“THE
CRIME OF THE CENTURY”
[or,
“Red Rashamon”]
©
Clara M. NiiSka (and Wub-e-ke-niew)
SAM
S. WENDELL, JR. - Manager, A-1 Daily Labor
MARY - Young
Woman
EVE - Mary's
Grandmother
'LIL - Mary's
Mother
JOE - Mary's
Boyfriend
DAVE - Anthropology
Graduate Student
TRISH
- Dave's
Girlfriend
Medical
Student Specializing in Forensic Pathology
-----
REX
- Old
Dilapidated Drunk
Former
Prizefighter
CARTER
- Former
Construction Worker
A
Bit of a Dandy
WILLY
STEELE - Casual Laborer and Rough Carpenter
Ex-Pug
TILLIE
- Former
Beauty Queen and Call-Girl,
Now
Street-Wise Bag Lady
Dolly's
Bar is a slum bar on Chicago and 18th in South Minneapolis. The
clientele is an ethnically diverse group of down-and-out people. It
is about twelve midnight, between January third and fourth. The bar
is crowded with older people who are drinking up the last of their
social security checks. The jukebox blares country-and-western songs
from the 1940's and 1950's. After briefly panning across the bar,
the camera moves slowly toward Rex Havick, Carter and Tillie, who are
sitting in a booth across from the bar. All three are visibly
intoxicated. Rex, who has a black eye, leans toward Carter.
REX
(Speaks with a fairly heavy
reservation accent, blurred with alcohol.)
Whaddaya mean? I'm a
piss-piter! Don't mess with no piss-piter!
Rex
brandishes his fist at Carter, and Carter staggers up onto his feet. He
leans with drunken menace over the table at Rex, who half-rises.
Tillie, who is slumped over a beer bottle between Rex and the aisle,
comes back to awareness with a visible jolt.
TILLIE
(With slurred speech, and
baby-talk emulating Marilyn Monroe.)
Gotta go to de (wily smile)
little girls' room.
(She walks with exaggerated
steadiness toward the back of the bar.)
Rex
lurches toward the aisle, and staggers toward Carter. He makes an
ineffectual swipe at Carter, and knocks a half-full bottle of beer
onto the floor, where it breaks.
CARTER
(Quietly.)
Behave yourself, Rex.
REX
(Wavering in an unsteady
fighter's stance, one fist still cocked toward Carter. He shouts.)
Behave! You behave, you
god-damned bleached-out lumberjack bastard!
The
camera moves back. The bouncer, moving quietly and expertly through
the crowd, can be seen in the background of the shot, as Rex and
Carter's movements escalate toward a fight. Their words are drowned
out by the jukebox screeching out Hank Williams Sr.'s "Jambalaya
(On The Bayou)." The bouncer approaches Rex and Carter.
BOUNCER
(With authority.)
Time to go home, guys.
(He puts one hand on Carter's
shoulder, and urges both men toward the door.)
Settle your differences
outside.
REX
(Belligerently to Bouncer.)
I'm going.
The
camera is looking south, along Chicago Avenue. The street-lights
shine dimly on dirty snowbanks, and in the distance a snowplow
rumbles down the street. Carter and Rex stagger out of the door of
Dolly's, and walk with an unsteady gait, heading south along the
sidewalk. The wind howls around the corners of the buildings, and
Carter turns up the collar of his ragged denim jacket against the
cold. As the two men walk along, they gradually move toward each
other, and at the end of the block, they embrace.
CARTER
Aw, hell, Rex, let's go to the
church. I've got a bottle stashed.
Carter
reaches into the snowbank behind the bus bench, and pulls out a
bottle of Wild Irish Rose. He uncaps it, unsteadily fills the cap
with wine, and pours it out onto the snow. He takes a swig, and
hands the bottle to Rex, who drinks and hands the bottle back. Carter
puts the bottle in the pocket inside his jacket. The two men
continue staggering southward, highlighted by occasional pools of
light under streetlights. The noises of the city are heard in the
background: sirens, the rumble of trucks on the freeway, the roar of
a red-eye jet flying low as it takes off from the airport. Rex
shakes his fist at the deafening noise of the jet as it flies over.
As
they cross Franklin Avenue at Chicago, gunshots ring out in the
distance. The street is icy from vehicle exhaust having melting the
snow, and from tires spinning, and Rex slips and falls in the street,
almost pulling Carter down with him. Rex swears, and Carter helps
him back to his feet. The two men stagger onward, and in mid-block,
Carter pulls out a pack of unfiltered cigarettes. Cupping his bare
hands in the wind, Carter manages to light a cigarette on the third
match, and lights a second cigarette from the first.
CARTER
Smoke, Rex?
Rex
nods slightly, and takes a lit cigarette. The two men stand with
their backs to the wind, smoking. A police cruiser drives slowly
along Chicago Avenue, and when the policemen spot Carter and Rex,
they turn on their red lights, and pull to the curb alongside them. The
radio in the cruiser crackles and the voice of the dispatcher can
be heard indistinctly.
POLICEMAN
Damn! Another domestic.
SECOND
POLICEMAN
You said it. That's the same
goddam Okies that called last night.
The
policemen turn on the siren, and drive with red lights flashing, but
no more quickly then before. At Twenty-first Avenue, the cruiser
turns right. The siren can be heard slowly moving through the night.
Rex and Carter resume walking with the exaggerated sobriety of
drunkenness. At Twenty-first, Carter glances in the direction the
police cruiser has gone, then reaches into his jacket and pulls out
his bottle. He takes a drink, and hands the bottle to Rex, who takes
a long swig before handing the bottle back to Carter. Carter takes
the bottle back a little bit quickly, takes another nip, then recaps
the bottle and replaces it in his inside jacket pocket.
A
boom-box car, with five young men in it, turns north onto Chicago
Avenue from Twenty-Second. The bass sound is so loud that the car
can be heard approaching from three blocks away. The driver glances
briefly at Carter and Rex, and drives past without slowing down, the
sound of the cranked-up car stereo slowly fading in the distance. A
city bus with five passengers drives south past Carter and Rex. Rex
coughs in the cloud of diesel exhaust which the bus emits as the bus
driver accelerates in passing the two drunks.
The
wind picks up, blowing fine-grained snow off of surrounding rooftops,
and sending pages of an abandoned newspaper scudding around the feet
of Carter and Rex. An empty McDonald's foam hamburger container
follows the newspaper in the wind. Carter re-adjusts the upturned
collar of his denim jacket. The two men continue to stagger
southward, the camera following at a discrete distance.
As
the intersection at Twenty-Third and Chicago comes into view, three
people can be seen standing dejectedly on the southeast corner,
huddled in the wind. Each is carrying a bulging shopping bag, and
clutched in their other arm, two carry blankets and a sleeping bag. The
right coat-sleeve of the third hangs empty, flopping in the wind. As
Carter and Rex near the northeast corner, Carter peers intently
at the three people.
CARTER
That looks like that young gal
from the Slave Market.
REX
Hunh. That one, Mary, you
mean?
CARTER
Unnh.
The
two men cross the street, and approach cautiously.
CARTER
Hey, Mary?
Mary
is perhaps sixteen years old, and quite visibly pregnant. She is
wearing jeans, battered running shoes, and a worn dress coat which
does not quite close over her belly. Her right arm is in a sling
under her coat. In other circumstances, she could be a stunningly
beautiful young woman, but her face is blotched red with cold,
smudged with dirt and streaked with tears. She has a bulging black
vinyl purse over her left shoulder, and is carrying an apparently
heavy shopping bag in her gloveless left land. Her fingers are white
with cold. A sudden gust of wind whips her dark hair, loose beneath
a shabby dark blue man's stocking cap, and a strand sticks to her
cheek where it is still damp from tears.
Standing
with Mary are her mother, 'Lil, and her grandmother Eve. 'Lil is,
like Mary, dressed in jeans and old running shoes. She wears a
slightly grimy man's fake-leather jacket. Her head is bare, her hair
streaked with grey. She, too, holds a stuffed shopping bag, and in
her right arm carries a load of bedding.
Eve
is indeterminately old, her face seamed with wrinkles. The strands
of hair wisping out from her scarf are white, and her eyes are ringed
with the blue of cataracts. She is wearing a thin cotton print
skirt, petticoats, bobby-socks, and orthopedic shoes which are
run-over at the heels. Her gloves are ragged, and her legs are bare
and white with cold. She carries a blanket and a shopping bag which
has begun to tear by one handle.
Mary
turns, startled, and looks at Carter like a doe caught in the
headlights of a car.
CARTER
(Gently.)
Hey, Mary, it's just me,
Carter, and dis'ere's my good buddy Rex. You seen us at the Slave
Market, lotsa times.
Mary's
eyes widen, and she looks at Carter and Rex with apparent terror, as
though she will run at any moment, headlong into the winter night.
CARTER
Lady, Lady. We ain't goin' t'
hurt yous.
(Turning to 'Lil.)
I seen you sittin' at the Slave
Market, too.
(Confidentially.)
I got a granddaughter about
Mary's age.
(Pauses.)
It's cold, just standing here.
'Lil
looks at Carter cautiously, and Mary relaxes very slightly. Carter
makes a slight motion toward his inside jacket pocket where his wine
bottle is, but then reaches into his breast pocket and brings out his
cigarette pack. Fumbling with cold fingers, he opens the crumpled
pack, revealing one cigarette. Cupping his hands in the wind, he
lights it, and offers the cigarette to Eve. She looks at Carter with
a surprisingly piercing glance, nods slightly, and then accepts the
cigarette, takes a couple of puffs, and hands it to 'Lil.
The
five people stand, in two slightly separated clusters, huddled
against the wind, and pass Carter's cigarette almost formally,
smoking it down to a butt held gingerly between thumb and forefinger. A
sudden gust of wind shrieks down the street, as Carter flicks the
spent cigarette onto the sidewalk. He readjusts his jacket collar,
and buries his hands in his jacket pocket.
CARTER
(Deliberately.)
Me an' my buddy Rex here, we're
heading to dat church over dere
(motions with his lips toward
Twenty-fourth and Chicago)
to get outta dis wind. If yous
ain't in a rush to get somewheres, whyn't'cha come along?
The
three women exchange glances. The wind intensifies, driving snow
nearly horizontally across the pools of street-light, whipping Eve's
skirt around her legs, and blowing a plastic pop bottle with a small
amount of liquid frozen in the bottom, rattling down the street. 'Lil
seems to consider for a few moments, shrugs in seeming
resignation, and then nods slightly. The five head south on Chicago
Avenue, bent into the wind.
There
is an Episcopal church with elaborate masonry on the northeast corner
of Twenty-fourth and Chicago, which has been boarded up. Carter
leads the group along a path in the snow to the back of the building,
and pulls back the plywood covering the back door. The door opens
easily, and the five enter.
