Grey (an excerpt from an unfinished play)

When I was a young man (so very many moons ago) I occasionally experimented with writing plays. The following was the beginning of a three-act play that I never finished (a lot of the themes and characters found their way into stories in one fashion or another.) I found it while going through some files. Fair warning: there is adult language in this piece.

SCENE-

A disarrayed bedroom and kitchen. Malcolm Kendricks is draped across the bed (which is off to the right of the stage near to a door which leads to the bathroom), not completely covered by the jumble of blankets and sheets. He is snoring. Loudly.

On the floor next to the bed is an overturned ice-bucket, an overturned tumbler, a legal pad, and several balled-up sheets of yellow paper. On the bedside table is a bottle rum (three-fourths empty), a digital clock-radio (the time is 11:59), an ashtray, and a half-empty pack of Salems.

Centerstage in the foreground is a u-shaped desk unit with a personal computer on the left side (the screen is still on), a battered manual typewriter on the right side, and in the middle, a pair of glasses, a lamp, an ashtray, and a telephone connected to an answering machine (the "message waiting" light in blinking.) Just beyond the desk is an unpainted wooden cabinet with a stereo system and several dozen compact discs and cassettes haphazardly "filed". On top of the cabinet are a half-dozen stuffed animals of various sizes. Next to that is another unpainted cabinet jammed from top to bottom with books and magazines.

To the left is a small kitchen with a small stove, a microwave oven, and a refrigerator. The sink is filled to overflowing with glasses and dishes. Between the desk and the kitchen is a door with a mailslot in the middle. Today's mail is piled up on the floor (it includes several large manilla envelopes, bills, and a smaller, bulging envelope with no postage or return address.)

The clock changes to 12:00; it is Noon and the room is suddenly filled with the tinny sounds of a nondescript rock song. Kendricks groans and pulls the sheet up over his head.

KENDRICKS: ...uh...Jesus...shut the hell up!...

(Kendricks rolls over and slams down the mute button on the clock. It falls silent. He sits up looking with sleepy disinterest at the mess on the floor.)

KENDRICKS: Malcolm, I do believe that you are hungover...

(Kendricks rises and wobbles against the edge of the bed.)

KENDRICKS: Yep. You are definitely hungover this morning, son...

(He laughs and stumbles into the bathroom. The phone rings twice and Kendricks' recorded voice can be heard.)

KENDRICKS (from the tape): This is Malcolm. I'm not home...or maybe I am and I'm just being anti-social. In any case, you haven't reached the party to whom you wish to speak. Leave your name and number (you know when) and I'll talk back at ya sometime later. Bye.

(A short, sharp beep sounds and then the pitched, insistent voice of Elizabeth Morris can be heard as Kendricks walks unsteadily back into the room wearing a robe.)

MORRIS (from the phone): Malcolm, it's Liz, are you there?...damn...look, Mal, the publisher is on my ass about those revisions! They need them yesterday! I'm this close to getting the deal closed, Mal, so please, don't pull that temperamental artiste bullshit right now, okay? We need this article to show them what we can do so they'll green light us on the book. Call me as soon as you get in, 'kay?

KENDRICKS: Fuck you, Liz. "We" ain't gonna do anything, I'm the one who has to write the goddamn thing...

(He crosses the room to the kitchen and extracts a mug from the pile of dirty dishes in the sink. He fills it with coffee from the pot on the stove and places it in the microwave. He crosses the room again pausing to place a disc in the CD player. The room fills with Bach's "Air on the G String". Kendricks shakes a cigarette from the pack on the bedtable and lights it. The microwave beeps and he trudges back across the room humming absently, and decidedly offkey, with the music. He takes the now-steaming cup of coffee out of the oven and gingerly sips at it.)

KENDRICKS (looking over at his desk for the first time): And now, dear friends, to work.

(He glances at the pile of mail by the door.)

KENDRICKS: But first, a word from our sponsor...

(He scoops up the mail and drops it onto the desk. Seating himself, he rewinds the answering machine tape while he sips the coffee and takes long drags on his Salem. The answering whirs to a stop and then the first message begins.)

RICK (from the tape): Mal, ol' pal, why'd you leave so early, dude? It's still a happenin' party...and that hot little Mexican babe has been lookin' for you...

RICK (laughing lecherously): I guess she wants to find out if what they say about you nig...black guys...is true! C'mon back, man, this party's gonna be going on all night and it needs some "soul"! Check you later, dude!

