Characters
BLACK HAIR
African-American male, in his mid-sixties.
BROWN HAIR
Latino male, in his late-thirties.
BLOND HAIR
White male, in his mid-thirties.
WHITE MUSTACHE
White male, in his mid-thirties
In the Palace of the Planet King
Setting: A prison in an unknown location.
Time: The present.
Act 1 Scene I
Open with “Se Rompio El Muñeco” (1949) by Bienvenido Granda con La Sonora Matancera.
A large boxlike structure stands center stage, open at the top. A bare bulb high up sheds light directly upon the interior. Multicolored bars rise from the floor on all four sides of this “prison.” Upstage to the right and left remains in absolute darkness. The interior of the prison is rather spare, with blankets and pillows piled up in corners. There is no toilet, sink, or mirror; nor are there any chairs or bunks. The floor is solid lavender, smooth, with rippling here and there.
There are three “prisoners” in their separate corners. One, sitting cross-legged, has a shock of BLACK HAIR; another, standing and rattling the bars as if to pry them loose, has mid-length BROWN HAIR; the third, sitting with legs sprawled out before him, has translucent BLOND HAIR.
BROWN HAIR wails away at the bars in obvious desperation. He pulls at the bars, grunting, trying to unmoor the metal from its housing—nothing. He seeks to stretch the bars—to no avail. He takes occasional breaks with panting breaths.
BLOND HAIR gnaws on his thumb vacuously, though he is not oblivious to the other two men. At intervals, throughout the ensuing dialogue, he swivels his head from left to right, facing upstage, as if he hears voices calling from the darkness. He sometimes appears far shrewder to the audience than he looks to the two other prisoners (BROWN HAIR in particular).
BLACK HAIR
Draw-tender, hog-tender, bartender: I could manage anybody right down to their tippy-toes. I wasn’t no dog-butt amateur but a genuine money machine. Say I got a prospect looking for new digs. I tell him, ain’t no shame in pushing the reset. The man is happy who ain’t got no history.
BROWN HAIR hammers away at the bars with the heels of his hands, CLANG CLANG CLANG.
BLOND HAIR mimics his motions with a manic but silent delight. The other two men seemingly do not notice BLOND HAIR.
BLACK HAIR
Managed circus folk in Kentucky back in ’81. Then there were the top-hat magicians out of Kalamazoo in ’84, a real sweet bunch but you can’t trust an inch of em. Worked with stock car racers from Showlow, Arizona—that was in ’86—talk about a wild bunch of boys. They’d fight each other off a canyon if I’d let em. Knew every distillery from the Great Appalachian Valley to the Blue Ridge Mountains. Guzzled down so much ‘shine they was practically…phoso-forescent. (Pause) Did I tell you I was also in the fight game?
BROWN HAIR pauses to rest. His frustration is palpable.
BLACK HAIR (affecting a chipper tone)
Yessir, lightweight, middleweight, heavyweight, shortround, ground-round. Managed all kinds of meat. Taught every one of em how to throw bombs. Overhand right, rabbit punch when the clinch got downright scurrilous.
BLACK HAIR throws a flurry of air punches while still on his keister.
BLOND HAIR is on his knees, unsteadily imitating him, but he’s too uncoordinated and topples sideways.
BLACK HAIR
Just like Eastwood and Clyde.
BROWN HAIR shakes his head and resumes his assault against the bars with increasing violence.
BLACK HAIR
Youngin, you wanna dumb down all that shake and bake? You’re liable to rupture a nerve.
BROWN HAIR
I’m tryin to see if there’s a damn con-see-age, but there ain’t a soul in sight.
BLACK HAIR
What you want with a con-see-age?
BROWN HAIR
To bring my arroz con fuckin gandules, what you think?
BLACK HAIR
Shee-it, all that ruckus, and for what? Can you imagine The Savior carryin on in the Place of the Skull? How would that read in the Good Book?
BROWN HAIR
Bro, you sound like one of them bible-carriers.
BLACK HAIR
That’s cause, on the qt, I’m a preferred stockholder in divine favor. (Pause) It’s in me, no doubt. I raised my palms to the Holy Spirit, just like the rest of em. Practically drank the blood right out of the Lord’s veins. But I know when I’m being lied to. You can’t throw up a handful of sparks and call em stars.
BROWN HAIR
Amen and kiss the sky. I’d pick a jar of Vaseline and a juicy Tijuana bible over the maldito Gospels any day of the week.
BLACK HAIR
Jesus ain’t nothin but a trick on niggers, you better believe.
BROWN HAIR laughs in spite of himself.
BLACK HAIR
I’ll tell you this much, if he did exist I’d never want to be The Man Upstairs. (He points down) Not even the long-tailed mister who runs the boiler house. Just consider yourself lucky to be a man.
BROWN HAIR
Lucky, huh?
BLACK HAIR
Shit yeah! No matter what you done in your life, it’ll always be a bailable offense.
BROWN HAIR
How’s that?
