WHITE TRASH
(C) Doug Smeath, 1996
Scene 1
Scene: Inside an old, small-town church. It is the 1990's, and the church
is in a small town deep in Alabama. There is an old, deteriorating hardwood
pulpit upstage left, standing three-quarters toward the audience, facing an
onstage audience, all dressed in dark clothing and crying, all caucasians,
who sits downstage right. A preacher is standing behind the pulpit, also
dressed in black. There are three seats behind the pulpit, but only one
person sitting there. She is the only black person in the room, and she
looks very nervous.
(Audience sits, nervously looking around at each other. After almost
thirty seconds of nervous silence, a hugely fat woman in an enormous purple
dress stands up. Her giant blue eyes are like ponds, and water is literally
bubbling from them. Most comic of all, she is actually wearing a black veil.
This is Mrs. Hart, Michael's mother.)
Mrs Hart: My son... my poor son... He's dead, oh, he's dead!
(sobbing loudly, uncontrollably, sniffling in an exaggerated way, gasping
frantically for air, she stands there for another thirty seconds, everything
once again awkwardly silent except for her tragically humorous
hyperventilation, snorts, and vocal outburts. She finally "contains
herself," and is just able to blubber out her next words.) And it's all
that (sniff)... that nigger's fault! (she points at the black woman behind
the pulpit. The audience stirs loudly, some whispering loud words of
disbelief, most whispering loud words of agreement, all making the scene
silently chaotic. Mrs. Hart sits down.)
(The room settles once again into silence, more awkward now than ever, as
all attention is "discreetly" focussed on the poor black woman behind the
pulpit. She is finding it hard to sit still. She avoids looking out at the
audience, though once or twice her eyes pass by Mrs. Hart's, and she finds
herself unable to turn away from Mrs. Hart's stare for two or three seconds.
After more than half a minute, Debra's eyes are pleading with the preacher
for relief. He stands at the pulpit.)
Preacher: (nervously, almost apologetically) Well, if no one
else has anything they want to say... Uh... It looks like we're gonna get
on with the program. The only scheduled speaker for today is... (wincing,
hesitating) is Miss Debra Morris.
(gasps from the audience. The black woman behind the pulpit breathes
deeply, stands, and approaches the pulpit. All eyes are on her.)
Debra: I... I loved Michael. I-- (breaking into sobs of pain and
guilt. After a few moments, less dramatic than Mrs. Hart's lamentation and
completely devoid of humor, she wipes her eyes, breathes more slowly and
appears to be regaining herself. She looks up and sees Mrs. Hart staring at
her, and she once again loses it.) I am the one who killed Michael!
Well, I mean, it's my fault those men killed him! Oh, they killed the man I
love! (Audience stares, stunned and almost horrified.) Michael
always told me that the most important thing in life was to be yourself! He
said that! 'Don't be afraid of what you feel! Show the world what you
feel!' He said that all the time! And I loved him for it! So what else
would I do but show how much I loved him, as often and as much as I could?!
(She drops her head, but as soon as the awkward silence returns, she
quickly raises it and tries to talk some more.) I held his hand! Oh, I
should have known...! But I held his hand anyway, and they... they knew,
everyone could see! They hated him for it! Hated me, too, but really hated
him! Oh, what have I done?
Scene: A cool August night, outside a busy restaurant. The sky,
the breeze, the trees, the whole mood is very peaceful, very southern, very
romantic. Michael and Debra emerge from the restaurant.
Debra: (laughing, apparently just ending some conversation she and
Michael had been having inside.) Oh, wow. It's a beautiful night!
It's amazing! Nights like this remind me why I left Chicago and came to
Alabama! I feel so at home here! (In the ecstasy and romance of the
scene, she grabs Michael's hand.)
