In Which Carmen Writes a Rather Lengthy and Pretentious Play, Part Two

[xaara]

ii.

 

SETTING: Streetcorner, midday.  A woman, PITHIA, dressed in many layers of torn clothing, stands on a crate, gesturing wildly and screaming out her prophecy to an invisible crowd.  OMAR approaches her.

 

PITHIA: The end of the world is nigh!  All ye, hear ye, hear ye!  The end of the world fast approaches!  Gather close your children and parents, your husbands and wives, your lovers and friends!  It is I, Pithia, and I speak always the truth!  The end of the world, the day on which ye shall be judged for your sins!

 

OMAR: Hey, Pithia.

 

PITHIA: Hear me now, people of Earth, for ye know not the wrath of he who sees all, who knows all, who understands all!  I, I, Pithia, I the woman of a thousand lives, the seeker of a thousand truths, the--

 

OMAR: Pithia!

 

PITHIA pauses, hands spread before her, eyes tightly closed.  She opens the eye closest to him and directs her gaze downward toward his upturned face.

 

PITHIA: Omar?

 

OMAR: Yeah, it’s me.

 

PITHIA, relaxing her arms, opening both eyes: It’s good to see you--you haven’t been around for a while.

 

OMAR: No, I haven’t.  Takes a breath, lets it out.  Abruptly,  We’re going to die on Friday.

 

PITHIA: Don’t be silly.

 

OMAR: No, I’m serious.  We’re going to die on Friday.

 

PITHIA: I’ve been prophesizing that for years now.  We’re not dying now just because you say so.

 

OMAR: Really.  I’ve met the Savior.  I’m sort of his second-in-command.

 

PITHIA: And people call me crazy.

 

OMAR: I need you to believe me on this.  Or at least entertain the notion that I might know him.

 

PITHIA: Wait, I’ve been predicting second comings and third comings and apocalypses out here on a street corner and you want to tell me that you know the real Savior?  Love ya, hon, but I’m not buying it.

 

OMAR: What if I told you that everything you ever learned about religion was real, and that all this time you’ve been reading old science fiction and selling pop philosophy was actually good for something?  That you’re just part of a bigger plan that you only know about subconsciously?

 

Beat.

 

PITHIA, pityingly: I’d say that you need to return the Matrix before it liquefies the other half of your brain.

 

OMAR: You’re not very helpful, you know.

 

PITHIA: I’m a prophet.  Vagueness and obscurity is my stock in trade.

 

OMAR: I don’t think you understand.  This is a big deal--this is life and death.  Literally.  He crosses his arms and looks away.

 

PITHIA: No, hon, you’re the one who doesn’t understand.  She steps down from her crate and catches OMAR’s chin, forcing him to look at her.  It doesn’t matter whether we die en masse or one at a time.  It’s going to happen sooner or later anyway.

 

OMAR: Later, preferably.

 

PITHIA: Or you could step into the street and be killed by a bus tomorrow, before the end of the world, and then the whole idea would become moot, wouldn’t it?

 

OMAR: How can he not care, though?

 

PITHIA, gently: We’re pretty damn easy not to care about.

 

OMAR: No, we’re not.  Humans care.  It’s what we do.  It’s part of who we are--it’s not something that changes.

 

PITHIA: But what do we care about?  Our kids?  Our jobs?  When it comes down to it, all we care about is ourselves.

 

OMAR: But isn’t that what makes us human?  That we care about ourselves in some sort of context?

 

PITHIA, shrugging: And that we bleed, and that we die.

 

OMAR: Cheery today, aren’t we?

 

PITHIA: What can I say?  I just found out that my prophecy might actually come true.  Wouldn’t you be happy?

 

OMAR: I’m going to die.  Forgive me for not seeing the happiness to be had.

 

PITHIA: If it goes the way you described, everyone else is going to die, too.  So if you believe in any kind of afterlife, it’s not that huge a concern--you’ll just meet all your friends and family on the other side.  Minimal fuss.

 

OMAR: Do I have to believe in it for it to be true?

