Before the lights go down — recommended music:
"
God" by John Lennon
Darkness. The stage is empty, except for a table and four chairs. There is a book and a phone on the table. One chair is at the table; three are away from it, in a row. Eventually, two spotlights come up on two positions on the catwalk — opposite one another across the stage. No actors are visible, but their voices are heard. GOD’s spotlight comes up slowly as his voice is first heard; the same with SATAN.
GOD: Whence comest thou?
Pause while the lights come up.
SATAN: From going to and fro in the earth ... and up and down in it.
A light comes up on the stage, revealing JOB sitting in a chair at the table, reading a large book. Perhaps the book is "
Beyond Good and Evil.’Perhaps it is ‘The Yale Shakespeare.’ (The playwright’s choice is the ‘Commodore 64 User’s Manual,’ but this may not always be available.)GOD: Hast thou considered my servant Job?
JOB begins looking around nervously, as if making sure he is alone.
GOD: That there is none like him in the earth ... a perfect and upright man...
JOB, convinced he is alone, starts to pick his nose.
GOD: One that feareth God and escheweth ... escheweth ... hmm.
JOB returns to reading.
GOD: Yes ... (resuming declaratory tone) and escheweth evil?
Long pause.
SATAN: Doth Job fear God for naught? ... Hast not thou made an hedge about him, and about his house, and about all that he hath on every side? ... Thou hast blessed the work of his hands, and his substance is increased in the land.
Dramatic pause. JOB, below, picks up the phone and begins talking silently.
SATAN: But put for thine hand now, and touch all that he hath, and he will curse thee to thy face.
Dramatic pause, again.
GOD: Are you serious?
SATAN: Hell yes.
Long pause.
GOD: (somewhat troubled by this one) Behold, all that he hath is in thy power ... only upon himself put not forth thine hand.
GOD’s spotlight slowly fades.
SATAN: I love my job...
SATAN’s spotlight fades, and the lights come up full on JOB below, who hangs up the phone. His WIFE enters.
WIFE: Aren’t vacations wonderful?
JOB: (crossing arms, grumpy) No.
WIFE: Come on. Wouldn’t you rather be here? On vacation, in a five-star hotel in Babylon, in a gorgeous room, with a gorgeous woman?
JOB: I’d rather eat myself.
WIFE: Job!
JOB: Okay, okay. It’s nice. But I’m worried about being away from the office. What if ... what if something goes wrong? What if there’s an office emergency? What if the Canaanites attack and seize the office and kill everyone and start making personal long-distance phone calls?
WIFE: Job! Relax. That’s an order.
JOB: Yes, ma’am. (pause) But what if...
WIFE: But nothing. Relax. The office can get along without you for a few days. Until Monday, I get you. Repeat after me. I will relax.
JOB: (resignedly) I will relax.
WIFE: I deserve a rest.
JOB: I deserve a rest.
WIFE: This is time to spend with my family.
JOB: This is time to spend with my family.
WIFE: These are not the droids you’re looking for.
JOB: What?
WIFE: Never mind. Listen to me. You deserve a vacation. Everything is fine. With all the work you’ve done ... (as if reading off a list) you’ve built a successful company. You’ve helped charities. You’ve helped your friends. You’ve helped strangers. You helped me raise our children. You’ve done everything anyone could. You deserve some time off.
JOB: I know ... but what if something goes wrong? The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away ... although not nearly as much as capital gains tax does. Just because you’re lucky now doesn’t mean you’ll always be lucky. The point is, everything in life is all on loan, somehow. What if everything just ... goes away?
WIFE: It won’t. Because you deserve it.
JOB: I don’t deserve anything.
WIFE: Yes you do. You are ... (bring JOB close, earnestly) the most wonderful person I have ever known. If there is any reason to this world ... then you deserve to be happy, for all you’ve done. And now ... you can spend some time ... with the people who love you.
WIFE kisses JOB briefly but passionately. He is entranced. She speaks to him, rather coquettishly.
WIFE: Go get Room Service and order a bottle of champagne.
JOB: (in total Aroused Guy Mode — he’d clean the windows with his tongue if she asked him now) Okay.
JOB leaves the room. Wife sits down at the desk in front of the table. The phone rings.
WIFE: Hello?
WIFE carries on a mock conversation.
WIFE: Oh, hello. Yes, your father and I are having a good time.
WIFE pauses for conversation on the other line from line to line as indicated.
WIFE: Sure, he’s still fixated on work. But I think he’s getting over it. How are you?
