by James Morrow
JOB. Mercy.
FRANNY. (Points to the Zenith) One of these days, Job Barnes is going to get it all back—his possessions, family, health.
JOB. (Retrieving newspaper) Not as long as the ratings hold up.
FRANNY. Are you being cynical? I don’t like cynics. (Lifts eyes to heaven) Listen, Lord, I want you to know I’m not bitter. You have your reasons. (Turns to Job, points skyward) He has his reasons.
JOB. (Reads) “School bus plunges off ravine.” (Turns page) “Bridge of San Luis Rey collapses.” (Stares at Franny) Wish I had your faith.
FRANNY. (Pulls Job’s book from apron pocket) This sustains me. The Job Barnes Story: How I Suffered, Suppurated, and Survived. It has a happy ending.
JOB. (Reads) “Cholera death toll reaches 15,000 in Iraq.” (Turns page) “Floods destroy Peruvian village.”
FRANNY. Sooner or later, God’ll fix everything. He’ll heal my child, take away my infirmities, find me a new husband…
JOB. And by coming here, you thought you could speed up the process?
FRANNY. (Defensive) Is that so crazy? Isn’t it logical to suppose he’s more likely to notice me if I’m camped out on Job’s own dung heap? (Taps on book) This all really happened, you know. The Job Barnes Story is one hundred percent true.
JOB. (Nodding) I wrote it.
FRANNY. (Shocked) What?
As Franny consults the author photo on the back of the dust jacket, her jaw drops in astonishment.
FRANNY. Good gracious, that’s you! You’re Job Barnes! (Coughs) I feel so ashamed. Here I am, droning on about my problems to the man who practically invented suffering. (Indicating Job’s book) Says here you lost your herdsmen, your camel drivers, sheep—
JOB. My children.
FRANNY. Oxen, donkeys—and then you got all those awful boils.
JOB. (Reminiscing) Scraping myself with a potsherd. Scratching myself to the bone.
FRANNY. The pus oozing out of you like sweat.
JOB. “Curse God and die,” Ruth said.
FRANNY. But then you learned to accept. (Pulls ballpoint pen from apron) You repented in dust and ashes. (Thrusts book and pen toward Job) Hey, do me a favor, Mr. Barnes?
Job takes book and pen from Franny, autographs the title page.
JOB. There. (Returns book) A collector’s item.
FRANNY. I know what I’m doing here, but I don’t know what you’re doing here.
JOB. (Matter-of-factly) I want a rematch. I want the debate to continue.
FRANNY. Debate?
JOB. “Resolved: Job Barnes should never have withdrawn his case.” (To heaven) Got that, sir? I’m back on the old dung heap, and I’m pissed as ever. (Opens vest-pocket Bible, reads) “God destroyeth the perfect and the wicked. If the scourge slay suddenly, he will laugh at the trial of the innocent.” Now there’s a Job I can respect, keeping his Creator on the hook. (Flips ahead) “God hath broken me asunder. He hath taken me by my neck, and shaken me to pieces. He poureth out my gall upon the ground.” That’s the real me, bloodied but unbowed.
FRANNY. (Unimpressed) Okay, but in the end he answered your accusations. He dazzled you with the majesty of the universe. (Coughs) He awed you, he amazed you…
JOB. He pulled rank on me. (Reads in Godlike tone) “Where wast thou when I laid the foundations of the earth?” (Paraphrasing) “I’m God, and you’re not”—is that an argument, Franny? (Snaps Bible closed)
FRANNY. What’re you so upset about? He rewarded you handsomely. New family, new house, new herds…
JOB. Stock options, trust funds, book royalties, TV residuals. Bribery, all of it. Hush money.
FRANNY. (Struck by the idea) Hush money…
JOB. Hush camels, hush donkeys: anything to keep me from telling the world how I really felt. He used me, Franny. He put me through hell on a dare, then passed it off as an inquiry into the problem of evil. He owes me an apology.
FRANNY. Apology? You’re gonna ask God for an apology?
JOB. Yup.
FRANNY. Tell you one thing—I’m not planning to be around for that.
JOB. (To heaven) Look, sir, we needn’t begin with the meat of things. A game of chess will do—I’ll give you a bishop advantage and the first move. (To Franny) He’s not talking. (To heaven) Monopoly, sir? Start you out with a hotel on Park Place. Dominoes? Backgammon? (Reads from Bible) “Who laid the cornerstone thereof?” (Sarcastic) Cornerstone. Earth’s cornerstone. Okay, fine, but now let’s hear from today’s God. (Reads) “Hast thou given the horse strength? Has thou clothed his neck with thunder?” (To heaven) These old metaphors won’t do, sir. Not in the post-Darwinian era.