Dimly
lit by city light filtering through the chinks in the plywood, Carter
walks across the vestibule, and opens the door to the sanctuary of
the Church. There is a manhole cover near where the altar once
stood, and a small fire blazes on that makeshift hearth. Tillie
squats by the fire, wearing a moth-eaten raccoon flapper coat,
tending a coffeepot at the fire. A battered aluminum kettle sits at
one side of the fire, and from it the aroma of mulligan wafts through
the room. The firelight recedes into the smoky heights of the
elaborate architecture of the turn-of-the-century sanctuary, and in
its faint glow, fifteen or twenty people wrapped in blankets can be
seen in the back, sleeping on the few remaining pews and on the
floor.
Dave
and his girlfriend Trish sit near Tillie at one side of the fire. Dave
is an aquiline-nosed young man whose lanky height seems
incongruously folded as he sits on the floor. He is wearing jeans
and winter boots, a down ski jacket with a graduate-student patina,
and a handknit stocking cap. He is writing in a small spiral-bound
notebook with a ballpoint pen, and a cup of Tillie's tea is cooling
beside a student back-pack near him on the floor. Trish is a
serious-looking, slender woman whose long straight blonde hair hangs
tidily over her plaid wool jacket. She wears thick but stylish
glasses, and a retro-funky rabbit-fur cap. She is sitting on a
blanket which protects her designer jeans from the dirty floor, and
holds the microphone of a tape recorder toward Tillie, who is
apparently in the middle of telling a long, involved story. Tillie
looks up as the group enters the sanctuary.
TILLIE
Hey Carter, Hey Rex!
CARTER
Hey, niiji'kwe.
TILLIE
(Seeming to notice Rex's black
eye for the first time.)
Rex,
who give you dat black eye?
REX
(Laughing.)
You should know dey don't give
dese away for free. I had to fight like hell for dis.
ZOOM
in on a close-up of Rex, who playfully holds up his fists in a
fighting stance. Rex is dark and short, and beneath his pugilist's
battered nose he grins with mock wickedness. His front teeth are
missing. Barely visible in the firelight, are home-done tattoos on
the first joints of each hand, so that the viewer of his fists can
read "F · U · C · K" one hand, and "Y · O
· U"
on the other, along with a "smiley face" on his right index
finger.
Tillie
snorts at Rex's humor, then looks carefully but unobtrusively at the
three women, who are still standing cautiously by the door to the
sanctuary. She glances questioningly at Carter. Carter indicates
Mary with his eyes.
CARTER
Tillie.
(He makes a gesture of
introduction, and then indicates the group standing with him.)
Dis'ere's
Mary, an' her mum, an' gramma.
TILLIE
There's some hot tea over here
for yous, an' plenty a' floor.
Tillie
motions the women over to the fire. She takes three pieces of fairly
clean cardboard from under the cardboard she is sitting on, and puts
them down on the floor, as though she is setting out chairs for
guests, and produces three matching salmon-colored melmac cups from a
bag behind her on the floor. She pours tea and empties two paper
restaurant-packets of sugar into each cup of tea. 'Lil ventures
cautiously over to the fire, and eases herself down onto the
cardboard. She cradles the cup of tea in both hands, curling her
body over it as though to draw warmth. In a few moments, she sips
carefully, and a faint smile flits across her eyes.
Mary
and Eve hesitate by the door for a few moments longer, and then
slowly walk over to the fire near 'Lil. Eve sets her blankets and
shopping bag on the floor next to where 'Lil has left hers, but Mary
leaves her black vinyl purse on her shoulder as she sits. They
accept the proffered tea, and Mary cradles the warm teacup first
against one cheek and then the other.
Carter
squats, slightly unsteadily, by the fire on the other side of Tillie,
and Rex plops onto the floor next to him. Carter looks significantly
at Tillie, and opens his jacket just enough to reveal the bottle
inside. Tillie moves her head about a quarter of an inch in a nearly
imperceptible nod, and motions with her eyes to a secluded area
behind the altar.
TILLIE
(To Carter, nearly inaudibly.)
Baanimaa. [Later.]
(To Dave, laughing.)
Hey, Perfesser!
Dave,
who has been writing rapidly in his notebook, looks at Tillie with a
start.
TILLIE
Where's those AIM-wiches you're
always carrying around? Yous got company.
Trish
digs into Dave's backpack, and pulls out a half-dozen baloney and
cheese sandwiches, each neatly wrapped in a plastic sandwich bag. She
hands the sandwiches to Tillie.
TILLIE
(With careful enunciation and
an enigmatic smile.)
Mii-gwech, min-di-moo-yenh. [Thank
you, old woman.]
(She looks at Trish intently
with one eye for a moment.)
We can divide these up. You
may need the rest later.
TRISH
(With faint embarrassment.)
Oh, Tillie! Dave and I aren't
hungry now, anyway.
TILLIE
(Laughing.)
Hey, you ghoul! What did you
put in those sandwiches, anyway?
TRISH
(Seriously.)
Mayonnaise, baloney, American
cheese, ...
(She looks at Tillie and sees
her wry smile.)
Hey, Tillie, I'd be glad to
share a sandwich with you.
Tillie
takes a five-inch stiletto from a sheath under her jeans, and cuts
three sandwiches in half, wipes the knife on the leg of her jeans,
and replaces it in its sheath. She distributes half-sandwiches to
Dave, Trish, Rex and Carter, and full sandwiches to Mary, Eve and
'Lil. She puts the sixth sandwich, cut in half, at the edge of the
manhole cover. She looks at 'Lil.
TILLIE
(Very softly, to 'Lil.)
When did yous eat, last?
'LIL
(Almost inaudibly, to Tillie.)
We had peanut butter sandwiches
at the Branch, uh, ... uh ...
TILLIE
(Very quietly and gently.)
Your daughter might not know to
eat slowly at first.
Rex
eats his sandwich quickly, and, somewhat revived, starts drumming on
an empty can he finds near him on the floor. Mary, 'Lil and Eve eat
slowly, chewing each bite carefully. Dave eats absently, holding the
sandwich in his left hand, balancing his notebook on his knee and
writing while he eats. Trish looks at her half-sandwich, then at
Mary. She places the half-sandwich with the other half-sandwiches at
the edge of the manhole cover.
REX
(Drumming
with his hands on the empty can.)
Hey-yah, hey-yah,
hey-um-ge-wah, hey-um-ge-wah, hey-yah, hey-yah ...
CARTER
That old Shoshone music sounds
like a funeral.
REX
(Quits drumming.)
Then Trish should like it, eh,
Trish?
Trish
laughs nervously. Tillie adds a few sticks that look like they are
from broken-up pews to the fire, and then, with a "dare you to
say anything" glance at Dave, leafs through two hymnals with her
thumb to put airspace between the pages, then adds them to the fire.
TILLIE
(To Dave.)
They say that smoke sends
prayers to the Great Spirit. I wonder if this will be the first time
God has heard these songs, hunh, Dave?
DAVE
Probably not.
(Wincing involuntarily.)
I think you've been burning
those hymnals for awhile.
TILLIE
Him, Him, Him, and Hymn. God
the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, and my prayer-songs up in smoke!
(Laughing.) I like that, Dave.
(Speaking as though to the
fire.)
That Dave, he's a pretty good
guy. He asks some crazy god-damn questions, but that Dave, he's a
chi-mook a person can trust. More than some of my own relatives, I
trust that Dave.
(Turns to Dave.)
I can tell you anything, and
you'll keep it secret if I ask you to, eh, Dave?
DAVE
(Very seriously.)
My professional code of ethics
as an anthropologist requires that I maintain absolute
confidentiality.
TILLIE
Could'ja translate that into
plain English, perfesser.
DAVE
Anything that any of you ask me
to keep secret, I will. I promise. When I write anything to put in
a book, I promise I will never use your name, if you don't want me
to.
TILLIE
Kind of like a priest, eh,
perfesser?
DAVE
(Cautiously.)
I've heard some confessions,
yes.
TILLIE
What about your lady-friend,
here?
CARTER
(Laughing.)
She only talks to dead people,
isn't that right, Miss Ghoul?
TRISH
I know when to keep my mouth
shut, if that's what you mean.
Tillie
glances around at the sleeping figures in the background, then takes
an antique silver cigarette-case from a pocket hidden somewhere in
her layers of clothing. She opens it, takes out what appears to be a
marijuana 'joint', and returns the cigarette-case to the recesses of
her clothing. With an enigmatic look at Dave, she lights the joint
with a stick from the fire, and inhales deeply. She holds the smoke
in her lungs for at least a minute, and then exhales, sighing with
pleasure.
TILLIE
My religion, perfesser, and
some good stuff, too.
Tillie
takes another drag from the joint, and hands it to Dave. He accepts
the joint, brings it near to his lips as a token, but does not
inhale, and hands it to Trish. Trish holds the joint with the butt
end briefly upwards, and then passes it to Carter, who inhales
deeply. The joint continues around the fire, with Eve and Mary
passing the joint onwards with a token touch to their lips. After
the joint has been consumed in its second circuit of the fire, the
group sits quietly for a few minutes. The only sounds are the heavy
snoring of one of the people in the back of the sanctuary, the quiet
hissing of the fire, and the cacophony of the city muffled by the
heavy masonry of the old church. Sirens are heard, faintly, in the
distance, and, a few moments later, gunfire. A rat scurries across
the floor in the background. Mary drains her teacup, and reaches
shyly for another piece of sandwich.
TILLIE
Help yourselves, ladies.
Tillie
reaches into her bag, and brings out two plastic cereal bowls and two
battered teaspoons. Using a piece of cardboard as a potholder, she
lifts the mulligan pot and scrapes mulligan into the bowls.
TILLIE
I just got two bowls, only.
Mary
hands Tillie her empty teacup, and Tillie empties the last of the
mulligan into the teacup. The steam from the mulligan lingers in the
chill air of the sanctuary. Tillie hands a bowl to Mary, and one to
'Lil, then hands the cup to Eve.
TILLIE
(Turning toward Mary.)
You need to eat for two, my
girl. Us old ladies don't eat that much.
Rex
starts to slump into sleep, wakes with a start, and starts to slump
again. He wakes again, gets up, takes a stack of newspaper from a
pile in the background, and goes, walking unsteadily, toward the back
of the sanctuary to make himself a bed of newspapers, and go to
sleep. Eve finishes her mulligan, and sets the cup down. Without
bothering to wash it out, Carter fills the cup with tea and drinks it
with gusto. Dave continues to write.
CARTER
Hey, perfesser, be sure you get
it wrote down right! Do you want a good story? ... What if I told
you about the men I've killed? Would you be-tray me?
DAVE
No, I gave you my word. That's
important to me.
CARTER
(Leaning intently toward
Dave.)
That's a good thing, perfesser.
Because there was a murder today.
Mary,
who has begun to relax in the flickering warmth of the fire, jumps
slightly. Tillie, who has been watching Mary out of the corner of
her eyes, nods her head slightly.
TILLIE
That no-good sunnuvabitch S.
Wendell, Jr., bought his one-way ticket to Hell today. And, there
isn't nobody on the streets who wouldn't say he didn't have it
coming.
DAVE
(His face moving into
professional detachment.)
Really?
The
door to the sanctuary opens with a gust of subzero air, and Willy
Steele staggers in.
