The Left Left Behind

SPECIAL RELATIVITY ^{A ONE-ACT PLAY IN THREE SCENES}

CHARACTERS:

EINSTEIN elderly white man

ROBESON elderly black man

HOOVER elderly white man

WILL young white man

CLAIRE young white woman

DOUG young white man

MALCOLM young black man

ANNIE young white women

FRED elderly white man

KIDS

ACTIVISTS

COPS

A suburban New Jersey backyard in the PRESENT DAY.

Big old house in BG, with stairs to second floor deck. A table in the yard holds food and drink as if for a party. High board fence with a door, stage right. Three lawn chairs under a scrawny tree.

Punkily dressed young ACTIVISTS are milling around, all in their twenties and thirties. Most but not all are white. A few are mothers (and fathers) with children. Several are working on a banner. Others sit on steps eating sandwiches or drinking beer. Others talk on cell phones. There is a general air of purposeful confusion.

Two young activists carry the banner across the stage: NEW JERSEY SAYS NO TO PATRIOT ACT. It temporarily obscures the lawn chairs. When we see the chairs again an old man has appeared in the center one, as if magically. It is EINSTEIN, in need of a haircut and shabbily dressed in a worn cardigan and baggy pants.

EINSTEIN sits awkwardly in the lawnchair. It starts to fold up on him, and he struggles to straighten it. It presents an intractable problem in non-Euclidean geometry.

WILL (a pierced and tattooed young man in anarchist black) notices and comes over to help.

Hey, Einstein. Need some help?

You know me?

Just kidding, old timer. You look like, you know, the atom bomb guy.

EINSTEIN winces at this, but accepts WILL’s help, straightening the chair.

You must be Annie’s grandpa. Hey, man, thanks for letting us use your place.

Me? Well, not exactly…

EINSTEIN examines the chair and sits, still dazed.

Can I get you something? We have organic fruit juice. We have microbrews.

No, thanks. I’m fine. Just need to catch my breath.

I know what you mean. Beautiful day, huh?

They’re all beautiful.

EINSTEIN smiles and looks around. The action is nonstop. No one pays him any attention. After a moment he looks at the other two lawn chairs: empty. He seems disappointed.

A little boy and girl are playing with a toy airplane. They bring it to him and he straightens the wing and throws it. It circles the stage (magically) and they follow it, delighted. No one else notices.

EINSTEIN looks at the other chairs again, expectantly: still empty. He searches his pockets and pulls out a large pocket watch. He taps it, just as two activists are dragging a huge, ugly GEORGE BUSH puppet across the stage, temporarily obscuring the lawn chair to his right.

When we see it again, an elderly black man has appeared in the chair, wearing a pin-striped suit and open-necked shirt (no tie). It’s ROBESON, still virile and handsome at seventy.

What the hell?

Aha! Mr. Robeson!

ROBESON looks at EINSTEIN and his face breaks into a huge grin. ROBESON half rises but he’s too big for his chair and it rises with him. They manage to shake hands anyway.

Doctor Einstein. What an unexpected pleasure! What a totally unexpected pleasure!

Please, it’s Albert. We have met, you know.

Indeed, we have. And it’s Paul, please.

(he sits back down and looks around, puzzled) And is this your doing? (grins) You old rascal. Is this allowed, to come back from the dead?

It’s what you might call a singularity. I worked it out in my spare time, which has been considerable of late.

Tell me about it. Being dead is a bit of a bore. Not that I’m complaining. Where the hell are we?

Not hell, please. Don’t you recognize your home town?

Ah! Princeton. Of course, why not? This wasn’t exactly my part of town. But I get the idea. Your home town, too.

Home? The world is my home, Paul, or was. But this is a very nice part of it, is it not? I especially enjoyed the summers, even though they were a little hot.

Still are!

ROBESON manages to get out of his chair. He stands and stretches operatically. Wiggles his fingers, delighted that they work. Pulls a handkerchief from his suit pocket. His huge figure temporarily obscures the third lawn chair.

When ROBESON sits back down, wiping his brow, we see that another figure has appeared, again as if magically. It is HOOVER, in the third lawn chair, wearing a frumpy dress and brown men’s shoes. No one notices or remarks on his dress.

Hot? What the hell do you know about hot?

Him!? What is he doing here?