FRANNY. Sometimes, standing in the midday sun with the heat leaping up from these ashes and the flies buzzing in my ears, I can feel it, really feel it. This is hallowed ground, Mr. Barnes.
JOB. (Selecting a dung nugget) Shall we take off our shoes?
FRANNY. He’s near. He’s very near.
JOB. Have you ever considered the taxonomy of turds?
FRANNY. What? (Offended) Certainly not.
JOB. At the very bottom: dogshit. The lowest of the low—ragpickers, bag ladies, and people who hang out on dung heaps. When you treat somebody like dogshit, your contempt knows no bounds. (Tosses the nugget, selects another) Next we have chickenshit. Chickenshit allows for a certain humanity. A chickenshit may be a disgusting coward, but at least he’s not dogshit. (Tosses the nugget, selects another) Bullshit comes after that—blatant and aggressive untruths. But at a certain level, of course, we admire our liars, don’t we? Bullshitters get elected, chickenshits never. (Tosses the nugget, selects another) At the top of the hierarchy, at the summit of the heap: horseshit. Horseshit is false too, but it’s not manifestly false. Horseshit is subtle. It’s nuanced. It plays to win. Horseshit fools some of the people some of the time. Divine justice, for example, is horseshit, not bullshit. Indeed, we hold horseshit in such esteem that we decline to bestow the epithet on one another. A person can be a bullshitter, but only a horse can be a horseshitter.
FRANNY. What a thoroughly depressing person you are. I wish I’d never met you.
A wheelchair rolls into the scene, bearing a thin, pale, thirteen-year-old boy named Tucker, a contemporary equivalent of Tiny Tim. Intravenous feeding tubes lead from his arms to bottles of nutrients set on aluminum poles. Wincing and groaning, he moves the wheels with his gloved hands, gradually maneuvering himself to the base of the dung heap.
FRANNY. Greetings, young man.
Tucker grunts, gasps, and eventually catches his breath.
FRANNY. You okay?
TUCKER. (Brightly) Hi, I’m Tucker, and I’ve got AIDS!
JOB. (Looking around) Where are we—Lourdes?
FRANNY. (To Tucker) Poor child. Poor, poor child. (Admonishing Job) Lourdes was once a dung heap too.
TUCKER. A mislabeled batch of blood, and before I knew it—
FRANNY. You mean you’re—
TUCKER. A hemophiliac, ma’am. Dad’s about ready to kill himself. Mom’s been doin’ the talk shows. (Points to the Zenith) Hey, does that work? I think she’s on at five.
FRANNY. We get a picture on the Zenith, sound on the Sony.
TUCKER. Excellent. Ever watch One Man’s Misery?
FRANNY. Faithfully.
JOB. First hemophilia, then AIDS. (To heaven) My hat goes off to you. You’ve outdone yourself.
TUCKER. Did I come to the right dung heap? This the place where God appears?
JOB. Every twenty-five hundred years or so. Hope you brought your toothbrush.
FRANNY. You came to exactly the right dung heap.
TUCKER. Are you sick, ma’am?
FRANNY. Diabetes.
TUCKER. My aunt had that. Are your legs gonna rot off?
FRANNY. I hope not.
JOB. (Pointing skyward) Don’t give him any ideas.
TUCKER. (Indicating Job) Is he sick too?
FRANNY. He’s got hubris.
JOB. Tic-tac-toe, God? Croquet? Clue?
FRANNY. Don’t listen to anything he says.
TUCKER. Know what I really hate?
FRANNY. What?
TUCKER. Eggplant. Eggplant and being a virgin. I don’t even know what it looks like.
FRANNY. Eggplant?
TUCKER. Screwing.
FRANNY. (Bewildered) Oh, dear. (Ponders) It looks like dancing.
TUCKER. Bullshit.
JOB. Exactly.
TUCKER. Hey, d’ya suppose there’re any trading cards around here?
FRANNY. (Amiably) I wouldn’t be surprised. (Picks through trash) Let’s go hunting.
Tucker slips a stack of trading cards from his shirt pocket, fanning them out like a bridge hand.
TUCKER. I’m collectin’ the series called Operation Desert Storm. (Consults checklist card) I need “Number Forty-two: Patriot Missile Control Center” and “Number Seventeen: General Colin Powell.”
