NATIVE SPEECH originally was to have been produced at The

r Chelsea Theatre Center, as part of the Chelsea's 1980-81

season. Unfortunately, the Chelsea was forced to close its
doors just before NATIVE SPEECH was to go into rehearsal. It
subsequently had several staged readings, at Playwrights
Horizons (New York City) and Center Stage (Baltimore)
and elsewhere, directed by Paul Berman, with Dwight
Schultz and Stephen Markle as Hungry Mother. The author
wishes to thank the actors who participated in those
readings: Raul Aranas, Nicky Paraiso, Ernest Abuba, Haru
Aki, Jodi Long, Ron Nakahara, Ann McDonough, Beverly
Barbieri, Bill Cobbs, Ving Rhames, Freda Foh Shen, and
Charles Button.
NATIVE SPEECH received its professional premiere at The
Los Angeles Actors Theatre on June 9, 1983, with the
following cast:
Hungry Mother John Horn
Freddy Navajo Christine Avila
Free Lance Candy Ann Brown
Belly Up Al Stevenson
Charlie Samoa Miguel Fernandes
Johnny Sucrose Billy Edgar
Jimmy Shillelagh/Crazy Joe Navajo Enrique Kandre
Janis Robin Ginsburgh
Mook John LaFayette
Hoover Henry Bal
Loud Speaker Lisa Thayer
It was directed by John Olon with set design by A. Clark
Duncan, lights by Barbara Ling, and costumes by Fred
Chuang. It was produced by Diane White. The Produc-
ing/Artistic Director for the LAAT was Bill Bushnell.
The author would like to thank the following for their sup-
port and encouragement: Robert Kalfin, Paul Berman,
Robin Hirsch, Jim Harris, Elinor Fuchs, Dwight Schultz,
Michael Howard, Chris Howard, Jeff Brooks, Arnold
Cooper, Andre Bishop, John Arnone, Margaret Roiphe,
Stan Wojewodski,. Peter Culman, Jack Phippen, Michael
Landrum, John Olon, John Wellman, Mark Lamos, Diane
White, Bill Bushnell, Adam Leipzig, Steven Dansky,
Stephen Markle, and John Glore.
r
ACT ONE
(The Studio. HUNGRY MOTHER. Red lights blinking in the black.
A needle scrapes across a record. A low hum. Hum builds: the
Konelrad Civil Defense Signal. HUNGRY MOTHER bops with the
tone, tscats with it. The tone builds, breaks off. Silence. HUNGRY
MOTHER leans over the mike, says in a so-good-it-hurts voice:~)
HUNGRY MOTHER: O, that's a hit. Hungry Mother plays
the hits, only the hits. I want some seafood, mama. (Beat.']
This is your Hungry Mother here—and you know it.
(Lights. HUNGRY MOTHER is a shambly, disheveled man in his
late thirties. The Broadcast Indicator—a blue light bulb on the
mike—is 'on'. And so is HUNGRY MOTHER.)
HUNGRY MOTHER: (Cooool.) Static. Dead air. Can't beat it.
With a stick. Audio entropy. In-creases ever-y-where.
Home to roost. Crack a six-pack of the ambient sound.
(Beat.} You've been groovin' and duckin' to the ever-
popular sound of "Air Raid"-—by Victor Chinaman. Moan
with the tone. A blast from the past. With vocal variations
by yours truly. The Hungry Mother. (Beat.) Hard enough
for you? (A little more up tempo.) Hungry Mother here, your
argot argonaut. Stick with us. Solid gold and nothing but.
Hungry Mother be playing the hits, playing them hits, for
you, jes' for youuuu . . .
(Full-out manic now.) Uh-huh! Into the smokey blue! Comin'
at you! Get out de way! Hungry Mother gonna hammer,
gonna glide, gonna slide, gonna bop, gonna drop, gonna
dance dem ariel waves, til he get to you, yes you! Razzle
you, dazzle you, blow you a-way! This one gonna hammer
. . . gonna hammer you blue!
(Dryly.) Flatten you like a side of beef, sucker.
(Mellifluous.) This is WTWI, it's 7:34, the weather is dark,
dormant species are stirring, cold and warm bloods both,
ACT ONE ' 3
r 2 NATIVE SPEECH
wrench. The Superchief slips the jack—^and pins Hoover by
muck is up, and I'm the Hungry Mother. The weather
his ... pickin' hand.
outlook is for continued existential dread under cloudy skies
with scattered low-grade distress. Look out for the Green- (Beat.) WIPE OUT!
house Effect . . . We'll be back, but first—a word about
(Beat.) Crushed dem bones to milk.
succulents-—
(Beat. Flicks switches. Then, subdued, reasonable.) We're coming (Risingfrenzy.) But now he's back. Back where he belongs!
to you live, from our syncopated phonebooth high above the With the aid of a prosthetic device! Back on the charts again!
floating bridge in violation of several natural laws, searching, PIONEER OF PATHO-ROCK! (Slight pause. Then: warm,
strolling, and trolling, for the sweetest music this side of hip.) Many happy returns of the day, Hoover, for you and
yours.
Heaven.
(Beat. Then:) Back at you! This is the Hungry Mother, just (Flicks switches. Mellow.) The sun is up, officially, and all good
barely holding on, at WTWI, the cold-water station with the things, according to the laws of thermodynamics, must come
bird's-eye view, on this beautifully indeterminate morning, to an end. Join us—tomorrow—for something approaching
bringin' you monster after musical monster. Ghuckin' 'em solitude. WTWI now relents and gives up the ghost of its
down the pike, humpin' 'em up and over the DMZ, in a broadcasting day.
never-ending effort to make a dent in that purple purple tex- (He flicks switches. The blue light, the Broadcast Indicator, goes
ture. And right now I've got what you've all been waiting 'off1. Over the loudspeakers, a woman's voice, live.)
for—Hungry Mother's HAMMER OF THE WEEK! And
Mother's Hammer for this week, forty-seven with a silver LOUD SPEAKER: Aspects of the Hungry Mother.
bullet—"Fibreglass Felony Shoes"—something slick—by HUNGRY MOTHER: (Reading from a book of matches.) Success
Hoover and the Navajos. without college. Train at home. Do not mail matches.
(Now modest, compassionate, friendly, slightly patronizing.) And, as LOUD SPEAKER: Hungry Mother hits the streets.
always, behind every Mother's Hammer of the Week—there's
a human being. And a human interest story. You're probably HUNGRY MOTHER: (To LOUD SPEAKER.) I be gone . . . but
hip to this already, but I'm gonna lay it on you anyway. I lef my name to carry on.
Hoover—is a full-blooded, red-blooded Native American. One of (HUNGRY MOTHER shuffles into the street. FREE LANCE ap-
several in the annals of illustrated American Pop. proaches. They recognize one another, tense, draw closer. They do a
(Slight pause.) Hoover had a monster a few years back: street dance, slow, sexy, dangerous. Freeze. They release. FREE
"Fiberglass Rock"—just a giant on the Res. And else- LANCE slides back and out.)
where. That, mais out, was before the tragic accident in LOUD SPEAKER: Hungry Mother after hours.
which Hoover1—-ah, I don't know if this is public knowledge
—but, o why not grovel in gore? (Bopping.) With the fallout (HUNGRY MOTHER slides into the bar where there is a solitary
from his titanium monster, "Fiberglass Rock", Hoover put figure drinking.)
something down on a preowned dream, a Pontiac Super- HUNGRY MOTHER: Belly Up.
chief, drive it away. A steal. A machine. Four on the floor and
three on the tree, a herd of horses under the hood! (Mock BELLY UP: Say what?
melodrama.) Four flats. Cracked axle. Hoover—his heart as HUNGRY MOTHER: Belly Up, it's been a coon's age.
big and red as the great outdoors—goes down . . . with a
r
4 NATIVE SPEECH ACT ONE 5
BELLY UP: I know you? HUNGRY MOTHER: Belly Up, you have the gift, you surely
do. It's a wonder you don't pursue some purely metaphorical
HUNGRY MOTHER: Think it over.
calling.
BELLY UP: Buy me a drink.
BELLY UP: My sentiments precisely. Please indulge me as I
HUNGRY MOTHER: City jail. continue to flesh out my figure . . . Hungry Mother turns
BELLY UP: (Checks him out.} Hungry Mother. What it is, tricks quicker than a dockside hooker hustling her habit. He
Mom, what it is. How's it goin;; Home? How goes the sup- fences insights, pawns epiphanies. And we redeem those
tickets in nasty corners. You the laser wizard. The magnetic
purating sore?
pulse. The cardiac arrest. The barbarians have smashed the
HUNGRY MOTHER: It's coming along. Thank you. plate glass window of Western Civ and are running amok in
BELLY UP: (Grinning.) Hungry Mother. Whose tones are the bargain basement. (Slight pause. HUNGRY MOTHER ap-
legion. Hungry Mother, voice of darkness. Impressario of plauds.) Thank you. Transistor insights. Diode data.
derangement. Tireless promoter of patho-rock. The man Crystal-tube revelations. That why we dial you in, Mothah.
who'll air that wax despair. HUNGRY MOTHER: You and who else?
HUNGRY MOTHER: When no one else will dare. BELLY UP: You'd be surprised. (Pause.) I got a chopper on
BELLY UP: The quintessential Cassandra. The damn Jonah the roof.
who hacked his way out of the whale. Hungry Mother, the HUNGRY MOTHER: What? (BELLY UP winks and laughs.
bleating gurgle of those who've had their throats cut. HUNGRY MOTHER, puzzled, pausesfor a moment, then pushes on.)
HUNGRY MOTHER: You give me too much, Belly Up, my Look, I got a question for you. Say the hoodlums, punks,
boy. It's all air time. Air-waves access, that's what it's all pervos, perps, feral children, coupon clippers, and all the
about. I just prop 'em up over the mike and let 'em other bargain basement thrift shoppers, say they skip
bleed-—gurgle gurgle pop short. Housewares. Sporting goods. Electronic lingerie. Junior
misses. All the lower floor diversions. And go straight for the
BELLY UP: Credit where credit is due. suites at the top.
HUNGRY MOTHER: (Black, Southern preacher.) Why, thank BELLY UP: (Laughs.) I got a chopper on the roof! Got my
you, Brother Belly. It's a comfort to know that, a genuine own sweet chopper to take me outa this! See? I anticipate
solid comfort. My cup is filled with joy to know that some- your question. Like I anticipate the situation. And the
one's really listening. Why, late at night and on into the answer. An-ti-cipate. Got to have that getaway hatch,
dawn, I have my doubts, I surely do. Casting my Mother. Got to have it. Even a fool can see what's comin'.
pearls—over the brink— (Slight pause.) You're sensitive, Mother. We can read you like
a rectal therm. Any little fluctuation. Fuck Dow Jones. We
BELLY UP: (Picking it up.) Into the trough. On a wing and a
got the good stuff. (Slight pause.) We tune you in, we know
prayer. Before the swine of despond. (Pause.) Not so,
when to split. Any little flue. You our miner's canary,
Hungry Mother, not so; not a bit. Your words hang on the
Mother. We hang you out there on the hook, and hope you
barbed wire of evening, glistering in the urban nether vapors
smell the gas in time. You croak—-we go.
like a diamond choke chain on black satin.
HUNGRY MOTHER: I'll try to give you five.
r
NATIVE SPEECH ACT ONE 7
BELLY UP: Man, five is all I ask. My ears are glued. keeps oozing away! And now-—-Mother's got what you've all
HUNGRY MOTHER: Keep those cards and letters coming. So been waiting for—nearly an hour of unrelieved agony!
I know you're still glued. Twilight Desperation News! Brought to you by Universal
Antipathy—Universal Antipathy, engendering tensions all
BELLY UP: Don't sweat. As long as you still singing, we still over the globe—and by Sorghum—a fast food whose time is
listening. When you on the air, we say "Hosannah!". ripe ripe ripe! Invest in sorghurn futures today! And now the
HUNGRY MOTHER: Say "Hungry!", sweetheart. hour's top headlines.
(Newscaster tones, pounding out a teletype rhythm on a tiny plastic
(They toast. Darkness. As HUNGRY MOTHER walks back into the typewriter as he speaks.}
studio his amplified voice booms over the PA.)
"Killer Bees from Brazil Drop Texas Rangers in Their
HUNGRY MOTHER: (On tape.} Hoover is crawling back from Tracks" . . . "Starfish Finish Off Great Barrier Reef" . . .
near annihilation, a mighty mean accident for the little red quote, "The sky's the limit", endquote . . . One last note
man — for you nature lovers: fossil fuels now coat 87 % of the known
(Lights. HUNGRY MOTHER freezes at the mike.} universe. Those slicks are tough. No wonder dry-cleaning
costs an arm and two legs . . . On the international beat,
LOUD SPEAKER: Further aspects of the Hungry expatriate citizens of the island of Malta are demanding
Mother-— revealed1. For the very first time — the Hungry restitution from the community of nations. Malta was mug-
Mother in jail! ged early yesterday by two large black countries with
(The jail appears in a flash of light: CHARLIE SAMOA an hydrogen knuckles . . . it sank without a trace. Shades of
and JlMMY . Jail vanishes. Lights up on HUNGRY MOTHER. He Krakatoa. The usual measures to contain the radioactive
breaks freeze. Flicks switches, blue light "on".} dusk are being implemented with, as one official so succinctiy
put it, little or no chance of success. We'll have more this
HUNGRY MOTHER: (High speed.} Career-wise, a mighty hour on the latest in genetic mutation, both here and
mean accident, a tough break for the little red man. We'll be abroad, but first—late, and leg, breaking sports . . .
back with the Prick Hit of the Week — ha, ha, oh-— Freudian
(HUNGRY MOTHER picks up a pair of mechanical birds, and winds
faux pas— Pick Hit of the Week, "Nuking the Chinks", by
them into motion: they waddle and squawk.}
Dragon Lady and the Flying Paper Tigers, but first — a word
about peccaries . . . Friends — like so many vanishing HUNGRY MOTHER: (To the birds.} You're brilliant and
species, these ugly little critters need your help. A tusk or you're blue . . . conjugal bijou babies. Doves of love. Beaks
two, a hoof, a stewpot of glue. It's all over for them, but of lazuli, warbles of tin. (The birds wind down and halt.}
what about their by-products? (Dramatic} Next week — blue HUNGRY MOTHER: (Intones.} Wound down.
whales and dog food.
(He eats beans from a can.}
(Mellifluous.} This is WTWI, the station with no visible
means of support, this is a weekday, this is the Hungry HUNGRY MOTHER: Interlude In Which Beans Are Eaten.
Mother, blistering the dusk to dawn shift, grinding 'em LOUD SPEAKER: The authorized autobiography of the
down and pulling 'em out, monster after effervescent Hungry Mother. The truth—with a twist!
monster. Holocaust warnings are up. They continue to HUNGRY MOTHER: First . . . lemme say . . . un-
machine-gun survivors outside our studio. And the ozone equivocally—and between bites—that the Hungry Mother
NATIVE SPEECH ACT ONE
was made, not born. Not of woman born. Heh heh heh. of bliss-out and fat poisoning. Watch out for those
Puts me up there with the all-time greats, right? I want to be psychoparalytic hallucinations! They can be tricky! Speak-
most emphatic about this. The Hungry Mother is—my own ing of weather, the outlook through the weekend remains
creation. Nom de wireless! Home-made man! So fine! bleak. Our five-day forecast calls for continued historical
uneasiness mingled with intermittent bouts of apocalyptic
LOUD SPEAKER: Hungry scat! Mother doo wop!
epiphany, and occasional oxygen debt—under cloudy skies.
HUNGRY MOTHER: (To the mike, sings) So wear your rubbers . . .
Put on your felony shoes (Jaunty} This has been The Agony News Hour, an exclusive
Put on your felony shoes twilight feature of WTWI, with your host, the Hungry
Everybody gonna want you to Mother. Stay tuned for "Name My Race", the game guar-
Put on your felony shoes anteed to offend nearly everyone, brought to you by Ethnic
Come on wit5 me Considerations, dedicated to exacerbating racial tensions
We gonna cut somethin' loose through violence—Ethnic Considerations, a hallmark of the
We gonna boost Twentiem century, don't leave home without them.