(to EINSTEIN, accusingly)Is this your doing, too? Is this your idea of a joke?

No, no, Paul. He wasn’t my first choice, but I was curious.

(pulling his dress down over his knees) I know you! I know you both.

You damn well should! You and your brown-shoed hirelings dogged us both for years! (a beat) I see you at least got the shoes right.

J. Edgar was such a part of both our lives. I thought you might interested in meeting him face to face, so to speak, as am I.

Such creatures hold little interest for me.

(turns away from HOOVER, facing EINSTEIN) But I suppose he could be helpful, if we intend to reminisce. After all, he knows where we went and what we did and who we spoke with, and who we hung out with.

Communists all.

I admired you as a public figure, Paul, but I wanted to get together with you as a man. As a music lover, too. But except for that one afternoon we spent together here in Princeton—

That was a lovely day. It was 1955, wasn’t it?

July 11th, 1954.

It’s almost like having a private secretary, isn’t it? But we met once before. You came backstage, after Othello. It was such an honor! I must say, that play made me more nervous than anything I did.

It didn’t show on stage, Paul. But I always loved your music more.

Music. You call Soviet marching songs music? And darkie spirituals?

Yes, sir! I do—or did. Say, Albert, are we in the past tense here? Or the present?

I’m not sure, Paul. Quite frankly I’m a little surprised that all this worked. It was just a theory, running through my head when I died. One of my regrets was that I hadn’t spent another afternoon with you. And the other was that I never achieved the Unified Field theory. But apparently…

Apparently what? You have suspended the laws of Space and Time? On what authority?

Authority. Always authority. I see what you mean, Albert. He’s sort of entertaining.

I’ll thank you not to refer to me in the third person. I’m here—just as strangely, I admit. But just as much here as you are.

And just as unsuitable for polite company as ever.

(back to EINSTEIN) So this is the result of your theory? Bringing three old men back from the dead?

Only for an afternoon. And it’s not a theory, really, but a singularity, as I said. A onetime event.

Well, I thank you for inviting me. I guess Genius has its privileges.

Genius! You know, Paul, I always felt that what the world called genius was just ei-gensinn, stubbornness. I never quit working on the Unified Field. I guess this is a reward of sorts. (dreamily) I admit I was tempted to use it for an afternoon of sailing alone—

Yes, that was always your great pleasure.

But death is so much like sailing alone.

It is, isn’t it? And I never even sailed before. (looks around) But say, what are all these young folks doing here?

I don’t know. It looks like some kind of protest.

Ah! A protest! Excellent!

HOOVER perks up and starts looking around, gimlet-eyed. EINSTEIN tries to get the attention of a passing young woman but she ignores him.

It’s CLAIRE, barefoot, in a long dress. ROBESON grabs her sleeve.

Excuse me, young lady. What exactly are you protesting?

Why, everything. Oh, you mean me in particular?

(suddenly flirtatious, responding to his charisma) It’s to free Mumia. To free Palestine. To free political prisoners. To pull out of Iraq. For gay rights. To save affirmative action and social security. Global warming—

Other young activists notice and gather around: WILL, from before; MALCOLM, a young Black man with dreads; and DOUG, a gay guy in an ACT-UP tank top and beads.

Palestine? Isn’t it Israel now?

(still fixated on ROBESON) We’ve pulled together a hundred groups. It’s not every day that Bush comes to New Jersey.

Who’s this Bush?

President Bush. Where’ve you been?

Young man, you don’t want to know.

(stepping forward, suspicious)Say, what’s this all about? Who are you guys?

They’re with Einstein there. He’s Annie’s grandpa. Right?

(suspicious)I don’t think so.

Annie’ll be here soon. We can ask her. But I think she said her grandfather was in the old folks home.

I mean, a nursing home. A senior center.

Sailing alone around the world.

Say, this is too weird. Where’d these guys come from? (to WILL) I thought they were with you.

They’re not with me!

Maybe they’re police spies.

Bingo.

Whoa! He’s up to his old tricks. Sowing division and distrust.

ROBESON stands up, suddenly filling the stage. Other young people gather around, joining the group.

Ladies and gentlemen, we are not police agents. Far from it. Except for him, and he’s currently, happily, unemployed. And not really part of our party.

You can say that again.

We’re here not to hinder but to help you. We were activists ourselves in our own day. Quite active, in fact.

