Outlaw: The Collected Works of Miguel Piñero by Miguel Piñero

OUTLAW
THE COLLECTED WORKS OF
MIGUEL PIÑERO
ALSO BY MIGUEL PIÑERO
La Bodega Sold Dreams

Outrageous One-Act Plays
The Sun Always Shines for the Cool
OUTLAW
THE COLLECTED WORKS OF
MIGUEL PIÑERO
Introduction by Nicolás Kanellos

and Jorge Iglesias
Arte Público Press

Houston, Texas
Outlaw: The Collected Works of Miguel Piñero is made possible through grants
from the City of Houston through the Houston Arts Alliance.
Recovering the past, creating the future
Arte Público Press
University of Houston
452 Cullen Performance Hall
Houston, Texas 77204-2004
Photograph of Miguel Piñero by Arlene Gottfried

Cover design by Pilar Espino
Piñero, Miguel
Outlaw: The Collected Works of Miguel Piñero / by Miguel Piñero; intro-
duction to the poetry of Miguel Piñero by Nicolás Kanellos; introduction to
the drama of Miguel Piñero by Jorge Iglesias.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-55885-606-6 (alk. paper)
1. Inner cities—New York (State)—New York—Poetry. 2. Inner cities—New
York (State)—New York—Drama. 3. Puerto Ricans—New York (State)—New
York—Poetry. 4. Puerto Ricans—New York (State)—New York—Drama.
I. Title.
PS3566.I5216O87 2010
811'.54—dc22
2010025858
CIP
The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American
National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed
Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1984.
SHORT EYES by Miguel Piñero. Copyright © 1974, 1975 by Miguel Piñero.

Reprinted by permission of Hill and Wang, a division of Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC.
© 2010 by Arte Público Press
Printed in the United States of America
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Table of Contents
Introduction to the Poetry of Miguel Piñero by Nicolás Kanellos | vii
Introduction to the Drama of Miguel Piñero by Jorge Iglesias | xv
POETRY
L A B ODEGA SOLD D REAMS
3 La Bodega Sold Dreams
4 A Lower East Side Poem
6 The Book of Genesis According to San Miguelito
9 This Is Not the Place Where I Was Born
11 Black Woman with the Blond Wig On
13 Jitterbugging Jesus
15 —Kill, Kill, Kill
17 Running Scared
19 Seekin’ the Cause
22 La Cañonera del Mundo
23 Spring Garden—Philadelphia
26 Cocaine Nose—Acid Face
28 Visitin’ a Friend at the Cold Shop
30 On the Lock-In
31 On the Day They Buried my Mother . . .
32 La gente que no se quiera pa’ na’ con la lengua
33 The Menudo of a Cuchifrito Love Affair
35 New York City Hard Times Blues
PREVIOUSLY UNPUBLISHED POEMS FROM THE CYCLE OF

L A B ODEGA SOLD D REAMS
43 Obreras
45 Declaration 1968
46 Bastard Streets
48 Transtime Meditation
49 A Latin Trip
51 Windy Music Screams Profanity
52 Vente Conmigo
53 Guy Lombardo—Back in Town
54 A Carnival Perpetual Inconsistent Commentary Poem
58 Perhaps Tomorrow
60 A Step Toward Insanity
61 Mango Dreams
OTHER PREVIOUSLY UNPUBLISHED POEMS

65 The Lower East Side Is Taking . . .
66 And then Come Freedom to Dream
68 Antarctica
69 The Answer
70 To-get-her
71 Where Do the Colors . . .
72 The High Don’t Equal the Low
74 Rerun of “The Ballad of the Freaks”
PLAYS
81 Paper Toilet
101 Cold Beer
111 The Guntower
133 Irving
159 Sideshow
179 Tap Dancing and Bruce Lee Kicks
193 Short Eyes
244 Glossary of slang
249 The Sun Always Shines for the Cool
293 Midnight Moon at the Greasy Spoon
339 Eulogy for a Small Time Thief
Afterword by Joseph Papp | 381

Introduction to the Poetry of Miguel Piñero
BY NICOLÁS KANELLOS
I
t’s three-thirty in the morning and the phone rings. It’s Mikey call-
ing from LA. He wants to dictate a poem to me. For the record?
The archive? A future publication? “Okay, Mikey, go ahead,” I
grumble sleepily into the phone, and dutifully jot down the poem as
his rasping voice dramatizes each line. Looking back, these early-
morning requests were not unreasonable, given the circumstances
under which Miguel Piñero lived and developed his art. Quite often
without a place to “crash,” no office or file cabinet other than his fran-
tically scribbled notebooks, which he often lost when he did crash in
a shooting gallery or alone on the floor of a bookstore back room or
in his blurred travels from his haunts on the Lower East Side to Hol-
lywood or a filming location—there is no telling how much of
Piñero’s poems and plays-in-progress were lost to posterity. There is
also no retrieving the portions of dialog he drafted for such T.V. crime
dramas as “Baretta,” “Kojak” and “Miami Vice,” whose remuneration
helped to keep him high and doubtlessly cut into his poetic and dra-
matic creativity, eroding his legacy not only by distracting him from
his ultimate and favored literary mission but also from polishing, pre-
serving and publishing his works. He confessed as much in “Antarc-
tica”: “Each penny accumulated/to feed my veins . . . /distort the
rhythm in my living. . . . ” (68). Despite the lucrative Hollywood pay-
days and his national fame as a playwright on the leading edge, Piñero
was perennially destitute, often ill and frequently involved in scrapes
with the police—that is, after having served years of hard time.
vii
Nicolás Kanellos
An expert and celebrant of the narcotics and sex trades in New

York City, the self-educated ex-con/writer Piñero (“a thief, a junky
I’ve been/committed every known sin” in “A Lower East Side
Poem”4)] stood his marginalized ground to unmask the hypocrisy of
mainstream society, to attack the bases of latter-day capitalism and
American imperialism, especially for having produced the transplant
and ghetto entrapment of Puerto Ricans. Unlike the more subtle cri-
tiques in his plays, Piñero’s poems were composed and performed for
his people, his neighborhood, often to educate and connect the dots
from capitalism to racism and labor exploitation:
capitalism
who begat racism
who begat exploitation
who begat machismo
who begat imperialism
who begat colonialism
who begat wall street
who begat foreign wars (“The Book of Genesis According to St.
Miguelito” 6)
For the irreverent Piñero, God created all that is ugly in the world,
God is the Greatest Capitalist of them all and the arch Hypocrite. In the
central metaphor of his book, the United States is the grand bodega
where everything is for sale, and God is the Bodeguero who oversees
and empowers all the salesmen—corporate leaders and politicians
—who ultimately sell and manipulate the merchandise for sale in
Piñero’s community: drugs and flesh. Unable to fit in and labeled a
criminal in this societal order, Piñero in his life and art lashed back as
an outlaw:
a street-fighting man
a problem of this land
I am the Philosopher of the Criminal Mind
a dweller of prison time
a cancer of Rockefeller’s ghettocide (“A Lower East Side Poem” 5)
It is from this stance that he embarks on attacking and protesting
injustice, racial and economic oppression and hypocrisy; as an outlaw
poet situated outside of societal norms he is able to reveal all of the
viii
ugliness created by the capitalist order and embrace all of the victims
that society has rejected and derided.
Firmly cognizant of his and his community’s existence in the
space where two cultures and social classes meet, Piñero used that
interstitial space to create new language, new life, new art. Not an
unsophisticated folk artist but a technologically connected and savvy
observer of daily life and willing consumer of popular culture, he
never considered the canon, which he intuited was created and sus-
tained to solidify the identity and power of the oppressors. Instead, he
found common ground with the cultural expressions of all of the mar-
ginalized peoples in his world: spoken blues, early rock and roll, salsa
and, most of all, declamación, that art of performing one’s poetry in
the community, in his case inflected with the accents of African Amer-
ican prison poetry, the beat generation and Nuyorican bilingual
dialect. Like fellow Nuyorican poets Victor Hernández Cruz and Tato
Laviera, he strove to capture the rhythm, tone and excitement of salsa
in many of his verses:
all the worlds were twirlin’ wild
as if the universe had gone mad . . .
Eddie Palmieri went insane in the milky way
driving the zodiac into a frenzy
an orgy of latin sounds (“A Latin Trip” 49)
But Piñero most loved the talking blues. Only the blues seemed to
capture his melancholy and regret for leading the life he did; in his
“New York City Hard Time Blues” and other compositions, he sang of
the “hard times” of being hooked, of never being able to experience
true love, of loneliness and alienation. . . . The rhythm and repetition
of his blues refrains also informed his eulogy for a person who fool-
ishly pursued the American Dream in “Seeking the Cause.” You may
still be able to find a commercially produced 33 rpm recording of
Mikey’s own performed rendition of his bluesy masterpiece, “New
York City Hard Time Blues,” and perhaps some other arcane record-
ings of other readings, but his spoken compositions transcribed in the
poems published in this volume can never reproduce the oral perfor-
mance of this trained actor-showman. Even the audio-recordings do
not faithfully reproduce the ambience and Mikey’s emotive, gesticu-
lated and aura-creating performances. Not even Benjamin Bratt was
capable of capturing Mikey’s intellectual-artistic numen and charisma
ix
Nicolás Kanellos
in the acclaimed feature film “Piñero.” Here was a wiry, short (five-
foot-four on tip toes?), scruffy, blood-shot-eyed, hoarse-throat per-
former who threatened as much power and danger as when he was a
street-gang leader, creating and performing some of the most chal-
lenging poetry possible.
How incongruous was it that he had left his prison cell to garner
one of the United States’ top awards for playwriting, the 1973-1974
New York Drama Critics’ Award for Best American Play and to win
one of the most elite fellowships for artists, the Guggenheim? The
“Best American Play” award to a Puerto Rican writing from within a
Sing Sing cell? From where he stood, the irony of these accolades did
not pass him by. Piñero’s poems, as well as his plays, questioned the
very nature of what it is to be an American, and whether the under-
class and marginalized are truly part of that national complex of
malls, corporations, high culture, militaristic intervention and con-
quest that he cursed in “La Cañonera del Mundo.” Writing from the
very battlefield where cultures and social classes clash, it is under-
standable that in one instance he would write, “le escupo al viento que
te acarició/te hablo a ti, bandera americana,” and in another, “I am . . .
100% AMERICAN.” In the former, he indicted American imperial-
ism, and in the latter he provided a paean to the American Dream:
then come the bravest . . . and then
still inside . . . come . . . they one by one
die . . . that others may dream of reaching
the top
of the ladder
and they’re close to
heaven it’s then
the best thing for the
pursuit of happiness
for women & men
and eternal roots . . . a symbol
of life entwined in Liberty (“And Then Come Freedom to Dream” 66)
Seriously, ironically . . . was Piñero as an impoverished and
oppressed urban denizen embarked on a mission of vengeance, to
strike back with his pen at American society, where his “shiv” and
other weapons and criminal ventures had only landed him in prison?
Was the failed criminal now the outlaw on the cultural map, speaking
x
the unspeakable in an authentic but frequently censored American

argot, depicting the formerly ignored sentiments of the people at street
level who suffer for the decisions made by politicians and corporate
leaders, feeding the prurient imaginations of the middle and upper
classes who fear and rarely confront the people living in urban danger
zones. Was the pimp Piñero hawking scenes and insights to middle-
class johns, proverbially forced to witness the low life while sitting
trapped in a subway toilet, as in his short play, “Paper Toilet”? Are we
Piñero’s ultimate johns, as readers and audience? Was he a pornogra-
pher, guiding us through his peep show, hoping perhaps not to entice
and shock us, revealing as deeply human the barrios, ghettoes and
prisons and challenging all of our preconceptions?
All of the above is truer for the plays, which as a genre require the
intervention of middle-class cultural institutions for their production
and are more likely to be seen by members of the same bourgeois
society Piñero sought to shock and educate. The poetry, on the other
hand, was pitched more to his own neighborhood in the Lower East
Side, to be read on street corners or at the Nuyorican Poets’ Café.
Despite all of his melancholy, Piñero believed in the power of poetry
to awake and educate his own people:
words
strong & powerful crashing thru
walls of steel & concrete
erected in minds weak (“La Bodega Sold Dreams” 3)
His poetry is more bilingual than his plays, often more intimate,
frequently self-directed and elucidating. In his poems, Piñero moti-
vated his community to consider the origins and circumstance of its
oppression, but he also explored his own psyche, love, hope and, ulti-
mately, disillusionment. After his much beloved and quoted “Lower
East Side Poem,” in which he pledged his undying allegiance to that
neighborhood, what can be more heartbreaking than his later assess-
ment in “The Lower East Side Is Taking. . .”:
The Lower East Side
taking my life
away . . .
Not one damn block

belongs to me,
not one damn brick! (65)
xi
Nicolás Kanellos
This tone of regret pervades much of Piñero’s more intimate verse

and engulfs all expressions of love; for true, romantic love, as per-
ceived by Piñero in popular culture and longed for by him, was impos-
sible, given Mikey’s lifestyle. Yet the yearning for it never ceased:
Where do the purple curtains
colored pain of love lost
the blue conversation of love lost
fall and merge into . . . (“Where Do the Colors . . .” 71)
He can only hope for a better world tomorrow in which love is possible:
PERHAPS TOMORROW
OUR HEARTS
Will cease to be
An ocean of pain
Or a river of suffering
And a mountain of desires
For a tomorrow of fantasy (“PERHAPS TOMORROW” 58)
Instead, Piñero offered us in both serious and humorous works the
distortion of love in the underworld sex trade. It is the only reflection
possible in Piñero’s topsy-turvy world at the margin of established
society, where pimps and hoes, johns and cons, cross-dressers and
pedophiles parade and commit outrageously lewd sexual acts as the
most natural behavior. In his burlesque epic “Rerun of ‘The Ballad of
the Freaks,’” Piñero fantasized a parade of creatures from film, comic
books and television competing to outdo each other in a raucous orgy
of sexual deviance, causing rivers of ejaculate to inundate the streets
of the city. It is Piñero’s inversion of such media extravaganzas as the
Oscars, the Miss America Pageant and high society galas in what
Mikhail J. Bakhtin would identify as a carnivalesque exercise in
inverting the world order. More pronounced in such plays as “The Sun
Always Shines for the Cool” than in most of his poetry, this topsy-
turvy world is basic to Piñero’s outlaw ideology and his esthetics: “lo
malo se pone bueno y lo bueno se pone malo” (“La gente que no se
quiere pa’ na con la lengua” 32). It accounts for his prolific use of
streetwise profanity, his celebration of petty criminals and primitive
rebels, his individual and lonely stance against the overwhelmingly
oppressive authority that so frequently incarcerated him, at times try-
ing to reform him, make him “normal”:
xii
Me, seventeen,
and all the therapeutic
verbs, nouns, adjectives
that sent psychologists,
sociologists and every-ologist
and their grandmother
scrambling thru Freudian
terminology dictionaries
where once it was chic
to turn the pitiable poor
personality disordered
junkie . . . (“The High Don’t Equal the Low” 72)
But Piñero was not and always refused to be what he considered “nor-
mal” in a corrupt and hypocritical society. In the ultimate analysis, the
“freakish” environment was the most comfortable home for Piñero,
who identified with his marginalization, celebrated it and created for
himself the persona of the outlaw. He found more honesty and integri-
ty among prison inmates, sex workers and street people than he ever
did in the representatives of normal society and its institutions. Ironi-
cally, it is Piñero the freak, the maladjusted outsider to be gawked at
pruriently as in a carnival or circus “sideshow” (also the concept for
his play by this title), who competes with the more menacing Piñero
the outlaw.
Reader, which of the two speaks to you most?
xiii
Introduction to the Drama of Miguel Piñero
BY JORGE IGLESIAS
O
f the three distinctive branches of Hispanic theatre of the Unit-
ed States—ie., native, immigrant and exile—the native1
branch stands out by virtue of the rapidity in which it has
developed in a relatively short period of time. From the social com-
mitment of Luis Valdez’s early works to the feminist plays of Dolores
Prida, Hispanic theatre of the native tradition exhibits a wide variety
of styles, themes, settings, characters and situations. The tradition that
began with Valdez’s innovative actos—which resulted from the desire
to find a suitable medium to express the feelings and concerns of the
Hispanic community in the United States—has made a special place
for itself in the universal history of drama, as it has come to establish
dialogue not only within itself, but also with the work of playwrights
that belong to the universal canon, such as Tennessee Williams, in the
case of Cherríe Moraga, and August Strindberg, whose The Stronger
serves as a metatext for Prida’s Coser y cantar. When one considers
the various contributions to this rich tradition, the work of Puerto
Rican-born Miguel Piñero (1946-1988) represents an exceptional case
in many ways. Despite the fact that he spent almost a third of his life
in prison, Piñero was the recipient of several awards and grants,
including the 1973-1974 New York Drama Critics’ Circle Award for
his play Short Eyes and the Guggenheim Fellowship for playwriting.
Also an actor, Piñero appeared in various Hollywood films, including
1 For an overview and description of these three trajectories of U. S. His-

panic culture, see Kanellos, “A Schematic Approach to Understanding
Latino Transnational Literary Texts.”
xv
Jorge Iglesias
Short Eyes, in television movies and in several episodes of Miami

Vice, for which he also wrote scripts. An outstanding figure of the
Nuyorican movement, Piñero was one of the founders of the Nuyori-
can Poets’ Cafe, in which the Puerto Rican community of New York
found a space to express itself freely. More recently, the playwright’s
life and work have become the subject of the film Piñero (2001),
attesting to the popularity of Piñero both as an author and, perhaps
more prominently, as the embodiment of freedom and dissent. Given
the interest that Piñero has inspired in popular culture, it is surprising
that there are still no works of scholarship dedicated solely to the
study of this author’s achievement in the theatrical field. The purpose
of this essay is to explore the elements that compose Miguel Piñero’s
work and to establish his contribution to the native Hispanic theatre of
the United States. As it will be seen, Piñero’s output is framed by three
different contexts: the Nuyorican movement, prison literature and out-
law culture. A study of Piñero’s work in these contexts—all of which
are united in the strong sense of marginality that constitutes the main
concern of Piñero’s writings—will help to establish and to value his
tremendous achievement.
THE NUYORICAN MOVEMENT

In order to appreciate Piñero’s work fully, his career must be
regarded in the light of the Hispanic tradition in the United States,
since the underlying concept that binds Piñero’s writings is his posi-
tion as a member of a minority within a dominant group. The situa-
tion of uncertainty, or the identity crisis, that this position entails gave
rise to many Hispanic cultural movements within the United States,
such as Chicanismo and the one that concerns us, the Nuyorican
movement, which had its base in “Loisaida,” or the Lower East Side
(Voz xvii). In The Nuyorican Experience, Eugene V. Mohr articulates
the Nuyorican feeling in the following words: “Where do [the Nuyor-
icans] belong? They have lost the land of their fathers and not yet
found a way into the American mainstream. They are at home in a
place where their needs for social and human recognition go unsatis-
fied. And so they have opted to create [. . .] their own society” (97).
The problem of cultural ambiguity is resolved through syncretism,
which can be appreciated easily in the language of native Hispanic
writers in the United States. Like Luis Valdez, Carlos Morton, Josefi-
na López and many others, Piñero wrote bilingual plays which repro-
xvi
duce the language of a culture that is conscious of its roots in the oral
tradition. The Puerto Rican characters in Short Eyes communicate
mostly in English because they interact with English-speaking char-
acters, but they also speak Spanish among themselves in moments of
greater intimacy, such as when Paco tries to seduce Cupcakes: “Yo
quiero ser tuyo y quiero que tú sea mío,” Paco says, “¿Y qué tú quiere
que yo haga por tí?” (Short 220). As evident in this quote, Piñero
reproduces Puerto Rican popular speech very accurately, both in the
grammatical and the phonetic sense. The best example of bilingualism
in Piñero’s work, however, is the one-act play “Tap Dancing and
Bruce Lee Kicks,” in which the characters speak either Spanish or
English according to their interlocutor, and even engage in code-
switching or Spanglish: “Bueno, la canción que me cantaste wasn’t
exactly greatly accepted,” says María (Outrageous 182). When asked
in an interview why he used Spanglish in his plays, Piñero answered
simply: “That’s what we talk. That’s what we are” (Alarcón McKesson
57). A more succinct answer could not be given. Piñero saw bilingual-
ism as an intrinsic characteristic of the Nuyorican, and so his plays
reflect this aspect of his culture.
Regarding characters, native Hispanic theatre in general concerns
itself neither with epic heroes nor with melancholy characters driven
by the nostalgia of a lost home, so common in Hispanic immigrant
and exile plays. The native Hispanic author says as much about the
United States as any other type of American author. In the particular
case of Piñero, his plays offer the audience a view of the “lower
depths” of the social scale, from the prison inmates to the dwellers of
New York tenements. As Nicolás Kanellos and Jorge Huerta point out
in Nuevos Pasos, “Piñero’s theatre is a milestone for its introduction
to the stage of characters who previously appeared only as stereo-
types, but now assume real lives of their own: the immigrant, the con-
vict, the numbers runner, the pimp, the prostitute, the john” (173).
Piñero’s characters are, above all, human, like the man who runs out
of toilet paper and whose pants are stolen in “Paper Toilet,” and the
homosexual who confronts his conservative parents in “Irving.” Many
Puerto Ricans appear in Piñero’s works, most notably in “Sideshow,”
a one-act play that depicts the extreme measures minorities are driven
to in their struggle for survival in the urban jungle. Malo the Merchant
sells fake watches and drugs, Clearnose Henry is a “glue-sniffer” and
China holds the drugs that her boyfriend sells. All of these characters
xvii
Jorge Iglesias
are teenagers, between the ages of thirteen and sixteen, whose inno-
cence has been destroyed by the brutality of the environment in which
they struggle to live. The system does not care about them and they
literally represent—as the title of the play indicates—a sideshow: an
unpleasant reality that exists at the margin of the dominant culture, a
subordinate event. The desperate circumstances in which they find
themselves make Piñero’s characters aesthetically acceptable and
often worthy of sympathy. It is not difficult to sympathize with
Dominick Skorpios, the Greek immigrant of A Midnight Moon at the
Greasy Spoon, who gets deported after marrying a woman that he
believed to be Puerto Rican. Even characters like David Dancer, the
pimp who is about to be shot as the curtain closes in Eulogy for a
Small Time Thief, are portrayed humanely. Piñero’s characters are not
examples of virtue; that does not mean that they cannot be depicted as
human beings, however fallen they are.
In the Nuyorican context of Piñero’s plays, the choice of a bilin-
gual, oral language and of dispossessed characters points to one of the
main purposes of native Hispanic literature, namely the desire to chal-
lenge hegemony. As Kanellos points out, “Los nuyorican crearon un
estilo y una ideología que todavía domina la escritura hispana urbana
de hoy, que se enorgullece de ser obrera y no pide disculpas por su
falta de educación formal” (Voz xxx). Oral and bilingual language
opposes the official discourse as much as dispossessed characters
stand in contrast to “respectable” members of society. By making
these two elements a crucial part of his work, Piñero emphasizes the
counter-hegemonic nature of his culture, an ethnic group that has
always existed parallel to the dominant culture, and whose voice
Piñero expresses in the form of a scream in the face of respectability.
PRISON LITERATURE
Perhaps the most significant element of Piñero’s plays when
regarded as examples of prison literature is the choice of a restricted
space as setting. All theatre is subject to the limits of some form of
stage, but unity of space is not mandatory. Several playwrights, such
as Jean-Paul Sartre, Tennessee Williams, Samuel Beckett and Peter
Weiss have experimented with restricted areas in their effort to depict
the interaction of human beings who are forced to coexist in a state of
imprisonment. In most cases, this situation is optimal for representing
dehumanization, as can be seen in Sartre’s No Exit (1945), Weiss’
xviii
Marat/Sade (1964) and Beckett’s Endgame (1957), or even in Luis

Buñuel’s film El ángel exterminador (1962). Piñero contributes to this
tradition by presenting a variety of restricted spaces in which his char-
acters enter into conflict with each other. The jail, which serves as set-
ting for Short Eyes, is the restricted space par excellence, in which
characters struggle to survive and find opposition not so much in
authority as among themselves. In this instance, hell is truly “other
people,” as Sartre would have it, and the only way for the inmates to
escape this hell and reclaim their humanity is through a sense of fra-
ternity and community, an ideal that, as Fiona Mills observes, is tight-
ly related to the community-building purpose of Latino/a theatre in
the 1960’s (45-46). The jail, however, is not the only restricted space
in Piñero’s work; as a matter of fact, of all his plays only Short Eyes
takes place in this particular setting. The action of A Midnight Moon
at the Greasy Spoon develops in a small worker’s luncheonette in the
Times Square area; The Guntower is set—as the title indicates—in a
prison guntower; and Paper Toilet, by far the most extreme instance
of a closed space, takes place in a subway station public restroom. It
is not surprising, given these choices in setting, that an atmosphere of
claustrophobia pervades Piñero’s plays. Roberto Irizarry goes as far as
to relate this atmosphere with insularismo, Antonio Pedreira’s notion
of self-isolation as a component of the Puerto Rican national ethos
(77). However debatable one might find this association, Irizarry’s
view of confinement as a reality that transcends racial distinctions is
certainly a pertinent one. As the same critic observes, a white man is
the object of derision and violence in Short Eyes, and Irving shows a
Jewish man “coming out of the closet” (it would be difficult to find a
more appropriate metaphor) as he confesses to his bourgeois family
that he is a homosexual (Irizarry 87). Piñero’s characters are thus
shaped by the reduced environment in which they move. Character
and setting are inseparable in this case, and whether Piñero’s person-
al experience in prison or insularismo accounts for this is ultimately
beside the point.
Speaking about the prison system in the United States leads us to
the issue of race, since a disproportionate percentage of inmates in U. S.
prisons is made up of racial minorities. Ethnicity plays an important role
in all of Piñero’s work, in keeping with the native Hispanic conscious-
ness as an ethnic group that must struggle for its rights and for equality
in a society dominated by a different group. Significantly enough,
xix
Jorge Iglesias
the first two major Hispanic plays to be presented on Broadway

—Piñero’s Short Eyes and Luis Valdez’s Zoot Suit—deal in one way
or another with the criminalization of Latinos. In a recent article, Ash-
ley Lucas analyzes the responses of New York reviewers to these two
works, responses that are characterized by racial prejudice. While
Zoot Suit received many negative reviews, Short Eyes was afforded
more praise, a phenomenon that Lucas attributes to the two plays’ dif-
ferent attitudes toward power. “Piñero’s characters,” Lucas says,
“struggle against their own shortcomings as well as the power struc-
tures which confine them,” while the characters in Zoot Suit “fight pri-
marily against the system” (132). If Valdez’s play appears to be more
counter-hegemonic than Short Eyes, however, this is not due to any
type of timidity on Piñero’s part, but to artistic subtlety. Piñero’s more
anti-establishment plays, such as The Guntower, have not enjoyed the
success of Short Eyes because they express blatantly what Short Eyes
presents in a more implicit manner. The fact is that the system plays a
strongly repressive role in Short Eyes, not only through the prison
itself, but also by fomenting division and animosity among prisoners,
a task that is carried out precisely by stressing and exploiting the
racial barriers that divide the inmates (Hames-García 168). The only
character in the play who tries to breach this barrier is Juan Otero,
who risks his reputation by seeking to understand Clark Davis.
Despite his noble effort, however, Juan is not able to check the tragic
development of events that ends with Davis’ murder. The system, with
its ethnic divisions (encouraged by the jail guards), is simply too
strong and implacable. Piñero thus depicts a society divided by racial
prejudices and exposes a prison system in which citizens are not
reformed but led to brutality.
Before addressing the final aspect of Piñero’s plays to be consid-
ered here, it must be stated that language also plays an essential role
in Piñero’s works from the perspective of prison literature, as the play-
wright seeks to reflect the slang spoken by inmates. This purpose is
most clear in Short Eyes, the title of which is derived from “short
heist,” which is prison slang for pornographic materials (Alarcón
McKesson 56) but in the argot developed by Piñero has come to mean
“pederast.” The first edition of the play, in fact, includes a glossary of
prison slang terms to assist the reader. This is another example of
Piñero showing his ability to let his characters express themselves in
their language, which is once again the language of a minority: a
xx
closed group of inmates. As Douglas Taylor observes in “Prison Slang

and the Poetics of Imprisonment,” prison language is driven by an
impulse of deterritorialization in the face of authority. “Prison writ-
ing,” Taylor says, “draws on the deterritorializing impulses of prison
slang in order to [. . .] challenge the official discourse of the state
regarding the nature of such things as crime and criminals, punish-
ment and justice” (242). Prison slang is to Authority what Spanglish
or code-switching is to the dominant culture. In both cases, Piñero
exalts the position of the subaltern, giving him a voice that is suitable
to his circumstances, a voice that allows him to express himself on his
own terms.
OUTLAW CULTURE
It would be highly inadequate to speak of Piñero without address-
ing the issue of the outlaw aesthetic, as all of his works illustrate the
outlaw way of life in one form or another. The figure of the outlaw has
a long history behind it, and it can best be understood through Eric
Hobsbawm’s famous notion of the social bandit.2 Numerous books
have been published on the subject, such as Paul Kooistra’s Criminals
as Heroes: Structure, Power & Identity, in which historical figures
such as Frank and Jesse James, Billy the Kid and Butch Cassidy are
studied in the light of Hobsbawm’s theories. Unlike Hobsbawm, how-
ever, Kooistra does not regard the social bandit as a strictly rural phe-
nomenon that cannot exist in modern society; on the contrary, modern
developments such as the media and the idea of mass culture facilitate
the existence of outlaw celebrities (161). Piñero himself has gone
from convicted felon to the subject of a film, and interest in his work
continues to grow.
What, then, is the meaning of outlaw culture? Miguel Algarín has
established the parameters of this social and aesthetic position in the
introduction to Nuyorican Poetry, the anthology that he co-edited with
Piñero:
Wherever the true outlaw goes he alarms the balance of unjust
authority. He refuses to be intimidated and repressed. [. . .]
The outlaw can be out there confronting the outside by him-
self or he can be part of an organized action. Most outlaws in
New York are on their own. They find “organizing” slow and
2 See Hobsbawm’s Primitive Rebels.
xxi
Jorge Iglesias
disappointing, often leading to humiliation because the gen-

eral will is not compatible with theirs. The independent out-
law will “Kill, Kill, Kill” [the title of one of Piñero’s poems
in the collection La Bodega Sold Dreams] rather than adjust
and accommodate to insults and powerlessness. [. . .] The out-
law is morally free to act, to aggress against authority because
he realizes that that is his power: he goes for broke whether it
is for himself or for his friends or for his people. (26-27)
The characters in Piñero’s The Sun Always Shines for the Cool
constitute the perfect illustration of this attitude. Cat Eyes, the pimp
who shows no scruples in his struggle to survive, is the embodiment
of the outlaw spirit. To him, the end justifies the means, even if he has
to turn Chile, the girl who loves him, into a prostitute. This type of
behavior, which would be aberrant to a member of respectable soci-
ety, has no negative moral implications for Cat Eyes. This does not
mean, nevertheless, that there is no moral code for outlaws. Viejo,
Chile’s father, does follow a moral code based on honor when he
announces his desire to kill Cat Eyes before the pimp can ruin his
daughter. Outlaws come into conflict with each other when their indi-
vidual struggles lead them to trespass each other’s boundaries. The
outlaw, therefore, lives in constant danger: having rejected the rules of
established society, he accepts the rules of survival that govern the
streets. As Viejo puts it: “You go out there on the streets and you meet
[. . .] the world of greed and whatever other names have been defined
for those that seek something outside the acceptances of society . . .
and you stand with your balls exposed in this jungle of fear . . . and
you battle . . . and you fight the hardest fight of your life” (Sun 32).
Outlaw culture, then, can be described neither as immoral nor as
amoral; rather, it makes up its own set of rules at the margin of
respectable society. Viejo’s tragic decision to shoot himself at the end
of the play is ultimately the recognition of an inability to live by the
outlaw code. Having been humiliated by both established and outlaw
society, Viejo renounces life altogether in an act of self-sacrifice.
As is to be expected from a playwright who paid close attention
to the rhythm and nuances of speech, Piñero also portrays outlaw cul-
ture through the language that his characters employ. One of the most
notable features of Piñero’s plays is the abundant profanity, an ele-
ment that is directly related to the urban and underclass setting of
xxii
these plays, the space in which the modern outlaw exists. As Carlos
Morton observes, “The Nuyorican scene is a street scene, a theatre of
the barrio. Its ghetto artists paint the dialectics of survival” (44). When
describing the way in which the first Nuyorican plays came into
being, Miguel Algarín stresses the playwrights’ preoccupation with
street language as a part of the urban reality they sought to portray in
their works: “We looked for theatrical language that realistically por-
trayed life on avenues D, C, B and A, unlike the Hollywood versions
epitomized by Kojak or Baretta” (Action xv). Furthermore, in his
introduction to Nuyorican Poetry, Algarín states, “The impulse to cre-
ate a language that can absorb aggression without fantasy thrives
among people who are in situations of extremities” (24). Established
society favors respectability, propriety and decorum. The outlaw
expresses himself in terms that many would consider vulgar, not so
much out of reaction to established society, but because those terms
are the ones that best describe the urban marginalized culture in which
he moves, an environment characterized by noise, filth, crowdedness,
violence and decay. For Piñero the outlaw playwright, nothing is
obscene; urban reality, and the reality of the dispossessed, must be
brought to the stage in the raw. In Piñero’s plays, therefore, the foul
language that offends so many spectators and readers is one of the ele-
ments that bestow dramatic credibility on the characters presented.
As has been shown, Piñero’s work addresses issues that are perti-
nent to three different literary niches. In the sphere of Nuyorican lit-
erature, Piñero’s achievement resides in his ability to portray a racial
and cultural minority realistically, with both compassion and pride.
Piñero’s beloved Lower East Side provides not only the setting for a
few of his plays, but also the cultural spirit that characterizes all of
them, which is expressed in terms of bilingualism and opposition to
the dominant culture. The urban reality of New York Puerto Ricans is
thus elevated and presented to whomever wants to participate in it.
Piñero, it must be noted, was instrumental not only in bringing the
stage to the streets, but also in bringing the streets to the stage. Where
prison literature is concerned, the presentation of Short Eyes has been
tremendously influential. Not only does the play portray prisoners and
their daily struggle, it also comments on the system’s criminalization
of Hispanics and minorities in general. Through Short Eyes, Piñero
contributed to the subgenre of restricted-space drama, a tradition that
links his work not only to that of Sartre and Weiss, but also to that of
xxiii
Jorge Iglesias
contemporary playwrights who have chosen to explore similar set-

tings and themes. Today, it is difficult to overlook Piñero’s influence
on the work of Stephen Adly Guirgis, especially in his prison play
Jesus Hopped the A Train (2001), which closely resembles Piñero’s
work in setting, theme, language and choice of characters. Finally,
Piñero is also an exponent of outlaw literature, as his works express
the feelings and disposition of those who have rejected social stan-
dards and composed their own personal code of morality outside of
the system. These three aspects of Piñero’s plays are brought togeth-
er by the main theme of marginality, which is central to every one of
his works. Being a rebel himself, Piñero felt drawn to those who have
been left out of established society, something that is not surprising in
one who took pride in being “a problem of this land / [. . .] the
Philosopher of the Criminal Mind / a dweller of prison time / a can-
cer of Rockefeller’s ghettocide” (Bodega 5). A second aspect that
unites the three areas in which we have placed Piñero is a deep con-
cern for language. Each area has its distinct approach to language:
bilingualism and the oral tradition are integral parts of Nuyorican cul-
ture, prison slang allows prisoners to challenge the official discourse,
and profanity is the outlaw’s native tongue. A comprehensive study of
Piñero’s use of language is yet to be written.
In conclusion, Miguel Piñero represents a unique case in the his-
tory of Hispanic drama in the United States. His achievement assumes
great merit when one considers the harsh circumstances under which
he lived. His work is a testimony and homage to the struggle that His-
panic culture has always carried out in its effort to assert itself as a
strong presence in a nation that either derides it or ignores it. His trag-
ic death—which came when he was at the height of his artistic
career—represents a severe loss and an implicit condemnation of a
system in which many are left behind. His legacy, however, lives on,
and we can hope that the renewed interest in Piñero’s work will lead
more and more audiences and readers to appreciate the work of this
Nuyorican poet and outlaw, whose message carries today the same
power and vitality that it had when it was first expressed.
xxiv
WORKS CITED
Alarcón McKesson, Norma. “Interview with Miguel Piñero.” Revista
Chicano-Riqueña 2.4 (1974): 55-57.
Algarín, Miguel and Lois Griffith, eds. Action: The Nuyorican Poet’s
Café Theater Festival. New York: Touchstone, 1997.
Algarín, Miguel and Miguel Piñero, eds. Nuyorican Poetry: An
Anthology of Puerto Rican Words and Feelings. NY: William
Morrow & Co., 1975.
Hames-García, Michael. Fugitive Thought: Prison Movements, Race,
and the Meaning of Justice. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 2004.
Hobsbawm, E. J. Primitive Rebels: Studies in Archaic Forms of Social
Movement in the 19th and 20th Centuries. NY: W. W. Norton &
Co., 1965.
Irizarry, Roberto. “The House of Pretension: Space and Performance
in Miguel Piñero’s Theatre.” Latin American Theatre Review 37.2
(2004): 77-94.
Kanellos, Nicolás, et al, eds. En otra voz: Antología de la literatura
hispana de los Estados Unidos. Houston: Arte Público P, 2002.
_____. “A Schematic Approach to Understanding Latino Transna-
tional Literary Texts.” Imagined Transnationalism. U. S. Latino/a
Literature, Culture, and Identity. Eds. Kevin Concannon, Franciso
A. Lomelí and Marc Priewe. NY: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009. 29-
46.
Kanellos, Nicolás and Jorge Huerta, eds. Nuevos Pasos: Chicano and
Puerto Rican Drama. Houston: Arte Público P, 1979.
Kooistra, Paul. Criminals as Heroes: Structure, Power & Identity.
Bowling Green, Ohio: Bowling Green State U Popular P, 1989.
Lucas, Ashley. “Prisoners of the Great White Way: Short Eyes and
Zoot Suit as the First U.S. Latina/o Plays on Broadway.” Latin
American Theatre Review 43.1 (2009): 121-135.
Mills, Fiona. “Seeing Ethnicity: The Impact of Race and Class on the
Critical Reception of Miguel Piñero’s Short Eyes.” Captive Audi-
ence: Prison and Captivity in Contemporary Theater. Ed.
Thomas Fahy and Kimball King. NY: Routledge, 2003. 41-64.
Mohr, Eugene V. The Nuyorican Experience: Literature of the Puerto
Rican Minority. Westport, Connecticut: Greenwood, 1982.
Morton, Carlos. “Nuyorican Theatre.” The Drama Review 20.1
(1976): 43-49.
xxv
Jorge Iglesias
Piñero, Miguel. La Bodega Sold Dreams. Houston: Arte Público P,

1980.
_____. Outrageous: One Act Plays. Houston: Arte Público P, 1986.
_____. Short Eyes. New York: Hill & Wang, 1975.
_____. The Sun Always Shines for the Cool. Houston: Arte Público P,
1984.
Taylor, Douglas. “Prison Slang and the Poetics of Imprisonment.”
Prose and Cons: Essays on Prison Literature in the United States.
Ed. D. Quentin Miller. Jefferson, NC: McFarland & Co., 2005.
233-245.
xxvi
LA BODEGA
SOLD DREAMS
La Bodega Sold Dreams
dreamt i was a poet

&
writin’ silver sailin’ songs
words
strong & powerful crashing thru
walls of steel & concrete
erected in minds weak
&
those asleep
replacin’ a hobby of paper candy
wrappin’, collectin’
potent to pregnate sterile young
thoughts
i dreamt i was this poeta

words glitterin’ brite & bold
strikin’ a new rush for gold
in las bodegas
where our poets’ words & songs
are sung
but sunlight stealin’ thru venetian
blinds
eyes hatin’, workin’ of time
clock
sweatin’
&
swearin’
&
slavin’ for the final dime
runnin’ a maze
a token ride
perspiration insultin’ poets’

pride
words stoppin’ on red
goin’ on green
poets’ dreams
endin’ in a factoría as one
in a million
unseen
buyin’ bodega-sold dreams . . .
3
A Lower East Side Poem
Just once before I die

I want to climb up on a
tenement sky
to dream my lungs out till
I cry
then scatter my ashes thru
the Lower East Side.
So let me sing my song tonight

let me feel out of sight
and let all eyes be dry
when they scatter my ashes thru
From Houston to 14th Street

from Second Avenue to the mighty D
here the hustlers & suckers meet
the faggots & freaks will all get
high
on the ashes that have been scattered
thru the Lower East Side.
There’s no other place for me to be

there’s no other place that I can see
there’s no other town around that
brings you up or keeps you down
no food little heat sweeps by
fancy cars & pimps’ bars & juke saloons
& greasy spoons make my spirits fly
with my ashes scattered thru
the Lower East Side . . .
A thief, a junkie I’ve been

committed every known sin
Jews and Gentiles . . . bums and men
of style . . . runaway child
police shooting wild . . .
mothers’ futile wails . . . pushers
making sales . . . dope wheelers
& cocaine dealers . . . smoking pot
streets are hot & feed off those who bleed to death . . .
4
all that’s true
all that’s true
all that is true
but this ain’t no lie
when I ask that my ashes be scattered thru
So here I am, look at me

I stand proud as you can see
pleased to be from the Lower East
a street-fighting man
a problem of this land
I am the Philosopher of the Criminal Mind
a dweller of prison time
a cancer of Rockefeller’s ghettocide
this concrete tomb is my home
to belong to survive you gotta be strong
you can’t be shy less without request
someone will scatter your ashes thru
I don’t wanna be buried in Puerto Rico

I don’t wanna rest in long island cemetery
I wanna be near the stabbing shooting
gambling fighting & unnatural dying
& new birth crying
so please when I die . . .
don’t take me far away
keep me nearby
take my ashes and scatter them throughout
the Lower East Side . . .
5
The Book of Genesis According to St. Miguelito
Before the beginning

God created God
In the beginning
God created the ghettos & slums
and God saw this was good.
So God said,
“Let there be more ghettos & slums”
and there were more ghettos & slums.
But God saw this was plain
so
to decorate it
God created lead-base paint
and then
God commanded the rivers of garbage & filth
to flow gracefully through the ghettos.
On the third day
because on the second day God was out of town.
On the third day
God’s nose was running
& his jones was coming down and God
in his all knowing wisdom
knew he was sick
he needed a fix
so God
created the backyards of the ghettos
& the alleys of the slums
in heroin & cocaine
and
with his divine wisdom & grace
God created hepatitis
who begat lockjaw
who begat malaria
who begat degradation
who begat
GENOCIDE
and God knew this was good
in fact God knew things couldn’t get better
but he decided to try anyway.
On the fourth day
God was riding around Harlem in a gypsy cab
6
when he created the people
and he created these beings in ethnic proportion
but he saw the people lonely & hungry
and from his eminent rectum
he created a companion for these people
and he called this companion
capitalism
who begat racism
who begat exploitation
who begat male chauvinism
who begat machismo
who begat imperialism
who begat colonialism
who begat wall street
who begat foreign wars
and God knew
and God saw
and God felt this was extra good
and God said
VAYAAAAAAA.
On the fifth day
the people kneeled
the people prayed
the people begged
and this manifested itself in a petition
a letter to the editor
to know why? WHY? WHY? Qué pasa, babyyyyy?????
and God said,
“My fellow subjects
let me make one thing perfectly clear
by saying this about that:
NO . . . COMMENT!”
But on the sixth day God spoke to the people
he said . . . “PEOPLE!!!
the ghettos & the slums
& all the other great things I’ve created
will have dominion over thee”
and then
he commanded the ghettos & slums
and all the other great things he created
to multiply
and they multiplied.
7
On the seventh day God was tired
so he called in sick
collected his overtime pay
a paid vacation included.
But before God got on that t.w.a.
for the sunny beaches of Puerto Rico
He noticed his main man Satan
planting the learning trees of consciousness
around his ghetto edens
so God called a news conference
on a state of the heavens address
on a coast to coast national t.v. hook up
and God told the people to be
COOL
and the people were cool
and the people kept cool
and the people are cool
and the people stay cool
and God said
Vaya. . . .
8
This Is Not the Place Where I Was Born
puerto rico, 1974

this is not the place where i was born
remember—as a child the fantasizing images my mother planted
within my head—
the shadows of her childhood recounted to me many times
over welfare loan on crédito food from el bodeguero
i tasted mango many years before the skin of the fruit
ever reached my teeth
i was born on an island about 35 miles wide 100 miles long
a small island with a rainforest somewhere in the central
regions of itself
where spanish was a dominant word
& signs read by themselves
i was born in a village of that island where the police
who frequented your place of business, hangout or home came as
servant or friend & not as a terror in slogan clothing
i was born in a barrio of the village on the island
where people left their doors open at night
where respect for elders was exhibited with pride
where courting for loved ones was not treated over confidentially
where children’s laughter did not sound empty & savagely alive
with self destruction . . .
i was born on an island where to be puerto rican meant to be
part of the land & soul & puertorriqueños were not the
minority
puerto ricans were first, none were second
no, i was not born here . . .
no, i was not born in the attitude & time of this place
this sun-drenched soil
this green-faced piece of earth
this slave-blessed land
where the caribbean seas pound angrily on the shores
of pre-fabricated house/hotel redcap hustling people gypsy taxi cab
fighters for fares to fajardo
& the hot wind is broken by fiberglass palmtrees
& highrise plátanos maríano on leave & color t.v.
looneytune cartoon comic-book characters with badges
in their jockstraps
& foreigners scream that puertorriqueños are foreigners
& have no right to claim any benefit on the birthport
9
this sun-drenched soil
this green-faced piece of earth
this slave-blessed land
where nuyoricans come in search of spiritual identity
are greeted with profanity
this is insanity that americanos are showered
with shoe-shine kisses
police in stocking caps cover carry out john wayne
television cowboy law road models of new york city detective
french connection/deathwish instigation ku-klux-klan mind
panorama screen seems
in modern medicine is in confusion needs a transfusion quantity
treatment if you’re not on the plan the new stand
of blue cross blue shield blue uniform master charge
what religion you are
blood fills the waiting room of death
stale air & qué pasa stares are nowhere
in sight & night neon light shines bright
in el condado area puerto rican under cover cop
stop & arrest on the spot puerto ricans who shop for the flag
that waves on the left-in souvenir stores—
puertorriqueños cannot assemble displaying the emblem
nuyoricans are fighting & dying for in newark, lower east side
south bronx where the fervor of being
puertorriqueños is not just rafael hernández
Viet vet protest with rifle shots that dig into four pigs
& sociable friday professional persons rush to the
golf course & martini glasses work for the masses
& the island is left unattended because the middle-class
bureaucratic cuban has arrived spitting blue-eyed justice
at brown-skinned boys in military khaki
compromise to survive is hairline length
moustache-trimmed face looking grim like a soldier
on furlough further cannot exhibit contempt for what is
not cacique-born this poem will receive a burning
stomach turning scorn nullified classified racist
from this pan am eastern first national chase manhattan
puerto rico . . .
10
Black Woman with the Blond Wig On
Dedicated to those magnificent black women & their blond wigs
Black woman with the blond wig on

you’re living an illusion.
Think that head blanket
bought from macy’s on a lincoln sale
will make the residents of forest hills
lay out a black carpet to their blond streets
because you have some blond horse hair on?

are you playing James Bond in blond
secret agent in charge of repression
congo blood?

is it your greatest desire to appear on t.v.
welcome to I’ve got a secret
commercial?
I dreamt I ran through the streets of Brownsville

in my maiden form wig
and no one noticed my skin.
Now back to our show.

please tell the panel your secret.

can you imagine yourself on to tell the truth
with three blonds on blond
and you’re black on blond
commercial?
Free, slave, black, twenty-one and blond.

If I have but one life to live
let me live it as a blond.
11
Now back to our regularly scheduled program,
with tonight’s special guest, the black woman with the blond wig.
Will the real woman with the blond wig please stand up?
Did you think you fooled anyone?
What’s that you say?
Oh, I’m sorry
you no longer have a blond wig on.
Oh, I see
you’ve bleached it blond.
Yes, that does make a difference.
All right, all right,
black woman, with the blond, bleached hair
I am not trying to put you down.
All I’m askin’, you see, is what I truly want to know
is, do blonds have more fun?
12
Jitterbugging Jesus
Tiempos is longin’ lookin’

for third world laughter
to break out like a pimple on the face
of a pimp
of youthful
latino eyes that chase el ritmo del güiro
en lo vagones del tren on school mornin’
shoutin’ broken spanish dream
—si tú cocina como tu mamá
como hasta el pegao
jitterbuggin’ in wrinkled
worn-out jeans
bailando new-found pride in bein’ nuyoricano . . .
on their piss-stained streets
where teens meet in head-on collision
claimin’ colors on concrete cemetary slums
slums that vomit screamin’ rumblin’ tongues ramblin’
for a crust of welfare cheese . . .
here in this aroma of arroz y habichuela-tostones-pasteles . . .
two triple culture lovers meet/embrace
&
tremblin’ hands lift pleated shirt-break an elastic band.
in this cocaine-drenched hallway
that has passed broken wine bottles & broken bulbs
& broken homes
& broken souls & the two lovers meet/reach out for
each other
under the view of a million cucarachas
their pulsin’ bodies vibrate droppin’ droplets of
sweat petals a river of nourishment for the rats scurryin’
across cracked mural walls
graffiti screamin’ profanity
under this ghetto umbrella
a
brown baby king is born
Jesús
Jesús Rodríguez who talked with his father on a garden
firescape
walked across the east river on empty beer cans
changed six barrels of dope into a finely blended rum
13
was stoned out of school
will be crucified on a set of works
&
will be crowned
King of the Dope-Fiends . . .
14
—Kill, Kill, Kill
Fired last week man was I mad. I don’t mean angry

or pissed off I was mad. I wanted to grab the boss
and the foreman by their red necks, and kill, kill, kill.
So I jumped on the elevator and bumped into my

case worker who said that he was taking me off
the rolls ’cause I was working, and that you people
think you can get away with anything. I wanted to
snag him by his $50.00 mod tie, and kill, kill, kill.
So I crossed at the green with 60 others and the man

gave me a ticket and said that was to serve as an example
to the 60 others. I looked at his badge and wanted to kill, kill, kill,
but I looked at his gun too.
So I missed the express and took the local, sneaked

home passing Mikey the groceryman, Tony the
liquorman, the numberman and Louie the loansharkman,
and all the other eternal bill-collecting men who I just wanted
to kill, kill, kill.
I ran into Rev Willy the preacherman who told me

that the poor box was to put in and not take out
like I did Sunday, so talking like as if I was a rich man,
acting like I was a poor man. I ran into Mr. Goldman
the social workerman, who said I was not under-
developed enough, or culturally deprived enough
to get into the projects, and besides I was working, and
I wasn’t on welfare. I wanted to take him and his
never-ending legal folders, and kill, kill, kill.
So I busted the key in the door and stepped into

Blackie’s dog shit, and wiped it off with Junior’s
baby diaper and that was full of baby shit. So while
relaxing I told Gloria of all the shit I had been through
and she said I was full of shit. I said I wasn’t
bullshitting, she said that I wasn’t shit, I said that I
didn’t want to hear no shit, she said that I still wasn’t
shit . . .
15
So I grabbed her by her fucking neck and threw her
ass across the kitchen table and she went flying over
the living room table and over the rest of the unpaid
over-priced furniture landing on the over-worked bed,
and I jumped in the air with the scream of an Apache
warrior’s cry of battle and I kill, kill, killed . . .
all my troubles away.
16
Running Scared
RUNNIN’ SCARED—RUNNIN’ SCARED

you’re goin’ nowhere
runnin’ with your eyes closed
thinkin’ to ease your heavy load
RUNNIN’ SCARED
listen to the echoes of your shadows
wishin’ for easy tomorrows
talkin’ into the dead phones of yesterday

you’re shifting
you’re lifting
you’re throwing it all away
it’s plainly stamped on the backs of blue jeans
the hopes and hopelessness
of cast aside dreams
super-star
super-revolutionary
high priest
on neon signs
playin’ today
beggin’ mamá for a dime
runnin’ scared
you gittin’ nowhere . . .
compassion-compassion . . .
in burnt bottle caps
tenth of always your last stop
god is the coca-cola bottlin’ company
you’ve heard his voice on N.B.C.
and when he gives it a rest listen to his son on C.B.S.
brought to you live
this ain’t no jive
by your friendly neighborhood
soul-buyin’ agency
they aim to please
good news ain’t guaranteed
ask for mister lucifer
the man with the friendly smile
for your soul he’ll walk a mile
17
no trade in
no deposits
no return
no credit cards accepted . . . but . . .
you can take the layaway plan
with easy pay a mint . . .

statue of liberty
on 42nd street
lookin’ like an old hag
OR
is it a guy in drag
seee youuu laaattteerrr
got to check out this female impersonator

and you still ain’t half way there
can’t pick up enough speed
didn’t listen to your own decree
now you’re stranded on this subway station
called hypocrisy
do you wish to take a runnin’ jump?
can’t smooth out the lumps
on the highways
roads and by-ways
and there’s a toll booth on this freeway
(free way???)
an abe or a george
doesn’t matter there
ain’t no
CHANGE . . .
18
Seekin’ the Cause
he was Dead
he never Lived
died
died
he died seekin’ a Cause
seekin’ the Cause
because
he said
he never saw the cause
but he heard
the cause
heard the cryin’ of hungry ghetto children
heard the warnin’ from Malcolm
heard the tractors pave new routes to new prisons
died seekin’ the Cause
seekin’ a Cause
he was dead on arrival
he never really Lived
uptown . . . downtown . . . crosstown
body was round all over town
seekin’ the Cause
thinkin’ the Cause was 75 dollars & gator shoes
thinkin’ the Cause was sellin’ the white lady to black
children
thinkin’ the cause is to be found in gypsy rose or j.b.
or dealin’ wacky weed
and singin’ du-wops in the park after some chi-chiba
he died seekin’ the Cause
died seekin’ a Cause
and the Cause was dyin’ seekin’ him
he wanted a color t.v.
wanted a silk on silk suit
he wanted the Cause to come up like the mets & take the
world series
he wanted . . . he wanted . . . he wanted . . .
he wanted to want more wants
but
he never gave
19
he never gave
he never gave his love to children
he never gave his heart to old people
&
never did he ever give his soul to his people
he never gave his soul to his people
because he was busy seekin’ a Cause
busy
busy perfectin’ his voice to harmonize the national anthem
with spiro t agnew
busy perfectin’ his jive talk so that his flunkiness
wouldn’t show
busy perfectin’ his viva-la-policía speech
downtown . . . uptown . . . midtown . . . crosstown
his body was found all over town
seekin’ a Cause
seekin’ the Cause
found
in the potter fields of an o.d.
found
in the bowery with the d.d.t.’s
his legs were left in viet-nam
his arms were found in sing-sing
his scalp was on Nixon’s belt
his blood painted the streets of the ghetto
his eyes were still lookin’ for jesus to come down
on some cloud & make everything ok
when jesus died in attica
his brains plastered all around the frames of the pentagon
his voice still yellin’ stars & stripes 4 ever
riddled with the police bullets his taxes bought
seekin’ the Cause
while the Cause was dyin’ seekin’ him
he died yesterday
he’s dyin’ today
he’s dead tomorrow
died seekin’ a Cause
died seekin’ the Cause
& the Cause was in front of him
& the Cause was in his skin
& the Cause was in his speech
20
& the Cause was in his blood
but
he died seekin’ the Cause
he died
deaf
dumb
& blind
he died
& never found his Cause
because
you see he never never
knew that he was the
Cause.
21
La Cañonera del Mundo
Que yo me cago en la madre tierra que

te parió
me meo en el cielo que te cubrió
le escupo al viento que te acarició
te hablo a ti, bandera americana
a ti que me ves andando por las calles de new york
mientras chillas como un carro pegando freno
spick
sal de atrás de esa corbata blanca
que asalta el calor de ser humano
el calor de mantener una familia con la miseria
que me pagas por el calor de mi sudor
y no me dejas vivir en paz con tu
spick
changuería
y yo le pido a changó
que te destruya tu idioma
que te caiga a bimbazo a tu cultura
que te llene a tus hijos con ideales postizos
que te ponga a tus hijas en las esquinas to hustle
con las pantaletas cagadas mojadas con la sangre verde del peso
americano
el peso de no ser lo que tú eres, un enano entre los gigantes
manicomio de estrellas sucias
que yo me cago en la madre tierra que te parió
que yo me meo en el cielo que te cubrió
que yo le pego un gargajo al viento que te acarició
tú, bandera americana
cañonera del mundo.
22
Spring Garden—Philadelphia
Spring Garden wears a welfare coat . . .

in the summer—
Fashion-minded eyes trod up & down

its streets enjoying graffiti . . .
sprinkled on the walls by bored fingers/
bored thoughts/from excitement-lacking espíritus . . .
It’s 8 o’clock in the morning & latin bodies

bundle up to war against the city . . .
Children venture on their suicide mission
SCHOOL/a battlefield of non-existent education
Libraries are open 22 sundays a year . . .
The parents have headed off their cares to do

battle themselves . . .
The factories/the bosses/the foremen former
countrymen compais . . .
Cold callous metal concrete city streets

where smiles come hungry from the eternal
bill collector . . .
It’s 12 pm & fist fights break out on the

charity lunch lines . . .
empty-trouble-soothing wine bottles are
tossed regretfully in the gutter—flies/bugs/maggots/roaches
struggle for the
corner taste
the human tongues didn’t reach . . .
The pushers are up from their beauty sleep

counting last night’s take, discounting today’s
pay-off . . .
decking duces & treys . . .
their open-air pharmacy on 14 & green is

being held by Don Ernesto el bolitero
giving Doña Clara evil-brujo stares—
23
Evil-brujo stares to Doña Clara la espiritista
& the starving crowd beggin’ el señor santo
to agree with Doña Clara’s dreams & omen interpretations
for once . . . por favor today is a good day to hit
the number . . .
Doña Clara prays too . . .

there’s a fifty dollar tip in store
mira mira me pegué & a trip pa’ la isla . . .
A mucho needed vacation.
It’s 6 pm & the latin people who go dancing

are copping nickle bags of good columbian yerba
(Eddie Palmieri will be in town tonight)
SALSA
who’s got the best smoke in town Flaco Tabaco-Tabaco

suelto y en saco
an american proverb:
“If you don’t advertise you don’t sell . . . ”
El bodeguero is cursing his wife/his helper/

his-self he ordered enough milk but not
enough beer . . . ’cause
the day has given up to the night &
the ghetto is hot . . .
La calle is occupied/shrill shreaking

sounds of ring go leevio . . . hide & seek
up & down the street . . .
young girls in tight jeans flirt with long-
haired youths . . . who offer
whistles & comments & promises
Oye, negra ¿to’ eso tuyo?

¡Si te cojo, nena!
¡Qué lío te buscará!
24
¡Pero qué buena está la hija!
¡Pero qué buena está la mamá!
The turf is filled with jíbaro y salsa música
qué viva la música . . .
Stoops are now tournament centers for dominó-

playing friends . . .
bandstands for conga-playing hands . . .
tu cul pa cul pa . . . boom pa . . . boom pa . . .
There’s a lovers’ argument in the middle of the block

a heated argument in the bar . . .
a family argument on the steps . . .
¡Me cago en tu madre, hijo la gran puta!
¡La tuya que me comadre!
Police car has circled this barrio 5 times

screaming birth has been heard in apt 3
silent death has visited next door . . . O.D.
It’s 11 pm & 8 tired wrinkled old faces

sit & contrive memories on the steps of
the youth department . . .
And now as I go back in Rosita’s car

to my lonely hotel . . . that warm safe secure feeling
escapes from my body . . .
and I remember that I am in Philadelphia

and not on the lower east side . . .
25
Cocaine Nose—Acid Face
Cocaine nose—cocaine nose

carefully takin’ cocaine blows
make believe crucifix
cokedom spoon
Cocaine nose—cocaine nose

have you graduated to
cocaine holes? . . .
jive sly bedford sty—buy yeah buy

coca y ácido
from Flaco an undercover agent for the
narcos . . .
has you under surveillance y has
been trailin’ your mother’s legs
since she started displayin’ her
varicose veins stompin’ thru this
sewage drink of coca y ácido . . .
cocaine nose—cocaine nose

carefully takin’ cocaine blows
have your sons graduated to cocaine holes?
life con coca makes you a supersonic

idiotic chaotic psychotic neurotic spic
with a brain-infested cocaine-molested acid
mindddd . . . cocaine nose—cocaine nose
have you graduated to your cocaine holes?
Acid face—acid face dreamin’ livin’

laced up spaced out so-called state of grace
ácido—ácido with coca blows . . .
acid face acid face not a trace

of intelligence-based
follow your chase the maze
of becomin’ an acid face—an acid face
si la coca y ácido te ha volao el coco

y ahora you go loco buscando ácido . . .
26
god is amazed that you’ve become an acid
face
cocaine nose—cocaine
acid face—acid face
cocaine nose—acid face
acid face—cocaine nose
have you graduated to your
acid coca holessssss? . . .
27
Visitin’ a Friend at the Cold Shop
In the place of business lunches

where a dull sun rises to blind your
toothpaste-brushed eyelids with its
red veins blowin’ tracks from
ballpoint-hypodermic needles that
tickled your gut & scratched your
toes frozen by the light of the mid-
afternoon moon & closed the closet
door of your mind that kept you
informed of the escalator the priest
used when he baptized you with the last
rites . . .
“
we are gathered here today to spit
out curses at this fool who up & died
on us & left us with all his debts &
blueface bill collectors & buried his
self with credit card suit
let us pray to god almighty that the
lottery ticket we found hidden in his
right shoe will hit the prize
in life & help us elevate & escalate
the cost of this funeral party
”
nobody brought along a transister

portable radio to hear the score
of the basketball game being played
at the local neighborhood playlot
uptown at the bowery
so let’s hook up the portable t.v.
to the stolen car battery & watch
“as the world turns”
maybe the creep will be bored to life
& regain his claim to manhood
by facin’ off the man & collect
unemployment from the dope pushers
of factorías job & time clocks
& hero sandwishes & cheap cold wine
28
why am i bein’ so mean to this man
who lost his underwear at the
macdonald store & had them fed to him
as the chef ’s main menu stew
man his shoes look good
“shit why he
ain’t gonna
give them no
use—the worms
will only abuse
the leather
in the laces”
everybody that didn’t know
him came today to pay their
final first impression respect
& steal from the collection box placed
on top of his toupee
“i’m glad they didn’t
take him to long island
long island is a very
traffic-dangerous trip
brooklyn is a cheaper
bon voyager
la isla is too expensive”
unless we send him parcel post
& air mail stamped on his
forehead
go thru customs inspection
has anybody got a peanut butter
& jelly sandwich left over from
the school hour lunch break
&
my heart aches for my partner
who left me all his dues to
collect from our cocaine dealer
who turns out to be a paid squealer
& send his friends in for dollars
man this is the longest five minutes
i ever spent let me make my inspection
& spend ten cents to call my only true friend
the connection . . .
29
On the Lock-In
lock-in i hear I still think of

night time shuffling of cards you
&
i am alone (no mail)
earphones brothers playing the brothers
solitaire voices
hang unused in the stream of solitude fight a losing

battle
stack of unread who’s

century-old books
singing that blue
tune? &
cover the table the sox won
& & &
the cigarettes brother in the nest
cut in two cast (lights out)
coughing must be doing
on the surface what i just did I thought of you
resemble the freckles &
on a white boy’s face i masturbated
dick ricardo invites should i
me to saint george fix a cup of kool-aid
big dance
& latin voice sings
to
the sound of a sax PUERTO RICO

duels with the notes &
of a flute on the (count time)
&
gallery below
brothers voices fight the jingling of
a hack key are now
to harmonize a
du-wop an odd sound
30
On the Day They Buried My Mother . . .
The wind pushed the sun

behind the moon
and
in the dark of light I saw
shadows trailing the cool
Autumn shook hands with winter

just before it died
Summer leaves bloomed
and ran away on a spring ride
Clouds wrote an epithet

on a mountain tombstone for an
ant
a deer laid dead on a fresh water stream
and the hunter cursed
beneath his breath at the spirits of
the stars who caused the deer’s death . . .
The earth shook with laughter

as the spades tickled its side
and gleamed so pretty with
so many forgotten flowers
from those final cadillac brides
My hat fell in the open grave

my feet inside my shoes swayed
my gloves were wet with sweat
looked quickly in the mirror of my heart
sign a relief . . .
and calmly smiled my fears aside . . .
31
La gente que no se quiere pa’ na’ con la lengua
El sábado por la noche

la selva de cemento está
brillando y las cuchillas están
bailando y los hosiadores están buscando
los soquetas con sus pasos misteriosos
y parece que todo está flojo porque dice la
gente que no se quiere pa’ na’ con la lengua
que en los ojos de los niños la palabra
escrita grita crimen y le pone sombras a las
estrellas porque ven que el pendejo le paga
al cabrón de la vida y
la gente que no se quiere pa’ na’ con la lengua
dice que en el lower east side lo malo
se pone bueno y que lo bueno se pone malo
los sábados por la noche
y si te coje la policía ni el médico chino
te salva tú sabes así dice la gente que no se
quiere pa’ na’ con la lengua
y en los roofos duermen los que les apesta la
vida gritándole a las chinchas y a las cucarachas
y los piojos
bueno
así dice la gente que no se quiere pa’ na’ con la lengua
y dicen que estos son los hombres con la moronga
hecha de cartón
y que pelean contra la lucha de antenoche de hoy
y de mañana tú sabes
pero todos son padres y madres con retratos de
prisión en sus mentes y el ritmo de conga
en sus piernas cuando andan por el bloque
pero yo no sé
porque todo eso es lo que dice la gente que
no se quiere pa’ na’ con la lengua
tú sabes . . .
32
The Menudo of a Cuchifrito Love Affair
la ruca
juanita rosita esposita
they called her mexicana rose
con piel de canela
pelo darker than bustelo café
eyes big like rellenos
color of a ripe avocado
her lips tasted like seasoned mangos
and her body was sweet as coconut milk
this menudo of beauty
made my taco nights
burn like jalapeños
sí señor . . .
my heart was a tortilla
then one riceless beanless night
after a heated chilly pepper tequila fight
she left
left me like a burnt pork chop
for a chitlin’ hamhock buckwheat eatin’ man
who wore a watermelon wallet &
a collard green conversation
disturbing my macho machete pride
so that la mancha de plátano
reminded me that I was a weak mondongo
my love . . . my life . . . my pride was a burnt chicharrón
a cold mofongo
a melted piragua
I turned into a hot tamale
state of rage
an alcapurria gone insane
when I saw these two enchiladas
in a pastelillo embrace
so in my pasteles envy
my tostón jealousy
that my salchicha eyes spied
the chorizo the mad morcilla drive
así fue que fueron
traspasados los dos bacalaos
and now with my burrito strike
displaying my quenepa pride
33
in my tamarindo smile
I remember the pegao and the uncooked taste
of the frijol menudo of my cuchifrito
love affair . . .
34
New York City Hard Times Blues
NYC Blues
Big time time hard on on me blues
New York City hard sunday morning blues
yeah
Junkie waking up
bones ache trying to shake
New York City sunday morning blues
the sun was vomiting itself up over
the carbon monoxide detroit perfume
strolling down the black asphalt dance floor
where all the disco sweat-drenched Mr. Mario’s
summer suit still mambo-tango hustled
to the tunes of fiberglass songs
New York City sunday morning means
liquor store closed
bars don’t open ’til noon
and my connection wasn’t upping
a 25-cent balloon
yeah
yeah reality wasn’t giving me no play
telling me it was going to be sunday
24 hours the whole day
it was like the reincarnation of the night
before when my ashtray became
the cemetery of all my lost memories
when a stumble bum blues band
kept me up all night playing me cheap
F.M.
dreams
of hard time
sad time
bad time
hell we all know times are
hard
sad
bad
all over
well I thought of the pope
welfare hopes
then I thought of the pope again
whose sexual collar musta been tighter
than a pimp’s hat band
35
yeah
that brought a warm beer smile to this
wasteland the mirror called my face
ya see
I left my faith in a mausoleum
when my inspiration ran off with
a trumpet player
who wore double-knit suits and stacy adam shoes
this girl left me so broke
my horoscope said
my sign was a dead dog in the middle
of the road
yeah
the morning will be giving up to the noon
and soon I’ll hear winos and junkyard dogs
howling at the moon
made the shadows
dance
at jake’s juke saloon
as a battalion of violet virgins
sang tunes
of deflowered songs
men poured their
fantasies of lust into young boy’s
ears
car stolen
whizzed by
crying hard luck tears in beers
the love conflict of air-conditioned
dim-lit motel rooms
rumpled sheets with blood stains
explain
my yesterday night of mind
the winter fell as hard
as the smell of a brick shithouse
in the hot south
Om . . .
but the hawk seeped into my home
chillin’ my bones
Om . . .
it didn’t hear my incantation
there has to be an explanation
wasn’t it true
when you
36
Om . . .
you are one
Om . . .
make me warm
Om . . .
is part of god
Om . . .
make the cold wind stop
Om . . .
perhaps if I
Om . . .
stronger
Om . . .
louder
Om . . .
LONGER
OMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
it don’t work
Om . . .
I feel like a jerk
I’ll try once more just to make sure
OMMMMM
maybe if I pleaded on my knees
to J. C.
he’d take heed of my needs
and melt the icicles
from the tears in my eyes
but it was still cold
I’m told if you sing
“I’m gonna lay down my sword and shield
down by the river side . . . down by the river side”
I get no signal
maybe if I do it bilingual
“en la cruz, en la cruz yo primero vi la luz”
oh come on chuíto
have a heart
take apart the winter winds from me
please . . . J. C. . . .
OM . . .
en la cruz
down by the river side
10 hail marys I offer
and 5 our fathers
but the cold was no further
37
than before
I should know its very rare when
a prayer
gets the boiler fixed
OMMMMM
yeah
New York City december sunday morning
was whippin’ my ass in a cold-blooded fashion
treatin’ me like a stepchild
putting a serious hurting on me
watching me bleed
thru my sleeves
as I tried to get high
shooting up caffeine without saccarine
that some beat artist sold me down
on eldredge st.
yeah
but that’s the ghetto creed
that the strong must feed
yeah
brotherman
everything was happening faster than the
speed of sound
my whole seemed like it was going down
I wonder who ever wrote that tune
about being back on top in june
nigger forgot about september and december
now that’s a month to remember
when each cold day becomes like a brick wall
and you’re the bouncing ball
yeah I kept seeing my fate being sealed
by the silk smooth hands of the eternal bill
collector
who keeps rattling my doorknob
pressing my avon ding dong bell . . .
my pockets were crying the blues
telling me that I ain’t fed them a dollar in years
and was it clear that they couldn’t hold
any more unpaid debts . . . traffic tickets . . . or promissory
notes and hey that was when I wished I was back in
L.A.
laid back
L.A.
kick back
38
L.A.
smog town
hollywood . . . driving down to malibu
hollywood U.S.A. . . . hey hey U.S.A. hollywood
seedy looking film producers smile at you
over a burrito with taco bell breath
explain the plots to fellini movies
they aint ever seen
hollywood . . . down to malibu
at two a.m. if you get tired
of cal worthington shit-eating grin
you walk out on him hit santa monica blvd
and watch the manicured thumbs caress the
homosexual airs of rolled-up jeans and silver buckles
as westwood camaro rides very slow very low
down western ave
where neon lights scream
the latest kick in adult entertainment
masturbation
enters your thoughts
when pornographic stars with colgate smiles
whisper
inane
mundane
snides of flicking your bic
or I’m nancy fly with me national
well I’m going nowhere got nowhere to go
going nowhere fast
got me a couple of dollars a few dimes
and plenty of time
go into some bar on alvarado
and temple listen to some mariachi music
or stroll into some dive joint off sunset
sit in some naugahyde booth
with some dishwater blond
with sagging breasts
wearing a see-thru blouse
and listen to all her 1930-starlet dreams
as she smokes all my cigarettes
sure what have I got back at that
refugee from a leprosy colony hotel
but a one-station a.m. radio
feeding my neurological cells
with those south street philadelphia blues
39
she wants to cruise thru griffin park
no thank you
I’d rather listen to linda ronstadt instead
and the bartender tell dirty jokes
and his customers recite 12%-alcoholic-
aluminum-recycled viet nam horror stories
reading the signs of our times
the obituary of a dying society
the folktales of yesteryear’s gonorrhea
history
hollywood going down to malibu
malibu . . . pretty people and fonzi T-shirts
flex their muscles spreading spiritual bad breath
and joe namath perfume
yeah
but i’m in new york city
crying the junkie blues
welfare afro hairdos sprout out
of frye boots
yeah punk rockers hitting on you
for subway fare three times
soon the mohair slick lines
at penn station are getting impatient
wanna get home
to alone
make the scene with a magazine
or with a plastic doll
cause the missus got another headache
gaze at the farrah foster poster
that adorns his horny teenage son’s walls
yeah these days always
have a way of showing up
like rubber checks
I wish I could cop a bottle of muscatel
stroll thru the bowery with a pocket
full of wino dreams
but sunday morning in New York City
for the junkie there ain’t no pity
we just walk the streets with loaded dice
and hear people say there goes miky
miky piñero
they call him the junkie christ . . .
40
PREVIOUSLY
UNPUBLISHED POEMS
FROM THE CYCLE OF
LA BODEGA SOLD DREAMS
Obreras
quizás soy profeta

que de mi celda veo
las gotas de sudor que
corren por la frentes
de mi hermanas trabajadores
caen en las máquinas de
cocer
de la madrugada hasta
la muerta del sol
y nacimiento de luna
en ese calor de cocina
que llaman factoría
broadway y lafayette
quizás soy espiritista

siento dolor en mis piernas
cuerpo cansado
no simpatista
luchando hora tras hora
por una miseria
desayuno taza de café
los ojos del boss
penetrando un espíritu
malo
en las espaldas
tocada sexual del foreman
las miradas de los títeres
manos de tecatos en las
carteras
en el subway empaquetados
como animales
los americanos comunican la
falta de baño
y
ansiedades por despedir
ese olor malo
y
el otro día
la misma lucha con la vida
a buscar el peso
43
el mismo pugilato
la mismo tira y tápate
¿qué eso que llaman
lunch break?
almuerzo de
hot dog y coca cola
sí
quizas soy profeta
porque el ojo de mi mente
agarra para mi corazón
todos dolores
de mis hermanas,
obreras
alma de mi esperanza
ve
un nuevo día que
mata la tarde de opresión
una gran unión de obreras
acaban con el maltrato que le
pega a sus espíritus libres
sueño
sueño
que veo
en las calles do noo joll
miles y miles
de obreras
gritando con el ánimo
de una sola
voz
BASTA YA. . . .
44
Declaration 1968
This child . . .
this child felt the cold storms of winter
on those hot summer days . . .
this child went hungry on the banquet table
of the church . . .
this child played with roaches and rats for pets
and found her sister lying dead
beneath a bottle cap . . .
YES, MOTHERFUCKERS, I AM MILITANT
this child was innocent
of the big money plays
was ignorant of the teachers’
racist ways . . .
this child knew not why her brother died
in a foreign land—killed by her brother’s hands—
YES, I AM A RADICAL
this child cried at the movies

laughed at mickey mouse & reached the twilight
of sleep with story-book fantasies of
a white knight on a white horse
loving his white lady fair
in a white dress
cheated by a black mistress
in a white dream . . . this child walked happy
to religious instructions in
her second-hand clothes
and slept restlessly on a
lice-infested bed . . .
YES, YOU DEGENERATE MOTHERFUCKERS,

I AM A REVOLUTIONARY
can you feel the anger in my heart

can you see the tears fall from my face
can you see them
these tears
that control the hate? . . .
Because. . . . this child was wanted
dead . . .
45
Bastard Streets
The rain showered down un tumbao

a conga beat
on bastard streets
its music memories me back

to any hot scorch july on bay 13
Bastard streets soakin’ with polluted rain

active detergent washin’ saturday nights
fanfair & blood rites
over manhole into the livin’ room
of twenty-foot rats & waterbugs
Bastard streets supportin’ walkin’ mumblin’

zombies fishin’ for substances in white powder
sewers
communicatin’ with god at the point of a needle gun
Bastard streets
screamin’ colors fly high on the back on young
nations
blowin’ each other away as easy as they blow a quarter
in a jukebox
Colors that stride a rumble sway on blacktop streets
fowl stink breath bastard streets

broken wine bottles keep a steady almost competitive
toll with the cheerful cry of broken souls
the depressed laughter of broken homes
vaya, juega, for the tuberculosis spit

pregnatin’ the hollow hallways of tenement ruins
with the melodies of young latin hands beatin’
telephone therapy on garbage can tops/sides of milk crates
beer bottles & cans . . .
mothers sufferin’ from police bullets sirens

blastin’ holes in silent huracán nights
on bastard streets
wild elephant farts perfume 42nd street movie houses
46
updrift/upstage sweet smell & sounds of marijuana
poppin eyes
peeps y over your shoulders, chantin’ tongues slap dry lips
heavy breath makes it uneasy almost impossible
DAMMIT MOTHERFUCKIN’ MIERDA

you can’t even take a piss in these
Bastard streets . . .
47
Transtime Meditation
Transtime meditation transcend into my pen

presentiment stored up like juice bar
batteries blasting down walls with rock sounds
crazy moving masculine legs spread themselves
out to you & me
to see the need they have to be needed into
featherbed movie house cushion seats
where callous missing fingers trail up caressing
young thigh five-dollar bill scream passport
entry into blue jean zippers
not butter popcorn spills top of marshmallow shoes
mannequin in blues spy the sky light that filters
thru keyholes steambath
melt icing words
pushcart sex-selling market stroll jingling
loose change
changes that tingle the brain changes that tingle
the spine that tingle a crime for sale
& wails the almighty latino bendito blues
as six-yr-old girl receives extra belly button
by bullet pouch creations strange things jump
off in chemical illusionary airstrips circumcise
streets where high priest release torrents of poetry
into abscess eardrums O.D. brains & Lucky signs
“I got acid-acid that’ll make your cranio dance
make your plant stand-turn your eyebrows green
your mocoso white-your eyeball will disappear
out of sight-don’t you know-it’ll make your afro
grow-guaranteed by me Lucky Cienfuegos”
Mother Earth fills my head with bulldozing words
cause transtime meditation transcends into my pen . . .
48
A Latin Trip
i went to a Latin Dance

held in the galaxy
all the worlds were twirlin’ wild
as if the universe had gone mad . . .
Eddie Palmieri went insane in the milky way

drivin’ the zodiac into a frenzy
an orgy of latin sounds
so that Virgo couldn’t wear white at her weddin’

with the archer whose arrows were the sperms of
long-lost found rhythms from the cradle of soul
fillin’ the twins with macho melodies

that one did a mambo with the bull
the other a cha-cha con el chivo loco
&
Santo singin’ got those two percao’s head
so together they finished his bolero &
swam away in the same direction . . .
Then
Mango rolled up on the back of a lion
rip-off the water bearers barrels
his hard hands chanted a tune that filled
the pockets of the moon with the stars
causin’ poets to write about starless nites . . .
in between time
god was listenin’ to Bimbo Rivas recite poetry

from the peak of a mountain on Jupiter
Felipe Luciano rode the rings of Saturn as he talked
con san Miguel Algarín . . .
Jorge Brandon turn the red rivers of mars
blue with spanish words & images of yesteryear
after Pedro Pietri filled the big dipper with nuyorican
then the spirits relaxed & sat back to watch a battle of the bands
Ray Barreto vs. Willie Colón
Ray stole by saint peter’s pearly gates
49
organized a six-piece combo
with Gabriel on trumpet
Arsenio Rodríguez on piano . . .
they launched a barrage of celestial heavenly vibrations
makin’ it a sexual climax . . . of pride
Willie came in & made me go berserk conductin’

an orchestra of angels with broken wings
shootin’ at me hot salsa from hell . . . cógelo . . .
cógelo . . . vaya . . . se la comió
50
Windy Music Screams Profanity
Near the waterfall of dead ants

roaches bathed in d.d.t. kitchen tubs
the walls exhale bad breath while
toilet bowls lysol feeding lice
exchange telegrams via police personal ad
columns with the f.b.i. informers
amen said the man with a melancholy baby
hangover
the glasses fogged themselves out into oblivion
& warehouse poets filled the wastebasket with
office-type 9-to-5 jobs for sandy hair fellows
carrying the new york times blanket to park
outside the tonsils of press releases accusin’
you of not having enough money to overpay your
television taxes to your radio
after they mugged you for your union dues
when they caught you nodding in a toilet stall
after you kept your eyelashes rolled up all
night waiting for a cool breeze to rumble thru
your window & cool the heat on your ass moving
up & down exercising your hips in a city-owned
bedspring you picked up at the thrift
shop near the c.i.a. headquarter
where they rent out cuchifrito pushcarts to
pimple-face faggots
swishing the buttocks tappin’ each cheek gently
the .38 fits loosely around their waist erecting
a steel cock that shoots lead sperm into the
heads & mouths of black childs
who are buried with the daily news wrapped
tightly inside their mothers’ wombs
but the wind screams profanity with each easy
sound of music that spills out the flat diapers
of tropic babies . . .
51
Vente Conmigo
Vente, puertorriqueño
vamos amarrar los yanqui
businessman
que amarran our isla con billetes
verdes
con las tripas de nuestra rabia
los intestinos de los

partidos
independistas que bochinchan
uno contra el otro
día tras día tras día
y
noche tras noche tras noche
perdimos la patria
Vamos a guindar los
americanos
con las tripas
para que cuando los gusanos
abran la boca para gritar
les pegamos un
gargajo
verde
mojoso
moscoso
tuberculoso
apestoso
Vamos a cagarnos
en la tierra de la madre
que destruye
nuestra
criatura y sus ideales de ser borincano
vente, muchacho
vente, muchacha
co mai
y compai
vente, viejo
vente, vieja
nieto
52
Guy Lombardo—Back in Town
Winter’s white-haired old men sipping soup

in shadowy balcony bench
remembering that heart throb—trembling bones
felt to the ground—because
GUY LOMBARDO—BACK IN TOWN
Henry Ford breathed easy last in air-condition

pad—Jesus Christ—making his second comeback fast
a rising super-star
cause the man with the big pull said
Fire next go-round
or
GUY LOMBARDO will be back in town
It’s destruction in atom bombs, said the white-tooth man

out in television land . . .
and the trumpeteers and tambourine-shakers
santa clause money-makers
feel the time is near at hand
while parents scream amazed at the woodstock nation’s
crazy sounds praying
GUY LOMBARDO back in town
A new school of thought, a new program of life . . .

