Thursday, October 20, 2011

Baby Boy III



(Silva and Rock are sitting there in the pickup truck. They sit a little formally and stiffly and wait for Archie, who comes barreling out of the house, and up to the pickup.)

Archie: Ya don’t have to say a word. A little bird already told me you’d be bringing those 27 wagons full of cotton straight to my door, and I want you to know that you’re a very lucky fellow.

Silva (dryly): Yeah, how come?

Archie: Well! Come on out of that truck and have some coffee. I just happen to be in a position to hold back all the other orders and give you top priority. Yes sir, yes indeed!

Silva: What’s your price?

Archie: Well, it’ll be a little extra. Being as you is in a kinda hurry, aint that so? Since most unfortunately your gin mill just happened to burn down last night?

(Silence. The sense that Silva is inspecting him.)


Baby Boy slithers out the front door to see what the commotion’s all about. He’s got his lavender kimono on, somewhat torn by Archie’s latest attempt to cop a feel in the bathroom yesterday. The kid’s smokin a cigarette, checking Silva out. He blows some smoke down thru his nose, his nostrils getting erect just looking at Silva’s thin young Sicilian snaky face.

Pretty Boy: Silva? How do you spell it?

(Silva spells it out. “Capital S-I-L-V-A.” Meanwhile, his eyes are checking out Baby Boy. Eating him up.)

Baby Boy: Oh, like silver lining. Every cloud has got a silver lining…

Silva: That’s right, kid. What’s your name?

Baby Boy: McCorkle.

Silva: McCorkle, McDorkle. Sounds McForkable…

Baby Boy: What are you, anyway. A wise-ass or something?

(Archie interrupts, opening the pickup door and ushering Silva inside the house.)

Archie: That’s okay, just don’t pay any attention to Baby Boy this morning. He done just got his ass outta bed and he’s still kinda grumpy.

(Archie grimaces at Baby Boy, raising his hand and pretending to almost give the kid a good backhand slap up the side of his head.)

Baby Boy: I dare you to slap me, you dumb fuck. I’ll call the Sheriff if you dare touch me again.


(Archie laughs, glancing back at Silva over his shoulder, as if it were just a playful joke. The three of them trundle down the hallway and into the dining room. Aunt Rose Comfort is sitting at the dining room table, smoking a joint, playing solitaire with a beat-up, dog-eared deck of cards. She doesn’t even look up at them.)

Archie: Ah, there she is, just a bundle of joy. Do me a pretty little favor, won’t cha Aunt Rose Comfort? Please make me and my good friend, Mr. Silva, here a nice pot of black coffee so we can discuss some important business, hmm sweetie-pie?

Aunt Rose Comfort: Fix it yourself.

Archie: Why, you old, no-good, ungrateful, goddamn… Er, that’s all right honey, I’ll just have Baby Boy make some coffee for myself and our guest. Won’t cha, Baby Boy?

Baby Boy: Fix it yourself.

Archie: Ah, honey, Baby Doll, that’s okay. I’ll fix it right away. Ha! Ha! Just look at my boy blush. Haha! That’s my Baby Boy!!! He’s my little boy, every precious inch of him is mine, all mine!!! You just entertain Mr. Silva will ya, sweet pea, while I’m busy in the kitchen?

(Archie hustles off, banging around in the kitchen, getting some coffee on the stove boiling, cursing to himself about what he was gonna do someday…)

Baby Boy: Silva? That sounds foreign.

Silva: It’s Italian, kid. I’m known as the wop that runs the Syndicate Plantation.

(Baby Boy smirks. Takes a toke from Aunt Rose Comfort’s joint, then turns to Silva and opens up his kimono.)

Baby Boy: You like it?

(Silva is by now smoking his own cigarette, after turning down Aunt Rose Comfort’s friendly gesture of a little toke or two. Raising his eyebrows, he checks out the sizable endowments of Baby Boy. He nods knowingly, copping a feel of the kid’s 10-inch semi-hard uncut big one.)

Silva: Are you usually so generous kid? I can see why Archie Lee keeps you around this dumpy joint of his. You’re a much-needed little extra bit of swanky Southern Comfort sexy accoutrement, if you ask me. A nice little bit of high-class Michelangelo, kid.

Baby Boy: Well, Archie said to entertain you…

Silva: Well, kid, you certainly know how to do that.

(Baby Boy smirks, covering himself up again, nonchalantly drawing the puce sash of his kimono tight around his thin waist. Archie’s got the coffee together. He’s huffing and puffing his way back into the dining room. Aunt Rose Comfort shakes her head, her eyebrows raised toward the ceiling. She’s seen Baby Boy flirt to high heaven this way, a million times before. Especially if he wanted something, whether money, attention or maybe even a ticket outta this lousy joint.)

Archie: Here we go, folks. Just happened to be some nice black coffee already on the stove. Don’t pay any attention to loony-tune Aunt Rose, Mr. Silva. She’s just an old used-up coke-head stoner from way back during her louche Atlanta hippie dayz back when she was a college student. Next week I’m gonna be sending her away to the Home, the State Hospital for the Elderly and Criminally Insane there in Biloxi where she belongs.

(Gentle Aunt Rose Comfort gives Archie a swift kick under the table, sending the cat running for its life and all the mice scrambling for cover in the nearby rotting wainscoting. The whole mansion seems to moan and groan, the once-beautiful crystal chandelier in the faded ceiling sways this way and that way, hypnotizing the already stoned Aunt Rose, her glazed eyes drifting back seemingly to the long-gone Burning of Atlanta debacle and poor frantic Miss Scarlet trying to get outta town fast…)

(CUT BACK to Baby Boy. He emits an enormous yawn.)

Baby Boy: So. You’re a wop?

Silva (with ironic politeness): I’m a Sicilian, Baby Boy. A very ancient people…

Baby Boy (trying out the word): Sish! Shisch!

Silva: No, kid. Siss! Sicilian.

Baby Boy: You like pizza? That’s all I eat.

Archie (bursts out laughing): That aint all he eats!!!

(Baby Boy shrugs. Goes back upstairs.)

Archie: You don’t hear nothin I say! How do I catch your attention? What does a guy gotta do to get your attention, Baby Boy?

No comments:

Post a Comment