SILENCE. DARKNESS.
Thick steel bars surround a dusty replica of an African landscape. A large PLEASE DO NOT FEED THE ANIMALS! on a metal sign.
Two teens stand near the exhibit, peering through the bars. Both about seventeen. Concert T-shirts, baggy jeans, Nikes. DARRELL has long hair and cunning eyes. He’d have an angel’s face if not for the downward twist his mouth makes. TIM is taller, with a softer look about him altogether. Not muscular yet, but carrying plenty of bulk.
TIM scratches at his leg, lost in thought, while DARRELL tosses the last of a candy bar into the cage.
DARRELL
—fucking apes, huh?
TIM
Yeah.
DARRELL
They gotta be so cheery about?
TIM
Dunno—
DARRELL
Shitting up their cage, eating all sorts ’a tropical crap give you the runs your whole life through—
TIM
Uh-huh—
DARRELL
And filthy little babies hanging from your backsides . . . ’s a bullshit life! 12 x 12 pen’s your kingdom and you don’t know shit about whatever.
TIM leans forward, scratching and studying the animals.
TIM
—they got nothing on us.
DARRELL
Wipe that smile off your fucking faces! (BEAT) Ecstasy for no apparent reason—
TIM
Yep.
DARRELL
Hey, lookit that one . . . hanging there, picking at herself like she’s got a lifetime ahead of ’er. (loudly) Shoot a documentary on your ass, squeeze a couple kids outta you and you’ll be a fucking ashtray on somebody’s coffee table time the new year rolls around! Stupid ass chimp . . .
(TIM suddenly jumps back and pulls hard at his leg. He shakes the denim with fury and stamps at the ground. DARRELL looks over casually at his friend but waits a bit before speaking.)
. . . fuck you doing?
TIM
Ants! Ants or something!
DARRELL
Come on, man—
TIM
Ouch! Fucking oww!!
DARRELL
Can’t take you anywhere, I’m serious.
TIM
Crawling up my leg, for chrissakes!
DARRELL
Fucking production number—
TIM
Red ants doing at the zoo in October?!
TIM dances about while DARRELL watches.
DARRELL
They on your thighs yet? That ain’t good—
TIM
Scratching my ass off . . . sue these fuckers for this, talk to my dad or something!
DARRELL
Call St. Louis about bugs? Yeah, your old man’d really get into some ’a that shit.
TIM
Fuck!
DARRELL
—then maybe he can chase you around the neighborhood with a hammer, like he used to.
TIM
He said “gimme a jingle ya need anything” smart ass! (BEAT) They’re, like, hiding in the fucking seams, gonna pinch me for six weeks from now!! Damnit!!!
DARRELL looks back at the monkeys again while TIM goes down on the sidewalk, clawing at his inseam.
DARRELL
Don’t worry about your fucking stone wash, man, they can crawl up your dick, make their way to the prostate, article I read once—
TIM
Up yours!
DARRELL
No, up yours, that’s what I’m telling you.
TIM
Fucking pinchers! Awwww!!
DARRELL
I fuck you not . . . Geographic magazine or something, study in Indonesia, some country you can’t find on a map you look for twenty minutes—
TIM
Fuck!
DARRELL
Not out to frighten you, hell no, but they crawl right in the hole, hang out in the folds ’til you doze off, they got a dozen ways to go about it, but climb right in and pitch a fucking pup tent knee-deep in your testes, later tonight.
TIM
That’s bullshit!!
DARRELL
Wish it was, man, but it drove some dude half insane in, like, Sri Lanka. Ran through the bazaar and killed, maybe, forty guys or something with a machete . . . and they let him go. Yeah! ’Cause ants up your dick are some kinda legal hitch, most countries that part ’a the world—
TIM now looks petrified. He glances about, then begins tearing his jeans off and pawing at himself.
TIM
Fuck that!
DARRELL
I’ll keep watch, tell ya if any girls are coming, shit like that—
TIM (checking himself)
—don’t see any.
DARRELL
Nah?
TIM
The hell I’m so itchy for?
DARRELL
Don’t know, Tim . . . not your conscience, so I dunno.
(After a bit more scratching, TIM stands and buttons his fly. DARRELL waits until he is nearly finished.)
Yeah, as long as you checked your thing we’ve got no problem. I mean, you did examine it, right?