That’s what they all say. Hell, that’s what my parents say.

Maybe you should listen to your parents, son. At any rate, we were brought here today by the good offices of this gentleman.

The man this man (points to WILL) called Einstein actually is Albert Einstein.

No way!

He does look like him. (bends down, as if talking to a child) What does E equal?

I always made it a policy never to memorize anything that could be easily looked up.

It’s MC squared and he knows it! He’s having fun with you. This is Albert Einstein, the world’s most famous scientist.

Not any more, Paul, surely. At least one would hope not.

His genius brought us all here. Haven’t you kids heard of Relativity?

CLAIRE turns and runs up the back stairs into the house, as if she just remembered something important.

Not possible. Einstein is dead.

Not an impossibility but an improbability, for sure. That’s the problem with Quantum Theory. Improbabilities keep cropping up.

(examines his hands) But I must admit, I’m getting won over to it at last.

Not only a great scientist but a great humanitarian, as well. We worked together on many campaigns, starting with the Spanish Civil War.

Spanish Civil War?

Actually long before that, Paul. I was proud to be a co-signer with you of several petitions concerning the Scottsboro Boys.

The who boys? Sounds like a rap group.

Or a bluegrass group.

Nigger rapists, Commie dupes.

Watch your mouth! Innocent victims of Southern racism, sentenced to death for a crime they never committed.

Like Mumia Abu Jamal.

That’s Philadelphia racism.

Same thing.

Correct, young man! Up south or down south, same thing, I learned that personally. At any rate, Dr. Einstein, who you see before you, in the flesh—I think—was not only a great scientist but a great humanitarian. Perhaps that’s the same thing as well!

Oh, no, Paul. You flatter me and my colleagues. But it’s true, I took part in that and many campaigns. I could do no less.

I still say they might be spies.

Better check them out. Better check out all of your people. You never know.

Don’t listen to him. Security is a real issue for political activists, but divisive rumors are often fomented by the FBI in order to…

ROBESON trails off when he sees everyone turning to look toward the house. CLAIRE is running down the stairs, waving a tee shirt.

I have evidence! We can find out if he’s telling the truth.

She hands Einstein the tee shirt, and he obligingly pulls it on over his sweater. It has a picture of Albert Einstein, and under it, the formula, E=MC². Apparently it’s all the evidence these young people need.

Well, I’ll be damned. It is Albert Einstein! And I knew it all along.

How did you do it? You traveled through Time!

(looking at his watch again, then putting it away) That was the easy part. It was doing it while dead that presented the more interesting problem. But I can assure you, it won’t be occurring again. It’s strictly a singularity.

So who does that make you, Jackie Robinson?

I beg your pardon! Do we all look that much alike to you?

No, no, this man I had the pleasure of bringing here with me is Paul Robeson, the great Negro singer and actor—and activist.

A man who stood up for justice, not only for his own people, but for all the people in the world.

In other words, a Red. A card-carrying Communist.

Prove it, you two-bit gumshoe! (a beat) Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

The young people all laugh at this Seinfeld line. ROBESON and EINSTEIN wonder why, but let it pass.

It’s true! I thought he looked familiar. My grandmother had his picture on her wall, right next to Martin Luther King.

Another Communist.

You young people know what a Communist is, don’t you? It’s anyone who demands equal rights for Negroes, especially here in the United States.

Knee-grows?

Paul Robeson. I think I read about you in school. But aren’t you dead too?

Only a rumor, my dear. (laughs) Unfortunately, one of the more accurate ones.

My granny said you were a giant. I always thought you would be bigger.

I always thought I was bigger too, son. Still do, I guess.

You still are, Paul. And were. The biggest, bravest man I ever met. Made me proud to be a human being, when so many others—(indicates HOOVER, who sulks) were busy trying to make us ashamed —were busy trying to make us ashamed of our common humanity.

So who’s he? Why’s he here?

Good question!

Common is right!

A traffic cop with delusions of grandeur. Wanted to be the Grand Inquisitor.

Not a colored entertainer, or a Jewish egghead, like these two. I built the world’s greatest police force, the pride of America. The FBI.

The FBI? That clown show? You mean the guys who couldn’t catch the Atlanta bomber when he was hiding in his own home town?

Oh, come on, Malcolm, be fair. It was a town of 1,600. That’s a lot of people!

