Take Ten II

by Eric Lane

  BIGB: You messed up, boy!

  AMA: Excuse me?

  BIGB: And your smart-assed faxes made it worse!

  AMA: Do I know you?

  BIGB: (examining the mic and CDs) I want a public apology.

  AMA: Don't touch that! Listen, whoever you are …

  BIGB: Whomever!

  AMA: Whatever!

  BIGB: You ain't got a clue who I am.

  AMA: A fabulous person, no doubt, but you've got to go. This is a classical music show and I've got a killer calculus final tomorrow.

  BIGB: Color me compassionate. You're shorter than I thought. But I figured right about you being a dumb ass. I told you right here….

  (BIGB: shows AMA: thefaxes and he realizes who she is.)

  AMA: Oh my God …you're …BigB! I thought you were …

  BIGB: …a brother, I know,'cause I ain't hearing none of your bullshit. Well, I thought you was a white boy, and I was right.

  AMA: Look, I don't know what you want….

  BIGB: How long I been faxing you, moron? You said the “Gloria”was by FaurÉ….

  AMA: …As I told you one thousand faxes ago, “Gloria”is by Poulenc and when I played it, I said Poulenc….

  BIGB: …FaurÉ!

  AMA: …Poulenc!

  BIGB: I know what I heard, you arrogant shithead.

  AMA: Does that BigB stand for “bitch”or “borderline psychotic”?

  BIGB: I ain't even'pressed by you trottin'out them tired SAT joints. I'm down at the Palmer Street Shelter, which you knew by the headin'on the fax, and you just figured I didn't know shit about classical music.

  AMA: BigB, I'm truly flattered that you even listen, but you don't …

  BIGB: My crew at the shelter want to come up here and kick yo ass.

  AMA: Whoa, whoa there. I'm sorry about our misunderstanding, okay?

  BIGB: And that s'posed to float my boat?

  AMA: Let's be calm, okay, B?

  BIGB: BigB to you, and I know you ain't s'posed to be drinkin'beer up in here.

  AMA: You never saw that.

  BIGB: Now I got two things on ya. This gonna be what they call an interesting evening. (Thumbing through his calculus book.) This the shit probably got your brain too messed up to know your Poulenc from your FaurÉ. (She sips AMA:'S beer.)

  AMA: Don't do that. Suppose I have a social disease?

  BIGB: Ha! Bet you still a cherry.

  AMA: Suppose YOU have a social disease?

  BIGB: I'll just call your dean and tell him I caught it sippin'outta your freshman-ass beer bottle.

  AMA: What do you want from me?

  BIGB: You made me look stupid in front of my crew.

  AMA: Look, I'm just a nerd playing dead white men's music. Why do you even listen to my show?

  BIGB: So a sister like me ain't s'posed to be a classical music affec-tionado.

  AMA: The word's “aficionado.”…

  BIGB: Boy, I'm feelin better'n'better about bustin'yo ass.

  AMA: This is like something out of Scorsese. If I apologize for the thing I DID NOT DO, will you go?

  BIGB: Maybe. Or maybe I'll stay and watch you work awhile.

  AMA: It's against the rules.

  BIGB: Lots of things against the rules, freshman boy. Don't mean they ain't delicious to do.

  AMA: If my station manager comes in …

  BIGB: Tell him I'm studyin'witcha, that we putting the “us”in calculus.

  AMA: Well, you don't exactly look like a student.

  BIGB: Well, you don't exactly look like a asshole, but you the poster boy. Where you get “Ama”from anyway?

  AMA: Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. My dad's a classical musician.

  BIGB: Oh yeah? Where he play at?

  AMA: He sells insurance. No major symphony'll hire him.

  BIGB: I know that's right. Oughta be called “sym-phoney”—like phoney baloney, right?

  AMA: (patronizingly) That's very clever, BigB, but I've got a lot of work to do. How about I give you and your people at the shelter a, what do you call it, a “shout out.”Right in the middle of Dvořák. How would you like that? (AMA: goes to the mic, but BIGB: stops him.)

  BIGB: How you gonna interrupt “New World Symphony”and mess up everybody's flow? You crazy, Amadeus Waddlington. You also a lucky bastard. BigB like you. She gonna take it easy on you.

  AMA: Why does your use of the third person chill my blood?

  BIGB:Take me to dinner and we cool.

  AMA:What?

  BIGB:Over there to the Purple Pheasant, where the president of Bellmore College eat at!