TILLIE
Debaakwan ishkwaandem, eh,
niiji. [Close the door, friend.]
Willy
lurches around, and slams the door, then reels toward the fire. One
of the men sleeping in the back of the sanctuary turns and mutters,
then starts snoring. Willy plops down on the floor near Carter. His
face is abraded, and there is a trickle of blood above his eyebrow,
frozen to the side of his face. He reaches into his pocket and pulls
out a pint bottle of cheap vodka, and takes a big swig. He offers
the bottle to Carter, who takes a drink, and hands it to Tillie. She
takes a nip, and hands it back to Willy.
WILLY
(Motioning at Dave.)
Who's that?
CARTER
That's the Priest, hearing
confessions.
WILLY
Well, that's a damn' good
thing, priest, because I've got a helluva confession.
(Laughs drunkenly.)
Ho-wah! I am going to confess
tonight.
TILLIE
(Extracting a cookie from her
bag, and handing it to Willy.)
First, you gotta eat a
communion wafer.
WILLY
(Taking a big bite from the
cookie, and chewing it vigorously.)
If you'll hear a confession
from a pug-nacious 'Shinob who bites and chews the body of Christ,
priest, then bless me and I will confess! Lord, oh Lord! I will
confess. Father, I must confess!
DAVE
(Slightly confused.)
Uh ...
CARTER
Ah, ah, aaah-men! The Lord is
letting us sleep in His house tonight, so let your soul be pure!
Willy
finishes eating the cookie, and washes it down with another swig of
vodka. The bottle makes another round, and Willy examines it
critically, then takes another drink before returning the bottle to
his pocket.
WILLY
Yes, Father. I have drunk the
blood of Christ, and I have eaten the body of Christ.
(Brushing the crumbs from his
hands.)
And that's the sweetest
god-damn body of Christ I ever et. A-a-a-men!
(To Dave.)
You White men called us Indians
cannibals, but you make us into cannibals with your religion!
A-a-a-men! I am the god-damnest holy blessed cannibal that ever
fought in the streets of Minneapolis. And I do have a confession,
Father! Bless me, Father, for I must confess!
Dave,
looking slightly worried, is writing furiously in his notebook.
WILLY
Write it down, Father, for the
Book of God! Yes, Father, I have sinned, and Sam Wendell Jr. is
dead. Praise the Lord! I have killed a man, and I will confess. Before
the light of dawn broke yesterday, I was sitting in the Slave
Market, father, and I will confess!
CUT
to closeup of Dave, writing as quickly as he can in his notebook, and
then DOLLY AND ZOOM BACK so that Trish is visible putting
another cassette into the tape recorder. The image then fades into
the interior of the A-1 Daily Labor waiting room, lit with bleak
fluorescent lights. The cinematographic style of Willy's story
includes just a hint of country-western music video, for example,
including an occasional blurred pan, non-horizontal frame, and
slightly out-of-focus frames at beginning of takes.
The
A-1 Daily Labor waiting room is filled with down-and-out men, of all
ethnicities, sitting in folding chairs. Scattered through the crowd
are a numbr of women, including 'Lil, and Mary, whose right arm is in
a sling under her coat, which is half-open in the smoky warmth of the
waiting room. There is a 30-gallon coffee urn on the counter that
runs across the front of the room, with a stack of styrofoam cups
beside it. The clock on the wall above the counter reads 6:00. The
calendar next to the clock, the kind with a large tear-off number for
each day, reads Friday, January 3, 1997.
Some
of the clientele drink coffee, some read the newspaper. One man is
studiously scrutinizing the Minneapolis Star Tribune--but he
is holding it upside-down. Many simply sit, with apparently tireless
vacancy in their eyes, and wait to be called for work. Through the
grimy window, emblazoned with the words "A 1 Daily Labor. Honest
Work. Daily Pay," there is the fine-grained snow of cold
January weather sifting down outside through the pre-dawn light
augmented by occasional street lights. The men who enter the room
from outside usually have faces red from the cold; those who are
bearded have icicles in their moustaches.
Behind
the counter, Sam Wendell, a middle-aged man of indeterminate
ethnicity--he could be Greek or Lebanese, or perhaps a mixed-blood
Indian--stands. He is a corpulent man, dressed in a slightly
greasy-looking cheap greenish suit. His belly, in a greying white
shirt, hangs over the flashy buckle of his belt. Sam combs strands
of greying hair over the expanse of baldness on his head, and wears a
loud paisley patterned tie, askew over the expanse of his belly.
Sam
consults a stack of papers on the counter, and calls out names and
job descriptions.
SAM
(Shouting to be heard over the
murmur of the crowd.)
Five tough guys to the
southside meat-packing plant--and one of you needs a car.
Four
macho-looking young men swagger up to the counter. The leader
glances out into the crowd.
MACHO
YOUNG MAN
C'mon Joey.
A
wiry young man of about eighteen walks nonchalantly to the counter. Sam
talks to them briefly, inaudible over the crowd. The group
saunters out the side door, and the roar of a car with a minimal
muffler is heard going down the street.
SAM
One rough carpenter!
A
derelict middle-aged man, who has been tippling from a bottle in his
back pocket, stands up belligerently.
DERELICT
(Begins taking off his
jacket.)
Just how goddam rough does he
have to be!
SEVERAL
MEN IN CROWD
(Calling quietly.)
Sit down, Clem.
A
burly man, aged about thirty, ambles up to the counter, talks with
Sam, and leaves. Some of the men in the crowd walk up to the
counter, help themselves to coffee, and sit back down.
SAM
Are you guys who worked at the
pickle factory last Friday, here today?
Two
young men, one with shoulder-length hair held back with a red
bandanna, look at each other, shrug as though to say, "well,
it's work," and walk up to the counter. A third hesitates a
moment, and then joins them.
DISSOLVE
onto a half-empty room. The clock on the wall reads 7:05, and the
grey pre-dawn light outside has gotten slightly brighter. The men
still waiting in the room are older; many of them seem to be
derelicts, and some look as though they have not changed clothes for
at least several days. One middle-aged man's clothes are stiff and
stained with road salt. Also still sitting in the crowd are Joe,
Mary and 'Lil, and two tough-looking middle-aged women with bleached
hair and the heavy make-up preferred by some streetwalkers. One of
the women takes a pint bottle out of her purse, and discretely takes
a nip.
SAM
Two maids!
Mary
and 'Lil exchange glances, and start to get up.
SAM
(Glaring at Mary and 'Lil
until they sit down.)
You two ladies over there in
the corner.
The
two middle-age women get up, the drinker walking slightly unsteadily
toward the counter. She is wearing tight black stretch pants, and
teeters on four-inch red high heels. They are given their work
orders by Sam, and leave. They can be seen through the window,
walking toward the bus stop on the corner of Franklin Avenue.
SAM
Can anybody who's still here,
weld?
Joe,
dressed in grease-blackened jeans, well-worn work boots, and a red
plaid lumberjack jacket, starts walking confidently toward the
counter. Sam looks significantly toward an older man, whose hands
are shaking slightly, slouched into a chair in the corner.
SAM
Hey, Mac, you're a welder,
ain't'cha?
Joe,
looking resigned, sits back down and Mac heaves his ample body into a
standing position and ambles toward the counter.
SAM
Willy Steele! [Will ‘e
steal?]
VOICE
FROM THE CROWD
Ask him!
Laughter
ripples briefly through the scattered crowd. The man sitting next to
Willy nudges him, but Willy shrugs his shoulders and leans back in
his chair. DISSOLVE onto a nearly-empty room. The clock
above the counter reads 8:00. Mary and 'Lil are still sitting, as is
Joe. There are three derelicts in the back of the room with Willy,
covertly passing a bottle when Sam looks down at the paperwork on the
counter. The stack of coffeecups by the coffee urn is nearly gone,
and newspapers lie abandoned on two of the chairs.
SAM
OK, folks, that's all the work
there's gonna be today. This ain't no lounge, so clear out!
The
three derelicts stir in their chairs, and start to stand up. Willy
saunters to the counter to get a cup of coffee. Mary looks at her
mother with a sort of desperation, and starts toward the counter.
'LIL
It can't be helped, Mary.
JOE
Come on, Mary, we'll find
something somewhere else.
Mary
tosses her head angrily, and walks away from 'Lil and Joe. She
straightens her shoulders, and goes with determination up toward the
counter. She addresses Sam assertively.
MARY
Sam, what you're doing to us
isn't fair and it isn't right. My mom and Joe are hard workers, and
you know it!
SAM
Come on into the back office,
Mary, and we'll talk about it.
Mary
walks defiantly, tall and proud, around the counter and toward the
back office. The camera SHIFTS ANGLE to a profile as she
walks across the space between the counter and the door to the
hallway where the back offices are, showing her with her chin held
high, and very obviously pregnant. Sam has gone into the office
ahead of her, and leans back in his chair at his cluttered desk. His
feet are up on the desk, and his hands are behind his head.
Sam's
desk is cluttered with papers. There are three empty coffee-cups
randomly distributed among the papers, and the wastebasket is piled
high with empty fast-food containers. A pizza box leans against the
wastebasket on the floor. There are three filing cabinets along the
back wall of the office; the third drawer from the top of the
right-hand one is open, revealing dog-eared filing folders in untidy
disarray. There is a old-fashioned leather office couch along the
left-hand wall of the office; a stack of filing folders sits at the
far end of the couch. In the corner between the couch and the filing
cabinets, there is an antique office safe. The door of the safe is
ajar, and stacks of money are visible inside the safe.
On
the right-hand wall of the office, behind the desk, there is a
window. The window-blinds are slightly open, revealing the grey
light of a cold and cloudy January morning.
SAM
Shut the door, Mary.
Mary
closes the door. Willy, who has strolled to the front counter, looks
around briefly, then follows Mary and Sam to the hallway where the
back offices are. He walks to the now-closed door labelled,
Samuel
S. Wendell, Jr.
Manager
and
glances around the hallway. No one else is visible from Sam's
vantage point in the hallway. Willy, moving as though there is pain
in his joints, grunts down to a squatting position and looks through
the keyhole.
SAM
So, you think you're too good
for us here, don't you, Mary?
Mary
stands at a respectful distance away from the front of the desk. Her
lips tremble slightly for a moment, and then her face sets with
determination. She straightens her coat over her distended belly,
and adjusts the strap on her black vinyl purse. She suppresses a
sigh.
MARY
You know I don't think that,
sir.
(She looks Sam straight in the
eyes.)
I like to work, and I work
hard. And you know that Joe and 'Lil are hard workers. Every place
you've sent us out to work, they've told us we're good workers. More
than once, the manager has told us that they would hire us as
permanent employees, if your contract did not forbid that. You've
sent us out on some dirty jobs, sir, ones that other people wouldn't
take, and we've done the work and done it well. We've never
complained about hard work. I want to work. I'm talking about
fairness, ...
A
jet plane roars overhead, drowning out the rest of Mary's words. A
half-full coffee cup, which has been sitting close to the edge of the
left-hand filing cabinet, vibrates off of the filing cabinet and
falls, hitting the edge of the safe and breaking. The window
rattles.