(getting into it, ‘hides’ behind the skinny tree)

And it was surrounded by trees. Have you ever tried to find somebody who was hiding behind a tree?

They all laugh. HOOVER declines to notice.

Apparently things have gone downhill. Who’s running the agency now?

Nobody knows. The young people all look at one another and shrug.

Perhaps that’s the problem. There was a time when everyone knew who was the Director of the FBI.

I’ll grant you that, you wicked old bastard. Your ugly mug was on almost as many magazines as my own.

Or mine.

Perception is everything.

That’s what Schrodinger said. I always disagreed, though I’m beginning to see feel like one of his cats. (pats HOOVER’s hand) But you must see, J. Edgar, that you built on sand.

Sand? Shit, you mean!

Enter ANNIE, a young woman with spiked hair and anarchist regalia. She comes in through the door in the high board fence, stage right, closing it carefully behind her.

Listen up, people! Nassau Street is already crawling with cops, with riot gear, shields and helmets, and—hey, what’s up? Who are these guys?

DOUG and MALCOLM pull her aside and tell her, in whispers. She looks uncertain, studies EINSTEIN. Apparently the tee shirt is proof positive.

It’s true. My God. Dr. Einstein! (she shakes his hand) My grandfather and him were friends. I wish Grandpa could see this.

My best friend, Fred. I was hoping he was dead and could join us. That was actually my original intention.

ROBESON and HOOVER both look surprised.

With you and me, Paul. You would have loved the man. When I found out Fred wasn’t quite dead, I made a last minute substitution. (pats HOOVER’s hand) No offense.

HOOVER pulls his hand away and straightens his skirt again.

Offend away. You think I asked to be part of your commie club?

You know, sometimes Grandpa wishes he was dead too. It’s sad. He’s in the nursing home.

I know. Sailing alone around the world.

And this is Paul Robeson.

ANNIE notices ROBESON for the first time.

It is! I’ve seen his pictures.

Not those dreadful movies, I hope.

I think she means photographs, Paul.

There’s one on the wall upstairs. My God, Mr. Robeson! (pumping his hand with both of hers) Grandpa never met you but he talked about you all the time. You were his hero. (to her friends) This is so cool! It’s like, mystical!

No, no, my child. It’s just a quantum singularity. As I explained…

HOOVER, still unnoticed, sits sulking. DOUG stands behind him and points down at his head.

This other one here’s apparently some kind of cop.

Of course! J. Edgar Hoover? (to EINSTEIN) But I don’t get it. Where the hell did he come from?

Young lady, you don’t want to know.

Well, whatever. (to ROBESON and EINSTEIN) But we’re being so rude. Please excuse us, we’re planning for a big demonstration today. (points to the table) Can we get you something?

Don’t let us interfere with your righteous work. (wipes his brow) But a beer would be nice.

We have microbrews!

A white wine would be nice. (politely turns to HOOVER) And for our friend here—

Friend! (petulantly straightens his skirt) Hardly. But I guess I could do with a martini.

Uh—a martini? Uh…

I’ll have a fruit juice, then.

ANNIE, the good hostess, starts for the drink table, then stops and looks back at HOOVER with distaste.

It’s organic. Is that OK?

LIGHTS UP on SAME SCENE, a little later. EINSTEIN is lighting his pipe. CLAIRE looks on, shocked, but doesn’t say anything. HOOVER sniffs his juice suspiciously. ROBESON takes a drink of beer and frowns; examines the bottle.

What is this stuff? Home brew?

Microbrew. We have lots of little breweries, each with its own distinctive flavor.

We had better stuff during prohibition, son.

Paul, please. The wine is very good. You say it’s from California? Astonishing.

You are easily astonished.

An important quality for a scientist. Especially a theoretical scientist. So tell us, what’s this protest about?

Lots of stuff. Invasions of other countries, the Patriot Act. The government is spying on people, arresting them without warrants, trampling on freedom of speech.

What else is new? That’s what government does, my dear. This one, anyway.

It’s not supposed to. But since 9-11 they’ve gone ballistic.

9-11? What’s this 9-11? A new law?

Terrorism. Islamic fundamentalists flew airliners into skyscrapers in New York, killing 3,000 people.

The only fundamentalists we had to worry about were the Christians.

Oh dear. And why?