Franny retrieves a cardboard rectangle from the heap.
FRANNY. (Reads) “What Pierre Saw Through the Keyhole: Number Thirty-four in a Series of Authentic French Postcards.”
TUCKER. Oooo—gimme.
Franny hands Tucker the postcard, then resumes her search.
TUCKER. Golly.
FRANNY. (Finding Desert Storm card) Hey, here’s one. (Brings card to Tucker) Have you got “Number Four: General Norman Schwarzkopf”?
TUCKER. (Disappointed) Two of ’em.
FRANNY. My own little boy collects baseball cards. (Coughs) That is, he will collect baseball cards, after he gets well.
TUCKER. What’s his name?
FRANNY. Bradley-Chambers. (Shudders) Andy.
JOB. Ping-Pong, God? Tiddlywinks? (To Franny and Tucker) Looks like he’s closed up shop. Off visiting the fifth planet of Alpha Centauri, dropping brimstone on the natives.
Suddenly the door of the Whirlpool clothes dryer flies open and the barrel begins to turn furiously, spewing socks and underwear across the stage. A calm, soothing, resonant male voice booms out of the chamber.
VOICE FROM THE WHIRLPOOL. (Slow, measured pace) Don’t be so sure about that…
Job and Franny jump three feet into the air and hug each other.
JOB. Jeez!
FRANNY. Gracious!
TUCKER. Wow!
FRANNY. And the Whirlpool isn’t even plugged in. The barrel keeps spinning, generating a strong wind that blows pieces of refuse off the heap and into the audience.
VOICE FROM THE WHIRLPOOL. “Who is this that darkeneth counsel by words without knowledge?”
JOB. (Fearful) Er, you d-don’t remember me? Your s-servant Job?
As the Voice continues to speak, we feel as if we’re in the presence of a bombastic Santa Claus or a lame-duck Southern senator. The Voice certainly doesn’t seem malign.
VOICE. “Gird up now thy loins like a man.” (Beat) Of course I remember you. What’s on your mind, son?
TUCKER. (Points to Job) He called himself Job. (Turns to Franny) Is he really Job?
Nodding, Franny guides Tucker away from the hero. Tucker repockets his trading cards.
FRANNY. Stand over here. I’ll explain later.
JOB. Are you the right God? The modern God?
VOICE. I am that I am.
TUCKER. (To Franny) He’s Popeye the Sailor?
FRANNY. Sshhh.
VOICE. (Mildly chiding) Come, come, servant, I haven’t got all day.
JOB. I don’t intend any disrespect, sir, but…may I speak freely?
VOICE. Of course.
JOB. You owe me an apology.
VOICE. A what?
JOB. (Wincing, closing his eyes) Apology.
Job and Franny brace themselves.
VOICE. I don’t do apologies.
JOB. It’s like this, sir. The way I see it, you tortured me to win a bet, then proceeded to buy my silence. I guess I’m feeling a bit…
VOICE. Exploited?
JOB. Exactly.
VOICE. Used?
JOB. Right.
VOICE. Duped?
JOB. My wife calls me history’s patsy.
VOICE. Phooey.
JOB. How’s that?
VOICE. I said phooey. History’s patsy? (Stifles a chuckle) You really think the wager ended with you? Let’s not be vain, son. The rivalry between God and Satan goes on forever—rather like that crummy soap opera you all watch. Remember the bubonic plague?
JOB. Who could forget?
VOICE. My way of testing Samuel Schechner, a singularly pious rug merchant living in fourteenth-century London.
FRANNY. (Confused) Huh? The whole plague? For one Jew?
VOICE. The whole plague. For one Jew.
TUCKER. Gosh.
VOICE. Then there was polio. Satan and I wanted to see if Franklin Delano Roosevelt would curse me to my face.
FRANNY. (Perturbed) You created polio just for that?
VOICE. Uh-huh.
FRANNY. Goodness.
VOICE. The 1982 Colombian earthquake? I was challenging the faith of Juan Delgado, a prosperous coffee merchant living in Bogota. As for diabetes and emphysema—yes, Franny, they exist for the sole and holy purpose of permitting you to demonstrate your devotion to me.
FRANNY. I’m trying my best.
VOICE. Finally, of course, there’s AIDS. A major pestilence, sure, but no match for the grit and gumption of young Tucker here.
TUCKER. (Unconvinced) Er, you bet…
FRANNY. (Coughs) He’s only thirteen.
TUCKER. Thirteen and a half.
JOB. How many of these showdowns have there been?