  AMA: …Are you crazy? I don't have that kind of…

  BIGB: …an'buy me a present …

  AMA: …a present? I'm broke!

  BIGB: …somethin', how they say it, “droll.”Yeah, “droll”and “ironic”! Like a CD of “Dialogues of the Carmelites”by POULENC. I can see you'n'me sittin'up in the Purple Pheasant, chucklin'over our little in joke, sippin'a half-ass California pinot grigio.

  AMA: Who the hell writes your material?

  BIGB: And pick me up in a shiny new car.

  AMA: Hello? Freshmen aren't allowed to have cars.

  BIGB: Beg, borrow, or steal, my brother, but you better have yo ass waiting for me at the shelter tomorrow night at 7:30. And don't shit in your khakis. My boys'll watch your back in the'hood.

  AMA: You're delusional.

  BIGB: Oh, you insultin'BigB, now? You don't wanna be seen with her?

  AMA: I'd love to be seen with her …you! I'd give my right arm to have the whole town and the president of Bellmore see me escort you into the Purple Pheasant. Hell, I'd even invite my parents. But I'm a scholarship student with five bucks to my name.

  BIGB: (sniffing him) Ya wearing cashmere and ya reek of Hugo Boss. Don't even try to play me, boy.

  AMA: Maxed out credit cards, BigB. I'm just a half-ass, wannabe, freshman with a little gig, trying to make some headway with Mr. Mastercard. I'll apologize on air. I'll stamp your name on my forehead, I'll run naked down the quad and bark like a dog….

  BIGB: …anything but take me out. You're a snob, Amadeus Waddlington. You a broke-ass, cashmere-wearin'shit-talkin'loser who don't know his Poulenc from his FaurÉ…. (BIGB finishes off AMA:'S beer)…. and drinks Lite beer! My crew was right. Ya need a beat down.

  AMA: BigB, please …

  BIGB: See, I be down at the shelter, diggin'on ya voice early in the mornin'. People say you ain't shit, but you gotta way a soundin'all mellow an'sexy. And when you spank that Rachmaninoff, oh yeah, baby! So when you screw up the Poulenc I send a friendly fax to point out yo error and help yo ass out….

  AMA: And I appreciate …

  BIGB: But you had to get up in my grill wit that, “what-do-you-know-about-classical-music-you-stupid-ass-homeless-crack-head”kind of attitude. (She starts to leave.) Well, Palmer Street crew will be very happy to whup yo behind.

  AMA: (stopping her) I didn't mean to give you attitude. I'm sorry. I'm broke, I swear! I'll show you my bills, I'll show you my bank statements. Isn't there anything else I can do, BigB? Please!

  (Pause. BIGB: looks AMA: up and down, to his great discomfort.)

  BIGB: Kiss me.

  AMA: What did you say?

  BIGB: I'm gettin'somethin'outta this deal. Kiss me.

  AMA: But…

  BIGB: Not one a'them air flybys, neither. Gimme some tongue!

  AMA: Oh God.

  BIGB: (She advances on him.) Lay it on me, Amadeus Waddling-ton. Kiss me or kiss yo ass good-bye.

  AMA: (backing away, near tears) This isn't Scorsese, it's John Woo.

  BIGB: Come on classyass, pucker up! (BIGB: tackles AMA: and plants a long, deep kiss on him. When she lets him go, AMA: steps back, looks at her, touches his mouth, and faints. BIGB: kneels calmly beside him. Her entire demeanor changes. Her voice is rich, cultured, her grammar impeccable. She sits him up and gives him a few light slaps.) Hey! Hey! Ama? Damn it, Amadeus Waddlington, wake up!

  (MILES
MORGAN enters drinking a beer.)

  MILES: Who are you, and what the hell did you do to Waddlington?

  BIGB: He just fainted. Get something cold.

  (MILES: pours cold beer on AMA:'S head. AMA: comes to.)

  BIGB: Have you sufficiently recuperated Mr. Waddlington?

  MILES: (to BIGB:) Hey, you look familiar…. Where do I know you from? …In the paper …from the shelter. You're…. Man you sure look …different! Oh my God…. You're not going to tell your father about the beer, are you? I'm a fifth-year senior trying to graduate….

  BIGB: Just make sure he's okay.

  (MILES: bends down to AMA: who grabs him by the collar. They whisper urgently, while BIGB: thumbs through the CDs and eavesdrops, greatly amused.)

  AMA: Oh God. Oh God! I kissed her!

  MILES: Way to go, man! AMA: I'm gonna die!