cosmic consciousness balancing out the scales
going in—coming out—moving about—
nobody’s trying to shout the other down
that GUY LOMBARDO back in town
It’s a new generation, a new age of soul sensation

with feel-free proclamations
Villages Voice’s Ramparts Playboy MS Cosmopolitan
fists in the air—angry yells everywhere—
boycotts—and all the in’s that is in to the inner
of the inner in’s—big mango?
So, you see, why it’s easy to drown—all the sounds
bitching—crying hard-luck tears—of greasy spoons
juke saloons—and the jukebox just broke down
cause . . .
there ain’t no room for GUY LOMBARDO
to be back in town.
53
A Carnival
Perpetual
Inconsistent
Commentary
Poem
and the spring-time revolutionaries, appear on the scene
along with the flowers
and song birds of the morning.
singing-changing-humming a harded rehearsed improvised tune

no beat—no rhythm—no soul—no nothing
while the seasoned veterans are thrown in obscurity in the new york times—
a paragraph at the bottom of the obituary column
‘8’
mild militants detour signs on the turnpike, readying the highway
for the summer radicals
who’ll populate the streets like autumn leaves on a high, strong wind
converging upon the avenues like a herd
salvation army santa clauses at christmas times
chiming their bells in pamphlets
‘7’
revolutionary poses for the daily news
screaming profanity in geraldo rivera’s ear
‘6’
“far beyond the scope of truth is the inevitable truth—a fucking lie.”
by el hijo de adelina . . .
‘5’
tornado jane fonda and her whirlwind winter soldiers
received by a sympathetic-synthetic columnist a line on page one hundred
and four
“what’s around town”
in the village voice who’s getting a sore throat
‘$’
EXTRA EXTRA EXTRA
carlos & humberto
feliciano & pagán will appear together for the first time a
half-inch of space will be allowed to them in the middle of a ten-page
advertising spread
of client on the square,
54
right on tip top of the pictures of the little boys & girls in their under-
wear.
for further details stay tuned to the real early, early, early news report . . .
summer radicals
&
spring-time revolutionaries
&
mild militants
inside a thermos bottle keeping warm, waiting to be poured out

at the lunch break
easy to be hot & red mild militants revolutionary rhetoric
from the reader’s digest
&
quotations from chairman spiro agnew . . . quote“ ”end
of
quote . . .
while the hot dog man & his pushcart grow like millionaires
&
keep the summer radicals from starving to life . . .
‘5’
hot acid tune, hot acid cool mourning for a high priest in limbo
ginsberg prophesy and no one wants to pray on the mantra
toilet tissues for writing poems of
clairvoyant human waste “flush”
‘4’
still the summer radicals fear the falling leaves premonition of
retirement to the automatic life of the automated
(horny & hard on for bread)
mild militant captains of covered wagons
pioneers to roy wilkins’ harlem
hey, snap your fingers for the blacker than black shop
afro-pix made in japan dashikis from korea
from goldberg’s wholesale store, yeah, yeah, babie
‘3’
spring-time revolutionaries warm up the guitars for cold hot coffeehouses
IN*TEE*LECT*TU*AL*IZE the genocide of the housefly
drop some spanishfly in ten year old expresso—demonstration anyone?
‘2’
buy the underground press at your local newstand—because . . .
55
dondi is a reactionary provocateur, who’s pimping off orphan annie to
daddiewarbucks
li’l abner came out of the closet screaming gay power
daisy mae is dick tracy in drag and friday foster is a refugee from the
jewel box reviews
‘1’
“before you race a horse, learn to ride the mule”

(el jibarito de gurabo)
‘2’
luxurious concentration camps 13 stories high . . .
gil noble interviews the american
negro association for the election of john birch
young americans for freedom run rampant in borinquen
while muñoz marín writes the history in france
just before the cock crowed thrice we denied him a trillion times
‘3’
SNAP CRACKLE POP
GUY LOMBARDO’S BACK IN TOWN . . .
‘4’
and each june the oppressors down the boulevard of tyranny
fly next to the oppressed
in a false bud for recognition “here i am please kill me some more or
i have more to be exploited still”
thank you.
who’s rafael hernández? dance to a lawrence welk mambo . . .
cause even nixon does the cha-cha-chá y the marine corps band
and chairman mao imitated flip “whacha see is whach u git”
and george wallace fantasizes on geraldine pocket pool too? u bet!
‘3’
national pastime is on strike . . .
98
and the earth has bad breath and no ordinary mouth would do
nor could a copper band cure the rheumatism of the world
’cause the only thing sweet is roberta flack singing
‘56’
capitalist are selling communism

communists are buying capitalism
socialism is up 3 points
fascism got a capital gain
56
dictatorialism is bullish
democracy is bearish
would anyone care to buy the human race cheap-slightly-used people
for sale
just add a thingamajig
and presto just like new
hurry the sale won’t last long
‘99’
the saddest thing in life is a little guy with a sad face
and fat people who fall down and old men who shed tears
and a lone basketball player in a crowded park
or on a rain-swept court
‘77’
“sig heil . . . . . . . . . . . . . .” (with an american accent)
‘25’
american-owned-cuban-controlled-puerto-rican-read newspapers
latin music by yanki d.j.’s
qué pasa
hey. man. what’s happening with your pasa, baaabbbyyy
robert shelton, jr. yelling black power in a black sheet on . . .
qué pasa, baaabbbyyy. pasa qué
“a fool waits for the sun to rise
an idiot goes to china”
by a dummy
57
Perhaps Tomorrow
PERHAPS TOMORROW
will bring a true tomorrow
and we’ll no longer
drift into other worlds
in other times
in other loves
in other shadows
PERHAPS TOMORROW
will open other gardens
void of forbidden fruits
without the eastern eden
PERHAPS TOMORROW
we’ll cast into eternity
the pantomine of self-deception
closets will open
retrieving from their corners
the opal touch of love
PERHAPS TOMORROW
when their worlds
are far away and the love in
our eyes is the only guide
in the resurrection
where love is the truth defined
in a tomorrow of perhaps
PERHAPS TOMORROW
OUR HEARTS
will cease to be
an ocean of pain
or a river of suffering
and a mountain of desires
for a tomorrow of fantasy
PERHAPS TOMORROW
the walls of the prisons
built on mystical disease
will crumble and wash away
like the sandcastles on the beach
58
PERHAPS TOMORROW
for other spirits
there will be this tomorrow
perhaps tomorrow will be my today
to become my yesterday of perhaps
where I will need no tomorrow
PERHAPS TOMORROW . . .
59
A Step Toward Insanity
(for phillis chesler)
woman with her madness

stood b4 a road fading
at each blink of the
eye
&
arms out-stretched
to nowhere. . . .
was it fearing the kaleidoscopic

flashes of sanity?????
thought it over again

& the road appeared
strong-healthy-safe &
beckoning . . .
there were no hills &

no potholes to shake the
spirit
smooth & paved with the lack of
struggle . . .
smooth & paved with an ox burden . . .
can WE let it go?????
how can we, knowing beyond

the cosmetic detour signs,
lay the streets of self . . .
the thought stood b4 the fading

rd.
laughing at the madness surrounding
its sanity
&
took its first step toward insanity
& being. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . woman
60
Mango Dreams
we woke in the middle of our nightmare

stand at the greasy spoon
over a cup of oil & roasted toast
& boiled our heads in wet cement
& shattered the mango dreams of
owning prehistoric mannequin ideas
in prefabricated hopes
the fiberglass laughter of the hungry
empty time clock punched holes into our
salary hearts that sweated away the ice
in our veins
&
strained our ears to hear department store
music playin’ thru the remote control
fingers of standard gasoline breath
we want to move our bowels
but
the foreman’s face feels out of groove
he’s not in the mood got to get on the
move ten more deliveries to make & shake
the dust of my teeth
still licking the hero sandwich dinner
oh, shit he gonna choose me to work overtime
& make up the space of bein’ late
twice this week
my excuses were weak
tried to explain the pain my son had near
his school when they shoved a dirty needle
into his brain
& that the snow kept seepin’ into the
make-believe leather shoes
& the cardboard coat his pregnant mother must
wear on the way to welfare
& the salvation army cot broke down in
mid mornin’ mango dreams
& the rats attack the cornflakes & powdered
cheese we had been savin’ for the new last supper
that is supposed to take place as soon as the
messiah is paroled
cause god jumped bail after pleading guilty
61
to double parkin’ in front of the side of
a roofless synagogue
where he went to pay the rent of his duplex
church
& mortgage his brand-new lincoln continental
to buy a spot at the city morgue over
populated by 14-yr-old junkies
lookin’ wavin’ their cold toe tags of
john & judy doe wired to their souls
it’s attention-seekin’ behavior we are
scolded
at the learning plantation the latrine of
miseducation
these are hypochondria acts that exhibit
real sympathy sometimes somber
bluemoon sober guidance counselors that receive
guildens & counselorin’ from the pope in
washington, d.c. if he throws large currency
in the passover bread basket
he still sellin’ nothin’ old but voodoo doll
filled with hypo hepatitis pin
on windy cloudy streets broken face dolls
swim in muddy bloody streets where scared
scarred eyeballs stare into despair &
disappear into foul-smellin’ doorways
of lockless mailboxes
when the red-flashing siren screamin’
light shines near their poison market place
of business it is a business wall street-
trained consciousness
running feet hit the concrete tar-flowered
takes a chance cause he not on OTB
bleedin’ legally the green-earned blood
both vampires flex their developed muscles of
slow negative death
a deadman’s hand
two bags of dope
two expired lottery tkts
&
one unread poem
62
OTHER PREVIOUSLY
UNPUBLISHED
POEMS
The Lower East Side Is Taking . . .
Sometimes I drift away

in dreams of yesterday. But,
men like me are never free.
With all my tomorrows
in yesterday sorrow . . .
The Lower East Side

is taking my life
away . . .
I fight to leave,
I fight to stay.
Lower East Side
taking my life away.
Not one damn block

belongs to me,
not one damn brick!
65
And then Come Freedom to Dream
And then come

one by one
rung by rung
left by right
slow by slow
claiming each, word by word,
the ladder called
america
Me? going to
Well, I was trying
to see
if in me
there was something
that thing,
all men see but fear
to possess it
that one thing
that made the code,
we struggle
die for it
die being it . . . and . . .
then come the bravest . . . and then
still inside . . . come . . . the one by one
die . . . that others may dream of reaching
the top
of the ladder
and they’re close to
heaven it’s then
the best thing for the
pursuit of happiness
for women & men
and eternal roots . . . a symbol
of life entwined in Liberty
with a bathing of the spirit
drenched in the
Earth
Sun
Rain
Moon
whipped winds
66
sounds of Earth’s
lowest creatures
Soil
and Land . . .
Disney in the cradle of rock & roll

Burger King and McDonald’s
New Jersey New York so nice they named it twice
of Menudo Michael Jackson and Miami Vice
of being a citizen of the
greatest nation
since the recorded history of
Man
No words sound pure like the
Love in the smile
of an innocent child . . .
Without reservation
Without hesitation
Yes . . . I am . . .
100% AMERICAN
Yes, Mister!!
Citizen of the United States
of
America!!
67
Antarctica
I’m drifting back

into the Antarctic position
attitude and lifestyle—steal with
my lies hurt to come by bucks
not to nourish my body
satisfy sexual fucks. . . .
Each penny accumulated
to feed my veins . . .
distort the rhythm in my living . . .
and I die to steal
with each passing misrepresents
the concern from people’s hearts
that are real . . .
and nothing equals the law
I feel . . .
yet . . . I beg god to give me another
day for which to deal.
68
The Answer
And she is the answer

to all the questions
gardening in my futures . . .
that held up
a tradition of women
who are the
questions & numbers total
survival—barefoot &
pregnant in a kitchen
and whistling singing all
that could have been . . .
but all that is is, all
that could be—and all will
be—giving up a note
to its final glory.
69
To-get-her
We gather together, to get

her back together, together we gather
to get her we gather
“to get her”
we gather, to her
we, together
gather
to get her
together
“her”
get together . . .
get her
to gather her
together.
To gather her
gather together
out
of this rut
together . . .
70
Where Do the Colors . . .
Where do the colors

a steady flame
flickering within a candle jar
disappear to . . .
Where do the dirty rain-masked
colors of slush and mud
fade to . . .
Where do the purple curtains
colored pain of love lost
the blue conversation of love lost
fall and merge into . . .
Where do rainbow hues that
surround the lavender
excitement discovered in dark
balcony moviehouse late show
exploration and the silverscreen
dreamy future of two . . .
does a rainbow to . . .
Where did fantasies . . .
secrets like the smile of the Sphinx
hide . . . thousands of these questions
that men & women ask over
the centuries like a T.V. quiz show.
I do get a consolation prize . . .
So foreign is the world

I discovered years ago in a time
when I felt divorced from all
the colors that were me.
71
The High Don’t Equal the Low
The high don’t equal the low,

and as each passing minute
brings too much pain with it—
cuz barely bears the burden . . .
Yeah! Both body & mind

pay more attention
to the pricetag
once never bothered
itemizing before . . .
Don’t even try to fuck

anymore . . .
The high don’t equal the low . . .
Where once it was “civil,”
where once it was social
anti-conformity . . .
Where once it was by-product
from culturally deprived,
emotionally arrested self—
Me, seventeen,
and all the therapeutic
verbs, nouns, adjectives
that sent psychologists,
sociologists and every-ologist
and their grandmother
scrambling thru Freudian
terminology dictionaries
where once it was chic
to turn the pitiable poor
personality disordered
junkie . . .
Where once it was prisons

termed “corrective facilities”
convict-inmate . . .
Every form of shelter has a price.
And the high don’t equal the low . . .
72
Junky became an
“illegal controlled substance abuser” . . .
is where the existence of Mankind
finds its extinction
and medical science
no longer seeks cures
or prevention,
just minor detention
and numbs the chemical
concoction of euphoric
day . . .
And the price is

a 6” x 6” eternal holiday
where once it was
life in the fastlane . . .
was reduce speed
detour just ahead. . .
cuz the high don’t equal the low.
That’s the way the story goes . . .
And it shows, yes,
it really shows.
And the high don’t equal the low.
73
Rerun of “The Ballad of the Freaks”
There was a cold winter night

on the Lower East Side . . .
The stars smiled like Vincent Price,
the wind hitting abandoned cars,
the last neon bar sign flickered with the
T.V. sit-com “Addam’s Family” . . .
the kind of ghoulish sound—
Edgar Allan Poe told terror-horror tales—
you’d expect Lon Chaney’s Wolfman wail . . .
but, Boris Karloff, Christopher Lee and Peter Lorre
listening to my story . . .
The night Fast-Fucking Fanny
whispered to Baldhead-Pipe-Cleaning Annie,
“Let’s give a party that could last for weeks,
Even Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ be
‘Mother Goose on Sesame Street’” . . .
That there night began the Ball of the Freaks.
They set fancy trimming . . .
belly-rose dancing women . . .
every bastard on Third Avenue . . .
junkies & crackheads & drag queens &
vics and johns & tricks, everyone and anyone
who wanted to give or get dicked . . .
maggots & faggots . . .
two-bit hoods & mafia dons
from near & far . . . whiskey . . .
watered-down & moonshine & Thunderbird
to French-imported wine . . . from every
exotic foreign country’s bars . . .
They came by bikes, planes & trains . . .
roller skates, pogo sticks . . . Rolls Royces to the
family car.
Heads of churches & states . . .
financial wizards & racketeers . . . narcotics
barons & the Russian empress secured her
place by donating the czar’s balls in a jar.
Monsters & creatures . . .
sinners & preachers . . . the bouncer
was a bulldyke named Clyde . . .
The Jeanne was giving head
74
to Bozo the Clown . . .
the rhythm rap of Run-DMC was
heard thru the town . . .
it spread like wildfire . . . Bozo
was dead . . . “Never fear,” yelled someone,
“Jeanne so good she’ll make that dead man
come.” She was so good, Jesus was
coming down from the cross . . .
The funk was so thick
it would have made Count Dracula sick.
Good thing he did show cuz
back in the kitchen The Thing
and Wolfman were bitching all
his fine zombie hoe . . . cousin
It, The Fly and Igor were a trio
all night bugging, psyching the
Mummy for being a drag
who refused to lick the blood off
tampons from the AIDS Ward.
He was the only wallflower.
The party was hardy, rock steady,
steady rocking all night long.
The party never lulled to a panic,
everyone was getting down.
Beer, wine and come was roaring
like the East River hitting the edge
of the great Atlantic.
Every toad, frog, cockroach and lice
claimed to be Prince Charming
as they all took turns busting out
Sleeping Beauty . . .
All that glitters isn’t gold,
no surprise to know, Snow White
was no virgin.
She took a knock-out speedball tardy
and pretended to be drunk,
offered to take on the whole lot.
Everyone declined on the spot.
Paul Bunyan, John Henry and Goliath
had fucked, now walked to frail egos . . .
Hercules said no thank you please
on a bet with Zeus. Cried Atlas,
75
“I’ll satisfy that girl!”
Now we know why he holds up the world.
All the superheroes from Tarzan to Spiderman
have tried and lost.
It was reported she took on the headless
man and his horse . . . never one to boast
but the fantastic voyage was done
in her cunt . . .
And the Wandering Jew began his route . . .
The Invisible Man ran afoul of the law . . .
Judge Crater was finding Jimmy Hoffa
Where the Lost Tribe of Israel . . . called her
pussy home . . . and E. T. was still dialing
a collect call from a payphone . . .
seven dwarfs never grown . . .
the mirror genie lesbian bitch
the witch from the Lower East
just made her moan . . .
It was easier than Peewee Herman
pulling the sword from the stone
than to turn Snow White on.
The second night there was
nearly a riot
when Robin Hood and his merry men
arrived . . . the joke here were more
good crooks . . .
It was on that day
that living in the forest
he and his merry men were more
than just happy and far from straight.
They all pointed to his polished nails . . .
he happened to be gay . . .
Little John’s wood stood and said with a coy
“There’s no better joy than one of the sheriff ’s
big butt boys.” Friar Tuck laughed
so hard he busted his girdle.
Everyone was having a hell of a time,
then about a quarter to nine
walked in Frankenstein, yelled, “It’s
colder than a well chigger’s ass
outside.
I wanna know why I wasn’t
invited . . .”
76
Then screamed his bride who after
being dead and brought back to life
took one look at him and died again
of fright cuz, “You’re shitty, stinking,
ragged and a slime . . .”
“Not everyone is a perfect one-eyed jack,”
and mutual agreement from all the
sci-fi class, Elephant Man said with
a snide, “And if you keep this high and
snobby attitude, you’re going to pay
the price of watching ‘Brady Bunch’
reruns, Ralph to the moon.”
“But
I’ll take sloppy seconds,”
said the Creature from the Black Lagoon.
77
PLAYS
Paper Toilet
Paper Toilet is a one-act play that takes place in a subway restroom.
The rumble of trains is heard.
The people in the play:
MAN 1 (middle-aged)
MAN 2 (early twenties)
MAN 3 (middle-aged vice cop)
MAN 4 (late twenties)
BOY 1 (15 years old)
BOY 2 (14 years old)
WOMAN (middle-aged)
COP 1 (early thirties)
COP 2 (early thirties)
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A man rushes into the toilet. HE is excited, stops in front of the pay
toilet stall, searches his pockets . . . mumbles some curses, begins to
get more and more jittery with each rumble through a different pock-
et. Cursing, he finally crawls under the toilet stall door. A loud satis-
fying grunt is heard.
MAN 1: Goddamn it, things are so uptight nowadays, you gotta pay
to take a lousy shit.
MAN 2: (Entering.) Now to work . . . (Takes a position in front of one
of the urinals.)
Another man enters and takes a place next to MAN 2. A few seconds
later another man comes in and does likewise.
MAN 4: (To nobody.) My . . . my . . . the tearoom is crowded early

today.
MAN 2: Did you say something to me?
MAN 4: No, nothing at all . . . I talk to myself when I pee.
MAN 2: Good enough.
MAN 4: What is good enough, the size or the thickness or the color?
MAN 2: What are you talking about?
MAN 4: Good enough.
MAN 2: What is good enough?
MAN 4: Really.
MAN 2: Really what?
MAN 4: Who knows, perhaps the flavor of it, some people taste like
wet rubber . . . don’t you agree?
MAN 2: I really don’t know what you’re talking about.
MAN 4: You don’t?
MAN 2: No, I don’t . . . and I like my peeing to be private.
MAN 4: Then you should do it at home behind the locked door of
your bathroom and not in a subway toilet.
MAN 3: Well, when you got to go you got to go.
MAN 2: That’s the way nature intended it to be like, I believe.
MAN 4: So do I.
MAN 2: So do you what?
MAN 4: Believe it to be like.
MAN 2: Yes, well if you don’t mind, I’d like to cut this conversation
short, you see?
MAN 4: I see very well. What do you want me to look at?
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Paper Toilet
MAN 2: You see, I can’t pee and talk at the same time.
MAN 4: You don’t have the coordination to do so?
MAN 2: No, I don’t . . . so if you please, get to your own peeing busi-
ness and leave me to mine.
MAN 3: You know, I am the same way, I can’t piss if someone is
watching me or if I believe someone is watching me or talking to
me. I guess it has to do with something from early childhood.
MAN 4: You should go see a therapist.
MAN 3: They have peeing therapists?
MAN 4: They have all kinds of therapists, it’s big business nowadays
to specialize in some kind of therapy.
MAN 2: Really?
MAN 4: Yes, no kidding around. I once heard of a therapist who spe-
cialized in nose picking.
MAN 2: Jesus H. Fucking Christ, will you shut up and let me pee?!!
MAN 4: I didn’t know I was holding you back.
Silence. Pause. MAN 4 takes a look at MAN 3’s penis. MAN 3 catch-
es him. MAN 4 smiles and looks at the ceiling. MAN 4 takes another
long look at MAN 3’s penis again. This time he turns his head away
before being detected. Once more he takes another look at MAN 3’s
penis. MAN 2 catches him.
MAN 2: Hey, whacha gonna do, suck out his dick with your eyes?
MAN 4: Who, me?
MAN 2: Yeah, you, who else is here standing gawking at his dick? I’m
talking to you, mister . . . don’t act funny with me. I know your
type. You come into these places waiting for school boys to come
in, and stare at them . . . you ain’t gonna deny it, are you? Well,
where are you going? Go on, run. Go on, run, fairy . . . all alike
. . . sick . . . freaking faggots . . . they come into these places to
play hide-and-seek with other people’s cocks . . . gotta watch
them.
MAN 3: The cocks?
MAN 2: No, them freaks. You know what I mean.
MAN 3: No, I don’t know.
MAN 2: Take it from me, I know. I been coming to these places long
enough to know what I’m talking about.
MAN 3: I guess so.
MAN 2: Well, I know so.
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Miguel Piñero
MAN 3: I guess you do.

MAN 2: What you reading, the sports? Who won last night’s game
between?
MAN 3: I am not reading anything at all . . . I’m trying to take a piss
in peace . . . if you want to read the paper while you pee, here,
read it.
MAN 2: Shove it.
MAN 1: I would like to read it.
MAN 3 begins to exit. MAN 2 simulates masturbation. MAN 3 enters

again.
MAN 3: Well . . . well . . . my . . . my . . . you have a big one for a

white man. Can I clean it for you . . . here I have some kleenex
tissues. They’re supposed to be good for everything. . . even life
juice. Here, let me help you up. . . ah, don’t be shy. . . don’t be
embarrassed. Everybody should jerkoff now and then . . . it’s good
for the spirit and not to mention the wrist . . . you know what I
mean?
MAN 2: No, thanks, I got a handkerchief, thank you.
MAN 3: No need to reward me, put your wallet back in your pocket.
Just let me hold it for a while, that’ll be reward enough for me.
MAN 2: Shut up.
MAN 3: No need to shout . . . oh, the man in the stall . . . well, don’t
worry about him, he’s probably looking to do the same thing, just
like little ole me . . . now ain’t that something?
MAN 2: Shut up and look at this. Does this look like money to you?
MAN 3: No, it looks like a badge.
MAN 2: That’s just what it is . . . you are under arrest . . . soliciting
for the purpose of an unnatural sex act.
MAN 3: This has to be an act.
MAN 2: No, it’s very real, my friend.
MAN 3: If it’s for real, I ain’t no friend of yours (Goes into fit of curs-
ing.)
MAN 2: Oh, shut the fuck up already, will you? Ain’t you ever been
locked up before? Every nigger in New York has been in jail, and
that’s the way God meant it to be. Wow, it stinks in here. Hey, you
in there, you in that combat zone, why don’t you flush that stink
out to the river before it hits the streets and I have to come back
and summon you for polluting the air?
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Paper Toilet
MAN 3: Ha, ha . . . very funny, you’re a real comedian ala Bob Hope . . .
MAN 2: The air is gonna get so bad I’m gonna have to call Ralph
Nader on you . . . ha . . . ha . . .
MAN 3: Jesus Christ!
MAN 1: Did you call my name out in vain?
MAN 3: Everybody’s a comedian on the day I get arrested, shit!
MAN 1: That’s what I’m doing.
MAN 2: Do it in good health.
MAN 1: Well, some come to sit and think . . . I came here to shit and
stink.
MAN 2: You sure accomplished what you set out to do, mister. Okay,
come on, let’s go, come on, on the double.
MAN 3: What, I’m back in the army now.
MAN 1: Holy shit, no fucking toilet paper! You pay to get in here and
they don’t have the decency to protect you from the toilet paper
thieves . . . shit . . . shit . . . shit . . . the newspaper. . . saved by the
daily.
A young BOY enters fast-talking with another who is excited.
BOY 1: Boy, I bet there’s a thousand dollars in that purse.

BOY 2: The way she fought for it and screamed and carried on, there
must be a whole lot more than that. Man, I bet there’s a million.
BOY 1: I’d settle for twenty dollars.
BOY 2: Me too.
BOY 1: Let’s check the motherfucker out, man. Open up the damn
thing.
BOY 2: Okay, don’t rush . . . man, don’t rush, man, be cool . . . be
cool.
BOY 1: Be cool, are you kidding me? Shit, that bitch just gave us the
fight of the century for this shit here and you tell me to be cool.
Man, you better be cool and open up that damn thing, brother.
BOY 2: I dragged that old bitch down them stairs kicking.
BOY 1: She screamed like a fucking police siren. What a mouth.
BOY 2: Man, I almost had to stomp that bitch’s back string loose
before she cut loose of that damn bag.
BOY 1: Let’s see what we got, brotherman.
BOY 2: Kicked her head in.
BOY 1: The regular junk.
BOY 2: Wrestled all over the platform, almost fell into the tracks.
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Miguel Piñero
BOY 1: Welfare card.

BOY 2: Should have let her fall . . . let the train deal with her.
BOY 1: Nothing in the little wallet .
BOY 2: Boy, lucky for us that the fucking strap broke or we’d still be
struggling with that old big black mother jumbo.
BOY 1: My father always says, son, with people’s wives . . . brothers
. . . sisters . . . fuck over their whole generation . . . but don’t fuck
with their money.
BOY 2: My mom says, don’t fuck with a wino’s bottle or a junkie’s
cooker.
BOY 1: My father always says, son, take this advice, it’s the only one
that I can give freely, with confidence and experience. Then he
shows me a pack of scars all over his body . . . cuz if you take this
advice, boy, about not flicking with other peoples money, espe-
cially when they need it badder than you, you best be cool, and
you’ll live to see my age. Then he takes a toke and passes out and
that bottle be as empty as his advice.
BOY 2: Later for your pop, man. I can’t seem to find any bread in this
purse, man.
BOY 1: The hag has to have something in the bag. Like nobody fights
like that for nothing, man.
BOY 2: Nothing, man, not a fucking thing . . . shitfuckbitchfaggot-
motherfuck!
BOY 1: Man, the way that bitch fought for the fucking purse, I
thought we had hit Rockerfella’s grandmother, man.
BOY 2: It’s your fault.
BOY 1: My fault?
BOY 2: 59 cents . . . 59 cents. Ain’t this a kick in the motherfucking
ass?
BOY 1: My fault, what you talking, nigger? You crazy shit, how the
fuck can this be my fault, motherfucker?
BOY 2: You said that she was a bet, man. You said she a bet.
BOY 1: Man, the way she were holding on to that damn thing, man,
what else am I to think? Shit, man, be cool . . . man, she had to
have something in there.
BOY 2: Maybe in the lining of the purse.
BOY 1: Yeah, rip it open, brother.
BOY 2: Motherrrrfffuuuckkkerrrrr!
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Paper Toilet
BOY 1: Damn, no way, man, she had to have something there . . . the
bitch held on to it too tight, man, to be nothing. . . maybe a wel-
fare check.
BOY 2: There ain’t nothing in there. What if we had gotten busted for
that, man? That’s getting busted for nothing.
BOY 1: Man, I didn’t force you to go with me . . . I ain’t got no gun.
BOY 2: Man, this is the last time I ever listen to you on anything again
. . . the motherfucking last time, brother.
BOY 1: Man, fuck you.
BOY 2: Fuck you too, shit . . . you ain’t nothing, man.
BOY 1: Man, fuck you, and if you don’t like it, jump, faggot.
BOY 2: Motherfucker, put your hands down before I put your jaw
down.
BOY 1: Man, throw what you got, punk, and throw your best shit,
’cause you ain’t saying a pound, punk.
BOY 2: Man, what you gonna do, you gonna fight me with your hands
or with your mouth?
BOY 1: If you move your hands, I’m gonna move your teeth.
BOY 2: You got more shit with you than this fucking toilet.
MAN 1: Boys . . .
BOY 1: Who the fuck you calling “boy”?
BOY 2: Man, you better dig yourself, faggot.
MAN 1: I don’t mean it in any manner that’s derogatory, gentlemen.
BOY 1: What the hell you talking about, nigger?
BOY 2: Speak up when a man talks to you, sucker.
MAN 1: Excuse me, please, I meant no harm. I apologize, I really
mean it. Believe me, I meant no harm whatsoever. . . I was only
trying to capture your attention.
BOY 1: What you say?
BOY 2: Say he wanna rap.
MAN 1: I couldn’t help overhearing about your little, let’s say, finan-
cial adventure and about the frustrating results. I’d like to engage
you in a little business.
BOY 1: Man, what the fuck you talking about, sucker?
BOY 2: He say he peeped into our comb, man.
BOY 1: Man, you better learn to mind your own business, you could
get all hurt up doing shit like that.
MAN 1: I didn’t mean to pry, just that your failure . . .
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Miguel Piñero
BOY 2: Man, my father is a failure, but not me, motherfucker. I ain’t

no failure.
BOY 1: Not yet, anyway.
MAN 1: I have a proposition to make.
BOY 1: He got a what to make?
BOY 2: I think the dude wanna play the skin flute, man.
BOY 1: Say, man, are you a faggot or something?
MAN 1: I might be a motherfucker, but I’m not a faggot, young man.
BOY 1: What the deal, man?
BOY 2: We ain’t icing nobody for nobody.
MAN 1: What was that?
BOY 1: What the deal?
MAN 1: Oh, the deal, yes, the deal, the deal is nothing that will get
any of you in any kind of trouble. What I would like is . . . I would
like to obtain that newspaper that I left on the floor over there. I
. . . I . . . was reading an important article.
BOY 1: Cut the shit, you want the paper, huh? Why don’t you come
out and get it yourself?
MAN 1: Obviously, because . . .
BOY 1: Man, you ain’t got no shit paper and you wanna cop the news
to do the job, right?
BOY 2: But we ain’t upping the motherfucker unless you is upping
something for it.
MAN 1: I was planning to offer a reward.
BOY 1: Like what, motherfucker?
BOY 2: Better be good.
MAN 1: Well, it is my newspaper. I left it behind.
BOY 2: Now you wanna use it for the behind.
MAN 1: I said that I would buy it from you at a very reasonable price.
BOY 1: Like what?
MAN 1: One dollar.
BOY 1: One dollar, are you serious, man?
BOY 2: Naw, man he just joking, ain’t you mister?
MAN 1: Apiece . . . one dollar apiece.
BOY 1: That hold my interest a little bit.
BOY 2: Cuz you know the old saying, “Finders keepers, losers weep-
ers”?
BOY 1: That old saying and, besides, we were planning to read the
paper, anyway.
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Paper Toilet
BOY 2: That’s right, so like we couldn’t cut it loose for nothing.

MAN 1: I understand and I apologize for making such a meager offer
for such a valuable piece of merchandise. It was unthinkable.
BOY 1: So, why you say it then?
MAN 1: So, in that light, I will offer each of you two dollars . . . con-
sider it a reward.
BOY 1: (Whispers.) I think that dude has some bucks.
BOY 2: (Whispers.) I do too.
BOY 1: Two dollars for a newspaper, that unreal . . .
MAN 1: Well, do we have a deal?
BOY 1: Hey, man, you got any more money on you?
BOY 2: Well, man, answer up, mister.
MAN 1: I don’t have any real money on me.
BOY 1: What you got, counterfeit, motherfucker?
They grab the man’s pants and begin a tug of war with them. They are
cursing and threatening to end up with his pants.
BOY 1: And, motherfucker, you better stay in that fucking toilet.

BOY 2: Goddamn, we hit the number, fifty motherfucking dollars,
bro.
MAN 1: Please, let me have my pants back.
BOY 1: Boy, you beg a lot, don’t you, motherfucker?
BOY 2: He sure do, you a begging fool.
MAN 1: Please, keep the money . . . just give me back my pants.
BOY I: You want the newspaper too?
MAN 1: Yes.
BOY 2: Then, be cool.
A big, rugged looking WOMAN enters.
WOMAN: I thought I’d find you creeps in one of these places count-
ing my money.
BOY 1: Counting your what, bitch?
BOY 2: Money? What motherfucking money you talking about, 59
cents? Is that what you call money?
WOMAN: Where’s my money?
BOY 1: Here . . . here, lady, here’s your freaking bag. Now get the
fuck out of here before we rip you off again.
BOY 2: Rip her off again, for what? The bitch ain’t got shit.
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Miguel Piñero
WOMAN: Rape . . . me . . . rape me, really?

MAN 1: Lady, would you ask them to give me my pants?
BOY 1: Shut up in there, faggot.
BOY 2: You heard the man, don’t make us repeat ourselves, mother-
fucker.
BOY 1: Get that clear, now, mister. We ain’t playing no games.
WOMAN: And neither am I. Now I want my money.
BOY 1: Lady, there ain’t no money to give you, cuz you had no
money to take in the first place.
WOMAN: First you take my money. Now you tell me that there wasn’t
none. Then you say you gonna rape me off again.
BOY 1: Rape, who said anything about rape? Shit, you must be crazy,
bitch. To think anyone would wanna fuck you. Shit, bitch, you
look so bad, I wouldn’t fuck you with his dick. Shit, lady, you so
old, I’d end up with lockjaw on my wood.
BOY 2: Purple balls . . . imagine her on the bed naked. You’s a sorry
sight, lady. Shit, you spoil a wet dream.
BOY 1: And you stink bad, too.
WOMAN: If you don’t give me my money I’ll scream and tell the
cops that you armed robbery me and tried to rape me, too.
MAN 1: I’ll be your witness, lady.
WOMAN: Man, shut the fuck up and flush that damn thing out of
here.
BOY 1: Man, if you don’t shut up, you’ll be reading about yourself in
the motherfucking newspaper you wanted so bad.
BOY 2: “Man drowns in subway toilet bowel.”
WOMAN: Now give me my money, fellas, cuz once I start hollering,
even God gonna come down and check it out too.
BOY 1: Tell him Satan is waiting for him.
BOY 2: And he ready to deal.
WOMAN: Fuck God, deal with me, you little bunch of faggots.
BOY 1: And, lady, you can scream rape all the fuck you want, cuz no
one in their right mind, cop or judge, would ever believe we try to
rape something as ugly as you, not even if you swear to that on a
stack of bibles ten feet high.
SHE sails into them screaming, fist flying, cursing. They slap her
upside the head with the newspaper. SHE throws one on the floor.
COP 1: Okay, hold it . . . what the hell is going on in here?
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Paper Toilet
WOMAN: They armed robbery me and they tried to rape me, officer.
COP 1: They tried to do what?
BOY 1: You don’t believe that?!
BOY 2: She try to kill us.
COP 1: That I believe.
COP 2: What the hell are you doing in the men’s toilet, lady? Is this
part of the women’s liberation movement or something?
WOMAN: It’s nothing. They robbery me and try to rape me. Help me
arrest them. I demand that you arrest them now.
COP 1: Be quiet, lady, will you, please?
A row of accusations begins between the BOYS and the WOMAN.
MAN 1: Would anyone care to give me my pants or the newspaper,

please?
COP 1: Hey, you in there, shut up or we’ll run you in for obstructing
justice . . . you hear me, Mack? . . . And flush that damn thing.
MAN 1: But, officer, I need that newspaper.
ALL: SHUT UP!
More accusations and arguments.
COP 2: Hold it, lady, hold it, lady!

COP 1: You two guys, shut the fuck up right now.
BOY 1: But, officer.
COP 1: Not another fucking word, you hear me?
BOY 1: Yes, sir.
BOY 2: Be cool, bro, be cool.
WOMAN: They trying to be cool, so they can escape into the tracks.
BOY 1: She crazy.
COP 1: What did you say?
BOY 1: I didn’t say anything, officer.
BOY 2: Be cool, man, be cool.
COP 1: Listen to your friend, be cool.
WOMAN: They beat me and robbed me.
COP 1: Lady, please be quiet. We’ll get to the bottom of this as soon
as we get some cooperation.
COP 2: Okay, now, what the hell you doing in the men’s toilet?
WOMAN: I was robbery by them there two boys. They beat me, they
try to rape me.
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COP 2: Lady . . . lady, hold it. We’re here to get the facts, not fan-
tasies. Please stick to what really happened.
WOMAN: That’s what really happened. They try to rape me.
BOY 2: The only thing we raped was your pocketbook.
BOY 1: Now, who not being cool!
COP 1: So, you snatched her purse, huh?
BOY 2: Man, I didn’t say that, you did.
COP 2: How would you like a size 9 up your ass, kid?
COP 1: Lady, if they try to rape you, they don’t belong in a prison, but
in a mental health institution.
WOMAN: They robbed me and beat me up.
BOY 1: That’s a lot of shit. You were doing all the beating up.
BOY 2: Man, she almost killed us.
COP 1: Maybe we arrived too early, huh?
COP 2: Maybe we did.
COP 1: You think if we step outside for a while, they’ll finish each
other up?
COP 2: I don’t know, but I feel that this is going to be one of them
nights.
COP 1: Any of you got a knife?
BOY I: We don’t carry weapons of any kind.
COP 1: Yeah, I bet both of you sing in the choir on Sundays.
BOY 2: As a matter of fact, we do.
COP 1: Jesus.
BOY 1: He saves.
COP 1: Oh, shut up, will ya?
COP 2: Kid, we’re trying to be nice guys. Why not just take our word
for it that if you keep opening your trap, we’re not going to be
nice guys and you’re gonna start screaming police brutality. So
keep your fucking mouth shut.
BOY 1: Yes, sir.
COP 1: Do you understand?
BOY 1: Yes, sir.
BOY 2: Yes, sir.
COP 1: Good, now back to you, miss. Why are you in the men’s toi-
let?
WOMAN: Because this is where they ran to escape from me.
MAN 1: Can I say something?
COP 1: Later . . . right now, keep pushing and keep your mouth shut.
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Paper Toilet
MAN 1: I’m going to write my congressman about this.

COP 1: Write to the fucking mayor, mister.
COP 2: You wanna pen? Here, use the fucking toilet paper.
MAN 1: There isn’t any toilet paper. That’s what I’m trying to tell
you.
COP 1: Well, I guess that’s your tough luck, isn’t it?
COP 2: Now, keep out of this investigation.
WOMAN: Now, what I was saying is that these two birds here.
COP 2: Watch your language, lady, please.
WOMAN: You’re New York City cops and you’re telling me to watch
my language?!
COP 1: Lady, don’t give us a hard time, please.
Enter VICE COP.
VICE COP: What’s this, what’s all this about?

COP 1: Who are you?
VICE COP: Police Vice Squad.
COP 1: Got some identification, sir?
VICE: Here, what’s that, a play thing?
COP 1: Sorry, sir.
VICE COP: Now, what’s all this about?
COP 1: That’s what we’re trying to figure out.
WOMAN: And they ain’t doing it, telling everybody to shut up all the
time, not giving anyone a chance to say anything at all. These two
are not what I call cops.
COP 1: No, lady? What do you call a cop?
WOMAN: A flatfoot.
COP 1: Jesus, lady, get with the times. They now call us pigs.
COP 2: Pride, integrity, guts.
BOY 1: That’s a lot of bullshit.
VICE COP: Who are they?
COP 1: We’re trying to find out who’s making a complaint. They for
assault. Her, for armed robbery and attempted rape.
VICE COP: Rape. Ahahahahah. You’re kidding.
COP 1: I wish we were. She insists that they tried it.
COP 2: Do you believe it?
VICE COP: They must be crazy or awful horny.
COP 1: Okay, once again, what did they hit you with?
WOMAN: With the newspaper.
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COP 1: Assault with a dangerous instrument.

COP 2: Got it.
WOMAN: They also try to strangle me with them pants over there.
COP 1: Attempted murder. Take the pants too.
COP 2: Got it.
COP I: Okay, lady, come on to the precinct and sign a complaint. On
second thought, why not just meet us there.
BOY 1: Look, man, we snatched the book, but we didn’t try no rape,
man.
COP 1: Don’t worry about it.
VICE COP: Wait a second, not so fast, there’s got to be a law about
this somewhere. There’s just got to be.
COP 1: Well, sir, it is against the law to steal.
COP 2: And assault.
VICE COP: Not that, her.
COP 1: There’s no law about looking that ugly, sir.
COP 2: Come on, let’s go.
VICE COP: No, she ain’t going nowhere.
COP 1: What are you talking about?
VICE COP: There’s got to be a law about this down at Central.
COP 1: What is he talking about?
COP 2: Why ask?
VICE COP: I’m talking about her.
COP 1: What about her? . . . She’s the complainant.
VICE COP: I’m talking about, what I’m talking about.
BOY 1: What you rappin’ about?
VICE COP: None of your business.
BOY 2: You heard the man, none of your B.I. business, man. Now,
keep tight before you get both of our asses kicked, man!
COP 1: Shut up.
VICE COP: Don’t tell me to shut up.
COP 2: He didn’t mean you, he meant them.
BOY 2: Man, you gonna get us in big trouble with your big mouth,
man.
VICE COP: He can speak for himself.
COP 1: Yeah, I meant them, Jesus!
VICE COP: Now, what I’m talking about is as simple as this.
COP 1: This hasn’t been simple, believe me.
WOMAN: Talk straight, will you?
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BOY 1: He speak with fork tongue.

WOMAN: They all speak with fork tongue.
BOY 2: Man, if they beat up on me, I’m gonna brain you, bro.
BOY 1: Boy, you ain’t doing nothing to me.
BOY 2: We’ll see about that.
COP 1: You two can fight at the precinct. We got some gloves.
BOY 1: That cool with me.
BOY 2: Not with me. I ain’t no prize-fighter, man.
BOY 1: No, man, you’s a punk who talk much shit.
COP 1: Shut up, all of yous, please. Now, sir, what is it with this
woman?
VICE COP: What I’m talking about is simple.
COP 2: You already said that. I’m still confused.
VICE COP: Yes, well, what I mean is . . . what I’m trying to say is
that, can’t you understand that there is something wrong here? I
mean, well, that is, that er. . . er . . . er . . . that . . . I think that I
mean I feel that there is something wrong here. Don’t you see it.
I mean it’s perfectly clear to me. Can you see it?
COP 1: To tell the truth, no.
VICE COP: That’s why you’re a transit cop working the graveyard
shift.
COP 1: I resent that.
VICE COP: Big deal, you resent the truth.
COP 1: I’m taking them in.
VICE COP: No, wait, you can’t. There’s something wrong here and it
has to be straightened out immediately. . . I mean how can you let
her get away with this crime.
COP 1: What crime are you talking about?
WOMAN: Crime? I didn’t commit no crime. What are you talking
about, mister? You better make yourself clear before I sue you for
false accusation. I didn’t commit no crime. The crime was com-
mitted on me, mister. Now, get that right in your head.
COP 2: She’s right.
BOY 1: What about us?
BOY 2: What about us?
COP 1: If you guys don’t shut the fuck up, I’m going to smack the liv-
ing shit out of you.
COP 2: Hold it, hold it, not here.
WOMAN: Just let me at them. . . .
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Miguel Piñero
COP 2: Calm down, everybody, calm down. Please, let’s get down to
the bottom of this. Please explain yourself, officer, and please
make it as brief and as clear as you possibly can. Thank you.
COP 1: Yes, please.
BOY 1: Hey, man, keep that monster cool.
BOY 2: Be cool, bro, be cool. Please, I just got a cap on my teeth, bro,
and if they knock it out, my old man is gonna kill me.
BOY 1: Yeah, okay, bro?
VICE COP: Man, if we let her out of here without arresting her, we’re
all gonners for sure . . . don’t you see that?
COP 1: No.
WOMAN: He’s crazy.
COP 2: Lady, please . . .
WOMAN: He’s crazy, he’s insane, out of his motherfucking mind!
VICE COP: If we let her get away with this, who knows what will
happen next.
COP 2: What will happen to what . . . to who . . . what are you talk-
ing about?
COP 1: Oh, let’s not start on that again, please. Let’s keep it clear.
COP 2: You mean it’s clear to you?
COP 1: No.
COP 2: What will happen to what? Let’s start there.
VICE COP: To our society, man, to our society. What do you think I
was trying to tell you all the time? What will happen to our soci-
ety if we allow this woman to walk out of this men’s toilet free
without charging her with something . . . something that we can
stick on her. Let’s think . . . let’s put our heads together.
COP 1: I wonder if your head is together.
COP 2: How long you been on the vice squad?
VICE COP: Peeping tomasina . . . that’s it, peeping tomasina. There
must be a law like that somewhere in the books downtown.
COP 1: About a woman in the man’s toilet?
COP 2: You got to be kidding.
COP 1: I don’t think he is.
COP 2: You’re serious?
VICE COP: Of course, I’m serious.
COP 1: He’s serious.
VICE COP: You better believe that I’m serious. What will become of
society if we allow things like this to go unpunished? What? Tell
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me what? Men in women’s toilets . . . women in men’s toilets . . .

next thing we know, women will be in men’s toilets standing up
taking a piss. Can you imagine that, can you? No, but I can.
COP 1: I bet you can.
VICE COP: You bet I can. I been working this beat long enough to
know all the perverted thoughts and actions that take place in peo-
ple’s minds. I know them all . . . but I’m strong, I stick to my guns
. . . women standing up taking a piss, men sitting down . . . it can
turn your stomach just thinking of it.
COP 2: I’ll try not to.
VICE COP: You take this as a joke, but you are not realizing the seri-
ousness of it. What will become of our children, our beautiful
boys and girls? They’ll be in a constant identity crisis. What will
become of your daughter if she walks into a toilet and finds a man
putting on a sanitary napkin, what? . . . Or your son, if he walks
into the john and there’s this stupid looking broad with one leg up
in the air taking a piss? Think about things like that and you’ll see
the seriousness of it . . . think about it for one minute.
COP 1: I did . . . we’re leaving.
VICE COP: That’s only the better part of the signs, for the worst is yet
to come.
COP 1: I did . . . we’re leaving.
VICE COP: That’s only the better part of the signs, for the worst is yet
to come.
COP 1: Repeat that.
VICE COP: I said that ain’t all. There’s more to be imagined . . . if we
let this . . . this pervert go . . . what about the signs?
COP 1: Signs, what signs?
VICE COP: The signs on the doors.
COP 2: There are also other signs that one should take heed to, if you
know what I mean.
VICE COP: Yes, I do.
COP 2: You do?
VICE COP: Of course, I do. I understand everything there is to under-
stand, but do you understand about the signs on the doors? The
signs on the doors that indicate whether it’s a men’s room or a
ladies’ room . . . kings and queens . . . caballeros and caballeras
. . . those signs on the toilet doors that are the most important
thing that has come out of a civilized society, that’s what. No . . .
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Miguel Piñero
no, sir, not me. I am not taking part in this communist conspiracy
to rid our society of the men and women signs on the toilet doors.
. . . Not me, I am a true spirit of the revolution . . . long live Betsy
Ross.
MAN 4 enters.
VICE COP: Hold it, hold it, right there.

MAN 4: (In high feminine voice.) Who me? . . . (In husky voice.) I
mean, who me?
VICE COP: Yeah, you, come ’ere.
MAN 4: Yeah, what can I do for you? Good evening, officers . . . come
on, I ain’t got all day.
VICE COP: Hold it, I’m a police officer, too.
MAN 4: Is he?
VICE COP: Why you ask them . . . don’t you believe me . . . don’t I
look like a cop to you?
MAN 4: No.
VICE COP: No?
COP 1: That’s why you’re a detective.
COP 2: Detectives are not supposed to look like cops.
VICE COP: Yeah, but everybody I know knows when a detective is
around.
BOY 1: Everybody I know knows too.
MAN 4: Look, I wanna take a leak. Is there something wrong about
that?
VICE COP: Don’t be a wise guy . . . wasn’t you in here before? Didn’t
I chase you out of here before?
MAN 4: Me . . . hell, no. Why would I be chased out of a men’s toi-
let for? That makes no sense to me.
COP 2: Welcome to the club.
MAN 4: Now, what can I do for you . . . officer?
VICE COP: Nothing, nothing at all . . . it’s just that you . . . you look
so familiar.
MAN 4: Ain’t never seen you before in my life.
VICE COP: Yeah, well, you better come back later or go to another
toilet.
MAN 4: Listen, I paid a quarter to get in here to take a leak.
VICE COP: There is police business going on in here . . . so you bet-
ter turn around right now and leave.
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Paper Toilet
MAN 4: Police business in a subway toilet?

VICE COP: What makes you think that the law ends at subway toilet
doors . . . in a toilet, even in a toilet the long arm of the law does
not rest for one minute . . . and in here in this very toilet, mister,
there is urgent police matters being taken care of, matters that
may affect the future of our great democratic nation.
MAN 4: Is he serious?
COP 1: I think so.
WOMAN: He’s crazy . . . call a cop, will ya? This man is crazy.
VICE COP: Shut up, you pervert, expounding communist.
MAN 4: Yes, well, good night, officers . . . (In a high feminine voice.)
Good night, honey . . . byeee.
VICE COP: It’s him, that lousy faggot. I knew it was him. I just knew
it. I bet he’s part of her group. They all are . . . I am putting this
woman under arrest . . . come on, lady, let’s go. Put out your
hands, you degenerate . . . pinko bulldyke.
MAN 1: Hello, God bless America, can I have my pants, please?
VICE COP: Are you making fun of me, mister? You better watch your
step . . . if you wanna stay out of trouble, keep it clean.
WOMAN: Get your hands off me, you crazy honky, get them off me.
Ain’t you gonna help?!!
VICE COP: She is under arrest.
BOY 1: Right on, put her in the same cell with us.
COP 1: Shut up, punk.
COP 2: What we going to do?
VICE COP: She is under arrest. Now, either of you can take the col-
lar. It’s a credit. I’ll share it with you . . . you can have an assist.
COP 1: No, you can have it by yourself.
COP 2: Yeah, you can have it. After all, you pointed the violation out
to us, didn’t you?
VICE COP: Yes, but I am willing to give you credit.
COP 1: No, thanks.
COP 2: Yeah, thanks, but no, thanks . . . Let’s go.
COP 1: Come on, boys, on the move.
COP 1: Take her, she’s yours.
WOMAN: This nut is arresting me?
COP 2: Don’t worry about it, lady, you have to go to the station, any-
way, don’t you? Well, this way you go in his car.
COP 1: And under his care.
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Miguel Piñero
VICE COP: (Singing.) “God bless America, land of the free” . . .
The WOMAN begins to fight and curse him out.
COP 1: All right, let’s take them downtown.

COP 2: Downtown? The station is uptown.
COP 1: Yeah, I know, but it sounds more dramatic to say downtown.
“Okay, the game’s over let’s go downtown, we’re booking you.”
COP 2: After him, I can see what you mean.
They exit with all the people under arrest and protesting their inno-
cence.
Silence.
Man 1: Hey, is there anybody out there? Hello, this is a man in trou-
ble . . . is there anybody there? . . . Shit . . . shit . . . shit . . .
Silence.
MAN 1: Help . . . help . . . helppppppppppppp . . .
CURTAIN.
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The people in the play
MIKE (beer-bellied poet)

MELE (his spacey girlfriend)
COP (shiny, proud, CHIPS-type)
MAN (traveling salesman-type)
SMILES (suburban, California-tanned teenager)
LEGS (suburban, California-tanned teenager)
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Miguel Piñero
It’s hot, Sunday, late afternoon, August in the year 1978. A

young-looking, middle-aged, bearded, beer-bellied poet sits on a wick-
er chair on a porch in the Echo Park district of East Los Angeles. HE
is surrounded by a swamp of cigarette butts and Bukowski books, with
Tom Waits playing in the background. HE wears a purple hat with bro-
ken ace-duce-tray on his head. HE is shirtless, shoeless and wears
faded blue jeans. There are pots with dying plants to keep him compa-
ny, as well as one of those portable take-to-the-beach iceboxes filled
with Budweiser beer at a lazy reach from his right hand. At his left is
a small table with two unopened packs of Pall Malls and an almost
dead bottle of J & B next to an out-of-place modern red telephone. In
front of him is a Purina checkboard coffee table with a 1940 black
Smith-Corona portable typewriter devouring a blank 8” x 11” white
sheet of paper devoted to driving a writer insane. MIKE chain-smokes
and chain-drinks his beer. Both are part of his poetic image, for MIKE
is a poetwriter and is infected with that rare germ of insanity once the
deluxe privileged allotted only to the rich and famous, but America is
coming of age and now even poor slobs like MIKE can stake claim to
it. With his degree hanging over him like a halo, MIKE takes leaks off
the porch into the neighbor‘s driveway and loves to soak their poodle.
VOICE: Poopoo . . . oooh, Poopoo, you stink of piss . . . how in

heaven’s name do you always come in at this time smelling like a
skid row bum? Oooh, Poopoo.
MIKE: (Mimicking.) Ooh, Poopoo . . . Poopoo . . . how the hell can any
decent dog-loving person give a name like that to any living thing?
That’s simply unnatural cruelty. (Picks up the phone.) Hello . . .
ASPCA . . . yeah, my name’s Mike Poor. . . . Yeah, listen, I wanna
report cruelty to an animal . . . Call who? . . . the Humane Society,
for the what? . . . Look, these people next door have this dog . . .
no, they don’t beat him . . . yeah, they feed it, in fact, the mother
eats better than me . . . what? Oh, well, they gave the poor miser-
able slob a name like Poopoo. I mean, ain’t there something you
can do about that? Hello . . . up yours too . . . (Hangs up.)
MIKE goes back to his chain-smoking, chain-drinking mode of living.

MELE, a female friend of MIKE’s comes out to the porch wearing an
Indian shirt made in Korea, old jeans cut to the pockets. SHE is shoe-
less and smoking a fat joint.
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MELE: Whacha doin’?

MIKE: Looking at this thing here.
MELE: Poor thing.
MIKE: Poor thing?
MELE: It looks so lonely.
MIKE: How do you think it makes me feel?
MELE: You wanna toke?
MIKE: Naw . . . I’m trying to create.
MELE: You wanna toke?
MIKE: Yeah, maybe it’ll help me bring profound thoughts into the
printed word, opening the door to immortality.
MELE: Oh, wow . . . that sounds profound.
MIKE: Yeah, it does, doesn’t it? (HE types.)
MELE: I like the way you type.
MIKE: How about the way I write?
MELE: I like the way you type.
MIKE: Thanks.
MELE: I mean, you just don’t sit straight up with your ass touching
the back of the chair like a row of legal secretaries . . . you got
movement . . . rhythm . . . you type like a song being sung in one
of those Humphrey Bogart movies . . .
MIKE: Bogart, huh?
MELE: Just your typing . . .
MIKE: How about my writing?
MELE: You type nice . . .
MIKE: You’re a very committed person, aren’t ya?
MELE: I support women’s rights . . . gay rights . . . skyhorse and
Mohawk . . . legalization of marihuana . . . prostitution . . .
MIKE: And my typing . . .
MELE: Yeah, your typing is cool . . .
MIKE: You make me wanna go back to longhand.
MELE: I can’t comment on your longhand.
MIKE: Forget it . . . (Phone rings and MIKE answers.) It’s your dime
and my time. Start talking. Oh, hi, Patrick . . . what? Oh, yeah,
man I’m right on the writing . . . it’s got movement, rhythm . . .
it’s cool . . . you wanna ask Mele? No, I’m on the case like Sam
the Spade. . . . Later . . . Pat thinks I’m lazy . . . he likes my writ-
ing . . . but he thinks I’m lazy . . .
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Miguel Piñero
MELE: How about your typing?

MIKE: He thinks it stinks . . .
MELE: He got no class.
MELE: Thanks.
MELE: I’m going to the store. Ya want something?
MIKE: Yeah, another six pack.
MELE: Bye . . .
MIKE: At least I got rhythm. . . .
MIKE enters the house and we hear him put Latin music on the record
player. HE comes back to his restful place. A black and white pulls up. A
young L. A. finest steps up to the porch. HE walks as if he’s the second-
coming of Gary Cooper in “High Noon.”
COP: Ya live ’ere?

MIKE: I sleep . . . shit, eat here. . . . Living, that’s another matter. Life
is not just resting your head. Life . . .
COP: What are ya, a wisenheimer?
MIKE: No, I’m a poor . . .
COP: Lady next door says you keep pissing on her dog . . . that right?
MIKE: She should give the dog another name.
COP: What?
MIKE: She calls him Poopoo.
COP: Poopoo? What kinda name is that?
MIKE: French, I think.
COP: Those French are weird.
MIKE: Ever been to France?
COP: When I was in the Army. They sure are one bunch of prejudiced
creeps . . . they don’t even speak English. I see all the police sto-
ries on T.V., all the detective movies, but I won’t go see the “Pink
Panther.” It’s French.
MIKE: I thought Peter Sellers was English.
COP: He is?
MIKE: Think so . . . ya wanna beer?
COP: Thanks, but no thanks, watching my belly.
MIKE: Women say waist.
COP: Yeah, well . . . I warned ya about pissing on, whacha say his
name is?
MIKE: Poopoo.
COP: Jesus . . . that’s cruel.
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MIKE: Yeah, I tried telling that to the ASPCA. They told me to shove
it.
COP: Creeps . . . lousy creeps . . . Poopoo, Jesus! Listen, stop pissing
on Poopoo.
MIKE: Ya want a megaphone?
COP: Just want her to know I’m doing my job. . . . What ya do, mis-
ter, for a living, that is?
MIKE: I’m a poet . . .
COP: A communist, huh? . . . Well, if this pissing on Poopoo is some
kinda communist plot, you gonna be sorry. . . . Poopoo, huh?
MIKE: Yes, poor Poopoo.
COP: Jesus, so long . . . Poopoo . . . cruel . . .
MIKE returns to his creative state of mind. A young Robert de Niro-

type comes to him.
MAN: Hi . . .
MIKE: Hi.
MAN: You know who lives there?
MIKE: You from the police?
MAN: No.
MIKE: Internal Revenue?
MAN: No . . . nor from the FBI or CIA or Watergate . . . I’m looking
for a friend of mine?
MIKE: Poopoo?
MAN: What?
MIKE: Poopoo lives next door.
MAN: Sounds French.
MIKE: I piss on him a lot.
MAN: The French like that kinda thing. I’m looking for an Italian
guy.
MIKE: You’re from the Mafia.
MAN: Name’s Guy Santini.
MIKE: Poopoo lives there and that place is vacant . . . state won’t rent
it out.
MAN: Nice place . . . too bad . . .
MIKE: Yeah, I like to take craps in there at night. I like to take craps
in haunted houses . . . sometimes I jack off in there . . .
MAN: You piss on Poopoo, huh?
MIKE: Yep . . .
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Miguel Piñero
MAN: He should go down Santa Monica Boulevard.

MIKE: They take him to Griffith Park.
MAN: That’s a nice place. . . . Oh, by the way, can you use a good
blowjob?
MIKE: Everyone can use a good blowjob.
MAN: I’m a pro . . . not like the suckers. Some people say I got a tam-
bourine tongue.
MIKE: No kidding?
MAN: Yeah, I developed this technique with my tongue . . . I’m the
greatest.
MIKE: I type with rhythms.
MAN: I got these movements.
MIKE: I type with movement . . .
MAN: I dig beer-belly truck drivers. Are you a truck driver?
MIKE: No, I’m a beer-belly poet.
MAN: Any good?
MIKE: I type good . . .
MAN: So, would you like a dynamite blowjob?
MIKE: You sound like a used car salesman, except you ain’t got
Foster Grant wraparounds.
MAN: I left them in the car. I work for Worthing Ford . . . I can even
give a blowjob standing on my head.
MIKE: Got to try it sometime . . .
MAN: You sure you don’t want a terrific blowjob?
MIKE: You wanna beer?
MAN: No, watching my waist . . .
MIKE: Sorry . . . I’m creating.
MAN: Well, it’s your loss.
MIKE: Can’t win them all.
MAN: Bye, now . . . I just love that beer belly. You sure you ain’t a
truck driver?
MIKE: No . . . sorry . . . bye.
MAN: Oh, well, if you don’t advertise, you don’t sell.
MIKE: Hello, America . . .
No sooner is the Robert de Niro-type gone than MIKE hears two young
voices. Two bronze, tan blonde-haired kids in their early teens call to
him. It’s only up close that MIKE defines them to be boys. They wear
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sandals and cut off jeans. One smiles a lot . . . the other keeps smooth-
ing imaginary dust or lotion on his beauty-contest-winning legs.
SMILES: Hey, mister . . . hey, man, you know the guy that lives down
there?
LEGS: See him, the one with the blue-towel bathrobe on?
MIKE: Yeah . . . nice old man, used to be a good gardener, I think.
SMILES: Can I have a beer?
LEGS: Can I have a smoke?
MIKE: Help yourselves.
SMILES: Hey, man, that man is weird.
LEGS: Yeah, man, out of it.
SMILES: He went out to lunch and never came back.
MIKE: You got nice legs.
SMILES: That’s what he said.
LEGS: Yeah?
MIKE: Ain’t no crime in using the same line.
LEGS: I do, don’t I? Do a lot of running and knee bends, ride the
bicycle a lot, too.
SMILES: What do you do?
MIKE: I’m a poet.
SMILES: Oh, sweet Jesus, another fairy.
MIKE: Can you fight?
SMILES: What?
MIKE: Can you fight good enough to whip my ass?
SMILES: No . . . you’re older.
MIKE: Poet . . .
SMILES: What?
LEGS: He’s saying if you can’t fight, you better call him poet.
MIKE: Son, I stand five-foot-six, weigh l55 pounds, got ten inches of
dick, four pounds of balls. You best care who you call fairy.
SMILES: I like that . . . can you say it again?
MIKE: He’s got nice legs.
SMILES: That’s what the old man said.
LEGS: Yeah, I was riding me and him, picking up empty soda bottles
to get the deposit . . . making some bread.
SMILES: Yeah, and this old man down there calls us, starts talking to
us, then asks what we’re doing.
LEGS: . . . All the time eyeing my legs . . . made me feel weird.
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Miguel Piñero
SMILES: Looking directly at my lips.

MIKE: He liked your smile.
LEGS: Then he says, you wanna make some quick cash . . . so we say,
sure, what we got to do? He says, help me clean the car garage.
We say, yeah, man, sure.
SMILES: We start to go into the place, he puts his hands on me.
LEGS: Yeah, then he comes to me and swipes my legs, like if they was
made of china.
SMILES: Can I have another beer?
MIKE: No, you got to watch your belly.
SMILES: I’ll pay for it.
MIKE: In that case, help yourselves.
LEGS: Anyway, we go in, he follows us in, we move a couple things
around.
SMILES: I saw him first.
LEGS: He was naked . . .
SMILES: Naked . . . pure naked . . .
MIKE: Most of us are born that way.
LEGS: Yeah, man, naked and he was jacking off, right there in front
of us . . .
SMILES: . . . And it wasn’t even hard.
MIKE: You noticed, huh?
SMILES: What’s that got to do with anything?
MIKE: Nothing.
LEGS: Anyway, I got scared.
SMILES: Not me, I’d killed him if he came near me . . .
MIKE: Did he?
LEGS: No, he just stood by the corner looking at my legs, jerking off,
man, that was weird.
SMILES: Then his wife came in and started screaming at him and
yelling that she was going to tell his son. . . . Oh, man, we ran out
of there.
LEGS: Hey, there he is . . . they’re putting him in that car. Look, he’s
still jacking off . . . wow, crazy . . . wow.
MIKE: How does his wife look?
LEGS: Ugly.
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SMILES: No teeth.
SMILES: I got great teeth, helps my smile.
MIKE: Yeah, you do . . . get any money?
LEGS: Naw . . . man . . . nothing, he gypped us.
MIKE: Bad investment.
SMILES: Yeah, a bum trip. . . . You want anything worked on around
here? Your plants are all dying.
LEGS: Telephones ringing.
MIKE: Never answer the phone when I’m creating.
SMILES: How about it, mister?
MIKE: No, thanks, I jacked off this morning.
LEGS: Let’s go.
SMILES: Bye . . .
LEGS: This guy is just as weird as the man down there.
SMILES: I think he’s cool . . .
MIKE: I type cool . . . bye . . .
SMILES: Can I get another beer?
MIKE: No.
SMILES AND LEGS: Bye . . .
MELE drives up . . . pours the beer in the box.
MELE: What they want?

MIKE: Attention. (Phone rings again.) Oh, hi, Patrick . . . yeah, man,
I got it down . . . it’s got movement . . . rhythm . . . the typing is
cool, it’s got legs . . . and smiles and cops and pissing on Poo-
poo . . . gives you a tambourine job. . . . Heavy, I’ll bring it in
about three. By the way, Pat, you think you can give me cash? . . .
I ain’t got a bank account to cash a check. . . . No, man, I ain’t got
no identity . . . lost my wallet . . . Yep, thanks, man . . .
MELE: So, what’s been happening?
MIKE: Oh, nothing . . . hey, you heard they’re thinking of dropping
neutron bombs on the South Bronx?
MELE: Wow!
MIKE: Hey, check it out . . . you see, the government drops the
neutron bombs on the South Bronx as a solution to the people
problem there . . . then they give out these CETA jobs to the kids
from Harlem to clean up the bodies . . . and some guys put out a
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Miguel Piñero
grant application to NEA to study the creative process of neutron

dying . . . and then . . .
MELE: I like your typing.
MIKE: There’s this old man who jerks off a lot . . .
Typing can be heard all over the Echo Park district of East Los Ange-
les that night . . . with Tom Waits in the background: “Warm beer and
cold women / I just don’t fit in, etc.”
110
The Guntower
GERMÁN ROSADO
SIMMON JOHNSON
111
Miguel Piñero
The play takes place in the guntower of one of America’s prisons.
It’s the morning shift. SIMMON JOHNSON is pacing the tower,

bored to death. Every ten minutes or so he turns the handle on a box
on the wall. HE does this automatically. There is a faint sound of gui-
tar and harmonica music being played, but not together to make a
tune. There’s the sound of basketballs hitting the concrete and people
talking, a lot of people.
SIMMON: Hey . . . hey . . . yeah, you, stupid . . . you jive-ass nigger,

why ya let that sap steal the ball from under ya? . . . Ya . . . ya . . .
don’t open your mouth to run no excuses now. Shit, my baby
sister can play better. Yeah, she’s only three. No wonder you in the
joint.
VOICE: Ahhh, go on Mr. Johnson, ya rap all that fly shit up there on
the rodhouse, but on the ground you’s a chump.
SIMMON: Your mom’s a chump . . . and don’t forget that you are talk-
ing to a correctional officer of this here state, boy . . . just ’cause
you saw my shoes under ya mama’s bed, don’t mean that we are
related, boy.
VOICE: Pick up on this, Correctional Officer, Simmon Johnson, sir.
SIMMON: Shit, I can see why you play like a sissy. Ya mami was ya
daddy and you know what you can do with that thing, if it’s long
enough . . . in fact, I’m getting off here to head toward the
messhall before you get there.
VOICE: What about the messhall? Speak up, son, I can’t hear ya.
SIMMON: I said that they’re serving franks today and I want to have
yours cut before you take them back to the cell. Shit, you wanna
play the dozens with me, boy? I played the dozens before you
could talk. Shit, if I ever told ya how to play, shit, it may just blow
away that split pea of a brain.
VOICE: If I told ya who I wanna play with, ya might just get mad
enough to shoot me, brotherrr.
SIMMON: Ain’t nothing that serious, brotherrr.
VOICE: Ya all right, then . . . later.
SIMMON: Ya okay . . . later . . . take it easy . . . you too, brotherman.
Hey, git off his ass . . . didn’t know ya went that way, brother. . . .
(Goes back to pacing the tower.) I wish these motherfuckers
would stop looking at me like if I were some freak or something
. . . motherfuckers, close your fucking eyes . . . if I pick my nose
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The Guntower
and wipe the snots on my clothes, you laugh at me. If I scratch my

ass, you yell that that’s digging for oil. I bet that you would like
to get my lollipop and squeeze it hard on your tongue, wouldn’t
you? But, dig on this, suckers. Put your head on an acid mood so
you can listen to the silence that’s within ya loud assholes. If you
had done that, you might not have been here today . . . assholes
. . . assholes.
VOICE: ASSHOLES, that’s what you are in there, assholes . . . so get
that straight. I am a big prick and you are a bunch of assholes . . .
and I would like to fuck every asshole in here. Do you understand,
assholes? So, if you don’t wanna be fucked by a big prick like me,
assholes, you better get every thing done on the double. Is that
right, assholes? Louder, assholes. I can’t hear you, assholes.
Remember that good, you fucking assholes. This is not boot
camp. This is the real thing out here and out here if you play
pussy, you get fucked by a mean prick and there’s plenty of mean
pricks out there in them bushes looking for assholes to fuck. You
hear me? Now I asked for some real men and they send me you
assholes and you assholes are going to have to learn to be pricks,
unless you wanna get fucked. Fight or fuck, that’s the motto of
this squad. Do you read me? Well, answer up loud enough that
they can hear you in the North. I don’t want them to know that a
lot of assholes are going to be fighting them. I want them to fear
the pricks that I throw out that way, right? Right now let’s see
what you assholes know about your women. Asshole, your
woman is your rifle, stupid . . . it’s not a laughing matter out in
that bush. You read me, assholes? Okay, assholes, get ready to
move out into the way of the almighty prick. Move, assholes, on
the fucking double, on the fucking double, you chicken-livered
shitheads. Get that lead out of your fucking ass, assholes. Move
on the fucking double . . . don’t think, act . . . don’t think, do as
you are told . . . you stupid assholes, you have no time to think out
here . . . you either act or you die. Don’t think, assholes, don’t
think, you fucking assholes . . . there’s a prick coming your way,
assholes, get out of the way or get fucked . . . it’s hot out here,
motherfuckers, and I don’t wanna be bothered by your asshole
mistakes. You understand, assholes?
SIMMON: Yeah, man, it sure was hot out there in the bush. It was hot
in more ways than one, what with this fucking Louey out of the
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Miguel Piñero
school running all this asshole bullshit on us, like it was the first
time I ever been out in the bush. So what if it was the first time
out there for me and the rest of the fellas? We were going to waste
him in the first fire fight we got into. He was going and that was
for sure. It was hot and all those bugs and people on you all the
time, not knowing when or how the end will come for you, that
that’s the way it is, that’s the real way it is, the bush slapping you
in the face all the time, the sun beating on the top of your helmet
all the time, the death traps entering in your fears all the time, and
you never get a fucking break from any of them. The mother-
fuckers are going to get wasted the first time I get one in my
sights. Man, shit, it’s hot out here. Never knew any place on earth
could be blood brother to the sun, man. The earth and the sun
must be related somehow . . . else why would it be so fucking hot
out here, man? There is the clearing. We are going into the village
. . . there’s only old men and women around, some little kids pee-
ing, some taking shits . . . cows . . . birds and shit. There’s noth-
ing out there. There’s nothing here. No. Gonzalez, don’t fuck with
that fireplace . . . oh, shit, don’t move, Gonzalez . . . medic, Gon-
zalez hit a trap, he hit a trap. Chin Chow is hit. There’s a sniper
around down on the fucking floor, a sniper . . . where . . . where
. . . there . . . in the hut, in the fucking hut, there’s a sniper in the
fucking hut. Set up the light machine gun . . . mortar . . . mortar
. . . set up that fucking light machine gun on the fucking double,
you stupid motherfucker. You got us in this motherfucking mess.
Move, incoming mail . . . down . . . down . . . get your fucking
head down, Lunbrosky. . . oh, shit, his head is gone . . . down,
watch the sniper . . . you fucking grade-A asshole, you a big prick.
You’re the fucking asshole . . . frag the Louey now . . . get him,
get this fucking prick out of the way, assholes, are we . . . you
fucking goldbrick nigger, spray that fucking hut, spray that fuck-
ing hut. The sniper is in the fucking hut. Down, mother, mortar
. . . spray the fucking hut . . . the hut, the hut, you idiot, the fuck-
ing hut. Spray that fucking hut . . . cover me . . . cover me, plen-
ty of fire. I want plenty of fire. Spray the fucking cover. I wanna
get in a grenade, motherfuckers. Give me plenty of fire cover . . .
hold it . . . grenade . . . boom . . . ah . . . ah . . . now, motherfuck-
er, come out . . . she came out of there running, holding the body
of a headless baby . . . hit her, hit her, waste that old fucking bitch
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The Guntower
. . . there’s a bomb in the baby, there’s got to be a bomb in the

baby . . . oh, my god . . . so I picked up my gun and I . . . I . . .
I . . . did what I had to do . . . I hit the gook . . . you fucking no-
good-for-nothing gooks, you killed my buddy Gonzalez . . . slan-
thead motherfuckers, you gave him no chance to be out here long
enough to get a fucking piece of gook pussy . . . wasted the bitch
. . . my stomach is turning and all the shit is coming out of my
head . . . it’s supposed to come out through my asshole, not out
of my mouth. It tastes nasty, my throat feels like a giant shit bowl
. . . raattaaa raattaaaa, motherfucker, raatttaaaa, motherfucker, you
old bitch, who told you to be in the fucking hut with your baby.
Who told you to know me. I’m not responsible for your life, bitch.
You did it to yourself, not me, not Uncle Sam. You did it to your-
self, bitch. You did it. Stop looking at me with your dead eyes,
bitch. I’ll pluck them out . . . I’ll pluck them out and bury them so
that you can stop looking at me with those dead eyes . . . stop it
. . . fuck you, guys. I don’t want her staring at me like if I caused
her death. I didn’t. You guys saw what happened. Even the lieu-
tenant got it. Should he get a medal? His mother will be proud of
him. He died in combat, in combat just like she died in combat.
But not Gonzalez, he died like a fool . . . his head blown half-way
off. Look at all those flies eating at him already. Man, he must
taste good to them or they may be just another product of this
piece of earth, starving. Food . . . food is what they see in him.
Gonzalez, my lover . . . I’ll bury your eyes, bitch. I’ll take his tag
. . . get the fuck away from him. I’ll take his tag home for him, but
this bitch will never, not even in her hell, will she see. I’m burn-
ing her eyes . . . bitch . . . where is the head of the baby, where is
it? Get it for me. I want to take a picture to send home to mother.
Here, throw me his head, just like a baseball. Here, take my pic-
ture . . . stop it . . . stop it. Nooo.
GERMÁN: Hey, hey.
SIMMON: What ya want? What the fuck you screaming at me for?
GERMÁN: Cuz you started screaming at me, that’s why.
SIMMON: What the fuck do you want, anyway? The post is off lim-
its even to you, Rosado . . . beat it. What are you doing out here,
anyway? You ain’t the meal runner. So you have no business here.
Look, I’m not that gung-ho. You know that, Rosado. But this post
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Miguel Piñero
is off limits and if you don’t leave these grounds, I’m gonna have
to write you up.
GERMÁN: Look, man, I got orders from the dep to come here.
SIMMON: For what?
GERMÁN: To report for duty. If it’s a mistake . . . but I don’t think it
is, considering the rumor I . . .
SIMMON: I don’t wanna hear about any rumors and, what orders?
Let me see them. Look, they didn’t inform me on any orders about
you coming here. Why didn’t they inform me?
GERMÁN: Look, I’m only a guard here . . . and I ain’t been here long
enough that they would call me into the brass office and let me
know confidential information. You know, I just got off proba-
tionary period.
SIMMON: Put your orders in the basket.
GERMÁN: What are you talking about, man? This ain’t the fucking
Army.
SIMMON: What do you know about the fucking Army?
GERMÁN: Look, man, they just tole me to come out here, that’s all.
SIMMON: Well, I don’t know why they would tell you something like
that, because it said in the book that there is only one man to a
tower, unless there’s an emergency, and I don’t know of any emer-
gency around here.
GERMÁN: Man, why don’t you call the fucking deputy superinten-
dent and cut out all these bullshit hassles?
SIMMON: I’ll do just that . . . and I would appreciate it if you stop
cursing so motherfucking much.
GERMÁN: Call the fucking dep, will ya? Or else I’ll leave and let you
deal with the fucking brass, and I’ll do all the fucking cursing that
I want. I’m a fucking grown man, Mister Johnson. Understand
that now. Don’t let my face fool you.
SIMMON: Your face is a fool.
GERMÁN: Well, are you gonna call or are you going to let me in
there?
SIMMON: Just wait a fucking minute, okay? I’m calling the D.S.O.
Hello, sarge, can I speak with the dep? No . . . nothing personal
. . . oh . . . yeah, well, sorry . . . sarge, if it’s not personal . . . speak
to you first . . . yeah, sarge, I got it, sir. . . . Well, there’s a guy
named Rosado here . . . no, sir, he’s outside . . . yes, sir, right
away. . . . Well, I wasn’t informed that he was coming up here, sir.
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The Guntower
Well, no, I don’t have any stripes, sir. No, I am not questioning the
assignment, sir. The book states, sir . . . no, I don’t always go by
the book, just that this is a tower . . . yes, sir, I’ll let him up imme-
diately . . . right, goodbye. Okay, come on up . . . watch your step.
Did you eat yet?
GERMÁN: Yeah, thanks.
SIMMON: The meal runner will be around in a while, anyway.
GERMÁN: Yeah, I know.
SIMMON: You keep a nice uniform.
GERMÁN: So do you.
SIMMON: I try to.
GERMÁN: Shoes are Marine-shined.
SIMMON: Yep.
GERMÁN: Served in the Nam?
SIMMON: 23 months, 12 of them in the bush country.
GERMÁN: Really?
SIMMON: You in the Army?
GERMÁN: Yep, Special Forces.
SIMMON: Wow, really!
GERMÁN: Yep.
SIMMON: If I’d gone into the Army, I would have chosen that, you
know?
GERMÁN: Yeah, I kinda like action, you know.
SIMMON: So do I.
GERMÁN: How you like the job?
SIMMON: Pays okay. A lot of good benefits too.
GERMÁN: Look, man, don’t throw dagger stares at me, man. I didn’t
ask to come up here, you know. I’m just a grunt like you, man. I
have no say on the assignment of the day, you know, man. Like,
be cool.
SIMMON: Y’are right . . . I’m sorry man.
GERMÁN: Look, man . . .
SIMMON: Hey, would you please cut that shit out.
GERMÁN: What you talking ’bout? Look, man, I don’t . . .
SIMMON: That. Just that. Stop saying “look, man” . . . “look, man”
. . . that’s . . . that’s, well, just stop saying it.
GERMÁN: Okay, that’s no skin off my back.
117
Miguel Piñero
SIMMON: Man, it’s that after you’re up here a while, you’ll under-
stand why it’s not good to keep saying something over and over
again and again.
GERMÁN: That’s a nice tie pin.
SIMMON: Thanks . . . a gift from a friend.
GERMÁN: You get a lot of gifts from friends?
SIMMON: No, not really, about the same amount that you get.
GERMÁN: Shit, I don’t get any.
SIMMON: You must not have any friends.
GERMÁN: Yeah.
SIMMON: Yeah? Yeah, you don’t have any friends?
GERMÁN: No . . . not that. I mean I have friends. Everybody has
friends. Just that my friends don’t give out gifts.
SIMMON: Really, is that a tradition among Puerto Ricans?
GERMÁN: How the hell should I know about Puerto Ricans?
SIMMON: Just asking. Maybe you did know and I could have learned
something.
GERMÁN: Yeah, but I don’t know.
SIMMON: You think that you ever will?
GERMÁN: Sure, if I put my mind to it, it’ll pop up just like that.
SIMMON: Just like that?
GERMÁN: Just like that.
SIMMON: I don’t believe you, just like that pop.
GERMÁN: I see no reason why you shouldn’t believe me. Have I ever
lied to you before?
SIMMON: Well, no . . .
GERMÁN: You see.
SIMMON: Well, that’s because I never really spoke to you before.
GERMÁN: That doesn’t mean anything.
SIMMON: Of course, it does.
GERMÁN: No, it doesn’t. A lot of people never spoke to me.
SIMMON: Well, that’s nothing new. I know a lot of people that I
never met before too. I see them on the streets, in department
stores, shopping . . . in the movies, at baseball games.
GERMÁN: Who do you think will take the series this year?
SIMMON: The Mets, naturally, who else?
GERMÁN: I thought the Cardinals might take it this year. They got a
good pitching team for a back-up.
118
The Guntower
SIMMON: Naw . . . baseball is like . . . like boxing. Whoever has the

strongest punch wins by a knock-out . . . see?
GERMÁN: I don’t know about that.
SIMMON: What’s there to know?
GERMÁN: A whole lot. Don’t you believe in that?
SIMMON: Of course, I do.
GERMÁN: Oh, for a moment there I thought you be different in that.
SIMMON: No, not me. I was raised Protestant.
GERMÁN: I was baptized a Roman Catholic.
SIMMON: So what?
GERMÁN: That’s what I always say: so what.
SIMMON: I mean, we both believe in the Lord.
GERMÁN: J. C.?
SIMMON: He for me. (Pause.) So, you don’t have any friends?
GERMÁN: I have friends.
SIMMON: I thought you said that you didn’t.
GERMÁN: I have friends. It’s just that I don’t have any friends.
SIMMON: Oh, I see what you mean.
GERMÁN: You do?
SIMMON: Sure, you said that you have friends, but that you don’t
have any friends to speak of.
GERMÁN: Hey, you could be my friend.
SIMMON: I have to think about that first. You know, you just don’t
become somebody’s friend just because somebody asks you to be
their friend. You know, I mean, it takes time being somebody’s
friend.
GERMÁN: That’s why I have none. I don’t have the time.
SIMMON: So, you say that Puerto Rican tradition can pop just like
that in your mind, if you put your mind to it.
GERMÁN: Yeah, man, just like that. You know that a bunch of cen-
turies ago my people were dying and they knew that their whole
civilization was being wasted. So what did they do? They all got
together and transferred themselves out of this planet.
SIMMON: Get outta here with that bullshit, man. You expect me to
believe that shit?
GERMÁN: Well, it’s true. It’s in the history books.
SIMMON: I never read about it.
GERMÁN: ’Cause you never came across it like I did.
SIMMON: You came across it in a book?
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Miguel Piñero
GERMÁN: Yeah, in the library.