TIM
Huh?
DARRELL
’Cause those little fucks are nothing if not cagey. (BEAT) I just don’t wanna see you driven nutty, that’s all . . .
(TIM sizes this idea up, then looks about. He begins pulling down his pants again, hunching over protectively in his underwear while examining himself. DARRELL watches, amused.)
Don’t worry, Tim, looks like the most natural thing in the world, take your time—
TIM
Shut up! You see any on me?!
DARRELL
Uh-uh.
TIM
Fucking red marks all over—
DARRELL (pointing)
That one on your calf?
TIM
Where?!!
DARRELL
Back ’a the knee—
TIM
Ahh, no. Birthmark.
DARRELL
All pink like that?
TIM
Yeah, since I was a kid—
DARRELL
That’s pretty—
TIM
You fucker . . . (BEAT) Come on, you see ’em or anything? Fucking Hanes underwear in a public place—
DARRELL
Don’t be ashamed. You got a legit beef with these guys, wear whatever the fuck you want—
TIM
Come on, help me!
DARRELL leans forward, examining TIM a bit more intently.
DARRELL
Nope—
TIM
Fucking ants. (looks again) Don’t see nothing . . .
(DARRELL laughs to himself.)
Just knock it off!
DARRELL
—so pull on your pants, then, you got no troubles. Look like a fucking homo—
TIM
’Kay. You dick.
TIM works at pulling his jeans back on over his shoes. DARRELL fires up a smoke.
DARRELL
Let’s blow this—
TIM
Yeah. (BEAT) You wanna go back for gym, last couple periods?
DARRELL
Fuck you think?
TIM
Right.
DARRELL
Head on over to the mall, if ya wanna—
TIM
Sounds good. Time you gotta be home?
DARRELL
Whenever—
TIM
Time your mom get in from work?
DARRELL
Two-thirty, three, something around there—
TIM
Oh. (BEAT) What about her boyfriend? He works over at the, what, Ken-L-Ration plant or somewhere like that, right?
DARRELL
I guess.
TIM
Time he come over? I mean, usually?
DARRELL
Hey, you taking a fucking census or something?!
TIM
No—
DARRELL
Kinda fucking game show shit is this?! Huh? I don’t gotta be home no time—
TIM
Sorry.
DARRELL
Worry about it. You hungry or not?
TIM
Yeah.
DARRELL
Me too. Get us some eats, “International Food Fair.” ’Kay?
TIM
Sounds good.
DARRELL
—means we get some hot sauce on a fucking burger, some mexi-fries—
TIM
Food’s not bad . . . lot ’a tables, anyway.
DARRELL
It’s okay. At least better’n the fucking joint you work at—
TIM
—hey, ’s money.
DARRELL
Whatever. Fucking Chink food, Tim, that’s stooping pretty low.
TIM
Uh-huh.
DARRELL
Way the fuck down there—
TIM
I know. (BEAT) Need some bucks, though, ’s why I took it.
DARRELL looks over at TIM, poking him with a finger.
DARRELL
Whatever . . . (BEAT) You did check on the inside, right? I mean, pull it open and all? ’Cause I don’t want you showing up at our place all hours with a fucking cleaver or that kinda shit—my mom’s boyfriend’d kick your ass.
In spite of himself, TIM laughs at this.
TIM
I looked. I fucking did!
DARRELL
Good for you. (BEAT) Me, I could never do that, mess around down there, don’t got the stomach for it. Feel like a total fag—
TIM
Just shove it.
DARRELL
All right, we’re outta here . . . fucking primates, had enough for one day. Like my step-nephew, plays all fucking day, still don’t get enough. I hate that age—
TIM
Which?
DARRELL
Little. I hate ’em when they’re little.
TIM
—yeah.
DARRELL
Let’s go check out the new Nikes, something like that.
TIM
Sounds good.
DARRELL
Whatever. (toward the apes) You got anything we can heave at these fuckers before we take off?
TIM
Nah.
DARRELL
Couple quarters? Maybe a rock?
TIM
No . . . I don’t got nothing.
DARRELL
Ahh, fuck it. Let’s go . . .
(TIM makes a sudden move and noise that scatters the apes and causes a frightening chatter. TIM and DARRELL smile at this.)
Fucking simians . . . they just don’t get it, do they?