Here’s an excerpt from a teleplay I intended for a Fox anthology series that was axed after only a few episodes in the mid 90's. The protagonist, a Tony Danza-type, addresses a “Beatnik Night” gathering at a Greenwich Village café. His pregnant wife is in the audience. Harry is the owner. It is a less than ten-minute read:
“Because my beliefs are conservative, I’m becoming a dwindling minority in a city I was born and raised in. Because I’m guided by the moral principles of my faith, I’m called reactionary. Because I believe that abortion is murder, I’m called a misogynist. Because I believe that feminism is largely whining, I’m called sexist. Because I believe that the cultural elite is usually wrong, I’m called intolerant. Because I believe that being a mother is more important than ninety-nine-percent of all jobs, I’m called an oppressor. Because I believe that many blacks give in to hopelessness rather than take advantage of their rights, I’m called a racist. Because I believe that most taxes are unjust, I’m called unpatriotic by leftists. Because I believe that liberalism is a cancer that threatens the greatness of this city and nation, I’m called an extremist. Because I believe that an able-bodied man who is jobless or homeless has only himself to blame, I’m called compassionless. Because I believe that we are becoming a nation of thin-skinned whiners who fear initiative, deny responsibility and look to government for handouts, I’m called morally retarded. Because of all of the above, I’m called politically incorrect, and I bask in it. Because I am strong and have learned initiative, I will endure no matter what obstacles fall in my way.”
During the recital there are a gamut of emotions: smirks, outrage, surprise, anxiety, nasty comments. Some patrons have walked out. Nina is ringing her hands. Harry is on edge. Finished, Dan gazes outward, now emboldened. The silence is suddenly acute.
“What d’you know about bein’ black?” a black man snaps.
“Only what I see. Why do so many succeed despite racism? Are they tokens? Tell that to Mel, who rushes from his job at the Exchange to his video shop every day. He started with a hundred tapes and was wise enough not to take a dime in government loans. Tell it to Katie, whose been payin’ her own way through college at night for six years. Tell it to the gentleman seated among us who patrols this neighborhood on horseback. Tell it to any black broker who’s earned trading privileges.”
“You’re a broker?” a woman sneers.
“Is that the product of the moral principles of your faith?” a man says ironically.
Dan stares defiantly. “Do I detect the air of prejudice here? You mean it’s true that liberals are tolerant only of liberal ideas? You mean it’s not possible to be honorable and a broker? Talk about stereotyping: ‘He’s rich, therefore he must be corrupt.’ Gimme a break. My parents were immigrants. Eighteen years ago I stumbled into a place I had no idea existed and I started workin’ my way up on as level a playin’ field there is. The city -- no, the country, should work half as well, half as equitably. I pay taxes quarterly, and probably a lot more than any of you.”
“And more in charity,” says Nina testily, turning heads.
“And I’m the bad guy? And now the ultimate treachery is on the way -- federal funding for abortion. My tax dollars are gonna go to the murder of innocents. The death camps’ve been back for years, and people are still lookin’ away.”
“Didn’t I read that in the New York Post?” says a woman sarcastically.
“Who are you to say what a woman should do with her body?” says another, rising.
“My objection is that government sanctions it, not with what women do with their bodies.”
“In other words, let’s go back to coat-hangers.”
“Shouldn’t despicable acts carry dire consequences? Thirty years ago abortions were one of the worst things anyone could imagine. Meanwhile, one of the consequences of its legality may be the callous disregard for life so prevalent in society today.”
“Let me guess,” says a man -- “William F. Buckley?”
“You are a misogynist,” says the woman who is standing.
Harry fidgets.
“Ask my wife if I am.”
“What kind of woman would marry you?”
“Hey!” Nina cries out, struggling to her feet. “Watch your mouth, witch, or I’ll drag you outside. You’ll never find a man like him -- never.”
Now Harry is really nervous.
“Easy, Nee,” says Dan softly. “It’s only words, like on the trading floor. Forgive my wife’s temper. She didn’t know me when I was in my twenties and a real chauvinist pig.”
The quip falls flat, swallowed by the overall tension. The woman sits, as does Nina. Harry breathes a sigh of relief.
“I owe you an apology, miss,” says Dan. “I was sure you’d run atta here in a huff before I finished. In fact, I owe you all one. I expected at lot more heat -- or aren’t you finished?”
“You already called yourself every name we could’ve,” says a man gruffly.
Dan chuckles.
Another man stands. “You haven’t said anything about sexuality. Should public shows of affection be restricted to heterosexuals?”
Dan smiles uncomfortably and begins a response.
My thanks to the kind folks who bought books on yet another spectacular day.
Vic's 3rd Novel: http://tinyurl.com/7e9jty3