BLACK HAIR
Because one day you’re goin to die.
Silence. Both men quietly brood. BLOND HAIR sits with legs sprawled before him, drooling. He holds each fist up before him with fascination. Out springs each finger one by one, and he follows each flourish nearly cross-eyed, as if he is counting.
BLACK HAIR looks at BLOND HAIR and shakes his head disapprovingly.
BLACK HAIR
Would you look at this simple motherfucker?
BLOND HAIR pokes at his brow repeatedly, head bouncing back.
BROWN HAIR
What’s his story? He hasn’t barked word one.
BLACK HAIR
No doubt he’s Little No Peep.
BLACK HAIR (to BLOND HAIR)
You got a getaway map rolled up in your rectum, Ali Babas?
They both look at BLOND HAIR, who sits quietly, legs sprawled out before him, pillow bunched in his fist.
BLACK HAIR (to BLOND HAIR)
Nice weather we’re havin!
BLOND HAIR as before.
BLACK HAIR
The North Koreans are rainin fire on Alaska!
BLOND HAIR as before.
BLACK HAIR
You shoulda told me your mother was a squirter!
BLOND HAIR picks his nose, indifferent to BLACK HAIR. Then he runs his fingers through his hair, making it wild.
BLACK HAIR
He boocoo dinky dau, man.
BROWN HAIR
Huh?
BLACK HAIR
The white boy’s out of his tits, is what I’m sayin.
BROWN HAIR
Look at em. He’s all…explosion-affected or some shit.
BLACK HAIR
Naw. motherfucker’d be in Bayview Cemetery, hawkin tombstones for sale.
BROWN HAIR
Bopped in the head maybe. Crackao!
BLACK HAIR
Doubtful.
BROWN HAIR
Strapped down and given the zzzzz zzzzzz.
BLACK HAIR
Fuck no. Besides, a thousand volts coursin through your nugget? That’d turn you into creamy Velveeta all right. But you can scratch that in his case.
BROWN HAIR
Aight then, what?
BLACK HAIR
I know his type: just like toilet paper.
BROWN HAIR
Meanin?
BLACK HAIR
Far as this motherfucker goes, the shit always sticks.
BROWN HAIR shakes his head doubtfully. He crouches down before BLOND HAIR, waves his hand before his face and snaps his fingers to see if he is cognizant. BLOND HAIR happily waves back and then makes sputtering noises. He tries to snap his fingers but can’t quite get it right. This occupies him for some time.
BROWN HAIR
Pobrecito.
BLACK HAIR
Bet you he smashed a thermometer and gulped down the mercury.
BROWN HAIR
You need some sensitivity trainin, my man.
BLACK HAIR
I’d sooner get milked by a goat.
BROWN HAIR titters and resumes his assault against the bars with increased and desperate violence, muttering and cursing in Spanglish.
BLOND HAIR bares his teeth at BLACK HAIR—BLACK HAIR glowers at him—and then BLOND HAIR turns his back to him and lies flat, butt in the air.
BLACK HAIR, still glaring, suddenly seizes up, thumps at his chest, and squirms in momentary discomfort. He pats himself furiously on the back. Burps.
BLACK HAIR (surprised)
Got-damn! (He smacks his lips) You know, I haven’t had a solid three squares since I’ve been locked in this dump? What I wouldn’t give for doublelamb chops on a sheet of mint jelly. Hell, even a lousy Quarter-Pounder n’ fries would do. (Pause) Hey, youngin, you won’t get very far if you keep that up.
BROWN HAIR (moodily, shaking the bars)
Why’s that?
BLACK HAIR
I’ve been meanin to tell you, but I was gettin my kicks watchin you strenuate yourself. You’d be better off saltin the ocean. What you need are sidecutters or some kinda rabbit tool…
BROWN HAIR
Don’t you wannna bust outta here?
BLACK HAIR
Much as that pleatherweight, (pointing to BLOND HAIR, who flutters his lips noisily) but unless you’re packin a blowtorch and a chainsaw, we’re bolted down, so to speak.
BROWN HAIR (slapping the bars for emphasis)
That don’t look like no twenty-five ton steel. So we ain’t in no bunker.
BLACK HAIR
Ain’t no flyin fortress neither. But unless you got three wishes and a good fairy, we stuck.
BROWN HAIR
Stuck?
BLACK HAIR
Like a nappy head on a strip of Velcro.
BROWN HAIR strangles the bars one last time before he gives up. He walks a few steps and picks up a blanket from the pile. He wipes his sweating face, clearly exasperated.
BLACK HAIR (in a sudden towering rage)
Just what the fuck you think you doin?
BROWN HAIR
Dryin my face.
BLACK HAIR
With my fuckin blanket!
BROWN HAIR
What you wallin out for? (He picks up the other rags) They all the same.
BLACK HAIR
You don’t wanna fuck with me, son. You can shoot me, stab me, cut off my head so I can’t resurrect, tie me up or tie me down, guess what, motherfucker? I’ll still be around. Cause I’m meaner than a sawed-off shotgun.