WIFE: Oh. Well, next time, don’t stick your tongue in the toaster, honey. And how are your brothers and sisters?
WIFE: Well, maybe his boss is calling him in because he’s doing such a good job.
WIFE: Well, there are a lot of different ways you could interpret the phrase "Talentless fat sack of shit." What about Rebecca?
WIFE: Well, I’m sure there’s also a lot of ways to interpret the phrase "I’ve got herpes." And Jeremiah?
WIFE: Oh, dear ... well ... a ‘bullfrog?’ Maybe it’s just some fraternity pledging thing. How about Moses?
WIFE: Hmm ... graduated with an English major? (pause, slightly dejected) I guess he’ll be moving back in with us.
WIFE: Well, I’m glad the rest of you are getting together for dinner next week. Job and I will call you then. I love you all. ‘Bye.
JOB returns, flustered.
JOB: I tried to order champagne, but all they had was something called ‘Zima.’
WIFE: What is it?
JOB: I’m not sure, but all I can tell so far is it ‘zucks.’
WIFE: It doesn’t matter.
JOB: Why?
WIFE: Because.
WIFE kisses JOB passionately. Then a knock comes at the door.
WIFE: Room service?
MESSENGER: Land shark.
JOB: What?
MESSENGER: Sorry. I mean, I’ve got a message for Mr. and Mrs. Job.
JOB: I’m sorry, but we’re on vacation. Can’t it wait?
MESSENGER: Wait for what?
JOB: (turning to WIFE, calculating) Umm ... thirteen minutes.
MESSENGER: I’m afraid it can’t.
JOB, alarmed, opens a pretend door.
JOB: What is it?
MESSENGER: Well, I have some bad news.
WIFE: How bad is it?
MESSENGER: (thinks) Did you see ‘Michael’ with John Travolta?
JOB: My God ... what is it?
MESSENGER: Well ... they say you should use humor to lighten a situation like this. Knock knock.
WIFE: (reluctant) Who’s there?
MESSENGER: Ivan.
JOB: Ivan who?
MESSENGER: Ivan to tell you your house blew up.
JOB and WIFE are stunned.
MESSENGER: And your factory. Everything you owned. Everything except your living room table and the telephone ... which look remarkably like these ones. (pause, looks at audience, winks) Freak accident involving explosive toothpaste. Everything’s gone. All your wealth ... all your property ... everything you owned. (suddenly serious) And only I am escaped alone to tell thee.
WIFE: No...
The phone rings. Everyone looks at it anxiously, hopefully. The MESSENGER moves carefully to get it. He picks it up.
MESSENGER: Hello? (pause) You don’t say. ... You don’t say. ... You don’t say!
JOB and WIFE look anxiously, hoping that it is good news.
MESSENGER: Okay, ‘bye.
JOB: What was it?
MESSENGER: He didn’t say. (beat) Look, I’m sorry about all this stuff. Sucks to be you, if you know what I mean. But remember the words of divine guidance from the third book of Ecclesiastes. "And Nimrod begat Shurboz, who begat Vortex, who begat Velcro, who begat Nerf-Ball."
JOB and WIFE look at each other, then the messenger.
MESSENGER: Well, I guess that isn’t real appropriate. Oh well. Buh-bye.
MESSENGER exits. JOB and WIFE look at one another, in shock, and JOB silentlly sinks to his knees. The phone rings. JOB and WIFE stare cautiously at one another, then WIFE moves to get to the phone. She picks it up.
WIFE: Hello?
WIFE listens intently, then dejectedly.
WIFE: It’s ... It's a telemarketer from MCI Long-Distance.
JOB: (falls on his knees, screams) Oh, GOD! WHY HAVE YOU DONE THIS TO ME?
WIFE: Can he you call back?
WIFE hangs up. She and JOB, calmer now, look at each other for a while.
WIFE: How could this happen? ... What if God is trying to punish me?
JOB: You? For what?
WIFE: I don’t know ... (desperate, grasping for a reason) Well ... sometimes I wish other people were dead, so I could have their parking spot.
JOB: No, no...
WIFE: Maybe ... maybe this is some horrible twist of luck in the lottery of life.
JOB: No, it’s not. Life is life. The lottery is a tax on stupid people.
WIFE: Well, then why did this happen?
JOB: I don’t know. It must have been God’s will.
WIFE: How could God let this happen?
JOB: It’s not his fault.
