Malcolm X

FADE IN:

EXT. ROXBURY STREET - THE WAR YEARS - DAY

It is a bright sunny day on a crowded street on the black

side of Boston. PEOPLE and KIDS are busy with their own

things.

SHORTY bops his way down the street. He is a runty, very

dark young man of 21 with a mission and a smile on his face.

He wears the flamboyant style of the time: the whole zoot-

suit, pegged legs and a wide brim hat with a white feather

stuck in the hat band.

EXT. STREET - DAY

FOLLOW SHOT. Shorty dodges through the crowd with his

packages.

His smile is one of anticipation. He nods to a PAL without

stopping; eyes a COUPLE OF CHICKS dancing on the street, but

is not dissuaded.

INT. BARBER SHOP - DAY

Shorty has his jacket and hat off, his sleeves rolled up. He

is like a surgeon preparing for an operation. His equipment

is spread out on a table: can of lye, large mason jar, wooden

stirring spoon, knife, the eggs. His actions have the

character of a ritual: each thing being done just so, in

time-honored fashion.

He slices the potatoes and drops the thin slices into the

mason jar.

He adds water and makes a paste of the starch.

Behind Shorty is a spirited barbershop conversation. ONE MAN

is getting a haircut; TWO OTHERS are watching (TOOMER, JASON)

one of them from behind a newspaper. A middle-aged barber,

CHOLLY, is doing most of the talking.

CHOLLY:

After I hit the number that woman

wasn't no good to me at all.

The men laugh.

ANGLE - Shorty pries open the can of lye, whiffs it. It's

good and strong. He pours some in the mason jar, stirring

with the wooden spoon. He cracks the eggs into the mixture

and stirs. He waits as fumes rise and feels the outside of

the jar as it gets hot.

ANOTHER ANGLE - The barbershop SEEN from a door, slightly

ajar. A woolly head, entirely in shadow, peers out.

CHOLLY'S VOICE

She says I'm cheap cuz I won't cop

her a diamond ring. Had the

indignation to call me a cheap black

sunovabitch to boot.

TOOMER:

And when a black woman call you a

cheap black sunovabitch you've been

called a cheap black sunovabitch.

Cholly is annoyed. It's _his_ story.

CHOLLY:

Will you let me tell it?

ON SHORTY - He opens the bulky package he has been carrying,

unfolds a large rubber apron and gets into it. Now he dons a

pair of rubber gloves.

SHORTY:

Where's Homeboy?

He is all ready; one of his hands is filled with a huge glob

of Vaseline. His manner is indignant as if he were asking

the whereabouts of an exasperating child.

CHOLLY:

Red's in the head, man.

TOOMER:

You mean hiding in the head.

CHOLLY:

Hey, Red. Your man's here and waiting

on you.

His hands full, Cholly opens the door with his feet and

MALCOLM comes out, a big, gawky, bright-faced country boy,

wearing downhome clothes and an expression of apprehension.

TOOMER:

Gonna get that first conk laid on,

hunh, Homeboy?

CHOLLY:

Man, don't scare him more than he's

scared already. Ain't too bad...

Malcolm allows himself to be led to an empty chair, where

Cholly drapes him with a double sheet, tucking it tightly

around his neck and adding a protective collar of paper.

CHOLLY:

...Like anything else. First time a

chick gets her cherry popped, she

might put up a little fight. But

pretty soon you can't give her enough.

Right, Homeboy?

CLOSE - MALCOLM

Malcolm gulps, his eyes on the fuming mason jar.

Shorty starts massaging a great quantity of Vaseline into

Malcolm's scalp, covering his neck and ears as well. All the

men have gathered around, involved in the ritual. For Malcolm

it is closer to being a kind of execution.

CHOLLY:

Git his forehead and eyebrows.

SHORTY:

I know what I'm doing.

Shorty applies the Vaseline to that area. Now he brings

over the steaming jar and places it nearby.

SHORTY (CONTD)

Listen. You pull my coat if it's

still stinging when I get through

'cause this sh*t can burn a hole

through cement.

CHOLLY:

Hold tight, baby, and keep your eyes

shut.

Malcolm nods his head, clenches his eyes and grits his teeth.

Shorty applies the congolene with a comb, working it into

Malcolm's hair.

CLOSE - MALCOLM

MALCOLM:

I thought you said it was gonna

sting... this ain't nothin'.

For a moment nothing happens, then the heat hits him. He

yells, tries to catch his breath: his head is on fire.

MALCOLM (CONTD)

You motherf***er. You're killing

me. I'm burning up. My damn head is

on fire.

He nearly leaps out of the chair, but the barber restrains

him.

Shorty, utterly unmoved by the outburst, continues working

the congolene into his hair.

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