Moonlight on a Weathered Path: Selected Readings for Dramatic Interpretation

By Jamantha Williams Watson

Jamantha Williams Watson takes us inside the lives of several individuals struggling to find their places in a world where fairness, morality and civility do not always apply. From Slippery Slopes to Locked Out Watson's characters live in a world where their dreams often supersede their realm of reality; a world where things are not always as they seem. Though Watson's style is subtle and sophisticated it is also jarring, leaving the reader on the edge of their seat. In Moonlight on a Weathered Path: Selected Readings for Dramatic Interpretation, we experience Watson's stories and live with her characters even after the last page is turned.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9781477273210

Jamantha Williams Watson

Jamantha Agape Williams Watson is an Assistant Professor of Performance in the Department of Fine and Performing Arts at Hampton University. Her focus area is in Acting. Professor Watson coaches Hampton University’s award-winning Forensics and Debate Team. As a community servant, Watson is a tireless worker for Delta Sigma Theta Sorority, Inc. She is also the founder of the AGAPE (Americans Giving to African People Everywhere) Connection, a non-profit organization that develops the socialization, education and residential needs of Africans throughout the world. Mrs. Watson is also a drama-therapist, who helps develop the socialization skills of individuals with special needs and those who have been deeply affected by trauma. For the past twenty years she has volunteered as an oral communication specialist in the female correctional facilities throughout Virginia. Currently she volunteers her oral communication services to women who are incarcerated in Newport News, Virginia.

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Jamantha Williams Watson

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© 2013 by Jamantha Williams Watson. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 01/15/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4772-7320-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-7321-0 (e)

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Contents

Slippery Slopes

Children’s Games

The Movie Star

Finding A Way Out

Moving Out

The Homecoming

A Diamond in the Rough

The Visit

All That Glitters

Not Now

What Really Happened on Chipman Street?

The Real Housewives of Benjamin County

All In A Day’s Work

The Text Message

Confessions

Best Friends

A Jog In The Park

What’s The Matter With Joey?

Conjoined Forever

Taxi Cab Confessions

Gone Astray

The Prodigal Son

The Day The Ground Shook

The Three Little Pigs

Super Women

A Bombing In Bombmingham

Locked Out

Jamantha Williams Watson is an assistant professor of Performance with a focus on Acting in the Department of Fine and Performing Arts at Hampton University. She coaches Hampton University’s award-winning Forensics and Debate Team. As an actor, she has appeared in numerous theatrical, film and television productions and tours her one-woman shows LD, which explores the overrepresentation of African American students in Special Education and Locked Out: The Story of the Five Year School Closings In Prince Edward County, Virginia. The author of six books, Watson educates prison inmates throughout the country. She is a certified fitness instructor and founder of the POWERhouse Theatre Company and The AGAPE (Americans Giving to African People Everywhere) Connection Inc., a non-profit organization that addresses the socialization, educational and residential needs of Africans throughout the world.

To: Isaac, James, Ann Marie, Marvin and Abena Ann

Leave this world better than you found it.

—Wilfred Peterson

Slippery Slopes

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They had all come.

Overworked adults who had left their children at home, were there. And so were teenagers who had conked their hair, Maybellined their eyes and sandwiched condoms in skinny wallets, between the faces of Presidents Washington and Jefferson. With the exception of a very few, nearly every colored resident in Farmville had walked through the door of Blue’s Place with an expectation. Patrons gyrating their hips and flinging their arms came with the expectation of jamming to the sounds of The Ollie Smith Band, featuring Lil’ Jimmy, the electrical guitarist. Those still sitting in, or near the kitchen came expecting to swallow at least another forkful of Ola’s hamhocked greens, vinegared pig feet or a spoonful of her green apple cobbler. Upstairs, loud mouthed daddies expected to win back grocery money, pay on I.O.U’s or just look on at husbands who held pool sticks taller than their children and at women who were not their wives.

For the past fifteen years Blue’s Place, like no other nightclub in Farmville had been compared to a magnet. It drew people to it. Saturday nights especially, yanked crowds from as nearby as Cumberland and as far away as Charles City. They came, standing if they had to, just to be able to tell their children, parents and co-workers that they had seen Irky, the four hundred-fifty pound piano player squat on his wooden stool and bang the life into his Baby Grand. That alone was worth the two dollar admission, even though it was fifty cents more than that of other clubs.

