November 28 & 29: 11:30 AM
PROTESTOR –First Nations girl, 20
REPORTER – Male, white, 40s
TIME & PLACE
2014. British Columbia
~ denotes the point of interruption
One grey winter’s morning. 11.30 A.M.
Multiple flashes from unseen photographers.
A young protestor with short hair and piercings sits at the base of a large official-looking double-door. A bicycle lock around her neck is attached to the door-handle.
REPORTER [O.S]: What’s your name?
More flashes and the girl covers her eyes
PROTESTOR: Quit that! You’re blinding me.
REPORTER [O.S]: Tell us your name.
PROTESTOR: Why do you want to know my name for? So you can pigeonhole me? Box me up like bananas?
Quit that will ya?
REPORTER [O.S]: Why are you chained to Supreme Court’s doors?
PROTESTOR: This is where they grant injunctions that stop us from protesting but they are destroying everything and we have every right to protest against what they’re doing to our land. It’s my future they’re selling. I don’t get this system… [Beat.] Hey where are you going? Where are you all going? I’m not done yet. What the?
A disheveled REPORTER walks on and squats against the wall. He chuckles.
PROTESTOR: I’m not done.
REPORTER: You are now. [Beat.] You’re old news. That pipeline guy’s out there now spinning a web. They want to hear what he’s got to say.
PROTESTOR: What about me?
REPORTER: You’re not going anywhere soon. Are you?
He lights a cigarette.
REPORER: Don’t worry they’ll come back when the action starts up.
PROTESTOR: What action?
REPORTER: You don’t think they’re going to let you stay locked here all day do you honey? Like an old bike.
PROTESTOR: Don’t call me honey. I’m not your honey.
REPORTER: If you’re not my honey then walk away. ‘These boot were made for walkin’~
PROTESTOR: Fuck off.
REPORTER: Don’t tell me to fuck off you little trout-faced hippie.
PROTESTOR: My hair’s too short.
REPORTER: Mentally philosophically and [HE SNIFFS] malodorously; you’re a hippie.
PROTESTOR: And you’re a fat slob.
REPORTER: Touché! So what are you here for? Surely you’ve got something better to say?
PROTESTOR: Not to you. So beat it.
REPORTER: I’m a reporter. The only one here I might add.
PROTESTOR: You’re not a real reporter~
REPORTER: Of course I am. Want to see my I.D?
REPORTER: Look here Richard Thompson~
PROTESTOR: If you were a real reporter you’d be with all of them others.
REPORTER: You think those corporate booze-hounds know anything about news? They’re neophytes, toadies and brownnosers. What’s your story kid?
PROTESTOR: Don’t call me kid~
REPORTER: What the hell is your name?
PROTESTOR: That’s none of your concern.
REPORTER: I know I’ll just call you…. Doris.
PROTESTOR: Don’t you~
REPORTER: Doris the do-gooder.
PROTESTOR: Fuck off will ya?
REPORTER: Yes Doris- the do-gooder suits you well.
PROTESTOR: Shut up!
REPORTER: Here they come.
The girl looks off S.R at the flock of reports coming back and follows their progression across to S.L.
PROTESTOR: Hey! I’m over here! Hey!
REPORTER: They’re not interested in what you’ve got to say. You won’t make any headlines Doris with these antics. That rabble just wants pictures of firemen cutting you free and if they slip cut off your head accidentally in the process then even better. [Beat.] And you’ll be accused of wasting taxpayers’ money.
PROTESTOR: I just want people to know what’s going on. We had treaties. It was our land.
[Beat.] Don’t that mean nothing?
REPORTER: No. Nothing matters anymore. Not the past nor the future. Only today and the dimes in my pocket.
The girl looks away stifling a sob.
REPORTER: I’m still here. Want to tell me your story?
PROTESTOR: You promise to print it? And not make me look like a thug or hippie?
REPORTER: Nothing wrong with hippies. Some of my best friends are hippos.
REPORTER: Scouts’ honour.
PROTESTOR: My people learned not to trust anyone in uniform.
REPORTER: I grew out of it a long time ago so you’re safe, okay Doris?
PROTESTOR: Okay Dick. You got a smoke?