An After-Care Carol

Excerpts From A Play Dedicated to the Little Girls in the YMCA After-Care Program Who Called Thomas a Jerk and Refused to Play With Him. In Three Acts.

From Act 1, What Was
... "I said I'm Bert! The Ghost'a Relationships Past? You know, wit da chains and da rattlin' and shit? WOOOOOOO?"
"Whatever," said Paris, thumbing through her new copy of Cosmo.
"You're fat," said Brittany.
"Look, you little ... " Bert cut himself off. "My JOB is to show you how yous came to dis lowly state. I don't like it no more dan yous, but it's my JOB. You know what a JOB is?"
"Yeah," said Brianna, regarding her nails. "That's when. like. Mexican people. you know. mow your yard and stuff? so they can afford. like. beans and stuff?"
Head throbbing for most of the three hours he'd been at this, the ghost checked his urge to slap and continued, "Just shut your freakin' pie holes and look at da screens, all right?"
"Whatever," said the three in creepy, disaffected unison.
As the girls' television screens flickered to life, each glowed with images of a different beautiful young lady sauntering through the halls of her school, her walk thrumming with a rehearsed, over-the-top sexuality that seemed to swish "jail" on the left step and "bait" on the right.
"Mommy?" Paris squinted. "Is that you?"
"Yeah," answered Bert, exhausted and rubbing his temples. "Dem're yer mudders. Jus fuckin' watch, eh?"
Watch they did, as their mothers fast-forwarded from boy to boy, careening from encounter to encounter. At first the boyfriends seemed smart and hunky -- prized catches by most standards -- and the girls felt a strange pride that their mothers had lured the best and the brightest. That pride swelled all the more as they watched the young ladies on the screens crush the spirits of the quieter boys, which inspired their daughters-cum-voyeurs to cheer: "Rick 'em, rock 'em, roll 'em, reek. Come on, mommy, crush that geek!"
But as the stories advanced, the suitors became homelier. Less self-confident. Downright losery. It seemed the "catches" had grown tired of the games and, after nearly six hours of watching their mothers dive headlong into increasingly desperate and repulsive encounters with bouncers, Radio Shack stock boys and frat guys, the three stopped and stood in disbelief as the exclamation point was delivered. There on the screens were the three saddest, most pimply, insecure and horny lumps of false bravado they had ever seen.
"Daddy? But, but ..." Brianna whispered in disbelief. "He's such a ... a ..."

From Act 2, What Is
"Mommy, put down those pills! Daddy, those one dollar bills are supposed to be for my college tuition! Oh, why can't they hear me? Make it stop, MAKE IT STOP!!"

From Act 3, What Should Never Be
"Oh, Maurice ... er, I mean Mr. Ghost of Relationships Future, sir! We don't WANT to end up like that! We don't WANT to have our husbands leave us for some young sluts because we're so fucking shallow and self-absorbed! We don't WANT to be all wrinkly and have all those cats! WE DON'T WANT TO BE A WAITRESS!"
The girls fell to their knees on the cold gravel driveway outside the double-wide Maurice had led them to -- the home he assured them they would share until their miserable, wretched deaths. Their backs heaved with silent sobs until in quiet, somber unison, they managed, "But we're too old to change."
"Too OLD?! Bitch, you 6. Are you out cho got damn mind!? And GIT the fuck up. Be all cryin' all over the got damn driveway and shit. Now git yo stupid ass home and don' make me come on back here agin or I'mma show you my pimp hand. You gots?"
"We gots."
"And get that got damn Tammy Faye make-up off yo faces. Black lines all runnin' down yo shit." The girls watched as Maurice strutted toward the parking lot, mumbling as he went, "6-year-old girls runnin' 'round like Tyra Banks and what not. Ain't that about a bitch." As he ducked into his Cutlass Supreme, Maurice turned one last time. He winked and said, "And tell ya mommas Maurice say hey. They know."

"I know you like to think your shit don't stink, but lean a little bit closer see roses really smell like poo-ooh-ooh." -- OutKast