Something fine (He holds a stack of letters impaled on a bowie knife. He plucks off the
And shiny and new top letter and reads it in a cheery DJ voice.}
If you'll jes'
Put on your felony shoes HUNGRY MOTHER: "Dear Mother: My boyfriend has a
fishhook in the end of his penis. This makes congress dif-
LOUD SPEAKER: And now—number one with a dum- ficult. Even painful. What can I do about it? Signed, Afraid
dum—Mother's Hammer Too Hot To Handle! to Swallow." (He crumples it up and tosses it away.}
HUNGRY MOTHER: And now, getting tons of extended hot HUNGRY MOTHER: Eighty-six that. Prick Hit of the Week.
air play in S and M loading zones and up and down the Cranks. Who do they think they're kidding. I'm not just
leather docks from coast to disco coast-—-the newest from fooling around here. (Next letter.}
Hoover and the Navajos-—-parvenu of patho-rock—"Fiber-
"Dear Mother: My husband is an unreconstructed Stalinist. He
glass Creep and the Rotating Tumors!"
refuses to de-Stalinize, knowing that recantation would expose
(He begins teletype noise, and speaks gravely.) Police today busted a him as an accomplice to the most heinous crimes of this vile cen-
waterfront distillery, arresting twenty-seven adults. The tury. This ideological rift has been the recrudescent cause of
distillery produces a wine brewed from the sores of children, numerous domestic conflicts and, I believe, threatens the dialec-
which is quite popular locally and in the contiguous states, and tic of our marriage. Just yesterday I suggested opening bilateral
easily available without a prescription. The cops said the kids summit talks on the question of rehabilitating Trotsky for the
were kept in cages underneath the piers because, quote, the salt family shrine of revolutionary heroes, and he broke my jaw.
water facilitates the festeration process, endquote. The Dear Mother, for the sake of the children, what do you suggest?
perpetrators will be arraigned tomorrow on tax-evasion Signed, Just a Bourgeois Social Fascist At Heart."
charges, and the children, several hundred of them, have been
(Slight pause.} Dear Just a Bourgeois: I suggest a fight to the
released into the custody of leading lending institutions . . .
death with needle-nosed pliers. (He tears it up.} What's hap-
(Upbeat.} The blockbuster scoop this solid gold pening to the language? It's scary, Jim. The Great Nuance
weekend—thousands of citizens roaming the streets in states Crisis is upon us. One last letter for this fiscal year.
r 10 NATIVE SPEECH ACT ONE 11
(A cheery DJ voice.} ' 'Dear Mother: I listen to you every night. own time. A man who knows the score. Who never lets the
You are a great comfort to me. I don't know what I'd do sun get in his eyes. A man with no holes in his cosmic
without you. Please help me, Mother. It hurts so bad I can glove . . . I am speakin' of course about . . . Cocaine
barely talk. Signed, Desperate." (Slight pause.) Dear Ricky. (Slight pause.} Your friend and mine. (Slight pause.}
Desperate . . . For once I'm at a loss for words. (Slight Brothers and sisters, Cocaine Ricky tell me there be some
pause.) Perhaps you've mistaken me for your natural mighty cold stuff goin' 'round out there, and I just want you
mother. I'm nobody's mama, sweetheart. (Slight pause.) to watch it. Very very cold. Ice cold. Dude be pushin', be
Dear Desperate, I can't help you—if you don't give me pushin' it as snow. You know? Snow fall. Snow job. Snow
something more to go on. Who are you, where, and what's blind. Snow go. (Slightpause.} Ain't snow. It's Lance. Lance.
troubling you, Bunky. Please try and nail it down a little (Slight pause.} Instant death. (Slight pause.} Powdered nerve
closer, dear . . . Friends, got an esoteric problem? Send it to gas. (Slight pause.} Government issue. Sooo cooold. Huh!
Mother and he'll devour it for you. And now it's time once (HUNGRY MOTHER and FREE LANCE enter the studio. She is
again for-—• The Big Dose, A Taste Of Things To Come, when the
dressed to street-kill.}
Mother lets you in on what it's really gonna be like once the
rude boys start playing for keeps. So here it is, tonight, at no FREE LANCE: This place looks like a Cargo Cult beach head.
extra charge, Hungry Mother brings you more than two You always had a knack for dives, Mother.
hours of—dead air. Enjoy.
HUNGRY MOTHER: Thank you very much.
(Flicks switches. Slue light "off". Shrugs into an overcoat and goes FREE LANCE: I don't truck with the radio much. It doesn't oc-
into the street. Encounters FREE LANCE. They do their dance, as
cur to me. It's not one of my . . . habits. I don't have time for
before. Freeze. Slight pause.}
media. What I'm saying is—I haven't caught your show.
LOUD SPEAKER: Hungry Mother—Street Solo! HUNGRY MOTHER: Fuck you very much.
(He runs downstage scatting some "theme11 music. At the appropriate FREE LANCE: Don't be bitter.
moment:}
(Slight pause.}
LOUD SPEAKER: And now! Heeeeeeeere's . . . HUNGRY!!
HUNGRY MOTHER: Where you live dese days, honey chile?
HUNGRY MOTHER: (Bopping.} Could be Japanese! . . .
Genetic . . . engineering! Charnel—numbah-—-five! Smokel FREE LANCE: On the docks.
(Changing gears.} Friends . . . let's have a chat. Heart to HUNGRY MOTHER: Couldn't cotch me down dere, anyways.
heart. Would Mother hand you a bum steer? . . . As you
know, the suggested agenda topic for today's luncheon FREE LANCE: Armegeddon Arms. Condos de rigueur. Sing
is ... Why Do De Gu'mint Be De Boz Ob De Scag Trade, Sing singles. Know them?
or ... Methadone—Magic or Madness? . . . But I, uh, I HUNGRY MOTHER: No, but I know the neighborhood. In-
have something of more immediate import to ... impart. timately. (Black again.} What chew dew down dere, woman?
(Slight pause.} Friends . . . let's talk about . . . crude drugs. You ain't involved with dem child distellers, is you?
(Clears throat.} Brothers and sisters, I was down at the Hotel FREE LANCE: I don't believe so. Not to my knowledge. It
Abyss the other day, down at that old Hotel Abyss, when I hasn't come to my attention. You ought to come visit me,
chance to run into an old old friend of mine. A legend in his Mother.
12 NATIVE SPEECH
ACT ONE 13
HUNGRY MOTHER: I should, it's true.
hours of—dead air. C'est frommage. The time just got away
FREE LANCE: It's much nicer than this, really. Chrome fur- from me there, mon cher. We'll be phasing out our broad-
niture. It'd be a change. casting day with vanishing species animal noises, what a
HUNGRY MOTHER: I don't get out much. Don't leave the hoot. And we'll finish off with a new one, got it in the mail
'hood. I'm cooped. today, from the purveyors of patho-rock, Hoover and the
Navajos, their latest—"Fiberglass Repairman"! (Sings a
FREE LANCE: Cooped. slow blues, keeping the beat with handslams.)
HUNGRY MOTHER: Up. HUNGRY MOTHER: (Sings.)
FREE LANCE: It's very outre, you know. Swank and chic in I'll insulate yo' home
the nastier neighborhoods. I just crave the danger. It's nar- I'll fibreglass yo' phone
cotic. And there's really nothing to worry about. The build- An' I'll Navajogate
ing itself is just the best. Impregnable. White boys from The little woman
Missoura. Befo' yo'
HUNGRY MOTHER: I can appreciate that. Back is turned.
FREE LANCE: Eliminates the Fifth Column spectre. My (Low key.) Just breaks my goddamn heart. Sayonara, kids.
parents never hired black servants. No mammies for me. I'll be back later in the week at my regularly unscheduled
Don't tell me about race loyalty. When push comes to time. So—keep dialing and keep hoping. This is the Hungry
shove, I mean. Save on silver, too. And being near the water Mother, the man who put the hun back in hungry, remind-
gives me a warm warm feeling. ing you to stay cool, take it light, and say—Hungryl (Slight
pause, then cool and bureaucratic.) WTWI has now pissed
HUNGRY MOTHER: For a quick and hasty exit. away/Its broadcasting day. (HUNGRY MOTHER switches the
FREE LANCE: When the time comes. We've made the ar- blue light "off".)
rangements. There won't be any trouble. When the time FREE LANCE: I'm surprised you don't lose your license.
comes.
HUNGRY MOTHER: Tell you the secret of my success.
HUNGRY MOTHER: You'll take some casualties, of course. Nobody hears me. This tube gear eats it. Raw. I got a radius
FREE LANCE: When the time comes. Probably. Of course. range of under a mile. Barely covers one police precinct. I'm
One learns to live with one's losses. very proud of my precinct. It ain't much, but it's home. I
pledge allegiance to my precinct . . . Nobody lives up here.
HUNGRY MOTHER: Don't one? That reminds me. (Heflicks 'S all bomb-outs. Gutted projects. Arsonated rubble.
switches: blue light "on".'}
FREE LANCE: Listener response?
HUNGRY MOTHER: (Red hot.} Back at you, sports, this is the
Hungry Momma, the one and only, the original Hungry HUNGRY MOTHER: Rubble don't write a lot of post cards.
Momma, accept no substitutes, coming at you out of the The junkies call me sometimes. Hit Line requests. Sugar
blue-black on this elusive weekday ay-em in a possibly tran- Bear and Oz. They call on their anniversary. Four years, a
sitional stage in the floodtide of human affairs. Let the mutual monkey. Many happy returns of the day. Born to
historians decide. You've been listening—-to more than two junk. Scrapin' along and strung far-out on meth-a-done.
Sugar Bear and Oz, this is the hit, this is the one, to which
14 NATIVE SPEECH ACT ONE 15
you first shot each other up and fell in love, oh so long ago'. HUNGRY MOTHER: I'm not surprised. "Polish Vodka".
Sugar Bear and Oz, up on the roof, this one's for you. So FREE LANCE: Very tasty. I was all over the society pages.
slick. But I gave it up when I left the Agency. It's Free Lance now.
FREE LANCE: (Laughs.} One hears stories. HUNGRY MOTHER: Oooo. Evocative. (Slight pause.) I prefer
HUNGRY MOTHER: It's been known to happen. Polish Vodka.
FREE LANCE: About you, dear. One hears them. In the air. (Slight pause.)
Snatches. All over. Faceless celeb. You ought to take pre- FREE LANCE: If wishes were horses.
cautions. You have more listeners than you think. Than you
might imagine. (Slight pause.)
HUNGRY MOTHER: Funny you should say that. I have been HUNGRY MOTHER: If the river was whiskey.
getting more letters. Got one today, it was a mistake. She (Slight pause.)
mistook me. It's a serious letter.
FREE LANCE: You've always been the Hungry Mother. Ever
FREE LANCE: Aren't they all? since I've known you. (Pause.) I work for the Mook now.
HUNGRY MOTHER: Just crazy. This one was crazy, too. But HUNGRY MOTHER: The Mook. Oh my.
serious.
FREE LANCE: Again. That's how I heard about you. That's
FREE LANCE: What are you going to do about it? how I tracked you down.
HUNGRY MOTHER: What can you do about it? HUNGRY MOTHER: The Mook? Listens to me?
FREE LANCE: Respond. FREE LANCE: Faithfully.
(Pause.) HUNGRY MOTHER: It's almost an honor. In a patho-spastic
sort of way.
HUNGRY MOTHER: She wants help.
FREE LANCE: He told me you were back on the air.
FREE LANCE: Then help her.
HUNGRY MOTHER: How? HUNGRY MOTHER: I'll have to upgrade my shit. Can't have
no cut-rate shit if the Mook's tuned in.
(Pause.) FREE LANCE: You ought to be more careful. The Mook's
FREE LANCE: I've changed my name. worried about your license.
HUNGRY MOTHER: Ah. (Slight pause.)
FREE LANCE: I've altered it. HUNGRY MOTHER: I don't have no license. And I'd bet my
momma he knows that. His momma, too. How's his recep-
HUNGRY MOTHER: I remember. You were into brand tion? Where's he based?
names. Rumor had it. "Canned Soup".
FREE LANCE: He floats.
FREE LANCE: Generic. Not brand, generic. That one didn't
stick. (Pause.)
16 NATIVE SPEECH ACT ONE 17
HUNGRY MOTHER: Why'd you go back? BELLY UP: You're getting better. More conscientious.
Know what I saw? In a window. A record. By Hoover and
FREE LANCE: Oh, honey. (Laughs.} Oh, honey. I'd drink his the Navajos.
bathwater. (Beat.} I did super at the Agency. It was dull,
darling. Dull as crushed rock. For them. On my own, it's a (Long pause.}
breeze. Free Lance. Don't you just dig the shit out of it? HUNGRY MOTHER: Outstanding. (Pause.} Was there a pic-
(Pause. Cool smile; sardonic.} I love the way he beats me, ture? What'd they look like?
Mother. Swell hands. Something of a setback for personal
liberation, right Mother? (Slight pause.} I tried to cut him BELLY UP: No picture. Crazy thing. It came in a fiberglass
loose. dust jacket. I got that shit up my ass. It burns like hell. Gets
into every damn nook and cranny. Fibers. They're far out.
HUNGRY MOTHER: You sure you're not involved with those They're a far out group. Insulation. Navajogation. Kills me.
kids? Ask Mook. This—?
FREE LANCE: Mook doesn't do kids. You're very tender, HUNGRY MOTHER: Patho-rock.
Mother, but I could never count on you. Maybe after the
revolution. BELLY UP: Knocks my socks off. Patho-rock. I love it. Better
than mime for the blind. Heaps better. "Fiberglass Entre"!
HUNGRY MOTHER: Right. The coup d'etat will make us "Fiberglass Felony Shoes"! "Carcinogenic Concierge"!
straight . . . Thanks for stopping by, uh, Free Lance. Can you dig it? Blows me away. You ought to have them on
Always nice to see you. the show.
FREE LANCE: You, too, Mother. Like old times. Good, yes? HUNGRY MOTHER: Don't bug me, Belly Up. I just get this
stuff in the mail.
HUNGRY MOTHER: Absolutely golden. Better than a poke in
the eye with a sharp stick. The best of them. BELLY UP: From the record company.
FREE LANCE: Don't become a stranger, Mother. (She drifts HUNGRY MOTHER: From nobody. It just floats in on the tide.
into the street. HUNGRY MOTHER slides into the bar. BELLY UP is BELLY UP: You're gonna break 'em, Mother. You're gonna
drinking, alone. He's wearing his old sergeant's fatigue jacket, the break 'em big. When I saw them in a store I was fiber-
shadow of the chevrons still visible on the sleeve.} glassted. Heh heh. I had no idea they were for real. I thought
BELLY UP: You're taking off like a target-seeking, heat- you . . . created them, you know? The holy power of PR.
sensitive, laser-directed, anti-personnel device. Stuffed with HUNGRY MOTHER: So did I. In a way, I mean. As far as I
shrapnel. Plastic shrapnel. (Laughs.} Cluster bomb, Mom. know, I don't know if there really is a "Hoover and."
Cluster bomb! (Slight pause.} Plastic shrap don't X-ray.
That's the holy beauty of it. X-rays can't cope. Can't lo-cate
BELLY UP: I purchased it.
it. Can't dig it out. (Slightpause.} Cluster fuck. (Slight pause.} HUNGRY MOTHER: LP or single?
Hungry Mother, the voice of the voiceless, the articulator of
BELLY UP: LP. A botanica. Voodoo boutique. Haitian herb
the ineffable, the thing that goes bump in the night. I never
shop. I was on the prowl for a pack of mojo and a slice of
miss a show. John the Conqueroo. Saw it in amongs the loas and the gris-
HUNGRY MOTHER: I wish I could say the same. gris.
18 NATIVE SPEECH ACT ONE 19
HUNGRY MOTHER: That's a good sign. That's encouraging. HUNGRY MOTHER: I hear you. (Slight pause} I hear you.
