by Jeff Wood
SIMONE
Yes.
MR. STEVENS
And did you not—?
He finishes his sentence with his hands, waving them in a general magical manner.
SIMONE
Yes, I did.
MR. STEVENS
And…
(smoking)
…it was not satisfactory?
SIMONE
No. It was fine. It’s just that… well… I am struggling, I think, um, personally, I think, to understand…
She has some difficulty continuing. Stevens exhales billowy streams of smoke out his nostrils, puts out his cigarette, and settles in.
MR. STEVENS
Well then we obviously need to examine this, don’t we.
SIMONE
I guess so.
MR. STEVENS
I think we do.
SIMONE
Okay.
MR. STEVENS
I’m so glad that you came in to speak with me.
Simone nods, not so sure about it. But Stevens proceeds, interrogating her with seemingly pre-established corporate questions that she already knows the answers to.
MR. STEVENS
Who is responsible for the quality of your break time?
SIMONE
I am.
MR. STEVENS
And who is responsible if your break is not satisfying to you?
SIMONE
I am.
MR. STEVENS
And who is accountable to the person who is responsible for an unsatisfactory break time experience?
SIMONE
Me.
MR. STEVENS
Now. What did you do with your break today?
SIMONE
Well I just took a few minutes to myself just to reflect on—
MR. STEVENS
Exactly. What did you do with your break time, exactly?
SIMONE
Exactly?
MR. STEVENS
Exactly.
SIMONE
Really?
MR. STEVENS
Simone.
SIMONE
I stood in some sunlight with my eyes closed.
Stevens is blank.
He waits for more, blinking.
He does not get more.
MR. STEVENS
(puzzled)
Where?
SIMONE
At a window—
Stevens arches his fingers together in front of his face, elbows on his desk.
SIMONE
In the upper mezzanine.
MR. STEVENS
Like a kitten.
SIMONE
Excuse me?
MR. STEVENS
A baby cat. You stood in a ray of sunshine in the upper mezzanine with your eyes closed.
SIMONE
Yes.
MR. STEVENS
(relieved)
Why that sounds delightful!
SIMONE
Well it did feel like something that I really needed.
MR. STEVENS
Of course it did.
SIMONE
But it’s so difficult to describe.
MR. STEVENS
No it’s not! It’s easy! See, we just did it!
SIMONE
No, I mean—the thing.
MR. STEVENS
What thing.
SIMONE
The thing that I need.
Silence, as if some evil has entered. The corner of the room, a seam of mortar and baby blue cinder blocks. The room is sweating.
He stares at her. She stares at her lap.
MR. STEVENS
And what thing is that?
SIMONE
Well, that’s the thing, I mean, that’s the problem, because it’s not there.
MR. STEVENS
I’m sorry?
SIMONE
It’s like it’s there, like it’s something, but it’s not.
MR. STEVENS
How would you describe it, then? If you were able.
SIMONE
I would describe it… as… being either invisible or not there at all. I would describe it as being… gone.
MR. STEVENS
Gone.
SIMONE
Yes.
MR. STEVENS
Invisible.
SIMONE
Yes.
MR. STEVENS
Well then I’m not really sure if—
SIMONE
But it does have a smell.
MR. STEVENS
Oh?
SIMONE
Yes. Definitely.
MR. STEVENS
That’s interesting.
SIMONE
I thought so too.
MR. STEVENS
And how would you describe the… odor?
SIMONE
Acrid.
MR. STEVENS
Acrid.
SIMONE
Yes, like something burning.
MR. STEVENS
I know what acrid means.
SIMONE
Yes, of course, well, that’s what it smells like.
Like something burning.
MR. STEVENS
Well, Simone, that is, interesting. Burning. Is it painful?
SIMONE
The smell? No.
MR. STEVENS
Ah, no, of course not. A smell.
SIMONE
Yeah, I would have to say no, not really, except that then yes, sometimes it can seem very painful and then it is painful, yes.
MR. STEVENS
Simone—
SIMONE
(suddenly urgent)
What is it?
MR. STEVENS
What is what?
SIMONE
What do you think it is?
MR. STEVENS
The smell?
SIMONE
Yes, well, the thing.
MR. STEVENS
I would rather say that you’re choosing to make this quite difficult for yourself, aren’t you?
SIMONE
How do you mean?
MR. STEVENS
I would rather inquire as to what you intend to do about it as opposed to attempting to discern the nature of a thing which may or may not be invisible and therefore may or may not actually exist and/or smell, acrid, or not.
SIMONE
I would have to find it then, in order to know, how to answer that question, I mean.
MR. STEVENS
Simone—
SIMONE
(crying out)
It won’t go away!
MR. STEVENS
(and suddenly roaring)
Simone!
Then low…
MR. STEVENS
(quietly)
You know very well that none of this is possible.
SIMONE
(also quietly)
But why? I could just quit, and leave.
He smokes, and puts out his cigarette, all in one motion.