They hate us. Because we support Israel.

We don’t support Israel. The government supports Israel.

But don’t we all support Israel?

You’re a Zionist? (hands him a newspaper) You support this?

Israeli tanks? These are Israeli soldiers? Oh dear. They look like—storm troopers.

They are storm troopers. That tank is knocking down a Palestinian home.

Collective punishment. Ethnic cleansing.

This is ghastly. Israeli storm troopers. I was afraid of this. You know, Paul, they once wanted me to be president of Israel.

I know.

I almost wish I had never come back to see this. Jews occupying another’s land. The racist attitudes toward the Arab inhabitants always troubled me…

The Palestinians.

The Palestinians. We Jews were once Palestinians, you know. But then this idea, of casting the Arabs out of the land, of making a religious state… It was not right.

Apartheid. Like South Africa.

There is no more Apartheid. South Africa is free. Black ruled.

There’s an advance! So Africa is coming together at last.

Well, not exactly.

He hands ROBESON a newspaper.

Africa too! (shakes his head) What kind of world have we left you kids?

Africa. What do you expect from naked savages?

Watch your tongue old man. Or—

Or you’ll what? Your threats mean nothing to me.

Nor yours to me. Never did!

Gentlemen, please! We’re dead, remember? Let bygones be bygones.

You never went to Africa anyway. You only talked about it.

It’s true. I always liked my creature comforts. But how could I go? You took away my passport.

That was the State Department.

Bullshit! You were behind every act of repression: you, with your thin smirk.

You could have left any time. (sarcastic) You were the great international Negro.

I could have left. But never returned to the US.

What did you care? You always hated America.

I loved America. I just wanted it to live up to its dream. And my people are as much American as yours are. More so. We built this country with our unpaid labor.

Hear that, kids? That’s commie talk. Straight from the horse’s mouth

Gentlemen! J. Edgar, you’re not drinking your juice.

It tastes funny.

Since when don’t you like funny?

Young man, perhaps you could bring our companion here a white wine, like mine. It’s very nice on a summer day. California, you say?

HOOVER is handed the wine. He tastes it approvingly, and pours the fruit juice onto the ground. Then he opens his purse and pulls out a cigar.

Uh—excuse me! You can’t smoke here.

HOOVER ignores her and lights up. Points to EINSTEIN with his cigar.

He’s smoking.

That’s different; it’s a pipe. It smells good.

Tell it to Winston Churchill, kid. Or FDR. Besides— (points to two activists on the steps sharing a joint) They’re smoking too.

Not tobacco.

True. What’s that sweet hemp smell? A little maryjane?

The Negro has a documented weakness for the devil weed.

Negro yourself. I learned to smoke marijuana from white folks. I was in show business, remember? But of course you do. You forget nothing.

WILL runs and gets a joint from the two smoking on the steps. Offers it to ROBESON.

Want a hit?

Not while he’s around. It’s for relaxing— with friends. (pulls out a pack of cigarettes) I could do with a light, I suppose.

You’ll get cancer!

Darling, let me tell you…

It’s OK, I guess. They’re from another era. When everybody did it.

Not everybody. Eleanor, FDR’s wife, didn’t smoke.

She sneaked them. Sneaked other things, too. You were all a bunch of sneaks.

And you were the tattle-tale. The teacher’s pet.

The teacher, you mean.

You wish, you pudgy little troll.

Gentlemen, please! (to the young people) Don’t let us distract you. I know you have work to do. Your protest. Justice in Palestine. Certainly. And what else?

And Iraq. The US is occupying Iraq.

They invaded for the oil!

Invasion? What about the UN? They were especially set up to stop such things.

The UN? Well, uh….

What about the Soviet Union? They surely will not allow such international capitalist piracy to go unpunished.

There is no Soviet Union. Not any more.

ROBESON drops his cigarette. Picks it up.

Say that again.

The Soviet Union sort of fell apart. It’s gone.

Now there’s just Russia, and Ukraine.

And Lithuania, and Chechnya, and—

No Soviet Union? No wonder the world’s in such a mess. This is worse than I ever imagined.

Now instead of the war on Communism we have the war on Terrorism. It justifies everything, including the Patriot Act.

At least someone is still on their toes.

On our toes, you mean. So this Patriot Act, this last refuge of scoundrels, justifies spying on people, restricting travel, arrests without warrants, wiretaps…

How’d you know?