SAM
Mary, Mary. You're such a
pretty young girl, but you don't know a damn' thing about how the
real world works.
(He pauses, appearing to
consider.)
Why did you come in here? Do
you want to make a deal?
MARY
We have to work, sir. Our rent
was due on the first, and you haven't sent any of us on a job since I
got hurt.
Sam
swings his feet off the desk, and stands up. He starts walking
around the desk toward Mary. He stops about one and a half feet away
from her, towering over her.
SAM
Kid, you're stupid! I can't be
baby-sitting clumsy kids who are too stupid to stay away from
machines. You act like you think you're the Queen of England. But,
no! You're just a stupid, clumsy, ignorant kid. I've got a business
to run.
(He glances at Mary's obvious
pregnancy.)
I'm not running a kindergarten
for whores. And I don't hire tattle-tales cry-babies who
intentionally hurt themselves and then go running to OSHA, trying to
cause trouble for me and my clients.
MARY
(Standing firmly in front of
Sam, biting her lip slightly to keep her temper, but speaking with
heat in her voice.)
Sir, you know that isn't true! You
sent me on that job, and I was supposed to be working on
that machine. I didn't go crying to anybody, the Union Rep took me
to the hospital. The nurse in the emergency room asked about that
machine, and the Union Rep talked to her. All they told me at the
plant was how to run the machine. I didn't know about the guards
that were supposed to be on the machine, until the Union Rep told the
nurse. I never tried to cause trouble, and I was back for work the
next day. I am not a tattle-tale crybaby!
(Defiantly.)
And I am not a whore!
SAM
(In an oily voice.)
So, the knocked-up sex-kitten
has claws! You want to work, do you?
MARY
We've been here at five-thirty
in the morning, ready to work, sir, every morning for the past three
weeks. And you haven't sent us on a job, any of us, for three weeks. We
come here because we want to work. That's what your business
does, isn't it, sir, sending people out to work? We're hard workers,
and you know it! You aren't being fair to us, sir, making us sign a
six-month contract to work for nobody but you, and then not letting
us work.
SAM
(Sarcastically.)
So, now you think you know how
to run my business, huh, kid?
(Pauses, and takes a step
closer to Mary.)
Do you want to make a deal,
sweetheart? Just how bad do you want to work?
Mary
steps back slightly as Sam edges toward her. She looks at Sam with
puzzlement, and then with a dawning realization of shock and fear. Sam
puts his arm around Mary's shoulder, and she cringes slightly,
but stands, rigidly, where she is.
SAM
It's up to you, Mary. I can
put all three of you to work: good jobs, good money. I can call your
landlord and have him extend your rent.
(He draws Mary closer to him,
and tilts her chin up toward his face with his index finger.)
Or, I can freeze you out. It's
up to you. I don't know why I bother with a stinking little cunt
like you, but I can do you a favor. ...
Willy
bursts through the door, and strides into the room, quickly moving to
where he has a clear view of Sam. Willy is holding a .22 caliber
pistol, and points it, cocked, at Sam.
WILLY
Get away from that girl,
Swindle. You abused my granddaughter, and you abused my niece. You
make decent men crawl for your rotten slave-jobs. You've been a
parasite too long, taking half our pay. Get away from that girl and
sit down, you stinking dog.
Willy
motions with the pistol, and Sam backs toward the desk chair and sits
down.
WILLY
So this is how you run a
business, eh, Swindle?
SAM
(Pleading.)
I've gotten good jobs for a lot
of guys, Willy. You know that. I put you to work, whenever you want
to work. ...
A
jet airplane roars overhead, drowning out the rest of Sam's words.
While the noise of the plane permeates the office, Willy points the
pistol at Sam. Three puffs of smoke rise from the pistol, and Sam
slumps in the chair, blood running from what appear to be two
bullet-holes very close to each other, in the middle of his forehead.
The pistol shots cannot be heard above the roar of the jet. As the
sound of the airplane abates, Willy turns to Mary, who is still
standing where Sam left her, stunned, frozen with shock.
WILLY
(Gently.)
Go on, Mary, you should leave.
Don't worry about Swindle, I'll take care of everything.
Mary
looks numb, uncomprehending. Willy walks over to her, and puts his
hand gently on her shoulder, urging her toward the door.
WILLY
Go, Mary, get out of here. You
and Joe can make a good life for yous and that little one.
(He gestures with his eyes
toward her belly.)
You're a decent girl, and you
haven't done anything wrong.
MARY
But ...
WILLY
Swindle was a sleaze, Mary. A
crook. A black-mailing coward. You don't owe him anything, Mary. Go on,
I'll take care of things here.
Mary
turns slightly toward the door, and then looks back at Willy, her
eyes wide with fear.
WILLY
Listen, Mary! What Swindle
tried to do to you, he's done too many times before. He was a
worthless dog, my girl. That low-life bas ... crook, he abused my
granddaughter and my niece. He made decent men crawl for those dirty
slave-labor jobs he sent them out on--and then he kept half their
wages for himself.
(With emphasis, gesturing
around the room.)
Forget this filth, Mary, get
away from here and put it behind you. Go on, girl. Don't worry,
just get going.
MARY
But, ... what about you?
WILLY
I'll take care of everything. I've
been around, and you don't have anything to worry about. I know
the streets, I know the system, and I know the Man. My name is
William Steele, and when I tell you that everything's going to be OK,
it will be. You get out of here--now!
Willy
gives Mary a firm push toward the door of Sam's office. She balks
for a moment, and then flees, running down the hallway and through a
door marked "EXIT" at the far end. As the door swings
open, the dirty snow of the alley is visible, littered with trash,
beer cans and broken bottles. Mary turns toward the front of the
building, running.
Willy,
sighing, closes the door to the office. He wipes the fingerprints
off the pistol with a grimy red bandanna handkerchief, lays the
pistol on the desk, then seems to think better of it, and pockets it.
He looks for a long moment at the money-filled safe, shrugs his
shoulders, removes a twenty-dollar bill, and then, using his
handkerchief to protect the metal surfaces from fingerprints, closes
the safe and spins the lock.
Willy
takes out a pack of cigarettes, lights one, and pauses before Sam's
corpse for a moment, smoking thoughtfully, before turning away. He
sets the lock on the office door, wiping the doorknob free of
fingerprints, and leaves, closing the office door behind him. He
pockets his handkerchief as he strolls down the empty hallway. He
walks into the men's bathroom, closes the door, and after a minute
and the sound of a toilet flushing, re-emerges. He then returns to
the waiting-room of the A-1 Daily Labor office, where one of the
derelicts appears to be napping on the folding chair in the back of
the room.
Willy
shakes the man by the shoulder.
WILLY
C'mon, Louie. Let's go get a
bottle.
ZOOM BACK as Willy and
Louie
leave the A-1 building. They can
be seen through the grimy window, bent into the wind-driven snow as
they walk, shoulders nearly touching, down the street. The camera
lingers for a moment on a wide-angle shot of the empty room, and then
DISSOLVE back to the scene in the church. Willy is slumped,
quiescent, still near the fire, and Dave is still writing furiously,
his notebook nearly half-filled. Trish has set the microphone to the
tape recorder down--there is a pile of tapes to one side, but she has
apparently used her last blank tape.
The
pile of ashes on the manhole cover is larger, and there are three new
books, two hymnals and a Bible, on the fire, along with a fresh
supply of broken pew-wood. The sandwiches halves at the edge of the
manhole cover are gone. Mary, 'Lil and Eve are sitting wrapped in
their blankets, but even with the small fire, the church is so cold
that people's breaths are visible when backlit by the fire.
Tillie
takes out a pack of cigarettes, lights one with a stick from the
fire, and offers it to Willy. He accepts, smokes about a third of
the cigarette in silence, and then makes a gesture offering the butt
to Dave. Dave hesitates, then accepts the cigarette, takes a token
puff but does not inhale, and hands it to Tillie. Willy takes his
pint bottle out of his pocket, examines the quarter-inch left in the
bottom, shrugs, then drains the bottle and tosses it on the floor
behind him. He stands up, somewhat unsteadily.
WILLY
Well, Father perfesser
confessor, there you have it, the 'Whole Truth and Nothing But the
Truth.' And, this old man's got to get his beauty sleep.
(He swells his chest in mock
pomposity.)
I have spoken.
(He salutes Dave, and gives
him an enigmatic, drunken smile.)
How!
Willy
walks, slowly and staggering slightly, toward the back of the
sanctuary. Although the camera remains focussed on the people at the
fire, he can be heard sitting heavily on the floor, then rustling
through newspapers as he arranges his bedding. In a few moments, he
can be heard snoring. Sirens, sounding as though they are going down
Chicago Avenue right outside, cut through the night, and then stop
abruptly about three blocks away--apparently an ambulance heading to
the hospital.
CARTER
That's quite a guy, Willy
Steele. Even when he's telling the truth, you don't know whether
he's lying or not--and I've known him all my life.
DAVE
Hmmm.
Dave
has the slightly glassy-eyed look of a graduate student who has been
living on too little sleep and too much coffee for several weeks. Trish
looks extremely tired, but is valiantly trying to be alert.
Tillie
glances at Carter, then carefully arranges a supply of wood and
hymnals within reach of Dave. With a faint wry smile playing on her
lips, she adds three Bibles and a 1963 Merck Manual to the pile of
books intended for fire-fodder.
TILLIE
I've got a long day ahead of me
tomorrow, folks. There's firewood there--be careful not to burn the
place down. Help yourselves to the tea.
(Gesturing to the teapot and
to a small pile of sugar-packets she has placed beside it.)
Tillie
get up, and removes blankets from a bag leaning against the pulpit. She
heads toward a secluded area behind the altar. Carter, murmuring
something inaudible to Dave, follows Tillie. The microphone centers
on murmurs of conversation and subdued laughter between Carter and
Tillie, a clink of glass as two bottles touch each other in the
darkness, and then returns to the hiss of the fire.
MARY
(Shyly.)
Perfesser?
DAVE
Just
call me Dave.
MARY
What
are you perfesser of?
DAVE
I'm
a graduate student in
anthropology. I'm working on my Ph.D. thesis. I'm writing about
homeless people.
MARY
Oh.
(Pauses.)
Perfesser Dave, is
it true that
you must never reveal others' secrets?
Dave
glances at Mary, who speaks with urgent sincerity. He considers for
a moment, and then places his right hand on the stack of hymnals,
Bibles, and the Merck Manual that Tillie has left by the fire.
DAVE
(Seriously.)
I swear it. If you ask me
never to reveal your name, I promise that I will keep it secret.
Mary
sits in silence for several minutes. A series of expressions cross
her grimy, tear-streaked, exhausted face, as she appears to be
wrestling with a difficult question. The silence within the heavy
walls of the old church is punctuated by the sounds of sleep from the
back of the sanctuary, an occasional siren in the distance, a heavy
vehicle rumbling by outside on Chicago Avenue, and the sound of
gunshots and then breaking glass several blocks away. The fire
hisses and crackles.
