Терри Биссон - The Left Left Behind

“Cause He could?” suggested Gotha.

“We have our season, like all creatures on this planet,” said Vince, who was realistic as always but no longer cynical. “And then it’s done. I wouldn’t want it any other way. If our biggest ambition was to hang around some Heaven forever, we wouldn’t have taken care of this planet for our children. And grandchildren.”

“And great-grandchildren,” said Cap, who was tenderly watching one smear snot on his strat.

“Enough!” said Gotha, shooing three kids off her old, bony, but still cute lap. “I need a nap. You kids go look out the window at the scenery—or something.”

The engineer blew the whistle just for fun. The kids ran to the window to watch for buffalo.

Vince held Gotha’s hand while she slept. He looked over the children, out the window, at the passing scenery. Or something, indeed , he thought:

Fish in the ponds, corn in the fields, cattle on the hillsides, and the whole sweet world gliding by, slowly, out of sight.

Pace

CHARACTERS:

EINSTEIN elderly white man

ROBESON elderly black man

HOOVER elderly white man

WILL young white man

CLAIRE young white woman

DOUG young white man

MALCOLM young black man

ANNIE young white women

FRED elderly white man

KIDS

ACTIVISTS

COPS

A suburban New Jersey backyard in the PRESENT DAY.

Big old house in BG, with stairs to second floor deck. A table in the yard holds food and drink as if for a party. High board fence with a door, stage right. Three lawn chairs under a scrawny tree.

Punkily dressed young ACTIVISTS are milling around, all in their twenties and thirties. Most but not all are white. A few are mothers (and fathers) with children. Several are working on a banner. Others sit on steps eating sandwiches or drinking beer. Others talk on cell phones. There is a general air of purposeful confusion.

Two young activists carry the banner across the stage: NEW JERSEY SAYS NO TO PATRIOT ACT. It temporarily obscures the lawn chairs. When we see the chairs again an old man has appeared in the center one, as if magically. It is EINSTEIN, in need of a haircut and shabbily dressed in a worn cardigan and baggy pants.

EINSTEIN sits awkwardly in the lawnchair. It starts to fold up on him, and he struggles to straighten it. It presents an intractable problem in non-Euclidean geometry.

WILL (a pierced and tattooed young man in anarchist black) notices and comes over to help.

Hey, Einstein. Need some help?

You know me?

Just kidding, old timer. You look like, you know, the atom bomb guy.

EINSTEIN winces at this, but accepts WILL’s help, straightening the chair.

You must be Annie’s grandpa. Hey, man, thanks for letting us use your place.

Me? Well, not exactly…

EINSTEIN examines the chair and sits, still dazed.

Can I get you something? We have organic fruit juice. We have microbrews.

No, thanks. I’m fine. Just need to catch my breath.

I know what you mean. Beautiful day, huh?

They’re all beautiful.

EINSTEIN smiles and looks around. The action is nonstop. No one pays him any attention. After a moment he looks at the other two lawn chairs: empty. He seems disappointed.

A little boy and girl are playing with a toy airplane. They bring it to him and he straightens the wing and throws it. It circles the stage (magically) and they follow it, delighted. No one else notices.

EINSTEIN looks at the other chairs again, expectantly: still empty. He searches his pockets and pulls out a large pocket watch. He taps it, just as two activists are dragging a huge, ugly GEORGE BUSH puppet across the stage, temporarily obscuring the lawn chair to his right.

When we see it again, an elderly black man has appeared in the chair, wearing a pin-striped suit and open-necked shirt (no tie). It’s ROBESON, still virile and handsome at seventy.

What the hell?

Aha! Mr. Robeson!

ROBESON looks at EINSTEIN and his face breaks into a huge grin. ROBESON half rises but he’s too big for his chair and it rises with him. They manage to shake hands anyway.

Doctor Einstein. What an unexpected pleasure! What a totally unexpected pleasure!

Please, it’s Albert. We have met, you know.

Indeed, we have. And it’s Paul, please.

(he sits back down and looks around, puzzled) And is this your doing? (grins) You old rascal. Is this allowed, to come back from the dead?

It’s what you might call a singularity. I worked it out in my spare time, which has been considerable of late.

Tell me about it. Being dead is a bit of a bore. Not that I’m complaining. Where the hell are we?

Not hell, please. Don’t you recognize your home town?

Ah! Princeton. Of course, why not? This wasn’t exactly my part of town. But I get the idea. Your home town, too.

Home? The world is my home, Paul, or was. But this is a very nice part of it, is it not? I especially enjoyed the summers, even though they were a little hot.

Still are!

ROBESON manages to get out of his chair. He stands and stretches operatically. Wiggles his fingers, delighted that they work. Pulls a handkerchief from his suit pocket. His huge figure temporarily obscures the third lawn chair.

When ROBESON sits back down, wiping his brow, we see that another figure has appeared, again as if magically. It is HOOVER, in the third lawn chair, wearing a frumpy dress and brown men’s shoes. No one notices or remarks on his dress.

Hot? What the hell do you know about hot?

Him!? What is he doing here?

(to EINSTEIN, accusingly)Is this your doing, too? Is this your idea of a joke?

No, no, Paul. He wasn’t my first choice, but I was curious.

(pulling his dress down over his knees) I know you! I know you both.

You damn well should! You and your brown-shoed hirelings dogged us both for years! (a beat) I see you at least got the shoes right.

J. Edgar was such a part of both our lives. I thought you might interested in meeting him face to face, so to speak, as am I.

Such creatures hold little interest for me.

(turns away from HOOVER, facing EINSTEIN) But I suppose he could be helpful, if we intend to reminisce. After all, he knows where we went and what we did and who we spoke with, and who we hung out with.

Communists all.

I admired you as a public figure, Paul, but I wanted to get together with you as a man. As a music lover, too. But except for that one afternoon we spent together here in Princeton—

That was a lovely day. It was 1955, wasn’t it?