SIMMON: This up here is like a library.
GERMÁN: It don’t look like one.
SIMMON: Only because it doesn’t have any walls about it.
GERMÁN: Yeah, maybe you’re right.
SIMMON: They just sat down and transferred themselves out of this
planet? I don’t believe it.
GERMÁN: Well, you know they were very spiritual.
SIMMON: So are my people. Black is beautiful.
GERMÁN: Beautiful also are the souls of all my people.
SIMMON: That was said by a black man.
GERMÁN: It was?
SIMMON: Yep, guy by the name of Langston Hughes . . . he lived in
Harlem.
GERMÁN: He’s dead?
SIMMON: I think so.
GERMÁN: Ain’t that something. I thought I said that.
SIMMON: No, Langston Hughes said it first.
GERMÁN: That don’t even sound like a black man’s name.
SIMMON: Well, it is . . . at least it was his name.
GERMÁN: You read a lot of his things?
SIMMON: When I was a kid.
GERMÁN: You don’t read his things any more?
SIMMON: Naw, I study up here . . . I’m going to college.
GERMÁN: Really, what for?
SIMMON: Well, I don’t plan to be a correctional officer all my life,
you know. I wanna do other things too.
GERMÁN: There ain’t much to do anymore anyway.
SIMMON: That’s what you think. You just ain’t giving yourself the
time. That’s why you have no friends.
GERMÁN: But I have a dog.
SIMMON: A hunting dog?
GERMÁN: I don’t hunt . . . can’t stand to kill anything anymore. The
Nam was enough for me in the killing thing. Like it was fun
killing there because you had a right to kill. You know what I
mean? But then again, I don’t know, maybe I’ll get a gun and go
hunting animals.
SIMMON: Remember, they put you in jail for hunting the two-legged
kind.
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The Guntower
GERMÁN: Wow, you really get to see the whole play from here. I mean,
like you really get to see the whole thing. Look at that view. . . .
Wow . . . hey, Simmon Johnson, looka that. Look, you can see the
whole play. Wow, nice, really nice . . . look at them idiots over
there looking at us . . . look at them looking at us. They sure have
a lot of nerve, man . . . they sure do . . . they’re probably talking
about us, calling us all kinds of pigs and shit like that, you know.
Man, they’re wasting their lives and they’re talking about us. I feel
like blowing the motherfuckers to pieces right off. I bet you that I
could do it even from this distance, I could. Wasting their lives
away looking like . . . like shit. That’s pitiful shit over there, sit-
ting down looking up here . . . I bet you . . . I bet you they wish
they were up here and us down there . . . but it’s not like that
because they have no guts to make it up here. But I bet you they
wish they had the heart and the guts to be up here dealing with life
and lives like we are, right? Goddamn right. I’m right, shit, I
know that. I’m right. Oh buddy, it sure feels great to be alive,
don’t it? Up here you know what it means to be alive, to be for
real with whatever fantasy you want to be for real with, right?
Yeah, man, I know that you are getting pissed off at me for being
here, man, but remember, I didn’t make it happen: someone else
did, someone else wrote the shit, someone else passed it on to me
and I’m only acting it out, so don’t blame me, man, blame the
dude that wrote the fucking thing. He’s the one to blame . . . like
if you get bored just tell me and I’ll shut up, be very quiet and you
can return to that private world of yours. Hey, why not look at it
this way? I am here to help you . . . okay . . . to help you look at
that world that’s sitting right in front of you and if you let your
mind wander to the real truth, you’ll see what beauty lies in front
of you before you meet your death or before you go home to your
bickering and daily routine of bills and headaches. Johnson, you
have a great bunch of faces out there to look at . . . right through
this scope I see many that I wouldn’t mind shooting their wigs off
. . . you know . . . look . . . am I interrupting what you have cre-
ated in yourself? I’m sorry . . . but now that I’m here and you feel
interrupted, you’ll learn to appreciate your fantasy, plastic life of
automat dinner parties . . . and when you enter that world and
again you remember how much you missed it and you’ll never ne-
glect a piece of it again . . . right, Johnson?
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Miguel Piñero
SIMMON: What you want to eat?

GERMÁN: Ham on rye, no mustard.
SIMMON: Anything to drink with it?
GERMÁN: Root beer be fine with me, thanks.
SIMMON: What you got to pay for it?
GERMÁN: You know something, I take it back.
SIMMON: Take what back?
GERMÁN: Asking you to be my friend.
SIMMON: Why?
GERMÁN: Because you couldn’t be my friend, even if you wanted
to.
SIMMON: What ya mean?
GERMÁN: I mean even if you wanted to, you couldn’t ever be my
friend.
SIMMON: Why not?
GERMÁN: Because I wouldn’t let you.
SIMMON: Why wouldn’t you let me be your friend? I want to be your
friend.
GERMÁN: Well, I don’t want you to be, because you don’t know
enough.
SIMMON: Enough of what?
GERMÁN: Of being what you are.
SIMMON: A black man?
GERMÁN: No, a thing of power.
SIMMON: What power? There ain’t no power up here.
GERMÁN: You see, you don’t ever realize that there is power up here.
You can do anything and really get away with it. I mean, you have
the power to create and the power to destroy when you are up
here, and that’s why we can’t be friends, because I know of the
power and you don’t.
SIMMON: Maybe you can teach me to be your friend.
GERMÁN: Naw, can’t teach an old dog new tricks.
SIMMON: That’s being prejudiced.
GERMÁN: No, it ain’t.
SIMMON: Yes, it is.
GERMÁN: It is? Really?
SIMMON: Yes, it is . . . you can be prejudiced to many things, not just
skin color, my man. I don’t want power, anyway. No, that’s not
true. I do want power . . . and control. We all do.
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The Guntower
GERMÁN: Yeah, but you already got it. That’s why I don’t think we
should be friends.
SIMMON: Maybe you’re right.
GERMÁN: I know I’m right, you idiot. Don’t you realize what you
got up here, man. Don’t you know what’s up here with you every
time you climb up here, man. Don’t you know? Don’t you under-
stand the power you control up here? Every time you are up here
looking down at the world . . . look at them looking at you . . .
look at them looking at you helplessly, looking at you waiting to
see what your next move is gonna be. Don’t you know the
strength that lies up here with you? . . . the power to control the
lives of all those that are staring at you? There is enough power
and control up here to fill the egos of every man staring at us. Up
here is the doorstep to being a god . . . a creator of life. You see,
you don’t know them things, but I do. I realized it the first time I
saw this place. The first time I saw it I said, that’s where I want to
be, because that’s where the power to control lives is at . . . and I
made it my business to get up here to check out if what I believed
to be true is the truth . . . and it is. Check it out . . . man, check it
out the way it’s supposed to be checked out. I see more than any
of those down there. Maybe I don’t hear as much as those down
there do, but who the fuck cares about hearing the damn thing
anyway. It’s seeing and feeling and smelling and tasting the fuck-
ing play in yourself. That’s what counts, right? That’s what
counts. Nothing else does. I know because I made it my business
to know all of it. You see, I can talk down to all of them out there.
I can laugh down at them and all they can do is look up at me
. . . look up to me . . . that’s the power of being God . . . you don’t
believe that? Here, I’m God . . . you don’t, huh? Okay, mother-
fucker, look at this. What is it? It’s a gun, right? It kills man. It
kills woman. It kills children. It kills whatever I point at. If it has
life, it will kill it. Now, do you believe what I am trying to tell
you? Baby, you are God, and if you don’t believe that I am too,
don’t bet your last breath on it. You see, God has a sense of humor
as well as a sense of insanity. You sit there in the sun thinking that
I’m crazy or something like that. You sit there thinking that I’m
crazy, right? But, man, I ain’t crazy. There’s nothing wrong with
me, nothing at all. I am God on earth. I put this gun to your head
and you don’t know if I really loaded the fucking thing or not. You
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Miguel Piñero
don’t know if I loaded the fucking thing, right? You say to your-
self, “Is this a fucking play that this sucker is doing or is he for
real with that thing?” Remember that dude in Texas up in the
tower of the university? He went up there and he was God. He
took the lives of many people. And now I may take your life, be-
cause I feel like I got the power to do so and get away with it. I
point this gun out there and everybody sits calm. But if I were to
pull this trigger and somebody’s head blew away, then I’d be con-
sidered insane, unless I say I didn’t know what happened to me up
here. I just became like that dude in Texas. Remember him? And
if you saw me smile and blow the head off one of those people out
there, you would know what I am talking about, right? And they
would scream in fear because they knew they are supposed to fear
God. Are you afraid that this might not be part of my job and that
I am going all out at this for real? Well, it may be true, who
knows? Am I God? I’m God.
SIMMON: You ain’t shit.
GERMÁN: What?
SIMMON: You hear me? You ain’t shit.
GERMÁN: That’s why I don’t want to be your friend.
SIMMON: Fuck you, then.
GERMÁN: You too. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but
words will never hurt me.
SIMMON: You, God? Shit, you ain’t even a man yet. Bet you don’t
even have hair in your ass.
GERMÁN: I have hair all over me: on my balls, on my chest, on my
legs, on my arms.
SIMMON: Peach fuzz on your face.
GERMÁN: I got hair in my ass, you wanna see?
SIMMON: Yeah.
GERMÁN: Here, look. Do I got hair in my ass?
SIMMON: Yep, you have hair in your ass.
GERMÁN: See, you don’t know nothing.
SIMMON: Never said I knew anything, did I?
GERMÁN: You didn’t need to, because I knew you didn’t know noth-
ing. . . .
SIMMON: Then, you just taught me something, right?
GERMÁN: Well, that’s what I’m here for.
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The Guntower
SIMMON: Next thing that’s gonna come out of your mouth is “I am

carrying out my Father’s works.” And thunder will blast through-
out the yard and the inmates will come to the gates of their free-
dom: the parole board . . .
GERMÁN: Not me, I’m from Queens . . . but I was born in the Lower
East Side. My parents are from Puerto Rico and my wife is Jew-
ish . . .
SIMMON: Really? Shit. So fucking what? I didn’t ask. I thought you
be . . .
GERMÁN: You thought that I would hide my private life. I live right
here . . .
SIMMON: Look, please, I don’t really care about you. You didn’t
want me to be your friend, so don’t treat me like if I said that I am
your friend. I’ve been working here a short bit. My wife’s father
works in the administration.
GERMÁN: So what? My wife’s father works in security and her
brother is a guard too . . . ha . . . take that.
SIMMON: You still on probationary station?
GERMÁN: I’ll be off it sooner than you were. I bet ya.
SIMMON: Are you going to the annual officers and captains’ dance
this year? I am, I got tickets.
GERMÁN: Of course, I’m going. What do you think?
SIMMON: I don’t.
GERMÁN: You don’t what?
SIMMON: I don’t think at all.
GERMÁN: Why not?
SIMMON: Because I don’t feel like thinking, that’s why.
GERMÁN: That’s a good enough reason.
SIMMON: Any reason is good enough as long as it has reason.
GERMÁN: You laid a fart.
SIMMON: Yeah, so what? Don’t you fart?
GERMÁN: Yeah, I guess so.
SIMMON: Don’t you know?
GERMÁN: Of course, I know. They smell.
SIMMON: Have you ever been in the company of a young lady and
wanted to lay a fart so bad that you let it out so slow and careful-
ly and . . . ah . . .
GERMÁN: Yeah, yeah, yeah, that’s happened to me plenty of times.
One time I was in a party and I was holding on to this fart real
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Miguel Piñero
tight . . . so finally I let loose and the motherfucker was so loud

they lowered the music thinking that I had something to say.
Funny thing was that not only gas came out, but a whole lotta
watery shit spread all over my leg and ass. Man, I was stinking for
days after that.
SIMMON: Man, that’s really funny shit.
GERMÁN: No, man, it was really stinking shit.
SIMMON: You’re a riot.
GERMÁN: Yeah, man, I was great in high school shows.
SIMMON: So was I. I mean, not as a comedian like you, but as a
dramatist actor.
GERMÁN: Really? That’s nice. I always wanted to act . . . as a seri-
ous actor, you know . . . never got the break because there was
never any part that was right for me, ’cause, well, you know why.
SIMMON: Of course. You guys can’t speak English, right? Not like
Jose Ferrera . . . he was mean in that picture about that sword
fighter.
GERMÁN: Yeah, but I didn’t like him in it.
SIMMON: You got to be kidding.
GERMÁN: Yeah, I am.
SIMMON: He was a mousekateer.
GERMÁN: Were you ever in the cadets?
SIMMON: Naw, couldn’t afford it. My folks . . .
GERMÁN: I was in one when I lived in the Lower East Side.
SIMMON: Did you like it?
GERMÁN: Yes and no . . .
SIMMON: Oh, you one of those maybe men?
GERMÁN: No, I mean no, I am not a maybe man. I say “yes” when
I have to say yes and “no” when I have to say no. But with this I
really liked it and I didn’t like it at the same time, you know what
I mean? Isn’t there things that you do that you don’t like doing
and yet do them because you kinda like doing it? No? Well, you
see, you know what I mean . . . I was in the cadets and we had
these really pretty uniforms: black and gold and red stripes . . .
and the band would play behind us when we went to parades . . .
real nice . . . but for some reason or another, nobody liked me. I
was always the last one to be chosen to play on any of the teams:
baseball or basketball or the track and field days that we had in
the summer. Those were real nice. We used to chase the girls and
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The Guntower
those that you caught you had the right to take them prisoner and
we would all stick our fingers up their cunts and then we would
all put them in front of the leader’s nose and those that smelled the
most would get gold brick detail. Man, you know no one ever
came back with non-smelling fingers. Those that did, woo, they
would work them to death . . . they would have to do everything
in the camp. They would yell out “stomachs in, chest out . . . ass
out” and he would come down the ranks and touch everyone’s ass.
Those who didn’t have their ass sticking out enough would have
to go take a cold shower. Man, he was sure tough.
VOICE: Tough? You ain’t tough. You ain’t nothing. You’ll never be
nothing. Tough? Shit, you’re a powder puff and you want me to
marry you. Shit, I wanna marry a man, not a sissy. Your brothers
are men. Why can’t you be like your brothers? They are men.
GERMÁN: Get out of my thoughts. Now!
SIMMON: What’s the matter, man?
GERMÁN: Tell her . . . she is inside of me again, she won’t leave me
alone . . . tell her . . .
SIMMON: Get out from inside of him, whoever you are.
GERMÁN: She’s still saying that I ain’t a man, but I am. Get off me,
nigger, get off me. You think I need your help? For what? For
what?
SIMMON: Man, I felt . . .
GERMÁN: Felt? Feelings? What feelings? The only feelings you got
come out in a toiletbowl and you wipe them off on the tissues. I
don’t need your help. You’re just like her, thinking I need help. I
need nobody, because I am a man. I am a man. I’m more of a man
than a man being a man’s man. I am God’s man. You see? You see
the outline of my dick? It’s pretty, ain’t it? It’s got a beautiful
shape. How about yours? Does it curve at the top like mine does?
Would you like to see it?
SIMMON: No . . . no, thank you. Listen, why don’t you put that rifle
back, huh? . . . before the brass sees you?
GERMÁN: No . . . I like this rifle and I loaded it with real bullets,
man. It’s not part of the scene, is it? Up here, you like the Thomp-
son because it makes you feel for real. But me, I like the rifle
because it’s more accurate. You know what I mean?
SIMMON: I know that if you don’t out that thing, there’s going to be
trouble from the people up front.
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Miguel Piñero
GERMÁN: Let there be, see if I care . . . because you and the rest
didn’t think I could do this, did you? But I am showing all of you,
ain’t I right?
SIMMON: Yeah, man, you are showing us all up. Why don’t you call
up and get all the people out of here? This way we can do the
thing ourselves. You know what I mean?
GERMÁN: No, . . . they paid to get in, right? They committed crimes
against the people.
SIMMON: We all commit crimes against one another, but shooting
people down to prove a point ain’t proving nothing, except that
you’re crazy, and then it falls on your people, you know?
GERMÁN: What are you talking about? I ain’t going to shoot any-
body. Do I look like some kind of a nut?
SIMMON: No, man, you don’t look like no nut to me.
GERMÁN: Yes, I do.
SIMMON: Well, man, if you insist on saying that you look like a nut,
that’s up to you, man.
GERMÁN: That’s what I tell them all, it’s all up to me.
SIMMON: What’s this about a rumor? You said that you really don’t
pay attention to rumors, but now you never know . . .
GERMÁN: When I was in the cadets I never caught a girl at the track
and field meetings.
SIMMON: Maybe you wasn’t fast enough.
GERMÁN: None of the girls would let me catch them. But I could
light a fire faster than anybody else in the troupe.
SIMMON: I bet you could. What about this rumor?
GERMÁN: One time I was in the cadets’ locker room changing my
uniform and all the guys were around me looking at me . . . my
breasts were large and pointy . . . I was coming of age, I guess.
That happens to a lot of boys, you know. They kept looking at me
at first. I was shy about it, but, then, every one of them would look
and ask me if they could touch them, and more and more I liked
the attention . . . they crowded around me, all of them. One day
we went on an overnight hike and I slept with two guys that were
my best friends in the cadets . . . and that night, Rickie asked me
if he could suck on them, and I was upset that he could ask me
something like that, but I said yes, and he sucked on them, man,
he really sucked on them real good . . . the leader came in . . . and
he flashed in the light . . . he was making bed checks . . . and he
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The Guntower
saw us . . . and he got real mad . . . and that morning real early he
called everybody together and we went for a long trip into the
woods and I had to be by the side of the leader. We stopped at this
place in the woods and he told the whole group what he saw . . .
then he made me strip and he called everyone to pick up their
rifles, and two of the boys held me down and the rest spanked me
with the rifle butts . . . and then he pulled out his dick. He had a
real big dick, bigger than anything I ever seen, and he yelled at
me, “Your father said that I should do whatever it takes to make a
man out of you,” and I think the only way you’re ever going to be
a man is if you know what it means to be a girl . . . and he put it
in me real hard, man. All the guys looked at me and smiled like if
they all knew they were next. I thought that all my insides were
going to burn right out through my stomach . . . and he pushed and
pulled and he cursed me. His dick was full of my shit . . . and
blood . . . and then I realized that their smiles meant just what I
thought. They were all next, every last one of them pushed and
pulled in and out my ass like if there was no tomorrow, see. Later
on I quit and moved to Queens and I never was able to fuck any
of the new boys. I was always late to the happenings all through
college.
SIMMON: Wow, that’s heavy . . . a real scar for your mind. What
about the rumor?
GERMÁN: Rumor? What rumor?
SIMMON: You said that you heard a rumor about something.
GERMÁN: Oh, yes, the rumor. Well, one of the informers of the insti-
tution informed us with this information.
SIMMON: Cut the bullshit out, Rosado.
GERMÁN: Okay, killjoy, the rumor is that there’s going to be a riot
today that’s going to be the front for an escape by a group of mil-
itants.
SIMMON: A riot?
GERMÁN: Yes, a riot. Ain’t it exciting? Inmates against the adminis-
tration. Hostages are supposed to be taken. Haven’t you noticed?
Look out in the yard. All the guards are either black or Latin. All
the whites are in a safe place.
SIMMON: I hope they don’t come by this tower with that bullshit.
GERMÁN: This is the first place the inmates are gonna hit . . . and
they have firebombs, so I was told.
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Miguel Piñero
SIMMON: I don’t believe it.

GERMÁN: You keep talking like you know me a long time. You think
that I would lie to you about anything?
SIMMON: Look, maybe them people got the right to complain after
the way they are treated in here, out there. . . . Haven’t you any
ears? Don’t you speak to your Latin brothers in here? They say
that your country is controlled by this country.
GERMÁN: What are you talking about my country? This is my coun-
try. I fought in the war for it and so did my father, and my oldest
brother died for it and for what it stands. My parents were born
over there, not me. I am an American citizen and I’m proud to be
one. This country has never made me so blue that I would want to
be red . . . so don’t call me a Puerto Rican. I am an American.
VOICE: When you wanna fuck with me, you are a Puerto Rican. If I
don’t want to do something, it’s Puerto this and Rican that . . .
GERMÁN: Get out of my thoughts. . . . Get out of my thoughts, bitch.
I can’t respect you. After I married you I found out that you’re a
freak. With my people the word respect means more than the love
of God . . because when people respect you, they will stand with
you in any fight . . . and that’s what counts
VOICE: When your brothers come around, you become a middle-
class faggot.
GERMÁN: That’s a lie. I ain’t no faggot . . . you’re a whore. That’s
why I can’t respect you, because you’re a whore. If you were a
prostitute, I would respect you because then you would be deal-
ing in quality merchandise and not like a whore that deals just
from between her legs. Whore, that’s what she is, a no-good, low-
life, back-streeting whore . . . ha ha . . . and you, you are an Amer-
ican, too.
SIMMON: I’m the average colored nowhere man.
GERMÁN: What is that supposed to mean?
SIMMON: That means that I am a negro . . . with a black man’s con-
sciousness in a white man’s image of a colored man.
GERMÁN: That means that you’re a nigger.
SIMMON: Better watch your mouth, boy.
GERMÁN: I better not watch nothing, nigger. You tell me that you’re
a colored man thinking black, living white . . . to me that means
that you’re a jive nigger.
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The Guntower
SIMMON: I told you before to shut the fuck up with that nigger shit,
didn’t I?
GERMÁN: Well, why don’t you jump at my throat, nigger?
SIMMON: Why don’t you put down that rifle?
GERMÁN: Why? So that you can kick my ass?
SIMMON: That’s right, punk, so that I can put this foot all the way up
to the top of your head, punk.
GERMÁN: Why don’t you try all that big talk now?
SIMMON: Because you got the power.
GERMÁN: You see, there is power.
SIMMON: All over this fucking world.
INMATE VOICE: Mr. Johnson . . . Mr. Johnson, what the hell is going
on? They’re sounding off the yard.
SIMMON: Calm down, brother, calm down. Now get down on the
ground and I’ll make sure nothing happens to you. I got power up
here . . . I got power.
INMATE VOICE: What about my boys, Mr. Johnson?
GERMÁN: What about them, you stupid sucker? Fuck them, save
yourself. You’re lucky. He’s going to give you the protection. He’s
going to give you . . . fucker.
SIMMON: Shut the fuck up . . . shut the fuck up, Rosado. You hear
me? Shut the fuck up. Go get them.
INMATE VOICE: Right on, brother.
GERMÁN: Man, you are stupid. Man, are you dumb. He’s one of
them militants.
SIMMON: You’re lying.
GERMÁN: Am I? I never lie . . . for what?
SIMMON: Because you’re fucking crazy, that’s why.
GERMÁN: I am not crazy. There is nothing wrong with me.
SIMMON: Shut up. You don’t know what you’re talking about.
GERMÁN: Did you get the information or did I?
SIMMON: So what? That doesn’t mean anything.
GERMÁN: They got gas bombs. Shit, fucker, that means a lot. You
ever see a man burn to death?
SIMMON: Yes, I have.
GERMÁN: You scream all the way until you are dead. So now make
a decision . . . about death . . . about killing . . . Mr. Average Col-
ored Man in the Middle of the Road.
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Miguel Piñero
SIMMON: Shut up. You don’t know what you’re talking about. I
know people.
GERMÁN: You know people, you know people.
SIMMON: He’s my friend . . . I know him. He’s an inmate, but he’s
my friend.
GERMÁN: Yeah, but you don’t know yourself . . . you think you do,
you think you know yourself, but you don’t, fucker. You don’t
know shit. I told that to you the minute I saw you. He’s your
friend, heh? What if, for all this time, he had been planning on this
break and was just playing friendly to get close to you, to carry
this out, to carry this escape? You fool, you fucking fool, we’re
gonna be burnt alive.
SIMMON: You’re not worried about it.
GERMÁN: Because I want to die . . . but I want to watch you squirm
as you go through this whole shit . . . he catching you unaware
. . . yeah, you know people . . . you know people so well that you
put yourself in a position to die. A fucked-up death at that, ain’t
it? But like I said, you are God. What are you going to do, it’s
your creation? God, make it great. Are you going to shoot to kill?
Are you going to shoot to wound? Are you going to let them get
away? What are you going to do? One firebomb up here and we’re
through. And I found my out. What a plot for a movie. I should
have been a movie scriptwriter. What a plot . . . taantannramm.
Supernigger makes his move. Here come your friends and they
are coming running like the devil. It looks like they ain’t going to
stop at the fence.
INMATE VOICE: Mr. Johnson they’re beating everybody. I’m com-
ing over the tower.
SIMMON: That’s off limits.
INMATE VOICE: They’re killing me, Mr. Johnson. Don’t shoot.
GERMÁN is laughing. SIMMON takes the rifle from him.
LIGHTS.
132
Irving
The people in the play.
IRVING HOROWITZ (a closet gay, Jewish)

MIMI (Irving’s sister, late teens, early twenties, hip)
BUTCH (black and bisexual)
RICHARD (Irving’s younger brother, cool and precocious)
DAD (Irving’s very straight father)
MOM (Irving’s very straight mother)
AL KOOPERMAN (Mom’s brother, a garment tycoon who puts
money ahead of family)
133
Miguel Piñero
IRVING: Ah, gee, Uncle Al, ah, please, Uncle Al, come on, Uncle Al,
but, Uncle Al . . . it’s important, Uncle Al . . . that’s not a fair ques-
tion, Uncle Al . . . no, I didn’t mean that you’re unfair, Uncle Al,
just that it’s an unfair question, Uncle Al, no, Uncle, I really mean
it that I don’t mean it. I really mean it, Uncle Al, I really do, Uncle
Al, Uncle Al, just ’cause I say that you ask an unfair question
doesn’t mean that I really think you’re an unfair man, just that you
ask an unfair question, Uncle Al. It simply means, Uncle Al, that
you ask an unfair question. That’s all and it doesn’t mean that
you’re an unfair man, Uncle Al. No, Uncle Al . . . but . . . but . . .
yes, Uncle Al . . . you’re right, Uncle Al. Uncle Al, you are the
fairest of men . . . yes, Uncle Al, you are also the fairest man in the
garment district, I mean, business . . . Uncle Al, listen to me . . .
Uncle Al, can’t you take an hour or two out of your tax return forms
to come up here with me, it’s really important . . . no, Uncle Al,
nothing is as important as tax returns. . . . No, Uncle Al, I don’t
think you should cheat the government. No, Uncle Al, you should
not neglect the family business. Yes, Uncle Al, I wanna have a sum-
mer job every summer that I’m out of work . . . Uncle Al, I am part
of the family, right? Right! So I guess that means you will not show
up at the gathering. No, Uncle Al, what I want to announce is not
routine. No, Uncle Al, my announcement is not about me joining
the Marines . . . no, Uncle Al, I am not converting into any other
religion . . . no gurus, Uncle Al . . . it’s not the Navy. No, Uncle Al,
listen to me, it’s nothing as drastic as soldiering for anyone at any
time, anywhere on this planet. No, Uncle Al, I am not getting mar-
ried to a schwartza or a schickza . . . Uncle Al, will you listen to
me? No, Uncle Al, I am not going back to school . . . I had enough
of school . . . the Peace Corps? . . . I’m not that crazy . . . No, Uncle
Al, I did not become a member of the Jewish Defense League . . .
No, I am not going to Israel to no kibutz . . . look, Uncle Al, are you
going to come over or not? No, I am not threatening you, Uncle Al
. . . I have respect, Uncle Al . . . I apologize, Uncle Al . . . yes, Uncle
Al, we will speak on it tonight . . . thank you, Uncle Al.
HE hangs up, gives the finger to the phone, mimics his uncle asking
questions . . . phone rings.
IRVING: Hello . . . oh, it’s you . . . listen, I have no time today for an
obscene call . . . fuck you, too . . . no, listen don’t do that. Look, if
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Irving
you’re gonna jump off the bridge, jump, dammit, and stop bother-
ing me today. If you don’t mind, I would like to hang up and finish
preparing the house for my family . . . yes, I have a mother . . . yes,
I love her very much . . . no, I never wanted to . . . hey, what is
this? Who are you, Sig Freud? Oh, I see, you go to an analyst.
Okay, if that’s what turns you on . . . fuck you . . . oh, sure, any-
thing . . . anytime, except real late . . . I’m a theatre person. . . .
Hey, by the way, I’m gay . . . hello, hello, aw, shit, he hung up on
me . . . you can’t even depend on these crank callers . . .
Doorbell rings.
MIMI: Hello, sucker.

IRVING: Hi, sap.
MIMI: This is Butcher . . . Butcher, this is my baby brother, Irving.
BUTCH: Hi, call me Butch.
IRVING: Hi, Butch.
MIMI: What you got to drink?
BUTCH: What you got for the head?
IRVING: A hat.
MIMI: My baby brother still tells corny jokes, Butch.
IRVING: I wish that you would please stop referring to me as your
baby brother.
BUTCH: You smoke?
IRVING: No, it’s supposed to be hazardous to your health.
MIMI: He means grass, dummy.
IRVING: Once in a while.
BUTCH: Is this one of those whiles?
IRVING: With my mom and dad on the way here, hardly.
BUTCH: You mind if I light up a joint?
MIMI: No.
IRVING: Yes.
BUTCH: Well, which is it, yes or no?
IRVING: This is my house and I say no.
MIMI: Irving!
IRVING: Okay, go in the bedroom and take a can of airspray with
you, just in case, you know what I mean?
BUTCH: No, I don’t.
MIMI: What is this all about, anyway, Ira?
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Miguel Piñero
IRVING: Please stop calling me Ira . . . and you’ll find out what this
is all about soon enough, big sister . . . in due time.
BUTCH: (From the bedroom.) You’ve done time?
IRVING: No.
BUTCH: Oh, I thought you said something about time.
IRVING: I did.
BUTCH: Then you did serve time.
IRVING: Only in my mother’s womb.
BUTCH: In the tombs . . . yeah, that’s a heavy place
IRVING: Yeah, it sure is.
BUTCH: What did you say, brotherman?
IRVING: I said that me and my sister are discussing personal family
problems and I would appreciate it if you kept out of it.
BUTCH: What makes you think I wanna be in your family, anyway,
especially have you being ashamed of having done time.
MIMI: What would you like to drink, butcherman?
IRVING: You name it.
BUTCH: You got any pluck?
IRVING: Any what?
MIMI: Wine.
IRVING: Yeah, but it’s non-union grape wine.
MIMI: How would you have something like that in your house?
IRVING: Because it’s my house.
MIMI: But, Irving, don’t you know anything about the struggle these
people are going through, trying to unionize the workers of the
fields, my God!
IRVING: Don’t you use the Lord’s name in vain and, besides, it’s the
cheapest wine I could get. You know I’m not exactly making all
the money in the world.
MIMI: So you sell out the movement for a bottle of cheap wine.
BUTCH: Your brother sure plays himself cheap.
IRVING: Look, the only movement I’m interested in is the dance
class.
BUTCH: Of course, I got class. I’m with her, ain’t I?
IRVING: Look, would you please mind your business.
BUTCH: (Coming out of the bedroom.) Look here, buddy, unless you
can fight, you better dig yourself, with the way you come out your
mouth, ’cause the way I witness things with you is that you’re too
light to fight and too thin to win.
136
Irving
IRVING: Poetry!
MIMI: So are his oversized fists.
IRVING: I better warn you, Mr. Butcher, that I happen to hold a
brown belt in the deadly art of karate.
BUTCH: And I think I better warn you that I hold an oversized razor. . . .
MIMI: Will you two please stop it, already, you make me feel uneasy. . . .
IRVING: Not enough sun and vitamins . . .
BUTCH: Well, I don’t know about the vitamins, but I tell you one
thing, she gets enough of the sun.
MIMI: Funny.
IRVING: Very . . . a regular slappy white.
MIMI: So, who’s coming over?
IRVING: I just finished talking Uncle Al into appearing.
MIMI: Really . . . you got him away from the tax forms.
BUTCH: He’s like my Uncle Wilbur, aways making out the numbers. . . .
IRVING: It’s not the same thing, taxes and what your Uncle Wilbur
does.
BUTCH: Sure, it’s the same thing.
IRVING: How do you figure that?
BUTCH: Well, look at it this way: taxes deal with numbers and bread,
right? Well, so does the numbers . . . numbers deal with numbers
and bread too.
IRVING: You figured that out all by yourself, didn’t you?
MIMI: What’s your sign, Butch?
BUTCH: Gemini.
IRVING: I’m a saggetteri.
MIMI: Great combination you two make.
IRVING: You two make a great combination, too.
MIMI: Thank you, Irving.
IRVING: You probably deserve each other
BUTCH: Are you being nasty or what?
IRVING: What.
BUTCH: What?
MIMI: What?
IRVING: He asked me if I was being nasty or what. Well, I’m not
being nasty, so I must be being what.
MIMI: Whatever you’re being, you shouldn’t be being it.
BUTCH: That goes for me too . . . whatever you’re being, you should
be cool.
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Miguel Piñero
IRVING: I was just getting warm . . . (The doorbell rings.)

BUTCH: How long you been in the city?
IRVING: All my life. I was born in Brooklyn.
BUTCH: I’m talking about the city, not the suburbs.
MIMI: Who is it, Irving?
IRVING: It’s the delivery boy from the Chinese deli.
MIMI: Chinese deli?
BUTCH: Sure, why not, they have Puerto Rican soul food, don’t they?
IRVING: Sure, it’s been blessed by the neighborhood rabbi. They
make some good things to knosh on.
MIMI: I thought you told me you were going to have a nice little fam-
ily party with plenty of food.
IRVING: Well, I lied . . . and besides, you’re getting too fat . . . and I
don’t have the money to spend. . . .
MIMI: Can it, will you?
BUTCH: Jesus Christ, cold cuts.
IRVING: Would you like some hot cornbread?
MIMI: Irving, how dare you?
IRVING: How dare me what? You goddamn liberal broads.
BUTCH: Be cool, Irving . . . I can dig where you’re coming from, my
man.
IRVING: Can you?
MIMI: Butch, let me have one of those joints.
IRVING: Which you most likely paid for.
MIMI: Irving, you’re getting out of hand.
BUTCH: No, he ain’t, he’s on it. You want the roach clip?
MIMI: No, thank you, honey.
IRVING: (Stage whispering.) What’s all this crap about too thin to
win, too light to fight all about?
BUTCH: Well, it’s true . . . push comes to shove . . .
IRVING: Well, I’m pushing . . .
BUTCH: And I’m gonna shove . . . Miss Thing . . .
IRVING: And don’t call me Miss Thing . . . Mrs. Thing.
BUTCH: Be cool with that shit, Irving . . . you don’t want your sister
to know where your head is now, do you?
IRVING: Oh, do I have a surprise for you, darling honey.
MIMI: Oh, I forgot the airspray.
BUTCH: Well, Irving, you think the Knicks will take it?
IRVING: Oh, sure, if they change into their lavender gym trunks.
138
Irving
BUTCH: What is it with you, man?

IRVING: What is it with you . . . all I did was answer your question.
BUTCH: I don’t think I’m gonna like this party . . .
IRVING: As your people say, it’ll all come out in the wash.
BUTCH: Irving, no, this is not what I think that it is, is it?
IRVING: And what do you think this is . . . Butchy baby?
BUTCH: A coming out party.
MIMI: What kind of party did you say, Butch?
BUTCH: A blowing out party.
IRVING: How about a blow down party?
BUTCH: Come, stop talking loud, will ya?
IRVING: Is there something you don’t wish my sister to hear?
BUTCH: There sure is . . .
MIMI: Did you call me, loverman?
BUTCH: No, baby, go back into the bedroom.
IRVING: Yes, go finish your joint, I think you’re gonna need your
head together pretty soon.
MIMI: My head is together, isn’t it, baby?
BUTCH: It sure is, mama . . .
IRVING: It sure is, mama . . . wow, what a lot of crap you run out of
your face.
BUTCH: Gotta make a living, don’t I?
IRVING: Do you have to do it this way?
BUTCH: No, but can you give me an easier way?
IRVING: There are no easy ways to make a living.
BUTCH: Like hell, there isn’t . . .
MIMI: What are you two whispering about?
BUTCH: Nothing . . . nothing at all, baby doll.
MIMI: Let me have the roach clip, sugar?
BUTCH: Sure, sweet thing, here . . . me and your brother are dis-
cussing my relationship with you and my intentions.
IRVING: And I must say they’re quite honorable.
MIMI: My, Irving, I never thought you’d ask things like that.
BUTCH: He is your brother, isn’t he? . . . He’s concerned.
IRVING: Yes, I am in more ways than one.
MIMI: My, Irving, that touches me deeply.
BUTCH: Better leave us men alone for a while. Go and finish your
smoke, baby.
MIMI: Right . . .
139
Miguel Piñero
BUTCH: Good girl, that sister of yours.

IRVING: And she makes good money and has a little store up some
place, as if you didn’t know.
BUTCH: I didn’t know that at all, and that’s scouts honor.
IRVING: You probably stole your scout badge.
BUTCH: So happens I did.
IRVING: How long has this been going on?
BUTCH: What are you talking about?
IRVING: You and my sister?
BUTCH: About two months.
IRVING: You been going out with me for nearly three months.
BUTCH: Just trying to share myself with your family.
IRVING: Fuck you.
MIMI: Listen, this talk has got to end, ’cause the joint’s finished and
I am not going to spend my time back there waiting from now
until doomsday until you two decide that I can have a man. I make
my own decisions, thank you, Irving . . . and you, too, Butch!
IRVING: Do Mom and Dad know about you and . . .
MIMI: . . . and Butch, no! I see no reason for them to know any of my
personal life, sexual or otherwise, do you?
IRVING: I’m a man.
BUTCH: Really?
MIMI: Yeah! What is that supposed to mean . . . that I lie down and
wash dishes?
IRVING: Not a bad idea, if only you knew how to cook.
BUTCH: Restaurants are good enough for me.
IRVING: So are fried roaches . . . and boiled rats . . .
MIMI: You want another drink, Butch?
BUTCH: Yeah, honeychild.
IRVING: I would like one.
MIMI: Get your own. (Doorbell rings.)
IRVING: I’ll get it.
BUTCH: What makes you think anybody else was . . . ?
Telephone rings.
MIMI: You want me to answer it, Irving?

IRVING: Yeah, go ahead . . . if it’s any of my friends, I’m not home.
BUTCH: I didn’t know you had friends.
IRVING: They come in all colors too . . . Mom, Dad . . . Richard.
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Irving
MOM: Irving, my little baby!

DAD: How are ya, Irving?
RICHARD: Hey, Irv . . . qué pasa . . . it’s Spanish for what’s happening!
IRVING: Hey! Where’d you get them clothes, Richard?
RICHARD: They call me Rickie on the Lower East Side.
MOM: He moved out of the house. He thinks he’s a man, already.
RICHARD: Hey, mom! But I am!
DAD: Then he moves all the way down there with all those Porto
Ricans and . . .
RICHARD: Hey! What’s happening, my man?
DAD: Who’s this, a friend of yours, Irving?
MOM: Hello, Mimi. Mimi, what’s the matter with you? Look, she’s
white!
BUTCH: Well, she’s not exactly in my complexion league.
DAD: Mimi . . . Mimi . . .
MIMI: (Screams.) There’s a nut on the phone, Daddy.
IRVING: Oh, my God . . . give me the phone. He’s not a nut . . .
MIMI: What do you mean, he’s not a nut? I pick up the phone like any
normal . . .
MOM: . . . good Jewish girl . . .
MIMI: . . . and there’s this breathing and nasty words and suggestion. . . .
God almighty, what is this world coming to?!
IRVING: Will you shut up, already. He’s listening.
DAD: He should listen to what I’m going to say to him.
RICHARD: Be cool, Dad.
DAD: Do I look like a refrigerator to you?
RICHARD: Come on, Dad.
IRVING: Come on, Dad. He’s a friend of mine.
MOM: A friend of yours?
IRVING: Well, not exactly a close friend . . . no, we’re not friends,
don’t worry about it . . . but I told you I had company coming to
my house today . . . no, no, don’t jump off the bridge . . . it’s too
cold out tonight.
BUTCH: Tell him the water is polluted too. He’ll get sick!
DAD: What about my daughter? She is sick.
RICHARD: Aw, come on, Dad, there’s nothing wrong with Mimi.
MIMI: Like hell, there isn’t . . . how would you like to pick up the
phone and hear someone breathing on the other side?!
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Miguel Piñero
RICHARD: I think it’ll be a very hip thing if it happens to me. Most

of the time I do it to other people.
MOM: Richard!!
RICHARD: Rickie, Mom! Rickie . . . that’s my new name.
DAD: Rickie Harris . . . he’s ashamed of Horowitz . . . how could any-
one be ashamed of their family name?
BUTCH: I don’t know, my name is Castleton . . . Butcher Castleton.
MOM: Butcher?
DAD: It’s a name, Mother.
IRVING: I mean, like Mimi, how could you call the caller?
BUTCH: The who?
IRVING: I don’t know his name, so I call him the caller.
MIMI: You got some friends, I must say.
RICHARD: Everybody needs friends.
MIMI: But do they need freaks for friends?
MOM: Miriam, don’t speak like that.
DAD: That’s your daughter.
MOM: Now she’s my daughter.
RICHARD: I admit that she’s my sister.
MIMI: Thank you, Richard.
RICHARD: Think nothing of it, sis.
IRVING: . . . Because it’s nothing.
MIMI: Screw you.
MOM: Miriam!
DAD: Miriam!
RICHARD: Go on, sis, . . . with the bad mouth.
MOM: Where do you pick up such language?
IRVING: Most likely from her boyfriend.
DAD: Well, I sure’d like to meet this boyfriend of hers.
MOM: So would I. I have one or two things to say to him.
IRVING: You already met him . . . Dad . . . Mom . . . Richard . . . meet
Mimi’s male friend.
BUTCH: Hi, folks . . . the name is Butcher Garvey Castleton, my
friends call me Butch and my foes call me motherfucker.
RICHARD: Can I call you Butch?
BUTCH: You can call me as you please, it’s your world, my man. I’m
just visiting.
RICHARD: ¡Vaya! . . . that’s Spanish.
BUTCH: It’s Puerto Rican for anything that’s good.
142
Irving
MOM: Are you planning anything serious?

DAD: Are you planning anything serious?
MIMI: Mom already asked that question, Daddy.
DAD: So she did . . .
IRVING: Would anybody like a drink?
MOM: What’s the strongest thing you have, son?
IRVING: Scotch.
MOM: Make it a double.
DAD: Mother . . .
MIMI: Mother . . .
RICHARD: Mother . . .
BUTCH: (DAD chugs his drink down.) Wow, you do better than my dad.
RICHARD: Hey, man, are you a Panther?
MOM: Make it a triple.
DAD: That goes for me too.
BUTCH: No, my man, I’m a pussy cat.
MIMI: Mother, I am not getting married to Butch.
MOM: You’re not?
DAD: You’re not?
RICHARD: You making it common law?
DAD: Richard, keep your ideas to yourself.
MIMI: No, Mom, we’re just friends.
IRVING: Intimate special friends . . .
DAD: Oh . . .
MIMI: Why are you both acting so hysterical about my relationship
with Butch? . . . You taught me to be independent of others . . . to
make my own decisions . . .
DAD: Maybe we teach you too much too soon.
BUTCH: What is that supposed to mean?
DAD: Nothing important.
IRVING: Everything you’ve always said has been important. All of a
sudden it’s not . . . strange happenings going on here, Dad.
MIMI: In more ways than one, my darling Irving . . .
BUTCH: Are you apprehensive of the relationship between your
daughter and me because I am a black man?
DAD: It has nothing to do with the color of your skin, young man.
MOM: None whatsoever.
RICHARD: Boy, are you crazy . . . I don’t mean “boy” in the manner
that it has been meant to be for your people over the years . . .
143
Miguel Piñero
IRVING: Oh, shut up already with your I’m-a-hip-Jew routine,

Richard. It’s getting downright boring.
RICHARD: I’m just a human being trying to make contact with other
human beings, big brother.
IRVING: Why don’t you write your letters to the New York Times and
keep them in your coldwater flat?
RICHARD: Out of the closet, into the street, Irving . . .
MOM: Get what out of the closet?
MIMI: So, Richard, you had the same feeling about Irving?
DAD: What feeling are you talking about?
MOM: Mr. Butch, it has nothing to do with the color of your skin.
MIMI: No, then why are you so uptight?
RICHARD: They’re not uptight.
MIMI: Like hell, they ain’t!
DAD: You’re already beginning to sound like one of them.
MIMI: Like one of what?
MOM: Like one of them non-Jewish friends of Richard.
DAD: So, you see, Mr. Butch, it has nothing to do with your being
black at all.
RICHARD: None whatsoever.
MOM: No, only that you’re not Jewish.
BUTCH: According to Jewish law, if I’m not mistaken, your grand-
children will be Jewish and will fall under Jewish law.
MOM: My grandchildren! Oh my, oh my . . . my heart! . . .
DAD: Quick, get her purse.
MIMI: What’s wrong, Mom?
MOM: My heart . . . oh, my heart . . . I’m dying . . . my heart . . .
BUTCH: Jesus H. fucking Christ!
RICHARD: Here, Dad, her purse.
DAD: Get the pills, you dumb ox.
MOM: Everything is turning black . . . I hear the Lord calling me.
IRVING: Aw, come on, Mom, he don’t even know your name.
DAD: Irving, I can’t believe it.
IRVING: Look, she’s always catching heart attacks.
MIMI: It could be the real thing this time.
IRVING: You sound like something out of “Ben Casey.”
RICHARD: And you sound like someone out of Hitler’s youth.
IRVING: (Striking RICHARD.) Son of a bitch!
144
Irving
MIMI: Stop it, you two, . . . stop it . . . Mom is choking on a heart

attack and you two are battling each other . . . this is ridiculous.
RICHARD: You fight just like one too.
MIMI: Like one what?
IRVING: Why don’t you two go ahead and broadcast it to the world . . .
DAD: How are you, Mother?
MOM: I’m alright, just give me some brandy.
DAD: You have any brandy, Irving?
IRVING: Right there on the table, Dad.
DAD: How can you two fight over whatever you’re fighting over
when your Mother is dying of a heart attack?
MOM: What is going to happen to us when we retire to the home for
the aged?
BUTCH: We don’t send our old to them places.
RICHARD: That’s family love.
BUTCH: Also not being able to afford it . . . (Doorbell.)
MIMI: I’ll get it.
AL: Okay, where is that boy? Hello, Mimi.
MIMI: Hello, Uncle Al.
AL: Oh, I see you still consider me your uncle.
RICHARD: Hello, Uncle Al.
AL: Well, if it isn’t the longhair, freedom-of-expression, cosmic-
traveling, neo-wandering Jew of the new world!
BUTCH: Shitttt!
MIMI: This is Butch, my friend.
AL: Your chauffer, you said? . . .
BUTCH: He man, my man . . .
MOM: Oh, my heart.
DAD: Calm down, Mother.
AL: You have another heart attack again, Ruth?
MOM: I almost didn’t make it this time, Al.
AL: I’ll bet.
DAD: Hello, Al.
AL: Hello, Abe.
DAD: Long time no see.
AL: Long time since you took the company and most of the business
with you, Abe.
MOM: Let’s not start with personal family problems.
AL: Why not, we’re in front of the family.
145
Miguel Piñero
DAD: Not the whole family.

BUTCH: You got a nigger in the woodpiles . . .
AL: Let me have a drink.
IRVING: What’s that, Uncle Al?
AL: My taxes.
IRVING: But, Uncle Al, this is supposed to be a party for an impor-
tant announcement . . .
AL: I don’t have to look at you to hear you make a speech. (Phone
rings.) I got it.
MIMI: No.
IRVING: No.
AL: There’s somebody named Ramón . . . says he got “Panama Red.”
MOM: Panama is red? Since when? I thought Cuba was the only com-
munist Latin country.
DAD: So is Chile.
RICHARD: Panama Red has nothing to do with politics, Mom.
BUTCH: You can say that again, buddy.
MIMI: Irving . . . Irving . . . shame shame . . . Panama Red!
AL: Well, what ya want to tell the man? . . . Time is money, you know.
IRVING: I’ll speak to him. Hello, Ramón . . . how are you? No, that
was my uncle Al . . . no, no hassles . . . give me one . . . no, tomor-
row evening . . . adiós.
BUTCH: Necessity.
IRVING: Excuse me, what did you say?
BUTCH: All I said was necessity.
IRVING: What about necessity?
BUTCH: Adiós . . . dame una bolsa de yerba.
AL: You want a bag of grass?
IRVING: Uncle Al speaks very good Spanish.
AL: You have to, it’s a necessity . . . when you got a bunch of Puerto
Ricans working for you that just jumped off the boat . . . excuse
me, airplane nowadays . . . and they can’t speak a word of Eng-
lish . . . you’d be surprised how many of them can speak Yiddish
before they can speak English.
BUTCH: That’s what I was saying, my man.
AL: I am not your man . . . I am my own man, have been, will be until
the Lord comes to visit me and then I’ll give him an argument
about it too.
BUTCH: Hallelujah, praise the Lord!
146
Irving
Shots are heard.
IRVING: I recommend that everyone stay away from the window.

MIMI: Why?
BUTCH: That was no backfiring that you heard, baby.
MOM: Oh, dear God.
More gunfiring.
DAD: Why don’t we all sit on the floor?

RICHARD: Not a bad idea.
AL: Well, I am one that does not believe that it’s a good idea.
IRVING: Uncle Al!
BUTCH: That’s up to you, my man, but where I come from, when you
hear shots, you duck and pray the cop isn’t aiming in your direc-
tion. . . .
RICHARD: Well, I’m with Uncle Al.
AL: If we don’t bow to God . . . I definitely am not bowing to man or
his creations of death.
RICHARD: Me neither.
IRVING: Then why don’t you stop making believe that you’re tying
your shoes . . .
RICHARD: There.
Police siren.
BUTCH: The Man.

IRVING: Ditch the shit.
RICHARD: (Laughing.) Did you see him go for his pocket.
DAD: Officer! (By window) Officer, there’s one over there, Officer . . .
hello, up here, officer!
IRVING: Dad, what the hell are you doing?
BUTCH: Your old man is a rat.
MOM: Dad, mind your business.
IRVING: Dad, you wanna get me burnt out of here?
DAD: What are you talking about? I’m just trying to help the police.
BUTCH: Ain’t this a bitch?
RICHARD: In this neighborhood that’s a no-no, Dad, ’cause the guy
could have taken a shot at you.
MOM: God . . .
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Miguel Piñero
DAD: That’s why I tried to warn the officer.

RICHARD: Not the man on the run, Dad, but the cop.
BUTCH: That’s right, Mr. Horowitz, when they’re after somebody
who has a gun, they’re as jumpy as a dope fiend with his jones
coming down.
DAD: Though He may slay me, yet I will trust in Him and I will serve
Him without hope of reward.
BUTCH: That’s pure unadulterated bullshit.
AL: Watch your language, young man.
IRVING: Poor education.
MIMI: Crap.
MOM: Watch your language, young lady.
RICHARD: Young lady? (Giggles.) Mom, you better watch out.
MIMI: Up yours.
AL: Well?
IRVING: Well what?
AL: Well, what did you invite me up here for?
DAD: You mean you have to have something special to come and visit
your nephew?
AL: You mean you have to take all the business to be rid of your trou-
bles?
DAD: What are you talking about?
AL: Don’t hand me this innocent mashugana talk.
RICHARD: You two are still fighting over the split?
AL: If it had been a split, I wouldn’t be fighting and I’ll let you know,
young man, that we are not fighting, at least I am not fighting with
anybody . . . I am just bringing up facts about a certain backstabbing-
false-teeth-balding-type-wearing-a-hole-in-the-wall rat that mar-
ried my sister on the run.
DAD: Ten years, Al . . . ten years, Al, that I put up with your igno-
rance . . . your stupidity . . . your . . . your. . . hard-headed stub-
bornness. . . your . . .
MOM: Your blood pressure . . . don’t get excited! . . .
AL: Let him get excited, maybe he’ll pop a blood vessel.
BUTCH: And ruin little Irving’s rug?
AL: Ten years of your soft bleeding heart for every crook that ever
took a dress off a rack.
DAD: Listen to him talk . . . the strong-gut Sampson of the garment
district.
148
Irving
MOM: Your blood pressure, dear!

DAD: Blood pressure . . . blood pressure . . .
AL: Yeah, stay out of this . . .
DAD: This is my blood pressure, this nut brother of yours!
AL: Who are you calling a nut?
DAD: You and your whole family are crazy and lazy, with no imagi-
nation whatsoever to foresee the smell of horseshit in a stable. You
think . . . you think . . .
IRVING: Dad, are you all right?
MIMI: Dad . . . Dad . . . please, calm down.
DAD: Calm down?
RICHARD: Yeah, Dad, be cool before you blow a fuse.
AL: Well, at least he comes out with the truth of how he feels about
us . . .
BUTCH: I think I better leave . . . strangers are not well . . .
AL: Be quiet, young man.
MIMI: You’re my guest.
RICHARD: My man, right on.
IRVING: My man, limp wrist.
DAD: You stay, the whole world should know this.
AL: The whole world, no less.
DAD: The whole world should know how narrow minded you think.
AL: My thinking can’t be that narrow if you feel the whole world
should be informed about my thoughts.
DAD: That’s all you were: a lot of empty words, for all the time that
we worked together . . . for all the times that we traveled togeth-
er . . . for all the times that we ate together, and you stuck me with
the bill. . . . That’s what you are, Al, an empty dictionary sticker.
What time did you ever take the blame for any business failures?
Not one time did you ever take on the responsibilities for being
wrong. It was always “good old reliable Abe” that took the blame
. . . but when something good came along, it was “industrious Al”
who got the credit. . . . I helped build that company from the
ground up too, Al.
AL: I never said different . . .
DAD: No, you never said different . . . but also you never said any-
thing that would make the rest of the workers proud of me . . . I
was the cutter, Al.
AL: I was the business head, Abe.
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Miguel Piñero
DAD: But so was I . . . every holiday . . . there was an office party,

you always had someone introduce you . . . “Ladies and gentle-
men” . . . “fellow workers” . . . and on and on it went until a half
hour later . . . “and here is the man who gave us all an avenue to
exist in this world of bill collectors: Al Kooperman.” Then you
would go and make a speech of your headaches, of your endless
quest to keep them all employed, enabling them to feed and clothe
their families . . . what a lot of crap those office parties were, and
why was it that it was you that would introduce me, “Here’s my
partner, Abe Horowitz” . . . I barely ever heard my name . . . and
this year-after-year pattern never changed . . . the employees did,
so he always used the same speech every year, with the same
introduction . . . that was written by Mr. Al Kooperman himself.
AL: So that’s it!
DAD: No, that’s not it .
RICHARD: What is it, Dad?
MOM: Be quiet, Richard.
DAD: No, that’s not it, but why didn’t you ever have a speech like that
for me? Why didn’t you ever have an introduction like that for me?
AL: Why didn’t you have it for yourself? I wrote my own introduc-
tion and I wrote my own speeches.
DAD: Speeches?!
AL: Well, all right, a speech, but that doesn’t alter the fact that I did
write it myself . . . and had the guts to read it over and over again.
I always thought you weren’t interested in that kind of attention.
DAD: Well, I was.
BUTCH: Can I have another glass of wine, please.
IRVING: Dinner is . . .
AL: I’m not hungry.
DAD: Neither am I.
MOM: Frankly, son, I couldn’t eat very much myself.
RICHARD: This is more appetizing than food right now, Irv.
MIMI: I’m on a diet . . . a piece of bread with butter will do fine.
IRVING: How about you?
BUTCH: Why not . . . there’s nobody else here but you and me.
IRVING goes to the record player.
IRVING: Music.
BUTCH: Soft.
150
Irving
IRVING: Lights.
BUTCH: Soft.
IRVING: I have candles.
BUTCH: All the better.
Music: “I’m in the Mood for Love.” The family keeps up the argument.
IRVING and BUTCH set up the table, sit down to eat, never taking
their eyes from each other.
DAD: But, I fixed you good, didn’t I? How is the business coming
along?
AL: Great, Abe.
DAD: I worked every day out there on the table with the men. Not
once did you ever put in an appearance until payday.
AL: I worked my way up to be a boss . . . my working days are over.
DAD: Were over.
AL: You took all the experienced cutters with you.
DAD: You kept all the contracts.
AL: What are contracts without the people to produce them? I had lost
two of them already, plus the payments on the damaged garments.
BUTCH: Did you cook this yourself!
IRVING: Family recipe.
BUTCH: Good.
IRVING: Thank you.
BUTCH: You sure you wanna do what you plan to do?
IRVING: I see no reason why not.
BUTCH: I do.
IRVING: Them? They don’t miss me. They don’t even miss me in my
own home . . . they wouldn’t miss me later on.
BUTCH: What would you gain?
IRVING: What would I lose?
MOM: And you, dear, are becoming as big as a zeppelin.
MIMI: If you don’t mind, Mom
RICHARD: Go on, girl, give her a good one for both of you.
MIMI: Up yours!
IRVING: If I stood up right now and announced to them my feelings
. . . my lifestyle . . . they would all leap up in the air with glee . . .
and pour wine into my shoes and drink and toast my newfound hap-
piness and we would celebrate for days . . . and days and days . . .
BUTCH: Really?
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Miguel Piñero
IRVING: No, it’s just one of those bullshit dreams sons have in front
of their families . . .
BUTCH: Here’s to dreams.
IRVING: And may we never wake up.
AL: So, how are the taxes treating you?
DAD: They don’t treat me well at all.
AL: How’s that?
DAD: Have you ever heard of accountants?
AL: Yeah, sure, they’re for people who don’t have the guts and brains
to cheat the government with their own wits, so they get a front
man.
BUTCH: So, you really are going through with it.
IRVING: Of course, you don’t think I brought all these people togeth-
er just for good old times.
BUTCH: Are you going to say anything about me and . . .
IRVING: No . . . not unless they ask me if I have a lover.
BUTCH: By the looks of it they won’t.
IRVING: Richard.
BUTCH: The pseudo hip.
IRVING: Yes, the pseudo hip . . . the would-be wise child of Mr. and
Mrs. Horowitz is pretty bright.
BUTCH: He must use good toothpaste.
IRVING: My . . . my . . . how dry we get when we fear the truth.
BUTCH: I fear nothing.
IRVING: Except yourself.
BUTCH: Don’t go into your guru kick on me, Irv.
IRVING: Ohmmmmm.
BUTCH: What I’m basically saying is simply, if you’re gonna drag
your shit into the street, leave mine alone.
IRVING: It’s my coming out party, not yours.
BUTCH: Look, man, why this sudden rush to let the world know
you’re what you are? Would it make a difference?
IRVING: That’s what I hope to find out.
BUTCH: And if it did?
IRVING: Well, it does.
BUTCH: Look, man, why not just let your people die in peace?
IRVING: Have they ever let me live in peace?
MOM: What are you saying, Irving?
DAD: I’ve never gotten into your life, Irving.
152
Irving
RICHARD: Neither have I . . . nor anyone else, for that matter, Irv-
ing. In fact, Irving, you remind me of a hermit.
BUTCH: He’s hardly that.
MIMI: How would you know?
RICHARD: Why are you rapping that down anyway?
AL: Yeah, Irving, what’s it all about?
MOM: I don’t understand the meaning of we not letting you live in
peace.
AL: That makes no sense at all.
IRVING: It makes a great deal of sense when you are what I am.
AL: And what the hell is that . . . a rapist . . . a killer . . . an under-
cover rabbi?
IRVING: A homosexual.
Silence.
Pause.
AL: Yeah, well, go see a psychiatrist.

RICHARD: Are you a member of the Gay Activist Alliance?
MOM: I don’t understand.
IRVING: What’s there to understand, Mom? I’m vulnerable . . . as
soft as a water balloon . . . which anyone can burst at will . . . for
fun . . . for spite . . . for abuse . . . for whatever neurotic reason.
See, Mom, anyone can write graffiti about me in any public john
where a blank space stares at a magic marker. Whenever a person
goes into a public toilet or any toilet, for that matter, and he has
in his possession a magic marker, besides relieving himself, he
has one other purpose for going in there: that’s either to hurt
somebody by writing silly things on the walls, such as Irving
Horowitz is a homosexual, or he’s going to advertise himself, his
wit, his poetic sense, his disapproval of politics today, commen-
taries on the state of the nation, on the state of his mind, his
desires or his lost religion . . . A man with a magic marker is a
hired killer, like a soldier in Vietnam or a policeman in the South
Bronx. Some use a gun and some use a pen, while others don’t
give a shit how they use their tongue.
MOM: I don’t understand . . .
AL: Oy vey ist mir! You mean you got me out here to tell me you’re
a faggot?
MOM: I don’t believe him.
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Miguel Piñero
RICHARD: I do.
DAD: Why didn’t you send us all a letter?
AL: Yeah, why the hell you got us all together for? A telegram would
have been just as good.
IRVING: Yeah, I could see it now: “Dear Uncle Al—stop—I’m a
homosexual—stop—Regards—Irving—”
RICHARD: That’s great. You know, I had an experience like that in
the Army . . . well, actually not me . . . a friend of mine did . . . he
did it to get out of the service. Weird dude.
IRVING: You got out early, didn’t you, Richard?
RICHARD: Yeah, but for nothing that fucking weird. I ain’t no queer.
BUTCH: A poet has spoken.
MIMI: Please, Butch, keep out.
IRVING: He’s in.
RICHARD: How deep?
BUTCH: You had to do it, didn’t you, Irving? You couldn’t play your
own card by yourself. You just had to pull my hold card.
IRVING: Well, Butch, I guess it’s a game of cards.
MIMI: I don’t believe it . . . I can’t believe it . . . I refuse to believe it.
In background MOM is mumbling, “I can’t believe it” and “where

did I go wrong?”
RICHARD: You’re not leaving any room for Mom’s “not-believing”

statement.
MOM: You don’t look like a homosexual.
DAD: You sure don’t, kid.
AL: Go see a psychiatrist, there’s still time.
MOM: You don’t act like a homosexual.
DAD: You sure don’t, kid.
AL: Go see a psychiatrist. I have a friend who knows one . . . and he
accepts MasterCharge.
MOM: No, he’ll blame it on me.
RICHARD: Well, Mom, you are a little overbearing at times.
MIMI: At last, I got a sister.
BUTCH: Mimi, that’s not necessary.
MIMI: Since when does a man like you buck up a queer?
BUTCH: Why the fuck . . . excuse the language, Mrs. Horowitz, do
you have to call him a queer?
MIMI: What would you call him, a sissy?
154
Irving
RICHARD: How about “lover?”

MIMI: Richard, watch yourself.
IRVING: Well, Butch?
BUTCH: It’s as good a term as any.
MIMI: I don’t believe it.
AL: You mean to tell me he’s a homosexual, too?
RICHARD: Black and gay.
DAD: A two-time loser.
MOM: Him too? Lord!
MIMI: You mean you and my brother . . . no, no, that’s not so. Look,
Butch, who do you prefer, me or him?
MOM: Irving, you don’t march?
DAD: And if you do, wear sunglasses.
MIMI: Well, Butch, I’m waiting.
BUTCH: For what?
MIMI: For the answer. Who do you prefer?
IRVING: Well, I know who I prefer.
BUTCH: Shut the fuck up.
MIMI: Oh, I see, you both are a regular married couple.
IRVING: Well, I wouldn’t say that.
MIMI: No, what would you say?
BUTCH: I’m leaving.
MIMI: Taking the easy way out?
RICHARD: A cop-out artist.
AL: The only question I wanna ask is, Irving, do you think it’ll keep
you from making money?
IRVING: Yes and no, it all depends on how far gay liberation goes.
AL: Oh, how I hate politics.
MIMI: I don’t give a damn about money or politics. I wanna know
about Butch. . . .
MOM: I can’t believe it.
RICHARD: Go get ’em, sis . . . stay on the case . . .
BUTCH: A regular Sherlock Holmes.
IRVING: Oh, shit! You want some notes, Butchy?
MIMI: Why not call him Mary?
BUTCH: Why not call you motherfucker?
IRVING: Down boy, down.
BUTCH: I think both of you are very charming.
IRVING: Why, thank you, Butch.
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Miguel Piñero
BUTCH: Think nothing of it.

IRVING: I don’t.
RICHARD: That gay talk . . .
IRVING: My, my, you know a lot about gays, don’t you?
BUTCH: Probably school research, right, Richard?
AL: Look, seriously . . .
IRVING: What makes you think I am not serious?
AL: Irving, enough of this crap. Now that you made your declaration
of being a faggot to the family, what next?
BUTCH: The world . . .
MOM: Oh, no . . .
DAD: He’s kidding . . . you are kidding? He is kidding, isn’t he, Irv-
ing?
AL: What was the purpose of this whole public address crap, anyway?
Who the hell cares whether you’re a faggot or not?
IRVING: You do.
AL: All I care about is your wealth . . . health . . . and wealth . . .
RICHARD: So, Butch, you are the nigger in the woodpile?
BUTCH: I guess I am.
MIMI: Well, I have never really been selfish, but I’m leaving. Com-
ing, Butch?
BUTCH: Later.
MIMI: I’ll leave the key in the mailbox. Bye, Mom.
MOM: You’re leaving at a time like this, at a time of crisis?
MIMI: What crisis?
MOM: I don’t believe it, so I can’t say it.
MIMI: Mom . . . Mom . . .
RICHARD: What do you mean there is no crisis? If Irving hadn’t felt
there was a crisis in his lifestyle, sis, he would have never called
us together. If I remember correctly, you called me and told me
Irving said it was extremely important that we attend this dinner
. . . in fact, you said, “emergency.”
MIMI: Yes, but that was because he told me that.
MOM: So there, you see there is a crisis.
RICHARD: Are you contemplating suicide, Irving? It’s not worth it. . . .
Live the life you have accepted for yourself.
IRVING: There is no crisis, Mimi. And Richard, you keep those Kung
Fu slogans to yourself. I just felt the need to establish in your
minds what I am.
156
Irving
MOM: Oh, my poor baby.

MIMI: Good night, Mom . . . Dad . . . Richard . . . Butch . . . I’ll wait
up for you.
AL: Listen, Irving, next time you have something on your mind that
is as important as what you brought me out here for, why not do
like every neurotic in New York does . . . call a 24-hour “help me”
or something like that . . . they have suicide lines . . . drug lines
. . . drunk lines . . . so I betcha they have a line where faggots can
call.
DAD: Al, let me speak to you about . . . come on, Selma . . . it’s been
great, Irving. . . . So long, Richard . . . get a haircut.
AL: Let him keep his hair long . . . at the price of a haircut today . . .
let me tell you . . . so long, Irving. (They exit.)
MOM: I can’t believe it.
IRVING: Good night, Mom.
BUTCH: Good night, Mrs. Horowitz.
MOM: You too . . . I can’t believe it .
They sit in silence drinking.
RICHARD: Well, I guess I’ll be going.

BUTCH: Keep on going on. Later, baby.
RICHARD: Good night, Ira.
IRVING: You’re a bitch, Richard.
RICHARD: Yeah.
IRVING: I love you.
LIGHTS.
157
Sideshow
The people in the play.
HECTOR (the Man, from 11 to 13 years old, Puerto Rican)

MALO (the Merchant, 15 to 16 years old, Puerto Rican)
CLEARNOSE HENRY (13 to 15 years old, glue-sniffer, Puerto Rican)
TUTU (the Smoke Dealer, 16 to 18 years old, Black)
CHINA (Tutu’s girl, 14 to 16 years old, Puerto Rican)
SUGAR (prostitute, 15 to 18 years old, Puerto Rican)
LUCKY (pimp, 17 to 18 years old, very handsome, Puerto Rican)
PANCHO KID (hustler, 15 to 17 years old, Puerto Rican)
CISCO (apprentice hustler, 12 to 14 years old, Puerto Rican)
CUSTOMER (jíbaro, 25 to 30 years old, Puerto Rican)
SUPER (35 to 40 years old, Black)
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Miguel Piñero
The latter two roles should be played by the oldest dude in the cast.
The first voice in the play should be male, and the second voice should
be female and motherly. The dance scene should be contemporary
dancing.
HECTOR: Hurry, hurry, step right up and see the baddest show in
town for only fifty cents.
MALO: Hi, I’m Malo the Merchant. I see anything and everything.
Anyone care to buy a watch . . . cheap?
NILSA: Hey, mira, Malo, ¿quieres comprar un television brand new?
I just liberated it.
MALO: No.
NILSA: Come on, man . . . my jones is coming down . . . it’s brand
new . . .
MALO: Brand new! Are you crazy? What you think I am, a sap? Shit,
this thing has a broken antenna . . . channel button is missing . . .
NILSA: How much you give me?
MALO: Twenty dollars.
NILSA: Twenty dollars? Man, come on, Malo, don’t be like that.
MALO: Man, I ain’t gonna make the market scene with you, brother.
Twenty dollars, take it or leave it.
NILSA: I’ll take it . . . later, Malo.
MALO: Later.
TUTU: What’s happening, people? I’m Tutu. I deal smoke and I do it
for a living . . . and this here is my woman, China. She young girl
. . . but she cool . . .
CHINA: I’m China, Tutu’s woman. He’s a good man. I hold his
smoke . . . sometimes I help him make a play or run a game.
MALO: Hey, Tutu, wanna buy a T.V. set . . . brand new? Brotherman,
dig this here . . . P-a-n-a-s-o-n-i-c and it’s got this new antenna . . .
you dig . . . short ones so they ain’t all over the place getting in
your way and shit like that . . .
TUTU: Okay, Malo, cut the shit short, bro. We need one for the bath-
room, anyway.
MALO: Hey, man, that’s cool. This way you don’t miss out on the
soap opera when you take a shit.
CHINA: Funny! Why don’t you talk that foul fuckin’ language some-
where else.
TUTU: Yeah, like, be cool, motherfucker.
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Sideshow
MALO: Excuse me, sister . . .

TUTU: What’cha want for it?
MALO: Seventy dollars.
TUTU: Later.
CHINA: Vayaaaaaa.
MALO: Okay, okay, wait a second . . . thirty-five dollars . . . so, okay?
TUTU: What you think, baby?
CHINA: It’s cool with me.
MALO: Vaya. Here.
TUTU: Wait up, bro, I ain’t gonna be carrying that shit with me all
day. I’m out here to make my money, bro. Look, man, you know
where I live at, right? Give it to the super, okay? Tell ’im I’ll pick
it up tonight. Later.
MALO: Later.
PANCHO KID: My name is Pancho Kid. I been out here hustling for
two years. I do it ’cause I like the bread and the feeling. This here
is Cisco.
CISCO: I’m Cisco. I’m new around here. I’m supposed to be hustling,
but I ain’t making much money.
CLEARNOSE HENRY: I’m Clearnose Henry and I sniff glue because
it’s a together thing.
LUCKY: How do you do? My name is Lucky and I’m a gentleman of
leisure.
SUGAR: Hi, I’m Sugar. I’m Lucky’s Woman. I’m out here hustling
the streets for Lucky, trying to make a living, doing the best I can
for my man.
NILSA: Me, my name is Nilsa. I’m a dope fiend. Oh, yeah, and a
thief.
HECTOR: Hi, my name is Hector. I’m the Man. Welcome to my
world.
CHINA: Tutu, I don’t wanna hold the smoke no more.
TUTU: Why?
CHINA: ’Cause I’m getting scared, that’s why. And besides, you
know, that couple from ’cross the street got busted dealing smoke
last night.
TUTU: That’s because they weren’t as cool as we are, baby. And any-
way, girl, if we did get busted, you think I’d let you take the
weight?
CHINA: No.
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Miguel Piñero
TUTU: Okay, then, it’s settled. Let’s go make some money, ’cause
there’s plenty of it out here.
PANCHO: Cisco come ’ere.
CISCO: What the fuck you want?
PANCHO: I’m gonna teach you something about the hustle.
CISCO: Like what?
PANCHO: Like if you gonna rip off some of your scores, make sure
you keep this in mind. Rip off the old ones, ’cause they don’t fight
back. Now, the young ones you got to be cool with ’cause some
of them niggers may be karate black belts and what not. You dig?
Now what you do with a young trick is you give them a rap like
you ain’t got no place to go . . . and that you hungry and shit like
that, and if you have to let a tear fall out of your eyes, then you let
a tear fall out of your eyes . . . you get into their confidence . . .
look around, check out the windows, the strength of the door . . .
and also check out if you can cop an extra set of keys. If you cop
them, get your boys and rip off the dude for everything he got . . .
make sure he don’t find out you did it.
CISCO: . . . And if he does?
PANCHO: If he does, make sure your boys are packing when he
comes around . . . (Shouts.) Hector, bring down the basketball.
HECTOR: Wait up, I’m looking for it.
MALO: Come ’ere, everybody, man, come ’ere. Hey, let’s do a play.
CLEARNOSE: I don’t want to be in no play.
MALO: If you don’t want to do nothin’, don’t do nothin’.
HECTOR: What kind of play?
MALO: Hold up, let me see . . . oh, yeah, remember the time we got
busted, me and Clearnose . . . we got sent to Spofford . . . the time
when that little kid got fucked, remember . . . ?
Everybody laughs.
MALO: (To CHINA.) You be a social worker and (To PANCHO.) you
be a typist and (To NILSA.) you be a guard.
CHINA: I don’t want to be no fuckin’ social worker.
MALO: Well, you’re gonna be a fuckin’ social worker. Now we need
the kid that got fucked.
Everybody looks at CLEARNOSE.
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Sideshow
MALO: Why don’t you play the part of the kid?