Those places are more underground than I am. Maybe we (Beat} Belly Up, I keep getting these letters.
can nip this in the bud. I'd hate for it to get out of hand. I
never intended to inflict Hoover and the Navajos on the (The bar fades. HUNGRY MOTHER on the streets,}
general public. Something like this. A trend. LOUD SPEAKER: Aspects of the Hungry Mother. The
BELLY UP: Maybe they're ready for it. Look at it this Hungry Mother in Jail.
way-—-Hungry Mother, hit maker! (The jail scene appears: CHARLIE SAMOA, and JOHNNIE awrfJlMMY
in silhouette.}
HUNGRY MOTHER: Right. Just another top-forty jock.
Sounds good. I want it. I need it. I want to have HUNGRY MOTHER: This is a flashback. A reprise. I don't
impact . . . I'm a fucking artist, man. I want to be taken think I care for this right now.
seriously.
LOUD SPEAKER: Mariana, manana. You're just postponing
BELLY UP: To which end? the inevitable. It's on the playlist, baby. This is a very tight
HUNGRY MOTHER: The bitter end, natch. Tell me, Belly, to playlist.
what do you attribute my sudden surge of popularity? HUNGRY MOTHER: Maybe later. How about? I want a
BELLY UP: To the fact you're coming in loud and clear. reprieve from this reprise.
Everywhere I go, Hungry Mother, that's who folks be LOUD SPEAKER: (Miffed.} You're just postponing the sooner
talkin' bout. or later, babe.
HUNGRY MOTHER: Where do you go? HUNGRY MOTHER: Fuck off.
BELLY UP: Dark places. Places that slide. Places that aren't (Jail fades. HUNGRY MOTHER runs into the studio and flicks the
quite solid underfoot. You're becoming very big on the blue light "on".}
fringes. Amongst the rubble. Don't be downcast. You're ar-
ticulating a definite need. HUNGRY MOTHER: Hey! This be your happy, hopping, and
high-speed Hungry Mother—-doin' it to you before you can
HUNGRY MOTHER: Don't think I'm not grateful. I like it. I do it to yourself. Our special this hour, Hungry Mother's
love it. Here I thought I was only reaching my local rubble, Horoscope-—a penetrating peek at the Big Zee. So stick
and now you tell me I'm a smash in the rubble all over town. around and watch the Mother scope it and dope it—just for
BELLY UP: An idea whose time has come. you. Also on the bill this o-bliterated amorphous morn—•
broken glass . . . and—Hungry Mother's Consumer Guide to
HUNGRY MOTHER: It's a heavy responsibility. Walk me Junk, where to score and what to pay, where to shoot and
home, Belly Up. what to say, all the places and all the pushers, why not have
BELLY UP: Sorry. Not at this hour. I don't leave the bar. the best possible habit in this, the Best, of all possible
worlds? But first—this hour's top headlines.
HUNGRY MOTHER: What are you afraid of?
(Teletype sound and newscaster voice.} That illegal cordial made
(Pause.}
from kid pus is still circulating. Several deaths have been re-
BELLY UP: Get your hungry ass over here on time, I'll give ported . . . More mastodon sightings in the North Cascades
you a lift. Back to the World. . . . Wolves in the outlying districts—if you're walking in
20 NATIVE SPEECH ACT ONE 21
the suburbs this morning, remember—Wolf Warnings are up. HUNGRY MOTHER: Sure. C'mon up.
Pedestrians are advised to travel in packs and exercise the
(Slight pause.)
usual precautions . . . We'll be back after something brief.
This is WTWI, and this is the Hungry Mother, live—if you JANIS: This is serious. I want to meet you. (Slight pause.)
call this living, from our Twilight Studios. Remember to say, Mother. I really need to see you. Please . . . Can you tell
"Hungry!" And now, another interminable episode of "Sex- me how to get there?
ual Shadow Land," the show that's sweeping the station. HUNGRY MOTHER: Sure. Ah, it's One Marauder Avenue,
(Rod Serling:) His was an ordinary fetish—with a dif- just past Faghag Park. Always hungry to have visitors in the
ference—(Phone rings.) I'll get it. (Flicks switches.) You're on studio, little lady.
the air! Hey there! (He hangs up. Looks pointedly at the "on" blue light.)
JANIS: (Live, over P.A.) HeUo? (Hello? hello?) Whatever happens. Hang loose. Go with the flow. Every-
HUNGRY MOTHER: Turn down your radio! Please! Turn it thing is everything.
down! (The Jail scene appears. HUNGRY MOTHER walks into it. The trio
regards him ravenously.)
JANIS: What? (What? what?)
CHARLIE SAMOA: My name is Charlie Samoa.
HUNGRY MOTHER: Turn that radio down! Turn it down!
You're on the air! Trust me! HUNGRY MOTHER: Right away.
JANIS: Okay! (Okay! okay!) CHARLIE SAMOA: And these are ... the Samoans. (In-
dicating the transvestite.) Johnnie Sucrose—take a bow,
(When JANIS next speaks, the echo and feedback are gone.) sweetie—and Jimmy Shillelagh.
JANIS: Better? HUNGRY MOTHER: Charmed, I'm sure. My name
HUNGRY MOTHER: Much! I'd starve on feedback. What is ... uh, professionally I'm known as, uh, a.k.a.-—•
can Mother do for you? What can you do for Mother? CHARLIE SAMOA: We know who you are—
JANIS: Oh, Mother, I know. I listen to you all the time. I sit JOHNNIE SUCROSE: There's no need to shit us—
by the radio. I wait. I don't want to miss you. I hardly go out
JIMMY SHILLELAGH: We never miss a show—
anymore. I don't.
JOHNNIE SUCROSE: We'd know the golden tones anywhere.
HUNGRY MOTHER: You sound like a fan.
We're big big fans of yours.
JANIS: Believe me, I am . . . I am, I don't go out anyway.
CHARLIE SAMOA: But we got a question. The question
But—I am. A fan. It's a comfort.
is—what are you doing here?
(Pause.)
JOHNNIE SUCROSE: Not that we mind, you understand—
HUNGRY MOTHER: Yes? Was there something else? You're
JIMMY SHILLELAGH: Not that we're not thrilled—
killing my air.
CHARLIE SAMOA: Even honored—
JANIS: My name is Janis, Mother. I'd like to see you. You
don't know me. I'm a stranger. We've never met. JOHNNIE SUCROSE: But it comes as something of a shock—
22 NATIVE SPEECH ACT ONE 23
JIMMY SHILLELAGH: To say the least. JIMMY SHILLELAGH: Good choice.
CHARLIE SAMOA: We hope it does not have to do with your (Pause.}
superb radio show—
CHARLIE SAMOA: Penny ante, Mother, strictly penny ante.
JOHNNIE SUCROSE: Of which we never miss a single
JOHNNIE SUCROSE: We are very disappoint.
segment—
JIMMY SHILLELAGH: At considerable risk to ourselves in JIMMY SHILLELAGH: Although at the same time greatly
view of the multiple restrictions pertaining to the use of, ac- relieved that this does not have to do with your illegal yet
cess to, and ownership of tube gear and ghetto blasters in highly entertaining radio program.
this, ah, ah— HUNGRY MOTHER: Oh, no. Not on your sweet. It's not il-
JOHNNIE SUCROSE: Penal mstitution, legal, anyway. Para-legal. I've never had any trouble.
Nobody listens.
CHARLIE and JIMMY: Yeah.
CHARLIE SAMOA: We do.
HUNGRY MOTHER: You guys are desatively bonnaroo. A
matched set. Siamese triplets, joined at the mouth. I predict JOHNNIE SUCROSE: We're interested—
a great future for you, should you consider it. Give me a call JIMMY SHILLELAGH: We're concerned—
when you get out.
CHARLIE SAMOA: We're anxiety ridden.
(Pause.}
JOHNNIE SUCROSE: You don't have a license.
CHARLIE SAMOA: Answer the question.
HUNGRY MOTHER: What a bitch. They license every god-
JOHNNIE SUCROSE: It behooves me. damn thing in this goddamn city. You need a license to
JIMMY SHILLELAGH: Believe me. change a light bulb and a permit to take a piss.
CHARLIE SAMOA: Believe him. CHARLIE SAMOA: Good thing, too. Where would we be
without social order? You got to maintain it.
(Slight pause.}
JOHNNIE SUCROSE: Very impor-tant.
HUNGRY MOTHER: Criminal mischief . . . I ... mmm
. . . I shattered a subway window. (Slight pause.} With a golf JIMMY SHILLELAGH: Somebody's got to do it. Gotta have
that social scheme.
club.
CHARLIE SAMOA: A modicum of status quo.
(Pause.}
CHARLIE SAMOA: Why? JIMMY SHILLELAGH: To go along with a lot of expensive tube
gear and no visible means of support. And no license.
HUNGRY MOTHER: I was . . . sore.
HUNGRY MOTHER: Very acute. Ah ... where do you get
(Pause.} your dope on me?
JOHNNIE SUCROSE: How many strokes? CHARLIE SAMOA: We asked around.
HUNGRY MOTHER: Just one. (Slight pause.} Nine iron. JIMMY SHILLELAGH: We checked the score.
24 NATIVE SPEECH ACT ONE 25
CHARLIE SAMOA: We heard it through the grapevine. to, I suppose, exert a primitive kind of leverage—-kidnapped
my daughter. (Pause.} When this rather crude ploy failed to
(The SAMOANS laugh raucously; then subside.} have the desired effect, he did something very unpleasant to
HUNGRY MOTHER: And that's how you come to be her. (Pause.} Nobody pushes me around. I want you to un-
such . . . fans. derstand, Mother, that she'll be all right. I'm convinced of
that. My daughter means everything to me. You know that,
CHARLIE SAMOA: Thereby hangs a tale. It begins with a don't you Mother? Her mother was a slut, but she means
grudge. As most tales do. I was freelancin'. That's my everything to me. (Pause.} I went to his apartment house. I
thing. A little liason. A middle-man shuffle 'tween U.S. Guv walked past the doorman. He didn't even see me. I'm a
Intelligence cats and a certain Kuomingtang warlord. Local ghost. I walked up the back stair. Two at a time. No hurry, I
scag baron . . . Am I boring you? Got a minute? was in no hurry. I rang the bell. Bang bang. I put the muz-
HUNGRY MOTHER: Not at all. I mean certainly, yes, most zle up, the muzzle of my magnum up—against the eyehole,
certainly, I do. the glass peephole. I rang the bell. He came to the door, I
could hear his footsteps. He slid the cover back. Fffffffffttt.
CHARLIE SAMOA: Where am I? The cover of the peephole back. Click. Who could this be?
JOHNNIE SUCROSE: (Suggestively.} The Golden Triangle. His stomach's falling out. He couldn't see nothing, you un-
derstand. To him it just looked dark. But it was steel, (Slight
JIMMY SHILLELAGH: Enmeshed in webs. High intrigue. pause.) He put his eye up to the glass. I make a clicking
JOHNNIE SUCROSE: Boo-coo bucks. sound in the back of my throat. Click. Click. I shot him
through the eye. Through the glass. That's how it was. I
JIMMY SHILLELAGH; So fine. blew his fucking head apart.
JOHNNIE SUCROSE: Sweet. (Pause.)
CHARLIE SAMOA: Put a lid on it. Oh by the way, Mother, HUNGRY MOTHER: Why are they in here?
your junk reports are . . . very helpful—somewhat fanciful
—but very informational in a metaphorical sort of way. CHARLIE SAMOA: Ask 'em.
We're grateful, Mother. Say thank you, boys and girls.
HUNGRY MOTHER: Her. How can she be here?
JOHNNIE and JIMMY: Thank you, Mother.
JOHNNIE SUCROSE: I'm his conjugular visitor.
(Long pause.}
(Slight pause. They laugh.)
HUNGRY MOTHER: You're not supposed to take
that . . . sure. Sure. CHARLIE SAMOA: Pull the strings, Mom, you got to pull the
strings.
CHARLIE SAMOA: We think you got your finger on
something. Some sort of ... pulse. But I digress. (Sniffs.} In (They are laughing, shouting, pushing and shoving HUNGRY
the course of negotiating these delicate, er, negotiations, I MOTHER—a mock mugging. At last, HUNGRY MOTHER breaks
happened to run into certain disagreements with, that is to away. A moment, then:)
say, run afoul of an associate more of a colleague actually, HUNGRY MOTHER: I have to be going now.
concerning in connection with distribution rights . . . very
complex. This gentleman . . . in order to press rne, in order CHARLIE SAMOA: Take it light—
26 NATIVE SPEECH ACT ONE 27
JOHNNIE SUCROSE: Everything'll be allright— THE MOOK: Long time you know.
JIMMY SHILLELAGH: Uptight and out of sight! HUNGRY MOTHER: Not long enough. You know?
(They are laughing again.} THE MOOK: I'm looking for Free Lance.
JOHNNIE SUCROSE: Out of state! Out of state! (Slight pause,)
CHARLIE SAMOA: That's good! Out of state! Johnnie, you HUNGRY MOTHER: So'm I.
kill me, babe!
THE MOOK: I'll be right up.
JOHNNIE SUCROSE: Don't become a stranger!
(Click. HUNGRY MOTHER stares at the blue light, still "on" He
JIMMY SHILLELAGH: Right (Right! Right! spears beans with a fork.)
(Raucous laughter. They fade. HUNGRY MOTHER walks out and HUNGRY MOTHER: How long can he keep this up? Three
into the studio, up to the mike; blue light is still "on".) beans, three prongs. One bean per prong, it's only fair.
How long, ladies and gentlemen? Stick with me, friends, the
HUNGRY MOTHER: And while we're waiting for our mystery
suspense is killing.
girl guest, here's Hungry Mother's Horo-scope. (Mellifluous,
honeyed.) Virgo: your stars are black dwarves, be advised. (JANIS enters.)
But don't take it too hard, my dear. Thermodynamic en-
HUNGRY MOTHER: Like beans?
tropy comes to us all. Libra: proceed with caution. A roman-
tic entanglement may lead to a social disease. Sagittarius: (Flings one.) What's your opinion? (Flings another.) On-the-
your moon is in eclipse and your spouse in the house of your spot woman-in-the-street interview how do you like your
best friend. Taurus: your moon is in Uranus. Success is beans?
light-years away. Capricorn: copasetic! Aries: if you open
your mouth, I wanna see some teeth. Leo: you were so ugly JANIS : Boiled.
when you were born, the doctor slapped your mother. HUNGRY MOTHER: Very good. You're right in step with the
Gemini: once black, they never come back. Cancer: you've rest of America. Just another pedestrian. (Flings a forkful of
got it, what can I say? Tough nuggies. Moloch: take the beans, striking JANIS.) Hey! Bull's eye! Well, maybe not a
first-born boy-child of every house—(Phone rings.) direct hit, maybe not ground zero, but certainly close enough for
Hang on! The lines are burning up! (Switch flicking.) Hello? jazz, wouldn't you say? Yes, once again, that's—-close enough
Maybe I'll turn this mother into a talk show! Hello! You're for jazz\ . . You ought to do something about that bean
ra<5?z'o-active! stain, little lady. Isn't she pathetic, ladies and gentlemen?
THE MOOK: (Live, over P.A.) The planets are propitious. (jANis, wary, backs off. Pause.)
Hello, Mother, HUNGRY MOTHER: Oh . . . yeah. Don't be alarmed. Just
HUNGRY MOTHER: Hey. part of my standard improvisation avec beans. Nothing to
be ashamed of.
THE MOOK: How's by you?
JANIS: Are you Hungry Mother? That's a stupid question.
HUNGRY MOTHER: Passable. Of course you are.
ACT ONE 29
28 NATIVE SPEECH
JANIS: No. (Slightpause.) Soothing. Possible.
HUNGRY MOTHER: The first.
JANIS: I'm Janis. HUNGRY MOTHER: I see.
JANIS: There's pain. In your voice . . . I came to talk to
HUNGRY MOTHER: I figured.
you. I need to talk to you. Don't be cruel.
