Sweat
Page 4
BRUCIE: I feel you. But can I be real honest? …
STAN: Yeah, of course.
BRUCIE (Raw and honest): … I don’t know what to do.
STAN: Whatcha mean?
BRUCIE: I don’t know what to do? (Meaning: “What’s my purpose?”) You know … I don’t know anymore. What’s the point? You know? I’m being dead serious.
STAN: You can’t think that way.
BRUCIE: This is me being honest. I mean, what’s the fucking point? Huh?
STAN: Things’ll pick up.
BRUCIE (With edge): Yeah, you think so?!
STAN: I do.
BRUCIE: I’m not receiving that message! Last week, I was at the union office signing up for some bullshit training and this old white cat, whatever, gets in my face, talking about how we took his job. We? I asked him who he was talking about, and he pointed at me. ME? So I said, if you ain’t noticed I’m in the same fucking line as you. Hello?! You’d think that would shut him down. But, no. He’s a scratch in the vinyl, going on and on about us coming here and ruining everything. Like I’m fresh off the boat or some shit. He don’t know my biography. October 2nd, 1952, my father picked his last bale of cotton. He packed his razor and a Bible and headed North. Ten days later he had a job at Dixon’s Hosieries. He clawed his way up from the filth of the yard to Union Rep, fighting for fucking assholes just like that cat. So, I don’t understand it. This damn blame game, I got enough of that in my marriage.
STAN: Don’t worry about it.
(Cynthia, Tracey and Jessie enter, in the midst of conversation.)
TRACEY: Fill her up, Stan!
BRUCIE: Cynth.
CYNTHIA: What are you doing here?!
BRUCIE: Same as you, getting a drink.
CYNTHIA: Here?
BRUCIE: Hey Jessie, Tracey.
JESSIE: Brucie.
TRACEY: What’s up?
BRUCIE: Not much. You guys look good.
TRACEY: You’ve always been a sweet liar.
BRUCIE: Hey Cynth, you got a minute?
CYNTHIA: No.
BRUCIE: Just—
CYNTHIA: No!
(Cynthia plops down with Jessie and Tracey.)
It’s been a long day. I don’t wanna start. Let me have a drink. K?
TRACEY: Ignore ’im.
JESSIE: Don’t worry about it, we’ll get one drink and then go. K?
(Brucie approaches the women.)
BRUCIE: C’mon, Cynth—
CYNTHIA: What do you want?
BRUCIE: Can I talk to you?
CYNTHIA: No.
BRUCIE: Can I talk to you?!
CYNTHIA: No!
BRUCIE: CAN I TALK TO YOU?
CYNTHIA: NO!
(Brucie slams the table. It’s jarring. The women stand in unison, a united front.)
STAN: C’mon, Brucie. Sit down. You want another drink?
TRACEY: She doesn’t want to talk to you.
BRUCIE: You stay outta this!
STAN: Hey. Hey. C’mon—
TRACEY: Let’s go.
CYNTHIA: I’m not going. This is my place.
JESSIE: That’s right.
BRUCIE: Let’s just talk.
CYNTHIA: I know what you want. Don’t have it.
(Cynthia turns her pockets inside out.)
BRUCIE: Nice show. I heard you’re—
CYNTHIA: What?
BRUCIE: We gotta do this in front of everyone?
CYNTHIA: We don’t gotta do this at all. I don’t recall having anything to say to you.
TRACEY: Relax, ignore him.
JESSIE: Don’t listen, don’t!
STAN: Come on, let me buy you one … It’s okay. What’re you drinking?
(De-escalating.)
BRUCIE: Same.
STAN: C’mon, sit. Let it go. Don’t worry.
(Tense. Stan pours Brucie a drink.)
BRUCIE (To Stan): She’s playing games.
STAN: Don’t worry about it.
CYNTHIA: He’s like clockwork. Thursday. Paycheck.
TRACEY: You want me to talk to him?
CYNTHIA: Nah. It’ll just make him crazier.
(Brucie stares at Cynthia.)
TRACEY: Don’t even look at him.
CYNTHIA: He’s gonna sit there just to fuck with me.
JESSIE: Stay strong!
(The women actively ignore Brucie as he tries to get Cynthia’s attention. He mouths, “Cynthia.” Finally:)
(To Brucie) Why don’t you leave her alone?!