CLEARNOSE: No way in the world you gonna get me to play that
part.
EVERYBODY: Ah, come on, man, don’t be like that.
MALO: Come on, let’s do it, it’s boring around here.
CLEARNOSE: Naw, man, I don’t want to play the kid who gets
fucked.
MALO: Man, how long you know me? Do it for me, bro.
CLEARNOSE: No.
MALO: I’ll give you a box of tubes.
CLEARNOSE: A box of what?
MALO: A box of glue.
CLEARNOSE: All right, all right.
MALO: I’m director.
EVERYBODY: Ahhhh, it figures, it figures.
MALO: (To PANCHO.) Come on, man.
PANCHO: (Sitting down on some steps.) I don’t want to be in it, man.
MALO: Come on. (Grabs his hand.)
MALO pushes everything out of the way, then puts everything back in
the same place.
HECTOR: Malo, Malo, look what I got here, a table for the type-
writer.
MALO: Naw, get out of here, that’s no good. Where did you get this
from?
HECTOR: Right over there.
MALO puts it back, and picks it up again.
MALO: Hey, look what I got here, a table for the typewriter. . . you
put it like this, and you put the typewriter right here . . . then the
typist can go tack, tack, tack. (Makes sounds like typewriter.)
CLEARNOSE is combing his hair.
HECTOR: Come on, man, come in already . . . you’re not on Broad-

way.
MALO: Come on, come ’ere, hurry up, man.
CLEARNOSE walks in. HE attracts attention.
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Miguel Piñero
HECTOR: God damn, you’s a fine mother, Clearnose.

MALO: (Directing CLEARNOSE.) Go into the social worker’s
office.
CHINA: (As social worker.) What’s your name?
CLEARNOSE: Clearnose.
CHINA: Clearnose what?
CLEARNOSE: Clearnose Henry.
CHINA: Room 106. (Takes CLEARNOSE to the dorm room and
introduces him around.) Malo, this is Clearnose Henry. Hector,
this is Clearnose Henry . . .
CHINA returns to her office, followed by HECTOR trying to grab her

ass. MALO, CLEARNOSE and HECTOR sit on the floor.
MALO: Is this your first time in here?

CLEARNOSE: Yeah.
MALO: It is? Well, let me tell you what goes on around here. We eat
breakfast at six, lunch at eleven and dinner at seven. Let’s see,
what should we do now?
HECTOR: I got an idea, I got an idea.
MALO: What?
HECTOR: Let’s show him the psychedelic bathroom.
MALO: Naw, man, I got a better idea.
HECTOR: What?
MALO: Let’s show him the psychedelic bathroom.
HECTOR: That’s what I said, dummy.
All three get up, MALO and HECTOR grab CLEARNOSE and try to
take his pants down. The landlord enters.
LANDLORD: Hey, what are you kids doin’ here? Shouldn’t you be in
bed at 2 o’clock in the morning? (To MALO.) Hey, didn’t I see
you around here before? I told you kids not to hang out around
here . . . you’re disturbing the peace.
MALO: But, sir.
LANDLORD: (LANDLORD overtakes MALO.) If I catch you here
again, I’m gonna call the cops on you.
The LANDLORD exits, HECTOR and MALO attack CLEARNOSE

again. CHINA rushes in.
164
Sideshow
CHINA: Hey, what’cha doin’ to that kid? (SHE grabs CLEARNOSE.)

MALO: Oh, I know that kid from the Bronx where I live at.
CHINA: You don’t live in the Bronx . . . you live in Staten Island.
MALO: Oh, I mean I go to the Bronx just to go dancin’.
MALO starts dancing. CHINA walks away with CLEARNOSE to the

office.
CHINA: What you want?
HECTOR and MALO listen outside the door.
CLEARNOSE: I want a transfer. I want a transfer. There’s a whole

bunch of faggots in my dormitory trying to fuck me.
MALO: (As director.) You don’t say it like that. You be Malo and I’ll
be Clearnose. This is the way you say it: “I want a transfer, I want
a transfer, those kids are trying to fuck me.” (MALO says it in an
angry manner.)
CLEARNOSE: (Being MALO.) You don’t say it like that, you say it
like this . . . (CLEARNOSE repeats what MALO says.)
MALO: What are you doin’?
CLEARNOSE: You told me to be you!!
MALO: Stupid.
CHINA: Who are the kids, can you recognize them?
CLEARNOSE: The one with the ugly face, and the short dumb look-
in’ one over there.
MALO: There’s a door there, stupid.
CHINA: No, you can’t have a transfer.
CLEARNOSE: What do you mean I can’t have a transfer?
CHINA: (Shouting.) You can’t have a transfer!
CLEARNOSE walks out of the office.
MALO: What’cha doin’, remember there’s a door there!
CLEARNOSE goes back and walks through the door and goes back
to the dorm room.
MALO: You ain’t mad about what happened today? It’s just that when
you got up, we forgot to tell you that the floor was just waxed, and
you fell and we were trying to help you up.
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Miguel Piñero
HECTOR: What did they ask you in the social worker’s office?
CLEARNOSE: Nothin’, they just wanted to know more information
about the robbery.
HECTOR: What robbery?
CLEARNOSE: The robbery that got me here, stupid.
MALO: That’s not what I heard. I heard you ratted us out.
CLEARNOSE: Who told you that?
MALO: A little birdie.
CLEARNOSE: I didn’t rat you out.
MALO: (To PANCHO.) Keep chickie. (MALO throws CLEARNOSE
against the wall.) Yes, you did. Stop lying. (MALO starts chok-
ing him. CLEARNOSE is pushed to the floor. MALO is on top of
him, strangling him.)
CLEARNOSE: Ohhhhh, the pain, the pain . . . agony, agony, agony,
agony, agony, etc.
CLEARNOSE rolls around on the floor, holding his throat, groaning.

HE moves toward CHINA, sits on her lap, starts kissing her.
MALO: What are you doin’? You’re supposed to be dying.

HECTOR: Why don’t you die already?
MALO: You see this fist? You’re going to die for real. (MALO push-
es CLEARNOSE to the floor and starts choking him again.) You
ever seen in the movies when someone gets choked . . . they die,
right?
CLEARNOSE: Yeah.
MALO: Then die, then.
CLEARNOSE groans some more, then dies.
CHINA: Boy-slaughter, boy-slaughter!!
HECTOR is praying and crying over CLEARNOSE, crossing himself

and sobbing.
CHINA: (To HECTOR.) Come ’ere. What did you do to that kid?
MALO: Hey, leave my brother alone, leave my brother alone.
CHINA: Then you take the responsibility.
CHINA takes MALO into her office.
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CHINA: Why did you kill that kid?

MALO: What kid? (Playing with her blouse.) That’s a nice blouse.
CHINA: Forget about the blouse. I asked you a question. Why did you
kill that kid?
MALO: I didn’t kill nobody . . . (Still looking at the blouse.) I like the
designs on your blouse. (Touching her collar and moving down to
her breasts. MALO’s other hand is in his pocket masturbating.)
HECTOR: Yo, Clearnose, check this out. Malo’s jerking off. (Both
HECTOR and CLEARNOSE imitate MALO.)
CLEARNOSE: Oh, shit. (HE and HECTOR start laughing and walk
away.) Hey, Malo, there’s a customer coming.
CHINA: Com’on, let’s play a little longer, man.
MALO: You don’t support me, bitch. (MALO grabs his rack and
starts selling clothes.) Ropa, ropa por vender caro y barato.
(HECTOR runs through the middle of the rack.) What the hell
you doin’? (Starts chasing HECTOR, grabs him and takes him to
the rack.) Hey, what the fuck you doin’? This is my motherfuck-
in’ rack. Don’t play that shit with me! (MALO kicks him in the
ass.)
HECTOR walks over to CLEARNOSE. CLEARNOSE calls him

“stupid.” Then a customer walks in.
SUGAR: Hey, mister, you wanna have a nice time?

CUSTOMER: No, no, I don’t got no money. You take credit? Food
stamps?
SUGAR: Hey, pendejo!
TUTU: (Calls customer over.) You wanna buy some smoke.
CUSTOMER: You want a cigarette? Yeah, I got a cigarette.
TUTU: No, you know, smoke, marijuana.
CUSTOMER: You shoot marijuana in your veins?
CISCO: (Holding his crotch invitingly.) Hey, mister . . .
CUSTOMER: I’ll tell your mother . . .
NILSA tries to pick his pocket. CUSTOMER sees him and starts
chasing him.
MALO: Oye, pana, ven acá un momento. Mira esto. ¿Le gustaría
comprarse un reloj caro barato?
CUSTOMER: ¿Qué es, hombre? Déjame quieto.
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Miguel Piñero
MALO: No te vayas. Mira, qué lindo es este reloj.

CUSTOMER: Wha jew say? No pica la Inglish.
MALO: Who the hell is speaking English? Jesus Christ, I’m trying to
do you a favor . . . an expensive watch . . . cheap . . . cheaper than
cheap . . . in fact, it’s so cheap that if I sell it to you any cheaper,
you’d be stealing it from me.
CUSTOMER: I don’t steal. No crook. Goo byy. Lea’ me alone.
MALO: No, I ain’t saying you steal it. I stole it to sell it to you at a
steal. Look, forget about the word steal . . . I mean steal . . . hey,
don’t go . . . come ’ere . . . mira, qué belleza . . . look at it, man
. . . I ain’t going to bite you . . . mira, go on see . . . heavy, ah?
CUSTOMER: I don’t see nothing.
MALO: Come a little bit closer. I don’t want the police to see me.
Look . . . see . . .
CUSTOMER: I don’t have to get closer. I got 20/20 in both eyes. I see
nothing. I don’t see a thing. I don’t want it. Goo byy.
MALO: Wait, wait, look, man, oye, mira . . . es un Bulova . . .
BUUU-LUUU-VAAA for sixty dollarssss.
CUSTOMER: Buluva for sixty? Are jew kiddin’ me? I could get it for
forty dollars in the store.
MALO: You can get a Longine for forty dollars?
CUSTOMER: Longine, you said a Bulova.
MALO: It is a Bulova. I mean it’s a Bulova watch with a Logine band.
It’s what they call a Bulogine. You musta heard the commercials
on T.V., you do have a T.V.? “If it’s a Bulogine, it’s real keen,”
right?
CUSTOMER: Yes, sí, sí, I got a T.V., everybody has a T.V.
MALO: No, because if you don’t have one, I can get you a nice T.V.
. . . color . . . cheap . . . very nice buy.
CUSTOMER: Bulogine, huh?
MALO: Okay, dig this: I’ll let you have it for sixty dollars, and when
you come back for the T.V.
CUSTOMER: Sixty dollars? Thirty-five dollars is the most money I
can afford. I don’t want no T.V.
MALO: Thirty-five dollars for a Bulogine . . . what you take me for?
CUSTOMER: I take you for nothing, because you are nothing . . . a
junkie . . . tecato.
MALO: Okay, it’s true, I’m a dope fiend, pero no tengo el bicho de
cartón.
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CUSTOMER: Thirty-five dollars, that’s it, no more, no less . . . maybe

less . . . but no more.
MALO: Look, man, forty dollars, please . . . if I wasn’t sick, you think
I’d be selling this watch? My wife bought it for me last week.
Look, when you come back for the T.V. I’ll give it to you cheap-
er by five . . . no, ten dollars.
CUSTOMER: Wait a minute. I don’t want no T.V., color or black and
white. I don’t know where you got that idea from. If you want
forty dollars, you don’t want to sell the watch to me. Maybe
somebody else will pay you sixty or forty dollars, but not me.
Thirty-five dollars and that’s it . . . take it or leave it. I got to go
home. Goo byy.
MALO: Okay, okay, you got it. Thirty-five dollars. You drive a hard
bargain. Listen, can you throw in a dollar for me to eat? Just a dol-
lar? Please, I’m hungry.
CUSTOMER: Okay, here. (Walking away.) Qué soqueta. . . thirty-five
dollars for a Bulogine.
MALO: Thirty-five dollars for a Bulogine . . . some people you can
see them coming a mile away . . . a seven-dollar Timex with a
famous label. Hi, I’m Malo the Merchant. Malo in Spanish means
bad, not bad as in bad, but bad as in good. They call me Malo the
Merchant because I’m good at what I do. I’m so good, it’s terri-
ble. It’s bad, that’s why I’m Malo-bad. Can you dig it? What do I
do? You just witnessed me in action. Some of my friends say I can
talk the handle off a pot. I’ve never tried, but I don’t doubt that I
can do it. That’s one of the tools of my trade: my tongue and these
labels. I got all kinds of labels. The little woman at home hard at
work sewing on famous labels on second-hand clothes. After I
take them out the cleaners, just like new. Maybe you’ll like a suit
. . . very cheap . . . (Laughs.) . . . yeah . . . I can take a cheaply
made T.V. set from some obscure company from a country you
never even heard of and give glory with my labels and with my
tongue . . . here, take a look at this tongue of mine . . . see it . . .
all red with the fire of speech. I could have been a preacher . . .
hell-fire and brimstone . . . don’t think I ain’t hip to the mind game
. . . turned around collar . . . shit, only thing is my words kept
falling out of the Bible . . . and then once I got caught in bed with
the preacher’s wife . . . weren’t too bad . . . if he hadn’t decided
to join us . . . three is a crowd. Malo the Merchant . . . I like my
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Miguel Piñero
own name . . . it’s got a certain ring to it . . . everybody needs some

type of recognition . . . I ain’t no different than anyone else. I
thought of being a dealer one time, but like you really don’t make
no bread. If you is a small timer, too many people to be paid, too
many people come up short. Burglary is climbing too high and as
you go up, so can you come down. I hate mugging. First of all,
you’re taking someone’s payday check, ’cause not many mug the
big execs. As a merchant I only take what they were goin’ to waste
on beers in some greasy spoon saloon. Then sometimes you hit a
drunk that wants to fight and you got to off him or he vomits all
over you and you stink so bad ain’t no pusher wanna sell you a
thing. Now, I know, ’cause you see me greasy as a pork chop you
think I stink. Well, this is only an accessory of my trade. I got
more veins at home than a little bit . . . got it like the feds . . .
everyone likes to deal and wheel. Me, I just wheel the deals. I got
something for everybody. Nobody goes away empty-handed
when you come and see Malo the Merchant. . . . White boys from
the suburbs . . . in a way I am the cause of the state’s great con-
cern with drugs nowadays. When they came to me, I got it for
them . . . never turn one of them down. They came, I gave, they
took and they all got hooked, kinda like a poem. That’s when dope
became a terrible plague, destroying the youth of our nation. Well,
not my nation, their nation, ’cause for years it had been destroy-
ing our nation and no one gave a good fuck about it. Hey, what
you wanna git, whitey? Hey, whacha wanna git, Mr. Jones? You
wanna nicey girlie to fuckie fuckie? I got two of everything, three
of anything and you got to start out with one of nothing so you
can end up with something. Someone at sometime has been taken
for his poke by the sleight of hand of the Murphy Man or the
words some con man spoke. Now, the dope fiends are ruining the
name of a hell of a game. When are we gonna yell out no more
fucking dope? You are surprised that I, a dope fiend, would make
such a distinction between me and my peers? But you see, the
time before this there was the time before that and that’s where I
live, in the time before this.
HECTOR: My father said Malo can rap and lie, I mean LIE. My
father said Malo should be a politician or a newspaper man,
’cause he can lie like a book.
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CHINA: (Holding a radio.) Hey, listen to this. (Music gets louder.

Everybody begins dancing.)
LUCKY enters and interrupts the dance.
LUCKY: Hey, bitch, where’s my money?

SUGAR: What money?
LUCKY: My money, bitch, the money you’re supposed to be out here
hustling.
SUGAR: Get the fuck off me.
PEOPLE IN CROWD: Wooooooo! Go on, girl! Do it! Tell him about
himself, etc.
LUCKY: What do you think this is, Disneyland? I want my money!
SUGAR: Don’t hit me. Who the fuck you think you are? Here I’m out
on the street hustling to buy you clothes, keep you nice and warm
in the house, put the gasoline in the car so that you can drive
around with some fine white girl?! Boy you better dig yourself
before you be by yourself.
LUCKY grabs her, twists her arms.
LUCKY: We’ll talk about that upstairs, bitch.
LUCKY bumps into TUTU.
TUTU: Why don’tcha watch where you’re going, man?
Pause and silence.
LUCKY: Excuse me, bro.
LUCKY sends SUGAR to the apartment.
CLEARNOSE HENRY: I’m Clearnose Henry. That’s what everybody

calls me. Clearnose Henry . . . ’cause I always clear my nose
before I blow my mind. Costs me two first presidents to buy me a
box of tubes and coin Lincolns to cop my dream brown paper bag.
I don’t slink around corners under street lamps to score, or hide in
some dim-lighted muggers’ tenement hall for my pusher to
appear. That bag is for dope fiends and that scene is a dragpot.
Grass is too scarce in these parts and I’m scared of scag ’cause
I’m scared of needles . . . faint at the sight of one. That’s why I
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Miguel Piñero
don’t watch those doctor shows on T.V. Excuse me a second while

I pour my tubes into my dream brown paper bag. Yeah, man, that
looks pretty good. Like I was saying, snuff is for old people who
like to sit and nod, and LSD or sunshine, those trips they take you
on are too far out, speed kills . . . oh, oh, . . . the sleep sand is rain-
ing out the bottom of my dream brown paper bag. I’m going to do
it, ain’t gonna talk it.
CLEARNOSE takes a sniff, then two, then a bunch faster and faster.
HE goes into wows, ahhhs, yeahs, wows.
LUCKY’s apartment. Enter LUCKY pushing SUGAR into the room.

LUCKY takes off his belt, strokes it and then whips SUGAR.
LUCKY: You like embarrassing me, right? ¿Te gusta?

SUGAR: But you’re nothin’ but a dog.
LUCKY intensifies beating.
LUCKY: Who the fuck you calling a dog, bitch? Why weren’t you
making no money? (LUCKY stops beating SUGAR. HE puts his
belt around his neck, he lights a cigarette and exits.)
SUGAR is lying on the bed. Her jones is coming down. SHE is in

pain, she searches around for her dope. Finding nothing, she falls
back on the bed.
SUGAR: Mama-Mama-Mama, can you hear me, Mama?
It’s me, Mama, it’s your baby, Mama.
Papa done hit me again, Mama.
He was drunk, Mama. I know he ain’t my Papa, Mama,
but every time you’re sleeping he comes into the room,
he comes and sits on my bed and feels on my leg, Mama.
Mama, he scares me when he’s like that,
breathing all hard and fast and hot, spit falling on me,
him shaking and groaning like an animal.
I know, Mama . . . the landlord . . . the food . . .
Mama, where are you?
I didn’t mean for you to die like you did
but you told me you’d be around
when I needed you.
Mama, where have you been?
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Mama, I need you.
I love you.
I need you now, Mama. I need you now.
I needed you then.
And you tell me to wait ’til tomorrow,
tomorrow is here, Mama.
It’s here and it’s now yesterday, Mama.
Shit, Mama, I’m getting sick.
Mama, me, your baby, I needs me a fix.
Mama, I’m a junkie, Mama,
A HOPE TO DIE DOPE FIEND.
Mama, please, it beginning to hurt.
My legs, Mama, they hurt like hell.
Mama, someone is crushing them to nothing,
into powder, Mama,
into powder, Mama, white powder, Mama,
like the one I needs,
like I needed you, Mama,
like when I laid in the bed crying
from fear of the many papas
that came into my room.
Like I needed you, Mama. I needed to put my head between
the hollow of your breast, Mama,
like the johns need to put their heads between the hollow
of my breasts, Mama, and call me Mama.
Mama, they call me trickie now ’cause I’ve turned more
tricks in one night
than you turn in a lifetime. (Screams.)
Mama, it getting worse.
The monkey is traveling down my back,
calling to my mind to feed my veins.
Mama, please help me, Mama. I’m tired of turning tricks,
committing crimes. I wanna kick, I wanna fix.
I want you to need me.
Mama, I can do it with your help,
with your care, your love.
Mama, love me like you mean it Mama.
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Miguel Piñero
The pain open the door.

Help me, Mama, please help me, please, please, Mama,
I-I-I . . .
SHIT, YOU IS DEAD.
HECTOR enters the apartment, sits a short distance from SUGAR.
HECTOR: I remember her. She used to babysit me. She used to take
me to the park. She used to buy me ice cream and candy and all
that shit. She was fine, she was nice, but now she’s a skank! Now,
when she sees me, she asks me for money, ’cause she knows I
work at the A & P.
HECTOR leaves the apartment, a siren is heard, LUCKY comes up

running across the stage, knocks HECTOR down, yells at him, runs
over to CHINA.
LUCKY: (To CHINA.) Hold this for me!

CHINA: What is it?
LUCKY: Just hold it, bitch. I’ll be back later.
TUTU walks in. HECTOR’s crying on the floor.
TUTU: (To CHINA.) What happened to him?

CHINA: Some dude knocked him down.
HECTOR: Tutu, Tutu, some man hit me with a baseball bat and
kicked me in the stomach and took my money.
TUTU: He took all your money?
HECTOR: Yeah, 50 cents. Oh, my leg, my leg!
TUTU: (To CHINA.) Who knocked him down?
CHINA: You know the dude: Lucky the pimp. He gave me some coke
and money to hold.
TUTU: Some what?
CHINA: Some coke and money to hold.
TUTU: What are you, crazy, stupid or what?
CHINA: No, man, Tutu, I just didn’t have time to give it back. I
didn’t know what it was, anyway.
TUTU: Man, shut up. Give me that shit, and when he comes you tell
him I got it.
TUTU picks up HECTOR.
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TUTU: Come on, Hector, I’ll buy you an ice cream.
TUTU and HECTOR exit. Enters LUCKY, straight to CHINA.
LUCKY: Okay, give me my shit.

CHINA: Don’t you think your shit is where it belongs: up your ass?
LUCKY: Come on, I ain’t got time for your shit.
CHINA: I already told you, your shit is where it belongs, up your ass.
LUCKY: What, you crazy bitch, you trying to beat me?
HECTOR enters, runs by him.
HECTOR: You big bully, you maricón, you . . .
TUTU enters.
TUTU: Excuse me, brother, you got your face on my woman.

LUCKY: Your woman gots something of mine.
TUTU: (To CHINA.) You got something that belongs to him?
CHINA: No.
TUTU: See, my woman got nothing of yours. Later.
LUCKY grabs TUTU by the arm.
TUTU: You got hand problems or something?

LUCKY: I told you, your woman gots something that belongs to me.
I was running from the cops and I needed someone to dish it on,
and your broad was standing there, so I dished it on her.
TUTU: You think my woman is dumb?
LUCKY: She is dumb. She took the shit.
TUTU: Man, I don’t want to hear that shit.
LUCKY touches TUTU.
TUTU: Now, I told you before about your hands. You got a problem,
man?
LUCKY: There’s no problem. You got something of mine and I want
it back.
TUTU: Well, there is a problem ’cause, you see . . . (HE starts laugh-
ing.)
LUCKY: What’s so funny, man? Let me in on the joke.
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Miguel Piñero
TUTU: You’re the joke, brotherman, ’cause you see I got your shit and
you ain’t getting it back.
LUCKY: I don’t want to hear that shit.
TUTU: But you’re hearing it.
LUCKY: Motherfucker.
TUTU: Let me tell you, sucker, don’t write a check your ass can’t
cash. (Pushes him.) Back up and live.
LUCKY: Wait a second, brotherman, why fight, let’s talk. We’re in the
same boat. You’re hustling out here, I’m hustling out here, you
watch my back, I’ll watch your back. There’s plenty of space out
here for both of us, plenty of money. (HE catches TUTU off
guard, hits him in the stomach and jabs him in the back of the
neck. HE runs toward CHINA, grabs her by her throat, tears at
her clothes.)
The crowd yelling: “Get up, Tutu, get up. Get him, Tutu, etc.” TUTU
grabs him and throws him back. HE falls back, LUCKY pulls a knife.
TUTU: What are you going to do with that, motherfucker?

LUCKY: I’m goin’ to cut you if you get in my way.
TUTU: You’re gonna what?
LUCKY: You heard me, motherfucker. I’m gonna cut your black ass.
Get out of my way.
TUTU: Go on, cut me, go on, punk, cut me. Motherfucker, you don’t
even know how to use a knife. Go on, sucker, cut me. Go on,
shoot your best.
TUTU grabs the knife from LUCKY. LUCKY falls to the floor. The
crowd is yelling, “Kill that motherfucker.” CHINA is yelling, “Cut
him, Tutu, get him.” TUTU has LUCKY on the floor.
TUTU: I ought to cut your face for pulling a knife on me.

LUCKY: Don’t cut my face, don’t cut my face. Take my money, but
don’t cut my face.
CLEARNOSE gets too close to the fight.
TUTU: Get out of the way, Clearnose, get out of the way.
LUCKY jumps and runs into the knife. SUGAR screams and MALO
holds her back. The action freezes.
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HECTOR: (From the top of the roof.) Everybody wants the king of the
mountain to fall. That’s why I don’t play that game, because when
you fall, you fall hard, and you get stomped with football shoes,
and that’s why I don’t play that game.
PANCHO: (Grabbing CISCO by the throat.) Where you think you
going, punk. What do you think this is, a game? This ain’t no play,
hustling is for real. Stay here and watch him die. You may never
get another chance to see a pimp fall.
CISCO: Leave me alone, leave me alone . . . (Runs to the stoop and
cries.)
NILSA: Hey, blood, you all right, you want to go to the hospital?
(SHE goes through his pockets at the same time, taking his shoes
and his watch, etc.)
MALO: The cop, the cop!
Light dims and CLEARNOSE is on the roof.

CLEARNOSE: The city is drowning under tons of tubes of glue.
Wow, the sky has backed away and the stars are doing the buga-
loo blues. The buildings look like giant tubes of glue and the
garbage cans hold mountains of jewels sparkling for my eyes to
see. Man, J is a prophet. I am Jesus Christ reincarnated, one of the
most outasight images I’ve pulled from my dream brown paper
bag. Can you imagine a world without glue? You gots to have
glue, you need it to hold the world together . . . and it’s store-
bought. I better keep my imagination open for the cops. They
found out I was with Frankie. He was my gluehead partner. We
used to paste the world together up on the roofs, in the school toi-
lets, in the subway trains. Oh, yeah, I was with him when he
jumped into the tracks. That’s the day the A-train became the B,
dig it, B for blood. Wow, don’t you git it? It’s a heavy joke. I
mean, like the dude was all over the place: head one way, arms
another, leg on the platform, a very untogether person. Man, like
it ain’t like I pushed him into the tracks. Like I don’t know what
they want me for . . . you know like . . . you know what I mean,
you know? Right, take me a short visit into my dream brown
paper bag. Yeah, that’s cool. Losing much of its power now. Oh, I
wish everybody would stop saying how much they care and love.
Lights dim while CLEARNOSE mumbles.
177
Tap Dancing and Bruce Lee Kicks
MARIO OR MARÍA (a transvestite, big broad, muscular, mid-

twenties. Plenty of energy . . . perpetually on the border of violent
insanity)
JULIO (a man in his mid or late forties, still in good health, but after
all the pain he has endured, is looking for rest. He has seen and
experienced too much in his life to be upset about real problems,
yet he takes joy in small things)
MIKE POOR (a man in his mid thirties, self-educated, poet-writer,
coming to grips with his drug use, his life and the events that pro-
duce emotional dramas in his life)
MELE POOR (a woman in her late twenties, highly educated and
self-assured, independent, with adolescent emotions that lead to
tantrums and outbursts)
The other people in the play will appear as shadowy figures or voices.
The Time: Now

The Place: An apartment in any of America’s large innercity tenement
buildings sheltering second, third and fourth generations of fami-
lies who sailed onto these shores in search of the American
Dream. These are the men and women that took sleeping pills
hoping that they could, would and should have achieved the goal
that they all set out for, but they overslept.
The Season: Early winter and the holiday spirit is not as joyful as it
was back in Dayton, Ohio, in 1903.
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Miguel Piñero
MARÍA: Oye, mira, cabrón . . . en English, mi amor, you fuck. Esto

es un culo y yo cargo conmigo el cuerpo de una mujer que está
muy bellaca . . .
JULIO: Estás bellaco.
MARÍA: Tu madre.
JULIO: La tuya que es mi comadre.
MARÍA: Pues, mira, hijo de la gran yegua, a ti te gusta como soy.
JULIO: Nunca he dicho lo contrario.
MARÍA: Y tú sabe’ lo que soy.
JULIO: Siempre.
MARÍA: A mí se me va la sangre como a otra cualquiera y me calien-
to y tú no haces ningún esfuerzo para ponerme fría.
JULIO: Déjate de esa caca ya.
MARÍA: La caca está en tu boca y te la está’ comiendo.
JULIO: Mira, tragadaga . . .
MARÍA: Tragadaga soy, pero cómo te gusta el culo.
JULIO: A mí me encanta.
MARÍA: Por eso está conmigo y no con tu mujer.
JULIO: Lo sabes tú.
MARÍA: Y también sé que tú eres un maricón escondido, undercover
homo.
JULIO: Mira, ten cuidado con tu lengua cabrona o te vas a tragar los
dientes.
MARÍA: Atrévete.
JULIO: Sigue con tus mierditas.
MARÍA: Para que te las comas.
JULIO: Dame mis fucking bolsas.
MARÍA: Allí sí que te jodistes, porque me las metí.
JULIO: ¿Y cuántos han muerto en tu espalda?
MARÍA: Mil doscientos, pero no lo niego ni me abochorno. Me
encuentro orgullosa de ser lo que soy y no como tú, siendo to’ que
no soy . . . pero tú sabe’ la canción, “te conozco bacalao aunque
vengas disfrasao” . . .
JULIO: (Picks up his guitar and sings to her.)
Quién te ha dicho
que por falta de tus besos
voy a ser un desgraciado
por tu amor
yo sé la historia de tu vida
180
por eso me quedo con mis amigos

en esta prisión
tú te hicistes puta de los presos
y regalastes por cigarillo tu querer
y ahora llegó el día triste de tu vida
enfrente de las celdas
en tus rodillas
mamando bicho te verás
mamando bicho
es la vida que siempre vivirás
MARÍA: ¿Tú sabe’ qué tú puedes hacer con esa canción? . . . róbala
y mándala por correo de primera clase a la más vieja de tu casa.
Oye, no sé qué yo hago con un hombre que no se le para la
moronga. Tú no tienes morcilla, lo que hay es salchicha.
JULIO: Cuando yo te conocí estaba seguro que mi vida contigo iba a
ser como café colao, pero you turn out to be instant coffee . . . y
pullao también . . . pero ahora veo que tú no haces amor . . . tú
chichas por ver la leche correr.
MARÍA: Si hay un carajo, allá te encuentro.
JULIO: Sí, conmigo encima y tú abajo.
MARÍA: Alguién está llámandonos.
JULIO: ¿Qué es? Me cago en diez.
MARÍA: Y yo en once y doce y trece.
VOICE: Hey, lady, if you need any help or if you want me to call the
cops . . . I heard him threaten you and I can hear the fight from
down here.
MARÍA: What?
JULIO: ¿Qué es lo que dice?
MARÍA: Es el cocolo de abajo más entrometío y bochinchoso que
una mujer preñá . . . quiere llamar a la policía por mí.
JULIO: Mira, ese cabrón hijo ’e puta
MARÍA: Hey, why don’t you mind your own fucking business,
buster?
VOICE: I thought you . . . that you might need help, that’s all, lady.
MARÍA: This is my fucking husband, you nosey bastard, and I don’t
need anyone coming into our fucking life, you sucker dickhead
bubble-lip nigger.
JULIO: ¿Tanto para ese mamao?
MARÍA: Go jerk off on a magazine, jerkoff.
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Miguel Piñero
JULIO: If we needed anything, it be a cold day in hell before we asked

you, fool.
VOICE: Boy, some people you just can’t offer any help at all, espe-
cially those no speaka the English bastards.
MIKE: (From apartment next door.) Those no speaka the English are
having a marriage fight and they didn’t ask for your intervention.
VOICE: All I was doing was trying the good neighbor policy.
MARÍA: That you, Mike? Hey, Mister, try the good neighbor policy
on your daughter, the one that’s been trying to fuck my husband
after she gets out of school.
VOICE: What? My daughter?
MARÍA: That’s right, your daughter. I guess this good neighbor shit
goes a long way in your family, ’cause if you ain’t trying to rap to
me when your wife is out and you know my husband isn’t here,
you always got some excuse to try and come here.
MIKE: He really takes that super job to heart.
MELE: He sure does. He tries that with me too.
JULIO: I think that his son goes the same way too. Those are pretty
tight jeans he always wearing and he either got a broken wrist or
his rings are very heavy . . .
VOICE: Look I only . . .
MARÍA: Well, forget it, buster.
VOICE: I will. Cherrie, what’s this about you seeing that man upstairs
after school? Is that true? Where’s that homo brother of yours?
MARÍA: A ese, yo no lo conozco. ¿Por qué la gente siempre tiene que
meterse en cosas de matrimonio?
JULIO: ¿Qué estaba diciendo Mike?
MARÍA: Oh, he was getting on the super too.
JULIO: Maybe we do make a lot of racket when we fight, eh?
MARÍA: Maybe we make a lot of racket when we make love.
JULIO: Yo creía que you didn’t get enough undercover y todo eso.
MARÍA: Bueno, la canción que me cantaste wasn’t exactly greatly
accepted.
JULIO: Just kidding around, that’s all. You know that I love you, baby.
MARÍA: “I love you, baby, and it’s quite all right. I need you, baby,
to walk these lonely nights. Oh, pretty baby, trust in me when I
say, my pretty baby, don’t put me down this way.” (Singing alone,
then joined in by JULIO in a duet a la Frankie Valle.)
182
Lights go out on them as the recorded song comes on stronger and

their singing grows with the volume of the song.
Lights on. The scene has shifted to MIKE and MELE’s apartment.
MELE: You know what some dickhead asshole did?

MIKE: What?
MELE: Check this out
MIKE: What?
MELE: Someone . . . at least one of your friends . . . put a fifteen-fuse
plug in a twenty-watt slot. Man, that is a dumb jackass, dumb.
MIKE: Heehaw!
MELE: Figures.
MIKE: Well, start kicking ass.
MELE: Don’t have to . . . as soon as you can find a way to get your
foot out of your mouth. . . the one you hid in there yesterday . . .
you’ll find a means to do it yourself. I have grown to have blind
faith in your abilities to succeed in doing little feats like that.
MIKE: Yeah, I’m a great fan of ex-President Ford.
MELE: Well, at least you can chew gum and walk at the same time,
though how you accomplish that is one up on me.
MIKE: That’s white California humor, right?
MELE: Oh, oh, oh, tee, tee, hee, ha, ha. (Yawns.)
MIKE: (A la Billy Joel singing “It’s My Life.”) I never said I was a
comedian, I never said I needed a second chance, ’cause I’m a
victim of circumstance. . . don’t get me wrong, I still belong. . .
MELE: Not to the human race.
MIKE: I don’t?
MELE: No, more to a society of successful succulent sordid sadisti-
cal sabotage suckers . . .
MIKE: Hey, speaking of Billy Joel, did I read you the new paragraph
on the story I’ve been working on?
MELE: No, but I get a feeling that you are going to.
MIKE: Well, if you don’t wanna hear it, that’s all right with me.
MELE: Good, I’m glad that you didn’t take it personal.
MIKE: Anyway, this is the one, you read the other thing, right?
MELE: Right . . . right . . . right . . . go ahead if you’re gonna torture
me. Might as well get it over with fast and as painless as possible.
MIKE: (Reading from his notes.) Here we go. Billy Joel’s voice
declared war on the silences in the single-rented room that shel-
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Miguel Piñero
tered David Dancer’s factory-tired body during those hours that

did not require him to breath the indecency of those alien fumes.
The radio blared out Joel’s song. The sound was a total contrast
to the belching buses creeping outside David’s window. David
wished he had it inside himself to capture all the sounds that
invade his privacy. They painted a picture that only a Michelan-
gelo could create: the comedy of young kids playing, the roar of
teenage souped-up cars, the exploding booms of fathers and
mothers over their children’s sloppiness and dirt catching mag-
netism, the pre-teens with radios that competed with them in size
and weight, screeching out the disco poetry of the Sugar Hill
Gang. Billy Carter would feel at home in Central Harlem on a
Sunday afternoon. David’s needle-scarred arm rested on the win-
dow sill. The late spring air stirred in his hair. His eyes at
half-mast, his train of thought occasionally interrupted by the
chemical agents he had smuggled into his biological system via a
hypodermic that carried the illegal substance. He smiled at his
own thoughts, knowing he could never hold a nightwatchman’s
job. Staying alert in his own home was a chore in itself. (A knock
on the door interrupts the reading.) See who it is. If it’s you-
know-who, I ain’t here.
MELE: Who. . . yeah, wait a second. Mike, where you put the new
sets?
MIKE: Here.
MELE: Two for five dollars . . . see you later . . . here, all he had was
four seventy-five . . . gave him a play on a quarter’s.
MIKE: It comes out of your profit.
MELE: That’s all right, it all goes into the same pot. Keep on with the
reading. I must say, it is a little interesting.
MIKE: Naw, I’ll run the rest to you later. The bastard broke off my
concentration.
MELE: Well, you’re the one who wanted to invest in that box of
works.
MIKE: Yeah, but it is a dollar, and a good one at that.
MELE: I know, but there are side effects with it, you know. Like peo-
ple knowing that we are selling works and they be knocking at the
door at all odd hours of the day, even when we’re taking care of
personal biological affairs.
184
MIKE: Yeah . . . 30 dollars for a hundred of them sets, at three dollars

a set, we make more than a 100 percent profit. So for that, I guess
we have to put up with little inconveniences now and then . . . any-
way, it’s better than running a shooting gallery.
MELE: Telling me . . . shit, I’d never venture into a deal like that
again, like we did last year in Harlem . . . that was total shit.
MIKE: We did make good money on it though, didn’t we?
MELE: Yeah, but remember all the shit that went along with it?
MIKE: How the hell can I forget? When I rented that space on 112th
Street, I didn’t think it would almost cause my demise.
MELE: Are you going to write that into the David Dancer story?
MIKE: I don’t know . . . never gave it that much of a thought.
MELE: Maybe you should give it a thought. I mean it, no joke. Here,
use my tape recorder. Tape it down, then transfer it over and find
a way to incorporate it in what you already have. (HE turns it on
and her voice comes on.)
MIKE: What’s that?
MELE: Oh, something I been working on.
MIKE: You never told me you were working on a song.
MELE: Aw, well, it’s not finished yet.
MIKE: Play it. Let me hear it.
MELE: When it’s finished, I’ll do it for you.
MIKE: Aww, come on, do it now, just what you have.
MELE: Naw, really, naw.
MIKE: Awww, you want to be petted into it. All right, please. I’m
your biggest fan and I need to hear your latest song. If you don’t,
oh, I’ll just die. Oh, please, pretty, pretty please with sugar on top
. . . and honey on the side.
MELE: All right, you twisted my arm.
MIKE: Twisted your head’s more like it.
MELE: It’s a thing on Coltrane.
Coltrane blows
a song for the poets to dream
a cocaine dream
is the song that Coltrane brings
to me
Coltrane brings a dream with every
note
a dream of reality
185
Miguel Piñero
drifting into illusions with every snort

blues were issued to create
Coltrane was born to create
cocaine was used to deteriorate
Coltrane blows cocaine dreams for me.
MIKE: That’s pretty nice and it ain’t finished yet, huh? I know what.
We can send your song in as a poem and get it published with my
story and that’ll get us some extra cash, ’cause I got a deadline on
the David Dancer thing and that’s gonna pay the bills and the rent.
Did Richie say he was coming over today?
MELE: No, tomorrow. He left you a note when you were sleeping. He
didn’t want to wake you up. He said to tell you that he’ll only be
able to bring in a quarter of a pound instead of the half he
promised. Here is the note he left you.
MIKE: Hmmm, well, it beats a blank and it’s up front on consign-
ment.
MELE: Hey, like you said, it beats a blank and you don’t have to run
no bread upfront.
MIKE: That’s why I invested in them works, you know. It’s like hav-
ing ready money. If you got smoke, you got money rolled up. A
few shoot to forty-two and your pockets will no longer cry the
blues.
MELE: You hear that shit on the T.V.?
MIKE: What was that?
MELE: Well, after the crime and the political slime had been report-
ed, the six o’clock news ended with a cute remark about being
National Secretarys’ Week.
MIKE: Get her off your lap and take her to lunch in between her cof-
fee breaks, if you can get her out of the restroom.
MELE: Yeah, then you heard it?
MIKE: No, I didn’t.
MELE: You did so.
MIKE: No, really, I didn’t.
MELE: Then, how you know what they said?
MIKE: They really said that?
MELE: Yeah, you know it, you heard it.
MIKE: I didn’t. It’s just that’s what I said kidding around just to think
of something stupid to say.
186
MELE: Well, that’s what they said and they didn’t think it was stupid.
They acted like they said something intelligent. Assholes.
MIKE: The right-to-know first ammendment, like Mr. Friendly said,
protect it from those who would destroy it and from those who
love it too much. (Searching through a box of clothes.) These
clothes that we bought on Orchard Street are full of birth defects.
MELE: What’s wrong with them?
MIKE: Well, let me see. Here we have a pair of paraplegic pants, a
mongoloid sweater . . . siamese socks . . . armless shirts . . . club
foot sneakers . . .
MELE: A de luxe demented malnutrition mind vomiting humorless
antagonizing anecdotes by an anthropoid with anthropomorphic
qualities.
MIKE: Who the hell you studied with, Spiro Agnew?
MELE: I wish there was an antibiotic I could transmit into this ine-
briated android that would serve as an antidote to your ill usage
of the English language to describe your pell mell state of exis-
tence.
MIKE: It had to be Spiro Agnew.
MELE: But since God has chosen for your quest to be that of a pen-
guin, a bird that can’t fly . . . and it’s obvious that any penicillin will
be penalized and impounded within the penitentiary . . . the penin-
sula . . . the puny peninsula that boasts your penury brain . . . so any
illusion that I may have about your penance is truly a romantic
passion I possess for the peon named Mike Poor.
MIKE: Jesus H. Christ.
MELE: In other words, you’re a big mouth with bad taste and bad
breath.
Lights out.
When the lights are brought up the scene has shifted to an apartment
that has been turned into a shooting gallery. There are signs on the
wall indicating that such a business exists there:
“2.00 dollars—dos pesos”

“1.50 if you have your own work”
“Clean your works—limpien sus aparatos”
“Brand new gymics set 3.00”
“Keep the place clean”
187
Miguel Piñero
“5.00 to hit in the neck”

“1.00 for a hit”
“Don’t give money to anyone else—houseman collects all bread”
“Cigarettes .10 cents”
“No horseplaying around—no loud talking”
“When you finish, please leave—no hanging out”
FLACO: Hey, man, those signs really necessary?

SOCIO: Sí, bro, they are very, really necessary.
FLACO: They are, huh?
SOCIO: Yeah, man, just like the reason I carry the shit paper with me.
How is it? Who you cop from?
FLACO: It’s half ass. I mean I feel it, but it’s nothing that I would
write home about, know what I mean? It’s from the Blue Club.
They had something nice, but you know how that game goes.
SOCIO: The blue club? They had something half ass? Like they had
a thing that was smoking . . . knock you on your fucking ass. Man,
but then, barn, milk sugar . . . pero ¿qué vas a hacer? You know,
man, you go out, tell these assholes that they have something
worth ten dollars and the next thing you know is that they get big
fucking ideas . . . more money and, wip wop wop, it’s shit, it’s out
of range.
FLACO: Man, like I’ve been on the fucking program a month and
clean. Then I get detoxed and zip, I’m out here again chasing the
dirty low down, doggin’ it again, know what I mean?
SOCIO: Me lo dice’ o te lo cuento, mi hermano, man? Mira, bro . . .
I used to run Pepe Veneno’s spots here on the avenue. You know,
that used to be a smoker, right? Well, man, we ran this thing like
a Marine Corps platoon, tú sabe’ . . . hup one two three, put your
hands in your pockets, pull out the green . . .
FLACO: ¡Vaya! ¿Tiene’ alcohol, bro?
SOCIO: No . . . that waters clean, man . . . let’s conserve, tú sabe’.
FLACO: So, what happen, man?
SOCIO: Oh, sí, yeah, like you know, man, the shit what we had was
dynamite, but none of the workers would tell him that. I mean, we
test it for him . . . then get some one off the streets, and they do it
too. Man, that’s where we blew, or better to say, that’s where the
dope fiends blew . . . they started telling him how good the shit
188
was and the next hing you know, the mother starts Bruce Leeing
the shit to death . . . put more cuts on it than Frankenstein!
SOCIO: Hear that?
FLACO: What?
SOCIO: That tap tap tapping shit.
FLACO: Yeah, what’s that?
SOCIO: That’s that dude downstairs. Day in night out the chump stay
on that fucking typewriter . . . banging away. I think he’s writing
a book or something. I rapped with him once. Guy’s from L.A.
FLACO: Is it electric? I know a dude looking for one.
SOCIO: Yeah, I think so, but, man, let me tell you something . . . I
once did a job in this guy’s place, right, and I stole his T.V., radio,
tape recorder, everything but the kitchen sink, and I got away with
the shit . . . but a week later I was in jail. The chump-ass nigger
tracked me down because I took his typewriter. I mean, he didn’t
care about the other stuff, but the dude was a writer and that was
his bread and butter, man. Since then I cool it. I mean, I won’t rip
off anything religious or mess around with some artist things,
man. Them dudes are weird. Most of them are out to lunch, you
know what I mean?
FLACO: Yeah, them type of people who tell their wives, hey, man,
I’m going out for a pack of cigarettes and you don’t hear from the
suckers for twenty years.
SOCIO: You finished, man?
FLACO: Yeah, man, here.
SOCIO: No, man, you clean them.
FLACO: So, you don’t think it’s cool to try and make the place down-
stairs?
SOCIO: For me, no. For you, hey, it’s your world.
FLACO: Yeah, but we kinda live in the same space, you know, and if
you won’t eat the fruit, man, I sure ain’t . . .
Knock on door.
SOCIO: Customers . . . see you later, man.

FLACO: Yeah, be back about midnight.
SOCIO: But this time leave the cotton wet.
FLACO: And two dollars too . . . yeah, well, if there’s enough.
SOCIO: There’ll be enough.
189
Miguel Piñero
Lights. Return to MIKE and MELE’s apartment when lights come up

again.
MIKE: Just about finished with this piece for Pat . . . he keeps calling
from L.A.
MELE: Man must want the thing ’cause it costs money to use the
phone, baby.
MIKE: You know what I would like . . . to get into every apartment
here and be like a fly on the wall and be able to do a story about
everything that jumps in this building . . . I mean the whole trip.
MELE: Another get rich quick scheme, man? They all turn out bust to
you.
MIKE: That’s for you, not to you.
MELE: To you, for you, who the hell cares . . . they all stink. Look,
why don’t you face facts?
MIKE: Like, what facts are you talking about?
MELE: Like the fact that you put our money into this bullshit drug
paraphernalia and it could get us busted and there goes your
career down the drain?
MIKE: If I get busted, I’m sure Pat would find a way to make it sen-
sational.
MELE: Well, one thing, he ain’t gonna do anything unless you send
him that damn piece.
MIKE: Yeah . . . you wanna go back to L.A., right?
MELE: Yeah, baby, I do, but look, the Bible said “Where thou goes I
too shall go and your people shall be my people and your God
shall be my God.”
MIKE: Cut it out . . . maybe we’ll sell it all to the dude upstairs. He
runs that gallery. You know, I kinda miss L.A., even if the city is
three hours behind the times.
MELE: Bullshit.
MIKE: What am I going to write about?
MELE: Why ask me? I’m not the writer, you are.
MIKE: Yeah, I am, ain’t I?
Phone rings.
MIKE: Hello. Hey, Pat, how’s things? Yeah, I’m thinking of writing a
story about the building where I live, but I can’t seem to touch on
anything. But I got a good idea, see, if we can do it so that we can
190
peek into the lives of the people here. . . . Oh, that’s been done
before? Well, I . . . ah, listen, if you can send me and Mele some
bread so that we can go out back to the coast . . . no, by bus.
MELE: Bus? You crazy?
MIKE: Shhh . . . yeah, I’ll write about traveling out to the coast . . .
the people, of course. I can’t seem to get a grip on things here.
Yeah, man, Western Union.
MELE: Bus? Are you crazy?
MIKE keeps typing with MELE ranting at him.
Lights.
191
Short Eyes
The people:
JUAN (a Puerto Rican in his early thirties)

CUPCAKES (a Puerto Rican pretty boy of twenty-one who looks
younger)
PACO (a Puerto Rican in his early thirties with the look of a dope
fiend)
ICE (a black man in his late twenties who looks older)
OMAR (a black amateur boxer in his mid-twenties, virile)
EL RAHEEM (a black man in his mid-twenties with a regal look and
militant bearing)
LONGSHOE (a hip, tough Irishman in his mid-twenties)
CLARK DAVIS (a handsome, frightened white man in his early
twenties)
MR. NETT (an old-line white prison guard in his late forties)
CAPTAIN ALLARD (officer in House of Detention. Straight and
gung-ho)
MR. BROWN (an officer in the House of Detention)
SERGEANT MORRISON (another officer)
BLANCA and GYPSY (walk-on, nonspeaking parts)
193
Miguel Piñero
The entire play takes place in the dayroom on one of the floors in the
House of Detention.
ACT I: Early morning, lock-in after breakfast

ACT II: Same day at 3:00 p.m.
EPILOGUE: Same evening
ACT I
Dayroom in the House of Detention. Upstage right is entrance gate.

Upstage left is gate leading to shower room and slop sink. Upstage
center is a toilet and drinking fountain. Above is a catwalk. Stage left
is a table and chairs. Downstage right is a garbage can. Upstage right
is a T.V. set on a stand. Early-morning lock-in after the morning meal.
Early morning light.
Inmates’ voices can be heard: various ad-libs, calling out to each

other, asking questions, exchanging prison gossip, etc.
MORRISON: All right, listen up . . . I said listen up. (Whistle.) When

I call your names, give me your cell location. (Catcalls.) Off the
fucking noise. Now if I have to call out your name more than
mine. (More catcalls. House lights go out.) Williams, D.

once, pray, ’cause your soul may belong to God, but your ass is
VOICE RESPONSE: Upper D 14.

MORRISON: Homer, J.
VOICE RESPONSE: Lower D 7.
MORRISON: Stone, F.
MORRISON: Miller, G.
VOICE RESPONSE: Upper D .
MORRISON: Lockout for criminal court. (Whistle.) “A” side
dayroom. All right, already . . . knock it off! Supreme Court.
(Whistle.) Johnson.
INMATE VOICE: Who?
MORRISON: Johnson.
TWO INMATE VOICES: Who?
MORRISON: Johnson.
194
Short Eyes
A LOT OF VOICES: Who? . . . who? . . . who? . . . who?

MORRISON: Aw, come on, fellas, give me a break.
INMATE VOICE: Your brains may belong to the state, but your sanity
belongs to me.
INMATE VOICE: Break . . . (Bronx cheer.)

INMATE VOICE: Aw, come on, fellas, give the fella a break.
MORRISON: Johnson.
INMATE VOICE: Upper D 15.
INMATE VOICE: Can’t you say my name right? (Giving proper

MORRISON: Corree-a.
pronunciation.) Correa . . . Correa . . . Correa.

MORRISON: You guys go to the “C” side dayroom (Whistle.) Sing
Sing reception center. Gomez A.
MORRISON: Shit-can-do. (Catcalls.)
VOICE RESPONSE: Scicando . . . Lower D 11.
MORRISON: Bring all your personal belongings and go to the “B”
side dayroom. (Catcalls.) All right, you guys want to play games,
you guys don’t let up that noise, you guys ain’t locking out this
INMATE VOICE: You got it. (Ad-libs continue until OMAR speaks.)
morning.
ICE: Fuck you, sucker. (Silence. Sound of prison gate opening is

heard.)
MORRISON: (Whistle—dayroom lights come on.) All right, on the
lockout.
(Enter OMAR, LONGSHOE, EL RAHEEM, PACO and ICE. Each

runs toward his respective position. Ad-libs. Then JUAN walks slowly
toward his position. CUPCAKES is the last to come in. The MEN
accompany him with simple scat singing to the tune of “The Stripper.”
Ad-libs.)
JUAN: Why don’t you cut that loose? Man, don’t you think that kid
get tired of hearing that every morning?
PACO: Oh, man, we just jiving.
ICE: Hey, Cupcake, you ain’t got no plexes behind that, do you?
CUPCAKES: I mean . . . like no . . . but . . .
PACO: You see, Juan, Cupcake don’t mind.
CUPCAKES: No, really, Juan. Like I don’t mind. . . . But that doesn’t
mean that I like to listen to it. I mean . . . like . . . hey . . . I call
195
Miguel Piñero
you guys by your name. Why don’t you call me by mine? My

name ain’t Cupcakes, it’s Julio.
EL RAHEEM: If you would acknowledge that you are God, your
name wouldn’t be Cupcakes or Julio or anything else. You would
be Dahoo.
LONGSHOE: Already! Can’t you spare us that shit early in the a.m.?
LONGSHOE: The name is Longshoe Charlie Murphy . . . Mister

EL RAHEEM: No . . . one . . . is . . . talking . . . to . . . you, Yacoub.
Murphy to you.
EL RAHEEM: Yacoub . . . maker and creator of the devil . . . swine
merchant. Your time is near at hand. Fuck around and your time
will be now. Soon all devils’ heads will roll and now rivers shall
flow through the city—created by the blood of Whitey . . . Devil
. . . beast.
OMAR: Salaam Alaikum.
PACO: Salami with bacon.
ICE: Power to the people.
LONGSHOE: Free the Watergate 500.
JUAN: Pa’lante.
PACO: (On table, overly feminine.) A la lucha . . . a la lucha . . . que

CUPCAKES: Tippecanoe and Tyler too.
somo’ mucha . . .
OMAR: Hey! Hey . . . you know the Panthers say “Power to the
people.”
OMAR: (Strong voice.) Power to the people. And gay liberators say
MR. NeTT: On the gate.
. . . (High voice, limp wrist in fist.) Power to the people. (Enter

NETT.)
MR. NETT: How about police power?
JUAN: How about it? Oink, oink.
MR. NETT: Wise guy. Paco, you got a counsel visit.
PACO: Vaya.
OMAR: Mr. Nett?
MR. NETT: Yeah, what is it?
OMAR: Mr. Nett, you know like I’ve been here over ten months and
I’d like to know why I can’t get on the help. Like I’ve asked a
dozen times . . . and guys that just come in are shot over me . . .
and I get shot down. . . . Like why? Have I done something to
you? Is there something about me that you don’t like?
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Short Eyes
MR. NETT: Why, no. I don’t have anything against you. But since
you ask me, I’ll tell you. One is that when you first came in here
you had the clap.
OMAR: But I don’t have it anymore. That was ten months ago.
MR. NETT: How many fights have you had since the first day you
came on the floor?
OMAR: But I haven’t had a fight in a long time.
MR. NETT: How many?
OMAR: Seven.
MR. NETT: Seven? Close to ten would be my estimation. No, if I put
you on the help, there would be trouble in no time. Now, if you
give me your word that you won’t fight and stay cool, I’ll give it
some deep consideration.
OMAR: I can’t give you my word on something like that. You know I
don’t stand for no lame coming out the side of his neck with me.
Not my word . . . my word is bond.
EL RAHEEM: Bond is life.
OMAR: That’s why I can’t give you my word. My word is my bond.
Man in prison ain’t got nothing but his word, and he’s got to be
careful who and how and for what he give it for. But I’ll tell you
this, I’ll try to be cool.
(PACO and MR. NETT exit.)

MR. NETT: Well, you’re honest about it anyway. I’ll think it over.
EL RAHEEM: Try is a failure.

OMAR: Fuck you.
EL RAHEEM: Try is a failure. Do.
OMAR: Fuck you.
EL RAHEEM: Fuck yourself, it’s cheaper.
MR. NETT: (From outside the gate.) The power is on.

CUPCAKES: Hey, Mr. Nett, put on the power.
CUPCAKES: The box ain’t on.

MR. NETT: Might be broken. I’ll call the repairman.
JUAN: Might as well listen to the radio.
ICE: The radio ain’t workin’ either, Juan. I tried to get BLS a little
while ago and got nothin’ but static, Jack.
CUPCAKES: Anyone wants to play Dirty Hearts? I ain’t got no
money, but I’ll have cigarettes later on this week.
ICE: Right on. (LONGSHOE gives CUPCAKES cigarettes.)

OMAR: Money on the wood makes bettin’ good.
197
Miguel Piñero
JUAN: Hey, Julio. (Throws CUPCAKES cigarettes. BROWN appears

outside entrance gate.)
BROWN: On the gate. (Gate opens and PACO enters. Gate closes
and BROWN exits.)
CUPCAKES: Shit. That was a real fast visit.
PACO: Not fast enough.
LONGSHOE: What the man say about your case?
PACO: The bitch wants me to cop out to a D—she must think my dick
is made of sponge rubber. I told her to tell the D.A. to rub the offer
on his chest. Not to come to court on my behalf. Shit, the bitch
must have made a deal with the D.A. on one of her paying
customers. Man, if I wait I could get a misdemeanor by my
motherfucking self. What the fuck I need with a Legal Aid? Guess
who’s on the bench?
ICE: Who they got out there?
PACO: Cop-out Levine.
ICE: Wow! He give me a pound for a frown.
PACO: First they give me a student, and now a double-crossin’ bitch.
LONGSHOE: We all got to make a living.
PACO: On my expense? No fucking good.
EL RAHEEM: You still expect the white man to give you a fair trial
in his court? Don’t you know what justice really means? Justice
. . . “just us” . . . white folks.
PACO: Look here, man. I don’t expect nothing from nobody
—especially the Yankees. Man, this ain’t my first time before
them people behind these walls, ’cause I ain’t got the money for
bail. And you can bet that it won’t be my last time . . . not as long
as I’m poor and Puerto Rican.
CUPCAKES: Come on, let’s play . . . for push-ups.
JUAN: How many?
CUPCAKES: Ten if you got just one book, fifteen if you got two.
PACO: I ain’t playing for no goddamn push-ups.
ICE: Hey, come on, don’t be like that.
PACO: Said ain’t playing for no push-ups. Tell you what, let’s play for
coochie-coochies.
ICE: What the hell is coochie-coochies?
JUAN: It’s a game they play in Puerto Rico. You ever see a flick about
Hawaii? Them girls with the grass skirts moving their butts
dancing? That’s coochie-coochies.
198
Short Eyes
ICE: I thought that was the hula, Jack.

PACO: Put your shirt on your hips like this and move your ass.
Coochie-coochie-coochie . . .
CUPCAKES: That’s out.
PACO: You got a plexes?
CUPCAKES: Told you before that I don’t have no complexes.
JUAN: You got no plexes at all?
CUPCAKES: No.
JUAN: Then why not let me fuck you?
CUPCAKES: That’s definitely out.
JUAN: People without complexes might as well turn stuff.
OMAR: Thinking of joining the ranks? Cruising the tearooms?
EL RAHEEM: What kind of black original man talk is that? Cupcakes
put the wisdom before the knowledge because that’s his nature.
He can’t help that. But you are deliberately acting and thinking
out of your nature . . . thinking like the white devil, Yacoub. Your
presence infects the minds of my people like a fever. You, Yacoub,
are the bearer of three thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine
diseases . . . corrupt . . . evil . . . pork-chop-eating brain . . .
LONGSHOE: Look.
EL RAHEEM: Where?
LONGSHOE: I’m sick and . . .
EL RAHEEM: See, brothers, he admits he is sick with corruption.
LONGSHOE: Who?
EL RAHEEM: You’re not only the devil, you’re also an owl?
LONGSHOE: Why?
EL RAHEEM: “Y”? Why? Why is “Y” the twenty-fifth letter of the
alphabet?
LONGSHOE: You . . . son of . . .
EL RAHEEM: You . . . me . . . they . . . them. This . . . those . . . that
. . . “U” for the unknown.
LONGSHOE: I . . . I . . .
EL RAHEEM: Eye . . . I . . . Aye . . . Aye . . . Aiiii . . . hi . . .
LONGSHOE: Games, huh?
EL RAHEEM: The way of life is no game. Lame.
LONGSHOE: G . . . O . . . D . . . D . . . O . . . G . . . God spelled
backward is dog . . . dog spelled backward is God. If Allah, is
God, Allah is a dog.
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Miguel Piñero
EL RAHEEM: Allah Akbar. (Screams, jumps on him.) Allah Akbar.

(MR. NETT and BROWN appear outside entrance gate.)
MR. NETT: On the gate. (BROWN opens gate. MR. NETT and
BROWN enter. MR. NETT breaks them apart.)
MR. NETT: What the hell is going on here?
OMAR: Mr. Nett, let these two git it off, else we’s gonna have mucho
static around here.
ICE: Yeah . . . Mr. Nett . . . they got a personality thing going on for
weeks.
MR. NETT: Fair fight, Murphy?
LONGSHOE: That’s what I want.
MR. NETT: Johnson?
EL RAHEEM: El Raheem. Johnson is a slave name. (Nods.) May
closes gate. EL RAHEEM and LONGSHOE square off and begin

your Christian God have mercy on your soul, Yacoub. (BROWN
boxing . . . some wrestling. EL RAHEEM is knocked clean across

the room.)
LONGSHOE: Guess you say that left hook is Whitey trickology?
harder than that. She’s only eight. (They wrestle until EL

EL RAHEEM: No, honky, you knocked me down. My sister hits
RAHEEM is on top. Then NETT breaks them apart.)

OMAR: Why didn’t you break it up while Whitey was on top?
MR. NETT: Listen, why don’t you two guys call it quits? Ain’t none
of you really gonna end up the winner. Give it up . . . be friends
. . . shake hands . . . Come, break it up, you both got your shit off
. . . break it up. Go out and clean yourselves up. Make this the last
the water. (BROWN and NETT exit, gate closes. The RICANS go
time I see either of you fighting. On the gate. Next time I turn on
to their table and begin to play on the table as if it were bongos.)

ICE: You two got it together.
EL RAHEEM: I am God . . . master and ruler of my universe . . . I am
always together.
OMAR: Let me ask you one question, God.
EL RAHEEM: You have permission to ask two.
OMAR: Thank you. If you’re God, why are you in jail? God can do
anything, right? Melt these walls down, then create a stairway of
light to the streets below . . . God. If you’re God, then you can do
these things. If you can’t, tell me why God can’t do a simple thing
like that.
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Short Eyes
EL RAHEEM: I am God . . . I am a poor righteous teacher of almighty

Allah and by his will I am here to awaken the original lost in these
prisons. . . . Black original man is asleep. This is your school of
self-awareness. Wake up, black man, melt these walls? You ask
me, a tangible god, to do an intangible feat? Mysterious intangible
gods do mysterious intangible deeds. There is nothing mysterious
GROUP goes back to playing. “Toca si va tocar.”)

about me. Tangible gods do tangible deeds. (PUERTO RICAN
CUPCAKES: (On table, M.C.-style.) That’s right, ladies and gentlemen

. . . damas y caballeros . . . every night is Latin night at the House
of Detention. Tonight for the first time . . . direct from his
record-breaking counsel visit . . . on congas is Paco Pasqual . . .
yeaaaaaah. With a all-star band . . . for your listening enjoyment . . .
Juan Bobo Otero on timbales. . . . On mouth organ Charles
Murphy . . . To show you the latest dancing are Iceman, John
Wicker . . . and his equally talented partner, Omar Blinker . . .
yeaaaaaah. While tapping his toes for you all . . . moving his head
to the rhythm of the band is the mighty El Raheem, yeaaaaaaah.
Boooooooo. Yes, brothers and sisters, especially you, sisters,
don’t miss this musical extravaganza. I’ll be there, too . . . to say
hello to all my friends. . . . So be there. Don’t be the one to say
“Gee, I missed it”. . . . This is your cha-cha jockey, Julio.
ALL: Cupcakes . . .
CUPCAKES: Mercado . . . be sure to be there . . . catch this act, this
engagement with state. . . . (PACO pinches CUPCAKES’s ass.)

show of shows before they leave on a long-extended touring
Keep your hands off my ass, man. (CUPCAKES moves stage left,
sits pouting. Ad-libs.)
PACO: Hey, kid, do one of those prison toasts. . . . (They urge him on
with various ad-libs.)
CUPCAKES: All right, dig . . . You guys gotta give me background. . . .
Clap your hands and say . . . Mambo tu le pop. . . . It was the night
before Christmas . . . and all through the pad . . . cocaine and
heroin was all the cats had. One cat in the corner . . . copping a
nod . . . Another scratching thought he was God. I jumps on the
phone . . . and dial with care . . . hoping my reefer . . . would soon
be there. After a while . . . crowding my style . . . I ran to the door
. . . see what’s the matter . . . and to my surprise . . . I saw five
police badges staring . . . glaring in my eyes. A couple of studs . . .
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Miguel Piñero
starts to get tough, so I ran to the bathroom . . . get rid of the stuff
. . . narc bang . . . bang . . . but they banged in vain . . . ’cause, you
see, . . . what didn’t go in my veins went down the drain. Broke
down the door . . . knock me to the floor . . . and took me away,
that’s the way I spent my last Christmas day . . . like a dirty dog
. . . in a dark and dingy cell . . . but I didn’t care ’cause I was high
as hell. But I was cool . . . I was cool . . . I was cool. You people
something as stupid as Mambo tu le pop. (GROUP chases

are the fools . . . cream of the top . . . ’cause I got you say
CUPCAKES around stage. BROWN and CLARK DAVIS appear

outside entrance gate.)
BROWN: On the gate. (Gate opens and CLARK DAVIS enters, goes
to stage center. BROWN closes gate and exits.)
CUPCAKES: Hey, Longshoe . . . one of your kin . . . look-a-like sin
just walked in . . .
EL RAHEEM: Another devil.
LONGSHOE: Hey . . . hey, whatdayasay . . . my name’s Longshoe
Charlie Murphy. Call me Longshoe. What’s your name?
CLARK: Davis . . . Clark . . . Ah . . . Clark Davis . . . Clark is my first
name.
PACO: Clark Kent.
OMAR: No, no, Superman. (Other ad-libs: “Faster than a speeding

CUPCAKES: Mild-mannered, too.
bullet,” etc.)
PACO: Oye . . . Shoe . . . está bueno . . . pa’ rajalo . . .
LONGSHOE: Back . . . back . . . boy . . . no está bueno . . . anyway,
no mucho . . . como Cupcakes.
PACO: Vaya.
LONGSHOE: Pay them no mind . . . crazy spics . . . where you
locking?
CLARK: Upper D 15.
LONGSHOE: Siberia, huh? . . . Tough.
CLARK: First time in the joint.
LONGSHOE: Yeah? Well, I better hip you to what’s happening fast.
ICE: Look out for your homey, Shoe.
OMAR: Second.
LONGSHOE: Look here, this is our section . . . white . . . dig? That’s
the Rican table, you can sit there if they give you permission. . . .
Same goes with the black section.
202
Short Eyes
ICE: Say it loud.

OMAR: I’m black and proud.
ICE: ¡Vaya!
LONGSHOE: Most of the fellas are in court. I’m the Don Gee here.
You know what that mean, right? Good. Niggers and the spics
don’t give us honkies much trouble. We’re cool half ass. This is a
gods. (NETT appears outside gate.)

good floor. Dynamite hack on all shifts. Stay away from the black
LONGSHOE: You know them when you see them. (NETT opens gate
NETT: On the gate.
and enters.)
NETT: On the chow.
ICE: What we got, Mr. Nett?
ICE: Shit, welfare steaks again. (All exit except CLARK and
NETT: Baloney a la carte.
LONGSHOE. Gate stays open. The men reenter with sandwiches

and return to their respective places. NETT closes gate and
exits.)
LONGSHOE: Black go on the front of the line, we stay in the back.
It’s okay to rap with the blacks, but don’t get too close with any
of them. Ricans too. We’re the minority here, so be cool. If you
hate yams, keep it to yourself. Don’t show it. But also don’t let
them run over you. Ricans are funny people. Took me a long time
to figure them out, and you know something, I found out that I
still have a lot to learn about them. I rap spic talk. They get a
big-brother attitude about the whites in jail. But they also back the
ICE: (Throws LONGSHOE a sandwich.) Hey, Shoe.

niggers to the T.
LONGSHOE: If a spic pulls a razor blade on you and you don’t have
a mop wringer in your hands . . . run. . . . If you have static with
a nigger and they ain’t no white people around, get a spic to watch
your back, you may have a chance. . . . That ain’t no guarantee. If
you have static with a spic, don’t get no nigger to watch your back
’cause you ain’t gonna have none.
OMAR: You can say that again.
ICE: Two times.
LONGSHOE: You’re a good-looking kid. You ain’t stuff and you
don’t want to be stuff. Stay away from the bandidos. Paco is one
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Miguel Piñero
of them. Take no gifts from no one. (NETT appears outside

entrance gate.)
NETT: Clark Davis . . . Davis.
NETT: On the gate. (NETT opens gate, enters with CLARK’s

CLARK: Yes, that’s me.
belongings, leaves gate open.) Come here . . . come here . . . white

trash . . . filth. Let me tell you something, and you better listen
good, ’cause I’m only going to say it one time . . . and one time
only. This is a nice floor . . . a quiet floor. . . . There has never been
too much trouble on this floor. With you, I smell trouble . . . I
don’t question the warden’s or the captain’s motive for putting
you on this floor . . . but for once I’m gonna ask why they put a
sick fucking degenerate like you on my floor. If you just talk out
the side of your mouth one time . . . if you look at me sideways
one time . . . if you mispronounce my name once, if you pick up
more food than you can eat . . . if you call me for something I
think is unnecessary . . . if you oversleep, undersleep . . . if . . . if
. . . if . . . you give me just one little reason . . . I’m gonna break
your face up so bad your own mother won’t know you.
LONGSHOE: Mr. Nett is being kinda hard.
NETT: Shut up . . . I got a eight-year-old daughter who was molested
by one of those bastards . . . stinking sons of bitches, and I just as
well pretend that he was you, Davis, do you understand that?
PACO: Short eyes.
LONGSHOE: Short eyes? Short eyes . . . Clark, are you one of those
short-eyes freaks . . . are you a short-eyes freak?
NETT: Sit down, Murphy . . . I’m talking to this . . . this scumbag . . .
yeah, he’s a child rapist . . . a baby rapist. How old was she? How
old? . . . Eight . . . seven . . . Disgusting bastard . . . Stay out of
my sight . . . ’cause if you get in my face just one time . . . don’t
forget what I told you . . . I’ll take a night stick and ram it clean
up your asshole. I hope to God that they take you off this floor, or
send you to Sing Sing. The men up there know what to do with
degenerates like you.
CLARK: I . . . I . . .
NETT: All right, let’s go . . . lock in . . . lock in . . . for the count . . .
Clark, the captain outside on the bridge wants to see you. I hope
he takes you off this floor.
204
Short Eyes
LONGSHOE: Hey, Davis . . . (Walks up to him and spits in his face.

Men exit.)
(CAPTAIN ALLARD appears on the catwalk above. CLARK

NETT: Juan, stay out and clean the dayroom. Omar, take the tier.
joins ALLARD and they carry on inaudible conversation.

Crossing from stage right to stage left on the catwalk are
CUPCAKES, ICE and LONGSHOE, followed by MR. BROWN.
As LONGSHOE passes, he bumps CLARK. MR. BROWN stops
beside CLARK, and CAPTAIN ALLARD chases after
LONGSHOE to catwalk above left.)
going to cease. (BROWN and CLARK exit catwalk above right

ALLARD: Hey, just a minute, you. That’s just the kind of stuff that’s
and appear at entrance gate stage right.)

BROWN: On the gate. (BROWN opens gate, CLARK enters
dayroom, BROWN closes gate. CLARK says something
inaudible to BROWN.) You’re lucky if you get a call before
Christmas. (BROWN exits. CLARK leans on gate.)
LONGSHOE: Get off that fuckin’ gate.
(While the above was going on, JUAN has taken his cleaning
equipment from the shower upstage left and placed a can of Ajax and
a rag on the toilet area upstage center, and broom, mop, bucket,
dustpan, dust broom, dust box in downstage left corner. JUAN sits at
the table, CLARK at the window. JUAN pours coffee, offers CLARK
a sandwich. CLARK crosses to table and sits.)
JUAN: Hey, man, did you really do it? (OMAR starts chant offstage.)
CLARK: I don’t know.
JUAN: What do you mean, you don’t know? What you think I am, a
fool or something out of a comic book.
JUAN: Look, man, either you did it or you didn’t. (JUAN stands.)
CLARK: No . . . I don’t mean to sound like that, I . . . I . . .
That’s all there is to it.

CLARK: I don’t know if I did it or not.
JUAN: You better break that down to me . . . (Sits.) ’cause you lost me.
CLARK: What I mean is that I may have done it or I may not have . . .
I just don’t remember. . . . I remember seeing that little girl that
morning . . . I sat in Bellevue thirty-three days and I don’t
remember doing anything like that to that little girl.
JUAN: You done something like that before, haven’t you?
205
Miguel Piñero
CLARK: I . . . yes . . . yes . . . I have. . . . How did you know?
of those guys in an encounter session . . . (Starts to sweep.)

JUAN: Your guilt flies off your tongue, man. (Stands.) Sound like one
looking to dump their shit off on someone . . . You need help. The
bad part about it is that you know it.
CLARK: Help? I need help? Yes . . . yes, I do need help. But I’m
afraid to find it. Why? . . . Fear . . . just fear . . . Perhaps fear of
knowing that I may be put away forever. . . . I have a wife and kid
I love very much . . . and I want to be with them. I don’t ever want
to be away from them . . . ever. But now this thing has happened
. . . I don’t know what to do . . . I don’t know . . . If I fight it in
court, they’ll end up getting hurt. . . . If I don’t, it’ll be the same
JUAN: ’Cause man won’t. (JUAN at downstage left corner sweeping

thing . . . Jesus, help me. God, forgive me.
up dust.)
accept me back once this is openly known. (JUAN begings to

CLARK: No man won’t . . . Society will never forgive me . . . or
stack chairs right. CLARK hands JUAN a chair.) I think about it

sometimes and . . . funny, I don’t really feel disgusted . . . just
ashamed . . . You wanna . . .
floor locks out unless you wanna go public like A.A. (JUAN picks
JUAN: Listen to you? It’s up to you. You got a half hour before the
up stool.)
CLARK: No . . . no . . . no . . . I can’t . . . I didn’t even talk with the
JUAN: Run it . . . (JUAN puts down stool.)

psychiatrist in the bighouse.
CLARK: You know, somehow it seems like there’s no beginning.

Seems like I’ve always been in there all my life. I have like little
. . . fifteen or sixteen years old. (JUAN crosses upstage center to

picture incidents running across my mind . . . I remember being
clean a toilet.) or something around that age, waking up to the

sound of voices coming from the living room . . . cartoons on the
T.V. . . . They were watching cartoons on the T.V., two little girls.
One was my sister, and her friend . . . And you know how it is
when you get up in the morning, the inevitable hard-on is getting
up with you. I draped the sheet around my shoulders. Everyone
else was sleeping. The girl watching T.V. with my sister . . . yes . . .
Hispanic . . . pale-looking skin . . . she was eight . . . nine . . . ten
. . . what the difference, she was a child. She was very pretty, high
206
Short Eyes
cheekbones, flashing black eyes . . . She was wearing blue short
she left to do number two . . . (JUAN returns to stage right.) She

pants . . . tight-fitting . . . a white blouse, or shirt . . . My sister . . .
told her friend, “Wait for me, I’m going to do number two,” and
they laughed about it. I sneaked in standing a little behind her . . .
she felt me standing there and turned to me . . . she smiled such a
pretty little smile . . . I told her I was a vampire and she laughed
. . . I spread the sheets apart and she suddenly stopped laughing.
She just stood there staring at me . . . Shocked? Surprised?
stared. (JUAN crosses to downstage left.) I came closer like a

Intrigued? Don’t know . . . don’t know . . . She just stood and
vampire . . . she started backing away . . . ran toward the door . . .

stopped, looked at me again. Never at my face . . . my body . . . I
fear . . . but I’ll never forget that look. (BROWN crosses on

couldn’t really tell whether or not the look on her face was one of
catwalk from left to right with a banana. Stands at right.) I was

really scared that she’d tell her parents. Weeks passed without
confrontation . . . and I was feeling less and less afraid. . . . But
schoolyards. (JUAN crosses to downstage right corner and

that’s not my thing, showing myself naked to little girls in
begins to mop from downstage right to downstage left.) One time

. . . no, it was the first time . . . the very first time. I was alone
watching T.V. . . . was I in school or out? . . . And there was this
little Puerto Rican girl from next door . . . her father was the new
janitor . . . I had seen her before . . . many times . . . sliding down
the banister . . . always her panties looked dirty . . . she was . . .
oh, why do I always try to make their age higher than it really was
. . . even to myself. She was young, much too young. . . . Why did
she come there? For who? Hundred questions. Not one small
answer . . . not even a lie flickers across my brain.
OFFSTAGE VOICE: All right, listen up. The following inmates report
for sanitation duty: Smalls, Gary; Medena, James; Pfeifer, Willis;
Martinez, Raul. Report to C.O. grounds for sanitation duty.
CLARK: How did I get to the bathroom with her? Don’t know. I was
her hair. Her curly reddish hair . . . (JUAN crosses upstage right,
standing there with her, I was combing her hair. I was combing
starts to mop upstage right to upstage left.) I was naked . . . naked

. . . except for these flower-printed cotton underwear . . . no
slippers, barefooted . . . Suddenly I get this feeling over me . . .
207
Miguel Piñero
like a flash fever . . . and I’m hard . . . I placed my hands on her

small shoulders . . . and pressed her hand and placed it on my
penis. . . . Did she know what to do? Or did I coerce her? I pulled
down my drawers . . . but then I felt too naked, so I put them back
eye off in space staring at me . . . (JUAN stops upstage left and

on. My eyes were closed . . . but I felt as if there was this giant
listens to CLARK, who is unaware JUAN is in back of him.) I

opened them and saw her staring at me in the cabinet mirror. I
pulled her back away from the view of the mirror . . . my hands
up her dress, feeling her underdeveloped body . . . I . . . I . . . I
began pulling her underwear down on the bowl. . . . She resisted
. . . slightly, just a moment . . . I sat on the bowl . . . she turned
and threw her arms around my neck and kissed me on the lips . . .
she gave a small nervous giggle . . . I couldn’t look at her . . . I
closed my eyes . . . turned her body . . . to face away from me
. . . . I lubricated myself . . . and . . . I hear a scream, my own . . .
there was a spot of blood on my drawers . . . I took them off right
then and there . . . ripped them up and flushed them down the
toilet. . . . She had dressed herself up and asked me if we could do
yes. (JUAN goes to center stage, starts mopping center stage

it again tomorrow . . . and was I her boyfriend now. . . . I said yes,
right to stage left. BROWN exits from catwalk above right.) I

couldn’t sit still that whole morning, I just couldn’t relax. I
dressed and took a walk. Next thing I know I was running, out of
breath . . . I had run over twenty blocks . . . twenty blocks blind
. . . without knowing . . . I was running . . . Juan, was it my
conscious or subconscious that my rest stop was a children’s
playground? Coincidence perhaps . . . but why did I run in that
direction, no, better still, why did I start walking in that direction
coincidence? (JUAN moves to downstage left, CLARK moves to

. . . coincidence? Why didn’t my breath give out elsewhere . . .
upstage center and sits on window ledge.) I sat on the park bench
and watched the little girls swing, slide . . . run . . . jump rope . . .
Fat . . . skinny . . . black . . . white . . . Chinese . . . I sat there until
the next morning. . . . The next day I went home and met the little
Puerto Rican girl again . . . almost three times a week . . . The rest
of the time I would be in the playground or in the children’s
(CLARK moves toward JUAN, who is in downstage left corner.)

section of the movies. But you know something? Er, er . . .
208
Short Eyes
JUAN: Juan.
CLARK: Yes, Juan . . . Juan, the listener . . . the compassionate, you
pro? A professional degenerate? (The sound of garbage cans

know something, Juan . . . I soon became, became . . . what? A
banging together is heard offstage.) I don’t know if you can call

it a second insight on children. But . . . I would go to the park . . .
and sit there for hours and talk with a little girl and know if I
would do it or not with her . . . just a few words was all I needed.
Talk stupid things they consider grownup talk . . . Soon my hand
would hold hers, then I would caress her face . . . next her thighs
. . . under her dress . . . I never took any of them home or drove
away with them in my car . . . I always told them to meet me in
OFFSTAGE VOICE: On the sanitation gate. (Sound of gate opening.)

the very same building they lived in. . . .
CLARK: On the roof or their basements under the stairs . . .

sometimes in their own home if the parents were out. . . . The
easiest ones were the Puerto Ricans and the black girls . . . little
white ones would masturbate you right there in the park for a
dollar or a quarter . . . depending on how much emphasis their
parents put in their heads on making money. I felt ashamed at first
. . . planning . . . I (JUAN starts moving slowly from downstage

. . . but then I would rehearse at nights what to do the next time
left to upstage left.) couldn’t help myself . . . I couldn’t help

myself . . . something drove me to it . . . I thought of killing myself
. . . but I just couldn’t go through with it . . . I don’t really wanna
die . . . I wanted to stop, really I did . . . I just didn’t know how. I
thought maybe I was crazy but I read all types of psychology
books . . I heard or read somewhere that crazy people can’t
distinguish right from wrong. . . . Yet I can . . . I know what’s right
and I know what I’m doing is wrong, yet I can’t stop myself . . .
crosses to shower room upstage left.)

