The finger. Pointed.

It’s not what you think.

This play is strong and staying strong because of a finger. An index finger pointed at a teenage boy. An index finger of a young mother, a mother thoroughly convinced that she knows what’s in store for her son and is doing her level best to stop to it. Cure it quick with threatening remarks and general intimidation.

She’s a young mother; what can I say. I don’t come up with these characters, they just appear and I do my level best to get their finer points down. And in this case, I was presented with Slam’s fierce determination, however weak a commodity it’s becoming. Weak in her teenage son’s eyes, that is. She wants to fierce her arguments right to the core of her son Bobby, just enough so he’ll quit his up-and-coming party career.

Bobby’s either 15 or 16 and has had some social success, a personal grace that comes to some teenagers. This isn’t growing up, but maturity is just visible, a dim horizon that’s inviting.

Slam can’t see any better, but is scared of Bobby’s cat-smirk smile. So her best weapon?


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