JANIS: I called ahead.
HUNGRY MOTHER: Rings a bell. I have a famous sinking
HUNGRY MOTHER: Right. feeling. You ain't my first guppy.
JANIS: You said I could come up. JANIS: No. No.
HUNGRY MOTHER: I thought you were another Janis. Dif- HUNGRY MOTHER: Damn. (Peering.) Autograph hound?
ferent Janis. Janis I used to know. Woof. Woof.
JANIS: Oh. It's a common name. Not like Hungry Mother.
JANIS: I recognize the pain.
HUNGRY MOTHER: Aw shucks, that's just my nom de HUNGRY MOTHER: Do you?
ozone . . . Give it time. The wave of the future. (Pause.}
Something I can do for you? JANIS: It's like my own. Familiar. Similar. Like what I feel
at night. In my chest. Your voice sounds like that. That
JANIS: I wanted to see you.
pain.
HUNGRY MOTHER: You're the first, the very first! Hey!
Reaching that wider audience! Hungry Mother has impact! (Pause.)
It pays to listen! Kudos. Kudos are in order. My first fan. HUNGRY MOTHER: You're Desperate, aren't you?
How's it feel, little lady? How do you like the studio?
JANIS: (Flushing.) No, no, I would never that would be
JANIS: It's nice. over—
HUNGRY MOTHER: But small. Nice but small. But who HUNGRY MOTHER: No no no no no. That's how you sign
knows, if this keeps up, this wild adulation, in twenty or your letters. "Desperate."
thirty years I'll be able to (Used Car salesman:) trade it in on
something nicer, yes, friends, why wait, empty those ash- JANIS: Yes.
trays and come on down . . . Beans? HUNGRY MOTHER: Janis Desperate. Jesus.
JANIS: No. Thanks. (Pause.)
HUNGRY MOTHER: Something Japanese, perhaps. They do JANIS: I want you to help me.
very well with that little shit. Transistors, crap like that.
Minutia. A definitive talent for the diminutive, don't you HUNGRY MOTHER: People in hell want ice water.
think? Tell me, as my numero uno fano, do you find I have a JANIS: What? What does that mean? What is that supposed
sexy voice? to mean? I want you to help me. Please.
JANIS: No. HUNGRY MOTHER: It's a joke, Janis Desperate. A joke.
HUNGRY MOTHER: Robust. Virile. Vaguely Mediterra- JANIS: I don't get it, I don't see anything funny.
nean. Like a swollen sack of coffee beans.
31
30 NATIVE SPEECH ACT ONE
HUNGRY MOTHER: You're not concentrating. Is all. Now JANIS: Incredibly clear. What I am telling you. What I am
pay attention. This is Pop Analogy Number One. Rock n' trying to say. For more than a year now your voice has really
roll Metaphor. You might just cop on to what I'm laying made the difference to me, Mother.
down-—-dig? You can't always get what you want. But if you
(Pause.)
try sometime. You get what you need. (Pause.} I hate to be
the one to break it to you sister, but people in hell don't want HUNGRY MOTHER: Why don't you buy some furniture?
ice water, they need it. And—guess what? They don't get Beanbag chairs. Shag rug. Plexiglass coffee tables. Big glossy
it ... Do you get it? books. Galopagos this and that. Austerity is salubrious but
poverty can be painful. Cheer yourself up. Hanging plants,
(Pause.) that's the ticket. Junkies don't truck with hanging plants.
JANIS: I don't feel good, Mother, I know you know what JANIS: (Trying again, in a rush.) I felt you were lonely, you
I'm—I know you feel the same. said you wanted letters, I could tell, I could tell you were, by
HUNGRY MOTHER: I'm asking do you get it. Your asking your jokes, you were worried no one was listening, no one
me to help is the joke. I'm laughing. I'm larfing. You'd bet- cared, no one was hearing you, so I wrote, I wrote you. I
ter larf too. never dreamed, you know, of writing to a, a public person, a
stranger, I wouldn't you know, infringe on someone's
JANIS: I know you know how I feel.
privacy . . . so I was really distressed when you read my let-
HUNGRY MOTHER: Not a glimmer. ters over the air . . . but in a way that was all right, it was
(Pause.) okay, it was like you were listening, like you were answer-
ing. I never expected you to-—-that's why I signed my letters
JANIS: I don't have furniture in my place. Nothing. A radio. Desperate, I thought—
I play the radio. Full blast. To keep the junkies away. They
run through the building at night. Up and down the stairs. HUNGRY MOTHER: That's the way God planned it.
Fire escape. Rip the copper out of the walls. The wiring. JANIS: Mother, I didn't mean to write you just about me,
There's no water. No light. They steal the stoves. The gas my problems. I was going to cheer you up, believe me—
crawls up the wall. (Slight pause.) I turn it up. Way up.
Radio. Play it all night. Afraid to sleep. They run through HUNGRY MOTHER: (Trying to duplicate her voice precisely.)
the building all night. Scratch the walls. (Slight pause.) I said Believe me.
that. (Slight pause.) That's how I found you, Mother. One JANIS: Oh, I do.
night. Down at the end of the dial. Before dawn. Strange
voice. Cracked. Had a crack in it. Down at the end of the (Pause.)
dial. Pain in it. (Slight pause.) Thanks for turning up. You HUNGRY MOTHER: Look, uh . . . what's on your mind?
were so faint at first. When I first found you. Just a crackle.
Clearer in winter than summer or spring . . . No, that's silly, JANIS: I just—want you to be my friend. A friend. Is that so
but-—my place is right across the park. I think the leaves much to ask?
must interfere? Anyway, lately—you're coming in as clear HUNGRY MOTHER: Depends. Come here.
as a bell.
QANIS moves to him.)
HUNGRY MOTHER: A lucky bounce offa the clouds. It's all
in the angle, sweetheart. I'm 26,000 light-years off-center. JANIS: Okay.
32 NATIVE SPEECH ACT ONE 33
HUNGRY MOTHER: Tight squeeze. JANIS: Jesus.
JANIS: That's okay. Cozier. (THE MOOK enters. A large man. Pimp elegant. Terrifying. A black
Renaissance Prince of the Underground.}
(She sits. HUNGRY MOTHER puts an arm around her. She smiles,
slightly. She relaxes, just a bit.} HUNGRY MOTHER: Ah, Mook! Mook! I'm honored. Long
time no you know. I believe you two, you know, too.
HUNGRY MOTHER: 'S nice, huh?
THE MOOK: You're off the beam. I haven't had the
JANIS: Yeah. Yeah.
pleasure. Seen Free Lance?
HUNGRY MOTHER: I ... can't do it.
HUNGRY MOTHER: How about her?
JANIS: What?
THE MOOK: I doubt it. You lookin' to get out of show
HUNGRY MOTHER: Janis, there's something I should tell business, Mother, and into an honest line of work? Whyfor
you. you cute, Mom? She's nice, but the Free Lance I have in
JANIS: (Touching his face.*) Sssshhh, don't talk. You don't mind is nicer by far.
have to talk. HUNGRY MOTHER: Right. Sorry. Mook. Janis. Janis.
HUNGRY MOTHER: Yeah, there's something I should have Mook.
mentioned earlier. (Slight pause.} You're lonely, right? THE MOOK: Enchante.
JANIS: Yes. JANIS: Fine! (She stalks out.}
HUNGRY MOTHER: Well, I'm lonely too. THE MOOK: Whatsa matta for her? The rabbit died?
JANIS: Oh, Mother, I know you are. I know you are. HUNGRY MOTHER: Naw . . . We just met.
HUNGRY MOTHER: Well, darling—as one lonely person to THE MOOK: Mark my words, Mother. The price of fame is
another—(Slight pause.y—we're on the air\S jumps to her feet, looks at the blue light.}
a paternity suit.
HUNGRY MOTHER: I'll watch my step.
JANIS: Oh. Oh. THE MOOK: You'll know you're in the big time when you
HUNGRY MOTHER: (Goes to mike.} Wasn't that touching find you have five or six half-nigger brats who bear not the
friends? You heard it here, first. Hang in there, there's more slightest resemblance to anyone you ever knew. (Pause.}
to come from Janis Desperate, much more. Where's Free Lance?
JANIS: Bastard. HUNGRY MOTHER: Changed her name.
HUNGRY MOTHER: Sorry. THE MOOK: You said she'd be here.
JANIS: Yes. HUNGRY MOTHER: I said I was expecting her. I am. I still
am,
HUNGRY MOTHER: That's my style, sweets. Free-form free-
fall. Wing it over the edge and see how long it takes to hit THE MOOK: You ought to get out more, Mother. Away
bottom. from the mike. Clear your head.
35
34 NATIVE SPEECH ACT ONE
(Pause.} HUNGRY MOTHER: Pow!
HUNGRY MOTHER: Free Lance. (They finish dap.}
(Pause.} THE MOOK.: Exactly. Thank you, Mother, for extending my
metaphor.
THE MOOK: She didn't tell me. She was going to change her
name. She just changed it. HUNGRY MOTHER: Not at all. Any time. (Slight pause.}
Maybe she's lucky.
(Pause.}
THE MOOK: I'm her luck. (Slight pause.} The thing that really
HUNGRY MOTHER: I could use more air. gets my goat, Mother, that really galls the living shit out of
THE MOOK: I liked Polish Vodka better. me—is that she's setting this whole thing up like some kind
of 3-D cliche. Right offa the silver screen. Ruthless pimp
HUNGRY MOTHER: To drink or on her? with the cold-as-stone heart. Frosty with the tits of gold.
THE MOOK: Both . . . Simultaneous. They get down—to brass tacks. Small-time indy versus
rapacious multinational. Victory for free enterprise. Yea.
HUNGRY MOTHER: I thought she was working for you. Sheep farmer whips cattle baron. Score one for the free fuck-
THE MOOK: In this assumption our droughts concur, (They ing market and laissez-faire capital-ism. Creeping socialism
dap.} Coincide. (Dap.} Collide. (Dap.} She's not treating me crawl under de rock. Music up and out. (Slight pause,} The
well, Mother. Or herself. She's going out on the limb of record's scratchy, Motiier. A bad print. I seen it before. I
principles. I want her to come down. If you snag the drift of heard it before.
my metaphor. HUNGRY MOTHER: Why'd she do it? She said she missed
(Slight pause.} you.
HUNGRY MOTHER: I think I follow it. THE MOOK: She saw it in the movies.
(They begin a complicated dap, a hand jive.} HUNGRY MOTHER: Oh.
THE MOOK: Free Lance, That's rich. THE MOOK: For Christ sake, I'll give you ten to one. She
took it into her head . . . Mother, Mother. I'm chiding you,
HUNGRY MOTHER: Snap! Mother. Tsk, tsk. In America—life—(Strikes pose.}—imi-
THE MOOK: It's a question of precedents. She needs her in- tates-—-media!! (Slight pause. Drops pose.} Who should know
surance, Mother, like a child needs her vitamins. And this is better than you?
a world, Mother, as you well know, in which a child cannot HUNGRY MOTHER: I hang my head. (He does.}
hope to survive without a little luck and some kind of in-
surance. THE MOOK: I resent being put in this position. I resent be-
ing made to play some kind of classic American morality
HUNGRY MOTHER: Crack! schtik. I resent being made archetypal, You know? It gives
THE MOOK: She knows I cannot allow this. Not just my me a black burning sensation behind my eyes.
livelihood is threatened by her rash and precipitous action. HUNGRY MOTHER: What are you going to do to her?
What if my other ladies take it into their heads. I wouldn't
want to see them get hurt. (Long pause.}
36 NATIVE SPEECH ACT ONE 37
THE MOOK: Ask her to come in. (Slight pause.} Nicely (Beat) THE MOOK: If only you'd keep a schedule, Mother. They
You were close. don't want to miss a single spasm. A single spurt. Right
now, they trying to ascertain just who listening. Besides
HUNGRY MOTHER: (Brusquely.) Old days. Stone Age. Before
I became the Hungry Mother. themselves, I mean. A demographic sample. To determine
your threat extent. It's proving elusive.
THE MOOK: Don't kid me. You always been the Hungry
Mother. From time immemorial . . , You comin' in loud
HUNGRY MOTHER: I'll bet it is.
and clear dese days. THE MOOK: Just a friendly gesture. If you see Free Lance,
tell her to come on in. Just like the movies. It'll go easier.
HUNGRY MOTHER: Yeah?
Plea bargain. One week only. Tell her that.
THE MOOK: Right. Somebody's monkeyed with your (THE MOOK heads for the door.}
volume.
HUNGRY MOTHER: Hey, Mook.
HUNGRY MOTHER: Atmospheric turbulence. Sunspots.
Geothermal radiation. THE MOOK: Yes dear?
THE MOOK: You ought to watch your ass. HUNGRY MOTHER: You're on the air!
HUNGRY MOTHER: So everybody tells me. Christ, it's (THE MOOK looks at the blue light a long moment. Then he shakes
enough to make a corpse paranoid. his head and grins.)
THE MOOK: Especially those Junk Reports. THE MOOK: Motha fucka!
(He exists. HUNGRY MOTHER races to the mike.}
HUNGRY MOTHER: Mook, they aren't for real.
HUNGRY MOTHER: Well, there you have it, gas fans, the heat
THE MOOK: Oh, yes they are. Now they are. Every junkie is on! You heard it all, live, from the life of Hungry Mother, a
in town, Mom. Every junkie, every narc, every pusher,
true story. Cross my heart. If you'd like to participate in the life
every pimp. You the source, man, the Wall Street fuckin' of Hungry Mother, just drop me a card—• indicate your
Journal of Junk . . . Everybody knows you're illegal, primary field of interest-—-philosophical, sexual, athletic, din-
Mother. It's no secret. Folks concerned. Highly concerned. ner, dress, or aperitif—and mail it to ... Hungry Mother,
There are rumors. Grand jury activity. They might get Got To Get You Into My Life, Hubba Hubba Hubba Hubba,
together. They might convene. This whole gig just might go
WTWI, Frantz Fanon Memorial Tenement, Number One
titties up.
Marauder Avenue, just past Faghag Park. All entries will re-
HUNGRY MOTHER: I can't explain it, Mook. This tube gear main on file for use at my personal discretion.
is shot. It's cream of shit. It's a miracle it gets off the block. (Weatherman.} The long-range outcast for this weekend
THE MOOK: (Leansforward, very black, very deep.) Tell it to the —diphtherial Followed by bubonic plague and intermittent
judge. (Laughs, booming cackle.) They taping you 'round the spotted fever. Enjoy. Right now outside our studio—-con-
clock, little man. tinued existential dread dappled with parapsychological
phenomena, and streaked with low-grade anxiety. Speaking
HUNGRY MOTHER: (Yelling.} I don't broadcast around the of weather, we'll have the latest prices for bone marrow and
clock! rendering in a moment, but first . . .
38 NATIVE SPEECH
(He slumps on stool. Silence. He returns to mike: teletype and
newscaster.}
Flash news update. That acute distress has gone—terminal. ACT Two
Closed with a rush. Check it out. Other tidbits about our
town . . , That dog rapist remains at large..Pet owners—-do (Black.}
you know where your pets are tonight? Coming up in the
near future—if there is one—heh heh, always the optimist, LOUD SPEAKER: The Rising Popularity of Hungry
Mother, check it out! Always the optimist. Lycanthropy in the Mother . . . Beginning with—(Blue light pops "on", silhouet-
Homel Always a hairy subject, we'll have some tips on just tingfour-figure freeze:} Tableaux Vivants! Avecs peaux rouges!
how to deal with it. We'll be talking to a bonafide cat (Lights up slowly on HOOVER and The NAVAJOS, and HUNGRY
burglar, and you'll find out exactly what they do with our MOTHER. They remain still, as HOOVER speaks simply, in the
furry friends . . . the fiends. We'll also have our Prick Hit classic mode:}
of the Week, when you ladies can line up the sexual swine of
your choice and sock it to him—right here in our soundproof HOOVER: In the moon of grass withering . . . or perhaps in
booth. the moon of vanishing animals . . . I surrendered my people
to General Howard. My heart was . . . broke. I said to
(Mellifluous.} That just about puts a merciful end to our him—the chiefs are dead. Looking Glass is dead. All the young
broadcasting day here at WTWI, the twilight station with man are dead. Or scattered like dry leaves. Or drowning in
the demeanor that only a Mother could love. We'll top it off whiskey. My children chew bark. Their feet are frozen. The
with our ever-popular Slumlord of the Day Award, we'll be old women gobble dead grass and devil's brush. We are starv-
back after somebody's briefs, but first—a word about mange ing. My lungs are full of clotted blood. As I said before—from
. . . This is the Hungry Mother, wrapping it up here, boss, where the sun now sets, I will fight no more, forever. This is
with a mouthful of joy buzzers and a handful of static, telling what I said to General Howard. (Pause.} So he gave me a job.
you to have a hopeful day, spelled with two ells.
