Zachariah 17
SCREENPLAY
EXT. HOBBINS FUNERAL PARLOR - NIGHT 51 ‘
Zachariah is crying, sitting at the bottom of the steps. The sleet slows and stops. Zachariah wipes his trousers as he grumbles through his tears.
ZACHARIAH Rotten ol blighter. Yer a rotten ol blighter! Chuckin me out, n chuckin poor little… Mousey! Zachariah grabs his coat and checks the breast pocket. Mousey pops his head up. Zachariah sighs with relief, strokes mousey’s head, pats the pocket closed and puts on the coat. Shivering uncontrollably he climbs the steps, kicks the door and shouts.
ZACHARIAH (CONT’D) Mister ‘obbins! I’m so cold mister ‘obbins! Please let me ave me scarf mister ‘obbins. No response.
ZACHARIAH (CONT’D) PLEASE MISTER ‘OBBINS! Ya mean ol blighter! Ya nasty, rotten ol... Zachariah kicks the door once more and descends the steps in tears. He sits on the icy curb, head down. Voices and laughter are heard approaching.
Zachariah 17: Kindly Gesture
London, England
December 24,1843
“Here, boy. Here’s something I ‘never’ gave you, but I see you have it anyway. So here, I do give it to you as a present now...” Hobbins’ smile faded. The tone of his voice changed “...as payment for poorly done work! Here’s your payment!” Hobbins threw Zachariah’s long-coat toward the shivering boy.
Falling short—as he had planned—the coat fell in the mud at Zachariah’s feet.
“And a good Christmas to you...” Hobbins screamed “...and your drunken sot of a master!”
Becoming hysterical once again. “You tell him not to bother coming back! You tell him I do not want him! You tell him I’ll be finding another sweep!”
“Hubert!” Recognizing her husband’s uncontrollable hysteria. Having felt the back— and the front of his hand on many more than one occasion while this hysterical, Mrs. Hobbins turned to him.
Catching his breath. Grabbing his wife’s arm and pulling her into the foyer, Hobbins slammed the door shut behind them.
As the door slammed shut, “Mousy!” Knowing the mouse could well have been crushed when the coat had been balled and thrown. Picking his coat out of the mud, the boy quickly looked into the pocket…
Apparently in good health, Mousy twitched his nose at him.
Sighing, Zachariah put the coat on.
Absently rubbing the bump on his forehead, “Lordy!” He suddenly thought of the folded pile of drop cloths, the brush, scraper, and his scarf, all sitting alongside the fireplace in the condolence parlor.
Flinging himself up the stairs and across the porch,. Looking through the door window, the boy was in time to see a hand pulling the basement workroom door closed.
“Mister ‘obbins!” he yelled, banging on the door. “Mister ‘obbins, Sir! My cloths! Please! Please give me back the ‘quipment!”
The cold blowing wind at his back pressed against his coat pasting the damp shirt and wet trousers against his body...
Shivering. “I’m cold!” Shivering, “I’m so cold!” Kicking the door once again. “Me scarf! ‘Please’!”
The basement door did not open, and Zachariah knew that were he to stand here all night banging and kicking the door Hobbins would still ignore him.
“ ‘You ol’ bastard’!” he shouted, kicking the door again, this time hard enough to rattle the window. “ ‘You tightwad, bastard, skinflint’!”
Dejectedly turning away, the boy walked down the four steps. Taking a few steps then stopping he looked to the square of dull light showing through the doorway window.
Afraid to go home. You ol’ bastard! he thought. Not knowing what to do. Cold! Lordy, so cold!
Holding one hand on his head in an unsuccessful attempt to keep his head warm and one hand over his breast pocket holding the long-coat closed while trying, somewhat successfully, to keep his one friend—the small creature inside his pocket—warm, the boy walked to the road.
Mud and snow soaking his clothing, sleet pelting his bare, short cropped head, shivering, suddenly confused. Suddenly unsure of the way home. Crying, the not-quite-nine year- old boy sat on the curbstone before ‘Hobbins Funeral Parkour’ beneath the dull yellow glow of a gas lit street lamp.
“What’ll I do?” Zachariah said aloud — to himself, to the mouse in his breast pocket and to whatever God there was that looked over as insignificant and wretched a creature as a not-quite nine-year-old climbing boy.
“Lordy, what’ll I do?” His body quaking due to the cold. His body quaking in fear of Johnson.
“What’ll ‘e do to me when I get ‘ome?” Answering his own question, “I knows ‘im! ‘e’ll be drunk an’ I ain’t got ‘is money, an’ I ain’t got ‘is ‘quipment, an’… ‘obbins, ‘you ol’ bastard’...” again shouting to the darkness “… ‘told me to tell ‘im to not never come back’!” I know’s ‘im! Thinking, ‘e’ll say t’wer cause’a me we ain’t got no payment, no ‘quipment, an’ we lost ol’ ‘obbin’s work!”
So intent was Zachariah on his misery that he was unaware of a group of people that had come upon him.