(Kendricks grunts and sips his coffee thoughtfully. The machine beeps again.)

CLAUDIA KENDRICKS (from the tape): I hate these machines! Uh, this is your mother, big guy. I just, um, wanted to remind you that we're all getting together at Aunt Sadie's tomorrow at 3 and that everybody's expecting that you're going to be there. Call me in the morning, okay? I love you.

KENDRICKS (softly): Shit...

(He starts sifting idly through the stack of mail as the beep sounds once more.)

LAUREL PAULSON (from the tape): Hi, baby, it's me.

(There is a moment of anxious silence.)

LAUREL: I'm sorry I couldn't go to Rick's party with you but I had some things to think about...

KENDRICKS (frowning): Do tell.

LAUREL: ...I...I'll tell you more later...in a way more comfortable for me...I love you...

KENDRICKS (nodding): Do tell.

(The machine beeps again.)

MORRIS (from the tape): Malcolm, it's Liz...

(He shuts the machine off.)

KENDRICKS: Yes, Elizabeth, I heard you before.

(He removes the message tape from the machine and tosses it into a desk drawer; he rifles through a number of tapes and puts another one in the machine. He glances over at the computer screen and shrugs. He picks up and opens one of the manilla envelopes.)

KENDRICKS (reading): "Dear writer...thank you for submitting your poem to us. Unfortunately, it does not meet our current editorial needs..." Yadda, yadda, yadda...

(The phone rings again.)

KENDRICKS (from the tape): Gracious good evening or afternoon, y'all, this here be Malcolm talkin' at ya. Ain't here right now. Holler at me when you hear that tone-thang and I'll hook ya up later. Peace!

(The beep sounds.)

MORRIS (from the machine): That's a very...um..."ethnic" message, Malcolm. And since you've changed the message, I presume that you're home so pick up the phone please...

(Kendricks sighs and presses the speaker button.)

KENDRICKS: Mornin', Liz.

MORRIS: It's afternoon, sport. Where the hell have you been?

KENDRICKS: Sleeping.

MORRIS: Christalmighty, Mal! What're you trying to do to us? You've got to get that article done so that I can get it to the publishers. They're very interested in the subject and I'm almost positive that we can get a contract and an advance for the book...maybe a series of books...out of them!

KENDRICKS (yawning): Uh-huh.

MORRIS: This is what we've been working for! A book about one African-American's learned outlook on the future of his race...the destiny...the pitfalls. Your essays will stir a fire in literary circles unlike anything since James Baldwin and Richard Wright were alive!

KENDRICKS (ruefully): Little Negro in Slumberland...

MORRIS: I'm sorry? I didn't quite get that...

KENDRICKS: Nothing, Liz. Look, I'm almost done with it, I'll bring it down to you tomorrow morning.

MORRIS: Great! I'll call the publisher and arrange to see them tomorrow afternoon.

KENDRICKS: Have you had time to look at my poems yet?

MORRIS: ...uh, not really. Listen, Mal, I know you like writing this stuff but, as your agent, I keep telling you that there's no market for it...stick to what sells, kiddo, and we'll be going gangbusters!

KENDRICKS: Yeah, yeah, yeah...

MORRIS: Keep your energies focused towards that article now. Don't let me down, kiddo.

KENDRICKS: Have I ever?

MORRIS (laughing warmly): No, you're an angel. And I'm going to turn you into the hottest African-American writer on the face of the planet, just you wait and see!

KENDRICKS (wryly): My heroine.

MORRIS: That's the spirit, tiger!

KENDRICKS: But let's make that "black writer", okay? I'll wait awhile before adding all those other politically correct syllables...

MORRIS: ...uh...we'll talk. Now get to work! Call me later, 'kay? Ciao.

KENDRICKS: Yeah, live long and prosper.

(He presses the speaker button again. He turns and faces the computer screen again.)

KENDRICKS: Jesus, I'm too hungover for this...

(He stops and rubs his eyes. Then he laughs a low, sardonic laugh.)

KENDRICKS: C'mon, boy, what would James Baldwin and Richard Wright do?

(He starts to type, slowly at first but picking up speed as he goes. He shakes his head and chuckles again.)

KENDRICKS: ..."African-American"...Jesus...

(He types on, picking up his glasses and getting more and more involved in what he's doing.)