BRUCIE: Why don’t you relax your mouth?!
CYNTHIA: Don’t talk to her that way!
(Brucie demonstratively places his hands over his heart.)
BRUCIE: Cynth? Babe?
STAN: Brucie …
BRUCIE: You’re not being fair.
CYNTHIA: Who’s not being fair?! Where are my muthafucking fish, Brucie? Huh?
(Cynthia suddenly gets up from the table and marches toward Brucie.)
TRACEY: Don’t.
JESSIE (To Brucie): You got
some nerve!
BRUCIE: Just wanna talk.
CYNTHIA: Here I am! Talk!
(Brucie gently takes her hand.)
TRACEY: Cynthia!
BRUCIE: Hey, mouth, give us a second.
TRACEY: You don’t have any respect for women.
BRUCIE: No, I don’t have no respect for you. So shut up!
TRACEY: And you wonder why your wife won’t talk to you.
BRUCIE: … Can you just give us some room?
CYNTHIA (To Tracy): I got this.
(A moment.)
What do you want, Brucie?
BRUCIE: I keep trying to explain.
(Brucie produces a piece of paper.)
CYNTHIA: What’s that?
(He hands it to Cynthia. She reads.)
BRUCIE: I’m in a program.
CYNTHIA: And is having a drink part of that program?
BRUCIE: It’s not the same.
CYNTHIA: I beg to differ.
BRUCIE: That’s all you gotta say?
CYNTHIA: Whatcha want me to say?
BRUCIE: Just wanna show you I’m trying.
CYNTHIA: K.
BRUCIE: And?
CYNTHIA: We done?
(Brucie folds the paper and puts it in his pocket.)
BRUCIE: Yeah.
CYNTHIA: K. Nice piece of paper. Maybe I’d be impressed if it was a pay stub. You call your son?
BRUCIE: How’s he doing?
CYNTHIA: Good. Evolution. Chris tell you his news?
BRUCIE: Nah.
CYNTHIA: He got into Albright.
BRUCIE: Psh, for real?
CYNTHIA: That’s all you gotta say? You know, he really wants you to … Forget it, just call ’im. K. He’s starting in September.
BRUCIE: College? Who’s paying for it?
CYNTHIA: He is.
BRUCIE: You gonna let him walk away from that steady money at the plant? Ask me, he’d be a damn fool to—
CYNTHIA: Good advice. How’s that working out for you?
BRUCIE: …
CYNTHIA: Look, if you speak to him, do me a favor, say you’re proud of ’im and leave it at that. Don’t put any other ideas in his head. Cuz if you do, so help me God … This is a good thing. And you should be proud of him.
TRACEY: That’s right, he’s always been smart, Cynth.
BRUCIE: I’m just saying—
CYNTHIA: Say nothing for a change.
(A moment.)
BRUCIE: You doing okay?
CYNTHIA: Yeah. I’m cool.
BRUCIE: Stan says you’re being considered for a promotion.
CYNTHIA: Yeah. Warehouse Supervisor. Not just me. Tracey, Clarence and Fat Henry. We’re all in the running.
BRUCIE (To Tracey): That true?
TRACEY: Yeah. Deciding soon. But, I’m not holding my breath, they’re just blowing smoke up our asses, because some fancy consultant told ’em it would be a good idea to chum the waters.
; CYNTHIA: C’mon. You want this as bad as I do. You won’t own it, but I know you do.
JESSIE: Of course she does, Tracey likes giving fucking orders.
TRACEY: Get outta here.
CYNTHIA: But, c’mon if one us
gets this job, how sweet’ll
that be?
(Cynthia gives Tracey a warm hug.)
BRUCIE (Humor with edge): They must be hard up if they’re considering you guys.
CYNTHIA: Don’t start with me. Listen, I’m glad you’re getting things together. But, I got—
BRUCIE: Wait a minute, wait a minute. Don’t walk away. Please. I feel bad about what went down in December. It wasn’t me … I’m sorry. Look, I’m getting clean. Okay? It’s not gonna happen again. It’s too embarrassing. You know me. Psh. I useta make fun of cats like me.
(He takes her hand. Smooth. Cynthia is vulnerable to his charm.)
I’m sorry. K, babe? You look good. You always looked sexy in your work clothing.
JESSIE: Tracey, do something.