“What’s this?” Speaking in an inebriated but kindly voice, “What is this?” one of the men asked again.
Startled, standing quickly, Zachariah looked at the four commonly dressed people.
“Looks to me to be a cryin’ lad,” another inebriated, feminine voice answered.
“Aye, a dirty, cryin’ lad,” a second inebriated lady said.
“Ya be a ‘climbing boy’, ain’t ya lad?” The first man asked.
Momentarily startled, but quickly put at ease by the friendly tone of these four people. “Aye, Sir.”
“Boy, why ya be sittin’ all by ya’self in the snow ‘ere, talkin’ to ya’self? Ya be
lost?” The man wearing a dented, bent top hat asked.
Unsure of the way, but, “No, Sir, I ain’t lost.” Zachariah looked from face to face. “Me master an’ me...We was in that place there...” pointing to the funeral parlor “...doin’ our work, an’ then me master, ‘e went off to… uh, ‘e ‘ad another ‘pointment, an’ ‘e left me to finish the work ‘ere by me-self. An’ now ol’ ‘obbins—‘e’s the man what owns the funeral ‘ome ‘er—‘e won’t pay me, an’ ‘e won’t gi’me back me ‘quipment neither, and me master..” sobbing while attempting to speak, the boy looked from face to face “...‘e’ll be beatin’ me good when I get ‘ome.”
Jerking his thumb over his shoulder, pointing to the all but darkened house. “Ya mean to say...” Lewis asked incredulously “...that ya did ya work ‘ere, an’ ‘e won’t pay ya ya due?”
“Aye, Sir.”
“Why?” the second man asked.
“Ol’ ‘obbins said I got a smudge’a dirt onto one’a ‘is settees. But I din’t! I weren’t no place near it—‘ceptin’ to pull off me drop cloth, an’ then I was bein’ extra special careful like an’ I ‘know’ I didn’t get it smudged. I think ol’ ‘obbins did it ‘isself to keep from givin’ me me payment.”
To a workingman such as Lewis, the thought of being cheated of his rightful due was incomprehensible.
“An’ the bloody bastard won’t pay ya?” Lewis questioned angrily.
“Aye, Sir. No, Sir, ‘e won’t.”
“An’ this bein’ the night afore the birth of the baby Jesus an’ all!” The homely, long-faced lady said, “We got to be doin’ somethin’ to be ‘elpin’ the poor lad ‘ere!”
“Aye, Silbie, that we do!” Screwing his courage up for the second time on this evening. Setting the top hat squarely atop his head. Taking long, purposeful strides Lewis tramped across the grass-bare yard and up the four wooden steps.
“ ‘You in there’!” The pane of glass vibrating within its frame. “ ‘Open up ‘ere’!” Pounding on the door. “ ‘Open up ‘ere!’”
Within moments…
Pounding… “ ‘Open up ‘ere’!”
The basement door opened.
Hobbins, accompanied by his wife, came to the parlor door. But upon seeing the quality of Lewis’ clothing, “We’re closed!” Not opening the door. “Get away!” He yelled from within the door.
“It ain’t your services—thank the Lord—I be wantin’!”
“Then what is you ‘be wantin’ at this hour?”
“The lad...” jerking his thumb over his shoulder “...says ya be cheatin’ ‘im outta ‘is due...” Lewis said “...an’ I’m ‘ere to be ‘elpin’ him to be gettin’ it!”
Opening the door, “ ‘Money’?” Mrs. Hobbins screeched. “ ‘No money’! The scum filthied my settee!”
Face to face, Lewis’ courage unfaltering. “The lad says ‘e ain’t! The lad says ya ol’ man maybe did it ‘isself, to keep from payin’ ‘im!”
“ ‘No, sir’!” Pointing towards the three people and Zachariah. “He surely did it and I ‘won’t’ be paying him!”
Reaching into his trouser pocket, removing a whistle, “Best you be gone...” the undertaker yelled “...afore I whistle for a copper!”
Lewis looked from the face of the undertaker to the whistle in his hand and not wanting to spend Christmas Eve—or for that matter any eve—in jail, his resolve crumbling. “Sir, it bein’ the night afore the birth of our Lord an’ such...” he asked meekly “...why don’t ya pay the poor lad an’ give ‘im his ‘quipment, an’ let ‘im be on ‘is way ‘ome?”
Knowing he’d won. Looking contemptuously at Lewis; without another word, followed by his wife, Hobbins slammed shut the outer door, went to the basement door and, slamming the door behind them, returned to the work of embalming the body of Garibaldi.
Embarrassingly defeated. His show of bravado gone, Lewis stood a moment looking through the door’s window then returned to his friends and the boy.
“Sorry, lad, but the ol’ geezer there...” cocking his head backward “… ‘e said t’were your fault, an’ ‘e ain’t payin’ you! An’ that’s that’.”
Four adults and one child stood beneath the glow of the street lamp amidst failing sleet and snow till shrugging his shoulders and pulling his collar higher about his throat, the other man said, “Best be on our way, then.”