Trish
removes a thermos from Dave's backpack, and a package of expensive
cookies. She digs deeper into the backpack, and finds four paper
coffee-cups. All continue to sit in silence as Trish fills the cups
with steaming coffee and hands coffee to the three women, then fills
a paper cup for herself and the plastic thermos-cup for Dave. She
then hands each woman two cookies, and places the rest of the package
at the edge of the manhole cover within easy reach.
Mary
nibbles with restrained hunger at one of the cookies, and sips at the
coffee, savoring the warmth. She starts to speak, and then stops. She
finishes a cookie, and sips some more coffee. She looks,
searchingly at 'Lil and at Eve, seeking reassurance in their faces
and postures. Finally, she speaks, at first hesitantly, and then in
clear, determined voice.
MARY
(Speaking
slowly, firmly, and
at the beginning, formally.)
I don't know why that old
gentleman, Mr. Steele, is protecting me, but I must set the record
straight.
(Turning to Dave,
who is
writing rapidly.)
We came to Minneapolis last
August, because we heard that the doctors at the University of
Minnesota could help my father, and, we found a place on Oakland
Avenue, just off of Franklin Avenue, so we could be close to the
Hospital.
(Pausing
significantly, then
speaking with matter-of-factness overlaying pain.)
My father died on September
sixth, four weeks after we got here. His first appointment with the
doctors was three days after he died.
(Pause.)
We--my fiancé Joe, my
mom, and I--started working for the Daily Labor right away. Joe is a
journeyman welder, and we thought that he could find a Union job
quickly. But, it seems that once someone starts working in the
day-labor ... racket, it might be difficult to get a full-time job.
We worked pretty
steady for
four months, all three of us. We paid for the funeral, and made a
down payment on my father's headstone. Then, I got hurt. That was
on December 12th. I was making frames for radio-controlled toy cars
at Apache.
DISSOLVE
to a metal fabricating factory. The cinematographic style of Mary's
story: an average camera position about four inches lower, more tight
shots, more scenes with romantically artistic framing and lighting. The
camera moves slightly more slowly, lingering for a beat on
beautiful compositions or dramatic juxtapositions. A few of the
reminiscence sequences begin with a shot of Mary surrounded by a
misty blur, which gradually clears into a clear shot of the
background.
The
factory building is an old brick one, built before the turn of the
century, with big grimy windows. Rows of machines, apparently nearly
as old as the building, clank and clatter noisily, tended by people
in grease-stained coveralls. Mary is feeding parts to be stamped
into a machine: a job which requires split-second timing, since the
press crashes down onto the part she inserts, moments after she
positions it in the machine. At the right side of the machine, two
unguarded belts revolve rapidly in opposite directions.
There
is an air of exhaustion about Mary, as though she has been working a
long time. It is night outside, and the light from the overhead
lights is dim in the grimy air of the factory. There is a large cart
of unstamped parts on the left of her machine, about half-empty, and
a cart of stamped parts on the right, about half-full. The camera
focuses for more than a minute on Mary, who is feeding a part into
the machine about every four seconds, moving rapidly and without any
wasted motion. Then, when she tries to remove a stamped part from
the machine, the unguarded belts catch the right sleeve of her
coveralls, trapping her right arm inside the press. She reaches for
the "off" switch to the machine with her left hand, and
manages to trip it only as the machine has begun its downstroke. The
press crashes down on Mary's right arm, stopping with a shudder after
it is within an inch of the part-plate. The press-plate then slowly
rises; the machine hiccoughs, then stops.
Mary,
in shock, tries to disentangle her sleeve from the belts, using her
left hand. After several seconds, she manages to do so, then, a beat
later, collapses in a heap on the floor. Much of her right forearm
is a bloody pulp. The camera draws back to include the workers to
the right and left of her continuing to work at the same frenetic
pace as before.
It
is at least a minute before the Union Steward, a burly middle-aged
man, comes running toward Mary's machine. He squats by Mary to
examine her carefully as she lays in a spreading pool of blood, then
lifts her gently to a half-sitting position and, after glancing
around for something to use as a tourniquet, stops the flow of
spurting blood by compressing his calloused and stained hand around
her forearm, above the wound.
UNION
STEWARD
(In
a powerful roar that cuts
through the cacophony of the factory.)
Jerry! Call the god-damned
ambulance. Right NOW!
CUT
to an insert of the Union Steward watching Mary with concern, inside
an ambulance at it jostles and bounces through traffic, sirens
blaring, toward an emergency room. CUT again to the Union
Steward towering over a young doctor. Mary sits slightly to one
side, the right sleeve of her coverall cut off, revealing her arm in
a cast, supported by a sling. The blood saturating her coverall has
dried, and there are flecks of dried blood on her face and in her
hair. Mary looks pale and wan, although alert.
UNION
STEWARD
You
took the Hippocratic Oath,
didn't you?
(Without waiting for
an
answer.)
You know damn' well how bad
this girl was hurt. She lost a lot of blood. You have a
moral obligation to keep her for observation tonight. I don't care
that she doesn't have any insurance--bill the god-damned Apache
Company, or if they won't pay, bill that god-damned slave-master at
A-1 Daily Labor, S'Wendell's his name, and (more softly) it fits him,
too.
(Hesitates, and when
the
doctor does not agree, continues.)
For Chrissake, Doc, bill OSHA
if you have to. This girl's been hurt bad, and she needs more
medical help than she's getting, and somebody's gotta be
responsible. It ain't her fault she got hurt--them god-damn machines
at Apache are death-traps. Some of them antiques should'a been
junked out at the dawn of the Industrial Revolution. They don't have
no guards, they don't have no safety shut-offs. (Speaks
parenthetically.) I don't know what that mother--- of an OSHA
inspector does, probably collects a kickback. Them machines 'r
accidents waiting to happen.
(Almost pleadingly.)
It ain't morally right, Doc, to
turn this girl out. She's been working fourteen, fifteen hours at
that machine for two weeks now, she's worn down, and she's been hurt
bad.
(Starts
to take a step toward
the doctor, as though to shake some sense into him, and then stops
short, and stands, with his hands at his sides.)
DOCTOR
(Writes
at length in Mary's
medical chart, his lips compressed tightly. Looks at the Union
Steward, and shakes his head 'no' in a short, sharp motion. Speaks
tersely.)
We've done all we can for her.
Make an appointment for a checkup next week with the receptionist at
the desk.
(Sighs, then looks
directly
into the eyes of the Union Steward, and speaks with a tinge of
regret, though with a clear message of dismissal.)
I've done everything that I can
do.
(Turning toward
Mary.)
It's going to take time to
heal, but you should get most of the use of your arm back. Be sure
to take those antibiotics with milk, and come back next week.
MARY
(Wills
herself into a standing
position, wavers slightly, and then walks, paling and with forced
steadiness, to shake the doctor's hand. She offers him her undamaged
left hand.)
Thank you, Doctor.
The
Union Steward and Joe, who apparently has just arrived, stand
protectively by Mary just inside the door of the doctor's office, as
they prepare to leave.
DISSOLVE
into Joe, Mary, and 'Lil walking through the predawn morning, east on
Franklin Avenue toward the A-1 Daily Labor Office. Joe is walking,
solicitously, next to Mary, whose face is set in a staunch denial of
exactly how much her apparently nonchalant gait is costing her.
It
is snowing, the light, slightly sticky snow that falls when the
temperature is about twenty degrees. Early-morning traffic rumbles
by the three people as they walk. They pass a homeless person
begging from the shelter of a doorway, so bundled in rags as to make
his/her gender indeterminate. 'Lil digs into a pocket, and hands the
beggar about a dollar in change--in the same way as one might hand a
sibling a ten-dollar bill, in matter-of-fact recognition of the
value, but without condescension.
Mary,
'Lil and Joe stand just outside the doorway of A-1 Daily Labor
Office, stamping the snow from their feet and brushing an
accumulation of snow off of their jackets and hats, and then enter.
Mary and 'Lil seat themselves toward the rear, right-hand side of the
room, and Joe goes up to the counter at the front to register their
names for work that day. He talks briefly with Sam Wendell (most of
the conversation is obscured by other people, milling about the front
of the room), then goes to get three cups of coffee, and carries the
coffee to where Mary and 'Lil are sitting. As he approaches the
women, he masks an expression of worried concern.
The
room is already about a third filled. According to the clock on the
wall, it is 5:30 in the morning; the calendar reads December 16. The
room fills quickly, and the murmur of conversation becomes louder. The
man sitting in the chair two to the left of Joe finishes reading
the "Help Wanted" section of the paper.
JOE
You
done with that, buddy?
MAN
Help
yourself.
(Hands him the folded
section.)
Joe
reads the want ads slowly, his lips forming around the words. In a
small, somewhat worn spiral-bound notebook he removes from his inside
jacket pocket, he writes down job descriptions, addresses and phone
numbers, with the laborious blocky printing of many who are
semi-literate. Mary watches quietly, sipping at her coffee.
CUT
to a close-up of Mary; there are small beads of perspiration on her
lip, and the coffee-cup shakes slightly in her left hand.
CUT
back to a fuller shot of the room. People drift in, and at about
5:45, Sam Wendell starts calling out names, and people walk to the
front of the room to get their job assignment, then leave.
DISSOLVE
through a series of shots of the morning passing: 6:00, 6:30, 7:00,
7:30, 8:00, 9:00, 10:00 in the morning. As time passes, the room
gradually empties, until only Joe, 'Lil and Mary, and a handful of
derelicts, remain sitting there. Coffee cups and newspapers lie
abandoned here and there in the room, and the morning has dawned to
increasingly heavy snowfall. At 10:30, Sam comes out of the back
office, and surveys the sparse handful of people waiting.
SAM
Alright,
folks, that's all the
work there's gonna be today. This ain't no charity lounge, so clear
out!
Joe's
mouth tightens briefly, and he makes a slight motion as though to
walk to the front of the room, but then apparently thinks better of
it. He shrugs nearly imperceptibly, and, as the three walk toward
the door, touches Mary tenderly on the shoulder.
When
the three have gone outside and walked past the window of the A-1
Daily Labor Office, Joe hauls his notebook out of his pocket, and
flourishes it with attempted confidence.
JOE
I've
got myself some good
prospects here. Three places, they've got advertised that they're
looking for welders.
MARY
Father
John, I've heard he lets
people use the phone in the Branch to call for job interviews.
(Her voice fades
into the
traffic noise along Franklin Avenue as they walk into the distance.)
Mom and me, we'll go home and
get a good meal cooked for you and Grandma tonight ...
The
camera lingers on the three as they walk westward, into the distance
on Franklin Avenue. Mary walks as though she is masking her pain;
Joe walks with a front of confidence obscuring a nagging fear. 'Lil
walks with her head held high, with a stubborn pride in the face of
adversity. The three figures become small in the distance, and are
eventually obscured by the falling snow.