MR. STEVENS
Now you see. This is exactly what concerns me very deeply, Simone. We know very well that to change our physical circumstances is one thing but if there’s a deeper issue then we need to be honest about that, don’t we, otherwise we’re just putting a little Band-Aid on a much more serious problem.
SIMONE
Yes. I know. And that’s exactly what I would like to address.
MR. STEVENS
Good. I think that’s smart.
SIMONE
But it’s scary.
MR. STEVENS
I know it is. That’s why we have the structure to rely on. We’re all safe here.
She nods.
MR. STEVENS
So why don’t you try, one more time, and tell me what it is.
He waits, letting her work it out.
They both wait for it.
SIMONE
(timidly)
I don’t know.
And Stevens erupts like a bouquet of spring flowers.
>
MR. STEVENS
O my dear Simone, of course you don’t! Sweetheart, that’s nothing to be afraid of. There’s nothing more natural in the world!
She laughs, relieved.
MR. STEVENS
But it doesn’t matter.
SIMONE
What?
MR. STEVENS
It just doesn’t matter. You see— Everything you’re feeling is an illusion. It’s just patterns, patterns and chemicals, coming and going. It feels like feelings, but it’s not. If we stay focused on the tasks at hand it all works itself out. We’re so much better off when we realize that there just isn’t anywhere else to go. This is it! Why cause ourselves more headache and heartache. And, from experience I can tell you, once you leave the ship you are really out there in deep space, all alone.
He lets that sink in.
MR. STEVENS
Now. Go take a few more minutes to yourself, get yourself freshened up, and then let’s channel all that energy into the Event where it really does matter to everyone.
She nods.
MR. STEVENS
Okay.
She exits the office.
Mr. Stevens lights up a fresh cigarette and spreads his arms the length of his desk, considering the maintenance of things.
He exhales.
V
Robert’s front lawn has been stripped to the bone. One solitary square of sod remains.
Robert emerges from the house and traverses the yard. He throws the remaining section of turf over his shoulder and hauls it inside.
He unloads the last of the sod onto an enormous pile of dirt and grass heaped in the middle of the living room floor. A white foot sticks out from the base of the mound. Robert has buried the mud man.
He hauls a garden hose through the front door into his living room and sprays the mound of sod, watering it liberally. Then he hoses down the rest of the inside of his living room.
He rips the curtains from the living room windows. He grabs a lamp off the coffee table, and swings it like an axe, smashing it powerfully against the table. He roars victoriously, then he picks up the table and hurls it through the front window of the house. Marveling at his new-found will, Robert rushes back outside. He drags the coffee table out of the front shrubbery and heaves it back at the side of the house.
He marches around the dirt yard like a drum major leading his own parade.
Home again, home again, jiggety jig!
Home again, home again, jiggety jig!
He does a funny little shimmy dance, shaking out all the bugs, and then marches over to the corner of his house. He grabs hold of the corner molding of vinyl siding and rips the corner off his house.
Then Robert proceeds to rip an entire strip of vinyl siding from the front of his house and haul it inside.
***
Samson rolls along a wide, new four-lane of suburban corporate strip. High halogen lights illuminate the night with a diffuse orange haze and the ice cream truck passes through it like a creamsicle.
The strip runs out and devolves into a service road. Sam rolls his magic wagon over the transition and up the long dirt drive toward an old farmhouse glowing in the night on a rise.
Floodlights illuminate razed earth surrounding the lot. The adjacent fields have been cleared for development. Off-duty bulldozers and backhoes sit facing the house.
And every inch of the farmhouse is covered in white Christmas tree lights, sparkling in the night. Sam parks his truck and hops out.
Bluegrass music is spilling from the house. Samson climbs the front porch steps and opens the front door. Music pours over the threshold.
Samson has walked into the middle of a blistering bluegrass jamboree. Couches and chairs are filled with musicians singing and clapping. Dust rises from the hardwood floor as they stomp out the rhythm.
Guitars, banjos, mandolins, fiddles, washboards, jaw harps, mouth harps, a stand-up bass, and an old clunky piano slide and pick away at the end-of-days Appalachian melody. The furious devil’s music fills the living room, melding with the extensive folk art collection hanging from the walls.
Ezekiel Crawfish is a vintage picker with a dirt-farmer’s lean and handsome countenance. He sees Sam, sets his guitar aside, and rises to greet his friend. They shake hands warmly, shouting at each other over the loud music.
ZEKE
Howdy, Sam.
SAMSON
Zeke!
ZEKE
How are ya?
SAMSON
Just fine. Just fine. You?
ZEKE
Oh, hanging in here. Smoke?
SAMSON
Nah. Thanks. Don’t use ’em. When the wrecking balls coming in?
Zeke lights a cigarette.
ZEKE
Anytime now.
SAMSON
How long you all gonna play?
ZEKE
’Til the fat lady sings!
SAMSON
Well. This should keep you going.