A lucky guess. Dear girl, I know these scoundrels. They did the same to me. Took away my passport, restricted my movements, slandered me in the press. They did the same thing to Dr. EINSTEIN here.

Suspected of sympathizing with Communists.

Sympathizing is all. I never would have made much of a communist, I fear. And they weren’t nearly as hard on me as they were on you, Paul.

Because you played Santa Claus. The sweet old man. But I was onto you! I tried to let the American people know your true nature.

What? That I believed in human rights? International justice?

Harrumph. There’s no such thing. There’s just communism and freedom.

Today it’s terrorism and freedom.

It’s true, though. They went easier on me.

You had a Nobel Prize. And a white face. You weren’t a Negro. That always helps.

Unfortunately, yes.

Let me get this straight. Are you two complaining because you were repressed? Or bragging because you were repressed?

Both, you addled old fool. I would have been ashamed not to have been hated by you and your kind.

Me too, J. Edgar. Nothing personal. It’s a question of values.

Commie values, you mean. But what do I care. Look around. Clearly your deluded kind is still in a minority. Kids in funny outfits, protesting this and that! The fact that they are still protesting proves that we are still in charge.

When were the good and the brave ever in the majority? That’s from Thoreau.

Who’s Thoreau? Sounds French. I’m talking about American values. Besides, the police are on their way.

The police? How do you know?

Just a feeling (grins, brushing cigar ashes off his dress) In my bones.

It may be true. I just got a call from downtown, Nassau Street. Said the cops were doing pre-emptive raids all over town, trying to stop the demonstrations.

Does that mean they’ll be coming here?

A sound policy indeed. Stop trouble before it starts.

We’re supposed to have a right to demonstrate. They can’t stop us from demonstrating.

They will try, young lady. It’s in their nature. Albert, is there anything we can do to help?

I don’t know. I’m thinking…

Suddenly a BOOMING sound is heard. Someone is banging on the door in the high board fence, Stage Right.

Open up! This is the police!

They all look at one another in alarm. HOOVER is smiling.

SAME SCENE. The BOOMING on the door continues. All are transfixed, watching the door in the board fence shake and shudder.

WILL pinches out his joint and looks for a place to put it. ROBESON takes it from his hand.

ANNIE runs up the stairs and into the house. The BOOMING at the door in the fence continues.

Open up, now! Open up, in the name of the law!

They’re out front too! SWAT Teams everywhere.

Protesters run around, picking up kids, puppets, signs; milling in confusion. EINSTEIN pulls out his watch and studies it thoughtfully.

Let them in, before they break down Fred’s fence.

They’ll arrest us all! They’ll hold us on phony charges till the protest is ruined!

And well they should.

Maybe not. Slip out past them. They won’t see you.

You can do that?

I can try. Differential time-slip—

The door BURSTS OPEN and four COPS rush in, in helmets with face masks, plastic shields. They look like robots.

Nobody moves! You are all under arrest!

The cops search the yard, unable to see the activists who are gathering up their things and slipping out the door in the fence.

HOOVER watches, relighting his cigar.

Where’d they all go? There’s nobody here!

In the confusion, EINSTEIN is calm. He puts his watch away, pleased, then takes ROBESON by the arm.

Come, Paul.

EINSTEIN pulls ROBESON with him, toward the stairs to the house.

ROBESON pauses; he opens HOOVER’s purse and drops in the joint before following.

Check inside the house! They must be hiding!

EINSTEIN and ROBESON sit halfway up the stairs and watch, unseen, as the invisible activists slip out the door.

Two cops rush past them, clomping noisily up the stairs and into the house.

HOOVER sits in his lawn chair, alarmed to see the escape. He frowns at the two cops still searching the yard as the last of the activists escape.

You fools! There they go! You let them all escape!

The two cops notice HOOVER and draw their guns.

There’s nobody here but this old perve.

On the ground, sir! Do it! Now! Face down!

The two cops push HOOVER out of the chair. He falls face down.

Oh dear. They’ll hurt him.

Not enough. They can’t see us? Or hear us?

Apparently not. Or the kids either. They’re gone to their protest.

The cops stand over HOOVER, guns drawn. He is flat on the ground, angry, his cigar still clenched between his teeth.

