The South Beach Moochers Club

A factitious play composed with many thanks to Richard (Dick) Harden Justaman for his characteristic labeling of illustrious characters.

Series: Richard “Dick” Harden Justaman, a Dumb American

INTRODUCTION: I wrote the below with this thanks to Richard (Dick) Harden Justaman for his characteristic labeling of illustrious characters we both encountered at a South Beach library he used while in town because a girlfriend staying in his town house across the street was so horny that he could not get any work done there.

THE SOUTH BEACH MOOCHERS CLUB
by David Arthur Walters
A Play In Progress

CHARACTERS

CAPTAIN CRUSTY, professed painter and art critic, potbellied, hair in bun
SEAHAG (SHAG), his girlfriend, potbellied, leather skirt
MR. DUSTY, former daycare center owner, balding, neon-frame glasses
MRS. DUSTY, his wife, unemployed school teacher, matching glasses
RATNER, disbarred lawyer, drunk, elegantly dressed, long, disheveled hair
WEASEL, his best friend, drunk, mousy, balding
MUMBLER, fired community college professor, constantly mumbling angrily to himself
FOSTER, unemployed optician, thick glasses
RUTH, former beautician, transvestite
PAPERMAN, disinherited warehouse operator
PAPA RAZZI, former general contractor
GUNNER, landlord to some of the above, angry, large-framed man, well dressed
JESUS, unemployed computer technician, potbellied, short stature
LEROY, unemployed trucker, talks loudly incessantly
RABBI, defrocked priest, homeless, unkempt, scruffy beard
WALTER, journalist, restaurant reviewer
DICK, movie producer
SERVER, preferably buxom blond
BARTENDER
MANAGER, a Frenchman, very arrogant
OTHERS, regular (paying) customers

The scene is in a South Beach café with a bar laid out along stage right. The entrance to the bar is at the downstage end of the bar. Tables and chairs have been especially arranged stage left to accommodate guests gathered for the establishment’s anniversary. Complimentary glasses of cheap house wine bought bulk and usually sold at an exorbitant price are being served at the bar. Complimentary hors de oeuvres are from time to time brought out by a waiter from the door to the kitchen upstage. Members of the Moochers Club constantly attend to that door, flocking to the server with the serving tray, and pursue the bartender as he goes up and down the bar.

[Relaxing Blues music is barely audible in the background with the murmuring of guests, occasionally punctuated by LEROY’s endless detailed monologue about his last trucking haul to various stores along I-95, and incoherent mumbling from MUMBLER interrupted by his loud, obscene outbursts. DICK and GUNNER are standing together downstage AT RISE.]

DICK: Thanks for emailing the invite.

GUNNER: You are always welcome. You should get a drink while you can. The red wine is free, but don’t order other drinks or you’ll pay through the nose. Grab yourself some food when it comes out.

DICK: I could stand the food, but as you know I seldom drink.

GUNNER: Yeah, what’s up with that?

DICK: I had a serious issue with boozing years ago. I bungled a con I was working to keep the production company out of bankruptcy and almost would up in prison—don’t mention that to anyone. Maybe I’ll buy a glass of white wine to sip on.

GUNNER: I understand, I did eighteen months in the joint myself.

DICK: What were you in for?

GUNNER: Carrying a gun without a permit. I haven’t seen you around. How’s business? I noticed you had some great box office—I saw two of them.

DICK: We’re doing terrific. I’m back in L.A. We’re casting a new one. Terrorists blow up the symphony hall, killing over a thousand people watching Wagner’s Der Ring.

GUNNER: Great idea. What about your apartment on Biscayne?

DICK: Rented.

GUNNER: How much?

DICK: Fourteen thousand a month, good tenants, friends from Hollywood. Did you ever get your building on Meridian rented out?

GUNNER: I converted the building and have two units left to sell, purchase money mortgages.

DICK: That’s an old two-story building across from the bodega?

GUNNER: Yep. There’s some work to do. The flooring has to be replaced in some units. PAPA RAZZI over there bought one and is constantly bitching because he has to walk on a board over a hole to get to the bathroom. He’s afraid he will fall into the empty unit beneath him using candles to light the way.

DICK: I thought he was a general contractor. Why doesn’t he fix it?

GUNNER: Because he wants me to pay for it. I’ve got my own issues. Sometimes there is no juice to the building—I’ve got a problem with the outside fuse box I have to get fixed. I know he has come into an inheritance where he gets so much a month, but I don’t trust him. I have to collect the mortgage payments twice a month from him to keep him current. I’m going to have to sell some guns to fix the damn thing and get him off my back. To make things worse, a high rise went up and blocked the view of the bay from my terrace overlooking the alley. I liked to sit out there with a cocktail or two in the evenings.

DICK: Good thing you love South Beach.

GUNNER: I’ve had it with South Beach. A small businessman like me can’t make it anymore. The government really sucks. I like the city attorney because he gave me five thousand dollars of free legal advice, but the rest are scumbags. The queen at city hall and his whores sold out to the carpetbag developers since you were here the last time. Sometimes I feel like walking into the chamber and blowing their heads off. The morons don’t even have metal detectors. Thanks to their dumb ass police chief, the state attorney and the crazy-busy feds, they have gotten away with so much that they think they are immune. I’m getting the hell out of here, going up state after I get the units sold. I can make a good living off the private gun parties.

DICK: What about your friends? I see lots of them here tonight. You are the president of the South Beach Moochers Club, or so they say. They respect you.

GUNNER: President, my ass. They’re a bunch of no good freeloaders. The only thing they respect is freebies. They’re traitors to the principles this country was founded on, and should face a firing squad. You know, I give homeless people a hand up when I can, tell them where they can get free food and drinks and enjoy themselves, you know, but these moochers don’t want to do a damn thing except mooch, and I’m sick of it. Your old friend RATZNER over there slept on my couch for two months, and when I asked him to do some research for the conversion, he refused, saying he was disbarred and didn’t want to be arrested for unauthorized practice of law. Bullshit. He just wants to drink. He pissed all over my couch. I had to toss it. I kicked him out. I felt like putting a hollow-point in him. Excuse me. I’ve got to get to the bar.

[GUNNER suddenly breaks away from DICK, walks quickly to the end of the bar as the BARTENDER approaches it with bottle of wine with other moochers in pursuit. WALTER walks away from the bar with two glasses of wine, and engages DICK without offering him one of the glasses.]

WALTER: Hey, DICK, how long have you been back?

DICK: I came in to meet with Trump. I’m flying back out to LA in the morning. It’s good to see you. How’s the writing going?

WALTER: Not so good. Well, it’s good writing according to other writers, but the editors are not buying. I’m tried my hand at restaurant reviews, thinking I could at least get some food and beverage for my efforts. The Herald editor actually read one after I wrote about how a popular joint was using sanitized cow manure in its burgers—the owner has an investment in the technology. He rejected it, said honesty does not pay. He said restaurant reviews are supposed to be advertisements. I even tried my hand at screen writing. I sent my first one, PEACE ON EARTH, to an agent. He was honest. He said it was the most amateurishly written piece of shit he had ever seen, no conflict at all in it.