The Chicano/Latino Literary Prize (28 page)

LUKE: Yer the killer!

RAY:
(Closing his eyes.)
And may each man be blessed with a cellmate. God have mercy on my soul.

LUKE:
(Striking
RAY
again and again.)
Yer the killer!

RAY: Protect me from my sins.

LUKE: Yer the killer!

RAY: From my wanton miserable soul.

LUKE:
(Stops the whipping. Begins to lower his pants.)
There is only one way to punish ya.

RAY:
(Horrified.)
Oh, God, no!

LUKE: Only one way to teach ya a lesson.

RAY: No, pleassssse, not that!

LUKE:
(Lowers his pants to his ankles and positions himself behind
RAY
.)
Those who do the screwin' should be screwed.

RAY:
(Hysterically.)
No, no, no! Help me! Someone, pleassssse! Help me!

The lights fade. A country-western song plays softly. The lights brighten on the far right side of the stage. Two prison guards are playing cards on a wooden table.
RAY
's screams can be heard over the music.

1ST GUARD: It sounds like Ray Wilson again.

2ND GUARD: Cell number 42.

1ST GUARD: Every night the same damn thing.

2ND GUARD: For the past two months.

1ST GUARD:
(Dealing out the cards.)
Shall we go investigate?

2ND GUARD: What for?

1ST GUARD: Maybe he's hurting himself.

2ND GUARD: Forget it.

1ST GUARD: You never know.

2ND GUARD: Forget it. Leave him alone.
(Screams. Soft music.)
Plays cards.
(More screams. The music.)
He's having bad dreams.

1ST GUARD:
(Looking casually at his cards.)
Yeah, you're right. It's probably his conscience killing him.

(The lights slowly fade. More screams. The music. Curtain.)

Carlos Morton

Third Prize: Drama

A contemporary rewrite of the Spanish classic,
Don Juan Tenorio,
the following scene begins
JOHNNY
's examination of conscience. The scene takes place in Big Berta's Bar, where
BERTA
helps
JOHNNY
confront his life and death.

JOHNNY: The curse!

BERTA: ¿La maldición?

JOHNNY: I'm damned for all time!

BERTA: Do I detect repentance in your voice?

JOHNNY:
(Screaming.)
Hell no!

BERTA: ¿No? (BERTA
starts lighting the candles on the altar. Incense burns.)
Quizás entonces tu deseo se hará realidad.

JOHNNY: What wish?

BERTA: Your death wish.

JOHNNY: What are you talking about?

BERTA: Life after death, la inmortalidad. I lit these velas to show you a vision. See how brightly they burn? Smell the copal incense, the kind
the ancients used in their sacred rites. Pray, Johnny, ruega a la Virgen de Guadalupe, nuestra señora, Tonantzín.

JOHNNY: ¡Mis ojos!

BERTA: Pronto vas a ver. Now we wait for the souls to return. They'll come to say a few final words.

JOHNNY: I don't want to hear it, Berta. No one ever really cared about me, not my father, not Ana, none of them.

BERTA:
(Serving him food and drink.)
Cálmate. Sit. Mira, I fixed your favorite comida—tamales y atole. Eat. Los otros están por llegar.

JOHNNY: All right. That's more like it. Be sure to invite Louie. Except that he has so many holes in his stomach, I doubt that the food will stay in.

BERTA: No debes burlarte de los muertos, Johnny.

JOHNNY: Hey, Louie! I'm calling you out, man! Berta made some ricos tamales and hot atole. Better hurry before I eat it all up!
(
LOUIE
, wearing a calavera mask, enters.)

BERTA:
(Noticing
LOUIE
.)
Ah, Louie, there you are. Te traigo un plato. You boys have such big appetites, hay que calentar más tamales.
(
BERTA
exits.)

JOHNNY:
(Still absorbed in his food.)
Yeah, Louie, sit down and …
(Suddenly noticing him.)
Oh! Another appearance, eh? What's with the costume, still playing trick or treat?

LOUIE: ¡Te dije que no te acercaras a Ana!