BRUCIE: I couldn’t help but notice when I was by the house that the gutter needs to be rehung. I can come by and do it. We’ll keep things simple, you know, talk. I feel like if things was good with us, it would be easier to get back on my feet.
CYNTHIA: Don’t think so. You can call Chris … Get off that dope, but don’t come by.
BRUCIE: When I get my job back—
CYNTHIA: If. If. I’m all for you guys standing strong, babe, but at some point you gotta think about what this is doing to us.
BRUCIE (All smoothness): Can I get a kiss?
CYNTHIA: What?
BRUCIE: Can I at least get a kiss?
(He goes in for a kiss, Cynthia surrenders. An intimate moment. Then Tracey jumps to attention.)
TRACEY: I think you better go!
BRUCIE: I’m not talking to you, mouth!
TRACEY: You’re talking to her, you’re talking to me.
BRUCIE: You got a lotta moxie for a white girl.
TRACEY: I got more than moxie! Try me! Leave her alone. Okay? She’s doing really well—
JESSIE: Don’t fuck this up for her!
TRACEY: You wanna do something for Cynthia? Get clean or get lost. That’s the best thing you can do for her.
BRUCIE: Don’t you tell me what I need to do! I know what I need to do!
STAN: Brucie, maybe you better—
(Brucie is suddenly emotional. He tries to pull it together, but he’s battling a tsunami.)
BRUCIE: Cynthia! Please—
CYNTHIA: No!!
SCENE 5
April 17, 2000
Outside it’s 60°F.
In the news: Three days after a record 617-point drop in the Dow Jones as the tech bubble bursts. DC protesters disrupt the World Bank and International Monetary Fund meeting. A 26-year-old man is shot leaving a bar on Woodward Street in Reading.
Bar exterior. Tracey stands outside, smoking a cigarette. Oscar steps outside and stands in the doorway.
OSCAR: Hey.
TRACEY: Hey.
OSCAR: Can I bum a cigarette?
TRACEY (Dismissive): No.
OSCAR: Thank you for nothing.
TRACEY: You’re welcome.
(Beat. Oscar is still standing in the doorway.)
Don’t you got something to do?
OSCAR: It’s my break.
(An awkward moment.)
Did you know they’re waiting for you inside?
TRACEY: Yeah, I know.
OSCAR: Do you want me to tell ’em you’re out here?
TRACEY: Do I look like I need you to mind my business?
OSCAR: Okay, whatever. Just trying to help.
TRACEY: Can you, like, give me my space?
OSCAR: Technically, this is my space. This is where I chill. This is my spot. But, I’m a gentleman.
TRACEY: Good for you. Now, fuck off.
OSCAR (Under his breath): Bitch.
TRACEY: Asshole.
OSCAR: Fuck you.
TRACEY: No, fuck you!
(A brief standoff, neither will surrender ground.)
… What?
OSCAR: What?!
(Finally, Tracey melts and gives him a cigarette.)
TRACEY: Happy?
OSCAR: Thank you.
(She lights his cigarette. They smoke.)
… You—
TRACEY: Yeah?
OSCAR: Um. Um, uh, uh—
TRACEY: Are you retarded? What?
OSCAR: You work at the plant, right?
TRACEY: Along with everyone else who comes in here. Dah!
OSCAR: It awright?
TRACEY: It’s okay, it’s a job. Steady. Whatever.
OSCAR: They pay good?
TRACEY: I pay my bills. What’s with all the questions?
OSCAR: I’m just asking cuz I saw a posting down at the Centro Hispano.
TRACEY: What the fuck is that?
OSCAR: The Latino Community Center.
TRACEY: What do you mean you saw a posting?
OSCAR: A posting, a job posting. Olstead’s? Steel Tubing? That’s your place, right?
TRACEY: It’s not my place, it’s where I work.
OSCAR: Yeah, okay … they’re looking to hire folks, and I know it gotta pay better than here.
TRACEY: What are you talking about? Olstead’s isn’t hiring.
OSCAR: That ain’t what I heard. They’s looking to train packers, shippers … I got the info.
(Oscar takes a folded flyer from his pocket.)
TRACEY: Let me see that.
(Tracey takes the flyer.)
All I can read is “Olstead’s.” The rest is gibberish.
OSCAR: No it’s Spanish. See there, it gives times when you go down to the plant to fill out an application for training.
TRACEY: This is a joke. I don’t think so. No. No. First off, you gotta be in the union.