JUAN: Why didn’t you go to the police or a psychiatrist? (JUAN
CLARK: I wanted to many a time . . . but I know that the police would
find some pretext to kill me . . . and a psychiatrist . . . well, if he
me to some nut ward, Juan, try to understand me. (JUAN comes

thought he couldn’t help me, he’d turn me over to them or commit
out of the shower room and starts putting away his cleaning
equipment.)
209
Miguel Piñero
I would have killed you . . . stone dead, punk. (JUAN, at

JUAN: Motherfucker, try to understand you . . . if I wasn’t trying to,
downstage left corner, picks up broom and bucket.) The minute
a transfer to protection . . . ’cause (JUAN returns to shower

you said that thing about the Rican girls. If I was you I’d ask for
room.) if you remain on this floor, you’re asking to die. You’ll be

committing involuntary suicide. (JUAN again crosses to
downstage left corner, picks up remaining equipment, crosses to
toilet, picks up Ajax and rag and crosses to shower room.) Shit,
from Adam. (JUAN comes out of shower room and crosses to

why the fuck did you have to tell me all of it? You don’t know me
CLARK, stage center.) Why the hell did you have to make me
your father confessor? Why? Why didn’t you stop, why?
CLARK: ’Cause you asked. ’Cause you . . . what I told you I didn’t
even tell the doctors at the observation ward. . . . Everything is
someone . . . Juan, you were willing to listen. (Whistle blows.)

coming down on me so fast . . . I needed to tell it all . . . to
OTHER VOICES: On the lockout. (BROWN appears outside the

MR. NETT: (Offstage.) All right, on the lockout. (Whistle.)
gate.)
CUPCAKES and LONGSHOE. BROWN closes gate and exits.

BROWN: On the gate. (Enter EL RAHEEM, PACO, OMAR, ICE,
ICE and OMAR get one chair and cross to table. OMAR starts
playing cards. LONGSHOE gets his stool and crosses to behind
table. CUPCAKES does push-ups on chair stage right.)
ICE: You’re gonna be on the help for good, Omar.
OMAR: No, the man said just for today . . . but he put me on top of
the list.
ICE: You gonna look out for me, heavy homeeeeey?
OMAR: Since when did we become homeeeeeys? Shit, man, you’re
way out there in Coney Island somewhere . . . and I’m way in
Bed-Stuy.
ICE: How you gonna show, brotherman? It’s the same borough, ain’t
it?
OMAR: It’s the same borough, Iceman . . . but it’s a different world.
ICE: Ain’t this a bitch? I comes on this here floor with this man . . .
there was nothing but Whiteys on the floor. It was me and him
against the world . . . I come out every night and stand by his side,
ready to die . . . to die . . .
210
Short Eyes
PACO: Yeah, ’cause you no wanna die alone.

ICE: That has nothing to do with nothing.
OMAR: It has everything to do with everything.
ICE: How you going to show? How you do this to me, Omar, homey.
OMAR: Being how you mentioned it, perhaps it’s not a bad idea. Save
me some money when you go to the store.
ICE: I ain’t gonna argue that . . . ’cause this is me, the Iceman, talking
. . . my hand don’t call for this type of talking, man. Your main
mellow-man, this is too strong . . . contracts . . .
OMAR: Who said anything about contract? I didn’t say anything about
contract . . . anybody here said anything about a contract? . . .
CUPCAKES: I didn’t hear anybody say anything . . . I didn’t say it.
PACO: Me neither . . .
LONGSHOE: Who could say anything with a swollen lip?
JUAN: I mind my own business.
OMAR: See, you must be hearing things.
ICE: You didn’t say it . . . but you implied it . . . you was leading right
up to it.
OMAR: Well, now that you mentioned it . . . perhaps it’s not a bad
idea . . .
ICE: How you gonna do this to me? Omarrrrr . . . homeeey . . .
OMAR: Did it to yourself. You knew I’d always look out but now you
put these ideas into my head . . . and it sounds kinda . . .
ICE: Omar . . . my pretty nigger . . . even if you get no bigger, you’ll
always be my main nigger. . . . And if you get any bigger, you’ll
just be my bigger nigger . . .
OMAR: Better run that shit on the judge. You know what you can do
ICE: Yes, sir, boss, captain, your honor, mister, sir. (Fast softshoe.)
for me . . . give me a softshoe.
handball court. (CLARK moves to upstage right.)

OMAR: Hey, freak. (To CLARK.) You’re sittin’ on my Chinese
wanna have them sprayed. Move . . . creep. (CLARK moves to

ICE: That there is where I hangs my wet clean clothes . . . and I don’t
stage center.)
EL RAHEEM: You’re in God’s walking space. (CLARK moves to
lower stage right.)
PACO: That’s Paco’s walking space.
211
Miguel Piñero
CUPCAKES: Hey, Clark . . . that spot’s not taken . . . right over

there. . . . Yeah, that’s right . . . the whole toilet bowl and you go
well together.
CLARK: I’m not going to stand for this treatment.
PACO: Did you say something out of your mouth, creep?
OMAR: You talking to everyone, or to someone in particular?
LONGSHOE: I know you ain’t talking to me.
ICE: You got something you wanna say to someone in this room,
faggot?
CLARK: I was talking to myself.
EL RAHEEM: Well, don’t talk to yourself too loud.
CUPCAKES: Talk to the shitbowl . . . you’ll find you got a lot in com-
mon with each other.
JUAN: Drop it . . . Cut it loose . . .
PACO: ¿Dónde está La Mancha? . . . or did Sancho go to another
floor?
JUAN: Paco . . . one of these days you gonna get me very very angry.
PACO: I’m trembling, man . . . whooo, I’m scared . . . can’t you smell
it, I’m shitting bricks . . .
ICE: Juan . . . be cool . . . don’t know why you wanna put front for
that freak . . . but, man . . . if you don’t wanna vamp . . . don’t go
against your own people . . . you be wrong, man . . . .
JUAN: Ain’t going against my own brother, man . . . but if the dude
is a sicky. . . . Cut him loose . . . all that ain’t necessary . . . Ice.
ICE: It ain’t your place, Juan, and you know it . . . you’re out of time.
PACO: I think he has a special interest.
ICE: Don’t come out of your face wrong, Paco.
PACO: Ice.
ICE: You’re interrupting me, Paco. Me and you both know where
you’re coming from . . . don’t make me put your slit in the streets
. . . and, Juan, you know you’re out of order. This ain’t your turn,
man.
CUPCAKES: Let’s go do up them clothes, Juan.
(BROWN appears outside gate.)

JUAN: Yeah. Okay, kid . . . go get the buckets . . . I’ll be down the tier.
BROWN: On the gate. (BROWN opens gate, and CUPCAKES and

CUPCAKES: On the gate.
JUAN exit. BROWN closes gate and exits.)

PACO: Man thinks he El grande Pingú . . .
212
Short Eyes
LONGSHOE: (Goes over to toilet, where CLARK is.) Hey, man . . .

ICE: Squash it . . .
don’t leave. I want you to hold it for me while I pee.

CLARK: What . . . wha . . .
LONGSHOE: I want you to hold my motherfucking dick while I pee,
sucker, so I don’t get my hands wet . . . (Laughter.) Well?
CLARK: No . . . no . . . I can’t do that.
LONGSHOE: Oh. You can’t do that . . . but you can rape
seven-year-old girls.
LONGSHOE: Shut up, punk. (Pushes CLARK’s chest.) What’s this,

CLARK: I didn’t rape anybody. I didn’t do anything.
smokes?
CLARK: They’re all I have . . . but you’re welcome to some.
LONGSHOE: Some? I’m welcome to all of them, creep.
CLARK: What about me?
LONGSHOE: What about you?
CLARK: They’re all I have.
LONGSHOE: Kick.
CLARK: But . . .
ICE: Kick, motherfucker, kick.
LONGSHOE: Kick . . . hey, let me see that chain . . . gold?
CLARK: Yes.
LONGSHOE: How many carats?
CLARK: Fourteen.
ICE: Damn, Shoe . . . if you gonna take the chain, take the chain.
LONGSHOE: I . . . me . . . take . . . who said anything about taking
anything. That would be stealing and that’s dishonest, ain’t it,
Clarky baby? You wanna give that chain, don’t you . . . after all,
we’re both white and we got to look out for one another. Ain’t that
true, Clarky baby? You gonna be real white about the whole thing,
aren’t you, Clarky baby?
CLARK: It’s a gift from my mother.
ALL: Ohhh!
LONGSHOE: I didn’t know you had a mother . . . I didn’t think hu-
man beings gave birth to dogs, too.
OMAR: Looks like the freak ain’t upping the chain, Shoe.
LONGSHOE: Oh, man, Clarky baby, how you gonna show in front of
these people? You want them to think we’re that untogether? What
are you trying to say, man? You mean to stand there in your nice
213
Miguel Piñero
cheap summer suit looking very white and deny my whiteness by

refusing to share a gift with me? That totally uncool . . . you’re
insulting me, man.
OMAR: Man’s trying to say that you’re not white enough.
LONGSHOE: You’re trying to put a wire out on me, creep?
OMAR: Man saying you’re a nigger-lover.
LONGSHOE: You saying that I’m a quadroon?
EL RAHEEM: What? Freak, did you say that devil has some royal
Congo blood in his veins?
ICE: I ain’t got nothin’ to do with it, Shoe, but I swore I heard the
freak say that you were passing, Shoe.
CLARK: I didn’t say that . . . I didn’t say anything.
ICE: You calling me a liar.
LONGSHOE: Then you did say it? (They all push CLARK around.)
CLARK: No, no . . . no.
ICE: (Yanks chain from around neck.) Pick the motherfucking chain
CLARK: Please, please, here, take this chain, leave me alone.
up, freak.
EL RAHEEM: That’s right . . . you tell that man he ain’t good enough
to talk to.
LONGSHOE: First I’m a nigger-lover . . . then a quadroon . . . now
I’m not even good enough to talk to.
EL RAHEEM: Boy, I told you about being in God’s walking space,
didn’t I?
ICE: You better answer God when he speaks, boy.
(Strikes CLARK. He falls against EL RAHEEM, who hits him

LONGSHOE: Don’t you turn your back on me, motherfucker.
too. OMAR begins kicking him. MR. NETT appears outside

gate.)
MR. NETT: On the gate. (NETT opens gate, enters.)
OMAR: Mr. Nett.
EL RAHEEM: Mr. Nett, Mr. Nett, the man started a fight with Omar
and we just broke it up.
ICE: That’s right, Mr. Nett.
MR. NETT: You guys shouldn’t whip his face. Omar, you are on the
help permanently. The Torres brothers beat their case this
morning.
OMAR: Right on . . . bet them two are high as all hell by now.
214
Short Eyes
MR. NETT: Yeah, and they’ll be back, mark my words. Listen, get
the floor. (MR. NETT closes gate and exits.)

this man off the floor. You guys know the rules . . . no sleeping on
ICE: You guys oughta learn how to touch up a dude.

OMAR: I’ll get a bucket of water.
LONGSHOE: Fuck the bucket of water, Omar. Put the sucker’s head
in the toilet bowl. There’s water there.
EL RAHEEM: He’s still a devil . . . I won’t do that to no man.
LONGSHOE: We could get it on again.
EL RAHEEM: That don’t present me no problems . . .
ICE: Squash it, man . . . both of you . . .
LONGSHOE: Come on, Omar, grab his other side . . .
OMAR: Hey, there’s still piss in there.
LONGSHOE: Put his head in and I’ll flush it.
EL RAHEEM: Omar . . . let me put his head in there and you flush it.
(OMAR, LONGSHOE, PACO pick up CLARK to put his head in

LONGSHOE: Makes no difference . . . flush the motherfucker, Omar.
toilet bowl. They use him as a ramrod, making three runs at the
toilet, CLARK screaming. On third ram, toilet is flushed, and
lights fade.)
215
Miguel Piñero
ACT II
Same scene. Half an hour later. JUAN is playing chess with ICE.
PACO is seated at table, watching ICE and JUAN play chess. OMAR
and CUPCAKES are doing exercises. EL RAHEEM is writing,
talking to himself. LONGSHOE is reading.
ICE: You know, it’s kinda like a shame what these dudes did to that
poor ugly misbegotten son of a bitch. I feel almost sorry for the
slob. They do that to me or even think of doing it . . . it’s war . . .
to the bitter end.
JUAN: Spare me. . . . Where they take him?
ICE: Don’t know . . . don’t care . . . and don’t give a fuck.
OMAR: They took him down for P.I. . . .
CUPCAKES: P.I.?
OMAR: Positive Identification . . . stupid.
CUPCAKES: Your mama.
OMAR: My mama don’t play that shit . . . and neither do I . . .
EL RAHEEM: I hope they don’t bring him back on the floor . . .
JUAN: Who, Short Eyes?
EL RAHEEM: Yeah . . . I got the feeling . . . and the knowledge work-
ing full and I feel it . . .
ICE: Feel what, man?
JUAN: You know as well as I do what. . . . Go on, it’s your play . . .
ICE: Looks like you made the wrong move there, governor . . . it
seems that I am going to have to prove to you, young
whippersnapper, that you can’t fool around with an old man . . .
JUAN: You sure talk a lotta shit, Ice.
ICE: You’re in check, my good fellow—chip, chip, cheerios and all
that shit . . . ten months, and I finally beat that motherfucker.
LONGSHOE: I hear you talking, Ice . . . git em . . .
ICE: Excuse me, my good man, while I answer nature’s call . . . I shall
return shortly. . . . Motherfucker, you better not cheat. Let me cop
that heist when you’re through . . . Shoe.
LONGSHOE: You’re on it second . . . Cupcakes cracked already.
EL RAHEEM: I don’t understand you niggers, sometimes. . . . Here
you got an opportunity to learn about yourselves . . . about the
greatness of the black man. And what you do? . . . Spend your
time reading filthy books . . . talking negative shit . . . beating your
meat at night . . . nothing that’ll benefit you in the future world of
216
Short Eyes
the black man. . . . The time for the devil is almost up . . . he was
meant to rule for a certain time and his time is near, almost too
near.
LONGSHOE: El, let me tell you something. I’m a hope-to-die dope
fiend . . . not ’cause I’m black . . . or ’cause I have some per-
sonality disorder, but because I like being a dope fiend. I like
being a dope fiend. And nothing is gonna change that in me. If
Allah comes down from wherever he is . . . and he ain’t doing
good dope . . . I ain’t gonna cop from him . . . and I’ll put out a
wire that his thing is cut with rat poison. . . . Why don’t you go
back into your lessons and git off my motherfucking back?
’Cause I do as I please. . . . When the day comes that I wanna
become a black god, a Panther or a Muslim, then I will become
one. Right now, all this shit you keep running about us being
niggers, stupid and ignorant, ain’t gonna get you nothing but a
good kick in the ass.
ICE: (Continuing.) Let me cop that heist, Cupcake . . .
CUPCAKES: When you gonna learn that I’m número uno?
OMAR: Come on, número uno . . . do me número ten push-ups . . .
PACO: Uno, do, tre, quatro . . .
OMAR: Hey, will you look at this? What kinda push-ups are those
suppose to be—his ass all up in the air?
PACO: El culito está cogiendo aire.
CUPCAKES: I hope Geraldo Rivera gives you the shock of your life.
OMAR: Weak-weak.
LONGSHOE: Better get some friends to burn some candles for you.
PACO: Corny little guy, ain’t he?
CUPCAKES: It’s better than saying I hope he gets electrocuted, isn’t
it?
LONGSHOE: Go back to clown’s college.
ICE: I told you dudes about letting him see too much T.V. The
OMAR: Weak-weak boo-boo. (All join in booing ICE.)

boob-tube gives cancer of the eyeball . . . but in your case . . .
CUPCAKES: Holy dingleberries, Batman, your shit stinks too.

JUAN: Okay, everybody, let’s give them something for effort . . . two
ha-ha. (NETT appears outside gate.)

ha-ha’s for Ice and one tee-hee for Cakes. . . . Ready . . . tee-hee,
NETT: On the gate. (NETT enters.)

JUAN: . . . And one boo for Mr. Nett.
217
Miguel Piñero
ALL: Boo . . .
goes into shower.)

CUPCAKES: Fuck this, I’m going to take a shower. (CUPCAKES
MR. NETT: (To JUAN.) Poet, you’ve got a visit.

JUAN: ’Bout time . . . I know Mammy ain’t gonna let me swim this
ocean by my lonesome.
MR. NETT: You too, Murphy.
JUAN: Come on, let’s not keep the people waiting.
LONGSHOE: I refuse my visit, Mr. Nett.
MR. NETT: That’s up to you.
JUAN: You what? Man, what kinda talk is that about? Your people
hustled out here from the Island and you refuse? You gonna show
like Cagney?
LONGSHOE: Juan, I like you, but don’t go in my kitchen without my
permission.
JUAN: Solid on that . . . later . . . (Enter BROWN.)
EL RAHEEM: Yeah, I’m going, Mr. Brown. (Various ad-libs.)

BROWN: All right, listen up. Anyone for religious services?
OMAR: How about some pussy?
your ass. (Exit BROWN and EL RAHEEM.)

BROWN: You better watch your mouth, punk, or I’ll put my foot up
LONGSHOE: Juan, wait . . . it’s cool, man . . .

JUAN: Sure . . . sure, man . . . it’s cool. Me and you’s all right . . .
LONGSHOE: Juan . . . wait, don’t make your visit . . . don’t go, man . . .
JUAN: What? Not to make my visit? You must be out of your mind,
Shoes . . .
LONGSHOE: Don’t, man . . . the freak . . . he’s gonna . . . man, like
I feel it. . . . You gonna seem out of place when you show back
. . . it’s gonna be like when you step out of the joint . . . the impact
. . . everything’s coming down . . . and bang, knocks you dead on
your ass. . . . And you . . . fight to get up . . . and all you can do is
throw a brick . . . ’cause that’s the only thing that carries any
weight. . . . Dig where that’s at, Juan . . . you in the life . . . you
know.
JUAN: Only thing I know is that you been fucking with them A trains,
again.
OMAR: Yeah, and that goddamn homemade wine.
LONGSHOE: That’s right . . . but you know like everyone else knows
that I know what I’m saying even if I don’t say it out loud.
218
Short Eyes
MR. NETT: Murphy, you’re lucky I don’t lock you up for being
stoned.
LONGSHOE: You wouldn’t do that, Mr. Nett. Mr. Nett . . . you
wouldn’t do that, Mr. Nett . . . what would happen to your bread
on the white side of the road?
PACO: Hey, man, be cool, Shoe.
LONGSHOE: I said white side, Paco, not Puerto Rican . . .
MR. NETT: Murphy . . .
LONGSHOE: I should have you call me Mister Murphy . . . Mister
Nett . . .
MR. NETT: Don’t push it, Murphy.
PACO: If I blow . . . you gonna answer.
MR. NETT: Listen, Murphy, if you don’t want your visit, that’s all
right with me . . . I give less than a fuck. . . . That’s your right.
Coming, Juan?
LONGSHOE: No.
JUAN: Don’t do that . . . don’t ever do that again . . . don’t ever
attempt to think for me. I don’t know where your head’s at . . . but
NETT: (Crossing to shower.) Mercado.

I can’t see what the freak has to do with . . .
LONGSHOE: Man, he has everything to do with it . . . Don’t you see

he has the mark on . . . Like I said before, it’s the same thing as
coming out of the joint . . . you’re branded . . . a week . . . a month
. . . sooner or later they’re gonna take you off the count . . . you
know that. . . . What makes you think his place is any different
. . . it’s all the same thing . . . .
JUAN: You lost me, but keep me lost . . . ’cause I gotta feeling I ain’t
gonna like it if you find me.
LONGSHOE: Go on, get your part of it . . . but don’t bring it back on
the floor ’cause if you do, you better walk pretty hard, Juan.
JUAN: No, Shoes . . . I walk soft but I hits hard. Dig this . . . visits
it up for nobody. (NETT and JUAN exit, gate closes.

and mail . . . that’s my ounce of freedom, and I ain’t gonna give
LONGSHOE gets sick and vomits into toilet, upstage center. ICE
and OMAR cross upstage to LONGSHOE.)
ICE: You better get Mr. Nett.
appears outside gate.)

OMAR: Hey, Mr. Nett. You better come in here, Shoe is sick. (NETT
219
Miguel Piñero
NETT: On the gate. (Gate opens, NETT enters. OMAR, ICE and
NETT help LONGSHOE to gate, exit. Gate closes. PACO alone
in room, with CUPCAKES in shower. PACO flushes toilet and
waits until men have crossed catwalk above. He enters shower
and joins CUPCAKES singing. PACO sneaks up on CUPCAKES
and embraces and kisses him on the neck.)
CUPCAKES: What the fuck . . . hey, git the fuck off me, motherfucker
Paco. . . . Man, what’s the matter with you?
PACO: Matter? What’s the matter with you?
CUPCAKES: You know what’s the matter with me, man . . . I don’t
play that shit, man.
PACO: Don’t play what?
CUPCAKES: You know what. Don’t push me, man.
PACO: Don’t play what?
CUPCAKES: That faggot shit.
PACO: Man, ’cause I kiss you doesn’t mean you’re a faggot.
CUPCAKES: It means you’re a faggot. . . . Don’t do it again.
PACO: And if I do, what you gonna do?
CUPCAKES: Nothing . . . I ain’t saying I’m gonna do anything . . .
PACO: Then why should I stop . . . I dig it . . .
CUPCAKES: I don’t . . . and I’m telling you to stop and don’t . . .
PACO: You’re telling me? Boy, you don’t tell me nothing.
CUPCAKES: Stop pushing on me. Look, I’m asking you . . .
PACO: Go on and ask me . . . ask me like a daddy should be asked . . .
CUPCAKES: You’re treading on me, man.
PACO: ¿Y qué? Óyeme, negrito . . . déjame decirte algo . . . tú me tiene
loco . . . me desespera . . . nene, estoy enchulao contigo. . . . Yo
quiero ser tuyo y quiero que tú sea mío . . . ¿Y qué tú quiere que
yo haga por ti?
CUPCAKES: Que me deje quieto . . . yo no soy un maricón . . .
PACO: Papacito, yo no estoy diciendo que tú ere maricón. . . . Yo no
pienso así . . .
CUPCAKES: ¿Y qué tú piensa?
PACO: Que te quiero y que te adoro . . . nene.
CUPCAKES: No soy nene . . .
PACO: Tú va a ser mío . . . mi nene lindo . . . Cupcakes, que dio
bendiga la tierra que tú pise . . .
CUPCAKES: Echa, que está caliente, Paco.
PACO: Pue ponme frío.
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Short Eyes
CUPCAKES: Paco, por favor, déjame ya. Cabrón.

PACO: Hijo la gran puta . . . punk, I ought to take you now.
CUPCAKES: Leave me alone . . . déjame.
PACO: Listen, little brother . . . I don’t want nothing from you the
hard way.
CUPCAKES: Well, that’s all you gonna get out of me, a hard way to
go . . . and don’t you ever call me brother. . . . If you considered
me your brother, would you be trying this shit? . . .
PACO: Si mi hermano era tan lindo como tú . . . yeah . . .
CUPCAKES: You’re sick . . .
PACO: I’m what? Sick? Don’t you say that to me . . . sick . . . shit,
I’m sick ’cause I’m in love with you . . .
CUPCAKES: Love me? . . . You use words that you don’t even know
the meaning of. Brother . . . Love . . . Shit, there’s a gringo who
does it to little girls . . . and you wanna mess with me. . . . Why
don’t you hit on him . . . why? ’Cause he’s white . . . and you
scared of the Whitey? . . . But you’ll fuck over your own kind
. . . . He’s the one you should be cracking on . . . he’s the one. Not
me. . . . But you’re scared of him . . . .
PACO: I fear nobody . . . or anything, man . . . God or spirits. Beside
. . . I don’t want him, I want you . . . .
CUPCAKES: But you can’t have me.
PACO: Push comes to shove, I’ll take you. But I don’t wanna do that
’cause I know I’m gonna have to hurt you in the doing. Look,
man, I’ll go both ways with you. Who you looking for? Juan is on
does have your back. (BROWN appears outside gate.)

the visit. And let me tell you this. Makes me no difference if he
BROWN: On the gate. (Gate opens. OMAR enters. BROWN exits.

Gate closes.)
PACO: I’m going to have you . . . if I want you . . . right now . . . I’m
gonna show you I ain’t scared of nobody . . . ’cause you need to
know that you gotta man protecting you. . . . I’m gonna take that
honky and you’re gonna help.
PACO: (Crossing to gate.) Hey, hey, officer, officer. (BROWN

OMAR: What?
reappears at the gate.)

BROWN: On the gate. (BROWN opens gate, PACO exits, gate closes,
BROWN exits.)
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Miguel Piñero
OMAR:Why you let that creep talk to you that way? . . . All you gotta
do is swing and keep swinging. Fuck it if you lose. Fuck it if you
win. Makes no change either way. Just let him know you’s a man.
I ain’t the smartest guy in the world . . . but I do know that some
people you can talk to, some people you gotta fight.
CUPCAKES: I took a swing at him.
OMAR: Not hard enough . . . not at the right place. You should wait
till Juan is here.
CUPCAKES: I don’t wanna use Juan.
OMAR: Bullshit. If you’re drowning, you use anything. You’s a fine
motherfucker, Cupcakes. Like I said, I ain’t the smartest guy in
the place. But I get the feeling you like being a fine motherfucker.
And maybe . . .
CUPCAKES: Look, look . . . we’re gonna do it to the white freak.
OMAR: I’m down . . . either way.
CUPCAKES: What you mean, either way.
an excuse . . . I want some. (Crossing above on the catwalk, left

OMAR: I like you, Cupcakes. But if you’re gonna give it up . . . with
to right, are LONGSHOE and ICE.)

LONGSHOE: Yeah . . . man, let me tell you, Ice, that old man put up
one hell of a fight. He was about sixty years old. But he was hard
(Exit above, LONGSHOE and ICE. BROWN and EL RAHEEM

as nails. Later in court I found out he was a merchant seaman.
appear at gate.)
BROWN: On the gate. (BROWN opens gate.)
EL RAHEEM: (Ad-libs ending with . . . ) Why don’t you come on
down to religious services sometime?
(BROWN leaves room, letting LONGSHOE and ICE enter,

BROWN: No, I was born a Christian and I’ll die a Christian.
closes gate and exits.)

ICE: You think you got it beat?
LONGSHOE: Oh, yeah, no doubt about it . . . like when we went to
court . . . he told the judge that I was Spanish . . . and that I spoke
it when I was ripping him off. ’Cause the old man is South
American. I told the judge I could hardly speak English, let alone
chance behind that. (PACO’s voice comes from offstage right.

some mira-mira language. The Legal Aid said we got one good
Ad-libs about drag queens that have just been arrested. BROWN
and PACO appear at gate.)
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Short Eyes
BROWN: On the gate. (Enter PACO.)

OMAR: Hey, look, some fags . . . they bringing in some drag queens
this out . . . ten inches. (ICE joins OMAR to make some remarks
on the floor . . . oh, baby . . . hey, sweet mama . . . over here, check
to the “girls,” or drag queens, offstage.)

ICE: Fuck that, check this out . . . thirteen inches. (Enter JUAN.)
me you are into that scene? (BROWN closes gate and exits.)
JUAN: That belongs to Paco. Hey, what’s happening, Ice, don’t tell
ICE: Juan . . . a stiff dick knows no conscience. How was the visit?
JUAN: Beautiful . . . told her to chalk the bail money up . . . just go
for the lawyer. I think that’s more important . . . don’t you?
ICE: Yeah, it is . . . if I had somebody out there looking out for me,
I’d do the same thing.
JUAN: She’s not very pretty . . . not very bright . . . but she’s all I have,
man, and I burn her every night.
ICE: Damn, Juan, speaking of burning somebody, did I ever tell you
about the first time I was upstate? . . . Clinton, to be exact.
OMAR: Yeah, I heard it before. The old Jane Fonda shit.
ICE: Well, Juan ain’t heard it.
OMAR: Tell it to Juan.
JUAN: Go on, run it.
ICE: You know how hard it was to get short heist up in big-foot
country before the riot.
LONGSHOE: What you mean before the riot? It still hard to cop short
heist up there. People still making money renting the damn things
out.
OMAR: Yeah, but it was harder then. Now they don’t really give that
much attention to short heist. Like before, they would keep, lock
you. Now they just take them away.
JUAN: When I was in Cax, it was terrible up there. Man, I still hear
tell they got the old track system running.
CUPCAKES: What’s the track system?
JUAN: Segregation between inmates . . . like black and white
handball courts . . . water fountains, you know like . . .
ICE: If you’re white you can’t smoke after a black, sit at the same
table in the messhall, and if you do, you can’t eat your food. No
taking anything from a black person. Like if you’re a whitey and
you playing handball and your ball goes over on the black
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Miguel Piñero
handball court and a black touches it, well you and the black have
to fight. If you don’t, you go on the track and become a creep.
CUPCAKES: Break it down.
ICE: Break it down, Juan.
JUAN: For instance, the yard is broken down in three sections.
ICE: Four. The track makes four.
JUAN: Yeah, you’re right. One white, one black, one Spanish-
speaking.
ICE: Ricans, baby, Ricans.
PACO: Yeah, there was Cubans up there.
JUAN: . . .An’ Mexicans ’n Dominicans ’n South Americans.
ICE: Same damn thing. They all eat rice ’n beans.
JUAN: You gotta lotta shit with you, Ice. But you’re right. The track
makes four. And if you’re considered good people, you stay with
your people and enjoy their protection. If you ain’t good people
and . . . like . . . go against the program your people set up . . .
ICE: Convicts’ law of survival. The codes of crime.
JUAN: Well, anyway, you go to the track with the creeps . . . with no
protection but your own two hands . . . dig?
ICE: Man, fuck that, he’ll learn when he gets there. . . . Dig this . . . I
was in my cell . . . like this is where they have all those French
Canadian bigots. Let me tell you, I was raised in Georgia for a
while, but like I swear to God I never seen anybody as racist as a
French Canadian. Anyway, like I was in my cell about nine, dig?
I was reading this short-heist book. Brotherman, this was a
smoker. S . . . M . . . O . . . K . . . E . . . R. Just after a few pages
. . . I had to put down the damn book because my Johnson Ronson
was ripping through my cheap underwears. So I put the book down
. . . jumped out my bed . . . stick the mirrors out the cell . . . to see
if anybody was coming down the gallery. . . . Coast clear. . . . Like
upstate you know ain’t like down here. You ain’t got no cellies,
Cupcakes . . . you be by yourself. So I would really stretch out in
doing up my wood. . . . I got this picture of Jane Fonda. ’Cause
you can’t have nothing on the walls. She’s got this black silk satin
bikini. Man, I could almost touch those fine white tits of hers. And
that cute round butt sticking out and all. Dig? I strip naked . . . and
started rolling. She was looking good on my mind.
OMAR: Why a white girl?
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Short Eyes
ICE: ’Cause, sucker, we weren’t allowed to have short-heist pictures

. . . and how many black girls have taken short-heist flicks.
JUAN: Hundreds of them. And hundreds of Puerto Rican girls, too.
ICE: Yeah, well . . . I guess I wanted a white girl.
EL RAHEEM: You wanted a girl so bad . . . made him no different if
it was just imagination.
ICE: Hey, man, you guys gonna let me tell this thing or what?
OMAR: Ain’t nobody stopping you. Run it. Juan’s listenin’.
ICE: Yeah, she was sure looking good on my mind . . . Jesus. . . . So
I started calling out her name real softly . . . Jane . . . Jane . . .
(LONGSHOE shows short-heist book to ICE. Inmates gather

Janeeee . . . ooooh, Janeee baby. Oooooh, Janneeee baby . . .
around table.)
OMAR: Goddamn! Will you look at the gash on that girl. That’s pure
polyunsaturated pussy.
ICE: Wesson Oil never had it so good. Oh, Jane baby. Oh, Jane
momma. Oooooh, Jane. Come here, get a part of some reallll
downnnn home gut-stomped black buck fucking . . . Man, I was
really running. Wow. She was in front of me. Dancing, spreading
her legs wider and wider . . . till I could see her throat, mmm.
Them white thighs crushing me to death. Wiggling and crawling
on the floor. Calling her name out, Janneee babyyyyy . . . oooooh,
Janeeee baby . . . This is black power. Git honey, git honey, git git
git . . . ununhahahaha . . . mmmmm, calling her name out faster,
a little bit louder. A little bit faster, a little bit louder . . . And I’m
whipping my Johnson to the bone . . . Soon everybody on the tier
knew I was working out ’cause soon everybody’s voices is with
me. And we’re all tryin’ to get this one last big nut together. . . .
Get it, get it. Janneeee . . . baby . . . Get it, get it, get it, get it, get
it, get it, get it. I scream, my knees buckle . . . and I’m kneeling
there, beat as a son of a bitch, because that’s the way I felt, beat
ever meet that broad, Jane Fonda . . . (BROWN and CLARK

as a son of a bitch. I really burnt Jane that night. You know if I
appear at gate.)
BROWN: On the gate. (CLARK enters, BROWN closes gate,
BROWN exits.)
ICE: . . . I’m going to ask her if she ever felt a strange sensation that
walks over to JUAN.)

night. Anyway, brotherman . . . I turn my head and bang. (CLARK
225
Miguel Piñero
CLARK: Can I see you, please. I need to talk to you, please.

JUAN: Later.
CLARK: Please.
ICE: The man said, later. You’re interrupting me . . . creep.
PACO: Go to your place, maricón. You know . . . go on, man, bang,
then what happened.
ICE: Oh yeah, bang. I happened to look up and there’s these two
redneck . . . peckerwood big-foot country honkies . . . looking and
grinning at me. . . . I don’t know how they was there ’cause I had
my eyes closed all the time I was gitting my rocks off, better for
the imagination. Helps the concentration, dig? They weren’t
saying a word, just standing there grinning . . . grinning these two
big grins . . . these two real big grins on the faces that reach from
one ear to the other. So I started grinning back. Grinning th-that
old nigger grin we give to Charlie. . . . We stood there grinning at
each other for about five minutes . . . them grinning at my Johnson
. . . me grinning at them grinning at my Johnson . . . just grinning.
Hold it, no really, just grinning. It’s weird. Freaky kinda thing.
Somebody stops to watch you masturbate, then stands there
grinning at you. I mean like what can you say? Really, what can
you say to them? To anybody? All of a sudden the biggest one
with the biggest grin gives out a groan. “Hey, Harry, this fucking
face has been pulling his pecker on a white woman.” So Harry
comes over and says very intelligently, “Da . . . da . . . this ain’t
no white woman, Joey. I mean, no real white woman. She’s a
Joey. Take my word for it, she’s white trash. The Daily News said
Communist, Joey, she really is, da . . . da . . . she’s white trash,
so.” So Joey runs this down on Harry: “Harry, I know what she is
. . . I read the papers, too, you know. But she is a white woman.
And this nigger has been thinking about . . . having screwed her.
Now you know that’s un-American. Harry, open up the deadlock.”
So Harry runs to open up the deadlock. Now Joey got the nigger
knocker wrapped around his hand real tight, dig. I know he about
to correct me on some honky rules. I know what’s about to jump
off . . . I’m in my cell . . . and I’m cool . . . extra cool . . . that’s
my name . . . Ice . . . The lames roll in front of my cell and I go
into my Antarctic frigid position . . . you can see the frost all over
my cell. But before Harry could open the deadlock . . . I told him,
Joey baby . . . now, I’m locking up on the third tier . . . I said, Joey
226
Short Eyes
baby . . . I sure hope you can fly. He said, What you talking about,
nigger boy? I said fly like a bird. You know F-L-Y? ’Cause once
you open this gate . . . I ain’t about to let you whip me with that
stick. I stood up on my toes, pointed over the rail and said both of
us are going, Joey. He yelled out, “Harry, don’t up the gate. This
nigger crazy.” Now I’m a crazy nigger ’cause I wouldn’t let them
come in here and kick me in my ass.
CUPCAKES: So what happened after that?
ICE: What happened? They called in reinforcement and tear-gassed
me out the cell.
CUPCAKES: Tear-gas you in the cell?
ICE: Yeah, what you think they do, ask you pretty please, would you
come out of your cell, we would like to break open your skull?
JUAN: Ain’t nothing new about that . . . happens all the time.
ICE: Anyway, when I comes out the hospital, I had to go see the
psych . . .
CUPCAKES: For what?
ICE: For masturbating. And for not letting them crack my head
willingly. You see only crazy people beat their meat.
PACO: The only lunatic is the freak. (NETT appears at gate.)

CUPCAKES: I must be a lunatic.
NETT: On the gate. (Opens gate.) Sick call. Line up for sick call.
LONGSHOE, PACO, CUPCAKES with various ad-libs.)

PACO: Come, I hear they got a brand-new nurse on. (Exit
OMAR: Now what you got, the leg? Or is it the tooth?
OMAR: Fuck that, I’ll take the tooth. (Exit OMAR and ICE. NETT
ICE: Look, Jack, you had the leg last week.
closes gate on EL RAHEEM and exits.)
(BROWN appears outside gate.)

EL RAHEEM: Mr. Brown, Mr. Brown, I want to go to sick call.
BROWN: On the gate. (BROWN opens gate, lets EL RAHEEM out,

closes gate, and both exit. CLARK and JUAN are left alone on
stage.)
JUAN: What you want to see me about, Clark?
CLARK: Look, what I told you earlier . . . er . . . that’s between me
and you . . . like, I don’t know why I even said that, just . . . just
that . . . man, like everything was just coming down on me. . . .
My wife . . . she was at the hospital . . . she . . . she didn’t even
227
Miguel Piñero
look at me . . . once, not once. . . . Please . . . don’t let it out . . .

please . . . I’ll really go for help this time . . . I promise.
JUAN: What happened at the P.I. stand?
CLARK: Nothing . . . nothing . . . happened . . .
JUAN: Did she identify you? Did she?
CLARK: I don’t know. I didn’t see anybody. They put me next to a
bunch of the other men about my size, weight . . . you know, the
whole line-up routine. I didn’t see anybody or anything but the
people there and this voice that kept asking me to turn around to
say, “Hello, little girl.” That’s all.
JUAN: Nothing else?
CLARK: No.
JUAN: You mean they didn’t make you sign some papers?
CLARK: No.
JUAN: Was there a lawyer for you there? Somebody from the courts?
CLARK: Juan, I really don’t know . . . I didn’t see anybody . . . and
they didn’t let me speak to anyone at all. . . . They hustled me in
and hustled me right out . . .
JUAN: That means you have a chance to beat this case. Did they tell
you what they are holding you for?
CLARK: No . . . no one told me anything.
JUAN: If they are rushing it—the P.I.—that could mean they only are
waiting on the limitation to run out.
CLARK: What does all that mean?
JUAN: What it means is that you will get a chance to scar up some
more little girls’ minds.
CLARK: Don’t say that, Juan. Please don’t think like that. Believe
me, if I thought I couldn’t seek help after this ordeal, I would have
never . . . I mean, I couldn’t do that again.
JUAN: How many times you’ve said that in the street and wind up
molesting some kid in the park?
CLARK: Believe me, Juan . . . please believe me. I wouldn’t any
more.
JUAN: Why should I?
CLARK: ’Cause I told you the truth before. I told you what I haven’t
told God.
JUAN: That’s because God isn’t in the House of Detention.
CLARK: Please, Juan, why are you being this way? What have I done
to you?
228
Short Eyes
JUAN: What have you done to me? What you’ve done to me? It’s
what you’ve done, period. It’s the stand that you are forcing me to
take.
CLARK: You hate me.
JUAN: I don’t hate you. I hate what you’ve done . . . what you are
capable of doing. What you might do again.
CLARK: You sound like a judge.
JUAN: In this time and place, I am your judge.
CLARK: No . . . no. You are not. . . . And I’m sick and tired of people
judging me.
JUAN: Man, I don’t give a fuck what you’re sick and tired about.
What you told about yourself was done because of the pressure.
People say and do weird things under pressure.
CLARK: I’m not used to this.
JUAN: I don’t care what you’re used to. I got to make some kind of
thing about you.
CLARK: No, you don’t have to do anything. Just let me live.
JUAN: Let you live?
CLARK: I can’t make this . . . this kind of life. I’ll die.
JUAN: Motherfucker, don’t cry on me.
CLARK: Cry . . . why shouldn’t I cry . . . why shouldn’t I feel sorry
for myself . . . I have a right to . . . I have some rights . . . and when
these guys get back from the sick call . . . I’m gonna tell them
what the captain said to me, that if anybody bothers me, to tell
him . . .
JUAN: Then you will die.
CLARK: I don’t care one way or the other, Juan. When I came here I
already had been abused by the police . . . threatened by a mob the
newspaper created. . . . Then the judge, for my benefit and the
benefit of society, had me committed for observation. Placed in an
isolated section of some nut ward . . . viewed by interns and
visitors like some abstract object, treated like a goddamn animal
monster by a bunch of inhuman, incompetent, third-rate,
unqualified, unfit psychopaths calling themselves doctors.
JUAN: I know the scene.
CLARK: No, you don’t know . . . electrodes . . . sedatives . . .
hypnosistherapy . . . humiliated by some crank nurses who
strapped me to my bed and played with my penis to see if it would
get hard for “big girls like us.”
229
Miguel Piñero
JUAN: Did it?

CLARK: Yeah . . . yes, it did.
JUAN: My father used to say he would fuck ’em from eight to eighty,
blind, cripple, and/or crazy.
CLARK: Juan, you are the only human being I’ve met.
JUAN: Don’t try to leap me up . . . ’cause I don’t know how much of
a human being I would be if I let you make the sidewalk. But
(NETT appears at gate.)

there’s no way I could stop you, short of taking you off the count.
NETT: On the gate. (NETT opens gate. The rest of the men enter.
NETT closes gate and exits.)
ICE: Juan . . . come here for a second.
JUAN: Yeah, what is it, Ice?
ICE: Juan, if you remember what was said after the last riot here . . .
PACO: He should. He suggested it, didn’t he?
JUAN: I remember everything that was said.
ICE: Anything that would affect the whole floor . . . we would hold
council on it, right? Well, he affects the whole floor.
JUAN: What’s happening?
LONGSHOE: He white like I am . . . and you ain’t got no right ac-
cording to the rules to take his back . . . if he is stuff.
JUAN: Stuff? He ain’t stuff.
LONGSHOE: Well, we say he is.
JUAN: Who says he is?
ALL: I say he is.
PACO: Anybody that has to rape little girls is a faggot. He’s stuff . . .
squeeze.
JUAN: I say he ain’t.
ICE: You got no say in this.
PACO: Oh, he’s got a say, not that it means anything, but he’s got a
say.
LONGSHOE: Paco, be cool.
JUAN: Yeah, Paco, be very cool.
LONGSHOE: That ain’t necessary. And neither is your getting in the
way of the council.
JUAN: The council was set up to help, not to destroy.
PACO: The council was set up to help, not to destroy. Oh, would you
listen to this . . . very . . . very pretty . . . he’s fucking Cupcakes
and now he’s fucking the white freak.
230
Short Eyes
CUPCAKES: Ain’t nobody fucking me, Paco.

PACO: Maybe he’s not yet, but he’s setting you up. Giving you
fatherly advice, my ass. He’s just like El Raheem. He wants to
fuck you too. Putting the wisdom in front of the knowledge. He’s
calling you a girl. That’s what he means by that. And Omar
playing exercises with you so that you can take showers together.
Longshoe . . . giving you short-heist books. Everybody wants you,
Cupcakes. Cupcakes, Ice gave you that name, didn’t he? Wasn’t
that your woman’s name in the street, Ice? . . . Nobody saying
anything. Why? ’Cause I hit the truth. Pushed that little button
Everybody on the whole floor is trying to cop . . . but only Juan
gets a share. Now he wants the white freak for himself, too.
JUAN: You’re sick, man.
cabrón. (PACO lunges toward JUAN.)

PACO: Tu madre . . . tu madre, maricón . . . hijo de la gran puta . . .
ICE: Hold it . . . hold it . . . man, why fight each other over some
bullshit.
JUAN: Let the motherfucker go. Let him go.
PACO: All right . . . all right, let me go. I’ll be cool. Okay, Juan. Check
this out. I want him. Longshoe is white. He gave the okay. That
means he wants him. Omar getting a share. So does El Raheem.
JUAN: El Raheem, you are in this too?
EL RAHEEM: He’s a Whitey. A devil. Anything goes.
PACO: How about you, Cupcakes?
JUAN: Julio?
PACO: Well, it’s either him or . . . well, Cakes . . . make up your
choice, now. Which way? Who you stand with?
CUPCAKES: I go . . . I go with you.
JUAN: You punk, you little punk. Everything I taught you just went
in one ear and came out the other. You want to be an animal too?
. . . You’re letting this place destroy you.
PACO: Ice, which way?
ICE: Man, I . . . I don’t want no part of it.
PACO: You what? You want no part of it?
ICE: You heard what I said. Juan is right. This place makes animals
out of us.
PACO: Man.
ICE: Man what? You think anybody here is good enough to take me.
JUAN: Take us.
231
Miguel Piñero
PACO: That’s the way you want it?

ICE: That the way it is.
EL RAHEEM: Ice, you don’t have to take a whole part.
OMAR: Ice, you my man . . . but you sticking up for some honky is
wrong. . . . You going upstate, you know that. Juan is likely to hit
the street. He got somebody out there. You don’t. All you got is a
plea to cop. I dig you a whole lot. But you’re wrong, Ice.
LONGSHOE: You don’t have to take part, play chickie . . . that’s all,
play chickie . . .
JUAN: You still got me to deal with. . . . (PACO grabs JUAN from
ICE: I . . . I . . . all right . . . I’ll play chickie . . .
behind.)
PACO: Hold him, Ice. (ICE holds JUAN.)
CLARK: Mr. Nett. Mr. Nett . . . (CLARK runs to window ledge

JUAN: Let me go, Ice. Ice, don’t do this to yourself. Ice, let me go.
upstage center. OMAR jumps on ledge with him. NETT appears

at gate, opens it, walks in, sees what’s happening and turns to go,
but remains.) Okay. Okay. Don’t hurt me anymore. Go ’head, do
what you want. Go ’head, you filthy bastards. Go ’head, Mr. Nett,
don’t think you can walk away from this. I’ll tell the captain. I’ll
bring you all before the courts. You bastards. You too, you fat
faggot.
PACO: You gonna do what? (PACO pulls out homemade knife.)

JUAN: Shut up . . . shut up.
jumps off window ledge.)

LONGSHOE: He’s gonna squeal. He’s gonna rat us out. (OMAR
JUAN: Ice, let him go.

EL RAHEEM: You’re in this too, Ice. We’ll all get more time.
MR. NETT: I’ll lose my job. (Opens gate to look down corridor.)
CLARK: I’ll make sure you get life, you son of a bitch.
CLARK: I’ll make sure you go to jail. My father has money . . . plenty
JUAN: Shut up, Clark . . . shut up. (PACO runs toward CLARK to kill
money.
him. EL RAHEEM restrains him.)

PACO: I ain’t doing no more time than I have to.
OMAR: Paco, that murder.
CUPCAKES: What are we going to do?
LONGSHOE: Kill the motherfucking rat.
MR. NETT: Kill him—it’s self-defense.
232
Short Eyes
EL RAHEEM: Suicide . . . suicide. . . . He did it to himself.

JUAN: It’s murder. Ice, it’s murder. You’ll be a part of it, too.
PACO: Hold him, Ice.
CUPCAKES: I don’t want to do more time.
(LONGSHOE pulls CLARK off window ledge.)

LONGSHOE: Kill him . . . kill him . . . kill the sick motherfucker.
gonna die anyway. (PACO gives the knife to EL RAHEEM.)

PACO: Here, El . . . he’s a devil . . . kill him. . . . You said the devil is
EL RAHEEM: Hold him . . hold him. (CLARK runs to downstage

OMAR: Kill him, El . . . kill him.
right corner. OMAR and LONGSHOE grab him and hold him.)
PACO: Stab him.
MR. NETT: No, cut his throat.
PACO: Do it, El . . . do it, El. (EL brings the knife down to CLARK’s
EL RAHEEM: Cut his throat.
neck.)
LONGSHOE: Go on, nigger, kill him.
EL RAHEEM: I can’t . . . I can’t . . . I don’t have the heart . . . I can’t
. . . do it.
LONGSHOE: What you mean you can’t do it? . . . You talk of killing
Whitey every day.
EL RAHEEM: I can’t do it. I just can’t kill a man like that. Not that
way. Get up and fight, honky. Let him up and I could do it.
LONGSHOE: Kill him . . . standing up . . . laying down . . . sitting . . .
either way, he’s dead.
EL RAHEEM: It’s not the same thing . . . I just can’t do it.
LONGSHOE: Kill him . . . kill him.
CUPCAKES: Oh, my God. (CUPCAKES pushes EL RAHEEM to

PACO: He’s a devil, El Raheem.
the shower and restrains him.)

JUAN: Don’t, El, don’t do it. That’s not the way a black god kills.
That’s a devil’s way.
CLARK: Please . . . don’t kill me . . . please, I didn’t mean what I said.
I didn’t mean it. I won’t tell anybody . . . please do what you want
EL RAHEEM: (Breaking loose from CUPCAKES, tries once more to

but don’t kill me. I got a wife and kids. Please, don’t . . . please.
kill CLARK.) Allah Akbar, Allah Akbar, I can’t do it . . . I just

can’t do it.
233
Miguel Piñero
LONGSHOE: Give me that knife, punk. (Swings knife, cutting

CLARK’s throat.) Scream, bastard . . . rat . . . scream . . . monster
. . . die . . . die . . . (Everyone is silent. NETT closes gate and
exits.)
OMAR: El Raheem . . . black god . . . leader of the black nation . . .
faggot . . .
EL RAHEEM: I’m not a faggot . . . I’m not a punk . . . Omar, believe
me. It’s just that I couldn’t kill a man looking at me helpless.
LONGSHOE: You punk motherfucker you . . . You ain’t nothing but
a jiveass nigger. I’m gonna cut your black ass until you turn white,
nigger.
CUPCAKES: El . . .
ICE: Shoe . . . raise . . . or deal with me.
LONGSHOE: You want a part of this, too, Ice? . . . Nigger, you want
a part of this?
ICE: Don’t run it in the hole, Shoe.
LONGSHOE: You selling me a ticket, faggot?
ICE: That’s right, honky. You feel you can cash it?
ICE: You bring it and bring your best. (LONGSHOE rushes ICE,
LONGSHOE: Come with it.
swings the knife. ICE jumps out of the way. PACO throws a chair
to ICE.)
LONGSHOE: Come, nigger. What’s the matter, jig? You can’t stand
the sight of a knife? You bought this . . . now enjoy it. Come baby,
don’t run.
PACO: Ice.
LONGSHOE: Paco, you go against me?
ICE: Come, punk, now he stand on equal grounds.
LONGSHOE: You’ll only get one shot, faggot.
ICE: That’s all I need.
PACO: Don’t look at me, Longshoe. You wanna kill each other, then
go ahead. El que gane pierde.
LONGSHOE: Whoever wins loses.
ICE: Dirty cocksucker. Fuck it.
CUPCAKES: Stop it, goddamn it. Stop it. . . . Oh, my God . . . is this
really us?
Blackout
234
Short Eyes
EPILOGUE
That evening. In dim light, NETT searches dayroom for remaining

evidence, which he puts in the shower. Closes the shower curtain.
Meanwhile, roll call is in progress. BROWN is on catwalk. As he calls
out names, prisoners appear in their respective positions on the
catwalk above.
BROWN: All right, listen up. When I call out your name . . . give me
your cell location and your first name . . . come out of your cell
. . . leave everything behind . . . keep your mouth shut . . . eyes
front . . . hands over your head. Blinker.
OMAR: Omar, upper D 9.
BROWN: Johnson.
JOHNSON: El Raheem, William, lower D 4.
BROWN: Pasqual.
PACO: Paco Pasqual, lower D 2.
BROWN: Wicker.
ICE: John, lower D 5.
BROWN: Murphy.
LONGSHOE: Charles, lower D 7.
BROWN: Otero.
JUAN: Juan, upper D 3.
BROWN: Mercado.
CUPCAKES: Julio, upper D 2.
remains. Enter ALLARD.)

BROWN: Put on your clothes and report to the dayroom. . . . (NETT
NETT: On the lights. (Lights on in dayroom.)

ALLARD: Get the lights on in here.
ALLARD: Get Merkaydo and Murphy.
BROWN: Mercado and Murphy. (CUPCAKES and LONGSHOE

NETT: Mercado, Murphy, in the dayroom.
leave cells offstage and cross catwalk, left to right, led by

BROWN. They appear at entrance to dayroom.)
NETT: Mercado. (CUPCAKES and BROWN enter dayroom and

BROWN: Which one first?
BROWN searches CUPCAKES. BROWN leaves dayroom,

closes gate, but remains outside it.)
ALLARD: Merkaydo, possession of drugs and sale of drugs.
CUPCAKES: Mi nombre es Mercado. Yo no hablo inglés.
235
Miguel Piñero
ALLARD: You no what? Listen here, you little punk. I don’t hear this
speaka la English jazz. I’m not here to play games with you.
That’s why we give you recreation. The only game I’m going to
play with you is to break your little Puerto Rican ass and slam you
in the bing until you leave this place. Is this clear? Now you speak
English, don’t you?
CUPCAKES: Yes, sir, perfeckly.
ALLARD: Now, that’s sales and possession of drugs, right?
ALLARD: (Almost shouting.) My name is Captain Allard, my name

CUPCAKES: Like, man . . . marihuana ain’t no drug.
is not man. . . . Do you understand that? Well, say so.

CUPCAKES: Yes, sir.
ALLARD: Okay. Let’s see, your name is Merkaydo.
CUPCAKES: Mercado.
ALLARD: Jewleo.
CUPCAKES: Julio.
ALLARD: You are twenty-one years old and here for selling drugs. I
wonder how many school kids you got hooked on this stuff.
CUPCAKES: I hooked no one onto anything, man.
ALLARD: What did you say?
CUPCAKES: I mean, sir.
ALLARD: You were in the dayroom when this happened, weren’t
you?
CUPCAKES: Yes, sir, he borrowed my towel, sir.
ALLARD: He borrowed your towel, went into the shower and cut his
throat? Why did you lend him your towel?
CUPCAKES: To dry himself.
ALLARD: What were you doing while he was in the shower?
CUPCAKES: I was watching T.V. and rapping to the fellas.
ALLARD: What program were you watching?
CUPCAKES: “The Dating Game.”
ALLARD: Did you know what Clark Davis was here for?
CUPCAKES: No, sir, it’s none of my business.
ALLARD: Did he seem depressed, uptight?
CUPCAKES: I didn’t notice.
ALLARD: Merkaydo, this is your first time up on criminal charges,
isn’t it?
CUPCAKES: Yes, sir.
ALLARD: Come here, Merkaydo, sit down.
236
Short Eyes
CUPCAKES: No, thank you, I’d rather stand, if you don’t mind,
Captain.
ALLARD: Well, I do mind . . . I ask you to sit down . . . I don’t like
looking up.
CUPCAKES: Yes, sir . . .
ALLARD: Merkaydo . . . I don’t know if you are listening to any of
these jailhouse lawyers. But you should take note that all the
cooperation that is given to the Department is always taken into
deep consideration by the courts. Why, I’ve known men who
didn’t stand a chance in a million to walk right out into the streets,
all because of a letter of recommendation from the Department.
And you know, of course, this is kept in the strictest of
confidence. And who knows—maybe in the future, if you should
ever get arrested again, it may go well with you. Now, think about
this for a moment. Do you care to make a statement?
CUPCAKES: No, no statements . . .
ALLARD: All right, go back to your cell. . . . Wait a minute, Mer-
kaydo. Has anyone on this floor been hitting on you?
CUPCAKES: No, sir.
ALLARD: If anyone did approach you with a homosexual proposi-
tion, would you report it to the officer in charge, Mr. Nett?
CUPCAKES: No, sir, I’m no rat, I’m a man . . . I take care of myself . . .
BROWN: On the gate. (BROWN opens gate, CUPCAKES exits,

ALLARD: Okay, mister . . . get back to your cell.
BROWN closes gate. CUPCAKES crosses catwalk to his position

above left. BROWN remains at entrance below, while ALLARD
and NETT continue conversation.)
ALLARD: Nett, how long has he been on your floor?
NETT: A little over a month, sir.
ALLARD: And no one has tried anything with him?
NETT: Not that I know of, sir.
ALLARD: Well, one thing’s for sure, men ain’t what they used to be . . .
NETT: Things have changed, sir.
ALLARD: Murphy, he’s been around a while . . .
NETT: Murphy’s been in and out of these places since day one, sir.
ALLARD: Call him in.
BROWN: Put your hands down. (BROWN opens gate, LONGSHOE

NETT: Yes, sir. On the gate. Murphy in the dayroom.
enters, BROWN closes gate. During following dialogue,
237
Miguel Piñero
CUPCAKES, on catwalk above left, and JUAN, on catwalk above

right, carry on a conversation in Spanish about the preceding
interrogation.)
ALLARD: Murphy . . . alias George Reagan . . . Michael Potter . . .
Julian Berger . . . etc. . . . Drugs . . . burglary . . . assault . . . grand
larceny . . . attempted murder . . . Now it’s armed robbery . . . you
got quite a record, Murphy.
LONGSHOE: Yes, sir.
ALLARD: Murphy . . . stand up straight . . . get that gum out of your
mouth . . . and wipe that smirk off your face. . . . You were in the
dayroom when this happened?
LONGSHOE: Sir?
ALLARD: Were you in the dayroom when this incident concerning
Clark Davis occurred? That’s a very simple question, Murphy . . .
and all I want is a simple answer. I’ll try to keep my questions
from being too profound for you.
LONGSHOE: I would appreciate it, Captain.
Clark Davis was bleeding to death in the shower? (At this point
ALLARD: Yes, I’m sure you would. What were you doing while
PACO, at entrance gate, joins Spanish conversation with JUAN

and CUPCAKES.)
LONGSHOE: I was sitting at the table reading a book and every once
in a while I’d take a glance at the boob-tube.
LONGSHOE: At the television, sir. (At this point, ICE, on catwalk

ALLARD: At the what?
above left, and OMAR, on catwalk above right, talk in “ism”

language.)
ALLARD: Well, say so, you’re no Puerto Rican just off the banana
boat. You speak English. What was the name of the book you
were reading and what program did you every once in a while
LONGSHOE: The book was Father’s Little Girlfriend and the name
glance at?
of the program was “The Dating Game.”

ALLARD: And I suppose everyone else on the floor was with you
watching “The Dating Game”?
ALLARD: Nett, can’t you keep those men quiet? (NETT crosses to
LONGSHOE: Yeah, well, except those that were in court.
entrance gate. BROWN exits and reappears on catwalk.)
238
Short Eyes
NETT: All right, pipe down. (The inmates stop for a moment, then
OMAR and ICE continue the “ism” talk.)
ALLARD: Sit down, Murphy, have a smoke?
LONGSHOE: No, thank you, Captain, I have my own . . .
ALLARD: Murphy, let me ask you a question . . . just between you
and me. . . . What do you know about this? Something isn’t right
BROWN: (On catwalk above, to ICE.): Shut up, ol’ simple-ass nigger.
. . . I can feel it . . . I think you know what I mean . . .
ICE: Your mother’s father is a simple-ass nigger.

BROWN: What you say?
BROWN: (Pulling ICE from catwalk above left.) Come on out of

ICE: I didn’t say nothing.
motherfucker. (BROWN and ICE cross catwalk, left to right, and

there—shut up—shut up—I kick you in the ass, shut up,
appear below at entrance gate.)

LONGSHOE: What’s going on, Captain?
ALLARD: Murphy, I’m concerned about you . . . a lone white man
among all these Puerto Ricans and Negroes. You’re not protecting
these people, are you? . . . Do you realize that every offense that
has been committed against a young white boy in this place has
been perpetrated by the blacks and the Puerto Ricans? What do
you owe these people? . . . Look, you’re an old-timer from the old
school, I understand that . . . and I appreciate and respect your
position, but we’re in a different situation here. . . . Murphy, I
want you to make a statement to help out in this investigation.
LONGSHOE: I make no statements to anyone . . . I got nothing to
say . . .
ALLARD: All right, go back to your cell. Just a moment. Murphy,
what color was his hair?
LONGSHOE: I’m color-blind, sir.
BROWN: On the gate. (Gate opens. BROWN enters, and

ALLARD: Get out of here! I’m color-blind!
LONGSHOE exits. Gate closes.)

NETT: Want me to write him up, sir?
ALLARD: Later.
NETT: You want to see anyone else, sir?
ALLARD: What for? . . . They’ll all come in here with the same story
about watching “The Dating Game” show, and they’re all lying.
NETT: What makes you think they’re lying, Captain?
239
Miguel Piñero
ALLARD: What makes me think they’re lying? Let me ask you. How
can a man come on this floor . . . no one talk to him . . . no one
notice him, no one remember a thing about him? Nett, I came here
to get the facts . . . and you are not helping.
NETT: You have no right.
ALLARD: Don’t raise your voice at me, Nett. I’m no inmate.
NETT: Captain, who are you investigating, these animals or a fellow
officer?
ALLARD: Don’t give me that fellow-officer routine, Nett. You are a
disgrace to that uniform.
NETT: Captain, those gold bars don’t give you the right to abuse.
ALLARD: Nett, did you send this T.V. repair order to the shop or not?
This is your signature, isn’t it? Then I can assume that the men
were not watching T.V., because the television was not working.
And can I also assume that Clark Davis’s death was not a suicide?
Do you realize what you’ve gotten yourself into?
NETT: Captain, he was . . .
ALLARD: Shut up, Nett . . . his parents are downstairs in the war-
den’s office complaining about why he wasn’t placed in a special
unit . . . or given more protection. What are we supposed to say to
his family? . . . I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing, Nett . . .
but I am going to tear up this repair order. It’s the only thing that’ll
shake up their story, and yours as well . . . .
NETT: Thank you, sir.
ALLARD: There’s nothing to thank me for. I didn’t do this for you,
Nett, but for the Department. Do we understand each other?
NETT: Yes, sir.
ALLARD: I hope so. I’m going to recommend that these men be
transferred to other floors, and I suggest that you make the same
recommendation. Then you keep a tight rein on this floor and
don’t ever get involved with the inmates again.
NETT: Yes, sir.
ALLARD: I should demand your resignation, but I won’t. I want you
to take a sick leave early, like tomorrow. Write the reports first,
get the men into the dayroom—I want to speak to them.
dayroom. (BROWN opens gate. ICE, EL RAHEEM, PACO enter

NETT: Captain, he was a child rapist. . . . On the gate, everyone in the
and cross to table area. OMAR, CUPCAKES, LONGSHOE and
240
Short Eyes
JUAN exit from catwalk and enter below. NETT stays on.
BROWN leaves dayroom and closes gate.)
ALLARD: I’m Captain Allard, men. I’m here investigating the terri-
ble tragedy that occurred here today. . . . And I’m satisfied that it
was a suicide. . . . But I would like to state that I and Clark Davis’s
parents hold you all morally guilty. . . . If you had taken some time
out of your own problems to help this poor man that was placed
in here because of a mistaken identity . . .
EL RAHEEM: What did you say? Mistaken identity? You mean he
wasn’t here because they caught him . . .
ICE: El.
ALLARD: Caught him doing what?
EL RAHEEM: With drugs . . . what else do people come to jail for?
ALLARD: No, Mr. Davis was not a drug addict. In fact, he was a very
well-liked and respected member of his community . . . a working
man with a wife and child. We took him down for a
positive-identification line-up . . . and the person that Mr. Davis
was supposed to have assaulted was not in her right mind and had
already pointed out two, maybe five other men, as the man
who assaulted her. . . . Mr. Davis was an innocent victim of
circumstances . . . innocent. . . . Good night, men.
BROWN: On the gate. (BROWN opens gate, ALLARD and NETT

ALL: Good night.
exit. BROWN closes gate and BROWN exits.)

LONGSHOE: Man, he was guilty, I know, I could tell, I could see it
in his eyes.
EL RAHEEM: Man, he was clean.
CUPCAKES: What have we done?
ICE: Ain’t no use crying over it now, Cupcakes, be cool, don’t blow
your cool, kid.
PACO: Juan knows.
JUAN: I know nothing, I was watching “The Dating Game.”
VOICE: Mercado, on the bail.
ICE: Go on, boy, your pussy for the night has just come through . . .
EL RAHEEM: Peace!
CUPCAKES: Juan, dime la verda del tipo ese, tú sabe.
JUAN: What’s there to tell. You got it all under your belt, don’t you?
PACO: Oye, ¿y qué? What difference does it make? I took part? I saw
him guilty. I feel nothing, mistake, it happens, eso pasa. Someday
241
Miguel Piñero
I’ll be in the streets walking, minding my own business and then

boom-boom, I’ll be shot down by a police, who will say it’s a
mistake. I accept it as part of my destino. . . . Sí, es mi destino
morir en la calle como un perro . . . .
LONGSHOE: That’s right, what are you holding up to Juan so much
for, will that bring him back?
CUPCAKES: You talk, ’cause you did the killing.
EL RAHEEM: He talks ’cause we did the killing.
CUPCAKES: I didn’t take his head, I didn’t swing the knife, he did.
ICE: Cupcakes, listen to me, you killed him just as much as I did.
CUPCAKES: You? You wasn’t even there.
ICE: I was there . . . I was there . . . no, I didn’t swing the knife . . .
and neither did you, but we’re guilty by not stopping it . . . we
sanctioned it. . . . Only Juan is free . . .
VOICE: Julio Mercado on the bail . . .
ICE: Take it light, kid, ’cause you take this place with you . . .
OMAR: Cupcakes, I mean Julio, do me a favor, little brother. Call this
number when you get out . . . tell her to come up to see me . . .
fast . . . say that I need her, please, little brother, it’s important.
CUPCAKES: Oye, Juan, por favor, tú sabe . . .
ICE: What you want, kid? What is it? Oh, shit, Juan, this kid think
you’re some kind of guru. Juan, if you don’t tell him something,
he’s gonna go out there and run this thing on someone who
shouldn’ hear it. Can you dig it, Juan? Get his head straight . . .
Juan, can you dig where I’m coming from?
LONGSHOE: Cupcakes, I’ve killed, and I’m not afraid to do it again,
do you understand that?
JUAN: Shoe, if you run some shit on that kid again, I won’t be afraid
to kill, either.
EL RAHEEM: Neither would I.
JUAN: I’ll give you something, a cheer, one last hooray, that’s yours
by law . . . ’cause you’re leaving this place . . . and only because
of that, can’t give you no life-style pearls . . . no cues . . . because
you, like the rest of us . . . became a part of the walls . . . an extra
bar in the gate . . . to remain a number for the rest of your life in
CUPCAKES: On the gate. (BROWN opens gate and walks away.)

the street world . . .
242
Short Eyes
JUAN: Cupcakes, you went past the money and blew it . . . yeah,
that’s right, this is cop and blow . . . and you blew it because you
placed yourself above understanding.
VOICE: On the bail, Mercado . . . get your ass out here now.
JUAN: Oye, espera, no corra, just one thing, brother, your fear of this
place stole your spirit . . . and this ain’t no pawnshop.
Blackout
243
Miguel Piñero
GLOSSARY OF SLANG
A TRAIN: Any depressant drug. They are readily available in most

prisons—at a price. Guards and prisoners bring them in from the
outside; also, they have a way of disappearing from the shelves of
prison clinics and pharmacies.
BACK: As in “watch your back,” meaning someone may attack you
(usually with a knife) when you aren’t looking. Prisoners attack
each other from the front (“fronting”) when they have some
respect for their adversaries or when the attack constitutes some
kind of showdown. Stabbing someone in the back is either an act
of cowardice or signifies that the target isn’t worth “fronting.”
BANDIDO (OR BANDIT): Someone who chases attractive young
prisoners for sexual purposes.
BING: Solitary confinement.
BREAK IT DOWN: Explain it.
BURN: To take a prisoner for something; also, to masturbate while
looking at a provocative picture of a woman.
CAX: Coxsackie Correctional Facility, a prison in upstate New York.
CELLIES: Cellmates.
CHICKIE: A lookout.
COMING OUT OF YOUR FACE WRONG: Bullshitting, saying
stupid things.
COMING OUT THE SIDE OF YOUR NECK: Same as COMING
OUT OF YOUR FACE WRONG.
CONTRACT: An agreement between prisoners, such as a “contract”
to wash another prisoner’s clothes in exchange for a sandwich
sneaked out of the kitchen by a prisoner who works there. Prison
authorities tolerate such violations because this kind of crude
barter helps make prison life more tolerable for inmates.
COUNT: The roll call of prisoners. A convict is “on the count” if he
is present and accounted for; hence the expression “off the count,”
which means (since escapes from Sing Sing and other
maximum-security prisons are so rare) that a prisoner is dead,
usually murdered by fellow inmates.
244
Short Eyes
CREEP: Sexual offender, the lowest rung of the prison social

hierarchy. Creeps never “get a hang-out card” (command enough
respect to mingle and converse freely with other prisoners).
CRIMEY: A fellow prisoner who was a member of one’s gang or a
partner in crime.
D: A felony.
DEUCE: A couple of puffs on someone else’s cigarette.
DON GEE: A big shot, “gee” is short for “gun.”
DOWN: Willing.
HACK: A guard. Also known as a “roller.”
HELP: Prison job. To be “on the help” means to get a prison job.
HOME PIECE: An inmate with whom one hung out before going to
prison.
HOMEY: A fellow prisoner from one’s neighborhood or home town.
“ISM” LANGUAGE: A black version of pig Latin.
JIG: Derogatory term for a black man.
JOHNSON (or JOHNSON RONSON, WOOD or SWIPE): Terms for
a phallus.
KEEP-LOCK: Punish a prisoner by confining him to his cell.
KICK: Kick the habit.
KITCHEN: (As in “Don’t go into my kitchen without permission”)
One’s private life. Stems from the custom among the poor of
confining guests with whom they are not on intimate terms to the
living room; only intimate friends are allowed into the kitchen,
where fewer pretenses can be maintained.
LAME: Sucker, chump.
LEAP SOMEONE UP: Flatter someone; to “get leaped up” can also
mean to get angry.
LOCKING: (As in “Where are you locking?”) Meaning “Where’s
your cell?”
LONGSHOE: Someone who’s hip, slick and “has his act together.”
PA’LANTE: (Short for “para adelante“) Forward and onward.

MELLOW-MAN: Close friend.
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Miguel Piñero
PARFAIT: A young male convict who is sexually desired by fellow

prisoners.
PINGÚ: Big shot; literally, “big dick.”
PLEXES: Psychological complexes.
PROGRAM: The do’s and don’ts of prison life. Programs are
ethnically determined: they are different for whites, blacks,
Puerto Ricans, etc. Programs are not enforced by prison
authorities; they are determined by the prisoners themselves. The
program for the whole prison population regulates the way in
which members of different ethnic groups relate to one another in
specific situations. It rigidly governs who sits with whom in the
mess hall, where people sit in the auditorium, who smokes first,
etc. It is the first thing a prisoner learns when he enters an
institution. Failure to follow the program is a sure way to have
trouble with fellow inmates and will result in physical reprisals
sometimes death.
RUB IT ON YOUR CHEST: Forget about it.
RUN IT: Go ahead and tell your story.
RUN IT IN THE HOLE: Do something so many times that it becomes
boring; needless repetition.
SALAAM ALAIKUM: (From the Arabic) Peace be with you.
SHORT EYES: Child molester; according to prisoners, the lowest,
most despicable kind of criminal.
SHORT HEIST: Any kind of pornography.
SNAKE: A homosexual.
SNAKE CHARMER: A “straight” prisoner who aggressively tries to
get “snakes” to satisfy his sexual needs.
SQUEEZE: A blatant male homosexual, a queen.
STUFF: A male homosexual (not as blatant as “squeeze”).
TEAROOM: Men’s room, especially in subways, where homosexuals
seek sexual contact with each other. To “cruise the tearoom” is to
go into a men’s room for homosexual purposes.
TOASTS: Long epic poems created and recited by prisoners for
diversion. “Running toasts” is a favorite pastime of prisoners, and
those who are good at it are likely to become popular with fellow
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Short Eyes
inmates. “Standard” toasts are toasts that have been committed to

memory and are still recited long after their creators are gone.
Favorite standard toasts are “King Heroin,” “The Ball of the
Freaks” and “The Fall of the Pimp.”
VAMP: Attack someone.
WIRE: (As in “to put out a wire on someone”) A false rumor or untrue
story.
YACOUB: White man, honky, “devil.”
247
Characters
VIEJO
JUSTICE
CHILE GIRL
CAT EYES
PHEBE REED
WILLIE “B” BODEGA
KAHLU
JR. BALLOON
ROSA
DIAMOND RING
SATISFACTION
LEFTY “G” GORILLA
BAM-BAM BOY
A MAN
A PROSTITUTE
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Miguel Piñero
ACT I
Actors come in from hustling on the streets with the audience.
SETTING: A bar in a large city, the time is NOW . . . it’s about mid-
night and the place is preparing for business. This is a place for the
hustlers and players of the city. All the people are extremely
well-dressed. There’s soft jazz coming out of the jukebox. There is a
large sign over the bar: “PUSHERS, IF YOU ARE BUSTED PUSH-
ING IN HERE, YOU WILL BE PUSHED INTO YOUR GRAVE.”
ONSTAGE: LEFTY at bar. CHILE and VIVA are running through a

song at the piano. PHEBE enters with two prostitutes.
PHEBE: With me it was in a pickup truck . . . I was hitching a run-

away . . . where I was going I didn’t know, but I was leaving
where I was coming from . . . this guy pulls up and let’s me in.
PROSTITUTE: Why was you running away from home?
PHEBE: It’s a long story . . . one thing was my daddy. He was, well,
hard to describe. He was a slob. . . a real slob . . . always fighting
with my mother . . . and, well, once he found out that I screwed
his brother . . . Actually it was the other way around. He screwed
me ’cause I really didn’t know what I was doing, being just eight
years old. And my father instead of fucking up his brother, he took
some money from him and kept quiet about the whole thing. I
heard them in the living room . . . and my father was saying, well,
she might as well learn to make money out of it. Like, one day the
family went out to do some shopping and I stayed home. It was
hot so I was taking a shower and he came into the bathroom and
took off his clothes and jumped in the shower with me and he
started telling me how he fed me, clothed me, housed me, the
whole number. And then he did the same thing that his brother did
and told me not to say anything to mom. I then knew that what he
was doing was something that was not right. But as the years went
by, he stayed away from me, but I just couldn’t stand to be around
him. So one day I just got what little things I had and split. . . .
PROSTITUTE: You know, you sure take a long time to get where
you’re going.
PHEBE: Okay . . . Okay . . . well, this guy pulls over and tells me that
he knew that I was a working girl and I thought that he meant that
250
I had a job . . . then he asked me for a job . . . and I told him I can’t
give you a job. I didn’t owned anything for him . . . and he said,
“Come on, woman, you understand what I mean. Maybe where
you come from they have another name for it, but I want a blow
job. . . . ” So I start to blow air at him . . . then he said, “Oh, I see,
money takes the action with you, huh? Okay . . . here.” Pulls out
ten dollars, hands it to me. Pulls out his dick, shoves it in my
mouth and when it over, he had to pull me away ’cause I didn’t
know when he wanted me to stop. He tells me that I work out
good and what was my regular place of work. I told him I didn’t
have any and he took me to meet this woman who ran a bar. Well,
from there on I just said to myself, “Well, this is one way of liv-
ing and it’s easy and I really get down to it. I kinda enjoy the work
in a way. . . . ” Well, a few years back I came up North and here I
am.
CHILE: Boring.
LEFTY G.: Listen, get your back off the bar . . . you know better than
giving your back to the bar.
PHEBE: You know something, Lefty, for an old motherfucker, you got
a nerve to talk to me.
CHILE: Why not run the bar on the sap, Lefty? Teach her a lesson.
PHEBE: Why don’t you mind your own business.
CHILE: Phebe, this is my business, and if you open up them painted
bubble gum lips of yours again . . . I’ll shove that blond wig down
your throat, bitch.
PHEBE: Ohhh, go bitch, go on . . . come, that’s right, just one step
more. (Pulls out a straight razor.)
LEFTY G.: Put that razor down, woman, or they’ll be putting a tag on
your big toe tonight . . . you hear me, woman?
JUSTICE: Hey. What the hell is going on here?
LEFTY G.: This bitch with the razor .
JUSTICE: Woman, put that thing away. . . . Lefty, I want you to count
to ten, and if that thing ain’t on the floor, I want you to put a hole
in her head.
LEFTY G.: Right . . . seven . . . eight . . . nine . . .
PHEBE: Hold it . . . hold it. Okay, there. Justice, she ain’t got no right
calling me a sap.
LEFTY G.: Chile said I should run the bar on her.
CHILE: She was going to cut me with that razor.
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Miguel Piñero
JUSTICE: It’s your stroke . . . stroke it. Kick her ass.

