2: Raggedy Fran

Fran was born out of wedlock and grew up in the projects. She never knew her father and rarely saw her mom. In school, none of the children would play with her. She'd try to win them over, but they could never see past her funny clothes. Teachers offered only more derision. 'This won't do!' said the art teacher as he tore up the painting she made for her mother on Mother's Day, inciting a chorus of jeers from her class mates and reducing her to fitful sobs as she got up from her desk and ran out of the room. Broken hearted, she succumbed to the absurd barrage of ill will, and gave herself over to delinquency. By her teens, having learned the street names of all the pushers who occupied the alleys of her rundown block, she thought her education sufficient to quit school. Her life after that was a blur of intoxicated antics and illicit encounters, delivering her, to the gloating fulfillment of all expectations, into the firm, unyielding grip of the law. She'd been told not to move a muscle, and she knew someone was watching her, secure behind the faceless camera that dominated her tiny cell; but her sinuses rebelled in the sickness of withdrawal and her hand had risen automatically to stem an irksome trickle. Just then, a guard burst in, seized her wrists, bound them tightly behind her, and was gone. Tranquilizers were apparently ineffective on newly incarcerated drug addicts, whose unruly fits posed a threat to the orderliness of institutional life. As the night progressed and she reluctantly entered her throes, further constraints would be placed on her until prostrate, hog-tied, and utterly immobile, she found herself on the cold, hard floor. Where was Spike? He said he'd be in the alley behind the convenience store with some good shit. Was the heat onto him? She'd waited as long as she could before giving up and trying her luck on the street corner. Even in her depleted condition, she could still attract certain males with a fetish for abuse. The first vehicle to stop for her was a broken down pickup, in which oral sex would be traded for drugs, saving her the step of tracking down a dealer. It sputtered around the block a few times, then dropped her back on the corner in a much improved mood. Her next ride she owed to an undercover cop with good timing. Ironically enough, her severe confinement afforded some comfort. The pressure on her shrunken belly kept her nausea at bay. Going cold turkey might be unpleasant, but never the total agony depicted in popular accounts. As she struggled to focus her eyes, she saw what looked like a pair of women's shoes in front of her. Thinking it an hallucination, she shut her lids tightly, then reopened them. The shoes were still there, attached, as it were, to the neatly dressed body of an unknown guest. 'Are you my lawyer?' she groaned.
More Statements	Scripts	Songs
© 2010. Statements by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.