(Pause. HOOVER holds up a brightly colored plastic package in one
(Three swarthy individuals enter the studio: two men and a woman. hand, and points to it with his other hand, on which he is wearing a
We know them for:} black leather glove.}
HUNGRY MOTHER: Has to be—(Long pause; then a whisper.} Selling these . . . The snack that never grows old . . . Fid-
Hoover and the Navajos. dle Faddle . . . That's how I became Chief Fiddle Faddle.
(Freeze. Tableau. Lights fade. Blue light still "on' in the black. (HOOVER flips down his shades. Pause. Grins.} Just kidding.
Long moment. Snaps off. Blackout.} (THE NAVAJOS begin poking around in the studio. HUNGRY
[END OF ACT ONE] MOTHER takes over from HOOVER at the mike.}
HUNGRY MOTHER: Hey, hey! Hoover, fella, you really had me
going there. I was brewing up some really fierce Apache croco-
dile tears. Isn't he something, ladies and gentlemen? We're here
today with our special guests, Hoover and the Navajos—
HOOVER: Just kidding.
40 NATIVE SPEECH ACT Two 41
HUNGRY MOTHER: Yes, yes, just fooling around. Tell us, An environmentally generated malignancy contracted as an
Hoov—a lot of us—the listening and yearning audience— immediate consequence of contact with the carcinogenic
would like to know something more about Hoover and the substance. In that order.
Navajos. All they know is what I tell 'em, what I, you know,
HUNGRY MOTHER: (Brightly.) I see. That's too bad!
make up off the top. On the spur.
HOOVER: In the moon of bowing to the inevitable. In the
(Very long pause, during which CRAZY JOE lies down and drinks
charnel moon of abject capitulation. In the blue moon of
from a bottle in a paper bag; FREDDY polishes her shades and
genocide. In the quarter moon of going completely off the
ceremoniously unwraps and chews apiece of gum; she rolls thefoil into
wall . . . In the moon of forced labor . . .
a ball and flicks it at HUNGRY MOTHER. Only then does HOOVER
speak.) HUNGRY MOTHER: Right. Got it. That's what gives your
songs that grit, that nit, that sliced life. Tell me—and I'm
HOOVER: You got it right. You got it right, Mother. You got
sure your fans at home would be more than super interested
it so right. Except in smallest details. No way you could
too—where do you get those boffo bonnaroo titles like Fiber-
miss. The light comes down on you . . . Smallest things.
Our names. My friends. Mother, my companions . . . glass God?
Crazy Joe Navajo. HOOVER: I got drunk and fell on the floor.
(CRAZY JOE burps delicately by way of greeting.) (Pause. Then FREDDY stands.)
Freddy Navajo. (FREDDY nods coldly. HOOVER smiles.) FREDDY: Freddy Navajo here. Earth to Freddy. I hear
voices. Indian voices. Mescalito. Coyote. Charlie Chan.
The light comes down on you, Mother. Indians are always Joan of Navajo speaks in my ear. It ain't easy to hear myself
silent. Having nothing to say. Ask your stupid questions. think—with all those voices going. All the old voices.
HUNGRY MOTHER: (After a slight hesitation.) In the fawning Covered here today. Hoover did his Poetic Indian to his
fanmag manner, then—when did you write your first song? ususal turn. (FREDDY and CRAZY JOE applaud) Aplomb.
When did you first start playing the guitar? When did you Aplomb. And Crazy Joe's taciturn Drunken Injun is, as
decide to devote your lifestyle to music? always, subtle and tragic. Impeccable. Correct.
HOOVER: In the moon of rising expectations. (FREDDY and HOOVER applaud. Slight pause.)
HUNGRY MOTHER: In the little magazine manner CRAZY JOE: (Ever so slightly slurred.) Thanks.
then—when did you first conceive, and begin to develop as a FREDDY: A classic of its kind. You see my predicament? So
distinct genre of popular music, patho-rock? What sets patho- many voices. A welter. A goulash. So hard to find a point of
rock apart from other strands, such as goat-bucket blues or view. Which piece of history to vocalette.
coon-cajun cakewalks? Compare and contrast. Trace its
evolution in a sociohistorical context. How do you account HUNGRY MOTHER: (Cheerily.) How 'bout TB? You know,
for your obsession with fiberglass? Is it worthwhile tuberculosis, Easter Seals for brown babes? Famine? Small-
speculating along psychosexual dysfunction lines? pox sleeping bags?
HOOVER: In the moon of historical necessity . . . Out of the FREDDY: Hostility is always in good taste.
blue . . . Unrelenting bitterness, as long as the waters shall HUNGRY MOTHER: Uh . . . Freddy, what's the—why don't
flow and the grass shall grow—you know the phrase? . . . you do the new single?
42 NATIVE SPEECH ACT Two 43
FREDDY: Right . . , This is a song I wrote one night while (THE NAVAJOS laugh wildly. They seize piles of' 45's, and begin
breaking glass on the reservation . . . I calls it-—Fucking on flinging them through the air, slowly at first, then faster, to crescendo
Fiberglass*. —a blizzard of black plastic. It stops. The studio floor is covered in
45's. Pause. HOOVER smiles cooly behind his shades and says
HOOVER: Give me a ball 5 n a beer anyday. softly:}
FREDDY: Right. Sheer shock value. No other redemptions. HOOVER: Aborigine.
Oh, incidental alliteration. A simple tune. Our only aim is
sensation. (HOOVER and THE NAVAJOS exit. HUNGRY MOTHER stands in
the debris. Studio light out as streetlight snaps on. HUNGRY
HUNGRY MOTHER: That's great. Swell, and heartwarming. MOTHER walks into the light. JANIS is in a shadow. He stops and
Here it is, fans, what you've all been waiting for! If this stares at her. Finally:}
single don't send you, you got no place to go! Hoover and
the Navajos—Fucking—On Fiberglass] HUNGRY MOTHER: Wha'choo doin' out here?
(HUNGRY MOTHER puts on the 45, flicks switches. It blasts out JANIS: Lurking.
over the PA: primitive guitar chording, hand drums, yowling and HUNGRY MOTHER: Lurking. Huh. (Slight pause.} Hell of a
chanting, screaming, glass shattering. After two minutes of ear- place to lurk. (Slight pause.} Lurking long?
splitting sound, a blues-fragment snarls its way out of the maelstrom:')
JANIS: Hours.
HOOVER: (Singing, on the 45.}
HUNGRY MOTHER: And lived to tell the tale. A-mazing. I
Fuckin' shake my head. (He does.}
On fiberglass . . .
Got that shit JANIS: So. What's the word?
Up my . . . aaaaaaaaasssss! HUNGRY MOTHER: Hungry.
(This is followed, on the 45, by a scream from FREDDY that's like a JANIS: Listen, I thought maybe—you busy? I thought
baby's howl. When they hear their voices play, HOOVER awe? FREDDY maybe we could get a bite.
trade grins. Through it all, they 've been keeping the beat: HOOVER
drumming, CRAZY JOE drinking, FREDDY thrusting her pelvis in a HUNGRY MOTHER: In this neighborhood? A bite is a breeze.
mechanical, parodic, anti-erotic style. Fucking on Fiberglass ends But will they quit after just one? (They both laugh.}
with a crescendo of drumming and breaking glass. Silence,} JANIS: Listen. I know a place.
HUNGRY MOTHER: (Softly.} So visceral . . . I can feel it. HUNGRY MOTHER: Yeah? Well. Okay. All right.
Uch. Where do you guys get this stuff? Monstrous. Col-
ossal. Curdled blood, see? Destroys me. Primal. JANIS: It's near here. You'll like it. Under Marauder
Avenue. It floats.
FREDDY: (Snickering.} Primordial.
HUNGRY MOTHER: A floating dive. Abso-fucking-lutely.
(CRAZY JOE gets up off the refrigerator. A hush. He goes to the turn- Lezgo.
table, takes off the 45, drops it on the floor. Pours whiskey on it. (The streetlight flickers. The light is blue and wintery: a cold evening.
Takes a drink. Smiles. Smacks his lips,} MOOK and FREE LANCE enter. HUNGRY MOTHER and JANIS
CRAZY JOE: Primitive! stop. Draw back. Unseen.}
44
NATIVE SPEECH
ACT Two 45
THE MOOK: Ho Chi Minh Trail runs through the park now.
(Pause.)
FREE LANCE: Uptown to down.
THE MOOK: You set me up, Free Lance. Like a damn tar
THE MOOK: Natch. Built that way. They brought it over baby. Some kind of story. You fictionalizing my position.
after the war. Reconstituted it. As it were. Dig? People talk. A legend in my own time. Shit. Legend in
FREE LANCE: What you run on it? my own mind. They talkin' now. Hear 'em?
THE MOOK: Scag. Just like the war. Like it never ended. FREE LANCE: No.
Them good old days. They got a replica of the war goin' on THE MOOK: Erodes my credibility. People don't think I'm
in there. Minature. Jes' a few blocks away . . . Business as real. Think I'm the damn Baron Samedi or some voodoo
usual, babe. (He turns his gaze on her.*) Back on the street. shit. Gets tough to keep the muscle up when they put you in
the same bag with Mickey the Mouse and Agent Orange.
FREE LANCE: Back on the streets again. (Hisses.) Know what I talk, bitch?
THE MOOK: I stand corrected. Back on the streets. The (She is about to respond when she hears something in the distance.
phrase that pays . . . I thought you were sick of the street. I They both listen.)
been to see Mother, looking for you.
FREE LANCE: Guns.
FREE LANCE: I've missed the street..
THE MOOK: Gunners. (He smiles. She shivers.)
THE MOOK: I know you have. I wasn't surprised.
FREE LANCE: I love The Street. I go wandering on The
FREE LANCE: And the street missed me. Street. In the back of my head. Stay there forever. Stay there
THE MOOK: No, no, I wasn't surprised you weren't there. I for good. Disappear behind my eyes. You understand?
know you done with him. I wanted to check out Mother's THE MOOK: Free Lance.
crib. Wanted to get some kinda line on just what we boost-
FREE LANCE: I'm not going upstairs with you, Mook.
ing, here. We had a nice chat. (Slightpause.) Mother said you
missed me. THE MOOK: Free Lance. (Slight pause.) I promised Mother.
FREE LANCE: I miss the street. Mook. Same difference . . . FREE LANCE: No, not upstairs. I like it here. (Slight pause.)
I miss you. What kind of chat you say you had? Leaving Mother's, I get a screamer. A rag ghost. I see him
all the way down at the end of the block. He sees me. He
THE MOOK: Minimal. I dropped him a hint. Dammit, Free turns. Gunfight at the Okay. I freeze. He takes a step. Takes
Lance, whachoo doin' out here? two. Now he's running. Right at me. His mouth is open like
FREE LANCE: Looking for you. a siren and he's screaming. He's getting closer. Closer. I can
smell rot. He's got a bottle in his hand. A mickey. Like a
THE MOOK: On the street? Come on, baby. I been all over knife. He's right on top of me. I step aside, and he goes right
town, I come home find you walking my block. on by. Still screaming. Disappears into the park. Screams
stop. Siren stops. Chop.
FREE LANCE: (Laughs.) You my main squeeze, sugah.
Mama want Papa-san be her first trick. Numbah one, dig? THE MOOK: Fags got him. Gorilla fags. They drop out of
the trees like fruit.
47
46 NATIVE SPEECH ACT TWO
FREE LANCE: Nothing like that happens upstairs. FREE LANCE: Firelight.
THE MOOK: Damn straight. I ain't no punk. You have any THE MOOK: See? Got to come with me, baby. Can't go
other adventures since I saw you last? 'way down there.
FREE LANCE: Run of the mill rubble walk. Trash fire circle (Pause.)
jerks. Rubble rabble. They try'n come on you as you walk
past.
FREE LANCE: For now. It's chilly.
THE MOOK: It's an art. That'll teach you to run away from (He puts his arm around her. They start to leave,)
home. Gome on in. Free Lance. Come on in, baby. Gome FREE LANCE: (Black.) Whatchoo tell Mothah?
on in with me.
THE MOOK: Heh heh heh. I tell Mothah to watch his ass.
FREE LANCE: Of course. You blackisms gettin' bettah, baby.
THE MOOK: Mother's worried about you. You ought to give FREE LANCE: (Laughs.) Ah, Mook, Mook. (Strokes his face.)
Mother a call.
You're a dizzy cunt. You know that?
FREE LANCE: I will. (He stares. Then laughs. Roars. MOOK and FREE LANCE exit.
THE MOOK: I know you were close. Just tell him you okay. Streetlight flickers. HUNGRY MOTHER steps out and stares after
Set his mind. The kid's all right. them. CHARLIE SAMOA appears behind them. He's dressed as a
FREE LANCE: Mook. Mother's on the rag about some kids. derelict.)
You have anything to do with that? You boosting, hustling DERELICT (CHARLIE SAMOA): 'Member the cat.
some kids?
(They start. HUNGRY MOTHER doesn't recognize him.)
THE MOOK: 'S an idea, baby. Get all my best notions from
Mother. HUNGRY MOTHER: Cat.
FREE LANCE: Pimp. DERELICT (CHARLIE SAMOA): 'Member the cat. Curiosity
(Slight pause.*) and the cat. (He starts off. Turns back.)
THE MOOK: (Mildly.) Don't call me that. Don't rub The DERELICT (CHARLIE SAMOA): Jesus was not a white
Mook the wrong way. Gall me monger instead. racist—as some people suppose. He was the only son of the
living god. (DERELICT (CHARLIE SAMOA) exits..)
FREE LANCE: Monger?
JANIS: You know them.
(FREE LANCE begins to laugh, undertones of hysteria. THE MOOK
smiles.) HUNGRY MOTHER: Who?
THE MOOK: Yeah. Flesh monger. JANIS: The . . . couple.
(She stops laughing. Slight pause.) HUNGRY MOTHER: Oh yes.
THE MOOK: Come on up. Gome on in. JANIS: What was that? That scene.
(She is listening in the distance, again.) HUNGRY MOTHER: He wants her.
48 NATIVE SPEECH 49
ACT Two
JANIS: What does she want? HUNGRY MOTHER: Out of fashion. Intimacy. A blast from
HUNGRY MOTHER: Out. the past.
JANIS: What are you going to do? JANIS: I should talk. I haven't been, mmm, with anyone for
ages. Long long time . . . Good for the blues.
HUNGRY MOTHER: What can I do?
HUNGRY MOTHER: Gurin' or causin'?
JANIS: She wants help?
(Silence.)
HUNGRY MOTHER: No. No. She doesn't want it. HUNGRY MOTHER: Walkin' blues. Talkin' blues. Stalkin'
(Silence. Streetlight out.) blues . . . (He lets it go.)
LOUD SPEAKER: Oooeeeooo, baby, baby. Oh, oh, oh, Miss JANIS: Mother.
Ann. Dime-a-dance romance. No-tell motel. Skank. Tryst. HUNGRY MOTHER: Yes'm.
Tropics. Tristes tropiques. Photo Opportunity . . . The
House of Blue Light (Beat.) Hungry and . . . Friend! JANIS: Mother, would you put me on the air?
