles. Switchblades are flicked in a clockwise direction.
Click! Click! Click!
FLAPJACK 25
(o.s.)
Stand up!
Bubbles stands.
FLAPJACK 25
(o.s.)
Now piss, bitch!!
The Ninja Queens prod Bubbles with the points of their blades. Dewlike gold drops glisten on the blond shoots of her pubic hair. And trickle down her leg.
Bubbles sinks into the widening yellow puddle on the floor. Tears bead on her ovals of silver greasepaint. Medium shot of Bubbles folded in a fetal ball on the floor with a row of muscular brown legs behind her.
FLAPJACK 19
(o.s.)
What is that devilish mess caked on her face?
FLAPJACK 54
(o.s.)
Magically converging uteri equalizing her aura’s balance of negative and positive energies.
FLAPJACK 19
(o.s.)
Why she do that?
FLAPJACK 54
(o.s.)
What else is a whyte girl to do in a school full of jigaboos?
FADE
INT. Brownstone—Hall—Late Afternoon.
SFX: Tumblers clicking in door lock.
Bubbles enters the brownstone’s darkened hallway, closing the door behind her. With a languid sweep of her hand, she flips the switch on the wall to the right of the door, illuminating the hall with a weak overhead bulb. The brownstone is dark and quiet, and its furnishings are veiled in still shadows. Its sibilant hush lulls her into sleepy lethargy. She slumps against the door.
Blood entwined with strings of saliva drool off her lumped lower lip. Mucus and tears stain her cheeks in a smear of silver rivulets.
Finally, Bubbles treads the length of the hallway’s corridor with all the exhausted vitality of a zombie toiling in the Haitian cane fields, her keys jingling between pinched fingers.
SFX: The jingle of door keys. The clump of boots on the carpet.
She stops at the staircase facing the living room and clicks the light switch at the foot of the stairs. Dazed, she climbs the stairs with plodding Frankenstein footfalls. At the head of the stairs, she stares down the corridor of the second-floor landing. A drip splashes in the distance, muted.
Bubbles walks in the direction of the persistent drip, drip, drip with uneasy caution. She stops at her bedroom’s half-open door, hearing a squish beneath her boot. She looks down.
Diluted blood has seeped into the carpet. Her neck is splashed.
She looks up. Blanketed in frost, a frozen chicken thaws at the end of a wire nailed to the top of the door frame. Close-up of blood dripping from the chicken’s ass end.
Bubbles is splashed with blood. It dribbles across her nose and into her ear, cutting strange designs in the silver smear. Pull back from close shot of Bubbles’ face dotted with beads of blood and silver.
CUT TO:
INT. Brownstone—Bathroom—Late afternoon.
Medium shot of Bubbles in a bathroom fogged with steam. She lounges in a tub heaped with suds, an arm and a leg hanging over the side. A joint smolders between her fingertips.
Bubbles lifts the joint to her swollen mouth. Stoned and drowsy, she strains to keep her eyes open. She nods and drops the joint into the bathwater. Her eyes open and narrow, rolling in suspicion. Finally, she falls asleep.
Dolly in to steam wafting around her head and blur to dissolve.
INT. White Womb Theater.
The Womb Theater’s stage is curtained with the membranes of dried afterbirth. Its white gauze-covered walls curve like the inside of an eggshell. Its floor is flat and tiled with a high-polish white plastic.
Bubbles, onstage, is trapped inside a bank of tapiocalike gel with large, luminous worms squirming inside its translucent sacs. The gel sticks to the contours of her body like a weird uncontrolled fungus. It encases her neck, the back of her h
ead, her arms, ankles, and rib cage. Her knees are propped up, bent, and spread. Her blond valentine mons gleams in the footlights.
Sheathed in a white silk glove, a HAND reaches between her thighs and withdraws a WHITE RABBIT. In a white, short-coated tuxedo, a WITCH DOCTOR holds the rabbit in the air with his hand balled around its ears. He grins.