CHILE: Come, bitch. I’ll whip your tight little ass like I own you . . .
bitch . . . (They begin to fight.)
BAM-BAM: Mátala, Chile. . . mata a la cabrona, mátala . . . Ooooh,
pantaletas sucias . . . bien chingada.
JUSTICE: Okay, Chile girl, that’s enough, you proved your point.
Bam-Bam, get your ass in the kitchen.
CHILE: Next time you pull a razor on me, I’ll cut you from your
throat to your trick-filled pussy . . . bitch.
PHEBE: You called me a sap.
JUSTICE: That’s just what you are . . . a sap. . . . You disrespect my
place, and then you pull a razor on my girl, and you goddam well
knew you wasn’t going to use the damn thing. . . ’cuz you ain’t
ready to die.
PHEBE: Please, Justice, I’m sorry.
JUSTICE: Sorry, didn’t do it . . . Phebe Reed did. Who’s your man
now?
PHEBE: Cat Eyes. (CHILE crosses to her.)
JUSTICE: Cat Eyes, huh? . . . Run the bar on her.
LEFTY G.: Ain’t nobody here, Justice, but Viejo.
JUSTICE: Viejo . . . where is he?
LEFTY G.: In the bathroom taking a shit.
JUSTICE: I don’t need all the details, Lefty. Why didn’t you tell me
he was here?
LEFTY G.: I couldn’t . . . not with that bitch giving us all this static.
JUSTICE: Run an hour on her.
PHEBE: Justice . . . please, Cat Eyes will kill me.
JUSTICE: He ain’t gonna kill you, just touch you up a bit . . . the very
thing you need, too. Chile, tell Cat Eyes I wanna see him when he
come in.
PHEBE: Please, Justice, give me some.
JUSTICE: Okay, you got some justice . . . next time. Hey, holy shit-
balls . . . Viejo, you fowl, stink-breath, low-lifed, high-living son
of a street-walker, how the fuck you been?
VIEJO: Hey, toilet-bowl mouth, long time no see, man.
PHEBE: Justice, this motherfucker eighty-sixed me.
JUSTICE: I already told you, you copped. Right? Now kindly vacate
these premises and do not enter again through them doors, unless
you are accompanied by your man or a john. Is that clear?
252
PHEBE: Thank you.

JUSTICE: Put an egg in your shoe and beat it!
VIEJO: ¿Qué pasa with her?
JUSTICE: Violated número uno house rule.
VIEJO: Still the same rules, huh?
JUSTICE: Oh, fuck you . . . and get your back off the bar, you
gray-ass, high-yellow, Puerto Rican nigger.
LEFTY G.: Want me to run the bar on him, Justice.
JUSTICE: You could if you wanna . . . but I think Chile girl will crack
your skull for you if you do.
LEFTY G.: Blood is thicker than whiskey.
JUSTICE: Viejo, it’s now been . . .
VIEJO: Five years, two weeks and three days.
JUSTICE: You been in, huh? I thought so.
VIEJO: How’s things been going?
JUSTICE: Not bad. On Saturdays I make as much money from the
undercovers—plainclothes and provocateurs—as I do from the
players.
VIEJO: Tap?
JUSTICE: The whole joint.
VIEJO: Bad scene.
JUSTICE: It’s them so-called revolutionary, loud-mouth militants
using places like these to make their meetings. Then the pushers
come in after the law come out.
LEFTY G.: Sons of bitches.
JUSTICE: . . . Made things worse for all. See the sign? Don’t think I
put that up. All those that signed it did . . . and let me tell you, it’s
been enforced more than once. Believe me.
VIEJO: I see no reason not to.
JUSTICE: I don’t mean it that way. Everybody knows that when you
fell into dealing drugs, it was because of . . .
VIEJO: Everybody knows?
JUSTICE: Well, everybody that counts.
VIEJO: Chile?
JUSTICE: Yeah . . . I guess she got ears.
VIEJO: She not?
JUSTICE: No, she’s cool. Goes to college in the day, works here at
night . . . she been like a daughter to me.
VIEJO: And you’ve been like a father.
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Miguel Piñero
JUSTICE: As much as a father as you would’ve been.

VIEJO: Vaya, that’s cool.
JUSTICE: You’re off for good? No extra change hanging around
somewhere . . . is there?
VIEJO: Nothing hanging loose. Everything is tightened up.
JUSTICE: Max-out? All of it?
VIEJO: Every dime of it, that includes delinquent too.
JUSTICE: Well, that’s really good to hear . . . Lefty G.
LEFTY G.: God listens to those who speak.
VIEJO: And the devil listens to those who whisper.
JUSTICE: You remember, huh?
LEFTY G.: Two points for El Viejo.
JUSTICE: Lefty G., put a tab up for Viejo.
LEFTY G.: You got it.
JUSTICE: Had a chance to cop some combo with Chile?
VIEJO: Negative, that thing about the cracked skull was cute, but I get
the feeling it would have been my head and not Lefty G’s.
JUSTICE: You sell yourself too short.
VIEJO: Perhaps, quizás, pero I still feel it.
JUSTICE: It’s all in your mind. You know every time someone comes
out of the joint it’s paranoid time.
VIEJO: Run that shit under somebody else’s belt, not mine.
JUSTICE: I’ll prove it to you.
VIEJO: Later . . . right now tell me why the streets are so empty of
players.
JUSTICE: There are players in the streets, just that things change.
Some players are not into the same kinda things we were into. You
looking for a game? Or are you gonna shoot your regular.
VIEJO: I’ll do some scouting first . . . before I go into the field.
JUSTICE: Hey, Chile, come here.
VIEJO: I told you later.
JUSTICE: But I thought.
VIEJO: You shouldn’t think for me . . . I’m capable of doing my own.
JUSTICE: Okay, what is the matter? Why the rocks?
VIEJO: I haven’t any rocks. Look, all I wanna find out is how is
everything and everybody doing.
JUSTICE: Well, let me put it to you this way, Viejo. Everything is
everything . . . and everybody is either breathing or not. You’re
scared?
254
VIEJO: Me? No . . . well, okay, damn it, I am.

JUSTICE: Why?
VIEJO: Look. What am I supposed to say to her? “Hi, I’m Luis
Rivera. I’m the spick who turned your mother into a whore and
dragged her down into drug addiction with me, into prisons and
hospitals, and abandoned you to a players’ bar?” I never gave her
anything worth having.
JUSTICE: Wait a minute, If I remember correctly . . . there was a
ten-thousand-dollar bank account in her name when you left her
in my house.
VIEJO: Your memory is beautiful, but that was only material things.
JUSTICE: What are you talking about “material things”? What else is
there?
VIEJO: There’s things that money can’t buy, something of value . . .
from the soul of love . . . something spiritual.
JUSTICE: From the soul of love . . . are you for real? Where the hell
were you? In some prison, or a maharishi guru retreat? What’s
gotten into you? This isn’t the Viejo I know or knew.
VIEJO: Sometimes I wonder myself . . . I guess it’s age and time. You
know something? The first time we went to the joint . . . nothing,
time slipped by so fast that I was swift and clean with my mitts
copped what I needed, and kept something extra just in case I ran
out. This time the bit put a hurting on my ass. This time I woke
up to find a very rude awakening waiting for me in the mirror.
JUSTICE: Okay. You woke up to a certain fact of life, that once meant
shit to you, and means the same to millions of others. But she is
your flesh and blood . . .
VIEJO: Jake, I don’t know if I can handle it.
JUSTICE: There’s only one way to find out. Right? Well?
VIEJO: Don’t go too far.
JUSTICE: Fuck you . . . now straighten yourself up. . . . Chile, you
got some time for yourself.
CHILE: Good, I’ll go get something to eat . . . I hate the food here.
(Begins to leave.)
JUSTICE: That’s not what I mean. . . . (SHE returns.) Viejo would
like to talk to you.
CHILE: He has nothing to say . . . anyway, not to me, Justice.
JUSTICE: He’s your father.
CHILE: In name only.
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Miguel Piñero
JUSTICE: He needs you, Chile.

CHILE: I needed him when I was young.
JUSTICE: Chile . . . don’t do that to him.
CHILE: He did it to himself. And if that’s why you gave me some
time off for myself. . . I’ll go back to work.
JUSTICE: Go back to work . . . he’s a customer. Treat him like one,
his table is lonely . . . his glass is empty.
CHILE: Yessum bossem. (Cross to VIEJO.)
VIEJO: Hi.
CHILE: Your glass is empty.
VIEJO: Sí, yo sé. ¿Cómo está mi hija?
CHILE: Sorry I don’t speak Spanish.
VIEJO: Chile . . . (Enter JR. BALLOON with ROSA.)
JR. BALLOON: Why is there no music in this place?
JUSTICE: ’Cause we was all waiting for the rhythm to arrive.
JR. BALLOON: I am here.
JUSTICE: And there’s the box. (Motions ROSA to the jukebox.)
CHILE: Customers.
VIEJO: Chile.
CHILE: Customers . . . see you around some time. (Music begins. JR.
BALLOON dances with CHILE and ROSA.)
JR. BALLOON: Hey, Justice . . . what do you think about this girl
putting a make-believe beauty mark on her face without my per-
mission?
ROSA: But, baby, I did it for you.
JR. BALLOON: I was talking to Justice. Girl, you been beginning to
take too many liberties. . . . Girl, you keep that mouth of yours
running when it should be closed, I’m gonna have to run you
down to the East Side with those transvestites.
JUSTICE: The beauty mark adds essence to her beauty, Junior Balloon.
CHILE: She should have something black about her. (Serves drinks to
everybody.)
JR. BALLOON: Good . . . good, give the young lady two points. She’s
learning too much from you, Justice.
JUSTICE: Like father, like daughter. That’s what some fool said.
JR. BALLOON: Go find us a nice table, Rosa.
JUSTICE: All the tables are nice, Junior Balloon.
JR. BALLOON: What would you do without my business? (Enter
WILLIE BODEGA with KAHLU.)
256
JUSTICE: Celebrate!
WILLIE BODEGA: Lefty . . . hey, what’s going on? Junior Balloon . . .
Justice.
JR. BALLOON: Well, if it ain’t the talking gringo. . . . Hit any gro-
cery stores lately?
WILLIE BODEGA: Funny . . . funny . . . you got a nerve talking. You
look more like an advertising for a macaroni clothing store.
JR. BALLOON: Poorly. Who writes your material?
WILLIE BODEGA: The same joker that made your suit. Your
money’s calling you.
JR. BALLOON: Yeah, but there’s no police thirty-eights coming from
that moneymaker.
WILLIE BODEGA: Lefty, let me have. . .
LEFTY G.: You can have anything and as many as you want . . . the
tab is on Cat Eyes.
WILLIE BODEGA: Well, in that case, let me have a bottle of your
best champagne.
JR. BALLOON: You mean to tell me you let me put money on the
counter?
LEFTY G.: You always said you got it like the feds.
JR. BALLOON: Yeah, but when it’s free? And the competition is pay-
ing? Well, that’s another story altogether.
JUSTICE: You should never acknowledge competition, Junior Bal-
loon. It can slow you down worrying about it.
JR. BALLOON: Who worries? The way I see it, there’s enough for
everyone that can handle it.
WILLIE BODEGA: No one gives Junior Balloon any compo.
JR. BALLOON: You tell ’em, whitey. June, the month of love. Love,
the bug you just can’t slap away.
WILLIE BODEGA: California? This is the best? How we gonna toast
with grape juice? (Pop! Piano fanfare.) Here’s to the hustle. (Fan-
fare.)
JR. BALLOON: And the hustlers. (Fanfare.)
VIEJO: And to the suckers.
WILLIE BODEGA: The suckers.
VIEJO: Who without there would be no hustle . . . or hustlers.
JR. BALLOON: Suck my left nut. Am I seeing who I’m seeing?
Viejo.
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Miguel Piñero
VIEJO: Junior . . . Willie . . . long time. I see you two are still on each
other’s cases.
WILLIE BODEGA: Can’t shake the snake charmer loose.
JUSTICE: We didn’t steal it. We took it.
JR. BALLOON: You and your brother should have never stolen my
lunch money. Justice, you ain’t shit. You stand there, knowing the
old man is in town, and don’t let up on it. . . . Shit.
JUSTICE: The toilet is that way.
JR. BALLOON: What are you doing, old man?
VIEJO: Well, nothing as of yet, just looking over the store.
WILLIE BODEGA: You got ends?
VIEJO: Got enough to see me over any humps. . . .
JR. BALLOON: How’s your collar?
VIEJO: My collar is tighter than a pimp’s hatband.
JR. BALLOON: I’ll have it loosen for you tonight. . . . Rosa, come
here, mama. (Cross ROSA to JR. who motions, turns her towards
VIEJO. ROSA crosses to VIEJO.)
ROSA: Hi.
JR. BALLOON: This here is one fine, moneymaking ’ho’e . . . most
of the bread I made with her head. Just give her your address and
she is yours for as long as it takes . . . but remember, just for that
long, not longer than that.
VIEJO: She young.
JR. BALLOON: She old enough. Can you handle it, mama?
ROSA: Anything you say . . . but he old.
JR. BALLOON: Don’t let snow fool you, there plenty of oil in the
basement. (Laughs.)
WILLIE BODEGA: Jesus H. Christ! Junior Balloon, you tell the
corniest jokes . . . and then he laughs at them too. I don’t see what
they see . . .
JR. BALLOON: Mama, tell this near-sighted fool what you see in
Junior.
ROSA: June.
JR. BALLOON: And that’s all they wanna see, ’cause they don’t
wanna see the winter in me. . . . Okay, mama, go back there and
look pretty.
ROSA: Old man, when I get through with you, you’ll be in your sec-
ond childhood.
258
JR. BALLOON: That’s why you could never make it as a Mack. You
never let a woman see what she wants to see, but what you want
her to see. This way, she is always looking for something to see.
VIEJO: “I see,” said the blind man . . . to his deaf daughter.
WILLIE BODEGA: I know this payroll clerk who’s given me all the
details of his route. He has pocket money for both of us . . . ten
G’s apiece.
VIEJO: Is it a two-man job?
WILLIE BODEGA: Sure.
VIEJO: Your word?
WILLIE BODEGA: No, not really, but you know things sometimes
happen, and . . .
VIEJO: No thanks . . . I don’t play alarm clock.
WILLIE BODEGA: Just trying to be helpful.
VIEJO: I know, thank you, but I am not looking for welfare.
WILLIE BODEGA: Excuse me for living . . . shit!
JR. BALLOON: Why be like that, old man? He only trying to be help-
ful . . . he’s a heist kid, that’s all he knows.
VIEJO: You’re right, I don’t know where my head was there. Excuse
me, I’ll go apologize . . . Willie, look, I didn’t mean to sound like
that.
WILLIE BODEGA: That’s okay . . . I was out of line, but you did
teach me everything I know about the business.
VIEJO: Let me buy you a drink.
WILLIE BODEGA: Haven’t you heard? The drinks are on Cat Eyes.
CAT EYES: (Entering.) Hold it! Hold it! Wait a minute. Now . . .
what’s this about the drinks on me? I don’t remember ever invit-
ing you to drink with me.
JUSTICE: Well, you invited everybody for an hour of free drinks
tonight.
PHEBE: They are running the bar on you, Papi.
CAT EYES: Running the bar on me? Justice, you must be clear out of
your mind . . . I ain’t paying for nobody’s drinks.
JUSTICE: Cat Eyes, there are many unwritten rules in the game that
you play . . . this is a hustler’s place . . . all my customers are play-
ers, and they go with the rules . . . the same ones that are out in
the street apply here. One . . . the major, is respect . . . you don’t
disrespect the place . . . if you turn your back on the bar, you dis-
respect me . . . and if you disrespect . . . you pay.
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Miguel Piñero
CAT EYES: I have never placed my back on the bar.

JUSTICE: She did . . . she’s yours . . . you’re responsible.
CAT EYES: You didn’t tell me this. You embarrassed me in front of
all these people. Get out . . . and I don’t want to see you at home.
I want you in them streets until your soles waste. Get out. Beat it.
(Turns to JUSTICE.) Here’s a couple of hundred, Justice, this
should cover it.
JUSTICE: Man, goddam, you young. Look here, brotherman, it has
nothing to do with the bread, can’t you get that through your
head? You ain’t cool at all, are you? I mean, you need some type
of schooling, man. If you don’t get your head together, you gonna
end up with a teacher.
CAT EYES: Yeah, who?
JUSTICE: Me . . . I make a good principal, brotherman.
CAT EYES: And I never made a good student.
WILLIE BODEGA: That’s why you a dropout in the players’ game.
JR. BALLOON: Pendejito . . . asshole.
CAT EYES: Oye, tú no me conoce’ a mí. You don’t know me.
JR. BALLOON: And I don’t really want to either, bro.
WILLIE BODEGA: Man, you ain’t got no kind of class, do you?
CAT EYES: Who the fuck is this fucking gringo talking to?
WILLIE BODEGA: Unless you a wall, motherfucker, I’m talking to
you.
CAT EYES: Better dig yourself, mister. (CAT EYES reaches inside
jacket.)
WILLIE BODEGA: You do right calling me mister.
JR. BALLOON: Better not go for it, kid.
WILLIE BODEGA: Guess at your age you wanna call it a game of
cards.
JUSTICE: Willie Bodega.
WILLIE BODEGA: Yeah, Justice, I’m cool, man, I’m cool.
CAT EYES: He better be or he be dead soon. You dig?
WILLIE BODEGA: (Going for gun. Everyone clears.) Now, where
have I heard that rap before?
JUSTICE: Junior . . . Willie . . . I mean it.
WILLIE BODEGA: Okay, Willie B. ain’t gonna ’cause you no dam-
ages.
CHILE: Look, if you ain’t gonna put no money on the tab, then book
out of here.
260
CAT EYES: Okay, I take the tab . . . I can afford it. (Staring at
WILLIE.)
JUSTICE: You can’t afford it.
LEFTY G.: Well, what you gonna do, young blood? You stare real
hard.
WILLIE BODEGA: He must practice . . . in front of the mirror.
JR. BALLOON: Come on . . . sit down already, Willie . . . leave the
dude now.
WILLIE BODEGA: I ain’t bothering him.
CAT EYES: Your breath is.
WILLIE BODEGA: Oh my, oh my . . . next thing he gonna do is talk
about my mother. Oh my, oh my. . . I feel so rotten, boo hoo . . .
I’ll weep for days behind that statement.
JR. BALLOON: Willie . . .
WILLIE BODEGA: Yeah, okay, Junior.
JR. BALLOON: Man, it ain’t you I’m worrying about, man, it’s Jus-
tice’s place, man . . . you know the place is hot.
WILLIE BODEGA: Look, man, I’m gonna squash this here bullshit
between me and you, kid . . . but I just wonna drop something on
you before I do squash it.
CAT EYES: Make it short.
WILLIE BODEGA: As short as it takes, man. Man, if you wanna be
a player, you got to realize that everything that jumps your way
ain’t threatening your manhood, brotherman.
CAT EYES: A whitey that raps like a nigger. Ain’t that something?
WILLIE BODEGA: No, that ain’t nothing, man. I just rap this way
’cuz that the way I raps . . . but what I wanna tell you is this,
young blood . . . the man been in the game before you crawls out
of your mama’s cunt, and this man told you, rightly so too, that
your lady disrespected the place, and there was no kind of shit
jumping your way, man. All you had to do, if you really think
yourself as being what you are, a man, is, man, that you apologize
to the place and accept the play, man, to you . . . that’s all. No big
thing, no big money coming out of your pocket . . . no big thing
being taken out of your hustle, man. Nothing, man, nothing at all
. . . but you gotta jump stink right quick on the place, because you
think everybody is out to make you or take something away from
you. That’s too bad, man . . . ’cuz you ain’t never gonna learn to
trust, man, and that’s real bad . . . ’cuz if you can’t trust, then you
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can’t ever relax and enjoy the stings you make. Can you dig it,
man? And you wanna know something? The run of the tab on you
was just a way of Justice letting you know that you blew it in here
with him and that you should be aware of it. Like on the streets a
knife in your gut or a bullet in your head would have been the
respond, and I guess that’s what you think that you are supposed
to respect, the force, and fuck the rest of the real attitude.
CAT EYES: Man, you talk too much.
WILLIE BODEGA: I guess that I do, ’cuz I like you and your moth-
erfucking arrogance.
JUSTICE: Man, brotherman, you better believe that he likes you for
reasons known only to him.
CAT EYES: Maybe he’s a faggot.
JUSTICE: You want your table?
CAT EYES: Yeah.
CHILE: It’s ready. (Cross LEFTY with drinks on tray.)
JR. BALLOON: Hey, Lefty. . . can you dance, man?
LEFTY G.: Sure.
VIEJO: So that’s what out here on the streets making the money, huh?
JUSTICE: Yeah, that’s what out here, man. That ain’t nothing. Wait
till you see the rest parading around, man.
DIAMOND: Man, Justice, I . . . I . . . man, tell me something quick,
man, like . . . like this dude, man . . . I’m gonna waste the moth-
erfucker, I’m gonna waste the motherfucker.
MAN: That’ll be the last motherfucker you’ll ever try to waste too.
(DIAMOND angrily heads toward MAN, but JUSTICE restrains
him.)
JUSTICE: Man, calm down, man, calm down . . . like, what the hell,
man. (DIAMOND calms down a bit and walks around acknowl-
edging everyone.)
DIAMOND: Who that?
JUSTICE: This here is Viejo, man, a really down to the . . .
DIAMOND: That’s the dude you be rappin’ about, man? Hey, what’s
happening?
VIEJO: Right now you’re what’s happening, brotherman.
DIAMOND: Thank you.
JUSTICE: Now, who is this that you gonna kill this time, man?
WILLIE BODEGA: He’s always killing somebody.
262
DIAMOND: No, this time I’m for real, Willie, really for real, man.
You know what this dude did outside to me . . . to me, Diamond
Ring, the baddest Mack-O-Roni that ever jumped out of the cook-
er. This dude out there sold me a motherfucking . . . a mother-
fucking wolf ticket in front of my woman, man, in front of my
ladies. See, Willie? This time is serious business.
WILLIE BODEGA: Yeah, man, real serious.
DIAMOND: Him and his boys.
WILLIE BODEGA: You ain’t got no piece, man?
DIAMOND: Have you ever known me to wake up without brushing
my teeth with my three roscoes?
WILLIE BODEGA: Then why are you in here rappin’ about it?
DIAMOND: Man, this dude, this punk, called me out in front of the
motherfucking cops . . . in front of the cops, man. That’s why I’m
here, man, ’cuz or else . . . you know what it all about, man. Man,
I got to get my feelings out or else I be out there with these two
dudes dead at my feet, facing the motherfucking police, man, and
you know about me, man, I hold court in the streets, man, I can’t
do no time.
CAT EYES: That’s why people worry about him knowing too much.
DIAMOND: You talking ’bout me?
JUSTICE: That kind of talk is not allowed here, mister.
CAT EYES: It’s a free country.
JUSTICE: Since when?
WILLIE BODEGA: Be cool, Diamond. He’s a little hot ’cuz Justice
is running the bar on him.
DIAMOND: Give me four bottles of the best champagne that you got,
Just.
CAT EYES: That’s the only way you can get it . . . when it’s free.
DIAMOND: Make it eight.
JUSTICE: No, man, you can’t do that.
DIAMOND: Why not?
JUSTICE: You ain’t gonna drink them, man, that’s why. . . and I hate
seeing good champagne going to waste.
DIAMOND: I’ll drink them, besides, I got friends that will help me.
(Everyone tinkles their glasses.)
JUSTICE: Oh, shit, here we go with another drunk. . . . Lefty, give
Diamond a bottle of champagne.
LEFTY G.: Right.
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Miguel Piñero
DIAMOND: Oooh, come on, Justice, my pockets grow hungry out

there. I mean, if you gonna give away welfare . . . give me some.
LEFTY G.: Hey, Diamond . . . you did right, man, walking away.
There will be another time.
JUSTICE: There always is, remember that, there always is, another
time.
DIAMOND: I will, ’cuz I believe it, man.
CHILE: Your table is ready, Diamond.
DIAMOND: Thank you. (Looks at CAT EYES and kisses CHILE.)
Show me the way. Hey, Old Man, care to drink with me? (Enter
KAHLU from ladies room.)
VIEJO: No, thank you, young blood.
DIAMOND: Suit yourself.
CAT EYES: Hey, baby.
CHILE: My name is Chile.
CAT EYES: Come here, girl.
CHILE: What do you want, sir?
CAT EYES: Hey, man, come on . . . don’t do that to me.
CHILE: The way I see it you are doing it to yourself.
CAT EYES: Come on, baby, be nice.
CHILE: Have you ever seen me be mean?
CAT EYES: What do you call what you are doing to me being?
CHILE: Natural.
CAT EYES: Hate to see you in the mornings.
CHILE: Really?
CAT EYES: Now, what the hell did I do to receive this treatment?
CHILE: You don’t know?
CAT EYES: Girl, if I did I wouldn’t be asking, now would I?
CHILE: Can never tell about you.
CAT EYES: Now, what is that suppose to mean?
CHILE: Just what, I said, that’s all.
CAT EYES: Come, baby, sit down for a second with me, let’s rap this
here thing out between you and me real nice and quiet-like.
CHILE: I’m working.
CAT EYES: Take some time off.
JUSTICE: Chile, you gonna host or you gonna play the host?
CHILE: I have some time for myself, remember you said so.
JUSTICE: Yeah.
CHILE: What you got to say to me? It better be good.
264
CAT EYES: Now why does it have to be good? You act like I’m sup-
pose to always drop a line on you if I want your attention.
CHILE: Your behavior tonight was enough to grab anyone’s attention.
CAT EYES: Oh, is that it?
CHILE: Yes, that’s it.
CAT EYES: Listen, I can’t let these older dudes try to run over me.
Most of them think that ’cause they been out on this thing longer
than god, man, they think they are self-appointed teachers of the
play. Everyone and their mother wants to run a school for P.I.’s.
Ain’t that a kick in the ass?
CHILE: Carlos.
CAT EYES: Don’t call me Carlos here . . . I’m sorry, baby.
CHILE: That’s okay, Cat Eyes.
CAT EYES: Come, baby. Why the ice? . . . Melt, baby, melt on me. I
get enough cold weather in them streets, baby, don’t you start
snowing on me too.
CHILE: I’m sorry, baby.
CAT EYES: How about a kiss?
CHILE: Not in here . . . Justice will blow a fuse.
CAT EYES: You said he ain’t your father . . . not your real father.
CHILE: Oh, but he is . . . as real as any other girl’s father is to them.
CAT EYES: Okay, baby, but I don’t like playing high school
boyfriend.
CHILE: I ain’t asking you to play anything at all.
CAT EYES: Let’s squash the whole thing and let me rap to you seri-
ously, baby.
CHILE: I’m always listening to you.
CAT EYES: Like I told you last time, baby, I want out but I need me
to make some money. I don’t wanna work in no place for some
lousy weekly salary that costs you your fucking life, baby, that’s
not for me. No, I needs something more of value than that, baby
. . . I need to go on for about a year. And then you know what I
wanna do, baby? I wanna open up something like this, to be cool
just like Justice is. I mean something that brings you respect as
well as a decent living, as I know living to be. Like you know
what I mean, baby? Do I make any kind of sense to you, baby?
CHILE: You sound like Viejo.
CAT EYES: The Viejo?
CHILE: That’s him over there.
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Miguel Piñero
CAT EYES: Shit, a legend in person. You know him?

CHILE: Yeah, I do.
CAT EYES: Shit, now from him I wouldn’t mind being schooled . . .
though he don’t look like much to me.
CHILE: People change their ways over the years, papi.
CAT EYES: So I’ve been told.
CHILE: Baby . . .
CAT EYES: Yeah, you know him, huh? Maybe you could introduce
me to him, real cool like. You know what I mean?
CHILE: Baby, I don’t want to introduce you to somebody like that.
CAT EYES: A minute ago you sounded like you admired him.
CHILE: Maybe I do, but I also hate him with a passion . . . I wish he
were dead.
CAT EYES: That’s kind of a strong wish for a beautiful girl like you.
CHILE: Well, maybe not dead, but in the joint doing life where he
belongs.
CAT EYES: You only wish for the best.
CHILE: Baby, let’s drop him. Let’s talk about us. (Kisses CAT
EYES.)
CAT EYES: Yeah, we never get enough time. Baby, I . . . I wanna open
up a classy stable of girls that’ll make these guys eyes pop out of
their motherfucking . . . skulls. (Cross JUNIOR and ROSA to
their table.) You know, girls with style . . . a private business . . .
and I can do it, but I need your help, baby, I really need your help,
baby. Please don’t do that, baby, listen to me. Don’t turn off on me
. . . please, baby, listen to what I got to say first.
CHILE: I’m listening.
CAT EYES: No, you’re not.
CHILE: Make it quick.
CAT EYES: I’ll make it short . . . goodbye.
CHILE: What?
CAT EYES: I said, “I’ll see you around sometime, baby.”
CHILE: Carlos.
CAT EYES: Later, baby, later. (Crosses to VIEJO.) Hi . . . Cat Eyes is
my name.
VIEJO: Hi.
CAT EYES: Can I buy you a drink?
VIEJO: You already have.
CAT EYES: Yeah, that’s right . . . you’re welcome.
266
VIEJO: I didn’t thank you.

CAT EYES: No, you didn’t.
VIEJO: And I wasn’t planning to either.
CAT EYES: What’s the matter . . . you don’t like me or something.
VIEJO: It’s not a matter of whether I like you or not. Even if I didn’t,
would that make a big difference in your life?
CAT EYES: Not one bit of a difference. I was around before I met you
and I’ll be around after you hit that grass in the cemetery. You
wanna blow?
VIEJO: No, thanks, man, really. I just got out and I’m trying to figure
something out in my head for myself, first, before I make any kind
of moves in any direction that ain’t considered legal by the state.
Dig what I mean?
CAT EYES: Yeah, that you is leary like a motherfucker.
VIEJO: That’s a good lesson for a young blood like you to learn.
When you are leary, you are careful . . . if you’re careful, you sur-
vive in this here planet. If you take that into your brain for a
moment each day, young blood, and with a little bit of luck, you
might live to be my age.
CAT EYES: I hope I never get that old. (Crosses to his table.)
VIEJO: That’s just the same thing I said a long time ago. (Cross JUS-
TICE to VIEJO’s table. Sits down.)
JUSTICE: So you met Cat Eyes.
VIEJO: No, he met me.
CAT EYES: That’s what they all say.
DIAMOND: You know something, Junior? Like, some people think
they are players, you know what I mean? They really think they
can do this here thing that we call the game . . . like they get them-
selves a couple of junkie broads, put them on the corner with a
million kinds of disease dropping out of their eyes, as well as their
cunts, like gonorrhea, syphilis . . . they buy themselves a flashy
suit, from some wholesale store on Broadway, and jump into the
scene calling themselves Pl.’s. Man, they ain’t never seen a pimp
unless they were shining his motherfucking shoes.
CAT EYES: Fuck you, punk motherfucker.
DIAMOND: What’s with the kid? Oh, you want to fuck me, kid?
Maybe I should be out on the corner. (Various other ad-libs.)
JR. BALLOON: How should I now, man? Maybe he’s crazy or some-
thing.
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Miguel Piñero
DIAMOND: Must be.

LEFTY G.: You okay, Cat Eyes? (Crosses to men’s room.)
DIAMOND: He probably had too much to drink . . . you know these
young dudes, can’t handle the firewater.
JUSTICE: Chile, get me a clean glass, will you?
CHILE: Can’t you get it yourself?
JUSTICE: Yes, I could, but I asked you. Didn’t I?
CHILE: You lazy motherfucker, you fat lazy . . . (Various other ad-
libs. Crosses to table.)
JUSTICE: Shut up already, will you? Man, all day you been quibber-
ing with the jibbering. Girl, I mean like, I don’t know where you
get all that from ’cuz it don’t come from your papa, that’s for sure,
and it don’t come from you mama and you can ask your papa
about that.
CHILE: How would he know?
VIEJO: I did love her, Chile. In my own way, I loved your mother.
CHILE: Sure, I bet.
JUSTICE: How much?
CHILE: His life . . . here . . . (Slams drink on table.)
JUSTICE: Thank you. Maybe if you banged it a little harder it
could’ve broken and then you could start . . .
CHILE: Up yours.
JUSTICE: Is that for my health or my death?
CHILE: Either way you want it.
JUSTICE: Strong girl, ain’t she?
VIEJO: Yeah, she is a strong woman.
JUSTICE: See you in a little while. I’m gonna talk with her.
VIEJO: Okay, later. (Enter BAM-BAM, followed by SATISFAC-
TION. BAM-BAM gives wallet to SATISFACTION and hides.
SATISFACTION takes money out of wallet and gives it to DIA-
MOND RING and goes to lounge. Enter a Salesman, looks
around and heads for lounge. DIAMOND RING follows. BAM-
BAM leaves.)
ROSA: Are you ready to go, old man?
VIEJO: In a little while, girl, in a little while. Let me finish my drink
first. Okay?
ROSA: Take your time . . . Junior said my only work today is you.
VIEJO: Tell Junior I really appreciate it.
ROSA: I will, old man.
268
VIEJO: Hey, Rosa.

ROSA: Yeah?
VIEJO: Stop calling me old man . . . the name is Viejo.
ROSA: Viejo.
VIEJO: Right . . . (Salesman comes from lounge. Picks up wallet.
Cashes check and leaves.)
JR. BALLOON: Rosa, come here, girl, dance with me.
WILLIE BODEGA: What make you think you can dance?
JR. BALLOON: If you believed it hard enough, you might be able to
get up on the floor too with a young lady wrapped in your arms.
Right, Rosa?
ROSA: Anything you say, daddy.
WILLIE BODEGA: Man, I’m gonna have to shut this man’s mouth
all up. Now you gonna look mighty silly, man. Come here, girl.
DIAMOND: We got something going here.
WILLIE BODEGA: (Handing his guns to LEFTY.) If I lose, shoot
him. (KAHLU dances to WILLIE.) Diamond, put on a record
with a hustle to it.
JR. BALLOON: Man, put on some hot Latin.
WILLIE BODEGA: Shit, man, that don’t scare me none at all.
JR. BALLOON: Okay, loosen up. (HE turns music off.)
LEFTY G.: You know how this whitey got the name Willie Bodega?
DIAMOND: Yeah, Lefty, we know.
ROSA: I don’t.
LEFTY G.: Could I tell you then? Junior, can I tell her?
JR. BALLOON: Man, we are about to have the dance contest of the
century and you wanna tell her a dumb thing like that.
LEFTY G.: It ain’t dumb.
JR. BALLOON: It’s about as dumb and dull a story as you are, Lefty.
LEFTY G.: I’m sorry, I won’t say anything.
DIAMOND: Hey, Lefty . . . Lefty Gorilla.
JR. BALLOON: Go tell Rosa how he got his name.
LEFTY G.: You mean it?
JR. BALLOON: Of course, man, of course, man, I was just fucking
with your head before . . . after you tell it, we’ll have the dance
contest. Is that cool with you, Willie B?
WILLIE BODEGA: That’s cool with me . . . I always like listening as
to how I became a spic.
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Miguel Piñero
LEFTY G.: You know, Rosa, before you was born we all use to hang
out together as kids. Right, fellas? . . . Me and Justice are like that.
Right, Justice?
JUSTICE: Right.
LEFTY G.: Yeah, man, it was the good old days. We started together
doing everything, man, it was real cool. Like Justice and me, we
would go to these places. Right? In uniforms of cleaning people
and nobody would say anything to us and after the place was
empty we would go into the offices and Justice would yell out,
“All those that wanna live, hit the floor. All those what wanna go
to meet their maker remain on your feet.” And the whole place be
on the floor before you could blink your eyes . . . man, it was real
cool. After we got some money we started doing other things.
Like Justice became a big numbers man. Man, it was real cool.
JR. BALLOON: Man, I don’t think Justice would like you talking like
that out here in the open, man, ¿tú sabe’?
LEFTY G.: We are among friends. Ain’t we?
DIAMOND: Yeah, Lefty, that’s true . . . but you know walls have ears
and you guys did a lot of shit that ain’t accounted for yet.
LEFTY G.: Yeah, that makes sense. Yeah. Well, you, Rosa, sometimes
you are traveling so high on the hog that you forget where you are
or who you are and how you got to where you are. That’s what
happened to all of us within a couple of years; we were doing it
so hard in those days that we forgot to be cool about ourselves,
man, like we just didn’t think and the next thing you know, we
were all in Attica on 36 gallery. The fuck ups . . . that’s what they
say, man, we were getting over, wasn’t we? . . . We sure was, man,
we sure was. I use to cook and play bodyguard to the fellas and
their young chickens, you know. These dudes were doing it up.
Anyway, hard times always fall on all of us, sooner or later hard
times are gonna fall and at that time we all looked out for one
another. Right, fellas? We sure did, all that time. I remember the
time we had to throw this guy off the tier because he thought we
were fooling with him. Man, he swam in the air just like people
swim in the water. It was really funny. Man, I had some real nice
times in the joint in them days . . . I sure did. I had better times
and friends in the joint than I ever did in the streets . . . in my life
. . . in any place I ever went. When hard times fell on us we would
look out for one another and all you had to do was say, “Hey, hard
270
times are here for the brother,” and we all knew better days would
come . . . we all knew better days would come and better days
would come . . . right around the corner. . . . And you know . . . I
was never . . . no, that’s not what I want to say. (Begins to leave.)
ROSA: Lefty, Willie . . . Willie. (Everyone coaxes him on.)
LEFTY G.: Willie . . . Willie . . . Oye, Willie, mira, Willie . . . let me
cop some sugar. . . . Willie, me and you on the sandwich, man . . .
Willie, you got some matches? And Willie, would say, man, you
think this is welfare . . . Willie, you making some kool aid
tonight? Me and you bro, just like it always been, me and you
brother, me and you. And Willie say, “You motherfucker must
think I’m a fucking bodega.”
WILLIE BODEGA: Goddam corner store.
LEFTY G.: Willie “Z Gallery” Bodega. Willie Bodega, that’s how he
got his name. Me and Willie, we used to play handball for money.
Money is cigarettes, you know, or he would have me fight some
dude in the yard for money. You know? I use to fight real good, I
could have been pro . . . you know I could have been pro, right,
Willie? . . . That’s what they all said, I could have been pro.
(Fights with DIAMOND RING. Gets out of hand. JUSTICE stops
him.) Yeah, those were the good old days. Justice says we now are
into the good new days. That’s funny, ain’t it? I mean the way
Willie Bodega got his name.
DIAMOND: That’s funny, Lefty . . . real funny.
LEFTY G.: You know something, I wasn’t going to say this before,
but I will now. When I was in the joint with them . . . I was never
lonely. (Crosses to bar.)
DIAMOND: Let’s have the dance. (JR. BALLOON turns music back
on.)
CAT EYES: Man, that dude is a head blower.
VIEJO: You know something, Cat Eyes? Your experience is very lim-
ited.
CAT EYES: You got the same type of attitude the rest of these niggers
have. You think you know it all.
VIEJO: I know that there’s a lot I don’t know . . . and I also know that
the only way I am going to learn the things I need to know is if I
admit that I need to know these things.
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Miguel Piñero
CAT EYES: You sure must have done a lot of time in the joint. When
I was in the joint, all the long-time-doing motherfuckers talk like
you talk, man.
VIEJO: And how is that?
CAT EYES: Like they see things.
VIEJO: That’s because they did. And I bet you saw nothing in what
they saw. Right?
CAT EYES: Right. They all talk nonsense.
VIEJO: That’s too bad. That is why you think the way you do now.
CAT EYES: I think all right and I do all right, too.
VIEJO: Not in the circle you don’t. I can feel it and I am here fresh
off the banana boat.
CAT EYES: Look, man, I don’t care what them motherfuckers think
about me and my game, I’m getting over. That’s what counts. I
pay my bills and eat good food . . . and I fuck every night.
VIEJO: So does the warden.
CAT EYES: Man, let me tell you something.
VIEJO: Something I don’t know? . . . Something that has meaning?
Or the “I told the ’ho’e to sell the kid but keep the Cadillac ’cuz I
need the wheels to move,” kinda shit?
CAT EYES: You see them dudes? They think they got it made.
VIEJO: Don’t you?
CAT EYES: They got some of it made, but not all of it. They got
themselves years ahead of me in the game . . . plenty of time in
the life to learn much experience. But me, I came fast, Viejo,
faster than any of them. That’s why they don’t like me, ’cuz they
all know that I’m swifter than any of them were at my age, man.
I am a young blood fresh off the doctor’s mitts. You know I still
have the smell of the afterbirth hanging about me . . . but I’m
swifter than those people who call themselves “folks,” and have
the smell of death in the breath. Me? I am new life, Viejo, I am
new life. You think I don’t know they are jealous of me and my
fast-talking self. Man. I know that. Shit, that is why I talk to them
the way I do ’cuz I know that. You think I may be wrong, but I’m
not . . . I’m not . . . Viejo, my rap is strong and my words are never
wrong. I’m young and faster than a streak of lightning and a ball
of heat . . . and I always land on my feet ever since I could remem-
ber I never touched the floor with my knees. You see that girl,
Chile, they all wanted her but they all fear Justice and Lefty Gori-
272
lla, but not me ’cuz their time is up on the earth. I know that his
is a jungle law . . . (Enter BAM-BAM and SATISFACTION.) and
I’m steaking my name to that game. She is gonna make me a very
wealthy man, my man. She is gonna put me on the mack map of
the year . . . every year until doomsday.
VIEJO: Are you saying what I think you are saying?
CAT EYES: That’s right, mister. I’m gonna turn her sweet ass out.
VIEJO: I can’t let you do that.
CAT EYES: What you mean you can’t let me do that? Who the fuck
are you? Oh, you wanna turn her out there for yourself. Is that it?
VIEJO: You don’t seem to understand. She isn’t going out to the way
of all flesh.
CAT EYES: You don’t seem to understand you can’t stop me ’cuz she
loves me . . . and besides . . . why the fuck are you telling me some
shit like that if you don’t want her as a pimp? Why the fuck are
you playing boy scout?
VIEJO: I’m her father. (Montage. Activity of bar takes over, dancing,
ad-libs, music building to end of Act One. Freeze.)
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Miguel Piñero
ACT II
SCENE 1. A small hotel room.
ROSA: Come, Papi . . . get it on. Oh, Papi, get it on . . . come on, baby.
Shit, wait a fucking minute, man . . . what’s happening, old man?
We been in this damn bed for a half an hour and all you be doing
is slobbering all over me . . . and your johnson ain’t even hard.
What’s the matter, man? Are you too old to get it up any more?
VIEJO: Shut up, bitch.
ROSA: Oh, now it’s the shut-up-bitch routine. Huh? What you gonna
do, old man? Ha . . . look at this . . . it’s as dead as a corpse in the
city morgue. So what you gonna do, Mister Viejo? . . . the master
of the hustle . . . what you gonna do? Hey, what’s the matter? The
cat got your tongue? You lost your voice as well as your strength
to do it? Shit, I lay in the bed and I get a tongue bath. . . man, I
can dig a little tongue, but too much of it makes me horny, honey,
and you shouldn’t be out here giving up all this tongue if you
can’t give up anything else. . . . I don’t wanna be sucked off like
a lesbian, I wanna be fucked like a woman.
VIEJO: You going too far with your mouth, ’ho’e.
ROSA: Not as far as you went with yours, old man.
VIEJO: Stop calling me old man. You know my name.
ROSA: Yes, Viejo, which means old man in Spanish.
VIEJO: . . . In Spanish not in English.
ROSA: Does that rule also go for your fucking abilities?
VIEJO: What you talking about?
ROSA: That you can fuck in Spanish but not in English? (Grabs her
trying somehow by violence to retain his sexual potency. SHE
fights then lays back and laughs.)
VIEJO: Shit. . . goddamn it.
ROSA: I guess that it’s true what I hear the folks rappin’ about men
who spent most of their lives behind bars. They become nothing
with their dicks, No-dick Ricks . . . can’t get it uppers . . . unless
the other person is a young boy like Cat Eyes, huh? I saw the way
you stared at him before we left the bar . . . I bet if he was in this
room with you, you’d be jumping with joy . . . happier than a fag-
got in Boys Town. What’s your score, old man . . . little boys or
little girls?
274
VIEJO: Shut the fuck up, bitch. I said shut the fuck up. (Grabs pillow
and beats her.)
ROSA: Go on, hit me some more. . . . That’s your speed, you like
beating up on women. . . . Now, look, it ain’t even hard . . . ahaha
. . . oh, that’s not your speed either. Is it? Maybe you like being
whipped. I’ve got a nice leather whip. I’ll look. Here. What you
want me to wear, freak? . . . Black rubber suits? . . . Silk stock-
ings? . . . Leather boots? . . . What ever is your pleasure I can do
it.
VIEJO: Why the fuck are you so down on me? Don’t you understand?
ROSA: Sure, I understand . . . I understand that you pretend to be what
you ain’t, a bad motherfucking player. . . . Maybe I should piss in
a bottle or shit on your chest?
VIEJO: Bitch, I’ll kill you . . . nobody speaks to me like that and lives,
man or woman. I’ll kill you.
ROSA: Please . . . please don’t kill me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry . . . please
don’t kill me, I wanna live. Please don’t kill me.
VIEJO: Why the hell did you talk to me like that for? Who the fuck
do you think I am? A motherfucking trick you picked up on the
streets? I’m VIEJO . . . VIEJO. Say it, bitch, say VIEJO.
ROSA: Viejo . . . please, I didn’t mean nothing . . . I only thought that
you might be like Junior in bed.
VIEJO: What the hell are you talking about?
ROSA: Junior.
VIEJO: What about Junior?
ROSA: He can’t do anything unless you insult him . . . unless you
make him feel like he ain’t shit .
VIEJO: That’s Junior, that’s not Viejo. Viejo is Viejo. Junior is Junior.
If Junior is a freak for shit like that, that doesn’t mean that every
player in the life is the same way. Now get that through you head,
’cuz the next man you do that kinda shit to may not be like Viejo.
I’m a nice guy, but I don’t like being talked to or treated like if I
was a piece of shit. Do you understand, bitch? Do you understand,
bitch? Answer me.
ROSA: Yes, I understand . . . I understand, Viejo.
VIEJO: ’Cuz it don’t mean shit to me to take you off the census . . .
you be one less the pussy posse will be missing on their rounds
on ’ho’e stroll. You get me?
ROSA: Yes, I do . . . please, don’t kill me.
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Miguel Piñero
VIEJO: I ain’t gonna kill you . . . just lay back and shut the fuck up.
I don’t wanna even hear you breathe hard.
ROSA: Yes, Viejo, whatever you say.
VIEJO: Yes, Viejo, whatever you say. Now I’m the law, huh? Now I
become god to you because I was willing to ice you, huh? You
ain’t even worth fucking if I could get it up, bitch. I ain’t gonna
run you that this is the first time this happened to me story, ’cuz
it ain’t. You’re young and you don’t understand that it’s the blood
that makes it hard up.
ROSA: I learned that in Sex Education.
VIEJO: Well, they should’ve educated you to the terrible shit you
could do to a man’s head by pulling that “you can’t get it up” shit
on him. . . . You can ruin a man that way. Don’t Junior teach you
any compassion for the tricks that can’t get it up?
ROSA: All Junior is interested in is how much I make.
VIEJO: That ain’t the Junior I knew
ROSA: He’s trying to make enough money to retire like Justice
did. . . . He wants out of the life and he’s taking me with him.
That’s why I work more tricks than any of the other girls. That’s
why I know he gonna make it, ’cuz with me it’s real feeling that
pour out of him in bed. I am the one who gets it hard for him
before he fucks any of the other girls, ’cuz I know what makes
him make it move. I know him . . .
VIEJO: You wanna drink? (Gives bottle to ROSA who drinks it
straight down.)
ROSA: Thank you.
VIEJO: What you know about the kid, Cat Eyes?
ROSA: Wow, for a minute there you sounded like a cop.
VIEJO: Forget about what I sound like, just talk to me.
ROSA: Okay. I’ll talk to you . . . but why do you want to know about
Cat Eyes? I’ll tell you even if you tell me to mind my own busi-
ness and answer your questions.
VIEJO: What difference would it make, then, since you just gave me
the right to advise you to go fuck yourself or to give you a lie?
ROSA: The difference would be up here, in my head, in my feelings
about myself. You see, Viejo, no matter what I am, how I get over,
I like feeling good about myself. . . and if I do or say something
which might make me feel bad about myself, I become very upset
and I can’t work. And I need to work to make that money so that
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Junior can retire young enough to be a part of a world that left him
behind.
VIEJO: And you say that to say what? Am I expected to bring tears to
my eyes and a light touch in my face?
ROSA: I don’t like being a rat.
VIEJO: Yeah . . . right . . . okay . . . I may have to kill him.
ROSA: You may have to stand in line.
VIEJO: You can’t see the truth. Can you?
ROSA: It may be the truth, but there’s plenty of feelings like that
around him.
VIEJO: No . . . those feelings are nothing more than just that: feelings
of hate and anger. . . . But there’s no feeling with me. I mean seri-
ous business when I talk of killing someone. . . . There’s nothing
cheap about life, Rosa.
ROSA: He’s my brother.
VIEJO: Your brother?
ROSA: Yes, my brother and he was my pimp and my lover . . . until
Junior came into my life.
VIEJO: I have nothing to ask you.
ROSA: He’s not bad. He’s not mean . . . he’s trying to make a hustle.
Ever since he saw Mom fucking with the welfare investigator,
ever since then, he always jumped on what came his way and I
was naturally in the world that was in his way to put to use. A very
simple story of life is what Cat Eyes is about. A what can I call it?
A ghetto fairy tale that came true. Are you going to kill him?
VIEJO: Yes, I am going to kill Cat Eyes . . . the pimp . . .
ROSA: You’re going to waste him . . .
VIEJO: I’m only going to do what man has done for centuries and
what others have avoided doing . . . what every player and hustler
know they must do when they enter a new town or a new prison.
You stop the action before it starts . . . you go for broke in any sit-
uation that threatens to take control of your game or take control
of something you consider valuable enough to fight and live for.
You never trade what you need to feel good in the morning about
for a friendly smile from the next player because that’s what
keeps you going . . . what makes everything in the streets . . . the
hustle, the stake . . . everything . . worth throwing yourself under
the gun every day. Every player is a poet, an actor . . . a statesman
. . . a priest . . . but most of all he’s a player. You go out there on
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Miguel Piñero
that street and you meet the world of suckers . . . the world of
greed and whatever other names have been defined for those that
seek something outside the acceptances of their society . . . and
you stand with your balls exposed in this jungle of fear . . . and
you battle . . . and you fight the hardest fight of your life, each day
out there in them streets that demand blood to nourish its own
energies . . . today and tomorrow, and all the todays and tomor-
rows that are left inside your soul. And it’s all dragged out, no
holds barred. Kick . . . punch, scratch . . . spitting . . . screaming.
Fight. And then it’s over and the streets are soaking up the blood.
You smile and know that you just won another day with yourself.
He’s trying to take the only real thing I dream of . . . the reason
for my surviving. I live with the dream of seeing her smile at the
sound of my name. I won’t let him destroy that dream . . . I won’t
let him. Yeah, I’m going to kill me a pimp. (Lights.)
SCENE 2. Out of freeze. JUSTICE’s bar. CHILE is at piano singing.

The scene is jumping.
CHILE: OOOOOOOOO la la la la la la la
Wake up on the morning and find
your dreams behind
every kind of rainbow in every color scheme.
It’s the players golden rule.
That the sun always shines for the cool.
(Chorus)
OOOOOOOO la la la la la la la
So wear your eternal high
as you hustle to get by
sport your fancy clothes
and let the whole world know
that you belong to that school
where the sun always shines . . . for the cool.
OOOOOOOO la la la la la la la
But when the neon lights are dark,
that’s when you shed your player’s heart
being free to fall in love with me.
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Until then I’ll remember, the players golden rule

that the sun always shines for the cool.
(Chorus)
OOOOOOOO la la la la
Remember the player’s golden rule
that the sun always shines . . . for the cool.
Thank you . . . thank you.
DIAMOND: Go, Chile girl, with your bad self . . . walk on, girl. Man,
that girl does harder than a broke dick dog. Oh, shit, you know . .
. there is too much sunlight in here . . . let me fish out my shades.
As they say in the old mack game, the suns always shines for the
cool.
WILLIE BODEGA: Hey, Diamond!
DIAMOND: Yeah, Willie . . . Yeah, man, be cool.
WILLIE BODEGA: The drinks are on Diamond Ring, so drink, sing,
dance and be merry.
DIAMOND: Wait a second, Willie, I never said anything about buy-
ing the whole house a drink.
WILLIE BODEGA: What, man? I just asked you and you said,
“Yeah, Willie, yeah, Willie, be cool.”
DIAMOND: Shit, man, I didn’t know what the fuck you were talking
about, man. You a jive motherfucker. You sure there wasn’t a
nigger in your family somewhere? ’Cuz you about the niggerest
nigger I know, and you ain’t even black.
WILLIE BODEGA: Do I take that as a compliment or an insult?
DIAMOND: (To Junior.) I told the whole place how jive this whitey
is and no one listened.
WILLIE BODEGA: That’s ’cuz you was lying.
DIAMOND: Diamond Ring never lies.
CAT EYES: That is a fucking lie.
DIAMOND: Man, I don’t remember asking you for a comment.
CAT EYES: Well, you got one . . . so what. (DIAMOND lifts hat and
KAHLU crosses to other women gathered near the lounge.)
DIAMOND: Man, when I was a kid and I wasn’t wanted around . . .
I knew. Some people you can’t hint them away because of their
hard face. You know what I mean, man?
JR. BALLOON: He must be from Vajado . . . el pueblo de los
caraduro.
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Miguel Piñero
CAT EYES: I’m from La Perla, pa’que te lo coma’, con leche, cabrón.
JR. BALLOON: Vete a coger por culo mamao.
CAT EYES: Oye, lo tuyo viene por ahí.
JR. BALLOON: Hey, did you guys hear what jumped down with Tito
Pan Doblao?
WILLIE BODEGA: Tito Fold Bread?
JR. BALLOON: Yeah, man, you know the heist kid from out of the
East Side.
WILLIE BODEGA: Oh, yeah, yeah. . . I remember him. How you
gonna forget a dude named Fold Bread?
JR. BALLOON: Man, I don’t know what get into people sometimes,
tú sabé? Pero, like, this dude has a good thing going with himself.
Tú sabé, like he was out here making a good dollar doing the sim-
ple shit he does . . . tú sabé? . . . Like this dude was on parole man,
ten years on the motherfucking paper. Dig? And el chamaco goes
out and does his thing, fronting a job in a store he practically
owned. Tú sabé . . . Hey, Bam-Bam, when did you tell me about
Pan Doblao?
BAM-BAM: Friday . . . I got the news clipping. You wanna see it?
JR. BALLOON: Yeah, man, let me have it.
BAM-BAM: I sell it to you for a dollar.
JR. BALLOON: Man, dig this motherfucker here.
WILLIE BODEGA: Hey, man . . . I’ll buy it.
JR. BALLOON: He a sucker for kids.
WILLIE BODEGA: Anyone that tries to sell you a newspaper clip-
ping got to really be out here hustling his motherfucking ass off.
Yeah, man, you got to give it to him. He tries harder than Satan.
BAM-BAM: That’s ’cuz I’m god’s nephew, Willie.
JR. BALLOON: Go on, kid, tell him how much of a sucker he is. He
don’t know nothing. Right kid?
BAM-BAM: Willie knows a whole lot. He even teaches me math in
his house. (Cross to VIVA at piano.)
JR. BALLOON: You do, Willie?
DIAMOND: Not bad, Willie B.
WILLIE BODEGA: Yeah, so what? So I know a little bit of math.
JR. BALLOON: Nothing, tú sabé, just asking.
SATISFACTION: Hell, don’t remember the very first one. Well, I
remember the first trick I turned. Guess who. My elementary
280
school principal. Really . . . this one is something else . . . I was

about eleven . . .
CHILE: Eleven?
SATISFACTION: No . . . seriously, I was taking a smoke in the girls’
bathroom . . . no, not marijuana . . . tobacco, just plain tobacco.
Well, school was out and I didn’t hear the bell ring . . . so there I
was, by myself, in the john, smoking a cigarette and Mr. Sanders,
that was his name . . . never can forget it. . . . Anyway, he comes
in and stands there looking at me. Now, at the time I was sleeping
with my brother . . . no, not fucking, just sleeping. And in the
morning he would get up and try to cover his “thing” but I could
always see that it was hard. . . . I found out later that most guys
wake in the morning with it hard. . . . Anyway, he caught me
smoking, right . . . you now, an infraction . . . so he starts giving
me this lecture and I pretend to be sorry and all ears to everything
he’s saying. So he puts his hand on my shoulder, right, comfort-
ing me and all that shit. But I see this bulge in his pants. Now, like
I told you, I slept with my little brother and he used to have this
friend that would take him to school in the morning and I would
pretend I was sleeping and he would feel me and jerk off all fast
kind of business.
PHEBE: You sure take a long time to get where you’re going. Tell me
about the principal.
SATISFACTION: Oh, yeah . . . him . . . well, anyway, my brother’s
friend used to always say, if I ever wanted to make a little money,
just let him know and he would give me the whole wallet.
PHEBE: I bet he would.
SATISFACTION: So, the first thing that come into my head, while
Mr. Sanders was feeling me, was to ask for a dollar. So, he pulled
out his wallet and gives me a twenty . . . pulls me into the toilet
stall . . . and he’s a big guy and I’m kinda small.
CHILE: Kinda?
SATISFACTION: Well, I’m not a midget. This was really freaky here.
We are in this small space . . . oh, well, then he pulls it out and I
let out with a “WOW, Mr. Sanders!” And he starts shushing me
quiet, “Please, we’ll get caught.” Man, it was big and fat.
CHILE: Spare me.
SATISFACTION: Well, you asked. He couldn’t fit the place right, and
for the both of us it was tight. He sat on the bowl and let out this
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Miguel Piñero
big fart . . . man it stunk. (Cross KAHLU to bar.) We’re all in

these weird positions trying to settle on the right angle. Anyway,
nothing works and he gets really pissed off . . . he takes me by the
neck, pulls me down to my knees and tries to put it in my mouth
. . . but you know I wasn’t into that and that’s where the money is,
you know? Anyway, he came in my hair and shits on himself . . .
(Cross KAHLU from bar, turns and goes back.) and I’m thinking
he’s catching a heart attack, and all he kept saying was, “Cold
water . . . cold water . . . put cold water on your hair.” Anyway,
they found him the next morning with a hard-on but dead.
PHEBE: Chile, did you ever turn someone? Did you ever?
SATISFACTION: Naw, she still a virgin . . . at her age too ridiculous. . . .
Really, girl, sex is sound of mind . . .
CHILE: I am not a virgin.
SATISFACTION: I’m shocked.
PHEBE: I think I’m gonna faint . . . hold me somebody.
CHILE: Well, my name isn’t Mary of Nazareth . . . it’s Chile Girl.
(DIAMOND and JUNIOR enter from lounge.)
DIAMOND: Oh, shit, man, he got busted for that? Wow, like why
would he do some dumb shit like that. Wow, that’s some strange
shit ain’t it?
WILLIE BODEGA: Weird, man, weird, all kinds of weird people in
this world.
JR. BALLOON: Like the dude had all this thing going for him, tú
sabé, and a couple of women that were put on him, tú sabé. What
would make a dude that got all this shit going for him go out, pull
a robbery and then rape the bitch too? . . . I mean he was asking
to get taken off the count the way I see it, tú sabé.
CHILE: Bam-Bam Boy, come here. Listen, go to the kitchen and get
Lefty some shot glasses.
BAM-BAM: Momentito . . . oye, Willie . . . let me have my money.
WILLIE BODEGA: Here, I don’t want it.
BAM-BAM: ’Cuz you already read it.
WILLIE BODEGA: That’s right, son . . . like anytime you got some-
thing to sell, never let the person you selling it to get a hold of it
without el dinero en su mano. You know money talks.
BAM-BAM: Bullshit walks.
WILLIE BODEGA: Start walkin’.
282
JR. BALLOON: That’s part of your math lesson from the Street Uni-
versity.
CHILE: Go on, hurry . . . we need the glasses fast, Bam-Bam. He cute,
ain’t he?
WILLIE BODEGA: If that type turn you on, I guess so. He’s not my
type, you know.
CHILE: Go hump yourself.
WILLIE BODEGA: I will, thank you, Chile Girl.
JR. BALLOON: But I tell you, man, tú sabé, that shit with Pan
Doblao is really fucking too much, man, too strong.
WILLIE BODEGA: Yeah, I never expect him to come out of a bag
like that, like that don’t sound like him at all. Right?
DIAMOND: Man, you never know anything about anybody until the
shit comes out in the wash. You know what I mean?
WILLIE BODEGA: Yeah, all of it comes out in the wash, man, all of
it .
JR. BALLOON: Man, that old man should have been back by now
two hours with the girl.
WILLIE BODEGA: What you expect, man? He got a collar on him.
DIAMOND: Yeah, man, he got a collar on him.
JR. BALLOON: Why don’t your woman talk, man?
WILLIE BODEGA: She’s a mute, my man. She can’t do that thing
with the tongue.
DIAMOND: (VIEJO enters.) Man, the collar loosen up now. Hey,
Viejo?
JR. BALLOON: Man, look like you lost some weight up there, Viejo.
VIEJO: In the joint?
JR. BALLOON: I ain’t talking about no joint, motherfucker.
VIEJO: You can’t be talking about nothing else.
JR. BALLOON: ’Pérate. She did take care of business with you.
Right?
VIEJO: Oh, that. Yeah, man, she took care of business . . . thanks for
looking out.
JR. BALLOON: That’s what friends are for. Ain’t it? Shit, I don’t
need me no friends when I am doing good. Right, bro? Hey, man.
Qué pasa with that dude with the pure shit? That dude having a
wack attack and that’s for real, Neal. He is supposed to have
something nice for us tonight and like he ain’t showed up yet,
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Miguel Piñero
man. Tú sabé, me . . . I feel a little shaky around a dude that ain’t

got no sense of time.
WILLIE BODEGA: He be here, man, he be here. He might of had a
flat tire. He might of got shot. Something!
DIAMOND: The only other whitey that I knew that had a sense of
time beside you, Willie, was your brother, Billy Boy.
JR. BALLOON: Yeah, he was a good man.
VIEJO: Hey, man, Willie, I forgot to run it on you earlier, but like, I’m
sorry to have heard about your brotherman. . . .
WILLIE BODEGA: Yeah, thanks a lot, Viejo . . . you know he thought
a great deal about you, man. He dug you a whole lot.
VIEJO: I dug on him too.
WILLIE BODEGA: Yeah.
VIEJO: Was you there when the shit jumped off?
WILLIE BODEGA: Yeah, man, I was there, but there was nothing
that I could have done, man. You know, like he gave me the out,
man. He would’ve been really sore at me if I would’ve fucked
around and blew it. You know how Billy was, man. Let me tell
you something, Viejo. I’m sorry he dead, dig, but I’m proud at the
way he went, man, real proud at the way he went. Like that’s the
way we should all go when the time comes that we have to say it’s
a game of cards . . . holding court in the streets . . . guns smoking,
man, that’s the way to do it when you got to do it. Because when
you play it that way, and you don’t want to end the game that way,
then you should never had played anyway, right? Right! Like, that
what’s it all about, ain’t it, man? Going with your head held high
and your trigger fingers aching, man. Viejo, you know that I
would have stayed with him if he wanted me to. I would have
gone with him to shake hands with Satan. Shit, I bet he lonely
down there . . . get all the heat. Man, that’s what he always got a
lot of, fucking heat. Ever since I could remember, man, our old
man played it to the bitter end with us. He played it so tough that
we never learn what it meant to be a little warm inside ourselves.
But, man, the times were like hard candy in a cheap soda shop.
But like that day, man, like that day, I should have remember,
“When a crosseyed mark gets in your way, don’t play,” ’cuz it’s
bad luck . . . when you speak like you ain’t ever gonna see day-
light again, man, that’s the time to spend in bed with pussy-
smelling pillows in your face. You know that the time to hit the
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invisible man in the life scene, man, but he knew all that too . . .
he knew all that too, but he went anyway, man. Viejo, he knew
that too. You taught both of us that shit way back then. You
remember, right? . . . the rooftop, shootin’ Coke bottles off the
edge. Man I was mean with a pistol and so was he . . . but that day
he spoke like he wasn’t gonna enjoy the bread from the sting no
matter how much it was. It was like he knew that there was a jinx
in the air for him that day, but he went. He insisted in making the
hit anyway . . . it was like he had what you call a bad ju-ju, there
was like no wind in the air . . . man, no taste in our mouth, no feel-
ing in our pulse, no beating in our hearts, man. The train didn’t
even make noise for us that day. The lights were all red in every
corner that we came to, but he wanted to go to the hit anyway. . . .
He was going for broke, man. He was tired, I guess, like so many
of us get tired with this whole thing out here. Remember the way
he held his guns in his holsters, real close to his heart, man? But
that day he held them down around his waist like if he wanted to
put his head and heart out there for the buzzard in blue. He want-
ed to die, man. Viejo, he wanted to die and I didn’t want him to
. . . but like that his right to go if he wanted to. I see him running,
man. He was running. The first cap was booked into his leg, man.
He fell, got up and booked a cap into the man . . . they came out
of nowhere, man. They came out of nowhere blasting them .38’s
his way. He was next to the building. They blew right through the
door, and he came out as they walked his way where he was sup-
pose to have been laying dead. He came out blasting caps into
their asses, man. They ran, they ran and those that didn’t lay down
and play dead on the streets, were laid down dead. They laid down
and played dead and I laugh ’cuz I knew that he was badder than
all of them in the shining blue uniforms looking like semi-gods.
He was a rebel. He was Satan in heaven fighting God for a piece
of the action man. That’s who he was, Lucifer, fighting God for a
piece of the action. That’s what he looked like. He looked like a
young god taking his anger out on the fucking world. And he was
mean-looking in his walk, in the bullets that flew out of his power.
That was his power. That’s why they had to kill him three times
over after he was dead . . . but they should have known, man, that
he was alive . . . he was more alive than they will ever be, ’cuz he
was a rebel in the middle of them all, and he would have never
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Miguel Piñero
hanged up his gloves . . . they were on his mitts for good and he
wore them tight.
DIAMOND: Right. Solid on the wallet.
WILLIE BODEGA: Solid on the wallet? What kinda shit is that?
DIAMOND: Regular shit, my man, just plain ordinary shit.
WILLIE BODEGA: Sounds like it too.
JR. BALLOON: Oye, cut that shit out, man. You guys are beginning
to bore me today with all this wolf-ticket selling that’s going on
around here. Shit, I feel like I’m at the arena and not injustice’s
joint having a good time with the folks. Viva, play me a tune.
WILLIE BODEGA: Guess that kid Cat Eyes got me on edge all day,
selling me a ticket, man. I should have cashed it for him, but man
it’s not worth it. He be out of the life a lot earlier than I thought
he be . . .
DIAMOND: Yeah, he got on my nerves today too . . .
JR. BALLOON: Squash that shit too, man. . . forget about that non-
player.
WILLIE BODEGA: Viva, play me a little “Misty.”
JR. BALLOON: Viejo, the kid’s all right, you know . . . it’s just that
sometimes he comes across like bad medicine . . . like a laxative.
You know what I mean? Tú sabé?
VIEJO: Yo sé . . . later. . . . Lefty, rum and Coke . . . easy on the Coke.
What can I get you, Cat Eyes?
CAT EYES: Me? You gonna buy me a drink?
VIEJO: Yeah, why not? The enemies of two armies were at one time
sitting together in the same room talking about which is the best
way in which to kill men in wars.
CAT EYES: Freaky kind of shit. Ain’t it?
VIEJO: Yeah, I guess some people would look at that as freaky, weird
fucked-up thinking. But, you know, after they made up the rules
they went out and had themselves a great big war to test out the
rules and see which of them play fair.
CAT EYES: Who played fair?
VIEJO: Nobody ever plays fair when it involves the heart or the pock-
etbook.
CAT EYES: Look, old man, you kind of old to be talking like you
mean to do something to somebody, you know, like the thing you
said about your daughter . . . if she is your daughter.
VIEJO: She is my daughter . . . call her . . . ask her.
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CAT EYES: Chile Girl . . . here, Cat Eyes.

CHILE: Yeah, what can I get you?
CAT EYES: Some questions answered.
CHILE: Like what?
CAT EYES: Like this man said that he’s your father. Is that true?
VIEJO: You can deny it if you wish, niña, pero tú sabé en tu corazón
that lo que pasó, pasó. Don’t hold the world of yesterday against
me, niña.
CHILE: He’s the man that fucked my mother and created a child who
he named Chile Girl Rivera. Yeah, if that’s being a father, I guess
he my father. Then it means nothing to me at all.
CAT EYES: Vaya, I guess that you want to say something to me on
your own that ain’t got her approval.
VIEJO: Her approval isn’t needed in this case, young blood.
CHILE: Are you two discussing me and my life?
CAT EYES: Seems that your old man doesn’t approve of me going
out with you . . .
CHILE: It’s no business of his, whatsoever.
CAT EYES: He thinks I am going to turn you out.
CHILE: That’s because he sees himself in you, but you’re different
than he ever was with my mother. At least you can tell me the
truth . . . even if it’s in the dark. (CAT EYES kisses CHILE.)
VIEJO: You have a beautiful smile, Cat Eyes . . . you have the smile
of a man that just got over like a fat rat. . . . (Shoves him.)
CAT EYES: Hey, man. What the hell you doing? Get off my dick. Are
you a faggot or something?
CHILE: What are you doing?
VIEJO: Punk, I got a .357 Magnum eight-inch barrel sticking in your
balls and if you don’t be cool I’ll blow them off.
CAT EYES: Man, be cool with that thing, man, but cool, please.
CHILE: Are you crazy? Haven’t you done enough to me?
VIEJO: That’s just it, I have done too much to you and I never have
done anything for you. Now I’ll make it up to you, tonight, baby,
tonight . . . right here.
CHILE: By killing my man?
CAT EYES: Talk to him, baby. He looks crazy, man . . . he looks
crazy. Talk to him, baby, talk to him. Please, Viejo, man, shoot
anywhere else but there, please, man.
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Miguel Piñero
VIEJO: Chile, I ain’t out to kill your man but to kill your would-be
pimp.
CAT EYES: Man, I ain’t her pimp, man, I love her. Believe me, I do.
VIEJO: You lying punk son of a bitch . . . get up . . . up . . . faggot,
up! Get your yellow ass up in the air. Get it up, punk. (DIA-
MOND crosses from dance floor.)
DIAMOND: Oh, shit. What the fuck is Viejo doing. (Everyone gath-
ers around.)
WILLIE BODEGA: Oh, shit, he gonna kill that kid. . . . Viejo.
VIEJO: Shut up, all of you . . . keep out of it.
WILLIE BODEGA: Man, you just got out . . . if you wanna waste him
let me take care of it. That’s my shot, man, not yours.
JUSTICE: Viejo . . . don’t.
CAT EYES: Please, don’t kill me, please . . . don’t kill me.
VIEJO: Punk, I ain’t going to kill you, but you gonna wish that I had.
JUSTICE: Viejo, man, you gone crazy, man? What are you trying to
prove, man? He’s a punk kid, man, just a punk kid.
VIEJO: Is he right? You ain’t nothing but a punk kid? They fucked
you in the joint . . . is that what he is saying? Answer me.
CAT EYES: Yeah, man, I ain’t nothing but a punk kid.
VIEJO: You gave it up in the joint. Didn’t you?
CAT EYES: Yeah, man, I gave up my ass in the joint.
ROSA: Carlos, please do what he says . . . he’s crazy.
CAT EYES: Man, what have I done to you? Man, I ain’t done noth-
ing to you, man, nothing. . . . I don’t even know you.
VIEJO: But you know my daughter. Don’t you, motherfucker? And
you wanna turn her out. Don’t you? That’s what you told me.
Didn’t you?
CAT EYES: Yeah, man, but I didn’t mean it.
CHILE: Did you say that?
CAT EYES: Yeah, baby, but I was only kidding, baby, believe me.
VIEJO: Liar!
CAT EYES: Okay . . . okay . . . I did mean it . . . but, man, let me go
and I won’t even look at her anymore. I mean it, man, really.
VIEJO: Why should I believe you, man? You lied to her . . . you lied
to me . . . you lied to everybody, you bullshitting punk.
CAT EYES: No, Viejo, not this time. I swear on my mother’s grave.
VIEJO: Rosa . . . Rosa, tell Chile what you are to this thing here?
ROSA: I . . . I . . .
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CAT EYES: Rosa, Rosa . . . cállate, te corto tu cuello. Rosa. . . .

VIEJO: Shut the fuck up, faggot. Go on, Rosa, tell her.
ROSA: He’s my brother.
VIEJO: See, baby? I know punks like him, I know them all my life.
You love him and you don’t believe . . . but it’s the truth, baby, the
truth . . . he put his own sister out on the corner to hustle. He sold
her to Junior Balloon.
ROSA: We had to survive . . .
VIEJO: There are other ways to make it out here, in any of the games
of the fast.
WILLIE BODEGA: Man, he started out on his own family, man,
that’s out.
DIAMOND: He needs to die.
CHILE: No man needs to die.
VIEJO: Baby, this is one scumbag that needs to die.
CAT EYES: I don’t wanna die, man, please don’t do it . . . take pity.
CHILE: Shut up! Die if you have to, but don’t beg for pity.
CAT EYES: Fuck you, you ain’t the one that gonna get wasted.
VIEJO: I ain’t gonna waste you . . . you gonna do it yourself. You got
to go slow man, you got to know your mistake every day that you
are gonna live . . .
CHILE: Punk . . . Punk . . .
JUSTICE: Stay right where you are, Chile . . . stay right where you
are.
VIEJO: Strip, punk!
DIAMOND: Sissy-ass motherfucker had the heart to sell tickets. Shit.
JR. BALLOON: Shut up, Diamond.
DIAMOND: Fuck you.
WILLIE BODEGA: Lefty . . . cool this, will you?
LEFTY G.: No, man, you guys cool it. (Pulls gun.)
VIEJO: Get down on your knees, punk . . . down on your knees.
PHEBE: Cat Eyes . . . baby . . . don’t . . . baby . . .
DIAMOND: You’re mine now bitch . . . so get over here and enjoy the
show. . . . Move!
VIEJO: Get down on your knees, faggot.
WILLIE BODEGA: Get down on your knees, man.
JR. BALLOON: Get down on your knees, maricón.
CAT EYES: Man, be cool, please be cool . . . I getting down.
VIEJO: On your knees, mariconcito . . . down!
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Miguel Piñero
CHILE: Cat Eyes.

JUSTICE: Get down, boy, if you wanna live.
VIEJO: Now beg . . . motherfucker, beg . . . (LEFTY locks door.) like
you wanna live. I want you to beg me like if you wanna stay alive
as bad as you wanna live, that’s as bad as I wanna hear you beg.
Am I God?
CHILE: No, Papi, no . . . no, Carlos . . .
CAT EYES: Yes, you are God.
VIEJO: I see there are tears in your eyes . . . cry, motherfucker, cry.
Scream out . . . scream out your tears, motherfucker, scream them
out, you no-good-low-life son of a whore. (CAT EYES begins to
scream and cry. HE holds on to VIEJO’s legs.) Kiss my shoes
punk, kiss them. (CAT EYES complies with all of VIEJO’s wish-
es.) Everybody back, back, every motherfucking body get your
ass away from here . . . move you son of a bitch, move.
JUSTICE: Viejo . . . Viejo . . .
VIEJO: You too, you ugly motherfucker, move back . . . stop crying
already, you would-be king of the pimps. You a player? You
couldn’t play a dime off a blind man in a dark alley. Sucker, you
ain’t never played where the action is you and you alone . . .
because on the street the game is staying alive and you don’t know
how to stay alive . . . you don’t know how to survive because you
put yourself in a position to die. . . . Like right now, sucker, you
are going to die, Cat Eyes, the pimp . . . Cat Eyes, the pussy . . .
you a player? A player is a survivor of a constant struggle to do it
hard . . . to play it to the bitter end. . . . Faggot, don’t you know
that out here in this jungle if you are caught acting, you are one
dead player? Out here you go for broke. You take it to the streets
on all levels and you took it to the level that’s gonna cause your
death. This ain’t the semi-truth world of the tennis hustler or the
pro golf pusher, this is the real world of the dreamer strung out.
But you can’t understand that. Are you listening, Chile Girl? He
ain’t shit. He’s a phony being, a fake . . . even his lies are false.
You blew this the minute that you thought you were the only play-
er in town that made the rules. I invented the game. You can’t hus-
tle off a hustler. You can’t play on a player. You gave yourself no
out. You put yourself in solitary confinement, baby. They tell me
if you don’t open your mouth when you’re dying, you don’t need
any questions answered about death. Motherfucker, I told you and
290
you closed your ears; now you close your life. I won’t let you get
away with it, not me. I won’t let you, motherfucker.
CHILE: No, no lo mate, Papi, no tire . . .
JUSTICE: Viejo . . . (VIEJO shoots himself and goes to the bar. At
sound of shot CAT EYES falls back searching for a wound, cry-
ing and screaming for CHILE. Everyone rushes to CAT EYES
thinking he is shot.)
DIAMOND: You ain’t shot. . . he ain’t shot, man, look, he ain’t shot.
WILLIE BODEGA: Oh, shit, Viejo played it . . . it was his play and
he played it.
JR. BALLOON: The motherfucker was a blank . . . (KAHLU screams,
VIEJO falls . . . dead.)
JUSTICE: Girl, what’s the matter with you? Viejo!
CHILE: No, Papi . . . no! (Rushes to VIEJO.)
JUSTICE: He played it . . . to the bitter end. (The cast exits two or
three at a time. WILLIE is the last to exit, leaving VIEJO, CAT
EYES and CHILE.)
291
Midnight Moon at the Greasy Spoon
Characters
JOSEPH SCOTT (Late sixties, active, strong)

GERALD FISHER (Late sixties, active, strong)
DOMINICK SKORPIOS (Late thirties, Greek immigrant)
FRED PULLEY (Early seventies)
NIGHT-LIFE (Mid twenties)
JOE THE COP (Late fifties)
ZULMA SAMSON (Late forties)
JAKE THE NIGGER (Late forties)
REYNOLDS (FBI Man)
LOCKHART (Bureau of Immigration)
MAN ONE (Insurance Salesman)
MAN TWO (Record Company Executive)
HOOKER ONE (On a string)
HOOKER TWO (Freelancer)
SHOPPING BAG LADY (Mumbles)
JUNKIE GIRL (Far gone)
LOST MAN (From out of town)
BOY (Songwriter, musician)
GIRL (Singer)
Plus as many miscellaneous customers as can be creatively accom-

modated.
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Miguel Piñero
ACT I
A small luncheonette in the Times Square area servicing the workers

of the New York Times and whatever hungry people come in to eat.
The place is open all night. In half light frozen like the figures in
Edward Hopper’s “Night Hawk,” GERRY is at the coffee urn,
DOMINICK prepares to cut the pie, JOE is poised at the cash regis-
ter preparing to make change for a departing Customer, HOOKER
ONE is on the pay phone, A Biker sits at the counter waiting for his
coffee, a Student sits at a side counter reading a textbook. After a
moment the lights go to full and the action begins. General ad libs as
GERRY serves the Biker, the Customer pays JOE, DOMINICK serves
a piece of pie to the Student. Then . . .
DOMINICK: There’s not enough pies to last the night, Joe.