 

PITHIA: Believe in what?

 

OMAR: An afterlife.

 

PITHIA: Couldn’t say.  Don’t you?  Believe?

 

OMAR: I don’t know.

 

PITHIA: You could pretend.

 

OMAR: But isn’t that the same as admitting I don’t believe?

 

PITHIA: Do you clap for Tinkerbell?  You do, don’t you?  Clap for Tinkerbell when she’s dying.

 

OMAR, embarrassed: Everyone does.

 

PITHIA: Do you think we believe in fairies?

 

OMAR: No, but--

 

PITHIA: There isn’t any “but.”  You either believe in fairies or you don’t.  And as a woman who’s been around the block a few times, let me tell you, they don’t exist.  But that doesn’t mean we can’t pretend we believe hard enough to clap for a moving Maglite.

 

OMAR: I can’t do that.

 

PITHIA: Of course you can.  It’s the other part of what humans do.  They care, and they believe.  And they care about believing.

 

OMAR: But then why doesn’t the Savior care?  What am I doing wrong?

 

PITHIA: I can’t tell you.  But you’d better figure it out fast, because you have (checks watch) two days , twelve hours, and thirty-seven minutes until the end of all things and I would appreciate being given a fighting chance.

 

OMAR: That’s the thing of it though, isn’t it?  That we don’t have a fighting chance?

 

PITHIA: We always have a chance.  That’s all we have, is chances.

 

OMAR: But what if we mess them up?

 

PITHIA, shrugging: Then we get more.

 

OMAR: Until the end of the world.

 

PITHIA: Obviously.

 

OMAR, to himself: But what if we mess them up?

 

PITHIA: Then you go fix it.

 

OMAR: But--

 

Enter ALAN, stage right.  He’s holding a grocery bag full of a variety of lumpy objects and muttering to himself, concentrating on his shoes as he moves toward OMAR and PITHIA.

 

OMAR, to PITHIA: That’s him.

 

PITHIA: Who’s him?

 

OMAR, pointing: That.  Him.  You know, him.

 

PITHIA: Oh, him.

 

OMAR: Yes, him.

 

PITHIA: Well, talk to him or something.  Yeah, that’s it.  Get him talking and I’ll try to see what I can do about his little hangup over this issue of whether humans are worth saving.

 

OMAR: That’s not going to help.

 

PITHIA: And leaving him to walk down the street like an insane shopper is?

 

OMAR: Fine.  Intercepts ALAN.  Hey, Alan.

 

ALAN, looking up, startled: Oh.  Hi, Omar.  What’s up?  Registers PITHIA.  Who’s she?

 

OMAR: This is Pithia.  Pithia, Alan.  Alan, Pithia.  Alan’s a college student.  Pithia’s a prophet.

 

ALAN: Nice to meet you.  Starts to walk away.

 

PITHIA: Wait!

 

ALAN, turning toward her: Sorry?

 

PITHIA, hesitating for a second, unsure of what to say: Um.  Clears throat, closes eyes, stretches arms forward.  I mean, ommmmm....  I sense great things about this one.  He will play a part in the future, the near future, the future that will affect the entire human race.  He has been sent here--sent here by he who sees all, who knows all, who understands all--to save us from our sins, to restore to us the glory of innocence that we might live out our days under the blessing of the great--

 

ALAN, growing progressively more agitated: Stop it!

 

PITHIA: Ommmmm....  Release your anger; let it float off into the aether where it may stay forever lost to you.

 

ALAN, setting down grocery bag: Look, Yoda--Omar.  Make her stop.

 

OMAR: Pithia, please.

 

ALAN, muttering: She’s worse than Meg.

 

OMAR: Meg?

 

ALAN: Megali.  You know, the girlfriend?  The love interest?

 

OMAR: Oh.  I thought you two weren’t--that is, I thought....

 

ALAN: Oh, we weren’t.  And then we were.  And then yesterday morning, yeah, we weren’t.

 

OMAR: I’m not quite sure what I’m supposed--

 

ALAN: Believe me, I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say either.  Die, evil woman?  Please please please come back?  Maybe just two pleases?  Maybe add a slowly to the die?