JOHNNY:
(Pulling out a gun.)
Chíngate, cabrón, nobody tells me what to do!
(
LOUIE
lunges for
JOHNNY
, who shoots
LOUIE
in the head.)
I told you not to mess with me!
(
LOUIE
does not fall—he keeps advancing.)
Jesus Christ!

LOUIE: Remember, I'm already dead! ¿Qué te pasa, Johnny? ¿Tienes miedo? ¡Tú, el mero chingón!
(Grabbing
JOHNNY
by the throat.)

JOHNNY: ¡Ayyyyyyy! ¡Déjame! Let me go!

LOUIE:
(Dragging
JOHNNY
over to the table.)
¡No me digas que sientes la presencia de la Muerte!

JOHNNY: Get away from me!

LOUIE:
(Grabbing
JOHNNY
by his hair.)
Come! Come! Que ésta va a ser tu última cena.
(Pushing his face into the plate, forcing him to eat.)

JOHNNY: What is this horrible stuff?

LOUIE: Tamales de ceniza.
(Forcing him to drink.)

JOHNNY: Ashes!

LOUIE: ¡Atole de fuego!

JOHNNY: Fire! Why do you make me eat this?

LOUIE: Te doy lo que tú serás.

JOHNNY: Fire and ashes!

LOUIE: ¡Morderás el polvo!

JOHNNY: No!

BERTA: Ya se va terminando tu existencia y es tiempo de pronunciar tu sentencia.

JOHNNY: My time is not up!

LOUIE: Faltan cinco para las doce. A la media noche no se te conoce. Y aquí que vienen conmigo, los que tu eterno castigo de Dios reclamando están.
(Enter
ANA
and
DON JUAN
, also calaveras. They block
JOHNNY's
escape.)

JOHNNY: Ana!

ANA: Yes, it's me.

JOHNNY: ¡Papá!

DON JUAN: Sí, mi hijo.

JOHNNY:
(Tries to jump behind the bar. Enter
BERTA
dressed as La Catrina with skull mask.)
Berta!

BERTA: No hay escape, Johnny. You must face them.

JOHNNY: You too!

BERTA: No estoy aquí para juzgarte, Johnny—they are.

DON JUAN: Un punto de contrición da a un alma la salvación y ese punto aún te lo dan.

LOUIE: ¡Imposible! ¿En un momento borrar veinte años malditos de crímenes y delitos?

JOHNNY: Berta! Will I really be saved if I repent?

BERTA: Yes, but only if one of your victims forgives you on this the Day of the Dead.

JOHNNY:
(In a heavily accented Spanish.)
Entonces, perdónenme ustedes, yo no quiero morir. Deseo pedirles disculpas a todos los que hice sufrir.

LOUIE: Empezaremos conmigo, que soy el más ofendido. ¿Por qué me acuchillaste? ¿Por qué te me echaste encima?

JOHNNY: There's no excuse. But it was a fair fight among men. You wanted to be like me, Louie, but you lost, and that's the price you had to pay.

LOUIE: ¿Vean? No tiene excusa. Que le aparezca la lechuza. Si de mi piel hizo carnicera, ¡él también será calavera!
(The feeling of this last scene is that of a bullfight.
JOHNNY
is the bull and the others are wielding the cape, pike and banderillas.)

BERTA: ¿Quién sigue?

ANA:
(She is dressed like a whore.)
I am next.

JOHNNY: Ana. You don't want to see me dead, think of our children.

ANA: I am thinking of them. I would rather they not know you, for fear they will become like you.

JOHNNY: No, no, no! I swear to God—I'll change!

BERTA: You repent?

JOHNNY: Sí, I promise to go home and be a good padre y esposo.

ANA: Mentiras! I've heard all this before. He'll go back to chasing women and drinking first chance he gets.

JOHNNY: Ana, don't you see I have to change, my life depends on it.

ANA: No, Johnny, you're addicted to your vicios. You contaminate everyone. Look, I gave you all my love and you turned me out to turn tricks!

JOHNNY: But the Mafiosos were going to kill me. You agreed to do it. I didn't force you!