BROWN HAIR is unsure how to take this outburst. He opts for the diplomatic response.
BROWN HAIR
Take it you want it so fuckin bad.
He thrusts the rag of a blanket at him but BLACK HAIR refuses it testily.
BLACK HAIR
I don’t want it now! You sweatin like a Nicaraguan testicle!
BROWN HAIR
Then why you wastin breath?
BLACK HAIR
Cause what’s mine is mine. And anyway don’t you be worried about what I be wastin. I got enough air in these lungs to supply the whole sorry-ass human race. Far as you concerned I’m the Vice President of Verbiosity and the Lord of the Motherfuckin Lexicon!
Things remain tense for a few beats.
BLACK HAIR looks back at BROWN HAIR, slightly repentant.
BLACK HAIR
Hey, youngin, don’t mind me. This place can take the bone out of any man’s throat.
They look at each other.
BROWN HAIR
Olvídalo.
BLOND HAIR begins to cry, softly at first, and then with more urgency.
BLACK HAIR
Now this motherfucker gotta peel onions? Quit fussin!
BLACK HAIR kicks out at him while still sitting and just misses him. BLOND HAIR crawls away, bawling more loudly.
BROWN HAIR
Chill, man, what the fuck’s wrong with you? Chill!
BLACK HAIR
Step aside now, let me get at him.
BLACK HAIR tries to go after BLOND HAIR but BROWN HAIR intervenes.
BROWN HAIR
Stop doggin him. Can’t you see he’s scared?
BLACK HAIR (agitated)
What’s he got to be scared of?
BROWN HAIR
Nothin—except you tryin to stomp him out.
BLACK HAIR (calmer)
I didn’t do nothin to the fool.
BROWN HAIR
Then what? He try to suck your dick or some shit?
BLACK HAIR
Ain’t like that…it’s just I got a low toleration for white folks.
BROWN HAIR
That don’t mean you gotta piss on every tighty-whitey that crosses your street.
BLONDbHAIR finally quiets down. He sniffles, wiping tears off his face with his fists.
BLACK HAIR
Just look at em, droolin like a cracked egg…thought he was the philosophical type at first but I’ll be damned if he ain’t dumber than sheetrock. Got as much to say as the little man on the wedding cake.
BLACK HAIR (to BLOND HAIR)
Don’t you, eggface?
BLACK HAIR (back to BROWN HAIR)
See, nothin penetrates. The words just pile up like bricks.
BROWN HAIR
So that’s why you treatin em like he’s some kinda flakka fiend?
BLACK HAIR
I’ve been here some days till you come along. Spend enough time with this bucket of eels for brains and you’ll be wishin they’d let him out on a baby-bond after minute one, you mark my words.
BROWN HAIR
What makes you think the same shit ain’t gonna happen to us?
BLOND HAIR lets out a wailing cry, which re-agitates BLACK HAIR.
BLACK HAIR
I swear if he squalls I’ll belt him a right cross with some real gross tonnage.
BLACK HAIR struggles to climb to his feet, infuriated, and BROWN HAIR does his gentle best to physically placate him. BLOND HAIR stops crying before BLACK HAIR could rise to his feet. He sucks his thumb noisily. BLACK HAIR eases back down.
BLACK HAIR
Ain’t as stupid as he looks.
BROWN HAIR
Who said he stupid? He could have been at the top of his class for all you know.
BLACK HAIR
Oh no doubt. Got the sheepskin from Trump University and a honorary doctor from Devry.
BROWN HAIR
Maybe he know somethin that we don’t.
BLACK HAIR
Yeah? Like what?
BROWN HAIR
Ain’t it strange that there ain’t been one baton-carryin cochino in the general vicinity?
BLACK HAIR
We in solitary, fool.
BROWN HAIR
Three ain’t exactly solitary. And who’s makin the rounds is what I wanna know.
BLACK HAIR
They’ll catch your eye, don’t you worry.
BROWN HAIR
You seen em?
BLACK HAIR
No.
BROWN HAIR
Then how you know they here?
BLACK HAIR
Cause I’m pretty sure I heard em.
A powerful, three-second fart resounds. The horrendousness of this act, perpetrated by BLOND HAIR, harries the two other men. BLOND HAIR looks strangely pleased.
BROWN HAIR (squeezing nostrils shut, making his voice into a nasal whine)
Bendito Jesus y todo los santos! I sure as shit heard that.
BLACK HAIR (nostrils also squeezed shut)
That’s gonna lose him a few friends. (Tests the air) Whoo! I’m gonna be seein secondary colors any minute now.
BROWN HAIR unclamps his nostrils and braves the air, to his regret.
BROWN HAIR
Fo! Se cago!
BLACK HAIR
If he gives us another blast we’ll be as dead as potted shrimp.
After a few beats the air is safely restored. BLOND HAIR gives no indication that he has polluted the atmosphere.
BLACK HAIR
…You know, the aromatherapist here puts me in mind of somethin. I don’t think I’ve shit in days. I feel all backed-up and big-boned.
