Tuesday, October 17, 2006
The Fire in Bradford, Act II, Scene l and 2
There goes that devil on my shoulder, stabbing his little pitchfork in me again.
"You brag one more time about your theatre luck, I'm not just going to give you bursitis. I'm going to make your dick fall off."
Forewarned by my devil.
Makes me think of an old Chess Records blues song:
On my shoulder
Well you sure do
Know your stuff
But this is more of a forewarning devil.
I do notice that whenever Flood or Bernita or Sandra Ruttan or Sela Carsen--and a host of published others--whenever they get something "in print", they keep it low key. They do not brag.
My other name may as well be Will Bragg, and I'm going to stop it.
So here, following some requests from some real people for more of my play, which is as yet unpublished--Here ACT II of THE FIRE IN BRADFORD.
Setting: Main Street, with Lief's red Toyota SUV in front of parking meter.
Celia and Lief have the professor between them. He is very drunk.They are walking towards the vehicle.
Professor, who is babbling: Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's wife, nor his goods, nor his ass.
Lief (gigggling as he tries to hold up the professor'sright shoulder) "Nor his ass?"
Professor: I know your're a fart smastard, Lief. I know you've read Kant.'A Posteriori. One of Kant's propositions.
Celia, ( who has the professor's left arm, begins to giggle as well) David, what did you just say?
Professor: Kant. Immanuel Kant. What did you think I said?...And if your pronoune Goethe like Goth again I'll lay a Johnny Rotten on you.
Celia: You're lucky I like the things you say. Even the rude things.
Celia's head is now almost underneath the professor's arm. Lief fumbles in his right-hand pocket for the keys.
They steer the professor around the front of the car to the sidewalk, so they can dump him in the back seat.
Lief starts the SUV. There is a pause.
Lief turn back towards the prof, who is screwing up lighting a cigarette.
Lief: Threre is an ashtray in front of you. Pull it back.
Professor: Fuck you, good friend Lief. The world is my ashtray!
Lief, to Celia, almost whispering: This guy's a professor? He's not even middleclass. Listen to him! Boy, you really pick them!
Ceilia: He's a brilliant writer.
Lief: Well, I don't care if he's a brilliant writer. I'm from the west. I know we laugh at Newfies here in Ontario, but over in Alberta, we used to call them Ukies. The guy's a boor, a horse's ass!
Professor: I heard that.I may be a horse's ass, but I noticed, when I said something to you back in the bar and grabbed your knee for emphasis, your moved right into it.
This brings a laugh from Lief. He turns back to the professor.
Lief: Fast reflexes.
Professor: I don't know what you guys have in mind, but I've got no other place to go right now.
And they are off.
Interior of a neat white cottage in Holland Landing. A white shag rug down in a Danish style living room with
A U-shaped chesterfield facing a solid oak hi-fi. There are Cezanne and Pieter Brueghel the Elder farm scenes on the walls. Millets. Harvest scenes. Standard yuppie
Celia and the professor are on the chesterfield. She has her left arm around the professor's neck.
Celia: You'd, um, like me to hold you? She reaches for his genitals and pauses there a long while, her red painted nails kneading the stiffening professor.
Celia: We should have some music.
She stops the dry fondle and goes to the hi-fi.
She bends down to select some LP's. There is a terrific shot of a beautiful, pear-shaped derierre. Like Jaylo's.
She has put on Bob Dylan's "It's all right ma, I'm only Bleeding
Darkness at the break of noon
Shadows the earth, the child's balloon
Makes you understand too soon
There is no sense in trying.
Suicide remarks are torn
From the fool's mouthpiece the hollow horn
Makes you see, goes to warn that
He not busy being born
Is busy dying.
There is a guitar ride here while the great Amercan genus rasps it out, sharp trick-of-the-trade F-chord penetrating the D tonic, again and again. There is a crescendo now to this lick, Da-doom. Da-doom. Music slows, with this guitar lick repeating, again and again, to fade.
.....end Scene Two
(To be continued, as soon as Ivan gets his second wind...I'm still writin', writin', writin', Jaye)