JOE: So what.
GERRY: So what? So what, he says, like if he don’t like making
money.
JOE: Listen, you were supposed to order the pies, right?
DOMINICK: I told you yesterday that I couldn’t order the pies ’cuz I
was coming in late today
JOE: You came in on time.
DOMINICK: Well the marriage was faster than I thought it was going
to be like.
GERRY: Welcome to America, Dominick.
JOE: How was the wedding, Dominick?
DOMINICK: Very fast . . . very fast . . . I go into the place in the
morning, we sign some papers, we go into a room . . . One, two,
three, that’s it. I bring my cousin Aristotle with us as a best man.
She had some junkie girl with her as best woman.
JOE: Maid of honor.
DOMINICK: What honor, Joe . . . she had no honor, bring a girl like
that to her wedding. She’s crazy without honor. Thank God I’m
not going to live with her.
JOE: What do you mean you’re not gonna live with her?
DOMINICK: You know why I married her.
JOE: Sure, I know, but you got to get between them legs of hers at
least once.
294
GERRY: Yeah, Dominick, after all the money you put out for her to
marry you, you got to get laid at least once to make it legal, you
know what I mean, Dominick?
DOMINICK: Sure, I know what you mean, but this is strictly busi-
ness.
JOE: It may be strictly business, Dom, but any time you can get a
piece of leg that looks like a piece of leg you ought to get that
piece of leg before she gets away . . . you know what I mean,
Dominick?
DOMINICK: I don’t know.
JOE: What do you mean, you don’t know?
GERRY: She’s your wife, you got a right to get a piece of leg.
DOMINICK: But this is strictly business.
JOE: Anytime, anywhere in America a man is the boss of his home.
Your wife is bought and paid for, she’s yours, Dominick.
DOMINICK: I don’t know.
GERRY: What’s there to know? All you got to do when she comes
home . . .
DOMINICK: She ain’t coming home.
JOE: You mean she isn’t coming home . . . ? She’s got to come home.
GERRY: Where else is a wife supposed to go but home?
DOMINICK: I mean there is no home to come home to.
GERRY: No home to come home to. That doesn’t even sound right.
JOE: That’s a great title for a song. (Singing.) There’s no home to
come home to, like no home that I know. What’s a home without
a piece of leg.
DOMINICK: Look, after the wedding she went her way, I came here.
GERRY: Ain’t you gonna see her again?
DOMINICK: When the divorce papers come through.
JOE: But that’s not gonna be for a long time.
GERRY: Yeah, that’s right, and besides, you have to become a citizen
first before you divorce her. Don’t forget that.
JOE: Don’t be stupid, Gerry, that’s why he married her.
GERRY: I know why he married her.
DOMINICK: Joe, what if she doesn’t.
JOE: She has no choice.
DOMINICK: . . . She can say, go fuck your own leg instead.
JOE: Don’t be stupid, Dominick, she can’t say that.
GERRY: Why not?
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Miguel Piñero
DOMINICK: Yeah, why not?

JOE: Because she can’t say that.
GERRY: That doesn’t make any sense to me.
DOMINICK: To me either, it makes no sense to me.
JOE: Why does everything have to make sense?
GERRY: Joe, if things don’t make any sense, then you can’t execute
them.
JOE: Hey, Gerry, give me that cloth there.
GERRY: Catch.
JOE: No . . . oh, shit, look at this. You got the thing inside the choco-
late syrup, dummy.
GERRY: Here.
DOMINICK: What happened with what you were saying, Joe?
JOE: I’m thinking, Dominick, let me think.
GERRY: You think maybe we should go outside in case you blow a
fuse?
JOE: Oh, oh, oh . . . Dominick, how much you laid out to marry that
broad?
DOMINICK: Close to three thousand dollars.
GERRY: That’s a lot of money to become a citizen of the USA.
JOE: Yeah, with so many people trying to get out of the USA.
GERRY: As far as I’m concerned, I still go with the good old saying
“love it or leave it.” If you don’t like it, get your ass out.
JOE: Boy, if people knew that people like Dominick work for years to
save up enough money so that they can marry some broad and
become a citizen . . .
GERRY: What are you doing, Joe? Campaigning for mayor?
JOE: I bet if I did campaign for mayor I’d win by a landslide, ’cuz I
know what this town needs, somebody strong that’s not afraid to
kick some ass in that mansion, who’s not afraid of the mafia or the
union bosses or doesn’t have his hand out for kickbacks all the
time. You know that’s what this town needs. If I was mayor, the
schools wouldn’t be full of drugs and police and revolutionaries.
I’d put them all up against the wall and shoot ’em, no trials. I’d
arrest them and shoot them on the spot like Castro did in Cuba.
GERRY: How do you know what Castro did in Cuba?
JOE: Because that’s what all them Communists do when they take
over. They have a blood bath to clean out all the people that gave
them a bad time.
296
GERRY: You sound like a communist.

JOE: I don’t sound like a communist. Don’t say things like that. You
know the walls have ears. This place may be tapped.
DOMINICK: Hey, Joe, have you thought about . . .
JOE:What?
DOMINICK: What we were talking about.
JOE: I haven’t thought of nothing as yet but I will. Just let the old nog-
gin get to work and we’ll have a brain storm.
GERRY: Yeah, maybe we should get an umbrella, hey.
JOE: Maybe we should get an umbrella. That’s funny, real funny. You
know the communists don’t have a bad idea when they start out,
you know. I mean it. I mean like they have a good idea when they
start to throw out the rotten apple before it contaminates the
whole barrel. That’s their motto and like it or not, it’s a good one.
If we had in this country stopped all them spics and niggers from
going crazy protesting this and that, we would have been in a bet-
ter more orderly country. We let all the foreigners come in and tell
us what to do with our country. Ridiculous. That’s why this coun-
try is falling apart now, you know that. Why I read in the Daily
News yesterday that one of the top men in the mayor’s adminis-
tration was arrested for being a crook. And look what happened to
Kennedy and his brother. The poor kid didn’t have a chance to get
anywhere.
GERRY: You think he had a chance at being the president?
JOE: Are you kidding! With all the money his family has!
GERRY: Them Kennedys sure have had a bad time with their kids. All
of them killed and running around, never being at home. Sure is
hell of a family life they have, huh?
JOE: Now Joe Kennedy was one hell of a man. Let me tell you, he
was a real old timer. He was one of them old time pioneers.
DOMINICK: You mean he was with Wyatt Earp and Billy the Kid?
JOE: Naw, well, I bet he might have known them. I mean he had the
guts to know them.
GERRY: He didn’t know them.
JOE: What do you know! You know anything of the Kennedy family?
GERRY: No.
JOE: Well, I’m an expert on the Kennedy family. I know everything
about them. I didn’t vote for John because he was too young and
wouldn’t know how to handle a country the size of this one. If he
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Miguel Piñero
had been running for governor or senator or maybe mayor of the

city, I might have voted for him. But for president, naw. I mean he
was killed just in time.
GERRY: What a crazy thing to say, that the president was killed just
in time.
JOE: What I mean is if he had lived, everybody would have seen how
lousy a president this man was and he would have never gotten the
chance to run for any office again.
DOMINICK: But Joe, he must have been a great president. I mean
when I came here, I landed in Kennedy Airport. I read of a place
that they call Cape Kennedy where they shot those rockets to the
moon. I mean, that to me means that he was a great man.
JOE: Who’s saying he wasn’t a great man? He got killed didn’t he?
GERRY: So what does that prove?
JOE: It proves that he was a great man. All great men get assassinat-
ed, right? What was the name of the colored guy that got killed in
the south, you know, the guy who walked all over the place?
GERRY: King.
JOE: What?
GERRY: That was his name, King. They got some kind of center
down here named after him, he said that.
JOE: Said what?
GERRY: That little black boys and little white boys would be holding
hands.
JOE: If I caught my son skipping down the streets holding hands with
some nigger boy, I’d break his arm.
GERRY: I don’t care if he’s black or white or yellow or red. If I caught
my son holding another boy’s hand, I’d do the same thing too. No
son of mine is gonna hold any man’s hand and skip down the
street like some freakin’ fairy.
DOMINICK: “I have a dream.”
JOE: You have a dream?
DOMINICK: That was the thing he said.
JOE: Who said?
DOMINICK: Doctor Martin Luther King, Junior.
JOE: Who’s that?
GERRY: That’s the name of the guy who made the speech we were
just talking about.
298
JOE: How do you know his name, Gerry? How’d you know his name,
Dominick?
DOMINICK: I read about him in school. He was really a beautiful
human being.
JOE: What do you know? Look, you’re a foreigner here. . . . What do
you know about the niggers in this country? Them spades can
really turn on you. They have no manners. I had a spook working
here a couple of years ago and he was really a nastymouth nigger.
I mean he would cough in front of people who sat down to eat.
He’d pick his nose in public, farted all the time and then would
stink like a dead cat stinks. I think his stomach was rotten or
something, you know. Everytime he went downstairs to the base-
ment to shit, the smell would just fill this whole place.
GERRY: Joe, please, I’m eating.
JOE: So go ahead and eat, who’s stopping you?
GERRY: Never mind.
JOE: I had to let him go. After that I had a spic working in here and I
had to keep my eye on him all the time. You know you can’t trust
a spic. They steal everything that’s not nailed to the floor. I mean,
he was a good worker, but like, I had to keep my eye on him all
the time, you know.
DOMINICK: Did he steal?
GERRY: Who knows? But Joe’s right; them spics steal like if, you
know, what it is being a thief comes to them natural, like making
money comes to us. It’s a second nature to them.
DOMINICK: Did you see him steal anything?
JOE: That’s what Gerry is saying. They are just like the Arab. They
can steal the nails off Jesus Christ and still leave him hanging on
the cross. I had a spic friend of mine who once told me that at an
early age their parents teach them how to steal and lie and every-
thing. It’s like going to school, I mean.
DOMINICK: Did you believe him?
JOE: Of course, I believed him. He wouldn’t lie to me.
DOMINICK: I don’t know, Joe. Like this country is full of all differ-
ent kinds of people, you know.
JOE: I know, I know, ain’t that a fact, but that’s because we’re kind.
We let all kinds of people in this country of ours. We’re not self-
ish with our wealth . . . with the opportunities that are here for all
people, what the hell.
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Miguel Piñero
GERRY: Yeah, you know the old saying, you can’t keep it unless you
give it away.
JOE: What’d you say, Gerry?
GERRY: You know, it’s better to give than receive . . . or like them
holy rollers tell you . . . can’t get into heaven with all that money,
so give it to me? Like Holly Nel said, a camel can’t pass anything
if you put a needle in his eye. (GERRY exits to back.)
FRED: (Entering.) Hey, where’s the bum?
JOE: Hey, bum, how are ya?
FRED: Okay, how ya doing, bum? Where’s the other bum?
JOE: He’s in the back. Hey, Gerry . . .
GERRY: Yeah?
JOE: Fred’s out here.
GERRY: Hey, bum.
FRED: That’s right, you bum, stay back there and rot, you bum.
GERRY: Ah, you don’t wanna see me ’cuz you owe me some money!
FRED: Where do I owe money to a bum from? Oh, yeah, that’s right.
You were begging on the subways and I told you I’d have to owe
you . . . for a cup of coffee.
JOE: That’s a great one.
FRED: Hey, Dominick, how are ya doing?
DOMINICK: Okay, Fred.
FRED: The name is Mister Pulley.
DOMINICK: Okay, Mr. Pulley.
JOE: Ain’t you got no manners for senior citizens?
DOMINICK: I do, I’m sorry, sir.
FRED: That’s quite all right. Just don’t let it happen again.
DOMINICK: No, sir, I won’t.
FRED: (To JOE.) Did you get tickets for the roller derby this Satur-
day?
JOE: I’m gonna watch it on T.V.
FRED: Watch it on T.V.? You must be getting old, you bum. To watch
it out there in person is the way to see roller derby. Let me tell you
there is nothing like it. When Mike Gannon goes around that turn
knocking everything and everybody out of his way . . . Let me tell
you something, you bum, that’s a sight to see. There’s nothing like
it and you can’t tell me you really get the whole thing on T.V.
because I know, I’ve watched the roller derby on T.V. and it is not
the same thing as watching it out there with that crowd yelling for
300
blood. And you don’t get to see what really goes on when them
Amazons get it on in a fisticuff action. Them torn clothes reveals
a lot more than they show on T.V. Can you know what I mean?
Some of them girls are really built like brick shithouses. Some of
them broads remind me of the battleship I was stationed on dur-
ing the big one.
JOE: Yeah, I know, but I gotta lotta work to do around the house, you
know.
FRED: Let me get a cup of coffee and a toasted muffin.
JOE: Hey, Gerry, get the bum his regular.
GERRY: Okay, a toasted English coming up. (DOMINICK hands
JOE a cup of coffee for FRED.)
FRED: Hey, Dominick, you feel like making a couple’a bucks this
weekend?
DOMINICK: I don’t know if I have time this weekend.
JOE: Dominick just got married today.
FRED: Hey, congratulations, Dominick.
JOE: (Handing FRED the coffee.) He married a Puerto Rican.
FRED: A what?
GERRY: (Entering with the English muffin.) You heard him.
FRED: Hey, bum!
GERRY: Hey, bum!
FRED: So you married a Puerto Rican girl, huh? I hear tell they are
some hot little number.
GERRY: That’s what I hear too. I mean I never had me one of those.
FRED: You probably get a heart attack if one of them little numbers
got on you, you bum.
JOE: They would sure do a number on him.
FRED: They sure would, thanks. Where’s the Sweet and Low?
GERRY: Here ya are, service with a smile.
FRED: Your smile I don’t need, hey.
JOE: Hey, Dominick, you wanna pass a mop on the floor before they
start coming in here.
FRED: Yeah, so Dominick got himself hooked up to a little Puerto
Rican number, huh? Hey, Dominick, you got more brains than I
thought you had. By the way, how old are you?
GERRY: How old are you, Dominick?
DOMINICK: Thirty-eight years old next month.
FRED: You gonna stay in this country now, Dominick?
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Miguel Piñero
DOMINICK: Yes.
JOE: Sure he is, that’s why he married that spic!
FRED: How she look?
JOE: She’s a looker, that’s for sure.
GERRY: Yeah, she sure is. Three thousand dollars worth of looks.
FRED: Three thousand dollars, are you kidding?
JOE: Nope, that’s what he paid to marry her.
FRED: Hell, for three grand I would have married him.
GERRY: You’re not exactly his type, Fred.
FRED: I could be just like Jack Lemmon in that film with Marilyn
Monroe. What was the name of that movie? I saw it three times
with Jack Lemmon, a real funny guy. I seen all his movies you
know.
GERRY: “Some Like It Hot!”
FRED: That’s it, “Some Like It Hot,” a great film.
JOE: They don’t make films like that anymore, you know.
FRED: That’s a darn shame, isn’t it?
GERRY: It sure is.
DOMINICK: Can I still see it in the movies?
FRED: The late, late, late movie.
JOE: Fred, you’re a riot.
JOE THE COP: (Entering.) Hey, Joe, how’s tricks?
JOE: Tricks are for kids, want some corn flakes?
JOE THE COP: Hello, Dominick.
DOMINICK: Hello, Officer Joe.
JOE: Dominick, get some glasses.
GERRY: What’ll you have?
JOE THE COP: Give me a pastrami on white, hold the mustard. Cof-
fee with no sugar.
GERRY: And an apple turnover, all traveling, right?
JOE THE COP: Right. So how’s business?
JOE: Business is fine. How’s business out there in the streets?
JOE THE COP: Same as always. Saturday night everybody is trying
to kill somebody else.
JOE: Things get bad some times out there, right?
JOE THE COP: You’re damn right. Especially on nights like this. The
weather isn’t so bad, it’s a good night for muggers. People wanna
go out and take walks. I wish people would just go home and lock
themselves in until it’s time to go to work the next day. That’s
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what I do, well not me, Joe, but my wife and kids, I mean. If my
kids aren’t home by eight o’clock, I go looking for them and when
I find them they know what’s in store for them. Most parents
nowadays don’t wanna hit their kids no matter what they do. If it
was up to me every kid that came into the station house would
receive an ass whipping like my father used to give me.
JOE: I know what you mean. My kids are all grown up now and all of
them with the exception of the oldest are hard-working citizens
making their daily living. No charity crap for them. The oldest
one went to Vietnam and came back a . . . a . . . I don’t know what
to call him . . . a communist junkie pinko fag creep. I threw the
bum out of the house.
FRED: I fought in the big one and these kids go out to a little brawl like
Vietnam and they make a big stink out of it. They really think they
been to war. They come back talking like if they, they, they . . .
JOE: I know what you mean, Fred. I can’t even begin to pinpoint the
problem of the chicken-livered shithead.
JOE THE COP: Well, they finally gave me a desk job now.
JOE: You got yourself a desk job at the station?
JOE THE COP: Yep, taking it easy.
JOE: What are you two doing there with Dominick?
GERRY: Wouldn’t you like to know.
FRED: Just trying to help the young fella along with some marital
hints, you know what I mean?
JOE: Dominick just got married.
JOE THE COP: He did, huh? Dom old boy, you just made one of
America’s grave yet traditional human errors.
DOMINICK: I did? How?
JOE THE COP: Dropping the wings of bachelor freedom and donning
the yoke of marriage slavery, but nevertheless, I wish you health,
wealth and love.
JOE: I’ll drink to that.
DOMINICK: Thank you . . . thank you very much . . . (Enter ZULMA
in a rush.)
ZULMA: Hi, everybody . . . hot chocolate to go . . . extra milk . . . no
sugar . . . is the phone working, Joe? My, Gerry, the years are tak-
ing their toll . . . potbelly, pretty soon. Stop drinking all that beer,
right, Fred? Hey, Dominick . . . hello . . . this is X-87 . . . nothing
. . . What? No . . . but I will . . . well if that’s the way you feel
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Miguel Piñero
about it then okay. I’ll just get me another answering service,

goodbye. Chocolate ready? I was going to get me another service
anyway . . . I was . . . really. . . . Oh, well, Joe, you know how it
is in the business, sometimes you’re up, sometimes you’re
down . . . but I guess I know what you’re thinking: once a person
reaches a certain point in the struggle to reach some kind of noto-
riety and they don’t get there, then it’s time to bid farewell to all
that is a part of one’s natural habit as is the habit to eat, to breathe,
to sleep. The nature of a prayer is to be heard by whoever is lis-
tening. I seem to have a bad connection to that certain ear wher-
ever it is.
JOE: What are you talking about?
GERRY: Dominick here just got married.
JOE THE COP: Would you mind repeating what you just said, I didn’t
get it all.
ZULMA: What I’m talking about? I’m talking about David Merrick . . .
Alex Cohan . . . Gower Champion . . . Joe Luggage and Frankie
Suitcase, about all those guys who control the means and the
manner of my existence on this planet, about Show Business and
Backstage and Variety and all those casting notices that appear in
the paper, about the Equity billboard, about the daydreams that
rush through our heads as we climb the stairs to an audition, about
the tears that flood out after being rejected once, twice . . . three
times in one afternoon . . . and that’s not counting the morning, or
the telephone calls, the hundreds of pictures and résumés that hit
the mailboxes. Of course, I can’t repeat what I said, I speak from
the moment not from a script. As for you, Dominick who just got
married, break a leg . . . well, time has it that I venture forth
toward the unknown fate of a sacred audition . . . this hot choco-
late will be cold by the time I reach my destination, but that’s not
the moment of truth . . . it comes later on in the day with the hot
chicken soup that I heat in the naked cold of my lonely room . . .
when the night finds me moaning over the uselessness of trying to
survive in the path of glamour and beauty, for I have lost both of
these elements during the course of the years, yet my talent has no
end in sight, and yet I am not judged by this but by the fullness of
my breast. So long, guys, I will see all of you tomorrow if the
Lord is on my side . . . if not, send me no flowers . . . for I will
304
venture to exploit all of me in that great casting office in the

sky . . . bye. (Exits.)
DOMINICK: Who was she!
JOE THE COP: I don’t know her name, but by the silver tongue that
she left behind, she must be the stone ranger.
JOE: That’s nice, Joe. See you next time.
JOE THE COP: Good night, Joe, Gerry, Mr. er, er???
FRED: Fred, Fred Pulley. Call me Fred.
JOE THE COP: Good night, Fred . . . and Dominick, don’t do noth-
ing I wouldn’t do. (JOE THE COP exits.)
JOE: So long, Joe. Nice guy. One of the really decent cops on the
force.
GERRY: He’s all right for a cop.
JOE: All cops are really all right. They have a tremendous job on their
hands when they become New York City cops.
GERRY: Don’t I know it. Don’t forget my oldest one is a cop.
DOMINICK: Why did Officer Joe say that to me?
JOE: Say what?
DOMINICK: That I shouldn’t do nothing he wouldn’t do. I don’t
know what he wouldn’t do, so how am I going to know if I am
doing something that he wouldn’t do?
JOE: You know, as crazy as that may sound, it makes sense. But look,
that’s just an old American saying, Dom.
DOMINICK: It doesn’t make any sense to me.
GERRY: You mean you never heard it said before, Dom?
JOE: If he had, would he be acting like he hadn’t?
GERRY: Just surprised, that’s all. (Telephone rings.)
DOMINICK: I got it.
JOE: I’ll get it. City Morgue, you stab ’em, we slab ’em. Oh, hi, Ruth.
Sorry, can’t make no deliveries today. The boy didn’t show. Yeah,
yeah, I know this is the second day in a row, but what can I tell
you? Listen, order from someone else. No, no hard feelings what-
soever, okay, bye . . . the bitch.
GERRY: Who was that?
JOE: Ruth Singerton from up the street. She’s really got a whole lot
of nerve, hasn’t she?
GERRY: She has a whole lot of something else too.
JOE: She sure does. That woman has a future behind her.
FRED: Well, here you are, Joe.
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Miguel Piñero
JOE: Leaving already?

FRED: Yeah, got to get back to work. You know some people work
while others pretend to work, right, Gerry?
GERRY: I wouldn’t know, I’m only here eight hours a day.
FRED: Aaah, you bum. Take it easy, you bums.
JOE: You too, you bum.
DOMINICK: Good night, Mr. Pulley.
FRED: Hey, call me Fred.
DOMINICK: Right, Fred . . . bye.
GERRY: Get out of here already, you bum.
FRED: Let me get a pack of Camels.
JOE: Here you are, on the house.
GERRY: Yeah, we like giving away coffin nails.
FRED: Ahhh, you bum. So long, see you tomorrow.
JOE: Okay, Fred. (FRED exits.)
GERRY: How old you think Fred is?
JOE: He’s past sixty-five, I think.
GERRY: He’s a baby compared to you, heh, Joe?
JOE: Blow that our your ass.
DOMINICK: What about the delivery boy, Joe?
JOE: What delivery boy? He’s fired.
DOMINICK: My cousin, Aristotle, is looking for work. He’s young
and strong.
JOE: Bring him around tomorrow and I’ll have a look at him.
GERRY: What are you now, a casting director?
DOMINICK: What’s a casting director, Joe?
GERRY: What do you wanna eat, Dominick? . . . I’ll make it for you.
DOMINICK: Eggs and tomatoes.
GERRY: You want some coffee?
DOMINICK: Yes. No, today, tea with lemon.
JOE: A casting director, it’s a job in the entertainment business.
GERRY: The entertainment business?
JOE: It’s a business!
GERRY: Gee, Joe, I’m only kidding.
JOE: Well, I don’t take it as a joke.
GERRY: Okay, okay, sorry that I try to be human.
DOMINICK: What’s wrong? Why are you two fighting?
GERRY: He was an entertainer most of his life.
DOMINICK: A what?
306
JOE: I was in show business. That’s why I bought this place. Never
played Broadway, so when I got too old to make the rounds reg-
ularly I decided, well, I may never play Broadway, so let me work
on Broadway. So me and three other friends of mine bought this
here place and settled down to relax our few years on this earth
with the toil of good, honest, hard work. I’m the only one left of
the three. Gerry just bought a share of the place, makes him a
partner now. But he worked in this place for a long time before he
could make enough money to buy a share of the place. Dominick,
there’s plenty of opportunity in America to make a decent living
if you put your mind to it. I mean, don’t think that it’s been easy
for anybody. When you get right down to it, Dominick, there are
very few people in this country who were born with a silver spoon
in their mouth. Most of us got to where we are today by getting
up every morning and reporting to work and by saving a pretty
penny here, a pretty penny there, until you find that you have
enough to make a lot of pretty pennies to work for you. You
should work hard for the dollar and then sit back and relax and let
the dollar work hard for you. That’s the way to live in America. I
mean, I really don’t understand all this bitching that goes on in the
newspapers every day. The Negro and the Puerto Ricans and now
the Cubans and Vietnamese, we let them in this country to do
something for themselves and they expect the country to feed
them and clothe them and lead them by the hand until they can
find some type of education, looking for a handout. They don’t
want to work.
DOMINICK: Do not ask what your country can do for you, ask what
you can do for your country.
JOE: Exactly. Hey that’s pretty clever.
DOMINICK: John F. Kennedy said it in a speech.
JOE: He did, huh? . . . Smart, your man. I still think he was too young
to run a country like this one. Not enough experience in high
political office. There’s a lot of sharpies up there. Dominick, you
go to night school, right, and you read the papers, what’s your
opinion?
GERRY: Not that it matters any.
JOE: Come on, be serious. Soon this man is going to be a citizen of
this country and he should know that he can express his political,
religious and social views without fear of persecution.
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Miguel Piñero
DOMINICK: Well, you know, Joe, I lived over there and I lived in
many places that you call over there.
GERRY: (Singing.) “Over there, over there. Tell ’em that the yanks
are coming. The yanks are coming over there.”
JOE: That’s un-American, Gerry. If you make fun of those songs that
inspired men to fight for freedom of the world, you might as well
spit on the flag and curse the president.
GERRY: Damn, Joe, I was only kidding, you kid around too.
JOE: Yeah, but when I do, it’s different.
GERRY: What’s so different about it?
JOE: Because when I do it, I do it as a showman. You’re not a show-
man, a stand-up comic. I was.
GERRY: Like you was not like you are.
JOE: Let me tell you how it was when we got to Paris during the big
one.
GERRY: We know how it was, Joe.
DOMINICK: I read about it in school.
JOE: Yeah, but reading about it is not the same as hearing about it.
Them French girls, my God, were they the horniest broads that I
ever met in my life! They ripped your pants off if they caught you
in the streets or in a hotel room. Man, they were sure the horniest
broads in my life. One thing I can say for the French is that their
women sure taught me a mess of things about women.
GERRY: I have something to say about the French too. “The French
is a wonderful race, polly boo.”
JOE: Ahahaha . . . “The French is a wonderful race, polly boo.”
JOE and GERRY: (Singing together to DOMINICK.) “The French is
a wonderful race, polly boo . . .
the French is a wonderful race, polly boo.
the French is a wonderful race
they fight with their feet
and fuck with their face.
Hinky, dinky, pollyyy booo.”
JOE: I haven’t sang that since Paris. My, my, how time has slipped
right on by.
GERRY: What was the other Polly Boo song that we used to sing?
JOE: Oh, right, let me see, “The first marine bought the beans.”
GERRY: “Polly boo” . . . come, Dominick, just say “polly boo,” okay?
JOE: “The second marine cooked the beans.”
308
GERRY and DOMINICK: “Polly boo.”

JOE: “The third marine ate the beans and shitted all over the subma-
rine.”
JOE and GERRY and DOMINICK: “Hinky dinky, polly boooo.”
JOE: Let’s stop it, too much.
GERRY: Joe, you all right?
JOE: Yeah, I’m all right.
GERRY: Joe, why don’t you go to Paris?
JOE: It would be nice, wouldn’t it.
GERRY: It’ll be great. You and me, the kids are all grown up and they,
well, you know they . . .
JOE: They don’t need us anymore.
GERRY: Sometimes I think I’m in their way. They were talking about
putting me in an old age home.
JOE: So that’s why you moved away?
GERRY: Yeah, that’s why. (Telephone rings.)
JOE: This is the house of the Lord, Moses is speaking. Oh, hello, Ruth
. . . it’s that Singerton broad again. Yeah, Dominick, you feel like
making a delivery?
DOMINICK: Sure, why not. Do I get a tip?
JOE: Yeah, don’t bet on the horses . . . ahahahaha.
GERRY: What you want me to cook up, Joe?
JOE: The regular thing.
GERRY: Four coffees, two light no sugar, one black, one regular, two
danishes, one neopolitan, one eclair, one french cruller and we’ll
throw in one corn muffin.
DOMINICK: What is the address?
JOE: Here ya are and don’t stay there all night googling at her ass.
GERRY and JOE: (Singing.)
“Barney Google with the goo goo googly eyes
Barney Google with a wife three times his size
She sued Barney for divorce
then she ran off with his horse
Barney Google with the goo goo googly eyes.”
GERRY: Take the umbrella, it’s drizzling out there.
JOE: Hey, Dominick, don’t get wet.
DOMINICK: Thanks.
JOE: So that’s why you moved out, heh?
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Miguel Piñero
GERRY: Yeah, I didn’t understand their insistence on them putting me

in a prison away from all the love and care that I can give them. I
know that they mean well, but that kind of well meaning I can do
without. I’m not a cripple, Joe, I drive my own car. I supported
them until they were old enough to make it out here in the jungle
by themselves. Like I did, I paved the road with education, the
education that I was not lucky enough to get. Sure they would
come and see me once or twice a week, maybe every day for a
while, and how long do you think that would last? Have you ever
seen a home for the aged? It’s a death life, all these living beings
wrinkled and feeble and mumbling to themselves, holding on to
the last postcard from other couples’ children, imagining that they
are their own grandkids. Decaying photographs of themselves
inside handmade frames, that helped for awhile, too many homes,
private ones, state-owned, some of them real fancy names with
chandeliers and candles burning. Others were brutal in them-
selves, home for the aged and the feeble. What can you do, when
you reach the point of fear, of helplessness? A little money keeps
you alive inside yourself. And then they want to take it all away
from you, for your own good, for their own sense of privacy is
more like it, Joe, for their sense of insanity that pushes them into
being social workers rather than the children that you brought up
and struggled and fought for all your life. If I didn’t put them in
an institution when they were young, why do they want to do it to
me, because I’m old? They rate me obsolete, that’s what it is, Joe,
they rate us obsolete. We hold no more useful function in their
lives. I wonder what would happen if someday they come to that
realization about all of us. When they figure that keeping us in a
home is very expensive, would they just feed us into the gas
chambers like Hitler did those poor miserable Jews? Would they
all leave and give us a piece of earth to toil until we are dead?
Maybe they will create dead-end jobs that serve the same function
that we do, none. You know when Lyndon Johnson retired to his
ranch in Texas, I thought that he would be like the rest of the
retired presidents of this nation and die along with the headlines
in a garbage can. Then I saw a picture of him in the Daily News
riding a horse and wearing his hair as long as the very people who
protested his stay in office and his policies. What do you think he
was telling the world, a retired president of the greatest nation on
310
earth wearing his hair like that? It was almost like a sign of arro-
gance, of protest, against the talk that he was old and ready to die
any moment. Joe, I haven’t seen my children or my grandchildren
since Martha and I moved out of the house to be on our own. They
said that I was insane and . . . oh, shit, I miss the hell out of them,
Joe. I love my children like I never loved anything else in this
world, and watching and helping to take care of their children was
like reliving the past with them all over again. Me and Martha
would take them out and spoil the hell out of them, but it was a
good kind of spoiling, the good kind, and they used that to try to
commit me. I miss them, Joe, and I know that I’ll never see them
again, because I, Joe, I have made that decision myself. Joe,
sometimes I feel like . . . (HE begins to sing.) “Sometimes I feel
like a motherless child” . . . (NIGHTLIFE, a young man of twen-
ty, enters.)
NIGHTLIFE: Hi, my, it’s getting cold out there. Hardly no people on
the streets. . . . (HE pops a quarter in the jukebox.) It’s a good day
for a mugging. (Stevie Wonder’s “Living for the City” comes up
on the jukebox.)
JOE: If that’s your work I guess it is. What’ll it be?
MAN: Give me a chocolate malted milk.
GERRY: (Exiting to the kitchen.) One chocolate malted, coming up.
NIGHTLIFE: (NIGHTLIFE begins to boogie to the music.) Is that
chocolate cream pie?
JOE: Yep, fresh chocolate cream pie.
NIGHTLIFE: (Still boogying.) How much a slice?
JOE: Forty-five cents.
NIGHTLIFE: Let me get those two pieces.
JOE: Both of them?
NIGHTLIFE: Yeah, both of them, do you mind?
JOE: You’re paying for them. You’re eating them, so why should I
mind? You want them now?
NIGHTLIFE: Yeah, now, thanks. (NIGHTLIFE begins to stuff the pie
into his mouth.)
JOE: You like pie, huh?
NIGHTLIFE: Yeah, I like pies.
JOE: Good, huh?
NIGHTLIFE: Good. (After a beat.) You happen to know what time it
is?
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Miguel Piñero
JOE: The clock is on the wall behind you.

NIGHTLIFE: Man, I didn’t know it was so early. I works late, they
call me Nightlife.
JOE: It’s a name.
NIGHTLIFE: Can I read that paper until the malt is ready?
JOE: Sure, why not, here. (As JOE folds up the paper, NIGHTLIFE
boogies to the kitchen door and peers into the back.)
JOE: You expecting someone else?
NIGHTLIFE: Why?
JOE: Just that you keep looking around to see if anyone is there.
NIGHTLIFE: Maybe I’m trying to make sure that no one is there.
JOE: Maybe.
NIGHTLIFE: How’s this business, you make a good dollar?
JOE: We do all right.
GERRY: (Entering from the kitchen.) Here’s your chocolate malt,
sonny.
NIGHTLIFE: Nightlife is my name.
GERRY: (Putting the malt on the counter in front of NIGHTLIFE.) I
call people by their names if they are my friends or are about to
be my friends.
NIGHTLIFE: Yeah, that’s cool. (HE drinks the malt down in one long
gulp.) You make a nice malted milk.
GERRY: Thanks, I try.
NIGHTLIFE: Don’t we all.
JOE: (Slapping a check in front of NIGHTLIFE.) That’ll be a dollar
sixty-five.
NIGHTLIFE: I got eyes, I can see, thank you. (The three of them stare
at each other for a moment, then NIGHTLIFE takes out a ciga-
rette, looks at JOE and GERRY with an exaggerated villainous
smile. HE gets up with one hand in his pocket and performs a
whole silent-movie-bad-guy routine of curling his mustache and
giving the Richard Widmark crazy-killer laugh. HE then remains
in total silence for a long moment, then yells out “BOO” slapping
the counter with two dollars. JOE pulls out a large revolver and
GERRY has a meat cleaver at the ready. NIGHTLIFE begins to
laugh at them hysterically. JOE takes the money, gives
NIGHTLIFE his change, refuses the tip. NIGHTLIFE leaves,
laughing his way out the door. Two men, REYNOLDS and
LOCKHART, enter the place along with JOE THE COP.)
312
JOE: Hey, Joe, what brings you around?

GERRY: Hey, Joe, what happened to the desk job?
JOE THE COP: This is business, Gerry.
JOE: Police business in our place?
GERRY: I told you they’d catch up with you sooner or later, Dillinger.
JOE THE COP: These two men are from the government.
REYNOLDS: Reynolds, Federal Bureau of Investigation.
LOCKHART: Lockhart, Bureau of Immigration.
REYNOLDS: Joseph Scott, you own the place?
JOE: Yeah, that’s right. We own the place. It’s a legal business.
There’s nothing going on in this place that ain’t legal. I’m an hon-
est man.
GERRY: Gerald Fisher is my name. I’m part owner here. What’s the
trouble?
REYNOLDS: There’s no trouble with either of you.
LOCKHART: We’re looking for a Mister Dominick Athemus Skor-
pios.
JOE: Dominick? What’s he done?
LOCKHART: He’s in the country illegally.
GERRY: That’s not true! He’s an American citizen . . . by marriage.
REYNOLDS: We know of his marriage to one Carmen de Jesús, also
known as Iris Morales-Milagros Ramírez. She has a list of alias-
es that can go on for a couple of days, and we don’t have much
time.
JOE: Well, I don’t know how many names she has, nor do I care if she
is an American citizen by birth.
JOE THE COP: Easy, Joe. Will ya hear them out first before you blow
a fuse?
GERRY: She is a Puerto Rican, she’s a citizen by birth.
JOE: Yeah, what ya mean? That Puerto Ricans aren’t citizens of this
country? They are one of the finest people to ever set foot in this
God-given soil.
REYNOLDS: Puerto Ricans are citizens, sir.
LOCKHART: But not Mexicans, Mr. Scott.
JOE: Mexican?
GERRY: Mexican? What ya mean? She’s a Mex? . . . She showed us
her birth certificate.
LOCKHART: Phony. Most of her papers are phonies.
REYNOLDS: Where’s Mister Skorpios now?
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Miguel Piñero
JOE: He’s out making a delivery. . . . He’ll be back soon.

REYNOLDS: Good, we’ll wait.
JOE THE COP: See, Joe, it’s like this. This dame goes around posing
as Puerto Rican so that she can hook fishes like Dominick into
paying her to marry her so they can stay in the country through
marriage.
LOCKHART: We have her in custody now. Mister Skorpios may have
to face other charges of conspiracy. So his chances to have stayed
here are less even with the help you may offer in his behalf.
REYNOLDS: Lockhart, call in.
LOCKHART: Will do.
GERRY: Oh, poor Dominick. (Enter DOMINICK.)
DOMINICK: Hell, Joe, here’s the money. She gave me no tip. She’s
cheap, ain’t she?
JOE: Isn’t she. It’s “isn’t she.” These two men are here to see you,
Dom. They’re from the government. They wanna talk to you
about . . . hell, Gerry, you tell him.
GERRY: They say you are here illegally and they . . . well, they . . .
DOMINICK: Illegally? No, that’s not true anymore. I’m married to an
American. I got married to an American. I’m not . . .
JOE: That’s just it. She’s not an American. She’s not a Puerto Rican.
She’s a wetback Mexican scab who slipped into the country and
took all of us in . . . goddamn it, Dominick. . . goddamn her soul.
DOMINICK: She not an American?
LOCKHART: I’m afraid not, Mr. Skorpios.
REYNOLDS: Let’s go. We can talk about this downtown.
DOMINICK: Wait, please! I just want to live here to make a life here,
like your fathers did. Like Joe says, I would, if I work hard
enough at it. I want to make my life here, to make a decent living
here in America. Can’t I stay? Can’t I stay, please?! Let me stay
here in this place. I work hard, ask Joe . . . ask Gerry . . . I’m never
late, never did I miss a day of work, always I work late and hard
and very much. Never am I lazy.
REYNOLDS: Let’s go.
DOMINICK: I do not ask for welfare or any kind of help from gov-
ernment . . . just to let me make a life here. I just want to be an
American.
JOE THE COP: I’m sorry, Dominick.
JOE: It’s not your fault, Joe. It’s all our faults.
314
REYNOLDS: Come along, Mr. Skorpios. Good night, gentlemen.

LOCKHART: Good night, sorry, we’re just doing our job . . . you
understand.
JOE: We understand . . . yeah, we understand. (Exit REYNOLDS,
LOCKHART and DOMINICK.)
GERRY: Poor Dominick. He didn’t even get laid . . . (Lights Out.)
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Miguel Piñero
ACT II
Same scene. Three hours later, it is the height of the hour JOE and
GERRY are busy serving the customers, including JUNKIE GIRL
and SHOPPING BAG LADY. ZULMA enters during the scene and
sips on a cup of chocolate. The scene as originally produced was
improvised around the following set of characters: MAN ONE, MAN
TWO, HOOKER ONE, HOOKER TWO, Cowboy. At the end of the
scene, the Hookers exit with Cowboy. GERRY turns to JOE.
GERRY: (Pointing to JUNKIE GIRL.) Hey, Joe.

JOE: She’s pulling a Mary Hartman-Mary Hartman.
GIRL: Hey, wow, Mary Hartman. I look like Mary Hartman?
JOE: No.
GERRY: What he’s saying is you’re pulling a Mary Hartman.
GIRL: How’s that?
JOE: Drowning in a bowl of soup.
GIRL: This soup is cold. I don’t want it.
JOE: You pay for it just the same.
GIRL: Hey, yeah, wow, like I got bread. (Throws her money on the
counter and stumbles out into the night. The SHOPPING BAG
LADY sits on a stool mumbling to herself, hell, damn, fuck you,
shit, bastard. Profanity is the only thing she says.)
LADY: Mumble mumble damn you mumble mumble. (Waving her
hands all the time, she takes the things from time to time and puts
them inside her shopping bag. SHE exits during the song “Greasy
Spoon Blues.”)
GERRY: Goddamn it, wouldn’t you know it, Joe, that today would
turn out to be busier than usual? Just our luck to have Dominick
picked up at the height of the hour.
JOE: Poor Dominick. He should have called in sick.
GERRY: Aw, they would have turned up tomorrow or the next day.
When the Feds are after you, forget it. You can run, but you can’t
hide. That’s the old saying about them. Dillinger found that out.
So did Babyface Nelson and Ma Barker and a host of others that
fled the F.B.I. You just can’t win. It’s like playing a game of stud
poker and knowing that the deck is stacked against you, but you
sit down to play anyway, that’s the philosophy of the criminal
mind. They go out and play against a stacked deck. It’s a means
of ending the beginning of yourself.
316
JOE: Well, you know what they say about destiny.

GERRY: No, I don’t. What is it they say about destiny?
JOE: How should I know? I thought you knew. (Telephone rings.)
JOE: There’s a midnight moon at the greasy spoon tonight. Oh . . . hi,
Ruth. What can I do for you? . . . Who? Oh, Dominick . . . naw,
he ain’t here anymore. They took him away today . . . Who? The
F.B.I., that’s who . . . they found out he was a wanted killer. . . .
Yeah, they got wind of him from the C.I.A. They spotted him and
turned him over to the C.I.D., who turned him over to the B.C.I.,
who called Scotland Yard, who called Interpol, who called the
F.B.I. and they came and took him away. . . . That’s right. A born
killer, they said. . . . Yep, about twenty people with a rusty ax han-
dle . . . no motive. He did it for pleasure. . . . What? . . . No . . .
throughout the nation, yep, been underground for years. Sure we
knew about it. Gerry thought he could rehabilitate him. . . . No,
I’m not lying to you. . . . You wanna ask Gerry? . . . Sure, it’s the
truth. . . . Yep, twenty people . . . mostly late-night working
women. . . . Yep, late-night working women. . . . Naw, no men . . .
just women . . . in their late forties. Seems he had a kind of psy-
cho thing about him, always when he delivered coffee to them.
You sure are lucky he’s not going to be able to keep that date.
Yeah, it’s really a shame. . . . Take it easy. . . . No, there’s no
chance of him escaping. But if he does, you will be the first to
know. . . . Yeah, he talked about you a lot. Yeah, I think you should
go to bed. Yeah, that’s not a bad idea. . . . Sure will. Good night.
Pleasant dreams. . . . Bye. . . . Chiao . . . hang up already, will you!
. . . Damn, that woman sure can be a pain in the lower back. . . .
Boy, one of these days. One of these days . . .
GERRY: I’ll bet she’ll dream of Dominick tonight.
JOE: I bet she will.
GERRY: Twenty people with a rusty ax handle . . . that’s a good one.
JOE: Mostly late-night working women.
ZULMA: (Stands up slowly.) You guys had a killer working here . . .
trying to rehabilitate a born killer. That guy Dominick was a
killer? He sure didn’t look like a killer. He didn’t look like a killer.
He didn’t act like a killer. And he didn’t talk like a killer. (Pause.)
But then again, what does a killer look like or what does a killer
say to someone when they first meet. Hi, I’m a killer.
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Miguel Piñero
JOE: Zelma, he was no killer. Believe me, I was joking with that
woman.
ZULMA: The name is Zulma, not Zelma.
JOE: Zulma out here and Zelma at home.
ZULMA: It’s Zulma out here and Zulma at home and Zulma on stage
and Zulma in here.
JOE: Zulma. Zelma. Zulma. Zelma. Zelma. Zulma. What’s in a name?
ZULMA: Plenty.
GERRY: So how’s business?
ZULMA: Do you know what? This morning I went to five auditions.
Count them. Five. Since this morning I’ve been pounding the con-
crete, making the rounds and all I got is the same “don’t call us,
we’ll call you” routine.
JOE: Oh, how I know them words so well.
ZULMA: Oh, I bet you know the routine.
GERRY: But with a name like Zulma Samson, well you know, what
can you expect?
ZULMA: It has nothing to do with the name, Gerry. It’s the age, the
age. It’s the age. (SHE begins to weep.)
JOE: Hey! Hey, look, don’t do that. Come on now, pull yourself
together. Come on, Zulma, not in here. What if someone comes
in? Look, stop crying, will ya? . . . please stop crying.
ZULMA: It’s the age. It’s the age. I’m a has-been . . . a has-been that
never was. I was once so beautiful, to look at me you wouldn’t
think so, but I was. I was once so beautiful . . . what’s happened
to me?
JOE: You’re still beautiful. You still got a lot of spunk left in you. Stop
crying.
ZULMA: Oh, stop it. I know the truth. I know the truth, that’s why
I’m crying, ’cuz I know the truth . . . I realize the truth. I can’t hide
from the mirror anymore. My time is over. My time is over and I
never even got to look at the clock of success. . . . I’m passed the
hour of life. . . . I can face the truth now . . . I can face all the wrin-
kles without all the make-up. I can face it now . . . I know that I’m
all washed up . . . but what am I going to do? What am I going to
do? I know nothing else but show business . . . it’s all I know since
I was a child. And I am not going to end up in no old actors home
to tell stories of glorious events that never took place . . . lay by
the window all the time watching the sunrise . . . hoping that each
318
ray of light will bring in a letter from Dino de Laurentis or a script

hand-delivered from Joseph Papp saying that he needs me to play
the lead in a new production at Lincoln Center . . . no . . . no . . .
no actors home for me. . . . I was born on stage . . . well, not exact-
ly on stage, it was a traveling show in a tent. I was on stage when
the final labor pain struck my mother . . . no, I know nothing else,
and I never wanted to know anything else but what I know . . . and
it’s been grand and I want to remember it as being grand and I
always, since the moment I was able to fend for myself . . . I’ve
took care of myself and now I’ve reached the ebb of my tide.
GERRY: “The ebb of my tide” . . . Zulma, you’re really a ham.
ZULMA: Of the finest caliber.
JOE: So, now that you say you know what you think is the truth of
your final years on the good Earth, what do you plan on doing
with them?
GERRY: How do you plan to support yourself?
ZULMA: I’ll get me a steady job.
JOE: You have any place in mind?
ZULMA: Sure.
JOE: Where?
ZULMA: Here.
GERRY: Where?
ZULMA: Here.
JOE: Here!
ZULMA: Here.
GERRY: Did she say here?
ZULMA: What are you guys . . . a comedy team?
GERRY: She did say “here.”
ZULMA: I thought I was clear about that.
JOE: I know you sounded clear and I know that you think you sound-
ed clear, but I wanted to make sure that you sounded clear about
being clear about working here. I mean, I don’t want to sound as if
I and Gerry were a large firm, but we feel somehow that since we
are going to have to pay wages to whoever spends hours here . . .
ZULMA: What’s the problem? I mean, look, you like me and I like
you. . . . You do like me???
JOE: Sure.
GERRY: No one said that they didn’t like you, at least I didn’t.
JOE: I didn’t say it either.
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Miguel Piñero
ZULMA: Okay, then what’s the problem? You like me, I like you, we
can have a beautiful working relationship. And it’s close to Broad-
way, you know what I mean?
JOE: I know what you mean, more than you think.
GERRY: Well, it’s okay with me if it’s okay with Joe.
JOE: Well, if it’s okay with you, then it’s okay with me.
GERRY: When can you start?
ZULMA: Nothing like the present for doing what you have to do,
right fellas?!
GERRY: Right!
JOE: Go in the back and put on something that’ll keep the grease off
your clothes.
ZULMA: Oh, by the way. I look ridiculous in a mini-skirt, so I hope
you don’t require that your female workers wear one.
JOE: I wouldn’t dream of asking you to wear one.
ZULMA: Look at that. Not even in your dreams can you see me in a
mini-skirt. Boy, I must look worse than I thought.
JOE: I didn’t mean it that way.
ZULMA: No? In what way then?
JOE: Just go get somethin’ on, will ya? (ZULMA exits to the kitchen.)
GERRY: She’s okay, you know . . . a regular guy.
JOE: Yeah, she’s all right. I’m glad that she’s getting a little more
sense into her head nowadays. You know, I think we’re going to
have a nice night tomorrow.
GERRY: Yeah, I think so too . . . though, I still feel sorry for poor old
Dominick.
JOE: Yeah, I think I’m going to miss him too.
GERRY: He would have made a great American citizen.
JOE: Just like you, huh?
GERRY: Yeah, just like me. . . What??!! You think that I’m not a great
American citizen?
JOE: No, I don’t think you’re a great American citizen.
GERRY: You don’t?
JOE: No, I don’t think you’re a great American citizen.
GERRY: You’re kidding.
JOE: No, I’m serious.
GERRY: What you think, I’m some pinko fag commie or something?
JOE: No, I don’t think you’re some kinda pinko fag commie or some-
thing.
320
GERRY: Then what do you mean by saying that I’m not a great Amer-
ican citizen?
JOE: Gerry, I think you’re a good American citizen. I think you’re a
patriotic American citizen. I think you’re a loyal American citi-
zen. But I don’t think you’re a great American citizen. Greatness
is reserved for those who do not make their living being a short
order cook.
GERRY: Greatness is not reserved, Joe. Greatness is there for all who
wish to claim it. I for one never had the passion to grab it and the
responsibilities that go along with it. I am a simple man . . . a
humble man . . . a man of wisdom, of worldly knowledge . . . of
compassion . . . (Enter a Young Musician and his girlfriend.)
GIRL: You tell ’em.
BOY: You tell ’em.
GIRL: Why did you tell me you was going to tell ’em if you ain’t
going to tell ’em?
BOY: I said I might tell ’em today.
GIRL: Well, tomorrow is the gig and we promised to tell ’em if we got
the job. Right! So tell ’em!
BOY: Yeah, if . . .
GIRL: No ifs, ands or buts about it . . . Joe . . .
JOE: Yeah.
GIRL: Can we see you for a sec?
JOE: Hey, Gerry, you wanna handle the old lady. I want to talk with
the kids.
GERRY: No skin off my nose.
JOE: Hey, kids, how’s the business treating you?
BOY: Well, I think we got a gig.
JOE: No kidding.
GIRL: Well, it’s not much of a gig . . .
BOY: It’s in the West Village.
GIRL: But it’s a start.
JOE: A start, no matter how big or small, it’s a start. What’a ya wanna
eat?
BOY: Boy, I’m too excited to talk or sleep or eat.
GIRL: I never thought we could make it here in the concrete cold,
metal monster, but it looks like it might happen.
JOE: Yeah, in no time at all you might be another Sonny and Weird.
GIRL: You mean Cher.
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Miguel Piñero
JOE: That’s just what I said, weird.

GIRL: I hope it happens soon. Our phone has been disconnected, the
rent is due and we owe you almost twenty dollars.
BOY: We wanted you to know that we are singing at this place ’cuz
they’re putting up posters announcing our appearance and we
didn’t want you to think that we’re making money and eating for
free.
JOE: Yeah, but you’re playing for free.
GIRL: We wrote . . . well, he wrote a song for you and the place.
BOY: Yeah, we wanna dedicate this song to you and Gerry.
GERRY: For us?
BOY: Hunh, yeah.
GIRL: You’ve been so wonderful, we needed encouragement and you
gave it.
GERRY: Hey, what time is the performance? Maybe we can make it.
JOE: You know those things happen at night.
BOY: Yeah, too bad ’cuz we would really dig it if you showed up at
the joint.
GIRL: Well, we better be going if we are going to be wide awake for
the gig.
JOE: Not until we hear our song.
GERRY: Right, since you can’t pay us the money you owe, ya gotta
play Tommy Tucker and sing for your supper.
GIRL: You want me to sing?
BOY: You got the voice.
GIRL: Well, I don’t know.
JOE: What’s there to know? Look at it this way, it’s a rehearsal before
the performance tomorrow.
GIRL: All right.
BOY: Are you ready, Cher?
GIRL: Yes, Sonny.
LADY: Fuck you, mumble, mumble.
GERRY: (To SHOPPING BAG LADY.) Please, sweety.
JOE: Forget about her, she isn’t listening or talking to anyone here but
herself. Go ahead, kids. (The song, “Greasy Spoon Blues.” Words
and music by Charles Coker. During the song the SHOPPING
BAG LADY exits, mumbling profanities to whomever is listening.)
GIRL: Bye, Joe. (BOY and GIRL exit.)
JOE: Bye, kids. Break a leg tomorrow. (JAKE enters.)
322
GERRY: Yeah, break a leg.

JAKE: Hey, nigger, what’s happening?
JOE: Jake, why do you always call me a nigger?
JAKE: Because you are.
GERRY: Hi, Jake, how’s the parlor business coming along?
JAKE: Great, can’t do better if I try. I just got me two new girls.
GERRY: Black?
JAKE: Two tall Swedish blondes that are looking sweeter than a piece
of watermelon on a hot sticky day in the city.
JOE: Two blondes, huh?
JAKE: Two blondes.
GERRY: Two tall blondes?
JAKE: Yep, two tall blondes.
JOE: Blondes, huh?
JAKE: Two tall big-tit blondes that are for real. I mean it ain’t dye
either. That yellow goldness is for real . . . it’s natural. . . . I know
’cuz they got that yellow hair everywhere else too.
GERRY: Natural blondes, huh?!
JAKE: Natural blondes.
JOE: They got yellow hair everywhere else?
JAKE: All over!
GERRY: All over?
JAKE: Boy, I wish I had a tape recorder with me.
GERRY: A tape recorder, what in heavens name for?
JAKE: To get this all down for posterity. You guys sound like a cou-
ple of typical out-of-town businessmen in a cathouse.
JOE: Well, we are a couple of businessmen, not from out of town, but
businessmen nevertheless. You know, Jake, we weren’t exactly
raised with the same disadvantages that you had to endure.
JAKE: What disadvantages are you talking about?
GERRY: Yeah, ’cuz I would also like to know.
JOE: You know what I mean . . . this whole production number that
you had to undergo since the curtain rose on your act . . . not hav-
ing the same education that I and Gerry were fortunate enough to
have, even though I never really finished high school, only
because of the fact that I was the oldest of the family, and when
my father died in the war I had to go out into the wide rushings of
making a daily living for the rest of the kids. Not that I’m com-
plaining, you know, I mean, l loved doing what I did. . . . Show
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Miguel Piñero
biz is my cup of tea, every penny that I earned from hoofing it up,
wherever the show boat stopped, went back home . . . and . . .
GERRY: I thought you were an orphan, Joe.
JOE: There you go again, Gerry, every time that I have this nigger by
the balls, hanging onto every word, there you go again breaking
up the story.
JAKE: Joe . . . fifteen years
JOE: Yeah, it’s been fifteen years. Well, what about it?
JAKE: Do you think that I was really going for that cock’n’bull yarn
you were spinning?
JOE: I’m sure that if this klondike over here hadn’t interrupted, you
would’ve been standing there with your tongue hanging out,
hanging, yeah . . . yeah . . . and what happened next, Joe . . . ?
JAKE: Joe, come on off it.
JOE: Jake, I made my living spinning yams to suckers like you.
JAKE: What kind of a car you drive, Joe?
JOE: You know what kind of a car I drive.
GERRY: Yeah, you gave it to him last Christmas.
JAKE: That’s not what I’m saying, Gerry.
JOE: Well, if you are going to flaunt that present in my face and in
front of strangers . . .
GERRY: Strangers? Who’s a stranger here?
JOE: Gerry, why don’t you go in the back and do something?
JAKE: Yeah, Gerry, why don’t you go take some meat in the back.
GERRY: Why don’t both of you get yourselves a nice job in a balloon
factory blowing . . .
JAKE: As you were saying, Joe.
JOE: If you are going to flaunt that present in my face in front of
strangers, then I suggest that you get me a Cadillac instead of that
cheap second-hand station wagon that I drive from Honest Harry.
JAKE: Joe, I drive a Cadillac on Tuesdays and Thursdays. On Fridays
and Sundays, while I relax in my country home, I fool around
with my Porsche and sometimes I even get a big kick by return-
ing to this God-forsaken city in my Honda. So you see, Joe, all
that bull about my disadvantaged childhood is just a lot of hot air
blowing out your mouth. Actually, it’s a substitute for the bottom
part of your body. (GERRY laughs.)
JOE: It ain’t that funny, Gerry.
324
GERRY: You’re big, Joe. The truth isn’t always funny, but with you
it’s a riot.
JOE: Careful how you use that word around Jake, ’cuz you know what
they say . . you can take the nigger out of the country but . . .
JAKE: You can’t take the country out of the nigger, and you know
where that comes from, Joe.
JOE: Sure, from where all sayings come from . . . wise thinking of a
man of wisdom.
JAKE: No. Not from any great man of wisdom, but from a truth that
all niggers know about this country.
GERRY: What truth, Jake?
JOE: Don’t fall for it, Gerry, he’s pulling the same routine I pulled on
him.
JAKE: It’s not a routine, Joe, it’s the real thing. Here we are reaching
the heights of our existing on this planet . . . two hundred years
old . . . we’ve just celebrated the birth of a freedom revolution that
ceased being a revolution for freedom twenty-four hours after its
conception. . . . As the years rolled by and the mentality of this
country remained stagnant, the niggers in this country became
angrier and angrier as they paid in blood in countless wars that
cried out the words of liberty, justice and equality. We found our-
selves being booed over and over again, no matter how many
times we fought and died and bled in other lands for the sake of
free enterprise and yet couldn’t share in the profits . . . a free
nation, a free people dedicated to the thought that all men are cre-
ated equal up to the color of their skin, up to the pattern of your
speech. Freedom became a whore, just like my ladies are. They’re
whores, but they’re whores that admit they’re whores, and when
the time comes that they know it doesn‘t benefit them to be
whores any longer they change with the times and become
respectable, quote unquote, “working women” with a family to
raise. . . . Here . . . here we have a whore calling herself liberty-
justice-and-equality. Oh, yeah, she’s a whore, I can see by the
look in your face, Joe, that you don’t like what I am saying, but I
am a spade who likes calling it as it plays, liberty is a whore, jus-
tice is a whore and equality is a faggot. How does that grab you?
. . . She is a whore who spreads her legs to the highest bidder. Jus-
tice is blind to everyone but to those that spread over her eyelids
the greed mercurochrome that heals all wounds. She sees, and lib-
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Miguel Piñero
erty is once again that night your sleeping companion . . . the great
average typical all-American dollar, that is the miracle worker,
that is the real equalizer. If your pockets are hungry, so is your
stomach and so is your soul. All that to say what we were saying:
“You can take the niggers out of the country, but you can’t take
the country out of the nigger.” All the niggers, white as well as
black, the niggers who feel that they have a right to everything
that this country has to offer them, the white niggers who built the
railroads from the East, the yellow niggers who built the railroad
from the West, the black niggers who built this land from all over,
the rest of the niggers that died and crippled their lives so that all
of us niggers can be a part of this great concept called America,
land of the free. Death remembers the songs of false democracy.
You understand what I am saying . . . it’s like this . . . I remember
after that prison rebellion in Attica . . . a politician said when
Americans prefer to die than to live one more day in this country,
it’s time we start examining ourselves. I don’t know if those were
his exact words, but they had an effect on me. Joe, I did just that.
I started to examine what my responsibilities were as a citizen of
the greatest nation on the face of the earth. Am I or am I not . . .
if I am, then it’s time that I behave like one . . . how do you see
yourself?
JOE: I hope to see that I fulfill myself here everyday that the sun
shines.
GERRY: So do I.
JOE: What brought this all about in you today, Jake?
JAKE: I don’t know. Maybe it’s reading that an eleven-year-old child
O.D.’d in Harlem while an eleven-year-old in Scarsdale won the
spelling bee for his district. Maybe it’s age . . . maybe it’s after
knowing you fifteen years . . . you reacted pretty strange to the
fact that I hired two white blonde girls to work in the parlor.
JOE: Wait a second . . . you didn’t take me seriously, did you?
JAKE: Maybe I did without realizing it, maybe I did.
JOE: Well, you shouldn’t, ’cuz you know that I don’t give a damn
about who works for you or what their line of work is, as long as
they respect me and what’s mine.
GERRY: Yeah, you should know Joe better by now . . . fifteen years,
damn if you don’t.
326
JAKE: Yeah, and he even had dinner with me once in his home, his
very own home, though he never came to my house to eat.
JOE: You know it could be because you never invited me, ever thought
of that?
JAKE: Hell, that’s right, I never did, did I?
JOE: No, you never did.
JAKE: And you know what, I never will.
JOE: The hell with you, you nigger.
GERRY: Things are back to normal.
JAKE: They always were.
JOE: That’s great to hear.
GERRY: Two big-tit blondes, huh?
JAKE: Yep, two real big-tit blondes.
JOE: Yellow everywhere, huh?
JAKE: Yep, everywhere.
JOE: And they let you see it, huh?
JAKE: Well, if they didn’t, they wouldn’t be working for me, Joe.
JOE: Well, have they got any sense of shame?
JAKE: Why? ’Cuz they are working in a massage parlor that’s a front
for a you-know-what or because they let a big black ugly nigger
like me see their private parts, eh?
JOE: As for the first part of your question, if they want that kind of
work, that’s their business, not mine. To each his own, right
Gerry?
JAKE: Don’t ask Gerry, because he’s been up there.
JOE: You have?
GERRY: Yeah, well . . . sure, but just out of curiosity.
JAKE: Out of what?
JOE: He said out of curiosity.
JAKE: I heard what he said. It’s just that I couldn’t believe that I heard
what he said.
JOE: Repeat what you said for the gentleman, Gerry.
JAKE: He don’t have to because you don’t believe him and you know
that I know you don’t believe him.
GERRY: Hey, the News is here.
JOE: I’ll get it.
JAKE: That’s okay, Joe, relax, I’ll bring them in for you.
JOE: (Handing JAKE a check.) Here, Jake, give the driver this check
for me.
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Miguel Piñero
JAKE: Sure . . . (JAKE exits.)

JOE: How come you didn’t tell me you were up at Jake’s place?
GERRY: Well, Joe, you see, I was passing by one late afternoon, not
having anything to do and well, you know, knowing Jake all these
years and not ever being up to his place of business, well, I
figure . . .
JOE: I know . . . I know . . . since he’s such a good and steady cus-
tomer, you wanted . . .
GERRY: Exactly.
JOE: One hand washes the other.
GERRY: Just what I was thinking on that very day.
JOE: I bet.
GERRY: Well, you know, Joe, there’s still a lot of something in this
old man.
JOE: How was the merchandise? (JAKE enters.)
JAKE: Here you are, Joe . . . let me take out five of these for my girls.
They get bored after a while, you know, they need things to read.
I always believe that they should keep abreast of what’s going on
in the world . . . they need to have more to say to the customers.
GERRY: The merchandise is excellent, not like the rest of the trash
out there.
JOE: Maybe I’ll take a look-see.
JAKE: You should. That’s always advisable at your age . . . see what
you can handle before you get involved.
JOE: I don’t remember asking for your advice, Mister Jake Andrews.
JAKE: Well, normally, Jake Andrews Esquire requires a small fee for
advice, but since we’re such bosom buddies, I thought I’d give it
to you free of charge, but don’t make it a habit.
JOE: That’s the mistake of your career, Jake, you think . . . (ZULMA
enters from the kitchen in her waitress outfit. SHE has removed
her wig and cleaned the make-up off her face.)
ZULMA: How’s this, fellas?
JOE: Get back into the kitchen, there’s talk going on in here that a
woman shouldn’t hear.
ZULMA: Oh, you got to be kidding. Hey, hi, Jake, how’s the girls?
JAKE: Zulu baby . . . what’re you doing in that get-up?
JOE: Zulu baby?
GERRY: Zulu baby?
ZULMA: There they go again.
328
JAKE: There who goes again?

ZULMA: The gold dust twins.
JOE: Zulu baby?
ZULMA: Yeah, Zulu! It’s a nickname. Don’t you guys have nick-
names? . . . You know, like when you’re a kid growing up and you
get a name tagged on . . . Sinky . . . Tubby . . .
JAKE: These guys were born standing up.
JOE: But Zulu!
JAKE: And what’s wrong with Zulu?
ZULMA: Yeah, what is wrong with Zulu? I like it, as a matter of fact.
GERRY: To each his own.
ZULMA: And what do you have?
JAKE: These guys haven’t got nothing but the lard in the frying pan
to talk to.
JOE: At least if the lard is hot it tells you.
JAKE: It does, does it? You talk to the lard? . . . little spoonfuls or big
globs of it?
JOE: Oh, oh, oh, very funny . . . very funny!!
GERRY: Five thousand comics out of work and he wants to be a
comedian.
JAKE: I didn’t think it was funny. I was asking a very serious ques-
tion.
ZULMA: Yeah, he wasn’t the one who said that he talks to the lard in
the frying pan.
GERRY: You two should appear on stage at the Palace.
JOE: You two are really funny. I’ll bet you’ll be a regular hit with the
drunks.
JAKE: I don’t think we’re funny. If I did, I would have tried the stage,
like you did.
JOE: Yeah, well I think that I am going . . .
JAKE: I saw you play the Lyric once when I was young.
JOE: You did? . . . you saw me on stage?
JAKE: Sure did.
JOE: Really!
GERRY: Joe, he’s trying to . . .
JOE: Be quiet, Gerry . . . can’t you see the man is saying something
important.
GERRY: Joe, he’s only trying . . .
JAKE: No, really, I did see him play on stage.
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Miguel Piñero
GERRY: Come on, you really expect me to believe that?

JAKE: He used to do a comic routine and then your partner would
come on and do a soft shoe, right?
JOE: The Lyric . . . that was one of my favorite places.
JAKE: Am I right? You were billed as Jack and Jill.
JOE: That’s right. Gee, you remember . . . after all these years too.
JAKE: Oh, why wouldn’t I remember. You were terrific.
JOE: Well, we was good.
JAKE: Good . . . you were great . . . everyone would just sit there after
the movie and wait for you two to come on with the real show.
JOE: The real show?
JAKE: Yeah, man, the real show.
GERRY: You really saw him play at the Lyric?
JAKE: Sure, just before the war, I think. You know it’s been a long
time.
JOE: You know, when I was a kid I was brought up in an orphanage.
GERRY: No, I didn’t know that.
JOE: My parents were killed in an automobile accident at the age of
three.
GERRY: Gee, I bet that was tough on you.
JOE: No, not really, being so young I really didn’t feel the loss that
great.
JAKE: I lost my folks too, at an early age . . . didn’t go to no orphan-
age, though . . . my grandmother raised me . . . and with an iron
hand and the cord.
JOE: The cord I remember only too well, the hurt it can inflict on a
young child.
JAKE: Especially if it’s in the hands of strangers.
JOE: Especially in the hands of strangers.
GERRY: You two got a lot in common. (Telephone rings.)
ZULMA: I’ll get it . . . Joe’s Diner . . . sorry, no deliveries tonight,
can’t be helped . . . sorry . . . tomorrow . . . bye. . . . You were say-
ing, Joe?
JOE: I was in the place a few years, couldn’t get adopted . . . every
Sunday in summer they would have an invited performer come to
entertain the kids. Once these two black men came in and they
were really funny, they made me forget all the heartaches that
flowed inside my soul. . . . I was never a cute kid, so no one would
even take me home for the weekends. They came on stage and
330
told some really funny stories and they did a song and dance num-
ber . . . I looked around me and saw all those smiling faces and I
began to sing out loud with the two men on stage. They called me
with them and I joined them in the song . . . not the dancing,
though. I never seen anyone dance like those two guys did. Boy,
they could really move . . . later that week they came back and vis-
ited with me. I was surprised, to say the least, when the adminis-
trator let them come in for the month they played in town and
teach me their routine. That Fourth of July I went on stage with
them and, let me tell you, I was the happiest kid in the place. . . .
Soon they left and I never saw them again . . . but I kept on prac-
ticing how to dance and tried different jokes and stories at night
on the other kids. Soon, I never wanted to be anything else but an
entertainer . . . but life being what it is, I found myself drifting as
a short order cook . . . not that there’s anything wrong with being
a short order cook, especially being part owner. . . . I always
dreamt that I would . . . well, so many dreams. . . never growing
old . . . ahead of death by two yards . . . yet . . . here I am . . . I can’t
even remember the routine that I used to do, I . . . I, well . . . life
sometimes leaves no room for a celebration . . . your greatest
moments become objects of torment . . . but I guess I should thank
the Lord for each dream. Even if the dream never came true, at
least I had the opportunity to have dreams . . . you reach a certain
time in life . . . you find yourself wandering about in countless
acres of flowers and one day it dawns on you: Butterflies . . . thou-
sands and thousands of butterflies . . . and no more flowers are
growing. . . . (ZULMA begins to sing “Moonlight Bay.” JOE joins
in. They do a vaudeville soft-shoe routine, JAKE and GERRY
hum along.)
JAKE: A bit rusty.
JOE: Go screw yourself.
GERRY: What’ll it be, Jake?
ZULMA: I’ll make it . . . you’ll be my first customer.
JAKE: Great . . . two coffees regular and a bacon and egg sandwich to
go.
ZULMA: Two coffees and a B&E to travel, coming right up.
GERRY: Got it?
ZULMA: (Exiting to kitchen.) Got it.
JAKE: Then get it, already.
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Miguel Piñero
JOE: Hold your horses.

JAKE: Hey, what happened to Dominick? . . . that funny Greek guy
you had working here?
JOE: He got picked up by the Feds.
JAKE: When?
GERRY: Earlier this evening.
JAKE: No shh . . . really, what for?
JOE: Naw, I’m not going to tell you.
JAKE: Hey, come on . . . all right, don’t tell me . . . come on, tell me,
what for?
JOE: Seems Dominick was a top syndicate hit man. He was posing as
a jerk to get closer to a certain pseudo-hip black, would-be king
of the pimps.
GERRY: You know, Jake, you’re the only man I know whose head is
as pointed as his shoes.
JAKE: Okay. Enough! Hey, baby, don’t burn the bacon. (Goes to juke-
box.) Hey, you know my cousin Rufus . . . the one in the hospital?
JOE: Can’t say I do.
JAKE: No, seriously speaking.
JOE: Still can’t say that I do.
GERRY: Never mentioned him to me either . . . Rufus . . . Rufus . . .
with a name like that I would have remembered him if you had
said anything about him.
JAKE: Sure I did . . . well, anyway, he was in the hospital for an oper-
ation . . . I forgot what was wrong with him. . . . But, anyway, the
doctors gave him an operation all right, they cut off both of his
legs and there was nothing wrong with his legs. They made a mis-
take on the chart. Anyway, that’s what they are saying. They cut
both of his legs right above the knees, so he can’t even walk.
GERRY: He’s going to sue, right?
JOE: Of course, he’s going to sue, he’s got an open-and-shut case.
JAKE: Well, that’s what we all thought until last week when we went
to court and the jury didn’t vote in his favor.
JOE: They didn’t what?
GERRY: What do you mean, they didn’t vote in his favor! They cut
off both of the poor slob’s legs and they found him . . .
JAKE: Yeah, I know the way you feel, but the court was right.
JOE: The court was right, what kind of crap is that?
332
GERRY: Yeah, what kind of crap is that? He should have sued their
asses off.
JAKE: Well, he lost the case because of one thing, only one little fault.
JOE: One little fault! The man doesn’t have his legs anymore and you
call that a little fault.
JAKE: That’s why he lost the case.
GERRY: Why?
JAKE: Well, you see, he didn’t have a leg to stand on.
ZULMA: (From kitchen window.) You two fell for the old hokey
dokey.
GERRY: He was pulling our leg all the time.
JAKE: Just like the doctor’s pulled old Rufus’ legs off. He didn’t have
a leg to stand on.
JOE: (To ZULMA.) Get back to the stove.
ZULMA: What’s the matter, you can’t stand being taken for a ride.
(ZULMA exits to the kitchen.)
JOE: You know that’s one of my old routines.
JAKE: Sure, it is. I was surprised you didn’t catch on sooner.
JOE: He didn’t have a leg to stand on.
GERRY: You wanna hear a new Polish joke?
JAKE: Naw.
JOE: Have you got any nice nigger jokes?
JAKE: A Jewish joke.
ZULMA: (Entering from kitchen.) Here’s your things, Jake.
JAKE: Thanks, baby . . . you know I’m going to come here even more
than before. I only come here as a last resort, like when everything
else is closed. That’s why he’s open so late. If it closed any earli-
er, no one would come in here to . . .
JOE: Can it, Jake, can it.
JAKE: Give me a couple’a them donuts.
ZULMA: What kind? We got jelly . . . chocolate and . . .
JAKE: Two jelly.
JOE: Jake, for you they’re seventy-five cents apiece.
JAKE: Seventy-five cents apiece, are you for real?
JOE: Yes and so are the jelly donuts too.
ZULMA: Can’t you see it in his baby-brown eyes that he is?
JAKE: Seventy-five cents apiece! That’s highway robbery!
JOE: Seventy-five cents, take it or leave it.
JAKE: You got any matches, Joe?
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Miguel Piñero
JOE: It’s a penny a book.

JAKE: (Tossing a penny on the counter.) Here, don’t spend it all in
one place.
JOE: Thank you . . . and I won’t . . . pennies make dollars.
JAKE: So I’ve heard. (ZULMA exits to pay phone.)
GERRY: The phone is for customers only, Zulma. . . no out calls
except on your break and then we would appreciate it if you’d go
out and make it on the corner.
ZULMA: What! No calls?
JOE: That’s our policy . . . no calls except emergency. (ZULMA exits
to the street.) You got what you wanted, now what else can we
serve you?
JAKE: That’s what I like about this place, the hospitality that one
receives. Makes your eyes want to water with tears . . . just like
you know what this place makes me remember . . . the night that
I was invited to a great outdoors party by the Ku Klux Klan and I
was going to be the guest of honor . . . I always felt guilty that I
didn’t make that shindig, but you know a man of my importance
just can’t make every party he’s invited to.
JOE: I bet they were put off by your absence.
JAKE: Shit, I know they were.
GERRY: Why don’t you two cut it out for a little while?
JOE: Cut what out?
JAKE: Cut what out?
GERRY: The bullshit. (ZULMA enters.)
ZULMA: My sister doesn’t answer the phone . . . I get a little worried.
JOE: You wanna go over and see if she needs anything?
ZULMA: Naw . . . you know it’s cold out there tonight. . . . I couldn’t
believe it, a two-car accident happened as I walked from here to
the phone on the corner. What a place this town is. . . . Some day,
I think I’ll leave this town for good, never come back.
GERRY: How many times in your life have you said that?
ZULMA: Since I first got off the train in 1954 . . . I wanted to go right
back, but I didn’t, I stuck it out to reach the pedestals of failure. I
never set out to be a giant in the theatre world or in any world, for
that matter, I just wanted to be a part of wherever I was, to be
noticed, to be recognized for what I brought to the atmosphere. I
never asked anyone to give me for my talent or for any type of
work that I put out there from my soul.
334
JOE: Do we have to go through your life history again?

JAKE: I kinda like listening to life histories.
GERRY: So do I, but once is enough for me.
JOE: You can say that again.
GERRY: So do I, but once is enough for me.
JOE: Really, Gerry, you’re getting cornier by the day.
GERRY: It’s the sun, Joe . . . the sun ripens me up.
JOE: It does something to you, all right. The sun did something to me
too.
GERRY: No, shit, Sherlock.
JOE: Hey, Zulma, you wanna fix some fresh coffee?
ZULMA: Okay, Joe.
JAKE: Well, I think it’s time that I be leaving or else the girls are
going to think that the earth swallowed me up.
JOE: Okay, Jake, take care of yourself and give the girls a hello for
me.
GERRY: For me, too.
JOE: I knew you’d say that, Gerry.
ZULMA: Oh! So you guys know Jake’s girls.
JOE: I don’t know them personally, at least I mean I don’t know them,
but there’s someone else here that does!
ZULMA: Who is that?
JOE: (Imitating various movie villains.) What you take me for, a
squealer . . . a fink . . . a rat . . . a stool pidgeon, I won’t talk, that’s
not my cup of tea . . . I won’t talk, but if you look at the person
I’ll whistle Dixie.
JAKE: Yeah, you’ll whistle Dixie all right when you drop in the par-
lor and see those two blondes.
JOE: Not me!
JAKE: Yep, you and Gerry. Joe, you’re no different than any other
man who lives alone and needs the companionship that a woman
can give. They feel good and you’ll feel good and I feel good.
When people feel good I make money and that makes me feel
extra good. You see, in a way, it’s like a therapy program and I’m
Doctor Feelgood. . . . I can probably pick up a master’s degree on
feelgood sometime in some college . . . what do you think, Joe, is
there a course in college that trains men and women in my pro-
fession, making people feel good, making lonely men who can’t
seem to find the right kind of talk for a woman feel good, old men
335
Miguel Piñero
who can’t make the grade anymore, give them a chance to feel
like a man again?
JOE: I know you fifteen years, right?
JAKE: Yeah, fifteen miserable years. Hey, that’s a real long time.
GERRY: (Opening the cash register.) Any more quarters in the box,
Joe?
JOE: Naw, you’re going to have to go to the bank later on today.
GERRY: Okay, will do.
JOE: Fifteen years, right?
JAKE: Right.
JOE: For fifteen years, just like tonight, you come in here and call me
a nigger and you know something, Jake, I don’t like it. I don’t like
it one bit. I don’t like being called a nigger by you or any other
nigger. Get that straight.
JAKE: I’ve been called a nigger all my life.
JOE: Well, Jake, I can’t help it if you are one. (GERRY breaks into a
roar of laughter. ZULMA joins in on the joke. JOE begins to
laugh too. JAKE starts to laugh. JOE begins to shake, to choke.
HE lets out a stifled yelp. HE falls to the floor.)
JAKE: Hey, man, come on, don’t joke like that man, come on, man,
be cool.
GERRY: Joe, Joe, come on, Joe. He’s right, don’t joke like this.
ZULMA: Joe . . . Joe . . .
JAKE: Zulu, call the police . . . call an ambulance, hurry.
ZULMA: (At phone.) Right . . . Right . . . hello, operator . . . damn it
to hell.
JAKE: Quick, go out and get a cop.
ZULMA: I’ll go. Hold on, Joe, I’ll be right back. (ZULMA exits.)
GERRY: Oh, Joe, please don’t do this, Joe, don’t you go and die on
me. Joe.
JAKE: Joe, Joe, hang in there, baby, hang in there, you can beat it.
JOE: Gerry . . . Gerry . . . Gerry!!
GERRY: I’m right here, Joe. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.
I’m right by your side.
JOE: Oh, Gerry, I thought it would be different.
GERRY: Save your energy, Joe. Don’t talk . . .
JOE: Where’s that nigger?
JAKE: Joe, baby, be cool man, Gerry’s right, save your energy.
JOE: Two big-tit natural blondes, hey?
336
JAKE: Forget about that, Joe, save your energy man, be cool.
JOE: Two big-tit natural blondes, I bet that’s something to see.
JAKE: You’ll see them, Joe, you’ll see them. I’ll bring them around
for you.
JOE: Don’t look like that, Gerry . . . leave. Gerry . . . go away.
GERRY: What are you talking about, Joe, I’m staying right here with
you.
JOE: No . . . no . . . leave, Gerry. . . ’cuz I’m leaving soon . . . go away,
take a trip.
JAKE: (Crossing to the door.) Where’s Zulu with the cop?
JOE: Forget about the cop, you can’t ever get one when you need one.
GERRY: Please, Joe, take it easy, everything is going to be all right.
JOE: Jake, tell him about Europe.
JAKE: I don’t know anything about Europe.
JOE: Damn it, nigger, you could lie.
JAKE: Yeah, I could lie, Europe is . . .
JOE: Listen to him, Gerry, listen to him and leave this place before it
kills you. Oh, look at this. I’m pissing in my pants. Gerry . . . Jake,
don’t tell anyone about this.
JAKE: Oh, Joe, take it easy, please, man.
GERRY: Please, Joe, don’t die on me, please, Joe, don’t leave me
alone. I have nobody but you, Joe, please don’t . . .
JOE: Gerry . . . Gerry . . . I’m tired of hanging in there . . . Jake . . .
look at this, I’m farting my life away . . . I feel like a baby . . .
GERRY: Oh, God, please help him, don’t let him die on me, don’t
take him away from me, please, God, please.
JOE: Gerry . . . Gerry . . . I can’t think of anything famous to say . . .
Fade to black.
337
Eulogy for a Small Time Thief
Characters
DAVID DANCER (early thirties)

ROSEMARIE PAULS (early thirties)
NICOLE PAULS (teenager)
TERRY LOGAN (late twenties)
ELAINE (LANEY) (teenager)
RITA BARKELY (teenager)
MILES (late fifties)
CARLOS (early twenties)
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Miguel Piñero
ACT I
SCENE 1: An apartment in north Philadelphia. Most of the play area

is the living room, kitchen and bedroom.
TIME: The present.
(DAVID in bedroom. ROSEMARIE in kitchen. Entrance to apartment

is through kitchen.)
DAVID: Hey, Rosemarie, you know who I ran into today?