BROWN HAIR
You gotta pump your legs, pappo.
BLACK HAIR
How so?
BROWN HAIR
Think of it like makin chorizos. You gotta crank it out. So if you make like you’re pedalin—
BLACK HAIR
Then I can make some sausage. (Pause) There’s one problem, though.
BROWN HAIR (looking upward, squinting)
Yeah?
BLACK HAIR
Ain’t a toilet in sight. Not even a sink to wash my Bradd Pitts!
BROWN HAIR looks at BLACK HAIR incredulously for a few beats.
BLACK HAIR
What?
BROWN HAIR
We don’t need no toilet, man.
BLACK HAIR
You expect me to fish chocolate bananas out my ass and hurl em through the bars?
BROWN HAIR
No. We don’t need toilets because we’re wearin Pampers.
BLACK HAIR looks at BROWN HAIR as if he’d just soiled himself.
BLACK HAIR (more to himself)
Another one gone coo-coo for Cocoa Puffs. (louder) You’re crazier than that can of beans over there.
BROWN HAIR looks at BLACK HAIR in a penetrating manner, seeking to determine if he’s being fucked with. Then he reaches into his waistband and jerks out a fistful of synthetic material. He brandishes this at BLACK HAIR, who looks on in horror. BLACK HAIR slowly reaches into his own waistband, and it is clear he has touched the same material for he quickly recoils. He appears visibly shaken by this.
BLACK HAIR
This don’t make no kinda sense.
BROWN HAIR
Listen to Sherlock Aint Fuckin Homes over here.
BLACK HAIR (in a defeated tone)
I’m gonna shit and piss my shell like a clam. What the hell kinda place is this?
BROWN HAIR looks up. He puts a hand over his eyes when the light overpowers him.
BROWN HAIR
You know somethin pappo? That’s what I’ve been tryin to figure out.
We hear what sounds like wind tunneling down an airshaft.
A draft catches the attention of BROWN HAIR and BLACK HAIR.
BROWN HAIR (rubbing his shoulders)
Damn. That cold got some creep to it.
BLACK HAIR
Must be near a window.
BROWN HAIR
You think?
BLACK HAIR
Or a ventilation shaft.
BROWN HAIR
But that would mean we down in the deep, man. Like fuckin Chuds.
BLACK HAIR
Who and the what is a fuckin Chud?
BROWN HAIR
Monsters that live in the sewers.
BLACK HAIR
Fuck that. We must be in a tower then. You know, closer to the sky.
BROWN HAIR
We ain’t livin in the mid-evil times.
BLACK HAIR holds up his hand.
BROWN HAIR
What? What is it? What?
Disjointed voices are clearly heard, musical, rather like happy babbling. There is also a lullaby played backward, accompanied by creepily tinkling music. This is a haunting melody that puzzles the prisoners.
BLACK HAIR
What kinda canned music is that? Ain’t from no homecoming…
BROWN HAIR
Sounds familiar.
BLACK HAIR motions him to be quiet, as if he is eager to hear more. They strain to listen once again, but the voices and music recede until vanishing altogether.
BLACK HAIR (in denial)
Ain’t nothin. Just a game on the ear.
BROWN HAIR
If we were smokin crystal I’d believe that. C’mon, man, that was like some shit let loose from the crypt.
An odd, ominous, meaty thumping resounds.
BROWN HAIR
You heard those sounds before?
BLACK HAIR
I think so.
BROWN HAIR
What? Your memory’s fuzzy?
BLACK HAIR
It’s sharper than Japanese steel.
BROWN HAIR
Then what the fuck you think—
The lights suddenly go out. They are in absolute darkness.
BROWN HAIR (fearful)
Oh God. What the fuck?
BLACK HAIR
They’ll snap back on.
BROWN HAIR
When? What the fuck is this?
BLACK HAIR
Just wait.
BROWN HAIR
See no evil hear no evil, right? Right?
BLACK HAIR
Shhhh. Knot up, son. Don’t run ragged on me.
They stay quiet for three or four beats in the darkness, though we can hear BROWN HAIR’S labored breathing. A deep rumbling sound emanates, as if a machine with monstrous wheels is passing overhead.
BROWN HAIR
And that? Fuck’s that?
BLACK HAIR
Just the mechanical population, goin on its way.
BROWN HAIR
Speak English!
BLACK HAIR
Railcar hammerin past.
BROWN HAIR
So we stashed underground, like fuckin beetles! I can’t breathe. We gotta dig outta here. We gotta do somethin!
BLACK HAIR
When’s chow time?
BROWN HAIR
We about to get straight-up murdered and you thinkin ‘bout food!
BLACK HAIR
Cause I’m hungry! I’d give my left nut for a Jamaican beef patty, washed down with a frosty ginger beer. Anything. A goddamn sugar biscuit! A dee-luxe Dominoes, extra anchovies, shrimp-fried rice…hmmmm…extra duck sauce—
BROWN HAIR
Shut the fuck up!
