LastMealsProposal
- 4. CAST OF CHARACTERS: HAMBURGER: A greasy haired, sunken-eyed middle-aged prostitute. Anxious. Partook in a male murder rampage sparked by her pure hatred of men. Lies about her situation to seem innocent and is convinced the government was watching her do it. BIRTHDAY CAKE: Calm and poised African American woman. Mid thirties. Believes her son was a victim of a hate crime. Took revenge on the police officer by torturing his two young children in front of him. TIC TAC: Solemn and sarcastic young adult. Has always felt that her classmates cruelly ignored and overlooked her. Went on a school-shooting rampage for revenge. Happily turned herself in afterwards and continues to show no remorse. PINOT NOIR: Completely ordinary middle-aged woman. No signs of insanity or delusion. She looks calm and holds her composure. Left her three children strapped into the back seat of her car as she allowed it to plummet off of a cliff. Has never fought her charges or denied her actions. (Lights up. A disheveled inmate sits in front of a sloppy looking burger placed directly onto a cold metal tray. She sits back, relaxed and blankly staring at the meal, before opening her mouth.) HAMBURGER I ain’t eatin’ this shit. I know what y’all are tryna do in there and I ain’t eating this poison. You tryna take away my moment tomorrow? I know it, it’s happened before. Last time I ate this poison and had the shits for fucking weeks. Couldn’t see straight and y’all said I was too ill and pushed back my date. Y’all tryna make me look like I’m a drug fucked fruit loop. (Mumbling) tryna push my date back again. (Yelling) Y’all don’t think I know what you’re tryna do? Tryna spin me and provoke me, make me look all insane so y’all can make money off of my story. I ain’t acting out so you have more ammo for your fuckin’ movies and shit. And I ain’t playin’ your games.
- 5. (Takes the top bun off the burger and looks disgusted.) Oh what the fuck! Y’all forgot the fucking mayo. Every time they forget the fucking mayonnaise. (Mumbling to self) Fucking pieces of shit. (Screaming to the people inside the walls) You forgot the mayonnaise! Treat me like shit up in here. Every fuckin’ time. Can’t get no support and now I can’t even get no mayonnaise. (Pause) Y’all bout to execute a raped woman, you know that? A victim. Y’all executing other victims too. I hear their stories. I listen to ‘em. I saved other women and children from all their pain and sadness and y’all just gon nuk me like I’m a no good hooker. I fuckin’ did this world a whole deal of good. And don’t act like I didn’t. Don’t act like y’all didn’t know what I was doing neither. Like y’all weren’t tracking me. Like y’all didn’t halt police distribution around my kill spot for all them years. I was so obvious by the twelfth y’all would have to be backward to not know what was happening. Y’all knew I have this violent temper but y’all still left me out there. Y’all know I have this demon inside me. But you never stopped me. (Peers inside burger and remains disgusted) And now y’all tryna feed me this shit. This fuckin’ poisoned shit. (Shoves the tray off the table.) Those men weren’t victims. They were no good delinquents. They ain’t never said thank you after, or bought me a meal. They just pull out and try go on home to tuck their kiddies into bed. I never met a man who treated me like a lady with the respect I always deserved. They’ll buy ya but they won’t love ya. Fuckin’ dogs only after the bone. I wish y’all would just give me the fucking mayo. (Blackout.) (Lights up. A woman sits in the same configuration as her previous inmate. In front of her sits a slice of a birthday cake with a single unlit candle on it. She does not acknowledge the cake. BIRTHDAY CAKE My boy came in first place at his school spelling bee that day. He spelt the word “inseparability” and beat all the other kids in his grade. I was so proud of my boy. My beautiful clever boy. He came bounding down the street towards me. He was a block away but I could see his proud
- 6. little face and beaming grin. He had the trophy in his hands, holding it up above his little head like a champion as soon as he saw me. The second my boy put that trophy in the air I saw the gun being raised. (Pause) They said the trophy had the shape and shading of a weapon and they couldn’t take any risks. My boy was just eight years old. Headlines claimed it was a mistake. That the officer was taking necessary action, yet my son had more bullet holes than candles on his last cake. The papers called it a “right place, wrong time” situation. That’s an interesting saying, isn’t it? Right place, wrong color would be a more accurate description. My boy’s name only made headlines for a week before he was forgotten. My boy was just another statistic. He showed no remorse, he was simply doing his job. Cleaning up the streets of would be thugs. Whitewashing America and keeping the significant safe. Important stuff, that is. America’s Hero had two kids of his own. They were sweet kids too. Beautiful little porcelain skinned girls. Angels you could say. Grace was about 4 and had the brightest blue eyes you would have ever seen. Hannah couldn’t have been much older and had picturesque white blonde curls. I could feel how much he loved those little girls. I could see it in his eyes as I lay them out in front of him. These girls had the softest skin I tell you. And the rosiest little cheeks right down to the last blow. The skin held that blushing color for a surprising amount of time once it had been removed. White skin is so lenient, so willing, so easy to peel. That wasn’t my initial intention, but it only felt right to give this lovely man a lesson in Biology. He wasn’t too aware how similar we all when our coverings can no longer define us. It all felt very dramatic. You could barely hear his pleas and apologies through their screams. Their lungs were only the size of my palm but boy could they make a sound. It stopped of course, when the lights finally faded from their terrified little eyes. I felt alive again. I could feel my blood begin to flow through my veins the moment it flowed out of theirs. The clean up was relatively easy too. A bit of mopping and scrubbing and that kitchen was as good as new. His petrified face was all I craved; the rest was just collateral damage. Necessary action if you will. (Coldly.)