(Studio illuminated. HUNGRY MOTHER and JANIS on the refrig- (Slight pause.)
erator cot. The studio is still a wreck from the NAVAJOS' visit. JANIS HUNGRY MOTHER: Sure.
lights a cigarette.')
(He gets up and goes to the console. Flicks switches. Blue light goes
JANIS: At least we weren't on the air. "on". She goes to the mike. Now they are both standing nearly naked
in the twilight debris.)
HUNGRY MOTHER: Community standards. I mink I'll torch
these platters. Do the whole dump hi hot wax. (Silence. She lights a cigarette. Drags. Long moment. She returns to
the cot and picks up the rest of her clothes. Puts them on. They look at
JANIS: I don't think it's right, quite. each other.)
(Silence.) HUNGRY MOTHER: Minimal. In fact, minimal to the max. I
HUNGRY MOTHER: Well. dug it. I especially dug it when you put on your clothes. Get-
ting dressed on the radio. It's hot. No commercial possi-
JANIS: Well. bilities of course. Could be cognescenti.
HUNGRY MOTHER: Hope you feelin' better . . . JANIS: I don't know what I wanted to say. I just wanted to
JANIS: Bye 'n bye. put my voice out there. On the radio . . . What a strange
phrase. Strange thing to say. On the air. I wanted to put it
(He is pleased she finished the phrase.) out there. On the air. Air waves. Radio waves go on forever.
HUNGRY MOTHER: Yes. To other stars.
JANIS: You too? HUNGRY MOTHER: Pulsars, baby. Will the Hungry Mother
Radio Hour be a hit on Betelgeuse six million light-years
HUNGRY MOTHER: Mmmm. Bye 'n bye. 'S been a long from today? Stay tuned.
time.
(Silence.)
JANIS: Why? Why not? HUNGRY MOTHER: Let's do it again sometime.
T
ACT Two 51
50 NATIVE SPEECH
JANIS: Let's. (She moves to the door.')
terminal, no, I repeat, no antidote . . . Green Monkey
Virus spreads from Germany to Georgia! If you gush black
HUNGRY MOTHER: Absofuckinglutely. blood you've got it! And you're a goner! Isn't that some-
JANIS: See you. thing?! . . . And-—the Pope is engaged! We'll be back later
in the week with more on the Forty-Second Street sniper.
HUNGRY MOTHER: Abyssinia, Janis. These are this hour's top tales, brought to you by Ominous
JANIS: Right. Acronyms—Ominous Acronyms, dedicated to raising the
-ante no matter the pot. And now a spiritual word of advice
(She exits. HUNGRY MOTHER retrieves his tennis shoes,) from the pastor of the First . . . Chinese Baptist . . .
HUNGRY MOTHER: The white man's moccasins. (He bounds Church of the Deaf!
to the mike. Blue light on,} ("Chinee":) Leveland Bluce Ree here. Lememble! Don't
LOUD SPEAKER: Rising popularity! The ratings surge! He wait for the hearse to take you to church!
bends their ears! (Cheery.) Thank you, Leveland Bluce. Next hour, my im-
pression of a JAP. And I don't mean Japanese. Don't miss
HUNGRY MOTHER: Shaddup. Hey hey hey! All systems go!
This will be the Hungriest Mother alive, this be WTWI, the it. But first—(Slight pause.)
twilight station with the terminal blues and the twilight Trying to get over. (Slight pause.) Hauling ass.
debris, this be a blight and bleary predawn radio debauch (Slight pause. Then, shakes himself, full-speed:) I seem to be
with the only Mother that'll ever love you! Coming up this wandering today, fans, please forgive me, bouncing off the
hour, Agony News Headlines, something spicy about the boards like a rabid hockey puck, coming up hungry, coming
Pope, and the evermore popular Prick Hit of the Week. up short, coming up the up and coming group destined to
Plus—a bonus. A fab new soap op: MULATTO SPLEN- dethrone the once-mythical Hoover and The Navajos: Jum-
DOR! Yes, Antebellum blues! Miscegenation, America's pin Lumpen and the Juke Savages and their new blockbus-
favorite preoccupation! Intricate intra-ethnic color schemes! ter, Idi Amin Is My Doormanl Don't you dare miss it. But
Ancestor worship and the Daughters of the Confederacy! first, it's time once again for—Our Prick Hit of the Week!
Something for everyone! Impossibly overwritten! Here! On Yes, every week the Mother invites you and your nominee
WTWI! Don't miss Mulatto Splendor, the soap that's into the studio for a little slug-fest. With the aid of our
guaranteed to become a class struggle. In this week's superbly trained staff of Swiss guerillas, we hold him down,
episode, Rhett discovers that Scarlett's been 'passing'—-and and you let him have it! So ladies—ah, women, keep those
the annual debutantes' ball is crashed by the field hands. nominations coming. And now—here we go again with
And now—Moan Along With Motherl Mother's Prick Hit of the Weekl
(He sings a blues moan, minor key. First notes melodic, it quickly (Flicks switches. A tape goes on over the PA: it's a tape of Mother's
becomes harsh, going out of control into sobbing and retching. Sub- moaning just previous. As the moaning plays, HUNGRY MOTHER
sides. Slight pause.) rocks out, finger snaps and vocal bops. When the tape finishes he grins
There. Doesn't that feel better? (Attacks the typewriter furiously into the mike:)
Newscaster:') HUNGRY MOTHER: So good. I really identify. The weather
outlook is for unparalleled nausea-—-followed by protracted
And now this hour's top short stories . . . Dengue Fever rag-
ing out of control across sub-Saharan Africa . . . absolutely internal bleeding. A million-dollar weekend.
53
52 NATIVE SPEECH ACT Two
up, the use of personal weapons in lethal transactions is
(Newscaster, a la Paul Harvey,} Top headline . . . This . . . or riding a slight cooling trend-—and that's got to be good
any other . . . hour . . . slavery . . . on the rise . . . once news. This has been another edition of Mother's Junk.
again . . . in most . . . of the civilized . . . world. (Slight
pause. Low, intense.} Consider, if you will, the following (Slight pause. Upbeat.} Ah, once that's over, I'm back on the
felicitous phrases . . . Jones. Slud. Double dog dare. Going tracks, I really am. Works like a charm. Tomorrow: Pantheon
down slow. Walking wounded. Hunger artist. Bane. (Weath- of Scum: a grisly scavenge through the deserted cities of the
erman.') Thick as slick out there, you better watch your step. heart. You've been listening to more of the same this last half-
(Screaming.} Mexican standoff! Yes! Yes! No motherfucker century—brought to you by Sqyanora Thermonukes— check us
can touch me now! I full of the Night Train! Hear the Mid- if your megatonnage droops! Sayanora Thermonukes —say
night Special call my name! I be full, so full of that damn goodbye and mean it! And now let's join, already in pro-
Night Train! Nothin' I ever seen can equal the color of my gress, Sugar Bear and Oz—-cutting up in the Cuban Room.
i-ma-gin-ation! I am the Midnight Prerogative! (He grabs his coat and walks out, leaving the blue light "on".}
(Slight pause. Frenzied but quiet, under control, just barely: this is the LOUD SPEAKER: The Casa—Cubanal
emotional high of his set:} (HUNGRY MOTHER walks into the bar.}
Speaking ofjones—I got it-—for what you've all been waiting BELLY UP: Mother! Salud! How hangs it, Ma?
for-—-for those with the baddest jones of all—for those with
the cold at the core of their soul—Mother's Junk Reportl HUNGRY MOTHER: Somewhere else. Give me a drink.
Needles are up. Ditto fits and kits. Rubber tubing's down. Something for the inner city man. (He downs it and burps.}
Likewise brown dreck. Something cleaner cost you BELLY UP: You bet. (He follows suit.} Feel better?
more . . . here we go! Black Magic go for a dime, if you can
find it, and so will Foolish Pleasure. Fifteen for Light 'n HUNGRY MOTHER: Some.
Lively, and they be gettin' a quarter for Bicentennial Gold. BELLY UP: Since you're a star, have another.
Hard to believe, isn't it? Topping out at a flat thirty, Death
Wish! . . . Sorry, brothers and sisters, you know that's the HUNGRY MOTHER: Catch Hoover's act?
way it goes, whiter is brighter, and less is more. Now, get- BELLY UP: Indelible. Crushed my head. Had to be Hoover
ting away from dreamtime and down to the street, your and the Navajos. You're getting very big, Mother. There's
Mother's gonna tell you straight. All that's out there is already a movement to save your ass.
Brown Bomber and Death Boy. A quarter, that is, seven lit-
tle spoons goes for fifty, and a rip-down, half of that, jack, HUNGRY MOTHER: I haven't lost it.
will cost you twenty-five. That's what's on that open BELLY UP: You will. Committee to Save Hungry Mother's
market! The shit is stepped on, jack, stepped on! Worth Ass. The Mook is getting it all together. The DA's hot and
your life to stick that shit! Gut with fucking Drano, Jack! heavy on your case. He dug up a diva, and she's shrieking
Drano! . . . an aria about you to the Grand Jury right now.
(Cooler.} Active trading in fluff stuff around town: quarter HUNGRY MOTHER: What's her name?
scoops of coke scored easily on the approaches to the park,
and it's snowing all over town. Storms of angel dust, BELLY UP: La Mook. (Pie snickers. Slight pause.}
methadone in ice buckets, on the rocks or with a crystal HUNGRY MOTHER: Pays to play both ends of the street.
cranq chaser, and horse tranqs galore. On the sunny side
55
54 NATIVE SPEECH ACT Two
BELLY UP: 'S a good deal. Immunity from prosecution, all at me. It all comes back. Drifting up from downtown
counts' cept murder one, lifetime guarantee. He tags up— . . . humming '. . . the wires have picked it up ... 'fore
spray paints it on the DA's door: you The Man. you know it,'it's news, it's . . . happened . . . Honest, of-
ficer, it was only a fucking metaphor . . . The junk report!
HUNGRY MOTHER: He's The Man. The junk report! Belly Up, from junk I know from nothing!
BELLY UP: You The Man, Mom. Your Junk Report ped- The Mook is trying to set me up ... Last broadcast I did a
dles his junk. slavery newsbit. Just a comedy sketch. Somebody must have
picked up on it.
HUNGRY MOTHER: That's absurd.
(Slight pause.}
BELLY UP: Huh huh. Scag pimps snortin' up a storm on
your say so, Ma. BELLY UP: Paranoid schizophrenia. Classic case. Delusions
of grandeur. Unholy power to make manifest The Word.
(Slight pause.} Unable to distinguish between cause and effect. Egocentric
HUNGRY MOTHER: Belly Up . . . you think they should sell cosmology . '. . Pull yourself together. You just water,
smack over the counter—like aspirin? Mother. Glass. You just show it back. Artists count for
nothing, Mom. Don't take it so tough.
BELLY UP: (Laughs softly.} C'mon, Mom. Why spoil a good
thing? I'm checking on those kids for you. HUNGRY MOTHER: (Mumbles.} Bui doi.
HUNGRY MOTHER: Mmmmmmmm. BELLY UP: You don't say.
BELLY UP: Interesting scenario. After they go into custody HUNGRY MOTHER: Bui doi.
of the lending institutions, poof—they disappear. I dig BELLY UP: Dust of life. Street urchins. Half-breed Honda
deeper. The big runaround. I run it down. It's banditos. (Slight pause.} Shit. I had you lamped, Mom. I
easy . . . The banks sold 'em. Mook's the middle man. knew you been there. The 'Nam. Moo goo gai pan, my ass.
Commission on every kid. (Slight pause. Softer:} Whadjoo take the fall for? Over there.
HUNGRY MOTHER: Sold them. HUNGRY MOTHER: (Winks, smiles wanly.} Fragged the
BELLY UP: Into slavery . . . Big deal. Every two-bit banana fucker. Fragged him.
tyrant's got a couple of Indians around the house. Right (He gets up and leaves the bar. After he's gone:}
here in town I know where you can buy, no questions asked,
retard kids. Cash on the barrelhead. Watch the tube? BELLY UP: See you 'round, Mom.
HUNGRY MOTHER: Never. (On the street, HUNGRY MOTHER turns his collar up against the
cold. A PROSTITUTE (JOHNNIE SUCROSE) and A PIMP QIMMY
BELLY UP: White slavery's license to print money. SHILLELAGH) loiter on the edges of the light. A DERELICT
(Slight pause.} (CHARLIE SAMOA) stutter dances up to HUNGRY MOTHER.)
HUNGRY MOTHER: I made it happen. Made it all happen. DERELICT (CHARLIE SAMOA): Ladies and gentlemen! For
Make it up—make it happen. I kept . . . talking about it your listening entertainment—-the Latin from Manhattan!
. . . reporting it, you know? Fictional fact, a metaphor . . . Hey! Hey, man, it's cold! Cold! Thirty cents for some
sort of true, you know? . . . and . . . and it comes back apricot brandy, man. That's it. That's all we need.
r
56 NATIVE SPEECH ACT Two 57
HUNGRY MOTHER: Sorry.
( JANIS' voice live over PA—thick and drowsy}
DERELICT (CHARLIE SAMOA): It's cold, man. Anything.
Gome on, we just shot some junk, man, we need that brandy, JANIS: Mother, this is me.
come on\Y MOTHER: I don't have anything.
HUNGRY MOTHER: How are you?
JANIS: All right . . . I wanted to say thank you . . .
DERELICT (CHARLIE SAMOA): Man, your heart's so hard HUNGRY MOTHER: For what? You sound sort of—
you wouldn't give God a break. Shit. Hey, brothers,
c'mon . . . JANIS: Mother . . . ah ... I just . . . just wanted, just
want you—I just, Mother—we on the air?
(They fade. HUNGRY MOTHER enters the studio; the blue light is
"on".} HUNGRY MOTHER: Yeah, you want me to take us off?
HUNGRY MOTHER: Hungry Mother here, it's a fine fine JANIS: Won't be necessary . . . Mother, I'm sorry.
super fine predawn funk—smoke blankets the greater met-
(Perhaps there is a sound, something falling, a hard surface. Perhaps
ropolitan area, they continue to machine-gun survivors out-
not. We no longer A«zr JANIS' drowsy breathing over the PA, but the
side our studio, rap rap rap rap rap and the hits just keep on
line is still open.}
comin'—and all told it looks like another fine fine super fine
day in this fine fine city of ours! Before we descend into a HUNGRY MOTHER: For what? (He freezes. Blackout.}
welter of obscure pronouns, here's the plot—•
LOUD SPEAKER: Live Flashback! Live! From the Hotel
(Lickety-split lung-screech.} SUNDAY! Beautiful Sunday at Abyss! The Flophouse of Stalinism! The Very First Broad-
U.S. Dragstrip Thirty just south of the tarpits! Thrill to the cast! Hungry Mother-—-In the Beginning!
unholy smells and sounds and sight-gags as Captain O-bli-
vion two-time cracked vertebrae champion heading for a (Studio illuminated. A ires haute couture FREE LANCE strikes a pose.
head-on collision in his plutonium-charged heavy water HUNGRY MOTHER 's taped voice comes over the PA:}
under glass thresher goes against Free Bubba Free B. in his HUNGRY MOTHER: (On tape.} A warm warm welcome to
multinational banana consortium funny car! PLUS! Demo- WTWI call letters, and to the station for which they stand.
lition Derby! You'll want to be there when the lights go out!
PLUS! Hundreds of prize doors! PLUS! Chapped lips! (HUNGRY MOTHER breaks freeze and goes to mike. They are both
PLUS! Blood-mad brahma bulls released every few seconds younger, fresher.}
in the seating areas to stampede crazily through the stands! HUNGRY MOTHER: Dressed to kill. To a T. To the teeth. As
DON'T YOU DARE BE THERE! MISS IT! MISS IT! she parades up and down in_from of our microphone—-(She
SUNDAY! SUNDAY! SUNDAY! does, flashing a barracuda grin on every turn.} isn't she lovely?