BLACK HAIR
Don’t you jump off on me, motherfucker! Let me be!
The thumping resounds, louder now, and carries on for three or four beats. This is followed by the deep, monstrous rumbling.
BROWN HAIR (whispering voice but clearly audible)
Beş, dört, üç, iki, bir…Beş, dört, üç, iki, bir…Beş, dört…
The sounds cease altogether. Quiet for three beats.
BROWN HAIR
This shit is whacked out, man. How the hell we gonna get out of here? C’mon man, think!
BROWN HAIR loses it. We hear him thrashing around in the dark and banging against the bars. Finally he delivers a kick that sends him reeling back, clutching his foot in agony. The lights flick on. We see BROWN HAIR on the floor, cradling his wounded foot.
BLOND HAIR is evidently fast asleep.
BROWN HAIR (near weeping)
I don’t belong in here. I’m in the wrong fuckin box, man.
BLACK HAIR crawls over to him, to check on his condition. BROWN HAIR merely stubbed his toe.
BLACK HAIR
Simmer down now. I swear, you Latins were born on the stovetop…Can you walk?
BROWN HAIR climbs to his feet, limps around, shakes away the pain.
BROWN HAIR
You think they’ll shut the lights on us again? I don’t think that I can take that, man.
BLACK HAIR
Sure you can. You ain’t sufferin through this shit alone, right?
BROWN HAIR (doubtfully)
Guess not.
BLACK HAIR
Say, what was that black magic you was talkin?
BROWN HAIR
Huh?
BLACK HAIR
Wasn’t no Spanish, I know that much. Castin spells?
BROWN HAIR
Ain’t no mal de ojo or nothin, it’s just Turkish, man.
BLACK HAIR
What you sayin?
BROWN HAIR
I’m countin backwards. (Pause) When I was nineteen they locked my ass up on a “Intent to distribute,” when every herb on the block was smokin a pound a week. I shared a bunk with a Turkish dude. I was squeamish like a motherfucker—sweatin through the sheets, shoutin demonios in my sleep. Freaked the brother out. He taught me the numbers, promised that it would have a kind of hypnotic effect. No doubt he just wanted a good night’s sleep but it worked. I been doin it ever since, when the shit get tight.
BLACK HAIR
Maybe you should school me, tame this high blood-pressure of mine.
BLOND HAIR yawns long and loud. Both turn toward BLOND HAIR, who is now awake and on the move. He appears to be chasing something around the perimeter of the prison—mote of dust, who can say? He trundles forward like a crocodile; seizes up; reaches out with cupped hand; trundles forward again.
BLACK HAIR
Dog and his shadow.
BROWN HAIR
He a man, just like us.
BLACK HAIR
Not like us.
BROWN HAIR
Cause we can talk. (Pause) But what do we got to say?
Beat.
BROWN HAIR
I can’t even remember yesterday.
BLACK HAIR
Maybe cause there ain’t nothin worth rememberin.
Beat.
BROWN HAIR
I was drillin piss into the Arthur Kill, barkin at the moon. That I can see pretty clear. And somethin rushin up behind me, rustlin through the grass…but I don’t know if that was last week or last year.
BLACK HAIR
I fell asleep on the Tonnelle train and woke up in the ambulance. Felt somethin cold and wet drippin down my face. I saw mouths movin at me but couldn’t hear shit the sirens was so loud. And I can’t tell you the day or the month or the year cause that’s life in a blender.
BROWN HAIR
Yeah? That don’t explain all this.
BLACK HAIR
So what you proposin we do?
BROWN HAIR
Maybe if we take it from the top of the key.
BLACK HAIR
You the point guard. Shoot.
BROWN HAIR
Aight. How’d you get here?
BLACK HAIR
I got here same as you.
BROWN HAIR
Can’t be.
BLACK HAIR
What you mean?
BROWN HAIR
How long you say you been here?
BLACK HAIR
I didn’t.
BROWN HAIR
How much time they give you?
BLACK HAIR
No idea.
BROWN HAIR
You never talked to nobody?
BLACK HAIR
Did you?
BROWN HAIR
Nope.
BLACK HAIR
Me neither.
BROWN HAIR
Did you rob somebody?
BLACK HAIR
Hell no.
BROWN HAIR
Shoot a motherfucker?
BLACK HAIR
I ain’t the type.
BROWN HAIR
Then what’d you do?
BLACK HAIR
I don’t know.
BROWN HAIR
They didn’t tell you at the trial?
BLACK HAIR
Don’t remember no trial. Certainly don’t remember a judge and jury.
BROWN HAIR
Then how’d you get here?
BLACK HAIR
I don’t know.
BROWN HAIR
I wasn’t given a hearin or nothin neither.
BLACK HAIR
Well there it is. Seems to me that you and I have a communion of troubles.
BROWN HAIR
I ain’t wit you.
BLACK HAIR
No trial? Habeas corpus done vanished like hocus-pocus. (Pause) Okay, so what the fuck are we doin here, man? Since you got me sniffin for clues.
BROWN HAIR thinks. BLACK HAIR gives him some time.
BROWN HAIR
I’m lost in this shit. I mean, I was never a friend of the court, but I wasn’t no felony type.
BLACK HAIR
So this is just another miscarriage of justice?
BROWN HAIR does not respond.
BLOND HAIR, curled up like a dog after his exertions, stretches and yawns loudly once again.
BLACK HAIR
Then what did fuck-knuckles do, besides being baptized stupid?
BROWN HAIR
Probably nothin. Just like us. Tres desconocidos… (singing) “Entren que caben tres / Ay yo me voy para la luna / Entren que caben tres / Me voy montao en chu chu tren.”
BLACK HAIR
Maybe we done some nasty evil Richard Ramirez type shit and blacked it out.
BROWN HAIR
Don’t know nothin about no Ramirez…
BLACK HAIR
Oh, you ain’t got a pimple on ya, huh?
BROWN HAIR
I admit I was a fuckin fiend for a hot minute. I used to crush Oxy and suck down an OE just so I could get bent enough to visit the helpfulness people. But that’s the way way past. (Pause) I coulda bounced on outta Jersey, hopped a CSX freight or rode the dog until I hit nothin but tumbleweeds. I shoulda done somethin.
BLACK HAIR
Then why didntcha?
Two beats.
BROWN HAIR
I can’t get it straight, pappo. It’s like the cuffs were clapped on from jump street. My peoples came in on the Salvation Army ticket, right? Spent their whole life bein grateful even though they ain’t had shit. Two rooms and a toaster, that’s about it. (Beat) I can’t get it straight, how some people hit the glidepath to the friendly skies easier than a blink and I could do is just breathe in the smell of rain all locked up in the clouds. (Beat) I used to squat at the viaduct down by the Hudson tubes, hear the trains grindin in the yards, and I’d think about my moms, right, pullin in clothes on a beat-down day. You know the sound the pulley wheel makes when you’re yankin in that line? Hurts like a motherfucker, man. (Two beats) I’d tiptoe right up to the city limit and a funny feelin would come over me and my insides would get all tangled up. I’d start shiverin like crazy and turn tail. Back to my domain, tú sabe? Back to my streets, the only streets I ever knew. My open-air castle. My palace of the Planet King. The best place to be, no doubt. We always got airconditionin and the cable is free. I could watch all the shows day or night. The show about junkies, the show about five-o, the show about the run and gun kids. Never hungry cause the garbage cans were full. Never thirsty cause the recyclables got a good inch of champagne cola. Life of the Planet King.
They remain silent for a few beats.
BLACK HAIR
The things I cooked up just to keep the wolf from the door. (Chuckles at the memories) Those were some leans years, boy. If I saw a bottle of Yoohoo I free-enterprised that motherfucker. (Pause) ‘Bout the dumbest thing, castin’ back…I used to pinch lobsters from the Shop Rite. Just scooped em right out of the tank and crammed those suckers down my pants. Big bulgy creatures, must have been a century old. Last time I pulled that caper I didn’t get very far, though.
BROWN HAIR
Why’s that?
BLACK HAIR
The tape on the crushers broke, and I did the lambada right there in front of the store detective. Spent six weeks in the hospital with a pack of ice for underwear. (Pause) See, that be the philosophy of me, brother. Scrap and scrape, bend but don’t break. Don’t matter if you in possession of a tongue that can ripple rainbows. You gotta be what they say you be.
BROWN HAIR
Mi abuelita, yeah? She said that she would sew and scrub until she was ashes in a can of Bustelo before they’d find her on the rolls. Never wanted no funeral, said to just burn her ass up and store her in this Disney World cup she used to keep for her chocolate mint ice cream. Wouldn’t take one button from the church box. She never even been to no Disney.
BLACK HAIR
I was never much for livin out of the donation baskets myself.
BROWN HAIR
I couldn’t stand the food kitchens.
BLACK HAIR
I don’t blame you. Welfare steaks and salt soup. Bread with the middle all punched out. I know they doin their best—
BROWN HAIR
But you gotta be grateful, that’s what grinds my huevos.
BLACK HAIR
While the rich man is what? Cuttin his meat tender, right across the grain. And he ain’t satisfied until his gums bleed.
BROWN HAIR
You ain’t happy with your dinner? Shoulda went to college, pendejo.
BLACK HAIR
And when that lettuce ain’t crisp? Rich man say, send that plate to the Garden of Eden or wherever the fuck you dug those sprouts. Let me convo with the chef. We gonna walk back that Michelin star.
BROWN HAIR
And we eat with the roaches.
BLACK HAIR
They’re right on time, respectin the dress code in their black dinner jackets.
BROWN HAIR
They bring the whole family.
BLACK HAIR
Take leftovers home in the shape of a swan. And give it to the dogs.
BROWN HAIR
To the fuckin dogs.
BLACK HAIR
Fuckin rich-ass motherfuckers.
BROWN HAIR
They can suck my pinga through my fuckin ojo siego, man. (Pause) The priests used to say that the meek would inherit the earth. What that mean when you ain’t got a pot to boil the tiniest garbanzo?
BLACK HAIR
‘Bout the only things I inherited were psoriasis, lactose intolerance, and a high capacity to PWS.
BROWN HAIR
PWS?
BLACK HAIR
Puddup With Shit. I’ve lived the bulk of my life above water. But there was always an invisible hand on my chin, just to keep me from drownin. (Pause) Nature’s a likely bitch, ain’t she?
BROWN HAIR
Some are born in a shootin gallery—
BLACK HAIR
Others are carried on a pillow by a slave. (Pause) Funny thing. Moses was born in bondage, right? And you know what he become.
BROWN HAIR
What?
BLACK HAIR
The prince of fuckin Egypt.
Two beats.
BLOND HAIR lifts his head and looks from BLACK HAIR to BROWN HAIR. He makes a few mewling sounds and pulls/crawls his way to a sitting position. He watches them vacantly.
BROWN HAIR
He can barely move. You notice that?
BLACK HAIR
He gets around.
BROWN HAIR
On his belly like a snake.
BLACK HAIR
Snake’s about right.
BROWN HAIR
Let’s see if the man can walk.
BLACK HAIR
The fuck for?
BROWN HAIR
Maybe they crippled his ass.
BLACK HAIR
And so what if they did?
BROWN HAIR
You gonna help me or what?
BLACK HAIR
Now?
BROWN HAIR
Unless you got a shorty with a forty-ounce bounce waitin on you.
BLACK HAIR
Shee-it. Give me choice between a nap and a sweet young thing with applebutter ‘tween her legs and I’ll take Dr. Sleep. My days of sexual jihadin are over. But I’ll humor your ass, even if I’d learn more readin the ingredients on a package of frozen peas. Help me up.
BROWN HAIR helps BLACK HAIR to his feet, which is no easy task.
BLOND HAIR is frozen in place, proned-out, as if he knows what is coming. Both men walk over to him and bend to lift him up and he rises bonelessly and compliantly. BLOND HAIR stands to either side of them once they have him upright, then they let go of his arms. Trembling, BLOND HAIR hovers for an instant. For a moment doubt crosses BROWN HAIR’S expression, but then the expected happens. BLOND HAIR balances precariously, hips rotating as if he’s working an invisible hula-hoop, then he falls over abruptly. He tries again to stand, placing his palms flat on the floor, but then he falls as before. He rolls over onto his back and places his arm over his eyes as if to hide his shame.
BLACK HAIR
Not even a standin eight count.
BROWN HAIR
See! I told you. They must’ve fucked him up big time. His legs are like jelly.
BLACK HAIR
He probably had it comin!
A high wailing interrupts them, a panoply of voices in unison, accompanied by the haunting backwards-sounding lullabies. These are voices of surprised pain that clearly frighten the two men, though BROWN HAIR expresses more fear than BLACK HAIR.
BLACK HAIR (noting BROWN HAIR’S fear)
Easy, youngin, take it easy.
BROWN HAIR
I don’t wanna be like him. If I can’t walk you might as well cancel me out permanent.
BLACK HAIR (losing patience)
Would you quit bein such a punk?
BROWN HAIR
Fuck you, man. Like you ain’t leavin pebbles in your Pampers. Who the fuck you think you foolin?
BLACK HAIR
What I got to be scared of? I went nose to nose with Hercules Fonsetorigo at the needle exchange on Damascus Street, the most crimingest motherfucker on the Eastern seaboard. That man came at me with a thousand pounds of iron and I socked him with a hellfire hook. He went down at sunset and didn’t get up till twelve midnight.
BROWN HAIR
Is that what you’re goin to do when they come for us?
BLACK HAIR
I don’t know what I’m gonna do, because I don’t know what’s comin. And neither do you.
BROWN HAIR
I’m goin fucking crazy, man. What makes you think they’re not fuckin mutilatin motherfuckers out there, huh? Let me out! Out! Get me the fuck outta here!
BROWN HAIR collapses in furious desperation, and holds himself as he breaks down in tears. After some hesitation, and then a roll of the eyes, BLACK HAIR clasps BROWN HAIR’S shoulders in a fatherly manner, crouches down before him and speaks soothingly.
BLACK HAIR
The game’s been fixed the second the clock struck. The policy wheel’s been rigged and all the cards been marked. You understand, youngin? But you can’t let em see you break apart. You gotta keep it low and take it slow. You my celly, ain’t you? Look, youngin—look at me! You’re either a cute little tulip bakin pink cupcakes in your mama’s first oven, or you’re a master-blaster with a 6,000 horsepower cock who can shoot flames from his ass like the farts of Mephistopheles. Which would you rather be?
BROWN HAIR looks up at BLACK HAIR with quiet wonder. He wipes away his tears.
BROWN HAIR
Holy fuckin guacamole. You don’t do nothin medio fuckin culo do you?
BLACK HAIR
Feel better now, right? (Feels his muscles playfully) What, you been reppin cinderblocks at that border detention center?
BROWN HAIR smiles.
BROWN HAIR
I’m a citizen, man, hunnert percent.
BLACK HAIR
Uh-huh. You remind me of Blackbelt Jesus. Had The Last Supper tattooed across his chest the way a sailor would a battleship. That mother could mix it up. AKA The Fightin H. Christ.
BROWN HAIR
What the H stand for?
BLACK HAIR
Hortense.
BROWN HAIR
Man, you so full of shit they can smell your ass all the way up in the hills of Afghanistan.
BLACK HAIR
I’m serious! Taught him the grammar of the hammer.
He shadowboxes, ducking and swerving. BLOND HAIR does the same, clearly delighted.
BROWN HAIR
What happened to em?
BLACK HAIR
The most tragical tragedy ever tragedized. Let’s just say his cock had too much doodle-doo. And there was a pissedoff husband in possession of a forty-five who didn’t appreciate his speakin tongues with his wife. Ever take up the sweet science?
BROWN HAIR
Nah. If I had any beefs I was always lucky enough to find a two-by-four.
BLACK HAIR
Things bein as they are…I can teach you a few moves.
BLACK HAIR grows more spirited when he notes BROWN HAIR’S lack of confidence in his abilities.
BLACK HAIR
C’mon, I’m serious! Might come in handy if you gotta fight your way outta here.
BROWN HAIR shrugs noncommittally.
BLACK HAIR
Heeeey, what you got, a brunch appointment?
BROWN HAIR
Fuck it, let’s do it.
BLACK HAIR
Now we’re cookin! First thing’s first: Up!
BROWN HAIR poses an orthodox stance, facing BLACK HAIR. BLOND HAIR watches with avid interest.
BLACK HAIR
That’s right, up straight. Good. Now put em up.
BROWN HAIR raises his fists. BLOND HAIR raises his own hands and paddles the air. He babbles joyfully.
BLACK HAIR
Good, good, lookin good. Now put some death in your eyes. You gotta have that far-sighted stare, the kind that can chase spiders around corners. Now bare those teeth. Grrrrr. That’s good. We’re gettin close to vicious. Now keep that jaw clenched. Flatten those feet. Draw your stomach in tight. Tighter. Get those buns in. Retract, mister, retract. Apply the screws. Everything tight. That’s right, gather up now, tighter, tighter, tighter…
BROWN HAIR (through clenched teeth)
So what’s supposed to happen now?
BLACK HAIR
Truth is, I was expectin at least a popcorn fart. Other than that, nothin.
BROWN HAIR
Pendejo!
BLACK HAIR cracks up and eventually BROWN HAIR follows suit. BLOND HAIR cranes his neck to look at them skeptically. But their hilarity is cut short when the deep rumbling appears once again, only louder and more foreboding this time. There is a resounding crash, like a heavy door flinging open, and the lights dim as an enormous shadow descends upon them. The mood instantly changes within the prison. The deep rumbling overtakes all, and terror is the predominant tone.
BROWN HAIR (shrinking back)
Aaaaaaaaah!
BLACK HAIR
Giddown, motherfucker!
BROWN HAIR babbles, lost to terror. BLOND HAIR is on his back, shrieking. BLACK HAIR drops onto his belly with his head turned to the side and yanks BROWN HAIR’S arm. BROWN HAIR drops to the floor. Both are quaking, facing each other. BLOND HAIR is crying hysterically, high-pitched and wheedling.
BLACK HAIR
I ain’t gonna let a damn thing happen to you. I promise you, brother, I promise.
The stage is obscured by the enormous shadow. The audience hears, sharply now, though in whispers:
BROWN HAIR (eyes closed)
Beş, dört, üç, iki, bir…Beş, dört, üç iki, bir…
Blackout.
End of Act I.
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Edwin Rivera-Arias’s fiction, essays, and poetry have been published in The Global City Review, Ping-Pong, Monkeybicycle, Kweli, The Acentos Review, Juked, PANK Magazine, and Tupelo Quarterly, among others. He was a Norman Mailer fiction fellow and a recipient of the Willapa Bay AiR residency. His full-length play, In the Palace of the Planet King, was produced on May 9, 2019 at the Wild Project in NYC as part of the Downtown Urban Arts Festival. Previously, he worked as a scalehouse operator, laborer, and dockman for a chemical storage facility and oil pipeline company in New Jersey. He is a former member of the United Steelworkers. He currently teaches at the School of Visual Arts in NYC, and is at work on a new full-length play.
✶
Alexander Chubar holds a BFA from Hunter College and a MFA from the Pratt Institute. His work has previously been published in Gone Lawn, Gemini Magazine, Subprimal Poetry Art/Music, The Tishman Review, Storm Cellar, and several other publications, including “A Still Life in Flowers” in ACM.
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