 

OMAR: You wouldn’t be, by any chance, destroying the world because--

 

ALAN: I’m not destroying the world.  You’re destroying yourselves, all you stupid people, and I’m just not stopping it.  Pouting.  I want out of this.

 

OMAR: There isn’t an out.  You didn’t ask for this, sure, but neither did we.

 

ALAN: Of course there’s an out.  The world dies, and I go back home, and then maybe to another world somewhere that doesn’t always smell like humans.

 

PITHIA, gesturing toward OMAR: He is wise, this one.  He knows that which he preaches to be true.

 

ALAN, disgusted: She’s in on this, isn’t she?

 

OMAR: No.  Quickly.  I mean, there isn’t anything to be in on.

 

ALAN: You’re all in on this!  You, and I thought you were my friend because I worked for you.  I’m the son of--the son...and I interned for you.  And I thought you were my friend.  You aren’t, are you?  My friend.  Some friend.

 

OMAR: Don’t be ridiculous.  Of course I’m your friend.  And I will be until Friday, at least.

 

PITHIA: Friday.  Upon this Friday rests great importance, our future, the futures of our children, born and unborn.  The futures of our nephews and nieces, of our friends and acquaintances, of everyone we know hangs suspended by spider silk, which, though nearly invisible, holds weights that we humans can only dream of--

 

OMAR: Please, Alan.  Just listen for a second.

 

ALAN: I can’t believe you.  I wouldn’t believe anything you said, anyway, so why should I listen?

 

OMAR: Because, dammit, I want to live to see Saturday.

 

ALAN: That’s not my problem.

 

OMAR, desperately, barely coherent: You’re the Savior.  Who else is responsible for saving the world?

 

ALAN, finally cracking: I can’t be responsible all the time, okay?  I just can’t--it doesn’t, I don’t know how, I can’t always...I can’t.  Starts to pace, severely agitated.  His words are accompanied by expansive gestures for emphasis and punctuation.  It doesn’t work that way.  It’s like this all the time--Dad sends me down to pick up the slack after one of his pet projects goes a little bit the wrong way, and then I’m stuck down there for years at a time, and then he decides I’ve been lazy and figures he’ll send an Apocalypse--a little one, you know, just to get me back into the groove, and I prevent it, research until I can barely keep my eyes open, travel to remote places, climb mountains after secret artifacts, buy people off....  So he figures he’s got this great kid, right?  And he’s proud of me, so he sends another Apocalypse--still not a hard one, just a medium-sized one--and I deal with that.  And I just--I can’t--I’m sorry, but I....  I’m sorry.

 

OMAR: I don’t know what to--

 

PITHIA, cutting him off: Alan, hon, I think everyone’s felt overwhelmed at some point.

 

ALAN, laughing bitterly: You don’t understand, though, do you?  You think I’m overwhelmed, like someone might be overwhelmed by homework.  Omar thinks I’m destroying the world because I’m upset over a girl.  Neither of you understands at all.

 

PITHIA: Fine.  We don’t understand.  No one understands you; you’re all alone, stuck on this sorry planet while your father plays with the galaxies to suit his fancy.  We’re still people.  We still deserve--

 

ALAN: No you don’t.  You don’t deserve anything.  Don’t you see that?  Nothing.  You deserve nothing.

 

OMAR, to PITHIA: He’s not going to stop it.  He’s going to let it happen.

 

PITHIA: Nonsense.  We’ll just reason with him a little more and then he’ll--

 

OMAR, quietly, meeting ALAN’s eyes: No.  We won’t.  He’s not going to be reasoned with.

 

PITHIA: Everyone can be reasoned with.

 

OMAR: He’s not an everyone.  He’s the Savior.

 

PITHIA: From the same root word as “save.”  As in “not leave to die.”

 

OMAR: Didn’t you say we’d all meet up on the other side anyway?  Does it matter if he saves us?

 

PITHIA: Of course it matters!  That’s his job.