SFX: Hand-pounding, foot-stomping, whistles, and cheers.
The Witch Doctor crouches over Bubbles. His skin is coal black. His eyes are yoke yellow and the size of duck eggs. The corners of his red, rubbery mouth bubble with greenish foam. Flies feed off the drool hanging from his filed yellow teeth. His wiry hair spits straight into the air.
With her eyes bulging in terror, Bubbles turns away and looks into the audience—
JACK JOHNSON in pugilist pose, wearing boxing trunks and gloves; MARCUS GARVEY and HIS FOLLOWERS in paramilitary dress; STEPIN FETCHIT sharing a spliff with BOB MARLEY; DUKE ELLINGTON with GEORGE CLINTON and his P-FUNK MOB; SONNY LISTON; ROSA PARKS; BILL “BOJANGLES” ROBINSON; an empty lunch counter; the JACKSON 5; ADAM CLAYTON POWELL, JR.; BESSIE SMITH; JAMES BALDWIN; BOBO BRAZIL; ELDRIDGE CLEAVER; SHIRLEY TEMPLE in pickaninny blackface; CHARLIE “YARDBIRD” PARKER; AUNT JEMIMA; HATTIE MCDANIEL; BUTTERFLY MCQUEEN; LOUISE BEAVERS; LITTLE STEVIE WONDER; BIG STEVIE WONDER; STOKELY CARMICHAEL; MIRIAM MAKEBA; MUHAMMAD ALI; CASSIUS CLAY; NINA SIMONE; MOMS MABLEY; ANGELFOOD MCSPADE; BOBBY SEALE; JAMES BROWN; ZOMBEEZI; PRINCE RANDIAN “THE CATERPILLAR MAN”; AMIRI BARAKA; LEROI JONES; WILLIE BEST; FATHER DIVINE; WILLIE MAYS; MA RAINEY; GENERAL BENJAMIN O. DAVIS; the nine SCOTTSBORO BOYS; HOWLIN’ WOLF; DIZZY GILLESPIE; the GOLD DUST TWINS; BUCK and BUBBLES; RAY CHARLES; MARIE LAVEAU; RUDY RAY MOORE; LOUIS ARMSTRONG with the KING OLIVER CREOLE JAZZ BAND; RICHARD PRYOR; DONALD GOINES; JOE LOUIS; AMOS, ANDY, the KING FISH, and NICK O’DEMUS as “LIGHTNIN” ’; ANGELA DAVIS; the NEW ORLEANS ZULU KREWE; EMMETT TILL; CAB CALLOWAY; MISSISSIPPI JOHN HURT; ELIJAH MUHAMMAD; UNCLE REMUS; PAUL ROBESON; REDD FOXX; HUEY LEDBETTER; FLAMBEAU TORCHBEARERS; CLARENCE MUSE; MALCOLM X; JIMMY “J. J.” WALKER; UNCLE BEN; MELVIN VAN PEEBLES; LOUIS FARRAKHAN; FARINA; PEETIE WHEATSTRAW; MANTAN MORELAND; SUGAR RAY ROBINSON; JIMMIE LUNCEFORD; DR. JOHN; THOMAS “FATS” WALLER; the LAST POETS; LITTLE RICHARD; OSCAR MICHEAUX; SAMMY DAVIS, JR.; BILL COSBY; OSSIE DAVIS; RUBY DEE; LOUIS JORDAN; EDDIE MURPHY; PROFESSOR GRIFF; ETHEL MOSES; MATTHEW “STYMIE” BEARD; LOTHAR; H. RAP BROWN; PRINCE; EDDIE “ROCHESTER” ANDERSON; PHAROAH SANDERS; BOSCO and his grandma’s cookies; SIDNEY POITIER; ICEBERG SLIM; HUEY NEWTON; ARCHIE SHEPP; BUCKWEE; and, of course, MARTIN LUTHER KING, JR., with blood-stained bullet holes in his shirt. The audience holds up a large, unfurled banner. It reads: