boring one man show-sub copy

8/13/2019 Boring One Man Show-sub Copy

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A Boring One Man Show,

Mired in Self-Indulgence

A Play

By Michael Oatman

Character

Malcolm: A black male in his 40s. Portrayed by a white actor.

Lucinda: A white woman 50s.Portrayed by a white actor

Bert: A Jewish male 60s. Portrayed by a white actor

Setting

A Den

Synopsis

An African American writer contemplates his life while

decided what should or should not go into his memoir.

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ACT ONE/SCENE ONE

Malcolm

Where do I start? [Malcolm looks up and addresses the audience after a long beat.] I dont

mean that as a rhetorical question. I honestly dont know where to start. I mean do I tell the

story of my first time? Or the time I caught my father with my aunt Sara . . . or maybe

My grandfather . . . colossal prick that he was . . . told me that this would happen. See, my

grandfather always believed that college was no place for a black man. If he was here he would

look at me with his dark, leathery, screwed-up face and say, Of course you dont got no soul no

more boy. Fuckin wit dem white boys, dun got you turned. I always despised that

mutherfucka. No wonder my father hated him so much, no wonder pops . . . no wonder, he

couldnt bare the weight of a life filled with one disappointment after another. Being fucked up

is like charity; that shit starts at home. [Beat] No wonder the gun fired. Im surprised that my

father didnt take the express line out of here sooner. [Beat]

Let me ask you another question? Does it matter if a person leaves a suicide note? I mean

really. Why cant a man just put the barrel of a gun to his temple, pull the trigger and splatter his

brains onto the walls of his den? Why does a man, clearly disenchanted with the world, have this

clearly illogical obligation to leave clarity after hes dead? Ive spent the better part of my adult

life trying to figure out the answer to this question. Its like an on-going argument that I have

with myself. The one side of me that thinks that a suicide note is an absolute requirement; a

bookend to a life. And the other side of me thinks that a suicide is the ultimate fuck you and in

that spirit you got no obligation to explain anything to anyone. My opinion on this matter

depends on which day you ask me.

I may not look it, [He straightens his lapels.] but I am an orphan. My mother passed when I was

a kid maybe six or seven . . . and my father . . . well, hes gone too. But true to form he couldnt

just slip into a coma or choke to death on his own blood in his sleep. No, this one concession he

couldnt spare. He left me . . . us really, my father left us . . . at the end of a gun barrel, with no

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note in sight. No explanation . . . I mean dont get me wrong . . . its not like his whole life

wasnt one big suicide note. [Long Beat]

Ya, see the question has come up because I am laboring to, well . . . write a memoir. [Beat] I

wanna start the thing off with a bang . . . no pun intended . . . so I thought, you know that the

death of my father might be a strong hook for the reader.

Bert

You mean a strong hook for a book publisher, dont you?

Malcolm

Well, yeah, that too. I want my memoir to start off with, you know, a strong beginning.

As I get older and time passes I am beginning to see life through the eyes of my father . . . I am

not excusing him for what he did, I simply have begun to understand that very little black and

white exists in the world, we live in a universe of grey. Now I have a family and realize the

tremendous pressure he was under. See what I have learned is that a father . . .

Bianca

Malcolm, you still breathing in there?

Malcolm

Yeah, babe, Im just . . . you know, finishing up a little work.Bianca

Dont stay up too long. Im bout to lay it down.

Malcolm

Okay, goodnight. [Turns to the audience.] That was my model wife, puttering around our model

home, the mother of our two model children . . . [Beat] . . . the gate keeper of my model misery.

[Beat] Sometimes I sit in this room, in that chair and attempt, as best I can to isolate the exact

moment that I fell out of love with that woman. The exact moment that the very smell of herfuckin sweet perfume registered dread. She is a good woman, a good woman . . . she is good to

me and yet the sound of her voice has driven me up every wall in this office. I am no fool. I

know its me. I know the sickness is in my mind. These are words that I share with you, but

they can and will never make it into my autobiography, my note to the world. They are words

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that need never be spoken in earshot of my wife. [Beat] If nothing else, I owe her that.

There is a piece missing from me, an emotional transistor that never turned on, a mother board

that never activated. I have trouble feelin. I have silently judged my father, but even he didnt

lack the ability to feel or love. [He walks over to the desk and grabs a picture frame.] My two

beautiful children. They love me more then anything. They light up when ever I enter the room.

[Beat] I . . . I . . . [He peers down and stifles his own comments.] Its hard for me to say the

words, but . . . I dont love them. [Beat] There, I said it, and the sky didnt fall and a bolt of

lightening didnt ascend from the heavens and wipe me off the face of the Earth like an errant

stain. I dont love them. Dont get me wrong, my children are pleasant enough, but I dont feel

for them what I should. I never have. I was there for both births and it meant nothing to me.

Something has died with in me. Maybe it was never there in the first place. You know, like a

kid born with an arm missing. Who says that the same tragedy cant occur with the human

heart? I dont feel like other people feel. I am not moved by sunsets or stirred by transcendent

speeches by inspirational speakers. I am a void. Only on the rarest occasion have I actually felt

something, and even in those moments it was serendipitous. Without logic or pattern, no ability

to track or confirm that I was experiencing a real emotion, the times that I have experienced real

strong emotions has been like walking into a room and smelling the faint fading wisp of a smell

thats gone in seconds: chasing rainbows.

Dont be fooled by the polish and easy candor I wear like a new jacket. That was hard to admit.

I suppose the fact that I will never see you people ever again in my life makes it easier. I

wonder what you must think about me? You probably think that Im a fuckin serial killer,

right? [Beat. He smiles] Close enough, Im a writer . . . [Beat] . . . a writer. A wife-despising,

child-hating writer. How you can bare to look at me is a wonder. [Beat] But dont worry if your

thinking that I should go to hell, Ive been there. Shit, I built a summer home there. Yes, Im a

successful newspaper columnist, but I had to crawl on my belly through a sewer to get there, if

the words Affirmative Action just crawled across your collective minds. I earned it, every

damned bit of it.

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Ive worked for every shit news magazine and rag in this city. Im not like one of these

twenty-two year-old white boys who float out of one of these racist ass universities and

land a gig as a cub reporter before theyve so much as posted a story. I started my career

writing news copy for a coupon circular. I am a black journalist. A whore in an industry

of whores. Dont get me wrong, when I use the term whore I do not refer to the

honorable profession engaged in by countless young women on dark street corners;

whose services I have on occasion partaken. I would never dishonor their dutiful service

by equating it with the cess pools of politics and dirty money that buoy the journalistic

profession.

A Negro journalist, a member of the black literati. Like shuffling yes sir bosses we pick

clean the leavings of truth and honesty in the black community and regurgitate them onto

advertising driven pages as if the pictures we paint bear some relation to truth. Like

white boy wannabes we pack the universities and wear our wasp-tailored suits and learn

the sport of dissembling and obfuscation: a skill black folks take to naturally, its in our

blood. We are taught to lie from a young age. Were taught to believe that that black

armor that encases us does not matter, and that we can grow up and be plain old normal

Americans. It is a lie that is branded onto our collectively scared souls. So for us this

journalism thing fits like a southern noose around a stretched neck. We graduate as

brainwashed little fact takers, with notions of honor and ethics ringing in our empty

heads.

If journalist are whores, as I propose they are, then black journalist are the king and

queens of whoredom. Sometime we gather at dinner parties, like rats and we bitch and

moan about the oppressive nature of a media controlled by white faces. Black TV

anchors, reporters, writers, safe with one another talking big and tossing around the word

nigga like a volley ball at a picnic. It is at these gatherings that journalists like me get to

let down their guard and embrace the latent blackness thats always just below our

whitewashed surfaces. We wield and lord the tiny domain of power and influence we

have been allowed to occupy. We develop clicks, shut out other black folks and then

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guard our position as the only black face in the news room. We become that which we

seemingly despise. Make no mistake, the Republicans, evil fucks that they are, have one

thing right: the media is in fact an evil oppressive force that will one day be the ruin of

an already disintegrating Gomorra. Us Negro journalist are only bit players in this

coming massacre

We will continue to ignore the masses and project our will. We crush and destroy those

who lose our favor, we are the new Monarchy and you, the peasants our subjects. We

oppress our charges of course, for the best reason of all, because we can. We know that

in the end we win the game. We write the history, we assign the blame and we sculpture

the history . . . [There is a knock at the door.] . . . Uh, yes, who is it?

Nicole

Its me daddy, can I come in?

Malcolm

Uh, yes honey come on in. [Turns to the audience.] Just give me a minute.[A small

African American female child enters the room.]

Nicole

I cant sleep, daddy.

Malcolm

My baby cant sleep?

Nicole

Who were you talking to, daddy?

Malcolm

Talking to oh, uh I was on the phone.

Nicole

Who were you talking to.

Malcolm

My, uh, editor.

Nicole

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This late?

Malcolm

Dont you worry about that, now honey. Why dont you go crawl into bed with mama,

okay?

Nicole

Okay, daddy. Dont stay up too late. Grown-ups need their sleep too.

Malcolm

Okay, baby. [Kisses her. And puts her back down.] Go on to bed now. [She exits the

stage running.] And dont slam the . . . [The door slams.] . . . door. [Beat] Shes a cute

thing, but an god awful pest. We only had her because my idiot wife stopped taking the

pill and neglected to inform me of that fact. A desperate attempt to keep me I suppose.Women never realize that keeping a man and keeping a man in a marriage are not the

same thing. Where was I?

Bert

Some bullshit about how bad it is to be a black journalist. Wah, I get paid a ton of dough

to write pretty little stories. Wah, the world is more corrupt then I thought. Wah, the

readers of my articles are really stupid and Im really smart, Wah.

Malcolm

Oh, yes. [Clears his throat.] And you, the cattle, the readers, dont have a goddamned

thing to say about what we write because in the end, its bastards like me that pimp the

pages and whore the airwaves. Its people like me that shape and frame the discussion at

your dinner table that you thought sprang from your own addled mind. What fools you

are. The American public is as gullible as the their media is sinister. Some of you

simpletons . . . sorry, theater-goers, probably believed some of the tripe you read in the

newspaper. Heres a rule of thumb to live by if a journalist or magazine writer says it,its probably a lie. Which creates a conundrum. Am I telling the truth, or am I just

fucking with you? [He laughs]

Lucinda

Fuck you.

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Malcolm

What did you say?

Lucinda

I said fuck you.Malcolm

Oh, yeah.

Lucinda

Yeah.

Malcolm

You white cunt, you wanna say that to my face?

Lucinda

Gladly. [The woman stands from her seat and walks onto the stage. She walks over to

the desk and then walks behind it and is face to face with Malcolm.]

Malcolm

Okay, now say to my face you dried up cunt.

Lucinda

FUCK YOU!!!

Malcolm

Cracker whore.

Lucinda

Nigger. Fuckin Nigger. [The two start screaming and yelling at one another at the top

of their lungs as they moved closer to each other. As they become an inch apart, the two

stop yelling and stare at one another for a moment. Then they embrace each other and

start French kissing quite passionately. Then the two fall to the ground behind the desk.

We can only see the pairs intertwined legs from behind the desk. The pair is obviously

wildly making love.]

Malcolm

[After a few minutes, the pair raise to their feet. Their clothes are clearly disheveled.]

Sorry folks. Where was I? [The woman exits the stage.]

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Bert

Well, before you were bangin the old bag you were saying some bullshit about being a

black journalist.

Malcolm

Right, right, black journalist. [He is zipping up his pants and straightening himself up.]

But, needless to say, Ive paid my dues. When the newspaper I work for posts my face

over my column and pays me my absurdly over inflated salary I dont feel one pang of

guilt, not one ounce of reservation. Because I know, more than anybody in that news

room, that I earned it.

You should have seen my bosses when I asked them to take a extended leave of absence to write

this memoir. [The lights go dark and the desk in the background is no longer visible. The

spotlight comes back up and a white man in a suit is sitting at the desk.]

Mr. Schwartzman

Come on now son, have a seat. Whats wrong. [Malcolm sits at the chair in front of his desk.]

Malcolm

Nothing Mr. Schwartzman, I just feel that I need to, I dont know take a break and reevaluate

some things.Mr. Schwartzman

Trouble at home?

Malcolm

No.

Mr. Schwartzman

You sure.

Malcolm

Im sure.

Mr. Schwartzman

Come on, now its me. Whats going on. This is not like you. Weve just given you a raise, you

in line for the position in the Editorial department as soon as Slawson leaves, this makes no

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damned sense. How are you gonna make money? Whose gonna pay for those expensive suits

you like so much? [Beat] Is this about that joke at the last mixer? What the difference between a

black guy and a pizza?

Malcolm

A pizza can feed a family of four.

Mr. Schwartzman

A pizza can feed a family of four. [Said simultaneously.] No, Mr. Schwartzman, thats not it,

thats not it at all. I just need a break is all.

Mr. Schwartzman

Okay, I guess, but I will never understand you guys. [Beat] Writers I mean. Writers.

Malcolm

Of course Mr. Schwartzman. Of course.

Mr. Schwartzman

Alright, I have to go see if that late Edition if ready to go out. [He gets up and begins to exit the

stage.]

Malcolm

Oh, yeah, Mr. Schwartzman. [Mr. Schwartzman turns around.] Whats the difference between a

Jew and a pizza?

Mr. Schwartzman

I dont know what?

Malcolm

A pizza doesnt scream in the oven. No offense right?

Mr. Schwartzman

[In confusion.] Right.[Schwartzman exits the stage.]

Malcolm

Im not that old, but Im not a kid either. I just felt that it was time to examine my life. My

editor thought that the sabbatical rash. And maybe he was right. Biographies are written by

people trying sort out the tangled threads of there life. Separating out the fact in the fiction.

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At best autobiographies are about hiding in plain sight; knowing what to cut, what to leave in, or

just how much leg to show the reader to lure them into the text. For instance should I include the

time that I won the state spelling bee. [A spotlight illuminates a small black kid in thick black

glasses.]

Disembodied Voice

Spell Metamorphosis .

Young Malcolm

Metamorphosis. M-E-T-A-M-O-R-P-H-O-S-I-S.

Disembodied Voice

Correct. [A crowd begins to cheer wildly. The young man smiles broadly and thrusts his arms

triumphantly in the air. The spotlight immediately goes black.] Or do I instead tell you the luridstory of my first blow job. [The spotlight comes up and a full figured African American woman

in her underwear is standing in the spotlight is revealed to the audience .] She was eighteen and I

was ten. [She walks over to Malcolm and places her hands seductively on her shoulders and

kisses him on the neck.]

Vicki

Long time no see, Thumper.

Malcolm

Thats what she use to call me. By the way did I mention that she was my baby-sitter?

Vicki

Relax. Its okay, you know that I would never hurt you, right?

Malcolm

Right. [Beat] Oh, did I mention that she was my first cousin? It lasted for years. To this day she

is my favorite cousin. At the odd family gathering or reunion we trade two-way smiles.

Vicki

So how is college treating you, Thumper?

Malcolm

Okay, Vicki.

Vicki

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So how long are you back for?

Malcolm

A few days.

Vicki

Well, when your done visiting with the family why dont you come by and visit your old cousin.

Malcolm

Sure thing. [The woman exits the stage.] That was the last time. We were together, only she did

not look like this anymore. By this time, her life of excess had finally caught up with her. So

tell me dear audience member, which story should I include? Huh? Now this spelling bee story,

is not sexy, but in all honesty its perhaps more of a formative incident in my life. It was the first

time that I have ever been singled out for anything positive. It was the first time that I was everawarded for being smart. But which scene would you like to see?

Bert

[From the audience.] The cousin thing. But if you include that story, could we see some a little

more action [Action pronounced with an Italian modification.] and not just her caressing your

neck, I mean come on, dude, you know how much I paid for these fuckin theater tickets? Do

the words money shot mean anything to you, Chico?

Malcolm

This jack ass is representative of much of the audience of your average memoir or biography. To

be honest with you there is very little real truth in the pages I have turned out so far. And Ive

turned out many. Ya see, editorial decision making always distorts the pursuit of accuracy and

creates, a neatly tailored version of what really happened. Memories wrapped in the shroud of

time will always fail us. So Im not even gonna try to write anything that is truthful or insightful.

I do not even know if such a thing is possible. But as a writer I do posses what can only be

described as magical powers; a trickster with pen, the ability to weave well-constructed illusionsthat simulate truth.

As a writer my legacy has been placing on the tip of your collective tongues the faint flavor of

life. There is no inspiration nor central theme to be found within these observations that I share

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with you. So, I would humbly suggest you not waste your valuable time listening for them. But

for you convenience I have assembled a list of works in which inspirational words might be

found. [He reaches into his pocket and begins to read from a crumpled piece of paper. He

reaches into his top shirt pocket and removes a pair of glasses. He puts the glasses on. He

clears his throat as he reads from the list.]

Up From SlaverybyBooker Washington $4.95 New

The Autobiography of Malcolm XbyMalcolm X

and Alex Haley $7.99 New

Monster:byMonster Kody $11.20 New

Coming of Age in MississippibyAnne Moody $7.99 New

Like I said the toughest part about writing a memoir is knowing where to start your story. Just

the idea of trying to encompass the hugeness of a life into a few hundred pages is such an act of

unmitigated gall. I mean think about that. I struggled with it. The first period of my life that

presented itself to me as meaningful involves my father. Like a piece of ice adrift on an arctic

see the image is burned into my mind. You willing to travel with me down that murky path?

You sure? Okay, well ever the good reporter lets document it. [He walks over to the other side

of the desk and reaches into one of the drawers.] Where is it, where is it, where is it. If I was

tape recorder where would I be, what would I feel and what would see, what ideas would . . .

here it is. [He stands up and returns to the other side of the desk.] You dont mind if I turn this

on do you? [Beat] good. [He clicks the tape recorder on and lays it onto the desk.] Another

candidate for the first seen of my memoir is a childhood memory thats shrouded in a haze of

childhood memory and myth.

Oddly enough, the first thing that I noticed when I entered the living room that night . . . almost,

what, 30 years ago . . . my brother crying quietly in the corner. He stood still against the blood

red velvet walls of our living room and was peering upward. Our battling parents did not even

register as a visual image in my mind. I had never witnessed my father beat my mother I had

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only heard the sounds of it at night after I went to bed. The screams and yelling were hard to

distinguish from the nightmares and dreamscapes of youth. I once read that when Christopher

Columbus landed in the New World, the natives on shore could not visually detect the image of

his ship as it came in closer, because they had never seen such a thing. It did not exist in their

frame of reference. It was like that for me as well.

My fathers yellow meaty hands around my mothers beautifully dark neck simply did not

register as a violent act. It was the red, hot terror in my older brothers face that blinked

DANGER like a dimly lit neon sign.

Jimmy, run next door. Get help, get help.

These were the only words my mother could eke out as my fathers hands tightened around her

neck. My brothers knee buckled slightly as he turned to run.

Jim, Jim dont move a muthfuckin muscle.

A bolt of lighting rippled through my brothers body as he screeched to halt. Mother or not, this

was my fathers house and his words were always the last ones spoken. [Beat] My bother was

his fathers son. Jimmy loved him dearly and looked up to him as only a first son can. They

were kinda partners; like minded moons orbiting the same sun. The sat on the other side of the

invisible divide that had always existed in our family. My mother noticed me standing in the

door way, half awake with sleep still glued to the inside corners of my eyes.

Malcolm, go get help,

She pleaded to me.

With that my father turned.

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Malcolm, take yo ass back to bed. Now.

I didnt hesitate.

Malcolm bring yo ass back here.

He yelled to my back. I do not even remember unlatching the door. I just recall my bare feet

colliding with the tar gravel in our driveway as I flew across the street to alert, Ms. Crawford

across the street; a woman who positively despised my father.

A red and blue light show followed.

A set of serious faced white men arrived and adorned my fathers wrist with matching silver

bracelets and escorted him away. Inside I smiled. This was not an after school special or a

Disney movie and I was not going to hatch a wacky scheme to get my parents back together. At

the time I hated the fucker and was tickled pink that he was gone. I did not know then that after

a few failed attempts at reconciliation my fathers exile would become permanent.

I stood in the front yard at my assigned place by my mothers side watching as the police cars

pulled away. From behind me I heard sniffling. I looked back and my brother was crying on the

front porch alone. To this day I still do not know if he was crying for our mother who had been

brutalized or crying because our father was being taken away. But we were all survivors in a

sense, like dog faces in Vietnam. Everybody did what they had to do to survive. And maybe,

just maybe it is not fair for anyone to question the origin of my brother tears.

That was my earliest childhood memory.

This is perhaps a good grabber for a memoir because it deals with religion. This memory, has to

do with my brother, the only father Ive really ever had. I have more of him swimming around

in my brain then I care to admit. Although hes a middle aged man, when I think of Jimmy hes

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always anchored to that damned couch. Its Sunday morning and my mother is upstairs getting

ready for church.

I was born Negro.

I didn't get a Bar Mitzvah

Never had a coming out party.

Those are rituals from other worlds.

I had to find a different vessel to birth me into adulthood.

My brothers ritual was watching the morning political shows on Sunday. My missing father had

infected my brother with the love of politics and verbal warfare. Jimmy was an 18 year-old who

shunned rap videos for "Meet the Press" and "This Week with David Brinkley". Every Sunday, I

would took my place at his side on the opposite sofa.

It had been years since my father had bailed out of our lives. Even the uncomfortable phone

calls had ceased. It was only us. My mother had absorbed the absence the worst. She had taken

to filling the void with the ultimate placebo: a Bible.

It was subtle, barely noticeable at first. Then her faith began to strengthen and snake out to other

parts of our lives. Her language, dress and manner changed right in front of us. Gospel singers

began to regularly drone on about their love of God through Malcolms of our stereo. Her usual

friends were supplanted by a gaggle of wide bottomed church woman totting large pocket books

in one hand and holy books in the other. This heavenly contingent was the holy hell of my life.

Soon church attendance became a regular function of my life.

Sunday after Sunday, I was dragged to church. I as not allowed the exemption my brother

received because he as eighteen. I was only allowed a few moments next to my brother to watch

television in the morning before I had to get ready to go to church. The time I spent immersed in

the religious fervor of my mother were depressing times. I truly disliked the strict religious

precepts that were being forced on me. The more I learned about the religion the more I disliked.

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I as a teenager and I was developing a morality apart from my mother. That morning, almost

randomly, I came to a conclusion I was not going to church. I was going to sit down and watch

Meet the Presswith my older brother.

I heard the sound of feet tramping down the stairs. My mother was coming to retrieve me for

church. She stood in the archway of the living room.

Did you getcho butt in the shower?

I swallowed hard.

No, Ma. I didn't take a shower.

I could feel her eyes on me.

What you mean you didn't get in the shower? We gon be late to church.

I stood-up and walked over to my mother standing in the archway. I lifted my head and met her

eyes.

I'm ain't going to church, Ma.

What? Whatchu mean you ain't going to church?

This was the toughest part. The explanation. The rejection of her values. I did not yell. I didn't

cry or beg. I talked to her clearly without pause and told her that not only was I not going to

church that Sunday, but I wasn't ever going. She chaffed. She threatened to beat me with the

whipping belt she kept in her top dresser draw.

Mama, If that's what you need to do---but I still ain't going.

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You better go and get dressed, NOW!!!

No.

I turned and walked over to the sofa next to my brother who had already been exempted from

church by his 18 year-old status. It was a final no; my father's no and she knew it. My mother

was so angry her body was pitching off heat. I have never seen her that angry before or since.

She stood in the archway glaring and then something happened. This King Kong-sized figure in

my young life perceptibly deflated. She turned and walked away. I heard the door slam as she

left for church.

If I would have known then what I know now, I would have stayed my ass in church. After that

it got bad, it got dark. We moved to East Camden. One of those small suburbs thats a suburb in

name only. During those years I ran with a bad crowd. I did bad things. And I hurt people in a

variety of ways. But I will not tell these stories. I have not yet earned the right. So this period

must remain untold. Perhaps with the distance only time can provide my failing memory will

wrap enough myth around this period to allow me to convert it into easily digestible nuggets of

false wisdom and easy entertainment. I can not tell these stories. I have not yet earned the

right.---As a remnant of my catholic school education, I believe that there is a certain amount of

penance that must be completed before I can commit to the page the stories of those souls who

inhabited my life during these painful years---either that or I am completely full of shit. I will

allow you the audience member to be the final arbiter of this question.

Any way, I did gleam some lessons from East Camden that I can share. The most dangerous

thing in the world is a boy with no road map to manhood. A young boy without his father is a

dangerous thing. Like a warhead without a guidance system. His departure, I aint gon lie, left a

mile high, canyon deep hole in my life. And here is the unsavory truth. The hole never heals, it

never gets better. It always hurts. The idea that being a good father to your child, somehow

mends the wound is nothing short of a lie. It is no salve . . . dont get me wrong. I love my little

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guy but it does not remove the sting. A year before he died. A year before he checked without

so much as a goodbye, I sat there, a grown as man . . .

I watched that damn phone for what seemed like forever.

I was actually nervous. I hadnt heard from my old man since that annual awkward call

that I always received around my birthday. Thank god my insanely busy schedule

usually insures that I was there when the phone calls comes I thought to myself. I had

not actually talked to him since the year before.

I grabbed the damn phone and then dialed. I had already formulated the lie that was

going to tell. I was decent fiction writer in my day and non-truth posed as reality came

easy to me. The phone rang several times and I swung my chair around and was about to

place it on the hook when it clicked.

[He forms his hands into the shape of a phone.]

Hello

He said on the other end of the phone with that bellowing ramble that marked my

childhood.

Hey Pop. Whats up?

Malcolm?

I could tell that the nigga wasnt quite sure if I was a bill collector.

Yeah pop, whats up?

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Nothing, nothing. Whats going on? Is everything okay?

Yeah, yeah. Just fine, you know how we do.

So whats up? I paused and stumbled to get the lie out. In certain circles I have been

know as a man able to string together a sentence. But in this instance, Im stumbling

badly.

Uhhh . . . . well . . . I was just wonder if maybe, I could have you help me out. Help me

out with a school assignment. [Pulls the phone away from his mouth and addresses the

audience directly.] I was in grad school polishing off my masters.

What?

Yeah we are doing this assignment in class in which we have to talk to our fathers and

interview them about a day in their life when they were twelve.

What?

An assignment . . . you know . . . school.

Aw Mike I aint really into that shit man, you know me.

Yeah, I know I just want to interview you for a few minutes and you know, get a grade in

the class.

It was obviously more than that for me, I wonder did my agenda reveal itself in my voice.

Yeah, I heard you was back in school, thats good man. But I cant really do it man.

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Why dont you call yo mama?

Transferring the responsibility of dealing with the messy business of having sons came as

a reflex to my father.

It has to be my father.

I said reinforcing my lie.

Okay pop, I guess I understand.

Alright now, be easy baby, I love you. And I am proud of you.

He said marshaling every bit of sincerity he could muster.

Click.

The line between us was severed. One would not know it but a million years ago, he had

been an artist. Long before the house notes and drinking, he had created. He looked at a

page that was empty and filled it with words and ideas. I had read a few of his works and

been blown away. And now he was a shell. A man in his 60s wasting away in an old

folks high rise.

He had disappointed me again.

If nothing else you would think he would want to help just on the grounds of being a

fellow writer. In the army he was a writer, he bumped around Cleveland after he was

discharged and wrote for some of the black local papers in town. He even had war stories

to offer, I like the one about how James Baldwin came on to him after a poetry reading.

My father was a pretty freckled thing as a young man. On these grounds alone he should

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have been open to helping me. We were not just father and son we were fellow writers.

I am sorry, man. My brains have turned to mush.

The was all he had to offer me.

Click.

The line between us had been severed.

Maybe this should be the way that I should start my memoir. That call. That click.

Maybe thats the entry point at which a stranger could understand who I am. Or

maybe the entry point to my biography isnt all of this messy personal business at all.

Maybe the entry point is professional. With a pen in my hand, Ive learned a lot of

lessons. Take a lot of hits a lot of glory.

Sometime ago before mainstream success came knocking on my door in the form of a

columnist job for a daily came knocking on my door, I was the editor for a small black

newspaper in the quarters district. On the strip in front of our offices niggas was selling

everything from pussy of pork chops. It kept our noses into . . . kept just enough dirt

under our fingernails to keep us honest. It was at that paper that I learned what every

journalist should learn.

You hurt me.

These are the words that derailed me and sent it hurtling off of the tracks. Never did a

locomotive so deserve its destruction. I am a funny guy. All the sycophants say so. As

the Editor-in-Chief I was the king of my cloistered universe. Like a monkey slinging shit

pies, I sat atop my bullet-proof throne and reveled in my ability to shoot verbal jabs and

slap the hands of those in power.

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Once I had a photographer go out and take pictures of the backsides of the City Council.

Then I ran the photos with the headline, The Most Prominent Assholes in Town. This

was the level of the humor of our publication and indeed its sensibility. But, unlike the

average young punks looking to poke the powerful in the eye, we were cursed with

something that made us even that more dangerous: many on my staff actually possessed

talent. This made some of the jabs harder and even more vicious.

At the time I did not see it that way. I had so firmly rapped myself in the first

amendment, I glossed over some of the nuances that every goodwriter should ask

themselves; such as just because we can legally publish something, should we? Some

times being accurate is not enough and being right does not necessarily mean doing right.

These questions had not only not been answered by me, they had not even been

imagined. For me ethical questions stopped with the law. Is it legal? Can we be sued for

this?

This was my mindset when I received the call from my publisher that someone had

bitterly complained about a satire piece I wrote about police brutality. I was waiting for

that call, perhaps from a police officer or maybe the city. The piece dealt with a young

man who had, in my opinion, been murdered by local police. The piece I wrote in

response was funny, unflinching and so far out there that it even gave me pause as the

writer. But fuck it I said to myself. Young men are being murdered in the street and

damn anybody who has a problem with it. I the journalist have the power to speak and I

will not be stilled by the powers that be. It is a wonder that I did not have a minute man

band following me playing patriotic music as I pontificated. It was in the usual tradition

of our publication: articles that were honest, hard hitting and perhaps a bit reckless.

The call did not bother me. By this point I had had a dozen or so meetings with Puerto

Ricans, Jews, Blacks, Womens groups, professors, Nation of Islam members; whoever

was complaining would just be another name on the list, just another notch on my belt.

And then when I heard who was complaining and demanding a meeting and I truly

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exhaled. I knew the name immediately.

The guy coming to face me down about my article was an old acquaintance. He was an

professor with the university I graduate from and we had banged heads on several

occasions. He was part of the crew that had attempted to bring me up on charges because

of a non-flattering article I had written about a fellow professor when I was in college.

He had long accused me of not being black enough, which was instantly comical coming

from a white guy. He had been gunning for me ever since a run-in at a black studies

event in which I verbally took him apart.

He was clearly more intelligent, well-read and thoughtful on the issues of race and class,

but I was funny and more passionate. At a young age I had acquired the ability to just

beat a guy down and make the point he was making seem like utter hogwash. He disliked

me for this ability. It was curious though. He was a card-carrying leftist. I would have

thought that he would have been doing somersaults over the piece. But so be it. I did not

back down from anybody. I welcomed all takers. Like a smug boxer [Begins to box the

air like a boxer.] I prepared to pepper the professor with a litany of wonderful points

about our Democracy and about how America is best when its citizens have the absolute

right to be absolutely wrong. Blah, blah, blah.

Late evening had descended and I waited for the professor to enter my office. He had

been there before. The representative from Student Life had called and said that she

would not be able to attend the informal meeting. There was a light rap at my door.

Come in I beckoned. The door knob spun and in walked a woman. Followed by the

professor. She was an unimpressive looking woman that reminded me of the silent army

of women who clean the floors and empty the garbage cans in those big shiny buildings

downtown. If she would not have been standing in the middle of my office she is the

sort of woman I would not have never noticed. Like a jack in the box, the professor

popped from behind her.

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Thats him. The one who wrote the article

Then with a relish, he introduced her as the mother of the young man that I had

referenced in my satire piece. On the face of it, the piece was seemingly a racist rant

against her child, but of course I was shielded by the fact that it was clearly satire, right?

I dropped my head and in mumbled mouth fashion attempted to convey my condolence

for her loss. I explained to her that the article was satire, a joke. You know, a joke.

[Beat] This verbal shading was apparently lost on her. She read it at face value and was

hurt. She sat down in the hard wood back chairs in front of my desk and began to talk

earnestly about her son.

She leaned in closer and took my hand into hers and continued to speak. As she neared

me I detected the smell of Tootsie Rolls on her breath. It was unmistakable. Her eyes

began to bulge with water and spill over as she stared at me with those large eyes. She

did not waver though, she did not turn away or swoon like some week willed willow.

You hurt me.

She said.

Do you understand that son? You hurt me.

I was stunned, for perhaps the first time in my professional life I was speechless. There

were no rousing speeches within me, no clever comebacks or handy retorts about

freedom of the press. She was saying to me with her quiet, pain-soaked words that I had

hurt her. That I had taken the unimaginable pain of losing a child and made it worse.

Think about that when you down here writing this stuff, okay?

She uttered this direction with the hybrid mix of concern, instruction and forgiveness that

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only a mother can muster. She had probably had similar conversations with her own son

who was now dead. And here she was now giving one last exhortation to a wayward son

to do right and be thoughtful. I dipped my head and began to feel my eyes swell with

tears. I turned away as much ashamed by the tears as my article. I could feel him

looking at me. We had had a long history and verbally banged heads on several

occasions and now I was weeping before him. Like a wounded calf limping in front of a

lions den. I heard the smack of his lips as he flashed his teeth and his voice began to rise.

He was coming for me. Clearly about to sink his fangs into me. Due to the emotional

state I was in I could not make out his words but certainly the gist was something along

the lines of . . .

Arent you clever, you hurt this woman, arent you ashamed.

He had patiently waited for his time to scold me without response. This was his day.

The sun even shines on a monkeys ass on occasion. I lowed my had in sacrifice and

curled up to receive my verbal beating. But ever the mother bear, lurching forward to

protect an orphan cub, she murmured something to him. I do not know what she said but

the garbled low, grunt stopped him in his tracks. She stood up and he slithered to his feet

as well. Her hands, which were warm and damp from sweat parted from mine. Our soft,

wet palms smacked making the sound of a kiss.

Now yall remember that.

She said. I think in retrospect she did this to give me room to distance myself from my

actions. A final kindness. I nodded. And she smiled as she exited my office, the lion

lurking behind her. We exchanged a quick glance and with our eyes agreed to continue

our mutual malice later. I sat there in my office like a character from a movie and had

my very own Pinter pause. Like a stone I let her words wash over me in hope that

smooth those very jagged rough edges that often damn us all.

The plight of the nigga journalist..

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Maybe my biography should be about that, maybe this should be the meat of my memoir.

I believe that I am not the man that I once was. I am not certain if that is a good or bad

thing. As my youth flitters away I am left with so many unanswered questions.

When did thought provoking plays replace strip pole dancing at the local sleaze huts?

Only recently the thought occurred that I havent fondled a stripper in years or even

thought about it much. When did I stop knowing the name of the latest gangsta rapper?

Recently I stooped as low as asking one of my children to turn that racket down. When

did Vibeand SourceMagazines get replaced on my coffee table by TimeandNewsweek?

There is a metamorphosis that has occurred within my lifestyle so gradually I didnt even

notice. What happened to that happy go lucky semi-thug that used to hang out with drug

dealers on garbage strewn street corners? I guess the answer to that is obvious; hes in

the library parsing through a Jane Austin novel looking for dramatic irony.

These changes that come with advancing age is not only a clich, but expected. The

effects are still jarring however. It is an odd thing to educate oneself away from his peer

group. I find myself in a foreign world. In every room I step into there are rarely people

that look like I me. I often look around and wonder where have all the black men gone?

The new loves I have acquired during my college years have forced me to travel into odd

forbidding places. How many times have I found myself driving through white suburbs

to see the latest poet or dramatic production wondering what the hell am I doing here? I

am sometimes tempted to stop by the local police station and order my harassment like

fast food.

Hi Im a large suspicious looking Negro and I thought I would save us both some time

and pick up my traffic violation now.

Well, yes sir, we would be happy to help ya friend.

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Thanks for spending time, you have a nice evening and drive safe on the way home.

[The lights blink out and a few seconds we hear a shot. Then we hear banging on the

door of his study and the sound of Malcolms wife and kids.]

Wife

Malcolm, Malcolm. Open the door, open the door.

Childs Voice

Daddy, Daddy. [We hear the door burst open and then we hear a scream. ]

You see those degrees on the wall. They dont mean a goddamned thing . . . you know there was

a time when I thought that my education would save me . . . lift me from the gutter and send me

soaring into some upper-middle class wonderland where race didnt matter; history didnt matter;

who my father was wouldnt matter; and I would be judged by the content of my character and

not the color of my skin. [Beat] Fuck you Dr. King. I dont know if you were full of shit, a

snake oil salesman or just a goddamned idiot. [Beat] Fuck you, fuck me . . . and now this dream

of yours has fucked us both. It earned yo punk ass a bullet and me a much slower death. I die

every time my finger graces a key stroke . . . I can feel it draining away one drop at a time.

There are no dreams for us now. No more dreams. No more stupid, nave, dreams that never

seem to [Beat] . . . Im sorry. [Beat] Weve only just met and already you think Im bitter . . .

filled with hate . . . Im, well . . . I dont know, Im in a weird place right now. You know? I

have all these questions, all these issues swirling around in my head. [Long beat]

Let me ask you a question: what makes a black man a black man? Is it our skin color? [Beat] Is

it our culture? A set of shared values . . . the other day I was walking past this group of kids on

the street. You know, black kids. It was almost nine oclock. I was leaving my job and I saw

them there, standing across the parking lot, just shooting the shit. Loud and fouled mouth;

cursing, throwing around the word nigga like a beach ball; I mean, they werent threatening or

anything, in fact they didnt even notice me, I was like a bug to them . . . but I watched them.

Like zoo animals, I watched them and for the first time in my life . . . I dont know, I didnt

recognize them as anything close to me, anything like me, it was as if I was watching another

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species or something. And at first I thought that this feeling, this creeping feeling was a reaction

to something in them; but it wasnt, it was something in me. They hadnt changed . . . niggas

been shucking and jiving on street corners since I was a fucking kid. This was nothing new,

what was new was my reaction to it. I was seeing those little dope boys through white man eyes.

It was that moment that I realized that . . . that . . . that, Im not even black anymore . . . [Looks

up and closes his eyes and lets his arms drop to his sides with his palms face up .] . . . its like I

could feel the last ounces of melanin coursing throughout my jet black skin slowly draining

away.

FIN.

Word Count 9,223

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boring one man show-sub copy

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