Singing also moved them to Blue’s Place. Sweet Sassy Rose, the eighth world wonder, was Farmville’s crooning sensation. Catching a glimpse of her was a privilege and a rarity. With Rose’s international traveling schedule she hardly ever made it back home to Farmville. But when she surprised the town with a visit, it was at Blue’s Place where she opened her lungs and did for the wounded soul what the yellow ointment in a can of Bag Balm did for an aching muscle.

Blue’s Place, compared to Reid’s, Farrar’s, The Elk’s Hall, Digg’s and Chicken Shack was known for its style and class. Towners often referred to Blue’s as the mint julep among the grape kool-aid. They knew that at Blue’s there’d be no hitting, cussing or knifing one another like there’d been at other spots around town. Should anyone decide to break his rules, they would soon find out that Blue Crump, the owner, meant business when he threatened to call the law. Enjoy the Music, the Dancing and the Food but Please Leave ALL of Your Foolishness Outside of This Door! Thank You—was how the sign above the entrance door read. Except for underneath the dancer’s feet, cloudy sky, blue carpet covered the floor at Blue’s. Therefore no blood was allowed on it.

Sure people called him uppity, high siddity, a white man’s nigger. But he hadn’t always been that way. He had been one of them. The change came after he married Loveline, the sophisticated school teacher. He brought her back the year they both graduated from State. It was the year the old Blue Crump exited; the year the new Blue Crump entered.

And he knew their thoughts. Still, he wore a necktie to work; kept his Stacy Adams’ polished enough to see his hand wave across them and took the drive to Richmond every Friday morning to get his crew cut lowered. Blue’s Place was his compromise. Fifteen years ago he gave up the trumpet to please his new wife; but opened a juke joint to keep his old friends. Every since Blue made the decision to become a businessman, he felt he owed no one any further explanation for his actions. By both satisfying and respecting his customers, he’d made a good solid living.

Tonight was no different.

Blue waited for Whiney to play the last note on his alto saxophone and for the dancers to finish their final sways and stomps of the Lindy Hop and the Mashed Potato. Then he stepped onto the stage.

That was Whiney Stokes and the Backstrokes, he said, twisting his fingers around the adjuster on the silver microphone stand. Of course y’all know Whiney, on sax. Raising the microphone he listened as the crowd continued clapping and cheering for Whiney’s band.

Jesus, a woman seated near the kitchen moaned before biting into the fried leg of a chicken, that boy can sure play that thing.

Play us some more, one of the teenagers screamed. In a month they would turn twenty. The young adults were elated that Blue had even considered opening his door to anyone their age, on this one night of the year—the Saturday before Christmas.

Yeah, play us some more.

A few of the men, still in tan work shirts, leaned over the upstairs banister and made bullhorns out of their hands, More!

Nawww, Blue felt the smile pulling back the corners of his mouth but shooed his hand at them. Y’all know the rules. Each band gets three songs on Saturday nights. If you like Whiney’s band, go cast your vote and give it to Benny. And look. Y’all look a here, he pointed toward the kitchen, stop on over at Ola’s in the back there, while we’re taking a quick break. Get yourself another plate of those chittlins. Y’all know they’re good as anything. Don’t even need to shake any hot sauce on them, they’re so good.

You can say that again baby.

Or better yet, get a big bowl of black eyed peas and tomatoes. Weather man says it’s going to get down near twenty tonight. Chuckling, Blue hunched his shoulders, might need a little something to stick to your bones.

Some good loving will do me just fine. Thank you very much, a man yelled.

Those who heard the joke laughed loud. Those who didn’t laughed louder, as the liquor tickled them in places where the joke had not.

Who the fuck is Benny? a strange man leaning on the juke box called out in a northern dialect.

Sir, please. Let’s not use profanity. Blue cleared his throat and nodded. Thank you. He squinted then lowered his head an inch. Glaring out into the crowd, he tried to ignore the stranger among the guests in his dance hall.