Isn't she wonderful, ladies and gentlemen? Wrapped from
(Pause. Cool, calm, very liberal underground FM'.) And now, this
head to toe in a delicious apricot leather.
week's interview with a Woman in the streets . . . Scream-
ing Annie, dressed in ribbons. FREE LANCE: (Laughs} Bastard.
(Phone rings, rings again. Flicks switches. HUNGRY MOTHER HUNGRY MOTHER: Yes, just a vision of fruit loveliness. This
jumps at it.} Free Lance? is the Hungry Mother, at WTWI, a nouveau station with a
nouveau view, on what we hope to be the first of many many
59
58 NATIVE SPEECH ACT Two
twilight broadcasts with you. Arid on our maiden broadcast Backfield in motion! Peel me, baby, peel me off! Oh, my, oh
we have a maiden broad-—• . . . what . . . breasts, what—what dugs! . . . and—and
now . . , s h e ' s d o i n g s o m e t h i n g p e r f e c t l y . . .
FREE LANCE: Vaudeville's dead, sweetie. indescribable . . . with a silk handkerchief . . . oh ... my
HUNGRY MOTHER: Here in our fruit lovely studios. With us . . . I ONLY WISH I COULD DESCRIBE IT TO YOU
today—Polish Vodka! One of the highest paid, uh, what ex- FULLY! WORDS FAIL ME! OH! OH! OH! . . .oh.
actly is it you do, dear? (Pause.} Whew. Oh my. Thank you, ducks. Worked me into
a veritable lather. Thanks so much.
FREE LANCE: Make it up, baby.
FREE LANCE: (Dryly.} Not at all.
HUNGRY MOTHER: Right. And for our inaugural broadcast
we're going to feature something that's uniquely suited to HUNGRY MOTHER: Really . . . stunning. No other word
the very special medium of radio: a fashion show. That's will do. State of the art striptease
right. Ought to give you some idea of what you're up against FREE LANCE: My pleasure. Avec plaisir.
here at WTWI. So, let's shove off. The First Annual WTWI
Twilight Fashions Show. Isn't she lovely? A vision. Simply a HUNGRY MOTHER: No, no mine. How d'you feel?
vision. Pol Vod is so-—well, slender—-no, thin . . . cadaver-
FREE LANCE: A bit chilly.
ous, really . . . poking ribs, hollow cheeks . . . a dream,
really—slight potbelly, haunted eyes, leather boots, and all HUNGRY MOTHER: I don't wonder. Feel free to cover up. I
the rest of it. Wearing a lovely barbed wire pendant, and hope that was as good for you as it was for me. Do you have
modelling for us that sensational new black lip glass. So something beautiful for us? Song and dance? A bit of the old
positively sado-masch, wouldn't you say? Deco-deco, innit? soft foot? Why don't you just whip something up?
If I were to coin it, I'd call it—Dachau Chic. How's that strike
FREE LANCE: Oh, yes, I've got something for you. I've come
you, darling?
prepared. I'd like to do for you now at this time-—my im-
FREE LANCE: Perf, Mother. Just perf. (She is still moving up pression of a JAP.
and down in front of the mike, hitting high-fashion poses.}
(Slight pause.}
HUNGRY MOTHER: Dachau Chic, indeed. Absolutely stunn-
ing. And now Polish Vodka is going to do something very HUNGRY MOTHER: I beg your pardon.
kinetic, demonstrating the amazing glide and flow, warp and FREE LANCE: Jewish-American Princess.
woof woof of apricot leather, aren't you darling? Yes, she's
sweeping up and down in front of our microphone-—-{In fact, HUNGRY MOTHER: Oh . . . sounds fun.
she is standing very still now, watching him.} whew. What a FREE LANCE: Well . . . here goes,
woman. Sheer Poetry, pretty as a picture. What a woman,
lovely, lovely. What? What's she doing now? Ladies and (As she speaks-—nasal Long Island accent—she sinuously removes
gentle— her clothes. Her speech, harsh and sharp, absolutely counterpoint to
her sexy elegant movement. HUNGRY MOTHER watches the strip,
(Hushed.} Oh, I wish you could see this. She's—dare I
amazed,}
describe it? Who dat who say who dat? She's—taking off that
scrumptious apricot leather—-strip by scrumptious strip. I just you know been hanging out, you know? You know
She's—peeling off. Oh, my, oh God, oh gracious! Oh so fine! what I mean? I got these like you know problems on my head,
61
60 NATIVE SPEECH ACT Two
you know—-I mean it's so off-putting. And if I could just short. I know you got a nickle. It's cold. Come on, man, I
iron 'em out you know, don't you know, it would be smooth ast you before. Nice.
sailing, no problem, I'm telling you. But it's anything but HUNGRY MOTHER: Okay. (HUNGRY MOTHER hands the
easy. It has to do with this relationship, and it's so heavy. DERELICT a coin; he gives HUNGRY MOTHER one in return.}
It's like, you know, such a hassle. Who am I to know where
it's going? I swear to God I just don't understand men for DERELICT (CHARLIE SAMOA): Here, man. Change.
the rest of my natural life. I mean, it is so shitty. It's shitty HUNGRY MOTHER: Honest man.
being with him. It's shitty being without him. I mean, he is
such a fuck. You know? I tell him, I say to him, you are such DERELICT (CHARLIE SAMOA): Apricot brandy. Jesus in a
bottle. (THE DERELICT scuttles off into the dark. THE PIMP and
a fuck. I mean, it is trauma time again . . . Am I making
sense? (She finishes the strip perfectly timed on the last word,") THE PROSTITUTE appear on the edges of the light.}
PROSTITUTE QOHNNIE SUCROSE): Hey, John. Looking for
HUNGRY MOTHER: Very convincing.
something?
FREE LANGE: Felt good.
HUNGRY MOTHER: Pay phone.
HUNGRY MOTHER: I'm not a Jewish-American Princess, PIMP QIMMY SHILLELAGH): Not on this block.
but I found it as offensive as the next person.
PROSTITUTE (JOHNNIE SUCROSE): Lonely, honey? Party?
FREE LANCE: I thought you'd like it. (Slight pause.) Kiss my
vagina. (THE DERELICT (CHARLIE SAMOA) comes back around the corner,
a bottle in a paper bag.}
(Slight pause.)
DERELICT (CHARLIE SAMOA): Care for a choke?
HUNGRY MOTHER: Meshuga. I don't think I can do that on
the air. HUNGRY MOTHER: No thanks.
(THE DERELICT hits HUNGRY MOTHER across the face with the
FREE LANCE: Why not? You're such a fuck. Oh Mother,
kiss my vagina. bottle. He falls to his knees. Blood.}
DERELICT (CHARLIE SAMOA): How 'bout now?
(Slight pause.)
HUNGRY MOTHER: Stuff it.
HUNGRY MOTHER; Extend my metaphor . . . Kiss my
vagina, extend my metaphor. . . . Listening audience, the (THE DERELICT walks around HUNGRY MOTHER, stops, sighs.)
next sound you will hear—will be-—-me and Pol Vod-—-play- DERELICT (CHARLIE SAMOA): Hungry Momma. Hungry
ing chess. Momma. The real item.
(Blackout.) HUNGRY MOTHER: Charlie Samoa.
(Studio illuminated. HUNGRY MOTHER stares at the phone in his (Slight pause.)
hand. A loud, empty drone . . . He drops it. Grabs his coat, walks
into the street. It's dark and cold. THE DERELICT approaches.) CHARLIE SAMOA: Acute.
DERELICT (CHARLIE SAMOA): Hey, man. I almost made my HUNGRY MOTHER: Cholly. Whatchoo doin' on the street,
trap. Just about got it, just about got it made. Just four cents Cholly?
r
62
NATIVE SPEECH ACT Two 63
CHARLIE SAMOA: I beat the rap, Mom.
HUNGRY MOTHER: Tell me, as a member of the affected
HUNGRY MOTHER: Congratulations. class, do you believe there is a deliberate, that is to say con-
CHARLIE SAMOA: I knew you'd be happy for me. scious effort on the part of the authorities, if you will, the
powers that be, or if you prefer the money men, the movers
HUNGRY MOTHER: Nobody loves you like your Mother, and shakers, the high-rolling high-rise boys, the fat cats, the
Cholly. Where's your pals. Johnnie Sue. Jimmy Shill. leopard-coat ladies-—•
CHARLIE SAMOA: At home. (JIMMY and JOHNNIE join the stalk, snarling; HUNGRY MOTHER
(JIMMY SHILLELAGH strikes a match., illuminating the darkness. falters, but goes on:}
CHARLIE laughs.}
•—to, uh, uh, cut back, uh, basic social services, restrict ac-
Tuning up their fingers. cess to education, lower the already abysmal standard of liv-
ing and further degrade the quality of life for the poor, in a
(HUNGRY MOTHER glances at JOHNNIE and JIMMY.) cynical calculated attempt to discourage democratic tenden-
HUNGRY MOTHER: Okay, Cholly Sam, I'm mugged. Con- cies, stifle aspirations, slay rising expectations, and nar-
sider me mugged. Take it all. Spectacles, testicles, wallet, coticize anger, in order to escape culpability and social con-
and wings. flagration?
CHARLIE SAMOA: (Half grins.} Ssssssssssss. CHARLIE SAMOA: Yeah. In a word.
HUNGRY MOTHER: C'mon, Cholly Sam! Do your number! HUNGRY MOTHER: Fat lot of good it did you, learning that
Run it down! Dissemble! word.
(Slight pause.} CHARLIE SAMOA: (Laughs.} Barbarian? No, Mother, it did
not do me no good at all. I shoulda known better. Waste a
CHARLIE SAMOA: Dissemble. Shit . . . Big Ma-moo, ain't time. Coulda been out on the street. Fulfilling my destiny as
you somethin'? Talk about barbarians, shit like that. You a social predator. My folks, you know?
sound just like a boo-jwa-zee. You know that?
HUNGRY MOTHER: Is there a pay phone around here?
HUNGRY MOTHER: Where'd you learn that word?
CHARLIE SAMOA: Old folks, you know? They get sappy. All
CHARLIE SAMOA: What word? Bar-barian? the resins harden up. They didn't cop to the dead end.
HUNGRY MOTHER: Bourgeoisie. HUNGRY MOTHER: (Cheery radio,,} They never apprehended
CHARLIE SAMOA: CC. C'mon, Mom, lighten up. Get rid of the dynamics of racial interaction.
that boojwa snide. I been to CC. We all been to CC. All CHARLIE SAMOA: Yeah. They never apprehended the
God's chillun been to City College . . . (Laughs.} Which ac- dynamic. Anybody can talk like you, Mother. You know
counts for dem rising expectations. (He begins to stalk that? Anybody. Who you wanna call this hour?
HUNGRY MOTHER.) Expectations which can in no way be
satisfied. Now or ever. HUNGRY MOTHER: Emergency. 911.
(HUNGRY MOTHER begins speaking very rapidly, as if to fend him CHARLIE SAMOA: Number's been changed. Unlisted. That
off with words.} 1'il girl snuffed herself on your show tonight. That your
idea?
64 NATIVE SPEECH ACT Two 65
HUNGRY MOTHER: Fuck off. HUNGRY MOTHER: My impersonation of Screaming Annie.
CHARLIE SAMOA: Way too late for the SOS. Is that a first? THE MOOK: With ribbons.
HUNGRY MOTHER: What do you think? HUNGRY MOTHER: Agaga.
CHARLIE SAMOA: I think so . . . I think it is. Now, that's a THE MOOK: I come to get you out, Mother.
record, Mother. Your best show. So far. HUNGRY MOTHER: Can't.
HUNGRY MOTHER: My fan club. You guys must be the new THE MOOK: Why?
bulge in my demographics.
HUNGRY MOTHER: I'm . . . estranged.
JOHNNIE SUCROSE: I told you. We never miss a show.
THE MOOK: Anomie?
CHARLIE SAMOA: Bastard. I be all over you like ugly on a
gorilla. (HUNGRY MOTHER looks up at him.}
JOHNNIE SUCROSE: Like white on rice. HUNGRY MOTHER: You been to CC too. Cholly Sam's
right. Anybody can talk like me. Yeah. Anomie. It's rude out
(They laugh. CHARLIE SAMOA is winding a chain around his fist.) there.
HUNGRY MOTHER: Is this any way for a fan club to act? THE MOOK: Rude.
JOHNNIE SUCROSE: I wouldn't give you the sweat off my balls. HUNGRY MOTHER: The weather today, Mook, very rude
JIMMY SHILLELAGH: Mistah Kurtz, Mothah, he dead. with streaks of mean. Never underestimate the effects of
rudeness on a disintegrating personality.
(They mug him, ferociously. As they do, studio lights up: HOOVER
and THE NAVAJOS enter, in their dark glasses, and trash the studio;
THE MOOK: A little rude, maybe. Somewhat abrupt.
blue broadcast light in studio goes out; mugging ends; CHARLIE,
Always a little rude this time of year. Gulf stream. Me, I call
JOHNNIE, and JIMMY exit, exhilarated; trashing stops, CRAZY JOE
it brisk. Crisp collars, sharp lapels.
and FREDDY exit; HOOVER, with great ceremony and delicacy, pulls HUNGRY MOTHER: I lead a life of rudeness.
a white feather from his vest and floats it down upon the wreckage;
THE MOOK: Genteel. Always.
HOOVER smiles cooly and strolls out.}
(Bloodied and shaken, HUNGRY MOTHER staggers into the ruined HUNGRY MOTHER: Rudeness. Covered with dogshit. Tell
studio.} you something. Shit doesn't increase arithmetically. It in-
creases geometrically. So, instead of twice as much shit, you
HUNGRY MOTHER: Oh, sweet Christ. (He picks up the feather,}
got shit squared and shit cubed.
Got to be-—Hoover and the—(He pulls the dead blue bulb out of
the socket and smashes it on the floor,} Navajos! (Roots around, THE MOOK: (Laughs softly.} I can dig it. Come on, Mother.
finds another blue bulb.} All right. Come with me.
(Carefully replaces it. Nothing. He starts to laugh. Flicks switches. HUNGRY MOTHER: Why?
Strikes the console, tearing his hands. Laughter becomes sobs, then THE MOOK: They gonna bust you.
screams on each blow. Stops, exhausted. THE MOOK enters. HUNGRY
MOTHER turns to THE MOOK and raises his bloody hands.} HUNGRY MOTHER: How you know that?
66 NATIVE SPEECH ACT Two 67
THE MOOK: I set you up. (This stops HUNGRY MOTHER cold. He stares at THE MOOK for
a moment, then throws the knife into the floor.)
(Pause. HUNGRY MOTHER gets to his feet, stumbles, finds the bean
can.} HUNGRY MOTHER: Where?
HUNGRY MOTHER: Bean? THE MOOK: She came in. I took her back.
THE MOOK: Le's go. HUNGRY MOTHER: That's white of you.
HUNGRY MOTHER: Lemme alone. It's been a tough day. THE MOOK: Easy. Easy. Don't press your luck.
THE MOOK: Le's go baby! I can . . .finesse it for you. HUNGRY MOTHER: Sorry . . . She all right?
HUNGRY MOTHER: Forget it. No big deal. Been busted THE MOOK: Well, you know, Mother, excess sentiment has
before. always been my tragic flaw. My tragic flaw. She had made a
monkey out of me, Mother. Set a deadly precedent. She had
THE MOOK: But whatchoo gonna do with yo'mouthpiece burned the goddamn church. To see the church burn,
shut down? Whatchoo gonna do when you can't run yo'
Mother, is to realize you can burn the church. Powerful real-
mouth?
ization. It was incumbent upon me—as a businessman —to
HUNGRY MOTHER: Tell you what you can do for me, Mook. provide a metaphor. An antidote. Powerful one. I cannot
Tell you what. (Formally.) Why don't you loan me a dollar or abide no more fires . . . Of course, I realize I was in
two . . . danger-—-danger of fulfilling the cliche Free Lance had con-
structed for me. So I struggled. I love Free Lance. You know
THE MOOK: So the dogs won't piss on you? (They both laugh.)
that. But what could I do? There was just no way home. She
HUNGRY MOTHER: Outstanding. You know the phrase. had put herself in the box. Deep. So I said to my pretty little
self—-piss on it. Ever cut yourself on a piece of paper? (THE
THE MOOK: (Doing a little dance of inspiration.) C'mon, big MOOK draws a hand across his throat.) Linen stationery. Slit.