ANA: You manipulated me, Johnny, like you did all the others.

JOHNNY: But, Ana, don't you see, it's a curse that's been passed down from generation to generation. I'm a victim, you're a victim, ¡todos somos víctimas!

ANA: That's right, blame everybody but yourself!

JOHNNY: Ana, honey, think about it. You tried to control me, you wanted to channel my energy.

ANA: I wanted a family!

JOHNNY: But I'm not an esposo. I am a hunter!

ANA:
(Laying into him with a vengeance.)
Si mi corazón murió en esa carrera, ¡el mujeriego también será calavera!
(A mournful cry escapes
JOHNNY's
lips.)

BERTA: ¿Alguien más? Time is almost up.

JOHNNY: ¡Papá! How can you stand there and say nothing after what you did!

DON JUAN: Ya lo sé, y me arrepentiré hasta mis últimos días. Después que murió tu madre, traté de encaminarte hacia una vida mejor. Fracasé. Seguiste la vía chueca.

JOHNNY: Hypocrite!

DON JUAN: Johnny, dile a Dios que te perdone, como Él me perdonó.

JOHNNY: You want me to ask God for a pardon?

DON JUAN: Es lo único que tienes que hacer.

BERTA: Go on, Johnny, ask for forgiveness.

JOHNNY: But I don't believe in God!

DON JUAN: Entonces estás perdido.
(
JOHNNY
sinks to his knees. Bells toll softly in the distance.)

BERTA: Johnny, Johnny, you don't really understand what's happening, do you?

JOHNNY: Berta, will you forgive me?
(Throwing himself at her feet, groveling, as though wanting to get back into her womb.)

BERTA: Johnny, tú nunca me has ofendido.

JOHNNY: I trusted you, Berta. I told you everything.

BERTA: That's right, mi'jo. I cleansed you by listening and understanding.

You see, I am the eater of sins, la que se traga los pecados.

JOHNNY: Oh, Berta, you're the only woman I've ever loved!
(Turning to the other skeletons, who have remained deathly still in a silent tableau.)
You see, somebody loves me!
(To
BERTA
.)
Does this mean I'm saved? Does this mean I've cheated death?

BERTA: No, Johnny. No te burlaste de la muerte. You are already dead.

Carmen Tafolla

First Prize: Poetry

(to my first-born, first-dead, para m'ija)

The mark of you is soft and bright on my body

              The ridge is smoothe up my belly

                          disruptedly even

              deep and rich in color

                                        and unforgettable

                                                      like you.

The feel of it against my curious fingers

            is not like skin—

                       but different—

            like promises and memories

                       and passionate peace in one.

The scar is somehow like concentrated satin—

             a yard of it per half centimeter—

                rare, distinct, and full of voice and story

                   “Cada cosa en este mundo”

                           (decía esa viejita que conocí)

                           “tiene voz, virtud, e idioma.”

This mark of you on me

                       is full

                       of story

           and

           of

           love.

It is your gift to me. Each night I

can reach down and feel it, listen,

and hear your message

on this our own

            private

red

hot line.

—
This is what it takes to make a child

Nine new moons of dark hot wind

and careful mouthfuls, hoarded, pointed,

sent direct to fill the small one.

Empty
jarros, ollas
, make the magic prayer,

and corn tortillas carry forth alone

the gifts of all.

Grace from spiritdancers gives the balance

over holes and rocks

that make the street,

to keep the swollen womb

from falls and blows.

One treasure-bought

small handmade
vela
,

lit in prayers to

Indian Pregnant Virgin,

still in name the goddess free

pre-fires and pre-cross,

Guadalupe

Tonantzín
.

And last, a blessing

from the eldest face of corn.

Hand, even warmer, gives the

touch, the shape

of welcome.

Past the rabid dogs

the knifecold brows

the hungry pouts

searching for purse—

there is none.

Past the street lights' angry metal blare,

Past the profit eyes

that buy the babes

before their birth,

grabbing,

appetize a bill for 50, 20, any

strange-faced tender

under trembling fingers

of the ones whose other

children starve at home