I’ll have your badges for this! Don’t you know who I am?

(putting on latex gloves)

He’s wearing a dress. He might be gay. Careful!

COP Gay? He’s an old man.

Old man, hell! He’s a cross-dressing perves-ite. Bet he was molesting the protestors!

Two cops (3&4) emerge from the house and clomp down the stairs, past the unseen EINSTEIN and ROBESON.

What protestors? There’s nobody inside either.

We must have the wrong address! Let’s try next door. Can’t let them get away.

The cops start toward the door in the fence. Cop 2 hangs back.

What about the pervesite?

Leave him! Let’s go.

Cop 2 opens HOOVER’s purse and holds up the joint.

Whoa, look what I’ve found. We’ve got us a dope fiend!

That’s not mine. Don’t you know who I am? I’m on your side.

All four cops haul HOOVER roughly to his feet and cuff his hands behind his back.

Yeah, a cross-dressing dope fiend pervesite. You’re coming with us.

I’m J. Edgar Hoover, you fool!

Yeah, and I’m OJ Simpson. Come on old timer, they’ve been waiting for you down at the jail.

The cops hustle HOOVER, still sputtering and protesting, out the fence door.

In the confusion another old man has appeared in one of the chairs. He is asleep, wearing a bathrobe. It’s FRED.

EINSTEIN and ROBESON, still on the stairs, don’t notice him at first.

Did you do that, Paul? That was cruel.

Not cruel enough. And nothing to what you did. How’d you make us, and all those kids, invisible?

I don’t know, exactly. You know, Arthur C. Clarke once said that any sufficiently advanced technology looks like magic. I guess advanced theory looks like illusion. Smoke and mirrors.

Who’s Arthur C. Clarke? Got a match?

They relight pipe and cigarette.

And who’s our friend down there?

My God, it’s Fred! He’s my friend I wanted you to meet!

EINSTEIN runs down to the sleeping man and shakes him, waking him up.

Albert! Is it you? This is wonderful! But you’re—

I know. I’m dead. I’m taking the afternoon off.

Me too! The last thing I remember, I was at that damned nursing home, watching Oprah. She had some science fiction writer on her show, and I realized I must have died.

I’m so glad! Now we can spend the afternoon together, after all. Come, there’s someone I want you to meet.

EINSTEIN pulls FRED toward the stairs.

Paul Robeson! What an honor.

They shake hands.

The honor is all mine. So what now, EINSTEIN?

I don’t know. All this has worked out so well. (he brightens) We have all afternoon, until sundown. What say we spend it listening to music? Fred has a splendid record collection.

They start up the stairs together, walking slowly: old men.

If my grand-daughter hasn’t thrown my turntable away. I have all your records, Mr. Robeson.

Paul, please. I’m not sure I can bear hearing myself, Fred. But I’m always willing to try.

I have some French brandy, too. If my grand-daughter hasn’t thrown it away.

These kids today have no sense of the finer things.

Oh, I think they do. They’re all at a protest, you know.

They pause at the upstairs door; EINSTEIN looks in.

Such a nice girl. There’s the turntable! I’ll put a record on while you pour us some brandy, Fred. Just a taste for me.

I’ll have a double. Brandy’s the one thing the French do well. Now I wish I’d hung onto that maryjane. Goes well with music.

FRED pulls a joint from the pocket of his bathrobe. He lights it and passes it to ROBESON.

Maryjane? Say, you are an old timer. Here, try some of this.

Poor J. Edgar! But he’ll disappear at sundown, with the rest of us. Meanwhile…

EINSTEIN disappears into the house.

Meanwhile, let the old troll get a taste of his own medicine. My, this is nice, Fred!

Where’d you get this?

At the nursing home. It’s medical marijuana.

They follow EINSTEIN into the house. The stage is now empty; we hear only their voices.

Medical maryjane! See, Albert, the world is progressing after all. On some fronts. It’s what Marx called the interpenetration of opposites.

What’s that, Paul?

We hear the scratches of a record starting up, very loud.

I said, where’s that French brandy?

Coming up, gentlemen.

As the LIGHTS DIM, we hear ROBESON on record, singing “The International.”

Ah, the old pipes. Not half so bad as I had feared.

Paul, you are too modest.

I’ve never been accused of that before, Albert.

You sound wonderful. And such a fine old song, too.