THE LOCAL AUTHORITY
By De Filippo
RAFILUCCIO
Doctor, look at that girl you’ve just examined. Look at her. She’s just a bit of skin and bone strung together, just a bit of rubbish anybody might pick up off the floor...(pretends to pick something up) and say: This is useless rubbish...Away into the dustbin. Look at her. Is she wearing smart clothes? No, sir. What about silk stockings? Oh, no. Does she go to the hairdresser’s? She doesn’t. And yet that little bundle of skin and bone, just as it stands, with those lovely eyes...that bit of rubbish is...my woman. And look at me. Look at me. Look at my shoes. (Lifts a foot and shows the underside of his shoe. The sole is in shreds). Look at this suit...(Bends his arm and lifts it, showing a gaping tear at the elbow) Would you care to look at my shirt? (Takes off his jacket and shows the innumerable repairs and patches on his shirt) What would you say I am? Another useless heap of rubbish? Yes. The sort of thing one shoves to one side in the street. Into the dustbin with you as well! And yet, do you know what this revolting sight represents for her? Her man. I occasionally do portering work at the docks...but more often than not, as there is so many of us, they shut the gates in my face. I turn my hand to anything when there’s work going, I’ve been a labourer, porter, watchman, odd-job man, lavatory attendant...I give her what little I earn. We share food when we can afford it, and when we can’t, we go without.