Терри Биссон - The Left Left Behind

HOOVER watches, relighting his cigar.

Where’d they all go? There’s nobody here!

In the confusion, EINSTEIN is calm. He puts his watch away, pleased, then takes ROBESON by the arm.

Come, Paul.

EINSTEIN pulls ROBESON with him, toward the stairs to the house.

ROBESON pauses; he opens HOOVER’s purse and drops in the joint before following.

Check inside the house! They must be hiding!

EINSTEIN and ROBESON sit halfway up the stairs and watch, unseen, as the invisible activists slip out the door.

Two cops rush past them, clomping noisily up the stairs and into the house.

HOOVER sits in his lawn chair, alarmed to see the escape. He frowns at the two cops still searching the yard as the last of the activists escape.

You fools! There they go! You let them all escape!

The two cops notice HOOVER and draw their guns.

There’s nobody here but this old perve.

On the ground, sir! Do it! Now! Face down!

The two cops push HOOVER out of the chair. He falls face down.

Oh dear. They’ll hurt him.

Not enough. They can’t see us? Or hear us?

Apparently not. Or the kids either. They’re gone to their protest.

The cops stand over HOOVER, guns drawn. He is flat on the ground, angry, his cigar still clenched between his teeth.

I’ll have your badges for this! Don’t you know who I am?

(putting on latex gloves)

He’s wearing a dress. He might be gay. Careful!

COP Gay? He’s an old man.

Old man, hell! He’s a cross-dressing perves-ite. Bet he was molesting the protestors!

Two cops (3&4) emerge from the house and clomp down the stairs, past the unseen EINSTEIN and ROBESON.

What protestors? There’s nobody inside either.

We must have the wrong address! Let’s try next door. Can’t let them get away.

The cops start toward the door in the fence. Cop 2 hangs back.

What about the pervesite?

Leave him! Let’s go.

Cop 2 opens HOOVER’s purse and holds up the joint.

Whoa, look what I’ve found. We’ve got us a dope fiend!

That’s not mine. Don’t you know who I am? I’m on your side.

All four cops haul HOOVER roughly to his feet and cuff his hands behind his back.

Yeah, a cross-dressing dope fiend pervesite. You’re coming with us.

I’m J. Edgar Hoover, you fool!

Yeah, and I’m OJ Simpson. Come on old timer, they’ve been waiting for you down at the jail.

The cops hustle HOOVER, still sputtering and protesting, out the fence door.

In the confusion another old man has appeared in one of the chairs. He is asleep, wearing a bathrobe. It’s FRED.

EINSTEIN and ROBESON, still on the stairs, don’t notice him at first.

Did you do that, Paul? That was cruel.

Not cruel enough. And nothing to what you did. How’d you make us, and all those kids, invisible?

I don’t know, exactly. You know, Arthur C. Clarke once said that any sufficiently advanced technology looks like magic. I guess advanced theory looks like illusion. Smoke and mirrors.

Who’s Arthur C. Clarke? Got a match?

They relight pipe and cigarette.

And who’s our friend down there?

My God, it’s Fred! He’s my friend I wanted you to meet!

EINSTEIN runs down to the sleeping man and shakes him, waking him up.

Albert! Is it you? This is wonderful! But you’re—

I know. I’m dead. I’m taking the afternoon off.

Me too! The last thing I remember, I was at that damned nursing home, watching Oprah. She had some science fiction writer on her show, and I realized I must have died.

I’m so glad! Now we can spend the afternoon together, after all. Come, there’s someone I want you to meet.

EINSTEIN pulls FRED toward the stairs.

Paul Robeson! What an honor.

They shake hands.

The honor is all mine. So what now, EINSTEIN?

I don’t know. All this has worked out so well. (he brightens) We have all afternoon, until sundown. What say we spend it listening to music? Fred has a splendid record collection.

They start up the stairs together, walking slowly: old men.

If my grand-daughter hasn’t thrown my turntable away. I have all your records, Mr. Robeson.

Paul, please. I’m not sure I can bear hearing myself, Fred. But I’m always willing to try.

I have some French brandy, too. If my grand-daughter hasn’t thrown it away.

These kids today have no sense of the finer things.

Oh, I think they do. They’re all at a protest, you know.

They pause at the upstairs door; EINSTEIN looks in.

Such a nice girl. There’s the turntable! I’ll put a record on while you pour us some brandy, Fred. Just a taste for me.

I’ll have a double. Brandy’s the one thing the French do well. Now I wish I’d hung onto that maryjane. Goes well with music.

FRED pulls a joint from the pocket of his bathrobe. He lights it and passes it to ROBESON.

Maryjane? Say, you are an old timer. Here, try some of this.

Poor J. Edgar! But he’ll disappear at sundown, with the rest of us. Meanwhile…

EINSTEIN disappears into the house.

Meanwhile, let the old troll get a taste of his own medicine. My, this is nice, Fred!

Where’d you get this?

At the nursing home. It’s medical marijuana.

They follow EINSTEIN into the house. The stage is now empty; we hear only their voices.

Medical maryjane! See, Albert, the world is progressing after all. On some fronts. It’s what Marx called the interpenetration of opposites.

What’s that, Paul?

We hear the scratches of a record starting up, very loud.

I said, where’s that French brandy?

Coming up, gentlemen.

As the LIGHTS DIM, we hear ROBESON on record, singing “The International.”

Ah, the old pipes. Not half so bad as I had feared.

Paul, you are too modest.

I’ve never been accused of that before, Albert.

You sound wonderful. And such a fine old song, too.