Samson pulls the brown paper bag out of his pocket and hands it to him.
ZEKE
Oh, we thank you kindly, Sam. Sure does take the edge off.
SAMSON
Whatever I can do.
ZEKE
Appreciate it.
There’s an awkward pause. The music carries on around them.
SAMSON
Where’s Charlie, Zeke?
ZEKE
Ah hell, Sam.
SAMSON
I know. I know how hard this is. But I believe he’s ready.
ZEKE
Oh he’s ready. It’s the rest of us.
SAMSON
Let’s round it up. He’ll have my hide if I keep him waiting.
The boys are playing hard and fast on that living room jamboree.
Out behind the house sits an old barn, big and white like a snowy owl in the night.
The barn doors are slid open and golden straw-colored light spills over Sam, Zeke, the crowd of musicians, and the large family household as they enter the barn and gather with their instruments.
At the center of the barn, a white-haired old man sits in a wheelchair in a pool of light. Charlie’s eyes are wide and wet. His face is open, gentle, and afraid.
Sam approaches him and speaks to him privately in a low voice. Charlie nods several times, and Sam backs away.
Charlie pulls a folded piece of paper out of his shirt pocket. He unfolds the paper and raises an artificial larynx device to his throat. He reads his poem in a robotic, electronic voice.
CHARLIE
(robotic voice)
Men. The land is gone. The land that you dreamed on. The land that was dreaming you. And presently I will take leave too. But my love will not perish. Dear family, sweet music. I love you. Oh how I love you.
CROWD
We love you too, Charlie.
CHARLIE
(robotic voice)
All right, you can bring her out now.
From the back of the barn, a white horse is led out and brought to stand in the light behind old Charlie. The horse is stunning, a smooth pearl, a real beauty. She nods and shivers her coat.
Charlie looks to Sam.
CHARLIE
(robotic voice)
Sam.
Sam steps forward again. He leans over Charlie and rolls up his shirtsleeve. He wraps his arm with rubber tubing. He produces a syringe of Quicksilver. He leans over Charlie again for a moment and then he backs away.
Charlie waits with his head down. He jerks a little. And then he looks up quickly, gazing out, above and beyond the men, his eyes filled with light. He raises the speaking device to his throat again.
CHARLIE
(robotic voice)
It’s beautiful.
He nods his head in short quivers as if to say, “Okay, okay, okay.” Samson and three other men move to his side and whisper a count. They pick him up and move him to the horse. As gently as they can, they lift Charlie onto the mare while another man ho
lds her by the harness and keeps her calm. They lay Charlie onto her back.
The mare shifts nervously and Charlie strokes her with his hand, his head lying over her shoulder, whispering.
CHARLIE
(to the horse, a whisper)
It’s okay.
He cries a little. Then stops suddenly—
Blood pours from Charlie’s nose, running profusely down the horse’s shoulder, bright red across her ivory coat.
A tone cuts through the barn: The strings of a guitar begin humming and droning, drawn by some current in the air, a fingerless raga throbbing and whining painfully. Then a violin. A stand-up bass. The old boys are playing a country death dirge around the horse in a ring of light in the darkened barn.
Outside, the old white barn glimmers in the blue-black night.
Music swells from the barn. It begins to hammer and beat, dirge infusing with electronica… carrying over the field and the black trees.
***
Samson pilots his white medicine wagon down another country road. The alien beat is in full force now.
A large modern pole-barn sits in the middle of a black field. The building is constructed of translucent, corrugated fiberglass. Techno dance music pounds from inside and an interior light show lights up the building in the field like a strobing cocoon full of fireflies.
Masses of bodies coagulate and swarm around the building in fluid shifting hives and amoeba-like patterns, moshing pods of young teenagers: 12-, 13-, 14-year-olds.
Samson rolls his truck up the long drive leading to the hyper-urban barn. He parks, and kids rush the truck, lining up at the service window. They’re all talking and shouting madly in the impossibly animate physical language of monstrous teens and pre-teens.
Sam deals cubes of colorful pills, papers, and plants out of the side of his truck like a taco stand.
A lanky kid, taller than the rest, approaches through the center of the pack. He is lithe and wide-eyed and innocently cocksure, looking out from the herd of beaming animal eyes. Jerry is a heartbreaking combination of boldness and naïveté.
JERRY
Hey! Over here! I want the best you got!
SAMSON
Everything I got is the best I got. Next.
JERRY
Not for me. I want the best. I wanna blow my mind!
SAMSON
A blown mind is a mind blown.
JERRY
Well that’s what I want.
SAMSON
Put a helmet on it or there won’t be anything to blow. Next.
More kids crowd in.
Jerry seems hurt and annoyed.
JERRY
Hey man, I’m talking to you. Don’t ignore me. I want something real.
SAMSON
Then you’ve come to the wrong place.
JERRY
I know what you’ve got.
Sam tries to ignore this, but Jerry zeroes in.
