Bible Stories for Adults (18 page)

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 lameduck 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 Bogata. 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
. Freckles?

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.

The lights go out. The stage is dark but for the glowing scoreboards. God: 4,755. Satan: 3.

JOB
. Go to hell, clothes dryer!

FRANNY
. Eat worms, clothes dryer! tucker. Your sister's ugly, clothes dryer!

The three mortals continue hurling out curses, voices blending in a cacophony of rage.

JOB
. Go to hell!

FRANNY
. Eat worms!

TUCKER
. Your sister's ugly!

JOB
. Hell!

FRANNY
. Worms!

TUCKER
. Ugly!

The storm grows quiet. The lights come up. Job and Franny are nearly nude now, their garments torn off by the wind. Wads of trash cling to their flesh. The clothes dryer is still and empty.

TUCKER
. Hey, you guys are
naked!

JOB
. “Naked came I out of my mother's womb . . .”

FRANNY
. “And naked shall I return thither . . .”

TUCKER
. Will you show me what screwing looks like?

FRANNY
. Right now we just want to get out of here.

TUCKER
. Where're we goin'?

JOB
. I don't know. East. We're looking for something.

TUCKER
. What?

JOB
. Better major appliances.

TUCKER
. Anything else?

FRANNY
. “Number Forty-two: Patriot Missile Control Center.”

JOB
. “Number Seventeen: General Colin Powell.”

FRANNY
. I hear Frigidaire has a good product line.

JOB
. I'm told you can't go wrong with a Maytag.

Tucker pulls his trading cards from his shirt. Job and Franny join bands and together they start to wheel Tucker away.

TUCKER
.
(Studying checklist card)
How about “Number Fifty-one: Ready for Takeoff”?

JOB
. We'll find one.

TUCKER
. And “Number Six: Secretary of Defense Dick Cheney”?

JOB
. Sure, Tucker.

TUCKER
. It's pretty rare.

FRANNY
. So are you, kid.

Job, Franny, and Tucker disappear offstage. Their voices drift across the ruins of the dung heap.

TUCKER
. “Number Twenty-three: Midair Refueling”?

JOB
. Of course.

TUCKER
. “Number Thirty-five: Bombs Over Baghdad”?

FRANNY
. Naturally.

TUCKER
. “Number Fifty-eight: Burning Oil Wells”?

JOB
. Right.

TUCKER
. “Number Sixty-five: Mission Accomplished”?