Benny? Where are you son? Spotting the teenager with the wide shoulders, he smiled as he watched him set down a box, which had at one time held church hats, not club ballots. Son, wave your hand. Blocking the light from his eyes, Blue stretched his hand making it a visor that covered his forehead. This, my friends is Junie’s boy, he pointed to the boy and nodded, in case you don’t recognize him. His daddy’s not here tonight, so Benny’s going to count up the ballo- . . .

I don’t give a good fuck who his daddy is, the man said squaring his shoulders then brushing off imaginary lent from his white suit. I just want to know who the fuck Benny is. That’s all. He stepped away from the jukebox and walked closer toward the stage.

Blue stepped to the side and out of the way, as one of Whiney’s men limped off the stage, with a drum raised high over his head. Coming onto the stage to get set up, were a couple of other musicians squeezing past Blue with horns in their hands.

If, Blue said, taking a step closer to the microphone, you have to continue disrespecting my place and my patrons, he cleared his throat, I’m going to have to ask you to leave, sir. Blue jutted his chin at Chief who was standing with his back against the club’s door, nodding to Blue.

Easy Blue, a woman responded.

Shaking his head he chuckled the same way he had the afternoon Patsy, his niece, spat up Gerber’s spinach on his beige suit at Paul Taylor’s wedding. He nodded toward the woman, careful not to let the city slicker slide any further underneath his skin.

Now, Blue said, flashing his teeth, something’s telling me y’all didn’t come all the way downtown to hear me run my mouth all night. Huh? That right?!

The crowd laughed and clapped.

I want to hear you Blue.

Naw darling. Can’t do that neither. That’s next Friday, Christmas night. But, he pulled the microphone out of the stand and stepped to the edge of the stage, here’s what I can do for you. I can bring you another one of the hottest big bands on the east coast. How’s that?

The crowd applauded and whistled. Then he readjusted the microphone, placing it back in its holder, applauding with the crowd. Y’all know who that is don’t you? They continued clapping.

"Come on up here Ollie. All the way from Jackson Ward in Richmond, Virginia.

Y’all put your hands together for The. Ollie. Smith. Baaaaaaaaaaannnnnnnnnnd." Before Blue could walk down the stage, dancers had begun speeding to the floor patting their feet, jerking their shoulders forward and extending their necks in time to the band’s beat. To them Ollie’s music sounded very much like another high impacted Chuck Berry record. They enjoyed the music so much that they were willing to wiggle, twist and hop their bodies around even after they’d exhausted themselves.

Blue smiled, nodded to his customers as he worked his way through them to his bar, on the far side of the room. Unscrewing the top off of a bottle of Chivas Regal, he looked around his club for the cat in the white suit.

Shit ass city slickers, he grumbled, sliding a shot glass from the cabinet behind his bar, then pouring the whiskey into the glass.

"Always trying to start some shit. Then… then… they can’t even finish it. He looked to the door, realizing that the stranger was just drunk and had probably already tucked tail and driven on over to Farrar’s, or Chicken Shack with that foolishness.

Crazy wall head nigger. Better not fool with me in here tonight. He swished a thin straw around inside the glass before lifting the drink to his lips. Then gulped it down in one swallow.

Better not.

*     *     *

All of the way down Main Street, the sound of Lil’ Jimmy playing his guitar could be heard. To Rose, Lil’ Jimmy plucked those strings on that guitar with a passion as smooth as Cognac and as deep as desire. Only Jimmy could make a guitar talk back to him like that. But outside is not where Rose wanted to listen to him nor anyone else. Besides, a few drops of snow had already melted on the sleeve of her mink. She needed to be back inside. Warm. She needed to be back with Blue.

Rose smiled her approval while standing underneath the doorframe of Blue’s Place, her crimson nails tapped the doorknob then pulled it to her. Not a whole lot had changed in the year she’d been gone, she thought looking around. The gold star of a decorated Christmas tree, nearly brushed the high ceiling. The tree stood in the same spot Irky had played his piano last year. Now, he was down at the other end of the room closer to the dancers. In spite of the waitresses standing over tables, hurriedly penciling down orders, Ola still had customers waiting in a long line. Some carried more than one plate back to their seats, while others fished around in their back pockets for cash. Still Farmville. Still home, Rose thought smiling. The scents from Ola’s kitchen, the pine tree, cigarette smoke and various colognes tingled her nostrils. Damn it feels good to be back home. Looking at the tops of the tables she nodded, realizing that Blue had finally taken her advice, by covering those plain wooden tables with white tablecloths and small lamps.