DISSOLVE
through three weeks of 'Lil, Mary and Joe being among the scattered
handful of people remaining in the waiting room of A-1 Labor at
mid-morning. As the days pass, their faces become thinner, and the
optimism in their walk more forced. The dissolve sequence stops on
Thursday, January 2, 1997. Joe leaves the waiting room at 7:30 in
the morning, showing Mary his painstakingly inscribed job listings
for the day, holding the notebook low between their chairs and
whispering to her briefly. After he leaves, Mary and 'Lil confer
with each other in inaudible whispers, and continue to sit, waiting
for a job.
At
about 10:00, Mary and 'Lil leave. It is sunny and bitterly cold
outside, the low rays of the morning sun backlighting the exhaust
from cars and busses, the trickles condensing moisture in the warm
air escaping from buildings, and their exhaled breath. The thin
winter sunlight sparkles on the buildup of hoarfrost around windows
and doors of the buildings as they walk past. Mary and 'Lil walk the
eight blocks westward on Franklin Avenue to the Branch II. They
enter the Branch with faces red from the cold. The gust of frigid
air which accompanies them into the front room condenses moisture in
the warmer interior air on contact, and surrounds them momentarily
with a cloud of fog. Mary clenches her teeth to keep them from
chattering, and she shivers involuntarily; her mother notices and a
worried look briefly crosses her face.
The
Branch is crowded with street people escaping the cold. There are
two games of cribbage going, and a cluster of people around a table
where a peanut-butter pail and day-old bread are placed, for people
to help themselves. Mary and 'Lil stand at the fringes of the crowd
around the table, surrounded by the conversation at the Branch. By
the time they get to the table, there are two pieces of bread left.
'Lil hands them to Mary, and walks away quickly, before Mary can
protest.
'LIL
I'll
go get some coffee for us.
Mary
picks up a plastic knife, and looks in the peanut butter pail. It is
empty, scraped clean. She wipes the smudges of peanut butter still
adhering to the knife on the bread, then carefully wraps the bread in
a paper towel she extracts from her pocket. Swallowing the saliva
that involuntarily comes to her mouth, she places the bread in her
pocket, and goes to find her mother in the crowd.
The
coffee urn is empty, and has been unplugged. Mary tips it
experimentally, then pockets the single restaurant-packet of sugar
remaining. She walks toward her mother, who is standing near the
door.
MARY
Maybe
we should go check on Grandma.
'LIL
Uh-huh.
CUT
to the apartment on Oakland Avenue, a shabby furnished one-bedroom. Eve
is sitting, wrapped in a blanket, in an overstuffed chair of
early 1950's vintage. She looks very old and very small. The
upholstery on both arms of the chair has worn through, and the
cavities from missing padding are patched with two bright pieces of
cloth. A roll-away bed is folded up against the wall, neatly covered
with a somewhat threadbare blanket. There is also a straight-backed
chair, a worn and sagging couch, and a battered formica end table,
which was repainted a flat purple about ten years ago, in the room. The
room was painted the indeterminate color sometimes known as
“landlord green,” at some time in the distant past. There is a
cheap, scuffed plastic clock-radio with a crack in the clockface, and
a photograph, apparently of Mary, 'Lil, Eve and Mary's father, taken
when Mary was about ten years old. There is a stained, pink
patterned carpet which has worn through to the floor in places. When
the two younger women enter, Eve is listening to a talk show on the
radio, which erratically fades in and out with a crackling of a dirty
'pot' on the volume control.
Mary
walks, unsuccessfully trying to hide her fatigue, to sit down on the
couch. Her mother goes offscreen, into the kitchen. Sounds of
running water, of a match being struck, of dishes rattling, are
heard. When 'Lil leaves the room, Mary quietly slips the pieces of
bread and the packet of sugar she has taken from the Branch out of
her pocket, and tries to hand them to Eve.
EVE
(Holding
up her hand in
protest.)
You have to eat for your child,
too, Heart.
MARY
(Very
quietly.)
I've eaten enough already,
Gram. Take it--I won't take it back.
(Pause.)
Please, Gram--you have to eat,
too.
Eve
somberly takes the bread, and starts to set it on the corner of the
end-table, but at a pleading look from Mary, slips it in her purse. She
sets the sugar on the table. The two women sit in silence,
listening to the erratic radio. 'Lil comes into the room, carrying
three steaming cups and a teaspoon, and hands a cup to each woman. Eve
takes the packet of sugar, pours a third of the packet onto her
cup--which contains hot water, and hands the packet to her daughter,
who adds a few grains of sugar to her hot water. She then firmly
hands the packet to Mary, who has set her cup of hot water on the arm
of the couch. Mary empties the packet of sugar into her hot water. The
women pass the teaspoon to stir their water, and then sip the
steaming liquid in silence. The radio, after having been silent for
awhile, crackles back to life, loudly.
RADIO
...
increasing cloudiness
tonight, with a wind-chill of sixty below. Snow flurries tomorrow,
with a high of twenty below zero. On Saturday, ...
Eve
reaches over to the radio, and turns the volume down.
EVE
(Sadly.)
The landlord came by this
morning.
Silence,
lengthening significantly past normal conversational pauses. The low
murmur of the radio mingles with the muffled noise of traffic on
Franklin Avenue, and the occasional distant yowl of a siren.
EVE
He
said we have to have the
rent paid by tomorrow noon. I asked him, 'doesn't the lease say we
have until the tenth?' He said that the company policy is that rent
has to be paid by noon on the first. He said that he'd make an
exception for us, but that tomorrow was as late as he could go.
Silence.
MARY
Maybe
Joe will find something
today. There were four new job listings today in the newspaper. He
showed them to me.
'LIL
He's
been looking for a long
time. He's sure to find something soon.
Silence. The women sip at their hot
water. DISSOLVE into the waiting
room of A-1 Daily Labor. The calendar on the wall reads Friday,
January 3, 1997. It is 5:45 in the morning. Sam Wendell is standing
behind the counter at the front of the room, wearing his
greasy-looking cheap greenish suit and a greying white shirt. His
loud paisley tie is wider, by about a quarter of an inch, than it was
in Willy Steele's story. His suit pants fit badly, hanging low
underneath his belly. He is wearing a garish diamond pinkie ring on
his left hand. He consults a stack of papers on the counter,
checking people off as they come in, calling out names. He shouts
over the noise of the crowd.
SAM
Joe
B., they want you an yer
crew back today.
JOE
B.
(Shouting.)
Yep, we're on our way.
Joe
B. and three other men walk, without any more wasted movement than a
slight swagger by the youngest of them, to the counter to pick up
their job papers, then exit by the side door. People come into the
waiting room, cluster around the coffee urn. They rustle newspapers
and scrape metal folding chairs against the gritty floor, getting
comfortable.
SAM
(Shouting.)
... Frankie Mattson ... K.O.
... Bubsy ... Max S. ... Betty and Sue ...
Men
and a few women shout in response to Sam's calls, walking to the
front of the room to get job papers, leaving for a day of work. They
exchange greetings and banter across the crowded, noisy room.
SAM
(Shouting,
in a slightly
hoarse voice.)
Hernandez, you got your car?
HERNANDEZ
(Shouts
an assent.)
SAM
They
want you an' yer crew in
South St. Paul.
Hernandez
and three other young men walk up to the counter. Hernandez glances
out into the crowd.
HERNANDEZ
Ya
comin', Joey?
A
slender young men, about eighteen years old, joins Hernandez and the
others. After consulting briefly with Sam, they walk out the side
door. Their car rumbles down the street.
SAM
I
need a rough carpenter!
An
older man, ravaged by time and alcohol, stands up.
OLD
MAN
(Taking
his jacket off and
flexing his muscles.)
Just how god-damned rough does
he have to be?
MAN
IN CROWD
(Quietly.)
Siddown, Clem.
Clem
stands for a moment more, arms held in a caricatured emulation of a
boxer's victory stance. He then seems to deflate, almost crumpling
into his chair. A well-muscled man with a red beard walks up to the
counter, talks to Sam, gets his working papers and leaves.
Sam
pauses and consults his papers, and some of the men in the crowd get
up and stretch, go up to the front of the room to get coffee for
themselves and their buddies, or change chairs to sit close to others
they have spotted in the crowd.
Mary
shifts in her chair, then plants her feet more firmly on the floor. She
arches her back and stretches her shoulders, in the way that a
person with low back pain tries, inconspicuously, to ease the pain. She
scoots back in the chair slightly, so that she is sitting with
her back straighter, pressed against the back of the chair. She
gazes gently at Joe, and then at her mother. She sighs, and shifts
in her chair again.
The
movement of the crowd in the waiting room speeds up a beat, holds,
and then accelerates gradually. The camera angle tilts slightly
off-kilter, rights itself, and then the image becomes slightly
blurred in the corners. The colors in the image become slightly
washed-out, and then muted with sepia. Sam's voice, now
unintelligibly indistinct, takes on a barking quality, and then is
blurred with a quacking timbre.
The
movement of the crowd in the room changes again. Men, women and
children, dressed in rags, bone-weary and worn out, move across the
front of the room as though they are being auctioned off. Their
cheeks are hollow from hunger, and their hair is brittle, lusterless
and has the straw-like quality of protein deficiency. Sam's voice
takes on the cadence and intonation of an auctioneer, unintelligibly
chanting as used-up workers move across the front of the room. The
scene continues for a few beats, and then Sam's voice emerges from
the crowd.
SAM
Lot
263, SOLD to the gentleman
from Getty Pickle Factory!
DISSOLVE
into a series of shots of Mary working, chronologically ordered
vignettes of her daily-labor work from August through December.
Occasional glimpses through windows reveal the passing seasons. As
the series progresses, Mary becomes more visibly pregnant. Sam's
voice, with the cadence of an auctioneer, continues, unintelligibly,
in the background.
· Mary, with her mother 'Lil cleaning up a gross
assortment of broken
glass and other garbage in an expensive motel room after a drunken
party.
· In the recycling plant, as mountains of trash move by
on a conveyer
belt, pulling aluminum and other recyclables from the stream of
refuse as it moves by.
· In a cannery, stacking cases of canned corn, which dissapear
into
infinity in the background.
· In a warehouse after a fire, working with Joe and her mother,
moving
scorched 55-gallon barrels of chemicals into a truck for disposal. The
three wear handkerchiefs over their faces, which are caked with
soot.
· In the stockyards, moving unprocessed hides from one place to
another. As they lift the heavy hides, slime streams downward from
them.
· In the stockyards, shovelling manure into bags marked
"fertilizer." The
light from the fixtures in the windowless room barely filters
through the dust of the dried manure. The workers wear handkerchiefs
over their faces, and are caked from head to toe with manure-dust.
· In a box factory, removing empty, folded-up olive-drab
ammunition
boxes from a machine and placing them on a big industrial cart. In
the background is another industrial cart, filled with perhaps a
quarter of a million boxes.
· In a cavernous institutional kitchen, scraping and scrubbing
layers
of built-up grease.
· In a poultry-processing plant, making a single cut on turkey
carcasses, then turning each carcass, as it quickly passes by. The
camera lingers on this scene long enough so that the inexorable pace
of turkey-processing is felt.
· In a fraternity, cleaning up piles of empty bottles, vomit and
other
residue from a debauched party.