WIFE: But we’ve been good people. Job ... no ... you. You’re the most perfect person I’ve ever known. If anyone in this world deserves goodness ... you do. I just don’t understand why now ... this ... happened. Why?
JOB: Perhaps God will give us a sign.
Expectant pause. DANCER bursts in, in outlandish robes and some silly hat. Music is piped over the loudspeakers as he sings. He dances in embarrasing Myra-esque style.
DANCER: (sings) We’re Pharisees!
We’re Pharisees!
We’re really really really tough on heresies!
We’re gonna get you, Jesus
‘Cause you don’t please us,
You make us mad, you really really cheese us!
Dancing should actually get more embarrassing now, for the finale.
You don’t mess with the Pharisees!
We’re mean like great big bear-isees!
If you blaspheme
Then we’re the team
And you’re the one we’re really gonna cream!
We’re Phaaaaaa-riiiiiii-seeeeeeeeeees! Yeah!
DANCER ends, panting, on his knees, arms outstretched, between an incredulous JOB and WIFE. He pauses, gets his bearings, then looks around.
DANCER: Are these the auditions for "Jesus Christ, Superstar?"
WIFE: No. That’s next door.
DANCER: Oh. (starts to leave, then) Are there any songs in this one?
JOB: No.
DANCER: Oh. Sorry.
DANCER leaves. WIFE walks to the other side of the stage, then turns when JOB begins speaking.
JOB: We’ve just got to keep going on. If it’s God’s will, then I’m sure it’s all for the best. I mean ... you know ... it could be worse.
WIFE: How?
JOB: (surprised, reprimanding her) You could have died! I could have died! Our children could have died! (starting to grasp for things) We could have cancer! We could have really, really bad itches! We could have itchy cancer! We ... we could have to get braces! We could have itchy braces that cause cancer!
The point is .... So we lost our things ... we’re still alive. And we still have each other. A lot of people never even have that much. Just because you have something doesn’t mean the world owes it to you. We’ll just start over. (pause) Will you stay with me?
WIFE hesitates, then acquiesces lovingly but painfully.
WIFE: Of course. You know I will. But I still don’t believe it. Or understand.
JOB: I don’t either. But we can beat it. Together. (pause) Come here.
WIFE: Why?
JOB: Because.
WIFE: Because why?
JOB: Just because.
WIFE comes over to JOB. They embrace, he kisses her forehead, and the lights slowly fade down on them as a spotlight comes up on, revealed for the first time, SATAN onstage.
SATAN: Hi. I’m Satan! I thought this would be a good place to introduce myself. I’m a woman of wealth and taste.
You know, I’m not really as totally evil as people think. This is just my gig.
I did a cameo as a Roman emperor ... I was one of Napoleon’s generals ... I was a programmer at Microsoft. Now I mainly come up with new TV game shows.
As for the personal stuff, I’m (insert height). I’m two billion years old, but people say I look younger. I enjoy candle-lit dinners, long walks on the beach, giving out parking tickets and blowing things up. My big turn-offs are hairy guys and holy water.
Sure I invented the grapeshot cannon charge, poison gas, and those faucets that you can only operate with one hand at a time. But the point is that I’m not totally remote and evil, like the phone company, for example.
I do have feelings. A lot more than God. I’m more human than He is. For example, I feel really sorry for this sucker.
JOB and WIFE enter the stage, looking around, surveying the damage.
JOB: So this is home.
WIFE: Or what’s left of it.
JOB: But...
WIFE: I know, I know, dammit. "It could be worse."
JOB is hurt by her tone, and scared of her mood. She wanders off.
JOB: Where are you going?
WIFE: To look for something left. Anything.
JOB: Well ... this table and the phone are left.
WIFE: I hate that damn table.
WIFE leaves the stage. SATAN begins to walk toward JOB.
SATAN: Hey, Job!
JOB: Who are you?
SATAN: Job, buddy! Don’t you recognize me?
JOB: Are you an angel?
SATAN: No.
JOB: Did we go to high school together?
SATAN: Nope. I’m the Princess of Darkness, the Fallen Angel, the Destroyer of Worlds!
JOB: You’re George Steinbrenner?
SATAN: No.
JOB: Are you ‘The Fonz?’
SATAN: No, jerkface. I’m Satan.
JOB: Oh. Funny ... you don’t look like Satan.
SATAN: Well, the horns and tail are during office hours. This is casual wear.
JOB: Hmm. Actually ... I’d always imagined you as being a lot like God ... except with a very bad attitude problem.