OSCAR: Not according to the flyer.
TRACEY: Well, you got it wrong.
OSCAR: Okay.
TRACEY: You got it wrong!
OSCAR: Okay!
TRACEY: And that’s not how it works. Anyway. You gotta know somebody to get in. My dad worked there, I work there and my son works there. It’s that kinda shop. Always been.
OSCAR: I know you.
TRACEY: You don’t know me.
OSCAR: How does someone get in?
TRACEY: Enough with the questions. Your mother didn’t teach you to respect your elders?
OSCAR: They’re getting pretty lit in there.
TRACEY: Yeah?
OSCAR: Sooo, what are they celebrating?
TRACEY: You know Cynthia.
OSCAR: Yeah.
TRACEY: Well, she just got promoted last week. They gave her a frigging cushion of a job. A recliner. And I wish she’d just shut up about it already.
OSCAR: I thought you guys was friends.
TRACEY: Yeah, we’re friends. So? You don’t get sick of your friends sometimes?
(Tracey draws on her cigarette.)
You know how long I been working at the plant? Forget it … Never mind, it’s not important … But, I know the floor as good as Cynthia. I do. You wanna know the truth, the only reason I didn’t get the job is because Butz tried to fuck me and I wouldn’t let him, and he told everyone in management that I’m unstable. I’m not unstable. I’m like—
OSCAR: That’s some shit.
TRACEY: Yeah. It sucks. And, I betcha they wanted a minority. I’m not prejudice, but that’s how things are going these days. I got eyes. They get tax breaks or something.
OSCAR: I dunno know about all that.
TRACEY: It’s a fact. That’s how things are going. And I’m not prejudice, I say, you are who you are, you know? I’m cool with everyone. But, I mean … c’mon … you guys coming over here, you can get a job faster than—
OSCAR: I was born here.
TRACEY: Still … you wasn’t born here, Berks.
OSCAR: Yeah, I was.
TR
ACEY: Yeah? Well, my family’s been here a long time. Since the twenties, okay? They built the house that I live in. They built this town. My grandfather was German, and he could build anything. Cabinets, fine furniture, anything. He had these amazing hands. Sturdy. Meaty. Real firm. You couldn’t shake his hand without feeling his presence, feeling his power. And those hands, let me tell you, they were solid, worker hands, you know, and they really, really knew how to make things. Beautiful things. I’m not talking about now, how you got these guys who can patch a hole with spackle and think they’re the shit. My grandfather was the real thing. A craftsman … And I remember when I was a kid, I mean eight or nine, we’d go downtown to Penn with Opa. To walk and look in store windows. Downtown was real nice back then. You’d get dressed up to go shopping. You know, Pomeroy’s, Whitner’s, whatever. I felt really special, because he was this big, strapping man and people gave him room. But, what I really loved was that he’d take me to office buildings, banks … you name it, and he’d point out the woodwork. And if you got really, really close he’d show some detail that he’d carved for me. An apple blossom. Really. That’s what I’m talking about. It was back when if you worked with your hands people respected you for it. It was a gift. But now, there’s nothing on Penn. You go into the buildings, the walls are covered over with sheetrock, the wood painted gray, or some ungodly color, and it just makes me sad. It makes me … Whatever.
OSCAR: You okay?
TRACEY: Listen, that piece of paper that you’re holding is an insult, it don’t mean anything, Olstead’s isn’t for you.
SCENE 6
May 5, 2000
Outside it’s 84°F.
In the news: The U.S. unemployment rate tumbles to a 30-year low, 3.9%. The City of Reading fires a dozen employees, fearing a deficit of $10,000,000. Allen Iverson and the Philadelphia 76ers prepare for Game 1 of the Eastern Conference Semifinals.
Lights up. Bar. Stan prepares a gimlet. Jessie sits at the bar eyeing a birthday cake. Oscar is behind the bar, playing a portable video game.
STAN: A gimlet, shaken but not stirred.
(Stan places the cocktail on the bar.)
JESSIE: Did you actually put some alcohol in it this time?
STAN: Against my better judgment, I did—
JESSIE: Very funny.
(Jessie takes a sip, savoring.)
STAN: You been warming that seat for a long time. Are the ladies coming?
JESSIE: That’s what they say, but who knows at this point?
STAN: What time were they supposed to meet ya?