  MILES: She's that good, huh? Bet she's a knockout under all that stuff she's wearing. You all going to a costume party or something?

  AMA: Don't you get it, Miles? I kissed her!

  MILES: Lucky bastard! Kickin'it with Dean Stafford's daughter.

  AMA: (after a beat) What did you say?

  MILES: That's Belinda Stafford, Dean Stafford's youngest daughter! She dropped out of Bellmore to work at the shelter. It was all in the papers and everything.

  BELINDA: (handing him money) Thanks for the beer and the amusement, Mr. Waddlington.

  AMA: Is this true? Are you really …?

  BELINDA: (removing her dirty garments and putting them in a bag) I work night shifts at the Palmer Street Shelter. You can imagine that some of the women find it hard to sleep. Your music and your incredibly boring commentary usually do the trick. Everything was fine until you responded so rudely to my fax. You assumed because it came from the shelter …

  AMA: No …I just…I didn't….

  BELINDA: You're an arrogant, ill-informed elitist, Amadeus Waddlington. I've known guys like you all my life. It broke Daddy's heart when I dropped out of Bellmore, but your faxes reminded me exactly why I did it. So, I decided to teach you a lesson. You're not going to die from my kiss, but I hope you won't forget what it felt like to think that you were. (She scatters the faxes over his head and starts to exit.)

  MILES: Now, uh, Ms. Stafford, you wouldn't mention this to your father…

  BELINDA: I've got people without winter coats on my mind.

  AMA: (Rushes to her.) BigB, I mean Belinda, I mean, Ms. Stafford, please wait. I get a lot of shit from people about this show and I thought you were just another brother hassling me. I don't have an attitude about the shelter because I've got too many poor folks in my own family. I'm sorry about the vibe. Can I make it up to you? Maybe put in some hours at the shelter.

  BELINDA: If you think you can hack it. I picked out some CDs for you to play. My people sleep well to Debussy. I'll be checkin'you! (She puts on her headphones as she exits.)

  MILES: And you won't mention this to …

  (MILES: exits calling after BELINDA. AMA suddenly remembers he's on air. He runs to the mic.)

  AMA: Yo, my people, was that dope? Bet the “New World Symphony”woke yo asses up! Hey, I'm still waiting to speak to anybody with a clue to #3 on page 551 in Cobb's calculus class. Anybody? It's 3:59 on WBMR the voice of Bellmore College. I'm Amadeus Waddlington and this is Casual Classics, because you don't have to be uptight and white to love classical music. You don't have to be a snob either. I wanna give a shout out to my girl BigB. I think I'm in love, people. Yo, B, I apologize. “Gloria”was, is, and always will be Pou-lenc. I dig the lesson…. (He touches his lips.) … and I dig the way you taught it. I'll be down to lend a hand, you better believe that. And for the folks listening at the Palmer Street Shelter, here's a little Debussy to soothe you to sleep. Better times ahead, my people. Better times ahead.

  (Lights dim as sounds of Debussy come up. Blackout.)

  THE CURE

  Romulus Linney

  CHARACTER

  A midwife.

  TIME: 1800-2000.

  PLACE: Appalachia.

  (Appalachia.)

  (A wooden porch. Before it sits a very very large green frog. On it sits a woman in late middle age, with white hair. She is rocking quietly in a slat-backed rocking chair. There is a leather pouch at her side.)

  MIDWIFE: Green frog tea is good for women moon-bleeding. Watermelon seeds make tea for kidney stones. Dew off a straw can rub away freckles. If you break your bed, a relative's coming to visit. Dream about catching a fish, you'll get pregnant. You keep bees? If a body dies, tell them bees. Jest say it to the hive and don't fergit. Otherwise, at the funeral, they'll plain rise up and go. I'm daft?

  (She chuckles at us, smiles, and rocks.)

  Three ways in the Smoky Mountains fer a woman to live her own life. Midwifing is best, since no strong man hereabouts will abide a foot first baby ripping out his woman's guts. Strong men run away from that. So if you know how to turn that baby in the womb, they will call you ma'am, and leave you alone. Otherwise, they'll marry you and work you to death, or leave you an old maid so your mother can work you to death. Nother way, just kill a man. Any man. Hide behind a tree and shoot the son of a bitch. Act wild, drink your likker by yourself, and play like you enjoy it. They respect that. Number three, eat roots for supper, frogs for breakfast, and chew yourself to salvation.

  (She reaches into the leather pouch, pulls out a root shaped like a tiny man.)