· In a hospital laundry, sorting mountains of bloody surgical
linens.
Mary is wearing a cloth mask and latex gloves. As she shakes out a
stained surgical drape, a scalpel falls to the floor, and she tosses
it into a five-gallon plastic pail half-filled with scalpels,
syringes and needles.
· In a clothing factory, making the same seam, over and over
again, on
piles of clothing. 'Lil is visible in the background, also operating
an industrial sewing machine.
· Cleaning the vast expanses of an empty and very dusty
warehouse.
· Pulling down damaged sheetrock in an office building after a
fire.
· Sorting potatoes in a potato-house.
· Trimming the mold off of cheeses in a cheese factory.
· Scrubbing the huge vats used to process pickles at Getty
Pickle.
· With 'Lil and Joe, and a crew of other dust-covered people,
moving
50-pound bags of agricultural chemicals in a warehouse.
· Opening and emptying cans of paint at a hazardous-waste
processing
facility.
· Unpacking shipping containers of Christmas decorations and
stacking
them on warehouse shelves.
· At the recycling plant again, watching conveyor belts laden
with
glass move by, reaching into the stream to remove glass of the wrong
color and other inappropriate items.
· At the metal-fabricating factory. The machine inexorably moves
to
crush Mary's arm, and, at its point of lowest descent, the frame
freezes, holds for a beat ... a beat and a half ... and dissolves
into a solarized image, then almost into whiteness.
CUT
to Mary sitting in the A-1 Daily Labor waiting room, her injured arm
in its sling resting against her pregnant belly. The clock on the
wall reads 7:06; the calendar is still January 3, 1997. The gray
pre-dawn light of a cold winter day filters through the window at the
back of the room. The howl of the wind can be heard for a moment
above the murmur people in the half-empty room. A derelict man in
the corner has a fit of coughing, then wheezes as he tries to regain
is breath.
SAM
Two maids for the
Convention
Center!
Mary
and 'Lil glance at each other, a glimmer of hope in Mary's eyes. They
start to get up, but Sam glares at them, then looks at two
slightly inebriated middle-aged women, dressed like aging
streetwalkers, in the left rear of the room.
SAM
I'm lookin' at you,
Doris, an'
yer partner there.
The
two women get up, one wearing a slightly moth-eaten rabbit-fur jacket
and tight black stretch pants. She teeters unsteadily for a moment
on red four-and-a-half inch platform shoes, and then regains her
balance. Her partner tucks a pint bottle of cheap vodka deep into
her purse, and both walk to the counter to get their working papers.
Two older men, sitting in the row in front of Mary, pass a bottle,
sit for a moment longer, and then get up and leave through the front
door.
SAM
They need a welder at
Dick's
plumbing!
Joe,
looking dapper in a red plaid lumberjack jacket, grease-blackened
jeans, and work boots, starts walking toward the counter. Sam shakes
his head with disgust.
SAM
Hey, Mac, I'm talking to
you.
Sam
glances at Mac, a heavyset older man whose morning shakes have not
yet steadied. Mac heaves himself up, and ambles toward the counter. Joe
sits back down, heavily.
The
camera focuses on the clock.
DISSOLVE
to 8:02 in the morning. The room is nearly empty. Sam puts down his
papers with a decisive gesture, and leans on the counter with both
hands. He looks directly at Mary, 'Lil and Joe.
SAM
That's it, folks. Ain't
no more work today.
Mary
looks toward Sam in a defiant challenge. Her mother reaches toward
her, but Mary shakes her head slightly, and walks toward the front of
the room, shoulders straight, her head held high. Standing tall and
determined, she faces Sam across the counter.
MARY
Sam, what are you trying
to do
to us? We're hard workers, steady ... decent people, and you know
it!
SAM
(Pursing his lips in
suppressed anger, speaking curtly.)
We can talk about it in the
back office.
Sam
strides off into the back hall, and by the time Mary reaches his
office, he is seated at his desk, drinking a cup of coffee. He
shuffles through the clutter of papers on his desk, finds a pack of
cigarettes, and lights one almost negligently. He inhales deeply,
and then exhales sharply, blowing smoke in Mary's face. He glances
at Mary, who is standing with determination on the other side of the
desk, with a look of disgusted disdain, as if he had found a fly
drowning in his coffee.
Sam
takes another drag off of his cigarette, and taps the ashes
negligently into the wastepaper basket, which is piled high with
fast-food containers. He drains his coffee-cup, then glowers at
Mary, who holds her ground and returns his gaze coolly. Sam gestures
at an old-fashioned leather office couch along the wall. There is an
untidy stack of dog-eared filing folders at one end, and another
stack on the floor.
SAM
Close the door, Mary,
and sit
down.
Mary
closes the door, then sits, primly, in the middle of the leather
couch. Sam extracts an ashtray from under the papers on his desk,
and taps his cigarette impatiently on the ashtray.
SAM
(With exaggerated
patience, as
though talking to a truculent child.)
So, what did you want to talk
to me about, Mary?
MARY
(Taking a deep breath to
calm
herself, and speaking with a clear, controlled steadiness.)
Joe, 'Lil and I are hard
workers, steady workers. We've done every job you sent us out
on--we've done the job well and we've never complained. Several
times, our supervisors have told us they would like to hire us as
permanent employees. (Sighs.) But, you've got us in an exclusive
contract.
(Pauses, looking Sam in the
eye.)
You made us sign that contract,
so we can't work for anyone else. I know you've got jobs you're not
filling, Sam, but it's been three weeks since you sent any of
us--Joe, 'Lil or me--out to work.
(Shifts her posture,
straightening up in assertiveness.)
What's the problem, Mr.
Wendell? We're decent, honest people, and ...
A
jet plane roars overhead, drowning out the rest of Mary's words. A
nearly-empty coffee-cup, which had been sitting close to the edge of
the left-most of three filing cabinets across the back wall, vibrates
off of the edge of the filing cabinet and falls, hitting the edge of
an office safe by the couch, and breaking. A few drops of stale
coffee splatter across the file folders on the floor. The window
behind the desk rattles.
SAM
... There ain't no
problem,
kid. I just ain't had any jobs,
(Looking straight at Mary, and
rolling the word around in his mouth with an oily sarcasm.)
suitable to send you
folks out on.
Sam
pauses, looking at Mary smugly. Mary looks back at him with surprise
and a hint of confusion.
SAM
Mary, you're a cute kid,
but
you ain't no airhead. Why did you want to talk to me?
(Glances at Mary sharply, then
lights another cigarette.)
I'm a busy man, kid. I got a
bidness to run. Do you got a proposal to make to me, or what?
MARY
We need to work, and you
know
we're hard workers. You've got jobs. Put us to work. That's what
your 'bidness' is about, isn't it, temporary contract labor?
SAM
(Sighing impatiently.)
Try it one more time, kid, and
then quit wasting my time. Either you got a deal for me, or you
don't. Start talking sense, or get out.
MARY
(With a hint of
desperation.)
We have to work, sir. Our rent
was due on the first, and you haven't sent any of us on a job since I
got hurt.
Sam
shakes his finger scoldingly at Mary, tut-tuts at her, and then stubs
out his cigarette. He makes a motion as though to reach for the
telephone.
SAM
(With apparent
incredulity.)
You want I should call your
landlord? Maybe I should plead with him, 'Hey, Max, that knocked-up
Mary's crying in my office about her rent.' Is that what you're
asking me to do?
(Shakes his head as though to
clear it, and then looks piercingly at Mary.)
I don't like trouble-makers,
kid. If that's all this back-office consultation is about,
wasting my time crying about your rent...
(He picks up the telephone and
starts dialing, watching Mary critically.)
Maybe I should call your
landlord and tell him to evict you this afternoon ... seeing as how
you folks aren't working and can't pay your rent. Should I tell him,
'Max, confidentially, you might as well get rid of those deadbeats,
and get some decent tenants in there.'
(Glances at his wristwatch,
which has a heavy gold band nestled in the hair of his forearm.)
That Max keeps a regular
schedule, gets to his office about eight. The phone's ringing, Mary.
MARY
(In a strangled voice,
an
almost involuntary cry.)
Wait ...
SAM
(Hangs up the phone,
slowly.)
OK, let's hear it, kid. And it
had better be good, 'cause I don't have no time to waste,
baby-sitting clumsy kids who ain't got enough sense to stay away from
man-size machines.
(He stares, with a hint of
lechery, at Mary's obvious pregnancy.)
This ain't no kindergarten for
whores, neither. And there ain't no jobs here, no jobs at-all, for
tattle-tales who go crying to OSHA, trying to cause trouble for me
an' my bidness partners.
Mary
stands, and strides angrily across the office. She stands in front
of Sam's desk, her eyes flashing with anger. She bites her lip and
takes a deep breath to control her temper, but speaks with heat in
her voice.
MARY
Sam Wendell, you may own
this-here business, an' you may have us locked into an iron-clad
contract. But, that don't give you no license to insult me with
lies. You know--as sure as I'm standing here you should know--that
what you're saying is just not true.
You sent me on that job, and I
was supposed to be working on that machine. And, if your
'bidness partner' doesn't know that the guards have been taken off
those machines ... that the safety switches don't work right--he
should know it!
(Speaks with restrained fury.)
Don't you dare call me a
tattle-tale cry-baby, Sam Wendell. I'm a grown woman, I've got my
honor, and I hold up my side of a contract, Mister
Wendell!. The doctor at the emergency room asked how I got hurt, and
the Union Steward told him the truth. If your business is so shady
that you can't handle a little bit of truth every now and then, maybe
you should take a good look in the mirror, Sam Wendell.
(Stands, in magnificent rage,
in front of Sam's desk, and speaks coldly, precisely, defiantly.)
I am not a whore. Don't you
ever say that about any decent woman!
Sam
leans back in his desk chair, apparently unmoved by Mary's outburst. He
sighs with worldly tolerance, and casually shakes another
cigarette out, tamps it on the desk, and lights it with seeming
nonchalance. He waits, smoking calmly, not speaking until a faint
shadow of uncertainty flits across Mary's face.
SAM
(In an oily voice.)
So, the kitten has claws ...
(Pause.)
You want to work, do you?
MARY
(Patiently.)
We've been here at five-thirty
every morning for the past three weeks, ready to work. And, you
haven't sent us on one single job, not even one of us, for the past
three weeks. We come here because we want to work. That's what your
business is, isn't it? Sending people out to work?
We're hard workers, and you
know it. I'm sure that nobody's ever complained to you about our
work--we do a good job. I'm sure of that!
I don't know what you're
trying to do to us, Mister Wendell, but it's just not fair to
us--making us sign a six-month contract to work for nobody but
you--and then not letting us go to work.
SAM
(Sarcastically.)
So, now you think you know how
to run my business, huh, kid?
(Stands up, in apparent anger,
and leans over the desk toward Mary. His words are low, even, and
knife-edged.)
It's time you grew up and found
out what the real world is about, Mary. It ain't a fair place, and
never has been. We don't live in no Disneyland, cotton-candy
fairy-tale, and I damn' well don't have no time for snot-nosed kids
who come into my office and try to insult me.
