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  • Morning, Protect MeA Monologue in One Act
  • Cuti (Luiz Silva) (bio)

Character

CELSO, Black man, between 30 and 40 years old, dressed in a suit and tie.

Scene

A street in a well-to-do neighborhood. A tall wall with bars.

It is early morning.

          CELSO

(offstage)

Don’t worry, man. . . . I’ll catch a cab. . . . Go to sleep. . . . No, I’m not drunk, shit . . . So long. . . . See you Monday. . . . Take it easy, you’re the one who drank too much. . . . That’s it. . . . Okay. . . . Don’t worry about this. . . . No, you don’t have to call. . . . I’m going. . . . Drink some bitter coffee, you’ll feel better. . . . Sleep well! . . . Bye, bye, bye . . .

There is a pause. Celso emerges with his jacket slung over his shoulder, trying—with difficulty—to loosen his tie.

          CELSO

(Signaling)

Taxi! . . . Taxi! . . . Taxi! . . .

The sound of a car moving away.

          CELSO

Shit! Bastard . . . Son of a bitch. His wife must sleep around. She has to, looking at him. Fuck! He sees someone in the street at this hour . . . (He looks at his watch) Three-thirty! He’s an asshole. I’m not badly dressed or anything?! When a guy’s all messed up, that’s different . . . Then you can think he’s a bum, at night, a deserted street . . . But, a well-dressed black man? Suit, haircut, shaved, the most expensive deodorant, [End Page 721] money in his pocket . . . Along comes this jerk, with a junker that’s falling apart—mine is worth a hundred times that piece of shit—along he comes, looking to earn enough to get milk for his kids, I signal him, the guy doesn’t stop? . . . (Indignant) And he has to be really fucked . . . Because a guy who drives around all night looking for fares has to have hit bottom. If not, he’s greedy. He works all day, takes a short snooze, then he’s out there doing battle again to try and get rich. He’ll never get fucking rich. It’s easier to fall asleep at the wheel, crash the car and that’s it . . . Once there was a time! (He pauses) Those guys . . . Maybe that fag doesn’t like blacks. Could he have not seen me? He saw. He looked me right in the eyes and then turned his face away like he was saying “Take care of yourself, nigger!” That’s it. He saw me. I think so . . . Yeah, he was driving right under the street light. Let me guess: he had a bad childhood experience. Some black kid worked him over when he was little. (He pauses. Resigned, but with certain hurt). It’s nothing. (More relaxed) I hope his tire blows at the next corner. . . .

The noise of another car approaching.

          CELSO

(Signaling)

Taxi! Taxi! . . .

The noise fades.

          CELSO

Occupied! . . . Why doesn’t he turn off the light, shit! Let it go . . . What do I do now? (He taps himself on the head a few times) You see, Celso . . . Look what happens when you do what Omar does. (Imitating) “Leave your car, Celso. I’ll take you home afterwards . . .” The guy drinks everything in sight, ruins the party, and you even have to take him home . . . Babysitting a drunk. The guy can’t even see a bottle of whiskey, shit! He’s like a baby with a bottle. Even dribbles like a baby. Hmm . . . He’s become Silva’s baby. No, not Silva. A little baby for Matarazzo! He has money. But he doesn’t know how to take advantage of it. He works in the factory because he wants to. Not even his father forces him. He’s there inventing fashion, trying to act like a manager. I don’t even know why I go out with a guy like that . . . (He pauses and tries to spot a taxi) That Omar can go fuck himself. Murici’s law, each one takes care of himself.

The sound of hurried footsteps. Celso becomes frightened. The sound of a gun being cocked. Celso leans up against the wall with his hands raised.

          CELSO

(Very frightened)

Okay . . . Okay . . . I understand. You don’t have to shoot . . . Okay . . . Cash? Yes, I’ve got cash. Stay cool...

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