Michael: (an enthusiastic, intelligent, light-hearted southern
accent, and all he is now saying is just idle, friendly chit-chat, obviously
Michael's specialty.) Well, Chicago's a nice place, too. You know,
they call it the windy city, yes, and there's lots of crime, and I hear the
pollution is horrible. But there's the... Oh, and of course there's the
freezing cold weather. But I hear it has excellent... I mean, despite the
chaos and the dirty streets and... Hey, is there anything pleasant
about Chicago?! (all said with a smile)
Debra: (also cheerful, light-hearted, and smiling) Well, I
remember that I liked it. But since I have met you, I really can't remember
what I liked about that pl--." (As they round a corner, the light of the
full moon reveals three approaching figures. They didn't look sinister or
out of place at all, but Debra seems uncomfortable, and she abruptly stops
talking, stiffens, and clings more tightly to Michael.)
Michaelglancing at her, puzzled, and then continuing the
conversation in his light-hearted way. He is only barely aware of, and not
at all affected by, the presence of the three figures. His gracious
compliments to himself he says jokingly and very charismatically) Oh, I
am sure there's someone in Chicago who's as good-looking, caring, strong,
intelligent, brave, and gentle as me... (They are simultaneously getting
closer to the approaching figures, and as they pass them, one of the figures
stretches out his foot casually and trips Michael. Michael tumbles to the
ground and crashes into a nearby tree trunk. Debra gasps in panic, but
Michael stands up as coolly as possible, takes Debra by the hand, and
continues walking.)
White Man #1: Ah, look at the tough guy, walkin' away, all heroic-like!
Hey, nigger-lover, no one ignores me! (He runs at Michael, who is pretending
to be oblivious, and pushes him over from behind. His two companions run
behind, and all three commence kicking the fallen Michael very violently.
Debra is screaming in horror, but Michael is only gasping and moaning,
almost as much from alarm as from pain, as he struggles to get up and to
fight the men off. But he is no match, and he is soon unconscious. Debra,
meantime, is frantically running around, at one moment running toward the
men as if in hopes of saving Michael, at the next running toward the
restaurant for help, and then again running back to Michael, unable to leave
him. In this panic, she is getting nowhere. One of the white men, White
Man #2, produces a small pocketknife from somewhere.)
White Man #2: Hey, Bubba! Here ya go! (He tosses White Man #3,
"Bubba," the knife, and Bubba catches it. He quickly slides out the blade,
as Debra screams more frantically and begins kicking White Man #1, trying to
get to Bubba and stop him. But #1 easily holds her back, and Bubba is able
to quickly bury the blade into the top of Michael's head. The three men run
off.)
White Man #1: (turning back as he runs away) After you bury
him, find yourself a colored man and ruin his life instead!
(Debra runs to a ditch, almost offstage, and vomits.)
Scene: Back at the church, Debra still standing there, the same
look on her face as when the reminiscing began. Only seconds have passed.
A middle aged white man in the audience stands. He's wearing a black suit,
and he looks like an outraged conservative member a city council that's
trying to move the start of the school day to 8:00 instead of 7:45. He is
dramatically waving his fist.
Audience Man: Yeah, you killed him! So why the hell don't you move
back to Milwaukee, or wherever you came from!
(Debra looks back at him for a moment with the look on her face of
someone who can't think of a good answer to a question, someone convinced by
someone else's argument. She stares one more time at Mrs. Hart, her look
half hopeless, half resolute. She glances back at the preacher, picks her
papers up off of the pulpit, and runs, with a purpose, out of the church.
Curtain.)
Preacher: (a tall, skinny old white man with a ragged black suit
that seems to cling to his shoulders for dear life, hanging loosely over his
thin body. His hair is a tangled white mess, tinted with a strange orange
hue that matches the orange hue of the bags of skin under his eyes and on
his cheeks. A mustache of the same color hangs under his long, thin nose.
Most noticeably, his thin legs are shaking violently under the "weight" of
his body. He speaks in a southern accent, and in this situation, he is
trying to sound important and dignified. Reading.) My friends, we come
here t'day to honor and remember our dear friend, neighbor, son, comrade, and
associate, Michael Hart, taken in his prime from our presence, with so much
life still to live. Michael meant a lot of things to a lot of people. I
will now turn the time over to those who knew and loved Michael best.
Scene 2
Scene 3