  Gin sang. Means root of life, bottom of everthang. Grows wild in the mountains, once ever seven year, and I know where. Looks like a little man. See, his head, arms and his legs and his little horn hanging right yonder. Relish that. I'm alone now but I married. Lots. Would again.

  (Points to her white hair.)

  Snow on the roof don't mean there ain't fire in the house. Five men. One died a decent farmer. Second, half man, half buzzard. We went together like cheese and chalk, but not onct did I lower my eyes to him, not in field, church, porch, or bed. He died, mortified, he said, by a witch. I'd been called that for a long time, so almost everbody believed I kilt him, but such is the onery fascination of men, I turned around and married again, three times. Good men too, one even bettern that. Fifteen grandchildren, and thirty-eight great grandchildren, and an eleven-year-old great-greatgrandchild I am trying to keep from running off with a scoundrel. Maybe she will, maybe she won't, since the children who loved me when they was young change their minds growing up, and look at me slant-wise now.

  (She leans forward.)

  I don't purpose to frighten young women. Men are all right, if you know where sang grows, chew it, be patient, let every soul see the root of life you are eating up looks like a man.

  (She smiles and rocks.)

  I knowed I had “second sight”when I was just a girl. The Company had come into the cove where we lived and started the mine. They opened the mountain, built the houses all alike up the one hill, commenced the company store where we had to trade. The men went off to the mines, my Daddy with them. A coal mine, it's just a big road underground. With rooms off of it. Men go into them rooms and pull out the coal, sometimes standing up and breathing all right, sometimes on their knees ten hours a day gulping black dust and dirt. Whichever, they git the coal out of the mine. And when they do, they move backwards, pulling out ribs of coal past old four by fours left to hold everything up. They can't leave nothing. Not one piece. They have to what's call “retreat,”pulling out with them ever last rib of the mine.

  (She looks off into the distance, seeing the past.)

  My Daddy walked off to his work that morning. I yelled when I seen him walking right toward her. A woman dressed in snow white rainment, a-smiling at him, who kept smiling while he walked to her, then past her and through her, then on down into the mine. When they pulled out the coal ribs that day, the mountain fell in on them. One hundred and twenty-three men died, my father with them, leaving a hundred and two widows, a hundred sixty-five fatherless chilluns, me amongst them, with second sight. Ever
body had heard me that morning when I cried out: “Daddy! She's waiting fer ye! Don't ye see her? There, at the mouth of the mine! You'll die in there!”It commenced then, calling me witch.

  (She closes her eyes.)

  Sperits. Beautiful death-wimmen, always in white amongst the black dust which never touches'em. I seen they wasn't no wimmen at all but great beasts protecting their mountain home with the dire destruction of tunneling fools. I could see them, second sight. I still can. I can't see Daddy, though. But I remember him. Pulled my ear. Take his knuckle, like this one here, to the top of my head. Spin it around and say, buzzzz. Just another man, going into the mine, the pieces of him dug out later. The Company gave my mother a check for twenty-five dollar and said we could stay in the house, until the end of the month. I don't know the cure for that.

  (She opens her eyes, rocks.)

  For years I wasn't allowed in town. No sluts, said the church ladies. No witches, said the police. No midwives, said the doctors. Then not long ago this man come all the way from Paris, France, to see people like me and nobody else. He said for a hundred years babies been birthed all wrong. Under blinding bright light, washed in cold alcohol water in steel basins, stinging in their eyes, their hearts beating hard enough to kill a grown man. Plain terrified scared, and sometimes never given to no mother at all, until days later. He asked if he could watch me. I said, “Shore if you stay out of my way.”He did. I keep the lights low, the woman breathing deep and the husband quiet. Afterwards, I use my Lysol, and chase them germs away. I treat the eyes and wash the baby clean and proper, but I wash it in a sweetwood basin in warm water and I quick put that baby back to its mother's flesh, soon as I mortally can. The little hearts, I almost touch, a-beating in panic, slow down, get calm, and commence to feel some better about life we must endure. Sometimes look like they smile. The Frenchman said, “You are right and the doctors here are wrong. This baby will be a happy child.”The doctors throwed him out of town. But I know this. When you come into the world under blinding light, in a tile cold room, washed off by alcohol in steel basins, and such, then finally, you get to your Momma, oh, what relief, and what do you expect the rest of life to be, but crazy madness for other bodies, whiskey, drugs and what all, to take away your screaming? It's a wonder we ain't all worse than we are.