- 7. I have no remorse; I was simply partaking in America’s all-important cultural exchange. Cleaning the streets of would be racists. They were kids, yes, but so was my boy. He was just eight years old. (Blackout.) (Lights up. A half empty pack of Orange flavoured Tic Tac’s sits alone on a metal serving plate. Behind them a youthful yet tough looking young woman is seated in an oversized orange jumpsuit. She speaks in a dull and sarcastic manner.) TIC TAC (The girl pops a Tic Tac into her mouth.) One. It was an accident. (Inserts another tic tac) Two. My hand slipped. (Tic Tac) Three. I didn’t mean to do it. (Tic Tac) Four. Who me? (Tic Tac) Five. Couldn’t be. (Tic Tac) Six. It’s always the quiet ones. (Tic Tac) Seven. What a cliché. (Tic Tac) Eight. Her? I did her a favour.
- 8. (Tic Tac) Nine. (As though reading a headline) “Promising young athletes among those caught in high school slaughter rampage.” (Tic Tac) Ten? Well, she once told me my breath stunk. (Laughs and angrily drops the Tic Tac packet back on the floor below. Blackout) (A dainty woman sits before a glass of red wine. She looks clean and put together. Her presence offers no signs of insanity.) PINOT NOIR I couldn’t keep living like that. Waking up, feeding the kids, dropping them off. I’m not saying I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just saying I had to do it. I know better than anybody else how much I deserve to be here. I know better than anyone else. But it was killing me. Going to work, working, picking the kids up. It could have been anyone of us. Any one of us. Taking the kids to practice, feeding the kids, feeding the cat. I had to do what I had to do, you know? You must know what I mean. You must know how I felt. Tucking the kids in, feeding him, fucking him. We all do it. We all have to do it. We all have payments to make, rent, gas, electric, water. We all have shit to do; laundry, dishes, the first job, the second. We’re all tired just laying there, thinking about it, dreaming about it. You and I aren’t that different. It could have been you sitting here. You could have been pushed off the edge. Completely drained of who you used to be. Used as a milk maid, bar maid, a maid in general before having to wake up and make sure the kids are fed and clean and doing well in school. It may not be the same situation but I know you have it. I know you have something that makes you feel like you’ve been muted. That’s keeping you from what you really want; that keeps you from truly enjoying your glass of Pinot when the day is through. Yet we continue to do it. Wake up and go to work to feed the kids. Or not feed the kids. Or not go to work. But we all have it. We all have something.
- 9. It could have been you out there selling your body day and night, or you just trying to comprehend that the one thing you live for was taken away. You could have been born just a little bit off, but not too off that they give you the proper help you needed. We’re all the same. We’re all just tired, we’re all just sad but saying we’re happy. We all have people depending on us. People we can’t help but disappoint or fuck up in some way. I’m not saying I’m innocent, or that I was allowed to do it. I’m just saying I had to do it. I had to do it for me. I couldn’t keep living like that, you know? That job. That life. That emptiness. Waking up and feeding the kids, dropping the kids off, going to work, working, picking the kids up, taking the kids to practice, feeding the kids, feeding the cat, tucking the kids in, feeding him, fucking him, laying there, thinking about it, dreaming about it. Waking up, feeding the kids, dropping the kids off, going to work, working, picking the kids up, taking the kids to practice, feeding the kids, feeding the cat, tucking the kids in, feeding him, fucking him, laying there, thinking about it, dreaming about it. Waking up. Feeding the kids. Throwing the kids off. Fuck work. Fuck the cat. Fuck him. Fuck it. Living the dream. Finally waking up. (She takes her first sip of wine.) I’m not saying I’m innocent. I’m just not saying I’m not. (Curtain.)