The Do-Nothing No-Place 1

Do-Nothing No-Place

(or, Untitled Craig Robinson Project)

ISLAND PRIEST BRAINWASHES blackjack.

We FOLLOW BLACKJACK OUT...its a morning scene. the dew from the foliage is soaking our arms & shirts as we wend our way thru the jungle...

  Leaves of a coconut palm flutter in the wind, sun behind, piercing thru, almost blinding, not painful however.

  Warm.

  An unqualified sense of bliss for whomever is having this vision.

Deserted island in an unguessable ocean.

  Smell of a fire burning somewhere near.

  Thru the dense jungle-like fauna, a young girl scampers, chased by a young boy, each dressed as though they were natives to the island, untouched by--

  A rich, deep, dark, subtly honeyed male voice, possibly a smoker, speaks over this idyllic scene. The voice is as ominous as it is authoritative (as it is creepy):

        “You will bring me seven girls & six boys. The numbers are non-negotiable.”

  & then there is a smack, as of a stone upon another stone.

We become absorbed in a shared vision. In the vision, there are seven girls & six boys running around in a circle around a bonfire on the beach.

  The sun falls below a tree branch & we are bathed in orange.

  There is thunder.

  Another smack. A storm approaches.

“When you awake, you will think of nothing other than that with which you have been charged. Your mission will become indistinguishable from who you are. Once you have successfully completed your mission, you will be allowed to return to this beach, to live happily for the rest of your years.”

  Another smack.

“Do you understand your charge? Your mission?”

  “Seven girls. Yah. Six boys, yeah. This seems most feasible,” replies a voice with more than a hint of a Jamaican or East Indian accent, muffled by years, possibly decades in the West.

  

Another smack.

  “Now...on the third mark, you shall awake. You will remember nothing of this until you are activated. Your activation will occur upon your foot touching down outside of the sacred ground of this church. Will you make this so?”

  “Yes, father.”

Smack.

  

“You are letting go. You are appreciative. You are joyful. You are free.”

Smack.

 

“You are grateful. You are love. You are your mission. Seven girls. Six boys.”

Smack.

Cut TO SUBURGATORY.

Keyshawna In Dumbdownland 1

A cute little black girl, I would guess somwhere between 9 & 11.

    She’s got a super-adorable tiny little fro-thing going on.

    A gossamer pink dress with white polka dots.

    Let’s say her name is Keyshawna, but I know for a fact she dislikes being labeled.

    Let’s say she dreams of butterfly wings & cotton candy clouds, but never together.

Keyshawna is escorted down the sidewalk with Ma on the end of one hand, Pa on the end of the other; she does a skip-jumping sorta thing where they lift her up & she flies for a little while.

    The flying game always tricks Keyshawna into forgetting all the bad, mean stupid things in her life.

It forces her to smile.    

    Her teeth are crooked, but endearingly so.

Bullets fly this way & that over her head, whizzing past.

    One bullet clips the edge of her ear.

    One bullet strikes a neon sign, sending sparks everywhere.

   

One bullet centers itself above Pa’s nose, sending him limp & rumpled to the ground.

    Another passes thru Ma’s torso, miraculously missing all of her major organs.

    She’ll probably bleed out though, the way this story’s looking.

All of it taking place in slow-motion for Keyshawna; her mind laying down super-rich memories of all this.

    She dodges bullets like Neo in The Matrix.

Something else happens.

Keyshawna’s whisked out of the ghetto into either a Wizard of Oz type place or else just to suburbia which would serve the same purpose.

South Sea Bubble

Fidget is late for class again. Twenty-seven girls, each at least five foot eleven, sit waiting, legs in various state of cross.

First, a blurry whir of manuscript pages fly thru the room like a tumbleweed. To none of the girls' surprise. In the wake of the papers, Fidget enters, already talking:

"Today, we'll cover the famous South Sea Bubble of the, uh," picking up papers, clumsily, "of 1710."

As Fidget doffs his scarf, an Asian girl with long shiny black hair to her knees has her hands raised, behaving like quite the spazz. Fidget calls on her without turning to see her hand. She immediately begins prattling on about the South Sea Bubble. It seems this happens quite a bit. Fidget nestles cozily in his reclining pleather chair, decanting boiling water from a thermos.

We join Chelly, the half-Chinese, half-Samoan student in the front row, speech in progress: "...the South Sea Company itself, which grew so large that at one point it bought up most of the national debt) was just the anchor for what happened, a giant corporation, its stock constantly ballooning in value, that seemed, to put it in 21st century terms, 'too big to fail.' It soon became the model for hundreds of new start-ups."

"Thank you, Chelly. That's all mostly correct. Innumerable joint-stock companies started up everywhere."

Chelly receives a note from Linda, the full-Samoan directly behind her. The note is two symbols, written in bold: "$?"

Fidget continues, "they got the name Bubbles -- the most apropos thing they could think to call them. Some lasted a week or two, some were even shorter than that. Every single evening there would be new schemes. Every morning there would be new projects starting. Everyone from the lowliest plodder to the highest of high society were eager in hot pursuit of these..."

Chelly crumples the note into her pocket. "Sir, could I interrupt?"

"Just a second, Chel. So they were sailing a lot back then. A lot of the schemes had to do with travel adventures, there was some manufacturing, lots of horse-based shit, back in 1710, lots of horses. Um. Each project would issue stock. Each issue would then be scooped up immediately to be traded back & forth in taverns, coffeehouses, in the streets. The price would go thru the roof because it was a glorified version of hot potato -- each new buyer betting he or she could unload the stock to an (even more) gullible sucker before the impending, nigh agreed upon collapse."

"Sir."

"Yes."

"Sometimes they just paid money for the right to one day later bid on stock."

"That's correct. My favorite example from history is from an unknown adventure. His project was called something like, 'A company for the carrying on of an undertaking of great advantage, but nobody to know what it is.' That was a real thing, do you believe it. I don't have the numbers here. Or I do, but I doubt I could find them. Chelly? Anyone else, could you..."

Fidget shuffles thru his papers futilely. Chelly takes over, flipping to a dog-eared page of her textbook on Bubbles. She reads, "Okay, it was called A company for the carrying on of an undertaking of great advantage, but nobody to know what it is. The man of genius who essayed this bold & successful inroad upon public credulity merely stated in his prospectus that the required capital was half a million, in five thousand shares of 1001 each, deposit 21 per share. Each subscriber, paying his deposit, would be entitled to 1001 per annum per share. How this immense profit was to be obtained, he would not condescend to inform them at that time, but promised that in a month the full particulars would be duly announced, & call made for the remaining 981 of the subscription. Next morning, at 9 o'clock, this great man opened an office in Cornhill. Crowds beset his door, and when he shut up at three o'clock, he found that no less than one thousand shares had been subscribed for, and the deposits paid."

"Thanks, Chel, that'll be en--"

"One last...It says, "He was philosopher enough to be contented with his venture, and set off that same evening for the Continent. He was never heard of again."

"Brilliant. He knew when to quit. Well, so do I. Has it been ten minutes already? Get to gym! See ya in an hour."

***