VOICE. Enough to keep my job interesting.
FRANNY. (Insistent) How many?
VOICE. Four thousand, seven hundred and fifty-eight.
FRANNY. And the score?
VOICE. Behold!
The number 4,758 materializes on the Zenith TV, the numeral 0 on the Sony.
VOICE. God: four thousand, seven hundred and fifty-eight. Satan: zero.
TUCKER. That old Devil’s a glutton for punishment.
VOICE. (Agreeing) He never learns.
FRANNY. (Apprehensive) And in every case, you restored the victim to health, wealth, and happiness?
VOICE. Maybe not in every case.
FRANNY. (Indignant, to Tucker) I think he owes all those people an apology.
VOICE. What was that, Franny?
FRANNY. (To clothes dryer) I said…you owe all those people an apology. (Steels herself, closes eyes) Has he incinerated us yet?
JOB. Not yet.
VOICE. I’ll make you a deal, Franny. I won’t tell you how to run your hardware store, and you won’t tell me how to run the universe. “Where wast thou when I laid the foundations of the earth? Who laid the cornerstone thereof?”
JOB. (Contemptuous) Don’t give us your flat-earth theory. (Brandishing a turd) Don’t give us your geocentric solar system, your pre-Darwinian biology, or any of that crap.
FRANNY. That horseshit.
JOB. Right.
VOICE. (Condescending but not vicious) Hey, you made some progress recently. Great. I’m happy for you. But maybe I’ve been busy too. Maybe, a couple thousand years ago, maybe I added an afterlife. Follow what I’m saying? In one corner we have you people, klutzing around with your science, and meanwhile here’s the Creator, solving death itself. Don’t come whining to me about diabetes and AIDS when I’m doling out immortality, okay?
JOB. We don’t want justice in heaven.
FRANNY. We want it on the dung heap.
TUCKER. He’s not a very nice clothes dryer.
FRANNY. He’s putting us through the ringer.
JOB. (Fully the accuser now) Does the name Naomi Barnes mean anything to you?
VOICE. Who?
JOB. Naomi Barnes.
VOICE. (Slightly chagrined) I’ve created so many people…
JOB. She was one of those seven sons and three daughters I had in the beginning. Chapter One, Verse Nineteen. (Quavering) She had a name. A face.
FRANNY. Freckl
es?
JOB. No freckles.
FRANNY. Andy has freckles.
VOICE. Ah, so you want to quote scripture, eh, big-shot? Let’s move on up to Chapter Forty-two. Suddenly you’ve got seven brand-new sons and three brand-new daughters, just as good as the old ones. Better in fact. “And in all the land were no women found so fair as the daughters of Job.”
FRANNY. He’s never going to apologize, is he?
JOB. It’s not in his nature.
Franny sits down on the dung heap, thoroughly discouraged.
VOICE. You know what I like about you folks? You’re so innocent. And around here innocence gets rewarded. Go ahead, name your price. You want a house in the country?
JOB. My herdsmen were innocent too.
VOICE. A Lear jet? Superbowl tickets?
FRANNY. (Rising as she coughs and shakes fist) His shepherds were innocent.
VOICE. A table at Sardi’s? A castle in Spain?
FRANNY. (Coughing) Give this man his self-respect back! Give this boy his future back!
VOICE. (Slightly paranoid) “Where wast thou when I laid the foundations of the earth?”
JOB. (Rolling his eyes) Here we go again.
FRANNY. One-track mind.
Franny hobbles over to the Zenith TV. Rooting around in the junk, she draws out a can of red paint and an artist’s brush.
JOB. That’s the idea!
TUCKER. Go for it!
VOICE. “Who shut up the sea with doors, when it brake forth, as if it had issued out of the womb? Hast thou commanded the morning since thy days?”
Slowly, methodically, Franny crosses out the 4,758 on the Zenith screen and replaces it with 4,755, then changes the 0 on the Sony to a 3. Job and Tucker applaud.
VOICE. (Furious) “Hast thou entered into the springs of the sea? Hast thou seen the doors of the shadow of death? And the hoary frost of heaven: who hath engendered it?”
The clothes dryer barrel spins madly, generating a fearsome tornado that begins tearing the dung heap apart.
VOICE. (Raging) “Canst thou bind the sweet influences of Pleiades, or loose the bands of Orion? Knowest thou the ordinances of heaven? Canst thou send lightnings, that they may go, and say unto thee, ‘Here we are’?”
JOB. And now it’s time…
FRANNY. To curse God…
JOB. And live.