(Spits his words out, from
between clenched teeth.)
Quit jacking around, and make
up your mind, bitch.
(Pauses, and then takes a step
closer to Mary. He speaks with oily condescension, underlaid with
anger.)
Do you want to make a deal,
sweetheart? Just how bad do you want to work?
Mary
steps back slightly as Sam edges toward her. She looks at Sam with
puzzlement, and then with a dawning realization of shock and fear. Sam
reaches out to put his arm around Mary's shoulder, and she takes
another step backwards. Sam towers over Mary, leering into her face.
Mary unobtrusively and slowly reaches into her black vinyl handbag,
which is slung over her left shoulder, with her good hand.
SAM
It's up to you, Mary. I
can
put all three of you to work: good clean jobs, good pay. I can call
your landlord and have him extend your rent. I can even get your
boyfriend a steady welding job, with lots of overtime.
(He reaches out, and tilts
Mary's chin up toward him with his index finger.)
Or, I can freeze you out. I
will call Max and have him evict you this afternoon. You're
nothing, Mary, nothing--just a dirty little knocked-up whore with a
pretty face. I can put the word out, and none of you will ever
work in this town again. Is that what you want?
(Sam puts his right hand on
Mary's shoulder, and starts pushing her back toward the couch. With
his left hand, he unbuckles his flashy belt buckle, and starts
fumbling with his pants.)
It's up to you, bitch. I don't
know why I bother with a stinking little cunt like you, but I can do
you a favor ...
As
Sam starts pushing her, Mary extracts a .22 caliber pistol from her
vinyl handbag, and unobtrusively cocks it. She steps back quickly,
so that she stands out of Sam's reach, pointing the pistol with
determination at his chest.
MARY
Get away from me, Sam.
(She motions slightly with the
pistol, as Sam backs away from her.)
Sit back at that desk, and put
both your hands on the top of the desk, where I can see them.
Sam
complies, looking at Mary with disbelief.
SAM
Hey, sweetheart. You
don't
know what you're doing with that gun, do you?
(He searches Mary's face, and
then talks almost involuntarily.)
You'd better put that gun away,
kid. ... Hurry up, before you get hurt. ... If you give me that gun
now, I'll forget you ever pulled it on me.
Mary
continues to stand in front of the desk, pointing the pistol steadily
at Sam's chest.
SAM
(Half-pleading,
half-threatening.)
Listen to me, Mary! Put that
gun away--now! If you don't behave yourself, you're really going to
have some trouble on your hands. Do you want me to call Max ...
A
jet airplane roars overhead, drowning out the rest of Sam's words. Sam
seems to make a quick decision, and starts to stand up. While
the noise of the plane fills the office, rattling the windows, Mary
fires the pistol, once, at Sam. A puff of smoke comes out of the
gun, and her hand recoils, but the sound of the shot cannot be heard
above the roar of the jet. Sam slumps back into the chair behind the
desk.
As
the sound begins to abate, Mary looks at Sam with shock. She
hesitates a moment, then almost automatically replaces the pistol in
her purse. She glances around the office, nearly in panic, and then
runs to the door and looks out into the empty hallway. Quickly, she
closes the office door behind her, and runs down the hallway, and
through a door marked "EXIT" at the far end. As the door
swings open, the dirty snow of the alley is visible, littered with
trash, empty beer cans, and broken bottles. As the door closes, Mary
can be seen turning toward the front of the building, running.
The
camera lingers for a moment on the empty hallway.
FADE
back into the scene in the church. Dave is writing with intense
determination in his notebook, which is three-quarters filled. Trish
is struggling to keep awake.
The
pile of books for fire-fodder has been diminished by three hymnals
from the bottom of the stack, and the supply of pew-wood is nearly
half gone. The fire burns low, and Dave stops his writing to scrape
the embers together with a pew-stick. He looks critically at the
pile of books. He rubs his hands, which are red with cold, together
in a nearly futile attempt to warm them, and then, with a look of
pain, rifles the pages of the Merck Manual and another hymnal, and
carefully adds them to the fire, along with a handful of pew-sticks.
Dave
pours a cup of coffee from the thermos, and looks around him. Eve is
sitting, slumped, wrapped in a worn blanket. The fire flickers into
brightness as it catches on the pew-sticks, and illuminates Eve's
face: her eyes are closed, her wrinkled cheeks are sunken with
hunger, and her skin has the thin parchment-like quality of the
fragile elderly.
DAVE
Trish, can I use the
blanket
you're sitting on?
TRISH
Sure.
Trish
gives him the blanket, moving with the stiffness of one who has been
sitting for too long in one position, and then sits on the piece of
cardboard that Dave hands her. Dave stands to shake the blanket out,
then tenderly wraps the old woman with it, covering her head and
tucking the blanket securely under her face. Eve opens her eyes with
surprising alertness.
EVE
Thank you, my boy.
DAVE
Uh-hunh.
Eve
closes her eyes again, and sits nearly motionless. It is not clear
whether she is asleep or awake.
Dave
walks into the blackness beyond the fire. The sound of wood paneling
being torn from the walls can be heard, followed by the snap of wood
being broken over his knee. Dave returns to the fire with an armful
of cherry-wood paneling pieces, decades of polishing by the faithful
rendering them still lustrous in the firelight. He sets the wood
down by the pew-sticks, and carefully adds four pieces to the fire.
Trish looks drowsily at Dave, then curls into a fetal position on the
cardboard, and, using the back-pack as a pillow, quickly falls
asleep.
Dave
sits back down, jack-knifing his long legs like a heron settling on
the nest. He picks up his coffee-cup, looks at, and sets it down
again.
DAVE
Does anyone want some
more
coffee? ... 'Lil? ... Mary?
Mary
shakes her head, but 'Lil hands him a paper coffee-cup. Dave fills
it, and stirs a packet of sugar into it before handing it back. He
looks at the package of cookies--there is one left. He offers it to
'Lil, who declines, and then to Mary, who takes a bite carefully and
thoughtfully, then breaks the cookie in half and hands half to her
mother. The two eat in silence, savoring the cookie with restrained
hunger. Dave writes in his notebook, pauses, talking unintelligibly
to himself for a moment, and then continues writing.
CUT
to a close-up of Mary, whose smudged face is ashen with fatigue and
cold, then pulls back slowly. The fire crackles as the flames
establish themselves on the paneling. There is a long moment of
silence, broken only by the hum of the city beyond the walls of the
church, and the rustle of paper as Dave turns a page in his notebook.
MARY
(With slight
hesitation.)
Well, Perfesser Dave, that is
all I have to say for now. I take responsibility for what I've done.
DAVE
Hmmm.
'Lil
puts her arm around Mary, and draws the girl close to her,
wordlessly. As Mary relaxes, 'Lil cradles her against her bosom. In
a few moments, Mary slumps into exhausted sleep, and 'Lil eases
Mary's head and shoulders gently into her lap. 'Lil sips her coffee
with her left hand, and gently embraces the daughter sleeping on her
lap with her right arm.
'LIL
(Speaking softly, as
though
musing to herself, although with her eyes she speaks directly to
Dave.)
There it is!--
... You play beside a death-bed
like a child,
Yet measure to yourself a
prophet's place
To teach the living. ... You
generalise ...
So sympathetic to the personal
pang,
Close on each separate
knife-stroke, yielding up
A whole life at each wound,
incapable
of deepening, widening a large
lap of life
To hold the world-full woe. The
human race
To you means, such a child, or
such a man,
You saw one morning waiting in
the cold,
Beside that gate, perhaps. You
gather up
A few such cases, and, when
strong, sometimes
Will write of factories and of
slaves, as if
Your father were a negro, and
your son
A spinner in the mills. All's
yours and you, —
All, colored with your blood,
or otherwise
Just nothing to you. Why, I
call you hard
To general suffering. Here's
the world half blind
With intellectual light, half
brutalised
With civilisation, ...i
Dave
looks at 'Lil with surprise. 'Lil smiles gently, but ironically.
'LIL
(continues.)
... –does one of you
Stand still from dancing, stop
from stringing pearls,
And pine and die, because of
the great sum
Of
universal anguish? ...
You cannot count,
That you should weep for this
account, not you!
You weep for what you know. A
red-haired child
Sick in a fever, if you touch
him once,
Though but so little as with a
finger-tip,
Will set you weeping, but a
million sick . . .
You could as soon weep for the
rule of three,
Or compound fractions. Therefore,
this same world
Uncomprehended by you, must
remain
Uninfluenced by you. ...ii
(Long pause. 'Lil watches
Dave out of the corners of her eyes, notes his surprise, and
continues in an explanatory tone.)
That's part of a poem, Aurora
Leigh, that Elizabeth Barrett Browning published in 1856.
(Pause.)
That was more than a hundred
and forty years ago. Do you 'generalise, so sympathetic to the
personal pang,' Dave?
(Musingly, softly, almost to
herself.)
'I call you hard, to general
suffering...' Or, do I speak, a sliver of a small story ... 'waiting
in the cold,' for translation across class borders ... smuggled
half-heard, into academe?
(Speaks toward the fire.)
Who was here (gesturing to
indicate her present space) in 1856?
'Lil
falls silent, and finishes her coffee. Mary moans in her sleep, and
'Lil caresses her, tenderly. In the background, a man is racked with
coughs, and the newspapers beneath which he is sleeping rustle as he
convulses in his coughing fit. Another man calls out something
unintelligible in his sleep. Dave starts to speak, but 'Lil cuts him
off.
'LIL
(With an enigmatic but
piercing glance at Dave; speaks with a very heavy rural Black
southern accent.)
Wha' tya fi'n ta do wid
all dem-dere note, suh?
Dave
looks confused and somewhat nonplussed, and hesitates, not speaking.
'LIL
Seriously, Dave, why are
sitting here in this cold wreck of a building with your girlfriend? Why
are you spending your nights with us dregs of society, writing in
your notebook?
DAVE
I'm a graduate student
in
anthropology, and I'm working on my Ph.D. thesis. I'm doing my
fieldwork with homeless people in Minneapolis.
'LIL
(Laughing.)
Well, I suppose we qualify ...
we've been homeless since noon, yesterday.
(Pause.)
I won't tempt fortune by saying
we've hit rock bottom, but we've had some tough times, lately. ...
DAVE
(Resumes writing with an
expression of relief, his face gradually resuming his
anthropologist's listener-expression.)
Mmmm.
(Pause.)
It sounds like that Sam Wendell
wasn't an easy guy to work for.
'LIL
(Somewhat sharply.)
One might say that A-1 Daily
Labor has been exploiting people, helping us work ourselves deeper
into poverty.
DAVE
Even before Willy
Steele, and
then your daughter Mary, told me their stories tonight, I'd heard
some things about Sam Wendell from other folks.
'LIL
Hmmm.
(Pause.)
What do you think about those
stories?
DAVE
(Slowly, pausing to
choose his
words.)
I'd say that narratives are
always partial--that truth can be many-sided.
'LIL
And?
DAVE