xaara

I don't understand exactly how this rtf format thing works, so there are weird spaces all over the place and the font is messed up, but I'm posting this play anyway, for my records. It's completely unedited and may have typos, conflicting character traits, confusing dialogue, and parts that simply don't make sense. You have been warned. Proceed at your own risk.

SETTING: Library, just before closing. A bored middle-aged LIBRARIAN sits behind the checkout desk inspecting her nails, filing them with a handheld emery board, inspecting them again. At the table in the room, a lone man, ALAN, sits reading a magazine. He’s in his late teens or early twenties; he’s wearing jeans and an unbuttoned shirt over a dark undershirt. He turns a page in the magazine. The librarian looks up, annoyed, then returns to her nails. He looks up as she looks down, and deliberately turns another page. The librarian’s eyes snap up to meet his; they stare at each other for a long moment.

LIBRARIAN, irritably: Is there something you want?

ALAN: No.

LIBRARIAN: It’s almost closing.

ALAN: That’s nice.

LIBRARIAN: In fact, I’m closing up now. Makes no move to rise.

ALAN: Doesn’t look like it to me.

LIBRARIAN: Well, I am.

ALAN: Great. Pause, then, sarcastically, with a Southern drawl, Hop to it, little lady.

LIBRARIAN: I’d very much appreciate it if you’d check out whatever you’d like to take home with you and leave the rest here--it’s time for me to close.

ALAN: Ladies first.

LIBRARIAN, becoming more angry with each passing second: Sir, I really must insist that you-- The sound of footsteps cuts her off. Who’s there? The footsteps stop.

ALAN: Just the ghosts, probably.

LIBRARIAN: That’s ridiculous--there aren’t any ghosts here.

ALAN, rising, taking slow steps toward the checkout desk: Well, maybe your soul got confused when you became a member of the living dead.

LIBRARIAN: You’re bordering on offensive, sir, and I may have to-- ALAN waves his hand and LIBRARIAN freezes mid-sentence. The footsteps resume.

Enter OMAR, stage right. He’s dressed in a well-fitted suit, though the shirt he’s wearing is brightly checkered. He stops for a moment to take in the scene before heaving a great sigh.

OMAR: Alan, I’ve told you this already--we don’t freeze the locals. You think you can just magic your way out of sticky situations and then have people forget about everything. It’s not that easy. Now I’m going to have to erase her memory, and it’s not some sort of Men in Black with a little penlight, it’s hard work.

ALAN: Sorry. She was just--

OMAR: Getting on your nerves? Annoying you? Sitting there doing her job?

ALAN: Maybe a little.

OMAR: What I thought.

ALAN, defensive: Hey, but she’s not allowed to hear us talking. I did what I had to do.

OMAR: And what you had to do was--

ALAN: Freeze her. For now. Too nosy anyway.

OMAR, sighing: Are you ever going to learn anything?

ALAN: Hey! I’ve been learning a lot. Adopts an oratory stance. In just the time since I began this internship, you’ve taught me how to freeze people and.... Reaches for another skill. And, and...how to unfreeze people. Which, by the way, is pretty cool.

OMAR, appalled: You realize you’re the Savior.

ALAN: Well, yeah.

OMAR: Sent by the Big Guy to save us from imminent catastrophe.

ALAN: I might’ve gotten that memo.

OMAR: We’re all doomed.

ALAN, offended: No, we’re not. I’ll get the job done--you’ll see.

OMAR: We’re all doomed.

ALAN: No, we’re not.

OMAR: You’re immortal. What do you care if no one survives the Apocalypse?

ALAN: For one, Dad would be pretty mad at me.

OMAR: Oh? And when was the last time you talked to him?

ALAN: Yesterday, I think. Maybe the day before. Defensively, when OMAR expresses impatience, I sent him an e-mail this morning.

OMAR, throwing up hands: We’re all doomed.

ALAN: Pessimist.

OMAR: You’re supposed to be doing research vital to the survival of humanity. You’re supposed to be doing research vital to the survival of humanity. And you’re here, slouched in a chair, baiting the librarian and reading... Snatches magazine ALAN was reading from the table. Reading Sports Illustrated!

ALAN, holding one finger aloft: Swimsuit issue.

OMAR: Let me explain this to you again, on the offchance you were sleeping through the original briefing. The world is going to end on Friday. You’re the only person on Earth who can stop it.

ALAN: I actually did get that part.

OMAR, as if ALAN had not spoken: However, we don’t know exactly how you’re going to stop it. Ergo the research. Research. Survival. Takes a step closer to ALAN, emphasizing the syllables in each word. Re-search. Sur-vi-val.

ALAN, inspecting a spot on the palm of his hand: I’m immortal. You pointed that out already.

OMAR, giving up: This is the end.

ALAN: No, just a little unlucky. I mean, seriously, you ever thought about it? If I don’t stop the Apocalypse, the worst that happens is you die. Shrugs. Big picture-wise, that’s not so bad.

OMAR: Keeping the big picture in mind, I have to say that my future looks about as rosy as, say, a nuclear holocaust.

ALAN, perking up: You think we might get one of those?

OMAR: You don’t even want us to live, do you?

ALAN: Well, no. Not really. Does it matter? There are a lot of other planets out there--it’s not like you’re special. You can’t go anywhere near the speed of light, you haven’t discovered how to cure cancer yet, and you’re still working on the basics of government. Pauses, considers. You don’t even change colors.

OMAR: You don’t care about us at all. Turns his back to ALAN, takes a deep breath. You don’t care about anything you own. You don’t care about anyone you’ve met. You don’t care about your house or your girlfriend or, or...or even your goldfish.

ALAN: That’s not fair.

OMAR: You, my friend, are hardly one to judge fair.

ALAN, suddenly menacing: I invented fair.

OMAR, unintimidated: No, you reinvented fair. To suit yourself.

ALAN: Haven’t heard any complaints.

OMAR: Right. Because you don’t listen. People who pray? They’re praying to you. If they knew the only thing standing between them and Judgment Day was a half-witted college student, they’d be working a lot less on prayer and a lot more on the space program.

ALAN: They’re not praying to me. They’re praying to Dad.

OMAR: And what, you’re jealous? You have a halo, right?

ALAN: Yeah, I think, somewhere. I couldn’t find it this morning. Reflects. I might’ve kicked it under my bed.

OMAR: Halos are holy! Your mom has a halo! Your dad has a halo! Halos are important!

ALAN: Well, no one ever asked me if I wanted one. It’s the most annoying thing ever--you can’t sleep with all that light shining all the time.

OMAR: My god, we’re all going to die.

ALAN: Some of you might get Assumed. Dad mentioned a couple of Norwegian nuns.

OMAR, rubbing his hands over his face: There’s nothing I can do to convince you that saving us is worthwhile?

ALAN: Not really, no.

OMAR: But-- Gives up. I think I’d better get my affairs in order, then.

ALAN: Not much point, really, if you think about it. There won’t be anyone to leave your things to.

OMAR, deadly serious: Please don’t speak.

ALAN, confused: I just--

OMAR: Don’t!

ALAN: But--

OMAR, in a low voice: I never thought.... I mean, I knew you were going to be cavalier about it, but I figured I’d just come in here and talk you out of waiting until the Apocalypse to do anything useful. I never thought...never thought. Shakes head.

ALAN: I didn’t--

OMAR, rasping: Don’t. Hurries toward stage right, arms curled around himself.

ALAN, softly: I’m sorry.

Head bowed, ALAN exits. A few seconds of soft light on the librarian, who still sits motionless. Lights down.