“Yeah, sorry, boy,” the woman called ‘Silbie’ said. “We best be on our way, then.”
“Yeah, an’ you, too, boy. Ain’t gonna be doin’ ya no good to be standin’ out ‘ere till ya catches ya death,” the other woman added.
Rubbing her hand over the boy’s cold, wet head as a sign of affection—also, by touching Zachariah ‘Silbie’ hoped to bring some good luck to herself.
“Did what we could for ya, lad.” The other man said.
Lewis patted Zachariah’s head also, but ‘strictly’ as a sign of affection. “Sorry ‘t’wern’t more we could do for ya boy.” Turning, he began to follow his friends whom, anxious to be out of the weather and home, had begun their journey up the street.
“A good Christmas to ya, boy...” Silbie called over her shoulder “...an’ may our good Lord look after you.”
“Yes!” said the other man. “A good Christmas to ya, boy.”
“May the Lord, Jesus be with ya, boy!” The other woman said.
Zachariah watched the backs of the four people for a moment, then dejectedly, with shoulders sagging, began his journey in the opposite direction, to home—to Johnson and whatever followed.
“ ‘ey, boy!”
Stopping. Turning about, Zachariah waited as the man waring the top hat ran to him.
“ ‘ere, lad. A gift for ya. Ya be needin’ it more’n me.”
Taking the hat from his head, the young man put it onto the head of the boy. But, too big, it dropped over his eyes.
Lifting the hat, “‘ere, boy, b-b-bend ya ears.” Stuttering now, Lewis put it back onto Zachariah’s head. “An’a g-g-good C-C-Christmas to ya.”
Watching Lewis as he chased after his friends, two things became evident to Zachariah: the sleety snow had stopped falling, and the dented hat that rested on the three points of the tops of his bent ears and the bump on his forehead somehow seemed to warm him.
Stretching upward, Mousy stuck his head through the slit of the pocket.
Becoming aware of the mouse again, smiling…
‘Smiling’?
Looking down, the boy rubbed the rodent’s head with the tip of his finger.
“Yeah, Mousy, if ’n I ‘ad a safe pocket to ‘ide into I would, too.” Giving the pocket a gentle pat, Zachariah began on his way home.
Sober, Johnson was far from an easy man to live with, but when drunk was irrational and wholly unreasonable. Zachariah knew that he would not be able to think of an excuse that might placate his master and did know that he was in for a beating—how bad a beating, however, depended on just how drunken Johnson was. Unless, if drunk enough, possibly passed out.
His hands shoved deeply into the pockets of the long-coat. The top hat wobbling on his head. Hopelessly attempting to think of ‘some’ excuse for the loss of the money. The loss of the equipment and the loss of his one long standing customer. Desperately wanting to think of ‘any’ excuse that would take the blame for the behavior of Hobbins from himself.
No longer confused about the direction, Zachariah began the long walk home.
Shortly! Is it possible, do you think, to be so cold that one may no longer feel the cold?
Zachariah’s teeth had stopped chattering and he no longer felt the damp coldness that had penetrated his clothing and chilled his flesh just a few short minutes ago.
Also: Is it possible, do you think, to be so frightened that one may no longer feel fear?
Also: For the first time in remembrance the boy had an overwhelming sense of…?
For the first time in memory, Zachariah felt a sense of safety.
SCREENPLAY
ZACHARIAH Rotten ol blighter. Yer a rotten ol blighter! Chuckin me out, n chuckin poor little… Mousey! Zachariah grabs his coat and checks the breast pocket. Mousey pops his head up. Zachariah sighs with relief, strokes mousey’s head, pats the pocket closed and puts on the coat. Shivering uncontrollably he climbs the steps, kicks the door and shouts.
ZACHARIAH (CONT’D) Mister ‘obbins! I’m so cold mister ‘obbins! Please let me ave me scarf mister ‘obbins. No response.
ZACHARIAH (CONT’D) PLEASE MISTER ‘OBBINS! Ya mean ol blighter! Ya nasty, rotten ol... Zachariah kicks the door once more and descends the steps in tears. He sits on the icy curb, head down.
Voices and laughter are heard approaching. Zachariah doesn’t look up or take any notice, until. MARY (O/C) What’s this ere? SYLVIE (O/C) It’s a little ragamuffin.
LEWIS (O/C) Na, it’s a climbing boy. (Beat) Ya alright down there boy?
Zachariah looks up, his sooty face streaked by his tears. Standing around him we see Mary, Sylvie, Charlie and, wearing the slightly crumpled top hat, Lewis smiling down at him.
CHARLIE Ere, e’s cryin poor lil fella. Wassup? Ya lost boy?
Zachariah shakes his head. Sylvie and Mary reach down and offer their hands for him to get up. He lowers his head and continues crying.
MARY Oh e’s in a proper tizzie. What’s a matter lil boy?
Lewis bends and slips a hand under Zachariah’s arm.
Next: Zachariah 18: Clean People