Sure looks a whole hell of a lot sexier in here, she mumbled. At least people can see whose hand it is they’re holding and whose lips it is they’re kissing. My, my, my. She dazzled a smile at the dancers who threw their lady friends over their backs then dipped and slid them between the legs of wide legged zoot suits.

Blue, she whispered, glancing over at him pouring drinks behind the bar. Uhn, uhn, uhn. Look at what you’ve created Sugar.

Autographed glossy black and white photos of him standing beside Sarah Vaughan, B.B. King, Etta James, Mississippi Mary, Howling Wolf, Elvis Presley, Chuck Berry and herself all hung in frames on the wall behind him; evidence of his short lived fame in the music world. Judging by the knitting of his eyebrows, something had already upset him. She didn’t like seeing her Sugar Man that way. But, she thought of the thick marijuana joint rolled tightly underneath her right titty, and knew that it and her tender loving would be all Blue would need to relax. He would tell her about it. All about it, as if she were the wife, not just the other woman.

Uhn, uhn, uhn.

If Rose could have, she would have stood in that one spot beside the coat rack all night long; because more than entertaining she loved watching her people being entertained. But she knew she’d soon be pointed out; even standing still in the farthest corner of the room at Blue’s, she knew she’d soon be recognized.

Come here Jesus!!! Looka here Ollie breathed into the microphone. Keep on playin’ Jimmy, he nodded. Keep right on playin’, man. But I want y’all to know that the wind just blew in one of the finest, prettiest, sexiest, good God Almighty devilish snowflakes up in heeeerrrre tonight. He took a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and smeared it over his face. She’s back y’all. All the way back from Paris ladies and gentlemen. It’s Prince Edward County’s very own Sweet, Sassy Roooooooooooose King.

They ate her up.

Rose snaked her way through the crowd of admirers toward the stage.

Bless your heart sugar, she cooed to one man who’d extended his hand.

I love you too darling, she said to a woman before lipsticking the word Rose on a paper napkin, inside the moist imprint of a glass. To Blue she nodded and gave a slow wink. He pulled the white hand towel out of the glass he was drying and set both down on top of the counter.

His eyes never left her.

Syncopated vibrations, staccato squeaks, funky, low bass tempos from all the blues, the jazz, the gospel music; tickling him from his toenails to the tips of the hairs on his head, all came alive as he stood there watching her. Way out there, somewhere, he heard sounds on his brass trumpet again. Man, whenever Rose came back to town he was Buttermilk Weeks, Mississippi Mae and Dizzy Gillespie all in one. When Rose came home Blue left and was back out again playing in those liquor reeked houses in Newark, smoke filled night clubs on Sugar Hill, and lilac scented bedrooms in Flatbush. She was his very own musician.

Bee deep bee dop deeeeeee.

Daisy the head waitress, jerked a menu out of Mr. Bernard’s hands, fanned herself with it and flashed a mouthful of teeth.

Hot damn! We ’bout to party tonight.

Rose swished and swayed her way to the stage. The lights in the room bounced tiny flecks of green and purple from the sequins in the singer’s red dress and from the large diamonds in her earrings, necklace and bracelet; while nearly every man in Blue’s Place tried but failed to lick the anticipation from his lips.

Before Rose stepped on stage, she turned to the two boys who’d offered to carry her coat. She reached into her full bosom, pulling out two twenties. Then she patted the tops of the little boys’ heads, and mouthed bye-bye as they ran out the door waving their money like flags.

When Ollie pulled the microphone off its stand and handed it to her, those in the room who were sitting hit the floor grinning. Those standing braced themselves for the evening of a lifetime.

Lord I love coming home to my folks, Rose crooned.

We love you Sweet Sassy.

Sing to me baby.

You know something, she said to her fans, then looked over to Ollie, play me something slow, little quiet. Not too loud.