ROSEMARIE: What ya say?
DAVID: Flaco, I ran into Flaco today.
ROSEMARIE: Oh, yeah, how’s he doing?
DAVID: Bad, real bad. He’s greasy. I mean real greasy, greasier than
a pork chop from a soul shop.
ROSEMARIE: That’s too bad. He was such a nice dude.
DAVID: Yeah, he sure was, wasn’t he?
ROSEMARIE: Yeah, he was.
DAVID: I also saw Terry Logan down in Center City.
ROSEMARIE: Terry Logan?
DAVID: Yeah, Terry Logan from New York City.
ROSEMARIE: Terry Logan, do I know him?
DAVID: Yeah, you know him. He’s the fellow that put us up in Brook-
lyn.
ROSEMARIE: Oh, yeah, I remember him. What’s he doing in Philly?
DAVID: Same thing we were doing in New York.
ROSEMARIE: I hope you invited him over if he needs a place to stay.
DAVID: Naw, he has a place in the south side, but I told him to come
over if he wanted to party sometime.
ROSEMARIE: That’s nice. We owe him a solid.
DAVID: That’s what I figured you say, so I told him to drop over
tonight.
ROSEMARIE: Tonight?
DAVID: Yeah, tonight.
ROSEMARIE: Oh, that’s right. We have Nicole coming over with
some friends, right?
DAVID: Right.
ROSEMARIE: What time you tell him to come by?
DAVID: Any time after 8.
340
ROSEMARIE: That’s cool.

DAVID: Hey, have you seen my light blue pants?
ROSEMARIE: They’re in the cleaners. I dropped them off this morn-
ing while you were asleep. The telephone man came by, too.
DAVID: He fix the damn thing?
ROSEMARIE: Yeah, a crossed wire or something was wrong with it.
I really don’t remember what he said was wrong with it . . .
DAVID: Do I got any clean socks around?
ROSEMARIE: In the bag on the sofa.
DAVID: (DAVID enters living room). I see it . . .
ROSEMARIE: Bring the bag in here
DAVID: Here catch. (Throws bag.) Here are my old smelly socks. Put
them under your pillow for safekeeping. (HE comes out of room,
attacks her with a pillow. SHE runs into bedroom. Grabs a pillow,
A friendly pillow fight ensues.)
DAVID: Hey, baby, let’s fuck before your sister arrives.
ROSEMARIE: Come on . . . (They run into the bedroom. The door-
bell rings.)
DAVID: Aw, shit, goddamn it. . . . Hey, Nicole, how’s your whatya-
macollit?
NICOLE: My whatyamacollit is all right, and her whatyamacollit is
all right too and, by the way, whatyamacollit’s name is Fenders
and he’s a nice guy, whatyamacallit.
DAVID: Okay, okay, you don’t have to bite my head off, whatya-
macallit.
ROSEMARIE: Leave my man’s head alone, find your own head to
bite on.
NICOLE: Hi, baby, how you been? . . . This gorilla treating you like
a queen?
ROSEMARIE: If he don’t, I’ll be long gone.
DAVID: Door’s open.
ROSEMARIE: If I took that seriously, I’d hit the streets in a hot sec-
ond.
DAVID: Like I said, the door is open. You can book out of here any-
time you want, girl . . . if you can walk with a broken leg.
NICOLE: I’ll carry her out.
DAVID: With your arms in a sling, that’s a good trick if you can pull
it off.
NICOLE: What you got for the head beside a comb?
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Miguel Piñero
ROSEMARIE: There’s some smoke in the jar over by the set.

DAVID: There’s some beer in the frig . . . and rum in the cabinet.
NICOLE: Well, all right . . . lead me to some smoke.
ROSEMARIE: You got to roll it yourself.
NICOLE: No big problem there, honey.
ROSEMARIE: I gather that much just by the stains on your fingers.
NICOLE: That’s a little problem I’ve been trying to get rid of.
ROSEMARIE: I have something for that, honey. Come in here.
NICOLE: You know after a while the reefer really stains your fingers
bad. (The phone rings as NICOLE exits into kitchen.)
DAVID: I hear . . . hello . . . oh, hi . . . so what’s happening with the
coke? Nothing huh. . . shit, that’s bad . . . naw I was counting on
doing up some blow tonight. . . . Yeah, I got a friend dropping by
tonight. . . . No, a guy I know from the Big Apple. . . . No, really
a guy . . . I . . . oh, fuck you, man. . . . So how’s the kids? That’s
good . . . and Sheila . . . she got over that cold? Oh, good . . . well,
tell her I said hello . . . yeah . . . okay, and give my best to the kids
too . . . yeah, I’m gonna come out and see them soon . . . no, noth-
ing special. . . . If you want to drop by later tonight, do so, okay?
Then I’ll see you tomorrow at work . . . No, everything is still a
go for the thing tomorrow morning. . . . Have a nice sleep, okay,
okay, bye . . . catch you later. That was Brains on the phone. . . .
He said nothing is happening with the snow. . . . All he got is mon-
ster left . . . what . . . I hate speed.
ROSEMARIE: I said that Nicole brought some with her.
DAVID: Coke?
ROSEMARIE: No, her kotexes.
DAVID: Shit, I’ll sniff them up, too . . . the way that sister of yours is
looking these days . . . they’ll give me a . . .
ROSEMARIE: Oh, shut up . . . you . . . you pre-vert . . . she’s only
sixteen.
DAVID: Ripe as a melon.
NICOLE: Here, I only have a little bit of C left but it’s yours.
DAVID: A little bit from Nicole . . . thank you.
ROSEMARIE: You’re quite welcome.
DAVID: Come ’ere girl . . .
ROSEMARIE: Get away from me, you degenerate.
DAVID: Come ’ere , sugar, share some of this with me.
ROSEMARIE: No, thank you.
342
DAVID: You don’t want none really?

ROSEMARIE: No, there’s not enough for the both of us . . . so you
take it yourself.
DAVID: Isn’t this something, sacrificing like that . . .
NICOLE: Above and beyond the call of duty.
ROSEMARIE: Yes, all that, and also I already had some in the bath-
room.
DAVID: Oh, shit, you had me believing all that crap . . . you spoil a
wet dream.
NICOLE: The crowning glory of his life has been a wet dream.
DAVID: High school wise-ass . . . but not a bad-looking ass at that . . .
ROSEMARIE: Back, boy . . . back.
NICOLE: You’re too old for me.
DAVID: Don’t you believe in a second childhood?
NICOLE: Yeah, but not for you . . . you haven’t even reached adult-
hood yet.
DAVID: Sit on this and rotate. (Showing her his middle finger.)
NICOLE: I would if I could, I can’t so I won’t.
DAVID: Hey, by the way, how’s your brother doing? Rosemarie told
me this morning you was going to drop off and see him today at
the hospital.
NICOLE: He’s coming along pretty well, considering they can’t take
out the bullet yet. . . . It dug deep in the brain. Doctor says he may
lose his eyesight.
DAVID: Well, he did it to himself, you know. I mean, like I told him
that guy in the store was pretty hard up for money. You saw that
big-ass dog he keeps in the place . . . the one your brother killed
in the holdup, that was a mean-ass dog, almost tore your brother’s
stomach open, didn’t he? Yep, bad-ass dog, kept mean and vicious
by a money-starved man. . . . Bad business, bad business . . . you
know we been setting up this A & P for about three weeks now,
right? . . . And Pan was suppose to be in on it, a much safer job
than those small stores on the avenue. I mean these storekeepers
are doing about as bad as we are in these times, right? And the
people that work for them now-a-days take their position very
serious, sometimes you got to whip them up a little before they
give in . . . times are changing for the worst. There was a time
when a man could go into a store, pull out his roscoe, take the
money and split . . . no trouble, no hassle, no big thing. . . . Now,
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Miguel Piñero
today you got to beat them over the head or shoot them in the leg
or something violent like that, you know what I mean? . . . This
business is getting more and more hazardous as the years go by,
you know. It’s the government that’s to blame for all this . . . vio-
lent crimes . . . and Hollywood, too. I mean all these dumb movies
about men and women taking the law into their own hands, karate
this and kung-fu that. . . . Why do you think I gave up the mug-
ging business? . . . ’cause everytime you pulled a blade on some-
one, they been taking up karate lessons in some rip-off place . . .
I mean a jerk learns a couple of self-defense moves and already he
thinks he’s Bruce Lee’s second cousin, so you end up stabbing the
poor idiot in self defense. Then if you get busted, it’s no longer a
simple mugging, no it’s attempted murder with a felony to boot. . . .
Can’t wait to get the hell out of the business . . . there’s no com-
pensation that goes along with the job, no Medicare, no Blue
Cross or Red Cross, there’s no crosses at all except the ones we
put ourselves into . . . there’s two many informers out there . . .
there’s too many prisons, too many cops, not enough profession-
al people in the streets, all these novices robbing people. I know
a guy, a friend of mines, right, cases this liquor store for three
days . . . he has everything set . . . what happens as he’s in the
store, preparing himself to make the hit . . . these two teenage kids
come in with shotguns, announce a stickup, they get nervous,
uptight and they blow the manager away and blew my friend’s leg
off, very unprofessional, no talent whatsoever. . . . Anyway, he got
to waste one of them as they left the store, but then he was booked
on carrying a concealed, unregistered weapon and involuntary
manslaughter . . . they threw the case out of court but gave him six
months on the weapons charge . . . him being on parole had to go
back on a violation for another six months, so he ends up doing a
year . . . all that and, you know what, these kids got away with
guess . . . fifty-six dollars . . . really ridiculous. Now John is on
welfare, taking the city’s handout, a nice independent man like
him on welfare. . . . It’s a crying shame . . . a real shame . . . but
those are the breaks of life . . . but I got things pretty well down
pat for my move out of this place . . . these next two jobs should
wheel me in enough bread to retire to a nice place in South Amer-
ica . . . yep, gonna be a farmer out in South America, gonna grow
marijuana and import cocaine . . . I think things are gonna work
344
out for the best in the end of this chapter of my life . . . but I am
really sorry about Pan, though, I mean he’s a great wheelman, stu-
pid of him to carry a gun . . . should have stuck to his own thing.
But like I say, it’s a small-time thief’s fate to hit upon someone
who’s been taking karate lessons.
NICOLE: Those are the breaks of life.
DAVID: Those are the breaks of life.
ROSEMARIE: You want a beer, baby?
DAVID: No, thanks, honey.
ROSEMARIE: How about you, Nicole?
NICOLE: Not now, thanks.
ROSEMARIE: Well, I’m getting one, and I am not sharing with any-
one.
DAVID: Capitalist.
NICOLE: Imperialist.
ROSEMARIE: Don’t forget warmonger.
NICOLE and DAVID: Warmonger.
ROSEMARIE: You see, that always works. I feel guilty as all hell.
(Enters kitchen.)
NICOLE: Did you tell her yet?
DAVID: No, not yet.
NICOLE: When?
DAVID: Soon, baby, soon.
NICOLE: How soon?
DAVID: Real soon, don’t worry.
ROSEMARIE: (From kitchen.) You want a rum and Coke, anybody?
DAVID: Yeah, I do.
NICOLE: Me, too, I’ll have one, too . . . make it sooner than that.
DAVID: Don’t threaten me, baby, I don’t like that.
NICOLE: It’s not a threat.
DAVID: Just so you know where I stand, I don’t like being bossed
around by anyone at all, you get me?
NICOLE: It’s not a threat. I went to the doctor this morning. That’s
why I told Rosemarie I went to see Panama at the hospital.
DAVID: You went to the doctor, for what?
NICOLE: I missed my period this month.
DAVID: So what, you might get a double period at the end of next
month.
NICOLE: Be serious.
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Miguel Piñero
DAVID: Okay, I’m serious, now what?

ROSEMARIE: You’re serious about what?
DAVID: Oh . . . hmm . . . about leaving the business forever, moving
out to South America.
ROSEMARIE: Oh, he’s serious about that, all right, we already got
passports.
NICOLE: Passports?
ROSEMARIE: Yes, dear, you can’t get out the country without them.
NICOLE: You didn’t say anything about passports.
DAVID: I figure you would figure that out yourself, baby.
NICOLE: I’m beginning to.
ROSEMARIE: What’s the matter, baby?
NICOLE: Nothing, Rosemarie, just that it took me by surprise, that’s
all.
ROSEMARIE: Oh, don’t worry about it . . . we’ll be coming back
now and then.
DAVID: Yeah, we will . . .
NICOLE: I bet you will.
ROSEMARIE: Aw, she’s feeling rejected.
NICOLE: In more ways than one.
DAVID: Well, you shouldn’t . . . you know what they say about the
best laid plans . . .
NICOLE: No, I don’t.
DAVID: Read about it . . .
NICOLE: When I get to college.
ROSEMARIE: Pull in your claws, honey.
NICOLE: I’m sorry, it just that, well, I guess you know what I mean.
ROSEMARIE: We do, baby . . . but we’ll send for you during sum-
mer vacations.
DAVID: Sure, we will . . . look, let’s get off this subject, okay?
ROSEMARIE: Sure.
DAVID: Nicole . . .
NICOLE: Yeah, I’m getting bored with it.
DAVID: I already feel that way.
ROSEMARIE: Good.
DAVID: Okay. These two that you got coming today, what you know
about them?
346
NICOLE: They need some bread to get some things that they can’t
afford. They told their parents that they were going to sit tonight,
that they’d be a little late, if you know what I mean.
DAVID: Next, you’ll be curling up your moustache, Dastardly Dan.
ROSEMARIE: Come on, David, drop it.
DAVID: Did you break it down for them as far as dollars and cents
goes?
NICOLE: Course.
DAVID: Last time those two little money-hungry friends of yours
gave me a real hard time. . . . You know I really don’t need to do
this shit, I only do it so that you can get a couple of bucks in your
pocketbook.
NICOLE: I heard you run the same story over and over again, and I
still don’t buy it . . .
DAVID: You really don’t believe me, that I don’t need to be doing this
shit?
ROSEMARIE: Of course, she believes you.
DAVID: No, no, let’s get this here thing straightened out right now.
You think that I need to take the chances of being arrested.
NICOLE: Well, if you need it or not, you’re taking the chances, right?
DAVID: This is it . . . David Dancer, this is it . . . after today, no more
of this penny-ante pimp routine for you, not in your house, baby.
ROSEMARIE: David, please, don’t fly off the handle like that, baby.
DAVID: Don’t fly off the what . . .
ROSEMARIE: Baby, please, your blood pressure . . .
DAVID: Did you hear what came out of this young girl’s mouth? . . .
She really thinks we need this shit to survive . . .
NICOLE: I didn’t say that you did.
DAVID: If I hadn’t said it, you would have.
NICOLE: You’ll never know that now, will you?
DAVID: That’s it . . . this is it, no more after today . . . you and your
little friends are going to have to find another place to make your
babysitting money. . . . The nerve of this woman to think that I
David Dancer needs a sixteen-year-old girl to help get over. . . . I
was . . . no, I ain’t going to get into the way I walked barefoot to
school routine with you ’cause you wouldn’t believe it either . . .
the phone, Rosemarie . . .
ROSEMARIE: Okay, I hear it, you don’t have to shout.
DAVID: Sorry, baby . . . who is it . . .
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Miguel Piñero
ROSEMARIE: Wrong number.

DAVID: Wrong number?
ROSEMARIE: Wrong number . . . haven’t you ever heard of a wrong
number?
DAVID: David Dancer never gets a wrong number.
ROSEMARIE: Well, you got one now.
DAVID: Next time I’ll answer the phone, and you’ll see that I never,
in all the years that I have had a phone, have never not once ever
have I received a wrong number. (NICOLE gets up, does an
up-tempo marching song. Her voice acting as instruments.)
NICOLE: America, you have had another first. David Dancer has
received his first wrong number.
ROSEMARIE: Nicole, calm down.
DAVID: You see what I mean, she doesn’t believe anything I say.
She’s always calling me a liar in a direct or indirect way.
ROSEMARIE: Well, she is a little skeptic, runs in the family.
DAVID: A little skeptic.
NICOLE: Skeptics run in the family.
DAVID: You know what’s going to run in the family pretty soon is
broken jaws and missing front teeth.
ROSEMARIE: Well, we’re not exactly twins, you know.
NICOLE: Copping out on me, huh?
ROSEMARIE: Well, to put it mildly, yes.
DAVID: Skeptic, that’s a good one.
NICOLE: Can’t wait to hear what happens when you receive your
first obscene phone call. You should get in touch with the world
book of records.
DAVID: You’re a regular riot, girl.
ROSEMARIE: You guys act like a . . . couple . . . of lovers . . .
DAVID: What did you say . . . come on, speak up . . .
ROSEMARIE: Nothing . . . it’s nothing . . . I was speaking to myself.
DAVID: That’s all right to speak to yourself, but when you start
answering yourself, that’s when you should start thinking about
seeing someone for help.
NICOLE: Oh, Johnny Carson will just love you.
DAVID: As much as you do.
NICOLE: Maybe a little less.
ROSEMARIE: Let’s set up the place. These people should be arriving
soon.
348
NICOLE: Who’s coming for my girls?

DAVID: They’re all right, two hicks . . .
NICOLE: Do they want to make a scene of it?
DAVID: Naw, I don’t think so . . . you know, very macho and shit
uptight.
NICOLE: Factory workers again.
DAVID: They got a little bread.
NICOLE: That’s just it, they have a little bread, not much more than
a little.
DAVID: Maybe you should start your own recruiting service, too.
NICOLE: There’s no maybe about that, Mr. David Dancer?
ROSEMARIE: How many joints should we roll up?
DAVID: About ten should do it.
NICOLE: Are you charging for the joints again, Mr. David Dancer?
DAVID: Yes, I am young lady, that’s ten dollars that we can use to buy
toilet paper. The way you run your mouth off, anyone would think
you have diarrhea in your tonsils.
NICOLE: Funny . . . oh my, you’re so funny . . . who opened the door
to your cage?
DAVID: The heat between your legs melted the steel bars like butter.
ROSEMARIE: I’m going into the kitchen to roll, you want to help
me, Nicole?
DAVID: She can’t help herself, she going to help you?
ROSEMARIE: Coming?
NICOLE: Yeah, yeah, I’m coming . . . hold your horses.
DAVID: Hurry, hurry, step right up and see the youngest madame in
town.
NICOLE: Are you going to tell her?
DAVID: Not now . . .
NICOLE: If you don’t, I will.
DAVID: You will what?
NICOLE: Tell her about us.
DAVID: Go on, tell her . . . no one is stopping you, go on, hurry up,
tell her.
NICOLE: Go to hell.
DAVID: Meet you there . . . and by the way, keep a clean sheet for me . . .
NICOLE: I will.
DAVID: Thank you, I won’t forget you for that . . .
NICOLE: I’ll try to remain in your graces.
349
Miguel Piñero
DAVID: Well, you should, I have a lot of pull down there. You know
me, Chip Ricsaw, the devil’s brother-in-law . . .
NICOLE: Now what about these proletarians you’re throwing on me
today?
DAVID: Well, I met them at the bar across the street. They work in the
same factory over on the west side of town . . . been in the city not
too long. They come from, let me see where do they come from?
. . . I’m not really sure, but I guess we can ask them when they get
here if you’re really that interested . . .
NICOLE: I’m not really that interested in where they come from.
DAVID: Just on whether they come.
NICOLE: Funny.
DAVID: Just couldn’t resist it, you left yourself so wide open for that.
NICOLE: Well, try to control yourself, okay?
DAVID: Check . . . you got it, kid.
NICOLE: Now go over their history one more time, but keep it
straight.
DAVID: Well, okay . . . the guy with the moustache, his name is Carlos
or Carlo . . . didn’t have time to check out whether it was his first
name or his last . . . don’t really matter anyway . . . he’s like a fore-
man or something like that at this place where they work at. . . .
The younger, his name is Robert Gel-something or other, he just
kinda moved in last month. . . . He’s not married, and they’re real-
ly both as horny as a couple of mutts in heat. . . . The older guy
Carlos or Carlo, he sort of takes the job of running the kid’s social
life, kinda like a big brother, you know what I mean . . . he’s into
a very heavy gangster type of trip with the kid, ought to be easy
bait for you . . . so we have to play the role of a heavy operation
in the making when he gets here.
NICOLE: You ain’t taking me alive, copper . . . come and get me . . .
DAVID: Yeah, that’s just the shit he believes in, you know what I
mean? I met them at the bar, we shared a few drinks, a few
half-hearted laughs, then I invited them over for a hand of poker
with the elbow in the rib type of hint. I practically had to hit them
over the head with what I really meant . . . anyway, the foreman
Carlos agrees to come over. . . . He wanted to know if there would
be any broads around . . . well, by the time I finished describing
you, the kid Robert came in his pants. Hey, by the way, these
friends of yours, they look all right, I mean they don’t have . . .
350
NICOLE: The claps?

DAVID: Shit, I don’t give a damn if they have the claps or not, all I’m
interested in is if they look good, and by the way, they are not
interested in any black women, they want some fat juicy white
thighs crushing them to death.
NICOLE: They call that projection.
DAVID: I thought you said we would keep it straight.
NICOLE: Just couldn’t resist it, you left yourself wide open.
DAVID: Okay, we’re even.
NICOLE: You know what they say, payback is a bitch.
DAVID: Okay, everybody knows that we must keep a united front.
The role for tonight is big-time action. Rosemarie, you’re Ma
Barker, and I’m Al Capone.
NICOLE: How about me . . . Bonnie Parker?
DAVID: No, Xaviera Hollander would be better.
ROSEMARIE: Typecasted again, Nicole.
NICOLE: You’re siding with him.
DAVID: She is my old lady.
NICOLE: And she is my sister.
ROSEMARIE: Mostly I’m me . . . Rosemarie Pauls.
DAVID: What did you promise the girls?
NICOLE: Fifty.
DAVID: A piece?
NICOLE: Yes, a piece.
DAVID: Nicole, these guys are coming here to rent a piece of pussy,
not to buy it . . .
ROSEMARIE: That’s the door, I’ll get it.
NICOLE: Fifty is what I said, and fifty is what it’ll be or forget it.
DAVID: Okay, no hassles, I just wonder what you’re getting.
NICOLE: None of your business . . . all you need to know is that I get
twenty percent of what you make here tonight. Do you have any
idea on what that’ll be?
ROSEMARIE: Your friends are here, Nicole.
NICOLE: Oh, hello . . . David Dancer meet Rita and Laney . . .
DAVID: Hi, girls . . .
RITA: Hello, Mr. Dancer.
DAVID: Naw, just call me David.
ELAINE: Hello, David.
DAVID: Sit down, make yourself comfortable.
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Miguel Piñero
ROSEMARIE: Can I get you girls something?

RITA: No, thank you. I don’t drink.
ELAINE: Me neither.
DAVID: You smoke . . . pot, that is?
ELAINE: No, thanks, I don’t smoke.
RITA: Neither do I.
DAVID: Shit . . . you wanna play Parchisi?
ROSEMARIE: Spin the bottle?
NICOLE: They’re just goofing on you, pay them no mind, after a
while you become immune to their insults and insanity.
DAVID: Your dates should be here soon.
ROSEMARIE: You take coke?
RITA: No.
ROSEMARIE: Speed?
ELAINE: No.
DAVID: Uppers?
RITA: No.
ROSEMARIE: Downers?
ELAINE: No.
DAVID: Do you take church on Sundays?
RITA: Do we what?
DAVID: You know, take the piece of bread on Sundays?
ELAINE: Yes.
DAVID: You do?
RITA: Yes.
ROSEMARIE: Do you live with your parents?
ELAINE: What is this, a quiz show?
RITA: Yeah, Nicole, I thought you said we was going to a hip place,
get high, lay a couple of guys and split with a few bucks in our
wallet. If I knew I had to give a case history on my life, I would
have said . . .
DAVID: No . . . no . . . hold up a second, don’t get us wrong, baby.
RITA: We ain’t getting you wrong, you’re making yourself wrong.
ELAINE: Yeah man, we don’t need all this shit.
DAVID: Sorry . . . it’s just that the other friends of Nicole . . .
ELAINE: We’re not the other friends of Nicole, we are these friends,
right here not before nor after . . .
RITA: Be here now . . . or don’t be at all . . .
ELAINE: Check it out, baby.
352
DAVID: You don’t have to beat me with a wet mop to get the point,
baby.
ELAINE: We sure hope so.
RITA: Yes, that could be very boring after the second whipping.
DAVID: Oh, yeah, Nicole, what were we discussing before I say
about five yards . . .
NICOLE: Chump change . . .
DAVID: That’s what some people call it, but I’m not those in need.
RITA: Can we choose or is this set up already?
NICOLE: I don’t know, ask David.
ELAINE: Well . . .
DAVID: Well what?
RITA: Can we choose or this thing set up?
DAVID: No, choose within yourselves.
RITA: Is this a regular thing with yous?
ROSEMARIE: What is this, we’re taking turns on interrogation?
DAVID: No, just a side thing.
ELAINE: What do you usually do?
ROSEMARIE: Not much of anything, to be truthful.
DAVID: We get over.
RITA: Oh, I see, this is your office.
ELAINE: Actually, they have a great estate in the country.
NICOLE: No, but they do have a nice farm.
ROSEMARIE: One hundred and five acres of good farming land.
DAVID: Yep, in a few months, we’ll be living on it permanently.
ELAINE: Really . . .
DAVID: Yep, always wanted to say yep like that, you know. Yep,
always had a secret longing to be a farmer.
NICOLE: Well, soon your dream will be true.
DAVID: You ain’t lying.
ELAINE: I think that’s nice.
DAVID: Yeah, we think so . . . yep, we sure think so, yep, we sure do.
ELAINE: You’re really going to get it off, huh, all that yep shit?
DAVID: Yep, as much as possible. Every chance that I get to say yep,
I’m going to say it . . . yep, I sure am, yep.
RITA: Yep, you sure are, ain’t you?
DAVID: Yep, I sure am.
ELAINE: That’s nice, but it’s also boring.
DAVID: Yep, it sure is, sometimes . . . yep, sure is boring.
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Miguel Piñero
ROSEMARIE: Yep.
NICOLE: Yep.
RITA: Yep.
ELAINE: Yep.
DAVID: Yep.
ROSEMARIE: Yep.
NICOLE: Yep.
RITA: Yep, yep.
ELAINE: Yep, yep, yep.
DAVID: Yep, yep, yep, yep.
ROSEMARIE: Yep, yep, yep, yep, yep, yep, yep, yep, yep, yep, yep,
yep, yep, yep.
DAVID: Door, someone’s at the door.
ROSEMARIE: Yep, that’s what it sounds like, sounds like someone’s
at the door.
DAVID: Well . . .
ROSEMARIE: Well what?
DAVID: Well, ain’t you gonna answer the door?
ROSEMARIE: No.
DAVID: No?
ROSEMARIE: No.
DAVID: No.
ELAINE: Seem that’s what she said first.
RITA: Yep, I heard her say it first, she said no first.
NICOLE: So did I.
DAVID: Are you going to let whoever is knocking wait out there?
ROSEMARIE: Yep.
DAVID: You are?
ROSEMARIE: Yep.
DAVID: Why?
ROSEMARIE: Because you heard the knocking first, why didn’t you
get up and answer it?
DAVID: Because I asked you.
ROSEMARIE: No, you didn’t ask me.
DAVID: I didn’t?
ROSEMARIE: No, you didn’t.
DAVID: Then what did I do?
ROSEMARIE: You ordered.
DAVID: I ordered?
354
ROSEMARIE: Yes, you ordered. Am I right, girls?

ELAINE: So it seems.
RITA: I think that’s what he did.
NICOLE: I’m sure that’s what he did.
ROSEMARIE: You see, that’s what you did.
DAVID: I did not.
ROSEMARIE: Yes, you did.
ELAINE: Yep.
RITA: Yep.
NICOLE: Yep.
DAVID: Oh, let’s not go over that routine again.
ROSEMARIE: Yep, let’s not go over it again.
DAVID: I’ll answer the door, will that satisfy you?
ROSEMARIE: No, but it will satisfy whoever is knocking out there.
NICOLE: I think it will.
ELAINE: I know it would satisfy me if I was knocking on the door.
RITA: Me too.
DAVID: You girls get together, and a man ain’t got a chance.
ROSEMARIE: Sure you do, you got the chance to answer the door,
isn’t that wonderful?
DAVID: Oh, I’m thrilled to the marrow.
ROSEMARIE: You see, it’s already in your bones.
NICOLE: Let it go a little longer, and it’ll get into your soul.
DAVID: Thanks.
NICOLE: Don’t mention it, it’s nothin’.
DAVID: I agree with that . . . and neither are you.
ROSEMARIE: Foul.
ELAINE: Foul.
RITA: Foul.
NICOLE: Foul.
DAVID: Yep, it is, isn’t it?
NICOLE: That’s your speed anyway.
DAVID: Well, I needed something to protect myself.
ROSEMARIE: A big handsome man like you.
DAVID: Flattery will get you nowhere. Who is it? Who? Hey, hey,
hey, what ya say. . . . Hey, honey, it’s Terry. Terry Logan from
Brooklyn, come on in, man, come on in. I thought you was going
to get here at a later hour.
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Miguel Piñero
TERRY: I was, but being stuck in that hotel gets on my nerves too
hard, you know what I mean, man.
DAVID: I sure do, I sure do. . . . Honey, you remember Terry Logan?
ROSEMARIE: Sure I do, how have you been?
TERRY: Struggling to stay above the water.
ROSEMARIE: Ain’t we all?
DAVID: This is Nicole, my old lady’s little sister.
ROSEMARIE: Her younger sister.
DAVID: Excuse me, her younger sister.
TERRY: How do you do, David’s old lady’s younger sister?
NICOLE: Trying to stay above the water.
DAVID: This is her friends, Laney and Rita . . .
TERRY: Hey, how’s things, Laney and Rita?
ELAINE: If things are okay with you, they’re okay with us.
RITA: My sentiments exactly.
TERRY: Well, what are you people doing today?
DAVID: Nothing much, going to make a few dollars for the ladies.
TERRY: For or from them?
DAVID: A little bit of both, you know what I mean.
TERRY: I sure do.
ROSEMARIE: Would you like something to drink?
TERRY: Sure, you have any herb?
NICOLE: Yeah, but you have to roll your own.
TERRY: No problem there, honey, been doing that since I was nine.
NICOLE: Really, how interesting.
TERRY: No, not really.
NICOLE: I agree with that, too.
TERRY: Did I enter at a wrong time?
DAVID: No, man, we’re just sitting here getting on each other’s cases.
TERRY: That’s nice, don’t include me in that, okay? I can’t stand the
dozens.
DAVID: No, we’re not playing them anymore.
TERRY: Thanks.
ROSEMARIE: Rum and Coke, good for the heart.
TERRY: And the head.
DAVID: Yep.
ELAINE: So, you’re from New York?
TERRY: No, from Brooklyn.
RITA: Isn’t Brooklyn a part of New York?
356
TERRY: No, New York is part of Brooklyn.

RITA: Really?
ELAINE: No, stupid, that’s just his way of thinking.
TERRY: No, that’s not my way of thinking, that’s the way four mil-
lion people who live in Brooklyn think. I just go along with their
train of philosophy about the city.
ELAINE: Do you go to other parts of New York, too?
TERRY: Sometimes, when it’s necessary I do it. I go to Gunsmoke.
ELAINE: Gunsmoke?
DAVID: That’s a nickname for Brooklyn.
RITA: Really, that’s cute, Gunsmoke. Why do they call it Gunsmoke?
TERRY: Because guns seem to smoke when they are triggered into
firing.
RITA: So what does it all mean?
DAVID: It means that in Brooklyn there’s a lot of guns being fired.
TERRY: It’s a hold over from the fifties.
DAVID: More like the twenties, if you ask me.
ROSEMARIE: I don’t remember anyone asking.
DAVID: That’s just in case. Anyway let’s drop this playing for awhile.
ROSEMARIE: Who’s playing?
DAVID: I’m serious.
ROSEMARIE: Okay, baby, anything you say.
DAVID: Don’t make me repeat myself, Rosemarie.
ROSEMARIE: I won’t.
DAVID: Make sure that you don’t.
ELAINE: Here, let me light that joint up for you.
TERRY: If you insist.
DAVID: So the city is getting a little hot.
TERRY: Like a bonfire, my man, things are not jumping off right in a
lot of gigs, you know what I mean, like there’s a rat in every cor-
ner nowadays, seem like the police are spending a fortune keep-
ing these guys coming up with new potential jobs too hot this
summer, so I decided to come out for awhile, see what I can see
out here.
DAVID: Tell you the truth, if you picked this city, you’re making a
mistake. Ain’t nothing here but cops on horses with big guns, itch-
ing to pull them triggers on the first businessman they come
across, really a lot of rookies wearing pistols. That’s why I choose
to cool it for awhile.
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Miguel Piñero
TERRY: Well, with the money you made off with in Brooklyn, I
thought by now you be living on easy street.
DAVID: Naw, that was just to pay up a lot of bills. I was operating in
the red for awhile. Now I am even with about everybody I know
who I owed money to. Pretty soon in a month or so, I’ll be gone.
TERRY: Gone?
DAVID: Yep, gone for a long-ass time.
TERRY: Jail.
DAVID: No man, gone. Like away from the city, this city and every
other city that I’ve ever visited or lived in. I mean, I’m getting out
of this business and out of the city life.
TERRY: What are you going to do, become a farmer?
DAVID: Hey, how did you know?
TERRY: No, man, really? What are you planning on doing?
DAVID: Become a farmer.
TERRY: No, seriously.
DAVID: I am serious.
ROSEMARIE: He is serious. We bought a farm in Maine, and we’re
heading that way in about six months or so if things work out
according to schedule.
TERRY: Really? You really mean it . . . shit, you’re really serious.
DAVID: Yeah, man, I’m really serious.
NICOLE: Isn’t that a dead case?
TERRY: That’s really strange. Whatever made you wanna be a
farmer?
DAVID: You know, I’ve never been inside.
TERRY: Never?
DAVID: Well, once as a kid, I was in a youth camp for delinquents. It
was on a farm and I used to do all the chores around the place. I
was the only kid from the city who liked to do farm work. . . .
Well, the rest of the guys all thought that I was just bucking to get
off the place for good behavior, but I would tell them that I was
serious, that I liked getting up at the crack of dawn and being out
there with all them animals and, well, they all thought that I was
crazy or a rat and when the time came that I was going to leave
the place, I asked to stay on, but they wouldn’t let me so I left and
got into the business. Stayed clear of prison, though, couldn’t
stand being locked up, really not the greatest experience in the
world, you know . . . so anyway, I vowed that someday before I
358
died that I would die in a farm out there with nature, not here in
the cold metal coffin that we call the city life. This shit is for suck-
ers, not for me.
TERRY: Well, I wouldn’t go as far as to say that city life is for suck-
ers.
DAVID: Well, what have you got out there in the wonderful city?
TERRY: There is something for those that want to get it.
DAVID: Like what?
TERRY: Well, like whatever you want to get.
DAVID: You see, I agree with that . . . in the city you got a chance to
get what you want, but is it what you need? I don’t think so.
TERRY: Well, if I go after something that I want, it’s because I also
need whatever that thing is that I want.
DAVID: The city is a river of pollution which pollutes people making
it harder to live in it, people like myself and people like you and
the rest of the crowd that we know. Man, that ain’t a way to enjoy
the few years that we have on this planet, especially if you want
to leave something behind that said that you lived. A farm, you
leave a place where life is growing all the time, where life is never
a stalemate. Here life is one coffin-like house to another. Man,
that’s not for me, no, sir, I can’t allow my kid to grow up the way
I did. I want something special for him, for myself as well, like
right now I make a few dollars to survive with while the rest goes
into the farm that we bought. ’Cause when I move in I want, I
need that place to be mine totally, not just a rental space that I
occupy. That what you got in the city, after a while they’ll be rent-
ing out coffins . . . not me . . . I want to be buried in a place that I
know is totally mine, that’s why I’m getting out once and for all.
It’ll be goodbye, cruel city, goodbye.
TERRY: Well, to each his own, as the saying goes.
DAVID: Well, look I have these two tricks coming up for the young
ladies here.
TERRY: Really, well that leaves me out of the ballpark.
NICOLE: If you’re playing in that park.
TERRY: You mean, there’s another position open?
NICOLE: I’ll say there is . . .
TERRY: Well . . . well . . . that’s nice to know.
DAVID: Man, they’ll melt down the key.
TERRY: Oh, she doesn’t look that dangerous to me.
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Miguel Piñero
DAVID: You know what they say about looks.

TERRY: I sure do, and I like what I am looking at.
NICOLE: Oh, you’re just jealous.
DAVID: The field is open, my man, have fun.
TERRY: That’s up to the other player.
NICOLE: Fun is the name of the game.
TERRY: Why don’t we go out somewhere?
NICOLE: I’d love to after the business is taken care of first.
TERRY: Business before pleasure, I always say.
NICOLE: That’s a good motto, a little old-fashioned, but still good.
TERRY: It has its merits.
SCENE TWO: A hallway to the entrance of DAVID DANCER’s home.
CARLOS: Is this the place?

MILES: Yeah, this is the address and this is the floor and this is the
number on the door, so I guess this is the place.
CARLOS: Are you ready?
MILES: I was born ready.
CARLOS: You knock.
MILES: Why . . . can’t you knock?
CARLOS: Well, you know how it is.
MILES: No, I don’t know how it is.
CARLOS: Come on, man, don’t be like that.
MILES: Okay, just kidding with you . . . sure I know how it is . . . you
know what this reminds me of?
CARLOS: No.
MILES: I never told you this, but I had a son who, if he had lived,
would’ve been around your age now. How do you feel?
CARLOS: A little drunk.
MILES: So am I.
CARLOS: Really.
MILES: Sure.
CARLOS: I thought you never got drunk.
MILES: Sure, we all do, why not?
CARLOS: I just thought that you never did.
MILES: Oh, sure, I get drunk, it’s just that I know how to handle my
liquor.
CARLOS: Yeah, I can tell.
MILES: Well, you know some men don’t know how to.
360
CARLOS: Oh, I know that.

MILES: Handling your liquor is one of the great secrets of life.
CARLOS: It is.
MILES: It sure is.
CARLOS: How am I doing?
MILES: Not bad, you can do better if you put your mind to it.
CARLOS: Really.
MILES: Sure, it’s all up here, all up here, that’s where the answer lies.
CARLOS: You sure know a lot.
MILES: Naw, I know about as much as any man who has had the
same experience as me.
CARLOS: That’s not many.
MILES: Oh, don’t say that. There’s a lot of men out there in this world
who have walked similar paths, not many that’s true, but enough
so that life doesn’t become boring with the same routine year after
year, like it was out on the farm.
CARLOS: Oh, you lived on a farm . . . sure did a lot for you, huh?
MILES: Well, I guess it had its ups as well as its downers.
CARLOS: And you left?
MILES: Yeah, came out to the city to make my fortune and fame.
CARLOS: You did?
MILES: Yep . . . but I never met either one, fortune or fame, just plain
obscurity.
CARLOS: That’s not true, I think you’re great.
MILES: You’re just one man.
CARLOS: Do you need more than one?
MILES: No, no, I don’t need more than one.
CARLOS: Should I knock?
MILES: Naw, sit down first.
CARLOS: You wanna drink?
MILES: Sure, why not? You know, you remind me of my son so
much. He was as strong and as smart as you. He had curly hair
too. He enlisted in the Marines at the age of seventeen. By the
time he was twenty he was dead in some rice paddy, stepped on a
booby trap. He was going to be a somebody once he was out. He
was a lot like me, he wanted adventure, something I never really
went after. No, after a while, I just settled myself to live one day at
a time, trying to make happy days to remember in my old age. . . .
My daughter, you got to meet my youngest girl, just like her
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Miguel Piñero
mother she looks like, only she nothing like her in spirit or in
thought, she’s truly independent of anyone, just like you, just like
my son, just like I always wanted to be like but never could quite
capture that attitude. But you can’t say I didn’t try, no, you can’t
say I didn’t try. I did everything that I ever heard of or thought of
or had the courage to do and those things that I feared to do, those
were the things that I did first, everything that I was afraid of
doing, got to make a stab at it, that’s what I felt. I had to do, make
a stab at all those things that you are afraid of doing than the thing
that you wanna do. Do those things last ’cause the things that you
wanna do will always be there to be done.
CARLOS: When I go out to places with you, I somehow feel so much
like a child who is near a mighty oak tree of learning.
MILES: Strange, I get the same kind of feeling with you. I feel much
older, not older in age but older in all the knowledge that I’ve
acquired during my years on this good earth of ours.
CARLOS: Yeah, that’s strange, seems like we were meant to have
been hanging out together.
MILES: Hanging out together?
CARLOS: Yeah, you know, like going out with the boys, kind of
thing.
MILES: With my son I wish I had had the time to have done that with
him.
CARLOS: Make believe that you’re doing it.
MILES: I am . . . I am, I see in you everything that I wanted to be,
everything that I needed to be and everything that I would never
be.
CARLOS: Oh, don’t talk like that.
MILES: Why not, it’s truth and the truth is an element that we should
never discount, never trade in or collect green stamps on. It’s free
’cause the use of it makes you free, or something like that.
CARLOS: I don’t know, I once said the truth and I wound up in trou-
ble. If I had lied like the rest of my pals, I would have gotten away
free without my behind tanned to a deep purple.
MILES: But you would have punished yourself in some other manner.
CARLOS: Oh, the old guilt trip.
MILES: Guilt is not a trip, it’s a solid ground that many walk on.
CARLOS: That’s true. Here, have another drink.
MILES: Don’t mind if I do.
362
CARLOS: Good solid ninety-proof scotch helps ease all the trips.
MILES: Until the morning light shines through your shut eyelids and
wakes you up to a giant hangover.
CARLOS: Hey, is it true that the best cure for a hangover is to have a
stiff drink as soon as you get up in the morning?
MILES: Before you brush your teeth.
CARLOS: Before brushing?
MILES: Before brushing.
CARLOS: Why is that?
MILES: Why is what?
CARLOS: Why is it that a good stiff drink wakes up your body after
a hangover?
MILES: Because nothing else will.
CARLOS: I guess that makes sense somewhere to someone some-
place.
MILES: That doesn’t make no sense to me at all.
CARLOS: I know . . . should I knock?
MILES: Knock.
CARLOS: No answer.
MILES: Maybe if you knock harder.
CARLOS: How’s that?
MILES: Knock hard doesn’t mean to kick down the door.
DAVID: Hey . . . hey, come on in, come on in, I’m sorry we took so
long to open the door. Here, let me take your coats. Rosemarie,
get the two gentlemen a drink, sit down make yourself comforta-
ble. This is a good friend of mine from New York City. He’s here
taking a vacation here in the great bicentennial city. . . . Terry, this
here is . . .
CARLOS: Carlos . . .
MILES: Miles is the name.
TERRY: Good to meet both of you. So you finished making the joint,
Rosemarie?
ROSEMARIE: Yeah, here you are. . . . Would any of you like a stick
of marihuana?
NICOLE: Hi, the girls are just getting the make-up together. They’ll
be out in a second. You like the music that’s playing or would you
like me to put something else on for you?
CARLOS: No, that’s fine, I like the sound. Nice set you got there.
DAVID: Yeah, got it in the street for a price you wouldn’t believe.
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Miguel Piñero
MILES: I can bet.

NICOLE: Here they are . . . Rita, this is Carlos.
MILES: Rita Barkley . . .
RITA: Mister.
ELAINE: Hi, everybody.
MILES: Elaine . . .
ELAINE: Dad . . .
Lights
364
ACT II
SCENE ONE: A telephone booth.
TERRY: Yeah, yeah, I’m sure it’s the right dude . . . of course, man, I
helped him out when he visited the city last year . . . sure, man,
don’t worry about it . . . he’s out for the count . . . just make sure
that I get my bread when I get back to the city. . . . No, it’s not that
I don’t trust you . . . it’s that I get scared of people who owe me
money and always seem to find a reason to skip out on the pay-
ment, can you dig what I’m saying? . . . Sure . . . everything is
going to be all right . . . no, nothing is wrong . . . this dude had
this thing planned for tonight with some hicks. . . . He had a cou-
ple of chicks for them . . . and guess what one of the chicks turns
out to be, the daughter of one of the tricks. . . . Yeah, young girls,
real young . . . jail bait, but they got it. . . . Yeah, I left as soon as
I found out what was happening, told them that I’d be back later on
tonight after everything settles down with what happened. I wasn’t
about to get caught in a shit trap like that, too much static. . . . Naw,
I don’t think the girl’s father will call the cops, you know kinda
embarrassing for him and her, if you dig what I mean. . . . Yeah, I
can see what’s happening from here. . . . Man, the old man is sure
doing a lot of yelling about his kid. . . . Naw, I’ll go back up after
everything is over with . . . too much static jumping off now, lights
are going on everywhere in the building. . . . How do you know I
pulled the job? . . . You’ll know ’cause I’ll be around to pick up the
money, that’s how. . . . I don’t collect for something I didn’t pull
. . . no . . . no . . . I ain’t about to keep you posted about everything
that’s going on . . . it cost too much money . . . reverse the charges?
You kidding . . . no, I don’t think you’re going to get anything back
from him. I think he threw away the bag and kept the money . . .
something about him and his woman buying a farm. Yeah, they
wanna be farmers, ain’t that something for the book? . . . Farmers.
. . . No, I don’t think he kept those papers . . . maybe, but I don’t
think so. Why, because he’s too stupid to have done that. . . . No,
he ain’t that smart . . . blackmail . . . are you kidding me? . . . Look,
I’ll be asked tonight or tomorrow morning, I got to hang up now
. . . why . . . ’cause I ain’t putting no more money into this con-
versation, that’s why . . . okay, good . . . okay . . . sure, will do, if
365
Miguel Piñero
he got them I’ll get them . . . but I don’t think he does, he must
have thrown them away. I’m telling you, believe me. . . . Okay
yeah, I’ll leave a mark by his body so that his people will know
that he and no one else can come to the Big Apple and rip off peo-
ple who are in business . . . bye. . . . Bye . . . I said goodbye
already . . . hang up . . . what? . . . Right. Bye. Tomorrow or
tonight be on the alert. . . . Okay, will do . . . don’t worry, god-
damn it . . . bye. . . . Shit, you’re one hell of a worrier, this is my
last contract for you . . . no more, baby, no more hits . . . you worry
too much and that’s makes me leary . . . the last one and I’m seri-
ous. . . . I’ll take care of David Dancer for you, but he’s the last one
I’ll do for you, no more after this, get yourself another boy . . . shit,
call Detroit. . . . bye . . .
Lights
SCENE TWO: The hallway in front of DAVID’s apartment.
ROSEMARIE: Come get out of here already . . . will ya, get going,
girl . . . that man is angry. He finds out that you brought his little
darling up here, he’s going to cause trouble for you and you don’t
need trouble at this stage of your life, baby.
NICOLE: His little darling is one of the biggest put-out artists in the
whole school, next to Rita, of course. . . . He’s not going to do
anything to me or to anyone else either.
ROSEMARIE: I know that, baby. He’s not going to do anything to
you ’cause I ain’t giving him the chance to do it, now get out of
here, will ya, please leave this place, baby.
NICOLE: Stop pushing on me and stop calling me, baby.
ROSEMARIE: What’s wrong with you, Nicole?
NICOLE: There’s nothing wrong with me. What’s wrong is you push-
ing on me, telling me to run out on my man.
ROSEMARIE: What did you say?
NICOLE: You heard what I said . . . I ain’t going nowhere. Maybe you
should be running out of here but not me, I ain’t going nowhere
and that’s that.
ROSEMARIE: Your man?
NICOLE: My man.
ROSEMARIE: Are you talking about David?
NICOLE: Does a bear shit in the woods?
366
ROSEMARIE: Are you for real?

NICOLE: Goddamn right I’m for real.
ROSEMARIE: What . . . you call David your man? . . .
NICOLE: That’s right, my man . . . and I ain’t running out on him
either. You run if you had any feeling for that man . . . you be in
there by his side not out here copping a plea. . . . He’s my man,
and I ain’t running and leave him behind to face whatever may
happen to him with that fool drunk in there. Now get out of my
way and let me get back inside and stand next to my man where
his woman is supposed to be.
ROSEMARIE: We’ll settle this matter later.
NICOLE: There is nothing to settle.
ROSEMARIE: Later . . . we’ll settle this matter later, I said.
NICOLE: And I said that there’s nothing to settle.
ROSEMARIE: And I said there is . . . and we’ll talk about it later.
Now get on out of here before I forget that you’re my sister and
break your little neck in three places.
NICOLE: Go on and try it, just go on and try it. You think I’m still a
little baby. Take a good look at me before you raise your hands to
me ’cause you better forget that I’m your sister if you so much as
lay a hand on me ’cause I’m sure going to forget it and do my best
to kick your ass, bitch. . . . Now get the hell out of my way and let
me back inside where I belong. You run, not me, you run, go
ahead, run, leave him behind ’cause that’s what he was about to
do anyway with you. He was going to split on you, that’s right, he
had all but packed his bags on you, baby, but you didn’t know
that, big sister, little sister took your man, that’s right, little baby
innocent snotty-nose sister took your man from you and there’s
not a single thing you can do about it either, and you can cry and
whine all you want but there’s not a thing you can do about it
’cause he’s my man and I’m not about to let him get into any kind
of trouble without me by his side to care for him when he needs
me, so get the hell out of my way this minute, hear me, get out of
my way, he’s mine, you blew it with him, can’t you see that you’re
through, can you see it, are you blind to what’s been going on in
that house right under your nose, can’t you see it? Baby, you blew
the game, now it’s my turn to play.
ROSEMARIE: So that’s it, huh, that’s the way you repay what I’ve
gone through for you?
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Miguel Piñero
NICOLE: Man, stop that shit this minute ’cause you ain’t done noth-
ing for me, you did it for yourself so that you can pat yourself on
the back.
ROSEMARIE: Do you believe all that shit you just said?
NICOLE: I don’t only believe it, I can prove it, that’s a fact, baby. You
always playing the big mother . . . Get out of the way.
ROSEMARIE: You really think that he’s yours, don’t you?
NICOLE: I know that he’s mine.
ROSEMARIE: What makes you so sure, little girl?
NICOLE: ’Cause I ain’t no little girl, that’s what makes me so sure.
ROSEMARIE: I’ve been with that fool years. . . who do you think
does the planning . . . who do you think does all the brainwork for
the jobs that he’s pulled, for the hustles that he’s made, him? You
really think that he does it all by himself? I do it, baby, I do it. I
wait for him to come out of jail . . . I wait for him to come out of
wherever he is at, doing his thing, ’cause all he knows how to do
is to hold a gun and point it, and that I had to teach him how to do
right. . . . When he’s out of bread, are you going to hit the streets
to make him a dollar so that he can gamble it on a long shot . . .
or spend it on some dope-head friend? . . . What do you have that
makes you think that he will stick by you? He’s ready to run out
on me, what makes you think that he won’t do the same thing to
you when he sees a piece of young flesh that turns him on? . . .
You are nothing but a turn on, baby, that’s all, a turn on . . . a man
. . . hustlers . . . have themselves a girlfriend and they have them-
selves a woman. . . . I’m his woman . . . you’re a turn on . . . a one-
night stand . . . what have you got? . . . ’Cause he ain’t going to
have much of anything once I walk out that door on him, baby.
Watch him come a running . . .
NICOLE: You wanna know what I have . . . I ain’t got it yet, but I will
. . . I will . . . I’m going to have him . . . ’cause I’m gonna have
his baby . . . his child.
ROSEMARIE: What did you say?
NICOLE: You heard me, you ain’t got wax in your ears, right? You
heard me. I’m carrying his yet-to-be born child right here, baby.
You wanna feel it squirm.
ROSEMARIE: You little low-life bitch . . . (Slaps her.)
NICOLE: Go on, hit me, beat me, go on, get it off your heart, baby,
’cause you’re a loser, that’s the only thing you’re gonna leave with
368
tonight, the satisfaction of having physically beaten me. ’Cause

you lose him and you lost me and you’re losing yourself.
ROSEMARIE: I’ll kill him and you together. (Strangling her.)
NICOLE: Rosemarie, you’re killing me, stop it . . . stop it . . .
ROSEMARIE: No, you’re not to blame . . . you’re just a little child, a
little girl, a little baby still . . . my little baby sister . . . I didn’t
mean to hurt you, baby, I really didn’t mean to hurt you one bit.
You’re not to blame, he is . . . he’s a grown man who took advan-
tage of a child infatuation, you’re not to blame, he is . . . and he’s
going to pay . . .
NICOLE: You still believe that, don’t you, that I’m a little baby, a lit-
tle girl, even after I took away your man . . . but then he was never
yours.
ROSEMARIE: No, he never was, and he’ll never be yours either.
NICOLE: That’s what you think, I’ll fight for him.
ROSEMARIE: You don’t have to.
NICOLE: I don’t have to?
ROSEMARIE: ’Cause he’s nothing to fight about.
NICOLE: He’s mine, he’s my man, you blew it and you’re looking for
an excuse to justify your loss, but there ain’t none. You just couldn’t
handle a relationship with him like I know that I could, so don’t
get any wild funny ideas about him or me.
ROSEMARIE: There’s nothing more to be said, is there?
NICOLE: Nothing.
ROSEMARIE: I’ll leave . . . but let me tell you something, you or him
will never make it as a team or as anything ’cause none of you
have the brains to survive in this jungle of a city.
NICOLE: Run that on a newsreporter or a welfare worker, not on me.
Don’t forget we come from the same background.
ROSEMARIE: No, we don’t. You never knew what it meant to be
hungry or to struggle for a piece of bread. I wouldn’t ever let you
know that kind of life, never . . . never, but I do.
NICOLE: Well, I guess that I’m just going to have to learn.
ROSEMARIE: The pretty clothes . . .
NICOLE: I can do without them.
ROSEMARIE: Sure, you could, but can he do without his pretty
clothes? You’re going to get them for him, are you?
NICOLE: If I have to, I will.
ROSEMARIE: Here.
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Miguel Piñero
NICOLE: What’s that . . .

ROSEMARIE: A bank book that I’ve been keeping for you.
NICOLE: Put it back in your purse, I don’t need it.
ROSEMARIE: That’s what you think. Maybe you won’t need the
money, but he will. You’re both going to need it, to buy a plot of
land. And I know that he always wanted a fancy funeral, so make
sure you get the best ’cause all I’m doing is keeping a promise to
him that he would get a fancy funeral. Now it’s your responsibil-
ity.
NICOLE: You’re not scaring me, I’m not a child, stop acting like if I
was one.
ROSEMARIE: Scared about what?
NICOLE: I know what your implying with this fancy funeral bullshit
bit, and I’m not going for it. If you plan to kill us, go ahead and
try.
ROSEMARIE: I did, but I couldn’t do it.
NICOLE: Goodbye, big sister, get you bags and split.
ROSEMARIE: I don’t want them, you keep it, keep everything.
NICOLE: Thank you. Don’t think that I won’t.
ROSEMARIE: You was welcome to my clothes, my money, my
home.
NICOLE: And your man.
ROSEMARIE: And my man.
NICOLE: Goodbye . . .
ROSEMARIE: I don’t hate you, but I pity you.
NICOLE: You know what you can do with your pity. . . . You may not
hate me but you can be sure of this, that I can’t stand the sight of
you and your motherly act . . . you and your pampering act . . . you
and your self-righteousness, sacrificing soul attitude that I had to
endure each and every minute of my life with you. Now it’s your
turn to shed tears on an empty bed. Beat it ’cause I hate you now
and always, I always hated you, you bitch. . . . Beat it, you heard
me, I hate you, put an egg in your shoe and beat it . . . go on . . .
ROSEMARIE: I pity you ’cause you had to sneak your happiness
while I worked for mine . . . and you’ll never know what it means
to be happy, to feel secure in that feeling because yours is a stolen
love.
NICOLE: Stop singing the blues around me. Either get your clothes
or let the door hit you where the lord split you . . .
370
ROSEMARIE: Yes, I’ll do that . . . a woman . . . (SHE laughs.)

NICOLE: Stop laughing at me, stop it, I tell you, stop it, you hear me?
Stop laughing at me, I hate you, you dirty stinky whore, stop
laughing at . . .
ROSEMARIE: I’m not laughing at you, sometimes laughter is a sub-
stitute for tears . . . .
NICOLE: I told you to go sing them blues somewhere else.
ROSEMARIE: He’s a sinking ship and you ain’t got no life raft
aboard, baby.
NICOLE: I can swim, and each night I’m going to be swimming in
his arms, while you can sing the blues . . . go get yourself drunk.
ROSEMARIE: You know, that’s the only sensible thing you’ve said
today, and I think I will. Bye, baby, have fun.
NICOLE: Oh, yes, honey, I will, the same kind that blew . . .
ROSEMARIE: Oh, by the way, I changed my mind . . . I’ll take back
my bank book.
NICOLE: Here, shove it.
ROSEMARIE: And tell his majesty, your man . . . that I’ll send for my
things in the morning . . . if he sees a morning . . .
NICOLE: They’ll be ready for you . . . out in the street where they and
you belong.
ROSEMARIE: You really hate me . . . pity, ’cause l loved you with all
my heart.
NICOLE: Peddle that somewhere else.
ROSEMARIE: Good night . . . little sister.
NICOLE: Go fuck yourself, bitch . . . that’s what you’re going to have
to do from now on . . . do it to yourself ’cause you ain’t got no
man. . . . I took your man . . . I took your man. . . . I hate you, bitch
. . . I hate you, I hope you die before morning . . . I hope you drop
dead . . .
Lights.
SCENE THREE: DAVID DANCER’s apartment.
MILES: You scum, you rat, you take young girls like this and make
them defile themselves. You lousy, no-good scum, I’m gonna kill
you. (HE lunges at DAVID.)
ELAINE: Dad, don’t.
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Miguel Piñero
RITA: I’m getting out of here. . . . See you later. Keep my name out
of this shit, you hear me, Laney?
ELAINE: Go on, get out of here with the rest of them.
DAVID: Mister, dig yourself. You’re drunk, and I can take you out
easy. Now be cool before I cool you out, man. Hey, you, take care
of this guy. Man get him off me before I hurt him.
ELAINE: Hey, come on, man, take him off before he hurts him. He’s
your friend so protect him, will you?
MILES: I kill you yet, mister.
DAVID: Man, you had your play, now be cool. (Punches MILES
down.)
CARLOS: Hey, you needn’t hit him that hard.
DAVID: Well, I did, now what about it? . . . Well, sucker, you let me
almost break this poor jerk’s jaw.
CARLOS: Look, mister, I don’t want any trouble. I just came up here
to have a good time. If you have something personal with him,
that’s your problem as well as his, not mine. So if you will get out
of my way, I will open that door and leave the way I came in.
DAVID: He brought you here.
CARLOS: I know how to get back.
DAVID: And you know how to forget things too?
CARLOS: Easy . . . easy as pie . . . I forget everything like that . . .
DAVID: Make sure that you do.
ELAINE: What about him?
MILES: Carlos, you are deserting me, you are my friend, you are
deserting me . . .
ELAINE: Some friend . . .
DAVID: Well, what are you gonna do, hoof it or try to play hero. If
you do, let me assure you that you are younger and not as drunk
as he. My only choice will be to hurt you, and I hurt real bad, you
know what I mean?
CARLOS: I’m leaving.
MILES: Coward, if you show up at the plant tomorrow, I’ll make sure
that you’re fired . . . you punk . . . beat it.
CARLOS: Look, mister, I don’t mind going off with you somewhere
to have a drink and gamble and have as much fun as I could with
you, because you are a really nice old man and your lies are very
interesting. Hey, man, I’m a realist, I don’t need the job that bad
and I can live without your friendship. If your friendship hinders
372
my breathing career, can you dig it, like I play the young innocent
type dude only because it makes you feel good. But I ain’t no fool,
Miles, so you handle your own personal family business and I’ll
handle mine. I will never ask you to break your neck for me. I
never ask anyone to do that, and I never expect anyone to volun-
teer . . . so adiós, see you around some time. Mr. Dancer, if you
would kindly let me out of your home, I will give you my word
that I will not call the police because I don’t wish to be involved
in anything that is happening here. I’ll tell the ladies outside that
they can come in.
DAVID: Just hustle your ass out of here, that’s all. Don’t say nothing
to anybody and that includes my ladies out there. I got things
under control, so beat it while you still have a clear path to the
north.
CARLOS: Goodbye, Laney. . . . Pity, he’s not a bad dude, your dad.
Maybe he’s a jerk with you, but not with his friends. You know, I
met a lot of people like that, they are lousy family members and
yet they are such wonderful friends to have, always a dollar and a
favor in the hand, waiting to be plucked. He’s like that, you know.
He drinks a lot and he thinks he knows a lot, but he’s just learn-
ing.
ELAINE: Bye . . .
CARLOS: Yes, I was about to leave . . . goodbye . . .
RITA: Hey, you still wanna have that good time you were looking for?
CARLOS: Sure, do you know anyone that’s willing to help me find
the light?
RITA: Here’s a match. Come on, let’s dust out of here before they start
going at each other again. This ain’t what I bargained for, you
know?
CARLOS: I can imagine.
RITA: Elaine, remember, keep my name out of this.
ELAINE: Don’t sweat it, baby, see you around sometime.
RITA: Call me tomorrow if you plan anything special, all right?
ELAINE: Will do, take care and have fun.
RITA: Don’t I always? Like I always say make the best out of the
worst. You still got some cash, brother?
CARLOS: Yeah, let’s go. (They exit. NICOLE enters.)
ELAINE: You got a match?
DAVID: On the table.
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Miguel Piñero
ELAINE: Well . . . looks like the night is off, huh?

DAVID: Yeah, it looks that way.
NICOLE: Well, what are we going to do, stand here and stare at each
other until the sun comes up?
ELAINE: No, I’m gonna sit down and stare for a while, you know
kinda get the muscles of the brain working properly.
DAVID: Look, mister, I know that she, your daughter, I mean, I know
that now, not that it would have made a bit of a difference if I had
known it before she came up here, but that’s the way things go. I
mean that’s life . . . man, well a part of it, the part that we are now
caught up in so we have to make some kind of real-life decision
on this incident. Like I don’t much feel that we need to call the
police into this matter, I mean, that would bring on some nasty
publicity from the nasty papers. You know those sensationalist
rags at the newsstands.
MILES: You scum.
DAVID: I wish you stop calling me that. In fact, let me tell you, and
take it as a warning not a threat, if you call me that one more time,
I’m gonna kick your teeth in.
ELAINE: He means it, Dad.
NICOLE: Well, tell this jerk to get the hell out of here.
DAVID: Shut up, I’m running things here now. . . . Where’s Rose-
marie?
NICOLE: She left.
DAVID: Left, what ya mean she left?
NICOLE: She left, that’s it. Gone for good and good riddance too.
Now we have each other.
DAVID: Left for good, what ya mean she left for good? Did you have
something to do with that?
NICOLE: I told her everything, and I told her that you loved me and
we were going to leave together, just you and me against this
world, making it.
DAVID: You told her everything? . . .
NICOLE: Yes, and I told her that I was having your baby, too.
DAVID: My baby . . . you told her about having my baby, you stupid
bitch, are you crazy?
NICOLE: No, I’m not crazy, maybe crazy for you, honey, but . . .
DAVID: Quit that dumb-ass rap, will ya? . . . You told her about us?
What makes you think that I would make it with you all the way,
374
are you crazy? You are crazy, bitch. We’ll settle this later. First, let
me make sure things are going to be cool with the indignant father
here.
ELAINE: Hey, Dad, he’s talking about you, answer.
MILES: Elaine, what’s gotten into you?
ELAINE: Nothing that wasn’t there already. . . . Let’s get this over
with. Look, David, I ain’t pitching no bitch, and he ain’t going to
either ’cause he has a soft-ass job at the factory and he needs the
money for his daily bottle, and mom’s pills are pretty low. She
needs money for new prescriptions, so just make your mind at
ease and let the old man out of here.
NICOLE: David, what do you mean?
DAVID: Shut up, I told you once . . . you . . . I need a woman, not a
little girl . . .
ELAINE: Come on, Dad, get up, sober up a little, just enough to make
the streets below . . .
MILES: Where did I fail?
ELAINE: On the day the doctor announced a little girl. . . . Get up . . .
MILES: What will your mother say?
ELAINE: Nothing. She’ll take a couple of pills to hear you and then
a couple more to shut you out. . . . That’s what you both been
doing all the time, shutting me out of your life, you with your bot-
tle and she with her pills. Well, now its out in the open at least,
between you and me. She doesn’t need to know anything and you
just need to get some rest and to make yourself ready to make the
liquor store in the morning, your cubbyhole is dry.
MILES: I’m getting up.
DAVID: Okay, mister, I’m sorry it had to be your daughter as much
as you say you’re sorry, but that’s about it, just plain old verbal
sorry, there’s nothing to be done about it unless you make a big
deal out of it, if you don’t beat it.
NICOLE: Come on, get out of here already, will ya?
ELAINE: Don’t rush him, he’s gettin’ out . . .
DAVID: If you keep your head as you been doing, life will be much
easier to face from your home than it is from a hospital ward.
Okay, good, that’s using the old noggin. Have a drink before you
leave, go ahead, it’s on the house. . . . Okay, now you can beat it.
375
Miguel Piñero
MILES: Hold it a second, mister, I want to know how you got my lit-
tle girl up here? It was by force, right, you kidnapped her, didn’t
you say that you did that, admit it.
ELAINE: Oh, stop all that bull, Dad, you know as well as I that you
don’t believe a word of that nonsense, so be for real.
DAVID: Look here, mister, whatever your name is, you know that you
came up here to get laid by some broad and by a young chickie as
you asked for. I had no way of knowing who would be brought
here. I only rent out the apartment.
MILES: Then who is the one that recruits them?
NICOLE: I do . . .
MILES: You?
NICOLE: Yes, me . . . what about it?
ELAINE: Be cool, Nicole.
NICOLE: No, you be cool . . . your old man comes here, finds you
making a dollar in a way that he doesn’t approve and he pitches a
bitch on my man. Well if you ain’t gonna set him straight, then I
will.
MILES: Elaine.
ELAINE: He’s my father, Nicole, now let me handle things here.
Look, Dad, I guess it’s time that we stop all this crap going on
between you and me. . . . First of all, you don’t love or like me in
the least and I can safely say that I feel the same way about you.
I don’t dig you at all. Maybe I’m being a little too strong on you,
but that’s the case. Look, I was planning on leaving you and Mom
anyway to make it on my own. I don’t need you anymore, and you
never needed me, so I guess this takes a responsibility off your
shoulders. There has never been anything for me to hold on to in
that house, and I know that there never will be . . . and I don’t
expect . . . if after a while I stopped dreaming about it ’cause you
know I always had dreams that someday you and Mom would
take a few minutes off from your daily battle to offer me a sign of
peace and a favor of love. I had that wonderful dream so many
times that it became a re-run, stale photographs of yesterday’s
family album, showcasing scene in the parlor. . . . Life for me has
begun on my terms and I am not going to give in an inch, not like
you and her, you gave up yards until they became miles of living
family nightmares. That’s not for me. I lived with it sixteen years
and I guess that there is nothing more brutal than that. Perhaps
376
you will disown me. I really don’t care, I enjoy being on my own.
I’ve been saving every dime that I hustle to make my exit from
that dreary existence that you call living. So drop it already, stop
playing the concerned father role. It don’t fit you well and it’s
almost making me want to throw up all over the place, so cut it
loose, will ya? . . . You had your drink, now let’s go before it gets
too hot up here to make it out the door . . . .
DAVID: Look, mister, you came looking for a piece of pussy and you
found your daughter selling hers. Maybe you should . . . you
know . . . keep it in the family kinda thing.
NICOLE: Stop it, David, that’s not funny.
DAVID: I’m not trying to be funny, and I told you to keep your trap
shut, right? (Slaps her.)
NICOLE: I’m sorry, baby, I’ll keep quiet.
DAVID: That goes to show you that Humphrey Bogart was right. I
never met a woman who didn’t understand a good slap in the
mouth.
ELAINE: Come on, Dad, this scene ain’t your scene.
DAVID: Elaine, this scene ain’t a lot of people’s scene, but it’s a scene
that’s for real, that goes on every day in one of the cubbyholes that
fill the streets of this city. And we, you as well as your father and
hundreds like him, close your ears to the struggle to survive and
everything that a ghetto dweller finds that makes him a dollar
without giving it to the government, like the politician never does,
but it is a part of a hustle, baby. If you’re planning on leaving the
womb, then make sure that your stomach can stand the food that
you must serve yourself in order to live.
ELAINE: I can handle it.
DAVID: See you around surviving.
ELAINE: I hope so.
MILES: I’m a loser . . . a loser . . . oh, God.
ELAINE: Come on, Dad, don’t cry . . . not everyone is a winner.
DAVID: Hey, mister, you know some people say that there’s nothing
wrong with being on the losing team, and you know that’s a whole
lot of bullshit. . . . In my world, first is first and second is nobody
and third is obsolete . . . get out of here, you loser.
ELAINE: Throw me my cigarettes . . . thanks, loser . . . (MILES and
ELAINE exit.)
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Miguel Piñero
DAVID: I’m a winner . . . I was born to win. . . . Look at this mess . . .

come on, get your ass up and get out of here.
NICOLE: Get out?
DAVID: Yeah, you heard me, get the hell out.
NICOLE: But what about us?
DAVID: Us?
NICOLE: Yes, us, goddamn it, us, me and you.
DAVID: There is no us, there’s only a you and there’s only a me, and
that’s the way I want to keep it.
NICOLE: But . . .
DAVID: No buts, just get out.
NICOLE: I need you.
DAVID: I don’t need you.
NICOLE: I don’t have Rosemarie anymore.
DAVID: Thanks to you, I don’t have her either . . . she’ll probably
send for her things in the morning, and she’s the type of woman
that once she makes her mind to leave, she’s leaving. Goddamn it,
that was the best woman I ever had, and I blew it. Why didn’t you
just let things ride? . . . Everything was going along so nicely, but
you had to be greedy, shit.
NICOLE: Baby, I only wanted to be with you.
DAVID: Well, you were with me, wasn’t you . . . didn’t we spend time
together? What more did you want, a fucking marriage? I bet
that’s it . . . man, what a fool I was . . .
NICOLE: You got me, baby, you got me. . . . I’ll hustle the streets for
you . . . I’ll make money for both of us.
DAVID: You’re just a little fucking squirt . . . you ain’t got the class
nor the stamina to keep it up in this hustle, like your sister. She’s
a woman, I need me a woman, not a sixteen-year-old school
twenty-five-cent piece of pussy. . . . I need a woman, now beat it.
I need you like I need a policeman knocking on my door. Come
on, get out . . . I got to get some rest and go out to find me a
woman. . . . Twenty dollars, that’s all the money you got, huh?
. . . Here’s your bag, get out ’cause you ain’t my bag. . . . (HE
grabs her by the arm and physically throws her out of the apart-
ment. SHE is cursing and pleading with him. HE begins to clean
up his place. Doorbell.) Yeah, who is it? Who . . . oh, yeah, man,
come on in, come on in. . . . Hey, man, excuse the place, but I had
quite a busy night, as you well know . . . real hassle with all that
378
went on here . . . a real hassle you’d never believe the shit that
jumped off in here tonight, man. . . . You tipped off in a hurry,
man, in a flash like lightening hurry . . . I guess I can nickname
you Superman and I’d be close, right?
TERRY: No, I have no nicknames . . . I really don’t need any visitors
bearing bad breath on your door while I’m here visiting you, can
you dig it, man?
DAVID: Sure . . . sure, I was just joking . . . you know, busting your
balls. . . . Man, everything went wrong tonight . . . nothing stood
on the road tonight . . . my life might be well described as a slip-
pery highway. . . . There I am, an invited trick and a whore star-
ing at each other and they turn out to be family . . . wow, what a
trip, man, what a trip. . . . God I’m lucky that the dude was a cold
loser hooked on the juice and not one of the gamblers of the
streets, elsewise I’d be in a world of trouble. . . . I might as well
write the day off to experience, that always works. . . . The little
chick you met with the big ass, Rosemarie’s little sister, she goes
off and tells Rosemarie, my woman, that she’s been laying in bed
with me. . . . Rosemarie walks out on me after that and she’s the
type of broad that does not make a comeback after she out of the
stage. Nope, she ain’t never coming into my bed again, not on this
side of hell. . . . You know, man, she was one helluva woman,
man, couldn’t do better with a dog . . . so what ya gonna do, man?
You could crash here until you don’t need the place anymore. Me,
I got to get me a nice hot bath and a . . . a . . . a . . . hell, I don’t
know what else I need to make me feel better, but a hot hot bath
will do for openers . . . (Goes into the bathroom.) Man, let me tell
you, I must have woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morn-
ing ’cause nothing really has gone right at all . . . nothing at all,
that’s a bitch . . . everybody gone . . . all the smoke smoked up,
the liquor gone . . . nothing left but some warm beer. That’s what
I got to leave behind in my will, my great estate, a pack of warm
beer . . . and a half of pack of stale cigarettes. . . . Had to throw
that little bitch out, a girl like that is a one-way ticket to prison or
to an early grave. . . . Yep, she’s the type that’ll cause a man a lot
of unnecessary pain and discomfort . . . that’s why I don’t deal
with young meat for any length of time, can’t handle it and it ain’t
worth the risk. . . . You wanna take a bath while I finish, you’re
welcome . . . can you hear me? Today has been a day that I won’t
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Miguel Piñero
want somebody to recite over my coffin during the text of my

eulogy . . . Hell no, you know what, Terry . . . I guess today just
ain’t my day . . . (During the course of DAVID’s speech TERRY
has prepared his gun with a silencer and walks into the bath-
room.)
TERRY: I guess not . . .
Curtain.
380
Afterword
BY JOSEPH PAPP
I
first met Miguel Piñero in 1972, shortly after his release from
Sing Sing penitentiary, where for the past year he had found the
courage to write and develop a play called Short Eyes about the
very place in which he was living. The following year I produced that
play, which proved to be one of the most powerful dramas ever seen
at New York’s Public Theater, and later moved it to Lincoln Center for
a highly successful run. If the unnerving honesty of Short Eyes, as
well as the raw corrosive force of its language, sometimes appeared to
be too much for middle-class audiences, the work nevertheless won
the New York Drama Critic’s Award for best play of the season. With
this first and best known of his many plays, Miguel has probably had
more impact on younger writers than any Latin playwright of his gen-
eration.
From Francois Villon to Jean Genet, Miguel belongs to a tradition
of writers whose devious and renegade lives paradoxically result in
the most painstaking devotion to the truth and rigor of their craft. All
dramatists of real value must sooner or later confront what for them is
truly dangerous, either within themselves or in the outside world. That
we the audience feel that danger and understand something of what it
is about is often what makes a play important and durable. If the life
of Miguel seems illusive and troubling, one can only applaud what is
so candidly engaged here by his art, where very little is stolen or bor-
rowed and a great deal is revealed. In this sense Miguel Piñero is as
blessed and as straight a writer as they come.
381

Outlaw: The Collected Works of Miguel Piñero by Miguel Piñero

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OUTLAW

THE COLLECTED WORKS OF

La Bodega Sold Dreams

Introduction by Nicolás Kanellos

Arte Público Press

Photograph of Miguel Piñero by Arlene Gottfried

SHORT EYES by Miguel Piñero. Copyright © 1974, 1975 by Miguel Piñero.

PREVIOUSLY UNPUBLISHED POEMS FROM THE CYCLE OF

OTHER PREVIOUSLY UNPUBLISHED POEMS

Afterword by Joseph Papp | 381

An expert and celebrant of the narcotics and sex trades in New

the unspeakable in an authentic but frequently censored American

Not one damn block

This tone of regret pervades much of Piñero’s more intimate verse

1 For an overview and description of these three trajectories of U. S. His-

Short Eyes, in television movies and in several episodes of Miami

THE NUYORICAN MOVEMENT

Marat/Sade (1964) and Beckett’s Endgame (1957), or even in Luis

the first two major Hispanic plays to be presented on Broadway

closed group of inmates. As Douglas Taylor observes in “Prison Slang

disappointing, often leading to humiliation because the gen-

contemporary playwrights who have chosen to explore similar set-

Piñero, Miguel. La Bodega Sold Dreams. Houston: Arte Público P,

dreamt i was a poet

i dreamt i was this poeta

perspiration insultin’ poets’

buyin’ bodega-sold dreams . . .

Just once before I die

So let me sing my song tonight

From Houston to 14th Street

There’s no other place for me to be

A thief, a junkie I’ve been

So here I am, look at me

I don’t wanna be buried in Puerto Rico

Before the beginning

puerto rico, 1974

Dedicated to those magnificent black women & their blond wigs

Black woman with the blond wig on

Black woman with the blond wig on

Black woman with the blond wig on

I dreamt I ran through the streets of Brownsville

Black woman with the blond wig on

Black woman with the blond wig on

Free, slave, black, twenty-one and blond.

Tiempos is longin’ lookin’

Fired last week man was I mad. I don’t mean angry

So I jumped on the elevator and bumped into my

So I crossed at the green with 60 others and the man

So I missed the express and took the local, sneaked

I ran into Rev Willy the preacherman who told me

So I busted the key in the door and stepped into

RUNNIN’ SCARED—RUNNIN’ SCARED

RUNNIN’ SCARED—RUNNIN’ SCARED

RUNNIN’ SCARED—RUNNIN’ SCARED

RUNNIN’ SCARED—RUNNIN’ SCARED

Que yo me cago en la madre tierra que

Spring Garden wears a welfare coat . . .

Fashion-minded eyes trod up & down

It’s 8 o’clock in the morning & latin bodies

Libraries are open 22 sundays a year . . .

The parents have headed off their cares to do

Cold callous metal concrete city streets

It’s 12 pm & fist fights break out on the

The pushers are up from their beauty sleep