Mom. Snap back, baby, snap back! You my second string. Gush. Sharp. Bled blue, bled blue. Black gash. Mouth to
The Mook lookin' for you to follow in his steps. Bounce mouth. My hands were cold. What bothered me most was
back, Mom. You can do it. Bounce back! fulfilling the cliche. Predestination jive. 'Course, she could
(HUNGRY MOTHER lies down.) have been rescued. By you. Violins up, violins out. Perfect.
And let me off the hook. Muffed it, Mother.
Charp. (He flips a coin on HUNGRY MOTHER J j chest.) There
you go, boy. Knock yo'se'f out. HUNGRY MOTHER: I could call you names.
(HUNGRY MOTHER leaps up and grabs the bowie knife.) THE MOOK: Charlie Samoa works for me.
HUNGRY MOTHER: (Very quietly.) What do you say we (Slight pause.)
engage in a little internecine behavior? HUNGRY MOTHER: Why'd they mug me? Give me a plot
THE MOOK: Stay cool, baby. You can hack it. point. Something to hang on to.
HUNGRY MOTHER: Let's go to the mat. Just you and me. THE MOOK: Reason? Let go, baby. (Laughs.) What if I told
you that 1'il slit who check out over your air—that was
THE MOOK: Don't act the honkey. I found Free Lance. Charlie's sister. I had to let him have you.
68 NATIVE SPEECH ACT Two 69
HUNGRY MOTHER: No relation. love this one—an old old stand-bye, a super-monster in its
THE MOOK: No reason. No reason at all. 'Cause he felt like time—an antediluvian smash—Sweet Gashl Oh so sweet!
it ... I made you, Mother. Don't you dare forget it. Was Play it for me just one more time!
The Mook who turned yo' volume up, and nobody else. So's (Frenzied Top 40.) Get down! As your audio agitator I strong-
you could be heard. So's you could run yo' mouth. Put it out ly advise you to get down! Get Down! Work yourselves into
there. On de air. You done good by ..me. I 'predate that. a frenzy with—Screaming Annie! (A series of gagging screams.
Made me a lot of scratch. The bust be here soon. I got to Then in the grand manner.) When men were men and rock and
bust my Mother now-—but I sure as shit can still save yo' roll was king. Never the twain shall meet. Send a salami to
ass. your boy in the army. (Slight pause.) Talking heads. Runs on
HUNGRY MOTHER: Pimp. Scag scum. Smack ghoul. lethargy. Human freedom diminishing, even vanishing.
Ruination.
THE MOOK: Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. Feeble. Mighty lame. You
shoulda held on to that knife, boy. You ignorant, Mama. (Mellifluous.) We'll have the latest up-to-date quotations
Got to teach you all the rules to you own game. (Tenderly.) on—human wreckage futures in a moment. (Beat.) This is
Come with me, Mother. Don't be bitter. your favorite Hungry Mother, illuminating the dark con-
tours of native speech. (Pause. From this point on, the various
HUNGRY MOTHER: (Shaking his head.) The exigencies
radio voices drop away.)
change.
Fuck. Fuck it. Fucked up. Hit you across your fucking
(A beat, and then THE MOOK roars, raucous falsetto laughter.)
mouth. Fuck with me and I'll really fuck you up . . . I try to
THE MOOK: Keep after them blackisms, boy! You keep watch my language, but I'm a victim of history. Or is it
after them blackisms, boy! You get there yet! . . . You eschatology? Verbal inflation is at an all-time high. (Slight
know, you right, Mom. I be feelin' pimpish to-day! Be feel- pause.) First Chinese Baptist Church of the Deaf. (Slight
ing pimpish. (At the door, he turns back.) Momma—I thought pause.) Social engineering. Upward mobility. Stiletto. (Slight
you'd like to know—I got a terrific price for them kids. pause. A travel agent.) Vacation in—steamy-—South Africa!
(Roars again. Stops.) Keep after it, boy. You get to be a nigger (Slight pause.) Say hungry.
yet.
(Slight pause. Cheery salesman.) Death Boy, Brown Bomber,
(Exits. HUNGRY MOTHER makes his way to the mike. Flicks White Death, Stallion Stick, Casa Boom, Snow Storm,
switches. The blue light stays "off". He doesn't seem to notice.) Allah Supreme, White Noise, Sweet Surrender, Death
HUNGRY MOTHER: (Into the mike.) Test if it dead . . . Give me Wish, Turkish Delight! Any size lot, any cut ratio, buy in
a try before you pass me by ... Close enough for ground bulk and saaaave! If we don't have it, it ain't worth having!
zero . . . I've got some good phrases from romantic literature If our sauce don't send you, you got no place to go!
in my head. It's too bad . . . This is the Hungry Mother. The (Laughs, then screaming.) That junk is shit! Shit! Stay 'way.
Universal Disc Jockey. God's own deejay. Goin' down slow. Mother advises you to stay a-way—lay off it all 'cept for
(Black.) Cat's pajamas . . . This is your Hungry Mother Death Wish Smoking Mixture Number 3. After all—why
talkin' to you! I cannot be slow—-that why I'm so fast! (Sings an stick when you can blow? (Slight pause.) Stick with us.
offhand blues.) Goin' down slow—-oh goin' down slow—but at (Laughs.) Stick with us. Stick with us. Stick it. (Slight pause.)
least I am-—-going' down—on yoouuu. (Laid back Top 40.) One Twenty-four hour shooting galleries. (Slight pause.) The
of our very very large numbers, I just know you're gonna American Meat Institute presents. Our Lady Of The Cage.
70 NATIVE SPEECH
A new barbed-wire ballet. With automatic weapons. (Slight
pause.) Say hungry . . . I'm interested in abused forms.
(Black.} She not only willing, she able. Bevy. Doctor NATIVE SPEECH
Feelgood. (Sportscaster.} Playing hurt. Photo finish. Cut to
ribbons . . . That goes without saying. (Slight pause.} Dead Charles Marowitz
on my feet. (Slight pause.} I pay lip service every chance I get.
Flophouse of Stalinism. Two mules and a colored boy. Bet-
ter a cocksucker than a Communist. (Pause.} Down avenues
There are really only three kinds of plays: the ones that 'act
of blue exhaust. (Pause.} Voodoo kit. Razor ribbon. Front
out' the visible universe; the ones that express the 'inner
me 'til Friday. A day late and a dollar short. Tryin' to get
world'; and that large, middle category of work which par-
over. (Pause.} Spike that beautiful black vein! Spike it!
tially combines visions from both vantage points. Eric Over-
(Pause.} Say hungryl . . . Born to shoot junk. Strafe me,
myer's Native Speech is in none of these categories.
baby. Strafe me. Up against it. Aphasia. All the rage.
It is almost impossible to place Native Speech in any clear-
Hungry. Riff. On the rag. In the name of the father, and of
cut category. Literarily, its great grand-daddy is Finnegan's
the son, and of the holocaust. World without end. Shit from
Wake; closer to a conventional frame-of-reference, it super-
shortcake. Ecstatic suffering.
ficially resembles the metaphysical overspill of Heathcote
(He falters.} I disremember. (Slight pause. Trembling:} Brush Williams' AC/DC, Stephen Poliakoff s City Sugar, and the
fire wars. Bane of my existence. Blue sky ventures! (Top 40 more ethereal riffs of Michael McClure. It is a play in which
outburst,} The watchword for today—hydrogenize slumisml language is largely incantational and, as in all magic rites, it
Bear that in mind. (Pause.) Under the gun. (Pause.) Under sometimes evokes the phenomena it is describing. The
the gun. (Pause.) Under the gun. (Pause.) Free-fire zone. hoodoo of its language (its 'native speech') conjures up a
(Pause.) When I get back . . . When I get back to The corresponding reality in the so-called real world and, before
World—(Lightly.) I ain't gonna do nothin' . . . but stay long, we lose track of what is 'said to be happening' and
black—an' die. (Slight pause.} I'm serious. (Laughs. Freezes.) what actually happens. Or, more precisely, the one becomes
the other in a way not dissimilar from the way that rain-
LOUD SPEAKER: Hungry Mother . . . The Final Image.
makers instigate rain or witch-doctors bring down
(The blue broadcast light pops "on". After a moment the lights dim vengeance on the heads of their stigmatized enemies. It is a
and slowly fade. Out. The blue light glows a moment, then ex- play about that 'rough magic' which Prospero eventually ab-
tinguishes. Blackout.} jures, by which sensibility spawns circumstance and men
play at being gods.
[END OF PLAY] On a simpler, narrative level, Native Speech introduces us
to Hungry Mother, a metaphysical disc jockey (a kind of
high-frequency Dr. Faustus) who goes beyond the permissi-
ble bounds of media communication and loses his soul to the
dark, satanic force whose power he underestimates. Dispen-
sing the wild, hyperbolic diction of a shaman, Hungry
Mother conjures up a frail, female 'fan' who detects and
promptly falls in love with his poignancy. In attempting a per-
sonal liaison, she breaks the unwritten law of Media Magic
72 NATIVE SPEECH CHARLES MAROWITZ 73
(materializing in his studio) and is soon 'offed' by the same Storm, Allah Supreme, White Noise, Sweet Surrender,
forces that stalk and ultimately overpower the ill-fated disc- Death Wish, Turkish Delight! Any size lot, any cut
jockey. The play swings from the studio (a kind of an- ratio, buy in bulk and saaaave! If we don't have it, it
thropomorphic Word Processor run amok) to spooky street ain't worth having! If our sauce don't send you, you
scenes where the only tribes left are the Dealers and the got no place to go!
Pushers—plus their offspring, the whores and the mutants. I disremember. Brush fire wars. Bane of my existence.
Violence has become the only shared idiom. Blue sky ventures! The watchword for today •—
In the sanctum of his impenetrable studio, Hungry hydrogenize slumism! Bear that in mind. Under the
Mother is Master of all He Surveys-—which. includes a gun. . . . Under the gun. . . . Under the gun. . . .
bird's-eye view of the vast inner landscape and the murder- When I get back to The World — I ain't gonna do no-
ous, drug-infested 'street' which,- to all intents and purposes, thing; . . . but stay black . . . an1 die.
is all that now remains of the City. Just as Caliban plotted
the overthrow of Prospero and threatened to people his Hungry Mother's death agony (again, like Faustus hearingthe
island with monstrous offspring, so does The Mook, Hungry clock toll away his last moments on earth) is one of the most
Mother's nemesis (and a kind of high-flying, spaced-out hair-raising demises in modern literature for it is not so much
Professor Moriarty), deviously arrange his overthrow. the death of a 'commentator' as it is the death of the air-waves:
Painfully, Hungry Mother learns (as did Faustus) that his the very corridors of communication by which we experience
power exists at the behest of a power greater than himself consciousness. The very ether has now been lethally polluted
and that the price for playing God in a man-made cosmology with unmitigated hype and unsubstantiated fantasy, its
is to endure the lingering death pangs of an ordinary megahertz clogged and silenced. When Hungry Mother' s can-
mortal. ny and convoluted diction breaks down, it is virtually the death
oflanguage, and because 'inthebeginningwastheWord',the
annihilation of that sound is awesome.
HUNGRY MOTHER: This is the Hungry Mother. The The most apt thing about Native Speech is the play's basic
Universal Disc Jockey. God's own deejay. Goin' down metaphor: the Private World, a hermetically sealed studio in
slow. Gat's pajamas. . . . This is your Hungry Mother which language feeds on itself, and the Public World, those gris-
talkin' to you! I cannot be slow—-that's why I'm so ly streets in which sexual mutants and surreal criminals try to
fast!. . . One of our very large numbers, I just know out-do each other through the frantic assumption of style. As in
you're gonna love this one—-an old stand-bye, a super- our own society, 'chic' constantly battles with 'camp' and deter-
monster in its time—-an antediluvian smash—Sweet mined trendiness is all that stands between us and the Void, In
Gash! Oh so sweet! Play it for me just one more time. Hungry Mother's weather report and news updates, we get
. . . When men were men and rock and roll was king. some of the forecasts of our own psychic climate:
Never the twain shall meet. Send a salami to your boy
in the army. . . . Talking heads. Runs on lethargy. HUNGRY MOTHER: The weather outlook is for con-
Human freedom diminishing, even vanishing. Ruina- tinued existential dread under cloudy skies with scat-
tion. . . . We'll have the latest up-to-date quotations tered low-grade distress.
on—human wreckage futures in a moment—-This is . . . Police today busted a waterfront distillery, ar-
your Hungry Mother, illuminating the dark contours resting twenty-seven adults. The distillery produces a
of native speech. . . . Death Boy, Brown Bomber, wine brewed from the sores of children, which is quite
White Death, Stallion Chick, Casa Boom, Snow popular locally and in the contiguous states, and easily
74 NATIVE SPEECH CHARLES MAROWITZ 75
available without a prescription. The cops said the kids Mother's turf is the inaccessible psyche where no commer-
were kept in cages underneath the piers because, cials ever intrude. It is both the prison and the fortress of the
quote, the salt water facilitates the festeration process, Super-Ego. It reverberates with the astral hum of the space
endquote. The perpetrators will be arraigned tomor- capsule of the extra-galactic void, that mysterious, im-
row on tax-evasion charges, and the children, several penetrable part of ourselves that remains untouched despite
hundred of them, have been released into the custody the ravages of media, kicks, and garrulous people.
of leading lending institutions. Like an endlessly proliferating prose-poem that becomes
entangled in its own web of associations, the play radiates
The humor is jet-black and flecked with perverse cruelty as, more than it delivers. It is like watching a circulating silver
for instance, when Hungry Mother announces a new radio ball in some apocalyptic ballroom where the spotlight rico-
feature entitled "Name My Race," chets ^off the glass-crystals, shedding glitziness over the
tawdriness of our last dance. At the heart of Overmyer's
the game guaranteed to offend nearly everyone, play is a repulsion of the level to which our over-hyped society
brought to you by Ethnic Considerations, dedicated to has sunk, coupled with a vague compassion for the innocent
exacerbating racial tensions through violence—Ethnic victims dragged down along with its more extravagant
Considerations, a hallmark of the twentieth century, villains. The end is not nigh—it is now and no amount of
don't leave home without them. diversion or reprise can stay the fall of the final curtain.
Ultimately, as with any play rich in texture and rife with
Running throughtout the play is the veiled, contemporary allusion, the value is in the overall experience rather than
assumption that pseudo-hip, culturally anemic whites are any thesis one might cull from its several parts. The play
desperately trying to emulate a vigorous ' 'blackness" which, enables one to savor a variety of different intellectual flavors
despite their assumption of black vernacular, is always a step (most of them inconceivable to Howard Johnson) without
or two beyond them. "Blackness" itself is equated, as Nor- fretting about their calorie content. It is not so much what
man Mailer and Jean Genet have equated it, with a superior the^play says as the mesmerizing quality of its tone of voice
Life Force, intrinsically radical and irresistibly criminal which rivets the attention. Like any unique theatrical work,
—perhaps the only suspect romantic notion in the work. it says more than it means and means a great deal more than
By situating itself in a radio studio with a strictly it says.
audiophonic relation to events, the play provokes certain
questions about our relationship to disembodied sound—•
i.e., music, DJ streams-of-consciousness, and, by extrapola-
tion, spirit-communication and God.
In this over-video' d world of TV and cable that insists on the
explicitness ofvisual imagery, the air-waves are thelastbastion
of The Unseen and The Unknown. Radio has always been the
Mecca of the Imagination where what we perceive is more ex-
citing (and more personal) than anything we can visually
verify. By operating in this sound-studio microcosm, Hungry
Mother maintains the last outpost of modern consciousness
—a consciousness unpolluted by the explicit. Hungry