Thanksgiving

Giving thanks…

for sunshine and rainstorms,

for laughter that warms the night and soothes the soul,

for tears that wash the day and gives wing to heartache…

giving thanks,

loud and strong, soft and sweet,

for strong quiet men and sweet happy girls

and children who dance ‘cause there are a thousand tomorrows…

Giving thanks…

for hummingbirds and wildflowers,

for lovesongs and daydreams and requited passion,

for pain and sorrow, joy and forgiveness, hope and faith…

giving thanks,

reverent and free, humble and bold,

for the wisdom to remember all our yesterdays,

and the strength to embrace all of our bittersweet tomorrows…

Giving thanks…

Watching Walter Cronkite

(The following is an excerpt from Soul Deep, a novel I recently completed. The year is 1968, the narrator is a 12-year-old boy named Malcolm, Amanda is his older sister, the war in question here is, of course, Vietnam.)

Mama liked to watch the news…Walter Cronkite…every evening when she got home. Even before Daddy left (he didn’t have much use for the news most days…Amanda didn’t either), I would watch with her…usually sitting on the floor near to where she was sitting… and ask her questions about what was going on.

“Do you think the War will still be going on when I’m old enough to be drafted?” I asked her one day while images from Vietnam were on the screen.

Mama took a drag on her cigarette and shook her head. “Doesn’t matter,” she said emphatically, “you won’t be going either way.”

I frowned at that. If our country was at war, why wouldn’t I be going? To be sure, the thought frightened me…I had no idea if I could actually kill someone…but it still seemed like something I would have to do no matter how much it scared me. “Why not?” I asked

Mama shrugged. “That shit over there ain’t nothin’ that anybody’s children should be dyin’ for,” she said. “It’s ain’t like the war when I was a girl.”

Mama would sometimes tell me stories about living during World War 2…about food being sometimes hard to find in the stores…about willingly surrendering her precious comic books to the paper drives…about how hard her mother worked in the kitchens of white women while her father was lucky to have been able to keep his job as a postman…about listening to the President talk on the radio reassuring the country and making them all feel they were sacrificing for a grand cause.

That was, she always said, was one worth fighting for…worth dying for if need be. We were attacked…we fought back…that’s what we were supposed to do. Even if the country didn’t really think of you as being a full citizen, it was still what you were supposed to do.

Mama had no such feelings for the Vietnam War. She didn’t believe that “our boys” should be dying in some little country she hadn’t heard of before the fighting started.

Mama had been thrilled when Bobby Kennedy had gotten into the race for President. “If Bobby gets in there,” she said on the day he announced he was running, “we’ll be outta that war in no time flat. He’s a good man like his brother, the President…and he’ll set things right in this country.”

I had a fond recollection of President Kennedy and of my grandfather. We were in New Orleans and Papa, Mama’s father, had taken me and Amanda down to see the President. I was 6. Papa was a dark man with a sly smile and a knowing twinkle in his eyes…he always smelled like Old Spice and cigars.

When President Kennedy came to town he insisted on taking us to see him. We rode the streetcar and we rode the bus…all of which I found to be a grand adventure… and the three of us joined the throng gathering along the avenue to watch the President go by. Papa hefted me up onto his broad shoulders as the limousine whizzed by. I waved at the President and it seemed like he waved back.

“Did you see the President, baby?” Mama asked when we got back.

“Yeah,” I said happily though I wasn’t completely sure what the real significance of being “the President” was, “he had red hair.” It was a trick of the light but I would continue to believe that John Kennedy had red hair for years to come; Papa would always just chuckle when I said it.

I hadn’t understood what was going on when he was killed. The teachers, many of whom were crying, put us kids out on the playground that afternoon to wait for our parents to come get us.

“They killed him,” Mama kept saying after she picked me up. I sat in the back seat as we drove over to get Amanda from the Junior High School and Mama just kept saying that same thing every once in a while.

The thought of Robert Kennedy becoming President pleased Mama to no end. “If Bobby don’t get in there to stop the war,” she said more than once after his announcement, “then your rusty butt will be going to Canada before you go over there to die in that goddamn jungle.”

I didn’t bother to argue with her…but I hadn’t truly made up my mind if I would go that route…it still didn’t seem right. But I didn’t dwell on it either way since there was a still a long way to go before I would be called on to really make the decision.

Those times of watching Walter Cronkite and talking about the news was something we shared with each other and I loved that we had something between us that nobody else shared.