 

OMAR: He didn’t choose it.

 

PITHIA: No, he didn’t--he was born to it.

 

ALAN: Standing right here, you two.

 

PITHA, turning to ALAN: You realize you don’t have a choice about this.  That it’s not your decision whether or not we deserve to live or die.

 

OMAR, grabbing her hand, claiming her attention: Just like it’s not ours whether he saves us or not.

 

PITHIA, frantically: You’re going to let him do it, aren’t you?  You’re just going to stand by and wait for the end of the world.

 

OMAR: No, I’m going to go home and prepare for the end of the world.  There’s a difference.

 

PITHIA: I can’t believe you’re just going to stand there while the man who can save us is standing feet from you.

 

OMAR: Weren’t you the one who said that whether or not we died tomorrow or at the end of the week it was all the same anyway.  If we’re all going to die, the timing doesn’t much matter.

 

PITHA, barely able to speak: That wasn’t my permission to give up on the whole idea of saving yourself.

 

OMAR: I’m not giving up.  I’m letting go.

 

ALAN: Omar....

 

PITHIA: You’re giving up.  Jerks her hand from OMAR’s.  I can’t believe you.  You’re going to let us die.

 

OMAR: But I’m going to let him (points at ALAN) go home.  And if that’s not worthwhile--

 

PITHIA: How is that worthwhile?  You can’t give up the lives of billions of people to let one crazy boy go back to his dad.

 

ALAN: Omar, you can’t do this.

 

OMAR, coldly: And suddenly it’s my decision?  Whether or not you save the world is my decision?

 

ALAN: But--

 

OMAR: No.  It’s you.  It’s still you.  And whatever you decide, I’ll be at home, waiting.

 

ALAN: Omar, please just listen for--

 

OMAR: I’ll know what you’ve decided on Friday.  Either way, I never want to see you again.  Don’t come to my house; don’t speak to me on the streets.  If I happen to run into, I’m going to try my hardest to pretend I’ve never seen you before in my life.  And then I’ll see.  Maybe I’ll wake up on Friday, and maybe I won’t.

 

ALAN: I just wanted to go home.

 

OMAR: So go.  Don’t tell me about it.  Go.

 

ALAN: I didn’t--

 

OMAR, pointing offstage: Go!

 

After a moment of hesitation, ALAN collects his grocery bag and shuffles offstage.

 

PITHIA: You let him go.

 

OMAR, smiling to himself, staring off after ALAN: That I did.

 

PITHIA: Now we’re going to die on Friday.

 

OMAR, finally directing his attention back to PITHIA: Who knows?  We might all have died on Friday anyway.  Or maybe not.  It’s not our choice.

 

PITHIA: This is betrayal.

 

OMAR: No, this is pity.  Stuffs hands in pockets, starts to meander offstage.  Pity, Pithia.  Turns back, suddenly.  Hey, you want to go grab a bite to eat?

 

PITHIA: Before the end of the world?

 

OMAR, grinning: Yeah.  Before the end of the world.

 

Curtain.

Comments

[shadowserenity.livejournal.com]

Carm, that was wonderful! There were so many good one-liners.

So what's going to happen to this play?

[xaara.livejournal.com]

Thank you! :) It was loads of fun to write.

For now, nothing's going to happen, though I may end up editing it and putting it on with a few friends this summer. (Yes, we have absolutely nothing else to do. :P )

[dancinggoldfish.livejournal.com]

I love this. Wonderfully done. I want more! :D

[xaara.livejournal.com]

Thanks. I think I like this drama thing, so I'll probably keep writing various sketches to get more of a feel for it. Glad you enjoyed the play. :)

[dancinggoldfish.livejournal.com]

Weren't you writing another play, that had my name (Mina) as the name for one of the characters, completely by accident?

[lady-of-winter.livejournal.com]

...-tempted to totally produce this play-

What? I do acting and costuming, I've got a friend learning cinematography, another who's a choreographer and-- right. Okay. Anyway. XD

Lovely, lovely. I wish I had the inspiration? imagination? simply the ideas? that you do. :3